by Robert Reed
“The one you can feel?”
“Or one that’s smaller and closer.” A wave of the hands. “Some kind of native has lived in this valley. We’ve found more artifacts here than on the entire desert.”
“But it’s gone now?”
“As far as we can tell.” A pause. “But this is enough talking. Let’s get back to work.”
Cornell’s new vocation was to make boards using stakes and hammers. They weren’t lovely boards, or smooth, and no two resembled each other. But at least the wood was easy to work, breaking along its grain and never varying its personality.
The morning was overcast, clouds thin but constant, and the forest’s canopy diminished the sunlight even more. By afternoon, Cornell’s job had eased into something steady, gaining a rhythm of its own. The clouds broke apart and let the heat build. He didn’t sweat. Excess warmth left when he exhaled. If he were human, he realized, this would feel like a nice day in the mountains. But for his working bodies, it was like being in a sauna.
“It’ll get better,” Porsche promised. “You’ll adapt.”
“Hope so.”
A careful look, and she said, “I am leaving in the morning.”
He had no reply.
“My second-in-charge takes over. A sweet lady, but don’t let her fool you.”
“Careful on the desert,” he told her.
“I don’t think I will be,” she said sarcastically.
Then finally, with a calm practiced tone, he told her about the dust storm and Jordick, and she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about him.”
“How will they tell his family? Assuming he has one—”
“An accident. At least that’s the usual way.” She wiped her nearest face. “A nice discreet death, and no body left to claim.”
Naturally.
Then she said, “No, he’s part of why I’m going. I want to meet with our case officers, explain a few things. Make sure they appreciate—”
“Yeah,” he interrupted. “And get Logan canned.”
“If I can, I will.”
“But will they believe you?”
“Yes, and it might not help.” A sigh. “Their lives would be simpler if they didn’t hear me.”
What else? Cornell thought of things to add, to repeat, but then instead put his hands into her hands and said nothing, satisfied to hold on to her, feeling the alien bones.
Porsche left in the morning, five big bodies into the harnesses and one of them showing the first tentative bulge of its pregnancy. “Very matronly,” Cornell joked. “Now make them listen, okay?”
“One way or another,” she promised.
Cornell went straight to work, focusing on the boards, hands blistering and splinters knifing through his thick skin and his nighttime dreams full of fresh white lumber stacked higher than he could see. Sometimes he would help drag a finished load down the valley. Just as Porsche had promised, there was a wall of pink granite with a gorge through its heart, a pond at the top, and a plunging river that vanished in an instant. People had managed to build a sturdy ramp on the right wall. The new leader, Susan Acts, warned him not to let his bodies get too far ahead of his mind. Whatever their telepathy was, it wasn’t able to reach through rock or around too many corners. Bodies lost touch, which was how some accidents began. Lost bodies wandered. Or sometimes a closer mind—not their own—seemed to gain partial control over them. They stepped when they shouldn’t, plunging into the river. That’s why all of a person had to move into the gorge to work. It was demanding work, bodies climbing, hammering while clinging to wet stone, and people needed every trick possible.
Susan was a sweet-sounding person, yet she had a way of worming people into doing more, doing better. She treated everyone equally, knew names and quirks, and she entertained her crew with horror stories of her life on earth.
She had had two husbands, both of them disasters. The decent one had stepped in front of a drunk driver, and afterward, at twenty-eight, she found a breast tumor. Stress-related, no doubt. Even here, she would, out of habit, examine herself for odd lumps. Bodies and mind. “So far,” she would remark, “I’m clean. Safe.”
In some fashion, it was the same with everyone in the crew. Cornell heard lists of misery and heartache. Failure and bad fortune. A couple of women spoke openly, almost brazenly, about being sexually abused by their parents. Toxic families; distorted souls. It was almost a game, everyone trying to one-up the others.
Cornell remained silent throughout. He thought about his past and legacy, measuring them against the new standard.
One night, very late, Susan and another woman talked about their fathers. Addicts, both of them. Chaotic and violent and past all forgiveness. By firelight, each tried to pick through her friend’s fur, hunting for scars left over from childhood beatings. Scars didn’t translate, Cornell recalled. And sure enough, they found none. Except they began to cry, or what passed for crying here, low whistling sobs with their bodies clinging to each other, reassuring voices saying, “The bastards can’t get us here.” Choking sobs, then, “Here we’re safe.” Then, “Safe as safe can be.”
One day, Logan arrived and spoke to the crew. Work stopped to give him an audience, and his subordinates stood around him like guards. “You’re doing a spectacular job. You are. The work’s going fast again, and there’s plenty of wood. A surplus, really.” The man seemed more competent today, save for a slippery vagueness in the eyes. “That’s why we need more people in the gorge. More hands, more backs.” Then he gave a little laugh, smiling at them.
Nobody responded.
“Volunteers?” said Logan.
Subordinates whispered and pointed, their intention obvious. Then Susan stepped forward with several bodies, arms rising as if to ask the teacher some question.
“Take me,” she said.
Maybe she thought Logan wouldn’t take her. She was protecting her people, knowing he wouldn’t dare take the crew leader.
Except Logan said, “Good, good. Who else?”
Susan appeared stunned, then angry.
“One more person,” Logan demanded. “A good six-bodied volunteer.”
The woman who had cried with Susan came forward, and Susan sputtered, “Why not someone fresh? Someone new?”
But Logan said, “This one’s fine. Perfect.”
A subordinate approached, whispering into one of Logan’s earholes. The boss seemed momentarily puzzled, then blinked and said, “Right. I know we need one, I know.”
A pause.
“Novak! Till your girlfriend comes back, take charge of this crew. All right? All right. Back at it, everyone. All right? All right.”
Little changed for Cornell. People knew their jobs, so there wasn’t much coaching involved. Discipline dropped in those next days, as did production, but that was because of their missing people. Cornell would pull loads of lumber down to the gorge, and sometimes he met people heading for the desert, three bodies left and the fear obvious. They told him about slick rock and the endless roar of the water. It was brutal terrain. If you were down to three bodies, he learned, you were taken off duty. That was the rule. Building a section of ramp required at least four bodies in perfect sync, which meant three was a ticket home. And there were rumors that some workers—the disgruntled or uninspired ones—were sacrificing bodies, committing partial suicides when they wanted to escape.
But others came to replace them, most of them raw recruits. They reminded him of Jordick, out of their element and fragile. He asked them about Porsche. Had they seen her? Or heard about her? But he wasn’t concerned when no one remembered her. Counting travel days and the days spent talking to the agency hierarchy, Cornell calculated exactly when he should allow himself to worry.
He dreamed of Porsche. In one dream she was in his apartment, watching the old TV, six hands picking at her deep brown fur. Suddenly she looked up and gave him six smiles, bright and predatory, and said, “How are you, love? How are you?”
Cornell awoke
when she spoke. The voice was real.
Porsche had found him in the dark, sleeping on the tree, and it was a replay of last time, roles reversed. He wrestled her bodies down, and they kissed and fondled each other. Then Porsche listened to his camp news, congratulating him on his promotion. Then he asked about her trip. Was it worthwhile?
“Well,” she allowed, “I think I did some good.”
Her pregnant body was bloated, and he placed a hand on the bulge, feeling motion.
“They’ve got it under advisement,” she continued. “But who knows? Logan sends home glowing reports, and how can they tell what’s real?” She sighed, hands over his hands. “He claims that he’s in direct communication with the aliens. There’s a city of them on the other side of these mountains—”
“Logan’s insane,” he interjected.
“Maybe,” she agreed.
Cornell was sick of the man and said so.
“Maybe we can coax him home somehow. If the agency can give him tests, maybe he’ll stay home.”
Cornell shut every eye, saying nothing.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“No,” she told him. “You’re not.”
He admitted to having dreams and waking early—
“Time for your vacation, love.”
He said nothing.
She bent with one body, kissing one mouth; then she said, “Soon as you can, leave. I mean it. Orders from your superior.”
He thought for a moment, then asked, “And do what with myself?”
“Sit by the pool, if you want.” She caressed his faces, saying, “Do whatever you want. Just take your three weeks, then get back to me.” Smiles. “I need you. And not some frazzled quail version of you.” Laughter. “One Logan is plenty, love. I can’t handle two of you.”
The trip to New Reno was endless and uneventful, save for one brief moment. Cornell had worked his way up the highest ramp, almost to the top, then thought of the red-haired man taking tolls. He rested and selected his best spears, then finished the climb. But there was no one waiting. The arroyo was littered with garbage and piles of dried shit, the air closing in on him…then suddenly he wasn’t alone…someone vast and close…a sensation like New Reno, but magnified a thousand times…
More.
It was the something in the Breaks, and it touched Cornell with a scorching white light. Suddenly he wasn’t in the arroyo, but instead found himself standing on a tall stone building overlooking a plaza and a city—a glorious and ancient great city—and he saw a harbor and the sea beyond, and ships on the sea, black against the emerald water.
A hand touched his shoulder.
He turned.
A tall white body was smiling—an expression full of charm and joy—and a thundering voice said:
“Hello friend how are you friend come come come see me…!”
Then the something was gone, and Cornell was back in the arroyo, alone, each body on its knees, every mouth quietly whistling with the equivalent of a gut-shot moan.
11
His car was rented, Brazilian and uncomfortably large. Driving from the airport was a clumsy experience. Cornell’s coordination was iffy; his brain would still try to move a dozen hands at once. But he knew the way, which helped. He didn’t have to ask the car’s computer for directions; he was driving by habit, following the curling streets and going slowly, watching everything. Since he’d last been here, the houses had turned old and small. Broad lush trees had grown up over empty yards, and once lush trees had been cut down, stumps made into planters or pulled from the ground like corks. It was the same neighborhood, and it was all different. These were the same people, only wearing different names and lives. And that’s how it was for every street in the world, he thought. And fifty thousand years ago, it was the same for every cave and skin hut. Sameness and novelty. Sameness and novelty. Humanity was an infinite assortment clinging to changeless themes.
“I’m so profound,” he muttered.
“Pardon?” asked the computer. “What did you say, sir?”
Cornell didn’t reply. This was the last turn, left onto the rising street, every moment bringing him deeper into his old domain, his private fiefdom. When he was a boy, he had ruled this stretch of concrete and the landmark island in the cul-de-sac. Now the island bobbed into view, and he drove around on the right, slowing almost to a stop. The old juniper bushes had grown big and shaggy, but otherwise it looked the same, down to some kid’s carbon-fiber bike resting against the curb. He looked right, the Lynns’ house sporting a second story, the old bachelor den revamped and civilized. Then came the Underhills’ house, big and quiet. Todd was a dentist, and Lane was various things, according to Pete. And now Cornell looked at the Petes’ house, always neat and always surrounded by a trimmed green yard. Cornell’s old home looked tiny beside it, shabbier than ever, its white walls darkened with grime. Had it shrunk? Or maybe Dad had whittled off pieces, using them in some bizarre experiment. Standing in the next yard was an old man, scrawny and shirtless and looking ready to fall from sunstroke. For an instant, Cornell saw old Mr. Tucker, right down to the sagging chest and a certain meanness in the ruddy face. But Mr. Tucker became worm food years ago. The illusion evaporated, and Cornell laughed at himself as he pulled into Dad’s driveway.
According to the itinerary, Dad and Pete were in the wilds of British Columbia, not due home for another couple of weeks. Sasquatch hunting, of course. Pete hadn’t intended to have the itinerary used this way, giving Cornell a way home…or had he? The guy was shrewd. Maybe he shouldn’t dismiss the possibility.
The scowling neighbor glanced at him, snorted and turned back to his weeding. Dandelions and crabgrass were waging an endless assault from the west, and there was no time for pleasantries.
Cornell walked to the front door. His key, kept all these years in various drawers and boxes, had picked up a layer of rust that felt rough under his fingertips. His stomach tightened. One hand grasped the doorknob; didn’t it feel small? But that was memory getting proportions wrong again. Sure. He tried to insert the key, three times he tried, finally thinking to kneel and examine the lock, discovering that it took a modern chip key. This wasn’t part of the plan…
Uprooting a long taproot, the old man tossed it into Dad’s yard. The occasional glower helped make his point even more clear.
Fuck you, thought Cornell. He moved around back. The old chain-link gate hung at an angle, hinges squeaking like burglar alarms. But this was his house as much as it was Dad’s, by rights. Cupping both hands around his face, he peered into his old bedroom. There was nothing to see but file cabinets and cardboard boxes and head-high stacks of magazines. No bed, and no chest of drawers. It took him a few moments to feel sure it was his room, not some storage shed slapped together after he’d left.
The back door was the same, little glass panes needing to be caulked. He found a stone and paused, looking at the stone in his pale finger-rich hand. Thinking how he could work it into a serviceable stone axe. Then he busted out one of the panes with a crash, reached through and unlocked the bolt. Someone spoke. Someone said, “Wait.” He glanced over a shoulder—as if he could look more guilty—and opened the door, smelling sour garbage and odors more ancient, tireless and familiar. Home, he smelled. A stew of wood and plaster and mold and dust; he nearly didn’t hear the voice saying, “Too late.” A woman’s voice. He turned again, discovering Mrs. Pete standing beside the chain-link fence, a single chip key dangling at the end of a string. “I tried to stop you,” she said. “You weren’t listening.”
Of course she had an extra key. He hadn’t thought of it, feeling both foolish and relieved. Now he could come and go as he pleased, not leaving the house unlocked.
“Are you here for business?” she asked.
“On vacation.”
She looked very white in the sun. Old but vigorous. She was exactly the person he remembered, dropping the key and string into his hand. “Are you staying long?”
“Just a few days.”
“Pete called and told me what happened. Your father was in quite a mood, wasn’t he?”
Cornell shrugged and left it at that.
“Anyway,” she continued, “if you need anything…dinner, maybe?…come on over and I’ll dish something up. I’ve got a full freezer and no one to cook for.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I will.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”
Then he heard a noise and looked over his shoulder, the old man now standing in his own backyard, glaring at the two of them while his garden hose made a muddy puddle beside him, its water bright and noisy and utterly forgotten.
Dad had never believed in computers. It was a quirk that Cornell hadn’t noticed while growing up; but now, standing inside the computerless house, he tried to remember why Dad had outlawed those machines. He had complained about viruses and loopholes in their security, but thinking back, Cornell wondered if his flustered, easily lost father had tried computers and failed. The old models had been monsters with arcane rules and lousy screens. Maybe before Cornell was born, Nathan Novak tried them and gave up, throwing them in the trash out of frustration.
Everything worthwhile was on paper and tape. Dad kept most of it locked up, probably to frustrate his nameless government pursuers; but Cornell recalled a certain salad bowl in the back of a kitchen cupboard, finding keys and a tattered notebook inside the bowl. The notebook held maps of the house, every cabinet and box labeled, combinations included where they applied.
But he didn’t start with files. Instead he dug out the old photo album with the fading family pictures, thinking he could jump-start his memories. More than twenty years had passed, but he recognized every image—knew exactly where an image would sit on the stiff gray paper—yet he wasn’t the boy looking at them. New details were obvious. Like the way Mom appeared bored in some of the shots, angry in others. The anger was just in the eyes, or in her hip-cocked stance, Dad beside her and happily holding her, completely unaware. Every shot of Dad was the same. He was a middle-aged man in love. Stupid in love. And Mom looked like a high school girl with an affectionate father. She and Cornell together could have been sister and brother. It was a wonder she stayed with Dad for as long as she had. Then in the next instant, without warning, he realized that he wasn’t much younger today than that grinning man with his indifferent cheerleader.
