Ascending

by James Alan Gardner

  I myself would not enjoy that type of tunnel vision; but then, we must not expect aliens to see things our way.

  Introductions

  “So,” the beast said, “let’s deal with formalities.” He took a deep breath, then rattled off quickly, “Greetings-I-am-asentient-citizen-of-the-League-of-Peoples-I-beg-your-Hospitality-what-a-load-of-horseshit.”

  “Oh yes,” I replied. “Me too. Except for the horseshit.”

  I was vexed I had not been the first to speak the required phrase. As official communications officer, I should have been faster; but this creature had deliberately distracted me with ostentatious spectacle, so that was my excuse.

  “And it’s time to introduce myself,” the creature said. “I’m called the Pollisand. Does that ring any bells?”

  Searching my memory, I could not recall hearing the name; but suddenly I remembered my conversation with the woman in the Tower of Ancestors. She claimed I had been visited by a big white thing like some animal, except without a head. “Your name is unfamiliar,” I said, “but you came to me on Melaquin, after I fell.”

  “Give the glass lady a transparent cigar!” the Pollisand cried. “I brought you back from the dead.”

  “You did not! I am not such a creature as can die.”

  “Oh, you can die, cheri,” the Pollisand said. “You are more than capable of that little feat. The only reason your species doesn’t kick the bucket more often is because you’re a bunch of preindustrial hayseeds—so damned Paleolithic, you’ve never invented weapons more lethal than pointy sticks. As if those could pierce your hard glass heinies!

  “But,” he went on, “you’ve left your world behind now, sweetums. You’ve entered the hostile high-tech universe, and there’s many a method to make you a corpse. Monofilament garrotes that can saw through your jugular. Hypersonic pistols to shatter your glass guts. Plain old dynamite or plastique. And that’s not to mention alien microbes or toxins—you may be immune to the diseases and poisons on Melaquin, but I guarantee you weren’t built to handle every damned biochemical compound in the galaxy. Bump against the wrong kind of leaf, and you might keel over like a pole-axed steer.”

  I looked down at the flowers brushing my legs. It would be most cowardly to back away from them, and anyhow they were unreal mental projections; so I stayed where I was. “Perhaps it is true I now have a heightened risk of decease,” I said, “but it is most unlikely you came just to warn me of such dangers. What do you want?”

  Before he could answer—or at least before he did answer—a patch of scarlet flowers rustled behind me. I turned quickly, expecting attack; all this time, the Pollisand might have been a devious villain whose only goal was to provide distraction while a confederate stole up on me from behind. After being forced to flee from the stick-ship and the human navy, it was pleasant to have the prospect of a solid enemy I could punch in the nose…but when a creature leapt from concealment, I was dismayed to see it had no nose.

  It was a round gray ball the size of my own head; and as it sped toward me, I recognized its texture: gray strings on white goo. Furthermore, the creature was not attacking so much as bouncing—a small gray animal jumping up and down with excitement, scrambling around my ankles as it made happy little cheeps. It seemed to take pleasure from hopping against my calves, rebounding back, and skipping around to try the same thing at a new angle.

  “Is this what it appears to be?” I asked the Pollisand.

  “Yes ma’am,” he answered, “that’s the one and only Star-biter.”

  “The real Starbiter is much larger.”

  “Clearly, she thinks of herself as smaller. I’m not creating her image, she is. In fact, I didn’t expect her to show up at all; but since I’m using her to project bumpf into your brain, she must have decided to get in on the act. And this is how she sees herself.”

  The Pollisand tilted his neckhole downward as if he wanted to look more closely at the little Star-bouncer. She must have noticed the red glowing eyes in his chest cavity, and found them a source of allure; skittering away from me she bounced toward those eyes, squashing flowers as she went. I could see the Pollisand’s eyes blaze more brightly…just before Starbiter made a tremendous leap and jumped straight down the Pollisand’s throat.

  Starbiter, The Cannonball

  It is most amusing to see a haughty alien with a small energetic creature stuffed into his neck. Starbiter made happy squeaky sounds as if she were proud of her mischievous accomplishment; she wobbled back and forth inside the throat cavity, thudding against the sides and giggling each time she bounced off.

  As for the Pollisand, he seemed frozen in astonishment: he did not move for a full count of five. Then with a great shudder, he raised his shoulders and filled his lungs full of air. His breath made tempestuous sucking sounds as he inhaled around the Zarett crammed down his throat; I could see his ribs expand wider and wider, until suddenly he blew out with all his strength.

  Starbiter shot from his neckhole like a cannonball. She squealed something that sounded like “Wheeeeee!” as she flew in a perfect arc, hurtling far across the garden and landing precipitously in a patch of blood-flowers. For a moment, I worried she might be hurt; but almost as soon as she splashed down she bounced up again, making joyful peeps and whistles.

  “Look,” I told the Pollisand. “She wants to do it again.”

  “Tough titty,” he said. “Do you know what would happen if certain folks saw me with a Zarett down my maw? I’m supposed to retain my dignity, for Christ’s sake—some species worship me like unto a god. A fat lot of good it would do my reputation if people knew I’d been used as a basketball hoop.”

  “Perhaps it would help your reputation. Perhaps you would not be considered an asshole if it were known you played cheerfully with others.”

  “What do you mean, cheerfully? I’m not cheerful—I’ve got Zarett guck in my mouth.”

  He made another loud hawking sound and spat out a blob of stringy gray and white. “Besides,” he continued, “I like people thinking I’m an asshole. Being an asshole is my life’s vocation; I’m a goddamned asshole professional. When other people act like assholes, they’re doing it on their own time, but me, it’s my job.”

  “Is that why you have come then? Someone is paying you to annoy me? Because you are very most irritating indeed, and I do not wish to spend time with you unless you promptly explain what you want.”

  The glowing eyes in his throat burned brighter. Before speaking, he glanced toward Starbiter; but the little Zarett had got herself distracted with the two-headed slugs that swam in the lava pools. It appeared she was bouncing on the vermin with great delight, splashing up fierce hissing splutters of magma each time she smacked the boiling surface. The heat did not bother her a bit…but then, she had already traveled through a sun, so how could she be harmed by mere molten minerals?

  “All right,” the Pollisand said, turning back to me, “let’s talk business. I don’t often make deals with lesser species, but you’re in a unique position, even if you don’t know it.” The Pollisand’s eyes flared brightly. “Oar, my sweet, my sugar, my sucrose-based carbohydrate, suppose I had a way that your brain would never get Tired? Would that interest you? Hmm?”

  Temptations

  I stared at him speechless for several heartbeats. More out of reflex than conviction, I said, “My brain never will get Tired, you foolish beast. I am not such a one as succumbs to mind-numbing ennui.”

  “Unlike your mother?” the Pollisand asked. “And the hundred generations before her? They all swore they wouldn’t turn into mental rutabagas, but now they’re cluttering up a thousand glass towers.”

  He stomped his foot and suddenly the world changed. There was no garden, no lava, no scarlet-ash sky; we were back in Oarville with mute snow swirling through the air.

  The Pollisand and I stood atop the Tower of Ancestors where I had suffered my great fall. Some distance off, near the edge of the roof, the small figure of Starbiter gave a surprise
d yelp, then bounced speedily toward us. Within seconds, she was pressed fearfully against my leg, clearly disturbed by the sudden change of scenery.

  I knelt and gave her a reassuring pat. A tiny amount of goo came off onto my hand, but I could not feel it—this was still a simulation, giving me sight and sound but not touch. Continuing to stroke the worried Starbiter, I glared at the Pollisand. “Why are we here?”

  “Just a visual demonstration, lass.” He stomped his foot again, and the city changed. Instead of the many different buildings it had held before, now it was filled with Ancestral Towers exactly like the one beneath my feet: tens of thousands of them, shining brightly but somehow not illuminating the cavern around us.

  “Oar,” the Pollisand said, “this is your world and your people. Damned near comatose—as good as dead. Only a few dozen of your species haven’t gone zombie; and how soon before they give in? How soon before you do?”

  He lifted one foot and waved it casually at the vista: tower after tower, stretching back as far as I could see, much farther than the actual wall of the cavern. “Up till now,” he said, “there’s only been one way to keep your gray cells from turning to zucchini—throw yourself over and go KER-SPLAT. Smash your body to mush before your brain mushes out on its own. You’ve taken the high dive once, Oar; it’s still there for you. Cast your cares to the wind and die a decent death. This time I promise I won’t sew you back together. Nor will angels appear to bear you up safely.”

  I stared at him. “Why would I imagine angels should appear? That is a most absurd notion.”

  The Pollisand gave an ostentatious sigh. “Classical allusions are just lost on you, aren’t they? I suppose there’s no point my even suggesting you turn stones into bread.”

  “You may suggest such a thing, but I cannot do it. Can you? I would be most happy if you did, for I have not eaten in quite some time. But if you do bake bread from stones, make sure it is good bread—not the horrid opaque substance Explorers are so proud of cooking.”

  “Okay,” the Pollisand muttered to himself, “scratch the three-temptations scenario. Didn’t work the last time I tried it either. On to Plan B.”

  He stomped his foot more forcefully than ever, and in the blink of an eye, we were back where we started: in the garden, surrounded by steaming lava. Starbiter bleated with excitement and bounced off to bother the wildlife. Meanwhile, the Pollisand kicked the heads off a couple flowers and ground the blooms under his heel. “All right,” he said. “We were talking business. Deals.” He gave the plants one more whack, then turned back to me. “I was proposing you could avoid rampaging senility, if only you play ball with me.”

  “What sort of ball do you wish to play?”

  “It was only a metaphor, damn it!” The Pollisand squashed another patch of flowers, leaving his foot red with their juices. “I’m suggesting a simple agreement. An exchange of favors. My favor is I’ll ensure your brain doesn’t go Tired.”

  “And what do you wish in return?”

  “I wish…” He took a deep breath. “I want…well, to put it in terms you’ll understand, I want you to tell the League of Peoples it’s okay if I accidentally get you killed.”

  The Deal

  “It is not okay if you get me killed! That is very much not okay at all!” I glared at him in outrage; he had red flower sap all over his foot and I hoped it would stain forever.

  “Why isn’t it okay?” he demanded. “Point one, you’ve already died once and I was the one who brought you back to life; you owe me big-time, lady. Point two, your brain’s almost curdled to gorgonzola, and when it goes, you’re as good as dead anyway. Point three, I’m so far above you on the ladder of sentience my IQ can only be measured with transfinite numbers, and I promise there’s only the teeniest-tiniest-eensiest-weensiest chance my plan will go wrong enough to get you killed.”

  “Hmph,” I said. “Tell me your plan and let me judge for myself.”

  “Tell you my plan? I can’t tell you my plan. My plan is so complex, your brain doesn’t have the capacity to comprehend it. This entire universe doesn’t have the capacity to comprehend my plan—there aren’t enough quarks to encode the simplest overview. I’ve got fifty-five million backup universes grinding away at figuring out what I have to do next, and that’s just the underlying logic, not the user interface. No way I can tell you my plan.”

  “In other words,” I said, “you do not have a plan.”

  “Well, I’ve got a few rough ideas. My greatest strength is improvising.”

  One of the red eyes in his throat disappeared for a moment, then blazed back to life; I had an eerie feeling the Pollisand had just winked at me. “Seriously, kiddo,” he said, “I have plans upon plans upon plans, reaching all the way down to the end of time. I have agendas both social and temporal, I have schemes both simple and ornate; I create conspiracies and tear them apart; my name is a byword for foresight and I have honed the blade of strategy to a razor’s edge.”

  “If you always talk this much,” I said, “it is a wonder you have time for planning at all.”

  “Damn, but you’re a stick-in-the-mud,” he grumbled. “All right, I do have a plan, okay? It’s a good plan, aimed at a noble purpose…but there’s a teeny-tiny-eensy-weensy chance that at a particular point as events unfold you’ll die rather permanently. Under circumstances where I won’t be able to patch you up like the last time. And that’s where I run afoul of the League of Peoples: cuz if I have this foreknowledge, which I do, of a lethal danger, which there is, to a sentient creature, which you are—borderline sentient, but you’re still on the civilized side of the ledger—then I’m morally obliged to ask if it’s okay I might get you murdered. Basically, you have to agree you want to achieve the same lofty goal I do…at which point it ceases to be me putting your life at risk, but you accepting the risk yourself because you’re so doggone eager to do the right thing.”

  “And what is this right thing I so recklessly wish to do?”

  “Um. Well.” The Pollisand stubbed his toe bashfully into the dirt, a gesture no doubt intended to appear winningly ingenuous. “Do I really have to tell you? Couldn’t you just take my word, as a being seventy-five trillion rungs higher than you on the evolutionary ladder, that I’m honestly pursuing the greatest good for the greatest number?”

  “I do not care about the greatest good for the greatest number,” I said. “Most people are poop-heads; I do not care about them at all. And I have no confidence you are as clever and advanced as you claim to be—all I have seen you do is simulate visions using Starbiter.”

  The Zarett heard her name and began bouncing toward me…until she became distracted by a bug flying by, and bounced after it instead. I turned back to the Pollisand. “Zaretts do not seem so high on the evolutionary ladder. I have seen no evidence that you are either.”

  “Ah,” the Pollisand said, “but perhaps my facade is an act. A truly advanced being might realize it’s best to approach lesser species in a nonthreatening way—as a ridiculous-looking creature who comes across as a pompous jerk barely able to keep his foot out of his mouth. It puts you at ease, doesn’t it, when you say, This Pollisand guy isn’t so scary; he’s not the swaggering staggering supergenius the rest of the universe thinks he is. You catch me making a few goofs, you throw my words back in my face, and after a while, you relax cuz you think I’m not smart enough to pull the wool over your eyes.”

  If this was an attempt to disconcert me, it nearly worked. A vastly intelligent beast who controlled what I saw and heard might indeed present himself as a silly buffoon so as not to be taken too seriously. On the other hand, a silly buffoon might boast of himself as a vastly intelligent beast who was merely play-acting. Which was more likely?

  “The most important point,” I said, “is that I wish to know the direction of your plan. What is your goal? What is your purpose?”

  The Pollisand shuffled his feet. “All right. The part of the plan that concerns you—the immediate part of the plan—is re
lated to the race you call the Shaddill.”

  “Are you for them or against them?” I asked.

  “I fervently want,” the Pollisand said, “to wipe them off the face of this galaxy. And your part in the plan will help accomplish that.”

  “Why did you not say so?” I reached out and laid my arm across the alien’s back in a comradely manner. “Of course I shall help you defeat the Shaddill…especially if you fix my Tired Brain too. You should have known I would say yes if you put it like that.”

  “I did know,” the Pollisand said in a soft voice totally unlike his previous obnoxious tone.

  Suddenly, I realized I could feel my arm lying on the Pollisand’s hide…and as soon as I realized that, I could feel the ground beneath my feet too. A hot stinking wind blew around me, and the crimson flowers brushing my legs felt scratchy against my calves. Nearby, little Starbiter yelped in fright and bounced fearfully toward me, leaping high at the last and jumping straight into my arms. I caught her and held her; when she pressed her gooey body against my chest, I felt her warm trembling stickiness.

  The Pollisand turned toward me and the fire of his deep-buried eyes blazed hotter than all the lava pools around us. A wave of scorching heat struck me square in the face, a blistering slap so fierce I feared my cheeks would melt…and suddenly, I had the terrifying suspicion this was all real, that the Pollisand had truly transported me across untold light-years to this lava world, and shrunk Starbiter to the size of a puppy, and kept me from feeling the boiling temperatures so I would believe it was only an illusion…