Too, Too Solid Flesh

by Nick O'Donohoe

  Horatio said, “You speak from experience?”

  Billy’s fingers moved slowly up his neck to the slot behind his ear. “Since the night I accepted this, I’ve had… dreams.” He jerked his hand away suddenly and turned to Horatio. “With Eric, friendship is a clear and present danger, and I intend to see him stopped.”

  Horatio said, “Will Mary like that?”

  “No.”

  “Will Eric accept that?”

  Billy said in a small voice, “Not easily.”

  The afternoon sunlight on the balcony plants cast strange shadows across Billy’s face; he stood half hidden by vertical bars. “Eric will almost certainly fight me, and he’ll win. And I’ll look unathletic and ridiculous, and I’m going to do it anyway.”

  Billy took a shuddering breath. “On-stage, heroes are young men with trim waists and tight clothes, sometimes women with trim waists and tight clothes. It’s all vigorous and well timed and noble. But it’s not really that way at all. I’m going to walk between Eric and Mary, and I’ll talk to him, and neither of them will believe me. He’ll look angular and commanding and impressive, and even if I win I’ll still be a shy, foolish middle-aged man. No, don’t interrupt me; I know what I am, even when I wish I didn’t. But I’m also a hero” Horatio blinked at him.

  “I am,” Billy insisted without pride. “Because I choose to be. It won’t make me taller, or younger, or happier.” He patted Horatio’s shoulder. “Your author knew that. Do you notice how people in Shakespeare start out with failings and end with the same failings? But his audience, I think, won’t accept that, and that’s why tragedy is noble instead of embarrassing.” Billy emptied the teacups and padded unevenly into the kitchen.

  When he came back, Horatio asked, “Would you like to perform Petrouchka?”

  Billy blushed but looked pleased. “I couldn’t.”

  “I have plenty of time to get back before the show. Would you rather have another ballet?”

  “This is my only one.” He leaned forward, half-whispering. “It’s very illegal, you know, to use them the way I do. I have a matrix/dematrix solu—a substance legally usable only by medical personnel.”

  “Why is it illegal?”

  “The chip lubricant? It’s dangerous.” He pointed a forefinger at Horatio. “One drop into your eyes or nose, possibly even your ear—” He spread his hands slowly, looking at the empty space between. “And you’d be gone. No friends. No memories. And if I miscalculated the dosage too drastically and put a chip into you, you could die.”

  Horatio’s ears were tingling. “How would you die?”

  “Suffocation, heart stoppage, organs simply forgetting to function. Your brain would quit telling your body how to perform. Could we please talk of something else?”

  “All right. Do you still want to use the chip?”

  Billy said quietly, “Please.”

  Horatio checked the chair buckles like an attendant at an old-fashioned roller coaster. Billy came out of the bathroom, excited and just the faintest bit unsteady. He sat down, saying, “When you go this time, take the chip and the dematrix with you. I’m afraid I’ll use them too often.”

  While Horatio buckled the right leg he said, “Mary would completely misunderstand this part.”

  “She doesn’t know.” His throat was relaxing.

  “Why not?”

  “Security.” The words were slow and slurred.

  Horatio buckled the left leg. “The chip came from the Globe. Eric invited you, and you tried it in the lab.”

  “Yes.”

  Horatio bound the other arm, then held the chip up, turning it this way and that. “What is the nightmare like?”

  Billy’s voice was quiet but surprisingly clear. “I’m in a hall, walking straight—so it’s a dream—and my head is straight, and I can only think one thing at a time.”

  Horatio stared at Billy. The quiet, semi-automatic voice went on, “The halls are dark, but it’s a dream. The halls are never dark. I see an old man in a lab—”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No!” Billy said more quietly, “No. Never know, no. Know the man, no.” The drug was controlling him, but Billy, with a great effort, whispered, “But he’s afraid…”

  Then nothing. Billy’s eyes rolled up, then closed.

  Horatio checked Billy’s breathing and pulse. When he was satisfied that Billy wasn’t dying, he shoved the biochip home and tapped the music on.

  The thuds and bumps were more frantic this time, Billy’s gasping breath more desperate. He had increased the dosage of the matrix/dematrix. Horatio stared at the ficture in the hall, watching the bound Ulysses plead with his men to free him. Ulysses didn’t look much like a hero.

  Early in the evening he put Billy gently to bed and went out. On the way back to the theater, he Accessed and ordered a search-and-purchase, fingering his plaz nervously.

  The system took a staggeringly expensive fifteen minutes to locate a matched pair within delivery range. Horatio gasped at the price, then thought of Billy, willing to risk his dignity and life for the sake of friendship alone.

  That night Horatio performed with a recklessness that Hamlet, amused by it, matched and exceeded. The audience, for once, cheered, and Paulette acknowledged enviously that Horatio hadn’t done badly at all.

  23

  Horatio was waiting on stage, restless but comfortable; by now he belonged there. Paulette leaned on the red curtain, barely hiding her curiosity. “You Accessed me. You aren’t supposed to tell me what to do.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “I had a surprise.”

  She lay down, stretching one leg on stage, and stared at him through drooping eyes. “Not much of a house for opening night, is it, darling?”

  “There’ve been better.” He gestured quickly upward, then down as Hamlet had taught him. A flylight hovered over her and switched on almost full, with a blue tint.

  She pulled her leg in hastily. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She hugged him, then ran back under the spot, taking her hands-on-hips pose. The light made her hair look moonlit.

  Horatio gestured more quickly. “Run back here.”

  This time the flylight barely lagged behind her. “Oh, my God, it’s perfect.” She bounded and leaped over the stage. After the thinkware learned her movement patterns, it anticipated her almost perfectly, seeming to lead her.

  Horatio, enjoying her exhilaration, said, “Come back.”

  She made it in two awkward hops, bowed to the audience, then to him, then hugged him fiercely, panting freely. “That was wonderful. It was everything.” Her eyes went wide. “It was a Free Zone, darling, an honest-to-Jesus Free Zone, and I wasn’t drunk or in danger or anything.”

  “There’s this, too. Be careful.” He held out a box, wrapped in bonded liveorchid petals; the petals alone had cost more than he’d spent at once in his life. “Open it.”

  She pulled the petals apart. They drifted to the stage. Horatio watched her stare at the two battered paper editions that had cost far more to find than they had to buy. They had paper bindings and rusty metal staples on the spine instead of the dried fingernail clams used now.

  The paper was of the poor quality used in the last century; the acid had turned it brittle and crumbly. Even the covers, heavier rag content though they were, barely stayed on. There were creases through the block lettering:

  THE TEMPEST

  By William Shakespeare

  He said, “It was hard to find two copies.”

  “Two?” She turned them over. “Are they real?”

  “More. They’re used.” He pointed out the underlining for the separate parts and watched her astonished reaction when he showed her a series of cut lines. “I hope that doesn’t ruin them for you.”

  “In a real production, with real actors?”

  She looked at the books. They were real paper, with human underlining, and one of them had a coffee stain as though it was some valueless paper copy from a theater green room. “Oh,
God,” she said happily. “What next?”

  Horatio gestured. The lights came up. “We read.”

  They read it aloud—awkwardly at first; actors must know each other’s styles to play off each other. They stumbled, and they lost their places, and improved quickly.

  Paulette’s Miranda breathed love over Horatio’s Ferdinand. Ariel mocked Caliban, who shuffled, roaring to be human.

  In Act Four, Paulette swooped around as Ariel, almost faster than the light that followed her. Horatio, all of twenty-nine and playing Prospero, felt vastly older.

  Horatio told her to go bid the other spirits come. She rose so quickly that her feet left the stage. The followlight alertly swooped low to highlight the gap. Paulette chanted:

  “Before you can say ‘come’ and ‘go,’

  And breathe twice, and cry ‘so, so,’

  Each one, tripping on his toe,

  Will be here with mop and mow.

  Do you love me, master?”

  She peered into his face and finished, stricken, “No?”

  Horatio took her hand. She half-pulled it back, an Ariel frightened of her master. He kissed her fingers. “Dearly, my delicate Ariel.” His voice quavered.

  They muddled through Prospero’s and Ariel’s masque for Ferdinand and the dismissal of the spirits. Ferdinand/Horatio and Miranda/Paulette marveled at Prospero’s passion. Prospero/Horatio cleared his throat. “Be cheerful, sir—” Paulette looked hungrier than anyone outside the Pools. He said, “Go ahead. It’s your favorite speech.”

  She began, trembling: “Our revels now are ended—”

  By the time she got to “The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,” her tone was infirm and reflective. For those few moments, she was an old man, angered by events, reassuring a guest and using that reassurance to calm himself down. She spoke of the end of an old man’s world. She might have been speaking of her own.

  Horatio watched, his mouth half open. Paulette was finally acting, and acting brilliantly.

  Prospero/Paulette halted her own speech and said apologetically, “Sir, I am vexed; bear with my weakness—”

  She flung the book aside, sobbing. “I did it.”

  He held her. “I know. Don’t cry. You were wonderful.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was real. It was so easy all of a sudden. I heard myself, and I was a real old man—” She collapsed again, her head on Horatio’s shoulder. He dropped his copy of the play. The followlight shone on them both.

  They left the theater, arms around each other, forgetful of everything else. Neither of them saw Hamlet step quickly onstage, scoop up one of the copies of The Tempest, and walk off.

  After Hamlet left, Claudius walked slowly to the remaining play book. Looking wretched, he fought with himself for some time before picking it up.

  * * * * *

  Early in the morning, Hamlet wrapped his copy of The Tempest as best he could in the wilted petals and put a ribbon on it. He stepped back in the hall and said, “Hello, Freddy.”

  Freddy poked savagely with a livebrush broom at the selfcleaning floor, not scuffing it but not cleaning it. “I don’t feel like talking. Do I need a reason?”

  “No. You might have one.” Hamlet added, “Is it something I did and can undo?”

  Freddy slammed the broom down. “It’s not your fault. Hell, you’re good to me. You’re as good as any man ever was. If you were a real prince, I’d follow you.”

  Hamlet nodded, moved.

  Freddy went on, “But you’re just some made thing, like a new animal or a new machine. And how come,” he said with his throat choking up, “how come, when you could be sweeping, and wiping, and spraying germ-eaters all over bathroom walls, and —” He shook his head. “There’s other things.”

  “Other things you have to do,” Hamlet said softly.

  “I don’t have to.” Freddy’s voice was husky now. “I been asked to—like it’s a favor. I said no.

  “So now I’m sweeping a nonstick corridor by hand. And after that they’ll ask again, and I’ll still say no, and I’ll clean a self-cleaning bathroom by hand, and after that I’ll clean self-cleaning chemtanks by hand.” Freddy’s eyes were round, full of shame and fear. “And what if they run out of things low enough for me to do and I still want to say no?”

  “You’ll lose your job.”

  Freddy wiped his face again. “Plenty of people would take this job, and I’d just disappear. Like they say downtown, ‘plenty of room by the Pool, if you can’t find work.’” He shuddered. “Me, I’d rather eat.”

  “And if you said yes to these people?”

  “Then I’d be fine.” But he couldn’t look at Hamlet.

  “And sooner or later, you will say yes.”

  Freddy backed away from him. “Well, why not? Everybody does, sooner or later. Some of you androids do big favors. Why shouldn’t I get a little something for myself?”

  Hamlet asked in the same tone, “In trade for a large something for someone else?”

  Freddy didn’t answer. Hamlet went on, “Eventually you’ll say yes or die. As a friend—” Hamlet saw Freddy flinch and tactfully ignored it. “I’d rather you said yes.”

  He put a hand on Freddy’s shoulder. “And remember: for a while, at least, you were a hero. It isn’t pleasant, is it?” His eyes were sad. “‘Oh, cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.’ I don’t want to be one either. But I’ll remember that you were one, and I’ll be proud of you whatever you do.”

  Freddy muttered, “I don’t think you will.”

  Hamlet let go of Freddy’s shoulder and said easily, “I’ll admire your willpower. After all, I’m controlled by systems.”

  Freddy grinned uncertainly. “You know, I forget that.”

  “They aren’t always obvious. After all—” Hamlet gestured at the lights. “These are set to respond only to humans.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And even for humans, there’s no way to override that.”

  “Not these, no. Unless you’re brain-dead. There’s a sensor that reads minds; I don’t know how it works.”

  “Probably it just scans minds and can’t read them. Are the signals from neuroputty that different?”

  Freddy shrugged. “I guess.”

  “And once it’s set up, the lights can’t be changed. What runs the system?

  “A neurobank,” Freddy said, surprised at the question. “Just like everything else that isn’t on chips.”

  “Of course. But does thinkware run the neurobank?”

  “Like a person? Yeah. One runs all the systems here,” Freddy said dryly, “And everybody’s pretty quiet about it. You ain’t even allowed to talk to it unless you’re already talking to God.”

  “What is it? Does it have a personality?” Hamlet seemed aimlessly curious.

  Freddy grinned. “People who talk to it act bent afterward. Quiet. All humbled up.” His grin turned nasty. “You ask for a decision and they say ‘screw you,’ and they come back meek and tell you the answer. They can’t decide anything alone, so they ask it—and I bet it’s a bastard.”

  Hamlet nodded. “Or a genius. Good guess. I have to leave now, Freddy. Care for yourself.”

  “Hey, I try. And Hamlet? Hey, sorry: my lord? Thanks for talking. I needed it. You’re the only person that talks to me without wanting something back.”

  “Please.” If Freddy had reasons to be ashamed at Hamlet’s kindness, Hamlet had reasons to be ashamed at Freddy’s. The Dane left quickly, and Freddy returned to half-beating the unscuffable, unstainable floor.

  * * * * *

  That afternoon, Hamlet passed Horatio sighed with relief; he didn’t have the plaz to replace them if they were stolen. Horatio said, “What are we rehearsing?”

  “Watch.” Hamlet swallowed. “It’s good training for actors.” He cut himself off and said nervously, “You’ll see.”

  Gertrude walked in, holding Ophelia’s hand. Ophelia had a crudely tied hair bow (Gertrude’s handiwork) and
showed it off proudly. The others followed her.

  Polonius came forward first. “Let’s do it, boys and girls. The play’s the thing. The show must go on. There’s no moment like the one just before the flylights lower. Showtime, folks.” He held his scrollscript forward.

  Hamlet peered at it with mock interest. “No chip.”

  “Exactly, Lord. You pressed the right key that time. Bull’s eye.” He looked at it again, just in case.

  Hamlet said worriedly, “What’ll we do?” The others chuckled.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a spear-carrier, a minor munchkin. You’re the boss and get the big bucks.” Polonius straightened and spread his arms. “No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be.”

  Hamlet smiled and took Polonius’s scrollscript. He set it on the empty seat to his right. “And now yours, Mother. Thank you. Laertes? Yours.” In two minutes there was a pile of blank screenscripts on a chair, all without chips. The company looked confused and a little frightened.

  Hamlet took a deep breath. “This is the rehearsal.”

  Osric looked to either side. “What is?”

  “You people are.” Hamlet folded his arms. “Rehearse.”

  Rosencrantz extended placating arms. “My lord, we can hardly rehearse when we don’t know—”

  “Exactly.”

  Guildenstern said, “Exactly what?”

  “You don’t know.” Hamlet looked from face to face. “Neither do I. You’ll have to draw on yourselves.”

  Gertrude said, “Where is the king?”

  Claudius, upset, had asked to be excused; Hamlet did not know why. “He doesn’t need this. Neither do I, and Horatio—well, he’s your audience.” Hamlet folded his arms.

  Polonius asked, “How should we start?”

  “How do you feel like starting?”

  When no one else answered, Polonius said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

  “Come again?” Hamlet was enjoying pushing him.