Chapters Two and Three

The Janus was massive, the smooth lines of her cigar-shaped hull broken only by the round, sheer fan of the magnetic-plasma collection sail mounted on a mast amidships and two streamlined antimatter storage units hugging both the port and starboard sides aft of the bow.  The ship had six levels of two sections each, the uppermost being Deck One, the lowest Deck Six.  Deck One-Bow (or One-B) housed Guidance and Navigation, One-Aft (One-A) the clubs, gym, and observation salon.  The Assembly Chamber and ministry offices were on Two-B, our living quarters Two-A.  The nurturers’ residences and the Academy were cloistered on Three-A behind the section housing the Janus’ massive computer array.  The Gen-Lab was located on Four-B forward of the hydroponic garden.  The food processing plant, laundry, and equipment and hangar bays were aft of the Five-B medical section.  The propulsion system ran the length of the ship on Deck Six.

As immense as the ship was, it didn’t seem nearly big enough as I made my escape from Tarrazu.  Half expecting Eran to come after me, I cast a wary glance over my shoulder and racked my brain for a place to go, immediately ruling out my quarters, because that was the first place he would look.  Thankfully, the corridor outside the coffee-house was almost deserted.  The computer-controlled illumination was dimmed to simulate twilight on Earth, part of the twenty-four-hour cycle designed to preserve our bodies’ Circadian rhythms by promoting some semblance of day-night normalcy.  A small assortment of hover-transports was parked to my left.  I powered up a cup-shaped single-seater and let it whisk me past clubs, restaurants, and the gym, bringing it to a stop and disembarking outside the observation salon.  The salon would probably be deserted—or close to it, anyway—this time of night, but as a precaution, I stuck my head through the portal to check.  Happily, I had the spacious room to myself.

Releasing a quietly relieved sigh, I crossed the dove-gray carpet, weaving through a scattered arrangement of sleek, swept-back chairs and couches in cadet blue with splashes of mauve and pale yellow.  The right bulkhead was hung with twenty large abstracts, Lu’s Nebula among them.  The painting was beautiful and powerful—an explosion of red-gold whorls caught in a luminous green web—but it wasn’t nearly as breathtaking as the endless, star-spangled panorama outside the enormous bay window set in the opposite bulkhead.  I wandered over to perch on the arm of a chair and stared moodily into the vast, inky sea of the cosmos.

I replayed the events of that fateful night for probably the thousandth time, but there was no avoiding the truth: I had nobody but myself to blame.  I had sparked my own epiphany with seven apparently harmless words:  There was only one Ella Fitzgerald.

I shook my head.  How could a simple declarative sentence like that cause so much grief?  Well, it had … for me, at least.  The torrent of thoughts it had unleashed were way out-of-bounds, strictly taboo.  Nobody had to tell me that; it was simple common sense.  Thoughts like these would be the death of the Colony.  I couldn’t remember if there were explicit edicts against ideas like the ones simmering in my brain, but I guessed there must be—assuming the Council had even been able to envision concepts this far off the wall, of course.

I was dying to talk things over with someone, had come way too close to starting with Eran a few minutes ago, but I didn’t dare open my mouth.  The system’s first response would almost have to be self-defense.  After all, what society could afford to welcome with open arms the one truth that could level its foundations?  Or knowingly embrace someone infected with that fatal suspicion, I asked myself with a hard swallow.

Sitting there—one small woman on a gigantic ship, both of us dwarfed to near non-existence by the cold, empty reaches of space—I felt alone in the loneliest sense of the word.  In a matter of days I had been cast in a terrifying new role:  outsider.  I was now a secret doubter wearing a believer’s smile, an imposter desperately trying to play an expected part.  Sooner or later, the strain would start to show.  The insomnia I could handle with the approved drug supplements, but I had to start eating if I wanted to stay under the official radar.  I had already lost weight—only four or five pounds so far, but I barely tipped the scales at one-oh-five to start with.  The last thing I needed was to have Doctor Hahona call me in for a check-up, start asking a lot of questions, and refer me to Enid Huw.  An hour on her couch, and I would crack like an egg.  What would happen after that didn’t bear thinking about.

And now I had Eran to worry about, I remembered with a groan.  I wouldn’t be able to hide or hold him off indefinitely, which meant I had better come up with a believable story before I ran into him again.  I was toying with a few possibilities when I heard voices and glanced around to see three of my friends stroll into the salon.  I swallowed another groan.  Drawing a covert breath to steady myself, I stood and forced a smile, determined to make my second escape of the evening as soon as possible.

“Kai-Lee!” purred Na’weh, smiling with sensual delight.  The bell sleeves of her gauzy leopard-print caftan enfolded me like wings when she hugged me exuberantly.  She smelled of roses.  “Come join us!  We’re waiting for Elspeth and Dante, then going to my quarters for a mix.”

“A mix?” I shook my head and tried to appear regretful as she stepped back.  “I’m sorry, Na’weh, but I’ll have to take a rain check.  I’ve just got to get some sleep.”

Eyeing me closely, Damia tucked a chin-length chestnut lock behind her ear and nodded.  “You do look awfully tired, Kai.”  She brushed at the lapel of her black jumpsuit.  “You work too hard, and you know what they say about that.”

Na’weh’s coffee-brown eyes gleamed with invitation.  “All work and no play ….”

“Yeah?  Well, what do they say about all play and no sleep?” I drawled.  “Seriously, catch me next time, okay?”

Javan threw a beefy arm around my shoulder.  “You heard the lady,” he said.  “Quit pestering her.”

“Thanks,” I murmured as he steered me toward the portal.

He grinned through his black Van Dyke and nodded his shaved head.  “No problem.  Say, what did you think of Aduviri’s seminar on that twentieth-century author … uh … what was his name again?”

“Kafka.  Franz Kafka.  I thought it was interesting.  How about you?”

“I liked it all right, I guess.  Not sure what to make of a guy who wrote books about a traveling salesman waking up as a giant cockroach.  Imagine waking up one day and thinking you were a completely different creature than you were the day before.  Crazy, huh?”

I managed a sickly smile.  “Pretty crazy, all right.”

When we reached the portal, he leaned down to kiss my forehead.  “Good rest, Kai-Lee.”

“Thanks, Javan.  You guys have fun.”

His critique of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis echoed in my head as I walked slowly toward the transport pods:  Imagine waking up one day and thinking you were a completely different creature than you were the day before.

No imagination required, I thought morosely.

That night, I dreamed an Alpha dream.  I dreamed about the beginning.

Ω

Chapter Three

“It’s over.”  Evin Talbott materializes on the massive three-dimensional view screen in the amphitheater where the Quingenti are gathered, ostensibly for a conference on “How to Make the Most of Your Life.”  He stands in the doorway of a plush, elegantly appointed office, legs braced apart, fists balled at his sides—a tall, lithe warrior ready for battle.  “They voted no,” he announces angrily and strides across the room.

A thick, charged silence immediately blankets the rows of colorfully clad spectators occupying the dove-gray seats rising in tiers toward the amphitheater doors.  Every eye is glued to the screen as Kiril Garan slowly rises from his seat behind a gleaming cherry-wood desk set against a bank of windows, his white-blond hair and regal black-clad frame in stark relief against a background of pale blue sky. “By what margin?”

“No margin.  It was unanimous.”  Evin stands in front of the First Councilor now, waiting.  On the amphitheater’s dais, the “conference’s” so-called panel of experts trade expectant glances.

Kiril sighs heavily, closes those piercing gray eyes, and bows his head.  Everyone waits, breath held, although what he will say isn’t in doubt.  Still, only a few believed it would actually come to this.

When he finally raises his head, his patrician features are etched with sad frustration.  “Why won’t they compromise? A little land, is that so much to ask?”  He takes a deep breath and nods slowly, once, a man grimly resigned to doing what he has to.  He turns to face the camera, his fond, resolute gaze sweeping each row of viewers.  “My dear friends.”  His voice is steady, as deep as the ocean, as rich as mahogany.  Fabric rustles as all present shift into a heightened state of anticipation.  “We tried to work within the system.  With the best will in the world, we shared our data and our dream.  We talked, we pleaded, we worked night and day for five long years, hoping to open their eyes.  We offered them the ultimate prize:  life beyond the Known Span.”

Life beyond the Known Span.  Mankind’s grail in the centuries since science cobbled together its first primitive map of the human genome.  Functional genomics and both clinical and molecular genetics have come a long way since then.  Individual genome mapping is standard medical practice.  Advances in genetic engineering include the ability to make submicroscopic adjustments and/or repairs to genes.  That ability, in turn, has given medicine the means to conquer every known disease and slow physical aging almost to a stop.  Even the most senior citizen looks no older than thirty; every individual is fit and, as far as diagnostic technology can determine, perfectly healthy until the day he or she dies.

But he or she does die.

One hundred twenty years, the Known Span, is the threshold everyone reaches but nobody crosses.  And no one knows why.  The five hundred people gathered in the amphitheater are convinced they have come up with an answer, a way to pull a fast one on stubbornly undefeated death.  Their problem has been getting the rest of the world to buy in.

“They wouldn’t see, or maybe they couldn’t,” Kiril continues.  “Either way, we respected their right to live their own way; we dared to hope they would extend us that same courtesy.  Instead, they passed laws against us.  ‘You don’t want this,’ we said then.  ‘All right, we do.  All we ask is a place, somewhere we can live out this life we envision.’ Today the Global Assembly has given us their final word on our vision, and that word is … no.  We have no legal recourse, and conscience leaves us no choice.  We go.”

He raises a hand to stem the instant, tumultuous swell of voices.  All business now, he reminds the group, “Each of you knows what to do.  Although we’ll be traveling near the speed of light, it will take more than a dozen lifespans to reach our destination, Novus S.  We’ll begin preparing for the replication process once we’re on board.  You’ll be visited by Abila Lawler or Ke-Ling Yan; either Doctor Hahona or Doctor Jayson will help them collect your deposits.”  He addresses a matronly woman seated on the dais.  “Is everything ready on your end, Lavinia?”

“It is.”  When Lavinia Fallon nods, blue highlights ripple through her sleek cap of black hair.  Like Garan and the ten other individuals seated behind the massive gray table, she wears the meticulously tailored slacks and long-sleeved tunic known as Council Blacks.  “We completed construction a month ago, inspection a week after that.  All the documents are in order; Janus is cleared and ready to go.”

Councilman Garan’s lips twitch as he lifts an eyebrow.  “You already had the ship inspected?”

Lavinia grins like a pirate.  “Of course I did.  No reason not to.  Just another pleasure cruiser, after all, the latest addition to the Fallon Line.  Etsuo and his crew refitted the positron drive as soon as the inspectors left the propulsion deck.  We also got the components for the Gen-Lab and storage bank on board, no questions asked; they’re up and running.”

“And the provisioning?”

“Underway before the approval documents finished transmitting.  Normal ship’s stores should last us at least two years; we’ll be able to bring food production fully on-line by then.  The hydroponic greenhouse on Deck Four will provide plenty of fresh produce, as well as soy for protein, dairy substitutes, and flour.  Animal protein, as well as additional fruit and vegetable foodstuffs, will be produced in a lab designed for those purposes.  The tissue scaffolds, growth media, and micrograv bioreactors are already in place.  All we have to do now is conduct our usual internal quality control shakedown cruise, then it’s all aboard.”

She turns to gaze on the sea of pale, excited faces, her expression softening as she adds almost maternally, “Your quarters will be decorated according to the specifications each of you filed with us at one time or another during the past five years.  You can add personal touches to your cabins with whatever small possessions you decide to bring along. You’re going to feel right at home.”

“Thank you, Lavinia.”  Next Garan addresses a stocky Asian seated at the table’s far end.  “Doctor Yan, are you and your team ready to begin collection?”

“We are,” the geneticist answers slowly.  “But my colleagues and I have discussed this.”  He makes eye contact with each of three figures in the front row:  his fellow geneticist, Abila Lawler, a cadaverous brunette with dark, haunted eyes; the rotund physician, Ampah Hahona, whose cafe-au-lait features are devoid of their usual jovial smile; and Hahona’s medical colleague, Doctor Alis Jayson, a petite, athletic, blue-eyed blond.  Each nods in obvious encouragement.  Ke-Ling stands, squarely faces Councilman Garan’s 3-D image and states, “We believe there would be wisdom in delaying our departure for six months, maybe more.”

“You want us to wait months to go?”  Kiril frowns as the rest of the Council leans in to murmur amongst themselves.

“A year would be better.”

“By the Sage, why?”  When Evin breaks in, the Council falls silent.  “You heard Lavinia, the ship is ready.  If we can go in weeks, why wait a year?”

“For a number of reasons.  First there is the anti-colonization law enacted to curtail the imperialistic tendencies demonstrated by various cultures in the past.  As if that were not enough, moments ago our movement was effectively outlawed.  The eyes of the world will be on us to see what we will do next.  If we all board the ship at the same time ….”  He shrugged. “The authorities will no doubt arrive at the correct conclusion.  They will move quickly to stop us.”

“The eyes of the world can’t be on us, because the world hasn’t seen all of us,” counters Evin.  “We’ve worked hard to keep it that way.  The movement’s only publicly recognizable faces are mine,” he gestures toward Garan, “and that of the First Councilor.  This is the first time the Quingenti have even gathered in one place.”

That’s true and what’s more, this gathering has been carefully orchestrated.  The “conference” was widely advertised on the Global Network.  Any would-be attendee who wasn’t a registered member of the group was simply told, “Sorry, we’re full up.  Please try again next year.”

“And look at our demographic,” Evin continues, his arms sweeping wide to indicate the rapt audience.  “People from every social level, every nationality, all walks of life.  Teenagers to senior citizens.  They have nothing obvious in common.”

Whispers:  He’s right.  The movement had sprouted at grass-roots at cocktail parties, on university campuses, and in professional circles.  Paths crossed, opinions were shared, and the like-minded gradually coalesced into a loose network.  Instinctively understanding the world might not be ready for it, the movement kept a low profile, never formally organizing beyond the compilation of a secret membership database and general agreement on the composition of a Governing Council.  It, too, has physically convened for the first time today.

“That is true, as far as it goes,” Ke-Ling replies.  “But we could be identified in other ways.  How secure is our database, for example?  Furthermore, there has recently been a dramatic increase in our communications traffic.  Are we sure those communications have not been compromised?”

“Compromised?”  Dark, lanky councilman Rune Gaspar indulges in a rare, shadowy chuckle.  “Trust me, the Assembly spooks couldn’t crack our encryption if their lives depended on it.”

“You are referring to the website and the embedded database.”

“Yeah.  Look, Doc, it goes like this:  On one hand, you’ve got LivingLifetotheFullest.com, one of a billion sunny self-help sites tucked away among a trillion other sites.  On the other hand, you’ve got a limited number of intel weenies, who have to pick their spots.  No way they’re going to expend valuable resources monitoring moderately popular sites where the raciest photos posted depict happy families kayaking on Lake Winnemucca.  Porn sites?  Chat rooms and high-traffic URLs?  That’s where the action is.

“But for the sake of argument, suppose by a million-to-one long shot we did catch some agency’s eye.  They might take a closer look, maybe probe the scrambled mess of letters and numbers our system uses to generate images.  If they were real fair-haired boys and girls, they would probably guess messages are being passed.  But that’s where it would end, because they haven’t got the decryption key.  We change it every thirty days.  If anybody tried to intercept the key during transmission, their signal would siphon off individual photons, and we would know someone was eavesdropping.”  He waves dismissively.  “Nobody’s looking.”

“So there’s no reason to wait,” interjects Evin.  “No group identity, no communication trail.  As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we’ll simply be the first five hundred strangers who happen to sign up for the maiden voyage of the Janus.”

“It is not that simple,” insists Ke-Ling.  “Given the renown of the members of our Council, suspicions might be aroused in some quarters—”

“What about the suspicions aroused when the Janus doesn’t leave the dock for a year?” Fallon objects impatiently.  “I’m a businesswoman, Doctor.  My investors will want to know why our new luxurious space liner is sitting idle instead of bringing in a lot of nice, fat fares.”

Doctor Hahona speaks up in round, bass tones.  “What about this shakedown cruise you mentioned?  Won’t that consume a few months’ time?”

“Six weeks,” Lavinia retorts flatly.  “That’s our standard.  Another three weeks to fine tune and work out the bugs.”

“Please listen,” interrupts Ke-Ling.  “Imagine the attention the ship’s first voyage will draw with a passenger manifest that includes Lavinia Fallon, owner and CEO of Fallon Cruise Lines; Rune Gaspar, chief of the Assembly’s Global Intelligence Agency; media mogul Theda Sofert; Dabir Sirdar, highly respected professor of mathematics; international war-crimes prosecutor Patten Lamont; Federal Judge Navon Daner; Isidor Aduviri, author of twelve critically acclaimed novels; Doctor Enid Huw, Chief Psychiatrist at Hansen General; the brilliant sociologist Vella Desislava; and Francis Cassian, the philosopher and essayist recently awarded the venerable Nobel Peace Prize.  This is not a passenger list calculated to avoid media attention.”

“Your point about the Council is well taken,” muses Garan.  “We are a rather prominent bunch.  But now that you mention it,” he continues thoughtfully,  “I think we can actually turn our notoriety to our advantage.  Yes ….”

“How so?”

“Lavinia, suppose you, in your capacity as CEO, wanted to make a big splash when Fallon launches its new super liner?  How would you go about staging a public-relations coup?”

“I’d invite a few famous, important people along on her maiden voyage,” she responds, catching on immediately.

“It’s so crazy,” murmurs Evin, “it just might work.”

“It will work.”  Garan smiles widely.  “We’ll hide the Council in plain sight.  Invite the media to the send-off, give them all the interviews and photo ops their hearts desire, then wave good-bye.”

Ke-Ling nods hesitantly.  “It is a good plan.  But there is one more concern, namely, the unwelcome interest we may attract when it becomes known that the spokesman for the Life Continuance Movement, Provincial Governor Kiril Garan, and his Press Secretary, Mr. Evin Talbott, will be traveling with the two geneticists who recently won the Humanitas Science Prize, namely, Doctor Lawler and myself.  I believe a desire to avoid that very connection is one of the reasons you chose to talk to us over this secure, dedicated satellite uplink today, rather than in person?  Because of your well-publicized interest in genetics?”

Everyone starts giving an opinion now, some for waiting, most against.  The amphitheater becomes a hive filled with the bee-hum of voices … absent one.  When he finally speaks, the room instantly grows still.

“Another valid concern, Doctor,” Garan concedes.  “What’s your take on that, Theda?”

Councilwoman Sofert swivels her chair to face the screen, then leans back.  Everyone’s first impression of the tall redhead is sharp and imposing.  Once they get to know her, that impression gels.  Elegant news magnate Theda Sofert is one bright, capable, tenacious lady.

“The average news story,” she begins, “has a lifespan of from ten days to six weeks, depending on the topic.  Our campaign has been fairly long and drawn out, not to mention controversial and occasionally acrimonious, so the story will have longer legs.  Still, I doubt it’ll be the stuff of headlines in seven weeks or so.  Nine weeks out?  Probably not even a blip on the radar screen … depending on how we respond to today’s vote, of course.”

“She’s right,” Evin says.  “We have to choose our next move carefully.  Our reaction to today’s news will either allow the story to die a slow death or start a feeding frenzy.”  His eyes narrow shrewdly. “I think Doctor Ke-Ling Yan should schedule a press conference for later this afternoon.  He can tell the world how relieved he and his colleague are that the movement was outlawed, since they consider the Continuance agenda both unethical and dangerous.”

Kiril nods.  “That will put some distance between us.”

“And if anyone asks, well, a shameless promoter like myself,” chuckles Lavinia, “would love nothing better than the press mileage she would grab by inviting avowed antagonists along on the same cruise.”

“Nice touch,” agrees Garan.  “What else?”

“Strategic withdrawal,” suggests Rune.

“Meaning?”

Sofert smiles knowingly.  “He means we pull back.  Tell the world that while we’re extremely disappointed in the ruling, we respect the Assembly’s authority.  Now we’re going to take some time to reexamine both our data and our options.”

“It’s perfect,” Evin agrees.  “We can’t just clam up after battling it out in the headlines for five years; that would get everybody wondering.  We’ve got to ease the issue off the front burner.  An announcement that we’re regrouping gives the pundits their punch line, but aside from the initial release, it won’t make for interesting copy.  In seven weeks, we’ll be a second- or third-class story.  In nine weeks, nobody will know or care what we’re up to.”  He glances at Garan.  “The fact that you and I are taking a trip—no matter who goes along for the ride—may rate a paragraph in the society columns at best.”

“A paragraph?”  The First Councilor considers for a moment, then nods.  “All right, that’s how we’ll play it.  Start drafting statements, Evin, one for Doctor Yan and one for me.”  His attention shifts to the geneticist.  “Well, Doctor?”

“This, too, is a good plan.”

“Do you and your colleagues want to raise any other concerns?”

“I don’t believe ….”  Ke-Ling shoots a questioning glance at his cohorts, who smile and shake their heads.  “No, thank you,” he says, breaking into a relieved smile as he again faces Garan.  “We have no other concerns at this time.”

“Then you’re prepared to begin collection when we embark in nine weeks?”

“We are.”

“Excellent.  And on behalf of everyone present, I want to thank the four of you for having the courage of your convictions and sharing your reservations.  Given our obvious and understandable impatience to act, speaking up couldn’t have been easy, but by doing so, you forced us to reign in our zeal long enough to address some extremely important issues.”  The First Councilor turns an earnest gaze on the audience.  “And so, my friends, it’s decided.  In nine weeks’ time we embark on one of the greatest adventures—and, frankly, one of the biggest gambles—ever conceived by the mind of man.  The success of our expedition will depend on the strength of bonds we’ve already begun to develop, bonds that will grow deeper and stronger as centuries pass, as long as they’re under-girded by honesty and mutual respect.  Without those two qualities, trust and unity of purpose are impossible.  Today we disagreed, we debated, and through debate, we arrived at the wiser course.  So let’s pledge here and now never to shun an honest exchange of ideas.  Let’s promise to give every individual a fair hearing, to ask the hard questions, to be forthright and openly share our concerns.”

I woke up with Garan’s words ringing in my ears.  In memory they sounded noble and right.  But, as they used to say on Earth, “That was then, this is now.”  Then the Quingenti were bold adventurers about to set off on a radical quest; they were open to new ideas.  Now the Colony was firmly entrenched in its chosen course, with a different mind-set entirely.

Hard questions I had in spades, but forthright openness?  Listen, those questions might have been making me crazy, but I wasn’t that far gone.

Not yet, anyway.

Ω

Kathy DiSanto, 2009, all rights reserved