The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth) (10 page)

BOOK: The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth)
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And one of the nurses grinned at him and gave him a wink of joyful sexuality.
 

Maybe I’ve lived too long
, thought Zozula, smiling back despite himself.
As time goes by I seem to accumulate dilemmas like warts.
 

They arrived at their destination, which was indicated by a blinking blue light and a crowd of excited nurses. A small man—indistinguishable from a True Human except for a dark nevus covering the upper part of his face—was obviously relieved to see him.
 

“Thank Whirst you’ve come, Zozula. I’ve never seen anything like this before. This patient suddenly began to show the most peculiar symptoms... We had to restrain her—I’m sorry. And the blue light keeps flashing. Why does it flash?” He asked in bewilderment. He’d never seen this happen before, neither had his ancestors ever described it. It simply never happened.
 

“I’ve reincorporated this patient,” Zozula explained.
 

There was a murmur of excitement. “Has a True Human been bred?” somebody asked.
 

They were pleased at the possibility. They wanted it to happen.
 

“I’m afraid not. We have no replacement for Eulalie except...” He regarded the neotenite, which was now twitching, its eyelids flickering.
 

“Poor girl,” said a nurse.
 

“Wake her very slowly,” said Zozula.
 

 

In the morning Zozula called on Lord Shout, whose quarters were situated in a remote area of the Dome and at a great height. As he entered, he was alarmed at the strange quality of the light: yellowish, with hard shadows.
 

Then he became aware of the vast panorama spread before him, a dizzying
 

view of mountains, valleys, tiny villages and, blue and hazy, the ocean.
 

“What... ?” He sat down quickly and closed his eyes.
 

“I sent two of my tribesmen up the ladders and they cleaned off the crystal,” Lord Shout explained. “I hope you don’t mind. They didn’t like the job much, I can tell you. It’s almost two kilometers up, and the winds are strong out there, so they tell me.”
 

“It certainly looks... different.”
 

“It was always meant to be that way, you know. It’s just like an ordinary window that got dirty over the years.”
 

Zozula opened his eyes carefully. “It’s the height. There’s so... so much out there. I’ve only seen Outside from ground level before. Did you have to open up all that?”
 

“It’s the way I think,” said Lord Shout simply. “I think Outside, you think Inside.” He glanced at the creature in the corner. “I wonder how the Mole thinks.”
 

Zozula said carefully, “I don’t want to get your hopes up too high, but we have a vacant bed coming up. I’ve reincorporated a neotenite. I’d like the Mole to take her place.”
 

“But you said Dream Earth might drive him mad!”
 

“The decision is yours, of course. It’s a chance you’ll have to take. But ask yourself—what’s the alternative?” He nodded toward the Mole, who was unusually active today. Grimaces furrowed his face and then were gone. Odd croaks and hoots escaped him. His appendages pattered against the floor.
 

The decision was quickly made. “It’s very kind of you to go to all this trouble,” said Lord Shout.
 

“I have other motives. I think the Mole may have developed in an unusual way. With only logic to guide him, his mind could be a thing of purity and perfection, which would help us tone down some of those ridiculous excesses of Dream Earth. And there’s another thing...”
 

He paused so long that Lord Shout said, “Yes?”
 

“He might be able to help us to a better understanding of how the Rainbow works and find us some of those old genetic research programs... Somewhere in there is the answer to the neoteny problem. Somewhere, the Rainbow is storing the recipe for True Humans.”
 

“Aren’t you placing too much emphasis on physical appearance?”
 

“Yes, I am. I’ve often thought about that. But it’s my duty, after all. It’s why I’m a Cuidador. It’s part of my job to preserve the True Human form, so what else can I do?”
 

There was a faint buzz at the door and a nurse came in, bright and pretty. She gave Lord Shout a special smile, then went to attend to the Mole’s needs.
 

After she’d gone, Lord Shout said, “She’s a Specialist, that nurse. A raccoon-girl. Her name is Felicia, and I slept with her last night. She’s loving and intelligent.” He awaited Zozula’s comment.
 

After a while, the Keeper said quietly, “But she won’t bear your child. Whatever you say, however you feel about her, however often you do it, she’s a different species. And that’s our tragedy.”
 

 

 

 

 

The Martyrdom of Raccoona Three

 

Polysitians, Paragons, Wild Humans, True Humans, neotenites, Dream People... It is difficult to conceive the sheer diversity of human species and varieties developed over the course of history—particularly in such a time as now, when so many of those varieties have become extinct. There was the First Species: the union of ape and Paragon known as Original Man. Then there was the Second Species, in three varieties: True Humans, Wild Humans, adapted to oxygen-deficient air, Polysitians, adapted to oxygen-rich air. And the Third Species, the Specialists, in countless varieties. Next there was the Fourth Species, in two varieties, the first of which was the neotenites. This is neither the time nor place to discuss the second of those varieties, for The Song of Earth must retain some mystery. And finally there was the Fifth Species, which Manuel and Zozula knew as the Quicklies. These were the forms of Man.
 

Of all these forms, the most diverse was the Specialists. There is a famous story that tells of their beginnings, during the period known as the Renaissance Years. The events told in the story took place in the year 91,137 Cyclic, when Space exploration was in a temporary eclipse. Mankind, for a while, and not for the first time, had turned in on himself. The Renaissance Years were the years of artistic experimentation, of the great playwrights and poets, actors and moodmen. The theaters and opera houses were full again, the city streets sprouted statues, and living murals decorated the walls. New programs were fed into the Rainbow, and the Dream People dreamed fresh and beautiful dreams before they returned to their bodies, because neoteny had not claimed them yet. Composers and emotes gathered in asqui rooms and talked and sang while day and night went by unnoticed. It is said that the roots of The Song of Earth sprang from this age. It was a good era to live in, an age of wealth and idleness, of freedom from danger. High Space was dead, but there was plenty happening on Earth.
 

Into this age the Specialists were born...
 

They were hardly noticed at first. Men quoted verse, and women fashioned pottery glazed with timeslip, giving a magical luster. And the darling of the footlights was La Rialta of the thunderous voice and incredible range. La Rialta... The name stirs a million memories in the Rainbow. La Rialta... The ultimate in womanhood, a great, lovely, sexual creature who sang like an angel—or like the Devil, if the role demanded. La Rialta, who in her later years ran to fat, so that she dominated the stage like a mountain, mocking her suitors, who scurried around her like rodents with their tiny voices and puny frames. La Rialta, symbol of an age of opulence and art.
 

But somebody had to do the work behind the scenes.
 

Around this time Mankind was in the midst of its love affair with the kikihuahuas, those space-going genetic engineers who had progressed far beyond the use of machinery. And there was a lesson to be learned from the kikihuahuas.
 

The lesson was put to practical use by one Mordecai N. Whirst, a dour and seemingly emotionless individual from Scotia. Using principles known for millennia, coupled with no small measure of courage, he proceeded to alter the make-up of human cells, replacing certain genes with genes selected from animal stock. There is no way of making that statement without being aware that it would have shocked and horrified almost every human born before that date, and quite a number thereafter.
 

But people soon got used to the datachimps, who pounded untiringly at computer keyboards with nimble fingers, great accuracy and little imagination.
 

Physical courage, patience, quick reactions and many other qualities became available in the laboratories. The kikihuahuas had used the techniques for thousands of years, so why shouldn’t humans? The newcomers were called Specialists, in recognition of their special abilities and the special tasks they were expected to perform. They took over quite a lot of work from the aging machines. Specialists prepared food, piloted solar shuttles, stood guard outside restricted areas. A Specialist was appointed file clerk to the world premier.
 

And a Specialist murdered La Rialta.
 

 

Raccoona Three did not have the looks that humans of her era could sympathize with. Humans—although they did not know it—were beginning to evolve from the Second to the Fourth Species. Their cheeks were plump, their faces broad, their heads relatively big, and they liked it that way.
 

Raccoona, as she took her place in court, was ugly.
 

In an earlier age she would have been considered cute and pretty, with short dark hair and bright brown eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a neat, very feminine figure. But in the year of her trial she was considered sharp-featured and thin. Public sentiment was strongly against her, and the trial was only a formality.
 

“You are accused of the murder of the singer La Rialta,” said the judge. “Let the trial begin.” Below the dais, a datachimp tapped mindlessly at his keyboard, feeding details of the trial into the corner of the Rainbow that served as jury. Behind the judge, a mighty screen played awesome colors.
 

Raccoona trembled, and her gaze sought out the elderly man who sat with counsel for the defense. “Oh, Daddy,” she whispered, a plea which he could not hear. “Help me to be strong.”
 

Soon the prosecution said, “I call Professor Mordecai Whirst.”
 

The elderly man, avoiding Raccoona’s eyes, stepped up to the stand and sat down. He, too, was thin by the standards of the day, somberly dressed and dominated by a sadness that everybody could feel.
 

“You are Professor Mordecai N. Whirst?”
 

“I am.”
 

“What does the
N
stand for?” asked the judge curiously.
 

“Nothing.”
 

The judge showed a flash of irritation, wondering if he was being made a fool of. “You mean
Nothing
, with a capital
N?
Or just
nothing?

 

“Nothing. It’s just a letter. I don’t know how in hell it got on my ID. It’s always been there. Computer error, I suppose.” His voice was flat and despondent. He wanted to get it over with. “I got tired of correcting it, so in the end I let it stand.”
 

“So Raccoona Three is a Specialist,” said the prosecution in due course. “You created her in the laboratory, is that right?”
 

“No. She is third generation,” said Whirst.
 

“What is she for?”
 

“For?”
 

“What is her purpose?” The prosecution indicated the datachimp. “There is an example of a useful Specialist. I am sure that this court, despite its prime objective today, would be the first to admit that a limited selection of Specialists can take much of the drudgery out of life, despite the misgivings we may have concerning the circumstances of their creation. However, the court is a little puzzled as to the usefulness of the accused. You are not in the habit of creating young women whose only qualities are their femininity and animal nature, are you, Professor?”
 

“Objection!”
 

“I will rephrase that. What is the accused’s occupation?”
 

“She is the daughter of my personal secretary. She lives at the institute. Damn it, she’s only a kid!”
 

“And you are...” the prosecutor consulted his notes, “two hundred and three years old. Well, well... Tell me, Professor—why a raccoon?”
 

“There’s more to the creation of Specialists than the simple permutation of human and animal genes,” said Whirst irritably. “There has to be a degree of compatibility—a consideration that must outweigh the usefulness factor in the early stages. A number of different combinations were tried out before we came up with the datachimp, for instance. As I recall it, we had a gibbon-man, a baboon-rhesus-man, a lemur-man—all of which could have done the job, but none of which possessed the necessary physical stamina and resistance to disease.”
 

“So what happened to these... failures?” The prosecution’s tone was deliberately ominous.
 

“They were allowed to live out a natural life span. We are not barbarians. And as for raccoons... Fifty years ago we were experimenting with a number of different species, of which raccoons were one. Generally they were a great success. They were hardy, intelligent, friendly...” The last word was out before he could stop it. “We are allowing them to run through a planned series of generations. At this stage it’s too early to talk about their use.”
 

“Do you ever get weighed down by the responsibility of playing God, Professor?”
 

“Objection!”
 

And so it went on. In the end Whirst was allowed to resume his place. An expert took the stand and was quizzed on the animal psychology of Specialists.
 

BOOK: The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth)
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