Phoenix Without Ashes (12 page)

ASK ME FIRST

The chair rested on a carpeted island two meters back from the cube racks. A metal shaft protruded from the floor in front. Roughly even with the face of anyone sitting in the chair, the shaft branched into a hoop a half-meter across. As if objects concrete in themselves, the letters spelling ASK ME FIRST hung in the center of the hoop.

“Ask you what?” said Devon aloud. He placed the metal cube back in its rack and walked toward the chair and hoop. “How should I ask you?” He heard no response.

When he stepped onto the blue carpet skirting the chair, a voice said, “May I help you?” Devon watched as ASK ME FIRST faded and was replaced by what appeared to be the disembodied head of a man. The head floated in mid-hoop. The face was that of a man in his fifties or early sixties; he wore a graying moustache and sparse goatee. He peered toward Devon through thick spectacles, his lips curving in a benign smile. “May I help you?”

Devon stepped backward and the head vanished, to be replaced by ASK ME FIRST. Devon walked forward again. As soon as his foot touched the carpet, the head reappeared and said, “May I help you?”

“Who are you?” said Devon.

“I am the sphere projector. Would you like to sit down and talk?”

Devon settled himself in the chair. The material flexed and molded itself around his sore muscles. He said with some unsureness, “Are you, uh, just a head?”

The head chuckled. “What you see, sir, is a mere terminal projection.”

“There’s more to you?”

“Oh, much more, sir. The greater portion of me is spread over some six billions of kilometers of circuitry.” Devon paused to consider that. “Billions” was another concept with which he had difficulty. He tried to picture anything—stones, people, apples,
anything—
in the billions and could not. “Are you real or not?” he finally said. “That,” said the sphere projector, “depends...” Devon spread his hands to indicate the room. “What is all this?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I don’t grasp the meaning of your question. When you say ‘all this,’ do you mean the memory bank library, my function, the purpose of life in general, or the specifics of your present situation?”

“Listen,” said Devon, “are you alive?”

“Why no, sir. I’m the voice of the library stacks. You might call me the visualization of computer output. I’m here to serve you, to advise you which cubes to use to obtain the data you require.”

Devon sat back. “I’m all confused. I’ve met so many new things....”

“You sound distraught, sir. Why not relax and let me see if I can assist you.”

“Thank you,” said Devon.

The spherical projector said, “Now. Are you a member of the crew or are you supercargo?”

“I don’t know what those mean.”

The projection pursed its lips seriously. “Perhaps I should contact a medical section to assist you. You sound as if you may be ill.”

“No,” said Devon, “I’m all right... I think. I fell down a hole in the ground... well, I didn’t exactly fall
down.
I fell
away,
if you know what I mean. I was pulled forward down a very long, hollow thing.”

The projection said crisply, “That sounds like a description of a bounce tube, sir. From what biosphere did you say you had come?”

“Biosphere?”

“An enclosed environment for human life.”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” said Devon. “You mean my home? I come from Cypress Corners.”

The projection mused. “Cypress Corners? Closed ethnic agrarian community. How did you get here, into the service perimeter of the Ark?”

“The Ark?” Devon repeated.

“I think I know what you need,” said the sphere projector. “Do you see the section labeled BASIC HISTORICAL INFORMATION to your left?”

Devon nodded.

“Do you see the section labeled BASIC HISTORICAL INFORMATION to your left?”

Devon realized that the machine must not be able to see him nod. “Yes, I do,” he said. “I’m sorry. Can’t you see me?”

The dark, paternal eyes blinked. “That’s quite all right; think nothing of it. My visual receptors at this terminal seem to be inoperative; I’ll have to call a repairmech.” The machine paused. “Now. Go to that section and remove the cube numbered forty-three. Then take it to the memory bank in the center of the chamber and insert it into one of the empty sockets. I think that may help you orient yourself.”

Devon said, “Thank you very much.”

The projection smiled benevolently. “You’re more than welcome. That’s what I’m here for, to help you. If you need any further assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Well, there is one other thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m hungry, and I could use a drink.”

The face of the sphere projector looked puzzled. “Your question, sir?”

Devon said, “How can I obtain food and drink?”

“Go to the service module at the end of the chamber. Beneath the plate bearing the word ‘Refreshment,’ punch out your order. Delivery with be effected immediately.
Bon appetit,
sir.” The projection frowned. “Wait, sir. Upon consulting inventory, I discover that the foodstocks in this sector of the perimeter have suffered destruction to a point of 96.7 percent unavailability. Stock safely obtainable for human consumption is limited to, flash-frozen survival ration solids and water. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Anything,” said Devon. “I’m starving.”

“Very well. You may claim a survival packet from the slot in the midsection of the service module.”

Devon got up from the chair, though his muscles rebelled at leaving such comfort. As he stepped off the carpeted area the sphere projector’s image winked out, leaving the hoop empty.

He identified the service module by the “Refreshment” plate. He found the designated slot and extracted what he presumed to be the survival packet. It consisted of a clear plastic squeeze-bulb of water and a half-kilo cube of a dark brown substance with the consistency of drying mud.

Devon found a chair that seemed functional for nothing but sitting. He sat and examined his meal. The water bulb was simple enough; at one end a nipple protruded. Devon tentatively nipped off the tip with his teeth. He squeezed water into his mouth; then swallowed and the cool liquid soothed his throat.

The solid portion of the ration was nearly tasteless, but not otherwise objectionable. Devon finally decided that the faint, background flavor was that of soy beans.

In his hunger, a drop of saliva fell upon the wadded ball of wrapping torn from around the food block. The droplet melted a hole down through the transparent material. Devon observed this, and, when he had finished the brown block, took an experimental bite of the wrapping. It dissolved in his mouth with a taste sweeter than that of the finest pastry his mother had ever baked. He finished the wrapping and tried the empty water bulb. That too reacted with his saliva; it possessed the tart tang of some unidentifiable—to Devon—citrus fruit.

Temporarily fed to repletion, Devon lay back in the chair. He remembered the “Basic Historical Information” cube the spherical projector had commended to him: number forty-three. He started to get up, but then sank back into the soft, accommodating surface. It was comfortable there, and he was simply too tired to move.
I’ll just rest a second,
he thought.

Within moments, Devon slept.

FIFTEEN

The chamber functioned, even as Devon slept.

There was movement, most of it undetectable to a human observer. Electrons streamed through computer circuitry; photons sheeted out from invisible lighting fixtures.

Heat exchangers kept the chamber at an unvarying temperature, compatible with maximized human comfort.

The air filtration system boosted its output slightly to sift out what the chamber’s autonomic sensors defined as the offensive (to crew/supercargo) odor rising from the drying puddle of urine in the corner.

The music cube in the top of the playback machine periodically signaled the end of its play-cycle by emitting a soft buzz.

Devon dozed restlessly, but did not wake.

Devon rounded the nether point of the lake called Chastity and dashed toward the house. His parents waited to greet him on the porch. Five stairsteps up to the porch; Devon took them in two.

“Father? Mother?”

Three-sided unity, they clung together a moment, arms encircling one another. Sarah kissed him; her lips were cool. Devon looked at his father. Tears shone in the corners of Old Devon’s eyes.

“Are you all right?” said Devon.

His parents exchanged glances. “It’s not so bad,” said Old Devon. “It’s you we’re worried about, Son.”

“I miss you.”

“As do we, Devon.” Sarah touched his face. “We miss you more than you can know.”

“Will you stay?”

“We cannot, Son,” said his father.

“Then why are you here?”

“No, why are you here?”

“I—I’m not sure,” said Devon. “I’ve traveled so far... seen so much.”

“You are rash,” said his father, “but you are not a fool.”

“What do you mean?” Devon looked questioningly at the both of them.

His mother said gently, “Devon, this is so much more than an adventure.”

“Micah is implacable,” said Old Devon. “He and the others will kill you, should you return to Cypress Corners. He fears and hates you because you are my son.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And you will return,” his mother broke in.

“For Rachel,” Devon said.

“For Rachel, and much more.”

“These are riddles,” Devon said. “I—”

Old Devon interrupted. “You will find answers.”

Sarah kissed him again. “Goodbye, Devon.”

“Wait a moment! You’ve got to explain—”

His father’s voice, deeper. “Nothing’s simple, Son. It never has been.”

“Please—” Devon extended his arms helplessly. He pivoted, heels scuffing in the ashes. His soles crunched on the floor of dead cinders. Devon turned toward the burned-out skeleton of the barn. “Please,” he repeated softly.

In nearby Chastity, a fish broke the surface with a few ripples and a small splash. Other than that, Devon saw no movement, heard no sound.

Devon awoke sweating, with a dull ache throbbing behind his temples. He climbed out of the chair and stood on shaky legs.

The ashes should be there. The lake...

It all flashed past him; where he was and how he had come here. He sat back down on the arm of the chair and let his head drop forward loosely. Devon took several deep, shuddering breaths and waited for orientation to return.

When he felt steadier, he got up again and crossed the chamber to the sphere projector. ASK ME FIRST vanished and the projection appeared, smiling.

“May I help you, sir?”

Devon’s mouth and throat felt as though they were coated with thick, soft fur. It took him two attempts to speak intelligibly. “How long did I sleep?”

The projection looked pensive. “Elapsed time: fourteen hours, sixteen minutes, twenty-three seconds.”

“All that time?” said Devon. He had never slept more than the eight allotted hours in Cypress Corners.

“Correct, sir.”

Devon massaged his temples with his fists. Yawning, he said, “My head hurts.”

“I regret,” said the sphere projector, “that there are no pharmaceuticals presently available from the service module. Shall I summon a medical section?”

Devon shook his head and found that he didn’t wince with the movement. “No, it’s going away.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering another survival ration delivered to the service module.”

“No thanks, I—” Devon reconsidered in mid-sentence.

He was both hungry and thirsty. “Is there water?”

“Of course, sir.”

Devon sighed and levered himself up from the chair. “Isn’t there some way of talking to you when I’m not sitting here or standing on the Carpet?”

“Merely depress the blue stud on the left arm of the chair.”

Devon did so.

“My visual projection is now engaged for a span of one hour. Should you not reengage the control, I will automatically disengage my image at—”
Breeep.
The sphere projector’s voice distorted and wound down. Its mobile expression suddenly froze in place. What appeared to be ripples rolled across its features. A horizontal strip of flesh disappeared from below its moustache, another from above the projection’s nose.

Devon could see the opposite wall through the gaps.

The image flickered, then solidified, and the face was again whole. The sphere projector said, “Pardon me. As I was saying, should you not reengage the control, I will automatically disengage my image at the end of that hour.”

“What happened just now?” said Devon. “You started to disappear without me touching the control.”

The projection’s brow furrowed. “A momentary circuit breakdown, sir. Cause is, er—” It stuttered. “Cause is unknown. I’ve requested a repairmech but as yet have received no confirmation on when a unit may arrive.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.” The projection’s blind eyes tracked Devon as he crossed to the service module.

This new survival packet was identical to the previous ration save that the block of solid food was dark green and tasted of a flavor Devon finally decided might be turnips. As before, he devoured the wrapping material and empty water bulb as dessert.

After finishing the meal, Devon walked to the cube racks. “Forty-three?”

“Forty-three,” the sphere projector confirmed.

Devon inserted the cube into one of the honeycomb depressions in the top of the playback machine. A soft, golden cloud of mist formed above the cube.