Far Horizons

by Robert Silverberg

  But babies keep being born, and the supply of biology-altering drugs left by the Sleepless is running out.

  Jackson Aranow, a doctor totally unneeded by any patients, and his mentally fragile sister, Theresa, are preoccupied with personal concerns. But they get drawn into a struggle between Jennifer Sharifi, released from prison after serving twenty-seven years for treason, and her granddaughter Miranda Sharifi. The war includes engineered viruses that attack not the human body but the mind. At stake is Jennifer’s concept of “safety” for her people versus Miranda’s concept of “progress” for humanity. Neither Jackson nor Theresa possesses the ruthless certainty of the Sharifi women. Yet the Aranows are the ones who find the next tentative step for a country so changed that not even its most basic tenets any longer apply to daily life, and must be “engineered” anew from a new reality.

  —Nancy Kress

  SLEEPING DOGS

  by Nancy Kress

  “The new technologies will be dangerous as well as liberating. But in the long run, social constraints must bend to new technologies.”

  Freeman Dyson

  “This is going to make all the difference in the world to us,” Daddy says when the truck pulls into our yard. “All the difference in the world.”

  I pull my sweater tighter around me. Cool spring air comes in at my elbow, where the sweater has a hole. The truck, which is covered with mud from its trip up the mountain, bumps into a ditch in our driveway and then out of it again. Behind his glass window the driver makes a face like he’s cursing, but I can’t hear him. What I can hear is Precious crying in the house. We don’t have any more oatmeal left, and only a little milk. We surely need something to make all the difference in the world.

  “Closer, closer…hold it!” Daddy yells. The driver ignores him. He stops the truck where he chooses, and the back door springs open. In the pens our dogs are going crazy. I walk around the back of the truck and look in.

  Inside, there’s nothing to see except a metal cage, the kind everybody uses to ship dogs. In the cage a bitch lies on her side. She’s no special kind of dog, maybe some Lab, for sure some German shepherd, probably something else to give her that skinny tail. Her eyes are brown, soft as Precious’s. She’s very pregnant.

  “Don’t touch her, Carol Ann, stay off the truck, you don’t know her disposition,” Donna says, pushing me aside. There’s no point in listening to Donna; she doesn’t even listen to herself. She climbs into the truck she told me to stay out of and puts her hand into the cage, petting the bitch and crooning at it. “Hey there, sweetie, you old sweetie you, you’re going to be lucky for us yes you are…”

  Donna believes anything Daddy tells her.

  I go around to the front of the truck, which has big orange letters saying STANLEY EXPRESS, in time to see the Arrowgene scientist get out. He has to be the scientist; nobody would hire him to be a trucker. He’s the shortest man I’ve ever seen, slightly over five feet tall, and one of the skinniest, too. He’s all dressed up in a business suit with a formal vest and commpin. I don’t like his looks—he’s staring at Daddy like Daddy’s some kind of oaf—but I’m interested. You’d think genemod scientists would make their own kids taller. Or maybe he’s the first one in his family to be a scientist, and his parents were like us, regular people. That might explain why he’s so rude to Daddy.

  “…understand that there is no way you can reach us, ever, for technical support. So ask any questions you might have right now.”

  “I don’t have no questions,” Daddy says, which is true. He never has questions about anything, just goes ahead and gets all enthusiastic about it and sails on like a high cloud on a March day, sunny and blue-sky right up until the second the storm starts. And Donna’s the same way.

  “You’re sure you have no questions?” the scientist asks, and his voice curls over on itself.

  “No, sir,” Daddy says.

  “I have questions,” I say.

  The Arrowgene scientist looks at me like he’s surprised I’m old enough to talk, even though I’m as tall as he is. I’m seventeen but look a whole lot younger. Daddy says, “Carol Ann, I hear Precious crying. Shouldn’t you—”

  “It’s Donna’s turn,” I say, which is a laugh because Donna never tends to Precious, even though Donna’s two years older than I am and should do more work. It isn’t that Donna doesn’t love Precious, she just doesn’t hear the baby cry. Donna doesn’t hear anything she doesn’t want to hear. She’s like Daddy that way.

  I say, “What if the litter the bitch is carrying turns out not to be genemod for what you say, after all? If we can’t ever find you again for technical support, we can’t ever find you again to get our money back.”

  He’s amused, damn him. “That’s true, young lady. Your father and I have been all over this, however. And I assure you that the puppies will have exactly the genetic modifications you requested.”

  “Big? Strong? All male?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they won’t ever sleep? Ever?”

  “No more than Leisha Camden, Jennifer Sharifi, or Tony Indivino.”

  He’s named three of the most famous Sleepless people in the world, two rich girls and a loudmouth man. The vid reporters follow them around, bothering them. They’re all just a few years older than Donna, but they seem much older than that. The women are both beautiful and super-rich. The man, Tony Indivino, calls himself an activist, spouting about “discrimination borne of jealousy and fear” and the “self-assisted evolution of the human race.” He’s pretty obnoxious, but maybe he’s right. I don’t know. I never thought much about sleeplessness before, not until Daddy got this business idea that’s going to make all the difference to us.

  I say to the Arrowgene scientist, “The bitch you implanted the embryos into isn’t a purebred. Are the embryos?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Purebred puppies sell for more money.”

  “Easier to trace. Your father requested as much anonymity as possible.” He scowls. He doesn’t like being questioned.

  “If animals that don’t sleep are going to make such good profits, how come everybody doesn’t try to raise and market them?”

  He probably wouldn’t answer me at all—I’m just another stupid hick to him—except that just then Donna comes around from the back of the truck, leading the bitch on one of our old leashes. The scientist perks up. Donna looks like Mama looked, only maybe even prettier. I remember every line of Mama’s face. Of course I do; it wasn’t that long since she died. Precious isn’t even two. Donna shakes all that red hair, smiles, and walks up to us. The toxic midget scientist gets very sparkly.

  “No, young lady, it’s true that sleepless animals have not proved a market boon. Why should they? Why would you want a cow or chicken that doesn’t sleep, and just eats more from an increased metabolism without a correspondingly steeper increase in meat or milk? Of course, a few researchers went ahead anyway, intrigued to see if the complete elimination of sleep-inducing neurotransmitters had the same side effects in other vertebrates as in humans, which is to say—”

  He goes on, talking directly to Donna, who’s beaming at him like he’s the most fascinating man in the world. She doesn’t understand a word. Daddy’s not listening, either, rocking back on his heels like he always does when he’s pleased about a new business, sure this one’ll make us rich. He’s already planned his slogan, underground of course since this is all illegal until the FDA approves: BENSON’S GENEMOD GUARD DOGS. THEY NEVER SLEEP, SO YOU CAN. In the house Precious is still wailing, and in their pens the two dogs left over from the previous, legal business (BENSON’S GENEMOD LAPDOGS. CUTER THAN HELL) are barking their heads off. They smell the new bitch.

  I go in to Precious. Our house is falling apart: paint peeling, floorboards saggy, water stains from the leaky roof Daddy never gets around to fixing. But at least it’s warm inside. Y-energy cones are much cheaper than food. Precious stands up in her crib, screaming, but the minute she sees me she sto
ps and smiles, even though I know she’s hungry. She’s as sunny as Daddy and Donna, and as pretty. I’m the only plain one. I scoop Precious up in my arms and hug her tight, and she squeals and hugs me back. I sniff that baby smell at the back of her neck, and I wonder what’s left to eat that I can fix for her. There has to be something that Daddy didn’t give to the dogs because he felt sorry for them, genemod bluish big-eyed collies that nobody in their right mind would want in the same room with them. They don’t even look like real dogs.

  I find some rice in the back of a cupboard, and heat it with a sliced dried apple. While I feed Precious, I watch the Stanley Express truck drive away and disappear into the mountains.

  Donna names the bitch Leisha, after the rich Sleepless woman with the bright gold hair and green eyes. This makes no sense, but we all follow along and call the dog Leisha. She whelps in my bed in the middle of the night. I wake up Daddy and Donna. Daddy moves Leisha to the kitchen. Donna brings her own blankets to put under the panting dog, who has a hard time delivering.

  “Here comes the second one…finally…look, there’s the head…another male!”

  Daddy puffs as hard as Leisha. He’s as happy as I’ve ever seen him. It looks like I’m the only one who thinks about Mama, dying right while she was doing this same thing. Two more pups emerge, and they’re both males, too. At least the Arrowgene scientist hasn’t lied so far. All the pups are big, maybe part Doberman or even Great Dane. It’s hard to tell, so young.

  One more pup squeezes out, and then the afterbirth. Leisha’s almost too tired to eat it. Two pups are brown and black, two are black, and one is a sort of gray color like spoiled yogurt. Their eyes are all closed.

  Donna cries, “Aren’t they beautiful!”

  “They look like slimy rats,” I say. She gives me a look. Leisha whimpers and shifts on the spoiled blanket.

  Donna says, “Wait till Precious sees them!”

  “Now, princess, we can’t let Precious get too attached to these pups,” Daddy says. “These here aren’t our pets.” He looks at Donna and me, head tipped to one side like he’s making a critical judgment. But his eyes are shining.

  “These here are our fortune.”

  We don’t have a terminal. We did, once, but Daddy sold it after Mama died. He did a lot of things then that didn’t make too much sense. His grief ran hard but not too long. Then he got interested in life again. I wouldn’t want him any different—at least, most of the time.

  The library at Kellsville has a public terminal. Once a month a good friend of Daddy’s, Denny Patterson, takes one of us girls down the mountain to town to shop. Only two people can fit in the cab of Denny’s truck. This month it’s my turn.

  PROPERTY OF THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA comes up when I log on to the Net. REQUEST, PLEASE. A poor county like ours doesn’t get voice-interacts.

  I can use the Net pretty well. I finished all the high-school software by fifteen and so I was legally done, which is lucky because somebody had to look after Precious. Donna never did finish. I type my request in the only format the public terminals accept:

  PERSONAL SEARCH

  WANTED: BASIC OVERVIEW, MOST RECENT

  LENGTH: 2,000 WORDS

  LEVEL: COLLEGE FRESHMAN

  SUBJECT: SLEEPLESSNESS IN DOGS

  I read the answer off the screen. Printouts cost money. It doesn’t tell me much, mostly that research on sleeplessness in dogs came after sleeplessness in people, because monkeys had served as both the basic lab animals and the primary beta-test subjects. What is known about sleeplessness in canines “indicates that its mechanisms are similar to those in humans. The same side effects were reported as those observed in sleepless people—sleepless dogs were physiologically calmer, ate more, never slept, displayed increased resistance to disease.” The dogs used in the research had been various breeds, but mostly small because it was easier to house and exercise them. All had been destroyed. There is no FDA approval for genemod canine sleeplessness and it isn’t legal to take the sleepless dogs out of laboratories. There’s been no applications to fund the FDA approval process, since “no one has identified significant market opportunity.”

  Nothing I don’t already know. Nothing I want to know. I type another request.

  PERSONAL SEARCH

  WANTED: BASIC INFORMATION, MOST RECENT

  LENGTH: 2,000 WORDS

  LEVEL: COLLEGE FRESHMAN

  SUBJECT: MARKET OPPORTUNITY FOR GUARD DOGS IN PENNSYLVANIA

  The terminal searches the Net a longish time. NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE. Great. What good is it?

  I pick up our food credits at the government office. At the store I spend a long time choosing. If I’m careful, I’ll have enough credits left to get new overalls for Precious, the synth kind that dirt slides off of, and that doesn’t ever tear. I also try to choose foodstuffs that will stretch: rice, oatmeal, soy, synthmeat. Trouble is, dogs like all those things, too.

  The same side effects were reported as those observed in sleepless people—sleepless dogs were physiologically calmer, ate more, never slept, displayed increased resistance to disease. “Ate more”: that was the problem. I figure out where to hide some of the food so there will actually be some left for us by the end of the month. No matter what Daddy and Donna think, Precious comes before Leisha and her pups. Dogs aren’t people.

  They’re cute, though. I have to admit that. Their names, until they’re sold anyway, are Tony, Kevin, Richard, Jack, and Bill. Donna named them after the sleepless she sees on the news. Tony Indivino, the loudmouth who thinks Sleepless should live in their own separate guarded city, away from norms. Kevin Baker, the first Sleepless ever engineered. Richard Keller, Leisha Camden’s boyfriend. Jack Bellingham, a rich investor. William Thaine, a supersmart Harvard lawyer. I imagine how these people might feel if they knew illegal mutts are named after them.

  By the time August turns into a hot September, the pups are huge. They chew everything in the house, day and night. Finally Daddy moves them outside during the day, to an empty pen. Donna starts to train them. She’s very good at animal training. But the pups don’t seem to learn.

  “I don’t get it,” she says to me. “They’re smart enough. Watch them remember where I hide food. And they aren’t overdistractible, not like some I’ve trained.”

  “Well, then, what is it?” I say, but the truth is I don’t really care. I’m losing faith in BENSON’S GENEMOD GUARD DOGS as a way of making all the difference in the world. It’s near the end of the month, and there’s only a little rice and canned beans left, and Precious is teething. She fusses all the time. She needs the medicine you put on baby’s gums, and a regular bed now that she’s outgrowing her crib, and new clothes. I sit in the yard, in the shade of a sugar maple, feeling out of sorts. The air is hot and heavy. A thunderstorm is brewing, but there’s no guarantee it’ll relieve either the heat or the humidity. Mosquitoes whine everywhere. I hold Precious while she twists to get down into a patch of sumac she’s allergic to, and I think that I don’t care if Tony, Kevin, Richard, Jack, and Bill never learn to guard anything.

  Donna says, “I just don’t know what it is about them pups. They’re smart enough to learn.”

  “You said that.” Precious rocks and slobbers against my shoulder: hyenh hyenh hyenh.

  “They just don’t obey. They just don’t seem like no dogs I trained before. They’re more like…like cats.”

  “Donna, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it don’t. But maybe that cute little scientist used cat genes somewhere in there.”

  “That’s not possible. You can’t just mix—Precious, stop it! Let go!” She’s pulling on my hair, hard. I reach up and try to get my hair loose from her little fist. Precious lets out a wail and bites my shoulder.

  I jerk her loose and shake her. She screams for real, screwing up her eyes and turning red. It’s five whole minutes before I can get her calmed down, and when I do I turn on Donna.

  “I don’t care if those dogs are acti
ng like cats or like elephants. All I care about is they aren’t bringing in any money. We need all kinds of things just to live, and we can’t afford them. The bathroom roof leaks worse than ever. The house is full of dog poop because Daddy won’t let the pups out at night in case anybody realizes they never sleep. Who, for fucking sake? Except for Denny and his last girlfriend, we haven’t seen another human being in a month!”

  Donna stares. “What’s got into you, Carol Ann? You used to be so patient and helpful but—”

  “I’m sick of being patient and helpful! I’m sick of dogs pooping and barking and chewing things up twenty-four hours a day!”

  “—since you turned eighteen you just turned into a fucking bitch.”

  Eighteen. I had a birthday last week. I forgot all about it. And so, until this very minute I’d bet, did everybody else. Except to tell me that it’s turned me into a bitch.

  I shove Precious at Donna, so hard that Precious starts crying again. Donna looks at me with wide, hurt eyes, innocent as flowers. I hate her. I hate all of it, the dogs and the poorness and my birthday and everything else. Nothing works right, and all I want to do is get away from all of it. I stumble across the yard, so worked up I can’t see straight, and so I miss the aircar land. I don’t even know it’s there until Donna says soft, like it’s a prayer, “O fucking crazy hellfire god.”

  I’ve never seen an aircar for real, only on vid. This one is small, built for two people. Maybe only one. The Y-energy cones on the sleek sides are painted a different shade of gray from the body. In our yard it looks like a bullet on a torn-up and rotted body. A man gets out, and Donna gasps. “Tony Indivino!”

  It really is. Even I recognize him from vid. He’s medium height, a little stocky, not particularly good-looking. His family couldn’t afford any genemods except sleeplessness, according to the vid. He starts across the yard toward us, and Donna and I stand up. She thrusts Precious back at me and smoothes her skirt. Precious looks wide-eyed at the car that just dropped out of the sky, and all at once she stops fussing. There, that’s what we need: an aircar to land every five minutes to distract her from her aching teeth.