“She looked different,” Annie said.
“Different how?”
Annie pressed her lips tight together, thinking. Her lips were dark and shiny as blackberries, them, the lower one so full that pressing them together only made it look juicier. I had to look away, me.
She said slowly, “Different like a donkey.”
I sat up on the sofa. The blanket slid off. “You mean genemod? I didn’t see, me, nobody like that.”
“Well, she wasn’t genemod pretty. Short, with squinchy features and low eyebrows and a head a little too big. But she was a donkey, her. I know it. Billy — you think she’s a FBI spy?”
“In East Oleanta? We ain’t got no underground organizations, us. All we got is rotten stomps that want to spoil ilfe for the rest of us.”
Annie kept on pressing her lips together. County Legislator Thomas Scott Drinkwater runs our police franchise. He contracts, him, with an outfit that has both ’bots and donkey officers. We don’t see them much. They don’t keep the peace on the streets, and they don’t bother, them, about thefts because there’s always more in the warehouse. But when we have an assault, us, or a murder, or a rape, they’re there. Just last year Ed Jensen was gene-fingered for killing the oldest Flagg girl when a lodge dance got too rough. Jensen got took, him, up to Albany, for twenty-five-to-life. On the other hand, nobody never stood trial for the bow-shooting of Sam Taggart out in the woods two years ago. But I think we had a different franchise, us, back then.
FBI is a whole other thing. All them federal outfits are. They don’t come to Livers unless something donkey is threatened, and once they come, them, they don’t let go.
“Well,” Annie said stubbornly, “all I know, me, is that she was a donkey. I can smell them.”
I didn’t want to argue, me. But I didn’t want her to worry, neither. “Annie — ain’t no reason for FBI to be in East Oleanta. And donkeys don’t have big heads and squinchy features, them — they don’t let their kids get born that way.”
“Well, I hope you’re right, you. We don’t need no visiting donkeys in East Oleanta. Let them stay, them, in their places, and us in ours.”
I couldn’t help it. I said, real soft, “Annie — you ever hear of Eden?”
She knew, her, that I didn’t mean the Bible. Not in that voice. She snapped, “No. I never heard of it, me.”
“Yes, you did. I can tell, me, by your voice. You heard of Eden.”
“And what if 1 did? It’s garbage.”
I couldn’t let it go, me. “Why’s it garbage?”
“Why? Billy — think, you. How could there be a place, even in the mountains, that donkeys don’t know about? Donkeys serve everything, them, including mountains. They got aircars and planes to see everything. Anyway, why would a place without donkeys ever come to be? Who would do the work?”
“ ’Bots,” I said.
“Who would make the ’bots?”
“Maybe us?”
“Livers work? But why, in God’s name? We don’t got to work, us — we got donkeys to do all that for us. We got a right to be served by donkeys and their ’bots — we elect them! Why would we want to go, us, to some place without public servants?”
She was too young, her. Annie don’t remember a time before the voting came on HT and the franchises made cheap ’bots and the Mission for Holy Living was all over the place, them, contributing lots of money to all the churches and explaining about the lilies of the field and the sacredness of joy and the favor of God to Mary over Martha. Annie don’t remember, her, all the groups for all the kinds of democracy, each showing us how in a democracy the common man was the real aristo and master of his public servants. Schools for democracy. Irish-Americans for Democracy. Hoosiers for Democracy. Blacks for Democracy. I don’t know, me. The ’bots took over the hard work, and we were happy, us, to give it to them. The politicians started talking, them, about bread and circuses, and calling voters “sir” and “ma’am” and building the cafes and warehouses and scooter tracks and lodge build-ings. Annie don’t remember, her. She likes to cook and sew and she don’t spend all her time at races and brainie parties and lodge dances and lovers, like some, but she still ain’t never held an ax in her hand and swung it, or a hoe or a hatchet or a hammer. She don’t remember.
And then suddenly I knew, me, what an old fool I really was, and how wrong. Because I did swing heavy tools, me, on road crews in Georgia, when I was just a few years older than Lizzie. And when I wasn’t being an ass I could remember, me, how my back ached like it was going to break, and my skin blistered under the sun, and the blackflies bit, them, on the open sores where they’d bit before, and at night I was so tired and hurting, me, I’d cry for my mother into my pillow, where the older men couldn’t hear me. That’s the work we did, us, not some quiet clean assembling of donkey ’bots. I remembered the fear of losing that lousy job when there wasn’t no Congresswoman Janet Carol Land Cafe, no Senator Mark Todd Ingalls meal chip, no Senator Calvin Guy Winthop Jay Street Apartment Block. The fear was like a knife behind your eyes when the foreman come over, him, on a Friday to say, “That’s it, Washington. You through,” and all you wanted to do was take that knife out from behind your eyes and drive it hard through his heart because now how you going to eat, pay the rent, stay alive. I remembered, me, how it was, all in a second after I opened my big mouth to Annie.
“You’re right,” I said, not looking at her. “There ain’t no Eden for us. I should go home now, me.”
“Stay,” Annie said kindly. “Please, Billy. In case there’s trouble at the cafe.”
Like anybody could break into a foamcast apartment. Or like a broke-down old man could be any real help to her or Lizzie. But I stayed.
In the darkness I could hear, me, how Annie and Lizzie moved in their bedrooms. Walking around, laying down, turning and settling into sleep. Sometime in the night the temperature must of dropped because I heard the Y-energy heater come on. I listened, me, to their breathing, a woman and a child, and pretty soon I slept.
But I dreamed about dangerous raccoons, sick and full of death.
Three
I never get used to the way other people don’t see colors and shapes. No. That’s not right. They see them. They just don’t see them, in the mind, where it matters. Other people can’t feel colors and shapes. Can’t become colors and shapes. Can’t see through the colors and shapes to the trueness of the world, as I do, in the shapes it makes in my mind.
That’s not it either.
Words are hard for me.
I think words were hard even before the operation that made me the Lucid Dreamer.
But the pictures are clear.
I can see myself as a dirty, dumb, hungry ten-year-old, traveling alone halfway across the country to Leisha Camden, the most famous Sleepless in the world. I can see her face as I ask her to make me “be somebody, me.” I can see her eyes when I boasted, “Someday, me, I’m gonna own Sanctuary.”
Sanctuary, the orbital where all the Sleepless except Leisha Camden and Kevin Baker had exiled themselves. My grandfather, a dumb laborer, had died building Sanctuary. And I thought, in my pathetic ten-year-old arrogance, that I could own it. I thought that if I learned to talk like donkeys and Sleepless, learned to behave like them, learned to think like them, I could have what they had. Money. Power. Choices.
When I picture that child now, the shapes in my mind are sharp and small, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope. The shapes are the pale lost gold of remembered summer twilight.