Transcendent (4 page)

My mother stuck her head out of the window. “And that’s another reason I don’t like that silver stuff.”

John laughed. “We’ll have to finish tomorrow, Ma. Sorry.”

“You’d better come in; the mosquitoes will be at you in minutes now that the electric fences are down. I’ve got no-brain-chicken slices, and cookies, and cards to keep the kids quiet.” She shut the window with a bang.

I glanced at John. I couldn’t see his face, but glimpsed the whiteness of his teeth. “Gin rummy,” he said. “I always hated fucking gin rummy.”

“Me, too.” It was one thing we had in common, at least.

He clapped me on the back, a bit more friendly than before. Side by side we walked into the house.

That was when I got an alarm call in my ear so loud it hurt.

There had been some kind of explosion in Siberia. Tom, my son, was out of touch, maybe hurt.

Chapter 4

As she had grown up and become aware of her world, Alia had always known that the
Nord
was a ship, an artifact, everything about it
made.
And that implied it had an origin, of course, a time before which it hadn’t existed. She had never really thought about it. The present was the thing, not some discontinuity in remote history; wherever you grew up you always assumed, deep inside, your world had existed forever.

Nevertheless, it was true. This ship had once been built, and named, and launched, by human hands.

The
Nord
had once been a generation starship. Crawling along at sublight, it was designed to journey for many generations, after which the remote grandchildren of its builders would spill onto the ground of some new world. It was believed it had been launched from Sol system itself, probably built of the ice of a remote moon, perhaps of Port Sol itself—and perhaps even by the legendary engineer Michael Poole, descended from the subject of Alia’s Witnessing, an earlier Michael Poole who had been doomed to live in a much drabber time.

But that was probably just a story. The truth was the
Nord
’s port of origin was long forgotten, its intended destination unknown. Nobody even knew who its builders were or what they had wanted. Were they visionaries, refugees—even, it was whispered deliciously, criminals?

Even the ship’s name was a subject of intellectual debate. It might have derived from
nautilus,
a word from old Earth referring to an animal that lived its life in a shell. Or perhaps it derived from
North
or
Northern,
an earthworm’s word for a direction on a planet’s surface.

But whatever its target had been, the
Nord
had never reached it. Long before it completed its voyage it had been overtaken by a wave of faster-than-light ships, a new generation of humans washing out from Earth and rediscovering this relic of their own past. It must have been a huge conceptual shock for the crew on that day when the first FTL flitters had come alongside.

But when that generation had passed, the crew had accepted their place aboard a bit of bypassed history. They had begun to trade with the passing ships—at first with the
Nord
’s reaction-mass ice, billions of tons of which still remained, and later with hospitality, cultural artifacts, theater shows, music, elegant prostitution. The
Nord
was no longer a vessel, really; it was an artificial island, drifting between the stars, locked into a complex interstellar trading economy. Nowadays nobody aboard had any ambition for the voyage to end.

Of course if you lived on a spaceship there were constraints. The
Nord
’s inner space was always going to be finite, and the population could never grow too far. But two children were enough for most people: indeed most had fewer. Alia knew that she was fortunate to have a sister in Drea; siblings were rare. Her parents, though, had never made any secret of the deep and unusual joy they had derived from their children.

And anyhow if you didn’t like it here in this small floating village you could always escape. You could pay for passage aboard one of the
Nord
’s endless stream of FTL visitors, and head for any of the worlds of a proliferating human Galaxy. And likewise some of those visitors, charmed by the
Nord
’s antiquity and peace, chose to stay.

Thus the
Nord
had sailed on, its crew rebuilding their ship over and over, until it had passed through the dense molecular clouds that shielded the Galaxy’s Core from eyes on Earth, and had broken into a new cold light.

And half a million years had worn away.

The sisters’ home was a cluster of bubble-chambers lodged just underneath the
Nord
’s ceramic hull. Windows had been cut into that ancient surface, so that from Alia’s own room you could see out into space. The room was small, but it was a pleasant retreat she had always cherished.

But today there was a visitor here. An intruder.

It was a man, a stranger. He stood quietly in the center of the floor, hands behind his back. Her mother, Bel, stood beside the visitor, her hands twisting together.

The stranger was
tall,
so tall he had to duck to avoid the ceiling. He was dressed in a drab pale gray robe that swept to the ground, despite his angular tallness. His face was long, a thing of planes and hard edges of bone, as if there wasn’t a morsel of spare fat under his flesh. His arms were short, too stiff for climbing; he was a planet-dweller. His expression was kindly, almost amused, as he looked at her. But Alia thought he had an air of detachment, as if she were some kind of specimen. He kept subtly away from the furniture, her bed and chairs and table and Witnessing tank, all heaped with clutter and clothes.

She didn’t like this judgmental stranger in her room, looking at her stuff. Resentment flared.

Her mother’s face was flushed, and she seemed tense, agitated. It took a lot to get a bicentenarian so visibly excited. “Alia, this is Reath. He’s come to see you, all this way.
He’s from the Commonwealth.
”

The man, Reath, stepped forward, arms outspread. “I’m sorry to intrude on you like this, Alia. It’s all terribly ill-mannered. And I know this will come as a shock to you. But I’ve come to offer you an opportunity.”

She couldn’t tell how old he was. But then, you couldn’t tell how old anybody was past the age of thirty or so. He was different, however, she thought. There was a stillness about him, as if he had weightier concerns than those around him.

She said suspiciously, “What kind of opportunity? Are you offering me some kind of job?”

“In a sense—”

“I don’t want a job. Nobody
works.
”

“Some do. A very few,” he said. “Perhaps you will be one of them.” His voice was deep, compelling, his whole manner mesmeric. She felt he was drawing her down some path she might not want to follow.

Her mother had gone, she noticed, slipped out of the room while Reath distracted her.

Reath turned away and walked around the room, his hands still folded behind his back. “You have windows. Most people would prefer to be hidden away, buried in the human world, to forget that they are on a starship at all. But not you, Alia.”

“My parents chose the apartment,” she said. “Not me.”

“Well, perhaps.” With an elegant finger he traced faint shadows on the wall, a cross-hatching of rectangles, hexagons, ovals, and circles. As the occupancy patterns of the
Nord
had changed, windows had been cut here, then filled in and cut again, each repair leaving a ghostly mark. “And these usage scars? They don’t bother you?”

“Why should they?” In fact she liked the sense of history the faint scarring gave her, the idea that she wasn’t the first to live here, to breathe this air.

He nodded. “You don’t mind. Even though it must give you a sense of transience, of the evanescence of all things—of youth, of love, even of your own identity. I don’t mean to patronize you, Alia. But I suspect you’re still too young to understand how rare that is. Just as they would prefer to forget where they are in space, most people would rather not think about their position in time. They would certainly prefer not to think about death!”

She felt increasingly uncomfortable. “And that’s why you’ve come here? Because I think too much?”

“Nobody thinks too much. Anyhow you can’t help it, can you?” He approached her Witnessing tank. It was a silvered cube half his height. “May I?”

She shrugged.

He tapped the tank’s surface.

It turned clear to reveal a softly translucent interior, filled with light that underlit the planes of Reath’s face. And through the light snaked a pale pink rope, looping and turning back on itself. If you looked closely you could see that the line wasn’t a simple cable, but had small protuberances and ridges. And if you looked closer still you could just see that it was actually a kind of chain, with its links tiny human figures, one fading seamlessly into the next: there was a tiny baby at one end, fingers and toes pink, and at the other end of the sequence an old man, bent and gaunt.

Reath said, “Your subject is Michael Poole, isn’t it? I envy you. Though it’s no coincidence you’ve been assigned such a significant figure, historically.”

“It isn’t?”

“Oh, no. We—I mean, the councils of the Commonwealth—have had our eye on you for a long time, Alia.”

That chilled her. And she still didn’t know what he wanted.

“I am certainly pleased to see you keep up your Witnessing.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Sadly, no. Even though we all have our duty: to Witness is to participate in the Redemption, which has been mandated by the Transcendence.” When he said the name, Reath bowed his head.

Alia knew this was true. She had always been fascinated by her assigned Witnessing subject; others, even her own sister, thought that was a bit too earnest, and in the interests of popularity she’d learned not to talk about it.

Reath reached into the tank and touched the flesh-colored chain, close to one end. That “link” was cut out, magnified, and became animated, and the tank filled up with the light of a distant sun, a vanished beach. A boy played, throwing brightly colored discs to and fro through the air. There was a contrail traced by a spark of light climbing in the sky, maybe a rocket; the boy quit his playing to watch, his hand peaked over his eyes.

Reath murmured, “My history’s a little rusty. Didn’t this Poole grow up in Baikonur? Or was it Florida? One of those paleological spaceports . . .”

“I like watching him as a kid,” Alia blurted. “He’s so full of life. Full of ideas. Always tinkering with things. Like those toys. He would cut and shape them, trying to make them fly better.”

“Yes. The shapeless dreams of youth, so soon replaced by the complexities and compromises of adulthood. But his life was so short. By the time he was your age Poole’s life was probably half over. Most of them could only follow one career, make one significant contribution before—” Reath snapped his fingers. “Imagine that! But we, who have so much time by comparison, often choose to do nothing at all.”

He was trying to recruit her, Alia realized. But for what? “
Why
would I want to work, for you or anyone else?”

“It’s a valid point,” Reath said. “In our society of limitless material wealth, what rewards can there be? Have you ever heard of money, child?”

“Only historically.”

“Ah, yes.” He turned to her Witnessing tank. “They still had money in Poole’s time, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And Poole himself worked.”

“He was involved in one of the big geoengineering projects—”

“Yes,” Reath said. “The struggles to get past the great Bottleneck of his day. But what motivated Poole, do you think? I’m sure he was
paid.
But was it just money he wanted?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

She frowned, thinking. “His world was in trouble. Duty, I suppose.”

“Duty, yes. Of course everything is different now. But even though money has vanished, duty remains—don’t you think? And I already know you do your duty, Alia, with your Witnessing. Tell me what you think of Poole.”

“His legacy—”

“Never mind his place in history. What do you think of
him
?”

She studied the playing boy. To her, Poole was a stunted creature, living in a cramped, dark time. And his mind was only half-formed, his speech a drawl. Why, he was barely conscious most of the time. It was as if he walked around in a dream, a robot driven by unconscious and atavistic impulses. When tragedy hit, when his wife died, he was overwhelmed, quite unable even to comprehend the powerful emotions that tore him apart.

Yet this flawed animal was a citizen of a civilization that was already reaching out beyond the planet of its birth, and Michael Poole himself had a grave, history-shaping responsibility; and yet this man, in a way, would save his world.

Uncertainly she tried to express some of this to Reath.

Reath said, “Just think how you would look to
him.
Why, you’re a different category of creature altogether. If Poole was standing before you now, I wonder if you’d even be able to talk to each other! You and Poole are as different as two humans could ever be. And yet you have always watched him. Do you think, Alia, that you could ever
love
him?”

“Love? What are you talking about? What do you want, Reath?”

His eyes were a deep, watery gold. “I have to be sure, you see.”

“About what?”

“If you really are what I’m looking for.” He turned in response to a faint sound. “I think your father is home.”

Alia was happy to run from the room, fleeing from this strange man and his intense scrutiny, seeking her father’s reassurance. But in the end reassurance was the last thing she got from him.

In the apartment’s living room, her mother and father stood side by side. Her sister Drea was here, too. Alia’s attention was distracted by the Witnessing tanks stacked up in one corner of the room, her parents’, and Drea’s. It struck her that she couldn’t remember when the others had done their Witnessing. Maybe Reath was right, she was unusual.