As for the choice he’d made — this was what he’d always wanted, as intensely as Thev had wanted fame: the garden in front of him, the copperleaf tree shining on its cliff, evening bugs beginning to call in the shadows. Only a fool mourns for the impossible or asks for everything, as if the Goddess had made the universe for his comfort.
If he had lost through his choice, he had also gained. Surely this valley — the bugs, the scent of his garden carried on a slight cool wind — was better than a lifetime spent in grey metal corridors. It was certainly better than vanishing into a very small universe of dim red stars. Thev and his ideas!
He stayed at the cabin doorway, watching day end. The sky was a roof again. The ground beneath his feet was solid. Gradually his uncertainty—his sense of loss — faded, like sunlight fading off the copperleaf tree. He regretted nothing. This was the right place for him to be.
That evening Ettin Gwarha and Sanders Nicholas made their camp next to the trail. A stream ran in a gully below them, producing a pleasant quiet noise. Ettin Gwarha ate fresh vegetables, while his companion made do with human rations. Then the son of Ettin turned on a map and studied it. “We’ll take a different route out than the one we originally planned,” he said.
“Why?” asked Sanders Nicholas.
“The original plan had us ending at one of the Atkwa greathouses. I’d just as soon avoid the family.”
“Is there a reason?”
“If they realize how close we came to that man’s territory, they’ll worry, and that will force me to reassure them. As much as possible, I want nothing to do with this situation.”
“But you told the man you wouldn’t turn him in.”
“Every family has its secrets, and we are guests in the country of the Atkwa. Never think that I approve of behavior such as his. There is no acceptable reason to run away from duty.” The frontman turned off his map and closed it, then added, “I’m not going to comment on the behavior of the Atkwa women in letting their male relative go wild. Only women can judge women.”
Sanders Nicholas considered this for a while. Maybe Ettin Gwarha could read the expression on his pale, hairless face. No ordinary hwarhath can. “I have another question,” he said finally.
The frontman looked at him.
“Why do you know so much about Gehazi Thev and the station which vanished? Physics has never been one of your areas of competence.”
“Negotiation is my great skill, as you know. When the station disappeared, the Bundle had two questions it wanted answered; and they wanted one question at least to be asked diplomatically, since it was a disturbing question, and they had to go—I had to go — to the Helig Institute for an answer.”15
Sanders Nicholas waited.
“The first question was, had some kind of weapon caused our station to disappear? Was it possible that humans — or another alien species — had so much power? Remember that a Heligian gate had been rendered impossible to use. An entire grove of stars had vanished! This was an event! If intelligent beings caused it to happen, then we were in trouble.
“The next question was, could such an event be caused? Was there a way to make a weapon out of whatever had happened?”
Sanders Nicholas gave his lover the wide, slow, unfriendly-seeming smile of humans. “You were hoping you could force the human home system into another universe.”
“It was a thought that occurred to several men,” Ettin Gwarha admitted. “Surely you can imagine the appeal of the idea, Nicky! The human threat could be eliminated without doing direct harm to humanity. We wouldn’t have to go to our female relatives and say, ‘We have destroyed women and children.’”
Sanders Nicholas sat quietly, looking at the small fire they had made. It was dying to embers already. Overhead the sky was dark. The Banner of the Goddess stretched across it, a wide swathe of dimly shining light. “I have two objections,” he said finally. “How could the Bundle be certain that people would not be harmed? It would be an untested procedure, after all; and I find it hard to believe that any universe, even a small one, comes into existence quietly.”
Ettin Gwarha inclined his head, perhaps in agreement. “What is your other objection?”
“Even if it could be done without immediate physical harm, think of the consequences. You would be depriving humanity of this –” He looked up, gesturing toward the starry sky. “Would you like to live in a very small universe, Ettin Gwarha?”
“No.”
“I may be showing a bias, but I think this universe would be diminished if it lost humanity, though there’s no question we are a difficult species.”
“We could have found better neighbors,” Ettin Gwarha said in agreement. “But it doesn’t seem likely we’ll be able to get rid of you. The scientists at the Helig Institute say there’s no way to reproduce whatever happened at Kushaiin. Gehazi Thev does not agree. He believes we could cause such an event, but only in a region on the verge of collapse. Such a region would be full of old stars and strangeness. It’s not the kind of place one would expect to find intelligent life. At most, in such a place, we might find a research station.” Ettin Gwarha smiled briefly, his teeth flashing in the red light of the fire. “Hardly worth destroying in such an elaborate fashion. ‘Avoid force in excess of the force needed,’ as the old proverb says.”
“Well, then,” Sanders Nicholas said. “We are stuck with each other and with a very large universe.”
“A disturbing situation,” his lover said in agreement. “Though I think we can endure it.
“There is a final aspect which I pointed out to the Bundle. The situation we were considering never seemed likely. Destroying an entire system — or moving it out of our universe — is beyond any science we know; and I don’t believe humanity will develop a weapon able to do this. Their technology, at least in the relevant areas, is not impressive; and their economic and political problems are so severe I don’t think they can afford the necessary R and D. But if there are two star-faring species in the galaxy, there ought to be three and four and five. Suppose one of these other species is as hostile as humanity and better organized. Could they create a weapon able to destroy an entire area of space?
“That’s one thing to consider. The other is, it’s comparatively easy to make a single planet uninhabitable. Even humans could do it. Our home world was safe during the war, because humanity didn’t know where it was. At some point they are going to learn. It’s possible the human government knows already.”
“Maybe,” said Sanders Nicholas. “I certainly think you ought to assume they know. But they’d have to fight their way here, and I think the hwarhath can stop them. In addition, as you ought to remember, there is a peace treaty.”
“Some treaties last. Others don’t. This one has no breeding clause.16 How can we trust an agreement that hasn’t been made solid—knotted—through the exchange of genetic material?”
Sanders Nicholas did not answer this question, though the answer is obvious. No treaty can be entirely trusted, if it lacks a breeding clause.
“Humans send women to the stars. Destroying the Solar System would not destroy their species. But our women prefer to stay at home. If something happened to our home planet, we would not be able to reproduce.”
“You could borrow human biotechnology,” Sanders Nicholas said.
“And produce cloned children who are raised by men?” asked Ettin Gwarha. His voice combined disgust and horror, as it should, of course.
“They wouldn’t have to be clones.”
“Well, suppose we decided to combine genetic material from men belonging to different lineages. Who would arrange the breeding contract, if our women were all gone? And how could men possibly raise children?”
“That leaves one obvious alternative,” Sanders Nicholas said. “The hwarhath could do what humans have done: move women out of the home system. You must have thought of this.”
“The Bundle has discussed the idea,” Ettin Gwarha admitted. “And we have suggested
it to the female government. Obviously, unfolding such a plan required far-in-front diplomatic ability. I was sent.” He smiled briefly. “The idea was to establish colonies of young women in distant systems, in stations initially, since they are safer than the surface of any inhabitable planet.
“‘To live without the advice of their mothers and senior female relatives? ’ the Weaving said. ‘Absolutely not! It’s the job of men to keep the home system safe. If you can’t do it, then we need to talk about your failings and limitations. But we won’t send our daughters to the stars.’”
“Did you suggest sending older women as well?”
“The Weaving didn’t like the idea; nor was the Bundle entirely happy with it. There are frontmen whose mothers are still living, not to mention other female relatives. Space might become considerably less comfortable, if senior women began to travel.”
“This is true,” said Sanders Nicholas. “But comfort is not the only important aspect of life. I think the Weaving, and the Bundle, are making a mistake.” He glanced at Ettin Gwarha. “There’s a human proverb which warns against putting all one’s ova in one container. If anything happens to the container—”17
Ettin Gwarha tilted his head in agreement. “Nonetheless, the Bundle is not going to argue with the Weaving over an issue that concerns women, at least not at the moment. Most likely, the home system is safe. As you have mentioned, it’s well guarded. Anyone seeking to destroy this world would have to get past many armed and armored ships. But I’d like to see women among the stars. Some of them would enjoy the experience.”
Sanders Nicholas made no answer, possibly because he was tired.
Soon after the two of them went to sleep. In the morning they continued their journey, going down out of the mountains to a railroad junction. There, at day’s end, they caught a local train. All night they rattled through the Atkwa foothills, riding in a freight car, since there wasn’t a passenger car for men.
He’d had worse accommodations, Sanders Nicholas said. At least there were windows, though not much to see: the hills as areas of darkness against a starry sky. Now and then the lights of a station flashed past, revealing nothing except an empty platform.
By sunrise they had reached the plain. 18
footvote
PETER F. HAMILTON
There’s an old expression: to vote with your feet. The story that follows takes us to a troubled near-future England, and, courtesy of an amazing new invention, gives us a disquieting demonstration of just exactly what that means …
Prolific British writer Peter F. Hamilton has sold to Interzone, In Dreams, New Worlds, Fears, and elsewhere. He sold his first novel, Mindstar Rising, in 1993, and quickly followed it up with two sequels, A Quantum Murder and The Nano Flower. Hamilton’s first three books didn’t attract a great deal of attention, on this side of the Atlantic, at least, but that changed dramatically with the publication of his next novel, The Reality Dysfunction, a huge modern Space Opera (it needed to be divided into two volumes for publication in the United States) that was itself only the start of a projected trilogy of staggering size and scope, the Night’s Dawn trilogy, with the first volume followed by others of equal heft and ambition (and which also raced up genre best-seller lists), The Neutronium Alchemist, and The Naked God. The Night’s Dawn trilogy put Hamilton on the map as one of the major players in the expanding subgenre of The New Space Opera, along with writers such as Dan Simmons, lain Banks, Paul McAuley, Gregory Benford, Alastair Reynolds, and others; it was successful enough that a regular SF publisher later issued Hamilton’s reference guide to the complex universe of the trilogy, The Confederation Handbook, the kind of thing that’s usually done as a small-press title, if it’s done at all. Hamilton’s other books include the novels Misspent Youth and Fallen Dragon, a collection, A Second Chance at Eden, and a novella chapbook, Watching Trees Grow. His most recent book is a new novel, Pandora’s Star. He’s had stories in our Fifteenth and Eighteenth Annual Collections.
I Bradley Ethan Murray pledge that starting from this day the First of January 2003, and extending for a period of two years, I will hold open a wormhole to the planet New Suffolk in order that all decent people from this United Kingdom can freely travel through to build themselves a new life on a fresh world. I do this in the sad knowledge that our old country’s leaders and institutions have failed us completely.
Those who seek release from the oppression and terminal malaise that now afflict the United Kingdom are welcome to do so under the following strictures.
1. With citizenship comes responsibility.
2. The monoculture of New Suffolk will be derived from current English ethnicity.
3. Government will be a democratic republic.
4. It is the job of Government to provide the following statutory services to the citizenship to be paid for through taxation. a. The enforcement of Law and Order; consisting of a police force and independent judiciary. All citizens have the right to trial by jury for major crimes.
b. A socialized health service delivered equally to all. No private hospitals or medical clinics will be permitted, with the exception of ‘vanity’ medicine.
c. Universal education, to be provided from primary to higher levels. No private schools are permitted. Parents of primary and secondary school pupils are to be given a majority stake in governorship of the school, including its finances. All citizens have the right to be educated to their highest capability.
d. Provision and maintenance of a basic civil infrastructure, including road, rail, and domestic utilities.
5. It is not the job of Government to interfere with and overregulate the life of the individual citizen. Providing they do no harm to others or the state, citizens are free to do and say whatever they wish.
6. Citizens do not have the right to own or use weapons.
JANNETTE
It was the day Tony Blair was due to give evidence to the Hutton enquiry. The Today program on Radio Four was full of eager anticipation, taunting their opponent to come out and face their allegations full on, confident he would screw up. Over in Iraq, what was left of the British Army contingent had suffered more attacks from the population overnight. And I’d forgotten to buy Frosties for Steve.
“Not muesli!” he spat with the true contempt only seven-year-olds can muster. If only the TUC leadership had that kind of determination when facing Gordon Brown’s latest abysmal round of budget cuts.
“It’s good for you,” I said without engaging my brain. After seven years you’d think I’d know not to make that kind of tactical error with my own son.
“Mum! It’s just dried pigeon crap,” he jeered as I stopped pouring it into the bowel. Olivia, his little sister, started to giggle at the use of the NN word. At least she was spooning up her organic yogurt without a fuss. “Not nice, not nice,” she chanted.
“What do you want then?” I asked.
“McDonald’s. Big Cheesy One.”
“No!” I know he only says it to annoy me, but the reflex is too strong to resist. And I’m the Bad Mother yet again. Maybe I shouldn’t preach so hard. But then, that’s Colin speaking.
“How about toast?” I asked.
“Okay.”
I couldn’t believe it was that easy. But he sat down at the table and waited with a smug look on his face. God he does so look like Colin these days. Is that why he’s becoming more impossible?
“What’s the prim?” Olivia asked.
Today had moved on from snipping at their public enemy number one to cover the demonstration at Stanstead.
“Public Responsibility Movement,” I said. “Now please finish your breakfast. Daddy will be here soon.” He’d better be.
I put the toast down in front of Steve, and he squirted too much liquid honey over it. Golden goo oozed down over the table. Both of them were suddenly silent and eating quickly, as if that would speed his arrival.
The flat’s back door was open in an attempt to let in some cooler air. The summer was damn h
ot, and dry. Here in Islington the breeze coursed along the streets like gusts of desert air.
“Poooeee,” Steve said, holding his nose as he munched down more toast. I had to admit, the smell that drifted in wasn’t good.
Olivia crumpled her face up in real dismay. “That’s horrid, mum. What is it?”
“Someone hasn’t tied up their bin bags properly.” The pile in the corner of De Beauvoir Square was getting ridiculously big. As more bags were flung on top, so the ones at the bottom split open. The SkyNews and News24 programs always showed them with comparison footage of the ’79 Winter of Discontent.
“When are they going to clear it?” Steve asked.
“Once a fortnight.” Though I’d heard on the quiet that nearly 10 percent of the army had already deserted, and that was before they had to provide civic utility assistance squads along with fire service cover, prison guard duties, engineering support to power stations, and invading Iraq. We’d be lucky if the pile was cleared every month. I’d seen a rat the size of a cat run across the square the other day. I always thought rodents that big were just urban legend.
“Why can’t they take rubbish away like they used to?” Olivia asked.
“Not enough people to do that anymore, darling.”
“There’s hundreds of people standing round the streets all day. It’s scary sometimes. I don’t like the park anymore.”
She was right in a way. It wasn’t the lack of people, of course, it was money, and the frightening way the pound was collapsing. What would happen when the true tax revenue figures came in was anyone’s guess. Officially, tax received by the Treasury had only fallen by 10 percent since that little shit Murray opened his racist, fascist, arseholing wormhole. Nobody believed that. But naturally, the first thing the Treasury reduced was local government grants, with Brown standing up in Westminster and telling the councils to cut back on wastage. What a pitiful joke. Central Government has been saying that for the last fifty years at least—because it’s never their fault.
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