二
In a huge, empty and decaying building that once housed thousands of residents, a TV was rhetorically selling items to an empty room.
This ownerless ruin was carefully cared for and maintained before the apocalyptic war. This was once a suburb of San Francisco, and the city could be reached in just a few stops on the monorail. The whole peninsula was once so vibrant, like a tree full of birds, full of chirping opinions and complaints. But now, those who care about this place are either dead or have immigrated to some colonial planet. Most of them died. The cost of war is expensive, no matter how optimistic the Pentagon's previous predictions were, and no matter how proud the Rand Corporation, the scientific research institution under the Pentagon, was. By the way, in fact, the Rand Corporation was not far from this place. Like the owners of the apartment, the company left, apparently never to return. But no one missed it either.
Furthermore, no one remembers why the war happened, who else won, or whether anyone won at all. The fine dust covering the world today does not come from any one country. Even wartime adversaries would not deliberately create this dust. Strangely, the first to die was owl . The scene at that time seemed very funny: in the yard and on the road, there were those fat white birds lying here and there. But just like in life, they appeared after dark, so no one noticed them for a while. Similar plagues occurred in the Middle Ages, starting with large numbers of dead rats. But this time, the plague came from heaven.
After the owl, other birds also died one after another. But at that time, people finally solved the mystery after research. Before the war, there was a small plan to colonize alien planets. After the war, now that the sun no longer shines on the Earth's surface, colonization plans entered a new phase. In order to colonize, people modified a war machine called "Synthetic Freedom Fighter". Because they could labor on alien planets, these humanoid machines—strictly speaking, organic androids—became the hard-working, hard-working engines of the colonization project. According to United Nations law, every immigrant automatically owns a bionic person. As for which subtype of bionic person it is, it is up to him to choose. By 1990, the number of sub-categories of androids had exceeded people's comprehension, much like the American car market in the 1960s.
This is the ultimate impetus for immigration: the androids are the carrot and the fallout is the stick. United Nations laws make it easy to immigrate and harder to stay on Earth. People who wander around the earth may be labeled as biological abnormalities at any time and become a threat to the original genetic genes of mankind. Once a citizen is marked with a special disability, even if he takes the initiative to undergo sterilization, he will disappear from history. In fact, he is no longer human. However, there are still people everywhere on the planet who refuse to immigrate, for reasons that even these people themselves will never understand. It stands to reason that all normal people should immigrate. Maybe it's because although the earth has been completely destroyed, it is still a familiar home and a place that makes people feel nostalgic. Maybe it's because they still imagine that the dust in the sky will eventually settle. Regardless, thousands of people remained on Earth, mostly clustered in cities to make it easier to see other real people and find solace in each other's presence. These people are relatively normal-minded people. In addition to them, there are occasionally some special individuals who live in those abandoned suburbs.
John Isidore is such a special person. He was shaving in the bathroom while listening to the chatter of the TV in the living room.
He came here by accident after the war. During those days of chaos, no one knew what they were doing. The people dispersed by the war have been wandering around, gathering here and moving there. At that time, the distribution of radioactive fallout was scattered and uneven. Some states are completely free of radioactive fallout, while others are full of radioactive fallout. People were driven around by the dust. The peninsula south of San Francisco was free of radioactive fallout at first, and many people lived here.After the radial dust hit, some people died and some people left. John Isidor stayed.
TV continued to shout: "——Full copy the comfortable days of the southern states before the American Civil War! You can be a servant or work in the fields; never tirelessly, a humanoid machine customized for you personally and for your unique needs - once you arrive, you can get it for free! The full set of equipment can be customized before you leave the earth. This loyal and honest partner, in the greatest and bravest pioneering cause in modern human history, will provide-" so, endless.
I don’t know if I will be late, Isidor thought while shaving. He doesn't have a clock that can only work normally, and generally relies on TV to report the time. But today seems to be the Space Horizon Festival. It was announced on TV that this is the fifth (or sixth) anniversary of the creation of the New America - the New America is the most important American colony on Mars. His TV was a little broken, and he could only receive such a channel that had been nationalized during the war. This channel, funded by the Washington government due to the colonial program, is the only thing Isidor can hear.
"Let's hear what Mrs. Maggie Klugman said." The TV host advised John Isidor, although John only wanted to know the time now, "Mrs. Klugman had just immigrated to Mars recently, and she had something to say during our live interview. Mrs. Klugman, compared with the dirty earth before, how do you think life in this new world is full of infinite possibilities?" After a brief pause, a tired, hoarse middle-aged female voice said, "I think the first thing my family of three and I notice is dignity." "Dignity, Mrs. Klugman?" asked the host. "Yes," replied Mrs. Klugman, who now lives in New York City on Mars, "It's hard to explain. In such a difficult time, having a reliable servant... I feel much more at ease."
"In the past, Mrs. Klugman, were you also worried that one day you would be labeled as a - cough cough - a special obstacle?"
"Oh, yes, my husband and I are so worried. Of course, now that I have immigrated, I'm lucky, and I never have to worry anymore."
John Isidor thought to himself, in fact, I don't have to worry anymore, I don't need to immigrate at all. He has been a special disorder for more than a year, and it is not just because of the mutated genes in him. What's worse is that he cannot pass the most basic intelligence test , so he becomes a mentally retarded person commonly known as "chicken head". The contempt he held every day was as heavy as three planets. But even so, he survived. He had a job driving for a fake animal repair company called "Van Nice Pet Hospital". His depressed and rigid boss Hannibal Slott has always been grateful for his view of him as a human being. "Morscerta, vitaincerta." Mr. Slott would sometimes say so. Although Isidor has heard this many times, he only vaguely knows something. After all, if a chicken head can understand Latin , then he will no longer be a chicken head. When he pointed this to Mr. Slott, Mr. Slott admitted that he was right. Moreover, there is a much stupider chicken head in the world who can't do any job and can only stay in a nursing home known as the "American Special Skills Academy". The word "special" must appear as always in the name of a nursing home.
"--Your husband didn't feel protected at the time," the TV host said, "Even if he always wears expensive and heavy lead crotch to block radiation, is that right, Mrs. Klugman?"
"My husband--" Mrs. Klugman was about to answer, but Isidor had already shaved his beard, strode back to the living room, and turned off the TV.
Silently, suddenly flashing out of the wooden furniture and the walls, and a slam at him was as heavy as the power of a large windmill condensed. It rises from the floor, from under the ragged and grey walled carpet. It leaps out of broken kitchen utensils, from machines that have never been functioning properly in these days. It slowly seeps out from the vertical desk lamp that is furnished in the living room and falls quietly from the ceiling full of dead flies.It managed to emerge from everything in his field of vision, as if it - silence - had determined to replace everything visible and tangible. Not only did it attack his ears, it also attacked his eyes. He stood next to the turned-off television and felt that the silence was not only visible but alive. Alive! He has become accustomed to its straightforward style, roaring, unabashed and impatient. The silence of this world can no longer suppress greed, especially when it has almost won the entire world.
He secretly wondered whether the feeling of emptiness was the same for other people left on earth. Or is this just his unique experience due to damage to certain senses and destruction of physiological functions? Interesting question, he thought. But with whom else could he discuss and compare? Among the thousands of apartment units in this dilapidated and dark building, he was the only one living alone. Like all other buildings, this building is deteriorating more day by day, becoming a ruin of entropy . One day, everything in the building will blend together and there will no longer be any recognizable face or personality. In every room the objects were piled up to the ceiling like pudding cubes. Then, the unattended apartment buildings will blend together, becoming shapeless and buried in the dust. By then, he himself would naturally be dead. He stood in the dilapidated living room. In this all-pervasive, heartless, and overbearing silence, he actually had a small expectation of his own death.
Maybe I should turn the TV on again? But those advertisements were only aimed at normal people still on earth, and they frightened him. Those advertisements told him in countless different ways that no one wanted a person with special disabilities, that he was of no use at all, and that even if he wanted to immigrate, he would not be able to do so. So why listen to ads? he asked himself angrily. Screw the colonies, it's better to have them fight each other - after all, it's theoretically possible - and then the colonies will be like Earth. Everyone who emigrates becomes a person with special disabilities.
Okay, he thought, it's time to go to work. He stretched out his hand to turn the doorknob and faced the dark corridor, but when he saw the emptiness filling the building, he drew back. The inexplicable force that had been trying to penetrate his room was lurking somewhere outside, waiting for him. God, he screamed secretly and closed the door again. He wasn't ready to climb the stairs to the top. The roof was empty, he had no pets there. The echo of footsteps climbing the stairs, the echo of silence, was so terrifying. Time to grab the handle, he thought, walking across the living room to the black resonance box.
As soon as the resonance box was opened, a faint and familiar smell of negative ions and came out of the circuit. He took a deep breath hungrily, his emotions already starting to rise. Then the cathode ray tube glowed like a fragile analog TV image. A collage composed of random colors and lines that apparently have no meaning until the handle is grasped. He took a deep breath, calmed down, and grabbed the two handles with both hands.
The images condensed, and he immediately saw a familiar scene. An ancient, yellow, barren hillside, with clusters of weeds as thin as bone spurs, pointed crookedly towards a dark, sunless sky. A lone figure, looking more or less humanoid, was struggling to climb. This was an old man, wearing a dull robe that barely covered his body, as if it had been woven from a few threads snatched from the hostile void in the sky. He, Wilbur Mercer, was trudging forward. As John Isidore tightened his grip on the handle, he felt the living room outside him gradually fade out, and the discarded furniture around him receded like a tide, and he could no longer feel their existence. He felt like he had entered this scene, this desolate hill, this desolate sky, just like before. At the same time, he could no longer see the old man climbing the mountain. His own feet dragged slowly along the ground, searching for a place to rest in the familiar gravel. He felt the sting of his feet being pinched by sharp stones, and smelled the bitterness of the mist in the air.This is not the sky of the earth, but some strange and distant place, transmitted through the resonance box, allowing him to blend into it.
This thorough way of traveling dazzled him as always. Not only was he physically one with Wilbur Mercer, but his consciousness and spirit were also one with Mercer, just like every other person holding the controller at this moment, regardless of which colony planet he was on Earth. He experienced everyone's thoughts and heard the bustling murmur. Like him, they only care about one thing. The fusion of consciousness focuses their attention on this hill, this climb, this desire to transcend themselves. The feeling evolved bit by bit, almost imperceptibly slowly, but ever evolving. The stones under my feet were sliding down. A little higher, he thought. Today, we are a little higher than yesterday, and tomorrow - he, the Wilbur Mercer composed of countless souls, looked up at the hillside ahead. There is no end in sight. Too far. But one day we can reach the top.
Suddenly, a stone flew over and hit his arm. He felt the pain and half turned around. Another rock flew past him and hit the ground with a thud that startled him. Who is it? He looked at the enemy in the distance. The same old opponents were still looming at the edge of his vision. It, or they, had followed him all the way up the mountain, and would follow him all the way to the top -
He remembered the top of the mountain, when the slope suddenly flattened out, the climb ended, and the descent began. How many times has this happened? I don’t know how many times, they all got mixed up together. The future is mixed with the past. His previous experiences and the experiences he will eventually have are all mixed together, and there is nothing but the present moment. He stood for a moment to rest, rubbing the wound on his arm that was cut by the stone. God, he thought wearily. How is this fair? Why am I here alone, tormented by people I can't see? Then, in his mind, the noise of the crowd broke the illusion of loneliness.
You feel it too, he thought. Yes, the voices answered. We hit a stone on our left arm and it hurt like hell. Well, he said, let's keep climbing. He moved on, and they followed immediately, like a shadow.
Once upon a time, he remembered that life was different. Before the great curse came, he also had happy days. His adoptive parents, Frank and Cora Mercer, found him adrift on an air-cushioned life raft off the coast of New England...or near the Mexican port of Tampico? He couldn't remember the details. Childhood was pleasant. He loved all life, especially animals, and was once able to bring dead animals back to life. He lives among rabbits and flying insects, both on Earth and on any colonized world. But now, he has forgotten these details. However, he remembers the killers because they caught him as a mutant and thought he was more special than other special people. From then on, everything changed.
Local law prohibits the time-returning technique to bring the dead back to life. They told him this explicitly when he was sixteen. But he worked secretly for another year in the remaining woods, until an old woman he had never met turned him in. Without his parents' consent, the killers blasted away the unique nodule in his brain, using radioactive cobalt. He suddenly entered a completely different world, a world he had never imagined. This was a deep pit filled with dead bodies and bones. He struggled for countless years before climbing out of the pit. His two favorite animals, the donkey and the toad, had disappeared and became extinct, leaving only a stump of a limb in the east and half a head in the west. Finally, a bird that had come here to die told him where it was. He was trapped in the world of the grave. If he wanted to get out, he would have to wait until the broken bones scattered around him merged and grew into a new life. He has been integrated with the metabolism of other life forms, and he cannot be revived before they are revived. How long this part of the
loop lasted, he didn't know. Because nothing happened, time became immeasurable.But in the end, muscles grew out of the dry bones, eyes that could see the world grew out of the empty sockets, and the bird's beak and mouth returned to their original state and began to make sounds, click, woof, and meow. Maybe it was him, maybe that extrasensory nodule in his brain had grown back. Or maybe it wasn't him, it was just a natural process. In any case, he stopped sinking and began to climb up with other creatures. He lost sight of them a long time ago. He found that he seemed to be climbing alone. But everyone was there, accompanying him. He could feel them, strangely enough, in his soul.
Isidore stood still, holding the two handles tightly, experiencing the feeling that encompasses all living things. Then he reluctantly let go. As always, it had to end, and his arm was really raw and bleeding from where the rock had hit him. After
let go of the handle, he checked the injury, then staggered to the bathroom to clean the wound. This isn't the first time I've been injured while merging with Mercer, and it probably won't be the last. There have been cases where people, especially older people, died while fusing, especially later on when they reached the top of the mountain and the torment of their old rivals was at its most intense. I wonder if I can survive that again, he thought as he scrubbed the wound. There seems to be a risk of cardiac arrest . Better to ride it out. It wouldn't matter much, he thought, if I lived in the city and had a doctor standing by with a pacemaker . Living here alone, it would be too risky to break in.
But he knew that he would still take the risk. He always breaks in forcefully. This is true for most people, even the frail elderly.
He dried his injured arm with a paper towel.
Then suddenly I heard - far away, dull, there was the sound of TV.
There were other people in this building. He began to think wildly and couldn't believe it. It's definitely not my TV because I've turned it off. I could feel the vibrations in the floor. The sound came from below, from another level entirely!
I'm not alone anymore, he realized. Another resident had just moved in, picked up a spare room, and was so close I could hear him. It must be the second or third floor, it couldn't be lower. What to do? His mind was racing. When a new neighbor moves in, how do you usually welcome and say hello? Are you knocking on the door to borrow something? He couldn't remember. He had never seen anything like this before, here or anywhere else: people only moving out, people immigrating, never anyone moving in. He decided to take something to give to his new neighbor. Such as a glass of water, or milk. Send some milk, or flour, or eggs—or their artificial substitutes.
He opened the refrigerator and took a look - the refrigerator's compressor had long been broken - and found a box of something that looked like butter . He walked out the door with the box of butter, his heart starting to race. I have to stay calm, he realized. I can't let him know that I am a chicken head. If he knew, he would never talk to me again. It's always been like this, I don't know why. Why?
He walked quickly along the corridor.
