Not So Much, Said the Cat

by Michael Swanwick

  “C’mon. Be a sport. What could it hurt? I’m already dead.”

  “There are some things no man was meant to admit. Even to himself.”

  Evelyn snorted. “You always were the most astounding prig.”

  They drove on in silence for a while, deeper into the desert. At last, staring straight ahead of himself, Hank could not keep himself from saying, “There are worse revelations to come, aren’t there?”

  “Oh God, yes,” his mother said.

  “It was your father’s death.” His mother sucked wetly on a cigarette. “That’s what made you turn out the way you did. “

  Hank could barely see the road for his tears. “I honestly don’t want to be having this conversation, Mom.”

  “No, of course you don’t. You never were big on self-awareness, were you? You preferred cutting open toads or hunching over that damned microscope.”

  “I’ve got plenty of self-awareness. I’ve got enough self-awareness to choke on. I can see where you’re going and I am not going to apologize for how I felt about Dad. He died of cancer when I was thirteen. What did I ever do to anyone that was half so bad as what he did to me? So I don’t want to hear any cheap Freudian bullshit about survivor guilt and failing to live up to his glorious example, okay?”

  “Nobody said it wasn’t hard on you. Particularly coming at the onset of puberty as it did.”

  “Mom!”

  “What. I wasn’t supposed to know? Who do you think did the laundry?” His mother lit a new cigarette from the old one, then crushed out the butt in an ashtray. “I knew a lot more of what was going on in those years than you thought I did, believe you me. All those hours you spent in the bathroom jerking off. The money you stole to buy dope with.”

  “I was in pain, Mom. And it’s not as if you were any help.”

  His mother looked at him with the same expression of weary annoyance he remembered so well. “You think there’s something special about your pain? I lost the only man I ever loved and I couldn’t move on because I had a kid to raise. Not a sweet little boy like I used to have either, but a sullen, self-pitying teenager. It took forever to get you shipped off to medical school.”

  “So then you moved on. Right off the roof of the county office building. Way to honor Dad’s memory, Mom. What do you think he would have said about that if he’d known?”

  Dryly, his mother said, “Ask him for yourself.”

  Hank closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, he was standing in the living room of his mother’s house. His father stood in the doorway, as he had so many times, smoking an unfiltered Camel and staring through the screen door at the street outside. “Well?” Hank said at last.

  With a sigh his father turned around. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.” His lips moved up into what might have been a smile on another man. “Dying was new to me.”

  “Yeah, well you could have summoned the strength to tell me what was going on. But you couldn’t be bothered. The surgeon who operated on you? Doctor Tomasini. For years I thought of him as my real father. And you know why? Because he gave it to me straight. He told me exactly what was going to happen. He told me to brace myself for the worst. He said that it was going to be bad but that I would find the strength to get through it. Nobody’d ever talked to me like that before. Whenever I was in a rough spot, I’d fantasize going to him and asking for advice. Because there was no one else I could ask.”

  “I’m sorry you hate me,” his father said, not exactly looking at Hank. Then, almost mumbling, “Still, lots of men hate their fathers, and somehow manage to make decent lives for themselves.”

  “I didn’t hate you. You were just a guy who never got an education and never made anything of himself and knew it. You had a shitty job, a three-pack-a-day habit, and a wife who was a lush. And then you died.” All the anger went out of Hank in an instant, like air whooshing out of a punctured balloon, leaving nothing behind but an aching sense of loss. “There wasn’t really anything there to hate.”

  Abruptly, the car was filled with coil upon coil of glistening Worm. For an instant it looped outward, swallowing up car, interstate, and all the world, and he was afloat in vacuum, either blind or somewhere perfectly lightless, and there was nothing but the Worm-smell, so strong he could taste it in his mouth.

  Then he was back on the road again, hands sticky on the wheel and sunlight in his eyes.

  “Boy does that explain a lot!” Evelyn flashed her perfect teeth at him and beat on the top of the dashboard as if it were a drum. “How a guy as spectacularly unsuited for it as you are decided to become a surgeon. That perpetual cringe of failure you carry around on your shoulders. It even explains why, when push came to shove, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut open living people. Afraid of what you might find there?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know that you froze up right in the middle of a perfectly routine appendectomy. What did you see in that body cavity?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Was it the appendix? I bet it was. What did it look like?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Did it look like a Worm?”

  He stared at her in amazement. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m just a hallucination, remember? An undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. So the question isn’t how did I know, but how did you know what a Worm was going to look like five years before their ships came into the Solar System?”

  “It’s a false memory, obviously.”

  “So where did it come from?” Evelyn lit up a cigarette. “We go off-road here.”

  He slowed down and started across the desert. The car bucked and bounced. Sagebrush scraped against the sides. Dust blossomed up into the air behind them.

  “Funny thing, you calling your mother a lush,” Evelyn said. “Considering what happened after you bombed out of surgery.”

  “I’ve been clean for six years and four months. I still go to the meetings.”

  “Swell. The guy I married didn’t need to.”

  “Look, this is old territory, do we really need to revisit it? We went over it so many times during the divorce.”

  “And you’ve been going over it in your head ever since. Over and over and. . . .”

  “I want us to stop. That’s all. Just stop.”

  “It’s your call. I’m only a symptom, remember? If you want to stop thinking, then just stop thinking.”

  Unable to stop thinking, he continued eastward, ever eastward.

  For hours he drove, while they talked about every small and nasty thing he had done as a child, and then as an adolescent, and then as an alcoholic failure of a surgeon and a husband. Every time Hank managed to change the subject, Evelyn brought up something even more painful, until his face was wet with tears. He dug around in his pockets for a handkerchief. “You could show a little compassion, you know.”

  “Oh, the way you’ve shown me compassion? I offered to let you keep the car if you’d just give me back the photo albums. So you took the albums into the backyard and burned them all, including the only photos of my grandmother I had. Remember that? But, of course, I’m not real, am I? I’m just your image of Evelyn—and we both know you’re not willing to concede her the least spark of human decency. Watch out for that gully! You’d better keep your eyes straight ahead.”

  They were on a dirt road somewhere deep in the desert now. That was as much as he knew. The car bucked and scraped its underside against the sand, and he downshifted again. A rock rattled down the underside, probably tearing holes in vital places.

  Then Hank noticed plumes of dust in the distance, smaller versions of the one billowing up behind him. So there were other vehicles out there. Now that he knew to look for them, he saw more. There were long slanted pillars of dust rising up in the middle distance and tiny grey nubs down near the horizon. Dozens of them, scores, maybe hundreds.

>   “What’s that noise?” he heard himself asking. “Helicopters?”

  “Such a clever little boy you are!”

  One by one, flying machines lifted over the horizon. Some of them were news copters. The rest looked to be military. The little ones darted here and there, filming. The big ones circled slowly around a distant glint of metal in the desert. They looked a lot like grasshoppers. They seemed afraid to get too close.

  “See there?” Evelyn said. “That would be the lifter.”

  “Oh,” Hank said.

  Then, slowly, he ventured, “The lander going down wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  “No, of course not. The Worms crashed it in the Pacific on purpose. They killed hundreds of their own so the bodies would be distributed as widely as possible. They used themselves as bait. They wanted to collect a broad cross-section of humanity.

  “Which is ironic, really, because all they’re going to get is doctors, morticians, and academics. Some FBI agents, a few Homeland Security bureaucrats. No retirees, cafeteria ladies, jazz musicians, soccer coaches, or construction workers. Not one Guatemalan nun or Korean noodle chef. But how could they have known? They acted out of perfect ignorance of us and they got what they got.”

  “You sound just like me,” Hank said. Then, “So what now? Colored lights and anal probes?”

  Evelyn snorted again. “They’re a sort of hive culture. When one dies, it’s eaten by the others and its memories are assimilated. So a thousand deaths wouldn’t mean a lot to them. If individual memories were lost, the bulk of those individuals were already made up of the memories of previous generations. The better part of them would still be alive, back on the mother ship. Similarly, they wouldn’t have any ethical problems with harvesting a few hundred human beings. Eating us, I mean, and absorbing our memories into their collective identity. They probably don’t understand the concept of individual death. Even if they did, they’d think we should be grateful for being given a kind of immortality.”

  The car went over a boulder Hank hadn’t noticed in time, bouncing him so high that his head hit the roof. Still, he kept driving.

  “How do you know all that?”

  “How do you think I know?” Ahead, the alien ship was growing larger. At its base were Worm upon Worm upon Worm, all facing outward, skin brown and glistening. “Come on, Hank, do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay, Captain Courageous,” Evelyn said scornfully. “If this is what it takes.” She stuck both her hands into her mouth and pulled outward. The skin to either side of her mouth stretched like rubber, then tore. Her face ripped in half.

  Loop after loop of slick brown flesh flopped down to spill across Hank’s lap, slide over the back of the seat and fill up the rear of the car. The horridly familiar stench of Worm, part night soil and part chemical plant, took possession of him and would not let go. He found himself gagging, half from the smell and half from what it meant.

  A weary sense of futility grasped his shoulders and pushed down hard. “This is only a memory, isn’t it?”

  One end of the Worm rose up and turned toward him. Its beak split open in three parts and from the moist interior came Evelyn’s voice: “The answer to the question you haven’t got the balls to ask is: Yes, you’re dead. A Worm ate you and now you’re passing slowly through an alien gut, being tasted and experienced and understood. You’re nothing more than an emulation being run inside one of those hundred-pound brains.”

  Hank stopped the car and got out. There was an arroyo between him and the alien ship that the car would never be able to get across. So he started walking.

  “It all feels so real,” he said. The sun burned hot on his head, and the stones underfoot were hard. He could see other people walking determinedly through the shimmering heat. They were all converging on the ship.

  “Well, it would, wouldn’t it?” Evelyn walked beside him in human form again. But when he looked back the way they had come, there was only one set of footprints.

  Hank had been walking in a haze of horror and resignation. Now it was penetrated by a sudden stab of fear. “This will end, won’t it? Tell me it will. Tell me that you and I aren’t going to keep cycling through the same memories over and over, chewing on our regrets forever?”

  “You’re as sharp as ever, Hank,” Evelyn said. “That’s exactly what we’ve been doing. It passes the time between planets.”

  “For how long?”

  “For more years than you’d think possible. Space is awfully big, you know. It takes thousands and thousands of years to travel from one star to another.”

  “Then . . . this really is Hell, after all. I mean, I can’t imagine anything worse.”

  She said nothing.

  They topped a rise and looked down at the ship. It was a tapering cylinder, smooth and featureless save for a ring of openings at the bottom from which emerged the front ends of many Worms. Converging upon it were people who had started earlier or closer than Hank and thus gotten here before he did. They walked straight and unhesitatingly to the nearest Worm and were snatched up and gulped down by those sharp, tripartite beaks. Snap and then swallow. After which, the Worm slid back into the ship and was replaced by another. Not one of the victims showed the least emotion. It was all as dispassionate as an abattoir for robots.

  These creatures below were monstrously large, taller than Hank was. The one he had dissected must have been a hatchling. A grub. It made sense. You wouldn’t want to sacrifice any larger a percentage of your total memories than you had to.

  “Please.” He started down the slope, waving his arms to keep his balance when the sand slipped underfoot. He was crying again, apparently; he could feel the tears running down his cheeks. “Evelyn. Help me.”

  Scornful laughter. “Can you even imagine me helping you?”

  “No, of course—” Hank cut that thought short. Evelyn, the real Evelyn, would not have treated him like this. Yes, she had hurt him badly, and by that time she left, she had been glad to do so. But she wasn’t petty or cruel or vindictive before he made her that way.

  “Accepting responsibility for the mess you made of your life, Hank? You?”

  “Tell me what to do,” Hank said, pushing aside his anger and resentment, trying to remember Evelyn as he had once been. “Give me a hint.”

  For a maddeningly long moment Evelyn was silent. Then she said, “If the Worm that ate you so long ago could only communicate directly with you . . . what one question do you think it would ask?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think it would be, Why are all your memories so ugly?”

  Unexpectedly, she gave him a peck on the cheek.

  Hank had arrived. His Worm’s beak opened. Its breath smelled like Evelyn on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Hank stared at the glistening blackness within. So enticing. He wanted to fling himself down it.

  Once more into the gullet, he thought, and took a step closer to the Worm and the soothing darkness it encompassed.

  Its mouth gaped wide, waiting to ingest and transform him.

  Unbidden, then, a memory rose up within Hank of a night when their marriage was young and, traveling through Louisiana, he and Evelyn stopped on an impulse at a roadhouse where there was a zydeco band and beer in bottles and they were happy and in love and danced and danced and danced into an evening without end. It had seemed then that all good things would last forever.

  It was a fragile straw to cling to, but Hank clung to it with all his might.

  Worm and man together, they then thought: No one knows the size of the universe or what wonders and terrors it contains. Yet we drive on, blindly burrowing forward through the darkness, learning what we can and suffering what we must. Hoping for stars.

  3 A.M. IN THE MESOZOIC BAR

  Strike a pose!”

  Cheryl raised her beer bottle and stuck out her tongue at the photographer. Click. Bernie Hammerstein moved on to the next table. It
was sometime after midnight and the bar was as crowded as it had ever been. Sam filled endless orders of drinks. Nobody was paying but then Bernie, taking a break from his self-imposed task, emptied his wallet on the bar and, with a sharp laugh, said, “Keep the change.” Others followed suit, and soon there were drifts of paper money spilling over either side. Sam just kept pouring, moving things along with a wink here and a quick joke there.

  Doing his bit to keep us from hysteria.

  Then Oliver Lucas sat down at the piano and everyone gathered around and began singing along. We sang “Bottle of Wine” and “Show Me the Way to Go Home” and “Yellow Submarine” and for a while it was all good. But then we hit the refrain to “Sloop John B”:

  So hoist up the John B’s sail

  See how the mainsail sets

  Call for the captain ashore, let me go home

  Let me go home. . . .

  And a plaintive note entered the music. People were beginning to wander away when Lucas segued into “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and that put paid to the whole deal. Voices died off until the only one singing was Lucas himself. I got a highball from the bar and thrust it into his hand. When he stopped playing, the voices came up again, a little frantic, and somebody switched on the jukebox.

  In no time, half the bar was dancing to salsa music. Some of the women took off their blouses and the general mood brightened. Except for Ted. I saw him sitting in the corner by himself, grimly drinking, and started his way.

  Which is when Alexander Peshev and an invertebrate paleontologist so new I hadn’t caught his name yet began getting loud. I could see it turning into a fight. The biggest guy in sight was Desmond Hamilton, so I said, “C’mon,” and dragged him away from his conversation with a grad student named Melissa.

  Des and I closed in on the combatants just as they were raising their fists and grabbed their arms from behind. They struggled and swore, but couldn’t break loose. “Do you really want to fight?” I said, as we frog-marched them away. “Fine. You want to kill each other? That’s okay too. I don’t care. Just do it where nobody can hear you. You’re not going to spoil everybody else’s last night. Understand?” We threw them out the door.