Stepping Stones

by Steve Gannon

  But how? She had been dead when I’d left her.

  Or had she?

  Hoping against hope, I peered under the car. She was lying on her side beneath the engine. Her ribs rose and fell. And again. I couldn’t believe it. She was alive!

  Heart in my throat, I started the Jeep and carefully pulled forward. As gently as I could, I scooped her up and laid her in the back. I had to get her to a vet, and fast. Then I remembered Bellagorski. Looking up, I saw that he was already approaching the second bolt. Shaking my head in amazement, I slid behind the steering wheel and jammed the Jeep into gear. But as I began driving off, something held me.

  I stopped the car. Although part of me wanted to leave Bellagorski to his fate, another part realized that I had reached a moral crossroads, a crux as real as the one I had just climbed. I sat without moving for what seemed a very long time.

  J.R. was panting weakly in the back, having trouble breathing. She didn’t have much time. Slamming my hand against the steering wheel, I twisted off the engine. “I’m sorry girl,” I said. I stepped out, walked to the rear of the Jeep, and pulled out my climbing rope. “I’ll get you fixed up, I promise,” I added, gently stroking her head. “But there is something I have to do first.”

  Bellagorski spotted me as I was hurrying past the rock face toward the backside of the wall. “Hey, hotshot,” he called down. “Where’re you goin’ with the rope?”

  “I’ll tie it off at the top,” I called up. “You’ll be able to reach it from the chimney, before you reach the crux.”

  “Go to hell,” he yelled. “You think I’d trust a rope you put up for me? Not a chance. Besides, I don’t need your help. If you climbed this, it can’t be that tough.”

  “You don’t understand. The crux move is imposs—”

  “I don’t want to hear your lies, pussy.”

  “But—”

  “I ain’t listening to one more word of yours. Get lost.”

  “Fine,” I yelled back, again thinking of J.R. She needed help, and fast. “When the time comes, though . . . remember I offered.”

  “Screw you, asshole.”

  “Same to you, Bellagorski,” I said softly. “Same to you.”

  Although I probably set a speed record for leaving the park, the sun was already well up when I reached the main road. As I drove, the snow-covered peak of San Gorgonio slowly came into view, and shortly after that I could make out the haze hanging over the horizon near Palm Springs. In the back J.R. was still having trouble breathing, but she was alive. Somehow I knew she was going to make it.

  As for Bellagorski, I figured he was probably reaching the top of the chimney right about then. I pictured it in my mind.

  He sees my sling, spots my chalk and blood in the fist-jam crack above. He pauses. Then, with a confident grin, he grabs the sling and leans out over the drop. He jams his fist into the crack, just as I had. He lets go of the sling. His feet come off the wall. He swings out over the void, hanging from his fist-jam.

  I lied when I said I was giving him the same chance he gave me. The flake above the overhang is no longer there. It broke off when I stood on it, shattered into a thousand pieces on the boulders below. Without that flake, the crux move is impossible.

  He swings, slapping for a hold that’s no longer there. His hand scrabbles, searching, searching . . .

  It finds nothing.

  He tries again. His fingers claw the rock.

  Again he fails.

  In desperation, he attempts to get his feet back on the wall.

  To his horror, he finds he cannot.

  He tries to hook the sling with his foot . . .

  It’s out of reach.

  He hangs. The skin begins tearing from his fist. Death stares up at him from the abyss. Slowly, inexorably, the icy fingers of panic tighten around his throat . . .

  I wonder how long he hung before he dropped.

  DANIEL’S SONG

  Nineteen kilometers long and three kilometers in diameter, the Genesis hurtled through the void. An arc laden with life from a world long lost in the eternity of space, it had wandered for generations, traveling a journey that had lasted a thousand years.

  Deep within its walls, in a chamber reserved for hearings of the most solemn nature, Aaron Rhodes took his place beside the other members of the ship’s council. Although a life hung in the balance, he had understandably been forbidden to participate in the proceedings. Nevertheless he sat with them now, and from his elevated position he gazed down upon his wife. Dr. Susan Rhodes stood before them, her eyes flashing in defiance, her slim body tense, as if coiled for battle. In her arms she held their son, Daniel.

  Aaron reached out with his mind, sensing his wife’s fear and anger. Susan resisted briefly, then accepted him. Their minds linked and became as one. Aaron felt her heart racing, her hands trembling, sweat trickling wet under her uniform as together they stood before the council, waiting . . .

  Through Susan’s eyes, Aaron inspected the faces of the men who would decide their son’s fate. Jarel, the council leader, sat in the center of the dais—Villa and Ashburn to his left, Miller and West on the right. And seated beside West, Aaron saw himself.

  Without warning, Jarel’s thoughts exploded in Susan and Aaron’s commingled minds. “Susan Rhodes, you have misused your authority as a physician to conceal the deformity of your offspring. Further, you have harbored the child for the past eleven months, in direct violation of the Reproduction Code.” It was not an accusation, but a cold and preemptive statement of fact.

  Susan glared. “He’s not deformed!”

  A moment of silence followed Susan’s retort, and as Aaron marveled at his wife’s stubborn conviction, his thoughts traveled back to the beginning of their ordeal, recalling that her determination to keep their child had remained unshaken from the start.

  It had taken years to obtain the necessary reproduction permits, after which conceiving a child had proved problematic. Following a protracted course of fertility therapy and several failed implantations, Aaron had given up on a natural pregnancy. But not Susan. She never abandoned hope, and it had seemed a joyous miracle, a testament to her unswerving faith, when she’d finally become pregnant. But months later Aaron’s joy had turned to disappointment when he had tried to touch the nascent mind of his developing son. And disappointment to anger upon discovering that Susan had intentionally hidden his deformity.

  They had fought bitterly after the birth. Aaron couldn’t understand why she hadn’t terminated the pregnancy. Even though they were both over forty, they could have applied for a new birth permit and, if necessary, brought another child to term in an artificial uterus. Instead she had lied, taking advantage of her position in the medical community to falsify Daniel’s records. And after the birth, she had refused to give him up. “Damn it, Aaron, everyone used to communicate with spoken word,” she’d argued whenever he opened the wound. “And not that long ago, either.”

  “People haven’t spoken aloud aboard Genesis for a thousand years,” he’d countered. “Would you alter our entire society to suit yourself?”

  “On the Home Planet he would be considered perfectly normal, like millions there who don’t carry the telepathy gene. On the Home Planet—”

  “We’re not on the Home Planet! We’re on Genesis. And you know the Code. Any abnormal offspring must be destroyed.”

  “He’s not abnormal!” Her thought had been a savage dagger in his mind, and she had never relented. In the end Aaron had been forced to choose between his wife and his duty to the community. To his dishonor, he had chosen his wife, and together they’d raised their son in secret. At one year of age, despite his affliction, Daniel would have reached full majority and attained the irrevocable right to life held by all members of the ship’s company. But three weeks before his first birthday, they had been discovered.

  Initially, Aaron had been relieved. Shame had choked him each time he’d sat on the council and made life-and-death decisions that affected other
s, knowing he was culpable of the most serious betrayal himself. But in the days that followed, when he’d contemplated the fate of their son and seen the terrible emptiness in Susan’s eyes, he had felt only deep, abiding sadness.

  Aaron sensed Daniel stirring in Susan’s arms, squirming to peer up at the somber faces staring down from the dais.

  “You still maintain that your son is normal?” Jarel demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. “We have irrefutable evidence to the contrary.”

  “Damn your evidence,” Susan shot back. “Daniel’s intelligence measures in the near-genius range. He’s solved all the pre-instructional puzzles without telepathic assistance. His verbal skills are extraordinary, and he’s beginning to speak. I can learn to speak with him and—”

  “By speak, you mean communicate using sound?”

  “Yes. There’s an extensive file in the ship’s library on our ancient language—complete with recordings. I’ve spent considerable time studying it. Using a mind-link with the computer, I’ve grasped the basics of speech. It’s not particularly difficult to comprehend; the hard part is learning to make the sounds. Granted, it’s a primitive form of communication, but once I’ve—”

  “How much longer must we be subjected to this?” Miller broke in. “Let us simply examine the child.”

  Jarel glanced at the others, then nodded. “Agreed.”

  Susan drew Daniel close, holding him protectively as Jarel and the rest of the council, all except Aaron, focused their minds—probing, testing, searching. As expected, they found Daniel wanting.

  Again Jarel’s thoughts filled the room. “We find none of the normal telepathic abilities present in your son. Life is precious, but aboard Genesis, so are space and resource. The Reproduction Code is clear: There is no room here for abnormal offspring. If we make an exception for you, what are we to tell others who have already made similar sacrifices? Besides,” he added more temperately, “you need not fear that your child will suffer any discomfort. The euthanasia process is painless; most of our older citizens prefer it to a natural death.”

  “You’ve obviously come to a decision. So be it.” Turning her back on the Council, Susan closed her mind and strode to the door.

  Abruptly, Aaron found himself severed from his wife. He still trembled with her emotion, but something new now troubled him—something he had glimpsed just before she shut him out. Daniel had also sensed the change in his mother and begun to cry. As Susan left the room Aaron heard her murmuring to the child. “Shhh,” she whispered aloud. “Hush, Danny boy.”

  After she had departed, Aaron rose and addressed the council. “Although you forbade me to take part in these proceedings, I have information that may influence your decision. May I present it?”

  All the members except Jarel signaled their assent. Finally Jarel concurred. “Proceed.”

  “Each of you is aware that as chief astrophysicist aboard Genesis, one of my duties involves a continuing search for stars with habitable planetary systems. I didn’t want to make it public until I was sure, but I think I’ve found one. When we move closer—”

  “How does this bear on your crime and the disposal of your defective offspring?” Ashburn interrupted.

  “I . . . I had hoped that if a chance existed of making planetfall in the near future, you might consider a temporary suspension of the Code.”

  Jarel regarded Aaron thoughtfully, then conferred privately with the others. At length he returned his gaze to Aaron. “Our logs show that only twice since setting out on our voyage has Genesis slowed to investigate stars with a potentially habitable world. Each attempt proved a harsh disappointment. As you well know, the energy squandered during an exploratory deceleration is prohibitive, and each time it was undertaken, it took years to regain our vessel’s design velocity—years plagued with hardship and privation for the entire community. Most of the ship’s company would only favor risking it again if the odds of discovering a habitable planet were near certain. And as you also well know, some of our people prefer things as they are and would be against slowing the ship again under any circumstance.”

  “Never end our journey? When Genesis began her voyage, it was to find a new home, a new life . . .”

  “A dream, Aaron, a chimera long forgotten by those now aboard Genesis. This is the only life they’ve ever known.”

  “But—”

  “As members of the ship’s council, we are responsible for the lives of every person aboard,” Jarel pushed on. “Twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and sixty-five men, women, and children. We must do what’s best for all, basing our decisions on fact, not wishful thinking. At present you’re not sure there will ever be a habitable planet in our future. Please close your mind while the council makes its decision.”

  * * *

  Aaron and Susan’s living quarters were small, but comfortable. The cooking module and food-prep area led into a dining nook, separated from the main room by a counter that doubled as a bar. The living room centered around the holovid, with a pneumocouch, sensory-reproduction center, desk, and a thought-tube case jammed with neatly labeled cylinders against the far wall. A scattering of toys littered the floor at its base.

  To the left of the living room lay their sleeping alcove: bed, closet, a chest of drawers. Covering the wall opposite the bed, a large holoportrait depicted a forest of towering redwoods, with a crystalline stream winding through cool dark shadows, ever-shifting shafts of sunlight sending slivers of light dancing across the water’s surface.

  The nursery was located in a small niche nearby. Aaron found Susan there when he returned. She was sitting on a stool, gently rocking Daniel in his crib. And slowly, softly, she sang his song.

  Aaron remembered the first time he’d heard it. Susan had discovered a cache of audio recordings in the ship’s library. One night she had brought a disc home. Using equipment borrowed from the museum, she had played it for him when he returned from work, and sitting in the living room, they’d listened to the ancient song. It had a sad, mysterious quality to it, and Aaron had felt himself inexplicably drawn. “What’s that instrument?” he had asked partway through.

  “It’s a voice,” Susan had answered. “A human voice. Those are words you’re hearing. Stringing individual words together creates meaning, and set to music, it’s called a song.”

  “What do the words mean?”

  “I don’t know, but one of them is the sound for Daniel. That’s how I discovered it. This recording came up as I was researching his name. Listen. This time I’ll point it out.”

  And again they listened, captivated by the melody that in time they’d come to think of as Daniel’s song.

  Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

  From glen to glen, and down the mountainside

  The summer’s gone, and all the roses fallen

  It’s you, it’s you must go,

  And I must bide.

  But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,

  Or when the land is hushed, and white with snow

  It’s I’ll be there, in sunshine or in shadow

  Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy,

  I love you so.

  Just two months old at the time, Daniel had adored his mother’s singing. At first Susan had only been able to hum the melody, but it had always exerted a soothing, magical effect on their child. Before long she’d known all the words. And through mind-link, so had Aaron, at least in principle, but his sporadic attempts at using his voice had never produced more than a dissonant assortment of grunts and squeaks. In the end Aaron had learned to say Daniel’s name aloud . . . but that was all.

  Susan finished the song and sat quietly, gazing down at their sleeping child. Aaron moved to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling her body trembling under her tunic. At his touch she turned, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “Did you tell them about the new star?”

  “Yes.”

  “They wouldn’t listen, would they?”

&n
bsp; “No.”

  “I knew they wouldn’t.”

  Susan remained silent for a long moment. Then she asked the question both had been avoiding. “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Aaron answered. “Tomorrow, at the end of the second watch.”

  Susan rose and stepped to the door. She touched a light control, sending the chamber into darkness. Across the room Aaron could hear the sounds of her muffled sobbing. Moving to join her, he reached for her with his mind. She closed herself off. Instead she raised her chin, and finding his lips with hers, she kissed him—softly at first, then with growing intensity, her mouth gradually becoming insistent, selfish, demanding. Once more he tried to enfold her with his mind, wanting to be with her more than life itself. And again she refused, barring him from her most intimate core.

  They made love on the living room floor. For Aaron, it seemed as if Susan had somehow become a stranger, her kisses desperate and unquenchable, almost frantic. Nonetheless, he responded as her hunger rose, her passion igniting them both, yet all the while he was plagued with the realization that her thoughts, feelings, desires—all the things that made her unique—were locked away from him, hidden and unreachable.

  Is this what life would have been for Daniel? Aaron wondered as they embarked on the final turns of life’s sweetest embrace. Alone, forever alone? More than ever he needed Susan to join with him completely, and eventually she did, melding her mind with his in that last shuddering instant, enmeshing him in both the fullness of her love and the depth of her despair.

  Hours later Aaron left his sleeping wife and returned to the nursery. In the dim light he could see Daniel, his small form illuminated in the lambent glow from the holoportrait in the next room. The child lay curled on his side, one hand close to his face—thumb partially hidden between his lips, a black-and-tan stuffed bear with round button eyes and a white belly beside him. Absently, Aaron noticed that one of the toy’s seams had started to pull loose.