The Worthing Saga

by Orson Scott Card

  She didn't answer. Only asked, “Did they tape me when they put me under somec? Did they record the way I really am?”

  “Yes,” he said, knowing what was coming.

  “Then put me under again and wake me up with that tape. Send me to a colony.”

  He stared at her. He got up from the bed and stared at her incredulously and laughed. “Do you realize what you're saying? You're saying, please take me out of heaven, God, and send me to hell.”

  “I know it,” she said, and she began trembling.

  “You're insane. This is insane, Batta. Do you know what I've risked, what I've gone through to bring you here? I've broken every law concerning the use of somec that there is!”

  “You rule the world, don't you?”

  Was she sneering?

  “I pull all the strings, but if I make a mistake I could fall anytime. I've deliberately made mistakes for you.”

  “And so I owe you something. But what about me? Don't I owe me?”

  He was exasperated. He hit the wall with his hand. “Of course you do! You owe yourself a life with a man who loves you more than he loves his life's work! You owe yourself a chance to be pampered, to be coddled, to be cared for—”

  “I owe me myself.” And she trembled more and more. “Ab. I haven't. I haven't been happy.”

  Silence.

  “Ab, please believe me, because this is the hardest thing I've had to say. Since the moment I woke up, something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. I had made the wrong choice. I hadn't gone back to my patents. I have felt wrong. Everything has been colored by that. It's wrong. I wouldn't choose to live with you, and so everything about it is wrong!” She spoke softly, but her voice was intense.

  “I would not be here,” she said.

  “You are here.”

  “I can't live a lie. I can't live with the contradiction. I must live my own life, bitter or not. Every moment I stay here is pain. It couldn't be worse. Nothing I suffered in my real life could be worse than the agony of living falsely. I must have the memory of having done what I knew was right. Without that memory, I can't keep my sanity. I've been feeling it slip away. Ab—”

  And he held her closely, felt her tremble in his arms. “Whatever you want,” he whispered. “I didn't know. I thought the somec could—make things over.”

  “It can't stop me from being who I—”

  “Who you are, I know that, I know it now. But. Batta, don't you realize—if I use that other tape, you won't remember this, you won't remember these days we had together.”

  And she began to sob. And he thought of something else.

  “You'll—the last thing you'll remember is my having told you I could erase all the pain. And you saying yes, yes, do it, erase it—and then you'll wake up with those memories and you'll think that I lied.”

  She shook her head.

  “No,” he said. “That's what you'll believe. You'll hate me for having promised you happiness and then not giving it to you. You won't remember this.”

  “I can't help it,” she said, and they held each other and wept together and comforted each other and made love one last time and then he took her to the tape-and-tap where the past was washed away and a crueler life would be restored to her.

  “What, is she a criminal?” asked the attendant as Abner Doon substituted the tapes—for only criminals had their minds wiped and an old tape used to erase all memory of the crime—

  “Yes,” said Doon, to keep things simple. And so her body was enclosed in the coffin that would satisfy her few needs as her body slowed down to a crawl through the years until he awakened her.

  She would awaken on a colony. But one of my choosing, Abner vowed. A kind one, where she might have a chance of making something of her life. And who knows? Maybe hating me will make it all easier for her to bear.

  Easier for her. But what about me?

  I will not, he decided, spend any more of myself on her. I will close her from my mind. I will—I will forget?

  Nonsense.

  I will merely devote my life to fulfilling other, older, colder dreams.

  15. Lifeloop

  Arran lay on her bed, weeping. The sound of the door slamming still rang through her flat. Finally she rolled over, looked at the ceiling, wiped tears away delicately with her fingers, and then said, “What the hell.”

  Dramatic pause. And then, at last (at long last) a loud buzzer sounded. “All clear, Arran,” said the voice from the concealed speaker, and Arran groaned, swung around to sit on the bed, unstrapped the loop recorder from her naked leg, and threw it tiredly against the wall. It smashed.

  “Do you have any idea how much that equipment costs?” Triuff asked, reproachfully.

  “I pay you to know,” Arran said, putting on a robe. Triuif found the tie and handed it to her. As Arran threaded it through the loops, Triuff exulted. “The best ever. A hundred billion Arran Handully fans are aching to pay their seven chops to get in to watch. And you gave it to them.”

  “Seventeen days,” Arran said, glaring at the other woman. “Seventeen stinking days. And three of them with that bastard Courtney.”

  “He's paid to be a bastard. It's his persona.”

  “He's pretty damned convincing. If you get me even three minutes with him, next time, I'll sack you.”

  Arran strode out of her flat, barefoot and clad only in the robe. Triuff followed, her high-heeled shoes making a clicking rhythm that, to Arran anyway, always seemed to be saying, “Money, money, money.” Except when it was saying, “Screw your mother, screw your mother.” Good manager. Billions in the bank.

  “Arran,” Triuff said. “I know you're very tired.”

  “Ha,” Arran said.

  “But while you were recording I had time to do a little business—”

  “While I was recording you had time to manufacture a planet!” Arran snarled. “Seventeen days! I'm an actress, I'm not going for the guiness. I'm the highest paid actress in history, I think you said in your latest press releases. So why do I work my tail off for seventeen days when I'm only awake for twenty-one? Four lousy days of peace, and then the marathon.”

  “A little business,” Triuff went on, unperturbed. “A little business that will let you retire.”

  “Retire?” And I without thinking, Arran slowed down her pace.

  “Retire. Imagine—awake for three weeks, and only guest appearances in other poor slobs' loops. Getting paid for having fun.”

  “Nights to myself?”

  “We'll turn off the recorder.”

  Arran scowled. Triuff amended: “You can even take the thing off!”

  “And what do I have to do to earn so much? Have an affair with a gorilla?”

  “It's been done,” Triuff said, “and it's beneath you. No, this time we give them total reality. Total!”

  “What do we give them now? Sure, you want me to crap in a glass toilet!”

  “I've made arrangements,” Triuif said, “to have a loop recorder in the Sleeproom.”

  Arran Handully gasped and stared at her manager. “In the Sleeproom! Is nothing sacred!” And then Arran laughed. “You must have spent a fortune! An absolute fortune!”

  “Actually, only one bribe was necessary.”

  “Who'd you bribe, Mother?”

  “Very close. Better, in fact, since Mother hasn't got the power to pick her nose without the consent of the Cabinet. It's Farl Baak.”

  “Baak! And here I thought he was a decent man.”

  “It wasn't a bribe. At least, not for money.”

  Arran squinted at Triuff. “Triuff,” she said, “I told you that I was willing to act out twenty-four-hour-a-day love affairs. But I choose my own lovers off-camera.”

  “You'll be able to retire.”

  “I'm not a whore!”

  “And he said he wouldn't even sleep with you, if you didn't want. He just asked for twenty-four hours with you two wakings from now. To talk. To become friends.”

  Arr
an leaned against the wall of the corridor. “It'll really make that much money?”

  “You forget, Arran. All your fans are in love with you. But no one has ever done what you're going to do. From a half hour before waking to a half hour after you've been put to sleep.”

  “Before waking and after the somec.” Arran smiled. “There's nobody in the Empire who's seen that, except the Sleeproom attendants.”

  “And we can advertise utter reality. No illusion: you'll see everything that happens to Arran Handully for three weeks of waking!”

  Arran thoughtfully considered for a moment. “It'll be hell,” she said.

  “You can retire afterward,” Triuif reminded her.

  “All right,” Arran agreed. “I'll do it. But I warn you. No Courtneys. No bores. And no little boys.”

  Triuff looked hurt. “Arran—the little boy was five loops ago!”

  “I remember every moment of it,” Arran said. “He came without an instruction booklet. What the hell do I do with a seven-year-old-boy?”

  “And it was your best acting up to then. Arran, I can't help it—I have to spring surprises on you. That's when you're at your best—dealing with difficulty. That's why you're an artist. That's why you're a legend.”

  “That's why you're rich,” Arran pointed out, and then she walked quickly away, heading for the Sleeproom. Her eligibility began in a half hour, and every waking moment beyond that was a moment less of life.

  “Triuif followed her as far as she could, giving last-minute instructions on what to do when she woke, what to expect in the Sleeproom, how the instructions would be given to her in a way that she couldn't miss, but that the audience watching the holos wouldn't notice, and finally Arran made it through the door into the tape-and-tap, and Triuff had to stay behind.”

  Gentle and deferent attendants led her to the plush chair where the sleep helmet waited; Arran sighed and sat down, let the helmet slip onto her head, and tried to think happy thoughts as the tapes took her brain pattern—all her memories, all her personality— and recorded it to restore her at waking. When it was done, she got up and lazily walked to the table, shedding her robe on the way. She lay down with a groan of relief, and leaned her head back, surprised that the table, which looked so hard, could be soft.

  It occurred to her (it always had before too, but she didn't know it) that she must have done this same thing twenty-two times before, because she had used somec that many times. But since the somec wiped clean all the brain activities during the sleep, including memory, she could never remember anything that happened to her after the taping. Funny. They could have her make love to all the attendants in the Sleeproom and she'd never know it.

  But no, she realized as the sweet and deferent men and women soothingly wheeled the table to a place where monitoring instruments waited for her, no, that could never happen. The Sleeproom is the one place where no jokes are played, where nothing surprising or outrageous is ever done. Something in the world must be secure.

  Then she giggled. Until my next waking, that is. And then the Sleeproom will be open to all the billions of poor suckers in the Empire who never get a chance at the somec, who have to live out their measly hundred years all in a row, while sleepers skip through the centuries like stones on a lake, touching down only every few years.

  And then the sweet young man with the darling cleft chin (pretty enough to be an actor, Arran noticed) pushed a needle gently into her arm, apologizing softly for the pain.

  “That's all right,” Arran started to say, but then she felt a sharp pain in her arm, that spread quick as a fire to every part of her body; a terrible agony of heat that made her sweat leap from her pores. She cried out in pain and surprise—what was happening? Were they killing her? Who could want her to die?

  And then the somec penetrated to her brain and ended all consciousness and all memory, including the memory of the pain that she had just felt. And when she woke again she would remember nothing of the agony of the somec. It would always and forever be a surprise.

  Triuff got the seven thousand eight hundred copies of the latest loop finished—most of them edited versions that cut out all sleeping hours and bodily functions other than eating and sex, the small minority full loops that truly dedicated (and rich) Arran Handully fans could view in small, private, seventeen-day-long showings. There were fans. (crazy people, Triuff had long since decided, but thank Mother for them) who actually leased private copies of the unedited loops and watched them twice through on a single waking. That was one hell of a dedicated fan.

  Once the loops were turned over to the distributors (and the advance money was paid into the Arran Handully Corporation credit accounts), Triuff went to the Sleeproom herself. It was the price of being a manager—up weeks before the star, back under somec weeks after. Triuff would die centuries before Arran. But Triuff was very philosophical about it. After all, she kept reminding herself, she might have been a schoolteacher and never had somec at all.

  • • •

  Arran woke sweating. Like every other sleeper, she believed that the perspiration was caused by the wake-up drugs, never suspecting that she was in that discomfort for the five years of sleep that had just passed. Her memories were intact, having been played back into her head only a few moments before. And she immediately realized that something was fastened to her right thigh—the loop recorder. She was already being taped, along with the room around her. For a brief moment she rebelled, regretting her decision to go along with the scheme. How could she bear to stay in character for the whole three weeks?

  But the unbreakable rule among lifeloop actors was “The loop never stops.” No matter what you do, it's being looped, and there was no way to edit a loop. If there was one thing—one tiny thing that had to be edited out in mid-action, the loop could simply be thrown away. The dedicated fans wouldn't stand for a loop that jumped from one scene to another—they were always sure that something juicy was being left out.

  And so, almost by reflex, she composed herself into the tragically beautiful, sweet-souled yet bitter-tongued Arran Handully that all the fans knew and loved and paid money to watch. She sighed, and the sigh was seductive. She shuddered from the cold air passing across her sweating body, and turned the shiver into an excuse to open her eyes, blinking them delicately (seductively) against the dazzling lights.

  And then she got up slowly, looked around. One of the ubiquitous attendants was standing nearby with a robe; Arran let him help her put it on, moving her shoulder just so in a way that made her breast rise just that much (never let it jiggle, nothing uglier than jiggling flesh, she reminded herself); and then she stepped to the news boards. A quick Hash through interplanetary news, and then a close study of Capitol events for the last live years, updating herself on who had done what to whom. And then she glanced at the game reports. Usually she only flipped a few pages and read virtually nothing—the games bored her but this time she looked at it carefully for several minutes, pursing her lips and making a point of seeming to be dismayed or excited about individual game outcomes.

  Actually, of course, she was reading the schedule for the next twenty-one days. Some of the names were new to her, of course—actors and actresses who were just reaching a level where they could afford to pay to be in an Arran Handully loop. And there were other names that she was quite familiar with, characters her fans would be expecting. Doret, her close friend and roommate seven loops ago, who still came back now and then to catch up on the news; Twern, that seven-year-old boy, now nearly fifteen, one of the youngest people ever to go on somec; old lovers and old friends, and a few leftovers from feuds on ancient loops. Which ones would be Catty, and which ones would want to make up? Ah, well, she told herself. Plenty of chances to find that out.

  A name far down on the list leapt out at her. Hamilton Ferlock! Involuntarily she smiled—caught herself in the sincere reaction and then decided that it would do no harm—the Arran Handully character might smile in just that way over a particular vict
ory in a game. Hamilton Ferlock. Probably the one male actor on Capitol who could be considered to be in her class. They had started out at the same time too, and he had been her lover in her first five loops, back when she only had a few months on somec between wakings. And now he was going to be in this loop!

  She thought a silent blessing for her manager. Triuff had actually done something thoughtful.

  And then it was time to dress and leave the Sleeproom and walk the long corridors to her fiat. She noticed as she walked along that the corridor had been redecorated, to give the illusion that somehow even the halls she walked along had class. She touched one of the new panels. Plastic. She refrained from grimacing. Oh well, the audience will never know it isn't really wood, and it keeps the overhead down.

  She opened the door of her flat, and Doret screamed in delight and ran to embrace her. Arran decided that this time she should act a little put out at Doret for some imagined slight. Doret looked a little surprised, backed away, and then, like the consummate actress that she was (Arran didn't mind admitting the talents of her coworkers), she took Arran's quite subtle cue and turned it into a beautiful scene, Doret weeping out a confession that she had stolen a lover away from Arran several wakings ago, and Arran at first seeming to punish her, then forgiving. They ended the scene tearfully in each other's arms, and then paused a moment. Dammit, Arran thought, Triuff is at it again. Nobody entered to break the scene. They had to go on after the climax, which meant building it to an even bigger climax within the next three hours.

  Arran was exhausted when Doret finally left. They had had a wrestling match, in which they had ripped each other's clothes to shreds, and finally Doret had pulled a knife on Arran. It was not until Arran managed to get the weapon away from her that Doret finally left, and Arran had a chance to relax for a moment.

  Twenty-one days without a break, Arran reminded herself. And Triuff forcing me into exhaustion the first day. I'll fire the bitch, she vowed.

  It was the twentieth day, and Arran was sick of the whole thing. Five parties, and a couple of orgies, and sleeping with someone new every night can pall rather quickly, and she had run the gamut of emotion several times. Each time she wept, she tried to put a different edge on it—tried to improvise new things to say to lovers, to shout in an argument, to use to insult a condescending visitor.