by Kage Baker
“Aw, now, son, no need to worry,” the Captain assured him. “There ain’t a thing about us to attract anybody’s notice.”
“Right,” Alec replied, walking to the end of the alleyway. He peered around the corner and the Captain peered, too, taking out his own pair of sunglasses and donning them. He didn’t need them, of course, but he thought they would make him blend in.
Nothing to indicate anyone in Avalon had any idea it was the last day of recorded history. Holidaymakers were strolling, shop windows were bright with overpriced clothes and souvenirs. Children had buckets and spades. The town’s retro taxis, agcraft styled to resemble Model A Fords, were the only motor traffic, and even they moved no faster than an amble. Little yachts clustered in the half-moon mooring. Out beyond them loomed the bigger ships, like swans at rest. The Avalon Casino towered in all its majesty in the morning light.
“Well, nobody seems to be expecting trouble, anyhow,” remarked the Captain. Alec pulled his head back around the corner and took a few deep breaths.
“This is Mendoza’s big cornfield, too, here where we’re standing now. I’ll fly right over it the first day I ever meet Mendoza. Too weird!”
“You want that bar, that’s what you want, lad,” the Captain told him, and Alec nodded.
“Yeah. This is my world, and it’s great to be back! This’ll be just like old times, right? Just you and me having adventures.”
“In a nice bar,” added the Captain. They stepped out together into the street.
Nobody took any notice of them, though they were both remarkably tall, the air around Alec had a distinct shimmer, and the Captain was still lurching a little as he walked and leading with his left eye. They strode briskly up Sumner Avenue, Alec gaining confidence at every step, and stopped opposite a comfortingly dark low establishment where a sign proclaimed the presence of THE HISTORIC CHI-CHI CLUB. Above it, for the nonreading clientele, was a holo of a smiling South Seas maiden in innocent D-cup nudity masked here and there by a few hibiscus blossoms.
“Ooh, yeah,” moaned Alec, and fled inside, and the Captain followed.
It was dim and cool within. There was, of course, no alcohol on display at the bar, though Alec could smell it somewhere in the room; instead there were bottles of fruit syrups in every color of the rainbow, and big amber coolers of fruit teas and soykefir. There were three or four old golfers on stools with paper-parasoled smoothie drinks in front of them, blearily watching the holo above the bar. It was tuned to a program on wildebeest herds. Animals snorted, charged each other or grazed on yellow plains in midair above the rows of hurricane glasses.
“That’s a good sign,” said Alec sotto voce, sliding gratefully into a booth. “If there was a war just breaking out nobody’d be watching the Animal Site, yeah?”
“I ain’t picking up anything out of the ordinary on the commsites, neither,” the Captain replied. “And that’s damned funny, because the last transmission from Dr. Zeus’s future offices is supposed to come at eleven hundred hours California time. And here we are at half past ten in the morning and there ain’t no sign of no apocalypse.” He lowered his voice as the barman came to their table.
“That’s one swell shirt, and how,” he complimented Alec, in the Early Cinema Standard that had become the island’s distinct patois. Alec glanced down at his shirt—it was one of his more vivid ones, with tikis and naked vahines—and smiled nervously.
“Thanks,” he said. “So, er—is Johnny around?” That was the time-honored code phrase for requesting alcohol.
“He will be,” said the barman, without batting an eye. “What about a couple of Mango Kiwi Refreshers for you guys?”
“Sure,” said Alec.
“Damnation,” snarled the Captain as the barman moved away. “It’s got to be Judgment Day when I drink something with a name like that.”
“Ah, come on, you’ve only been drinking at all for a few hours linear,” said Alec.
“I know, laddie, but you got to work harder at yer personality when it’s artificial,” the Captain explained. “You think it’s been easy being a pirate, all these years?”
“Good thing I wasn’t into dinosaurs, then, yeah?” said Alec. The Captain rolled his eyes.
At that moment, the wildebeests galloped into oblivion and a cheery voice announced that it was time for the Hearst News Services Update. The glowing logo of an eagle with spread wings appeared, followed by the stories of the hour, and Alec and the Captain both watched attentively.
No asteroids hurtling toward the Earth. No new plagues, no belligerent nations giving ultimatums. No intimations of Doomsday at all. The biggest news was a schism within the Ephesian Church: a sect of Neo-Wiccans were splitting off in protest at the Church’s continued refusal to publish the text of the Malinmhor Codex, located by archaeologists five years previously and still in scholarly limbo, though its translators hinted it contained material contradicting Ephesian Holy Scripture.
In other news, the New England Bloc was in the process of signing a trade agreement with the Cherokee Nation, despite the Confederation of White Principalities’ protests; Henry X of England was announcing the betrothal of Princess Stacy to Proconsul Dieter Hapsburg of Austria; Greater Canton was proudly unveiling its new hypertext format series.
And, blip—that was it for the news. As baboons began to frolic above the bar, the barman brought the drinks: hurricane glasses full of something yellow streaked with pink and garnished with fruit spears. “I’ll be sure to tell Johnny you stopped in,” he said meaningfully. Alec fished out a credit disc—it drew on an account for the estate of William St. James Harpole—and paid. He lifted his glass and breathed in the fragrance; Jamaican white rum, and plenty of it. As he drank, he became aware the barman was staring at him, brow furrowed.
“Say, mister, are you … er … glowing?”
“What, me?” Alec set his drink down in haste, and adjusted the man’s perception. “Dude, why would I be glowing?”
The barman blinked, shook his head as though to clear it. “Why would you be glowing? Gee, I’m sorry. You just let me know when you want another of those.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m tired of these darned animals,” complained one of the old men at the bar. “I want to watch something else. Isn’t there anything besides this darned PCTV?”
“I’ll see what I can find, sir,” said the barman and, slipping behind the bar, he fussed with the console. The baboons vanished, to be replaced by water buffalo, to be replaced by a shopping site, to be replaced by zebras, to be replaced by the twenty-four-hour Ephesian site where a grim old woman in purple robes spoke full into the cameras on the subject of heresy, to be replaced by chimpanzees, to be replaced with another shopping site, to be replaced by lemurs, to be replaced by a site on granite and related minerals, to be replaced by something with a ship scudding along under a stormy sky. There were various yells and grunts from the old men and the barman kept that site up.
“Hey! That’s Moby Dick,” remarked Alec, sipping his drink as he stared up at the floating images. “I used to have that holo.”
“Got it for yer twelfth birthday,” said the Captain, nodding. “The first time you was twelve, I mean. Along with them yachting flag pajamas and Totter Dan’s Undersea Adventure. I had hell’s own time back-ordering it in the catalogues, but it was all you wanted.” He lifted his drink and tasted carefully. “Damn, this ain’t bad. We got mangoes at home, don’t we?”
“Yeah,” said Alec, staring up at the holo. He found that concentrating on it eased the discomfort of perceiving time.
“I reckon I could get used to this flesh business, aye,” said the Captain meditatively. “Wonder how many appetites I could indulge? Too bad you made me all-of-a-piece with the clothes.”
“Huh?” Alec looked briefly away from the holo. “Well, but—there’s buttons and everything, right? They ought to unfasten. Most of the design template used your own self-image as a guide.”
“Maybe the buttons
undo at that.” The Captain’s eyes lit with wild surmise. He stood in the booth and, unbuttoning his coat, slipped it off cautiously.
“Ugh! Now, that’s a right creepy feeling.” He held the coat against the table, then against his drink. “I got sensation in the coat like it was skin, even when it ain’t on. It don’t like being off me. Still…” He tugged experimentally at the cufflink on his right sleeve and worked it loose. With great care he rolled his sleeve up, an inch at a time. “Bloody hell, this feels funny. But I’ve always wondered, see …” A moment later he gave a whoop of glee and thrust out one brawny, black-haired forearm. “Lookit there, matey!”
Alec dragged his gaze away from the scene where Moby Dick warns the other whales about Ahab’s obsessive behavior. “Oh, cool! You’ve got a tattoo,” he cried, and looking closer his eyes widened, for it was a most impolite tattoo, but certainly something of which a filthy old buccaneer might be proud. He looked around uneasily. “Maybe you’d better cover it up now, though. I’d forgot how prissy everybody is in this century.”
The Captain chuckled and obeyed. “To be sure, lad,” he said. Standing again, he shrugged back into his coat and resumed his seat, though he looked down thoughtfully at the fly of his trousers.
Alec had gone back to watching Moby Dick, with a frown that deepened as the moments passed. “This is—it’s all different,” he said at last.
“It’s the same one you had as a kid, son,” the Captain told him, taking a hearty gulp of his drink. “Aah!”
“No, I mean … it’s different from the real story,” said Alec. “Edward made me access the book when I was four. Remember? We had a big fight about it. But I did finally read the damn thing, and it was a good story after all. It wasn’t anything like this. They’ve changed the story all around and left out a bunch of stuff and … they’ve made it dumb.”
“You didn’t used to think so,” observed the Captain, finishing his drink and setting it aside. Impulsively he reached down and unfastened his belt buckle.
“When I was a mortal. I guess I don’t belong in the twenty-fourth century anymore,” said Alec, shaking his head. He turned and started as he saw what the Captain was doing. “Hey,” he hissed. “Close it up! They’ve got Public Health Monitors here, too, you know.”
“Just wanted to see,” said the Captain smugly, refastening himself. “I reckon you’d want to know how you was rigged, if it was you.”
“Er … yeah.” Alec scanned the room, uneasy.
“Now, I wonder if there’s any whores on this here island?” mused the Captain.
Regent’s Park, 9 July 2355
Nicholas found himself on a green lawn, in a quiet place of orderly flowerbeds and hedges, and the high tops of the trees were backlit with golden afternoon. He might have been in Mendoza’s garden—at least, in one of the bits designed by Edward—but for the fact that he could feel the slow pulse of the grass blades under his feet. Time lay heavy, palpable, pulling like a slow tide, and he had to blink and rub his eyes before he could convince himself that its gravity was not distorting what he saw. Scents and sounds were less disturbing—the strong perfume of roses, water splashing on stone. And, at a distance, the vaguely unpleasant chemical smell and roar of a twenty-fourth-century city.
He fought back panic. What had Mendoza taught him? To scan his surroundings before moving. Cautiously he got his bearings, referencing what he could see with his database on London. “Regent’s Park,” he murmured. “Queen Mary’s Gardens! Is it so? Why then, old queen: here is Nicholas again, risen from his ashes.”
He set out, smiling grimly to himself. Crossing the Inner Circle, he came upon a mortal gardener setting out bedding plants. He nodded to the man, who stared at him a moment before nodding back. He seemed nonplussed by Nicholas’s height, or perhaps by the barely perceptible waver of light over his body, but otherwise unperturbed. Clearly, no Armageddon was troubling London yet.
Nicholas reached Albany Street at last, just as a public transport came trundling along. He backed away a pace or two, resisting the urge to turn and run from it; then squared his shoulders and strode forward, waving. The monstrous engine slowed, stopped for him. Not quite believing what he was doing, he stepped up and got in.
“DESTINATION?” inquired a robotic voice.
Nicholas cleared his throat and said: “Er, Euston Road, as far as Gray’s Inn Road, and so to Theobald’s Road? Yes. Can you take me there, please?”
“PLEASE TAKE A SEAT,” said the voice as the door slid shut behind him and the transport lurched on. Nicholas staggered, grabbing for a strap. He looked around the inside of the transport. Plenty of seats. He took one and sat gazing about, rather pleased with himself.
There were only a few other people on the bus. He scanned them. Mortals all, preoccupied with their own lives. Nicholas found, to his astonishment, that their thoughts hummed around them like transmissions, quite clearly perceptible. Yes! This was how Mendoza had described them. She had sat in a church pew in Spain once, and the human drama on the ether had fascinated and appalled her. And frightened her, perhaps, too … Nicholas felt a little fear himself, and a growing sense of heartache, as he regarded them.
This one was a young girl, fragile as a leaf, just come from a dance studio; her legs were aching, but she was resolutely ignoring the pain. She had a goal. This one was a merchant, a middle-aged man, and he had just been given a terminal diagnosis and was considering what to do with the time he had left. He had a family to provide for. This one was a boy in love, miserable and desperate, but convinced he could prove himself to the object of his affections if he could just earn some money with his music. He had talent to fulfill. This one was a retired teacher of math, clutching her string bag of groceries, frowning to herself as she went over and over the complex theorem in her mind, sure that this time she was right. She very nearly had an answer.
All they needed was time.
But beyond the windows of the transport the golden summer evening was waning, waning, and the light was fading from their world. Nicholas could see it flickering away, like a candle guttering. He looked sadly into the mortal faces. Who could say whether their sun would ever rise again?
Could he win them time? To dance Le Sacre du Printemps, to see a grandchild, to get a club booking, to publish?
Then there was a pitch as something went wrong with the transport, and it veered crazily and nearly hit an oncoming vehicle. The mortals screamed; tinny warning Klaxons sounded from the interior speakers, as the emergency programs took over and the transport wobbled to the pavement. Red lights flashed above the emergency exits, but here too something failed and they did not pop open. Panicked, the mortals scrambled to their feet and threw themselves against the doors.
“Pardon me,” said Nicholas, going to them. He edged past them and by habit prepared to set his shoulder to the door. If he had followed through with his body slam, the door would have undoubtedly gone flying outward. At the last moment, however, he heard Edward’s voice in a long-ago lecture: Points for obtaining goal, Nicholas, but demerits for technique. You are a cyborg, boy. What alternatives might you have tried? I’m waiting… and Alec had stared sidelong at him, widening his eyes helpfully in an attempt to hint that all he had had to do was …
Talk to it. Nicholas reached up to the exit servomotor, searching for a port. He started, feeling a tiny intellect there, a feeble confused presence. Carefully, as though stroking a frightened kitten, he suggested that it might want to open the emergency doors. It calmed down enough to comply; the exits sprang open, and a moment later everyone was standing on the pavement at Acton Street.
“What’s happened?” cried the old woman. What indeed; for as far as the eye could see, there were public transports scattered along the road like toys, each with a crowd of bewildered mortals huddled around it. They were not looking at the transports, however. The boy shouted and pointed a trembling finger. Nicholas craned his head back to look.
What were those things, atop every lig
ht standard? He accessed his files on London and identified them as the surveillance cameras that monitored all Britons, day and night. But they were doing no monitoring now; they were thrashing like eels in mechanical agony, whipping to and fro on their cables, snaking, the very picture of agitation. They were keening, too, a high-pitched howl that echoed off the buildings.
“They’ve never done that before!” the merchant said.
“I think it’s a technical malfunction,” said Nicholas, enunciating with care. “You had better go to your homes.”
“But I live in Brompton,” said the girl, indignant.
The old woman looked at Nicholas sharply. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Shrack! Look at that!” said the boy. All around them, the street maintenance servos were emerging from the curbside tunnels in which they ordinarily passed the daylight hours. Racing about blindly, they caromed into one another or struck stalled vehicles.
“I’m getting back on the bus,” muttered the old woman, and she did so, and the other mortals crowded after her. Nicholas decided they were probably safer there, for the moment. He turned and walked down Gray’s Inn Road, dodging the maintenance servos and the bits that were now flying loose from the flailing surveillance cams.
The machines were in pain. They had been given consciousness, of a sort, and so it followed that they perceived error as discomfort, even as the Captain did. The Captain, a complex mind, was capable of anger or frustration when his programming was blocked. The Captain, having Mind, was Spirit, though of course not Soul, and therefore—
Nicholas stopped in his tracks, astounded. Had all conscious machines, which was to say those of a sufficient complexity, minds? Were they therefore spirits, too? And if that was the case, what distinguished them from the Captain? Had they rights? What precisely was their status? How did they compare with animal minds? Who would see to their welfare? Did the question even apply? Now, what if—