To Fear The Light

by Ben Bova

  Jephthah wore his trademark suit, neatly tailored in a style normally better matched to a social gathering; but his attire somehow didn’t seem out of place as he leaned casually against a fence, his arm resting on one of the posts. The casual pose belied both his athleticism and actual size, but having seen him in the recordings of earlier transmissions, she knew he stood quite tall.

  An excited giggling from somewhere outside the picture caught his attention, and as the image panned back and swept to his right, she saw that a group of children played happily on a climbing set just on the other side of the fence. There were maybe ten of them, their ages ranging from toddler to preteen, and whether they played breathlessly on the equipment or impatiently watched and waited their turn it was clear they were having the time of their lives. Jephthah chuckled happily at the playing children, then turned and looked out of the holographic screen.

  “I love my children,” he began simply in his deep, measured voice. “Just as I know you love yours. Even in an age when our own lifetimes can span centuries, we look to our children not only as a source of love and happiness for ourselves, but as the best hope for the future.

  “But what kind of world will your children grow up on? Will it be a human world, with a common ancestry and biology; or will it be a world where the threat of outsiders will constantly hang over them?” He moved away from the frolicking children and walked slowly along the fence, his hands in his pockets as he spoke easily, giving the impression that he was merely talking to a neighbor about the mundane changes in the weather.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, glancing to the pickup lens with an almost apologetic look. He stopped and, with an ominous tone, said, “‘Here comes another lecture on the dangers of the evil Sarpan.’” He resumed strolling casually along the fence, waving a hand momentarily at the lens as if to dismiss the thought before returning it to his pocket. “Well, I’d be less than honest with you if I said I didn’t think of them as a threat. And, by now, you know my reasons. But this time I’d like to talk to you about why I feel that now is an even more dangerous time for us than ever before. For our children.” He stopped and turned to look meaningfully out from the image. “I would also like to make a personal appeal to someone who is with us for the first time, someone you all know even though many of you may not even have been born when she first began her great work. Her name, Adela de Montgarde, is heralded on many of the Worlds, and deservedly so.”

  Adela stiffened in her chair.

  “Friends, we are approaching a time when the end of a very large, important project draws near. I’m sure you know I’m speaking of saving Earth’s Sun, and saving the birthplace of all humanity. It is to you, Dr. Montgarde, that we all owe a debt of gratitude, for without your vision, humanity would surely have become something less than it was intended. Without your dream, the means to accomplish this formidable task would never have been discovered. Without your strength, your drive to succeed, we might surely be looking at a future where the children of a stagnated, lethargic humanity were overcome by stronger, opportunistic forces from outside the human worlds.” The image slowly began to zoom in, centering on Jephthah’s face. His features looked almost embarrassed, almost contrite. When he spoke, his voice was subtly different, with an edge to his words that hadn’t been there before.

  “However, while you have slept, a great many things have occurred that you could never have anticipated; changes have come about that I’m sure you never, ever desired. In your efforts to serve—and save—humanity itself, you were forced to make certain concessions regarding the aliens. Concessions that I’m sure were distasteful to you personally, but were nonetheless necessary to achieve a successful culmination for your lifelong dream.

  “More than two hundred years ago you envisioned a plan to save Earth’s Sun that was so ambitious, so difficult, that it required technology not possessed by humankind. I’m certain you would have done anything, anything to avoid relying on nonhuman technology to accomplish the worthiest of human goals, but I also know that your options were, sadly, limited. And so the Empire of the Hundred Worlds entered into an uneasy, but unavoidable, partnership with the Sarpan Realm. Then, after proving your theories, you went into cryosleep, unaware of how that partnership would be bastardized while you slept, and how we would allow gratitude to an alien servant to blind us to the true peril they represent.”

  Adela did not know when it had happened, but she suddenly noticed now that his voice—powerful and commanding no matter how he talked—had grown gradually more intense as he spoke, his mannerisms sharper, his choice of words more precise. The ease with which he had affected the change was uncanny, and it was evident that he was well practiced at working an audience.

  “Look what has happened!”

  He did not shout the words, but they were filled with so much passion that she felt her attention being drawn to him almost against her will.

  “Look what your legacy has become,” he went on, shaking his head. “Did you ever imagine that your dream would become a nightmare?”

  Until now, Adela had been watching him with as much open-mindedness as she could spare, paying more attention to this first “live” talk more from a critical standpoint than any other. After all, his message was simple xenophobic preaching she had heard many times before and, as such, rarely changed. Having viewed and studied the many recordings Eric had ordered assembled for her she was well aware of how he manipulated his followers. She had even had the chance to observe, firsthand on Mercury and elsewhere, the reactions and sentiments of those who accepted his way of thinking. What she was not prepared for, however, was the emotional stirrings battling within her now.

  “You are honored, Dr. Montgarde, for delivering humanity from a most certain genetic extinction, but I fear that you will ultimately be remembered for surrendering humanity to inevitable slaughter by outsiders.” He paused. “I’m sure you know by now that your dream led to an unwise alliance that has been directly responsible for the deaths of many humans since our two species crossed paths, the most blatant example being the slaughter of more than a thousand innocent human souls aboard the CTS jump ship Sylvan twenty years ago—”

  “No!”

  “—and I hope you realize the scope of the danger you created, when you sought only to help us all. I hope, too, that you realize what you must now do to correct this unforeseeable, unfortunate mistake.”

  Adela felt a sharp pain in her hands, and was startled to discover that she had unknowingly risen to her feet, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides. She lifted her shaking hands and stared at the bleeding cuts where her fingernails had dug into the soft flesh of her palms.

  “This, then, is my appeal to you … .” He had walked back along the fence to where the playset was, but there were no children there now. Had there ever been any children there, or were they merely projections used as tools to reach into the hearts of those listening? As he continued, he extended his hand to her, his fingers curling in a display of desperation. “Redeem yourself, Dr. Montgarde, before it is too late.

  “You are honored, you know that, and you have truly earned the honor you receive. There are billions who will accept what you would say to them now. Tell them to reject the Sarpan. Let them know it was a grave error to ever trust them. Once the Sun is linked to the feeder star that will sustain it, tell them we no longer need anything from the aliens. Tell them that with the birthplace of humanity safe for all time they must grow strong, and force the nonhumans back to the Realm before we join those from the Sylvan, as well as the countless others over the years.”

  He paused again, then, in the soft, deep voice, said, “The Empire of the Hundred Worlds is nearly gone, Dr. Montgarde. Its decline began the day the Empire embraced your dream as its own. What you see around you today is the result of your dream, but as much as I’m sure it saddens you, you can redeem yourself. Join your dream with mine, and the ‘Hundred Worlds’ will not be missed; because in its place
will be born a new empire, with a newer, more fitting name. No longer will we be known by our numbers—a concept too long out of date anyway.

  “With your help we can for all time be known by who we are: the ‘Human Worlds.’”

  The pickup lens pulled back slowly, and Jephthah leaned against the fence post once more in almost the exact same position as at the beginning of the transmission. He gazed solemnly around him at the peaceful countryside and the playset, the empty swings moving gently in the breeze. The picture faded to blue.

  The room was quiet, the silence so complete that the faint creaking of centuries-old floorboards could be heard from the hallway.

  Adela, still on her feet, stared dumbly at the empty blue screen, somehow expecting more. She knew that Imperial communication techs on Luna would already be attempting to trace the source of the signal, and that Eric expected no further visual communication on the screen. Indeed, any orders or requests Eric had for Luna regarding the just-ended transmission would have been sent through the integrator. But for some unknown reasons she expected more to come from the screen and waited wordlessly for—what? An apology? Absolution that everything that had happened was somehow, after all, not her doing? A tiny part of her mind even toyed with the thought that this had all been some horrible cryosleep-induced nightmare. Adela knew better.

  “Mother, I—”

  “No!” Adela snapped at her son. “No! I don’t want to be responsible for this!”

  Eric rose to his feet, but Adela jerked her arm away as he touched it softly. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “He’s desperate, because he knows that most people have enough common sense not to fall for his brand of rhetoric. He knows better than to think you’d actually support him, but he’s hoping that his appeal—carefully wording it the way he did to indicate the ridiculous notion that you never wanted to turn to the Sarpan in the first place—might convince those who are sympathetic to him, but still undecided.”

  “No!” She turned on him sharply, her hands clenched into taut fists in front of her, and screamed, “Don’t you see it, Eric?” Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she made no effort to wipe them away. “Don’t you see?” she said again, collapsing into the chair. Her voice was a hoarse whisper this time. She shook her head and sobbed openly. “Don’t … don’t you see?”

  Eric knelt at the chair’s side and took her hand. She allowed him to touch her this time, but left her hand limp in his. He waited for her to continue.

  “He’s right about … one thing.” A movement at the door caught her eye, and Adela turned to see Fleming standing silently in the doorway, his hands clasped behind him in his familiar pose. Had he heard her outcry, or had Eric summoned him, she wondered, but decided it didn’t matter; she was glad he was here. She wiped the back of a hand across her eyes, then took a deep breath, then another, and another, until certain she could speak clearly again.

  “He’s right when he says this is all the result of what I once considered to be my dream.” Adela took Eric’s hand in hers and managed a weak, if sad, smile. “Thank you for telling me that what he said wasn’t true, but I know now that it is.”

  “Mother, no. It’s not.”

  “Shhhhh.” She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “It’s all right. After everything I’ve seen these past weeks, after what Billy told me before returning to Australia, I think I already knew. I just regret that it took the likes of him to make me realize the truth.” She stood and ran a hand through her long hair to straighten it, and buttoned the cuffs and collar of her blouse. Turning to Fleming, she said, “Master, could you please get my things ready? I’ll be leaving Woodsgate in the morning.”

  Eric was immediately on his feet. “Where are you going, Mother? I need time to arrange proper—”

  “It was a mistake to sleep. It was simple vanity to want to be around to ‘throw the switch.’

  “My work here is finished, and I’m leaving,” she said simply. “I’m going home to Gris.” She walked to the door, and allowed Fleming to lead her from the room.

  PART THREE

  THE GATHERING DARKNESS

  A man who is afraid

  will do anything.

  —Jawaharlal Nehru

  8

  MERCURY

  Whump!

  “Come on, Rice! Open the gods-damned door right now!”

  Whump!

  Templeton Rice glared at the door; for a moment he’d almost thought he saw it shudder when they hit it that time. But the door was heavy, much too heavy for them to even shake it in its servo tracks, much less break it down. Besides, in the anteroom’s dim lighting there was little chance that something as subtle as a shaking door could be seen by any but the sharpest eyes. He glanced around the small room and tried to decide just how much he really wanted the lighting back on, or if he even needed it in here. If so, he realized that he’d have to carefully reroute the connection to avoid negating the lockout he’d hastily programmed into the door circuitry. He decided not to decide for now. In the meantime, the light coming from Main Control would have to do.

  The pounding finally stopped, and in the sudden quiet all that remained was his own labored breathing and something else, a tiny sound he couldn’t quite place, He tried to calm himself and, forcing his breath to come in regular intervals, leaned closer to the door. There it was, a scratching sound from the other side of the wall at a spot slightly to one side of the doorframe, about a meter down from the ceiling. In frustration and anger at their incessant attempts to get in, he kicked at the door almost as loudly as when the table they had been using as a makeshift battering ram had slammed into it.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted. “I’ve disabled the circuits at the primary control panel, so there’s no way you can reroute from that access hatch on your side. You might as well not even bother.” He listened again, but the scratching sound continued unabated as they continued their attempts to hot-wire the door circuit from the other side.

  “Idiots!” he spat, more to himself than to his adversaries. There were six of them trying to get in, and the thought that they had all once been his friends—or at least trusted associates—filled him with disgust. Now they were little more than animals controlled more by their own bloodlust than their intellect.

  He turned his back on the door and leaned heavily, wearily against it before allowing himself to slide down the smooth surface into a sitting position on the floor. He let his eyes travel around the room until they came upon Boscawen’s body lying in the doorway opposite him. The man lay on his back, his left arm twisted grotesquely beneath him, his head turned as if to stare accusingly at him. There was a single wound just above his left eye, but the bleeding had stopped long enough ago that the blood had turned dark against the man’s cheek, as well as in the surprisingly small pool that had collected where his head touched the floor.

  Bloodlust. The word was perfect.

  “Listen, Tem …” It was a new voice this time, one of the Imperial guards the others had been holding in the cafeteria. “They brought me up here; asked me to talk to you.”

  “Go away, Jerzy.”

  “They only want the frog, Tem. Let them have it, and they’ve promised to let us all go.”

  Rice paused, considered their promise of safety for the hundredth time, then said, “You know they’re lying. The longer this door is locked, the longer I stay alive.”

  “Come on, Tem …”

  He felt uneasy, and wondered what they would do with the guards. In spite of himself, he found that he actually liked the big marine. For a military type, the man had proven himself remarkably literate about the scientific research and preparations they had been conducting at the sunstation. Was the man still tied? Or were they simply holding a gun to his head as they had Boscawen’s? He looked back to the body in the doorway, and felt guilt wash over him at how many had already died because of his resistance. “Jerzy, are you all right? How about the rest of your team?”

 
“We’re all fine, Tem,” came the reply. “They’ve got us sealed in Three-A. Since there’s only the one door to cover, they’ve removed all our leg braces. They’re treating us well; we’re all right.”

  Rice was relieved to hear by the tone of the man’s voice that what he was saying was the truth. But then, why should they kill the soldiers? As long as they were unarmed and contained they weren’t a threat to them or anyone else. And if it came to it, they just might need hostages when help arrived. If help arrived. Does anyone on Luna even know what’s happened here yet? he wondered. He stopped to think a moment: How long has it been since I spoke to anyone at the Academy? Two days? Three? He sighed unhappily. He had gone weeks at a time without finding a need to talk to anyone there and, assuming that the gang outside the door was feeding false reports back home, it might be a very long time before anyone became suspicious about anything being amiss at a sunstation that was all-too-frequently ignored anyway. Maybe now that Dr. Montgarde was active with the project, there would be sooner contact.

  Rice closed his eyes and tipped his head back exhaustedly against the door. He let his hands fall limply at his sides—but still maintained a tight grip on the needle gun that was his only weapon. He wished again that he had some metal flechettes that could be electrically charged instead of the chemically filled glass ones. The momentary darkness and the quiet—save for the uninterrupted scratching at the control hatch outside—felt positively wonderful, and he actually permitted himself to enjoy the temporary peace.