Intelligent Design 2.0, by Ian Watson
“Gosh,” said Adam fluently as soon as he woke up on his first day, lolling with Eve on a bed of lush veg. “This world must be millions of years old. Look at that T.Rex thighbone sticking out where the stream bank washed away.”
(And in the process he named, amongst other things, bank and stream and thighbone and T.Rex.)
“Thank God we weren’t around when that was hunting! We’d have been mincemeat pretty damn fast.”
“Please don’t swear,” said Eve, cuddling up to him nakedly for protection from the extinct menace. Already Adam had begun swearing, even though Eve named the activity.
“Adam, if you get into the habit of bad language, the children will hear.”
“Ah yes, I know what those will be.” Adam admired Eve lasciviously, and part of him stirred. “We’ve plenty of time yet for parenthood. First let’s enjoy ourselves. For the time being we need some natural form of what you might call contraception.” Adam’s consciousness had kindled at a very high setting. “Some roots or leaves to chew.”
Eve glanced at a dark cloud newly on the horizon, and warned, “Shhh. I don’t think He wants that. We could use the so-called rhythm method.”
Adam nuzzled her. “There’s only one sort of rhythm I wish to get into with you, my dear. Besides, it would take several months” – so saying, he indicated the ghost of a half-moon low in the sky – “to establish the rhythm you’re referring to. We’d need to invent counting. One two three four more, for instance. And zero and infinity.”
Eve was impressed. “You’ve woken up very wise.”
Adam preened himself. “Infinite zeros isn’t the same as zero infinities.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I know all sorts of things in my brain, but at the same time I don’t know them yet.”
“I feel the same! Unknown knowns. As opposed to unknown unknowns.” Of a sudden she screamed, pointing into the bushes. “Is that a tiger?”
Adam rolled over and over, wrenched the T.Rex thighbone out of the bank, and scrambled up brandishing the weapon.
“It’s a marmalade cat,” he said as he saw from a better vantage point.
“Marmalade, yummy,” said Eve. She smacked her lips. “Spread on toast.”
“First we’d need to select grasses to grow grain, then roll big stones to grind flour, and tame fire for the clay oven to bake the dough. Hmm, there’s a lot of work involved in making toast.”
The cat pounced on a mouse.
“Maybe,” said Adam, “we should stick to hunting and gathering. Squeeze oranges for juice and forget about the marmalade.”
“Adam, your virile member has become so small!”
He glanced down, and lowered the T.Rex thighbone to cover his chagrin. “The blood all went into fight or flight.”
“Yet you chose to fight,” she said admiringly.
“How could I run away from the only woman in the world?”
“Adam, that’s so romantic. I think you’re in love. And I would have run after you.”
“But more slowly, waggling and jiggling and flapping your arms. So the tiger would have caught you. Now that I think of you waggling and jiggling, just suppose that you run away from me…”
“Don’t you imagine for one moment chasing me, hitting me over the head with that big bone then dragging me through in the grass by my long blond hair! That isn’t the sort of man I want. Anyway, you’d need to build a shelter of branches and leaves to drag me to.”
“I spy caves in those hills over there.”
“Horrid hard cave. Probably with a bear in residence.”
“There can’t be predators lethal to us yet. We might get eaten too easily and advanced consciousness would be snuffed out. Any predators must still be vegetarians, although with the wrong teeth. Things will alter only if we sin. Right now I can think of a sin I fancy trying. Your buttocks, Eve, are very shapely. Could be a way round that contraception problem.”
Vocabulary was pouring out of Adam into existence. Eve glared at him. “Sod that for a lark,” she said.
A lark took wing, singing sweetly as it ascended.
“Who’s swearing now?” asked Adam.
She wiggled her hips. “It’s much simpler to start a family. We should multiply.”
“I can multiply,” Adam discovered. “Two times two is four. Two times four is… eight!”
The cat trotted up to Eve, purring, dead mouse in its mouth, and placed the corpse near her toes.
“Eek!” she squealed, gaping for something to climb on to. However, there were no...
Adam laughed heartily “Chairs!”
Eve controlled herself. “That’s right, we need something to sit on. I think this pussy wants to be domesticated. I mean pussycat. Our first pet.”
“Why is it marmalade colour already, before we domesticate it?”
“To encourage us, Adam.” She glanced at the horizon but the black cloud hadn’t moved, although it still seemed to be observing. Vanity and a sense of privacy contended. So much was happening intellectually on their first day.
But what of Adam? His manhood was still small, and he was flailing that great bone against long grass like some reaper. Was he frustrated? Was he already becoming habituated to nudity?
“I need some lingerie,” said Eve.
“First we’d need to tame silkworms – “
“No, you can’t exactly tame worms.” Might her language skills be superior? “Cats and dogs, yes.”
A woeful howl rang out from some trees.
Hastily she added, “And cows and sheep and horses.”
They heard a distant whinny.
“As regards clothes, I’ll be content for now with vines wrapped round me and in winter a sheepskin.”
The word shopping hovered in her head, but seemed to make no sense, as yet...
“We must dumb down.”
JACK DANN
Jack Dann (born February 15, 1945) is an American writer best known for his science fiction, an editor and a writing teacher, who has lived in Australia since 1994. He has published over seventy books, in the majority of cases as editor or co-editor of story anthologies in the science fiction, fantasy and horror genres. He has published nine novels, numerous shorter works of fiction, essays and poetry and his books have been translated into thirteen languages. His work, which includes fiction in the science fiction, fantasy, horror, magical realism and historical and alternative history genres, has been compared to Jorge Luis Borges, Roald Dahl, Lewis Carroll, J.G. Ballard and Philip K. Dick.
Da Vinci Rising, by Jack Dann
Nebula for Best Novella 1996
One
Dressed as if he were on fire—in a doublet of heliotrope and crimson over a blood-red shirt—Leonardo da Vinci entered the workshop of his master, Andrea Verrochio.
Verrochio had invited a robust and august company of men to what had become one of the most important salons in Florence. The many conversations were loud and the floor was stained with wine. Leonardo's fellow apprentices stood near the walls, discreetly listening and interjecting a word here and there. Normally, Master Andrea cajoled the apprentices to work—he had long given up on Leonardo, the best of them all, who worked when he would—but tonight he had closed the shop. The aged Paolo del Pozzo Toscanelli, who had taught Leonardo mathematics and geography, sat near a huge earthenware jar and a model of the lavabado that would be installed in the old Sacristy of San Lorenzo. A boy with dark intense eyes and a tight accusing mouth stood behind him like a shadow. Leonardo had never seen this boy before; perhaps Toscanelli had but recently taken this waif into his home.
I want you to meet a young man with whom you have much in common," Toscanelli said. "His father is also a notary, like yours. He has put young Niccolo in my care. Niccolo is a child of love, also like you, and extremely talented as a poet and playwright and rhetorician. He is interested in everything, and he seems unable
to finish anything! But unlike you, Leonardo, he talks very little, isn't that right, Niccolo."
"I am perfectly capable of talking, Ser Toscanelli," the boy said.
"What's your name?" Leonardo asked.
"Ach, forgive me my lack of manners," Toscanelli said. "Master Leonardo, this is Niccolo Machiavelli, son of Bernardo di Niccolo and Bartolomea Nelli. You may have heard of Bartolomea, a religious poetess of great talent."
Leonardo bowed and said with a touch of sarcasm, "I am honored to meet you, young sir."
"I would like you to help this young man with his education," Toscanelli said.
"But I—"
"You are too much of a lone wolf, Leonardo. You must learn to give generously of your talents. Teach him to see as you do, to play the lyre, to paint. Teach him magic and perspective, teach him about the streets, and women, and the nature of light. Show him your flying machine and your sketches of birds. And I guarantee, he will repay you."
"But he's only a boy!"
Niccolo Machiavelli stood before Leonardo, staring at him expectantly, as if concerned. He was a handsome boy, tall and gangly, but his face was unnaturally severe for one so young. Yet he seemed comfortable alone here in this strange place. Merely curious, Leonardo thought.
"What are you called," Leonardo asked, taking interest.
"Niccolo," the boy said.
"And you have no nickname?"
"I am called Niccolo Machiavelli, that is my name."
"Well, I shall call you Nicco, young sir. Do you have any objections."
After a pause, he said, "No, Maestro," but the glimmer of a smile compressed his thin lips.
"So your new name pleases you somewhat," Leonardo said.
"I find it amusing that you feel it necessary to make my name smaller. Does that make you feel larger?"
Leonardo laughed. "And what is your age?"
"I am almost fifteen."
"But you are really fourteen, is that not so?"
"And you are still but an apprentice to Master Andrea, yet you are truly a master, or so Master Toscanelli has told me. Since you are closer to being a master, wouldn't you prefer men to think of you as such? Or would you rather be treated as an apprentice such as the one there who is in charge of filling glasses with wine? Well, Master Leonardo...?
Leonardo laughed again, taking a liking to this intelligent boy who acted as if he possessed twice his years, and said, "You may call me Leonardo."
At that moment, Andrea Verrochio walked over to Leonardo with Lorenzo de' Medici in tow. Lorenzo was magnetic, charismatic, and ugly. His face was coarse, overpowered by a large, flattened nose, and he was suffering one of his periodic outbreaks of eczema; his chin and cheeks were covered with a flesh-colored paste. He had a bull-neck and long, straight brown hair, yet he held himself with such grace that he appeared taller than the men around him. His eyes were perhaps his most arresting feature, for they looked at everything with such friendly intensity, as if to see through things and people alike.
"We have in our midst Leonardo da Vinci, the consummate conjurer and prestidigitator," Verrochio said, bowing to Lorenzo de Medici as he presented Leonardo to him; he spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Leonardo has fashioned a machine that can carry a man in the air like a bird...."
"My sweet friend Andrea has often told me about your inventiveness, Leonardo da Vinci," Lorenzo said, a slight sarcasm in his voice; ironically, he spoke to Leonardo in much the same good-humored yet condescending tone that Leonardo had used when addressing young Machiavelli. "But how do you presume to affect this miracle of flight? Surely not be means of your cranks and pulleys. Will you conjure up the flying beast Geryon, as we read Dante did and so descend upon its neck into the infernal regions? Or will you merely paint yourself into the sky?"
Everyone laughed at that, and Leonardo, who would not dare to try to seize the stage from Lorenzo, explained, "My most illustrious Lord, you may see that the beating of its wings against the air supports a heavy eagle in the highest and rarest atmosphere, close to the sphere of elemental fire. Again, you may see the air in motion over the sea fill the swelling sails and drive heavily laden ships. Just so could a man with wings large enough and properly connected learn to overcome the resistance of the air and, by conquering it, succeed in subjugating it and rising above it.
"After all," Leonardo continued, "a bird is nothing more than an instrument that works according to mathematical laws, and it is within the capacity of man to reproduce it with all its movements."
"But a man is not a bird," Lorenzo said. "A bird has sinews and muscles that are incomparably more powerful than a man's. If we were constructed so as to have wings, we would have been provided with them by the Almighty."
"Then you think we are too weak to fly?"
"Indeed, I think the evidence would lead reasonable men to that conclusion," Lorenzo said.
"But surely," Leonardo said, "you have seen falcons carrying ducks and eagles carrying hares; and there are times when these birds of prey must double their rate of speed to follow their prey. But they only need a little force to sustain themselves, and to balance themselves on their wings, and flap them in the pathway of the wind and so direct the course of their journeying. A slight movement of the wings is sufficient, and the greater the size of the bird, the slower the movement. It's the same with men, for we possess a greater amount of strength in our legs than our weight requires. In fact, we have twice the amount of strength we need to support ourselves. You can prove this by observing how far the marks of one of your men's feet will sink into the sand of the seashore. If you then order another man to climb upon his back, you can observe how much deeper the foot marks will be. But remove the man from the other's back and order the first man to jump as high as he can, and you will find that the marks of his feet will now make a deeper impression where he has jumped than in the place where he had the other man on his back. That's double proof that a man has more than twice the strength he needs to support himself...more than enough to fly like a bird."
Lorenzo laughed. "Very good, Leonardo. But I would have to see with my own eyes your machine that turns men into birds. Isthat what you've been spending your precious time doing, instead of working on the statues I commissioned you to repair?"
Leonardo let his gaze drop to the floor.
"Not at all," Verrochio interrupted, "Leonardo has indeed been with me in your gardens applying his talent to the repair of—"
"Show me this machine, painter," Lorenzo said to Leonardo. "I could use such a device to confound my enemies, especially those wearing the colors of the south"—the veiled reference was to Pope Sixtus IV and the Florentine Pazzi family. "Is it ready to be used?"
"Not just yet, Magnificence," Leonardo said. I'm still experimenting."
Everyone laughed, including Lorenzo. "Ah, experimenting is it...well, then I'll pledge you to communicate with me when it's finished. But from your past performance, I think that none of us need worry."
Humiliated, Leonardo could only avert his eyes.
"Tell me, how long do you anticipate that your...experiments will take?"
"I think I could safely estimate that my 'contraption' would be ready for flight in two weeks," Leonardo said, taking the advantage, to everyone's surprise. "I plan to launch my great bird from Swan Mountain in Fiesole."
The studio became a roar of surprised conversation.
Leonardo had no choice except to meet Lorenzo's challenge; if he did not, Lorenzo might ruin his career. As it was, his Magnificence obviously considered Leonardo to be a dilettante, a polymath genius who could not be trusted to bring his commisions to fruition.
"Forgive my caustic remarks, Leonardo, for everyone in this room respects your pretty work," Lorenzo said. "But I will take you up on your promise: in two weeks we travel to Fiesole!"
Two
One could almost imagine that the great bird was already in flight, hovering in the gauzy morning light like a great, impossible hummingbird. It was a ch
imerical thing that hung from the high attic ceiling of Leonardo's workshop in Verrocchio's bottega: a tapered plank fitted with hand operated cranks, hoops of well-tanned leather, pedals, windlass, oars, and saddle. Great ribbed batlike wings made of cane and fustian and starched taffeta were connected to the broader end of the plank. They were dyed bright red and gold, the colors of the Medici, for it was the Medici who would attend its first flight.
As Leonardo had written in his notebook: Remember that your bird must imitate only the bat because its webbing forms a framework that gives strength to the wings. If you imitate the birds' wings, you will discover the feathers to be disunited and permeable to the air. But the bat is aided by the membrane which binds the whole and is not pervious. This was written backwards from right to left in Leonardo's idiosyncratic 'mirror' script that was all but impossible to decipher. Leonardo lived in paranoid fear that his best ideas and inventions would be stolen.
Although he sat before a canvas he was painting, his eyes smarting from the miasmas of varnish and linseed oil and first grade turpentine, Leonardo nervously gazed up at his invention. It filled the upper area of the large room, for its wingspan was over fifteen ells—more than twenty-five feet.
For the past few days Leonardo had been certain that something was not quite right with his great bird, yet he could not divine what it might be. Nor could he sleep well, for he had been having nightmares; no doubt they were a consequence of his apprehensions over his flying machine, which was due to be flown from the top of a mountain in just ten days. His dream was always the same: he would be falling from a great height...without wings, without harness...into a barely luminescent void, while above him the familiar sunlit hills and mountains that overlooked Vinci would be turning vertiginously. And he would awaken in a cold sweat, tearing at his covers, his heart beating in his throat as if to choke him.
Leonardo was afraid of heights. While exploring the craggy and dangerous slopes of Monte Albano as a child, he had fallen from an overhang and almost broken his back. But Leonardo was determined to conquer this and every other fear. He would become as familiar with the airy realms as the birds that soared and rested on the winds. He would make the very air his ally, his support and security.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 66
