Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction

by Leigh Grossman

  “Jay Silver Feather,” I whispered. Cold and shivering, he put his arms around me, around his Renee. “Your great-grandfather was a Seminole, a black Indian, and he told you swamp stories, about stealing slaves into freedom, hiding with trees, making new world communities from the swamps to…across the border, and never letting white folks catch you at anything. He called you his Silver Feather, because you had a spirit that nobody could beat down. I remember your stories, even if I didn’t live them. Your spirit is safe with me.”

  Jay, his eyes a burst of light, smiled at me, Axala/Renee, and then his head lulled against my shoulder. I listened carefully to his last breaths. The mercenary stood over us with a gun at my temples, telling me to get up or die on the ground, because it didn’t matter to her. Perez wanted us alive but it didn’t have to be that way if I had some crazy cowboy notion.

  “My limbs are paralyzed.” Perez hired Jay and me, Perez hired her. Neat. Another gig slut like all of us. I couldn’t even hate her. “Kill me here. Kill me now. Get it over with.” I started singing a Seminole song for Jay.

  “Stop that singing.” She kicked Jay’s gun out of reach and stepped back to consider my twisted limbs. “Paralyzed? Cut the crap. A trick like that won’t work on me.”

  It was a huge branch, but she never saw it coming. She never had time to be shocked by death. A few inches to the right and the bough of the tree would have flattened me as well. But I was so lucky.

  Jay’s body leaned against my chest, the fuzz on his head soothing my cheeks. I waited for him or the mercenary woman to come back to life. But the griot tree she had blasted was only wounded. There was no free body historian to drop into their lives—not enough luck for that. And then I wasn’t waiting for them to come back to life. It was too late anyhow. Sitting on bloody ground, separated from the griot family and no longer remembering everything, I didn’t know what to do. My eyes settled on the detonator in Jay’s bag, the one connected to the bombs nestled in our roots. Grief overwhelmed me, muddled my impulses. Maybe I should just blow up the forest of ancestors, and we griots could fly back to the mother ship and be done with Earth. That was Renee and Axala’s Mission after all.

  * * * *

  The husky found me sleeping on the ground between two dead bodies. He licked my face awake. A spark of energy passed between us, then he stepped back while I sputtered and wiped his doggy spit into my shirt. It was night. The moon was up, almost full in a cloudless sky. The chilly air forced me back inside the jacket. The husky grumble-growled but didn’t frighten me. A griot spirit on his way to the rendezvous had dropped into the dog I shot. He was the shadow that had tracked me. Every body historian was present and accounted for. Perez had managed to collect us all. I reached out my arms, and the husky ran toward me, his silver hair and ice blue eyes easy to catch in the moonlight. Why couldn’t it have been Jay come back to life? I buried my face in the dog’s fur. A deep rumble in his chest soothed me. I pulled myself up and caressed the tree, hoping to reestablish a connection with the other griots. Nada. These crotchety old giants were waiting to see what I’d do since I could move again. They had shared their insights and feelings, written truth on my body. We were one story now, and the choice of ending was up to me. An endless quest or committing to Earth?

  Renee didn’t want to go anywhere, but if nothing else, Axala would see where Perez’ Mission took us. I checked Jay’s watch. We had six hours. I drank the last two bottles of Recharge and scanned the map with my fountain pen flashlight. The dog looked over my shoulder, panting in my ears. I gazed into his intelligent eyes and wondered at the Earth lives he’d led. Dogs couldn’t talk but . . .

  The husky/griot guided me through the night to my destination.

  The sun had been up several hours when I stood at the ‘final shore.’ Other eyes would have seen only a shallow pond, a rocky hillside, and a plain covered by enormous satellite dishes, radio telescopes listening to deep space for extra-terrestrial intelligence. I knew they were soul collectors, ready to transport griots to the mother ship when I blew up the forest of ancestors. Cut off from other complex life forms by the lifeless white desert, no griot would be enticed by a dying body to stay on Earth. Shattering the tree bodies, snuffing out a trillion points of light would release all the body historians to the stars. The mother ship would catch us on a beam of light. An elegant plan. I should have rejoiced at the approaching rendezvous, but I felt listless, a sleepwalker waking up from a journey of bad dreams.

  The husky stood on hind legs and tapped his nose against a portal set in the hillside. It rolled open, and he trotted inside. No private army prevented me from walking behind him. Inside was dim and cool: con crete, metal, and plastic held the jungle at bay. I could have been in any office/science installation in the world. The husky led me through an empty security station to a door labeled ‘control room.’ It was unlocked but the hinges wouldn’t budge. I squirted my last packet of Frizz Ease on the rusty metal, and the door opened with a touch.

  The strong smell of black coconut didn’t surprise me, nor did the clutter of video monitors, computers, and receivers. A photo of a fifty something woman with wiry grey hair, light brown skin, and high cheek bones, drew me to what I surmised was the main workstation. The woman wore a leather jacket, carried a matching knapsack, and was hugging a husky. The back of the photo read: “Crystal and Max up North.” I sat down. Several purple lizards grinned at me from atop a coffee machine. Shells, seaweed, and green memo-paper with “From the desk of Dr. Crystal Perez” were scattered everywhere. Her handwriting was unreadable except for ‘EXOBIOLOGY’ in block letters. I crumpled up the notes and let my head drop onto the desk. Using biotech weapons and nuclear death, Dr. Perez had corralled the griots of the galaxy into the forest of the ancestors, making ready to send us home.

  The husky shoved his cold nose against my neck. I sat up. Beside me, a computer monitor blinked, asking for someone to press ‘ESCAPE’ to execute or ‘ENTER’ for abort. The program was labeled with the first six prime numbers. One simple key, ‘ESCAPE,’ and I could blow the jungle of griots and twice ten thousand years of living sky-high. Jammed with poignant memories of Earth, we’d ride long radio waves back out to the mother ship. Dr. Crystal Perez stared at me from snowy hills up North and waited. I turned her picture face down.

  The phone in my jacket pocket jangled. I answered it after one ring. I knew who it would be. “Yeah?”

  “Renee? Tell me you’re alive again. Tell me the numbers.” A hoarse, gurgling voice near death.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Renee? Tell me you’re alive again. Tell me the numbers.” It was a recording, asking for the code.

  When it repeated for the third time, I answered. “I’m alive again. Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen.” The first six prime numbers.

  Silence for a moment, like the machine was waiting for something else.

  “Thirteen, ninety-two, thirty-two, ninety-one, seventy-one.” Remembering the handwritten scrawl, I quickly added the next five primes as backwards as I could.

  The entire control room came alive, whirring and hissing. The husky banged his paws against the bottom row of monitors as a close-up from a videotape dated yesterday popped on.

  “This is Axala.” The wheezing contralto spoke from Dr. Perez’ body. Crumpled up by a smoldering van at the edge of the white desert, she recorded this message as life slipped away from her. “I don’t know what to tell you.” She sputtered. “A year into Crystal Perez and deep memories, not just Edges started breaking out.”

  “A year? Deep memory started breaking out of Renee the first hour . . .” I muttered.

  “The griots were getting too full and…I thought I had it all figured out,” Perez/Axala continued.

  “Oh yeah?” I walked from the desk over to the monitors to confront the image.

  “None of the griots wanted to leave this planet, but that always happens. You leave anyhow.” Perez/Axala coughed and spit something out of the frame.
“But even I couldn’t do it, couldn’t separate us from the body of Earth, couldn’t send us on our endless journey. I just didn’t have the heart to blast millennia of living into nothing.”

  I gasped at the words I had spoken to Jay.

  “So…” The sun made her eyes look white. She closed them slowly and gathered her last few breaths. “So I hired Jay and Renee to explode me and the tree griots, and release us all from life on Earth.”

  The map, the lizards, the guards blown up. An inside job to kill yourself and get back to the mother ship.

  “Renee surprised me. Blew up the van before I was ready…when Max and I got out to pee. Max didn’t like that. Chased her down.”

  Renee probably thought the good doctor would doublecross her.

  “Perez’s body is almost finished.” Perez/Axala opened her eyes and squinted at something off camera. “And from what I can see, Max is chewing up Renee, so…” She looked right into my eyes. “I guess I’m talking to myself.” Axala had jumped into Renee.

  “Each body changes us. We are the sum of all the bodies we have joined,” I said out loud. “I’m not the same Axala that you were.”

  On a second row of video screens the husky lunged at Renee’s throat. The metal worms with camera eyes captured their fatal encounter from every angle. I switched off the screens just as he would have ripped her throat out.

  “One last blast and we body historians are free to download the burden of Earth and start again.” Perez/Axala chased after her words, hoping to get everything said before it was too late. “You can release the griots and get to the mother ship or…” She looked away from me, at the ruin of her body.

  “Or stay…And what the hell will that be?” I argued out loud with the ghost on the screen, with the body I had been yesterday. “If we don’t blow up shit and run away to the stars…What the hell do we do here?”

  “A great mystery. It’s up to you.” Perez/Axala fell against a purple lizard and her image exploded on nineteen monitors, but one screen froze on a close-up, as Axala dropped out of Perez and into Renee. I had never seen myself abandon a body, never looked back at a finished life, always rushing to the next body…I switched off the monitors.

  Jay’s watch had run down to a row of zeroes. Rendezvous time. The mother ship was calling. I stumbled back into the chair at Perez’s workstation. Max put his head in my lap, his chest rumbled, his eyes searched mine. My left hand hovered over ‘ESCAPE’—one touch would blast us to the mother ship. Two right hand fingers rested on ‘ENTER’—one touch and we were Earthbound. Paralyzed, I flashed on the forest of ancestors holding Jay and me, on hot milk flowing, humming birds flying backwards, Jay inside of me, and miles of roots holding up a mountain. After twice ten thousand years I wanted to do something impossible, something noble. Instead of chasing down infinity, we could contribute our souls to Earth. A blessing on this future, not now or nothing. The voice and the body and the history.

  Axala of Earth.

  ‘ENTER’

  * * * *

  Copyright © 2004 by Andrea Hairston.

  CATHY PARK HONG

  (1976– )

  Most of the poetry in this book is by folks who are primarily prose writers who also write poetry, but Cathy Park Hong is a poet who also writes prose. While she has written articles for The Village Voice, The Guardian, The Christian Science Monitor, Salon, and The New York Times Magazine and she has won a Village Voice Fellowship for Minority Reporters, her poetry has won her far greater acclaim.

  Born in Los Angeles, Hong graduated from Oberlin College in 1998 and went on to earn her MFA from the Iowa Writers Workshop. Her first book, Translating Mo’um (2002) won a Pushcart Prize. Dance Dance Revolution (2007) was chosen for the Barnard Women’s Poetry Series. Her poems have also appeared in A Public Space, Paris Review, Poetry, McSweeney’s, Harvard Review, Boston Review, The Nation, American Letters & Commentary, Denver Quarterly, Web Conjunctions, jubilat, and Chain, among other journals. She serves as a poetry editor for jubilat magazine. Hong has received a Fulbright Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts grant, and a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship

  Hong is an Assistant Professor at Sarah Lawrence College and is regular faculty at the Queens MFA program in Charlotte, North Carolina.

  Like Gene Wolfe’s “Seven American Nights,” the poems in Dance Dance Revolution look at how our culture will appear to future observers. We read travel narratives about picturesque places and native customs amid lost glory, but we’re not used to being the subject of those narratives.

  DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION, by Cathy Park Hong

  Complete book first published in 2007. The excerpt here previously appeared in ActionYes, Spring 2006

  The language spoken in the Desert is an amalgamation of some 300 languages and dialects imported into this country, a rapidly evolving lingua franca. The language, while borrowing the inner structures of English grammar, also borrows from existing and extinct English dialects and other languages. In the Desert, civilian accents morph so quickly that their accents betray who they talked to that day rather than their cultural roots. Fluency is also a matter of opinion. There is no tuning fork to one’s twang. Still, dialects differ greatly depending on region. In the Southern Region, they debate whether they should even call their language English since it has transformed so completely as to be rendered unrecognizable from its origin. Following is an excerpt of a brief conversation overhead at the hotel bar.

  1. Dimfo me am him.

  Let me tell you about him.

  2. Burblim frum im

  He said

  3. withe Blodhued mout,

  With his red mouth (or bloody mouth.)

  5. G’won now, Shi’bal bato

  Leave, you homosexual asshole.

  6. So din he lip dim clout.

  So then he punched him in the mouth.

  7. Bar goons kerrim off. Exeunt.

  Bar security kicked him out.

  You will find that the customer at the bar speaks in a thicker brogue while the guide interviewed for this book has a more expansive vocabulary. I suspect that in the guide’s line of work, she gathers slang, idioms, and argot like data, appropriating them from other tour guides and tourists (which does not explain her use of the Middle English.)

  Lastly, I’ve had difficulty deciding whether to transcribe her words exactly as said or to translate it to a more “proper” English. I decided on a compromise-preserving her diction in certain sections while translating her words to a proper English when I felt clarification was needed. I must also admit that some of her stories may be inexact due to technical glitches During one unfateful day, I left my cassette tapes out in my patio during a rainstorm. It has not caused irreparable damage but the static has obscured parts of the recording so there may be some lapses to her testimonials. I have marked such lapses with

  ellipses.

  As you can see, I am something of an amateur linguist. I am also a historian of the Desert, the planned city of renewed wonders, city of state-of-the-art hotels modeled after the world’s greatest capitals, city whose decree is there is difference only in degree. The Desert is the center of elsewhere. But perhaps that is not accurate. As the world shrinks, there is no elsewhere. The Desert is the petri dish of what is to come. It is the city of rest and unrest.

  Revolutions used to exist in time capsules. Otherwise, revolutions always happened elsewhere. But we used to register elsewhere as background noise. Kwangju, for example. Kwangju is the provincial capital in the southern part of Korea. After a dictatorial takeover in 1980, the citizens of Kwangju rose up to protest the coup, only to be brutally massacred by the U.S. backed Korean government (friendly dictatorship is what the U.S. called the regime). This uprising is sometimes given global relevance by its comparison to a more major event. Kwangju was Korea’s Tiananmen, for example.

  The guide interviewed in this book was a part of this uprising. She had a pirated radio station that led thousands into the streets duri
ng the uprising. “Her radio speeches were pure and hypnotic in its urgency for us to rise up,” according to one civilian. She has long since changed.

  Revolution’s movements have long since changed. No longer the act of propulsion, of anguished, woodcut soldiers marching in cohesion. Now its pulse works in ellipses, in canny acts of sabotage. As it works here in the Desert, a city despite its bright and bold progress, is still riddled by dissatisfied locals. I have come here to mark its movements, to record the frantic changes in its language. I will begin with my interviews with the guide.

  This is how the guide presented herself when I slipped out of the airport’s sliding doors and squinted in the late afternoon sun. I could not make out any form, only refracted lobes of sunlight and the shadow flittings of tourists who have just arrived. Then she emerged, wearing a ginger colored wig and a navy pinstriped suit, out of an air-conditioned town car and invited me in. I pressed my recorder. On the hour-long ride to the hotel, she was silent until the remains of my tape squealed to its end. She then smiled, clasped my hand and gave me a complementary swim cap. When I puzzled over this gift, she hushed my question. She will give me a tour first. She introduced herself. “Chun Sujin, lest name first, first name lest. Allatime known es Moonhead, Jangnim, o zoologist Henrietta wit falsetto slang. But you, you jus’ call me guide.”

  Roles

  .…Opal of opus,

  beamy in sotto soot, neon hibiscus bloom,

  Behole! ‘Tan Hawaiian Tanya’ billboard.she your

  lucent Virgil, den I tekkum over es

  talky Virgil.want some tea? some pelehuu?

  .I tren me talk box to talk yep-pu..as you