New Suns

by Nisi Shawl

  In any case, why had empathy even been necessary for humans? Because people had been like books in a foreign language; the books had meaning, but an inaccessible meaning. Fortunately, science had stepped in, fixed that problem. There was no need to be constantly on edge about other people’s feelings. One knew how they felt. They felt happy, content, motivated, and relaxed. There was no more need to walk around in other people’s shoes than there was to inspect their armpits for signs of the bubonic plague.

  “Exactly my point!” shouted Sollozzo. He calmed down, of course. “Exactly my point. Enhancement is straightening our crooked timber. If this continues, we’ll all become moral robots. I asked you once, are you so eager to return to Zion?”

  “What is it with you and Zion?”

  “Zion. Eden. Swarg. Sahyun. Paradise. Call it what you will. The book of Genesis, my brother. We were robots once. Why do you think we got kicked out of Zion? We lost our innocence when Adam and Eve broke God’s trust, ate from the tree and brought fiction into the world. We turned human. Now we have found a way to control the tree in our heads, become robots again, and regain the innocence that is the price of entry into Zion. Do you not see the connection between this and your disdain for fiction?”

  I did not. But I had begun to see just how radically his European imagination differed from mine. He argued with me, but his struggles really were with dead white Europeans. Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle; Goethe, Baumgarten, and Karl Moritz; Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Mach, and Wittgenstein: I could only marvel at his erudition. I couldn’t comment on his philosophers or their fictions, but I was a banker and could make any collateral look inadequate.

  In this case, it was obvious. His entire argument rested on the necessity of novels. But every novel argues against its own necessity. The world of any novel, no matter how realistic, differs from the actual world in that the novel’s world can’t contain one specific book: the novel itself. For example, the world of Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence didn’t contain a copy of The Museum of Innocence. If Pamuk’s fictional world was managing just fine without a copy of his novel, wasn’t the author—any author—revealing that the actual world didn’t need the novel either? Et cetera, et cetera.

  “I have found my Barbicane!” said Sollozzo, after a long pause. “I need your skepticism about fiction. Fire away. It will help me construct a plate armor so thick not even your densest doubts can penetrate.”

  All this, I later learned, was a reference to the legendary dispute in Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon between shot manufacturer Impey Barbicane and armor-plate manufacturer Captain Nicholls. Barbicane invented more and more powerful cannons, and Nicholls invented more and more impenetrable armor-plating. At least I was getting an education.

  If his hypocrisy could have infuriated me, it would have. As long as his tribe had mediated for the reader, it had been about freedom, empathy, blah di blah blah. Sollozzo hadn’t worried about mediating for the reader when he’d written stories in English about Turkey. Stories in English by a non-Englishman about a non-English world! Jane Austen [1] might as well have written in Sanskrit about England.

  It didn’t matter, not really, this game of ours. Men, even among the Enhanced, find it complicated to say how fond they are of one another. Sollozzo made Padma happy. I was glad to see my Padma happy. Yes, she was no longer mine. She’d never been mine, for the Enhanced belong to no one, perhaps not even to themselves. I was glad to see her happy and I believed Sollozzo, not her Brain, was the one responsible. Bittu was also adjusting well to life in Boston. Or perhaps it was that Bittu had adjusted to her Boo-boo. Same thing, no difference. Padma said that Bittu had stopped referring to her Brain entirely.

  Padma was amused by my chit-chats with Sollozzo. “I am super-jealous! Are you two planning to run away together?”

  “Yes, yes, married today, divorced tomorrow,” shouted Amma, who had been eavesdropping on our conversation. “What kind of world is this! No God, no morals. Do you care what the effect of your immoral behavior on Bittu? Do you want her to become a dope addict? She needs to know who is going to be there when she gets back from school. She needs to have a mother and father. She needs a stable home. No technology can give her that. But go on, do what you like. Who am I to interfere? Nobody. Just a useless old woman who’ll die soon. I can’t wait. Every night I close my eyes and pray that I won’t wake up in the morning. Who wants to live like this? Only pets. No, not even pets.” She smiled, shifted gears. “Don’t mind me, dear. I know you have the best interests of Bittu at heart. Which mother doesn’t? Is it snowing in America?”

  It’s all good brah, as the Americans say in the old movies. As I ruffled the pages of Sollozzo’s volume, The Robots of Eden and Other Stories, I wondered what Velli had made of the arguments I’d had with Sollozzo. I remember her listening, mouth open, trying to follow just what it was that got him so excited. She’d found Sollozzo highly entertaining. She used to call him ‘Professor-uncle’ with that innate respect for (a) white people, (b) Enhanced people and (c) people who spoke English very fluently. Sometimes she would imitate his dramatic hand-gestures and his accented English.

  In retrospect, I should have anticipated that Sollozzo’s suicide would impact Velli the most. How could it not? The Unenhanced have little protection against life’s blows on their psyches. I had called Velli into my office, tried to break the news to her as gently as I could.

  “Your professor-uncle, he killed himself. Don’t feel too bad. Amma is not to know, so you have to be strong. Okay, Velli?”

  I had already counseled Padma on the legal formalities, chatted with Bittu, made her laugh, and everything went as smoothly as butter.

  Padma and I decided we’d tell Amma the next day, if at all. Amma got tired very easily these days. Why add to her burdens?

  “I have to handle his literary estate,” said Padma, smiling, her eyes ablaze with light. “There’s so much to do. So for now we’ll all stay put in Boston. Will you be all right? You’ll miss your conversations.”

  Would I? I supposed I could miss him. I didn’t see the point however. I was all right. Hadn’t I handled worse? What had made her ask? Was I weeping? Rending my garments? Gnashing my teeth? Then, just so, the irritation slipped from my consciousness like rage-colored leaves scattering in the autumn wind. It was kind of her to be concerned.

  “Why did professor-uncle kill himself?” asked Velli, already weeping.

  “He took something that made his heart stop,” I explained.

  “But why!”

  Why what? Why did the why of anything matter? Sollozzo had swallowed pills to stop his heart, he’d walked into the path of a truck, he’d drowned, he’d thrown himself into the sun, he’d dissolved into the mist. He was dead. How had his Brain let it happen? I made a mental note to talk to my lawyer. The AI would have a good idea whether a lawsuit was worth the effort. Unless Sollozzo’s short-story collection contained an encoded message (and I wouldn’t put that past him), he hadn’t left any last words.

  “Aiyyo, why didn’t he ask for help?” moaned Velli.

  I glanced at her. She was obviously determined to be upset. Her quivering face did something to my own internals. I struggled to contain my smile, but it grew into a swell, a wave, and then a giant tsunami of a laugh exploded out of me, followed by another, and then another. I howled. I cackled. I drummed the floor with my feet. I laughed even after there was no reason to. Then, just so, I relaxed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t laughing at you. In fact, you could say I wasn’t the one laughing at all.’’

  Velli looked at me, then looked away, her mouth working. Poor thing, it must all be so very confusing for her. I could empathize.

  “Velli, why don’t you go down to the river? The walk will do you good and you can make an offering at the temple in professor-uncle’s name. You’ll feel better.”

  I had felt it was sensible advice, and when she stepped out, I’d felt rather pleased with myself. But Velli never
returned from the walk. I got a brief note later that night. She’d quit. No explanation, just like that. Her father Rajan came by to pick up her stuff, but he was vague, and worse, unapologetic. All rather inconvenient. All’s well that ends well. Padma and Bittu were happy in Boston. Perhaps they would soon return. I hoped they would; didn’t want Bittu to forget me. Sollozzo’s volume would get the praise hard work always deserved, irrespective of whether such work pursued utility or futility.

  “You’ll spoil the book if you keep ruffling the pages like that,” complained Amma.

  I returned the volume to Amma, marveling at her enthusiasm for reading. For novels. For stories. Dear Amma. Almost ninety years old, but what a will to live! Good. Good! Other people her age, they were already dead. They breathed, they ate, they moved about, but basically, they were vegetables with legs. Technology could enhance life, but it couldn’t do induce a will to live. Amma was a true inspiration. I could only hope I would have one-tenth the same enthusiasm when I was her age. I started to compliment Amma on this and other points, then realized she was already lost in the story. So I tiptoed away, disinclined to come between my beloved reader and the text.

  [1]An English author, noted for her charming upper-class romances.

  Dumb House

  Andrea Hairston

  “WHAT THE HELL would I do in a smart house but lose my mind?”

  Cinnamon Jones shook a mop of salt and pepper braids at the sweaty characters panting on the side steps to her dumb house. She had to boost her farm’s horror rep. This was the third time traveling salesmen had braved the path to her door in a week. The two slicksters in fluorescent suits and stingy-brim fedoras fumbled through bulky bags of samples, fronting like throwbacks from the 1950s.

  Cinnamon waved them away. “You’re wasting your time.” Her hands were covered in dirt and grease from trying to fix a ventilator in the porch-greenhouse. Spider plants were trailing through the windows, enjoying an afternoon breeze. Daffodils busted out in yellow glory, scenting the air inside and out. “You’re lucky.” Doing Carnival this morning to welcome new leaves and first fruits had put Cinnamon in a decent mood. Otherwise, she’d have been cussing.

  “We got just the smart house you need!” one fellow boomed. “Smart and sassy!”

  “How’d you get up here?” The main road was blocked off—Co-op security for all the farms. The old African must have left the bike path gate open again, probably even invited the suits in. Cinnamon would have to talk to Taiwo. What good was a monster patrolling the farm perimeter if they didn’t scare folks away? Carnival had sucked up Cinnamon’s people-energy. She didn’t want to see anybody. “I’m not buying. Nothing. I told you guys that online.” Opening the heavy greenhouse door had been a bad idea. It was too hard to close.

  “We came a long way on foot, sugar, to see you. In person.” The talker had devilish dimples and misty green eyes—a tall drink of water with a broad chest and a faint accent. Very pale. Northern European? “That path meanders all over hell and back.”

  “Evil need a straight line.” Cinnamon chuckled. “That’s elder wisdom from Japan.”

  “Word.” The salesmen exchanged glances. The talker cocked his head. “Good don’t get lost in the twists and turns.” He looked back at the maple, birch, and white oak trees hugging the hills. “And everything’s better live, know what I’m saying?” A jewel-encrusted sword pin held his silk tie in place. Wispy white hair was tucked under the fedora. In the last century, maybe, he was a glamorous silver fox who hung out with black folks. Course everybody talked black these days. Twenty-first century English was a child of rap. “I know you been hip-hopping and show-stopping your whole life. And forward thinking too.”

  “Not any more, though.” Cinnamon missed the wild person she used to be.

  “A dumb house ain’t you.” The fox grinned and spun around, dipped low and jumped high, a dancer. A really sly algorithm had sicced this fellow on her. “Why get stuck in the old school now, girl?”

  “Girl?” Cinnamon wasn’t fooled by the hip masquerade. These were poor men—laid off, downsized, hedged out—pushing junk on other poor folks. Desperate, they’d walked two muddy miles to con an old black lady—live, since the online swindles failed. Rescuing her from her retro self was the script. Cinnamon muttered curses at Taiwo for too much African hospitality at the gate and not enough scary juju. “I’m glad I’m old.”

  “Me too. You have enough wisdom to appreciate our offer.” The silver fox babbled on about the wonders of the new age. Cinnamon shook her head at his scam-speak and squinted at the short, silent one. He was thin, tan, and eight inches shorter than Cinnamon. He had features from all over the map. Or maybe that was make-up. Sensuous, quivering lips made Cinnamon nervous. Black opal eyes tracked her every move. He was mirroring her, like a theatre game. Slick. Folks moving and breathing with you made you let down your guard.

  This was an altogether intriguing pair.

  Cinnamon had to stay frosty. Salesmen could be spies, sussing out hackers and digital renegades for Consolidated Corp. She was two payments behind and owed several thousand dollars plus interest for basic access. Consolidated’s profit-algorithm might cut her loose any minute or mess up her credit and bully the local bank. But sending out a live posse, two salesmen on this mission—in purple patent leather loafers and paisley ties? What deep correlation had she bumped up against?

  The smooth-talking fox dropped his voice, rumbling and growling at her. “Upgrade for the people who love you, girl.”

  “Who you calling girl again?”

  The fox stepped back, looked her up and down, and tap danced around the fieldstone terrace. “Still looking fine.” The accent was faint, maybe imagined. The gleam in his eye was definite.

  “Lines like that never work on me.” Cinnamon wiped dirt and grease from her hands onto a gardening apron. Well, almost never.

  “Come join us in the twenty-first century.” He laughed good-naturedly, not a put-down and just shy of a come-on. He was good, a real showman. “You won’t regret it.”

  Both salesmen broke out inflatables that whistled and squealed as they blew up. In two minutes Cinnamon’s fieldstone terrace was the bouncy inside of a model smart house. “Stuff just fixes itself, before you even notice it’s broke. Everything is hooked into everything else, a learning machine, a coordinated network, voice-activated and taking the cues from you.”

  “Right. Me, only better.” Cinnamon sucked her teeth like her Gullah grandmother and ignored the giant balloons. “You sure you got the right ZIP Code? I can’t afford this. Down in the Valley, rich folks in Electric Paradise just love this kinda—”

  “Carlos Witkiewicz here.” The talker bowed. His breath had gotten shallow. A vein throbbed at his temples. “My partner, Barbett Blues.” Barbett Blues’ lips quivered. His breath was ragged too. He shot a worried glance at Carlos. These guys were more desperate than the last fellow.

  “Blues? Witkiewicz? Like that Polish playwright?” Cinnamon pursed her lips and scowled. Barbett followed suit, snarkier than Cinnamon could manage. “Are those your real names or company handles?”

  “Company names, for security,” Carlos sounded embarrassed or apologetic.

  People tracked salesmen, even came after them, as if salesmen were responsible for the broke-down, planned-obsolescence crap they sold, as if salesmen were jacking the prices into the stratosphere. Barbett’s and Carlos’s names probably changed every day, maybe even a couple times a day. With makeup, contact lenses, hats—salesmen were ghosts, nothing to connect facial recognition to.

  “You don’t have a car, darling, just bikes, and living way out here, growing oats and rye for the Co-op.” Carlos pointed at her sugar shack spouting smoke, and purred, “Maple sugaring all alone.”

  “Not alone,” Cinnamon corrected him. She carefully curated her digital persona and backed it up during live encounters. Hiding in plain sight.

  “I know a monster’s got your back, a witch-dog too—Bruja?” C
arlos grinned. “What about the people who love you? I mean, they’re worried. An unenhanced house, at your age, that’s flirting with disaster. You feel me?”

  Cinnamon snorted. “How old are you?”

  “Well, I’m—” Barbett slugged Carlos before he finished. They reminded her of folks she knew a long time ago, when she was full of beans and not so much salt-and-vinegar.

  Cinnamon chuckled. “Sixty is on my horizon, but I got a ways to go.” The salesmen could have been her age or close to it. Mostly younger folks out there hoofing it for Consolidated and other big corps—so what was their story? “We old farts are the ones who still know how to survive in the outback or when the power gets cut or when the rivers chase us up into the hills! My grandparents and great-aunt made sure of that for me. I can survive on weeds, use roots to heal what ails you, and make a fire in the rain.”

  “A root worker? Fire in rain?” Barbett Blues spoke! A throaty blues-singer rasp and a strange accent. He was another smooth character underneath the snark. He leaned close. “Still?”

  “So much, just washed away.” Carlos surveyed the hills again, stricken. “Up high is lucky.”

  “Oh. You were in the water wars. Sorry,” Cinnamon said.

  Carlos nodded, then cleared the storm from his face. He and Barbett were probably living out of a beat-up dumb car, driving themselves along the digital divide. The faint tang of hand sanitizer and rancid grease wafted from their clothes. Yeah, they were sleeping on the road and taking showers in the rain. It was work hard-sales or starve. The sly algorithm wanted her to feel sorry for the fallen middle class and spend big, like shopping would help save the world from itself.

  Sleazy data miners were working her last nerve.

  Cinnamon sighed and took off the greasy apron. No more repairs today; her concentration was shot. She needed imagination flow to solve a glitch and fix what was broken. The salesmen gaped at her snakeskin demon costume. Feathers and feelers reached toward them. Jewel eyes on her thighs broke the sun into rainbows and peered through the spaces between things. Carlos was dazzled, obvious desire on his breath. Acting unimpressed, Barbett slugged Carlos again, but took careful note of Taiwo’s juju-tech.