Maria Falkenstein: “And finally... and finally... to you, Roger, I say ... I say... I’m sorry if you think I’ve failed you. I’m sorry if ... I hope one day you’ll understand ... I loved you and a part of me loves you still... I’m sorry, Roger, I’m sorry that this had to be..
A sob wracks her body, and she covers her face with her hands as the camera jerkily reverse-zooms into a discreet long shot on Maria Falkenstein as seen from far, far above, a lonely isolated figure standing in a clear space in the wild greenery of the everlasting jungle, like a figure out of an ancient tragedy framed by a spotlight in the center of some vast and bewildering planetary stage.
20
AFTER ALL BUT SHE HAD BOARDED, CYNDA ELIZABETH paused atop the embarkation ramp of the B-3I for a last glimpse of Pacifica to carry with her across the abyss of time and space to Earth.
Fewer than two hundred people had bothered to see the Femocrat ship off, and most of these were newshounds and media crews, and even their turnout was unimpressive considering the planet’s multitude of news channels. So final and complete was their defeat and discrediting after the defection of Maria Falkenstein that their departure wasn’t even a major news item.
A defection for which I was at least partly responsible, Cynda thought, and strangely enough, she felt no little comfort in that. At the end, she had after all managed to leave some small trace of herself on the future destiny of the planet and in the life of one true sister—and for the better, not the worse. Now the Pacifican Institute of Transcendental Science would be truly Pacifican—a joint effort of men and women together with a woman and a Transcendental Scientist in charge.
As for Maria Falkenstein herself, Cynda, perhaps more than anyone, could empathize with the course she had taken, for it was the mirror-image of the choice she herself had been forced to make. Maria had forsaken the man she had loved for the new destiny that called her, and Cynda had forsaken the possibility of finding the kind of man who might fill her heart for her duty as a Femocrat and a human being. Maria’s sacrifice took her away from the world she had known to work out a new life on a new planet, and Cynda’s sacrifice was bringing her back to her own world as a transformed stranger, a potential agent of change. There was symmetry in that, a rough sort of cosmic justice.
And when the arguments and counterarguments had ground each other down, Cynda was sure that Femocracy would be forced to realize that it could no longer afford to stand aloof from the commerce and discourse of the Galactic Media Web. Not with the Pacificans openly trafficking in the formerly secret knowledge that Sisterhood had coveted for over a century. Femocracy could now not afford not to buy the inertia-screen, the matter transformer, rejuvenation, and all the rest Even an ideologue like Bara Dorothy was beginning to see that isolation from the Web would mean that the Femocratic planets would become a primitive backwater while the rest of the galaxy swept onward and upward.
And in order to buy, Femocracy would have to sell. In order to sell, Femocracy would have to produce wares that could compete on the interstellar market. And in order to do that, Femocracy would have to learn how to adapt itself to the galactic mainstream, to grow, and to change.
Who can say where that may one day lead? Cynda Elizabeth thought. Who can say that one day it may not be possible for a Sister and a Femocrat to openly walk the streets of Earth with her man and yet remain both a Sister and a Femocrat? There are other Sisters on Earth who have felt what I feel, a few strongly enough to have braved punishment by acting out what was in their hearts. How many of us are there? Who has even dared to try to find out? Femocracy is going to have to change, and if Sisterhood is truly powerful, may it not one day be strong enough to accept even breeder-lovers like me as Sisters and true comrades? Who can say that I may not live to see that new world?
Cynda looked out across the broad Columbian plain for one last time. Fields of golden grain rippled in the breeze beneath an unclouded sky. In the distance, the Big Blue River flowed toward Gotham, that alien city where for a while at least she had found her own true nature in the arms of a man. She wondered what Eric might be doing now, whether he would be watching this departure on the net.
She sighed. That had been, and now it was over, and the equivocal future called to her. For the moment, it was enough to remember what had been, and to know that wherever she was, a world existed somewhere where men and women lived and loved, free, equal, and together.
She waved goodbye to no one in particular and stepped into the ship.
The inertia-screen was on, the drive cut in, and on the main viewscreen of the Heisenberg's bridge, Pacifica began to dwindle rapidly. A huge living world of blue sea, mottled green and brown land, swirling white cloud-banks; then a smaller abstraction of itself like a planetary holo-map; finally a bright blue marble glowing against the black velvet of space like a huge and precious sapphire.
As Dr. Roger Falkenstein stood there watching the planet recede, it seemed to him that some psychic umbilicus that linked him to Pacifica, to Maria, to what had been, was being stretched, thinned, and stressed, and he almost physically steeled himself against the moment when it would snap. Indeed, he wished it would snap, whipping his bitterness and confusion out of the center of his being and down the long corridor of the void to oblivion.
But that moment of release never came, and how foolish it was to hope that mere kilometers or light-years or parsecs could magically clear his mind of what had transpired down there on Pacifica. Around him, the bridge crew bustled about the task of readying the Heisenberg for deep space, and in the decks below many of the Arkology’s personnel were already entering the blissful nothingness of Deep Sleep. All was as it had always been, and yet everything had changed.
No longer would the Arkologies and Institutes be able to hold their knowledge unto themselves. No longer would centrally controlled Transcendental Science spread from planet to planet as a great unifying force. That day was done; the Pacificans would see to that.
Ongoing human evolution could no longer be guided by the best minds of the species; now it would become chaotic, multifocused, as the forefront of knowledge was transferred to the random marketplace of the Web. Only the Pacificans, the masters of the Web and the subverters of the great plan, would be capable of exercising any control, and their idea of control was no control at all, precious knowledge sold to any and all bidders.
The only alternative was to try to beat the Pacificans at their own game; dispense gratis via the Web the knowledge and technology that they would be selling. At least that way, by selecting planets with some care, some pattern could be maintained at least for a while, and social cancers like Femocracy could be kept from the leading edge of technology. It was a far more subtle and limited form of guidance, restricted as it was to positive reinforcement, but it was now the only way, and the Council would have to accept it as the only viable policy. And perhaps in time, with the responsibility for the destiny of the species that they were unwittingly assuming, the Pacificans themselves would learn the wisdom of care, restraint, and a coherent guiding vision.
As for Roger Falkenstein’s personal life, it existed only as pain, a pain that was becoming a gaping void, but not swiftly enough by far. Losing Maria was still like the shock of a sudden amputation; a part of him was gone, and the wound was still too fresh for him to feel anything but the whited-out pain of his loss.
Only now, as Pacifica became a brilliant blue ball of light mocking him from the darkness, as Maria disappeared forever beyond the veil of space and time, did small coherent thoughts begin to flit around the periphery of his massive pain—and yes, anger.
Was / in some way responsible for this? Falkenstein wondered. Was there some lack in me as a man that enabled this planet to insinuate itself into my wife’s psyche and finally take her from me as surely as if Pacifica were a newer and fresher lover? Was there some emptiness in our life together, in the very society that made us, that Pacifica was able to fill? Was I mistaken? Was I wrong? About what?
Before them, the great orange ball of the sun hovered just above the western horizon, painting the clouds purple, mauve, and gold, glazing the sea with fire, casting long deep shadows eastward from the green islets of the Island Continent, illumining the yellow undersides of a flock of boomerbirds flying high overhead.
Carlotta Madigan sat in the cockpit of the Davy Jones, the boomline in one hand and the tiller in the other, sensing and controlling the forces of wind and water where they converged inside her own body, while Royce watched proudly. Not, however, without a certain gentle smugness.
“You’re definitely getting it,” Royce said as Carlotta steered the sailboat into the mouth of Lorien lagoon. “I’ll make a sailor out of you yet.”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” Carlotta said contentedly. “I think everyone’s learned a lot about tacking these past few months.”
Royce nodded. “Pacifica has, you and me have, babes, men and women here have, but I wonder how much seamanship those poor off-worlders have picked up...
The house hove into sight, and on the beach, Carlotta could make out a fat brown shape launching itself onto the water and paddling out to meet them. A distant excited whonking echoed across the lagoon.
They were home for the moment; the planet was more or less at peace, and the man beside her seemed much older in a way that sat very well on his tanned bare shoulders. Bucko and lover, helpmate and teacher, second soul and stranger, they had passed through the changes, alone and together, and the ties that had bound them to one another in stasis were transcended now by something at once more fragile and yet stronger than what had been in its very unsettledness. Like the interplay of wind and water, their relationship could only be an ongoing dialectic of constancy and change now, for the vector sum would never again be hers or his to command, but a shared true course through the seas of change for as long as they sailed together.
She laughed. She craned her neck and without letting go of tiller or boomline kissed him briefly on the lips. “To hell with everyone else, bucko!” she said. “All I know is that we’re learning how to sail this boat together!”
They laughed together, and Royce reached for her, and they hugged each other, and kissed, and suddenly the boom was swinging free and the boat whirling crazily in the water.
“Duck!” Royce shouted, and threw her to the deck as the boom whistled over her head.
“Whonk-ka-whonk ka-whonkity whonk!” Rugo had come alongside and was protesting indignantly as he paddled and puffed to avoid colliding with the out-of-control boat.
Royce lifted himself off Carlotta, grabbed the boom-line and tiller, and quickly restored control. “Bucko Power to you, lady!” he laughed. “You were saying something about learning to sail this boat?”
With a gross ungainly flapping of stubby wings and a great splash of water that soaked them both, Rugo leapt into the boat.
Carlotta cocked her head at the clumsy bumbler, who stood there showering them with water as he shook his body dry, then grinned crookedly at Royce. “You were saying something about Bucko Power, jocko?” she said.
They laughed and Carlotta snuggled into Royce’s shoulder as he steered the boat toward its mooring under the purpling sky. Rugo curled up between them. A sudden puff of wind bellied the sails. Soaked and shivering slightly now in the sunset breeze, huddled together for warmth like little children, they sailed into the safe harbor of home.
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