“Good morning, sir,” it said in the studiously eager tone programmed into all servitors. “Can I bring you something for breakfast?”
Fen looked over at the bank of food printers, thought how silly it was to order from the robot instead of just walking across the room and inputting his selections himself.
“Good morning…” Fen began.
“Eric, sir.”
“Good morning, Eric. I’ll have dharmat tea, with milk and sugar, a hard-boiled egg and toast with butter and strawberry jam.”
“Sir, we have 300 types of eggs available and approximately 1,000 kinds of bread from which we can make toast.”
Specificity was key when dealing with servitors, something Fen always had trouble with. He and Katmin never owned one, not because they couldn’t afford it, they just felt it would be odd owning something so human.
“Just a regular chicken egg and algae toast.”
“Yes, sir. It will be just a minute.”
Fen nodded absently, lifted his tab and scanned the news from the Feed—page after page of politics, crime, political upheaval and the latest planetary systems making noises of war.
As he read, something caught his eye about the Visitation lottery winners, and he read through it, noted with rue the paragraph or two about him and Katmin. Sighing, he was about to put the tab to sleep, when a shadow fell across the table.
Thinking the servitor had returned with his food, he put the tab aside just as a man took a seat across from his in the small booth.
Surprised, Fen was barely able to restrain a frown.
“Hey!” the man said, his voice echoing in the otherwise empty room. “Thought I’d join ya. Going stir crazy in my room all by myself. But every time I come out, I don’t see a damn soul.”
Fen smiled politely. “Please have a seat.”
The man, older, stocky and grey-haired with an open, jocular face and restless eyes, thrust a hand across the table. “Sern Thyralt. From Ankara. Pleased to meet ya.”
Fen took the man’s hand. It was large, calloused, dry. He squeezed Fen’s hand, too hard.
“Fenlan Daulk from Aquilla.”
At that moment, the servitor returned with his breakfast and Sern barked orders at it before it could even get the plates settled onto the table. It responded politely, of course, turned and went back to the printers to produce Sern’s order.
“Tea, huh?” the man said, rising in his seat a bit to look into Fen’s cup. “Coffee man myself. Come from a long line of coffee drinkers that go right back to Old Earth.”
“Hmmm,” Fen responded, buttering his toast and trying to pretend that he was paying attention.
“So, who are you going to see?”
Fen stopped with the butter knife hovering in mid-air. “Excuse me?”
“Who’s the dead person you’re going to see on Visitation? I mean, come on, we’re all going for the same thing.”
Fen took a bite, as much to hide another scowl as to eat. He didn’t want company this morning, possibly this entire trip, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about Katmin with this stranger.
“My wife,” he replied, chewing the toast and finding that he suddenly had no appetite.
“Me, too,” Sern said. “Well, not your wife, of course! My own!”
He coughed out a series of harsh barks that Fen took for laughter.
Just then the servitor returned, set Sern’s more expansive breakfast onto the table, crowding Fen’s own plates. For a moment, Sern went about the rituals of his breakfast, sugaring his black coffee, cutting up his eggs, buttering some kind of thin, blue pancakes swimming in syrup so red it looked like they had been stabbed and left to bleed out on his plate.
Sern took a few bites, grasping cutlery in both hands, chewed. Even before the first wad of his food was swallowed, he spoke, punctuating his words with stabs of fork and knife across the table at Fen.
“Don’t really expect to see her, though. My wife I mean.” He smiled, his teeth slicked with red syrup. “Do you?”
Fen sipped at his tea, letting the menthol of the hot drink drift into him, calm him. “Of course I do. Why else go to Visitation?”
Sern waved his silverware dismissively, took another huge bite, gulped at his coffee. “Ah, to shut my family up is all. I don’t buy any of this Visitation nonsense. Dead humans haunting an alien planet out in the sticks? Come on! It’s some kind of scam. Ghost stories and boogeymen, if you ask me. Something to control the masses, take our minds off other things, like the Sentarii border skirmish.”
He paused, narrowed his eyes, appraising Fen, and then leaned in as if to share a confidence.
“Besides, I don’t want to see her again. I said my goodbyes. Not really looking to go through all that again.”
Fen sighed. “Well, if you don’t even want to see her, why go? Why not just turn your voucher over to someone else? I’m sure there are people who need an opportunity like this, some closure in their lives.”
Sern laughed, red syrup dribbling down his chin. “Are you nuts? I win the biggest lottery in the universe, and then turn around and give it to someone else? Hah, fat chance! Whatever happens on Visitation, happens. I see her, I don’t, whatever.
“But the number of people who’ve actually been there is so small, it’s an exclusive club, Fen. That means fame, notoriety, money. My name splashed all over the Feed. Appearances on the holos, treated like a celebrity. That’s why.”
Now Fen was sure he wasn’t hungry. He took another drink of his tea, grabbed his tab, stood.
“Well, that’s certainly one way to look at it,” he said, his smile taut. “Good to meet you, Sern. I expect we’ll see each other again before we land.”
Sern raised his eyebrows. “Sure thing. Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for on Visitation, Fen. Whatever that might be.”
Fen nodded to the servitor. As he turned to leave the dining room, he saw Sern cram a forkful of eggs into his mouth and shake his head.
“Aquillans,” Fen heard him mutter. “Tight-ass prigs, all of ‘em.”
* * *
“It’s said, ‘Better be with the dead, whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,’” said the small, bespectacled woman at the podium as the lights went down in the packed auditorium.
“Who the hell said that and what the hell does it mean?” came a voice from somewhere in the darkened audience, a voice Fen recognized as Sern Thyralt’s. Fen smiled, not at the comment, but at the fact he had managed to avoid the boorish man for the remainder of the trip to Visitation, not even encountering his voice until just then.
Now he was here on Visitation, herded with all the other lottery winners from the Eidolon directly into this amphitheater for an orientation session prior to being disbursed across the planet.
“Shakespeare said that, through Lady Macbeth, in the ancient play, Macbeth,” the woman said, perhaps in response, perhaps part of her canned presentation. “As fitting a mission statement for our institute’s presence here on Visitation as any I could think of.
“We welcome you to what will likely be the most profound, moving, unexplained two weeks of your life. And the most singular experience the entire explored galaxy has to offer. Each year, the GU Institute here on Visitation selects, through the lottery you have recently won, approximately one million people to spend fourteen days here, in the hope of contacting their dead loved ones.
“That might seem like a large number, but consider it against the GU population of hundreds of trillions, scattered over literally thousands of inhabited systems, and you truly appreciate how rare the experience you’re about to undertake is.
“Through some process that is yet unknown, but which we are devoting a truly herculean effort toward understanding, Visitation, of the more than ten million known planets in the galaxy, is the only one on which this phenomena has been recorded at the levels experienced here.”
Fen shifted in his chair as the speaker went on about the compounds where bungalows wer
e located, how they were kept separate from the rest of the environment by the use of force screens. How each guest would be assigned a servitor that would remain with the guest for the duration of the stay, attending to any needs, housekeeping, food preparation or questions.
Fen took this to mean that the staff of Visitation was far too busy to bother with the living guests.
Then the speaker explained that the servitors actually played a much more important role in the Visitation experience than just a chef, laundry or turndown service.
Fen sat up for this; paid closer attention.
Each visitor received an injection of a nanotic neurotransmitter, which would broadcast input—visual, audio, tactile, olfactory—and relay it directly to the guest’s personal servitor, for indexing, buffering and pre-analysis prior to being uploaded to the institute’s computers for study.
“In essence,” the woman told the group, “for the entirety of your fourteen-day stay, you will be tied directly and intimately to your servitor.”
She explained that while the institute understood the delicate nature of this, it was an absolute requirement. The servitors were programmed to respond quickly to a host of potential physiological and psychological problems brought on by the Visitation experience. Heart attacks, strokes, fugue states, dissociative splits, depression and even suicides were not unheard of among Visitation guests.
She also made it clear that this data was not monitored in real-time, as the staff was in the process of reviewing mountains of past data. Therefore, there was no possibility of the institute offering any personal analysis of a visitor’s experience—either during or following the stay.
“Each guest’s experiences are highly subjective, highly individual,” the speaker said. “Therefore, answers to questions of exactly what your experience on Visitation was, what it meant, are entirely left to each individual guest. In the end, as dramatic and as profound as these experiences can be, only you can decide what they mean.”
* * *
Documents were signed, a medical scan administered, the nanotic transmitter injection given.
Fen was then introduced to his servitor, Abram. He looked to be a standard model, with flat features and nondescript dark hair. His face and everything about him seemed absolutely real—human—except the eyes. No matter how manufacturers tried, they could never get the eyes right.
Abram led him to the pod, and soon they were purring through the sky toward Community North D-14.
After an hour or so inflight, Fen tapped Abram on the shoulder.
“Can you answer questions while you fly or is that too distracting?”
The servitor turned in its chair, faced Fen. “Sir, the pod is on autopilot to our destination. I can answer any questions you have.”
Fen thought for a second. “Can you tell me about this planet’s original inhabitants?” He’d done some reading on the subject while on the Eidolon, but the literature didn’t spend much time on them.
“The planet was home to a semi-aquatic cephalopoid race that called itself the Malacchi. They attained a relatively high level of technology over the course of their thirty-century civilized period, before destroying themselves some 500,000 years ago.”
“Nuclear war?”
“No, Mr. Daulk, background radiation levels and the pattern of urban ruins suggest something chemical or biological in nature. At this point, most in the institute believe that the cause was biological, since no evidence of chemical anomalies remains in the environment,” Abram explained.
“So there are ruins?”
“Yes, Mr. Daulk. There are extensive ruins across the planet’s surface, most substantially degraded by weather and time, but still standing.”
“Will I see any?”
Abram shook his head. “Compound locations were originally selected to avoid impinging on ruin sites, since these are under active study by GU archaeological teams. There are no ruins in any of the compounds, and no excursions outside of your compound are permitted. Most guests aren’t interested in the ruins anyway.”
Fen noticed something in the tone of Abram’s last statement, but let it go. “I understand. And Abram, I don’t think I can take being called ‘Mr. Daulk’ for the next fourteen days. Please call me Fen.”
“Yes, Fen,” Abram replied with no hesitation.
Fen thought the smile Abram flashed before he turned back in his chair was the least artificial thing about him.
* * *
About an hour later, they hovered over the house Fen’s wife, hopefully, would come to haunt. Abram brought the pod smoothly and silently onto a landing pad to the south of the house, which sat on a little hillock that sloped down to a pond Fen estimated was five or six acres in size.
The house was simple, boxy with a flat roof, made of local wood, stained dark. The front faced east, with a small, sheltered entryway that protected the door from the rains Fen had read were frequent in this region.
The back of the house was one single, large sitting room opening onto a deck overlooking the pond. A walkway from the deck, still damp from a previous storm, led to a small dock that jutted across the pond’s still, grey-green water. Fen noted, with some interest, that there was no boat docked at the little jetty.
* * *
While Fen explored the house, Abram unpacked his luggage, put his clothing away in the closets and dresser, arranged his toiletries in the luxurious bathroom.
In addition to the single bedroom and bath, and the enormous sitting room with a fireplace, the house had a small kitchen. What it lacked in space, though, it made up with an elaborate, very high-end food printer. Fen supposed it was suitable for making just about any dish anyone coming to Visitation might want, regardless of where in the GU they came from.
He drifted out onto the deck, leaned against the railing, took a deep breath. In his limited experience, every planet’s air had an intrinsic smell that varied slightly from city to city, but remained unique from that of other planets. Aquilla’s air smelled slightly flowery, with an almost citrus-sharp tang. Old Earth, which he had visited once as a child, had smelled of age, of dust and muted spices.
And Visitation?
He inhaled deeply, held it.
It smelled lightly of camphor, mint, something piney and resinous, with the wet smell of water underneath, of fish and rotting vegetation.
Standing there alone, he inhaled the cool, damp air, savoring where he was, the experience he was about to embark on here.
Abram came outside, stopped behind him.
“I have unpacked your belongings, Fen.”
Fen opened his eyes, saw the yellow sun of Visitation reflected in the pond.
“So, will I see her?”
“Your wife, you mean?”
Fen didn’t answer, stared out at the glowing evening mirrored in the water.
“Less than one percent of guests fail to have an encounter on Visitation, Fen,” Abram said, his voice encouraging.
“So, what do I do now, Abram?”
“Wait,” Abram answered, then returned to the house.
* * *
That evening, Fen ate alone on the deck, watched the sunlight fade to purple dusk, watched the pond turn into an irregular dark patch of sky reflected upon the land. When the night became cool, he went inside, the bed already turned down, and slept a sleep unhaunted by dreams, unhaunted by his wife.
* * *
The next morning, Fen awoke disoriented. Was he still in the hotel in Amberjin? Aboard the Eidolon? Back home on Aquilla?
He sat up, looked out through the tinted windows to see the unfamiliar foliage of unfamiliar trees. A small lizard-like creature scampered down a vivid lavender frond, leapt to the ground below.
Fen ran a hand through his hair, threw his feet off the bed, and stood. The house was filled with unaccustomed noises and smells. He stood beside the bed for a moment to get his bearings. A knock came at his door.
“Yes?”
“If you are ready, sir, I can pr
epare breakfast while you freshen.”
Fen closed his eyes, sighed. “Sure, Abram. Thank you. Umm…how about some eggs and toast…ummm…chicken eggs and algae toast and some tea. Just plain black tea, with sugar and milk.”
“I will have it ready for you. Would you care to eat on the deck again?”
Fen considered that. “How’s the weather?”
“At the moment it is overcast and twenty-four degrees Celsius. Rain will push in later today, with storms probable.”
Fen smiled at the laconic weather report. “Sure, out on the deck is fine.”
He took a brief, scalding shower, dressed casually and left the bedroom. In the kitchen, Abram was removing the plate of eggs and toast from the printer. Fen took the steaming mug of tea and walked outside, the servitor following.
Abram placed the plate and utensils onto the table as Fen sat, then turned to leave.
“Abram, stay if you like. Sit with me while I eat.”
Abram paused, as if never having had to consider such an offer, then turned, pulled out the chair opposite Fen, and sat.
Fen smiled at the servitor, took a sip of tea.
“So, Day One. What am I supposed to do?”
“I am not sure how to answer that question, Fen.”
Chewing, Fen regarded the pond, its mood so susceptible to the mood of the sky. Today, it looked grey, impassive, pulled into itself.
“I mean, what do I do? Not just today, but for the next fourteen? How long does it usually take to see…a ghost?”
Abram regarded him coolly. “The timing varies. Some experience the beginnings of a haunt the first evening. Others see nothing almost until they leave.”
Fen raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t considered it might take as long as that.
“But the average is several days. It’s almost as if…the spirits are studying you, trying to select an appropriate way to come through,” Abram said.
The End in All Beginnings Page 19
