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Homage to “The Celestial Railroad,” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
My grand vision to make the state of Arizona the destination for retirees from all over the United States was being accomplished without the initial bureaucratic impediments and, now, without me. The naysayers had lost their fight to exclude outsiders on one pretext or another. The water problem, for example, had been solved by ingenious new methods to refashion old Indian irrigation works as a single water recycling capability. Now the boundaries of Greater Phoenix stretched from the New Mexico border west to the Grand Canyon and from Flagstaff south to the Mexican border. The lynchpin for traffic on the north-south axis of the territory was called the Soul Train. Its name derived from a catchy popular ethnic song, but its purpose was not as much to celebrate multicultural unity as it was to open a frontier across the Mexican border, first to Nogales and, ultimately, to Mexico City. The train was a model for future, ultimate transportation. Fully automated and staffed by intelligent robots, it was being replicated worldwide.
As an impresario of impossible projects, I have always made it a habit to practice what I preach. I had become a supercentenarian in Phoenix, having celebrated my 110th birthday without having had my entire body enhanced with mechanical parts. After my latest replacement surgery, my hospice team advised the Soul Train as one final fling before I launched into the hereafter. Other practical choices were repellant to me. I had no wish to become one of the faint blue neon figures mourning by the cinder-block community walls. I also felt strongly against entering one of the many paloverde-tree domiciles, those twisted and gnarled anthropomorphisms that line Phoenix’s regular, gridded city streets. The train ride promised to provide all the amenities I would have received in my long-term-care facility. From my private Pullman car, I could view the Sonora Desert to examine what remained to be done to complete my grand vision. My insurance plans covered the excursion and guaranteed my satisfaction. What did I have to lose?
On the appointed day, I was transported from my care facility to my reserved Pullman car without difficulty. I was delighted that my assigned 3Maggie robot was personable and witty. She was also highly qualified medical aide. She explained the rules of my passage and gave me the password for accessing the artificial intelligence that would answer my questions. She also showed me how to attach the Virtual Reality appliance. In short, she made me feel at home though, to tell the truth, I had known no home for the last forty years but institutional care facilities—hospitals, nursing care facilities of various levels, and the hospice facility I had just left. 3Maggie assured me I could have whatever opiates I felt I needed to keep my pain to an acceptable level. All I needed was to ask the AI, and the appropriate fluid would be rushed into my body through the attached IV.
3Maggie warned me the train’s passage was slow. My Pullman was one of thousands traveling south simultaneously. She told me the train had a swimming pool, an observation deck, a lounge and bar, a dining car and theater, all of which were available via my VR. As a final service, the robot helped me select my avatar, which happened to be a younger version of myself with a wardrobe updated to the present. Sensation, a critical feature, would be provided by a real-time sensorium implanted via an interface with my medulla.
3Maggie smiled when she concluded, “Don’t worry about a thing. We’re monitoring all your vital signs. Automatic adjustments will occur during your trip as necessary, and all your normally scheduled medications will be automatically introduced into your body. So, relax! I must be going now. To reach me, just utter my name.”
Over the last forty years, I had been under continual care by robots and artificial intelligences. Their abilities had steadily improved, and their bugs had been fixed. Robots were infinitely more capable than humans today. I was confident I was in good hands. I decided to review the backgrounds of my fellow passengers. Naturally, I first examined the avatars of the females. As I flipped through the images, I was stunned by their youth and vitality. I knew the avatars were likely to be touched up versions of the passengers’ former selves, but that did not bother me—I was no longer as handsome or fit as my own avatar suggested. I bookmarked the ladies with whom I desired to become acquainted over dinner or poolside. Invitations were summarily issued, and acceptances instantly filled up my dance card, so to speak. I then switched files to size up the competition. The men were virile and strong. Their apparent average age was twenty-six, verified by the AI. I sincerely hoped my avatar could measure up to their promise. I calculated that the average human age of the passengers was likely to be in the nineties, at minimum. Validating this supposition was impossible because that calculation would have required personal data, to which I was not privy. No matter, I thought, ours will be a set of games played out with avatars. We’ll never really meet.
I felt my medications entering my body. Among those was an hourly dose of morphine. I began to hallucinate a little, but the feeling of euphoria was comforting. I asked to be playing poker with six fellow male passengers in the observation car. Six seconds later, I sat at a table with a neat scotch near my right hand. Six others sat at the circular table. A Cuban cigar lay before me in its wrapper. I reached for it, but a hand got there first. 3Maggie stripped the cigar from its wrapper, clipped it and lighted it for me. She stuck the delicious cigar in my mouth and whispered in my ear: “If you need more scotch, just raise your right hand. I’ll refill your glass.”
For an hour, we seven played Texas Hold ‘um. I won a pile of chips while I finished by cigar and scotch. I decided to play one more hand, and it turned out to be most profitable, but the others took umbrage with my luck. They accused me of cheating. That brought me to my feet. I reached inside my sports coat and felt the handle of my Walther. I coolly drew the pistol and shot each man in the head. I scraped my winnings from the table and uttered 3Maggie’s name.
“What do you require, Mr. Farnsworth?”
“I’d like to cash in my chips and place my winnings against my insurance deductibles and co-pay. Then I want to go poolside.”
“Your wish is my command,” the robot said. I was immediately poolside in a spandex swimsuit. The gentlemen with whom I had gambled were present in their swim wear, but no one seemed to hold a grudge. Seven women were also present. To say they were Playboy-foldout perfect would be no exaggeration. One woman I recognized as a future dinner companion. I draped my towel around my neck and approached her.
“Your name is Judy, I think, and we are scheduled to have dinner together in the dining car tonight. Isn’t it great we can enjoy the bright Arizona sunshine without wearing sun block?” I asked.
“Yes, but the disadvantage,” she replied, “is having to use artificial means to sport a healthy tan.” She colored slightly to show me what she meant.
“I like a deep, brown tan like yours in a woman,” I said.
She rejoined, “To your initial question. Yes, I’m Judy. I’d like to get intimae with you right away, but first I’d like to do a few laps in the pool. Then, before our dinner, I’d like to have you give me a full body massage in my room.” She smiled and sized me up. I certainly hope she liked what she saw. The way she licked her full lips, I thought she must.
We swam a few laps. We apparently excited jealousy and envy in our companions. I was surrounded by the other males while the females surrounded Judy. I had no trouble using my martial arts training to disable my assailants. Judy was doing the same with hers. We left the pool area littered with comatose bodies.
In her room, I used scented oils to administer the full-body massage the woman had asked for. I became aroused by my thoroughness, and one thing led to another. Wild, glorious love making followed.
Afterward, we showered. I returned to my room to dress for dinner in my tuxedo. By the time we rendezvoused at the dining car, she was in a blue chiffon dress and her hair was in a chignon with an orange ribbon. She had brought an orange carnation for me.
Our table was lit with a red candle. Two bottles of my favorite red wine were open and breathing, and a chilled pinot grigio was poured for our first course. The seven-course meal we ordered followed.
Judy was a brilliant, witty conversationalist. She had been married five times to my three. She had traveled the world before moving to Greater Phoenix for the high-quality medical care.
“Mr. Farnsworth, I’m a wealthy heiress of five separate fortunes, one from each of my five deceased husbands. I like to manager my stocks and bonds without the assistance of brokers. I’m plagued by greedy relatives and gold-digging men. I hope you’re not dining with me for my money.”
“Judy, nothing is farther from my mind. I’ve been a writer for forty years—since I migrated from the northeast to Greater Phoenix. My royalties are deposited into trusts for my children. I like nothing more than the company of brilliant and beautiful women who are not impressed with wealth and power.”
“Why, Mr. Farnsworth, I’m not sure much in life does not depend directly or indirectly on both wealth and power.”
That gave us the basis for a discussion that continued throughout our feast. When we had concluded that love trumped both wealth and power, we segued back to her room for more wild sex. Then it was time for our prescriptions, so we said goodbye forever, and I returned to my room.
I was satisfied with everything I had experienced on the train thus far, so I took the time to do a quick survey. As my meds hit home, I felt the Soul Train depart the station, heading south to Mexico. I decided to upload spy stories this evening. I fell asleep reading, but the content continued to upload for later reflection.
I’m not sure when that night I awakened, but I had the strongest urge to go to the theater. My avatar climbed back into the tuxedo, and I visited the theater car where I sat in one of ten plush chairs. 3Maggie was present to make me a double martini. I drank while on the screen I witnessed a new mystery created by my imagination and starring Judy and me. When the film ended, Judy sat in the chair beside me, quietly clapping.
“Mr. Farnsworth, you do have an active imagination. Do you really think the Soul Train is like the Underground Railroad taking slaves to freedom?”
“The idea suited the plot that was building in my brain. The Underground Railroad was not really a train.”
A man who had viewed the film beside them said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I rather like the analogy presented in the film.”
Judy gravitated toward the man, and I saw my opportunity to escape. I returned to my room and summoned 3Maggie.
“Please see that my latest film is processed for copyright and general syndication.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve already done both. Your new film will be opening worldwide in four days. All that you need to do before then is to authorize the screenings. An electronic signature will suffice.”
I authorized the screenings. Feeling claustrophobic, I invited my next dinner date Irene to climb Mount Kilimanjaro with me. She agreed immediately, and we were virtually transported to that majestic peak in full climbing gear.
Irene was a good sport, never complaining about the cold. We enjoyed the view from the summit. I saw the remains of the fabled tiger frozen in the snow. We returned to the saloon car on the Soul Train, but now we were dressed appropriately. To wit, I was a lounge lizard in a bright green suit. She was a pole dancer in a gossamer saffron gown. We drank rusty nails and talked for three hours.
She said, “I feel you know all about me now, but I know absolutely nothing about you, except you are a prolific writer.” Irene leaned forward, giving me her full attention. I had a strong sensation that she was going to be trouble.
“Irene, as a writer I’m a public personality. As a person, I’m very private. I could talk about my writer’s life, but that would be boring—for me.”
She bit her lower lip and seemed concerned. “Let me put it this way, Farnsworth: I don’t sleep with strangers. If you feel otherwise, you can go to bed with a 3Maggie. I’m informed they’re excellent for sex, if you like soulless geishas.”
“Irene, we can fast forward to our dinner, if you like. Let’s get formal and meet in the dining car.”
She made a moue with her lips. “Mr. Farnsworth, I get the picture. Let’s forget having dinner together. I enjoyed our trip to Kilimanjaro, but our continued conversation is likely to be frostier than the air on that mountaintop.”
I nodded, and the lady rose and walked out of the saloon car. After the sound of the door closing, I heard the report of a large-caliber handgun. I rushed to the door and discovered Irene lifeless on the floor with her brains splattered all over the passageway. The man who had engaged her in discussing my film was holding a classic 1911 Colt, with smoke still pouring from its barrel. The conductor was also in the passage struggling to disarm the man. I helped and took the Colt with me. Two 3Maggies arrived to help clean up the mess that the man had created.
In my room, I reviewed the bidding with my 3Maggie about the change in schedule. We selected Audrey, one of my reserve dinner partners. The woman agreed to my last-minute invitation. I went to the dining car in my tux and found her dressed in a green gown with a yellow corsage. I had a hard time believing I had relegated this beauty to my reserve choices. She was almost my height, and her motions were stately. She was, fortunately, as intelligent as her scores indicated.
“Mr. Farnsworth, I presume. You’re the great writer!”
“Yes, I am the writer. But great? Time will tell. You are Audrey Millbanks, the celebrated donor.”
“My husband Simon and I formed the Millbanks Trust to hold the corpus of our estate, which is devoted to supporting the arts. Simon passed four years ago leaving management of the trust to me and my children. I hope you’re not looking for money from me, for I have none outside the trust.”
“I don’t require any money or anything else from you—except your presence at dinner.”
Mrs. Millbanks and I enjoyed a leisurely dinner of lamb with an exquisite Bordeaux wine. We talked about the burgeoning of the arts in Greater Phoenix since we had both arrived at the same time, forty years ago. Arizona had become a premier location for music, art and drama during that interval.
Audrey gave me the password for downloading the works her family’s trust had sponsored. In turn, I gave her the password for retrieving copies of my stories, novels, plays and films.
“I don’t suppose, Mr. Farnsworth, that you’d be willing to give my trust exclusive rights of distribution to selected works from your vast collection?”
“Audrey, I believe you’ve just put me in an awkward position. I don’t give anyone exclusive rights to my works.”
At that moment, a man walked up behind me and laid a huge knife on my shoulder.
“Where’s my pistol, Mr. Farnsworth?”
I rose from his chair carefully and cocked his Colt as I turned. The murderer held out a bare Bowie knife threatening me, but he was no match for the power of his own weapon. I wiped the hot gun with his handkerchief before dropping it on the floor beside his corpse.
Suavely, I hoped, and not missing a beat, I offered my arm to the lady. We stepped over the man’s body and left the dining car. We walked to the saloon car as two 3Maggies raced to clean up the mess we had left behind. At the bar we ordered two bourbons on the rocks.
Coincidentally, Judy and Irene joined us at the bar. The women looked daggers at me.
Not shy, Judy said, “You bastard!”
Irene said, “You know this man?” Judy nodded like a bobble-head.
Turning toward me, Irene said, “I’m glad now I didn’t sleep with you.”
“I thought you were painting the passageway outside the saloon.”
Irene said, “That was my avatar. Douglas couldn’t stand the thought of you and me on top of Kilimanjaro.”
Audrey distanced herself from me, still holding her drink.
“He never offered to take me to Kilimanjaro.” Judy burst into tears.
The three women grouped at the far end of the bar leaving me alone at the other end. I felt the latest dose of meds hit my system.
“Ladies, if you will excuse me, I’ll go to my room.”
I might not have spoken. The women were huddling. I left without their saying anything further.
In the passage outside the saloon stood Douglas.
He said, “Look, we got off on the wrong foot. You blasted my avatar, but I’m fixed now. Do you know why I flashed my Bowie knife at you?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. All I know is that, according to the source, you were jealous of my having gone to the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro with Irene.”
“That’s only part of the story. I meant what I said about your film—how much it seems that this Soul Train is like the Underground Railroad.”
“If you’d like to discuss the matter, let’s go to the observation car—or to my room if you’d prefer discretion.”
“The observation car would be fine with me, as long as Irene is not part of our discussion. What a bitch!”
In the observation car, Douglas confessed that he was Irene’s former husband. He emphasized that he liked my spontaneous film, but he was infuriated by the thought that I had taken his ex-wife somewhere he had never thought of taking her.
“Why do you make such an issue of the Underground Railroad?”
“You’re the one who did that in your film. Here we are on the Soul Train heading for the border. We have all the advantages of teleportation and relationships. Yet at our journey’s end—if we should decide to end it, we’ll be done with life itself. Our bondage to the human form will terminate.”
What are you saying?”
“Is your body subject to hospice care now?”
“That’s private information, but yes.”
“Mine is subject to hospice as well. If you ask, you’ll find everyone on this train is in the same situation.”
“And your point is?”
Douglas slammed his fist in his hand in frustration. I saw the man was about to become dangerous again.
“You escaped this train by going to Kilimanjaro with my wife. That means she escaped the train also—with you!”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Indeed, it does, Mr. Farnsworth. If you understand what this train MEANS, you would be surprised too.”
“Perhaps, we should have a drink,” I suggested. No sooner had I voiced this opinion when 3Maggie brought us two scotches.
For a while, we sipped our drinks and took our own counsel. Then I said, “The reason the analogy of the trains occurred to me was the likeness of our human bondage to our bodies as a kind of slavery. Only when we can escape from our bodies will our souls be truly free.”
“That’s what I thought as well. I’m obsessed with the thought, in fact. We’re already considered to be dead, now that we’re in hospice. We take this last train because when we reach our destination, we’ll have died.”
I shook my head. “Douglas, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you. We on this train are dead already. We were dead when we pulled away from the station. When we depart this train, our souls will have reached a place as impenetrable as this train was before we boarded it.”
“I’m dead?”
“As surely as we’re sitting here now.”
“And everyone else on this train is dead too?”
“Yes. And anything indicating otherwise is an illusion.”
“That thought makes me angry.”
“Do you want to go to the theater to understand the rest of the story?”
Douglas said, “So there’s a ‘rest of the story’?”
“Indeed, there is. But remember you’re getting this from an author of fiction. It would be unwise to divulge my secret to anyone else on this train. You might start a riot.”
I met Douglas in the theater car and I treated him to my latest and most spontaneous creation.
“In my last film, I was delivered to my Pullman car on the Soul Train by my medical team. 3Maggie took charge. I had relationships with three women, Judy, Irene and Audrey—as you have plainly seen. I might have had more relationships, but time was running out. I have only time for this one last encounter—with a man named Douglas, you. I had that one opportunity to summarize what occurred after I died. The trouble is, the film ends before I finish it.”
The train pulls into Nogales Station as the credits run. I feel I’m no longer in my avatar. I know I’m no longer sentient in my Pullman car. The train has stopped moving. Am I truly dead, or not?