BOOK I
When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.
Tecumseh
THE BARRIER AGE
(New Year’s Day, Barrier Year 50)
We set our calendars by the Barrier, counting the hours, days, and years from the moment it engulfed our planet in its mystery. On this day of days half a century ago, astronauts returning from beyond the Asteroid Belt and the wonders of Mars reported a bloodred cloud of unknown material overwhelming Earth. As the captain and crew encountered instrument malfunction, probes disappeared, a chunk of spacetime was wiped from the sky, and then the signal died. These last astronauts and their marvelous ships vanished from the radar screen. All across the planet surface eyewitnesses said the Barrier erupted out of nothing, out of nowhere. Some said it boiled up from the bowels of the Earth. Fire rainbows, tentacles of diamond dust … spreading faster than thoughts or radio signals, breaking apart land and sea, night and day, yesterday and every other tomorrow.
Younger generations take the Barrier invasion, the Earth sliced into isolated, warring Zones, for granted. A mundane, boring “given,” yet the Barrier irrevocably altered our histories and identities. Who remembers the taste of wheat, the view from the moon, jetting to Nairobi, Los Angeles, Beijing, or anywhere? The twenty-first century is a distant dream, an object of nostalgic worship. Paradise Lost. Many people insist the Barrier humbled humanity, made us detainees where once we were masters. The inhabited Zones—New Ouagadougou, Los Santos, Paradigma—are mere refugee camps, the Barrier a prison wall. Others believe that the gods of our ancestors sent the Barrier as a blessing to the chosen and a curse for the damned. All agree that it cleaved reality with an impenetrable spume of lethal substance—as yet uncategorized. Those who venture too close to the Barrier wall are swallowed up, never to be heard of again, like the last astronauts. Travel between Zones is limited to a handful of corridors spontaneously generated at seasonal intervals. The Barrier offers no corridors to the stars or to the uninhabited Wilderness lands.
Every attempt to probe, codify, or measure the Barrier yields contradictory data. It resists our senses and instruments. The outcome of an experiment depends most on who the experimenters are and what they desire. Although we perceive the Barrier, it doesn’t always seem to be there. Continually coming and going—from our dimension to another? No one has isolated a sample of this epi-dimensional, phaseshifting singularity for controlled study. Yet.
The Barrier has proven to be more than physics and chemistry. It does not act like a field of forces, a well-behaved crystal, or even a cagey virus infecting us with its packet of instructions. The Barrier is a self-generating network of enormous complexity and unprecedented creativity. It regenerates and evolves, sustaining itself, yet changing. A life-form? Life is by nature creative, drawn to novelty, driven by challenge, grounded in history. Learning as it evolves, life calls to life. Is Earth to be consumed, rearranged, and forgotten in the pattern of some other being? Incorporated in a new web of life? Has the Barrier come to us as parasite or partner? Perhaps these are the wrong questions, grounded in Earth’s natural history. Perhaps this phenomenon will defy humanity to create a new language, a new syntax of life. What consciousness might emerge from an epidimensional body? And who will be the Vermittler, the go-betweens, shepherding us into the future?
If I have risked the world but lost, as Femi Xa Olunde argues, and these are indeed the Final Lessons, forgive me. Remember, however, Ijala’gun Molu … If we risk nothing, we gain nothing.
—Vera Xa Lalafia, Healer Cosmology, The Final Lessons
1: TOMBOUCTOU OBSERVATORY AND GALACTIC LIBRARY OUTSKIRTS OF SAGAN CITY, PARADIGMA
(March 20, New Year’s Day, Barrier Year 111)
Old age ain’t for sissies.
Celestina couldn’t remember who used to say that, all the time.
I’m telling you, it’s stand-up tragedy, so don’t laugh. You’ll see.
Was it Vera Xa Lalafia, her first teacher? Why couldn’t she remember? Didn’t she remember several lifetimes? A very old woman, Celestina remembered before the Barrier even, before the world had been chopped into petty little Zones. When humanity covered the planet, lush and vibrant, coming and going as they pleased, wreaking havoc in global style, racing out to the stars …
How could she remember before the Barrier? She was just a baby, not even born. It was Vera who’d lived in the other time. And Vera had gone on to dance with the ancestors, leaving Celestina to sort out this Interzonal Peace Treaty with no clear vision. If it were Vera’s Treaty about to be ratified, she wouldn’t hide from the festivities in an empty planetarium watching ancient Entertainment all night. She wouldn’t cringe at random adulation, run from power trips, or miss a second of pomp and ceremony. And Vera would never have said, Old age ain’t for sissies. Yes, Robin said it to Thandiwe.
Stand-up tragedy. A gaggle of voices in Celestina’s head screamed at her like achy joints every time she tried to make a move. She stuffed popcorn in her mouth and focused on the planetarium’s giant Electrosoft screen. Nothing like old-time movies to distract you from personal crises or global insanity. Even orthodox shamen would concede that. Celestina refused to fight herself over Do the Right Thing, Shawshank Redemption, Mississippi Masala, A Beautiful Mind, or Chaplin’s Great Dictator … But sooner or later the credits rolled, they called your name, bellowed praisesongs, and reality smacked you in the face.
“We apologize for the delay, ladies and gentlemen.” A priority broadcast ghosted across the planetarium screen, interrupting The Fugitive upload.
“Schade.” Celestina cursed in old German. She scanned the vast auditorium for invaders. Not much longer to hide; they’d be coming for her soon.
A blurry image came into focus onscreen: Ray Valero, freedom fighter, Entertainment superstar, tall, dark, and handsome devil, beloved by all. “The architect of the Interzonal Peace Accord, Celestina Xa Irawo, will be the final delegate today to sign the Treaty into law. Rumor buster: the great lady ditched the party scene last night to conjure a few spirits and check in with eternity. In deep trance, shamen get fuzzy on time.”
“Time’s not my problem.” Celestina stumbled out of her back row seat, feet in one body, pounding heart in another, and fell against darkened fiberplastic windows.
“Humanity’s staging a comeback!” Ray continued in close-up. Perfect teeth flashed. Celestina could see a direct line from Cary Grant and Denzel Washington to Ray Valero. And he had the voice of James Earl Jones! “We’re a reunited world, about to inaugurate peace. Can’t rush this gig. History in the making.” Applause and cheers, the crowd was in his hip pocket. “Before signing, Madame Xa Irawo will follow New Ouagadougou custom and pour libation to the brave souls who died to make today a reality. Give us reformed thugs a little style.”
Celestina laughed out of both sides of her mouth.
The Barrier flared outside the window, amplifying the voices in her head. Celestina swallowed her laughter and squinted. The Barrier looked as it did when she was a child—a storm of diamond dust stretching across the horizon, blotting out half the sky. Barrier wisps caught fading sunlight and turned it silver, occasionally twisting out a rainbow sign. The Barrier hadn’t put on this particular show in eighty, ninety years. Was it in honor of the Treaty?
“Do you think the Barrier cares what we do?” She covered her mouth.
How had she come to this? In none of her incarnations had Celestina ever wanted an ordinary life: meet a hunk, drop some babies, fight over pennies, struggle to raise the kids up right, weep when they dashed off into their future, rock on the porch in sunset smog, tell big fat lies, serve sausage and Kuchen to the grandkids, and flirt with the young things who happened by. Truth be told, she had contempt for normal life. She’d always wanted to do something grand and glorious!
“Madame Xa Irawo will sign away a hundred years of war,” Ray said. “No more Extras dying in snuff takes. No more corridor coups or organ markets. This is the glorious day we fought and died for.”
What did Ray know about it?
Today was the worst day of Celestina’s hundred-plus adventure years. Worse than Femi slashing her skull, driving her to insanity; worse than betraying and poisoning herself; worse than holy war, hunting down innocence to save the race. Celestina had driven away all the daughters of her spirit. She had no one to sing her song, carry her story into forever.
Could she trust Ray or any of them with the future?
A stampede of footsteps echoed in the hallways around the planetarium. They’d found her hiding place. She sank down in the comfort chair. Twenty doors into the planetarium rattled and shook but did not open.
The week of celebration leading up to the Treaty signing had been a horror show. She couldn’t stand the naïve, trusting looks, feigned or sincere, from politicos and Zone glitterati who had committed almost as many crimes against humanity as she had. Last night, in desperation, Celestina had begged a cameraman for sanctuary—Aaron Dunkelbrot, a former Extra, now a bio-corder expert, what the Treaty was all about.
Copyright © 2006 by Andrea Hairston
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