Milpitas held up the artifact. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s a figure-of-eight ring.”
“Did you make it?”
Morrow shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s a standard design in the shops on Deck Four.”
“All right.” Milpitas placed the ring on his desk, with a soft clink. “Tell me what else you make. Give me a list.”
Morrow closed his eyes and thought. “Parts for some of the machines — the food dispensers, for instance. Not the innards, of course — we leave that to the nanobots — but the major external components. Material for buildings — joists, pipes, cables. Spectacles, cutlery: simple things that the nanobot maintenance crews can’t repair.”
Milpitas nodded. “And?”
“And things like your figure-of-eight ring.” Morrow struggled, probably failing, to keep a note of frustration out of his voice. “And ratchets, and stirrups. Scrapers — ”
“All right. Now, Morrow, the value of a joist, or a pair of spectacles, is obvious. But what do you think of this question: what is the value of your figure-of-eight rings, ratchets and stirrups?”
Morrow hesitated. This was exactly the kind of question which had landed him in trouble in the first place. “I don’t know,” he blurted at last. “Planner, it drives me crazy not to know. I look at these things and try to work out what they might be used for, but — ”
The Planner raised his hands. “You’re not answering me, Morrow.”
Morrow was confused. He’d long since learned that when dealing with people like Milpitas, words turned into weapons, fine blades whose movements he could barely follow. “But you asked me what the ratchets were for.”
“No. I asked you what you thought of the question, not for an answer to the question itself. That’s very different.”
Morrow tried to work that out. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“No.” The Planner rested his long, surgery-scarred fingers on the desk before him. Milpitas seemed to be one of those unfortunate individuals suffering a partial AS failure, necessitating this kind of gross rework of his body. “No, I really believe you don’t. And that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it, Morrow?”
He stood and walked to the window of his office. From here Morrow could see the outer frame of the Temple; its face was a tilted plane of golden light. Milpitas’ wide, bony face was framed by the iron sky, the sourceless daylight.
“The question has no value,” Milpitas said at length. “And so an answer to it would have no value — it would be meaningless, because the question in itself has no reference to anything meaningful.” He turned to Morrow and smiled searchingly. “I know you’re not happy with that answer. Go ahead; don’t be afraid. Tell me what you think.”
Morrow sighed. I think you’re crazy. “I think you’re playing with words.” He picked up the ring. “Of course this thing has a purpose. It exists, physically. We expend effort in making it — ”
“Everything we do has a purpose, Morrow, and one purpose only.” Milpitas looked solemn. “Do you know what that is?”
Morrow felt vaguely irritated. “The survival of the species. I’m not a child, Planner.”
“Exactly. Good. That’s why we’re here; that’s why Superet built this ship-world of ours; that’s why my grandmother — dead now, of course — and the others initiated this voyage. That’s the purpose that informs everything we do.”
Morrow’s irritation turned into a vague rebelliousness. Everything? Even the elimination of the children?
He wondered how many interviews, like this, he had suffered over the years.
Vaguely he remembered a time when things hadn’t been like this. Right at the start of his life, half a millennium ago, the great Virtual devices, hidden somewhere in the fabric of the world, had covered the drab hull walls with scenes of lost, beautiful panoramas: he remembered Virtual suns and moons crossing a Virtual sky, children running in the streets.
There had been a feeling of space — of infinity. The Virtuals had had the power to make this box-world seem immense, without constraints.
But Superet had closed down the Virtuals, one by one, exposing the skull-like reality of the world which lay beneath the illusion. No one now seemed to know where the Virtual machines were, or how to get access to them, even if they still worked.
At the same time Superet had first discouraged, then abolished, childbirth. Morrow had been one of the last children to be born, in fact.
Virtual dioramas — and the voices of children — were no longer necessary, Superet said.
There were no young, and the people grew old. There was neither day nor night, but only the endless, steel-gray, sourceless light which — diffused from the metal hull — gave the impression of a continual dawn. Leisure activities theaters, study groups, play groups — had fallen into disuse. The world was structured only by the endless drudgery of work.
Work, and study of the words of the founders of Superet, of course.
Milpitas turned his wide, rather coarse face to Morrow. “Superet’s one imperative is to ensure the survival of the species — physically, through our genes, and culturally, through the memes we carry — into the indefinite future.” He pointed to the iron sky. “Everything we do is driven by that logic, Morrow. For all we know, we are the only humans alive, anywhere. And so we must optimize the use of our resources.
“At present we’re succeeding. Our population is well-adjusted; we have no need of new generations — not until our resource situation changes.”
But, Morrow thought wildly, but the population isn’t stable. Every year people died — through accident, or obscure AS-failure. So, every year, the population actually fell.
Over the centuries he had witnessed the steady drop in population, the slow retreat from the lower Decks. When Morrow had been born, he was sure that the lifedome had been inhabited all the way down to Deck Eight — and it was said there were another seven or eight Decks below that. Now, only Decks Two and Three were occupied.
Could there be a point, he wondered, below which the race couldn’t regenerate itself, even if the temporary sterility was reversed?
What would Superet do then?
Milpitas sat down once more. When he spoke again, the Planner seemed to be trying to be kind. “Morrow, you must not torment yourself — and those around you — with questions that can’t be answered. You know, in principle, why our world is as it is. Isn’t that sufficient? Is it really necessary for you to understand every detail?”
But if I don’t understand, Morrow thought sourly, then you can control me. Arbitrarily. And that’s what I find hard to accept.
Milpitas steepled his fingers. “Here’s another dimension you need to think about.” His voice was harsher now. “Tell me, what are your views on the internal contradictions of the meme versus gene duality?”
Morrow, glowering, refused to answer.
Milpitas smiled, exquisitely patronizing. “You don’t understand the question, do you? Can you read?”
“Yes, I can read,” Morrow said testily. “I had to teach myself, but, yes, I can read.”
Milpitas frowned. “But you don’t need to be able to read. Most people don’t need to. It’s a luxury, Morrow; an indulgence.
“We must all accept our limitations, Morrow; you have to accept that there are people who know better than you do.”
Morrow steeled himself. Here it comes. No punishment was going to be terribly onerous, but he found any disruption from his daily routine increasingly difficult, even painful.
“Four weeks on Deck One,” Milpitas said briskly, making a note. “I’ll coordinate this with your supervisor in the shops. I’m sorry to do this, Morrow, but you must see my position; we can’t have you disrupting those around you with your — your ill-disciplined thinking.”
Deck One. The Locks. One of the most difficult — if not frightening — places to work on all the Decks. This was a tough punishment, for what he still couldn’t accept as
a crime…
But, nevertheless, he found himself suppressing a grin at the irony of this. For the Locks — and the strange, illicit trade that went on through them — were an explicit embodiment of the contradictions within his society.
The first tendrils of morning light snaked up over the sky-dome like living things. The dim stars fled.
Arrow Maker unwrapped himself from his branch and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs. The breeze up here was fresh and dry. He urinated against the bole of the tree; the hot liquid darkened the wood and coursed down toward the canopy. He chewed on some of the meat from his belt, and lapped up dew moisture from the kapok’s leaves. The water wasn’t much, but he’d find more later, in the bowls of orchids and bromeliads.
He retrieved his bow and quiver, made his way to the rope he’d left dangling, and prepared for the first stage of his descent. He passed the rope through a metal figure-of-eight ring, clipped the ring to his belt, and stood up in his webbing stirrups. He slid easily downwards, controlling the run of the rope through the ring with his hand. The figured-eight ring, scuffed and worn with use, rang softly as he descended.
The canopy, fifty yards above the forest floor, was a twenty-yard-deep layer of vegetation. Arrow Maker was soon screened from the breeze of the topmost level, and the air grew moist, humid, comfortable.
He found a liana and cut it open; water spurted into his mouth. On his last visit to the canopy, Arrow Maker had spotted a fig-tree which had looked close to fruiting; he decided to take a detour there before returning to Uvarov. He wrapped his rope around his waist, tucked his climbing gear into his belt, and clambered across the canopy, working his way from branch to branch.
Moss and algae coated the bark of the trees and hung from twigs in sheets, making the wood dangerously slippery. Lianas, fig roots and the dangling roots of orchids, bromeliads and ferns festooned the branches like rope. Leaves shone in the gloom, like little green arrow-heads. Some of the flowers, designed to catch the attention of hummingbirds and sunbirds, gleamed red in the gloom; others, pale, fetid, waited patiently for bats to eat their fruit and so propagate their seeds.
Beyond the clutter of life, Maker could see the branchless trunks of the canopy trees. The trunks rose like columns of smoke through the greenery, smooth and massive.
The fig-tree was an incongruous tangle sprouting from the trunk of a canopy tree, a parasite feeding off its host tree. As he approached the fig he knew he’d been right about the fruiting. A parrot hung upside down from a branch, its feathers brilliant crimson, munching at a fig it held in one claw. The rich smell of ripe figs wafted from the leaves, and the branches were alive with animals and birds.
There was even a family of silver-leaf monkeys. Maker got quite close to one female, with a baby clinging to her back. For a few moments Maker watched her working at the fruit; she seemed to sniff each fig individually, as if trying to determine from the perfume if it was ready to consume. At last she found a fig to her liking and crammed it whole into her mouth, while her baby mewled at her neck.
The female suddenly became aware of Arrow Maker. Her small, perfect head swiveled toward him, her eyes round, and for an instant she froze, her gaze locked with Maker’s. Then she turned and bounded away through rustling leaves, lost to his sight in a moment.
He worked his way toward the fig, shouting and clapping his hands to scare the scavengers away. He even roused a cluster of fruit bats, unusually feeding during the day; they scattered at his approach, their huge, loose, leathery wings rustling.
At length he reached the bough of the canopy tree, which was wrapped around with fig roots. This was actually a strangler fig, he realized; the crown of the fig was so dense that it was blocking out the light from its host and would eventually take its place in the canopy.
“Arrow Maker.”
His name was whispered, suddenly, close behind him. He turned, startled, and almost lost his grip on the algae-coated branch below him; his bow rattled against his bare back, clumsily.
It was Spinner-of-Rope. Her face was round in the gloom as she grinned at him. Spinner, his older daughter, was fifteen years old, and her short, slim body was as lithe as a monkey’s. She bore a full sack at her back. A bright smear of scarlet dye crossed her face, picking out her eyes and nose like a mask; her hair was shaven back from her scalp and dangled in a fringe over her ears down to her shoulders, rich black. Her metal spectacles shone in the green light.
“Got you,” she said.
He tried to recover his dignity. “That was irresponsible.”
She snorted and rubbed at her stub of a nose. “Oh, sure. I saw you creeping up on that poor silver-leaf. With her baby, too.” Squatting in the branches, she moved toward him menacingly. “Maybe I should climb on your back and see how you like it — ”
“Don’t bother.” He settled against the bough of the tree, pulled a fig from a branch and bit into it. “What’s in the sack?”
“Figs, and honeycombs, and a few tubers I dug up earlier from the floor… I breakfasted on beetle grubs from inside a fallen trunk down there.” She looked remote for a moment as she remembered her meal. “Delicious… What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were down with old Uvarov.”
“I am. In principle. It’s my turn…”
The tribe’s fifty people lived out most of their lives in the canopy. So Garry Uvarov had instituted a rota, designating folk who had to spend time with him on the floor below. Uvarov raged if the rota was broken, insisting that even the rota itself was older than any human alive, save himself.
“Uvarov sent me up top — to the giant kapok — to see if the stars had changed.”
Spinner grunted; she took a fig herself and ate it whole, like a monkey. She wiped her lips on a leaf. “Why?”
“I don’t know…”
“Then he’s an old fool. And so are you.”
Arrow Maker sighed. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Spinner. Uvarov is an old man — an ancient man. He remembers when the ship was launched, and — ”
“I know, I know.” She picked seeds from her teeth with her little finger. “But he’s also a crazy old man, and getting crazier.”
Arrow Maker decided not to argue. “But whether that’s true or not, we still have to care for him. We can’t let him die. Would you want that?” He searched her face, seeking signs of understanding. “And if you — and your friends — don’t take your turns in the rota — ”
“Which we don’t.”
” — then it means that people like me have to carry more than our fair share.”
Spinner-of-Rope grinned in triumph, her face paint vivid. “So you admit you resent having to tend for that old relic down there.”
“Yes. No.” With a few words she’d made him intensely uncomfortable, as she seemed to manage so often, and so easily. “Oh, I don’t know, Spinner. But we can’t let him die.”
She bit into another fig, and said casually, “Why not?”
“Because he’s a human being who deserves dignity, if nothing else,” he snapped. “And — ”
“And what?”
And, he thought, I’m afraid that if Uvarov is allowed to die, the world will come to an end.
The world was so obviously artificial.
The forest was contained in a box. It was possible to shoot an arrow against the sky. There were holes in the floor, and whole levels — the domain of the Undermen — underneath the world. Hidden machines brought light to the sky-dome each day, caused the rain to fall over the waiting leaves, and pumped the air around the canopy tops. Perhaps there were more subtle machines too, he speculated sometimes, which sustained the little closed world in other ways.
The world must seem huge to Spinner. But it had become small and fragile in Arrow Maker’s eyes, and as he grew older he became increasingly aware of how dependent all the humans of the forest were on mechanisms that were ancient and inaccessible.
If the mechanisms failed, they would all die; to Arrow Maker it
was as simple, and as unforgettable, as that.
Garry Uvarov was an old fool in a wheelchair, with no obvious influence on the mechanisms which kept them all alive. And yet, it seemed undoubtedly true that he was indeed as old as he claimed — that he was a thousand years old, as old as the ship itself — that he remembered Earth.
Uvarov was a link with the days of the ship’s construction. Arrow Maker felt, with a deep, superstitious dread, that if Uvarov were to die — if that tangible link to the past were ever broken — then perhaps the ship itself would die, around them.
And then, how could they possibly survive?
He looked at his daughter, troubled, wondering if he would ever be able to explain this to her.
9
Lieserl roused — slowly, fitfully — from her long sleep.
She stirred, irritated; she peered around, blinking her Virtual eyes, trying to understand what had disturbed her. Motion of some kind?
Motion, in this million-degree soup?
Virtual arms folded against her chest, legs tucked beneath her, she floated slowly through the compressed plasma of the radiative zone. Around her, all but unnoticed, high-energy photons performed their complex, million-year dance as they worked their way out of the core toward the surface.
After all this time, she had drifted to within no more than a third of a Solar radius of the center of the Sun itself.
She ran brief diagnostic checks over her remaining data stores. She found more damage, of course; more cumulative depredation by the unceasing hand of entropy. She wondered vaguely how much of her original processing and memory capacity she was left with by now. Ten percent? Less, perhaps?
How would she feel, if she roused herself to full awareness now? She’d never used her full capacity anyway — there was immense redundancy built into the systems — but she would surely be aware of some loss: gaps in her memory, perhaps, or a degradation of her sense of her Virtual body — a numbness, imperfectly realized skin.
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