Air

by Geoff Ryman

  “I can beat her off,” said Mae. “Except when people interfere.”

  “Sorry,” said Tunch.

  Mae could have said a lot of things: Do you say “Sorry” to the wives of men you kill? Or do you just threaten? How do you keep all your separate selves apart? I hope you manage to keep the small-time assassin separate from the man who wants to rule.

  Pop.

  Tunch went on: “One of the side effects as the drug wears off will be a period of, uh, greater sensitivity. Someone needs to be with you.”

  Pop. “You know my address in Air. Will you be recording that, too?” Pop. “And sell the information to the foreigners? Or have they already paid for anything you might find out?”

  “It depends,” murmured Tunch, “on the information.”

  “Ling,” said Mae, “he may try to kill you. Too many people have seen you, boy. And you are not supposed to exist. Do you understand me, boy?”

  “Yes,” said the unreadable mechanical voice. Mae buried her face against his furry cheek, and the bare, shaved forehead.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I should have left you in the compound. Watch him, Ling. He has masters, too, like you do. He has to be loyal to them or he does not eat. You and he are the same.”

  “I understand,” said Ling.

  “Good boy, Ling,” said Tunch. “Just be a good boy.”

  “I always am,” said Ling.

  Mae said, “You will turn Karzistan into the garbage pail of the world.”

  “Karzistan has to make a living,” he said.

  The car drove on, grasses blurring by. What was close was lost in speed.

  “You do not understand me, Mae,” said Tunch. “I am slightly relying on the drug to help you accept what I will say. What I am about to say, is said using very carefully chosen words, used in a very precise way.”

  “I’m ready,” said Mae.

  “I am a hero,” said Tunch.

  Ling’s nose was pushed out of the window. “This world smells different,” he said.

  Mae was unimpressed. “I am waiting for the precise meaning of the word,” said Mae.

  “A hero mediates,” said Tunch. “He brings together good and evil. He uses the tools of evil, may even be evil, to do something constructive. People need heroes. They yearn for them. That is because people who are not heroes think that heroes are good. And evil is done by people who think they are good. Good people do harm by being gentle and not stopping things. Good people fight wars out of love. They need heroes to break that cycle. To defend them, to build things.”

  Black shadows danced inside Mae’s eyes, and Mrs. Tung tried to gather her thoughts.

  “It is terrible, but it is the only way forward. Heroes are not like in stories, where they wear a mask of nobility. All heroes do evil, terrible things. Robin Hood was a thief and murderer. John Kennedy ordered invasions and wars. So did Lawrence, who fought like a wolf for the Arabs. Ataturk destroyed the mosques and killed the clergy. Wonderful, terrible people are both good and evil.”

  The drug made it difficult for anyone to gather their thoughts. “You are trying to tell me why you will never do me harm,” she said, “now that you have learned from the harm you have already done me.”

  “Exactly. You are too valuable. I want you home in your village. You know why?”

  “Yes,” Mae said meekly. “You think I am a hero, too.”

  Tunch simply gave a thin, satisfied grin.

  “How did you tear the fence?” he asked.

  Mae told him. “Air is real and we are not.”

  Wisdom nodded once, something confirmed.

  Mae told herself what she did not tell him. What they have done is make an artificial soul. You and your Format want to sell our souls back to us. You are about to find out that we have always had them.

  They drove on, into the night.

  LING RODE WITH HIS HEAD OUT OF THE WINDOW.

  Halfway up the hill the dog asked, “Why are there stars? They don’t smell.”

  Tunch replied, “They smell of heat, so fierce it burns away the ability to smell.”

  “Are we getting closer to them?” said Ling, looking around.

  “Not yet. Not for a good few many years,” said Tunch.

  Mae suddenly understood that Tunch intended to stand on the stars, however many centuries it took.

  Tunch asked the dog, “Do you want to know how the universe began?”

  “Oh. That would be good to know,” said the dog, looking around.

  “Dreadful pride,” said Mae.

  Tunch was very pleased with that, and grinned.

  “When there is nothingness,” he said, “gravity does not attract. It becomes repulsive. Ask what those words mean.”

  Obediently the dog consulted Air, sweat dripping off his panting tongue. After a moment Ling said, “Gravity pulls everything together. It makes us heavy so we stay on the ground. Otherwise we would float off to the stars.”

  “Good,” said Tunch.

  “So, my nose won’t burn out.”

  “No.”

  The dog seemed to grin, panting.

  Tunch continued: “Before anything existed, gravity had nothing to do—except pull apart. It pulled, and nothingness stretched, like a rubber band, until it broke. When it broke there was a burst of light and heat. So energy was created, and out of energy, things were made.”

  “So far so good,” said the dog.

  “So with something there instead of nothing, gravity then became an attractive force. It pulled together. As the universe exploded, it also pulled and twisted things into shapes. Clouds of gas, then balls of gas, then stars.”

  “Is gravity a hero, too?” asked the dog.

  “Yes,” said Tunch, pleased.

  “How?” asked Mae.

  “We know that, mathematically, there must be eleven dimensions. Like height and width, except these other dimensions were not affected by the explosion at the beginning. They are still the same size, coiled at the heart of the universe. Where nothing really changes. Think of the point right at the center of a wheel. The wheel turns, but the point does not.”

  “What’s a wheel?” asked Ling.

  “We’re riding on wheels. Access the mathematical definition of a point.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “In those coiled dimensions, we know that the same equations that describe electromagnetism, describe gravity. In the timeless realms outside our universe, they are one. Now, ask again, what is thought?”

  Ling had the answer ready. “An electromagnetic phenomenon. Differences in charges produced by chemical reactions.”

  “Gravity is like thought. It has power over everything in this universe, but it is not in this universe. There is no gravity wave, no gravity particle. It exists outside time. It makes things. It loves things. It tears things apart.”

  He let the car speak for a while, the roaring of its wheels on the rough surface, the hum of the engine.

  “You know what we’re going to do, people like you and me, Mae?” Again the disembodied grin, adrift from the sunglasses, lit from underneath now by the dash panel lights. “We’re going to prove God exists. We’ll send it messages.”

  Mae thought:

  I am trapped in a car with a madman who happens to tell the truth. I am trapped in a car with someone driven so crazy by a big opinion of himself that he thinks he will live forever. He thinks he will shake God’s hand by machines. The truly awful thing is that he might just do it.

  Mae saw clearly that his system was so greedy it would eat anything. Anything she did or said—kick Mr. Pakan, befriend Ling, argue with Tunch, or agree—would be wound into his Bronze madness, feed it.

  The only thing she could do that would not help him would be to stay silent. Staying silent would prevent him from wanting to know anything more about her. If he felt there was more Info to be derived, he would imprison her again until he had it.

  Mae pretended to go to sleep.

  THE CAR
CRACKLED TO A HALT OVER LOOSE GRAVEL.

  Mae blinked around her. “This is it,” she said. She petted Ling. “Treat him well,” she told Mr. Tunch. “He has been promised steak.”

  Ling looked up into her eyes. “I want this box taken off my head,” he said. “I want this voice taken out.”

  Mae looked at Tunch. Would he?

  “We can do that,” Mr. Tunch said, and gave Ling’s head a casual scratch.

  Mae said curtly, “Thank you for driving me.”

  She got out, stepping out of the smell of luxury, leather, and polish. She smelled drains, the little river, and the mud.

  “The future will be wonderful, Mae.” He passed her her best dress, covered in hearts.

  She simply smiled and nodded, as enigmatically as possible.

  “Work towards it,” he told her. And closed the door. Mae waited as the car turned. Ling’s nose was pressed against the gap in the window.

  “I will be a dog again,” he said.

  The car sighed back down the road and was gone. Mae turned and began to walk and realized that her knees were shaking, weak.

  He talks of God. So would the Devil.

  Mae was halfway up the slope to Kwan’s when she realized that the silver shoes were gone.

  15

  e-mail from: Miss Soo Ling

  15 September

  Of course I remember you, Mrs. Chung-ma’am. You were always so appreciative of my work, and so generous in payment. It is good to know I have such good friends back home. I am enjoying my job in Balshang very much. I contribute to designs now, but cutting and sewing are my secret weapons. No one thinks I can, so then I do and people’s eyes widen.

  You are kind to enquire after Bulent. I am afraid we are no longer together though we are still good chums. We advise each other on how to survive working with all these Foxes and Otters and talk about the Green Valley and all the people we left behind.

  Regarding your appreciated offer to purchase my stocks of cloth: The cloth is stored in Yeshibozkent with my mother, Mrs. Soo Tung. I have written to her to ask her to arrange the shipping of the cloth via your bank.

  Thank you also for the fascinating review of your work under the Taking Wing Initiative. I am not a follower of technology, and you opened new windows for me on this new world. Do stay in touch. Will you be visiting Balshang?

  e-mail from: Lieutenant Chung Lung

  6 October

  Mrs. Chung Mae,

  Is my mother really on e-mail? Dad told me that you work on the Wings’ machine. My sister is thrilled, too. The army allows us an allocation of personal correspondence. They assume most of us have no e-mail addresses to write to! Please let me know if I have the wrong Mrs. Chung.

  audio file from: Mrs. Chung Mae

  6 October

  My son:

  You cannot know the joy getting your message has given me. You are being so discreet about all that has passed and so sweet not to mention it and so I am even happier to hear from you because no one in the village talks to me and I must talk to people because, Lung, the future is not just coming, it is here now and no one at Kizuldah is ready for it. They are all like quivering mice, trying to pretend there is no hawk, no cat. I have learned many things, my son. I took a Question Map of the village. At first I thought to find out about what clothes people wanted, but I began to ask what they felt about the Test. This is what I learned: They think the Air will be like TV. They do not want to see that it will be in their heads, will change their heads. They just think it will be all football and games. They are frightened of what is coming and that means they will not face up to all they have to learn. I tried to start a school to teach them, Lung, and they came for a while. Then, to stop the school, Shen told your father what I have done. So the school ended. Oh, Lung, I am so sorry for you, and how confused you must be by what has happened. I fell in love, a silly thing for an old woman to do, but I ask you who are still young and can still grab life, to try to understand that when you are old you can suddenly see that there is something you have missed, and that you must have now or get used to never having it. I mean love, Lung. I know how much you respect your father, and how, as an officer in the President’s army, you value good behavior. I behaved badly. Now I am a fallen woman. You know what that means in a little village. Let me know if this is embarrassing, and I will not call again like this. I must go. Oh, I have a business on the Net; look at www.native/fashion/wing.htvl. Give your sister all my love.

  EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

  Around the world, nothing is more beautiful than authentic expression of native culture combined with simple elegance.

  Here you will see beautiful native embroidery incorporated in modern designs. Please choose the item that most appeals, to see it modeled by the native women who produced these magnificent clothings.

  But the beauty that exists will have been produced in your own beautiful eyes, for you wish to see what a forgotten part of the world can produce.

  FRIENDS IN NEW PLACES

  If you have visited us before, we can show you new things that might interest you especially. So please do leave a Calling Card, so we can be friends. Please tell us what you think, for we are ignorant peasants in the hills and yearn to hear from you.

  OUR FASHION TAKES WING

  “TAKING WING” SUIT

  This simple trouser suit in oatmeal cloth has authentic Karzistani embroidered panels. No designer thought of them. This ancient “Swallow” pattern means good luck in marriage. This would make excellent wedding outfit or a present to hopeful, happy bride. The suit is modeled by tribal craftswoman Shen Suloi, she of the happy smile. Her husband is our schoolteacher.

  I AM A JOYFUL PERSON WORKWEAR

  This is whole native coat and hood, meant to be worn in fields and in sun or rain. It banishes resentment. One chooses what one is in life, and so it is foolish to resent the need to work. Wearing this shows that one is brave to face real life.

  Worn by Sezen Ozdemir, who is not a native woman. She is a good girl who goes a bit wild sometimes. Buy this, and she will save the money for a motorcycle.

  LISTEN TO GOD SPECIAL DRESS

  Let this special pattern speak secretly to your heart on important days. This is special dress for big occasion, say if your son marries or you go to high school prom. What this panel does is tell the gods that you listen to them. It is not for mankind to understand what the gods say. We just must keep listening. So this is a most noble panel.

  Wing Kwan, a four-farm wife, wears this dress and she made all the panels.

  Native people have many gods in shamanistic tradition. Chinese folk in Karzistan are Buddhist, but trueblood Karz tend to be Muslim. We even have Christian family living in our village! All are welcome here.

  SEE OUR HOUSE

  KIZULDAH—OUR VILLAGE

  We held the TV’s camera from the roof to show our village and terraces. We are lucky to live in such beauty. It is more beautiful now that so many people can see it. We plant rice on the terraces. They are 2000 years old.

  THIS IS US

  The models all stand in front of Mr. Wing’s machine in his courtyard. He is four-farm owner. Videos from this screen show us and the house of our business. We work in the barn, all us ladies together. We are very happy, and you will see us all, even me.

  I am wicked Madam Chung Mae. I am not popular in the village. I try to tell our people about the future. Also, I am a fallen woman, but my friends forgive that. My nickname is Madam Owl, which is not respectful at all!

  e-mail from: Lieutenant Chung Lung

  8 October

  Thank you for such a long letter. At first I was going to give you short note only. But then I realized that it would look as though I was angry with you.

  I feel many conflicting things hard to put into words. I know my father and I respect him, but he is human and I can see his failings. I take no sides. I wish that both of you had behaved properly and stayed together. I regard this love as a kind of disaster, but
you cannot be angry with the victim of a flood.

  I see you alone, living in Kwan’s attic with no position, and I grieve for you. Then I see your screens and feel that you are also in some way happy, and I have to ask: What has happened to my mother? How is she able to do this?

  I showed the screens to some of my fellow officers who thought them very impressive. Some of their wives were also impressed and thought the clothes looked very modern. Others said that it made Karzistan look undeveloped and uncivilized. I noticed it was the more intelligent ladies who said that, no, it was like Americans talking about their Indian Heritage. One woman said you know when you love something that you have truly bested it and are mature. They regard our peasant days as something to be overcome.

  Are the clothes selling?

  audio file from: Miss Soo Ling

  10 October

  Mrs. Chung-ma’am,

  I must say I was enthralled by your screens, both the content and the fashion ideas they display. So original and of the moment. Really. Congratulations. It was good to see my oatmeal cloth put to such fine use.

  You are quite right, Horsemen do get you listings, but they charge you, and magpies do not. Our fashion house will only work through magpies. They harvest opportunities for enterprises and build up lists of people with particular interests. Magpies charge distributors and not you. I attach a list of excellent magpies to contact. I hope this is helpful.

  With fond memories of a good friend.

  videomail from: bugs@nouvelles

  27 October

  Hiya! People call me Bugsy and I run the Nouvelles fashion magpie for Media, Inc., and I just want to say that I love your screens and I love the things you sell, and I think they are just right for the people we have built up relations with, and that therefore we would be delighted to sell information about you to stores here in the U.S., and to tell our magpie about you. I know my people and they will love you just as much as I do. Also, you might like to note that I’ve pegged myself one of your “Listening to the Gods” special dresses. Believe me, I could use a little spiritual refreshment here in the middle of New York.