Phoenix Without Ashes

by Edward Bryant

  Transfixed by the wonder of it, he floated there for minutes, then hours, days...

  ... and returned to awareness of his own body only when that flesh collided uncomfortably with one of the broken spears of transparent dome.

  Devon reluctantly lowered his eyes from the stars. There was even more, he saw...

  Again, the deja vu:

  ... had never seen anything so huge. Even the hills themselves and all the fields and Cypress Corners itself, all were dwarfed to insignificance by this thing. Shapes and lines and structures dwindled away in a perspective Devon’s eyes had never before attempted to encompass. He stared with incomprehension as his motion continued and this thing began itself to shrink, diminishing with distance until it was even less than the other lights spangling the blackness.

  Then Devon felt there was nothing to touch, nothing on which to stand. Nothing, ever again....

  He found it was easier to trace a little at a time than to fill his entire field of vision with what lay below. The bubble in which he floated was a mere node on the outside of a tube; the tube was a stalk between two huge domes; the domes were bulbs on a greater cluster of spheres; the cluster was only one of many more. The line of spheres below Devon seemed to stretch away to infinity; yet an infinity paradoxically not so large as the infinity above which held the stars.

  How can this world be? Is it the world? Could it be hell? he thought, instantly denying the idea as he thought it.

  Devon followed with his eyes the network of tubes leading away through vast, kilometers-wide spaces toward the other spheres of sky-stuff. The heretical thought finally forced itself to the surface: Could Cypress Corners be out there somewhere? In one of those domes? Is this what lies beyond the sky?

  The questions would not stop flowing; just as the universe would not stop pouring into his eyes. Finally he screwed his eyes tightly shut, screaming, “Stop it! Stop it!”

  When at last he opened them again, Devon saw his face in a distorted reflection on the inside of the helmet. Tears gleamed in starlight.

  FOURTEEN

  Finally it was Devon’s body that drew him away from the universe. There came a time when he could drink no more energy from the stars. Tired, thirsty, hungry, his shoulder throbbing, bladder aching with pressure, Devon pulled himself back along the safety line to the edge of the ruined dome.

  But to which hatch? There were three in a row. The hatch through which he had originally entered the viewport chamber had cycled shut.

  Devon pressed the red panel on the hatch nearest him. The metal disc swung away from him easily; there was no outrush of air. Devon grasped the rim of the hatch opening and propelled himself through. He found himself in a narrow tunnel, illuminated by a dim, blue glow. He started to turn around, but the hatch behind him had sealed itself. The “Open” panel glowed red; Devon assumed the door would open if he touched it.

  On impulse, he continued along the tunnel. Pipes and conduit lined the walls. Occasionally the smooth surfaces were raw and deformed as though the corridor had at one time been compressed and then wrenched straight again.

  A dozen meters farther along, he saw something hanging in the blue gloom. Closer, he realized it was a dead woman lying on her back in mid-tunnel. Her light hair floated out around her head, her mouth was open, her eyes stared. She wore no helmet or protective suit, but was clad in a light blue coverall. A triangular insignia was stitched in the fabric over her right breast.

  She was very beautiful. Devon wondered who she was, where had she come from, what had happened to her? He edged past the corpse and pushed off from the bulkhead.

  Farther along the tunnel he encountered a broken conduit and great globules of water hanging suspended. They hung like jewels; and then, as Devon sailed through them, they dispersed, shattered against him, clubbed up again. His thirst asserted itself and his hands moved to the juncture of helmet and suit. Then he remembered the dead woman’s face and continued resolutely along the passage.

  The end of the tunnel brought a console covered with dials and gauges. Beside the console was another circular hatch. The light panel read:

  MEMORY BANK TERMINAL 1123-L

  ACCESS LOCKPORT

  Devon reached to touch the familiar square. Another crimson warning plate flashed on:

  EQUALIZE PRESSURE

  BEFORE ADMITTANCE

  He touched that plate instead. It blinked green and air hissed into the tunnel. The lockport swung open.

  Devon remembered his experience with the first lockport; he entered the opening feet-first. He had guessed correctly—gravity in the next chamber had not been cut off. He felt the uncomfortable tug of weight as he dropped beyond the threshold.

  He was awed by the room in which he found himself. At least a hundred and fifty meters across, had it been plowed ground it could have provided corn and potatoes for a single family for an entire cycle. The chamber was fitted with clusters of comfortable-appearing chairs, which looked as though they could mold themselves to the form of his body. One wall was lined solely with racks of metal cubes, each cube about half the size of Devon’s fist. A blocky instrument, the shape and size of a kitchen table, stood a few meters away. It was made of some translucent substance; Devon saw movement from within, waves of color swirling like oil on water. The top of the device was honeycombed with square depressions.

  Devon started toward the racks of cubes, but his bladder reminded him of bodily priorities. He surveyed the chamber again, but there was no private place for proper urination.

  He raised his hands to the gasket around his neck; the helmet clicked, easily rotated half a turn, and he lifted it off. He touched the suit at the base of his throat. The bluestrips unsealed, separating just ahead of his finger as he traced a line down the front.

  Devon looked for the least conspicuous area of the chamber. Finally he left a yellow puddle in the far corner. At the last moment he had nearly been unable to relieve himself; shamed and sure that here, unlike in the hills of Cypress Corners, someone was watching him. The chamber and its furnishings were immaculately clean. It seemed a virtual sacrilege to foul this sterile place.

  Still Devon released a sigh of comfortable relief when the deed was accomplished. He pulled the straps of the coveralls up over his shoulders and crossed to the racked ranks of metal cubes. He selected a cube at random and carried it back to the device with the honeycombed top. The cube was obviously of a shape and size to fit into one of the depressions. Devon inserted it and a voice filled the chamber:

  “Erik Satie, AD 1866 to 1925, was commissioned to compose Mercure, poses plastiques en trois tableaux, by the fashionable Count Etienne de Beaumont for a series of avant-garde theatrical performances, Les Soirees de Paris, to be held, in 1924, at the tiny Theatre de la Cigale.”

  The words meant nothing. Devon stared bemusedly at the cube machine.

  The voice continued, “And now, here is Satie’s Mercure.”

  The music swelled commandingly through the chamber. Devon staggered back against the wall, thunderstruck. He had never heard music like this before. Cypress Corners had its few hymns, all of which were to be sung without accompaniment. And nearly every child, at one time or another, had been reproved by the Elders for whistling, humming, or tapping a foot in time with some natural rhythm.

  He stood there for a while, bathed by the brilliant sounds of what the machine had called “Satie’s Mercure.” After a time the music stopped; but it played far longer in Devon’s mind.

  The lengthy rows of cubes bore labels indicating sections and sub-sections: PHILOSOPHY, MUSIC, LANGUAGES, BIOCHEMISTRY, RELIGION, FICTION, and one entire row set apart and tagged BASIC HISTORICAL INFORMATION. Devon picked out the first of these and had started to turn back to the cube machine when a lighted panel caught his attention. It flashed the words:

  ASK ME FIRST

  The chair rested on a carpeted island two meters back from the cube racks. A metal shaft protruded from the floor in front. Roughly even with the fa
ce of anyone sitting in the chair, the shaft branched into a hoop a half-meter across. As if objects concrete in themselves, the letters spelling ASK ME FIRST hung in the center of the hoop.

  “Ask you what?” said Devon aloud. He placed the metal cube back in its rack and walked toward the chair and hoop. “How should I ask you?” He heard no response.

  When he stepped onto the blue carpet skirting the chair, a voice said, “May I help you?” Devon watched as ASK ME FIRST faded and was replaced by what appeared to be the disembodied head of a man. The head floated in mid-hoop. The face was that of a man in his fifties or early sixties; he wore a graying moustache and sparse goatee. He peered toward Devon through thick spectacles, his lips curving in a benign smile. “May I help you?”

  Devon stepped backward and the head vanished, to be replaced by ASK ME FIRST. Devon walked forward again. As soon as his foot touched the carpet, the head reappeared and said, “May I help you?”

  “Who are you?” said Devon.

  “I am the sphere projector. Would you like to sit down and talk?”

  Devon settled himself in the chair. The material flexed and molded itself around his sore muscles. He said with some unsureness, “Are you, uh, just a head?”

  The head chuckled. “What you see, sir, is a mere terminal projection.”

  “There’s more to you?”

  “Oh, much more, sir. The greater portion of me is spread over some six billions of kilometers of circuitry.” Devon paused to consider that. “Billions” was another concept with which he had difficulty. He tried to picture anything—stones, people, apples, anything—in the billions and could not. “Are you real or not?” he finally said. “That,” said the sphere projector, “depends...” Devon spread his hands to indicate the room. “What is all this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I don’t grasp the meaning of your question. When you say ‘all this,’ do you mean the memory bank library, my function, the purpose of life in general, or the specifics of your present situation?”

  “Listen,” said Devon, “are you alive?”

  “Why no, sir. I’m the voice of the library stacks. You might call me the visualization of computer output. I’m here to serve you, to advise you which cubes to use to obtain the data you require.”

  Devon sat back. “I’m all confused. I’ve met so many new things....”

  “You sound distraught, sir. Why not relax and let me see if I can assist you.”

  “Thank you,” said Devon.

  The spherical projector said, “Now. Are you a member of the crew or are you supercargo?”

  “I don’t know what those mean.”

  The projection pursed its lips seriously. “Perhaps I should contact a medical section to assist you. You sound as if you may be ill.”

  “No,” said Devon, “I’m all right... I think. I fell down a hole in the ground... well, I didn’t exactly fall down. I fell away, if you know what I mean. I was pulled forward down a very long, hollow thing.”

  The projection said crisply, “That sounds like a description of a bounce tube, sir. From what biosphere did you say you had come?”

  “Biosphere?”

  “An enclosed environment for human life.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” said Devon. “You mean my home? I come from Cypress Corners.”

  The projection mused. “Cypress Corners? Closed ethnic agrarian community. How did you get here, into the service perimeter of the Ark?”

  “The Ark?” Devon repeated.

  “I think I know what you need,” said the sphere projector. “Do you see the section labeled BASIC HISTORICAL INFORMATION to your left?”

  Devon nodded.

  “Do you see the section labeled BASIC HISTORICAL INFORMATION to your left?”

  Devon realized that the machine must not be able to see him nod. “Yes, I do,” he said. “I’m sorry. Can’t you see me?”

  The dark, paternal eyes blinked. “That’s quite all right; think nothing of it. My visual receptors at this terminal seem to be inoperative; I’ll have to call a repairmech.” The machine paused. “Now. Go to that section and remove the cube numbered forty-three. Then take it to the memory bank in the center of the chamber and insert it into one of the empty sockets. I think that may help you orient yourself.”

  Devon said, “Thank you very much.”

  The projection smiled benevolently. “You’re more than welcome. That’s what I’m here for, to help you. If you need any further assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Well, there is one other thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m hungry, and I could use a drink.”

  The face of the sphere projector looked puzzled. “Your question, sir?”

  Devon said, “How can I obtain food and drink?”

  “Go to the service module at the end of the chamber. Beneath the plate bearing the word ‘Refreshment,’ punch out your order. Delivery with be effected immediately. Bon appetit, sir.” The projection frowned. “Wait, sir. Upon consulting inventory, I discover that the foodstocks in this sector of the perimeter have suffered destruction to a point of 96.7 percent unavailability. Stock safely obtainable for human consumption is limited to, flash-frozen survival ration solids and water. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Anything,” said Devon. “I’m starving.”

  “Very well. You may claim a survival packet from the slot in the midsection of the service module.”

  Devon got up from the chair, though his muscles rebelled at leaving such comfort. As he stepped off the carpeted area the sphere projector’s image winked out, leaving the hoop empty.

  He identified the service module by the “Refreshment” plate. He found the designated slot and extracted what he presumed to be the survival packet. It consisted of a clear plastic squeeze-bulb of water and a half-kilo cube of a dark brown substance with the consistency of drying mud.

  Devon found a chair that seemed functional for nothing but sitting. He sat and examined his meal. The water bulb was simple enough; at one end a nipple protruded. Devon tentatively nipped off the tip with his teeth. He squeezed water into his mouth; then swallowed and the cool liquid soothed his throat.

  The solid portion of the ration was nearly tasteless, but not otherwise objectionable. Devon finally decided that the faint, background flavor was that of soy beans.

  In his hunger, a drop of saliva fell upon the wadded ball of wrapping torn from around the food block. The droplet melted a hole down through the transparent material. Devon observed this, and, when he had finished the brown block, took an experimental bite of the wrapping. It dissolved in his mouth with a taste sweeter than that of the finest pastry his mother had ever baked. He finished the wrapping and tried the empty water bulb. That too reacted with his saliva; it possessed the tart tang of some unidentifiable—to Devon—citrus fruit.

  Temporarily fed to repletion, Devon lay back in the chair. He remembered the “Basic Historical Information” cube the spherical projector had commended to him: number forty-three. He started to get up, but then sank back into the soft, accommodating surface. It was comfortable there, and he was simply too tired to move. I’ll just rest a second, he thought.

  Within moments, Devon slept.

  FIFTEEN

  The chamber functioned, even as Devon slept.

  There was movement, most of it undetectable to a human observer. Electrons streamed through computer circuitry; photons sheeted out from invisible lighting fixtures.

  Heat exchangers kept the chamber at an unvarying temperature, compatible with maximized human comfort.

  The air filtration system boosted its output slightly to sift out what the chamber’s autonomic sensors defined as the offensive (to crew/supercargo) odor rising from the drying puddle of urine in the corner.

  The music cube in the top of the playback machine periodically signaled the end of its play-cycle by emitting a soft buzz.

  Devon dozed restlessly, but did not
wake.

  Devon rounded the nether point of the lake called Chastity and dashed toward the house. His parents waited to greet him on the porch. Five stairsteps up to the porch; Devon took them in two.

  “Father? Mother?”

  Three-sided unity, they clung together a moment, arms encircling one another. Sarah kissed him; her lips were cool. Devon looked at his father. Tears shone in the corners of Old Devon’s eyes.

  “Are you all right?” said Devon.

  His parents exchanged glances. “It’s not so bad,” said Old Devon. “It’s you we’re worried about, Son.”

  “I miss you.”

  “As do we, Devon.” Sarah touched his face. “We miss you more than you can know.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “We cannot, Son,” said his father.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “No, why are you here?”

  “I—I’m not sure,” said Devon. “I’ve traveled so far... seen so much.”

  “You are rash,” said his father, “but you are not a fool.”

  “What do you mean?” Devon looked questioningly at the both of them.

  His mother said gently, “Devon, this is so much more than an adventure.”

  “Micah is implacable,” said Old Devon. “He and the others will kill you, should you return to Cypress Corners. He fears and hates you because you are my son.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And you will return,” his mother broke in.

  “For Rachel,” Devon said.

  “For Rachel, and much more.”

  “These are riddles,” Devon said. “I—”

  Old Devon interrupted. “You will find answers.”

  Sarah kissed him again. “Goodbye, Devon.”

  “Wait a moment! You’ve got to explain—”

  His father’s voice, deeper. “Nothing’s simple, Son. It never has been.”