Gods of the Greataway

by Coney, Michael G.

  “Eh?”

  “Mocking the True Human form. Don’t you have any respect for —” Her next words were unheard as the cannon itself exploded, filling the air with whizzing shrapnel and causing the few members of the audience who were still standing to fling themselves to the ground. “It’s so childish!” said Selena from her prone position.

  “Well,” retorted Tom viciously, “we are children, and we always will be, and ask yourselves who were the buggers that made us this way?”

  “But you’re intelligent people, Tom.”

  “That has nothing to do with our fun.”

  “Your idea of fun is too destructive for my tastes.”

  “Oh, is it?” His face was twisted with malice as he jumped to his feet. “Too destructive, is it? Well, let’s get on with it, shall we? I was going to show you Jenny’s guinea pigs. I’ll guarantee you won’t find them destructive.”

  With some foreboding, Selena followed Tom into a nearby shack, where a small urchin sat. Clearly, Jenny had not been watching the exhibition in the street. All around the walls of her shack stood gleaming machinery, but the only item Selena could recognize was a computer keyboard. On the dirty floor lay a mess of broken machinery, which Jenny, sitting on a rough chair, was rhythmically pounding with a mallet.

  “You’ve smashed them all,” said Tom, disappointed.

  She flashed him a guilty look from dark eyes.

  “You haven’t?” Tom brightened. “Selena here would like to see them breed.”

  Slowly Jenny rose and from a cupboard took two small creatures. She laid them on the floor. They sniffed around, noses twitching. “I was going to smash these, too,” said Jenny. “I really was.”

  “Is there anything … organic in them?” asked Selena cautiously.

  “No.”

  The guinea pigs were now sniffing each other. Tom uttered a little sneeze of laughter. Jenny glanced at him gravely, pulling a box out from under a bench. The box was full of minuscule glittering things. The guinea pigs sniffed the box. They stood on their hind legs to look inside, then dropped back to all fours, regarding each other stonily.

  Then abruptly they reared up and, prancing on hind legs, sang in tinny little voices:

  We’re two little guinea pigs all alone.

  We have no food and we have no home.

  All the same we’re full of joy,

  ’Cos I’m a girl and he’s a boy!

  The last line rose to a squeal of triumph and the guinea pigs scrambled into the box and began to forage among the tinkling objects. Picking up tiny tools in nimble fingers, they set to work in a blur of motion, singing all the while:

  Screw little guinea pigs, screw all day.

  Screw at work and screw at play.

  Screw for the future, screw for the fun,

  Screw for the good of everyone!

  “It’s an allegory,” said Tom, suddenly grave. “It could be one of the most powerful works the Everlings have produced. Almost a pity it has to be destroyed.”

  Selena watched, her lips tightly compressed, saying nothing. It had become clear what the guinea pigs were doing. With incredible rapidity they were constructing duplicates of themselves from the components in the box. Soon they were finished. They rose on hind legs and began to dance again. To an accompaniment of tinkling and smashing components, they sang:

  Four little guinea pigs learning fast,

  How to make resources last.

  Crawl into a Dome and start anew,

  And if things get worse we can always screw!

  Now the box was a whirl of activity as the four guinea pigs duplicated themselves and, having done so, spilled out of the box while they assembled a creditable miniature of Dome Azul. All this time the relentless chorus hammered at Selena’s ears until, to her fury, she found her foot was tapping with the beat. Screw for the good of everyone! Then the dancing resumed.

  Sixteen guinea pigs full of cheer.

  Getting a little crowded here.

  Hate Bombs above and Hate Bombs below,

  Blasters at the ready to exterminate the foe!

  “I suppose that’s all,” said Selena grimly.

  “There’s more,” said Tom. And there was. The jingling chorus had resumed, and the guinea pigs were working again. Selena backed away as a furry tide spread in ripples toward her. Menacing little globes materialized in midair. By the time their chorus had reached “Screw for the future, screw for the fun,” it was almost deafening, like an advancing army of starving rats.

  Soon the guinea pigs had finished their work. They covered a large portion of the floor, but now they were moving much more slowly. Due to their dancing and trampling, many of their number had been constructed of damaged components. Some lay motionless, and the final verse assumed the quality of a dirge.

  Two-fifty-six little guinea pigs now.

  We’d like to sail the Greataway but we’ve forgotten how.

  Some are dumb neotenites and all are under stress,

  If screwing’s not the remedy, then please clean up this mess.

  With this, the guinea pigs self-destructed, collapsing in little explosions of components. The tiny Hate Bombs fell and burst open, and the Dome fell in. Within seconds the floor was carpeted with small parts and Jenny was sweeping them together, glancing shyly at Selena from under a lock of lank hair.

  “You do understand,” said Tom.

  “More than you think,” said Selena tightly. “But what I don’t understand is what’s got into you people, this last cycle. I remember when I looked forward to my visits to the Everling village because of the works of art I’d see. You’d be creating poetry, literature, music, paintings — beautiful things. And you did it all for the pure love of creating. But now …”

  “We’re going through a period of social comment,” said Tom sulkily. “The purpose of Art changes. True Humans aren’t handling things well. We’re pointing it out through our Art.”

  “Garbage!” Selena found herself trembling with temper and struggled to control herself. “What you’re hitting at is not True Humans. It’s sex — and there’s no way you can say True Humans invented that. Everything I’ve seen since I arrived has been aimed at degrading sex — because we can experience it and you can’t. Well, too bad. But you can keep your nasty, sniggering little jealousies to yourselves from now on. I don’t have to see it.”

  “But Selena —”

  “And another thing!”

  “There’s more?”

  “Instead of creating for the love of it, you’ve started creating for the fun of smashing. These works of art are no better than firecrackers — all the excitement is in watching them destroy themselves. Do you know what will happen next? You’ll lose all your artistic ability because you’ve forgotten that love and art can’t be separated, whereas love and sex can!”

  “We lose our ability at the end of every creative half-cycle, every sixty years. But it comes back.”

  “The time will come when it doesn’t come back,” said Selena angrily. “And what will be the point of your existence then? What will you do, for the rest of Time?”

  *

  It had been sixty years since she’d seen Joe, and her memory potto had to prompt her several times as she climbed into the hills behind the village, following the twisting trails. A cold wind swept in from the sea, driving the rain into her clothing and soaking her, chilling her to the bone. Above her, the towering form of one of Horst’s Stones pointed starkly at the sky. She found its permanence reassuring after the rampant destruction in the village — but whether it could be considered Art, she doubted.

  She found Joe’s shack on the sheltered side of a natural outcropping of granite, leaning into the rock and, unlike the village shacks, constructed mainly of driftwood and moss. The interior was similar to Jenny’s, however. The tools were there: the lathes and lasers, the minipile and the computer. Joe sat before a flickering fire, gazing into the flames, holding on his knees a framed painting.

&nbs
p; He brightened when he saw her. “If you hadn’t come, I’d have had to destroy it,” he said. He laid the painting carefully aside and stood, clasping her hands. He was a good-looking child, dark and intense — and according to some versions of the Song of Earth, genetically identical to Antonio the Poet.

  “Show me,” said Selena.

  He handed her the painting and she turned it to the light. A small sigh escaped her. She knew she was looking at the pinnacle of Mankind’s achievement in this particular field.

  In appearance the girl portrayed was unexceptional — a True Human with none of the wild beauty that characterized legendary Specialists such as Captain Spring or Karina. She was pretty and her hair was a medium brown. Her nose was a little too short and her best asset was her smile, wide and delighted and lighting up her eyes, as though the artist had just told her he loved her.

  Such was the latest painting of the mysterious She, and unlike the others, it was somehow complete. The girl, the whole canvas, appeared to be suffused with a glory that could not be duplicated, much less improved on. Suddenly, Selena felt sorry for Joe.

  “This is the last one?” she asked.

  “I think so. Next cycle I’ll try something else, as the others always do. Anyway, my potto died, and She seems kind of unreal, now. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve painted her, but one thing I do know — each painting took me thirty years. That’s a long time.”

  “You don’t remember how or when you met her — or even if you did meet her?”

  He shrugged. “I lost that memory a long time ago. For some reason, one of my pottos didn’t pass it on to its successor.”

  “I wish I had them all — all those old paintings. Those I saw were all beautiful, and I’d have liked to trace the progression. It’s almost as though you were working toward a perfect woman, but seen from one very private viewpoint.” She glanced at him and suddenly chuckled. “And it can’t be your own viewpoint, either. Do you realize just how sexy this girl is?”

  Joe smiled too, regretfully. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, she is. She’s the kind of girl that a man would fall completely in love with. She’s good and kind and giving, too — her whole personality comes right through.” Again Selena felt that regret. “Joe — why did you destroy the others? Can’t you see how stupid it was? You’re different from the other Everlings; you don’t have to act like them.’”

  Joe said thoughtfully, “We’re all humans, and human art has definite limitations. Artists strive for a kind of private perfection, and being human and fallible, the time comes when they think they’re close to it. And from that point on, their work ceases to be art in an understandable form. It turns in on itself and becomes a struggle, and increasingly incomprehensible to anyone but the artist himself. We’ve had it happen here, many times, even with the thirty-year cycle. An Everling produces a series of poems, each more beautiful than the last. But then, gradually, there is a falling-off. The poet himself doesn’t know it; he thinks he’s getting better all the time. But his listeners can’t understand him any more, and they drift away. The work, whether it’s literature or sculpture, painting or music, whatever art form it is, becomes private, introspective and abstract.

  “That’s why Everling culture insists on the cycle. We create for thirty years, then we destroy it all and spend thirty years in manual work, during which time any form of art is prohibited. Then we create again, but starting from scratch, so we have nothing to build from. It takes human art thirty years to flower; anything beyond that is repetition and introspection — which is the last thing we need, being immortal. If it weren’t for our cultural cycle, I think we’d go mad. Look what’s happening on Dream Earth.”

  Selena said, “But you keep producing the same painting, and you’re not mad.”

  For a moment Joe looked puzzled. “I can’t think why not. I’ve finished now, anyway. There won’t be another She. And my potto accidentally died. I’ll start the next cycle with a fresh mind, and maybe try music.”

  “The others don’t use pottos.”

  “It’s against the rules, for obvious reasons.” He sighed. “That’s why I live alone up here. Now, maybe, I’ll go and live in the village.”

  Before Selena left she asked about Horst. “Why isn’t he subject to the cultural cycle? Why aren’t his Stones destroyed every sixty years?”

  Joe laughed. “We may be artists, but we’re practical. It takes Horst thirty years and God knows how many shruglegger hours to carve one of those Stones, bring it from the quarry and set it in place. It would take quite some time to destroy one, and we get sick of destruction after a couple of days. So we let them stand. I’m not sure they qualify as art, anyway.”

  With the painting under her arm, well wrapped against the rain, Selena mounted her shruglegger and left. Joe had been her last hope, and the death of his potto meant that nobody had the capability of remembering what had happened to the crystal missing from the Rainbow.

  *

  It was a frustrating day. When she reached her quarters, she found a deputation of Specialists waiting outside. Their mood was angrier than she’d ever known.

  Alice acted as spokeswoman. The others, Specialists of many varieties, ranged themselves behind her. She began abruptly: “There was an accident.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Brutus is hurt. My man, Brutus. He might have died, but we pulled him into the delivery room through a grommet.” Her voice was cold and flat as she described the events leading to Brutus’s final act of heroism. “Brutus saved a baby that would have drowned. He did this because he’s been led to believe it’s his duty to do such things. He’s a very clever man, but he’s simple, too. He saved a baby that will almost certainly be no use to anyone, and that you will make him destroy in a year’s time. You are very complicated people, you True Humans, and you’re taking advantage of us.”

  “How … how badly is he hurt?”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “I’m listening,” said Selena tightly, “but for me it’s more important to know how Brutus is. And because I’m the boss, you’ll tell me. Then we’ll talk about the other stuff.”

  Alice glanced around as though seeking support, then said reluctantly, “Brutus’s hip is broken. Doctors are looking after him. He’ll live, but I can’t believe that is of any interest to you.”

  “Brutus is my assistant,” snapped Selena. “He’s my friend, too. When an accident happens in this place, I like to receive a proper written report — not a whimpering rabble. Now, tell me something else. Was the ocean cow injured?”

  “The delphids had to cut it, to get Brutus away. It moved, but it’s still in position. We want to speak to you, we Specialists. We want a full discussion about our situation here on the People Planet.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Selena. “First I have to see Brutus, then I must Fastcall Earth. Tomorrow evening at this time.”

  Ignoring the angry murmurs, she strode off toward the sick bay.

  *

  Brutus appeared comfortable, but her problems were not over for the day. She visited the Fastcall room, where the telepathic bat-creature relayed her thoughts to Earth, informing Zozula of Brutus’s injury and asking for a replacement to be sent up. After a pause, the creature’s medium — a humanoid invention of the kikihuahuas — said to her in Zozula’s voice: “I’m sorry about Brutus. Of course we’ll send up Shelma right away — she’s had plenty of experience. And the three of us will be coming along, too.”

  “The three of you? What three?” The Triad had not achieved the same significance in Selena’s mind as in Zozula’s.

  “Manuel, the Girl and I, of course.”

  “I see no need —”

  “I’ll explain when I see you,” said the medium, and it was clear to Selena that Zozula would not accept any argument.

  She walked back to Boss Castle, shaking with anger, and even the presence of Mentor failed to calm her.

  “He’s never come
here before. The People Planet is my province. Doesn’t he trust me? Does he think I’m not trying my damnedest to get to the bottom of the neoteny problem?”

  “It could be some quite different matter,” said Mentor.

  “And to bring those other two!” raged Selena. “A Wild Human and a neotenite — it’s an insult!”

  “I thought you told me they were nice people.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t want them here, or Zozula either, poking their noses into my business and interfering. What will the Specialists think? Damn Zozula. Damn him!” She regarded Mentor speculatively for a moment. “This means you’ll have to go into hiding, of course.”

  “Go into hiding?”

  “Well, you can hardly stay in Boss Castle with Zozula prowling around here. There are some caves down the coast.”

  “Caves?”

  “You can take a shruglegger; it won’t be missed. And that reminds me of another thing: The records clerk told me that Brutus has been checking on the neotenite quantities. He’s onto something, I’m sure. And a terrible thing happened a little while ago. When Alice told me Brutus had been in an accident I … I think I hoped he was dead. That would have solved all my problems. What a dreadful thing to think.”

  Mentor, who had been looking increasingly despondent at the idea of roughing it in a cave, pulled himself together and took Selena’s hand. “We can’t control what we think,” he said, “any more than we can decide whom we fall in love with.”

  He meant well, but it was an unfortunate statement, given Selena’s present frame of mind. She flushed and shot him a look of suspicion, wondering how much he’d guessed about his origins and whether he was laughing at her behind her back, the way the caracal-people did.

  THE LEGEND OF LOST LOANNA

  I sing the Song of Earth as we know it to be: an epic tale involving many heroes, many heroines and many strange creatures. The story of the Triad is one part of the Song but because there are infinite happentracks, there are infinite versions of the Triad’s quest. On some happentracks, the Triad failed in their quest, and the Hate Bombs were not removed, and Starquin remained trapped for varying periods of time.