Starplex

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Beyond it were the dark-matter beings, tendrils of gas stretching between them. The question now was what to do next. For one brief moment, Jag sympathized with Lansing.

  He wouldn't want to swim the choppy waters of the river that now spread out before the human.

  Keith was in his apartment, preparing to leave for his upcoming meeting with Premier Kenyatta at Grand Centr. Station.

  An electric bleep sounded. "Rhombus would like to see you," announced PHANTOM. "He requests seven minutes of your time."

  Rhombus? Here? Keith really felt like being alone just now. He was marshaling his thoughts, trying to decide what to say in the meeting.

  Still, having an Ib disturb him at home was unusual enough to pique his curiosity. "The time is granted," said Keith--the appropriate answer dictated by Ibese manners.

  PHANTOM again: "Since you are going to have an Ib visitor, may I dim the lights?"

  Keith nodded. The ceiling panels decreased their intensity, and the glaring white glacier in the wall hologram of Lake Louise turned a muted gray. The double-pocket door slid aside and Rhombus rolled in.

  Lights flashed on his web.

  "Hello, Keith."

  "Hello, Rhombus. What can I do for you?"

  "Forgive me for intruding," said the pleasant British voice, "but you were quite angry on the bridge today."

  Keith frowned. "Sorry if I was harsh," said Keith. "I'm furious with Jag--but I shouldn't have taken it out on anyone else."

  "Oh, your anger seemed quite focused. I doubt you gave offense."

  Keith lifted his eyebrows. "Then what's the problem?"

  Rhombus was quiet for a moment, then: "Have you ever wondered about the apparent contradiction my race represents?

  We are obsessed, you humans say, with time. We hate to waste it. But we nonetheless spend time on being polite, and, as many humans have noted, we take pains not to hurt feelings."

  Keith nodded. "I've wondered about that. Seems that wasting time on social niceties would take away from more important tasks."

  "Precisely," said Rhombus. "Precisely the way a human would see it.

  But we do not perceive it that way at all. We see getting along as going--well, our metaphor is 'hub in wheel,' but you'd say 'hand in hand'--with a philosophy of not wasting time. A brief but unpleasant meeting ends up squandering more time than a longer but agreeable one."

  "Why?"

  "Because after an unpleasant encounter, one spends much time going over the meeting in one's mind, replaying it again and again, often seething over the things that were said or done." He paused. "You've seen with Boxcar that under Ibese jurisprudence, we punish direct wastings of time. If an Ib wastes ten minutes of my time, the courts may order that Ib's life shortened by ten minutes. But did you know that if an Ib upsets me through rudeness or ingratitude or deliberate maliciousness, the courts may impose a penalty of sixteen times the amount of time apparently wasted over the issue? We use a multiple of sixteen simply because, like the Waldahudin, that number is the base for our system of counting; there really is no way to quantify the time actually wasted mulling over an unpleasant experience.

  Years later, painful memories can--again, metaphors fail me. I would say 'roll up beside you'; you'd probably say 'rear their ugly head."

  It is always better to leave a situation on pleasant terms, without rancor."

  "You're saying we should really put the screws to the Waldahudin? Get back sixteen times what they did to us in damages?" Keith nodded.

  "That certainly makes sense."

  "No, you miss my meaning--doubtless due to my lack of clarity in expressing it. I'm saying forget about what has transpired between you and Jag, and between Earth and Rehbollo. I despair over how much of your mental resources--how much of your time--you humans will waste over these issues. No matter how bumpy the terrain, smooth it in your mind."

  Rhombus paused for a moment, letting this sink in, then: "Well, I've used the seven minutes you granted me; I should leave now." The Ib began to roll away.

  "People have died," said Keith, raising his voice. "It's not that easy to smooth it all out."

  Rhombus stopped. "If it is difficult, it is only because you choose for it to be that way," he said. "Can you foresee any solution that will bring the dead back to life? Any reprisals that won't result in more people dead?" Lights played across his web. "Let it go."

  ETA DRACONIS

  Glass looked at Keith, and Keith looked at Glass. Something 'in the being's manner told Keith this would be their final conversation.

  "You mentioned during your introductory speech that your Commonwealth currently consists of three home-worlds," said Glass.

  Keith nodded. "That's right," he said. "Earth, Rehbollo, and Flatland."

  Glass tipped his head. "There are, in fact, only seven thousand worlds with native life on them in this entire universe at your time--and those few worlds are spread out over all the billions of galaxies. The Milky Way has far more than its fair share: during your time, there are a total of thirteen intelligent races within it."

  "I'll keep score," said Keith, smiling. "I won't give up until we've found them all."

  Glass shook his head. "You will find them eventually, of course--when they're ready to be found. The shortcuts' facilitating of interstellar travel isn't just a side effect of their shunting stars back to the past. Rather, it's an integral part of the plan. But so is the safety valve that keeps sectors of space isolated until their native inhabitants become starfarers on their own. Of course, if you have the appropriate key, as I do, you can travel between any shortcuts, even apparently dormant ones. That's important, too, because we shortcut makers will need to make extensive use of them. But the way they work without the key is designed to foster an interstellar community, to give rise to the kind of peaceful and cooperative future that's in everyone's interest."

  Glass paused, and when he resumed speaking, his tone was a little sad.

  "Still, you won't be able to keep score of how many races you have yet to discover. When I send you back, I will wipe your memories of the time you've spent here."

  Keith 's heart fluttered. "Don't do that."

  "I'm afraid I must. We have an isolation policy."

  "Do you--do you do this often? Grab people from the past?"

  "Not as a rule, no, but, well, you're a special case. I'm a special case."

  "In what way?"

  "I was one of the first people to become immortal."

  "Immortal . . ." Keith's voice trailed off.

  "Didn't I mention that? Oh, yes. You're not just going to live for a very long time--you're going to live forever."

  "Immortal," said Keith again. He tried to think of a better word, but couldn't, and so simply said, "Wow."

  "But, as I said, you--l--we are a special case of immortality."

  "How so ?"

  "There are, in fact, only three older human beings than me in the entire universe. Apparently, I had a--what do you call it?--an 'in' that got me the immortality treatments early on."

  "Rissa was working on senescence research; I assume she ended up being codeveloper of the immortality technique."

  "Ah, that must have been it," said Glass.

  "You don't remember?"

  "No--and that's the whole problem. You see, when they first invented immortality, it worked by allowing cells to divide an infinite number of times, instead of succumbing to preprogrammed cell death."

  "The Hayflick limit," said Keith, having learned all about it in conversations with Rissa.

  "Pardon ?"

  "The Hayflick limit. The phenomenon that limits the number of times a cell can divide."

  "Ah, yes," said Glass. "Well, they overcame that. And they overcame the old, natural limitation that said you were born with a finite quantity of brain cells, and that those cells were not normally replaced. One of the keys to immortality was to let the brain constantly create new cells as the old ones wore out, so--"

  "So if the cel
ls are replaced," said Keith, eyes growing wide, "then the memories stored by the original cells get lost."

  Glass nodded his smooth head. "Precisely. Of course, now we offload old memories into lepton matrices. We can remember an infinite amount of material I don't just have access to millions of books, I actually remember the contents of millions of books that I've read over the years.

  But I became an immortal before such offloading existed.

  My early memories--everything from my first couple of centuries of life--is gone."

  "One of my best friends," said Keith, "is an Ib named Rhombus. Ibs die when their early memories get wiped out--new memories overwrite their basic autonomous routines, killing them."

  Glass nodded. "There's a certain elegance to that," he said. "It's very difficult to live without knowing who one is, without remembering one's own past."

  "That's why you were disappointed that I'm only forty-six."

  "Exactly. It means there's still a century and a half of my life that you can't tell me about. Perhaps someday, I'll locate another version of me, from--what would that be?--from about the year 2250 in your calendar." He paused. "Still, you remember the most crucial parts.

  You remember my physical childhood, you remember my parents.

  Until I spoke to you, I wasn't even sure that I'd had biological parents. You remember my first love. All of that has been gone from me for so incredibly long. And yet, those experiences shaped how I behave, set down the patterns of my personality, the core neural nets of my mind, the fundamentals of Who I am." Glass paused. "I have wondered for millennia why I act the way I do, why I sometimes torture myself with unpleasant thoughts, why I interact with others as a bridge-builder or a peace maker, why I internalize my feelings. And you have told me: I was once, long ago, an unhappy child, a middle child, a stoic child.

  There had been a horizon in my past, a curve beyond which I could not see. You have taken that away. What you have given me is beyond price." Glass paused, then his tone grew lighter. "I thank you from the bottom of my infinitely regenerating heart."

  Keith laughed, like a yelping seal, and the other Keith laughed too, like wind chimes, and then they both laughed at the sound the other had made.

  "I'm afraid it's time for you to go home," said Glass.

  Keith nodded.

  Glass was silent for a moment, then: "I have refrained from giving you advice, Keith. It is not my place to do so, and, frankly, there are ten billion years between us. We are, in many ways, different people.

  What is right for me, now, at this stage of life, may not be right for you. But I owe you--for what you have given me, I owe you enormously, and I would like to repay you with a small suggestion."

  Keith tilted his head, waited.

  Glass spread his transparent arms. "I have seen the ebb and tide of human sexual morality over the eons, Keith. I've seen sex given as freely as a smile, and I've seen it guarded as though it were more precious than peace. I've known people who have been celibate for a billion years, 'and I've know others have had more than a million partners. I've seen sex between members of different species from the same world, and between those who evolved on different worlds. Some people I know have removed their genitals altogether to avoid the issue of sex. Others have become true hermaphrodites, capable of procreative sex with themselves.

  Others still have switched genders--I have a friend who changes from male to female every thousand years, like clockwork. There have been times when humans have embraced homosexuality, and heterosexuality, and incest, and multiple concurrent spouses, and prostitution, and bestiality, and sadomasochism, and there have been times when all of those have been abjured. I have seen marriage contracts with expiration dates, and I have seen marriages last five billion years.

  And you, my friend, will live long enough to see all these things, too.

  But through all of it, there is one constant for people of conscience, for people like you and me: if you hurt someone you care about, there is guilt."

  Glass dipped his head. "I do not remember Clarissa. I do not remember her at all. I have no idea what happened to her. If she, too, became an immortal, then perhaps she still exists, and perhaps I can find her.

  I have loved a thousand other humans over the years; a paltry number by many people's standards, but sufficient for me. But there is no doubt that Rissa must have been very, very special to us; that's apparent in the way you speak of her."

  Glass paused, and Keith had the eerie feeling that eyes--invisible in that smooth transparent egg of a head--were seeking out his own, seeking the truth behind them. "I can read you, Keith. When you told me earlier to move along, to pick another topic, it was obvious what you were hiding, what you have been contemplating." A beat of silence; even the forest simulacrum around them held its peace. "Don't hurt her, Keith. You will only hurt yourself."

  "That's the advice?" asked Keith.

  Glass lifted his shoulders slightly. "That's it."

  Keith was quiet for a time. Then: "How will I remember that? You said you were going to wipe my memories of this meeting."

  "I will leave that thought intact. You will indeed have no memory of me, and you'll just think it came from yourself--which, of course, it did, in a way."

  Keith thought for a time about what the appropriate reply was.

  Finally, he said, "Thank you."

  Glass nodded. And then, sadly, he said, "It's time for you to go."

  There was an awkward moment during which they stood and looked at each other. 'Keith started to extend his hand, but then let it drop to his side. Then, after a second of hesitation, he surged forward, and hugged Glass. To his astonishment, the transparent man felt soft and warm. The embrace lasted only a few seconds.

  "Perhaps someday we'll meet again," said Keith, taking a step back now.

  "If you ever feel like popping through to the twenty-first century for a visit . . ."

  "Perhaps I will. We are about to start something very, very big here.

  I told you at the outset that the fate of the universe is in question, and I--meaning you, too, of course--have a key role to play in that. I gave up being a sociologist ages ago. As you might guess, I've had thousands of careers over the millennia, and now I'm a--a physicist, you might call it. My new work will eventually necessitate a trip to the past."

  "Just remember our full name, for God's sake," said Keith. "I'm listed in the Commonwealth directory, but you'll never find me again if you forget."

  "No," said Glass. "This time I promise I will not forget you, or the parts of our past you have shared with me." He paused. "Good-bye, my friend."

  The forest simulation, along with its motionless sun, daytime moon, and four-leaf lucky clovers, melted away, revealing the cubic interior of the docking bay. Keith started walking toward his travel pod.

  Glass stood motionless in the bay as it opened to space.

  More magic; he needed no space suit. Keith touched a key, and his pod moved out into the night, the six-fingered pink nebula that had once been Sol staining the sky on his left, the robin 's-egg-blue dragon receding behind him. He flew the pod toward the invisible point of the shortcut, and as he made contact, he felt a faint itching inside his skull. He had just been thinking about--about something . . .

  It was gone now, whatever it had been.

  Oh, well. The ring of Soderstrom radiation passed over the pod from bow to stern, and Keith 's view was filled with the sky of Tau Ceti, Grand Central Station visible off to his right, looking odd in the dim red light from the newly arrived dwarf star.

  As he always did when he came here, Keith amused himself for a few seconds finding Boetes, then locating Sol.

  He nodded once and smiled. Always good to know that the old girl hadn't gone nova . . .

  Chapter XXIII

  Keith had always thought Grand Central Station looked like four dinner plates arranged in a square, but today, for some reason, it reminded him of a four-leaf clover floating against the stars.
Each of the leaves or plates was a kilometer in diameter and eighty meters thick, making the station the largest manufactured structure in Commonwealth space.

  Like Starplex's own much-smaller central disk, the outward facing edges of the plates were studded with docking-bay doors, many of them bearing the logos of Earth-based trading corporations. The computer aboard Keith's travel pod received docking instructions from Grand Central's traffic controller, and flew him in toward a docking ring adjacent to a large corrugated space door bearing the yellow-script symbol of the Hudson's Bay Company, now in its fifth century of operation.

  Keith looked around through the travel pod's transparent hull. Dead ships were floating across the sky. Tugs were arriving at the docking bays hauling wreckage. One of the station's four plates was completely dark, as if it had taken a major hit during the battle.

  Once his pod was secured, Keith exited into the station.

  Unlike Starplex, which was a Commonwealth facility, Grand Central belong entirely to the peoples of Earth, and its common environment was kept precisely at terrestrial standard.

  A governmental aide was waiting to greet Keith. He had a broken arm.

  It likely occurred during the battle with the Waldahudin, since the bone-knitting web he had on would normally only be worn for seventy-two hours after the injury. The aide took him to the opulent office of Petra Kenyatta, Human Government Premier of Tau Ceti province.

  Kenyatta, an African woman of about fifty, rose to great Keith.

  "Hello, Dr. Lansing," she said, extending her right hand.

  Keith shook it. Her grip was firm, almost painfully so.

  "Ma' am."

  "Please, have a seat."

  "Thank you." No sooner had Keith sat down in the chair-- a regular, nonmorphing human chair--than the door slid open again and another woman came in, this one Nordic in appearance and a little younger than Kenyatta.

  "Do you know Commissioner Amundsen?" said the premier. "She's in charge of the United Nations police forces here at Tau Ceti."