Strange Attractors (1985)

by Damien Broderick

  of us. The others are strictly their own ships.’

  Well of course I’m watching. It’s my job. Both myjobs. Well, and

  there’s professional pride involved: I got my lift to Detective from identifying a villain’s elbow in a hologram from the lunarshaft disaster. In the other job, though, seeing is life-and-death— and so are hearing,

  feeling, smelling, tasting . . .

  So, the anomalies. Knottiness about the black’s neck and shoulders.

  He’s been an officer; Grand-Circuit or even Far-Out, I’d say. Unusual

  way of carrying himself. The cork is altogether looser, but wary to the

  bones; defiant even. He’s been a spacer quite awhile too. His fingers

  have been used to suitseals.

  What’s so weird, then? It’s the way they’d looked at each other when

  they were taking their leaks. There are a thousand ways one punch

  looks at another when they’re taking a leak, believe me — from guilty

  to possessive, from cringing to contemptuous. Nobody can quite read

  them all, even me. These had both used a variant on the downspy

  glance, common enough down here —but they had looked just the

  same at each other! Now that isn’t common at all, in fact it’s damn-

  near impossible, stat-speaking.

  Can I put a word on it? Not quite: very observant, familiar too, a

  shade apprehensive. There aren’t many who look as interested as that,

  no matter what they’re here for. But nobody can look at somebody just

  the way the somebody looks at him . . . I wonder which one is

  Slatecoat. Better name for a black punch than a cork.

  Most people don’t see me looking—just half-glimpse a pretty uniform with a sunburst on the crotch, slipping between Medication and Washroom. These two have both seen me. The black sniffs very

  slightly, irritated, draws back one corner of his mouth. T hat’s louder

  than shouting ‘Get Lost!’ at a Geishaboy. We always understand, and

  we always head out fast; the smallest hesitation can call up embarrassment or aggression. I don’t even slow a single tiptoe. It can be savage if you don’t pay attention, total attention, down here.

  Funny thing is, the other one (the one who shouldn’t be called

  Slatecoat, though there’s a lot of spaceman’s grey in his face) just

  laughs. Then he takes the black punch’s shoulder and whispers — there

  are a hundred ways of whispering too, and this one is close . . . Then

  they both look back at me, and the black nods and the cork speaks.

  Damnedest thing! I can’t tell which one he is, Slatecoat or non-

  Slatecoat, even watching the lips! That is literally impossible. I should

  be able to tell any two voices apart, and yet — and these two come from

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  Norman Talbot

  the biggest maintained-distinction races we’ve got. And black-cork

  distinctions are about as easy as anything outside Japanese.

  All he says is, A room, Geisha. No, not with you, just the room. A

  good private room. You know how it is.’ Then they laugh, the black

  just a little bark and the other more. And I still don’t know which is

  Slatecoat. The one who uses black syntax a bit is Slatecoat, of course,

  but that doesn’t mean the black body, not necessarily. A lot of punches,

  especially naive-looking shy ones like these, are corky and speak black,

  and a few the other way. With Judies, even more the other way. Let’s

  say they’ve been on Far-Out service a long circuit, together all the

  while. Yes, they’ve got to know each other so well they echo each other,

  pitch and pace and the works. Neat little explanation for a nanosecond

  of thought.

  But it doesn’t need their laughter to tell me they haven’t ‘gone

  together’ that way, or not much and not recently. Why do they want

  me to think they’re flittermice?

  ‘I am most happy for you, gentlemen.’ Note the courteous, non-

  prurient style that any good Geishaboy uses. Customers don’t deserve

  it, but they get it anyway. The Force sets high standards too: no matter

  what they give us, we hand back courtesy. ‘The Filigree Room is free

  at the moment, and the Bridal Suite.’

  ‘Now I think the Filigree Room sounds really absolutely darling!’

  The cork puts on a lousy imitation of oldfashioned queen-talk that

  went with cabinboys. ‘Don’t you, darling?’

  The maybe-Slatecoat glares at him, and he whispers again. Now

  any Geishaboy can lipread from ten miles out on the darkside, so I

  know what he says, but I don’t understand it. ‘You wanted it private.

  If the cops can’t keep it that way, who can?’

  Irony. Crims? Not exactly. And how did he pick me? Not all

  Geishaboys are straight, and very few are cops. He says no when I ask

  if they want any equipment, yes to refreshment. It’s the black punch

  pays. All the time I’m making their bed, setting up the bug system, I

  keep thinking about their identical voices. I also keep thinking about

  that name. Slatecoat. Slate-coat . . . And while I show them in and

  close their door and tune in to listen to them taking out all my bugs —

  good thing they’re waterproof. And while I tune in to the bed-frame.

  The one receiver too big to notice.

  I give up, and I’ve even started to phone Vera, in the Rose Room,

  when finally the name hooks itself to the Beowulf Expedition. So I

  phone Vera anyway: looks like I might need some help from a sex-judy

  officer. These punches aren’t really onto homo-san, that’s for sure.

  After the B eow ulf expedition

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  II

  Vera does most of the bulletin recall: I’ve got to keep my mind on the

  mattress-talk between Commodore Slatecoat and X.

  PANMARINE NEWSFLASH 19, for 12.22.36at 11.30 hours: the body

  of Admiral Use Beowulf much-decorated leader of the so-called Beoivulf

  Expedition, has been found in the Leprosarium of the vast American Express

  Hospitalfor Incurables in Greater Dacca. Admiral Beowulf has been missing

  from her Palm Beach villa since May, and an extensive search had provedfruitless. It now appears she had been working undetected among the nuns of the Hospital for some months under the name of Sister Least. Cause of death,

  pulmonary infection.

  Right. Salutary shock for the fashionable silvertails. And all that stuff

  about ‘twin sons to oppose will,’ and so on; she probably left her money

  to the hospital. They’re bubbling the kif.

  ‘God! Your idiom wearies me!’

  ‘You don’t like the way I talk. O.K., I’m not crazy about your idiom

  either. Things I could really do without, starred item.’

  Wish they’d use each other’s names every so often, the way

  Australians do.

  ‘How’s it been?’

  ‘How is it with you?’

  ‘C ’mon, Slatecoat, don’t stall.’

  Slatecoat. . . Got it. PANMARINE NEWSFLASH 11, for 22.28.36, at

  07.20 hours. Commodore Theodore Slatecoat is instructed to report immediately to Flagship Windi-Woppa, Port Stephens Basin, in connection with the Taafa Omi Enquiry. Any other member of the 24-HAR-370 Expedition

  (commonly known as the Beowulf Expedition) who can help the Enquiry in

  any way is requested to contact PANMARINE urgently. That’s Sunday

  morning, Sergeant Lim. We’re onto something.

 
I was. We are. Right. And it’s Detective Lim.

  ‘I didn’t mean to stall.’

  ‘You don’t erzackly stall, baby—you just fuck arourf a lot.’

  Childish giggles. Can’t be just because they’ve been slowed down for

  nine years or whatever in deep-space. I think they really are like that.

  ‘Damn yo’ white hide, at least you could tell me how my wife is!’

  ‘Now hoi’ you on, mista, whose skin dat you’s a-damnin’? Stella’s

  great, kid. I mean really great.’

  Some sex in it, then. But answer the question, punch. Whose skin

  just got damned?

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  Norman Talbot.

  ‘So’s Plush. She’s marvellous.’

  ‘T hat right?’

  A silence. A very little one.

  ‘Incomparable. We’re pregnant.’

  PANMARINE NEWSFLASH 29, for 12.22.36, at 17.45 hours: Multiworld-record-breaking athlete Taafa Omi, who last week signed with the San Antonio Gilas for an incredible 200 MegaC transfer fee, has been admitted to

  the Austin Medical Analysis Centre. His manager, Larry Bo, has released a

  statement to the effect that his admission is part of his attempt to answer the

  repeated allegations that his brilliant performances have been artificially aided

  by the so-called Indetectable Deep-Space Drugs. IRS officials have impounded

  the records of Omi’s multi-MegaG enterprises, Weightless Trainer and Weightless Weightwatcher, sine die, perhaps coincidentally with Omi’s latest move.

  Deep-Space Medical experts Commodore Theodore Slatecoat and Vice-

  Commodore Shawn Loftis are expected to head a wide-ranging investigation.

  The former served with Omi on the history-making Beowulf Expedition.

  Thanks, Vera. Sex and drugs and M ulti-MegaC rolls.

  So what’s the investigator in Austin doing at Panmarine Base? Conspiracy?

  ‘Congratulations. But what I meant was, how’s she compare —

  compare with at first?’

  ‘You mean in bed? In general? With Stella —no, you don’t mean

  that.’

  ‘Guess that answer’s part of what I meant.’

  ‘Well, naturally, “at first” was magnificent. So confident, thoughtless

  even. . . Kind of hot-coffee laughter about everything. . .

  ‘You likes yo’ coffee black, suh? Yeah, well, I’d say we rated honey-

  colour. Honeymoon, maybe. Does your coffee stay hot?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Not bitter? Reckon not. Little cloudy?’

  Having a great time sloshing around in food metaphors. W hat

  would Freud have said? I’ve no idea; what would he have said? A bad

  sign for a criminal conspiracy, anyway, punches.

  ‘Plush and I have maybe been trying a little bit too hard, but we’re

  learning. I can just about step out at will, now.’

  W hat in hell are they talking about? It’s got to be sex. Presumed

  wifeswap. But why are they confessing and laughing at the same time?

  And who’s the other one? On 24-HAR-370 there was Blanchis, De-

  maine (she’s dead), Filosofia, Kokkolevu, Kuman, Knight, M adan,

  Munro, Omi, Robbins, Shona, Tan (most of the women seem to be

  dead), Tseung, Van, Vittoria, Voronsky, Walden, Wiglaf, Wreidt,

  After the B eo w u lf expedition

  97

  Zurbaran. Will you check, please?

  Check what? And with where? Your list is correct.

  ‘Yeah. Me too. Magnificent, but with signs, right?’

  ‘Like goodbye signs?’

  ‘Well, back-to-normal signs. Deja vu. Look, kid, did you never think

  maybe Plush was getting a lot like Stella?’

  ‘Intensely, sometimes — but it was nice. Hey, do you mean our deep-

  space magic is cooling off?’

  ‘More separating out, or diffusing. Adapting, could be even

  infecting.’

  Magic. Oh come on, guys.

  ‘But it doesn’t get weaker. It’s blossoming, dammit, Slatecoat. And

  ours is the only one that worked, wouldn’t you say?’

  I ’ve got a feeling Detective Lim, that these childish big idiots are carrying something very weird. Infectious’ did he say?

  ‘Maybe because we got twice the helping. Kid, this is going to be a

  lot screwier than just screwing. Better brace yourself for impact.’

  Indetectable Deep-Space Aphrodisiacs. Take two mis instead of

  retiring. Still, that stuff about helpings sounds a bit more solid.

  ‘You know, Slatecoat, you’re getting into some kind of subcompulsive state, and trying to infect me with it.’

  ‘Now that’s an accusation you’d have been incapable of making this

  side of HAR-370!’

  ‘Before HAR-370 I never needed words like that. Nobody ever

  threw a sub-compulsive state at me!’

  ‘And now I do?’

  ‘Hell, no, not just you. I do it to me. And Plush too, in a way.’

  ‘And your little fireball Stella, she just does that sort of thing all the

  time! But why the overkill? I ain’t in no sub-com-anything.’

  ‘You’re in something, no shit. Even here, you keep moving, looking

  round.’

  ‘Jumpy, yeah. Churned up —not unhappy, just uneasy. You and

  Plush, you read each other’s minds?’

  ‘A lot, but it doesn’t churn me up. You know, Plush and I slept from

  Lunar-base to Panmarine. I never did that before, not a wink. Peace

  tends towards change, as K says.’

  ‘Tends towards change’—That’s Kubla Wiglafs Live Toronto tape, the

  ‘Peace-fall’ track. And that’s another one you can cross off your list. PAN­

  MARINE EDUCATIONAL 203, 7.29.36, at 19.00 hours. The meteoric

  rise and sensational suicide of singer-composer, poet-translator, astro-computer

  wiz Kubla Wiglaf have stimulated savage controversy throughout the literary

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  Norman 'Talbot

  and entertainment worlds. The violent Fijian Fundamental School of Revolutionary Criticism and the Arnold-heavis Moral Axis have now joined the Edinburgh Permanent Reviewers and the initial claimants, Action Con-Destructifdu Paris-Gauche, in announcing their responsibility for Wiglafs

  suicide. In Kiev an apparently incurable attack of boils continues to afflict all

  members of the Purpostful Translation Bureau that last month attempted to

  discredit Wiglafs translations from various USSR minority languages. Young

  writers said to be shamans of the Blacksoil Marijuana Party have been arrested

  in large numbers, apparently in reprisal for the boils outrage, in and around the

  city.

  ‘No more change for him. W hat you’ve got is a severe case of mens

  sana in corpore sano.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have understood that before, either. W hat’s worrying

  you?’

  ‘Listen, kid. Can you imagine Plush and Stella transferring, changing bodies? Just through contact with us?’

  ‘Often. Four-five times in the last few nights I’ve experienced that,

  or dream t it, or pretended it. And not just that: Plush really has, in

  herself, started to develop a few attributes, random stuff only we’d notice . . . ’

  ‘O f Stella. Yes. Stella’s done it, both the little things —you know,

  shoe-size, curries —and the total change in the early hours, all this

  month. She volunteered as much.’

  ‘W ithout your hinting or prompting at all? I’d believe her.’

  ‘T hat’s why I called you. I think we’re infectious, like I said.’

  ‘The others
aren’t — or weren’t. Think of poor old Bert.’

  No Bert. Gondibert? PANMARINE NEWSFLASH 41, for 11.30.36 at

  22.00 hours. Gondibert Knight, ex-star-captain playboy, internationally

  known as ‘Lucky’ Knight, was today banned from the whole Wrest Point

  Casino Chain after incredible wins at both the Golden Mile Gamblery and the

  Casino Casino. Following his expulsion from all international-level racing-

  tracks, and a vicious assault upon him by unidentified hoodlums at the Sin-

  Kiang Bloodstock Trials in April, ‘Lucky’Knight has applied to the World

  Health Organisation for a total physical reconstruct on compassionate grounds.

  International monetary interests are said to have already blocked this move and

  are pressing for Knight to be transferred to the Ganymede Institute of

  Mathematics and Astrophysical Computation where no gambling is permitted.

  ‘Lucky’ Knight is now confined to his yacht on Lake Kalgoorlie; his only comment on the Ganymede proposal so far is, ‘Does anybody guarantee that going satellite will keep the goddam crowds off?’

  ‘Maybe it’s different for us because ours was a transaction to begin

  After the B eo w u lf expedition

  99

  with.’

  ‘You know how everybody said ours was adolescent— ’

  ‘Childish, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Infantile, let’s say. What I mean is, all them poor punch-an-judies

  got the works, a complete deal. W hat we got is maybe growing up,

  changing, making friends and finding new interests.’

  ‘H uh?’

  ‘Never mind. I think love comes under a different heading

  somehow.’

  ‘W hat would that mean if we pushed where we’ve been pulling? If

  we helped it all along?’

  I have a complaint. I don’t know what they’re talking about. Have

  they swapped wives, and so what? Have they changed bodies? O r

  minds? O r certain popular parts of bodies? Here’s a sudden explosion

  noise, like a snort or a sneeze with a giggle stuck on the back.

  ‘You sound just like a little boy, sometimes, Kid.’

  ‘And why not? I’ve got an idea: why don’t we . . . ? You read me,

  huh?’

  ‘Now hold on, hey! Those geishas are half of them police or W H O