Hot Sleep

by Orson Scott Card

  “I have a vision of this world, Garol. I imagine it being a simple, peaceful place, where people are happy, by and large. I at least want to give it a good start. And if that means giving them a deity to worship until they no longer need one, then I’ll give them a deity.”

  “Why did you even wake me?” Stipock said. “Why did you even use that tape?”

  “Well, as for that, if you don’t cooperate, I’ll simply put you back to sleep and wake you as I woke the others, with no tape at all. So in the long run you’ll be part of the colony one way or another.”

  Stipock laughed bitterly. “Then put me under, because the way I feel right now, I’m sure as hell not going to cooperate.”

  “You’re a brilliant man, Stipock,” Jazz said. “There have been only eleven significant advances in Empire technology since the beginning of the somec. Four of them were yours.”

  “Four?”

  “I count the probe. Stipock, I don’t think the way you do. I can help people solve their human problems and I’ve taught them everything I could learn out of the ship’s library. But I can’t invent. And in a world with no metal, they need invention. We need it. Now if I put you under and woke you up mindless, maybe you’d still become an inventor and maybe not. Kapock was a designer and he still has great sensitivity—but Linkeree was a businessman and now he carves in wood. You see?”

  “So you do need me.”

  “We can survive just fine without you. But I want your help.”

  “I won’t help you as long as you’re playing God, Captain Worthing.”

  Jazz shrugged. “It’s your choice. I’m walking out of here in three days. They expect me then. Either you’ll come with me as you are now, or you’ll come with me as an infant in a box. Up to you.”

  Stipock shouted, “You really believe you’re

  God, don’t you, juggling with people’s lives as if they didn’t have anything to say about it!”

  Jason sat down at the control board, swiveled the chair around to face Stipock. “People never decide the major events in their lives, Dr. Stipock. The major decisions are made for them. The only things that people decide are the minor things. Whether they’ll be happy or not, for instance; whom they’ll love and whom they’ll hate; how trusting they intend to be. You can decide to trust me, and I’ll decide to trust you, and then maybe you can be happy, if you’ve got guts enough to be.”

  Stipock, bright red with rage, leaped for Jazz Worthing—no clear plan in mind, of course. Just a vague but overpowering urge to cause pain. And pain was, indeed, caused. Stipock lay on the floor, holding his arm.

  “That’ll be a nasty bruise, Dr. Stipock. Remember—you may have won a few duels on Capitol, but the Fleet trains its soldiers to win. And I always will.”

  A gross misappropriation of funds, Stipock thought humorlessly. He felt the anger and humiliation of a cripple—unable to control his own fate, hopelessly trapped and yet capable, completely capable, if only he could set himself free of his handicap.

  Jazz stayed busy the rest of the day, and Stipock began looking over his shoulder. He began wondering, from time to time, why Jazz was so calm and easy about having him loose in the control cabin, as if he posed no threat at all. But from time to time—in fact, whenever it occurred to him to try to attack the starpilot—Jazz would almost playfully, absentmindedly flash out a hand and bruise Stipock, a sharp, quick pain somewhere on his body. A reminder. And Stipock would put down any idea of resistance.

  What Jazz was studying, and what Stipock read over his shoulder, were charts and readouts from the computer on probable population figures, depending on different variables. Now and then, curiosity aroused, Stipock would ask a question. “Which of these is accurate?”

  “All of them. But the best predictor seems to be the max-max-mini figures—maximum fertility, maximum available resources, minimum environmental hostility. The people out there seem to like having babies. At least, they don’t want to quit having them bad enough to invent twin beds,” Jason answered, and Stipock couldn’t help laughing.

  And reports, all written by Jason himself, on the progress of the colony under each Warden. The names were all familiar—Kapock, Steven Wien, others that he had known or heard of. “Who’s this Ciel?”

  “Kapock’s oldest son. Second generation. The first native-born that I appointed as Warden.”

  “Why do you call them Wardens?”

  “I like the word.”

  “And why call it Heaven City, and the Star River, and all this other mumbo-jumbo.”

  “I like mumbo-jumbo.”

  Angry again, Stipock went away from the control and fumed quietly in a corner for a few minutes. He and Jazz spoke no more that day, until Jason yawned, looked at his watch, and said, “Time to sleep,”

  “Not for me,” Stipock said.

  “When I sleep,” Jazz said, “you sleep.”

  And Jazz had a needle in his hand. Stipock leaped to his feet, bounded away to comparative safety by the door to the storage room. “Don’t come near me with that.”

  “You’re afraid,” Jazz said, “that once I have you asleep normally, I’ll put you under somec. Well, I won’t. When I put you under somec, you’ll know it.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “Got any choice?”

  There was a struggle anyway, a brief scuffle that Jazz won handily, and Stipock soon slept.

  Lights up. Stipock opened his eyes. Jazz Worthing was leaning over the bed, and Stipock sighed in relief. Awake another day, with memory intact.

  Breakfast out of the ship’s paste. Taste foul. “Well, the ship has been out for over a thousand years,” Jazz said, smiling pleasantly as Stipock grimaced and forced it down. “Usually they’re refitted within a century. Time does things to flavor.”

  After breakfast, more reports, and Stipock began to get a feel for the community outside the starship. By lunchtime he had even conceded to himself that Jason had really done remarkably well, turning mindless infants into a functional, working society in only five decades—and without being there much of the time.

  “I can see,” he finally said, “that their worship of you served a real purpose for a time. Continuity. Their awe of you lent authority to the Warden, kept them together.”

  Jazz turned around in amazement. “Do I hear you, Garol Stipock, the perfect judge of right and wrong, actually commending me, the man who plays God, of doing something right?”

  Stipock turned red and Jazz laughed. “I told you that before. But you wouldn’t believe me. Just like a scientist. Perfectly willing to decide what’s right and wrong without recourse to the evidence.”

  “When I saw the evidence,” Stipock said grimly, “I changed my mind.”

  Suddenly more mild, Jazz said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to mock. And I’m glad you saw my point.”

  “Then I hope you’ll see mine,” Stipock said. “This God thing can’t be forever. Let’s make a bargain. Let me go out there, let me live there for at least a year. I’ll be ‘inventive’ or whatever you expect of me—I’ll try to find ways to improve their lives with the limited resources. I’ll help build up your colony. I’ll obey all the laws.”

  “Bargain?” Jason asked. “And what will I do for you in this bargain?”

  “You’ll simply let me teach. I won’t undermine the Warden’s authority. I’ll just try to wean them away from their belief in this God you’ve become to them.”

  “By teaching?”

  “Persuading.”

  “You realize that if you try to teach them that I was a traitor to the Empire, which your little conspiracy believed, they’ll either not understand, or they’ll get very upset at you.”

  “I’m not a fool,” Stipock said, “at least not usually. I know enough to avoid getting people angry. Peaceful means. Let me try to change their minds. Or do you like being God so much you won’t even take a chance?”

  Jazz cocked his head and looked intently at Stipock’s eyes. “You mean you’d
promise to obey all the laws, to build up the community in every possibly way, in exchange for my allowing you to teach people that I’m not God?”

  “I promise it now.”

  “It must be worth a lot to you to unthrone God,” Jazz said.

  “If there were a God,” Stipock said, “I wouldn’t fight it. But when a normal man acts the role, then I’ll unmake him the best I can.”

  “Well, then,” Jazz said, “I think that’s a fair enough bargain. If you can persuade them, then fine. But I warn you—I’ll give the Warden power to imprison you if you incite or perform one act of violence. Even one. Agreed?”

  Stipock hesitated, then nodded.” But I won’t be responsible if some crazy person takes an idea into his own head—”

  Jazz laughed. “This isn’t the Empire, Stipock. The Wardens are all just. They try to be fair. And usually succeed.”

  “Who’s the Warden right now?”

  “Hop Noyock,” Jazz said.

  “Your agent?”

  “Was. But since I don’t have any more income, his ten percent is gone, too.”

  Jazz held out his hand. Stipock took it, and they struck the bargain. Afterward Stipock laughed. “I can’t believe making a bargain without lawyers and contracts.”

  “This isn’t the Empire.”

  “Why are you trusting me?”

  “Because,” Jason said, “I have the foolish belief that I can see into people’s hearts. I’ve looked into yours.”

  “A rather dismal place, wasn’t it?” Stipock said, playing along with the joke.

  “No more so than normal,” Jazz said, smiling. “You still hate me. But I can trust you to keep your part of the bargain.

  “And,” Jason added, “you can trust me to keep mine.”

  10

  NOYOCK LAID down the pen on the table and rubbed his eyes. He shouldn’t have left the writing until the last minute. But the History had to be kept. Not since the first day of the first Warden, Kapock the Eldest, had any Warden failed to keep the History, and Noyock prided himself on being more thorough than any of them.

  A rooster crowed, and then another, as if in answer. Noyock reached over and opened the shutter slightly. Still dark—someone must be walking the chickenyards, then. But perhaps it was nearly morning. Was the sky a little lighter? Had to sleep. Jason coming today, he muttered to himself. Yawned again. Jason today, and the History is ready.

  Noyock stretched, and left the room he had set aside for his duties as Warden—his planning, the History, meetings with individuals and couples, when the problems or questions weren’t appropriate for open discussion. This, too, was new, since Jason had left. He will be pleased, Noyock told himself. I hope he’s pleased.

  Below him, he could hear the clank of tin pans, the dull sound of a wooden spoon stirring rapidly in a clay pot. Who this morning? Riavain, Noyock’s own wife? Or his daughter-in-law, Esten, Wien’s eldest daughter, who had married Aven in a joyful ceremony—how many year ago? Thirty. Noyock chuckled. Poor Aven, he thought. My poor son, now more than fifty years old, while I look scarcely older than I did the day Jason brought me down from the Star Tower, they all tell me.

  And Noyock paused to think about Jason for a moment, to think of the miracle of dwelling in the Star Tower, because no one who dwelt there with Jason ever aged. They could go in, as Noyock had done, leaving their children in their twenties, and come out to find that their children seemed to be older than they. Poor Aven. But no, aging was a part of life, the natural pattern of things. Like the cows and horses that grew old and died. It was not poor Aven. It was blessed, lucky, favored Noyock and Riavain and all the others who had been taken into the Star Tower; and thinking of Jason’s goodness to everyone in Heaven City, Noyock’s eyes filled with tears, and he wondered if he wasn’t getting old after all, and just as he thought that, he heard a roar from downstairs.

  “Lying to your father on top of disobedience! What kind of child have I brought forth!”

  Aven, Noyock thought to himself, and doubtless poor Hoom was the object of Aven’s wrath. Aven had always been obedient, deferent, careful. And now the poor man was cursed with a son who was wilful, forgetful, prone to disobey. But, Noyock remembered with a chuckle, the boy was a hell of a lot more fun to have around than his father had been. And Noyock had often spent hours with Hoom as he was growing up, teaching him, answering the boy’s questions, asking his own. Bright boy.

  The slapping sound of a leather strap. Ah, thought Noyock. This is a bad one, then. Noyock debated whether to go, for though he tried not to intervene in the way Aven raised the boy, he had often found that by simply appearing on the scene, Aven’s anger was tempered, and Hoom was spared the worst.

  Noyock went down the stairs to the second floor (remembering, proudly, that his farm and cattlefields had been so successful that he was the first in the whole of Heaven City to have a house with three floors. And a basement) and then turned, going up the hall to the small room that was Hoom’s own, unshared with his sisters or his brothers.

  “And that,” said Aven’s voice, now low and fierce with the exertion of the whipping, “is what happens to boys who disobey. And that,” with the fall of the strap again, “is what happens to boys who lie!”

  Noyock stood in the door. Hoom was kneeling at his bed, soundless as his father brought the strap down again on his naked back. Large welts were rising, but Noyock calculated that Aven could be hitting a good deal harder, and so didn’t intervene, only walked in a little farther and cheerfully said, “That brings the count to eleven.”

  Aven brought the strap down again. “Let’s make it an even dozen then, and be done.”

  He took the strap and hooked it through his belt, then faced his father. “Well, father,” Aven said, “you see how my patience has finally been pushed too far.”

  “I do indeed,” said Noyock. “And what did the boy do this time?”

  “I come here in the morning to wake him, and find him in here half-dressed. I think, ‘The boy’s getting up early to help,’ and come in to give him a hug and clap him a good-morning, and by damn his clothes are wet! Been down by the river again! Down playing water games with that little bastard Wix, no doubt. But I says to him, ‘Did you sleep well?’ And he says to me, ‘Very well, father. Didn’t stir all the night long.’ And I’ll not put up with being disobeyed and lied to on top of it all!”

  “So I see. Well, the boy’s strapped well, now, isn’t he?”

  “And I hope it hurts him long enough that he learns to obey his father.” And with that Aven stalked righteously out of the room.

  Now, in the silence that followed, Noyock could hear the boy’s labored breathing. Crying? Either that or trying very hard not to, which amounts to the same, Noyock decided. But no need to let the boy wallow in it. Good cheer: “Well, Hoom, my boy, today’s Jason’s homecoming.”

  Grunt from the face in the blankets.

  “And today your grandfather’s been Warden for one solid year. Four to go. Better this time than the first. What do you think, will Jason have me out, or keep me on?”

  No answer at all.

  “I suppose that’s a trivial question to you right now, Hoom. But it plagues me a far sight more than anything else right now. What’s troubling you? I know the pain’s a trifle to you—what’s your sorrow?”

  Mumbles.

  “And only God heard that remark. Have you nothing to say to me?”

  Hoom lifted his face from the blanket. His cheeks were tear-streaked, but his eyes were aflame with hatred. “I want to kill him,” the boy hissed. “I want to kill him!”

  The words were like knives to Noyock, who couldn’t bear such words being said within his family. But he only smiled. “Ah, it isn’t the pain at all, then, is it, because if it was the blows, you’d only want to thrash him. It’s the shame, isn’t it, of being beaten.”

  Hoom started to argue, then thought better of it, and Noyock took note of the boy’s increasing maturity, that he’d change his mind so re
adily when he knew the other side had the truth. “Yes,” Hoom said. “It’s the shame.”

  “Well, Jason’s coming today, and all shames are forgotten.”

  “Not all,” Hoom said. “He forbids me to spend time with Wix.”

  “He’s your father.”

  “Father or not, Wix is my friend! I didn’t choose my own damn father! And I did choose my friend!”

  “Well, you’re thirteen,” said Noyock. “In only eleven months you’ll be fourteen, and come of age, and no father or mother can tell you what to do or not to do.”

  “But by then Wix’ll have it done! And I won’t have had a part in it!”

  “In what?”

  “Logs on the river!”

  “Ah,” Noyock said. “That again. But Wix is so impractical! Why go out playing on the river, with the current as dangerous and swift as it is, when we have no need to travel on it?”

  “But the city’ll grow, grandfather! Wix says there’ll come a time when a floor of logs on the river will carry cargo from one end of Heaven City to another!”

  “You can’t even guide your silly logs,” Noyock said. “The river isn’t an ox, to be tamed by men.”

  Hoom turned away in ill-hidden disgust. “No, you’re as bad as father.”

  “Probably worse,” Noyock said. “I love you like he does, but I haven’t the courage to try to stop you from drowning yourself. If it was up to me, I’d say, ‘Let the boys experiment. Let them learn the only way they ever will’.”

  “I wish you were my father!” Hoom said.

  “Too late to arrange that,” Noyock answered, laughing. “But go on down to breakfast. Jason’s coming today.”

  Suddenly concerned, Hoom said, “Are my eyes red? Does it show that I was crying?”

  “Not a bit. But I’d advise you to put on some clothes, boy. Your mother’s likely to belt you a good one if you come naked to breakfast.” Hoom laughed, and so did Noyock; and the Warden left the room, wishing that all the unhappy people in Heaven City could be so easily comforted.

  Breakfast was placid, except when Aven started telling how Niggo the tailor had nearly beaten Wix within an inch of his life, because the boy had been teaching Niggo’s nine-year-old daughter to swim. “That’ll teach young hooligans to keep their hands off young children.”