The Ambassadors Visit the Final Fair
Fiction - by Robert E. Harpold
The North American Mid-Atlantic Culture’s Final Fair comprised over a thousand booths spanning kilometers of beach in what once was the heart of Maryland. It showcased traditions dating even further back than the day the Originals turned away from the rest of the solar system. Grills sizzled, metal clashed against metal, and local bands strummed frenetic upbeats. Engineers outside the grounds set up the night’s pyrotechnics display, while guards strolled the perimeter and walkways to thwart the threatened attacks. A sweltering wind carried scents of roasted vegetables and peccaries, forged metal, and the body odor of at least a million attendees.
Tomorrow it would be gone. The food, the crafts, and the people. Digitized and erased from physical existence by those who had forsaken their humanity to become machines. The Cosmechs.
“I’m going to save your art.” Ambassador Varn gulped air and braced himself against a wooden pillar supporting a canopy above one of the fair’s many walkways. His grav-assist suit allowed him to walk, but he’d still had to grow three replacement knees over the past decade. In Jupiter’s orbital colonies, he had flown. Here, unassisted, he crawled.
Ambassador Thorn stood a meter away on the cracked ground as Varn recovered. Her wistful gaze, as her thin wrap flapped in the breeze, could have made a photographer’s career. “We have quite a lot of art.”
“True. I can’t save it all. Just one piece. My...friend is returning on the last shuttle to the colonies and volunteered a kilogram in her mass allowance.”
“A kilogram.” Thorn smirked, her wrinkles deepening. “Ambassador Varn, Hero of the Arts. We should make a statue of you. You can save that.”
Varn’s face flushed. Thorn was like a child racing to a cliff, laughing with unearned smugness as she ignored his warnings. “Mock me all you want, but it’s the only way for your culture to live on.”
“Is it?” Thorn’s smirk disappeared. “Have you chosen a piece?”
“Still looking.”
In the closest booth, a baker spun a glazed, sugar-laden confection into ribbons. On a central stage, watched by hundreds of stoned or contemplative passersby, a troupe contorted themselves to a spastic beat. Neither were appropriate for a museum display. In the stall past the dancers, though, a man arranged figurines on a table.
Varn heaved himself straight. “There.”
He stumbled through the crowd, his grav suit struggling to interpret the twitches of his overtaxed muscles. Passersby glared at Varn, and he issued apologies for his near collisions. He stopped at the figurine stall’s outermost table, clutching its edge in relief.
“Don’t Jovians have figurines?” Thorn asked.
Varn straightened and reached out to run a finger along the polished surface of one of the pieces. Smooth wood, the grains curving with the creature’s back and outstretched wings. An eagle, mid-flight, its eyes locked on the horizon. “This one is made from a material unavailable anywhere on the moons, and it’s a creature no one at the Jovian colonies has ever seen.”
“Then wouldn’t it just be abstract art to you all?”
“Maybe, or people might assume it has religious significance. I’ll have to send an explanation, but the point is that this piece is uniquely Earthen.”
Jovians would marvel at the alien material and the eagle’s shape, similar but so different from their native rats and insects. Then they would lapse into reverence for the last surviving representative of the Mid-Atlantic Culture.
Varn could picture the wooden eagle floating in mid-air aboard one of the orbital stations so patrons could view it from all angles. “It’s perfect.”
The carver approached from the stall’s other end. His cheeks dimpled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Even that attempt at professional cheer faded when he saw Thorn.
“Ambassador. I was sorry to hear about your daughter.” His lip quivered. “I also lost a child to the Cosmechs. They said he was...crushed.”
Varn had seen Cosmechs rolling across Ganymede’s surface. Small and large units, each with its own unique set of protruding sensors and weapons, all of them unconcerned with what lay in their paths. He had hidden behind a boulder, but they had probably detected him.
Thorn blinked away a welling tear. “I’m sorry for your loss, as well. That’s why I made this deal: so we’ll lose no more children.”
The carver’s eyes flashed, then settled to blandness. “Hard choice.”
“Yeah.” Thorn took a deep breath. “Maybe after today, my son-in-law will finally stop bitching about how many hours I’ve had to work to make a better future for my grandkids.”
The carver waited a respectful moment. “Can I help you with something?”
Thorn gestured to Varn. “Our savior is here.”
Varn frowned. “You know, the other Earth ambassadors are...less sarcastic.”
“They are less fun, yes.” Thorn shrugged. “It’s a no-filter day for me. The Cosmechs have their own ambassadors, so I’m already losing my job once I’m uploaded. Which means, until tomorrow, I can enjoy a day of no consequences.”
“There are consequences. I’m just the only one who sees them.” Varn faced the carver and tapped the figurine. “I’ll buy this one.”
The carver leaned over the table, face centimeters from Varn’s. His breath smelled of onions and cheese. “And take it back with you to Jupiter? Show it off to all your friends? Quaint Earth-people art?”
“No! Not like that.” Varn didn’t know why no one could see it. “This piece could represent the art of you Originals and inspire new art. Uploading will freeze it in place, but in the colonies, it could be a living thing.”
Thorn and the carver shared a look. Thorn shook her head. “He means well.”
The carver gestured for Varn to give him the figurine. “No.”
“But...” Varn took hold of the bird, as though it were already his. “Don’t you want—"
The carver plucked the bird from Varn’s hand. “You’re as condescending as a children’s entertainer. You oysters wouldn’t understand. Make your own damned art.” The carver slammed the figurine in its place and crossed the stall to speak to another potential customer.
Thorn raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t go as expected?”
Varn braced himself against the table. “Tomorrow, nothing of you will be left. I’m trying to save at least one memory, but you’re treating me like a toddler. I thought you would understand.”
He turned from the stall and continued along the walkway, so dusty and dull compared to the icy lanes of Europa. A pair of children ran past. Tomorrow, they would be digitized and trapped in mechanical bodies. They would never experience another day as flesh-and-blood humans. Was it better that they would never know what they missed?
Thorn caught up to him. If she had any thoughts as to the fates of children, she didn’t share them.
“I was forced to leave my birthplace fifteen years ago,” said Varn.
“I know,” said Thorn, her voice soft.
“Colony Five. After the Cosmechs stole our comet, we had no way to get enough water for everyone. I miss home every day, and I wish I’d brought more of it with me. It’s the art I miss most. There were these mag-traces, w—”
“You’ve shown me pictures,” said Thorn. “They’re beautiful.”
“Pictures don’t do them justice. The way they trailed behind the orbital colonies. Their thin lines, each of them waving at different paces with each season and throughout each orbit. The sparkling metal slices reflecting Jupiter’s light and, every few seconds, they made a new image.” The images morphed depending on the angle of the light, the orientation of the local magnetic field, and the design of the particular artists. It took teams of twelve to create a mag-trace, and the interplay of their visions often produced surprises even for them. “I can’t let you lose everything like we did.”
Varn pushed past Thorn before she could respond.
They passed a pavilion where at least a dozen people lined up for greasy fish sandwiches coated with a crust of black spice. Jovians would never let that garbage into their digestive systems, but it was heaven on the tongue.
Varn pointed. “You’ll never taste those sandwiches again.”
“We’ll taste them just fine.”
“Digital versions.”
“Which have more variables to experience.” Thorn appeared to glide on air as she walked, almost ethereal. “And we’ll get metal bodies that aren’t confined to natural shapes, and that we can change whenever we want. I’m going to get a body with four arms.”
“Four arms?” Varn couldn’t imagine Thorn, so proper and stately, choosing to have four arms. “You’ll be a Cosmech. Walking around in a mechanical body and immersing yourself in their digital world. You’ll be inhuman.”
“No more inhuman than someone modified to live in the Jovian system.”
“Come on. You’d say that after the last few years? The shared meals, the holidays our people celebrated together? You know we’re not inhuman. We enhanced our sense of touch and our empathy. We modified ourselves to be more human than Originals.”
Thorn laughed. “What makes you think the Cosmechs don’t have empathy or touch? And they have a relentless desire to conquer, like many cultures. Doesn’t that make them more human than you?”
“They’re machines. You lose something essential when you lose your flesh body.”
“What is that?”
It should have been obvious. Varn said nothing.
They strolled through the dripping humidity and savory smells of vegetables and fermented meat until Varn spotted another candidate. Clay mugs, pots, and vases sat atop rugs, arranged by type. Pieces ran the gamut from naked clay to garish colors, from unadorned to simple scenes from Earth history.
“Yes,” said Varn before Thorn could comment. “We have containers at the colonies, but they’re plain stone.”
The potter approached, beaming. “Sorry, but none of these are for sale.”
Varn tapped his grav suit. “Because I’m Jovian?”
Her jaw dropped. “No! It’s just not on sale. I’m only here to show it off.”
Varn indicated a bowl with a scene of a potter curled around her wheel, molding a vessel. “These are very good. You could be famous in the Jovian system. The sole representative of the North American Mid-Atlantic Culture.”
The potter placed her hand atop the bowl. “Any piece I sell is a piece that doesn’t get uploaded. It’s a piece that doesn’t achieve immortality.”
The uploading process would map each particle, layer-by-layer, destroying the original. Varn reached for the bowl, then let his hand fall. “When it’s uploaded, it will become a dead artform. It won’t evolve to reflect your changing culture, because your culture will never change again.”
The potter looked puzzled. “What makes you think that?”
Her eyes said everything. Facts never convinced anyone. Varn bowed as best as he could without toppling over. “Thank you for your time.”
They visited other stalls, some selling musical instruments or home decor with pithy sayings, but the pieces either didn’t fit Varn’s mass allowance or the vendor wasn’t selling. The Sun reached its zenith and began its downward journey, and Varn had nothing to show for his time except sweat pooling in his suit’s crevices.
“You don’t have to go through with it,” said Varn. “Getting uploaded. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”
“What should I do, then?” Sweat dribbled down Thorn’s weathered face. “Run to the swamps like the Freedom Firsters? They’re only delaying the inevitable.”
“You can resist. We’re resisting on the moons and colonies.”
“And how is that going?”
Other fairgoers diverted course around them like water flowing past an ice knob. Some squeezed each other’s hands, or shared deep hugs, or stared into the sky. Others were stumbling drunk.
“Has it occurred to you,” Thorn asked, halting beneath the showerhead of a cooling station, “that we have considered everything you’re saying? That we made the best decision under the circumstances? The Cosmechs are on our world. I’ve studied history, and I know what happens when an advanced culture meets one like ours. We have two paths, and neither ends with us on top.”
“Why are you here?” asked Varn. “With me? It’s your last day as a real human, but you’re playing tour guide for the Jovian ambassador, who is going to be irrelevant to you in a matter of hours. I think you’re here with me because your predicament feels more real now, and you want my people to help you out of it.”
Thorn slammed the cooling station’s handle to the far left. Water blasted from the showerhead, soaking her. “I am here because my son-in-law wants to give my grandchildren one last perfect day as real kids before being uploaded, and that perfect day apparently does not include their grandmother.”
She stared him straight in the eyes, unwavering, as water ran down her hair and neck. Varn wondered how Thorn’s son-in-law had informed her. Had he told her over the phone, maybe when she offered to wander through the fair with them as she did now with Varn? Had he said it with an edge or, worse, matter-of-factly?
“I’m sorry,” said Varn. “I didn’t know.”
Thorn shut off the water and gave him a bitter smile. “It’s fine. It’s not the end of the world.”
“I...”
“Why are you here?” Thorn wiped water from her face. “You can barely walk. You’re miserable. Why aren’t you going back on one of those shuttles tomorrow with your ‘friend’?”
A tear came to Varn’s eye. The conversation with Aleya this morning had been the kindest way his heart had ever been crushed. He would have preferred a brutal breakup. “I... She... I don’t want what’s happening to our people to happen to you.”
Thorn gave him a wan smile. “It’s all history now, for both our peoples. It just hasn’t been written down yet.”
She left the cooling station. Varn hustled after her, his joints throbbing.
“I know I’m a poor substitute,” Varn said when he reached her side. “For your grandkids. But I do appreciate you keeping me company today.”
Thorn’s face softened for the shortest of moments. “Well, I suppose I’m a poor substitute for your friend. Let’s see if we can find what you’re looking for.”
Farther down the walkway, they came to a booth selling paintings. Each piece depicted a scene from Earth: ocean waves, gardens, dusty streets of town centers.
“Is this what you want?” Thorn asked.
Before Varn could answer, the painter stepped up behind them. “Find something appealing?”
Varn’s people could see ocean at home, but only in the darkness below Europa’s ice. They could see gardens, but only in enclosed rooms with UV lights and misters. They could see administrative centers, but only as kiosks tucked into corners of sterile stores. Paintings, though, were common at the colonies.
“It’s...” Varn shrugged.
Across the walkway, a booth sold fishing supplies: fly-fishing lures, rods, and fishing line. As the vendor demonstrated a primitive technique, casting his rod away from the crowd, the line sparkled in the light from the setting Sun.
For a moment, Varn just let himself be in the beauty of the moment. Then he strode to the booth. For the first time since setting foot on this heavy planet, he didn’t stumble.
Varn sat on the parched ground, holding fishing line between thumbs and forefingers. Thorn held the other end between metallic fingers in each of her four hands. She slid a jagged aluminum strip along the string toward him.
Varn guided the strip into the middle of the line. This scene must have been similar to scenes from twenty thousand years ago, a group of friends constructing art together. He wondered what those ancient Originals would have considered to be the essential aspects of humanity. What did the Zulu, or the Romans, or the Yayoi consider to be the essential aspects of humanity? And what would any of them have thought of this group, a mix of Thorn’s people in their humanoid and non-humanoid machine bodies and Varn’s people genetically engineered to live in the zero-gravity, high-radiation environment of Jupiter’s orbit, working together on their own art?
Beside Thorn, her steel velociraptor-shaped grandkids held their own line. Varn’s and Thorn’s retinues completed the team. Twelve people, two for each line, just like in the colonies. These lines, though, were synthetic fibers instead of iron. The decorations reflected light with greater intensity than a mag-trace’s because the Sun was five times closer than in the colonies. The magnetic field here, twenty thousand times weaker than at home, would no more vibrate the lines or metal slices than a human could perturb Jupiter’s orbit, but the whimsies of the wind would substitute.
Varn stood, and Thorn rose with him. They let the line bow downward, loose enough for the breeze to ripple it. He could imagine the six lines held between trees, one below the other, waving with each puff or gust of wind, the slices rotating to form ever-changing abstract patterns.
Thorn gave her end a playful flick. “Is it like you remembered?”
“No.” The line rose like an ocean wave, its aluminum slices glittering in the sunlight, and it all came to a rest in the thick gravity. It was unlike the mag-traces from his former life. Something new. He understood now why the vendors hadn’t worried about their art dying. “It’s perfect.”