Far Frontiers Part 8

Six minutes later, "No zap, eh?" Quasi, his wraith in the form of a young man with a ponytail and dark skintight covering, was sitting on a green lawn.

"Cartoons," Lincoln said, his proto-self resembling him except for the jeans and shirt. In the darkened connector booth, his body was wrapped in a gauzy layer.

"Excuse me?" Quasi added an Old-South lilt to his voice.

"Cartoons. You know, animated movement-"

"Oh, sure. They're all over the Spher-"

"Not those. I'm talking about the old two-dimen hand-drawn and painted films they projected on a wall."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Timmons was interested in those. Kinda boring, actually."

'Then you can understand when I say being driven into a wall in a Terra Sphereinteractivity is like an old cartoon. No matter how horrendous the crash, or heavy the falling piano, or the force of the blast of the stick of dynamite they were sitting on, those old characters would walk away, instantly ready for the next gag. See? In here, you cannot push beyond preset limits in the program. I did not feel a thing when the locomotive hit the wall. The Sphere safety parameters saw to that. If I did it Out-World, I would feel exquisite pain in the brief seconds before I died."

"Exquisite pain? You sound like one of those sados in the Marat Province."

"Even they don't feel real pain."

"Who wants to? That's one reason nearly everybody being born now eventually Crosses Over-we can shuffle off that mortal coil and live without pain, suffering, disease. Why would you ask anyone to give it up?"

"Because they're addicted to the easy life."

"Addicted? Aaaagh." Quasi stood up. "You don't know what you're talking about. Why'd you turn down that Out-World body-banging bit?"

"It's missing zip. You fly off, fall fast, smash into ground, and bounce a bit. I saw a girl break her neck, and a kid labels it her personal best. Nothing of substance behind it, though."

"You actually pa.s.sed on sensual gratification? You virused or something?"

"No, no. If I get desperate, maybe. The kid said I would."

"What kid?"

"Some wise-guy teener. Banging his body until he's freed, as he calls it, in Cross-Over."

"Sound like he's got his b.a.l.l.s in the right place. You oughta take a lesson from him."

"In body banging? No, thanks."

"Don't be a zero. You could take a cue from him. In fact, maybe you should."

Lincoln looked at Quasi. "When I need counseling, I sure won't go to a teenager. Or you, either."

After disconnecting his body from the booth, Lincoln returned to the mountain cabin he was renting. He stepped out on the back porch which, by virtue of the cabin having been built on the edge of a ravine, overlooked the small stream splashing below. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, letting tenseness flow out with the air. Before him stretched a deep forest of muted green, evergreens of all shapes and sizes; real trees, bending in the breeze that blew against him,penetrating shirt and trousers and cooling his skin. His eyes rose along the flanks of the far mountains, following their rumpled forms skyward where the season's first snow had coated the peaks.

He could pinpoint the exact moment he deviated from the cultural norm. During Cradle NA21O's eighth year of existence, they'd physically traveled to Michigan district, North American Commonalty. Winter had arrived in full force. None of the children had experienced snow, none cared. Except Lincoln. He stepped outside one night to watch the flakes tumble down in thick profusion, tickling his nose and cheeks. A drift had formed against the back fence. He touched it first with a gloved hand, then pulled the glove off and touched it again. The coldness of the feathery crystals astonished him. He pulled up his sleeve and buried more arm. Then the coat came off; soon after the shirt. Before long, he stripped off everything and jumped in. Just as the cold started to become painful, a beam of light caught him. The Schoolmaster and Cradlenanny, both temporarily corporeal, looked down at him from above the light tube.

"Controller help us," the Schoolmaster had said. "We have a sensual atavist on our hands."

A beeping interrupted his thoughts. He tapped his linkvest connector. Odd how it didn't tell him who was calling.

"Mr. Lincoln." The olive-skinned man's image filled his vision, blotting out the mountains.

"You again. I'm not buying."

"We're not selling-"

"Fine. Good day."

He cut the connection, adjusted the climate controls on shirt and pants, stepped off the porch and headed for the log bridging the stream. On the other side, he followed the path into the woods.

Six months later, Lincoln leaned back, pushed the plate away. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower rose in slim splendor over the roofs, another of the few Old Works not yet consideredsuperfluous. As he gazed at the tall metal tower, he was reminded of another relic. He pulled the penny out of his pocket, tossed it onto the table.

He looked up to see a tail negroid-variant 'zeke in faded blue shirt and ragged blue cotton pants step through the gate of the outdoor cafe, followed by a stocky anglo variant in striped pullover shirt and ill-fitting baggy tan pants. Lincoln watched as the negro lifted an arm like it weighed several pounds and pointed to him. Both stepped over to his table with an awkward gait.

"How's life, my sib?" the black asked, a slight slur to the words.

"Slow and dull." He regarded the pair for a moment. "Quasi?"

"Greetings, nestling of Cradle NA-2 10. This is Lashonde."

"Really? Could've fooled me. Please, sit. Have some wine. Get your bodies tipsy.

Lashonde, why a male genotype?"

Lashonde took the chair to his right, letting her/his hands rest in the lap. Quasi sat opposite her and laid the 'zeke's hands and forearms on the table like dead fish.

"Emergency," the Lashonde 'zeke said. "No females available at the body station, so I took this."

"Doesn't become you. Interesting 'zeke for you, too, Quasi. People of that color used to be lynched for no reason."

"I am well aware of humanity's history. How was your Africa trip?"

"Peaceful. I could almost imagine I was back in the nineteenth century living among Masai tribesmen, partic.i.p.ating in their ancient ways. If I overlooked the Terra Sphere connections in the chief's vestments or the subtle use of modem materials science to build their weather- impervious huts with cleverly disguised power sources.~~ "I imagine the continent must be returning to a garden now that three-quarters of the humans are gone," Lashonde said slowly, enunciating each word.

"Yes, but remember that three-quarters of the animals are clones of zoo-bred specimens."

Lincoln tapped the penny. "But you guys didn't become 'zekes just to talk about my Africa adventures."

"By doing this, we thought it would be easier, uh, to uh, talk to you." Quasi's face remained mostly slack, making it difficult to tell if the nervousness grew out of the topic or the body. "Uh-I'm, we're to tell you," the face looked away, then back, "we-the Cradle has, uh, filed a Sundering pet.i.tion-""A Sundering pet.i.tion."

"Because of your recalcitrance, it was decided we should, should leave you behind and move on."

"Whose idea was this? Benafar?"

"He initiated the discussions, yes," Lashonde said. "There, there was no opposition."

"I see." Lincoln picked up the penny, touched one edge to the table, then spun it. He watched as it slowed, began to roll back flat. He spun it again. "And when did the Cradle accede leadership to Benafar?"

"Benafar is merely the most outspoken," Quasi said. "Look, ten years have gone by since our Age of Ascension, and here you are, still romping in your physique like a child. The tradition, my sib, is leaving behind the corporeal body and joining mind to the TerraSphere, becoming free as thought-"

"You sound like old Cradlenanny on a propaganda spiel."

"The rest of us want to go on with our lives. We can't, though, 'cause one Cradle-mate is being hardheaded-"

Lincoln jabbed a finger onto the penny, pinning it to the table. "Can't-"

A beep from a hovering waitron interrupted.

"Do the new arrivals desire anything?" the mechanical voice asked.

"Urn-" Lincoln indicated the menu icon floating above the table. "Hungry? Thirsty?

You will be if you stay like that very long."

"Uh, nothing, thanks," Lashonde said.

"No," Quasi said.

"Bring me a tankard of boiling water," Lincoln told the waitron. It glided off.

"Can't you guys, you fields of thought, put up with a 'zeke? I'm not hurting anything, n.o.body's being held back from doing what they want. Let me decide when I'm ready to Cross Over."

Lashonde's 'zeke let out a long breath. "Nothing exists out here the Sphere can't sensate.

Nothing."

"The Terra Sphere is a safe place, where risk and danger are erased-"

"Risk and danger are unnecessary. We drive ourselves to discover new things, new concepts. The Sphere is our world. We have access to eve~~g, all knowledge, all experience, allthe things that have happened in the past. We are more now than our bodies would ever allow us."

"Ever hear the term 'spoon-fed'?"

"It's a new world, Lincoln," Quasi said. "And you are holding us back-"

"A new world. That was the selling point, wasn't it, a century and a half ago as the Terra Sphere coalesced from interconnections of the electronic networks being a.s.sembled then." He tapped the penny with his finger. "You know what they called one of the aspects of the network?

Virtual reality. 'Virtual,' you understand. Mimicking, only mimicking, the real world. Leave your Earthly bodies, never suffer from disease or degeneration ever again. Let your mind go and sensate things you never thought possible. They were saying that then, we're still saying that now. And lose a little of yourself, your humanity, in the process."

"Mr. Historian," Quasi said. "Did you know overpopulation nearly tore this planet apart?

Loss of resources, degradation of environment, famine, disease, war- Lincoln cupped his right ear. "Hark, do I hear the boofl,eats of the Four Hors.e.m.e.n of the Apocalypse?"

"Will you get serious?" The body leaned forward.

"Our minds are still human, with all the power that suggests. It is not body that defines us, but mind, the unique pattern of intellect that forms when we are mere chemicals and cells falling into place. Once mature, the mind is its own structure; the body is redundant. All Descartes said was 'I think, therefore I ani,' not 'I s.h.i.t' or 'I burp' or 'I fart."'

Lincoln burst into laughter. He pushed himself erect and regarded his cradle-mates. He could not, however, remember their original physical characteristics; all he could see were these near-dead forms staring back with only a glint in the eyes suggesting something actually was alive inside. "Have you ever seen the original Mona Lisa? The painting, I mean. I did. Yesterday afternoon. Used to be you had to wait in long lines, then you could only look a few minutes before the next person shoved their way forward. As you say, though, the decline in the Earth's population... I stood there fifteen minutes looking at it. Connecting with the artist, the original creator, who did his work in the OutWorld. All of them. Matisse. Van Gogh. Monet. Manet.

Pica.s.so. Dali. Stendon. Urquahrt. Nagato. Uli. Pdlock-"

"All of those images are in the field. You can study them all you want, frontways, backways, inside, outside. Plus call up the artist's shades-"Lincoln snorted. "Someone's guesswork on how they behaved. Have you been to the Moon?"

"Will you stop changing the subject?" Lashonde said. 'Through the Sphere, of course.

Nothing much to do-"

"'Cause you're not really there," Lincoln said, spinning the penny on the tabletop again.

"No one's been there since Apollo. And no one at all's been to Mars, like humanity'd dreamed for hundreds of years before that. Just robots, that's all. I walked on the Moon barefoot. Left the weirdest footprints."

"What was the point?" Quasi said.

'To prove it was fake."

"You requested a parameter-change just for that?"

He looked at the stupid expression on the 'zeke's face. "I find it necessary, nay imperative, to separate the real from what we imagine as real. Moon or paintings, I think we're missing something by not seeing, experiencing the original. That's all this is ever about."

"It doesn't make any sense, Lincoln." Quasi's voice had a plaintive quality to it, surprising in someone having so much difficulty operating a body.

Lincoln sighed. "All right, never mind. When's the Sundering?"

Lashonde moved the hand of the 'zeke across the surface of the table. "A complication has stopped the pet.i.tion."

"Complication?"

Lashonde's 'zeke glanced at Quasi. "Your PADDs have filed a protest."

Lincoln sat bolt upright. "What?"

'They claim ousting you is a blot on their genetic history." Quasi straightened, letting his hands slide off the table to his sides. 'The Cradle's action slanders them and their foredonors because it deems your behavior antisocial and, by inference, calls into question the stability of the donor personae. So the brief says."

Lincoln rubbed his chin with his hand, then smiled. "Very interesting. Wonder who they are."

"Please, don't make this worse." The Lashonde face made a quick flicker of muscle movement. "First you embarra.s.s the Cradle, now you're thinking of a heritage search. An illegal heritage search."Lincoln shrugged. "I'm considering no such thing. Just curious, that's all. So what's next?"

"Judicial bloc North America has scheduled a hearing," Lashonde said.

"When? I'll make sure I'm there."

"You aren't allowed to partic.i.p.ate."

"Well, that's not fair."

"Fair? Fair? You want it to be fair? Then give it up, Lincoln." A Quasi-hand jerked like he'd wanted to make a gesture. "Cross Over. The Sundering will then be canceled."

The waitron glided over and placed a tall tankard of still-boiling water on the table.