Over the Darkened Landscape (3 page)

Then the search continued.

The first few times that he had felt his throat begin to be blocked he had managed to swallow. Whatever was in there would drop down to his stomach and he would feel comfortable again. But during one lengthy period where his mind was elsewhere, the constriction became too much to swallow away.

Because he was used to taking breaths far apart from each other, it took a long time to realize he was no longer breathing. By then, his mind had slipped into an almost total fog. What used to be Simon tried one more time to claw to the top of his consciousness, but the well was too deep.

Still, something of him remained.

*

Captain Galvez exited her ship. Ahead of her hung the massive bulk of the research ship
Waldsemüller
, its bulbous front end pointing her way. Her personal force-field irised minutely and for only two seconds, and air jetted out behind her, pushing her towards the other ship.

Claire spoke in her head. “Dr. Schaum is requesting that you use port number three, Captain. And to please maintain silence unless you are talking through me. Her own ship’s brain is not as sophisticated as I.”

Galvez grunted in response and irised her field again, this time in front. She bumped up gently against the ship and then created a pseudopod to grab hold of a handle while she waited for the airlock door to open. When inside and the ship’s oxygen had finished cycling in she shut down her field and waited for the inner door to slide open.

When it did, both Dr. Schaum and Captain N’Dour were waiting for her. Schaum was tall and blonde, graying a bit, with light blue eyes. Worry lines creased her face. N’Dour was a huge, dour-looking Azanian, hair shaved off and with three earrings in each ear, emulating the style of imagined pirates from long ago. Where the doctor wore a jumpsuit, N’Dour wore shorts and nothing else. His body was well-muscled.

All three nodded tersely and exchanged quick greetings before the two turned and led her down a short hall to a small, plain room with a low round table and four chairs. They sat down, although Captain Galvez found the artificial gravity strange, having been living under SAR procedures for the last four months on her own ship, the naval vessel
Mitterand
.

“Claire tells me you think you’ve found Mr. Helbrecht, Captain,” said Dr. Schaum.

“We think it’s him,” she responded, “But . . . he’s not in good shape. Even for someone who is probably dead. We sent a snooper and the graphics it brought back were not very promising.” Galvez pulled a portable viewer with multiple jacks from her kangaroo pouch.

Both Dr. Schaum and Captain N’Dour plugged in and watched with the snooper’s eyes as it probed alongside the lumpy brown mass that seemed to have once been a human body. Captain Galvez noted with interest the looks of horror and then sadness that crossed the doctor’s face. They both unjacked.

Captain N’Dour leaned his imposing bulk forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. “I understand that Claire has briefed you on the need for silence from the navy, Captain?”

Galvez nodded, angry that she had to follow orders to serve the needs of a conglomerate over the needs of an individual, and angry that N’Dour was emphasizing his point with his bulk. She leaned forward as well, putting her face uncomfortably close to his. After a brief hesitation, he leaned back a bit.

“I sympathize, Captain Galvez,” said Dr. Schaum, looking a bit confused at what was playing out in front of her. “It infuriates me, too. But if this gets out, the regulatory boards would shut us down, and I think you’d agree the research we do for you is too valuable to lose. But our commercial public ventures are important to us getting, and I quote the company line here, ‘much needed short-term capital to aid in the financial upkeep of the corporation.’ And since the boards check our ship’s brain every time we re-orbit, we have this need for secrecy even out here.”

“So we just leave him out there?”

She nodded. “We can come up with a half-dozen reasons that his telemetry shut down, all having to do with his actions or else the people who installed his neural input, which was manufactured, incidentally, by a Chinese company. We’ll get a little bit of heat, but not enough to shut us down.

“But if we bring the body on board, then people will see what happened to the algal implant. That will be the end of this business, as well as the end of research that has supplied you with things like your personal force-field.”

Captain N’Dour stood, evidently trying to tilt the intimidation factor back in his favor. “He’s gone, Captain Galvez. Consider him our latest message to the stars.” He walked out, followed by Dr. Schaum. Then a crewman came in and led Galvez back to the airlock.

As she coasted back to her ship she watched the blackness beneath her feet, and wondered what it would be like to drift this way forever.

*

The thing lit up and moved away. Watching it leave, it was as though he were looking through a thick gauze.

It had been with him for some time: above him, below him and beside him. And then when it left he was alone again.

For a long time he waited for it, or something like it, to return. He seemed to expect it, although he wasn’t sure why. But nothing else came.

When he finally realized he was truly alone, he turned all of his attention to the distant stars. Arms spread wide as if to embrace them, he glided silently towards the unknown.

Canadaland

T
he Medium is the Massage

(Views of various modes of transportation: 797s and Airbuses thundering in for landings; high speed rail pulling in to train stations; lines of personal automobiles passing through customs)

Announcer’s Voice: “As dangers the world over and within their own country increase, American citizens increasingly look north for their vacation paradise.”

(
Camera cuts to fast images of: Mountie dog sledding; nude sunbathers on Wreck Beach
¹
; smiling blonde skiing in the Rockies)

Reach Out and Mug Someone

(Partial transcript of phone message to Dale MacDonald)

Dale: “Hello?”

Operator: “This is Bell Canada
²
. We are pleased to be your new telecommunications server for this area. Please indicate now if you would like to proceed to your incoming call immediately, or if you would like to hear about some of our fine…”

Dale: “Jesus! Incoming call!”

Operator: “Thank you for your choice. We will contact you shortly regarding Bell Canada operations and specials. Please proceed.”

Dale: “Hello?”

Caller: “Dale MacDonald. This is the Human Resources Department for Natural Resources Export Corporation. Our records show that as of 2400 hours today you have been drafted. In keeping with federal government regulations owing to Bill C-7982
³
, your position is terminated. Separation pay has been deposited in your account, and at the end of your service you can expect to be offered an excellent entry-level position. Thank you.”

Dale: “Shit.”

If A Tree Falls in the Forest and No One is There,

Can They Still Make Junk-Mail From It?

Your name is Dale MacDonald, and the mail is late. You’ve just lost your job, informed of this disaster by a computer with a reasonable tone of voice. If the computer knows, then you should as well.

But Canada Post
⁴
, bless them (
no, really
), is late with the mail today. They don’t deliver for anyone but the feds now, the feds and advertisers who all claim to use recycled paper for their junk mail
⁵
.

Maybe they recycle each others’ ads.

You are a handsome young lad, Dale. Six-foot four by the new system, one hundred and eighty-five pounds
⁶
. You have a curly shock of brown hair, blue eyes that all the girls say are
to die for
, and pretty decent body tone. But today you feel and look quite sick.

Drafted! Kick the concrete porch on the outside of the old tenement you live in. That’s it. Again. Ouch! I bet that smarts, doesn’t it? Got to be careful, can’t afford a broken foot since they delisted it from healthcare
⁷
.

Ah, the mailman. Walk to meet him at the sidewalk, Dale. Have your I.D. ready so you can prove it really is you.

No? Well, then, follow him down the street to the superboxes
⁸
, wait for him to deposit your letter, and then pull it out.

Wait! Don’t read it out here! Look up and behind you first.

Yeah, you see? Old Lady Laurier has floated another spy balloon. You can see the sunlight glinting off the one hundred sixty times lens as it tries to focus on the letter. Consider dropping it with one of your pocket missiles, but not for too long. Easier and cheaper just to go inside and read the damn thing.

But give her the finger first. Well, give the balloon the finger.

Inside now. What is your reaction, Dale, when you read the words? Do you stagger to the wall and slowly slide to the floor, paper crumpled in your hands? Imagine that you do. Now, flatten out the paper (
so precious, so wasteful
) and let everyone else read it.

Sure enough. A draft notice. And get this. You’re to be assigned to the Nelson Eddy Division of the True North Corps. How exciting!

Nobody even knew that you could sing.

Beer! Beer!

Dale turned on his notebook, phoned Jimmy. “This is Unitel
⁹
North. There has been a stockholder’s purchase, and we are pleased to announce that we are your new telecommunications supplier. Please allow us a moment to tell you about some of the exciting options . . .”

“No! Continue call.”

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

“Hello?” Jimmy, squished and funny-looking on the tiny screen, image compressed and recompressed so he almost looked real-time.

“Hey. I need a drink.”

“Sure, man, what’s up?”

“I got drafted.”

Jimmy grimaced. “Oh, man, that sucks! I’m sorry.”

Dale let himself smile, but it didn’t feel real. “It’s okay. See you at Stormin’ Norman’s in an hour?”

“Done. See you there.”

Dale thumbed the notebook back to standby and reached over his cot to pull a T-shirt from his closet. He chose one with a picture of American troops in hi-tech cold weather gear gunning down penguins that looked decidedly Chinese. The logo on it read: “Antarctica—The New Cold War.”

The Cultural Yoke is Somewhat Runny

(Images of a burning building, firefighters hard at work, police and army troops dealing with civilian unrest)

Announcer: “The riot at Stormin’ Norman’s American Bar and Cheesecake Hangout
¹⁰
(
detailed map of location and description of Stormin’ Norman’s runs across lower quarter of screen)
started at about three a.m. today. Although police sources are being circumspect
(definition of circumspect flashes in upper right corner of screen)
, this reporter
(image of reporter accompanied by curriculum vitae and news stories he has done in the past three months drifts down left portion of screen)
has received an exclusive interview with two patrons of the club.”

(
EXCLUSIVE
! in bold type runs at the top of the screen. Thrilling music swells in the background)

(
At least sixty other channels fall prey to a pirate burst informing their viewers that the EXCLUSIVE! is running on a rival channel. Twenty-six of those decide, in turn, to pirate the broadcast itself in an effort to keep viewers. In a sweeping decision handed down forty-three years later, the CRTC
¹¹
rules against all of the offending stations, of which one is still operating. But that’s another story
).

Cut to image of two teenagers, one female, one possibly male, both with shaved heads, the one who might be male has two ringlets of hair growing from the cheeks, each ringlet dangling about two inches, curled. Tattoos track across the face of each youth, literally like tire tracks on the female, more like a cross between chicken and elephant tracks on the other)

Youth One (female): “We were dancin, yeah? Dancin’ and jitterin’ and humpin’, some sex on the floor but only for show, yeah? Sam Cooke, Bruce Springsteen, Jackie Wilson
(access codes for information on these and other new buzz artists are offered to viewers)
. . . all their new stuff, yeah? Even the new dance buzz by, by . . .”

Youth Two: “By Buddy Holly
(access code offered)
. Honkin’ shit, yeah? Galsanboys on speakers, dancin’, some fights, but only for show, yeah? Couple get thrown off speakers, little bitta blood, not bad, yeah?”
(Images of youth of today dancing to buzz music)

Youth One: “So couple guys, yeah? They go up to the BJ booth, I spy they got somethin’ in their paws, yeah?”

Youth Two: “Thinkin grandomatic, got some new buzz spottin’ here!”

Youth One: “Was not buzz they put out.”

Youth Two: “Was a disc, man, old stuff indeed. Punk, somebody say, Young Canadians
¹²
(
picture of Art Bergmann, details about punk music in late 20th-century Canada
). Song called ‘No Escape.’”

Youth One: “Joyboy beside me starts jumpin’ up and down, hoppin’ like wackyow grasshopper. Then he stops, pumps his fists in the air and yells, ‘Time to shed the imperialistic cultural yoke of our Yankee bastard neighbors!’”

Youth Two: “Don’t know what the fuck he mean, but seemed like a good reason for party and fight.”

Hey Rocky, Watch Me Pull a Mountie out of My Hat

“Squad! You have been selected to serve your country. To serve your country must be the highest honor to ever be visited on your measly little lives!”

The man who speaks wears the traditional red serge of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. His hat is broad-brimmed, his boots spit-polished. Big-eared mouse pin, brass buttons and buckles shine, almost unnaturally. Service revolver sits in holster, looking menacing to the new recruits.