by Greg Bear
"You're the first."
"Why?"
"Because I thought you'd love it," he said.
"Charles, I don't have half the experience or the . . . awareness necessary to appreciate this."
"I think you do."
"There must be hundreds of others — "
"You asked to see my Mars," Charles said. "No one's ever asked before."
I could only shake my head. I was unprepared to understand such a gift, much less appreciate it, but Charles had given it with the sweetest of intentions, and there was no sense resisting. "Thank you," I said. "You overwhelm me."
"I love you," he said, turning his helmet. His face lay in shadow. All I could see were his eyes glittering.
"You can't," I answered, shaking my head.
"Look at this," Charles said, lifting his arms like a priest beneath a cathedral dome. His voice quavered. "I work on my instincts. We don't have much time to make important decisions. We're fireflies, a brief glow then gone. I say I love you and I mean it."
"You don't give me time to make up my own mind!" I cried.
We fell silent for a moment. "You're right," Charles said.
I took a deep breath, sucking back my wash of emotions, clutching my hands to keep them from trembling. "Charles, I never expected any of this. You have to give me room to breathe."
"I'm sorry," he said, almost below pickup range for his helmet, "We should go back now."
I didn't want to go back. All of my life I would remember this, the sort of romantic moment and scene I had secretly dreamed of, though stretched beyond what I could have possibly imagined; the kind of setting and sweeping, impassioned declarations I had hoped for since such ideas had even glimmered in me. That it aroused so much conflict baffled me.
Charles was giving me everything he had.
* * *
On the way back to the tractor, with ten minutes before we started using reserves, Charles knelt and chipped a square from the Glass Sea bed. He handed it to me. "I know you probably already have some," he said. "But this is from me."
Leave it to Charles, I thought, to give me flowers made of stone. I slipped the small slab of rock into my pouch. We climbed into the tractor, pressurized, and helped each other suck dust from our suits with a hose.
Charles seemed almost grim as he took the stick and propelled the tractor forward. We circled and climbed out of the canyon in painful silence.
I made my decision. Charles was passionate and dedicated. He cared about things. We had been through a lot together, and he had proven himself courageous and reliable and sensible. He felt strongly about me.
I would be a fool not to return his feelings. I had already convinced myself that my qualms before had come from cowardice and inexperience. As I looked at him then — he refused to look at me, and his face was flushed — I said, "Thank you, Charles. I'll treasure this."
He nodded, intent on dodging a field of boulders.
"In a special place in my heart, I love you, too," I said. "I really do."
The stiffness in his face melted then, and I saw how terrified he had been. I laughed and reached out to hug him. "We are so — weird" I said.
He laughed as well and there were tears in his eyes. I was impressed by my power to please.
That evening, as the temperature outside the station dipped to minus eighty, the walls and tunnel linings of the warrens creaked and groaned, and we dragged our beds together in the boss's sleeping quarters. Charles and I kissed, undressed, and we made love.
I don't know to this day whether I was his first woman. It didn't matter then, and it certainly doesn't matter now. He did not seem inexperienced, but Charles showed an aptitude for catching on quickly, and he excited and pleased me, and I was sure that what I felt was love. It had to be; it was right, it was mutual . . . and it gave me a great deal of pleasure.
I delighted in his excitement, and after, we talked with an ease and directness impossible before.
"What are you going to do?" I asked him, nested in the crook of his arm. I felt secure.
"When I grow up, you mean?"
"Yeah."
He shook his head and his brows came together. He had thick, expressive eyebrows and long lashes. "I want to understand," he said.
"Understand what?" I asked, smoothing the silky black hair on his forearm.
"Everything," he said.
"You think that's possible?"
"Yeah."
"What would it be like? Understanding everything — how everything works, physics, I guess you mean."
"I'd like to know that, too," he said. I thought he might be joking with me, but lifting my eyes, I saw he was dead serious. "How about you?" he asked, blinking and shivering slightly.
I scowled. "God, I've been trying to figure that out for years now. I'm really interested in management — politics, I guess would be the Earth word. Mars is really weak that way."
"President of Mars," Charles said solemnly. "I'll vote for you."
I cuffed his arm. "Statist," I said.
Waiting for sleep, I thought this part of my life had a clear direction. For the first time as an adult, I slept with someone and did not feel the inner bite of adolescent loneliness, but instead, a familial sense of belonging, the ease of desire satisfied by a dear friend.
I had a lover. I couldn't understand why I had felt so much confusion and hesitation.
The next day, we made love again — of course — and after, strolling through the tunnels with mugs of breakfast soup, I helped Charles inspect the station. Every few years, an active station — whether deserted or not — had to be surveyed by humans and the findings submitted to the Binding Multiples Habitat Board. All habitable stations were listed on charts, and had to be ready for emergency use by anybody. Tres Haut Medoc needed new arbeiters and fresh emergency supplies. Emergency medical nano had gone stale. The pumps probably needed an engineering refit to fix deep structural wear that could not be self-repaired.
After finishing diagnostics on the main pumps, still caught up in yesterday's trip and my deep-time shock, I asked Charles what puzzled him most about the universe.
"It's a problem of management," he said, smiling.
"That's it," I said huffily. "Talk down to my level."
"Not at all. How does everything know where and what it is? How does everything talk to every other thing, and what or who listens?"
"Sounds spooky," I said.
"Very spooky," he agreed.
"You think the universe is a giant brain."
"Not at all, madam," he said, letting a diagnostic lead curl itself into his slate. He tucked the slate into his belt. "But it's stranger than anyone ever imagined. It's a kind of computational system . . . nothing but information talking to itself. That much seems clear. I want to know how it talks to itself, and how we can listen in . . . and maybe add to the conversation. Tell it what to do."
"You mean, we can persuade the universe to change?"
"Yeah," he said blandly.
"That's possible?" I asked.
"I'd bet my life on it," Charles said. "At least my future. Have you ever wondered why we're locked in status quo?"
Cultural critics and even prominent thinkers in the Triple had speculated on the lack of major advances in recent decades. There had been progress — on Earth, the escalation of the dataflow revolution — that had produced surface changes, extreme refinements, but there had not been a paradigm shift for almost a century. Some said that a citizen of Earth in 2071 could be transported to 2171 and recognize almost everything she saw . . . This, after centuries of extraordinary change.
"If we could access the Bell Continuum, the forbidden channels where all the universe does its bookkeeping ..." He smiled sheepishly. "We'd break the status quo wide open. It would be the biggest revolution of all time . . . much bigger than nano. Do you ever watch cartoons?"
"What are those?"
"Animations from the twentieth century. Disney cartoons, Bugs Bunny, Road Runner
, Tom and Jerry."
"I've seen a few," I said.
"I used to watch them all the time when I was a kid. They were cheap — public domain — and they fascinated me. Still do. I watched them and tried to understand how a universe like theirs would make sense. I even worked up some math. Observer-biased reality — nobody falls until he knows he's over the edge of a cliff . . . Instant regeneration of damaged bodies, no consequences, continuous flows of energy, limited time, inconsistent effects from similar causes. Pretty silly stuff, but it made me think."
"Is that how our universe works?" I asked.
"Maybe more than we realize! I'm fascinated by concepts of other realities, other ways of doing things. Nothing is fixed, nothing sacred, nothing metaphysically determined — it's all contingent on process and evolution. That's perfect. It means we might be able to understand, if we can just relax and shed our preconceptions."
When we finished the survey, we had no further excuses to stay, and only a few hours before we had to return the tractor to Shinktown.
Charles seemed dispirited.
"I really don't want to go back. This place is ideal for being alone."
"Not exactly ideal," I said, sliding an arm around his waist. We bumped hips down the tunnel from the pump to the cuvee.
"Nobody bothers us, there's things to see and places to go ..."
"There's always the wine," I said.
He looked at me as if I were the most important person in the world. "It'll be tough going home and not seeing you for a while."
I hadn't given much thought to that. "We're supposed to be responsible adults now."
"I feel pretty damned responsible," Charles said. We paused outside the cuvee hatch. "I want to partner with you."
I was shocked by how fast things were moving. "Lawbond?"
"I'd strike a contract."
That was the Martian term, but somehow it seemed less romantic — and for that reason barely less dangerous — than saying, "Get married."
He felt me shiver and held me tighter, as if I might run away. "Pretty damned big and fast," I said.
"Time," Charles said with sepulchral seriousness. He smiled. "I don't have the patience of rocks. And you are incredible. You are what I need."
I put my hands on his shoulders and held him at elbow's length, examining his face, my heart thumping again. "You scare me, Charles Franklin. It isn't nice to scare people."
He apologized but did not loosen his grip.
"I don't think I'm old enough to get married," I said.
"I don't expect an answer right away," Charles said. "I'm just telling you that my intentions are honorable." He hammed the word to take away its stodgy, formal sense, but didn't succeed. Honorable was something that might concern my father, possibly my mother, but I wasn't sure it concerned me.
Again, confusion, inner contradictions coming to the surface. But I wasn't about to let them spoil what we had here. I touched my finger to his lips. "Patience," I said, as lovingly as possible. "Whether we're rock or not. This is big stuff for mere people."
"You're right," he said. "I'm pushing again."
"I wouldn't have known how good a lover you are," I said, "if you hadn't been a little pushy."
I napped on the trip back to Shinktown. The tractor found its way home like a faithful horse. Charles nudged me two hours before our arrival and I came awake apologizing. I didn't want him to feel neglected. I turned to watch the short rooster tail of dust behind, then faced Charles in the driver's seat. "Thank you," I said.
"For what?"
"For being pushy." I was about to say, "For making a woman out of me," but the humor might not have been obvious, and I didn't want him to think I was being flippant about what had happened.
"I'm good at that," he said.
"You're good at a lot of things."
I had promised my family I would spend time at Ylla, my home station, before returning to school. There was a week left for that, but I had to go to Durrey to catch the main loop trains north. Charles would stay in Shinktown a few more days.
We parked the tractor in the motor pool garage and kissed passionately, then walked to the Shinktown station, promising to get together when school resumed.
When I got back to Durrey, Diane Johara — again my roommate — opened the door and smiled expectantly at me. "How was he?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Charles Franklin."
I had told her I was going on a trip Up but hadn't given any specifics. "Have you been snooping?" I asked.
"Not at all. While I was out at the family farm, our room took messages. One of them is from a Charles at Shinktown depot. Where's your slate?"
I grimaced, remembering I had left my slate in the tractor by accident. Maybe that was why Charles was calling. "I've misplaced it," I said.
Diane lifted an eyebrow. "I looked at the list when we got back. The same Charles we suffered with at UMS, I assume."
"We went fossil-hunting," I said.
"For three days . . . ?"
"Your nose is sharp, Diane," I said.
She followed me into my curtained area. I pulled the cot from the wall and flopped my case on the blanket.
"He seemed very nice," Diane said.
"You want gory details?" I asked, exasperated.
Diane shrugged. "Confession is good for the soul."
"You must have had a boring time at the farm."
"The farm is always a dusting bore. Nothing but brothers and married cousins. But a great swimming hole. You should come with me sometime. Might meet someone you like. You'd be good for our family, Casseia."
"What makes you think I'd transfer my contract?"
"We have so much to offer," she said brightly.
"You're a top pain, Diane." I unpacked quickly and folded everything into drawers. The thought of being alone for the rest of the vacation seemed bleak.
"Any good males in your family?" she asked. "I'd transfer contracts . . . for someone like Charles."
A few months before, I would have stuck my tongue out at her, or thrown a pillow. Somehow that seemed undignified. I had a lover — was a lover — and that demanded maturity in some ways even more than being in the UMS action did.
"All right. I went with Charles to a family station," I admitted. "He's nice."
"He's pretty," Diane said wistfully. "I'm happy for you, Casseia."
I rolled up my bag. "Can I listen to my messages in private?"
"Now you can," Diane said.
The message from Charles made my heart pound. He was still pushing.
An hour after arriving at Shinktown, Charles had recorded, "You left your slate in my bag. I'm sending in to your home station now. I just wanted to make sure you understand that I'm serious. I love you and I don't think I'll ever find another woman like you. I know you need time. But I know we can share our dreams. I miss you already."
He was more impressed with me than I was. I sat on the edge of the cot, scared out of my wits.
I lay awake that night, aroused by the floating memories of Charles. It had been so confusing and so wonderful, but I knew I was too young to get married. Some did lawbond at my age: those who had morphed their futures since second form, who knew what they wanted and how to get it.
If I told Charles I did not wish to many now, he would smile and say, "You have all the time you need." And that wasn't the answer I wanted to hear. The truth was, what needed to mature in me was my whole approach to mixing the inner life with the outer. What if Charles was not ideally suited for me? Why settle for something less than the best?
I shook my head bitterly, feeling so very selfish and even treasonous. Charles had given me everything. How could I refuse?
How could I think such thoughts and yet still profess, even to myself, that I loved him?
I sent a text message back, not trusting my voice: The time at Tres Haut Medoc was lovely. I'll treasure it always. I can't talk about going lawbond because I am much less sure of myself than you
seem to be. I want to see you as soon as possible. We need to get together with our friends and do all sorts of things before we can even think about commitment, don't you agree?
I signed off with Love, Casseia Majumdar. I had signed letters to distant relatives that way. Not I love you, a strong declaration, but simply, tersely, Love. Charles would be hurt by that. It hurt me to write it and not change it . . .
But I sent the message. I left a farewell message on the room for Diane, who was staying at Durrey to study in privacy.
Then I boarded the train to North Solis. I leaned my head against the dou-ble-paned glass and looked out at nighttime Mars, at Phobos like a dull searchlight above the glooming hills west of Durrey.
I am frightened, I told myself. I can never again be what I was. I can never be to another what I was to Charles. Something has ended and I am afraid.
I made the trip across Claritas Fossae back to Jiddah Planum and Ylla, the bosom of my family, greeting my parents and brother with affection, falsely trying to convey a jaunty air of self-assurance, everything's fine here, I'm just the same as always. But I'm a lover now, Father. Mom, I've had a man, and it was wonderful ... I mean, he was wonderful, and I think I'm in love, but it's going very fast, and God I wish I could talk to you, really talk . . .
Charles did not respond for three days.
Perhaps he had plumbed the depths of my character and decided he had made a serious mistake. Perhaps he had seen through to my basic immaturity and insincerity and decided to write me off as a Shinktown sweet after all.
My slate was delivered by postal arbeiter, but I had already ordered another, not trusting the room to record all my messages. I could not concentrate on planning my next octant's curriculum. I was a nervous wreck.
I hated the suspense and uncertainty. I had felt I was in control and had lost that control and now it was my turn to be played on the line like a fish. Irritation turned to numb sadness. But I did not call him.
At the end of three days, as I undressed for a very lonely bed, Charles called me direct.
I robed and took his call in my room. His image came clear as life over my bed. He looked exhausted and sounded devastated and his face was ghostly pale. "I'm really sorry I've been out of touch," he said. "I wish we could talk in person. It's been a nightmare here."