by Dan Simmons
“You do not have to worry about that, you know,” Grandam says softly. “I still remember how to raise a young one. I still have tales to tell and skills to teach. And I will keep your memory alive in him.”
“He will be so young when …” I say and stop.
Grandam is squeezing my hand. “The young remember most deeply,” she says softly. “When we are old and failing, it is the memories of childhood which can be summoned most clearly.”
The sunset is brilliant but distorted by my tears. I keep my face half turned away from Grandam’s gaze. “I don’t want him remembering me only when he is old. I want to see him … every day … see him play and grow up.”
“Do you remember the verse of Ryokan that I taught you when you were barely older than Raul?” says Grandam.
I have to laugh. “You taught me dozens of Ryokan verses, Grandam.”
“The first one,” says the old woman.
It takes me only a moment to recall it. I say the verse, avoiding the singsong quality to my voice just as Grandam taught me when I was little older than Raul is now:
“How happy I am
As I go hand in hand
With the children,
To gather young greens
In the fields of spring!”
Grandam has closed her eyes. I can see how thin the parchment of her eyelids is. “You used to like that verse, Kaltryn.”
“I still do.”
“And does it say anything about the need to gather greens next week or next year or ten years from now in order to be happy now?”
I smile. “Easy for you to say, old woman,” I say, my voice soft and affectionate to temper the disrespect in the words. “You’ve been gathering greens for seventy-four springs and plan to do so for another seventy.”
“Not so many to come, I think.” She squeezes my hand a final time and releases it. “But the important thing is to walk with the children now, in this evening’s spring sunlight, and to gather the greens quickly, for tonight’s dinner. I am having your favorite meal.”
I actually clap my hands at this. “The Northwind soup? But the leeks are not ripe.”
“They are in the south swards, where I sent Lee and his boys to search. And they have a pot full. Go now, get the spring greens to add to the mix. Take your child and be back before true dark.”
“I love you, Grandam.”
“I know. And Raul loves you, Little One. And I shall take care that the circle remains unbroken. Run on now.”
I come awake falling. I have been awake. The leaves of the Startree have shaded the pods for night and the stars to the out-system side are blazing. The voices do not diminish. The images do not fade. This is not like dreaming. This is a maelstrom of images and voices … thousands of voices in chorus, all clamoring to be heard. I had not remembered my mother’s voice until this moment. When Rabbi Schulmann cried out in Old Earth Polish and prayed in Yiddish, I had understood not only his voice but his thoughts.
I am going mad.
“No, my dear, you are not going mad,” whispers Aenea. She is floating against the warm pod wall with me, holding me. The chronometer on my comlog says that the sleep period along this region of the Biosphere Startree is almost over, that the leaves will be shifting to allow the sunlight in within the hour.
The voices whisper and murmur and argue and sob. The images flit at the back of my brain like colors after a terrible blow to the head. I realize that I am holding myself stiffly, fists clenched, teeth clenched, neck veins straining, as against a terrible wind or wave of pain.
“No, no,” Aenea is saying, her soft hands stroking my cheek and temples. Sweat floats around me like a sour nimbus. “No, Raul, relax. You are so sensitive to this, my dear, just as I thought. Relax and allow the voices to subside. You can control this, my darling. You can listen when you wish, quiet them when you must.”
“But they never go away?” I say.
“Not far away,” whispers Aenea. Ouster angels float in the sunlight beyond the leaf barrier sunward.
“And you have listened to this since you were an infant?” I say.
“Since before I was born,” says my darling.
“My God, my God,” I say, holding my fists against my eyes. “My God.”
My name is Amnye Machen AI Ata and I am eleven standard years old when the Pax comes to my village of Qom-Riyadh. Our village is far from the cities, far from the few highways and skyways, far, even, from the caravan routes that crisscross the rock desert and the Burning Plains.
For two days the evening skies have shown the Pax ships burning like embers as they pass from east to west in what my father says is a place above the air. Yesterday the village radio carried orders from the imam at Al-Ghazali who heard over the phone lines from Omar that everyone in the High Reaches and the Burning Plains Oasis Camps are to assemble outside their yurts and wait. Father has gone to the meeting of the men inside the mud-walled mosque in our village.
The rest of my family stands outside our yurt. The other thirty families also wait. Our village poet, Farid ud-Din Attar, walks among us, trying to settle our nerves with verse, but even the adults are fearful.
My father has returned. He tells Mother that the mullah has decided that we cannot wait for the infidels to kill us. The village radio has not been able to raise the mosque at Al-Ghazali or Omar. Father thinks that the radio is broken again, but the mullah believes that the infidels have killed everyone west of the Burning Plains.
We hear the sound of shots from the front of the other yurts. Mother and my oldest sister want to run, but Father orders them to stay. There are screams. I watch the sky, waiting for the infidel Pax ships to reappear. When I look down again, the mullah’s enforcers are coming around the side of our yurt, setting new magazines in their rifles. Their faces are grim.
Father has us all hold hands. “God is great,” he says and we respond, “God is great.” Even I know that “Islam” means submission to the merciful will of Allah.
At the last second, I see the embers in the sky—the Pax ships floating east to west across the zenith so high above.
“God is great!” cries Father.
I hear the shots.
“Aenea, I don’t know what these things mean.”
“Raul, they do not mean, they are.”
“They are real?”
“As real as any memories can be, my love.”
“But how? I can hear the voices … so many voices … as soon as I … touch one with my mind … these are stronger than my own memories, clearer.”
“They are memories, nonetheless, my love.”
“Of the dead …”
“These are, yes.”
“Learning their language …”
“In many ways we must learn their language, Raul. Their actual tongues … English, Yiddish, Polish, Parsi, Tamal, Greek, Mandarin … but also their hearts. The soul of their memory.”
“Are these ghosts speaking, Aenea?”
“There are no ghosts, my love. Death is final. The soul is that ineffable combination of memory and personality which we carry through life … when life departs, the soul also dies. Except for what we leave in the memory of those who loved us.”
“And these memories …”
“Resonate in the Void Which Binds.”
“How? All those billions of lives …”
“And thousands of races and billions of years, my love. Some of your mother’s memories are there … and my mother’s … but so are the life impressions of beings terribly far removed from us in space and time.”
“Can I touch those as well, Aenea?”
“Perhaps. With time and practice. It took me years to understand them. Even the sense impressions of life-forms so differently evolved are difficult to comprehend, much less their thoughts, memories, and emotions.”
“But you have done it?”
“I have tried.”
“Alien life-forms like the Seneschal Aluit or the Akerataeli?”
&n
bsp; “Much more alien than that, Raul. The Seneschai lived hidden on Hebron near the human settlers for generations. And they are empaths—emotions were their primary language. The Akerataeli are quite different from us, but not so different from the Core entities whom my father visited.”
“My head hurts, kiddo. Can you help me stop these voices and images?”
“I can help you quiet them, my love. They will never really stop as long as we live. This is the blessing and burden of the communion with my blood. But before I show you how to quiet them, listen a few more minutes. It is almost leafturn and sunrise.”
My name was Lenar Hoyt, priest, but now I am Pope Urban XVI, and I am celebrating the Mass of Resurrection for John Domenico Cardinal Mustafa in St. Peter’s Basilica with more than five hundred of the Vatican’s most important faithful in attendance.
Standing at the altar, my hands outstretched, I read from the Prayer of the Faithful—
“Let us confidently call upon God our Almighty Father
Who raised Christ His Son from the dead
for the salvation of all.”
Cardinal Lourdusamy, who serves as my deacon for this Mass, intones—
“That He may return into the perpetual company of the Faithful,
this deceased Cardinal, John Domenico Mustafa,
who once received the seed of eternal life through
Baptism,
we pray to the Lord.
“That he, who exercised the episcopal office in the
Church
and in the Holy Office while alive,
may once again serve God in his renewed life,
we pray to the Lord.
“That He may give to the souls of our brothers,
sisters, relatives,
and benefactors the reward of their labor,
we pray to the Lord.
“That He may welcome into the light of His
countenance
all who sleep in the hope of the resurrection,
and grant them that resurrection,
that they may better serve Him,
we pray to the Lord.
“That He may assist and graciously console
our brothers and sisters who are suffering affliction
from the assaults of the godless and the
derision of the fallen away,
we pray to the Lord.
“That He may one day call into His glorious kingdom,
all who are assembled here in faith and devotion,
and award unto us that same blessing
of temporal resurrection in Christ’s name,
we pray to the Lord.
Now, as the choir sings the Offertory Antiphon and the congregation kneels in echoing silence in anticipation of the Holy Eucharist, I turn back from the altar and say—
“Receive, Lord, these gifts which we offer You on behalf of Your servant, John Domenico Mustafa, Cardinal; You gave the reward of the high priesthood in this world; may he be briefly united with the company of Your Saints in the Kingdom of Heaven and return to us via Your Sacrament of Resurrection. Through Christ our Lord.”
The congregation responds in unison—
“Amen.”
I walk to Cardinal Mustafa’s coffin and resurrection crèche near the communion altar and sprinkle holy water on it, while praying—
“Father, all-powerful and ever-living God,
we do well always and everywhere to give You thanks
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
“In Him, Who rose from the dead,
our hope of resurrection dawned.
The sadness of death gives way
to the bright promise of immortality.
“Lord, for your faithful people life is changed and
renewed, not ended.
When the body of our earthly dwelling lies in death
we trust in Your mercy and Your miracle to renew it to
us.
“And so, with all the choirs of angels in Heaven
we proclaim Your glory
and join in their unending hymn of praise:”
The great organ in the Basilica thunders while the choir immediately begins singing the Sanctus:
“Holy, holy, holy Lord God of power and might,
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.”
After Communion, after the Mass ends and the congregation departs, I walk slowly to the sacristy. I am sad and my heart hurts—literally. The heart disease has advanced once again, clogging my arteries and making every step and word painful. I think—I must not tell Lourdusamy.
That Cardinal appears as acolytes and altar boys help divest me of my garments.
“We have received a Gideon-drone courier, Your Holiness.”
“From which front?” I inquire.
“Not from the fleet, Holy Father,” says the Cardinal, frowning at a hardcopy message that he holds in his fat hands.
“From where then?” I say, holding out my hand impatiently. The message is written on thin vellum.
I am coming to Pacem, to the Vatican.
Aenea.
I look up at my Secretary of State. “Can you stop the fleet, Simon Augustino?”
His jowls seem to quiver. “No, Your Holiness. They made the jump more than twenty-four hours ago. They should be almost finished with their accelerated resurrection schedule and commencing the attack within moments. We cannot outfit a drone and send it in time to recall them.”
I realize that my hand is shaking. I give the message back to Cardinal Lourdusamy. “Call in Marusyn and the other fleet commanders,” I say. “Tell them to bring every remaining capital fighting ship back to Pacem System. Immediately.”
“But Your Holiness,” says Lourdusamy, his voice urgent, “there are so many important task force missions under way at the present …”
“Immediately!” I snap.
Lourdusamy bows. “Immediately, Your Holiness.”
As I turn away, the pain in my chest and the shortness in my breath are like warnings from God that time is short.
“Aenea! The Pope …”
“Easy, my love. I’m here.”
“I was with the Pope … Lenar Hoyt … but he’s not dead, is he?”
“You are also learning the language of the living, Raul. Incredible that your first contact with another living person’s memories is with him. I think …”
“No time, Aenea! No time. His cardinal … Lourdusamy … brought your message. The Pope tried to recall the fleet, but Lourdusamy said that it was too late … that they jumped twenty-four hours ago and would be attacking any moment. That could be here, Aenea. It could be the fleet massing at Lacaille 9352 …”
“No!” Aenea’s cry brings me out of the cacophony of images and voices, memories and sense overlays, not banishing them completely, but making them recede to something not unlike loud music in an adjoining room.
Aenea has summoned a comlog unit from the cubby shelf and is calling both our ship and Navson Hamnim at the same time.
I try to focus on my friend and the moment, pulling clothes on as I do so, but like a person emerging from a vivid dream, the murmur of voices and other memories is still with me.
Father Captain Federico de Soya kneeling in prayer in his private cubby pod on the treeship Yggdrasill, only de Soya no longer thinks of himself as “Father-Captain,” but simply as “Father.” And he is unsure of even this title as he kneels and prays, prays as he has for hours this night, and longer hours in the days and nights since the cruciform was removed from his chest and body by the communion with Aenea’s blood.
Father de Soya prays for forgiveness of which—he knows beyond doubt—he is unworthy. He prays for forgiveness for his years as a Pax Fleet captain, his many battles, the lives he has taken, the beautiful works of man and God he has destroyed. Father Federico de Soya kneels in the one-six
th-g silence of his cubby and asks his Lord and Savior … the God of Mercy in which he had learned to believe and which he now doubts … to forgive him, not for his own sake, but so that his thoughts and actions in the months and years to come, or hours if his life is to be that short, might better serve his Lord …
I pull away from this contact with the sudden revulsion of someone realizing that he is becoming a voyeur. I understand immediately that if Aenea has known this “language of the living” for years, for her entire life, that she has almost certainly spent more energy denying it—avoiding these unsolicited entries into other people’s lives—than mastering it.
Aenea has irised an opening in the pod wall and taken the comlog out to the organic tuft of balcony there. I float through and join her, floating down to the balcony’s surface under the gentle one-tenth-g pull of the containment field there. There are several faces floating above the diskey of the comlog—Het Masteen’s, Ket Rosteen’s, and Navson Hamnim’s—but all are looking away from the visual pickups, as is Aenea.
It takes me a second to look up at what she is seeing.
Blazing streaks are cutting through the Startree past beautiful rosettes of orange and red flame. For an instant I think that it is just leafturn sunrise along the inner curve of the Biosphere, squids and angels and watering comets catching the light the way Aenea and I had hours earlier when riding the heliosphere matrix, but then I realize what I am seeing.
Pax ships cutting through the Startree in a hundred places, their fusion tails slicing away branches and trunk like cold, bright knives.
Explosions of leaves and debris hundreds of thousands of kilometers away sending earthquake tremors through the branch and pod and balcony on which we stand.
Bright confusion. Energy lances leaping through space, visible because of the billions of particles of escaping atmosphere, pulverized organic matter, burning leaves, and Ouster and Templar blood. Lances cutting and burning everything they touch.
More explosions blossom outward within a few kilometers. The containment field still holds and sound pounds us back against the pod wall that ripples like the flesh of an injured beast. Aenea’s comlog goes off at the same instant the Startree curve above us bursts into flame and explodes into silent space. There are shouts and screams and roars audible, but I know that within seconds the containment field must fail and Aenea and I will be sucked out into space with the other tons of debris flying past us.