Speculative sullivan the.., p.88
Speculative Sullivan: The Collected Short Fiction, page 88
The cargo bay was repaired. There was little damage done to the station otherwise, and the other two victims recovered from their injuries.
We all mourned Moira, but no one on the station was as consumed with guilt over her death as I was. It wasn’t just that I had been her half-hearted lover. She was doing my job for me in the cargo bay when the bomb went off, seeing to it that I had time to myself. Her kindness and caring had meant little to me while she was alive, but now I understood that what I had taken for granted was gone. I longed to have her back.
Colonel Radin, the station commander, arranged a memorial broadcast to Earth, a delayed elegy to Moira that was watched by billions of people. When it was my turn to speak, I could not contain my fury.
“Whoever did this, I want you to know that you didn’t kill an enemy of the people. Moira had no wealth, no connections to the oligarchy. She was a bright, hard-working woman who had made her own way. More importantly, she was a kind, giving person, and you’ve accomplished nothing good with your brutal crime. I hope there is a hell, and that you burn there through eternity for what you’ve done.”
I realized that I was screaming these last words and backed away from the lens. Eyes were averted as I pulled myself past my colleagues toward my quarters, where I could brood in solitude.
I suppose it was odd that I thought of hell as a punishment for the saboteurs. I believed in it more than I believed in heaven, but only in the corporeal sense. To me, everything boiled down to physics. The concept of an afterlife must have come from the appearance of uber-symmetrical ghosts in the distant past. There had been no electronic equipment to sort out the signals, of course, but maybe ghosts had been made manifest on rare occasions, appearing in free-floating plasma or the like.
WHEN THE AUTHORITIES apprehended the murderers who had sent the bomb from Mars, I felt little satisfaction. Moira would not be the last to die. The hatred would continue to spread outward wherever humankind ventured.
My anger became depression that turned into despair. As the days passed, I ignored my duties, coming out of my quarters only when directly ordered. I was a disruptive presence on the station due to my emotional state. Colonel Radin had had enough and was planning to send me back to Earth when Natalia buzzed and told me Dad’s signal had reappeared.
“It’s coming in strong, Jim,” she said.
I thanked her and signed off. I lay in my web for quite a while, making no effort to go to the memory cage.
Did I really want to see Dad? I was so immersed in thoughts of death that visiting a dead man was the last thing I wanted to do. I almost stayed in my quarters, but in the end I remembered my regret after I lost Dad the last time, and decided that I might as well say good-bye to him. I was going back to the troubled Earth soon anyway, so I’d never have another chance to meet with his ghost firsthand again.
I hauled my desultory ass out of the web, opened the hatch, and started down the long, gray corridor to the memory cage.
“Hello, Natalia,” I said, arriving at my destination, which seemed much farther away than I remembered.
“Hi, Jim.” She smiled at me, if only to be polite. My appearance must have been appalling, not to mention my odor. I hadn’t bathed, shaved, or cleaned my teeth since the memorial service.
“You’ll need to fumigate the cage after I use it,” I said.
“I’m not worried about it.”
Dad certainly wouldn’t worry about it, either. The hatch to the memory cage opened and I stooped to crawl inside and position myself in the cocoon.
“Ready?” Natalia asked, peering in at me.
“Yeah.”
She shut the hatch with a faint ringing of metal. I was all by myself once more, my only light the faint blue circle around the exit button.
But not for long. Some luminous streaks materialized. They coalesced, firmed up, and there was Dad, still in the nude, exactly as he was the night of his death. Forty-five going on a thousand, a little out of shape but still well built.
“Jimmy,” he said. “You look terrible. What’s the matter?”
I was disarmed by his concern, expecting more of the self-pity he had displayed at our previous meeting.
“I . . .”
“You . . . what?”
“I lost someone.”
“Was it someone close to you?”
“Yes, I didn’t realize how close . . . until she died.”
“I’m so sorry,” my father’s ghost said to me.
“Don’t be sorry for me, Dad,” I said. “I wasn’t very good to her.”
“That happens,” he said.
“I was too self-absorbed.”
“We all are on occasion, it’s only human.”
“I’ve been like this for a long, long time.”
“How long?”
“Nearly a hundred and fifty years.”
“A hundred and fifty years . . .?”
“That’s right.”
His eyes brightened. “Medical science has advanced that far?”
“Yeah, DNA mapping, personalized nutrition, fixbees.”
“Fixbees?” Dad said. “What are they?”
“Microscopic, self-replicating robots that keep tissues in good repair. It didn’t come along until after you were gone.”
He whistled in amazement.
“Anyhow, I talked my way into being an early experimental subject, and it was pretty successful. My cells have been rejuvenating ever since.”
“You look so young, though. How long can this last?”
“It depends on new developments,” I said, “but fifty years more, maybe even longer.”
“Where are you, son, in a medical complex of some kind?”
“No, I’m on a research station orbiting Titan.”
“Titan?” I saw wonder in his eyes. “Saturn’s moon?”
“Yup.”
“It really is a marvelous future.”
“In some ways,” I said, “but there’s a lot of pain, a lot of violence.”
“Is that what happened to your friend? Violence?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a war?”
“Yeah, people are killing each other on Earth, Mars, the asteroid belt, and now out here.”
“What’s the cause?”
“There’s not enough fresh water and food for most of the people on Earth to live on.”
“Oh, Jim.” He sighed and shook his head.
“I know, Dad, it never ends.”
“There was a time when we thought it would.”
“I remember.”
“We tried to make the dictators see a better way.”
“By using force?”
He bowed his head. “Yes.”
“Isn’t that the dictators’ way?”
“I’m afraid so.” Sorrow was creeping back into his voice. “We saw no choice but to fight fire with fire.”
“I know that.” I had to make it clear that I didn’t want to hurt him again. “Dad, I’m not blaming you.”
He looked up at me, surprised. “Not even for what happened to Jerry?”
“Not even for that.”
“You should, you know.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” I said, leaning in toward his image, wishing I could get a whiff of his aftershave.
“Then why have you been so mad at me?”
“Not because Jerry died, because you deserted us.”
“Deserted . . . under fire?”
“You could say that.”
His wet eyes seemed to clear as he focused on me. “I never thought of it that way.”
“You told us we had to be good soldiers, always be there for each other, and then you left when we needed you most.”
“I see.”
I felt a tear fall onto my chest. I wiped my eyes with my fingers.
“Jimmy,” my father said, “can you forgive me?”
“That’s what I need, Dad, forgiveness.”
“Then we’ll forgive each other . . . and forgive ourselves as well.”
“Can we?” I asked, sniffling.
“Of course we can,” he said. “We must.”
“Then let’s do it.”
He smiled for the first time in two centuries. “It’s good to see you again, Jim, no matter how briefly.”
“I need you, Dad,” I said.
“I’m here, son.”
“But you’re not, not really.”
“Yes I am, Jimmy.”
“Are you?”
“Cross my heart.”
“You’re not just a projection of my unconscious?”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m . . . I’m your father.”
“When I was a kid, I thought you were Superman.”
“Of course you did,” he said. “Every kid sees his father that way.”
“Why did you leave us, Dad?” I said.
His sad, bloodshot eyes were aimed right at mine. “I have my weaknesses, like anyone else.”
“But you fought in a war.”
“Yes, and I depended on other guys to help me make it through.”
“Why couldn’t you do that for us?”
“Because I was a coward.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Face it, Jim,” Dad said. “I was.”
“Then I must be one, too.”
“Why?”
“My life has been an endless series of evasions. I don’t let anyone get close.”
“But the woman who died, you cared about her?”
“I did, but I never tried to make it work.”
“Did you love her?”
“Yes.”
“You made a mistake,” Dad said. “We all do.”
“It’s too late to rectify it.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“I’m incomplete, Dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been too afraid to be whole, because of what happened to our family.”
“You can’t be like that, son. Don’t give up. Don’t do what I did. Don’t ever give up.”
He started to fade.
“Dad, please stay!”
His image scattered into an uncountable number of light flecks and guttered out, leaving me in the dark once again. I understood now that he had no control over his departure. I would never speak with him again, but I knew that he had not deserted me this time.
Don’t ever give up.
Those were my father’s last words to me.
I pressed the palm button and the hatch swung open, light from outside dazzling me. Natalia was standing by, ready to help. She took my hand and I slid out of the cocoon. Her grip was firm and warm. As my eyes adjusted, I found myself looking into her green eyes as though I’d never seen her before.
“How did it go?” she asked, handing me a tissue.
“It went fine, Natalia,” I said, blowing my nose, “just fine.”
“Is he all right?”
“Who?”
She smiled. “How many people were in there?”
“Just me and my dad,” I said, laughing and crying at the same time, “nobody else.”
“Nobody?”
“Not now, but maybe there will be, sometime.”
Yeshua’s Dog
Here’s a work of speculative fiction that takes us back in time about 1,950 years or so. Followers of the teachings of the most famous rabbi of Galilee might want to bear in mind that this story is a work of fiction.
THE PEOPLE OF KFAR NAHUM mourned Yeshua, despite the aloof attitude he had taken toward our little fishing village near the end of his life. We could forgive this prideful lapse, attributing it to his age and his association with his aristocratic visitor. After all, he’d entertained generations of us with his stories, and so we missed him despite the folly of his dotage.
But nobody in Kfar Nahum missed him as much as his dog, Judas.
We could not know, on the day we carried Yeshua up the hill to his tomb, that we would never again see the reddish-brown mongrel grinning and wagging his tail, nuzzling us with his wet nose, licking our hands, or visiting families and sharing their food as if he were the mascot for the entire community.
After Yeshua’s body was washed, clothed in its cerements, spoken over by Rabbi Shmuel, and his praises sung by the cantor, he was laid in the tomb and the stone was rolled over the entrance. Poor Judas lay on the ground whimpering. A few people tried to take him home with them, but he was too big to carry and he would not go of his own accord.
The old hound stayed by Yeshua’s tomb most of the time from that day on, no longer ranging along the waterfront begging for food, as he had done since he was a puppy. We brought him bones, but he didn’t chew on them with his former enthusiasm. Even patrolling Roman soldiers from the garrison threw him scraps, so piteous had he become with his tail always between his legs. As soon as he had taken a few desultory bites Judas would return to lie down next to his master’s tomb.
I had never seen such a forlorn beast. His fur, formerly as russet as a Celt’s hair, lost its luster, and his tail no longer retained its feathery thickness. He had always barked in joy when people came to see his master, but now he was silent.
We all remembered how content he had been when Yeshua began a story, assuming his position at the old man’s feet and happily dreaming his canine dreams.
No more.
Occasionally, I’d hike up to the tomb to bring the poor animal water, and to leave a few wildflowers outside Yeshua’s tomb, remembering the old man’s toothless grin as he spun out another yarn of his days as a prophet.
Yeshua took an interest in me and trained me in carpentry after my father Binyamin died when I was eight. Many was the time he scratched his beard while I cursed after smashing my thumb or cutting my palm on an adze edge. He always praised my oaths and epithets, saying I was clever with words.
He was good to me, but my mother Ruth claimed to her dying day that he had been a terrible influence, that I was a bachelor because of my friendship with him, and that I should have married my childhood sweetheart Miriam when I had the chance. The real reason I never married had nothing to do with Yeshua, however. Miriam was a little too much like my mother in temperament, and I prefer living alone anyway.
All the more time to absorb Yeshua’s tall tales. He was so good at storytelling that eventually he was able to give up his profession and make a meager living on donations from people who relished his verbal entertainments.
Despite my dislike of the trade, I took over his shop when he retired.
Toward the end of his life, everything changed for him. A Greek doctor came all the way from Antioch to meet him and write down some of Yeshua’s wildest tales to put in a book.
I guessed that they didn’t have storytellers like old Yeshua in Antioch. In the big city, they must have been too busy to enjoy such a simple pleasure. But people along the Sea of Galilee’s shore enjoyed sitting around listening to an old man dream aloud while the fire crackled and a dog slept at his feet. It was cheaper than the whorehouse, and you couldn’t catch anything from it. There was even wine to wash down the harmless lies Yeshua so loved to tell.
Speaking of wine, you should have heard him recount the one about the wedding party. It seems that the guests didn’t have enough to drink, so Yeshua somehow transformed water into wine. Nobody thought to ask him where he’d learned such potent magic, because he tossed in so many details that you just sat there enraptured by the story. The way he described the good folks who gathered to celebrate the mating of two handsome young people, you wanted to believe that they hadn’t been disappointed, even if it required a miracle. He added something about Yahweh wanting it that way, just in case you might suspect it was the work of ha-Satan or some other demon. He was always cautious to avoid even a hint of blasphemy. There was a good reason for that, which I was to learn not long before he died.
Of course, Yeshua didn’t turn water into wine when I knew him, but there was plenty of wine provided by his guests. And that was the way his old age went, while I labored in the carpentry shop I had inherited from him.
And then the Greek came along one day while I was drinking Cypriot wine with Yeshua. The finery he wore and the caravan that accompanied him, replete with caparisoned camels, were sights not soon forgotten. Yeshua and I went to take a look as they drew up in the dust outside his place.
The Greek got off his camel and asked whose house it was.
“It’s mine,” Yeshua said.
“Are you Yeshua, the storyteller?” the wealthy stranger asked in tones as silken as his gold-trimmed garments.
“I am,” Yeshua said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Lucanus.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve come to record some of your tales so that they may be read in Greek.”
“I’m sorry, but my Greek’s not very good.”
“That’s all right,” the stranger said. “I have an Aramaic translator with me.”
“What did you say you want to do with my tales?” Yeshua asked.
“I want to write them down.”
“Write them down?” This appeared to confound the old miracle worker.
“Yes, so that they can be reproduced by scribes and distributed all around the Great Sea.”
For a man who lived on the Sea of Galilee—little more than a lake—that was a most impressive statement. “All around the Great Sea, you say?”
“Yes, all over the empire, wherever civilized people read Greek.”
“Well, I don’t know. . . .”
“You’ll be well paid for your trouble.”
Yeshua beamed and assumed the role of cordial host that I knew so well. “You must be tired after coming all this way, Lucanus. Do come in and rest.”
“Thank you,” the Greek said. He clapped his hands and his servants unstrapped a chest borne by a riderless camel. He opened it and withdrew styli and wax tablets. Now that he had what he needed for transcribing the tales, he asked where his men and animals might rest. Yeshua told Lucanus’s men they could camp down the street by the neighborhood well, before ushering his guest and the translator into the house.
I tried to go in with them, but Yeshua said, “Not now, Elijah.” He shook his head and winked behind Lucanus’s back. It was as if I were privy to the game, but not a direct part of it. It was disappointing, but I understood.
