Rhino walks ahead with a spraygun. Shackleton is at the rear. Zeb’s in the middle, beside Toby, keeping a close eye on her. He’s carrying the rifle for safekeeping, since she’s already drunk the short-form Enhanced Meditation mixture. Luckily there were some Psilocybe species from the old Gardener mushroom beds among the assortment of dried mushrooms she’d saved over the years and brought with her from the AnooYoo Spa. To the soaked dried mushrooms and the mixed ground-up seeds she’d added a pinch of muscaria. Just a pinch: she doesn’t want all-out brain fractals, just a low-level shakeup – a crinkling of the window glass that separates the visible world from whatever lies behind it. The effects are beginning: already there’s a wavering, a shift.
“Hey, what’re you doing here?” says a voice. Shackleton’s voice, coming to her along a dark tunnel. She turns: it’s Blackbeard.
“I wish to be with Toby,” he says.
“Oh fuck,” says Shackleton. Blackbeard smiles happily. “And with Fuck too,” he says.
“It’s all right,” says Toby. “Let him come.”
“You can’t stop him, anyway,” says Zeb. “Short of braining him. Though I could tell him to fuck the fuck off.”
“Please,” says Toby. “Don’t confuse him.”
“Where are you going, Oh Toby?” says Blackbeard.
Toby takes the hand he holds up to her. “To visit a friend,” she says. “But it’s a friend you can’t see.” Blackbeard asks no questions; he simply nods.
Zeb looks ahead, looks left, looks right. He’s singing to himself, a habit he’s had ever since Toby’s known him. It usually means he’s feeling stressed.
Now we’re in the muck,
And that can really suck,
And this is why we’re out of luck,
Because we don’t know fuck …
“But Snowman-the-Jimmy knows him,” says Blackbeard. “And Crake. He knows him too.” He beams up at Toby and Zeb for verification, pleased with himself.
“You’re right there, pal,” says Zeb. “That’s what they know. Both of them.”
Toby can feel the full strength of the Enhanced Meditation formula kicking in. Zeb’s head against the sun is circled with a halo of what she realizes must be split ends – he could really use a trim, she must get hold of some scissors – but which nevertheless appears to her as a radiant burst of electric energy shooting out of his hair. A morpho-splice butterfly floats down the path, luminescent. Of course, she remembers, it’s luminescent anyway, but now it’s blue-hot, like a gasfire. Black Rhino looms up out of his own footsteps, an earth giant. Nettles arc from the sides of the walkway, the stinging hairs on their leaves gauzy with light. All around there are sounds, noises, almost-voices: hums and clicks, tappings, whispered syllables.
And there is the elderberry bush, where they planted it on Pilar’s grave so long ago. It’s much larger now. White bloom cascades from it, sweetness fills the air. A vibration surrounds it: honeybees, bumblebees, butterflies large and small.
“You stay here, with Zeb,” Toby says to Blackbeard. She lets go of his hand, steps forward, kneels in front of the elderberry.
She gazes at the clustered flowers, thinks, Pilar. The wizened old face, the brown hands, the gentle smile. All so real, once. Gone to ground.
I know you’re here, in your new body. I need your help.
There’s no voice, but there’s a space. A waiting.
Amanda. Will she die, will this baby kill her? What should I do?
Nothing. Toby feels abandoned. But really, what did she expect? There is no magic, there are no angels. It was always child’s play.
But she can’t help asking anyway. Send me a message. A signal. What would you do in my place?
“Watch it,” says the voice of Zeb. “Stay still. Look slowly. To the left.”
Toby turns her head. Crossing the path, within stone-throw, there’s one of the giant pigs. A sow, with farrow: five little piglets, all in a row. Soft gruntings from the mother, high screechy pipings from the young. How pink and brightly shining are their ears, how crystalline their hooves, how …
“I’ve got you covered,” Zeb says. He’s slowly lifting the rifle.
“Don’t shoot,” says Toby. Her own voice in her ears is distant, her mouth feels huge and numbed. Her heart’s becalmed.
The sow stops, turns sideways: a perfect target. She looks at Toby out of her eye. The five little ones gather in her shadow, under the nipples, which are all in a row too, like vest buttons. Her mouth upturns in a smile, but that’s only the way it’s made. Glint of light on a tooth.
Little Blackbeard moves forward. He’s golden in the sun, his green eyes lambent, his hands outstretched.
“Get back here,” says Zeb.
“Wait,” Toby says. Such enormous power. A bullet would never stop the sow, a spraygun burst would hardly make a dent. She could run them down like a tank. Life, life, life, life, life. Full to bursting, this minute. Second. Millisecond. Millennium. Eon.
The sow does not move. Her head remains up, her ears pricked forward. Huge ears, calla lilies. She gives no sign of charging. The piglets freeze in place, their eyes red-purple berries. Elderberry eyes.
Now there’s a sound. Where is it coming from? It’s like the wind in branches, like the sound hawks make when flying, no, like a songbird made of ice, no, like a … Shit, thinks Toby. I am so stoned.
It’s Blackbeard, singing. His thin boy’s voice. His Craker voice, not human.
The next moment, the sow and her young have vanished. Blackbeard turns to smile at Toby. “She was here,” he says. What does he mean?
“Crap,” says Shackleton. “There go the spareribs.”
So, thinks Toby. Go home, take a shower, sober up. You’ve had your vision.
Vector
The Story of how Crake got born
“Still a little buzzed, are you?” says Zeb as they walk towards the trees where Jimmy’s hammock was once strung up and where the Crakers are waiting. It’s the gloaming: deeper, thicker, more layered than usual, the moths more luminous, the scents of the evening flowers more intoxicating: the short-term Enhanced Meditation formula has that effect. Zeb’s hand in hers is rough velvet: like a cat’s tongue, warm and soft, delicate and raspy. It sometimes takes half a day for this stuff to wear off.
“I’m not sure buzzed is the appropriate word to use of a mystical quasi-religious experience,” says Toby.
“That’s what it was?”
“Possibly. Blackbeard’s telling people that Pilar appeared in the skin of a pig.”
“No shit! And her a vegetarian. How’d she get in there?”
“He says she put on the skin of the pig just the way you put on the skin of the bear. Except she didn’t kill and eat the pig.”
“What a waste.”
“Also she spoke to me, Blackbeard says. He says he heard her do it.”
“That what you think too?”
“Not exactly,” says Toby. “You know the Gardener way. I was communicating with my inner Pilar, which was externalized in visible form, connected with the help of a brain chemistry facilitator to the wavelengths of the Universe; a universe in which – rightly understood – there are no coincidences. And just because a sensory impression may be said to be ‘caused’ by an ingested mix of psychoactive substances does not mean it is an illusion. Doors are opened with keys, but does that mean that the things revealed when the doors are opened aren’t there?”
“Adam One really did a job on you, didn’t he? He could spout that crap for hours.”
“I can follow his line of reasoning, so I guess in that sense he did a job, yes. But when it comes to ‘belief,’ I’m not so sure. Though as he’d say, what is ‘belief’ but a willingness to suspend the negatives?”
“Yeah, right. I never knew myself how much of it he really believed himself, or believed so much that he’d stick his arm in the fire for it. He was such a slippery bugger.”
“He said that if you acted according to a belief, that
was the same thing. As having the belief.”
“Wish I could find him,” says Zeb. “Even if he’s dead. I’d like to know what happened, either way.”
“They used to call that ‘closure,’ ” says Toby. “In some cultures, the spirit couldn’t be freed unless the person got a decent burial.”
“Funny old thing, the human race,” says Zeb. “Wasn’t it? So, here we are. Do your stuff, Story Lady.”
“I’m not sure I can. Not tonight. I’m still a little foggy.”
“Give it a try. At least turn up. You don’t want to start a riot.”
Thank you for the fish.
I will not eat it right now, because first I have something important to tell you.
Yesterday I listened to Crake on the shiny thing.
Please don’t sing.
And Crake said, It is best to cook the fish a little longer. Until it is hot all the way through. Never leave it out in the sun before you cook it. Or keep it overnight. Crake says that is the best way, with a fish, and it is the way Snowman-the-Jimmy always wanted it to be cooked. And Oryx says that if it is the turn of her Fish Children to be eaten, she wants them to be eaten in the best way. Which means cooked all the way through.
Yes, Snowman-the-Jimmy is feeling better, though right now he is sleeping inside, in his own room. His foot does not hurt much any more. It is very good you did so much purring on it. He can’t run fast yet, but he is practising his walking every day. And Ren and Lotis Blue are helping him.
Amanda can’t help him because she is too sad.
We don’t need to talk about why she is sad right now.
Tonight I will not tell a story, because of the fish. And the way it needs to be cooked. Also I am feeling a little … I am feeling tired. And that makes it harder for me to hear the story, when I put on the red hat of Snowman-the-Jimmy.
I know you are disappointed. But I will tell you a story tomorrow. What story would you like to hear?
About Zeb? And Crake too?
A story with both of them in it. Yes, I think there is a story like that. Maybe.
Was Crake ever born? Yes, I think he was. What do you think?
Well, I’m not sure. But he must have been born, because he looked like a – he looked like a person, once upon a time. Zeb knew him then. That’s how there can be a story with both of them in it. And Pilar is in that story too.
Blackbeard? You have something to say about Crake?
He wasn’t really born out of a bone cave, he only got inside the skin of a person? He put it on like clothes? But he was different inside? He was round and hard, like the shiny thing? I see.
Thank you, Blackbeard. Could you put on the red hat of Jimmy-the-Snowman, I mean Snowman-the-Jimmy, and tell us all of that story?
No, the hat won’t hurt you. It won’t turn you into someone else. No, you won’t grow an extra skin; you won’t grow clothes like mine. You can keep your very own skin.
It’s all right. You don’t have to put on the red hat. Please don’t cry.
“Well, that was a bit of a fiasco,” says Toby. “I didn’t know they were afraid of it – that old red baseball cap.”
“I was afraid of the Red Sox myself,” says Zeb. “When I was a kid. I was a gambler at heart even then.”
“It seems to be a sacred object to them. The hat. Sort of taboo. They can carry it around but they can’t put it on.”
“Cripes, can you blame them? That thing is filthy! Bet it has lice.”
“I’m trying to have an anthropological discussion here.”
“Have I told you recently you’ve got a fine ass?”
“Don’t be complex,” says Toby.
“Complex is another word for pathetic jerkoff?”
“No,” says Toby. “It’s just that …” Just that what? Just that she can’t believe he means it.
“Okay, it’s a compliment. Remember those? Guys give them to women. It’s a courtship move – now that’s anthropology. So just think of it as a bouquet. Deal?”
“Okay, deal,” says Toby.
“Let’s start again. I spotted that fine ass of yours way back when, on that day we composted Pilar. When you took off those baggy Gardener-lady clothes and put on the parkie overalls. Filled me with longing, it did. But you were inaccessible then.”
“I wasn’t really. I was …”
“Yeah, you kinda were. You were Miss Total God’s Gardener Purity, as far as I could tell. Adam One’s devoted altar girl. Wondered if he was having it off with you, to tell the truth. I was jealous of that.”
“Absolutely not,” says Toby. “He never, ever …”
“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. Anyway, I was hooked up with Lucerne at the time.”
“That stopped you? Mister Babe Magnet?”
A sigh. “I was magnetized to babes, naturally. Back when I was young. It’s a hormone thing, it comes with the hairy balls. Wonders of nature. But babes weren’t always magnetized to me.” A pause. “Anyway, I’m loyal. To whoever I’m with, if I’m really with them. A serial monogamist, you could say.”
Does Toby believe this? She isn’t sure.
“But then Lucerne left the Gardeners,” she says.
“And you were Eve Six. Talking to the bees, measuring out the head trips. You were like a Mother Superior. Figured you’d slap me down. Inaccessible Rail,” he says, using her old MaddAddam chatroom codename. “That was you.”
“And you were Spirit Bear,” says Toby. “Hard to find, but good luck if you happen to see one. That’s what the stories said, before those bears went extinct.” She starts to sniffle. The Meditation formula does that too: it melts the fortress walls.
“Hey. What? Did I say something bad?”
“No,” says Toby. “I’m just sentimental.”
All those years you were my lifeline, she wants to say. But doesn’t.
Young Crake
“Now I have to come up with something,” says Toby. “A story with Crake in it, and you as well. Crake did know Pilar when he was younger, I figured that out. But what am I going to say about you?”
“As it happens, that part’s actually true,” says Zeb. “I knew him before the Gardeners even got started. But he wasn’t Crake then, not even close. He was just a fucked-up kid named Glenn.”
Once Zeb was inside HelthWyzer West, he learned its memes and set about mimicking them as fast as he could. Displaying the right memes was the yellow brick road to blending in and thus surviving, so that when the giant Rev monster eye came looking for him via the giant Corps network, as it might at any moment, it would pass right over his head. Protective colouration, that’s what he needed.
The officially promoted view of HelthWyzer West was that it was one big happy family, dedicated to the pursuit of truth and the betterment of humankind. To dwell too much on the improvement in value for the shareholders was considered bad taste, but on the other hand there was an employee options package. All staff were expected to be unremittingly cheerful, to meet their assigned goals diligently, and – as in real families – not to ask too much about what was really going on.
Again like real families, there were no-go zones. Some were conceptual, but some were purely physical. The pleebland outside the HelthWyzer Compound was one of these, unless you had a pass and designated protection. The firewalls around IP had become thick and in some cases impenetrable, unless you had an inside track; so if you couldn’t hack the system, you grabbed the primary source material. Brainiacs from Corps of all kinds were being kidnapped and smuggled abroad, or – some said – into rival Corps Compounds – and then strip-mined for the gold and jewels their heads were assumed to contain.
This was a cause for serious concern at HelthWyzer West – which meant there was some fairly important stuff going on behind locked doors – and barriers had been put in place. The top biogeeks carried alarm beepers that registered their whereabouts, though these had sometimes been adroitly hacked and then used as a means of targeting their bearers and tracking them
down. Here and there on the walls of hallways and meeting rooms, posters reminded the unwary of ever-present perils. FOLLOW THE SAFETY RULES AND KEEP YOUR HEAD! AND ITS CONTENTS! Or: YOUR MEMORY IS OUR IP, SO WE’LL PROTECT IT FOR YOU!
Or: BRAINS ARE LIKE MEADOWS: A CULTIVATED ONE IS WORTH MORE. On this last poster, someone had written with a Sharpie: Get more cultivated! Eat more shit! So, thought Zeb, there was at least some hidden dissent among the smiley faces.
As part of the happy family ethos, HelthWyzer West threw a barbecue every Thursday in the central parkette of the Compound. Adam had told Zeb that these affairs should not be missed, as they were prime territory for eavesdropping and figuring out the invisible power filaments. Those wearing the most casual clothing would most likely be the alphas. Adam also said that Zeb would find some of the recreational pursuits of interest, especially the board games; though he hadn’t said why.
So Zeb turned up at the HelthWyzer West barbecue on the first Thursday after his arrival. He sampled the eats: SoYummie ice cream for the kids, pork ribs for the carnivores, SoyOBoy products and quornburgers for the vegans. NevRBled Shish-K-Buddies for those who wanted to eat meat without killing animals – the cubes were lab-cultured from cells (“No Animal Suffered”), and he figured that with enough beer they wouldn’t taste too bad. But he intended to limit his drinking because he needed to stay alert, so he stuck with the ribs. You didn’t have to be half-cut to appreciate those.
Around the edges of the crowd, various geeky sports were in progress. Croquet and bocci in the sun, ping-pong and foosball under the awnings. Circle games for the under-sixes, variations of tag for the older ones. And for the serious and superintelligent and potentially Aspergerian child brainiacs, a row of umbrella-shaded computers where they could do obsessive-compulsive things online – within HelthWyzer firewalls, of course – and challenge each other to combat without making eye contact.
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