The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction by Greg Bear Page B
Book: The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction by Greg Bear
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Authors: Greg Bear
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Christ and what He represented stood tall in the city of thought, much as this spire rises over the forest. But everything grows old. Maybe weve been given a sign, and we just have to learn how to interpret it correctly. He shook his head.
I leered to show I was puzzled.
Instead of Gods death, were faced with another process entirely. We have long bathed in Gods milk, in His rules and creativity. Maybe Mortdieu is really a sign that we have been weaned. We must forage for ourselves, remake the world without help. What do you think of that?
I was too tired to really judge the merits of what he was saying, but I had never known the Giant to be wrong before. Okay. So?
The stone Christ indicates His charge is running down. If God weans us from the old ways, we cant expect His Son to replace the nipple, can we?
No...
He hunkered next to me, his face bright. I wondered who would really stand forth. Its obvious. He wont. So, little one, whos the next choice?
Me? I asked, meekly. The giant looked me over almost pityingly.
No, he said after a time. I am the next. Were weaned! He did a little dance, startling my beak up out of my paws. I blinked. He grabbed my vestigial wingtips and pulled me upright. Tell me more.
About what?
Tell me all thats going on below, and whatever else you know.
Im trying to figure out what youre saying, I protested, trembling a bit.
Dense as stone! Grinning, he bent over me. Then the grin went away and he tried to look stern. Its a grave responsibility. We must remake the world ourselves now. We must coordinate our thoughts, our dreams. Chaos wont do. What an opportunity, to be the architect of an entire universe! He waved the ruler at the ceiling. To build the very skies! The last world was a training ground, full of harsh rules and strictures. Now weve been told were ready to leave that behind, move on to something more mature. Did I teach you any of the rules of architecture? I mean, the aesthetics. The need for harmony, interaction, utility, beauty-within-science?
Some, I said.
Good. I dont think making the universe anew will require any better rules. No doubt well need to experiment, and perhaps one or more of our great spires will topple. But now we work for ourselves, to our own glory, and the greater glory of the God who made us! No, ugly friend?
Like many histories, mine must begin with the small, the tightly focused, and expand into the large. But, unlike most historians. I dont have the luxury of time. Indeed, my story isnt even concluded yet.
Soon the legions of Viollet-le-Duc will begin their campaigns. Most have been schooled pretty thoroughly. Kidnapped from below, brought up in the heights, taught as I was. Well begin returning them, one by one.
I teach off and on, write off and on, observe all the time.
The next step will be the biggest. I havent any idea how were going to do it.
But, as the Giant puts it, Long ago the roof fell in. Now we must push it up again, strengthen it, repair the beams. At this point he smiles to the pupils. Not just repair them. Replace them! Now we are the beams. Flesh and stone become something much stronger.
Ah, but then some dolt will raise a hand and inquire, What if our arms get tired holding up the sky?
Our task will not soon be over.
<>
* * * *
SCATTERSHOT
The teddy bear spoke excellent mandarin. It was about fifty centimeters tall, plump, with close-set eyes above a nose unusually long for the generally pug breed. It paced around me, muttering to itself.
I rolled over and felt barbs down my back and sides. My arms were reluctant to move. There was something about my will to get up and the way my muscles reacted that was out-of-kilter; the nerves werent conveying properly. So it was, I thought, with my eyes and the small black-and-white beast they claimed to see: a derangement of phosphene patterns, cross-tied with childhood memories and snatches of linguistics courses ten years past.
It began speaking Russian. I ignored it
I leered to show I was puzzled.
Instead of Gods death, were faced with another process entirely. We have long bathed in Gods milk, in His rules and creativity. Maybe Mortdieu is really a sign that we have been weaned. We must forage for ourselves, remake the world without help. What do you think of that?
I was too tired to really judge the merits of what he was saying, but I had never known the Giant to be wrong before. Okay. So?
The stone Christ indicates His charge is running down. If God weans us from the old ways, we cant expect His Son to replace the nipple, can we?
No...
He hunkered next to me, his face bright. I wondered who would really stand forth. Its obvious. He wont. So, little one, whos the next choice?
Me? I asked, meekly. The giant looked me over almost pityingly.
No, he said after a time. I am the next. Were weaned! He did a little dance, startling my beak up out of my paws. I blinked. He grabbed my vestigial wingtips and pulled me upright. Tell me more.
About what?
Tell me all thats going on below, and whatever else you know.
Im trying to figure out what youre saying, I protested, trembling a bit.
Dense as stone! Grinning, he bent over me. Then the grin went away and he tried to look stern. Its a grave responsibility. We must remake the world ourselves now. We must coordinate our thoughts, our dreams. Chaos wont do. What an opportunity, to be the architect of an entire universe! He waved the ruler at the ceiling. To build the very skies! The last world was a training ground, full of harsh rules and strictures. Now weve been told were ready to leave that behind, move on to something more mature. Did I teach you any of the rules of architecture? I mean, the aesthetics. The need for harmony, interaction, utility, beauty-within-science?
Some, I said.
Good. I dont think making the universe anew will require any better rules. No doubt well need to experiment, and perhaps one or more of our great spires will topple. But now we work for ourselves, to our own glory, and the greater glory of the God who made us! No, ugly friend?
Like many histories, mine must begin with the small, the tightly focused, and expand into the large. But, unlike most historians. I dont have the luxury of time. Indeed, my story isnt even concluded yet.
Soon the legions of Viollet-le-Duc will begin their campaigns. Most have been schooled pretty thoroughly. Kidnapped from below, brought up in the heights, taught as I was. Well begin returning them, one by one.
I teach off and on, write off and on, observe all the time.
The next step will be the biggest. I havent any idea how were going to do it.
But, as the Giant puts it, Long ago the roof fell in. Now we must push it up again, strengthen it, repair the beams. At this point he smiles to the pupils. Not just repair them. Replace them! Now we are the beams. Flesh and stone become something much stronger.
Ah, but then some dolt will raise a hand and inquire, What if our arms get tired holding up the sky?
Our task will not soon be over.
<
* * * *
SCATTERSHOT
The teddy bear spoke excellent mandarin. It was about fifty centimeters tall, plump, with close-set eyes above a nose unusually long for the generally pug breed. It paced around me, muttering to itself.
I rolled over and felt barbs down my back and sides. My arms were reluctant to move. There was something about my will to get up and the way my muscles reacted that was out-of-kilter; the nerves werent conveying properly. So it was, I thought, with my eyes and the small black-and-white beast they claimed to see: a derangement of phosphene patterns, cross-tied with childhood memories and snatches of linguistics courses ten years past.
It began speaking Russian. I ignored it
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