by Far Freedom
It was very difficult for me to give my son back to Nori. Jessie kept her hand on him until he disappeared from the field of view. Everyone greeted everyone else. Nori came and took Zelda from Zakiya and vanished with the others as the meeting ended.
We sat quietly in our small room. I should have remained very depressed for at least several more days but there was not enough time for that. I looked over at Roop and Claudia and could see they were still dazed.
Zakiya sat next to Pete with an arm around him. She held one of his hands. He was distressed. Roop and Claudia recovered enough to wonder about the relationship they saw between Zakiya and Pete. I took it upon myself to explain. “Admiral Etrhnk is Zakiya’s son. His real name is Petros. Alex is his father.”
“That was Aylis Mnro?” Roop asked.
“Yes.”
” She was not really here?”
“She was not.”
“That was Jessie’s baby,” Claudia said.
“Yes.”
“But you could hold him. I could feel him!”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?” Roop asked. “Why would you leave your child?” I could count on Roop to ask the right questions. He fit very well into my notion of the perversity of nature and the nature of perversity.
“It would need to be a very important reason.”
It was a long walk.
When we exited the hideout into an alley, there were hundreds of people waiting. When we exited the alley onto the ground-level walk, there were thousands of people. When we reached a broad avenue, there was no end to the people we could see. Thousands more merged in front of us as the walk continued. I was reminded of the recording I saw of Zakiya and Aylis extracting Phuti and Nori from the Five Worlds.
Other parades of people who chose to protect us emerged from the urban areas of High Cuba. The parklands around the “Caribbean Sea” created a merge path. Rounding the big body of water we could see a huge river of people across the water that flowed with us into the farmlands. If this was not the entire population of High Cuba, it was a major fraction of it.
I supposed many of the people merely thought us a good excuse to break their daily routine. It was difficult for me to understand why they felt so compelled. My memories were remarkable, perhaps so remarkable to be unbelievable. I supposed everyone wanted to believe. Perhaps the facts were not believable but the emotion in my memories was overpoweringly real even to me. Jessie was a potent image seen through my adoring eyes. They would have wanted to believe she was a real alien, even one who loved a human as though he actually deserved such love. I supposed that could have meant something to them. Of course, many of them would want to know that a famous person - such as Aylis Mnro - was as nice a person as she ought to be, and that she was not beyond the understanding of ordinary people. Some of them may even have recognized Zakiya as being Fidelity Demba, as well as the woman who sang at the Mother Earth Opera. The mystery of her would have stirred passions among a great many people. I don’t think anyone would have been sure who Alex and Pete were, despite having famous faces.
The concern of so many people that we should need protection still ran counter to my pessimistic view of human nature. Everyone kept telling me I didn’t understand the real meaning and impact of my recorded memories, and I had to accept that as fact, seeing all of these people walking with us.
So many people. How did this great rotating cylinder maintain its stability with most of its inhabitants crowded to one section of the circumference? Hopefully, there was a counter-balancing system.
Cuba Alta was not a large city. Compared to the main biosphere of the Five Worlds, it was tiny. But High Cuba connected to all of the other L5 cities - a living space that held more than twenty billion people. Then there was the L4 urban cluster on the other side of the moon. The moon was sparsely populated and Mars even less so, but in Earth’s orbit was a growing assemblage of space cities: a ring all the way around the sun. Pete told me he estimated the total human population in the galaxy at half a trillion, and the largest fraction of it still resided within sight of Earth.
A person would not normally walk from one city to the next. There were vehicles that could transport you from one side of L5 to the other in minutes. There were transmats as well. But people did walk from city to city. There were evacuation routes large enough to move millions of people between cities in moments on powered walkways.
As it turned out, we were not leaving High Cuba. The evacuation tubes would have provided an ideal place to isolate us between air locks and stop the parade. Instead, the meeting was arranged to take place - as we discovered upon entering it - in a vast spacecraft maintenance hangar. Before we reached it, most of the people ahead of us exited into other industrial areas that would serve as meeting places.
Nothing happened for the next half hour, except more people crowding into the hangar. There was a raised platform near the center of the hangar. The ceiling was filled with equipment that manipulated spacecraft.
Roop and Claudia kept us surrounded by a selected group of people - probably many of those who abducted Pete and me - but someone just beyond them must have caught a glimpse of Zakiya or Jessie. This started a commotion which was quickly quelled. From that incident onward the crowd remained in an agitated state. Roop burrowed into our midst to apologize for the disturbance. He looked at Jessie and me for a long moment then pushed back into the crowd. I expected never to see him again and was not surprised to feel sad about it.
By now we knew this was not the only city engaged in spontaneous parades. Dozens of fake meetings were being staged in the L5 cluster in an effort to hide us from the authorities until we could bring our message to the public or, more precisely, to Milly and the Golden Ones.
At 1800 hours a man mounted the platform and looked over the sea of heads. Someone near the platform spoke to him. The man on the platform apparently relayed the message. He got down from the platform seconds before equipment appeared by way of transmat. A great shout erupted from the crowd, as patience was rewarded or tensions were relieved.
Marines appeared on the stage wearing combat fatigues and carrying what I estimated was a moderate level of armament. They set up rows of chairs and positioned an array of small floating devices around the stage. They took tactical positions at the perimeter of the stage. The tension of the crowd rose another step while the Marines worked. The noise dropped as holographic images bloomed in the air showing multiple points of view of the stage area.
In the holographic images we watched people appear by transmat on the platform. Three Navy admirals, each with two or more aides, materialized and took seats. Zakiya and Pete discussed the identities of the officers and concluded that none of them were barbarians. This was unexpected and disturbing. Half a dozen civilians appeared on the stage, briefly met with the Navy officers, and all but one of them took their seats. The one who remained standing spoke: “Will the persons of interest come to the stage?”
The crowd parted to let us through. Jessie held tightly to my arm. Pete stayed right behind us. Cheers and applause exploded in our ears. It didn’t make me feel better, nor did it ease Jessie’s anxiety. The acclaim was just noise, even a kind of violence. I could imagine how Jessie might feel in such an alien circumstance, because humanity also felt alien to me at the moment. We mounted the platform, passed between the Marine guards, walked directly to the chairs that were intended for us. There were six chairs and five of us. The civilian spokesperson removed the extra chair.
The civilian was a woman with features and a presence that I associated with a broadcast news anchor. She looked at Jessie with some concern, causing me to glance at Jessie. Jessie gave me a tiny smile and we continued to hold hands. Jessie was a happy and outgoing person among all her friends on the Freedom, but this situation bothered her. The woman stepped back and spoke, outlining the circumstances which led to this public forum - or inquisition.
“The neural interface has long been an important to
ol,” the spokesperson began, “of medical research and treatment. It has also been a favorite instrument for certain kinds of entertainment. In recent years networking has multiplied the entertainment value of neural interfaces, spreading to a large fraction of the population, even though it is outlawed or discouraged by every authority. As dangerous as it is, there may be very few of us who have never tried dreaming another person’s memories. Two days ago a memory recording appeared that caused universal response. The details of this recording are in the news constantly. These people have come forward to take responsibility for this recording. We are here to investigate. The Navy and government officials are here to provide security and technical and legal advice. This is a measure of how important this recording has become. It is a powerfully convincing experience. I know this from personal exposure to it. If it is also a true story, we have yet to comprehend its full impact on the human race. I apologize for this last statement. It may be subjective and exaggerated.”
The woman stepped in front of Pete and addressed him. “Would you state your name?”
“Petros Gerakis.”
The woman frowned at the name, perhaps expecting Pete to say “Admiral Etrhnk.” She may have wanted to challenge Pete but finally took a step sideways to stand in front of me.
“Samuel Lee.”
“Jessie Lee,”
I looked up at the holograms and saw Jessie in every one of them. She was in most of them almost from the moment we reached the platform. Some of Jessie’s natural golden covering could be seen where her blouse did not cover it, where Zakiya had not helped her remove the shiny feathers. Her face was flushed to a dark orange color, no longer masked by cosmetic film. She kept a cloth covering on her scalp feathers, but some of them were too long to cover. She knew the cameras were on her more than the rest of us. I could tell by the way she kept her big eyes downcast, looking at my hand holding hers. God, how I loved her!
The woman stood before Zakiya and waited. “Zakiya Muenda Gerakis.” Zakiya looked proudly at Alex. She had waited two centuries to proclaim her marriage to him.
“Gerakis.” The woman repeated the Greek family name as though pondering its familiarity. The woman stared at Zakiya, perhaps also watching data inside her eyes. She turned to Alex. “And I suppose you are Alexandros Gerakis.” Alex glanced up at her and said nothing. “That is a famous name. Is it a coincidence?”
“No.”
“Then it is Alexandros! You were named for the popular fictional character?”
“I’m the person on whom they based the character.” The crowd reacted to this but the noise came to us on the stage muffled, as though some invisible curtain was now employed to deaden most of the crowd sounds.
“How can you be?” The woman asked seriously, not sounding sarcastic.
“I am who I am.”
“Why would you make such a claim?”
“I’m willing to submit to genetic identification.”
“There are no records to prove your claim.”
“Yes, there are.”
“I would be very disappointed if you are frauds,” the woman said. “We’ve prepared for this contingency. Doctor Ramadhal of the Mnro Clinics has consented to personally do genetic identification tests. While we await his arrival, let me continue.” She turned back to Zakiya. “Zakiya Muenda Gerakis. You share his name. What does that mean?”
“I adhere to those traditions of marriage that give me my husband’s family name. I am his wife.”
“And you believe he’s the real Alexandros Gerakis?”
“I know he is. I served with him on the Frontier.”
When I thought about it, it didn’t seem so unlikely that vast numbers of people could relate to a supposedly fictional hero. The art of story has always supplied us with characters more real to our psychological needs than actual people. One could feel the crowd response build through vibrations in the platform under our chairs, as more and more people realized and wanted to believe who Alex was.
“You would both have to be about three hundred years old for that to be true.” The woman made her argument when the noise level declined to permit it. “There is no one that old.”
Zakiya replied. “It is generally accepted that many people survive from beyond the Age of Immortality, having availed themselves of the treatments available to the very affluent. But we were only rich in our relationship to Aylis Mnro. She also served with us on the Frontier.”
“That is contrary to the official biography of Aylis Mnro! There are no Deep Space Fleet records to prove your claim!”
“The Public Partition of Navy Archives now contains all of the Deep Space Fleet records. They are also available in every public data repository under a gateway reference.”
“And that reference would be?”
“My name.”
The woman paused as she listened to voices in her private communications channel. A flat smile replaced a brief frown which replaced an instant of shock. “The records exist! It will take time to verify their authenticity. It may be impossible to do so. Why are they suddenly available?”
“Why did they disappear?”
The woman relinquished her turn at questioning us. A man took her place. He was interrupted as Doctor Ramadhal appeared on the platform. The new moderator introduced Ramadhal, who took no notice. He went directly to Pete, although his eyes were on Jessie until the last moment before leaning close to Pete and asking him a question. “You never told me what happened to Doctor Mnro. It is a terrible moment to ask again, but I must!”
“She died,” Pete replied after a moment’s delay, appearing to consider being overheard by those on the platform.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t…?” Ramadhal didn’t say it but I knew he meant “kill her.”
“I loved her, Doctor.” Pete seemed unconcerned by what he might be revealing to the universe. If events were not so overwhelming I might have been frightened by an implication: that Pete no longer cared that something he said might have dire consequences. Ramadhal persisted in questioning Pete about Aylis. She was, of course, very important to Ramadhal.
“And you know she’s still alive?”
“I saw her earlier today.”
That drew a puzzled look from Ramadhal.
“Doctor Ramadhal, would you explain what you and he said?” the male interviewer asked.
“I don’t think I can!”
“You know this person?”
“I know he’s Admiral Etrhnk.”
“He bears a strong resemblance. He doesn’t, however, produce a verifiable citizen transponder code. You’ve already analyzed his DNA?”
“Of course not! I asked him a question that only Admiral Etrhnk would be able to answer.”
“He said Aylis Mnro died?”
“He did.”
“There was more than one Aylis Mnro?”
“Am I to join these people and be interrogated with them?”
“Perhaps so, Doctor.”
“May I finish my task first?”
“Yes.”
Ramadhal took a sample from Pete. He said nothing to me, finished quickly, turned to Jessie. He saw her exquisite coin-like feathers at the edge of her blouse collar. He wanted to look closer but couldn’t let himself. She was also not wearing her dark glasses and her eyes were beautifully abnormal.
“Is something wrong, Doctor Ramadhal?” the host person asked.
” She is obviously not human!”
” She’s supposed to be alien. You need to confirm that.”
It was not yet clear to me what the average Union citizen knew of truly alien species. I thought there were none within the Union, only outside it, in barbarian space. Encountering a real alien would be a great shock for Ramadhal. Perhaps he was beyond being further shocked. It was also medically possible in this future age to make humans look alien.
Ramadhal took Jessie’s DNA sample. He turned to Zakiya and stopped again. “Y
our child. We never found his lineage. Has Aylis learned more about him?”
” She found his father,”
“That’s wonderful! I wish I could ask for more details but…”
Zakiya nodded understanding.
“Do you also know this person, Doctor Ramadhal?” the interviewer asked.
“I know who she is.”
“Who is she?”
“Fidelity Demba, a Navy admiral. I met her on Earth.”
” She does resemble her and her transponder gives a valid response. Why are you certain of her identity?”
“Again, because she knew the answer to my question.”
“Who is the child you mention?”
“I only know his name was Samson.”
“Would this be a certain famous child, doctor? Would this woman be a certain famous singer?”
“They would.”
“This woman we identify as Admiral Demba - and who calls herself Zakiya Muenda Gerakis - is the woman who sang at the end of the last Mother Earth Opera?”
“I was there. It was she.”
Ramadhal took his samples from Zakiya and Alex and departed by transmat. The moderator continued his inquiry. “You are Admiral Demba.” “Yes.”
“You are the woman who sang at the Mother Earth Opera.”
“Yes.”
“The Opera Master called you Ruby.”
“I was a professional singer named Ruby Reed more than a century ago.”
“How can you still sing so well?”
“I never lost the ability. There is an explanation but I’m not prepared to give it now.”
“As Admiral Demba, did you depart Union space on the Freedom?”
“I did.”
“Why are you here? How are you here?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Let me rephrase. Why are you not aboard the Freedom?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“It’s rumored the ship has disappeared. There is no communication with it. No relay buoys were set.”