Forge of Heaven (23 page)

On record, he’d agreed with the premise that there should be an agreed, broadly defined standard of what was human in the Outside. Humanity was capable of being each other’s predator if they grew too different, or, if re-encountering a profoundly variant group, apt to produce tragic problems in their offspring. He was Earth’s appointed governor out here, and he was bound to enforce certain boundaries.

But was a policy of no-change going to profit a species that wouldn’t flex, as if pinning down the genome, they’d forever reached the be-all and end-all of what was human? The theory was that humans were aptly fit for a cosmos that changed locally but not universally, and therefore evolution was no longer a good thing. But he’d slowly changed his opinions in a lifelong journey from the center. He’d begun to think that Earth, while disparaging Concord’s ancient language, was itself as stuck in that ages-past era as the immortals on Marak’s World—the latter of whom at least had a clear memory of catastrophe, and who lived in a changed and changing world. Earth insulated itself from Outsiders who’d gone on evolving, Outsiders whose genome, escaping the bottle-

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neck of the emigration from the motherworld, showed, yes, a modest diversity from Earth’s standard, but the protections were extravagant, more to drive home the point than to protect Earth from any real threat. Granted, Outsiders had taken hellacious chances with deliberate tinkering with the genome, and, yes, deliberately modified planetary settlements had come to grief in very tragic circumstances, not least of them the Hammerfall, but Outsiders didn’t legislate the surviving planetary residents out of the human species.

Earth was legitimately worried about some imported problem hitting its ecosystem, the mother of all human environment, but over such a span of time and distance there were human groups whose divergences arguably had less to do with nanoceles and engineering than just isolation—isolation while eras of Earth’s internal confusion meant no ships had called there, eras when the whole system of trade and genetic exchange had broken down and left pockets of Outsiders completely stranded. In those dark ages, some stations had died altogether and some had developed unique looks, unique accents, odd political institutions, all of this. Were all these less than human, when you could drop most of them back into Earth’s gene pool and they’d become mere lumps in the batter, not anomalous except in their concentration of certain traits?

Reaux didn’t ordinarily entertain such rebel thoughts, not all at once. Gide had provoked them to the surface, and outright engaged his temper. Adapted to live out here? Well, yes, he was. He’d become adapted, mentally, if not physically. He had a daughter here, who had developed notions more in agreement with the Outsiders than with her own family, and that was what happened to pure Earth households this remote from Earth. The children
did,
some of them, go into the Outsider gene pool.

But did he love his daughter less, because she wanted to live on this station, because this station was her entire future?

Ask Judy how the purity laws worked—Judy, whose great-grandfather’s branch of the family had purged certain of their own relatives, banishing Judy’s own mother from the Inner Worlds to the Outside, because her genetic tests had failed the standard and a contact was suspect, third-hand. Judy, born at Arc, had married into the political elite—but never quite salved that social wound.

Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 4 9

Was her exile fair, or beneficial to the species? Had those questionable genes contaminated Kathy?

And for specimens—the Earthborn out here were by no means the prettiest, the swiftest, the best-looking or the brightest. Outsiders in general tended to be in far better physical condition than first generation Earth exiles, or than Mr. Andreas Gide himself, Reaux was willing to bet, inside that shell. It took a strong ego to live out here among the beautiful and the bright . . .

One only needed take a clear-eyed, unprejudiced look at Concord. One could see on this station how it all ought to work, in Reaux’s not humble opinion: not only Earth-exiles and Outsiders in daily face-to-face contact, but the
ondat
peacefully resident among them
above
a world where the absolute worst had happened.

And nothing else catastrophic had happened to humans down there. That was the very point on Concord, wasn’t it? That was the very point, after ages of watching and waiting for another runaway to break loose—nothing happened. Hospitals could remediate eighty percent of the most serious mistakes individuals made down on Blunt, absolutely clean bad bugs out of a human body.

The other twenty percent, well, those that survived, were under close watch, and didn’t spread their problem, and weren’t self-modifying or transmissible—nothing they’d found, ever, had been on that level, nothing like First Movement nanoceles at all.

Certainly
some
level heads in the Inner Worlds saw all those facts in operation and recognized a state of affairs that contradicted near-religious dogma back on Earth: the Restorationists had been a flourishing party that actually talked about relaxing the Purity Laws in the Inner Worlds. The problem was, the majority on Earth were scared—had been taught to be scared and were kept scared by precautions like Mr. Gide’s. And in the last ten years the Restorationist Party had unhappily suffered murders and scandal on its staff, and was now being outlawed by Earth’s legislatures, in region after region, with whispers that such behavior was what one got for bedding down with such thinkers.

A slight cynic—and Reaux had long counted himself in that camp—suspected covert sabotage and planted evidence. A politically savvy cynic could wonder if a more restrictive regime was gaining a foothold on Earth, taking advantage of the Restorationist 1 5 0 • C . J . C h e r r y h

scandal. A paranoid cynic might even ask if this visitor that had come here to Concord so conspicuously making demands might represent those interests. Gide might be looking to stir up a cause célèbre in the very place Earth feared most.

And that could not be good news for the governor.

Damn it all, remediation itself
was
genetic change. Remediation was the whole basis for the human-
ondat
treaty he was supposed to be administering out here, out of one side of his mouth, and now he had to avoid saying anything or doing anything that indicated that was the case.

Sometimes, with a certain periodicity, the universe just went crazy. Maybe there was such a thing as too long a history for a species—or too much recorded knowledge of where they’d been for any human mind ever to absorb it all. Fashions recycled. Political movements did. Ideas did.

But fear of the
ondat
would surely protect Concord from the greatest insanity. It had a way of reminding fools, in the breach of basic rules. And a clever governor could survive out here, independent of the madness at the heart of the system, because ultimately, nobody dared interfere here.

One thing Reaux did take as an article of faith, what he called his own rule: that if two parties followed rigid party lines long enough, the political parties would actually switch positions on some essential issue and each of them end up defending the position the other side had used to defend. Political migration, he called it. The opposition consequently picked other issues, until the other party moved onto that ground, too—because as public consciousness advanced, political parties usually took on the very behaviors and alliances they had once most loudly decried—per-haps because those were the issues they had most passionately focused on and most thoroughly understood.

It was why he resolved he had to talk to Brazis honestly about this situation, and if Brazis was halfway reasonable, it might force him to make common cause with Brazis regarding this Mr. Gide, before Mr. Gide did something incredibly stupid in the service of some political party on distant Earth.

Dangerous. Dangerous in the extreme to approach Brazis. The ambassador’s ship had presented credentials electronically. Be-

Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 5 1

yond a doubt the ship was from Earth, not the Inner Worlds, and beyond a doubt it was authorized at highest levels. Gide’s credentials were therefore solid.

And a governor, however right, couldn’t just out and say, twice, as he’d tried to do, Excuse me, do you really realize the repercussions of what you’re doing? Do you realize your stupid foreign prejudices are leading you to insane conclusions about perfectly ordinary situations?

He couldn’t say, even once: No, sorry, you’re patently out of line and I’m not going to let you do what you’ve come hundreds of light-years to do at the behest of your remote, stupid, and abysmally ignorant party leadership.

Politicians. Scientists. And guns, assuming that ship was prepared to enforce its opinions. Gide had raised certain legitimate questions about planetary security, given a certain loosening of laws about replication techniques that meant, yes, if they weren’t careful with that technology, some fool someday could attempt to replicate First Movement tech—but they were careful. The Refuge didn’t let technical information off the planet, and certainly the requisite underground laboratory to create a threat didn’t fit in a shopping bag. So where on Concord did they think an illicit operation resided?

In the taps, of course: Earth wanted to be suspicious, so it had to find a focus for its suspicion. Of
course
some tap was taking notes so voluminous they’d mean a sizable bundle of storage and getting them past the room monitors. Of
course
someone had bodged a replication apparatus designed to fractally reproduce, say, a pot the size of one’s head, into one capable of producing an item so small and exacting that the creator couldn’t even find it without a labful of equipment unrelated to the replicators.

On the other hand, maybe someone on that ship was educated in the actual technology, and after a cursory glance and a romp through station records, would have to find that there was no basis in actuality for those suspicions. Maybe Mr. Gide would ultimately be forced to listen to his own experts—if anyone on the mission dared advance any truth to the contrary of Mr. Gide’s party’s fore-gone conclusions of what it was going to find.

But once he called Brazis in for conference, as Gide himself re-

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quested, then ultimately Gide and his party
would
be forced to listen to the Outsider Chairman. Brazis had the right, the Treaty-mandated right to tell Mr. Gide, sorry, no, you aren’t talking to one of my people.

And if the ambassador persisted or tried to bully the Chairman, Brazis was the man who would tell Mr. Gide to present his credentials in hell. Brazis had a notorious temper, and he had an armed and independent government to back him. It might be a new experience in the universe for Mr. Gide, to be told that Earth’s rule didn’t extend to the PO.

What the
ondat
would decide was going on, meanwhile, with this ship arriving and Mr. Gide throwing his weight around was another worry, and one that couldn’t wait for events to make the matter a crisis. He had to figure how to tell Kekellen in advance of any question that they were on his side regarding any disturbance the ambassador or that ship produced . . . without inciting the likes of Lyle Nazrani and his friends to charge that there was any chancy politics going on in that message-flow. No intent to sabotage Mr.

Gide. Oh, never.

God, what a situation.

Being an honest Earther, he didn’t have a personal tap. He did have a coded-relay phone in his pocket, and he flipped it open as he reached the safe interior of the lift. Storage blinked, jammed with fifty-six messages, as the scroll informed him. Small wonder: every department on the station wanted information. Ernst, however, was doing his job and, when he pressed the button for a breakdown of those messages, only four had actually gotten through the sieve and into the for-your-eyes basket.

He checked them as the lift made its sideways trip to its destination. Judy and Kathy—sorry,
Mignette
—were having another round. The Trade Board had inquired, complaining of an outrageously low opening bid on a new plastics synth. Dortland sent a report up from Blunt, and, yes, the
Southern Cross
had indeed invaded a sensitive area with a probe and just blitzed an expensive and delicate system with the finesse of a solar hiccup. Technical people were on it, repairing the damage.

He phoned Brazis.

Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 1 5 3

“This is Governor Reaux. I need to speak with the Chairman, immediately.”

Inside that apartment, he was well aware, Gide could already be sending other probes into their communications, trying to bypass their security by eeling his way through wide-open domestic systems.

Well, Gide could guess again: they weren’t wide open. Gide would hope to establish a private link with his ship that would let the ship in its turn try to get into their systems. It had all happened before. There had been protests from companies, from the PO, and from the
ondat,
on those occasions, angry protests that racketed all the way to Earth and Apex. And he had no plans to file a protest again, not using
Southern Cross
as a courier, at least. No, he was meditating a scathing letter to be carried by the next regular contact ship, on which his letter might not be lost.

“Governor?”
Brazis himself answered.

“My office. Please. Immediately. I need to talk to you.” He hung up, not wanting to commit anything else to the phone system at this particular moment, hoping Brazis would realize the reason for such a cryptic invitation, drop everything, and come.

Perhaps the quick exchange did leave detail behind to be sifted by Earth’s investigators.

A record of his call, oh yes. That would exist inside their secure network, which might be a target of a probe.

But hadn’t Gide just requested him to talk to Brazis? To use his diplomacy to gain an interview with a certain young tap?