King of the Worlds (6 page)
Read King of the Worlds Online
Authors: M. Thomas Gammarino
He was back in Santa Monica with Erin by Monday. The end of his career, unbeknownst to anyone, was just a few months off, and he would never be invited to the moon again. One might have expected him to retaliate after his firing by publicly outing the Grotto, but he kept his word. For one thing, though he sometimes wanted to die in the aftermath of his shaming, he never wanted to be
killed
exactly. Moreover, it was fairly certain that even if he did tell someone, he wouldn't be believed. And anyway, there was something sacred to him about that memory, and he didn't wish to profane it.
Even all these years later, Dylan still thought of his weekend's dalliance with Fantasia on a near-daily basis. It wasn't that there was anything so transcendent about the sex itselfâthough there kind of wasâbut his experience in the moon seemed to his psyche both the literal and symbolic high point of his life: he'd been 238,900 miles above the common run of humanity, gained entrance to a secret society, glimpsed the gears and mechanisms at the back of reality. It was difficult not to regard his life since as shrouded in illusion, and he sometimes envied the naiveté of ordinary people. He'd been expelled from Eden, and was condemned to know what he was missing.
He veered off the Grind and went back home.
“Daddy!”
“Daây!”
Dylan went to the kitchen and gave Erin a kiss on the cheek.
“I made linguine,” she said, holding the steaming bowl to his face. “Real olive oil.”
The sweet, nutty aroma made him feel a touch homesick, though he would never admit that. Still, something was off. “Real garlic?”
She shook her head.
“Galric.
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The real stuff would have broken the bank.” Since the ban on teleported crops some years back, Terran crops had become a low-yield, high-price commodity. “It's always a tough choice. I figure we'll spring for both on your birthday.”
13
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Though beet-colored, cloveless, and in shape rather like a small pear,
galric
(which had been growing on New Taiwan for perhaps a billion years before the First Expedition began adding it to their spaghetti) tasted as much like garlic as any Terran apple variety tasted like any other. That the two,
galric
and garlic, were as seemingly cognate linguistically as they were gustatorily couldn't help but prick one's sense of wonder, particularly when one considered that New Taiwan, owing to its single landmass and centralized culture going all the way back, had produced but a single language.
He nodded. Her judgment was sound.
He couldn't help but notice she looked especially sharp in the belly this evening. Given that gravity was a few tenths of a percent lower here than on Earth, human pregnancies tended to go longer rather than shorter, but there were never any guarantees. She looked like she was ready to pop.
After their initial enthusiasm over Daddy's return, Arthur and Tavi reverted to their worst selves, wailing and fighting over whatever was in the other's hand. The upshot was that they were in bed by 7:30, and Erin wasn't far behind, so Dylan had the run of the house for the rest of the evening.
He tried reading for a bit, but couldn't get traction on the words. His ears were screaming and, louder still, that box of fan mail was calling to him from the other room, siren-singing the way pornography had in his youth, the way Erin herself had back in high school. When he was sure Erin was asleep, he put down his book
(Sentimental Education
, Flaubert) and crept into the bedroom, lighting up the dark with his omni. As quietly as he could manage, he took down the box and carried it into the living room. He set it on the sofa and sat down beside it. He knew this was no small decision he was on the verge of making, though that hardly stayed his hand. Fate was calling. He reached in blindly and pulled out a letter.
There. He had uncorked the winds.
By sheer coincidence, the letter bore a postmark from Taiwan, the
original one.
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14
_____________
This really did seem to be just a coincidence. Because the indigenous names of newly discovered worlds frequently turned out to be unpronounceable by Terrans, the IEF, in collaboration with PASA (Planetary Aeronautics and Space Administration), was charged with assigning exonyms where necessary. In the beginning they hewed to tradition and drew on the treasure trove of mythology, but as that quickly became exhausted, they tended toward pop culture insteadâthere were now planets called Radiohead, Trainspotting, and Infinite Jest, for instance (not to mention, a bit later, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet). Occasionally they drew from the well of geopolitics too: Since national boundaries were rapidly shifting and dissolving amid the emergent paradigm, it seemed fitting to pay homage to vanishing states by enshrining their names on the new celestial maps; and because China's surpriseâand surprisingâsiege of Taiwan was underway even as the naming committee was meeting to discuss the name of the planet Dylan would eventually move to, all delegates, even the Chinese one, voted in favor of “New Taiwan” (and cognates in other Terran languages). To be sure, outside of its name, New Taiwan was about as Taiwanese as the West Indies were Indian; witness the fact that (owing largely to its highly esteemed American School) some 78 percent of the planet's Terran exopats were currently of American stock, whatever that might now mean.
The native name of the planet, incidentally, was
Ulmarjveul'tankuñbampok'
, which was not, strictly speaking, unpronounceable for humans, though it came pretty darned close. Like the English word “earth,” it doubled as a general term for soil.
Dear Mr. Greenyears,
Do you remember me? We met during the premiere of ET II in Taipei. I know you met lots of girls that day, but you may remember that I asked you to sign my arm, where I had scars? I used to cut myself when I was younger. I was very depressed. But when I saw your movie I thought you were so beautiful that you gave me hope for a better life. Have you ever gotten out of a swimming pool at night and stared at a light and it has a rainbow around it? You were like that to me. You had a glow around you. You were not like ordinary people. I just wanted to tell you that I think you saved my life. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Mei-Ling Chen
Now this was just not what he'd expected at all. It was as if he'd come to get some candy and would be leaving with a rack of lamb. He vaguely remembered getting this letter the first time around, maybe even signing a worrying wrist in Taipei. Of course, back then at the height of his fame, all of that must have paled in his young, virile, and already repressed mind against the more full-frontal booty calls. Now, though, he found himself moved almost to tears. It didn't make a bit of sense to him that he had putatively saved this girl's life, but if it was true that his acting had made a difference back on Earth, then this was some comfort. He cringed to think he had never written back to her before (as far as he could remember, he had never written back to
any
of them) and so, better late than never, he omni'd his reply:
Dear Mei-Ling Chen,
My name is Dylan Greenyears. Perhaps you remember me? I was a fairly well known actor in the middle-nineties. Well, I was just looking through some old mail and I came across a letter you once wrote me. I apologize if I never replied before, and I realize it's a bit strange for me to be replying two decades later, but I just wanted to let you know that your words moved me greatly. I live far away these days, but I would gladly come to wherever you are if you'd let me take you to lunch sometime. In any case, I hope you are doing well, and that you are happy.
Sincerely,
Dylan Greenyears
He hadn't written that name in a long time.
He read over the message, which struck him as just right, neither withholding nor revealing too much. He recognized, of course, that it was also kind of insane. By now she'd be about, what, thirty-five? Somewhere in there. She might be happily married, with kids and a job. He could ask Omni, but some part of him preferred not to know. He was old-fashioned that way, romantic maybe, and anyway, no computer, however super, could ever
really
know the richness of her inner life, right? She was acquainted with the darkâthat was clear. Maybe she had some of the same well-concealed dissatisfaction in her breast that he had in his? This thirst for something strange and wondrous and new? He was not happy; it had to be admitted. He had been at times, and sometimes he managed to recover the feeling for a spell, but it never lasted long. Maybe they could help each other again. Maybe this time she could save him.
He didn't have to wait long for a reply:
Your message to “Mei-Ling Chen” has permanently failed.
He sneered. What? He hadn't seen a message like that in many years, and he'd never seen one on an omni. Omni messages didn't “fail.” As long as someone was alive, any of their previous addresses would direct you to their current one. And if a person had died, you'd be notified of that too. Even if you opted to have your address unlisted, there'd still be
some
acknowledgment of your existence. Weird. He asked Omni some questions. The name alone wasn't much helpâthere were thousands of Mei-Ling Chens throughout the galaxyâbut when he mentioned that this was the Mei-Ling Chen who had cuts on her wrists and who had once written a fan letter to Dylan Greenyears, the omni returned 0 results. He had never seen Omni come up empty-handed on anything before. Normally it would at least redirect you somewhere, but this time there was no trail to speak of. This person, this Mei-Ling Chen who cut her wrists and wrote fan mail, simply did not exist as far as Omni, or his omni at least, was concerned. Omni was greater than the sum of all human knowledge. It made no sense whatsoever that he himself might be aware of a person's existence while it was not.
For a few minutes, Dylan contemplated the problem and fidgeted with the omni. Eventually, though, for want of any alternative, he gave up, went back in the box, and pulled out another letter.
Dear Mr. Greenyears,
I'm writing on a dare from my friend Melissa. We both think you're super hot and amazingly talented. We even started a Dylan Greenyears fan club at our high school, and we'd be really honored, and would probably faint, if you'd come to talk to us sometime. Maybe next time you're in the Baltimore area? We can't pay you money, but we could all bake cookies or something and show you around.
I can't believe I'm writing to you!
Ashley Eisenberg
Now that was a little more typical, the sort of ego candy he'd been in the market for. He composed his reply:
Hi Ashley. My name is Dylan Greenyears. You may remember that I was a fairly well known actor in the middle-nineties? Well, I was just looking through some old mail and I came across a letter you wrote me. This may seem odd coming so late, but I wonder if you'd like to get together sometime? I'm living rather far away these days, but I'd be happy to come to wherever you are if you'd like to meet up sometime. Are you still in the Baltimore area? Alternately we could meet at some midpoint. Just let me know what's easiest. No pressure at all, of course.
Sincerely,
Dylan Greenyears
He stayed awake another two hours, reading through some more of his old fan mail and waiting for a reply that did not come. Mei-Ling's letter had served him like a cold shower, but his libido had warmed again and before retiring he took out his hardware and stroked it with his hand, remembering Fantasia, until in short order an absurd backlog of star stuff dripped down his fingers. He was reminded of Cinnabons. God, he hadn't had one of those in years.
What a pathetic fool he was! Clearly he should
not
have sent that reply. Even if Ashley Eisenberg did get back to him, he decided, he would ignore it. A biologist would tell you that sperm comes from the testes. It was pretty clear to Dylan, however, that it originates in the brain, where it goes about filling your convolutions and making a fog of your thinking. Only when he was void like this could he think clear thoughts, and under ordinary circumstances the fog prevented him from believing even this. It was like when he'd tell Erin her PMS was making her into a bitch. She'd insist the PMS had nothing to do with it, until a day or two later when it was gone and she was her gentle, caring, clear-thinking self again. Then she'd own up to what a hostage she'd been.
He went to the bathroom sink to clean himself up, and then to his bedroom to kiss his great-with-child wife on the forehead and wish her a good night. She purred. He went to sleep with that rare appreciation for one's blessings that is the upshot of guilt.
When he awoke in the morning, Erin was goneâin the kitchen probably, feeding the kids. He got himself up and went to the bathroom. To his surprise, he found Erin seated on the toilet, her face wan and agonized.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I can't pee,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I think it's time.”
“What, baby time?”
She nodded and winced.
“Holy Higgs!”
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Given the ascendancy of physics over the past several decades, it was only natural that scientific language should begin to colonize colloquial speech. Even devoutly religious Anglophones could be heard saying “Holy Higgs!” at least as often as “Dear God!” “Sweet Jesus!” “Christ Almighty!” and the like. In fact, they generally preferred it because, though it referred to the all-important, mass-endowing “God particle”
â
discovered in a child's home atom-smashing kit in Boise, Idaho in 1987
â
it did not, strictly speaking, require them to take the Lord's name in vain.