Barry B. Longyear - The Advocate.pdf

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THE ADVOCATE
by Barry B. Longyear
Barry B Longyear, author of “Enemy Mine” (September 1979), is still the
only author to win the Nebula, Hugo, and John W. Campbell Award for Best
New Writer in the same year. After a very long absence, we are delighted to
welcome him back to the pages of Asimov’s with “The Advocate.” The
author tells us this story follows his philosophy of “‘writing jujitsu,’ which
involves taking all those things preventing one’s writing and turning them
into stories. Using a Palm TE2, this tale was written almost entirely in
hospitals and doctors’ waiting rooms.”
* * * *
The point of this exercise, Dr. Hunter, is to relieve me of the eternal
burdens of appointments, health plans, mind-numbing medications,
nitrous-inhaling physicians, and malpractice-paralyzed neurologists so that I
may do this thing I do: Write Stories. I’ve seen my last needle, spent my
last hour in a waiting room, and explained for the absolutely last time how
important it is for a writer to have a working brain and that, without such
keeping the remainder at temperature is a medical, not literary, ambition.
From now on let Craig deal with all of that, for that is what I have named my
imprint bio. I have copied my engrams into a Biotronics stock meat suit, and
he is fully authorized to advocate on my behalf concerning health matters.
One of his chores is to keep track of me and pass on anything significant to
the medical community, such as it is. I’m keeping a record of sorts to aid in
this endeavor. It is my earnest hope that a cure to my ailment can be
found—Craig will do all I could do to aid in that quest. If it will be one big
waste of time, though, I won’t be the one who is wasting it. I’ll be writing.
Ta,
Larry Cragan (send)
—
Note: Call Jennifer tomorrow and find out how I can work having Craig
pay all the bills, take care of the correspondence, and maintain the house,
too, without signing over my power of attorney. This could be the answer to
several of my prayers. (Encrypt).
* * * *
Craig. I decided to call the biological carrier of my imprint Craig
 
because—well, you look like a Craig. Have you seen the Biotronics
brochure? I don’t know whose DNA was used, but you look like a used-car
salesman who aspires to higher things: New cars, perhaps. Excepting that
you haven’t been around long enough to complete first grade, I would’ve
pegged you as a college football hero.
I’ve been looking into getting back to that novel set in Ancient Rome,
the one about St. George. The maps, notes, papers—everything is
covered in heaps of dust and the occasional dead insect. Get the materials
down for me and clean them up.
On the health front, headaches at normal levels, eating okay, not
taking any of the medications, which I think has lessened my nausea.
I want to go back to drinking coffee. Go buy some. You know what
kind.
Larry (file)
* * * *
Creepy looking at that strange face knowing that the brain behind it is
identical to mine— Was identical to mine. With each passing second our
experiences differ more. Leave us not forget I carry the Nuyune’s Disease.
Yes, leave us not forget, except that’s what Nuyune’s Disease does.
What’s that?
What Nuyune’s Disease does?
Yes. What’s it do?
I’m afraid I’ve forgotten—oh, that’s right! Presenile dementia.
Nuy-une’s Disease causes one to forget.
Thanks. I’d forgotten.
—
Find us—find me a cure, Craig.
—
Note: I wonder if Craig will come up with ideas different from my own.
 
Different paths lead to different experiences. Different input results in
different output. Will I need to remind him to write down our (his) story
ideas? He is a writer, after all. Never made a sale, but has all the
experience. If Craig’s ideas differ from my own and my own experience,
are they truly my ideas? I don’t want them if they’re his .
Bigger problem: I may have to invent a new pronoun.
* * * *
I’ve neither filed, sent, nor encrypted any of the last few entries.
Screw it. Craig, I can’t be bothered. You know what needs to be done. A
patient must be his own best advocate, they say, and that is your mission.
Go and advocate. Just take care of the stuff.
* * * *
We have to meet as infrequently as possible, Craig. I can’t put the
threat of Nuyune’s aside and concentrate on writing if you’re hanging about
all the time. I know I’ve been using you like an errand boy and I apologize
(to myself yet!). Craig, you say it bothers you to see me, too. Your
legitimate papers came through and I have you on the payroll. Money,
freedom, a brain: Go get a room.
Doesn’t like to see me but he sure doesn’t mind seeing himself in his
new body. Thirty pounds lighter, thirty years younger, lots of hair, no back
pain, two working knees—his brain isn’t turning into a neurofibrillary jungle
either. Bastard.
Envying myself: strange sensation—
Oh. Brain note: Trying to sort out the St. George project notes. What
a mess. Can’t seem to get it together. Maybe I’ll get started on that fantasy
novel I wanted to do. Set in the thirties about the young girl from Alabama
whose parents die and she has to go live with an uncle she’s never met in
Maine. Forget the damned plot now...
...and Uncle Gregor awakened to find he had become a giant black
fly—
Maybe something else.
What is the easiest kind of story to write? A how-to. So, what do I
know how to do? I can write, but I already wrote that book. Used to collect
 
coins until I got bored with it. Skiing, until the knees went. Hunt-and-peck
piano playing. Some squirt and dabble watercolors. How-to. How about a
mediocrity how-to: How-To Not Do Anything Really Well , split infinitive and
all.
One Hundred and One Steps to Step One Hundred and Two.
Health. Feeling slower. Stupider. Knuckles hurt. Very low.
* * * *
Carla just left, Craig. My sister wants to know why I just don’t
cut-and-paste my imprint into a bio and turn sick old Larry into fertilizer. I
told her doing it the way I did it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Well, why not do it now, she wanted to know.
A problem with that, Carla. See, I can already tell there’s substantial
erosion of Larry’s mental faculties, much of it in recall memory. The whole
point of preserving Craig’s imprint intact was ... oh, I dunno: to preserve his
imprint intact! What would be the point of copying over it with an imprint
eaten full of holes by some damned disease?
Well, then why not simply let Craig go on and zero out Larry, she’d
like to know?
Zero out; that means to blank out the brain, leaving the medical
community free to pick through the leftovers: An eyeball here, a lung there,
a liver here, whatever. What do you think, Craig? We turn me into giblets
and you go on and write?
What the hell. Call Jennifer and ask if there’s a legal way to do that
now. On second thought, I better ask her. If you ask her it’d sound like you
might be planning something naughty.
Installed the voice recognition software. Getting tough controlling my
fingers. Wonder if it makes any difference.
* * * *
Tough to put all this aside. The words get on the paper but it’s like
pulling teeth. Three to five thousand words a day, finished and ready to
send to an editor: I remember taking that kind of production for granted.
 
God, what an ungrateful snot I was when I was young. Lucky if I get that out
in a week now, and although it may be all through, it’s not finished.
Haven’t heard from Craig in three weeks. Four weeks. Told him not to
call unless he had really important news. Guess he hasn’t any important
news. Check in anyway, Craig. I miss you, or me, you-me. Never did invent
that damned pronoun. Youme? Meyou? Meow.
Wonder what I’d do if I was no longer chained to a desk. Good back,
strong legs, a bright future, a decrepitating alter ego back home in the
wings. I used to ski. Loved it. Still dream about it. I wonder if Craig can ski. I
know he wants to. Lot more fun than taking care of Larry. I’ll ask myself if I
ever see me again.
Wet the bed last night. I can rebel against the damned diapers all I
want, but cleanup is a bitch.
* * * *
“The Blue Dragon Project? Remember it?” Craig asks on the phone.
I think for a moment. Something about ghosts in Blue Dragon Lake.
“What about it?”
“Barlow over at Knopf wants to see it. I talked to him a few days ago
and he called to tell me Jefferson will get a contract offer by messenger.
He doesn’t even want to see a written proposal. Jefferson just gave me
the okay. It’s a great deal, Larry.”
Jefferson?
“What about it?”
“Craig, aren’t you supposed to be finding out how to help me beat this
damned disease? I’m doing the writing. You go find a cure.”
Big sigh. “Right. Call Jefferson, will you?” and he hung up.
Jefferson.
I look in the address book. Only one Jefferson in it. Jefferson Dunn.
Literary agent. But my agent ... No, Carly Tommasino. She died, didn’t she?
Couldn’t remember going to Carly’s funeral. Crappy agent anyway. Didn’t
 

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