by Mike Resnick
“Go home, my friend,” I said. “For what is more important than a grandchild?”
“Come with me, Koriba,” he urged. “They will not punish you if you explain why you kidnapped him.”
“I am not going back,” I said firmly. “Not now, not ever. Ahmed and I are both anachronisms. It is best that we live out our lives here, away from a world we no longer recognize, a world that has no place for us.”
Kamau looked at the mountain. “You and he are joined at the soul,” he concluded.
“Perhaps,” I agreed. I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Kwaheri, Kamau.”
“Kwaheri, mzee,” he replied unhappily. “Please ask Ngai to forgive me for my weakness.”
It seemed to take him forever to activate the vehicle and turn it toward Nairobi, but finally he was out of sight, and I turned and began ascending the foothills.
I had wasted many years seeking Ngai on the wrong mountain. Men of lesser faith might believe Him dead or disinterested, but I knew that if Ahmed could be reborn after all others of his kind were long dead, then Ngai must surely be nearby, overseeing the miracle. I would spend the rest of the day regaining my strength, and then, in the morning, I would begin searching for Him again on Marsabit.
And this time, I knew I would find Him.
INTRODUCTION TO “THE 43 ANTAREAN DYNASTIES”
Michael Swanwick
So many of Mike Resnick’s writerly virtues are on display in this story that it ought to be the simplest thing in the world to write about them. Unfortunately for me, however, one of his greatest virtues—second only to his ability to plot—is clarity. There can’t be many readers who, upon finishing “The 43 Antarean Dynasties,” are at all confused as to what happened, what they were meant to think of the characters, or, indeed, any other aspect of it.
If I write about the beauty of this tale or its inventiveness or the moral restraint of its narrator, you will say, “Yes, of course.” Because it’s all there on the page. There’s no need for me to point it out.
Clarity is a very great virtue. But it’s hell on the guy trying to write an introduction.
So instead I’ll tell you about a tradition that Mike and I have. Rather often, we both find ourselves with stories on the Hugo ballot in the same category. When this happens, one of us will approach the other just before the awards ceremony, and say, “Because my saying this will have absolutely no effect whatsoever on the outcome—I hope your story wins.”
Then the other, smiling, replies, “And on exactly the same terms, I hope your story wins!”
You might think that I’m bragging that my work gets on the ballot so frequently. But you’d be wrong. I’m bragging that I’ve earned the right to share this small joke with a writer like Mike Resnick. A man who writes movingly and with concision. Who creates very good stories indeed, and does so year after year after year. Whose work deserves far more and better than these few, but heartfelt, words of praise I’ve managed to cobble together here.
If you doubt me, just read “The 43 Antarean Dynasties.” You’ll see.
So we’re driving through Cairo in 1989, Carol, my dad, my literary agent, a couple of science fiction friends, and me—and our guide, a fellow named Iman, is pointing out the sights to us, telling us tales about each, and at one point he stops and half-thanks, half-congratulates us for paying attention. Evidently his last group was more interested in the point spread in the Steelers-Cowboys game and kept telling him to shut up.
Later he told me what the qualifications were for being a tour guide for his particular country. He needed a Master’s degree in Egyptian history, he needed to speak fluently in at least four languages, and he needed to be a master mechanic (cars break down a lot in the desert, and you can’t have tourists dying of thirst or heat stroke).
Iman had actually been a professor at Cairo University, but he found that he made more money from tourists’ tips. So here was this incredibly accomplished man, showing one set of newcomers after another the glories of a race that built magnificent, still-standing temples when most of our ancestors were living in mud huts, and doing it for tips.
I thought about it for eight years—not all stories come as quickly as “Winter Solstice”—and then wrote “The 43 Antarean Dynasties”, which won the 1998 Hugo Award for Best Short Story and also topped the Asimov’s Readers Poll.
THE 43 ANTAREAN DYNASTIES
To thank the Maker of All Things for the birth of his first male offspring, the Emperor Maloth IV ordered his architects to build a temple that would forever dwarf all other buildings on the planet. It was to be made entirely of crystal, and the spire-covered roof, which looked like a million glistening spear-points aimed at the sun, would be supported by 217 columns, to honor his 217 forebears. When struck, each column would sound a musical note that could be heard for kilometers, calling the faithful to prayer.
The structure would be known as the Temple of the Honored Sun, for his heir had been born exactly at midday, when the sun was highest in the sky. The temple took 27 Standard years to complete, and although races from all across the galaxy would come to Antares III to marvel at it, Maloth further decreed that no aliens or non-believers would ever be allowed to enter it and desecrate its sacred corridors with their presence…
A MAN, A WOMAN, AND a child emerge from the Temple of the Honored Sun. The woman holds a camera to her eye, capturing the same image from a dozen unimaginative angles. The child, his lip sparsely covered with hair that is supposed to imply maturity, never sees beyond the game he is playing on his pocket computer. The man looks around to make sure no one is watching him, grinds out a smokeless cigar beneath his heel, and then increases his pace until he joins them.
They approach me, and I will myself to become one with my surroundings, to insinuate myself into the marble walls and stone walkways before they can speak to me.
I am invisible. You cannot see me. You will pass me by.
“Hey, fella—we’re looking for a guide,” says the man. “You interested?”
I stifle a sigh and bow deeply. “I am honored,” I say, glad that they do not understand the subtleties of Antarean inflection.
“Wow!” exclaims the woman, aiming her camera at me. “I never saw anything like that! It’s almost as if you folded your torso in half! Can you do it again?”
I am reminded of an ancient legend, possibly apocryphal though I choose to believe it. An ambassador who was equally fascinated by the way the Antarean body is jointed, once asked Komarith I, the founder of the 38th Dynasty, to bow a second time. Komarith merely stared at him without moving until the embarrassed ambassador slunk away. He went on to rule for 29 years and was never known to bow again.
It has been a long time since Komarith, almost seven millennia now, and Antares and the universe have changed. I bow for the woman while she snaps her holographs.
“What’s your name?” asks the man.
“You could not pronounce it,” I reply. “When I conduct members of your race, I choose the name Hermes.”
“Herman, eh?”
“Hermes,” I correct him.
“Right. Herman.”
The boy finally looks up. “He said Hermes, Dad.”
The man shrugs. “Whatever.” He looks at his timepiece. “Well, let’s get started.”
“Yeah,” chimes in the child. “They’re piping in the game from Roosevelt III this afternoon. I’ve got to get back for it.”
“You can watch sports anytime,” says the woman. “This may be your only chance to see Antares.”
“I should be so lucky,” he mutters, returning his attention to his computer.
I recite my introductory speech almost by rote. “Allow me to welcome you to Antares III, and to its capital city of Kalimetra, known throughout the galaxy as the City of a Million Spires.”
“I didn’t see any million spires when we took the shuttle in from the spaceport,” says the child, whom I could have sworn was not listening. “A thousand or two, maybe.”
“There was a time when there were a million,” I explain. “Today only 16,304 remain. Each is made of quartz or crystal. In late afternoon, when the sun sinks low in the sky, they act as a prism for its rays, creating a flood of exotic colors that stretches across the thoroughfares of the city. Races have come from halfway across the galaxy to experience the effect.”
“Sixteen thousand,” murmurs the woman. “I wonder what happened to the rest?”
No one knew why Antareans found the spires so aesthetically pleasing. They towered above the cities, casting their shadows and their shifting colors across the landscape. Tall, delicate, exquisite, they reflected a unique grandness of vision and sensitivity of spirit. The rulers of Antares III spent almost 38,000 years constructing their million spires.
During the Second Invasion, it took the Canphorite armada less than two weeks to destroy all but 16,304 of them…
The woman is still admiring the spires that she can see in the distance. Finally she asks who built them, as if they are too beautiful to have been created by Antareans.
“The artisans and craftsmen of my race built everything you will see today,” I answer.
“All by yourselves?”
“Is it so difficult for you to believe?” I ask gently.
“No,” she says defensively. “Of course not. It’s just that there’s so much…”
“Kalimetra was not created in a day or a year, or even a millennium,” I point out. “It is the cumulative achievement of 43 Antarean Dynasties.”
“So we’re in the 43rd Dynasty now?” she asks.
It was Zelorean IX who officially declared Kalimetra to be the Eternal City. Neither war nor insurrection had ever threatened its stability, and even the towering temples of his forefathers gave every promise of lasting for all eternity. It was a Golden Age, and he could see no reason why it should not go on forever…
“The last absolute ruler of the 43rd Dynasty has been dust for almost three thousand years,” I explain. “Since then we have been governed by a series of conquerors, each alien race superceding the last.”
“Thank goodness they didn’t destroy your buildings,” says the woman, turning to admire a water fountain, which for some reason appears to her to be a mystical alien artifact. She is about to take a holo when the child restrains her.
“It’s just a goddamned water bubbler, Ma,” he says.
“But it’s fascinating,” she says. “Imagine what kind of beings used it in ages past.”
“Thirsty ones,” says the bored child.
She ignores him and turns back to me. “As I was saying, it must be criminal to rob the galaxy of such treasures.”
“Yeah, well somebody destroyed some buildings around here,” interjects the child, who seems intent on proving someone wrong about something. “Remember the hole in the ground we saw over that way?” He points in the direction of the Footprint. “Looks like a bomb crater to me.”
“You are mistaken,” I explain, leading them over to it. “It has always been there.”
“It’s just a big sinkhole,” says the man, totally unimpressed.
“It is worshipped by my people as the Footprint of God,” I explain. “Once, many eons ago, Kalimetra was in the throes of a years-long drought. Finally Jorvash, our greatest priest, offered his own life if God would bring the rains. God replied that it would not rain until He wept again, and we had not yet suffered enough to bring forth His tears of compassion. But He promised that He would strike a bargain with Jorvash.” I pause for effect, but the man is lighting another cigar and the child is concentrating on his pocket computer. “The next morning Jorvash was found dead inside his temple, while God had created this depression with His foot and filled it with water. It sustained us until He finally wept again.”
The woman seems flustered. “Um…I hate to ask,” she finally says, “but could you repeat that story? My recorder wasn’t on.”
The man looks uncomfortable. “She’s always forgetting to turn the damned thing on,” he explains, and flips me a coin. “For your trouble.”
Lobilia was the greatest poet in the history of Antares III. Although he died during the 23rd Dynasty, most of his work survived him. But his masterpiece, “The Long Night of the Exile”—the epic of Bagata’s Exile and his triumphant Return—was lost forever.
Though he was his race’s most famous bard, Lobilia himself was illiterate, unable even to write his own name. He created his poetry extemporaneously, embellishing upon it with each retelling. He recited his epic just once, and was so satisfied with its form that he refused to repeat itfor the scribes who were waiting for a final version and hadn’t written it down.
* * *
“Thank you,” says the woman, deactivating the recorder after I finish. She pauses. “Can I buy a book with some more of your quaint folk legends?”
I decide not to explain the difference between a folk legend and an article of belief. “They are for sale in the gift shop of your hotel,” I reply.
“You don’t have enough books?” mutters the man.
She glares at him, but says nothing, and I lead them to the Tomb, which always impresses visitors.
“This is the Tomb of Bedorian V, the greatest ruler of the 37th Dynasty,” I say. “Bedorian was a commoner, a simple farmer who deposed the notorious Maelastri XII, himself a mighty warrior who was the last ruler of the 36th Dynasty. It was Bedorian who decreed universal education for all Antareans.”
“What did you have before that?”
“Our females were not allowed the privilege of literacy until Bedorian’s reign.”
“How did this guy finally die?” asks the man, who doesn’t really care but is unwilling to let the woman ask all the questions.
“Bedorian was assassinated by one of his followers,” I reply.
“A male, no doubt,” says the woman wryly.
“Before he died,” I continue, “he united three warring states without fighting a single battle, decreed that all Antareans should use a common language, and outlawed the worship of kreneks.”
“What are kreneks?”
“They are poisonous reptiles. They killed many worshippers in nameless, obscene ceremonies before Bedorian IV came to power.”
“Yeah?” says the child, alert again. “What were they like?”
“What is obscene to one being is simply boring to another,” I say. “Terrans find them dull.” Which is not true, but I have no desire to watch the child snicker as I describe the rituals.
“What a shame,” says the woman, though her voice sounds relieved. “Still, you certainly seem to know your history.”
I want to answer that I just make up the stories. But I am afraid if I say it, she will believe it.
“Where did you learn all this stuff?” she continues.
“To become a licensed guide,” I reply, “an Antarean must undergo fourteen years of study, and must also speak a minimum of four alien languages fluently. Terran is always one of the four.”
“That’s some set of credentials,” comments the man. “I made it through one year of dental school and quit.”
And yet, it is you who are paying me.
“I’m surprised you don’t work at one of the local universities,” he continues.
“I did once.”
Which is true. But I have my family to feed—and tourists’ tips, however small and grudgingly given, are still greater than my salary as a teacher.
A rapu—an Antarean child—insinuates his way between myself and my clients. Scarcely more than an infant, he is dressed in rags, and his face is smudged with dirt. There are open sores on the reticulated plates of his skin, and his golden eyes water constantly. He begs plaintively for credits in his native tongue. When there is no response, he extends his hand in what has become a universal gesture that says: You are rich. I am poor and hungry. Give me money.
“Yours?” asks the man, frowning, as his wife takes half a dozen holos in quick succession.
“No,
he is not mine.”
“What is he doing here?”
“He lives in the street,” I answer, my compassion for the rapu alternating with my humiliation at having to explain his presence and situation. “He is asking for coins so that he and his mother will not go hungry tonight.”
I look at the rapu and think sadly: Timing is everything. Once, long ago, we strode across our world like gods. You would not have gone hungry in any of the 43 Dynasties.
The human child looks at his Antarean counterpart. I wonder if he realizes how fortunate he is. His face gives no reflection of his thoughts; perhaps he has none. Finally he picks his nose and goes back to manipulating his computer.
The man stares at the rapu for a moment, then flips him a two-credit coin. The rapu catches it, bows and blesses the man, and runs off. We watch him go. He raises the coin above his head, yelling happily—and a moment later, we are surrounded by twenty more street urchins, all filthy, all hungry, all begging for coins.
“Enough’s enough!” says the man irritably. “Tell them to get the hell out of here and go home, Herman.”
“They live here,” I explain gently.
“Right here?” demands the man. He stomps the ground with his foot, and the nearest rapus jump back in fright. “On this spot? Okay, then tell them to stay here where they live and not follow us.”
I explain to the rapus in our own tongue that these tourists will not give them coins.
“Then we will go to the ugly pink hotel where all the Men stay and rob their rooms.”
“That is none of my concern,” I say. “But if you are caught, it will go hard with you.”
The oldest of the urchins smiles at my warning.
“If we are caught, they will lock us up, and because it is a jail they will have to feed us, and we will be protected from the rain and the cold—it is far better than being here.”
I have no answer for rapus whose only ambition is to be warm and dry and well-fed, but merely shrug. They run off, laughing and singing, as if they are human children off to play some game.
“Damned aliens!” mutters the man.
