Authors: Nancy Kress
The villagers of Gofkit Shamloe looked at each other, and avoided looking at each other, and waited. No one spoke.
Finally a querulous old voice said, “It’s getting cold.”
Again silence.
“It’s practice,”
Pek Sikorski had said to Serlit’s mother, Ivi. But no one in Gofkit Shamloe had had any practice.
Finally Afri strode to the center of the circle, and Enli’s stomach roiled. Not Afri, mean-spirited even before shared reality went away. Afri said, “Obora Pek Brimmidin pushed Solor Pek Ramul into the fire.” But after that, she seemed uncertain what to say next, and so she just walked defiantly out of the center.
But a pattern had been set. A woman walked into the center and said, “She didn’t mean to hurt Pek Ramul. It was bad manners, not unreal behavior.”
Another long silence. Then a man went into the circle and said, “Obora is a good girl at her root and stem. The petals blow too wildly, is all.”
Someone said, “If we only had a grandmother’s mother in Gofkit Shamloe!”
“But we have no grandmother’s mother to tell us what to do.”
More people spoke, some for Obora, some against her, many lamenting the lack of a grandmother’s mother. When everyone who wanted to speak was done, everyone sat waiting for whatever would happen next.
Pek Sikorski and Pek Gruber had moved behind Enli. She heard them whisper in Terran behind her, in the dark, Pek Gruber’s voice urgent. “Tell them, Ann. Teach them to
vote
.”
The word meant nothing to Enli.
“No, Dieter. Let them do it for themselves. They’re on the path.”
More silence.
“I’m going inside,” someone said loudly. “It’s time to sleep.”
“But Obora—”
“Pek Ramul—”
“Nothing—”
“Unreal—”
A stir at one end of the largest log, and Solor Pek Ramul himself hobbled into the circle. He didn’t look at Obora. His voice was thin and quavering, a shocking contrast to the full sweetness of his piping. The circle stilled.
“I was burned,” he said, paused; began again, a man picking his way over unfamiliar stepping stones in a strange river. “Obora burned me. She is a good girl at her root. I was burned. Some say she is unreal. Some say she is real. Shared reality is gone. I was burned.
I
should say about Obora.”
A soft murmur ran over the villagers, who then looked at each other in surprise. The surprise came from the murmurs’ being all in agreement with Pek Ramul. They shared this reality, even though shared reality had gone.
“
I
should say,” Pek Ramul quavered again, and this time there were shouts of agreement, open elation over the very fact of agreement. Only Afri looked outraged, but she glanced at the people around her and closed her mouth.
Pek Ramul said, “Obora is good at her root. She is real. She should live. She burned me. She must clean my house and cook my food until all six moons appear again together in the sky. And make me two new tunics.”
Silence taut as a rope, and then someone laughed. It was Ano, laughing and crying together.
A voice said, very loud and very clear, “It is now shared reality. When someone hurts someone, the person hurt should say.” The voice was Calin’s.
Obora stood and took Pek Ramul’s hand. He smiled at her, his old eyes bright. People laughed and talked, then started toward their houses. Afri went into hers and slammed the door. Ano embraced Obora, which woke baby Usi so that she started to wail.
Pek Sikorski said, under the din, “My God, Dieter. They just invented the town meeting and a code of justice all at once.”
“Or the start of one, anyway.
Mein Liebchen
—” Pek Sikorski’s comlink shrilled.
Enli heard it, and heard Pek Sikorski instantly cut off the sound. “Not that high tech yet,” she said to Pek Gruber. “Not here. At Voratur’s was bad enough. Come with me to the other side of the
stockade
.” Another new Terran word, but Enli scarcely noticed. Calin was moving toward her through the jumble of people.
“The garden blooms well, Enli.”
“The perfume pleases our ancestors, Ano’s and mine. Obora…”
“I know. I am happy for you.”
She blurted, “You didn’t tell about the Terrans,” and then glanced around fearfully. But they stood alone.
“No. I didn’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Terrans took away shared reality. But you said it wasn’t these two Terrans, and now people aren’t … aren’t all the same anymore. Not even Terrans … like Obora tonight. And Worlders aren’t the same as we were … as you … so you and I…”
Through the stammered phrases, Enli knew what he meant. Joy rose in her. “Yes.”
“Will you … will you drink a cup of water at my house, Enli?”
The joy let her say, teasing him, “Not pel?”
“We have no pel. The traders stopped bringing it.”
“They will bring it again.”
“Maybe so, maybe not,” he said, serious again. “Everything is different now.”
“Not everything,” she said, and he pulled her into his arms in the sweet darkness.
* * *
“Lyle,” Ann said into her comlink. “Dieter calculates that you’re probably close to the space tunnel. That’s the only reason I’m answering you. This is our final conversation, if you can call it that. Dieter, how long is the commlag?”
“Fifty-four minutes.” Gruber had his powertorch on low, and it cast eerie shadows upwards on his face. Beside him the fence rose in raw, untrimmed logs.
“All right. Lyle, I’ll listen to your recorded message after I send my own. This is the final report of the World anthropological team. Not that I think my report makes any difference to you. The natives of World are surviving, although not without tremendous strain and uncounted casualties. The infrastructure of communication and trade and centralized governance is all gone. There is some looting and rioting, probably not as much as if they were human. They’re starting to defend themselves by turning the villages into small forts, with stockades and local justice. The planet-wide civilization is gone along with the biological basis that gave rise to it, thanks to you. What’s taking its place is frontier isolation, economically possible without starvation only because this is such a fertile planet. In that isolation most non-practical art will disappear. So will much of the manufacturing that depended on wide trade to sustain it, and the easy exchange of ideas. Religion is bound to fragment. Within a generation, World will be made up of very small pre-Renaissance enclaves, and their own version of the Dark Ages will begin. But don’t worry your conscience, Lyle—they’re surviving. End of report by the Planet World team, Ann Pek Sikorski, biologist, and Dieter Pek Gruber, geologist.”
“
Lieber Gott
,” Gruber said softly. “You hacked him to pieces.”
“Not him,” Ann whispered bitterly. “Lyle is made of unbreakable synthetics.” She hit the stored-messages key.
Kaufman’s voice rose into the night. “Ann, Dieter, we’re going through the tunnel in half an hour. I want to send you this one last report, so you can know at least that there might be sufficient reason for removing the artifact from World. Marbet discovered that the Fallers have an artifact identical to ours. They’ve already used it to fry the human colonies in the Viridian system. Tom has determined that on setting prime thirteen, the artifact emits a shield that can protect an entire star system from attack. We’re going to take our artifact to Sol, make sure the enemy knows we have it, and activate setting prime thirteen. The sacrifice of World means that billions of people are safe on Earth, on Mars, on Luna, in the Belt, on Titan … everywhere.
“And one more thing. Tom has cracked the science behind the artifact. It seems to be the greatest breakthrough of this century in understanding the universe, and maybe of the next century as well. That has to count for something.”
“Not enough,” Ann said.
“Ann … protection of the whole Solar System … we are at war,
mein Schatz
.”
“And so may World be someday, thanks to us.”
Kaufman’s voice grew huskier. “I think that’s all I want to say, Ann, Dieter. Except that my heartfelt best wishes go with you both. Always. End transmission, Colonel Lyle Kaufman, SADA.”
Into the silence Gruber said, “Ann, you told me something once. You said the human brain has, let me get it right, ‘a thousand trillion junctions between neurons.’ For Worlders it must be almost the same, same basic DNA. So many neural junctions, so much capacity. Surely they will learn to rebuild, maybe even stronger than before?”
“I don’t know,” Ann said. “Dieter, I honestly don’t know. Have humans? We have better technology than our Dark Ages, but do we have any more morality, any more ethics, any more of the peace and sharing we took away from Worlders?”
Dieter didn’t answer. He took Ann’s hand, and the fingers were stiff and cold.
TWENTY-NINE
ABOARD THE
ALAN B. SHEPARD
S
pace Tunnel #438 led at the moment to Caligula space, a human system with four small, barren, nonhabitable planets. A military base floated there, close to the three tunnels that, inexplicably, orbited out beyond the last planet. When a star system possessed more than one tunnel, the tunnels always orbited close together, but usually only stars with interesting planets rated three tunnels. That Caligula space should be such a crossroads remained one of the mysteries of the tunnel system.
As soon as the
Alan B. Shepard
left orbit around World, a flyer left from the tunnel-orbiting warship
Murasaki
through Space Tunnel #438 into Caligula space. From there it raced with all possible speed through the tunnel system to Mars, carrying classified reports of the artifact to the SADC high command. The
Alan B. Shepard
followed more slowly, after a brief docking with the
Murasaki
on the World side of the tunnel. Commander Grafton had the unenviable job of explaining to McChesney what had happened to the Faller prisoner McChesney had so laboriously captured and faithfully guarded from enemy traffic through the space tunnel.
After that unpleasant interview was over, the
Shepard
flew through another tunnel, and another, and more after that, following the flyer back to the Solar System. The journey proceeded routinely.
Lyle Kaufman knew none of this. He remained under arrest, confined in the brig, waiting for the court of inquiry to convene. The three-person court would make recommendations for or against court-martial, and on what charges. This investigative board could call anyone aboard ship to testify, usually one at a time. The accused had the right to hear all testimony. Commander Grafton had called the court of inquiry, chosen its members from among his officers, and submitted a written statement of special circumstances. Everyone, including Kaufman, considered the outcome a foregone conclusion.
Just before the inquiry began, the
Alan B. Shepard
passed through Space Tunnel #1 and entered Sol System. She then began her journey to Mars.
* * *
They had brought him his SADA dress uniform, but without its ceremonial sword. Kaufman pondered this as he put on his blues in the bare cell. Some obscure regulation, created who knew where and for what occasion, dug up and followed by the meticulous Grafton?
The subject of a court of inquiry shall be denied the right to wear his/her dress uniform sword.
Or was the Commander afraid he would stab the MPs, himself, or the entire court of inquiry with the sword’s dulled, ineffectual point? For whatever reason, the empty scabbard dangled by his side.
“Ready when you are, sir.”
“I’m ready, ensign.”
“This way, sir. Follow me, sir,” the young woman said, even though Kaufman knew the way perfectly. The court of inquiry would be held in the large conference room. The MPs accompanied Kaufman, one on each side, through the empty corridors.
The conference table was oval. Behind the long side farthest from the door sat three Navy officers in full dress. Kaufman knew only one of them by name, Lieutenant Elizabeth Framingham. On the closer side of the table stood two empty chairs, as widely separated as possible. The ensign led Kaufman to the far chair. The two MPs stood at attention behind him. The other chair, Kaufman supposed, was for witnesses.
Commander Grafton stood, diamond-carbon straight, at the head of the table. When Kaufman had seated himself, Grafton recited formally, for both the sake of the record and the sake of the formality, “This court of inquiry is now in session. Court officers shall be recorded as Lieutenant Commander Carter Campbell Rulanov, SADN, presiding; Lieutenant Antarres L. Ramsay, SADN; and Lieutenant Elizabeth George Framingham, SADN.
“The charge is as follows: That Colonel Lyle Daniel Kaufman, Solar Alliance Defense Army, temporarily attached to the Solar Alliance Defense Navy as Special Classified Project Head, on April 16, 2166, aboard the
Alan B. Shepard
, willfully, without proper authority, and without justifiable cause, did assault two Military Police in pursuit of their duties, a charge of “Assault”; did force entry for himself and two civilians into a restricted area of the ship, against prior direct order by the commander of the vessel, a charge of “Conduct to the Prejudice of Good Order and Discipline”; and did commit an act of treason in passing military secrets to an enemy prisoner of war, a charge of “Treason,” the Solar Alliance being at that time in a state of war.’ Colonel Kaufman, do you understand these charges as presented?”
“Yes,” Kaufman said.
“Then this court of inquiry is entrusted with the responsibility of creating a recommendation as to whether sufficient evidence exists for a court-martial of Colonel Kaufman on any or all of these charges. Members of the court, do you understand this responsibility?”
The three officers gave formal assent. Kaufman studied them carefully. Rulanov was clearly genemod, as much a classic—not to say “stereotyped”—military type as Grafton. Tall, erect, clean-boned. Ramsay was about Rulanov’s age, early forties (although with genemod it was always hard to tell). Framingham was the junior officer, probably no more than thirty. The three wore identical expressions: a perfect blank, giving away nothing.