Neverness (3 page)

   "And then?"

   "The voices, the ship-computer receiving half a trillion bits per second and translating the information in the laser beams into voices. They, the voices, claimed to be - let's call them the Ieldra. Are you familiar with that term?"

   "No, Lord Pilot."

   "It's what the eschatologists have named the aliens who seeded the galaxy with their DNA."

   "The mythical race."

   "The hitherto mythical race," he said. "They have - and many refuse to believe this - they've projected their collective selfness, their consciousnesses, into the singularity."

   "Into the black hole?" Bardo asked as he pulled at his mustache.

   I looked at Soli carefully, to see if he was having a joke with us. I did not believe him. I looked down at his tense hands and saw that he was carelessly ungloved. Plainly, he was an arrogant man who had little fear of contagion or that his enemies might make use of his plasm. His knuckles were white around the curve of his refilled tumbler. The black diamond of his pilot's ring cut into the skin of his little finger. He said, "The message. The white light of dreamtime hardened and crystallized. There was a stillness and a clarity, and then the message. "There is hope for Man" they said. 'Remember, the secret of Man's immortality lies in your past and in your future' - that's what they said. We must search for this mystery. If we search, we'll discover the secret of life and save ourselves. So the Ieldra told me."

   I think he must have known we did not believe him. I nodded my head stupidly while Bardo stared at the bar as if the knots and whorls of the rosewood were of great interest to him. He dipped his finger into the foam of his beer, brought it to his lips, and made a rude sucking sound.

   "Young fools," Soli said. And then he told us of the prediction. The Ieldra, he said, understanding the cynicism and doubtfulness of human nature, had provided a surety that their communication would be well received, a prediction as to part of the sequence of supernovae in the Vild."

   "How can they possibly know what will occur according to chance?" I asked.

   "_Do_ the Vild stars explode at random?" Lionel broke in.

   "Ah, of course they do," Bardo said.

   In truth, no one knew very much about the Vild. Was the Vild a discrete, continuous region of the galaxy expanding outward spherically in all directions? Or was it a composite of many such regions, random pockets of hellfire burning and joining, connecting in ways our astronomers had not determined? No one knew. And no one knew how long it would be before Icefall's little star exploded, along with all the others, putting an end to such eschatological speculations.

   "How do we know what we know?" Soli asked, and he took a sip of skotch. "How is it known the memory in my brain is real, that there was no hallucination, as some fools have suggested? Yes, you doubt my story, and there's nothing to prove to you, even if you are Justine's nephew, but this is what the Lord Akashic told me: He said that the auditory record was clear. There was a direct downloading from the ship-computer to my auditory nerve. Perhaps you think my ship was hallucinating?"

   "No, Lord Pilot." I began to believe him. I knew well the power and skills of the akashics. A short half year ago, on a bitterly cold day in deep winter, having completed my first journey alone into the manifold, I had gone before the akashics. I remembered sitting in the Lord Akashic's darkened chamber as the heaume of the deprogramming computer descended over my head, sitting and sweating and waiting for my memories and mappings of the manifold to be proved true. Though there had been no cause for fear, I had been afraid. (Long ago, in the time of the Tycho, there had been reason to be afraid. The clumsy ancient heaumes, so I understand, extruded protein filaments through one's scalp and skull into the brain. Barbaric. The modern heaume - this is what the akashics claim - models the interconnections of the neurons' synapses holographically, thereby "reading" the memory and identity functions of the brain. It is supposed to be quite safe.)

   Bardo, as was his habit when he was nervous or afraid, farted loudly, and he asked, "Then you think there will be a quest for this ... this, uh,
secret
of the Ieldra? Lord Pilot?"

   "The eschatologists have named the secret the 'Elder Eddas,'" Soli said as he backed away from him. "And yes, there will be a quest. Tomorrow, at your convocation, the Timekeeper will issue his summons and call the quest."

   I believed him. The Lord Pilot, my uncle, said there would be a quest, and I suddenly felt my heart beating up through my throat as if it were fate's fist knocking at the doorway to my soul. Wild plans and dreams came half-formed into my mind. I said quickly, "If we could prove the Continuum Hypothesis, the quest would be full of glory, and we'd find your Elder Eddas."

   "Don't call them
my
Elder Eddas," he said.

   I should admit that I did not understand the Lord Pilot. One moment he proclaimed that there were things man was not meant to know, and the next moment he seemed proud and eager to go off seeking the greatest of secrets. And yet a moment later, he was bitter and appeared resentful of his own discovery. In truth, he was a complicated man, the second most complicated man I have ever known.

   "What Mallory meant," Bardo said, "was that he admires - as we all do, as we all do - the work you've done on the Great Theorem."

   That was not at all what I had meant.

   Soli looked at me fiercely and said, "Yes, the dream of proving the Continuum Hypothesis."

   The Continuum Hypothesis (or, colloquially, the Great Theorem): an unproved result of Lavi's Fixed-Point Theorem stating that between any pair of discrete Lavi sets of point-sources, there exists a one-to-one mapping. More simply, that it is possible to map from any star to any other in a single fall. It is the greatest problem of the manifold, of our Order. Long ago, when Soli had been a pilot not much older than I, he had nearly proved the Hypothesis. But he had become distracted by an argument with Justine and had forgotten (so he claimed) his elegant proof of the theorem. The memory of it haunted him. And so he drank his poisonous skotch whiskey, to forget. (The powers of a pilot's mind, Bardo reminds me, crescendo at an early age. It is a matter of dying brain cells, he says, and the rejuvenation we pilots undergo is imperfect in this respect. We grow slowly stupider as we age, and so why not drink skotch, or smoke toalache and lie with whores?)

   "The Continuum Hypothesis," Soli said to me as he spun his empty tumbler on top of the bar, "may very well be unprovable."

   "I understand you are bitter."

   "As you will be if you seek the unobtainable."

   "Forgive me, Lord Pilot, but how are we to know what is obtainable and what is not?"

   "We grow wiser as we grow older," he said.

   I kicked the toe of my boot against the brass railing at the foot of the bar. The metal rang dully. "I may be young, and I don't want to sound like -"

   "You're bragging," Lionel said quickly.

   " - but I think the Hypothesis is provable, and I intend to prove it."

   "For the sake of wisdom," Soli asked me, "or for the glory? I've heard that you'd like to be Lord Pilot someday."

   "Every journeyman dreams of being Lord Pilot."

   "A boy's dreams often become a man's nightmares."

   I kicked the railing, accidentally. "I'm not a boy, Lord Pilot. I take my vows tomorrow; one of my vows is to discover wisdom. Have you forgotten?"

   "Have
I
forgotten?" he said, breaking his taboo and flinching as he shouted out the forbidden pronoun. "Listen,
Boy
, I've forgotten nothing."

   The word "nothing" seemed to hang in the air along with the hollow ringing of the railing as Soli stared at me and I at him. Then there came too-loud laughter from the street outside, and the door suddenly opened. Three tall, heavy men, each of them with pale yellow hair and drooping mustaches, each of them wearing light black furs dusted with snow, ejected their skate blades and stomped into the bar. They came up to Lionel and Soli and grasped each other's hands. The largest of the three, a master pilot who had terrorized Bardo during our novice years at Borja, called for three mugs of kvass. "It's spiky cold outside," he said.

   Bardo leaned over to me and whispered, "Time to go, I think."

   I shook my head.

   The master pilots - their names were Neith, Seth and Tomoth - were brothers. They had their backs to us, and they seemed not to have noticed us.

   "I'll pay for six nights of master courtesans," Bardo mumbled.

   The novice banged three mugs of steaming hot black beer down on the bar. Tomoth backed a few steps closer to the fire and shook the melting snow from his furs. Like some of the older pilots who had gone blind from old age, he wore jeweled, mechanical eyes. He had just returned from the edge of the Vild, and he said to Soli, "Your Ieldra were right, my friend. The Gallivare Binary and Cerise Luz have exploded. Nothing left but dirty hard dust and light.

   "Dust and light," his brother Neith said, and he burned his mouth with hot kvass and cursed.

   "Dust and light," Seth repeated. "Sodervarld and her twenty millions caught in a storm of radioactive dust and light. We tried to get them off but we were too late."

   Sodervarld orbits Enola Luz, which is - had been - the star nearest the Gallivare Binary. Seth told us that the supernova had baked the surface of Sodervarld, killing off every bit of life except the ground worms. The small master pilot's bar suddenly seemed stultifyingly tiny. The three brothers, I recalled, had been born on Sodervarld.

   "To our mother," Seth said as he clinked mugs with Soli, Lionel and his brothers.

   "To our father," Tomoth said.

   "_Freyd_." This came from Neith who inclined his head so slightly that I was not sure if he had actually nodded or if his image had wavered in the firelight. "To Yuleth and Elath."

   "Time to go," I said to Bardo.

   We made ready to leave, but Neith fell weeping against Tomoth, who turned our way as he caught his brother. His jeweled eyes gleamed in the half-light when he saw us. "What's this?" he shouted.

   "Why are there
journeymen
in our bar?" Seth wanted to know.

   Neith brushed yellow hair from his wet eyes and said, "My God, it's the Bastard and his fat friend - what's his name? - Burpo? Lardo?"

   "_Bardo_," Bardo said.

   "They were just about to leave," Soli said.

   I suddenly did not feel like leaving. My mouth was dry, and there was a pressure behind my eyes.

   "Don't call him 'Bardo'," Neith said. "When we tutored him at Borja, everyone called him Piss-All Lal because he used to piss in his bed every night."

   It was true, Bardo's birth name was Pesheval Lai. When he first came to Neverness, he had been a skinny, terrified, homesick boy who had loved to recite romantic poetry and who had pissed in his bed every night. Half of the novices and masters had called him "Bardo," and the other half, "Piss-All." But after he had begun lifting heavy weights above his head and had taken to spending the nights with bought women so that he wet his bed with the liquids of lust instead of piss, few had dared to call him anything but "Bardo."

   "Well," Tomoth said as he clapped his hands at the novice behind the bar. "Piss-All and The Bastard will toast with us before they leave."

   The novice filled our mugs and tumblers. Bardo looked at me; I wondered if he could hear the blood pounding in my throat or see the tears burning in my eyes.

   "_Freyd_," Tomoth said. "To the dead of Sodervarld."

   I was afraid I was about to cry from rage and shame, and so, looking straight into Tomoth's ugly metal eyes, I picked up my tumbler and tried to swallow the fiery skotch in a single gulp. It was the wrong thing to do. I gagged and coughed and spat all at once, spraying Tomoth's face and yellow mustache with tiny globules of amber spit. He must have thought that I was mocking him and defiling the memory of his family because he came at me without thought or hesitation, came straight for my eyes with one hand and for my throat with the other. There was a ragged burning beneath my eyebrow. Suddenly there were fists and blood and elbows as Tomoth and his brothers swept me under like an avalanche. Everything was cold and hard: cold tile ground against my spine, and hard bone broke against my teeth; someone's hard nails were gouging into my eyelid. Blindly, I pushed against Tomoth's face. For a moment, I thought that cowardly Bardo must have slipped out the door. Then he bellowed as if he had suddenly remembered he was Bardo, not Piss-All, and there was the meaty slap of flesh on flesh, and I was free. I found my feet and punched at Tomoth's head, a quick, vicious, hooking punch that the Timekeeper had taught me. My knuckles broke and pain burned up my arm into my shoulder joint. Tomoth grabbed his head, dropping to one knee.

   Soli was behind him. "Moira's son," he said as he bent over and reached for the collar of Tomoth's fur to keep him from falling. Then I made a mistake, the second worst mistake, I think, of my life. I swung again at Tomoth, but I hit Soli instead, smashing his proud, long nose as if it were a ripe bloodfruit. To this day, I can see the look of astonishment and betrayal (and pain) on his face. He went mad, then. He ground his teeth and snorted blood out of his nose. He attacked me with such a fury that he got me from behind in a head hold and tried to snap my neck. If Bardo had not come between us, peeling Soli's steely hands away from the base of my skull, he would have killed me.

   "Easy there, Lord Pilot," Bardo said. He massaged the back of my neck with his great, blunt hand and eased me toward the door. Everyone stood panting, looking at each other, not quite knowing what to do next.

   There were apologies and explanations, then. Lionel, who had held himself away from the melee, told Tomoth and his brothers that I had never drunk skotch before and that I had certainly meant them no insult. After the novice refilled the mugs and tumblers, I said a requiem for the Sodervarld dead. Bardo toasted Tomoth, and Tomoth toasted Soli's discovery. And all the while, our Lord Pilot stared at me as blood trickled from his broken nose down his hard lips and chin.