Hollow World

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What do you mean, Vin makes it?”

  “Like a sculptor chisels beauty out of a block of stone—that’s what Vin does. Only Vin’s stone is the whole of the earth—the entire lithosphere. We all live in Vin’s creation of height, width, form, and function. Not just Vin, there are many renowned artists in all kinds of different schools. Like the ones who make the falselight or water artists—masters of reflection, drip, and splash.” Pax recited this with a cadence and little dance step. “It’s sort of their motto. All artists are highly revered for their talents. They’re more respected than anyone, except the geomancers, of course.”

  “What’s a geomancer?”

  Pax looked at him and sighed. “Alva, what did you do all the time I was gone?”

  “I showed Ellis Rogers where the shower was. Did you expect me to explain the history of the world during a morning bath? And since I have your attention, dinner is served.”

  The dining room was like entering Dracula’s castle. A long marble table set with crystal stemware and porcelain plates was illuminated by candelabras and surrounded by dark walls of carved paneling. At the far end was a massive pipe organ that dominated the room and began playing a dramatic fugue the moment they entered. It began deafeningly loud but, after a grimace from Pax, dropped to a whisper. None of the “outside” light reached this darkened chamber that, with its cathedral ceiling and vaulted supports, reminded Ellis of a church nave.

  “Alva?” Pax said.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Can we have something a little less morbid?”

  “Vin always likes—”

  “I know, but we have a guest. How about something from that Big Sky series you like?”

  “Really? Okay!”

  The paneling vanished, as did the pipe organ and ceiling. In their place, Ellis stood amid a field of spring flowers in a valley surrounded by distant mountains and capped with a vast sky. Gorgeous thunderhead clouds billowed up in the distance as the sun drifted toward the horizon. The grand table was replaced with a rustic picnic bench covered by a traditional red-and-white-checkered cloth and set with ceramic cups and a wicker basket. Ellis held still, disoriented and uncertain what had just happened. Was he still in the dining room? He figured he was, imagined Pax had just adjusted the decorations like he might have dimmed the lights in his own house, but he wasn’t just seeing it. Ellis could feel the breeze, smell the sunbaked grass, and hear the distant drone of a cicada.

  “Are we still in your house?”

  Pax looked amused. “Yes. It’s just that Vin’s taste tends to run a bit more heavy—more serious—than I prefer.”

  A shadow crossing the table startled Ellis, and he looked up to see a hawk. “Whoa. That’s really cool.”

  Pax looked concerned. “Alva, turn down the breeze, please.”

  Ellis laughed. “Oh—no. I didn’t mean…I meant it is very nice.”

  “Twentieth-century slang, Pax,” Alva put in, and Ellis realized she sounded a lot like his aunt Virginia. “Cool is a respected aesthetic, what we might refer to as grilling or magnetic.”

  “Really?” Pax said, looking dubious, then turned and began walking across the field. “Let me grab the meal and see where Vin got off to.”

  Ellis took a seat at the picnic table. When he looked back, Pax was gone, leaving him alone in the landscape.

  In all directions the flat land extended out to a distant horizon. He was in a John Ford movie or a Windows screen saver and couldn’t stop gawking. Ellis had spent the majority of his life in Michigan, mostly around Detroit, never able to get away from work. Aside from M.I.T., his one big trip was his honeymoon in Cancun. He’d always planned to go places, but never really had until he pressed the button on the time machine. Even then, he had remained in Detroit, but was now supposedly somewhere under Paris. None of that mattered. Perched on that picnic table, he knew he was a long way from home.

  A blade of grass brushed Ellis’s leg. He snapped it off and rolled the plant between his fingers, feeling the moisture in it. He held it to his nose and smelled the scent of summer lawn cuttings. How is this possible?

  “Vin’s not feeling well.” Pax appeared again, walking back through the tall grass and holding a tray of food, the frock coat whipping with the breeze.

  I bet. Ellis tried not to jump to conclusions, but he didn’t like Vin. “Just us then?”

  Pax nodded and set two steaming plates on the picnic table in front of them filled with pasta topped with a white sauce laden with minced vegetables. Ellis waited to see if Pax would be saying grace. Not everyone did, and it wasn’t as big a deal as it had once been.

  Pax began eating without a pause.

  Ellis looked down at his plate and whispered, “Thanks.” He wasn’t really thanking God for the meal or even the miracle of surviving the time travel. He just appreciated that God had been there to listen when he needed Him the most. Maybe that was God’s whole purpose—a hand to hold. Then again, just the day before he had expected to die of starvation, and if anything was likely to make him feel religious it was the miracles of the last two days. And there was something else—in this brave new world, God was the only one he knew.

  “Whatever happened with the murder?” Ellis asked.

  “Cha arranged for the disposal of the body,” Pax said. “I spent the rest of the day and most of the night with those students who witnessed the scene to make sure they would have no lingering trauma. They were upset, obviously, but they’ll be fine.”

  “Wow. Are people that fragile nowadays?”

  “Murders might have been commonplace in your time, Ellis Rogers, but we don’t have them. And with the various safety features, even accidents are extremely rare. Death is alien to us.”

  “You mentioned that before. But how is that possible? What about old age and disease?”

  Pax sucked in a noodle and reached for one of the red-checkered napkins. “The ISP eliminated diseases hundreds of years ago—aging took longer, of course. They only slowed it in the previous versions, but it was eradicated in this last pattern.”

  “Pattern?”

  “Ah…are you familiar with genetics? DNA?”

  “I know of them. They completed work on the Human Genome Project—mapping genes—a few years back, but were just starting work interpreting the data when I left.”

  “Right, okay. So, in a way the sequence of base pairs that make up DNA is like a recipe. Everyone—back in your day, I assume—was a little different, right?”

  He nodded. “Like snowflakes.”

  “Well, the ISP tinkered with the sequencing, adjusting it mostly because of the epidemics that occurred back in the 2150s. All the drugs they had used stopped working, I guess, or the diseases got stronger—I don’t know. Anyway, the ISP started altering DNA to make people more resistant to diseases, which caused all kinds of conflicts with people making drugs and other people who were against tinkering at all—well, it was a big deal. But anyway—after centuries of adjustments, the ISP unlocked the perfect pattern, which you see before you.” Pax smiled and made a little seated flourish and bow. “Disease is just a horror of the distant past, and so is aging.”

  “You never get—how old are you?”

  “Me? I’m only three hundred and sixty. I’m a baby. Part of the Accident Generation.” Pax took another swallow of food as Ellis tried to figure out what that meant.

  Pax sighed and took a drink. “There’s so much you don’t know. I had hoped Alva would have taken some time to—”

  A gust of wind blew Pax’s bowler hat off. “Real mature, Alva.”

  Pax retrieved the hat and sat back down, keeping one hand on the brim.

  “But if no one ever dies, isn’t that a problem? With overpopulation, I mean,” Ellis asked.

  “There was a population crisis in the middle of the twenty-third century.”

  Ellis nodded, remembering Charlton Heston in Soylent Green.

  “But not overpopulation—it was because of a depleting pop
ulation. This was before the ISP wiped out death and disease, you understand. People were still dying, but fewer and fewer children were being born each year—a real emergency. Everyone was content and fulfilled and didn’t feel the need. Most people had no children, and those who did had just one, which meant the world population was diminishing with each generation. So the ISP stepped in and filled the void.”

  “Manufacturing people?”

  Pax looked surprised at the comment. “Creating new people from DNA patterns.”

  “And the religious community just let that happen?”

  This appeared to catch Pax by surprise, resulting in an expression that was part confusion, part suspicion, as if Pax felt he was being intentionally obtuse. “There haven’t been any religions for hundreds of years. I think the last church was in Mexico somewhere, but that was a long time ago.”

  “So no one believes in God anymore?”

  “Of course not.” The tone was flippant and condescending. Then Pax appeared mortified. “Oh—I’m sorry.” Setting down the fork, Pax reached out and touched his hand. “I didn’t mean to insult you like that. I didn’t realize. I should have, but…” Pax looked sick.

  “It’s okay—really.”

  “But I should never have—”

  “It’s fine—trust me, you aren’t the first atheist I’ve talked to. What were you saying about the population problem?”

  Pax resumed work on the minlatta. “Oh—well, since the new patterns never grow old, it wasn’t long before we reached the perfect population size. The only problem comes from accidents. People don’t die from disease, but accidents still happen and create openings for new births. I was one of those—hence the Accident Generation. I, and everyone sharing this pattern, should live forever, which is why these killings are so horrible. Death is an awful tragedy to us.”

  “It was to us too,” Ellis said. “So I’m guessing you don’t have wars?”

  Pax looked shocked and turned away as if Ellis had said an offensive word.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Part of the new pattern the ISP created was the removal of the Y chromosome and the aggression that came with it. It was the source of the vast majority of violence. Conflict of that sort hasn’t existed in centuries.” Pax grimaced and shivered for effect.

  “The Y chromosome…you’re talking about men—males. That’s what people with the Y chromosome are.”

  “I’ve read about the sexes,” Pax explained. “Seen some restored grams on the subject. It all seems so…complicated—and dangerous. And such an inadequate means of reproduction. Darwinism—the haphazard selection of genes—produced such unpredictable results when everything was left to random chance. It would be like shuffling coords and jumping blindfolded through portals. It amazes me that it took so long to take control of our own existence. I can’t imagine what people were thinking back then.”

  “You’re aware that I’m male?”

  Pax made an embarrassed face. “I suspected.”

  “Everyone is female then?”

  “No. There aren’t any sexes anymore. All that unnecessary equipment was removed just like the appendix. You used to have those, too, didn’t you?”

  Ellis nodded.

  “The ISP pruned away all the leftover genetic branches because they were invitations to disease and malfunctions, not to mention just plain silly to carry around.”

  “Hair included?” Ellis ruffed his own.

  Pax nodded, looking embarrassed again, and Ellis wondered if he was performing the equivalent of picking his nose.

  “So, you don’t have sex anymore? Sexual pleasure, I mean? Orgasms, we called them.”

  Pax looked at him, grinning.

  “What?”

  “I just realized you’ve never experienced delectation.”

  “What’s that?”

  His comment made Pax laugh. “Are you aware that pain and pleasure are generated in the brain? When you touch something, tactile information is sent to the brain, which interprets it and then provides you with a sensation. Delectation just skips the physical part. There’s a whole art form where people devise new and incredible delectations. There’s even a classics line that is supposed to re-create orgasms, inebriation, drug highs, and other sensations from the past. I’ve tried a few. I didn’t like the inebriation one. It just made me dizzy, which really wasn’t pleasant at all. The orgasm one was nice, but very short. Were they really only a few seconds long? If the reproductions are accurate, you’re in for a treat.”

  Ellis had flashes from the Woody Allen movie Sleeper and decided to change the subject before Pax suggested trying out the orgasm machine or whatever it was. “So why were you at the crime scene? How did you find out about it?”

  “I was called by the professor handling the tour. Twelve people saw the body. Some of them were bound to have emotional stress. Cha came with me, which is pretty routine. Then when you opened your eyes—well, who better than an arbitrator to handle first-contact?”

  “Do you have any idea who the killer is?”

  “We don’t even know who the victim was.” Pax offered a smile and touched his hand again—a gentle touch, soft hands. “Your assistance was amazing, by the way, and thank you again for that. The Grand Council feels the murders are the result of anger over the Hive Project. And I know there is a lot of emotion circulating—a lot of fear. I have my own concerns, as you can probably tell.” Pax gestured at the material of the frock coat with a smirk, indicating something obvious that Ellis didn’t understand. “I find it hard to believe that anyone upset over the Hive Project would resort to such extremes.”

  “What is the Hive Project?”

  “Nothing, really. I mean, it’s just research the ISP is working on. They’ve been at it for centuries and haven’t gotten anywhere, which is why it doesn’t make sense that someone would kill over it. We just aren’t built that way anymore. Anger doesn’t boil over into action—not like it did in your day. We fret, we yell, we scream, we cry, and we hug, mostly in that order, but we don’t strike, and we never kill.”

  “Someone does.”

  Pax nodded thoughtfully.

  Ellis had a dozen more questions. What was this Grand Council? How were people made? What did ISP stand for? Why were they underground? What was Hollow World? He thought of himself at that moment like some three year old about to drive an adult crazy with endless questions. Pax probably had questions too. Ellis realized that in his deluge of inquiries he’d been an ungrateful lout.

  “Say, I’d like to thank you for taking care of me,” Ellis said as he wound up a forkful—two thousand years and still no better way to eat pasta. “I would have probably died if you hadn’t.”

  Pax smiled, showing perfect white teeth that would have put any twenty-first-century model to shame. “It’s the least I could do for the first-ever time traveler.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” Ellis asked. “I mean, if I could do it, I would have thought there would be others. I kind of figured it would be commonplace these days.”

  Pax shrugged. “Alva?”

  “Let me run a check, dear. One moment.” A few minutes later she was back, although Ellis guessed she really hadn’t gone anywhere. “No, I’m sorry. There’s nothing about time travel except fictional references in books and movies.”

  “Weird,” Ellis said. “It really wasn’t that hard, all things considered.”

  “Perhaps you are just underestimating your abilities.”

  “Maybe.”

  “In any case, here we are, and since we don’t have any experience with such things, it brings up a question,” Pax said. “What do you want to do? Should I announce you to the world or would you rather I not?”

  Ellis hadn’t thought about it. He had just assumed sunglass-wearing men in black SUVs would be showing up to whisk him away to some debriefing or research lab. “I assumed you already had—that you were required to report me to your boss. You work for the government, right?”


  Pax appeared to have trouble understanding, and while his host pondered this, Ellis took his first mouthful. It was marvelous. The complex flavors were hard to place. Tomatoes were in there somewhere, as were onions, but the rest was a mystery, and a wonderful one at that. “This is really good,” he blurted out.

  “Ha! See! I told you it was good,” the vox said, her voice booming across the meadowland like God.

  “You’ve made a friend of Alva,” Pax noted.

  “I can really taste the tomato, it’s…” Ellis struggled to explain. “It actually tastes like a tomato—I mean the way they used to taste when I was a kid.”

  “They changed?” Pax asked.

  “Oh—yeah. They mucked genetically with all sorts of foods. Made them larger, more rugged, resistant to disease, and uniform so they’d sell and transport better, but in the process they ruined the taste and texture. In my time, tomatoes had all the flavor of cardboard.”

  “With Makers, we don’t have those problems. Food designers focus on taste. They are as much an artist as any other.”

  “Speaking of artists, I’m sorry I upset Vin.” Ellis wasn’t disturbed in the slightest and overjoyed to be eating alone with Pax, but Vin was Pax’s…friend? Lover? “Are you two…um…?” He had no idea how to say it and settled for “Roommates?”

  Pax was lifting a fork of food and halted, looking uncomfortable. “We both—live here together—yes.” Pax lowered the fork and proceeded to rearrange the pasta on the plate.

  “When you say together, what does that mean? Are you a couple?”

  “Couple? I don’t understand.”

  “Well, in my day most people who lived together were usually married. My wife’s name is Peggy, and we’ve been married for thirty-five years. But there were those who lived together before getting married, and some people considered that immoral. There was an even bigger stigma when people of the same sex lived together for romantic reasons, so they sometimes would claim that they were no more than roommates. You see, the term roommates didn’t suggest anything more than the sharing of living expenses. When I left, there was a big push for same-sex marriages, and, well…I was just wondering if you and Vin were married.”