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Authors: Steven Brust, Skyler White
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Celeste back,” I said. I couldn’t see Phil, but I could feel him there, and all the emptiness touching me without him. “You doubled up on Celeste to make sure I’d step aside for her. With her genes and all the other stuff you matched, you knew her personality could take over mine.”
“I warned you that could happen,” he said.
“Not could,” I said. “Would. You knew it would. And you were okay with that. You wanted that.”
“Ren.”
“Ren knows you wanted her to die.”
“Celeste. I warned her, Celeste. You didn’t tell Chuck much more. I had no way of knowing she’d agree so quickly.”
“She’s not me.”
“Not yet.”
“She won’t be. Here’s a riddle for you, dear Mendel. Without generations to study or pea pods to plant, how can you still know a trait’s not heritable?”
“Celeste—”
“When that trait itself would prevent genetic transmission, that’s how. Renee didn’t inherit martyrdom from me.”
The whiteness went from rage-hot to bitter. I was shivering too hard to dance.
I opened my eyes. “Celeste killed herself,” I said, and all I could feel were Phil’s arms, like the metal hoops around a barrel.
“Will I remember this?” I asked him. “Can you make it so I won’t remember?”
“I can’t.”
“What I do next, who I am next depends on what I remember.”
“Always. But who I am also depends on what you remember.”
“Everything you remembered about Celeste wasn’t enough to change who she was.”
“No.”
“Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“Does hurting this much feel just like having her here?”
“I can barely tell the difference,” he said, but his hands were lighter, and our feet were moving again. “Can you sleep now?”
“I think I already am.”
FIVE
What Else Can I Get You?
Phil
Just like when I’ve spiked someone, I don’t know if I literally or figuratively carried her to the bed, but when I left her there, my arms were shaking. That isn’t conclusive, because the rest of me was shaking too. I was tired, and I was hungry, and I ached in places that weren’t even metaphorical. But I wasn’t going to rest. Not yet. There were used glasses and an empty beer bottle on the side table, and some dirty dishes next to the sink; I’d have liked a chance to redd up the place, flowers aside. But I wasn’t going to do that either.
I sat down in my chair, closed my eyes, and smelled cherry blossoms and tasted chive. I opened my virtual eyes and I was in my villa, kicking aside dusty old memories in the shape of fruit and urns, candlesticks and furniture. I went out back, following a well-worn path. I’d once asked Ray why it is that paths showed up in our imaginations, and he suggested something about neural pathways in our brains that didn’t sound very convincing. It didn’t matter; I went past the orchard and out the broken wooden gate, leaving it swinging loudly behind me.
Jesus Christ, Celeste.
Four steps along the path brought me to the western orchard of my neighbor. There was a hole in the ground where once there’d been a bust of Juno until I’d pulled it up, fashioned it into a spike, set it on fire, and stuck it into Ren’s head. What I was looking for should be right next to it, because time flows linearly.
Here’s the thing: Anything in the Garden can be found by locating it along three of four axis lines. Ray calls them X, Y, Z and alpha. Most of the rest of us call them by more useful names: Who, Where, When and Why. Any three will do, in theory. In practice, that means knowing who seeded it, where the person who seeded it was, and when it was seeded, leaving Why undefined.
One axis must always be undefined, like a sort of psychic Heisenberg uncertainty principle, and that one is always Why. Why?
Because Why skips around a lot, and we pretty much ignore it. I mean, who knows why something happened? We either impose meaning on an event, or just shrug our shoulders. Why was the Civil War fought? To break the
“I warned you that could happen,” he said.
“Not could,” I said. “Would. You knew it would. And you were okay with that. You wanted that.”
“Ren.”
“Ren knows you wanted her to die.”
“Celeste. I warned her, Celeste. You didn’t tell Chuck much more. I had no way of knowing she’d agree so quickly.”
“She’s not me.”
“Not yet.”
“She won’t be. Here’s a riddle for you, dear Mendel. Without generations to study or pea pods to plant, how can you still know a trait’s not heritable?”
“Celeste—”
“When that trait itself would prevent genetic transmission, that’s how. Renee didn’t inherit martyrdom from me.”
The whiteness went from rage-hot to bitter. I was shivering too hard to dance.
I opened my eyes. “Celeste killed herself,” I said, and all I could feel were Phil’s arms, like the metal hoops around a barrel.
“Will I remember this?” I asked him. “Can you make it so I won’t remember?”
“I can’t.”
“What I do next, who I am next depends on what I remember.”
“Always. But who I am also depends on what you remember.”
“Everything you remembered about Celeste wasn’t enough to change who she was.”
“No.”
“Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“Does hurting this much feel just like having her here?”
“I can barely tell the difference,” he said, but his hands were lighter, and our feet were moving again. “Can you sleep now?”
“I think I already am.”
FIVE
What Else Can I Get You?
Phil
Just like when I’ve spiked someone, I don’t know if I literally or figuratively carried her to the bed, but when I left her there, my arms were shaking. That isn’t conclusive, because the rest of me was shaking too. I was tired, and I was hungry, and I ached in places that weren’t even metaphorical. But I wasn’t going to rest. Not yet. There were used glasses and an empty beer bottle on the side table, and some dirty dishes next to the sink; I’d have liked a chance to redd up the place, flowers aside. But I wasn’t going to do that either.
I sat down in my chair, closed my eyes, and smelled cherry blossoms and tasted chive. I opened my virtual eyes and I was in my villa, kicking aside dusty old memories in the shape of fruit and urns, candlesticks and furniture. I went out back, following a well-worn path. I’d once asked Ray why it is that paths showed up in our imaginations, and he suggested something about neural pathways in our brains that didn’t sound very convincing. It didn’t matter; I went past the orchard and out the broken wooden gate, leaving it swinging loudly behind me.
Jesus Christ, Celeste.
Four steps along the path brought me to the western orchard of my neighbor. There was a hole in the ground where once there’d been a bust of Juno until I’d pulled it up, fashioned it into a spike, set it on fire, and stuck it into Ren’s head. What I was looking for should be right next to it, because time flows linearly.
Here’s the thing: Anything in the Garden can be found by locating it along three of four axis lines. Ray calls them X, Y, Z and alpha. Most of the rest of us call them by more useful names: Who, Where, When and Why. Any three will do, in theory. In practice, that means knowing who seeded it, where the person who seeded it was, and when it was seeded, leaving Why undefined.
One axis must always be undefined, like a sort of psychic Heisenberg uncertainty principle, and that one is always Why. Why?
Because Why skips around a lot, and we pretty much ignore it. I mean, who knows why something happened? We either impose meaning on an event, or just shrug our shoulders. Why was the Civil War fought? To break the
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