Robert Reed - Intolerance.pdf

(30 KB) Pobierz
303320427 UNPDF
Intolerance by Robert Reed
Sometimes we'll assemble an issue of F&SF with a particular theme in mind, and sometimes a
theme will find us. This month it seems like most of the stories have some consideration of
parent-child relationships to them--perhaps none more so than Robert Reed's closer for the issue.
* * * *
"Hey, I'm speaking to you. Yes, you, my friend. Are those mammoth ears attached to some kind of
neural network? Can you comprehend simple slow diction? I wish to be released on this approaching
corner. Pull over, yes, thank you. And will you help me with these damned straps? Mechanical strength is
not my strength, as you can plainly see."
The cab driver is a stocky fellow, sweating rivers despite the chill of the vehicle's air conditioning. He
turns to stare at his only passenger, jaw locked and his fleshy cheeks coloring. But he says nothing. He
forces himself to remain silent, one broad hand reaching warily for the straps' latch.
"You've grown weary of my company," the passenger observes. "You want me gone. You want me out
of your life. Well, I will abide in your heartfelt wishes. Never again will our paths cross, my friend. Until I
rule the world, of course, and then I will personally crush the likes of you."
The hand jumps back.
"The likes of me?" the driver whispers. Then louder, he asks, "What the hell do you know about me?"
"You judge," says the shrill little voice. "Despite a lifetime of red meat and cheap beer, you have survived
into your early fifties. The gold band on your finger promises a wife, but the absence of prominent digitals
implies that she isn't cherished. Nor are there any bright-faced children worthy of a father's pride. Judging
by the name filling up your license, you are Serbian. A genuine doormat race. The trace of an accent tells
me you came to this country as a teenage boy, probably during your homeland's last civil insurrection.
And judging by the little talismans scattered across your dashboard, you belong to some kind of fossilized
Christian faith. Which makes you both extremely superstitious and mindlessly conservative ... two very
nasty qualities for our modern world, I believe...!"
The driver squelches a curse.
The passenger laughs. "Does my little rant bother you? It is a problem, I can tell. That grunting, sweaty,
swollen, and outmoded body of yours conveys volumes. Your animal wishes are obvious. Right now, this
moment, you are picturing my frail body tossed beneath the next beer truck, crushed and dead. Is that
what you wish, sir? There is no point lying here, or in diluting the truth."
A thumb strikes the latch and the restraining belts fly off. Then the curbside door opens, and the driver
asks, "What the hell kind of creature are you?"
"A creature of ideas," the passenger exclaims with a toothy smile.
"Get out."
"I am doing just that. As fast as I can."
"Out!"
"But before I go ... let me tell you something true, my dear friend. We know exactly how the universe
began, and when and how it shall end. Humans taught themselves these great lessons. The gods never
helped us. And for each of us--for the universe and for humans alike--what lies between birth and death
is an unrelenting tedium spiced with the occasional sweet novelty."
 
The driver mutters under his breath, and the taxi door slams shut.
"My pack," the passenger cries out. "Or are you a thief?"
A window drops, and out tumbles a small transparent backpack. Then with a choked voice, the driver
screams, "Monster," as he pulls away from the curb, wringing all of the speed from his vehicle's fuel cells,
leaving behind a whiff of perfumed moisture that lingers in the bright sunny air.
The monster stands alone on the sidewalk, laughing quietly. Less than a meter tall and not quite eighteen
kilos, he wears blue running shoes adorned with daisies and white socks with frills and a stained Pooh
shirt and dark blue shorts that bulge with the diaper. His skin is pale and smooth. His knees bow out a
little bit. He seems to be thirty or thirty-two months old, except in the face. The brown eyes are busy and
smart, while the tiny mouth wears a perpetual smirk, as if the world around him is both humorous and
contemptible, in equal measures.
Inside his backpack are supplies for his day: a folded reader and an old-fashioned cell phone, several
spare diapers and wipes, snacks on edible plates, a press-wrapped change of clothes, and a
police-grade taser. His electronic money is tucked inside his current diaper--the first place a thief would
look, but he has already peed enough to fend off those with weak wills.
The monster--he goes by Cabe--slips on the pack's plastic straps and sets off, walking north with a
determined gait. The pack rattles softly. The daisies on his shoes flash random colors with each step.
Other pedestrians take note. Those few who recognize him pretend not to notice. But others see a child,
and they can't help but smile at his cuteness, instinct leading the way while the brain sluggishly notes the
little details that are wrong. Then instinct fades into a clumsy puzzlement, and sometimes, intrigue. People
are generally idiots, but they are not entirely uninformed. What this creature represents is new and will
remain new and fresh for some time. But in another ten years, or twenty at the most, the costs will
tumble, and all but the very poorest of these drudges will be able to choose from a menu at least as
wondrous as the one within reach of these stubby little fingers.
The block ends with a red light and a collection of placid, sheep-like office workers. They speak to
headsets, or they don't speak at all. He pushes between their legs, reaching the curb before the light
changes. Conversations die away. Faces stare down at the top of his head. Then a phone sings the big
crescendo from Beethoven's Ninth, and with a loud clear voice, he says, "Shit."
The eyes around him grow huge.
He slips off the backpack and yanks out his Benny-the-Robot phone, looking at the incoming number
before flipping it open. "What?" he snaps.
"Where are you?" a voice asks. A woman's voice.
"Nowhere," he replies.
"I was wondering if you were free," the voice continues.
"Barely free. And it takes all of my considerable talent to remain this way."
She says, "Lunch, darling?"
"No."
"My treat."
 
"It wouldn't be mine," he snarls.
Silence is wrapped in a sharp pain. Then she says, "Cabe--"
And he disconnects, instructing his phone not to accept another call from that number. The traffic light has
turned green. But most of the pedestrians remain on the curb, confused but exceptionally curious.
"None of your business," he growls.
Faces tilt up now, and everyone crosses in a rush.
Cabe sits on the curb, stuffing the phone back where it belongs, preparing to wait through another red
light. But the traffic is light. An empty bus and a pair of old hybrids roll past, and he steps out early.
Dominating the next corner is the city's main library--a grim concrete building with tall windows on the
ground floor, allowing passersby to stare in at the derelicts and mental patients who keep the chairs filled.
Outside stands one of the resident librarians. A nervous man with a strong union and dreams of a
pension, he is smoking, probably enjoying one of the new therapeutic cigarettes made from biogenetic
tobaccos. Red eyes see the tiny figure approaching. The man takes a couple of puffs, bracing himself for
whatever happens next. What sort of cutting insult will be thrown his way? Or worse, will the creature
ask for help in some ridiculous research project? But Cabe surprises the librarian, waving once in his
general direction before turning, little legs carrying him toward the west.
Beside the library stands an even older building--an ensemble of brick and mortar that currently serves as
the downtown YWCA. Cabe usually approaches from a different direction; passing by the main entrance
has its risks. But the only soul paying attention is an old man sitting on one of the concrete stairs. The
monster gives him a little nod, and the man smiles and says, "Good day," while waving one of his bony
hands.
Around the corner waits a world of mayhem and shrill nonsense syllables, clumsy running and random
tantrums.
A three-meter fence surrounds the playground, but that overstates the security measures. From the shade
of a stunted crab apple tree, Cabe examines the assorted faces, spotting one that he doesn't know and
that will probably serve his purpose.
"Ugh!" a boy shouts at him, brown fingers wrapped in the chain link.
"Ugh yourself," Cabe mocks.
A girl joins ugh-boy, older by a year and far more verbal. She regards the newcomer with a deep
suspicion. Grabbing her companion with a protective arm, she shouts at Cabe, "Go away."
Ugh-boy squirms in her grip.
"Hello, Lilly," Cabe purrs. "And how are you on this very sweet day?"
"You're bad," she tells him.
"Indeed," he agrees.
The ugh-boy pulls free of his protector, and then losing interest in the drama, wanders off to toss rocks at
an inviting square of pavement.
"Go away," Lilly repeats.
 
"But I shall not, my dear."
The girl sighs.
"Who are you?" a new voice calls out.
Behind Lilly is a woman. She is nineteen or twenty, by appearance, and she has a pretty enough face,
legs that couldn't be any longer, and a young and nervous little voice. She is new, probably no more than
a week or two on the job. And she is exactly the kind of person busy parents wish to have watching their
offspring--a nurturing, nervous girl who will rush to the aid of any lost bunny.
"Hello?" she says to the bunny standing on the far side of the fence.
Cabe changes his expression.
She kneels, smiling tentatively. "What's your name?"
He says, "Cabe," with a delicate sniffle.
"Cabe?"
He nods, pushing out his lower lip.
"Are you in our toddler class, Cabe?" And when he doesn't answer, she asks, "Did you wander out here
on your own?"
He pretends as if those words are too complicated. A baffled look fills his pale round face.
"Where are your parents, Cabe?"
Now the tears come, bubbling from deep inside.
"Oh, dear," the woman whimpers.
But Lilly is made of sterner stuff. She stares at Cabe, her tiny jaw set, eyes like little guns shooting at him.
"Mommy," Cabe sputters.
"Oh, honey."
"Where's my ... mommy...?"
A tall gate waits just a few steps away. It takes just a moment for the young woman to use her passkey
and rush outside, and with every instinct on overdrive, she kneels and scoops up the boy in her arms,
squeezing to reassure and to make absolutely certain that he won't slip away from her caring grasp.
Again and again, Cabe says, "Mommy," while he pushes his crying face into her chest.
"Where is your mommy?" she asks.
"Gone."
"Gone where, darling?"
"Gone, gone!"
 
The words have an impact, visceral and disarming. She leans into his body and starts to weep for herself.
Others notice their little show. Lilly has never stopped staring at Cabe, mouthing the word "Bad" from
time to time. But the approaching adults are the ones who will stop the fun. So with a final low sob, Cabe
says, "I'm hungry," and moves his mouth to the right.
Like most of the daycare staff, the young woman is dressed for comfort and ease of motion. She's
wearing a loose-fitting, relatively low-cut shirt. It is the simplest trick in the world to reach down, yanking
on the shirt and bra in one motion, exposing a breast. Then he takes the pink nipple as if he has never
been so famished, and he sucks with urgency. But it isn't until he uses his tongue and mutters the words,
"Yes," and then, "Sweet," that the woman finally appreciates what is happening here.
* * * *
"Next time, we will press charges."
The Y director accompanies him down the concrete steps. She is furious, but only to a point. Both know
this is a game. Law enforcement won't gladly arrest him. No prosecuting attorney wants to see Cabe
sitting in the courtroom. He can field a team of powerful lawyers, and his gifts of persuasion are the stuff
of legend, whether used on a hardened judge or a hapless jury. Besides, case law and the statutes are
changing daily, and it is a giant question as to how he can be charged.
"Get out of here!" the director warns.
He laughs at her and blows a kiss.
"So what'd you do wrong?"
The old man is speaking to him. He was sitting on a high step when Cabe walked past the entrance, and
now he's sitting on the lowest step.
With a quiet laugh, Cabe says, "I did nothing of significance."
"The lady seems to hold a different opinion."
"And boys are entitled to a little fun."
"Well, nothing wrong with that logic," the old man concedes.
Cabe sits on a higher step, keeping their eyes at the same level.
With the first glance, the man appears frail. Feeble. He has thin white hair, long but combed, and the
speckled skin of an unreformed sunbather. His clothes are worn and a little too large for his wiry frame,
hanging on him as if illness or time has eroded away a much larger body. But his frailty doesn't extend
deeper than his skin. He winks at the person sitting near him, a bright smile framed by a handsome,
surprisingly boyish face. His breathing is slow and comfortable. Judging by his bare arms, his muscle tone
is that of a hardened athlete. And his voice has strength and clarity, particularly when he asks his
companion, "So how old are you, really?"
Cabe just smiles.
"The original rejuvenators came on the market what? Ten years ago? But they take you back only a few
years, and then only if you're past fifty or so." The man nods, considering the possibilities. "Of course the
second-generation bunch is better. But even the Novartis package has that ugly habit of goosing the
wrong genes and giving you cancer, or shutting down essential genes, leaving you dead."
 

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika:

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin