by Isaac Asimov
It was tangible light. It flung him back with a piledriver punch that knocked the breath from his body. And the blow was psychic as well as physical. Shaking and reeling from the shock, Dantan shut his eyes and fought forward, as though against a steady current too strong to breast very long. He felt Quiana beside him, caught in the same dreadful stream. And beyond the source of the light the Enemy stood up in stark, inhuman silhouette.
He never saw Quiana’s world. The light was too blinding. And yet, in a subtle sense, it was not blinding to the eyes, but to the mind. Nor was it light, Dantan thought, with some sane part of his mind. Too late he remembered Quiana’s warning that the world of Zha was not Mars or Earth, that in Zha even light was different.
Cold and heat mingled, indescribably bewildering, shook him hard. And beyond these were—other things. The light from the Enemy’s weapon was not born in Dantan’s universe, and it had properties that light should not have. He felt bare, emptied, a hollow shell through which radiance streamed.
For suddenly, every cell of his body was an eye. The glaring brilliance, the intolerable vision beat at the foundations of his sanity. Through him the glow went pouring, washing him, nerves, bone, flesh, brain, in floods of color that were not color, sound that was not sound, vibration that was spawned in the shaking hells of worlds beyond imagination.
It inundated him like a tide, and for a long, long, timeless while he stood helpless in its surge, moving within his body and without it, and within his mind and soul as well. The color of stars thundered in his brain. The crawling foulness of unspeakable hues writhed along his nerves so monstrously that he felt he could never cleanse himself of that obscenity.
And nothing else existed—only the light that was not light, but blasphemy.
Then it began to ebb…faded…grew lesser and lesser, until—Beside him he could see Quiana now. She was no longer stumbling in the cone of light, no longer shuddering and wavering in its violence, but standing erect and facing the Enemy, and from her eyes—something—poured.
Steadily the cone of brilliance waned. But still its glittering, shining foulness poured through Dantan. He felt himself weakening, his senses fading, as the tide of dark horror mounted through his brain.
And covered him up with its blanketing immensity.
* * * *
He was back in the laboratory, leaning against the wall and breathing in deep, shuddering draughts. He did not remember stumbling through the Door again, but he was no longer in Zha. Quiana stood beside him, here upon the Martian soil of the laboratory. She was watching him with a strange, quizzical look in her eyes as he slowly fought back to normal, his heart quieting by degrees, his breath becoming evener. He felt drained, exhausted, his emotions cleansed and purified as though by baths of flame.
Presently he reached for the clasp that fastened his clumsy armor. Quiana put out a quick hand, shaking her head.
“No,” she said, and then stared at him again for a long moment without speaking. Finally, “I had not known—I did not think this could be done. Another of my own race—yes. But you, from Mars—I would not have believed that you could stand against the Enemy for a moment, even with your armor.”
“I’m from Earth, not Mars. And I didn’t stand long.”
“Long enough,” She smiled faintly. “You see now what happened? We of Zha can destroy without weapons, using only the power inherent in our bodies. Those like the Enemy have a little of that power too, but they need mechanical devices to amplify it. And so when you diverted the Enemy’s attention and forced him to divide his attack between us—the pressure upon me was relieved, and I could destroy him. But I would not have believed it possible.”
“You’re safe now,” Dantan said, with no expression in voice or face.
“Yes. I can return.”
“And you will?”
“Of course I shall.”
“We are more alike than you had realized.”
She looked up toward the colored curtain of the screen. “That is true. It is not the complete truth, Dantan.”
He said, “I love you—Quiana.” This time he called her by name.
Neither of them moved. Minutes went by silently.
Quiana said, as if she had not heard him, “Those who followed you are here. I have been listening to them for some time now. They are trying to break through the door at the top of the shaft.”
He took her hand in his gloved grasp. “Stay here. Or let me go back to Zha with you. Why not?”
“You could not live there without your armor.”
“Then stay.”
Quiana looked away, her eyes troubled. As Dantan moved to slip off his helmet her hand came up again to stop him.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
For answer she rose, beckoning for him to follow. She stepped across the threshold into the shaft and swiftly began to climb the pegs toward the surface and the hammering of the Redhelms up above. Dantan, at her gesture, followed.
Over her shoulder she said briefly, “We are of two very different worlds. Watch—but be careful.” And she touched the device that locked the oval door.
It slipped down and swung aside.
* * * *
Dantan caught one swift glimpse of Redhelm heads dodging back to safety. They did not know, of course, that he was unarmed. He reached up desperately, trying to pull Quiana back but she slipped aside and sprang lightly out of the shaft into the cool gray light of the Martian morning.
Forgetting her warning, Dantan pulled himself up behind her. But as his head and shoulders emerged from the shaft he stopped, frozen. For the Redhelms were falling. There was no mark upon them, yet they fell…
* * * *
She did not stir, even when the last man had stiffened into rigid immobility. Then Dantan clambered up and without looking at Quiana went to the nearest body and turned it over. He could find no mark. Yet the Redhelm was dead.
“That is why you had to wear the armor,” she told him gently. “We are of different worlds, you and I.”
He took her in his arms—and the soft resilience of her was lost against the stiffness of the protective suit. He would never even know how her body felt, because of the armor between them… He could not even kiss her—again. He had taken his last kiss of the mouth so like Quiana’s mouth, long years ago, and he would never kiss it again. The barrier was too high between them.
“You can’t go back,” he told her in a rough, uneven voice. “We are of the same world, no matter what—no matter how—You’re no stranger to me, Quiana!”
She looked up at him with troubled eyes, shaking her head, regret in her voice.
“Do you think I don’t know why you fought for me, Dantan?” she asked in a clear voice. “Did you ever stop to wonder why Sanfel risked so much for me, too?”
He stared down at her, his brain spinning, almost afraid to hear what she would say next. He did not want to hear. But her voice went on inexorably.
“I cheated you, Dantan. I cheated Sanfel yesterday—a thousand years ago. My need was very great, you see—and our ways are not yours. I knew that no man would fight for a stranger as I needed a man to fight for me.”
He held her tightly in gloved hands that could feel only a firm body in their grasp, not what that body was really like, nothing about it except its firmness. He caught his breath to interrupt, but she went on with a rush.
“I have no way of knowing how you see me, Dantan,” she said relentlessly. “I don’t know how Sanfel saw me. To each of you—because I needed your help—I wore the shape to which you owed help most. I could reach into your minds deeply enough for that—to mould a remembered body for your eyes. My own shape is—different. You will never know it.” She sighed. “You were a brave man, Dantan. Braver and stronger than I ever dreamed an alien could be. I wish—I wonder—Oh, let me go! Let me go!”
She whirled out of his grasp with sudden vehemence, turning her face away so that he could not see her eyes. Without glancing a
t him again she bent over the shaft and found the topmost pegs, and in a moment was gone.
Dantan stood there, waiting. Presently he heard the muffled humming of a muted bell, as though sounding from another world. Then he knew that there was no one in the ancient laboratory beneath his feet.
He shut the door carefully and scraped soil over it. He did not mark the place. The dim red spot of the sun was rising above the canyon wall. His face set, Dantan began walking toward the distant cavern where his aircar was hidden. It was many miles away, but there was no one to stop him, now.
He did not look back.
REGENESIS, by Cynthia Ward
Last cybercast from Google-Fox reporter Daniel Lundgren:
Lundgren [in a hallway bustling with suited men and women]: “This is Dan Lundgren, Google-Fox News, in Paris. I’m at the World Health Organization Conference on Genetic Therapy, where doctors and scientists are expressing alarm at the latest fashion trend. ‘A fashion trend?’ you might say? Medicine has nothing to do with style. Or, rather, had. A medical breakthrough has become just another fashion statement.”
Cut to a young woman onstage, playing electric guitar in front of a thunderous retro-industrial band. Cut to Lundgren backstage with the woman: “We’re speaking with Marie Durand, lead guitarist of Jackhammer. Marie, many people would say you’re abusing genetic therapy. They believe you’re desecrating a medical miracle for the sake of au couture.”
Durand [in a heavy French accent]: “They are fools. It has nothing to do with style.” Her hands rise into sight, gesturing. They seem too large for her slight size. “Fashion is transient. Art is eternal.” Closeup of one hand: The fingers are too long for the palm, and there are too many of them. Six. “I cut off my fingers. I would never do such a thing, except for art.”
Cut to a bandaged hand, a stump without fingers or thumb. Time-lapse video shows five bumps peeping through the bandage, and the bandage bulging along the outside edge of the palm. Then the palm is bare, fingers and thumb growing—growing too long—and a second thumb swelling from once-raw flesh.
Durand [voiceover]: “I cut off my fingers only to become the greatest guitarist in the world.”
Cut to a small brown tailless lizard, sprouting a tail in time-lapse. Lundgren [voiceover]: “Once genetic engineers decoded the lizard’s ability to regenerate a lost tail, human limb regeneration was no longer a fantasy. But no one realized the fantastic uses to which it could, and would, be put.”
Cut to a beautiful Congolese woman with one brown eye, one green eye, and, in the center of her forehead, one blue eye.
Voiceover: “Are we taking regeneration too far?”
Cut to Lundgren, alone: “One thing is clear: Genetic therapists are giving plastic surgery a whole new meaning.”
Cut to Lundgren with an East Indian man in a Western suit tailored to reveal a long, supple, black-haired tail: “Dr. Charaka Ashok is a genetic engineer participating in the WHO Conference. Dr. Ashok, many would claim you’ve made a mockery of your profession by giving yourself a monkey’s tail.”
Dr. Ashok [in a faint Bengali accent]: “They speak from ignorance. I haven’t introduced a single gene from another species into my body. My tail is from the human genetic code—from the ‘junk DNA.’ ‘Junk genes’ are fossils: dormant genes inherited from our prehuman ancestors. Selective activation of the lizard gene and other fossil genes can stimulate the growth of tails, fangs, body fur, and other physical features not normally part of the human body.”
Lundgren: “I…see. But I don’t see why a distinguished scientist would grow a tail.”
Dr. Ashok: “It’s a demonstration of truth. How better to manifest the fact of evolution? How better to refute religious fundamentalists who claim man was created by God? And refutation is more necessary than ever, with so many fundamentalists seeking to impose their ignorance on others. Religious terrorists are murdering genetic engineers and bombing gene-therapy clinics. Fanatics are clashing the world over.” Jump-cuts: screaming protestors; bombed-out buildings; battlefields. “In India, extremist Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs are in violent conflict with one another. And an apocalyptic Hindu sect has declared a man the latest avatar of the god Vishnu.”
Cut to: Very long shot of East Indians; most appear to be laborers, farmers, and beggars. They cover a hill, surrounding a man in richly colored traditional clothing. The man is mounted on a white horse. He holds aloft a sword bathed in holographic flames. He has four arms.
Dr. Ashok [voiceover]: “According to Hindu belief, the next incarnation of Vishnu will be the tenth—and last. The last avatar, Kalki, heralds the end of the Kali-Yuga, the Iron Age—the end of the world as we know it. The extremists believe Kalki is here and it is their duty to bring the world to an end.”
Cut to Lundgren and Dr. Ashok: “Dr. Ashok, I find it hard to believe a mob of poor, ignorant fanatics can destroy the world.”
Dr. Ashok: “I was in the University of Washington graduate biotech program with Kalki when he was two-armed Sunesh Bannerjee. Kalki is a brilliant virologist and genetic engineer. He has the knowledge and the ability to kill millions.”
Cut to Lundgren alone: “There you have it. Regenerative changes that look like fashion are, in fact, acts of faith. Guitarist Marie Durand believes adding a second thumb to each hand will make her a great artist. Dr. Charaka Ashok believes his tail is evidence of the truth of Darwinism. And it seems a brilliant, four-armed scientist may believe himself a god destined to destroy the world. Tomorrow night at 9 PM Eastern time, we investigate Dr. Sunesh ‘Kalki’ Bannerjee. With Google-Fox News, this is Dan Lundgren.”
Last private communication from Lundgren:
“Why’d you ignore my emails and voicemails telling you to cancel upload of my WHO report? I told you I’m too sick to move, never mind investigate Kalki. I don’t remember drinking any local water, but I must’ve forgotten to tell somebody to hold the ice for a Coke. I’ve got dysentery from Hell. And India’s hotter than Hell and I can’t get anyone to fix my air conditioning. This is supposed to be a four-star hotel, but I haven’t been able to reach a staff member all day. They’re not answering the phone, you’re not answering the phone—oh. Oh, God, no—”
NOT OMNIPOTENT ENOUGH, by George H. Scithers and John Gregory Betancourt
“Your Imperiality!” said someone in the little group of nine brightly dressed men and women, who whirled, then bowed low or curtsied to me. I’d revived that custom from Old Earth this morning, after I accepted the crown of the Imperium.
As I strode among these friends of mine from the days when I had been just a very junior professor of Pre-Spaceflight History, I longed to smile and joke and be my old self, the same Jad denRigen they’d known and worked with for endless tennights at the University. The Imperial title had not yet penetrated my inner self any more than the purple of my Imperial robes. Still, these former colleagues were but a small wave in the ocean of humanity that surrounded me in the Coronation Ballroom, and I forced myself to remain stiff-backed and aloof. Roman emperors had died for smaller sins than getting too close to the common folk.
I allowed myself a low-voiced, “Hello,” as they straightened up again.
“Imperiality!” said Rina; she was even more breathless than I remembered. “Everything’s been so—so—oh, these last two tennights, and your coronation this morning, and a whole space-cruiser just to bring us here in time, and the delegations from all over the Galaxy, and everything running so smoothly!”
“It should, by now,” I said with a tight smile. “After all, they’ve gone through four High Emperors in the last fifty tennights, not counting—”
“Your Imperiality,” she protested, “I didn’t mean—”
She dropped into a deep curtsy again. I could see the blush spreading across her face and neck.
“—not counting my great-uncle Tolan,” I said, taking her hand and pulling her upright. “But that’s all history now, Rina, and we’ve got better things to think about. Right?”
“Yes, Ja—I mean, Your Imperiality!” She started to curtsy again, but I motioned her to stop.
“Once is more than enough, really, Rina.” I turned to the rest of my friends from the University. “How do you like it, all this? Quent?”
“Well…” He licked his lips thoughtfully, then gestured at the gigantic room around us. “It’s so, big, even for an Imperial Coronation Ball. The size just doesn’t come through, reading about it. You know what I mean, Jad—uh, sorry, um—Your Imperiality.”
I had to laugh. Normally he was the most polished lecturer at the University. And suddenly I found myself relaxing for the first time in more than a few tennights. These were my friends; I knew I could be myself around them. I was the Emperor, after all, and if I wanted to talk and joke with old colleagues, who would dare object?
Smiling broadly now, I said, “Jon, Mara, all of you, I’m so happy you’re here. How are things at the University? And who took over my classes?”
Jon shook his dark head. “Rather more of a turmoil than we expected, actually, Your Imperiality. Ever since you left for Center System, everyone within parsecs has been calling the History Department with meaningless questions about you and your old job. Truth is, they think that since Your Imperiality came from there, we’ll know all the palace gossip… ”
“Well, I suppose that’s the price one has to pay for fame. If I’d come from Center System instead of a backwater world, they’d already know all about me.”
“And your classes,” Jon went on. “Mara took them.”
“Your Imperiality’s notes were quite complete,” said Mara, with the barest suggestion of a curtsy. “We finished the pre-Conquest kings of Britain just before the invitations came.”
“Good. I don’t think my students could be in better hands.”
