Nature Futures 2 (11 page)

She laughed. “Thinking seditious thoughts? Or just trying to make out your grocery list for the week? Whatever — this is a dead-end job. You should ask for a promotion to tech writing or something. You could get an office next to mine upstairs. At least we don't have to dig through these piles of paper.” She prodded the swaying stacks of copy with disgust.

I shook my head. “You all go on. I'll catch up with you later. Maybe Wednesday.”

“You really love this crap, don't you? The deadlines, the typewriter, the stories … If you weren't just churning out those prop pieces about duty to state and the virtues of hard work, I'd think you were the only real writer left in the country.”

“Don't say that, Muriel.” I looked out the door with an exaggerated motion and smiled. “Someone could hear.”

*   *   *

That night I walked back to the apartment, past shuttered stores and boarded-up old tenements. It was still long before curfew and some people were about. A few were entering a dimly lit dive to catch the three hours of newsview that were mandated each night, while others tapped and scratched at their electronic tablets. I wondered if they were reading anything of mine. Maybe some Burroughs or Asimov — those had been fun to do. I rubbed my head. This afternoon had not gone so well and I wished I had gone with Muriel and the others after all. The words just wouldn't come. Not writer's block, but something about my assignment's title that tickled the back of my mind and wouldn't let go.

After an hour or so of digging through the hidden compartment under my bed, I found the answer. It was in the stack of old volumes I picked out of my grandmother's storage unit the year before. A decaying paperback with a pig and a horse on the cover, barely visible beneath mould and water stains. I held it, running a finger across the pages and watching them flake away. What a trick — a bit of sleight of hand, electronic legerdemain. The boss once told me: “Just too much was lost in the Crash. So much of our history. And the idea that it's just gone would be too much for most people to believe.” I looked at the book in my hand and laughed. I was replacing entire texts with real bits of fiction, and there was no one to know the difference but a dying generation and their failing memories. And me. I looked around my nice place. A real bed. Kitchenette. My own bathroom. Even Muriel didn't have one of those. On the newsview, a government drone dropped bombs on some Nomad shacks, while the occupants were marched away at rifle-point. Re-settlement, re-education. But I never saw a man who could write a good propaganda piece in a work camp. And I meant to be writing for a long, long time. Turning, I pushed the book down the incinerator chute and began heading back to the office, off to write a young adult novel about the exciting adventures of a patriotic farmer and his loyal farm creatures, all toiling for the greater good. This, for instant delivery to the tablet computers of would-be revolutionaries and faux counterculture icons all over the nation, each of them looking for the ideas that could change their world.

Robert Nathan Correll is a postdoctoral fellow in cardiovascular biology who lives in Kentucky. He does not own an e-reader.

Acting Up

Elizabeth Counihan

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

4/1/2015 — 21:15 GMT

 

Hi Luke,

How's it going down there in sunny LA? Now you know me, Luke, I never moan, but I have some problems up here that I hope you can fix.

I'm not complaining about the shuttle sickness. My fault — should have taken a pill, but it was my first trip and we're not all old hands at weightless travel like you! And I wasn't the only one either.

Don't get me wrong. I love animals. I own two beautiful cats back in London. But that poor dog did throw up all over me just as I was getting used to the eating arrangements on the spacecraft. I noticed that Donita had two whole passenger bays to herself. I realize she's the star of the movie but Toto is her pet, so why did I have to share a back seat with him? I don't think he meant to bite me, not enough to draw blood anyway. Donita told me not to worry about rabies and blood poisoning as “Darling Toto has had all his shots as he travels everywhere with me”. Then she asked me if I had had all mine, as she didn't want Toto to catch a cold from me! Like I said, I'm absolutely great with kids and animals. And Donita is so talented. I did admire her in
Space Orphans
— those big blue eyes! Wonderful how the camera just loves some people who look quite ordinary when you see them for real.

I was amazed to find so many tourists on the Moon, even with the new cheap shuttle flights. (I couldn't believe it — bungee jumping at 1/6th gee!) Donita was surrounded by fans. Well, I suppose she is still a ‘child star', although she must be at least 15. But no time to sign autographs. Merle had us all packed into our trailers and out to the location before you could say “Cut”! Merle is a wonderful director, so enthusiastic, almost like someone directing their first feature film. I watched out of the trailer window, very happy to pick up tips on low-gravity acting from such an old hand as Donita. Toto looked so cute bouncing around in his pooch-suit!

By the time I was needed I was ready for a coffee break. But the show must go on! They put me in this crazy rubber outfit with an incorporated oxygen pack. I had quite a shock, Luke. I didn't realize I was expected to play a Moon tree! I told Merle the concept was ridiculous. Everyone knows there are no trees on the Moon. Merle was very short — told me to shut up and act! I told her I was a highly trained professional with years of experience and she said I was a pompous Brit! This is not what I'm used to. But I did as she said — bouncing about like a rubber ball with a lot of other ‘trees'. I felt a complete idiot!

Donita sang one of the main numbers from the show, asking Toto to protect her, but we had to have several takes because Toto quite lost control and kept jumping around us like he was on springs. We all heard his yapping over the sound system. I think he took us for real trees.

In the evening I felt one of my migraines coming on, but they told me the studio doctor was attending Toto for ‘a nervous breakdown', so I had to retire to bed without the benefit of medical help! It was disappointing to find I was room-sharing with another tree — an absolute nobody on his first professional job. I had to complain. I do have my reputation to live up to. But apparently nothing could be done. Time pressure. The bottom line.

At least we were inside the complex for today's schedule, so no need for pressure suits. A dresser appeared and glued me into another rubber costume. This time I was supposed to be a Moon zombie, whatever that is.

I asked Merle why we couldn't stay on Earth and use CGI like in the good old days, and save the real actors for real acting. She looked at me like I was a cockroach and told me a) CGI technicians were a lot more expensive than rookie actors and old has-beens and b) there were great tax breaks for movie makers filming at the Moon colony and we had one week to complete the shoot, so would I kindly not waste any more of her time! I was most insulted and felt another headache coming on.

This evening I felt happier. We were, at last, able to meet our fans. Donita was surrounded by autograph hunters of course. Then a delightful elderly couple came up to me waving an autograph book. They had seen my Hamlet on tour with the Shakespeare Players years ago out in Canada. I had just found a pen when Toto came rushing up, barking furiously. He suddenly recognized me as a ‘tree' and treated my leg like one. This time he wasn't wearing his pooch-suit. I was mortified! Hearing the fuss, Donita ran up and gave me a furious look as if it was my fault. So I was left there holding my pen while everyone had a good laugh!

Luke, this gig isn't quite what I thought I'd signed up to.

My tuxedo is ruined.

Best,

William

 

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

4/1/2015 — 22:00 GMT

 

Hi William,

You're fired. Merle e-mailed me. She has found a dog-owning Greenpeace activist who's very happy to play a tree. I'll buy you a new tuxedo.

Best,

Luke

Elizabeth Counihan has had stories published in
Asimov's
,
Realms of Fantasy
,
Interzone
and several anthologies. She used to edit the British fantasy magazine
Scheherazade
.

You, In Emulation

Kathryn Cramer

I checked you out of the library. You were due back in two weeks for synchronization, but I kept you out much longer, running up huge fines. The librarian was very nice and didn't make me pay right away, but said that she had very little discretion; that the fines were set by the library system and your publisher.

I am a writer and I was looking for an acting teacher to help me improve how I read my work out loud. Although, of course, your publisher didn't tell me your real name, your bio on the package really spoke to me. I thought we would get along, and we did, from the very first moment that you were uploaded into my card slot.

Suddenly, there you were. It surprised me that you were my height. I'm not sure if that is an artefact of the software: virtual teachers scaled to the same size as their students, or whether you really are (or were) five foot six.

I was ready to work. I began to read aloud from the draft of my novel, and I could tell before you even said anything that the narrative voice just didn't work. She wasn't in the story, but aloof, above it all. This moment felt almost like telepathy, but I imagine it was accomplished by transmissions from the software of the emotional colouring of what you were about to say. I had written the story in the third person. But somehow with you sitting there listening to my voice as I read, I had to ask, “Who is this third person, anyway?” She is me, of course, but you looked at me with your blue eyes over your glasses, and I knew that was no answer.

The next day, you tried another angle. You had me sit down on the brown couch and told me to pretend I didn't know who I was or where I was. After I suggested a few solutions such as looking at my driver's licence to find out, I asked: “How does this scene not end in the emergency room?” Afterwards, I remembered that in that bio of yours I liked so much, a sort of artist's statement, you said, “The question ‘Where am I?' is my preoccupation.” You didn't remind me. Instead, you told me that you'd had an ischaemic event a while back that had left you unable to speak for a couple of days.

Your paintings hung on the walls of our virtual space. Quiet, expectant landscapes and abstracts involving brightly coloured rectangles. You said you couldn't paint any more. In between sessions, I sent you long e-mails, and you would reply in only a sentence or two if you replied at all. You said you couldn't write much these days, even though you used to write whole books. The word
agraphia
came to mind.

At the two-week mark, what you were trying to teach me snapped into focus and I began to hear the narrative voice and to write and write and write, and when I read the words out loud, they were beautiful and pure and often when I read, you seemed on the brink of tears. The fines began to mount.

I wrote and wrote, and in between I worked out how to help, how to give you back writing and painting. First I write a sentence; you're next.

First I make a brush stroke, then you do. I took you hiking in the virtual woods and brought body paints. I told you to paint the sunset on my back as a sketch, and when we got back to our usual virtual space, you painted the sunset on canvas.

I would have kept you longer, except for the pain. Implants require synchronization and constant upgrades. To keep you from being returned to the library, I had to stay away from the synchronization stations.

After a few days, reminders in powder-blue letters began to swim across my vision. After a few more days, a physical sensation came with them. After a month, the reminder notes were accompanied by excruciating pain because I was in violation of the licence agreement.

I negotiated the fines, pointing out that I had solved your writing and painting blocks. The publisher acknowledged that those blocks were a known issue with the product, but said that my work was unnecessary, that in the new upgrade, the product no longer had the desire to write or paint. And whatever changes there were in my copy would merely be averaged in and so won't have much net effect.

I asked to be put in contact with the native version, with the real person. The publisher said that this was contractually prohibited, but impossible in any case as you died of a stroke a few days after you were recorded.

I went to the library again this morning and checked you out. We've got two weeks.

Kathryn Cramer is co-editor of the anthology
Hieroglyph: Stories and Visions for a Better Future
, a project founded by Neal Stephenson. Her story ‘Am I Free to Go?' was published on
Tor.com
in 2012. With director Edward Cornell, she is currently at work on a film adaptation of ‘You, In Emulation'.

Jenna's clocks

T. F. Davenport

After uploading
Jenna's Clock
to the Uniphone applications store, Jenna Huang became her own first ‘customer', paying exactly nothing to install a tiny graphic of a swinging pendulum in the corner of her touchscreen. Jenna shook the phone, perturbing the pendulum in a way that looked, to her admittedly biased eye, impressively realistic. She glowed with such pride, as if the outcome of a term's work was a baby instead of a program. That would've been easier and a lot more fun. But at least she could put this baby on her résumé.

Just like any new mother, she started to worry almost immediately. Would enough people download it? Or would it sink right away, another useless app among thousands?