Lost in Transmission (30 page)

“This place is ugly,” Conrad finally remarked, when the two of them had sought the safety of a bench in another room, away from the party proper. “No offense, Sire, but I wouldn't want my
dog
frozen here, much less my princess, who changed my own life simply by appearing in it.”

“True,” the king agreed, looking around. The whole structure looked like exactly what it was: a warehouse. An industrial space for the storage of cryogenic goods. “All too true. If death is to follow us at every step, we should turn to face it on the ground of our own choosing: in a house of strength and human achievement. A cathedral, a tower, a fulsome garden! Not this . . . garage. Perhaps you could have a look around before you leave, with an eye toward improvements?”

“Gladly, Sire. I'll begin within the hour. Will . . . you be all right?”

“No,” the king said. “But I'm needed at the party, and at the palace, and at the helm of government. And you, my friend, are needed here in civilization.”

“Aye,” Conrad agreed. “So it would seem.”

He tracked down the mortician again and managed to get
a
tour of the facilities. Things were even worse than he'd figured; twenty-three thousand bodies entombed here already, in ugly slotted dewars of plastic foam and unprogrammed glass, filled with liquified nitrogen. There were power and temperature gauges all around, and signs full of warnings and instructions. Also warning lights here and there, flashing and beeping irregularly, disturbing the peace.

“Do people come here to visit?” he asked the mortician, whose name was Carl Piñon Faxborn.

“Sometimes. Not often. The bodies are shipped down here for embalming and cryolation, and as often as not returned northward for formal receptions, glass caskets and all, before coming back here for their final rest. Occasionally, we'll disinter one for another brief trip: a busy relative paying his or her respects, and occasionally we'll hold a re-viewing here on the premises.”

That sounded awful to Conrad, and he said so.

“Well,” Carl replied, unoffended, “the status of these people is problematic. Are they really gone? To heaven, or to a distant future? Who can say? Shall we treat them as patients or as vacant husks? We try to err on the side of hope.”

“
I
wouldn't come to visit here,” Conrad told him. “It's too cold.”

Carl laughed politely.

“Sterile, I mean. Uninviting. These gauges, like something from a power plant. This place should be beautiful.”

“We are none of us opposed to beauty,” Carl agreed.

“What are these flashing lights all about? Here, and here? Why do they beep like that?”

“Ah,” Carl said, running his hand over one. “Those are our cosmic ray counters: proton, photon, heavy nucleus, and ‘other.' Sometimes one goes off: a vertical strike from directly above. Sometimes two go off: a diagonal strike. Sometimes it's three or four in a straight line, if the particle comes in horizontally. That's uncommon; the atmosphere blocks most of those. But we are very close to Barnard, and the planet's magnetic field offers little protection.”

“Can't you put up a local field?”

“We can and do, yes. But how large should we make it? How much energy should we consume in maintaining it? We count the rays that penetrate, sir, not the ones our systems deflect.”

But you don't deflect them all,
Conrad thought. And this was significant, because any Navy man or woman knew all about cosmic rays, how they riddled your body, cutting and poisoning. A little bit of damage was easily repaired by your body's own systems. Hell, in the funny ways of biology, a
little
bit of radiation damage was actually good for you. But a little bit more was bad. If the damage piled up faster than your body could repair it, you shriveled, went blind and senile, eventually died. Here, of course, the cosmic ray counts were smaller than they would be out in space, but . . . a frozen body could not repair itself. And with enough damage, even a high-end fax machine would have a hard time piecing the true person back together.

Posing it as an idle question, he asked, “How long would it take these rays to chew a body up into irretrievable goo?”

“Oh, a long time,” Carl replied. “Two or three millennia.”

“Really, that long. Hmm.” This matched closely with Conrad's internal, off-the-cuff estimate, so he believed the figure at once. And that was a
real
problem, because Bascal had told him the economic crisis could well last for five. “Over time,” he'd said, “the price of metals will drop, leading to relief in other areas. But it involves centuries of digging.”

Carl Piñon Faxborn waited patiently for ten seconds, and then another ten, before finally asking, “Is everything all right, Mr. Mursk?”

“No,” Conrad told him, looking around for the supports that held this place together. “It isn't. I'm sorry to say it, Mr. Faxborn, but there will have to be some big changes around here.”

chapter twenty-two

the architecture of deceit

It made Conrad sad—depressed, even—to see where
things were headed. Because he was going to betray Bascal. The compulsion was as palpable as a brick to the head, and he had no intention of resisting it. Indeed, Conrad was not merely an old space pirate and revolutionary but a two-time mutineer. And history had a way of repeating itself. As in those childhood mutinies, he would be recruiting at least a handful of allies, and if he knew his business—which at this advanced age he almost certainly did—then he would select only people who truly saw things his way, who would not turn him in, or out, as a means of currying favor.

The strange thing about it was that Conrad hated rebellion, hated conflict of any kind. All he'd ever wanted to be was an architect or matter programmer or construction boss of some kind. To build things, right? What was so wrong about that? Even in his years of wandering, he had never relinquished ownership of Murskitectura, and had in some sense never stopped pining for it while he was away. He just didn't want it to be the first, last, and only thing he ever did with his life out here among the stars.

Would his childhood self be pleased at the way things had turned out? Helping his father repair roads had been all right, though not terribly exciting, but even that was just nepotism, an extension of the invented “chores” he was called upon to do at home, on the theory that they built character. To get the job for real, to hold it as a grown-up and earn real money at it, he would've had to compete against thousands of other applicants. And be judged not by his father, but by impartial authorities of the bureaucracy, or worse, by computers with no feelings at all, no concept of justice, only a set of goals to be weighed against the available inputs.

And that was just not enough to hang his hopes on. At least he was
qualified
to be a paver's assistant; he'd had about as much chance of designing buildings as he did of becoming king. On Earth, or anywhere in the Queendom, he would've been eternally fuffed. It was natural enough to feel angry about such a circumstance, and Bascal, when they'd met at summer camp, had latched onto that anger like a supermagnet. Without that influence, Conrad would probably never have been more—or less—than a foul-mouthed delinquent. Unbeguiled by the Poet Prince, he would never have turned pirate, never have joined the Children's Revolt. Knowing the way things went for him, he probably wouldn't even have heard about it until after the fact.

But once you started defying an abusive authority, it was a small step to defying any and all authority, on any point you happened to disagree with. Maybe that was a good thing and maybe it wasn't, but Conrad felt in those dreamy days after Wendy's funeral that it was certainly an
irreversible
one. Standing up for what you believed in . . . Well, it was a learned art, wasn't it? Like riding a bicycle. And once it was in your head, you couldn't unlearn it. Or maybe you could, with some subtle Queendom technology in the hands of the right sort of expert, but here on Planet Two—on
Sorrow,
he reminded himself—you were stuck with yourself for life. However long or short that might be.

And so . . . Conrad could pretend to be whatever he liked: an architect, a naval officer, a hermit scientist. A paver, for crying out loud. But he would drop it all when his true calling beckoned: rebellion. The longer he lived, the more betrayal and strife he would see, would invite, would
cause
through his own dogged efforts.

Damn.

In the first few weeks he did almost nothing but mourn the very different lives he might have led.
How did it come to this?
he would ask himself.
How did I become this person? How did we, collectively, become this place?
Sorrow, yes; wasn't that a thing worth rebelling against? Or, alternatively:
I caused all this to happen. If not for me, it would have worked out differently. Maybe better; it could hardly be worse.
Did he have a responsibility to make good on his errors? Or was this merely the start of a new cascade of mistakes?

Later, when he began drawing up plans for a new Cryoleum and Data Morgue, the vague outlines of a plan began to take shape. It wasn't a great plan—in fact it was disappointingly lacking in any sort of subtlety or finesse, and would not by itself improve humanity's lot. Like the Children's Revolt, it was more a call to action—fraught with the potential to inspire—than an action in its own right. But it did at least have the virtue of being readily achievable.

As with his previous mutinies, he felt no sense of hurry. In fact, at the age of 330—older than his hidebound parents at the time of his birth!—he was inclined to take things very slowly indeed.

“There is psychological value,” he told Bascal as the project unfolded, “in placing the dead so far from the living, as you've already done. Pectoralis makes a good resting place, suitably remote. But this constant traffic in coffins creates bottlenecks and logjams along the tuberail network. Embarrassing, right? There'd be benefits if it were possible to bring the entire facility—or parts of it anyway—a bit closer to the cities for brief periods.”

Deaths did tend to cluster in the Ides of Dark, the hundred-hour window between Barnard's midnight and the long, slow breaking of dawn. Sunrise funerals were therefore the norm, and it was not uncommon for two or three of them to fill a train, leaving other mourners waiting on the platform for a shift or more, as if they didn't have enough problems already. But by their nature these things could not be planned in advance.

“Fine,” Bascal told him, through the haze of grief that seemed these days to separate him from the rest of the world. He was sitting at his writing table, tapping a stylus against its surface, which was dark with scrawled lettering. If the voyage to Barnard had silenced his muse, then Wendy's death, for whatever reason, had reawakened it. Verily, it gushed! The Poet King—now a single, without copies to spread his presence around—spent as much time crafting songs and sonnets as he did running the government or visiting with the kingdom's grieving people. And these creations were astonishing in their honest, unpretentious elegance. In “The Freezing of Our Dreams” he wrote,

Dear,

If peace there be (and peace there must!) it lies beyond these jagged bluffs,

through efforts (ours!) of faithful (us!)

And paradise there be (there will!) then it's a thing that we must build,

Ere frozen dreams themselves are spilled,

I fear.

And when at last we find them thaw, these children's parents children, raw,

upon the skin of Sorrow's Fin and won from sin to life and limb,

rejoice—we shall!—that
we
have brought them . . .

Here.

But the hope behind these comely words was a distant thing, as false as the promises that had led Conrad astray so long ago. You
can
be an architect, yes! All it will cost you is . . . well, everything. And damn him, Conrad would still have agreed, even if the promise had been phrased exactly that way.

“Longing be the stronger force,” Rodenbeck had warned in
MacSquinky's Reverse
. “Gravity and comeuppance must wait their turn upon the stage, until the heart has had its fill of that which breaks it.”

Indeed.

“The reception area will be a separate module, freely traveling,” Conrad said, pointing to the features on his drawing which were meant to convey this. “In principle, we can bring it all the way to Domesville, and then send it back to Pectoralis again so that no one need dwell in its memory-haunted shadow.”

“That's fine,” Bascal repeated without looking up. “I trust you.”

And then, to his enormous credit, he added, “You're up to something, Conrad. I can always tell. But as I say, I trust you. Don't embarrass me, all right? Or yourself.”

“I shan't, Sire,” Conrad replied, wondering if it were the truth.

And they left it at that. Conrad was free to continue, unimpeded and unexamined. Who had the time to harass him? But—clever Bascal!—these words squirmed in his mind, raising blossoms of doubt wherever they touched. As the months and years of the project unfolded, Conrad found himself, more and more, accosting youngsters in the street.

“Would you return to the Queendom if you had the chance?” he would ask them.

And the replies would go something like, “Of Sol? I've never been, sir. But they live forever, yuh? That sounds a bit nice.”

Or, “They have a fine grasp of aesthetics, don't they? I like to watch about them on TV. But to go there and stay? I dunnae, that's a big step.”

Or occasionally an honest, “You're plibbles, old man. Bugs in the attic. Leave us alone, eh?”

But a lot of the kids recognized their first architect and answered very differently. Telling him what he wanted to hear, he assumed. The Queendom, yes! Let's all go! And this more than anything sapped his enthusiasm, caused him to question the very postulates of his plan even as the groundwork itself drew near to completion.

And then one day he stumbled into a funeral procession—fifty youngsters in traditional black and inviz, bawling their eyes out and screaming for someone named Jamie. A surprising number of them were carrying even smaller children in their arms or on their shoulders. Not fax-born pseudoadults but actual babies and toddlers! Courtesy, no doubt, of the liberal reproductive encouragements he'd been hearing about in the news. The Bascal Edward Fuffage Plan, people were calling it.

“Who is Jamie?” he asked one of the childless mourners. He was painfully aware of how he must look: an old man plodding the streets in a lithe young body, crashing a stranger's funeral when it crossed his path. But he needed to know, or believed he did.

The mourner, a young man in a black bowler hat, said to him, “Jamie is the son of Dennis and Tuv.” And at Conrad's blank look he added, “Up there near the front.”

Ah. The couple leading the procession were a priest and priestess, and the knot of people immediately behind them did not especially stand out. But behind them, in a sort of empty bubble within the crowd, were a pair of shattered-looking young men, clutching each other in sad desperation. “Oh, God!” one of them was screaming. “Oh,
God
! Damn you, God, give him back!”

These children of Barnard were nothing if not expressive. And children they were, too, lacking the subtle gravitas that marked the older generations.

“How old are they?” he could not help asking.

“Seventeen, sir,” the mourner said, and made a show of pulling away.

“Wait,” Conrad told him. “Please. Are you their friend?”

“Yes,” the young man replied, with evident irritation. This was an unwelcome intrusion, and in another few seconds the procession would be past and he'd have to jog to catch up.

“Also seventeen?” he pressed.

“I'm twenty. What's this about, sir?”

Seventeen! Twenty! In Barnard these numbers meant something different than they had in the Queendom, where natural (or more properly, “naturalesque”) births and pregnancies were still the norm. And clearly those older meanings were reasserting themselves here as well, even if they didn't apply to everyone. But it was painfully young just the same. At an age when Conrad and Xmary had still been raising hell, these people were already raising families.

Conrad struggled with his reply. “I'm just . . . very concerned about the plight of young people. I always have been.” He studied the retreating backs of the bereaved couple. “Dennis and Tuv . . . they somehow managed, in a tough market, to get a birthing license and a fax appointment. Was the child a . . . baby?”

“Nearly,” the mourner told him, with tears quivering at the corners of his eyes. “Physiologically he was four. Now he's six, now and forever. He was struck by a falling bicycle.”

Conrad could not picture that scene, or fathom how it might have happened, but the horror of it was plain enough. “And there are no backups, right? If they filled out the right forms and got very lucky in the raffle, Dennis and Tuv could reinstantiate the original Jamie blueprint, but it wouldn't be their little boy, the one they loved and lost. Nothing ever could be. And there is no other way—there is
no
other way—for two men to have a child of their own on this planet.”

“Correct, sir. May I go, please? This is hard for me.”

“You may go,” Conrad said gently. “I apologize for keeping you. But will you answer one more question first? If you could go to a place where things like this never happened—where sorrow never intruded on the lives of the young, and no one grew old, and tears were as rare as virgins . . . Would you go?”

“It sounds like heaven,” the man answered. “And I don't want to go to heaven. Not now, not soon. But when I die, someday, then yes: I hope to awaken in a place like that. Doesn't everyone?”

And with that he turned to go, breaking into a reluctant jog which was very much at odds with the procession's shrieking, languorous pace.

But Conrad, having received at last an answer he could believe in, proceeded in the other direction with paradoxically lighter steps, with a lighter heart and a brighter future before him. It was time to be a sort of hero again, yes, because no one else was going to.

He sent a message to Xmary that very night, putting events into motion which would, he hoped, in the fullness of time, change everything.