Harvest of Stars (19 page)

He stooped over Moreno. Eyeballs stood white in the half-seen face. Blood around the mouth caught starlight. Did he hear a “
No, no, vaya
—” or was it only a rattle in the throat? We don’t abandon our wounded, he didn’t say nor especially think. He was too busy. Stronger than he had known he was, he hauled Moreno up in his arms and ran back to the car.

Shouts rang. Shots barked and zipped. He heard bullets whang off the Jeep, but somehow they all missed him. He was a lousy target in the night, moving fast, and everybody taken by surprise. Sheer stinking bad luck that Luis got hit. Guthrie reached the car. His boots went over the man who threshed and wailed below it. Something crunched. Guthrie pitched Moreno onto the rear seat and himself onto the driver’s. Not waiting to slam doors, he put key to lock, feet to pedals, fist to gear shift. The motor howled awake.

More men scurried around, vague in vision. The Maoists had wheels of their own. A battered pickup chugged from the window-speckled mass of the village. Its head-lights probed. Guthrie left his off. He accelerated. The open doors jerked half shut.

He stayed on the road for several teeth-rattling miles. The ground rose and roughened as he went. When he dared, the truck being well behind him, he turned on his lamps, switched to four-wheel drive, and left the road. The truck couldn’t follow him here, and he’d outpace anybody who tried on foot.

Finally he decided he could stop. Silence plummeted over him. He scrambled out, swung the rear door aside, and leaned in. “Luis? Luis, old boy?”

Under the dome light, slackness gaped at him. The eyes stared and stared, blinkless, tearless.

The guerrilla in front was dead too, as Guthrie had guessed. His single shot had gone in under the cheekbone and come out the top of the skull to punch through the windshield beyond. Blood and brains had splashed over things. They were already congealing in the cold. The guerrilla had been just a kid, maybe sixteen, though he looked about fourteen.

Guthrie left that corpse for its fellows to find. Probably they would before the ants and vultures did. He cleaned up the mess as best he was able, laid Moreno out—cramped for room, kind of a fetal position, but hadn’t that been the Inca way?—and drove on. Later he understood that what he had also left behind was his youth.

20
J
ULY WAS
a Fireball holiday, so Boris Ivanovich Nikitin took leave from his own school to squire Kyra Davis around. They had met in the course of their parents becoming acquainted, and got together increasingly often. Hereabouts, given a low population and a congenial atmosphere, there was no reason for consortes to live in a compound, though naturally they tended to mingle with each other more than with outsiders.

The pair flitted to Novgorod and he guided her through the historic parts. She had visited two years ago, when her family first arrived, but briefly. Memories fell blurred and jumbled into the general confusion of the time. Since then, no matter how near the town lay, she had been too busy or in her free moments found too much else to do.

It was a lovely morning. They had the kremlin almost to
themselves. What was ruined had been restored as well as knowledge permitted. Strange how few ever came to see, Kyra thought. Maybe an occasional glimpse on a multiceiver satisfied the majority, if they cared even that much. Sunlight caressed the Byzantine domes of St. Sophia’s. …

“Yaroslav the Wise built it in the eleventh century, after the earlier wooden cathedral burned,” Boris said. “But the Gates of Korsun were ready for it, brought up from the Crimea sixty years before by Grand Prince Vladimir. And the city was then two or three hundred years old, founded by Varangian merchant adventurers. Their trade reached to Constantinople and far into Asia. Novgorod was first to welcome Rurik when he came from the North in his dragon ship.”

His voice almost sang. She suspected that to him this was more real than the world he could touch, and he would never want a quivira. His wish was to become a historian—not to dig out facts and store them in himself, which a machine could do better by orders of magnitude, but to understand them, call the dead back to life and let them speak through him to their descendants. She sometimes wondered who would pay for it and who would heed. The compiler of a quivira program, perhaps?

Lacking the heart to say that, she replied merely, “They were a nervy lot, weren’t they?” The awkwardness was half in her, half in her Russian. An educator with neural modulation could cram the basics of a new language into you fast, but you needed time, practice, reading and reflection as well as conversation, to make it really yours. Mostly she associated with her classmates, who came from all over and used English in common.

“They had the chance to be.” Boris clenched a fist. His gaze went beyond her, as if through the walls to the river, every mightily flowing river across this land, and the seas into which they ran. “Their world was ringed in by the unknown. They dared it with sails and oars, on horseback and on foot, the wind in their faces and their muscles at play, because that was what they had. No robots, no
omniscient computers. And when they wanted waking dreams, they heard them from their poets and storytellers, human beings, or they made them for themselves.”

The fist opened and dropped to his side. “But that was long ago,” he ended flatly.

A tingle went up Kyra’s spine. “Not in space,” she said.

“For those like you, I suppose. If they are willing to forego that imitation of nature that is left on Earth. If they are of the small number chosen. And will it last through our lifetimes?”

Boris shook himself. He snapped forth a laugh. “Oh, but I am croaking like a raven, am I not? Forgive me. Help me forgive myself, that for a minute I forgot what delightful company I am in. Come, let me show you the rest.”

He was a charming escort thereafter, in his slightly over-earnest fashion. At midday he proposed they flit from town to have lunch at an inn he knew in the country. Walking to the parking garage, Kyra felt anew how peaceful these streets were, nothing like the frenzy of Erie-Ontario.

Peaceful, she wondered suddenly, or hollow? Sunlight poured warm over pavement, walls, windows. The buildings were antiquated but in good repair. Trees along the way rustled to a breeze and dappled the ground with a dance of shadows. Yet vehicles went past well apart. Blankness in more than half the windows spoke of vacancy behind. A little girl came by, sweet in her pigtails and starchy frock, but quite solitary. Three women gave lackadaisical study to a display in a natural food shop; maybe the wares were too expensive for them, maybe they had nothing else to do. A vendor tried shyly to interest her in his handmade jewelry, but took it for granted when she declined after a cursory look. An open portal revealed a courtyard in which were several tables where men played chess. Their hair was gray or white. A soft, nearly subliminal pulse pervaded the air, but that was from the machines at their work, the vital organs of the city.

Bueno, she thought, it was only to be expected. She’d seen this kind of situation plenty often before, on the
multi or sometimes in person, also in a lot of North America. Population had to come down, but the transition made new problems—might have been impossible, what with the skewed age distributions, except for the machines and their productivity. When a people took the need as seriously as the Russians had done ever since the Dieback showed them the alternative, they were bound to suffer radical changes throughout their society.

Decrease wasn’t really necessary any more, was it? Had it ever truly been? With rational management (which was what the hypercomputers did best, wasn’t it?) Earth could support many billions, sustainably. Of course, such a cram-crowded, regimented existence wouldn’t be for her. As was, how god-lucky that she’d have space to escape into. Nevertheless, for a shuddery moment she wondered whether she didn’t prefer the human sea in which Toronto Compound stood like an island, to this … emptiness. Were folk here being rational and altruistic, or had the spirit gone out of them?

Crack! What had gotten into her? She was as bad as Boris. They were supposed to have fun on this date of theirs, not brood like Dostoyevsky characters.

The hop to the inn was pleasant, as rural as you could hope for. She did spy a factory in its park, but that was all right; the buildings were a subtlety of hues and geometry, the nanotanks inside grew robot parts. Boris swung north of the endless plantations and flew over a preserve that was being developed. Hormones would make the forest tall within half a decade. “They will stock it with native animals,” he told her. “Deer, elk, bears, wolves.”

“Aren’t some of those extinct?” Kyra wondered.

“M-m, I believe most species can be found in zoos, abroad when not in this country. Otherwise, I suppose, genomes are recorded and they can be cloned. Have you heard about them re-creating the tarpan in Siberia?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “What’ll amuse me is the mammoths, when they make them. Although I am puzzled. I’ve heard they must repair the DNA from the Ice Age specimens before they can map it. How do they know it hasn’t
deteriorated too much? Are they sure they can make it the same?”

“If they produce a shaggy elephant with long, curving tusks—”

“And if it has polka dots, they’ll know they got it wrong. Do you think anybody will ever actually try for a dinosaur?”

The inn nestled in the Valdai Hills among birches white and golden-green. It was new, but built according to fashionably traditional styles and motifs. It offered excellent food and drink, plus live service by young men and women in old folk costumes. A singer accompanied himself on the balalaika. The help were kept busy. The couple who owned the place must be getting rich.

And why not? Should they sit idle on citizen’s credit and relieve drabness with multiception? Here, they might find reason to beget a child or two.

Kyra pushed the thought away. The setting was too nice for it.

Fakey, of course. A let’s-pretend. But what harm? Enjoy. Tomorrow she’d be back in school, grinding away, afraid to ease off for a moment lest she fall behind in the race to qualify for a berth in space, where everything and everybody was real.

A
BREEZE BLEW
cool from the sunset, down a road of burning gold. The schooner ghosted along before it, her sails catching the light as well as the air, white against a blue that shaded nightward into violet. Waves shone in still more multitudinous hues, from horizon to horizon across the Coral Sea. They slipped small beneath the schooner’s bow, whispered and chuckled the length of her hull, swirled aft in a wake filled with the molten glow.

Anson Guthrie and Juliana Trevorrow stood at the
taffrail, well-nigh alone. The helmsman paid them no heed; other passengers and crew were on the main deck, voices lost in the sounds of the waters.

Guthrie savored filling his lungs and slowly exhaling. “Ah, that’s good,” he murmured. “Not many places left where you can draw breaths like these.”

Trevorrow nodded. “Nor have such sights and do such things.” The cruise included the Great Barrier Reef, snorkels or aqualungs issued to those who wanted them.

“I’m glad we came while time remains.” The tourist hordes were forcing further tightening of restrictions. “I thought I couldn’t afford the price, but then figured I could much worse afford to lose what might be my last chance.”

“Likewise. Well, in my case time rather than money was the problem, but you’re right.”

He liked hearing Trevorrow speak. It was in a husky contralto, and though she hailed from Sydney—or because she did?—the accent seemed less Strine to him than British, a tone from motherland greenwoods long since vanished. He liked her looks, too, tall, leggy, blond hair around features nearly classic. There was strength in those hands resting on the rail. She’d been a tad standoffish at first, but after several days had evidently decided she’d let acquaintance ripen further.

He grabbed the opportunity. “You’re busy, then? May I ask what’s your line of work?”

“You Americans would call it real estate and development, I believe.” She met his gaze and smiled. “No, not knocking together little row houses. I began in my father’s firm. He’s been buying abandoned sheep range since the bottom dropped out of the wool market and applying biotechnology to convert it to agricultural land. Lately I have gone into business for myself.”

“Not quite the same stuff, I’d guess.”

“No, I’m now a licensed contractor in northern Queensland. Workers building the space center need every sort of supplies and services, at the back of the outback where they are. The entire area does. For example, we should do decent landscaping and plant the proper ground cover at the outset, even for temporary housing; forestall troubles
with erosion, water, and pests. We should prepare to grow and ship tropical fruit, once transport is adequate; a potential cornucopia there, which among other benefits could let the Abos earn a reasonable income. Oh, the possibilities are unlimited.” She sighed. “But it’s hard for a new business to win a foothold. From a practical standpoint, I was idiotic to take a holiday.” Laughter. “How fortunate, that attack of feeblemindedness.”

Joy jumped in him. “Hey,” he exclaimed, “what a coincidence! I’m aiming at exactly the same target.”

“Are you?” The interest appeared genuine. “How?”

“Depends. I’ve got to scout the territory. Should’ve commenced as soon as I stepped off the plane, no doubt, but—Anyway, I have some experience in construction and some money to invest in high-tech, computerized equipment, the kind that lets one man do the work of twenty.” He did not taste this breath that he drew. “Uh, maybe we could be … mutually helpful. Not to push you or anything, but maybe you’d like to talk about it, at least.”

“Perhaps,” she said carefully. “Aren’t you being rather venturesome?”

Guthrie shrugged. “More fun that way.”

“I should think you’d best try it out first closer to home.”

Guthrie shook his head. His tone harshened. “I’d lose my shirt, and pants and union suit as well.”