Cave of Stars (Macrolife Book 2)

by George Zebrowski

  12

  Paul came to the edge of the terrace and looked down into the emptiness of New Vatican’s great square. He stood there in a kind of mild shock, as if he had just awakened into his life after a long sleep. What am I doing here, he asked himself, and who am I? But he asked from a perspective that he knew would continue to tilt, if he let it, until he lost all sense of himself.

  He remembered a square filled with a hundred thousand people yearning with hope as they listened to a younger Bely’s words. Too often those words had been filled with poorly aimed insults, as the newly elected Peter III assailed philosophic confusion and anarchic freedom of thought among the young, then held out faith and obedience, not rational thought, as the bulwark against life’s disorder and dismay. The Pope had never tired of insisting that criticism among the young supported only a tyranny of opinion and fashion in ideas, and had always concluded with a rant against the failure to trust in God’s leadership. Responding cheers from the fearful and faithful had diminished with the years, as doubts allied themselves with thoughts behind the silent stares of individuals who had arrived at the conclusion that free exploration of what might after all be a godless universe, in which human freedom would be left to discover its own values and purposes, was the truth of things. Bely feared these freethinkers most, refusing to see the purely practical nature of religions and ideologies.

  Paul had thought it of no consequence, since Bely would not live to see the atrophy of a theology that would nevertheless leave behind it ethical norms and a humane social engineering, and no one would miss the “necessary stories” that had once made people sit up and listen to lessons on how they should behave.

  It was a vision that Paul toyed with occasionally, one whose reality would bring a great reconciliation of humanity with itself, with its fear of unbelief and outsiders to family circles, with its fear that without faith people would run amok.

  But now the visitor in the sky would only quicken the questionings, and Bely might yet live to see the past topple into ruins.

  Opposition had fallen silent with the recent arrests and exiles, but Paul was still suspicious of the rebels. They had been under surveillance for some time and had been too easily caught; perhaps they had been only the sacrificial offering made by a more deeply held resistance to cover its retreat.

  In his study of Earth’s Christian churches, especially Roman Catholicism, Paul had concluded that Rome had become nothing more than a huge bureaucracy supporting its leadership and workers. The top controlled a great fortune, and handed it down to hand-picked successors; the structure existed to perpetuate itself, its wealth and its power, and for nothing more. Idealists would show up here and there, like small fires in the night, and smaller ones, candles cursing the darkness. Men like Teilhard de Chardin, who might have joined the great myths of redemption with scientific insight, or Father Andrew Greeley, who knew how to unmask the martinets and sloppy thinkers, and who had certainly known that better impulses existed beneath the storybook metaphors.

  But before the sloughing off of religions as guides to conduct could be completed, Earth had destroyed itself. Islands of backwardness had launched themselves star-ward. He wondered how many had attached themselves to alien worlds and were holding back developments that would have ended the rule of ignorance sooner. “A belief system,” he had written as a student, “is a way of trying to get around what you don’t know. Better to profess ignorance than to invent. I do not mistake my religious feelings for the truth of theism.” That rule of faith was crumbling, despite the delay. It had been crumbling when he had written in his notebook. He could almost envision the end, but not its specific events.

  Once he had thought that the fragment of Rome that had been transplanted to the stars might find a fresh start, but even here the old inertia had reestablished itself and served the interests of those who rose to the top. It was not entirely the fault of the creed’s fictions, though dogmatism was certainly a bad virus for the human brain; it was human nature itself, that always failed to rise above itself, though it had stepped unconsciously out of animal darkness into some semblance of reason. Why could it not do more, now that it was aware of itself? He knew the answer to that question: no genetic praxis, no artificial intelligences—no stepping-stone toward the angels, in the form of a growing body of knowledge, existed here, or was likely to be permitted. One could light candles and curse the darkness, and stand frozen to the end of time waiting for change.

  So it seemed to him on very bad days.

  Paul tried to remember how and when he had slid into unbelief, and he realized that it had happened slowly, as he came to understand how even the scraps of knowledge available to him better fitted nature’s character than the articles of faith that forbade their own denial. Faced with knowledge, systems of faith and hereafter were left only with insistence….

  He could scarcely recall the simple acts of faith that he had performed in his child’s mind as he had tried to find God, to feel that presence within himself, and then be able to extend its authority to a belief in Jesus and Mary, the Angels, the Church’s rule through Dogmas and the Confessional that mediated between God and Man….

  But there could be no such person as God, Paul’s intellect had told him, leading him through long-chain thoughts to his present self, which stood both surprised and appalled at what he had struggled to believe in his youth—insane, arcane doctrines without an ounce of evidence, hinting at knowledge beyond human reason. In secretly rejecting faith’s fictional means, he was utterly damned by its teachings, and convinced that it meant nothing….

  A shadow slipped across the sun. Paul looked up into the clear blue sky and saw the flyer catch the light. The future is coming into the past to reproach us, he thought as the craft became clearly visible. His engineer’s mind marveled at the small vessel’s control of inertia, so obviously independent of aerodynamics. The knowledge of gravitic technology existed in the restricted archives, but no one alive here could turn theory into functional devices, for lack of industrial crafts. Bely and the cardinals didn’t want them, because anything that would make life easier conflicted with the tests of a moral life and might threaten political power.

  As he watched the flyer descend to the terrace, Paul felt a deep humiliation; the craft’s grace proclaimed its pride in the achievement of design and function; it sang of angels, of intellects that looked beyond limits.

  The flyer settled gently, almost humbly, as if paying its respects to the force of gravity that had to be understood to make the flyer possible. A lock opened in the side.

  Paul stood in place.

  A tall, wiry man stepped out. He was dressed in a gray one-piece garment with boots. He was fair-skinned with brown hair.

  “Voss Rhazes?” Paul asked from where he stood, wondering if the man had ever heard of Rhazes, the Arabic atomist and alchemist of Earth’s Middle Ages.

  “I am,” the man said, smiling as he approached, and Paul glimpsed the kind of perfect teeth that he had rarely seen in anyone except the healthiest of the young.

  “His Holiness welcomes you to…the City of God,” Paul said as softly as possible, hating the pompous greeting that Bely had insisted upon.

  The visitor stopped before him and nodded. Paul tensed, but saw that there was no sign of judgment in the man’s brown eyes. His gaze was open, guileless, and Paul felt an urge to speak freely to him, to suddenly voice his lifelong complaints, because the stranger would understand, coming as he did from a height of social organization unknown on Ceti IV, one that had to be free of ritual and ruled more by knowledge than tradition.

  But Paul restrained his rush of childish hope and asked, “Would you prefer that we go inside, or is meeting here acceptable?” He pointed to the elaborately carved wooden bench that faced the stone balustrade of the terrace.

  “A moment,” Voss Rhazes said, turning to look up at the palace.

  “Stone and wood,” Paul said. “It took fifty years to finish. Its model was th
e Palace of the Popes and Cathedral at Avignon, in France on Old Earth. I don’t know if the original still exists. It’s not entirely faithful, though. There are more windows here and this terrace, and the square below is more like that of Saint Peter’s in Rome.”

  Voss Rhazes studied the sprawling structure for a few moments, then walked over to the bench and sat down. Paul sat down at the other end and tried to collect his thoughts.

  Suddenly, as he turned to the visitor and saw his patient gaze, Paul did not know what to say to him.

  “What are these carvings?” the man asked, gesturing at the bench.

  Grateful to have something to start with, Paul said, “Oh—they depict the snakes frolicking in the tall grass of Ireland before Saint Patrick drove them out. A land of Old Earth. It was carved a long time ago.”

  “By a religious man?” asked Rhazes.

  Paul smiled, feeling that he could speak freely to the off-worlder. “The large block of wood out of which it was carved suggested snakes in its grains and twists. The pope who commissioned the work wanted to burn the bench, out of a suspicion that it had been inspired by the devil, but he was convinced to let it stand here by his brother, a cardinal. After that, the sculptor convinced the cardinal that his work was needed everywhere, and had a job for life, doing walls, doors, benches, even fences, here and in the villas. He was not a religious man, Jacob Kahl. After his death, his journals revealed that he had carved only what religious people wanted to see, so his writings were sealed.”

  Voss Rhazes was silent for a few moments.

  “He had a gift for aphorisms, many of which were stolen from him by people who later claimed credit. One aphorism proclaimed that believers and atheists had one thing in common. They both believed in hell.”

  The visitor nodded, but did not laugh or smile.

  “Does our language give you any difficulties?” Paul asked.

  There was another delay before Rhazes answered, as if he were consulting with someone. “No,” he said at last. “My Link fills in whatever I fail to grasp of your divergent language. We call it Euro-English, but I see that there is much French, German, Italian, and Spanish in it, along with newer usages.”

  Paul realized with a start that the man’s mind was tied to his world, and felt a quickened interest at the implications. All his world’s knowledge and history was available to Rhazes, and was alive in him.

  “Are we alone?” Paul asked nervously.

  “Of course,” Rhazes said. “My Link’s only an aid. Privacy is a matter of my choice.”

  Paul smiled inwardly. A servant-god in the head would distress Bely, who would certainly view it as a form of possession. Feeling more at ease, Paul decided not to ask directly about the purpose of Rhazes’ mission.

  “Sir,” Paul began with a show of formal politeness, “perhaps you will tell me more about your world.”

  “Of course. What would you like to know?”

  Inwardly, Paul soared with the youthful excitement of his first years of science and engineering studies as his mind grasped after questions to ask, envying Rhazes’s splendid access to knowledge.

  “Your engineering,” he began. “What is the mainstay of your construction?”

  “We use a range of super-strong materials,” Rhazes said. “Most large construction is done by our artificial intelligences directing robotic tools. Smaller projects are nano-built.”

  “You have nanotechnology? I’ve only read about it in fragmentary references.” He knew that it involved microscopic devices, sometimes self-reproducing machines, that might enter the human body, even its bloodstream, to conduct repairs, in biological applications and more. “How long do your engineering studies take?”

  “A half century or more. And most of it enables the student to design through the artificial intelligences, which do most of the work. One may study a large body of knowledge, but the bulk of it is unnecessary for any individual to know. Designers primarily seek the right questions to ask. Of course they do understand fundamental principles.”

  Paul took a deep breath. “How long do your people live?”

  “For as long as we care to renew ourselves,” Rhazes said. “We haven’t found a physiological limit yet. Of course, there are catastrophic accidents that cannot be remedied.”

  Paul tried to keep calm. They don’t die, he thought, and the fact sank into him, breaking through one layer of disbelief after another, and settling into a deep pool of dismay. He had always accepted the inevitability of death as a cruel joke. Life was not a predicament from which anyone got out alive. Bely’s beliefs in the afterlife were wishful thinking, delusions, but here was the reality—not waiting beyond death, but in the material realm.

  “How old are you?” Paul asked, wondering if Rhazes might be lying.

  “Thirty-five,” said Rhazes.

  “You’re very young, even by our measure, to be entrusted with this task,” Paul said, then reminded himself that the offworlder was not here alone.

  Rhazes gave him a look of curiosity, as if asking what age could possibly have to do with anything important. Perhaps the visitor’s youth was an indication of the unimportance of his mission, Paul thought, then rejected the suspicion. He could conclude nothing about the ways of offworlders, he told himself, because there was no common culture to share.

  Rhazes asked, “Would your government object to our setting a small group of people in some uninhabited area?”

  Paul smiled. “Could we stop you?”

  “Do you object, then?”

  Paul sighed, trying not to show his excitement or approval. “I would not, personally. But do you understand the complexity of what you are asking? Our entire future would change. A group from your mobile might one day face us with a nation vastly superior to us in its inheritance.” And free of our dogmas, he thought. “His Holiness would never allow it. Would you simply ignore him?” He hoped that Rhazes would say yes.

  “We do not think in rivalries,” Rhazes said, leaning back and laying his arms across the back of the bench. “You would also gain in having a neighbor who could be a source of knowledge.”

  Paul wondered how he could explain the matter to him. Bely would see the influence of another community as an infiltration by corrupting ideas, and he would be right; change would become inevitable if another authority became available to the people; it would become powerful without trying.

  Paul asked, “Would not your colonists seek to become powerful?”

  “Then let them settle among you, in your city and towns,” Rhazes said. “You would gain much from them immediately.”

  Paul sighed. Bely would never allow it, because it would quicken the changes and undercut his authority over knowledge and expertise.

  “Change is deliberately slow here,” Paul said uncomfortably. “We have been watchful of the past’s errors.”

  Rhazes was now gazing at him intently. Were they truly alone, Paul wondered, or was this meeting being heard by others?

  “I am an instrument of His Holiness,” Paul continued. “Whatever my sympathies, I can only advise and persuade—up to the point of heresy. Then I must be silent.”

  “I will tell you,” Rhazes said, “that those among us who wish to settle on this world will make their own choice.”

  “You cannot restrain them?”

  “That is not our way.”

  Paul wondered if these people had any motive to do his world harm, but set aside the suspicion. “We can’t stop you from settling the wilderness a continent away,” he said, “but His Holiness will certainly refuse to take a group into our community—and that will leave you only the wilderness. He will forbid even that. Will your people come even if it is forbidden?”

  Rhazes nodded. “I think they will.”

  “Then why ask us if you know we cannot prevent it?”

  Rhazes said, “If you feel strongly about the possibility of having settlers from our world, then it might be better if our group knows that. They may decide to wait for ano
ther world.”

  Paul was surprised. Why did these people need a planet at all? Was there some kind of disagreement among them?

  “I will present the matter to His Holiness,” Paul said.

  Voss Rhazes stood up from the bench, walked over to the balustrade, and gazed out over the city. Paul watched him and tried to imagine the motives of the world that he represented. What errant impulses might be stirring in their minds? Did they believe that this world had been claimed by its settlers too recently to be taken seriously?

  Rhazes turned to face him, and smiled. “I hope we can meet again soon,” he said.

  Paul nodded, and stood up as the visitor returned to his flyer. In a few moments the craft rose, gripped again by the vise of its gravitic field, and Paul was again moved by its epic of pride and power. Tears strained through his aging eyes as the vessel shot away through the sky. There is a place, he thought, where these little dumpings of individual awareness that feel for their plight and hope unreasonably for eternal life do not die.

  There is a place.

  13

  “They live for as long as they wish,” Paul said.

  Bely sat down across from him at a wooden table in the small meeting room just off the main audience hall. Paul’s words intruded into him, bringing a thicket of worrisome and perhaps evil implications.

  “Deathless?” he heard himself ask. “It must be a boast.”

  “No, Your Holiness,” Paul said to him. “They are long lived. Not immortal, since they can die, but long lived.”

  Dismay filled Bely. If they lived indefinitely, then they could put off the Lord’s punishment for wrongdoing, hold his wrath, or his reward, at bay for as long as the world existed.

  “If so,” Bely said, “then they cut themselves off from all growth beyond this life and the fellowship of God. They will never see his face.” He paused, quieting his inner turmoil, then said, “Perhaps that is their hell, and perhaps God ordained it as punishment for their pride.”