C. J. Cherryh - Visible Light

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CJ Cherryh — Visible Light (v1.0)

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CJ Cherryh — Visible Light (v1.0)

VISIBLE LIGHT

C.J. Cherryh

Dedication

the credit for this collection plainly goes to Don Wollheim, who came up with the idea back in 1979. It

took me a few more years, to be sure, to have written a body of short fiction; and for a few years after

that what I had written was scattered here and there and some of it too currently in print. So I put the

project off. And put it off.

Then I thought of it several times and put it off again—until in 1984 Don inquired not once but a second

time where that collection was.

To answer the question, here it is, Don; and this one is dedicated to you.

Table of Contents

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Author's Introduction

● I

Cassandra

● II

Threads of Time

● III

Companions

● IV

A Thief in Korianth

● V

The Last Tower

● VI

The Brothers

Endpiece (VII)

Introduction

Contents - Next

in a collection like this the writer has the rare chance to do a very old-fashioned thing: to speak to the

audience, like the herald coming out before the ancient play to explain briefly what the audience is about

to see—and perhaps to let the audience peek behind the scenes—Down this street, mark you, lies the

house of the Old Man, and here the wineseller—

Well, on this street lives a bit of fantasy and a bit of science fiction, here reside stories from my first

years and some from not so long ago—

I introduce one brand new tale, because that's only fair.

I have gathered the rest by no particular logic except the desire to present some balance of early and later

material, some mixture of science fiction and fantasy, and in a couple of instances to preserve work that

has never appeared in any anthology.

One of the additional benefits of walking onto the stage like this is the chance to lower the mask and give

the audience an insight into the mind behind the creation. So stop here, ignore all the intervening

passages, and go straight to the stories if you simply enjoy my craft and care nothing for the creator—

being creator, I am no less pleased by that. Go, sample, enjoy.

for those who want to know something of me, myself, and what I am—well, let me couch this

introduction in a mode more familiar to me: let me set a scene for you. I sit on a crate on a dockside,

well, let's make it a lot of baggage, a battered suitcase and a lot of other crates round about, with tags and

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stickers abundant. see earth first, one sticker says, quite antique and scratched. And this is a metal place,

full of coolant fumes and fuel smells. Gears clash, hydraulics wheeze, and fans hum away overhead,

while our ship is loading its heavier cargo.

You sit there on your suitcase just the same as I, and I suppose our boarding call is what we're waiting

for. Passers-by may stop. But it's mainly you and me.

"What do you do?" you ask, curious about this woman, myself, who am the ancient mariner of this

dockside: I have that look—a little elsewhere, a little preoccupied, baggage all scarred with travels. I

rarely give the real answer to that question of yours. "I'm a writer," I usually say. But the clock sweeps

into the small hours—starships have no respect for planet time—and we talk together the way travelers

will who meet for a few hours and speak with absolute honesty precisely because they are absolute

strangers. I am moved by some such thing, and I take a sip of what I have gotten from the counter yonder

and you take a sip of yours and we are instantly philosophers.

"Call me a storyteller," I say, recalling another mariner. "That's at least one of the world's oldest

professions, if not the oldest."

"You write books?" you ask. "Are you in the magazines?"

"Oh," say I, "yes. But that's not the important part. I tell stories, that's what I do. Tonight in New Guinea,

in New Hampshire, in Tehuantepec and Ulaanbaatar, quite probably someone is telling a story: we still

build campfires, we still watch the embers and imagine castles, don't we—down there? They weave

stories down there, the same as they did around the first campfire in the world; they still do. Someone

asks for the story of the big snow or the wonderful ship—there's very little difference in what we do. You

just have to have a hearer." :

"Do you have to?"

"I'm not sure about that. I wrote about something like that—people called the elee who knew their world

was dying. And they had rather make statues than spaceships, though they knew no eye would ever see

them."

"It would last."

"On a dead world. Under a cinder of a sun. It's an old question, isn't it, whether art created for the void

has meaning—whether the tree falling in solitude makes a sound or not. What's a word without a hearer?

Without that contact, spark flying from point to point across space and time, art is void—like the art of

the elee, made for the dark and the silence."

"Then it matters what somebody else thinks of it?"

"It matters to somebody else. It matters to me. But that it matters to him hardly matters to me the way it

does to him."

"That's crazy."

"I don't live his life. But I'm glad if he likes what I do. I'm sorry if he doesn't. I hope he finds someone

who can talk to him. Everyone needs that. I do all I can. Perhaps the elee have a point."

"You mean you don't write for the critics?

"Only so far as they're human. And I am. Let me tell you, I don't believe in systems. I only use them."

"You mean all critics are crooked?"

"Oh, no. It's only a system. There are good critics. The best ones can point out the deep things in a book

or a painting: they can see things you and I might miss. They have an insight like a writer's or an artist's.

But their skill isn't so much adding to a book as helping a reader see ideas in it he might have missed. But

there are various sorts of critics. And some of them do very dangerous things."

"Like?"

"Let me tell you: there's criticism and there's faultfinding. A tale is made for a hearer, to touch a heart. To

criticize the quality of the heart it touches—that's a perilously self-loving act, isn't it? Criticizing the

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message itself, well, that might be useful. But the critic properly needs as much space to do it in as the

writer took to develop it. And then the critic's a novelist, isn't he? Or a painter. He's one of us. And many

of us are, you know. The best of us are. But criticism as a science—" I take here another sip. Thoughts

like this require it. "Criticism is always in danger of becoming a system. Or of submitting to one."

"You said you don't believe in systems."

"Oh, I believe they exist. They exist everywhere. And more and more of them exist. The use of art, the

manipulation of art and science by committees and governments, by demographics analysts and sales

organizations, by social engineers, oh, yes—and by academe—all of this—It's happening at a greater

pace and with more calculation than it ever has in all of history."

"And that worries you."

"Profoundly. I wrote a book about it. About art and the state. Art is a very powerful force. And the state

would inevitably like to wield the wielder. It wants its posterity. Most of all it wants its safety."

"You write a lot about that?"

"That I write is about that. Do you see? It isn't fiction. It isn't illusion. That I write is a reality. Life is art

and science. Look at your hand. What do you see? Flesh? Bone? Atoms? It's all moving. Electrons and

quarks exist in constant motion. You think you know what reality is? Reality is an artifact of our senses."

"Artifact? Like old arrowheads?"

"A thing made. Your reality is an artifact of your senses. Your mind assembles the data you perceive in

an acceptable order. Do you think this floor is real? But what is it, really? A whirl of particles. Matter and

energy. We can't see the atoms dance: we can scarcely see the stars. We're suspended between these two

abysses of the infinitely small and the infinitely vast, and we deceive ourselves if we believe too much in

the blue sky and the green earth. Even color, you know, is simply wavelength. And solidity is the

attraction of particles."

"Then it's another system."

"You've got it. Another system. Here we sit, an intersection of particles in the vast now. Past and future

are equally illusory."

"We know what happened in the past."

"Not really."

"You mean you don't believe in books either."

"I don't believe in history."

"Then what's it all worth?"

"A great deal. As much as my own books are worth. They're equally true."

"You said it was false!"

"Oh, generally history is fiction. I taught history. I know some facts of history as well as they can be

known. I've read original documents in the original languages. I've been where the battles were fought.

And every year history gets condensed a little more and a little more, simplified, do you see? You've

heard of Thermopylae. But what you've heard happened there, is likely the average of the effect it had,

not the meticulous truth of what went on. And remember that the winners write the histories. The events

were far more yea and nay and zig and zag than you believe: a newspaper of the day would have deluged

you with contradictory reports and subjective analyses, so that you would be quite bewildered and

confounded by what history records as a simple situation—three hundred Spartans standing off the

Persians. But were there three hundred? It wasn't that simple. It was far more interesting. The behind-the-

scenes was as complicated as things are in real life: more complicated than today's news ever reports

anything, with treacheries and feuds going back hundreds of years into incidents and personalities many

of the men on that field would have been amazed to know about. Even they didn't see everything. And

they died for it."

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"Anyone who tried to learn history the way it was— he'd go crazy."

"He'd spend a billion lifetimes. But it doesn't matter. The past is as true as my books. Fiction and history

are equivalent."

"And today? You don't think we see what's going on today either."

"We see less than we ought. We depend on eyes and ears and memory. And memory's very treacherous.

Perception itself is subjective, and memory's a timetrip, far trickier than the human eye."

"It all sounds crazy."

"The totality of what's going on would be too much. It would make you crazy. So a human being selects

what he'll see and remember and forms a logical framework to help him systematize the few things he

keeps."

"Systems again."

"I say that I distrust them. That's what makes me an artist. Consider: if it's so very difficult to behold a

mote of dust on your fingertip, to behold the sun itself for what it truly is, how do we exist from day to

day? By filtering out what confuses us. My stories do the opposite. Like the practice of science, do you

see? A story is a moment of profound examination of things in greater reality and sharper focus than we

usually see them. It's a sharing of perception in this dynamic, motile universe, in which two human minds

can momentarily orbit the same focus, like a pair of vastly complex planets, each with its own

civilization, orbiting a star that they strive to comprehend, each in its own way. And when you talk about

analyzing governments and not single individuals: as well proceed from the dustmote to the wide galaxy.

Think of the filters and perceptual screens governments and social systems erect to protect themselves."

"You distrust governments?"

"I find them fascinating. There was an old Roman, Vergilius Maro—"

"Vergil."

"Just so. He said government itself was an artform, the same as great sculpture and great books, and

practiced in similar mode—emotionally. I think I agree with the Roman."

"Isn't that a system?"

"Of course it's a system. The trick is to make the system as wide as possible. Everything I think is just

that: thinking; it's in constant motion. It, like all my component parts, changes. It has to. The universe is a

place too wonderful to ignore."

"You think most of us live in ignorance?"

"Most of us are busy. Most of us are too busy about things that give us too little time to think. I write

about people who See, who See things differently and who find the Systems stripped away, or exchanged

for other Systems, so that they pass from world to world in some lightning-stroke of an understanding, or

the slow erosion and reconstruction of things they thought they knew."

"But does one man matter?"

"I think two kinds of humanity create events: fools and visionaries. Chaos itself may be illusion. Perhaps

what we do does matter. I think it's a chance worth taking. I hate to leave it all to the fools."

"But who's a fool?"

"Any of us. Mostly those who never wonder if they're fools."

"That's arrogance."

"Of course it is. But the fools aren't listening. We can never insult them."

"You think what you write matters?"

"Let me tell you: for me the purest and truest art in the world is science fiction."

"It's escapist."

"It's romance. It's the world as it can be, ought to be—must someday, somewhere be, if we can only find

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enough of the component parts and shove them together. Science fiction is the oldest sort of tale-telling,

you know. Homer; Sinbad's story; Gilgamesh; Beowulf; and up and up the line of history wherever

mankind's scouts encounter the unknown. Not a military metaphor. It's a peaceful progress. Like the

whales in their migrations. Tale-telling is the most peaceful thing we do. It's investigatory. The best tale-

telling always has been full of what-if. The old Greek peasant who laid down the tools of a hard day's

labor to hear about Odysseus's trip beyond the rim of his world—he wasn't an escapist. He was dreaming.

Mind stretching at the end of a stultifying day. He might not go. But his children's children might.

Someone would. And that makes his day's hard work worth something to the future; it makes this farmer

and his well-tilled field participant in the progress of his world, and his cabbages have then a cosmic

importance."

"Is he worth something?"

"Maybe he was your ancestor. Maybe he fed the ancestor of the designer who made this ship."

"What's that worth? What's anything worth, if you don't believe in systems?"

"Ah. You still misunderstand me. Anything is worth everything. Everything is important. It's all one

system, from the dustmote to the star. It's only that our systems are too small."

"So you give this world up? You're leaving it?"

"Aren't you?"

"I've got business out there."

"Good. That's very fine. Remember the cabbages."

"What's your business out there?"

"History."

"You don't believe in it!"

"And stories. They're equal. Fusing the past with now and tomorrow. That's what's in the crates. History.

Stories."

"Where are you taking them?"

"As far as I can. You know what I'll do when I get there? I'll sit down with you and your kids born

somewhere far from Earth and I'll say: listen, youngest, I've got a story to tell you, about where you came

from and why you're going, and what it all means anyway. It's a story about you, and about me, and a

time very much like this one… a dangerous time. But all times are dangerous.

"Once upon a time, I'll say. Once upon a time is the only true enchantment the elves left to us, the gift of

truthful lies and travel in time and space.

"Once upon a time there were listeners round a fire; once upon a time there will be a microfiche

or—vastly to be treasured—a real paper book aboard a ship named Argo (like the one ages past) in quest

of things we haven't dreamed of. But they'll dream of something more than that. "Youngest, I'll say, when

I fly I always look out the window—I do it as a ritual when I remember it. I look for myself. But I also

look for the sake of all the dreamers in all the ages of this world who would have given their very lives to

catch one glimpse of the world and the stars the way I can see them for hour upon hour out that window.

"Someday, youngest, someone will take that look for me—oh, at Beta Lyrae; or at huge Aldebaran; or

Tau Ceti, which I've named Pell's Star—"

I pause. I sip my drink, almost the last, and look at the clock, where the time runs close to boarding. It's

time to think about the baggage. We have, perhaps, amazed each other. Travelers often do.

We send our baggage off with the handlers. We exchange pleasantries about the trip, about the schedule.

We retreat to those banalities better-mannered strangers use to fill the time.

Words and words. A story teller isn't concerned with words.

The boarding call goes out. We form our mundane line and search after tickets and visas. The dock

resounds with foreign names and the clank of machinery.

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It is of course, always an age of wonders. The true gift is remembering to look out the windows, and to

let the thoughts run backward and forward and wide to the breadth and height of all that's ever been and

might yet be—

Once upon a time, I tell you.

Contents - Prev / Next

i sit in the observation lounge. Window-staring. The moon is long behind us, and Earth is farther still.

And a step sounds near enough to tell me someone is interested in me or the window.

"Ah," I say, and smile. We've met before.

"What do you see out there?" you ask. It sounds like challenge.

"Look for yourself," I say. It's a double-edged invitation. And for a time, you do.

"I've been thinking about history," you say at last.

"Oh?"

"About what good it is. People fight wars over it. They get their prejudices from it; and maybe what they

think they remember wasn't even true in the first place."

"It's very unlikely that it is true, since history isn't."

"But if we didn't have all those books we'd have to make all those mistakes again. Wouldn't we?

Whatever they were."

"Probably we'd make different ones. Maybe we'd do much worse."

"Maybe we ought to make up a better past. Maybe if all the writers in the world sat down and came up

with a better history, and we could just sort of lie to everyone—I mean, where we're going, who'd know?

Maybe if you just shot those history books out the airlock, maybe if you wrote us a new history, we could

save us a war or two."

"That's what fantasy does, you know. It's making things over the way it should have been."

"But you can't go around believing in elves and dragons."

"The myths are true as history. Myths are about truth."

"There you go, sounding crazy again."

I laugh and flip a switch. The lap-computer comes alive on the table by the window. Words ripple past.

"You know that's all myths could be. Truth. A system of truth, made as simple as its hearers. The old

myths are still true. There's one I used to tell to my students—"

"When you taught history."

"Languages this time. Ancient languages. Eleven years of teaching. The first and second short stories I

ever wrote were myths I used to tell my students. I'll show you one. I'll print it so you can read it. It was

the second. It speaks about perceptions again." I press a key and send a fiche out from the microprinter;

and smile, thinking on a classful of remembered faces, eleven years of students, all 'gathered together in

one classroom like ghosts. And I think of campfires again, and a Greek hillside, and a theater, and the

dusty hills of Troy. We all sit there, all of us, torchlight on our faces, in all the ghostly array of our

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cultures and our ancestral histories, folk out of Charlemagne's Empire, and Henry's, and the Khazars; we

come from the fijords and the Sudan and the Carolinas, all of us whose ancestors would have taken axe to

one another on sight. All of us sit and listen together to a Greek myth retold, all innocent of ancient

murders.

"Stories matter," I say. "And what is history but another myth, with the poetry taken out?"

Dear old Greek, I think, passing on the microfiche, by whatever name you really lived, thank you for the

loan. And thank you, my young friends of some years ago. This one's still your own.

Cassandra

fires.

They grew unbearable here.

Alis felt for the door of the flat and knew that it would be solid. She could feel the cool metal of the knob

amid the flames… saw the shadow-stairs through the roiling smoke outside, clearly enough to feel her

way down them, convincing her senses that they would bear her weight.

Crazy Alis. She made no haste. The fires burned steadily. She passed through them, descended the

insubstantial steps to the solid ground—she could not abide the elevator, that closed space with the

shadow-floor, that plummeted down and down; she made the ground floor, averted her eyes from the red,

heatless flames.

A ghost said good morning to her… old man Willis, thin and transparent against the leaping flames. She

blinked, bade it good morning in return—did not miss old Willis's shake of the head as she opened the

door and left. Noon traffic passed, heedless of the flames, the hulks that blazed in the street, the tumbling

brick.

The apartment caved in—black bricks falling into the inferno, Hell amid the green, ghostly trees. Old

Willis fled, burning, fell—turned to jerking, blackened flesh—died, daily. Alis no longer cried, hardly

flinched. She ignored the horror spilling about her, forced her way through crumbling brick that held no

substance, past busy ghosts that could not be troubled in their haste.

Kingsley's Cafe stood, whole, more so than the rest. It was refuge for the afternoon, a feeling of safety.

She pushed open the door, heard the tinkle of a lost bell. Shadowy patrons looked, whispered.

Crazy Alis.

The whispers troubled her. She avoided their eyes and their presence, settled in a booth in the corner that

bore only traces of the fire.

war, the headline in the vendor said in heavy type. She shivered, looked up into Sam Kingsley's

wraithlike face.

"Coffee," she said. "Ham sandwich." It was constantly the same. She varied not even the order. Mad Alis.

Her affliction supported her. A check came each month, since the hospital had turned her out. Weekly

she returned to the clinic, to doctors who now faded like the others. The building burned about them.

Smoke rolled down the blue, antiseptic halls. Last week a patient ran—burning—

A rattle of china. Sam set the coffee on the table, came back shortly and brought the sandwich. She bent

her head and ate, transparent food on half-broken china, a cracked, fire-smudged cup with a transparent

handle. She ate, hungry enough to overcome the horror that had become ordinary. A hundred times seen,

the most terrible sights lost their power over her: she no longer cried at shadows. She talked to ghosts and

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touched them, ate the food that somehow stilled the ache in her belly, wore the same too-large black

sweater and worn blue shirt and gray slacks because they were all she had that seemed solid. Nightly she

washed them and dried them and put them on the next day, letting others hang in the closet. They were

the only solid ones.

She did not tell the doctors these things. A lifetime in and out of hospitals had made her wary of

confidences. She knew what to say. Her half-vision let her smile at ghost-faces, cannily manipulate their

charts and cards, sitting in the ruins that had begun to smolder by late afternoon. A blackened corpse lay

in the hall. She did not flinch when she smiled good-naturedly at the doctor.

They gave her medicines. The medicines stopped the dreams, the siren screams, the running steps in the

night past her apartment. They let her sleep in the ghostly bed, high above ruin, with the flames crackling

and the voices screaming. She did not speak of these things. Years in hospitals had taught her. She

complained only of nightmares, and restlessness, and they let her have more of the red pills.

war, the headline blazoned.

The cup rattled and trembled against the saucer as she picked it up. She swallowed the last bit of bread

and washed it down with coffee, tried not to look beyond the broken front window, where twisted metal

hulks smoked on the street. She stayed, as she did each day, and Sam grudgingly refilled her cup, which

she would nurse as far as she could and. then she would order another one. She lifted it, savoring the

feeling of it, stopping the trembling of her hands.

The bell jingled faintly. A man closed the door, settled at the counter.

Whole, clear in her eyes. She stared at him, startled, heart pounding. He ordered coffee, moved to buy a

paper from the vendor, settled again and let the coffee grow cold while he read the news. She had view

only of his back while he read—scuffed brown leather coat, brown hair a little over his collar. At last he

drank the cooled coffee all at one draught, shoved money onto the counter and left the paper lying,

headlines turned face down.

A young face, flesh and bone among the ghosts. He ignored them all and went for the door.

Alis thrust herself from her booth.

"Hey!" Sam called at her.

She rummaged in her purse as the bell jingled, flung a bill onto the counter, heedless that it was a five.

Fear was coppery in her mouth; he was gone. She fled the cafe, edged round debris without thinking of it,

saw his back disappearing among the ghosts.

She ran, shouldering them, braving the flames— cried out as debris showered painlessly on her, and kept

running.

Ghosts turned and stared, shocked—he did like wise, and she ran to him, stunned to see the same shock

on his face, regarding her.

"What is it?" he asked.

She blinked, dazed to realize he saw her no differently than the others. She could not answer. In irritation

he started walking again, and she followed. Tears slid down her face, her breath hard in her throat. People

stared. He noticed her presence and walked faster, through debris, through fires. A wall began to fall and

she cried out despite herself.

He jerked about. The dust and the soot rose up as a cloud behind him. His face was distraught and angry.

He stared at her as the others did. Mothers drew children away from the scene. A band of youths stared,

cold-eyed and laughing.

"Wait," she said. He opened his mouth as if he would curse her; she flinched, and the tears were cold in

the heatless wind of the fires. His face twisted in an embarrassed pity. He thrust a hand into his pocket

and began to pull out money, hastily, tried to give it to her. She shook her head furiously, trying to stop

the tears—stared upward, flinching, as another building fell into flames.

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C. J. Cherryh - Visible Light

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