Breakfast was toasted bread topped with some sort of sweet fruit spread, something like a thick soup consisting mostly of cooked oat-like grains, and two cups of buna. Stuffed and unable to eat another bite, it was time for the day to begin.
“Having seen something of Earth and its sister world Cronos yesterday, sir, I thought you might be interested in touring other worlds. I’m given to understand that a celebration is being planned in your honor this evening on the planet Ouroboros, more formal in tone than the gathering last night, but we should have ample opportunity to return and prepare this afternoon, if you are willing to attend.”
“Another party? Who’s throwing this one, then?”
“The invitations carry the identifying signature of Chief Executive Zel i’Cirea, who appears to speak on behalf of the Further fund.”
I had vague memories of someone mentioning something called the Further fund when I’d awoken on the Pethesilean habitat, but couldn’t place it. “What’s a Further fund?”
The escort waggled its head from side to side for a moment, thoughtfully, as though considering its answer. “Such groups are established when individuals or organizations wish to raise funds for joint ventures.”
“To raise capital, you mean?” I realized that I hadn’t seen anything like a commercial transaction since I’d arrived and had heard nothing referring to currency of any kind.
“Not in the exact sense you mean, sir,” the escort explained. “Most worlds of the Entelechy use power as a medium of exchange. Every inhabitant is given an equal share of the available energy produced by the planet or habitat, which, with the aid of fabricants, is used to fabricate materials, create housing, food, and so forth. Any surplus left over the individual can use as they see fit. Many individuals exchange surplus power for craft goods or services, not as payment, but as gratuity. Groups of individuals can opt to use their surplus power en masse, for such enterprises as terraforming and colonizing homeworlds or constructing sublight starships or fabricating habitats. A small minority of worlds use currency or credit or state ownership, but most have adopted the power-exchange model.”
“So to what use will this Further fund put their power?”
Again the head waggle, again the slight delay. “Perhaps it would be better to let them explain for themselves at the gathering this evening, sir. I fear that I might not do their goals and ambitions justice, given my relative inexperience.”
When Wayfarer One left Sol, the nations of Earth were enjoying an uneasy peace led by the United Nations, but there were always minor skirmishes and border wars on the ground, in the skies, and in space.
In the years following the Impact, and the attendant economic depression, the old United Nations nearly splintered. The United States of America withdrew from membership, followed shortly by the member states that subsequently formed the theocracy of Dar al-Islam. Authority was consolidated by the European Union, the Pan-African Commonwealth, India, MERCOSUR, and the Oceanic Trade Zone. When, in the late 21C, these economic trade federations and multinational confederations sought to unify in their mutual interests, there was some discussion of chartering a “United Earth” governmental body. It was pointed out that the United Nations still existed and that all of the nations participating in the talks were still member states. Having limped along as a largely forgotten extranational organization for decades, the United Nations was dusted off, reinvigorated with necessary capital and resources, and by the early days of the 22C, was in the process of rebuilding international—and interplanetary—authority.
The member states of the United Nations had all surrendered some degree of autonomy, naturally, in exchange for increased security and trade, but as the years passed and the UN became the dominant political force on Earth and on the colonies, still some nations refused all invitations to join—notably China, Dar al-Islam, and the balkanized nations of the former United States of America. Whether because there were elements of the revised UN charter their leaders refused to acknowledge, or rights they would be required to grant their citizens that offended their religious or cultural beliefs, or motivated by protectionist economic interests, or for a hundred other perceived shortcomings or sins of the UN, these rogues refused admittance and remained antagonistic to the rest of the world.
When the people of a single planet couldn’t overcome their differences of opinion and belief long enough to yoke themselves to a single plow, how could the thousands of worlds of the Entelechy ever agree on anything?
“While on the level of culture, individual worlds are free to govern themselves as they see fit,” the escort explained as I stepped through a threshold into a world of permanent night, a viridian moon glowing in the sky, “the Human Entelechy is governed by the Consensus for matters affecting the superculture as a whole. The Consensus is a kind of emergent collective consciousness, made up of any inhabitants of the Entelechy who choose to participate at any given moment. Anyone with real-time access to the infostructure, either through an interlink or through an external terminal, and the patience to participate is a potential element of the Consensus.”
We walked through a threshold onto a world of endless seas, the only land the floating barge upon which we stood, and as the escort beat its wings to chase migrating seabirds high overhead, its voice still echoed clean and clear in my left ear.
“Only when a decision is accepted by a majority without a minority objecting is it enacted. A majority in favor and a minority ambivalent is enacted. A majority objecting and a minority in favor is rejected. A majority ambivalent and minorities objecting or in favor is rejected. And a majority in favor and a minority objecting is rejected. Any rejected proposal is sent back for further deliberation.”
“That sounds like it could take forever,” I said to the wind, not expecting an answer, but either the earplug carried sound both directions or the escort’s hearing was better than I’d thought.
“How long does it take to change a mind,” came the voice of the escort in my ear, “in the face of overwhelming evidence? And with the size of the distributed consciousness, most decisions are reached in a matter of moments. But is it better to reach a decision quickly or to reach the correct decision?”
“What happens if someone refuses to abide by the Consensus’s decision?” I asked as we walked through a street fair that extended to the horizon in every direction, a whole world given over to the exchange of craft goods and services. Tents and stalls in blindingly bright colors jostled for space, artisans spread their wares on blankets that hovered in midair, and beings of every conceivable shape, size, and temperament crowded the walkways. “Do you have armies to enforce the decisions?”
“Again, individual cultures police their own, as they see fit,” said the silver eagle perched atop my shoulder. “It is only when the action or inaction of a culture impinges on other cultures is the Consensus involved. There are cultural variations among the different worlds and habitats of the Human Entelechy, of course, but some standards apply throughout. Anyone can travel from planet to planet—at least to those that do not restrict immigration—assured that whatever else happens they will be provided essential services: housing, food, clothing, medical treatment. Any planet that exhibits a persistent inability to recognize the inalienable rights of individuals to essential services, or exhibits aggression toward other worlds, will be isolated, their threshold temporarily isolated. The threshold itself is still active, but the hub-side gate is enclosed in fullerene-reinforced diamond. After a period of probation, the threshold is again opened. If the planet persists in its antisocial behavior, the threshold is permanently closed, the stabilizing arch dismantled, and the juncture allowed to evaporate. The permanently isolated are known as ‘lost cultures.’ One of the most notable of the lost cultures is the Iron Mass.”
I remembered the escort pointing out the threshold to the Iron Mass world in the Central Axis, and explaining about their views on what it meant to be human. “Just what did this Iron Mass do that was
so terrible, anyway?”
The silver eagle on my shoulder seemed to vibrate slightly, and it took me a moment to realize it was a rough approximation of a shudder. “It is…unpleasant to contemplate, sir. Suffice it to say that they were not good neighbors.”
I stood in what appeared to be the base of an immense valley, whose walls curved up to the horizon on either side. Chariots and vessels like stepped pyramids—vimana—flew through the air, and creatures with multiple arms or blue skin or the heads of elephants or lightning in their eyes crowded around me.
The Veda of Thousand-petaled Lotus had gathered together to watch their most respected members reenact scenes from the Ramayana in my honor. Rama, prince of Ayodhya, accompanied by his loyal brother Lakshmana, strives to rescue his loving wife Sita from the clutches of Ravana, the demon king and ruler of three worlds. Hanuman, monkey son of the wind god, grows to immense size and harries the demon forces of Ravana, while Rama breaks the divine bow of Lord Shiva himself. But these were not simply human actors in ceremonial dress, as in the festival days of my childhood. These were beings who had resculpted their very bodies and minds until they actually became the beings they represented.
“The time approaches for the celebration on Ouroboros to begin, sir,” whispered the eagle in my ear. “If you would not like to be late, we should go.”
I nodded and stepped through an arch into yet another world, leaving behind the myths of my mother’s ancestors, given flesh out there among the stars.
TWENTY-TWO
When we returned to the diamond house, a package was waiting for me in the foyer. Constructed of some featherlight alloy, it was simple and unmarked. As I opened the box, the escort explained that it had been sent over by Chief Executive Zel, who’d had a group of historians research appropriate attire for someone of my background and status, suitable for a formal gathering.
It was certainly an improvement on the outlandish and unlikely offerings in the diamond house’s wardrobe, I’ll give them that.
When I had dressed, I regarded myself in the mirror: a black sherwani coat, tailored to my exact measurements and extending just past the knees, with a Nehru collar, embroidered in gold and red at the neck and cuffs; white churidar pants; and on my feet, embroidered slip-on juties. Pinned on the coat’s breast was the stylized blue arrow of the Wayfarer One insignia, surrounded by the motto scroll—“Endeavor to Reach Beyond”—evidently copied from the hull of the derelict craft.
Strange that the motto should outlive the ship itself. I’d suggested it almost as a joke, and when no one had objected, it had been incorporated into the insignia. I hadn’t told anyone that the phrase had also been the motto of the Explorer house at the National Public School in Indiranagar, Bangalore. In Grade XI, I’d lead the Explorers to winning the House Cup, taking highest marks in quizzes and athletics—though, admittedly, my classmates had been canny enough to keep me out of any competitions involving dancing, singing, or spelling. By Grade XII, I’d been selected as vice prefect of the student body—having lost the position of prefect to Vijaya Nelliparambil, object of my long-standing unrequited love—and had already decided that my future lay out in space. I had no idea how right I’d been.
In the precisely tailored suit of clothes, hair combed and trimmed, chin neatly shaven, I allowed that I didn’t look half bad. Not a day over seventy, seventy-five at the most. When I stepped back into the foyer, the silver eagle was waiting for me, as always.
“Shall we go, Captain Stone?”
We stepped through the grand entrance into Central Axis, and the escort directed me toward a nearby threshold. The world of Ouroboros, it seemed, was important enough to merit a direct connection to the main hub of the network.
“Sir,” the escort said, as I stepped toward the metal arch, “I understand that there is to be something of a surprise for you at the event.”
Before I could ask what it had meant by “surprise,” I was through the threshold and standing in the midst of a massive crowd.
We were within an enormous ballroom, under a geodesic roof. The room was huge, easily the size of one of the secondary axes on the threshold network, and the roof must have been fifty or sixty meters from the floor at its highest point.
I took a step forward into the milling throng, the weight on me seeming only slightly less than one standard gravity. The planet of Ouroboros must have been very nearly the mass of Old Earth.
Before I’d taken another step, though, all eyes had turned to me and all conversation stopped. The room erupted in thunderous applause, and I felt the familiar twist of fight-or-flight in my gut.
“Um, hello?” I gave a halfhearted wave. Then I muttered, under my breath, “Who are all of these people?”
“They have all come to meet you, sir,” came the voice of the escort in my ear.
“Well, I…”
My response, which no doubt would have been brilliant, died in my mouth as I turned my head and my eyes fell on an unexpected sight. At the center of the room, a familiar shape rose high above the crowd. It was a rocket, a torchship, and the registry numbers marked out on its nose identified it as my home for almost three years. It was Orbital Patrol Cutter 1519, my first command.
TWENTY-THREE
The crowd jostled around to greet me, but I only had eyes for the rocket. I’ve loved a few women in my time, but never more than I loved that ship.
A Pole Star XT-14, manufactured by Winchell-Chung Industries, Orbital Patrol Cutter 1519 had been one of the fastest of 22C spacecraft. With its inertial confinement fusion drive capable of maintaining accelerations of one standard gravity for weeks at a time, it could make the transit from Earth to Titan in just over twelve days in a straight-shot brachistochrone trajectory, full burn to the midpoint, and then flipping over and decelerating the rest of the way.
Forty-five meters from tip to tail, it had an interior volume of just over five hundred cubic meters, massing out fully loaded at only a few hundred metric tons. The 1519 had been lean and mean, a high-endurance Cutter-class vessel, whose primary missions were law enforcement, search and rescue, and defense operations. In the three years I’d been her skipper, we’d done all of that and more.
I stopped just short of the ship, which was standing upright on its landing jacks, its nose only a dozen or so meters from the ceiling high overhead. I reached out a hand, almost afraid to touch the hull. It couldn’t have been the same ship, I knew, not after so long a time, but it looked as though I’d just parked it and went off for a brief wander.
“What do you think?” said a voice in my left ear as a rumbling sound issued from behind me. “Have we captured the likeness?”
I turned, startled, and looked up at a huge figure towering over me. I must have gaped, mouth open, before finally thinking of anything rational to say. It looked for all the world like a killer whale, crammed into human clothing.
“I’m the fabricator who designed the replica and oversaw its fabrication,” the killer whale said, a wide smile revealing curved teeth several centimeters long. “Arluq Max’inux is the name.”
“R. J. Stone,” I said after a lengthy pause, unsure the proper etiquette when addressing a talking orca.
The voice of the escort whispered in my left ear, coming to my rescue. “Arluq Max’inux is a female cetacean, a sentient derived from uplifted terrestrial sea-dwelling mammals.”
I resisted the urge to whisper thanks to the eagle perched on my shoulder, and smiled up at the female killer whale. She stood almost three meters tall, easily a meter broad at the shoulders, with anthropoid-like arms and legs instead of fins, but otherwise resembled her sea-dwelling ancestors in all regards. Her skin seemed thick, patterned in sharply contrasted white and black, and she wore a simple coverall of yellow. Periodically, little puffs of mist issued from her collar and wrists, suggesting that some internal plumbing in her clothing was required to keep her skin moistened, perhaps to prevent it from drying and cracking.
“I’m something of an amateu
r historian,” Arluq explained, pausing only briefly to expel a quick blast of air through a blowhole on the top of her head, “and I’ve always been fascinated with the history of avionics. When I heard the news of your arrival, I dropped everything I was doing and started working on this replica right away.”
I was brought up short, remembering how short a time it had been since the news of my return had been released. “But it’s been only a couple of days since I woke up. And you built all of this”—I waved a hand up at the torchship towering over us—“so quickly? I doubt Winchell-Chung could have even gotten the registry numbers stenciled on the hull in so short a time.”
Arluq shrugged, a strange gesture for so large a creature. “I finished it yesterday, actually, but decided to wait and unveil it at this reception.” She paused and stepped over to slap one of the landing jacks with an enormous hand. “Oh, it’s fully functional, though. I could have put in a more efficient engine but, in the end, decided to go with a historically accurate inertial confinement fusion drive, powered by pellets of deuterium/helium-three ignited in the reaction chamber by inertial confinement using intense laser beams. I only had time for a short test flight, of course, but at full burn, I was able to get it up to a full standard gravity of acceleration, with no hiccups along the way.”
“Amazing.” I gestured to the silver eagle on my shoulder. “My escort here mentioned there’d be a surprise for me here, and it wasn’t kidding.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint, sir,” the escort responded out loud, “but this wasn’t the surprise of which I’d been informed. There are others who would like to make your acquaintance, though.” With its beak, it indicated a cluster of people a short way off, three women talking to two smaller figures.
Further: Beyond the Threshold Page 9
