The Eleventh Gate

by Nancy Kress

  No—she would have to go herself. If Philip knew anything, he would be most likely to tell a distraught grandmother, not a stranger unconnected with Tara.

  At the thought of leaving Galt, even on a mission like this, Rachel felt her spirits lift. She could have a short respite from the growing list of problems on the Landry worlds. Maybe even a chance to talk with a few physicists on neutral Polyglot, see if her knowledge of physics was as outdated as she thought. She could learn the latest research on the many mysteries of the gates. Maybe there were even new ideas on the biggest of those mysteries: why gates formed only beside human-habitable planets. Yes.

  On the way back to corporate headquarters, Rachel wondered if the protestors were still waving signs and chanting, demanding things be given to them. Determined to bring down her society and its Libertarian principles.

  The flier skimmed toward headquarters. The protestors were still there.

  5

  * * *

  POLYGLOT

  Philip paused on the beach to gaze back at the factory on the ridge, which belched black clouds against a bright sky.

  Folly. Before him lay the kelp farm, producing sustainable, low-cost, nourishing raw material for a variety of foodstuffs. Behind him stood the same kind of polluting madness that, by ruining Earth, had sent humanity to the stars in the first place. Didn’t anybody ever learn anything?

  No, that wasn’t fair. Polyglot, by decree of its eccentric discoverer a hundred fifty years ago, was open to any nation, which meant that it had nations with their different governments, flags, ideas about resources. The planet was basically one huge ocean dotted with lush islands, none quite large enough to qualify as a continent but nearly all large enough to host a colony with farming, mining, diverse biomes. Most of the city-states practiced at least basic eco-preservation, but Sparta was an exception. The founding family, a Greek oligarchy rich on Earth, had grown even richer by mining the plentiful ores on their island, manufacturing them into machine parts, and selling them to everybody else. The Spartans didn’t seem to care what they did to Polyglot as a whole, and the weak Council of Polyglot Nations, for which Philip indirectly worked, couldn’t seem to make them care.

  It had been a frustrating two weeks, especially after his success with Adarsh. The villagers were happily selling jeebee nectar and the jeebees were keeping lions away. Whereas here in Sparta, Philip had completely failed.

  And yet he had requested this posting. Sparta was Greek Orthodox, at least nominally, and Philip had heard of a Christian mystic living here, a woman who apparently not only acted as parish priest but also experienced something like the religious transports of Jeanne d’Arc, Saint Paul, and Saint Teresa of Avila. Even though Philip believed—mostly, anyway—the biological explanations that temporal-lobe epilepsy caused such transports, he was getting desperate. Five years without being able to re-experience whatever he had touched on that other Polyglot beach. Five years of seeking for something he couldn’t name, or even adequately describe. Five years of a lunatic quest after the only thing he wanted, longed for, was driven to find, even as he questioned it. Why did he need so badly to touch something beyond this mortal life?

  Why didn’t everybody need that so badly? How could everybody else be satisfied with the pale imitation that passed as “reality”?

  Maybe under the guidance of a Christian mystic instead of a Buddhist or Hindu…

  And that, too, had been a failure.

  Mother Ann Niarchos of Sparta Abbey had met him in a small, beautiful church with pews of polished wood, windows of stained glass, and intricate old-Earth images projected on the altar screen. Rain pattered softly on the roof. The priest listened to his story without interrupting or changing expression. She was middle-aged, plump, dressed in work pants and boots. She looked more like a mechanic than a cleric, but Philip had long ago learned that appearances meant nothing. Wasn’t that, at heart, why he was here?

  When he’d finished his long recitation, she said flatly, “You were blessed with grace.”

  Not his terminology, but the sentiment was right. “Yes, but I haven’t been able to—”

  “To have such grace given to you again? Why should you? Most people don’t experience such heavenly bliss even once. Why are you so greedy?”

  “It’s not greed, it’s—”

  “It is greed. Gratitude is a virtue, young man. You should cultivate it.”

  Anger stirred in Philip. “You’ve experienced that…that grace more than once.”

  She snapped, “Yes, and with gratitude rather than any sense of entitlement. Even though your experience was only partial, you should—”

  “Wait—what? How do you mean, ‘only partial’?”

  Mother Ann regarded him severely. “You told me you had a sense of a specific place and multiple presences.”

  “Yes.”

  “In a genuine mystical transcendence, there is no ‘place’ because one is taken into union with God, who is everywhere. There are no ‘other presences’ because he is One, indivisible. I’m willing to believe that you experienced something of that blessing, but from your own description, it was not the full experience.”

  Philip said nothing.

  Her face softened. “You seem an eager seeker, but you’re woefully ignorant. There are four levels of consciousness that a human can experience: wakefulness, the subconscious we access during dreams or drug use, the respite of deep sleep, and the mystical union with God. Are you sure you were not dreaming during your experience?”

  “I was not dreaming.”

  “And now you’re getting testy. You don’t like hearing truth. That, too, will need to change if you’re ever to join fully with the mind of God. You must learn humility.”

  His “experience” hadn’t been the mind of God; no one sounded less humble than Mother Ann; Philip hadn’t been on any of those “four levels.” Nor “partially” stuck between them, like a malfunctioning elevator.

  He said, “Then there’s a fifth level. Deeper than the others, and I touched it. The building has a sub-sub-sub-basement.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  He was, but his native decency made him regret it. She believed what she believed. Philip stood.

  “No, ma’am, I’m not mocking you. Thank you for your time. I’m going now.”

  “Go with God,” she said, and the words had followed him out of the church into the rain. The next day he’d had his final, useless meeting on pollution control with a minor Spartan official who hadn’t heeded anything Philip said. During the night he’d tried for hours to meditate, with no success.

  Turning away from the factory on the ridge, he stopped. A woman walked along the beach toward him.

  Tara. She’d found him again. It was her decisive walk, her dark hair. Philip drew a deep breath and braced himself.

  But—no. As she neared, he could see that her body was thicker in the waist, her face much older. Rejuv treatments, yes, but those couldn’t work miracles.

  She said, “Philip Anderson?”

  Her voice even sounded much like Tara’s, low and husky, although this version carried more authority. He said, “Yes. You are…Annelise Landry?”

  She smiled. “Thank you for that, but Annelise is my granddaughter. We all look somewhat alike—strong genes. I’m Rachel Landry. You know my youngest granddaughter, Tara.”

  Philip managed to nod. What was Rachel Landry, CEO of Freedom Enterprises and de facto owner of three worlds, doing looking for him on a beach on Polyglot? Tara had said her grandmother never left Galt.

  She said, “When and where was the last time you saw Tara?”

  “Has something happened to her?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” The smile again, this time strained. “Anything you can tell me might help. Please.”

  A sudden breeze blew the dark hair into her mouth, and she whisked it out and made a little moue. Philip was conscious of her charm, of her genuine concern for her crazy granddaughter, o
f the steadfastness of purpose underlying her polite request—all qualities that Tara lacked. Tara was steadfast only in pursuit of him.

  A wave broke on the sand and washed close to their feet. Rachel Landry did not move.

  Philip said, “Director Landry, I—”

  “Rachel, please. We aren’t very formal on Galt.” Again the smile, but she was watching him carefully. What augments did she possess? Heightened visual recognition of the subtle facial shifts that indicated lying?

  “Rachel, I saw Tara over five months ago standard, here on Polyglot, at a Hindu village called Adarsh. I was working there. I work for—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Of course she did—she probably knew everything about him, including what he ate for breakfast. But why?

  “Did you and Tara go to Adarsh together?”

  “No. She often turns up wherever I am.” He stared at her steadily, not wanting to disparage her granddaughter. On the other hand, maybe this dynamic matriarch could keep Tara away from him.

  Rachel said, “She’s stalking you.”

  “Yes.”

  “She wants you, and you want her to go away.”

  “Yes.” Only later would he think it odd that Rachel had said “wants you” instead of “loves you.” It indicated a depth of knowledge about her granddaughter that must have been painful.

  “Tara didn’t return to Galt when she said she would. She’s now long overdue. Please tell me everything that happened when you saw her at Adarsh, plus the times before that, going back to when you two met. It may help. And then tell me what I can do for you in return.”

  Philip frowned. His information was not for sale; he was giving it freely. But then he realized that of course Rachel Landry thought in terms of exchanges, of deals, of contracts. That was how libertarian Galt, Rand, and New Hell functioned.

  “You don’t have to give me anything, Rachel. I met Tara at Polyglot four years ago, when I was giving a guest lecture at Zuhause University.” He went through their whole history, not seeing how it would help, hoping that it would. She listened carefully, the green eyes so like Tara’s never leaving his face, as the wind freshened and grew colder. She put on a thin-wrap sweater she pulled from a pocket; Philip imagined she was the kind of person who prepared for everything. Which meant, come to think of it, that she probably had a bodyguard or armed mini-drone somewhere nearby, and also that she was probably recording him every second.

  “…and I think that’s everything.” And then, even though he hadn’t wanted this to look like a contract, “Can you keep Tara away from me? She sometimes seems…well, a little unbalanced.”

  “She is,” Rachel said, unflinchingly, and what did it cost a grandmother to say that? “But you must know that on Galt every adult has complete freedom to come and go as they choose.”

  Philip didn’t believe that complete freedom could exist, but he said nothing.

  “Thank you, Philip. But since I can’t keep Tara away from you, let me give you something else in return for your help. You’ve been visiting temples and churches and Kabbalistic synagogues everywhere on Polyglot. Clearly you’re looking for something: enlightenment, nirvana, samadhi, salvation, moksha, satori. An altered state of consciousness of some sort. You might find it, but it won’t mean anything. However, if you want to persist even longer than you have, there is a new deep-brain stimulation technique being developed at John Galt University to treat schizophrenia. The researchers are looking for someone very experienced in meditation as a subject for part of their project. If you are interested, I’ll make arrangements and pay for them.”

  Confusion took Philip. Could he reach that place he’d been five years ago through mechanical means? It didn’t seem likely. But…he hadn’t reached it any other way. Electrodes deep in his brain, stimulating implanted genemod cells developed from bacteria…the thought was repulsive.

  The thought was alluring.

  He was, he suddenly realized, more like Tara than he had thought. Their kinship was obsession.

  Rachel cocked her head to one side, studying him, waiting.

  To cover his confusion, he attacked. “Why do you say that an altered state of consciousness—” paltry words for what he had experienced!—“wouldn’t mean anything?”

  “I’m a physicist, or was. The mind arises from the brain, and whatever you find in any state of consciousness is just a temporary distortion of biochemical processes. That’s reality.” She smiled whimsically. “As one who experimented with psychotropic drugs in my youth, I know this.”

  He wasn’t caught by the whimsy. “If you’re a physicist, then don’t you also know that on the quantum level, reality itself doesn’t exist if you’re not looking at it? Until there is an observer?”

  “We don’t live on the quantum level.”

  The wind was stronger now, whipping waves into whitecaps. Philip shivered. Rachel Landry waited for his answer, her arms crossed over her chest to keep her wrap from blowing open. Philip’s mother, long ago, had stood in that same posture whenever she waited for anything. No two women could have been more different: the landscape gardener and the powerful director of the Landry empire.

  He said, still stalling, “I don’t think I told you anything useful to find Tara.”

  “You told me more than you think you did. Come on, Philip, I’m cold. Decide. Are you coming with me to Galt?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  6

  * * *

  NEW CALIFORNIA

  The message reached Sloan before the messenger. A scout from the cruiser Samuel Peregoy had sent it, heavily encrypted, as soon as the scout cleared the Polyglot-New California gate. The message had traveled at light speed; the scout, constrained by matter, would not arrive at Capital City until tomorrow. Sloan read the decrypted message, and then read it again.

  CLASS A COMMUNICATION

  CONFIDENTIAL TO DIRECTOR SLOAN PEREGOY ONLY

  FROM LT. C. RICHARDSON, PCSS

  Samuel Peregoy proceeded through the unknown gate and was blown up, all hands lost including passenger D. Gordon, as Gordon attempted to explore an orbital around the planet. Gordon’s last message in its entirety: “Go! A Landry bomb! Get away! It’s going to—” Visuals and audio attached. Landry vessel waiting outside gate; did not attempt to fire on me. Arrival at New California tomorrow ETA 15:00 Standard. Awaiting orders.

  Sloan called Sophia. She glided into his office and viewed the message. The recording contained everything the scout had received from the Samuel Peregoy and everything Gordon had seen on the orbital, including the damning manufacturing logo on the nuclear device: Freedom Enterprises.

  Landrys.

  Sophia spoke first. “This is a clear act of war.”

  “Yes.”

  “They destroyed a PCSS cruiser.”

  “Yes.”

  Another long silence. Sloan watched the entire recording again, stopping it at every image of the planet, enlarging them, leaning forward to squint at the holo. The cloud cover was too heavy to see anything but blue and white swirls. He prolonged his viewing, and Sophia seemed to understand: The longer they studied the planet, the longer they could postpone a decision.

  In a hundred fifty years, there had never been a war among the Eight Worlds. Only once had they even come close, five years ago. An unmanned Landry communication drone had disappeared going through the Galt-Polyglot gate, and Rachel Landry had accused Sloan of stealing proprietary information. Both fleets had gone on high alert. But the Landrys had been unable to come up with evidence, and Polyglot observation probes on both sides of the gate hadn’t shown any Peregoy vessels anywhere near the gate. The crisis had passed, even though it had never been determined what happened to the drone. Sloan’s opinion was that it hadn’t really existed, since gates never malfunctioned, and that the Landrys had lied about the entire incident. Tensions between the two families continued, but to Sloan’s mind, their enmity was more economic, a coveting of each other’s resources, than phy
sical.

  Until now.

  War. Unthinkable.

  But Sophia said, “If we don’t respond with force, this will be merely the opening attack. The Landrys will feel free to seize PCSS ships guarding our gates, or to vaporize more ships. All three Peregoy worlds will be at risk, and maybe also our research station on Prometheus.”

  “Yes,” Sloan said again.

  Wasn’t he capable of anything more than that one bleak syllable? Apparently not. Sloan’s throat knotted. He hadn’t read much Terran history—Luis Martinez was always urging more on him—but he knew how terrible war could become, what costs it could exact from even those who won. But there was another, nagging consideration as well. Since the Landrys had set the bomb on the far side of the gate, they must have gone through it first. Therefore, gate and planet belonged to Freedom Enterprises. But it was innocent Peregoy blood that had been shed beside that gate, that had in a way bought that gate for the Peregoys. Sloan didn’t know what lay under the unknown planet’s cloud cover, but by rights of war if not of peace, surely it should belong to the Peregoys. And he wanted it.

  “Immediately file a legal claim to the gate,” he said to Sophia. “And order Lieutenant Richardson to come directly here tomorrow.”

  “That’s not enough, Father. You need to declare war.”

  “Sophia—”

  “You must.”

  Her face looked carved in diamond: hard, glittering. An unexpected chill ran down Sloan’s spine. Immediately he suppressed it; he must not look weak in front of his daughter.

  He said, “I want to talk first to Admiral Chernov and Planetary Defense Coordinator Clarke. Any possible military action will, of course, be confined to attacks at the Landry gates and defense of our gates.” It would be unthinkable to take carnage to the surface of any planet.

  “If we can confine it to gates,” Sophia said.

  “No ‘if.’ There won’t be—”