by Greg Bear
"Did you like it?"
"It's wonderful," she said. "Such defiance. Beautiful, really. Like the whole planet is just hitting puberty."
I had never heard it described that way. Martians tended to think of themselves as old and established, perhaps confusing our own brief past with the planet's obvious age. "Where did you visit?"
"We were invited to stay in half a dozen towns and cities. We even went to a handful of extreme stations, new ones settled by immigrant Terries. My father and mother know quite a few Eloi. We didn't get to — " Again the introspective pause. "Ylla or Jiddah. That's your home, isn't it?"
"What are you referencing?" I asked. My home address wasn't on the open manifest.
"I sucked in the public directories," Orianna said. "I haven't dumped them yet."
"Why would you want to do that? Any slate can carry them."
"I don't use a slate," she said. "I take it direct. No separation. I love being dipped."
"Dipped?"
She wrapped her arms around herself. "Immersed. It's like I just go away, and there's only information and processing, pure and swift."
"Oh."
"Learning distilled into an essence. Education means being."
"Oh." I closed my mouth.
"I think I came on sharp for most Martians. I negged quite a few my own age, even. Martians are fashion locked, aren't they?"
"Some think so."
"You?"
"I'm pretty conservative, I suppose."
She unfolded long arms and legs and gripped the holds in the booth with uncanny grace. "I don't like anybody on the ship, for partners, I mean," she said. "Do you?"
"No," I said.
"Have you had many partners?"
"You mean, lovers?"
She smiled wisely, anciently. "That's a good word, but not always accurate, is it?"
"A few," I said, hoping she would take a hint and not pry.
"My parents were part of the early partner program. I've been partnering since I was ten. Do you think that's too early?"
I hid my shock; I had heard about early partnering, but it had certainly never taken on Mars. "We think childhood is for children," I said.
"Believe me," Orianna said, "I haven't been a child since I was five. Does that bother you?"
"You first had sex when you were ten?" This conversation was making me very uncomfortable.
"No! I haven't had physical sex at all."
"Sim?" I asked meekly.
"Sometimes. Partnering . . . oh, I see your confusion. I mean sharing closeness mentally, finding so many kinds of pleasure together. I like whole-life sims. I've experienced two . . . Very expanding. So I know all about sex, of course. Even sex that's not physically possible. Sex between four-dimensional human forms." Suddenly she looked distressed, and she had such a charismatic presence that I immediately wanted to apologize, do anything to make her happy. My God, I thought. A planet full of people like her.
"I've never shared my mind," I said.
"I'd love to share with you." The offer was so disarming I was at a loss for an answer. "You have a truly natural presence," she continued. "I think you could share beautifully. I've been watching you since the trip began . . . " She primmed her lips and pulled back to the wall. "If I'm not too forward."
"No," I said.
She put out her hand and touched my cheek, stroking it once with the back of her fingers. "Share with me?"
I blushed furiously. "I don't ... do sims," I said.
"Just talk, then. For the trip. And when we get to Earth, I can show you a few things you'd probably miss ... as a Martian tourist. Meet my friends. We'd all enjoy you."
"All right," I said, hoping, if the offer were more than I could possibly handle, that I could plead an intercultural misunderstanding and escape.
"Earth is really something," Orianna said with a wonderfully languid blink. "I see it a lot more clearly now that I've been to Mars."
We were close to the ten-million-kilometer mark, three weeks into the voyage. The fusion drives would soon turn on. The hull would not be livable once they became active.
After a truly big party, featuring one of the best banquets the voyage would offer, the Captain said his farewells and crossed to the opposite cylinder. Passengers berthed there would no longer be able to visit us; we all shook hands and they followed the Captain.
Most of our cylinder's occupants went to bed in their cabins to take the change easily. A few hardy souls, myself included, stayed in the lounge. There was an obligatory countdown. I hated feeling like a tourist, but I joined in. Acre was too pleasant and cajoling to be denied his duties.
We had returned to weightlessness, but were about to acquire full Earth weight for several hours. The countdown arrived at zero, all eight of us shouted at once, and the ship resounded with a hollow thud. We set our feet onto the lounge floor. Orianna, near her parents, seemed close to ecstasy. I was reminded of Bernini's St. Theresa speared by a shaft of inspiration.
The fusion flare followed us like a gorgeous bridal train. Brilliant blue at the center, tipped with orange from ablated and ionized engine and funnel lining, it pushed us relentlessly to almost three times our accustomed Mars weight, a full g.
A few, including Orianna's mother and father, climbed forward and valiantly exercised in the gym, joking and casting aspersions on the rest of us slackers.
I chose a middle course, climbing around the cylinder for an hour. My temp bichemistry treatments made the full g force bearable but not pleasant. I had read in travel prep that a week on Earth might pass before someone with temp became comfortable with the oppressive weight. Orianna accompanied me; she had temp also, and was working to regain Earth strength.
As we climbed through the cylinder, from the observation deck to the forward boom control walkway, Orianna told me about Earth fashions in clothes.
"I've been out of it for two years, of course," she said. "But I like to think I'm still tuned. And I keep up with the vids."
"So what are they wearing?" I asked.
"Formal and frilly. Greens and lace. Masks are out this year, except for floaters — projected masks with personal icons. Everybody's off pattern projection, though. I liked pattern projection. You could wear almost nothing and still be discreet."
"I can redo my wardrobe. I've brought enough raw cloth."
Orianna made a face. "This year, expect fixed outfits, not nano-shaped. Old fabric is best. Tattered is wonderful. We'll dig through the recycle shops. The shredbare look is very pos. Nano fake is beyond deviance."
"Do I have to be in fashion?"
"Abso not! It's drive to ignore. I switch from loner to slave every few months when I'm at home."
"Terries will expect a red rabbit to be trop retro, no?"
Orianna smiled in friendly pity. "With that speech, you're fulfilled already. Just listen to me, and you'll slim me current."
Breathless, standing on the walkway around the bow's boom connector, we rested for a moment. "So correct me," I said, gasping.
"You still say 'trop shink' on Mars. That's abso neg, mid twenty-one. Sounds like Chaucer to Terries. If you don't drive multilingual, and you'd better not try unless you wear an enhancement, best to speak straight early twenty-two. Everyone understands early twenty-two, unless you're glued to French or German or Dutch. They ridge on anything about twenty years old for drive standard. Chinese love about eight kinds of Europidgin, but hit them in patrie, and they revert to twenty Putonghua. Russian — "
"I'll stick with English."
"Still safe," she said.
The fusion drives shut off and weightlessness returned. The time had come to separate the cylinders from the hull and begin rotation. Tuamotu carefully spun her long booms between central hull and outboard cylinders. The booms were attached to a rotor on the hull, and the cylinders used their own small methane kickers to set up spin.
When extended, the cylinders pointed perpendicular to the hull; just as when we had experienced s
hip acceleration, to move from deck to deck one had to climb up or down, or take the elevator. The centrifugal force created about one-fourth g in the observation lounge, the outboard or "lowest" deck.
When the cylinders had cycled to maximum, the warm sleepers retired to their cubicles. A little party was given for them. In our cylinder, we were now down to twenty-three active passengers, and seven months to go ...
Orianna had filled her cabin with projected picts, each leading to a sim or LitVid put on hold; twenty or more, hanging in the air like tiny sculptures, some pulsing, some singing faintly. She laughed. "Silly, isn't it?" she said. "I'll turn them off ... " She waved and the icons disappeared, allowing me to see the rest of her cabin. It was tidy but busy. A sweater lay in one corner, or at least half of a sweater. Little sticks poked out of it, and a ball of what must have been thread — yarn, I remembered — lay beside it. "Knitting?" I asked.
"Yeah. Sometimes I don't know where I am or what I'm doing, and knitting or crocheting brings me back. It's the drive in Paris, where my father lives."
"Your mother lives with your father?"
"Sometimes. They bond loose. I live with my father most of the year. Sometimes I go to Ethiopia to live with my mother. She's a merchandising agent for Iskander Resources. They temp for skilled labor all over the world."
"And your father?"
"He's a mining engineer for European Waters Conservancy. He spends lots of time in submarines. I have a great North Sea sim — like to see it?"
"Not right now. Wouldn't you like to live in just one place?" I asked.
Orianna held out her hands. "Why?"
"To get a feeling of belonging. Knowing where you are."
She smiled brightly. "I know the entire Earth. Not just in sims, either. I've been all over, with and without my parents. I can fly a shocker from Djibouti to Seattle in four hours. Weather change is great. Really sweeps the sugars."
"Have you ever gone slow?" I asked.
"You mean ..." She smoothed her hand along the bed cover. "Ground speed? Double-digit kiphs?"
"Single digit."
"Sure. I bicycled across France two years ago with some Kenyans. Campfires, night skies, grape harvest in Alsace. You're really jammed on this, aren't you?"
"If you mean, stuck in a rut, obviously."
"Earth isn't decadent, Casseia. It really isn't. I'm not a poor little rich girl, any more than you are."
"Maybe I'm just jealous."
"I'd call it shy," Orianna said. "But if you want to ask me about Earth, realtime, oral history and culture, that's fine with me. We have months left, and I don't want to spend it all jogging and simming."
My Earth studies and conversations with Alice had left me with the impression of a flawless society, cool and efficient. But what I heard in conversation with Orianna seemed to contradict this. There were great disagreements between Terries; nations within GEWA and its southern equivalent, GSHA, arguing endlessly, clashing morality systems as populations from one country traded places with others — a popular activity in the late 70s. Some populations — Islam Fatimites, Green Idaho Christians, Mormons, Wahabi Saudis, and others — maintained stances that would be conservative even on Mars, clinging stubbornly to their cultural identities in the face of Earth-wide criticism.
Paleo-Christians in Green Idaho, practically a nation unto itself within the United States, had declared the rights of women to be less than those of men. Women fought to have their legal powers and rights reduced, despite opposition from all other states. On the reverse, in Fatimite Morocco and Egypt, men sought to glorify the image of women, whom they regarded as Chalices of Mohammed. In Greater Albion, formerly the United Kingdom, adult transforms who had regressed in apparent age to children were forbidden to hold political office, creating a furor I could hardly begin to untangle. And in Florida, defying regulations, some humans transformed themselves into shapes similar to marine mammals . . . And to pay for it, organized Sex in the Sea exhibits for tourists.
In language, the greatest craze of the 60s and 70s was invented language. Mixing old tongues, inventing new, mixing music and words electronically so that one could not tell where tones left off and phonemes began, creating visual languages that wrapped speakers in projected, complex symbols, all seemed designed to separate and not bring together. Yet enhancements were available that were tuned to the New Lingua Nets or NLN. Installing the NLN enhancements through nano surgery, one could understand virtually any language, natural or invented, and even think is their vernacular.
The visual languages seemed especially drive in the 70s. In GEWA alone, seventy visual languages had been created. The most popular was used by more than four and a half billion people.
Despite what Alice had said, it didn't sound at all integrated to me. To a Martian, even to a native like Orianna, Earth seemed diverse, bewildering, crazy.
But to Alice, Earth was entering the early stages of a new kind of history.
Six weeks into the flight, Bithras called me to his cabin. I girded myself for battle, palmed his door port. The door opened and I stepped in at the wave of his hand. He wore long pants and a cotton long-sleeved shirt, again in white, and he muttered to himself for a few minutes, searching for memory cubes, as if I had not yet arrived. "Yes," he said finally, locating the lost cubes and turning to face me. "I hope your trip has not been too dull."
I shook my head. "I've spent most of the time researching and exercising," I said.
"And talking to Alice."
"Yes."
"Alice is brilliant, but she has some of the naivete found in all thinkers," Bithras said. "They cannot judge humans harshly enough. I have no such illusions. My dear, the time has come for us to do some work, and it involves your past ... If you are willing."
I stared at him and gave the faintest nod.
"What do you know about Martian scientists and Bell Continuum theory?"
"I don't think I know anything about Bell Continuum theory," I said.
"Majumdar BM has been speaking with Cailetet Mars about sponsoring new research. There is a request for so-called Quantum Logic thinkers in the works. Earth is exporting such thinkers, but they are incredibly expensive . . . thirty-nine million dollars, shipped endo and inactive. We must build our own personalities for them, and that might take months, even years."
I still volunteered nothing, though I could feel where he was heading.
"You once knew Charles Franklin, promising student from Klein BM, correct?"
"Yes."
"You were lovers?"
I swallowed and thrust my chin forward resentfully. "Briefly," I said.
"He is lawbonded now to a woman from Cailetet."
"Oh."
Bithras studied my reaction. "Mr. Franklin heads a group of young theoretical physicists at Tharsis Research. They are known as the Olympians."
"I didn't know that," I said.
"Not surprising, since their work is kept close to their bosoms. They report only to the fund administrators, and have published nothing so far. I want you to read this transmission from Earth. It is a few days old, and it was sent to Cailetet from Stanford University."
"How did you get it?" I asked.
Bithras smiled, shook his head, and handed his slate to me. The message was pure text and read:
We've established strong link between time tweak and space tweak. Can derive most special relat. Third tweak discovered may be co-active but purpose unknown. Tweak time, tweak space, third tweak changes automatically. Probably derive general relat. as regards curvature, but third tweak pushes a fourth tweak, weakly and sporadically . . . Derive conservation of destiny? Fifty tweaks discovered so far. More to come. Can you share your discoveries? Mutual bennies if yes.
"A scientific courtship," Bithras said. "Highly unusual, Earth courting Mars. Did Charles Franklin discuss such matters?"
"No," I said. "Well ... I think he mentioned 'Bell Continuum' and something else. 'Forbidden channels.' Whatever they are. He didn't
say much. I wasn't interested."
"Pity," Bithras said. "You had a prime opportunity, both to romance Mr. Franklin and to learn about something very important. He might have told you?"
"If he had, I wouldn't have understood."
"The 'Bell Continuum,' my researchers tell me, is the key to a radical theory of physics that shows some promise. The Olympians refer to universes as 'destinies.'"
I shook my head, still all uncomprehending.
"We are interested, Casseia, because Cailetet Mars is being pressured to pull out from Tharsis funding. All funding."
"Cailetet is Lunar," I said.
"Yes, but dominated by GEWA, and Cailetet Mars would enjoy being more independent. And at the same time, Mr. Franklin has been approached by Stanford University to join their program and come to Earth to continue his research. They promise access to Earth's most advanced thinkers, including Quantum Logic thinkers, and a very high personal salary as well. They will also help relieve Klein's money problems. Which, of course, are due largely to interference from GEWA."
"Did he accept?"
"He reported the offer to Klein, as is only polite within a family, and Klein informed the Council, which is also only polite. The Council passed the information to major funders of Tharsis research. No, he did not accept. Mr. Franklin is an admirable young man. Alice concludes that Earth is heavily engaged in research in the Bell Continuum and something called 'descriptor theory.' There have been other hints to that effect."
"It's important?"
Bithras smiled. "Earth won't get Charles Franklin, or any of the Olympians. Majumdar will work with Cailetet to finance three QL thinkers for their purposes."
"Oh," I said. Charles had done the right thing, and he had gotten what he wanted by doing it. Admirable.
"I am sorry your affair went no further," Bithras said. "Why did you break with him?"
The transition into personal prying was accomplished with so little change in tone that I was almost lulled into answering. Instead, I smiled and turned one hand over, raised my eyebrows, and shrugged: C'est la vie.
"Have you had much experience with brilliant men?"
