by Bill Adams
“So if the Few unfolded the Barbarossa’s bubble a year after Helter parked the ship there,” I said, “it would just be two weeks to the crew. If they waited ten or a hundred years, it would still be—”
Summerisle nodded. “Exactly the same two weeks to the crew, even if they’re never rescued, even if the bubble only unfolds with the collapse of the universe as a whole, billions of years from now. So in that sense, the bubble is outside time. Your crewmates are still there, no older; it is still theoretically possible to rescue them. But realize this—every other bubble that has ever been created in our galaxy, and not retrieved, is still there, too. Bubble creation can, and undoubtedly has, happened accidentally to many spacefaring species over the last few billion years. We’ve never met intelligent aliens, just found artifacts of long-extinct ones. But all those bubble-bound ships, all those alien races with their own technologies and their own slants on science, are still alive and waiting to be rescued.”
It was too big to take in. “Is that what it’s all about? I did wonder why Helter didn’t simply take the Barbarossa where he wanted to go—why bother with the bubble universe?”
“Because the Few ‘fish’ among the bubble universes,” Summerisle replied. “The bubbles tend to gravitate toward each other in praeterspace, ‘touch,’ and rebound. At the moment of contact, an interference pattern is created that can be read, like a hologram, for information about the other bubble—information that might allow the Few to unfold that bubble as well. So the Few have a way of fishing for living members of extinct civilizations and obtaining their technologies. What they learn this way will eventually make them all-powerful—if they don’t do permanent damage to the fabric of the universe first.”
“That’s it!” I said. “That’s what Helter was babbling. He’d seen something, a bubble within a bubble, he called it. He couldn’t wait for his comrades to find our bubble and unfold it from the outside. He had to get to them as soon as possible, and warn them about whatever it was he’d seen—he said he’d entered it on the ship’s log. All these years I’ve thought he was crazy, or my memory was…he said that the, the integrity of the universe was at stake.”
“He was right,” Summerisle said flatly. “What happened then?”
“He wanted me to help him break out of the bubble. He’d already programmed the p-drive, but he thought it was going to be a rocky trip, and he wanted two of us at the helm of the shuttle. I thought he was crazy, I wanted to save the p-drive for the rest of the ship; we fought, and I had to kill him. But meanwhile the shuttle had taken off under program. All I could do was buckle in. So…I alone escaped. The others were left behind.”
“It makes sense,” Summerisle murmured, almost to himself. “We’d pieced most of it together, and that completes the picture.”
“But—wait a minute,” I said. “How could we break out of the bubble? If people can break out, why is anyone trapped?”
Summerisle shook his head. “Maybe Helter was crazy. I told you that within the bubble, our galaxy appears to be a single gravitational unit, like a star, at the perceptual horizon. It’s theoretically possible to attempt p-space access by navigating as if it were a star—by sunplunging it. But you wouldn’t be able to take out the full mass that formed the bubble—that’s why it had to be the shuttle. And the…the odds against your retranslation are terrible, terrible. It’s a miracle that you’re here speaking to me now.” He suddenly looked another twenty years older. “So you arrived back in space-time, in our galaxy. How did you find your way back to the human sphere?”
“I don’t know. I hit my head during the fight with Helter, or the takeoff. And my brains had already been scrambled by the suspend-sleep tank. There was another tank in the shuttle, now that I think of it; maybe I had to use it between sunplunges, to save on air and food. Whatever the reason, the rest is a blank. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital on a fringe world. They told me my shuttle had crashed in the ocean nearby and sunk. I had the data disk from the Barbarossa in my hand, the ship log. But it turned out to be unreadable…distorted by my translation through the bubble?”
“Possibly.”
“So I had no proof, not even to convince myself. That was ten years ago. I found out how much time had passed, the legend that had grown up around me, the danger I was in if recognized—I couldn’t even be sure I was the famous Evan Larkspur and not just a head case. It took me a long time to pull myself together. But two years ago I thought I had all the strings in my hand. I discovered the true birthplace of Kanalism—the place you’d told me of. I had walked the original labyrinth of initiation, and stolen the original Master’s ring from the archaeologist in charge of the dig.”
“It was you?” Summerisle said in surprise. “The Sub-Commissioner of Non-Human Artifacts who turned out to be a fraud—that was you?”
“You’re very well informed,” I said. “Well connected, too. But we’ll get back to that. I had the Grandmaster’s ring to unite the underground Kanalists behind me. And I’d come to understand what the White Book could do for me and where you’d left it. With those weapons, I intended to destroy the Column. But when I sneaked back to Nexus, crawled under the storm drains, and tunneled into the base of the fountain in the plaza—well, I don’t have to tell you. No Book. Suddenly, I had a ring that looked like any other, a Barbarossa log no one could read, and no Book at all.”
“The Book was there for decades, but—”
“But you came back for it yourself, because you weren’t dead after all,” I said. “You aren’t even as old as you should be.”
“No. I led the active resistance as long as there was any point to it, then faked my death. Instead of holing up within the human sphere, I traveled beyond it—a sort of survey trip like yours. As you can tell, I’ve learned a great deal more about the universe since you saw me last. And I’ve used deep-suspend to skip years I couldn’t use. But the Book did wait in the fountain for you—quite a long time. Afterward, I thought of leaving a note in its place, something to lead you to me. But it was too much of a security risk; too many others depend on me now.”
I felt it was the truth. This was still my old Master. My reason told me I shouldn’t trust him yet, but I couldn’t help it. “So when the time was ripe you retrieved the book.” Presumably a century of Column dictatorship had finally worn down his sacred oaths not to use the Book as a weapon—but I didn’t throw that up to him. “Quite a machine you’ve managed to build since then. You must have powerful partners—to get into the old navy files and change my genetic record there, for instance. That threw me for a loop, when the Tribunal captured me. But, of course, some day you might have to prove that your Pretender upstairs is the real Larkspur. As you said, biosculpting is good enough to exactly copy my features—and you did have a keepsake hologram of me, I recall—but there’s no way to give him my genetic structure. So you switched in his record instead.”
His face made no concession to my guess, but then he said, “I knew that the fake record would protect you from them, should you ever return. Its distant-relation genes would make your resemblance seem less suspicious.”
“That’s true, it got me clear. Sort of.”
“I don’t have much time,” Summerisle said. “I have to report back. What happened with the Tribunal? How’d you get here? What’s your cover?”
I told him essentially everything. He marveled at it.
“You’ve done well,” he said finally. “Superbly, in fact. But then, you were always so cunning and resourceful. The orphan in you, perhaps—and the artist. You say it threw you for a loop when the Tribunal said you weren’t the real Evan—but I bet it didn’t throw you for long.”
“No,” I said. “A hallucination of you set me straight.”
“Not hallucination—vision,” he said. “Don’t assume that all your visions are trauma nightmares, brain damage. I taught you how to use imagery once, to let your intuition speak to you. Masters have visions—and you’re a
Master in the rough. You’ve been through hell, and I’m afraid that’s not over. There are terrible revelations to come. But you are an integrated personality now, I can see that. You will never crack. It’s tragic we couldn’t connect earlier.” He looked back in the direction of the Pretender’s room.
“What about him?” I said. “Is he going to crack?”
“I just don’t know,” he replied slowly. “He’s done well, too, you know—people worship him and listen to him, and that’s his job. But he’s full of doubts. He conceals things from me, even under hypnosis—as you know, the trance state is ultimately voluntary. There are undercurrents I don’t understand. This Byron persona he’s chosen—it’s like a joke, isn’t it? Byron wrote plays in Venice, Byron tried to lead a revolution in Greece. But who is it a joke on? He’s even plagued by Byron’s limp sometimes—purely psychosomatic. He is not an integrated personality, poor fellow.”
“How can he be?” I asked. “I spied on you just now. You’ve brainwashed him into thinking he’s me, but how well can that take? Who is he, anyway? The distant relation on the navy’s gene record? Did he ever volunteer for this?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t tell you that, not yet. I have taken partners, obligations—one of those oaths of secrecy you always found so quaint. Suffice it to say that many young men in this universe have suffered suspend-sleep malfunction and other brain injuries. But this one lost far more than you did. He had no coherent past left.”
“So you gave him mine. He really believes he’s me,” I said.
“It’s the only personality he’s got, and I have to constantly shore it up. Our use of him may seem cruel to you, but at least it’s not a room in a madhouse. It’s a life.”
“Did he really write that play?”
“Yes, he’s very talented. Of course, it’s a minor play, and…perverse, don’t you think? Part of his inside Byron joke, I suppose, though the analogies…But the boy has served his purpose well. It would be natural for you to think that you could do it better—”
“Don’t—don’t worry about that now. I don’t know what I want from you. The revolution, I guess. Can you really do it? Can you make thousands of these barrier things, these Shy Locks that keep the Column out of star systems?”
“We can,” Summerisle said. “We’ve already begun to distribute them. Planet after planet is simply going to secede, without conflict, until the Column collapses of its own weight.”
“Why did it take you so long, Master? If these secrets have always been in the Book—”
He interrupted me. “There were only general principles and speculations in the Book. And once we did assimilate the new information on praeterspace, we suddenly understood that the threat of the Few is worse, far worse than even the Column. Remember that when the time comes to judge us and what we’ve done. Our fight against the Column has been a rearguard action. If the Few aren’t stopped, nothing else will matter.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ ”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything more,” he said firmly. “I’m honor-bound to consult with them first. But I want you to know this: I waited for you as long as I could. I always believed in you, knew that you were the Master to come, that Ring and Book belonged to you. Someday you’ll understand why I stopped waiting. But you deserve your own rightful place in the scheme of things, and I solemnly swear to you that you shall have it somehow.” He began to pack his one bag. “At least I can stop worrying about Christopher Sly,” he added. “I’d heard enough to wonder if you were an agent of some kind.”
“Did your people order me killed?”
“No, nor Arturo. We placed Arturo next to young Evan—I mean—”
“The young Pretender.”
“Um, yes. We placed Arturo with our young friend to counteract the influence of this Lew Malatesta.”
“Not one of your people, Lew.”
“No. Our boy formed his own bodyguard after the Tribunal’s attempts on him last year. I can’t control everything he does—”
“He thinks he’s me,” I said wryly.
“Exactly. His own man, a free spirit. He likes to have these men who answer only to him. But Malatesta has a bad smell. The Doge thinks he may be an agent of the Few, and wants him to have an ‘accident.’ But what could he do that’s worse than kill our boy?—and he’s had plenty of opportunity if that were his goal. I won’t execute him on mere suspicion, but I want you to watch him like a hawk.”
“I knew it would end this way,” I said. “No answers, but orders to follow.”
For the first time since finding me alive, he allowed himself a smile. He put a hand on my shoulder. “How many times can I say I’m sorry? It’s a godsend to have a man like you to replace Arturo. Please, until you hear from me again, maintain the status quo. Whatever you do, don’t let our young friend know who you really are, but continue to look after him. You’ve already helped; his drink and drugs were getting out of hand. If the Tribunal contacts you, feed them things they already know, or any false story your literary brain can concoct.” He smiled. “If they put too much pressure on you, or if people keep trying to kill you—you’ll have to go to ground; I could contact you through a public message on La Rete. But stay next to the boy if you can. I wish I could vouch for you with the Doge, or let someone else here know that you’re on our side, but at the moment I can’t—until this business of Arturo’s murder is cleared up, I could be informing exactly the wrong people. But when I come back in a few weeks, we will have worked out a place for you. Meanwhile, maintain. It’s best that everything stay as it is for the time being.”
He was at the door, suitcase in hand, and I couldn’t even line up all the questions I had yet to ask. And then he turned back, wearing an expression I’d never seen on his face. Embarrassment? Shame? “There’s one last thing,” he said. “I can’t explain it, but I beg you to believe that it’s crucially important. You know that Domina is here, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering.
“I have to ask you not to…get involved with her again. At all.”
I could make nothing of this. “And what about her daughter?” I asked.
He closed his eyes as if in pain. “No, nor Julia.”
“I never had any intentions in that direction, Master. And I suppose, if your Pretender does, I should try to discourage him.”
What was going on inside the man? “Yes, Evan, please. And I can’t tell you how sorry…”
But then he shrugged it into the past, as Masters do, nodded a solemn goodbye, and walked out.
Chapter Sixteen
I waited a few minutes, so no one would see me leaving with Summerisle and possibly associate us in the future. For the same reason, I decided to avoid Arn, and went down the corridor toward the back staircase. As I passed Domina’s suite, I overheard a conversation that stopped me, and stepped closer to the door.
Domina’s tone was urgent, impassioned, but also suppressed; I couldn’t make out all her words, just tantalizing snippets. “…Torturing me…know how wrong it would be…Can’t mean that much to you…an old woman…”
The answering voice explained much. I’d assumed the Pretender was still taking a posthypnotic nap in his own room, but the intonations—if not all the words—were unmistakable:
“All I want…Mine. Where is your heart?…even look at her, it’s you…Your fault…sleep with Julia then. At least she loves me.”
Domina’s long reply was a ferocious hiss, with no words audible through the door but “blackmail” and “almost incest.” I thought of going back to Summerisle’s room and plugging in the skeleton coder, but I could have missed everything in the time it would take to find and activate the right comm.
The next sound took me an instant to recognize, and then it chilled me to the heart. I’d heard it only once, decades and worlds before, the morning her truest lover died—Domina sobbing. Now the Pretender’s voice was earnest and en
treating, but too low to make sense of.
What did I feel, hearing a copy of myself so desperately trying to seduce a woman he only thought he’d loved before—the woman who had in fact tried to kill Evan Larkspur? Pity and horror, but strangely remote, as if for characters in a play. Even the Pretender’s threat, to sleep with Julia if Domina refused him, failed to arouse emotion. Some part of me was too busy turning that word incest around and around.
Footfalls approached the door from the inside. I ran on my toes for the staircase and went down a few stairs before stopping to listen again. But it was a few moments before I heard the door actually open, and then, in a strange parody of Summerisle’s parting with me, Domina speaking from within the suite.
“—so sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am.”
The Pretender’s reply from the corridor, crisp and cold: “I don’t want pity. I want my right place. I want you.”
As the door slammed shut, I crept down the stairs as fast as I could.
I hired a gondolier and racked my brains while we followed the timeless canals, the branch lines that look like choices but which are in essence all one, the universal ocean.
“Almost incest.” Funny, but that had to be why Julia’s eyes and gestures half attracted and half repelled me; the element of Domina in her had vaccinated me against sexual desire. Taking your lover’s daughter was only figuratively incest, of course. Then again…
Give Summerisle credit for finally putting the last nagging doubt to rest. I was the real Evan Larkspur. But who the hell was the Pretender? Summerisle had sidestepped my question about the gene record the Tribunal had tested me against. Was it a fake he’d manufactured so I could pass as a distant Larkspur relative if I ever showed up, or was it the Pretender’s true record as a distant relative of mine? It would have to be awfully distant; my aunt and uncle had always raised me to believe I was the last of the Larkspurs—and good riddance, according to them.