Sycamore

Eight: On the street, as our bewildered hero blinks in the sun, a roving reporter with a live feed:

"You're an educated man, mister Set--"

"Set Zero was, at least, yes. I like to think that I am being a good steward of his talents."

"That's a good place to start. In the frequent interviews given in your ninth life, after your goal of eliminating your backups with inTrust was publicized, you made a clear distinction between yourself and the as-yet-inactive backups. Why is that?"

"You've caught me at a bad time, I'm afraid. I have just woken up and have a case of the cobwebs."

"How do you react to the evidence that individuals who own at least five personal backups have on average a fifty percent higher life satisfaction rating than those with four or fewer?"

"May I have a moment to review my predecessor's leavings? I'm afraid that I was given only the audio diary, and--"

"What did you leave for yourself, mister Set?"

"I would prefer to retain the rights to my predecessor's intellectual property, for the time being."

"Do you subscribe to the Original ideal?"

"I'm sorry, which?"

"How long can the public expect to wait for the completion of your quest?"

Set Eight, with a smile, "I'd quite like a cup of coffee."

###

Seven: As a secondary, more idle curiosity Set wondered how many different ways he could die. So far he had suffocated himself inside a plastic bag and leapt from a moving train as it passed over a trestle. There were still a half-dozen dirt naps left to take before he satisfied his primary curiosity. If he could manage not to repeat his predecessors' methods, then so much the better.

The only thing was, he might not know it if he did. Memories only flow in one direction and each backup could only remember up until the time of its creation. One could just as soon ask a river to gush uphill than expect Set to awaken each morning after death with any experience of life, or death, beyond the basic template, the state he had been in when he first backed up.

The backups were stored at various havens around the world, warehouses positioned so as to be optimally safe from flood, tsunami, eruption, and earthquake. Set Zero, an adjunct professor at a modest American college, had been able to afford eight such backups through his school's insurance policy, with the option of stacking more if he so chose.

Set Seven could remember arriving at inTrust's satellite office. He remembered checking in with the scowling young nurse who verified that he understood the risks and would not hold the company liable in the event of any disasters arising from his monumental vanity. He remembered the liquid diet they put him on for two days while the chips were inserted and the unique patterns of his brain were archived. After that, all he could remember was waking up that morning in a colorless apartment with a migraine, a craving for a cup of coffee, and a message from Set Zero playing like an unbroken daydream until he gave it his full attention.

Set Zero had had thirteen good years of life without dipping into his stock of selves, apparently. In the message, he attempted to justify, to himself, his decision to tear through his backups, to live once again on the cusp of death. Set Seven smiled; Zero had awkward phrasing and a familiar crack in his voice. He must have really meant it. It was evident that Eight had gone along with the idea and a few minutes on the news feeds told him how, but not exactly why. It seemed Set was a bit of a celebrity; there was even an informal game underway to try and find his next backup before he did away with himself again.

Set was in no special hurry to die. He got dressed and strolled outside. "London," he said, taking a deep breath. "I've always wanted to visit London."

It was a lot like Seattle, only people spoke faster.

###

Six: "I thought I'd find you here. When I heard that your next was in Seattle-- "

Set looked up. The stranger had long hair, expertly cut, and a coat of stubble so thin it looked to have been painted on.

"I'm sorry," said Set. "I know you, don't I?"

The stranger took a step forward, edging onto Set's horizon of comfort. "I was Zero's friend. My name is Gunter."

"It's nice to see you again, Gunter," said Set with a smile. Gunter hesitated a moment -- and Set thought he looked like a man trying to come up with way to explain to the neighbor children that he just ran over their cat -- then he shoved out a hand to be shaken. Set took it and gestured for Gunter to join him on the bench, which he did.

"Did I come here a lot?" asked Set.

"This is where we did our guard stint," said Gunter.

"I was in the guard?" asked Set. He turned and tried to face Gunter but a park bench is not an ideal place for a conversation. Gunter was staring out at Puget Sound and answered with a nod.

"That doesn't sound like me at all," said Set.

"You might have been drunk," said Gunter. Then, "I've been reading a lot about you. You never struck me as a wasteful guy."

"Is that what I'm doing? Being wasteful?"

Gunter nodded. A seagull hopped over and pecked at his shoes. "Did you leave yourself a message?" he asked, kicking the gull away.

"I fail to see how it's wasteful," said Set. "I'm an organ-and tissue-donor, after all."

"You jumped fifteen storys, the first time. There were no organs left."

"Granted, but the gun left everything below the neck just fine, and asphyxiation doesn't harm a thing. Well," he added, "Apart from the obvious." Gunter ought to have at least smiled.

Instead, he said, "I never liked your sense of humor." Here came the push off down a racing slope. "I hated the way you talked down to my brother when we were in the guard, and I hated that I laughed about it with you afterward. I couldn't stand it that night you tried to get him drunk, and it pisses me off that you don't have the scar anymore. Hell, I even think you're ugly." He scowled and let the words fly out to sea with nothing there to echo back against.

The gull had returned and was pecking at Gunter's shoe laces. He jerked, like a patient having his reflexes tested, and sent the bird hop-skipping away. Then he almost smiled.

"I'm sorry," said Set. "None of this means much to me."

Gunter shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Why did you come back here?"

"This is where my body--"

"No, I mean right here."

Set thought for a moment. "I don't honestly know," he said.

Gunter stood up, showing Set his profile. He jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched as though expecting rain. "Why don't you stop playing your life like a video game, yeah?" Then, "I know why you came back here. Your body wanted to go back to the scene of the crime. This is where you killed him. Remember?"

Set tried to protest as Gunter walked away, but "It's a nice view," was the strongest he could come up with.

"I'm notifying the police," said Gunter over his shoulder. "Go to hell."

###

Five: The librarian was an old man. His knuckles were large with arthritis; he smelled like pipe smoke and baby powder. Leaning close, he tapped the screen. "Right here's the ones you want, son," he said.

Set thanked him and apologized again for not knowing his way around the new reference system. The librarian shrugged and smiled and shuffled off to finish the morning chores that Set had interrupted.

The particulars may have changed, but the basics were the same. Set did a search on his name and sat back to read. Hours passed. His eyes started crawling with concentration spots. There had been plenty of mundane events in his life, citations by his employer, that sort of thing, but there was one article of more interest. It was dated two years previous and told of a murder on the quay for which there had been no arrest. The victim had been named Halt, and he had been active in Seattle's gay community. He was survived by one brother. Set was quoted with a vague witness statement, saying he was close to the victim.

"When did I realize I was gay?" Set wondered aloud. The librarian ambled back over holding a hard-copy newspaper. Set looked him up and down, tried to find him attractive. Probably not my type, he thought.

"You made page three," said the librarian, offering the paper. Set took it and read. One of his bodies had been found in a Peruvian drainage ditch, missing its head and liver.

"How many you got left, then?" asked the librarian.

"Zero didn't make a backup in Peru," said Set.

###

Four: "Would you like anything?"

"Thank you, mister Set, but no. May I record your opinion of the Originals?"

"The original who? Isn't there a band--"

"The phrase is used to denote individuals who claim an ideological stance in line with the One Life manifesto, published three years before your first death."

Passing up the chance to make a snide remark. "I love a good manifesto. How does it read?"

"I don't have permission to quote verbatim, mister Set, but I can inform you of the basics. The author desired to preserve original life. Many of the author's philosophies originated in eighteenth-century aristocratic sensibilities, though such criticisms have gone unmet. Each human, the author argued, is allowed one life, and one life only. The merits of medical transplant procedures are espoused in an addendum."

"Fascinating," said Set.

"Thank you for your time, mister Set. I have won the tee-shirt."

###

Three: A sunrise in Saskatchewan is instant, like a switch being thrown. There are no valleys or crevices for stalwart bands of night to hide in. Set had to shield his eyes. He had woken up at three in the morning, which seemed like an odd time for his predecessor to die. Periodically, he checked the news, but his death notice hadn't hit, yet.

He was waiting for businesses to open so he could get a cup of coffee. It seemed like a very long wait. The small cell he had awoken in belonged to inTrust, and they would evict him after he felt he had full control of his functions. He had been furnished with feed access, a cot, in case he felt weak, and a window to help him remember where he was.

"So, I'm number three," he said to himself. He let Zero's daydream message play again and felt a shiver run up his back. There was something Zero hadn't said, Set was certain, something he had hidden from his descendents. Set remembered back in grade school when his father hadn't let him come home after classes, had him play in the yard while he and Set's mother zipped back and forth in front of the living room window like ducks in shooting gallery. When they finally let him come inside, the air smelled like Lysol and there was something that looked like blood on the carpet.

And when he asked about his dog, Bones, they said he ran away.

Set wondered what had really happened, and if Zero had ever learned. On an impulse, he checked the feeds; his father had died four years ago. "Dropping like fruit out of season," said Set.

There was a knock at the door. When Set didn't immediately rise to answer it, there was a second, and then someone on the outside coughed and said, "It's the police, mister Set. Open up."

Faintly bemused, like when a student asks a tough question, Set opened the door. There were two officers, one with his gun drawn, and a detective. The detective looked as if he were a couple weeks past retirement. His badge was pinned on his lapel, identifying him as detective Hyssop. He saw Set read his badge, so he didn't bother introducing himself.

"May we come in, mister Set?"

"Oh, well, it's not my property, exactly, but please." Set stepped aside. As they stepped in, the other officer holstered his gun, but didn't snap the clasp. "I'm sorry I can't offer you coffee," said Set.

Detective Hyssop smiled like lightning and coughed like distant thunder. "I have to ask if you are aware, through natural or artificial means, of the warrant issued for your arrest. Just in case," he added to the officers.

It sounded as if it needed a strong reply, but all Set came up with was, "No," and a widening of the eyes.

Detective Hyssop sighed and gestured to one of the officers. The officer removed a length of zip-tie from his pocket and stepped up to Set. "Put your wrists together, out in front, please." Set did so. The sound the tie made was like corduroy pants.

"You're under arrest," said Hyssop, but he was cut off by his violent cough. He drew a misfolded handkerchief from his pocket and spit dark phlegm into it.

"That's a nasty cough," said Set.

"Call it habit," said Hyssop. "You're under arrest, and have been charged with the murder of Halt Greenaway of Seattle, Washington."

"I didn't do it," said Set.

"There is significant evidence to the contrary, mister Set."

"I didn't do it, detective Hyssop--" he pronounced it incorrectly "--because I was just born. I've never set foot out of this room."

Detective Hyssop sighed and leaned back against the wall. He rubbed his eyes as though tired and tried to suppress another cough. "Jonathan Set is charged with the murder of Halt Greenaway. Are you Jonathan Set?"

"That is my name." Set wasn't the type to stand up to authority, but he was feeling petulant as a newborn. He stiffened his back and tried to stare detective Hyssop down.

"You're under arrest, mister Set. Do you understand?"

"What if my name were Lee Harvey Oswald, detective?"

The officers were settling into a stance that suggested they would be here for a while. They folded their arms over their chests and bent their knees slightly.

"Are you a religious man?" asked Hyssop.

"No," said Set.

"No, you wouldn't be," said Hyssop. "Got to tell you, I don't think I'd be here if you were. You people are filling the earth right up with your carbon copies, and each copy means what? Means that there's that much more room for the soul to spread around in. Just my personal theory. But you keep dying, and you keep living, and you're making heaven too fucking crowded."

Set felt as if he had been called in front of the principal. "I didn't do it," he said.

They took him out to the car and stuck him in the back seat. Hyssop and one of the officers rode with him, the other officer following in an unmarked car. Set tried to order his thoughts, tried to uncover some hint within himself about what his predecessor's may have done. It was hard to concentrate, because Hyssop kept coughing.

The officer turned and asked, "When you goin' in?"

"Tomorrow," said Hyssop, spitting. "Tomorrow. Lungs of a thirty year-old."

"Nice," said the officer.

"Yeah." Hyssop twisted around in his seat to peer at Set. "What do you think about that, son?"

"Congratulations," said Set.

Hyssop made a crooked grin and nodded as though he had scored a victory. "You know what you remind me of?" he asked. "My son had a cat when he was a boy. Stupidest damn thing I ever saw. Chewed on mouse traps. Stuck its claw in a wall socket. It was dumber'n the kid, I swear. Last straw was when it climbed up the tree out front. Tried for ten minutes to get it down, then I said, screw it and left it up there. Made a noise like you wouldn't believe. Too damn curious for its own good."

They were driving into the sun. Even squinting, Set couldn't see a thing. "I have faith," he said, just because he knew that word would summon up a cough in Hyssop. "No idea what I'm going to see when I get to the top," he went on. "But it has to be something worth seeing. I'm a very trustworthy man, and I've known some." The sun disappeared behind a warehouse that looked as if it might house a space shuttle. Set could see inTrust's logo, the daisy-chained stick figures holding hands, plastered on the side. "What are we doing here?" he asked.

The car stopped and Hyssop got out. "Welcome to your new home." He chuckled. The officer opened Set's door and helped him get out. As Set stood, he saw the officer's holster, still unbuttoned. He didn't say, You're not the police; he guessed they knew already. He felt a flash of anger at his predecessors and seized onto it. The heat in his brain was quickly transformed into the warm gun in his hands. He broke away from the officer and tried to run. He tripped over his own feet and ended up on his back in the dust. The officer was running at him and Hyssop had turned to watch.

Set fumbled the gun around, barrel toward his head, and put his thumb on the trigger. "Someone else's problem," he said. Let the cat get down on its own. One step at a time. That's how you move mountains. As much as you can lift, one load at a time.

###

Two: Set listened to Zero's message and then opened his eyes. He was lying down and there was a bare fluorescent tube crackling above him. He tried to raise a hand to shield his brow, but found he could not move either of his arms. His legs were similarly restrained. He craned his neck, felt the vertebrae pop, and looked down at himself. He was spread-eagled on a bed, nylon straps looped around his wrists and ankles. There was an indistinct shape near the door of the tiny room. Set could feel his pupils contract against the light.

"Welcome to earth, mister Set," came a voice from the shape. Set blinked to bring the shape into focus. It was a middle-aged woman, slightly overweight, wire glasses on her nose, the pencil-pushing type. She was carrying a clipboard.

"Why am I tied down?" asked Set.

"You've been belligerent," said the woman. "I'm sorry."

"I apologize," said Set. "Did I hurt anyone?"

"No," said the woman. She took a step forward and clutched the clipboard like a weapon. "I work for inTrust Corporation, and I wondered if you would be willing to take a look at a couple of forms."

Set fumbled his tongue around in his mouth. It felt thick and fuzzy and in desperate need of coffee. "Is this the first time you have asked me?"

"No, sir," said the woman with a rueful smile.

"What are they?" asked Set.

The woman brought her clipboard over and positioned it in front of Set's face.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Back a little," said Set. The forms came into focus. Set read quickly. "Cloning authorization," he said. Then, "this is backdated. Two years?" The woman said nothing. "What am I doing here?" asked Set.

"You're a difficult man to get a hold of," said the woman. "Like a greased pig." She pulled the clipboard out of reach. "I've listened to your message," she said. "It's nothing; it's not poetic or religious. I can't understand why you've put seven bodies in the morgues, nor can my superiors." She took off her classes and cleaned them, scowling at the grime. Her countenance lifted when she slid the frame back over her ears. "Now, I'm afraid, you're going to have to be patient."

"For what am I waiting?"

The woman looked as though she were about to leave without answering, but she paused on the threshold and said, "To be born again," and Set could tell she had to cut the laughter out.

She left the lights on. Set tried tugging at his restraints, but there was no give to them. He listened to Zero's message again, to the compelling conviction that he didn't know his vocal chords could muster.

One more left, he thought. They'll probably have him under guard as well. I wish I could record a message for him. I'd say, 'Sorry I dumped this in your lap. Nothing I could do. Seemed the most appropriate action at the time.'

He debated trying to choke himself to death, trying to swallow his tongue, but it wouldn't pull far enough back. He wondered if he could make himself vomit, but after a few minutes of flexing his stomach muscles all he had was heartburn.

He kind of wanted to laugh. They wanted his permission to make additional clones, to be farmed off as organ donors for those who didn't want to spring on a backup, or who didn't want to lose a few minor years of experience.

A few minor years. He was reminded of the time he spent three years in college hot on the heels of a girl named Lace. He signed up for the classes she attended; he tried so hard to make her laugh that she actually did. She hated smoking, so he quit for a while. She liked going to church on Wednesday evenings, so he gave it a shot and quite liked the music. He knew, just knew, that a little perseverance would go a long way, and it ended up going five miles to the bar to pick her up one night after her ride bailed, and then six miles back to her apartment, twenty-three steps up to her room, and ten feet to her bed.

Set realized he was smiling. He pulled the corners of his mouth down; they were sore with effort. That wasn't me, he said. That's just context. I am Set Two, newborn. There was a convergence in the past, but it was like a myth, a story to enlighten purpose in the present.

He remembered Lace once saying, 'Faith is being sure of what is hoped for and certain of what remains unseen.' That did the trick. He felt his throat clench and bile crept into his mouth. A flex and twist of the body and a whole wave sloshed up. He coughed and choked and some of it came out his nose.

He held his breath as long as he could.

###

One: The body had been shipped, upon receipt of payment, to an aluminum building in Peru where two surgeons with identical accents removed its unconscious brain, just in case, and then took his liver for an elderly economist who was too much in love with vodka. The surgeons had no outstanding requests for the other organs, so they dumped the body in an irrigation ditch where it floated into a field of hops and was spotted by the farmer's son.

###

Zero: It was an explosion, a burst ill-aimed and wide. Seven bullets, four went into the bushes, three punched an Orion's belt across Halt's chest. He fell, twisting on his knees, his weight jerking front-to-back. He landed face-down on the cement and coughed. The gunman -- he had a wispy mustache and couldn't have been more than eighteen -- took two running steps down the path, then stopped, slipped, came back for Halt's wallet. He ripped out the twenty bucks in cash that was supposed to be for dinner and then ran off, not looking back, just like a coward.

Like a coward, thought Set, and crawled out of his hiding place. He had spotted Halt from a distance and had slowed, just because he liked to look at him. He had thin German features, and was trying to grow out his hair. Just as Set was about to raise an arm and holler, the young gun had slouched up to Halt, hand out, asking for a light. Halt had shaken his head. The kid's hand came out again, this time with a folded twenty in it. Halt had smiled -- his wide German mouth could carry a smile a hundred yards -- and again shaken his head. The kid's hand disappeared and came out with the gun and Set had leapt into the bushes.

Like a coward, thought Set, along the path of least resistance. He rushed to Halt's side and wasn't the first one there. "I'm a doctor," he said, which had never quite been true. He got down on his knees and looked into Halt's eyes. One was open, one was fluttering like a butterfly shot down by a child's water toy.

The police came and took his statement and then he tried to sleep. Almost fifteen years in the same job, same city, same bed. It had never been comfortable. Apathy had left him tired and depressed, a parasite emotion. Set had realized this; he was a smart guy. Joining the guard for a couple weekends a month had been good for him. There, he had met Gunter and Halt and their beer nights became Set's best memories for a time.

One night, after Gunter had passed out, Set and Halt sat on the bar's front steps and talked about the goals of their lives. Halt wanted to be a painter, and Set wanted to stop being a teacher. Halt said, You can do anything you want, because your brain is so damn big. Set said, Oh yeah? Halt said, Absolutely. You have to trust a brain that big and beautiful. Set grinned and let his head fall under all that weight. Halt leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

There was a memorial service for Halt back in Spokane, where his folks lived. He had had no backups; he blew all his money on paint and canvas. Before boarding the train over the Cascades, Set went to inTrust's Seattle offices and recorded the message for his descendents; they provided the service, but it wasn't in high demand, since most of the deaths they dealt in were sudden.

"Aren't you curious?" he said into the microphone. "I am. I have to do this, and I hope you'll do it with me. There is no tang in this life without the risk of loss. I can not communicate in words what I hope you will understand. I have faith you will understand. Who knows?" He bit off a laugh. "It could be fun." It wasn't quite what he wanted to say. The recorder clicked off. "I'm sorry," he added.

On the train, he had a beer in the dining car and then went back to one of the sleeping cars as they passed over the mountains. He forced the door open; the wheels threw up steam and locked. A bubble of questions and mild screams grew and burst and forced Set right on out.

They were on a bridge. The chasm was deep and dark, like hell, but cold and fresh, like heaven.

It seemed poetic. It seemed fair.

It seemed easy.

END

Ian Donnell Arbuckle lives in Washington State with his wife,
Elisabeth. He is the editor of small press Saltboy Bookmakers.
He is also an undefeated romantic, which
explains all the death in his stories. His personal website is at:
http://www.highenergymagic.org/~ian/

HOME

Sponsers: