End of an Era

Countdown: 7

Klicks was driving me crazy with his cocksure attitude. Things were always so simple for him. For every political debate, for every moral question, he had a glib, pat answer. Should we legalize devices that directly stimulate the pleasure centers of the brain? What rights do genetically tinkered apes with the power of speech have? Should female priests be allowed to be surrogate mothers? Ask Klicks. He’ll tell you.

Of course, his opinions on mindbenders are similar to those of the editorial writer for The Calgary Herald. His stance on simps bears a startling resemblance to that of Mike Bullard. And his viewpoint on celibate surrogates comes right out of that article in Playboy.

A deep thinker? Not Klicks. But he’s smooth, oh so smooth. Microsoft mouse. “Miles is so articulate,” Tess had said after the last New Year’s Eve bash we’d given together, the same week that Klicks and I had been named as the crew for this mission. “He could charm the pants right off you.”

And so he did.

I’d known him for years. I was even the one who gave him his nickname. How could he, he of all people, steal Tess from me? We had been friends. Friendship is supposed to mean something.

I found out that Klicks and Tess were together less than a month after I’d moved out of our house. Just when I needed my friends most, my best friend—practically my only friend—was off boffing my ex-wife. A man who would steal another man’s wife doesn’t worry about morality, doesn’t weigh the principles, doesn’t consider the repercussions, doesn’t mull over the larger consequences. Doesn’t give a bloody fuck at all.

And yet here he is, all set to grant a reprieve, to—I will say it again, dammit—to play God for an entire race.

We’d spent a lot of time in mission planning debating whether Klicks and I should always stay together. But since there was so little time and so much to do, it had been agreed that we’d have separate lists of tasks to perform. Each of us was armed and carried a radio, so the risk in separating seemed acceptable. Klicks had gone off after breakfast in our Jeep to find a good spot to take core samples. Now that we knew the asteroid had hit two centuries before the end of the Cretaceous, he wanted to collect some samples to see if the iridium, shocked quartz, and microdiamonds thought to be associated with the impact were indeed already present in Earth’s rocks.

Klicks had set out toward the east. I headed west, ostensibly to examine some hills in that direction, but really just to put as much distance between him and me as possible.

The sun had reached its highest point in the sky, a hot orb that looked perhaps a tad whiter than it did in the twenty-first century. Insects buzzed around me in tiny black swarms. I wore a pith helmet with a cheesecloth rim that kept them away from my face, but their constant droning was giving me a headache.

The air was tormentingly hot; the vegetation lush, with vines hanging between stands of dawn redwood. I must have walked at least five kilometers from the Sternberger, but hadn’t felt the distance in this light gravity. I looked over my shoulder, but trees obscured my view. No matter. I had a Radio Shack homing device to find my way back.

My head was still swimming from Klicks’s insistence that we bring the Hets forward. I hated having to make big decisions. If you avoid them long enough, they go away.

Just like Dad will go away eventually.

Dr. Schroeder’s voice echoed in my head, his Bavarian accent making the words harsher, colder: Failing to act is a decision in and of itself. Then the same words again, but in a lilting Jamaican accent: Failing to act is a decision in and of itself.

Screw Schroeder. Screw Klicks. There’s nothing wrong with not liking to make hasty decisions.

Of course, I always end up buying whatever car the dealer has left on the lot from the previous model year so that I won’t have to make all those choices about color and features. And it’s true that I haven’t voted in years. I’ve never been able to decide between the parties—but hell, who can tell them apart? There’s nothing wrong with any of that, damn it all. One shouldn’t make decisions until one is sure.

Besides, it’s not as simple as Klicks made it out to be. Mars of our time is almost airless. Oh, we’d known for half a century that water had once run freely there, carving great valleys. The planet’s atmosphere had been thicker, too, and had probably contained much oxygen. Perhaps Mars was quite pleasant during the Mesozoic. Indeed, it might—I thought of the emerald star I had seen the first night as I’d scanned along the ecliptic. Could it have been Mars, a younger, vibrant world alive with growing things? A planet of life, green with chlorophyll, blue with oceans? A sister to Earth, fully as glorious as this planet?

Perhaps.

But I was a prophet, able to foretell the future with absolute certainty. Mars was doomed, destined to become a stunted, barren dust bowl, cold and desolate, a realm of alien ghosts, a haunt for the memories of things long dead. Granted, no one had been there yet; the joint U.S.-Russia mission had been canceled when neither of them could come up with its share of the money. So it looked like no human being would make it farther than the moon in—well, in my lifetime, I guess. And more than half of Earth’s population had been born after the last person had set foot there, back in 1972. Still, in a weird way, the moon was more inviting than Mars. Luna was sterile and pristine, but Mars was dead, decaying, an oppressive crypt, with the attenuated screams of chill winds raging across the landscape.

The two visions of Mars—one green, one red—could not be more different, and yet sometime in the next 60-odd million years one would give way to the other, that planet being laid waste. Mars would fall prey to some catastrophe even greater than the one that would wipe out the dinosaurs. Or perhaps it had been the same catastrophe. Maybe a great belch of radiation had been expelled from the sun on the side that happened to be facing Mars. If Earth had been on the opposite side of the sun, it might have felt comparatively minor effects by the time it passed through the dissipating cloud of charged particles six months later.

Still, dramatic though the mechanism of the Hets’ demise might be, it didn’t really matter what it was. The fact remained that Mars of my time was uninhabitable, what free oxygen there had once been now locked up in the rocks and ice. I still knew next to nothing about Het biology, but if they were comfortable on Earth now, they could probably no more live in the open on the Mars of the future than I could.

That meant that they’d have to stay on Earth. I could just see them being interviewed on Good Morning America and Canada a.m., or being signed up as spokesthings for some headache pill. Does your head feel like you’ve got one of us crawling around in your brain? Take Excedrin Plus and relax!

But wait a minute. That wouldn’t work, either. The gravity would be more than twice what they are used to, since sometime between this present and that present Earth’s gravity increases to what I consider normal. Would it be enough to flatten out their jelly bodies, pinning them to the ground? Probably. And even if we did bring forward some of their dinosaur vehicles for them, they would be no good either, not having the musculature to hack a full g. What could the Hets use instead? Dogs? No manipulatory appendages. Apes? Watch the simian-rights lobby after it gets wind of that idea!

The kilometers added up as I continued my hike. The sky overhead was blue and cloudless, like that of a Toronto summer. The vegetation, though, was decidedly un-Canadian. It was lusher than anything I’d ever seen north of the thirty-fifth parallel: green shot through with a rainbow of flowers. When the insects relented enough for me to hear anything besides their buzzing, I occasionally detected a rustling among the plants. There were small animals about and I saw a great flock of a thousand or more violet pterosaurs at one point, but, as for dinosaurs, no luck.

God, it was hot out. But no, that couldn’t be the problem. I reminded myself that Torontonians are supposed to be impervious to shifts in temperature. We always blame our discomfort on something else. In winter we say, “It’s not the cold, it’s the wind.” In summer our lament becomes, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

Well, whether it was temperature or moisture that was at fault I didn’t know, but I was sweating like the proverbial pig. And, indeed, there was a third potential culprit—exertion. I suddenly realized that the ground tilted up at a sharp angle. I must have gained more than thirty meters in elevation already. Although we’d been able to make only rough guesses about what the landscape would be like here in the late Cretaceous, we’d expected a uniformly flat terrain at this particular site. Certainly there was no trace in the geological record of a steep hill.

I decided to rest upon a boulder. Like everything in this landscape, even this rock teemed with life: it was covered with a blanket of moss so dark green as to be almost black.

It seemed peaceful here, what with all this unspoiled nature, and yet I knew the peace was illusory, that the wild world was a violent place, a gridiron of mindless brutes fighting a game of kill or be killed in which there were no time-outs, no substitutions, and, in the long run, no way for you or even your species to win.

But still I felt a strange calmness. There was a simplicity here, a sense of great burdens lifted from my shoulders, a feeling that a yoke that I—and all humankind—had worn throughout our lives was somehow gone. Here, in the innocence of Earth’s youth, there was no unending famine in Ethiopia, with children, in one of anatomy’s cruel jokes, looking potbellied as their guts distended with hunger. There were no race wars in Africa, no burning of synagogues in Winnipeg, no Ku Klux Klan in Atlanta. No poverty in New York City, growing worse year by year, gangs no longer content just to kill their victims, now actually eating them, too. No knife-wielding thugs slashing the throats of cabdrivers in Toronto. No mindbenders starving to death while juice trickled into their brains. No blood washing down the streets of the Holy Land. No threat of nuclear terrorism hanging over all our heads like a glowing sword of Damocles. No murderers. No molesters robbing sons and daughters of their very childhood. No rapists taking with force what should only be given with love.

No people.

Not a soul in the world.

Not a soul…

An inner voice came to me, rising tenuously from that part of my mind that knew that it normally had to keep such ideas hidden, buried, lest it reveal itself to those who ran the world, those who saw such notions as signs of weakness.

What about God? said the voice. What role did he play in all this? Was there even a God? Klicks said no, of course. An easy enough decision, logically arrived at, based on science and reason. But I could never be so sure. I’d never allowed myself to truly believe, and yet I’d never been able to close my mind to the possibility, to the hope, that in fact the lives of us little people did, in reality, amount to more than a hill of beans in this crazy world.

I’d never prayed in my life—not seriously anyway. With six billion other souls to worry about, why should God care about the concerns of one Brandon Thackeray, a fellow who had a roof over his head, plenty to eat, and a good job? But now, in this world devoid of people, perhaps, just perhaps, it was a good time to bend God’s ear. Who knows? I might even get his full and undivided attention.

But … but … but … this was silly. Besides, I really didn’t know how to pray. No one had ever taught me. My father is a Presbyterian. He’d had an antique prayer rug by his bed, but I never knew whether he used it. When I was little I sometimes heard mumbling coming from his room as he got ready for bed. But my father often mumbled under his breath. Or else, he would grumble, and my world would shake.

My mother had been a Unitarian. I had gone to their Sunday school for five years as a child, if you can call a series of field trips that started from the North York YMCA a Sunday school. They used to take us for walks by the Don River, and I got soakers. All that I learned about God was that if you wanted to get closer to him, you’d probably end up with wet socks. Once, when I was an adult, an acquaintance had asked me what Unitarians believed in, I didn’t have a clue; I had to look it up in an encyclopedia.

Well, perhaps the form of the prayer didn’t matter. Did I have to speak out loud? Or was God a telepath, plucking thoughts from our heads? Upon reflection, I hoped the latter was not the case.

I reached up to my lapel, thumbed the MicroCam off, then cleared my throat. “God,” I said quietly, feeling sure that although perhaps the words had to be spoken, there was no reason to think the Good Lord was hard of hearing. I was silent for several seconds, listening to the word echo in my head. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. But then again, I knew I’d never forgive myself for not trying if I didn’t take advantage of this unique opportunity. “God,” I said again. And then, at a loss for what should come next, “It’s me, Brandy Thackeray.”

I was quiet for a few seconds more, but this time it was because I was listening intently, both within and without, for any acknowledgment that my words were being heard. Nothing. Of course.

And yet I felt as if a gate within me had burst open. “I’m so confused,” I said into the wind. “I—I’ve tried to live a good life. I really have. I’ve made mistakes, but—”

I paused, embarrassed by this babbling start, then began again. “I can’t fathom why my life is falling apart. My father is dying the kind of death we all hope to be spared. He was a good man. Oh, I know he cheated on his taxes and maybe even on his wife, and he hit her once, but only just that once, but now you’re punishing him in a way that seems cruel.”

Insects buzzed; foliage rustled in the breeze.

“I’m suffering right along with him. He wants me to release him from all that, to let him die peacefully, quietly, with a modicum of dignity. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong here. Can’t you take him? Can’t you let him die quickly instead of robbing him of his strength but leaving his mind to feel pain, to suffer? Can’t you—won’t you—relieve me of having to make this decision? And will you forgive me if I can’t find the strength within myself to choose?”

I was suddenly aware that my face was wet, but it felt good, oh so good, to get this off my chest. “And, as if that wasn’t enough to put me through, now you’ve taken Tess from me, too. I love her. She was my life, my whole existence. I can’t seem to find the energy to go on by myself anymore. I want her back so very much. Is Klicks a better son to you than I? He seems so … so shallow, so unthinking. Is that what you want from your children?”

The word “children” triggered a thought in my mind. God’s putative son, Jesus, wouldn’t be born for almost 65 million years. Did God know how the future would go? Or did the Huang Effect supersede even his omniscience? Should I tell him what would happen to his beloved Jesus? Or was he aware already? Was it inevitable that humans would reject his son? I opened my mouth to speak, but then closed it and said nothing.

A twig cracked and my heart jumped. For one horrible instant I thought that Klicks had followed me, had overheard me, had seen me making a bloody fool of myself. I looked into the forest but couldn’t see anything unusual. Clearing my mind, I quickly rose to my feet, brushed pieces of moss off my bum, and headed forward.