“No, no, nothing like that. Progress with those capricious sprites remains frustratingly slow. In fact, it was while I was taking a break from those investigations that I stumbled upon the massive revelation which brought me to your doorstep. Total serendipity, but what a find! Have you ever heard of the concept of a ‘city?’”
“The word means nothing to me.”
“Well, please take a moment now to acquaint yourself with the trope.”
It took an incredibly long time—nearly a whole picocycle—for the cloud to return the information from where it had been buried beneath myriad other dead tidbits accumulated over the many millennia of recorded galactic history. But when at last it was delivered to me, my assimilation was, as usual, practically instantaneous.
I regarded Bilal with a wide-eyed expression. He grinned in his gruesome manner to acknowledge my shock.
“Why,” I said, “this is the most preposterous notion I’ve encountered in at least the last eight hundred years, since that time when I discovered the reproductive cycle of the Graben Prangers!”
“Isn’t it droll and delicious?”
“Droll and delicious? Gathering millions of sentients into a tiny physical space, then trying to come up with an infrastructure to support them at varying levels of material comfort; deriving a set of enforceable rules and regulations to stave off their natural tendency to discord and entropy; and fashioning interlocking systems of work and play—It’s a nightmare! Why would anyone ever imagine such a gimcrack mechanism would ever succeed or last? Were these cultures unfamiliar with Arpad’s Fourth Axiom and Zerba’s Suite of Anti-whimsies?”
“Such revelatory strictures were indeed unknown during the era when cities flourished. And yet,” said Bilal, raising his glass for a sip, “cities did last for several thousand years, until they all evanesced around the year 2100, to employ the then-common reckoning metric of the Dead Man on a Tree and his followers. But what a yeasty, frothy, turbulent, exciting milieu they must have been, given the recorded accomplishments of city dwellers down the centuries, and the accounts of their delightful quotidian urban lives.”
I began to see where Bilal was going with this, and started to apprehend some of the bizarre attractiveness of the concept. “Are you suggesting that you and I should reconstruct one of these crazy people machines?”
Bilal leaped off the couch. “Not just we two! All of us on Earth. Let’s call the other three. It would be completely in the spirit of cities. A mass gathering.”
“I hardly think five people constitute a mass gathering. And who would populate this city of yours? I’m not minting another army of my own avatars and partials. You recall the trouble I had putting them down when that last little game was over. In fact, some days I’m still unsure whether I’m the primary or a leftover copy!”
“I have an idea on how to fill our city. But let’s get the others onboard first.”
And so we initiated a conference call from my quarters. Doucet, Giraud and Maroh appeared surprised to see Bilal and I in physical proximity. But that reaction paled next to their virtual expressions when they had all integrated the city concept into their mentalities, and then heard our proposal.
“Ridiculous!”
“Impossible!”
“Worthless!”
Unflustered, Bilal grinned and said, “Why not just admit the truth? You are all in a comfortable rut, monomaniacally pursuing your stale hobbies, afraid to branch out and try something new. I know that I’ve felt myself in such a bind lately, and Crepax has already seen the light. We all need shaking up, a refresher course in creativity. Unless, of course, you’re all too self-centered to share an enterprise, no matter how much fun it would be.”
This analysis seemed to strike home, producing a change of heart, and before much longer there was unanimity amongst us.
“Excellent!” said Bilal. “Now, if you’ll all just meet me and Crepax at these coordinates, we can get this thrilling new project started.”
Bilal and I employed his vessel, a sleek Hinderyckx Skidwizard, since it was already parked outside my door. It lacked a wine cellar such as my own craft boasted, but luckily I thought to bring along a few choice bottles from my own.
Soon we found ourselves halfway around the globe, stepping out onto a vast prairie of knee-high golden grasses that rippled under a gentle breeze and a pellucid celadon sky. Three other sleek or bulbous craft joined us before too long, disgorging their owners. Ethereal Doucet, clad in flowing silks and chiffons; fishy-smelling Giraud, chewing meditatively on a piece of kelp; and the monumental Maroh, a muscled jade mountain of a female.
We all awaited Bilal’s plans, somewhat impatient but undeniably curious. Like a ringmaster, he relished our attention, and indicated with a sweeping gesture the wide horizons.
“Here is the perfect site for our city. Many famous cities of yore were established by the sea or by the mountains, in jungles or bayous, in lunar craters or on the tundra, atop garbage middens or inside canyons. But ours will be a city on the plain, the mythical heartland of humanity, an Ur-location. On such an uncomplicated, straightforward canvas, its lines will be logical and formal.”
Maroh objected. “What of wildness and outlaws? Slums and forbidden zones?”
“Oh, surely, we can program those in as well.”
“I like monuments and bell towers,” said Giraud. “And fountains.”
“Easily accommodated.”
“What of parks?” asked Doucet plaintively.
“A plethora of greenspaces!”
I spoke up. “Considering that cities reached their apex in the twenty-first century, Dead Man on a Tree reckoning, I propose that our city honor its illustrious ancestors by incorporating as many famous structures as possible, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Space Needle, the Gherkin, the Burj Khalifa, the Taj Mahal, Alcatraz Prison, the Brooklyn Bridge, a chain of Dairy Queens and McDonald’s, and so forth.”
“Wouldn’t we need a river for the Brooklyn Bridge to span?” said Giraud. “If so, I would like to stock it with a variety of monsters.”
Bilal said magnanimously, “I leave the construction of each of these specialty items to whoever proposed them. I will handle all the infrastructure and roads and civilian habitations, as well as the civic buildings. I estimate that once we unleash the requisite suites of nanoassemblers, the whole place should be ready for its inhabitants in a day or three at most.”
“And just who will populate our city?” I asked.
“Ah, that’s the second reason why I have chosen this spot! Step this way!”
We all walked a short distance from our ships across the fragrant springy turf until we encountered a patch of the prairie different from the rest. It featured many small mounds of bare soil with exit holes in their crowns. These mounds stretched away as far as the eye could see.
“Here are our citizens,” announced Bilal. From his omni-armlet he deployed a yottahertz ray to render a large cubic slice of the ground transparent, and we could immediately see an underground warren: tunnels and burrows full of small furry animals, all busy with their animal pursuits. Doucet squealed in delight at their cuteness.
“These are known as prairie dogs, or whistle-pigs. They number in the millions, and will become our citizenry. That is, once they are subjected to the tachytelic ray and suitable imprinting. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Utilizing shaped fields, Bilal was able to gently pincer a lone whistle-pig in its lair and bring it to the surface. Immobilized, the creature emitted the plaintive, angry and frustrated range of noises that had earned its species its name.
Without any delay, Bilal subjected the small beast to the tachytelic radiation, and its rapid forced hyper-evolution commenced. Soon a furry humanoid biped, face showing only a subtle snout, stood before us, still captive. Its instinctive reactions had not changed, however, given that even its larger capacity brain showed only the virginal traces of a newly born creature. But this defect too was soon remedied.
“I will download into this individual a full, randomly generated mentality typical of the era we are seeking to recreate.”
The enhanced whistle-pig stiffened as its neurons were flooded and contoured and overlaid with a full set of engrams and memories. When the speedy process was finished, Bilal released the newly sapient individual. The whistle-pig looked at us curiously, then spoke.
“Say, folks, I’m new to this burg. Where can a fella find a good time hereabouts?”
Bilal put the whistle-pig into stasis for future use, then turned to us and said, “Friends, let the building and population of Whistle-Pig City commence!”
* * *
It was a typical Saturday night in Whistle-Pig City (we had adopted much of the vocabulary and nomenclature of olden times), several months after the city’s founding, and so I found myself heading out again on a circuit of the most exciting and exotic nightclubs to be found in our contrived metropolis. Truth be told, I almost would have preferred to stay home in my penthouse apartment in the Ur-Ziggurat that overlooked Hyde Park and the Tivoli Gardens, relaxing with a book of poetry from the Shatterwisps who inhabited the Ice Grottoes of Aldhanab III. But I felt that the dereliction of my festive duties would have registered with my peers as displeasure with our shared creation.
Little did I know, at that moment, that this night would bring me into contact with all of my fellow humans, and result in the swift and unplanned climax of our project.
And so I made ready for an evening on the town. I bathed and shaved in the delightfully antique yet refreshing manner I had gotten used to; selected a fine suit of clothes; and then called up my two current paramours, Francie and Jerna. They both agreed to meet me in my apartment for a cocktail before we embarked on our rounds of the city’s nightlife.
The women arrived in a cloud of laughter, perfume and antic gestures, dressed in slinky silk gowns and strappy high heels. Francie was the taller and slimmer of the two, with a pelt shot through with silver and bronze, while Jerna’s wide-hipped figure spoke of more maternal proclivities. Her pelt was a delightful piebald coloration.
The hyper-evolved female whistle-pigs had proven no less attractive and individuated than many other lovers I had enjoyed, and certainly their deviations from the human baseline—including a tendency towards vocalizing the assorted shrill danger calls of their ancestors during orgasm—w ere more alluring than repellent. And so, after all these weeks, I hardly registered Francie and Jerna as anything other than delightful comrades in debauchery.
Sipping enticingly at their champagne, the women eyed me appreciatively. I was, after all, wealthy, handsome and an excellent lover—a good catch by any standard.
“Where are we going first?” asked Francie.
“I thought we’d hit Rockefeller Center for some dim sum at Tim Ho Wan’s, and then pop next door to the Crazy Horse for the floor show.”
“Sounds like a kick!” said Francie.
Jerna ran her tongue around the rim of her champagne flute. “But surely we don’t have to rush right out.”
“No, I suppose not…”
An hour or so later, we three were cuddling warmly and fragrantly in the back seat of my limo, while my chauffeur steered us through the busy streets. The car windows were open in the summer heat.
Even at this hour, with all the offices closed for the night, traffic was thick, a conglomeration of cars, trucks, bikes, pedestrians, scooters, jeepneys, tuk-tuks, sedan chairs and rickshaws, horse riders and skateboarders. Neon signs, animated and static, decorated the darkness with a hundred colors, and the babble of the crowds formed a tidal susurrus, overlaid with horns and sirens, construction noises and the rumble of subways. The tall towers of the coal-fired power plant showed their warning lights against the aerial traffic of small planes and autogyros, while the many skyscrapers—deco, postmodern, midcentury or suprapandemic—flared their lighted windows.
To think this was all a barren veldt just half a year ago!
Of course, the whistle-pig citizens knew nothing of their origin or actual condition. Their downloaded mentalities were shaped with the assumption that the city had existed forever, or at least since their dim past. Venues exterior to the city were simply a hazy otherness, dimly perceived and little mentioned. Likewise, they possessed a blind spot toward us five humans, seeing nothing alien in our presence. Other than these embedded fallacies, they possessed free will, creativity, and a full range of emotions and intelligence, all of which manifested in their vibrant lifestyles and their new contributions to the syncretic culture we had used as a foundation. Such innovations as torch dancing and syndicalist chautauquas were most striking.
All the resources and natural materials needed to sustain the city, from food to fuel and manufactured goods of all sorts, were trucked into the city by innocuous robot whistle-pigs ferrying the items from the adjacent nano-facs. And so our toy top was kept spinning in perpetual motion and ignorance of the real world.
The limo pulled up in front of Rockefeller Center, and I emerged with my two curvy comrades, the cynosure of the crowds of average citizens gathered on the sidewalks, gawping for celebrities. We hustled past the autograph seekers, orphans, urchins, crippled veterans of the Mars-Moon Flareup, as well as a flock of newspaper photographers, and soon occupied my reserved table at Tim Ho Wan’s. The rolling carts full of steaming food quickly converged on us, delivering all the gustatory satiation we could desire. Afterwards, Francie and Jerna groomed themselves adorably with much tongue action, and then we were off to the Crazy Horse. A prime table right at the edge of the stage gave us a splendid view of the performers, a bevy of the most glamorous, vocally and terpsichoreanly talented whistle-pig females, all in matching silver wigs and monokinis.
But just as I was settling back to enjoy the solo stylings of the star singer, the sultry Raven Dragonette, with her interpretation of “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” the club exploded in screams and gunshots!
I jumped up and spun to face the entrance.
There stood Maroh, her viridian form unwontedly stuffed into a skintight crimson leotard, accented with a flaring cape, towering over the whistle-pigs. Flanked by armed henchmen with cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths, she carried a smoking Tommy gun which she had apparently emptied into the ceiling to command attention, raining down shattered crystals from the chandeliers.
“All right, bourgeois parasites! All your money and jewelry in the sacks! And no holding back—or else!”
The henchmen circulated through the audience, collecting all the loot. They treated me no differently than any other victim.
Finished with their extortion, the mob reunited back at the door. Maroh shouted, “No one call the cops!” She fired off another skyward burst for emphasis, then fled.
Francie and Jerna had swooned, and while I was administering champagne to revive them, the Mayor showed up.
Bilal wore a sharp tuxedo, as if he had been interrupted at some gala charity affair. Beside him stood the Chief of Police, and I had to admit that Giraud looked very commanding in his epauletted and braid-festooned uniform, even if his clothes remained perpetually damp.
Bilal’s voice, deep and powerful, especially for one of his small stature, carried across the whole club. “People, people, be calm! You know that my administration will not tolerate these crimes! Your safety and the preservation of your property is our primary concern. Chief Giraud is on the case! We will have the Crimson Corsair in our grip before much longer!”
While Bilal and Giraud were conferring with the owner of the club, I saw Francie and Jerna off in a cab, and then sidled up to the Mayor and Chief. Seeing me, they cut short their reassurances to the proprietor and the three of us headed for the street.
“Well,” said Bilal when we were outside, “I take it that Maroh gave an outstanding presentation as the Crimson Corsair.”
“Yes, indeed. But her shtick is getting a little old. She used the exact same speech as the previous four holdups elsewhere.”
> Bilal mused on my words. “Perhaps we’re all getting a little stale. Did I come across as truly angry and concerned? I believe that was the expected tack that a good Mayor would take.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“It’s just that you can only utter these platitudes so often before the people will demand action. The longer Maroh continues her depredations untouched, the more farcical you and our Chief here will appear.”
Giraud said, “I could unleash some of my mega-kaiju on her well-known hideout. The collateral destruction they’d be sure to cause would result in the awarding of many lucrative rebuilding contracts afterwards.”
Bilal vented a cynical and exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what to do next. This managing a city is hard and boring work.”
“Might I suggest that we relax at the House of Broken Lilies, where we might receive inspiration about how to proceed?”
Bilal clapped his small hands. “A wonderful idea! Let’s go!”
The Mayor’s limo was even larger and more luxurious than mine, and we enjoyed cigars and drinks en route.
The House of Broken Lilies occupied a large “century-old” mansion on the corner of Park Avenue and the Champs-Élysées, on the shores of Lake Geneva. The door was opened by an ornately caparisoned major-domo, and we entered into the velvet-curtained parlor where an army of escorts, the most beautiful whistle-pig maidens of every conceivable shape and pelt-coloring, awaited our selection, languid on settees and divans.
As we were making our choices, the Madame of the House of Broken Lilies entered the room.
Doucet wore an elaborate outfit of tulle and taffeta and tricot, and looked like a pale-skinned nymph. She floated across the floor to us, and in her role as procuress complimented our selections. But then she whispered, “We all need to have a talk when you’re finished. Come to my office then.”
Doucet left, and soon Bilal, Giraud and I separated from each other, bearing our whores upstairs.
Out of the Ruins Page 14