Eternity

  Lanier thought of the Frant farmers on Timbl, the Frant homeworld, walking through their fields, growing biologically altered crops for export to the Way.

  “Is it what you wanted?” Mirsky asked.

  Garabedian shrugged, then smiled ironically. “It’s a living,” he said. He grasped Mirsky’s left hand in his and prodded him with a scarred finger. “You! You must tell me.”

  Mirsky looked at Lanier with a sheepish expression. “This time I’ll tell it in words,” he said. “Garry, you must go back to the others now. Viktor, tell Ser Lanier. Am I Pavel Mirsky?”

  “You say you are not exactly him,” Garabedian said. “But I think you are. Yes, Ser Lanier. This is Pavel.”

  “Tell the president.”

  “I will,” Garry said.

  Mirsky smiled broadly. “Now sit, Viktor, because I doubt that you will believe what has happened to this Ukrainian city boy…”

  33

  Thistledown City

  Little of the Nexus debate took place in real time. Korzenowski and Mirsky answered questions and discussed the problem in detail within an isolated Nexus branch of Thistledown city memory; Lanier “listened in” to the debate. Hours of argument and information exchange whisked by in seconds.

  The debate was not nearly as exhausting as it would have been in open session. Geshels, neo-Geshels and all but the most orthodox Naderites participated; off and on, it lasted three days. It seemed to last several months. Not an aspect of the re-opening was neglected, not a nuance left unexplored.

  There were proposals of such scale that Lanier’s mind reeled; some firebrands—if you could call any Nexus member a firebrand—wanted the Way opened, scoured of Jarts, and then human hegemony pushed even farther, opening new wells every few dozen kilometers, establishing broad lengths of territory before Jarts or other forces could push them out again. Others scoffed at the grandiose schemes; still others, presenting depositions from colleagues of Korzenowski who had been in precinct city memory for decades and even centuries, theorized that the Way could be destroyed from the outside, without re-opening.

  This suggested two possibilities: that those who wished to unravel the Way could do so without the risk of confronting the Jarts; and if the Way were re-opened and the Jarts defeated, they might exact revenge by destroying it from outside. Mirsky, unveiling yet more of his character and capabilities, demonstrated through complex mathematics—equations that made even Korzenowski furrow his brow—that this was unlikely.

  The Russian seemed in his element during the debate. The level of discussion was usually far beyond Lanier’s comprehension, even when his mind was augmented by loaned talents—a service he had never used before.

  But Lanier could sense one thing perhaps not so obvious to the corpreps and senators. Reverence for the Way was deeply branded into even those who were terrified of re-opening. The Way had been their world; most of them had grown up in it, and until the Sundering, most of them had known no other existence. The debate, however fiery, was one-sided; the question rapidly became not whether to re-open, but what to do after the Way was linked again to Thistledown.

  They gathered now in physical session to hear what the Nexus would recommend to the Hexamon. In addition, a vote would be taken on whether to pass the matter on with Nexus recommendations to the Hexamon as a whole, or to restrict voting to the Thistledown mens publica, or to launch an educational campaign on Earth and postpone the voting until that effort was complete, which could take years.

  Lanier entered the Nexus Chamber alone; Mirsky, Korzenowski and Olmy had preceded him for some pre-session discussion with the president. The chamber was empty but for two corpreps across the circle picting at each other. He stood in an aisle, oddly at peace. He was still out of his depth, but since his confession to Mirsky, he no longer felt the inner turmoil, the dark, confused exhaustion.

  He had toured the third chamber city for a few hours earlier in the day, riding a spinward train to the main library where he had once spent hours learning Russian, and where Mirsky had been shot and resurrected. The library had been reactivated thirty-five years ago; it was now a busy facility, its wide floor of pictors and seats often serving hundreds of corporeal scholars at once. The library had been built about the same time as the Nexus dome. What had once seemed monumental, alien and frightening—containing as it did the news of Earth’s death before it had happened—was still monumental, but familiar now, acceptable to him.

  His attitude toward the starship had certainly changed. He thought he wouldn’t mind living on Thistledown for a few years. The lighter pull of the asteroid’s spin agreed with him; he was tempted to try some gymnastics. Parallel bars had helped keep him sane when he had administered the exploration of the Stone. Glancing at his clawlike hands, he winced, thinking of what he had allowed to slip away….

  He still resisted the idea of rejuvenation. He wanted to discuss things with Karen, to see if their bonds hadn’t been cut completely.

  But he would not interrupt her conference. That was important to her. Besides, while the debate was still relatively closed, he did not think it was politic to talk with those not directly involved.

  The members entered the chamber and took their seats with little talk or picting. The air in the chamber was charged with something ineffable; history, Lanier thought. Decisions had been made here that had altered the fate of worlds. Now, the fate of more than worlds was at hand.

  Mirsky and Korzenowski entered behind him and walked down the aisle. Mirsky smiled at Lanier and took a seat beside him. Korzenowski nodded at them both and walked farther down to sit beside the panel of six men and women currently in charge of the sixth chamber machinery.

  The president and presiding minister Dris Sandys came in last and took their seats behind the armillary sphere of testimony.

  The presiding minister announced, “The Nexus mens has cast its vote on the proposal of Sers Mirsky, Korzenowski, Olmy and Lanier.”

  Lanier was surprised to find himself designated as one of the proposers. A flush of excitement and nervous pride went through him.

  “Now it is time to confirm this vote by a physical plebiscite.”

  Lanier glanced around at the corpreps and senators, hands clenched in his lap. He did not know how the vote would be taken; would they all pict their decisions, the whole chamber lighting up like a Christmas tree?

  “The final recommendation of this Nexus having been determined first in the Nexus mens, must now be confirmed by a voice vote. Each voice will be recognized and tallied by the chamber secretary; the votes will be cast at once. Members, is it your decision to proceed with the basic proposal of re-opening the Way? Signify by aye or nay.”

  The chamber was a chaos of ayes and nays. Lanier thought he detected a preponderance of nays, but that apparently was nerves on his part. The presiding minister glanced at the secretary, seated beside the sphere of testimony, and the secretary raised his right hand.

  “Aye it is to the proposal. Is it to be the recommendation of this Nexus to open the Way with the intent of ultimately destroying it, as Ser Mirsky has requested?”

  The Nexus members voted again, their voices a warm murmur in the dome.

  “Nay it is to this decision. The Way is to be kept open. Is it the decision of this Nexus to create an armed force with the express purpose of securing the Way for the benefit of the Infinite Hexamon and its pledged allies?”

  The voices seemed to rise in volume. Lanier could not tell whether ayes or nays led now; the vote was very close, and some corpreps and senators had dropped out, bowing their heads or leaning back, faces strained.

  “The decision is aye. Is it the decision of this Nexus to put the issue with our recommendations before a full vote of the Terrestrial Hexamon, including the mens publica and the corporeal voters of Earth?”

  Again the voices spoke out in unison.

  “Nay it is to this plan. Is it the decision of this Nexus to take a vote solely from the mens publica of the seven cha
mbers of Thistledown and the two orbiting precincts?”

  And again.

  Lanier closed his eyes. It was happening. He might actually stare down the throat of the Corridor, the Way, again…. There might even be a chance, someday, of learning what had happened to Patricia Luisa Vasquez.

  “Aye it is. The vote shall be taken solely before the mens publica of the three orbiting bodies. Ser Secretary, do these votes tally with the Nexus mens?”

  “They do, Ser Presiding Minister.”

  “Then the recommendations are set and the voting process will begin. A Nexus advisory will be issued to all citizens of the three orbiting bodies tomorrow at this time. There will be a week-long period of individual research and contemplation, with all information and testimony presented to the Nexus available to the voters. Within twenty-four hours of the end of that week, all citizens will inform their partials within the mens publica, and another period of twenty-four hours will pass before a vote is taken there. The decision of the citizens of the Hexamon will be ratified by the Nexus within one week, and the implementation of the new policy will be made binding upon the Nexus and the president and presiding minister. It is the law that the president may delay this entire process by as long as one month of twenty-eight days. The president has informed me that he does not wish to delay the process. This meeting is hereby adjourned. Thank you all.”

  Uncharacteristic pandemonium broke out in the chamber. Lanier watched the corpreps and senators flashing bright picts at each other, some meeting to embrace, others standing in stunned silence. A contingent of conservatively dressed Orthodox Naderites came forward to meet with the president and presiding minister beneath the podium.

  Mirsky pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is not good,” he said quietly. “I have opened the bag and the winds are escaping.”

  “What will you do?” Lanier asked.

  “Much thinking. How could I not have convinced them?”

  “During your journey, you might have forgotten one thing about humans,” Lanier suggested.

  “Obviously. What thing?”

  “We’re a perverse group of sons of bitches. You’ve come to us like an avatar. Maybe they resent being dictated to by a demigod, just as much as people on Earth resent being saved. Maybe they simply don’t believe you.”

  Mirsky frowned deeply. “My physical powers are not great,” he said. “I come as catalyst, not as an explosive. If I fail, however, there will be grave times ahead.”

  Lanier felt his old instincts coming to the surface. “Then use judo on them,” he said. “Think of the power to be directed when the Way is opened.”

  “Power?” Mirsky turned his placid gaze full on Lanier.

  “The social disruption.” He might not be a fifth wheel after all; he saw a crazy plan coming together in his head.

  “Yes?”

  “I think perhaps we should go with Olmy to Suli Ram Kikura.”

  “You are thinking something interesting, then,” Mirsky said.

  “Perhaps. I need to talk with my wife, too. Earth has been cut out of the decision. There’s a lot of resentment already; this could be explosive, even if you aren’t.” He had taken the bone in his teeth and was clamping down hard. His neck ached with tension. He rubbed it slowly with one hand.

  “Lead on, my friend,” Mirsky said. “This avatar bows to your judgment.”

  34

  Thistledown City Memory

  The valley of Shangri-La lay below the walls of the palace in shadowy emerald splendor, mountain crests touched with gold in the last light of the sun. Karen gripped the cold stone rail of the balustrade with fingers clenched white.

  The conference had begun to unravel on the first day.

  The fighting among the delegates had begun in the third chamber city when they had been taken to their apartments, located on the lower floors of a huge gray and white Journey Century Nine building shaped like a golf tee. A woman from North Dakota had protested that their quarters were entirely too luxurious. “My friends back home are living in wooden and sod shacks. I can’t live like a queen.”

  Suli Ram Kikura had suggested, somewhat innocently, that the quarters could be made to seem as spare as they wished. The North Dakatan had scoffed. “Fake hovels in a palace won’t disguise the palace,” she had answered contemptuously.

  A shack had been built for her in a nearby park. The expense of wiring an extension pictor and building the shack had cost more than her simply living in temporary luxury; but there had been no criticism of her choice. This was to be an exercise in understanding and unanimity, after all.

  Then had come the disputes over which fantasy environments the delegates would interact in. “We can’t expect lasting results if we lose all touch with reality,” a male delegate from India had declared. He had then demanded a setting similar to an early-nineteenth-century mogul’s palace. When none of the other delegates had agreed with this, he had threatened to leave the conference.

  He was back on Earth now.

  What had seemed straightforward and promising to begin with had rapidly turned sour.

  The remaining delegates had finally settled on a suitable environment for interaction—a duplicate of James Hilton’s Shangri-La, created for downloaded Thistledown vacationers centuries ago. Within a few hours, more disputes had broken out. Two delegates had become enamored of each other and complained when the environment would not allow them to have sexual relations.

  “That’s not what we’re here for,” Karen had tried to explain. They had not been mollified. Suli Ram Kikura had put her foot down, explaining that the environment had been modified to forbid sexual interactions. In this project, the delicately balanced psychological atmosphere would be damaged by allowing them. The two delegates had grudgingly given in, but even now complained about other petty issues.

  Karen realized now that she and Ram Kikura had approached this project with entirely too much idealism. This shamed her; she knew humans too well to have been so naive. But Ram Kikura’s attitude had affected her deeply; she had approved of the advocate’s upbeat approach, and had unconsciously hoped against her better judgment that it would all turn out well, that people would after all be reasonable…

  But even those with the very best attitudes and records were only human. Taken from the surroundings in which they had proven themselves, they had become little better than children.

  City memory’s ideal environments were too seductive for Old Natives, and for that reason unsuited for what Karen and Ram Kikura hoped to accomplish.

  Besides, there was a tension in the air…even in Shangri-La—something she could not define, but which seemed to put large obstacles in the way of their project’s success.

  Suli Ram Kikura appeared on the balcony behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s time you took a rest.”

  Karen laughed. “This place was made to be restful.”

  “Yes, but for you, it’s not right.”

  “So what are we? Wild flowers that wilt in the greenhouse?”

  Ram Kikura’s brow wrinkled. Physically, she had changed little since Karen first met her, four decades before; she was still striking, with strong, pleasingly irregular features and golden-brown hair. “I’ve never thought of Thistledown as a greenhouse.”

  “It’s Shangri-La to these people, even without going into city memory. I should have known.”

  “You’re tired.”

  “I’m mad, goddammit.”

  “I was wrong. It is not your fault.”

  “No, but I was hoping so much you’d be right, and we could bring them all together here…forge a bond. It was such a wonderful plan, Suli. How could it have gone so wrong, so quickly? We explained it to them…. They’re acting like children!”

  Ram Kikura smiled grimly. “They know what they need better than we, perhaps. I wanted to force things. Like a parent watching a child play with toys…trying to teach them how to grow up more quickly.”

  “That’s not f
air…” Karen cut herself off, surprised that hearing the delegates compared to children made her angry. She felt close bonds with these Old Natives…was one herself, of course. “They’ve lived through hell, most of them.”

  “Maybe they thought of this as a vacation,” Ram Kikura suggested. “And we were tour guides. We disappointed them by being so bossy.”

  Despite herself, Karen laughed. She’s a master, really, however naive she is…we’ve been. “So what do we do now?”

  “I have just enough stamina to give it one more try. But you, dear Karen, are at the end of your rope.”

  “I must be. I want to kick them.”

  “So you must take a break. We’ve been in this environment for an objective ten-hour period. Return to your apartment—”

  “Back to my body. Out of the dream.”

  “Precisely. Out of the nightmare. And get some genuine rest, in your own head, natural rest without city memory’s overtones.”

  “How could this be anything but restful?” Karen asked wistfully. The stars were coming out above them, as sharp and real as any she had seen on Earth. The night winds smelled of jasmine and honeysuckle.

  “Do you agree?” Ram Kikura asked.

  Karen nodded.

  “Then go now. I’ll report to you if anything improves. Otherwise, I’ll close this whole charade down and send them all back to their bodies. We’ll escort them back to Earth and start planning all over again.” She lifted her eyebrows and inclined her head, staring levelly at Karen. “All right?”

  “Yes. I…how do I get back?”

  “Ruby slippers, my dear. Remember the code.”

  Karen looked down at her feet. Instead of soft doeskin boots, she now wore ruby slippers. She tapped them together. “There’s no place like home,” she said. Ram Kikura vanished.

  An objective hour later, in her temporary apartment, Karen put on a silk kimono, given to her by a group of survivors in Japan thirty years before, and lay back on a couch with a cool glass of Thistledown Chardonnay, a Haydn quartet playing softly in the background sans pictor accompaniment. The apartment environment had been adapted to resemble an open-air porch looking across a tropical island beach. Across the broad, dazzling blue ocean, a nub of volcano smoked casually, its plume mingling with stacked white anvil-head clouds. Warm, salty breezes played over her wicker chair.