A World Between

by Norman Spinrad

  A schematic map of the human galaxy appeared on the access screen—inhabited systems represented by white dots, a single blue dot for Tau Ceti. “Fifty years after the founding of the first Institute of Transcendental Science on Tau Ceti, the first Arkology, the Einstein, left the system,” a male voice said. A blue dot moved away from Tau Ceti toward the system of Ariel. “Twelve years later, the Ariel Institute of Transcendental Science was established, and ten years after that, Ariel launched its first Arkology. Meanwhile, Tau Ceti launched three more of its own.” The dot representing Ariel turned blue as the dot representing the Einstein reached it. Other dots moved off into space from Tau Ceti, then one from Ariel. “Since then, five more systems have established their own Institutes of Transcendental Science and have begun launching Arkologies…” White dots began to turn blue as blue dots moved across the schematic like a swarm of insects. “Sirius, Zeus, Barnard…”

  “And so forth,” Royce muttered, stopping the tape. “Query: how many Arkologies are now in existence?”

  “Seventeen, plus or minus five,” the computer voice said. “This is an estimate, exact figure unknown.”

  “Query: has any system visited by an Arkology failed to establish an Institute of Transcendental Science?”

  “Unverifiable. Hypothesis one: answer no. Hypothesis two: Transcendental Science only releases data on its successes.”

  I’d buy hypothesis two, Royce thought. As he remembered, Transcendental Science didn’t put anything on the Web except straight propaganda, and Pacifica’s “News of the Galaxy” stringers were barred from their planets.

  But the key question was the so-called “Transcendental Science.” These jockos were obviously Machiavellian political meddlers, but they couldn’t have run up against anything like the Pacifican political system before, and Royce didn’t seriously believe that anything could subvert Pacifica’s peculiar brand of dynamic stability. But did the cargo of the Heisenberg include anything that could benefit Pacifica sufficiently to justify whatever risk there was in letting them hawk their wares planetside?

  “Program,” he ordered the access computer. “Report Transcendental Science and technology in advance of Pacifican or general galactic levels.”

  “Verified: Transcendental Science Arkologies are capable of _ traversing a given distance 40 percent faster than any other known starships, method unknown,” the computer voice said. “Verified: inhabitants of Arkologies have survived prolonged 15-gravity acceleration with no ill effects, method unknown. Reported but unverified: possible extended lifespans, cloning, organ regeneration, telekinesis, telepathy, artificial sentience, time travel, matter transmittal, simulkinesis, methods unknown.”

  “Query: have any of these technologies been offered for sale on the Web Exchange by any planet with an Institute of Transcendental Science?”

  “Answer: negative. Elucidation: all relevant planets have ceased to buy or sell technology via the Web within three years of establishment of an Institute of Transcendental Science.”

  Now that is ominous, Royce thought. If any of this superscience is real, the buggers are deliberately keeping it a monopoly of their effing Institutes. You can’t buy it, you can only join the club. They seem to be using it as some kind of political weapon.

  Royce scratched Rugo’s head mechanically, regarding the image of the Heisenberg on his obscreen with a newly soured expression. He was beginning to see why it was called the Pink and Blue War. In a situation where physical invasion was a logistical impossibility, this kind of behavior was about as close to interstellar aggression as you could get. It violated one of the basic principles of civilized interstellar conduct: free commerce in science and technology.

  In a more somber mood now, Royce called up a briefing tape on the Pink and Blue War, using not the public access banks but the Parliamentary computer; he wanted the bottom line, not the surface stuff that everyone knew.

  A schematic of the human worlds appeared on the Parliamentary access screen—neutral systems as white dots, Transcendental Science systems in blue, Earth and four other systems in pink.

  “The Pink and Blue War,” said the computer voice. “Pacifican vernacular for the ideological and political conflict between Transcendental Science and Femocracy. Vectors: Transcendental Science Arkologies, four known Femocrat interstellar missions, Web propaganda. Avowed Femocrat goal: the establishment of Femocratic social systems on all human worlds. Analyzed Femocrat goal: same. Avowed Transcendental Science goal: dissemination of advanced science and technology to all human worlds. Analyzed Transcendental Science goal: establishment of a unified Transcendental Science dominion over all human worlds through Institutes of Transcendental Science. Cause of conflict: mutually incompatible political goals. Current status: four solar systems converted to Femocracy, six solar systems dominated by Institutes of Transcendental Science, thirty-nine neutral. Vector analysis: Web propaganda ineffective, maximum result, Femocrat political parties on twelve planets. Known Femocrat missions: 100 percent effective. Known Transcendental Science missions: 100 percent effective. Projection, one century…”

  Two of the white dots went pink, six more turned blue. “Projection, two centuries…” Four more white dots turned pink, seven turned blue. “Projection, three centuries: data insufficient.”

  “Query,” Royce said. “Impact on Pacifica, immediate, medium-term, long-term.”

  “Immediate impact: nil. Medium-term impact: decline in interstellar markets for Pacifican Web exports, collapse of ‘News of the Galaxy’ news service, inability to purchase off-world science and technology due to balance-of-payments problems and partial collapse of market in same. Long-term impact; collapse of the Galactic Media Web, planetary isolation, possible political polarization along ideological lines, possible overthrow of Pacifican Constitution.”

  With a grunt of displeasure, Royce unplugged from all channels, including the obscreen image of the Arkology Heisenberg. “Whonk!” Rugo squawked indignantly, startled by the angry punch of buttons.

  “No shit, Jocko?” Royce muttered. You’re right, he thought, suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a joke. He gazed out the window, abruptly overcome with a temporary case of media cafard.

  It was fully dark now, and though the sea was whipped into a chop by the arrival of the thundersquall that had chased him home, most of the sky was still clear. Far from the lights of Gotham, undisturbed by any moon, the sky over the Island Continent was a blaze of stars against the velvet blackness of the heavens, and a silvery, ever-shifting sheen on the churning surface of the waters.

  What went on up there in the cold hard blackness was reflected on the quicksilver surface that lay below. How many other people on how many other planets were at this moment looking out over the serene nightscapes of their worlds while the storm moved stealthily and unnoticed toward them among the pinpoint lights of the common sky?

  Lightning crackled in the thunderheads over the lagoon. There was a crash of thunder, and a hard rain began to fall.

  3

  Carlotta had set the wake-up plate in their Gotham bedroom for the predawn hour the night before, but instead of being eased electronically into full wakefulness, she was awakened by Royce’s body moving on hers, by an insistent tingle between her legs, by the unconscious motions of her own body responding to his from the other side of the veil of sleep.

  “Whuh—? Huh—? What the hell are you doing?” Physical pleasure vied with early-morning grouchiness. Her body was awake and enjoying itself, but her mind was half-asleep and grumbling.

  “What does it feel like I’m doing?” Royce muttered slyly in her ear without breaking rhythm.

  “You’re raping me, bucko,” Carlotta grunted, blinking away the vestiges of sleep.

  “Oh,” Royce said. “Sorry.” He stopped his body in mid-thrust, holding himself stiff and lifeless as a corpse. “I thought you were enjoying it.”

  Carlotta moved her hips against him. “Cut this shit out.”

  “Say please
.”

  “Please,” she whispered with a giggle, sticking her tongue in his ear. Royce laughed, and they moved together once more, fully awake to each other’s rhythm now, building swiftly to a rather well-timed mutual fulfillment.

  Afterwards, Carlotta leaned back lazily against a pillow and pressed a button on the nightstand, which drew back the curtains to admit the wan gray light of impending dawn blearing down on a barely stirring Gotham. Fully awake now at this loathsome hour, she longed to drift back to sleep at least until the sun was a civilized distance above the horizon. Royce, as always, was filled with his loathsome and incomprehensible first-thing-in-the-morning energy, punching out an order for a bedside pot of kaf.

  “What was the idea of that?” Carlotta asked.

  “Just a silly way of starting what promises to be a very unsilly day,” Royce said, suddenly serious.

  “Yeah,” Carlotta said somberly. “It’s not going to be easy. You coming along with me?”

  “Be there before noon,” Royce said, as the kaf popped out of the servetable, hot and steaming. “Got to go to the Ministry first and prepare a press release so we can have it out the moment the session’s over.” He poured two cups of kaf and handed one over. “You still intend to ask for a free hand?” he asked.

  “For sure. I don’t want that Falkenstein addressing Parliament. It’s got to be private negotiations with me so I can turn him down without a vote beforehand.”

  “Even so, there’s a good chance there’ll be a vote of confidence afterward,” Royce said. “And if you lose it, I wouldn’t care to predict how the electronic vote would go afterward, either.”

  Carlotta sipped at her kaf, shrugged. “It’s worth losing the Chairmanship over this if I can get rid of the Heisenberg in the process,” she said. “If I get plenipotentiary powers beforehand, my decision can’t be countermanded later, all they can do is throw me out of office.”

  “There is a possibility you’ve overlooked…” Royce said slowly.

  Carlotta cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “Falkenstein could demand media access,” Royce said. “Appeal directly to the body politic. It’s his right under the Constitution, you couldn’t deny it to him—if he knows about it.”

  Carlotta shuddered. “Oh, come on Royce,” she said. “You think the Transcendental Scientists are experts on Pacifican constitutional law?”

  “Who knows? I just don’t think it’s smart to assume their ignorance.”

  “There isn’t any other choice,” Carlotta snapped. She studied Royce narrowly. There seemed to be something peculiar sneaking into his attitude. “You are with me on this, aren’t you, Royce?”

  “You make the policy, boss-lady, I just sell it,” Royce said, without a trace of rancor.

  But as she dressed hurriedly, Carlotta was left with a feeling of slight unease, as if somehow the mere presence of the Heisenberg moving inexorably toward Pacifica was already disrupting harmonies, both political and domestic.

  Her mind was already girding itself for combat as she took the elevator down into the garage of the tower apartment building. Here was a typical collection of the quirky personal transport favored by confirmed Gothamites. Little motorcycles and scooters powered by small fusion motors, jump-harnesses, powerskates and skimboards, one- and two-place floaters—all concrete technological expressions of the unspoken Pacifican motto, “Getting there is all the fun.”

  Growing up in the city, Carlotta had tried them all at one time or another. As a teenager, she had taken her life in her hands on powerskates and skimboards; with her first citizen’s dividend, she had purchased a jump-harness which soon scared her into shifting over to a series of cycles and scooters; now, as Chairman, with a slightly higher regard for her own personal safety, she got around the city by floater.

  Carlotta’s floater was a one-place model. She stood on a small metal disc containing a float unit and a little thruster. Her hands gripped a fixed set of handlebars that rose from the front of the circular platform. Under her left thumb was a simple on-off switch; the right handlebar grip was a twist-throttle. That was all there was to it, a simple machine, and a complex sense of vector and balance.

  Carlotta turned on the float unit and the floater rose the standard one meter off the floor. She cranked on a little throttle and the floater moved forward. She turned to the right by leaning her body in that direction, and the floater zipped up around the curving ramp and out onto the street.

  Carlotta had called for an early morning opening of the Parliamentary session, figuring it might take all day, and the sun hovered just above the horizon, a pale glare filtering through the residential towers on the eastern islands of Gotham. The air, as always at this latitude, was warm, but the early morning light had a chill quality to it as the city blinked its way into wakefulness in the long shadows. The building fronted on a main avenue, but at this unseemly hour the traffic was still light: a few older people sedately riding the glideways on either side of the roadbed; kids careening along to school balancing precariously on their powered skimboards with slow liquid hip-swivels, or rolling by in low racers’ crouches on powerskates; cycles and scooters weaving in and out of this slower-moving traffic; floaters, like Carlotta’s, maintaining a calmer course in the center of the street.

  Carlotta followed the street as far as the bridge to the next island, but there she veered to the left, across a narrow margin of beach, and out over the water, due west toward the shoreside Parliamentary Building.

  The eastern half of Gotham was built on scores of small islands connected by an almost incomprehensibly complex maze of bridges, and it was possible to get from anywhere to anywhere else by negotiating the transisland streets, which made glideways, cycles, skimboards, and the like practical intracity transport. However, the shortest street route from here to there was always a matter of fierce and inconclusive debate, to be settled only temporarily by impromptu races, and the floater, equally at home over water or land, was the only way to proceed from point A to point B in a more-or-less straight line, unless you were the sort of maniac who enjoyed leaping from island to island in a jump-harness like a giant flitbat.

  Carlotta weaved in and out through the islands, under bridges, around boat traffic, by other floaters, at her top speed of 70 kph, without paying conscious attention to the route she chose or the automatic shifts of weight, having made this run from her apartment to Parliament so many times down through the years that she was her own autopilot. Her mind was elsewhere, looking ahead to the Parliamentary session.

  We’ve never faced anything like this before, she thought as the floater rounded the curve of Paradise Island and the green and gold dome of the Parliament Building hove into view, shimmering in the sunlight at the edge of the mainland shore. We’ve got the smoothest-running political system there is; we’ve never had civil unrest, or economic chaos, or even an ideological split that’s gone much beyond polite table-talk.

  The floater sped across the wide expanse of clear water between the island half of the city and the shore. This bay was the hub of Gotham, the central void. The island half of the city spread itself behind Carlotta in a great jeweled crescent, a confection of gleaming residential towers in a riot of bright colors, rambling business and entertainment districts crammed with the eclectic architecture of thirty planets and as many ages. Parks, zoos, gardens, theaters, midways, luxurious townhouses, all linked together by a faerie latticework of bridges. Fantasy-town, Carlotta thought. Fun-town. Downtown.

  But shoreside, Gotham was all functional business. Wharves, booster-pads, low ugly factories, warehouses, and hoveryards, the utilitarian plainness broken only by the Parliament Building, placed there half on the shore and half on pilings over the bay as a political compromise between the Mainlanders and the Islanders over a century ago. That’s what passes for a grave political decision on Pacifica, Carlotta thought sardonically. Are we the untouchable sophisticates we think we are? Or are we eternal adolescents who have never really been tested?<
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  Carlotta eased her floater off the surface of the bay and zipped across the green-and-gold-tiled plaza in front of the Parliament Building toward the entrance to the Delegates’ garage. It looks like we’re going to find out, she thought nervously, gliding down the ramp into the cool murk of the subsurface parking area.

  Most of the parking spaces were already occupied by Delegates’ transport; Royce had certainly been right about that. Nothing like the mysterious aura of a closed session to fill the benches in triple-time.

  Carlotta took the elevator up to the circular corridor that surrounded the Parliamentary chamber. Although the public had been kept out, the newshounds had somehow already gotten word of the closed session, and the corridor near the entrance to the chamber was clogged with reporters and mobile TV units from most of Pacifica’s dozens of competing newsnets. Ironically, only the official gov newshounds seemed to be missing. In the time-honored fruitless tradition that probably extended back into Terran prehistory, cameras, microphones, and shouting newshounds’ faces were shoved at Carlotta as Parliamentary ushers wedged her through the tumult while she murmured a litany of “No comments” to a babel of incomprehensible questions.

  This is bad, Carlotta thought as the ushers closed the doors to the Parliamentary chamber on the shouting chaos behind her. No way I can get out of here without issuing a full statement. Who in hell talked?

  The circular Parliamentary chamber reminded Carlotta of a theater-in-the-round, or, she thought sardonically, of an ancient Roman arena. Visitors’ seats with a capacity of about a thousand, mercifully empty now, formed a curving grandstand above the circular floor of the chamber for about two hundred degrees of its circumference. A semicircle of Delegate seats, two rows deep, enfolded the Chairman’s hot-seat. The Delegates sat facing the Chairman with their backs to the gallery; the Chairman, therefore, faced everyone. Behind the Chairman was a series of large screens controlled from her console, but also capable of being used by individual Delegates from their seats, or remotely by those who couldn’t be there in the flesh. Above the screens was a large glassed-in media booth—darkened and empty for this closed session.