We Think, Therefore We Are

by Peter Crowther

  But that lecture would have embarrassed my daughter, who found my cynicism to be one of my more ugly features. So instead of honesty, I offered an unreadable grin. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”

  Amy rewarded me with suspicion and a thankful nod of her head.

  I’m not the foolish, unapproachable king of a father. At least I try not to be. But like Oriana’s father, I am a widower who shares his castle with a strong-willed daughter. Twelve years ago, Amy’s mother contracted a common cancer. Odds are, the disease came from the Black Christmas residues that lurk in everyone’s water. The only mercy that I could find was that she died quickly, without too much pain. And ever since, I have worked hard to avoid all of the clichéd fairy tale pitfalls.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” said the man to his date.

  “A beautiful day,” she agreed, but still eyeing me.

  Then neither spoke for a moment, each probably wondering what portion of their prattle I would comment on next.

  In too many ways, our world runs parallel to Oriana’s.

  Which explains her fabulous success, I presume.

  Like hers, this kingdom was once great and powerful. But then evil found us and consumed much of what was best in us. The only difference is that instead of dragons and evil wizards, our realm suffers from old diseases and new climates and, worst of all, a wealth of hatred. Twenty years ago, the Black Christmas arrived, and that horror turned into the Year of Measured Retribution. Ever since, the world’s population has been plunging—a demographic event never predicted when I was a boy. Yet even if the humanity disappeared tonight, without fuss or new fireballs, the world would continue growing hotter and sicker. And our biosphere would keep mutating and wobbling, giving all the warning signs of an impending, Permian-style total collapse.

  Today, my childhood home sits today beneath stale Gulf waters. Forty percent of the world’s farmland is too poisonous to be cultivated, and half of what remains sits inside active war zones. Thick, sulfurous petroleum costs five hundred dollars a barrel, and you need a division of hardened Marines to deliver it from what’s left of the Saudi Empire. And according to professional paranoids, at least two thousand political movements and groups of like-minded radicals possess the powers and dumb-assed will to hammer what remains of civilization.

  Yet despite all the misery, we’re managing surprisingly well. Our diminished numbers are an ugly blessing. Solar power and biomass fuels keep most of our lights burning, with daily brownouts and the occasional three-day darkness helping to remind us to be thrifty. With all the cancers and plagues, medical care has become cheap and efficient, if rather less able to deliver miracles. And there’s a new space program on the way, the goal of the moment being a fleet of ten trillion smart-disks orbiting our equator as a tidy bright ring, throwing shade across our broiling lands while sending home rivers of clean and delicious microwave radiation.

  I was trained as an ecologist, which means I can make any gloomy projection that I choose. But despite my black ramblings, I am reliably astonished by the successes produced by industry and the genius of my fellow scientists.

  Bad as things look, they might not get all that much worse.

  And if you think about the twisting course of history, that is pretty much the standard human condition.

  Again our line moved forward a resolute two steps.

  Once more, my daughter measured my patience, and, finding reserves, she rewarded me with a graceful smile and appreciative wink.

  “As soon as we’re done here,” she began.

  I nodded.

  “You get to choose what we do next.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  In this sick world, I hadn’t managed too badly. I wasn’t the great scientist I’d hoped to become, but I had a reliable government job in the wild, wooly world of testing air and water quality. I could actually pay for our vacation and not acquire too much debt, managing a two-star hotel room and three daily meals of tilapia and algae cakes. “Why shouldn’t I feel smug and a little happy?” I might mutter under my breath. “These days, how many people can be the masterful provider to their family?”

  “Where do you want to go next, Dad?”

  A variety of destinations tugged at me.

  “The Future? The Past?”

  Brightborn’s empire included a county-sized slab of reconditioned land stretching out on all sides of us. Lesser amusement parks used holo tricks and immersion chambers to fool patrons, but the world’s most profitable company had thrown its billions in more impressive directions: Their park was dotted with crystal domes, each covering two or three square miles of tightly controlled environment. The Past had little worlds of mock-dinosaurs and mammoths and tidal pools jammed with trilobites. The Future had an alien city reminiscent of a hyperactive ant nest, and a star port on some thirtieth century moon, and beneath the largest dome, a colony of mock humans—Oriana’s less lovely cousins—fighting for survival in the lush purple jungles of Best Hope.

  “Alpha Centauri?” Amy guessed.

  I was tempted, if only to see how the corporate minds had conjured up a wilderness world known only through telescopes and conjecture. “Best Hope is a long ride from here,” I mentioned.

  “You want to stay in the Kingdom?”

  “For now,” I allowed. After all, we had several more days to absorb the various wonders.

  Again, our line shuffled moved.

  Slightly.

  I counted a dozen girls waiting to meet Oriana. Some were older than mine, and most were younger. The air of expectancy was palpable and pleasant. I laughed when I noticed one young lady leaping up and down—a five-year-old in her own black-and-green princess garb, her body threatening to burst into flame from her runaway excitement.

  That’s when something obvious finally occurred to me.

  The couple behind us was talking again. Quietly. I couldn’t help but turn and look at them, taking their measure.

  Her measure.

  Nobody else was standing with them. Maybe I’d imagined that one or the other had a teenage daughter who would eventually come meet them, and they were here because somebody wanted to be an indulgent parent, holding the absent girl’s place in line. But no daughter had appeared, which made me curious. And when I’m curious, I ask questions. This trait used to drive my wife crazy. But most of the good in my life has come from these impulsive queries—including meeting my daughter’s mother in the first place, I used to point out.

  Looking back on that moment, I can’t believe that I missed anything obvious. Because nothing was obvious. One moment, the couple was chatting about the blandest of subjects—an immersion mystery game, I think—and when they paused, I used my most reasonable voice to inquire:

  “So, what brings you two to stand here?”

  The man bristled, throwing a hard, accusing stare my way.

  Maybe he thought I was flirting. Maybe I was flirting, who knows? But when his hand dropped on her shoulder, she leaned into him, as if requiring his strength to hold her upright. Her doll face was quite pretty and rigid, the smile unable to falter; but despite the limitations of that reconditioned flesh, a genuine expression surfaced. In the eyes, I saw something that I took for embarrassment. Then another emotion leaked forth. From her tight mouth and grimacing jaw muscles, I noticed a harsh and sad sensibility, old but not yet diluted by time. I couldn’t tell for sure what I was seeing. But then the poor woman dipped her head, muttering, “My girl lives with Oriana.”

  I fumbled for words.

  Then her embarrassment returned, thick but not close to matching my own. “It’s crazy, I know,” she admitted.

  “No, it isn’t,” I should have said.

  But instead of lying, I said nothing, sighing and nodding while trying for a look of sympathy. Then I turned away from the grieving mother, and Amy shot me a withering look that couldn’t, despite all its fury, make me feel any more awful than I felt already.

  My wife was an incurable optimist. She
liked to claim that things weren’t that abysmal. People in Medieval days had harder, briefer existences, and we were still living fatter lives than most kings of old. After Amy was born, but in those few months before the cancer took shape, the new mother returned home from an estate sale carrying a stack of ancient children’s books. Later, when I was left alone to read to the motherless girl, I discovered that the lore of the princesses had changed considerably during these last decades.

  Long ago, princesses wore pink and blue, and they were pretty in a delicate hothouse fashion, and their appeal stemmed from the youthful naivety coupled with a goodness that couldn’t help but defeat all foes. There was always one true villain in their story. Not a dragon, which is just a beast and only following its own irritable nature. Not a troll or wolf or any mindless storm. The villain needed to be human, or at least some entity with recognizable human features. And the princess’s nemesis was dark and smart, furious and greedy. When I read those old stories, I noticed that my affections often latched hold of the evil wizards and scheming witches.

  For me, the lady villains were particularly intriguing.

  They were usually drawn with stark but strangely lovely faces, long bodies, and a genius for moody wardrobes. And their concerns were usually petty and undeniable human: What woman doesn’t look at herself in the mirror, fearfully watching for the fading of her youth and beauty and, with that, the loss of one kind of power?

  Most fetching about those bitter stepmothers and witches was their unsentimental honesty. How many times did the woman in black tell that silly, doe-eyed princess, “My sweetness, life is full of difficult choices?”

  Or, “Most stories end badly, my dear.”

  Or, “True love doesn’t win out in the end. And oftentimes it doesn’t even make it halfway down the road.”

  Despite my blunder, I didn’t abandon the Oriana line, nor did the couple standing behind us. And because of the circumstances, I had plenty of time to consider what an idiot I had been. I should have seen the obvious: Naturally the woman’s favorite restaurant was within walking distance. She probably came here on a regular basis. Not that her daughter actually lived with Oriana, but that was the current shorthand in a world that knew death too well.

  Everybody was sorry. But I stopped looking back at the woman, and, working together, we developed a chilled and respectful distance.

  The line crept forward.

  Girls met the great princess with curtsies and blubbering words.

  My almost fourteen-year-old princess began to shiver with excitement, and when we crossed onto the wooden drawbridge, she broke out into her own subdued but genuinely excited little dance.

  A school of fat fish pushed through the viscous green water.

  Identical twins were speaking to Oriana. One little girl wanted to learn the princess’s native language—a contrived and supposedly lovely tongue taught through a sophisticated AI wizard. Her sister had a shopping list of little spells that would help the next time she immersed herself in Obelisks and Dragons. Once those transactions were finished, the girls spent a few moments posing in front of hummingbird cameras, then with a voice both smooth and smart, Oriana wished both of her new friends a thoroughly wonderful day.

  And suddenly, it was Amy’s turn.

  My daughter still has the face she was born with—a tidy, honest compilation of features borrowed from both parents. I like to believe that she is pretty, although her own estimate of her appearance is less charitable. But I don’t know anyone, female or otherwise, whose smile is half as radiant as hers.

  She bowed before the princess.

  With the grace that flowed with her thick inhuman blood, Oriana dipped her head and offered a smile. Up close, the creature was undeniably beautiful. More than once, I have heard that the face began as a compilation of two hundred beautiful women. But no two Orianas swim out of the birth chamber with identical features. Her red hair was rich and long, tied into a no-nonsense bun in back and topped with that tidy, watchful tiara. The hands were tiny but strong in appearance, like those of a retired gymnast. Something here smelled good and sweet—the princess, or maybe the hunchback standing at attention beside her. The black-and-green gown made a pleasant crinkling sound when she moved. I couldn’t help but study the body beneath that tight-fitting fabric. The rumor is that the first-generation princesses had the bodies of young women. But that made them ripe targets for theft and sexual abuse from corporate employees. That’s why this creature didn’t have any nipples riding on her small breasts or any useful orifices below the waist. Food and drink were delivered by intravenous means, and when the park slept, the dark crimson blood was scrubbed clean of every metabolic waste.

  Following rituals written by corporate masterminds as well as countless little girls, the princess did her vital business. A fat portion of our morning had been invested for what turned out to be three minutes of conversation and commerce. An autograph was granted. That rough warm voice said, “Thank you,” and “You are too kind.” Then the diamond wand touched Amy’s zirconium wand, and my girl took a quick thousand photos of her standing beside Oriana. That was the moment when I finally, finally noticed something else that was obvious. When the creature moved slightly, I looked down at her crystal shoes, and genuinely astonished, I realized that one of her feet was made of wood.

  This wasn’t a manufacturing flaw, I understood. What must have happened was that when the young princess was a package of software living inside a mythical world, there was an accident. Maybe the Dragon of Meme ate that foot. Or a troll’s sword hacked it off during the Forest Green episode. Or maybe a runaway cart had smashed it, or an innocent scratch grew infected. Without asking Oriana, there was no way to know. And for that morning at least, I was finished trying to ask my bold little questions.

  But I did stare at that piece of polished oak.

  And for a brief moment, the pretty green eyes made their assessment of this cranky old man.

  I feel peculiar now, admitting that I was impressed.

  Enthralled, even.

  The creature before me had suffered mightily. But she retained her poise and charm, measuring my nature before a voice that was deeper and sharper than you would expect from royalty—or from a corporate symbol, for that matter—asked me, “Is there anything that I might do for you, good sir?”

  I hadn’t expected this.

  “What?” I sputtered. Then before I could even consider the question, I said, “No, thank you. No, I’m fine.”

  But Oriana knew better. When I looked at her eyes again, I saw skepticism and hard-earned wisdom. I was reminded of those old princess stories that my wife had uncovered, but not of the sweet, fortunate girls whose lives were dependent on handsome young males and loving dwarves. Instead, I saw those stepmothers and tough-minded queens who knew the world exactly for what it was.

  The princess offered me a smile.

  Then, for no price at all, she gave me some sage advice.

  “Enjoy today,” she told me, with a tone mixing menace and optimism. Then with a warm dry and very strong hand, she touched me on the elbow, gently ushering me aside.

  I’ve heard it said, “Someday, we’ll all live this way.”

  As the Earth grows sicker, humanity will need sanctuaries. There might come a day when our frail bodies have to be thrown aside, and by elaborate means, our souls will retreat into a virtual realm that mirrors what is real. And when the world becomes inhabitable again, our original bodies will be regrown in sterile diamond tanks, and our bravest souls will emerge again into the Land of the Real.

  Of course ten or twenty breakthroughs would be required to make that kind of magic possible. It won’t happen until long after I’m dust and ash, if it ever does. But there are some simpler tricks today, and with enough money, a few of us can outrace Death’s reach.

  Quietly, Amy and I moved out of the way, allowing the next loyal subjects to approach.

  The woman with the constant smile came forward and bent low
, lower than anyone else had, and whispered a few joyous words.

  I couldn’t make out their meaning, but they did end in a question mark.

  “She’s well,” Oriana replied. “As a matter of fact, I spoke with her yesterday, my lady.”

  “I talked to her this morning,” the grieving mother reported. Then she gave me the briefest glance, as if worried that I might laugh at her.

  I would never.

  The trickery that allowed a princess to live her adventures and then come out to walk among mortals . . . well, it wasn’t long before people realized that the technology could be reversed. Brightborn didn’t do the preliminary work, and to its credit, the company fought the concept for several years. It didn’t want to become the provider of questionable magic, and no matter the profits, it feared the image of being overseers to some kind of high-tech Afterlife. But public interest was unrelenting, and finally, when competitors started expressing interest, the corporate masterminds gave in.

  With enough money and enough warning, it was possible to make a rough copy of a dying person—a copy that would exist inside supercold servers presently buried beneath our feet.

  Not knowing the story, I imagined a young girl dying of cancer. And now her sad mother was kneeling before a creature that had lived in both realms, handing up a little gift that would be taken into the castle and studied in full, then reproduced as a few billion lines of code.

  I didn’t see what the gift was.

  By then, I was walking off with my daughter. I was telling Amy, “You pick. It’s your day, so do whatever you want.”

  “I want to go to Alpha Centauri,” she said.

  Best Hope, it was.