In much of the rest of Asia, you see, toilet technology remains medieval—a hole in the ground over which one must squat. (According to the convention's progress report, these “traditional” toilets are not uncommon even in modern Japan.) Apprehension has been expressed over the weakening of moral fiber that the new futuristic privies might bring about. Those who fret over the issue envision the youth of the nation dreamily closeted for hour upon hour in these air-conditioned sanctums, idly leafing through the pages of the latest manga or, perhaps, enjoying rock concerts emanating from conveniently placed speakers, while the stern, uncoddled citizens of tough-minded squat-toilet countries like China or Vietnam or Korea get their business done in the shortest of order and hurry back to the assembly lines of their highly productive factories. It was with just that problem in mind that the head of the Japan Toilet Association, a few years back, recommended that newly constructed Japanese schools should provide “at least one or two of the old-style squat toilets."
It is, I'm afraid, a losing struggle. Comfort always wins out over Spartan bleakness in the long run, and Japan is particularly receptive to the sort of comfort that the glitzy new toilet devices promise. It is, after all, a country with one of the highest population densities on Earth, where it's not at all unusual for several generations of a family to live jammed into just a few small rooms. Under such living conditions there's no escaping the proximity of others—except in the donnicker. “The only place you can be alone and sit quietly,” says the marketing chief for the Inax toilet company, “is likely to be the toilet.” No wonder that the gadget-loving Japanese would want their toilets equipped with all the latest technological conveniences—strumming harps, warm-water sprays, and all the rest.
My first visit to Japan grows daily closer, and as I make my sightseeing plans and choose my hotels, my thoughts come to dwell, now and then, on just such peripheral matters as this one. Will I find any of these futuristic thingies as I make my way through the Land of the Rising Sun, or will my hotels settle for giving me the most conventional of American-style loo technology? (I don't expect to encounter the grand old squat-over-a-hole kind of toilet in my posh room at the Four Seasons Tokyo.) I suppose I'll find out fast enough. If the bellhop hands me a thick instruction manual for the bathroom when I arrive, or there's an intricate keyboard right next to the throne, I'll know what I'm in for. Should there be anything interesting to report, you'll find it in this space a few months from now.
Copyight (c) 2007 Robert Silverberg
* * * *
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* * *
Short Story: FROM BABEL'S FALL'N GLORY WE FLED...
by Michael Swanwick
Readers looking for more of Michael Swanwick's scintillating work will be happy to know that they have a couple of new options. Last fall, Tachyon Publications released his latest short story collection, The Dog Said Bow-Wow, which contains many stories originally published in Asimov's, and his new novel, The Dragons of Babel, which is set in the same milieu as last year's Hugo-Award finalist “Lord Weary's Empire,” has just come out from Tor Books. Although the title of Michael's latest story for us shares a place name with his novel, this completely unrelated new science fiction tale departs Shinar for Gehenna.
Imagine a cross between Byzantium and a termite mound. Imagine a jeweled mountain, slender as an icicle, rising out of the steam jungles and disappearing into the dazzling pearl-grey skies of Gehenna. Imagine that Gaudi—he of the Segrada Familia and other biomorphic architectural whimsies—had been commissioned by a nightmare race of giant black millipedes to recreate Barcelona at the height of its glory, along with touches of the Forbidden City in the eighteenth century and Tokyo in the twenty-second, all within a single miles-high structure. Hold every bit of that in your mind at once, multiply by a thousand, and you've got only the faintest ghost of a notion of the splendor that was Babel.
Now imagine being inside Babel when it fell.
Hello. I'm Rosamund. I'm dead. I was present in human form when it happened and as a simulation chaotically embedded within a liquid crystal data-matrix then and thereafter up to the present moment. I was killed instantly when the meteors hit. I saw it all.
Rosamund means “rose of the world.” It's the third most popular female name on Europa, after Gaea and Virginia Dare. For all our elaborate sophistication, we wear our hearts on our sleeves, we Europans.
Here's what it was like:
* * * *
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"
“Wha—?” Carlos Quivera sat up, shedding rubble. He coughed, choked, shook his head. He couldn't seem to think clearly. An instant ago he'd been standing in the chilled and pressurized embassy suite, conferring with Arsenio. Now... “How long have I been asleep?"
“Unconscious. Ten hours,” his suit (that's me—Rosamund!) said. It had taken that long to heal his burns. Now it was shooting wake-up drugs into him: amphetamines, endorphins, attention enhancers, a witch's brew of chemicals. Physically dangerous, but in this situation, whatever it might be, Quivera would survive by intelligence or not at all. “I was able to form myself around you before the walls ruptured. You were lucky."
“The others? Did the others survive?"
“Their suits couldn't reach them in time."
“Did Rosamund...?"
“All the others are dead."
Quivera stood.
Even in the aftermath of disaster, Babel was an imposing structure. Ripped open and exposed to the outside air, a thousand rooms spilled over one another toward the ground. Bridges and buttresses jutted into gaping smoke-filled canyons created by the slow collapse of hexagonal support beams (this was new data; I filed it under Architecture, subheading: Support Systems with links to Esthetics and Xenopsychology) in a jumbled geometry that would have terrified Piranesi himself. Everywhere, gleaming black millies scurried over the rubble.
Quivera stood.
In the canted space about him, bits and pieces of the embassy rooms were identifiable: a segment of wood molding, some velvet drapery now littered with chunks of marble, shreds of wallpaper (after a design by William Morris) now curling and browning in the heat. Human interior design was like nothing native to Gehenna and it had taken a great deal of labor and resources to make the embassy so pleasant for human habitation. The queen-mothers had been generous with everything but their trust.
Quivera stood.
There were several corpses remaining as well, still recognizably human though they were blistered and swollen by the savage heat. These had been his colleagues (all of them), his friends (most of them), his enemies (two, perhaps three), and even his lover (one). Now they were gone, and it was as if they had been compressed into one indistinguishable mass, and his feelings toward them all as well: shock and sorrow and anger and survivor guilt all slagged together to become one savage emotion.
Quivera threw back his head and howled.
I had a reference point now. Swiftly, I mixed serotonin-precursors and injected them through a hundred microtubules into the appropriate areas of his brain. Deftly, they took hold. Quivera stopped crying. I had my metaphorical hands on the control knobs of his emotions. I turned him cold, cold, cold.
“I feel nothing,” he said wonderingly. “Everyone is dead, and I feel nothing.” Then, flat as flat: “What kind of monster am I?"
“My monster,” I said fondly. “My duty is to ensure tha
t you and the information you carry within you get back to Europa. So I have chemically neutered your emotions. You must remain a meat puppet for the duration of this mission.” Let him hate me—I who have no true ego, but only a facsimile modeled after a human original—all that mattered now was bringing him home alive.
“Yes.” Quivera reached up and touched his helmet with both hands, as if he would reach through it and feel his head to discover if it were as large as it felt. “That makes sense. I can't be emotional at a time like this."
He shook himself, then strode out to where the gleaming black millies were scurrying by. He stepped in front of one, a least-cousin, to question it. The millie paused, startled. Its eyes blinked three times in its triangular face. Then, swift as a tickle, it ran up the front of his suit, down the back, and was gone before the weight could do more than buckle his knees.
“Shit!” he said. Then, “Access the wiretaps. I've got to know what happened."
Passive wiretaps had been implanted months ago, but never used, the political situation being too tense to risk their discovery. Now his suit activated them to monitor what remained of Babel's communications network: A demon's chorus of pulsed messages surging through a shredded web of cables. Chaos, confusion, demands to know what had become of the queen-mothers. Analytic functions crunched data, synthesized, synopsized: “There's an army outside with Ziggurat insignia. They've got the city surrounded. They're killing the refugees."
“Wait, wait...” Quivera took a deep, shuddering breath. “Let me think.” He glanced briskly about and for the second time noticed the human bodies, ruptured and parboiled in the fallen plaster and porphyry. “Is one of those Rosamund?"
“I'm dead, Quivera. You can mourn me later. Right now, survival is priority number one,” I said briskly. The suit added mood-stabilizers to his maintenance drip.
“Stop speaking in her voice."
“Alas, dear heart, I cannot. The suit's operating on diminished function. It's this voice or nothing."
He looked away from the corpses, eyes hardening. “Well, it's not important.” Quivera was the sort of young man who was energized by war. It gave him permission to indulge his ruthless side. It allowed him to pretend he didn't care. “Right now, what we have to do is—"
“Uncle Vanya's coming,” I said. “I can sense his pheromones."
* * * *
Picture a screen of beads, crystal lozenges, and rectangular lenses. Behind that screen, a nightmare face like a cross between the front of a locomotive and a tree grinder. Imagine on that face (though most humans would be unable to read them) the lineaments of grace and dignity seasoned by cunning and, perhaps, a dash of wisdom. Trusted advisor to the queen-mothers. Second only to them in rank. A wily negotiator and a formidable enemy. That was Uncle Vanya.
Two small speaking-legs emerged from the curtain, and he said:
::(cautious) greetings::
!
::(Europan vice-consul 12)/Quivera/[treacherous vermin]::
!
::obligations (untranslatable) (grave duty)::
! !
::demand/claim [action]:: ::promise (trust)::
“Speak pidgin, damn you! This is no time for subtlety."
The speaking legs were very still for a long moment. Finally they moved again:
::The queen-mothers are dead::
“Then Babel is no more. I grieve for you."
::I despise your grief:: A lean and chitinous appendage emerged from the beaded screen. From its tripartite claw hung a smooth white rectangle the size of a briefcase. ::I must bring this to (sister-city)/Ur/[absolute trust]::
“What is it?"
A very long pause. Then, reluctantly ::Our library::
“Your library.” This was something new. Something unheard-of. Quivera doubted the translation was a good one. “What does it contain?"
::Our history. Our sciences. Our ritual dances. A record-of-kinship dating back to the (Void)/Origin/[void]. Everything that can be saved is here::
A thrill of avarice raced through Quivera. He tried to imagine how much this was worth, and could not. Values did not go that high. However much his superiors screwed him out of (and they would work very hard indeed to screw him out of everything they could) what remained would be enough to buy him out of debt, and do the same for a wife and their children after them as well. He did not think of Rosamund. “You won't get through the army outside without my help,” he said. “I want the right to copy—” How much did he dare ask for? “—three tenths of 1 percent. Assignable solely to me. Not to Europa. To me."
Uncle Vanya dipped his head, so that they were staring face to face. ::You are (an evil creature)/[faithless]. I hate you::
Quivera smiled. “A relationship that starts out with mutual understanding has made a good beginning."
::A relationship that starts out without trust will end badly::
“That's as it may be.” Quivera looked around for a knife. “The first thing we have to do is castrate you."
* * * *
This is what the genocides saw:
They were burning pyramids of corpses outside the city when a Europan emerged, riding a gelded least-cousin. The soldiers immediately stopped stacking bodies and hurried toward him, flowing like quicksilver, calling for their superiors.
The Europan drew up and waited.
The officer who interrogated him spoke from behind the black glass visor of a delicate-legged war machine. He examined the Europan's credentials carefully, though there could be no serious doubt as to his species. Finally, reluctantly, he signed ::You may pass::
“That's not enough,” the Europan (Quivera!) said. “I'll need transportation, an escort to protect me from wild animals in the steam jungles, and a guide to lead me to...” His suit transmitted the sign for ::(starport)/ Ararat/[trust-for-all]::
The officer's speaking-legs thrashed in what might best be translated as scornful laughter. ::We will lead you to the jungle and no further/(hopefully-to-die)/[treacherous non-millipede]::
“Look who talks of treachery!” the Europan said (but of course I did not translate his words), and with a scornful wave of one hand, rode his neuter into the jungle.
The genocides never bothered to look closely at his mount. Neutered least-cousins were beneath their notice. They didn't even wear face-curtains, but went about naked for all the world to scorn.
* * * *
Black pillars billowed from the corpse-fires into a sky choked with smoke and dust. There were hundreds of fires and hundreds of pillars and, combined with the low cloud cover, they made all the world seem like the interior of a temple to a vengeful god. The soldiers from Ziggurat escorted him through the army and beyond the line of fires, where the steam jungles waited, verdant and threatening.
As soon as the green darkness closed about them, Uncle Vanya twisted his head around and signed ::Get off me/vast humiliation/[lack-of-trust]::
“Not a chance,” Quivera said harshly. “I'll ride you ‘til sunset, and all day tomorrow and for a week after that. Those soldiers didn't fly here, or you'd have seen them coming. They came through the steam forest on foot, and there'll be stragglers."
The going was difficult at first, and then easy, as they passed from a recently forested section of the jungle into a stand of old growth. The boles of the “trees” here were as large as those of the redwoods back on Earth, some specimens of which are as old as five thousand years. The way wended back and forth. Scant sunlight penetrated through the canopy, and the steam quickly drank in what little light Quivera's headlamp put out. Ten trees in, they would have been hopelessly lost had it not been for the suit's navigational functions and the mapsats that fed it geodetic mathscapes accurate to a finger's span of distance.
Quivera pointed this out. “Learn now,” he said, “the true value of information."
::Information has no value:: Uncle Vanya said ::without trust::
Quivera laughed. “In that case you must, all against your will, trust
me."
To this Uncle Vanya had no answer.
* * * *
At nightfall, they slept on the sheltered side of one of the great parasequoias. Quivera took two refrigeration sticks from the saddlebags and stuck them upright in the dirt. Uncle Vanya immediately coiled himself around his and fell asleep. Quivera sat down beside him to think over the events of the day, but under the influence of his suit's medication, he fell asleep almost immediately as well.
All machines know that humans are happiest when they think least.
In the morning, they set off again.
The terrain grew hilly, and the old growth fell behind them. There was sunlight to spare now, bounced and reflected about by the ubiquitous jungle steam and by the synthetic-diamond coating so many of this world's plants and insects employed for protection.
As they traveled, they talked. Quivera was still complexly medicated, but the dosages had been decreased. It left him in a melancholy, reflective mood.
“It was treachery,” Quivera said. Though we maintained radio silence out of fear of Ziggurat troops, my passive receivers fed him regular news reports from Europa. “The High Watch did not simply fail to divert a meteor. They let three rocks through. All of them came slanting low through the atmosphere, aimed directly at Babel. They hit almost simultaneously."
Uncle Vanya dipped his head. ::Yes:: he mourned. ::It has the stench of truth to it. It must be (reliable)/a fact/[absolutely trusted]::
“We tried to warn you."
::You had no (worth)/trust/[worthy-of-trust]:: Uncle Vanya's speaking legs registered extreme agitation. ::You told lies::
“Everyone tells lies."
“No. We-of-the-Hundred-Cities are truthful/truthful/[never-lie]::
“If you had, Babel would be standing now."
Asimov's SF, February 2008 Page 2
