Ascending (24 page)

“No…but how does that make them dangerous?”

Nimbus did not answer right away. Finally he said, “Think about people on your planet, Oar—the ones with Tired Brains. Suppose that instead of lying dormant in towers, they actually moved around. Suppose they had parties, they traveled to other cities, they pretended to practice spiritual devotions…but their brains were still Tired. It was all just sleepwalking. They never built or manufactured anything, they never did anything new, they never dreamed of change; they simply lived in automated habitats filled with machines that did the bothersome work of keeping everyone alive. Wouldn’t that be a form of hell?”

I did not answer immediately. The conditions Nimbus described were perilously close to the reality of my world—not just the state of my ancestors, but my
own
state through much of my life: creating nothing, and living by the grace of machines. “It would be most suffocating to the soul,” I said at last. “But I do not see how it could be dangerous to other persons.”

“It’s dangerous,” Nimbus whispered, “it’s
terrifyingly
dangerous. Because after seeing the Cashlings, everyone else wants to be that way too.”

The Resentment Of Vassals

“Everyone would wish to be Cashlings?” I whispered. “How can that be? They are
awful
.”

“Other species agree with you,” Nimbus replied, his whisper most gloomy. “They despise the Cashlings…then try to live exactly like them.”

“That is nonsense!”

“Yes, it is. But nevertheless, it’s happening. Believe me, I know—belonging to a vassal race teaches you a lot about your masters.”

“But you work for Uclod, not Cashlings.”

His mist fluttered. “Do you know how old I am?”

“No.”

“Over two hundred Terran years. I’ve worked for
all
the local races.”

I stared at him. “You are two hundred years old? That is quite most astonishing.”

“Why?” the cloud man asked. “You and I are Shaddill technology; you’re virtually immortal, so why shouldn’t I be? In fact, I should be
more
immortal than you—the Shad-dill created your race 4,500 years ago, while my race is less than a thousand. If the Shaddill continued to make scientific advances all that time, my design is 3,500 years more sophisticated than yours.”

“Oh foo!” I exclaimed in outrage. Then I remembered we were supposed to be whispering and glanced around guiltily to see if anyone else had heard me. The other people in the transport bay showed no signs of noticing—the room was large, and we were quite some distance removed. Besides, everyone was still listening intently to Festina speak of AlexanderYork…though mostly they were listening to the Cashlings ask irrelevant questions about the whole business. Festina could only utter a few words at a time before Bell and Rye interrupted with more pointless quibbles.

I turned back to Nimbus and whispered sharply, “You are not more advanced than I!”

“Maybe not,” he agreed. “I’m only a vassal race.”

“Do not pretend to be pitiable. I do not see anyone persecuting you.”

“Apart from the fact that I’m owned? That I’m a slave? That I’m sent to impregnate females I’ve never met before, I stay long enough to deliver the baby and get a bit attached to it, then off I go to some new master fifty light-years away, never to see my mates or children again? You don’t call that persecution?”

I stared at him…or perhaps I was staring at the infant Starbiter clutched tight in his belly. Perhaps it was not coincidence that he carried the child as a pregnant woman does—not in his hands but in the center of his being, at his body’s core. “Very well,” I whispered, “it
is
persecution. Your species is callously mistreated…though I shall not call you a vassal race, for
I
do not think of you that way.”

“Everyone else does,” he said, “and that’s how I know about Cashlings. Not to mention it’s how I know that all other sentient races are hell-bent on becoming Cashlings.”

“Explain,” I said.

And he did.

Coveting Folly

Though the majority of Zarett ships were owned by Divians, a number had been sold to alien races as well. More precisely, Divian breeders sold
female
Zaretts to non-Divians; they then leased male Zaretts (at high cost) to the aliens whenever paternalish services were required.

Therefore, as Nimbus said, he had spent his life drifting from one stud position to another, only staying long enough to mate with a Zarett female, help with the birth, and attend the first months of motherhood. Such a forced impermanence saddened him deeply; but it had also given him a unique chance to observe alien species at their most unguarded. Most of the time, the aliens did not know they were being watched—male Zaretts were microscopic eyes and ears hiding in a starship’s walls, watching their “masters” at work and play.

Very much play. Very little work. Especially in alien species who had been Scientific for a long long time.

Nimbus spoke of diverse alien races—Earthlings and Divians and Cashlings and several other species whose names did not stick in my mind—but they all had two qualities in common. First, they had been “uplifted” by the Shaddill: approached in their native star systems, given new homes elsewhere in the galaxy, and presented with sophisticated Science Gifts as a welcome to the League of Peoples. Second, ever since their uplift, these species had all grown more decadent, temperamental, and culturally sterile…particularly those uplifted for the longest period.

As a simple example, one could compare Cashlings with humans. Cashlings had been uplifted four thousand years ago; with humans, it was only four hundred. You therefore might expect the Cashlings to be more sophisticated in the ways of technology, having had so much longer to develop…but in fact, the Cashlings were not superior at all. Partly, this was because Cashling civilization had lost all interest in Scientific Research. In addition, whatever advanced knowledge they
did
once possess they had speedily bartered to
Homo sapiens
in exchange for VR adventures, situation comedy broadcasts, and glossy picture books.

The Cashlings had sold their technology to other alien races as well—which meant
every
species now possessed the know-how to build self-repairing cities that could satisfy the physical requirements of inhabitants without those inhabitants needing to work. (
Much like our cities on Melaquin
, I thought.) And gradually, such places
were
being constructed by other species, humans and Divians and all.

Most of these other species declaimed loudly they were not imitating the despised Cashlings but simply exploiting Cashling technology…yet little by little, these races declined into lifestyles indistinguishable from the Cashling mode. Idle entertainment. The pursuit of faddish excuses for profundity. A deadened inner emptiness, reinforced by a self-righteous conviction there was no more worthwhile way to live—not that they felt satisfied with their own way of life, but they held an unquestioned certainty that no one possessed anything better.

So the diverse races of the galaxy were drifting toward the feckless ways of the Cashlings. Was this not the case with the human navy? Filled with venal admirals like Alexander York and puffed-up captains like Prope, not to mention foolish but inept saboteurs like Zuni. As for Divians, what could one say about the villainous marriage brokers who threatened to kill Lajoolie’s family if she did not perfectly satisfy Uclod? Wicked, arrogant, and self-centered.

Of course, Lajoolie herself was not so bad. Neither was Uclod…nor Festina…nor perhaps Sergeant Aarhus and various other persons I had met…

When I voiced this objection, Nimbus said it merely demonstrated that Earthlings and Divians had not progressed so far into decadence as other species. Their races had only been uplifted for a few centuries; though decline was definitely creeping in, it had not yet infected everyone. Given a few more generations, however, Earthlings and Divians were headed for the same ghastly foolishness as Cashlings.

And apparently, Cashlings were very foolish indeed. Nimbus told me of numerous Cashling misdeeds he had observed over the years while riding in female Zaretts: Cashlings neglecting to pack sufficient hydrocarbons for long voyages…never bothering to calculate an optimal flight path, but simply aiming toward the apparent position of one’s destination…forgetting the difference between internal and external gravity, and consequently landing their spaceships upside-down…

I giggled at that, but Nimbus said it was Not Funny, Oar, It Was Tragic. At one time, the Cashlings had been a great people—intelligent, sensitive, and thoughtful. They had created some of the greatest visual art in the galaxy; they had cared passionately about color and form and meaning. But that was long ago and those artworks were gone: sold off to pay for foolish games and amusements from other species. Soon there would be nothing left…and no one could tell what the Cashlings would do with themselves when they could no longer squander their ancient heritage to pay for short-term diversions.

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “they will rouse themselves from fruitless indulgence and embark upon lives of industry.”

Nimbus’s mist swirled a moment. “No, Oar. They’re no longer capable.” He paused. “A lot of non-Cashling planets have Cashling communities: outreach crusades travel all over the galaxy, leaving bored drop-outs on every planet they pass. If someone doesn’t take care of those Cashlings, they simply languish and die; they’re too accustomed to having everything done by machines. That includes machines to rear their children—if a baby comes along, a Cash-ling mother has no idea how to raise an infant and no desire to learn. As a result, there’ve been lots of Cashling children raised by foster parents from different races…and those kids are just as useless as other Cashlings, no matter what their adoptive families do. Petulant. Disdainful. Negligible attention span. Unable to function, unwilling to be taught.” Nimbus made a sighing sound. “Even children brought up with no knowledge of Cashling ways still grow up to be Cashlings. Every last one of them. Nature completely defeating nurture.”

“But why is that odd?” I asked. “Rabbit babies grow up to be rabbits. Wolf babies grow up to be wolves. All creatures have instincts, and instincts cannot be erased.”

“But Cashling instincts
have
been erased,” Nimbus whispered intensely. “That’s the point, Oar, that’s the whole point. Cashlings haven’t always been useless. Before they were uplifted, they had a thriving ambitious culture. If nothing else, they certainly possessed the instinct to raise their own children. Now they don’t.
None
of them. Too flighty and easily bored. The only ones with the tiniest bit of initiative are the prophets, and you can see what
they’re
like.”

His misty hand wafted dismissively in the direction of Lord Rye and Lady Bell. “It’s not surprising that affluence leads
some
people to indolence, but there should be others who buck the trend. Cunning schemers who want everybody else under their thumb, or strong-willed crusaders who fight to change the world. Cashling history has had plenty of striking individuals, both good and bad…but not in the past few millennia. No conquerors, no heroes, no devils, no saints.” He paused. “The only way to explain such a universal absence is some crucial degeneration in the Cashling genome: a dominant mutation that’s made them all peevish and ineffectual.”

“In other words,” I said, “some dire calamity has afflicted them with Tired Brains.”

“Exactly. And the same thing is happening to other species. Fasskisters, for example—the greatest masters of nanotech in our sector, but these days they hardly work at all. Oh, they still take jobs if they find the assignment amusing (and if the price is right); but they haven’t initiated anything themselves for quite some time. They don’t dream up projects on their own. It’s as if they’re incapable of imagining what they might do: they need an outside commission to kick them into activity.”

When the cloud man used the word “kick,” I could not help picturing the way I needed to kick elderly persons on Melaquin in order to elicit any response. Hesitantly I asked, “What do young people think of this, Nimbus? The young Fasskisters and Cashlings. Do they ever look around and say,
Why are things not better? What is wrong with us that we cannot accomplish great deeds? Why do we waste hours and days and years on activities we know achieve nothing? How can we stop being broken?
”

The cloud man’s mist floated close to me, becoming fog all around my eyes. I had the feeling he had actually surrounded me, wrapped himself about my body, enfolding me until I too looked like a creature of mist. “Of course they ask such questions,” he whispered. “Once in a while. When they can force themselves to concentrate. Out in the depths of space, light-years away from anything, I’ve watched Cashlings weep over who they are…who they aren’t…what their race has become. That’s how prophets are born: a moment of clarity, the desire to transform themselves and the universe.

“But,” he continued, “it never lasts. They can’t
make
it last. They’re
damaged
, Oar—even if they experience a flash of profundity, they can’t sustain it, they can’t use it, they can’t preserve the desire to change. I’ve watched them; they can’t become anything else, not even with other species to learn from. They simply lack the capacity. The Cashlings are lost, and other races are following them into the darkness. On their best days, they long to be truly alive… but they’re physically incapable of pushing themselves past the emptiness.” He paused. “You can’t imagine their heartbreak when they realize they can’t make it work.”

“I believe I can imagine it,” I said. My eyes had gone misty… and the mist was not cloud.