Denton leaned wearily on the generator, determined to come to terms with death.
“I figured you’d want to know, Denton.” Durghemmer laughed, moths tumbling dustily in his throat. “I can see just by looking at you that the girl died.”
Denton nodded. The movement might have been made by a scarecrow swayed by a breeze.
“Sure, lad, I’ll show you just how I thrive in this hole. I’ll show you how I keep an even keel under this scoop like a pheasant under glass. I’ll show you just exactly and honest to God. You just watch me now.”
“Watch you? You mean I can see how you do it?”
“Sure. You just watch now.”
The dark room seemed to congeal with grains of opacity. The generator hummed happily to itself. Denton leaned forward, hands on the control panel, tired eyes locked desperately onto Durghemmer.
The decaying politician lay back and folded his hands on his chest. Then, he began to chuckle.
Denton was completely baffled. As far as he could see, the old man was doing nothing at all. . .
. . . except laughing.
<
* * * *
In the long voyages between stars, people are going to need psychological safeguards to protect their sanity: strict rules, carefully planned recreations. Because a starship is a self-enclosed prison amid light-years of empty blackness—and there will be no escape if something goes wrong, and madness invades such a ship.
glenn chang is a young man from Hawaii who now lives in Oregon. He’s another Clarion alumnus, but he’d sold his first story (to If Magazine) before attending Clarion.
* * * *
Stars and Darkness
BY GLENN CHANG
“Dying, we live,” I say, raising the scalpel. “Living, we only see pain. Isn’t that right, Yamada?”
I look down at Yamada. Beneath my other hand, his body spasms in agony.
“Stop it, Yang,” he says. His words are barely intelligible. “Stop it.”
“But I don’t want to,” I say. “And neither would you want me to. Not really.” I reach up and grasp his face. “Sweet pain, Yamada. Do you feel it? Does it send you into fits of ecstasy? Jar you into new heights of awareness? It should, if what your ‘confidential’ file says is true. Repressed masochism, if I recall correctly. Is that right, Yamada? Are you a repressed masochist?”
I squeeze his jaw suddenly, and I can feel the broken crowns of his teeth rip the inside of his check. A tortured gurgle escapes his lips.
I straighten. “So. You are not. You do not cry, ‘Yes, Yes, it is beautiful.’ Because it is not. Life is not beautiful for you, Yamada. All it holds for you is ugliness.”
I bring my face close to his and the blade of the scalpel to his chest. “Then perhaps I should end it for you,” I whisper, slowly moving the blade in circles on his skin, leaving fine lines that well into thick trails of blood. “I will end your miserable life. Because I hate you, Yamada. I always have. Nothing would please me more than to see you dead, your body hanging from its heels on meathooks and your throat cut, standing by like a side of beef to be quartered.” I raise the scalpel and bring it behind his ear. His body struggles, but the straps hold him tight; I hold his head steady with my other hand.
“Please,” he manages to say, almost sobbing. “Enough. End this, Yang. Please.”
“All right,” I say softly, “I will. Now.” And I plunge the scalpel in, and jerk it in an arc, and his life spills out in a bubbling crimson stream, and I close my eyes and feel the gratification slipping over me, carrying me into sweet unconsciousness—
Until I open them again and see that I am awake.
As usual, I am first. I blink several times and stare upward through the clear viewplate at the featureless ceiling. Then the sensors note that I am fully conscious, and I hear the hiss of the lid rising, and I clamber out of the foam-lined coffin, naked and trembling, the sensor disks popping off my skin and the cords hanging over the edges.
I look at myself and see my skin shiny with sweat. As usual. It takes a few minutes to get my breathing down to normal and my legs steady. I glance at the other pod and see Yamada there, still asleep—and unmarked. And alive. I shudder involuntarily and step through the short corridor to the shower stall.
The warm water is good on my skin, washing off the sweat and the dregs of dreams and guilt. The cycle is finished when I am finished, and the blasts of warm air dry me quickly. I find my suit and slip it on.
When I reenter the dream-room, Yamada is awake, sitting on the side of his pod, still nude. His eyes when he looks at me are full of fear and hatred. Like all the others before. I ignore him, and walk over to the indicator panels.
“How many shall we say went through it this time?” I ask, my back to him, reaching for the microcircuit boards. “Ten? Twelve?”
“You bastard,” Yamada says. His voice quavers, barely under control.
“Let’s say twelve. A little more—there.” I replace the circuit board with the proper jimmied one, then walk along the other ten pods designated, reaching under the controls on each one and adjusting them.
I walk back toward him, trying not to look at him, though I can feel his eyes on me. He tries to stand, finds himself unsteady, and quickly sits down again.
“Why?” he asks, breathing hard. “What reason is there to hate me?”
I stop and look at him. “None that I know of,” I say patiently. “You know that. Some deep-rooted reason, obscure or ridiculous to our conscious minds, that I cannot get at because it’s hidden by guilt, or self-disgust, or the like. The dream-machine is the only thing that can reach beyond these layers, to the subconscious, to our deepest urges. But ask me what these urges are—” I spread my hands outward. “As well ask me how it felt to be born.”
“But—” he stammers. “But we should try to uncover these feelings, to cure them. The flight depends on our cooperation, our—our survival. If one of us is sick—”
“Oh? And how would you tell the others you discovered one of us was sick? By violating the Rules, and by using the machine for a dual rather than in a group, without the guidance of a Stable? No. If we want to keep using it for our purposes, we must keep silent. You know the penalty for breaking any Rule; do you want to end up as fertilizer for the hydroponics tanks?”
Yamada shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says, his voice plaintive. “It wasn’t like I thought it would be. Not at all.”
I shrug. “That’s the risk you take. It all depends on whose is the more dominant personality. And whose is weaker.”
Yamada stares downward, his face rigid. “I won’t do it again,” he says with determination.
“Oh, you will,” I say, turning to leave. I stop to give him a parting word. “You’ll come back. You’ll do this over and over again—because one of these times you might be able to kill me.” Then I leave.
* * * *
It is the machine that keeps us sane. It takes our minds off the long trip, releases the emotions and frustrations that build up, in ways that the tapes, or the prescribed mental exercises, or the recreational games never could. All those things are for the limited, the weak-minded. But the dreams, the worlds the machine leads us to . . . how can anything compare with them?
But the others don’t know. They can’t understand. They stay in their safe, ineffectual little activities. Like Sedjayev and Pruitt, playing their silly fugue-chess games at every leisure period.
“Back two milliseconds,” Pruitt says.
“Up four minutes.” Sedjayev moves his dial.
“Hmm, let’s ... no. All right. Up two.” Pruitt studies the tallies closely.
“Two back.”
“Up three.”
“Back five.” They hunch forward, eager and feral.
“Up six—no, I mean—”
“Too late. Coalescence and fugue.” The board glows red and tallies the points for Sedjayev. He smiles and leans back, basking in his victory.
I sn
eer at them both. “Stupid,” I say. “Stupid games you play. Why bother wasting your time with this?”
But they ignore me, as they always do. Well, let them. Let them all.
I look around the recreation chambers, at the others trying to relax. McAdams putters with the synthetron; Hadig reviews the theater tapes; and, here, and there, they recline, chatter, play the games, and stare up at the ceiling in their private musings. And how many more occupy the bedchambers— how many couples lie beyond those innocuous metal doors, grasping at each other in their fumbling sweaty embraces?
Simpleminded pursuits. Animal passions. They are unthinking sheep. I despise them all.
I see Yamada before a game console, working the controls with a tight-lipped frustration. I go over to him.
“Hello, Yamada,” I say. “Trying to relax? Easing your mind?”
His hands jerk, startled; he looks up at me, then at the board, then curses and strikes it with his fist. But the screen is quite strong—protected by transparent duraplast—and remains unharmed. The glow from the word error filling the screen continues to bathe Yamada’s face.
“Stupid game,” he mutters. “Stupid. Like everything else here.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Good that you’ve finally realized it. Better that than the mindless existence these others lead.”
I reach out to him, but he spins out of my grasp and faces me.
“The others. Yes, what about the others?” His expression is a mixture of rage and frustration. “Must I stand apart? Must I always remain aloof? Isn’t there a way I can be closer to them?”
“Not if they continue to be blind to the truth.”
“Truth? What do you mean when you say ‘truth’? This flight is the truth. We’re here on this ship for a purpose; we have to face that. In order for the mission to succeed, we need to maintain balance and harmony, and to cooperate—”
“Don’t tell me about this mission.” I speak with contempt. “They’ve fooled us all, putting us on a journey to nowhere. Where does this flight take us? Do you know? Does anyone? No, only the Stables. They’re our gods, ruling our lives, our sleeping hours, even—yes, even our dreams. And we obey them, oh so meekly and without question.
“But no more. Not if we become aware. Like me. And you. And the others before you. We don’t have to follow their orders anymore. We can do as we please. Isn’t that better than before, Yamada?” I lean close to him, grinning, with that last question.
He stands up abruptly, backing away from me. “I don’t know—I have to think.” His hands flutter in agitation, and he glances at the floor, his head jerking back and forth nervously. “I have to—to—” But he doesn’t finish—only leaves the recreation chambers, all the others staring after him.
“Yes, Yamada,” I say. “Think. But not for long. You’ll be back.” And I laugh out loud, and don’t care whether they stare at me or not.
* * * *
The flight. The great metal idol of the Ship. The hallowed Rules. Of what importance are they to me? To any of us? Here we sit in the Ship’s swollen belly, held in gestation until it sees fit to give us forth in birthing when we reach the end of our journey. And where will it end? We don’t know. The all-powerful directors haven’t deemed us worthy of that information. Final destination, calculated flight time—all that is locked in nonretrievable memory cores. And in the memories of the Stables.
They are our surrogate directors, these Stables. They assign our tasks, schedule our hours, adjust our leisure periods, correlate our data—moving us about like robots in a shadow play, while they hide their tank-grown bodies behind code-locked doors and govern us from the safety of their vats.
Our only refuge is the dream-sessions. There we can let our fantasies come to life—but only if they are safe, and harmless, and able to be integrated with those of the others in the session. And even here we are all under the careful watch of a Stable.
Careful watch, indeed. How laughable that is—that a blob of gray matter, floating in nutrient juices and with a hundred sensory wires trailing from it, could have the capacity to observe and understand us. That is what makes our Rules. That is what we have to answer to for any violations. Maintain the balance, it tells us—the homeostasis necessary for optimum probability of success of mission. Any upsetting factor will be eliminated; any deviant crew member goes into the tanks. The safety of the flight is all-important.
How I despise them.
If they only knew what really goes on. But they don’t—and they never will, as long as I continue to take the necessary precautions with every dual I undertake. There are only a few of us now. But eventually I will indoctrinate all the crew members—and make them all dependent on me. No longer will I have to endure their contempt—people like Lopez, and Andresen, and Mogotu, sitting there at mealtime, sipping their fizz and ignoring me. Me.
“Words associate, feelings culminate,” says Lopez.
“We wait, not late, for the bait at eight,” says Andresen in turn.
“Come sit by the furnace with your feet in your ears,” Mogotu says triumphantly, falling off his chair, and they all convulse into laughter.
Yamada and I sit at the next table—I quiet and serene, he morose and pensive on my left.
I lean over and whisper, “Perk up, my friend. Let the fizz work. Enjoy. Have fun. Live your life to the fullest.”
He swirls his glass of fizz, still untouched, and stares into it. “How can I when I died the other day?”
“No matter. It’ll probably happen again. Besides, it’s only a dream, isn’t it?”
“But it was real—so real. I could feel the pain, and my life just ebbing away. I—” He abruptly brings the glass to his lips, but changes his mind and lowers it.
“You can always decide to stop,” I say.
He looks at me for several seconds. “I won’t stop,” he says. His voice is low and flat. “Not until I get you. And I will, someday.”
“What is this, Yamada?” calls Lopez from the other table. “Talking to yourself again, eh?”
Yamada’s head jerks in the direction of the others, then he curses, rises suddenly, and stalks off.
“Oh ho,” Lopez says, eyes wide to mock surprise. “The delicate one.”
Their rude laughter fills the dining chamber, but I say nothing and sip my drink. Go on, I think. Ignore me. You won’t be blind long. Your time will come.
Later, Yamada pleads with me to undertake yet another dual session.
“No,” I say. “It’s too soon for you. You’ve hardly recovered from the first one. Look at yourself. See how badly it’s affected you.”
“Damn you,” he shouts, his voice ringing along the corridor. He lowers his voice and says, “You owe this to me. You owe me another chance.”
“In time,” I say. “Do you think you’re the only one? There were others before you.”
“What do I care about them? It’s my chance I’m talking about.” His words become more and more vehement.
“That bad?” I say, feigning concern. “The dull life of the Ship routine getting to you? The larger sessions too tame?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Poor, unbalanced Yamada,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re no different from the others. Don’t you see? All of you have these basic weaknesses that can only be satisfied in an unrestricted fantasy. It was so simple to pick you out during the normal sessions. But you’ll do everything my way, or not at all, for I hold the key.”
Yamada mutters something, then suddenly lunges at me. But I quickly sidestep him, and he whirls to face me, breathing hard.
“Watch it, friend,” I say. “I can easily deny you any time at all.”
“What’s to stop me from trying it with someone else?” he says with barely controlled fury.
“The fact that only I know how to readjust the settings. I’m your only partner. Keep that in mind, till the next time. If there is one.” And I turn and walk away.
* * * *
What
fools they all are! What arrogance they have! Yamada is no different. They all feel that way—superior, stronger, full of conceit. There is no outlet for them to display their bright qualities, except for the duals I set up. How easy it is to appeal to their vanity, then to turn their dreams back on them by playing on their hidden fears. I can only think of them with contempt, and it is with contempt that I treat them, until, in the end, there is nothing left to do but kill them.
“Flex,” I say, pulling the cord tighter around her neck. “Move your hips—faster now. Yes, that’s it.”
Universe 6 - [Anthology] Page 15