EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  Pe­op­le met them and di­rec­ted them to se­ats in a lar­ge audi­to­ri­um sha­ped li­ke a circ­le with a bi­te ta­ken from one ed­ge. The mis­sing bi­te pro­ved to be a sta­ge, which ro­se slowly. As it ro­se, three tho­usand vo­ices stil­led.

  One man sto­od on the sta­ge: a man with a shock of whi­te ha­ir and start­ling black eyeb­rows-a man Kurt re­cog­ni­zed, as did ever­yo­ne el­se in the audi­to­ri­um: Pol­vay-the Pri­me Mi­nis­ter of World­Co.

  In ut­ter si­len­ce, Pol­vay sto­od, sta­ring at his audi­en­ce, fi­xing first one sec­ti­on, then anot­her with a lo­ok that ex­pec­ted- de­man­ded-atten­ti­on. Three tho­usand pa­irs of eyes sta­red back in­to his, in­to eyes that bur­ned with an al­most pal­pab­le in­ten­sity.

  Pol­vay sto­od this way for a full mi­nu­te. Then, with a curt nod, he sa­id in one-ton­gue, "World Co­ali­ti­on wel­co­mes its im­mor­tal le­aders."

  As a fa­int gasp rip­pled thro­ugh the gro­up, Pol­vay con­ti­nu­ed. "You ha­ve each be­en ca­re­ful­ly con­si­de­red for yo­ur new sta­tus. You ha­ve be­en ob­ser­ved and eva­lu­ated. We ha­ve fo­und each of you fit for ser­vi­ce to the Co­ali­ti­on and to its pe­op­le.

  "At this ti­me, the bur­den of go­ver­ning is yo­urs. Tho­se of you who de­ci­de to ta­ke it up sho­uld know now that this bur­den is not a light one, and not one to be cast asi­de la­ter. You must know now that as a gro­up you will carry the wel­fa­re of yo­ur fel­low hu­mans-and with it, you will carry the stig­ma­ta of le­aders­hip. For all ti­me, you will be set apart from ot­hers; for all ti­me, you and yo­ur child­ren will be di­vor­ced from ot­her pe­op­le.

  "Tho­se out­si­de yo­ur gro­up will lo­ok upon you, with ca­use, as the­ir pub­lic ser­vants… pub­lic ser­vants in the tru­est sen­se of the word. They will lo­ok upon yo­urs as an eli­te gro­up… and they will fe­el thank­ful that they are not re­qu­ired to be a part of it."

  Kurt sta­red at Pol­vay and tri­ed to fol­low each word. He had stu­di­ed the one-ton­gue for over two ye­ars, yet still it re­qu­ired his full at­ten­ti­on. He co­uld not yet think in one-ton­gue; he had to twist each phra­se in­to Eng­lish to get its me­aning. He blin­ked at the words he he­ard, won­de­ring if he un­ders­to­od, thin­king that if he did, what then?

  As if in ans­wer, Pol­vay sta­red in his di­rec­ti­on, "You ha­ve be­en cho­sen as part of a le­aders­hip po­ol. As in­di­vi­du­als, yo­ur skills and inc­li­na­ti­ons are di­ver­gent; as a gro­up, yo­ur pro­fi­les are comp­le­men­tary. So­me of you will be tra­ined as edu­ca­ti­onal le­aders; so­me, com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons ex­perts; so­me, eco­no­mists, and so on. Yet, at the end of this tra­ining pe­ri­od-and it will be a long and an ar­du­o­us one-each of you will un­ders­tand yo­ur pla­ce wit­hin a chan­ging Co­ali­ti­on, and each of you will un­ders­tand yo­ur du­ti­es-and the du­ti­es of yo­ur fel­low le­aders. The pe­op­le will see to it. And if you fa­il, they will cast you out…"

  Kurt stra­ined to fol­low Pol­vay's words with one part of his mind, whi­le the ot­her part tri­ed des­pe­ra­tely to as­si­mi­la­te the me­aning. Le­aders. They we­re go­ing to be le­aders in a chan­ging World­Co. Af­ter they we­re tra­ined, they wo­uld be cho­sen by lot to he­ad a Mi­nistry. Every mi­nis­ter wo­uld ha­ve a watch­dog gro­up-the Gu­ar­di­ans of the Pe­op­le-cul­led from the ge­ne­ral po­pu­la­ce to mo­ni­tor all the mi­nis­ter's ac­ti­vi­ti­es.

  Pol­vay went on: "As le­aders, do not think that you can de­ce­ive the pe­op­le. They will be con­di­ti­oned to be­li­eve that to be cho­sen as a Gu­ar­di­an is the hig­hest ho­nor and duty… hig­her even than a Mi­nis­ter's… for you are the ser­vants of the pe­op­le; they are the pe­op­le. The term of duty of each Gu­ar­di­an gro­up will be va­ri­ab­le, but its vi­gi­lan­ce will not. If a gro­up dis­co­vers mis­con­duct in a Mi­nis­ter, a se­cond and lar­ger gro­up will be con­ve­ned by com­pu­ter to de­ci­de gu­ilt or in­no­cen­ce." He­re Pol­vay fi­xed the gro­up with a ga­ze that se­emed to bo­re in­to Kurt's so­ul. "If you are fo­und gu­ilty, you will be ous­ted in disg­ra­ce and dec­la­red non-func­ti­onal."

  Non-func­ti­onal. What did he me­an? Kurt le­aned for­ward in his cha­ir as Pol­vay re­pe­ated, "Non-func­ti­onal. Out­si­de of so­ci­ety… Tho­se gu­ilty of cor­rup­ti­on of a Mi­nistry will be clot­hed and fed and no mo­re. They will be al­lo­wed no use­ful work, no en­terp­ri­se, no com­fort wit­hin the so­ci­ety of hu­mans… for eter­nity."

  A shi­ver rip­pled up and down Kurt's spi­ne. It wo­uld be bet­ter to be de­ad than cast out with not­hing left but bo­re­dom and fu­ti­lity. Bet­ter to be de­ad.

  Pol­vay's to­ne chan­ged ab­ruptly. His vo­ice was lo­wer now, yet so­me­how mo­re in­ten­se. "We of the Co­ali­ti­on re­ali­ze that go­vern­ment for im­mor­tals must be dif­fe­rent in kind from ours. This has ca­used us to lo­ok back­ward in the ho­pe of se­e­ing in­to the fu­tu­re. When we lo­oked, we cho­se as our temp­la­te the lon­gest-li­ved go­vern­ment on the fa­ce of the earth-the go­vern­ment of Lycur­gus, le­ader of Spar­ta. We ha­ve ta­ken this temp­la­te and chan­ged it in­to what we be­li­eve will be a go­vern­ment for all pe­op­le… for all ti­me…" Pol­vay lo­oked abo­ve the­ir he­ads then as if he ga­zed at so­met­hing very far away. Then he re­pe­ated in no mo­re than a whis­per, "…for all ti­me…"

  Kurt watc­hed the old man on the sta­ge and sud­denly he knew what Pol­vay me­ant; he was tal­king abo­ut his own end, his own per­so­nal mor­ta­lity. Kurt blin­ked at the qu­ick re­ali­za­ti­on that ca­me to him: the cer­ta­in know­led­ge that Pol­vay was as­king three tho­usand yo­ung im­mor­tals to imp­le­ment a go­vern­ment in per­pe­tu­ity for one re­ason, and one re­ason only-to gi­ve the mor­tal le­aders of World­Co the only im­mor­ta­lity they wo­uld ever ha­ve.

  * * *

  They had be­en di­vi­ded in­to thirty gro­ups of one hund­red. Kurt fo­und him­self shun­ted deftly in­to a li­ne mar­ked 12 Co­ali­ti­on. He lo­oked in va­in for Hal­lie's now-fa­mi­li­ar fa­ce as a mo­ver to­ok him swiftly to 12-Co's qu­ar­ters.

  He tri­ed to hi­de the in­se­cu­rity he felt must show on his fa­ce. He co­uld fe­el it cre­ep in­to his eyes as he glan­ced aro­und at the ot­hers on the mo­ver; he tho­ught he saw it ref­lec­ted back from ot­her eyes, so­me bright blue, so­me dark. His gro­up se­emed to be com­po­sed of pe­op­le from every qu­ar­ter of the world.

  A yo­ung man tur­ned and spo­ke to him in an un­fa­mi­li­ar ton­gue. When Kurt sta­red back, not comp­re­hen­ding, the man reph­ra­sed his qu­es­ti­on in me­ti­cu­lo­us one-ton­gue. "Do you know whe­re we are go­ing?"

  Kurt sho­ok his he­ad. He lo­oked at his ne­igh­bor un­cer­ta­inly. He was Chi­ne­se… or may­be Ko­re­an. Phra­sing as ca­re­ful­ly as he co­uld in one-ton­gue, Kurt thrust out a hand in gre­eting and int­ro­du­ced him­self.

  The yo­ung man's hand grip­ped his. "Chao Ching-jen."

  For a mo­ment, Kurt felt con­fu­si­on at what he to­ok to be a fo­re­ign gre­eting; then, with a grin, he re­ali­zed that he had he­ard a na­me, not a sa­lu­ta­ti­on.

  Chao Ching-jen ga­ve him a qu­ick nod and an ans­we­ring grin that til­ted the outer cor­ners of his eyes even mo­re. "Just call me Chao. My gu­ess is per­haps less ac­cu­ra­te than yo­urs, but I think we are go­ing to mo­ve in­to most in­te­res­ting ti­mes."

  That was sup­po­sed to be a Chi­ne­se cur­se, wasn't it?-may you li­ve in in­te­res­ting ti­mes. When he saw the cor­ner of Chao's mo­uth qu­irk and his eyes be­gin to twink­le, Kurt re­ali­zed that it was me­ant as a joke. "Most in­te­res­ting ti­mes," he ans­we­red.

  The mo­ver slo­wed, and the gro­up that was 12 Co­ali­ti­on fi­led af­ter a wo­man in World­Co uni­form who spo­ke bri
skly in one-ton­gue. “The­se are yo­ur qu­ar­ters for the next two nights. You will fol­low me, ple­ase."

  They tra­iled af­ter her thro­ugh wi­de do­ors in­to a lar­ge brightly ligh­ted lobby with ti­ers of ro­oms to one si­de. The walls we­re li­ke the rest of World­Co's un­derg­ro­und comp­lex, smo­othly cut from rock and pa­in­ted whi­te. From the va­ul­ted ce­iling, a bank of purp­lish lights gle­amed down on a jung­le of plants in a cres­cent-sha­ped cent­ral oasis.

  The gro­up fol­lo­wed the wo­man to one si­de of the gre­en is­land in­to an al­co­ve de­li­ne­ated by a small wa­ter­fall. They to­ok se­ats on cur­ving cha­irs and co­uc­hes set in an el­lip­ti­cal pat­tern. Kurt sat next to Chao on a thick whi­te co­uch next to a plan­ting of cycads and ba­na­nas.

  When they we­re set­tled, the wo­man sa­id in one-ton­gue, "I will spe­ak slowly so that each of you can fol­low what I am sa­ying. I re­ali­ze that many of you find the lan­gu­age dif­fi­cult. In ti­me, it will be­co­me comp­le­tely na­tu­ral to you. One-ton­gue is ne­ces­sary to the Co­ali­ti­on for ob­vi­o­us re­asons: un­ders­tan­ding can­not ta­ke pla­ce in Ba­bel.

  "Just as you will know the lan­gu­age as if you we­re born to it, so you will know yo­ur brot­hers and sis­ters of 12 Co­ali­ti­on. You will be spen­ding the next thirty ye­ars in each ot­her's com­pany."

  The surp­ri­se Kurt felt spring to his fa­ce was ref­lec­ted in ot­hers aro­und the ro­om as they lo­oked at each ot­her.

  "I will re­pe­at. You will be spen­ding the next thirty ye­ars in each ot­her's com­pany. Du­ring that ti­me, you will le­arn in­ti­ma­tely the ways and cus­toms of every gro­up of hu­mans in the system. You will tra­vel to every cor­ner of this pla­net and to the sa­tel­li­tes that circ­le it. You will le­arn first­hand how to go­vern this system and its pe­op­le from the hand­ful of pri­mi­ti­ves in the Phi­lip­pi­ne jung­les to the tiny gro­up be­gin­ning to mi­ne the as­te­ro­id of Ves­ta.

  "To­mor­row, yo­ur clas­ses be­gin. You will be as­sig­ned sle­eping ro­oms now. In a half-ho­ur, you are to gat­her he­re for ref­resh­ments and an op­por­tu­nity to get to know each ot­her." The wo­man tur­ned and lo­oked aro­und the gro­up, "I can tell you now that 12 Co­ali­ti­on's first as­sign­ment will ta­ke you for fi­ve ye­ars to L-5."

  L-5! Spa­ce. He was go­ing the­re? Ac­tu­al­ly go­ing the­re? He sho­ok his he­ad in be­wil­der­ment. He had al­ways dre­amed of spa­ce, ho­ped to go the­re, but ne­ver had he tho­ught it wo­uld be this way. He lost his con­cent­ra­ti­on then. Alt­ho­ugh he con­ti­nu­ed to watch the wo­man in­tently, conf­lic­ting tho­ughts war­red in his bra­in. It se­emed too much to ab­sorb at on­ce: the stran­ge in­ten­sity of Pol­vay and his re­ve­la­ti­ons; the co­ming chan­ge of le­aders­hip; the chan­ce to go in­to spa­ce. And twi­ned aro­und the­se tho­ughts, const­ric­ting them with a tight­ness he felt in his thro­at, we­re the wo­man's words-"thirty ye­ars."

  He lo­oked aro­und him at the fa­ces of stran­gers and tri­ed to ima­gi­ne his fu­tu­re. Thirty ye­ars-no ti­me at all in the sche­me of things. Thirty ye­ars. Be­hind him lay his own twenty, his past ye­ars stretc­hing li­ke a cur­ving path back to­ward a misty be­gin­ning that se­emed to be a very long ti­me ago, yet they we­re not­hing, not­hing at all… not even a blink of an eye in the fa­ce of eter­nity.

  * * *

  He had ma­na­ged to get ple­asantly drunk. With one arm thrown over the ac­com­mo­da­ting sho­ul­der of Chao Ching-jen, he ste­adi­ed him­self and po­ured anot­her glass of punch. Half of it ma­na­ged to slop out of his glass and slosh to­ward a tray of che­eses. He watc­hed, fas­ci­na­ted, as the pud­dle crept to­ward the ed­ge of the tab­le. As it be­gan its ine­xo­rab­le drib­ble to the flo­or, he clap­ped his hand on Chao's sho­ul­der in glee, "Lo­ok the­re. Wo­uld you lo­ok at that!" he sa­id to him in a hi­de­o­us mix­tu­re of Eng­lish and one-ton­gue.

  It se­emed to him that the lit­tle stre­am of punch was so­me­how la­den with me­aning, so­me­how pro­fo­und. He co­uld al­most grasp it. Ins­te­ad, he gras­ped Chao's shirt and be­gan to sag alar­mingly abo­ut the kne­es. As he buck­led, his grip tigh­te­ned on the shirt and a rip­ping so­und be­gan in the re­gi­on of Chao's sho­ul­der. He felt a ste­ad­ying hand abo­ut his wa­ist and Chao's vo­ice tick­ling his ear, "Per­haps this le­ader of hu­ma­nity wo­uld sit down now."

  He felt him­self ste­ered in a zig­zag co­ur­se to­ward a co­uch next to the purp­le-ligh­ted jung­le. As one en­tity, they tur­ned, bac­ked up to the co­uch, and plop­ped down to­get­her. Part of what was left in his glass lan­ded in his lap; he dra­ined the rest in one swift gulp.

  Be­hind him, the lit­tle wa­ter­fall trick­led down its ar­ti­fi­ci­al co­ur­se. He coc­ked his he­ad. "Lis­ten." It se­emed to him to ec­ho the pro­fun­dity of the drib­bling punch. "Do you he­ar that?" he as­ked Chao. "Do you know what that me­ans?"

  As Chao lo­oked back with an un­comp­re­hen­ding exp­res­si­on, it se­emed to Kurt that his com­pa­ni­on's eyes we­re ble­ared. Per­haps Chao wasn't in­tel­li­gent, he tho­ught. Po­or guy. He sho­uld be kind to him. He sta­red in­tently in­to the dark, slan­ting eyes. "Lis­ten to that." Now, not only Chao's eyes, but his en­ti­re fa­ce se­emed ble­ary. Po­or guy. The po­or guy. Kurt re­ac­hed for the one-ton­gue words that wo­uld exp­ress in simp­le terms the ama­zing con­cept that se­emed so cle­ar to him. An­yo­ne co­uld grasp it, grasp the ele­gan­ce of it: Fo­un­ta­ins went on and on, just li­ke he and Chao we­re go­ing to go on and on. "Lis­ten." He bro­ught his fa­ce clo­se to Chao's.

  "Pe­op­le. So­me go on and on and… so­me are po­ured out." He be­amed in­to the Ori­en­tal fa­ce be­si­de him. "Lis­ten to the wa­ter. What do­es it ma­ke you think of?"

  Chao coc­ked his he­ad uns­te­adily to­ward the fo­un­ta­in. He lis­te­ned in­tently for a mo­ment be­fo­re he sa­id, "Per­haps dan­ge­ro­us pres­su­re in the blad­der sho­uld be re­li­eved."

  Kurt sta­red at him, and then as the words fo­und the­ir way in­to his bra­in, he ext­rac­ted the­ir me­aning. "Excel­lent. You are a per­cep­ti­ve per­son, fri­end Chao."

  Clin­ging to each ot­her, they ro­se as one wobbly be­ing and pro­ce­eded in a scut­tling crab­li­ke ga­it to­ward the bath­ro­om.

  * * *

  A le­mon-scen­ted clo­ud puf­fed from a small aper­tu­re ne­ar his he­ad. Kurt mut­te­red in his sle­ep and tos­sed a pro­tes­ting arm over his fa­ce.

  "Go­od mor­ning," sa­id a che­ery vo­ice. Anot­her puff of le­mon scent tra­iled ac­ross his no­se. "Ta­ke de­ep bre­aths, and you will awa­ken qu­ickly."

  Half awa­re, he comp­li­ed. As the shro­uds of sle­ep be­gan to fall away, they we­re rep­la­ced by a he­adac­he of hi­de­o­us in­ten­sity. He gro­aned and to­uc­hed a throb­bing temp­le. As the he­adac­he inc­re­ased its tor­tu­re, a tor­men­ted "Oh, God" es­ca­ped from his parc­hed lips. Va­gue me­mo­ri­es of the night be­fo­re ca­me to him in a stran­ge mon­ta­ge. He re­mem­be­red lo­oking in­to Chao's eyes. Why co­uldn't Chao un­ders­tand? Stu­pid not to see. The who­le me­aning of li­fe-right the­re in front of his eyes, and he co­uldn't see that the punch… the punch… so­met­hing abo­ut the punch… Kurt tri­ed to se­ize the re­ve­la­ti­on, but it glim­me­red away just out of re­ach.

  Hot tongs clam­ped on­to his temp­les and squ­e­ezed rhythmi­cal­ly. He mo­aned pi­te­o­usly. With the pa­in ca­me a dim me­mory: he re­mem­be­red grap­pling with a girl na­med Cat Che­ese… No. That wasn't right… Catch Ease? … Ka­tje… Bril­li­ant girl. Co­uld say "no" in se­ven lan­gu­ages.

  "Go­od mor­ning," re­pe­ated the vo­ice. "Ta­ke de­ep bre­aths and you will be fully awa­ke. Re­port to the lobby in one-half ho­ur."

  As full awa
­ke­ness ca­me, he inc­re­ased the vo­lu­me of his gro­ans. Ever so slowly, he ro­se to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on and tri­ed not to jar his he­ad. He lo­oked ro­und the ro­om with no me­mory of how he had got­ten the­re. So­me­how, he was su­re that the ne­ga­ti­ve Ka­tje had not ac­com­pa­ni­ed him.

  He sat, hol­ding his he­ad, and won­de­red what had pos­ses­sed him to get so tho­ro­ughly shred­ded. Oh… had he be­en drenc­hed!

  The hot tongs se­emed to be squ­e­ezing his eyes to­get­her. Had to be… He co­uldn't fo­cus. He ap­pli­ed fin­ger­tips to his eyeb­rows and gently tug­ged in a va­in at­tempt to se­pa­ra­te his mal­func­ti­oning eyes.

  Slowly, he be­ca­me awa­re that his ton­gue had en­lar­ged-it had swel­led and dri­ed out du­ring the night. Pro­pel­led by the per­sis­tent le­mon scent, he got to his fe­et and tri­ed to rehyd­ra­te his ton­gue in the bath­ro­om.

  He splas­hed wa­ter on his fa­ce. The pres­su­re of the drop­lets on his tor­tu­red temp­les was un­be­arab­le. Ne­ver aga­in. Ne­ver aga­in wo­uld he get so blin­ke­red. Oh-h-h-h… Ne­ver.

  * * *

  He ma­na­ged to get to the lobby only a lit­tle be­fo­re Chao, who se­emed to be in si­mi­lar dist­ress. To­get­her, hol­ding the­ir he­ads very stiffly, they jo­ined the strag­gling gro­up.

  The­ir World­Co gu­ide from the night be­fo­re sa­id with dis­gus­ting che­er, "Go­od mor­ning. Bre­ak­fast is ser­ved in the hall to yo­ur right."

  Bre­ak­fast. Oh, God.

  With a sly smi­le, she ad­ded, "Tho­se of you who are too di­sab­led to con­temp­la­te bre­ak­fast will fol­low me, ple­ase."