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“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.”
