Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  The gang instantly squatted on their heels when the foreman’s attention went elsewhere. A few lit up stubs of cigarette; John could smell the musky scent of hemp mingled with the tobacco. A few smirked at the foreman’s back, but most were expressionless in a different way from Chosen, their faces blank and doughy under sweat and stubble. They were wearing cotton overalls with broad arrows on them, labor-camp inmates’ clothing.

  “Hey, that crate’s busted,” Jeffrey said.

  John looked. One wood-and-iron box about three meters on a side had sprung along its top. The stencils on the side read Museum of History and Naturel Copernik. He felt a stir of curiosity. Copernik was capital of the Land, and the Museum was more than a storehouse; it was the primary research center of the most advanced nation on Visager. He’d had daydreams of working there himself, of finally figuring out some of the mysterious artifacts of the Ancestors, the star-spanning colonizers from Earth. The Federation had fallen over a thousand years ago—it was 1221 A.F. right now—and nobody could understand the enigmatic constructs of ceramic and unknown metals. Not even now, despite the way technology had been advancing in the past hundred years. They were as incomprehensible as a steam engine or a dirigible would be to one of the arctic savages.

  “What’s inside?” he said eagerly.

  “C’mon, let’s take a look.”

  The laborers ignored them; John was in a Probationer’s school uniform, and Jeffrey was an obvious foreigner—an upper-class boy could go where he pleased, and the Fourth Bureau would be lethally interested if they heard of Protégés talking to an auzlander. Even in the camps, there was always someplace worse. The foreman was still trading cusswords with the liner’s petty officer.

  John grabbed at the heavy Abaca hemp of the net and climbed; it was easy, compared to the obstacle courses at school. Jeffrey followed in an awkward scramble, all elbows and knees.

  “It’s just a rock,” he said in disappointment, peering through the sprung panels.

  “No, it’s a meteorite,” John said.

  The lumpy rock was about a meter across, suspended in an elastic cradle in the center of the crate. It hadn’t taken any damage when the net dropped—unlike a keg of brandy, which they could smell leaking—but then, from the slagged and pitted appearance, it had survived an incandescent journey through the atmosphere. John was surprised that it was being sent to the museum; meteorites were common. You saw dozens in the sky, any night. There must be something unusual about this one, maybe its chemical composition. He reached through and touched it.

  “Sort of cold,” he said. Not quite icy, but not natural, either. “Feel it.”

  Jeffrey stretched a long thin arm through the crack. “Yeah, like—”

  The universe vanished.

  Sally looked over her shoulder. Where was John? Then she saw him, scrambling over the cargo net with another boy. With Maurice’s son. She opened her mouth to call them back, then closed it. It’s important that they get along. Maurice hadn’t made a formal proposal yet, but . . . She turned back.

  Karl had his witnesses to either side: his legal children, Heinrich and Gerta, adopted in the fashion of the Chosen. Heinrich was the son of a friend who’d died in an expedition to the Far West Islands; they were dangerous, and the seas between, with their abundant and vicious native life, even more so. The other had been born to Protégé laborers on the Hosten estates and christened Gitana. Karl had sponsored her; she was a bright active youngster and her parents were John’s nurse and attendant valet/bodyguard respectively.

  Maria and Angelo stood at a respectful distance; their daughter ignored them. Ex-daughter; no Chosen were as strict as those Chosen from Protégé ranks. She was Gerta Hosten now, not Gitana Pesalozi.

  A Chosen attorney exchanged papers with the plump little Santander consul, then turned to Sarah.

  “Sarah Hosten, née Kingman, do you hereby irrevocably renounce connubial ties with Karl Hosten, Chosen of the Land?”

  “I do.”

  “Karl Hosten, do you acknowledge this renunciation?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you also acknowledge Sarah Hosten as bearing full parental rights to John Hosten, issue of this union?”

  “Excepting that John Hosten may continue to claim my name if he wishes, I do.” Karl swallowed, but his face might have been carved from the basalt of the volcanoes.

  “Heinrich Hosten, Gerta Hosten, Probationers-adoptee of the line of Hosten, do you witness?”

  “We do.”

  “All parties will now sign, fingerprint and list their geburtsnumero on this document.”

  Sally complied, although unlike anyone born in the Land of the Chosen she didn’t have a birth-number tattooed on her right shoulderblade and memorized like her name. The ink from the fingerprinting stained her handkerchief as she wiped her hands.

  The consul stepped forward. “Sarah Jennings Kingman, as representative of the Republic of Santander, I hereby officially certify that your lapsed citizenship in the Republic is fully restored with all rights and duties appertaining thereunto; and that your son John Hosten as issue of your body is accordingly entitled to Santander citizenship also. . . . Where is the boy?”

  The universe vanished. John found himself in a . . . place. It seemed to be the inside of a perfectly reflective sphere, like being inside a bubble made of mirror glass. He tried to scream.

  Nothing happened. That was when he realized that he had no throat, and no mouth. No body.

  No body no body nobodynobody—

  The hysteria damped down suddenly, as if he’d been slipped a tranquilizer. Then he became conscious of weight, breath, himself. For a moment he wanted to weep with relief.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said behind him.

  He turned, and the mirrored sphere had vanished. Instead he saw a room. The furnishings were familiar, and wrong. A fireplace, rugs, deep armchairs, books, table, decanters, but none of them quite as he remembered. A man was standing by a table, in uniform, but none he knew: baggy maroon pants, a blue swallowtail jacket, a belt with a saber; a pistol was thrown on the table beside the glasses. He was dark, darker than a tan could be, with short very black hair and gray eyes. A tall man, standing like a soldier.

  “Where . . . what . . .” John began.

  “Attention!” the man said.

  “Sir!” John barked, bracing. Six years of Probationer schooling had made that a reflex.

  “At ease, son,” the dark man said, and smiled. “Just helping you get a grip on yourself. First, don’t worry. This is real”—he gestured around at the room—”but it isn’t physical. You’re still touching the meteorite in the crate. Virtually no time is passing in the . . . the outside world. When we’ve finished talking, you’ll be back on the dock and none the worse for wear.”

  “Am I crazy?” John blurted.

  “No. You’ve just had something very strange happen.” The smile grew wry. “Pretty much the same thing happened to me, lad. A long time ago, when I wasn’t all that much older than you are now. Sit.”

  John sank gingerly into one of the chairs. It was comfortable, old leather that sighed under his weight. He sat with his feet on the floor and his hands on the arms of the chair.

  “My name’s Raj Whitehall, by the way. And this”—he waved a hand at the room—”is Center. A computer.”

  Despite the terror that boiled somewhere at the back of his mind, John shaped a silent whistle. “A computer? Like the Ancestors had, the Federation? I’ve read a lot about them, sir.”

  Raj Whitehall chuckled. “Well, that’s a good start. My people thought they were angels. Yes, Center’s a holdover from the First Federation. Military computer, Command and Control type. Don’t ask me any of the details. Where I was brought up, experts understood steam engines, a little. Look there.”

  John turned his head to look at the mirrored surface. Instead, he was staring out into a landscape. It wasn’t a picture; there was depth and texture to it. Subtly different from anything he’
d ever seen, the moons in the faded blue sky were the wrong size and number, the sunlight was a different shade. It cast black shadows across eroded gullies in cream-white silt. Out of the badlands came a column of men in uniforms like Raj’s. They were riding, but not on horses. On dogs, giant dogs five feet high at the shoulder. They looked a lot like Vulf, except their legs were thicker in proportion. John whistled again, this time aloud.

  The column of men went by, and a clumsy-looking field gun pulled by six more of the giant dogs. Then Raj Whitehall pulled up his . . . well, his giant hound. A woman rode beside him, not in uniform. Her face was dusty and streaked with sweat, and beautiful. Slanted green eyes glowed out of it.

  The vision faded, back to the absolutely perfect mirror. John looked back to Raj. “Where was that?” he said. Then, slowly: “When was that?”

  Raj nodded, leaning his hips back against the table and crossing his arms. “That was Bellevue, the planet where I was born. About a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “You’re . . . a ghost?”

  “A ghost in a machine. A recording that thinks its a man. It’s a convincing illusion, even to me.”

  John sat silently for what felt like a minute. “Why are you talking to me?”

  “Good lad,” Raj said. John felt an obscure jolt of pride at the praise. Raj went on. “Now, listen carefully. You know how the Federation collapsed?”

  John nodded. Visager had preserved the records; he’d seen them in school. Expansion from Earth, then rivalries and civil war. Civil war that continued until the Tanaki Nets were destroyed and interstellar travel cut off, and then on Visager itself until civilization was thoroughly smashed. After that a long process of rebirth, slow and painful.

  “That happened all over the human-settled galaxy. On Bellevue, the collapse was even worse than here. Center was left in the rubble underneath the planetary governor’s mansion. Center waited a long, long time for the time to be right. More than a thousand years; then it found me. Bellevue’s problem was internal division. We were set to slag ourselves down again, this time right back to stone hatchets, all the more surely because we were doing it with rifles and not nukes. I was a soldier, an officer. With Center’s help—and some very brave men—I reunited the planet. Bellevue’s the capital of the Second Federation, now.”

  “You want me to unite Visager?” John felt his mouth drop open. “Me?” His voice broke embarrassingly, the way it had taken to doing lately, and he flushed.

  Raj shook his head. “Not exactly. More to prevent it being unified, at least by the wrong people.” He leaned forward slightly. “Tell me honestly, John. What do you think of the Chosen?”

  John opened his mouth, then closed it. Memories flickered through his mind; ending with the blank, caved-in faces of the dockers as the unconscious man was carried away.

  “Honestly, sir—not much. Mom doesn’t, either. I tried talking to Dad about it once, but . . .” He shrugged and looked away.

  Raj nodded. “Center can foresee things. Not the future always, but what will probably happen, and how probable it is. Don’t ask me to explain it—I’ve had three lifetimes, and I still can’t understand it. But I know it works.”

  maintenance of your personality matrix is incompatible with the modifications necessary to comprehend stochastic analysis.

  John started and put his hands to his ears. The voice had come from everywhere and nowhere. It felt heavy, somehow, as if the words held a greater freight of meaning than any he’d ever heard. The sound of them in his head had been entirely flat and even, but there were undertones that resonated like a guitar’s strings after the player’s fingers left them. The voice felt . . . sad.

  “Center means that if I was changed that much, I wouldn’t be me,” Raj said.

  john hosten, the ancient, impersonal voice said, in the absence of exterior intervention, there is a 51% probability ±6%, that the chosen will establish complete dominance of visager within 34 years. observe.

  John looked toward the mirrored wall.

  An endless line of men in tattered green uniforms marched past a machine-gun nest manned by Land troops, Protégé infantry, and a Chosen officer. Two plainclothes police agents stood by, in long leather coats and wide-brimmed hats, heavy pistols in their hands. Every now and then they would flick their hands, and the soldiers would drag a man out of the line of prisoners, force him down to his knees. The Fourth Bureau men would step up and put the muzzles of their guns to the back of the kneeling man’s head . . .

  conquest of the empire, Center said. observe:

  A montage followed: cities burning, with their names and locations somehow in his mind. Ships crowded with slave laborers arriving in Oathtaking and Pillars and Dorst. A group of Chosen engineers talking over papers and plans, while a line of laborers that stretched beyond sight worked on a railway embankment.

  consolidation. further expansion.

  A burning warship sank, in an ocean littered with oily guttering flames, wreckage, bodies, and men who still tried to move. Hundreds of them were sucked backwards and down as the ship upended and sank like a lead pencil dropped into a pool, its huge bronze propellers still whirling as it took the final plunge. Through the smoke came a line of battlewagons, with the black-and-gold banner of the Chosen at their masts. Their main batteries were scorched and blistered with heavy firing, but silent; their secondary guns and quick-firers stabbed out into the waters.

  destruction of santander.

  Even without Center’s information, he recognized the next scene. It was Republic Hall in Santander City. The great red-granite dome was shattered; a man in the black frock coat and tall hat of Republican formality stood before a Chosen general and handed over the Constitution of the Republic in its glass-cased box. The general threw it down and ground the heel of his boot into it while the troops behind him cheered.

  consequences.

  A shabby tenement street in a Chosen city. Figures clustered about the steps, talking, falling silent as a strange-looking steamcar bristling with weapons hummed by.

  “But those are Chosen,” John exclaimed.

  Raj spoke: “What do carnivores do when they’ve finished off the game?”

  metaphorical but correct, Center’s passionless non-voice said. once consolidation is complete, the chosen lines would fall out with each other. the planet cannot support so large a ruling class in conditions of intense competition, not indefinitely; and the social system resulting from conquest and slavery cannot be rationally adjusted to maximize productivity. internal reorganization would lead to the creation of a noble caste and the exclusion of most chosen lines.

  Armies clashed, armed with strange, powerful weapons. Machines swarmed through the air, ran in sleek low-slung deadliness over the earth. Men died, Protégé soldiers, civilians.

  the new nobility would fight among themselves, first with protégé armies. rivalry would build.

  A long sleek shape dropped on a pillar of white fire into a desert landscape. Landing legs extended, and a hatchway opened.

  technological progress would continue to an interplanetary-transport level, then fossilize. none of the contending factions on visager could afford to divert sufficient resources to reestablish stardrive.

  A huge city, buildings reaching for the sun. It took a moment for John to recognize it as Oathtaking, and then only by the shape of the circular harbor and the volcanoes that ringed it. Suddenly one of the giant towers vanished in an eye-searing flash.

  one party among the nobility attempts to use the fallen chosen lines against the other. instead they rise against the nobility planet-wide, attempting to restore the old system. the protégés revolt. maximum entropy results.

  Rings of violet fire expanded over the sites of cities, rising until the fireballs spread out against the top of the atmosphere.

  probability 87%, ±6%, Center added.

  John sat, shaken. I’m just a kid, he thought. Not even good enough to make the Test of Life, a gimp. What’m I supposed to
do about all this?

  “Why can’t you do something?” he asked. “You came from the stars, you’ve got another Federation—land a starship and tell people what to do!”

  “We can’t,” Raj said. “First, we don’t have the resources. There are only four worlds in the Federation, so far. There are thousands needing attention. And even if we could, that would just set us up for another cycle of empire, decline and war like the First Federation. The new worlds have to climb out on their own with minimal interference, and do so in the right way.”

  correct, Center said. a true federation may achieve stability in an dynamic and mobile sense. a hegemony imposed from without could not.

  “You want me to . . . somehow to stop the Chosen from taking things over,” John said.

  He felt a flush of excitement. It was a little like what he’d felt last week, when the housemaid looked back over her shoulder at him as she plumped the pillows and smiled, and he knew he could right there and then if he wanted to. But it was stronger, deeper. He could affect the destiny of a whole planet. Save the whole world. He, John Hosten with a pimple on his nose and a foot that still ached when he used it too hard, despite all the surgeons could do.

  specifically, you will act to strengthen the republic of santander, Center said. with my advice and that of Raj Whitehall, you will rise quickly and be in a position to influence policy. such intervention will drastically increase the probability of the republic emerging as the dominant factor in the cycle of wars which will begin in the next two decades.

  “The Republic will conquer . . . unite the world?”

  no. that probability is less than 12%, ±3. observe:

  Troops in the brown uniforms and round hats of the Republic marched out of a city: Arena, in the Sierra. Crowds lined the streets, hooting and whistling. Sometimes they threw things.

  santander lacks the organizational infrastructure to forcefully integrate foreign territories.