by D B Hartwell
I relished the storm. It blew down from the northeast, with ice in its teeth. They call it the lazy wind, because it doesn’t bother to go around you—it just goes straight through you.
The afternoon darkened, with winter twilight soon expiring. The rain thickened into hail, bouncing off me with an audible rattle. Cracks of thunder rang out, an ominous rumbling as though the raging sea had washed away the pillars of the sky, pulling the heavens down. Lightning flashed somewhere behind me.
I turned and looked along the coastal path, back to the necropolis of benches I had passed earlier. The holograms were all lit up. I wondered who would sit on the benches in this weather, until I realized that the lightning must have short-circuited the activation protocols.
The holograms were the only bright colors in a washed-out world of slate-grey cloud and gun-dark sea. Images of men and women flickered on the benches, an audience for Nature’s show. I saw Katriona standing at the top of the cliff, raising her arms as if calling down the storm. Other figures sat frozen like reproachful ghosts, tethered to their wooden anchors, waiting for the storm to fade. Did they relish the brief moment of pseudo-life? Did they talk among themselves? Or did they resent their evanescent existence, at the mercy of any hikers and hackers wandering by?
I felt I should not intrude. I returned to my trek, slogging on as the day eroded into night. My augmented eyes harvested stray photons from lights in distant houses and the occasional car gliding along inland roads. To my right, the sea throbbed with the pale glitter of bioluminescent pollution. The waves sounded loud in the darkness, their crashes like a secret heartbeat of the world.
The pounding rain churned the path into mud. My mouth curved into a fierce grin. Of course, conditions were nowhere near as intense as the extremes of the simulator. But this was real. The sight of all the dead people behind me, chained to their memorials, made me feel sharply alive. Each raindrop on my face was another instant to be cherished. I wanted the night never to end. I wanted to be both here and gone, to stand on the colony world under its red, red sun.
I hurried, as if I could stride across the stars and get there sooner. I trod on an old tree branch that proved to be soggy and rotten. My foot slid off the path. I lurched violently, skidding a few yards sideways and down, until I arrested my fall by grabbing onto a nearby rock. The muscles in my left arm sent pangs of protest at the sharp wrench. Carefully I swung myself round, my feet groping for toe-holds. Soon I steadied myself. Hanging fifty feet above the sea, I must have only imagined that I felt spray whipping up from the waves. It must have been the rain, caught by the wind and sheeting from all angles.
The slip exhilarated me. I know that makes little sense, but I can only tell you how I felt.
But I couldn’t cling there all night. I scrambled my way across the exposed crags, at first shuffling sideways by inches, then gaining confidence and swinging along, trusting my augmented muscles to keep me aloft.
My muscles gripped. My exo-skin held. The rock did not.
In mid-swing, I heard a crack. My anchoring left hand felt the rock shudder. Instinctively I scrabbled for another hold with my right hand. I grasped one, but nevertheless found myself falling. For a moment I didn’t understand what was happening. Then, as the cliff-face crumbled with a noise like the tearing of a sky-sized newspaper, I realized that when the bottom gives way, the top must follow.
As I fell, still clinging to the falling rock, I was drenched by the splashback from the lower boulders hitting the sea below me. Time passed slowly, frame by frame, the scene changing gradually like an exhibition of cels from an animated movie. The hefty rock that I grasped was rotating as it fell. Soon I’d be underneath it. If I still clung on, I would be crushed when it landed.
I leapt free, aiming out to sea. If the cliff had been higher, I’d have had enough time to get clear. But very soon I hit the water, and so did the boulder behind me, and so too—it seemed—did half of the Yorkshire coast.
It sounded like a duel between a volcano and an earthquake. I flailed frantically, trying to swim away, not understanding why I made no progress. Only when I stopped thrashing around did I realize the problem.
My right foot was trapped underwater, somewhere within the pile of rocks that came down from the cliff. At the time, I’d felt nothing. Now, belatedly, a dull pounding pain crept up my leg. I breathed deeply, gulping air between the waves crashing around my head. Then I began attempting to wriggle free, with no success.
I tried to lift up the heavy boulders, but it was impossible. My imprisoned foot kept me in place, constricting my position and preventing me from finding any leverage. After many useless heaves, and much splashing and cursing, I had to give up.
All this time, panic had been building within me. As soon as I stopped struggling, terror flooded my brain with the fear of drowning, the fear of freezing in the cold sea, the fear of more rocks falling on top of me. My thoughts were overwhelmed by the prospect of imminent death.
It took long minutes to regain any coherence. Gradually I asserted some self-command, telling myself that the panic was a relic of my old body, which wouldn’t have survived long floating in the North Sea in winter. My new form was far more robust. I wouldn’t drown, or freeze to death. If I could compose myself, I’d get through this.
I concentrated on my exo-skin. Normally its texture approximated natural skin’s slight roughness and imperfections. Now my leg became utterly smooth, in the hope that a friction-free surface might allow me to slip free. I felt a tiny amount of give, which sent a surge of hope through me, but then I could pull my foot no further. The bulge of my ankle prevented any further progress. Even friction-free, you can’t tug a knot through a needle’s eye.
Impatient and frustrated, I let the exo-skin revert to default. I needed to get free, and I couldn’t simply wait for the next storm to rattle the rocks around. My starship would soon leave Earth. If I missed it, I would have no other chance.
At this point I began to wonder whether I’d subconsciously wanted to miss the boat. Had I courted disaster, just to prevent myself from going?
I couldn’t deny that I’d in some sense brought this on myself. I’d been deliberately reckless, pushing myself until the inevitable accident occurred. Why?
Thinking about it, as the cold waves frothed around me, I realized that I’d wanted to push beyond the bounds of my old body, in order to prove to myself that I was worthy of going. We’d heard so much of the harsh rigors of the destination world, and so much had been said about the naturals’ inability to survive there unaided, that I’d felt compelled to test the augments to their limit.
Unconsciously, I’d wanted to put myself in a situation that a natural body couldn’t survive. Then if I did survive, that would prove I’d been truly transformed, and I’d be confident of thriving on the colony world, among the tides and hurricanes.
Well, I’d accomplished the first stage of this plan. I’d got myself into trouble. Now I just had to get out of it.
But how?
I had an emergency radio-beacon in my skull. I could activate it and no doubt someone would come along to scoop me out of the water. Yet that would be embarrassing. It would show that I couldn’t handle my new body, even in the benign conditions of Earth. If I asked for rescue, then some excuse would be found to remove me from the starship roster. Colonists needed to be self-reliant and solve their own problems. There were plenty of reserves on the waiting list—plenty of people who hadn’t fallen off a cliff and got themselves stuck under a pile of rocks.
The same applied if I waited until dawn and shouted up to the next person to walk along the coastal path. No, I couldn’t ask for rescue. I had to save myself.
Yet asserting the need for a solution did not reveal its nature. At least, not at first. As the wind died down, and the rain softened into drizzle, I found myself thinking coldly and logically, squashing trepidation with the hard facts of the situation.
I needed to extract my leg from the rock. I couldn’
t move the rock. Therefore I had to move my leg.
I needed to move my leg, but the foot was stuck. Therefore I had to leave my foot behind.
Once I realized this, a calmness descended upon me. It was very simple. That was the price I must pay, if I wanted to free myself. I thought back to the option of calling for help. I could keep my foot, and stay on Earth. Or I could lose my foot, and go to the stars.
Did I long to go so badly?
I’d already decided to leave my family behind and leave my girlfriend. If I jibbed at leaving a mere foot, a minor bodily extremity, then what did that say about my values? Surely there wasn’t even a choice to make; I merely had to accept the consequences of the decision I’d already made.
And yet I delayed and delayed, hoping that some other option would present itself, hoping that I could evade the results of my choices.
I’m almost ashamed to admit what finally prompted me to action. It wasn’t logic or strong-willed decisiveness. It was the pain from my squashed foot, a throbbing that had steadily intensified while I mulled the possibilities. And it was no fun floating in the cold sea, either. The sooner I acted, the sooner I could get away.
I concentrated upon my exo-skin, that marvel of programmable integument, and commanded it to flow up from my foot. Then I pinched it into my leg, just above my right ankle.
Ouch! Ouch, ouch, ouch, owwww!
Trying to ignore the pain, I steered the exo-skin further in. I wished I could perform the whole operation in an instant, slicing off my foot as if chopping a cucumber. But the exo-skin had limits, and it wasn’t designed to do this. I was stretching the spec already.
Soon—sooner than I would have hoped—I had to halt. I needed to access my pain overrides. It had been constantly drilled into us that this was a last resort, that pain existed for a reason and we shouldn’t casually shut it off. But if amputating one’s own foot wasn’t an emergency, I didn’t ever want to encounter a true last resort. I turned off the pain signals.
The numbness intoxicated me. What a blessing, to be free from the hurts of the flesh! In the absence of pain, the remaining tasks seemed to elapse much more swiftly. Soon the exo-skin had completely cut through the bone, severing my lower leg and sealing off the wound. Freed from the rock-fall, I swam away and dragged myself ashore. There I collapsed into sleep.
When I woke, the tide had receded, leaving behind a beach clogged with fallen clumps of grass, soggy dead bracken, and the ever-present plastic trash that was humanity’s legacy to the world. The pain signals had returned—they could only be temporarily suspended, not permanently switched off. For about a minute I tried to live with my lower calf’s agonized protestations; then I succumbed to temptation and suppressed them again.
As I tried to stand up, I discovered that I was now lop-sided. At the bottom of my right leg I had some spare exo-skin, since it no longer covered a foot. I instructed the surplus material to extend a few inches into a peg-leg, so that I could balance. I shaped the peg to avoid pressing on my stump, with the force of my steps being borne by the exo-skin higher up my leg.
I tottered across the trash-strewn pebbles. I could walk! I shouted in triumph, and disturbed a magpie busy pecking at the freshly revealed soil on the new shoreline. It chittered reprovingly as it flew away.
Then I must have blacked out for a while. Later, I woke with a weak sun shining in my face. My first thought was to return to the landslip and move the rocks to retrieve my missing foot.
My second thought was—where is it?
The whole coast was a jumble of fallen boulders. The cliff had been eroding for years, and last night’s storm was only the most recent attrition. I couldn’t tell where I’d fallen, or where I’d been trapped. Somewhere in there lay a chunk of flesh, of great sentimental value. But I had no idea where it might be.
I’d lost my foot.
Only at that moment did the loss hit home. I raged at myself for getting into such a stupid situation, and for going through with the amputation rather than summoning help, like a young boy too proud to call for his mother when he hurts himself.
And I felt a deep regret that I’d lost a piece of myself I’d never get back. Sure, the exo-skin could replace it. Sure, I could augment myself beyond what I ever was before.
But the line between man and machine seemed like the coastline around me: constantly being nibbled away. I’d lost a foot, just like the coast had lost a few more rocks. Yet no matter what it swallowed, the sea kept rising.
What would I lose next?
• • • •
I turned south, back toward town, and walked along the shoreline, looking for a spot where I could easily climb from the beach to the path above the cliff. Perhaps I could have employed my augments and simply clawed my way up the sheer cliff-face, but I had become less keen on using them.
The irony did not escape me. I’d embarked on this expedition with the intent of pushing the augments to the full. Now I found myself shunning them. Yet the augments themselves hadn’t failed.
Only I had failed. I’d exercised bad judgment, and ended up trapped and truncated. That was my entirely human brain, thinking stupidly.
Perhaps if my brain had been augmented, I would have acted more rationally.
My steps crunched on banks of pebbles, the peg-leg making a different sound than my remaining foot, so that my gait created an alternating rhythm like the bass-snare drumbeat of old-fashioned pop music. The beach smelled of sea-salt, and of the decaying vegetation that had fallen with the landslip. Chunks of driftwood lay everywhere.
The day was quiet; the wind had dropped and the tide was out, so the only sounds came from my own steps and the occasional cry of the gulls far out to sea. Otherwise I would never have heard the voice, barely more than a scratchy whisper.
“Soon, my darling. Soon we’ll be together. Ah, how long has it been?”
I looked around and saw no-one. Then I realized that the voice came from low down, from somewhere among the pebbles and the ever-present trash. I sifted through the debris and found a small square of plastic. When I lifted it to my ear, it swore at me.
“Arsewipe! Fuckflaps!”
The voice was so tinny and distorted that I couldn’t be sure I recognized it. “Katriona?” I asked.
“How long, how long? Oh, the sea, the dear blessed sea. Speed the waves. . . .”
I asked again, but the voice wouldn’t respond to me. Maybe the broken chip, which no longer projected a hologram, had also lost its aural input. Or maybe it had stopped bothering to speak to passers by.
Now I saw that some of the driftwood planks were slats of benches. The memorial benches, which over the years had inched closer to the eroding cliff-edge, had finally succumbed to the waves.
Yet perhaps they hadn’t succumbed, but rather had finally attained their goal—or would do soon enough when the next high tide carried the detritus away. I remembered the holograms lighting up last night, how they’d seemed to summon the storm. I remembered Katriona telling me about her husband who’d drowned. For all the years of her death, she must have longed to join him in the watery deeps.
I strode out toward the distant waves. My steps squelched as I neared the waterline, and I had to pick my way between clumps of seaweed. As I walked, I crunched the plastic chip to shreds in my palm, my exo-skin easily strong enough to break it. When I reached the spume, I flung the fragments into the sea.
“Goodbye,” I said, “and God rest you.”
I shivered as I returned to the upper beach. I felt an irrational need to clamber up the rocks to the cliff-top path, further from the hungry sea.
I’d seen my own future. The exo-skin and the other augments would become more and more of me, and the flesh less and less. One day only the augments would be left, an electronic ghost of the person I used to be.
As I retrieved my clothes from where I’d cached them, I experienced a surge of relief at donning them to rejoin society. Putting on my shoes proved difficult, since I lacked a righ
t foot. I had to reshape my exo-skin into a hollow shell, in order to fill the shoes of a human being.
Tomorrow I would return to the launch base. I’d seek medical attention after we lifted off, when they couldn’t remove me from the colony roster for my foolishness. I smiled as I wondered what similar indiscretions my comrades might reveal, when it was too late for meaningful punishment. What would we all have left behind?
What flaws would we take with us? And what would remain of us, at the last?
Now we approach the end of my story, and there is little left. As I once helped a shadow fade, long ago and far away, I hope that someday you will do the same for me.
MARISSA LINGEN Born in Libertyville, Illinois, Marissa Lingen has lived in several areas of the United States. She trained in physics and mathematics, and worked for a time at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. In 1999 she won the Isaac Asimov Award for Undergraduate Excellence in Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Story Writing (now called the Dell Magazines Award) and has been writing short stories ever since. She has been publishing stories in the genre since 2002. Today she writes full-time, and lives in a small town south of Minneapolis.
“The Calculus Plague” literalizes the metaphoric concept of knowledge transmitted “virally,” and deftly asks the next question.
THE CALCULUS PLAGUE
The Calculus Plague came first. Almost no one took offense at it. In fact, it took a while for anyone to find out about it at all. No one had any reason to talk about a dim memory of their high school math teacher, whose face didn’t seem familiar somehow, and what was her name again? His name? Well, what did it matter?
It wasn’t until Dr. Leslie Baxter, an economics professor at the U, heard her four-year-old son ask, “What’s Newton’s Method, Mommy?” that anyone began to notice anything wrong. At first Leslie assumed that Nicholas’s most recent babysitter had been talking about his calculus assignment over the phone when sitting for Nicholas, but when she confronted the young man, he admitted that he had taken part in a viral memory experiment that was aimed at teaching calculus through transmission of memories.