by Rok Chillah
Ridge stood on the balcony of the family estate in the hills above Nuevos Aires. He sipped from a glass of sweet, sharp Armagnac on an inlaid table near the window sill. The windows were open, for it was a spring night, and the air was balmy. Both large moons were full and bright-yellow with mottled gray craters among the as yet only budding and still barren black tree limbs. Only one of the two reddish oxidized moons was visible, and that only low over the haze of light surrounding the city. There was one other important object in the sky as Ridge looked out comfortably, adjusting his bow tie by pulling on it with both hands, and as he then brush his tuxedo with both hands. That other object was a faint blue streak, a fine line, which was the viewing area running in a fine band around Largo. It was up to the Old Man now, and he had not made up his mind yet, though time was running out for him to die his final and natural death. All the treasures had been offloaded and were now on display in the House of Humanity on Avenida Plate overlooking the harbor. Should Nebula Express be scrapped and sent into the sun? Or should the ancient ship be maintained as a museum, or maybe the core of a new shopping complex, in orbit around New Earth?
"Ridge!" Brenna called.
"Coming!" He picked up his drink and turned away from the window. He crossed the large drawing room of the family estancia overlooking the city on one side, and the ocean beyond that (Nuevo Atlantico) and in the other direction the pampas that gleamed in moonlight.
The Old Man, Colfirio, had made some definite adjustments in kicking off the new world some 20 years ago when the ship hove into orbit. As the ship assumed her orbit, and the natural daylight of Nuevo Sol filled the sky above Largo, the first tangueros had come dancing down the streets with their bandonéones. They were the first reconstituted full men, the ones who prepared the ship for the rest of the men, women, and children. Much of the ship was still a ruined hulk, and the lives lost in the dormitories to Venable's mudmen would never be regained-which made for an eloquent testimonial, in all its irony, to the unique wonder of each human life. However, all the lives stored in codons and aminomemes were soon enough reconstituted in broth incubators and soon enough the stream of men and women dancing tango filled the streets of Largo with celebration. Then came the hard work of fine-tuning and terraforming the relatively primitive world whose several giant islands seemed either rocky and volcanic, with appropriate hardy lichens and mosses, or arid deserts dotted with stubbornly water-retentive pickleweed in a whole glorious organum of genera and species. At the same time, the Old Man made sure to install equity and democracy in this kingdom for which he had paid in Old Earth diñero an eon ago and part of a galaxy away. On each sweet river he ordered a city founded, roads laid out, places for gathering as people had always done, and most importantly universities in which to cultivate the common human memory and avoid dark ages and war. He was old now, and confined to a wheelchair overlooking the city of his dreams. Gentle breezes stirred his white hair and raked his mottled skin as he stared out with vague gray eyes. If he felt he had lost or gained anything during the ordeal in transit, he did not speak of it to anyone.
Today it was no different. The sun shone brightly, and the wrinkled old man smiled without his usual gruff and almost cruel strength. His blue eyes twinkled merrily as he lay wrapped in a russet blanket. In the distant blue harbor, ships lay at anchor. As he had specified in the founding constitution, his heirs would retain a good fortune, but most of the land and property had been turned over to the communities, and the most energetic and gifted men and women could work hard to buy privatized capital to build a new economy within a humane and equitable social framework. The old man's work was just about done, and he sometimes joked he had now become a temp of sorts, albeit with no special work or hardship, but just to enjoy the presence of his grandchildren.
There was to be a great celebration on the twentieth anniversary of the caudillo's first footfall on the planet that might have been named after him, but he refused the honor and instead asked simply that it be called New Earth. By now, there was no record of where Old Earth had been, which might even be rebuilding itself from its incineration under the comets, but there was a plan to one day beam messages in that direction of the galaxy in hope of hearing from some distant cousins. Perhaps a few of the colonists on Triton or Luna or some other corners had survived and rebuilt. One might listen for radio messages from that direction. At the moment, the colonists were too busy laying roads and breaking fields and irrigating the land to wonder about their long-ago home.
Ridge stepped into the grand patio where a group of little school children in their best suits were being marshaled for a choral rendition, Songs of Hope and Faith. So read the little brochure Ridge studied with amusement and pleasure as he crossed the marbled floor. His own children-two boys and two girls-would be singing among them. He and Brenna had been given a late start in this new life. It had taken the new people extra time to find and consolidate the scattered thoughts and memories of those who had suffered most under Venable's ministrations. A generation had grown by before Ridge and Brenna were raised from their tombs. Colfirio had already been hard at work, in a much younger body than that in which he had gone to sleep, and now he was growing old again a second time. He would leave his entire remaining estate to Ridge and Brenna, and everything must be just so. To that end, he'd had the best physicians and biofactors working for years to put together the best of who Ridge and Brenna had been. They'd even retrieved the child with which she'd been pregnant when the comets struck Old Earth, and that child was now a willowy blonde with serious eyes and regal demeanor, named Landa after the red-headed woman from Tacoma who had lived so briefly and had no children, but had died, Ridge hoped, happily in the cascades of warm water and green light and piano music in the Hotel Largo so long ago and far away.
Brenna smiled as she turned, holding up the baby of a sister who was both younger and older than Brenna. The sister, Marta, had been born before Brenna was reborn. It was one of the many wonders of their new life. Sometimes, like now, when he put his arm around his wife and took her aside for a private kiss, he would ask her: "Do you remember much about the trip coming over?"
She would laugh innocently and shake her head. "No, not much at all, and I suspect it's best that way. Do you remember any of those horror stories grandfather sometimes tells late at night when he is tired and giddy, and should go to bed?" She looked more radiant than he could remember, and she was positively aglow over her children. She looked lovely, Ridge thought, with her dark red hair and pale skin, with her serious eyes and bright smile as she stood in the sunshine surrounded by children and with the wind lightly blowing her flowery dress. Ridge would shake his head and say, "Probably not half as much as I could remember, and definitely much more than I wish to remember."
