“What if there’s only another computer on the other end?”
He mused aloud, but L did not reply.
“How sad,” he said, some time later.
After the correspondence ceased, Li Po 2 put his hands on the keyboard, calling up the stored records of past encounters, and then he began to read. At dawn, he wrote and sent a message in Chinese before he began to delete files.
3. Beyond the Chinese Room
Wealthy Lin Powers, Jr., bought that oxymoronic edifice, an American castle. It had begun life as a faux-Tudor edifice, back in the 1930s, though the accrued years and patina plotted together to make its rosy expanses seem wonderfully real by twilight. A shallow river with a bed of polished stones sang close by, next to lawns and gardens now snarled by thistles and the wild clematis called traveler’s joy or virgin’s bower. In the distance, forests swept across the slopes, obliterating the quarry and stoneyard where a party of Italian stonecutters had once labored on native stone—chiseling blocks and arches, sills and groins, gargoyles and flowers and dragons.
He found a first-rate restorer and set him to work.
“Do you have minions enough for the job?” he asked, feeling anxious about the amount of work to be done.
The architect laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“Minions? Minions galore,” he said.
Batteries of carpenters, electricians, and plumbers descended on the castle during the following weeks. The activity on the lawns struck Lin as a cross between a gypsy encampment and a military siege, and it reminded him of his childhood’s bustle and scurry in the Chinese Room.
In the gatehouse, he immersed himself in the world of spoken Chinese. A native speaker served as his cook. A professor on sabbatical helped him match the sounds of words and syllables with Han characters. Since he had memorized a nigh-infinite number of hanzi, he was a quick, agile pupil, exceeding his teacher in knowledge of the written language. The Chinese gardener and undergardener chatted volubly with him on long walks.
Despite all his new undertakings, Lin felt uneasy.
Often, exploring the trails that led into the wilderness, he was overwhelmed by the extent of a world that seemed to go on and on. In its vastness, he felt lonely and missed his father more than ever, so he wrote the minions and begged them to come. The castle was uninhabitable at the moment, but on the grounds stood a smaller stone house with a mere fourteen bedrooms. Would they please come and live close to the castle, bringing the jam jars containing the ashes of their colleagues? Last, he asked them to find and secure the raspberry urn. He suspected that the pot might be on display in the Head’s outer offices or perhaps had been moved to a niche in some senseless locale—The Brainless Robot or Artificial Cafeteria.
What was the use of the Chinese Room now? Wasn’t the experiment done? Why not retire and enjoy their minion-pensions?
When the little old men arrived and looked around in wonder, he felt happier than he had in many months. He settled them in the smaller house and established the cook there as well. The raspberry urn and the jam jars made a circle under a wreath of virgin’s bower. The former minions soon became friends with the gardeners and helped with the grubbing-up of weeds and trees. Since the stables were pronounced usable, Lin provided money for Sporty and the other jockeys to buy horses, feed, and gear.
At last it was possible to leave.
Bidding farewell to the minions, who were to manage the stables and keep an eye on the renovation of the castle and gardens in his absence, Lin booked passage for himself and the professor on a round-the-world cruise. In this way, he managed to travel and to continue his studies. In addition, he wished to become adept at conversing with women, a species of being he had seldom met. To his disappointment, he found that his degree in women’s studies—the fruit of curiosity—helped him little in his encounters. The days he spent on ship were devoted to conversation. Occasionally he managed to combine his interests in women and Chinese as there was a Mrs. Ho on board, traveling with her husband. His head rang with words by the close of day, and at night the sea washed against the wall of his room, bringing blessed silence and sleep. When the boat docked in Australia, Lin Powell, Jr. packed the professor home to the states via air. His Chinese was already masterful.
Two weeks later, the ship reached his final port. He traveled by train, by car, by donkey cart, and on foot in the days following. Along the journey, he bought a lovely fifth-month cup painted with pomegranates in the wufencai manner and several bottles of wine. The wine was blessedly good, and the porcelain, too—standing on his palm like a shell of hardened snow, yet as light as feathers. When he flicked its side, the cup sang out a clear bell note.
In the pocket of his jacket, he carried a newly purchased volume containing the poems of Li Po, a.k.a. Li Bo or Li Bai. His kinship with the wandering poet was stronger than ever now that he, too, was a traveler. After a noon meal, he would take out the book and read a few quatrains or daydream over the pictures—a drinker with a cup of stars, a woman floating on waves of her own hair, a man dancing with his shadow. He especially liked a painting of the poet teetering on the brink of a little boat while the moon’s reflection quivered below him like a disk of mercury.
He also picked up a pottery horse and rider. The rider’s brows, straight nose, small red mouth, and slim shape reminded him of something. He marveled at the girl’s soulful face, the wrinkled cowl under the hat, and the short over-jacket trimmed in bands of flowers. The horse appeared equally graceful with its curled neck and round, peach-like haunches. He had the swoop and style of a peony.
These three things—the pomegranate cup, the book of Li Po’s poetry, and the clay equestrian figure—reminded him of where he had come from and where he was going.
The Chinese Room had been small, though it made up Linpoty’s entire landscape. For too long, the Institute had held him fast. Now it seemed to Lin Powers that the outer lands beyond its walls rambled on forever, over hills and between trees.
Yet one day he came to the door at the end of the world and knocked, and he gave the name L as his surety and password.
The woman whose black hair had burned in the sunshine let him in. When he looked at her, he loved her; she might have been the model for the Tang girl on a horse, she was so slim and upright in her carriage. Just as he marveled over the sweetness of her face and the eyebrows like two glistening wings, she was astonished by the lightness and curling vigor of his hair and by the eyes that startled because they seemed to her nearly as blue as a blue poppy.
She was shy with him, glancing bashfully at the floor. Unpacking the silk wrappings from the fifth-month cup, he gave it to her, and they drank the wine together.
Flower of my heart, each thought secretly.
Lin told her about the faraway castle with its thousands and thousands of diamond panes, and the stained glass pictures that looked in some places like the glory of a pillar of fire and in others like New World dreams of outlandish birds, angels, wild men, and unknown creatures. He described the aviary, the white chapel with its thirty windows, and the tower where she could climb the winding stair and look out over the hills. The music room with its gallery, the seat like a throne, the swirl of stairs, and the bronze and marble statues—he conjured these and more to lure and to delight.
“I want you to see it all,” he said; and later on, “My heart is as big as a castle, and your image is standing in every one of its rooms.”
Last of all, the man who had been called Lin Powers, Jr. and Linpoty and Li Po 2—and once signed himself as L—told her about his boyhood. He confessed how he had been bound from infancy to the Chinese Room, where he had lived with his father and the minions. Plum Blossom kissed him once in pity and afterward for love. Hand in hand, they drifted under the willow trees beside a river of agates, making promises of sheer gold.
Three Princesses
Robert Reed
The princess looked as if she began each day strapped into an electric chair, measur
ed jolts of current working every taut muscle. Her hair was shiny-bright and too thick to lie flat and, for the moment at least, the color of sunburned wheat. I couldn’t pinpoint her age, but flocks of pale, elaborately shaped blotches rode her forearms—ghostly remnants of the holographic tattoos popular twenty-five years ago. A fair amount of cosmetic surgery and neurotoxins were on display. The current trend is for women with money to have their features stiffened into a permanent rigor. In some circles, even sweet young girls gladly disappeared beneath the polished, plastic beauty found on a much-loved doll. This particular lady had paid for a lovely Nordic veneer, complete with the radiant, unrelenting smile. But the boob job was what I noticed most. Whatever nature gave this woman had been cut off and tossed into the trash. What replaced it were synthetic tissues and cultured tissues and maybe some wondrous new muscles. I glanced back at her, and for a magical moment, there was no one else in the world. She was a captivating stranger standing behind me, wearing shorts and sandals and a tight summer sweater. Admiring her cleavage didn’t feel rude. Why else would she dress this way, if not to get admired? Then I noticed the man standing at her side, and of course he took note of my interest. But he wasn’t a jealous sort. If anything, he was proud of his companion, one hand and then the other touching this gorgeous, contrived creature, answering my testosterone stare with an “Aren’t you jealous?” wink.
The couple had just joined us in line. I’d heard them chatting amiably, and when I turned forward again, they plunged into another long, vacuous conversation. Casual acquaintances out on a preliminary date, I assumed. Married people don’t ramble in a breezy, never-stop fashion, and long-term daters would have possessed more focus. I remained aware of their noise more than their words, right up until that moment when the man mentioned being famished. Since I was hungry too, I lifted my focus. They talked casually about food, listing delights and disgusts. Her voice was doctored as much as her body, sounding too girlish to be real. They chatted about recipes and restaurants. Then the woman confessed that her favorite restaurant in the habitable world was within walking distance, which prompted her date to whisper something about something, which caused her to respond with an odd laugh that fell short of happy.
I was curious, to a point. But then Amy pulled on my arm, saying, “Come on, Dad. The line’s moved.”
For what seemed like ages, we had been rooted to the same slab of sidewalk. But now two full steps were achieved before we had to stop dead again.
Standing inside a grove of irrigated citrus trees was a crystal castle, and waiting in front of the castle gate was a very important princess greeting her loyal subjects with polite words and a monarchial nod of the head. A hunchbacked elf stood beside her, ready to help with minor needs. A beefier creature—some species of knight wearing golden armor and a helmet topped with eagle feathers—slowly patrolled the line, helping maintain a mood of serious happenings. Parents were in attendance, and a few brothers too young to be left wandering on their own. But girls predominated, each with her essentials at the ready: memory pads and pens, cameras and web-eyes, and, most important, the paraphernalia that could be embedded with technologies that were dubbed “magic.”
Amy was carrying a treasured wand made of zirconium and brass spun around a spine of superconducting ceramics. Several years of savings had been dedicated for this glorious moment, and her shopping list included spells both popular and obscure—sophisticated neural enhancements, for the most part, that would give her new talents and lucid, edifying dreams.
Long ago, I made the mistake of mentioning, “It’s an inventive way to market merchandise.”
“It is not ‘merchandise’, Dad. These are spells.”
And only once, when I was extra stupid, did I refer to the objects of her affection as being monsters.
“They’re princesses,” Amy interrupted. She was seven at the time and quite fierce, with no patience for scoffers. “Don’t ever call them ‘monsters’, Dad. Never, ever!”
The Orianas were favorites for millions of young women. They belonged to a trademarked line of cloned, totipotent cells, the proud property of Born-bright, which happened to be the oldest and largest biomanipulation corporation. And despite one father’s primitive complaints, they were gorgeous, astonishing pieces of work. Even from a distance, today’s Oriana was lovely. It wasn’t just her physical beauty, which was considerable, or the long black and emerald gown that no one else could wear half as well. Or even the natural ease with which the princess handled her various admirers. It was also the story that lay behind her and every last one of her identical sisters.
When Amy was born, a rich aunt gave us the full collection of Oriana books, and soon they became our favorite time-for-bed spell. When she was three, my daughter began immersing herself in the assorted holos and interactive games that taught her the basics of reading and math. By the time Amy was five, I knew Oriana’s life story better than I knew most of my friends’. The red-haired princess was just a baby when her mother died. Her king-father stood at the helm of a great nation, but he was an inadequate leader and an emotionally distant patriarch. And as so often happens in these tales, there were stepmother troubles. The new wife was younger than her husband, beautiful and vain, and very much the fool. Using her wiles, the queen steered the nation down dangerous paths, all while making the innocent suffer. Yet despite having no mother and precious little love, the red-haired princess grew up plucky and strong. Oriana’s story was full of wise peasants and charming adventurers. But here was where the parent company did something truly new: Every princess that crawled out of its birth chamber was genuine. While the manufactured cells were dividing and spreading across a standardized skeleton, an AI program that believed it was a young girl grew up inside a magical kingdom. Every Oriana spent her formative years battling dragons and evil wizards as well as her father’s ill-tempered wife. No two princesses lived an identical adventure. Many didn’t survive their own stories. Their world held real dangers, disasters were final, and only the cleverest, bravest souls managed to reach the story’s end . . . at which time their programs were implanted into physical bodies whose calling it was to stand in public, shilling wares for their smiling, joyful owners.
Oriana’s gown was long and sleek, black in the body with dark green frills and a tidy cape that could double as a hood in case of rain or dragon shit. Her tiara was a combination of cultured gems and security sensors. A long diamond wand stood between her and the elf, patiently balancing on its three legs, and when the next young worshiper bowed and offered the usual words of thanks, the princess lifted her tool to give the girl’s shoulder a light, respectful touch—a gesture that transferred one or many corporate products into the customer’s possession.
This Oriana’s voice wasn’t like the others I’d heard before. It was rougher, and deeper. When the line crept forward again, that voice greeted the next young ladies with a regal elegance. I couldn’t make out her words, but the sound of them carried, bringing a sense of life and hard adventure that couldn’t help but impress.
Just then, Amy glanced at me. Perhaps she thought I was bored, because she gave my arm another pull, saying, “Thanks for bringing me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re making me happy,” she promised.
“I know,” I replied smartly
Meanwhile, the couple behind us continued with their elaborate courtship ritual. The woman listed more favorite corners in this park/mall/sanctuary/farm. But her man friend seemed most interested in the big picture. Pointing at the sky, he reminded everyone in earshot that the white wet clouds were Brightborn’s doing. “Where else is it going to rain tonight?” he asked.
Nowhere close to us, I guessed. This end of the state hadn’t enjoyed real moisture this year.
Then, in a quieter voice, he mentioned his own investments in this wondrous corporation—investments that had brought splitting stocks and reliably huge dividends. “What other business does half as well?” he asked, w
orking hard to impress his well moneyed date.
She made an agreeable sound.
Then with a bright cackle, he threw out that clichéd motto, “Bornbright is our future.”
Maybe so, but our tomorrows were going to be jammed with old-fashioned flourishes. There was the castle, for instance, and the stone-inlaid sidewalk curling around the edge of an old-style iron fence. And between the fence and castle lay the quiet green moat. Pointing at the thick water, he said with authority, “They make everything work here. There might be ten species of tilapia thriving there.”
“I like tilapia,” said the hungry woman.
“See how odd it looks? The water, I mean. It’s one of the new algae. Very productive, and it can’t grow anywhere else in the world. Every new species is the same, you know. Each exists inside its own little puddle.”
At that point, a skeptical voice interrupted.
“We can certainly hope so,” I mentioned.
The woman realized that I was paying attention. She looked up at me, that changeless smile riding her doll face while the pale brown eyes tried to read my expression, my posture.
Her date decided on a preemptive attack.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his own face falling short of a smile. “You don’t sound like you believe it.”
What had been a pleasantly boring situation turned tense and a little bit fun. I was tempted to mention a few famous mistakes. I thought about explaining the isolation tricks used by the owners of these noble bugs—clever genetic manhandlings meant to keep control over their amazing, patented organisms. If pressed, I could have explained how those tricks often tricked us. It is amazing how many people, even people my age, can’t remember that the Great Lakes used to be blue in the summer or that the Gulf of Mexico didn’t suffer enormous fish kills whenever the hyperactive plankton stole all the free oxygen.
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