Eternity

by Greg Bear

  Events were moving more rapidly than he had imagined.

  “Is there time for me to hike out?” Olmy asked, smiling. The mild social humor was as sweet as sugar in his mind, and he realized how starved he had become for human company. The ghost returned the smile. “Quicker transportation will arrive soon,” it said.

  “The prodigal son,” Korzenowski said, hugging Olmy firmly in the Nexus antechamber. “I apologize for sending a partial to hunt you down. I assume you didn’t want to be found.”

  Olmy felt a kind of shame, standing before his mentor, unwilling to speak of what he had been doing. He still had to keep his balance within his own head, watching the implants he had given over to the Jart. “Where is Mirsky?” he asked, hoping to sidestep questions.

  “With Garry Lanier. The Nexus is meeting in two hours. Mirsky is testifying before the full chamber. He wants to speak with you first.”

  “Is he real?”

  “As real as I am,” Korzenowski said.

  “That worries me.” Olmy forced a grin.

  “He has an amazing story to tell.” Korzenowski, unwilling to find humor in anything now, looked away from Olmy at a wall of natural asteroid iron, his reflection milky and distant in the polished metal surface. “We’ve caused a lot of trouble.”

  “Where?”

  “At the end of time,” Korzenowski said. “I remember thinking about this possibility centuries ago, when I was designing the Way…. It seemed a vain fantasy then, that anything I could be involved in would have such repercussions…. But the idea has haunted me. I half expected someone to return from the precincts, like a ghost.”

  “And here he is.”

  Korzenowski nodded. “He hasn’t pointed any accusing fingers. He seems happy to be back. Almost childlike. Still, he frightens me. We have such responsibilities, now.” Korzenowski turned his square, discerning eyes on Olmy. “Would you resent a request for help?”

  Olmy shook his head automatically. He owed more to the Engineer than he could ever repay—more than even bringing him back to life could tally against. Korzenowski had shaped Olmy’s life, opened vistas to him he would have missed otherwise. Still, he was not sure how his plan—already fixed and irrevocable—might match Korzenowski’s. “I am always at your service, Ser.”

  “Sometime in the next few months, perhaps even today if the time is right—if Mirsky puts his story across as clearly to the Nexus as he did to us—I am going to recommend that the Way be opened,” Korzenowski said.

  Olmy’s smile was faint, ironic.

  “Yes, I know,” Korzenowski said gently. “We’ve been opposing forces on this.”

  It seemed no one understood his position, not even his mentor. Olmy did not think it worth the time to correct him. Still, he could not help but gently chide the Engineer, if only to make sure he was keeping everything in perspective.

  “I hope I don’t presume when I say that you are not completely unhappy with this turn?”

  “There is excitement and challenge,” Korzenowski said, “and then there is wisdom. I’ve been clinging desperately to wisdom. Which of us is more eager to have this monster back?”

  “Which of us really wants to face the consequences?” Olmy asked.

  Lanier and Mirsky left the elevator and approached them. Mirsky walked ahead of Lanier, smiling expectantly, and extended his hand to Olmy. “We have not met,” he said. Olmy shook the hand firmly. Warm and human.

  “You are the expediter of our duty,” Mirsky said. Olmy could not completely contain his reaction to that choice of words. Mirsky paused, examining his face. Who is he looking at? Olmy wondered. “You understand the problems, no?”

  Olmy hesitated, then said. “Perhaps some of them.”

  “You’ve been preparing?”

  There was no question now of not understanding. “Yes.”

  Mirsky nodded. “I would expect nothing less from you. I’m anxious to testify,” he said. “Anxious to get things moving.” He walked away with an abruptness that puzzled all of them.

  Olmy turned to Lanier while the Russian paced near the door to the Nexus chamber. “How have you been?” he asked. “And your wife?”

  “She’s fine, I suppose, working on a project…”

  “She’s just arrived on Thistledown,” Korzenowski said. “She’s working with Ser Ram Kikura.”

  “Will the Nexus listen to me?” Mirsky asked, walking back toward them. “I am nervous! Can you believe that?”

  “No,” Korzenowski said in an undertone.

  Mirsky suddenly turned and faced Olmy. “You believe the Jarts will oppose us,” he said. “And you suspect they won’t be the only ones. You know the Talsit were Jart allies before—you think they probably are again. You have been working on this, haven’t you? It’s what I expected from you!” he said again, staring earnestly at Olmy. Olmy nodded.

  “Is he the same Mirsky?” Olmy asked Lanier when Mirsky returned to the opposite side of the room.

  “Yes and no,” Lanier said. “He’s not human.”

  Korzenowski glared at Lanier. “Knowledge, or supposition?”

  Lanier pursed his lips. “He can’t be human. Not after what he’s gone through. And he’s not telling us everything yet. I don’t know why.”

  “Does he know whether he will succeed?” Olmy asked.

  “No. I don’t think he does.” A dreaming expression came to Lanier’s face. “I’ve never met anybody like him. I envy him.”

  “Perhaps we should all be cautious in our evaluations,” Korzenowski suggested dryly. “Having an angel in our midst.”

  Mirsky paced back yet again. “Nervous! I haven’t felt nervous in…a very long time! It is exhilarating.”

  Korzenowski’s irritation grew. “Are you beyond caring?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mirsky stopped pacing, facing the Engineer with an intensely puzzled expression.

  “We are—I am being forced to make a decision I have tried to avoid for forty years! If we do have to fight the Jarts, the results might be disastrous—we might lose everything.” He grimaced. “Including the Earth.”

  “I am more concerned than you know,” Mirsky said. “There is more at stake than just the Earth.”

  Korzenowski was not mollified. “If you are indeed an angel, Ser Mirsky, you might not be as concerned as we are about our own skins.”

  “Angel? Are you angry with me?” Mirsky asked, his face bland again.

  “I am angry with this situation!” Korzenowski said, drawing his head closer to his shoulders. “Pardon my outburst.” He looked to Olmy, who had stood with arms folded throughout the exchange. “We are both torn by our emotions. Ser Olmy would love to get back to his paper work, keeping our Hexamon intact in the Way, and I am fascinated by the prospect of re-opening. The part of me that remembers Patricia Vasquez…”

  Lanier almost flinched as Korzenowski glanced in his direction.

  “That part is eager. But what our less responsible selves want, and what is safe for our Hexamon, could be very different things, Ser Mirsky. Your reasons are compelling…I am just irritated by your carefree attitude.” Korzenowski looked down at the floor and took a deep breath.

  Mirsky said nothing.

  “In truth,” Olmy interceded, “the pressures on the Hexamon to re-open would be strong even without you.”

  “Thank you for your guidance,” Mirsky said quietly. “I lack perspective. I must approach the Nexus carefully.” He spread his arms and looked down at his body, still clad in hiking clothes. “To have limitations, to think in channels. It’s exhilarating to be back in flesh again! A wild, half-drunken blindness…a fleshy peace.”

  The Earth circled by a strand of DNA, the symbol of the Terrestrial Hexamon Nexus in session, appeared by the doors to the chamber. A partial of Presiding Minister Dris Sandys materialized beside the symbol.

  “Full chamber,” the partial said. “Please enter now and be sworn in.”

  Mirsky squared his shoulders and smiled, wa
lking through the doors first. Lanier held back, entering the chamber behind Korzenowski and Olmy. Guided to his assigned seat in the lower circle, he was reminded of the time when he had testified before the Infinite Hexamon Nexus on the Axis City. Now, that time didn’t seem so long ago. Earth’s wounds had been raw and fresh then, nearly fatal.

  Mirsky stood patiently in the armillary sphere of testimony before the presiding minister’s dais. President Farren Siliom occupied the dais beside the P.M. Lanier faced the pictor near his seat, aware that the experience would drain him again, but eager to see what Mirsky would say this time, whether he would elaborate.

  An orthodox Naderite corprep seated beside him smiled politely, picting polite curiosity about Lanier’s age.

  “I’m from Earth,” he answered.

  “I see,” the corprep said. “Do you know anything about this testimony?”

  “No fair telling ahead of time,” Lanier said conspiratorially. “Get set for the ride of your life.

  30

  Gaia

  The Kirghiz in the black wool coat held court in the expedition’s tent, sitting cross-legged in the middle of a circle consisting of five of his troops, Oresias, Jamal Atta, Demetrios and Lugotorix. Rhita stood with the others outside the circle, hands bound with strong thin rope. Women were anomalies on a military expedition, apparently; they did not believe she was among the leaders, and no one made them any the wiser.

  A translator entered the circle, short and wiry, wearing a drab uniform cut in a modern Rhus manner, with scalloped collar and tight-wrapped linen leggings above short, supple boot-slippers. The bull-like, black-coated Kirghiz leader spoke, and the translator converted his words into common Hellenic.

  “I am Batur Chinghiz. I control this square of the grass for my esteemed masters, the Rhus of Azovian Miskna. You are trespassers. I need to know your reasons, to report by radio to my masters. Can you enlighten me?”

  “We are here on a scientific expedition,” Oresias said.

  The translator smiled before converting those words into Kirghiz. Batur smiled also, showing even yellow teeth.

  “I am not stupid. Surely you would ask our scholars to do this thing for you, not risk your own lives.”

  “It is an urgent matter,” Oresias said.

  “What about the dark one, the arabios. What does he say?”

  Jamal Atta nodded in Batur’s direction. “I concur.”

  “With whom, me or the light-skinned leader?”

  “We are on a scientific expedition.”

  “Ah, so it is. I will report you are lying, and they will tell me to kill you, or perhaps cage you and send you to Miskna. Are you part of the revolt in Askandergul? He means,” the translator added, “Alexandreia, of course.”

  “I don’t understand,” Oresias said.

  “Are you fleeing from the palace, perhaps, cowards in search of sanctuary in our wide territories?”

  “We know little about a revolt.”

  “We have only received news in the past few hours ourselves.” The Kirghiz lifted his broad shoulders and raised his chin, staring at them across his flat brown cheeks. “We are not speakers of nonsense here. He means Barbarians,” the translator added again. “We have radios, and we are in touch with our fortresses. We even bathe when the rivers are full or we are garrisoned.”

  “We have all due respect for the illustrious Kirghiz soldiers of the Rhus of Azovian Miskna,” Atta said, glancing at Oresias. “We are intruders, and we humbly beg your mercy, which under the sky of God and the grass of the Riding Devils, we feel sure the great horsemen Batur Chinghiz will grant us.” Oresias narrowed his eyes, but did not object to Atta’s attempt at formulaic diplomacy.

  “I am pleased by your kind and understanding words. But mercy is not mine to give. I am, as you say, soldier and not master. Enough of this. Can you enlighten me further before I request orders for your disposition?”

  Rhita shivered. The clavicle had been taken from her when they had been dragged out of the beecraft; she had no idea what was happening with the gate, but darkness was coming. More than anything, she wanted to be away from this place, relieved of responsibility to her grandmother, to the Akademeia and her Imperial Hypsēlotēs—whatever had happened to her now…

  She was terrified. The past few hours had given her time to absorb a few facts she had until now managed to ignore. She was mortal; these people would gladly kill her and all her companions. Lugotorix could not protect her, although when the time came—if it came—he would attempt to die first trying.

  This situation was her doing. She could not easily pass the blame on to her father or Patrikia. She had agreed to come; the outcome of bringing the news to Kleopatra could not have been foreseen, but…

  She shivered.

  The Kirghiz troops prodded and shoved them out of the tent and into a hastily made enclosure of tent poles and canvas gleaned from the emergency supplies in the cargo gullcraft. The enclosure had no roof; it lay open to the cool wind and the deepening twilight. “I think we’re dead,” Atta murmured as the final section of canvas was erected and tied by a Kirghiz infantryman, who regarded them with narrow, curious eyes.

  Their prison was flimsy at best, but they didn’t dare even touch the canvas; they had been given, by gestures of rifles and hands striking the fabric, the distinct impression that bullets were ready for anyone who made a ripple in the barricade.

  Rhita squatted on the dirt, arms across her knees, and rubbed her face wearily. Her entire body ached; hours of fear had done this to her. She needed desperately to urinate, but no one had yet made provisions within the barricade for a latrine, and she was too angry and confused to take the lead. Soon, however, she might be forced to.

  She turned slitted eyes up at the stars, as miserable as she had ever been in her life, and felt their coldness sink into her face. They don’t know, they don’t care.

  All absolutes meant nothing; how far could a goddess such as Athene extend? She seemed wholly inadequate beyond Gaia. The comfort of prayer meant little if she was going to die soon, and die in discomfort and ignominy, far from Rhodos.

  “Damn it, I have to piss,” she said aloud. Jamal Atta stared down at her, his dark brows knitting.

  “So do I,” he said. “We’ll—”

  Rhita ignored him, fascinated by something above his head—a luminous green straight line, singular, unembellished, silent.

  “—make an area over here—” Atta continued.

  The line passed smoothly over their enclosure; she could not tell whether it was near or very far. Another green line crossed it and both lines moved their juncture rapidly to the edge of the enclosure. That made them seem close.

  The gate. Something was happening at the gate.

  The lines passed out of view. There was no unusual sound outside the enclosure—men conversed in soft gutturals; boots scuffed dirt, grass rustled in the cool evening wind. Darkness was almost complete. She smelled raw dirt and scared men and the green of the steppes.

  Like an automaton, she followed Atta to the designated latrine, marked by boot-scuffed lines of sod. She pulled down her pants and relieved herself. A few men glanced in her direction, never too frightened to catch a glimpse of a woman’s naked flesh. Pulling back her pants, she stepped out of the scuffed lines and looked closely at her companions within the enclosure. They stood in dejected postures, heads hanging, faces coldly outlined by a faint crescent moon and the starlight.

  This was what it had come down to. In truth, she now hoped something would come through the gate. It might be their only chance at reprieve.

  Had the green light been real, or were her eyes playing tricks?

  She stood still for several minutes with arms crammed beneath her jacket, the cold sapping her strength and numbing her face. The fabric of the barricades tensed and bellied in a freshet of wind; expecting a bullet, she flinched as a teardrop of rain splatted on her eyelid. A black wall of cloud slid smoothly over the moon. She could barely see around
herself.

  More raindrops fell. She listened for sounds outside the barricade, suddenly alert, her arm-hairs pricking. No voices. Not even the hoof-clomps or neighing of horses complaining of the wet. Darkness, scattered rain and wind whipping the canvas.

  The moon gleamed through a rift. Lugotorix stood beside her, huge and bedraggled. Saying nothing, but touching her arm, he pointed above the barricade to their left. Something tall and sword-shaped, as wide as a man’s spread arms, towered over their flimsy prison. Its edges rippled like water. Smoothly, quickly, it curved to one side and dropped out of sight. Death, she thought. It looks like death.

  “Kirghiz?” the Kelt asked quietly. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

  “No,” she said.

  “I didn’t think so,” Lugotorix muttered. Rhita tried to locate Oresias or Jamal Atta in the temporary illumination; they were hidden among the men. Before she could find them, the moon vanished again.

  A hideous ripping noise on all sides startled her. She gave a small scream and reached for Lugotorix, but he was not there. The canvas barricade was being torn to shreds. Wind rushed by, the wake of the passage of something huge. Nails drove into her back, knocking the breath out of her; one pause two pause three and four and five. She could not fall over. Lugotorix whimpered nearby like a struck dog, a sound she had never heard from him before. Head slung back, jaw open, scalp and neck resting on something icy cold, she saw once again the straight green lines cross above them.

  Something lifted her. She had an impression that the grass had grown huge and metallic; the camp was covered with swaying, supple steel blades, edges rippling like water, topped with smooth green shields or hoods. Her spine stiffened until she wished she could scream, but all her muscles had frozen. She could still see, but gradually she realized she was losing the ability to think.