by Greg Bear
Gaia
The clavicle came into her hands and comforted her. It knew her; for the moment, that was enough. The clavicle was withdrawn and she missed it deeply.
No time at all later, but later nonetheless, she realized the clavicle had told her the gate was fully established, a “commercial width.” There were other gates. This did not comfort her.
Lugotorix, standing naked between two huge snake-swords, touched on arm and thigh by dots of luminous green.
You are connected with this man?
Yes.
Do you need him?
Yes.
And the others?
She thought of Demetrios and Oresias.
They saved them.
She wondered what would happen to the others.
It did not comfort her that she was a center of attention. For a time, there were many of her, and some of her selves were subjected to unpleasant experiences. That was all she remembered. Her body was not injured.
She had no privacy.
They asked her if Athene had opened gates to Gaia; or Isis, or Astarte. Rhita said no. She did not believe these beings, gods, actually existed. That interested them. Are the gods imaginary companions to console you for the possibility of dying?
She didn’t know how to answer that.
You did not make the clavicle.
No answer required. That much must have been obvious.
How did you find it?
She told them.
They believed her.
They became very interested in the sophē.
She’s dead, Rhita informed them.
You are from her.
Again, no answer was required.
Some time of intense discomfort, worse than pain.
It was almost worth the experience to feel time passing.
Without memory, she stood in a place of blue sky and crumbling marble overlooking the sea.
That went away, and came back, and she was years younger, standing in the sanctuary of Athene Lindia. She remembered everything, including her life after this moment. A young man stood near her, vaguely handsome; his face was not clearly defined. He wore a white byssos shirt and dark pants with legs split and tied; like a fisherman, but not. She wondered if this was a lover but he was not; nor was he a friend.
“Is this pleasant for you?” he asked, walking around her. “Please be truthful.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“I hope you’ll pardon our intrusion. We’ve had few opportunities to work directly with your kind. You’ve been treated rudely.”
She forgave nothing. Her confusion was too great for such niceties.
“Would you prefer I have a name?”
“I won’t know you, anyway.”
“Would you prefer we stay here?”
It seemed wise to say yes. She nodded, appreciating the sun on her face and the cool reassurance of the abandoned temple in the rock. She did not believe she was actually there.
I am Rhita, she told herself. I am alive. Maybe I’ve been taken through the gate.
Maybe Grandmother came from Hades.
32
Thistledown City
For reasons clear only to himself and his advocate, the president had decided not to lodge in the formal Nexus quarters beneath the dome. Instead, he chose temporary quarters in a small, plainly decorated apartment in a Journey Century Five building adjacent to the arboretum, a kilometer from the dome. Four hours after Mirsky’s testimony, Farren Siliom held audience there with Korzenowski, Mirsky, Olmy and Lanier. His manner was sharply formal. He seemed to be controlling anger.
“Pardon my forthrightness,” he picted to Korzenowski. “I have never, in my existence in the Way and now near Earth—never seen such a treacherous about-face by a celebrated Hexamon citizen.”
Korzenowski bowed slightly, face stiffening “I make these requests reluctantly, and under pressure,” he said. “That should be obvious.”
“I’m sure the entire Nexus needs a Talsit session,” Farren Siliom said, pressing on the bridge of his nose. The president glanced at Lanier, seemed to dismiss him with a leisurely blink, then focused his attention on Mirsky. “The Hexamon considers itself an advanced society, whatever our self-ordained limitations…but I find it very hard to believe our work could have such far-ranging consequences.”
“You are at a crux,” Mirsky said.
“So you claim. We are not complete innocents, however. I well remember Olmy’s deceit before the Geshels some years back, when he brought the Engineer back to us. He did all true Naderites a service. But is this another kind of deceit, another manipulation?”
“The truth of my story should be obvious,” Mirsky said.
“Not so obvious to someone who has spent the last ten years fighting a tide of sympathy for re-opening. Fought with the Engineer by my side, although that seems difficult to believe now.”
Lanier swallowed. “May I sit?” he asked.
“By all means,” Farren Siliom said. “My irritation obscures my manners.” The president ordered a chair to be formed for Lanier, and as an afterthought, ordered chairs for them all. “We’re going to talk for some time,” he told Korzenowski.
“I’m a reasonably practical man,” Farren Siliom continued, “as practical as a politician can be in charge of a nation of dreamers and idealists. That’s what the Hexamon believes it is; has been for centuries. But we’ve also been hard-headed, strong and willful. We met the challenge of the Way once. But we nearly lost to the Jarts, and they have had decades since to refine their tactics. We all believe they’ve occupied the entire Way—don’t we?”
Lanier was the only one to abstain from agreeing. He felt like a dwarf among giants here; again old, a fifth wheel.
“Do you understand my confusion?” Farren Siliom asked Korzenowski.
“Yes, I do, Ser President.”
“Then clear it up for me. You’ve been convinced, but do you swear to me by the Good Man, by the Stars and Fate and Pneuma, that you are not involved in a plot to re-open your creation, and you have not somehow fabricated this entire episode?”
Korzenowski regarded the president for several seconds in offended silence. “I so swear.”
“I regret calling your integrity into question, Ser Korzenowski. But I must be absolutely certain. You had no prior knowledge of Ser Mirsky’s return?”
“I half-expected something of this sort; I cannot say I believed it would happen. No, I did not have prior knowledge.”
“You are convinced the Way has done this damage?”
“Not damage, Ser Minister,” Mirsky said. “Obstruction.”
“Whatever. You are convinced?” He stared sharply at Korzenowski.
“Yes.”
“You understand that most of the corpreps and senators have the highest regard for you, but that your motives in this case must be suspect. You spent much of your life creating the sixth chamber machinery and the Way. You must have felt some justifiable pride at changing the course of Thistledown’s history. It would be understandable if you felt your status had decreased since your reincarnation and since the Sundering. Personally, I’m well aware you’ve had nothing to do with encouraging our neo-Geshels.” Calmer now, the president rubbed his hands together and sat among them. “If we open the Way, will we be at war with the Jarts, Ser Olmy?”
“I believe we will.”
That’s it, Lanier thought.
“If we do not open the Way, Ser Mirsky, and make preparations to close it from our end, will we block the distant, noble efforts of our descendants?”
“Of the descendants of all intelligent creatures in our universe, Ser President. Yes.”
Farren Siliom leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I can replay parts of your testimony. I’m sure most of the corpreps and senators are doing so now.” He grimaced. “The procedure for voting on this is going to be difficult. We’ve never called for a complete Hexamon plebiscite. Do you understand the problems?”
&
nbsp; Mirsky shook his head.
“Let me enumerate them. Voting procedures on Thistledown and in the orbiting precincts are very different from those on Earth. Most citizens on Earth must vote physically. It would take months to make arrangements for such a vote; we simply haven’t prepared.
“Each citizen in space must download a special partial into a mens publica in city memory. The partials are assembled into a unified whole, using methods strictly outlined in the Hexamon constitution, and can vote within two to three seconds on any subject, though by law they are given much more time to make a decision. Citizens can update their partials once a day if they wish, to reflect changing personal attitudes; the partials cannot evolve opinions on their own.
“Those are the technical considerations. Considered as a problem of public policy, if we re-open the Way only to destroy it, we aggravate those who wish the Way to remain closed, and to avoid conflict with the Jarts. We certainly do not satisfy those who wish to reoccupy the Way. And the Jarts will no doubt resist our efforts fiercely. They may have more at stake in the Way now than we ever did; they seemed much more singular in their pursuits. Am I correct, Ser Olmy?”
“Yes.”
Farren Siliom folded his hands. “I do not know how our Terrestrial citizens will view this problem. Or even whether they’re capable of judging now. For most Old Natives, the Way is a very foggy concept, at best. Earthbound citizens do not have direct access to extensive city memories or libraries yet. I suspect, however, that the neo-Geshels will invoke the Recovery laws and cut Earth out of the voting entirely…. That would be exceptionally distasteful.”
“Earth’s senators would fight it every step of the way,” Lanier said.
“The Recovery laws haven’t been used for a while, but they’re still in place.” Farren Siliom raised his hands, face drawn. “The way I read the Hexamon’s temper now, those who want to re-open are about evenly divided with those who don’t. Social condensations and coalescences are not at all unlikely in such a split; rapid formation of power groups…perhaps even a neo-Geshel domination in the Nexus. The neo-Geshels could force me to act as they decree, or resign and let them form a new government. These problems are not specifically your problems, my companions. But you bring them to me, and I can’t say I’m grateful to you. Nor can I say how the vote will go. We face a number of problems, a number of decisions, and now that the genie has finally crawled—or exploded—out of its bottle again…”
Farren Siliom stood and picted a query at the quarters’ monitor. “If you could stay here for another few minutes, gentlemen, I’ve arranged for another Old Native to join us. Ser Mirsky should remember him. You were companions, fellow soldiers, during the invasion of Thistledown by forces of the Soviet Union, before the Sundering…before the Death. He returned to Earth after the Sundering, and has lived in what we now call Anatolia.”
Mirsky nodded, face composed. Lanier tried to remember the surviving Russians who had worked with and around Mirsky, and found only a few faces weakly linked with names in his memory. The sharp, acerbic zampolit Belozersky…assured, calm, doomed Vielgorsky, senior engineer Pritikin.
The monitor flashed and Farren Siliom ordered the door to open. “Gentlemen, this is Ser Viktor Garabedian,” he said with a look of triumphant expectation. He believes he’ll expose Mirsky, Lanier thought.
Garabedian entered the room, white-haired, thin, slightly stooped. His hands were hideously scarred. His eyes were half-lidded, rheumy. Lanier could read his condition almost immediately. Talsit-cleansed radiation damage…he must have tried to return to the Soviet Union, decades ago.
Garabedian looked around the room, obviously not prepared for this meeting. His eyes lit on Mirsky and an ironic smile crossed his face. Mirsky seemed stunned.
“Comrade General,” Garabedian said.
Mirsky rose and approached the old man. They stood apart for a moment, and then Mirsky spread his arms and hugged him. “What happened to you, Viktor?” he asked in Russian, holding the old man at arm’s length.
“A long story. I expected another old man. They didn’t tell me you’d look the same. Ser Lanier, I recognize him, but he looks dignified, not like a youngster.”
Farren Siliom folded his arms. “It took us several hours to locate Ser Garabedian.”
“I live as near Armenia as I can,” Garabedian told Mirsky. “The homeland will be cleansed in a few years, and I can return. I’ve worked as a policeman with the Soviet Recovery Forces…I fought in the Armenian Liberation against the Hexamon…Not much of a war, like children fighting their doctors and teachers with sticks. When that was put down, I became a farmer. Where have you been, Comrade General?”
Mirsky glanced around the room, tears in his eyes. “Friends, Viktor and I must talk.”
“They want me to ask you some questions,” Garabedian said.
“Yes, but alone. All but for you, Garry. Will you come with us? We need a room.” He glanced at the president.
“You can use one of my work rooms,” Farren Siliom said. “We will record your meeting, of course…”
Lanier observed the change in Mirsky’s expression. He seemed sharper, more hawk-like, less serene; much more like the Pavel Mirsky he had first met in the Stone, four decades ago.
“I’d like to speak with Ser Lanier for a moment, then he’ll join you,” Korzenowski said.
The two men left the room, guided by the president to another section of his temporary quarters.
“Ser Lanier?” Korzenowski asked.
“He’s Mirsky,” Lanier said.
“Did you doubt?”
“No,” he said.
“But this is additional proof?”
“For the president,” Lanier said. “It has to be the clincher.”
“The president’s reservoirs of doubt are vast,” Olmy said quietly. “Matched only by political expediency.”
The president passed Lanier in the wide cylindrical hallway, nodding at him. Uncomfortable, Lanier followed Mirsky and Garabedian into the work room and stood beside them. A small round table rose out of the floor, surrounded by several free-form chairs. The room smelled vaguely of clean snow and pines; a residue, Lanier suspected, of some previous environment.
Garabedian, cap clutched in gnarled pink and white hands, examined his old comrade with the childlike eyes of the old and weary, eyes empty of any emotion but a kind of stunned wonder.
“Garry, Viktor was with me when the Space Shock Troops invaded the Potato—Thistledown,” Mirsky said. “He was with me when we surrendered, and he advised me during the bad times after…I last saw him before I volunteered to go with the Geshel precincts. You’ve lived through hard times, Viktor.”
Garabedian continued to stare, his mouth slack. Then he turned to Lanier. “Sir,” he said in halting English, “You have not stayed youthful. Some have. But Comrade General Mirsky…”
“No longer a general,” Mirsky said quietly.
“He has not changed at all, except…” Garabedian squinted at Mirsky again, and said in Russian, “When you were shot, sir, you changed. You became more resolved.”
“I’ve been on a very long journey since.”
“The people who brought me here…we seldom see them in Armenia. They come to break up our little wars, to stop our plagues, to repair our equipment. We were like children. We hated them so much. We wished to be let alone.”
“I understand,” Mirsky said.
“This time, they did not ask me…Pavel.” Using Mirsky’s first name seemed to strain the old man. “They came and said I was needed. They said I was a witness. They were like police in the old times.” His voice rose. “How can they treat us so like children? We have suffered! So many died.”
“How have you suffered, Viktor? Tell me.”
Lanier saw Mirsky’s face become bland and accepting again, and a chill made him clench his jaw muscles. Mirsky put his arms on Garabedian’s shoulders. “Tell me.”
“Nothing is like it was,” Garabedian sa
id. “Nothing will ever be. There is good and bad in that. It seems all my life I have been confused, having seen this, and then gone back to the villages where my forefathers lived. Having fought against the Hexamon, having lost…”
“Yes?”
Garabedian held up his hands. “We went into poisoned lands. The soil had become a serpent. It bit us. We were taken out by Hexamon angels. They apologized for not giving us new bodies. I could not go home. There was nothing there. I moved into Armenia…they call it North Anatolia now. No nations, they say. No factions. Only citizens. I farmed and raised a family. They were killed in an earthquake.”
Lanier felt the familiar sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Couldn’t save them all.
“I raised horses. I joined an Armenian cooperative for protection against the Turks. Then the Turks made peace, and together we fought against immigrant Iranian farmers raising opium. The Hexamon came in there, too, and pulled us out…Then they gave people something that made the opium useless.”
Mirsky looked at Lanier.
“Some sort of immune response, blockers…” Lanier said. He knew very little about this aspect of the Recovery. Mirsky nodded.
“Go on.”
“It has been a long life, Pavel. I have suffered and seen many die, but until now I have forgotten much of the pain. I see you, so young. It is indeed you?”
“No,” Mirsky said. “Not the same one for you know. I’ve lived a much longer time than you, Viktor. I’ve seen much myself, triumph and failure.”
Garabedian smiled weakly, shaking his head. “I remember Sosnitsky. He was a good man. I think often that we could have used him in Armenia…Me! An Armenian, thinking that about a White Russian! Everything has been turned upside down, Pavel, and it is still upside down. I hated the Turks, now I am married to a Turkish woman. She is small and brown and has long gray hair. She is not a city girl, not like my first wife, but she’s given me a beautiful daughter. I’m a farmer now, growing special plants for the Hexamon.”
Lanier thought of the Frant farmers on Timbl, the Frant homeworld, walking through their fields, growing biologically altered crops for export to the Way.
