by David Brin
Gaia tilted her head as if listening to somebody, then laughed aloud. "I know! Didn't the two of them look funny? Coming home all proud with that skinny little squirrel on a stick? Such great hunters! That didn't stop them from gobbling half our carrots!"
Naturally, I couldn't see or hear Gaia's companions—presumably other women gatherers in the same simulated tribe she had been visiting since years before we met. She stopped again, listening, then turned around. "It's your baby, Flower. That's okay, I'll take care of him." She laughed. "I need the practice."
A warm feeling spread as I watched her gently pick up an invisible child. Her body suit tugged and contracted, mimicking a wriggly weight in her arms. Awkwardly, but with clear enjoyment, Gala cooed at an infant who dwelled only in a world of software, and her mind.
I crept away to take a shower, at once ashamed of spying and glad that I had.
We had met at a campus Earth Day festival, soon after the price of full bodysuits fell to a level students could afford. By then she and I each had our own Pleistocene worlds, the same ones we maintained five years later, with upgrades and improvements. If I had known on that day of our shared interest in the simulated past, it might have made approaching her easier. As it was, I followed her strolling by booths and exhibits proclaiming this or that planet-saving endeavor, single-mindedly entranced by the graceful way she moved. Since she wore a smog mask and sunglasses against the UV, I couldn't see much of her face. But Gaia laughed a rich contralto, clapping as contestants jousted with padded lances from the backs of flapping skycycles. When the undefeated champion called in vain for fresh challengers, I stepped forward impulsively, eager to impress her. . . .
When I came to, later, it was in the air-conditioned first-aid tent. An angel cradled my head on her lap, speaking my name. I didn't even recognize her till she laughed at my confusion. "You're okay," she said. "It's just a bump on the head."
I recall sagging back, aching and content. It turned out Gaia had already noticed me, days before in the library, asked friends about me, accessed my open postings on the Net. . . . As usual, she was one step ahead of me, and I didn't mind a bit. I never had any cause to, until the day of the termites.
Emerging from a long shower, I found the wall screen in the bedroom had been tuned to Mother Earth Channel Fifty-three. A green-robed priestess recited a sermon.
". . . some radicals say science and nature are foes. That we should get rid of all machines, farms, cities, returning to more natural ways of life. . . ."
Gaia emerged from her closet wearing a bright cotton shift over her blossoming figure, sorting through a cloth bag slung over one shoulder. "Where are you going?" I tried asking, but the life-size matron on the wall was doubly loud.
". . . As we learn about healthy diets, it seems we should eat like our ancestors, back when meat was caught but twice a week or so, and all other food was gathered by skilled women. . . ."
I tugged Gaia's elbow, repeating my question. She startled, then smiled at me. "NatuBirth class, sweetheart. Lots to learn before I'm ready. Just two months left, you know."
"But I thought . . ."
". . . Fats and sweets were rare back then, hence our cravings. But now forests topple for cattle ranches and sugar farms, producing far too much of a good thi—"
I shouted. "Computer! Shut off that noise!"
Welcome silence fell. The priestess's mouth moved silently while Gaia looked reproving.
"You said I might come along next time," I complained.
Gaia stroked my face. "Now, dear, we're just going over nest and birthing procedures. You'd only be bored."
How could I answer that? My dad used to proudly describe the day I entered the world. He assisted, and even cut the cord, back when old-fashioned "feminism" touted sharing all life's duties. Unlike today's "femismo," which says there are some things men just aren't meant to take part in.
Undaunted, I changed tacks. Snaking arms around Gaia's waist, I drew her close. "Actually, I was hoping this evening . . ."
Her laughter was indulgent. "You had a good hunt, yes? I can tell. It always leaves you frisky."
"Mph. Go to the damn class, then. I'll be okay."
"Aw, sweetie." She tiptoed to kiss my chin. "Look by the console for a present . . . something to show I haven't forgotten you." Gaia blew another kiss from the front door, and was gone.
I wandered to the master house controller and picked up a brighdy colored program chip, still tacky where Gaia must have peeled off a discount sticker from the NatuLife Store. Something for the Hunter, the tide read, and I snorted. Right. In other words, something to keep the man of the house distracted beating drums with a bunch of make-believe comrades, while a wife's attention turns to serious matters—nesting and the continuity of life. It might have been meant as a loving gesture, but right then it made me feel superfluous, even more left out than before.
Sliding the chip into the console, I accidentally brushed the volume knob, and the booming voice of the priestess returned.
". . . must face the fact that Earth's billions wont accept returning to nature by scratching mud and sleeping on dirt floors. We must learn new ways, both more natural and smarter. . . ."
I snickered at that. Funny how each generation thinks it knows what "smarter" means.
Long Stick greeted me with a sweeping bow, at once sardonic and respectful. "Welcome back, O Great Chief."
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered at my simulated sidekick. "Okay, I'll bite. What's different this time?"
Everything seemed less real without my virtuality helmet and bodysuit. Here in the living room, primeval forest cut off sharply where the vid-wall met the couch. Yet I could have sworn my ersatz companion seemed friendlier, warmer, somehow.
"The flint-smiths are ready to show their wares, Chief," Long Stick said.
"The who . . .?" I began. But Long Stick had already turned to begin striding down a path. From past adventures in this simulated world, I knew the trail led to a stone-lined gully. The living room had no treadmill-floor, so I stood still, watching the image of Long Stick's fur-draped back plow past trees and boulders down a series of switchbacks! A rhythmic sound grew steadily louder—a tinny clatter of brittle objects colliding and breaking. Finally we reached a sandy streambed where several figures could be seen sitting on logs, hammering stones together.
Oh, yes. Flint-smiths. NatuLife stocked countless "You-Are-There" programs in all the ancient arts, from bronze casting to automobile design. With our shared interest in the Neolithic, Gaia had cleverly bought a Stone Age simulation the computer could fit right into my private world, to help pass an evening while she trained for motherhood.
Okay, I sighed. Let's get on with it.
A youngster with a wispy beard noticed us, stopped hammering, and nudged the others—a weathered old man and a sturdy-looking fellow with one leg much shorter than the other.
"We have worked those chert cores we traded from Seacliff Tribe, O Chief," the oldest one said, lisping through gaps in his teeth. "Would you like to see?"
I shrugged. "Why not?"
He spread a fur and began laying out an assortment of Neolithic cutlery, glinting under simulated sunshine. There were spearheads, axes, burins, and scrapers—plus other tools I couldn't identify offhand—each item the product of at least a hundred strokes, skillfully cleaving native rock into shapes useful for daily life. A prehistoric combined kitchen, armory, and machine shop. The smiths offered to let me feel an edge, but it was disturbing to watch the computer manifest an image of my own hand, holding an object I couldn't feel. I resolved to try again later, replaying the scenario with body gloves on.
"Well, it's been interesting," I said after a while, feeling fatigued. "But I think that's enough for n—"
A high shout broke in. Everyone looked past my shoulder, but the scene remained obstinately riveted until a new figure entered view from the left. Shorter, slimmer than the others, this one strode with a springy, elfin gait, clothed in the tunic and
leggings of a hunter. The newcomer carried a bundle of slender wooden saplings the right size for fashioning spears. Only when these were dumped with a clatter did I note in surprise that the hunter was female.
"Ho, Chief," she greeted me, acknowledging Long Stick with a nod. My companion leaned over and muttered. "This is Ankle-of-a-Giraffe, daughter of Ander and Pear Blossom. She is one of the beaters in the hunt."
"That's what I want to talk to you about," the young Stone Ager said, planting fists on her hips. She was lithe and a trifle lean for my tastes—as well as being smudged from head to toe—but she made eye contact in a bold, provocative way. "I'm sick of just beating, Great Chief. I want to be in on the kill. I want to learn from you two."
The stone-smiths hissed surprise. Long Stick rumbled. "Ankle! You forget yourself!"
The girl bowed submissively, yet her eyes held fierce determination. She seemed ready to speak again when I shouted.
"Freeze-frame!"
All action halted, leaving "the tribesmen" locked in time. A blue jay hung poised in flight across the gully while I wrestled with confusion. It wasn't the idea of a female hunter . . . plenty of tribes had them, according to tradition. But why complicate matters with such a player right now, just as the simulation seemed about to end? What did it have to do with prehistoric tool making?
"Computer. This isn't just a packaged adventure, is it?"
"No. These are autonomous persona programs, operating in your private sim world."
So Gaia had been generous after all! Long Stick was no longer my only full-scale companion.
"Core memory has been enhanced to allow up to five flexible personae at any one time."
"Oh, I get it."
Gaia must have needed more memory for her own programs, the midwives and doulahs and other helpers she'd need when the baby came. The expense was already budgeted. No wonder she could afford a few extra playmates for me, thrown in at discount. After wondering whether to feel hurt, pleased, or amused . . . I finally decided it didn't matter.
"Computer, hold simulation for transfer to my rec room."
Minutes later, fully suited for virtuality, I held a flint knife in my hands, each curve and serrated edge conveyed by subtle electrochem gloves. The stone-smiths seemed pleased by my admiration. It was a good knife, of the finest obsidian, bound to an ivory handle carved with figures of running horses. Despite not being real, it was the most splendid thing I ever owned.
The treadmill worked beneath my feet, mimicking movement as Long Stick and I departed the Neolithic factory, heading toward Lookout Point to observe migratory herds of wildebeest and zebra crossing the plain. Along the way we passed the young beater, Ankle, squatting by the riverbank where she'd been banished by Long Stick for impertinence. Tying stone points to spear shafts, tightening the leather thongs with her teeth, she looked up as we passed by, unrepentant, a light of challenge in her eyes.
I paused, then turned to Long Stick. "We could use a scout to carry messages. Next hunt, bring this one along."
My simulated friend returned one of his sharp-eyed looks, but nodded. Ankle turned away, wisely hiding a jubilant grin.
Amid these distractions I emerged from my primeval world to find Gaia already home from her class, nestled in our small, darkened bedroom. I slipped between the sheets quietly, but soon felt her hand upon my thigh.
"I've been thinking about you," my wife whispered, her breath warm on my ear.
Pregnancy doesn't mean no sex. Doctors say it's all right if you're careful.
In fact, it can be much better than all right. Gaia was very skilled.
The buffalo groaned, mired in muddy shallows with five spears in its flank. I commanded no more thrown.
Ankle protested, waving her javelin. "Why not finish it off?"
"Because the chief said no!" Long Stick snapped. But I gestured for patience. With Ankle for an apprentice, I now appreciated the adage—You never really know something till you teach it.
"Think. What happens if he falls where he stands?"
She eyed the panting beast. "He'll fall into the riv . . . Oh! We'd lose half the carcass." Ankle nodded soberly. "So we try getting him ashore first?"
"Right. And quickly! We don't want him suffering needlessly."
Several tribesmen made pious gestures in agreement. Through ritual, hunters like these used to appease the spirits of beasts they killed, which made me wonder—would modern folk eat so much meat if they had to placate the ghost of each steer or chicken? My time in a simulated Stone Age hasn't made me a vegetarian, but I better appreciate the fact that meat once lived.
Long Stick called for rope. Bearing coils of braided leather, we worked toward the bull from three sides. The treadmill imitated slippery mud beneath my feet, while the bodysuit tickled nerves so that I felt hip-deep in slimy water. Electronically stirred receptors in my nose smelled the creature's blood and defiance, above a rank swamp stench. It was hard work, floundering toward our prey. Harder and more varied than lifting weights in a gym, and more terrifying. The buffalo shifted left and right, bellowing and threatening with its horns.
Ever since Gaia bought that extra memory, everything had seemed more vivid, including this beast's hot zeal to survive.
"Watch out!" Ankle cried as it lunged. I swerved and felt a wall of fur and muscle glance off my shoulder, rushing through space I'd just occupied. Teetering in the mud, I glimpsed a snaking lasso chase the old bull, landing round its neck. "Got him!" Long Stick shouted.
"My turn!" called a higher voice. Ankle cast her lariat—only to fall short as the angry beast thrashed aside. "Wait!" I called when she plunged after it. Too late, I watched the girl vanish beneath the frothy, scummy surface.
"Ankle!"
Suddenly I was too busy dodging to worry about my young aide. Sharp horns flashed viciously. While I knew the computer wouldn't kill me, other slipups in the gym had left me bruised for weeks.
She's only a program, I told myself, back-pedaling from a roaring, shaggy face the size of a small pickup. Programs can take care of themselves.
"Yip-yi-i-yip!"
The cry coincided with a sudden change in the creatures bellows. It whirled and I blinked in astonishment. The young hunter, Ankle, had clambered onto its back! Dripping water and marsh reeds, she held tightly to its mane while the bull snorted, wild-eyed and convulsing; then she slipped her noose over its shaggy head. Others joined her exultant shout as ropes suddenly pulled taut from three directions.
Resignation seemed to settle over the animal. Slumping in defeat, it let itself be drawn several yards toward dry land. Then, in one last, desperate heave, it reared on its hind legs. Ankle flew off, arms whirling, to splash near the bull's stomping hooves.
With a shout I dived toward her.
Or tried to. Swimming is one thing today's virtuality tech can't handle. No way to fake buoyancy, so the machine won't let you try. The bodysuit stiffened, keeping me on my feet. It did let me flounder forward, though, evading the thrashing horns while flailing underwater in search of my apprentice. Frantic seconds passed . . . and finally I felt the touch of a slim arm! A small hand closed viselike round my wrist as I yanked back hard . . . just as the buffalo pitched over, toppling with a mighty splash where Ankle had lain.
We made it ashore downstream from where the tribe had already quickly commenced the frenetic ritual of butchery. In older times a kill like this came at best once a month, so the hunters sang their joy to the spirits of water, earth, and sky. But the artful ceremony was wasted on me as I slogged uphill, feeling pressure leave my cramping legs exactly like mucky water slipping grudgingly aside. The weight in my arms seemed all too real as I lowered Ankle to a patch of grass.
This was an awful lot of trouble to go to, just for a piece of software. I might have rationalized that good persona programs are expensive, but the thought didn't cross my mind as I hurriedly checked Ankle's breathing. Pale, mud-grimed from crown to toe, she gave two sudden, wheezing coughs, then revealed twin fl
ashes of abalone blue as her eyes popped open. Ankle gasped a sudden, stricken sob and threw both arms around my neck.
"Urk!" I answered. Never before had my togs yanked me down so, into such a flood of sensations. Pain lanced my palms from impacting pebbles. Sunlight spread heat across my mud-splattered back. Then there was the press of her warm body, clinging beneath mine, much more cushiony, in places, than I had imagined.
Soon, I realized, Ankle no longer clung to me for comfort. She was moving, breathing in ways having little to do with reassurance. I grunted surprise for a second time and reached up to pry loose her arms. "Stop simulation!" I shouted.
My last glimpse, before yanking off the helmet, was of Ankle lying there, muddy all over, wiry strong and hunter attired, yet suddenly, utterly female, gazing at me both worshipful and willing.
