by Nancy Kress
Oh, please. Talk about crudely tapping into basic desires. And even some donkeys called this stomp an artist.
The shapes were compelling, though. They slid past Arlen’s powerchair, folding and unfolding, some seemingly clear and some flickering at the very edge of conscious perception. I felt my blood flow more strongly in my veins, that sudden surge of life you sometimes get with spring, or sex, or challenge. I was not immune to subliminals. These must have been wicked.
I peered into the gravrail car. Livers stood motionless with their faces pressed to the glass. Desdemona watched with her mouth open, a small pink pocket. Even Mommy Liver’s face hinted at the young girl she must have been on some forgotten Liver summer night decades ago.
I turned back to Arlen, still spinning his simple story. His voice was musical. The story was a sort of pseudo-folk tale without subtlety, without resonance, without detail, without irony, without art. The words were merely the bare bones over which the graphics shimmered, calling forth the real meaning from the watchers’ hypnotized minds. I’d been told that each person experienced a Drew Arlen concert differently, depending on the symbols freed and brought forward from whatever powerful childhood experiences stocked each mind. I’d been told that, but I hadn’t believed it.
I walked along the outside of the train, in the dark, scanning the Liver faces behind the windows. Some were wet with tears. Whatever they were experiencing, it looked more intense than anything I had felt in the Sistine chapel, at Lewis Darrell’s King Lear, during the San Francisco Philharmonic’s Beethoven festival. It looked more intense than sunshine, or even nervewash. As intense as orgasm.
Nobody regulated Lucid Dreaming. Arlen had a host of shoddy imitators. They never lasted long. Whatever Drew Arlen was doing, he was the only person in the whole world who knew how to do it. Most donkeys ignored him: a manipulative con artist, having as much to do with real art as those holos of the Virgin Mary that suddenly “manifested” during religious festivals.
“…leaving that home he loved,” Arlen’s low, musical voice said, “walking away alone, him, into a dark forest…”
Nobody regulated Lucid Dreaming. And Drew Arlen, as the whole world knew, was Miranda Sharifi’s lover. He was the only Sleeper who went in and out of Huevos Verdes at will. The GSEA followed him constantly, of course, along with enough reporters to fill a small town. It was only his concerts they didn’t take seriously.
I walked back along the gravrail and climbed into my car. The big-headed man was the only one not pressed to the windows. He lay stretched out on a deserted seat, sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. In order not to be hypnotized? In order to better observe the effects of Arlen’s performance?
The concert wore on. The warrior took the usual risks, won the usual triumphs, exulted the usual exultations. Simplistic power-trip ideation. When it ended, people turned to each other with emotional hugs, laughing and crying, and then spilled out onto the cold prairie toward the holo of Drew Arlen. It sat, fifteen feet high, a handsome crippled man in a powerchair smiling gently down on his disciples. The surrounding shapes had vanished, unless they were flickering subliminally, which was possible. A few Livers stuck their hands into the holo, trying to touch what had no substance. Desdemona danced inside the pyramid and laid her head against the blanket over Arlen’s knees.
Daddy Liver said abruptly, “I bet we could walk, us, to the next town.”
“Well…” somebody said. Other voices chimed in.
“If we follow the track, us, and stay together—”
“See if any of the roof lights are portable—”
“Some people should stay, them, with the old people.”
The big-headed man watched carefully. That’s the moment I was sure. The entire gravrail breakdown in this techno-forsaken place had been a setup, to gauge the effect of Arlen’s concert.
How? By whom?
No. Those weren’t the right questions. The right question was: What was the effect of Arlen’s concert?
“You stay here, then, Eddie, with the old people. You, Cassie, tell the people in the other cars. See who wants, them, to go with us. Tasha—”
It took them ten minutes of arguing to get organized. They pried the roof lights off six cars; the lights were portable. People who stayed gave extra jackets to people who left. The first group was just starting down the rail when a light flashed in the sky. A second later I could hear the plane.
The Livers turned silent.
The plane held a single gravrail technician, flanked by two security ’bots, the no-fucking-around kind that both projected a personal safety shield and carried weapons. The crowd watched in silence. The tech’s handsome, genemod face looked strained. Techs are a strained group anyway: genemod for appearance, but without the IQ and ability enhancements, which cost prospective parents a lot more money. You find them repairing machinery, running warehouse distribs, supervising nursing or child-care ’bots. Techs certainly aren’t Livers, but although they live in the enclaves, they aren’t exactly donkeys either. And they know it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tech said unhappily, “Morrison Gravrail, Incorporated, and Senator Cecilia Elizabeth Dawes apologize for the delay in repairing your train. Circumstances beyond our control—”
“And I’m a politician, me!” someone yelled bitterly.
“Why do we vote, us, for you scum?”
“Better tell the Senator she lost votes, her, on this here train!”
“The service we deserve—”
The tech walked resolutely toward the engine, eyes down, paced by his ’bots. I caught the faint shimmer of a Y-energy field as he passed. But a few of the Livers—six or seven—glanced down the track, stretching away in the windy darkness, their eyes bright with what I would have sworn was regret.
It took the tech all of thirteen minutes to fix the gravrail. Nobody molested him. He left in his plane, and the train started up again. Livers played dice, grumbled, slept, tended their cranky children. I walked through all the cars, searching for the big-headed man. He had vanished while I was watching the Livers’ reaction to the donkey tech. We must have left him behind, on the windy prairie, in the concealing dark.
Five
BILLY WASHINGTON: EAST OLEANTA
Every once in a while I need, me, to go off in the woods. I didn’t used to tell nobody. But now when I go, two-three times a year, I tell Annie and she fixes me up some raw stuff from the kitchen, apples and potatoes and soysynth that ain’t been made into dishes yet. I stay out there alone, me, for five or six days, away from all of it: the café and holodancers and blasting music and warehouse distribs and stomps with clubs and even the Y-energy. I build fires, me. Some people ain’t left East Oleanta in twenty years except to go by gravrail to another town just like it. The deep woods might as well be in China. I think they’re scared, them, of hearing themselves out there.
I was supposed to leave for the woods the morning after the café kitchen broke and we talked, us, to Supervisor Samuelson on the official terminal. But I sure wasn’t leaving Annie and Lizzie without food, and I sure wasn’t going no place, me, that had rabid raccoons and a broken warden ’bot.
Lizzie stood by my couch in her nightshirt, a bright pink blot on my morning sleep. “Billy, you think, you, that kitchen is fixed yet?”
Annie came out from her bedroom, yawning, still in her plasticloth nightdress. “Leave Billy alone, Lizzie. You hungry, you?”
Lizzie nodded. I sat up, me, on the sofa, with one arm shielding my eyes from the morning sun at the window. “Listen, Annie. I been thinking, me. If they do get that kitchen fixed, we should start taking all the food we can, us, and storing it here. In case it breaks again. We can take right up to the meal chip limit every day—Lizzie and you don’t ever hardly do that and me neither, some days—and then raw stuff from the kitchen. Potatoes and apples and stuff.”
Annie pressed her lips together. She ain’t a morning person, her. But it felt so good to be waking up at Annie’s pl
ace that I forgot that, me. She said, “The food would rot in just two-three days. I don’t want, me, to have a lot of half-rotten stuff around here. It ain’t clean.”
“Then we’ll throw it out, us, and get some more.” I spoke gentle. Annie don’t like things to be different than they’ve always been.
Lizzie said, “Billy, you think, you, that kitchen is fixed yet?”
I said, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Let’s go look, us. Better get dressed.”
Annie said, “She got to go, her, to the baths first. She stinks. Me, too. You walk us, Billy?”
“Sure.” What good did she think an old wreck like me’d be against rabid coons? But I’d of walked Annie past them demons she believes in.
Lizzie said, “Billy, you think, you, that kitchen is fixed yet?”
There wasn’t no raccoons near the baths. The men’s bath was empty except for Mr. Keller, who’s so old I don’t think even he remembers if he’s got a first name, and two little boys who shouldn’t of been there alone, them. But they were having themselves a wonderful splashing time. I liked watching them, me. They cheered up the morning.
Mr. Keller told me the café kitchen was fixed. I walked Annie and Lizzie, sweet-clean as berries in the dew, to get our breakfast. But the café was full, it, not just with Livers eating but of donkeys making a holo of Congresswoman Janet Carol Land.
It was her, all right. No tape. She stood in front of the foodbelt, which offered the usual soysynth eggs, bacon, cereals, and breads, plus some fresh genemod strawberries. I don’t like genemod strawberries, me. They might keep for weeks, but they never taste like them little wild sweet berries that grow on the hillsides in June.
“…serving her people with the best she has, no matter the need, no matter the hour, no matter the emergency,” said a handsome donkey into a camera ’bot. “Janet Carol Land, on the spot to serve East Oleanta—on the spot to serve you. A politician who deserves those memorable words from the Bible: ‘Well done, good and faithful servant’!”
Land smiled. She was a looker, her, the way donkey women are when they’re not young: fine soft skin and pink lips and hair in pretty silver waves. Too skinny, though. Not like Annie. Who pressed her dark-berry lips together like she was going to squeeze cider with them.
Land said to the handsome man, “Thank you, Royce. As you know, the café is the heart of any aristo town. That’s why when a café malfunctions, I move heaven and earth to get it operable again. As these good citizens of East Oleanta can attest.”
“Let’s talk to some of them,” Royce said, showing all his teeth. He and Land walked to a table where Jack Sawicki sat, him, looking cornered. “Mayor Sawicki, what do you think of the service Congresswoman Land provided your town today?”
Paulie Cenverno looked up, him, from where he ate at the next table. With him was Celie Kane. Annie’s lower lip trembled itself into a half-grin, half-wince.
Jack said miserably, “We’re awful happy, us, that the foodbelt’s fixed, and we—”
“When you fuckers gonna get them rabid raccoons killed?” Celie demanded.
Royce’s face froze, it. “I don’t think—”
“You better think, you, and think hard about them coons, or you and the Congresswoman gonna be thinking about new jobs!”
“Cut,” Royce said. “Don’t worry, Janet, we’ll edit it.” His smile looked like it was foamed onto his face, but I saw his eyes, me, and I looked away. My fighting days are over, unless I have to fight for Annie or Lizzie.
Royce took the Congresswoman’s elbow, him, and steered her toward the door. Celie shrilled, “I mean it, me! It’s been days now and you guys done shit! ‘Public servants!’ You ain’t nothing but—”
“Celie,” Jack and Paulie both said.
Land broke free of Royce. She turned back, her, to Celie. “Your concern for your town’s safety is natural, ma’am. The warden ’bot and any sick wildlife are not in my jurisdiction—they fall to District Supervisor Samuelson—but when I return to Albany I’ll do everything in my power to see that the problem is solved.” She looked straight into Celie’s eyes, real steady, and it was Celie who looked away first, her.
Celie didn’t say nothing. Land smiled, her, and turned to her crew. “I think we’re done here, Royce. I’ll meet you outside.” She walked to the door, back straight, head high. And the only reason I ever saw anything different was because of where I stood, me, sideways to the door, between Annie and any trouble. Congresswoman Land reached the door and she was a smiling pretty cocksure politician, her. Then she went through the door and she was a woman with tired, tired eyes.
I glanced at Annie to see if she saw. But she was clucking at Celie Kane. Annie might of grinned, her, at Celie’s balls, but deep down inside Annie don’t approve of sassing public servants. They can’t help being donkeys. I could almost hear her say it, me.
Lizzie said in her clear young voice, “That Congresswoman can’t really help get the warden ’bot fixed in Albany, can she? She was just pretending, her.”
“Oh hush,” Annie said. “You never will learn, you, when to keep your mouth quiet and when not.”
Two days later, two days of everybody staying inside, us, and no warden ’bot tech from Albany, we made a hunting party. It took hours of talk that went around and around in dizzies, but we made it. Livers ain’t supposed to have no guns, us. No warehouses stock a District Supervisor Tara Eleanor Schmidt .22 rifle. No political campaigns give away a Senator Jason Howard Adams shotgun or a County Legislature Terry William Monaghan pistol. But we got them, us.
Paulie Cenverno dug up his granddaddy’s shotgun, him, from a plastisynth box behind the school. Plastisynth keeps out damn near everything: dirt, damp, rust, bugs. Eddie Rollins and Jim Swikehardt and old Doug Kane had their daddies’ rifles, them. Sue Rollins and her sister, Krystal Mandor, said they’d share a family Matlin; I didn’t see, me, how that could work. Two men I didn’t know had shotguns. Al Rauber had a pistol. Two of the teenage stomps showed up, grinning, not armed. Just what we needed, us. Altogether, we were twenty.
“Let’s split, us, into pairs, and set out in ten straight lines from the café,” Jack Sawicki said.
“You sound like a goddamn donkey,” Eddie Rollins said in disgust. The stomps grinned.
“You got a better idea, you?” Jack said. He held his rifle real tight over his bulging green jacks.
“We’re Livers,” Krystal Mandor said, “let us go where we want, us.”
Jack said, “And what if somebody gets shot, them? You want the police franchise down on us?”
Eddie said, “I want to hunt raccoons, me, like an aristo. Don’t give me no orders, Jack.”
“Fine,” Jack said. “Go ahead, you. I’m not saying another goddamn word.”
After ten minutes of arguing we set off in pairs, us, in ten straight lines.
I walked with Doug Kane, Celie’s father. Two old men, us, slow and limping. But Doug still knew, him, how to walk quiet in the woods. Off to my right I heard somebody whooping and laughing. One of the stomps. After a while, the sound died away.
The woods were cool and sweet-smelling, so thick overhead that the floor wasn’t much overgrown. We stepped, us, on pine needles that sent up their clean smell. White birches, slim as Lizzie, rustled. Under the trees moss grew dark green, and in the sunny patches there was daisies and buttercups and black-eyed Susans. A mourning dove called, the calmest sound in the whole world.
“Pretty,” Doug said, so quiet that a rabbit upwind didn’t even twitch its long ears.
Toward noon, the trees got skimpier and the underbrush thicker. I smelled blackberries somewheres, which made me think of Annie. I figured, me, that we come at least six hard miles from East Oleanta. All we seen was rabbits, a doe, and a mess of harmless snakes. No coons. And any rabid coons out this far, killing them wouldn’t do the town no good anyway. It was time to turn back.
“Gotta…sit down, me,” Doug said.
I looked at him, me, and my skin turn
ed cold. He was pale as the birch bark, his eyelids fluttering like two hummingbirds. He dropped the rifle, him, and it went off—old fool had the safety off. The bullet buried itself in a tree trunk. Doug clutched his chest and fell over. I’d been so busy, me, enjoying air and flowers and I ain’t even seen he was having a heart attack.
“Sit down! Sit down!” I eased him onto a patch of some kind of ground cover, all shiny green leaves. Doug lay on his side, him, breathing hard: whoooo, whoooo. His right hand batted the air but I knew, me, that his eyes didn’t see nothing. They were wild.
“Lay quiet, Doug. Don’t move, you! I’ll go get help, me, I’ll make them bring the medunit…”
Whoooo, whoooo, whoooo…then the breathing noises stopped.
I thought: He’s gone. But his bony old chest still rose and fell, just shallow and quiet now. His eyes glazed.
“I’ll bring the medunit!” I said again, turned, and nearly fell myself, me. Staring at me from not ten feet away was a rabid coon.
Once you seen a animal gone rabid, you don’t never forget it. I could see, me, the separate specks of foam around the coon’s mouth. Sunlight from between the trees sparkled on the specks like they was glass. The coon bared its teeth, it, and hissed at me, a sound like I never heard no coon make. Its hindquarters shook. It was near the end.
I raised Doug’s rifle, me, knowing that if it come for me there was no way I was going to be fast enough.
The coon twitched and lunged. I jerked up the rifle, me, but I never even got it to shoulder height. A beam of light shot out from some place behind me, only it wasn’t light but something else like light. And the coon flipped over backwards, it, in midlunge and crashed to the ground dead.
I turned around, me, very slow. And if I seen one of Annie’s angels, I couldn’t of been more surprised.
A girl stood there, her, a short girl with a big head and dark hair tied back with a red ribbon. She wore stupid clothes for the woods: white shorts, thin white shirt, open sandals, just like we didn’t have no deer ticks or blackflies or snakes. The girl looked at me somber. After a minute she said, “Are you all right?”