Time Travel Omnibus, page 1177
“Why don’t you give it a try?” said Jingjing encouragingly.
“Let me think about it.”
Ruofei was unsettled by this world, full of men and women more handsome than any he had seen in his life. But the repetitiveness of aesthetic perfection was exhausting him. When everyone sported perfectly symmetrical features cut to the proportions of the golden ratio, it was the imperfect faces that struck deeper impressions.
“How do you recognize anyone if they are constantly changing their shells?” he asked Jingjing.
“The superficial features may change, but poses and subtle habits don’t, and neither does the timbre of the voice. Retina patterns and DNA sequences are constant. All these are stored in a central database. You can look up anyone’s data when you meet them.”
“Don’t you find it odd to see someone else with the exact same face as yours? Or to see your lover changing looks? In my time, there was a superstition that the moment you meet another person who looks just like you, you’ll die.”
“Like I said—”
“The old is already a part of me; only the new can unlock the potential of the future.”
“You’re a quick learner.”
“But I still can’t get used to it.”
“Then let me wear your face tomorrow. I’ll help you adjust.”
“Don’t! I can’t stand this face.”
“Then change to something new.”
Ruofei said nothing. He had run out of excuses to resist, but the pull of traditions from his previous life forced him to ask one more question. “What if I want to change back?”
“Anytime, anywhere.”
Du Ruofei, the time traveler who came from three hundred years earlier, was the most coveted guest in this new age. He was invited to all kinds of events, where his stories of the strange customs and practices of the ancient past fascinated audiences. Any party without Du Ruofei could not be considered truly first-rate.
At the opening ceremony for a somatic singing competition, Du Ruofei was invited to perform a song from the twenty-first century. He chose the theme song from the last Olympics he could remember before going into hibernation.
He thought of it as the last song of the old world, for that world had ceased to exist the moment he entered the hibernation chamber.
The number of viewers crested as he sang the chorus, though many had complained to the broadcasters that Ruofei’s singing was upsetting their digestion as well as their pets. But polite applause still filled the venue.
Du Ruofei, now preternaturally handsome, and Azul450-Qing-Ye, in an elegant evening gown, walked together into the VIP section. The competition consisted of each contestant generating vibrations from different parts of their body, which, after processing by a snailshaped synthesizer called an Auto-Soma, was turned into a symphonic soundscape. To enhance their somatic singing, the contestants had implanted into their body various objects of different materials and acoustic qualities. Integrated into muscle and bone, the implants turned each body into a unique musical instrument.
Listening to the eerie music literally made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but Ruofei maintained his mesmerizing smile.
At an exclusive party, Ruofei described for the guests his life in old Shanghai: squeezing onto the subway, queuing up to buy lunch at a 7-11, downloading pirated films, translating meaningless clickbait celebrity gossip, watching couples kiss in the street, running to get home before the rain, showering, and sleeping. When the guests heard that the average
Shanghainese would spend more than fifteen hours a day working, they gasped in shock. Some had been so stunned that they forgot to suck on the tubes next to their mouths that dispensed simulhol.
And when he mentioned that sometimes he would call his mother at home but find himself with nothing to say, the elegant ladies made exaggerated sad faces to show how much they were touched.
I guess three hundred years aren’t that long, thought Ruofei.
Gradually, he grew to like and to even crave such performances. Wasn’t this exactly the life he had wanted so much in the old world but could never obtain? To dress up every day, to dine on fine delicacies, to mingle with the famous and powerful, to be constantly bombarded by the new. The elites who invited him were so skilled at subtle manipulation via words and expressions that he often felt eerily pleased with himself, as though he oozed wit from every pore.
Jingjing explained that the elites were not bred in incubation vats. Their origin was in fact shrouded in mystery. As children, they were implanted with precise neural programming for language and body expression so that, as adults, they would fulfill their social interaction duties and perform the prescribed etiquette routines with perfection. They were social managers under management.
The real authorities, the ones who made the rules, lived in a space station in near-Earth orbit. People on the surface could only communicate with them from a data tower on the north coast through an encrypted satellite link.
There was one time, Jingjing recalled, when those tightly-controlled facial muscles had seemed to malfunction, and the elites had worn expressions of terror and embarrassment.
On one occasion, as Ruofei entertained his audience with tales of how in his old life, to save money, he had removed the lightbulbs from his apartment, unplugged all uncritical appliances, and even dimmed his computer screen until he could barely make out the text, a scholar suddenly interjected, “Sounds like something a three-legged crow would do.”
Everyone present laughed.
“What’s a three-legged crow?” asked Du Ruofei. Surely the scholar meant something other than the mythological creature from ancient tales, symbolizing the sun?
The laughter stopped abruptly. People exchanged looks, but no one answered him.
Jingjing squeezed his hand and whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
Ruofei suddenly had the sensation that even this perfect world had its own cracks and seams.
The Three-Legged Crow was a group of extremists that threatened the security of the world order. They viewed modern technology as the enemy and sought to destroy automation systems and consumerism. The Three-Legged Crow had its own system of quasi-religious beliefs, with the preservation of the so-called “essence of humanistic civilization” as its ultimate goal. Since their opponent, the modern world, was far too powerful, members of the group could only eke out a living in distant, rural wastelands, waiting for a chance to strike at the heart of civilization.
“So . . . are those in the Three-Legged Crow evil?”
Jingjing’s eyes flickered in the dim light. “I think . . . they just view the world differently.”
“Why did everyone look at me so strangely earlier?”
A long sigh. And then, “Members of the Three-Legged Crow attacked the base with the hibernation chambers. You’re the only survivor.”
Ruofei’s heart clenched. He understood everything.
Driven by an irresistible curiosity, Ruofei gathered all the information on the Three-Legged Crow he could find, but as could be imagined, there wasn’t much. Moreover, from different sources, he got different, conflicting impressions that left the group even more mysterious in his mind.
He found himself changing.
Habituating to the endless pursuit of the new meant also habituating to an interminable sense of weariness and dissatisfaction. He was tired of his possessions and clothes, which could be changed whenever he wanted, tired of his own face, tired of even Jingjing, despite her constant efforts at renewing herself. Her skin, once a glowing vision of perfection, seemed to dim in his eyes day by day, revealing intolerable flaws. He knew this was the mechanism by which boredom operated in the brain.
There must be something constant under this inconstant exterior, he thought. Though he was beginning to doubt whether he knew the real Jingjing at all. Surely she was also fighting her own war against boredom?
Several times, Ruofei almost brought up the topic of changing mates, only to swallow the suggestion at the last possible minute. Like a baby bird being imprinted, a kind of unique bond connected him to her, the first human being he met in this new world. This was a bond that could not be replaced by any sense of novelty.
From time to time, he thought about his father. A kind of rebelliousness, rooted in the old world, was perhaps the real obstacle to his completely embracing this new way of thinking. He did not want to become like his father.
Side effects followed: headaches, nausea, but there seemed no clear cause. Finally, after a psychedelic art exhibition, as he vomited in front of a glass wall, he watched the reflection of a beautiful but unfamiliar face approach from behind his own beautiful but unfamiliar face—Jingjing, who had just changed faces again.
“Do you need medicine?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had this happen before.” He cleared his throat, and the effort hurt. “I feel bloated, or maybe my body just isn’t adapting. Do you ever travel and feel out of sorts?”
Jingjing shook her head. “You need to be checked.”
An instrument that reminded him of a white octopus wrapped its arms around him and tentacles probed into his orifices. They were smooth, pneumatic, simulating the feeling of human skin and body temperature. He felt a series of tremors before the tentacles pulled out.
“I see,” said Jingjing, glancing at the data streaming over a transparent membrane. “You’re overloaded.”
“What?”
“The human mind has its own bandwidth limit. Being stimulated by too much information will lead to rejection reactions, manifesting in symptoms of suboptimal health. This is a theory long accepted since the last century.”
“What can be done?”
“You can clean.” Jingjing showed him a flat, thin slate, on which the information he had been exposed to that day was categorized and sorted: social encounters, VIPs, newsworthy events, rituals, trivia, emotional experiences, dreams . . .
“You can delete whatever memories you no longer need. Throw them into the trash and empty it to reduce the cognitive load.” Jingjing’s golden eyes stared at him. “But you can’t do this because your brain comes from the past. You don’t have the implant port for the memory- manager. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“You agree to undergo surgery.”
Inside and out, Du Ruofei was now a new man.
Every day, he set aside some time to delete unnecessary memories, leaving more room for fresh experiences. He got rid of memories of anyone he met who wasn’t deemed important—even if they met again, it was no big deal to repeat the ritual of mindless introductions. Polite social conversation about the weather—delete. Repetitive sights in the streets—delete. Nostalgia triggered by recounting stories about the past—delete.
He didn’t need to be weighed down by the past. He was a new Du Ruofei, a machine skilled at piecing together bits and pieces of the old world into exotica for the delectation of the new world.
Yet, the invitations for him to attend fashionable parties and cool gatherings slowed to a trickle.
He hypothesized that in this novelty-obsessed world, the sensation of newness he generated was fading, much like the impression left by foamy surf on the beach, the sweetness left by candy at the tip of the tongue, the warmth left by Jingjing’s fingers on the skin of his chest.
What was going to happen to him? Could he integrate into this world as an ordinary man? Somehow, he sensed a subtle change in the way others treated him. There was a polite distance, tinged with a hint of fear. He heard rumors that he was the next target of the Three-Legged Crow, though no one knew what they planned.
Ruofei had never imagined that his own name would one day be linked to a group of anti-government extremists. Based on the news streams he had tapped into, members of the Three-Legged Crow were fanatics who relied on violence, assassinations, and kidnappings to express their ideas. They believed that the only hope for humanity was to cast off the chains of all technology and material wealth, to return to nature and find true inner peace in the wilderness.
From the blurry, shaky footage of their violent attacks, he saw shadows of the old world. He grew terrified.
It happened when he was delivering a commencement address.
In this new world, there were still institutions that served purposes similar to schools—or maybe it was more accurate to describe them as summer camps. Students were free to pick from among tens of thousands of different classes. There were no teachers. All teaching materials were presented via augmented reality. Students assembled into groups based on common interests and completed research projects suggested by the material. It was said that these educational institutions prized students who worked well with others and helped each other.
Predictably, Ruofei gave a speech excoriating the old world’s rigid, hidebound school system: foolish teachers, useless and boring information, the only thing worthwhile being rebellious classmates. He even made up a story of his first love. For four years, he admired a girl from afar. Each day, he watched her take her seat by the bright rays of dawn and depart from it under the gentle glow of the moon. They had never spoken to each other. Even an inadvertent touch or an occasional, accidental eye contact would set off fireworks in his mind.
“However” he continued, “in my imagination, we held hands, kissed, got married, raised kids, grew old together. It was a most marvelous memory, even if it never took place”
He stopped and waited for the applause, but only silence greeted him. Something wasn’t right.
Among the sea of perfect, young faces, one stood up. Hesitantly, he asked, “Do you think people were more satisfied with that kind of old-fashioned relationship? Or . . . maybe what I really want to ask is this: as the only person who has experienced both the old world and the new, which era has made you happier?”
Unprepared for the question, Ruofei struggled to come up with an answer. But just as he was about to speak, the MC rushed over to say that due to time constraints, they had to end Ruofei’s speech right away. Students grew agitated in their seats, and dissatisfied murmurs filled the hall.
Later, in the darkness, Ruofei glanced at Azul450-Qin-Ye, lying next to him in bed. By the faint glow of the metropolis outside their window, her new face was another vision of perfection.
“Are you happy?” he asked, uncertain what answer he preferred.
Slowly, Jingjing opened her eyes, as though expecting this question all along.
“Why haven’t you asked to change your mate?” she asked. “You know you can do it any time”
After a moment of silence, Ruofei said, “You are not a shirt, a gadget, a goldfish, or a plant—I can’t discard you the moment I want something new”’
“I don’t understand.” Her voice was confused, uncertain.
“I don’t understand either. Maybe I’m too old-fashioned. Can’t keep up with the world—”
The passionate kiss stopped his words. The woman who embraced him seemed a stranger who cared nothing for the rest of the world. It was as if a shell that had imprisoned her had fallen off, as though some wild beast roared from the depths of her soul.
“You’re special,” Jingjing panted. “Maybe they’re right.”
“Who are they?”
Jingjing subtly glanced to the side, reminding him that the livecast cameras behind her were still on.
“They are the ones who let you become who you are.”
Understanding dawned on Ruofei. “I want to see them” he growled. His fingers dug into Jingjing’s skin.
Jingjing let out an animal-like howl. She closed her eyes, as though two gems had been covered by black felt.
She moved against him, speaking to him without words. Be patient. The opportunity will come.
A global athletic competition was going to be held soon. It was called the “Olympic+ Games”
Unlike the old Olympics, the new games no longer limited competition to the human body’s capacity for speed, strength, and technique; instead, the emphasis was on integration with new technology. Thus, the games, held once every four years, were an opportunity for medical equipment manufacturers, arms dealers, and genetic engineering firms to show off their newest products. The contestants, like superheroes, upgraded their bodies to pursue new records unbounded by the limitations of the human body.
Ruofei was asked to deliver a speech at the opening ceremony.
He turned down the honor.
His refusal became a topic of speculation. Some thought that he had received threats from the Three-Legged Crow; others whispered that he was bored with his life. Rumors even spread that he had requested to be returned to hibernation.
Ruofei refused to answer any questions related to his decision, deepening the mystery.
Finally, the invitation that he could not refuse, the invitation that he had been waiting for, came. It was from the space station, and Jingjing was asked to take him to the data tower.
We know you have questions. We’ll answer.
The data tower was on the northern coast. Even in high summer, the foam from the pounding surf solidified into white frost in midair, and, blown by the strong gusts, tumbled along the beach like fragile creatures chasing one another.
The high-speed train didn’t go directly to the tower, so the two of them had to hike along the slate-gray sea, leaning into the cold gale and getting buffeted by sheets of hail. Their footprints persisted for mere seconds before the wind wiped them away. The wind also made it impossible to talk, so they struggled on in silence. The tower, a central column with radiating support pylons, rose from the water and pointed into the sky, glinting white like a seashell.
Before they entered the security gate at the base, Jingjing explained to him that no cameras were allowed inside. Thus, the livecast would be paused for the duration and be substituted with other programming.
They rode the elevator to the floor specified in the invitation. After multiple security checks to verify their identities, the pair stood in the communication chamber. There was no visible machinery or input surface, and random geometric figures flowed across the spherical ceiling. Supposedly, this setup wasn’t intended to protect the equipment but to safeguard the fragile nervous systems of the human users.
