Humans are meant to be social creatures, not territorial like cats.
Biological imperatives the colonists had created rewarded ecological stewardship above all else. Healthy regions exuded a rich trans-species stew of pheromones, and the body responded to immersion with an endorphin-like reward. Even a brief absence from a healthy, balanced ecosystem interrupted secretion of the endorphin, and began production of its opposite, some type of repellent. Too late, I understood Brian’s evident headaches—drug withdrawal—when he ventured into the forest-fire zone. I remembered him meeting Amanda in her envirosuit and sniffing in puzzlement—at her lack of pheromones.
Only in a broad expanse where many species flourished did the density and diversity of pheromones enable small groups to form, and then only temporarily. Puberty began pheromone production; only an exceptionally fecund region could sustain eco-balance in the presence of pheromones from more than two adult anythings. Puberty caused dissolution of the family unit.
When Amanda shed her suit, Paradise’s ubiquitous retroviruses began her transformation. No mere garden could prevent her altered body’s production of the anti-endorphin. Whenever the prevailing wind shifted, whenever steady currents of pheromones did not arrive from Brian’s ceaselessly cultivated and much larger domain, she became abhorrent.
Unapproachable.
As I would be, if, against Amanda’s express commands and wishes, I were to join her. . . .
Luminous orbs dominated an ink-black sky, mirrored in a glass-smooth sea. The nearer moon, larger than Earth’s and closer to its primary, seemed to fill the sky. The other satellite, appearing half the size of Earth’s, also full, hovered above its companion. An evening star sparkled like a ruby just over the paired glowing disks. Music swelled as celestial spheres swung into alignment, a visual harmony observable at this spot but once every three hundred nine Paradise years.
The image is computer-generated, because the next physical alignment is not due for twenty years. Amanda and I silently shared the moment. Needing above all else to parallel her experience, I too witnessed it on a portable computer, shunning sensory immersion in the starship’s holographic theater.
We watched each other watching through tiny inset windows of our computer screens. She recovered the power of speech first. “It’s stunning, Cameron, a gift I will cherish always.” Her voice quavered. Left unspoken was that this new composition, like that last night of passion, was meant as a keepsake for the long years to come. “When alignment comes, Cameron, I’ll be playing your music and thinking of you.” Tears flowed, and her voice grew husky. “Still loving you.
“Now, go.”
Loneliness rends me. Protocol, the mission commander’s orders, and common sense all insist that I leave. My preparation, such as it is, is complete.
I look for the last time around the empty tavern of the slowboat. Hundreds of blue-and-green-and-white reflections of the globe below mock me.
This history is almost complete, recorded for some improbable resurgence of civilization by the primitives below.
Can the humans of Paradise ever cure what their mad, desperate, genius ancestors did to them? A cure is what’s needed. The retroviruses, more than an ecological adaptation, are a devolutionary trap. In a scant few thousand years, the surviving colonists—addicted to healthy-ecology endorphins, unable to congregate—have regressed to near-instinctual behavior.
Most of the planet’s surface is already in bloom; there is no basis for population expansion. Culture and science have been forgotten. How much longer, in a “society” that can support even family units only occasionally and temporarily, will traces of language survive? How few generations remain until the mute descendants of starfarers become mere tireless servants to ferns?
There is little left to say.
“If you now viewing this history come from afar, from the Reunification Corp, perhaps, a sincere warning: Do not land! If you reached this ship from the planet below . . . then surely you understand the nuances of your biosphere better than did Amanda or I.” In case of that eventuality, computers were rendering my rambling oration into English. The translation had to use the full Firster language—that which I needed to impart was far too complex for the pathetic scraps of speech still in use below. “Somehow, you have escaped the trap. I salute you.”
I like to believe that somehow involves me.
I have set my landing coordinates for the fire-ravaged area in which Amanda now makes her home—but at the opposite extreme. If we can make bloom our separate ends of that desolation, can expand them until they merge, the reclaimed region, bountiful with its own eco-pheromones, will make possible our reunification.
My lander’s lab computers contain the finest of modern and recovered Firster biotech. Long after I become a grubber in the dirt, lab automation will simulate, and wherever there is a chance, synthesize, possible counter-pheromones and anti-retroviruses.
I do not delude myself: Much of the search will be by trial and error. Mere neutralization of the Firster technology, as unimaginably difficult as that would be, is not my goal. A new bioagent must be limited in its effects to humans—anything less specifically targeted would destroy the biosphere the colonists sacrificed so much to preserve. Extrapolation suggests that the process could take hundreds of years, but it could still help someone.
I have purged all interstellar navigational data from the lander. That precaution, this recording—and the dispatch of the Corps starship to its fiery death in the nearby sun—are necessary to protect my civilization from the eco-madness below.
Hundreds of blue-and-green-and-white reflections of the globe below mock me.
I will not be mocked.
Amanda’s first words to me were, “You act like the world is against you.”
Slowly, I had turned toward at her. Smiling, I had peered deeply into her blue, blue eyes. “If we can be together,” I had answered her, “I’ll take those odds.”
I stride confidently to the lander. In twenty years, we have a celestial wonder to share.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EDWARD M. LERNER worked in high tech for thirty years, as everything from engineer to senior vice president. His most recent technothrillers are Fools’ Experiments and Small Miracles. He writes traditional SF, too, including the InterstellarNet series and, with Larry Niven, the Fleet of Worlds series of Ringworld prequels.
His short fiction appears regularly in the usual SF magazines and websites. It has been featured in anthologies and an earlier collection, Creative Destruction. He also writes the occasional nonfiction technology article.
Lerner lives in Virginia with his wife, Ruth. His website is:
www.sfwa.org/members/lerner/
BOOKS BY EDWARD M. LERNER
Probe
Moonstruck
Creative Destruction* (collection)
Fools’ Experiments
Small Miracles
InterstellarNet: Origins
InterstellarNet: New Order
Countdown to Armageddon / A Stranger in Paradise* (collection)
With Larry Niven
Fleet of Worlds
Juggler of Worlds
Destroyer of Worlds
* Published by Wildside Press
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WILDSIDE PRESS
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
A STRANGER IN PARADISE
Copyright © 2010 by Edward M. Lerner.
Published by
Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
This collection is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in it are likewise fictional, and any resemblance to real people, organizations, or events is purely coincidental.
“The Night of the RFIDs” copyright © 2007 by Edward M. Lerner. First appeared in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, May 2008
.
“Two Kinds of People” copyright © 2005 by Edward M. Lerner. First appeared in Amazon Shorts, October 2005.
“Better the Devil You Know” copyright © 2005 by Edward M. Lerner. First appeared in Amazon Shorts, October 2005.
“Small Business” copyright © 2008 by Edward M. Lerner. First appeared in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, January/February 2009.
“A Stranger in Paradise” copyright © 2005 by Edward M. Lerner. First appeared in Jim Baen’s Universe, February 2007.
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