Read Online Tales of Old Earth by Michael Swanwick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Swanwick
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later tonight, and received a day ago, he was eaten alive by an old bull rex rendered irritable by a painful brain tumor. It was an ugly way to go. I didnât want to have to hear it. I did my best to not think about it.
Credit where credit is dueâMelusine practically set the tent ablaze. So I was using her. So what? It was far from the worst of my crimes. It wasnât as if she loved Hawkins, or even knew him for that matter. She was just a spoiled little rich-bitch adventuress looking for a mental souvenir. One more notch on her diaphragm case. I know her type well. Theyâre one of the perks of the business.
There was a freshly prepared triceratops skull by the head of the bed. It gleamed faintly, a pale, indistinct shape in the darkness. When Melusine came, she grabbed one of its horns so tightly the skull rattled against the floorboards.
Afterwards, she left, happily reeking of bone fixative and me. Weâd each had our little thrill. I hadnât spoken a word during any of it, and she hadnât even noticed.
T. rex wasnât much of a predator. But then, it didnât take much skill to kill a man. Too slow to run, and too big to hideâwe make perfect prey for a tyrannosaur.
When Hawkinsâ remains were found, the whole camp turned out in an uproar. I walked through it all on autopilot, perfunctorily giving orders to have Satan shot, to have the remains sent back uptime, to have the paperwork sent to my office. Then I gathered everybody together and gave them the Paradox Lecture. Nobody was to talk about what had just happened. Those who did would be summarily fired. Legal action would follow. Dire consequences. Penalties. Fines.
And so on.
It was two AM when I finally got back to my office, to write the dayâs operational report.
Hawkinsâs memo was there, waiting for me. Iâd forgotten about that. I debated putting off reading it until tomorrow. But then I figured I was feeling as bad now as I was ever going to. Might as well get it over with.
I turned on the glow-pad. Hawkinsâ pale face appeared on the screen. Stiffly, as if he were confessing a crime, he said, âMy folks didnât want me to become a scientist. I was supposed to stay home and manage the family money. Stay home and let my mind rot.â His face twisted with private memories. âSo thatâs the first thing you have to knowâDonald Hawkins isnât my real name.
âMy mother was kind of wild when she was young. I donât think she knew who my father was. So when she had me, it was hushed up. I was raised by my grandparents. They were getting a little old for child-rearing, so they shipped me back-time to when they were younger, and raised me alongside my mother. I was fifteen before I learned she wasnât really my sister.
âMy real name is Philippe de Cherville. I swapped table assignments so I could meet my younger self. But then Melusineâmy motherâstarted hitting on me. So I guess you can understand nowââ he laughed embarrassedlyââwhy I didnât want to go the Oedipus route.â
The pad flicked off, and then immediately back on again. Heâd had an afterthought. âOh yeah, I wanted to say ⦠the things you said to me todayâwhen I was youngâthe encouragement. And the tooth. Well, they meant a lot to me. So, uh ⦠thanks.â
It flicked off.
I put my head in my hands. Everything was throbbing, as if all the universe were contained within an infected tooth. Or maybe the brain tumor of a sick old dinosaur. Iâm not stupid. I saw the implications immediately.
The kidâPhilippeâwas my son.
Hawkins was my son.
I hadnât even known I had a son, and now he was dead.
A bleak, blank time later, I set to work drawing time lines in the holographic workspace above my desk. A simple double-loop for Hawkins/Philippe. A rather more complex figure for myself. Then I factored in the TSOs, the
Credit where credit is dueâMelusine practically set the tent ablaze. So I was using her. So what? It was far from the worst of my crimes. It wasnât as if she loved Hawkins, or even knew him for that matter. She was just a spoiled little rich-bitch adventuress looking for a mental souvenir. One more notch on her diaphragm case. I know her type well. Theyâre one of the perks of the business.
There was a freshly prepared triceratops skull by the head of the bed. It gleamed faintly, a pale, indistinct shape in the darkness. When Melusine came, she grabbed one of its horns so tightly the skull rattled against the floorboards.
Afterwards, she left, happily reeking of bone fixative and me. Weâd each had our little thrill. I hadnât spoken a word during any of it, and she hadnât even noticed.
T. rex wasnât much of a predator. But then, it didnât take much skill to kill a man. Too slow to run, and too big to hideâwe make perfect prey for a tyrannosaur.
When Hawkinsâ remains were found, the whole camp turned out in an uproar. I walked through it all on autopilot, perfunctorily giving orders to have Satan shot, to have the remains sent back uptime, to have the paperwork sent to my office. Then I gathered everybody together and gave them the Paradox Lecture. Nobody was to talk about what had just happened. Those who did would be summarily fired. Legal action would follow. Dire consequences. Penalties. Fines.
And so on.
It was two AM when I finally got back to my office, to write the dayâs operational report.
Hawkinsâs memo was there, waiting for me. Iâd forgotten about that. I debated putting off reading it until tomorrow. But then I figured I was feeling as bad now as I was ever going to. Might as well get it over with.
I turned on the glow-pad. Hawkinsâ pale face appeared on the screen. Stiffly, as if he were confessing a crime, he said, âMy folks didnât want me to become a scientist. I was supposed to stay home and manage the family money. Stay home and let my mind rot.â His face twisted with private memories. âSo thatâs the first thing you have to knowâDonald Hawkins isnât my real name.
âMy mother was kind of wild when she was young. I donât think she knew who my father was. So when she had me, it was hushed up. I was raised by my grandparents. They were getting a little old for child-rearing, so they shipped me back-time to when they were younger, and raised me alongside my mother. I was fifteen before I learned she wasnât really my sister.
âMy real name is Philippe de Cherville. I swapped table assignments so I could meet my younger self. But then Melusineâmy motherâstarted hitting on me. So I guess you can understand nowââ he laughed embarrassedlyââwhy I didnât want to go the Oedipus route.â
The pad flicked off, and then immediately back on again. Heâd had an afterthought. âOh yeah, I wanted to say ⦠the things you said to me todayâwhen I was youngâthe encouragement. And the tooth. Well, they meant a lot to me. So, uh ⦠thanks.â
It flicked off.
I put my head in my hands. Everything was throbbing, as if all the universe were contained within an infected tooth. Or maybe the brain tumor of a sick old dinosaur. Iâm not stupid. I saw the implications immediately.
The kidâPhilippeâwas my son.
Hawkins was my son.
I hadnât even known I had a son, and now he was dead.
A bleak, blank time later, I set to work drawing time lines in the holographic workspace above my desk. A simple double-loop for Hawkins/Philippe. A rather more complex figure for myself. Then I factored in the TSOs, the
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