Otherness

by David Brin

  We learned how to combat CAPUC, eventually. It involved drugs, and a serum based on reversed antibodies force-grown in the patient's own marrow after he's given a dangerous overdose of a vanadium compound I found by trial and error. It worked, most of the time, but the victims suffered great stress and often required a special regime of whole blood transfusions to get across the most dangerous phase.

  Blood banks were stretched even thinner than before. Only now the public responded generously, as in time of war. I should not have been surprised when survivors, after their recovery, volunteered by the thousands. But, of course, I'd forgotten about ALAS by then, hadn't I?

  We beat back CAPUC. It's vector proved too unreliable, too easily interrupted once we'd figured it out. The poor little viroid never had a chance to do get to Les's "negotiation" stage. Oh well, those are the breaks.

  I got all sorts of citations I didn't deserve. The King, gave me a KBE for personally saving the Prince of Wales. I had dinner at the White House.

  Big deal.

  The world had a respite, after that. CAPUC had scared people it seemed, into a new spirit of cooperation. I should have been suspicious, of course. But soon I'd moved over to WHO, and had all sorts of administrative responsibilities in the Final Campaign on Malnutrition.

  By that time I had almost entirely forgotten about ALAS.

  I forgot about you, didn't I? Oh, the years passed, my star rose, I became famous, respected, revered. I didn't get my Nobel in Stockholm. Ironically, I picked it up in Oslo. Fancy that. Just shows you can fool anybody.

  And yet, I don't think I ever really forgot about you, ALAS, not at the back of my mind.

  Peace treaties were signed. Citizens of the industrial nations voted temporary cuts in their standards of living in order to fight poverty and save the environment. Suddenly, it seemed, we'd all grown up. Other cynics, guys I'd gotten drunk with in the past—and shared dark premonitions about the inevitable fate of filthy, miserable humanity—all gradually deserted the faith, as pessimists seem wont do when the world turns bright—too bright for even the cynical to dismiss as a mere passing phase on the road to Hell.

  And yet, my own brooding remained unblemished. For subconsciously I knew it wasn't real.

  Then the third Mars Expedition returned to worldwide adulation, and brought home with them TARP.

  And that was when we all found out just how friendly all our home-grown pathogens really had been, all along.

  4.

  Late at night, stumbling in exhaustion from overwork, I would stop at Les's portrait where I'd ordered it hung in the hall opposite my office door, and stand there cursing him and his damned theories of symbiosis.

  Picture mankind ever reaching a symbiotic association with TARP! That really would be something. Imagine, Les, all those alien genes, added to our heritage, to our rich human diversity!

  Only TARP did not seem to be much interested in "negotiation." Its wooing was rough, deadly. And its vector was the wind.

  The world looked to me, and to my peers, for salvation. In spite of all of my successes and high renown, though, I knew myself for a second-best fraud. I would always know—no matter how much they thanked and praised me—who had been better than me by light years.

  Again and again, deep into the night, I would pore through the notes Leslie Adgeson had left behind, seeking inspiration, seeking hope. That's when I stumbled across ALAS once more.

  I found you again.

  Oh, you made us behave better, all right. At least a quarter of the human race must contain your DNA, by now, ALAS. And in their newfound, inexplicable, rationalized altruism, they set the tone followed by all the others.

  Everybody behaves so damned well in the present calamity. They help each other, they succor the sick, they all give so.

  Funny thing, though. If you hadn't made us all so bloody cooperative, we'd probably never have made it to bloody Mars, would we? Or if we had, there'd have still been enough paranoia around so we'd have maintained a decent quarantine.

  But then, I remind myself, you don't plan, do you. You're just a bundle of RNA, packed inside a protein coat, with an incidentally, accidentally acquired trait of making humans want to donate blood. That's all you are, right? So you had no way of knowing that by making us "better" you were also setting us up for TARP, did you? Did you?

  5.

  We've got some palliatives, now. A few new techniques seem to be doing some good. The latest news is great, in fact. Apparently, we'll be able to save 15 percent or so of the children. Up to half of those may even be fertile.

  That's for nations who've had a lot of racial mixing. Heterozygosity and genetic diversity seems to breed better resistance. Those peoples with "pure," narrow bloodlines will be harder to save, but then, racism has its inevitable price.

  Too bad about the great apes and horses. At least all this will give the rain forests a chance to grow back.

  Meanwhile, everybody perseveres. There is no panic, as one reads about happening in past plagues. We've grown up at last, it seems. We help each other.

  But I carry a card in my wallet saying I'm a Christian Scientist, and that my blood group is AB negative, and that I'm allergic to nearly everything. Transfusions are one of the treatments commonly used now, and I'm an important man. But I won't take blood.

  I won't.

  I donate, but I'll never take it. Not even when I drop.

  You won't have me, ALAS. You won't.

  I am a bad man. I suppose, all told, I've done more good than evil in my life, but that's incidental, a product of happenstance and the bizarre caprices of the world.

  I have no control over the world, but I can make my own decisions, at least. As I make this one now.

  Down, out of my high research tower, I've come. Into the streets, where the teeming clinics fester and broil. That is where I work now. And it doesn't matter to me that I'm behaving no differently from anyone else today. They are all marionettes. They think they're acting altruistically, but I know they are your puppets, ALAS.

  But I am a man, do you hear me? I make my own decisions.

  Fever wracks my body now, as I drag myself from bed to bed, holding their hands when they stretch them out to me for comfort, doing what I can to ease their suffering, to save a few.

  You'll not have me, ALAS.

  This is what I choose to do.

  Myth Number 21

  Elvis roams the open interstates in a big white cadillac.

  It has to be him. Flywheel-bus and commuter-zep riders see plumes of dust trailing like rocket exhaust behind something too fast and glittery to be tracked with the naked eye?

  Squint, though, and you might glimpse him behind the wheel, steering with one wrist, fiddling the radio dial, then reaching for that always frosty can of beer. "Thank you, honey," he tells the blonde next to him as he steps on the accelerator.

  Roar of V-8 power. Freedom-smell of gasoline. Clean wind blowing back his hair . . . Elvis hoots and lifts one arm to wave at all true Americans who still believe in him.

  Chatty Net-zines run blurry pictures of him. "Fakes!" claim those snooty tech types, ignored by the faithful who collect grand old TwenCen automobiles and polish them, saving ration coupons for the once-a-year spin, meeting at the nearest Graceland Shrine for a day of chrome and music and speed and glory.

  They stop at ghostly, abandoned filling stations, checking for signs that he's been by. Some claim to find pumps freshly used, reading "empty" yet somehow reeking of high octane. Others point to black, bold tire tracks, or claim his music can be heard in the coyotes' midnight serenade.

  Elvis roams the open interstates in a big white cadillac. How else to explain the traces some have found, sparkling like fairy dust across the fading yellow lines?

  A pollen of happier days . . . the glitter of rhinestones.

  Story Notes

  The preceding little fable, cribbed from my novel Earth, is an example of the supershort story, which some call a "drabble." Collections h
ave been published in the 100- and 750-word categories, but my favorite length is precisely 250.

  "The Giving Plague" was a reflection on the times, written as the first deadly pandemic of postindustrial society shattered our brief, blithe illusion that the old dangers were behind us. AIDS has transformed the way people look upon each other, the world, and life itself. The cruel ironies of disease and death were poignant for most of human history, when illness was a dark mystery. Now, as we unravel the genetic codes and begin looking our enemies in the face, so to speak, the paradoxes seem only to multiply. Symbiosis and genetic "negotiation" are also contemplated as themes in a novel I wrote with Gregory Benford, Heart of the Comet.

  One editor rejected "The Giving Plague" because he thought it "irresponsible to undermine confidence in the blood supply." I leave it to the reader to compare that unique proposition to the tale itself and decide which is more far-fetched. Fortunately, weighty matters of public policy remain unaffected by scary SF tales . . . even those that become Hugo nominees.

  Coming up next, "Dr. Pak's Preschool" seems a natural extrapolation of the "enrichment parenting" craze that's sweeping not only Japan, but yuppie America and elsewhere, as well. Having recently embarked on fatherhood, I know the temptations all too well!

  The story after that, "Detritus Affected," is about exploring vintages from ages past, and was inspired by news accounts concerning a new breed of archaeologist.

  This collection also features several of my published essays, gathered and reworked to express a theme that has fascinated me for some time—that of "otherness." The first one appeared as a guest editorial in Analog magazine some years back, and was reprinted in Whole Earth Review. To be taken in a spirit of humor, it deals with a quirky way to look at this bizarre culture we live in. A culture too strange to have ever been thought up in a science-fiction story.

  Dr. Pak's Preschool

  Hands, those strong hands holding her down upon the tabletop . . . in her pain and confusion they reminded her of those tentacled sea creatures of fabled days which ola-chan had described when she was little, whose habit it was to drag unfortunate mariners down to a watery doom.

  Those hands, clasping, restraining—she cried out for mercy, knowing all the while that those hands would ignore her protests, along with any pretense at modesty.

  Needles pricked her skin, hot localized distractions from her futile struggle. Soon the drugs took effect. A soporific coolness spread along her limbs, and she lost the will to resist any longer. The hands loosened their grip and turned to perform yet other violations.

  Stormy images battered her wavering sense of self. Moiré patterns and Möbius chains—somehow she knew these things and their names without ever having learned them. And there was something else—something that hurt even to contemplate—a container with two openings, and none at all . . . a bottle whose interior was on the outside. . . .

  It was a problem to be solved. A desperate quandary. A life-or-death puzzle in higher-level geometry.

  The words and images whirled, hands groped about her, but at that moment all she could do was moan.

  "Wakarimasen!" she cried aloud. "Wakarimasen!"

  1.

  Reiko should have been more suspicious the night her husband came home earlier than usual and announced that she would accompany him on his next business trip to Seoul. That evening, however, when Tetsuo showed her the white paper folder containing two red-and-green airline boarding passes, Reiko could think only in the heady language of joy.

  He remembers.

  Her elation did not show, of course. She bowed to her husband and spoke words of submissive acceptance, maintaining decorous reticence. Tetsuo, in his turn, was admirably restrained. He grunted and turned his attention back to his supper, as if the matter had really been of little consequence after all.

  Nevertheless, Reiko was certain his gruffness overlay a well of true feeling.

  Why else, she thought, would he do such an unheard-of thing? And so near the anniversary of their marriage? That second ticket in the envelope surely meant there was still a bit of the rebel under Tetsuo's now so-conventional exterior—still a remnant of the free spirit she had given her heart to, years ago.

  He remembers, she thought jubilantly.

  And it was not yet nine in the evening. For Tetsuo to return so early for supper at home, instead of having it with business colleagues at some city bar, was exceptional in itself. Reiko bowed again and suggested awakening their daughter. Yukiko so seldom got to spend time with her father.

  "Iye," Tetsuo said curtly, vetoing the idea. "Let the child sleep. I wish to retire early tonight, anyway."

  Reiko's heart seemed to flutter within her rib cage at his implication. After clearing away dinner she made the required preparations, just in case.

  And indeed, later that night he joined with her in their bed—for the first time in months without beer or tobacco or the scent of other women commingling in his breath. Tetsuo made love to her with an intensity she recalled, but which, of late, she had begun to think she had imagined all along.

  Almost exactly six years ago they had been newlyweds, trapped joyously in each other's eyes as they honeymooned in Fiji, hardly noticing the mountains or the reefs or the exotic native dancers for the resonant happiness, the amplified autarchia of their union. And for the following year, also, it had remained that way for the two of them, as if they were characters from a happy romantic tale, brought into the real world. In those days even the intense pressure of Tetsuo's career had seemed to take second place to their love.

  It had lasted, in fact, up to the time when Reiko became pregnant. Until then she hadn't believed they would ever stop being lovers and begin the long tedium of life as a married couple. But they did.

  Tetsuo closed his eyes tightly and shuddered, then collapsed in a lassitude of spent coitus. His breath was sweet, his weight a pleasure for her to bear, and with her fingertips Reiko lightly traced the familiar patterns of his back. The boy she had known was filling out, gaining the looser fleshiness of a grown man. Tonight, however, she felt a slight relaxing of the tension that had slowly mounted along his spine over the grinding months and years.

  Tetsuo seldom spoke of his work, although she knew it was stressful and hard. His supervisors seemed still to hold him under suspicion over an incident a few years ago, when he had tried unsuccessfully to introduce un-Japanese business practices into the firm. This, she imagined, was one reason why he had grown so distant, allowing the flame of their passion to bank in favor of more important matters. That was, of course, as it would have to be.

  But now all seemed restored. Tetsuo had remembered; all was well in the world.

  When, instead of simply rolling over and going to sleep, Tetsuo stroked her hair briefly and spoke to her softly in unintelligible mumblings of fondness, Reiko felt a glow like the sun rise within her.

  2.

  It was her first trip to the airport since the honeymoon, so long ago. Reiko could not help feeling disappointed, for the experience was not at all the same this time.

  How could it be? She chided herself for making comparisons. After all, different destinations attracted different classes of people. The occupants of this departure lounge could hardly be expected to be like those down the hall a ways, bound from Tokyo to Fiji, or Hawaii, or Saipan—young couples close-orbiting on trajectories of bliss.

  Sometimes on such honeymoon flights groups of newlyweds would have singing contests to help pass the time, clapping with courteous enthusiasm however terrible the voice. After all, there were harmonies that went beyond music, and much holding of hands.

  Travelers not bound for the resorts dressed differently, spoke and behaved differently. It was as if the departure terminal were a series of slices of modern life—each distinct, representing a separate phase or molting.

  Jets destined for Europe or America generally carried tour groups of prosperous older couples, or gaggles of students, all dressed alike and hanging t
ogether as if their periphery were patrolled by dangerous animals, ready at any moment to snap up the unwary straggler.

  And, of course, there were the intense businessmen, who spent their transit time earnestly studying their presentation materials . . . modern samurai . . . warriors for Japan on the new battlefields of commerce.

  Finally, there were the gates nearest Reiko, from which departed flights for Bangkok, Manila, Seoul. These, too, carried businessmen, but bound instead for the rewards of success. Women told each other rumors about what went on during these . . . kairaku expeditions. Reiko had never really been sure what to believe, but she sensed the anticipation of the ticket holders in this particular lounge. Most of the passengers wore suits, but their mood did not strike her as businesslike. They carried briefcases, but nobody seemed much interested in working.