by Brian Trent
An ancient anomaly, I guess, Gethin mused.
He lathered his toast in egg yolk. “Why are you still here? Why this interest in teaching history instead of making it?”
The professor’s smile faltered. “Why does every athlete retire within a century of playing? The sport they love becomes a prison. They crave the quieter life…perhaps an escape to Mars to settle down with the girl of their dreams.”
Gethin’s eyes flickered at the dig. “Point taken, right in the heart.”
“And you haven’t even bothered calling her since your resurrection, have you?”
He shrugged.
“Did it end on such a sour note?”
“The Martians are fucking crazy,” he said. Peisistratos threw back his head and guffawed.
“I wouldn’t know. This old body has never left Earth.”
“Given your Frontierist sympathies, that surprises me.”
Doros’s gaze became incredibly distant. “I have thought of it. Leaving Earth forever…venturing to other worlds.” He brooded thoughtfully. “Someday. The IPC ban won’t last, you know. Humans will one day inhabit the entire galaxy.”
Gethin peered at him over his cup of the local, dark and sweet coffee. “Think so?”
“Sol has become a crowded playground, my friend. We’re pressed against the fence, seeing fields beyond our little turf. Yes, expansion will happen.”
“Should it?”
“What do you think?”
Gethin smiled politely. “Not for me to say.”
“Really? The Gethin I knew had an opinion on everything. Part of your obsessive-compulsiveness.” The old professor squinted at him. “Did Martian air dull your edge, my friend?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Or did the IPC do that to you?”
“Excuse me?”
Doros took a breath. He seemed to be measuring what he wanted to say.
“My friend, hear an old bird out, okay? Before we met, you devoted your life to online worlds. Day and night, exploring and fighting and conquering. Your potential swallowed by a drain of nonsense. When you disconnected from that, you came here…and became one of the most fiery, most popular educators. Your most popular course? The Diaspora. Students filled your auditorium to hear you preach about the inevitable future…when humanity would scatter to the ten thousand worlds. What governments might we make out there? How will we function with no central authority? How will we treat any indigenous life-forms we encounter? What religions might form, what social evolutions develop? How far and wide will Homo Sapiens fracture on a genetic, cultural, technological level?”
Gethin lowered his toast, fingers dripping. “I remember,” he said quietly.
Doros absently pulled at his beard. “And right then, at the height of your popularity…”
“The IPC called,” Gethin muttered.
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“I had had contact with them before…”
“Sure, but this time they showed up and made you an offer to see the solar system, chasing down rumors and gossip. Keeping you busy, Gethin. Keeping you distracted. In the Old Calendar, governments might have just disappeared you as a threat to the state. The IPC is far too civilized for that. They knew your old habits of getting pulled into fictional quests, so they gave you a real-world equivalent.”
Gethin pushed aside his plate.
“You make me sound awfully important,” he said at last.
Doros chuckled. “Maybe you are. I’ve been around a long time, my boy. Live long enough…”
Gethin waited for him to continue. When the old man didn’t, he said, “Yes?”
“Oh, nothing, my friend. So when do you start?”
“Start?”
Doros grinned impishly. “As flattering as it is to think that you came straight to see me after your resurrection, I’m sure there were more practical considerations. I believe I could locate a teaching position for you.”
Gethin realized with a start that he hadn’t even considered returning to academia. What would it be like? Bright-eyed students, eager to hear the application of history to hypothetical evolutions of humanity. But to what end? Humanity wasn’t going anywhere. There were no bold, galaxy-spanning futures. We’re not allowed…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dinner with Pegasus
On the maglev ride back to the hotel, Gethin tried reaching Saylor and Keiko by comlink. The Prometheans had their away-avatars on, inviting him to leave a message. He did, telling both that he was just learning of the offshore tragedy and asking them to contact him at their earliest convenience. Numbly, he pored over every news update as it filtered in. He was still reading when he decided to drop by on Celeste.
She was doing push-ups in a thin T-shirt and panties when he entered. Gethin closed his newsfeed with a wave of his hand and stood, awkward.
“Should you be doing that? You were almost dead two days ago.”
Celeste did a remarkable thing; in the midst of a push-up, she threw herself into a standing position and said, “I broke my arm once as a kid. I had to wear a sling for two months before it was functional again. In Babylon, I was admitted to a clinic with a fractured skull, two broken legs, seven open wounds, and severe blood loss. Know what it took to fix me up?”
He said nothing.
“Four nanite injections, Gethin. Reduced the swelling in my brain, built buckycloth scaffolds around my broken legs, and stimulated tissue regeneration.”
“Still, maybe you should—”
Her eyes gleamed. “And that shit ain’t nothing. You were dead, right? Yet here you stand! What a miraculous time to be alive.”
He didn’t need his sniffer program to appreciate the coldness in her voice. “I’m glad you’re recovering, at any rate.”
“You too. Last night I thought you were going to flatline on me.”
“I’m better now.”
“Aren’t we all?”
In fact, she looked incredible, he thought. So many citizens possessed chemically made hardbodies, flawless as new plastic. By contrast, the Wastelander was a seductive portrait of damage. Babylon had repaired her, but the wounds still showed as white scars on both arms, like negative-value tiger stripes. Her hands were calloused, lumpy from earlier breaks that healed over with too many calcium deposits. Her T-shirt had crept up during her workout, and there was a glossy puncture wound on her washboard stomach. Her bare legs were supple and bruised.
Celeste folded her arms across her chest. “Where are your arky pals?”
“They had business to take care of.”
“I’ll bet. Been an interesting morning for news. Yamanaka must be pissed.”
“And scared. It isn’t every day that someone messes with the biggest corporation in the universe. Something bad is brewing.”
“That woman doesn’t get scared.” Celeste shrugged and skinned out of her shirt.
It was such a casual disrobing that Gethin blinked in confusion. Topless, the Wastelander rifled through a plastic bag of newly bought clothes. Then she disappeared into the bathroom, and Gethin heard the shower running.
“Come to lunch with me,” he said through the door.
“I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“Then come to breakfast with me.”
Gethin listened to the water running. With a degree of embarrassment, he found himself tempted to replay the view of her standing half-naked before him. Wastelanders were paradoxically reviled and desired. Hollywood loved Outland-themed movies featuring pit fighters and feral women, grizzled tough-talking vigilantes with eyepatches and a dark past.
Celeste didn’t have the eyepatch, but she seemed everythin
g else the holos teased. Gethin thought about her body. From where had those other scars derived? What stories did they tell? Explanations suggested themselves like a barbaric grocery list: knife wound, bullet-hole, reset bone, burn scar, upon the canvas of a rippled eight-pack abdomen and size C breasts.
After a few minutes, he heard the water switch off. Celeste emerged wearing only a towel, hair combed straight back like a skullcap. “So how did it go with your old friend?”
“He hasn’t confessed to interplanetary terrorism yet.”
“A shame. Listen, I can’t catch onto the fashion here. Some people wear trousers, while others…” She indicated Gethin’s sable tunic. “Any suggestions for me?”
“Wear whatever feels natural.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Well, I am Athenian. Aside from a few recent purchases, most of my wardrobe is scattered in moondust or stored in my mausoleum.”
As he was talking, Celeste had been going through her bag of new clothes. Now she looked at him with interest. “Excuse me? A mausoleum?”
Gethin leaned against the wall, joints aching. “Arcology homes aren’t terribly large. Once you have furniture, favored belongings, decorations, and tech, there just isn’t space for a lifetime of collectibles. Most people lease mausoleum chambers.”
“A safety-deposit box for nostalgia,” she volunteered.
“I suppose.”
He reflected suddenly on what would not be going into his mausoleum: the ten years’ worth of redworld souvenirs and belongings. Real things tied to real memories: his walking staff worn to a nub from many jaunts around Mount Olympus; four anniversary champagne bottles finished off with Lori at romantic getaways; a canister of rocks collected from the awesome Valles Marineris and the plains of Cydonia and the lakes of Hellas; a terrycloth robe from Boccaccio’s Thistle Inn; ceramics from Sakura’s; personal letters written on smartpaper, bamboo paper, and rice paper. Gone!
He could order replacements, of course. Print them cheaply off an online catalog, rinse the tray dust from their surfaces. But they would never be the originals.
Like me.
Celeste undid her towel, letting it crumple to the floor. She slid into a new T-shirt and cargo pants. New black shoes.
“Will I fit in here?” she asked, arms spread.
“No.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
* * *
Leda’s was one of the arcology’s most celebrated restaurants. On the 147th and 148th floors, it afforded a breathtaking view of the Apollonian Ring concourse, with quadrants of the restaurant set like floating Cycladic isles connected by grassy walking paths. Their approach to their table took them past winking satyrs, strutting centaurs, and coquettish dryads moving throughout the establishment. Celeste found herself watching the restaurant guests, though. Not one of them seemed interested in the myths in their midst.
They were seated in the Olympus hall by a wasp-waisted hostess. Food was arranged on buffet-table islands amid flowering bushes and real olive trees. On the ceiling, gods and goddesses gazed bemusedly from a backdrop of swirling clouds.
Celeste snatched up the wine bottle on their table and filled both their goblets. “If you work for the IPC, why are you alone?”
“I’m not alone.”
“Where are the other investigators?”
Gethin swirled the wine, looking thoughtful. “IPC blueworld headquarters are in this very arcology. Right now, exactly two floors above us, they have analysts chewing over every piece of data that gets sent their way. I don’t know many others are working this case, but I guess you’re right: most work in teams.”
“But you don’t play well with others?”
He smiled slightly. Not a warm expression, but none too distant, either. “I’m what you call an asymmetrical investigator.”
“Why?”
“Because history has shown that when you get groups of people together, even if they start off with many different voices, they quickly calcify into just a handful of camps. Usually two. It’s the old us-versus-them mentality. A territorial quirk, I suppose. You can see it right now in the media. What are people saying about the tragedy? Who are they blaming?”
Celeste had spent most of the morning watching the newsfeed. “Most say that Prometheus Industries was conducting illegal energy experiments and it blew up in their face.”
Gethin sipped the wine – a chilled retsina – and beckoned over a waiter bearing a tray of raw oysters. “And the other side is saying they were attacked by Stillness.” He plucked some choice specimens and arranged them on his plate.
Celeste followed suit. “Okay…”
“Either side may be right. But few situations have just two sides. The asymmetrical angle is often better at conducting an inquiry untainted by groupthink. I was first on the scene to Kenneth Cavor’s hospital bed. First to interview his coworkers. Now I’ve got the IPC keeping a watchful eye on Professor Peisistratos.”
Celeste sucked the pale flesh from a half shell, looking at him curiously. “Why you?”
Gethin winked. “I’m very good at what I do.”
A burst of commotion interrupted him. From an antechamber, a tawny horse with wings growing off its forelegs galloped into the room. It trotted indifferently past the gawking spectators, drawn to a dryad’s fountain, and pretended to drink.
The sound of a little girl screaming sent Celeste to her feet. From across the room, a nightmare beast bounded out of an opposite chamber. Heart pounding, Celeste saw it had a mangy body, and a thick neck splitting to support three bestial heads: greasy reptile with flesh like glass, a fully maned lion, and a hell-eyed goat with stiletto teeth. Glistening wings flapped from its back, and a scarlet scorpion tail gave a menacing, mace-like whirl over guests who finally were paying attention.
The pegasus perked up from the fountain, neighed, and stomped one hoof warningly. The monster let loose a triple-voiced roar and lunged. The pegasus leapt into the air, wings flapping from its forelegs, as its would-be assailant took after it.
“Isn’t Bellerophon supposed to be up there too?” Celeste whispered.
“Must be on bathroom break.”
Many of the guests immediately glanced away, back to their meals or private virtuboards. Apparently, if they didn’t have a monster right in front of their noses, their sense of wonder hastily evaporated.
Celeste felt a flush of irritation; even her wounds gave a convulsive itch where the nanites were toiling at cellular rubble. She swept up her goblet and clinked it against Gethin’s in a collision that nearly shattered both. “To the dryads and nymphs and Proteus rising from the sea, or Triton breathing his wreathed horn!”
Gethin gave her a startled look. “Wordsworth.”
“Yeah.”
“Are Old Calendar poets popular in the Wastes?”
“We don’t get holos out there. When we find books, we read whatever pages are still legible.”
“I didn’t realize books were…um…still widely read.”
“They’re not.”
“Then why…”
“Because after a long day of ducking bullets and killing people, blowing trucks off the road, burying dead comrades, and sifting for edibles among the ruins, some of us like curling up with pure fucking fantasy. When you see babies broken open like eggs, or brains swelling like mushrooms from cracked skulls, you do something to keep yourself sane. When you’re eight years old and hiding in a ventilation shaft, watching your mother carved up by a chainsaw, you need a place to recuperate. Even if it’s just in the pages of ancient books from another goddamn age.”
Gethin lowered his goblet.
Celeste pushed her dish of oysters away. “Like right now, I have a choice. I can dwell on the deaths of Jeff and Rajnar and Allie and Jamala. Scavengers have gotten to them by now. Did you know the eyes are eaten first
? Birds rip them straight out. Next go the soft pieces of the neck. Then larger creatures come padding along…the dogs out there have gone completely feral, and those fuckers hunt in huge packs. Some glops will even make use of bones as tools. Maybe my friend Allie’s skull is some land mollusk’s drinking goblet. Maybe Jamala’s bones are being smashed into bread. Do you know that old rhyme? ‘Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.’ Real monsters, Gethin, not this illusion shit!” She jabbed a fork at the sensoramics whirling above her, then let it clatter noisily to her plate.
Gethin lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
She glared. “Four nanite infusions. That’s one for each of my comrades. What an age of fucking miracles this is, here in civilization!” Spit flew from her teeth as she said the word.
“Or is it sivilization, spelled with an S?”
“Twain. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Do you think he would care for your world?”
Gethin slid his own plate away. “I don’t know.”
Celeste angrily gulped her wine, letting it burn her throat. As she set the goblet down, a renegade tear fell; she deftly caught it on her fingertip, blotting it on the tablecloth. It formed a circular wet blotch.
“I’m trying to find out who or what killed your friends,” Gethin said softly. “The IPC has sent me after anomalies before. If what Disch said is correct, maybe this time it’s for real.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Okay, listen. The IPC is sensitive to how fragile civilization is. We pulled ourselves out of radioactive rubble…after an unprecedented global collapse. If there’s another Fall, maybe this time we don’t recover. Maybe this time we die out, or revert to such barbarism that there is no healing. The IPC is concerned about threats that could do that.”