So Long Been Dreaming

by Nalo Hopkinson

  “Well, sure,” said the man. His name was Jawann. “Jubilee is where we’re going to live.”

  “Psyche Moth is where we live now, where we’ve lived for the last eighty-seven years. We don’t know jack about this ship. Because Dr Ops doesn’t want us to.”

  “We know enough to realize we’d look stupid trying to attack him,” Wayna said. Even Doe admitted that. Dr Ops’ hardware lay in Psyche Moth’s central section, along with the drive engine. A tether almost two kilometers long separated their living quarters from the AI’s physical components and any other mission-critical equipment they might damage. At the end of the tether, Wayna and the rest of the downloads swung faster and faster. They were like sand in a bucket, centrifugal force mimicking gravity and gradually building up to the level they’d experience on Amend’s surface, in Jubilee.

  That was all they knew. All Dr Ops thought they needed to know.

  “Who said anything about an attack?” Robeson frowned.

  “No one.” Wayna was suddenly sorry she’d spoken. “All I mean is, his only motive in telling us anything was to prevent that from happening.” She spooned some nuggets onto her mashed potatoes and shoved them into her mouth so she wouldn’t say any more.

  “You think he’s lying?” Jawann asked. Wayna shook her head no.

  “He could if he wanted. How would we find out?”

  The slaw was too sweet; not enough contrast with the nuggets. Not peppery, like what Aunt Nono used to make.

  “Why would we want to find out? We’ll be on our own ground, in Jubilee, soon enough.” Four weeks. Twenty days by Psyche Moth’s rationalized calendar.

  “With trustees to watch us all the time, everywhere we go, and this ship hanging in orbit right over our heads.” Robeson sounded as suspicious as Doe, Jawann as placatory as Wayna tried to be in their identical arguments. Thad usually came across as neutral, controlled, the way you could be out of your meat.

  “So? They’re not going to hurt us after they brought us all this way. At least, they won’t want to hurt our bodies.”

  Because their bodies came from, were copies of, the people against whom they’d rebelled. The rich. The politically powerful.

  But Wayna’s body was hers. No one else owned it, no matter who her clone’s cells had started off with. Hers, no matter how different it looked from the one she had been born with. How white.

  Hers to take care of. Early on in her training she’d decided that. How else could she be serious about her exercises? Why else would she bother?

  This was her body. She’d earned it.

  Jawann and Robeson were done; they’d started eating before her and now they were leaving. She swallowed quickly. “Wait – I wanted to ask – “ They stopped and she stood up to follow them, taking her half-full plate. “Either of you have any medical training?”

  They knew someone, a man called Unique, a nurse when he’d lived on Earth. Here he worked in the factory, quality control. Wayna would have to go back to her bunkroom until he got off and could come see her. She left Doe a message on the board by the cafeteria’s entrance, an apology. Face up on her bed, Wayna concentrated fiercely on the muscle groups she’d skipped earlier. A trustee came by to check on her and seemed satisfied to find her lying down, everything in line with her remote readings. He acted as if she should be flattered by the extra attention. “Dr Ops will be in touch first thing tomorrow,” he promised as he left.

  “Oooh, baby,” she said softly to herself, and went on with what she’d been doing.

  A little later, for no reason she knew of, she looked up at her doorway. The man that had held Robeson’s hand that morning stood there as if this was where he’d always been. “Hi. Do I have the right place? You’re Wayna?”

  “Unique?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on in.” She swung her feet to the floor and patted a place beside her on the bed. He sat closer than she’d expected, closer than she was used to. Maybe that meant he’d been born Hispanic or Middle Eastern. Or maybe not.

  “Robeson said you had some sort of problem to ask me about. So – of course I don’t have any equipment, but if I can help in any way, I will.”

  She told him what had happened, feeling foolish all of a sudden. There’d only been those three times, nothing more since seeing Dr Ops.

  “Lie on your stomach,” he said. Through the fabric, firm fingers pressed on either side of her spine, from mid-back to her skull, then down again to her tailbone. “Turn over, please. Bend your knees. All right if I take off your shoes?” He stroked the soles of her feet, had her push them against his hands in different directions. His touch, his resistance to her pressure, reassured her. What she was going through was real. It mattered.

  He asked her how she slept, what she massed, if she was always thirsty, other things. He finished his questions and walked back and forth in her room, glancing often in her direction. She sat again, hugging herself. If Doe came in now, she’d know Wayna wanted him.

  Unique quit his pacing and faced her, his eyes steady. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he said. “You’re not the only one, though. There are 150 others that I’ve seen or heard of experiencing major problems – circulatory, muscular, digestive. Some even have the same symptoms you do.”

  “What is it?” Wayna asked stupidly.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” he repeated. “If I had a lab – I’ll set one up in Jubilee – call it neuropathy, but I don’t know for sure what’s causing it.”

  “Neuropathy?”

  “Means nerve problems.”

  “But Dr Ops told me my nerves were fine. . . .” No response to that.

  “If we were on Earth, what would you think?”

  He compressed his already thin lips. “Most likely possibility, some kind of thyroid problem. Or – but what it would be elsewhere, that’s irrelevant. You’re here, and it’s the numbers involved that concern me, though superficially the cases seem unrelated.

  “One hundred and fifty of you out of the Jubilee group with what might be germ plasm disorders; 150 out of 20,000. At least 150; take underreporting into account and there’s probably more. Too many. They would have screened foetuses for irregularities before shipping them out.”

  “Well, what should I do then?”

  “Get Dr Ops to give you a new clone.”

  “But –”

  “This one’s damaged. If you train intensely, you’ll make up the lost time and go down to Jubilee with the rest of us.”

  Or she might be able to delay and wind up part of Thad’s settlement instead.

  As if he’d heard her thought, Unique added, “I wouldn’t wait, if I were you. I’d ask for – no, demand another body – now. Soon as you can.”

  “Because?”

  “Because your chances of a decent one will just get worse, if this is a radiation-induced mutation. Which I have absolutely no proof of. But if it is.”

  “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, and there we wept. . . .” The pool reflected music, voices vaulting upward off the water, outward to the walls of white-painted steel. Unlike yesterday, the words were clear, because everyone was saying the same thing. Singing the same thing. “For the wicked carried us away. . . .” Wayna wondered why the trustee in charge had chosen this song. Of course he was a prisoner, too.

  The impromptu choir sounded more soulful than it looked. If the personalities of these clones’ originals had been in charge, what would they be singing now? The “Doxology?” “Bringing in the Sheaves?” Did Episcopalians even have hymns?

  Focusing on the physical, Wayna scanned her body for symptoms. So far this morning, she’d felt nothing unusual. Carefully, slowly, she swept the satiny surface with her arms, raising a tapering wave. She worked her legs, shooting backwards like a squid, away from the shallows and most of the other swimmers. Would sex underwater be as good as it was in freespace? No, you’d be constantly coming up for breath. Instead of constantly coming. . . . Last night, Doe had
forgiven her, and they’d gone to Thad together. And everything had been fine until they started fighting again. It hadn’t been her fault. Or Doe’s, either.

  They told Thad about Wayna’s pains, and how Unique thought she should ask for another clone. “Why do you want to download at all?” he asked. “Stay in here with me.”

  “Until you do? But if –”

  “Until I don’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted to anyway. Now it sounds so much more inviting. ‘Defective body?’ ‘Don’t mind if I do.’” Thad’s icon got up from their bed to mimic unctuous host and vivacious guest. “‘And, oh, you’re serving that on a totally unexplored and no doubt dangerous new planet? I just adore totally –’”

  “Stop it!” Wayna hated it when he acted that way, faking that he was a flamer. She hooked him by one knee and pulled him down, putting her hand over his mouth. She meant it as a joke; they ought to have ended up wrestling, rolling around, having fun, having more sex. Thad didn’t respond, though. Not even when Wayna tickled him under his arms. He had amped down his input.

  “Look,” he said. “I went through our ‘voluntary agreement.’ We did our part by letting them bring us here.”

  Doe propped herself up on both elbows. She had huge nipples, not like the ones on her clone’s breasts. “You’re really serious.”

  “Yes. I really am.”

  “Why?” asked Wayna. She answered herself: “Dr Ops won’t let you download into a woman. Will he.”

  “Probably not. I haven’t even asked.”

  Doe said “Then what is it? We were going to be together, at least on the same world. All we went through and you’re just throwing it away –”

  “Together to do what? To bear our enemies’ children, that’s what, we nothing but a bunch of glorified mammies, girl, don’t you get it? Remote-control units for their immortality investments, protection for their precious genetic material. Cheaper than your average AI, no benefits, no union, no personnel manager. Mammies.”

  “Not mammies,” Doe said slowly. “I see what you’re saying, but we’re more like incubators, if you think about it. Or petri dishes – inoculated with their DNA. Except they’re back on Earth; they won’t be around to see the results of their experiment.”

  “Don’t need to be. They got Dr Ops to report back.”

  “Once we’re on Amends,” Wayna said, “no one can make us have kids or do anything we don’t want.”

  “You think. Besides, they won’t have to make people reproduce. It’s a basic drive.”

  “Of the meat.” Doe nodded. “Okay. Point granted, Wayna?” She sank down again, resting her head on her crossed arms.

  No one said anything for awhile. The jazz Thad liked to listen to filled the silence: smooth horns, rough drums, discreet bass.

  “Well, what’ll you do if you stay in here?” Doe asked. “What’ll Dr Ops do? Turn you off? Log you out permanently? Put your processors on half power?”

  “Don’t think so. He’s an AI. He’ll stick to the rules.”

  “Whatever those are,” said Wayna.

  “I’ll find out.”

  She had logged off then, withdrawn to sleep in her bunkroom, expecting Doe to join her. She’d wakened alone, a note from Dr Ops on the mirror, which normally she would have missed. Normally she avoided the mirror, but not this morning. She’d studied her face, noting the narrow nose, the light, stubby lashes around eyes an indeterminate colour she guessed could be called grey. Whose face had this been? A senator’s? A favourite secretary’s? Hers, now. For how long?

  Floating upright in the deep end, she glanced at her arms. They were covered with blonde hairs which the water washed into rippled patterns. Her small breasts mounded high here in the pool, buoyant with fat.

  Would the replacement be better-looking, or worse?

  Wayna turned to see the clock on the wall behind her. Ten. Time to get out and get ready for her appointment.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Wayna.” Dr Ops looked harassed and faintly ashamed. He hadn’t been able to tell her anything about the pains. He acted like they weren’t important; he’d even hinted she might be making them up just to get a different body. “You’re not the first to ask, you know. One per person, that’s all. That’s it.”

  Thad’s right, Wayna thought to herself. AIs stick to the rules. He could improvise, but he won’t.

  “Why?” Always a good question.

  “We didn’t bring a bunch of extra bodies, Wayna,” Dr Ops said.

  “Well, why not?” Another excellent question. “You should have,” she went on. “What if there was an emergency, an epidemic?”

  “There’s enough for that –”

  “I know someone who’s not going to use theirs. Give it to me.”

  “You must mean Thad.” Dr Ops frowned. “That would be a man’s body. Our charter doesn’t allow transgender downloads.”

  Wayna counted in twelves under her breath, closing her eyes so long she almost logged off.

  “Who’s to know?” Her voice was too loud, and her jaw hurt. She’d been clenching it tight, forgetting it would amp up her inputs. Download settings had apparently become her default overnight. “Never mind. You’re not going to give me a second body. I can’t make you.”

  “I thought you’d understand.” He smiled and hunched his shoulders. “I am sorry.”

  Swimming through freespace to her locker, she was sure Dr Ops didn’t know what sorry was. She wondered if he ever would.

  Meanwhile.

  She never saw Doe again outside freespace. There’d still be two of them together – just not the two they’d assumed.

  She had other attacks, some mild, some much stronger than the first. Massage helped, and keeping still, and moving. She met prisoners who had similar symptoms, and they traded tips and theories about what was wrong with them.

  Doe kept telling her that if she wanted to be without pain, she should simply stay in freespace. After awhile, Wayna did more and more virches and spent less and less time with her lovers.

  Jubilee lay in Amends’ Northern latitudes, high on a curving peninsula, in the rain shadow of old, gentle mountains. Bright-skinned tree-dwelling amphibians inhabited the mountain passes, their trilling cries rising and falling like loud orgasms whenever Wayna took her favourite tour.

  And then there were the instructional virches, building on what they’d learned in their freespace classes. Her specialty, fiber tech, became suddenly fascinating: baskets, nets, ropes, cloth, paper – so much to learn, so little time.

  The day before planetfall she went for one last swim in the pool. It was deserted, awaiting the next settlement group. It would never be as full of prisoners again; Thad and Doe weren’t the only ones opting out of their downloads.

  There was plenty of open fresh water on Amends: a large lake not far from Jubilee, and rivers even closer. She peered down past her dangling feet at the pool’s white bottom. Nothing to see there. Never had been; never would be.

  She had lunch with Robeson, Unique, and Jawann. As Dr Ops recommended, they skipped dinner.

  She didn’t try to say goodbye. She didn’t sleep alone.

  And then it was morning and they were walking into one of Psyche Moth’s landing units, underbuckets held to the pool’s bottom, to its outside, by retractable bolts, and Dr Ops unlocked them and they were free, flying, falling, down, down, down, out of the black and into the blue, the green, the thousand colours of their new home.

  Andrea Hairston is a Professor of Theatre at Smith College. She is the Artistic Director of Chrysalis Theatre and her plays have been produced at Yale Rep, Rites and Reason, the Kennedy Center, StageWest, and on Public Radio and Public Television. The flash of spirit in West African and Caribbean performance traditions has offered her much wisdom and inspiration. She has received a National Endowment for the Arts Grant to Playwrights, a Rockefeller/NEA Grant for New Works, a Ford Foundation Grant to collaborate with Senegalese Master Drummer Massamba Diop, and a Shubert Fellowship for Pla
ywriting. Since 1997, her plays produced by Chrysalis Theatre, Soul Repairs, Lonely Stardust, and Hummingbird Flying Backward, have been science fiction-themed. Archangels of Funk, a sci-fi theatre jam, garnered her a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship for 2003. She recently completed a speculative novel, Mindscape, excerpted in Dark Matter: Reading the Bones, an anthology of African diasporic speculative fiction edited by Sheree Thomas and published by Warner Books in 2004. “Double Consciousness,” a story from Mindscape, will appear in Future Females of Colour, edited by Marleen Barr, to be published by Ohio State University Press in 2005. She is currently working on a new speculative novel, Exploding in Slow Motion.

  Griots of the Galaxy

  Andrea Hairston

  The Griots of West Africa are musicians, oral historians, praise singers negotiating community. They stand between us and cultural amnesia. Through them we learn to hear beyond our time and understand the future.

  The first thing I knew, I was thigh-deep in swamp scum, strangling a silver and white Siberian husky with ice eyes and dead fish breath. I liked dogs, vaguely remembered being one once, and would have let him go, but he was trying to eat me. I pressed through matted hair and squeezed his windpipe. He gagged, startled out of attack mode by my newfound vigour and the rapidly healing wounds on my neck, wounds he had just made. We wrestled in a jungle swamp, more Amazon than Florida, drenched in a chemical haze. It was high noon, but the trees gobbled up ninety percent of the photons. It might as well have been evening, except for the heavy heat hanging in the mist. A husky could die in weather like this. What was he doing here?

  What was I?

  He stood on hind legs and looked right in my eyes. I didn’t know how tall I was, but that seemed like a lot of dog to me. From the smell of my ripped pants, the body I was in had already lost control of sphincter muscles once – which explained why I didn’t piss myself looking at his bloody fangs and intelligent eyes, like people’s eyes. What had this body ever done to him, I wondered?