The Long Mars (32 page)

‘Good idea, Captain.’

‘Hmm. Why not book us all in? All who’ve had contact with these characters. Yes, me too. I feel like I need a detox of the soul. Now let’s get out of here.’

33

A
FTER
J
OSHUA
V
ALIENTÉ
was released from custody by the cops who had apprehended Paul Spencer Wagoner and his companions, he told Lobsang what had happened.

And Lobsang asked another of his friends to help.

Nelson Azikiwe, who was once more assisting David Blessed at a Low Earth footprint of his old parish in England, quickly ascertained that Paul Spencer Wagoner, and his companions from Madison, had been part of a wider group of Next youngsters swept up without notice in a snap action coordinated by police, military and Homelands Security: an action that spanned the American Aegis of the Long Earth. By May 2045 Paul and some of the rest had been transferred to a facility at Pearl Harbor, the old naval base on the Datum Hawaiian island of Oahu.

Oddly, Nelson wasn’t very surprised to learn about the existence of the Next. After all, Lobsang had been anticipating the rise of something like these Next for many years, and he and Nelson had discussed such possibilities at length. Once, for example, five years ago, on a twain hovering over a living island, seven hundred thousand steps West of the Datum:

‘Humanity
must
progress,’ Lobsang had said. ‘This is the logic of our finite cosmos; ultimately we must rise up to meet its challenges if we are not to expire with it. You can see that. But, despite the Long Earth, we
aren’t
progressing; in this comfortable cradle we’re just becoming more numerous. Mainly because we have no real idea what to do with all this room. Maybe others will come who
will
know what to do.’

‘“Others”?. . . So you believe that the logic of the universe is that we
must
evolve beyond our present state, in order to be capable of such great programmes. Seriously? Do you really believe a brave new species can be expected sometime soon?’

‘Well, isn’t it at least possible? At least logical?’

Nelson remembered those conversations with Lobsang very well, on that living island. Where there had been a woman who wore a red flower in her hair, a woman called Cassie with whom Nelson had made sensational love – only once, but that had been enough. It had been one of the most vivid moments of his life – and one of the most incautious, given that neither of them had used any kind of protection. He wondered often how Cassie was, and berated himself as a coward for not going back again, and resolving that he would, just as soon as the latest crisis was over. But there was always another crisis, and another, and never a good time . . .

Even then, Lobsang had known they were coming, this race of superhumans. Of course he had – Lobsang was tuned in to the deeper currents of the whole world, of all the worlds of the Long Earth. And so, it appeared, it had come to pass. But in the end
Homo superior
turned out to be a bunch of scattered children who needed Nelson’s help, said Lobsang.

So be it.

The island state of Hawaii, Nelson discovered, had been spared the effects of Yellowstone as much as had anywhere in the world.

The Navy facility itself had been built into an old bombproof shelter near the base. Though now shared with the Air Force, the facility was still the headquarters of the US Pacific Fleet, as well as serving as the base of USLONGCOM, the Long Earth military command under Admiral Hiram Davidson. To Nelson Azikiwe, when he flew in, the facility, flattened under heavy Pacific sunlight – a naval base swarming with military, an underground bunker proof against steppers (and even if you could step away into a Low Earth footprint you’d still be on Hawaii, you’d still find yourself on an island surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean) – could hardly have been more secure.

That is, a more secure prison.

It had taken a good deal of ingenuity for Nelson to concoct a story to get him inside this facility. His cover was that he had volunteered to serve as a kind of chaplain to the inmates. His background as a Church of England vicar helped make that a lot more plausible, of course.

And his network of online buddies known as the Quizmasters had been extremely helpful in setting up his cover – well, this kind of operation was their cup of tea, as his parishioners back in St John on the Water might once have said. Of course they were generally so bright that some of them might well be Next themselves. On the other hand, there was always a downside to the Quizmasters. Nelson found he had to work hard to distract them from their ongoing obsession of the last five years that Yellowstone had either been an act of war, directed against the Datum US government by its enemies, or set up
by
President Cowley’s administration for purposes of its own.

The military transport plane had begun its final approach. Nelson focused on the issues of the present.

Once off the plane, Nelson was led through a short blast of open-air heat that made him feel all of his fifty-three years, and into a surface building. He found himself in an anteroom with air conditioning, potted plants and a receptionist behind a desk: a room full of Pacific light. Save for the insignia of various command units on the wall, it was like the waiting room for an upmarket dentist.

An officer came out to meet him, a woman, forty-ish, in a crisp Navy uniform. ‘Reverend Azikiwe?’

‘Call me Nelson. I’m freelance these days.’

She smiled, pushed back a lock of greying blonde hair, and shook his hand. ‘I’m Louise Irwin. Lieutenant. I’m in operational control of the treatment of the patients here. We’ve corresponded, of course, but it’s good to meet you in person.’ She led him out of the room, nodding to the receptionist, and used a swipe card to guide him through a doorway. They walked down a narrow corridor with low polystyrene ceiling tiles, very mid-twentieth century. ‘How was your flight? Those military transports can be a little rough. The room we’ve assigned you is in a neighbouring block. If you need some time to freshen up—’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’d rather go straight to see our charges, wouldn’t you? It’s a very understandable reaction. There really isn’t any substitute for encountering them in person. That’s true of most psychiatric patients, of course. You’re going to need full security clearance but I can swipe you through for now.’

They came to an elevator that opened for Irwin’s card. It descended smoothly, if slowly.

Nelson asked, ‘Is that how you think of them? As patients? Not as prisoners?’

‘Well, that is my background. I trained as a psychiatrist, and found I needed a little more excitement in my life, and I joined the Navy. Now I’m a psychiatrist who travels.’ She smiled again.

‘I guess we’re all chameleons. We chop and change during our lives.’

‘As you have,’ she said, studying him with an evident insight that felt faintly disturbing to Nelson. ‘I read your file, of course. Anybody allowed in a facility like this has to have a biography as long as my arm – and
you
came with top personal recommendations, to serve as our inmates’ personal chaplain. A kid from the South African townships who got his chance through a Black Corporation scholarship; a respected archaeologist; a Church of England vicar . . . You’ve adopted many roles.’

Nelson knew all about the ‘personal recommendations’. His credentials for being allowed in had essentially been engineered by the Quizmasters, along with Lobsang, through a web of behind-the-scenes contacts – including a little help from Roberta Golding, he’d been surprised to discover, the rather glamorous, in-the-news White House staffer who’d taken some kind of personal interest in the inmates of this place since they’d been brought here, though for now Nelson had no idea what her connection was to all this. On the other hand the substance of his record as seen by the US Navy had mostly been genuine. When lying, it was always best to tell as much truth as possible. And he really did intend to serve as a chaplain for these imprisoned children, to the best of his ability, until the time came for his deeper purpose to be revealed.

The elevator slid to a halt. The doors opened smoothly to reveal a metal-grille walkway, suspended over a kind of compartmented pit.

Irwin led him along this pathway, and Nelson found himself looking down into a series of rooms:
into
, for these rooms all had transparent ceilings, even the bathrooms, though Nelson imagined that some visual trickery ensured the ceilings looked opaque from underneath. The rooms individually didn’t seem all that impressive, or unusual. They were like small hotel suites, each a bedroom-cum-study equipped with TV and computer terminal and other gear, a small bathroom. The rooms had been personalized, with posters and souvenirs, clothing in the cupboards (all of which lacked doors) or heaped on the floor. Nelson felt as if he was looking down into something like an upmarket campus dorm. But heavily armed and body-armoured marines patrolled this high walkway, pointing their weapons down into the rooms below.

In most of the rooms there was a single person, alone – all young, aged maybe five years old to early twenties, both sexes, varying ethnicity – some fat, some thin, some tall, some short. Ordinary-looking, at first glance. Some had company, an adult or two, generally talking quietly. There was a lounge where a few of these inmates gathered, and a small crèche where infants played amid a litter of toys. Both crèche and lounge were supervised by adults, men and women in civilian clothes. One room was more like a small clinic, where a girl was having samples taken, blood, a cheek swab for DNA.

And Nelson soon spotted Paul Spencer Wagoner, the friend of Joshua Valienté, alone in a room, reading on a tablet.

Through Lobsang and Sister Agnes, Nelson had at last got to meet Valienté properly, and to know him. Joshua was a man whose Long Earth exploits Nelson had studied for many years – and, Nelson suspected, another ally of Lobsang’s in whatever long-term game that mysterious entity was playing. Joshua had asked Nelson to look out especially for this Wagoner kid, who had wound up in the same kids’ home, Sister Agnes’s Home, as Joshua himself a few decades earlier . . . And now here was Wagoner in this military cage.

Lieutenant Irwin was saying, ‘A few hundred of these individuals are known in the American Aegis, though the sweeps continue. This is the largest single group we’re holding. Of course there must be others of foreign nationalities. So. What’s your first impression?’

‘It’s a prison. An impressive facility. But it is a prison.’ She nodded. ‘We’re wary of them. We don’t know what they’re capable of—’

‘They’re in glass boxes, like lab rats. With armed guards twenty-four seven. You have young teenagers in there. Can you really give them no privacy?’

‘These were the security protocols mandated. We try to normalize their environment as much as possible. You may baulk at this confinement, Nelson. They look like ordinary kids, don’t they? Ordinary young Americans. But they’re not. Any contact with them and you’ll find that out for yourself. In fact they distinguish themselves from us, you know. They do call themselves
the Next
. Of course they’re only youngsters. But they have quite a lot of money behind them, actually, or some do. Also some of their parents have the resources to fight this. The Navy is having to dig deep fending off petitions from some fancy lawyers.’

‘Hmm. Fancy lawyers who are arguing about such irrelevancies as these kids’ constitutional rights, I imagine. US citizens swept up and imprisoned without any semblance of due process. A few foreign nationals too?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m going to enjoy debating such issues with you, Nelson. But I suspect you are rushing to judgement. We had to do
something
. And remember, I am a naval officer. The purpose of this place is to maintain national security.’

‘They don’t seem such a terrible threat to national security to me.’

She nodded. ‘Well, that’s one of the things we are here to ascertain. Generally they are no trouble, from a disciplinary and control point of view. Most of them quickly adapted to confinement, actually, which is because so many of them have been through processes of care, fostering, even prison at the juvenile or adult levels. They are institutionalized,
used
to confinement. Says something about how well our society has been able to handle these individuals, right? And if they do play up they are removed from this part of the facility.’

‘To where? A punishment block?’

‘A special therapy facility.’ She studied him. ‘You do use judgemental language. You need to keep an open mind, Nelson. Until you get to know them. They are extraordinarily acute – perceptive, controlling, manipulative. In person they can be very difficult to deal with, one to one. But it’s when they get together that – well, they take off. Their talk is incredible, rooted in English but superfast and dense. We have linguists analysing their talk, as best they can. Whatever they are discussing, we can at least measure the sheer
complexity
of the talk. And that itself is far beyond the norm. I was shown a transcript, of a kind of argument being developed by a girl called Indra; there was a single sentence that went on for four pages.
That
is one of the simpler examples. Often we don’t even know
what
they are talking about—’

‘Concepts beyond the human, perhaps,’ Nelson said. ‘As unimaginable to us as the mystery of the Holy Trinity would be to a chimp. If these kids really have arrived in the world equipped with these super-powerful minds, they must come up against the limits of our mere human culture very quickly.’ He smiled. ‘How wonderful it must be, when they are free to talk together. How much they must be discovering, beyond the imagination of any human who ever lived.’

She was watching him. ‘You know, I think you’re going to make a fine chaplain. But let me tell you something even more remarkable. Even more
different
. We have a few infants here – and we’re monitoring even younger subjects, even babies, who are still with their families. Before the age of about two, the young ones will try to talk – well, as human infants do. They gabble out stuff that’s entirely incomprehensible to us, and mostly incomprehensible to the older ones – but not totally. Again the linguists have analysed this stuff; they tell me it’s like investigating the structure of dolphin song. These infant gabblings are languages, Nelson. Meaning they have actual linguistic content. We arrive in the world with the capacity for language, but we have to learn it from those around us. Next babies, trying to express themselves,
invent their own language
, independently of the culture, word by word, one grammatical rule after another. Only later do they start to pick up the language of the rest. And, still more remarkable, the others incorporate some of the infants’ inventions into their own shared post-English tongue. It’s like an entirely new language is emerging, mutating at a ferocious rate, right in front of our eyes.’