Babylon Sisters

by Paul Di Filippo

  Before he can decide consciously if he even wants to know or not, he finds himself saying, “June. How old are you?”

  She falls silent. Stone watches her staring blindly at him, unequipped with his damned perceptive eyes.

  “Over sixty,” she finally says. “Does it matter?”

  Stone finds he cannot answer, does not know if her age does matter or not.

  Slowly June wills her glowing body dark.

  * * * *

  Stone bitterly amuses himself with what he likes to think of as his art.

  Perusing the literature on the silicon chip that dwells in his skull, he found that it has one property not mentioned by the doctor. The contents of its RAM can be squirted in a signal to a stand-alone computer. There the images he has collected may be displayed for all to see. What is more, the digitized images may be manipulated, recombined with themselves or with stock graphics, to form entirely lifelike pictures of things that never existed. These, of course, may be printed off.

  In effect, Stone is a living camera and his computer a complete studio.

  Stone has been working on a series of images of June. The color printouts litter his quarters, hung on wall and underfoot.

  June’s head on the Sphinx’s body. June as La Belle Dame Sans Merci. June’s face imposed upon the full moon, Stone asleep in a field as Endymion

  The portraits are more disturbing than soothing, and, Stone senses, quite unfair. But Stone feels that he is gaining some therapeutic effect from them, that each day he is inching closer to his true feelings for June.

  He still has not spoken to Alice Citrine. That nags him greatly. When will he deliver his report? What will he say?

  The problem of when is solved for him that afternoon. Returning from one of the tower’s private gyms, he finds his terminal flashing a message.

  Citrine will see him in the morning.

  * * * *

  Alone this second time, Stone stands on the plate before Alice Citrine’s room, allowing his identity to be verified. He hopes the results will be shared with him when the machine finishes, for he has no idea of who he is.

  The door slides into the wall, a beckoning cavern mouth.

  Avernus, Stone thinks, and enters.

  Alice Citrine remains where she sat so many event-congested weeks ago, unchanged, seemingly sempiternal. The screens flicker in epileptic patterns on three sides of her instrumented chair. Now, however, she ignores them, her eyes on Stone, who advances with trepidation.

  Stone stops before her, the console an uncrossable moat between them. He notes her features this second time with a mix of disbelief and alarm. They seem to resemble his newly fleshed-out face to an uncanny degree. Has he come to look like this woman simply by working for her? Or does life outside the Bungle stamp the same harsh lines on everyone?

  Citrine brushes her hand above her lap, and Stone notices her pet curled in the valley of her brown robe, its preternaturally large eyes catching the colors on the monitors.

  “Time for a preliminary report, Mr. Stone,” she says. “But your pulse rate is much too high. Relax a bit—everything does not hinge on this one session.”

  Stone wishes he could. But there is no offer of a seat, and he knows that what he says will be judged.

  “So—what do you feel about this world of ours, which bears the impress of myself and others like me?”

  The smug superiority in Citrine’s voice drives all caution from Stone’s thoughts, and he nearly shouts, “It’s unfair.” He pauses a moment, and then honesty forces him to admit, “Beautiful, gaudy, exciting at times—but basically unfair.”

  Citrine seems pleased at his outburst. “Very good, Mr. Stone. You have discovered the basic contradiction of life. There are jewels in the dung heap, tears amid the laughter, and how it is all parceled out, no one knows. I’m afraid I cannot shoulder the blame for the world’s unfairness, though. It was unfair when I was a child, and remained unfair despite all my actions. In fact, I may have increased the disparity a little. The rich are richer, the poor seemingly poorer by comparison. But still, even the titans are brought down by death in the end.”

  “But why don’t you try harder to change things?” Stone demands. “It has to be within your power “

  For the first time, Citrine laughs, and Stone hears an echo of his own sometimes bitter caw “Mr. Stone, “ she says, “I have all I can do to stay alive. And I do not mean taking care of my body—that is attended to automatically. No, I mean avoiding assassination. Haven’t you gleaned the true nature of business in this world of ours?”

  Stone fails to see her meaning, and says so.

  “Allow me to brief you, then. It might alter a few of your perceptions. You are aware of the intended purpose of the Second Constitutional Convention, are you not? It was couched in high-flown phrases like ‘unleash the strength of the American system,’ and ‘meet foreign competition head-to-head, ensuring a victory for American business that will pave the way for democracy throughout the world.’ All very noble-sounding. But the actual outcome was quite different. Business has no stake in any political system per se. Business cooperates to the extent that cooperation furthers its own interests. And the primary interest of business is growth and dominance. Once the establishment of the Free Enterprise Zones freed corporations from all constraints, they reverted to a primal struggle, which continues to this day.”

  Stone attempts to digest all this. He has seen no overt struggles on his journey. Yet he has vaguely sensed undercurrents of tension everywhere. But surely she is overstating the case. Why, she makes the civilized world sound no more than a large-scale version of the anarchy of the Bungle.

  As if reading his mind, Citrine says, “Did you ever wonder why the Bungle remains blighted and exploited in the midst of the city, Mr. Stone, its people in misery?”

  Suddenly all of Citrine’s screens flash with scenes of Bungle life, obedient to her unvoiced command. Stone is taken aback. Here are the sordid details of his youth: urine­reeking alleys with rag-covered forms lying halfway between sleep and death, the chaos around the Immigration Office, the razor-topped fence by the river.

  “The Bungle,” Citrine continues, “is contested ground. It has been so for over eighty years. The corporations cannot agree over who is to develop it. Any improvement made by one is immediately destroyed by the tactical team of another. This is the kind stalemate prevalent in much of the world.

  “Everyone wanted to be pulled into an earthly paradise by his purse strings, like a Krishna devotee by his pigtail. But this patchwork of fiefdoms is what we got instead.”

  Stone’s conceptions are reeling. He came expecting to be quizzed and to disgorge all he thought he knew. Instead, he has been lectured and provoked, almost as if Citrine is testing whether he is a partner fit to debate. Has he passed or failed?

  Citrine settles the question with her next words. “That’s enough for today, Mr. Stone. Go back and think some more. We’ll talk again.”

  * * * *

  For three weeks Stone meets nearly every day with Citrine. Together they explore a bewildering array of her concerns. Stone gradually becomes more confident of himself, expressing his opinions and observations in a firmer tone. They do not always mesh with Citrine’s, yet on the whole he feels a surprising kinship and affinity with the ancient woman.

  Sometimes it almost seems as if she is grooming him, master and apprentice, and is proud of his progress. At other times she holds herself distant and aloof.

  The weeks have brought other changes. Although Stone has not slept with June since that fateful night, he no longer sees her as the siren figure of his portraits, and has stopped depicting her in that fashion. They are friends, and Stone visits with her often, enjoys her company, is forever grateful to her for her part in rescuing him from the Bungle.

  During his interviews with Citrine, her pet is a constant spectator. Its enigmatic presence disturbs Stone. He has found no trace of sentimental affection in Citrine, and cannot f
athom her attention to the creature.

  One day Stone finally asks Citrine outright why she keeps it.

  Her lips twitch in what passes for her smile. “Aegypt is my touchstone on the true perspective of things, Mr. Stone. Perhaps you do not recognize her breed.”

  Stone admits ignorance.

  “This is Aegyptopithecus zeuxis, Mr. Stone. Her kind last flourished several million years ago. Currently she is the only specimen extant, a clone—or rather, a recreation based on dead fossil cells.

  “She is your ancestor and mine, Mr. Stone. Before the hominids, she was the representative of mankind on earth. When I pet her, I contemplate how little we have advanced.”

  Stone turns and stalks off, unaccountably repelled by the antiquity of the beast and the insight into her mistress.

  This is the last time he will see Alice Citrine.

  * * * *

  Night time.

  Stone lies alone in bed, replaying snapshots of his terminal screen, of pre-FEZ history that has eluded him.

  History that has eluded him.

  Suddenly there is a loud crack like the simultaneous discharge of a thousand gigantic arcs of static electricity. At that exact second, two things happen:

  Stone feels an instant of vertigo.

  His eyes go dead.

  Atop these shocks, an enormous explosion above his head rocks the entire shaft of the Citrine Tower.

  Stone shoots to his feet, clad only in briefs, barefoot as in the Bungle. He can’t believe he’s blind. But he is. Back in the dark world of smell and sound and touch alone.

  Alarms are going off everywhere. Stone rushes out into his front room with its useless view of the city. He approaches the front door, but it fails to open. He reaches for the manual control, but hesitates.

  What can he do while blind? He’d just stumble around, get in the way. Better to stay here and wait out whatever is happening.

  Stone thinks of.June then, can almost smell her perfume. Surely she will be down momentarily to tell him what’s going on. That’s it. He’ll wait for June.

  Stone paces nervously for three minutes. He can’t believe his loss of vision. Yet somehow he’s always known it would happen.

  The alarms have stopped, allowing Stone to hear near-subliminal footsteps in the hall, advancing on his door. June at last? No, everything’s wrong. Stone’s sense-of-life denies that the visitor is anyone he knows.

  Stone’s Bungle instincts take over. He ceases to speculate about what is happening, is all speed and fear.

  The curtains in the room are tied back with thin but strong velvet cords. Stone rips one hastily down, takes up a position to the side of the outer door.

  The shock wave when the door is hit nearly knocks Stone down. But he regains his balance, tasting blood, just as the man barrels in and past him.

  Stone is on the man’s burly back in a flash, legs wrapped around his waist, cord around his throat.

  The man drops his gun, hurls himself back against the wall. Stone feels ribs give, but he tightens the rope, muscles straining.

  The two stagger around the room, smashing furniture and vases, locked in something like an obscene mating posture.

  Eventually, after forever, the man keels over, landing heavily atop Stone.

  Stone never relents, until he is sure the man has stopped breathing.

  His attacker is dead.

  Stone lives.

  He wriggles painfully out from under the slack mass, shaken and hurt.

  As he gets his feet under him, he hears more people approaching, speaking.

  Jerrold Scarfe is the first to enter, calling Stone by name. When he spots Stone, Scarfe shouts, “Get that stretcher over here.”

  Men bundle Stone onto the canvas and begin to carry him off.

  Scarfe walks beside him, and conducts a surrealistic converstion.

  “They learned who you were, Mr. Stone. That one fracking bastard got by us. We contained the rest in the wreckage of the upper floors. They hit us with a directed electromagnetic pulse that took out all our electronics, including your vision. You might have lost a few brain cells when it burned, but nothing that can’t be fixed. After the EMP, they used a missile on Miz Citrine’s floor. I’m afraid she died instantly.”

  Stone feels as if he is being shaken to pieces, both physically and mentally. Why is Scarfe telling him this? And what about June?

  Stone croaks her name.

  “She’s dead, Mr. Stone. When the raiders assigned to bag her had begun to work on her, she killed herself with an implanted toxin-sac.”

  All the lilies wither when winter draws near.

  The stretcher party has reached the medical facilities. Stone is lifted onto a bed, and clean hands begin to attend to his injuries.

  “Mr. Stone, “ Scarfe continues, “I must insist that you listen to this. It’s imperative, and it will take only a minute. “

  Stone has begun to hate this insistent voice. But he cannot close his ears or lapse into blessed unconsciousness, so he is forced to hear the cassette Scarfe plays.

  It is Alice Citrine speaking.

  “Blood of my blood,” she begins, “closer than a son to me. You are the only one I could ever trust.”

  Disgust washes over Stone as everything clicks into place and he realizes what he is.

  “You are hearing this after my death. This means that what I have built is now yours. All the people have been bought to ensure this. It is now up to you to retain their loyalty. I hope our talks have helped you. If not, you will need even more luck than I wish you now.

  “Please forgive your abandonment in the Bungle. It’s just that a good education is so important, and I believe you received the best. I was always watching you.”

  Scarfe shuts off the cassette. “What are your orders, Mr. Stone?”

  Stone thinks with agonizing slowness while unseen people minister to him.

  “Just clean this mess up, Scarfe. Just clean up this whole goddamn mess.”

  But he knows as he speaks that this is not Scarfe’s job.

  It’s his.

  A SHORT COURSE IN ART APPRECIATION

  We were so happy, Elena and I, in the Vermeer perceptiverse. Our days and nights were filled with visual epiphanies that seemed to ignite the rest of our senses, producing a conflagration of desire that burned higher and higher, until it finally subsided to the embers of satiation, from which the whole inferno, phoenixlike, could be rekindled at will. There had never been a time when we were so thrilled with life, so enamored of the world and each other—so much in love.

  Yet somehow, I knew from the start that our idyll was doomed to end. Such bliss was not for us, could never last. I don’t know what it was that implanted such a subliminal worm of doubt in my mind, with its tiny, whispering voice that spoke continually of transience and loss and exhaustion. Perhaps it was the memory of the sheer avidity and almost obscene yearning greed with which Elena had first approached me with the idea of altering our natural perceptiverses.

  She entered my apartment that spring day (we were not yet living together then, a symbol, I believe, of our separate identities that irrationally irked her) in a mood like none I had ever witnessed her exhibit. (I try now to picture her unaltered face, as I observed it on that fateful day, but it is so hard, after the dizzying cascade of perceptiverses we have experienced, to clearly visualize anything from that long-ago time. How can I have totally forgotten the mode of seeing that was as natural as breathing to me for thirty-some-odd years? It is as if the natural perceptiverse I was born into is a painting that lies layers deep, below several others, and whose lines can be only imperfectly traced. You will understand, then, if I cannot recreate the scene precisely.)

  In any case, I remember our conversation from that day perfectly. (Thank God I resisted the temptation to enter one of the composer­perceptiverses, or that memory, too, might be buried, under an avalanche of glorious sound!) I have frequently mentally replayed our words, seeking to learn if there wa
s any way I could have circumvented Elena’s unreasoning desires—avoiding both the heaven and hell that lay embryonic in her steely whims—yet still have managed to hold onto her love.

  I feel now that, essentially, there was no way. She was simply too strong and determined for me—or perhaps I was too weak—and I could not deny her.

  But I still cannot bring myself to blame her.

  Crossing the memory-hazed room, Elena said excitedly, “Robert, it’s out!”

  I laid down my book, making sure to shut it off, and, all unwitting, asked, “Not even a hello or a kiss? It must be something wonderful, then. Well, I’ll bite. What’s out?”

  “Why, just that new neurotropin everyone’s been waiting so long for, the one to alter the perceptiverses.”

  I immediately grew defensive. “Elena, you know I try to steer clear of those designer drugs. They’re just not—not natural. I’m not a prig, Elena. I don’t mind indulging in a little grass or coke now and then—they’re perfectly natural mind-altering substances that mankind’s been using for centuries. But these new artificial compounds—they can really screw up your neuropeptides.”

  Elena grew huffy. “Robert, you’re talking nonsense. This isn’t one of the regulated substances, you know, like tempo or ziptone. Why, it’s not even supposed to be as strong as estheticine. It doesn’t get you high or alter your thinking at all. It merely gives you a new perceptiverse.”

  “And what, if I may ask, is a perceptiverse?”

  “Oh Robert,” Elena sighed in exasperation, “and you call yourself educated! That’s just the kind of question I should have expected from someone whose nose is always buried in a book. The perceptiverse is just the universe as filtered through one’s perceptions. It’s the only universe any of us can know, of course. In fact, it might be the only universe that exists for any of us, if those physicists you’re always quoting know what they’re talking about.”