ship. . . .”
“But we’ve all seen this.” And she pointed to Caspar’s doll, which was dancing slowly on the planks of the deck. The doll wasn’t just a manikin: it moved; it looked about; it danced at odd moments. The Administration had tried to take it from Caspar, but the doll had evaded their grasp, and finally, afraid of it, they had relented. Now it accompanied him wherever he went, a dream-toy, living and not.
“Karl, do you think they could have made such a thing in the few hours between our first meeting and their return? And even if it was possible, how can you explain that they looked so much like us? By any rational account they should have been completely different. We’ve both seen sinners who looked almost as strange. . . .”
“You think they were human,” said Aurinn. “But you said they didn’t speak. And the sin that, that almost killed me . . . it wasn’t a human sin.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Humankind is spread out so wide. Maybe somewhere they’ve been engineering themselves into something . . . new. Different. I think that’s what we saw: humans who’ve been altered so profoundly that we almost can’t recognize them. People who were isolated from the rest of humanity for so long that they forgot many things . . . I don’t know. We can’t really know, but that is what I think.”
“And what is this, then?” asked Karl. Caspar’s doll danced on the deck, long black hair flying, booted feet stamping a complex rhythm on the planks. “A toy? An idol?”
“Administration feared it was a spy; an information-gathering device. They thought it might be transmitting data back . . . somewhere. But what if it is, anyway? If we are coming into contact, whether it’s with aliens or with a long-forgotten branch of ourselves . . . isn’t it better that they learn more about us?”
“I’m sure Administration fears they’ll use the information against us.”
“I know. But the one that came down . . . one of only three crew for that huge ship . . . it only killed when it was blocked. Caspar guessed, somehow, what it had come down for. The same as all of our crews: to be absolved of the strange sins it had picked up crossing overspace. And when it dies, its soul will dissolve into overspace, and its sins will float there, waiting to be snagged by a living soul and perhaps then laid to rest at long last. . . .”
The doll danced on, oblivious to Flikka’s musings. Caspar rose, walked some way toward the prow. The doll followed him, still dancing. Caspar drew on his cigarette, let the smoke bubble up to his head. The doll spun and whirled, smiling, then slowed her dance into a courtly pavane. The others might speculate all they wanted, but Caspar knew what her purpose was. He knew that one day, she would be able to speak, and that on that day, the strangers would return.
He breathed in the smoke of the cigarette, and his dead tongue was loosened in his mouth. He spoke tobacco words to the doll. And, in the midst of her dance, she winked at him, to show that she understood.
IN YERUSALOM
For Ian McDonald
It’s night in Yerusalom, City of Miracles, Jewel of the Eldred, Bright Gift from the Stars; and in Yerusalom, even the dark shines with its own kind of light. It’s night in Yerusalom, City of Abominations, Newest Franchise of the Pit, Cosmic Corruptress; and in Yerusalom, even the brightest light carries its own shadow.
In Yerusalom, three dreamweavers stride along Faro Street in the luminous darkness, and all about them the multifarious sounds of the city blare and thunder. They’ve got soundsuits putting out their own personal music, and they’ve got neon-implants accenting the curves of their jaws with streaks of cold radiance, and they’ve got enhanced eyes, noses, ears, the better to soak up the surrounding world at the maximum possible intensity, and they’ve got hopes and fears roiling through their minds. Most importantly, they’ve
“But we’ve all seen this.” And she pointed to Caspar’s doll, which was dancing slowly on the planks of the deck. The doll wasn’t just a manikin: it moved; it looked about; it danced at odd moments. The Administration had tried to take it from Caspar, but the doll had evaded their grasp, and finally, afraid of it, they had relented. Now it accompanied him wherever he went, a dream-toy, living and not.
“Karl, do you think they could have made such a thing in the few hours between our first meeting and their return? And even if it was possible, how can you explain that they looked so much like us? By any rational account they should have been completely different. We’ve both seen sinners who looked almost as strange. . . .”
“You think they were human,” said Aurinn. “But you said they didn’t speak. And the sin that, that almost killed me . . . it wasn’t a human sin.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Humankind is spread out so wide. Maybe somewhere they’ve been engineering themselves into something . . . new. Different. I think that’s what we saw: humans who’ve been altered so profoundly that we almost can’t recognize them. People who were isolated from the rest of humanity for so long that they forgot many things . . . I don’t know. We can’t really know, but that is what I think.”
“And what is this, then?” asked Karl. Caspar’s doll danced on the deck, long black hair flying, booted feet stamping a complex rhythm on the planks. “A toy? An idol?”
“Administration feared it was a spy; an information-gathering device. They thought it might be transmitting data back . . . somewhere. But what if it is, anyway? If we are coming into contact, whether it’s with aliens or with a long-forgotten branch of ourselves . . . isn’t it better that they learn more about us?”
“I’m sure Administration fears they’ll use the information against us.”
“I know. But the one that came down . . . one of only three crew for that huge ship . . . it only killed when it was blocked. Caspar guessed, somehow, what it had come down for. The same as all of our crews: to be absolved of the strange sins it had picked up crossing overspace. And when it dies, its soul will dissolve into overspace, and its sins will float there, waiting to be snagged by a living soul and perhaps then laid to rest at long last. . . .”
The doll danced on, oblivious to Flikka’s musings. Caspar rose, walked some way toward the prow. The doll followed him, still dancing. Caspar drew on his cigarette, let the smoke bubble up to his head. The doll spun and whirled, smiling, then slowed her dance into a courtly pavane. The others might speculate all they wanted, but Caspar knew what her purpose was. He knew that one day, she would be able to speak, and that on that day, the strangers would return.
He breathed in the smoke of the cigarette, and his dead tongue was loosened in his mouth. He spoke tobacco words to the doll. And, in the midst of her dance, she winked at him, to show that she understood.
IN YERUSALOM
For Ian McDonald
It’s night in Yerusalom, City of Miracles, Jewel of the Eldred, Bright Gift from the Stars; and in Yerusalom, even the dark shines with its own kind of light. It’s night in Yerusalom, City of Abominations, Newest Franchise of the Pit, Cosmic Corruptress; and in Yerusalom, even the brightest light carries its own shadow.
In Yerusalom, three dreamweavers stride along Faro Street in the luminous darkness, and all about them the multifarious sounds of the city blare and thunder. They’ve got soundsuits putting out their own personal music, and they’ve got neon-implants accenting the curves of their jaws with streaks of cold radiance, and they’ve got enhanced eyes, noses, ears, the better to soak up the surrounding world at the maximum possible intensity, and they’ve got hopes and fears roiling through their minds. Most importantly, they’ve
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