Rayguns Over Texas

by Michael Moorcock

  She shrugged.

  “Something is wrong, isn’t it?” he said.

  “I want to tell you something, but I can’t. You won’t like it.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You can tell me.”

  Her vision blurred and her throat hurt. “If I tell you, you’ll want me to leave.”

  His brows bunched together. “Does this have to do with work? Because it doesn’t matter. They’re letting us all go. Five days, and I’m unemployed again. I know. We all know.” He shrugged. “But that’s okay. I’ll get another contract somewhere. Everyone needs software programmers.”

  The pain in her throat intensified.

  He continued, “Programming doesn’t pay like it used to, but then nothing does. I love you. That’s all that matters.” It was his turn to look away. “That was probably too much information.”

  She sniffed. “I love you, too.”

  “You do?”

  Nodding, she moved closer and kissed him. “But I really should tell you. I--I’ve been lying to you.”

  “Shit. I knew it.” He got up from the floor and began pacing. “I knew this was too good to be true. You’re married.”

  “That’s not it.”

  He paused. “You have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You have a girlfriend?”

  “That’s not it either.”

  “Then what?”

  She took a deep breath and then slowly let it go. “Don’t you think it’s odd that you report to Personnel, and I report to Human Resources?”

  He blinked. “They’re the same thing.” He appeared to finally get the idea that everything wasn’t as it seemed. “Aren’t they?”

  She shook her head. “No one else has lived for as long at the company hotel, either. Just me.”

  “I thought that was because you’re on a work visa. It sucks, but--”

  “Work visas have nothing to do with it. I’m not from Canada. That’s just what I’m supposed to tell anyone who asks. The truth is, the company hasn’t registered me as a worker at all.”

  He sat up. “You’re an illegal? They’re not paying taxes on your wages--”

  “They don’t pay me at all. The company owns me, like they own the desks and computers.”

  “Wait. What? Bullshit! They can’t own people! That’s slavery!”

  “I’m not a person. Not technically.” She got up from the floor. “I’m--I’m a...transgenetic human.”

  “A what?”

  “A genetically modified clone,” she said. Her tears traced cooling paths down her burning cheeks. “I’m not a real person. Not legally.” She lifted her hair to show him the nape of her neck. “Do you see this port? In five days, Human Resources will connect me to a bank of computers. They will remove everything that you know as Dallas and replace her with someone else.”

  “What?” He jerked away from her, as if she’d slapped him. “This is crazy! They can’t do that!”

  “They most certainly can. I’ve gone through the process before.”

  “How many times?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “They download whatever specialized skills they need directly into my brain,” she said. “If they need an electrical engineer with specific knowledge, they download one. If they need a mathematician, I’ll be a mathematician. If they need a ditch digger, or a fry cook, I’ll be that. They don’t have to pay to train me. I already know everything they need me to know. They don’t have to pay a salary or medical or anything. I’m theirs.”

  “You’re a slave that can be programmed?” He was in shock. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re a person. You have rights.”

  “A manufactured person,” she said. “An engineered clone. I don’t even have a real name.”

  His skin had acquired a green cast, and he looked like he was going to be sick. “Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

  “Have you heard about the new genetic research, regarding organ transplants, and how they’ve been determined to not have rights?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve heard about this.”

  “What?”

  “When I’m too old to retrain, they’ll--”

  “Sell you for parts?” He shuddered. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “I’ll understand if you wish me to leave now.” She got up from the floor and began dressing.

  “Wait. Don’t go.”

  She wiped her face. “I lied to you. I’m so sorry.”

  “But…did you lie about everything?”

  “Not about how I feel,” she said. “I do love you. I always have.”

  He spoke to the floor. “But how would you know? I mean, if they program you, I--I don’t know what to think.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to feel what it was like, you know, to be like anyone else. I--I shouldn’t have done this. It was selfish. I see that. And if Templeton finds out he’ll--”

  “Do what? Kill you?”

  “Templeton will erase me,” she said. “Which amounts to the same thing.”

  “Who is Templeton?”

  She shook her head.

  “How many of you are there?” Paul asked.

  “I’m the only one at our office. But...next year, there won’t be a next year for you,” she said. “They won’t need to hire you. They’ll have transgenetics for that.”

  He stared at the floor. She waited in the silence, until she couldn’t stand it any longer, and then she finished dressing.

  “I should go,” she said.

  “I need some time to think. This is a lot to...to process. We can talk about this tomorrow night. Okay?”

  “I understand.” She went to the door.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me drive you.”

  The ride back to the office building was silent, tense, and awful. He didn’t kiss her goodnight. He didn’t even touch her. He merely used his keycard to let her back into the building and turned away. Holding the door open, she watched him drive off. When she was sure he was gone, she walked back to her room, sobbing the whole way. She’d ruined everything by telling him. But would he have asked me out if he’d known? She thought over the situation again and again, as she had the day before, trying to find a way that made all the pieces fit together right. Maybe he won’t hate me, she thought. Maybe he’ll forgive me. She didn’t understand something was wrong until she noticed the lights were on in her room.

  Both Mr. Templeton and Ms. Harmon were there, waiting for her.

  Maybe none of it matters, she thought, because I won’t remember.

  The Nostalgia Differential:

  A Jerry Cornelius Adventure

  Michael Moorcock

  Jerry Cornelius and his clan return in a “secret history” of Mars,

  by way of Texas. In typical Michael Moorcock fashion,

  the non-linear story unfurls across time with wry political commentary,

  insightful social observations, and abundant musical references.

  2013: Shadow on the Wall

  Mars was no less attractive from this side of the mountains. Magnificent, oddly biblical, and disturbing. Jerry relished the smell of frying bacon. “These new season shows look good.”

  Catherine nodded as she slipped into her place with her plate. “I’m not sure why I thought you were right to take this job.”

  “Space!” Her brother gestured with his toast. “It’s getting interesting again.”

  He was sincere. He loved Mars. He had always loved Mars. And here he was, camped out beside a canal, one of the fertile belts on a cloudless planet. He and Catherine had always wanted this kind of solitude. They had talked abou
t it long before their father had turned against them. But sometimes, he yearned. His soul craved rain.

  “There’s always a chance.” She looked up. Was that a movement? “Before it becomes real, it has to be imagined.”

  And soon, the sound of the great atmosphere plant dropped to a pleasant hum. Jerry wondered if it were time for his run.

  1933: Walking the Dog

  “Every little movement has a meaning of its own, every little thought and feeling by some posture can be shown…” Major Nye hummed a favourite number. Some darling of the halls had performed it in his youth. Slowly, he ran a fond finger over dusty blue and gold spines. “Every little picture tells a tale…I’m sure it was a MacMillan Illustrated Classic. Here we are. You have a wonderful book department. I’d say it’s quite as good as Knightsbridge.”

  Mr. Sissons was gracious. Clearly impressed by the major’s Saville Row tailoring, he moved a pale, modest hand, adjusting his pearl grey suit. “So we’re told, sir. Will Snarleyowl be all?”

  “Unless you have a My Strudel, is it?”

  “We’re waiting for the next printing, Major. With Herr Hitler and his popular ‘pastry cook’ socialists in power, more people are curious. Do you know much, sir?”

  “About Austrian cuisine?” Major Nye couldn’t say. He hadn’t realised the chap had other interests. “Wasn’t he in the Battenburg rising? When’s it due in?”

  “We can order it for you, of course. Do you live in Buenos Aires?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid.” He thought of Vanessa; the Hotel Robinson. “I’d move here like a shot, if I were a free man.”

  Mr. Sissons’ smile was discreetly tired.

  1944: Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree

  They found Jerry cutting cane in the backcountry, north of Rio. They cleaned him up and gave him a pair of boots. He was delighted. They might have been hand-made.

  “Don’t worry.” Miss Brunner counted out the bills to the thickset Indian who had reported him. “He’ll be his old self in no time. Look, he’s found a copy of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus already. Fish to water, eh?”

  “Fish?” The Indian scratched his head. “Nowhere around here that I know. Not any more.”

  But Jerry, mumbling cross-legged from the polished planks of the upper deck, quickly discarded the book and picked another from the pile. Coarse, the pornographic memoir thought to have been written as a kind of sequel to Walton’s Compleat Angler. He began looking through the pockets of his new black pea jacket. “Rod?”

  “We’d better be leaving, while we can.” Major Nye adjusted the fraying cuffs of his civilian tweed. “Once he finds the Doré Milton, we’ll never get him off the boat.”

  “Is it regression?”

  “Not typically.”

  With her slender arthritic fingers, Miss Brunner tightened her graying perm. “In politics, one word is worth a thousand pictures. Not so?” She flirted a glance at a freshly, and cheaply, uniformed Captain Pardon. He’d receive a fortune for this help. The old vessel wheezed black smoke and coughed a little circumspectly. The little captain seemed surprised, studying a large chronometer he held in his left hand and making notes with a new pencil on his paper cuff.

  “If we left now,” said Major Nye, “we might get to Sao Paulo before the next riot.”

  “Are they still upset with the Americans?” she asked.

  “Not since they found out the reason for the shelling. Embarrassing, of course.” He moved his mouth in mock disapproval. “Poor intelligence, as usual.” The major remained unhappy about his posting. After Casablanca, it had seemed all downhill until now.

  The steamboat made a convulsive movement, then whoever was steering let loose with the whistle. Captain Pardon cursed in French and headed for the wheelhouse.

  Miss Brunner shrugged. “Does anyone know where he trained?”

  “Marrakech, I think.” The major chuckled forgivingly.

  Miss Brunner frowned.

  1956: Just Couldn’t Resist Her With Her Pocket Transistor

  At first, he thinks it is a dust storm. Then the dust grows thicker. He covers his mouth with his handkerchief. There are stinging pebbles in it now. He lies down and protects his head. He thinks, Jesus Christ, I’m being buried alive! So he forces himself to his knees and crawls on, until at last the storm stops. In the following stillness, he sees a figure ahead, shadowy against the sun. A smiling, bearded face.

  A recurring dream. Jerry wondered if the man were his father. The expression was familiar. In the dream, they were so proud to be on Mars, so pleased it looked just like Barsoom in John Carter.

  On his 18th birthday, his father pressed Heidegger’s Being and Time at him. “It’s flawed, of course, but also very coherent. Try him.” Jerry had decided he wasn’t a great thinker. And God knew what the drugs had done to his dad’s brain. He drew a deep, relaxing breath. Sometimes surgery was the only answer.

  In the following dream, he was crossing an ice-bridge in a horse-drawn sleigh. His sister Catherine sat in front of him wrapped in white furs. Behind them, in snow reddened by the setting sun, sharp black shadows of birches crossed the deep, bleak ruts the sleigh made. The same old cryptograms, each telling a different tale.

  “What’s it all mean, Jerry?” his sister asked.

  “People are frightened. They simply won’t tolerate the absurdists any more. Not as an audience.” Una Persson, gloriously stylish in her snug greatcoat, spoke from behind, where she was leading her own grey. “And when they’re frightened, they burn a witch. That’s where we come in.”

  Jerry was prepared to work with what he had, but it wouldn’t be easy for anyone. Too many dreams, too much delusion, too many illusions. How could he have kept so many balls in the air at the same time?

  He awoke with a guffaw.

  “What is it now?” Catherine sat up. “Christ, it’s cold.”

  Outside the darkness and silence continued to gather.

  1967: Lady D’Arbanville

  Zurich trams ran so thoroughly on time Una Persson felt faintly disgusted, especially when she attempted to board in her old Belenciaga frock while going through her bag, looking for her fare. She apologised in her pretty German. “Sometimes I have to unpack everything. Just to find the right change.”

  “Sometimes you have to unpack everything anyway.” The driver handed her a ticket of a higher denomination than the one she’d paid for. “Now you can go much further.” He winked. “Perhaps you should have flown.”

  “He won’t fly.” She made a grateful, apologetic face.

  “Oh, that’s always such a problem. Are you married?” He pulled the lever and the doors hissed shut. “Here on holiday?”

  He was flirting with her. Why do the children play? A strange tune to come into her head at that moment. Was he looking for a hardheaded woman?

  She had to admit she admired his Turkish looks. What was it about those big Mediterranean noses?

  1971: Friend of the Devil

  Time and order? What could we do without them? The theatre wasn’t what it was. In the current climate, they could never have a successful revival of The Jew’s Bargain. Which was a stupid thing to say, he thought. Was it true the image always preceded the actuality? I have seen your skull covered in filth, he told Mengele. I have seen you dead. You have no idea what great good will come of our suffering. The State of Israel will rise from our ashes. He had been able to look into Mengele’s face and see the attempt to control the contractions of terror there. Was it unseemly to congratulate himself for bartering his good life to save one young woman from the creature whose bones were now displayed at the Nazi Remains show in Munich? I am not man enough for this, he thought. But it was too late. I had made my bargain with God. It was unbreakable. He would not release me from it. I wish I had known that at the time.

  He was rea
ding from his own journal.

  But, best of all, I had proved there truly was a God. I need never despair again. Never carry that burden Nietzsche had put on me. Yet, if you had a past and a present, why could you not have a future? Or a number of futures? He had spent so long trying to work out the consequences of radiant time. Too many equations. Too many adventures. Too much of everything. Accretion challenged complexity.

  There was a long way to go yet.

  Jerry wondered how much hotter things would get, before they started cooling down again. He wetted another towel and stretched it over his sister’s pale forehead. He checked his watch. In a couple of hours, the world would know for certain. How much time had he waited so long ago, as his child bride sweated out her memories?

  So long. So long at the border. Could they sweat this out too? Now he understood why Benjamin had given himself up to despair. The world could no longer be manipulated or persuaded. At last, he began to understand the codes. It really shouldn’t have taken this long. Too many pictures. Far too many words. And ghosts! Those ghosts.

  What the fuck had happened to the action? The mystery?

  “Wake up, old chap.” Major Nye’s voice was distant and encouraging. “Our truck’s arrived at last! We’re on our way! Another four decades and we’ll be in Syria. Or Lebanon, at any rate. What do you think of that?”

  “Saladin’s still in charge, isn’t he?”

  “The Kurds seem to think so.”

  Jerry got up slowly adjusting his cap. “Has anyone seen my launcher?”

  1984: Momma Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys

  When in Galveston, Jerry habitually took his breakfast at the Waffle House on 25th and Broadway. It was the least infected of the joints. Here, it was impossible to catch even a glimpse of the ocean. He was beginning to regret buying the Bishop’s Palace. When had he last eaten so much bacon? Really, it was time to stop. He was growing weak again. He reached into the darkness and found her long, soft hand. Now he could only love.