Her Smoke Rose Up Forever (S.F. MASTERWORKS)

by James Tiptree Jr.

  “What kinds of songs do you sing?”

  “Oh, every kind. Adventure songs, work songs, mothering songs, roaming songs, mood songs, trouble songs, joke songs—everything.”

  “What about love songs?” he ventures. “Do you still have, well, love?”

  “Of course, how could people not love?” But she looks at him doubtfully. “The love stories I’ve heard from your time are so, I don’t know, so weird. Grim and pluggy. It doesn’t seem like love. . . . Oh, yes, we have famous love songs. Some of them are partly sad, too. Like Tamil and Alcmene O, they’re fated together. Connies are fated too, a little.” She grins bashfully. “We love to be with Ingrid Anders. It’s more one-sided. I hope there’ll be an Ingrid on my next hitch. She’s so exciting, she’s like a little diamond.”

  Implications are exploding all about him, sparkling with questions. But Lorimer wants to complete the darker pattern beyond.

  “Eleven thousand genotypes, two million people: that averages two hundred of each of you alive now.” She nods. “I suppose it varies? There’s more of some?”

  “Yes, some types aren’t as viable. But we haven’t lost any since early days. They tried to preserve all the genes they could. We have people from all the major races and a lot of small strains. Like me, I’m the Carib Blend. Of course we’ll never know what was lost. But eleven thousand is a lot, really. We all try to know everyone, it’s a life hobby.”

  A chill penetrates his ataraxia. Eleven thousand, period. That is the true population of Earth now. He thinks of two hundred tall olive-skinned women named after plants, excited by two hundred little bright Ingrids; two hundred talkative Judys, two hundred self-possessed Lady Blues, two hundred Margos and Mydas and the rest. He shivers. The heirs, the happy pallbearers of the human race.

  “So evolution ends,” he says somberly.

  “No, why? It’s just slowed down. We do everything much slower than you did, I think. We like to experience things fully. We have time.” She stretches again, smiling. “There’s all the time.”

  “But you have no new genotypes. It is the end.”

  “Oh, but there are, now. Last century they worked out the way to make haploid nuclei combine. We can make a stripped egg-cell function like pollen,” she says proudly. “I mean sperm. It’s tricky, some don’t come out too well. But now we’re finding both Xs viable we have over a hundred new types started. Of course it’s hard for them, with no sisters. The donors try to help.”

  Over a hundred, he thinks. Well. Maybe . . . But, both Xs viable, what does that mean? She must be referring to the epidemic. But he had figured it primarily affected the men. His mind goes happily to work on the new puzzle, ignoring a sound from somewhere that is trying to pierce his calm.

  “It was a gene or genes on the X chromosome that was injured,” he guesses aloud. “Not the Y. And the lethal trait had to be recessive, right? Thus there would have been no births at all for a time, until some men recovered or were isolated long enough to manufacture undamaged X-bearing gametes. But women carry their lifetime supply of ova, they could never regenerate reproductively. When they mated with the recovered males, only female babies would be produced, since the female carries two Xs and the mother’s defective gene would be compensated by a normal X from the father. But the male is XY, he receives only the mother’s defective X. Thus the lethal defect would be expressed, the male fetus would be finished. . . . A planet of girls and dying men. The few odd viables died off.”

  “You truly do understand,” she says admiringly.

  The sound is becoming urgent; he refuses to hear it, there is significance here.

  “So we’ll be perfectly all right on Earth. No problem. In theory we can marry again and have families, daughters anyway.”

  “Yes,” she says. “In theory.”

  The sound suddenly broaches his defenses, becomes the loud voice of Bud Geirr raised in song. He sounds plain drunk now. It seems to be coming from the main garden pod, the one they use to grow vegetables, not sanitation. Lorimer feels the dread alive again, rising closer. Dave ought to keep an eye on him. But Dave seems to have vanished too, he recalls seeing him go toward Control with Lady Blue.

  “OH, THE SUN SHINES BRIGHT ON PRETTY RED WI-I-ING,” carols Bud.

  Something should be done, Lorimer decides painfully. He stirs; it is an effort.

  “Don’t worry,” Connie says. “Andy’s with them.”

  “You don’t know, you don’t know what you’ve started.” He pushes off toward the garden hatchway.

  “—AS SHE LAY SLE-EEPING, A COWBOY CREE-E-EEPING—” General laughter from the hatchway. Lorimer coasts through into the green dazzle. Beyond the radial fence of snap beans he sees Bud sailing in an exaggerated crouch after Judy Paris. Andy hangs by the iguana cages, laughing.

  Bud catches one of Judy’s ankles and stops them both with a flourish, making her yellow pajamas swirl. She giggles at him upside down, making no effort to free herself.

  “I don’t like this,” Lorimer whispers.

  “Please don’t interfere.” Connie has hold of his arm, anchoring them both to the tool rack. Lorimer’s alarm seems to have ebbed; he will watch, let serenity return. The others have not noticed them.

  “Oh, there once was an Indian maid,” Bud sings more restrainedly, “who never was a-fraid, that some buckaroo would slip it up her, ahem, ahem,” he coughs ostentatiously, laughing. “Hey, Andy, I hear them calling you.”

  “What?” says Judy. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “They’re calling you, lad. Out there.”

  “Who?” asks Andy, listening.

  “They are, for Crissake.” He lets go of Judy and kicks over to Andy. “Listen, you’re a great kid. Can’t you see me and Judy have some business to discuss in private?” He turns Andy gently around and pushes him at the bean stakes. “It’s New Year’s Eve, dummy.”

  Andy floats passively away through the fence of vines, raising a hand at Lorimer and Connie. Bud is back with Judy.

  “Happy New Year, kitten,” he smiles.

  “Happy New Year. Did you do special things on New Year?” she asks curiously.

  “What we did on New Year’s.” He chuckles, taking her shoulders in his hands. “On New Year’s Eve, yes we did. Why don’t I show you some of our primitive Earth customs, h’mm?”

  She nods, wide-eyed.

  “Well, first we wish each other well, like this.” He draws her to him and lightly kisses her cheek. “Kee-rist, what a dumb bitch,” he says in a totally different voice. “You can tell you’ve been out too long when the geeks start looking good. Knockers, ahhh—” His hand plays with her blouse. The man is unaware, Lorimer realizes. He doesn’t know he’s drugged, he’s speaking his thoughts. I must have done that. Oh, god . . . He takes shelter behind his crystal lens, an observer in the protective light of eternity.

  “And then we smooch a little.” The friendly voice is back. Bud holds the girl closer, caressing her back. “Fat ass.” He puts his mouth on hers; she doesn’t resist. Lorimer watches Bud’s arms tighten, his hands working on her buttocks, going under her clothes. Safe in the lens, his own sex stirs. Judy’s arms are waving aimlessly.

  Bud breaks for breath, a hand at his zipper.

  “Stop staring,” he says hoarsely. “One fucking more word, you’ll find out what that big mouth is for. Oh, man, a flagpole. Like steel . . . Bitch, this is your lucky day.” He is baring her breasts now, big breasts. Fondling them. “Two fucking years in the ass end of noplace,” he mutters, “shit on me, will you? Can’t wait, watch it—titty-titty-titties—”

  He kisses her again quickly and smiles down at her. “Good?” he asks in his tender voice, and sinks his mouth on her nipples, his hand seeking in her thighs. She jerks and says something muffled. Lorimer’s arteries are pounding with delight, with dread.

  “I, I think this should stop,” he makes himself say falsely, hoping he isn’t saying more. Through the pulsing tension he hears Connie whisper back, it sounds
like “Don’t worry, Judy’s very athletic.” Terror stabs him, they don’t know. But he can’t help.

  “Cunt,” Bud grunts, “you have to have a cunt in there, is it froze up? You dumb cunt—” Judy’s face appears briefly in her floating hair, a remote part of Lorimer’s mind notes that she looks amused and uncomfortable. His being is riveted to the sight of Bud expertly controlling her body in midair, peeling down the yellow slacks. Oh, god—her dark pubic mat, the thick white thighs—a perfectly normal woman, no mutation. Ohhh, god . . . But there is suddenly a drifting shadow in the way: Andy again floating over them with something in his hands.

  “You dinko, Jude?” the boy asks.

  Bud’s face comes up red and glaring. “Bug out, you!”

  “Oh, I won’t bother.”

  “Jee-sus Christ.” Bud lunges up and grabs Andy’s arm, his legs still hooked around Judy. “This is man’s business, boy, do I have to spell it out?” He shifts his grip. “Shoo!”

  In one swift motion he has jerked Andy close and backhanded his face hard, sending him sailing into the vines.

  Bud gives a bark of laughter, bends back to Judy. Lorimer can see his erection poking through his fly. He wants to utter some warning, tell them their peril, but he can only ride the hot pleasure surging through him, melting his crystal shell. Go on, more—avidly he sees Bud mouth her breasts again and then suddenly flip her whole body over, holding her wrists behind her in one fist, his legs pinning hers. Her bare buttocks bulge up helplessly, enormous moons. “Ass-s-s,” Bud groans. “Up you bitch, ahhh-hh—” He pulls her butt onto him.

  Judy gives a cry, begins to struggle futilely. Lorimer’s shell boils and bursts. Amid the turmoil, ghosts outside are trying to rush in. And something is moving, a real ghost—to his dismay he sees it is Andy again, floating toward the joined bodies, holding a whirring thing. Oh, no—a camera. The fools.

  “Get away!” he tries to call to the boy.

  But Bud’s head turns, he has seen. “You little pissass.” His long arm shoots out and captures Andy’s shirt, his legs still locked around Judy.

  “I’ve had it with you.” His fist slams into Andy’s mouth, the camera goes spinning away. But this time Bud doesn’t let him go, he is battering the boy, all of them rolling in a tangle in the air.

  “Stop!” Lorimer hears himself shout, plunging at them through the beans. “Bud, stop it! You’re hitting a woman.”

  The angry face comes around, squinting at him.

  “Get lost, Doc, you little fart. Get your own ass.”

  “Andy is a woman, Bud. You’re hitting a girl. She’s not a man.”

  “Huh?” Bud glances at Andy’s bloody face. He shakes the shirtfront. “Where’s the boobs?”

  “She doesn’t have breasts, but she’s a woman. Her real name is Kay. They’re all women. Let her go, Bud.”

  Bud stares at the androgyne, his legs still pinioning Judy, his penis poking the air. Andy puts up his/her hands in a vaguely combative way.

  “A dyke?” says Bud slowly. “A goddamn little bull dyke? This I gotta see.”

  He feints casually, thrusts a hand into Andy’s crotch.

  “No balls!” he roars. “No balls at all!” Convulsing with laughter, he lets himself tip over in the air, releasing Andy, his legs letting Judy slip free. “Na-ah,” he interrupts himself to grab her hair and goes on guffawing. “A dyke! Hey, dykey!” He takes hold of his hard-on, waggles it at Andy. “Eat your heart out, little dyke.” Then he pulls up Judy’s head. She has been watching unresisting all along.

  “Take a good look, girlie. See what old Buddy has for you? Tha-a-at’s what you want, say it. How long since you saw a real man, hey, dogface?”

  Maniacal laughter bubbles up in Lorimer’s gut, farce too strong for fear. “She never saw a man in her life before, none of them has. You imbecile, don’t you get it? There aren’t any other men, they’ve all been dead three hundred years.”

  Bud slowly stops chuckling, twists around to peer at Lorimer.

  “What’d I hear you say, Doc?”

  “The men are all gone. They died off in the epidemic. There’s nothing but women left alive on Earth.”

  “You mean there’s, there’s two million women down there and no men?” His jaw gapes. “Only little bull dykes like Andy . . . Wait a minute. Where do they get the kids?”

  “They grow them artificially. They’re all girls.”

  “Gawd . . .” Bud’s hand clasps his drooping penis, jiggles it absently until it stiffens. “Two million hot little cunts down there, waiting for old Buddy. Gawd. The last man on Earth . . . You don’t count, Doc. And old Dave, he’s full of crap.”

  He begins to pump himself, still holding Judy by the hair. The motion sends them slowly backward. Lorimer sees that Andy—Kay—has the camera going again. There is a big starshaped smear of blood on the boyish face; cut lip, probably. He himself feels globed in thick air, all action spent. Not lucid.

  “Two million cunts,” Bud repeats. “Nobody home, nothing but pussy everywhere. I can do anything I want, anytime. No more shit.” He pumps faster. “They’ll be spread out for miles begging for it. Clawing each other for it. All for me, King Buddy . . . I’ll have strawberries and cunt for breakfast. Hot buttered boobies, man. ‘N’ head, there’ll be a couple little twats licking whip cream off my cock all day long. . . . Hey, I’ll have contests! Only the best for old Buddy now. Not you, cow.” He jerks Judy’s head. “Li’l teenies, tight li’l holes. I’ll make the old broads hot ‘em up while I watch.” He frowns slightly, working on himself. In a clinical corner of his mind Lorimer guesses the drug is retarding ejaculation. He tells himself that he should be relieved by Bud’s self-absorption, is instead obscurely terrified.

  “King, I’ll be their god,” Bud is mumbling. “They’ll make statues of me, my cock a mile high, all over. . . . His Majesty’s sacred balls. They’ll worship it. . . . Buddy Geirr, the last cock on Earth. Oh, man, if old George could see that. When the boys hear that they’ll really shit themselves, woo-ee!”

  He frowns harder. “They can’t all be gone.” His eyes rove, find Lorimer. “Hey, Doc, there’s some men left someplace, aren’t there? Two or three, anyway?”

  “No.” Effortfully Lorimer shakes his head. “They’re all dead, all of them.”

  “Balls.” Bud twists around, peering at them. “There has to be some left. Say it.” He pulls Judy’s head up. “Say it, cunt.”

  “No, it’s true,” she says.

  “No men,” Andy/Kay echoes.

  “You’re lying.” Bud scowls, frigs himself faster, thrusting his pelvis. “There has to be some men, sure there are. . . . They’re hiding out in the hills, that’s what it is. Hunting, living wild . . . Old wild men, I knew it.”

  “Why do there have to be men?” Judy asks him, being jerked to and fro.

  “Why, you stupid bitch.” He doesn’t look at her, thrusts furiously. “Because, dummy, otherwise nothing counts, that’s why. . . . There’s some men, some good old buckaroos—Buddy’s a good old buckaroo—”

  “Is he going to emit sperm now?” Connie whispers.

  “Very likely,” Lorimer says, or intends to say. The spectacle is of merely clinical interest, he tells himself, nothing to dread. One of Judy’s hands clutches something: a small plastic bag. Her other hand is on her hair that Bud is yanking. It must be painful.

  “Uhhh, ahh,” Bud pants distressfully, “fuck away, fuck—” Suddenly he pushes Judy’s head into his groin, Lorimer glimpses her nonplussed expression.

  “You have a mouth, bitch, get working! . . . Take it, for shit’s sake, take it! Uh, uh—” A small oyster jets limply from him. Judy’s arm goes after it with the bag as they roll over in the air.

  “Geirr!”

  Bewildered by the roar, Lorimer turns and sees Dave—Major Norman Davis—looming in the hatchway. His arms are out, holding back Lady Blue and the other Judy.

  “Geirr! I said there would be no misconduct on this ship, and I mean it. Get
away from that woman!”

  Bud’s legs only move vaguely, he does not seem to have heard. Judy swims through them bagging the last drops.

  “You, what the hell are you doing?”

  In the silence Lorimer hears his own voice say, “Taking a sperm sample, I should think.”

  “Lorimer? Are you out of your perverted mind? Get Geirr to his quarters.”

  Bud slowly rotates upright. “Ah, the reverend Leroy,” he says tonelessly.

  “You’re drunk, Geirr. Go to your quarters.”

  “I have news for you, Dave-o,” Bud tells him in the same flat voice. “I bet you don’t know we’re the last men on Earth. Two million twats down there.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Dave says furiously. “You’re a drunken disgrace. Lorimer, get that man out of here.”

  But Lorimer feels no nerve of action stir. Dave’s angry voice has pushed back the terror, created a strange hopeful stasis encapsulating them all.

  “I don’t have to take that anymore. . . .” Bud’s head moves back and forth, silently saying no, no, as he drifts toward Lorimer. “Nothing counts anymore. All gone. What for, friends?” His forehead puckers. “Old Dave, he’s a man. I’ll let him have some. The dummies . . . Poor old Doc, you’re a creep but you’re better’n nothing, you can have some too. . . . We’ll have places, see, big spreads. Hey, we can run drags, there has to be a million good old cars down there. We can go hunting. And then we find the wild men.”

  Andy, or Kay, is floating toward him, wiping off blood.

  “Ah, no you don’t!” Bud snarls and lunges for her. As his arm stretches out Judy claps him on the triceps.

  Bud gives a yell that dopplers off, his limbs thrash—and then he is floating limply, his face suddenly serene. But he is breathing, Lorimer sees, releasing his own breath, watching them carefully straighten out the big body. Judy plucks her pants out of the vines, and they start towing him out through the fence. She has the camera and the specimen bag.

  “I put this in the freezer, dinko?” she says to Connie as they come by. Lorimer has to look away.