The Best of All Possible Worlds (28 page)

My hand brushed his tentatively. His fingers curled around mine, briefly answering
the touch, then withdrew. With a look and a nod, he indicated a bench a little off
the path, half screened by high shrubbery. I followed him, and we sat down to watch
the people walk by.

“I promised some time ago to tell you the story behind my meeting with the Consul
when we were in Karaganda,” he said.

I stared at him, my attention caught. “You did. That was a few months back. Are you
ready to tell me now?”

He nodded. “There is much you have learned from reading our government reports. It
may be easier for me to explain now.”

I racked my brain, trying to think what could have been in the several extremely dry
reports I had read that would have a bearing on our conversation now. I drew a blank,
so I simply smiled invitingly and waited for him to begin.

His opening sentence was unexpected. “How did it feel when you were recovering from
your injuries and I linked to your mind to speed your body’s healing?”

Dllenahkh would never ask an idle question. I paused and pondered over the memory
of it. “It felt like your blood was in my veins. It felt like your neural electricity
was in my nerves and brain and spine. I wish I could be clearer. Your awareness was
tangled up in mine. Am I making any sense?”

He was looking at me and smiling very gently, somewhere between the proud smile of
a master whose student has answered
correctly and the fond smile of a friend who finds himself perfectly understood. “Go
on. You are doing very well.”

I continued courageously with my wild guessing. “I suppose, from what Nasiha tries
to teach me and from what I’ve read of the mindships, that’s how the Sadiri mind works.
You extend your awareness of yourself beyond the boundaries of your physical body.
It’s generally a benign psionic influence—case in point, when you took over the parts
of my body that were not under my conscious control and helped me heal faster. That’s
also how a mindship pilot operates. He or she becomes the ship—no, wait … not quite.
The ship becomes part of the pilot.”

The smile was my barometer, and it did not falter, though he gave one clarification.
“Simplified but not inaccurate. The Sadiri mind, as you say, works in this way. Remember,
however, this is due to early training and constant practice. The Sadiri brain is
still a human brain, only with more of its potential realized.”

He raised his hands and regarded the palms meditatively, tilting them to catch the
warm light of the park’s solar lanterns. “Zhinuvians have a higher concentration of
semiconducting material in their skin, which permits them to talk to machines with
greater ease than to other sentient minds. Their way of navigating their interstellar
craft reflects this difference in approach. We too possess some of this ability to
interface with man-made intelligence, but our skill mainly lies with the organic,
independent mind.”

“I am aware,” I said carefully, because I could not say that I understood, “that your
ships, unlike the Zhinuvian ships, are alive, not crafted.”

He lowered his hands and nodded. “I enjoyed our brief time at the mahouts’ village.
Their attachment to their elephants is very like how our pilots bond with their ships.
It is a lifelong commitment. I have heard of only one instance of a pilot who gave
up his
ship willingly. That is the story I am about to share with you now.”

He relaxed and leaned back, gently putting aside a few untrimmed leafy twigs from
the nearby bushes that tried to dangle about his head like a sparse laurel crown.
I turned toward him, drawing my feet onto the seat and under my skirt. A talkative
Dllenahkh was rare and most welcome. I would let him speak uninterrupted and ask my
questions later.

“During my years of training and study in the mental disciplines, I encountered many
people who became pilots. Most of them were off-planet when the disaster struck, and
yet a significant number died in futile attempts to transport people from the surface
of Sadira.

“One of the survivors came to Cygnus Beta to speak at a special meeting held by an
emissary from New Sadira. The entire local Council of our settlement was in attendance
to discuss and decide on a matter that would affect us all—a plan to save Sadira.

“What I am about to tell you may sound as far-fetched as the tales of the Caretakers
sound to some non-Cygnians, but I ask you to proceed for the moment as if both were
equally true.

“A mindship can travel in space and time. For most interstellar journeys, a pilot
plots a shortcut through the unseen dimensions of space-time in order to travel swiftly
between distant points in the visible dimensions. It is also possible to plot a course
that makes use of a second dimension of time, but it is a rare and still-experimental
practice which is only done far from the usual shipping routes as our scientists continue
to assess and document the effects.

“In short, we had the technology to send a pilot back to a time before the disaster.
What could be achieved there was a matter of debate. Some felt that averting the disaster
would only create a parallel time line in which Sadira remained alive but we
would continue in this time line, unaware and unaffected. Others were convinced that
the method by which Sadira was destroyed was so advanced that it must have come from
the future, thus creating a parallel time line in which we are now living. They further
believed that parallel time lines are not sustainable, and if we were to stop the
disaster from happening, this present existence would evaporate, leaving only the
original reality where Sadira never died.

“Then there were the pessimists, who believed that nothing could be changed. They
were, however, willing to believe that the pilot could uncover evidence of how the
Ainya had triggered the disaster and bring the information back to us so we could
ensure that no other planet would face devastation of this magnitude.

“Naraldi, an experienced and well-traveled pilot, was selected for the mission. I
know him well. He has always been highly pragmatic in approach. Cutting short the
debate, he accepted the three different mission briefs, to be acted on according to
his own analysis of the situation. He then gave up his mindship to link with a specially
modified vessel. Traveling far from the populated sectors of the galaxy, he set out
on the new, untried course … and disappeared. And we waited.

“Months later, the emissary returned to confirm in person the news we had already
received. The mission had been a success, and yet not so, for our fate had not changed
and no evidence had been discovered. We were to continue as if we had never attempted
such a thing, and no further discussion would be entertained. In time, reports from
the scientists analyzing the mission would be made available to higher-ranking government
officials.”

He paused, coming out of storyteller mode to meet my spellbound gaze. “You have read
one of these reports, from my own handheld. Do you remember it?”

I tried. “I think I remember the occasion, but as for the report,
I mainly recall that I didn’t understand very much at all. It was highly technical.”

The corner of his mouth quirked briefly upward in wry agreement. “The amount of complex
multivariate calculus in that report
was
somewhat off-putting. However, the gist of it was that there are already stable parallel
time lines in existence. Naraldi was not able to change our fate, because he had no
way of navigating to our past. He was able to reach many other pasts of different
time lines and see other presents and futures as well. But his own line he could not
touch.”

His expression became shadowed, regretful. “Now you can understand why no ceremonies
were held. We were still hoping to make the nightmare simply vanish away.”

“What happened to Naraldi?” I asked.

He blinked away the sadness, his look growing sharp and assessing. “He returned safely
after about five months. You met him. He is now the Sadiri Consul on Cygnus Beta,
an honorable and restful assignment from a grateful government.”

That aged face, those sorrowful eyes
. Creeping horror stilled me as I absorbed this. “How
long
was he out there?”

Dllenahkh shrugged. “No one can tell. What chronometer could have made sense of his
journeys? He was seventy years old when he left, barely middle-aged by our reckoning.
Now he appears to be at least fifty years older than that.”

“Fifty years in only a few months!” I was appalled.

Dllenahkh took pity on me. “Do not be distressed on his behalf. When I spoke to him,
he told me he had had some pleasant experiences and some less so, but he had never
once been bored. For a mindship pilot, that is more than enough.”

Suddenly he leaned forward, looking sideways at me in a manner that was half secretive,
half triumphant. His voice became very quiet. “There was one very interesting thing
that he learned
which is extremely relevant to our time line. He discovered, well before the fact,
how Ain was quarantined.”

I shifted closer to catch every word, every nuance of his tone and expression. “Go
on,” I urged, both amused and excited that he had indulged in a little theatrical
pause.

“Anyone trying to enter the Ain system will simply find themselves on the opposite
side, having passed only empty space between. The planet has been placed in an elegant
pocket of folded space-time, a feat which is well beyond the abilities of anyone from
this time—anyone that we know, that is.”

“What happened to those off-planet Ainya who tried to return after the quarantine?”
I wondered.

Dllenahkh’s face became completely expressionless, which spoke to me of hidden anger.
“No Sadiri pilot would have taken them, and as for the Zhinuvians—I think that we
have seen for ourselves how they would treat a passenger who did not have the funds
for a return trip.”

I nudged his knee with the back of my hand and was rewarded when his bleak look lifted.

He spoke lightly, changing the subject. “It may be of interest to you that in one
of the time lines Naraldi visited, it was the Ntshune and not the Sadiri who became
influential in galactic government.”

I laughed out loud. “Come on!”

He shook his head in amusement at my cynicism. “I know that at times we Sadiri give
the impression that we consider our minds to be the finest in the galaxy. I assure
you, I know this is not the case. A more ambitious Ntshune government could easily
have surpassed us as diplomats and judges. Even the Zhinuvians, who already have the
fleet to challenge us, only lack unified government to guide them into a position
of power.”

“Well, thank you for telling me that. It’ll be our little secret,”
I joked. Humility was not a common Sadiri trait—but then again, Dllenahkh had always
been unique.

He smiled. “You can do something for me in turn. Tell me about the Caretakers.”

My eyes widened. “What can I tell you? It’s not like … I mean … we don’t have reports
on them; there’s no branch of study dedicated to them. It’s all folktales and oral
history. Not a religion, not even a superstition, but just … there, part of our identity
as Cygnians.”

“Then tell me what you can,” he insisted, facing me fully and pointedly giving me
his complete attention.

I paused. I’d never discussed anything remotely metaphysical with the Sadiri. It made
me realize that for all I pretended otherwise, I
did
care what they thought about me. It
did
matter to me that even if they saw me as talkative, emotional, and half out of control
most of the time, at least they could not fault my scientific mind. My tongue felt
strangely heavy as I tried to talk of things I had secretly forbidden myself to discuss.

“To Cygnians, the Caretakers are the guardians of humanity. They’re supposed to save
the best of us from the worst of us, even if it’s only a remnant. We’re not perfect
here on Cygnus Beta, but at least for those who claim to have been brought by the
Caretakers, there’s an additional claim that they were saved for a reason, chosen
for a purpose. Not because they’re better than any other group but because there’s
something unique they possess, some characteristic that contributes to the fullness
of humanity. It’s a responsibility, not a point of pride. It’s something to live up
to, and it helps keep us going.”

“Admirable,” said Dllenahkh, and his tone was neither cautiously neutral nor subtly
judging, as I had feared it might be. It was mildly but distinctly approving. I felt
encouraged enough to continue.

“If all the tales are true, no one’s seen the Caretakers face to face. No flaming
chariots, no wheels within wheels, no wings. It’s a very boring legend when you think
about it—just some people following the music of an invisible Pied Piper, disappearing
into one cave near Hamelin, Terra, and emerging from another cave near Hamelin, Cygnus
Beta.”

“Do Cygnians have any theories about what exactly the Caretakers are?” Dllenahkh inquired,
apparently rapt by the little I was telling him.

I shrugged. “No one thinks they are gods. That’s religion, and we’ve got plenty of
that already. Some say they are humans from the past and pour out a libation for them.
Others say they are people from the future and light fragrant incense to them. Another
group says they are souls tasked after death to do all the work that wasn’t done in
life. They don’t venerate the Caretakers in any way. They just work very hard to be
sure they won’t have to make up for lost time after they’re dead.”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Perhaps a little of all three,” I said. “Remember your ancestors, dream of your descendants,
and work hard while you’re living. It’s … nice to think the universe has a purpose—well,
more than one, probably, but at least one of them is about helping humans fulfill
their potential as a species.”

“Strong anthropic principle?” Dllenahkh murmured.