Phoenix Without Ashes (14 page)

“Out of curiosity, sir, upon which data do you base that extrapolative conclusion?”

“Because... wait a minute.” Devon looked excitedly back at the projection. “What year is this?”

“Earth dating, sir?”

“Yes. The AD number you and the holo woman use.”

“This is AD 2785, sir.”

“2785.” Devon looked at his fingers and calculated. “The woman said the Ark was launched in AD 2265 or thereabouts. Another hundred cycles until the accident.... That would make it...”

“Four hundred and twenty,” said the projection helpfully.

“Yes. Thanks.” Devon pondered the figure. “The Ark traveled for more than four hundred cycles without any communication between the biospheres.” His voice quickened with excitement. “We all forgot we were on a ship. We forgot the cataclysm, and the accident, whatever it was... and we even forgot the Earth. We lived as if our entire universe was a hundred kilometers across with a metal sky...”

“That seems highly unlikely to me, sir.”

“No, don’t you see? We’re like prisoners. We were born and died in our little domes and never knew there was anything else out there.”

The projection’s voice stiffened. “If true, that would seem to me to be a definite cultural retardant. Hardly healthy for the individual societies of the biospheres.” Devon scarcely heard the words. “In Cypress Corners we forgot completely. In all those other domes... what must they be like?”

“I am afraid I do not possess those specifics,” said the projection.

“I have to
tell
them!” Devon said.

“Tell whom, sir? Cross-cultural contact between the respective biospheres is expressly forbidden.”

“Them.
Cypress Corners.”

“You are a native, are you not, sir? I believe it would then be allowable.”

Devon said intensely, “I’ll tell them. I’ll show them. I’ll get more of these suits and take them outside Cypress Corners and show them the
real
stars. And the ship! I’ll show Micah that his is but one world among many.” The gloating in his voice softened. “And Rachel... I’ll show her
everything.
We’ll travel through the bounce tubes to the other biospheres.”

“Excuse me, sir. Bounce tubes are off limits to supercargo.”

“Who will stop us?” said Devon.

“Crew security, sir.”

“There is no crew. They’re all long dead.”

“I’d been wondering about that,” said the sphere projector. “The repairmech I summoned has still not arrived. It is most irregular.”

Devon snapped his fingers. “The voyage,” he said. “The Ark is supposed to arrive at the planets of a star called Alpha Centauri. When will that happen?”

The projection hesitated, looking as if it were searching inward for bits of information buried deeper than any it had already offered up. “It will not happen, sir.”

“It has to,” said Devon. “The history cube said so.”

“The voyage of the Ark will not end as was originally planned.”

Devon realized he was not asking the right questions. “Why will it not happen as planned?”

The projection looked unhappy. “The Ark has been off-course for approximately four hundred and twenty years.”

“Off-course?” said Devon. “It was the accident that did this?”

“It apparently was the factor you call the accident, sir.”

“Then we’re not going to, uh, Alpha Centauri?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the projection. “The Ark is presently programmed on a course that will take it into the heart of a G-type star if that course is not corrected.” Devon said, “What’s a G-type star? You mean something like the sun?”

“Very like the sun, sir.”

“What does that mean?”

The sphere projector said gently, “The Ark will be destroyed and all aboard will die, sir.”

Devon drew one long breath. “It can’t be.”

“My reasoning banks indicate there is better than a ninety-nine percent probability.”

“When?” said Devon. “How soon? How much time is left?”

“At our present rate of progress, sir, I can estimate just under five Earth-years.”

Devon tried to digest what the machine had told him. Less than five cycles left—when the Ark and all on her had been condemned to death four hundred and twenty cycles earlier? “It’s unfair,” he finally said aloud. “Horribly unfair.”

“I am not equipped to draw moral conclusions,” said the sphere projector. “But if I could, sir, I suspect I would agree with you.”

“There must be something that can be done,” said Devon. “Isn’t there?”

The projection hesitated. “The guidance system of the Ark could presumably be utilized for course corrections, sir. Such a plan would involve reprogramming of the astrogation computers.”

“Who would do that?”

“It is a crew function, sir.”

“But there
is
no crew!”

“There is indeed a high probability of that situation, sir. Still,
I
have received no absolute proof of such a circumstance.”

“Could I do it myself?”

“The probabilities are not very high, sir.”

“Somebody’s
got to do something,” said Devon. “I’ve got to go back to Cypress Corners and warn them, get them to remember, somehow convince them to help me turn the Ark.... We’ll find the crew, someone who knows how to save the Ark. There are almost five cycles left....
Somehow
it can be done.”

The sphere projector said, “Sir?”

“What?”

“I have consulted all entries on my banks relating to the Cypress Corners biosphere. Last current demographic data indicates that the natives suffer on a group basis from acute, pathological xenophobia, as well as laboring under a broad spectrum of cultural repressions. I can extrapolate only a small probability of your fellow natives aiding you. You should know that those you wish to warn will not honor you for the knowledge.”

“I’m not sure what all you just said,” Devon answered, “but I get the feeling from it.” He thought for a while. “I don’t have a choice. I’ve got to try.”

“The probabilities—”

“I know,” said Devon. “I heard you before.”

Man and machine remained in silence for several minutes.

Almost as an afterthought, Devon said, “Tell me just one thing more, if you can.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“What does ‘Vastator’ mean?”

“‘Vastator.’ It is Latin for ‘destroyer.’”

“Can you give me any details?”

The projection looked vague. Devon could almost interpret the expression as evasive. “Not at the present time, sir.”

“The thing called Vastator—did it have anything to do with the Ark’s accident?”

“I cannot say, sir.”

With chin resting on palm, Devon regarded the sphere projector. “I’m going to return to Cypress Corners. I think I can remember the way back.”

“Sir, may I remind you that bounce tubes are off limits to supercargo.”

Devon ignored the words. “Would it be possible, please, for me to have another survival ration to take with me?”

“One has been ordered, sir. You may pick it up from the service module.”

Devon climbed into the transparent suit. He hesitated before connecting the helmet. “Whoever you are, thank you for talking with me.”

“It is my function, sir. No thanks are necessary.” The projection’s face beamed.

“Perhaps I’ll talk with you again.” Devon placed the helmet over his head and rotated it until the locking mechanism
snicked.
He picked up the survival ration from the service module and started toward the access lockport.

Behind him, the projection bobbed with benign expression within the metal hoop. The image wavered, solidified momentarily, and then began to fragment.

“Good luck, sir,” said the sphere projector. Patches of transparency pocked the projection’s face. In a moment, all that was left was the smile.

And then that too disappeared.

EIGHTEEN

The dead woman waited for him in the blue-lit corridor between the memory bank terminal and the viewport chamber. She lay back gracelessly in the center of the tunnel as she had for hundreds of cycles, uncaring but no longer unchanged. Devon looked at her face again as he passed, then quickly looked away. Before, he had noted her extraordinary beauty. Now, her face had begun to decompose.

Why?
he wondered. There still was no gravity in this small portion of the Ark, but there was air where before there had been only vacuum.
That must be it.
Devon recalled dimly one of his earliest memories: his mother spending feverish hours canning vegetables and fruits; a container of preserved peaches one night bursting and spattering the cellar walls with pulp. The odor, sweet, heavy, cloying, had made him sick.

He had a sudden, vivid mental picture of the dead woman swelling up and—Devon clamped down on the thought, concentrated on seeing her face as it had been.

He swept through a shimmering curtain of suspended water globules; they shattered and slowly reformed behind him.

Was she crew? Was she caught here during the accident?

“Stop it,” he said to himself, his voice unnaturally loud inside the helmet.

Did she have a lover? A husband?... who died at the same time, unknown to her, unknowing to himself?

“I don’t want to think about this.” Again he spoke aloud; spoke to an invisible companion. And then she was not invisible. The dead woman paced him there in the corridor, matching him stroke for stroke through the air. Devon stared at her ruined face.

We’ll all be like you. In less than five cycles.

No, she answered. Better than this. Finer. Ash is much to be preferred to rotting flesh and bone. Her mouth distorted in a ghastly smile.

Did you have a lover? Devon asked again.

No answer.

Rachel.

Devon saw a faint crimson glow distantly down the corridor. It was the control plate for the lockport.

Rachel, I want you.

NINETEEN

The sunless world of bounce tubes, viewports, and the chamber of the sphere projector, had disoriented Devon. His body fed him spurious messages as he sailed along the final passage of bounce tube. He was positive he would emerge into morning.

Thus Devon was surprised when the iris dilated and he pulled himself up into darkness. He wondered how many days and nights he had been gone. This dark was the utter blackness that indicated the moon had set.

The iris hissed shut and the protective shell closed over the controlling light-plate. Devon sneezed as the dust began to settle. He crawled out from beneath the thicket, occasionally stopping while he twisted an arm behind his back to unsnag one of the larger thorns. Then he was free of the briars; he stood and walked to the edge of the trees.

He was unsure of his next move. It had been easy at the time to determine the
what
of his plans—that he would return to Cypress Corners, educate his people to the real nature of their universe, and enlist their aid in saving the Ark. What bothered him now that he had time to reflect, was the
how
of all that. What had the sphere projector said?
“You should know that those you wish to warn will not honor you for the knowledge.”
But if they would not aid, at least would they not stand in his way?
It’s doubtful,
he thought.

How few of them will even listen to me? Rachel? Garth? Old Esther? He smiled at the thought of Granny Esther accompanying him on an expedition to save the Ark. But mightn’t the end of the world be a shock sharp enough to stab through their complacency?

First plans first. Devon stood at the edge of the meadow and contemplated the stars. Look at them.... No wonder they twinkle in set patterns. They must be placed there by some machine like the sphere projector. They’re nothing like the real stars that shine unvaryingly. We’ve been victimized all these cycles by those shoddy imitations of the real thing.... His spirits began to rise buoyantly. When the ship is saved, we’ll have real stars....

The first thing Devon decided was to find Rachel. He estimated the briar thicket to lie about three kilometers from Aram’s house. His eyes had adjusted well to the night. Devon kept to the open fields and only once stepped into an irrigation ditch.

As he had anticipated, Aram’s farmstead was completely dark. The family had long since retired. Devon trudged up the road to the house and Dog rushed toward him, barking. “Hush, Dog. That’s a good boy.” Devon hunkered down and let Dog recognize him. The small brown collie growled once, then sniffed again and, tail wagging, trotted up to Devon. “Sorry,” said Devon. “I wish I had some food for you. This’ll have to make do.” He gently stroked Dog for a few minutes. Dog made a small whimper of pleasure and slobbered on Devon’s other hand.

“Now keep quiet,” said Devon. “I would visit your mistress.” Dog loped ahead as Devon continued past the barn, toward the house.

Once past the gate in the yard’s picket fence, Devon stopped to consider logistics. Rachel’s loft window was a good two meters out of reach. He scooped up a handful of pebbles from the graveled path to the porch and dumped them into his overalls pocket. Then he started to shinny up the apple tree beside the corner of the house. Dog danced around the trunk, yapping, thinking it was a game.

“Hush!” Devon whispered. Confused and abashed, Dog sat back on his haunches to watch.

Devon found a main branch that forked off from the trunk toward the general direction of the loft window. He hunched out along it, using other branches for handholds. The limb began to groan ominously when he was about a meter from the window. Keeping his balance with one hand, Devon extracted a pebble with the other. He tossed it, but the pebble was deflected by a clump of leaves. His next shot ticked against the glass pane. There was no response from inside. It took nine pebbles.

Finally, with a slight hinge-squeak, the double windows swung outward. Rachel’s face appeared, white against the dark interior of the loft. Her features were slack with sleep. She peered out, not seeing Devon, and then started to withdraw.