Otherness (25 page)

I shrugged. "Why not?"

He spread a fur and began laying out an assortment of Neolithic cutlery, glinting under simulated sunshine. There were spearheads, axes, burins, and scrapers—plus other tools I couldn't identify offhand—each item the product of at least a hundred strokes, skillfully cleaving native rock into shapes useful for daily life. A prehistoric combined kitchen, armory, and machine shop. The smiths offered to let me feel an edge, but it was disturbing to watch the computer manifest an image of my own hand, holding an object I couldn't feel. I resolved to try again later, replaying the scenario with body gloves on.

"Well, it's been interesting," I said after a while, feeling fatigued. "But I think that's enough for n—"

A high shout broke in. Everyone looked past my shoulder, but the scene remained obstinately riveted until a new figure entered view from the left. Shorter, slimmer than the others, this one strode with a springy, elfin gait, clothed in the tunic and leggings of a hunter. The newcomer carried a bundle of slender wooden saplings the right size for fashioning spears. Only when these were dumped with a clatter did I note in surprise that the hunter was female.

"Ho, Chief," she greeted me, acknowledging Long Stick with a nod. My companion leaned over and muttered. "This is Ankle-of-a-Giraffe, daughter of Ander and Pear Blossom. She is one of the beaters in the hunt."

"That's what I want to talk to you about," the young Stone Ager said, planting fists on her hips. She was lithe and a trifle lean for my tastes—as well as being smudged from head to toe—but she made eye contact in a bold, provocative way. "I'm sick of just beating, Great Chief. I want to be in on the kill. I want to learn from you two."

The stone-smiths hissed surprise. Long Stick rumbled. "Ankle! You forget yourself!"

The girl bowed submissively, yet her eyes held fierce determination. She seemed ready to speak again when I shouted.

"Freeze-frame!"

All action halted, leaving "the tribesmen" locked in time. A blue jay hung poised in flight across the gully while I wrestled with confusion. It wasn't the
idea
of a female hunter . . . plenty of tribes had them, according to tradition. But why complicate matters with such a player right now, just as the simulation seemed about to end? What did it have to do with prehistoric tool making?

"Computer. This isn't just a packaged adventure, is it?"

"
No. These are autonomous persona programs, operating in your private sim world
."

So Gaia had been generous after all! Long Stick was no longer my only full-scale companion.

"
Core memory has been enhanced to allow up to five flexible personae at any one time
."

"Oh, I get it."

Gaia must have needed more memory for her own programs, the midwives and doulahs and other helpers she'd need when the baby came. The expense was already budgeted. No wonder she could afford a few extra playmates for me, thrown in at discount. After wondering whether to feel hurt, pleased, or amused . . . I finally decided it didn't matter.

"Computer, hold simulation for transfer to my rec room."

Minutes later, fully suited for virtuality, I held a flint knife in my hands, each curve and serrated edge conveyed by subtle electrochem gloves. The stone-smiths seemed pleased by my admiration. It was a good knife, of the finest obsidian, bound to an ivory handle carved with figures of running horses. Despite not being real, it was the most splendid thing I ever owned.

The treadmill worked beneath my feet, mimicking movement as Long Stick and I departed the Neolithic factory, heading toward Lookout Point to observe migratory herds of wildebeest and zebra crossing the plain. Along the way we passed the young beater, Ankle, squatting by the riverbank where she'd been banished by Long Stick for impertinence. Tying stone points to spear shafts, tightening the leather thongs with her teeth, she looked up as we passed by, unrepentant, a light of challenge in her eyes.

I paused, then turned to Long Stick. "We could use a scout to carry messages. Next hunt, bring this one along."

My simulated friend returned one of his sharp-eyed looks, but nodded. Ankle turned away, wisely hiding a jubilant grin.

Amid these distractions I emerged from my primeval world to find Gaia already home from her class, nestled in our small, darkened bedroom. I slipped between the sheets quietly, but soon felt her hand upon my thigh.

"I've been thinking about you," my wife whispered, her breath warm on my ear.

Pregnancy doesn't mean
no
sex. Doctors say it's all right if you're careful.

In fact, it can be much better than all right. Gaia was very skilled.

The buffalo groaned, mired in muddy shallows with five spears in its flank. I commanded no more thrown.

Ankle protested, waving her javelin. "Why not finish it off?"

"Because the chief said no!" Long Stick snapped. But I gestured for patience. With Ankle for an apprentice, I now appreciated the adage—
You never really know something till you teach it
.

"Think. What happens if he falls where he stands?"

She eyed the panting beast. "He'll fall into the riv . . . Oh! We'd lose half the carcass." Ankle nodded soberly. "So we try getting him ashore first?"

"Right. And quickly! We don't want him suffering needlessly."

Several tribesmen made pious gestures in agreement. Through ritual, hunters like these used to appease the spirits of beasts they killed, which made me wonder—would modern folk eat so much meat if
they
had to placate the ghost of each steer or chicken? My time in a simulated Stone Age hasn't made me a vegetarian, but I better appreciate the fact that meat once lived.

Long Stick called for rope. Bearing coils of braided leather, we worked toward the bull from three sides. The treadmill imitated slippery mud beneath my feet, while the bodysuit tickled nerves so that I felt hip-deep in slimy water. Electronically stirred receptors in my nose smelled the creature's blood and defiance, above a rank swamp stench. It was hard work, floundering toward our prey. Harder and more varied than lifting weights in a gym, and more terrifying. The buffalo shifted left and right, bellowing and threatening with its horns.

Ever since Gaia bought that extra memory, everything had seemed more vivid, including this beast's hot zeal to survive.

"Watch out!" Ankle cried as it lunged. I swerved and felt a wall of fur and muscle glance off my shoulder, rushing through space I'd just occupied. Teetering in the mud, I glimpsed a snaking lasso chase the old bull, landing round its neck. "Got him!" Long Stick shouted.

"My turn!" called a higher voice. Ankle cast her lariat—only to fall short as the angry beast thrashed aside. "Wait!" I called when she plunged after it. Too late, I watched the girl vanish beneath the frothy, scummy surface.

"Ankle!"

Suddenly I was too busy dodging to worry about my young aide. Sharp horns flashed viciously. While I knew the computer wouldn't kill me, other slipups in the gym had left me bruised for weeks.

She's only a program
, I told myself, back-pedaling from a roaring, shaggy face the size of a small pickup.
Programs can take care of themselves
.

"Yip-yi-i-yip!"

The cry coincided with a sudden change in the creatures bellows. It whirled and I blinked in astonishment. The young hunter, Ankle, had clambered onto its back! Dripping water and marsh reeds, she held tightly to its mane while the bull snorted, wild-eyed and convulsing; then she slipped her noose over its shaggy head. Others joined her exultant shout as ropes suddenly pulled taut from three directions.

Resignation seemed to settle over the animal. Slumping in defeat, it let itself be drawn several yards toward dry land. Then, in one last, desperate heave, it reared on its hind legs. Ankle flew off, arms whirling, to splash near the bull's stomping hooves.

With a shout I dived toward her.

Or tried to. Swimming is one thing today's virtuality tech can't handle. No way to fake buoyancy, so the machine won't let you try. The bodysuit stiffened, keeping me on my feet. It did let me flounder forward, though, evading the thrashing horns while flailing underwater in search of my apprentice. Frantic seconds passed . . . and finally I felt the touch of a slim arm! A small hand closed viselike round my wrist as I yanked back hard . . . just as the buffalo pitched over, toppling with a mighty splash where Ankle had lain.

We made it ashore downstream from where the tribe had already quickly commenced the frenetic ritual of butchery. In older times a kill like this came at best once a month, so the hunters sang their joy to the spirits of water, earth, and sky. But the artful ceremony was wasted on me as I slogged uphill, feeling pressure leave my cramping legs exactly like mucky water slipping grudgingly aside. The weight in my arms seemed all too real as I lowered Ankle to a patch of grass.

This was an awful lot of trouble to go to, just for a piece of software. I might have rationalized that good persona programs are expensive, but the thought didn't cross my mind as I hurriedly checked Ankle's breathing. Pale, mud-grimed from crown to toe, she gave two sudden, wheezing coughs, then revealed twin flashes of abalone blue as her eyes popped open. Ankle gasped a sudden, stricken sob and threw both arms around my neck.

"Urk!" I answered. Never before had my togs yanked me down so, into such a flood of sensations. Pain lanced my palms from impacting pebbles. Sunlight spread heat across my mud-splattered back. Then there was the press of her warm body, clinging beneath mine, much more cushiony, in places, than I had imagined.

Soon, I realized, Ankle no longer clung to me for comfort. She was moving, breathing in ways having little to do with reassurance. I grunted surprise for a second time and reached up to pry loose her arms. "Stop simulation!" I shouted.

My last glimpse, before yanking off the helmet, was of Ankle lying there, muddy all over, wiry strong and hunter attired, yet suddenly, utterly female, gazing at me both worshipful and willing.

She was only software—bits of illusion on a silicon chip. Besides, I barely knew her.

She was already the second most desirable woman I had ever known.

Now get this, I love my wife. I always figured myself one of those lucky bastards whose woman understands him, inside and out, and
despite
that thinks the world of him.

So, I figured, there's got to be a mistake here!

Trembling, I peeled off my sweaty bodysuit and stumbled into the shower, wondering,
How am I going to explain this to Gaia
?

Then, while soaping myself, I thought,
What's to explain? I didn't do anything
!

Rinsing, I pondered,
And if I had? Would it've been adultery? Or an exotic form of masturbation
?

I recall how mom tacitly approved of dad's small collection mildly of erotic art. She wasn't threatened by a good man's private fantasies. Nor did Gaia ever seem to consider my right hand a rival. Sometimes
she
would dial up my electronic
Playboy
subscription . . . "for the articles."

Still, if a certain amount of healthy, visually stimulated autoeroticism was okay, I also knew it would hurt her terribly if I had a real-life affair.

So . . . what had nearly taken place in my VR gym? The experience seemed to fall somewhere between boffing a coed and an encounter with an inflatable doll.

Too bad they never produced that sci-fi gimmick, a direct computer-mind interface. Then I might have dismissed any sim-adventure as purely mental. But so much of what we are and do is tied up in our bodies . . . the nerves, hormones, and muscles. For a truly vivid experience you must take your meat along.

With flesh taking part, virtuality can mimic any surface. I've crawled across grass and tide pools and steaming sands while stalking prey.

But simulating a
woman
. . .?

"Hi-tech marches on, but this is ridiculous!" I laughed, drying under a blast of warm air, then put on a terry-cloth robe and went out to tell Gaia everything. I had last seen my wife in the nursery, where she had been humming while sorting things for the baby, and cheerfully wished me a "good hunt."

Gaia wasn't there, but I felt a warm glow just looking around the little room, its walls decorated with hologram mobiles and floating planets. I had installed most of the nursery equipment myself, including the bottom-baster, with its simmering vat of Liquid Diaper. The flotation crib would be programmed to mimic my wife's heartbeat and other rhythms, comforting baby's first weeks with sensations familiar from the womb.

This
was where my life was anchored, I thought. Not in some make-believe hunting band that femismo psychologists thought every modern man required. My
family
. For all its pollution, crowds, and exhaustion, the real world was where you lived real life.

"Gaia?" I asked, searching in the living room. "You'll never guess what happened . . ."

She wasn't there either. I tried the kitchen, throbbing with busy, scrabbling sounds of captive insects. Still no sign of her.

Funny
, I thought. She hadn't said anything about another NatuBirth class tonight.

"Computer, did my wife leave a message where she was going?" The control voice answered, "
Your wife hasn't left the apartment. She is in her virtuality room
."

"Ah . . . of course. Her turn. Must have gone in while I showered."

I sat on the couch gingerly, still feeling tremors from this evening's hi-stress workout. I picked up the remote control and scanned tonight's cable listings. Besides the normal thousand channels of infotainment, there were amateur-vids, pubforums, hobby and spec-interest lines, two-way chatshows, and "Uncle Fred" showing slides of his blimp ride to Everest. The usual stuff. I fell back on dialing a good book from the library, and actually stared at the first page of
Robinson Crusoe
for about ten minutes before pounding the cushion beside me.