A King of Infinite Space

by Allen Steele

  “As I said, I believe in the power of human potential. For all their pretensions, greed, and narcissism, the people of your time were great survivors. They had to be…your century was the bloodiest epoch in human history, and even the weakest among you was forced to cope with its horrors on a daily basis. This is why I deliberately sought out its last survivors, the ones who had committed themselves to neurosuspension. They wanted to see the future, or at least another chance at life. I’m giving them the chance to settle another world, an opportunity to start a new civilization. I systematically weeded out the cruel and the inhumane, and made sure that those who were left were strong enough to handle the task before them. Where I once had a few dozen confused deadheads, I now have a crew of seasoned spacefarers who know this vessel inside and out, and dozens more who will be resurrected before the ship arrives at the new world. I couldn’t have done better if I had asked for volunteers.”

  The starfield shrinks and disappears, leaving Mister Chicago alone once again within a tiny oval of light.

  “So I give you a choice. Join us, or be left behind. If you join us, all your friends are waiting for you. Chris, Erin, John, Russell, Sam, Kate, Vlad, everyone else you knew on Garcia…even me, if you’ll consider me to be a friend. I don’t claim to be a saint, but neither am I the madman we deliberately led you to believe that I was. We’ll be the crew of the Jerome J. Garcia. The journey will be long and difficult, despite all our advance preparations, but no one will be a slave. Even at relative speeds, we will grow old before the ship reaches its destination, but at least we’ll assure the future of humankind.”

  The spotlight narrows, collapsing upon itself.

  “Or you can be placed in neurosuspension again, and join the other sleepers when their bodies are regenerated dozens of light-years from home. This is risky, because no one has ever revived a brain from neurosuspension twice. I think you’d be a good leader, but you would be among strangers. However, it’s a new start.”

  The light fades, swallowing Mister Chicago into its abyss, leaving nothing behind except his voice.

  “Or you can simply wish to end it here and now. Perhaps you’ve had enough, and only death is attractive to you. You’ve been abused and humiliated. This darkness may be your only comfort. Suicide is not dishonorable. If you wish to stop this now, we’ll let you go, and fare you well.”

  Now his voice is distant, as if coming from the bottomless well.

  “Blink your eyes once for the first option, twice for the second, three times for the third.”

  I consider my choices.

  “You can blink, can’t you?”

  Yeah, I can blink.

  Once. Just once.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  BY STARLIGHT

  O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself

  a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

  —William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  And then I woke up, and found that it had all been a dream.

  The part about the spotlighted stage, I mean. That was something Chip had whipped up for me during the last eight minutes of my six-month sleep in the Anakuklesis hibernation bay. After Vlad coldcocked me in Sosigenes Center, Mister Chicago decided that I would be less of a nuisance if I warm-tanked the ride back to Garcia; while I was coming out of my trance, he, Shemp, and Erin had their little tête-à-tête with me, courtesy of a real-time eyes-up interface with Chip.

  So I awoke to find myself in the all-too-familiar infirmary within Garcia—or rather, the starship Jerome J. Garcia—with Dr. Miesel removing a catheter from my prick and telling me it was okay to pee again. After I filled a couple of bedpans for her, I was allowed visitors. Not surprisingly, it was Shemp and Erin—or rather, Chris and Anna—who were the first to see me.

  We had a long talk.

  I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say that everyone apologized to each other for things that went back many years, and then we agreed to be friends again. Of course, there was no doubt that Anna and I were no longer an item; she was Chris’s girl now, and that wasn’t going to change. Oddly, I didn’t mind; Anna had always been a friend, but I had never been that strongly attracted to her. She might still be Erin deep inside, but she was a different woman now; it was Anna whom Chris had fallen for, and I couldn’t help but feel happy for him.

  When they came in, the first thing I noticed was that they weren’t wearing robes, but blue jumpsuits. It turned out none of us were servants anymore; we were now the crew of the Jerome J. Garcia. In fact, Mister Chicago had manumitted all the deadheads; if we cared to leave the asteroid, we could do so, and in the weeks that followed a few people did just that, migrating either to other Belt colonies or to Mars. It wasn’t considered advisable for anyone to return to Earth, though; not only were their bodies ill-suited for one-gee gravity, but it was generally understood that the Pax Astra wouldn’t welcome them warmly, particularly not after what had happened at Sosigenes Center. I imagine some of the more homesick ones tried anyway, and I wish them the best of luck.

  But most of us decided to remain on the Garcia, now that its true purpose was revealed. Part of the reason why we’d spent so much time in servitude was that Mister Chicago had been covertly training us for the long voyage ahead; although we would now be formally educated by our associates to perform the more complex jobs requisite aboard a starship, some of our chores would remain the same. Crops still had to be cultivated, floors needed to be mopped, laundry had to be folded. Yet never again would any of our associates punish us, except when maintaining shipboard discipline called for it as a last resort. I’m sure that will seldom be necessary. We’re no longer slaves, but free men and women; if we’re still here, it’s because we want to be.

  I had a few more visitors while I was in the infirmary. John, very much alive, embarrassed and overapologetic for having pulled a phony death scene on me; a tiny capsule of blood in his nose had done the trick, along with some hidden thespian talents. I told him that it was okay, that I understood why he had done it, that I was pleased to see him again, and he went away happy. He was one deadhead who would remain something of a servant, due to his mental impairment, but now he was Mister Chicago’s personal valet and couldn’t be happier. Sam dropped by; it was good to see that reports of his demise had been greatly exaggerated. In his new role as ship’s historian, he had been assigned to write the official log of the coming voyage. When I told him that I had started writing my own memoir, he volunteered to be my editor: once it was completed, it would be added to the ship’s library. Sam was a working writer again; his block was gone for good. And then there were Russell and Kate; Russell was being trained as an assistant engineer and would help oversee the nuclear generators and Bussard ramjet, and Kate was learning the ropes in the astrogation department. During my long absence they had stopped fooling around and started getting serious about their relationship; like everyone else, they had moved upstairs to the castle, where they now shared a suite whose bed they had once made for other people.

  I even got paid a brief visit by Vladimir Algol-Raphael. He wouldn’t be joining us on the journey; his place was with his clan. However, as part of the Zodiac’s deal with Mister Chicago, we would be carrying a number of deceased Superiors in neurosuspension with us. When the ship arrived at its final destination, they would be among those who would be resurrected on another world. It wasn’t quite the Omega Point that the Superiors believed in, but it was a step closer.

  That wasn’t why Vlad came to see me, though. He told me, in stiffly formal tones, that his debt of honor to me, owed by my refusal to take his life after our fight in Clarke County, had been paid in full; he didn’t kill me in Sosigenes Center when he easily could have. Our books were now settled; he was neither friend nor foe.

  Then he asked me how I learned how to sword-fight like a Superior. I was only too happy to tell him. That fried his hash; he left after that, and I like to believe
that he now thinks twice about picking fights with Primaries.

  But I didn’t see or hear a thing from Mister Chicago until Dr. Miesel gave me my walking papers and told me to stop haunting her infirmary. It was not until then, when I walked out into the corridor, wondering what I was going to do next, that I saw the man whom I had tried to kill the last time I was close to him.

  “Alec, will you take a walk with me? I have something to show you.”

  Almost the same words he said to me that day when, disguised as John, he led me from the White Room. We’re both wearing the same outfits, too: white hooded robes. I’m wearing mine because that’s the only thing Dr. Miesel had in the infirmary; I’ve no idea why Mister Chicago is decked out like this. Fashion statement, I guess.

  I’ve got an urge to throttle him. Sure, everything’s been explained to me; I now see the logic behind his scheme, the necessity of what he did. Indeed, the other deadheads apparently consider me something of a hero; I put my ass on the line for them, however unwittingly, and they respect me for this. But the fact still remains: this pink-eyed bastard used me.

  “Sure, Mister Chicago,” I say. “I’ll walk with you.”

  There’s an edge in my voice that he chooses to ignore. He doesn’t reply, but simply turns and starts walking down the busy corridor. Crewmen quickly stride past us on their way to one vital errand or another. The Garcia is scheduled to depart in only three days. The Pegasus has followed the Anakuklesis from the Moon, and we’ve received reports that the big Royal Navy dreadnought has just crossed Mars orbit and will soon be entering the Belt. I don’t think the Pax wants its decapitated heads back; now that they know where Mister Chicago hides out, they’re coming to smoke cigarettes and kick ass, and nobody makes cigarettes anymore. So everyone’s getting ready for the big moment.

  He must be reading my mind. “You’ve been informed where we’re going, haven’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah.” My mind’s still a little cloudy from the zombie tank. “Some star in the Big Dipper. Forty-seven something…”

  “Forty-seven Ursae Major, about thirty-five light-years from here.” He nods. “A white star very much like the Sun, although the system is a bit different. Most of its planets lie either too deep within or too far beyond the habitable zone. Yet there’s a superjovian gas giant located about two AUs from the primary, one about three and a half times the size of Jupiter…”

  “We’re going there? I don’t think that’ll support…”

  “No, it won’t, but about thirty-seven years ago an interstellar probe launched by the Pax entered the system and surveyed the planet during a flyby. Royal Intelligence classified most of the data when it was received a couple of years ago, but the Zodiac managed to ferret out the most vital information.”

  “Why did the Pax put a lid on it?”

  “How does any tyranny stay in power?” We step aside to let a hovercart pass. “Information control. They wanted to prevent anyone from knowing that there was another habitable solar system.” He chuckles. “After all, someone might get it in their heads to leave.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. Imagine, wanting to escape from a tyrant…”

  If Mister Chicago catches the remark, he ignores it. “At any rate, several large moons orbit the superjovian, and one of them is capable of supporting human life. A bit frosty, yes, but it has one-third Earth gravity, an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, a stable orbit…”

  “What about life?”

  “We’ll know when we get there.” He smiles. “It scarcely matters, my dear Alec. We’ll become its inhabitants, Alec…Or rather, our descendants will be.”

  I already know about this part, from Chip’s briefing. Even after the Jerome J. Garcia reaches its top velocity of half the speed of light, it will still take more than seventy years for it to reach its destination. We have longer lifespans now, thanks to nanosurgical repair of our bodies at the cellular level, and the trip will seem shorter to us because of time dilation. Yet, many of us may not survive the journey. Those of us who do will have children who will finish the voyage we’ve begun.

  “It’s a one-way trip, dude,” I murmur, “and this ain’t the Enterprise.”

  Mister Chicago gives me a quizzical look; he understands the meaning, if not the allusion. “Yes, it is at that. Which means our passengers will be the ones who’ll settle the new world. That’s where you come in.”

  He stops before a door, passes his hand before it. It irises open, revealing a small and dimly lit room. He leads me in; on the other side of the room is a large, double-paned window. “Your father wanted you to learn responsibility,” he says softly as I step closer to see what lies on the other side. “I think you’re capable of that now.”

  Beyond the window, the dewars from Sosigenes Center: rows of stainless steel tanks, containing the heads, minds, and souls of dozens of people from my own lifetime. The future residents of a new planet, scheduled for rebirth once the Garcia arrives at a tiny world in the Big Dipper.

  “Would you like a job?” he asks.

  And now it’s three days later, and only an hour remains until the big fusion boosters on the other side of the Garcia fire. The last tons of helium-3 have been loaded into the fuel tanks within the asteroid’s hollowed-out core; the Superior vessels that delivered the fuel have long since departed, and messages had been broadcast on all frequencies, warning all ships to stay away from the asteroid. I’m told that when the boosters ignite, the flare will extend for thousands of miles; observatories in the inner system will see the sudden birth of a new comet.

  Everyone in the habitats has been instructed to strap down before primary ignition; it’s going to take a lot of power to break the Garcia from its orbit, and the initial thrust may be violent. We’ve gone so far as to tape the windows in the castle. In a few minutes I’ll head up to my room in the castle, but right now I’m sitting on a bench in the rose garden, dictating these last thoughts to Chip.

  It’s quiet out here.

  I took the job. I’m going to be trained to monitor the dewars. Since I spent so much time inside one of them, and saw firsthand what they looked like when they were stored on the Moon, Mister Chicago believes that I’m the best person for this assignment. I still despise him, but I know that he’s right. There’s probably another William Alec Tucker III within one of those things, and the little bastard will need all the help he can get.

  I’m in for another long trip, but this time I’m not making it alone. All my friends are here and I’m making new ones. Erin—not Anna, but the girl I found at Sosigenes Center—came out a little while ago to bring me a glass of tea. I didn’t ask her to do this. She just did it on her own. I think she kind of likes me. God, she looks so much like her mother…

  Nasty thoughts, Alec. Does this make me a pervert or what?

  I dunno. Guess I’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.

  I’ve been wrong about many things, but I’ve had two lifetimes to learn from my mistakes. The biggest thing I’ve learned is this: Yes, there is a future, for each and every one of us. All you need is the willingness to face it.

  I think this is called growing up.

  AFTERWORD

  This novel is part of a future history I’ve been developing over the last decade. There are four other novels and over a dozen short stories in the cycle; however it’s not necessary for one to read any of these other tales. Readers interested in previous stories relevant to this novel are encouraged to find Clarke County, Space (Ace, 1990), The Weight (Legend; U.K., 1993), “The Death of Captain Future” (The Year’s Best Science Fiction, Thirteenth Annual Collection, edited by Gardner Dozois; St. Martin’s Press, 1996), and “Working For Mister Chicago” (Absolute Magnitude, edited by Warren Lapine; Tor, 1997).

  I’m grateful to Steve Antczak, Greg Benford, Chad Childers, Warren Lapine, Bob Liddil, Marie Meisel, Masamichi Osako, Mark Tiedemann, and my sisters Elizabeth Steele and Genevieve Edwards for the suggestions, assistance, and encouragement they’ve given me during
the writing of this novel (and, yes, a couple of these people appear in cameo roles).

  Many thanks to Martha Millard, John Douglas, John Silbersack, and Rebecca Springer for their support.

  Major research for the novel include: Introduction to Asteroids, by Clifford J. Cunningham (William-Bell, 1988); Resources of Near-Earth Space, edited by John S. Lewis, Mildred S. Matthews, and Mary L. Guerrieri (University of Arizona Press, 1993); Wanderers in Space, by Kenneth R. Lang and Charles A. Whitney (Cambridge University Press, 1991); “A.R.C.: Asteroid Resource Colony,” by Claudio Veliz, from Space Manufacturing 8, edited by Barbara Faughnan and Gregg Maryniak (American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, 1991); “Those Pesky Belters and Their Torchships,” by Jerry Pournelle, from A Step Further Out (Ace, 1979); “Colonizing the Outer Solar System,” by Robert A. Zubrin, from Islands in the Sky, edited by Stanley Schmidt and Robert A. Zubrin (Wiley & Sons, 1996); “Cyborgs an d Space,” by Manfred E. Clynes and Nathan S. Kline, from The Cyborg Handbook, edited by Chris Hables Gray (Routledge, 1995); The Engines of Creation, by K. Eric Drexler (Anchor, 1986); Cryonics: Reaching for Tomorrow (Alcor Life Extension Foundation, 1995); The Starflight Handbook, by Eugene Mallove and Gregory Matloff (Wiley, 1989), and The Physics of Immortality, by Frank J. Tipler (Anchor, 1995).

  More than any other novel I’ve yet written, this book was inspired by music. While the works of Ludwig von Beethoven, Franz Liszt, Felix Mendelssohn, and Bedrich Smetana were driving forces, I’m even more grateful to a large number of more contemporary artists: Tori Amos, Big Head Todd and the Monsters, Blues Traveler, Counting Crows, Cracker, Eric’s Trip, Foo Fighters, Hole, The Jesus and Mary Chain, The Judybats, Midnight Oil, Nirvana, Oasis, Pearl Jam, Phish, Possum Dixon, R.E.M., The Smashing Pumpkins, Soul Asylum, The SubDudes, Vitamin A, and World Party. A flick of the Zippo to all; thanks for the tunes and chapter titles.