The Jesus Incident Page 10

  “We’ve used up the chlorine and it looks clean out here,” Illuyank said.

  “Take us back inside,” Lewis ordered. Then: “When you get back to Colony, I don’t want any mention of the chlorine.”

  “Right.”

  Lewis nodded to himself. It was time now to consider what he would tell Oakes, how this disaster would be explained to make it an important victory.

  Chapter 18

  Clones are property and that’s that!

  —Morgan Hempstead, Moonbase Director

  “THANK YOU for complying with my invitation.”

  Thomas watched the seated speaker carefully, wondering at the sense of peril aroused by such a simple statement. This was Morgan Oakes, Chaplain/Psychiatrist—the Ceepee, The Boss?

  It was late dayside on Ship and Thomas had not been long enough from hyb to feel completely awake and familiar with his long-dormant flesh.

  I am no longer Raja Flattery. I am Raja Thomas.

  There could be no slip in the new facade, especially here.

  “I have been studying your dossier, Raja Thomas,” Oakes said.

  Thomas nodded. That was a lie! The stress in the man’s voice was obvious. Didn’t Oakes realize how much he betrayed himself to trained senses? You could not believe a word this man uttered! He was careless—that was it.

  Perhaps there are no other trained senses to test him.

  “I responded to a summons, not to an invitation,” Thomas said.

  There! That was the kind of thing a Raja Thomas would say.

  Oakes merely smiled and tapped a folder of thin Shippaper in his lap. A dossier? Hardly. Thomas knew that it was in Ship’s interest to conceal the real identity of this new player in the game.

  Thomas! I am Thomas! He glanced around the Shipcell to which Oakes had invited him, realizing belatedly that this once had been a cubby. Oakes had taken out bulkheads to expand the cubby. Then, as Thomas recognized a mystical decorative motif between two dark-red woven wall hangings, he suffered one of the worst shocks in this awakening.

  This was my cubby!

  It was obvious that Ship had expanded enormously since those faraway Voidship days when it had housed only a few thousand hybernating humans and a minimal umbilicus crew. The changes he had seen on the trip here from hybernation hinted at even deeper changes behind them. What had happened to Ship?

  This expanded cubby suggested an unsavory history. The space was sybaritic with exotic hangings, deep orange carpeting, soft divans. Except for a small holoprojection at Oakes’ left hand, all the cubby’s expected servosystems had been concealed.

  Oakes was giving his visitor plenty of time to study the space around him, using the time to return that scrutiny. What was Ship’s intent with this mysterious newcomer? The question was engraved large on Oakes’ face.

  Thomas found his own attention caught by the computer-driven projection at the holofocus. It was a familiar three-dimensional analogue of a ship orbiting a planet, all glittering green and orange and black. Only the planetary system was unfamiliar; it had two suns and several moons. And as he watched the slow progression of the ship’s orbit, he felt an odd sense of deja vu. He was in motion in a ship in motion in a universe in motion . . . and it had all happened before.

  Replay?

  Ship said not, but . . . Thomas shrugged off such doubts, reserving them for later. He did not have to be told that the planet in the focus was Pandora and that this projection represented a real-time version of Ship’s position in the system. Some things did not change no matter the great passage of time. Bickel had once monitored such a projection on the Voidship Earthling.

  Morgan Oakes sat on a deep divan of rust velvet while Raja Thomas stood—an unsubtle accent on their positions in a hierarchy which Thomas had not yet analyzed.

  “I’m told you are a Chaplain/Psychiatrist,” Oakes said. And he thought: This man does not respond to his name in a quite normal way.

  “That was my training, yes.”

  “Expert in communication?”

  Thomas shrugged.

  “Ahhh, yes.” Oakes was pleased with himself. “That remains to be tested. Tell me why you have asked for the poet.”

  “Ship asked for the poet.”

  “So you say.”

  Oakes allowed silence to follow this challenge.

  Thomas studied the man. Oakes was portly-going-on-fat, dark complexion, faint odor of perfume. His gray-streaked hair had been combed forward to conceal a receding hairline. The nose was sharp and flared at the nostrils, the mouth thin and given to a tight, stretching grimace; the chin was wide and cleft. The man’s eyes dominated this rather common Shipman face. They were light blue and they probed, boring in, always trying to penetrate every surface they found. Thomas had seen such eyes on people diagnosed as psychotic.

  “Do you like what you see?” Oakes asked.

  Again, Thomas shrugged.

  Oakes did not like this response. “What is it you see in me which requires such scrutiny?”

  Thomas stared at the man. The genotype was recognizable and that first name was suggestive. Oakes could have Lon as a middle name. If Oakes were a clone instead of a replay-survivor rescued from a dying planet . . . yes, that would be an interesting clue as to how Ship was playing this deadly game. Oakes bore a more than casual resemblance to Morgan Hempstead, the long-ago director of Moonbase. And there was that first name.

  “I’ve just been very curious to meet The Boss,” Thomas said. He found a seat facing Oakes and sat without invitation.

  Oakes scowled. He knew what they called him shipside and groundside, but politeness (not to mention politics) dictated that the term not be used in this room. Best not precipitate conflict yet, however. This Raja Thomas posed too many mysteries. Aristocratic type! That damned better-than-you manner.

  “I, too, am curious,” Oakes said.

  “I’m a servant of Ship.”

  “But what is it you’re supposed to do?”

  “I was told you have a communications problem on Pandora—something about an alien intelligence.”

  “How very interesting. What are your special capabilities in this respect?”

  “Ship appears to think I’m the one for the job.”

  “I don’t call the ship’s process thinking. Besides, who cares what opinions come out of a system of electronic bits and pieces? I prefer a human assessment.”

  Oakes watched Thomas carefully for a response to this open blasphemy. Who was this man . . . really? You couldn’t trust the damned ship to play fair. The only thing to believe was that the ship was not a god. Powerful, yes, but with limits which needed exploring.

  “Well, I intend to have a go at the problem,” Thomas said.

  “If I permit it.”

  “That’s between you and Ship,” Thomas said. “I’m well satisfied to carry out Ship’s suggestions.”

  “It offends me . . .” Oakes paused, leaned back into his cushions. “. . . when you refer to this mechanical construction . . .” He waved a hand to indicate the physical presence of Ship all around. “. . . as Ship. The implications . . .” He left it there.

  “Have you issued an order prohibiting WorShip?” Thomas asked. He found this an interesting prospect. Would Ship interfere?

  “I have my own accommodation with this physical monstrosity which human hands loosed on the universe,” Oakes said. “We tolerate each other. You have an interesting first name, do you know that?”

  “In my family for a . . . very long time.”

  “You have a family?”

  “Had a family would be more proper.”

  “Strange. I took you for a clone.”

  “That’s an interesting philosophical question,” Thomas said. “Do clones have families?”

  “Are you a clone?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “No matter. As far as I’m concerned, you’re another machination of the ship. I will tolerate you . . . for now.” He waved a hand in dismi
ssal.

  Thomas was not ready to leave. “You, too, have an interesting first name.”

  Oakes had been turning toward the holo projection and its com-console at his side. He hesitated, glanced at Thomas without turning his head. The gesture said: You still here? But there was more in his eyes. His interest had been caught.

  “Well?”

  “You bear a striking physical resemblance to Morgan Hempstead and I couldn’t help but notice that you have the same first name.”

  “Who was Morgan Hempstead?”

  “We often wondered if the Moonbase director had allowed a clone of himself. Are you that clone?”

  “I’m not a clone! And what the hell is Moonbase?”

  Thomas broke off, recalling what Ship had told him. These replay survivors had been picked up at a different stage in human development. The resemblance, even the name, could be coincidence. Did they come from a time before space travel? Was Ship their first experience in the many dimensions of the universe?

  “I asked you a question!” Oakes was angry and not bothering to conceal it.

  “Moonbase was the project center which created Ship.”

  “On Earth’s moon? My Earth?” Oakes touched his breast with a thumb. And he thought about this revelation.

  “Didn’t you ever wonder where Ship originated?” Thomas asked.

  “Many times. But I never thought we did this thing to ourselves.”

  Thomas remembered more of Ship’s recital now and drew on it. “Some people had to be saved. The sun was going nova. It required a herculean effort.”

  “So we were told,” Oakes said, “but that was later. I am considerably more interested in how a Moonbase was kept secret.”

  “If there’s only one lifeboat, do you tell everyone where it is?”

  Thomas felt rather proud of this creative lie. It was just the kind of thing Oakes might believe.

  Oakes nodded to himself. “Yes . . . of course.” He glanced at the com-console, then twisted himself more comfortably into the divan. Thomas was lying, obviously. Interesting lie, though. Everyone knew that the ship had landed in Aegypt. Could there be two ships? Perhaps . . . and there could have been many landings.

  Thomas stood. “Where do I find transportation down to Pandora?”

  “You don’t. Not until you’ve told me more about Moonbase. Make yourself comfortable.” He indicated the seat which Thomas had vacated.

  There was no avoiding the threat. Thomas sank back. What a tangled web we weave, he thought. Truth is easier. But Oakes could not be told the truth . . . no, not yet. The proper moment and place had to be found for laying Ship’s command upon him. Shipmen were far gone in the puny play of WorShip. They would have to be shaken out of that before they could even contemplate Ship’s real demand.

  Thomas closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then opened his eyes and began recounting the physical facts of Moonbase as he knew them. The account was barbered only to the extent needed for illusion that Moonbase had been a project kept secret from Oakes’ Earth.

  Occasionally, Oakes stopped him, pressing for particular details.

  “You were clones? All of you?”

  “Yes.”

  Oakes could not conceal his delight at this revelation. “Why?”

  “Some of us were sure to be lost. Cloning was a way of improving the project’s chances of success. The best people were selected . . . each group had more data.”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  “Moonbase directives defined clones as property. You . . . could do things to clones that you couldn’t do to Natural Natals, the naturally born humans.”

  Oakes ruminated on this for a moment while a slow smile crept over his face. Then: “Do continue.”

  Thomas obeyed, wondering what it was that Oakes found so satisfying.

  Presently, Oakes raised a hand to stop the recital. Small details were not of pressing interest. The broad picture carried the messages he wanted. Clones were property. There was precedent for this. And now, he knew the name behind those significant initials: MH—Morgan Hempstead! He decided to press for any other weaknesses in this Raja Thomas.

  “You say Raja is a family name. Are you, ahhhh, related to the Raja Flattery mentioned in what passes for our history?”

  “Distantly.”

  And Thomas thought: That’s true. We’re related distantly in time. Once there was a man called Raja Flattery . . . but that was another eon.

  Already, he felt himself firmly seated in the identity of Raja Thomas. In some ways, the role suited him better than that of Flattery.

  I was always the doubter. My failures were failures of doubt. I may be Ship’s “living challenge” but the means are mine.

  Oakes cleared his throat. “I found this a most edifying and gratifying exchange.”

  Once more, Thomas stood. He did not like this man’s attitude, the feeling that people were only valuable in terms of their usefulness to Morgan Oakes.

  Morgan. He has to be a Hempstead clone. Has to be!

  “I’ll be leaving now,” Thomas said.

  Was that challenge enough? He studied Oakes for a negative response. Oakes was merely amused.

  “Yes, Raja Lon Thomas. Go. Pandora will welcome you. Perhaps you’ll survive that welcome . . . for a time.”

  Not until much later when he was standing in the shipbay waiting to board the groundside lighter did Thomas pause to wonder at where and how Oakes had obtained those sybaritic furnishings for his expanded cubby.

  From Ship?

  Chapter 19

  The mind falls, the will drives on.

  —Kerro Panille, The Collected Poems

  PANILLE EMERGED from Ferry’s office dazed and fearfully excited.

  Groundside!

  He knew what Hali thought of old Ferry—a bumbling fool, but there had been something else in the old man. Ferry had seemed sly and vindictive, consumed by unresolved hostilities. Even so, there was no evading his message.

  I’m going groundside!

  He had no time for dawdling—his orders required him to be at Shipbay Fifty in little more than an hour. Everything was controlled now by the time demands of Colony. It might be the last quarter of dayside here, but down at Colony it would soon be dawn, and the shuttles from Ship tried to make their groundside landings in the early hours there—less hylighter activity then.

  Hylighters . . . dawn . . . groundside . . .

  The very words conveyed a sense of the exotic to him. No more of Ship’s passages and halls.

  The full import of this change began to fill him. He could see and touch ’lectrokelp. He could test for himself how this alien intelligence performed.

  Abruptly, Panille wanted to share his excitement with someone. He looked around at the sterile reaches of Medical’s corridors—a few med-techs hurrying about their business. None of the faces were friendly acquaintances.

  Hali’s face was nowhere among these impersonal passersby. Everything he saw was just the bustle and movement of Medical’s ordinary comings and goings.

  Panille headed toward the main corridors. Medical’s bright lights bothered him. It was a painful contrast with Ferry’s office—the clutter, the dank smells. Ferry kept his office too dim.

  Probably hiding the clutter even from himself.

  It occurred to Panille then that Ferry’s mind probably was like that office—dim and confused.

  A poor, confused old man.

  At the first main corridor, Panille turned left toward his quarters. No time to search out Hali and share this momentous change. There would be time for sharing later—at the next shipside period of rest and recuperation. He would have much more to share then, too.

  At his cubby, Panille shoved things into a shipcloth bag. He was not sure what to take. No telling when he might return. Recorder and spare charges, certainly; a few keepsakes . . . clothing . . . notepads and a spare stylus. And the silver net, of course. He stopped and held the net up to examine it—a gift from
Ship, flexible silver and big enough to cover his head.

  Panille smiled as he rolled the net and confined it in its own ties. Ship seldom refused to answer one of his questions; refusal signaled a defect in the question. But the day of this net had been memorable for refusals and shifting responses from Ship.

  Insatiable curiosity—that was the hallmark of the poet and Ship certainly knew this. He had been at the Instruction Terminal, his request. “Tell me about Pandora.”

  Silence.

  Ship wanted a specific question.

  “What is the most dangerous creature on Pandora?”

  Ship showed him a composite picture of a human.

  Panille was irritated. “Why won’t You satisfy my curiosity?”

  “You were chosen for this special training because of your curiosity.”

  “Not because I’m a poet?”

  “When did you become a poet?”

  Panille remembered staring at his own reflection in the glistening surface of the display screen where Ship revealed its symbolic patterns.

  “Words are your tools but they are not enough,” Ship said. “That is why there are poets.”

  Panille had continued to stare at his reflection in the screen, caught by the thought that it was a reflection but it also was displayed where Ship’s symbols danced. Am I a symbol? His appearance, he knew, was striking: the only Shipman who wore a beard and long hair. As usual, the hair was plaited back and bound in a golden ring at the nape of his neck. He was the picture of a poet from the history holos.

  “Ship, do You write my poetry?”

  “You ask the question of the Zen placebo: ‘How do I know I am me?’ A nonsense question as you, a poet, should know.”

  “I have to be sure my poetry is my own!”

  “You truly believe I might try to direct your poetry?”

  “I have to be certain.”

  “Very well. Here is a shield which will isolate you from Me. When you wear it, your thoughts are your own.”