Hot Sleep: The Worthing Chronicle

by Orson Scott Card

  "Too bad for Mother, then, I suppose," Jas said, though such an unpatriotic attitude jarred even him — one didn't forget one's entire upbringing in a single fit of pique over a mere attempted murder.

  "Too bad until now, anyway. With the new eleven–light drive, my young friend, we shall soon be colonized far beyond them — and before they can steal the drive and duplicate it, we'll be firmly entrenched. It will remove the whole question of encirclement forever, I am quite confident."

  "So play the national anthem and give me a medal, Mr. Doon. Don't have me eaten alive by little animals. It doesn't feel like a suitable reward."

  "Does that still bother you? Surely you understand that it was a test."

  "What were you testing for, how good I taste? Or how long I can hold my breath underwater?"

  "Actually, I was testing to see if your clever and creative mind would keep you alive in a situation of high pressure. You're a survivor."

  "And what if I had failed the test?"

  "You'd be dead. I was willing to risk my whole waking on that one test."

  "A whole waking. While I merely risked the rest of my life."

  "You are annoyingly egocentric, Jas. What difference would it make to the world if you dropped dead right now? An infinitesimally smaller daily food demand for Capitol. In this universe you don't amount to horse manure — you recall what horses are? No matter how bright you are, my boy, you are worthless and trivial to the universe until and unless you get into a position where you can make a difference."

  Doon walked behind Jas and abruptly began pushing the chair toward the door.

  "I spent the first thirty years of my life, Jason, just getting where I am. For thirty years I manipulated and connived and sacrificed — I passed up five chances to go on somec before I was finally satisfied that I had the organization that I needed. I let myself reach thirty physical years of age, in order to get the position I have."

  "Assistant minister of colonization."

  "I had that at twenty–two. The rest of the time was spent getting control of the computers, winning Mother's Little Boys to my group, getting men and women who ultimately reported to me in every level of the bureaucracy. And I had to keep it all secret so that someone didn't pull the plug while I was under somec."

  Jas involuntarily started to laugh at the juxtaposition of the archaic phrase "pull the plug," but caught himself, and merely smiled. "The ultimately efficient megalomaniac," he said.

  "Of course. Megalomaniacs are simply people who know damn well they can run the universe better than God or the present governors."

  "You've been doing a super job," Jas said. "Everybody's happy."

  "What the hell do I care if anybody's happy?" Doon asked. "Least of all you. Heredity has dealt you a full deck, my boy. So you're going to play cards until you win or go broke. You're in my collection, and if you do as you're told, you'll eventually reach a position where you can make a difference to humanity. But if you decide to do things on your own, you'll step outside my protection. Do that, and if Radamand Worthing doesn't get you, Hartman Tork will."

  Doon pushed the chair quickly down the corridor. And as Doon's last statement hung in the air, Jas felt a tremendous vertigo. The chair was not moving forward, it was falling down the corridor, and he was powerless to stop it. He wasn't afraid of hitting the end — it was the falling itself, the powerlessness itself that made him throw his hands out in front of him and shout, "Stop me! Let me stop!"

  And Doon stopped pushing the chair. A sudden silence fell in the corridor. The rhythm of Doon's running steps made the stillness shout deafeningly. Jas covered his face with his hands.

  "What's wrong, Jas?" Doon whispered. "Why are you afraid?"

  Jas just shook his head.

  "Brilliant or not, Jason, you are still a child, I suppose. If you would only talk like a child, people would remember to treat you like one."

  "I don't want to be treated like a child."

  "Well, you sure as hell don't want to be treated like an adult. Remember that you applied for the Service?"

  "They turned me down."

  "They've already reconsidered. You'll begin pilot school as soon as your skin is healed."

  "Pilot school?" Jas was surprised. "That was just my escape, to save my life — I never really wanted to be a pilot."

  "Too intellectual for the Space Service, is that it? Well, consider it a lifesaver anyway, boy. Pilots live longer than anybody. If they don't get killed, of course — but you're a survivor, right? On all their twenty– and thirty–year flights, they're only awake for a few months at the most. The rest of the time, somec. Pilots are on a somec level that will keep you young and alive for five hundred years."

  "And after that?" Jas asked, trying to be sarcastic.

  "Why, further instructions, of course," Doon answered with a bland smile. "There are only a few people in the Empire who are on the somec level that pilots take for granted. The whole Cabinet will die before you. Only I will stay alive. And the head of the Little Boys. And a few of my most needed assistants."

  Jas stared. "The somec usage is determined strictly by law!"

  "And once upon a time there was a little girl with long blond hair that got involved with three talking bears. I control the people who control the somec, and that means I have control over life and death everywhere in the Empire. Rather a secure position to be in."

  "I don't want to be a pilot."

  "Then you want to be a corpse. That's the choice."

  "I thought you said you didn't think you were God!" Jas shouted.

  "I don't."

  "Then get out of my life!"

  "Why? Just because I want to make you great, whether you like it or not?"

  "If I'm going to be great, I'm going to do it on my own. And I don't know if I even care about ‘greatness'. Not everybody's a would–be worldmaker, Doon."

  "You have no vision, Jas."

  "I see better than anybody I know."

  "Better, but not very far. Your father's dead."

  "You think I didn't know that?"

  "He died because he and some other Swipe ship captains weren't content to serve. They went into business for themselves, and so they lost the protection of the Empire. They thought they didn't need it. So they took a dozen ships and made war with the universe. They were heroes for a while, of course. Everybody loves a rebel — from a distance, and as long as the rebel loses gracefully. But when they were about to lose, they burned over some planets as a last–ditch effort. Then suddenly the Swipe heroes became Swipe bastards, and Swipes were hunted down and killed all over the Empire. And do you know why your father burned those planets?"

  "No." Jas was grinding his teeth and couldn't stop.

  "Because they wouldn't let him land. He requested permission to land and refuel, and they turned him down. He had to teach them a lesson."

  "That's not true. They fired on him."

  "You know that there's no weapon that can be fired in an atmosphere that can possibly do damage to a ship, Jas."

  "My father burned them in self–defense."

  "He was angry, and he had to teach them a lesson."

  "No!"

  "Like father, like son," Doon said.

  Jason half–rose from the wheelchair, until the pain stopped him. "That's not true, you bastard! I'd never burn a planet, I never would —"

  "You would, Jason. Right now you would, if they got you angry enough. Because you have no vision. You have nothing important to accomplish, no magnificent goal that keeps you from destroying yourself to achieve petty, transitory objectives. You don't even have a right to be free until you have vision and purpose. And so I'll rule you, Jason, and keep you safe until you're able to rule yourself."

  They moved again down the corridor. Jas tried to look into Doon's mind, to see, if he could, what Doon eventually planned to do with him — having been betrayed once in the garden, he didn't plan to be betrayed again. But he couldn't twist around to see Boon's e
yes, and whether that really stopped him from seeing into the man's mind or whether he simply couldn't control the gift well enough to see a person's thoughts without looking at him, Jas found nothing, could tell nothing.

  They got back to the hospital room, which was still empty. Without a word Jas gingerly lifted himself out of the chair, and though he wanted to refuse Boon's help, he had to lean on the man as he made his way to the bed.

  "Thirteen years old," Boon whispered. "Well, heaven knows you're ready for pilot school, anyway. They'll undoubtedly bend the rules and make you a pilot before you turn twenty–one — why they chose that age anyway is beyond me to fathom. You should go on two or three voyages, and then sometime, say a century or a hundred and twenty years from now, when you return to Capitol from a voyage, come to the Ministry of Colonization and ask for an appointment with me.

  They'll know that they should wake me then. I'll look forward to seeing you again, my boy."

  "Going back to sleep now, Mr. Doon?" Jas asked.

  "In a few days. I've spent far too much time with you as it is, and I'm behind schedule on all my other work. You'd better be worth it."

  "I hope I'm not."

  "You like being excellent too well, Jas. You won't be able to stop yourself."

  "I will not be part of your bloody vision!"

  "How do you know that your resistance to me isn't exactly what I want from you?" Doon asked, amused.

  In despair Jas threw himself back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. There was no picture there. Through gritted teeth he said, "There isn't a damn thing I can do."

  "You can trust me," Doon suggested. Jas laughed bitterly. Doon sighed. "Why don't you just look, and see who I am?"

  "Look inside you?" Jas asked.

  "Or are you afraid that if you knew me, you couldn't hate me anymore?"

  And so Jas leaned up on his left elbow and looked behind Abner Doon's mind. It wasn't just a glance this time, as it had always been before. This time he looked deep, looked far, found the hidden places, found the lies and the lies behind them and finally came down to the truth. He held it in his mind — the basis on which Abner Doon thought, decided, acted — and was amazed. And then he stopped being amazed, and only with drew from Doon's mind. Painfully, reluctantly removed himself, and then, because he had left, he wept. Doon went away. Finally Jas slept.

  When he woke, he remembered vague words that Doon had said, but whether Doon had actually said them or Jas had only dreamed them, he didn't know. He remembered them, though, and over the next few weeks, as bureaucrats processed him into the Service, tested him, trained him, as he consented to everything done to him, he stopped despising himself for the memory of Doon's words, and began, instead, to call them back, to listen to them again in his dreams, and in his daydreaming.

  One day they came to him and told him he was ready for his first Service assignment. It was on the other side of Capitol, a long journey, and at the end of it he was assigned a tiny cubicle in a far corner of the officers' section of the command center. It was lowest in the hierarchy of privilege and perks, but it was a private room all the same, and in officers' quarters, too. And there was a full–length mirror on the wall.

  "Ha," Jas said when he saw himself in it.

  He was surprised to see that he was still only thirteen years old, still only a little over 165 centimeters in height, his main growth still ahead of him. Somehow during the last week he had stopped thinking of himself as a child. He was surprised at how young the face was. How slight the body.

  He grinned, and the boy in the mirror smiled slightly back at him.

  Then Jas turned and unpacked his few belongings, then began memorizing the list of command center rules and regulations that had been given him upon arrival. He was going to be the best damned new officer they'd ever had. Because the sooner everyone was happy with him, the sooner he'd become a pilot. And the sooner he became a pilot, the sooner he'd be on somec, and then he could sleep through most of the years until he could wake up at the end of a century and come back to see Doon.

  He knew it was ironic that he should look forward to seeing the man who had tried to kill him, but Jas understood that a little better, now. For he had seen Abner Doon as no other living person had seen him. From the inside. And inside Abner Doon, behind the memories and pain, Jas had found what no other man could show him.

  Peace. Utter discontent, but peace with his vision of the possibility, peace with his commitment to fulfilling that vision.

  And Jas remembered the words he had heard Doon say. "I love you, son."

  He set the list aside, closed his eyes, and recalled, or tried to recall, the face on the ceiling in his mother's flat. He couldn't. It was gone from his memory. When he tried to remember his father's face, all he could see was Doon, smiling.

  2

  THE AMUSEMENTS in the Empire depended more on social class than on location. Though some games and sports were restricted to certain planets, they were few and fading — those that had universal appeal, like the mismating simulacrum game of Exeter, ceased to be provincial, while those that didn't catch on off–planet, like cockball on Campbell , eventually died away.

  The truly popular games, however, spread throughout the Empire rapidly — only the limitation of space travel kept their acceptance from being immediate. Spectator sports were immensely popular, and the outcome of football, basketball, and undercut games were rushed by courier ships to every planet in the Empire. It was here that the first division between classes occurred: somec users began to time their wakings to fit the expected arrivals of courier ships, in order to watch the game and learn the outcome. Those not on somec, of course, could rarely see the same off–planet team perform twice in their lifetime, and so only live, on–planet games were readily available. Thus the somec users watched games on vast screens in huge banquet halls, where only the elite could come, and where prices were prohibitive, while non–somec users crowded into vast arenas, watching live athletes of the second rank slug it out on the local playing field. Participant sports also faced the same division. Team sports gradually became the prerogative of lower class enthusiasts, who could get together at frequent intervals, and who didn't have to worry about timing their wakings. Somec users, however, found it difficult to time their wakings just to get a team together. A seven–year sleeper would not be too terribly tempted to waken two years earlier in order to play on the same team with a superb rugby player who happened to be a fiver. Instead, individual players would "pair up" in "duels," and these would be taped and replayed for other somec users later. A great deal of gambling focused on these duels: Sleepers, upon waking, would consult lists of upcoming duels, study past tapes of the players, and place bets. On their next waking, they would learn the outcome of the duel and watch the tape, learning why and how they guessed right or wrong. The most common games were fencing, rapiers, tennis, wrestling, boxing, and knife–throwing, the last being an illegal game, with tapes secretly taken and preserved, since many deaths and injuries ended particular contests prematurely.

  Aside from sports, amusement centered around computers. "Arcades" catered to the lower classes, offering many complex computer contests called "pinballs." Similarly, the wealthy also played with computers, but instead of simple one–person games, played vast multiplayer games such as "Soap Opera," "Monopoly," and "Empire," in which individual players, upon waking, could purchase an already existing persona from a player ready to go under and play against other players already in the game. It became a point of pride to manipulate one's persona to the strongest possible position, and many players became so involved that they adopted the persona name as their own, purchasing the right to play in the same game at exorbitant prices at every waking for centuries. The same game, with different players manipulating the personae, could continue for centuries, and the Monopoly players of Sonora even today take great pride in the fact that throughout the Somec Revolution and the Dark Ages, their game missed only one year, and that becau
se of a power failure.

  But the most all–pervading amusements were the theatrical media: loops and plays. Plays, of course, were for the lowest classes, those who couldn't afford to see reality in the loops, which commanded high prices. But for once the division wasn't along somec lines. A majority of non somec users were able to pay to see loops, and this one amusement brought them in contact with the lives of the somec society.

  Loops were made of practically everything. Notably beautiful women were paid astronomical fees for allowing their private lives to be looped audiences would sit for hours watching the unedited holo broadcast, enduring [or enjoying?] the endless trivia, all for the sake of the dramatic moment, the argument, the intercourse. Naturally, budding actresses and actors would pay dearly for the privilege of taking part in that "totally true" looped life, and these women were the top money–makers in the Empire, rising to somec levels unreachable except to the highest government officials.

  Next to the actresses in the lifeloops were the starship captains, pilots with such legendary names as Carter Poor, Jazz Worthing, and Ngaongao Bumubii. These pilots paid a small percentage of their earnings to the Service, and then allowed broadcasts of their victorious battles to be made throughout the Empire. They, too, received phenomenal wealth, and since they were already at the highest possible somec level, all their income could be — and usually was — invested in business. Some pilots ended up owning entire planets; others magnanimously sponsored universities; still others kept the uses of their money entirely secret.

  And others brought their own downfall by getting embroiled in government. Perhaps the most famous case was the phenomenally successful pilot and loopstar Jazz Worthing, whose manager, Willard "Hop" Noyock apparently involved him in the famous Shimon Rapth Coup.

  Excerpt from The Complete Public Pleasure Book, Onger and Haight, 6645, p.12.

  3

  HOP NOYOCK WOKE up feeling hot and flabby. Hot because the reviver always left him sweating. Flabby because somehow, over the last three hundred years, he had gotten a little out of shape.