Karuna, Inc
a novella
by Paul Di Filippo


He learned about pain and death from an ugly dying dog. It had been
run over and lay by the side of the road, its chest crushed, bloody
foam bubbling from its mouth. When he bent over it the dog gazed at
him with glasslike eyes that already saw into the next world.

To understand what the dog was saying he put his hand on its stumpy
tail. "Who mandated this death for you?" he asked the dog. "What
have you done?"

                --Philip K. Dick, The Divine Invasion


                            1.
                    Memories of the 37th

Maybe he should get himself a dog.
A dog--a pet, a constant companion, something to fuss over--might
help.

But then again, maybe not. It was so hard to know, to make up his
mind.

Considering his unique situation. His special troubles. His extra share
of suffering.

Adding any unknown factor to the sad equation of his life might
disguise its solution, remove any answer forever beyond his powers of
philosophical computation. (Assuming his life--anyone's life--was
solvable at all.)

But how could he know for sure without trying?

Yet did he dare try?

Foolish as the dilemma seemed, it was a real quandary, seemingly his
alone.

Others seemed not to have such problems.

For instance. Everyone in Thurman Swan's life had a dog, it seemed.
All the people he hung with daily at the Karuna Koffeehouse. (He felt
odd calling them "friends," upon such short acquaintance, even though
they were starting to feel a little like that.) Shenda, Buddy, Chug'em,
SinSin, Verity, Odd Vibe.... They were all dog owners, every
manjack and womanjill of them. Big dogs or little dogs, mutts or
purebreds, quiet or yippy, reserved or exuberant, shaggy or groomed,
their dogs came in all varieties. But one thing all the animals had in
common, Thurman had noticed: they were inseparable from their
masters and mistresses, loyal behind questioning, and seemed to repay
every attention lavished on them in some psychic coin.
                              2.
                    Bullfinch's Mythology

"No!"
Shenda Moore burst the shackles of her bad dream with an actual
effort of will. There was nothing involuntary or accidental about her
escape. No built-in handy mental trapdoor opened automatically, no
cluster of ancient guardian neurons on the alert triggered its patented
wake-up! subroutine. No, it was all Shenda's own doing. The
disengagement from the horrifying scenario, the refusal to participate in
her subconscious's fear-trip, the determination to leave the grasping
fantasies of sleep behind for the larger consensual illusion called
reality-- It was all attributable to the force of Shenda's character.

Really, everyone who knew her would have said, So typical of the
girl!

Sometimes Shenda wished she were different. Not so driven, so
in-charge, so capable. Sure, mostly she was grateful every minute of
every day to Titi Yaya for bringing her up so. Shenda liked who she
was.

But being responsible for everything was really so much work! An
endless roster of sweaty jobs: mopping up messes, straightening
crooked lives, building and repairing, shoring up, tearing down, kissing
all the boo-boos better. Mwah! And now: stop yer sobbin'.

Dancing with the Tarbaby, Shenda called it.

And there was no stopping allowed.

Especially now--with Karuna, Inc., taking off and demanding so much
of her time--Shenda awoke most mornings with a hierarchical tree of
chores arrayed neatly in her head, a tree where any free time hung like
forbidden fruit at the farthest unreachable branch tips.

But even coming online to such a formidable task-array was better
than waking like this.

Shenda's heart was still pounding like a conga, her shouted denial still
bouncing around the bedroom walls. She clicked on a table lamp and
swung her slim and muscular caramel legs out from under the sheets,
sitting upright in her cotton Hanro nightshirt. She massaged each
temple with two fingers for a while, lustrous and wavy black hair
waterfalling around her lowered face, while contemplating the
nightmare.

It was not the first time she had had the nightmare.

She was on a flat graveled rooftop in broad daylight, level with the
upper stories of many surrounding buildings. Tin-walled elevator-shaft
shack, a satellite dish, door to a stairwell, whirling vents, a couple of
planters and deckchairs. Highly plausible, except that she had never
been in such a place.

With her was Bullfinch.
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