I’m so fucking grateful for this hospital. The Devolved Areas are great when you’re well and pumped up, and you can take huts and mud and mosquitoes and snake for dinner. But you do not want to have a miscarriage in Eden. A miscarriage in the bowel is about five times more serious than one in the womb. A centimetre or two more of tearing and most of the blood in my body would have blown out in two minutes.
I am one very lucky guy.
The Doctor was João’s friend Nadia, and she was just fantastic with me. She told me what was wrong with the baby.
“It’s a good thing you lost it,” she told me. “It would not have had much of a life.”
I just told her the truth. I knew this one felt different from the start; it just didn’t feel right.
It’s what I get for trying to have another baby at forty-five. I was just being greedy. I told her. É a ultima vez. This is the last time.
Chega, she said, Enough. But she was smiling. É o trabalho do João. From now on, it’s João’s job.
Then we had a serious conversation, and I’m not sure I understood all her Portuguese. But I got the gist of it.
She said: it’s not like you don’t have enough children.
When João and I first met, it was like the world was a flower that had bloomed. We used to lie in each other’s arms and he, being from a huge family, would ask, “How many babies?” and I’d say “Six,” thinking that was a lot. It was just a fantasy then, some way of echoing the feeling we had of being a union. And he would say no, no, ten. Ten babies. Ten babies would be enough.
We have fifteen.
People used to wonder what reproductive advantage homosexuality conferred.
Imagine you sail iceberg-oceans in sealskin boats with crews of twenty men, and that your skiff gets shipwrecked on an island, no women anywhere. Statistically, one of those twenty men would be samesex-orientated, and if receptive, he would nest the sperm of many men inside him. Until one day, like with Nilson and João, two sperm interpenetrated. Maybe more. The bearer probably died, but at least there was a chance of a new generation. And they all carried the genes.
Homosexuality was a fallback reproductive system.
Once we knew that, historians started finding myths of male pregnancy all over the place. Adam giving birth to Eve, Vishnu on the serpent Anata giving birth to Brahma. And there were all the virgin births as well, with no men necessary.
Now we don’t have to wait for accidents.
I think Nadia said, You and João, you’re pregnant in turns or both of you are pregnant at the same time. You keep having twins. Heterosexual couples don’t do that. And if you count husband no 3, Nilson, that’s another five children. Twenty babies in ten years?
“Chega,” I said again.
“Chega,” she said, but it wasn’t a joke. Of course the women, the lesbians are doing the same thing now too. Ten years ago, everybody thought that homosexuality was dead and that you guys were on the endangered list. But you know, any reproductive advantage over time leads to extinction of rivals.
Nadia paused and smiled. I think we are the endangered species now.
Happy birthday.
AWAKE IN THE NIGHT
John C. Wright
William Hope Hodgson’s quirky Victorian masterpiece The Night Lands, one of the flat-out strangest novels ever written, has had a large – although often unmentioned – effect on science fiction and fantasy over the generations since Hodgson’s too-early death, being one of the likely literary ancestors of works such as Clark Ashton Smith’s Zotique, Jack Vance’s The Dying Earth, and Gene Wolfe’s The Book of the New Sun. Now, in a new century, it has also inspired a Web site (http://home.clara.net/andywrobertson/nightmap.html) and an anthology (William Hope Hodgson’s Night Lands, Volume 1: Eternal Love) devoted to new stories written as homages to Hodgson by various hands, both edited by Andy W. Robertson.
Not all the writers involved in these projects are really up to the demands of faithfully and effectively handling Hodgon’s eerie, unearthly, somberly lyrical, and poetically charged milieu, but fear not – John C. Wright, your guide to The Night Lands in the bizarre and compelling novella that follows, handles the material as if he was born to do so, and delivers a tale of the conflicts of love, duty, and friendship that extends even beyond the boundaries of death, and which may be one of the strangest stories you’re likely to read this year.
John C. Wright attracted some attention in the late 90s with his early stories in Asimov’s Science Fiction (with one of them, “Guest Law,” being picked up for David Hartwell’s Year’s Best SF), but it wasn’t until he published his “Golden Age” trilogy (consisting of The Golden Age, The Golden Transcendence, and The Phoenix Exultant) in the first few years of the new century, novels which earned critical raves across the board, that he was recognized as a major new talent in science fiction. A new novel, The Last Guardians of Everness, is coming up this year. Wright lives with his family in Centreville, Virginia.
YEARS AGO, MY FRIEND Perithoös went into the Night Lands. His whole company had perished in their flesh, or had been Destroyed in their souls. I am awake in the night, and I hear his voice.
Our law is that no man can go into the Night Lands without the Preparation, and the capsule of release; nor can any man with bride or child to support, nor any man who is a debtor, or who knows the secrets of the Monstruwacans; nor a man of unsound mind or unfit character; nor any man younger than twenty-two years; and no woman, ever.
The last remnant of mankind endures, besieged, in our invulnerable redoubt, a pyramid of gray metal rising seven miles high above the volcano-lit gloom, venom-dripping ice-flows, and the cold mud-deserts of the Night Lands. Our buried grain fields and gardenlands delve another one hundred miles into the bedrock.
Night Hounds, Dire Worms, and Lumbering Behemoths are but the visible part of the hosts that afflict us; monsters more cunning than these, such as the Things Which Peer, and Toiling Giants, and Those Who Mock, walk abroad, and build their strange contrivances, and burrow their tunnels. Part of the host besieging us is invisible; part is immaterial; part is we know not what.
There are ulterior beings, forces of unknown and perhaps unimaginable power, which our telescopes can see crouching motionless on cold hillsides to every side of us, moving so slowly that their positions change, if at all, only across the centuries. Silent and terrible they wait and watch, and their eyes are ever upon us.
Through my open window I can hear the roar and murmur of the Night Lands, or the eerie stillness that comes when one of the Silent Ones walks abroad, gliding in silence, shrouded in gray, down ancient highways no longer trod by any man, and the yammering monsters cower and hush.
Before me is a brazen book of antique lore, which speaks of nigh-forgotten times, now myth, when the pyramid was bright and strong, and the Earth-Current flowed without interruption.
Men were braver in those days, and an expedition went north and west, beyond the land of the abhumans, seeking another source of the Earth-Current, fearing the time when the chasm above which our pyramid rests might grow dark. And the book said Usire (for that was the name of the Captain), had his men build a stronghold walled of living metal, atop the fountain-head of this new source of current; and they reared a lofty dome, around was set a great circle charged with spiritual fire; and they drove a shaft into the rock.
One volume lays open before me now, the whispering thought-patterns impregnated into its glistening pages murmuring softly when I touch the letters. In youth, I found this book written in a language dead to everyone but me. It was this book that persuaded the lovely Hellenore (in violation of all law and wisdom) to sneak from the safety of the pyramid into the horror-haunted outer lands.
Perithoös had no choice but to follow. This very book I read slew my boyhood friend . . . if indeed he is dead.
Through the casement above me, the cold air blows. Some fume not entirely blocked by the Air-Clog that surrounds our pyramid stings my nose. Softly, I can hear
murmurs and screams as a rout of monsters passes along a line of dark hills and crumbling ruins in the West, following the paths of lava-flows that issue from a dimly-shining tumble of burning mountains.
More softly, I can hear a voice that seems human, begging to be let in. It is not the kind of voice that one hears with the ear. I am not the only thing awake in the night.
Scholars who read of the most ancient records say the world was not always as it is now. They say it was not always night, then; but what it may have been if it were not unending night, the records do not make clear.
Certain dreamers (once or twice a generation, we are born, the great dreamers whose dreams reach beyond the walls of time) tell of aeons older than the scholars tell. The dreamers say there was once a vapor overhead, from which pure water fell, and there was no master of the pump-house to ration it; they say the air was not an inky darkness whence fell voices cry.
In those days, there was in heaven, a brightness like unto a greater and a lesser lamp, and when the greater lamp was hooded, then the upper air was filled with diamonds that twinkled.
Other sources say that the inhabitants of heaven were not diamonds at all, but balls of gas, immeasurably distant, but visible through the transparent air. Still others say they were not gas, but fire. Somehow, despite all these contradictory reports, I have always believed in the days of light.
No proofs can be shown for these strange glimpses of times agone, but, when great dreamers sleep, the instruments of the Monstruwacans do not register the energies that are believed to accompany malign influence from beyond our walls. If it is madness to have faith in what the ancients knew, it is a madness natural to human kind, not a Sending meant to deceive us.
As I nodded, half-awake, softly there came what seemed to be the voice of Perithoös into my sad and idle thoughts. I was called by my name.
“Telemachos, Telemachos! Undo for me the door as once I did for you; return the good deed you said you would. If vows are nothing, what is anything?”
I did not move or raise my head, but my brain elements sent this message softly out into the night, even though my lips did not move. “Perithoös, closer than a brother, I wept when I heard your company was overwhelmed by the monsters. What became of the maiden you set out to rescue?”
“Maiden no more I found her. Dead, dead, horribly dead, and by my hand. Herself and her child; and I had not the courage to join them.”
“How are you alive after all these years?”
“I cannot make the door to open.”
“Call to the gate-warden, Perithoös, and he will lower a speaking tube from a Meurtriere and you may whisper the Master-Word into it, and so prove your human soul has not been destroyed, and I will be the first to welcome you.”
The Master-Word did not come. Instead, mere words, such as any fell creature of the night could impersonate, now whispered in my brain: “Telemachos, son of Amphion! I am still human, I still remember life, but I cannot say the Master-Word.”
“You lie. That cannot be.”
And yet I felt a tear stinging in my eye, and I knew, somehow, that this voice did not lie: he was still human. But how could he forget the Word?
“Though it has never been before, in the name of the blood we shed together as boys, the gruel in which we bound our silly oath, I call on you to believe and know that a new sorrow has appeared in this old, sad world, like fresh blood from an old scar; it is possible to forget about what it means to be a man, and yet remain one. I have lost the Master-Word; I have my very self. Let me through the door. I am so cold.”
I did no longer answer him, but stirred my heavy limbs.
Though my hands and feet felt like lead, I moved and trembled and slid from my desk where I slumbered, and fell to the floor heavily enough to jar myself awake.
How long I lay I do not know. My memory is dark, and perhaps time was not for me then flowing as it should have been. I remember being cold, but not having the strength to rise and shut the window; and this was an old part of the library, so there were no thought-switches I could close just by wishing them closed.
My thoughts drifted with the cold wind from the window.
This wing of the library had been deserted for half a million of years. No one came into this wing, since no one could read the language, or understand the thoughts, of the long-forgotten peoples who had sent Usire out to found a new stronghold. Only I knew the real name of those ancient folk; modern antiquarians called them the Orichalcum people, because they were the only ones who possessed the secret of that metal; and no other trace of them survived.
And so the Air Masters, during the last two hundred years of power-outages, had lowered the ventilation budget in this wing to a minimum. I had needed vasculum of breathing-leaf just to get in here, and would have fainted with the window shut.
Nor were failures of the ventilations rare. Most windows of most of the middle-level cities stood open, these days, no matter what the wise traditions of elder times required.
It was two miles above the Night Lands. No monster could cross the White Circle, and nothing has climbed so high since the Incursions of 400,000 years ago; and even if they did, this window was too small to admit them.
I remembered wings. In my dreams I see doves, or the machines used by ancient men to impersonate them. But the air is thin, and even the dark and famished things have no wings to mount so high.
I thought there was no danger to have the window open. Stinging insects, vapors, or particles would be surely stopped by the Air-Clog. But what if the power losses over the last few centuries were greater than is publicly admitted by the Aediles or the Castellan? But it had not stopped the Mind-Call, as it should have done.
Many Foretellers have dreamt that it is five million years before the final extinction of mankind. Most of the visions agree on certain basic elements, though much is in dispute. Five million years. We are supposed to have that long. I wondered, not for the first time, if those who say that they can see the shape of fate are wrong.
I came awake when there was a movement, a clang, behind me as the hatch swung open. Here was a Master of the Watch, clad from head to toe in full armor, and carrying in hand that terrible weapon called the Diskos.
I knew better than to wonder why a Watchman was here. He came into the chamber, his blade extending before him as he stepped, and his eyes never left me. The shaft was extended. The blade was lit and spinning. The furious noise of the weapon filled the room. Flickering shadows fled up and down the walls and bookshelves as eerie sparks snapped, and I felt the hair on my head, the little hairs on my naked arms, stir and stand up. I smelled ozone.
Without rising, I raised my hands. “I am a man! I am human!”
His voice was very deep, a rumble of gravel. “They all say that, those that talk.”
Slowly, loudly, clearly, I said the master-word, both aloud with reverent lips, and by sending it with my brain-elements.
It seemed so dark in the chamber when he doused his blade, but his smile of relief was bright.
My youth had been a solitary one. To hold one’s ancestors in honor, and to love the lore of half-forgotten things, has never been in fashion among schoolboys. The pride of young men requires that they seem wise, despite their inexperience, and the only way to appear all-knowing without going to the tedium of acquiring knowledge, is to hold all knowledge in weary-seeming contempt. Students and apprentices (and, yes, teachers also) bestowed on me their well-practiced sneers; but when my dreams began, and ghosts of other lives came softly into my brain as I slept, then I was marked as a pariah, and was made the butt of every prank and cruelty boyish imagination could invent.
Perithoös was as popular as I was unpopular. He was an alarming boy to have as a schoolmate, for he had the gift of the Night-Hearing, and he could hear unspoken thoughts. All secrets were open to him; he knew passwords to open locked doors and cabinets, and could avoid orderlies after lights-out. He knew the answers to tests before the schoolmasters gave t
hem, and the plays of the opposing team on the tourney field. He was good at everything, feared nothing, and anarchy and confusion spread from his wake. What was there for a schoolboy not to love?
Once, when the Head Boy and his gang had me locked in the cable-wheel closet, so that I would be absent from the feast-day assembly and gift-giving, Perithoös left the assembly (a thing forbidden by the headmaster’s rules), took a practice blade from the arm’s-locker and spun the charged blade against the closet door hinges, shattering the panel with a blast of noise.
Not just school proctors, but civic rectors and men of the Corridor Guard arrived. To use one of the Great Weapons while inside the pyramid was a grave offense; and neither one of us would admit who did it, even though they surely knew.
We both were scourged by the headmaster and given triple-duty, and had porridge for our holiday feast, while the other boys dined on viands and candied peaches.
Perithoös and I ate alone in the staff commissary, our shirts off (so that our backs would heal) and shivering in the cold of the unheated room. We were not allowed to speak, but I tipped my bowl onto the board and wrote in the porridge letters from the set-speech: shed blood makes us brothers-I shall return this deed.
Even at that age, he was taller than the other lads, broad of shoulder and quick of eye and hand, the victor of every sport and contest, the darling of those who wagered on gymnastics games. He was as well-liked as I was ill-liked. So I expected to see doubt, or, worse, a look of patronizing kindness in his eye.
But he merely nodded, wiped away the porridge-stain with his hand quickly, so that the proctor would not see the message. Under the table, with perfect seriousness, he clasped my hand with his, and we shook on it. Porridge dripped through our fingers, but, nonetheless, that handclasp was sacred, and he and I were friends.
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 17 Page 71
