Helliconia Winter h-3

by Brian Aldiss

  When Uuundaamp entered on the first night, he found the three humans quarrelling.

  “No more speak. Be good. Anger bring smrtaa.” “I can’t stand four weeks of this,” Fashnalgid said. “If you disobey him, he will simply leave,” Shokerandit said. “All he asks is that you put your personality away to sleep for the journey. The cold will not allow quarrels, or death will strike.” “Let the sherb leave.”

  “We’d die here without him—can’t you understand that?” “Occhara soon, soon,” said Uuundaamp, nudging Fashnalgid. He handed Moub a pair of silver foxes to cook. They came from traps he had set on his previous journey.

  A pleasant fug arose in the tent. The meat smelt good. They ate with filthy hands, afterwards drinking melted snow water from a communal mug.

  “Food ishto?” asked Moub. “Gumtaa,” they said.

  “She bad cook,” Uuundaamp said, as he lit up pipes of occhara and handed them round. The lamp was providently extinguished and they smoked in peace. The howl of the wind seemed to die away. Good feelings overcame them. The smoke filtering through their nostrils was the breath of a mysterious better life. They were the children of the mountain and it had them in its care. No harm comes to those who have eaten silver fox. For all the differences between men and women, and between men and men, all have this good thing in common—that the divine smoke pours from their noses, and perhaps from eyes and ears and other orifices. Sleep itself is but another orifice in the mountain god. Sometimes in sleep men become the dream of the silver fox.

  In the morning, when they struggled in the dull, bitter air to fold the tent, Toress Lahl said secretly to Shokerandit, “How degraded you are and how I hate you! Last night, you biwacked with that bag of lard, Moub. I heard you. I felt the sledge tremble.”

  “I was being courteous to Uuundaamp. Pure courtesy. Not pleasure.”

  He had discovered that the Ondod female was far gone with child.

  “No doubt your courtesy will be rewarded with a disease.”

  Uuundaamp came up smiling with the two silver fox tails. “Carry these at teeth. Gumtaa. Keep off cold from face.”

  “Loobiss. Have you one for Fashnalgid?”

  “That man, he got tail grow along face,” said Uuundaamp, indicating the captain’s moustache, and laughing merrily.

  “At least he means to be kind,” Toress Lahl said, hesitatingly placing the tail between her teeth to protect her chapped nose and cheeks.

  “Uuundaamp is kind. And when we stop tonight you must be kind to him. Return his favour.”

  “Oh, no … Luterin… not that, please. I thought you had some feeling for me.”

  He turned savagely on her. “I have some feeling for getting us safe to Kharnabhar. I know the conventions of these people and these journeys and you don’t. It’s a code, a matter of survival. Stop thinking you are so special.”

  Bitterly hurt, she said, “So you don’t care, I suppose, that Fashnalgid rapes me whenever your back is turned.”

  He dropped the tent and grasped her jacket.

  “Are you lying to me? When did he do it? Tell me when. Then and when else. How many times?”

  He listened bleakly as she told him.

  “Very well, Toress Lahl.” He spoke in no more than a whisper, his face hard. “He has broken the honour that existed between us as officers. We need him on this journey. But when we get to my father’s home, I shall kill him. You understand? For now, you say nothing.”

  Without further words, they loaded up the sledge. Smrtaa—retribution. A prominent feature of life in these parts. Uuundaamp was harnessing up the dogs, and in a few minutes they were once more on their way through the mist, Shokerandit and Toress Lahl biting on their fox tails.

  The unsleeping machines of the Avernus still recorded events below, and transmitted them automatically back to Earth. But the few humans surviving on the Observation Station took little interest in that primary function; their own primary function was to survive. Their numbers were so far down— lowered by disease as well as fighting—that defence became a less pressing need.

  Much time was spent establishing tribes and tribal territory, to obviate pitched battles. In neutral territory between tribes, the obscene puden-dolls survived, to become something sacroscanct, something between gods and demons.

  Though a measure of “peace” descended, the earlier destruction of food synthesising plants meant that cannibalism was still prevalent. There was almost no meat but human meat. The heavy tabus against this practice fell with great force upon the delicately trained sensibilities of the Avernians. To descend to barbarism and worse within a generation was more than their psyches could easily endure.

  The tribes became matriarchies, while many of the younger men, mainly adolescent, developed multiple personalities. As many as ten different personalities could house themselves in one body, differing in inclination, age, and sex, as well as habits. Ascetic vegetarians were common, .living an eye’s blink away from stone age savages, tempestuous dancers from lawgivers.

  The complex separation from nature undergone by the Avernian colonisers had now reached its limits. Not only did individuals not know each other: they were now strangers to themselves.

  This adaptation to stress situations was not for everyone. When severe fighting first broke out, a number of technicians left the Avernus. They stole a craft from one of the Observation Station s maintenance bays and fled. They landed on Aganip.

  Tempting though the green, white, and blue planet of Helliconia looked, its danger was known to all. Aganip occupied a special place in the mythology of Avernus, for it was here, many centuries ago, that Earth’s colonising starship had established a base while the Avernus was being constructed.

  Aganip was a lifeless planet, with an atmosphere consisting almost entirely of carbon dioxide, together with a little nitrogen. But the old base still stood, and offered something of a welcome.

  The escapers built a small dome. There they lived in restricted circumstances. At first they sent out signals to Earth and then—being naturally unwilling to wait two thousand years for an answer—to the Avernus. But the Avernus had its own problems and did not reply.

  The escapers had failed to understand the nature of mankind: that it, like the elephant and the common daisy, is no more and no less than a part and function of a living entity. Separated from that entity, humans, being more complex than elephants and daisies, have little chance of flourishing. The signals continued automatically for a long while.

  No one heard.

  XII

  KAKOOL ON THE TRAIL

  Ad when that massed human spirit we have called empathy reached out across space and communicated with the gossies of Helliconia, what then? Did nothing important happen—or did something unprecedentedly magnificent, something quantally different, happen?

  The answer to that question will perhaps remain forever clouded in conjecture; mankind has its umwelt, however bravely it strives to enlarge that confining universe of its perceptions. To become part of a greater umwelt may prove biologically impossible. Or perhaps not. It must be sufficient to admit that if something unprecedentedly magnificent, something quantally different, happened, it happened in a greater umwelt than mankind’s.

  If it happened, then it was a cooperation, and perhaps a cooperation of various factors not unlike the cooperation forced on differing individuals on the trail to Kharnabhar.

  If it happened, then it left an effect. That effect can be traced by looking at the contrasting fates of Earth, where Gaia resided, and New Earth, which was without a tutelary biospheric spirit…

  To start with the case of Earth, after which New Earth was named:

  The intermission between the two postnuclear ice ages has been understood as the swing of a pendulum. Gaia was trying to regulate her clock. But it was less simple than that, just as the biosphere was less simple than the mechanism of a clock. The truth may be put more accurately. Gaia had been almost terminally ill. She was now convalescent, and
subject to relapses.

  Or, abandoning the dangers of personifying a complex process, it may be said that the carbon dioxide released by the deep oceans initiated a period during which the ice retreated. At the end of the period of greenhouse heating, there was an overshoot of the return to normal, as the whole biosphere and its ruined biosystems strove for adjustment. The ice returned.

  This time, the cold was less severe, the spread of the ice caps less extensive, and the duration of the cold briefer. The period was marked by a series of oscillations, in the way that a clock’s pendulum gradually slows to a stationary median position. It was a time of discomfort for many generations of the thin-spread human race. In the remission in the 69005, for instance, there was a small war in what had once been India, followed by famine and pestilence.

  Could that trivial war be likened to a convalescent’s tantrum?

  The restlessness of the period awoke a corresponding restlessness in the human spirit. Fences were no longer going to be possible. The old world of fences had died, and was never going to be rebuilt.

  “We belong to Gaia.” And with the declaration went the understanding that human beings were not exactly Gaia’s best allies. To see those best allies, a microscope was needed.

  Throughout the ages—and long before the invention and development of nuclear weapons—there had been those who prophesied that the world would end because of man’s wickedness. Such prophecies were always believed, no matter how many times they had been proved wrong in the past. There was a wish for, as well as a fear of, punishment.

  Once nuclear weapons were invented, the prophecies gained plausibility, although now they were couched in lay terms rather than religious ones.

  Evidence, the more convincing because governments tried to suppress it, proved that the world could be ended at the touch of a button.

  Eventually, the button was touched. The bombs came.

  But human wickedness proved too feeble to end the world. Set against that wickedness were industrious microbes of which wickedness took little cognisance.

  Large trees and plants disappeared. The carnivores, including man, disappeared from the scene for a while. They were superfluous to requirements. These large beings were merely the superstars in Earth’s drama. The dramatists themselves still lived. Under the soil, on the seabeds of the continental shelves, thick microbial life continued Gaia’s story, undisturbed by radioactivity or increased ultraviolet. The eco- systems of unicellular life were rebuilding nature. They were Gaia’s pulse.

  Gaia regenerated herself. Mankind was a function in that regeneration. The human spirit was triggered into a quantum leap in consciousness.

  As nature had formed a diverse unity, so now did consciousness. It was no longer possible for a man or woman merely to feel or merely to think; there was only empathic thinkfeel. Head and heart were one.

  One immediate effect was a mistrust of power.

  There were people who understood what the greed for power in all its forms had done to the world. That chill faded from the mind. Humanity began truly to be adult and to live and enjoy with adult com- prehension. Men and women looked about at the territory they happened to occupy and no longer asked, “What can we get out of this land?” Instead, they asked, “What best experience can we have on this land?”

  With this new consciousness came less exploitive ties and more ties everywhere, an abundance of new relationships. The ancient structure of family faded into new superfamilies. All mankind became a loose-knit superorganism. It did not happen at once, nor did it happen to everyone. There were those who could not undergo the metamorphosis. But their genes were recessive and their strain would die away. They were the insensible in a new world of new empathies. They were the only ones not smiling.

  When more generations passed, the new race could feel itself to be the consciousness of Gaia. The ecosystems of unicellular life had been given a voice—had, in a sense, invented a voice for themselves.

  Even as this was happening, the convalescence of the biosphere continued. While humanity evolved, an entirely new type of being was born to the Earth.

  Many phyla had vanished for ever. The cummerbund of tropical forest with its various myriad lives had withered from the equator under the nuclear onslaught. Its fragile soils had been lost into the oceans and could not be recovered. Now a replacement of a startlingly different kind came forth.

  The new thing was not born of the oceans. It came from the snows and frosts of the arctic. It fed on ultraviolet radiation and it began moving southward as the glaciers began a fresh retreat northwards.

  The first men to meet the new thing fell back in astonishment.

  White polyhedrons were slowly advancing. Some of the shapes were no larger than giant tortoises. Others reached as high as a man’s head.

  Beyond their various planes, they had no features. No visible means of movement. No arms or tentacles. No mouths of any kind. No orifices. No eyes or ears. No appendages whatsoever. Just white polyhedrons. Some sides were perhaps less white than others.

  The polyhedrons left no track. They sailed where they would. They moved slowly, but nothing could stop them, although brave men tried to. They were christened geonauts.

  The geonauts multiplified and sailed the Earth.

  The geonauts provided a new wonder. The old wonder remained. The great conchlike auditoria were still scattered across Earth, maintained by androids who had found no other function, having been pro- grammed to none.

  On the holoscreens, the spring of the Great Year turned to summer just as the snows of Earth were dying. The history of the beautiful Myrdemlnggala, known as the Queen of Queens, was familiar to all. The new race found much to learn from that thousand-year-old story.

  They attended. They gloried in the benevolent effect their empathy had on the gossies. But their own new world was calling urgently, with a fresh beauty that could not be resisted. A thousand years of spring was theirs.

  But what of that unprecedentedly magnificent, quantally different something—that empathic Unking of two worlds? Were its traces visible to those capable of looking for signs?

  So to the case of New Earth:

  On the other planets also, some slight recovery had been made. There were no Mother Natures on the dead worlds of Mars and Venus. Their surface temperatures were generally intolerable, their atmospheres coffins full of carbon dioxide. Yet the unfortunate colonists who had settled there managed to survive, by wits and by technology.

  These Outlanders had succumbed to a psychosis regarding Earth. Their generations were smothered by cosmic anomie. To Earth they would never return. They felt themselves dispossessed.

  When advanced technology was again within their power—and they were quicker to solve technical problems than social ones—they built a starship and set off for the nearest planet which mankind had colonised earlier, so-called New Earth.

  This was an all-male expedition. The men left their women at home, preferring to take with them on their journey svelte robotic partners, styled as abstract ideals of womanhood. They enjoyed coupling with these perfect metal images.

  New Earth retained breatheable air. Its one small ocean remained surrounded by desert—desert and inhospitable mountain ranges. There was a spaceport on the equator, with a city nearby. The spaceport had not been in use for ages. Nor had the city grown; the roads from it led nowhere. People lived in the city knowing nothing of that great ocean of space above their roofs.

  The New Earthers were like neutered animals. Something vital and rebellious had gone from their spirits. They had no aspirations, no feeling for the immensities of space, no love for the world that was their home, no tremulous intimations at dawn and sunset. The degenerate language they spoke had no conditional tense. Music had been entirely lost as an art.

  Hardly surprising. Their world was without spirit.

  These New Earthers occasionally visited the shores of their salt sea. The visits were not to refresh themselves but to collect cartloads
of the kelp which grew in the sea. The kelp was one of the few living things on the planet. The people of New Earth spread it on their fields, growing cereals brought from Earth ages previously.

  They did not dream because they existed on a world which had never nurtured a Gaia figure. But they had a myth. They believed that they lived in a giant egg, of which the desert was the yolk and the cloudless sky was the shell. One day, said the myth, the sky would crack and fall. Then they would be born. They would acquire yellow wings and white tails, and they would fly to a better place, where trees like giant seaweeds grew everywhere in pleasant vales and it always rained.

  When the Outlanders arrived, they did not like New Earth much.

  They flew to examine the neighbouring planet, like New Earth the size of a terrestrial planet.

  Whereas New Earth was a world of sand, its sister was a world of ice.

  An observation drone was sent out to take computer-corrected photographs of the surface and of what lay below the ice.

  It was a forbidding world. Glaciers engulfed mountain ranges. Trackless snowfields filled the lowlands. Helliconia in the grip of apastron winter was never as dead as this rigid globe.

  The reconnaissance photographs showed frozen oceans beneath the ice. More. They showed the ruins of great cities and the routes of as-tonishly wide roads.

  The Outlanders descended to the surface. Below an icefield remains of a vast building could be glimpsed. Fragments of it lay about the surface; some fragments had been carried far from source by the glacier. By blasting, the men got down to a sector of the ruins.

  One of the first artefacts they brought up was a head, carved in a durable artificial material. The head was of an inhuman creature. In a slender tapering skull four eyes were set, lidless. Small feathers lay under the eyes. A short beak counterbalanced the backward thrust of the skull.