Exodus to the Stars

by Andreas Brandhorst

  Just in front of the panoramic window's surface, a three-dimensional projection field formed that functioned like a zoom. The complex form of Orbital II became visible and flew with surprising swiftness past the Astrolift.

  "Isn't there a danger that the elevator's cable and transport module might be struck by satellites?" a Chronicler asked.

  "There's quite a bit of room up here," Levian Paronn replied and smiled. "And of course all trajectories are precisely calculated."

  How young he is, Deshan thought. As young as he was fifty years ago. Paronn, the twelfth Hero, still looked forty although he would have been over ninety by this time.

  Paronn looked at a chronometer, nodded to himself, and said, "We still have a little time." He touched another switch and the large window went dark, changing into a vidscreen.

  "I have announced that I would show you the next phase of Project Exodus," he said, and his tone changed a little as he spoke. "Survival," he emphasized, and when he pronounced that word, it seemed to take on an entirely new meaning. "If we wish to survive, it is not enough to send a few people to the stars. Thousands must reach distant worlds to ensure the necessary genetic diversity there. To transport thousands of colonists, very large spaceships are required."

  On the window vidscreen appeared long tubes consisting of individual rotating segments. Deshan had once seen similar designs long before on a vidscreen in Paronn's Impetus office.

  The Chroniclers pressed closer. Recording sensors hummed. Deshan remained sitting, watching and listening. His duties as a Chronicler were of a different kind.

  "These are the spaceships that will take the children of Lemur to the stars," Paronn said. "Several kilometers long, equipped with autonomous ecological systems that will supply the colonists with food."

  "How long will they be under way?" someone asked.

  "Many thousands of years of our time," Paronn answered, smiling as he saw the astonishment in the faces of the men and women. "The spaceships that the Spaceflight Solidarity is launching this year to the outer planets would be as long and even longer on their way even to the nearest star, which is somewhat more than four light-years distant. They are simply too slow. Now, we have been working for many years on new propulsion systems that allow much greater velocities. Our plan consists of accelerating the Exodus ships to nearly the speed of light. As a result, the phenomenon of time dilation will come into play, which means that time on board will pass considerably more slowly than outside."

  "In other words ... " said the young woman who had spoken before, "the colonists' ships are like ... time machines that enable the people on board to take a trip into the future."

  Paronn nodded slowly. "You could put it that way, yes. And the trip into the future is at the same time a journey to the stars. The Exodus ships need only a few decades or centuries to reach worlds many light-years away."

  "Decades or centuries," a middle-aged man repeated, and directed his recording sensor at Paronn. "So these are generation ships?"

  "Yes." Paronn's voice sounded especially earnest. This was the voice of Vehraáto, the Hero. "The Enemy lies in wait out there in space and will attempt to annihilate humanity ... He will search for us not only here, but also in neighboring solar systems. We must transport Lemur's children as far away as possible to ensure the survival of humanity. Hundreds, thousands of light-years away."

  "The Solidarity Tamans of the Coordinating Council consider the entire Project Exodus an enormous waste of resources," the man said. "Building such gigantic spaceships and then simply sending them to the stars ... throwing away the labor invested in them ... And we don't even know if the danger you always speak of really exists."

  Paronn remained calm and composed as he turned towards the critic. "Consider humanity as a plant. The Exodus ships are like seedpods that it throws off to ensure the continuation of its kind. As far as the danger is concerned ... There is an enemy, believe me. A more terrible and merciless enemy than the Konos ever were. And he will come. It is only a question of time. That is what the Twelfth Hero tells you."

  There was silence for several seconds.

  "How can you be so certain?" the man then asked.

  "How can someone be immortal?" Deshan murmured, feeling the weight of years himself.

  "I have seen them," Levian Paronn said in a tone that expressed absolute conviction and reminded Deshan of the Herald. "I know what they are capable of. I know their savage viciousness. And therefore I have come here to show Lemur a way out, to take humanity to the stars and so prevent its destruction."

  With a smile, Vehraáto disappeared and the calm Levian Paronn returned. "And that is why there can be no question of waste."

  "It's said that the Coordinating Council is considering banning Project Exodus and taking steps against the Star Seekers," the critic added.

  Deshan saw a shadow flit across Paronn's face.

  "That would not only be a great error that could place the survival of humanity in doubt. It would also contradict the principles of our society. No one may force another to bend to his will. A smaller solidarity community within a larger one has worked for many years for Project Exodus. I can hardly imagine that the Solidarity Tamans wish to declare more than a million people to be outlaws. Something like that would amount to an earthquake within Lemurian society." Paronn glanced at the chronometer again. "It's almost time."

  A touch of a sensor field changed the vidscreen back to a window. Lemur was once more visible, blue and white, and in the distance, above the planetary horizon, something dark appeared that quickly approached.

  "The first ship that will take the seeds of humanity into space is already being constructed. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the first Exodus ship."

  Paronn touched another switch field on the control panel, and lights went on 300 kilometers above Lemur. Hundreds of spotlights shone on the dark object that orbited the planet at the same altitude where the Astrolift's passenger module was now.

  Deshan stood up, supporting himself on the walking stick that did not seem to fit with the modern spacesuit very well, and moved closer to the window along with the other Chroniclers.

  A gigantic tube floated in space, black and brown in many places, gray and white in others. Several segments rotated slowly to simulate gravity inside by centrifugal force. Small space capsules flitted here and there, carrying the technicians and engineers who were assembling the ship.

  "The ship will be three and a half kilometers long when it is completed, and provide room for nearly 20,000 people." Paronn looked at the man who had made the critical comments. "The colonists who will set out with this first ship have already been selected. Almost 100,000 more names are on the waiting list."

  The colossus in space passed the Astrolift at a distance of several kilometers, then quickly receded into the distance. The illumination faded and shrank until the spotlights seemed to have become tiny stars.

  "The construction of additional ships will soon begin," Paronn went on. "We intend to build them not only here in orbit but also in a stable libration point in the Lemur-Suen system so that we can utilize the Moon's resources."

  He turned to the Chroniclers.

  "That is the message I bring to the children of Lemur," Paronn said solemnly. "The exodus will begin in a few years. The hand that reaches for the stars will soon touch them."

  26

  Deshan Apian

  Lemuria, 4555 dT (51,845 B.C.)

  The boat rocked gently in the slight waves of the turquoise-colored lake in the Valley of Silence. It was constructed from several hulls so that all the mourners could find room, and propelled not by a motor but by the force of the wind that inflated the fire-red sail. In that it fulfilled Mira's last wish.

  Deshan Apian, now seventy-eight years old, sat in the bow of one of the hulls, in a comfortable seat that had been installed especially for him. He looked towards the buildings of the Center of Memorial Contemplation on the southern shore of the lake. This quiet va
lley had always been her place, ever since the beginning. Here they had promised each other to have at least ten children.

  Their children, eleven all told, were among the boat's passengers, along with eighteen grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. In addition were dignitaries of the Great Solidarity and Entaron, First Curate of the Curatorium.

  Deshan could still not understand it. Events around him seemed dreamlike, like scenes from a reality alien to him. Mira, his Mira ... A week ago she had still laughed, and now only her ashes still existed in a ceremonial urn. An illness for which there was no cure, against which even the highly advanced medicine of the Lemurian Solidarity was helpless.

  "At least she didn't suffer," someone said, but like the others, the voice was a whisper in the distance that barely reached Deshan. He remained wrapped in the numbness that shielded him from the pain of his loss.

  In the middle of the lake, the sail was lowered, and Entaron mounted the small platform at the front of the boat's hulls. He wore a snow-white robe and a symbolic crown of pewter on his head. With the ceremonial urn, red like the sail, in his hands, he spoke of Mira and her life, but for Deshan his words were hardly more than a meaningless whispering far away. He looked out over the lake and remembered how often he had sat with Mira by the Bastion of Tuamar. They had gazed across the Valley of Silence, accompanied by that deep peace that they had given each other. At some point he felt a hand on his arm. He turned his head and saw his daughter Tamaha, her first child, now fifty years old.

  "It's time, Father," she said.

  He let her help him up and lead him to the platform, then stood next to the Curate and looked out at the many people who in turn looked at him in silence. Deshan blinked and for the first time became aware of their presence.

  "She really is dead, isn't she?" he asked lowly. "This isn't a dream?"

  "Only someone nobody remembers is really dead," Tamaha answered. "Mira Lemroth lives on within all of us because none of us will forget her."

  In his memory, Deshan saw Mira's smile, her large eyes. They were precious images, worth a lifetime.

  He took the ceremonial urn from Entaron and opened it. His first attempt to pronounce the final farewell did not succeed—only a croak came out. Supported by his daughter, Deshan cleared his throat. "I now give you to the lake, as was your wish," he said. "Rest in peace."

  "Rest in peace," repeated the mourners.

  Deshan held the urn over the water, turned it over, and watched as the ashes that had been Mira fell into the water and then disappeared.

  And then, with the impact of a sudden, merciless blow, he was struck by the realization that he would never see Mira again, that he would never again look into her eyes and be gladdened by her smile. The many images he remembered were not enough for him, as precious as they might be. They only emphasized the terrible emptiness he suddenly felt within him.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks and fell into the lake as well, combining with the water that had become Mira's grave.

  Tamaha embraced him and murmured consoling words that had no meaning for him, and after her came the others: first his children in the order of their birth, followed by the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. One face was missing, Deshan realized, but even that did not matter. The pain ate through the wall of numbness that had protected him up to now, so merciless and intense that Deshan felt as though he, too, would die here and now.

  The sun was disappearing behind the mountains as the boat returned to the Center of Memorial Contemplation. There, in the great hall, a simple dinner in honor of the deceased awaited the mourners. Deshan sat down, but he could not eat even a bite. After a while, he could not stand it any longer, and while one of the dignitaries from Marroar was still giving a speech, he took his walking stick, stood up, and walked unsteadily outside. Tamaha, Milissa, and Erron wanted to follow him, but he sent them back inside the hall with a wave.

  Suen shone over the lake, the water reflecting its silver-gray light. Deshan limped past some young Chroniclers who were studying at the Center of Memorial Contemplation, and they bowed respectfully to him. It was not far to the shore, and there several docks reached out into the lake. Deshan stepped onto one, and his walking stick tapped dully on the old wood as he walked along the dock without paying any attention to the boats on either side. At the end, he stopped, looked up at the moon, then out across the lake.

  He felt more alone than he ever had before in his life.

  Then he heard the sound of steps approaching him, but he did not turn around.

  Entaron the Curate rested a hand on his shoulder. The long white hair and the white beard went well with the robe—he seemed almost like one of the mystical personages spoken of in the legends that Deshan had read in the Tower of Truth.

  "Life and death are part of each other," Entaron said.

  "Life is so terribly short," Deshan replied lowly, still looking out at the lake where Mira now rested. "And there are still so many things I would have liked to talk with her about."

  "There was always a special connection between you two. Speak with her here. I am certain that her soul will hear you."

  "Is there really something like a soul that exists even after death?"

  "Do you doubt it?" Entaron asked gently.

  "If there isn't such a thing as a soul, then it's an enormous waste when life ends," Deshan said. "Over many years, you gain experience, learn, become wiser and more mature, and then, at the moment of death, it's all lost."

  "I am convinced that a part of us lives on after death."

  "But you can't prove it."

  "No, I can't prove it. But each of us will learn the answer to that question sooner or later. At the moment of death, which no one can escape."

  "You're wrong," Deshan said. "Death can be escaped. There is living proof of it."

  "You're referring to Levian Paronn. But he, too, will die someday."

  "He is immortal."

  "He doesn't age. But that doesn't mean he really is immortal."

  The pain came back, the feeling of being the victim of an enormous injustice. "Mira, my Mira ... how can I ever smile again without her?"

  "Keep her inside you," the Curate said. "Keep all the beautiful things you two experienced, that connected you. Let her live on in your memory."

  But that isn't enough! came the howling reply from deep within Deshan. I want her back! And at the same time he knew that nothing was more impossible than that.

  "Please let me be alone," he said in a low voice.

  Entaron patted his shoulder once more and left.

  Deshan listened to the waves that slapped the edges of the dock, the creaking of the boats, and he wished for nothing more than to hear Mira's voice one more time. Time passed as he tried to cope with the pain and the emptiness inside of him, and at length he heard steps approaching him again.

  "I asked you to let me be alone, Entaron," Deshan said.

  "I am not Entaron," answered a different though familiar voice, and Deshan turned.

  The man who had been missing on the boat and in the hall now stood before him: Levian Paronn, half as old as he was. Deshan looked at him without saying a word.

  "I know what you are feeling now," Paronn said. "I, too, once lost someone who meant a great deal to me. The pain seems unbearable, but this is important, Deshan: it will fade. It will never disappear entirely, no; that would be too much to hope for, but it will ease in time. And then life will go on."

  "For how long?" Deshan murmured. "I am seventy-eight. How many years remain to me? And how should I start a new life at my age?" He gestured to the lake. "I would gladly be with her, wherever she is."

  "I need you," Paronn said. "As my Chronicler. And you can begin a new life. I brought something for you." He reached into his jacket pocket, and when his hand reappeared, it held an egg-shaped object on a small chain. "This."

  "What is it?"

  "A Cell Activator. Come along with me on the way to the future. Become immortal like
me."

  Why now? Why after all this time?

  Because I could not make the Activator any sooner.

  Deshan still heard Paronn's voice as he sat on the small terrace of his simple and modest room in the Center of Memorial Contemplation and looked out into the night. The Moon had set and the lake had become a mirror for the glittering of the stars. A slight wind brought a pleasant coolness with it.

  On the small table in front of Deshan lay the Cell Activator that Paronn had given him. Power over life and death—wasn't the definition of a god something like that? So Paronn's immortality was not based on something within him, not a consequence of being supernatural, but the product of a ... device? A thing, an object.

  Once you have worn it, you may never remove it, for then you would soon die of accelerated aging.

  Deshan raised his eyes to the stars as though they could give him the answers to the questions that had been weighing on his mind for hours. He was old, and more importantly, he felt old. Perhaps he had only a few more years, and then ...

  Death might possibly take him to Mira, who had been a part of him. If such a possibility truly existed, then should he decide against the life that now lay before him in the form of an egg-shaped object on a neck-chain?

  Something moved among the stars and caught Deshan's attention. A pale spot was expanding, like a dimly shining cloud, and as he watched, it began to pulsate, growing and then contracting. It lasted for about a minute, then the glow faded until it finally vanished entirely.

  Deshan knew what it was: the first Exodus ship's propulsion system had just been tested.

  As though of its own volition, the Chronicler's right hand felt for the Activator. His fingers touched it cautiously, stroking it even more tentatively. He felt a vague tingling, but perhaps he was only imagining it—imagination was a powerful force. A key to the future: with it he could open the door to the coming centuries and see what became of Project Exodus with his own eyes. It was a dangerous thought, yet strangely fascinating.