He nodded. Her judgment was sound.
He couldn’t help but notice she looked especially sharp in the belly this evening. Given that gravity was a few tenths of a percent lower here than on Earth, human pregnancies tended to go longer rather than shorter, but there were never any guarantees. She looked like she was ready to pop.
After their initial enthusiasm over Daddy’s return, Arthur and Tavi reverted to their worst selves, wailing and fighting over whatever was in the other’s hand. The upshot was that they were in bed by 7:30, and Erin wasn’t far behind, so Dylan had the run of the house for the rest of the evening.
He tried reading for a bit, but couldn’t get traction on the words. His ears were screaming and, louder still, that box of fan mail was calling to him from the other room, siren-singing the way pornography had in his youth, the way Erin herself had back in high school. When he was sure Erin was asleep, he put down his book (Sentimental Education, Flaubert) and crept into the bedroom, lighting up the dark with his omni. As quietly as he could manage, he took down the box and carried it into the living room. He set it on the sofa and sat down beside it. He knew this was no small decision he was on the verge of making, though that hardly stayed his hand. Fate was calling. He reached in blindly and pulled out a letter.
There. He had uncorked the winds.
By sheer coincidence, the letter bore a postmark from Taiwan, the original one.14
14_____________
This really did seem to be just a coincidence. Because the indigenous names of newly discovered worlds frequently turned out to be unpronounceable by Terrans, the IEF, in collaboration with PASA (Planetary Aeronautics and Space Administration), was charged with assigning exonyms where necessary. In the beginning they hewed to tradition and drew on the treasure trove of mythology, but as that quickly became exhausted, they tended toward pop culture instead—there were now planets called Radiohead, Trainspotting, and Infinite Jest, for instance (not to mention, a bit later, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet). Occasionally they drew from the well of geopolitics too: Since national boundaries were rapidly shifting and dissolving amid the emergent paradigm, it seemed fitting to pay homage to vanishing states by enshrining their names on the new celestial maps; and because China’s surprise—and surprising—siege of Taiwan was underway even as the naming committee was meeting to discuss the name of the planet Dylan would eventually move to, all delegates, even the Chinese one, voted in favor of “New Taiwan” (and cognates in other Terran languages). To be sure, outside of its name, New Taiwan was about as Taiwanese as the West Indies were Indian; witness the fact that (owing largely to its highly esteemed American School) some 78 percent of the planet’s Terran exopats were currently of American stock, whatever that might now mean.
The native name of the planet, incidentally, was Ulmarjveul’tankuñbampok’, which was not, strictly speaking, unpronounceable for humans, though it came pretty darned close. Like the English word “earth,” it doubled as a general term for soil.
Dear Mr. Greenyears,
Do you remember me? We met during the premiere of ET II in Taipei. I know you met lots of girls that day, but you may remember that I asked you to sign my arm, where I had scars? I used to cut myself when I was younger. I was very depressed. But when I saw your movie I thought you were so beautiful that you gave me hope for a better life. Have you ever gotten out of a swimming pool at night and stared at a light and it has a rainbow around it? You were like that to me. You had a glow around you. You were not like ordinary people. I just wanted to tell you that I think you saved my life. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Mei-Ling Chen
Now this was just not what he’d expected at all. It was as if he’d come to get some candy and would be leaving with a rack of lamb. He vaguely remembered getting this letter the first time around, maybe even signing a worrying wrist in Taipei. Of course, back then at the height of his fame, all of that must have paled in his young, virile, and already repressed mind against the more full-frontal booty calls. Now, though, he found himself moved almost to tears. It didn’t make a bit of sense to him that he had putatively saved this girl’s life, but if it was true that his acting had made a difference back on Earth, then this was some comfort. He cringed to think he had never written back to her before (as far as he could remember, he had never written back to any of them) and so, better late than never, he omni’d his reply:
Dear Mei-Ling Chen,
My name is Dylan Greenyears. Perhaps you remember me? I was a fairly well known actor in the middle-nineties. Well, I was just looking through some old mail and I came across a letter you once wrote me. I apologize if I never replied before, and I realize it’s a bit strange for me to be replying two decades later, but I just wanted to let you know that your words moved me greatly. I live far away these days, but I would gladly come to wherever you are if you’d let me take you to lunch sometime. In any case, I hope you are doing well, and that you are happy.
Sincerely,
Dylan Greenyears
He hadn’t written that name in a long time.
He read over the message, which struck him as just right, neither withholding nor revealing too much. He recognized, of course, that it was also kind of insane. By now she’d be about, what, thirty-five? Somewhere in there. She might be happily married, with kids and a job. He could ask Omni, but some part of him preferred not to know. He was old-fashioned that way, romantic maybe, and anyway, no computer, however super, could ever really know the richness of her inner life, right? She was acquainted with the dark—that was clear. Maybe she had some of the same well-concealed dissatisfaction in her breast that he had in his? This thirst for something strange and wondrous and new? He was not happy; it had to be admitted. He had been at times, and sometimes he managed to recover the feeling for a spell, but it never lasted long. Maybe they could help each other again. Maybe this time she could save him.
He didn’t have to wait long for a reply:
Your message to “Mei-Ling Chen” has permanently failed.
He sneered. What? He hadn’t seen a message like that in many years, and he’d never seen one on an omni. Omni messages didn’t “fail.” As long as someone was alive, any of their previous addresses would direct you to their current one. And if a person had died, you’d be notified of that too. Even if you opted to have your address unlisted, there’d still be some acknowledgment of your existence. Weird. He asked Omni some questions. The name alone wasn’t much help—there were thousands of Mei-Ling Chens throughout the galaxy—but when he mentioned that this was the Mei-Ling Chen who had cuts on her wrists and who had once written a fan letter to Dylan Greenyears, the omni returned 0 results. He had never seen Omni come up empty-handed on anything before. Normally it would at least redirect you somewhere, but this time there was no trail to speak of. This person, this Mei-Ling Chen who cut her wrists and wrote fan mail, simply did not exist as far as Omni, or his omni at least, was concerned. Omni was greater than the sum of all human knowledge. It made no sense whatsoever that he himself might be aware of a person’s existence while it was not.
For a few minutes, Dylan contemplated the problem and fidgeted with the omni. Eventually, though, for want of any alternative, he gave up, went back in the box, and pulled out another letter.
Dear Mr. Greenyears,
I’m writing on a dare from my friend Melissa. We both think you’re super hot and amazingly talented. We even started a Dylan Greenyears fan club at our high school, and we’d be really honored, and would probably faint, if you’d come to talk to us sometime. Maybe next time you’re in the Baltimore area? We can’t pay you money, but we could all bake cookies or something and show you around.
I can’t believe I’m writing to you!
Ashley Eisenberg
Now that was a little more typical, the sort of ego candy he’d been in the market for. He composed his reply:
Hi Ashley. My name is Dylan Greenyears. You may remember that I was a fairly well known actor in the middle-nineties? Well, I was just looking through some old mail and I came across a letter you wrote me. This may seem odd coming so late, but I wonder if you’d like to get together sometime? I’m living rather far away these days, but I’d be happy to come to wherever you are if you’d like to meet up sometime. Are you still in the Baltimore area? Alternately we could meet at some midpoint. Just let me know what’s easiest. No pressure at all, of course.
Sincerely,
Dylan Greenyears
He stayed awake another two hours, reading through some more of his old fan mail and waiting for a reply that did not come. Mei-Ling’s letter had served him like a cold shower, but his libido had warmed again and before retiring he took out his hardware and stroked it with his hand, remembering Fantasia, until in short order an absurd backlog of star stuff dripped down his fingers. He was reminded of Cinnabons. God, he hadn’t had one of those in years.
What a pathetic fool he was! Clearly he should not have sent that reply. Even if Ashley Eisenberg did get back to him, he decided, he would ignore it. A biologist would tell you that sperm comes from the testes. It was pretty clear to Dylan, however, that it originates in the brain, where it goes about filling your convolutions and making a fog of your thinking. Only when he was void like this could he think clear thoughts, and under ordinary circumstances the fog prevented him from believing even this. It was like when he’d tell Erin her PMS was making her into a bitch. She’d insist the PMS had nothing to do with it, until a day or two later when it was gone and she was her gentle, caring, clear-thinking self again. Then she’d own up to what a hostage she’d been.
He went to the bathroom sink to clean himself up, and then to his bedroom to kiss his great-with-child wife on the forehead and wish her a good night. She purred. He went to sleep with that rare appreciation for one’s blessings that is the upshot of guilt.
When he awoke in the morning, Erin was gone—in the kitchen probably, feeding the kids. He got himself up and went to the bathroom. To his surprise, he found Erin seated on the toilet, her face wan and agonized.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I can’t pee,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I think it’s time.”
“What, baby time?”
She nodded and winced.
“Holy Higgs!”15
15_____________
Given the ascendancy of physics over the past several decades, it was only natural that scientific language should begin to colonize colloquial speech. Even devoutly religious Anglophones could be heard saying “Holy Higgs!” at least as often as “Dear God!” “Sweet Jesus!” “Christ Almighty!” and the like. In fact, they generally preferred it because, though it referred to the all-important, mass-endowing “God particle”—discovered in a child’s home atom-smashing kit in Boise, Idaho in 1987—it did not, strictly speaking, require them to take the Lord’s name in vain.
He called in to the department chair and told her the news. He said it didn’t matter who subbed for him because he/she could just let the kids work on their Shakespeare scenes. Then he began the laborious project of getting the kids ready to go. Once they were buckled into the levicar, he supported Erin on his arm to the passenger seat and manifested the door behind her. Then they were off to the New Taiwan Medical Center Earthling Annex. They decided that Dylan would drop Erin at the ER and then take the kids to daycare and hover right back.
He dropped her off and watched her waddle through the foglet doors, and then hovered along the roundabout and back over the street. He was just in time for rush-hour traffic, but the daycare center wasn’t far away and he was back at the hospital in twenty minutes flat. He let the car self-park and hustled inside. As he rode the elevator on the way up to maternity, he checked his omni to find out what room Erin was in, and was surprised to find a new message waiting for him.
How awesome! Of course I remember you! And yes! Triple yes! I would love to get together. I wonder when would be a good time for you? I am still in the Baltimore area. It’s tough for me to get away. Maybe you can meet me at the Inner Harbor sometime for lunch?
Looking forward to hearing from you,
Ashley
How deeply unsettling to have his spheres cross like this, not to mention being reminded of what a fool he was, how in matters of the heart/balls he was really not much wiser than the adolescents he pontificated to on a daily basis.
He ignored the message, which, some part of him must have realized, was not the same as deleting it.
Erin, his omni informed him, was in room 342, just around the corner from the elevator bank. He found it easily enough and knocked on the door. A native nurse (you could tell natives by their double-jointed elbows and knees16) swiped it away. Over her left shoulder, he could see Erin lying in bed. Inexplicably, she appeared to be holding a baby.
16_____________
The discovery that complex life was so similar throughout the galaxy had served as a real buzzkill for those Terrans given to a sense of cosmic exhilaration. Yes, there were now hundreds of new cultures to discover, and no doubt each had its fascinating quirks and eccentricities, but there were no bug-eyed monsters or Wellsian juggernauts, no parasites or dream beasts, angels or telepaths. Tentacles remained a water thing. Eating, drinking, breathing and sleeping were practiced by hominids everywhere. Bicameral eyes appeared to be universal, as were mouths, anuses, and dimorphic sex. No civilization had yet been found that did not rely to a large degree on spoken language. In fact, most of these newly discovered life forms were more than 99.4 percent identical to Earth humans at the genetic level. Virtually no one had expected this, and there was a whole new cottage industry devoted to finding out how indeed it had happened. Some scientists adopted a determinist view, arguing in essence that the real surprise would have been if things had turned out otherwise—if, for instance, there were natural life forms out there on Earth-like planets that were not carbon-based. They created simulation after simulation on their omnis, inputting all the variables—chemical elements born of the big bang and the furnaces of sun-like stars; mass, gravity, rotation, orbital period, composition, magnetism, atmosphere, geology, topography, and climate of each respective planet—and time and again they showed remarkably little deviation. As long as life had at least 3.8 billion years to evolve on one of these planets, it invariably produced something an awful lot like a human being—”convergent evolution,” they called this—and once a certain threshold of intelligence was reached, selection pressures eased and adaptation leveled off. New Taiwanese scientists, for instance, claimed that life had existed on their planet for upwards of 6 billion years, and carbon dating conducted by Terran scientists so far supported that hypothesis. The bone of contention between the Determinists and the (unfortunately named) Panspermists was that the former believed it plausible that life had come about independently on each of these planets and then evolved, whereas the Panspermists, despite the Determinists’ simulations—which they dismissed as being reverse-engineered in some way or other—held that chance, if it were truly chance, could not possibly have behaved so uniformly. In the face of the demonstrable fact that intelligent life on Super Earths throughout the Milky Way was indeed so humanlike that some races could not even be usefully classed as other species, they were left to conclude that life had originated in one place and one place only and then made its colonial voyage around the galaxy inside of comets, thereby seeding hospitable planets where they would then take their own slightly divergent evolutionary paths until meeting up again some billions of years in the future. For the Panspermists, the race was on to see who could identify the one and only place in the galaxy, or indeed in the wider universe, where a host of elements first pooled their resources, developed membranes and learned to reproduce. In addition to these two camps inside the scie
ntific community, there was of course one further possibility—namely, the religious hypothesis. God had made intelligent life in his own image and therefore, unless he was a shape-shifter, the standard deviation could not be large by definition. One Catholic bishop had even undertaken the project of compiling photos of every humanoid face in the galaxy inside his omni and “averaging” them out into a single image, which he believed would reveal the face of God at last. As it turned out, God looked uncannily like Val Kilmer’s portrayal of Jim Morrison in Oliver Stone’s The Doors—so much so, in fact, that a certain fundamentalist contingent began watching that movie on repeat in search of eschatological clues. In general these spiritualists made no attempt at addressing the materialist claims of the Determinists and the Panspermists. They did not purport to know where or how many times life had originated, only that the mechanism behind whatever had happened was God, whom they had been calling “The Creator” for a pretty long time now after all.
“You must be the father?” the nurse said in flawless English.
“I am.”
“Congratulations! Erin did beautifully.”
“What, you mean it’s done?”
“Come meet your son.”
“But I was only gone twenty minutes.”
“Your wife’s a pro at this. A real trooper.”
“I guess so.”
He walked over to Erin’s bedside.
“It’s really over already?”
“It really is.”
She looked happy. She held up the bundle of swaddling clothes, and there it was, the bruised fruit of a human infant. They’d put a little blue snowcap on him.
“I want to call him Dylan Jr.,” Erin said.
“I thought you wanted to call him Earth?”
“I did until I saw him. He looks just like you, don’t you think?”
King of the Worlds Page 5
