Alien Landscapes 2

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Sounds boring,” Elroy said. “I want to go on a virtual immersion vacation! Every kind of game simulation! We’ve got a dome right here in the city, and Pop can get discount tickets from the factory.”

  “We’re not all going to play virtual games.” Judy rolled her eyes. “That’s for kids.”

  Jane sighed. “Wouldn’t a few days at a spa be nice? Temperature-controlled water jets, zero-gravity relaxation chambers, massagebots that can work your sore muscles for hours? It’s not easy being a homemaker these days, you know. You kids just wait until you grow up and have families of your own.”

  George, however, cut off all further argument. He had already made his decision, and he was sure his family would enjoy it. It would be quite an exciting experience, if only they kept open minds.

  “This year we’ll do something we’ve never done before. We’re going out to visit where my Uncle Asimov lived.”

  #

  George flew the family bubblecar out past the city and into the next city (which looked exactly the same as the last), then to the next city, and the next. He remained cheerful, anticipating what they would find out in the rugged swatch of uncivilized land in the middle of the barren, reddish desert.

  The bubblecar whistled and hummed as it cruised along under its computerized guidance. Though George sat in the driver’s seat, he didn’t actually fly the craft. The guidance systems took care of everything for him, but he had always felt in control. He ignored the two kids picking on each other in the back seat as the bubblecar streaked onward. Beside him in the front, Jane seemed quite uneasy about where they were going.

  “Are we there yet?” Elroy said. “It’s been an hour.”

  “It’s been fifty minutes,” George said.

  “Seems like forever,” Judy complained. “When are we going to stop? Shouldn’t we take a rest break?”

  Eventually, the neatly organized buildings dropped away, the traffic thinned, and soon the landscape was like something George had seen on a Martian pioneer adventure video. The ground was rocky and barren, dotted with sagebrush and cactus, broken by huge outcrops of rock that didn’t look at all like real skyscrapers.

  Judy squealed when she saw dark, four-legged creatures munching on the unappetizing foliage. “Look, wild animals! We’re not actually going down there, are we?”

  “Those are cattle, I think, Judy. Real cattle.” He searched his memory. “They were the inspiration for many of the meat products our food replicator makes.” Gazing down at the clumsy creatures, though, George didn’t think they looked at all like any of the steaks, burgers, or sausages he happily received on a plate that came out of the delivery chute.

  “Do they attack people, Pop? Are they dangerous?”

  “Of course not, son. We won’t be going anywhere close to them.”

  The bubblecar’s metallic voice said, “Reaching end of automatic guidance network. Air travel no longer safe or recommended. It is advised that you turn around and go back.”

  “See, Daddy? We shouldn’t have come here. Let’s go to CentroMetropolis.”

  “Aww, that’s two hours from here,” Elroy complained.

  George’s voice was firm. “We’re almost there. Uncle Asimov’s trailer is just up ahead.”

  The bubblecar said, “Without grid guidance, it is suggested that you land and proceed on foot from this point.”

  “On foot!” Judy cried. “Does that mean . . . walk?”

  “Yes, I think it’s only a mile.”

  “What’s a mile, Pop?” Elroy asked.

  “A long, long way,” Jane said. “George, are you sure this is a good idea?”

  He landed the bubblecar in the middle of the desert. They seemed to be far from anywhere. Had anyone ever been so alone, so isolated? As the transparent dome lifted and they climbed out into the hot sun, George took a deep breath, noting the strange smells, the dust in the air, the spice of sage.

  “What if one of those . . . cattle comes after us?” Judy asked.

  “Uncle Asimov was fine. He lived out here by himself most of his life.”

  “Yes, Daddy, and he died.”

  George strode forward, leaving footprints on the ground in the real dirt. He pointed to a white structure on a rise in the distance. “There’s his trailer.” Even Jane was uncertain about how far away it looked, and she was concerned they might get lost, though the bubblecar was perfectly visible and so was the trailer.

  Elroy bounded ahead, and Jane warned him to watch out for rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas, jaguars, and any other terrible creature she could think of. After five minutes, the boy lost his steam and began complaining. Judy whined about how dirty she was getting. Tight-lipped, Jane followed with obvious disapproval.

  The trailer turned out to be a ramshackle affair made of patched metal siding, solar-power panels on the roof, a water pump in the back. George tried to imagine being out here all by himself day after day without any instant news updates or real-time transmissions of the latest robotic baseball games.

  “He really was a caveman!” Elroy looked around with eyes as wide as saucers.

  When George pulled open the door, it creaked unnervingly. Jane stepped inside and shuddered. “Rosie would blow an entire circuit bank if she looked at this. There’s dirt everywhere!”

  They poked around, looking at the kitchen cabinets and a countertop that contained an actual stove and actual sink, though no one wanted to trust the water that came gurgling out of the tap. Elroy found the bathroom and the shower and called out for them to look at the exotic, primitive fixtures.

  “That was called a toilet,” George said. He had looked up historical background before they’d begun their vacation.

  He paced through the cramped rooms of the trailer, wondering about what his Uncle Asimov must have done all day long. When they found the small rickety bed with its spring mattress, Jane frowned in a combination of disgust and dismay. “Unsanitary conditions and . . . no conveniences. Your Uncle Asimov was crazy, George. It’s so sad. Just think of what kind of life he could have had if he’d gone into the city. He could have been a productive member of society.”

  George faltered at the thought. Now that he had begun to pay attention to his job and home life, he wasn’t sure what he himself was doing to be “productive.”

  Jane stood with her hands on her narrow hips, shaking her head. “I guess we’ll never know why he did this to himself. It’s like he was being punished.”

  “Uncle Asimov knew how to take care of himself. He was self-sufficient. I bet he built most of this trailer with his own hands.”

  “Do you think he used a spear to hunt for his food?” Elroy asked. “Maybe he killed some of those cattle, or jackrabbits, or prairie dogs.”

  “Whatever he did, he did it his own way. He must have felt a sense of accomplishment in just getting through each day.” George recalled how good he’d felt with the single task of making a pot of coffee with the old-fashioned percolator.

  “How inconvenient,” Jane insisted. “It must have been impossible for him! I’ll bet he was very miserable.”

  George wasn’t so sure. “I bet he was happy.”

  Judy laughed in disbelief. “Nobody could be happy out here. Just think of everything he was missing.”

  “But he had things most of us don’t even remember.”

  Jane remained unconvinced. “What does that have to do with anything? So much unnecessary work. It’s such a shame.”

  “And now this place is all ours, for what it’s worth,” George said, grinning. “Uncle Asimov willed it to me.”

  “But what do we do with this place?” Jane said with growing horror in her voice.

  “We’ll keep it. I just might come back, spend a whole two hours next time.”

  “If you do that, George, you’re doing it alone.” Jane was completely no-nonsense. Under the sunshine and with her own perspiration, her always-perfect hairdo had begun to come undone.

  He just smiled mysteriously at h
er. “That’s the idea.”

  Elroy pushed the creaking door and went back out into the bright sunlight, where he saw a lizard scuttle across the sand. “Can we go, Pop? Please?” The boy’s normally cheerful voice carried a whining tone. “We could get back home in time to play a game or two in the virtual immersion dome. Wouldn’t that be neat, Pop?”

  He saw that Jane had been ready to go from the moment they set down in the desert. Before the situation could grow entirely unpleasant, George agreed. Ironically, both of the kids had plenty of energy as they hurried back toward the waiting bubblecar.

  George had seen what he needed to see, and he would remember this for a long time. His family grumbled and complained, but their words washed off of him as he felt a strange sense of possibilities. He had a spring in his step.

  Elroy and Judy scrambled into the bubblecar, gasping and panting and moaning with the effort. Jane settled into her usual position beside him in the front of the craft. He sealed the dome over them, raised the vehicle in the air, and whirred away.

  “It’ll be good to get home and back to normal, now that you’ve had your little adventure, George.” Jane had the patient tolerance of a woman who had been married a long time.

  “Yes, dear.”

  The bubblecar picked up speed and they flew back toward the city. When no one was looking, though, George surreptitiously switched off the auto-pilot, took the controls, and piloted the bubblecar by himself all the way home.

  * * *

  Job Qualifications

  The expectations we place on our politicians seem impossible for any person to achieve. A candidate needs to be all things, know all walks of life, understand every segment of his constituency. How could one person achieve so much . . . without a little help from a handful of clones?

  Candidate Berthold Ossequin—the original—never made a move without being advised or cautioned by his army of pollsters, etiquette consultants, and style experts. Whether in public or in the privacy of his family estate, his every gesture and utterance was monitored. The avid media waited for Berthold to make any sort of mistake.

  Elections would be held soon, and he must be absolutely perfect if he wanted to become the next Grand Chancellor of the United Cultures of Earth. According to surveys, he did have a slight lead over his opponent, though not enough to inspire complete confidence.

  Berthold sat in an overstuffed chair that vibrated soothingly to calm him as he prepared to give a dramatic and insightful speech that his team had scripted for him. From rehearsing the speech before test audiences, the candidate knew where to modulate his voice and which points to emphasize in order to guarantee the strongest emotional impact.

  Two young women, one at each hand, worked vigorously to trim his cuticles, file his nails, and give him that perfectly manicured appearance. A stylist worked with his bronze-brown hair and fixed every strand into place. Dieticians made careful recommendations about the foods Berthold should eat. Style experts met for at least an hour each evening to plan the candidate’s wardrobe for the following day. No one could ever find fault with his appearance.

  His stomach ached from eating too large and too rich a meal the night before, against the advice of his dieticians. He reminded himself to be careful with his facial expressions today, since a twinge of indigestion might show up as an inexplicable frown.

  Berthold glanced up from the speech notes, looking at his chief advisor, who waited beside him. “How are the others coming, Mr. Rana?”

  Rana nodded. “Precisely on schedule, sir. The others will be ready when they become necessary for your campaign.”

  #

  The lash struck with a bite of electrical current that produced a fiery sting. Though the high-tech whip caused no actual harm, Berthold 12 felt as if his skin had been flayed. More misery, the same as the day before, and the day before that.

  Fingernails cracked and bleeding, he stumbled under the heavy rock he carried while the hot sun pounded down. He could smell rock dust and his own sweat, heard the impatient shouts of the guards and the groans of other slave-prisoners. His mind ached, and Berthold 12 drove back the myriad shouted questions that hammered through his head. Why was he here? What had he done? The injustice burned like acid within him. Why do I deserve this?

  Up and down the winding jagged canyon, layered limestone walls crumbled like broken knives. Work teams moved sluggishly, carting loads of quarried stone. Berthold 12 knew that machinery existed to do this sort of work, robots and automated conveyers could have taken away the rock. But this labor site wasn’t about efficiency; it was about misery and punishment.

  When the electrical whip snapped again across his shoulder blades, Berthold 12 dropped the rock and collapsed to his knees. The guard’s hover platform came closer, and the armored man loomed over him. Beneath the polarized helmet, Berthold 12 could see only the guard’s chin and a smile that showed square white teeth. “I can keep whipping you all day if that’s what you want, prisoner.”

  “Please! I’m working as hard as I can.” His throat was raw, his body a living mass of aches. “I don’t even know why I’m here! I don’t remember anything . . . but this.”

  “Perhaps you committed the crime of amnesia.” The guard chuckled at his joke, then threatened with the electrical whip again. “If your crime was bad enough that you blocked all memory of it from your head, then you probably don’t want to remember.”

  Berthold 12 used his reserves of energy just to get back to his feet. He picked up the heavy limestone slab before the guard could lash him again. He could not recall any day that hadn’t been this litany of labor and torture. He didn’t know when this awful part of his life would end.

  #

  The greasy smells and comfortable bustle of the Retro Diner always made him feel at home. Berthold 6 stood by the heat lamps, adjusted his stained white apron, and pulled out a few guest checks. He quickly added up the totals while the short-order cook slopped extravagant nostalgic breakfasts onto warm plates and set them on a shelf. Low-carb pancakes and waffles, minimal-cholesterol eggs, reduced-fat bacon and sausage: Such dietary innovations had made the traditional American breakfast into something the trendy customers could once again consume with great gusto.

  The Retro Diner, modeled after popular eating establishments of the mid-Twentieth Century, had silver and chrome fittings, stools and booths upholstered with red naugahyde, table surfaces covered with speckled Formica. The menu featured re-creations of classic products. Many patrons got into the spirit by dressing up in old-fashioned costumes and smoking non-carcinogenic cigarettes. The place had a neighborly feel to it, a celebration of more innocent times. Berthold 6 felt right at home. He wouldn’t have wanted any other job.

  Carrying his loaded tray, Berthold 6 made a slight detour to snag the pot of coffee—weak, bitter, regular coffee, not one of the dramatically potent gourmet blends. “Here comes some morning cheer for you and your family, Eddie.”

  “Hey, Bert,” said the jolly old man lounging back in his usual booth. “The waitresses around here are getting uglier every day.”

  “Yeah, but the waiters are certainly looking fine.”

  As the man grinned at the good-natured response, Berthold 6 delivered a stack of strawberry pancakes topped with a swirl of whipped cream, which looked like the eruption of a fruity volcano. He gave a cherry cola to the freckle-faced boy who sat next to his grandfather, refilled coffee cups around the room, then scooped dirty dishes from an unoccupied table into a bus tub.

  Berthold 6 enjoyed working with regular folks. He liked serving people. He didn’t earn much money, but enough to get by (though he wished some of his customers wouldn’t tip like it was still 1953). He’d had a busy shift today, and tomorrow was his day off. Since he had no major plans, he thought he’d spend time with a few friends, talking, drinking beer, maybe watching sports or playing a game or two. Berthold 6 wasn’t unduly stressed with the nonsense of unattainable goals or unrealistic ambitions. He was just an everyday gu
y, working an everyday job. A simple life.

  “Order up!” the cook called with a clatter of dishes as he set the next breakfast under the heat lamps.

  #

  Before he was escorted off to a glamorous banquet, Candidate Berthold received Mr. Rana in his dressing chambers. The chief advisor brought documents for him to approve and sign. “This will take only a few moments, sir.”

  Berthold glanced down at the papers, shuffling from document to document. “Each one needs a signature?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have they all been read for me?”

  “Yes. And all necessary changes have been made.”

  “And do I agree with everything they say?”

  “The statements are very much in line with your platform, sir.” Rana formed a paternal smile. “You are, however, welcome to read any of them you like—in fact, I encourage it. The experience would be valuable for you.”

  Candidate Berthold gave a dismissive wave. “That won’t be necessary. I’m already tired of the incessant paperwork, and I haven’t even been elected yet.” He laboriously began to sign each one. “I’ll have plenty of time to learn after I get into office.”

  #

  His head felt as if it would explode from so much information, but his passion for the material did not wane. His brain swelled with facts until all the bones of his skull—twenty-two bones in all, fourteen facial bones, eight cranial bones—seemed to pry apart.

  For years Berthold 17 had been studying all aspects of medicine, from surgery to physical therapy to microbiology to anti-aging research. Even with proven teaching aids and somatic memorization devices, he struggled to remember the components of the human body and all the diseases and maladies that could afflict it.

  He would be taking his exams in three days. His future depended on his performance for those vital hours.

  Not that he had any doubts. He had been born for this. The prospect was daunting, but he always liked challenges. Upon first entering medical school, Berthold 17 made up his mind to become one of the best doctors ever. The higher the hurdles, the more effort he put into meeting them. He took great satisfaction in a reward that he’d earned. He had painted his own finish line and would never look back over his shoulder until he had crossed it. “Good enough” was not in his vocabulary.