Robert Charles Wilson
Canadian science fiction author.
To fire a bullet into the heart or brains of one’s fellow man—even a fellow man striving to do the same to you—creates what might be called an unassimilable memory: a memory that floats on daily life the way an oil stain floats on rainwater. Stir the rain barrel, scatter the oil into countless drops, disperse it all you like, but it will not mix; and eventually the slick comes back, as loathsomely intact as it ever was.
Since Deacon Hollingshead’s arrival in town last July the Dominion had been hard at work, cleansing New York City of moral corruption.
“Corruption” is a popular word with the enthusiasts of the Dominion, usually uttered as a prelude to the knife, the docket, or the noose.
Is there any evidence to the contrary? I don’t need certainty in order to act on a well-founded suspicion.
Deacon Hollingshead: “The history of the world is written in Scripture, and it ends in a Kingdom.”
Julian Comstock: “The history of the world is written in sand, and it evolves as the wind blows.”
To capture the pawn, threaten the queen.
To whom had he retailed his conscience, Sandra wondered, and what was the going price these days?
“When was it obvious she was ill?”
“Weeks ago. Or maybe—looking back on it—well—months.”
“Has she had any kind of medical attention?” Pause. “Simon?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It didn’t seem necessary.”
“It didn’t seem necessary?”
“Pastor Dan wouldn’t allow it.”
I thought: And did you tell Pastor Dan to go fuck himself?
He’s exactly what she wants. He’s the last thing she needs.
Does it strike you, Mr. Keller, that we live every day in the science fiction of our youth?