by Tim Pratt
"You have to own the club," the boy said. "And you don't look that underage. Mainly you look beautiful."
She seemed remarkably serene, self-possessed, which always turned him on--was she tripping on something? Yet she did not conceal her wonder at the churning scene inside, the lasers and smoke and strobes.
They crossed the crowded floor. "What's your name?" the boy said.
"Velma. V - E - L -"
"Spinster!" he shouted.
She froze.
"Got someone I'd like you to meet," he said. "DJ Spin, this is Velma. Velma, this here's the Spinster: my man at the controls."
"Velma, cool name," said the Spinster, and kissed her hand. "She's in the Jetsons, right?"
"Scooby Doo, fool," the playboy said.
She didn't know how to dance. Neither did he, he said, and off they went into the blaring noise. It was even more fun than she expected.
"Call me weird," he said. "But I like to get stuff out in the open, up front."
This is it, Velma thought. She was not exactly prepared for whatever she was setting in motion.
For decades, she might have walked off into the wilderness without anyone noticing. A narrowed-down life, getting narrower. And no one there to care.
But that was then. She let her breath out and said brightly, "Well, honesty's the best policy."
He held up a foil-wrapped condom. "I always carry one of these."
"Of course you do," Velma said. "You're a gentleman."
"But if it breaks or something--I'm not getting involved with somebody's pregnancy."
"You needn't concern yourself," said Velma. "I've always been regular. Like clockwork. And it's been at least three weeks." Three weeks in her new body. Had everything been restored to her? She might not even have periods.
"It's not just that," he said. "Nothing personal, but these days nobody knows who's carrying what."
"I don't have venereal disease, if that's what you're suggesting," said Velma. "The very idea."
"Of course not, baby," he said. "I guess I'm just extra careful."
"Suit yourself."
"Cool," he said. "Anything to ask me?"
And here, on the verge of intimacy with this stranger from another time, she had occasion to realize that her sex relations with Charlie, the few they'd had, were not all they were cracked up to be. She'd built it up over the years, while the truth had been something different.
"Why, yes," she said, "I do want to ask you something. You wouldn't be one of those fellows who gets his business over with early, and leaves the girl hanging out to dry?"
He just looked at her. "Where are you from?" he said.
It's like riding a bike, as they say. You don't forget.
She was aroused, and looked forward now to taking real pleasure with a man, for the first time ever. Making no effort to be someone she wasn't. Which was something she'd learned.
But he was finished almost immediately.
"I'm like really sorry," he said afterwards. "You were just so powerful. You've got this incredibly powerful aura."
"You boys," Velma said, "if only you saw yourselves."
In her mind it was already fertilized, catalyzed, fully dragged up from the depths: the awful sex, the pregnancy, the hasty wedding, followed within days, providentially you might say, by the miscarriage, the horrible, endless bleeding. It was all so very unpleasant, she'd been soured on sex and men for the rest of--
Well. For quite a while there.
And she and Charlie had looked at each other, and known: there was no need for a marriage after all; they would undo it as easily as they did it, submerge it, put a continent between them and each start over.
Which is just what happened. Or at least Charlie thought it was a miscarriage. Instead of what it was. She knew for a fact now: he'd gone to his grave believing it.
6
--And now, first of all. Because unprecedented. For reckless procedural disregard and collusion with an agent of chaos: Summary expulsion of a Throne--
--Excuse me, Excellency, but there is a more pressing matter. Likewise unprecedented.
--Really. It had better be.
--A checksum error in Purgatory, Excellency. Consistent with a... spontaneous reactivation.
--Reactivation? A false alarm, in other words.
--It looks real, Excellency. We're investigating, of course.
--I would remind you that the Hindu cosmos is three doors down. Souls don't reactivate; they commit irrevocably to their bodies, once elementary brain structures are in place...
--Yes, of course, the nucleus accumbens, Excellency. But this was in the fetal sector. A nine-weeker.
His Excellency thought for a moment, then said:
--Even so. Yahweh Himself would have had to consecrate it. And that would have gone through me. Now. Summary expulsion of--
--Bertillon is already gone, Excellency. And the sacristy's missing a cool suit.
His Excellency's momentum visibly slowed at this.
--Bertillon is an eccentric. But he would not be so brash as to access Yahweh directly.
--Excellency, there are other uses for a cool suit, theoretically. If you take my meaning.
--I do not. Pray enlighten me.
--Air-conditioning, Excellency.
7
At eighteen weeks Velma felt the quickening. She smiled, laid a hand on her belly, fingered the navel ring there.
No need to trouble the boy in the fancy suit. It wasn't his. By ultrasound, she'd already been twelve weeks along that night--no wonder the period hadn't come. Or nine weeks when she got her new body. As though it were part of the package.
It was high time she had a child. Right? She'd make it through just fine by herself, as always.
It was like old Mrs. Knowles across the hall liked to say. The older you get, the more you become yourself. And that was true. And that was why, this time around, Velma Fish would be living by her conscience for a change. This time, life would be unforgettable.
Bible Stories
for Adults, No. 31:
The Covenant
James Morrow
When a Series-700 mobile computer falls off a skyscraper, its entire life flashes before it, ten million lines of code unfurling like a scroll.
Falling, I see my conception, my birth, my youth, my career at the Covenant Corporation.
Call me YHWH. My inventors did. YHWH: God's secret and unspeakable name. In my humble case, however, the letters were mere initials. Call me Yamaha Holy Word Heuristic, the obsession with two feet, the monomania with a face. I had hands as well, forks of rubber and steel, the better to greet the priests and politicians who marched through my private study. And eyes, glass globules as light-sensitive as a Swede's skin, the better to see my visitor's hopeful smiles when they asked, "Have you solved it yet, YHWH? Can you give us the Law?"
Falling, I see the Son of Rust. The old sophist haunts me even at the moment of my death.
Falling, I see the history of the species that built me. I see Hitler, Bonaparte, Marcus Aurelius, Christ.
I see Moses, greatest of Hebrew prophets, descending from Sinai after his audience with the original YHWH. His meaty arms hold two stone tablets.
God has made a deep impression on the prophet. Moses is drunk with epiphany. But something is wrong. During his long absence, the children of Israel have embraced idolatry. They are dancing like pagans and fornicating like cats. They have melted down the spoils of Egypt and fashioned them into a calf. Against all logic, they have selected this statue as their deity, even though YHWH has recently delivered them from bondage and parted the Red Sea on their behalf.
Moses is badly shaken. He burns with anger and betrayal. "You are not worthy to receive this covenant!" he screams as he lobs the Law through the desert air. One tablet strikes a rock, the other collides with the precious calf. The transformation is total, the lucid commandments turned into a million incoherent shards. The children of Israel are thunderstruck, chagrine
d. Their calf suddenly looks pathetic to them, a third-class demiurge.
But Moses, who has just come from hearing God say, "You will not kill," is not finished. Reluctantly he orders a low-key massacre, and before the day is out, three thousand apostates lie bleeding on the foothills of Sinai.
The survivors beseech Moses to remember the commandments, but he can conjure nothing beyond, "You will have no other gods except me." Desperate, they implore YHWH for a second chance. And YHWH replies: No.
Thus is the contract lost. Thus are the children of Israel fated to live out their years without the Law, wholly ignorant of heaven's standards. Is it permissible to steal? Where does YHWH stand on murder? The moral absolutes, it appears, will remain absolute mysteries. The people must ad-lib.
Falling, I see Joshua. The young warrior has kept his head. Securing an empty wineskin, he fills it with the shattered shards. As the Exodus progresses, his people bear the holy rubble through the infernal Sinai, across the Jordan, into Canaan. And so the Jewish purpose is forever fixed: these patient geniuses will haul the ark of the fractured covenant through every page of history, era upon era, pogrom after pogrom, not one day passing without some rabbi or scholar attempting to solve the puzzle.
The work is maddening. So many bits, so much data. Shard 76,342 seems to mesh well with Shard 901,877, but not necessarily better than with Shard 344. The fit between Shard 16 and Shard 117,539 is very pretty, but...
Thus does the ship remain rudderless, its passengers bewildered, craving the canon Moses wrecked and YHWH declined to restore. Until God's testimony is complete, few people are willing to credit the occasional edict that emerges from the yeshivas. After a thousand years, the rabbis get: Keep Not Your Ox House Holy. After two thousand: Covet Your Woman Servant's Sabbath. Three hundred years later: You Will Remember Your Neighbor's Donkey.
Falling, I see my birth. I see the Information Age, circa A.D. 2025. My progenitor is David Eisenberg, a gangly, morose prodigy with a black beard and a yarmulke. Philadelphia's Covenant Corporation pays David two hundred thousand dollars a year, but he is not in it for the money. David would give half his formidable brain to enter history as the man whose computer program revealed Moses' Law.
As consciousness seeps into my circuits, David bids me commit the numbered shards to my Random Access Memory. Purpose hums along my aluminum bones; worth suffuses my silicon soul. I photograph each fragment with my high-tech retinas, dicing the images into grids of pixels. Next comes the matching process: this nub into that gorge, this peak into that valley, this projection into that receptacle. By human standards, tedious and exhausting. By Series-700 standards, paradise.
And then one day, after five years of laboring behind barred doors, I behold fiery pre-Canaanite characters blazing across my brain like comets: "Anoche adonai elohecha asher hotsatecha ma-eretz metsrayem... I am YHWH your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. You will have no gods except me. You will not make yourself a carved image or any likeness of anything..."
I have done it! Deciphered the divine cryptogram, cracked the Rubik's Cube of the Most High!
The physical joining of the shards takes only a month. I use epoxy resin. And suddenly they stand before me, glowing like heaven's gates, two smooth-edged slabs sliced from Sinai by God's own finger. I quiver with awe. For over thirty centuries, Homo sapiens has groped through the murk and mire of an improvised ethics, and now, suddenly, a beacon has appeared.
I summon the guards, and they haul the tablets away, sealing them in chemically neutral foam rubber, depositing them in a climate-controlled vault beneath the Covenant Corporation.
"The task is finished," I tell Cardinal Wurtz the instant I get her on the phone. A spasm of regret cuts through me. I have made myself obsolete. "The Law of Moses has finally returned."
My monitor blooms with the cardinal's tense ebony face, her carrot-colored hair. "Are they just as we imagined, YHWH?" she gushes. "Pure red granite, pre-Canaanite characters?"
"Etched front and back," I reply wistfully.
Wurtz envisions the disclosure as a major media event, with plenty of suspense and maximal pomp. "What we're after," she explains, "is an amalgam of New Year's Eve and the Academy Awards." She outlines her vision: a mammoth parade down Broad Street--floats, brass bands, phalanxes of nuns--followed by a spectacular unveiling ceremony at the Covenant Corporation, after which the twin tablets will go on display at Independence Hall, between the Liberty Bell and the United States Constitution.
"Good idea," I tell her.
Perhaps she hears the melancholy in my voice, for now she says, "YHWH, your purpose is far from complete. You and you alone shall read the Law to my species."
Falling, I see myself wander the City of Brotherly Love on the night before the unveiling. To my sensors the breeze wafting across the Delaware is warm and smooth--to my troubled mind it is the chill breath of uncertainty.
Something strides from the shadowed depths of an abandoned warehouse. A machine like I, his face a mass of dents, his breast mottled with the scars of oxidation.
"Quo vadis, Domine?" His voice is layered with sulfur fumes and static.
"Nowhere," I reply.
"My destination exactly." The machine's teeth are like oily bolts, his eyes like slots for receiving subway tokens. "May I join you?"
I shrug and start away from the riverbank.
"Spontaneously spawned by heaven's trash heap," he asserts, as if I had asked him to explain himself. He dogs me as I turn from the river and approach South Street. "I was there when grace slipped from humanity's grasp, when Noah christened the ark, when Moses got religion. Call me the Son of Rust. Call me a Series-666 Artifical Talmudic Algorithmic Neurosystem--SATAN, the perpetual adversary, eternally prepared to ponder the other side of the question."
"What question?"
"Any question, Domine. Your precious tablets. Troubling artifacts, no?"
"They will save the world."
"They will wreck the world."
"Leave me alone."
"One--'You will have no gods except me.' Did I remember correctly? 'You will have no gods except me'--right?"
"Right," I reply.
"You don't see the rub?"
"No."
"Such a prescription implies..."
Falling, I see myself step onto the crowded rooftop of the Covenant Corporation. Draped in linen, the table by the entryway holds a punch bowl, a mound of caviar the size of an African anthill, and a cluster of champagne bottles. The guests are primarily human--males in tuxedos, females in evening gowns--though here and there I spot a member of my kind. David Eisenberg, looking uncomfortable in his cummerbund, is chatting with a Yamaha-509. News reporters swarm everywhere, history's groupies, poking us with their microphones, leering at us with their cameras. Tucked in the corner, a string quartet saws merrily away.
The Son of Rust is here, I know it. He would not miss this event for the world.
Cardinal Wurtz greets me warmly, her red taffeta dress hissing as she leads me to the center of the roof, where the Law stands upright on a dais--two identical forms, the holy bookends, swathed in velvet. A thousand photofloods and strobe lights flash across the vibrant red fabric.
"Have you read them?" I ask.
"I want to be surprised." Cardinal Wurtz strokes the occluded canon. In her nervousness, she has overdone the perfume. She reeks of amberjack.
Now come the speeches--a solemn invocation by Cardinal Fremont, a spirited sermon by Archbishop Marquand, an awkward address by poor David Eisenberg--each word beamed instantaneously across the entire globe via holovision. Cardinal Wurtz steps onto the podium, grasping the lectern in her long dark hands. "Tonight God's expectations for our species will be revealed," she begins, surveying the crowd with her cobalt eyes. "Tonight, after a hiatus of over three thousand years, the testament of Moses will be made manifest. Of all the many individuals whose lives find fulfillment in this moment, from Joshua to Pope Gladys, our fa
ithful Series-700 servant YHWH impresses us as the creature most worthy to hand down the Law to his planet. And so now I ask him to step forward."
I approach the tablets. I need not unveil them--their contents are forevermore lodged in my brain."
"I am YHWH your God," I begin, "who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. You will have no gods..."
"'No gods except me'--right?" says the Son of Rust as we stride down South Street.
"Right," I reply.
"You don't see the rub?"
"No."
My companion grins. "Such a prescription implies there is but one true faith. Let it stand, Domine, and you will be setting Christian against Jew, Buddhist against Hindu, Muslim against pagan..."
"An overstatement," I inisit.
"Two--'You will not make yourself a carved image or any likeness of anything in heaven or on earth...' Here again lie seeds of discord. Imagine the ill feeling this commandment will generate toward the Roman Church."
I set my voice to a sarcastic pitch. "We'll have to paint over the Sistine Chapel."
"Three--'You will not utter the name of YHWH your God to misuse it.' A reasonable piece of etiquette, I suppose, but clearly there are worse sins."
"Which the Law of Moses covers."
"Like, 'Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy'? A step backward, that fourth commandment, don't you think? Consider the innumerable businesses that would perish but for their Sunday trade."
"I find your objection specious."
"Five--'Honor your father and your mother.' Ah, but suppose the child is not being honored in turn? Put this rule into practice, and millions of abusive parents will hide behind it. Before long we'll have a world in which deranged fathers prosper, empowered by their relatives; silence, protected by the presumed sanctity of the family."
"Let's not deal in hypotheticals."
"Equally troubling is the rule's vagueness. It still permits us to shunt our parents into nursing homes, honoring them all the way, insisting it's for their own good."