I asked her whether she wanted to forget our earlier agreement and talk about our projects. She said no; she was still working on hers, in a way, and she still wanted it to be a surprise. I did manage to distract her, playing with the shaping box. We made cartoonish representations of Lo and old Norita, and combined them in impossible sexual geometries. We shared a limited kind of sex ourselves, finally.
The doctor pronounced her well enough to be taken apart, and both of us were scourged and reappeared on the other side. White Hill was already in surgery when I woke up; there had been no reason to revive her before beginning the restorative processes.
I spent two days wandering through the blandness of Amazonia, jungle laced through concrete, quartering the huge place on foot. Most areas seemed catatonic. A few were boisterous with end-of-the-world hysteria. I checked on her progress so often that they eventually assigned a robot to call me up every hour, whether or not there was any change.
On the third day I was allowed to see her, in her sleep. She was pale but seemed completely restored. I watched her for an hour, perhaps more, when her eyes suddenly opened. The new one was blue, not green, for some reason. She didn’t focus on me.
“Dreams feed art,” she whispered in Petrosian; “and art feeds dreams.” She closed her eyes and slept again.
She didn’t want to go back out. She had lived all her life in the tropics, even the year she spent in bondage, and the idea of returning to the ice that had slashed her was more than repugnant. Inside Amazonia it was always summer, now, the authorities trying to keep everyone happy with heat and light and jungle flowers.
I went back out to gather her things. Ten large sheets of buff paper I unstuck from our walls and stacked and rolled. The necklace, and the satchel of rare coins she had brought from Seldene, all her worldly wealth.
I considered wrapping up my own project, giving the robots instructions for its dismantling and transport, so that I could just go back inside with her and stay. But that would be chancy. I wanted to see the thing work once before I took it apart.
So I went through the purging again, although it wasn’t strictly necessary; I could have sent her things through without hand-carrying them. But I wanted to make sure she was on her feet before I left her for several weeks.
She was not on her feet, but she was dancing. When I recovered from the purging, which now took only half a day, I went to her hospital room and they referred me to our new quarters, a three-room dwelling in a place called Plaza de Artistes. There were two beds in the bedroom, one a fancy medical one, but that was worlds better than trying to find privacy in a hospital.
There was a note floating in the air over the bed saying she had gone to a party in the common room. I found her in a gossamer wheelchair, teaching a hand dance to Denli om Cord, while a harpist and flautist from two different worlds tried to settle on a mutual key.
She was in good spirits. Denli remembered an engagement and I wheeled White Hill out onto a balcony that overlooked a lake full of sleeping birds, some perhaps real.
It was hot outside, always hot. There was a mist of perspiration on her face, partly from the light exercise of the dance, I supposed. In the light from below, the mist gave her face a sculpted appearance, unsparing sharpness, and there was no sign left of the surgery.
“I’ll be out of the chair tomorrow,” she said, “at least ten minutes at a time.” She laughed. “Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
I was still staring at her face. “It’s just … I suppose it’s such a relief.”
“I know.” She rubbed my hand. “They showed me pictures, of before. You looked at that for so many days?”
“I saw you.”
She pressed my hand to her face. The new skin was taut but soft, like a baby’s. “Take me downstairs?”
It’s hard to describe, especially in light of later developments, disintegrations, but that night of fragile lovemaking marked a permanent change in the way we linked, or at least the way I was linked to her: I’ve been married twice, long and short, and have been in some kind of love a hundred times. But no woman has ever owned me before.
This is something we do to ourselves. I’ve had enough women who tried to possess me, but always was able to back or circle away, in literal preservation of self. I always felt that life was too long for one woman.
Certainly part of it is that life is not so long anymore. A larger part of it was the run through the screaming storm, her life streaming out of her, and my stewardship, or at least companionship, afterward, during her slow transformation back into health and physical beauty. The core of her had never changed, though, the stubborn serenity that I came to realize, that warm night, had finally infected me as well.
The bed was a firm narrow slab, cooler than the dark air heavy with the scent of Earth flowers. I helped her onto the bed (which instantly conformed to her) but from then on it was she who cared for me, saying that was all she wanted, all she really had strength for. When I tried to reverse that, she reminded me of a holiday palindrome that has sexual overtones in both our languages: Giving is taking is giving.
We spent a couple of weeks as close as two people can be. I was her lover and also her nurse, as she slowly strengthened. When she was able to spend most of her day in normal pursuits, free of the wheelchair or “intelligent” bed (with which we had made a threesome, at times uneasy), she urged me to go back outside and finish up. She was ready to concentrate on her own project, too. Impatient to do art again, a good sign.
I would not have left so soon if I had known what her project involved. But that might not have changed anything.
As soon as I stepped outside, I knew it was going to take longer than planned. I had known from the inside monitors how cold it was going to be, and how many ceemetras of ice had accumulated, but I didn’t really know how bad it was until I was standing there, looking at my piles of materials locked in opaque glaze. A good thing I’d left the robots inside the shelter, and a good thing I had left a few hand tools outside. The door was buried under two metras of snow and ice. I sculpted myself a passageway, an application of artistic skills I’d never foreseen.
I debated calling White Hill and telling her that I would be longer than expected. We had agreed not to interrupt each other, though, and it was likely she’d started working as soon as I left.
The robots were like a bad comedy team, but I could only be amused by them for an hour or so at a time. It was so cold that the water vapor from my breath froze into an icy sheath on my beard and mustache. Breathing was painful; deep breathing probably dangerous.
So most of the time, I monitored them from inside the shelter. I had the place to myself; everyone else had long since gone into the dome. When I wasn’t working I drank too much, something I had not done regularly in centuries.
It was obvious that I wasn’t going to make a working model. Delicate balance was impossible in the shifting gale. But the robots and I had our hands full, and other grasping appendages engaged, just dismantling the various pieces and moving them through the lock. It was unexciting but painstaking work. We did all the laser cuts inside the shelter, allowing the rock to come up to room temperature so it didn’t spall or shatter. The air conditioning wasn’t quite equal to the challenge, and neither were the cleaning robots, so after a while it was like living in a foundry: everywhere a kind of greasy slickness of rock dust, the air dry and metallic.
So it was with no regret that I followed the last slice into the airlock myself, even looking forward to the scourging if White Hill was on the other side.
She wasn’t. A number of other people were missing, too. She left this note behind:
I knew from the day we were called back here what my new piece would have to be, and I knew I had to keep it from you, to spare you sadness. And to save you the frustration of trying to talk me out of it.
As you may know by now, scientists have determined that the Fwndyri indeed
have sped up the Sun’s evolution somehow. It will continue to warm, until in thirty or forty years there will be an explosion called the “helium flash.” The Sun will become a red giant, and the Earth will be incinerated.
There are no starships left, but there is one avenue of escape. A kind of escape.
Parked in high orbit there is a huge interplanetary transport that was used in the terraforming of Mars. It’s a couple of centuries older than you, but like yourself it has been excellently preserved. We are going to ride it out to a distance sufficient to survive the Sun’s catastrophe, and there remain until the situation improves, or does not.
This is where I enter the picture. For our survival to be meaningful in this thousand-year war, we have to resort to coldsleep. And for a large number of people to survive centuries of coldsleep, they need my jaturnary skills. Alone, in the ice, they would go slowly mad. Connected through the matrix of my mind, they will have a sense of community, and may come out of it intact.
I will be gone, of course. I will be by the time you read this. Not dead, but immersed in service. I could not be revived if this were only a hundred people for a hundred days. This will be a thousand, perhaps for a thousand years.
No one else on Earth can do jaturnary, and there is neither time nor equipment for me to transfer my ability to anyone. Even if there were, I’m not sure I would trust anyone else’s skill. So I am gone.
My only loss is losing you. Do I have to elaborate on that?
You can come if you want. In order to use the transport, I had to agree that the survivors be chosen in accordance with the Earth’s strict class system—starting with dear Norita, and from that pinnacle , on down—but they were willing to make exceptions for all of the visiting artists. You have until mid-Deciembre to decide; the ship leaves Januar first.
If I know you at all, I know you would rather stay behind and die. Perhaps the prospect of living “in” me could move you past your fear of coldsleep; your aversion to jaturnary. If not, not.
I love you more than life. But this is more than that. Are we what we are?
W.H.
The last sentence is a palindrome in her language, not mine, that I believe has some significance beyond the obvious.
I did think about it for some time. Weighing a quick death, or even a slow one, against spending centuries locked frozen in a tiny room with Norita and her ilk. Chattering on at the speed of synapse, and me unable to not listen.
I have always valued quiet, and the eternity of it that I face is no more dreadful than the eternity of quiet that preceded my birth.
If White Hill were to be at the other end of those centuries of torture, I know I could tolerate the excruciation. But she was dead now, at least in the sense that I would never see her again.
Another woman might have tried to give me a false hope, the possibility that in some remote future the process of jaturnary would be advanced to the point where her personality could be recovered. But she knew how unlikely that would be even if teams of scientists could be found to work on it, and years could be found for them to work in. It would be like unscrambling an egg.
Maybe I would even do it, though, if there were just some chance that, when I was released from that din of garrulous bondage, there would be something like a real world, a world where I could function as an artist. But I don’t think there will even be a world where I can function as a man.
There probably won’t be any humanity at all, soon enough. What they did to the Sun they could do to all of our stars, one assumes. They win the war, the Extermination, as my parent called it. Wrong side exterminated.
Of course the Fwndyri might not find White Hill and her charges. Even if they do find them, they might leave them preserved as an object of study.
The prospect of living on eternally under those circumstances, even if there were some growth to compensate for the immobility and the company, holds no appeal.
What I did in the time remaining before mid-Deciembre was write this account. Then I had it translated by a xenolinguist into a form that she said could be decoded by any creature sufficiently similar to humanity to make any sense of the story. Even the Fwndyri, perhaps. They’re human enough to want to wipe out a competing species.
I’m looking at the preliminary sheets now, English down the left side and a jumble of dots, squares, and triangles down the right. Both sides would have looked equally strange to me a few years ago.
White Hill’s story will be conjoined to a standard book that starts out with basic mathematical principles, in dots and squares and triangles, and moves from that into physics, chemistry, biology. Can you go from biology to the human heart? I have to hope so. If this is read by alien eyes, long after the last human breath is stilled, I hope it’s not utter gibberish.
So I will take this final sheet down to the translator and then deliver the whole thing to the woman who is going to transfer it to permanent sheets of platinum, which will be put in a prominent place aboard the transport. They could last a million years, or ten million, or more. After the Sun is a cinder, and the ship is a frozen block enclosing a thousand bits of frozen flesh, she will live on in this small way.
So now my work is done. I’m going outside, to the quiet.
A CAREER IN SEXUAL CHEMISTRY
Brian Stablelord
Brian Stableford (born 1948) is a prolific and opinionated British writer and critic. He has a degree in biology and a Ph.D. in sociology. He has written seventy-five books, including fifty novels. In 1999 he was the recipient of the Science Fiction Research Association’s Pilgrim Award for his contributions to SF scholarship, completing his set of the four major awards available in that field—the others being the SFRA’s Pioneer Award (1996), the Distinguished Scholarship Award of the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts (1987) and the J. Lloyd Eaton Award (1987). His recent non-fiction includes Yesterday’s Bestsellers and Glorious Perversity: The Decline and Fall of Literary Decadence, both published by Borgo Press in 1998. He also works in the field of the popularization of science, in which he is currently producing a series of “LabNotes” pamphlets on recent developments in medical biotechnology for the Education Division of the Wellcome Trust. He is among the top rank of today’s short story writers, producing a wide variety of excellent science fiction and fantasy stories at a rate of several a year. One of the principal writers of both The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction and of The Encyclopedia of Fantasy during the 1990s, Stableford’s formidable knowledge and skill, and the impact of his learned writings, made him a central figure in SF.
In recent years, he has published a number of essays on “practical theory,” of which “The Last Chocolate Bar and the Majesty of Truth: Reflections on the Concept of ‘Hardness in Science Fiction,’” in The New York Review of Science Fiction, is particularly relevant to our discussion of hard SF. In it, he pins down the probable first use of the term, and through the example some of its conservative implications:
Use of the term “hard science fiction” dates back at least as far as November 1957, when P. Schuyler Miller used it in the introductory essay leading off one of his “Reference Library” columns in Astounding Science Fiction. The essay in question cites three books—John W. Campbell Jr.’s Islands in Space, Murray Leinster’s Colonial Survey, and Hal Clement’s Cycle of Fire—as widely different but nevertheless cardinal examples of “what some readers mean when they say they want ‘real’ science fiction.”
His most recent novels The Cassandra Complex (2001) and Dark Ararat (2002) continue his future history series begun in Inherit the Earth (1998), Architects of Emortality (1999), and The Fountains of Youth (2000). This series will be completed in a sixth novel, The Omega Expedition. The series as a whole is one of the major hard SF achievements of the field at the turn of the century.
His most recent book is Swan Songs: The Complete Hooded Swan Collection (2002), an omnibus edition of Stableford’s Hooded Swan space opera series, first published in the early 1970s.
His short fiction is collected in The Cosmic Perspective /Custer’s Last Stand (1985), Sexual Chemistry: Sardonic Tales of the Genetic Revolution (1991), and Fables and Fantasies (1996). Stableford has pursued his own course in hard SF in the last decade, writing in the classic apolitical tradition, and has ironically published little hard SF in the U.K. His distinguished short fiction was often nominated for awards in the 1990s, and included in Year’s Best volumes, but his hard SF novels appeared only in the U.S. He is positioned somewhere between Arthur C. Clarke and Hal Clement, and Paul McAuley, but closer to McAuley in affect. The ironies in a Stableford story are often dark and sometimes crushing.
In response to our hard SF anthology, The Ascent of Wonder, in the essay quoted above he expressed his hopes for the future of hard SF:
Personally, I hope that there will in future be more readers of hard SF who are interested in biotechnologies as well as—or even instead of—inorganic technologies. I hope, too, that there will in future be more readers of hard SF who do not require that they be soothed by conventional happy endings, and who are prepared to take a greater interest in the many kinds of idiosyncratic foreplay which could in principle support Eurekaesque climaxes. In particular, I hope that there will in future be more readers of hard SF who appreciate the peculiar aesthetics of irony and downright quirkiness.
The Hard SF Renaissance Page 83
