The hare lopes over to the flower bed. He nibbles restlessly on the violets until he becomes bored with their tiny screams.
He’s almost drowsing when suddenly his prey senses twitch. He springs to his feet.
Whoosh! Thump. Sharpness. The hare’s heart pounds as teeth close on his nape. He paws the ground, scrambling to get away, but it’s got him fast.
“Murr hurr, ii aa oo?” comes a full-mouthed inquiry.
The hare sprawls on the ground, spat free.
Above him, the queen’s pet cheshire stares down. “Sorry, March,” he says casually, licking a paw. “Didn’t recognize you.”
The hare’s heart beats the rapid tattoo of near escape. He stutters. “Wo-would you like some tea?”
“Kind of you to offer, but no,” Cheshire says. “No time for tea.” His grin beams. “Get it? No Time?”
The hare thinks it best to ignore Cheshire’s attempt at humor; after all, the animal’s teeth remain on gleaming display.
“What would you like, then?” asks the hare.
“Diversion,” says Cheshire. “A chat. A nibble.”
Fangs glisten. The hare trembles.
Cheshire curls his tail around his paws. “Have I ever told you what it’s like to walk away from here?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, “To leave here and go back into Time is like watching the sun rise and sink a thousand times in the blink of an eye.”
Diffidently, Cheshire turns toward the tea table, surveying the scene with the aura of ownership that cats can cultivate when they wish. His ear twitches back toward the hare, signaling that he is still ready to leap.
“Except nothing like that, of course. The sun wouldn’t stir herself on account of what beasties are up to. But inside. It’s like that inside.”
The cat turns back. He licks his chops.
“Not a bad arrangement. Staying here. Drinking tea. Never getting older. Some might envy you.” The feline leers. “But then, some envy the dead.”
The hare shrinks. “The dead?” he asks, wondering if it’s a threat.
But Cheshire does not advance, all claws and teeth. Instead he fades away, leaving his grin behind.
A raven is like a writing desk because the notes for which they are noted are not musical notes.
A raven is like a writing desk because Poe wrote on both.
A raven is like a writing desk because they both slope with a flap.
A raven is like a writing desk because there is a “B” in both and an “N” in neither.
It is strange to make a decision outside Time.
There is, first of all, the difficulty that it is impossible. A decision must have a cause; in turn, it must spur effects.
How is it possible for Time to die and yet for events to continue occurring in sequence? How many girls in blue dresses come and go? Tea be drunk and yet never run out? Love affairs ripen and spoil? Curiouser still, how can Time be dead in one locale, and yet continue to rule the affairs of those who are not stuck at interminable tea?
If you want rules, look elsewhere. This is Wonderland; we are all mad here.
The hare has made a decision. He stands at the table, beside a cup of tepid oolong, pocket watch in paw. Musingly, he looks between the tea and the watch, the tea and the watch.
The hatter perceives something has changed. It is a sense hatters have.
He pulls the tablecloth off of his head. Porcelain clatters about. The teapot falls and cracks.
The hare glances up at him. The hatter’s face is drawn. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow across his features.
“The primary sign of a well-ordered mind is a man’s ability to remain in one place,” the hatter says.
The hare replies, “All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy.” His tone is layered with both grief and expectation. “But growth is the only evidence of life.”
The hatter’s hands quake upon the table. He cannot control them.
“Friendship often ends in love,” the hatter says, “but love in friendship—never.”
The hare looks back down at the watch. Butter shines on motionless gears. “Love can do much,” he murmurs, “but duty more.”
The hatter gives a sigh like the wind that blows through a vanished cheshire. He stands, his hands still trembling at his sides. “Wait here,” he says.
“Strings of tension—” the hare begins, but the hatter isn’t listening.
He’s walking toward the garden of talkative flowers, beyond which lies the small house he calls his own. The hatter has not entered there since tea began, but now he opens the door and disappears inside.
When he returns, he is all hunched and sad, his jacket pinched around his shoulders. His bow tie droops. He can’t quite look at the hare; he looks away, mouth twitching with unsaid words.
In his hands, he holds a top hat that’s a motley of the Queen’s red and black, according to what he could scrounge. Each piece flawlessly felted, smooth and almost shining. Immaculate stitches circle the bicolored brocade band. Two round holes sit on either side of the brim, cut perfectly for long silken ears.
The hatter offers the hat, but the hare is afraid to take it. It is too beautiful, too clearly an artifact of affection. Besides, the hare’s paws are full, the buttered pocket watch open in his palm.
With another sigh, the hatter sets the hat down carefully on the hare’s head, mindful of his ears. The hat gives a formal, finished flair to the hare’s gentlemanly attire. One could almost imagine him at a garden party, offering his arm to a lady before they go to play croquet. Even a hare should not be without a hat.
The hare’s nose twitches. He can hardly think what to say. He stumbles a thank-you. “Gratitude is the memory of the heart—”
The hatter interrupts. “Look to your conscience, then,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. He gives the pocket watch a dubious look. “Do it if you must.”
What is Time anyway?
Time is a question. Time is the fire in which we burn. Time is local. Time is limited. Time will not take a beating. Time is lending, borrowing, crashing—and recovering. Time is petty jealous-ies and perverse grudges. Time is neither here nor there. Time is an unfair dilemma.
Time is a dream . . . a destroying dream. It covers the face of beauty and tumbles walls.
Time is but a phantom dagger that motion lifts to slay itself.
Time is a handful of sand.
The hare picks up his cup. His paw trembles as he tips the brim. Dark, sweet liquid rushes into the gears. A swish, a rinse, a tilt. Tea flows out again. Diluted butter runs onto the grass.
Time stirs.
You might as well say that timing a run is the same as to run out of time.
A hatter should never be forced to construct hats at the behest of a deck of cards.
Have I ever told you what it’s like to walk away from here?
A raven is like a writing desk because love is like loneliness.
It is never polite to go out-of-doors without a hat.
The time has come, the tea set said, to talk of many brews.
You might as well say that falling silent is the same as silently falling.
To tell the truth, a raven is not much like a writing desk at all.
What is Time anyway?
Twinkle, twinkle. One, two, three:
Swallow then set down your tea.
Wipe your mouth. Return my heart.
Time has come to make us part.
Time regains his unrelenting feet.
The girl in the blue dress, walking to the Queen’s croquet grounds, spending her time in conversation with men and women who fancy themselves cards (in more than the literal sense). Going to meet the griffin and the mock turtle and to sing the lobster quadrille (no, she will not, won’t not, will not, won’t not, will not join the dance). Becoming a towering presence at court. Waking beside her sister who is still reading from a book without pictures. Living her life in a land full of only ordinary won
ders.
The hatter, returning to his felts and pelts, slipping, sliding, sluicing into mercurial madness.
The hare, off in the forest, risking the mutability of April.
Go on until you reach the end: then stop.
JULIAN MORTIMER SMITH
Headshot
FROM Terraform
@JMitcherCNN: Corporal, first of all, let me thank you for agreeing to this interview. By now all of America has seen the footage of your amazing headshot last week. Could you tell us the story, in your own words?
@CplPetersUSMC: Well sure, Jim. As you know, things went kinda crazy after I made that kill. I’m pushing 12k followers now. At the time the most I’d ever had online at once was . . . maybe a couple dozen? Fact is, there were only two people with me when it happened—@PatriotRiot2000 and @FrendliGhost. This was the night of the assault on Peshawar, remember? So half the nation was following the boys from First Airborne. No one wanted to miss a jump like that. I appreciate all the fans who’ve been with me since the beginning, but I want to give credit where it’s due. It was just me, Riot, and Ghost that night.
@JMitcherCNN: Interesting. So you didn’t even have quorum for engagement?
@CplPetersUSMC: No, sir. Not at first. But that night I wasn’t even worrying about quorum. It was just a routine patrol and we weren’t expecting any trouble. I was just chatting with Ghost and Riot. Both of those dudes have always had my back with nav and sit-reps and shit like that. But they were also just there when I needed someone to talk to, you know? That’s even more important sometimes. When you’re in the middle of a war zone, it’s nice to hear the voice of some suburban kid from Detroit in your headset.
@JMitcherCNN: So how many other soldiers were taking part in this patrol?
@CplPetersUSMC: It was a six-man squad, but the tactical-scale guys had split us up to cover more ground. Ghost and Riot both thought that was dumb, but they’d been outvoted in the war room. When the numbers are small, bad ideas can get through more easily. That’s the whole point of quorum. I admit, we were doing a bit of trash talking. They told me there were a lot of tac-scale folks online who had never even really followed a soldier. They just spend all their time zoomed-out, looking at satellite feeds, moving us around like chess pieces. I’m not saying that’s wrong, but it can be dangerous. No one who’s spent time with a soldier on patrol would have made that kind of call.
@JMitcherCNN: So it was just you, alone in an alley. No backup.
@CplPetersUSMC: That’s right. So then Riot notices this big black car parked in the alley. It was dark as hell in there. All the streetlights were out, so I didn’t notice it. But Riot, he’s a real tech-head. He has my feed running in infrared, thermal, and laser-gated, each in a separate window. He don’t miss much. And he’s from Detroit, so he knows his cars. Anyway, it was a Lincoln. Most of the cars here are these shitty Soviet models from the ’70s. Ain’t that the ultimate irony? You can tell the guys on the Most Wanted list ’cause they all drive American cars.
@JMitcherCNN: So you knew someone important was nearby.
@CplPetersUSMC: Well, we suspected. Ghost is looking at the satellite heat maps, pulling up floor plans, checking the locations of windows. I knew I couldn’t just storm in there by myself, but Ghost and Riot didn’t trust the guys in the war room so they wanted to wait before calling in the cavalry. Those tac-scale yahoos would probably just send the squad in, guns blazing, just for the thrill of it. So Ghost guides me into this bombed-out office building across the street. I hoof it up five stories till I’m level with the building opposite. Sure enough, a light is on and I can see into the room. There are six or seven bearded dudes there with AKs slung over their shoulders. It looks like they’re arguing and for a while I think they’re going to shoot each other and save me the bother, but then another guy comes in. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s some sort of head honcho—the owner of the car. I didn’t recognize him myself. I ain’t no racist, but with those beards they all look kinda the same. Riot, on the other hand, boots up some face recognition software and IDs him, lickety-split, as Jaques al-Adil.
@JMitcherCNN: The Jack of Clubs.
@CplPetersUSMC: Exactly. This guy’s a face card. One of the top ten most wanted terrorists in the world, and I’m sitting in a window across the street from him, lined up for a perfect headshot.
@JMitcherCNN: But . . .
@CplPetersUSMC: But, as I mentioned, I didn’t have quorum, so I couldn’t take the shot. Legally. So, Ghost and Riot jump on their social networks and try to get the word out. Any patriotic American would upvote a shot like that, but we just didn’t have enough bodies in the room. Of course all their friends are watching the assault in Peshawar, and not checking their messages. So you know what they do? Ghost goes and wakes up his parents, and Riot fetches his little sister and her boyfriend. Now, Riot’s parents are real traditionalists who have never followed a soldier in their lives. Riot’s always complaining about them, going on about how they’re not upholding their responsibilities as citizens. They’re old-timers, see? Got no interest in direct democracy.
@JMitcherCNN: Were they registered to vote?
@CplPetersUSMC: No! That’s the thing. I think they were prescreened through their driver’s licenses or whatnot, but they certainly weren’t registered for this theater. So I can hear Riot walking them through registration, trying to convince them how important this is, and they’re trying to calm him down, and typing their email addresses wrong and having to start again, just like any other old folks. Have to laugh at it all, now.
@JMitcherCNN: I’m guessing it wasn’t so funny at the time.
@CplPetersUSMC: It wasn’t. But get this: the situation at Ghost’s place is even worse. His sister is a hippie. A real peacenik, you know? She doesn’t want anything to do with war. So I can hear him talking philosophy to her, trying to convince her to do the right thing for freedom and democracy just this once. And meanwhile I’m waiting with my rifle cocked and Jaques al-Adil’s head in the middle of my sights. I’ve got to admit, Jim, I was sorely tempted to pull the trigger and just live with the consequences. But I thought to myself, if I shoot now I’m no better than he is. I’m here as a representative of my country. If I shoot without a quorum of consenting citizens, as the rules of engagement demand, then I’m no longer defending freedom and democracy, I’m just another terrorist.
@JMitcherCNN: Strong words, corporal.
@CplPetersUSMC: Well, if I didn’t believe them, I never would have enlisted.
@JMitcherCNN: So what happened next?
@CplPetersUSMC: Well, then I hear gunfire coming from the next street over. I found out later that it was just Samuels and Gonzales showing off for some kids, but Ghost and Riot were too busy to keep me updated at this point, so it scared the hell out of me at the time. And it scared al-Adil and the rest of the folks around that table. They kill the lights and hit the floor. A minute later, I see the front door of the building open and four figures sprint to the Lincoln. One of them is al-Adil and he gets in the back seat. My HUD was still only showing Ghost and Riot online, but just as the car was pulling away, three more followers blipped into existence. I had quorum. Now they just needed to upvote engagement. The car was already turning the corner of the street when the votes came through. Five-out-of-five upvotes. Riot had persuaded his sister’s boyfriend to log in and vote. I couldn’t even see al-Adil by this point, all I could see was the car, but I had seen him climb into the back right-hand seat, so I aimed for where I thought his head would be.
@JMitcherCNN: And the rest is history.
@CplPetersUSMC: And the rest is history. Although it would never have gone so viral if Samuels hadn’t been just around the corner. He was the one who saw all the gore. It’s his POV feed that’s trending. Over 10M now, I think.
@JMitcherCNN: But seeing yours makes the shot all the more astonishing. I encourage all our followers to watch Cpl. Peters’s POV of the shot. If it had been a second late. . . .
r /> @CplPetersUSMC: Ghost and Riot have both made their screen-feeds public too. Be sure to check them out. Couldn’t have done it without them.
@JMitcherCNN: So how do you think your job will change now that you have thousands of fans?
@CplPetersUSMC: Well, I certainly won’t have trouble making quorum anymore . . . ROFL. On the one hand, it feels great to have the support of so many patriotic citizens behind me. But it’ll be harder to have one-on-one chats with my followers. I’ll do what I can to keep that personal connection. I’ve already set up a private channel for Ghost and Riot, so they’ll always be able to talk to me directly, no matter how much chatter is going down. How will it change the job? I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
@JMitcherCNN: Just one more question, corporal, and then I’ll let you go. Sergeant Pearson’s recent court-martial has sparked a grassroots campaign to eliminate quorum altogether. Do you wish you had had more leeway? More freedom to act on your own initiative?
@CplPetersUSMC: Well, that’s a great question, Jim. A lot of the older guys in the unit complain a lot about the whole direct democracy thing, but I think I like things the way they are. Maybe if I had missed the shot I would feel differently, but it seems to me that getting your folks out of bed to vote and debating philosophy with your sister before letting a soldier take a shot—that’s how it should work. That’s democracy.
@JMitcherCNN: Well said, corporal. And thank you for your service.
SALMAN RUSHDIE
The Duniazát
FROM The New Yorker
IN THE YEAR 1195, the great philosopher Ibn Rushd, once the qadi, or judge, of Seville and most recently the personal physician to the caliph Abu Yusuf Yaqub in his home town of Córdoba, was formally discredited and disgraced on account of his liberal ideas, which were unacceptable to the increasingly powerful Berber fanatics who were spreading like a pestilence across Arab Spain, and was sent to live in internal exile in the small village of Lucena, a village full of Jews who could no longer say they were Jews because they had been forced to convert to Islam. Ibn Rushd, a philosopher who was no longer permitted to expound his philosophy, all of whose writing had been banned and burned, felt instantly at home among the Jews who could not say they were Jews. He had been a favorite of the caliph of the present ruling dynasty, the Almohads, but favorites go out of fashion, and Abu Yusuf Yaqub had allowed the fanatics to push the great commentator on Aristotle out of town.