Michael Sullivan - Hollow World

“You never get—how old are you?”

“Me? I’m only three hundred and sixty. I’m a baby. Part of the Accident Generation.” Pax took another swallow of food as Ellis tried to figure out what that meant.

Pax sighed and took a drink. “There’s so much you don’t know. I had hoped Alva would have taken some time to—”

A gust of wind blew Pax’s bowler hat off. “Real mature, Alva.”

Pax retrieved the hat and sat back down, keeping one hand on the brim.

“But if no one ever dies, isn’t that a problem? With overpopulation, I mean,” Ellis asked.

“There was a population crisis in the middle of the twenty-third century.”

Ellis nodded, remembering Charlton Heston in Soylent Green .

“But not overpopulation—it was because of a depleting population. This was before the ISP wiped out death and disease, you understand. People were still dying, but fewer and fewer children were being born each year—a real emergency. Everyone was content and fulfilled and didn’t feel the need. Most people had no children, and those who did had just one, which meant the world population was diminishing with each generation. So the ISP stepped in and filled the void.”

“Manufacturing people?”

Pax looked surprised at the comment. “Creating new people from DNA patterns.”

“And the religious community just let that happen?”

This appeared to catch Pax by surprise, resulting in an expression that was part confusion, part suspicion, as if Pax felt he was being intentionally obtuse. “There haven’t been any religions for hundreds of years. I think the last church was in Mexico somewhere, but that was a long time ago.”

“So no one believes in God anymore?”

“Of course not.” The tone was flippant and condescending. Then Pax appeared mortified. “Oh—I’m sorry.” Setting down the fork, Pax reached out and touched his hand. “I didn’t mean to insult you like that. I didn’t realize. I should have, but…” Pax looked sick.

“It’s okay—really.”

“But I should never have—”

“It’s fine—trust me, you aren’t the first atheist I’ve talked to. What were you saying about the population problem?”

Pax resumed work on the minlatta. “Oh—well, since the new patterns never grow old, it wasn’t long before we reached the perfect population size. The only problem comes from accidents. People don’t die from disease, but accidents still happen and create openings for new births. I was one of those—hence the Accident Generation. I, and everyone sharing this pattern, should live forever, which is why these killings are so horrible. Death is an awful tragedy to us.”

“It was to us too,” Ellis said. “So I’m guessing you don’t have wars?”

Pax looked shocked and turned away as if Ellis had said an offensive word.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Part of the new pattern the ISP created was the removal of the Y chromosome and the aggression that came with it. It was the source of the vast majority of violence. Conflict of that sort hasn’t existed in centuries.” Pax grimaced and shivered for effect.

“The Y chromosome…you’re talking about men—males. That’s what people with the Y chromosome are.”

“I’ve read about the sexes,” Pax explained. “Seen some restored grams on the subject. It all seems so…complicated—and dangerous. And such an inadequate means of reproduction. Darwinism—the haphazard selection of genes—produced such unpredictable results when everything was left to random chance. It would be like shuffling coords and jumping blindfolded through portals. It amazes me that it took so long to take control of our own existence. I can’t imagine what people were thinking back then.”

“You’re aware that I’m male?”

Pax made an embarrassed face. “I suspected.”

“Everyone is female then?”

“No. There aren’t any sexes anymore. All that unnecessary equipment was removed just like the appendix. You used to have those, too, didn’t you?”

Ellis nodded.

“The ISP pruned away all the leftover genetic branches because they were invitations to disease and malfunctions, not to mention just plain silly to carry around.”

“Hair included?” Ellis ruffed his own.

Pax nodded, looking embarrassed again, and Ellis wondered if he was performing the equivalent of picking his nose.

“So, you don’t have sex anymore? Sexual pleasure, I mean? Orgasms, we called them.”

Pax looked at him, grinning.

“What?”

“I just realized you’ve never experienced delectation.”

“What’s that?”

His comment made Pax laugh. “Are you aware that pain and pleasure are generated in the brain? When you touch something, tactile information is sent to the brain, which interprets it and then provides you with a sensation. Delectation just skips the physical part. There’s a whole art form where people devise new and incredible delectations. There’s even a classics line that is supposed to re-create orgasms, inebriation, drug highs, and other sensations from the past. I’ve tried a few. I didn’t like the inebriation one. It just made me dizzy, which really wasn’t pleasant at all. The orgasm one was nice, but very short. Were they really only a few seconds long? If the reproductions are accurate, you’re in for a treat.”

Ellis had flashes from the Woody Allen movie Sleeper and decided to change the subject before Pax suggested trying out the orgasm machine or whatever it was. “So why were you at the crime scene? How did you find out about it?”

“I was called by the professor handling the tour. Twelve people saw the body. Some of them were bound to have emotional stress. Cha came with me, which is pretty routine. Then when you opened your eyes—well, who better than an arbitrator to handle first-contact?”

“Do you have any idea who the killer is?”

“We don’t even know who the victim was.” Pax offered a smile and touched his hand again—a gentle touch, soft hands. “Your assistance was amazing, by the way, and thank you again for that. The Grand Council feels the murders are the result of anger over the Hive Project. And I know there is a lot of emotion circulating—a lot of fear. I have my own concerns, as you can probably tell.” Pax gestured at the material of the frock coat with a smirk, indicating something obvious that Ellis didn’t understand. “I find it hard to believe that anyone upset over the Hive Project would resort to such extremes.”

“What is the Hive Project?”

“Nothing, really. I mean, it’s just research the ISP is working on. They’ve been at it for centuries and haven’t gotten anywhere, which is why it doesn’t make sense that someone would kill over it. We just aren’t built that way anymore. Anger doesn’t boil over into action—not like it did in your day. We fret, we yell, we scream, we cry, and we hug, mostly in that order, but we don’t strike, and we never kill.”

“Someone does.”

Pax nodded thoughtfully.

Ellis had a dozen more questions. What was this Grand Council? How were people made ? What did ISP stand for? Why were they underground? What was Hollow World? He thought of himself at that moment like some three year old about to drive an adult crazy with endless questions. Pax probably had questions too. Ellis realized that in his deluge of inquiries he’d been an ungrateful lout.

“Say, I’d like to thank you for taking care of me,” Ellis said as he wound up a forkful—two thousand years and still no better way to eat pasta. “I would have probably died if you hadn’t.”

Pax smiled, showing perfect white teeth that would have put any twenty-first-century model to shame. “It’s the least I could do for the first-ever time traveler.”