Seiichi Okuma spoke no language Hebo could handle. The servitor brought a translator and they were soon in conversation. The other man turned out to be from Akiko, in the Beta Centauri region, which was somewhat off Hebo’s usual beat. He was here [52] as part of a small team of—anthropologists? His fellows were currently scattered over the globe. Their sponsors hoped they could gain a somewhat better understanding of present-day Earth, experiencing its life in more detail and with less predictability than verbals, visuals, and virtuals offered.
“And how’ve you been doing?” Hebo asked.
“None of us are sure yet,” Okuma admitted, “but already it’s rather discouraging. We knew, of course, the human population is down to only about fifty million. That’s anomalous enough. But I, at least, I had not guessed how remote that population has become.”
“People aren’t friendly?”
The question was of more than academic interest to Hebo. He hadn’t yet spoken at any length with anyone but a space traffic control officer, and that was by beamphone and she was modified-human—not ugly, but not his type. Her words had been polite, no more. He’d wondered why she cared to do something so routine, when it could easily and more efficiently be cybered. Maybe fleeting encounters with yokels like him amused her. As for the utility of it, he supposed a live person was meant as a courtesy to newcomers.
Unless, of course, she too was a virtual.
“Oh, those I have sought out have been ready enough to talk, if not very forthcoming,” Okuma said. “Some have actually extended hospitality of an austere sort. But I have never felt their attention was really on me.”
“Most of their awareness in linkage.” A slight shiver passed through Hebo. “The world-mind. Yeah.”
Okuma shook his head. “That is a misnomer. It is—forgive me, sir—a common misconception. My group had learned that much beforehand. Consciousness on Earth—human, parahuman, quantum-net—is not joined in one entity. Relationships are more subtle and changeable than that.”
“I know, I know. Sort of, anyway. I’m just not sure how far the business has, uh, evolved.”
[53] “That is a major part of what we are trying to discover. I suspect increasingly that we’ll get answers we cannot quite comprehend.”
Okuma paused. Surf beyond the reefs murmured, wind whispered, bird-cries began to die away as the sun went low.
“In a sense,” he mused, “we who live among the stars, we whose ancestors moved there and founded what they imagined were new societies, are the relics, the archaic life-forms. We remain in our old human ways because we are suited to them. Longevity, rejuvenation, reinforces this basic conservatism, but our children grow into it likewise. Ours is, after all, a rich, infinitely diverse and exciting environment—from the old human viewpoint. But so, no doubt, is yonder sea to the sharks in it. They have scarcely changed for many millions of years. Yet for the past millennium, they have survived on human sufferance.”
“Hey!” exclaimed Hebo. “You don’t mean we’re in that situation?”
“No, no, not precisely. Earth poses no threat to us. The life on it, including the synthetic and machine life, has passed us by. It has other interests than spreading out into a material universe.”
Hebo relaxed. “Well, maybe that’s how it sees the matter. But look, why hasn’t the same development overtaken—or transfigured, or whatever word you want—any nonhumans?”
“They are too unlike us. You probably know better than I how vastly their psychologies, instincts, drives, capabilities differ from ours, and from each other’s. Please correct me if I’m mistaken, but I think we interact with them, and they with us, only on a rather superficial level. Partnership is possible between human and alien, yes. Sometimes even what the human feels as friendship. But how does the alien feel it? That may be ultimately unknowable, on either side.”
Hebo rubbed his chin. “M-m, yes, in a way I have to agree. Kind of like a—a falcon and a dog. Men used to hunt with them.”
Okuma’s eyes widened. “Indeed? When?”
[54] “Before my time. But I do go far enough back to’ve read about it and seen historical shows.”
“Fascinating,” the scientist breathed. “As, I am sure, is all of your long experience.”
Hebo sighed. “Too long, maybe.”
“I would be glad to hear something about it,” said Okuma eagerly.
Talk went on while clouds crossed the horizon. When Hebo explained why he had come back, Okuma assured him, “I am certain you will be well treated at the clinic, not merely with competence but with consideration, sympathy, and, yes, warmth. Good practice calls for it.”
“Sure, they’ve got excellent interactive programs,” Hebo said cynically.
Okuma shook his head. “True, but I expect that you will deal with living humans, too, if only because you will interest them as you do me. And their feelings for you will be perfectly genuine. A person on Earth today can at any instant attain any chosen emotional state.” After a moment: “I have an idea that this is a major factor in making them foreign to us.”
When at last Hebo said goodnight and returned to his room, he could have had whatever virtual surroundings he wanted; but his wish was only for sleep.
He didn’t drift off at once, though. For a while he lay wondering whether maybe the Forerunners had gone the way of Earth and that was why they were no longer around and what they might have become by now.
Oh, sure, strictly speaking, there was no such thing as simultaneity when you looked at interstellar distances. He’d heard about experiments with sending a hyperbeam signal into the past. But nobody had managed to boost a spacecraft to speeds high enough that the effect amounted to anything you didn’t need ultrasensitive instruments to detect. Energy considerations and friction with the interstellar medium seemed to forbid. Besides, didn’t theory say the effect was necessarily limited? A causal loop ... [55] you can’t rewrite what God’s already written. ... Leave the philosophy to the physicists. For practical purposes, when he got home he’d have lived just about as many seconds, minutes, days, months as the folks who’d stayed there. Meanwhile, he could call them on a hyperbeam if he had some reason for taking the trouble to arrange it. He might as well think of them as they were at “this moment.”
Forerunners reminded him ... how was Lissa Windholm getting along? Quite a girl, that. ...
X
INGA never quite slept. After dark the towers and slipways of its centrum flared with light, pulsed with traffic, life that the free city, largest on Asborg, drew unto itself from the whole planet and beyond. The harbor district lay quiet, though, watercraft and machines waiting for sunrise. Walls along the docks lifted sheer, their darknesses blocking off all but sky-glow. Thus eyes found stars above the bay. Past full, the bigger moon was nonetheless rising bright enough to throw a bridge over the waves, which they broke into shivers and sparkles. Their lap-lap against the piers sounded clear through the throbbing westward. Smells of salt, engines, cargoes drifted cool.
Gerward Valen stopped before his apartment building. “Here we are,” he said needlessly. Was it shyness that thickened his accent? Ordinarly he spoke fluent Anglay. The vague illumination showed him tensed within the gray tunic and breeks of a Comet Line officer. “The hour’s gotten later than I expected. If you’d rather postpone the, the conference—”
Lissa considered him. He stood a head taller than her, with the slenderness, sharp features, fair complexion of his Brusan people. As was common these days on Asborg, he went beardless and kept his hair short. Those blond locks had thinned and dulled, furrows ran through brow and cheeks, he must be well overdue for a rejuvenation. She hadn’t ventured to ask why. The eyes, in their deep sockets amidst the crow’s-feet, remained clear. “No,” she said, “I think we had best get to our business,” putting a slight emphasis on the last word, lest he misunderstand.
It had, after all, been a pleasant evening, dinner at the Baltica, [57] liqueurs, animated conversation throughout, t
hat continued while they walked the three kilometers to this place. They discovered a shared passion for Asborg’s wildernesses; he resorted especially to the Hallan Alps, and had had some colorful experiences there. Otherwise he said little about himself, nothing about his past. However, she felt she had come to know him well enough for her purposes. Several personal meetings, after her agents had compiled a report on him, should suffice. They’d better. Time was growing short.
“Very well,” he agreed. “If you please, milady.” The door identified him and retracted. He let her precede him into a drab lobby and onto the up spiral. It carried them to the fourth floor.
Admitted to his lodging, she glanced about, hoping for more clues to his personality, and found disappointment. The living room was small, aseptically clean, sparsely furnished. While she had gathered he was an omnivorous reader, it seemed he owned nothing printed but drew entirely on the public database. Well, maybe he’d picked these quarters because a transparency offered what must be a spectacular daylight view of bay, headlands, and ocean.
“Please be seated,” he urged. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Lissa took a chair. Like the rest, it was rigid. “Just coffee,” she said. “No sweetener.”
Valen raised his brows. “Nor brandy? As you wish. I’ll have a snifter myself, if you don’t mind.” The dossier related that he drank rather heavily, though not to the point of impairment and never in space. He shunned psychotropes. His occasional visits to Calie’s Bower hardly counted as a vice in a man unmarried. The girls there found him likeable, yet none of them had really gotten to know him, any more than his shipmates and groundside acquaintances had.
He stepped into the cuisinette. She heard a pot whirr. He came back carrying a goblet half full of amber liquid. “Yours will be ready in a couple of minutes,” he said, and sipped. The motion was jerky. “Would you care for some music? Only name it.”
[58] “No, thank you,” she replied. “Nice in the restaurant, but pointless now. Neither of us would hear, I think.”
He tautened further. “What do you want with me, Milady Windholm?”
Her hazel gaze met his blue. “First and foremost,” she told him, “your pledge to keep everything secret. I’ve satisfied myself that you can. Will you?”
“I take for granted this is ... honorable,” he said slowly.
She stiffened her tone. “You know my father is Davy, Head of our House.”
“Indeed. And I’ve heard about you.” A lopsided smile creased the gaunt face. “When a member of one of this world’s ruling families seeks me out, talking about a possible service but not specifying it, I do a bit of inquiry on my own. I found a couple of men who’ve gone exploring with you. They spoke highly.” He drew breath. “You have my promise. Absolute confidentiality until you release me from it. What do you want me to do?”
Despite herself, she felt her pulse quicken. “Don’t you think you’re wasted as mate on a wretched ore freighter?”
His expression blanked. He shrugged. “It’s the best berth available. At that, you remember, I had to work up to it. There isn’t much space trade hereabouts.”
The thought flitted unbidden: No, there isn’t, as isolated as we are, on this far fringe of human settlement. Not that distance matters when you hyperjump. But after two centuries, we are still not so many on Asborg, and most of us are preoccupied with our local affairs. The other planets of Sunniva suffice us. Even I and my comrades find exploration ample for lifetimes among the immediate neighbor stars.
Is that what called you to us, Gerward Valen? Our loneliness?
“Once you had a command,” she threw at him. “It was a fully robotic vessel. How would you like it again?”
He stood unstirring.
“That was long ago,” she pursued, “but we, my associates in this enterprise and I, we don’t believe you’ve lost the skills. A [59] little practice should restore them completely. If anything, to be an officer with a live crew, as you are these days, is more demanding, and your record is good.
He kept his countenance locked, but she barely heard his question, and it trembled. “What ship do you mean?”
“The Dagmar, of course. Windholm only has one of that kind.” Few Houses possessed any; they cost. “We sponsor scientific expeditions, you see. I’m lately back from one on her. No cosmonaut myself, but I can assure you she’s a lovely, capable craft.”
“I know.” He stared beyond her, drank, and asked in an almost normal voice, “Why do you want me? You have your qualified people.”
“Three,” stated Lissa. “Fallen Windholm is currently undergoing rejuvenation. The other two are from client families, perfectly fine except that—Chand Mikelsson is a blabbermouth. You can trust him with anything except a secret. Sara Tomasdaughter’s husband is one Rion Stellamont. I don’t say she would betray our confidence to him and his House, but ... best not subject her to a conflict of loyalties, right?”
He seemed to have quite regained his balance. “Since we’re being so frank, what about me? The Comet Line belongs to the Eastlands, after all, and the Windholms have been at loggerheads with them as often as the Stellamonts or any others.”
“You’re a resident foreigner. You owe them no fealty and they’ve had no oaths from you. Take an unpaid leave, and you’re a free agent. Afterward, I expect we’ll offer you something permanent.” Lissa softened her words. “Not that we ask any betrayal. We simply don’t want outsiders thrusting in—at least not till we understand the situation ourselves.”
His glance went to the transparency and the stars that the lighting hid from him. “Does that include everybody? Human and nonhuman?”
She nodded. “Aside from the Susaians, those of them that already know, and are concealing the truth. Whatever it is. [60] Something tremendous, we believe. Potentially—explosive? For good or ill, not anything we want irresponsibly released.”
His dryness was a challenge: “Especially not to rival Houses.”
Anger flickered. “We’re no saints in Windholm. But I don’t think you, either, would like this planet if the balance of power lay with a religious fanatic like Arnus Eastland or a clutch of reckless commercialists like the Seafell.”
He cocked a brow. She practically heard him refrain from saying: So you deem them.
“And as for the galaxy at large,” she continued, striving for calm, “simply think what an uproar that Forerunner artifact on Jonna is already raising. And it probably doesn’t hold a fraction of the potentials that this new thing may. I repeat, may. There’s no foretelling what equilibriums it could upset. Perhaps none, but it’d be irresponsible not to proceed with every possible precaution. There may well be danger anyway, danger enough to suit the rashest rattlebrain.”
He smiled. “Which you assume I am not.”
The abrupt lightness of his manner eased her. He can handle people pretty well when he wants to, she thought. Excellent. She laughed. “Explorers have an old, old saying, that adventure is what happens to the incompetent. What we intend is simply an investigation. Once we know more, we’ll decide what to do next.” Sobering, she finished, “My father has been the Head of his House, with as strong a voice in the World Council as any, for nearly two hundred years. Ask yourself, hasn’t he proven out? A hardheaded realist, yes, but concerned with the welfare of Asborg more than of his kin or clients, and with civilization as a whole over and above that. Will you put your faith in him, or in a coven of lizards?”
Valen frowned the least bit. She suspected he found her language objectionable, as a person might who had fared widely about and dealt with many different beings. “Oh, I’m not parochial,” she said quickly. “Contrariwise. In fact, we were alerted to this by a Susaian, and he’ll travel with us.”
[61] “Us?” he murmured.
Blood heated her face. “If you accept the mission.”
“I rather think I will.” He inhaled a fragrance from the cuisinette. “Your coffee’s ready, milady. I’ll bring it.”
X
I
TAKING a datacard out of her sleeve pocket, she put it in his terminal. “This has been edited, but only to bring time-separate parts together and cut out nonessentials,” she explained. “It’s our basic record of the encounter.”
A woman appeared in the screen, seated at a desk. She was a sister of Lissa’s, but well-nigh a stranger, born eighty years earlier and, newly rejuvenated, looking girlishly younger. The image showed date and time in one corner. Behind her, a viewscreen displayed the mining camp she superintended. Beyond it, rock and ice lay in a jumble to the near horizon. The moon’s gas giant primary hung as a crescent in the darkness above. Another satellite, shrunken by remoteness till the disc was barely perceptible, gleamed near the edge of its ring system.
“Evana Davysdaughter Windholm, wedded to Olavi Jonsson, calling from Gunvor,” she proclaimed. The name of her present husband wasn’t necessary to identify her, but she always made a point of using it. He was among the House’s most prominent clients, chief engineer at the base and, at home, grown wealthy from his investments. “I have immediate need to speak with the Head, communications enciphered.”
The screen blinked, the time indicated was half an hour later, and she was saying as crisply: “A strange spacecraft has arrived unheralded and taken up orbit about us. The pilot, who claims to be alone, sent a request for tight-beam laser contact. I obliged. It is a Susaian, asking urgently to be put in touch with the leadership of our House. Yes, it seems to understand Asborgan sociopolitics fairly well and to be aware that operations on Gunvor [63] are Windholm’s. That may be why it sought us instead of somebody else, this chance for secrecy. It doesn’t want anything made public.” She hesitated. “I have no experience in dealing with nonhumans. Nobody here does. Pending your orders, I’ve restricted news of its arrival to those few who already know, and have activated the censor program in all transmitters. Rumors are flying. I have no idea how long the Susaian will wait. Please advise me.”
For Love and Glory Page 5
