by Allen Steele
She barely had time to pause before Aaron’s hand shot up. “The Western Hemisphere Union showed up. Their ship, the WHSS Seeking Glorious Destiny Among the Stars for the Greater Good of Social Collectivism, arrived on—”
“Would you like to take over for me?” Vonda asked. “I could use a nap.”
More laughter, although not as mean-spirited as that which Raven’s comment had earned. Aaron was the star pupil of the class, yet no one begrudged him. Except perhaps Raven, who cast a cold look in his direction. Yet Aaron only grinned and bashfully shook his head, and Vonda noted the expression of admiration that crossed Zephyr’s face. If Aaron didn’t know that she had a crush on him, then he should be spending a little less time in the library.
“The Glorious Destiny was the first Union ship, yes,” she continued, “and Aaron gets bonus points for being able to accurately recite its full name.” She paused. “Come to think of it, I’ll reward up to five bonus points to everyone who can tell me the full names of each of the five Union starships…on the exam, I mean.”
A few appreciative whistles, but most of the class groaned. It was easy to remember the abridged names of those vessels—Glorious Destiny, New Frontiers, Long Journey, Magnificent Voyage, and the Spirit—but the Western Hemisphere Union had adopted the Chinese-socialist tradition of christening their ships with long, elaborate names, and it took a keen memory to recall that the third vessel, for instance, was properly known as the WHSS Long Journey to the Galaxy in the Spirit of Social Collectivism. Aaron could do it, no doubt…but Vonda would’ve bet a wooden dollar that Raven wouldn’t be able to earn those bonus points if her life depended upon them.
“Who wants to take it from there? Not you, Aaron, someone else.” When no one volunteered, she picked a student at random. “Nestor.”
“The Union occupation lasted just over three years, from Gabriel ’03 to Asmodel ’06, when Liberty and Shuttlefield were retaken by Rigil Kent guerillas under Carlos Montero. After the Matriarch Luisa Hernandez was killed…”
“All true, but that’s not what I’m looking for.” Vonda let out her breath. “Look, if you think this exam’s only going to cover names, dates, and places, then you’re in for a rude awakening. A lot happened in those three years you just skipped over, and much of it shaped our history as we know it.” She looked around. “Anyone else want to try?”
“Umm…are you talking about Midland?” Zephyr wanted to make up for her earlier gaffe, and Vonda encouraged her with a nod. “When the Glorious Destiny arrived, the original colonists escaped to Midland, where they established a new settlement in the Gillis Range…Defiance, my hometown,” she added with a touch of pride. “And after the Garcia Narrows Bridge was built, other colonists…the ones from the Union ships, or at least those who got fed up with life in New Florida…went across the channel to Midland and set up more colonies. Shady Grove, New Boston, Forest Camp, Fort Lopez…”
“Fort Lopez was a Union military base,” Carter interrupted, with an expansive sigh, “and it was destroyed on Liberation Day when Robert Lee deorbited the Alabama and brought it down on them.”
“I knew that.” Zephyr gave him a withering glance. “In any case, that was when colonies started being established outside New Florida.” She stopped, then added, “Oh, and I forgot…Thompson’s Ferry, too. But that one didn’t last very long, and it was on the New Florida side of the West Channel.”
“Maybe not,” Nestor said, “but that was how the first bunch of Union colonists got across the channel to Midland, before the bridge was built. It was also where the first battle of the Revolution was fought, when Clark Thompson and his nephews took down a squad of Union soldiers who came into town to—”
“No, Thompson’s Ferry wasn’t the first battle.” Andrew had been quiet until now. “Rigil Kent staged two raids on Liberty and Shuttlefield before then, and that’s not counting the sabotage of the Garcia Narrows Bridge. All that happened long before Thompson’s Ferry.”
“Thompson’s Ferry was just a skirmish.” Snow shook his head. “The Union raid on Defiance was the turning point. That’s when the colonists…”
Vonda had been hearing this debate all trimester long. When and where had the Revolution begun. Who’d fired the first shots. Whether it had been instigated by Robert Lee or Carlos Montero or Clark Thompson and his family. Yet, although she’d been an eyewitness to many of the events and known all these people, nonetheless it was difficult for her to form any sort of objective historical viewpoint.
Indeed, her lecture notes formed the core of a history of Coyote she’d been writing for the last four years. She hoped to finish it one day, yet every few months she found herself revising it once more. After all these years, there was still more that she was learning about the times in which she herself had lived. Wendy Gunther’s memoirs, for instance…
“Enough!” Again, she clapped her hands for attention, trying to bring the discussion back in line before it flew out of control. “All of you are right, one way or another…and if there’s anything this class should have taught you by now, it’s that history is rarely an exact science.”
“Ask me why I prefer physics,” Snow grumbled.
“If Dean Johnson was still around, I think he’d disagree with you. But that’s beside the point.” She glanced at her watch. Just a couple of minutes left until the bell rang, then her students would be in someone else’s class. So little time left for summation…“Look, what happened here wasn’t just a series of events, happening one after another. It’s a process…or rather, a progression, a story that had a definite beginning but hasn’t yet reached an end. You can memorize names and dates all you want, but in the long run you have to reach your own conclusions.”
“And what’s that?” Aaron quietly asked.
“I don’t have any.” Vonda shrugged. “Or at least none that I’m going to tell you. But as you study for the finals, keep this question in mind, the very first one I asked you today…did we live happily ever after?”
No one spoke. A few mouths opened, then slowly shut. From the tower above the administration building, there came the low gong of a cast-iron bell. Vonda slowly stood up, wheezing a little as she reached for her cane. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been a wonderful group, and it’s been an honor and a privilege to have been your instructor.”
Scattered applause as the students gathered their notebooks, hurried away to the classrooms. Vonda waited, watching them leave. As always before, this was her least favorite part of the academic ritual: seeing another group of young people depart from her life, often never to be seen again. Oh, she might see a few of them now and then, in chance encounters at markets or the theatre, yet then she’d simply be their old history prof, either revered or scorned in their memory. For now, though, their time together was done.
The days were getting warmer, yet she felt winter closing upon her. Not so long ago, she’d been Zephyr’s age. Now her hair was stone-grey, her bones as brittle as cheap ceramic, and almost all the people who were the subjects of her lectures had passed away long ago. Suddenly, another trimester was finished, and once again she found herself wondering if she’d be around for the beginning of the next one.
Well…there would be time to think about these things later. For now, she had term papers to read and grade and an exam to write. And after lunch, perhaps a nice cup of tea, and maybe a brief nap at her desk before her afternoon class. These days, this was the most that an old lady could hope for from a perfect day in spring.
Putting her weight upon her cane, she hobbled away from the pond, following the footsteps laid by children too young to remember days when the world had still been a frontier. Lost in rumination, she forgot about the notebook she’d left upon the wooden bench.
The morning breeze riffled its handwritten pages, turning back through time…
Book 5
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Per
haps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn…
—JOHN KEATS,
“Ode to a Nightingale”
Part 1
BRIDGE OF STARS
HOUSTON, TEXAS / JULY 7, 2070 / 2317
The midi sent to pick him up at the airport was black as the night itself, with the two-digit plates that designated government vehicles. Once the unmarked jet taxied to a stop at the far end of the runway, the two Prefects who’d accompanied Jonas Whittaker from Huntsville marched him down the boarding ramp. For a moment he envied their grey overcoats and peaked caps; a warm, steady rain pelted his bare head as he walked across the tarmac, and the handcuffs caused him to slouch forward. A third Prefect waiting beside the midi held open the rear door and slammed it shut once Jonas and his escorts climbed in.
There was no conversation as the midi left the airport and hummed onto the outer belt. Although he used the lane reserved for government vehicles and Liberty Party members, the driver didn’t turn control over to the local highway system, instead keeping his hands on the wheel. Now and then Jonas caught his eyes when he glanced back at him through the rearview mirror, but no one spoke to him, and Jonas tried to hide his fear by gazing out the window. The city looked familiar, but no one had told him where he was going. It was almost midnight, long past curfew, and so there was little traffic; it wasn’t until he spotted a Texas plate on a passing police coupe that he knew where he was.
The driver took an exit south of downtown Houston, and before long Jonas glimpsed a long expanse of chain-link fence surrounding a cluster of featureless buildings. As the midi pulled up to a security checkpoint, he caught a glimpse of a sign: FEDERAL SPACE AGENCY—GEORGE W. BUSH MANNED SPACE FLIGHT CENTER. A uniformed United Republic Service soldier stepped out of the gatehouse just long enough to inspect the ID held up by the driver, then he raised the vehicle barrier and let the midi pass through.
The first time Jonas was here, back when he was a young post-grad fresh out of Cal Tech, this place was still called the Johnson Space Center. But that was a long time ago; now an entire generation was growing up that had never heard of NASA, and in a few years he doubted that even the United States itself would be remembered as little more than a few chapters in a history book. An enormous flag was draped above the front doors of the headquarters building. Once it had fifty stars; now there was only one. One star, one political party, one government…and no hope.
No. This time, Pandora hadn’t shut the box quickly enough. Hope had managed to escape, in the form of a starship called the Alabama. Which was why he was here…
The midi glided to a halt in front of a four-story building, and Jonas barely had time to observe that most of its windows were dark before the Prefect seated to his right opened the door. Jonas climbed out of the vehicle, wincing as the Prefect to his left impatiently prodded him with his swagger stick. If anything, the rain was coming down harder now; his greying hair was plastered to his skull as he was marched up the sidewalk. Another URS soldier awaited them at the entrance; he held open the glass door, silently gesturing to an elevator bank on the other side of the lobby. Just behind a vacant admissions desk stood a large holosculpture—an idealized DNA helix, slowly rotating within a shaft of light—and that was when Jonas realized where he’d been taken.
The medical research facility. He’d never visited this building, even during his infrequent trips here from the Marshall Space Flight Center. His research in theoretical physics kept him busy on the other side of the campus, and once his security clearance was revoked and he’d been fired, no one he knew here had ever spoken to him again, lest they join in the disgrace. By then, of course, it didn’t matter; his only regret was that he and his family had been unable to join the others aboard the Alabama.
But this didn’t make sense. Why had he been brought here? Not just to Houston, or even to Bush…but here, to a building he’d never set foot in before. He’d kept his mouth shut after he was arrested, but once he learned that the Alabama had been hijacked, he’d cheerfully blabbed everything he knew about the plot. Not that his interrogators found anything he said useful; one of the strengths of the conspiracy was that most of its participants were kept in the dark about its ultimate objective, and even who its leaders were, and therefore knew little more than what they needed to know. Jonas was aware that a few of his colleagues from Marshall were involved—Jim Levin, Henry Johnson, Jorge Montero—but he had little doubt that they’d gotten away. Even after being deprived of food, water, and sleep while ISA inquisitors hammered at him under bright lights, he could tell them little in the way of meaningful information. Yes, he’d been part of the plot to steal the Alabama. And now the Alabama was gone. Any more questions?
Apparently there were. But it still didn’t tell him why he’d been brought all the way to…
The elevator doors opened, and the two Prefects led him out into a third-floor corridor. He walked between them, barely noticing the framed photos of orbital spacecraft, until they reached a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM 3-12B. The Prefect on the left rapped his knuckles against the door; a short pause, and then it opened.
The room was dark, lit only by ceiling panels that had been turned down low. Their dim illumination was reflected by the polished surface of a long oak table that ran down the center of the room; thick curtains had been pulled across the windows on the opposite side of the room. A wallscreen behind the far end of the table displayed ever-changing images of Mandelbrot patterns, and seated before it was a lone figure, caught in silhouette yet otherwise invisible.
“Dr. Whittaker, sir.” The Prefect on Jonas’s left spoke, his voice low and respectful.
“Thank you. Wait outside. Close the door.” The two Prefects saluted, then turned and walked from the room, shutting the door behind them. A moment of silence, then the figure gestured toward the row of empty chairs. “Sit, please,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you must be weary from your flight.”
Before Jonas could respond, a form emerged from the shadows behind him. Another Prefect, younger than the others and a bit taller. When he raised his hands, Jonas instinctively flinched; he thought he was about to be struck again, as he’d often been since his arrest. But instead the Prefect did the unexpected: he pulled out the nearest chair and held it for Jonas.
“No doubt you’ve been treated badly the last two days,” the man at the far end of the table continued, as Jonas carefully sat down in the offered chair. “If it helps, I gave orders that you were not to be harmed…or at least subjected to physical abuse, at any rate. Anything that might have been done to you was beyond my control, and for this I apologize.”
Jonas swallowed, discovered that his throat was parched. He was tired, so tired. “May I have some water, please?”
“Of course.” The Prefect behind him quietly moved away, and a moment later Jonas heard liquid being poured into a glass. “I’d offer you something to eat, but…well, I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do. And please, don’t drink much. It won’t be good for you.”
The Prefect reappeared at his side, offering a glass with little more than an inch of water in it. Why so stingy about giving him a drink? Perhaps this was the overture to another form of coercion. For every truthful answer, he’d get water; for every hesitation or obvious lie, water would be denied. By the time they collected enough evidence to convict him on charges of high treason, he’d have sold his soul for a full glass.
Yet if this was an interrogation method, it was clumsy, something only amateurs would do. And besides, he’d already told them everything he knew. Even if they didn’t believe him, there wasn’t much they could do about it. Jim, Henry, Jorge…they and everyone else were aboard the Alabama, and it was probably couple of million miles beyond the Moon by now.
But his wife and daughter…
“My family.” He took a small sip, resisting the urge to chug it down. Conserve wh
at little he’d been given for as long as possible. “Where are they?”
The chair squeaked slightly as the man at the end of the table stood up. “Safe and sound…or at least as much as they can be under the circumstances. They’ve been sent to Camp Buchanan, but I assure you that they’ll be treated well. If possible, I’ll try to arrange for their release at the first possible opportunity.”
Camp Buchanan. The government reeducation center outside Valdosta, Georgia. Little more than a concentration camp, from what he’d heard. “When will I see them?”
Silence. The shadowed figure disappeared from in front of the wallscreen, but Jonas could see him slowly walking closer, his hands clasped behind his back. Just as he was almost close enough for Jonas to see his face, though, he stopped.
“Dr. Whittaker, I’m sorry.” His voice was very quiet, nearly a whisper. “I don’t think you’ll ever see your family again.”
For a second, Jonas didn’t know what to say, even how to respond. He found that he couldn’t remember Caroline’s face, even though he’d woken up next to her almost every morning for thirty years; he recalled the day Ellen was born, but everything after that was lost behind a haze. It was as if a curse had been laid upon him, one that erased memories of them as well as their place in his life. Just like that, they were gone.
So this was the game. It wasn’t water they were going to withhold from him; it was his wife and daughter. “Who do you people think you are?” When he was finally able to speak, his voice came as a hollow rasp. “You think you can just…can just—”