Free Beyond the Farthest Suns by Greg Bear Page A

didn’t even come to my dreams.”
    Jerk crawled up from the blankets and squatted on Alista’s chest, examining his face carefully with extended eyes.
    â€œI don’t want to die either,” Karen said.
    Alista smiled in agreement. “I’ll trade you places, little girl,” he said. “I’ll take your loneliness for my quick end.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll be saved,” she said. “Maybe we can pass through the ring without hitting anything.”
    She didn’t cry for the old spaceman when he was gone. She walked to the lounge, taking the orange animal with her. She didn’t have the strength to write any­thing, and it didn’t much matter anyway, so she spoke out loud. She stroked the orange lump and talked of all the places and things she wanted to see again, and do again, all the people she wanted to meet again.
    â€œThere’s my parents,” she said. Silence. “And Allen. And my friends at school. I would like to dance some more, but I’d probably never be any good. I’d like to …”
    She was going to say “have children,” but that was too much to even begin to understand.
    â€œI’ll miss not seeing things again. There’s the lake where we swam at Ankhar, with its snaky blue fish. And my room at—”

The Fall of the House of Escher
    J anet Berliner Gluckman asked me to contribute to a collection of science fiction and fantasy stories, to be selected and approved by David Copperfield, the magician. Each story would touch upon magic in some form or another. While I could easily imagine writing a fantasy story about magic, a science fiction story presented a bigger challenge. I grabbed up a few books about the history of legerdemain and stage magic, and soon had an idea.
    A rather wealthy and powerful acquaintance, discussing the future of mass entertainment, once shook me by declaring, at the end of a conversation, “A hundred million people can’t be wrong.”
    I wasn’t so sure.
    I wondered whether an entertainer could ever possibly satisfy a hundred million people on a regular basis, without undergoing some sort of undesirable transformation.
    I then upped the ante; how about a hundred billion people, all mesmerized by centuries of cleverly designed, spiritually empty corporate amusement. What would it take to satisfy them?
    Edgar Allan Poe was, I thought, an appropriate inspiration for such a tale of illusion, show business, and fear. Connecting Poe to a charge of something like Cyberpunk makes this one of my most chilling and effective stories, I think.
    Â 
    â€œ Hoc est corpus, ” said the licorice voice. “Lich, arise.”
    The void behind my eyes filled. Subtle colors pinwheeled against velvet. Oiled thoughts raced, unable to grab.
    The voice slid like black syrup into my ears.
    â€œOnce dead, now quick. Arise.”
    I opened my eyes. My fingers curled across palm, thumb touched pinkie, tack of prints on skin, twist and pull of muscles in wrist, the first things necessary. No pain in my joints. Hands agile and strong.
    Tremors gone.
    I shivered.
    â€œI’m back,” I said.
    â€œQuick and quick,” the voice said
    I turned to see who spoke in such lovely black tones. My eyes focused on a brown oval like rich fine wood, ivory eyes with ruby pupils, face square and stern but untouched by age.
    â€œHow does it feel to be inside again, and whole? I am a doctor. You can tell.”
    I opened my mouth. “No pain,” I said. “I feel … oily, inside. Smooth and slick.”
    â€œYoung,” the face said. I saw the face in profile and decided, from the timbre of the voice and general features, that this was a woman. The smoothness of her skin reminded me of the unlined surface of a painting. She wore long black robes from neck to below where I lay on an elevated bed or table. “Do you have memories?”
    I swallowed. My throat felt cool. I