Into the Sea of Stars (19 page)

"You are born of the Earth?" he said with a deep,
resonant voice.

"Yes, you see, we've come..." Ian looked at Richard
and let the ridiculous words die.

"Then you are unclean. You are born of those who
persecuted
us,
you are born of those against whom we
have declared jihad by the will of the Father. You are born
of those who cursed and abandoned us. Your blood shall
be spilled, your carcasses abandoned in the night."

He took another step forward and unsheathed his sword.
"Cleanse this place of their filth, their sacrilege!" he
shouted, bringing the blade back in preparation for a two-
handed blow.

Ian jumped backward in a desperate attempt to avoid
the flashing blade.

"Fire and Hell, what's wrong with
ye
?" Elijah called.
He stepped forward and confronted the swordsman.
"Strike, but 'for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee!'"

There was a murmur of approval from the others, and
the swordsman, turning his wrath from Ian, now prepared
to swing a decapitating blow at Elijah.

"Nara." The white-robed form was out of his seat, and
the others turned to look at him.

"Nara, be still. Sit. You disgrace yourself with such
show."

Nara turned, his whole form trembling.

"
Gregor
, so what if the Father is awakening. He knows
not the situation now; I do, and so do others. Even you know and wonder why he must be awakened."

"Be still!"
Gregor
screamed. He looked to the others
and saw that most of them were nodding in response to
Nara's words.

"Let the Father speak for the Father. They are unclean,
yes, but to kill them"—he swept them with a gaze of
contempt—"that can wait."

Ian was suddenly aware that Shelley was clinging to
his arm.

Nara stood with blade drawn, his gaze now fixed on
the white-robed master. With a blinding flash he swung
the blade in a backhanded swing that whisked within a
fraction of Elijah's face, and sheathed his blade. With a
low bow to
Gregor
, he strode out of the room. And again there was a murmur from the rest of the assembly.
Gregor
turned to his right and nodded to the two sitting closest
to him.

"Go and help his honor," he said softly. And wordlessly
they stood and left the room.

"You, fat one. Are you so typical of those who we
thought were so fearless?"

Ian had a hard time finding his
voice,
and he suddenly realized that his body was covered in a cold sweat. "Yes."

"This bears great thought. Next—is it truth that you have the ability to go beyond light?"

Ian could merely nod.

"Don't tell him anything," Elijah hissed.

"Silence!
I could kill you with a word."

"You killed me fifty years ago. I am arisen from that
silent death. You cannot kill me ever again, for I am al
ready dead."

"A holy fool," someone muttered from the shadows.
"It is written then that he should be spaced."

"He will be spaced when I command,"
Gregor
replied.
"Now, you who are called Ian, do you understand how
this vessel can do such a thing?"

"
Ahh
, well, to be honest, no."

Gregor
drew closer. "If I think that you lie, I'll slit your
throat and then cut out your tongue and jam it down your windpipe."

Ian was aware that a puddle was forming around his
shoes. "I don't know how it works."

"Then tell me which of you knows how it does."

"No, I'll not betray a friend."

Gregor
looked him in the eye and held his gaze.

"You have more courage than it appears,"
Gregor
snapped. "The mystery of your coming requires more
examination, for I see the dream of our jihad come to
fruition at last with such a device that you now possess.
This requires far more decision than I am capable of. You
shall live, for the moment."

Gregor
turned away.

There was a murmur of angry voices in the room.

"Silence.
I like it not, but the Father is already awak
ening. I cannot exceed my mandate, even if I wish it. He
must be awakened."

"But,
Gregor
,"
came
a voice from the back of the room,
"take the burden yourself this time and let him return to sleep."

"Speak not or I shall force upon you what Nara has
earned."

Suddenly the two men who had followed Nara returned
to the room and walked to his side.

"Did Nara keep his honor?"
Gregor
asked.

One of the two held up his blade for all to see—a dark substance dripped from the tip of the weapon. The others
murmured their approval.

"He had already cut himself open by the time we arrived. I ended for him as second, so he would not cry out
and thus be shamed. Nara's honor was preserved."

The others expressed their approval and, to
lan's
ears,
sounded happy.

"Then it is time to take communion with Nara's honor,"
Gregor
intoned ceremonially. "Let these others be taken
to a place of waiting, for the Father must be prayed to:
A decision must be made."

They were led away by their female interrogator, and
as he watched them while leaving the room, Ian had a
bad feeling about what a "communion with Nara's honor"
really meant.

Ian looked over to Elijah and saw that he was smiling
hungrily.

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into,
Ian," Ellen said wearily.

Ian looked up at Ellen and smiled weakly.

"Can't you lay off him for a little while?"
Stasz
inter
jected.

"Why are you defending him all of a sudden?"

"Because I have a feeling all our butts are going to be fried in this one, and in spite of his screw-up in bringing
us here, I have to say he really hasn't done all that bad."

Ian looked up at
Stasz
and nodded his thanks.

Richard and Shelley were asleep on a low cot set into
the far corner of the room. His heavy arm was draped
protectively over Shelley's shoulder, but she didn't seem
to mind and had drifted off to sleep hours ago.

How long they had been in the holding cell was only a guess. It had already been indicated to them that their respective roles had easily been ascertained by a search
of the Discovery, and after that one bit of communication,
not another word of information had been exchanged.

Much to
lan's
surprise, they had been allowed their
personal possessions, so he had his pocket computer and the alien artifact, which he had quickly explained as a
religious medallion.

Only Elijah seemed unperturbed by the situation. He
was explaining that "to be locked up with even one other
person is my idea of paradise," when the door to their
cell opened noiselessly. Only a single guard stood there—
the white-robed one they had called
Gregor
. He pointed to Ian then beckoned for him to follow.

Ian suddenly felt as if the decision over their fate had
been made. They must have discovered by now the op
erational and repair manuals stored in the ship's com
puters. With just a little research work they should be
able to replicate the Discovery; therefore there was no need any longer for the Earthmen's "unclean" bodies to
be kept alive.

Ian stood up and attempted to maintain his dignity. He
gently shook hands with
Stasz
and Elijah and lightly
touched Ellen on the shoulder.

"Should I wake up Richard and Shelley?" Ellen asked.
There was a choke in her voice.

He shook his head. "I don't think I could handle the
upset; you better not. If I don't come back, tell Shelley I really regret not sleeping with her. It's been hard not
to, but tell her I fought down the nearly overwhelming desire because I didn't want to create any friction aboard
ship." He tried to chuckle.

Ian looked at Ellen and smiled. "Maybe I should have
made a pass at you, as well."

"Go on, get out of here." She turned away.

Ian walked out of the room and
Gregor
beckoned for
him to proceed down the corridor.

"Are you going to kill me?" Ian suddenly asked.

"We all die. Death is an illusion, only honor and name
remain. When you die, Ian
Lacklin
, try to leave more
behind than a puddle on the floor."

Suspecting that
Gregor
was laughing, Ian looked back
over his shoulder, but his features were solemn and Ian
realized that he had been perfectly serious.

"I do not hate you, Ian
Lacklin
, but I would not gain honor by slaying thee. I know that there is honor in you,
in spite of what your outward appearance might tell. Gain
honor and then the slaying of you would be worthy for
one such as myself."

What the hell is this guy talking about? Ian wondered.
If gaining honor is the ticket to this man's sword, then forget it.

"I know what you are thinking, Ian
Lacklin
, but I believe that you will understand, as well, and will in the end
embrace your honor and die for it."

Gregor
touched Ian on the shoulder and motioned for
him to stop.

The
chimelike
sound that Ian had heard in the audience
hall was drifting on the edge of hearing, but his attention was diverted by the procession coming his way from the other end of the corridor.
Gregor
backed to the wall and Ian followed his example to let the procession pass. They numbered nearly a hundred, each of them robed. Some
were dark as
ebony,
others paler, a few had
Gregor's
Asiatic features. It seemed as if half a dozen races had
been blended together during the millennium and a com
posite of all had been melded into one, with the black
having a slight dominance. They walked with a certain assured grace, male and female alike. Not one looked
sidelong at him, so perfect was their discipline.

After the procession's passage
Gregor
again pointed
forward, and Ian tried to somehow emulate those who
had just passed by—walking to his death without a whine.

Finally they stopped at the audience chamber where
Ian had been received earlier. He looked at
Gregor
ques-tioningly
. Was his death then to be a spectacle before an audience?

Gregor
pointed to the door, which slid open as if guided
by unseen hands.

"Is this to be my end?"

Like an angel of death,
Gregor
silently pointed, his robed and hooded figure surreal and nightmarish.

"Answer me, at least let me know. Am I to die in there?"

Still there was no response.

"Well, then I have one thing to say if that's the case."

Again
Gregor
beckoned for him to go.

Ian screwed up his courage, trying to remember his
best Old English, hoping that the words still meant the same even in this culture.

"Well then, if that's the case, then fuck you!"

Turning on his heels, he strode through the doorway.

"Marvelous, absolutely marvelous."
The voice was
deep and melodious.

The door slid closed behind
Ian,
and in the
semidark
-ness he could make out but one figure on the dais. Ian strode closer, and the figure stood up as if in greeting.

"I haven't heard it said that way in nearly a thousand
years.
And with just the right inflection!"

Ian stopped in front of the dais and looked up.

"Yes, Ian
Lacklin
. My name is Dr. Franklin Smith."

Nearly six and a half feet tall, he towered over Ian and beneath his simple robe was a powerful build. His chocolate features were wreathed in a salt-and-pepper beard that
matched his bushy hair.

Smith stepped closer to Ian and gave him a hard, appraising stare that seemed to slice into his soul. Ian tried
to hold Smith's gaze, but after a brief painful struggle, he
broke off the one-sided contest of wills.

"Ah, yes." Smith turned away from Ian and walked
back up to the dais, regaining the seat occupied in the
last interview by
Gregor
. Smith pointed to the far corner of the dais.

"There's a chair over there. Fetch it and come sit be
fore me."

"Should I kneel first or something like that?"

"Very good, Ian, very good.
But if any of my people
heard that comment in that tone, you'd be dead before
even I could stop them." He paused for a moment then stared him straight in the eye. "So don't be a wise-ass,
or your shit will be cooked."

Ian grabbed the chair and sat down.

Smith was silent for some minutes, and Ian thought it best to let him take the lead in whatever it was that was going to happen.

Still staring straight into his eyes, Smith finally started.
"You're a historian, are you not? That's what the ship's
records indicate."

"Yes, I'm a historian."

"Then as a historian I know you have a million questions. I have my questions, too, but perhaps they will be
answered better if I see what path it is that you choose."

Smith stretched and mumbled a quiet curse while rub
bing his back. "Go ahead, historian, ask."

As the fullness of his opportunity washed over him,
for a moment Ian was struck speechless. The past was
but a dream, a dream lived more richly by any good
historian, but still a dream. He thought for a moment that he had touched it with the life-extension colony,
but that had turned to the ashes of senility. Yet here sat
Franklin Smith, someone out of a past as distant and
dead as
Ssu
-ma
Zhung
, Hitler, Napoleon, or Clarke. He had read of Smith, had charted his activities during the
days leading up to the Holocaust and studied his in
strumental role in the grand conspiracy of the colonies
to escape disaster. And now he sat across from him.
Was it really even him at all?
he
suddenly wondered, growing suspicious.

"How?"

"How.
Ah, yes, how am I here; not forgotten ashes,
nor half-remembered legend." He stretched again and leaned forward. "You know, Ian, I suspected that would be your first question. The others"—he waved vaguely,
as if indicating the entire universe—"take it as a miracle.
But it was nothing more than a damn good research pro
gram at U.S.C. Have you heard of U.S.C.?"

Ian shook his head.

"Not a great school—the Chinese research programs
were far better at that point—but still not bad. Well, they
had isolated a number of the properties of hibernation. It
was on the eve of the war..." His voice trailed off for a
moment and he was silent.

He suddenly looked up at Ian with a start. "Just re
membering, you see, it really wasn't that long ago for me.
Before the war, an old professor of mine who was in on
the project was exiled to the life-extension colony. I looked
him up afterward. I heard that your records indicate a
visit there, as well?"

Ian nodded but said nothing.

"He gave me a number of doses and the antidote for it, in consideration for a favor of mine."

"Such as not destroying the life-extension colony the
way you did a couple of the others?"

Smith was silent again, and Ian wondered if he had
gone too far. Smith smiled as if in warning,
then
contin
ued.

"Through the accident of being scheduled in one of his
classes while still an undergraduate, and a later chance
meeting, I can sit here today, a millennium hence. While
he
..." His voice trailed off again for a moment. "Well,
while he, if unfortunate enough to survive what happened,
has long ago been taken by the inevitable thief of life and
gone into the darkness.

"So, with such a simple turn of fate, I am injected with
the drug and fall into a deep dreamless sleep. It can be
for a day, or it can, as in one case, last for over a century— as long as I am occasionally given an intravenous injection
and my
unsensing
limbs are manipulated so that they do
not atrophy. A century, I said, and to my body not a month
has passed. When there is need for me, I am wakened by
the antidote. And so it was that
Gregor
, whose grandfather
had once so served me, decided that I should be called,
so that I might judge for myself what it is that you bring
to me."

"And the passage of the centuries is nothing then to you?"

"The leave-taking, the war, the first months of madness
are not two years past for me. A millennium, Ian
Lacklin
,
is as if only yesterday.
This long inexorable journey but
a brief flicker in time.
Your wondrous machine, Ian
Lack
lin
, which has taken the journey of over fifty generations
and compressed it into a moment, does in some ways
compare with the journey that I have taken, as well. You
remember Earth as it is today. And I, I have memories
just as fresh, but of an Earth now gone for a thousand
years."

He chuckled sadly in that rich, full voice.

"Only one question answered so far, Ian
Lacklin
. There
must be yet ten thousand more."

He was right, and Ian wondered for a moment if the
conversation could just continue forever, postponing what
he feared was the inevitable order for his death.

"I know that you've had contact with several colonies from Earth, but you haven't run into anything else? You
know, contact of some kind?"

"You mean an alien civilization?"

Ian nodded.

"We've picked up some signals, most from the original
SETI point. I was told there was one quite close not a
generation ago, but so far, Ian, nothing. Why do you
ask?"

"Oh, just curious, that's all."

Smith looked at Ian closely, as if he suspected something, so Ian quickly pushed ahead with another question.

"I know the how of your cheating death and time.
But why?"

"Wouldn't you cheat it? Think for a moment, Ian
Lack
lin
. How long does the average man now live on Earth?"

"Three score is pretty good."

"Ah, yes, I imagine the aftereffects of the war. Before that madness came, we were averaging a full century on
Earth. Some aboard the geriatric units were approaching
a century and a half."

"On the life-extension unit many have passed the mil
lennium mark," Ian replied, "but it wasn't a very pretty sight."

"Yes, yes, I can imagine. But as I was saying, suppose you could be given the chance to go to sleep and awaken
for one or two days in each of the centuries to come—
down through the ages, forever seeing what new and won
drous things would await us in our future. Wouldn't you
take it?"

Ian could only agree, but underneath it all he imagined
that it would be exciting and terribly empty—to awaken
each time in a world where he knew no one. He sensed
something else; a faint glimmer of excitement shone in
Smith's
eyes that wasn't
there before.

"But there is another reason, isn't there?"

Franklin smiled. And the smile to Ian was one of threat.

"There is my mission, as well." His voice increased in
power, as if he was suddenly addressing a multitude rather
than one nervous historian.

"Your mission, you say?"

"Yes, but another time for that, Ian
Lacklin
. You'll
learn soon enough."

Ian sensed that a door had just been closed on a possible line of questioning, at least for the present, so he
gathered in his thoughts for a moment and struck out in
a new direction.

"According to Beaulieu, you were one of the key fig
ures of the secretive Alpha
Psi
Council, the group that
was instrumental in organizing the plan to evacuate all
colonial units."

"Who is this Beaulieu?"

"One of the greatest historians alive today.
It was Beau
lieu who proved that man first landed on the Moon during
the rule of Truman."

"Close enough," Smith muttered.

"He's leading the dig at Base Seven on Mars. The
Copernican dig, the one that uncovered all the records of
the Great Migration, was initiated by him, as well."

"I knew we should have blown that base as we moved
out," Smith said evenly.

Ian didn't bother to follow up on that either but decided
to wait for an answer. He could see that Smith was en
joying himself. In a strange way Ian was a contemporary of the near-mythical man, perhaps one of the few people
alive who could understand the ramifications and intri
cacies of Smith's time and place.

"Yes, the
Psi
Council, as we called it," Smith contin
ued. "I think, Ian, you understand the time and its events.
My grandsires had made the Great Leap forward into
space—that realm with all its promise and dreams. Then
there was my generation, a generation taught to believe that we were the ones who would unbind ourselves for
ever from the confines of Earth.

"I was born in space,
Unit 333
, my mother a Nigerian
linguist, my father an American mission coordinator for
a
Powersat
unit."

Ian was having a hard time understanding some of
Smith's monolog but he didn't interrupt. Smith was warm
ing to his subject, his full voice rising and falling as if he
were telling a story to a group of young children who were
fascinated by every word he said. Ian had his first suspicions that Smith was slightly mad.

"I was sent
Earthside
and, of all things, it was philosophy that took me. And with it came an
Earthside
position teaching. Those were hard times, Ian, ripe with a promise. Man could have gone far. But the darkness
was already overwhelming us in a world of haves and
have-nots. The great rivals of the previous century banded
together out of fear of those whom they now had to
suppress. The world was carrying a burden of twelve
billion souls, Ian.
Twelve billion.
Once we had dreamed
that space could take them. But faster than we could
take them off-planet, more were born—and so the mad
ness came.

"I was banished from Earth in seventy-eight, after the
Second Arizonan Incident. I had become a leader in a
disarmament drive; I and a hundred thousand others,
mostly from the southwestern part of our country, were
banished to a penal colony. This place here—" He shouted
out the words and slammed the arm of the chair that he
was sitting in. "One hundred thousand in a unit that could
not sustain more than twenty-five thousand in closed-system regime."

He stopped,
then
smiled softly, like an old man who
is concerned that he has just frightened the child he was
talking to. Ian smiled back wanly and Smith continued.

"I could see what was coming.
The darkness descend
ing.
All the nations of Earth would call upon their colonies
to join in the nationalistic madness of their mother coun
tries. And such madness! We had been living in space for
nearly a century. We of space, from a dozen different
nations, had far more in common with each other than
with those mad fools below. It had been the same with America when at last her people had realized they were
no longer Europeans. And so it was with us. Why should
we slaughter each other for the sake of those madmen
who were of a dying breed—the last generations of
Homo
sapiens
?"

He said "
Homo sapiens
" with a disdain that was fright
ening.

"We were of the next generation of man!" Smith
shouted. "And I knew that in the end it would come down
not to a confrontation between the petty nationalistic states
but a confrontation between those below and those of us above.

"But we were too weak yet. It would be a hundred
years, perhaps a millennium before we would be ready.

"Security at the penal colony was lax, especially for
one such as
myself
who already had a name and was
widely known on Earth. A few well-placed bribes and I
was
allowed a class-one visa for space-to-space flight.
Just
as long as I did not return below.
It was thus that I started
to meet with those from the other units and formed the
network you call Alpha
Psi
. It was an open secret—the
governments of Earth knew what we were planning from
the start. But they needed us, our products, the energy
we beamed down, so they did not attempt to stop us from
planning and stockpiling the necessary systems that would
get us out of there. No one on Earth wanted to force the
confrontation. And they assumed, as well, that no unit
was one hundred percent self-contained. To the second
decimal of the ninety-ninth percentile, yes—but there were
still some few items that we needed from Earth on a
regular basis. And as you know, a unit is only self-contained
to the degree of its first perishable life-sustaining substance.