The John Varley Reader

by John Varley

  I met the others at the Sugar Shack, where Denver was trying to talk Trigger into taking Tuesday along with us. Tuesday is the hippopotamus that lives on the bayou, in cheerful defiance of any sense of authenticity. Denver had her on a chain and she stood placidly watching us, blinking her piggy little eyes.

  Denver was tickled at the idea of going to Mardi Gras with a hippo named Tuesday, but Trigger pointed out that the museum officials would never let us into New Orleans with the beast. Denver finally conceded, and shooed her back into the swamp. The four of us went down the road and out of the bayou, boarded the central slidewalk, and soon arrived in the city center.

  There are twenty-five theaters in the CHM. Usually about half of them are operating while the others are being prepared for a showing. Mardi Gras ’56 is a ten-year-old show, and generally opens twice a year for a two-week run. It’s one of the more popular environments.

  We went to the orientation room and listened to the lecture on how to behave, then were given our costumes. That’s the part I like the least. Up until about the beginning of the twenty-first century, clothing was designed with two main purposes in mind: modesty, and torture. If it didn’t hurt, it needed redesigning. It’s no wonder they killed each other all the time. Anybody would, with high gravity and hard shoes mutilating their feet.

  “We’ll be beatniks,” Trigger said, looking over the racks of period clothing. “They were more informal, and it’s accurate enough to get by. There were beatniks in the French Quarter.”

  Informality was fine with us. The girls didn’t need bras, and we could choose between leather sandals or canvas sneakers for our feet. I can’t say I cared much for something called Levi’s, though. They were scratchy, and pinched my balls. But after visiting Victorian England—I had been female at the time, and what those people made girls wear would shock most Lunarians silly—anything was an improvement.

  Entry to the holotorium was through the restrooms at the back of a nightclub that fronted on Bourbon Street. Boys to the left, girls to the right. I think they did that to impress you right away that you were going back into the past, when people did things in strange ways. There was a third restroom, actually, but it was only a false door with the word “colored” on it. It was impossible to sort that out anymore.

  I like the music of 1956 New Orleans. There are many varieties, all sounding similar for modern ears with their simple rhythms and blends of wind, string, and percussion. The generic term is jazz, and the particular kind of jazz that afternoon in the tiny, smoke-filled basement was called dixieland. It’s dominated by two instruments called a clarinet and a trumpet, each improvising a simple melody while the rest of the band makes as much racket as it can.

  We had a brief difference of opinion. Cathay and Trigger wanted me and Denver to stay with them, presumably so they could use any opportunity to show off their superior knowledge—translation: “educate” us. After all, they were teachers. Denver didn’t seem to mind, but I wanted to be alone.

  I solved the problem by walking out onto the street, reasoning that they could follow me if they wished. They didn’t, and I was free to explore on my own.

  Going to a holotorium show isn’t like the sensies, where you sit in a chair and the action come to you. And it’s not like a disneyland, where everything is real and you just poke around. You have to be careful not to ruin the illusion.

  The majority of the set, most of the props, and all of the actors are holograms. Any real people you meet are costumed visitors, like yourself. What they did in the case of New Orleans was to lay out a grid of streets and surface them as they had actually been. Then they put up two-meter walls where the buildings would be, and concealed them behind holos of old buildings. A few of the doors in these buildings were real, and if you went in you would find the interiors authentic down to the last detail. Most just concealed empty blocks.

  You don’t go there to play childish tricks with holos, that’s contrary to the whole spirit of the place. You find yourself being careful not to shatter the illusion. You don’t talk to people unless you’re sure they’re real, and you don’t touch things until you’ve studied them carefully. No holo can stand up to a close scrutiny, so you can separate the real from the illusion if you try.

  The stage was a large one. They had reproduced the French Quarter—or Vieux Carre—from the Mississippi River to Rampart Street, and from Canal Street to a point about six blocks east. Standing on Canal and looking across, the city seemed to teem with life for many kilometers in the distance, though I knew there was a wall right down the yellow line in the middle.

  New Orleans ’56 begins at noon on Shrove Tuesday and carries on far into the night. We had arrived in late afternoon, with the sun starting to cast long shadows over the endless parades. I wanted to see the place before it got dark.

  I went down Canal for a few blocks, looking into the “windows.” There was an old flat movie theater with a marquee announcing From Here to Eternity, winner of something called an Oscar. I saw that it was a real place and thought about going in, but I’m afraid those old 2-D movies leave me flat, no matter how good Trigger says they are.

  So instead I walked the streets, observing, thinking about writing a story set in old New Orleans.

  That’s why I hadn’t wanted to stay and listen to the music with the others. Music is not something you can really put into a story, beyond a bare description of what it sounds like, who is playing it, and where it is being heard. In the same way, going to the flat movie would not have been very productive.

  But the streets, the streets! There was something to study.

  The pattern was the same as old London, but all the details had changed. The roads were filled with horseless carriages, great square metal boxes that must have been the most inefficient means of transport ever devised. Nothing was truly straight, nor very clean. To walk the streets was to risk broken toes or cuts on the soles of the feet. No wonder they wore thick shoes.

  I knew what the red and green lights were for, and the lines painted on the road. But what about the rows of timing devices on each side of the street? What was the red metal object that a dog was urinating on? What did the honking of the car horns signify? Why were wires suspended overhead on wooden poles? I ignored the Mardi Gras festivities and spent a pleasant hour looking for the answers to these and many other questions.

  What a challenge to write of this time, to make the story a slice of life, where these outlandish things seemed normal and reasonable. I visualized one of the inhabitants of New Orleans transplanted to Archimedes, and tried to picture her confusion.

  Then I saw Trilby, and forgot about New Orleans.

  She was behind the wheel of a 1955 Ford station wagon. I know this because when she motioned for me to join her, slid over on the seat, and let me drive, there was a gold plaque on the bulkhead just below the forward viewport.

  “How do you run this thing?” I asked, flustered and trying not to show it. Something was wrong. Maybe I’d known it all along, and was only now admitting it.

  “You press that pedal to go, and that one to stop. But mostly it controls itself.” The car proved her right by accelerating into the stream of holographic traffic. I put my hands on the wheel, found that I could guide the car within limits. As long as I wasn’t going to hit anything it let me be the boss.

  “What brings you here?” I asked, trying for a light voice.

  “I went by your home,” she said. “Your mother told me where you were.”

  “I don’t recall telling you where I live.”

  She shrugged, not seeming too happy. “It’s not hard to find out.”

  “I . . . I mean, you didn’t . . .” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to say it, but decided I’d better go on. “We didn’t meet by accident, did we?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re my new teacher.”

  She sighed. “That’s an oversimplification. I want to be one of your new teachers. Cathay recommended me to your mother, and
when I talked to her, she was interested. I was just going to get a look at you on the train, but when I saw you looking at me . . . well, I thought I’d give you something to remember me by.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked away. “Darcy told me today that it might have been a mistake. I guess I judged you wrong.”

  “It’s nice to hear that you can make a mistake.”

  “I guess I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t like to feel predictable. I don’t like to be toyed with. Maybe it hurts my dignity. Maybe I get enough of that from Trigger and Cathay. All the lessons.”

  “I see it now,” she sighed. “It’s a common enough reaction, in bright children, they—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must. There’s no use hiding from you that my business is to know people, and especially children. That means the phases they go through, including the phase when they like to imagine they don’t go through phases. I didn’t recognize it in you, so I made a mistake.”

  I sighed. “What does it matter, anyway? Darcy likes you. That means you’ll be my new teacher, doesn’t it?”

  “It does not. Not with me, anyway. I’m one of the first big choices you get to make with no adult interference.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been interested enough to find out what’s ahead of you in your education. At the risk of offending you again, I’ll say it’s a common response in people your age. You’re only a month from graduating away from Cathay, ready to start more goal-oriented aspects of learning, and you haven’t bothered to find what that will entail. Did you ever stop to think what’s between you and becoming a writer?”

  “I’m a writer, already,” I said, getting angry for the first time. Before that, I’d been feeling hurt more than anything. “I can use the language, and I watch people. Maybe I don’t have much experience yet, but I’ll get it with or without you. I don’t even have to have teachers at all anymore. At least I know that much.”

  “You’re right, of course. But you’ve known your mother intended to pay for your advanced education. Didn’t you ever wonder what it would be like?”

  “Why should I? Did you ever think that I’m not interested because it just doesn’t seem important? I mean, who’s asked me what I felt about any of this up to now? What kind of stake do I have in it? Everyone seems to know what’s best for me. Why should I be consulted?”

  “Because you’re nearly an adult now. My job, if you hire me, will be to ease the transition. When you’ve made it, you’ll know, and you won’t need me anymore. This isn’t primary phase. Your teacher’s job back then was to work with your mother to teach you the basic ways of getting along with people and society, and to cram your little head with all the skills a seven-year-old can learn. They taught you language, dexterity, reasoning, responsibility, hygiene, and not to go in an airlock without your suit. They took an ego-centered infant and turned him into a moral being. It’s a tough job; so little, and you could have been a sociopath.

  “Then they handed you to Cathay. You didn’t mind. He showed up one day, just another playmate your own age. You were happy and trusting. He guided you very gently, letting your natural curiosity do most of the work. He discovered your creative abilities before you had any inkling of them, and he saw to it that you had interesting things to think about, to react to, to experience.

  “But lately you’ve been a problem for him. Not your fault, nor his, but you no longer want anyone to guide you. You want to do it on your own. You have vague feelings of being manipulated.”

  “Which is not surprising,” I put in. “I am being manipulated.”

  “That’s true, so far as it goes. But what would you have Cathay do? Leave everything to chance?”

  “That’s beside the point. We’re talking about my feelings now, and what I feel is you were dishonest with me. You made me feel like a fool. I thought what happened was . . . was spontaneous, you know? Like a fairy tale.”

  She gave me a funny smile. “What an odd way to put it. What I intended to do was allow you to live out a wet dream.”

  I guess the easy way she admitted that threw me off my stride. I should have told her there was no real difference. Both fairy tales and wet dreams were visions of impossibly convenient worlds, worlds where things go the way you want them to go. But I didn’t say anything.

  “I realize now that it was the wrong way to approach you. Frankly, I thought you’d enjoy it. Wait, let me change that. I thought you’d enjoy it even after you knew. I submit that you did enjoy it while it was happening.”

  I once again said nothing, because it was the simple truth. But it wasn’t the point.

  She waited, watching me as I steered the old car through traffic. Then she sighed, and looked out the viewport again.

  “Well, it’s up to you. As I said, things won’t be planned for you anymore. You’ll have to decide if you want me to be your teacher.”

  “Just what is it you teach?” I asked.

  “Sex is part of it.”

  I started to say something, but was stopped by the novel idea that someone thought she could—or needed to—teach me about sex. I mean, what was there to learn?

  I hardly noticed it when the car stopped on its own, was shaken out of my musings only when a man in blue stuck his head in the window beside me. There was a woman behind him, dressed the same way. I realized they were wearing 1956 police uniforms.

  “Are you Argus-Darcy-Meric?” the man asked.

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “My name is Jordan. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come with me. A complaint has been filed against you. You are under arrest.”

  Arrest. To take into custody by legal authority. Or, to stop suddenly.

  Being arrested contains both meanings, it seems to me. You’re in custody, and your life comes to a temporary halt. Whatever you were doing is interrupted, and suddenly only one thing is important.

  I wasn’t too worried until I realized what that one thing must be. After all, everyone gets arrested. You can’t avoid it in a society of laws. Filing a complaint against someone is the best way of keeping a situation from turning violent. I had been arrested three times before, been found guilty twice. Once I had filed a complaint myself, and had it sustained.

  But this time promised to be different. I doubted I was being hauled in for some petty violation I had not even been aware of. No, this had to be the pregnant woman, and the mud. I had a while to think about that as I sat in the bare-walled holding cell, time to get really worried. We had physically attacked her, there was no doubt about that.

  I was finally summoned to the examination chamber. It was larger than the ones I had been in before. Those occasions had involved just two people. This room had five wedge-shaped glass booths, each with a chair inside, arranged so that we faced each other in a circle. I was shown into the only empty one and I looked around at Denver, Cathay, Trigger . . . and the woman.

  It’s quiet in the booths. You are very much alone.

  I saw Denver’s mother come in and sit behind her daughter, outside the booth. Turning around, I saw Darcy. To my surprise, Trilby was with her.

  “Hello, Argus.” The Central Computer’s voice filled the tiny booth, mellow as usual but without the reassuring resonance.

  “Hello, CC.” I tried to keep it light, but of course the CC was not fooled.

  “I’m sorry to see you in so much trouble.”

  “Is it real bad?”

  “The charge certainly is, there’s no sense denying that. I can’t comment on the testimony, or on your chances. But you know you’re facing a possible mandatory death penalty, with automatic reprieve.”

  I was aware of it. I also knew it was rarely enforced against someone my age. But what about Cathay and Trigger?

  I’ve never cared for that term “reprieve.” It somehow sounds like they aren’t going to kill you, but they are. Very, very dead. The catch
is that they then grow a clone from a cell of your body, force it quickly to maturity, and play your recorded memories back into it. So someone very like you will go on, but you will be dead. In my case, the last recording had been taken three years ago. I was facing the loss of almost a quarter of my life. If it was found necessary to kill me, the new Argus—not me, but someone with my memories and my name—would start over at age ten. He would be watched closely, be given special guidance to insure he didn’t grow into the sociopath I had become.

  The CC launched into the legally required explanation of what was going on: my rights, the procedures, the charges, the possible penalties, what would happen if a determination led the CC to believe the offense might be a capital one.

  “Whew!” the CC breathed, lapsing back into the informal speech it knew I preferred. “Now that we have that out of the way, I can tell you that, from the preliminary reports, I think you’re going to be okay.”

  “You’re not just saying that?” I was sincerely frightened. The enormity of it had now had time to sink in.

  “You know me better than that.”

  The testimony began. The complainant went first, and I learned her name was Tiona. The first round was free-form; we could say anything we wanted to, and she had some pretty nasty things to say about all four of us.

  The CC went around the circle asking each of us what had happened. I thought Cathay told it most accurately, except for myself. During the course of the statements both Cathay and Trigger filed counter-complaints. The CC noted them. They would be tried simultaneously.

  There was a short pause, then the CC spoke in its “official” voice.

  “In the matters of Argus and Denver: testimony fails to establish premeditation, but neither deny the physical description of the incident, and a finding of Assault is returned. Mitigating factors of age and consequent inability to combat the mob aspect of the situation are entered, with the following result: the charge is reduced to Willful Deprivation of Dignity.