Beaker's Dozen

  “Maybe,” I said, looking at the fat man, who had noticed the hooker was asleep and was kicking her viciously, “you could have worked a little harder on ‘neatness.’ ”

  “Yeah, well, everybody’s a critic.” He slumped again, his brief surliness over. I couldn’t read the expression on his face. “But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. I know I didn’t make the finals. I saw the list.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He rubbed his nose; it really was a wicked sunburn. It was going to peel something awful.

  I said, “The list’s changed. One finalist withdrew. You were the first name on the waiting list.”

  His eyes opened wide. “Really? Who withdrew?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. But now you’re on the short list.”

  God bent his head to stare into his coffee. The flush on his neck wasn’t all sunburn. This means so damn much to some of them. The waitress delivered the burgers to an old couple at a center table, both of them thin and quavery as parchment.

  He said, “So what happens now?”

  “The rules say you have a thousand years to revise, before the next round of voting. Off the record, let me say I think you should consider fairly substantial revision. The Committee liked certain aspects of your work, but the consensus was that the tone is uneven, and the whole lacks coherence.”

  “I’m not creating some cheap commercial piece here!”

  “I know that. And nobody says you should. But still, any good work has a voice all its own, a coherence, a thematic pattern that clearly identifies the artist. Your work here—well, frankly, son, it’s all over the map. The pieces don’t adhere. The proportions are skewed. It lacks balance and unity.”

  God signaled for a piece of pie. The waitress limped over from the center table, where the old couple were holding hands. The fat man spoke low and fast to the hooker, leaning forward, his mouth twisted. The boys passed a plastic bag across the table, smirking at the room, daring anyone to notice.

  God said, “I can’t just—”

  I held up my hand placatingly, “I know, I know—you can’t just compromise your artistic integrity. And nobody’s asking you to. Just be a little more consistent in tone and imagery.”

  God said, “No, you don’t understand. It’s not a question of artistic integrity. Not really.” He leaned closer, suddenly earnest. I wondered if he had any ointment for that nose. “See—there’s a spectrum you can work along. Call it ‘intended meaningfulness.’ At one end you have your absurdist pieces. Things happen in an unconnected manner. Nothing is predictable. Nothing is rational. Godot never shows.” He smiled.

  I didn’t get the reference. Probably to his own work. Some of these guys think the grant Committee memorizes their every detail. The door opened on a gust of wind and a cop entered. The waitress brought God cherry pie on a thick beige plate.

  “I don’t think much of absurdist stuff,” he continued. “I mean, where’s the art? If literally anything can happen, why bother? But at the other end is all that tight moral order. Punish the bad, reward the good, solve the mysteries, give every act simple-minded motives and rational outcomes. B-o-r-i-n-g. And not all that just or compassionate, either, no matter what those artists say. What’s so compassionate about imposing a single pattern on the lion and the ox? Or on the worm in the heart of the rose, for that matter?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t be so self-referential. It’s an annoying mannerism.”

  “But you get my point.”

  “Yes, I do. You go for texture. And density. And diversity. All commendable. But not very commercial.”

  “I didn’t think this was supposed to be a commercial competition!”

  “It’s not,” I said. “But do you realize how many mediocre artists out there justify their mediocrity by their lack of accessibility? Just because they’re not commercial doesn’t mean they’re grandly above all standards and judgements. Not every finger twitch is sacred just because it’s theirs.”

  “That’s true.” God slumped on his stool a third time. He certainly was a volatile kid. But honest. Not many can see the line between selfjustification and true originality. I started to like him. The cop took a seat at the end of the counter. The boys flipped the finger at his back. The hooker wept softly. Her mascara smudged under her eyes.

  “Look, son,” I said, “don’t take criticism so hard. Instead, use it. You’re still in the running, and you’ve got a thousand years. Rework the more outre stuff to bring it in line with your major themes. Tone down your use of color. Make the ending a little clearer. That’s all I’m suggesting. Give yourself a fighting chance.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “After all, it’s a pretty big grant.”

  Yes,” he said tonelessly. He watched the hooker cry. Her fat pimp showed her something in his hand; from this angle I couldn’t see what. The old couple rose to go, helping each other up. The waitress put an order of fries in front of the cop and bent to rub her varicose veins.

  “If you win, it could mean a major boost to your career. You have a responsibility to your own talent.”

  “Yes.”

  “So think about revisions.”

  “The thing is,” God said slowly, “I filled out the application forms a long time ago. Before I began work. It looks pretty different to me now. I do feel a responsibility to the work, but maybe not in the way you mean.”

  Something in his voice turned me cold. I’d heard that tone before. Recently. I pushed aside his pie, which he hadn’t touched, and covered his hand with mine. “Son—”

  “Didn’t you wonder why I thought at first that you were a cop?” The real cop turned his head to glance at us. He ate the last of his fries, nodded at the waitress, and made for the door, brushing past the tottering old couple. The codger fumbled in his pocket for a tip.

  I could hear the thickness in my voice. “Son—it doesn’t work like that.”

  “Maybe it does for me.” He looked directly into my eyes. His own were very dark, with layered depths, like fine ash. I wondered how I could have thought him only twenty-eight. The cop left, banging the door behind him. The fat pimp pulled the hooker to her feet. She was still crying. The old man laid a dollar bill, a quarter, and three pennies on the table.

  I said, “So okay, you feel responsible. It’s your work, the outlines are yours, even if it got away from you and took off in directions you never intended. That happens. It’s still yours. But that doesn’t mean it’s you. It’s your art, son, not your life. There’s a difference, and it’s crucial. The people who confuse the two aren’t thinking straight.”

  He turned those dark eyes away from me, and shrugged. “I feel responsible, is all. For all of it. Even the part that got away from me.” Suddenly he smiled whimsically. “Accepting responsibility again would actually strengthen the imagery pattern, wouldn’t it? A leitmotif. The Committee might actually like that.”

  They probably would. I said carefully, “A competition is no real reason to go native.”

  “It isn’t my reason.” Abruptly he flung out one hand. “Ah, don’t you see? I love it. All of it. Even if it’s flawed, even if I screwed up, even if I lose. I love it.”

  He did. I saw that now. He loved it. Loved this. The old couple tottered toward the door. The two teenage boys shot out of their booth. One of them grabbed the tip off the table; the other lunged for the old lady’s purse, ripping it off her arm. She fell backwards, thin arms flailing, squeaking “oh oh oh oh . . .” Instantly the old man raised his cane and brought it down hard on the boy’s head. He shrieked, and blood sprang onto his cheek. The boy, outraged, yelled “Fuck! What you go do that for, you old bastard!” Then both boys tore out the door.

  The fat pimp helped the old woman up. He was very gentle. “You all right, ma’am?” The hooker, still crying, reached out one deft hand and stole the old man’s wallet from his pocket. The old woman stood, shaky but unhurt. The pimp escorted
them to the door, stopped, walked back to the hooker. Silently she handed him the wallet. His fat hands curled into fists. He returned the wallet to the old man, and all four of them left. The waitress leaned over in the silent diner and rubbed her varicose veins.

  I have never wanted to be an artist myself.

  There wasn’t much else to say. Maybe God would actually go through with it again, maybe not. Sometimes these guys are more in love with the idea of artistic risk than with the actuality. But he had done it once. All of it, right up to the final artistic sacrifice. That set him apart. I couldn’t tell him this—against Committee rules—but that part of his work was what had earned him the first position on the waiting list. It had been an impressive set-piece, especially amidst the uneven emotional tone of the rest of his work. And if he did it again, it would certainly strengthen the imagery pattern in his entry. He was right about that. His chances of winning would increase dramatically. If of course, he survived.

  He had his place on the short list only because another candidate hadn’t. “Withdrew” has a lot of meanings.

  God grinned at me. Not a smile this time, an actual grin. “I’m sorry to be so stubborn. It’s not like I don’t appreciate your interest.”

  “Tell me something. Do you do all your own construction work?”

  He rubbed his sunburned nose and laughed. “You know how it is. If you want something done right . . .”

  “Yes. Well.” I held out my hand and this time he took it, still grinning. He sat the counter stool almost jauntily. I’d been right to like him.

  Outside, it was just getting dark. Clouds raced across the sky from the west, casting strange shadows. Litter blew in gusts at my feet: newspapers, styrofoam cups, a torn shirt. The shirt bore brown stains that might have been blood. The shadows lengthened, laying at right angles to each other.

  Each work of art has its own internal pace; a thousand years is different here.

  I thought I could hear them on the horizon, dragging the heavy wooden cross, howling about the thorned crown.

  Coming for him.

  FLOWERS OF AULIT PRISON

  Writers are possessed of two kinds of relatives: ones who complain you put them in your stories, and ones who complain you don’t. My sister Kate is the latter. For years she has insisted that I should base a character on her, but unfortunately such a character hasn’t yet coincided in my mind with a suitable story idea. In a way this is odd, since I write about sister-sister relationships quite frequently. One fueled my first award-nominated story, “Trinity,” in 1983. One lies at the heart of “Margin of Error,” included in this collection. And one is central to “Flowers of Aulit Prison.” Although now that I think of it, perhaps Kate remains dissatisfied with these three stories not only because none of the six women is her, but also because each pair of sisters is locked in deadly rivalry.

  This story isn’t mainly about sisters, however. It’s mainly about how we each shape reality, carry around a definite map of it in our heads, completely sure that the map is truth. Reality maps include memories (“The accident happened this way”), expectations, perceptions, evaluations, moral strictures. When people’s maps diverge, you have disagreement and conflict. When most people’s maps overlap to a very high degree, you have a homogenous society. When maps match almost exactly, you have World.

  What creates a reality map? Experience partly. But since reality maps exist in the brain, and the brain runs on biochemical reactions, then the degree to which “my” reality is shaped by the compounds in my brain becomes an open question. This is an almost unexplored area of science, touching on the most fundamental of human questions: Who am I? Why do I think what I think?

  There are, as yet, no answers. In the meantime, I created World as one way of looking at the questions.

  Also in the meantime, I put a “Hurricane Kate” in one of my novels, but my sister didn’t like that either. Some people are never satisfied.

  MY SISTER LIES SWEETLY ON THE BED ACROSS THE ROOM FROM MINE. She lies on her back, fingers lightly curled, her legs stretched straight as elindel trees. Her pert little nose, much prettier than my own, pokes delicately into the air. Her skin glows like a fresh flower. But not with health. She is, of course, dead.

  I slip out of my bed and stand swaying a moment, with morning dizziness. A Terran healer once told me my blood pressure was too low, which is the sort of nonsensical thing Terrans will sometimes say—like announcing the air is too moist. The air is what it is, and so am I.

  What I am is a murderer.

  I kneel in front of my sister’s glass coffin. My mouth has that awful morning taste, even though last night I drank nothing stronger than water. Almost I yawn, but at the last moment I turn it into a narrowlipped ringing in my ears that somehow leaves my mouth tasting worse than ever. But at least I haven’t disrespected Ano. She was my only sibling and closest friend, until I replaced her with illusion.

  “Two more years, Ano,” I say, “less forty-two days. Then you will be free. And so will I.”

  Ano, of course, says nothing. There is no need. She knows as well as I the time until her burial, when she can be released from the chemicals and glass that bind her dead body and can rejoin our ancestors. Others I have known whose relatives were under atonement bondage said the bodies complained and recriminated, especially in dreams, making the house a misery. Ano is more considerate. Her corpse never troubles me at all. I do that to myself.

  I finish the morning prayers, leap up, and stagger dizzily to the piss closet. I may not have drunk pel last night, but my bladder is nonetheless bursting.

  At noon a messenger rides into my yard on a Terran bicycle. The bicycle is an attractive design, sloping, with interesting curves. Adapted for our market, undoubtedly. The messenger is less attractive, a surly boy probably in his first year of government service. When I smile at him, he looks away. He would rather be someplace else. Well, if he doesn’t perform his messenger duties with more courteous cheer, he will be.

  “Letter for Uli Pek Bengarin.”

  “I am Uli Pek Bengarin”

  Scowling, he hands me the letter and pedals away. I don’t take the scowl personally. The boy does not, of course, know what I am, any more than my neighbors do. That would defeat the whole point. I am supposed to pass as fully real, until I can earn the right to resume being so.

  The letter is shaped into a utilitarian circle, very business-like, with a generic government seal. It could have come from the Tax Section, or Community Relief, or Processions and Rituals. But of course it hasn’t; none of those sections would write to me until I am real again. The sealed letter is from Reality and Atonement. It’s a summons; they have a job for me.

  And about time. I have been home nearly six weeks since the last job, shaping my flowerbeds and polishing dishes and trying to paint a skyscape of last month’s synchrony, when all six moons were visible at once. I paint badly. It is time for another job.

  I pack my shoulder sack, kiss the glass of my sister’s coffin, and lock the house. Then I wheel my bicycle—not, alas, as interestingly curved as the messenger’s—out of its shed and pedal down the dusty road toward the city.

  Frablit Pek Brimmidin is nervous. This interests me; Pek Brimmidin is usually a calm, controlled man, the sort who never replaces reality with illusion. He’s given me my previous jobs with no fuss. But now he actually can’t sit still; he fidgets back and forth across his small office, which is cluttered with papers, stone sculptures in an exaggerated style I don’t like at all, and plates of half-eaten food. I don’t comment on either the food or the pacing. I am fond of Pek Brimmidin, quite apart from my gratitude to him, which is profound. He was the official in R&A who voted to give me a chance to become real again. The other two judges voted for perpetual death, no chance of atonement. I’m not supposed to know this much detail about my own case, but I do. Pek Brimmidin is middle-aged, a stocky man whose neck fur has just begun to yellow. His eyes are gray, and kind.

  “Pek Benga
rin” he says, finally, and then stops.

  “I stand ready to serve,” I say softly, so as not to make him even more nervous. But something is growing heavy in my stomach. This does not look good.

  “Pek Bengarin ” Another pause. “You are an informer.”

  “I stand ready to serve our shared reality ” I repeat, despite my astonishment. Of course I’m an informer. I’ve been an informer for two years and eighty-two days. I killed my sister, and I will be an informer until my atonement is over, I can be fully real again, and Ano can be released from death to join our ancestors. Pek Brimmidin knows this. He’s assigned me every one of my previous informing jobs, from the first easy one in currency counterfeiting right through the last one, in baby stealing. I’m a very good informer, as Pek Brimmidin also knows. What’s wrong with the man?

  Suddenly Pek Brimmidin straightens. But he doesn’t look me in the eye. “You are an informer, and the Section for Reality and Atonement has an informing job for you. In Aulit Prison.”

  So that’s it. I go still. Aulit Prison holds criminals. Not just those who have tried to get away with stealing or cheating or child-snatching, which are, after all, normal. Aulit Prison holds those who are unreal, who have succumbed to the illusion that they are not part of shared common reality and so may do violence to the most concrete reality of others: their physical bodies. Maimers. Rapists. Murderers.

  Like me.

  I feel my left hand tremble, and I strive to control it and to not show how hurt I am. I thought Pek Brimmidin thought better of me. There is of course no such thing as partial atonement—one is either real or one is not—but a part of my mind nonetheless thought that Pek Brimmidin had recognized two years and eighty-two days of effort in regaining my reality. I have worked so hard.