Radiant (11 page)

"No. Ambassador Li got carried away in his haste to meet Admiral Ramos."

"The Cashlings are furious, Youn Suu. They'll want someone's head for this." Cohen didn't have to add,
Your head goes first—you were the lowest-ranking person on the mission.
Everyone in the navy knew that shit flowed downhill.

"Captain," I said, "a court-martial is the least of my worries." I gave him a summary of what had happened, including the coordinates for Muta and the admiral's wish to set sail as soon as we reached
Pistachio.
Cohen reacted with gratifying horror when he heard I'd been infected with spores... but thirty seconds later, his tone brightened greatly as he learned he had a Class One mission. He raced me through the rest of my story, in a hurry to contact Starbase Trillium for confirmation of the assignment.

I didn't know why he was excited. For Cohen, the trip to Muta was no different from his usual duties.
Pistachio
would fly Festina where she needed to go, then wait in orbit till she decided to leave. Maybe there'd be survivors to evacuate, but so what? They were all just passengers. Transporting passengers was routine business for
Pistachio.

Why did the captain welcome this trip when it was really the same old thing? Cohen would never set foot on Muta; he'd just watch from the high exosphere and listen to our reports. At most, he'd have the excitement of being a passive witness as we faced whatever had attacked the settlers...

Was that why Cohen sounded so eager? For the chance to observe a life-or-death mission from the safety of his command chair? Or was I simply in such a negative mood, I immediately thought the worst of everyone's motives?

Time to clear my head of unskillful thoughts.

One good thing about the ambassador's shuttle: it had remarkably wide seats. Wide enough that I could pull up my legs and assume full lotus while still wearing my seat belt. I settled in, let my breathing go quiet, and forced myself to meditate.

Westerners believe a lot of nonsense about meditation... especially that it's some kind of trance where you lose touch with reality. No. Just the opposite. Meditation aims at awareness of the here and now. You don't let your mind wander to the past or future, to the tug of memories or plans; but you also don't compel your thoughts to go somewhere you think they should. You don't strive for bliss or release from old regrets. Meditation is just being where you are.

Which is much much harder than it sounds.

When meditation works, nothing special happens. There's no mystic ecstasy—just a sense of truly being present. Sitting in the cabin of Li's shuttle, I simply perceived what was there. The plush seats. The dusty smell of upholstery. The motion of the shuttle. The sound of Tut's breathing. My own breathing. My own breath.

No fancy life force perception. Just being awake and aware. Calmer than I'd been in a long time. Certainly better meditation than I'd managed in many a month or year...

Suddenly furious, I jerked back to my normal clenched-up ground-state: ambushed by the thought that the Balrog was behind my atypical meditation success. It was helping me—clearing my mind. Since becoming an Explorer (and long before that), I'd only managed fitful bits of quiet... a second here, a second there, interspersed with long bouts where my thoughts drifted off on a string of casual distractions. Sitting sessions still helped me relax, but they'd seldom delved anywhere deeper. Now, unexpectedly, with all the troubles on my mind, why could I immediately reach a crystal-clear dhyana state and hold it?

The Balrog was manipulating my mind: making meditation trivially easy.

You demon,
I thought.
You've ruined this for me. You've cheapened the most valuable thing in my life.

I could never meditate again. If I achieved any heightened awareness, I'd always fear it was the Balrog's doing. And if I didn't achieve any "skillful effect," what was the point of meditation?

"You utter bastard," I said in a low voice. "You've cut my lifeline."

No answer.

For the rest of the trip, I just stared out the window at the black airlessness of space.

Yana [Sanskrit]: Vehicle, conveyance. The different schools of Buddhism are often called "vehicles" since they are different ways of traveling toward the same goal: enlightenment. Hinayana (the small vehicle) centers around monastic life. Mahayana (the large vehicle) is more populist, teaching all people to strive for compassion. Vajrayana (the diamond vehicle) has a mystic bent; a number of Vajrayana sects practice esoteric rituals to gain spiritual purity. Tarayana (the starry vehicle) arose after humanity left Old Earth; it concentrates on the psychology of freeing one's mind from unskillful ways. While there are doctrinal variations among the schools, history has seen very little actual conflict (as opposed to, say, Protestants and Roman Catholics in Christianity, or Sunni and Shiite Muslims). Differences are more a matter of emphasis than of outright dispute.

When we got back to
Pistachio,
my first priority was clothing. Luckily, I had a spare uniform in the Explorer equipment lockers, not far from the shuttle bay. I could get dressed without having to sneak half-naked through the ship to my cabin.

While I was in the equipment area, I found a Bumbler and checked myself for alien tissue. The scan was solid black: Balrog deposits from my head to my toes. If I slashed my wrists, I'd ooze spores instead of blood.

It was quiet in the equipment room. I sat on a bench for a while, wondering if I'd cry.

I didn't. Enough was enough.

By leaving to get a new uniform, I missed the uproar surrounding
Pistachio's
exit from Cashleen vac-space. The Cashlings refused to give departure clearance until they received reparations for the damage done to Zoonau's ropeways. Our Technocracy embassy on Cashleen wanted Li to come back and make some token appeasement—not necessarily an apology, but at least a repentant gesture. Li wanted to gesture at the Cashlings, all right, but not in a contrite manner. Captain Cohen wanted Li and every other diplomat off his ship, to free up passenger space for Muta survivors. Festina just wanted to get under way as soon as possible... and since Class One missions took priority over other concerns, she had the clout to cut short the yammering.

In the end, Li and Ubatu ordered the rest of their delegation to go down to Cashleen, where the team of diplomats would smooth the ruffled feathers of the Cashling government. Li and Ubatu themselves remained on
Pistachio...
partly from a ghoulish desire to see what would happen on Muta, partly from an urge to keep riding Festina's coattails, and partly from the need to get out of the Cashleen system before the authorities pressed charges. Still, we divested the ship of ten unneeded diplomats, which gave Cohen more room in the passenger section and gave everyone else something to smile about... except possibly Tut. He was still unconscious, and would stay that way for five more hours. Festina suggested that Tut be taken to the infirmary, and Cohen said he'd "take appropriate measures."

Considering Cohen's feelings for Tut, that might have meant leaving Tut's body on the bare floor of the shuttle bay and letting him wake up on his own.

Pistachio
pulled out of orbit and headed sunward to recharge the ship's energy envelope. The envelope was commonly called a Sperm-field: a milky sheath that formed a pocket universe around the ship and let us move at faster-than-light speeds through the universe outside. Charging the field in a star's chromosphere was a new procedure—until recently, the navy had believed Sperm-fields would be torn apart if a ship got too much solar radiation. Then between my junior and senior year at the Academy, all the textbooks suddenly changed to say that a solar bath made Sperm-fields
stronger...
and every ship in the navy abruptly became ten times faster.

Science marches on.

Anyway, the voyage to Muta would once have taken two weeks; now, we'd get there in a day and a half. We had precious little time for preparations.

The instant we left Cashleen, Festina called a meeting in
Pistachio's
small conference room. Only Captain Cohen and I were invited... but Li and Ubatu showed up too and Festina let them stay. (She whispered to me, "They'll just cause trouble if I kick them out. They'll be nuisances here too, but at least I can keep an eye on them.")

When everyone was seated at the conference table, Festina convened the meeting. "All right. We have thirty-six hours to develop a plan for the landing. First step: reviewing available information about Muta. There's quite a lot—Starbase Trillium has forwarded files obtained from the Unity. Every bit of data they have on their settlements there."

Li gave a derisive snort. "Every bit of data? I doubt it. Those bastards hate sharing
anything
with the Technocracy."

"Admittedly, they seldom talk to us," Festina said. "In this case, however, they have no choice. Withholding information from a rescue mission would endanger our lives and the people we're trying to save. The Unity has to tell us everything they know, or they'll get in trouble with the League."

Ambassador Li looked dubious. Perhaps he had unhappy past dealings with the Unity. No surprise: the Unity and the Technocracy had been at odds for centuries, with plenty of resentment built up on both sides. This state of tension wasn't a war—not even a cold war. More like the huffiness between a divorced couple who want to conduct themselves with decorum but simply can't stop bickering.

The Unity had divorced itself from the Technocracy three hundred years ago: a mere century after our ancestors left Old Earth. The cause of the breakup was irreconcilable differences over the raising of children. Children like me. Bioengineered.

As I've said, gene-tinkering is illegal in the Technocracy (except to cure serious medical conditions and in a few other strictly regulated situations). Most artificial enhancements are also banned: amplification chips in the brain, subcutaneous armor, and similar augmentations. The laws aren't always obeyed—on every planet, there are people like my self-centered mother or Ubatu's haute couture parents who believe laws only apply to others—but in general, Technocracy citizens are pure
Homo sapiens
without too much embedded hardware or unnatural DNA.

The Unity, on the other hand, don't accept a priori limitations. Their ancestors questioned the ethics of remaining merely human. Why, for example, would you force people to make do with "natural" babies when science could produce children who were healthier, happier, and smarter? Wasn't it cruel to create inferior offspring when superior children were possible? How could you justify the continued production of weaklings and cripples when it was entirely unnecessary? It wasn't fair to the children, it wasn't fair to the parents, and it wasn't fair to society.

Similarly, why balk at modifying humans after birth? If, for example, people opted to live in a deep-sea colony, why not give them gills? It was a simple surgical procedure that solved a host of problems. Without it, one needed bulky and expensive machinery to survive (scuba tanks, air-pumping systems), and even then, there was always the risk of accidental failure. The Technocracy claimed that tampering with human essence was "immoral"... but how could it be immoral to protect people from drowning?

Those were the kinds of questions that started the schism. A group of humans who disagreed with the Technocracy's ban on augmentation quietly vanished from the neighborhood of New Earth. Fifty years later, the same people and their children resurfaced as the Unity: industrious, placid, and annoyingly sane.

Technocracy doomsayers might have expected the Unity to become hellish cyborgs: brain-linked mutants with robot arms, and wheels instead of feet. But our Unified cousins remained human in appearance... mostly. Those in specialized jobs modified themselves as needed and changed back when they were finished. If they had any qualms about getting fingers amputated and replaced with welding torches, they kept it to themselves. Probably, they took such changes in stride and wondered what the fuss was about—members of the Unity were irritatingly well adjusted. (They looked like they
never
screamed at their mothers.)

In a way, the Technocracy and the Unity acted like two halves of a broken family in a broadcast comedy. Our half was made up of ne'er-do-wells: the ones who fought and hollered, whose government was perennially corrupt and whose lives were an ongoing fiasco of greedy ineptitude. Their half consisted of the ever-polite gentry, unfailingly well behaved and earnest, but clueless about how to deal with their brash, obnoxious relatives. They were embarrassed by our crassness, while we were peeved at their wholesomeness. Both sides preferred to avoid each other... and when circumstances forced us together, we always began with "This time we'll make it work," but ended in our usual roles: the Technocracy as squabbling buffoons and the Unity as stuffed-shirt prigs. Like a divorced couple, we brought out the worst in each other.

But like a divorced couple, we weren't utterly blind to each other's strengths. Members of the Unity sometimes admitted they might be a little too obsessed with control; they planned and planned and planned, but if they encountered an unexpected obstacle, they knew they had trouble with spontaneous improvisation. Their process of reaching a careful consensus meant they seldom got caught by surprise... but if a surprise
did
come along, they were slow to react. They weren't stupid or uncreative; but centuries of genetic tinkering had bred out "lone wolf" impulsiveness, and that sometimes left them at a disadvantage.

On the other hand, I didn't like lone wolves myself. Explorers survived through teamwork and forethought, rather than going their own impetuous ways. No plan could anticipate every contingency, but thinking ahead was far better than leaving things to chance. One should never depend on luck.

So, unlike Li, I admired the Unity. In particular, I admired their survey teams—the only people in the galaxy who might equal our own Explorer Corps. Their equipment and training were just as good, their advance planning was better, and they actually had their people's support. Unity surveyors were treated like heroes: lauded by the public and held up as examples. Little girls and boys grew up
longing
to win a place on first-landing teams.