Slumrat Rising

Vol. 3 Chap. 65 Living National Treasures

Vol. 3 Chap. 65 Living National Treasures

Truth kept his breathing steady. Incisive hadn’t warned him, so these two were not a threat. Probably. At least for the next few fractions of a second. They looked melted in the hot water of the springs.

The outdoor bath was enormous, larger than the hotel it was attached to. Cristal clear blue water covered wide, flat stones. Here and there, boulders rose from the steaming water, adding even more charm to the scene. The pool narrowed at the back, where the spring rose from the mountain, and widened out as it reached the waterfall that would cool it and lead it to a mountain stream. The icy stream water and the hot spring water made the area perpetually misty. In the spring, with the forest dappled with green and the blues, purples, and whites of little wildflowers… It was lovely. Serene.

The two seniors in the bath, really the only two people he noticed in the whole hotel, were happily sprawled against the side of the spring, looking out over the waterfall and across the valley below. Between them was a rimmed tray made of wood, floating on the water. There was a small bottle of wine, a couple of glasses, and what looked like snacks. They could hardly have been more comfortable. Truth was doing his best to replicate their relaxation with middling results. The two made an interesting pair.

“So, kiddo, what’s your trade?”

“Ah, would you believe I’m a professional bodyguard?”

The two old-timers chuckled. “A Level Four bodyguard? Must be some tycoon’s family.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say more.”

“No, we understand, we understand. Privacy is important.”

“Yes, thank you.”

The two old men were a study in contrasts. One was deeply tanned, with a round torso and thick, brutal features. Fat lips, small eyes, embarrassingly thin strands of hair combed over a bald head, and a thick scar running from forehead to cheek over his left eye. Truth could see the muscles moving under the fat- the old man was built like a powerlifter. One that got huge in prison, where he did a dime for those terrible, terrible things and would have been executed if anyone was brave enough to testify against him.

The other was pale to the point of anemia, the hot spring bringing only the faintest flush to his cheeks. His full head of hair was neatly parted even now, the silver locks losing none of their vivacity and luster. Thin, delicate fingers lifted the wine cup from the floating tray, and quietly smiling lips took a gentle sip. His eyes were soft brown, thoughtful, and kind. Wise. Even his breathing, quiet, long, steady breaths, had a feeling of elegance and compassion. He looked like a grandmaster calligrapher who donated his time and earnings to a local orphanage.

“If I’m not being too nosy, may I ask what brings the two Seniors to the mountains?”

“We came for the hot springs, Kid, the hot springs.” The brutal-looking man said with a chuckle. “My kidneys can’t keep up. Ah, one day, you will learn how it is.” His laughter was upsettingly vulgar. Meaty. Wet.

“Oh, don’t tease the child. Well, it’s true we did come for the spring. We try to get up here once a year or so. Lots of happy memories in these mountains. We were up here for work anyway, so we thought, “Why not?” The elegant man nudged his companion. There was a musicality to his voice, a stately rhythm. Truth would have happily listened to him read a train timetable.

Truth desperately wanted to ask what possible occupation could employ a musical saint and the person known on wanted posters as “The Meat Man,” but knew it would be rude to ask. He didn’t have to. They were used to people wondering.

“Don’t strain yourself too much. I’m an artist, and he’s a philosopher. The cruel bastard.” The coarse man laughed.

“Don’t listen to him. I’m the artist; he’s the philosopher.” The elegant man chuckled.

“Seniors?”

“Ah, it’s like this. Silver hair here is a poet and calligrapher.” Truth nodded. That sounded exactly right. “And his poems make people want to stab him constantly, so he has turned into an absolute homicidal maniac.” Truth did a double take while the refined gentleman sighed and resolutely looked away.

“Forgive me, but I have a hard time imagining it.”

“Oh, I can prove it.” Fat lips pulled back over alarmingly strong teeth. “Do you read much poetry?”

“None. My education was famously lacking.”

“I won’t recite any of it then. Here is the gist of one of his famous ones- “If it is in our power to prevent something bad from happening, without thereby sacrificing anything of comparable moral importance, we ought, morally, to do it.”

There was quiet in the hot springs for a moment. Somewhere a cricket called out for love. The steady rush of the waterfall was just loud enough to make one sleepy, but not so loud as to disturb the mood. Truth had to admit he didn’t see a whole lot of application of the idea to his life, but it didn’t strike him as “stab worthy.”

“Alright?”

“Think it through. Would you watch a child drown in a fountain?”

“Probably not, no.”

“You might get your pants wet if you go in and save him.”

“So?”

“Ah, the sacrifice is far outweighed by the virtuous act. No morally equivalent sacrifice. Well, what about famine in Ben Zhu?”

“No danger to my pants, thankfully.” Truth nodded. The big man slapped his forehead with an enormous hand.

“There are charities, good ones, that do famine relief. If you donate your income, everything beyond what you need to survive, to those charities, they would save hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives. A far more morally useful use of your money than, say, a hot springs retreat.”

“Ah. Alright.”

There was another long pause. The steam drifted between the standing stones, blurring the world beyond the spring. It must be getting colder- the steam was slowly getting denser. The silver-haired man started laughing a little painfully.

“Kiddo, the argument is that by failing to donate the money, you are committing an immoral act. You are choosing to let people suffer and die even though you would be giving up nothing of morally equal significance.” The flabby hulk started laughing too, jiggling the hot spring’s water.

“He told everyone, with irrefutable logic, that they were evil, immoral people. And then the old monster had the nerve to turn it into a touching, beautiful poem. I cried.” Truth had the image of the ugly bastard crushing someone, letting their tears drip onto his cheeks, and claiming them as his own.

Truth thought about it. “I can see how that would make people mad, yes.” And yet, the old timer was at least Level Seven, and Truth would be buggered by badgers before he believed a good person could cultivate that high. Those elixirs cost more than just money, and the time cost of the cultivation was huge, too. He wondered if the term “homicidal maniac” might have been literal.

“Might I ask what art is created by Senior?” Truth asked. Presumably, it was something made out of screaming children and dogs.

“I’m a sculptor.” The bald man leered. Still on track for the screaming children and dogs, Truth noted.

“He’s a philosopher. He just uses clay and found objects as his medium.” The elegant man decided to butt in.

“The Senior expresses his philosophy in art?”

“Eloquently.”

“Bullshit. I make what sells.”

“Which is also a form of philosophy, though not the one you demonstrate. Tell me, boy, have you wondered what it means to be a human?” The poet asked.

Truth jolted. “A lot. I have come to imagine the world as a slum, and most of the people in it as slumrats. I am wondering what an actual human looks like. Can the Seniors please advise?”

That got him two matching sets of sharp looks. “Oh, we have a third philosopher in the bath. I don’t suppose you make art, do you?” The big man asked.

“I must disappoint you.”

“One day, you should give it a try.” The poet smiled kindly. The mist had thickened. Truth felt a cold breeze come down the mountain and across the hot spring. It blew away the steam momentarily, then the steam came back with a vengeance. The mountains, the valley, they all took on a dreamy, unreal texture. Truth let his body float a little more in the water. It was surprisingly easy to relax away the strain of the last few days.

“I cannot answer the “human” question any better than you can, it seems, but consider this- what if a human is not a fixed thing, but a thing constantly inventing and improving itself?” The pallid senior asked.

“Even if it’s changeable, there must be a core to improve on, right?”

“Yes, but if we can’t define it directly, can we observe things about it indirectly? Did you know you were a transhumanist, young man?”

“No?”

“You certainly are. You cultivate. Cultivation is a learned skill. It is something done for self-improvement. There is something in you that you dislike, and you change it by artificial means. Cosmetic glamors- transhuman. Fertility controlling drugs, mood stabilizing medication? Transhuman. Prosthetics? Transhuman. Transplanting a ghost into a golem? Ah, tricky, but I would argue it’s transhuman too.” The elegant man nodded. “Which is what this lunk does. He makes beautiful homes for ghosts.”

The big fellow snorted and looked away.

“Incredible. Just incredible.”

“The ghost homes go to the heart of his transhumanist philosophy, you see. It is the distinction between us. I see only-” he waved an elegant, if bony, hand, “What is. I want to stop the pain now. Not later. Now. I cannot control the future nor change the past. I concern myself only with the safety and well-being of the present.”

The big man’s face seemed to be drooping in the heat, his teeth getting bigger and blockier as his lips retracted from his gums. “I, on the other hand, think the world has always been fucked, is currently fucked BUT does not have to be fucked in the future!” He chuckled as he made chopping, thrusting motions with his hands.

“I make homes for ghosts, new bodies, new forms, because ghosts are creatures without a present or future. Their minds, such as they have, can only comprehend their past existence and lash out in anger or pain when the world doesn’t correspond to their memories. It isn’t “wrong,” it’s just their nature. Human nature, since ghosts are humans once the meat is off the bones. So can you give a “human” a prosthetic future? Even if that future is one that isn’t human-shaped?”

“You say “Yes.”

“I say yes.” The mists had totally enclosed them now. The sun should be bright, coming up on midday. Instead, the sky seemed to be locked in an endless gray, blending with the drifting steam. “Some leave as umbrellas, others as trees, some I form exquisite bodies of mud or clay or stone. Others are formed from scraps picked from the homes of happy families. Others unhappy families. Each unique. Each piece asks the same question- do the materials define our future existence? Or do we build the future from that “core” humanity you speculated?” The fleshy brutality of the man was shifting some. Something of a pig was in there, and something of a bull.

“I calm the ghosts with my calligraphy and poetry. Sometimes they are angry. I quell their temper, release them from their confusion and pain.” The pale, elegant man smiled softly. Something was emerging within him too, somewhere between bird and snake. “And obviously, setting up our workshop near a ready supply of materials is just good sense.”

“I can see that, Senior.” Truth “casually” looked around at the exits. When you got right down to it, he could just jump down the waterfall.

“You have saved us a lot of work, Kiddo! I thought we would be pissing around these mountains for days. But look at the harvest now!”

“The harvest?”

“Why, all those people you killed,” the pale man murmured. “How do you think you found this inn?”