Supermen: Tales of the Posthuman Future (41 page)

The lone positive circumstance is that she hid her escape from casual viewers. The public saw an illusionary Alice, never guessing that she was elsewhere, and free…

—Alice's jailer, confidential

The trial had lasted for decades.

Nothing in human history matched its importance, drama, or its ultimate anticlimax, a verdict reached by the fairest possible judicial process— judges and jurors from untainted Families and the best of ordinary humanity— and the sentence was accepted by all, including the criminal. Alice Chamberlain would be stripped of her powers, wealth, and enhanced intelligence. Whatever else remained would be locked inside a tiny cell beneath the Tibetan plateau, the prisoner permitted few contacts with the outside world. And to ensure that the sentence was carried out, people were free to watch Alice on their universal walls, to see her sitting or sleeping, pacing or shitting, her old-fashioned body— calcium bones and a poor woman's minimal immortality— kept thinly clad, always a little cold because of the cell's nearly perfect refrigeration.

A fair verdict, yes; but justice eluded people all the same. Others had taken
part in the universe-building nightmare. Some had died heroic deaths, fighting to stop the Core's detonation or save endangered worlds. But what of the rest? What if some of them survived, then refused to follow Alice's example? Plus, there was the issue of civil penalties. Even Alice's wealth was nothing compared to the damages done. Some jurists— nonFamily citizens with modest augmentation— argued that the Thousand Families should make compensations, using some common pool of cash and sorrow.…

But what if the Families didn't agree to those terms?

And worst of all, what if the galaxy decided that enough was enough, then tried to wrestle these godlike powers from the chosen few? The Core's little
bang
and misery would be nothing beside
that
conflagration. The Ten Million Year Peace would shatter like crystal, along ancient lines of weakness; and what would happen? How could such a war end?

Alice's trial was finished, and nothing was finished.

That was the only verdict, it seemed. A grain of sand had started down a mountainside, and there was no calculating the shape or scope of the avalanche to come.

*

Ord was studying, or pretending to study, when he felt a gaze and looked up, discovering the little girl standing in his open doorway. His very first thought was that she was a younger sister. An immature face and body, he noticed. Adult-sized teeth too large for the smiling mouth. Her coppery hair was long and worn simply, and she had a feminine dress ending at her knees, shins pale and feet bare. There was a tangible joy that Ord could taste as well as feel. And she spoke sweetly and quickly, saying, "Come with me, Ord." Saying, "Now. They'll notice I'm gone, hurry!"

He rose and followed, and in an instant he dreamed up a little story to explain her. The eldest Chamberlains, for reasons both simple and complex, had delayed the birth of Ord's little sister. But what if someone hadn't agreed, finding the means to hide a baby girl? She could be living inside the vast mansion, in some secret chamber. And of course she would be interested in her next-older sibling, and shouldn't she want to come see him? Didn't it make perfect, intoxicating sense?

And yet. How could the security systems and watchful elders fail to notice her? And if she was so perfectly protected, then how could such a little girl escape long enough to find Ord—?

He ran on rising stairs, strong legs unable to keep pace. The little girl seemed disappointed, glancing over a shoulder, speaking through her long, thick hair. "I thought you'd be faster by now," she said. Then, "Little Ord."

Only then, with those last words, did Ord realize how far he had climbed and where she was leading him.

His legs locked in place, in terror.

But the stairs kept lifting him, past the intricate, ever-changing murals where the great and glorious Chamberlains reenacted the past. He begged the stairs to stop, but they wouldn't. His escaped little sister was standing on the top landing, facing him, then stepping back and out of sight, and Ord
lied to himself, assuring himself that she was just a little girl and that her keepers must have stuck her inside the abandoned penthouse, knowing that no one wanted to go there anymore.…

Ord was deposited at the entranceway. The girl was gone, the massive crystal door was ajar, and momentum, not courage, carried him through the chill gap between the slab and jamb.

The room beyond was enormous, hectares of floor beneath a high ceiling, every surface ripped and blackened, sagging portions of the ceiling held up with braces, and old robots who must have been told to stand there and lift, and wait. Ord turned in a circle, with a dancer's grace, remembering how Nuyens and other officials had once come here, seeking Alice. And she wasn't here. But they had demolished the place to make sure, and nobody had taken time to make repairs. A notorious place, and unclean. The perfect place to hide a secret sister, he told himself. Though he didn't believe that story anymore, no matter how elaborate he made it. No matter how sweet it seemed.

"Quit thinking, Ord. Come here."

The red-haired girl stood in the distance, her back to him, and the golden sunlight pouring through a tall window before her. Ord picked his way across the battered floor, barely breathing. She seemed to be looking below, drinking in the great estate— a roar of autumn colors at their height, brilliant shades and tones joining into a vast, fully orchestrated work too large for a boy's eyes, too intricate for even his augmented mind.

Ord would always remember the sight of her, her coppery-red hair, like his, unremarkable against those grand colors. And how the sunlight pierced her dress and revealed her pale new flesh, the body rigorously simple, even plain, sexless and unaugmented, and pure. Why, with everything possible, did she choose that appearance? For the innocence implied? But who knew why Alice did as she did? Not for the first time, Ord doubted that his sister knew all of her reasons. She was too large to understand
herself
, and had always been… and what an astonishing, horrifying curse…!

Alice turned, in a motion faster than Ord could follow, pushing something small and soft into his hands; and with a desperate near-gasp, she told him:

"You've got to save it! They'll destroy it—!"

What? Destroy what?

"I'm pledged to protect… fragile… it is…"

"Protect
what?
" he blurted.

"Brother Perfect knows. Go find him." The quickest possible smile, then she closed his fingers around her gift. "It will help you—"

"Brother who?"

"I trust you," Alice promised, her voice bleak and untrusting. "And Perfect, too. But nobody else, not anymore." Then she was gone again, never quite seen and already lost; and for a long, confusing while, Ord stared out at the vista— at the brilliant pained colors of dying foliage— almost forgetting how he had come here, barely aware of the heavy little mystery lying invisible in his new hands.

4

Discreet observations of the Chamberlain home have identified five distinct and powerful anomalous events. Two occurred during Alice's escape, probably marking her arrival and subsequent departure. Two others have been linked to an unofficial visit by Chamberlain 63, presumably here on a mission of strategy and espionage. But most peculiar is the oldest anomaly. It was witnessed several years after our observations began— several years after Alice's surrender— and perhaps it signaled the departure of an ancient Chamberlain whose presence was never suspected. Or it could have been an arrival, which leads to certain obvious questions: Who arrived? And on what mission? And what is this secret Chamberlain doing now?

—Nuyen memo, classified

Alice remained imprisoned; Ord could see her, nothing changed about her cell or clothes or even the stiff way she sat on the edge of her simple cot. But it
had
been Alice in the penthouse, or at least some magical, unknown portion of her. Sitting on his own bed, unconsciously mimicking her pose, Ord felt confusion bleeding into fascination, and when three jailers arrived without warning, excitement. The jailers were from three high-grav races, all stout and made more impressive by their black uniforms. One of them gazed up at the camera with an expression struggling to appear in control, at ease. A stiff, formal voice told every viewer, "The prisoner needs to meet with her attorneys, in private. For the next few hours, this line will be terminated. Thank you."

The screen went black, and Ord gave a little gasp.

He wasn't the only Chamberlain watching. An electric murmur passed through the air, pulses marking siblings on the move. From doorless rooms deep inside the mansion came a piercing series of whistles, then an older sister appeared beside Ord's bed, conjuring up a body from light and woven dust, staring at her little brother for what felt like an eternity.

"What's wrong?" Ord asked, surprised to sound so convincingly innocent.

Yet the sister should have seen through him, duplicity bright in his panicky glands and frazzled neurons. And she certainly should have noticed the heavy object on Ord's lap, both thighs depressed by its bulk, its plain oddness sure to set off alarms.

Yet nothing registered in her icebound blue eyes. A pause, a prolonged blink. Then again her brother asked:

"What's wrong?"

"Many things," she assured him. Then, "Have you seen Alice?"

"On the wall."

She glanced at the blackness, appearing puzzled. A little lost.

Ord asked, "Why are the attorneys visiting her?"

The sister straightened her back, then whispered, "They aren't. And there lies the trouble."

He waited.

"We have a report— unconfirmed— that Alice managed to leave her cell for a moment, or two—"

"But she
can't,
" Ord sputtered. "She doesn't have that kind of power anymore, does she?"

The sister was eager to agree, and couldn't. "An error. Someone's bad joke, perhaps." Pause. "I wouldn't worry." Pause. "And you say you haven't seen her?"

"No."

"Well, then good day, little one. I am sorry to intrude." And without waiting for his goodbyes, she vanished with a sparkle of milky light.

Ord felt alone, and watched. Of course they suspected that Alice might come see him. Yet he wasn't asked about his visit to the penthouse, and the mystery in his lap might as well not exist… unless they were thoroughly aware, watching him out of curiosity or caution. But that didn't feel right, did it? For no good reason, Ord sensed that he was as safe as possible, under the circumstances.

What now? he asked himself.

A thousand times, perhaps. And only then did he take hold of the wondrous nothing, examining it in earnest.

Some kind of odd, dark matter, he decided. Its surfaces were imprecise and a little cool, then warm. Its density was rather like gold or lead, and with each touch it seemed to merge with his flesh, for an instant, the sensation like something in a sloppy dream. But when he placed it on his room's ornamental pond, on the slickest, smoothest portion, there wasn't so much as a dimple made, and he could push it back and forth like a balloon, nothing but his own hands aware of its weighty presence.

Natural dark matter didn't exist in this form. Coagulated; tangible. But with sufficient energies and the proper cleverness, it was possible to make the wild particles behave, make them cling to one another and act like normal trusted baryonic matter. These were great technologies, Ord knew. They were the basis for much of his siblings' magic, and nobody understood their limits. Since dark matter was ninety-nine-percent of everything— existing in a multitude of useful flavors— there was hope that someday, when necessary, it would prove even more useful than the prosaic stuff that made stars and simple people.

With care, Ord caressed the gift, fingers discerning tiny crenelations, his mind's eye building an improving picture. But what it resembled… well, it seemed unlikely at best. A tightly folded cerebral cortex, the underside cerebellum, and the ancient medulla; it was a brain of the oldest kind, human in proportions but nothing like the modern form. Even the lizard-folk, poor as possible, had fancier and tougher versions of the ancestral brains. Fatty flesh and acetylcholine vanished with hundred-year life spans and mental imbalances. Why would Alice give him such a relic? But of course it wasn't a relic, he realized. It was as modern in substance as possible, and what did that imply?

An affinity for Ord's flesh, and its shape could be a clue, he thought. Several times. But when he acted on that idea, he was shocked to find it valid. The mysterious nothing liked his scalp and began to burrow, exotic particles swirling around the bland ones, passing through flesh and the hyperfiber skull, moving just the right amount, then pausing and aligning themselves, linking in a multitude of ways with Ord's own astonished mind.

*

An image appeared before him.

Fuzzy, but immediately identifiable.

"Am I supposed to go there?" he asked. No answer was offered. Ord put on hiking boots, then noticed a second pair of boots where he had found the first pair. Using the stairwell, he passed between a dozen siblings— modestranked Chamberlains wearing frightened, flushed expressions— and he was even less noticed than usual. Which was a good thing, since he was forbidden from leaving the mansion, in punishment for the bomb nonsense. The old bear-dogs at the door might have noticed something when he touched them, scratching their broad heads until sleeping tails began to thump-thump against the footworn stone floor. Then, sensing something too substantial to be a premonition, Ord touched the PRIDE AND SACRIFICE sign, not once but twice, never certain if what he felt was real or an illusion.

He ran when he was outdoors, eschewing tube cars out of caution. It was a good hour's journey, most of it downhill. Wild birds didn't startle into flight when he passed them. Water splashed and the earth dimpled under him, but each backward glance showed him a smooth brook and muddy banks without a single bootprint. Ord was a ghost, it seemed. He was exactly like his elderly siblings, composed of nothing but thought, and it frightened him, and it seemed fun… yet he couldn't make himself hesitate for a moment, much less ask himself if this was what was right… whatever it
was
that he was doing.…