F. Wilson - Dydeetown World

Dydeetown World began back in 1984, inspired by an opening hook that had lain fallow in my notebook for years. The plot, characters, tone, milieu, just about everything in the story sprang from that one sentence. (It opens section 4 of Part One, if you're interested.) I originally intended it as a short story — five, maybe six thousand words, tops — a quiet little SF tribute to Raymond Chandler whose work has given me such pleasure over the years. I was going to use all the clichés — the down-and-out private eye, his seedy friends, the tired, seamy city, the bar hang-out, the ruthless mobster, the whore with the heart of gold.

The working title was "Lies" because that's mostly what it's about. We all say we revere the truth, but sometimes a lie can be stronger than the truth, better than the truth. There are vital lies — the ones that can give you hope, can give you the strength to keep going when the truth would break you. And sometimes, under the right circumstances, a lie can become the truth I set it in the far future, one I had developed for the LaNague Federation science fiction series (four novels* and a handful of shorts). But "Lies" was going to be different. Rather than bright and full of hope like its predecessors, this story was going to be set on the grimy, disillusioned underbelly of that future. I wanted to move through the LaNague Earth at ground level, take a hard look at the social fall-out of the food shortages, the population-control measures, the wires into the pleasure centers of the brain — things I'd glossed over or mentioned only in passing before.

But despite the downbeat milieu, the story would be about freedom, friendship, and self-esteem. Beneath its hardboiled voice, its seamy settings, and violent events (Cyber/p-i/sci-fi, as Forry Ackerman might have called it) were characters trying to maintain — or reestablish — a human connection.

I disappeared into the story, so much so that it came in at three times the projected length, with a new title: "Dydeetown Girl."

A novella. One that none of the sf magazines wanted because it was too much like detective fiction; and which the detective mags rejected because it was "sci-fi." I began to fear that my ugly-duckling hybrid would be doomed to perpetual orphanhood. But thanks to Jim Baen and Betsy Mitchell it found a home in one of the Far Frontiers anthologies. From there it went on to reach the Nebula Awards final ballot for best novella of the year. It didn't win, but just seeing it listed was sweet vindication.

Betsy Mitchell prodded me into writing more in the "Dydeetown milieu. Her simple suggestion, "Why don't you do something with those urchins," sparked two more novellas, "Wires" and "Kids" (oh, those plural nouns). She also suggested splicing them into a single story.

The result was Dydeetown World

Although written for adults, the novel wound up on the American Library Association's list of "Best Books for Young Adults" and on the New York Public Library's recommended list of "Books for the Teen Age."

The ugly duckling had become a swan.

One scene in "Dydeetown Girl" involves a Tyrannosaurus rex used as a guard animal. That’s right: in a story written in 1985 I used a dinosaur cloned from reconstituted fossil DNA, but I tossed it off as background color.

If only I’d thought to stick a bunch of them in a park…

If your sister were a clone, would you want her working in Dydeetown. (datastream graffito)

Jean Harlow.

Or rather, Jean Harlow-c.

Couldn't place her face at once, but you don't hardly ever see white skin like that. Then it came to me. Seen her before in the flesh. The too-blond hair, the too-white skin, the puggish face. Hard to forget her even if, like me, you weren't particularly attracted to the look despite the way she filled out the dark blue clingsuit.

"You're Mr. Dreyer, aren't you?" she said in a tinny voice as the door slid closed a couple of centimeters behind her.

Suddenly became interested in my desktop where a few cockroach droppings adhered to the surface. Flicked one off as I told her, "You can find your way back out the way you came in."

"I want to hire you."

Held my temper and kept after the roach chips. Was tired from a long string of long days sitting here waiting for something to do.

"Don't work for clones."

Not completely true, but didn't advertise the truth.

Her breath made a raspy sound as she sucked it in.

"How-?"

"Never forget a face," I said, finally looking up at her.

Did a search for a Dydeetown girl a while back. Cued up the library for background and watched a vid on them and the history of Dydeetown. Got to know a lot of their faces and the stories behind them during the search. This Harlow was a big thing in her day, which was Way Back When. The clone before me wasn't a perfect match — they never are — but pretty damn close. Couldn't see what anyone saw in her, but maybe tastes were different then. Why anyone would want to hunt up her leftovers, steal a piece, and clone out a new Jean Harlow was beyond me.

But then, I don't waste my thumb in Dydeetown.

"You worked for Kushegi. She told me."

The roach dung became interesting again.

"That was a special case."

"What was so special about it?"

"None of your dregging business."

Truth was, I'd been more broke than usual then — my thumb was getting more red lights than Dydeetown's east wall. My stomach was used to at least one meal a day and the rest of me had other appetites. Briefly put, I was what you call desperate back then. Hadn't come a long way since.

"Hear me out," she said.

"I'll let you out." Still had my pride.

Something clunked heavily amid the poppyseed droppings on the desktop. Didn't even have to look up to see it. Rolled right under my nose — round, flat, and gold.

"Talk," I said.

She glanced back at my cubicle door as if to make sure it was closed good and tight, then sat in one of the pair of chairs on the other side of my desk.

"I thought you'd have a bigger office than this."

"Not a materialist," I said, picking up the coin and leaning back.

"It's Kyfhon."

Weighed it in my hand. Cool and heavy. Twenty-five grams heavy. Point nine-nine-nine fine if up to the usual Kyfhon standards. Illegal, of course, but who's going to tell those Eastern Sect toughos they can't mint their own coins? Not me, brother. Not me.

"Get many Kyfho-types as clients in Dydeetown?"

"Some."

Said nothing more, just sat there and worked a little crease into the surface of the coin with my thumbnail.

Finally, she went on, as I knew she would.

"Occasionally I'll do business with a Kyphon, but mostly I get coin from people who don't want to leave any thumbprints in Dydeetown."

"Nobody likes to leave a trail to Dydeetown."

"Yet they do," she said, lifting her chin and meeting me eye to eye. "Every night they come around with fat groins and fat thumbs-"

"— to find 'the most beautiful women and the handsomest men in all history,' " I said, mimicking the slogan.

"You are so right, Mr. Dreyer."

Not a trace of shame in her voice. But why should there have been? She was only a clone. She didn't know any better; it was her customers who should have been ashamed.

"So what can I do for you?"

Galled me to be sitting here talking business with her like she was a Realpeople, but this was real gold in my hand, and I needed it real bad.

"I need to find someone."

Oh, bloaty. Another missing Dydeetowner.