Futures Near and Far

by Dave Smeds

  Kneeling, he placed a lavender rose upon the grass, over the spot he imagined his good wife’s heart to be.

  “You spoiled me, Stacey,” he said to the earth. “You set my damn standards too high.”

  Was that it? Was he carrying a torch? Was her ghost jealously guarding him, perhaps? Convenient, to think it was only that.

  The rose caught a sunbeam that slipped through the oak leaves. The petals drooped in the increasing heat. The flower had not been programmed to last.

  That was the way it had to be.

  A family appeared through the cemetery gates, making a procession toward a large crypt near the fountain. Every adult of the group walked on long, supple legs, their unlined faces tilted away from the day’s brilliance.

  Two lanky men, so similar in appearance they could’ve been twins, brought up the rear. From their body language, Neil doubted they were twins. More likely the one on the left was the great-grandfather of the one on the right.

  Neil worked his way back through the graves. At the entrance, a woman stepped onto the lawn with a small bouquet in her hands. As the distance between them closed, he automatically made eye contact.

  Her fine reddish curls and her figure brought a concealed smile of appreciation to his face, but when he saw recognition spark in her green eyes, he stopped short. So did she.

  “I know you, don’t I?” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I saw you at the clinic, the morning after my nanodocs were implanted.”

  “My morning-after, too.” She looked at her bouquet, and then at a set of headstones, as if measuring the distance between the two. But she didn’t walk on. Instead, she smiled.

  “My name’s Neil.”

  “Nadine.”

  Neil and Nadine — it had a nice, alliterative ring. Suddenly his scheduled plans for the rest of the morning dissipated.

  “Are you a local girl?” he asked, waving at the cemetery. “Family here?”

  “Just my husband. He died not long after we retired out here in ’41. I didn’t see much point in moving him or me back to Texas. So ah jus’ stuck him in th’ ground with his boots pointed up.” A chuckle accompanied her last sentence, adding to the color of the deliberately exaggerated twang. Neil recognized that kind of mirth; it was the type people used to bandage a deep wound.

  “You know,” Neil said, half to himself, “when I saw you on that bench outside the clinic, I just naturally assumed you were twenty-two. Old habits, I guess.”

  Abruptly she raised the bouquet to her nose, covering a bashful smile. She glanced again toward the headstones. “Would you excuse me for a moment . . . Neil?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded, grateful for his instant understanding, and traced her way across the cemetery. Neil found a shady spot beneath an oak much like the one growing near Stacey Corbin’s resting spot. He sat on a retaining wall, watching the patterns of the clouds in the sky. Nadine joined him there, sans bouquet.

  A babble of thoughts seemed to dance across her brow. Neil tentatively broke the silence by asking her occupation.

  “I was in furniture sales,” she answered. “But there’s not much need to sell things like new sofas when a homeowner can just command the old one to change its color, or create a spare from garden dirt. So I’ve shifted into interior design. You’d be amazed how picky everyone’s become about their decor, now that they can afford any style they want, and can change it every day.”

  “No, I wouldn’t be amazed,” he said, and told her of some of the home redesign requests that had flooded his office.

  Before Neil knew it, an hour had passed, and his mouth had become cottony from all the conversation. Suddenly Nadine glanced at her watch. “Oh, my lord! I have to go!” She winced, as if wishing she’d forgotten to put the timepiece on that morning.

  “Can I take you out to dinner some time?” he asked. The question tumbled out without having to think about it.

  The green of her eyes deepened, or was that just the widening of her pupils? “Yes.”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  She pursed her lips. “How about Tuesday instead?”

  She laughed at his tiny frown of disappointment. “You northern boys are so impatient.” She lifted her hand up. Recognizing the gesture, he kissed her knuckles.

  A trace of a shiver rolled along her arm.

  “We have plenty of time,” Nadine said. She gave him her Link access number and turned to go.

  Yes, Neil thought, watching the wiggle of her hips as she disappeared down the street. Time. Deep inside himself, he turned from the trophies and record books and team photos on his shelf, and looked toward the open track ahead. His feet were in the starting block.

  What did one hundred twenty years of the past matter, compared to a thousand years of the future? Heading home, Neil repeated Nadine’s number under his breath until it became part of him.

  Return to Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION TO “THE EASY WAY DOWN FROM AVERNUS”

  This story happens to feature a self-driving automobile. While I was writing this in 1992 for Mike Resnick’s anthology Deals with the Devil, I wondered to myself which would arrive first in the real world — the vehicle or the runaway cascade of global warming that informs the background of this piece. I guessed the car would come second, but those darn guys at Google seem to have other ideas.

  THE EASY WAY DOWN FROM AVERNUS

  The limousine accelerated up the ramp onto southbound 280. Inside the sleek black shell, Charles Berthold folded his hands and wondered when he had last visited San Jose other than to catch a flight at the airport. Four years? Five? That excursion had been on account of Bennie as well.

  One last time, Charles thought pensively.

  A brown haze hung across the South Bay like pond scum two thousand feet deep, eating away at Mt. Hamilton and its eroded companion peaks. Merciless sunshine ricocheted off the freeway. Weeds and shrubs were dissolving into desiccated stubble, fuel for another Great Silicon Valley Fire. The trees planted on the hills to the west after that event were struggling to keep their foothold, belying the name evergreens. The region needed a good rain to rinse the skies and recharge the earth. No use in anyone holding their breath waiting, thought Charles.

  He’d forgotten how much he hated it out here. His tongue pressed the insides of his lips, ready to utter the command that would cause the automobile to return to its berth. He didn’t have to do this. He could remain in his sanctuary, in the company of his beautiful wife and children.

  But he’d said he would come. The vow was forty-nine years old, a naïve first grade promise, but some covenants were not meant to be broken. Charles rubbed his forehead, memories peeling up layer by layer.

  In his mind’s eye Mrs. Harris — her support pantyhose no longer able to restrain her middle-aged girth — stalked the classroom, assigning seats. Charles did not realize it until years later, but Mrs. Harris was a missionary for social change. Her class contained large numbers of children of Vietnamese, Mexican, and African heritage, and she zealously mixed the races and genders. Probably the only reason two white boys like Charles and Bennie had ended up beside each other was because, with a surname like Goldman, Mrs. Harris was convinced Bennie was Jewish. All Charles and Bennie cared about was that they liked each other. Within a month, they declared themselves blood brothers for life.

  All too short a life, for one of them. Bennie had punctured his thumb on a rose thorn, developed a staph infection, and failed to go to a doctor in time. A tough break, some would call it. Charles knew better. After all the times Bennie had put himself in danger bucking the powers-that-be, after all the death threats, the asshole had simply used up his share of good luck.

  “What time is it?” Charles asked the car.

  “One oh nine pee em,” came the reply from the speaker on the dash. The pitch, tone, and delivery left the impression that an alert, cordial young man operated the vehicle despite the empty seat behind the steer
ing wheel. Charles rather preferred the soft female voice of the hostess interactives of, say, a Boeing 887, but he understood why the limousine company had chosen as they had. A few of the older generation still didn’t trust “women” drivers.

  “ETA?” Charles asked.

  “At current speed and road conditions, we will arrive at the cemetery at one thirty-eight pee em.”

  He had time. “Change the route. Take the Meridian exit, go south on Lincoln.”

  “Travel on surface streets is not advisable,” the car reminded him.

  “Are there any barricades up today?”

  “No, Mr. Berthold.”

  “Then do it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Presently the car left the streamlined artery of concrete and Nu-asphalt and descended into the bowels of San Jose. Charles’s eyes narrowed as he saw, for the first time in years, what had become of Willow Glen.

  Broken bottles and derelict vehicles littered the sidewalks. Empty pots, pans, and fifty-five gallon drums lined the yards and stoops, ready to catch the rain if it came. Graffiti streaked the walls of every business, their owners having given up the effort to repaint. The abandoned shell of Berman’s Department Store sported a particularly large cartoon of three men and a dog engaged in various carnal acts — the artist had not been skilled enough to bring out details. Not that Charles cared to know.

  People haunted the avenue, clad in long sleeves and full pants even in the 95°F heat. They clustered beneath the ubiquitous awnings or stood alone beneath umbrellas. A few brave souls depended on mere clothing, hats, and dark glasses to fend off the sun’s double-edged gift.

  Every last person tracked the limousine as it motored by. Momentarily Charles feared they might rush into the street, blocking his path as they had cut off vehicles during the last insurrection. But no one moved. No one seemed capable of movement. Their expressions were full of the hopelessness of people who witness evidence of prosperity, but know that that wealth will never be theirs to share. Charles had first seen such Third World despair during that trip to Mexico he and Bennie had taken during their late teens.

  Go inside, you idiots, Charles silently lectured them. Few, if any, seemed to have any reason to be on the street. It was as if they were daring the sky to blight their health, like Persephone nibbling the pomegranate in Hades.

  Human nature, Charles supposed. Act as if nothing can hurt you, and nothing will. Didn’t they know life required more insurance than that?

  The staring faces receded as Charles continued south. “Turn right at the next intersection,” he commanded.

  “That residential area is not coded for automobile guidance systems,” replied the limousine.

  Charles pursed his lips. How primitive. “Take me as far as you can and engage manual override.”

  “Your driver’s license is expired, Mr. Berthold.”

  Charles sighed. “Do it anyway. Log the fine to my account.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The vehicle executed the turn and, fifty yards along the side street, pulled to the curb. Preferring not to unlock the doors, Charles clambered over the driver’s seat.

  He pulled out slowly, angling to avoid one of many king-sized potholes. The layout of the avenues and cul-de-sacs was familiar, but little else was as he had known it. The charred stump on the corner — had that been where that magnificent walnut tree had stood? Hadn’t there been a fire hydrant near it?

  Plywood boards covered the windows of the better-preserved homes. Some of them still had lawns, though they were brown. About half of the automobiles parked in front of them looked as though they might still be capable of travel. A few small, filthy children played in the life-preserving shade of a carport.

  Coming to the address that had once been his, Charles found only rubble overtaken by star thistle. The only item not stolen by scavengers was the ornamental boulder in the front yard — too heavy to move without a large truck and winch.

  Charles and his first wife had lived here for nearly eight years. He had thought he would feel loss, to view the spot now, yet all he felt was mild relief that he did not have to confront current residents.

  Straightening his spine, Charles continued on. Two curves later he came to Bennie’s house.

  The adjacent houses were weedy, the cement of their driveways cracked, their walls the color of dirt. Bennie’s house was no larger, but it boasted new paint, swept gutters, a yard rich with composted soil, mulch, and hand-placed rock borders. The plants were a careful selection of drought-resistant species, artfully xeriscaped. The only concessions to the sub-culture of the neighborhood were the wrought iron bars on the windows and, next to the front door, a plainly visible portrait of the two Doberman pinschers that lived inside. The house was an oasis. Any homeowner would have been proud of it.

  “Take what you have, and make it better,” Charles murmured. That was Bennie.

  “Mr. Berthold,” chimed the limousine, “to reach your destination at the appointed time, you must leave within ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Charles furrowed his brow, annoyed by the automatic feature. “Give me a moment,” he added, though it did no good to admonish an interactive.

  He was just about to leave when, to his surprise, the front door opened. Out stepped a vision from his past, one he had not expected to see until the burial. She waved and approached.

  “Left window down,” he stated. The car obeyed.

  Deep streaks of gray scored her raven hair. Other than that and the tear tracks in her mascara, she looked much like the beauty he’d known in college.

  “Hello, Melanie.”

  She smiled wanly. “I didn’t think you’d stop by the house.”

  “Not my usual neighborhood anymore, no,” he said, coughing. “I won’t be here later. Just thought I’d take a quick glimpse.”

  “Well, as long as you’re here, mind if I ride with you to the service? No sense taking two cars. My sister can bring me back.”

  Ride-sharing with Melanie. Who would have thought such a thing were still possible? “Of course,” Charles said, and unlocked the passenger side.

  “Let me get us back to Lincoln, then we can talk freely,” he said once they were rolling. In short order it was done. He joined Melanie in the rear and the guidance system carried them smoothly down the avenue past the old stone church. The church showed scars, but was intact.

  “So,” Melanie said, placing a hand on his knee in a fond, almost sexual manner most unlike a widow in mourning. “Still raping small Central American nations for a living?”

  Her warm body language had made him that much more vulnerable to the dagger of her words. Charles sighed and turned away from her cold gaze.

  “I’d hoped we might put that argument aside for the day,” Charles said. “I’m just a lawyer, Mel. Just like Bennie was. I do what I’m hired to do.”

  “You did quite a job for Bechtel last year against the class action suit in Panama. Those peasants—”

  “Mel. Please.”

  She turned away. “That son of a bitch I married. He can’t just croak on me. First he has to give me a last request to pass on to ‘an old pal’.” She cleared her throat as if something bilious had risen. “I guess I should be grateful I can take care of it now, instead of at the gravesite.”

  The tie and collar around Charles’s neck felt like a noose. “What are you talking about, Mel?”

  She rummaged through her purse, and pulled out an eighty gigabyte datacoin. She pressed it into Charles’s palm so firmly he suspected she was trying to brand him with it.

  “It’s a copy of Bennie’s files for the Save Alaska suit.” She shrugged. “You know Bennie. He never gives up on anybody. He wanted you to take his place, Charles. It’ll be a difficult suit to win. It’ll take the best. Even I have to admit, you’re the best. At your job.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Take it, you ass. Think of it as a chance for redemption.” Eyes misty, she turned fully toward him
, and finally, her voice was not cold. “Do it for me, if you can’t do it for Bennie.”

  Charles swallowed, and tucked the datacoin in his coat pocket. “I’ll get back to you on it.”

  She nodded. He knew she knew nothing had been decided. She’d made her point. That was all that could be asked of the moment.

  Given the awkward silence that followed, Charles was surprised how soon the limousine reached the cemetery. As the car had warned, they were barely in time. Most of the mourners were already gathered around the gravesite.

  The vehicle swung to a parking place in the semi-circle reserved for AutoGuide traffic. “I’ll be there in a moment,” Charles said softly. Melanie, eager to be away, joined the gathered family.

  Charles hesitated, wondering if he should simply leave. No. He’d come too far now. He rubbed sunblock on his face, neck, and hands, put on his hat and dark glasses, and opened his black umbrella as he stepped out.

  He sniffed the caustic outdoor air. A few of the mourners wore their face masks, but Charles decided he didn’t need his today. He strode to the fringes of the crowd. He didn’t mingle — no one here wanted to know him, and he knew it.

  Much to Charles’s relief, the minister started right on time. Those who had been aiming suspicious glances at Charles turned to render their respect and attention. Charles stared hard at the casket, as if he had x-ray vision and were taking a last, long look at his blood brother.

  Soon the minister stood aside. A man vaguely familiar to Charles moved forward to offer a eulogy.

  “Bennie Goldman,” said the man with a strained voice, “was a crusader for the planet.”

  Charles could have given the speech himself. He’d read praise like it in eco-front journals. Whenever there was another oil spill, Bennie was there providing legal advice to the impacted residents. He reminded the public of violations by major corporations of the Montreal Accord every time a new hole appeared in the ozone layer. When the plankton fertilizing project yielded negligible results, he had a panel of scientists prepped with the “I told you so’s.”