Strange Attractors (1985)

by Damien Broderick

  the family of Linear seemed a prize pack of villains. One of the nightworking girls came from a household of Plymouth Brethren, who pretended she was dead. I called their bluff and forced an admission

  that they prayed for her daily.

  After five such visits, I could perceive a pattern, which recurred

  with depressing inevitability. No, they hadn’t seen the kid for a while,

  and they weren’t particularly worried. “You grow up in this district and

  you grow up a survivor,’ said Linear’s thuggish father.

  Jeri alone had no accessible kin, and I finally phoned the University library. The Personnel Officer was perfectly willing to chat.

  ‘He left a month ago. Bright lad, we miss him.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

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  Lucy Sussex

  ‘To a good job with a tea company. Tetley’s, I believe.’

  Having followed my line of enquiry to its dead end, I returned to

  Vini. We talked about the Lipton Village Society, and then we talked

  about ourselves. Several days later, I moved upstairs, into his flat.

  ‘I have to be honest with you. I really am only interested in old

  books of geography.’

  ‘I’ll be honest too. I need something to lean on, if you pardon the

  cliche.’

  So we wait, in a quare house, with plural old books and singular old

  cat. For what? A visitor from Lipton Village, home of the truants from

  reality.

  Tim e andflowers

  ©

  ANTHONY PEACEY

  The seascape was vast, the shoreline interminable, the sky an endless ceiling of stratocumulus. His chair stood upon a high sandbar.

  Behind him the beach curved around the bay, away and away

  northwards, to be lost between grey sea and grey sky. Northeastwards across brown flat country utterly devoid of the relief of vegetation brown mountains reared, blued with distance. At his

  feet a small river tried to decide if it were now part of the sea, while

  its further bank broke into a maze of lagoons extending southwards

  to the limit of sight, leaden or quicksilver as the wind touched their

  surface.

  No bird sang; no insect chirped; only the clean breeze sighed

  through the shells and caverns of his ears. But from the mud a few

  paces away, at the bottom of the dike, by the river, a thicket of leafless green twigs grew, the tallest perhaps knee-high. This plant was called Rhynia. Its rhizomes extended slowly beneath the mud, striving to confirm their escape from the water. The man was waiting for the sporangia to ripen on the stem tips. It would be 200 million

  years before Rhynia s descendants towered above the Carboniferous

  swamps to spray their fronded tops at the sun, and a further 100

  million before birds appeared to flit and cry down the aisles of

  unborn forests.

  The man sat, deep between the arms of his chair, absorbed in

  spaces of distance, time and horizon. Not far away the water

  clopped, drawing his glance. Rings were expanding on the surface;

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  30

  Anthony Peacey

  beyond the spit of mud that sheltered this place the water was now

  rougher. Gradually, from the space between sea and sky where

  wind sighed on its way from world’s end to world’s end, the grey

  light drained. Yet when the land was lost in gloom some of the

  lagoons still reflected the sky like polished metal.

  He stirred. It was a movement of the body, a shifting of lungs and

  stomach as much as anything; he had lost all feeling in his limbs.

  He lifted his feet alternately, reclaiming them from the darkness.

  He twisted his neck, but the distant mountains could no longer be

  seen. The wind was cold on his cheek. Fingers flexed, he touched

  contact pads on the chair arm, blinked as he was inserted into an

  elsewhere where the light was bright. His ears popped.

  Before him, Clouis stood for a megachronon like a statue, mouth

  open, one hip dropped, knee bent, one arm half raised. Then he

  came to life and said, ‘Hi, Bern-EE, hi hi!’

  ‘Hello.’ Bernheddin looked down as he thrust himself from the

  chair to stand erect on the metal disc where it now rested.

  ‘Bernie, I was so anxious about you.’

  Looked up. ‘I wish you wouldn’t always wait here for me.’

  Through a round white arch a dazzling white terrace was visible,

  a corner of balustrade, the spikes of an agave, and sunlight entered.

  ‘But Bernie, I was lonely.’ From a suggestion of pout he

  chameleoned a smile, and, posing: ‘Do you like this gorgeous garment? I found it.’

  It draped from his small shoulders in ivory folds, leaving bare his

  arms and his legs from above the knees. There was a thin em broidered border. With this Clouis wore sandals; he had touched his eyelids with lilac.

  Bernheddin ran thumb and curled forefinger along Clouis’s

  sharp jawbone. ‘It’s very nice. You know, I do believe you’re growing a beard.’

  ‘Ber-NEE! T hat’s a revolting joke. And you’ve said it before.’

  He wished to avoid any quarrel, but whatever he might have said

  was too slow in coming.

  ‘Anyway, my new garment isn’t just very nice, it’s lovely.’

  ‘It’s a chiton.’

  ‘W hat?’

  ‘Your new garment — it’s a chiton.’

  Clouis put an arm round him playfully. ‘You know everything.’

  His own arm seemed wooden. ‘They were wearing them when I

  was young, I had one.’

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  ‘You talk as if you were old, Bernie. You’re not old. Do you love

  me?’

  ‘O f course I love you.’ He kissed him dutifully. The boy’s soft lips

  and the scent of his face stirred him. Lust was an undeniable force;

  it had driven evolution through the megayears. Kissed him again,

  longer.

  Clouis broke away, ‘Would you like some tea?’

  They sat on the terrace in the brilliant light. As well as agaves

  there were small palms, hibiscus with sensual pink flowers, and

  bougainvillea climbing the white walls, breaking on the tiled roof

  in a spray of lilac. The rim of the thousand-foot cliff on which they

  perched was covered with white terraces and houses, all empty save

  for themselves, all clean. Below, the sea was a brilliant crystalline

  blue, and there were islands.

  Clouis’s sunglasses matched the bougainvillea flowers. A single

  shield deeply notched over the nose, glinting and opaqueing as he

  turned, it gave him an incongruously aggressive look. Perhaps it

  was the glasses hindering the meeting of eyes, but the conciliatory

  mood was lost. Clouis was saying, ‘Why do you have to ride that

  thing?’

  Bernheddin sipped from the amber glass. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘It’s not safe. You said — it can come back without you.’

  ‘Only if the line of the journey intersects a chronal distortion.

  And then it will only return empty if the rider leaves the chair.’

  ‘W hat would happen then?’

  ‘I never leave the chair.’

  ‘But what do you do? You’re riding it all the time. It’s as if you

  can’t stand me anymore — you always want to be away.’

  ‘No, Clouis. You know that’s not true. I am rarely gone more

  than an hour or tw
o. You should take a ride yourself, sec what it’s

  like.’

  Clouis shook his shoulders in a theatrical shiver. ‘Uff! You won’t

  catch me in that decadent thing.’ He stood, poured Bernheddin

  more tea from the glass jug in which floated ice and slices of lemon.

  Like Ganymede, thought Bernheddin, with his tight golden

  curls. He found it within himself to grin, for he felt not at all like

  Zeus.

  ‘But Bernie, what would happen if it came back without you?’

  ‘Sweetheart, it won’t.’

  ‘But if it did?’

  ‘Well, nothing would happen, I guess.’

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  Anthony Peacey

  ‘You couldn’t get back without it, could you?’

  ‘It would be a little difficult.’

  ‘Could I find you?’

  ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘I know. I read in that decadent book.’

  The Charting and Navigation of Chronal Dichotomies. The wave with

  which Clouis dismissed this text conjured for Bernheddin the thin

  foreclaw of Tyrannosaurus rex, a wonder of the vast past he had so far

  neglected to seek out.

  Clouis went on, ‘Well, where do you go all the time? I think you’ve

  got some little bitch back there. You’re tired of me. What's she like

  then? Can she get it down past her tonsils?’

  ‘Clouis,’ he said tiredly, ‘there is no one else.’

  ‘Well, where do you £0 ?’

  ‘You see . . .’ he said, searching for words.

  From the little island in the centre of the bay a plume of smoke or

  steam was rising. Bernheddin’s eyes had strayed to it, and now as

  they fastened upon something Clouis also looked that way. An

  insect of metal had appeared, its flight accompanied by a whisper

  still scarcely audible. It diverged from its straight approach to take

  a wide sweep towards the volcanic island, then continued in their

  direction.

  Clouis was disturbed. ‘W hat do they want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We could hide, pretend we are away somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Instead Bernheddin stood and, followed by Clouis, went through

  the cool dark maze of the house to the plaza beyond where the flyer

  now landed, sighing on slender legs. A man, perhaps as old as

  Bernheddin, and a younger woman descended the ladder. Clouis

  stared at the woman. Her single garment, apart from metallic

  sandals, was transparent, its folds opaqueing whitely as she moved.

  Neither wore sunglasses; the windows of the flyer were blue-tinted.

  ‘Please come in,’ said Bernheddin, indicating the villa. He and

  the girl moved forward together, then Bernheddin stopped

  awkwardly to let her precede him through the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. It was an alien voice. Bernheddin sought to

  find its tones pleasant, and succeeded as he might find pleasant the

  colours of a pebble on a strange world. Inside he invited them to sit.

  The girl parroted his words twice, the man said nothing, then the

  two newcomers looked expectantly at Clouis who became

  Tim e andflowers

  33

  confused. Finally the girl laughed, again said she was sorry and

  they all sat down. Now the man, to whom Bernheddin reacted as

  an equal, leaned forward and placed a die on the table. His head

  was large, his golden hair like a mane.

  The die spoke. ‘Welcome to Earth. I am Vajo za Ainzon and this

  is Ilena Bal.’

  It was the man’s voice, that at least seemed clear to Bernheddin,

  though the man’s lips had not moved. He said, ‘Thank you,’ and

  waited.

  The girl, Ilena, said, ‘You are Komptorier 3 Bernheddin Haase?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, yes. And my companion is Digitist Clouis Maralle.’

  There was a pause. Then the die said, ‘You understand, we do

  not meet many star people. I wish only to explain . . . Whatever

  you may have heard about Earth, it is not a sanctuary. That is,

  though you are welcome here we will not protect you from authorities of your own world.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Bernheddin. He glanced from za Amzon to the

  die and back. ‘You knew our names?’

  ‘Were you wondering about the vriek?’ asked Ilena.

  ‘The vriek?’

  ‘That.’ She indicated the voice cube.

  ‘Oh, well

  ‘Would you rather Vajo did not use it? It is an anachronism,

  really, but as you probably know our culture is very stable.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mind.’

  ‘In a way,’ said Ilena, ‘it is a courtesy to you. It indicates that Vajo

  is not without distinction, that an Ereditar has come to confer with

  you.’

  ‘I am honoured.’ Bernheddin quirked his lips and nodded at za

  Amzon, who smiled back.

  ‘You mention that we know your names,’ said za Amzon through

  the die. ‘Earth cybernex has known, of course, since before you

  landed. But your world body had been in touch with us. They

  wished us to extradite you. We declined. Then they wished us to

  place you under house arrest. We declined that also. In fact I would

  suggest that you remove yourselves from this house. The cone out

  there is expected to erupt within half a year, but it could happen

  sooner.’

  ‘Would it affect us?’

  ‘Its most spectacular effort, about 8000 years ago, blew the

  m ountain that stood where the bay now is into the sea. Tidal waves

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  Anthony Peacey

  and ash falls destroyed a primitive civilisation giving rise to an

  ancient Earth legend of a lost continent called Atlantis.’

  ‘I have been saying we should move,’ blurted Clouis.

  ‘A pity.’ Bernheddin sighed. ‘There is a device here that I found

  diverting, a time chair.’

  ‘Aha,’ chuckled za Amzon, ‘our toys amuse you. There are others

  — you could ask the cybernex where to find one.’

  Bernheddin stood. ‘Would you like something to drink? Wine,

  fruit juice, coffee — I’m afraid I do not know your Earthian

  customs . . .’

  ‘We will take wine,’ said the die, ‘the local — Santorin.’

  He still stood. ‘The Desousa Body, did they say anything else?’

  ‘They wished us to tell you that your former position has been

  filled.’

  ‘Ah, the common good is served, the world-organismal life goes

  smoothly on . . .’

  ‘It was a position of some importance, I understand?’

  Clouis said proudly, ‘Only four individs in the whole world were

  above him.’

  As Bernheddin left the room, walking beneath narrow round

  arches, he felt a pang of isolation. He was a cell, now quite excommunicated from the parent body, he was a drone without a hive. A minute or two later he called, ‘I cannot operate this dispenser.

  Perhaps there is something wrong.’

  Ilena came into the dim kitchen, leaving Clouis talking to Lord

  za Amzon. Bernheddin leapt upon her as she passed the archway,

  wrapped one arm tightly round her waist, grabbed her breast

  through its negligible covering, looking into her eyes which were

  subtly unlike any eyes he had seen. They were silent. She did not

&
nbsp; seem surprised. H er breast under his exploring fingers was rubbery, a curious deformity of the chest. He saw that by the tilt of her head she was offering to kiss him, which he accepted. It was a

  friendly gesture, like the wet nose of his dog against his nose, but it

  stirred no shadow of lust in him.

  He stepped back and was silent, unable now to face her; she

  should have cried out, struck him.

  ‘Bernheddin?’

  ‘I am sorry.’ He turned away.

  ‘Don’t worry. Bernheddin, is it all right with you? There are

  places where groups of people live together, villages. You would be

  welcome to enter such a community.’ As an afterthought she said.

  Time andflowers

  35

  ‘O f course, your people might come . .

  He glared at her, yet not from hostility. ‘They will come. They

  will come. They talk of themselves as just “Desousa”, one being, a

  single world-organism. Its claims are absolute. Thank you, thank

  you for thinking about the village. But I must have come to Earth

  for isolation.’

  ‘But you attacked me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . . ’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘It was an experiment. On the spur of the moment . . . ’

  ‘It failed?’

  ‘It failed.’

  She was friendly, she was sensible, as they mixed Santorin red

  and water in four tall glasses. Returning to the others Bernheddin

  glimpsed Clouis’s lilac lids and lightly mascaraed lashes fluttering

  for the Earthian lord.

  ‘I was just saying,’ the tiny cube still spoke for za Amzon, ‘how'

  different you two actually look, considering that your whole people

  was cloned from a single individual.’

  ‘Yakob Desousa,’ said Bernheddin. ‘But there have been many,

  many generations, and some lines of mutation are encouraged.’

  They talked away the afternoon, comparing Earth and Desousa

  culture, comparing the colours of sky and sea on their different

  worlds, comparing the fauna and flora. They had moved out onto

  the terrace and watched the steam plume rising lazily across the

  bay. ‘Perhaps we will move tomorrow,’ said Bernheddin. The

  presence of the Earthians relaxed him, so that he was sorry when

  their flyer sighed up into the early evening sky.