He struck another cig. "But you know what a junkie _is_, right? Junkies
don't miss sobriety, because they don't remember how sharp everything
was, how the pain made the joy sweeter. We can't remember what it was
like to work to earn our keep; to worry that there might not be
_enough_, that we might get sick or get hit by a bus. We don't remember
what it was like to take chances, and we sure as shit don't remember
what it felt like to have them pay off."
He had a point. Here I was, only in my second or third adulthood, and
already ready to toss it all in and do something, _anything_, else. He
had a point -- but I wasn't about to admit it. "So you say. I say, I
take a chance when I strike up a conversation in a bar, when I fall in
love. . . And what about the deadheads? Two people I know, they just
went deadhead for ten thousand years! Tell me that's not taking a
chance!" Truth be told, almost everyone I'd known in my eighty-some
years were deadheading or jaunting or just _gone_. Lonely days, then.
"Brother, that's committing half-assed suicide. The way we're going,
they'll be lucky if someone doesn't just switch 'em off when it comes
time to reanimate. In case you haven't noticed, it's getting a little
crowded around here."
I made pish-tosh sounds and wiped off my forehead with a bar-napkin --
the Gazoo was beastly hot on summer nights. "Uh-huh, just like the world
was getting a little crowded a hundred years ago, before Free Energy.
Like it was getting too greenhousey, too nukey, too hot or too cold. We
fixed it then, we'll fix it again when the time comes. I'm gonna be here
in ten thousand years, you damn betcha, but I think I'll do it the long
way around."
He cocked his head again, and gave it some thought. If it had been any
of the other grad students, I'd have assumed he was grepping for some
bolstering factoids to support his next sally. But with him, I just knew
he was thinking about it, the old-fashioned way.
"I think that if I'm still here in ten thousand years, I'm going to be
crazy as hell. Ten thousand years, pal! Ten thousand years ago, the
state-of-the-art was a goat. You really think you're going to be
anything recognizably human in a hundred centuries? Me, I'm not
interested in being a post-person. I'm going to wake up one day, and I'm
going to say, 'Well, I guess I've seen about enough,' and that'll be my
last day."
I had seen where he was going with this, and I had stopped paying
attention while I readied my response. I probably should have paid more
attention. "But why? Why not just deadhead for a few centuries, see if
there's anything that takes your fancy, and if not, back to sleep for a
few more? Why do anything so _final_?"
He embarrassed me by making a show of thinking it over again, making me
feel like I was just a half-pissed glib poltroon. "I suppose it's
because nothing else is. I've always known that someday, I was going to
stop moving, stop seeking, stop kicking, and have done with it. There'll
come a day when I don't have anything left to do, except stop."
#
On campus, they called him Keep-A-Movin' Dan, because of his cowboy vibe
and because of his lifestyle, and he somehow grew to take over every
conversation I had for the next six months. I pinged his Whuffie a few
times, and noticed that it was climbing steadily upward as he
accumulated more esteem from the people he met.
I'd pretty much pissed away most of my Whuffie -- all the savings from
the symphonies and the first three theses -- drinking myself stupid at
the Gazoo, hogging library terminals, pestering profs, until I'd
expended all the respect anyone had ever afforded me. All except Dan,
who, for some reason, stood me to regular beers and meals and movies.
I got to feeling like I was someone special -- not everyone had a chum
as exotic as Keep-A-Movin' Dan, the legendary missionary who visited the
only places left that were closed to the Bitchun Society. I can't say
for sure why he hung around with me. He mentioned once or twice that
he'd liked my symphonies, and he'd read my Ergonomics thesis on applying
theme-park crowd-control techniques in urban settings, and liked what I
had to say there. But I think it came down to us having a good time
needling each other.
I'd talk to him about the vast carpet of the future unrolling before us,
of the certainty that we would encounter alien intelligences some day,
of the unimaginable frontiers open to each of us. He'd tell me that
deadheading was a strong indicator that one's personal reservoir of
introspection and creativity was dry; and that without struggle, there
is no real victory.
This was a good fight, one we could have a thousand times without
resolving. I'd get him to concede that Whuffie recaptured the true
essence of money: in the old days, if you were broke but respected, you
wouldn't starve; contrariwise, if you were rich and hated, no sum could
buy you security and peace. By measuring the thing that money really
represented -- your personal capital with your friends and neighbors --
you more accurately gauged your success.
And then he'd lead me down a subtle, carefully baited trail that led to
my allowing that while, yes, we might someday encounter alien species
with wild and fabulous ways, that right now, there was a slightly
depressing homogeneity to the world.
On a fine spring day, I defended my thesis to two embodied humans and
one prof whose body was out for an overhaul, whose consciousness was
present via speakerphone from the computer where it was resting. They
all liked it. I collected my sheepskin and went out hunting for Dan in
the sweet, flower-stinking streets.
He'd gone. The Anthro major he'd been torturing with his war-stories
said that they'd wrapped up that morning, and he'd headed to the walled
city of Tijuana, to take his shot with the descendants of a platoon of
US Marines who'd settled there and cut themselves off from the Bitchun
Society.
So I went to Disney World.
In deference to Dan, I took the flight in realtime, in the minuscule
cabin reserved for those of us who stubbornly refused to be frozen and
stacked like cordwood for the two hour flight. I was the only one taking
the trip in realtime, but a flight attendant dutifully served me a
urine-sample-sized orange juice and a rubbery, pungent, cheese omelet. I
stared out the windows at the infinite clouds while the autopilot banked
around the turbulence, and wondered when I'd see Dan next.
========= CHAPTER 1 =========
My girlfriend was 15 percent of my age, and I was old-fashioned enough
that it bugged me. Her name was Lil, and she was second-generation
Disney World, her parents being among the original ad-hocracy that took
over the management of Liberty Square and Tom Sawyer Island. She was,
quite literally, raised in Walt Disney World and it showed.
It showed. She was neat and efficient in her every little thing, from
her shining red hair to her careful accounting of each gear and cog in
the animatronics that were in her charge. Her folks were in canopic jars
in Kissimmee, deadheading for a few centuries.
On a muggy Wednesday, we dangled our feet over the edge of the Liberty
Belle's riverboat pier, watching the listless Confederate flag over Fort
Langhorn on Tom Sawyer Island by moonlight. The Magic Kingdom was all
closed up and every last guest had been chased out the gate underneath
the Main Street train station, and we were able to breathe a heavy sigh
of relief, shuck parts of our costumes, and relax together while the
cicadas sang.
I was more than a century old, but there was still a kind of magic in
having my arm around the warm, fine shoulders of a girl by moonlight,
hidden from the hustle of the cleaning teams by the turnstiles,
breathing the warm, moist air. Lil plumped her head against my shoulder
and gave me a butterfly kiss under my jaw.
"Her name was McGill," I sang, gently.
"But she called herself Lil," she sang, warm breath on my collarbones.
"And everyone knew her as Nancy," I sang.
I'd been startled to know that she knew the Beatles. They'd been old
news in my youth, after all. But her parents had given her a thorough --
if eclectic -- education.
"Want to do a walk-through?" she asked. It was one of her favorite
duties, exploring every inch of the rides in her care with the lights
on, after the horde of tourists had gone. We both liked to see the
underpinnings of the magic. Maybe that was why I kept picking at the
relationship.
"I'm a little pooped. Let's sit a while longer, if you don't mind."
She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Oh, all right. Old man." She reached up and
gently tweaked my nipple, and I gave a satisfying little jump. I think
the age difference bothered her, too, though she teased me for letting
it get to me.
"I think I'll be able to manage a totter through the Haunted Mansion, if
you just give me a moment to rest my bursitis." I felt her smile against
my shirt. She loved the Mansion; loved to turn on the ballroom ghosts
and dance their waltz with them on the dusty floor, loved to try and
stare down the marble busts in the library that followed your gaze as
you passed.
I liked it too, but I really liked just sitting there with her, watching
the water and the trees. I was just getting ready to go when I heard a
soft _ping_ inside my cochlea. "Damn," I said. "I've got a call."
"Tell them you're busy," she said.
"I will," I said, and answered the call subvocally. "Julius here."
"Hi, Julius. It's Dan. You got a minute?"
I knew a thousand Dans, but I recognized the voice immediately, though
it'd been ten years since we last got drunk at the Gazoo together. I
muted the subvocal and said, "Lil, I've got to take this. Do you mind?"
"Oh, _no_, not at all," she sarcased at me. She sat up and pulled out
her crack pipe and lit up.
"Dan," I subvocalized, "long time no speak."
"Yeah, buddy, it sure has been," he said, and his voice cracked on a
sob.
I turned and gave Lil such a look, she dropped her pipe. "How can I
help?" she said, softly but swiftly. I waved her off and switched the
phone to full-vocal mode. My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the
cricket-punctuated calm.
"Where you at, Dan?" I asked.
"Down here, in Orlando. I'm stuck out on Pleasure Island."
"All right," I said. "Meet me at, uh, the Adventurer's Club, upstairs on
the couch by the door. I'll be there in --" I shot a look at Lil, who
knew the castmember-only roads better than I. She flashed ten fingers at
me. "Ten minutes."
"Okay," he said. "Sorry." He had his voice back under control. I
switched off.
"What's up?" Lil asked.
"I'm not sure. An old friend is in town. He sounds like he's got a
problem."
Lil pointed a finger at me and made a trigger-squeezing gesture.
"There," she said. "I've just dumped the best route to Pleasure Island
to your public directory. Keep me in the loop, okay?"
I set off for the utilidoor entrance near the Hall of Presidents and
booted down the stairs to the hum of the underground tunnel-system. I
took the slidewalk to cast parking and zipped my little cart out to
Pleasure Island.
#
I found Dan sitting on the L-shaped couch underneath rows of faked-up
trophy shots with humorous captions. Downstairs, castmembers were
working the animatronic masks and idols, chattering with the guests.
Dan was apparent fifty plus, a little paunchy and stubbled. He had
raccoon-mask bags under his eyes and he slumped listlessly. As I
approached, I pinged his Whuffie and was startled to see that it had
dropped to nearly zero.
"Jesus," I said, as I sat down next to him. "You look like hell, Dan."
He nodded. "Appearances can be deceptive," he said. "But in this case,
they're bang-on."
"You want to talk about it?" I asked.
"Somewhere else, huh? I hear they ring in the New Year every night at
midnight; I think that'd be a little too much for me right now."
I led him out to my cart and cruised back to the place I shared with
Lil, out in Kissimmee. He smoked eight cigarettes on the twenty minute
ride, hammering one after another into his mouth, filling my runabout
with stinging clouds. I kept glancing at him in the rear-view. He had
his eyes closed, and in repose he looked dead. I could hardly believe
that this was my vibrant action-hero pal of yore.
Surreptitiously, I called Lil's phone. "I'm bringing him home," I
subvocalized. "He's in rough shape. Not sure what it's all about."
"I'll make up the couch," she said. "And get some coffee together. Love
you."
"Back atcha, kid," I said.
As we approached the tacky little swaybacked ranch-house, he opened his
eyes. "You're a pal, Jules." I waved him off. "No, really. I tried to
think of who I could call, and you were the only one. I've missed you,
bud."
"Lil said she'd put some coffee on," I said. "You sound like you need
it."
Lil was waiting on the sofa, a folded blanket and an extra pillow on the
side table, a pot of coffee and some Disneyland Beijing mugs beside
them. She stood and extended her hand. "I'm Lil," she said.
"Dan," he said. "It's a pleasure."
I knew she was pinging his Whuffie and I caught her look of surprised
disapproval. Us oldsters who predate Whuffie know that it's important;
but to the kids, it's the _world_. Someone without any is automatically
suspect. I watched her recover quickly, smile, and surreptitiously wipe
her hand on her jeans. "Coffee?" she said.
"Oh, yeah," Dan said, and slumped on the sofa.
She poured him a cup and set it on a coaster on the coffee table. "I'll
let you boys catch up, then," she said, and started for the bedroom.
"No," Dan said. "Wait. If you don't mind. I think it'd help if I could
talk to someone. . . younger, too."
She set her face in the look of chirpy helpfulness that all the second-
gen castmembers have at their instant disposal and settled into an
armchair. She pulled out her pipe and lit a rock. I went through my
crack period before she was born, just after they made it decaf, and I
always felt old when I saw her and her friends light up. Dan surprised
me by holding out a hand to her and taking the pipe. He toked heavily,
then passed it back.
Dan closed his eyes again, then ground his fists into them, sipped his
coffee. It was clear he was trying to figure out where to start.
"I believed that I was braver than I really am, is what it boils down
to," he said.
"Who doesn't?" I said.
"I really thought I could do it. I knew that someday I'd run out of
things to do, things to see. I knew that I'd finish some day. You
remember, we used to argue about it. I swore I'd be done, and that would
be the end of it. And now I am. There isn't a single place left on-world
that isn't part of the Bitchun Society. There isn't a single thing left
that I want any part of."
"So deadhead for a few centuries," I said. "Put the decision off."
"No!" he shouted, startling both of us. "I'm _done_. It's _over_."
"So do it," Lil said.
"I _can't_," he sobbed, and buried his face in his hands. He cried like
a baby, in great, snoring sobs that shook his whole body. Lil went into
the kitchen and got some tissue, and passed it to me. I sat alongside
him and awkwardly patted his back.
"Jesus," he said, into his palms. "Jesus."
"Dan?" I said, quietly.
He sat up and took the tissue, wiped off his face and hands. "Thanks,"
he said. "I've tried to make a go of it, really I have. I've spent the
last eight years in Istanbul, writing papers on my missions, about the
communities. I did some followup studies, interviews. No one was
interested. Not even me. I smoked a lot of hash. It didn't help. So, one
morning I woke up and went to the bazaar and said good bye to the
friends I'd made there. Then I went to a pharmacy and had the man make
me up a lethal injection. He wished me good luck and I went back to my
rooms. I sat there with the hypo all afternoon, then I decided to sleep
on it, and I got up the next morning and did it all over again. I looked
inside myself, and I saw that I didn't have the guts. I just didn't have
the guts. I've stared down the barrels of a hundred guns, had a thousand
knives pressed up against my throat, but I didn't have the guts to press
that button."
"You were too late," Lil said.
We both turned to look at her.
"You were a decade too late. Look at you. You're pathetic. If you killed
yourself right now, you'd just be a washed-up loser who couldn't hack
it. If you'd done it ten years earlier, you would've been going out on
top -- a champion, retiring permanently." She set her mug down with a
harder-than-necessary clunk.
Sometimes, Lil and I are right on the same wavelength. Sometimes, it's
like she's on a different planet. All I could do was sit there,
horrified, and she was happy to discuss the timing of my pal's suicide.
But she was right. Dan nodded heavily, and I saw that he knew it, too.
"A day late and a dollar short," he sighed.
"Well, don't just sit there," she said. "You know what you've got to
do."
"What?" I said, involuntarily irritated by her tone.
She looked at me like I was being deliberately stupid. "He's got to get
back on top. Cleaned up, dried out, into some productive work. Get that
Whuffie up, too. _Then_ he can kill himself with dignity."
It was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard. Dan, though, was cocking an
eyebrow at her and thinking hard. "How old did you say you were?" he
asked.
"Twenty-three," she said.
"Wish I'd had your smarts at twenty-three," he said, and heaved a sigh,
straightening up. "Can I stay here while I get the job done?"