Who thought he was God. Even as the Thieves thought they were Gods. But none of them possessed more than the faintest scintilla of the all-memory of godness, and Bailey had become the final repository for the force that was God. And now, freed, unleashed, unlocked, swirled down through all of time to this judgment day, Bailey flexed his godness and finished what he had begun at the beginning.
There is only one end to creation. What is created is destroyed, and thus full circle is achieved.
Bailey, God, set about killing the sand castle he had built. The destruction of the universes he had created.
Never before.
Songs unsung.
Washed but never purified.
Dreams spent and visits to come.
Up out of slime.
Drifted down on cool trusting winds.
Heat.
Free.
All created, all equal, all wondering, all vastness.
Gone to night.
The power that was Bailey that was God began its efforts. The husk in which Bailey lived was drawn into the power. The Succubus, screaming for reprieve, screaming for reason, screaming for release or explanation, was drawn into the power. The soul station drawn in. The home world drawn in. The solar system of the home world drawn in. The galaxy and all the galaxies and the metagalaxies and the far island universes and the alter dimensions and the past back to the beginning and beyond it to the circular place where it became now, and all the shadow places and all the thought recesses and then the very fabric and substance of eternity . . . all of it, everything . . . drawn in.
All of it contained within the power of Bailey who is God.
And then, in one awesome exertion of will, God-Bailey destroys it all, coming full circle, ending what it had been born to do. Gone.
And all that is left is Bailey. Who is dead.
In the region between.
THE DAYS OF
SOLOMON GURSKY
Ian McDonald
This story brings us back, more or less, to the present day. We all know the old nursery rhyme about Solomon Grundy, “born on Monday, christened on Tuesday” and so on until his burial on Sunday. Here Ian McDonald transmutes him into Solomon Gursky whose life has a rather more eventful metaphorical week.
McDonald (b. 1960) was born in Manchester but grew up and still lives in Northern Ireland. Living there during the troubles has caused McDonald to remark that it was like living in a Third World country with a feeling of marginalization and this sparked an interest in science fiction as a way of studying and exploring those living on the edge of societies. This was evident in his first novel, Desolation Road (1988) tracing the survival of an isolated colony on Mars. Feelings of prejudice and ostracization are central to his later books especially Out on Blue Six (1989) and Terminal Cafe (1994), aka Necroville. His body of work has become one of the most impressive amongst the new generation of British writers and garnered him at least five awards at last count.
Monday
Sol stripped the gear on the trail over Blood of Christ Mountain. Click-shifted down to sixth for the steep push up to the ridge, and there was no sixth. No fifth, no fourth; nothing, down to zero.
Elena was already up on the divide, laughing at him pushing and sweating up through the pines, muscles twisted and knotted like the trunks of the primeval bristlecones, tubes and tendons straining like bridge cable. Then she saw the gear train sheared through and spinning free.
They’d given the bikes a good hard kicking down in the desert mountains south of Nogales. Two thousand apiece, but the salesperson had sworn on the virginity of all his unmarried sisters that these MTBs would go anywhere, do anything you wanted. Climb straight up El Capitan, if that was what you needed of them. Now they were five days on the trail – three from the nearest Dirt Lobo dealership, so Elena’s palmtop told her – and a gear train had broken clean in half. Ten more days, four hundred more miles, fifty more mountains for Solomon Gursky, in high gear.
“Should have been prepared for this, engineer,” Elena said.
“Two thousand a bike, you shouldn’t need to,” Solomon Gursky replied. It was early afternoon up on Blood of Christ Mountain, high and hot and resinous with the scent of the old, old pines. There was haze down in the valley they had come from, and in the one they were riding to. “And you know I’m not that kind of engineer. My gears are a lot smaller. And they don’t break.”
Elena knew what kind of engineer he was, as he knew what kind of doctor she was. But the thing was new between them and at the stage where research colleagues who surprise themselves by becoming lovers like to pretend that they are mysteries to each other.
Elena’s palmtop map showed a settlement five miles down the valley. It was called Redencion. It might be the kind of place they could get welding done quick and good for norte dollars.
“Be happy, it’s downhill,” Elena said as she swung her electricblue padded ass onto the saddle and plunged down off the ridge. One second later, Sol Gursky in his shirt and shorts and shoes and shades and helmet came tearing after her through the scrub sage. The thing between them was still at the stage where desire can flare at a flash of electric-blue lycra-covered ass.
Redencion it was, of the kind you get in the border mountains; of gas and food and trailers to hire by the night, or the week, or, if you have absolutely nowhere else to go, the lifetime; of truck stops and recreational Jacuzzis at night under the border country stars. No welding. Something better. The many-branched saguaro of a solar tree was the first thing of Redencion the travelers saw lift out of the heat haze as they came in along the old, cracked, empty highway.
The factory was in an ugly block annex behind the gas and food. A truck driver followed Sol and Elena round the back, entranced by these fantastic macaw-bright creatures who kept their eyes hidden behind wrap-around shades. He was chewing a sandwich. He had nothing better to do in Redencion on a hot Monday afternoon. Jorge, the proprietor, looked too young and ambitious to be pushing gas, food, trailers, and molecules in Redencion on any afternoon. He was thirty-wise, dark, serious. There was something tight-wound about him. Elena said in English that he had the look of a man of sorrows. But he took the broken gear train seriously, and helped Sol remove it from the back wheel. He looked at the smooth, clean shear plane with admiration.
“This I can do,” he declared. “Take an hour, hour and a half. Meantime, maybe you’d like to take a Jacuzzi?” This, wrinkling his nose, downwind of two MTBers come over Blood of Christ Mountain in the heat of the day. The truck driver grinned. Elena scowled. “Very private,” insisted Jorge the nanofacturer.
“Something to drink?” Elena suggested.
“Sure. Coke, Sprite, beer, agua minerale. In the shop.”
Elena went the long way around the trucker to investigate the cooler. Sol followed Jorge into the factory and watched him set the gears in the scanner.
“Actually, this is my job,” Sol said to make conversation as the lasers mapped the geometry of the ziggurat of cogs in three dimensions. He spoke Spanish. Everyone did. It was the universal language up in the norte now, as well as down el sur.
“You have a factory?”
“I’m an engineer. I build these things. Not the scanners, I mean; the tectors. I design them. A nano-engineer.”
The monitor told Jorge the mapping was complete.
“For the Tesler corporada,” Sol added as Jorge called up the processor system.
“How do you want it?”
“I’d like to know it’s not going to do this to me again. Can you build it in diamond?”
“All just atoms, friend.”
Sol studied the processor chamber. It pleased him that they looked like whisky stills; round-bellied, high-necked, rising through the roof into the spreading fingers of the solar tree. Strong spirits in that still, spirits of the vacuum between galaxies, the cold of absolute zero, and the spirits of the tectors moving through cold and emptiness, shuffling atoms. He regretted that the physics did not allo
w viewing windows in the nanofacturers. Look down through a pane of pure and perfect diamond at the act of creation. Maybe creation was best felt unseen, a mystery. All just atoms, friend. Yes, but it was what you did with those atoms, where you made them go. The weird troilisms and menages you forced them into.
He envisioned the minuscule machines, smaller than viruses, clever knots of atoms, scavenging carbon through the nanofacturer’s roots deep in the earth of Redencion, passing it up the buckytube conduits to the processor chamber, weaving it into diamond of his own shaping.
Alchemy.
Diamond gears.
Sol Gursky shivered in his light biking clothes, touched by the intellectual chill of the nanoprocessor.
“This is one of mine,” he called to Jorge. “I designed the tectors.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Jorge fetched beers from a crate on the factory floor, opened them in the door. “I bought the whole place from a guy two years back. Went up north, to the Tres Valles. You from there?”
The beer was cold. In the deeper, darker cold of the reactor chamber, the nanomachines swarmed. Sol Gursky held his arms out: Jesus of the MTB wear.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Not yet. So, who was it you said you work for? Nanosis? Ewart-OzWest?”
“Tesler Corp. I head up a research group into biological analogs.”
“Never heard of them.”
You will, was what Solomon Gursky would have said, but for the scream.
Elena’s scream.
Not, he thought as he ran, that he had heard Elena’s scream – the thing was not supposed to be at that stage – but he knew it could not belong to anyone else.
She was standing in the open back door of the gas and food, pale and shaky in the high bright light.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to get some water. There wasn’t any in the cooler, and I didn’t want Coke. I just wanted to get some water from the faucet.”
He was aware that Jorge was behind him as he went into the kitchen. Man mess: twenty coffee mugs, doughnut boxes, beer cans, and milk cartons. Spoons, knives, forks. He did that too, and Elena told him off for having to take a clean one every time.
Then he saw the figures through the open door.
Somewhere, Jorge was saying, “Please, this is my home.”
There were three of them; a good-looking, hard-worked woman, and two little girls, one newly school-age, the other not long on her feet. They sat in chairs, hands on thighs. They looked straight ahead.
It was only because they did not blink, that their bodies did not rock gently to the tick of pulse and breath, that Sol could understand.
The color was perfect. He touched the woman’s cheek, the coil of dark hair that fell across it. Warm soft. Like a woman’s should feel. Texture like skin. His fingertips left a line in dust.
They sat unblinking, unmoving, the woman and her children, enshrined in their own memorabilia. Photographs, toys, little pieces of jewelry, loved books and ornaments, combs, mirrors. Pictures and clothes. Things that make up a life. Sol walked among the figures and their things, knowing that he trespassed in sacred space, but irresistibly drawn by the simulacra.
“They were yours?” Elena was saying somewhere. And Jorge was nodding, and his mouth was working but no words were manufactured. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“They said it was a blow-out.” Jorge finally said. “You know, those tires they say repair themselves, so they never blow out? They blew out. They went right over the barrier, upside down. That’s what the truck driver said. Right over, and he could see them all, upside down. Like they were frozen in time, you understand?” He paused.
“I went kind of dark for a long time after that; a lot crazy, you know? When I could see things again, I bought this with the insurance and the compensation. Like I say, it’s all just atoms, friend. Putting them in the right order. Making them go where you want, do what you want.”
“I’m sorry we intruded,” Elena said, but Solomon Gursky was standing there among the reconstructed dead and the look on his face was that of a man seeing something far beyond what is in front of him, all the way to God.
“Folk out here are accommodating.” But Jorge’s smile was a tear of sutures. “You can’t live in a place like this if you weren’t a little crazy or lost.”
“She was very beautiful,” Elena said.
“She is.”
Dust sparkled in the float of afternoon light through the window.
“Sol?”
“Yeah. Coming.”
The diamond gears were out of the tank in twenty-five minutes. Jorge helped Sol fit them to the two thousand norte dollar bike. Then Sol rode around the factory and the gas-food-trailer house where the icons of the dead sat unblinking under the slow fall of dust. He clicked the gears up and clicked them down. One two three four five six. Six five four three two one. Then he paid Jorge fifty norte, which was all he asked for his diamond. Elena waved to him as they rode down the highway out of Redencion.
They made love by firelight on the top of Blessed Virgin Mountain, on the pine needles, under the stars. That was the stage they were at: ravenous, unselfconscious, discovering. The old deaths, down the valley behind them, gave them urgency. Afterward, he was quiet and withdrawn, and when she asked what he was thinking about, he said, “The resurrection of the dead.”
“But they weren’t resurrected,” she said, knowing instantly what he meant, for it haunted her too, up on their starry mountain. “They were just representations, like a painting or a photograph. Sculpted memories. Simulations.”
“But they were real for him.” Sol rolled onto his back to gaze at the warm stars of the border. “He told me he talked to them. If his nanofactory could have made them move and breathe and talk back, he’d have done it, and who could have said that they weren’t real?”
He felt Elena shiver against his flesh.
“What is it?”
“Just thinking about those faces, and imagining them in the reactor chamber, in the cold and the emptiness, with the tectors crawling over them.”
“Yeah.”
Neither spoke for a time long enough to see the stars move. Then Solomon Gursky felt the heat stir in him again and he turned to Elena and felt the warmth of her meat, hungry for his second little death.
Tuesday
Jesus was getting fractious in the plastic cat carrier; heaving from side to side, shaking the grille.
Sol Gursky set the carrier on the landing mesh and searched the ochre smog haze for the incoming liftercraft. Photochromic molecules bonded to his irises polarized: another hot, bright, poisonous day in the TVMA.
Jesus was shrieking now.
“Shut the hell up,” Sol Gursky hissed. He kicked the cat carrier. Jesus gibbered and thrust her arms through the grille, grasping at freedom.
“Hey, it’s only a monkey,” Elena said.
But that was the thing. Monkeys, by being monkeys, annoyed him. Frequently enraged him. Little homunculus things masquerading as human. Clever little fingers, wise little eyes, expressive little faces. Nothing but dumb animal behind that face, running those so-human fingers.
He knew his anger at monkeys was irrational. But he’d still enjoyed killing Jesus, taped wide open on the pure white slab. Swab, shave, slip the needle.
Of course, she had not been Jesus then. Just Rhesus; nameless, a tool made out of meat. Experiment 625G
It was probably the smog that was making her scream. Should have got her one of those goggle things for walking poodles. But she would have just torn it off with her clever little human fingers. Clever enough to be dumb, monkey-thing.
Elena was kneeling down, playing baby-fingers with the clutching fists thrust through the bars.
“It’ll bite you.”
His hand still throbbed. Dripping, shivering, and spastic from the tank, Jesus had still possessed enough motor control to turn her head and lay his thumb open to the bone. Vampire monkey: the undead appetite for blo
od. Bastard thing. He would have enjoyed killing it again, if it were still killable.
All three on the landing grid looked up at the sound of lifter engines detaching themselves from the aural bed rock of two million cars. The ship was coming in from the south, across the valley from the big site down on Hoover where the new corporada headquarters was growing itself out of the fault line. It came low and fast, nose down, ass up, like a big bug that thrives on the taste of hydrocarbons in its spiracles. The backwash from its jets flustered the palm trees as it configured into vertical mode and came down on the research facility pad. Sol Gursky and Elena Asado shielded their sunscreened eyes from flying grit and leaf-storm.
Jesus ran from end to end of her plastic cage, gibbering with fear.
“Doctor Gursky.” Sol did not think he had seen this corporadisto before, but it was hard to be certain; Adam Tesler liked his personal assistants to look as if he had nanofactured them. “I can’t begin to tell you how excited Mr Tesler is about this.”
“You should be there with me,” Sol said to Elena. “It was your idea.” Then, to the suit, “Dr Asado should be with me.”
Elena swiped at her jet-blown hair.
“I shouldn’t, Sol. It was your baby. Your gestation, your birth. Anyway, you know how I hate dealing with suits.” This for the smiling PA, but he was already guiding Sol to the open hatch.
Sol strapped in and the ship lurched as the engines screamed up into lift. He saw Elena wave and duck back toward the facility. He clutched the cat carrier hard as his gut kicked when the lifter slid into horizontal flight. Within, the dead monkey burbled to herself in exquisite terror.
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Science Fiction Page 47
