Michael Sullivan - Hollow World

“I don’t understand.”

“If the ISP had the means to go ahead with the Hive, they would.”

“But I assume you could pass laws to stop them.”

Pax’s head shook. “Doesn’t work that way anymore. Like I mentioned before, no one tells anyone else what to do—or not do.”

“What about—” Ellis almost said murder. “What about theft? You don’t tolerate stealing, do you? You must have laws restricting that.”

Pax smiled at him. “What can you steal from me that you can’t make for yourself? Or that I can’t reproduce in an instant? I wear a new suit every day. We don’t have a problem with theft.”

“But you must have conflicts that need to be resolved.”

“Of course. That’s what I do as an arbitrator. I solve those problems. Almost all of them are the result of a misunderstanding, misplaced anger, or irrational fear. You can’t make laws to govern accidents or emotions—no two are ever alike. They have to be worked through, solved like a puzzle.” Pax looked out at the hillside. “Thing is, none of it matters anyway. The ISP can’t do it. They don’t know how. Been working on the project for centuries and never found the combination to that lock. I don’t think they ever will. They also wanted to make it so people could fly—they never did that either. Still, the very idea scares a lot of people. Those in favor are often ostracized, and now there are these murders. Some have said they’re linked—a violent reaction to the ISP’s continued work.”

Ellis found the spoon and offered it and the can to Pax, who sniffed the contents.

“And you eat this?”

“It’s not considered a delicacy—and it’s supposed to be heated.”

Pax took a taste and made a face but nodded anyway. “It’s not revolting—I guess.”

“That’s only because you’re hungry. Just about anything tastes better when you’re outdoors and starved.”

They shared the can and spoon, passing them back and forth as they reclined on the hill and watched the sunrise bathing the hillside in warmth. Birds sang. Cicadas droned. A light breeze swayed the trees and blew the white of dandelions away.

When the stew was gone, Ellis tore open the M&M’S. “Here,” he said, “give me your hand.” He poured half the bag.

Pax looked at the little round balls with curiosity. “Very…colorful.”

Ellis chuckled. “You eat them.” He popped a red candy in his mouth.

Pax looked skeptical for a moment, then mimicked him. A moment later a big smile appeared. “These are wonderful. What do you call them?”

“Candy—M&M’S.” He thought to add that they were invented by Forrest Mars after he saw soldiers eating chocolate in the summer sun during the Spanish Civil War, but figured that wasn’t such a good idea. “Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.”

Pax picked up and studied the little yellow bag, turning it over and back. “I’ll have to see if Alva can find a pattern for this. If not, we should save some and find a designer to create one. The world should not be denied.”

Ellis laughed. “Well, at least the twenty-first century has one point in its favor.”

He felt good, which was amazing considering that the night before he had suffered his worst coughing fit ever. It was just after they had arrived back in what had been Michigan and Ellis felt like he was going to hack up half a lung. His chest still felt raw, but aside from that, everything else was hitting that perfect balance of being just right. The wind ruffled his hair, drawing Pax’s attention and creating a smile. He was neither too cold nor too hot. His lungs weren’t burning. He wasn’t tired or hungry. If he thought about it—if he looked back or forward—he would describe that moment as the tranquil eye of a hurricane. Panic or depression should have been appropriate. Instead, he was smiling, eating M&M’S, and even the can of two-thousand-year-old stew was enjoyable. As unlikely as he could imagine, it was a perfect moment.

“I wish it would rain,” Pax said. “They can’t even make that happen in an ARC.”

“What’s that?”

“Alternate Reality Chamber. Artists program illusions in a fixed space that simulate reality—sort of like what you see with falselight, only in an ARC they control everything—except the user, of course—and as such they can really suspend your sense of reality.” Pax ate another candy. “We’ve had problems with ARCs, though. People get addicted to them. Years ago, a lot of people died. They entered and never came out. Died of dehydration and malnutrition. You see, they only thought they were eating and drinking. The Council required safety time-out features after over thirty people were found dead.”

Pax settled close to him again, leaning on his shoulder and looking out at the view. “But they can’t simulate rain.”

“I’d think that would be pretty easy,” Ellis said. “Just put sprinklers on the ceiling. You know—spray water.”

Pax smiled. “But that’s not rain. That’s just water falling.”

“Isn’t that what rain is?”

“No. Rain is a gift—it’s life, salvation, ecstasy—it’s the whole world, every plant, insect, and animal rejoicing together as one. There’s just something that makes you feel so alive in a rainstorm, especially if there’s lightning and thunder. Then it’s as if the whole universe is joining in.”

Ellis remembered watching thunderstorms from his front porch with his dad. Those times had been nice—one of the few memories he had of just sitting quietly with his father. Thinking back, it was similar to watching a fireworks display on the Fourth of July, but nothing like what Pax described.

“What’s it like to have a family?”

Ellis was surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I imagine it was wonderful, like teams in sports, everyone working together, loving each other without reservation.”

Ellis laughed. “In theory. In reality—not so much.”

“Really? I just think living back in your time would have been wonderful. I was a member of an anachronism group. We’d get together and dress up in wigs and shirts and blue jeans—complete with real belts and wallets. Some even had replica plastic cards in them. Oh, and shoes! We wear timepieces, pretend to text each other on phones, and watch really old restored grams. I liked the ones without color the best. The ones where people wore hats all the time.”

“And vests and long coats?”

Pax smiled and nodded, tapping the bowler and making a little hollow sound. “Some of us would pretend to be male and others female, and we’d dance. I remember that once someone actually had a book—a real one. A collector had brought it. A literary classic. We had to wear special white gloves to touch it. And the book’s owner could actually read. I remember sitting and listening. It was amazing. Just incredible.”

“Do you remember the name of the book?”

“I’ll never forget it, Second Chance, by Danielle Steel. The mastery of language in your day was just so magnificent. I picture that time as so romantic and adventurous.”

Ellis bit back a slew of comments, wondering if Pax’s view of the past came from watching Fred Astaire movies. Probably wonders why I don’t begin crooning and doing a little dance step.

Pax rubbed the bandage.

“Don’t play with it,” Ellis said. “Let it heal.”

“I feel strange knowing the chip is gone. I have no way of proving who I am now.”

“They put those things in at birth?” Is birth even the right word?

Pax nodded. “In a way, it was more me than I am.”

“I doubt that. Where did I throw your identity chip, anyway?”

“Into space, somewhere near Neptune’s moon Triton—assuming the orbit was right, and it should be—I used the coords for the planetarium there. The Port-a-Call updates those things.”