Asimov's Science Fiction: December 2013 (11 page)

Another charming, fetid mess, although this one's scattered with toys. There's a spinning top. There are rugs and papier-mâche stars. There's a one-eyed, one-armed teddy bear. A few story books and piles of paper, as well, along with newer, stranger devices that make no sense to Martha at all.

"Shara's your only birth child?"

Freya nods. She looks at least as proud of that as she does of most things, even if parenting is shared in a loose kind of way that involves the whole commune and no one gets too possessive. Knowing exactly who the father is can be difficult. In this era of trust, mothers are surprisingly coy about who they've fucked. Women often wander out to visit other communes—driven either by biological imperative or the simple curiosities of lust—and births are often followed by versions of the
he's got Uncle Eric's nose
conversations that must have gone on throughout human history.

Freya's showing drawings and scraps of writing that Shara's done, then lifting up pretty bits of clothing she's resewn herself for all the kids to use and share.

"No new babies at the moment," she adds. "Although we're planning, of course.... Soon as the commune has the resources. And Shara's been such a joy to us all... that I'm rather hoping..." As she puts the things back, her hands move unconsciously to her breasts.

"And Shara's father? Somehow, I'm guessing he's a fair bit older than you are...?"

"Oh? That's right." Freya smiles, not remotely insulted or surprised. "Karl's hoping, as well. We all are. Would you like to see the studio where he works?"

Martha blinks, swallows, nods. A falling feeling as she follows Freya down a long corridor, then through a doorway into what's clearly an artist's studio. Rich smells of oil and varnish. Linseed oil squeezed out over a press. Pigments from the hedgerow, or wherever it is that pigments come from. Half-finished canvases lean against the walls. The room is a kind of atrium, lit from windows on all sides and high up. The colors and the shadows roar out to her even on a day as wintry as this.

"He's probably out helping in one of the greenhouses," Freya says. "That or sketching. He tends to paint in short, intense bursts."

The canvases are part abstract and part Turner seascape. They're undeniably accomplished, and recognizably Karl Yann's, although to Martha's mind they've lost their old edge. The entangled are good at making pretty and practical things, but proper art seems to be beyond them. Still, as Martha stares at the largest blur of col-or, which looms over her like a tsunami in a paint factory, it's hard not to be drawn in.

Freya chuckles, standing so close that Martha can smell the grease in her hair. "I know. They're lovely, and they barter really well... but Karl doesn't like to have them up on display in our commune. Says all he'd ever see is where he went wrong."

I never did get my seashell back, but I got Karl Yann instead. He had a bragging mix of certainty and vulnerability that I found appealing after my father's endless
on-the-one-hand-but-on-the-other
attempts at balance. Karl was clever and he knew what he thought. Karl was an accomplished artist. Karl
cared.
He'd read stuff and done things and been to places and had opinions about everything, but he also wanted to know what my views were, and actually seemed to listen to me when I said them. Or at least, he had a roguishly charming way of cocking his head. Maybe it was a little late in the day for this whole hippy/beatnik/bohemian revolutionary shtick, but these things come new to every generation—or at least they used to—and they felt new to me. Karl used real paint when he could, or whatever else came to hand—he found the virtuals fascinating but frustrating—but what he really wanted to create was a changed world. No use accepting things as they are, Martha. No use talking about what needs to be done. At least, not unless you're prepared to act to make the necessary sacrifices to help bring about the coming wave of change. The forests dying. Whole continents starving. The climate buggered. The economy fucked. So, are you with us, Martha, or not?

They called them performance acts, and Karl and the other inhabitants of the waystation were convinced they were contributing toward bringing about a better world. And so, now, was I. People had to be shaken out of their complacency—especially the selfish, cosseted rich, with all their possessions, all their
things—
and what was the harm in having some fun while we're doing so? Right? Okay? Yes?

We used my credit pass to gain access to one of those exclusive, guarded, gated, palm tree-filled, rich-people-only, air-conditioned pleasure domes they still called shopping malls to which my father had occasionally taken me and Damien as a birthday treat, and pulled on balaclavas and yelled like heathens and flung pigshitfilled condoms at the over-privileged shoppers and their shit-filled shops, and got out laughing and high-fiving in the ensuing mayhem. We climbed fences and sneaked through gardens and around underlit pools to hang paintings upside down and spraypaint walls and mess with people's heads. Then, often as not, and young as Martha Chauhan still was, she went home to her gated estate.

The Mini seems to know the way from the Widney Commune, but time and entanglement haven't been kind to this part of the city. Martha's boots press through new white drifts to snag on the rusted shockwire and fallen sensor pylons that once supposedly protected this little enclosure. The houses, haggard with smoke, blink their shattered eyes and shrug their collapsing shoulders as if in denial. Is this really the right place? Even the right street? Martha struggles to make sense of the layout of her lost life as she stands at what was surely the heart of their neat cul-de-sac where an uprooted tree now scrawls its branches until she's suddenly looking straight at her old home and everything's so clear it's as if her eyeballs have burned through into ancient photographic negatives. The roof of the old house still intact, even if Dad's old car has long gone from the driveway, and she almost reaches for her key when she steps up to the front door. But the thing is blocked solid by age and perhaps even the fancy triple locking that once protected it.
You can't be too careful, Martha....
She looks around with a start. The other houses with their blackened Halloween eyes stare back at her. She shivers. Steps back. Takes stock. Then she walks around to the side past an upturned bin and finds that half the wall is missing, and pushes through, and everything clicks, and she's standing in their old kitchen.

Over there... Over
here...

She's an archaeologist. She's a diver in the deepest of all possible seas. She scoops snow, dead leaves, and rubble from the hollow of the sink. She straightens a thing of rust that might once have been the spice rack. Many of the tiles with their squiggle pattern of green and white that she never consciously noticed before are still hanging. And all the while, the thinning light of this distant winter pours down and in. So many days here. So many arguments over breakfast. She can see her father clearly now, quietly spooning fruit and yogurt on his granola with the flowerpots lined on the window ledge behind him and the screen of some medical paper laid on the table and his cuffs rolled back to show his raw-looking wrists and his tie not yet done up. Damien is there as well, chomping as ever through some sugary, chocolaty stuff that he'll waste half of.

"I had a visit from some police contractors yesterday," he's telling her as he unfolds a linen handkerchief and dabs delicately at his mouth. "Apparently, they're looking for witnesses to an incident that happened at the Hall Green Mall. You may have heard about it—some kind of silly stunt? Of course, I told them the truth. I simply said you were out."

Now, as he refolds his handkerchief, his turns his guileless brown eyes up toward her, and the question he's really asking is so padded with all his usual oblique politeness that it's easily ignored. Anyway, time is moving on—Martha can feel it roaring through her bones in a winter gale—and now she's back home from her first term at the old, elite university town that her father, ever the supportive parent, has agreed to finance her to study at. Politics and Philosophy, too, and not a mention of the practical, career-based subjects she's sure he'd have much preferred her to take. Even as he pours out his granola, she can feel him carefully not mentioning this. But he seems newly hunched and his hand trembles as he spoon his yoghurt. And here's a much larger, gruffer-sounding version of Damien, as well, and sprouting some odd kind of haircut, even if he is still half-eating a bowl of sugary slop. All so very strange: the way people start changing the instant you look away from them. But that isn't at the heart of it. What lies at the core of Martha's unease is, of all things, a dog that isn't really a dog.

"
Of course
he's a dog, Martha," my father's saying as his suddenly liver-spotted hands stroke the creature's impossibly high haunches and it wags its tail and gazes at me with one eye of brown and the other of whirring silver. "Garm's
fun.
We take him for walks, don't we, Damien? The only difference is that he's even more clever and trustworthy, and helps bring us a little bit of extra safety and security in these difficult times. Some worrying things have occurred locally, Martha, and I don't just mean mere destruction in unoccupied homes. So we do what we can, don't we, Garm? Matter of fact, Martha, the enhancement technology that allows him to interact with the house security systems is essentially the same as I use to help my patients...."

But this is all too much, it always was, and Martha's off out through the same stupid security gates and on along the same cold, dreary streets with more than enough stuff roaring around in her head to make up for her missing seashell that Karl nev er did give back to her even though all property is, basically, theft. That's dumb sloganeering and there are many new ideas Martha wants to share with him. But even the waystation seems changed. Sydney's been arrested, and Sophie got her arm burned on some stray shockwire, and different faces peer out at me through the fug. Who
is
this person? Martha Chauhan could ask them the same. Then up the final level, squeezing past a doorway into some windy higher floor that already looks like the aftermath of a battle in an art gallery, with ripped concrete walls, flailing reinforcing bars, and blasted ceilings all coated in huge swathes of color. Clearly Karl's experimenting with new techniques, and it's all rather strange and beautiful-ugly. Forget regurgitated abstract expressionism. This is what Bosch would have painted if he'd lived in the bombed-out twenty-first century city. But hadn't they agreed that art for art's sake was essentially nothing but Nero fiddling while Rome burned?

"So," he gestures, emerging from the dazzling rubble with the winter sun behind him like some rock star of old. "What do you think?"

"It's... incredible...." So much she wants to tell him, now that she properly understand the history and context of our performance acts and see them as part of a thread that goes back through syncretic individualism, anarcho-syndicalism, and autonomism. But Karl is already scuttling off and returns holding something inside a paint-covered rag that she momentarily assumes as he unwraps it is some new artistic toy he's been playing with—a programmable paint palette or digital brush. But, hey, it's a handgun.

Snow blows in. Martha's breath plumes. It's growing dark. The old family house creaks, groans, tinkles as she shuffles into the hall and brushes away ice and dirt from the security control panel beneath the stairs. But everything here is dead—her own memory of the night when she lost half her mind and more than half her family included. Just doubts and what-ifs. Things Karl had said, questions he'd asked, about her dad being a doctor, which surely meant access to drugs and money, and about the kind of security systems employed in their gated estate, and ways to circumvent them. That, and the strange, dark, falling gleam of that handgun, and how those performance acts of old had never been
that
harmless. Not just ghastly artwork hung up the wrong way but taps left running, freezers turned off, pretty things smashed. Precious books, data, family photos, destroyed or laughingly defaced beyond all hope of recovery. Pigshit in the beds. Coy carp flopped gasping on Persian rugs. Treasured bits of people's lives gleefully ruined. In a way, she supposes, what Karl did to her here in her own home was a kind of comeuppance.

With numb fingers, she picks out the thumbnail data card that once held the house records and shoves it into her coat pocket, although she doubts if there's anything that would read it now, the world having moved on so very far. The rotten stairs twitch and groan as she climbs them. The door to poor, dead Damien's room is still closed, a shrine, just as it was and always should be, but the fall of the side wall has done for most of Dad's room, and she's standing almost in empty air as she looks in.

Amazing that this whole place hasn't been ransacked and recycled, although she's sure it soon will be. Her own room especially, the floor of which now sags with the rusty weight of the great, semi-circular slabs of polarized metal and all the rest of the once high-tech medical equipment that encircles her bed.

My father pitted all his money and energies toward healing his injured daughter in the aftermath of the terrible night of Damien's death. All I can recall of this is a slow rising of pain and confusion. Instructions to do this or that minor task—the blink of an eye, the lifting of a finger—which seemed to involve my using someone else's body. My thoughts, as well, seemed strange and clumsy to me as the crystal neurons strove to blend with the damaged remains of my brain and I dipped in and out of rejection fever. In many ways, they didn't seem like my thoughts at all. I wasn't
me
any longer.

Sitting watching bad things happen on a screen with my baby brother crying. Or being on a beach somewhere with crashing waves and the dogs, the Frisbees, the cricket. These were things I could understand and believe in. But the uncooperative limbs and wayward thoughts of this changed, alien self belonged to someone else. A roaring disconnect lay between the person I'd been and the person I now was, and the only way I could remain something like sane was to think of this new creature as "Martha Chauhan."