EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  His black eyes se­emed to grow even dar­ker, se­emed to ab­sorb, ins­te­ad of ref­lect, the flic­ke­ring lights of his con­so­le.

  Then he dis­mis­sed the tho­ught. Af­ter all, he'd fo­und it, hadn't he? They co­uldn't fo­ol him the way they did ni­nety-ni­ne per­cent of the idi­ot she­ep. And they we­re she­ep-all of them. So­me­ti­mes it ama­zed him at how easily they we­re led. All it to­ok was a lo­ok from him, and a few well-pla­ced words, and pe­op­le ate from his hand. He smi­led to him­self and ex­ten­ded his hand, palm up.

  Idi­ot she­ep. They cal­led him com­pel­ling. They told him that, one-by-one, in con­fi­den­ce, drop­ping the­ir eyes be­fo­re his ga­ze as if they we­re as­ha­med of what they sa­id.

  He lo­oked at the ho­lo aga­in. A smi­le grew on his fa­ce, ma­king him lo­ok as open, as in­no­cent, as a che­rub. Well, let them play the­ir ga­mes, he tho­ught. It was his mo­ve now. His hands gli­ded over the di­als, orc­hest­ra­ting the ima­ge be­fo­re him. Ac­ross the wo­man’s smi­ling fa­ce he fa­ded in the sha­dowy let­ters:

  He lo­oked at the ima­ge and nod­ded, sa­tis­fi­ed. The ga­me wo­uld ta­ke a long ti­me. And he had all the ti­me the­re was.

  * * *

  As dayg­low fa­ded, Sil­vio ate alo­ne in his aus­te­re qu­ar­ters. He al­lo­wed him­self a sing­le glass of wi­ne with his din­ner. He ne­ver had mo­re. He didn't da­re.

  Twi­ce he had ove­rin­dul­ged. Only twi­ce. And each ti­me, as he felt him­self lo­sing cont­rol, ca­me the fe­ar-the dre­ad­ful crac­king open of the thing in­si­de him. It was only with the ef­fort of his will that he had ma­na­ged to lock it down aga­in, the thing. Only with ext­ra ef­fort co­uld he ke­ep it hid­den.

  It was bu­ri­ed de­ep wit­hin him, and he felt its strength wit­ho­ut un­ders­tan­ding it. He li­ked to think of it as an in­ner mag­ma, se­qu­es­te­red away un­der a pla­cid sur­fa­ce, mol­ten, fi­ery, and very, very po­wer­ful. And so­me day, when it was ti­me, he wo­uld let it ro­il thro­ugh him, thro­ugh the dark in­si­des of him. And when it was ti­me, it wo­uld chan­ge the fa­ce of hu­man­kind.

  He ate slowly and sip­ped his sing­le glass of wi­ne and felt the po­wer churn de­ep wit­hin him. That it was po­wer, he had no do­ubt, but its exact na­tu­re elu­ded him. He sus­pec­ted that it was cos­mic. He sen­sed it-sen­sed its uni­qu­eness. That it might be an ul­ti­ma­te evil int­ri­gu­ed him, ti­til­la­ted him, yet the fact that it was a mystery su­ited him per­fectly. He knew it wo­uld be re­ve­aled to him in ti­me. And Sil­vio was a very pa­ti­ent man.

  He con­si­de­red the con­cept of Re­nas­cen­ce. He tho­ught how easy it wo­uld be to sway pub­lic opi­ni­on aga­inst the prog­ram. He held Ves­ta's me­dia in his hand. He ex­ten­ded his hand, palm up­ward, and smi­led, con­si­de­ring the symbo­lism. He was go­ing to let the cho­sen child­ren of Ves­ta go to Earth. His fin­gers cur­led in his palm and tigh­te­ned the­re. He was go­ing to let them die, when he, only he, co­uld ha­ve pre­ven­ted it. It was his will.

  * * *

  La­ter that night, he prow­led the walk­ways of Ves­ta and en­te­red the as­te­ro­id's laby­rint­hi­ne tun­nels, which we­re avo­ided by most ci­ti­zens.

  The go­vern­ment had cho­sen to ig­no­re the Laby­rinth, win­king at its exis­ten­ce, whis­king it away with bu­re­a­uc­ra­tic ease as if it didn't exist.

  He wal­ked thro­ugh its ma­ze of scen­ted ho­log­rams, ig­no­ring the fa­int ha­ze of hu­man phe­ro­mo­nes, awa­re as few ot­hers we­re of the sub­li­mi­nal sen­sa­ti­ons that bom­bar­ded his sen­ses and whis­pe­red softly, ever so softly, in his bra­in. He wal­ked, un­to­uc­hed by the pul­sing throb of rhythms that we­re felt mo­re than he­ard. He brus­hed by the prof­fe­red dusts and pas­tes that of­fe­red dre­ams and ob­li­vi­on for a whi­le and, tur­ning, en­te­red a nar­row al­ley and ca­me to a sil­ken do­or.

  The wo­man the­re to­ok his hand and led him in­si­de.

  The ro­om was a va­ul­ted ca­ve, ro­ugh-hewn from the rock of Ves­ta. Dim in­di­rect light po­oled and poc­ke­ted among sha­dowy re­ces­ses and ro­oms. A he­avy scent of flo­wers ming­led with the fa­int clo­ying smell of rot.

  The wo­man lo­oked at him, her eyes sha­do­wed, "Vio. It's be­en so long."

  He sta­red at her evenly; he didn't ans­wer.

  She led him to a dim ro­om. "You want a wo­man, Vio? A man?" Fi­ve bo­di­es lay be­fo­re them, still and wa­xed on sto­ne slabs, dres­sed in ve­ils that sug­ges­ted as they co­ve­red.

  He sta­red at them, sta­red at a girl who lay next to him. The thin waxy co­ating that co­ve­red her skin was yel­lo­wish. She lay as still as de­ath. Only the sligh­test ri­se and fall of her chest bet­ra­yed her. That, and the fa­int ex­ha­led odor of the drug she had ta­ken to slow her li­fe pro­ces­ses.

  He sho­ok his he­ad.

  "You want the cap aga­in, Vio?" pur­red the wo­man who held his arm. "It's go­od, isn't it?"

  He didn't ans­wer, but ins­te­ad fol­lo­wed her down a nar­row win­ding hall un­til they ca­me to anot­her do­or.

  She ope­ned it. They step­ped in­to an an­te­ro­om. Then she tur­ned to him, run­ning her hands over his sho­ul­ders and down his chest, pres­sing her thighs hard aga­inst his. "Let me stay with you this ti­me, Vio. It'll be bet­ter with me. You'll see."

  He put his hands over hers and pul­led them away. Then, smi­ling a che­rub smi­le, he sho­ok his he­ad.

  When she had left, he strip­ped, pi­ling his clot­hes ne­atly in a lit­tle stack. He pres­sed a le­ver then and ca­ught a stre­am of brow­nish li­qu­id in a tiny cup. This he sip­ped slowly. When he fi­nis­hed, he to­ok a black box from a nic­he be­si­de the in­ner do­or and ope­ned it.

  The cap gle­amed in the dim light. It was a sil­ver band brist­ling with wi­res and elect­ro­des. He pic­ked it up slowly and pla­ced it on his he­ad.

  A con­so­le fit in­to the wall be­si­de the in­ner do­or. His fin­gers ca­res­sed it with a co­de. The do­or swung open, and he step­ped in­si­de.

  The ro­om was dark. In the cen­ter sto­od a pa­le, nar­row slab, with pro­j­ec­ting arm-pi­eces a third of the way down.

  A tiny pul­se at his temp­le tic­ked ra­pidly as he wal­ked to­ward it, lay down upon it, and stretc­hed his arms out along the cros­spi­ece.

  The cross ro­se slowly, be­aring his we­ight un­til it ca­me to rest at a slan­ting ang­le with his fe­et lo­wer than his he­ad.

  A nar­row bla­ze of whi­te light se­ared in­to the black­ness, il­lu­mi­na­ting the man outst­retc­hed on the gre­at sil­ver T. The cap, ac­ti­va­ted by the light, be­gan to pul­se its mes­sa­ge in­to his bra­in.

  His ecs­tasy ro­se un­til it cul­mi­na­ted in thun­de­ring or­gas­mic pse­udo­de­ath.

  Chapter 3

  Win­ter lay on the mo­un­ta­ins. A pa­le sun shot thro­ugh an ice-blue sky and driz­zled its light on the ri­me-ice. The frost pla­yed back the sun's light from bil­li­ons of fa­cets that shi­ve­red in the cold wind run­ning thro­ugh the ba­re tre­es. He­re and the­re, so­li­tary everg­re­ens bo­wed with the we­ight of the crystals.

  In the val­ley, cur­ves of thin gray ice rim­med the la­ke. Dry snow crunc­hed un­der Kurt's fe­et as he wal­ked along its sho­re. The man with him pa­used and po­in­ted be­yond the cle­aring to a bro­ken wo­ods, which grew den­se furt­her on with clumps of rho­do­dend­ron and hem­lock. "The ca­bins be­gin over the­re. Each one is a sing­le. Bath, but no fo­od cen­ter. They'll ta­ke the­ir me­als in the di­ning ro­om"-the arm swung in an arc-"over the­re."

  Kurt nod­ded. It was ama­zing. Re­nas­cen­ce had be­en fi­nis­hed just that we­ek, and yet it lo­oked as if it had be­en the­re fo­re­ver.

  "The Com­mon Hall is the lar­ge bu­il­ding over the­re," sa­id
the man. Kurt fol­lo­wed his ga­ze past a cur­ve in the la­ke to a spit of land that pro­j­ec­ted in­to it. The bu­il­ding was ma­de of wo­od with wi­de decks can­ti­le­ve­red over the wa­ter. Smo­ke puf­fed from a mas­si­ve sto­ne chim­ney at one end. "Wo­uld you li­ke to ta­ke a lo­ok? The­re's hot cof­fee in­si­de, and fo­od."

  "I'd li­ke that," sa­id Kurt. The cold was be­gin­ning to cut thro­ugh him. His to­es felt numb. He fol­lo­wed the man to the bu­il­ding. As he wal­ked, he le­aned in­to the wind and thrust his hands de­ep in­to his poc­kets.

  They re­ac­hed the wi­de sto­ne steps and wal­ked up to the mas­si­ve do­or. It slid open at the man's to­uch, and they step­ped in­si­de.

  Kurt lo­oked aro­und in won­der. The ro­om was vast, and yet everyt­hing was to sca­le from the hu­ge sto­ne fi­rep­la­ce and its gi­ant logs, to the va­ul­ted ro­of with its mas­si­ve be­ams. The cen­ter of the ro­om was open to the wo­od ce­iling so­me fif­te­en me­ters abo­ve. He sto­od ne­ar the mid­dle and lo­oked aro­und. A mez­za­ni­ne ed­ged the pe­rip­hery, for­ming nic­hes and al­co­ves un­der­ne­ath-he­re a gra­ce­ful mu­sic ro­om with pe­le­forté and Al­der harp sur­ro­un­ded with com­for­tab­le co­uc­hes, the­re a small ele­va­ted sta­ge for pup­pet the­ater, next to that, a re­ading ro­om. Thick gold rugs snug­ged aga­inst a po­lis­hed par­qu­et flo­or. Cur­ving co­uc­hes and soft cha­irs sat in gro­ups de­sig­ned for con­ver­sa­ti­on be­low in­ti­ma­te lamp­light, or in front of the bla­zing fi­re. The mag­ni­fi­cent bu­il­ding had be­en bu­ilt to Hed­rich's plan-Hed­rich, de­ad now fifty ye­ars.

  Kurt sho­ok his he­ad in dis­be­li­ef as he lo­oked aro­und. He had known what to ex­pect, in­de­ed had in­sis­ted on it, and yet ac­tu­al­ly se­e­ing it was be­yond be­li­ef. The Com­mon Ro­om held many of the art tre­asu­res of the world-irrep­la­ce­ab­le pa­in­tings hung ca­su­al­ly on rus­tic walls, pri­ce­less sculp­tu­res sto­od on slim pe­des­tals. The­re by the win­dow was Eps­te­in's bron­ze of Al­bert Eins­te­in, and Mo­ore's Rec­li­ning Fi­gu­re. And on the walls, a Fi­ga­ri, an O'Ke­ef­fe, a bla­zing yel­low Van Gogh.

  Mu­sic be­gan to play softly in the backg­ro­und-an old in­terp­re­ta­ti­on of Yun-Shih's "Po­meg­ra­na­te Blos­soms." The man ca­me back with a tray la­den with ste­aming mugs of cof­fee, sand­wic­hes, and ca­ke. "I'm sorry we can't of­fer you a bet­ter me­al." He set the tray on a low tab­le in front of the fi­re. "We won't ha­ve full staff he­re un­til the child­ren co­me in a few we­eks."

  "This is fi­ne," sa­id Kurt, then as he tas­ted, "Very go­od."

  "If you don't mind my as­king, Mr. Kra­us, why are the bu­il­dings so-so old-fas­hi­oned?"

  "We felt they had to be," he sa­id. "We wan­ted to sur­ro­und the child­ren with the world's cul­tu­ral he­ri­ta­ge, and at the sa­me ti­me, set them apart wit­ho­ut dist­rac­ti­ons from mo­dern so­ci­ety." A ste­ri­le so­ci­ety, he tho­ught. "In ef­fect, Re­nas­cen­ce is a ti­me mac­hi­ne-an al­ter­na­te uni­ver­se. An al­ter­na­ti­ve. We ex­pect the child­ren who cho­ose Re­nas­cen­ce will want to li­ve he­re. Want to spend the­ir li­ves wor­king and te­ac­hing he­re."

  He sank back aga­inst the co­uch. The fi­re­light flic­ke­red ac­ross his fa­ce, ac­ross his half-clo­sed eyes. He felt at ho­me he­re, in this pla­ce that he had wro­ught. And sud­denly he re­ali­zed that he didn't want to le­ave it. And yet, when the child­ren ca­me, he knew he wo­uldn't fit. Not any­mo­re. A rest­less envy rob­bed him of the mo­ment's pe­ace. He had ma­de Re­nas­cen­ce for him­self-for the gif­ted child he on­ce had be­en. And in the comp­le­ti­on of it, he had shut him­self out.

  He sto­od up ab­ruptly, rat­tling the mug to a stop on the tray. "It's get­ting la­te."

  The man ro­se too. "Of co­ur­se, Mr. Kra­us. You ne­ed to see the rest be­fo­re you le­ave."

  They wal­ked, the two of them, out aga­in in­to the win­ter af­ter­no­on as the sun sank low in the sky. They wal­ked past di­ning hall, past so­li­tary prac­ti­ce ro­oms in de­ep wo­ods, past the amp­hit­he­ater. They ca­me at last to a high po­int of land over­lo­oking the la­ke. A sec­ti­on of the land he­re was sur­ro­un­ded with a low sto­ne wall top­ped with an or­na­men­tal iron fen­ce. The cur­ving ga­te was sil­ho­u­et­ted in the red light from the set­ting sun. The­re was not­hing in­si­de ex­cept for a few ga­unt tre­es.

  "What's this?" as­ked Kurt.

  "Why, that's for the child­ren, la­ter on," sa­id the man. "That's the ce­me­tery."

  Kurt sto­od in the snow for a long ti­me, sta­ring at the ga­te and at the plot of land be­yond, as the sky gra­yed with the co­ming night and cold winds whist­led thro­ugh his so­ul.

  Chapter 4

  Be­hind the loc­ked do­ors of his Ves­ta Cent­ral cont­rol ro­om, Sil­vio Ta­ran­ti­no alig­ned the cir­cu­lar con­fe­ren­ce grid. Hel­mut Mensch, Pro­vi­si­onal Go­ver­nor of L-5 Com­mu­nity, wo­uld be slot­ted in north po­si­ti­on. So­uth was for Bon­du­rant, Pro­Go of Ves­ta. Ian Cripps of Lu­na Com to­ok west and Pren­ti­ce Re­ece of He­be sat east.

  The am­ber sig­nal from Lu­na Com flas­hed on, fol­lo­wed qu­ickly by anot­her from Bon­du­rant's Ves­tan qu­ar­ters. Sil­vio di­aled en­han­cers, and at a ver­bal co­de, the three-di­men­si­onal fi­gu­re of Cripps shim­me­red, then so­li­di­fi­ed in­to a small ho­lo at the two-se­venty deg­ree po­si­ti­on. Af­ter anot­her, si­mi­lar ma­ne­uver, Bon­du­rant's se­ated fi­gu­re ap­pe­ared at one-eighty deg­re­es.

  Pren­ti­ce Re­ece flas­hed on at ni­nety deg­re­es; Mensch was la­te.

  Sil­vio ac­ti­va­ted the patch. In each con­fe­ren­ce ro­om on the va­ri­o­us ba­ses, li­fe-si­zed ho­lo fi­gu­res ap­pe­ared.

  "Go­od day, gent­le­men." Pren­ti­ce Re­ece le­aned back in her whi­te cha­ir, cros­sed her long legs, and nod­ded to­ward Cripps and Bon­du­rant.

  Bon­du­rant mut­te­red a gre­eting and sip­ped so­met­hing from a glass he held; whi­le Cripps, glan­cing at the va­cant area to his left, sa­id acidly, "It wo­uld se­em that the Ho­no­rab­le Mensch has kept us wa­iting aga­in."

  As if in ans­wer, the am­ber light from L-5 blin­ked. Sil­vio spo­ke Mensch's co­de in­to the Vo­cor­der and with a turn of a di­al, the fo­urth tiny fi­gu­re ap­pe­ared at three-sixty deg­re­es on the grid.

  "Sorry," Mensch sa­id with a che­er­ful grin. "A lit­tle tech­ni­cal tro­ub­le with Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons Cont­rol."

  Sil­vio's fa­ce sho­wed no emo­ti­on. Mensch's lie was in­con­se­qu­en­ti­al. Not­hing at all in the sche­me of things. He fi­led it away, then le­aned for­ward and lis­te­ned in­tently to the fo­ur small fi­gu­res.

  "Re­qu­es­ting pri­va­te con­fe­ren­ce," Bon­du­rant sa­id. The ot­hers nod­ded, con­cur­ring with the re­qu­est.

  From Cont­rol, Sil­vio res­pon­ded with a vo­cal com­mand. The vo­ices of the small fi­gu­res ab­ruptly cut off and the blue CON­FI­DEN­TI­AL fight ca­me on in each of the fo­ur con­fe­ren­ce ro­oms.

  From his mo­bi­le cont­rol cha­ir, Sil­vio smi­led down at the fo­ur si­lent lit­tle ho­los on the grid and then pres­sed an over­ri­de co­de-one that had be­en ri­di­cu­lo­usly simp­le to de­vi­se. Alt­ho­ugh the blue lights re­ma­ined on, the vo­ices we­re res­to­red ins­tantly. Sil­vio smi­led aga­in and le­aned back to lis­ten.

  Bon­du­rant was spe­aking: "…bla­tant act of pi­racy." He to­ok anot­her swal­low of his drink and gla­red at the ot­hers.

  Pren­ti­ce Re­ece sta­red at him. "So you fe­el the sa­me way. He­be lo­oks at this pro­j­ect as a se­ri­o­us bre­ach of Earth-Out­land re­la­ti­ons. Re­nas­cen­ce is rob­bing us of our most im­por­tant re­so­ur­ce."

  Mensch smi­led ple­asantly. "Rob­bing? Pi­racy? Su­rely Re­
nas­cen­ce do­esn't de­ser­ve such strong sen­ti­ments."

  Bon­du­rant le­aned for­ward. "That's easy for you to say- from yo­ur po­si­ti­on."

  "I'm not su­re what you me­an."

  "I me­an," Bon­du­rant sa­id de­li­be­ra­tely, "L-5 has not­hing to lo­se-do­es it now?"

  "We ha­ve a child cho­sen for the pro­j­ect."

  "A child!" Bon­du­rant set down his glass with an audib­le click. "One child."

  "L-5 is a de­li­mi­ted area," Mensch sa­id. "It do­esn't ha­ve yo­ur pri­vi­le­ge of free bre­eding. We've re­ac­hed the max al­lo­wed by Po­pu­la­ti­on. You ha­ven't."

  "All the mo­re re­ason for us to re­sent this ta­ke­over of our child­ren. Our best yo­ung minds sip­ho­ned off…”

  Pren­ti­ce Re­ece le­aned back in her cha­ir. "It se­ems to be a ploy to ke­ep us in a sub­ser­vi­ent po­si­ti­on to Earth. I've no­ti­ced mo­re and mo­re la­tely an Eart­her re­sis­tan­ce to our ho­pes of auto­nomy."

  Cripps, who had re­ma­ined out of it un­til then, sa­id, "That's the who­le po­int, isn't it? The ho­pe of auto­nomy. That's all it is-a ho­pe. But you're for­get­ting we don't ha­ve that ca­pa­city yet. Whe­re wo­uld any of us be wit­ho­ut our supply pi­pe­li­ne from Earth?"

  His words we­re met with si­len­ce. Then, Pren­ti­ce Re­ece sa­id we­arily, "He's right, you know. They're go­ing to ta­ke our child­ren, and the­re's not­hing we can do abo­ut it."

  "We co­uld re­fu­se to let them go," Bon­du­rant sa­id.

  She sho­ok her he­ad. "And then what? Do you think the Mi­nistry wo­uld let us get away with an act of in­sur­rec­ti­on?"

  "Insur­rec­ti­on! Dam­mit, tho­se are our child­ren. Our fu­tu­re. We we­ren't even con­sul­ted."

  "We're ne­ver con­sul­ted," sa­id Cripps. "Why sho­uld this ca­se be dif­fe­rent?" His vo­ice grew he­avy with sar­casm. "No one ex­pects the pe­op­le of the out­lands to ha­ve a me­aning­ful opi­ni­on."