“You want me to play Mendoza’s address to the White Clock Society again? You’ve heard what they think. All five were committed to the idea that most human misery is in a direct cause-and-effect relationship with overpopulation. And here’s a guy who’s going to prevent people from dying? Who’s going to see that the population of the Confederacy goes up by hundreds of millions every year?”
“So they kidnapped Tom Dunninger? And Maddie?”
“They kidnapped Dunninger. That’s why they destroyed the Epstein lab. To get rid of everything. To ensure nobody else could repeat the work.”
“But why do something so complicated as the Polaris? If they were going to kidnap him and burn the lab, why not just do it?”
“Because, first, they knew they’d get caught if the authorities began investigating a kidnapping. It would have resulted in a massive manhunt. And, second, because they didn’t want people to know that Dunninger was on the right track. Everybody assumed then, as they assume now, that it can’t be done. So what they needed was an elaborate illusion. The Delta Kay business provided the perfect opportunity.”
“My God, Alex. You really think it happened that way?”
“I have no doubt.”
“But where’d they go? How’d they manage it?”
“I don’t know. I thought at first they might have come back on the Peronovski. With Walker’s collusion.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Even with extra air tanks installed?”
“It would have been difficult. And Alvarez would have had to be in on it, too. Not to mention a couple of technicians.”
“Too many outside people.”
“I agree. They’d never have been able to keep it quiet.”
When we got back to the hotel, they had us sign a statement that we wouldn’t go onto the beach for the next few nights because it was the mating season for the yoho and if we did go out and something happened, we would not hold the hotel liable.
“What,” I asked Alex, “is a yoho?”
We were in the lobby. The snow had stopped, and the sea was gray and misty. “I don’t think we want to know,” he said.
NiNeTeeN
It (the pulsar) is like those of us who seek final answers from the sciences: It casts its beams wildly about in all directions, but they touch nothing, reveal nothing, and in the end they lead only to confusion.
—Timothy of Esperanza, Journals
It became an interesting evening. The snowstorm renewed itself and turned into a howling blizzard, there was an earthquake warning at about the time we were going to bed, and a few hours later they evacuated the hotel because a yoho got into the building.
The yohos, it turned out, were arthropodic creatures with a taste for people. Fortunately, they only showed up five days out of the year, which coincided with their breeding season, and on those occasions they rarely left the beach. After an hour standing in the snow, we were informed by management that the yoho had gone, everything was okay, and we could go back in. When we got to our suite, we inspected it carefully and locked the doors.
The quake hit shortly after we got back inside, but it amounted to nothing more than a series of moderate tremors. By then I had no interest in turning off the lights, so I went into the sitting room and spent time with Alex, who was engaged in a VR conversation. He handed me a headband. I put it on, and Chek Boland’s avatar appeared. He was relaxed on a beach in a collapsible chair, wearing khaki shorts and a pullover and a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off. There was no ocean visible, or audible, however. The beach went on forever.
“. . . one son,” he was saying. “His name was Jon. He was twenty at the time of the Polaris.”
“What happened to your marriage, Dr. Boland? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I think Jennifer and I got bored. That’s inevitable in any long-term relationship.”
“You don’t really believe that?”
“I’m a psychiatrist. I see it all the time.”
Alex was nothing if not traditional about such matters. He allowed his expression to reflect his disapproval of the comment, as if he were talking with a real person. “I read somewhere,” he said, “that sixty percent of all marriages endure. That they stay together.”
“They tolerate each other, usually from a sense of duty. To the kids, generally. To their vows. To an inability to inflict pain on someone they think loves them.”
“You’re pretty pessimistic about the institution.”
“I’m a realist. Long-term marriage is a trap that has survived from our beginnings in the forest, when it was the only way to guarantee species survival. That is no longer the case. Hasn’t been for thousands of years.”
“Then why has it survived?”
“Because we’ve invested it with so much mythology. It’s the sanctum sanctorum of adolescent giddiness. It is the sentence we impose on our lives because we watch too much romantic drama. And maybe because people are too scared of being alone.”
“Okay.”
“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” He glanced down at his arm and made a face. “Getting burned,” he said. A new shirt appeared, with longer sleeves.
“Yes. There is something more.” In the background I could see a gathering dust storm. It’s the sort of thing that some folks use not too subtly to suggest they have more important things to do than continue the conversation. But this was an avatar. Boland, I decided, had had a sense of humor. “You were a crusader,” continued Alex. “You gave time and energy to all sorts of causes.”
“Nonsense. I made an occasional contribution. No more than that.”
“You supported sweeping changes in education.”
“We’ve never known how to ignite a thirst for knowledge in our kids. Individual parents sometimes figure it out. But the institutions? They’ve been an unmitigated disaster for as long as anyone can remember.”
“You were a spokesman for Big Green.”
“People on Rimway don’t notice yet the damage they’re doing. But spend a few weeks on Earth. Or Toxicon. Now there’s a world that’s well named.”
“You were an advocate for population control.”
“Of course.”
“Is there really a population problem, Doctor? There are hundreds of summer worlds out there, with hardly anybody living on them. Some are empty.”
“Where are we now?”
“Sacracour.”
“Ah. Yes. A perfect example of your point. As of the last census, there are two hundred eighty-eight thousand six hundred fifty-six persons living on Sacracour. Almost all of them are concentrated along the eastern coast of one of its continents.”
“If you say so.”
“Three other major land masses, including a supercontinent, are virtually empty.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“The population on Earth is currently eleven billion. Plus or minus a few hundred million. They are pressed very hard.”
“But we could move them elsewhere. We have options.”
“Yes, we do. But moving whole populations to even the friendliest of worlds is not one of them.” His features hardened. “Do the math, Alex. Do the math.”
“You’re talking about resources to move people?”
“Of course.”
“So we dedicate everything we have to the operation.”
It was time for me to break in. “There aren’t enough ships, Alex,” I said. “No matter what, there aren’t enough ships.”
“The young lady is right. There are currently one thousand sixty-four superluminals in the Confederacy, with an average passenger capacity of twenty-eight people. Three will accommodate more than a hundred; many, as few as four. In fact, if you use the entire fleet, you still don’t have enough capacity to move thirty thousand people. Assuming you make a round-trip every week with everything you have, which would be pushing it, you might be able to transport one million five hundred sixty thousand people a year. Ro
und it off to one point six million.
“Toxicon’s population growth is less than one percent. That shows restraint. But it still comes to five million births annually. So the population of Toxicon produces people three times faster than the entire fleet could haul them away.”
Alex could see he’d lost that argument. “You’re also opposed to reconstructing personalities.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s what you did for a living. For almost eight years. And not just for criminals.”
“I believed in it at first.” He stopped, as if to think what he wanted to say. “Alex, some of my patients were so fearful of the world around them that they couldn’t get through their lives.”
“Fearful of the world around them? What does that mean?”
“It means they were afraid they’d fail. Or be rejected. They thought they might simply be inadequate. Drugs could be made to work for some. But there were others whose psyches were too delicate, and some, too twisted.”
“Suicides waiting to happen?”
“Or criminal or other types of antisocial behavior.” His eyes closed, and for a moment he said nothing more. Finally, he looked up. “I wanted to give them decent lives. I wanted to take away the fear, to give them reason to respect themselves. I wanted them to be proud of who they were. So I changed them. Made them better.”
“Except—”
“Except that I came to realize that the person who emerged from the treatment was not the person who came to me for help. The old memories were gone. The former life was gone. The person behind the eyes was a stranger. I could have given my patients new names, and they would not have known the difference.”
“But if these people were miserable—”
“I did not have license to impose a death sentence!” His voice shook. “But that was what I did. In more than a hundred cases. And that doesn’t count the assorted killers, kidnappers, thieves, and thugs I was called on to treat.” He delivered the final word with venom. “There has to be a way to untangle even the most diseased psyche. To keep the essence of the individual while softening the more abrasive qualities.”
“But you never found it.”
“No.”
“Why did you make the flight on the Polaris?”
His mood changed. “How could I not? Who’d want to miss a show like that? Moreover, if you want the truth, I was pleased to be associated with Mendoza and White and Urquhart and the others.”
The records showed that Boland had kept his avatar current. The last update had been from Indigo, just before the Polaris left on the final leg of the mission. So I felt free to ask how things had gone up to that point.
He smiled. “On the first leg of the flight, we were like kids.”
“You mentioned kidnapping a moment ago. Did you and your colleagues plan to kidnap Tom Dunninger?”
“Ridiculous.”
“Had he planned such a thing, would Dr. Boland have informed you?”
“No,” he said. “It would have been imprudent.”
We left Sacracour, as we came, in the dark. It would be another nine hours before Gobulus rose, and eleven or twelve before the sun showed up. We were loaded with local treats, more desserts than I should have been eating. We were still getting snow and strong winds. The local authorities put out a traffic advisory, suggesting everyone stay put, but we didn’t want to miss the ride up to the orbiter, or we’d be stuck another thirty hours. So we left the hotel on schedule. The flight was uneventful, and we caught the shuttle with time to spare.
It was a fifty-minute run up to the orbital dock, where we got our departure time (which would be four hours later), boarded the Belle-Marie, unloaded the bags, showered, and went back to the concourse for dinner.
We ate too much and finished off with a couple of drinks. By then it was almost time to go. We returned to the ship, and I went onto the bridge to do my preflight. I can’t tell you that I actually saw a problem, but Belle seemed to be slow posting the status for some of the systems. I wasn’t sure whether it was my imagination at work. But I asked her if anything was wrong.
“No, Chase,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”
Well, okay. The numbers all checked out, and I informed operations that we were ready to leave. “At your discretion,” as the line goes.
They told me to stand by. There’d been a delay of some sort getting a freighter loaded. “You’ll be a few minutes late,” they said.
I went back and talked to Alex. I don’t remember what about. He was distracted, and I knew he was thinking about Shawn Walker and the Peronovski. We waited a half hour before Ops cleared us for departure.
“Lock down, Alex,” I told him. Moments later the green light came on, signaling he was secure. “Okay, Belle,” I said. “Let’s head out.”
I always enjoy casting off the umbilicals and getting under way. Don’t ask me why. It’s not as if I’m anxious to get to the next port, but I like the feeling of leaving things behind. First it’s the station, then the blue globe of the world itself starts getting smaller. And eventually even the sun winks out. I tied the engines into the quantum generator so it would begin charging. We’d need nine hours to store sufficient energy to make the jump to Rimway.
Quantum technology had taken the tedium out of long-range flight. But it had also eliminated most of the romance. It was all very simple now. And almost too quick. You wanted to go from Rimway to East Boston, you ate a couple of meals, watched a VR, maybe napped a bit, and when the lamps came on indicating the system was sufficiently charged, you pressed a button. And there you were. You needed a few days after you got to the target system to make your approach. But basically, it was an eyeblink. The range was limited only by the strength of the charge you could pack into the system.
People had once complained that the Armstrong engines, with their ability to tunnel through linear space, had resulted in our losing track of how truly big the Orion Arm was. And how far from home the Veiled Lady really was. Now, you were in and out. Virtually teleported, with no sense of having gone anywhere. Distance, range, deep space, the light-year, had all gone away. And as it always seems to be with progress, you pay a price. The price might be in reduced safety, or in social dislocations, or, as was the case with the quantum drive, in losing touch with reality.
I turned the conn over to Belle and wandered back into the common room with Alex. That’s a joke, really. Belle did pretty much everything in flight. I was there in case of emergency.
I wasn’t looking forward to going home. It had been nice to be away from Rimway and feel safe again. Given my way, I’d have opted for an old-fashioned long flight this time. I felt secure inside the metal cocoon. I’d even have considered staying on at Sacracour, despite the blizzards and the quakes and the yohos. At least you could see the yohos coming.
Alex settled in for the evening, reading more about Madeleine English. “She left no avatar,” he said, tapping the display. “She was an ordinary pilot with an adequate work record.”
“Adequate is about the best you can do,” I told him. “It means you always got where you were going with a minimum of fuss, and you never lost either people or cargo.”
She’d been running missions for Survey six years by then. Her biographers—there were four—noted that she’d had several lovers, including the best-selling novelist Bruno Shaefer. She’d been born in Kakatar and shown an early interest in spacecraft. Her father was quoted as saying somewhere that it was her love for the superluminals, and the intervention of Garth Urquhart, that saved her. “Otherwise,” he commented, apparently not entirely kidding, “it would have been, for her, a life of crime.”
She’d piloted the T17 Nighthawk against the Mutes and qualified for superluminals at twenty-three. That wasn’t the record for youngest certification, but it was close.
There were pictures of her in uniform, in evening gowns, in workout gear. (She’d apparently been a fitness nut.) There were pictures of her at the beach, at various monum
ents, at Niagara Falls, at Grand London Square, at the Tower of Inkata, at the Great Wall. Here she was in cap and gown. There, in the cockpit of her T17. She stood with various groups of her passengers after she’d joined Survey. There were pictures of her with Urquhart, with Bruno Shaefer beside a publicity still for one of Shaefer’s books, and with Jess Taliaferro at a banquet somewhere.
She’d never married.
Usually, when people talked about the Polaris, they talked about the Six, Dunninger and Mendoza, Urquhart, Boland, White, and Klassner. But I suspected, when they thought about it, they fixated on Maddy. Of them all, she was the one who came away seeming unfulfilled.
“What do you think about her?” Alex asked.
That was easy. “She was okay. Apparently Survey thought so, too. They trusted her with six of the most celebrated people in the Confederacy.”
Alex was looking at the picture of her in uniform. Blonde hair cut short, startling blue eyes, lots of intensity. “She took out a Mute destroyer,” I said. “Riding a fighter.”
“I know.” Alex shook his head. “I don’t think I’d want to fool around with her.”
“Depends what you mean.”
He sighed. “Women are all alike,” he said. “You think we’re all obsessed.”
“Who? Me?” We were still almost eight hours from jump. And we were figuring four and a half days from home. We sat and talked for a bit, then I decided I’d had enough for the day. I took the reader to bed, but I was asleep fifteen minutes after I crawled in.
I’m not sure what woke me. Usually, if there’s any kind of problem, Belle won’t hesitate to let me know. The result is that the pilot of a superluminal can sleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that the helmsman will not doze on duty. But Belle hadn’t spoken; nevertheless, I lay staring up at the overhead, listening to the silence, knowing something had happened.
Then I became aware of the engines. They were becoming audible. And changing tone. The way they did when running through the last moments before making a jump.
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