Pax’s lips were quivering. “Why are you saying all these wonderful things?”
Ellis shrugged. “I told you—they’re true. Why would I lie?”
Pax blinked back tears.
“I like the hat too.” Ellis smiled, trying to make light of the situation. He had no idea why Pax was crying. “Very dapper.”
“Thanks. It’s not original. I got a pattern from a museum—I’m not an artist like Vin. I can’t invent new things.” Pax spoke quickly, self-consciously, using words to fend off embarrassment. “This whole outfit is just a mishmash of stuff from the past. A few others wear these—they used to call them bowler hats or derbies. I wore a top hat for a while—that’s another old hat—but I like this better. It stays on in high wind, and I’ve been logging a lot of grass time recently.”
Pax turned back to the view and wiped the tears away—more promptly followed.
Ellis did the noble thing and looked away, pretending not to notice. Maybe if Pax were a woman he might have offered a hug or something, but Pax wasn’t a woman. The best a man could do for another man was pretend not to see. Only Pax wasn’t a man either.
Ellis was lost.
He liked Pax. For some reason he felt more comfortable, more relaxed, with this bald-headed arbitrator than he had with his wife, his mother, or even Warren.
They stood for a moment as Pax struggled to stop crying, using everything from the crux of an elbow to that derby hat to hide behind. Ellis reached out, placed a hand on Pax’s shoulder, and squeezed gently. A minute later Pax slipped the hat back on.
“We have fireworks on Miracles Day too,” Pax managed to get out with a struggle, then coughed and sniffled. “It’s the best time short of a rain day.”
“What’s a rain day?”
Pax turned to reveal red eyes but a bright smile. “Oh…a rain day is great. When there’s a nice solid cloudburst over one of the grass parks, I port up and…well, just stand in it. I start by standing, at least. Before long I’m dancing, spinning, jumping. Rain days are wonderful. We don’t have weather down here. Sometimes as a treat the artists put on a weather show, but it’s not the same as real rain.”
“What about snow?”
“Snow is pretty, but it’s not like rain. For one thing, as you’ve probably noticed, most people don’t wear clothes—don’t have them. The climate in Hollow World is constant, designed for—well, not for clothes. I’m almost always too hot, but it’s my sacrifice for people being able to recognize me, as me.”
“Like I said, I very much approve of your style,” Ellis said. “Very classy.”
Pax looked away again, lower lip trembling.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep—”
Pax walked away, disappearing through a door at the far end of the room.
Ellis stood with his back against the balcony rail, feeling terrible.
“Ellis Rogers…” he heard Alva say, the vox’s voice imitating a whisper. “You, sir, are a wonderful human being. May I get you a drink? Would you like more food—you didn’t get to finish eating. I have no clue, but I’ll try and figure out how to make a hamburger if you really want one.”
“Is Pax okay? Did I say something wrong?”
“Pax has some serious problems, but you, my love, are most assuredly not one of them. I just wish you’d visited us years ago. But honestly, I want to do something for you. Can I play you some music? Do you like music? I can play something you might know. How about this?”
Ellis heard a quiet piano begin playing the first haunting chords to a most familiar song.
“This was popular in your day, wasn’t it? Do you like it? It’s one of my favorites.”
A moment later Ellis heard John Lennon singing to him across the span of two thousand years. “Imagine there’s no heaven…it’s easy if you try…” Then it was Ellis’s turn to cry.
After Pax failed to reemerge, Ellis went back to the room with the canopy bed. For the first time he noticed a little statuette on a shelf—a somewhat crudely sculpted but nevertheless beautiful depiction of one person lifting another up in the air, like a pair of dancers. Ellis touched it and heard a voice rich with emotion. To Pax, thanks for all you’ve done for us. Honestly, I don’t know how we could have survived without you—as far as I’m concerned you’re the Fourth Miracle. Nal.
Ellis realized that he’d seen other such statuettes around the house. He counted eight in just the bedroom, most up on high shelves, tucked away. Each was different. They showed a variety of artistic skills. One particular figurine, resting high on a shelf above the windows, drew his eye. More exquisite in its level of artistry and emotional impact than all the others, it illustrated a person lying in a bed of thorns, hanging on to the hand of another person who dangled from the edge of a cliff. He wanted to touch it, to hear what message it might contain, but it was set too high, and he wondered if that was intentional.
Still eager to please, Alva offered the best in modern entertainment. Televisions were gone, replaced by such things as grams, holos, and vections. Grams—the word was short for holograms—could be still or moving. They were the closest thing to movies or photos except they were true 3-D, in that the image extended into the room, and Ellis could walk around and view objects from different angles. Grams were spectator-only, but holos were interactive. Each was a complete environment that served as a total immersion computer game or educational landscape. He never got to discover what vections were, as Alva provided him with an educational gram titled simply: Our Past. This was a multi-part series similar to a Ken Burns documentary or something produced for the History Channel. Alva started him on episode eight: Energy Wars.
The presentation was emceed by a talking hourglass that danced and sang. It began with images of violent storms while the hourglass spoke about dwindling fossil fuels and global warming. By the mid-fifties—2050s—when Ellis would have been one hundred years old—the climate had become violent. There were numerous references to killer storms, and agriculture industries across the globe were fighting a losing battle to grow food in an increasingly hostile and unpredictable environment. Extensive greenhouse technology was used, but soon even these interior spaces were being destroyed by what the hourglass described as a very angry Mother Nature. The agro-companies began building underground farming facilities that were safe from the turbulent surface extremes and constructed housing for their workers. As the storms increased and the death toll rose, companies had a long list of applicants seeking jobs on the subterranean farms.
With a frown and a shudder that caused a little sandstorm in its head and stomach, the hourglass pointed out that the problems of a changing environment were among many challenges confronting humanity. Antibiotics had stopped being effective, and epidemics of super flus flourished, wiping out massive numbers of people. The outcry that resulted saw the establishment of the Institute for Species Preservation, which altered human DNA to combat the super viruses.
Of all the threats, the greatest problem of the mid- to late twenty-first century was still a lack of energy, which touched off a series of wars that only exacerbated problems. Apparently that still wasn’t the worst of it, as near the end of the episode the hourglass alluded to even greater problems and something called the Great Tempest that struck in the twenty-third century and led directly to the Hollow Earth Movement and the Three Miracles.
The segment ended with a quote from someone born well after everyone Ellis had ever known was dead: “Adaptation is the greatest ability of any living creature. Humanity’s ability to adapt is proven, but our true talent is in our ability to make our environment adapt to us, and to be able to jump highest when the ground falls out from under our feet.”
Ellis fell asleep before the start of the second episode. This being just his second day in Hollow World his body still hadn’t recovered from time-machine lag and dehydration, not to mention the unprecedented stress of having killed someone. That night he had a dream about a tornado that plucked him up from his g
arage in Detroit—which looked more like Kansas—and dropped him in a cave filled with giant super bugs. His little dog got in the way, and he accidentally shot it. Only it wasn’t a dog—it was Pax, whose bowler hat was covered in blood. Peggy was crying, but Warren said, “I’d have done the same thing, you know. Any man would.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIGN OF THE TIMES
Ellis woke to the familiar wheezing congestion in his chest and this time found the rain-forest bathroom without Alva’s help. Breakfast consisted of “something special” Alva whipped up. Eggs. The omelet not only tasted like eggs, but it looked and had the texture of eggs. The dish also had chunks of ham, green pepper, onions, cheese, and a little sprinkling of paprika on top. The only difference between it and a classic western omelet was that Ellis had never eaten eggs this good, which made him suspect he wasn’t eating anything that had come out of a chicken—that and the fact it had emerged from a device that looked similar to a microwave.
Alva called it a Maker and had instructed Ellis to place a bag of rocks in it. The rocks came from a chute dispenser next to the machine that reminded Ellis of the bulk food dispensers they used to have at his Kroger supermarket. The chute was transparent, ran up through the ceiling, and was filled with coffee-bean-sized pebbles. He just needed to hold the bag to the mouth and rotate a lever to fill the bag. The rocks slid down and were replaced from wherever the chute originated, causing Ellis to think about the advances of hot and cold running gravel.
Alva instructed him to place the rocks, along with the bag, in the Maker. There looked to be a means to do a direct feed into the machine from the chute, but it wasn’t connected. Then Alva told him not to touch anything and let her handle the “cooking.” The machine hummed, and there was light. Then Ellis laughed as he heard the exact same bing that his own microwave made when it was done. Opening the door, he found the piping-hot omelet.
“It’s an old pattern,” Alva explained, “but I thought you might like it.”
Ellis had been hesitant to eat rocks, no matter what magic trick had been done. After three bites he was a convert. “How can rock become food? Wouldn’t you need organic material?”
“Everything in the universe is made of the same thing when you break the components down far enough,” Alva explained. “Then it’s all in the way you rebuild and recombine aspects that make them organic, inorganic, liquid, and solid. Humans, after all, are made from the same material as stars.”
“Interesting. So if I put more rocks in, can I get coffee?”
“Sure! Classic, sweet, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, guava, Tantuary, cinnamon-honey, maple, blackberry, latte, core-style, litho-roast—”
“Classic—black.”
“Use one of the small bags.”
He drew one out of the drop-down dispenser. Extremely thin, the bags were see-through and plastic-like. He placed the opening over the chute mouth and noticed the drink symbol on the lever. A quick tap and the bag filled with about a cup of the gravel, consisting of different types of uniformly distributed rocks. A bing later and he had his coffee, complete with a white ceramic mug.
The house was quiet, and Ellis took his meal to the social room. As Alva had predicted, he loved the balcony and continued to be mesmerized by the view. The quality of light was constantly changing, perpetually altering and revealing new, previously hidden surprises. That morning the sky was a pale pink, blending toward a yellow sun that had yet to show its face. The predawn light worked like a shadow play, creating silhouettes out of the trees and rock formations that were obviously designed to be seen as such. Ellis spotted a shadow-puppet tiger and across from it a bird. As the sun rose, the outlines changed so that the tiger crept forward, inching up on the unsuspecting prey.
Ellis pulled over one of the soft chairs and sipped his coffee as he watched this sliver of Hollow World waking. The coffee, unlike the omelet, did not thrill him. He liked his coffee strong, and this tasted like hot coffee-scented water. Maybe he should have gone with core-style or litho-roast.
Distant voices echoed from below, and he peered over the rail to see a group of early risers starting to play a game of some kind on the open lawn of the garden. A moment later Ellis heard music and thought it might be coming from one of the other homes, but then he discovered a quartet playing in a sheltered grove across from where the others were setting up their game. The music was soft, gentle—rising strings growing steadily stronger, plainly illustrating the rising of the sun.
Ellis saw others appear on the walking paths below, some alone and others in pairs. Two different walkers had dogs. They were the first pets he’d seen, and he was pleased to know man’s best friend had survived the years. Across the open expanse, he saw others like himself on balconies with steaming cups, faces turned toward the light. Below, the music grew louder and louder, a beautiful melody. The game players paused to watch the rising sun, as if it were a flag raising and the little quartet was playing the national anthem.
As the yellow ball peeked above the horizon and spilled its first rays of golden light, the outline of the tiger leapt for the bird, but the bird had flown away. As the falselight sun rose and the atrium illuminated, Ellis saw that the bird and tiger were only fountains, tree branches, and the edge of the cliff. Illusions given life for those few seconds, a secret show provided by the artists for those knowing where and when to look. Ellis wondered how many other Easter eggs were hidden, and if they were different for balconies with other views.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Ellis turned to find Pax behind him, the glow of the morning sun bathing the familiar face. He had expected a robe or something, but like him Pax was dressed in the same set of clothes as the night before, only this suit failed to show a wrinkle, so Pax must have more than one.
“Gorgeous.”
“Maybe you can understand now why we value our artists so much.” Pax sat beside him. “And I see you’ve been introduced to the Maker.”
“Alva showed me. The omelet was great. This coffee on the other hand…” He made a face.
“I drink Frizlana—it’s a pattern of tea, but I know a great many people who like litho-roast.”
Ellis could hear the faint shouts as the game began. Several of those on balconies leaned over to watch.
“Mezos are playing the Brills this morning,” Pax said. “Each section of the community has its own team. I used to play on the Mezos about…sixty years ago, I guess. We were never very good. Lost almost every game. People still cheered for us.” Pax sighed. “I’m sorry I abandoned you last night. I felt awful. Didn’t get much sleep.”
“I’m sorry I upset you.”
Pax stared at him with that same bewildered expression. “You are just so…”
Ellis braced himself. He was expecting irritating or frustrating. Those were the words Peggy and his mother had used most often, and Warren had dubbed him an asshole most of the time and a prick on occasion.
“…just so amazing. I wish I could be like you.”
Certain that Pax was joking, he laughed. Pax didn’t laugh with him, and, realizing Warren had been right about him being an ass, he stopped. “I’m a miserable old man who’s dying of an incurable sickness. You don’t want to be me.”
“Are you joking again? I can’t always be sure, you know. Your humor is so…unusual. You must be, though, because…because, well look at you. You’re unique—truly unique. You have hair—and it’s two colors. Your skin sags, and has all those great creases, like a beloved knapsack that has been taken everywhere and shows evidence of every mile. No one else has that. And no one else has invented a time machine and ridden it two thousand years into the future or saved someone else’s life by stopping a murderer. But…it’s more than that. It’s you. The way you act. The way you don’t just look, but actually see—see things everyone else misses. The wear marks of glasses and…well…me. I feel special just being with you. It’s a gift you have, this ability to hand out inspiration and kindness without
any trace of motive. You’re amazing.”
Pax’s eyes had that glassy, wide-eyed appearance again. “In Hollow World we all try to be different, try to stand out as original, but only you truly are.”
No one had ever looked at him that way before. No one had ever accused him of being amazing, not even when he had opened his acceptance letter to M.I.T. There had been pats on the back and congratulations, but not even his own mother had showed such awe. Ellis didn’t know what to do or say. He took a long sip from his coffee cup and discovered he had a little trouble swallowing.
“I realized last night I shouldn’t be keeping you here,” Pax went on. “I should make certain the GWC knows about the killings and about you. I’m sure they will have all sorts of questions, and they will take you to the ISP to fix your health.”
“You think they could?”
“The ISP can do just about anything except bring you back from the dead, and you can be certain they’re busy working on that. If it’s only your lungs, they’ll just outfit you with a new pair. That sort of thing is no big deal, just a port-in procedure.”
“Seriously? Oh…ah…what about cost?” Ellis knew Pax said there wasn’t money anymore, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a cost.
“Cost?”
“What would I have to do or give to get these new lungs?”
“See—I can’t really tell if that’s a joke. You don’t even smile when you say it.”
“That’s because I’m not joking. I want to know what will be demanded of me in return. I don’t want to agree to anything without knowing what I’m getting into first.”
Pax laughed. “Ellis Rogers, no one would ever demand compensation to keep people alive. You make us sound like monsters, as if people wouldn’t help others unless they got something out of it.”
Hollow World Page 11
