Authors: Steve Gannon
I wonder how long he hung before he dropped.
DANIEL’S SONG
N
ineteen kilometers long and
three
kilometers in diameter, the
Genesis
hurtled through the void. An arc laden with life from a world long lost in the eternity of space, it had wandered for generations, traveling a journey that had lasted a thousand years.
Deep within its walls, in a chamber reserved for hearings of the most solemn nature, Aaron Rhodes took his place beside the other members of the ship’s council. Although a life hung in the balance, he had understandably been forbidden to parti
cipate in the proceedings. Never
theless
he sat with them now
,
and from his elevated position
he
gazed down upon his wife. Dr. Susan Rhodes stood before them, her eyes flashing
in defiance
, her slim body tense, as if coiled for battle. In her arms she held
their
son, Daniel.
Aaron reached out with his mind, sensing his wife’s
fear and anger
. Susan resisted briefly, then accep
ted him. T
heir minds linked and became as one. Aaron felt her heart racing, her hands trembling, sweat trickling wet under her uniform as together they stood before the council, waiting . . .
Through Susan’s eyes, Aaron inspected the faces of the men who would decide their
son’s
fate. Jarel, the council leader, sat in the center of the dais—Villa and Ashburn to his left, Miller and West
on
the right. And seated beside West, Aaron saw himself.
Without warning, Jarel’s thoughts exploded in Susan and Aaron’s commingled minds. “Susan Rhodes, you have misused your authority as a physician to conceal the deformity of your offspring. Further, you have harbored the child for the past eleven months
,
in direct violation of the Reproduction Code.” It was not an accusation, but a cold and preemptive statement of fact.
Susan glared. “He’s
not
deformed!”
A moment of silence followed Susan’s retort, and as Aaron marveled at his wife’s stubborn conviction, his thoughts traveled back to the beginning of their ordeal, recalling that her determination to keep their child had remained unshaken from the start.
It had taken years to obtain the necessary reproduction permits, after which conceiving
a child
had proved problematic. Following a
protracted
course of fertility therapy and several failed implantations, Aaron had given up on a natural
pregnancy
. But not Susan.
She
never abandoned hope, and it had seemed a joyous miracle, a testament to her unswerving faith, when she’d finally become pregnant. But months later Aaron’s joy had turned to disappointment when
he had
tried to touch the nascent mind of his deve
loping son. And disappointment
to anger upon discovering
that
Susan had intentionally hidden his deformity.
They had
fought bitterly after the birth. Aaron couldn’t understand why she hadn’t terminated the pregnancy. Even though they were both over forty, they could have applied for a new birth permit and, if necessary, brought another child to term in an artificial uterus. Instead
she had
lied, taking advantage of her position in the medical community to falsify Daniel’s records. And after the birth,
she had
refused to give him up. “Damn it, Aaron,
everyone
used to communicate with spoken word,” she’d argued whenever he opened the wound. “And not that long ago, either.”
“People haven’t spoken aloud aboard
Genesis
for a thousand years,” he’d countered. “Would you alter our entire society to suit yourself?”
“On the Home Planet
he would
be
considered
perfectly normal, like millions there who don’t carry the telepathy gene. On the Home Planet—”
“We’re not on the Home Planet! We’re on
Genesis
. A
nd you know the Code. Any abnormal offspring must be destroyed.”
“He’s
not
abnormal!” Her thought had been a savage dagger in his mind, and
she had
never relented. In the end Aaron had been forced to choose between his wife and his duty to the community. To his dishonor,
he had
chosen his wife, and together they’d raised their son in secret. At one year of age, despite his affliction, Daniel would have reached full majority and attained the irrevocable right to life held by all members of the ship’s company. But three weeks b
efore his first birthday, they had
been discovered.
Initially
,
Aaron had been relieved. Shame had choked him each time he’d sat
on
the council and made life-and-death decisions
that
af
fected
others, knowing he was culpable of the most serious betrayal himself. But in the days that followed, when he’d contemplated the fate of
their
son and seen the terrible emptiness in Susan’s eyes,
he had
felt only deep, abiding sadness.
Aaron sensed Daniel
stirring
in Susan’s arms, squirming to peer up at the somber faces staring down from the dais.
“You still maintain
that
your son is
normal
?” Jarel demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. “We have irrefutable evidence to the contrary.”
“Damn your evidence,” Susan shot back. “Daniel’s intelligence measures in the near-genius range. He’s solved all the pre
-
instructional puzzles
without
telepathic assistance. His verbal skills are extraordinary, and he’s beginning to speak. I can learn
to speak
with him
and
—”
“By speak, you mean communicate using sound?”
“Yes. There’s an extensive file in the ship’s l
ibrary on our ancient language—
complete with recordings. I’ve spent considerable time studying it. Using a mind-link with the computer, I’ve grasped the basics of speech. It’s not particularly difficult to comprehend; the hard part is learning to make the sounds. Granted, it’s a primitive form of communication, but once I’ve—”
“How much longer must we be subjected to this?” Miller broke in. “Let us simply examine the child.”
Jarel glanced at the others, then nodded. “Agreed.”
Susan drew Daniel close, holding him protectively as Jarel and the rest of the council, all except Aaron, focused their mi
nds—probing, testing, searching. A
s expected,
they found
Daniel wanting.
Again Jarel’s thoughts filled the room. “We find none of the normal telepathic abilities present i
n your son. Life is precious, b
ut aboard
Genesis
,
so are space and resource. The Reproduction Code is clear: There is no room here for abnormal offspring. If we make an exception for you, what are we to tell others who have already made similar sacrifices? Besides,” he added more temperately, “you need not fear that your child will suffer any discomfort. The euthanasia process is painless; most of our older citizens prefer it to a natural death.”
“You’ve obviously come to a decision. So be it.” Turning her back on the Council, Susan closed her mind and strode to the door.
Abruptly, Aaron found himself severed from his wife. He still trembled with her
emotion
, but something new now troubled him—something
he had glimpsed just before she
shut him out. Daniel had also sensed the change in his mother and begun to cry. As Susan left the room Aaron heard her murmuring to the child. “Shhh,” she whispered aloud. “Hush, Danny boy.”
After she
had departed
, Aaron rose and addressed the council. “Although you forbade me to take part in these proceedings, I have information that may influence your decision. May I present it?”
All the members except Jarel signaled their assent. Finally Jarel concurred. “Proceed.”
“Each of you is aware that as chief astrophysicist aboard
Genesis
,
one of my duties involves a continuing
search
for stars with
habitable
planetary systems. I didn’t want to make it public until I was sure, but I think I’ve found one. When we move closer—”
“How does this bear on your crime and the disposal of your defective offspring?” Ashburn interrupted.
“I . . . I
had
hoped that if a chance existed of making planetfall in the near future, you might consider a
temporary
suspension of the Code.”
Jarel regarded Aaron thoughtfully, then conferred privately with the others. At length he returned his gaze to Aaron. “Our logs show that only twice since setting out on
our
voyage has
Genesis
slowed to investigate stars with a potential
ly habitable world
.
Each attempt
proved
a harsh disappointment
. As you well know, the energy squandered during an exploratory deceleration is prohibitive, and each time it was
undertaken
, it took years to regain our vessel’s design velocity—years plagued with hardship and privation for the entire community. Most of the ship’s company would only favor risking it again if the odds of discovering a habitable planet were near certain. And as you also well know, some of our people prefer things as they
are
and
would be
against slowing the ship again under
any
circumstance.”
“Never end our journey? W
hen
Genesis
began her voyage, it was to find a new home, a new life . . .”
“A dream, Aaron, a chimera long forgotten by those now aboard
Genesis.
This is the only life they’ve ever known.”
“But—”
“As members of the ship’s council, we are responsible for the lives of every person aboard,” Jarel pushed on. “Twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and sixty-five men, women, and children. We must do what’s best for
all
, basing our decisions on fact, not wishful thinking. At present you’re not sure there will
ever
be a habitable planet in our future. Please close your mind while the council makes its decision.”
* * *
Aaron and Susan’s living quarters were small, but comfortable. The cooking module and food-prep area led into a dining nook, separated from the main room by a counter that doubled as a bar. The living room centered around the holovid, with a pneumocouch, sensory-reproduction center, desk, and a thought-tube case jammed with neatly labeled cylinders against the far wall. A scattering of toys littered the floor at its base.
To the left of the living room lay their sleeping alcove:
bed, closet, a chest of drawers. Covering the wall opposite the bed, a large holoportrait depicted a forest of towering redwoods,
with
a crystalline stream winding through cool dark shadows, ever-shifting shafts of sunlight sending slivers of light dancing
across
the water’s surface.
The nursery was located in a small niche nearby. Aaron found Susan there when he returned. She was sitting on a stool, gently rocking Daniel in his crib. And slowly, softly, she sang his song.
Aaron remembered the first time he’d heard it. Susan had discovered a cache of audio recordings
in
the
ship’s
library. One night
she had brought a disc home. U
sing equipment borrowed from the museum,
she had
played it for hi
m when he returned from work, and s
itting in the living room, they’d listened to the ancient song. It had a sad, mysterious quality to it, and Aaron had felt himself inexplicably drawn. “What’s that instrument?”
he had
asked partway through.
“It’s a voice,” Susan had answered. “
A human voice.
Those are words you’re hearing. Stringing individual words together creates meaning, and set to music, it’s called a song.”
“What do the words mean?”
“I don’t know, but one of them is the sound for Daniel. That’s how I discovered it. This recording came up as I was researching his name. Listen. This time I’ll point it out.”
And again they listened, captivated by the melody that in time they’d come to think of as Daniel’s song.