by M. K. Wren
“Yes, it was a terrible time,” he said, “and the Nuclear Wars were only a small part of it. There was the Pandemic—some of the diseases we can’t even identify today—and the mutant plagues and, always and above all, starvation. And, of course, the ultimate plague, anarchy. But humankind had only itself to blame for its suffering. You don’t burden a small planet with ten billion people, or befoul it with lethal chemicals and just plain sewage, or squander its resources as if they were infinite, without paying the price.”
Alexand turned his clear gaze on Rovere. “But there was no justice in it. The people guilty of most of the overproliferation and exploitation didn’t pay the price. They were safely dead before the Disasters.”
Rovere nodded. “True, but justice is a human invention—not a natural law—and it’s rare even in human interactions. To be at all objective about the Disasters, you have to think of them in natural terms. Human beings forced a natural reaction to their excesses, and that reaction included the annihilation of seventy-five to ninety percent of the human population.” He paused, lips pursed on a frown. “But it was a terrible time, and I can’t help agreeing, Alex, that there was no justice in it. Now, on with history and our test. We’ll skip over the depths of the Second Dark Age and stop at another date: 2560.”
“Bishop Colona,” Rich replied.
“Good, but what in particular about Colona?”
Rich raised an eyebrow. “The . . . well, vision, or whatever. The Revelations. He instituted Mezionism.”
Rovere repressed a smile at that hint of agnostic skepticism. The Woolfs carefully maintained every appearance of religious devotion in public, but Phillip Woolf didn’t expect—or want—his sons to accept anything on blind faith in private.
“All right. Another date: 2571.”
A long pause. Both boys frowned, looking first at Rovere, then at each other. Finally, Rich ventured, “The Holy Confederation of Conta Austrail?”
Rovere didn’t comment. “Alex?”
“No, that was later—2585; 2571 was probably a good year for fishing or potatoes.”
Rovere laughed. “Alex gets the point, Rich.”
Rich objected, “You didn’t say you were putting in unimportant dates.”
“But you should know whether a date has significance. Now, the Holy Confederation united all the feudal enclaves and holds of Conta Austrail under two banners: that of Colona’s Orthodox Church of the Holy Mezion and—a bonus point—what Lord?”
Rich responded quickly, as if to make up for his lost point, “Lord Even Pilgram.” Then he added, “But the Holy Confederation wasn’t exactly under his banner.”
Rovere shifted his weight and rested one elbow on the railing. Old limbs seemed to become cramped so easily. Or perhaps it only became more noticeable with age.
“I stand corrected, Rich. Yes, the Holy Confederation was actually a rather loose alliance, but it provided a stable framework for societal development, and particularly technological development. Another date: 2761.”
Rich hesitated over that, looking at Alexand, who answered, “The invention of the Darwin cell. It was an energy storage and amplification device that made surface-collected solar energy a really viable power source.”
“Indeed, and powered the industrial renaissance, which led to . . . what?”
Alexand said in an oddly flat tone, “The Wars of Confederation.”
Rovere studied him a moment, then nodded. “True, but not immediately. Rich—any comments?”
“Well, there was a long period of exploration and trade with cultures outside Conta Austrail. None of them were as advanced technologically, but the contacts and trade gave most of them a boost along that line before Ballarat appeared.”
“You’re anticipating me. I was going to ask who is regarded as the father of the PanTerran Confederation.”
Rich laughed. “Lord Patric Eyre Ballarat, 2839 to . . . uh, 2920.”
Rovere in turn laughed as he marked the point. “Exactly. The Wars of Confederation were a prelude to the PanTerran Confederation, of course.” He glanced at Alexand as he added, “Large-scale political unions are inevitably spawned by war, and the PanTerran Confederation was certainly large scale since it included the entire planet. How long did the Wars last?”
Alexand had the answer to that. “Twenty-seven years: 2876 to 2903.” Then he asked, “Why is Ballarat called the father of the Confederation? He didn’t have much to do with it after he finished conquering the world.”
“A figure of speech, I suppose. You’re right; Ballarat retired in something of a huff after the Wars when the Lords of the old Holy Confederation balked at making him their emperor. But there’s some justification for crediting him with paternity of the PanTerran Confederation. His Articles of Union, which were enacted at the beginning of the Wars, established the basic outlines of the Confederation and, for that matter, the Concord. That included the Directorate, for instance, and its power to tax, to maintain a police force and an army independent of the Houses.”
Rich frowned introspectively. “I wonder why the Lords wouldn’t make him an emperor. I mean, you’d think when he’d just conquered a world for them, the time would be right, that they’d give him almost anything he asked for.”
From the grove came the sardonic laugh of a kookaburra, and it seemed appropriate. “Well, Rich, it seems that Ballarat was a better conqueror and administrator than politician. Basically, I think the Lords were afraid of him. Afraid of innovation, of losing their own power.”
Alexand commented, “Some things don’t seem to change.”
Rovere hesitated, finding the cynicism underlying that disturbing.
“No, Alex. In fact, our power distribution systems haven’t changed appreciably since Ballarat, and that was—what? Three centuries ago.”
“Nor has the class system.”
True enough, Rovere thought, although he recognized a tendency to generality there that glossed over subtleties of development. Alexand apparently sensed his reservations and added, “I mean, even the names of the three basic classes haven’t changed since Ballarat: Bond, Fesh, and Elite. The only difference is that now there’s no hope of advancing from one class to another; there was in Ballarat’s time.” Then he smiled faintly, as if to mask his emotional intensity. “Did they have the Outside and Outsiders in his time?”
Rovere gave that a laugh. “Of course, but those terms didn’t become popular until the late PanTerran Confederation period. There are always those who live outside the laws and moral codes of any society. They seem to be a social necessity in some sense; at least, most societies have made room for them, left them an area of existence in one way or another. But let’s return to the PanTerran Confederation. And I’ll leave off the ‘PanTerran.’ That was generally dispensed with after the extraterrestrial colonization phase. It’s been called the Golden Age. Now, what about the year 3000, the Trimillennium? What, other than humankind’s survival through approximately six thousand years of recorded history, is special about that date?”
Rich was first with the answer to that. “The Lunar landing; the first since the Disasters.”
“Good.” Alexand, he noted, was showing signs of preoccupation. Rovere recalled his attention with, “Alex, a bonus point if you can tell me when humankind first set foot on Luna—before the Second Dark Age.”
“About . . . 1970.”
Rich put in, “It was 1969, to be exact.” To which Alexand only shrugged, and Rovere smiled as he marked the point under Rich’s initial.
“All right. What about 3052?”
Rich was ready with, “That was the year Ela Tolstyne’s Treatise on Matter/Anti-Matter Interactions was published.”
“Yes, and that led to what two key developments?”
“Nulgrav and the MAM-An drive.”
“Yes. Let’s cons
ider nulgrav first, although MAM-An actually preceded it by three years. What was its primary effect? Alex?”
“It made interplanetary travel truly practical, but that was in conjuction with MAM-An. Of course, there were already colonies on Luna and Mars, but they were rather primitive at that point. The nulgrav-MAM-An combination made it easier to develop them further and go on to new colonies.”
“True, but nulgrav had planetside effects, too.”
Rich observed wryly, “Well, there were the Vinay follies in the late thirty-first century.”
Rovere sent him a sidelong smile. “Yes. Master Vinay was a talented architech, but he neglected to allow for the effects of a momentary power failure on his floating edifices. However, nulgrav had more profound results, such as the elimination of ground travel, and with it the street. It made possible our pedway systems, and every aircar, ’dray, ’bus, and ’taxi is powered by nulgrav.”
Alexand noted, “It also made the House of Hild Robek.”
“Indeed, and MAM-An in a sense made the House of Badir Selasis and certainly Drakonis. Why? And by the way, can either of you translate that acronym—MAM-An?”
Rich replied crisply, “Matter/Anti-Matter Annihilation.” Then he added, before Alexand could get a word in, “And MAM-An made the House of Selasis because it not only made interplanetary travel in the Solar System faster and more practical, but it made the speeds necessary for SynchShift possible.”
Rovere smiled as he shifted his weight on the hard bench. The light wind had turned into the south, carrying the rumbling of the factory and the pervading hum of Concordia with it.
“Again, you’re anticipating me, but I’ll give you the date anyway: 3060.”
Alexand managed to get in first with the answer. “That was the year the Drakonian Theory was published.”
“Since you’ve been boning up on Drakonian physics, that was easy for you. And I’m sure you can tell me why I said MAM-An also made the House of Drakonis.”
“It made SynchShift feasible, and Orabu Drakon was rewarded for that with a Lordship and the power franchises in the Centauri System.” Then, after a pause, “It was still possible for a Fesh to become a Lord in those days.”
Rovere didn’t comment on that. He marked a point for Alexand, taking pleasure in the aural rotundities of the name: “Orabu Drakon. I wonder what our world would be like if he’d lived to finish his time/mass field theory.”
A rhetorical question, but Alexand offered an answer to it.
“We might have the matter transmitter,” he said casually, then, noting Rich’s curiously raised eyebrow, “That’s something I came across in my boning. Some of Drakon’s followers seemed to think such a device is feasible.”
Rovere said, “Dr. Relsing assures me it isn’t feasible, if you mean instantaneous transmission of objects from one point to another. I’d be delighted to have the evidence to prove him wrong at the next . . . Guild meeting.” The hesitation came as he realized there wouldn’t be a next Academicians Guild meeting—not for Theron Rovere.
Perhaps Alexand caught the pause, but he only shrugged and said, “I’m just repeating opinions I’ve read. The man who supposedly demonstrated—mathematically, at least—the feasibility of a matter transmitter was Andreas Riis. He was a Polluxian physicist.” Then he eyed his teacher obliquely. “I also came across some opinions suggesting that Riis founded the Society of the Phoenix.”
“You must’ve been doing some of your boning in Priority-Two memfiles.” But of course any Elite of any age had access to Pri-Two ’files. One of the privileges of rank.
Rich asked impatiently, “What in all the worlds is the Society of the Phoenix?”
Alexand laughed. “I’m not really sure. The opinions on that were all a little vague, but I’ve heard Father talk about it. I guess it’s one of the Outsider pirate clans. Lector Theron, do you know anything about it?”
“No, not really, but the opinions—or, rather, rumors—I’ve heard suggest the Phoenix is more than a pirate clan; it has definite revolutionary overtones. In fact, I believe the SSB lists it as a subversive group, which means membership is punishable by execution.”
Rich’s eyes widened. “Revolutionary? You mean political revolution—against the Concord?”
Rovere nodded, feeling ill at ease with a subject bearing on treason and the SSB. The Special Services Branch of Conpol, with its black-cloaked, face-screened, ominously anonymous agents was something he didn’t wish to dwell on now.
He made a show of studying his students’ scores and said lightly, “Now, back to history. I’m not so easily distracted, you know. We were talking about Orabu Drakon and his theory. Synchronal metathesis and chrono-spatial eversion. You see, I’m not entirely ignorant on the subject since I can pronounce that.”
Rich put in, “That’s why they call it SynchShift, I guess. It’s easier to say.”
“Fortunately. All right, when was the first SynchShift—or SS, which is even easier—ship launched?”
Rich answered, “3078 The Double Star, under Commander Izak Samovi.”
“Indeed. One of the few genuine heroes left us by history. Now, what about the year 3084?”
Both spoke in unison, but Rich was a split-second ahead of his brother.
“The first permanent colony in the Alpha Centauri A system. Leda on Pollux, in the Twin Planets.”
“Very good.” Rovere marked another point. “Why are they called the Twin Planets, by the way? Alex? A bonus point.”
“Because they revolve around each other, or rather a common center of gravity, and when they were first seen they looked like—well, twin stars.”
“And a welcome sight they must’ve been since they fall within the life zone.”
Rich said, “Pollux does, but Castor’s a vacuum colony.”
Rovere smiled as Alexand reminded his brother, “It may not be comfortable for human life, but it does fall within the life zone limits because it has a thin atmosphere and—”
“All right, I know. And even some fairly advanced life forms. Still, I think Pollux was a lot more welcome sight.”
Rovere said, “I’m sure it was; it’s called Terra’s twin. But back to Castor. When was the first colony established there?”
Rich was first with, “3084. The city of Helen.”
“And the three Inner Planets?”
“Perseus in 3085, Dionysus and Pan in . . . 3087.”
“And the remaining planets of Alpha Centauri A?”
Rich gave a short laugh, suggesting that Rovere should realize that he knew better.
“Tityus and Hercules are gaseous giants, and they’ll never be colonized. Not by human beings. And none of their satellites has been colonized yet. But Tityus was discovered in 3085 and Hercules in 3086.”
Rovere smiled at that. “Correct, Rich. Apparently I’ve done a good job with the two of you in history, at least. What are the dates for the Confederation extrasolar exploration phase and how many expeditions were there?”
“3078 to 3104,” Rich answered, “and I think there were eighteen expeditions to eight different stars. Let’s see . . . well, the Centauri System, of course; Proxima and Alpha A and B. Then Barnard’s star, Lalande, Sirius A, Epsilon Eridani, 61 Cygni A, Procyon A, and Kapteyn’s star.”
“Excellent, and in perfect order, I believe. All right, Alex, I’ll give you a chance for a bonus point. What did the Confederation’s stellar explorers find in those star systems?”
Alexand stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, his first response to the question a brief laugh.
“Enough information to keep astronomers and astrophyicists busy correlating it for decades, but not much in the way of habitable planets or satellites, and that’s what the Lords of the Confederation were looking for. Three of the stars didn’t have any planets at all. Bar
nard’s star and Cygni had some gaseous giants, a couple of them protosuns. The Confederation had some luck with Sirius and Procyon. Ivanoi and Cameroodo set up outposts on the four inner planets of Sirius, and I think on one of Procyon’s planets. But if they had ever actually been colonized, it would have to be with habitat systems. There weren’t any new Terras like Pollux.” He paused for a moment, his gaze turned up toward the blue morning sky as if he were seeing the stars behind it. Then he shook his head slowly. “The Concord hasn’t fared any better with its expeditions.”
Rovere nodded, recognizing the regret in that. “We haven’t yet, at least. What stars has the Concord explored?”
Both boys had the answer, but Rich was a little faster. “Kruger 60 A and B, Van Maanen’s star, and Altair.”
Alexand added, “The Concord also sent expeditions back to Sirius and Procyon.”
“That’s right, Alex,” Rovere said. “When was the last Concord stellar expedition?”
Again, the two were almost in unison with the answer, but Alexand let Rich take it.
“That was the Altair expedition. The Felicity. In 3241. That was only three years ago.”
“Yes, and I don’t need to ask what happened to the Felicity.”
Rich shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you if you did.”
“No. No one knows what happened to her. Well, perhaps in the future, there will be more expeditions and the mystery of Felicity’s disappearance will be unraveled. But we’ve gotten a little ahead of ourselves. About a century and a half, in fact. Another date: 3104.”
“Mankeen,” Rich said, and the single word seemed self-explanatory and all-encompassing.
“Yes, but something particular concerning the Mankeen Revolt occurred that year.”
“The Mankeen League was formed; the Three Hundred Rebel Lords signed the League Charter with Lionar Mankeen. Actually, it was 302.”
