Beyond Flesh

by Gardner Dozois

“Forever,” said the mech.

  “Forever’s a long time. Let’s break it down into smaller units. In the year 2500, she’ll be doing what?”

  “Holding down a job,” the granddaughter said. “Designing art molecules, maybe, or scripting recreational hallucinations. She’ll be deeply involved in the culture. She’ll have lots of friends she cares about passionately, and maybe a husband or wife or two.”

  “Who will grow old,” the mech said, “or wear out. Who will die.”

  “She’ll mourn them, and move on.”

  “The year 3500. The collapse of civilization,” the old man said with gusto. “What will she do then?”

  “She’ll have made preparations, of course. If there is radiation or toxins in the environment, she’ll have made her systems immune from their effects. And she’ll make herself useful to the survivors. In the seeming of an old woman, she’ll teach the healing arts. Now and then, she might drop a hint about this and that. She’ll have a data base squirreled away somewhere containing everything they’ll have lost. Slowly, she’ll guide them back to civilization. But a gentler one, this time. One less likely to tear itself apart.”

  “The year one million. Humanity evolves beyond anything we can currently imagine. How does she respond?”

  “She mimics their evolution. No—she’s been shaping their evolution! She wants a risk-free method of going to the stars, so she’s been encouraging a type of being that would strongly desire such a thing. She isn’t among the first to use it, though. She waits a few hundred generations for it to prove itself.”

  The mech, who had been listening in fascinated silence, now said, “Suppose that never happens. What if starflight will always remain difficult and perilous? What then?”

  “It was once thought that people would never fly. So much that looks impossible becomes simple if you only wait.”

  “Four billion years. The sun uses up its hydrogen, its core collapses, helium fusion begins, and it balloons into a red giant. Earth is vaporized.”

  “Oh, she’ll be somewhere else by then. That’s easy.”

  “Five billion years. The Milky Way collides with the Andromeda Galaxy and the whole neighborhood is full of high-energy radiation and exploding stars.”

  “That’s trickier. She’s going to have to either prevent that or move a few million light-years away to a friendlier galaxy. But she’ll have time enough to prepare and to assemble the tools. I have faith that she’ll prove equal to the task.”

  “One trillion years. The last stars gutter out. Only black holes remain.”

  “Black holes are a terrific source of energy. No problem.”

  “One-point-six googol years.”

  “Googol?”

  “That’s ten raised to the hundredth power—one followed by a hundred zeros. The heat-death of the universe. How does she survive it?”

  “She’ll have seen it coming for a long time,” the mech said. “When the last black holes dissolve, she’ll have to do without a source of free energy. Maybe she could take and rewrite her personality into the physical constants of the dying universe. Would that be possible?”

  “Oh, perhaps. But I really think that the lifetime of the universe is long enough for anyone,” the granddaughter said. “Mustn’t get greedy.”

  “Maybe so,” the old man said thoughtfully. “Maybe so.” Then, to the mech, “Well, there you have it: a glimpse into the future, and a brief biography of the first immortal, ending, alas, with her death. Now tell me. Knowing that you contributed something, however small, to that accomplishment—wouldn’t that be enough?”

  “No,” Jack said. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  Brandt made a face. “Well, you’re young. Let me ask you this: Has it been a good life so far? All in all?”

  “Not that good. Not good enough.”

  For a long moment, the old man was silent. Then, “Thank you,” he said. “I valued our conversation.” The interest went out of his eyes and he looked away.

  Uncertainly, Jack looked at the granddaughter, who smiled and shrugged. “He’s like that,” she said apologetically. “He’s old. His enthusiasms wax and wane with his chemical balances. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I see.” The young man stood. Hesitantly, he made his way to the door.

  At the door, he glanced back and saw the granddaughter tearing her linen napkin into little bits and eating the shreds, delicately washing them down with sips of wine.

  WINEMASTER

  Robert Reed

  Robert Reed sold his first story in 1986, and quickly established himself as a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov’s Science Fiction, as well as selling many stories to Science Fiction Age, Universe, New Destinies, Tomorrow, Synergy, Starlight, and elsewhere. Reed may be one of the most prolific of today’s young writers, particularly at short fiction lengths, seriously rivaled for that position only by authors such as Stephen Baxter and Brian Stableford. And—also like Baxter and Stableford—he manages to keep up a very high standard of quality while being prolific, something that is not at all easy to do. Reed stories such as “Sister Alice,” “Brother Perfect,” “Decency,” “Savior,” “The Remoras,” “Chrysalis,” “Whiptail,” “The Utility Man,” “Marrow,” “Birth Day, “ “Blind,” “The Toad of Heaven,” “Stride,” “The Shape of Everything,” “Guest of Honor,” “Waging Good,” and “Killing the Morrow,” among at least a half-dozen others equally as strong, count as among some of the best short work produced by anyone in the ’80s and ’90s. Nor is he non-prolific as a novelist, having turned out eight novels since the end of the ’80s, including The Lee Shore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The Remarkables, Down the Bright Way, Beyond the Veil of Stars, An Exaltation of Larks, and, most recently, Beneath the Gated Sky. His reputation can only grow as the years go by, and I suspect that he will become one of the Big Names of the first decade of the new century that lies ahead. Some of the best of his short work was collected in The Dragons of Springplace. His most recent book is Marrow, a novel-length version of his 1997 novella of the same name. Reed lives in Lincoln, Nebraska.

  In the surprising story that follows, he shows us that once you have moved beyond flesh, it really does become possible to hide whole worlds in a grain of sand—or sometimes in even odder disguises

  ###

  The stranger pulled into the Quick Shop outside St. Joe. Nothing was remarkable about him, which was why he caught Blaine’s eye. Taller than average, but not much, he was thin in an unfit way, with black hair and a handsome, almost pretty face, fine bones floating beneath skin that didn’t often get into the sun. Which meant nothing, of course. A lot of people were staying indoors lately. Blaine watched him climb out of an enormous Buick—a satin black ’17 Gibraltar that had seen better days—and after a lazy long stretch, he passed his e-card through the proper slot and inserted the nozzle, filling the Buick’s cavernous tank with ten cold gallons of gasoline and corn alcohol.

  By then, Blaine had run his plates.

  The Buick was registered to Julian Winemaster from Wichita, Kansas; twenty-nine accompanying photographs showed pretty much the same fellow who stood sixty feet away.

  His entire bio was artfully bland, rigorously seamless. Winemaster was an accountant, divorced and forty-four years old, with O negative blood and five neo-enamel fillings imbedded in otherwise perfect teeth, plus a small pink birthmark somewhere on his right buttock. Useless details, Blaine reminded himself, and with that he lifted his gaze, watching the traveler remove the dripping nozzle, then cradling it on the pump with the overdone delicacy of a man ill at ease with machinery.

  Behind thick fingers, Blaine was smiling.

  Winemaster moved with a stiff, road-weary gait, walking into the convenience store and asking, “Ma’am? Where’s your rest room, please?”

  The clerk ignored him.

  It was the men’s room that called out, “Over here, sir.”

  Sitting in one of the hard plastic boo
ths, Blaine had a good view of everything. A pair of militia boys in their brown uniforms were the only others in the store. They’d been gawking at dirty comic books, minding their own business until they heard Winemaster’s voice. Politeness had lately become a suspicious behavior. Blaine watched the boys look up and elbow each other, putting their sights on the stranger. And he watched Winemaster’s walk, the expression on his pretty frail face, and a myriad of subtleties, trying to decide what he should do, and when, and what he should avoid at all costs.

  It was a bright, warm summer morning, but there hadn’t been twenty cars in the last hour, most of them sporting local plates.

  The militia boys blanked their comics and put them on the wrong shelves, then walked out the front door, one saying, “Bye now,” as he passed the clerk.

  “Sure,” the old woman growled, never taking her eyes off a tiny television screen.

  The boys might simply be doing their job, which meant they were harmless. But the state militias were full of bullies who’d found a career in the last couple years. There was no sweeter sport than terrorizing the innocent traveler, because, of course, the genuine refugee was too rare of a prospect to hope for.

  Winemaster vanished into the men’s room.

  The boys approached the black Buick, doing a little dance and showing each other their malicious smiles. Thugs, Blaine decided. Which meant that he had to do something now. Before Winemaster, or whoever he was, came walking out of the toilet.

  Blaine climbed out of the tiny booth.

  He didn’t waste breath on the clerk.

  Crossing the greasy pavement, he watched the boys using a police-issue lock pick. The front passenger door opened, and both of them stepped back, trying to keep a safe distance. With equipment that went out of date last spring, one boy probed the interior air, the cultured leather seats, the dashboard and floorboard and even an empty pop can standing in its cradle. “Naw, it’s okay,” he was saying. “Get on in there.”

  His partner had a knife. The curled blade was intended for upholstery. Nothing could be learned by ripping apart the seats, but it was a fun game nonetheless.

  “Get in there,” the first boy repeated.

  The second one started to say, “I’m getting in—” But he happened to glance over his shoulder, seeing Blaine coming, and he turned fast, lifting the knife, seriously thinking about slashing the interloper.

  Blaine was bigger than some pairs of men.

  He was fat, but in a powerful, focused way. And he was quick, grabbing the knife hand and giving a hard squeeze, then flinging the boy against the car’s composite body, the knife dropping and Blaine kicking it out of reach, then giving the boy a second shove, harder this time, telling both of them, “That’s enough, gentlemen.”

  “Who the fuck are you—?” they sputtered, in a chorus.

  Blaine produced a badge and ID bracelet. “Read these,” he suggested coldly. Then he told them, “You’re welcome to check me out. But we do that somewhere else. Right now, this man’s door is closed and locked, and the three of us are hiding. Understand?”

  The boy with the surveillance equipment said, “We’re within our rights.”

  Blaine shut and locked the door for them, saying, “This way. Stay with me.”

  “One of their Nests got hit last night,” said the other boy, walking. “We’ve been checking people all morning!”

  “Find any?”

  “Not yet—”

  “With that old gear, you won’t.”

  “We’ve caught them before,” said the first boy, defending his equipment. His status. “A couple, three different carloads . . .”

  Maybe they did, but that was months ago. Generations ago.

  “Is that yours?” asked Blaine. He pointed at a battered Python, saying, “It better be. We’re getting inside.”

  The boys climbed in front. Blaine filled the backseat, sweating from exertion and the car’s brutal heat.

  “What are we doing?” one of them asked.

  “We’re waiting. Is that all right with you?”

  “I guess.”

  But his partner couldn’t just sit. He turned and glared at Blaine, saying, “You’d better be Federal.”

  “And if not?” Blaine inquired, without interest.

  No appropriate threat came to mind. So the boy simply growled and repeated himself. “You’d just better be. That’s all I’m saying.”

  A moment later, Winemaster strolled out of the store. Nothing in his stance or pace implied worry. He was carrying a can of pop and a red bag of corn nuts. Resting his purchases on the roof, he punched in his code to unlock the driver’s door, then gave the area a quick glance. It was the glance of someone who never intended to return here, even for gasoline—a dismissive expression coupled with a tangible sense of relief.

  That’s when Blaine knew.

  When he was suddenly and perfectly sure.

  The boys saw nothing incriminating. But the one who’d held the knife was quick to say the obvious: A man with Blaine’s credentials could get his hands on the best EM sniffers in the world. “Gel them,” he said, “and we’ll find out what he is!”

  But Blaine already felt sure.

  “He’s going,” the other one sputtered. “Look, he’s gone—!”

  The black car was being driven by a cautious man. Winemaster braked and looked both ways twice before he pulled out onto the access road, accelerating gradually toward I-29, taking no chances even though there was precious little traffic to avoid as he drove north.

  “Fuck,” said the boys, in one voice.

  Using a calm-stick, Blaine touched one of the thick necks; without fuss, the boy slumped forward.

  “Hey!” snapped his partner. “What are you doing—?”

  “What’s best,” Blaine whispered afterward. Then he lowered the Python’s windows and destroyed its ignition system, leaving the pair asleep in the front seats. And because the moment required justice, he took one of their hands each, shoving them inside the other’s pants, then he laid their heads together, in the pose of lovers.

  ###

  The other refugees pampered Julian: His cabin wasn’t only larger than almost anyone else’s, it wore extra shielding to help protect him from malicious high-energy particles. Power and shaping rations didn’t apply to him, although he rarely indulged himself, and a platoon of autodocs did nothing but watch over his health. In public, strangers applauded him. In private, he could select almost any woman as a lover. And in bed, in the afterglow of whatever passed for sex at that particular moment, Julian could tell his stories, and his lovers would listen as if enraptured, even if they already knew each story by heart.

  No one on board was more ancient than Julian. Even before the attack, he was one of the few residents of the Shawnee Nest who could honestly claim to be DNA-made, his life beginning as a single wet cell inside a cavernous womb, a bloody birth followed by sloppy growth that culminated in a vast and slow and decidedly old-fashioned human being.

  Julian was nearly forty when Transmutations became an expensive possibility.

  Thrill seekers and the terminally ill were among the first to undergo the process, their primitive bodies and bloated minds consumed by the microchines, the sum total of their selves compressed into tiny robotic bodies meant to duplicate every normal human function.

  Being pioneers, they endured heavy losses. Modest errors during the Transmutation meant instant death. Tiny errors meant a pathetic and incurable insanity. The fledging Nests were exposed to heavy nuclei and subtle EM effects, all potentially disastrous. And of course there were the early terrorist attacks, crude and disorganized, but extracting a horrible toll nonetheless.

  The survivors were tiny and swift, and wiser, and they were able to streamline the Transmutation, making it more accurate and affordable, and to a degree, routine.

  “I was forty-three when I left the other world,” Julian told his lover of the moment. He always used those words, framing them with defiance and
a hint of bittersweet longing. “It was three days and two hours before the President signed the McGrugger Bill.”

  That’s when Transmutation became illegal in the United States.

  His lover did her math, then with a genuine awe said, “That was five hundred and twelve days ago.”

  A day was worth years inside a Nest.

  “Tell me,” she whispered. “Why did you do it? Were you bored? Or sick?”

  “Don’t you know why?” he inquired.

  “No,” she squeaked.

  Julian was famous, but sometimes his life wasn’t. And why should the youngsters know his biography by heart?

  “I don’t want to force you,” the woman told him. “If you’d rather not talk about it, I’ll understand.”

  Julian didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, he climbed from his bed and crossed the cabin. His kitchenette had created a drink—hydrocarbons mixed with nanochines that were nutritious, appetizing, and pleasantly narcotic. Food and drink were not necessities, but habits and they were enjoying a renewed popularity. Like any credible Methuselah, Julian was often the model on how best to do archaic oddities.

  The woman lay on top of the bed. Her current body was a hologram laid over her mechanical core. It was a traditional body, probably worn for his pleasure; no wings or fins or even more bizarre adornments. As it happened, she had selected a build and complexion not very different from Julian’s first wife. A coincidence? Or had she actually done research, and she already knew the answers to her prying questions?

  “Sip,” he advised, handing her the drink.

  Their hands brushed against one another, shaped light touching its equivalent. What each felt was a synthetically generated sensation, basically human, intended to feel like warm, water-filled skin.

  The girl obeyed, smiling as she sipped, an audible slurp amusing both of them.

  “Here,” she said, handing back the glass. “Your turn.”

  Julian glanced at the far wall. A universal window gave them a live view of the Quick Shop, the image supplied by one of the multitude of cameras hidden on the Buick’s exterior. What held his interest was the old muscle car, a Python with smoked glass windows. When he first saw that car, three heads were visible. Now two of the heads had gradually dropped out of sight, with the remaining man still sitting in back, big eyes opened wide, making no attempt to hide his interest in the Buick’s driver.