The Hard SF Renaissance

by David G. Hartwell

  Sure, sure, I say. Just asking.

  Thinks about it a moment, then she tells me. Younger brother used to live in Minneapolis, but was busted by the feds early last year. Sold cartons of cigarettes smuggled from Mexico out of the back of his car. Smoking illegal in Minneapolis. Felony charge, his third for selling butts on the street. Three-strikes law means he goes to jail for life. For selling cigarettes.

  Judge set bail at seven grand. Sylvie came up with the cash. Brother jumped bail, as she knew he would. Fled south, sought amnesty, went to work for Mexican tobacco company. Sends her postcard now and then, but hasn’t seen him in almost two years.

  That’s tough, I say. She nods. Think about it a little. Question comes to mind. How did you come up with seven grand so fast?

  Doesn’t say anything for a minute, then she tells me.

  Got it from mortgaging her corneas.

  Five is the usual price, but she got seven on the overseas black market. When she dies, her eyes go to India. At least it kept my brother from going to prison, she says, but I can tell that isn’t the point.

  Sylvie doesn’t want to be buried without her eyes.

  She takes back the postcard, turns it over to look at the beach on the front. Kind of makes you want to visit Tijuana, doesn’t it?

  Tijuana looks like a great place, I say. Always wanted to go there. At least he’s found a nice place to live.

  Gives me long, hard look. Card wasn’t sent from Tijuana, she says. It’s from Mexico City, where he’s living now. That’s in the letter. Didn’t you read it?

  Oh, I say. Yeah, sure. Just forgot.

  Doesn’t say anything for a moment. Pulls over the newspaper, looks at the front page. Points to a headline. Says, isn’t that a shame?

  Look at picture next to it. Shows African woman with a dead baby in her arms, screaming at camera. Yeah, I say, that’s tough. Hate it when I read news like that.

  Sylvie taps a finger on the headline. Says here that the unemployment rate in Massachusetts is lowest in fifteen years, she says.

  Oh yeah, I say. That’s not what I meant. That’s good news, yeah.

  Pushes newspaper aside. Looks around to see if anyone is listening. Drops her voice to a whisper. You can’t read, can you?

  Face turns warm. No point in lying to her She knows now.

  Only a little, I say. Just enough to get by, like a menu or a plane ticket. Not enough to read her brother’s postcard or a newspaper.

  Feel stupid now. Want to get up and leave. Forget that I’m supposed to stay in the wheelchair, start to rise to my feet. Sylvie puts her hand on top of mine, makes me stay put.

  It’s okay, she says. Doesn’t matter. Kind of suspected, but didn’t know for sure until you asked me about what my brother said in his letter.

  Still want to leave. Grab rubber wheels, start to push back from table.

  C’mon, don’t go away, she says. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Stay here.

  Feel like an idiot, I say.

  Sylvie shakes her head. Gives me that smile again. No, she say, you’re not an idiot. You’re just as smart as anyone else.

  Look at her. She doesn’t look away. Her eyes are owned by some company in India, but for a moment they belong only to me.

  You can learn how to read, she says. You’ve just never had a teacher like me.

  Get blisters on my feet by end of first day. Same for the other guys. Dr. Bighead very pleased. Never seen some one get so excited about blisters. Wonder if he’s got a thing for feet.

  Scientists take pictures of our feet, make notes on clipboard, then spread lotion on our soles. Pale green stuff. Feels like snot from a bad head cold, smells like a Christmas tree soaked in kerosene. Use eyedroppers to carefully measure the exact amount. Should have used paintbrushes instead.

  Everyone gets theirs from different bottles. No idea if I got the test product or the placebo, but blisters feel a little better after they put it on.

  Doesn’t last long. Skin begins to itch after dinner. Not bad itch, but can’t resist scratching at the bottom of my feet. Sort of like have chigger bites from walking in tall grass. Sylvie and Phil have the same thing, but Doug doesn’t. Sits in corner of rec room, reading paperback book, never once touching his feet. Rest of us watch the tube and paw at our tootsies.

  Guess we know who got the placebo.

  No treadmill work the next day, but we go back down to the lab after breakfast and let the scientists examine us some more. Tell them about the itching while they draw blood samples. They nod, listen, take more pictures, make more notes, then put more green stuff on our feet.

  Different formula this time. Now it’s Extra Strength Green Stuff. Must be made out of fire ants. Nearly jump off the table. Sylvie hisses and screws up her eyes when they put it on her. Phil yells obscenities. Two guys have to grab him before he decks the kid who put it on his feet.

  Feet still burning when we go back upstairs. Sylvie goes to her room. Doug picks up his book and reads. Phil mad as hell, pissing and moaning about Dr. Bighead. Says he only did this to get a little extra dough, didn’t know they were going to put him in jail and torture him to death. Says he wants to go put his feet in a sink.

  Don’t do it, I say, it’ll screw up the test. Tell him that trying to punch out a scientist is way uncool. Calm down, dude. Let’s play some eight-ball. Get your mind off it.

  Mumbles something under his breath, but says, yeah, okay, whatever.

  Hard to shoot pool sitting in wheelchairs, but we manage for awhile. Phil can’t get into it. Blows easy shots, scratches the cue ball twice. Sinks eight-ball when I’ve still got four stripes on the table. Loses temper. Slams his stick down on table, turns chair around and rolls off to his room. Slams the door.

  Look up at lens in the ceiling. Know someone must be catching all this.

  Go over to TV, turn it on, start watching Oprah. Sylvie comes over a little while later. Asks if I want to begin reading lessons.

  Not much into it, I say. Wanna watch Oprah instead.

  Gives me a look that could give a woody to a monk. C’mon, she says. Please. I’d really like it if you would.

  Think maybe I can score some points with her this way, so I go along with it. What the hell. Maybe I might learn something. Okay, I say.

  Turns off TV, wheels over to bookshelf, starts poking through it. Think she’s going to grab a book or a magazine. Can’t even read the titles of most of them. If she brings back Shakespeare or something like that, I’m outta here.

  Picks up a bunch of newspapers from the bottom shelf. Puts them in her lap, hauls them over to a table, tells me to come over next to her.

  Finds the funny pages. Asks me if I like comic strips. Naw, I say. Never really looked at them. Smiles and says she reads the funnies every morning. Best part of her day. She points to the one at the top of the first page. Here’s one I like, she says. Tell me what this little kid is saying to the tiger.

  That’s how I start to learn how to read. Seeing what Calvin and Hobbs did today.

  After lunch, we go down to the lab again for another checkup. Feet no longer burning, but the itch is back. Feet a little red. More blood samples, more photos, more notes. More ointment on our feet. Doesn’t burn so much this time. Looks a little different, too. Must be New Improved Extra Strength Green Stuff.

  Scientists notice something different when they look at Phil’s feet. Spend a lot of time with him. Compare them to photos they took earlier. One of them takes a scalpel, scrapes a little bit of dead skin off the bottom of each foot, puts it in a dish, takes it out of the room.

  Phil keeps saying, what’s going on? What’s the big deal? Gotta right to know.

  Scientists say nothing to him. Examine Sylvie and Doug, spread more ointment on their feet, then let the three of us go back to the dorm. Tell Phil he has to stay behind. Say they want to conduct a more thorough examination.

  Dr. Bighead walks past us while we’re waiting for the elevator. Just says hi, nothing else. Goes straigh
t to the lab, closes door behind him.

  Phil screwed up, I say to Doug and Sylvie when we’re alone in the elevator. Don’t know how, but I think he screwed up.

  Just nod. Know the score. Seen it before, too. People go crazy sometimes during a long test. Happens to new guys all time. Every now and then, some dumb rat gets washed down the gutter.

  Return to rec room. Doug picks up his paperback, Sylvie and I go back to reading the funnies. Trying to figure out why Sarge just kicked Beetle in the butt when door opens and Phil comes in. Not riding a wheelchair now. Dr. Bighead and a security guard are right behind him.

  Doesn’t say much to us, just goes straight to his room and collects his bag. Leaves without saying goodbye or anything.

  Dr. Bighead stays behind. Says that Phil was dismissed from the experiment because he scrubbed off the product. Also displayed lack of proper attitude. Won’t be replaced because it’s too late to do so without beginning the tests again.

  We nod, say nothing. No point in telling him that we were expecting this. Warns us not to do the same thing. Phil isn’t being paid for his time, he says, because he violated the terms of his contract.

  Nod. No sir. We’re good rats.

  Apologizes for the inconvenience. Asks us if we need anything.

  Sylvie raises her hand. Asks for some comic books. Dr. Bighead gives her a weird look, but nods his head. Promises to have some comic books sent up here by tomorrow. Then he leaves.

  Doug looks up from his book as the door shuts behind him. Good, he says. Leaves more green stuff for us.

  Two weeks go by fast.

  Phase One tests sometimes take forever. Drives everyone crazy. This one should, because we’re not on the treadmills every single day and have lots of time on our hands, but it doesn’t.

  For once, I’m doing something else besides staring at the tube. Usually spend hours lying on a couch in the rec room, watching one video after another, killing time until I go to the lab again.

  But not now.

  After work and on the off-days, I sit at a table with Sylvie, fighting my way through the funny pages.

  Sometimes Doug helps, when Sylvie needs to sleep or when her feet are aching too much. Both are patient. Don’t treat me like a kid or a retard or laugh when I can’t figure out a long word, and help me pronounce it over and over again until I get it right. If it’s something difficult, Sylvie describes what it means in plain English, or even draws a little picture. Take notes on stationery paper and study them at night until I fall asleep.

  Able to get through the funny pages without much help after the first few days, then we start on the comic books Dr. Bighead got for us. Archie and Jughead at first, because they’re simple. When Sylvie isn’t around, Doug and I get into discussing who we’d rather shag, Betty or Veronica, but pretty soon I’m tackling Batman and the X-Men. Find out that the comics are much better than the movies.

  Doug is a good teacher, but I prefer to be with Sylvie.

  Funny thing happens. Start to make sense of the newspaper headlines. They’re no longer alien to me. Discover that they actually mean something. Stuff in them that isn’t on TV.

  Then start to figure out titles on the covers of Doug’s books. Know now that he likes science fiction and spy novels. Better than movies, he says, and I believe him when he tells me what they’re about. Still can’t read what’s on the pages, because I still need pictures to help me understand the words, but for the first time I actually want to know what’s in a book.

  Hard to describe. Sort of like hiking through dense rain forest, where you can’t see anything except shadows and you think it’s night, and you try to stay on the trail because you don’t know what’s out there. Then you get above the treeline and there’s a clearing. Sun is right over your head and it’s warm and we can see for miles, mountains and ranges and plains all spread out before you, and it’s so beautiful you want to spend the rest of your life here.

  That’s what it’s like. All of a sudden, I’m not as stupid as I once thought I was.

  One night, after everyone else has gone to bed and the lights are turned off, I find myself crying. Don’t cry easily, because that’s not the way I was brought up. Dad beat the crap out of me if he caught me doing so, call me a faggot and a little girlie-boy. No short or easy way to explain it, but that’s sort of why he took me out of school, made me go to work in his garage. Said he wanted me to be a man, that he didn’t want no godless liberals messing up my brain with books and ideas.

  When he dropped dead with a socket wrench in his hand, I was eighteen. Only thing in my wallet was a draft card I couldn’t read. Time in the army showed me the rest of the world and made me want to see more, but by then was too late to go back to school. After that, only choice I had to say alive and see the world was to become a rat. A rat whose body didn’t belong to himself.

  Something wrong when the law lets a human be a rat, because a rat has more respect than a human. Rats can’t learn to read, but a human can. No one wants to spend money on schools, though. Rather spend it on building prisons, then putting people in there who sell cigarettes. Meanwhile, teachers have to go do things that they won’t let rats do anymore.

  Didn’t cry that night for Sylvie or her brother, even though that was part of it. Cried for all the lost years of my life.

  Spend few days trying to learn as much as I can, but can’t get past one thing.

  Sylvie.

  Started to learn how to read because I wanted to shag her. Going along with her seemed like the easiest way of getting her into bed.

  Can’t do that during an experiment, because sex with other rats is a strict no-no in the standard contract. Seen other rats get punted for just being caught in someone else’s room, even when both persons had their pants on. When tests are over and everyone’s paid, though, there’s nothing wrong with a little party time at the nearest no-tell motel.

  Still want to sleep with her. Get a Jackson sometimes just sitting next to her in the rec room, while she’s helping me get through some word I haven’t seen before. Can’t take my eyes off her when she’s running the treadmill next to me.

  Different situation now, though. Isn’t just about getting Sylvie in some cheap motel for some hoy-hoy. Not even about learning how to read. Got some scary feelings about her.

  Two days before the end of the tests. Alone together in the rec room, reading Spider-Man to each other. Ask her straight. Say, hey, why are you helping me like this?

  Keeps looking at comic book, but flips back her hair and smiles a little. Because I’m a teacher, she says, and this is what I do. You’re the first pupil I’ve had since college.

  Plenty of winos in the park who don’t know how to read, I say. Could always teach them. Why bother with me?

  Gives me long look. Not angry, not cold. Can’t quite make it out.

  Because, she says, I’ve always wanted to visit Kathmandu, and maybe I’ve found someone who can take me there.

  Can take you there, I say. Can take you to Nepal, Brazil, Ireland. Mexico to visit your brother, if you want.

  Blushes. Looks away for a second, then back at me. Maybe you just want to take me to nearest hotel when we’re done here, she says. I’ve done that. Wouldn’t mind doing it again, either.

  Shake my head. Like Kathmandu better, I say. Sunrise over Annapurna is incredible. Would love you to see it with me.

  Love? Thought I was just teaching you how to read.

  Look around to see if anyone is watching. No one there, but there must be someone behind the lens in the ceiling.

  Hell with them. Put my hand under the table and find hers. One more word you’ve taught me, I say.

  She smiles. Doesn’t take her hand away. Finds a pen in her pocket, hands it to me, pushes some paper in front of me.

  If you can write it, she says, I’ll believe you.

  Phase one test of the product pronounced a success on the final day. Last batch of Brand New Improved Green Stuff doesn’t smell, doesn’t itc
h, doesn’t burn, and heals the blisters on our feet. Doesn’t do a thing for our leg cramps, but that’s beside the point.

  Dr. Bighead thanks us, writes his name on the bottom of our checks. Tells us we’ve been wonderful test subjects. Hopes to work with us again soon. In fact, are you available next March? Scheduled test of new anti-depressant drug. Looking for subjects now. How about it?

  Look at Sylvie. She’s sitting next to me. Doesn’t say anything. Look at the check. It’s written on an account at the First Bank of Boston, and it’s signed by Dr. Leonard Whyte, M.D.

  Thank you, Dr. Whyte, I say. My agent will be in touch with you. Ciao.

  A cab is waiting for us at the front door. We tell the driver to take us to the nearest hotel.

  Three years have passed since Sylvie and I met in Boston. A few things are different now.

  She finally managed to get me to use proper grammar instead of street talk. I’m still learning, but personal pronouns are no longer foreign to me, and it’s no longer necessary to refer to all events in the present tense. To those of you who have patiently suffered through my broken English during this chronicle, I sincerely apologize. This was an attempt to portray the person I once was, before Sylvie came into my life.

  We used the money earned during the Boston tests for a trip to Mexico City, where Sylvie got to see her brother for the first time in two years. Six months later, we flew to Nepal and made a trek through the Annapurna region, where I showed her a sunrise over the Himalayas. Since then we have gone on a safari in Kenya and rafted down the Amazon. Now we’re planning a spring trip to northern Canada, above the Arctic circle. A little too cold for my taste, but she wants to see the Northern Lights.

  Anything for my baby.

  The first night in Kathmandu, I promised to give her the world that I knew in exchange for hers. She has made good by her promise, and I’m making good by mine.

  Nonetheless, we’re still rats.

  We can’t marry, because the labs that supply our income won’t accept married couples as test subjects. Although we’ve been living together for almost three years now, we keep addresses in different cities, file separate tax returns and maintain our own bank accounts. Her mail is forwarded to my place, and only our agents know the difference. We’ll probably never have children, or at least until we decide to surrender this strange freedom that we’ve found.