One Reason To Live

By Pat Scaramuzza

Aliens came to Earth and offered us all immortality.  Most humans took it and left for the stars.  Eli and Suna stayed.  They wander a nearly empty Chicago, seeking their own meaning and purpose, until an alien social worker named Leon offers to find Eli just one reason to live.

 

But the search may have to wait.  A parasite stalks Chicago, and trillions of aliens drop dead throughout the galaxy.  Suna uncovers a mystery involving ancient myths and the meaning of human life.  But before they can solve those puzzles, they'll have to tame Suna's time-travelling daughter, dodge a rain of teleporting billiard balls, and parley with the King of Chicago and his army of pterodactyl-riding orphans.

 

Eli seeks either love or death, and the parasite offers it to him if he'll betray humanity.  Can Suna pull him back, with the meaning of life in her grasp?

 

Hilarious, weird, and deeply philosophical, One Reason To Live is a high concept sci-fi epic about immortality and the meaning of humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pat Scaramuzza
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9780996133968

Pat Scaramuzza

Pat is a self-described scientist, artist, writer, and madman.  He lives in the central Midwest of the United States with his wife and many dogs.

Book preview

One Reason to Live

by Pat Scaramuzza

Manifold and Tribune

Have you been paying attention to Earth like I have?  Here, check out their feeds:

TRANSCEND! Are you still mortal? WHY?

Tribune Section 1, World News, Headline: 'Seven transmortals for every human being.' Underheading: 'What are they waiting for?'

query / curiosity / archival: chameleon research, earth: status?

No, no, no. Use Human modes. You won't understand them or the results of my research if you don't at least try to communicate like they do.

TRANSCEND! All this:

—holo of Sol system (Dyson sphere edited out), zoom out to galaxy, tickle pineal gland with 17 Hz subsonics—

Could be yours! Contact the nearest representative of the Manifold, they'll help choose a species that's right for you!

Journal of Applied Xenology Abstract: Arcturan Reproduction as Virtual Synesthete Client—Doorway to AI, or Honeytrapped Alien Womb?

fine / irritating / intriguing / okay, give us a briefing.

Bite me.

(lapse of communication for several thousand H-alpha beats)

Ibis corp relay: Superpositional Warning, Sol System: Ostracized predator-assimilator seed, inbound probability 43%. Statistically optimal network in place to intercept.

Tribune Section 6, Astrology and Comics, is closing with the obscuration of the Zodiac by the Dyson Sphere project.  If you want to foretell your future, cut out your own entrails and read them.  If you want comics, procedurally generated funny pages are available; submit to a network psychology exam so they can tune into your sense of humor, but whatever you do don't—

TRANSCEND! New variant morphs available from your last century's popular culture!

(minor overtones exit from comm; near-equivalent harmonics enter)

excuse / explain / recap?

I answer to the Ambassadors, not to you. You're just looking for a sure bet. Either play the exchanges or do your own research, but don't ask me to throw you hot tips.

Lightspider Editorial, Re: priorities, meme 32—relax.  Editorial focus on Chicago has nothing to do with third-rank population.  Joy-things pop-happen in Chi-town.  New York is bunkered-senescent, and Beijing-et-supersuburbs are emptying faster than a tumbling wok.

Tribune Section 5, Advice, Column 1: 'How to Stay Stoned until you're Ready to Never Die.'

Classified Ad, open network call: 'Will anyone please kill me?'

outrage / curiosity / bets down, but are you sure you know what you're doing?

All according to plan, boys. All according to plan.

Chapter 1

"Of the demonstrably wise there are but two:

Those who commit suicide, and those who keep their

reasoning faculties atrophied with drink."

—Mark Twain

In a galaxy that humans labeled the Milky Way, in a stream of stars they called the Orion Spur, in a large city named Chicago on their home planet of Earth, in an alleyway off of North State Street behind a bar called the Zebra Lounge, Eli found a giant lizard sprawled out in the gutter.  His gutter.  Where he slept.

Eli pondered what to do with the alien intruder, but the liquor-induced fog in his brain kept him from acting either wise or rash.  He decided to try Chicago-style diplomacy instead.  Holding onto a dumpster for support, Eli began kicking the alien in the face.  He may as well have been kicking stone.  The red, scaly creature ignored about a dozen kicks before it groaned, belched, and looked at Eli with a half-lidded black eye.

Hmmn?  Oh, a little to the left, it said.  And find a jackhammer.  I'm trying to simulate the whole drunkard experience, but the headache eludes me.

You're doing it wrong, Eli said.  Your head's supposed to hurt the next day.  While you're drunk it just spins.  A lot.  He squeezed the corner of the dumpster tighter as the alley seemed to tilt.  The dumpster softened and bunched into his hand to give him a firmer grip.  Nice dumpster.  Why are you in my alley, anyway?  You got all of Chicago, the whole planet.  This is my spot.

The alien shifted position.  Is it?  I didn't see a sign.  Maybe the gutter has an opinion.

The gutter coughed, to dislodge the dirt from rough surfaces that could be, but seldom were, used for speaking.  Its voice was rumbling and distorted; Eli could feel it through the dumpster.  I am part of the species trust, it said, On donation to the city of Chicago.  I must give comfort to anyone who passes over me.

Or passes out on top of you, said the reptilian.  Thus continuing a grand tradition, as I understand it.

Eli felt his legs go weak.  He sank to the ground.  The dumpster at his side dimpled itself for his comfort, a soft but cold gesture.  You shut up.  You're not supposed to be talking to me.

Me? said the alien.  But it's my job.

No, that.  Eli pointed at the gutter.  They aren't supposed to speak.  It freaks people out.

I gave the hylic permission to speak.

So why should I believe it?  Asphalt lies all over the place.

You— the alien began.  Then it smiled, a rubbery, toothless smile in a face that could have been a scaly sock puppet.  With a reptilian lack of grace, it hefted itself upright onto two long, thin legs.  That's an excellent point.  You're Eli Duncan, correct?

I am Eli Duncan—mistake.

Close enough.  Tell you what, let's go back inside and I'll get you a drink.

Can't.  Eli shook his head and waved his hand, and somehow managed not to confuse the two.  Bartender cut me off.

I'll vouch for you.  C'mon.

Eli looked up to see the alien's extended limb, which ended in a four-fingered knot of red scales on top of shiny, blue-black skin.  He gave it his hand.  The creature lifted him up and held on, steadying him.  It took long enough for Eli to find his balance that he began to suspect the alien had stolen it.  He wanted to sleep, but not if the gutter was going to talk to him.  Before he knew it, he was standing on his own.

That meant he should have another drink.

The alien stooped like an old man, but even so it was at least seven feet tall.  Too slender to be menacing, too warped and knobbly to pass for human, it patted Eli on the shoulder and gave him a toothless smile.  Call me Leon.

Eli shrugged.  With Leon's help, he stumbled his way out of the alley.

On the sidewalk, the streetlamps sparked to life as the pair passed by.  Above, Eli could see the lights of the Dyson Sphere and the pinwheel shape of its Northern Axis, an artificial constellation the aliens had placed in the sky.  A few more constellations shone near the deep purple horizon, doing battle with the shine of the city skyline.  Almost straight overhead he saw the half-finished remake of  Cygnus, its wings flapping in a low-speed demo animation.  Low to the north lay Cassiopeia, who seemed to tilt her head and wink at Eli as he looked up.  Out of habit, he blew her a kiss.  Then he looked away, cursing himself as a drunken fool.

Which, no doubt, he was.  But out in the orbit of what used to be the asteroid belt, millions of sentients great and small were peering down at Eli and wishing him luck.  Millions more were preparing to ruin his day.  Five minutes earlier, none of them had known he existed.

The Zebra Lounge put on a great pretense of being a sleazy Chicago landmark.  It might not have been a dive, but it did give the impression of some sort of dunking.  The best thing that could be said about the lounge is that the disappearance of most of humanity had given an ancient, exotic feel to its quirky decor.  One wall was paneled with dark stained wood alternating with strips of polished mirrors.  Zebra skins hung on another wall, and depictions of running zebras flanked the cramped podium with the electronic keyboards.  A human being used to be squashed in there to play and sing, but for the past eight years the keyboards played themselves.  Somewhere in the galaxy, Eli supposed, Tommy Oman was singing 'Piano Man' to drunk, horny aliens, if he still had a throat and mouth to sing with.

Eli stumbled into the bar's single booth.  Leon brought two pints back from the bar and plunked them down on the table.

See, no problem.  I put in a good word for you.

I don't think that guy likes me.  Eli pointed across the small room.  The bartender stared back with all the emotion its expressionless metallic face could show, which is to say none.  He's like a vending machine that pretends to be really, really interested in what you have to say.

He's probably not pretending.  He's a sophont, a small peripheral intelligence maintained by some transmortal.  You could call him an advanced robot.  Serving drinks is his entire existence.

Then we have something in common.  Drinking what he serves is mine.  Eli gulped enough beer to feel carbonation tickling the back of his nose.  After a difficult swallow, he wiped foam off his lips and eyed the alien.  So, Leon.  How long ago did you transcend?

Not transcended, Leon said.  His mouth widened like rubber into a parody of a smile.  My people don't recruit.

Bull.  Most aliens sound like voice boxes.  You sound like you grew up in Milwaukee.

Milwaukee?  I'll have to work on that—I was aiming for the South side.  I'm in the historian clan, social division.  Mimicking the natives and recording their culture is my job.  You won't find a more human transmortal.  If you do, send them my way.  I can put them to work.

Right.  Human.  Ever think about wearing clothes?

Leon took a swig of his own pint, although his rubbery mouth could have swallowed the glass whole.  If I had shame, secrets, or genitals, I might do that.  So how about you, Eli?  What do you do?

I drink.

What did you do before?

I drank and asked girls out.  Eli looked down at the table.  His head was clearing.  A sip of beer would fix that, but he didn't want to ruin the conversation.  At least someone was talking to him.  I was in school to be an engineer.

Oh, well, there's plenty of opportunities for that.  They're integrating Manifold tech into your infrastructure, there are interfaces with the hylics to work out, and just the amount of learning you could do—

Sanitation engineer, Eli mumbled.

Leon stopped in mid-sentence.  He scanned the ceiling with his black, featureless eyes, and he tapped one scaly finger against his glass.  Ah, he said.

Yeah.  Not much reason to build toilets when most of the human race has abandoned the planet.

Futility hung in the air for a second.  Out in the galaxy a few of the wiser sentients deduced what Leon was up to, and they began placing bets.  Leon offered them odds.  Word spread like telepathic fireworks.

While all of that happened, Eli took another blissfully ignorant gulp of beer.  And I got no plans to transcend, so don't ask.  I'm human and I want to stay that way.

Okay.  I told you, I'm not here to recruit.

What are you here for?  You know my name, and you chose my alley.  I know a con game when I see one.

Leon raised a stubby finger.  Whoa, no cons.  I'll be honest.  I'm a social worker.  I heard you were trying to kill yourself.

Eli snorted.  Who told you that?

Your ex-girlfriend Suna.  The bartender, when it saw you dropping pills in your drinks.  The hylics at the hotel room where you started that electrical fire.  Sophonts at a cutlery shop in Old Town.  The doormen at three tall buildings along the Magnificent Mile—

Okay, fine, Eli said.  Yeah, I thought it'd be a laugh.  Then I thought it was a good idea.  Then I thought it was a great idea, the best idea I've had in a life that's been pretty thin in the idea department.  Why shouldn't I kill myself?  Who would really care?

Leon shook his head and made a clucking noise.  Eli, you know there are only two rules:  You can't go into space, and you can't die.

What, exactly, are the point of those rules?

The point is that you're an endangered species, and you're fascinating.  We treasure human beings.  Besides, you might decide to transcend someday.

Eli laughed.  That's not going to happen.  Especially now that I know you lose your genitals in the process.

There are plenty of transcended species with genitals.

I like the ones I have.  Look, I was born a man, gonna die a man.  Soon, with any luck.

Eli chugged the rest of his drink.  On the stage, the keyboards launched themselves into an upbeat rendition of It's Too Late that made Eli want to pry their keys out.  The bartender walked over with two more beers; Eli took his and smiled across the table as he sucked off the foam.

I like you, Leon, Eli said when he came up for air.  But you know what bothers me about you aliens?  You all think you're better than me.

In what way?

I mean, okay, you're transmortal, you can't be killed or whatever.  Big deal.  You're not smarter, or better.

Leon scratched his head like a learned, puzzled alligator.  Well, we are smarter, Eli, but that's just processing power.  Compared to you I have a lot of it.

Gotta make up for those genitals somehow, I guess.

Best way I can describe it is something one of your philosophers said.  You've heard of Heinlein?

Yeah.  But he was a writer, not a philosopher.

Same thing.  Same pay scale, even.  Anyway, he said that a human being should be able to 'Change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently', and so on.  Got all that?

Eli blinked to clear his head.  No.

"Now try to picture this:  A transmortal, we can do all of those things at once.  Whether we came from the stars or were transcended from one of you.  It's the last step in evolution, Eli."

Then I guess you're wasting your time sitting and drinking beer with me.

I am drinking beer with you.  I am also holding a meeting, remotely, with a faction of my clan.  I am also negotiating with clients for my tourist business here on Earth.  I am also reading through archives of Amerind culture, because they're the next people I'm supposed to study.  I am also taking bets from across the galaxy on a sideline of mine.  Oh, and I am also hustling in a hyperdimensional billiards tournament.  Which reminds me, I need to take a shot.

Leon reached out into empty air, and a glossy white ball materialized and dropped into his hand.  He placed it on the table and produced a thin black stick, again from midair.  Then, lining up the cue stick with careful precision he popped it against the ball, which vanished again.

I'm also trying to figure you out, Leon said.  The cue stick disappeared with another hand gesture.  And you're one of the more difficult problems on my plate, Eli.  So let me make you a deal.

Thirty million sentients placed their bets.  Without missing a beat, Leon covered them.

You want to die because, why, exactly?

Eli stared into his beer foam and sighed.  Just don't see any point in living.  I'm alone.  I'm obsolete.  My girlfriend left me, my whole species is circling the drain—

Let's not be over-realistic.

—and so it's like, what's the point?  Why go on.

Uh huh.  Here's the deal, Eli.  Hang with me for six weeks.  I get to study a despondent human being up close, and with any luck we'll find you at least one reason to live.  But if after six weeks you still want to off yourself, I'll use my pull to exempt you from the rules.  I'll let you die.

Eli narrowed his eyes.  Yeah, right.

I've got high status with both the historians and the tourists.  Those two clans make up most of the transcended on Earth.  I'm the guy who invents exceptions to the rules.  Just give me six weeks, first.  Do we have a deal?

The alien tapped on his glass again, a metronomic ping that Eli focused on for a few seconds while he thought about the offer.  Eventually he took another sip and shook his head.

Naw.  Like I said, Leon, I like you.  But why should I trust you?  You'll parade me around like a trophy.

Oh, please.

I've seen what happens with new transcended.  They're like conversation pieces for you people.  You'll probably tell everyone I'm your pet.

Trust me, Eli, that isn't going to happen.

How would I know?  Right now, you could be talking to other transmortals, on the internet or that manifest you got—

Manifold.

Right.  You could be making jokes about me behind my back.  Betting on my sanity.  Taking bids on my organs.

Eh, I do those things to everybody.  Leon nodded, his brow ridges wrinkling in rubbery thought.  You've gotta trust someone, Eli.  Isn't that the root of all this moping?  You need someone to trust?

The keyboards came to the end of their piece, wrapping up with a  flourish of synth scat.  Eli looked over.  The bartender gave him a thumbs-up sign with all the body language of a forklift.

Eli pictured the lounge as it had been, with clouds of cigarette smoke and made-up beauties hanging on the arms of cocky, polyester-wearing tough guys.  In his imagination they all stood, caught in the middle of drinking and flirting, their eyes fixed on Eli's booth, with mouths shut and ears open as they waited in hushed anticipation of his answer.

In reality, a hundred million transmortal beings were doing just that.  A side bet popped up on how long it would take Eli to respond.

Eli took another swig of beer, which ruined the side pool.

Finally, he wiped his mouth and hung his head.  No.  Sorry, Leon, but I've got it figured out.  Even if I can't kill myself, I can sure shorten my lifespan.  I won't last a year if I get pissed-drunk every day and night, and I won't notice or care about the wait.  I'm a dead man.  That's all I want to be.  He ran his finger along the edge of his glass, carving a shadow in the condensation.  Let's not fool ourselves; that's all anyone wants me to be.

Leon tapped on his glass again, with the facial expression of a very worried piece of luggage.  A hundred million bettors asked for payment.  Silently, Leon begged them off for another thirty seconds. 

Sorry to spring this on you, Eli, but it isn't going to happen like that.

What?

I gave the hylics permission to infest your liver.

They can't do that.  Eli's hand went to his belly.  They're not allowed to do that.

No, they're not, but I'm the guy who makes exemptions to the rules.  Don't worry.  Hylics are a socially responsible nanotech plague.  They don't like to infect living creatures, it's abhorrent to them.  But I've asked them politely to repair your liver and help you metabolize alcohol.  They've had a few minutes to work; you're sober by now, aren't you?

Eli looked at his glass.  The smiling alien.  The bartender, who gave him another thumbs-up.  He blinked, and realized that the fog in his brain was gone.

You son of a bitch! he said, sloshing the drink into Leon's face.

For a moment the alien sat there, unmoving except for rivulets of beer pooling between its scales and dripping onto the table.  Then Eli watched Leon recede, not through the booth or into the wall but somewhere that seemed far and distant without moving away.  Red specks shot in from the corners of Eli's vision, clumped together, and a blue-black skin inflated between them into the shape of a stooped-over humanoid reptile.  In less than a second, Leon—or something in the exact same shape, but perfectly dry and inexplicably new—smiled at Eli and tapped his glass.

Come on, pal, he said.  What have you got to lose?

The empty glass slipped from Eli's hands.  It rolled off the table and clunked onto the floor.  Eli stared at the alien's face, noticing how jagged scales near its eyes resembled laugh lines, and sculpted fissures on its cheek suggested dimples.  The sudden, horrible thought struck him that Leon's face, even his entire body, was a projection; a display arranged to evoke human emotions.  Behind the facade he sensed something ancient and immense, an implacable, unknowable strangeness.

Something, he realized with terror, that was friendly and eager to help him.

Okay, Eli squeaked, like a mouse accepting cheese from a lion.

Great! roared Leon.  Bartender!  A round of good stuff for me and my friend, here.  Let's celebrate.

Eli searched for his old glass, and saw it hopping across the floor toward the bar.  The bartender drafted a new pint and carried it over, patting Eli on the back as it sat the drink down.  Leon raised his glass in a toast.  Far away from the lounge, millions of sentients argued over their winnings and losses, and placed new bets for a longer term.

To—oh, hell, I don't know.  To deals?

Eli gingerly lifted his own glass.  Yeah.  Uh, to friends.

Chapter 2

"Time is a great teacher,

but unfortunately it kills all its pupils."

—Hector Berlioz

Suna walked out of her house into a thick herd that was roaming across Fullerton Avenue.  She'd met the aliens before, and recognized their pattern quickly.  The green raccoons served as the distributed being's hands, the orange giraffes and coyotes were its eyes and ears, and the sky blue stags were some kind of goaltenders, never straying far from their open manholes and ripped up sewer grates.  The ball was nowhere to be seen—it might have been invisible to her, or it might have been under one of the abandoned cars the creatures leaped over and around.

An opossum decked in purple and white stripes scuttled to her toe and looked up.  Please wait for the traffic signal, miss.  Unless you'd care to join the game?

No, thanks.  The traffic signals are on today, then?

Just for you, Ms. Rogers.

Suna smiled at the animal.  You're sweet.  Can I have a minute to cross safely?

The opossum nodded.  Its associated bodies, scattered around the play area, duplicated the motion.  Then it scampered away and took positions on the sidewalk with the rest of the colorful menagerie.  When the walk signal blinked to get her attention, Suna quick-marched across the street, her hip-length hair flagging behind her in the slight breeze.

Last week it had been holograms in Civil War costumes, who tore up the whole Lincoln Park neighborhood for a late night reenactment.  Three months ago, a team of plasmoids had burned down her building while melting the roadway in bizarre designs.  They had restored its condition by suppertime, and if her house and its contents were no longer composed of the same constituent atoms, Suna couldn't tell the difference.  Sometimes she thought that the transmortals used her street for practice in hopes that she would write them up for