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  It had been a fall day, Roderick reminded himself, a fall day bright and clear, a more beautiful day than days ever were now. A stiff, bright wind had been blowing right through all the sunshine. He had worn jeans, a Peoria White Sox cap, and a polka-dot shirt. He had kept his airbike low where the wind wasn't quite so strong, had climbed on Rex's shoulders, and watched as Rex had taken down the bar that held the big doors shut….

  “Now,” the teaching cyborg said, “are there any additional questions?” Roderick looked up just in time to see the corner of the white Wickedwicker howdah vanish behind Rex's sleeping shed.

  “Yes.” He raised his hand. “What became of the boy?”

  “The government assumed responsibility for his nurturing and upbringing,” the teaching cyborg explained. “He received sensitivity training and reeducation in societal values and has become a responsible citizen.”

  When the teaching cyborg, her female attendant, and all the children had gone, Rex said, “You know, I always wondered what happened to you.”

  Roderick mopped his perspiring forehead. “You knew who I was all the time, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  There was a silence. Far away, as if from another time or another world, children spoke in excited voices and a lion roared. “Nothing happened to me,” Roderick said; it was clearly necessary to say something. “I grew up, that's all.”

  “Those reeducation machines, they really burn it into you. That's what I heard.”

  “No, I grew up. That's all.”

  “I see. Can I ask why you keep lookin' at me like that?”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Thinkin' what?”

  “Nothing.” With iron fists, stone shoulders, and steelshod feet, words broke down the doors of his heart and forced their way into his mouth. “Your kind used to rule the Earth.”

  “Yeah.” Rex nodded. He turned away, leaving for Roderick his serpentine tail and wide, ridged back—both the color of a grape skin that has been chewed up and spit out into the dust. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “You, too.”

  The Wisdom of Old Earth

  MICHAEL SWANWICK

  Michael Swanwick had a big year in 1997, what with the publication of his new novel, Jack Faust, that had weekly advertisements in The New Yorker for a while, and the appearance of his second short story collection, A Geography of Unknown Lands, in trade paperback from Tigereyes Press, a small press in Pennsylvania. Tachyon Press also published a small volume of his essays on SF and fantasy. A significant portion of his fiction in recent years has been fantasy but here he returns to science fiction and at the top of his form. He calls this his Jack London story. It continues the trend noted last year of SF writers today looking back to early writers, particularly one such as London who also wrote good SF, and stealing their thunder. It certainly is tough and violent, but like the Wolfe story, has some implications that stimulate thought a good while after the first reading. It appeared in Asimov's and is only the first of several in this book from that magazine, which seemed to me to publish a slightly higher percentage of SF, as opposed to fantasy of various sorts, this past year.

  Judith Seize-the-Day was, quite simply, the best of her kind. Many another had aspired to the clarity of posthuman thought, and several might claim some rude mastery of its essentials, but she alone came to understand it as completely as any offworlder.

  Such understanding did not come easily. The human mind is slow to generalize and even slower to integrate. It lacks the quicksilver apprehension of the posthuman. The simplest truth must be repeated often to imprint even the most primitive understanding of what comes naturally and without effort to the space-faring children of humanity. Judith had grown up in Pole Star City, where the shuttles slant down through the zone of permanent depletion in order to avoid further damage to the fragile ozone layer, and thus from childhood had associated extensively with the highly evolved. It was only natural that as a woman she would elect to turn her back on her own brutish kind and strive to bootstrap herself into a higher order.

  Yet even then she was like an ape trying to pass as a philosopher. For all her laborious ponderings, she did not yet comprehend the core wisdom of posthumanity, which was that thought and action must be as one. Being a human, however, when she did comprehend, she understood it more deeply and thoroughly than the posthumans themselves. As a Canadian, she could tap into the ancient and chthonic wisdoms of her race. Where her thought went, the civilized mind could not follow.

  It would be expecting too much of such a woman that she would entirely hide her contempt for her own kind. She cursed the two trollish Ninglanders who were sweating and chopping a way through the lush tangles of kudzu, and drove them onward with the lash of her tongue.

  “Unevolved bastard pigs!” she spat. “Inbred degenerates! If you ever want to get home to molest your dogs and baby sisters again, you'll put your backs into it!”

  The larger of the creatures looked back at her with an angry gleam in his eye, and his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his machete. She only grinned humorlessly, and patted the holster of her ankh. Such weapons were rarely allowed humans. Her possession of it was a mark of the great respect in which she was held.

  The brute returned to his labor.

  It was deepest winter, and the jungle tracts of what had once been the mid-Atlantic coastlands were traversable. Traversable, that is, if one had a good guide. Judith was among the best. She had brought her party alive to the Flying Hills of southern Pennsylvania, and not many could have done that. Her client had come in search of the fabled bell of liberty, which many another party had sought in vain. She did not believe he would find it either. But that did not concern her.

  All that concerned her was their survival.

  So she cursed and drove the savage Ninglanders before her, until all at once they broke through the vines and brush out of shadow and into a clearing.

  All three stood unmoving for an instant, staring out over the clumps and hillocks of grass that covered the foundations of what had once been factories, perhaps, or workers' housing, gasoline distribution stations, grist mills, shopping malls…. Even the skyline was uneven. Mystery beckoned from every ambiguous lump.

  It was almost noon. They had been walking since sundown.

  Judith slipped on her goggles and scanned the gray skies for navigation satellites. She found three radar beacons within range. A utility accepted their input and calculated her position: less than a hundred miles from Philadelphia. They'd made more distance than she'd expected. The empathic function mapped for her the locations of her party: three, including herself, then one, then two, then one, strung over a mile and a half of trail. That was wrong.

  Very wrong indeed.

  “Pop the tents,” she ordered, letting the goggles fall around her neck. “Stay out of the food.”

  The Ninglanders dropped their packs. One lifted a refrigeration stick over his head like a spear and slammed it into the ground. A wash of cool air swept over them all. His lips curled with pleasure, revealing broken yellow teeth.

  She knew that if she lingered, she would not be able to face the oppressive jungle heat again. So, turning, Judith strode back the way she'd come. Rats scattered at her approach, disappearing into hot green shadow.

  The first of her party she encountered was Harry Work-to-Death. His face was pale and he shivered uncontrollably. But he kept walking, because to stop was to die. They passed each other without a word. Judith doubted he would live out the trip. He had picked up something after their disastrous spill in the Hudson. There were opiates enough in what survived of the medical kit to put him out of his misery, but she did not make him the offer.

  She could not bring herself to.

  Half a mile later came Leeza Child-of-Scorn and Maria Triumph-of-the-Will, chattering and laughing together. They stopped when they saw her. Judith raised her ankh in the air, and shook it so that they could feel its aura scrape ever so lightly against their nervous systems.

&nb
sp; “Where is the offworlder?” The women shrank from her anger. “You abandoned him. You dared. Did you think you could get away with it? You were fools if you did!”

  Wheedlingly, Leeza said, “The sky man knew he was endangering the rest of us, so he asked to be left behind.” She and Maria were full-blooded Canadians, like Judith, free of the taint of Southern genes. They had been hired for their intelligence, and intelligence they had—a low sort of animal cunning that made them dangerously unreliable when the going got hard. “He insisted.”

  “It was very noble of him,” Maria said piously.

  “I'll give you something to be noble about if you don't turn around and lead me back to where you left him.” She holstered her ankh, but did not lock it down. “Now!” With blows of her fists, she forced them down the trail. Judith was short, stocky, all muscle. She drove them before her like the curs that they were.

  The offworlder lay in the weeds where he had been dropped, one leg twisted at an odd angle. The litter that Judith had lashed together for him had been flung into the bushes.

  His clothes were bedraggled, and the netting had pulled away from his collar. But weak as he was, he smiled to see her. “I knew you would return for me.” His hands fluttered up in a gesture indicating absolute confidence. “So I was careful to avoid moving. The fracture will have to be reset. But that's well within your capabilities, I'm sure.”

  “I haven't lost a client yet.” Judith unlaced his splint and carefully straightened the leg. Posthumans, spending so much of their time in microgravity environments, were significantly less robust than their ancestral stock. Their bones broke easily. Yet when she reset the femur and tied up the splint again with lengths of nylon cord, he didn't make a sound. His kind had conscious control over their endorphin production. Judith checked his neck for ticks and chiggers, then tucked in his netting. “Be more careful with this. There are a lot of ugly diseases loose out here.”

  “My immune system is stronger than you'd suspect. If the rest of me were as strong, I wouldn't be holding you back like this.”

  As a rule, she liked the posthuman women better than their men. The men were hothouse flowers—flighty, elliptical, full of fancies and elaboration. Their beauty was the beauty of a statue; all sculptured features and chill affect. The offworlder, however, was not like that. His look was direct. He was as solid and straightforward as a woman.

  “While I was lying here, I almost prayed for a rescue party.”

  To God, she thought he meant. Then saw how his eyes lifted briefly, involuntarily, to the clouds and the satellites beyond. Much that for humans required machines, a posthuman could accomplish with precisely tailored neural implants.

  “They would've turned you down.” This Judith knew for a fact. Her mother, Ellen To-the-Manner-Born, had died in the jungles of Wisconsin, eaten away with gangrene and cursing the wardens over an open circuit.

  “Yes, of course, one life is nothing compared to the health of the planet.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Yet still, I confess I was tempted.”

  “Put him back in the litter,” she told the women. “Carry him gently.” In the Québecois dialect, which she was certain her client did not know, she added, “Do this again, and I'll kill you.”

  She lagged behind, letting the others advance out of sight, so she could think. In theory she could simply keep the party together. In practice, the women could not both carry the off-worlder and keep up with the men. And if she did not stay with the Ninglanders, they would not work. There were only so many days of winter left. Speed was essential.

  An unexpected peal of laughter floated back to her, then silence.

  Wearily, she trudged on. Already they had forgotten her, and her ankh. Almost she could envy them. Her responsibilities weighed heavily upon her. She had not laughed since the Hudson.

  According to her goggles, there was a supply cache in Philadelphia. Once there, they could go back on full rations again.

  The tents were bright mushrooms in the clearing. Work-to-Death lay dying within one of them. The women had gone off with the men into the bush. Even in this ungodly heat and humidity, they were unable or unwilling to curb their bestial lusts.

  Judith sat outside with the offworlder, the refrigeration stick turned up just enough to take the edge off the afternoon heat. To get him talking, she asked, “Why did you come to Earth? There is nothing here worth all your suffering. Were I you, I'd've turned back long ago.”

  For a long moment, the offworlder struggled to gear down his complex thoughts into terms Judith could comprehend. At last he said, “Consider evolution. Things do not evolve from lower states to higher, as the ancients believed, with their charts that began with a fish crawling up upon the land and progressed on to mammals, apes, Neanderthals, and finally men. Rather, an organism evolves to fit its environment. An ape cannot live in the ocean. A human cannot brachiate. Each thrives in its own niche.

  “Now consider posthumanity. Our environment is entirely artificial—floating cities, the Martian subsurface, the Venusian and Jovian bubbles. Such habitats require social integration of a high order. A human could survive within them, possibly, but she would not thrive. Our surround is self-defined, and therefore within it we are the pinnacle of evolution.”

  As he spoke, his hands twitched with the suppressed urge to amplify and clarify his words with the secondary emotive language offworlders employed in parallel with the spoken. Thinking, of course, that she did not savvy handsign. But as her facility with it was minimal, Judith did not enlighten him.

  “Now imagine a being with more-than-human strength and greater-than-posthuman intellect. Such a creature would be at a disadvantage in the posthuman environment. She would be an evolutionary dead end. How then could she get any sense of herself, what she could do, and what she could not?”

  “How does all apply to you personally?”

  “I wanted to find the measure of myself, not as a product of an environment that caters to my strengths and coddles my weaknesses. I wanted to discover what I am in the natural state.”

  “You won't find the natural state here. We're living in the aftermath.”

  “No,” he agreed. “The natural state is lost, shattered like an eggshell. Even if—when—we finally manage to restore it, gather up all the shards and glue them together, it will no longer be natural, but something we have decided to maintain and preserve, like a garden. It will be only an extension of our culture.”

  “Nature is dead,” Judith said. It was a concept she had picked up from other posthumans.

  His teeth flashed with pleasure at her quick apprehension. “Indeed. Even off Earth, where conditions are more extreme, its effects are muted by technology. I suspect that nature can only exist where our all-devouring culture has not yet reached. Still…here on Earth, in the regions where all but the simplest technologies are prohibited, and it's still possible to suffer pain and even death…. This is as close to an authentic state as can be achieved.” He patted the ground by his side. “The past is palpable here, century upon century, and under that the strength of the soil.” His hands involuntarily leapt. This is so difficult, they said. This language is so clumsy. “I am afraid I have not expressed myself very well.”

  He smiled apologetically then, and she saw how exhausted he was. But still she could not resist asking, “What is it like, to think as you do?” It was a question that she had asked many times, of many posthumans. Many answers had she received, and no two of them alike.

  The offworlder's face grew very still. At last he said, “Lao-tzu put it best. ‘The way that can be named is not the true way. The name that can be spoken is not the eternal name.’ The higher thought is ineffable, a mystery that can be experienced but never explained.”

  His arms and shoulders moved in a gesture that was the evolved descendant of a shrug. His weariness was palpable.

  “You need rest,” she said, and, standing, “let me help you into your tent.”

  “Dearest Judith. What woul
d I ever do without you?”

  Ever so slightly, she flushed.

  The next sundown, their maps, though recently downloaded, proved to be incomplete. The improbably named Skookle River had wandered, throwing off swamps that her goggles' topographical functions could not distinguish from solid land. For two nights the party struggled southward, moving far to the west and then back again so many times that Judith would have been entirely lost without the navsats.

  Then the rains began.

  There was no choice but to leave the offworlder behind. Neither he nor Harry Work-to-Death could travel under such conditions. Judith put Maria and Leeza in charge of them both. After a few choice words of warning, she left them her spare goggles and instructions to break camp and follow as soon as the rains let up.

  “Why do you treat us like dogs?” a Ninglander asked her when they were underway again. The rain poured down over his plastic poncho.

  “Because you are no better than dogs.”

  He puffed himself up. “I am large and shapely. I have a fine mustache. I can give you many orgasms.”

  His comrade was pretending not to listen. But it was obvious to Judith that the two men had a bet going as to whether she could be seduced or not.

  “Not without my participation.”

  Insulted, he thumped his chest. Water droplets flew. “I am as good as any of your Canadian men!”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “unhappily, that's true.”

  When the rains finally let up, Judith had just crested a small hillock that her topographics identified as an outlier of the Welsh Mountains. Spread out before her was a broad expanse of overgrown twenty-first-century ruins. She did not bother accessing the city's name. In her experience, all lost cities were alike; she didn't care if she never saw another. “Take ten,” she said, and the Ninglanders shrugged out of their packs.