“How?” asked Tanner.
“Well… I’d have blown the crap out of him, that’s how.” This brought an extended chuckle from Mackie. “I’m sorry, Commander, you seem to have missed the news recently. You’ll recall that giant fleet of nuclear-tipped missiles which was fired at Dvalin?”
“Yes, Hal. We all remember that. And the craziness outside the Capitol Building with all the tanks and blue shields and other tripped-out shit.”
Hal pressed home the point. “Ever wonder how none of those missiles ever hit Dvalin?”
Mackie couldn’t resist. “Poor targeting? Air Force training isn’t what it used to be.”
Evelyn amped up her withering look to 20% of maximum, but that was nothing compared to the tone of Hal’s voice. “You know what I was doing while I was tracking, deflecting and destroying those warheads?”
“I can’t even begin to guess,” Mackie said.
“I was running a massive investment portfolio,” Hal announced. “I was monitoring every website update in the world, communicating with several other planets and providing a champagne lunch for Paul and his friends. You think I can’t handle a single incoming spaceship piloted by a witless lunatic?”
“Well, how are we in this fix,” Mackie retorted, “if you could have dealt with Julius so easily?”
There was a pause. Their flight, a much shorter but far busier hop than the trip from Paul Revere, was taking them across the farmland between Loughborough and Leicester; Mackie had already diverted north to avoid the sprawling metropolis of Birmingham, and they could still see the lights of Britain’s Second City off to their right.
“Because he cheated,” Hal replied haughtily. “I didn’t have time to assemble orbital weapons. In the end, the only chance we had was to pre-empt his arrival. I still can’t believe how quickly I was able to build a Vortex. It’s staggering, really.”
“So now, you’re going to follow him through time?” asked Tanner, actually looking back at the supercomputer strapped in to the cargo bay.
“Yes. If we get there quickly enough.”
Mackie urged the chopper to maximum dash speed as they passed to the north of Peterborough. It was nearly 4am, and the operation had taken an overly-lengthy six hours, from Hal’s first raising of the alarm.
The runways at Sculthorpe were cleared, except for one Orbiter, which was ready for take-off atop its carrier plane. Unusually, the cargo would be hauled into place with the two craft already mated – so urgent was the mission – and it took only minutes to transfer Hal gingerly from the chopper to the waiting spaceplane.
Mackie bid the computer a tired farewell. “Go get him, champ. Keep him safe.”
Evelyn hugged Hal tight. “Stay in touch.” She was close to tearing up, which would not do, and definitely not in front of Mackie. She composed herself. “How will we know?”
Hal’s green light swished back and forth as the computer was locked into place atop his propulsion unit.
“You’ll know.”
***
Chapter 5: The Forest of Wonders
Manmade Laboratory-Planet Araj Kitel
Serpyter handled the specimen with extreme care.
“One of a kind,” he whispered, as if not to disturb the dozing creature. “An impressive synthesis, don’t you think?” Within his gloved palms lay a slender, silvery shape, about the size of a cigar, which seemed to pulsate slightly in the light. To the untrained eye, it could have been a bundle of moss or some alien excretion. But Serpyter held it aloft and wonderingly admired its shape, its reflectivity, its compelling uniqueness.
“Remarkable, old friend,” agreed Garlidan. “Your laboratories continue to lead the galaxy in biomechanical research. It is,” he reached for the correct expression, “a marvelous creation.”
The older man smiled broadly at this most welcome praise. “Too kind, Garlidan. Here,” he said, motioning to the technician who stood beside them both. “Would you return our new friend to his natural habitat? I fear that I might abrade his delicate skin.” It was a sensible precaution. They stood on a beach of richly golden sand amid a slight onshore breeze which caused the thousand-frond palms behind them to dance with a tiny rustling sound. Sand grains would certainly damage the unique creature, and Serpyter was always meticulous with his treasured creations.
“When will he reach maturity?” Garlidan asked, retaking his armchair and letting his feet settle into the warm sand.
Removing his gloves, Serpyter also took his seat, the better to admire a singular view of the ocean. They sat at the northernmost point of a slim peninsula, designed to create tidal breaks at a pleasingly curious angle. Waves approached from the east and the west, fusing at a line perhaps a hundred meters off shore, and forming spectacular expressions of collision dynamics; in this intricately designed gravity field, with built-in mass concentrations in the crust ‘customizing’ the local gravity, the wave interactions were endlessly fascinating, each one unique. The fastest wavelets seemed suspended in mid-air, taking an age to return, as if luxuriating in the act.
“Perhaps a year,” Serpyter estimated. “If by ‘maturity’ you mean the commencement of metallic synthesis?”
Garlidan brushed sand off his white robe. “Yes, quite so. It is tantalum they are to produce, is it not?”
“So I believe.” Serpyter’s laboratories, on this planet and several others, had addressed the problem of shortages not with replication – which Serpyter abhorred as a despicable form of ‘cheating’ – but with continuous advances in bio-engineering. The little worm-like creatures and their kin were designed for metals processing; they were a biological system which consumed sunlight, oxygen and water, as any living thing might, but then produced a thin sheen of metal over the surface of their skin. Every few months, the metallic shell was discarded when it became too heavy or blocked too much sunlight, whereupon the little creature would begin again. Serpyter had styled this remarkable ability ‘bio-alchemy’.
“Tons of precious metals every year,” Garlidan wondered, “and not a mine or a Replicator in sight. Once more, Serpyter, you’ve changed the galaxy for the better.”
He laughed, a slow and deep chuckle which Garlidan loved to provoke. “Oh, think of me as the galactic philanthropist, if you must,” he said as the laughter subsided, “but these are experiments intended merely to alleviate boredom. The greatest enemy of our kind, wouldn’t you say?”
“By far.” A waiter arrived with drinks and a bowl of oval-shaped tree nuts which he placed on a wooden bench between the two men. “Thank you. I think you may leave us in peace now.” The waiter withdrew silently while Garlidan tossed a nut ten feet into the air and caught it between his teeth. “Oh, really, young man? I present you with a gorgeous, custom-built planet and a menagerie of my own creations, and you bring me bar-room tricks?”
They had exchanged barbs like this for centuries. Young man… Garlidan’s age was a matter of speculation to most, but it was known that the old traveler had crossed this galaxy, and its neighbor, a dozen times or more.
“Tricks?” he guffawed, goading his old friend. “What is this place – this beach, these palms, these nuts, which are quite excellent by the way, this whole planet – but a trick? A great tromp-l’oeil for the ages. Still, you have my congratulations.” Garlidan raised his cocktail glass in a half-sarcastic salute.
Serpyter feigned shocked indignation. “A mere hoax? All of this? Oh come, now. You know as well as I do that we reside within the framework of reality, sitting here on this tranquil beach.”
“Reality,” Garlidan snorted, “reality in a pink tutu!”
Serpyter chortled again, almost spilling his drink.
“Physics as the headline act in a gaudy revue,” Garlidan continued. “This planet is merely the more substantial second cousin of a hologram, as real as a psychonaut’s hallucination.”
The older man held his chest as if stabbed. “Cut to the quick! And by a criminal fugitive who is wanted all over the galaxy! How ca
n I tolerate such effrontery?”
The two shared their ages-old jesting in typically good-natured manner. “And am I to wait until the Takanli council sends frogmen to abduct me from your beach, or is there a chance of some actual dinner?”
Serpyter’s bio-engineers had risen spectacularly to one of his more unusual challenges – a dense rainforest ecosystem within which would emerge a living space, enclosed and connected by walkways and vines. The huge conifers which dominated the forest reveled in the combination of low local gravity and a high-oxygen atmosphere, soaring a hundred meters above the jungle floor. The two men walked together through this lush, green world.
“Had a bit of trouble over in Pleaos, then?” Serpyter was simply dying to ask.
Garlidan knew his friend would raise the topic of his recent scandal; it was impossible to give welcome to a fugitive but then refrain from asking why he had fled. “It’s nothing really. More of a misunderstanding.” They climbed wooden steps on the outer trunk of a magnificent conifer, which led to a rising walkway, suspended high above the jungle floor. “A difference of opinion on matters of policy.”
Serpyter wagged a finger. “This isn’t the evening news, you old fox. Tell me what happened.”
Casting his mind back to the previous year, Garlidan relived the thrill of decisive action which had so angered the council. “A friend needed some help. A visitor, and a very special one at that.”
“From where?”
“A planet orbiting Sol 88932, in the spiral arm.” Serpyter nodded in recognition; there was little information which escaped him, especially on the species of the galaxy. “They’re a curious race, with the potential to become advanced, but overly-aggressive industrialization brought extreme environmental pressures.” Serpyter was familiar with this pattern; there were hundreds of other instances of complex, industrialized societies in which progress and ecology had dangerously collided. “I arranged for a science vessel to visit and pick up an example of their species, for study.”
“Somehow, I have the feeling that such ‘arrangements’ were not, strictly speaking, sanctioned by the Council?”
Garlidan waved a hand, irritated. “They move so slowly! With the layers of bureaucracy and interminable wrangling, and the communications delays across the light-years, the idea would have taken a generation to get off the ground. This way, we had an example of a fully-functional emotional system. He taught us volumes.”
Serpyter wailed dramatically. “Oh, save us! Please, save us! Not this again!”
They stopped, came eye to eye. “Yes, dear friend, this again. What’s wrong with what I did? Do you really want the beings of countless systems to live with permanently, compulsorily limited emotional systems?” From the beginning, and with every resource available to him, Garlidan had objected to the genetic modification of Takanli’s populace. It had resulted in a peaceable, compassionate society full of tolerant, educated beings. And he absolutely hated it.
“Is it truly a limitation, as you say, if the results are so positive?” argued Serpyter. “Social equality, peace, non-violence, compromise… these are requirements of civilized life, and they’re far too complex and elusive to be entrusted to those with damaged, self-interested worldviews.” Serpyter had seen enough evidence, not least in the Outer Rim of Pleaos, to become convinced of the need for genetic intervention. The alternative was too awful, too damaging to the progress of a society. Not to mention, too miserable and disastrously costly in lives.
“What you see as damage, I see as the welcome chaos of true living! Should not our developments as a species be organic? Forcing change like this turns our lives into some misguided attempt at perfection.”
Serpyter shook his head. “Exactly! How can you object to that search, that striving? Better people, making better decisions, for the fulfillment and success of all. Millions of years of bloodshed, simply sidestepped.”
“But we have to go through the bloodshed!’ Garlidan insisted. “To emerge on the other side, wiser and chagrined and aware of our indebtedness to each other.”
Serpyter turned dismissively. “You talk of a billion early, violent deaths. Beings who could have lived a thousand years. And you talk of them,” he looked his friend in the eye once more, “as a mere stepping stone. A prelude. You promise better things to come, a brighter future, but first we must walk the plank of greed and dive headlong into the shark-infested seas of selfishness.” Serpyter pressed on with the metaphor even as Garlidan was shaking his head. “We must brave the reefs of war and famine and deprivation. It staggers me, Garlidan, that you, of all people, could regard life so cheaply…”
Garlidan help up a hand. “What, in each case, is to be achieved by such perfection?”
They stopped once more. Serpyter thought hungrily of their delayed dinner. “The fullest realization of the potential of the given being, and the fullest embodiment of its rights.”
“And what if violence, or division, or intolerance, are actually motors in the achievement of such a full realization? Had you considered that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Just try the experiment; line up a hundred Jakalzzians, or Betanurian refugees, or starved, war-struck, impoverished humans from your friend’s planet. Ask them if they would have been spared the indignity and pain that brought them so low. How many would choose to live that life again, just the same?”
They reached Serpyter’s living quarters, a suite of expansive hallways within the giant trunks. More little worm-like creatures, these engineered for bioluminescence, hung amid the ceiling beams, lighting the rooms with a pastel glow. Assistants brought trays of food and a carafe of wine pressed from forest fruits. The two men sat together and ate in a peaceable silence. After-dinner cocktails were brought in; Serpyter lit an elaborate water-pipe, a thin, hollowed branch which wound around itself in a fascinating spiral; he blew a satisfied cloud of crimson smoke at the ceiling.
Neither man had ever forgotten a moment of his own life, and this was no exception; both knew where the conversation had ended, an hour earlier, and both knew Garlidan was to speak. His friend listened in respectful quiet, certain that the intervening hour would have honed his argument.
“It is through challenge, I believe, that beings are best measured. Through the struggle, through the striving for something better. Eras and societies are judged successful, on the human planet and across the galaxy, most often by a triumph over the old evils – intolerance, social inequality, greed – and by the mastering of base human desires. Beings can only flourish when there are reasons for them to try to do so.”
Serpyter emitted another great cloud. It transformed as it ascended, from crimson to rose, and then to pink and orange, and finally a rich sunset yellow which hung in the ceiling spaces, illuminated by the glowing little creatures. “But consider the countless generations of wasted effort. The avoidable setbacks. The inevitable crushing of priceless potential and creativity. Why should we knowingly hamstring every single race from its outset?”
Garlidan shook his head. “Why deliver ease and comfort on a silver platter? Should such riches not be earned? To spoil a race is to compromise its ambition, to sacrifice that all-important drive to overcome obstacles. How is the race then defined? As yet another perfect set of beings, behaving perfectly to each other, having perfect relationships?”
“Wouldn’t you have liked your own life to have been that way?” Serpyter asked from behind his red cloud.
“Stars above, no! I would never have learned anything!” He pressed a fist into his palm for emphasis. “Give me problems to solve, tricky treaties to negotiate, a calamity to avoid… don’t give me saccharine predictability and a mindless waltz through eons of the unchallenging! How dull!”
Serpyter smoked in silence for a few moments, letting his friend regain his calm. With enthusiastic types, he knew, it was important to allow time for reflection so that their emotions might recede, and their views gain a greater clarity. His friend was no different. He was driven by a welt
er of emotions, and granted himself a startling array of roles: Garlidan the interlocutor, the agent provocateur, the high-handed pseudo-tyrant with indistinct aims and controversial methods. A loose cannon. Worse, a cosmic loose cannon with phenomenal intelligence, limitless resources, and even command over time. No wonder that even the planets themselves danced to his tune.
After some time, Serpyter spoke. “And these beliefs of yours, your distaste for handing societies the keys to their own kingdom. This is why you’ve been so ... shall we say, careful with the hypersleep technology? And those other fantastic little tricks you so jealously guard?”
Garlidan took a long pull of his cocktail, eyeing Serpyter warily over the rim of the glass. “I’m careful with any power,” he explained, setting down the tall-stemmed glass, “which may in the wrong hands do harm to the evolution of consciousness.”
Serpyter snorted almost rudely, as if Garlidan had taken his eye off the chess board and conceded to a routine check-mate. It was too easy to needle his friend in this way. “Oh, the Great Creator speaks to us...” he intoned as if from the pulpit. “His word is thy deed... His thoughts are thine beliefs...”
“I would gladly pass into nothingness,” Garlidan protested, “before I would take on some perverted, Godly mantle, you know that!”
“Ah, so you have become the God who refuses to judge others? The God who rejects admiration? A very strange God are you, my friend.”
Garlidan sighed. “I use my powers for good, Serpyter, as you do. I do not propagate myths of my own infallibility, and I harbor no delusions of grandeur.” He finished his drink. “Besides,” he continued, “what grandeur is there to which I might aspire?” He spread his arms. “Is there any greater than that with which I have already been blessed?”
Serpyter exhaled deeply, set down his pipe and regarded his friend with a certain smile in his eyes. “Whatever was in that cocktail,” he said, “I forbid you from having another.”
Clarion: The Sequel to Voyage (Paul's Travels) Page 8
