The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  That was a distinct possibility, of course. But like “altruism,” “new sources of intelligence” was merely an excuse to make an unpopular decision more palatable.

  It had been Meridian's casual mention of a certain fact—a detail smoothly inserted into the Council's discussions of the matter—that had truly swayed the five of them into voting to accept the refugees.

  With that single fact, Meridian had guaranteed a place in the Colonies for himself and his compatriots.

  Nick had been the only one to argue vehemently against the decision. “Nine hundred and fifty Paratwa being allowed to emigrate to the Colonies! Hell, these are the creatures who caused the Earth to be rendered uninhabitable in the first place! You can't be serious about letting these bastards in!"

  Losef had thanked the midget for his concerns, but had pointed out to him that he was not a voting member of the Irryan Council and was being permitted to take part in the discussions only at the Council's indulgence. “However,” she noted, “your objections will be duly recorded."

  At this point, Nick, shaking his head in disbelief, had stomped out of chambers.

  "He is a warrior,” offered Meridian, as the door had closed behind the midget. “But the war has ended. And now, he does not know what to do. I doubt if the Czar will ever truly know peace."

  Silently, the Lion had found himself agreeing wholeheartedly with Meridian's evaluation of Nick. But he also recalled Nick's oft-repeated appraisals of Meridian: Never forget—this Jeek is a shrewd political animal.

  That too could not be disputed.

  Within hours of the Council's decision, the refugees had begun their exodus, emerging from the bowels of the massive Biodyysey in the same Star-Edge vessels that had departed from the solar system over two and a half centuries ago. Van Ostrand had sent transports out to rendezvous with the starships. The refugees would be placed aboard Guardian ships for the actual trip back to the cylinders.

  The Council had initiated plans for an underutilized research colony in the distant L5 group of cylinders to be converted into the refugees’ new home. Meridian, his other tway, the nine hundred and fifty Paratwa, and the four thousand humans would be sent there. For the immediate future, the refugees would be quarantined within that colony.

  Extensive medical examinations would begin immediately upon their arrival.

  The Lion returned his attention to the midcompartment, to Meridian. “I'm still curious about Theophrastus and the other humans and Paratwa who will remain aboard the Biodyysey. Did they have a choice? Would they have been permitted to join the refugees?"

  "They chose to stay."

  "But did they actually have a choice?"

  "The Ash Joella and their minions, as well as those several hundred humans, voluntarily elected to remain aboard the Biodyysey."

  "And what about Theophrastus?” wondered the Lion. “Did he have a choice?"

  Meridian shrugged. “Theophrastus is most valued by the Os/Ka/Loq. His scientific prowess is not exaggerated—even by their standards, he is considered a genius. I suspect that the Os/Ka/Loq would not have permitted him to leave."

  Huromonus asked, “Do many of the humans and Paratwa who chose to remain with the Os/Ka/Loq have extended life spans?"

  Meridian smiled. “As I've explained to you several times now, I do not know the exact number of humans and Paratwa who were given the infusions. The Biodyysey is huge. Many of us lived and worked in separate sections and had little or no contact with one another. For all I know, there could be entire sequestered populations of humans or Paratwa in other areas of the ship.

  "Still, the infusion process was rather complex, and most of the original Star-Edge crew—both human and Paratwa—died natural deaths long ago. The Os/Ka/Loq provided the infusions only to those of us who they felt could be utilized over extended periods of time."

  The infusions, thought the Lion. Such a simple phrase, yet one that bore a semantic power, an intensity of meaning—far beyond its basic symbolic capacity.

  The infusions. Here was the fact casually mentioned during the refugee discussions, which had led the Council toward their unanimous decision.

  The Os/Ka/Loq had been able to prolong Meridian's life by giving him periodic infusions of a genetic elixir. That was how the Jeek had been able to survive for so long. Colonial doctors already had confirmed his assertion.

  Meridian was almost three hundred years old. Greatly extended life spans—once thought to be a unique Ash Ock attribute—had been granted not only to other Paratwa but to humans aboard the Biodyysey as well.

  That had been the bait the Jeek had dangled in front of Council. And five men and women—none of whom were under the age of fifty—had leaped for the hook.

  If the Council of Irrya accepted the refugees, it might be possible for colonial science to medically reconstruct that genetic elixir. Meridian and the others who had received the infusions might well provide humanity with the mythical fountain of youth.

  "You've sold your souls,” Nick had accused them.

  The Lion did not think so.

  But time would tell.

  The intercom came to life again. “Orbit achieved, sir."

  The Lion turned to the others. “Does anyone wish to say anything?"

  Huromonus shook his head. Meridian remained silent. “Do it,” muttered Nick.

  The Lion gave the order.

  A bright flash came from the main cargo bay as the sarcophagus containing Gillian's body was launched toward the planet. With its retros firing at full capacity, the black coffin remained in view for only a few seconds.

  And then it was gone, swallowed by the darkness, heading down into that vivid crescent, plunging toward its rendezvous with Earth's fiery cloak. Given the new atmospheric conditions, the incineration of the sarcophagus would occur even faster than normal. In a matter of minutes, Gillian would be consumed.

  It was the traditional funeral ceremony of the Costeaus. Most of the clans called it the élan vital—the force that forever adapted.

  It was the dive that began but never ended.

  They were silent for a time. Finally, the Lion looked away. “He won't be forgotten."

  "Yeah,” whispered Nick.

  Meridian continued to gaze outward. At last, he turned to the midget. “I am curious. What will you do now that hostilities have ceased?"

  "The war's not over, Jeek,” said Nick calmly. “This is merely a break in the fighting."

  "Perhaps. Does that mean that you will be returning to stasis once again?"

  The Lion and Huromonus both turned to the midget, waiting for his answer.

  Nick sighed. “Frankly, no. I've had enough of this shit.” He met the Lion's gaze. “If it's all right with you, I'd just as soon live out my days in your era."

  The Lion smiled.

  "May your days be long,” proposed Meridian, with a hint of laughter in his words.

  Nick's face blossomed into a sudden grin. “Ya know, maybe I'll become a freelancer. They're mostly a bunch of wackos, but they do have a way of cutting through the bullshit."

  "Over the centuries,” countered Meridian, directing his words at the Lion and Huromonus, “Sappho probably could have destroyed the Czar on a number of occasions. Yet she never truly made a concerted effort to do so, and she only regretted that indulgence during the final days of her life. Would you like to know why?"

  "Even if they don't want to know,” muttered Nick, “I got a feeling you're going to tell them."

  "Sappho always thought of the Czar as her worthiest opponent, one of the few humans capable of actually challenging her reign."

  Nick grunted. “She was a real noble bitch, that Sappho."

  Meridian shook his head. “Nobility had nothing to do with it. You were very useful to her. You kept her on her toes, prevented her from getting sloppy. She spared you for functional reasons."

  "That sounds more like ‘competition of the fittest.’ Still, I'm glad to have been of service."

  Th
e Lion faced Meridian. “And what about you? What will you do with your new life?"

  "Of course, quarantine may severely limit my choices,” said the Jeek. “But I suppose I'll adjust to the rigors of that situation in short order.” Meridian shrugged. “I'm sure I'll find something to occupy my time."

  "Until your masters return,” added Nick.

  Meridian smiled serenely.

  Nick continued to push. “How long till they come back, Jeek? What was the final calculation?"

  "I am not aware of any return plans.”

  Nick chuckled. “Oh, hell, Meridian—we've already figured things out. We know why your masters chose to spare us."

  "Then please enlighten me."

  "Be glad to,” said the midget. “You see, the Os/Ka/Loq know that we've already made the planet unlivable for a hundred years.” Nick pointed through the window. “Hell, that ecosphere is so hot that we don't even dare send down a salvage crew to see about retrieving your master's underwater vessel—Sappho's hidden cell. Too bad. I figure we could have learned plenty about the Os/Ka/Loq by examining that ship. Still, you can't win ‘em all.

  "At any rate, when those big Ribonix destroyers arrive with their nuclear missiles, the Earth's going to get a dose of hellfire that'll keep it contaminated for millennia to come."

  "Your victory seems ensured,” said Meridian.

  "Not quite. You see, I figure that the Os/Ka/Loq have a pretty good handle on human psychology. I mean, they've had plenty of time to study us, under a variety of conditions; on the Earth, in the cylinders, in captivity aboard the Biodyysey. Over the years, I figure they've learned quite a bit about us.

  "They know that we're one hell of a tenacious species. And they know that we're ultracompetitive—cooperation of the fittest is not the standard operating procedure for the human race. Oh, we're cooperative all right, but it's a very limited form of cooperation and is usually based on the fact that an organization can achieve dominance better than an individual."

  The Jeek stared through the portal. “Among the Os/Ka/Loq, cynicism is very rare."

  "Yeah, I'm a cynic all right. Maybe I've have good reason to become one. But my point is this. Your masters figure that those good old reliable human traits—humanity's twin demons, profit and progress—will be on the rise once again.

  "The technological spirit which led to the first Apocalypse will begin anew. And a couple of hundred years from now, the Colonies will start to covet the Earth again. Oh, they won't forget about the Biodyysey, but they'll rationalize that the Os/Ka/Loq are just another problem that can be solved by the proper application of technology.” Nick pointed a finger at the fiery planet. “And humanity will use its shiny new science to turn that burning hell back into a livable green world.

  "The Os/Ka/Loq will watch this happen, secure in the knowledge that they won't have to wait millennia for their interrupted reseeding project finally to start.

  "And then the Biodyysey will come back.”

  Meridian chuckled. “A most bizarre scenario."

  "Yeah, it's bizarre all right. But it does account for why the human race is still alive. If the Os/Ka/Loq had released those skygene suitcases and wiped out most—if not all—of humanity, they would have had to wait thousands of years for the Earth to naturally rejuvenate. Either that, or mount a massive terraforming project themselves.

  "But why bother doing things the hard way? Just let humanity go its merry way. We'll do all the work ourselves, and probably in record time. We'll restore the Earth. And then the Os/Ka/Loq can return to reap our harvest."

  Meridian sighed. “You are truly a shortsighted and paranoid species. Perhaps longer life spans will help overcome these difficulties?"

  It was the Lion's turn to chuckle. He was actually beginning to like this Jeek, even though a part of him found the very idea revolting.

  "Meridian,” began the Lion, “you are, without a doubt, a diplomat of the highest order."

  "Among the Os/Ka/Loq,” murmured Meridian, turning his gaze back out toward the golden world, “such a creature is known as a survivor."

  Epilogue

  "Downsiders—get ready!” ordered the hidden game matron, her swollen amplified voice filling the vast arena, her harsh words reverberating through the empty grandstands.

  From his bench at left center field, Spigot leaned forward, permitted his feet to make contact with the circular skateboard. He heard the snap of the locks as his boots secured themselves to the board; he watched his helmet sensors turn from amber to green, offering proof positive that he was ready to play the game.

  Spigot swiveled his head, glanced around the arena. The other five players were making similar preparations. Directly across from him, at the right center field starting position, was Wafer. The three corners were occupied by Guernsey, Special, and Plimsoll. Spigot did not know who the sixth player was. The man in the fourth corner was a novice, about to begin his first game, mere seconds away from losing his Downsider virginity.

  "Linkages forming!” announced the matron.

  Spigot felt the familiar vibration begin in his toes, spread into his lower legs as the powerful induction beams came to life, aligning his board with his Upside counterpart. Today, Spigot was lucky. He had drawn Blockbuster Giga-Quad as his champion. Blockbuster was a four-time grand winner and one of the best whirlers ever to play the game.

  "Counting down!” began the matron. “Three ... Two ... One...

  "Fin Whirl!"

  Spigot's board leaped forward as his mirror-image master opened his jetpak to full throttle and blasted straight toward center field. Spigot knew that he was in for one hell of a ride. To suggest that Blockbuster Giga-Quad was an aggressive player was to be guilty of gross understatement.

  Spigot shot past Wafer and passed within inches of Guernsey—a definite near-miss. His board decelerated, pivoted ninety degrees, and began a long arc across the length of the field.

  In front of him, Plimsoll and the novice headed straight toward each other—a head-on collision course. Upside, that meant that their champions were playing chicken. Spigot could almost envision the wild excitement rippling through the grandstands. Even without the intrinsic excitement of money wagered on both players, “chicken” was a surefire crowd pleaser.

  At the last instant, the Upside masters controlling Plimsoll and the novice broke from their collision course. Unfortunately, both champions chose the same side of the field as their escape route.

  Plimsoll and the novice slammed into one another; the force of the crash broke the induction beam linkages, caused both Downside players to be wrenched loose from their Upside controllers. With a flurry of sparks, their metal boards skimmed over each other. Plimsoll, experienced at breaking a fall, allowed his padded body to go limp; he tumbled end over end several times, landed softly on his back. But the novice possessed no such game skills. The new man hit the ground hard.

  Spigot's helmet lights went yellow, indicating a brief caution period. Spigot had no way of knowing precisely what had transpired beneath his feet, Upside. But statistically, he knew that over ninety-seven percent of Upside/Downside action was identical.

  Plimsoll staggered to his feet, shook his head, picked up his unlatched board, and trotted quickly to the sidelines. The novice remained prone on the ground, unmoving. He was probably unconscious. Possibly dead. An ambulance sled raced out from the edge of the field, scooped the novice onto its flatbed, and whisked the player away.

  Welcome to Fin Whirl, thought Spigot, tracking the ambulance sled as it raced through a portal beneath the vacant stands.

  Today, the bleachers were completely empty; spectators only came here occasionally. Even the serious Downside bettors preferred to be on top of the action. Besides, Downside cameras fed their outputs to a plethora of Upside monitors. The perpetually curious could always watch the videos.

  Spigot wondered if the novice would return. Stats indicated that most new players who suffered a violent collision during their first game di
d not come back. In fact, the majority of Downsiders lasted less than six months. Downside, after all, was not a goal of life; it was, more often than not, the result of an existence gone sour. Most of the men and women who ended up as counterpart players did so because they were running away from someone or something, although, occasionally, underfinanced rookies deliberately competed Downside in an attempt to make a name for themselves. Those young hotshots hoped that their limited abilities to influence the outcome of a game might eventually draw the attention of an Upside sponsor. And once in a great while, such dreams came true. Once in a great while, a Downsider was promoted to Upside.

  But most of the players here were like Spigot. Downside was the end of the line.

  Spigot had been here for two years now. Before that, he did not know where he had been. The massive cribloc injections and neural restructuring had blotted out most of Spigot's memories.

  Shortly after Spigot's mnemonic erasure, a smuggler—a man named Este Faquod—had offered Spigot a job, claiming that he had been a friend from the old days, when Spigot had gone by another name. Actually, Faquod had offered Spigot several good job opportunities within legitimate areas of his vast intercolonial organization. But despite his age, Spigot had requested Downside. This had felt like the right place for him to be.

  And in the two years since, he realized that Downside had been the proper choice. Spigot had made a name for himself as a sound reliable player. In fact, most of the better Upside champions preferred Downsiders like Spigot beneath their feet. Spigot was a player who never tried to influence the outcome of the game. He did not introduce random changes, did not upset intricately crafted Upsider strategies. Spigot never tried to angle his torso to either achieve or prevent an Upsider hit; he never elbowed an opponent, or clipped one from behind when boards skimmed close. Spigot prided himself on being completely neutral. He was one Downsider who could be counted on to perform consistently. Spigot always took the path of least resistance.