I did all I could to redress the balance. In an editorial, I pointed out that this was a new medium, and needed to be given the opportunity to develop.
"Most artists spend many years seeking to perfect their technique, whilst also developing an understanding of themselves. It takes time for the artist's message to become clear in their own mind, and only then can they communicate it to others. Vechery has entered the Art world with a brand new technique already perfected: he must be allowed time to discover what he wants to say with it."
This put me in direct conflict with De Soliel, and I added to that the crime of mentioning that he had not even given 'The Works of Man' a proper consideration. De Soliel himself didn't deign to notice my criticism, but my readership dwindled still further. A brief note from Vechery, thanking me for my support and 'taking note of' my comments didn't really redress the balance.
Over the next year, Vechery produced several more works of 'Temporal Art', none of which had any greater success. De Soliel did not attend any more of Vechery's exhibitions, and did not even mention them. For my part I believed I saw an increasing maturity and depth in Vechery's work: but I could do nothing for him.Insights was now virtually defunct, and I was reduced to freelancing the art pages of general interest netzines. Under a pen name.
It was while on an assignment for one of these netzines that I chanced to see the last but one confrontation between Vechery and De Soliel.
The event was the opening of a major Arts festival, at which De Soliel was - naturally - the guest of honour. How Vechery got in, I don't know: but as one of only 15 human Temporal Engineers he was wealthy and influential in his own right. Just not in the art world.
De Soliel was holding forth in magnificent style to his usual entourage. I was hanging back, hoping to pick up something newsworthy without being recognized. When I spotted Vechery making his way towards us, I knew that I'd get a story at least.
"Mr De Soliel." Vechery spoke calmly, but there was a bright and dangerous light in his eyes. "I have a gift for you."
De Soliel looked him up and down disdainfully. "Have we met? Ah - of course. You're the engineer, aren't you."
Vechery frowned. "You know well enough who I am, De Soliel. And this is for you - my latest work." He held out his left hand, and there on his palm a Temporal Sculpture sprang to life.
A grape vine grew up from Vechery's hand. Clusters of grapes formed. The vines vanished, whilst the grapes seemed to be imploding, crushing themselves. Juice ran freely through the air above Vechery's hand: he held up a wine glass with his other hand and caught the juice in it. The crushed grapes vanished from view.
Vechery held the glass up, showed it around. "Interactive Sculpture - untitled, as yet." He announced. "Art which you do not merely observe, but experience. It becomes part of you. Literally!" He offered the glass to De Soliel. "A glass of wine?" He asked. "I assure you, it's properly aged."
De Soliel stared at the wine glass, and for a moment I thought he would take it. He was well known to be a connoisseur of fine wines. Then he looked up from the glass, and stared instead into Vechery's face.
"My poor, dear Mr Vechery.... is this little show supposed to convince me that you are an artist? What will you do - get me drunk on your instant vintage?"
"I have shown you growth, I have shown you decay - I have shown you life transmuted before your eyes!" There was anger in Vechery's voice now, and pent up frustration all but ready to boil out. "What will it take to convince you? Or are you incapable of change - is that it? De Soliel cannot have been wrong, therefore cannot change his mind, cannot revise his opinion?"
"You dare! You dare to...!" I had never seen De Soliel lose his composure before. I doubt if anyone there had. But now his fury was breaking through the cultivated veneer, and he looked ugly with it. "You yokel! Still playing your clever little tricks and daring to tell me - me! - that it is art! It is all soulless technology - and an alien technology at that!"
Vechery laughed in his face. "So that's your problem! An anti-alien bigot! Or else just a technophobe! Is that the extent of your criticism, De Soliel? Trash what you cannot understand, denigrate what is beyond your comprehension?"
De Soliel struck out, knocking the wine glass from Vechery's hand. "What's to comprehend?" he snarled. "What is there worth my understanding? There is no insight, no depth to your.... gadgets. Art must have a human element in it. Your work has nothing of that! But then, that would be beyond yourunderstanding! Now get out of here! Get back to your machines and devices and instruments - and leave Art to those who have true comprehension!"
They glared at each other. "Go!" De Soliel hissed. "Or I'll have you thrown out!"
Vechery shrugged. "Very well then!" He turned away, and stalked off - giving me a nod of recognition on the way. Which, under the circumstances, I did not appreciate.
"Now, then, has anyone got a decent wine, here?" De Soliel asked breezily. "Dealing with that sort is thirsty work - I hope..."
He was interrupted: Vechery, halfway across the room, swung round and called out to him.
"Thank you for your advice, Mr De Soliel. The Human Element! I shall bear that in mind!"
And with that he turned away again, and left. I left as well: after his recognition of me, no one else wanted me around. It was like leprosy.
I thought that I'd heard the last of Taran Vechery. But just a few weeks later, I got a holocom from him.
"Just called to say goodbye," he announced. He looked surprisingly cheerful. "I'm at the shuttleport now: I'm taking a new starship out in a few hours."
"Right. So - you've given up on Temporal Art?" I asked cautiously.
He chuckled. "Not quite. But I'm putting it on hold for a while. I'll take your advice, find time to think about what I really want to say. It'll be fifty, perhaps a hundred years Earth time before I'm back. I expect that the Art world will be very different then."
"Well, I hope so!" I agreed.
"Listen, Gardine, I've never really thanked you for your support. I know it cost you. Anyhow, for what it's worth, I'm giving you all my Temporal Sculptures. They might be worth something, if the market changes, and I've a feeling that it might. Meantime, they're in storage. The address is on your netzine page."
"Well - thanks a lot!" I was stunned.
"No problem. Only thing is, don't fiddle with them. Could be dangerous. Get another Temporal Engineer to work on them, if you need to."
"Ah - yes, of course."
"Right, got to go. Oh, nearly forgot. There's a new work there. Called ' The Human Element'. I think you'll like it."
He signed off.
Of course, he must have guessed that I'd be in a hurry to see his new work. But he'd set it up so that his starship had already slipped into Temporal Drive before I could reach the storage facility.
It stood in a room on its own, all set up as if for an exhibition.
It's still not clear how he got De Soliel down there. The Police think that he had some underworld contacts, and hired a professional kidnapping. However, De Soliel doesn't appear to have been physically injured: as far as we can tell, he's quite unharmed within the time field. But he's not happy. As he runs through the cycle that takes him from foetus to old age and back in the space of a minute, there are a few short moments when we can recognise the Demidi De Soliel we all know so well. And he looks... desperate.
Bearing in mind Vechery's advice, no attempt has yet been made to release him. They're waiting for the next Isha'hassat starship to bring in another Temporal Engineer. In the meantime the Police have issued an entirely useless warrant for Vechery's arrest. Not only is he quite beyond the jurisdiction of any human agency, it's not even clear what he could be charged with. It can't be murder, since De Soliel isn't dead - except perhaps for a brief moment every minute. So far they're calling it 'Unlawful Detainment', which seems rather weak.
But that's not the big debate in the Art world: and with De Soliel out of the way, we have real debate for the first time
in years. Temporal Art is getting a new hearing: Insights recently did a review of Vechery's work, and the readership went sky-high.
Still, the major question about 'The Human Element' remains unresolved. What do you think?
Is it Art?
Eternity is 20 Seconds Long, by Paul Trembling
Kev adjusted his position in the hammock, just enough to look round.
Beyond the shade cast by the trees, the beach was ablaze with sunlight. The glare from the white sand would have been painful if it hadn't been for his sunglasses. Even with them, the flicking pinpoints of light from the sea stabbed sharply into his retina.
There was still ice in the bucket, though, and the drinks were cold.
Along the beach, he could see the girl coming back towards him. The bright orange bikini glowed against her tanned skin. She waved.
He'd promised her a special experience. She didn't know how special it would be. They would have the time of their lives. A very long time. He waved back.
Everything was perfect. Now was the moment.
The device resting on his chest looked like an irregular collection of cylinders, in several different shades of red to purple. The interface unit attached to the side was a crude human intrusion, but necessary. He picked up his PalmPC, linked in to the interface, brought up the programme.
Took a deep breath and hit go.
The rush of alien symbols across the screen was as expected - but surely that configuration was wrong? Alarmed, Kev reached a finger to the abort icon….
DISCONTINUITY
"That's the loop point."
Kev adjusted his position in the hammock, just enough to look round.
Beyond the shade cast by the trees, the beach was ablaze with sunlight. The glare from the white sand would have been painful if it hadn't been for his sunglasses. Even with them, the flicking pinpoints of light from the sea stabbed sharply into his retina.
"How come he doesn't see us?"
"Different time streams. We weren't there then."
There was still ice in the bucket, though, and the drinks were cold.
Along the beach, he could see the girl coming back towards him. The bright orange bikini glowed against her tanned skin. She waved.
"What about the girl?"
"Outside the field, fortunately. If he'd set it differently, she'd be in there with him."
"How big could it have got?"
"We're not sure. Perhaps the entire planet."
He'd promised her a special experience. She didn't know how special it would be. They would have the time of their lives. A long time. He waved back.
"What was he trying to do?"
"We're not sure. Extend his holiday, perhaps."
Everything was perfect. Now was the moment.
The device resting on his chest looked like an irregular collection of cylinders, in several different shades of red to purple. The interface unit attached to the side was a crude human intrusion, but necessary.
"What is that thing?"
"Temporal field node. Part of a star-drive. Isha'hassat technology."
"How did he get hold of it?"
"That's being looked into. There's quite a black market in alien tech, but this is new. The Isha'hassat are upset about it."
He picked up his PalmPC, linked in to the interface, brought up the programme.
Took a deep breath and hit go.
The rush of alien symbols across the screen was as expected - but surely that configuration was wrong? Alarmed, Kev reached a finger to the abort icon….
DISCONTINUITY
"So what happened?"
"He set up a self-perpetuating temporal loop."
Kev adjusted his position in the hammock, just enough to look round.
"Can we stop it?"
"No. The controls are inside the loop. No one from outside can reach them."
Beyond the shade cast by the trees, the beach was ablaze with sunlight.
"So how long does it last?"
"Twenty seconds. Twenty point two five to be accurate."
The glare from the white sand would have been painful if it hadn't been for his sunglasses. Even with them, the flicking pinpoints of light from the sea stabbed sharply into his retina.
"No – I meant how long will it last? The time-loop-field thing?"
"From his point of view, twenty seconds. From ours – eternity."
There was still ice in the bucket, though, and the drinks were cold.
Along the beach, he could see the girl coming back towards him. The bright orange bikini glowed against her tanned skin. She waved.
"But what happens if the sun explodes – or something like that?"
"If the sun explodes in five billion years, will that affect you?"
He'd promised her a special experience. She didn't know how special it would be. They would have the time of their lives. A long time. He waved back.
"No."
"And it won't affect him either. For the same reason. He's in a different time. Always."
Everything was perfect. Now was the moment.
COLIN P. DAVIES
Colin P. Davies is a Building Surveyor from Liverpool, England and has been writing fiction since the mid ’80s. His stories have appeared in Asimov’s, Spectrum SF, 3SF, Paradox, Andromeda Spaceways and M Brane SF and have made the Locus Recommended Reading List, the British Science Fiction Association Award nominations, and gained two Honorable Mentions in The Year’s Best SF. His story “The Defenders” was in The Year’s Best SF #22 edited by Gardner Dozois, and his story “Tall Tales On The Iron Horse” was a finalist for the non-genre Hawthorne Citation for best short story (2010).
Tall Tales on the Iron Horse, by Colin P. Davies
Two kilometres inland from the equatorial Sumatran port of Padang the train turns sharply, plunges into the mountain, and clatters down through a darkness relieved only by the occasional glimmer of St. Elmo's fire, finally emerging, after three days by the clock, into the icy, orange daylight of Saturn's moon, Titan.
At least, that's what Gillian said.
I'd sat silently opposite the large, chattering woman for far too long when I eventually decided to speak. "Historical facts and figures are indigestible...hence the saying, History repeats itself." I stroked my beak-like nose (I have no illusions about anything anymore).
She smiled, apparently relieved. "My name is Gillian." Ringlets of black hair obscured her eyes, but a sparkle of mischief escaped.
"So you said."
Three days to go.
The train had just entered the tunnel. Beyond the windows, nothing could be seen. We rocked and rattled, always downhill.
"You're a teacher then, Mr. Hanover?" Gillian had one of those hurried voices which always sound breathless, as if it took a major effort to hold back the next flurry of words.
I nodded. "History."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Yes, apart from the kids."
"I did a bit of teaching."
"Before you became a talker?"
She shifted in her seat, sweeping up her huge, ruby silk skirt so that it settled across my knees. "I've always been a talker," she said. "Science. I used to teach science, in the broadest and most basic terms possible."
I nodded. "I wish I could understand that sort of thing. Like this train. To me it's just magic."
She laughed, revealing ruby implants in alternate teeth. "If I was a real bore, I'd explain exactly how all this works. But I'm not and I won't."
I nodded.
"At least not now."
The Manchester hotel pool that morning had been as cool and sharp as a revelation. The vodkas of the night before had only obscured the truth, strung a thin net across the void. Now I plunged in. Mary...Mary! She was gone. Everything was gone. Everything. Her call from Australia left no doubt. She was looking for God.
I slipped below the surface. The guts of the hotel rumbled in my ears. Could I drown myself? No, I hadn't the courage...if that was what it took.
I surfaced, spat water.
I'd take the suborbital to Sydney -- track Ortega down. It was all I could do for Mary now.
"I don't consider origami to be a survival skill," I said.
Gillian tossed the newly made paper cup into my lap. "It'll hold water."
"Which is more than can be said for your story."
"Many passengers have a problem with that story -- - the animated paper doll of Chez Malloy. I suppose I can't blame them. I mean, what sort of name is that for a hotel anyway! I should have stayed at the Titan Imperial. I did meet him though...Angus Malloy. We didn't have relations, but I did license him into my virtual world. When I left him, his eyes were glazed and his face held a huge grin. I suppose I was flattered."
"So he'd smuggled the doll into your luggage," I said.
"Look...." I stroked my nose. "The paper doll crawling out of your bag I can live with. The doll rampaging around this carriage doesn't upset me overmuch. Even the part about it having your face doesn't quite stretch credibility to breaking point." I sat back in my soft seat. "But don't tell me Malloy powered it by harnessing the latent energy contained in paper folds. That's pure bull!"
She struggled to her feet. Her skirt rustled like pigs in the undergrowth. "I'm going to the dining car," she said, a little haughtily. "I suggest you follow." Then she left.
We walked down the centre of the next carriage, Gillian in the lead, squeezing down the narrow aisle, both hips brushing the seats. I tried not to tread on her skirt. The chatter was oppressive; lots of passengers, a talker with each. The rocking of the train made it hard to keep to a steady line and I had to clutch at the seats. The track clatter seemed louder in here.
For the first time I noticed the oddly empty luggage racks, and the garish wall posters proclaiming the latest participation-simulation movies. The only limit is your own imagination. Smellovision and Toucharama, neural triggers: why live in the real world, I thought, when you can immerse yourself in a controlled dream?
That thought was somehow important, I was certain. But my attempts to conceptualise beyond the confined world of this train left me with nothing -- hands grasping at fog.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 247