THE ANDERSON PROJECT

Edited by David G. Hartwell

Introduction

The Anderson Project

This group of stories is the second in a series of story groupings based upon a pre-existing work of art, in this case an Anderson painting. The first such group, The Palencar Project, was published by Tor.com a year ago, and I refer you to my short essay, Introducing the Palencar Project, for an explanation of the rationale for doing stories based on paintings, a long tradition in popular fiction that has apparently fallen out of fashion in recent decades.

I find it intriguing that in two of the stories, the painting itself is part of the setting and plays a role. The relation of illustration to the written word is complex and deep, and is centuries old. Perhaps a lot older. In my imagination there were words in some oral tradition associated with the astonishing cave paintings of the Neanderthals in Europe.

There are a number of ways one can interpret a painting, and I asked the writers in this case to interpret this in the direction of science fiction. As you can tell in particular from the Judith Moffett story, a consideration of the image can evoke a variety of responses. But whatever the image, it becomes a repository of things the writer wishes to express, and becomes embedded in the prose fiction, uniquely in each story.

There were other writers invited to submit work and I anticipate at least a couple of stories appearing in a year or two in other venues that began as drafts for this project, but could not be completed now. The three stories here, though, are finished and accomplished and make a set. They are in my opinion of high quality and it is my hope that you enjoy them.

David G. Hartwell

Reborn

by Ken Liu

Each of us feels that there is a single “I” in control. But that is an illusion that the brain works hard to produce….

—Steven Pinker, The Blank Slate

I remember being Reborn. It felt the way I imagine a fish feels as it’s being thrown back into the sea.

The Judgment Ship slowly drifts in over Fan Pier from Boston Harbor, its metallic disc-shaped hull blending into the dark, roiling sky, its curved upper surface like a pregnant belly.

It is as large as the old Federal Courthouse on the ground below. A few escort ships hover around the rim, the shifting lights on their surfaces sometimes settling into patterns resembling faces.

The spectators around me grow silent. The Judgment, scheduled four times a year, still draws a big crowd. I scan the upturned faces. Most are expressionless, some seem awed. A few men whisper to each other and chuckle. I pay some attention to them, but not too much. There hasn’t been a public attack in years.

“A flying saucer,” one of the men says, a little too loud. Some of the others shuffle away, trying to distance themselves. “A goddamned flying saucer.”

The crowd has left the space directly below the Judgment Ship empty. A group of Tawnin observers stand in the middle, ready to welcome the Reborn. But Kai, my mate, is absent. Thie told me that thie has witnessed too many Rebirths lately.

Kai once explained to me that the design of the Judgment Ship was meant as a sign of respect for local traditions, evoking our historical imagination of little green men and Plan 9 from Outer Space.

It’s just like how your old courthouse was built with that rotunda on top to resemble a lighthouse, a beacon of justice that pays respect to Boston’s maritime history.

The Tawnin are not usually interested in history, but Kai has always advocated more effort at accommodating us locals.

I make my way slowly through the crowd, to get closer to the whispering group. They all have on long, thick coats, perfect for concealing weapons.

The top of the pregnant Judgment Ship opens and a bright beam of golden light shoots straight up into the sky, where it is reflected by the dark clouds back onto the ground as a gentle, shadowless glow.

Circular doors open all around the rim of the Judgment Ship, and long, springy lines unwind and fall from the doors. They dangle, flex, and extend like tentacles. The Judgment Ship is now a jellyfish drifting through the air.

At the end of each line is a human, securely attached like hooked fish by the Tawnin ports located over their spines and between their shoulder blades. As the lines slowly extend and drift closer to the ground, the figures at the ends languidly move their arms and legs, tracing out graceful patterns.

I’ve almost reached the small group of whispering men. One of them, the one who had spoken too loud earlier, has his hands inside the flap of his thick coat. I move faster, pushing people aside.

“Poor bastards,” he murmurs, watching the Reborn coming closer to the empty space in the middle of the crowd, coming home. I see his face take on the determination of the fanatic, of a Xenophobe about to kill.

The Reborn have almost reached the ground. My target is waiting for the moment when the lines from the Judgment Ship are detached so that the Reborn can no longer be snatched back into the air, the moment when the Reborn are still unsteady on their feet, uncertain who they are.

Still innocent.

I remember that moment well.

The right shoulder of my target shifts as he tries to pull something out of his coat. I shove away the two women before me and leap into the air, shouting “Freeze!”

And then the world slows down as the ground beneath the Reborn erupts like a volcano, and they, along with the Tawnin observers, are tossed into the air, their limbs flopping like marionettes with their strings cut. As I crash into the man before me, a wave of heat and light blanks everything out.

* * *

It takes a few hours to process my suspect and to bandage my wounds. By the time I’m allowed to go home it’s after midnight.

The streets of Cambridge are quiet and empty because of the new curfew. A fleet of police cars is parked in Harvard Square, a dozen strobing beacons out of sync as I stop, roll down my window, and show my badge.

The fresh-faced young officer sucks in his breath. The name “Joshua Rennon” may not mean anything to him, but he has seen the black dot on the top right corner of my badge, the dot that allows me inside the high-security domicile compound of the Tawnin.

“Bad day, sir,” he says. “But don’t worry, we’ve got all the roads leading to your building secured.”

He tries to make “your building” sound casual, but I can hear the thrill in his voice. He’s one of those. He lives with them.

He doesn’t step away from the car. “How’s the investigation going, if you don’t mind me asking?” His eyes roam all over me, the hunger of his curiosity so strong that it’s almost palpable.

I know that the question he really wants to ask is: What’s it like?

I turn my face straight ahead. I roll up the window.

After a moment, he steps back, and I step on the gas hard so that the tires give a satisfying squeal as I shoot away.

* * *

The walled compound used to be Radcliffe Yard.

I open the door to our apartment and the soft golden light that Kai prefers, a reminder of the afternoon, makes me shudder.

Kai is in the living room, sitting on the couch.

“Sorry I didn’t call.”

Kai stands up to thir full eight-foot height and opens thir arms, thir dark eyes gazing at me like the eyes of those giant fish that swim through the large tank at the New England Aquarium. I step into thir embrace and inhale thir familiar fragrance, a mixture of floral and spicy scents, the smell of an alien world and of home.

“You’ve heard?”

Instead of answering, thie undresses me gently, careful around my bandages. I close my eyes and do not resist, feeling the layers fall away from me piece by piece.

When I’m naked, I tilt my head up and thie kisses me, thir tubular tongue warm and salty in my mouth. I place my arms around thim, feeling on the back of thir head the long scar whose history I do not know and do not seek.

Then thie wraps thir primary arms around my head, pulling my face against thir soft, fuzzy chest. Thir tertiary arms, strong and supple, wrap around my waist. The nimble and sensitive tips of thir secondary arms lightly caress my shoulders for a moment before they find my Tawnin port and gently pry the skin apart and push in.

I gasp the moment the connection is made and I feel my limbs grow rigid and then loose as I let go, allowing Kai’s strong arms to support my weight. I close my eyes so I can enjoy the way my body appears through Kai’s senses: the way warm blood coursing through my vessels creates a glowing map of pulsing red and gold currents against the cooler, bluish skin on my back and buttocks, the way my short hair pricks the sensitive skin of thir primary hands, the way my chaotic thoughts are gradually soothed and rendered intelligible by thir gentle, guiding nudges. We’re now connected in the most intimate way that two minds, two bodies can be.

That’s what it’s like, I think.

Don’t be annoyed by their ignorance, thie thinks.

I replay the afternoon: the arrogant and careless manner in which I carried out my duty, the surprise of the explosion, the guilt and regret as I watched the Reborn and the Tawnin die. The helpless rage.

You’ll find them, thie thinks.

I will.

Then I feel thir body moving against me, all of thir six arms and two legs probing, caressing, grasping, squeezing, penetrating. And I echo thir movements, my hands, lips, feet roaming against thir cool, soft skin the way I have come to learn thie likes, thir pleasure as clear and present as my own.

Thought seems as unnecessary as speech.

* * *

The interrogation room in the basement of the Federal Courthouse is tiny and claustrophobic, a cage.

I close the door behind me and hang up my jacket. I’m not afraid to turn my back to the suspect. Adam Woods sits with his face buried between his hands, elbows on the stainless steel table. There’s no fight left in him.

“I’m Special Agent Joshua Rennon, Tawnin Protection Bureau.” I wave my badge at him out of habit.

He looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot and dull.

“Your old life is over, as I’m sure you already know.” I don’t read him his rights or tell him that he can have a lawyer, the rituals of a less civilized age. There’s no more need for lawyers—no more trials, no more police tricks.

He stares at me, his eyes full of hatred.

“What’s it like?” he asks, his voice a low whisper. “Being fucked by one of them every night?”

I pause. I can’t imagine he noticed the black dot on my badge in such a quick look. Then I realize that it was because I had turned my back to him. He could see the outline of the Tawnin port through my shirt. He knew I had been Reborn, and it was a lucky—but reasonable—guess that someone whose port was kept open was bonded to a Tawnin.

I don’t take the bait. I’m used to the kind of xenophobia that drives men like him to kill.

“You’ll be probed after the surgery. But if you confess now and give useful information about your co-conspirators, after your Rebirth you’ll be given a good job and a good life, and you’ll get to keep the memories of most of your friends and family. But if you lie or say nothing, we’ll learn everything we need anyway and you’ll be sent to California for fallout clean-up duty with a blank slate of a mind. And anyone who cared about you will forget you, completely. Your choice.”

“How do you know I have any co-conspirators?”

“I saw you when the explosion happened. You were expecting it. I believe your role was to try to kill more Tawnin in the chaos after the explosion.”

He continues to stare at me, his hatred unrelenting. Then, abruptly, he seems to think of something. “You’ve been Reborn more than once, haven’t you?”

I stiffen. “How did you know?”

He smiles. “Just a hunch. You stand and sit too straight. What did you do the last time?”

I should be prepared for the question, but I’m not. Two months after my Rebirth, I’m still raw, off my game. “You know I can’t answer that.”

“You remember nothing?”

“That was a rotten part of me that was cut out,” I tell him. “Just like it will be cut out of you. The Josh Rennon who committed whatever crime he did no longer exists, and it is only right that the crime be forgotten. The Tawnin are a compassionate and merciful people. They only remove those parts of me and you that are truly responsible for the crime—the mens rea, the evil will.”

“A compassionate and merciful people,” he repeats. And I see something new in his eyes: pity.

A sudden rage seizes me. He is the one to be pitied, not me. Before he has a chance to put up his hands I lunge at him and punch him in the face, once, twice, three times, hard.

Blood flows from his nose as his hands waver before him. He doesn’t make any noise, but continues to look at me with his calm, pity-filled eyes.

“They killed my father in front of me,” he says. He wipes the blood from his lips and shakes his hand to get rid of it. Droplets of blood hit my shirt, the scarlet beads bright against its white fabric. “I was thirteen, and hiding in the backyard shed. Through a slit in the doors I saw him take a swing at one of them with a baseball bat. The thing blocked it with one arm and seized his head with another pair of arms and just ripped it off. Then they burned my mother. I’ll never forget the smell of cooked flesh.”

I try to bring my breathing under control. I try to see the man before me as the Tawnin do: divided. There’s a frightened child who can still be rescued, and an angry, bitter man who cannot.

“That was more than twenty years ago,” I say. “It was a darker time, a terrible, twisted time. The world has moved on. The Tawnin have apologized and tried to make amends. You should have gone to counseling. They should have ported you and excised those memories. You could have had a life free of these ghosts.”

“I don’t want to be free of these ghosts. Did you ever consider that? I don’t want to forget. I lied and told them that I saw nothing. I didn’t want them to reach into my mind and steal my memories. I want revenge.”

“You can’t have revenge. The Tawnin who did those things are all gone. They’ve been punished, consigned to oblivion.”

He laughs. “‘Punished,’ you say. The Tawnin who did those things are the exact same Tawnin who parade around today, preaching universal love and a future in which the Tawnin and humans live in harmony. Just because they can conveniently forget what they did doesn’t mean we should.”

“The Tawnin do not have a unified consciousness—”

“You speak like you lost no one in the Conquest.” His voice rises as pity turns into something darker. “You speak like a collaborator.” He spits at me, and I feel the blood on my face, between my lips—warm, sweet, the taste of rust. “You don’t even know what they’ve taken from you.”

I leave the room and close the door behind me, shutting off his stream of curses.

* * *

Outside the courthouse, Claire from Tech Investigations meets me. Her people had already scanned and recorded the crime scene last night, but we walk around the crater doing an old-fashioned visual inspection anyway, in the unlikely event that her machines missed something.

Missed something. Something was missing.

“One of the injured Reborn died at Mass General this morning around 4 o’clock,” Claire says. “So that brings the total death toll to ten: six Tawnin and four Reborn. Not as bad as what happened in New York two years ago, but definitely the worst massacre in New England.”

Claire is slight, with a sharp face and quick, jerky movements that put me in mind of a sparrow. As the only two TPB agents married to Tawnins in the Boston Field Office, we have grown close. People joke that we’re work spouses.

I didn’t lose anyone in the Conquest.

Kai stands with me at my mother’s funeral. Her face in the casket is serene, free of pain.

Kai’s touch on my back is gentle and supportive. I want to tell thim not to feel too bad. Thie had tried so hard to save her, as thie had tried to save my father before her, but the human body is fragile, and we don’t yet know how to effectively use the advances taught to us by the Tawnin.

We pick our way around a pile of rubble that has been cemented in place by melted asphalt. I try to bring my thoughts under control. Woods unsettled me. “Any leads on the detonator?” I ask.

“It’s pretty sophisticated,” Claire says. “Based on the surviving pieces, there was a magnetometer connected to a timer circuit. My best guess is the magnetometer was triggered by the presence of large quantities of metal nearby, like the Judgment Ship. And that started a timer that was set to detonate just as the Reborn reached the ground.

“The setup requires fairly detailed knowledge of the mass of the Judgment Ship; otherwise the yachts and cargo ships sailing through the Harbor could have set it off.”

“Also knowledge of the operation of the Judgment Ship,” I add. “They had to know how many Reborn were going to be here yesterday, and calculate how long it would take to complete the ceremony and lower them to the ground.”

“It definitely took a lot of meticulous planning,” Claire said. “This is not the work of a loner. We’re dealing with a sophisticated terrorist organization.”

Claire pulls me to a stop. We’re at a good vantage point to see the bottom of the explosion crater. It’s thinner than I would have expected. Whoever had done this had used directed explosives that focused the energy upwards, presumably to minimize the damage to the crowd on the sides.

The crowd.

A memory of myself as a child comes to me unbidden.

Autumn, cool air, the smell of the sea and something burning. A large, milling crowd, but no one is making any noise. Those at the edge of the crowd, like me, push to move closer to the center, while those near the center push to get out, like a colony of ants swarming over a bird corpse. Finally, I make my way to the center, where bright bonfires burn in dozens of oil drums.

I reach into my coat and take out an envelope. I open it and hand a stack of photographs to the man standing by one of the oil drums. He flips through them and takes a few out and hands the rest back to me.

“You can keep these and go line up for surgery,” he says.

I look through the photographs in my hand: Mom carrying me as a baby. Dad lifting me over his shoulders at a fair. Mom and me asleep, holding the same pose. Mom and Dad and me playing a board game. Me in a cowboy costume, Mom behind me trying to make sure the scarf fit right.

He tosses the other photographs into the oil drum, and as I turn away, I try to catch a glimpse of what’s on them before they’re consumed by the flames.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” I say, disoriented. “Still a bit of the aftereffects of the explosion.”

I can trust Claire.

“Listen,” I say, “Do you ever think about what you did before you were Reborn?”

Claire focuses her sharp eyes on me. She doesn’t blink. “Do not go down that path, Josh. Think of Kai. Think of your life, the real one you have now.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Woods just rattled me a bit.”

“You might want to take a few days off. You’re not doing anyone favors if you can’t concentrate.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Claire seems skeptical, but she doesn’t push the issue. She understands how I feel. Kai would be able to see the guilt and regret in my mind. In that ultimate intimacy, there is nowhere to hide. I can’t bear to be home and doing nothing while Kai tries to comfort me.

“As I was saying,” she continues, “this area was resurfaced by the W. G. Turner Construction Company a month ago. That was likely when the bomb was placed, and Woods was on the crew. You should start there.”

* * *

The woman leaves the box of files on the table in front of me.

“These are all the employees and contractors who worked on the Courthouse Way resurfacing project.”

She scurries away as though I’m contagious, afraid to exchange more than the absolute minimum number of words with a TPB agent.

In a way, I suppose I am contagious. When I was Reborn, those who were close to me, who had known what I had done, whose knowledge of me formed part of the identity that was Joshua Rennon, would have had to be ported and those memories excised as part of my Rebirth. My crimes, whatever they were, had infected them.

I don’t even know who they might be.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this. It’s not healthy to dwell on my former life, a dead man’s life.

I scan through the files one by one, punch the names into my phone so that Claire’s algorithms back at the office can make a network out of them, link them to entries in millions of databases, trawl through the radical anti-Tawnin forums and Xenophobic sites, and find connections.

But I still read through the files meticulously, line by line. Sometimes the brain makes connections that Claire’s computers cannot.

W. G. Turner had been careful. All the applicants had been subjected to extensive background searches, and none appears suspicious to the algorithms.

After a while, the names merge into an undistinguishable mess: Kelly Eickhoff, Hugh Raker, Sofia Leday, Walker Lincoln, Julio Costas…

Walker Lincoln.

I go back and look at the file again. The photograph shows a white male in his thirties. Narrow eyes, receding hairline, no smile for the camera. Nothing seems particularly notable. He doesn’t look familiar at all.

But something about the name makes me hesitate.

The photographs curl up in the flames.

The one at the top shows my father standing in front of our house. He’s holding a rifle, his face grim. As the flame swallows him, I catch a pair of crossed street signs in the last remaining corner of the photograph.

Walker and Lincoln.

I find myself shivering, even though the heat is turned up high in the office.

I take out my phone and pull up the computer report on Walker Lincoln: credit card records, phone logs, search histories, web presence, employment, and school summaries. The algorithms flagged nothing as unusual. Walker Lincoln seems the model Average Citizen.

I have never seen a profile where not a single thing was flagged by Claire’s paranoid algorithms. Walker Lincoln is too perfect.

I look through the purchase history on his credit cards: fire logs, starter fluid, fireplace simulators, outdoor grills.

Then, starting about two months ago, nothing.

* * *

As thir fingers are about to push in, I speak.

“Please, not tonight.”

The tips of Kai’s secondary arms stop, hesitate, and gently caress my back. After a moment, thie backs up. Thir eyes look at me, like two pale moons in the dim light of the apartment.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “There’s a lot on my mind, unpleasant thoughts. I don’t want to burden you.”

Kai nods, a human gesture that seems incongruous. I appreciate the effort thie is making to make me feel better. Thie has always been very understanding.

Thie backs off, leaving me naked in the middle of the room.

* * *

The landlady proclaims complete ignorance of the life of Walker Lincoln. Rent (which in this part of Charlestown is dirt cheap) is direct deposited on the first of every month, and she hasn’t set eyes on him since he moved in four months ago. I wave my badge, and she hands me the key to his apartment and watches wordlessly as I climb the stairs.

I open the door and turn on the light; I’m greeted with a sight out of a furniture store display: white couch, leather loveseat, glass coffee table with a few magazines in a neat stack, abstract paintings on walls. There’s no clutter, nothing out of its assigned place. I take a deep breath. No smell of cooking, detergent, the mix of aromas that accompany places lived in by real people.

The place seems familiar and strange at the same time, like walking through déjà vu.

I walk through the apartment, opening doors. The closets and bedroom are as artfully arranged as the living room. Perfectly ordinary, perfectly unreal.

Sunlight coming in from the windows along the western wall makes clean parallelograms against the gray carpet. The golden light is Kai’s favorite shade.

There is, however, a thin layer of dust over everything. Maybe a month or two’s worth.

Walker Lincoln is a ghost.

Finally, I turn around and see something hanging on the back of the front door, a mask.

I pick it up, put it on, and step into the bathroom.

I’m quite familiar with this type of mask. Made of soft, pliant, programmable fibers, it’s based on Tawnin technology, the same material that makes up the strands that release the Reborn back into the world. Activated with body heat, it molds itself into a pre-programmed shape. No matter the contours of the face beneath it, it rearranges itself into the appearance of a face it has memorized. Approved only for law enforcement, we sometimes use such masks to infiltrate Xenophobic cells.

In the mirror, the cool fibers of the mask gradually come alive like Kai’s body when I touch thim, pushing and pulling against the skin and muscles of my face. For a moment my face is a shapeless lump, like a monster’s out of some nightmare.

And then the roiling motions stop, and I’m looking into the face of Walker Lincoln.

* * *

Kai’s was the first face I saw the last time I was Reborn.

It was a face with dark fish-like eyes and skin that pulsated as though tiny maggots were wriggling just under the surface. I cringed and tried to move away but there was nowhere to go. My back was against a steel wall.

The skin around thir eyes contracted and expanded again, an alien expression I did not understand. Thie backed up, giving me some space.

Slowly, I sat up and looked around. I was on a narrow steel slab attached to the wall of a tiny cell. The lights were too bright. I felt nauseated. I closed my eyes.

And a tsunami of images came to me that I could not process. Faces, voices, events in fast motion. I opened my mouth to scream.

And Kai was upon me in a second. Thie wrapped thir primary arms around my head, forcing me to stay still. A mixture of floral and spicy scents enveloped me, and the memory of it suddenly emerged from the chaos in my mind. The smell of home. I clung to it like a floating plank in a roiling sea.

Thie wrapped thir secondary arms around me, patting my back, seeking an opening. I felt them push through a hole over my spine, a wound that I did not know was there, and I wanted to cry out in pain—

—and the chaos in my mind subsided. I was looking at the world through thir eyes and mind: my own naked body, trembling.

Let me help you.

I struggled for a bit, but thie was too strong, and I gave in.

What happened?

You’re aboard the Judgment Ship. The old Josh Rennon did something very bad and had to be punished.

I tried to remember what it was that I had done, but could recall nothing.

He is gone. We had to cut him out of this body to rescue you.

Another memory floated to the surface of my mind, gently guided by the currents of Kai’s thoughts.

I am sitting in a classroom, the front row. Sunlight coming in from the windows along the western wall makes clean parallelograms on the ground. Kai paces slowly back and forth in front of us.

“Each of us is composed of many groupings of memories, many personalities, many coherent patterns of thoughts.” The voice comes from a black box Kai wears around thir neck. It’s slightly mechanical, but melodious and clear.

“Do you not alter your behavior, your expressions, even your speech when you’re with your childhood friends from your hometown compared to when you’re with your new friends from the big city? Do you not laugh differently, cry differently, even become angry differently when you’re with your family than when you’re with me?

The students around me laugh a little at this, as do I. As Kai reaches the other side of the classroom, thie turns around and our eyes meet. The skin around thir eyes pulls back, making them seem even bigger, and my face grows warm.

“The unified individual is a fallacy of traditional human philosophy. It is, in fact, the foundation of many unenlightened, old customs. A criminal, for example, is but one person inhabiting a shared body with many others. A man who murders may still be a good father, husband, brother, son, and he is a different man when he plots death than when he bathes his daughter, kisses his wife, comforts his sister, and cares for his mother. Yet the old human criminal justice system would punish all of these men together indiscriminately, would judge them together, imprison them together, even kill them together. Collective punishment. How barbaric! How cruel!”

I imagine my mind the way Kai describes it: partitioned into pieces, an individual divided. There may be no human institution that the Tawnin despise more than our justice system. Their contempt makes perfect sense when considered in the context of their mind-to-mind communication. The Tawnin have no secrets from each other and share an intimacy we can only dream of. The idea of a justice system so limited by the opacity of the individual that it must resort to ritualized adversarial combat rather than direct access to the truth of the mind must seem to them a barbarity.

Kai glances at me, as though thie could hear my thoughts, though I know that is not possible without my being ported. But the thought brings pleasure to me. I am Kai’s favorite student.

I placed my arms around Kai.

My teacher, my lover, my spouse. I was once adrift, and now I have come home. I am beginning to remember.

I felt the scar on the back of thir head. Thie trembled.

What happened here?

I don’t remember. Don’t worry about it.

I carefully caressed thim, avoiding the scar.

The Rebirth is a painful process. Your biology did not evolve as ours, and the parts of your mind are harder to tease apart, to separate out the different persons. It will take some time for the memories to settle. You have to re-remember, relearn the pathways needed to make sense of them again, to reconstruct yourself again. But you’re now a better person, free from the diseased parts we had to cut out.

I hung onto Kai, and we picked up the pieces of myself together.

* * *

I show Claire the mask, and the too-perfect electronic profile. “To get access to this kind of equipment and to create an alias with an electronic trail this convincing requires someone with a lot of power and access. Maybe even someone inside the Bureau, since we need to scrub electronic databases to cleanse the records of the Reborn.”

Claire bites her bottom lip as she glances at the display on my phone and regards the mask with skepticism. “That seems really unlikely. All the Bureau employees are ported and are regularly probed. I don’t see how a mole among us can stay hidden.”

“Yet it’s the only explanation.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Claire tells me. “Adam has been ported. Tau is doing the probe now. Should be done in half an hour.”

I practically fall into the chair next to her. Exhaustion over the last two days settles over me like a heavy blanket. I have been avoiding Kai’s touch, for reasons that I cannot even explain. I feel divided from myself.

I tell myself to stay awake, just a little longer.

Kai and I are sitting on the leather loveseat. Thir big frame means that we are squeezed in tightly. The fireplace is behind us and I can feel the gentle heat against the back of my neck. Thir left arms gently stroke my back. I’m tense.

My parents are on the white couch across from us.

“I’ve never seen Josh this happy,” my mother says. And her smile is such a relief that I want to hug her.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” says Kai, with thir black voice box. “I think Josh was worried about how you might feel about me—about us.”

“There are always going to be Xenophobes,” my father says. He sounds a little out of breath. I know that one day I will recognize this as the beginning of his sickness. A tinge of sorrow tints my happy memory.

“Terrible things were done,” Kai says. “We do know that. But we always want to look to the future.”

“So do we,” my father says. “But some people are trapped in the past. They can’t let the dead lie buried.”

I look around the room and notice how neat the house is. The carpet is immaculate, the end tables free of clutter. The white couch my parents are sitting on is spotless. The glass coffee table between us is empty save for a stack of artfully arranged magazines.

The living room is like the showroom of a furniture store.

I jerk awake. The pieces of my memories have become as unreal as Walker Lincoln’s apartment.

Tau, Claire’s spouse, is at the door. The tips of thir secondary arms are mangled, oozing blue blood. Thie stumbles.

Claire is by thir side in a moment. “What happened?”

Instead of answering, Tau tears Claire’s jacket and blouse away, and thir thicker, less delicate primary arms hungrily, blindly seek the Tawnin port on Claire’s back. When they finally find the opening, they plunge in and Claire gasps, going limp immediately.

I turn my eyes away from this scene of intimacy. Tau is in pain and needs Claire.

“I should go,” I say, getting up.

“Adam had booby-trapped his spine,” Tau says through thir voice box.

I pause.

“When I ported him, he was cooperative and seemed resigned to his fate. But when I began the probe, a miniature explosive device went off, killing him instantly. I guess some of you still hate us so much that you’d rather die than be Reborn.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I’m the one that’s sorry,” Tau says. The mechanical voice struggles to convey sorrow, but it sounds like an imitation to my unsettled mind. “Parts of him were innocent.”

* * *

The Tawnin do not care much for history, and now, neither do we.

They also do not die of old age. No one knows how old the Tawnin are: centuries, millennia, eons. Kai speaks vaguely of a journey that lasted longer than the history of the human race.

What was it like? I once asked.

I don’t remember, thie had thought.

Their attitude is explained by their biology. Their brains, like the teeth of sharks, never cease growing. New brain tissue is continuously produced at the core while the outer layers are sloughed off periodically like snakeskin.

With lives that are for all intents and purposes eternal, the Tawnin would have been overwhelmed by eons of accumulated memories. It is no wonder that they became masters of forgetting.

Memories that they wish to keep must be copied into the new tissue: retraced, recreated, re-recorded. But memories that they wish to leave behind are cast off like dried pupa husks with each cycle of change.

It is not only memory that they leave behind. Entire personalities can be adopted, taken on like a role, and then cast aside and forgotten. A Tawnin views the self before a change and the self after a change as entirely separate beings: different personalities, different memories, different moral responsibilities. They merely shared a body seriatim.

Not even the same body, Kai thought to me.

?

In about a year every atom in your body will have been replaced by others, thought Kai. This was back when we had first become lovers, and thie was often in a lecturing mood. For us it’s even faster.

Like the ship of Theseus where each plank was replaced over time, until it was no longer the same ship.

You’re always making these references to the past. But the flavor of thir thought was indulgent rather than critical.

When the Conquest happened, the Tawnin had adopted an attitude of extreme aggression. And we had responded in kind. The details, of course, are hazy. The Tawnin do not remember them, and most of us do not want to. California is still uninhabitable after all these years.

But then, once we had surrendered, the Tawnin had cast off those aggressive layers of their minds—the punishment for their war crimes—and become the gentlest rulers imaginable. Now committed pacifists, they abhor violence and willingly share their technology with us, cure diseases, perform wondrous miracles. The world is at peace. Human life expectancy has been much lengthened, and those willing to work for the Tawnin have done well for themselves.

The Tawnin do not experience guilt.

We are a different people now, Kai thought. This is also our home. And yet some of you insist on tasking us with the sins of our dead past selves. It is like holding the son responsible for the sins of the father.

What if war should occur again? I thought. What if the Xenophobes convince the rest of us to rise up against you?

Then we might change yet again, become ruthless and cruel as before. Such changes in us are physiological reactions against threat, beyond our control. But then those future selves would have nothing to do with us. The father cannot be responsible for the acts of the son.

It’s hard to argue with logic like that.

* * *

Adam’s girlfriend, Lauren, is a young woman with a hard face that remained unchanged after I informed her that, as Adam’s parents are deceased, she is considered the next of kin and responsible for picking up the body at the station.

We are sitting across from each other, the kitchen table between us. The apartment is tiny and dim. Many of the lightbulbs have burnt out and not been replaced.

“Am I going to be ported?” she asks.

Now that Adam is dead, the next order of business is to decide which of his relatives and friends should be ported—with appropriate caution for further booby-trapped spines—so that the true extent of the conspiracy can be uncovered.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “It depends on how much I think you’re cooperating. Did he associate with anyone suspicious? Anyone you thought was a Xenophobe?”

“I don’t know anything,” she says. “Adam is… was a loner. He never told me anything. You can port me if you want, but it will be a waste of energy.”

Normally, people like her are terrified of being ported, violated. Her feigned nonchalance only makes me more suspicious of her.

She seems to sense my skepticism and changes tack. “Adam and I would sometimes smoke oblivion or do blaze.” She shifts in her seat and looks over at the kitchen counter. I look where she’s looking and see the drug paraphernalia in front of a stack of dirty dishes, like props set out on a stage. A leaky faucet drips, providing a background beat to the whole scene.

Oblivion and blaze both have strong hallucinogenic effects. The unspoken point: her mind is riddled with false memories that even when ported cannot be relied upon. The most we can do is Rebirth her, but we won’t find out anything we can use on others. It’s not a bad trick. But she hasn’t made the lie sufficiently convincing.

You humans think you are what you’ve done, Kai once thought. I remember us lying together in a park somewhere, the grass under us, and I loved feeling the warmth of the sun through thir skin, so much more sensitive than mine. But you’re really what you remember.

Isn’t that the same thing? I thought.

Not at all. To retrieve a memory, you must reactivate a set of neural connections, and in the process change them. Your biology is such that with each act of recall, you also rewrite the memory. Haven’t you ever had the experience of discovering that a detail you remembered vividly was manufactured? A dream you became convinced was a real experience? Being told a fabricated story you believed to be the truth?

You make us sound so fragile.

Deluded, actually. The flavor of Kai’s thought was affectionate. You cannot tell which memories are real and which memories are false, and yet you insist on their importance, base so much of your life on them. The practice of history has not done your species much good.

Lauren averts her eyes from my face, perhaps thinking of Adam. Something about Lauren seems familiar, like the half-remembered chorus from a song heard in childhood. I like the indescribable way her face seems to relax as she is lost in memories. I decide, right then, that I will not have Lauren ported.

Instead, I retrieve the mask from my bag and, keeping my eyes on her face, I put it on. As the mask warms to my face, clinging to it, shaping muscle and skin, I watch her eyes for signs of recognition, for confirmation that Adam and Walker were co-conspirators.

Her face becomes tight and impassive again. “What are you doing? That thing’s creepy-looking.”

Disappointed, I tell her, “Just a routine check.”

“You mind if I deal with that leaky faucet? It’s driving me crazy.”

I nod and remain seated as she gets up. Another dead end. Could Adam really have done it all on his own? Who was Walker Lincoln?

I’m afraid of the answer that’s half-formed in my mind.

I sense the heavy weight swinging towards the back of my head, but it’s too late.

* * *

“Can you hear us?” The voice is scrambled, disguised by some electronic gizmo. Oddly, it reminds me of a Tawnin voice box.

I nod in the darkness. I’m seated and my hands are tied behind me. Something soft, a scarf or a tie, is wrapped tightly around my head, covering my eyes.

“I’m sorry that we have to do things this way. It’s better if you can’t see us. This way, when your Tawnin probes you, we won’t be betrayed.”

I test the ties around my wrists. They’re very well done. No possibility of working them loose on my own.

“You have to stop this right now,” I say, putting as much authority into my voice as I can. “I know you think you’ve caught a collaborator, a traitor to the human race. You believe this is justice, vengeance. But think. If you harm me, you’ll eventually be caught, and all your memory of this event erased. What’s the good of vengeance if you won’t even remember it? It will be as if it never happened.”

Electronic voices laugh in the darkness. I can’t tell how many of them there are. Old, young, male or female.

“Let me go.”

“We will,” the first voice says, “after you hear this.”

I hear the click of a button being pressed, and then, a disembodied voice: “Hello, Josh. I see you’ve found the clues that matter.”

The voice is my own.

* * *

“…despite extensive research, it is not possible to erase all memories. Like an old hard drive, the Reborn mind still holds traces of those old pathways, dormant, waiting for the right trigger…”

The corner of Walker and Lincoln, my old house.

Inside, it’s cluttered, my toys scattered everywhere. There is no couch, only four wicker chairs around an old wooden coffee table, the top full of circular stains.

I’m hiding behind one of the wicker chairs. The house is quiet and the lighting dim, early dawn or late dusk.

A scream outside.

I get up and run to the door and fling it open. I see my father being hoisted into the air by a Tawnin’s primary arms. The secondary and tertiary arms are wrapped around my father’s arms and legs, rendering him immobile.

Behind the Tawnin, my mother’s body lies prostrate, unmoving.

The Tawnin jerks its arms and my father tries to scream again, but blood has pooled in his throat, and what comes out is a mere gurgle. The Tawnin jerks its limbs again and I watch as my father is torn slowly into pieces.

The Tawnin looks down at me. The skin around its eyes recedes and contracts again. The smell of unknown flowers and spices is so strong that I retch.

It’s Kai.

“…in the place of real memories, they fill your mind with lies. Constructed memories that crumble under examination…”

Kai comes to me on the other side of my cage. There are many cages like it, each holding a young man or woman. How many years have we been in darkness and isolation, kept from forming meaningful memories?

There was never any well-lit classroom, any philosophical lecture, any sunlight slanting in from the western windows, casting clean, sharp parallelograms against the ground.

“We’re sorry for what happened,” Kai says. The voice box, at least, is real. But the mechanical tone belies the words. “We’ve been saying this for a long time. The ones who did those things you insist on remembering are not us. They were necessary for a time, but they have been punished, cast off, forgotten. It’s time to move on.”

I spit in Kai’s eyes.

Kai does not wipe away my spittle. The skin around its eyes contracts and it turns away. “You leave us no choice. We have to make you anew.”

“…they tell you that the past is the past, dead, gone. They tell you that they are a new people, not responsible for their former selves. And there is some truth to these assertions. When I couple with Kai, I see into thir mind, and there is nothing left of the Kai that killed my parents, the Kai that brutalized the children, the Kai that forced us by decree to burn our old photographs, to wipe out the traces of our former existence that might interfere with what they want for our future. They really are as good at forgetting as they say, and the bloody past appears to them as an alien country. The Kai that is my lover is truly a different mind: innocent, blameless, guiltless.

“But they continue to walk over the bones of your, my, our parents. They continue to live in houses taken from our dead. They continue to desecrate the truth with denial.

“Some of us have accepted collective amnesia as the price of survival. But not all. I am you, and you’re me. The past does not die; it seeps, leaks, infiltrates, waits for an opportunity to spring up. You are what you remember…”

The first kiss from Kai, slimy, raw.

The first time Kai penetrates me. The first time my mind is invaded by its mind. The feeling of helplessness, of something being done to me that I can never be rid of, that I can never be clean again.

The smell of flowers and spices, the smell that I can never forget or expel because it doesn’t just come from my nostrils, but has taken root deep in my mind.

“…though I began by infiltrating the Xenophobes, in the end it is they who infiltrated me. Their underground records of the Conquest and the giving of testimony and sharing of memories finally awoke me from my slumber, allowed me to recover my own story.

“When I found out the truth, I carefully plotted my vengeance. I knew it would not be easy to keep a secret from Kai. But I came up with a plan. Because I was married to Kai, I was exempt from the regular probes that the other TPB agents are subject to. By avoiding intimacy with Kai and pleading discomfort, I could avoid being probed altogether and hold secrets in my mind, at least for a while.

“I created another identity, wore a mask, provided the Xenophobes with what they needed to accomplish their goals. All of us wore masks so that if any of the co-conspirators were captured, probing one mind would not betray the rest of us.”

The masks I wear to infiltrate the Xenophobes are the masks I give to my co-conspirators…

“Then I prepped my mind like a fortress against the day of my inevitable capture and Rebirth. I recalled the way my parents died in great detail, replayed the events again and again until they were etched indelibly into my mind, until I knew that Kai, who would ask for the role of preparing me for my Rebirth, would flinch at the vivid images, be repulsed by their blood and violence, and stop before probing too deep. Thie had long forgotten what thie had done and had no wish to be reminded.

“Do I know if these images are true in every aspect? No, I do not. I recalled them through the hazy filter of the mind of a child, and no doubt the memories shared by all the other survivors have inseminated them, colored them, given them more details. Our memories bleed into each other, forming a collective outrage. The Tawnin will say they’re no more real than the false memories they’ve implanted, but to forget is a far greater sin than to remember too well.

“To further conceal my trails, I took the pieces of the false memories they gave me and constructed real memories out of them so that when Kai dissected my mind, thie would not be able to tell thir lies apart from my own.”

The false, clean, clutter-free living room of my parents is recreated and rearranged into the room in which I meet with Adam and Lauren…

Sunlight coming in from the windows along the western wall makes clean parallelograms on the ground…

You cannot tell which memories are real and which memories are false, and yet you insist on their importance, base so much of your life on them.

“And now, when I’m sure that the plot has been set in motion but do not yet know enough details to betray the plans should I be probed, I will go attack Kai. There is very little chance I will succeed, and Kai will surely want me to be Reborn, to wipe this me away—not all of me, just enough so that our life together can go on. My death will protect my co-conspirators, will allow them to triumph.

“Yet what good is vengeance if I cannot see it, if you, the Reborn me, cannot remember it, and know the satisfaction of success? This is why I have buried clues, left behind evidence like a trail of crumbs that you will pick up, until you can remember and know what you have done.”

Adam Woods… who is not so different from me after all, his memory a trigger for mine…

I purchase things so that someday, they’ll trigger in another me the memory of fire…

The mask, so that others can remember me…

Walker Lincoln.

* * *

Claire is outside the station, waiting, when I walk back. Two men are standing in the shadows behind her. And still further behind, looming above them, the indistinct figure of Kai.

I stop and turn around. Behind me, two more men are walking down the street, blocking off my retreat.

“It’s too bad, Josh,” Claire says. “You should have listened to me about remembering. Kai told us that thie was suspicious.”

I cannot pick Kai’s eyes out of the shadows. I direct my gaze at the blurry shadow behind and above Claire.

“Will you not speak to me yourself, Kai?”

The shadow freezes, and then the mechanical voice, so different from the voice that I’ve grown used to caressing my mind, crackles from the gloom.

“I have nothing to say to you. My Josh, my beloved, no longer exists. He has been taken over by ghosts, has already drowned in memory.”

“I’m still here, but now I’m complete.”

“That is a persistent illusion of yours that we cannot seem to correct. I am not the Kai you hate, and you’re not the Josh I love. We are not the sum of our pasts.” Thie pauses. “I hope I will see my Josh soon.”

Thie retreats into the interior of the station, leaving me to my judgment and execution.

Fully aware of the futility, I try to talk to Claire anyway.

“Claire, you know I have to remember.”

Her face looks sad and tired. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? I wasn’t ported until five years ago. I once had a wife. She was like you. Couldn’t let go. Because of her, I was ported and Reborn. But because I made a determined effort to forget, to leave the past alone, they allowed me to keep some memory of her. You, on the other hand, insist on fighting.

“Do you know how many times you’ve been Reborn? It’s because Kai loves… loved you, wished to save most parts of you, that they’ve been so careful with carving as little of you away as possible each time.”

I do not know why Kai wished so fervently to rescue me from myself, to cleanse me of ghosts. Perhaps there are faint echoes of the past in thir mind, that even thie is not aware of, that draw thim to me, that compel thim to try to make me believe the lies so that thie will believe them thimself. To forgive is to forget.

“But thie has finally run out of patience. After this time you’ll remember nothing at all of your life, and so with your crime you’ve consigned more of you, more of those you claim to care about, to die. What good is this vengeance you seek if no one will even remember it happened? The past is gone, Josh. There is no future for the Xenophobes. The Tawnin are here to stay.”

I nod. What she says is true. But just because something is true doesn’t mean you stop struggling.

I imagine myself in the Judgment Ship again. I imagine Kai coming to welcome me home. I imagine our first kiss, innocent, pure, a new beginning. The memory of the smell of flowers and spices.

There is a part of me that loves thim, a part of me that has seen thir soul and craves thir touch. There is a part of me that wants to move on, a part of me that believes in what the Tawnin have to offer. And I, the unified, illusory I, am filled with pity for them.

I turn around and begin to run. The men in front of me wait patiently. There’s nowhere for me to go.

I press the trigger in my hand. Lauren had given it to me before I left. A last gift from my old self, from me to me.

I imagine my spine exploding into a million little pieces a moment before it does. I imagine all the pieces of me, atoms struggling to hold a pattern for a second, to be a coherent illusion.

Copyright (C) 2014 by Ken Liu

Art copyright (C) 2014 by Richard Anderson

Space Ballet

by Judith Moffett

“I’m in outer space,” Josh Russell reported to the circle of intent listeners. “I’m wearing this skin-tight, like, pressure suit that’s tethered to this spaceship or space station or something—I don’t know just what it is. What it looks like is kind of like a big metal hat with a brim, with a light shining out of a hole in the top. Like, you know, a World War I army helmet, only with a hole in the top? Not what you picture when you think of a spaceship, anyway. It’s got this vague structure like fixed underneath it; I can’t see what that is. And my brother’s with me, and we’re both wearing these suits attached by these long tethers to the mothership. And we’re doing like underwater ballet moves or gymnastics, very graceful, all in slow motion.” Josh smiled. “I gotta say, it feels just fantastic, I’ve never been any good at stuff like that but in this dream I’m powerful, I’m in total control of my body, I’m like a world-class dancer or gymnast or something. And then all of a sudden,” he said, “this black shuttlecraft thing shoots out from under the hat brim of the ship, and it’s coming straight at Tim and me. It’s got these yellow headlights like eyes, kind of like a jack-o’-lantern, and it’s coming right at us, and I’m absolutely petrified with terror, and then I wake up.”

He sat back. The class waited, expectant. Several glanced at the instructor, who said, “All right, let’s see the painting.”

Josh always painted his dreams, and the paintings were always interesting and sometimes very good. He was minoring in art. The other kids did sketches and dramatizations to fill out their class presentations, but their professor, Bob Christian, tried to work it so that Josh went last on the days his class reports were due. His act was too hard for the others to follow; it wasn’t fair. Now he opened the portfolio on the table in front of him, pulled out a picture mounted on a piece of cardboard, and stood it in front of him. “This one’s me,” he said, pointing to an upside-down human figure in the lower right corner.

A murmur went round the table. Josh had outdone himself today; the painting was more sophisticated, and more finished, than anything they’d seen from him all semester. No one spoke, because silence was the rule in the moment before beginning the interpretation exercise, but their expressions showed how impressed they were.

Bob waited half a minute to let the class absorb the image of the dream. Then he started the ritual of questions. “What’s your title?”

“‘Space Ballet.’”

“You already told us how you felt inside the dream. How’d you feel when you woke up?”

Josh made a face. “Scared out of my mind. My heart was pounding like I’d been running.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What that shuttlecraft thing is, and why it seemed so menacing!”

And so on. When they’d finished going through the list, Bob asked Yancey Cox, a junior, to open the circle.

“Russell, that is one cool painting,” Yancey said. “Okay: if this were my dream, I would call it ‘Spider-Men in Space.’ Those outfits you and your brother are wearing look exactly like Spider-Man suits, except for not being red. So, what’s your personal history with Spider-Man?”

Josh looked surprised. “I haven’t got one.” He turned the picture around and looked at it. “No, I see what you mean, but I didn’t think of that. I barely know who Spider-Man is. These are skin-tight pressure suits, or that’s what it felt like to wear one.”

Bob said, “Anything else?” Yancey shook his head. “Emily?”

Emily swept back her long, brown, gold-glitter-streaked hair, a preening gesture. Her power-animal tattoo, a jackrabbit done in gold, twinkled on the soft inside of her wrist. She held the pose for an instant before letting the hair fall. “If this were my dream, I would wonder whether outer space might be a metaphor for underwater. I actually can’t tell, from looking at the painting, whether we’re out in space or deep in the ocean. And really the ‘ship’ could be either a spaceship or a sort of funky submarine.” Bob smiled at Emily. She could be annoying—the business with the hair, for instance, got old as the weeks wore on—but he thought this a very good point. “And also,” she said, “you described what you were doing as ‘underwater ballet.’”

“You’re right, I did! I did! Thanks, that’s really helpful.”

“Good, Emily,” Bob said. “David?”

“That’s a good insight about it being underwater,” David said. “Because I was thinking, if this were my dream, I would see that ship thing as a jellyfish that had caught the two human figures in its tentacles. And what’s that stuff like fog around the ship? The ship and the figures. It’s just around them, it doesn’t fill up the frame of the picture—the corners are black.”

One excellent thing about Josh’s paintings, that the less artistically gifted students usually couldn’t manage when they attempted to draw their dreams, was that he often included things he didn’t consciously realize he was putting in—things that frequently turned out to be critical to the interpretation. Looking at Josh’s artwork every second week, Bob always thought the same thing: Freud should have said that dreams are a royal road to the unconscious, and that creative work of a high enough caliber is another. Bob’s own daughter, Hadley, said that when she got into the zone while working on a play, her characters started telling each other things she hadn’t even known they knew.

Today the kids were doing well. Josh usually got a lot of useful stuff to take home and think about, but then, they all did. Bob was especially pleased with this class, a very bright bunch. Also motivated; they knew their grades would depend largely on what they contributed to these sessions.

Josh was saying, “Well, but I wasn’t scared of the ship itself. The shuttle’s coming out of it, but so are the tethers, and I need those, they’re like safety lines. It doesn’t feel like they’ve grabbed us.” David considered this. Bob said, “Anything more? Okay, Jen.”

“If this were my dream,” Jennifer said in her dead-serious way, “I would think about it more symbolically. Josh, you said the ship looked to you like a helmet? Or a hat?”

“Yeah.”

“What I thought as soon as I saw the picture was, this is a head, and the objects underneath it, or at least the ones you can see properly, represent an oversimplified form of right and left brain dominance. The right-brain images are the dancers. The left-brain images are, well, dark thoughts, calculations, that menace the dancers’ happy feelings. I can’t really say ‘if this were my dream’ about it, because I wouldn’t have the same response, but that could be why you felt so afraid—you’re an artist, a right-brain type, so analytical thinking is your enemy.”

She looked startled when everyone laughed. Josh grabbed two handfuls of his lime-green hair and said, “Omigod, and all my analytical brilliance is leaking out through the hole in my head!”

Jen was a humorless girl, easy to tease, but Bob said sharply, “You might not be too wrong about that, Josh. Jen is the first person to address the thing that strikes me most forcibly about this dream, and that’s your terror. And didn’t you just say you woke up ‘scared out of my mind’?”

The kids knew better than to dismiss his spontaneous choice of that expression as just a handy cliché. They sobered up at once, and Josh had the grace to look abashed. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry, Jen. I said I wanted to know why they scared me, but probably I’d really rather not.”

“It’s okay, I don’t blame you. Actually, I was going to say that the light might symbolize intelligence. I can’t tell if it’s just visible through the top or streaming out the top, but I guess you’re saying it’s streaming?” He nodded, somewhat uncertainly. Jen said, “I don’t really have anything helpful on that, I guess. I don’t get why it’s streaming out.”

“Trepanning?” somebody suggested, and everyone laughed again. “I’ll try to keep an open mind about it,” Josh said, deadpan, and even Jen grinned. They were getting tired, and running out of time.

But the comments weren’t coalescing, and the next few didn’t change that. The menacing figures reminded Rick Kao of a set of Star Wars Legos his dad had passed down to him; they came with instructions for building a small spacecraft that had just the sort of blocky angularity as the one in Josh’s painting—the only craft, if that’s what it was, that hadn’t simply been suggested by a few brushstrokes and dots of light. But Josh said no, he had never played with Legos. “Too right-brain for me, I reckon. Tim,” tapping the other figure, “always had a bunch of them all over the floor, my mom was always yelling at him to pick them up, but, you know, all bright cheerful colors, red and yellow and blue and like that. No black.”

“Where’s Tim now?” Yancey asked.

“Engineering school.” This evoked more laughter. Emily said, “You guys should switch places in the picture, if the one on the left is supposed to be you.”

Claudia saw the tethers or tentacles as umbilical cords—Bob was surprised nobody had brought up that possibility right at the beginning—and wondered if an underwater setting, combined with Josh’s blissful feelings and reference to ‘the mother ship,’ suggested a memory in utero. “If it were my dream, those black things would be forceps,” she said. Bob watched the class struggle not to crack up again and earn another reprimand, then look nonplussed when Josh informed them that he and his brother were in fact fraternal twins.

That was everybody. “Does anyone want to add anything?” Nobody did; they were all ready for the class to be over. Bob said, “Okay, Josh, did any of this resonate for you? Any ‘Aha!’ moments?”

“Mainly the underwater thing. I was so sure we were in space. I can start there.”

Bob pushed back his chair. “We’re out of time, but stay put for another minute.” The people sliding notebooks into backpacks and satchels and pulling on outerwear reluctantly stopped doing those things and gave him their attention. “Couple of points. You did a good job with this in terms of receptiveness to the images and feelings; I’ll just add a few thoughts that didn’t come out in the discussion. One: the source of light in the painting is from above the ship. That’s why the top and brim, and the two figures, are lit the way they are.” Josh was nodding vigorously and looking as if this thought had only just dawned on him, despite having lighted the painting that way himself. “And David mentioned the foggy sphere of light around the scene, the way it doesn’t fill out the whole frame. I’m curious about how light is working here in general. And two: that little Lego shuttle seems like a child’s idea of frightening. Didn’t somebody mention a jack-o’-lantern? It strikes me that way too—for one thing, those yellow spots that look like eyes or headlights aren’t projecting any beams. If this were my nightmare, and I woke up terrified, I’d wonder if the terror didn’t hark back to my childhood. And I would certainly revisit the dream with a couple of trackers and demand that the shuttle tell me why it was coming for me.”

Josh’s shoulders sagged. He looked around the table at six classmates champing at the bit, and made an apologetic face. “I’ll have to go back in before I try to write this up, that’s obvious, so—I hate to ask, I know everybody’s got papers and finals, so do I!—but can anybody help me out with this in the next day or two?”

The students were all sophomores or juniors and were skilled at dream reentry, but nobody wanted extra work so close to the end of the semester, even knowing they would get credit for it and that soon enough they might have to call on Josh to help them in the same way. There was an awkward pause. Then Jen said, “I guess I could do it. But ideally shouldn’t you also have somebody who picked up on the water idea?”

“I can squeeze it in,” Emily said. “Not tonight though, I’ve got a precog paper due tomorrow. I’m free after that class though.”

“Meet up and make arrangements,” Bob said. “The rest of you can go.”

* * *

The Center for Dream Research, affiliated with the Psychology Department of the University of Pennsylvania, had been established eleven years earlier, in 2033, during the furor following the assassination of President Finley. Dreams and dreaming had been studied scientifically for many years before that, but science grapples confidently only with what it can quantify. Sleep labs were comfortable defining the various sleep states, logging what people said they were dreaming if you woke them up during REM sleep, even recording whether the reported dreams were said to be cheerful or disturbing, despite having no way to confirm the subjects’ reports independently. But whether or not dreams meant anything was beyond the ability of statistical studies to determine; and the work of scientists willing to think outside the statistical box was not widely respected.

In the meantime, psychiatrists and clinical psychologists went right on treating patients’ dreams as though they could be interpreted meaningfully; and since the patients went right on getting better as a result, being unable to prove scientifically that dreams had meaningful content was not felt by therapists to be a problem. How to interpret the content of dreams was an argument that went back to Freud and Jung—and before them at least as far as Joseph and Pharaoh, the sheaves of wheat and the seven fat and lean cows—but that there was something to interpret they took to be a given.

The wilder claims for what happened to people in the dreaming state—out-of-body travel, precognition, communication with the dead, and so on—occupied a twilight zone that neither the hard nor the soft sciences had cared to engage with. Such paranormal phenomena belonged to a shamanic tradition stretching back many thousands of years, and both groups generally viewed that in the light of primitive superstition. This despite a wealth of anecdotal evidence that many intelligent modern people found intriguing enough to be worth looking into. Books were written, websites constructed, lectures given, documentary films made, workshops and conferences convened, all more or less beneath the notice of institutions like the Stanford Center for Sleep Medicine and the Psych Department at Penn.

The Finley assassination changed all that. In the weeks before Geoffrey Gentry pulled the trigger and killed the American president, the various dream sites were flooded with reports that the assassination was about to take place. Many gave such details as place and circumstance, description of the shooter, where the bullet would strike, the motive behind the act—everything but the actual date. The various gurus behind the sites tried without success to bring this unprecedented flood of dream reports to the attention of government authorities, with no success whatever. Time went by. And then one day Gentry fired his gun. Many details from the dream sites were shown to match those of the event, and finally the authorities had to pay attention.

They certainly didn’t want to. They tried very hard to debunk the dreams—as coincidence, or a “lucky” guess (on the part of thousands of people?), or maybe a movement started by Gentry himself in hopes that someone would stop him before he could act out his fantasy. Finally Gillian Harvester, who had worked with Rupert Sheldrake as a research assistant, came out of retirement to give an interview, widely published, in which she scolded her fellow scientists for supporting the government approach, pointing out that responsible science does not proceed by firmly deciding, before you set about investigating something, that it can’t possibly be true.

She also pointed out that if by chance precognitive dreaming were possible, and were understood, it could be an invaluable tool for preventing or mitigating the impact of disasters. “If I learned one thing from Rupert,” she said, “it was not to assume that something wasn’t real or true because it can’t be quantified or replicated on demand. Does anyone seriously claim that emotions aren’t real?” She let that sink in. “Lincoln dreamed his own death just before his assassination. He mentioned the dream to several people. If Booth and Ford’s Theatre had never happened, you could argue that the dream meant something else, or nothing. But they did happen.”

The interview was given enormous media coverage. Scientists were hauled before cameras to defend their previous statements comparing precognitive dreams to reading tea leaves. The public began to insist that dreams about the assassination be explored more systematically and respectfully. Newly sworn-in President Sunderlin instructed the FBI to get to the bottom of the dream reports, to settle questions of authenticity and make a recommendation.

The report eventually turned in, which ran to thousands of pages, stated that while not all the dreamers could provide bona fides, and some were cranks and kooks of a kind familiar to investigators, at least two-thirds of the reports had been filed by people long committed to taking their dreams very seriously indeed. Several thousand people allowed the federal agents to look through detailed private records, often going back many years, in which dreams were described, dated, given titles, and written out by hand as recommended by their instructors and gurus. Besides those linked to the assassination, their logs documented any number of other precognitive dreams confirmed by later experience. Most of these concerned personal matters, but some referred to significant public events; the report contained photocopied excerpts of entries convincingly alluding to phenomena such as 9/11, the Boxing Day tsunami in Indonesia, the 2027 eruption of Mount Pinatubo, the nuclear strike on Jerusalem. The agents admitted that most of the people they questioned were “good witnesses,” convincing in their sincerity. The chief difficulty, they concluded, was that owing to the bizarre way in which information is presented in dreams, too often the events alluded to could be recognized only after they had occurred.

The report further acknowledged that, based on the evidence of dream logs and the testimonies of family members and friends, certain people seemed especially gifted at anticipating real-world events by dreaming about them before they happened. Bottom line: while there remained no way to prove that precognitive dreaming was genuine, the evidence that it might be was too strong to dismiss out of hand.

In view of the advantage to society of knowing in advance when something of great public import was to happen, the FBI recommended that further study be undertaken. To accomplish this, they proposed that government-funded research centers be established at one or several institutions of higher learning. Systematic programs should be set up to identify young people with unusual precognitive abilities, and ways devised to enhance those abilities through training. They recommended that government scholarships be awarded to those who qualified for the program.

The report appended an immense bibliography. The study of precognitive dreaming turned out to be not quite so arcane a field as the scientific community at large had always supposed. Researchers with impeccable credentials had been at work on the subject for a long time, some at prestigious institutions like Duke, Cornell, and the University of California. When the media tracked a few of these scientists down and asked why they had risked their careers by venturing into such a controversial field, they pointed out that quantum mechanics had made it necessary to consider time in a new way. Theoretically, they said, it’s possible that we all exist in the past, present, and future simultaneously. Precognition, in and out of dreams, was consistent with that model, not to mention even weirder phenomena, like the possibility of changing the past, and of affecting the future by intention. Sheldrake, who had said the same, turned out to be the mere tip of a small iceberg.

* * *

“Sorry I couldn’t get a reentry room, guys. I’m afraid this isn’t too comfy,” Josh said. Emily and Jen had arranged themselves on their backs widthwise across the head and foot of his single bed with their feet on the floor (Emily after carefully lifting the curtain of her sparkly hair and letting it fall over the side of the bed). Josh hung his DREAMWORK IN PROGRESS sign on his outer door, closed and locked that and the inner door, and arranged his skinny body between them but in the opposite direction, with his head next to their bent knees, to minimize crowding.

“You can never get a reentry room at the last minute. I’ve tried,” Emily said. The reentry rooms had plenty of padded floor space. She wriggled a little. “This’ll be okay for a while but my back’s going to start hurting if I stay here very long.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. We can start right now. Okay: we’re going to go back into my dream titled ‘Space Ballet’ to find out three things: whether we’re out in space or underwater, what the Lego shuttle is, and why I’m so scared of it.”

“What’s your intention?” Jen asked him. The students had been taught to state both what they wanted to find out and what action they intended to take when they reemerged from the dream.

“I don’t think I’m going to have an intention till I find out why it scares me. But okay, I’ll say I intend to do whatever I think I should once I know what I’m dealing with. How’s that?”

Jen snorted. “What do you want us to do?”

“I guess,” Josh said slowly, “just help me determine where we are, and also stand guard and help fight off the shuttle if you think I might be in trouble.”

“I accept the mission,” Jen said; then Emily said it too.

Josh slid his hands sideways on his bedspread till they were just touching the hands of his trackers. Arranged this way, his power animal, a coyote, nudged against Emily’s golden jackrabbit. It wasn’t optimal to juxtapose a predator and a prey animal, but Jen’s prairie chicken was just as likely as a rabbit to interest his coyote, so Josh didn’t ask them to switch places. It shouldn’t matter that much for this exercise. He settled himself, drew a deep breath and held it. “Lights! Begin!”

The room immediately went dark, and was filled with the sound of drumming.

Josh let his mind go dark as well, and slowed and regulated his breathing. On either side of him, he knew, his two trackers were doing the same. Dream reentry was something they had all learned to do as freshmen and had practiced regularly ever since. It had stopped seeming miraculous that a person could enter somebody else’s dreamscape while fully conscious, but the experience could still feel strange, and require a fair amount of energy; nobody liked to do it when very tired. Jen, and especially Emily, were both tired enough to make Josh wonder whether this was going to be a very productive session, but he also knew his painting had made things easier by showing them exactly where to go. He set his doubts aside and began to enter the deeper blackness of his dream.

He was back in the suit that fit him like a second skin, filled again with a sense of physical power and grace as he raised his arms and spun in a perfect pirouette. The ship hung above him. Nearby, Tim struck a pose and soared away. Josh couldn’t see Tim’s face, not that he needed to. Sheer joy, to be able move so beautifully! He let the feeling swell inside him for a long moment before focusing on his first question: Water or vacuum? The answer wouldn’t come clear. His ballet moves required resistance, and he felt resistance, but the medium he floated in didn’t seem to be water. Or not only water. Water and something else at the same time. The suit was both a wet suit and something else—yes, a pressure suit designed for space walks, as he had assumed. The situation, thus examined, revealed not an answer but an ambiguity.

He looked “up” at the ship—directions being relevant only in the presence of gravity, yet he felt he was looking up—and saw that it too was suspended in both water and space. How could that be? He was still puzzling about it when the black shuttle shot from beneath the ship’s hat brim, heading straight for himself and Tim. And this time the shuttle’s “headlights” were blazing like weapons, stabbing through the dark.

The old fear seized him, but this time he was ready, and soared purposefully to confront it. Close-to, he realized, the jack-o’-lantern face with its X-ray vision looked merely silly, and as he thought this thought the face disappeared. The black shape, no longer heading for Josh, swept past him, out of the sphere of foggy light and into the absolute blackness below.

Relieved, Josh swooped closer to the ship, wanting to see under that hat brim, maybe even go in. But the round underside was a detailed image of the full moon, not a photograph but a painting he himself had made in high school, hanging now in his room at home. The image of the moon exactly fit into the circle of the hat brim, like the base of a lamp or a candlestick. There was no sign of a hatch for the black object or objects to have emerged from, and no visible attachment points for the lines connecting the ship to himself and Tim. The vague structures below the hat were gone. Suddenly remembering Professor Christian’s question about the source of light in the painted dreamscape, he looked up to locate it—and saw the sun, a yellow brightness shining out of a black void. At that moment someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see his brother in jeans and a sweatshirt, standing on the sidewalk in front of his dorm. “Call me,” Tim said, just as the drumming ended.

* * *

“The shuttle went dark and veered off,” Jen said. “Nice work.” They were sitting on Josh’s bed in a row, holding mugs of coffee from the wall vendor, which was out of creamer.

“Thanks.” Josh thought about how to put his question without leading the witnesses. “So which did you get? Outer space or deep-sea diving?”

“You know, I couldn’t tell.” This was Emily. “In my dream of your dream, it kind of felt like both. Sometimes one, sometimes the other. It wasn’t clear.”

“In my dream of your dream, that’s what I got too,” Jen said. “What about you, Josh?”

“Same here. I think it must be something happening in both places. I swam under the ship, and I saw this painting I did of the moon for an art class in high school, so that made me think space. But it seemed like the shuttle thing was plunging through the water.”

Jen said, “Do you realize you said you swam under the ship?”

Josh’s eyebrows shot up. “Hunh.” He shrugged. “It’s both, that’s all. It’s, like, something starting in space and ending up underwater.”

“Or maybe vice versa? Or simultaneously?” Jen suggested. They all knew how dream images could refer to several things at the same time, or be in several locations at once, but Josh and Emily both shook their heads. The direction was downward to the Earth. He was sure of that much, even though the dream hadn’t provided any sense of movement from one dimension into the other.

Jen said, “Well, okay, something starting out in space and up ending underwater. Such as what? What would do that?”

“I’m not saying this is it,” Josh said, “but like, say, a spacecraft doing a splashdown landing and breaking up on impact, and sinking. Just to take a hypothetical example. Or a supersonic plane crashing over the ocean.”

Emily said, “Or maybe—a missile launched from space at an underwater target?”

They looked at each other. All three had carefully avoided saying out loud that Josh’s dream might be precognitive with reference to something outside of, and greater than, his personal life, though all were beginning to wonder. To recognize such dreams was what they were being trained to do, but the danger of crying wolf, and calling the whole program into question, was so real that every other possibility had to be considered first, and the students were cautioned not to bandy the word about.

Over time a superstitious fear had arisen in the Center that even mentioning the world precognitive was bad luck. In the years since its founding, only a handful of precognitive dreams had been definitely identified and used to avert disaster (a shooter arrested at the New York Metropolitan Opera, a train derailment in Switzerland prevented, evacuation of towns in Arkansas and Oklahoma before a tornado outbreak). None of these had been dreamed or recognized by an undergraduate, however, and none was accepted as genuine by everybody; in fact, a whole small industry of skeptics worked busily to prove pure coincidence each time a disaster had been prevented—precognitive dreaming seeming to be activated all but entirely by impending disasters.

“Well, anyhow,” Josh said, backing away from the danger zone, “None of those is an ‘Aha.’ And the shuttle turned harmless when I confronted it, so that sounds like a personal childhood fear thing, like Professor Christian said. I still don’t get why I felt so afraid of it, but I wonder if that matters.”

“You mean, maybe it’s enough to face your fears, even if you don’t understand them? I don’t think I buy that, Josh,” Emily said. “I don’t think Christian’s going to either. I think you need to incubate another dream and take it further.” She paused. “It might be important.”

Jen stood up and set her mug on a chair. “Are we done? I’ve got to go, I’m meeting Sanjay in fifteen minutes.” Folding her baggy shawl into a triangle, she flipped it around her and tied the ends. “ I agree with Emily, for what it’s worth. Oh, wait—you haven’t stated your intention! Now that you’ve got the information. Such as it is.”

Josh stood up too. “Just before the drumming stopped, Tim asked me to call him. So I intend to do that first, and take it from there.”

Emily was wrapping herself in her cloak, holding it together with one hand while lifting her hair with the other and draping it down the back, a tricky but practiced maneuver. “Keep us posted,” she said.

Josh blinked; he’d been watching the cloak performance. “I will. In class, if not before. If I get any further with it before then I’ll let you know for sure. Thanks, guys, thanks a lot.”

* * *

“What’s up?” Josh’s twin, more solidly built than himself, with fiery hair too naturally dramatic for enhancements, had been briskly walking somewhere.

Josh was not surprised to see that Tim was wearing jeans and the same gray hoodie he’d been wearing in the dream—though Tim pretty much lived in clothes like those, so maybe that was just a coincidence. Maybe. “You busy?”

“Running to class. I was just thinking about you, actually, but I can’t really talk right now. What did you want?”

“Long story short, I had a nightmare and you were in it.” Tim grinned. “Right at the end you told me to call you, so I’m calling you. So why were you thinking about me?”

Tim stopped at a street corner and jiggled from one foot to the other, waiting for the light to change. “I had a nightmare too, as it happens. You weren’t in it as yourself, but you were represented in it. Okay: I was standing on the beach at Santa Barbara, looking out to sea, and all of a sudden this huge wave sort of shouldered up out of the water and headed straight for shore. I mean a huge wave, a tsunami. I was petrified, couldn’t move or yell, I just stood there. Then I happened to look up, and it wasn’t night, but I saw the full moon halfway up the sky, only”—the light changed, the crossing signal burst into a brisk metallic march, Tim started to jog across the intersection—“it wasn’t the real moon. It was that painting of the moon you’ve got in your room. And then I woke up. I thought you’d probably want to know. Listen, I’ve got to really run now or I’ll be late.”

“Just tell me if you woke up before the tsunami came ashore.”

“I did. It was still pretty far out to sea. Listen, I want to hear about what I was doing in your nightmare, I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Any time after nine. I have to write a report.”

Tim clicked off. Josh fell back on his bed, filled with foreboding.

* * *

Bob Christian had left his office door standing open; when Josh arrived he waved him in. “Have a seat. Thanks for coming by on short notice.” Josh sat uneasily on the edge of Bob’s ratty old couch. Bob noted that his favorite student looked rumpled and jittery—short on sleep, perhaps. Well, no wonder. He got up and closed the door, then fell heavily into his desk chair; he was a bit short on sleep himself. “I’ll get right to the point. I’ve read your report—more than once, actually. You probably won’t be surprised to hear that.” Josh nodded nervously. “I need to ask you about your brother—why you’ve included his dream in your report.”

“Oh. I probably should have explained that.” Josh shrugged out of his backpack and then his down vest, and dumped both on the floor. “Tim’s a dreamer too, a good one. His scores weren’t as high as mine but they’re pretty high, he made the first cut, he could have tried for the Center if he’d wanted to. And he was in my dream, and his dream was linked to mine through the moon painting. And the tsunami thing just felt like it had a connection to the underwater setting in my dream, so I put him in my report—I don’t know what the connection is yet, but there always turns out to be one. I’m so used to the way we operate, I didn’t think to explain.”

“But the two of you aren’t identical.”

“No,” Josh said, “but we did spend nine months in the same uterus. Like somebody pointed out in class, Claudia, I think. It seems to create a powerful connection. That’s in my painting too, in a way.”

Bob laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back in his chair. “Did you ever read that old Heinlein novel, Time for the Stars?” Josh shook his head. “I read it a couple of times when I was a kid, and I remember it because I was fascinated by the concept. The plot is based on the twin paradox, ever hear of that?” Josh shook his head again, looking sheepish, as if he expected himself to know everything there was to know about twins. “It’s a thought experiment about special relativity, invented by a French physicist called Paul Langevin. Langevin was a student of Pierre Curie’s and knew Einstein. Anyway, in the novel it’s been discovered that some sets of identical twins can communicate telepathically and instantaneously, and that distance doesn’t seem to affect that ability. So a number of pairs of twins get recruited to be the means of communication on a starship with an exploratory mission. One twin stays on Earth, the other gets on the starship. The ship is gone for decades, accelerating all that time, and all that time the twins onboard are sending and receiving instantaneous telepathic messages with their twins back on Earth.”

“Like human ansibles,” Josh said, and when Bob looked puzzled, “Never mind. But same principle.”

“The ship comes back, and the twins on the ship aren’t much older than they were when they blasted off, but the twins on Earth are elderly and feeble. Some have even died. That was the point of the thought experiment—it’s been verified by the way, they put atomic clocks in planes and satellites and the clocks lost time relative to atomic clocks on the ground. But what fascinated me was that idea of twin telepathy.”

“That’s been studied,” Josh said, eager to demonstrate that he did in fact know some things about twins. “They’ve done quite a few experimental studies on twins and telepathy. Though actually it doesn’t necessarily have to be twins. What you need is a powerful emotional connection between any two people, but twins do give especially good results. You can look it up, there’s stuff all over the internet. Psychotherapists and their patients apparently do it sometimes, when the connection’s really strong. Freud even published a paper about telepathy and dreams. He believed in it and so did Jung.”

Bob recalled a clinical patient or two of his own, from his private practice days before the assassination. He cleared his throat. “Were you and your brother ever enrolled in a study?”

Josh shook his head. “No, but we’ve always connected like that, always. We get into each other’s dreams pretty often. And there’s one experiment I remember they did at some medical center in Brooklyn. They were testing for telepathy in the dream state, I read about it when I was applying to the Center. This was a dream study, not a twin study, but anyway they got statistically significant results, which didn’t surprise me at all because Tim and I are always doing it. Like now.”

Bob had been tapping at his computer. Now he read aloud from the screen: “‘A series of tests conducted by psychologists at the University of Alberta, Canada, confirmed this theory by establishing statistical evidence that identical twins, and to a lesser extent, fraternal twins, have remarkable ability to communicate with one another through ESP.’ Okay, Josh, I believe you. Provisionally I do. But if I believe you, then we’re going to have to ratchet up this dream of yours a notch. I’m not ready to say it’s precognitive, but I’m thinking we need to start considering the possibility.”

“Seriously,” Josh said. He looked a little sick.

“And I think we may need to start monitoring the dream sites. I’ll clear that with the director, but my conclusion is the same as yours. Amid generalized fear, an object or objects—ship, shuttle, maybe both—are in space, and are also deep underwater. In your dream there’s no image or sense of the object plunging from space into the water, but your twin dreams of a tidal wave, and his dream and your reentry experience are linked through your moon painting. The only object from space that could cause a tidal wave on earth is a good-sized asteroid. Putting it all together, everything we’ve got adds up to a tsunami caused by an asteroid strike in the Pacific off the California coast.”

“Asteroid!” Josh cried, electrified. “An asteroid strike! We didn’t even think of that, I don’t know anything about asteroids—I mean, I know they make huge craters when they crash on land, like that one someplace in the southwest—” He jumped up in his agitation. “God, that’s so stupid! I could have Googled tsunamis!” Suddenly he turned even paler. “Christ, my family lives in Ventura, right down the coast from Santa Barbara. That’s where I’m from, Ventura.”

Bob stood up behind his desk. Making his voice warm and reassuring, he said, “It’s way too soon to panic, Josh. You deactivated and deflected the shuttle by confronting it, remember. The Center’s going to confront it now. We’ll bring in the big guns.” He smiled his best therapist’s smile. “For starters, I’m going to assign the class to incubate this as a group—among other things, we need to try for a more accurate sense of when. Your painting’s been knocking around in all our psyches for five days, that’ll help.” He stood up. “Go get some rest, you look done in.”

Josh stuck his arms through his vest and picked up his backpack. Bob thought, as he often did, how much the kid looked like that actor—what was his name?—who’d played Harry Potter in the old movies. Apart from Harry’s glasses. And Josh’s green hair.

In the doorway Josh paused with his hand on the door lever and looked around at his professor. “We actually do know one thing about the timing. There’s a full moon.”

He left. Professor Christian stared at the empty doorway; then he went and closed the door, and flopped onto the couch with his hands behind his head.

At the end of August, 2001, twelve-year-old Bobby Christian had just started the seventh grade. On August 26th he was home in bed with a start-of-the-school-year cold, a misery none of his present students had ever experienced, having been safely inoculated against the many common cold viruses shortly after birth. Bobby had a very sore throat and a slight fever. His mother came into his room from time to time with medicine or soup, but he was bored and fretful, and in the afternoon he fell asleep.

And dreamed that his bed was at the edge of an enormous metal platform, an immense flat structure hanging in space. Suddenly a huge sunspot uncoiled or flared out in the black sky above him, with big rolling clouds of steam or smoke exploding outward from the flare. Bobby, lying in his bed, saw people—he thought they might be suicides—start jumping off some higher object onto the flat surface of the platform. Now his perspective shifted; he could see the platform edge-on, and glimpsed in the distance a little plane flying alongside it—very close, way too close! He realized with a shock how easy it would be for one of the planes, for now there were several, to crash into the platform. The whole situation felt so dangerous, and frightened him so much, that it woke him up.

A few minutes later his mother came in with more aspirin and juice, and he told her what he had dreamed. On September 11th he was back in school, having pretty much forgotten about the dream himself, when the first plane flew into the first tower.

It turned out that a lot of people had dreamed dreams similar to Bobby’s, and that some of the dreams were much more specific, and had given clearer warnings. As usual, they weren’t taken seriously. Bobby’s mother took Bobby seriously, however, and encouraged him to write down his dream and the date, August 26, 2001. He still owned the paper journal in which he had printed and signed the account, his very first dream log entry. Underneath, his mother had written in her loopy cursive: “Bobby told this dream to me on August 26, 2001, after waking from a nap.”

It had started then. All though high school and after, Bob kept dreaming about things that hadn’t happened yet, and then realizing when they did happen that he had somehow acquired advance information. He started keeping a dream log in a disciplined way. As the internet, in its infancy on 9/11, became more powerful and useful, he had located a smattering of dream sites, which he bookmarked and kept up with. But there was no Center for Dream Research when he was ready for college, no government fellowships, no opportunity to be trained with other gifted young dreamers.

Instead, Bob completed a PhD in psychology with a dissertation on precognitive dreaming, not a field chosen with an eye to speedy career advancement. He taught at second-rate colleges for fifteen years, set up a private psychodynamic therapy practice, wrote the occasional paper on his unpopular subject, then struggled to find a journal that would publish it. He married, had one child, divorced. He resigned himself to academic invisibility.

And then he dreamed the Finley assassination before it happened, and blogged about it. He’d been among the first to be recruited by the Center.

Bob envied his students, with their cloaks and neon and power-animal tattoos. There was no way they could truly appreciate how fortunate they were. Still, he felt privileged to be helping them develop their natural gifts—and the kids were very gifted, quite a few of them more sensitive than he was himself. Years before, when his daughter Hadley had been a student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she had quoted one of her professors, a seasoned old pro who had grown up before the proliferation of MFA programs like Iowa’s. He would have given anything, he’d said, to have been a student in his own playwriting workshop, but the next best thing was nurturing young writers, some of whom might become finer playwrights than he’d ever had it in him to be himself.

For seven years now, Bob had been nurturing young dreamers and staying alert for signs of precognition. More than once before he had felt the agitation he was feeling now, when someone’s dream first began to emerge as a foretelling of a widespread calamity. But this time the stakes were tremendous. This time they had a chance to save more lives, and prevent more damage, than had been saved and prevented in any potential disaster the Center had thus far managed to anticipate and stop—if he could shepherd his students into synchronicity with Josh’s dream.

He rolled off the couch, sat at his desk, and keyed: “Memo to Dream Interp 289 Students: Urgent.”

* * *

To incubate a dream, it helps to make a little ritual of the intention. Josh took a sauna and a dip, dressed in clean sweats, ate a small careful dinner picked up from a supermarket sushi bar (California roll seemed appropriate), washed it down with spring water, brushed his teeth, and asked his room system for Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. When the music started he sat down on his bed with a pad and pencil; the question had to be spelled out by hand, not by any of the various electronic means available to him, and not by voice recording. After a minute’s thought he wrote: “I want to know if an asteroid is about to strike the earth, and if so, where and when.” It was a more elaborate question than the protocols recommended, but he needed to know all three things. His painting was propped on his desk; he tore off the page and slipped it between the picture and its cardboard backing. Then he darkened the room and crawled into bed. He was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Bob had sent his memo, giving the class their emergency assignment and convening a special meeting for the following day. Urged by his gut and his own incubated dream to do more, that morning he had also stuck out his neck and sent an urgent request for the entire Center faculty to cancel their commitments and sit in on the session; so the seminar room was crammed with extra chairs and serious adults. For the students it was all a bit overwhelming, but they understood that they were at center stage in a developing drama, and sat around the seminar table with their dream logs open in front of them, looking both nervous and excited.

Bob began the session by carefully summarizing Josh’s part of the previous class meeting and the ambiguous results of the reentry exercise, while his colleagues gazed with intense interest at Josh’s painting, now taped to the wall by its backing. No one in the assembly had been told about Tim’s tsunami dream, the faculty members having till now no context to put it into, and the students being too suggestible to be given the tsunami idea before they’d done their independent dreaming. Bob’s memo had instructed them only to incubate the intention: “I want to go deeper into Josh’s dream ‘Space Ballet,’ in order to understand its meaning better.”

So now, before opening the circle, he asked Josh to describe his brother’s dream for his professors and classmates. While Josh was speaking, a stir went round the table as the students reconsidered their incubated dreams in light of the new information. And when he’d finished, and as each student rose and read out his or her log entry, the other students and the attending faculty worked their notebooks busily, looking things up, making notes, texting each other, connecting the dots and building a composite picture out of what they were hearing:

Yancey: “I’m at a big Olympic-size outdoor swimming pool. It’s very sunny and hot. There are a lot of people sunbathing around the sides of the pool. An enormous fat man does a cannonball off the high dive. He hits so hard that he splashes all the water out of the pool. The people around the sides are swamped in several feet of water. They run around screaming. Title: ‘Cannonball.’ Affect: I was terrified of the fat man even before he jumped. I was still terrified when I woke up.”

Emily: “In this dream I’m three years old. I’m all alone and scared. I’m on top of a mountain that’s sticking up out of the ocean. There’s deep water all around. I’m wandering around trying to find my mother, but I can’t find her. Then I see something big out in the water. It’s swimming toward me. I can’t tell what it is but it’s huge and hairy, and I’m afraid of it and start to cry. Just as it starts to climb out of the water I hear somebody say, ‘That’s a rare rat, Barbara.’ Title: ‘Rare Rat.’ Affect: Fear of the rat, before and after waking; also annoyance at being called Barbara. I’ve always hated that name.”

Jen: “I’ve gone to the doctor to be treated for a terrible case of hemorrhoids. I’m carrying the hemorrhoids, which look like gallstones, in a small glass bowl. I’m in the center of a group of doctors who’ve been called in to work on my case. One of them hands me a big bottle of medicine, and tells me that if I take this medicine for three years I’ll be cured. I look at the bottle thinking I would see a skull and crossbones, but there’s just a big black letter B on a white label. Title: ‘Hemorrhoids.’ Affect: Anxiety in the dream. On waking: confusion, then disappointment. I don’t see how this could possibly have anything to do with Josh’s dream.”

David: “I’m in Little League and we’re in the middle of a game. I’m playing outfield. My team is winning 3.21-0; it says that on the scoreboard. The other team’s best batter steps up to the plate and clobbers the ball straight up in the air. It looks like a home run. I run like crazy to get under it, and jump as high as I can and stick my glove way up in the air to catch it, but it flies over the fence. Then I hear a huge splash. I can’t see what happened but I know it landed in the duck pond on the other side. Title: ‘Home Run.’ Affect: I was devastated in the dream. But I felt better when I woke up. The score was still 3.21-1, our favor. We could still win the game.”

Rick: “I’m inside Josh’s picture, only in my dream of his dream the ship is a flying saucer in orbit around earth. In this dream I’m Josh’s brother. We are prisoners of the saucer aliens, who have put us into space suits and tied us to the saucer with cables. While we’re twisting and turning helplessly in space, the aliens launch that thing we’ve been calling the Lego shuttle. What it is in my dream, is a robotic lander armed with some hugely powerful weapon. There may be more landers too, its hard to tell. The aliens’ aim is to destroy the Earth. I can’t do anything to stop them or warn people. I can see Earth; it looks like a big blue marble with white swirls against the black of space, incredibly beautiful. The lander is heading right for it. Josh looks at me and shakes his head. There’s nothing we can do. Title: ‘Saucer Prisoners.’ Affect: Distress and helplessness inside the dream. On waking, total determination not to accept the role of helpless prisoner. Decision to reenter the dream.”

Claudia: “I’m weeding my grandmother’s flower garden. It’s hot and I want to get cleaned up and go meet my friends, but I know I have to finish this first. I feel huge resistance, I don’t want to be out here working. I’m so angry I yank up a bunch of flowers and throw them in the fishpond. Grandma comes out and says, ‘Just finish those asters, then you can quit.’ Title: ‘Weeding.’ Affect: In the dream, furious resentment. On waking, surprise. I actually like gardening. And this didn’t seem to have any bearing at all on Josh’s dream.”

“It does, though,” Josh said a little shakily as he stood up, and Claudia nodded; she understood that now, they all did. At this point there was not a person in the room who hadn’t understood, along with a great deal else, that Claudia’s asters and Jen’s hemorrhoids—individually, but especially together—said asteroids in the wacko punning language of dreams.

Josh pulled a cardboard square and a roll of tape out of his portfolio. “This is just a brush-pen sketch, all I had time for, but it shows how the elements in my first dream get incorporated into this one, but switched around.” He tore tape off the roll and stuck the new picture up next to the old one. Then he picked up his notepad, caught the eye of the Center’s director, Marcus Manning, whose gaze was trained on him, and read his log entry:

“I’m back in my dream, and I’m in space. The ship has turned into a hot air balloon. The hole at the top of the ship”—he pointed to his finished painting, then to the sketch—“is now the hole at the bottom of the balloon, and the light streaming out through the top of the ship… is the propane flame that goes through the hole in the balloon and heats the air inside. The black of space surrounds the balloon, but the flame creates a sphere of light around it, and the basket underneath that I’m riding in, as if the balloon were in the atmosphere. I look down and see the whole Earth, with the continents and the blue water, way down below. Suddenly Mr. Hopewell appears in the basket with me. He says, ‘A sandbag is dropped from a hot air balloon that is a million miles above the earth. How long does it take for the sandbag to reach the surface?’ I say, ‘Three years, two months, and nineteen days.’ Title: ‘Hot Air Balloon.’ Affect: In the dream, a sense of foreboding but I’m pleased that I know the answer. On waking, excitement and certainty!” Looking up, he added, “Mr. Hopewell was my algebra teacher in high school.”

“He has an optimistic name,” Bob Christian said. “I call that a good sign.”

The class had moved beyond the need for if-this-were-my-dream courtesies; their collaborative effort had brought them into sync. Their professors held back and let them pull it all together. They bent over their notepads and proceeded to do that.

Unless it could somehow be prevented, an asteroid would fall into the Pacific near Santa Barbara in a little more than three years’ time; Josh’s answer to the sandbag question chimed with David’s scoreboard display and (less precisely) with Jen’s treatment lasting three years and Emily’s being three when she saw the rare rat. (“What’s “a rare rat” about, anybody know?” Yancey asked, and Professor Manning said, “Emily must have learned about Noah’s ark in Sunday School. When the flood waters started to recede, the ark came down on top of Mount A-rar-at.” Emily emitted a startled “Oh!” “At least they were receding,” Yancey said.)

Three years, two months, and nineteen days from that day, April 16, 2044, was July 7, 2047—or at least that date was in the ballpark (David grinned). There would in fact be a full moon on July 7th. The asteroid would cause a tidal wave to form, and tremendous flooding would result, with the inevitable loss of life and property. Josh pointed out that in Jen’s dream she’s at the Center of a group of doctors who give her medicine they say will cure her hemorrhoids. “That’s pretty much where she is right this second! We’ve got a lot of doctors in this room. Maybe they know a way to fix her up?”

He searched the faces of the faculty hopefully. Dr. Manning said, “We don’t, of course, but we know which specialists to refer her to. The Jet Propulsion Lab has an Asteroid Watch Program, I’ve just been reading about it here. NASA’s got a whole bag of tricks they use to address this sort of problem. They can send up a probe to nudge the asteroid out of its collision orbit, for instance—that’s worked before. Another approach, it says here,” tapping his notebook, “would be to break the asteroid into smaller pieces with a nuclear explosion, and that’s suggested too, by the other sketchy shuttles in Josh’s first painting.”

He made it sound like a done deal. Everyone felt the incubated dreams gave them reason to be optimistic about the outcome. And not just the bottle of medicine and the doctors’ assurances of a cure. David had failed to catch the fly ball, but his team was still winning. The flood waters were receding. Josh’s teacher did have a hopeful name. Rick was going to do a dream reentry and break free of imprisonment. But when they looked carefully at the dreams, there seemed to be just as many reasons to be worried, probably more.

* * *

It took NASA a year to find the asteroid, a previously undiscovered one and on the small side as asteroids go. If they hadn’t been looking for it, they would almost certainly not have found it in time to respond. To be ordered to look for a particular rock wandering around somewhere out in space, on the say-so of a bunch of kids from the Center for Dream Research, was viewed by many as a very bad joke, and during that initial year the grumbling was considerable.

Then one day the people in the Near-Earth Object Office found what they’d been looking for. The grumbling stopped. They gave the asteroid a provisional designation, 2034 KW3, and a respectful nickname, “The Gallstone,” and set about confirming its orbit and devising a plan to modify that orbit. The approach was one Professor Manning had described to Josh’s class: NASA would launch a “gravity tractor,” in the form of a robotic probe, to rendezvous with The Gallstone and travel along with it. Over time, the tug of the tractor’s gravity would affect the trajectory of the asteroid enough to let it pass harmlessly by the Earth, thus averting catastrophe. That was the method of choice, as it had been employed a number of times already with good results.

But to be on the safe side, NASA also prepared a backup plan, on the unlikely chance that the gravity tractor failed to work. This was an experimental approach known as “mirror bees.” A swarm of small spacecraft would be launched at The Gallstone, each with mirrors on its surface. When the probes reached the asteroid, the mirrors would focus reflected sunlight at a designated spot on the asteroid. The effect would be to make the spot so hot that some of the rock or ice would be vaporized, and the ejecta would act like propulsion jets, pushing The Gallstone off its original course.

When Josh heard about the mirror bees, he got out his painting again. Then he called Bob Christian. “Something’s going to go wrong with the gravity tractor,” he said. “What’s going to work is the backup plan, the mirror bees. Plan B-e-e and Plan B, like on Jen’s medicine bottle. If you’ve still got a scan of that old picture, check it out—or I can send it over.”

“Printout on my wall. I’m looking at it.”

Josh described the mirror-bee strategy. “See what I mean? You have to start from scratch and assign different roles and meanings to everything, but it all makes sense. Finally.”

“So you think it’ll work?”

“Sure it’ll work!” And then, “At least I’m as sure as it’s possible to be about anything, when the probabilities haven’t actually collapsed yet. Aren’t you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bob said, “I am.”

* * *

On July 7, 2047, the Center for Dream Research threw a spectacular party for Bob Christian’s famous Spring ‘44 Dream Interpretation class. Everyone in the class had graduated by then, but five were still at the Center doing graduate work, and Yancey and David had come back from their assignments to watch the flyby and celebrate along with the others. Josh’s brother Tim had driven down from MIT for the occasion, and their parents had flown in from California. NASA had provided a terminal and a link to Hubble III. The rest of the world would see the footage on the evening news, but everyone at the Center, like everyone at NASA, got to watch it live.

In the months after the gravity tractor had lost propulsion, and before the mirror bees had reached their target, Center staff and students had monitored, not just their own dreams, but also the online dream sites, nervously anticipating a tsunami of dreams about shattered mirrors and bee catastrophes. It didn’t happen. Nor had anyone at the Center dreamed about tractors or bees. “I told you,” Josh had said to Bob Christian. “Precognitive dreams foretell disasters. There isn’t going to be one.”

And there wasn’t one. Everyone cheered as The Gallstone zipped harmlessly between the Earth and the moon, thirteen thousand miles above Santa Barbara (and, incidentally, above Pasadena and the Jet Propulsion Lab, which would have been devastated had the asteroid come down in the Pacific). Champagne appeared. Live music, amplified, streamed from walls and ceiling. Reporters pushed in to interview members of the class. On the big screen a blowup of Josh’s painting “Space Ballet” replaced the flyby. Someone from NASA made a speech. After years of being the object of jokes by the hosts of talk shows, the Center was experiencing the heady glamour of public approval and gratitude, not to mention assured funding for the foreseeable future. It was quite a party.

After the speech a reporter buttonholed a black-haired grown-up Josh, in jacket and bolo tie, and waved one arm at the gigantic picture on the screen. “Josh, can you tell us why it was so hard to interpret that dream of yours? One of your friends was saying how you had to try several different approaches before the class managed to figure it out. Nice painting, by the way.”

“Thanks. Well. See, the thing about dreams, they’re packed with information, but they typically deliver the information in a weird symbolic language that can be very hard to understand. If dreams were more straightforward, we wouldn’t have to go to school for years to learn how to interpret them. And this dream wasn’t straightforward at all, so it took us a while.” Behind the cameraman, Tim was jumping up and down and making faces at him. Emily stood next to him, laughing at Josh’s discomfort. She had cut her hair. He attempted to edge away.

“Interesting,” said the reporter briskly. “Now, what are some of the symbols in the dream you painted?”

“Well”—Josh threw a pleading glance at Bob, who shrugged and grinned—“everything in it, really. The ship, the people, the black things with faces, the light, the cables—”

“Now, which of those would be The Gallstone?”

“We didn’t know any of them was The Gallstone for a while! In the dream, that little black thing like a shuttle, under the ship, seemed frightening, so the first thing we did was try to figure out why.”

She craned her neck to peer up at the screen. “So The Gallstone is that little black thing with the face?”

“Well, you could say—on one level you could say so, but that’s not all it turned out to be. See,” Josh said desperately, “dreams can be very ambiguous, objects can symbolize several things at the same time. You have to be careful not to rule things out.”

Again he cast a beseeching look at Bob, who now took pity on him and came to the rescue. “An article about Josh’s dream was posted to the Center’s website this morning,” he told the reporter. “It reads like a detective story—your viewers will enjoy it. The article describes the entire interpretive process and what everyone contributed. You’ll find answers there to all these questions and lots of others. Meanwhile, this is Josh’s big day. Why don’t we let him enjoy the party?”

The reporter turned eagerly on Bob. “You’re a professor here at the Center?” She glanced at his name tag. “Oh, Professor Christian! This is the teacher of Josh’s class, the class that helped interpret his dream! Wonderful to see you! I’m sure our viewers would love to know more about how you dreamers get your results, if could you give us just a hint—”

“I’m afraid not,” Bob said firmly, pushing a grateful Josh out of the limelight. “Can’t be done in a sound bite, unfortunately. Read the article.” He smiled past her, into the camera lens. “Read the article, folks: centerfordreamresearch.upenn.edu. Look for ‘Space Ballet.’ The whole story’s in there.”

* * *

Note: a number of concepts, terms, and strategies in this story derive from Robert Moss’s many books about dreams and dreaming.

mossdreams.com

Copyright (C) 2014 by Judith Moffett

Art copyright (C) 2014 by Richard Anderson

Where Do We Come From?

What Are We?

Where Are We Going?

by Kathleen Ann Goonan

Leilani Kalani

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

I hear her on the radio, while I’m in the bathroom drying my hair.

It’s about seven in the morning, and the forecast promises another dim, drizzly winter day. I’m an animal rights lawyer in Washington. I hate my job, I love my job, you get the picture. I’m happily married to Dan, a government employee, and we have a three-year-old daughter, Kara. He’s just left to drop her off at school.

The roar of hot air obscures every other radio word. When my mother speaks—“We demand legal recognition for all living creatures”—I drop my hair dryer. It clatters on the tile floor. I turn up the radio and listen, stunned.

My mother died twenty-five years ago.

Yet I hear my mother’s beloved voice: “…and humans practice deliberate cross-speciation, mingling plant and animal DNA for commercial gain. We therefore demand the right to accept or reject technological changes to our fundamental being.”

First come swift, crazy suppositions: she’s not really dead; this is a recording. Then it hits me, quite literally, in a flash, like slap upside the head. It’s Meitner, and she is an African Grey Parrot.

“From space, I see the Earth below me. I see the broad outlines of rain forests, where my kin flock; oceans where others of us school, and plains where herds run headlong…”

But it is like hearing the dead speak, and I am correspondingly chilled. When Mom died, Meitner vanished into the cloudy reaches of Kauai’s rain forest mountains, blended with her flock. I was just a little girl, as lonely as Meitner must have been, even though my father was close at hand. He was suffering too—withdrawn, grumpy. Unavailable, as they say.

Meitner could have consoled me. She did not.

The anger I’d had as a child resurfaces. I visualize smashing the mirror with the hair dryer, for an instant. The intensity of the impulse surprises me.

I feel betrayed. It had been easier to think that Meitner had died, though that too was as painful as any animal’s loss, the mystery of a vanishing. Funny to expect so much of a parrot, but Meitner is more than a parrot, and less than a parrot.

I sink to the cold tile floor, cross my legs, bow my head, and drink in my mother’s rich, low voice for a few more seconds before a male announcer interrupts the flowing words.

“Meitner, the African Grey Parrot you have just heard speaking, was a celebrity at one time. She disappeared after the death of her trainer, Dr. Jean Woodward, twenty-five years ago. As we piece together her story, we find that it is long and complicated. Presently, she is part of an experiment.

“Meitner is in a specially modified space suit, on a scientific mission in what has been dubbed the Stinger Ship. It looks like a massive jellyfish, complete with tentacles. But instead of stinging, these are life-support tentacles that allow people, and now, apparently, parrots, to float free in space. For those of you who have not been keeping up, this ship, which has been decades in the building, is scheduled to leave Earth’s orbit soon.

“We have gotten word that an entire flock of parrots will be dropped from the ship in specially made suits that allow parrots to operate jet packs, radios, and computers. All the parrots are enhanced in various ways, and their brain activities are being measured in real time. In fact, according to their spokesperson, the data being gathered is related to the mathematical abilities from which flocking behavior emerges. This information may lead to many breakthroughs, including—and it does sound far-fetched—space-time travel.”

Meitner’s words recede, and I recall my mother’s real voice telling bedtime stories, all of them merged in my memory into a single narrative of cloudy jungle, infused with the thrill of finding her African Grey Parrot and of the knowledge she hoped her studies might lead to. When I was a little girl, I imagined I had been with her on that trip. Like Meitner, I became part of her, so much so that her story is like a well-worn stone with strata exposed by the rush, the power, of time.

* * *

Mom was a postdoc when she tracked down Meitner.

She knew that animal activists had liberated Meitner and other animals from a Cairo lab, run by someone known internationally as Dr. Moreau. WikiLeaks had published some of Moreau’s research, in which it seemed clear that chimps, Grey Parrots, and porpoises injected with experimental neuroplasticity drugs were in captivity.

It was also clear that human DNA was part of their makeup.

The activists ran their standard operation, which, as usual, was in the news after the fact. They turned off the electricity, posted fake surveillance videos showing everything as normal, herded all the humans into a bus, evacuated every animal to an appropriate environment, and incinerated all records. A few bits left behind on the Internet are all anyone ever knew about the experiments. It was discovered that the lab had been established by a wealthy man, who died five years before the dramatic rescue. The original project was framed as an exploration of the possibilities and limits of rapid transpeciism with an eye to expanding human capabilities and lifespan. After the founder died, the project segued into a drug-development mill. Elephant poachers, charged with procuring a calf, tipped off authorities anonymously when they felt underpaid. No one knew what had happened to the animals, but once my mother heard about the parrot, she began sleuthing, getting closer to the secret heart of the activist organization, until she made the connection that changed our lives.

“After a year of feints and parries,” my mother would begin, at that magical hour on our Kauai ridgetop when I was tucked into bed and the smell of wild ginger filled the room, “I was in a small plane that landed with a big bounce on a short runway that looked like a river from the air because of the rain. When I climbed down from the plane, the wind whipped up my poncho and I was soaked in the first minute.”

Meitner was always in the bedroom, perched behind my mother on the old rocking chair from the Big Island that Tutu, my grandmother, gave us, eyes closed, listening and waiting, soothed as if on a bough moved by wind.

Mom’s calm, measured words and soothing voice were always tinged with humor, as if she might laugh at any moment at her younger self, so intrepid and, perhaps, lacking good judgment. “I could hardly see because of the rain, but a short, dark woman yelled ‘Bienvenu!’ out the window of a beat-up Land Rover almost hidden by the brush, under a huge baobab tree. When I got to the car, she flung open the passenger door and said, ‘Hurry inside, hurry inside!’ She had a round face and a big smile. She said, ‘Call me Belinda.’ It wasn’t her real name; that was part of the plan. I thrust my pack inside and slid into the seat. She shifted into first gear and rocketed down a mud-dirt road. I had no idea how she could see. The wipers didn’t work at all. I held onto the sissy bar for dear life.”

Sometimes Meitner sidled back and forth on the top of the chair, head bobbing, barely able to contain her excitement at this, her own story. Sometimes she just listened, as if contemplating.

“Belinda said, ‘How was your trip?’ She looked at me for a long time, a huge grin lighting her face. I wanted to scream, ‘Keep your eyes on the road!’ but I didn’t want to distract her. I settled for ‘Interesting.’

“It was a horrible, rough, eight-hour-long ride. I started out feeling like an intrepid explorer, but pretty soon I realized that I was pretty low on the Martha Gellhorn scale—she’s a writer, honey. We drove over huge cloudy mountains. Like here. We got stuck behind big trucks and Belinda would get out and yell at them. We finally got to a place way back of nowhere, a house with a stone floor and big heavy beams, mostly open. Belinda took me to a tiny bedroom with high, open louvered windows and a bed covered with mosquito netting. The room was full of a beautiful smell that I wanted to inhale forever. I asked Belinda, ‘What’s that smell?’”

At that point I’d always say, “Wild ginger! Just like here.”

“Right,” Mom would say. “I fell onto that lovely bed, just for a minute, and didn’t wake until the next morning. The howler monkeys screamed all night, though.”

“Just like here,” Meitner and I would say, then laugh.

My mother said that she chatted with Belinda for two days, but she knew that Belinda was really giving her the final test. Mom’s background, her experience, her plans, were just what the activists wanted. She was perfect.

Finally, she met Meitner. This was the place in the story where Meitner always got excited. She’d flutter from the chair to the bed and back again, muttering in low, rapid French.

“Belinda said that I might want to take a walk down to the river. The man who brought Meitner was tall and thin. He had blue-ebony skin. He was nervous and left quickly.

“I picked up the big plastic parrot carrier that he left on the bank under the banana trees. What did you say, Meitner?”

Meitner raised her head, whistled, and imitated the sound of a car engine and some phone tones. Then she said, in a really cranky man’s voice, “Où allons nous?”

My cue to translate: “Where are we going?”

My mother responded, “Right! And what did I say?”

Meitner would say, “‘Maison.’ Home.”

And home—my future home—was where she would soon meet John Kalani, my father.

John Kalani

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

I am on a Kauai ridgetop, monitoring the feed from the Stinger ship, when I hear Jean’s voice, but after an instant’s shock, I realize that it is Meitner. Our former family member, up on that ship, with some kind of plan.

Awe, puzzlement, delight, dark loss, and emotions beyond the reach of the most nuanced languages stop my mind. A blast of cool wind brings a spatter of rain and then, for an instant, parts the clouds so that I see the steep range of cliffs, one behind the other, vanishing from deep green to blue, lavender, gray. Jean’s voice. A brilliant parrot. A murder. All long ago, and yet as close, in my mind, as yesterday.

* * *

The day I met Dr. Jean Woodward, she stepped from a rented Jeep into my backyard as I watched from my lanai. Her red hair glinted in the sun as she retrieved a cage containing her African Grey Parrot, Meitner, from the back of the Jeep.

I’m a Hilo boy who went to Silicon Valley by way of Cal Tech and got big, as they say. I made a lot of money on software and bought a chunk of rain forest on the island of Kauai.

An acquaintance from Cal Tech sent me Dr. Woodward’s proposal. She was searching for a habitat for an extraordinary parrot she had acquired. As it happened, there was a flock of African Greys in my backyard—a range of the steepest, rainiest mountains on the earth. Years ago, someone brought a flock of Greys to Kauai, illegally, as is the case with most of the fauna and flora in the Hawaiian Islands. So we have quite a population of non-indigenous creatures here—monkeys, aforesaid African Grey Parrots, other kinds of parrots, macaws—you name it, someone smuggled one in and let it go.

I’d read about the liberation of the lab animals a while back. All of the animals had vanished, but Dr. Woodward tracked down the parrot.

“Since all records were destroyed, I’m not sure how old she was when I got her,” Jean had told me over the phone a week earlier. “Or, when she got me.” That was the first time I heard Jean’s low, burbling chuckle. “I could almost hear her thinking how lucky she was to get such a pliable custodian. I know that she was at least three, because that’s when the iris turns from pale gray to yellow. Her language skills are amazing for a gray parrot of any age.” Her voice became fervent. “I want to help her discover who—or what—she is. I want all of her abilities to—unfold, just as they do in any living creature. I think she might be a bridge between us and other animals—or, at least, between us and parrots. Parrots and humans share speech-related genes and genetically expressed neural pathways. She needs a strong human presence in order to manifest her humanity. But she also needs the environment of a parrot in the wild. No one knows what might happen in Meitner’s instance. I want to be there when she needs human interaction and let her have distance when she needs to be a bird. Her wings have always been clipped, but I think that the development of innate parrot-intelligences are just as linked to the use of wings as the development of human intelligence is linked to use of the hands. It seems plausible that learning flocking behavior in flight is analogous to humans learning to navigate and explore their world, I…”

But she had me the second she said “flocking behavior.” That’s what I do—work on mathematical models of flocking behavior, synchronous movement that displays rules of spacing, momentum, direction, and individual choice that we observe in the movement of groups of birds, fish, insects, herds, and even, some claim, humans in social environments, both physical and in thought and opinion. That’s how I made my fortune. So, when I look back, it all seems inevitable.

Now I know that Jean dreamed of illuminating the nature of consciousness through a series of carefully articulated projects that she was busily mapping out when she acquired Meitner.

That first morning, I waved, shouted “Aloha!” and hurried through my wild yard to shake Jean’s hand. When I picked up the bird carrier I was startled to hear a man’s voice, cursing in French. I set the cage on the lanai; it was too unwieldy to carry on the hike to see Meitner’s possible new digs. As Jean and I passed through my orchid-laced yard and reached the trailhead, the curses blessedly receded.

Jean wanted to build a communication bridge between humans and other species. This intrigued me. I worked on making computers seem like humans, so that they might, perhaps, be a home for human minds at some point. She wanted to go in the opposite direction. She had a vision of all living creatures being increasingly connected through biology. She wanted all creatures to be able to selectively incorporate the biological richnesses of other species.

The many vectors and implications of flocking behavior were our Venn diagram overlap.

Her thesis was that birds, who navigate rapidly in three dimensions, have mathematical abilities that exceed those of humans. Flocking—or schooling, or swarming—adds another layer of complexity. Therefore, to develop optimally, Meitner needed to learn to flock.

The social aspects of flocking seem as important as the spatial aspects. Parrots and other social animals converse with intent. As the feral Wild Boy of Aveyron revealed so long ago, in a situation it would be unethical to repeat, sociality delayed is sociality denied. Jean’s desperation about time-related developmental doors closing came through in the proposal.

As far as I could tell, the woman lived on a shoestring—hand to mouth, grant to grant. But she seemed happy, despite her unemphasized but obvious lack of funds. I had money coming out of my ears. The idea of helping her out in this good cause gave me kind of a do-gooder feeling. I often thought I should do something good. Maybe, I thought, this is it.

The minute she stepped onto the narrow trail, where lush tropical forest pressed in on both sides and gusts of wind brought spatters of rain that soaked us, she began to talk. “We live parallel lives with animals. We co-evolved, and yet we’re so insular. We’re impacting their habitats, killing them, and we have so much to learn from them. If people only understood what it means—”

“What what means?”

And so it began, with her following closely behind and me hanging on her every word, tossing back interruptions like small stones—or bread crumbs. I found that that instead of rising to the bait when I needled her every three minutes—a bad habit that upset most people—she always responded with patience. I liked that. Soon I realized that for her these were opportunities; teachable moments. I’m smart, sure, but socially and emotionally I’m in the stone age. Knowing that never changed my behavior, and it may be the reason I spend most of my time with computers. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Jean said, “Every species has niche-evolved skills, ways of interpreting the environment. Our senses and our skills evolved for survival. The species that have survived are descended from the wariest, so we don’t intermingle. We can’t. We might kill or be killed. But we’re just learning what human consciousness is, and that it isn’t the only form of consciousness. We have so much to learn from each other! For instance, I think that mathematics could be enriched by a native model of flocking behavior.”

“We actually do flock,” I offered. “We flock with our minds. In opinions, ideas, art, science. We test, we keep our distance, we draw together, we change our theories en masse, engage in political movements, have revolutions.”

“Hmmm,” she allowed. “Yeah. Language is like that—emergent. Emergence is cooperation of things of unlike kinds. Lewes said that in 1870s. I think.”

If there’s anything I know a lot about, it’s emergence. G. H. Lewes, a philosopher, had coined the term and defined it, as this increasingly remarkable woman had just pointed out. Emergence is self-organized and unpredictable. It tickles and delights the human mind (while it may dismay politicians or those who make financial predictions) because of its propensity to spring from events, properties, social currents, whatever, that would seem unconnected, almost as if their sheer unlikeness has drawn them together and created new energy.

“A lot of things were shakin’ back in the nineteenth century, that’s for sure, I said.” I’d heard the term “emergent” applied to language, and perhaps her surprising perspicacity jolted this sardonic, dismissive response out of me—suddenly, she was on my turf.

“Well, blow it off if you want.” Her voice was low, strong, and sure, and in it I heard a shrug.

“I’m trying to have a conversation. With you it’s—well, having a conversation with you seems to be an exercise in emergence. According to your definition—‘things of unlike kinds.’ Or Lewes’ definition.”

She laughed, then the sound of her footsteps paused for a second. “Oh! What’s that smell?”

“Awapuhi kuahiwi. Ginger. So… what do think you’ll learn? You’ve said that you think Meitner is unique.”

“I think every brain is unique, but mostly in small ways. She may be unique in large ways. And I don’t know what I’ll learn. That’s the point. I guess I’m just curious.”

Entranced would have been a better word. As was I—not with Meitner, but with Jean.

And that name! Lise Meitner was the physicist who confirmed that nuclear fission was possible. In the late forties, she was called “The Mother of the Atomic Bomb,” a title she hated. Deeply pacifist, she had turned down an invitation to work on the Manhattan project, and had earlier risked her career during World War I when she turned down the opportunity to work with her mentor, Otto Hahn, on developing ever more potent poison gas. Instead, to fill out her mandatory war-effort dance card, she went to the German front and used the new technology of X-rays to diagnose the shattered bones of German troops.

When I joked about laying such a heavy mantle on a mere bird, as we huffed up the steep, slippery ridge and rain forest gave way to views of the canyon and the blue Pacific, Jean bridled. I’d say that’s when I first began to fall in love with her, but that’s not true—that began to happen when I read her visionary proposal, though I didn’t realize it. I could tell, then, that she played a long game. Her vision of the possible shone like an isolated, sharp, brilliant ellipse of sun far out on an otherwise stormy sea, and I admired that. I prefer the long game as well. What I’m doing might not ever bear fruit, but it’s a worthy and fascinating goal. Or obsession.

The trail to the hale—the semi-traditional Hawaiian house I’d offered for her use for her study—steepened on the knife-edge of a ridge. Wild goat country. I yelled over my shoulder, “Her name—like Einstein, the parrot? The parrot is funny—why not, um, Lucille Ball? Or Julie Andrews. The parrot can sing, right?”

I heard Jean’s slogging footsteps stop, and I turned to look down at her. Her face red (she was slightly overweight, sunburnt, and not in very good shape), she was sitting on a rock, apparently unfazed by the sheer drop behind her. She unhooked her water bottle from her belt and took a long gulp. Her chin-length red hair stuck to her cheeks.

I got the feeling she’d heard that jibe before, and thought, I’m in for it now. It was a careless remark. I’d taken Dr. Woodward seriously enough to offer her some support for her endeavor, so I’m sure the tone was unexpected.

She stared out a tiny triangular patch of Pacific Ocean, far below at the end of a widening valley. Finally she said, “Lise Meitner’s extraordinary gifts were invisible to the society she lived in—Vienna in 1900. It was illegal—illegal!—for girls to attend school after eighth grade.” Despite a gust of cool wind, her face flushed deep pink. “She had to get a tutor—”

“I know,” I told her, a bit nettled. I’d just read Meitner’s most recent biography. “She got her doctorate in physics, went to Berlin, pretty quickly became part of the in-crowd in theoretical physics. Bohr, Einstein, all those guys.”

“Right. All those guys.” But she smiled. “Anyway, sure, I guess it’s pretentious, but it fits. We have no idea what she’s capable of. We have no idea what any animal really thinks, or any other human, for that matter. Parrot Meitner has had some kind of—well, let’s be positive, and call it enhancement, although it might just be damage. I don’t know if you read the whole proposal and background.”

I had. “I know that these parrots can talk, but do they really understand what they’re saying?”

She stood. “How much farther?” She passed me and pushed on in silence for a few minutes, then yelled over her shoulder, “They can spell phonetically. They can formulate situation-appropriate questions. They can add and subtract.” She turned and faced me. “Think of how you might meet an alien, and although your minds and worlds might be very different, you might strive to establish a bridge of mutually understood testable hypotheses about what you are each thinking. Language is a model, and it is also a reduction, a focal point.”

“But their brains are so tiny—”

She pivoted, put on a surprising burst of speed, and disappeared around a switchback. When I caught up, she was sitting on the platform of the hale swinging her legs over an abyss, with the sunlit, verdant valley a mile below. Rain swept across the tightly woven roof, yielding rainbows all around us.

The heiau was here when I bought the property. It’s about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Heavy posts rise from the platform. Above the worn, old, koa plank floor there is a gap of about ten feet before the steep peaked roof rises toward its apex. Bamboo mats, rolled up on the sides, can be dropped down for walls. A few damp futons still complete the ambiance.

Her hair, drying in the wind, flared out around her head. She looked like a different person; a goddess, almost. The flock of Greys rose from a nearby banyan tree.

She grinned. “I’ll take it.”

Jean’s life work began. Meitner’s first words in English were “I hate you,” followed quickly by “I love you.” Like any child, she meant both.

* * *

Twelve years passed. We were having our annual Mele Kalikimaka party. Big doin’s. A ten-minute shower threaded cliffs with silver waterfalls that wavered with every gust of wind. The sun was low in the sky and would soon dive straight into the sea, bringing swift equatorial night. Good smells came from the kitchen.

My friends and neighbors from near and far had come to celebrate Christmas. My ohana—mother, grandmother, brothers and sister, nieces and nephews, transported from the Big Island by helicopter and running mad riot—spilled through the house and onto the broad veranda with its long, lava-rock wall where Jean and I displayed our art and artifacts. A few old friends from Cal Tech were in attendance

As was Meitner.

Elegantly dressed, as usual, in gray feathers and red tail, and celebrity, she held forth as if she were human and not a Grey Parrot.

She had not been surprised when she first saw herself in the mirror, as Alex, the most famous Grey Parrot had been. Her need to socialize with other parrots—so she would not see herself as wholly human—was why she had ended up here, why I fell in love with Jean, and why we had Leilani, now ten and hobnobbing with the guests as easily as Meitner.

Methodically teaching Meitner human speech via a program developed by experts in education and neurology (human and avian) was not an end in itself. It was only a way to help Jean communicate with Meitner. Once that happened, once Meitner was truly accomplished in English and brought out her French curses only when she was extremely irritated, which was about once every hour, the real work began. When it became clear that the parrot understood and could use metaphor and complex linguistic constructions, the world was at Jean’s feet. Jean’s, and Meitner’s.

I sidled up to one of my friends, an astronomer from the Big Island, as he chatted with the parrot, whose fluid, lovely voice mirrored Jean’s. Exactly. Jean’s accent, inflections, even that lovely low chuckle.

They were talking about dynamic topology—flocking—an emergent behavior around which I developed related software used by many governments.

Leilani, a thin, brown, sparkling girl with long black hair, was showing her cousins her favorite painting, a copy of Gauguin’s “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” The metaphysical painting of 1897 shows lightly clothed Tahitians in various life stages.

“Look,” Leilani said to her cousin, Jake, as she pointed to an old woman crouched in the corner of the painting. “There’s Tutu.”

“Ugh!” Jake, eleven, recoiled. Tutu is prettier than that!” He turned his stare to the bare breasts of a young woman.

In the painting, a fanciful, fictional Polynesian idol overlooks the people in the foreground. I imagined that Leilani liked the painting because she was always asking about the life of her ancestors in the old days. Perhaps she believed it might have been like the scene depicted in the painting, though we had etchings and photographs that showed the real thing.

Meitner was on Leilani’s leather shoulder perch, as usual, and attended to the painting quite closely. She often studied it, and I wondered if her mind encompassed the wider implications of the questions that make up the title—particularly since, being a hybrid of human and parrot, she was the living embodiment of where we might all be going.

But maybe she just liked looking at the tropical foliage in the painting.

Leilani and Meitner were classmates. In fact, they spent all their time together—sisters, of a sort—and they sometimes squabbled, as sisters do. The true dimensions of their relationship were unknown to me; I only witnessed dynamics, behaviors that looked like love, anger, apologies, wild play, and quiet, shared concentration. Jean brought in tremendously gifted educators on a regular basis. They waited in line to work with Meitner, to carry out their research. As a result, Leilani zipped through subjects that most high schoolers might have a hard time mastering. Like Meitner, she was good at calculus and trigonometry. She loved biology. She was on a soccer team, a debate team, and played a mean ukulele. We dropped her off at her cousins’ houses regularly, and they visited us here. We read, sang, watched movies, and played a lot of card games. Poker, for instance. Leilani and Meitner could take the house anywhere.

I grabbed my astronomer friend by the elbow. “Hugh, take a look at my new painting. Just hung it today.” I herded several people toward “The Stinger Ship.” Leilani leaped and danced ahead of us, Meitner fluttering to cling to her perch, and stopped in front of the painting, a proud smile on her face.

“You’ve heard about the latest private space venture?”

“Yes! Great concept.” Hugh’s broad face crinkled in an enthusiastic smile.

“Jean and I bought stock.”

He laughed. “Bound to pay off when your grandchildren are old.”

“Oh, some of the early spinoffs are already paying dividends. The brightest and the best are working on it. Anyway, this artist painted a picture based on it.”

Holding drinks, we examined it. A gigantic dome of a space ship with a cylinder hanging from its underside revealed a slice of the planet behind it. The domed shape and the tentacles that tethered human figures to the ship gave the ship its nickname.

Two figures were foregrounded. One was a space suit attached to the enormous ship with a tether. Another figure hung in space beneath the floating suit.

Hugh squinted at the second figure. “Ah. This man is naked. See the detail?” He leaned closer, gestured with his drink.

I clearly saw a human calf. A foot.

Hugh said, “He’s dead. Or, after a minute out there, he would be.” A tentacle—a life-support tube, I imagined—floated in the foreground. It ended at the edge of the picture without connecting to anything. Perhaps it was out of the frame of the picture.

Or perhaps it had been cut.

I edged closer. “Wow. You’re right. Wouldn’t he burst?”

“No. But there’s a question here. A story. Is it an accident? Suicide? Murder? Execution?”

Leilani craned her neck to take a closer look. Meitner moved her head back and forth like a metronome, examining; listening. I felt a bit uncomfortable, as we had shielded both of them from television mayhem and violent video games. I always thought that Leilani would learn about the adult world in immediate, graphic terms, soon enough.

Like now. I wished that I had looked more closely at the picture before having it hung.

“I’m thinking it’s murder,” said Hugh.

“Murder?” asked Meitner, cocking her head to one side.

“When one human kills another.”

The parrot shifted back and forth uneasily on Leilani’s shoulder. “Why would they do that?” The fluency of her speech never ceased to amaze me. Or everyone else, for that matter.

Hugh said, shifting swiftly and irritatingly into professorial mode, “Rage. Jealousy. Or, if they have thought things through—this is called murder in the first degree—they might plan things so that it doesn’t look like a murder. They might do this to get money, or to hide something that the dead person knew. They might try to make it look like an accident, or suicide—”

“Suicide?”

“Killing oneself.”

Meitner rested her small gray head, briefly, against Leilani’s ear. I saw a little crease between Leilani’s large brown eyes. My girl said, “Why would anyone kill themselves?”

“I don’t know,” I said, quite honestly. Someday I would tell her that my brother committed suicide, but this was not the moment.

She persisted. “Why would anyone kill someone else?”

“People don’t do it very often,” I lied, thinking of war. “It’s a crime. People who do it go to jail.”

Hugh snorted. “Sometimes.”

Meitner’s feathers stood out suddenly. “I don’t like being human.” As she flew down the wide veranda and soared into the night, her strange, jarring cry bit into me like a knife.

After a moment of silence, all I could think of to say to Leilani was, “Let’s see what your mother is doing.”

A week later we found Jean’s doorless Jeep at the bottom of a deep crevasse. She was dead. The cause of death was internal injuries caused by the crash. Her face was badly damaged, but the coroner said she was pretty sure that Jean’s face and neck were bitten by birds. Not one bird, but many.

I was too sick to even think about what might have happened.

I waited for Meitner to show up so that I could ask her questions, but she did not.

The parrot flock was wild and protected. We could not trap or kill them.

Which was a good thing for them.

In the beginning, it was all so beautiful. It remained beautiful for twelve years. After that, it was a dread horror that brought out all that was worst in me. My lovely girl grew up in the company of her tutu and cousins, because I turned sour when Jean died and I carried the secret of her death inside me, for reasons I never quite understood.

Now, when I hear Jean’s voice on my pod demanding rights for animals as I monitor the Stinger news channel in the hale where our life together began, I immediately grasp what it’s about.

I turn on the video that is streaming from the ship with which I have become so deeply involved after that initial, distant investment. But I quickly turn off the visual screen. It’s jarring and heartbreaking to hear Jean’s voice, her syntax and accent, but see a parrot’s head, beak, and eye.

Meitner

¯¯¯¯¯¯

“I am here in several capacities.

“Most of you are amazed that I can talk. There is a story in that, which I will tell you.

“But before that, I am here as spokesperson—yes, I am a person—to offer an invitation to participate in an international mathematical ballet. This is a ballet planned in conjunction with Psittacus and Company, one of the many corporations sponsoring the Stinger Ship, to celebrate the Stinger’s completion and departure.

“Many of you already have the neuroplasticity enhancement that will allow you to do so; it is P-493, manufactured by Psittacus and Company, updated a week ago. Psittacus and Company is making a temporary dose of this drug available on demand. Directions about obtaining it will follow. Participation is, of course, entirely voluntary. It is fully compatible with all neuroplasticity drugs manufactured by other companies; it has been extensively tested for years and is fully certified for use by the International Agency for Neuroplasticity and Genetic Modification. Participants will be encouraged to be at particular places at particular times, which will follow dawn around the Earth, beginning on the island of Kauai in the Hawaiian Islands, in one week. You will need special 4-D earbuds, which will be provided, and a special bracelet, which will transmit information, accept your feedback movements, and create a dance based on the flocking capabilities bestowed by P-493. We anticipate that this will be a joyous occasion.

“This is the part of this announcement that is most important to me. I am taking this opportunity to demand certain legal rights for my fellow creatures. The legal document has been prepared and will be released soon, but I will describe it briefly and follow that description with my story. Psittacus and Company is not a party to this demand; I am doing it as an individual.

“Non-humans—all flora and fauna—are presently treated as beings with no real agency, as robots, slaves, toys, experimental subjects, nuisances, food.

“As living individuals, we outnumber humans a billionfold. To those of you aware of how I was created, who think that we parrots have been given the gift of speech by magnanimous humans, I tell you no. We have had speech for eons. All of us non-human creatures communicate with one another and with our environment, and many have evolved communication systems that could be called speech—semiotic in nature, couched in context. We are scientists, observing the environment. We collect data. We calculate and make decisions based on that data. Some of us build. Some of us farm. Some of us hunt. Some of us use tools. All of us communicate. Some of us live solitary lives. Some of us are eusocial.

“Most of us try to avoid you, but some of us are born or trapped into servitude. We parrots can serve as a bridge, spreading this message species to species where communication pathways overlap.”

John Kalani

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

I am musing on the fact that Meitner’s creators were testing the effects of genetic enhancement and neuroplasticity extensions, and that, twenty-five years later, like most people, I sport some of those enhancements, and many newer ones as well, when transmission ceases.

I realize, in the silence, rather surprised, that Meitner is talking about Jean’s message. Her vision.

Being realized, perhaps, after all these years.

Something else is apparent to me, as well. Meitner once said: “My dreams are geometries of flight.” I did not understand at that time that her spatial dynamics were quite as unique as they are. It is something I have learned in the past few years by reading her papers. I think about those geometries in the context of the “experiment” the announcer mentioned.

A thrill runs through me.

Chased instantly by dread. As soon as I hear Meitner say that she is going to tell her story I know: I have to call Leilani and tell her.

Before Meitner does.

Leilani Kalani

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

Hands, fire, speech, memory, stories. My mother taught me that evolutionary grammar of humanity.

Meitner can talk. She always could tell a good story. I’ll bet she could start a fire, too. Without hands. She sounds angry, imperious. On my television, her yellow eye stares at the camera as she tells the world what she wants. I decide that she would be a bang-up lawyer, too. A dull, sad ache flares in my chest as I watch her, but it has nothing to do with her words, which are splendid.

“These are my demands: “One: Significant funds, their purpose specifically delineated in my document after much research, must be dedicated to enhancing interspecies communication. Two: All animals must henceforth be regarded, legally, as sentient beings entitled to inalienable rights under international law: to wit, the right to an environment in which they can each reach their full potential, the right to live a peaceful, non-threatened life, the right to legal representation, the right to education if desired. The right to sample trans-species enhancement and changes and accept or reject them. The right to freedom from enslavement to researchers or any other human being. The right to form contractual relationships. The right to…” My mother’s voice trills on, as soothing and as reasonable as the million times I had heard her cajole, smooth, manipulate Meitner through tantrums and the constant negotiations of our shared childhood. Oh, amazing.

I admire her. Meitner has fast-forwarded through eons of moral, philosophical, and legal thought and synthesized them into what is probably a compelling document, except for one fact: As a parrot, she has no legal standing.

Not yet.

The last time I saw her was the night of my mother’s funeral.

* * *

We hiked up the trail past the hale, winding higher and higher up the road until we reached the ridgetop, where we each tossed a handful of my mother’s ashes to the wind. Wind blasted up from the valley. People leap off to hang glide there, falling and rising on complicated currents of air. The legend is that you can lean into the wind and it will stand you up again on the ridge.

Mom’s ashes blew back into my face. I felt my hair and found it greasy, full of grit. It was strangely comforting.

That evening, the house was full. A few uncles sat by the fireplace playing slack-key and talking story about my mother as the sweet smell of wild ginger gusted through the house, borne on the evening trade wind. Our whole ohana filled the house with food, warmth, stories, hugs. Everyone wore white. Our dark skins and slow-moving white dresses and shirts seemed to glow as we floated like moths across the huge, candlelit lanai. I gazed at the full moon, thinking about my mother. I felt as if she was giving me a message, in round, mysterious moonlight, but I didn’t know what it was. Tears on my father’s face sparkled as my aunties hugged him tight. Soon, they all joined in singing the old, old songs and chants.

I wandered off and sat in the long, broad hallway where my parents kept ancient koa bowls, stone ko’i used to carve canoes, my great-great-great-grandmother’s surfboard, and their art. I looked at my favorite painting, the one that asks Where Are We Going, and I wondered where my mother had gone.

Then I saw Meitner, perched on the back of a koa bench, staring at the Stinger Ship painting.

I ran toward her. I was crying. I wanted to hear her voice, my mother’s voice. I wanted her wings to be arms, her beak a mouth to kiss me.

She spread her gray wings and flew. I followed her out to the vast, cantilevered lanai that hung over the deep, verdant valleys of my childhood. “Meitie!”

She vanished into the night.

I never heard her voice again, though I thought that every Grey Parrot I spotted might be her until I saw their lack of her distinguishing red face-blotch. And up at the hale where I lived, sleeping on the futon, before my father sent me to Hilo, none ever spoke to me.

* * *

I snap out of my memories when Meitner’s voice vanishes. After some dead air, a woman’s calm voice says, “Excuse us while we deal with some technical problems.” Some bland music comes on.

Dad calls. He looks old, much older than he did at Christmas. “Are you watching?”

“Of course.”

“I’m completely surprised that the parrots are there.”

“I am too.”

“Sure, you are, but I’m surprised because I’ve been working on code for the ship for some time and I haven’t heard about this experiment. It seems that I should have known. I may have told you about my work.”

“Yes, you talked about it at Christmas.” The same kind of thing he’d worked on his whole life, of course, with total intensity and concentration. For years he had been living either in a shack hidden in the pines on his secluded bit of public—but hard-to-access—North Shore beach, or in the hale roughing it, talking to no one. Connected, of course, but a hermit. I worry about him, but what can I do? I’m sure he’s had various neuroplasticity enhancements. I have too, but just little things. “You’re working on some kind of human-machine interface, right?”

“Kind of. Anyway, of course, Stinger is a huge enterprise, so I guess it’s not that surprising. Everything is compartmentalized.”

I don’t say that he is a compartment unto himself, but I’m afraid he hears me think it. Instead I say, “It must have been expensive to get the parrots up there. Specially built suits?”

“Psittacus and Company have a lot of money, and plan to make more with this publicity.” Silence, then, “Leilani, there is something I need say. It will be hard. I’m sorry, but I have to tell you.”

“What?”

“Meitner may have killed your mother.”

I jump to my feet. “What?”

He tells me a horrible story.

“I don’t believe it! That’s ridiculous!

“It’s not.” He is using his old reasonable-father voice. “She disappeared after that. Remember?”

“Of course I remember!” I say, instantly regretting my cross tone. “But I don’t see how you can… even think! She loved Mom!” I walk to the kitchen to freshen my coffee, put the cup down on a table, walk to the patio door and open it, taking deep breaths of freezing air. Rain pelts my face.

“I know this is hard for you. But Meitner is a bird. Her relationship with your mother was… confusing. Your mother agonized about it all the time, wondered if she was doing the right things, worried about what might happen to Meitner. She thought of Meitner as a victim. A bird that—”

“She’s a person!”

He continues. “Your mother always worried that it was a lot to lay on a bird, or any other creature. Meitner often seemed… disturbed, and hateful. Like a human child can seem, sometimes, but…”

“No, no, no.” I’m crying.

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have told you. But… I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Meitner’s story, Leilani. I have a feeling that she is getting ready to tell it. It’s what made her what she is. I never told you, but she was at the University of Hawaii for a while, and at Cal Tech…”

“You knew she was alive? And you didn’t tell me?”

“Some friends told me. I knew that she wanted to keep a low profile. That was fine with me.”

“But—you thought she’d done this horrible thing! How could you just—”

“Out of respect for your mother, Leilani. Meitner has been doing interesting things, some interesting mathematical work.”

“What work?”

“On quantum nonlocality.”

“What’s that?”

“Einstein called it ‘spooky action at a distance.’ Meitner’s work on it is potentially game-changing, and—”

I cut him off. “But why didn’t you say anything? Weren’t you afraid she might kill somebody else?”

Dad sighs. “Of course. At first. But I didn’t know that she was out and about until five years ago. She could have been dead for all I knew, and I wasn’t aware of any similar cases, which would probably have made the news. Those that know her now seem to think—” He stops talking again for a moment but before I can ask Who knew her? he says in a rush, “I just heard that she was innovative and original, and that seemed to be what your mother wanted, what she tried to do. She wanted to give Meitner the power to do whatever she was capable of doing. What matters is that this is your mother’s dream. All the work she did—I wish she were alive to see this!” He pauses, probably thinking of the same irony I’m thinking of. “But… I’m calling for another reason, too. You need to help her with her legal demands. And you have to help her get her story told. They’ve interrupted Meitner’s broadcast for a reason. They consider her a threat of some kind.”

I’m really puzzled. “What can I do?”

“You’re a lawyer. An animal rights lawyer. You can get her a hearing in court.”

Bless his heart. He seems to be overestimating my influence, my expertise. “What court?”

“What do you mean, what court? You defend dogs on death row. You defend monkeys used in experiments. What court do you go to then?”

“Dad, calm down. Calm down. Whatever court has jurisdiction. That’s where we take the case. But she’s in space. There’s no court in space.”

“There’s a World Court. In The Hague.”

“Dad, I…” I falter. I was brought up never to say I can’t. I think hard and fast. “Individuals can’t bring cases. But they sometimes hear cases from groups.”

“This is a group.”

“This is Meitner. This is a parrot. Everyone can see she’s a parrot.”

“She has human DNA. People can hear that she’s person, damn it! Didn’t you say the same thing just ten minutes ago? But she’s also a bird. Don’t you belong to some kind of international group that defends the rights of animals?

“Animal Defense International, yes.”

“Well? Do something! I’m afraid this Psittacus Company might kill her.”

“I thought you said they stood to make a lot of money.”

“They might if whatever they’re planning goes off without a hitch. I think she used them to gain this platform, and they used her to sell their enhancement. It’s politics. It’s sausage-making. But I’m worried. They might be afraid now that she’s making demands. Bad publicity. Can you imagine the sheer cost of litigating what she’s talking about? The pressure from all kinds of quarters to get Psittacus to shut her up? There could easily be an accident.”

My mind does a dizzy emotional flip back to the painting, the one Meitner was looking at when I last saw her. “Yes,” I say. I remember, too, her love of Where Are We Going?

I wonder where she is going. Where she wants us to go.

He says, “We have to make sure that Meitner lives.” He picks up steam. “That she gets her dance done! For your mother! For her! Hell, maybe even for all of us!”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so worked up. “Okay. My brain is functioning now. Let me make some calls.”

“I’ll make some calls too, through my Stinger network. Maybe I can get her back on the air. So to speak.”

* * *

I kind of move in slow motion, although I make things happen very quickly. All of my years of animal advocacy scholarship kicks in, all the people I’ve met. Cases come to mind. I call three people while I email six more. Within minutes, I realize that everyone I know is on Meitner’s side. It’s the case they’ve been waiting for. It sets off a chain reaction. Small guns call big guns and big guns call Psittacus. I forward information as it is requested and as I find it—proof, for instance, that Meitner has human DNA. The argument is removed from me as those with far more expertise and power take over. For two hours I monitor email, read rapid-fire injunctions, and bite my nails.

Then I get a call from an unknown number. A man says “Is this Leilani Kalani?”

“Who is this?” I ask, impatient to get back to my anxiety.

“Meitner would like to speak to you. She wants to know if you will accept the call.”

If I would accept! I think with a rush of eagerness, but then I muffle the speaker as I burst into great, hoarse sobs that startle me.

“Hello?” the man says, his voice distant, coming from arm’s length. “Hello?”

I realize, with a great jolt, that I do not want to talk to her.

“Just a minute,” I manage, and go away from the phone, back onto the patio, and bow my head in the cold, cold rain.

I am surprised to find myself thinking in large, colored blocks of feeling, which I must maneuver with all my strength. Pull! on the yellow cube of anger. Push! on the slippery purple sphere of sorrow, which grows to huge size and howls at me, as I howled at my father earlier, No! No! No!

This is how I thought when I was a child, I remember, and that knowledge is like an electric current, connecting me to a world of overpowering feelings that I’d forgotten that I ever had.

And it’s Meitner waiting for me: all that I’d lost forever when my mother died; a world waiting to be restored. Or to submerge me.

I grip the railing, gulp frigid air. I work on my shaky breathing until it is deep and calm, the colored shapes shrink, and I am a grown-up again, but newly, sharply aware of the power of my childhood.

I slide open the door and slip back inside, rub my wet hands on the back of the couch, and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Leilani?” says Meitner, says my mother’s voice, says the being who may have killed my mother, the only living soul with whom I share so much, and who vanished so completely. I bite my tongue; I clench my fist, I say with a sob despite all that, “Meitie.”

I remember to breathe deeply as I listen for her voice, but slow tears slide down my face. The lovely voice; the cadences of speech that say Mother, Mother, Mother.

She speaks again, finally. “Leilani, I am sorry.”

What I have to say comes out in a shout, demanding and raw. “Why did you leave me?”

She speaks slowly, but without hesitation. “I was sad. I was afraid. Afraid of what I might bring to you. I am a bird. I can fly. I did so. It was the easiest thing to do. I was trying to leave behind all human feelings. They were too strong.”

“I… understand that. Human feelings are sometimes too strong for me too.” I swallow hard. “But what happened? Tell me why you were afraid. I need to know.”

“I will talk about all that, I promise you, when I’m back on the air. If they allow me to speak. They handled me rather roughly.” I hear the nervousness in her voice. “I’m not sure that I can say it twice.”

“Did you kill Mother?” I use my strong, interrogatory lawyer’s voice, glad that I have that tool. Without it, I would be incoherent.

In the long silence that follows, the unthinkable scenarios generated by my father’s brief speech fill my vision. If I could, I would reach across space and strangle Meitner, grab her gray neck and twist it. Let them kill her, I think. Let them! Ranked against that impulse is my father’s reserve, his eagerness to let something that he wouldn’t tell me about, some promise, some link with Mom, unfold.

“No,” Meitner says quietly, but with force. “I did not. I am very sorry if John thinks so, and sorry that you even need to ask, but I understand why. It’s actually very complicated. It goes to the heart of what I want to say.”

As I struggle to respond, her voice, almost a whisper, with an edge of happiness that is her, not my mother, comes through my phone, piercing the dark space of my listening, of my thinking, of my deep sorrow.

She says, “You are my sister, as truly as any sister could be. You are the only sister I will ever have. You shared your childhood with me. I am so grateful to Jean for giving me that. Your mother gave me my life, just as she gave you your life. When I was a child with you, the horror of the lab was fresh. You were my salvation. Leilani, I was not much older than you, confused, a child, but I stayed away from you out of what I can only call love. And that love propelled me through the horrible years that followed.”

My world whirls back around. I know Meitner. I know her through ten shared years of the deepest life I will ever know, through quarrels, pranks, laughter, and play, and I believe that what she says is true.

I feel a rush of regret for lost years, pain at our human creations. And strange joy because the word sister completes me, like hearing music I never knew existed. Sister. Yes. My only sister.

“Meitie, I—”

“Ms. Kalani? Meitner?” The man’s voice is crisp; official.

“Yes,” we both say, Meitner, I can tell, as irritated as I am.

“Psittacus and Company has agreed to allow Meitner to resume talking.”

Suddenly, that means nothing to me. I want to hold onto this moment. Perhaps what she has to say will destroy this fragile restoration of a part of my life that has long been dead, dead without me even realizing what was gone.

“It can wait a minute,” says Meitner.

“This is valuable time,” the man warns.

“Go away,” she says, and the man is silent.

“Leilani,” she says, “What I am going to say is troubling and painful. It will be difficult for me to say, and difficult for you to hear. But it touches on issues that all of us are going to have to think about, to confront. I hope to make that task easier by facilitating more communication—a special kind of communication—among us all. I am so happy—so deeply glad—that I have finally been able to talk to you. I am happier than you will ever know. I believe that your legal expertise will be invaluable in the effort I will outline.”

“I hope so,” I say.

“Meitner?” the man’s voice breaks in.

“I love you, sister,” I say.

“I love you,” she replies.

Video is restored. I watch Meitner’s big yellow eye, her hooked beak, and think, What Are We? Evolution fast-forwards right before my eyes and rings in my ears and in my brain as she tells the story of her life.

And mine.

Meitner

¯¯¯¯¯¯

“This is my story. I appreciate the opportunity to tell it. I think that it will be instructive.

“I mourn my companion, Dr. Jean Woodward. When she died, I went mad with grief. I left the human world; I returned to the wild in Kauai.

“As some of you might know, the vehicle through which human DNA was inserted into me was a virus. Because of the viral vehicle, human DNA was transmitted to the parrots in Kauai with whom I flocked.

“Some of those parrots attacked Jean as she was driving to town. Her Jeep went off the road and she died. I have always blamed myself. I had told them how humans behaved, and had lately told them that humans sometimes committed murder. Perhaps they were angry at her for changing them, even though it was not really her who did so.

“I left my flock. They were not like me; they did not have my intense human socialization. I hated them. I realized that I was alone—not like anyone or anything else in the world. New. It was a frightening realization. I didn’t know where I was going.

“It’s easy to fly into the baggage compartment of a plane. I went to other islands. I spent years studying humans. I watched them through their windows; perched on trees overlooking their lanais. I listened. I never spoke. There are plenty of tropical birds in Hawaii, so I did not stand out. I therefore had the opportunity of eavesdropping on hundreds of families. I studied five or six families at a time, moving between their homes. I particularly sought out card players, for I could see all of their hands and understand their distinct strategies, and observe how they expressed themselves by showing and by not showing. I watched their televisions. I heard their arguments. I watched them make love. I saw them express love and generosity to one another. I heard them lie. Many living creatures lie, but I saw intricate, painful lies, with hurtful consequences that might ring through generations.

“I never spoke. If I had never spoken, Jean would not have died. Something about knowing that kept me from being able to speak, even when I wanted to.

“During that time I was learning about myself, about what this human part of me was. My parrot companions acted in a monstrous way, a way that was human, with hatred and revenge, but they had no moral imperative not to do so. They had a parrot culture, not a human culture developed and modified through eons. They were angry. They had emotions they did not know how to control. I realized that the entire time I lived with my human family I had been extremely isolated. I had known few other people, and learned that my family was unusual—deeply respectful, kind, adventurous, and loving. But not like most human families.

“Finally, I was able to make peace with myself. I understood that who and what I was, although unique, and a mystery, was not my fault. I was created without a context. I returned to my flock on Kauai again and again over the years—the plane ride from Honolulu takes about an hour, and I stayed for months at a time or more—and tried to help them with their humanity, as they tried to help me in being a parrot. Over those twenty years or so we became settled; we grew; we learned to appreciate our human side, as diverse and wild as any other animal’s deep being.

“The other side of my life took place in a different context, but each side of me promoted growth of the other in a seesaw pattern. The day I finally spoke again it was a surprise to me and to the mathematician at the University of Hawaii I had chosen to live with. I did so after watching many of her lectures, which sang to me. She thought about many of the things I thought about, and it was with relief that I learned the language of mathematics. I felt that I was truly home at last. She promised to keep our relationship a secret. I did not desire to become famous. I did not want to be studied ever again. Eventually, I became a ghost faculty member—a name that only a few humans could connect with a visage. Together, and separately, she and I wrote papers about emergence. My name is on those papers; I am L. Meitner. My work became more influential, and because I was never seen, there was a mystique about me. Some thought I might be an AI, or impaired in some unsightly way, or physically challenged. They wondered about my gender. Now that mystery is laid to rest—I am a female parrot with human DNA. “I have always wanted to do Jean justice. She had a vision, and without her, I would have none. I saw the indignities visited upon the beings on the planet without human speech. I saw the casual violence, the lack of respect for our homes, for our food sources, for our offspring. I began to experience a sense of mission. Most non-humans have specific missions having to do with survival but I realized that, having the gift of speech, I had a wider responsibility. I understand other species, probably, as little as you do, but I do know that they have interior lives and that they deserve rights as living beings.

“My document and demands have been transmitted to those who can bring this case forward. I have already heard of massive international support, and I know that there are those who are, inevitably, against it. I thank those of you who are helping.

“To illustrate Dr. Woodward’s vision, we plan to offer you a flocking ballet. It is a work of art that has mathematical underpinnings. It will be a spontaneous event performed by prepared minds on the Winter Solstice, beginning on Kauai, Jean’s home. All of you on Earth can participate.

“This is her life’s work.

“And mine. Soon, perhaps, it will be yours, the work of all of you, for in a flock, there is no set leader.

“We take turns.”

Leilani Kalani

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

There was enough time for all of us to get to Kauai for the Winter Solstice; the dance.

I’ve taken the update; my husband has not.

Kara, our daughter, was here only a few months ago, but that is a long time for a toddler. Everything is new, and she is delighted with the surf, from which I grab her, the mountain, where she wisely shies from heights, with the ancient banyan tree by the hale, where she plays hide-and-seek among its many trunks, as I did with my mother. The deep sadness I carried within me for so long has lifted. The world seems as new for me as it is for Kala, charged with hope.

In the end, it was the power of social media that helped sway Psittacus, though the legal system can take some credit in setting the terms and conditions of Meitner’s freedom to speak. The world wanted to hear Meitner. Psittacus stock seesawed wildly during those hours, a fluctuation directly based on online supposition and conjecture. Now, it’s going great guns.

The whole ohana is here, some ready for the dance, with their updates, their bracelets. Lots of Dad’s friends flew to Lihue and were helicoptered in. They are a strange collection of academics, carpenters, plumbers, programmers, businesspeople, and old neighbors from his days in California and on the Big Island. Most everyone he knows.

Meitner’s mathematician is here, too. She is a tiny, vivacious Thai woman—quick and thin, with long, silver hair. I am intimidated by her brilliant reputation, but her smile and her hug wipe all that away in an instant. She says, “Meitner has told me a lot about you,” and we fall into a long, healing conversation about my sister and the years during which she was lost to me.

Despite such outbreaks of serious, quiet discussion, there is a festive air. People are gathering all over the world in parks, stadiums, and living rooms, and it seems that many animals are behaving differently as well, though that angle is pooh-poohed by the media. Still, there is news of the same communication bracelets we wear having been dropped, in pellet form, over great swathes of wild areas, which has caused environmentalist uproar. My father has an odd glint in his eyes and something like joy on his face.

Many of us rise in the dark for Zen meditation at the hale, and then we wait for dawn. The lovely cacophony of parrots, macaws—a sliding, whooping, trilling music—fills my mind, taking me back to my childhood.

They stop vocalizing, as if cut off by a switch.

In that deep silence, a ray of sunlight shoots over the ridge. My father, listening to his earpiece, says, “The parrots have dropped.”

But I know without his saying so. We all do, and we rise.

Parrot music bursts forth once more, but I gradually realize that I am hearing a new kind of speech, which I also hear as music.

My movements are beyond thought. Perhaps they are like flight. My feeling is one of pure delight in an odd sort of work.

My father says, “Oh.” He is the only person who speaks the entire time, as we human-parrots dance the mathematics of nonlocal emergence.

That was the last time he spoke. And that was the instant the ship vanished, to everyone’s astonishment, except, perhaps, his.

And that was when something new emerged.

* * *

I’ve seen the parrot ballet, of course, many times now. I know that Meitner said, “Emergent Nonlocality: Going Home,” and then movement began.

Because I experienced it, and still do, I am endlessly fascinated by watching Meitner’s flock perform, in space, their three-dimensional dance of Meitner’s proof, ten short pages of symbols that they make real. That reality moves, via our communication bracelets, into us and into other living creatures.

Like others, I study the first movements of humans and other creatures around the Earth that sunrise as we dance the pattern, which, once begun, continues to emerge in science, behaviors, art, politics, policies, and law.

But I am an amateur in this study, where others are serious, and brilliant. To me it is simply beautiful.

All living creatures have one goal, communicated, understood, and shared on a broad bandwith: the survival of all of us. With joy.

We flock.

* * *

My father still spends all his time at the hale or on the beach. He is completely functional and appears to be thinking. He just does not speak, not in words, not in writing. But he speaks in other ways.

He writes code: a form of speech, but not one I can cipher. I have not found anyone who really can, though I have been told both that it is gibberish and that it is profound. No one can say what its purpose might be, so it is probably art. In my opinion, art is communication on a spectacular range of wavelengths.

I believe his art describes the strange new place he inhabits now, which I think is wherever that ship is. His mind is nonlocal, in two places at once, two places that communicate, part of the human-machine world he sought to create his entire life. Like art, it is its own purpose.

I visit him every few months, between stretches at The Hague where my family now lives and where I work on litigation and legislation with international teams of lawyers, ethicists, and scientists. When I need respite from the Pandora’s box we have opened, I am drawn home to the place I hid from for so many years, and to my father.

I seek him at the hale, climbing that haunting, lightswept trail limned with bracts of wild ginger. Or I look for him at the beach, where waves pound their infinite dance and the blue Pacific stretches half the world before me, charged with lives I can now protect, lives that interact with mine in a new dimension that is like an ineluctable flavor, a previously impossible shape, or a tone that infuses all of my senses. I am immeasurably enriched; deeply changed.

My father smiles at me quite often. His eyes glow with intense peace.

Copyright (C) 2014 by Kathleen Ann Goonan

Art copyright (C) 2014 by Richard Anderson

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Content

THE ANDERSON PROJECT
Edited by David G. Hartwell

Introduction

Reborn by Ken Liu

Space Ballet by Judith Moffett

Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? by Kathleen Ann Goonan

Copyright Notice