Lightspeed Issue 33

by Tad Williams

  Exogamy

  John Crowley

  In desperation and black hope he had selected himself for the mission, and now he was to die for his impetuosity, drowned in an amber vinegar sea too thin to swim in. This didn’t matter in any large sense; his comrades had seen him off, and would not see him return the very essence of a hero. In a moment his death wouldn’t matter even to himself. Meanwhile, he kept flailing helplessly, ashamed of his willingness to struggle.

  His head broke the surface into the white air. It had done so now three times; it would not do so again. But a small cloud just then covered him, and something was in the air above his head. Before he sank away out of reach for good, something took hold of him, a flying something, a machine or something with sharp pincers or takers-hold, what would he call them, claws.

  He was lifted out of the water or fluid or sea. Not his fault the coordinates were off, placing him in liquid and not on dry land instead, these purplish sands; only off by a matter of meters. Far enough to drown or nearly drown him though: He lay for a long time prostrate on the sand where he had been dropped, uncertain which.

  He pondered then—when he could ponder again—just what had seized him, borne him up (just barely out of the heaving sea, and laboring mightily at that), and got him to shore. He hadn’t yet raised his head to see if whatever it was had stayed with him, or had gone away; and now he thought maybe it would be best to just lie still and be presumed dead. But he looked up.

  She squatted a ways up the beach, not watching him, seeming herself to be absorbed in recovering from effort; her wide bony breast heaved. The great wings now folded, like black plush. Talons (that was the word, he felt them again and began to shudder) the talons spread to support her in the soft sand. When she stepped, waddled, toward him, seeing he was alive, he crawled away across the sand, trying to get to his feet and unable, until he fell flat again and knew nothing.

  Night came.

  She (she, it was the breasts prominent on the breastplate muscle, the big delicate face, and vast tangled never-dressed hair that made him suppose it) was upon him when he awoke. He had curled himself into a fetal ball, and she had been sheltering him from the night wind, pressing her long belly against him as she might (probably did) against an egg of her own. It was dangerously cold. She smelled like a mildewed sofa.

  For three days they stayed together there on the horrid shingle. In the day she sheltered him from the sun with her pinions and at night drew him close to her odorous person, her rough flesh. Sometimes she flew away heavily (her wings seeming unable to bear her up for more than a few meters, and then the clumsy business of taking off again) and returned with some gobbet of scavenge to feed him. Once a human leg he rejected. She seemed unoffended, seemed not to mind if he ate or not; seemed when she stared at him hourlong with her onyx unhuman eyes to be waiting for his own demise. But then why coddle him so, if coddling was what this was?

  He tried (dizzy with catastrophe maybe, or sunstroke) to explain himself to her, unable to suppose she couldn’t hear. He had (he said) failed in his quest. He had set out from his sad homeland to find love, a bride, a prize, and bring it back. They had all seen him off, every one of them wishing in his heart that he too had the daring to follow the dream. Love. A woman: a bride of love: a mother of men. Where, in this emptiness?

  She listened, cooing now and then (a strange liquid sound, he came to listen for it, it seemed like understanding; he hoped he would hear it last thing before he died, poisoned by her food and this sea of piss). On the third day, he seemed more likely to live. A kind of willingness broke inside him with the dawn. Maybe he could go on. And as though sensing this she ascended with flopping wing beats into the sun, and sailed to a rocky promontory a kilometer off. There she waited for him.

  Nothing but aridity, as far as his own sight reached. But he believed—it made him laugh aloud to find he believed it—that she knew what he hoped, and intended to help him.

  But oh God what a dreadful crossing, what sufferings to endure. There was the loneliness of the desert, nearly killing him, and the worse loneliness of having such a companion as this to help him. It was she who sought out the path. It was he who found the water-hole. She sickened, and for the length of a moon he nursed her, he could not have lived now without her, none of these other vermin—mice, snakes—were worth talking to; he fed them to her, and ate what she left. She flew again. They were getting someplace. One bright night of giddy certainty he trod her, like a cock.

  Then past the summit of the worst sierra, down the last rubbled pass, there was green land. He could see a haze of evaporating water softening the air, maybe towers in the valley.

  Down there (she said, somehow, by signs and gestures and his own words in her coos, she made it anyway clear) there is a realm over which a queen rules. No one has yet won her, though she has looked far for one who could.

  He rubbed his hands together. His heart was full. Only the brave (he said) deserve the fair.

  He left her there, at the frontier (he guessed) of her native wild. He strode down the pass, looking back now and then, ashamed a little of abandoning her but hoping she understood. Once when he looked back she was gone. Flown.

  It was a nice country. Pleasant populace easily won over by good manners and an honest heart. That’s the castle, there, that white building under the feet of whose towers you see a strip of sunset sky. That one. Good luck.

  Token resistance at the gates, but he gave better than he got. She would be found, of course, in the topmost chamber, surmounting these endless stairs, past these iron-bound henchmen (why always, always so hard? He thought of the boys back home, who had passed on all this). He reached and broached the last door; he stepped out onto the topmost parapet, littered with bones, fetid with pale guano. A vast shabby nest of sticks and nameless stuff.

  She alighted just then, in her gracile-clumsy way, and folded up.

  Did you guess? she asked.

  No, he had not; his heart was black with horror and understanding; he should have guessed, of course, but hadn’t. He felt the talons of her attention close upon him, inescapable; he turned away with a cry and stared down the great height of the tower. Should he jump?

  If you do, I will fall after you (she said) and catch you up, and bring you back.

  He turned to her to say his heart could never be hers.

  You could go on, she said softly.

  He looked away again, not down but out, toward the far lands beyond the fields and farms. He could go on.

  What’s over there? he asked. Beyond those yellow mountains? What makes that plume of smoke?

  I’ve never gone there. Never that far. We could, she said.

  Well hell, he said. For sure I can’t go back. Not with—not now.

  Come on, she said, and pulled herself to the battlements with grasping talons; she squatted there, lowering herself for him to mount.

  It could be worse, he thought, and tiptoed through the midden to her; but before he took his seat upon her, he thought with sudden awful grief: She’ll die without me.

  He meant the one he had for so long loved, since boyhood, she for whose sake he had first set out, whoever she was; the bride at the end of his quest, still waiting. And he about to head off in another direction entirely.

  You want to drive? she said.

  The farms and fields, the malls and highways, mountains and cities, no end in sight that way.

  You drive, he said.

  © 1993 John Crowley.

  Originally published in Omni Best Science Fiction Three, Edited by Ellen Datlow.

  Reprinted by permission of the author.

  John Crowley’s first published novels were science fiction: The Deep (1975) and Beasts (1976). Engine Summer (1977) was nominated for The American Book Award; it appears in David Pringle’s authoritative 100 Best Science Fiction Novels. Little, Big (1980) won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel; Ursula Le Guin described as a book which “all by itself calls for a redefinition of fan
tasy.” In 1980 Crowley embarked on a multi-volume novel called Ægypt—The Solitudes, Love & Sleep, Dæmonomania, and Endless Things. This series and Little, Big were cited when Crowley received the American Academy of Arts and Letters Award for Literature. His recent novels are The Translator, recipient of the Premio Flaianno (Italy), Lord Byron’s Novel: The Evening Land, which contains an entire imaginary novel by the poet; and Four Freedoms. He has also worked in film and television and written scripts for historical documentaries, many for Public Television; his work has received numerous awards and has been shown at the New York Film Festival, the Berlin Film Festival, and many others. His essays and reviews have appeared in The Boston Review, The Yale Review, Conjunctions, Tin House, Lapham’s Quarterly, and other venues.

  Author Spotlight: Tad Williams

  Moshe Siegel

  In your Otherland novella, “The Happiest Dead Boy in the World,” Otherland has come to lack its formerly-innervating force and its populace has largely become a system of ‘dead’ (though, like Orlando, still perpetuating) algorithms. This touches on a potential roadblock in AI development: self-awareness. Do you think there could exist a true artificial intelligence, a true artificial life, lacking self-awareness? For example: Is Beezle, aware of its own artifice, more ‘alive’ than, say, the sim of Elrond Half-elven? Or less alive than Orlando?

  That’s a very good question, actually. I suspect that the line between mechanistic reactions and self-awareness is much thinner at the less complex end of the spectrum—that we are more likely to see the spontaneous evolution of artificial life than full-blown artificial intelligence, which at some point might mimic the same path of organic life, increasing complexity leading to increasingly greater flexibility of response. Somewhere along the line, that probably becomes something like awareness, on the same ladder that invertebrates and other fairly simple animals have. After that, who knows? Depends on what evolutionary pressures the artificial organisms face. I would suggest that Beezle is less complex in some ways than the Elrond sim, but has continued to reprogram itself, to “learn.” I don’t know if that’s true with the Elrond sim, since Otherland’s current state of evolution is not completely known to Orlando or even me. My guess is, similar but got there by different routes. Beezle has probably maxed out. Elrond and the other Otherland sims—who knows?

  Young Orlando Gardiner’s existential crisis—regarding his seeming inability to “grow up” in a human, emotional sense—is a chilling glimpse into living a wholly-virtual life. Do you think our modern society is edging towards such inability, the more tethered we become to digital distractions, at younger and younger ages?

  I think that anytime something begins to dominate our conscious lives we will not understand its effects for a long time. Beyond that, I really don’t know. I know that post-internet, when my connection to the outside world is down, my computer now feels “dead” in a way that it never used to feel to me when I didn’t expect much or any direct connection to a larger world. Obviously, my children never had that original feeling—a computer not connected to the internet will always seem incomplete to them, like a car that only goes straight ahead. But whether it’s going to be bad or merely different, I couldn’t say. We always fear change, but what we really fear is uncertainty. I think we’d better get used to it. Things are going to change lightning-quick in the future.

  Another story featuring Orlando Gardiner, “The Boy Detective of Oz,” is set to appear in the forthcoming anthology Oz Reimagined (co-edited by Lightspeed’s own Editor-in-Chief, John Joseph Adams). Are you as satisfied writing Otherland stories within these shorter formats, versus lengthy novels? Do you plan more Otherland shorts?

  Writing a multi-volume epic is a completely different experience, and I don’t know when I’ll have the time or inclination to write another whole series of books about Otherland. But short stories allow me to peck away at issues and subjects that interest me, so I’ll certainly be doing those from time to time. Not ruling out more novels, mind you, just saying there will almost certainly be more shorts.

  This month’s republication of “The Happiest Dead Boy in the World” is timely with the much-hyped beginning of The Hobbit motion-picture trilogy (or as Bongo Fluffernutter might call it, The Thobbit). Are you excited about the new trilogy, or otherwise have an opinion about the modern treatment of Tolkien’s classic(s)?

  I enjoyed the LOTR movies very much, not so much because I thought they were perfect, but because somebody who loved the books was trying to make a good adaptation. That’s the most important thing for me. I can forgive almost anything from a remake but unconcern or contempt. In fact, I’d rather see someone make a terrible, wrong-headed adaptation of something I love that at least takes risks than a boring vanilla version that goes out of its way not to offend any fans. Why make a movie if you’re trying to recreate a book? It’s a different medium. So I’m interested to see what Jackson does, and I like the idea that he seems to be mining Middle Earth history per Tolkien for some of the storylines not emphasized in the original book. Whether that will sustain so many installments remains to be seen!

  In a previous interview (with The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast, which was also printed in the December 2012 issue of Lightspeed), you mentioned your vision of Otherworld sequels taking place within the Otherworld MMO (which, as of this writing, is in closed beta testing). Have you yet conceived the storylines you would like to weave into the game? Is it likely that players will interact with familiar faces, within the game world?

  It’s actually a complicated issue, because it would require a huge amount of cooperation. If the game makes money, then it will probably be a lot easier, so I’m waiting to see. As it is, the tension is between letting the producers make the best game they can and me wanting to shape it to my author’s ends. At the moment, the people doing the creating are doing a good job, but I’d definitely like to make it more of a storytelling vehicle. I’ve been fascinated by non-traditional, interactive storytelling for decades.

  Do you have any other in-progress or upcoming projects you would like to share with us?

  I’m in the middle of my Bobby Dollar (earthbound angel, struggling with his own bosses and of course the forces of Hell) books. The first one, Dirty Streets of Heaven has come out to very nice reviews—it’s a lot shorter and punchier than my usual novels—and I’ve finished the second, Happy Hour in Hell. I’m just about to begin the third, Sleeping Late on Judgement Day. I might even do a free Bobby D. short story just to share with people. And I have various other projects on the burners, but I never know what’s going to happen to those until they actually happen. And there’s a Tailchaser’s Song (fantasy about cats) animated movie being made.

  I’m sure I’m forgetting other stuff. I don’t actually know what all I’m supposed to be doing until I begin something else, then I get an email saying, “Where’s Project A?” or whatever, at which point I say, “Shoot!”, face-palm, and plunge into that.

  It’s a living.

  Moshe Siegel works as a slusher, proofreader, and interviewer at Lightspeed, interns at the pleasure of a Random House-published author, freelance edits hither and yon, and is a Publisher’s Assistant at Codhill Press. His overladen bookshelf and smug ereader glare at each other across his home office in upstate New York, and he isn’t quite sure what to think about it all. Follow tweets of varying relevance @moshesiegel.

  Author Spotlight: C.C. Finlay

  Earnie Sotirokos

  “The Infill Trait” is about a body-swapping, ex-CIA agent. Where did the inspiration for this story come from?

  This will sound weird, but I was dreaming that I was a young kid walking through an airport. In the dream, the first line of the story came to me: “Every time I fall asleep I wake up in a different body.” As soon as I dreamed that sentence, I snapped awake and ran to my office to write it down. The story flowed very smoothly from that—it was one of the easiest and quickest stories I’ve ever written. I feel like all the pieces
were there, floating around in the gray sea of my brain, and they just needed that one thread to tie them all together.

  The line between terrorist and hero is blurred. Do you think James would be considered a hero if his training went off without a hitch?

  The line between terrorist and hero is so blurred because James/Jimmy is an unreliable narrator. We only know what he thinks his training was for, but there are a lot of clues that he’s not entirely right in the head. So were people actually training him for something else or was there a breakdown inside him?

  The way you sprinkled verse into the narrative gave some insight on James’ mental state. How does this technique strengthen your writing?

  The rhymes reveal James/Jimmy’s pattern of free association, where his thoughts are carried along by the logic of the sounds and words instead of a rational sequence of cause and effect. It’s part of what makes him unreliable. Any tool that a writer uses to get more deeply into the head of the character or at the heart of the story—or both!—makes a story stronger.

  It’s been more than a decade since 9/11. Does terrorism still strike the same chord in fiction as it did a decade ago?

  America is still feeling ripple effects from 9/11 that are only partially related to terrorism. For example, Americans now accept as normal the casual, constant surveillance of our public actions and private lives. We consent to body scanners and pat-downs at the airport and warrantless wiretapping of our cellphones. Think about that: Three thousand people died and then three hundred million people lost their privacy. The result of being constantly told we should be afraid, or that we have to be searched, that we have to be kept safe from each other, creates new levels of distrust in society. That fear has to be constantly renewed so that we keep up our vigilance. I think we’re still trying to understand all of these consequences and their aftereffects, and of course that gets reflected in fiction.

  What can we expect from you in the future?

  My next story is “The Great Zeppelin Heist of Oz,” which I co-wrote with my wife, Rae Carson. It’ll be in the Oz Reimagined anthology that’s coming out at the end of February.