Sister Alice

ROBERT REED

 

 

 

Robert Reed sold his first story in 1986 and quickly established himself as a frequent contributor to the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov’s Science Fiction, as well as selling many stories to Science Fiction Age, Universe, New Destinies, Tomorrow, Synergy, Starlight, and elsewhere.

Reed may be one of the most prolific of today’s young writers, particularly at short fiction lengths, seriously rivaled for that position only by authors such as Stephen Baxter and Brian Stableford. And—also like Baxter and Stableford—he manages to keep up a very high standard of quality while being prolific, something that is not at all easy to do. Almost every year throughout the mid-to-late nineties he has produced at least two or three stories that would be good enough to get him into a Best of the Year anthology under ordinary circumstances, and some years he has produced four or five of them, so that often the choice is not whether or not to use a Reed story but rather which Reed story to use—a remarkable accomplishment. Reed stories such as “The Utility Man,” “Birth Day,” “Blind,” “A Place with Shade,” “The Toad of Heaven,” “Stride,” “The Shape of Everything,” “Guest of Honor,” “Decency,” “Waging Good,” and “Killing the Morrow,” among at least a half-dozen others equally as strong, count as among some of the best short works produced by anyone in the eighties and nineties. Nor is he nonprolific as a novelist, having turned out eight novels since the end of the eighties: The Leeshore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The Remarkables, Down the Bright Way, Beyond the Veil of Stars, An Exaltation of Larks, and, most recently, Beneath the Gated Sky.

In spite of this large and remarkable body of work, though, Reed remains largely ignored and overlooked when the talk turns to the Hot New Writers of the nineties, although he is beginning to get onto major award ballots. (His story “Whiptail” is on the Final Hugo Ballot as I type these words.) Like the works of Walter Jon Williams and Bruce Sterling, no one Robert Reed story is ever much like another Robert Reed story in tone or subject matter, and it may be that this versatility counts against him as far as building a reputation is concerned. John Clute, in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, noting that none of Reed’s novels “share any background material or assumptions whatsoever,” suggests that “today’s sf readers tend to expect a kind of brand identity from authors, and it may be for this reason that Reed has not yet achieved any considerable fame.”

It seems unfair that the range of an artist’s palette should count against him—but Reed’s name is slowly percolating into the public awareness here at the end of the nineties and I suspect that he will become one of the Big Names of the first decade of the new century coming up on the horizon.

Reed is confident enough in the richness of his imagination to feel comfortable writing stories set in the far future, and much of his output is set in milieux millions of years removed from the time we know. Like some other young writers of the nineties, including Paul J. McAuley and Stephen Baxter, Reed is producing some of the most inventive and colorful of modern Space Opera, stuff set on a scale so grand and played out across such immense vistas of time that it makes the “Superscience” stuff of the thirties look pale and conservative by comparison: his sequence of novellas for Asimov’s, for instance, including “Sister Alice,” Brother Perfect,” “Mother Death,” and “Baby’s Fire,” detailing internecine warfare and intricate political intrigues between families of immortals with powers and abilities so immense that they are for all intents and purposes gods, or the sequence of stories unfolding in F&SF, Science Fiction Age, and Asimov’s, including “The Remoras,” “Aeon’s Child,” “Marrow,” and “Chrysalis,” involving the journeyings of an immense spaceship the size of Jupiter, staffed by dozens of exotic alien races, that is engaged in a multi-million-year circumnavigation of the galaxy.

In the compelling novella that follows, the start of the Sister Alice sequence, he shows us that the drawback to having godlike powers is that you have godlike responsibilities as well … .

Reed lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he’s at work on a novel-length version of his 1997 novella, Marrow. His most recent book is a long-overdue first collection, The Dragons of Springplace.

1

When I found myself daydreaming about my childhood, remembering the fun, thinking how carefree it had been … that’s when my instincts began to warn me that our work had gone seriously, tragically wrong … .

Alice’s testimony

 

Xo told their squad that it was a lousy place to build and that their fort was flawed, that the Blues would crush them and it was Ravleen’s fault. Everything was Ravleen’s fault. And of course she heard about his grousing and came over, interrupting their drills to tell Xo to quit it. And he laughed, saying, “You’re no general.” Ord heard him. Everyone heard him, and Ravleen had no choice but to knock him down and kick him. Xo was a Gold, and she was their Sanchex, the Gold’s eternal general. She had to punish him, aiming for his belly and ribs. But Xo started cursing her. Bright poisonous words hung in the air. “You’re no Sanchex,” he grunted, “and I’m not scared.” Then Ravleen moved to his face, breaking his nose and cheekbones, the skin splitting, blood splattering on the new snow. Everyone watched. Ord stood nearby, watching the snow melt into the blood, diluting it. He saw Xo’s face become a gooey mess, and he heard the boy’s voice finally fall away into a sloppy wet laugh.

Tule stepped up, saying, “If you keep hurting him, he won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

Ravleen paused, panting from her hard work, and deciding Tule was right. She dropped her foot and pushed her long black hair out of her eyes, grinning now, making sure everyone saw her confidence. Then she knelt, touching the bloody snow while asking, “Who wants to help this shit home?”

Tule was closest, but she despised Xo. She didn’t approve of causing trouble; she felt it was her duty to keep their clan working smoothly, bowing to Ravleen’s demands.

On the other hand, Ord was sympathetic. Xo wasn’t his best friend, but he was a reliable one. Besides, they were on the same squad for now. A soldier had a duty to his squad; and that’s why Ord stepped up, saying, “I’ll take him.”

“Then come straight back,” Ravleen added.

He gave a nod and asked Xo, “Can you stand up?”

The bloody face said, “Maybe.” A gloved hand reached for him, and Ord thought of the boy’s ribs as he lifted. But the tortured groans were too much; Xo had a tendency toward theater. “Thanks,” he muttered, then he reached into his mouth, pulling out a slick white incisor and tossing it at the young fort. It struck one of the robots with a soft ping.

“Come on,” Ord prompted.

They walked slowly, crossing the long pasture and climbing to the woods. Xo stopped at the first tree, leaning against it and spitting out a glob of dark blood. Ord worked to be patient. Looking back at the pasture, he watched the robots stripping it of snow, building the fort according to Ravleen’s design. A metal pole stood in the future courtyard, topped with a limp golden flag. Figures in clean white snowsuits were drilling again, six squads honing themselves for snowfare. It looked like an easy pasture to defend. On three sides it fell away, cliffs and nearly vertical woods protecting it. The only easy approach was from here, from above. Ravleen was assuming that the Blues would do what was easy, which was why the nearest wall had the thickest foundation. “Keep your strong to their strong,” was an old Sanchex motto. But what if Xo was right? What if she had left their other walls too weak?

“I can’t walk fast,” Xo warned him. His swollen face was inhuman, but the bleeding had stopped, scabs forming and the smallest cuts beginning to heal. Speaking with a faint lisp, Xo admitted, “I sound funny.”

“You should have left your tooth in,” Ord countered. Gums preferred to repair teeth, not replace them. “Or you might have kept your mouth shut in the first place.”

Xo gave a little laugh.

Something moved in the distance. Ord squinted and realized it was just an airship, distant sunlight making it glitter; and now he said, “Let’s go.” He said, “I’m tired of standing still.”

They walked on a narrow trail, not fast, snow starting to fall and the woods knee-deep in old snow. They weren’t far from the lowlands, and sometimes, particularly on clear days, city sounds would rise up from that hot flat country. But not today. A kind of enforced silence hung in the air. To step and not hear any footfall made Ord nervous, in secret. He realized that he was alert, as if ready to be ambushed. The war wouldn’t start until the day after tomorrow, but he was anticipating it. Or maybe it was the fight he had just seen, maybe.

“Know why I did it?” asked Xo.

Ord said nothing.

“Know why I pissed her off?”

“Why?”

The battered face grinned. “I don’t have to do this war now.”

“Ravleen’s not that angry,” Ord countered. “Not angry enough to ban you, at least.”

“But I’m hurt. Look at me.”

“So?” Ord refused to be impressed. Glancing over a shoulder, he observed, “You’re walking and talking. That’s not badly hurt.”

Except Xo’s Family, the Nuyens, were careful people. A sister might see him and order him to stay home for several days. It wouldn’t be the first time, particularly if he moaned like he did now, telling Ord, “I don’t want to play snowfare.”

“Why not?”

Wincing, Xo pretended to ache. But by now a cocktail of anesthesias was working, and both of them knew it.

“If you can stand, you can fight,” Ord reminded him. “When you became a Gold you pledged to serve—”

“Wait.” The boy waded into the deep snow, heading for an outcropping of false granite. He found a block of bright pink stone, brought it back and dropped it at Ord’s feet. “Do me a favor?”

“No.”

“Not hard. Just nick me here.” He touched his stubby black hair. “I’ll owe you. Promise.”

Ord lifted the stone without conviction.

“Make it ugly,” the boy prompted.

Ord shook his head, saying, “First tell me why you don’t want to fight. Is it Ravleen?”

“Not really.”

“Tell me or I won’t help.”

The boy touched his dark round face with his white gloves. “Just because it’s stupid.”

“What’s stupid?”

“This game. This whole snowfare business.”

Calling it a “game” was taboo. Snowfare was meant to be taken very, very seriously.

“But we’re too old to play,” his friend persisted. “I know I am.”

This wasn’t about Ravleen, and Ord had no easy, clear rebuke. He asked, “What will you do instead?” He assumed there was some other diversion. Perhaps a trip somewhere. Not out of the mountains, of course. That wasn’t permitted, not at their age. But maybe one of Xo’s siblings wanted to take him on a hunt, or some other adventure.

But Xo said, “Nothing. I just want to stay home and study.” A pause. “Clip me here, okay? I’ll tell my sisters that Ravleen did it. Promise.”

Ord watched the boy lay on the hard white trail, face up, waiting calmly for his skull to be cracked open. The stone couldn’t hurt him too badly. Eons ago, human beings gave up soft brains for better ones built of tough, nearly immortal substances. The worst Ord could manage was to break up some neural connections, making Xo forgetful and clumsy for a few days. The body might die, but nothing more. Nothing less than a nuclear fire could kill them, and that was the same for almost every human.

“Are you going to help me?” the boy whined.

Ord watched the hopeful face, judging distance and mass, guessing what would make the ugliest wound. But he kept thinking back to the comment about being too old, knowing it was a little true. Some trusted spark of his had slipped away, and that bothered him.

“Ord?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you hurry up?”

He let the stone slip free of his grip, missing Xo by a hair’s breadth; then he said, “No, I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

Xo lifted the stone himself, groaning as he aimed, trying to summon the courage. He was invulnerable, but so were old instincts. This wasn’t easy. His arms shook, then collapsed. The attempt looked like a half-accident—thud—and his head was dented on one side. But not badly enough, they discovered. Xo could stand by himself, only a little dizzy; and he touched his wounds one after another, telling himself, “At least I’ll get tomorrow to myself.” He wasn’t looking at Ord, or anywhere, saying, “This is good enough,” with a soft wet voice that was lost in the muting whisper of the snowfall.

2

When I lived here, when I was a child, these mountains were new. The estates were new. Our mansions were modest but comfortable, the Families victorious … and the galaxy was vast and nearly empty, full of endless and intoxicating possibilities … .—Alice’s testimony

—Alice’s testimony

 

There were exactly one thousand Families—a number set by design—and Ord was a Chamberlain, one of the more famous and powerful Families. The ancestral Chamberlain home stood near the center of their estate, on a broad scenic peak. It was a round building, tall and massive, built from false granite with a shell of tailored white coral. The interior, above ground and below, was a maze of rooms and curling hallways, simple laboratories and assorted social arenas. There were enough beds for fifteen hundred brothers and sisters, should so many ever wish to visit at one time. And there were other buildings scattered about the estate—cottages, hunting lodges, and baby mansions—capable of absorbing the rest of them.

But it was the round white house that was famous, recognized by virtually every educated entity in the galaxy. Chamberlains had helped the Sanchexes win the Great Wars, then they were instrumental in building the Ten Million Year Peace. Chamberlains had made first contact with many important alien species, had been first to reach the galaxy’s core, and for eons had pioneered the rapid terraforming of empty worlds. With low, low death rates being common, there was a constant demand for new homes, aliens and humans both paying substantial fees for good work.

Ord had a shallow sense of this history. He knew the Great Wars were fought with savagery, billions of people murdered and the Earth itself left battered. But the Peace had endured for a hundred thousand centuries, the Families giving it backbone and the occasional guidance. Ord himself was a whisper of a child, not even fifty years old. His powers as a Chamberlain lay in the remote future. Imagining adulthood, he pictured a busy semi-godhood, building green worlds at the Core, or perhaps flying off to some far galaxy, exploring it while making new allies. But the actual changes were mysterious to him. His mind and energies would swell, but how would it feel to him? His senses would multiply, and time itself would slow to where seconds would become hours. But how would such an existence seem? He had asked the brothers and sisters living with him. He had worn them down with his inquiries. Yet not one of them had ever offered a clear, believable answer.

“You’re too young to understand,” they would assure him, their voices bored. Or even a little shrill. “Just wait and see,” they would recommend. “You’ll learn when you’re ready.” But Ord could sense that like him, they had no idea what the future held. Like all perfect questions, his were unoriginal. And all of the Chamberlains in the mansion—all younger than a millennium—were in that same proverbial spacecraft, adrift and lost and uniformly scared.

 

 

The Golds’ fort was completed on schedule, by midafternoon that next day, and after some last work the clan walked up to the tube port together, singing Gold songs. From there it was a brief ride home for Ord. He was deposited at the lawn’s edge, his pet bear-dogs charging him, yelping and begging to be scratched behind every ear. Done with that duty, Ord entered through the usual door, touching the motto engraved in the granite overhead. “PRIDE AND SACRIFICE,” said the ageless letters; his gesture was a habit, almost a reflex. Then he ran to the nearest stairwell, riding up to his floor and sprinting to his room, greeted there by a pair of mothering robots at least as obnoxious as his bear-dogs. They asked about his day and his accomplishments. Was there enough snow? “Plenty,” he allowed; it had fallen all night. Good for forts, was it? “Perfect,” he told them, removing his warm snowsuit. “Good wet snow.” Close to the lowlands, that pasture had a milder climate than this high country. “And I think it’s a very strong fort. I think so …”

The robots paused, saying nothing where they might have said, “We’re glad to hear it.”

Ord hesitated, suddenly alert.

“Lyman has just asked to see you,” said synchronized voices.

Lyman was a brother, the oldest one living in the house. He wants to see me? Ord wondered what was wrong. If he’d hit Xo with that rock … but he hadn’t, and nothing else remarkable had happened in the last few days. “What does Lyman want?”

“We’re curious too,” they replied, glass eyes winking. “You’re supposed to go to his room as soon as you’re clean and dressed.”

Ord looked outside. His longest wall faced east, a crystal window in place of the granite. Somewhere below, in the gathering darkness, was his new fort. On clear nights he liked to watch the glow of the cities beyond, wondering about all the kinds of people living near these mountains. Everyone on Earth was rich to some degree; the land was too crowded and too expensive for those without means. But only the Families could afford having winters, putting their trees and lakes to sleep. These artificial mountains, constructed after the Great Wars, had never produced meaningful food, nor had they ever housed more than a very few people.

“Lyman sounds impatient,” the robots warned him.

“Okay.” Ord ran through his sonic bath, then dressed and left. His brother lived several stories above him. He had visited enough to know the way, and enough to hesitate at the door. Lyman liked to entertain various girlfriends; caution was required. Ord announced his presence, and the door opened, a distant voice telling him:

“Wait there. I’m almost done.”

It was Ord’s voice, only deeper. Older. Lyman had one of the large interior rooms, two universal-walls and a vast bed, plus a private swimming pool and sauna. Distinctive touches were meant to say Lyman but always felt more Chamberlain than anything. Chamberlains liked mementos. Where Ord would have kept his collection of alien fossils, his brother set up small light-statues of the girlfriends—women of every variation, uniformly disrobed—and they smiled at Ord, showing him how pleased they were to stand on those shelves. One universal-wall was activated. The live feed showed him moons orbiting a banded gas giant, each moon encased in an atmosphere, the nearest one blued by an ocean. Did a Chamberlain build that ocean? It wasn’t too unlikely. Lyman was training to become an apprentice terraformer. Once he was declared an adult, probably in less than a century, he would leave for his first assignment. Something easy, no doubt. He would rebuild some fat comet between stars, probably for a client who wanted a vacation home—

“How’s your war?” asked Lyman, striding out of the bath, adjusting his loose-fitting trousers as he moved. “Done with your fort?”

Ord muttered, “Yes.”

“Any more fights?”

Was this about Xo and Ravleen? Or maybe Lyman was just making noise. Either way, Ord guessed that his brother knew the answers, that he had heard from the robots and the estate’s sentries. “No fights,” Ord reported. “No until tomorrow morning, at least.”

“But Lyman wasn’t listening. He started to speak, to make some joke, then paused, his mouth left open for a long moment.

Ord waited, tension building.

“Do you know where I was this morning?”

“Where?”

“Antarctica.” Lyman liked to tease his little brother, reminding him that one of them could travel at will on the Earth. No farther, but it still seemed like an enormous freedom.

“What were you doing there?” asked Ord.

“Having fun, naturally.” Lyman tried to smile, scratching his bare belly. Taller than Ord, he had old-fashioned adult proportions, his body hairy and strong with an appropriate unfancy penis dangling in his trousers. Red hair grew to his shoulders. Like Ord, he had the telltale Chamberlain face, sharp features and pale skin and pale blue eyes. Their sisters were feminized versions of them, with breasts and such; physical forms were standardized, eternal, every Family built around its immortal norm, every norm patterned after its founder and ultimate parent.

Lyman sat next to his brother, sighed and asked, “Do you know why I came home? Have you heard?”

Ord shook his head, his breath quickening. What happened that would require Lyman to abandon his fun?

“Listen.”

But then his brother said nothing else, his mouth left open and the eyes gazing at the wall. Finally Ord asked, “What is it?”

“In the next few days … soon, I don’t know when … we’ll have a guest with us. Be on your very best behavior, please.”

“Who’s visiting?”

Lyman seemed disturbed, or at least deeply puzzled, pursing his lips and shaking his head. “One of our sisters is dropping by.”

Sisters came and went all of the time.

“An old sister,” Lyman added.

Every sister was older than Ord.

And his brother grinned, as if realizing how mysterious this must sound. “A very old, much honored adult. She is.”

Ord looked at the wall, watching its image change. A small dull sun was setting over a glassy sea. An ammonia sea, perhaps. He found himself dealing with this news by distancing himself, working on the dynamics of the other world as if it was one of his tutor’s lessons.

“You’re not listening,” Lyman warned him.

“How old is she?”

“Her name is Alice.”

Alice—

“She’s our Twelve.” The words were incredible to both of them. Lyman repeated himself, saying, “Yes. Twelve.”

Ord was stunned, closing his hands into fists and dropping them into his lap. “Why is she coming here?”

Lyman didn’t seem to hear him. “We received her private message this morning … coded … and everyone’s excited, of course … .”

Ord nodded.

“A Twelve is coming here.” Lyman was astonished, but the smile seemed almost joyless. “I looked up when the last Fifty or higher came to visit. Our Forty-two touched down for less than an hour, some twentyeight millennia ago. A little handshake visit.” He paused, rubbing at the stiff red hairs on his chest. “Alice wants to linger. She’s requested the penthouse and given no departure time. Even though she’ll be bored in a millisecond, she claims that she wants to live here.”

This was landmark news, and Ord imagined telling the other Golds about it. Tonight? No, tomorrow. On the eve of combat. It would give him a sudden burst of importance, a worthiness. Even Ravleen would be impressed, and jealous, and he began to smile, imagining the moment.

“There’s more,” Lyman said, anticipating him. “The news is secret. Alice made it very clear—”

Secret?

“—and I’m giving you fair warning. You won’t tell anyone. Not even your best friends. This is Chamberlain business, and it’s private.”

The boy offered a weak, confused nod.

“No other Family can know she’s here.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s what she wants.”

“But why visit us?”

“Why not?” Lyman offered, then his face grew puzzled again. “I honestly don’t know why. No one seems to know where she’s been. But I’m sure that she’ll explain, when it’s time.”

A Twelve. Ord knew there were just five Chamberlains older than Alice, the rest long dead. And of the five, two weren’t even in the galaxy now, bound for Andromeda. By contrast, Ord had a five digit designation, as did Lyman and every other sibling in this house. He could never live long enough and become famous enough that his arrival here would be stunning news. “24,411 is on his way. Behave, children!” Ord nearly laughed at the preposterous image. If he lived a billion years—a possibility, in principle—and if he did wondrous things, then yes, he guessed that then he might generate the kind of excitement that he felt now. Maybe.

“I don’t even know where she’s been,” Lyman repeated. “We’ve asked, but the walls won’t tell us.”

The famous Alice. She had been born after the Great Wars, in the first years of the Peace; and she was one of the first Chamberlains to master terraforming; most of her methods standard even today.

“Not a hint to anyone. All right, little brother?”

He said, “Yes,” with a soft, disappointed breath.

Lyman made fists and placed them on his lap, saying, “I bet it’s nothing important. Here and gone in ten minutes, she’ll be.”

The wall changed again, showing them a ringed gas giant. World-sized continents built of hyperfoams floated in its atmosphere, linked together, the winds carrying them along with a dancer’s precision. Where was this place? Terraforming on that scale required time and much money, and there probably weren’t a thousand worlds like it in the galaxy. A mere thousand, which was nothing. And he shut his eyes, knowing Alice had built it. Lyman had asked this wall to show him her work; and like his brother, Ord wondered why she would come here. Why bother? And why would such an enormous, wondrous soul want her presence kept secret? Why … ?

3

Consider this. Our Families have never been wealthier, and they have never been so weak. Our fraction of humanity’s worth has shriveled throughout the Peace, as planned. We are pledged to reproduce slowly. We clone archaic bodies, then slowly fit them with the latest wonders. But while we’ve kept a monopoly on those wonders, other peoples and aliens and even the machine intelligences grow more numerous every day, accomplishing more and more with their insect tenacity … winning the Peace, in essence, which is of course why they agreed to it in the first place … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

Their fort was beautiful, tall and milk-colored, draped with last night’s snow. Yesterday, done with drills, everyone but Xo had added some touch of his or her own. Handmade flourishes. On the parapets were snow fists and boat prows and big-eyed skulls. Ord had built a gargoyle on his portion of the wall—a fierce thing with wings extended, curved white teeth glowing in the early light—and he was standing behind it, on the broad rampart, his squad flanking him and everyone at attention. Ravleen was speaking, her voice coming from headphones sewn into their golden facemasks. “From now on,” she promised, “these Blues are going to suffer every flavor of misery. We’ll beat them once and for all.”

It was a famous quote, the “every flavor of misery” line. One of the Sanchex generals had uttered it, and Ravleen repeated it once or twice every year. She and Tule were below, sitting inside the thick-walled keep at the back of the courtyard, watching the countryside with sensors and hidden cameras. Ord knew how much she wanted to win. This war’s losers would make medals for the winners—the standard rule—and nobody would treasure her disk of iridium and diamond more than Ravleen. Sanchexes drank in their awards; every certificate of merit was on display, sometimes for centuries. The Ten Million Year Peace had only tempered them, it was said. And when the time came—when they were too mature for these wars—nobody would miss them more than Ravleen. Ord almost felt sorry for her, shutting his eyes … and his mind shifting back to the topic that had kept him sleepless all night … .

“What are you thinking?” asked Xo, strolling up to him. Save for some yellow bruises, his face had healed. He had showed it to Ord before putting on the mask, proud that he had healed so easily. “You look like you’re thinking hard. What about?”

That his sister was coming. Alice. My Twelve. The words surfaced in his consciousness, begging to be spoken. Yet he had promised not to tell, not Xo or even his best friends. Maybe that was wise, he thought. Why would Alice come here? And wouldn’t he look foolish when it turned out to be untrue?

“I wish we’d start,” Xo groused, forgetting his question. “Waiting is boring.”

Last night, following dinner with a dozen brothers and sisters, Ord had gone to his room and requested a biography of their great sister. He had read and watched holos until after midnight, trying to absorb some fraction of her enormous life. It was impossible. The history of the Earth seemed easy by comparison.

“I’m bored,” Xo repeated.

And as if she heard him, Ravleen interrupted the quiet. “Enemies in the woods, on the west. On the move.”

Three squads were stationed on the strong west wall, including theirs. Saying nothing, they watched the leafless black trees for any motion, a delicious sense of drama in the wind.

“Mortars,” warned Ravleen. “Firing.”

Whump-whump. The Blues had two mortars, air-driven, their size and power set by old rules. Everyone dropped to their knees, hugging the parapet, and a pair of snowballs hit in the courtyard, bucket-sized and nobody injured. They were meant to judge range. The next rounds did the damage, someone crying out, “Heat,” as a blue sphere struck behind Xo. Chemical goo broke free of its envelope, activated by the air and melting the ice beneath it. A thick blue cancer was spreading. Ord and Xo jumped up, using shovels to fling the worst of the goo below, then using last night’s snow to make fast, sloppy patches.

It was fun, fast and fun, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.

“Return fire,” Ravleen ordered.

Their own mortars were loaded, aligned by hand and guesswork. Whump, whump. Whump, whump. They fired snow only, harassing the enemy. And now a half dozen Golds shouted, “Look!” as the Blues broke from the woods above.

“Guns at the ready,” said their general.

Ord had an old snowgun—a favorite—with its plastic stock worn slick and pale, carried by two sisters before him. It had over-and-under barrels and a simple laser sight, a potent compressor and twenty rounds of snow loaded into the stock. Slugs were made inside the barrels, in an instant, each one thumb-sized and spinning for accuracy, able to hit someone’s head at nearly forty meters.

“Ready,” Ravleen whispered in Ord’s ears.

He looked over the gargoyle’s right wing, snow-colored figures with deep-blue facemasks charging across fresh snow, a practiced scream growing louder as they closed the gap … two dozen of them, including the eight who were rolling cannons into position … and where were the others … ?

“On my command,” Ravleen said. “Cannons … fire!”

Thunk-thunk-thunk. Three cannons were on the west wall, a fourth held in reserve. Big fat rounds followed golden laser beams, no one struck. The Blues were zigzagging, a thin line of them coming. Fifty meters, then forty. Then thirty, and Ravleen said, “At will. Fire.”

They rose together, as drilled, aiming and squeezing off double-shots. Flecks of laser light danced over their targets. It sounded like the popping of insects, the air filled with white streaks flying both ways. Ord picked a target and hit it in the belly, then the face, then missed when it ducked and slipped sideways. But he anticipated the next move, leading and firing and the double-shots smacking the face more than once, snapping it back, leaving the Blue stunned in the snow.

“Reload,” said his gun. He dropped and opened the stock, shoving in handfuls of fresh wet ammunition. Then the lone squad on the east wall was shouting, and firing. Not only were there two attacks, but Ravleen hadn’t seen the other troops marshaling. “Squad A,” she shouted, “change walls. Support the east. Now.”

The Blues must have disabled the watchdogs on the east. With a fair trick? Every war had its strict rules, only so much snow for a fort, so much heat allowed its attackers, and so on. Squad B—Ord’s—had to spread out and cover for A. He would fire and drop, then come up somewhere else. A lucky shot caught him above the eye, a warm thread of blood making it blink and water. He ducked and wiped with a sleeve, then moved and rose again. But now the Blues were in retreat, their attack meant to harass and nothing more. Their artillery fired overhead, peppering the east wall, heat gnawing at the hard white ice.

Ravleen pulled Squad C next. She had no choice. They had to repair holes while B was left alone on the west wall, six soldiers fighting more than a dozen. And of course the Blues attacked again, in a tight formation. Squad B closed ranks and fired down on them. Heat grenades ruined the snow gargoyle, its wings and snarling head collapsing into mush; and the Blues teased them, shouting, “You’re next, you’re next, you’re next.”

Ord dropped and reloaded, moved and rose. And the Blues guessed where he would be, and when, every gun fixed on him, blue sparkles half-blinding him and the double-shots on their way. He didn’t have time to react. The entire salvo caught his face and throat; and what startled everyone was how he stayed on his feet, bloodied and stunned but undeniably upright.

The Blues fired again, in unison.

That second salvo lifted him off the rampart, snapping his head back, and he fell into the courtyard, landing on his back in the greasy blue heat, bruised and sore and suddenly tired enough to sleep, unable to see for all the blood in his eyes.

4

Why did we attempt it? The simple, one-word explanation is greed. The two-word explanation adds charity, because it was for your good as well as ours. The third word is arrogance, of course. And the fourth, without doubt, is stupidity … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

Ord remembered when his blood tasted salty. Now it was sweet, reminding him of oranges. His biochemistry was changing, new genes awakened, his body progressively tougher and faster and faster to heal. He had been able to fight again by afternoon, and by dusk he felt almost normal, picking at the hard scabs as he entered the house. As always, he touched the PRIDE AND SACRIFICE emblem on his way to the stairs. But something made him pause, something subtle, Ord standing on the balls of his feet while listening, a peculiar nonsound emerging from another hallway.

He changed direction, suddenly aware of his heartbeat.

The house had been built in stages, layered like a coral reef, the oldest regions in the deep interior. The original mansion had been abandoned—a five-story structure not particularly grand in its day—and Ord knew he had reached it when the floor changed to natural stone, cold and dirty white. Lights woke for him, and the general appearance had been maintained by the house robots; yet everything felt old, even tired, Ord touching the simple brick walls, new mortars mending the old but nothing else changed, thousands of centuries focused squarely on him, barely allowing him to breathe.

There was a central staircase leading up to various sealed doorways. Every Gold had come here with him, at least once, Ord showing off the Chamberlains’ humble beginnings. Beside the staircase were two heavy doors, also sealed, one on each side. Not even Lyman had permission or the means to open them. But today, for no apparent reason, the door on his left was ajar. No, it was removed. He stepped closer, blinked, and saw the bare hinges and dark air … and nothing. It was as if the great old door had been stolen, or erased, and he couldn’t guess why.

Ord paused, squinting now. The room beyond was dim and imprecise, dust floating with graceful ease. He heard a sound, a faint dry click, but couldn’t guess its direction. “Hello?” His voice was weak, almost useless. The room seemed to swallow his noise, then him, his snowboots falling silent on the old rotted carpet and his face caressed by a sudden chill. He was inside before he made any conscious decision to take this chance, and he told himself: I shouldn’t be here. He thought: I will leave. Now. But the promise seemed as good as the deed, and Ord walked on in a straight certain line.

It wasn’t a large room, even in its day. A rounded wall was on his left, the tighter curve of the staircase on his right, and every wall was buried behind cabinets and framed paintings and various decorations that made no sense to him, styles and logic long extinct. The place felt like a storage closet, not a room where people would gather. Despite careful treatment, the relics were degrading, wood splitting along lines of weakness, paintings faded and flaking. He paused and stared at the largest painting, a faint yellow lamp glowing above it. The plaque beneath told Ord what he suspected, the subject’s name etched into a greenish metal.

“Yes, he’s our father.”

The voice didn’t startle him. It came wrapped in a calmness that soothed and nourished him. Removing one thin glove, Ord touched the name, Ian Chamberlain written in the dead man’s neat, circumspect script. It was similar to Ord’s handwriting … the same angles, the same spacings … and he felt a sudden deep reverence for the man, Ian shown posing before the original mansion, every feature blurred by the tired paints. Ord had seen Ian countless times, in holos and interactive fictions; but here, in these circumstances, he felt close to the man, and nervous, his mouth going small and dry. This was their father, their One; and the voice was saying, “Look at me,” with a mild, flat tone that couldn’t startle anyone.

It was his sister’s voice—every sister’s voice—yet it was all wrong, reaching deeper than simple sound could manage.

“I’m right behind you,” he heard, and he turned, discovering a figure standing in the room’s center, smiling at him, her face the same as any sister’s face, only rounder. She wore a body that was a little fat, wrinkles crowded around the eyes and a softness to the flesh, pudgy hands trying to straighten a wrinkle in her simple dark blouse. She took a step toward him, and Ord felt a tingling sensation, smelling ozone. Become a certain age, he knew, and you ceased to be merely tough meat and an enduring mind. Succeed at being an adult for a few tens of thousands of years, and your Family taught you how to use new energies, plasmas and shadow matter. Eventually you were built of things more unseen than seen, the prosaic nonsense of sweet blood and neurons left for special occasions.

“Look at you,” she whispered, a dry hand touching Ord on the cheek. “Do you know how perfectly perfect you look?”

“You’re the Twelve,” he sputtered.

She gave an odd little laugh.

Ord managed a clumsy sideways step, wondering if she could be someone else. It seemed preposterous to think that a Twelve could speak to him. Was she some younger sister, some assistant perhaps?

“My name is Alice,” she warned, “not Twelve. And you? You must be the baby. Ord.”

He offered a very slight nod.

Curiosity and a mild empathy showed on the smiling face. Alice touched him again, on the other cheek, saying, “There. All gone.”

His scabs had dissolved, bruises absorbed.

She laughed without making noise, tilting her head as if to look at him from a new vantage point. Invisible hands passed through his flesh, studying him from within; then she was saying, “I used to enjoy a good snowball fight. Isn’t that remarkable to think?”

It seemed unlikely, yes.

“Quite the fort you have.” She closed her eyes, a wisp of red hair dangling over her chalky forehead. “Not elaborate, no. But sturdy. A good solid construction.”

He asked, “Can you see it now?”

“Easily.” She opened her eyes, smiling as she said, “You fought on the west wall, near the middle—”

“How can you—?”

“Bootprints. Blood. A thousand ways.” Then she said, “This is yours,” and held up his snowgun. Surprise slipped into nervousness. They weren’t supposed to remove equipment from the battlefield. He watched while Alice went through the motions of a careful examination, placing her right eye to the end of the barrel and tugging on the trigger. Ord grimaced. But nothing happened, and she seemed amused by his response, smiling at him, her soft voice saying, “My, my. I didn’t have such fancy toys when I was a girl.”

It wasn’t fancy, but he didn’t correct her.

She assured him, “I am jealous.”

He thought that was a remarkable thing to hear. A Twelve envying him. Because of a toy gun?

“How are my Radiant Golds doing?”

Radiant?

“What kind of wargame is it?”

“A forty hour scenario,” he reported. “Heavy snows and the Golds defend a place of their choice—”

“Against the Electric Blues,” she interjected.

Ord paused and swallowed, then said, “They have to capture our flag.”

Something about Alice made him feel happy, as if she couldn’t contain her own joy and it flowed into him, sweetening his mood. She shut her eyes again, savoring the instant. “Here.” She handed him his weapon. “I don’t mean to leave you defenseless.”

“I can’t have it … here …”

“Pardon me?”

Ord swallowed, then used a careful, certain voice. “I leave my gun wherever I was standing. Where I was when we quit.”

“Marking your position. How reasonable.”

It vanished from his grip, fingertips tingling for an instant.

“I am sorry. I didn’t know.” Yet she sounded more amused than sorry. Turning, she did a slow stately walk around the room, absorbing everything with eyes and perhaps other senses. Fancy china plates were collapsing into dust. An ornamental knife was speckled with corrosion. A crystal sphere had broken in two—that seemed to amuse her—and she picked up the larger part, saying, “In my day, we threw snowballs. We made them with our hands and threw them, and I wasn’t particularly good at it. The sexes differed too much in ability, and I had a girl’s arm.” She set the crystal down again, turned and stared at the ceiling for a long time. “That pasture you’re defending? I fought for it once. I can recall … I was sore afterward, of course.” She paused, then looked at him again. “Do the Swords still exist?”

“The Silvers,” Ord replied. There were twenty clans, twenty colors, fifty children in each one. He had to ask, “Were you a Gold?”

“One of the first, and worst.”

Ord imagined this woman running in the snow, attacking a cowering line of Silvers. In the early Peace, childhoods were quick and old-fashioned. A person became an adult in just a century, and only then was her body improved, her mind made ready to deal with Family responsibilities. Slow growth, like Ord’s, allowed for quality. For better maturity. He had been told that many times, and believed it; yet part of him envied Alice, thinking how she had been a child for just a very few winters.

“And who’s your general?”

“Ravleen.”

“She has to be a Sanchex, am I right?”

Ord nodded.

“Crystal can grow tired and shatter,” she said, “but some things are too resilient. If you see my point.” Alice gave a satisfied nod, then told him, “I would like to hear about everything. Soon. It’s been too long since I last visited … and enjoyed this lovely old house … .”

Her voice fell away, as if she was hunting for the best word.

Then she said, “Enjoyed,” once again.

“Why are you here?” Ord heard himself asking. “Alice?”

She didn’t seem to hear him, stepping past him, hands lifting to touch the old portrait. With means obscure and powerful, she rearranged the molecules in the tired paints, re-creating their father’s face and body, then altering the artist’s original work. A rope of glass fibers dangled from the dead man’s chest. Through them he would have controlled a multitude of powerful primitive machines, his body connected to whatever warship or world he was residing on at the moment. Few humans used such systems anymore. No Family member bothered with them. But Ord recalled that exposing that rope, whether in public or a portrait, would have been rude, even vile. After the Wars, and for a very long time, it was important for Chamberlains and every other Family to hide their augmented selves.

“What do you think, little brother?”

He stepped close and studied the portrait. The round white house and green lawn had been left unchanged, as if out of focus. They made Ian all the more real, set against that exhausted background. Ord stared at the face—ageless and wise; the seminal patriarch—and he saw a quality in its expression. It was as if the artist had told the great man to smile, and he had obeyed, but there was some powerful, deep-felt sadness in him that he could never hide.

Ord was uneasy. What Alice had done wasn’t restoration, it was vandalism. The past always should be respected; yet here she had altered a work of art, making it something else entirely. Self-righteousness left him bold, and he asked again, “Why are you here?”

Alice seemed composed, giving him a watery grin while asking in turn, “Why can’t I come here?” Then she looked at their father, a thin colorless voice saying, “When she wants, a person should be able to come home.”

He had no simple, quick response.

“Desire,” she said, “is reason enough, little brother.”

And when he next glanced at the portrait, she vanished. He found himself alone, standing in a room where he didn’t belong, the air suddenly frigid and his blood-caked snowsuit warming itself and him in response, his breath visible, like thin puffs of tepid steam.

 

 

Ord went to his room, telling no one what had happened. Tonight the house felt exceptionally empty. He assumed the others were with Alice, greeting her in some fashion, and that there were good reasons why the youngest brother wouldn’t be included. Eating alone, he studied the day’s lessons without concentrating. Poetry and mathematics seemed unreal, and he eventually put them aside, ordering his universal-wall to show him more of Alice’s worlds. Light-velocity feeds were found; a new vista was presented every few minutes. Ord put on pajamas and sat on his bed, fresh snow falling behind him, illuminated by images from around the galaxy and nothing else visible in the black night.

Her worlds were rich with life. More than most terraformed worlds, easily. Sometimes Ord asked to see who lived on them, and he was shown city scenes and up-to-the-second census figures. Like him, these people were built from ordinary matter. Like him, they had limited talents but no programmed lifespans. Barring accidents, they might live forever. Yet unlike Ord—unlike anyone in the Family—they could manipulate their human forms. Instead of enlarging themselves with trickery, they bent themselves with genetic tailoring, adapting to odd niches or simply embellishing some feature for private reasons. It was a basic feature of the Peace; freedoms were granted along different tangents. A multitude of strange, even alien humans wandered past Ord: tall figures and tiny ones, people with golden fur and others with elephant noses. On the oldest, most crowded planets, it was best to divide into a carefully structured mass of species. The Earth itself had some hundred-thousand distinct, registered types of humans, every sort of food able to be metabolized by someone. Lyman had a passion for the strangest local ladies, Ord recalled. He would bring them to the mansion now and again; and once, completely by accident. Ord had walked in on him and his current girlfriend, at the very worst moment. An embarrassing, instructive lesson, it still made the boy blush twenty years later, thinking of that finned beauty in the swimming pool, on her back, and his brother gasping as he turned, discovering that he wasn’t alone.

The Peace was built on rules. The Families had to begin with oldstyle bodies, and no profession belonged only to them. Yet they remained the best terraformers, commanding the best salaries. Teams of ordinary humans and machines couldn’t build with the beauty that Alice achieved, he felt certain. And what’s more, she worked for aliens too. Methane seas; nitrogen seas; water seas made toxic by bizarre biologies. Ord knew enough to admit that he knew very little. The next time he saw Alice, he would compliment her regardless. If I see her, he thought; and now he asked the wall to stop, lying back in bed, letting the sheets find him.

But he didn’t sleep, his eyes barely closed when he heard a brother ask. “Did you tell? Anyone?”

Ord sat up, finding Lyman in the open door. Long hair and the broad shoulders were set against the lights of the hallway. “Tell anyone what?”

“About our sister coming,” Lyman muttered, obviously nervous.

Ord shook his head. “I didn’t, no. No one.”

“Just thought I should check.” He stepped closer, grinning and staring out the window.

“Does she like the penthouse?”

Lyman blinked and said, “She’s not here yet, but she won’t. I’m sure she won’t.”

The boy felt something. A caress, perhaps. Or maybe it was his own adrenaline, fatigue dispelled in an instant, his mouth dropping open but his voice gone.

Lyman noticed the odd expression, blinked and stepped backward.

Then Ord whispered, “I saw her.”

“Where?”

Ord closed his mouth, summoning courage.

“Where did you see her?” Lyman came to the foot of the bed, then suggested, “It might have been someone else.”

“She said she was Alice.” And he told the story, describing the missing door and the room filled with relics, and Alice, and how she had easily done some odd things. Would he get into trouble for entering that room? Or for not telling Lyman about it afterward? “I thought you’d know that she’s here,” Ord assured him. Then he asked, “Why hasn’t she told you that she’s here?”

His brother leaned against the bed, his mouth open and his eyes empty. Around them was a ghostly sense of amusement, thick enough to taste, and sweet.

“Where is she, Lyman?”

The older brother merely shook his head, not saying the obvious. She’s here now … with us now … .

5

I have rebuilt some ninety-thousand major worlds for a wide assortment of clients. But my best work, without question, are the secret worlds that I build for myself, from nothing. I have done several dozen of them, inventing unique biologies and hiding them away inside dust clouds and in globular clusters. And yes, I know. They are questionable legal acts, I know. But many terraformers dabble in such work, and not just Family members either. And it’s not an original idea that our dear Earth is someone’s
garden, built and lost, and all of us are merely its lucky sons and daughters … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

The skies were clear in the morning. The Sanchex mansion—a great gray pyramid—was visible in the north. Ord was eating his breakfast, half-dressed for battle, when Lyman returned to his room, telling him, “Someone is inside the penthouse. We’re sure now.”

Ord turned, saying nothing.

“But she won’t respond. Yet.” Lyman shook his head. “Just the same, we should keep her presence secret. Understood?”

Of course. But he went through the ritual of promising once again.

“Do normal activities,” his brother insisted. “Act as if everything is perfectly normal.”

Ord thought of his siblings at the penthouse door, asking it if Alice were inside. And Lyman, trying to hide his nervousness, merely nodded to himself and said, “Isn’t it … a lovely day … ?”

 

 

The enemy was entrenched east and west of the fort, their main force clinging to a cliff face, using ropes and small wooden platforms. The Golds knew because Ravleen had cheated, sending out an automated probe during the night. Scans had proved that the Blues hadn’t broken any major rules, using accepted methods to blind them, nothing but hard work responsible for their success. It was frustrating for Ravleen, her foes near enough to touch and out of reach. Hugging the cliff, they couldn’t be bombarded. They could gather themselves, then rise en masse, flinging heat grenades and taking a few good shots but escaping before they were truly hurt.

Ravleen and Tule abandoned the keep. They strode along the ramparts, giving orders with sharp, worried voices. “You two,” said Ravleen, meaning Xo and Ord. “Take that cannon and harass theirs.” The Blues had continued firing from the high ground, aiming for the east wall. “And don’t look at me like that,” Ravleen snapped.

“Like what?” Xo countered.

She glared at him, breathing loudly.

“Go away,” Xo whined. “We’ll hit them, don’t worry.”

Except Xo didn’t work with conviction. Ord found himself loading the breech every time. And he had to aim the long plastic barrel. Xo was content to fire the cannon, and when they missed—normal enough at this range, aiming uphill—Xo would shake his head and say, “Lower.” Or he’d state something else obvious. Ord tried to ignore him, knowing how Xo could be full of himself and how anger was useless. Then Xo declared, “I’m tired of winter. I hate this snow.”

But winter had just begun, thought Ord. And this time he pulled on the wire cord, a dull strong whap causing a white streak that landed short of its target, the Blues waving happily from behind their cannon.

“Too bad.” Xo’s mask showed only his eyes and mouth, all of them grinning. “Aim higher, why don’t you?”

Better to cut the snow, Ord decided. He counted his handfuls, trying to find what was perfect. The next shot was nearer, and Xo, who hadn’t been paying attention, said, “See? Better this time.”

It was a brilliant day, and lovely. In quiet moments they could hear the city on the lowlands—horns and bells and a suggestive gray murmur—and Ord remembered the times he crept down to the estate’s boundary, hiding in the grass, watching the ordinary people. His universal-wall could give closer, more intimate views of them; but sitting on the edge of that other world, knowing he could, if he wished, walk straight into it … well, that was intoxicating. Chimes rang in the distance, very softly, and Ord wished he didn’t have to be here, realizing it had been several months since his last surreptitious visit.

The sunshine felt hot, and he broke a big rule in a small way. Rolling up his facemask, Ord massaged the wet skin with wet snow. Xo saw him and asked, “What happened to your wounds?”

Ord pulled the mask back into place.

“It looks like you weren’t even hit yesterday.”

“I slept a lot.” Ord couldn’t invent a better excuse.

“Sleep did that?”

No, Alice did it … and suddenly he was thinking about her. He had been pushing her aside all day, with some success; but suddenly he found himself wondering what she was doing, and did she like the penthouse, and would he see her again? “I wasn’t hit that badly,” he offered, hoping to deflect suspicions.

But Xo didn’t care. His mind had shifted again, his voice too loud when he said, “Oh, she’s a good general in the open. But not with this stand-and-fight shit. Everyone knows that.”

Teasing Ravleen was the better game. More dangerous too.

“If I were her,” Xo claimed, “I’d send out a couple squads. I’d assault their cannons now—”

“—and lose the squads with the counterattack,” Ord responded.

“We’ll lose if we don’t,” the boy maintained.

Ord ignored him, aiming again, trying to concentrate. The icy slug had an imprecise size and density, plus an imperfectly smooth surface. The universe, said his tutor, was a series of simple suppositions and principles meshing together in chaotic ways. There were specific mathematics to help navigate through the chaos, to a degree. He barely understood them … yet he had a sudden premonition, numbers and symbols converging into an answer and his hands lifting, the right hand grasping the cord and hesitating … wait, wait … now.

He tugged the cord with a careful, perfect strength.

The slug was in flight, traveling on a neat arc, and one of the Blues fired at the perfect moment, half an instant too late.

Ord’s slug hit the barrel’s mouth, plugging it; hot compressed air caused the breech to shatter, some old flaw exposed, steel-colored plastic shards driven backward into a boy’s arm and face. He collapsed. A cheer rose from the rest of Squad B. Even Xo was impressed enough to say, “I can’t believe it.” People took breaks from the fight to run over and look, watching the unconscious body and the ruined gun being taken away. It was a sterling moment, and ugly, one less Blue to fight now. Ord tried to be thrilled but instead felt sorry, even though the boy would be well in a few days. No lasting harm was done, but that didn’t seem to matter.

“You got lucky,” said his morose companion.

No, it wasn’t luck. Ord felt certain of it.

 

 

And one shot wasn’t the war.

The east wall was hammered the rest of the day. It was blue and rotting when it was time to quit, and they had fifteen minutes to make repairs, in peace. But time was wasted, someone telling Ravleen what Xo had been saying about her and her approaching him, telling him, “How would you like to be banished? Is that what you want?”

“If you were any kind of general,” Xo countered, “I’d fight and keep quiet.”

Ravleen wasn’t wearing her mask. Ord saw the outrage in her face, her features ugly and hard; and he intended to step between them, trying to defuse things. But the best he could offer was, “We should work—”

“Quiet,” Ravleen warned him.

Then Xo said, “A real Sanchex would have won the war by now—”

—and Ravleen swung at him.

Ord tried to push her backward.

Then she swung at Ord, catching him on the temple, but somehow he stayed on his feet. He shook his head, the world blurring for an instant; and Ravleen was past him, pinning Xo against the blue wall, punching him in a blind rage … and Ord grabbed a forearm, giving it a quick little twist.

The tough bone failed, making a sharp crack when it shattered.

Ravleen collapsed to the ground, her arm useless and her shoulder dislocated. With a tight slow furious voice, she said, “Wait.” She only looked at Ord, saying, “Banishment is too good for you. You wait. You’ll see … .”

6

While I’m here, I suppose I should plead guilty to any other little crimes that come to mind. I stole toys in my youth, for instance. And I built illegal worlds, as stated. And several times, to help friends, I have used improper means to alter elections and overthrow a few ugly governments that nobody misses … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

“You found my message, did you?”

“Yes.” It was on his desk, handwritten on paper … or at least it had looked handwritten. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Alice.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me by my name, Ord. Please.”

He whispered, “Alice,” to himself.

“Have you ever seen this place?” She stepped back from the crystal door, beckoning to him. “I mean the penthouse, of course. I decorated it today. What do you think?”

The penthouse was an enormous room with no apparent walls or ceiling. Ord had been here for special dinners, but the comfortable furniture had been replaced with foliage, gray-green and thin. Meant for a low gravity environment, he realized; and he stepped, finding himself noticeably lighter. How did she manage it? Only expensive machines could dilute the Earth’s pull, and he was very much impressed with his sister’s skill.

“A quiet lad, isn’t he?”

Ord said, “Sorry.”

“Why? You had the busy day. You’re entitled to your silence.”

He looked at the blue-white sky, asking, “What world is this?”

“A secret world.”

He didn’t understand. But before he could ask questions, Alice asked him, “Are the others jealous? That only you received an invitation?”

Ord nodded. He had shown the note to Lyman—feeling that was proper—and Lyman had inquired, “What did you say to her?” In other words: What makes you special?

“You know, our siblings keep coming up here.” Alice smiled at the floor. Tonight she looked thinner, wearing a flowing gown, emerald-green and soothing. Showing him her smile, she said, “They’ve stopped asking me to open the door. But they come and stare at it just the same. They must be rather curious.”

Lyman had looked tired and frazzled.

“And rather pissed off, I think.”

The words were unexpected, almost as incredible as this little forest of alien greenery. That a Twelve would say pissed off seemed contrary to some law or principle. Straightening his back, Ord said, “I think they’re scared. I think.”

“Well,” said Alice, “isn’t that their right?”

It was a strange reply, but he managed to shrug and nod.

She touched his face, telling him, “You look well. You must have moved at the right times.”

He dipped his head. “How much did you watch?”

“Every moment,” she said happily.

“You … you did stuff … .”

“Twice, and you’re welcome.” Alice played with her own hair. It was longer than last night, fuller and brighter. “With your aim, once, and with the Sanchex girl.”

“Now she hates me.”

“Yet she will heal, won’t she?”

What could he say?

“Twenty centuries from now,” Alice offered, “she won’t think of what you did. Tragedy is perishable, little brother. Believe me, she’ll reach a point where the memories will elicit a smirk and little else.”

What mattered was tomorrow, he knew, not the remote future. A part of Ord wished Alice hadn’t come here, or at least had ignored him. At this moment, Ravleen was sitting in her room, dreaming up a thousand suitable revenges. She was an impossible, brutal tyrant—

“—and yet,” his sister interjected, “she might grow into a courageous leader, a glorious success, vital to every Family and to humanity.”

“Can you read my thoughts?” he wondered aloud.

“In limited ways. But then again, anyone can read anyone’s thoughts in limited ways.” She offered a long laugh, then said, “I feel good about Ravleen. I think she’ll become a special Sanchex. One of their dynamos. She has that essential spark.”

“Does she?”

“Not that I can’t be wrong.” Alice shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps she’ll even disappoint me.”

Sanchexes loved dangerous work. Lacking wars, they busied themselves by wrestling with stars, delaying novas in those close to populated worlds, and sometimes exploding healthy isolated suns, using the titanic energies to create rare and expensive materials.

Alice said, “Isn’t it odd? We begin as perfect copies of our parent, yet tiny, unforeseen factors have their way with us. For good or not.” A pause, then she added, “Your friend Xo isn’t much of a Nuyen. Which is a double insult, believe me.”

Nuyens were talented governors and administrators. The Earth had many of them in high posts, serving as links between Families and the multitudes.

“I don’t like Xo,” Alice insisted. “I’ve met him a thousand times, and I’ve never trusted him.”

Ord blinked, then asked, “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“What kind of Chamberlain will I make?”

“I learned ages ago, never predict what Chamberlains might do.” The smile seemed fragile. “Now come over here and sit. Rest, little brother.” She put an arm around him, saying, “I invited you to dinner, so let’s eat and enjoy ourselves. What do you think?”

 

 

The meal was exotic—an alien stew made edible by inverting its amino acids—and the sky darkened very slowly, easing into night. For now the stage was Ord’s, Alice demanding stories of his snow wars and other adventures. He told about canoeing mountain rivers and how he bred bear-dogs, preferring them to other pets; and he described the arrow wars fought in the summer, face paints in lieu of masks but the same essential rules. And of course he had games, bloodless fictional wars that he played by himself. Were any of the Blues his friends? Alice asked. Not yet. He had met them, and of course he knew which face belonged to which Family. And sometimes older Blues came to visit Lyman, and the others—

“Why?” asked Alice.

Why what?

“Why build these careful antagonisms, passionate but essentially harmless? Ancient clans, elaborate rules … what’s the purpose of it, Ord?”

His tutor claimed it was to teach them cooperation.

“Cooperation,” she echoed. “Indeed, that’s a key reason why the Families have thrived. But wouldn’t bridging a mountain river serve the same function?”

Lyman had a different explanation. He claimed that war games were like tails on embryos. They were vestiges of something not needed anymore.

“That sounds a little truer,” Alice replied.

Ord noticed that her face had grown empty. Did the topic bother her? Then why had she brought it up?

“Tell me, little brother. Why did we fight the Great Wars?”

There were thousands of would-be Families. They tried to enslave humanity, but the Wars defeated them. Sanchexes and Chamberlains helped save the multitudes, and in gratitude, they and the other good Families were allowed to keep their powers. They were given this land, and together the Wars’ survivors fashioned the Peace.

“Noble images,” Alice conceded.

Ord had stopped eating, but he found that he couldn’t muster the will to push the half-empty bowl aside.

“Here’s the crux of it, little brother. Somewhere in its history, every technological species will make the tools to become godlike. Immortal citizens will be capable of building worlds, or obliterating them. How a species responds to the challenge … well, that’s what determines its fate, more often than not.”

The galaxy was littered with ancient worlds torn apart by warfare. Sometimes Ord dreamed of sifting the rubble for chunks of burnt bone, learning about the vanished souls.

“Our powers are not cheap,” said Alice, “and they’re never plentiful. When the Wars began, there were only a few hundred billion people, but how many of them could be fitted with those new technologies? Very few. And many of those were corrupt. Perhaps, as you say, evil. But our species saved itself with a single wise deed. Ordinary people sought out the best thousand from their ranks. Not the wisest or the strongest, but the souls who would be least corrupted by their new talents.”

This was familiar, and Ord kept nodding.

“Ian Chamberlain was a very unimportant man until he was selected. An unsuccessful man, by most accounts.”

The boy looked at his bowl.

“How is your dinner?”

He said, “Fine.”

Alice nodded, saying, “The Families are pledged to never injure any human being.”

It was the fundamental law, something flowing in Ord’s own blood.

“To you,” she said, “the Peace must look immortal. Everlasting. Isn’t that so, little brother?”

He began to shrug.

“Yet ten million years is no span at all. You’d be amazed how brief it feels to me.”

He was tired of being amazed, he decided.

Alice rose to her feet. Before them was a little pond, bony fishes, alien and primitive, swimming lazily over soft white alien muds. She watched their motions for a long while, or pretended to watch them; then she told Ord, “Your brother is terrified of me. Of my presence here.”

Lyman?

“Did you know that he has left the Earth?”

Ord said, “He’s too young,” with a boy’s surety. “He’s not allowed to go anywhere else.”

“Yet he has. Many times.” She laughed gently and easily. Her emerald gown was becoming muddy, a white fringe building as she walked around the pond. “He was on the Moon when I told everyone that I was coming to visit. He was seducing women, no doubt. Being a Chamberlain has its advantages, believe me. Still.”

“Where else has he gone?”

“Around the solar system. Nothing astonishing.” She paused, then turned to him. “Haven’t you ever slipped out of these mountains? The sentries aren’t perfect. No one needs to know.”

“I haven’t.”

“But please tell me that you’ve been tempted.” She seemed disappointed with him. “Haven’t you been?”

Endless times, yes.

“Yet you obey the rules. How nice.” She knelt, dipping a cupped hand into the pond and drinking from it. “Lyman doesn’t obey, and that’s why he’s scared. I’m going to punish him while I’m here, he thinks, for traveling and for bringing girls into this house.”

“But that’s not against any rule,” Ord countered.

“You’re allowed to bring friends and lovers, of course. From inside or outside the Families, without doubt. But Lyman’s girls aren’t friends, they’re convenient pieces of ass. They’re thrilled to be with an authentic Chamberlain, and that’s why they can ignore how ugly he looks. Grotesque to more than a few of them, I can promise you.”

Ord remembered the finned woman in the swimming pool.

Standing again, Alice dried her hand with the gown.

After a minute, Ord asked, “Where is this world?”

“Inside a dust cloud. Hidden.”

“Is this where you were? Before you came here, I mean.”

She closed her hands into fists, sighed and said, “Everyone wants to know where I was. Where I came from.”

Ord’s belly ached, and not because of the dinner.

“Tell them, little brother. I was at the Core.” She paused, a smile beginning and failing. Her face seemed to wrestle with her mouth, a strange lost expression winning. Then she said, “I came straight from the Core. Which was a long journey, even for me.”

People older than One Hundred didn’t require starships. They could convert themselves to massless particles, moving at light-speed yet remaining conscious. Ord tried to imagine such an existence; and to say something, to be involved, he mentioned, “Lyman wants to work at the Core. As a terraformer.”

Which she had to know. Tilting her head, she tried the same failed smile again. “A good Chamberlain goal, isn’t it?”

The Core was famous for black holes and dust clouds, plus billions of star systems left sterilized by explosions and intense radiation. The Families had made it safe enough to colonize. Humans and aliens had room to expand, no legal claims held by any species.

“The Core,” Alice whispered, smiling at Ord, no light in her face and her words leaden. “It’s a lovely place. Too many stars for me to count, little brother.”

He doubted it.

She strolled over to him. Her bare feet left narrow prints in the mud. With one hand, she held him beneath his jaw, blue eyes locked on his eyes, and with an irresistible strength she brought him to his feet, a cold voice telling him, “You could grow a tail. I could activate the old genes, and you’d grow one now. You have that power.”

“I don’t understand,” Ord whispered. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” She let go of him and turned away, her gown seeping a green light as night fell. “Whatever I’m talking about, little brother, it isn’t tails. You can be certain of it.”

 

 

“Then what?”

Ord breathed and said, “Then we talked about tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“About snowfare—”

“Nothing else about the Core?” Lyman was pacing, Ord watching him while sitting on his brother’s enormous bed. “Well, at least now we know where she came from. If she is telling the truth, of course.”

Why wouldn’t she?

“‘I’m not talking about tails.’ Is that what she said?”

Ord nodded. “Basically.”

“War.” His brother’s voice was ominous. Soft. “She was at the Core, and some kind of war broke out.”

“I don’t think so.”

Lyman stopped and stared at him. “Why not?”

All he could offer was, “I have a feeling. It’s something else entirely, I’m sure.”

Lyman glanced at his girlfriends.

“Alice gave me a plan,” Ord continued. “For tomorrow. It involves Ravleen—”

“But what else did she say about the Core?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Ord shook his head, trying to appear certain.

Lyman picked up one of the girlfriends, then he set her down again.

“What you need to do,” Alice had told Ord, “is earn your redemption. With the Golds, and Ravleen too. And here’s how you can do it, easily.” Although to him it had seemed like a complicated scheme—

—and now Lyman moaned, “Something awful is happening. And that’s why she’s come here, no doubt about it.” He wiped the perspiration from his face. “It’s one of the aliens, or all of them. They’ve decided to fight us for the Core.”

But wouldn’t they have seen trouble on the universal-walls? Ord couldn’t believe such a thing would remain secret.

“Whatever it is,” Lyman promised, “I’m going to make a general call. For any nearby adults. I’ll tell them … nothing … and ask them to hurry home at once … .”

It wasn’t war; Ord was sure.

He remembered how their sister had kept saying, “Redemption,” again and again. That powerful creature had stood in front of him, her gown soiled with the white muds; and she had assured him, “You must be redeemed. It’s all my fault, but I can make everything better for you.”

Her inadequate face was somewhere else, it eyes closing.

“Redemption,” she had muttered one last time.

It wasn’t a god’s face, or a god’s voice; and Ord had felt so very sorry for her, and everyone.

7

Our mountains have shrunk since I last saw them. There’s been erosion, of course, and the crust beneath has slumped … and I was tempted to fix them, at first glance … with my proverbial pinkie, I could lift these dead lumps of stone into space, if I wished, and fling them into the sun … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

Ravleen wore a simple cast and sling, down to one good shoulder and arm; yet somehow she seemed larger today, more dangerous, walking in front of her assembled troops, not speaking. A light dry snow was falling. Ravleen paused and let herself smile for a moment, looking at the high gray clouds. Then she said, “I need to know what’s happening.” She said, “I need a patrol. Two people. Volunteers.”

Ord glanced at Xo, then down at his own boots.

“Who wants to?” Ravleen continued. “Anyone?”

With a sense of drama, Xo stepped forward.

“Good.” The smile brightened. “Now pick your partner.”

“Ord.”

“Wrong choice,” she responded. Then she motioned to her lieutenant, saying, “Tule will go with you.”

The girl gave a confused low moan.

“We have three minutes,” Ravleen warned them. “Take radios and rations and drop over the south wall. I want reports. Find out what the Blues are doing. And harass them, always.”

Tule was a good soldier; she managed a nod of affirmation.

Xo stepped up to Ord, saying, “I tried. Too bad you can’t come, it’ll be exciting out there.”

“I bet so.”

Xo looked at his eyes, asking, “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Ord lied. “I just wish I was with you.”

“Except you’re not,” Ravleen growled, marching up to punch Ord with her good arm. She smacked his shoulder, in warning, then said, “I want you here with me. You know I do, friend.”

 

 

The Blues fired early—a few moments early—and their cannon slug hit a girl in the back. Everyone yelled, “Violation!” But she was just stunned, little harm done. Then Ravleen said, “Positions,” and waved them over to the south wall. “Go.”

Tule and Xo dropped rope ladders and started down. Tule was slow and clumsy, catching her leg when her ladder twisted. Xo hit the pasture and ran; and an instant later the Blues saw him, voices screaming, their cannons turned and firing as their troops charged from two sides.

“Run,” shouted Ravleen. “Pick up your feet, Tule. Go.”

Blue-faced targets swept into range. Ord shot well, wondering if Alice was helping his aim. But she had promised not to help, not that way, and he missed often enough to believe it was all him. Tule was hit and hit again, and she would fall and pick herself up and take a sloppy step before falling again. But Xo never slowed, never looked backward. He sprinted into deep snow, and Ord saw him leap off the first cliff—a fair drop, but cushioned by drifts—and he saw a pair of Blues on his trail, firing from the cliff and jumping after him.

Tule was down for good. The Blues surrounded her, kicking her even when she cried out, “Give, give.”

Ord stopped firing. He found himself watching the battle with a sense of detachment. Poor Tule was picked up and carried away. The other Blues fired and retreated, glad to have their first prisoner. All this noise and energy seemed to amount to nothing. Ord felt indifferent. Suddenly he was thinking about Alice, and the Core; and sometimes, in secret, he spoke to his sister, certain that she could hear him.

The bombardment resumed. Squad B manned the cannons until Ravleen replaced them with C. “From now on,” she told them, “you’ve got a new job.”

Nobody spoke.

“Take the keep apart. Make blocks out of the snow.” She etched her plan in the rampart’s ice. “Stack the blocks here. And here. And get it done this morning.”

One boy said, “We’d rather fight.”

Ravleen stared at Ord. “For now, no. No.”

The squad bristled but said nothing.

And their leader popped Ord in the head, using her hard cast. “Then I’ve got another lousy job for you,” she promised. “For the afternoon, and you’ll like it even less.”

 

 

Xo eluded his pursuers for a few hours, but they were faster than him, easily tracking him in the deep snow. In the early afternoon, both prisoners were carried up to the pasture, gagged and blindfolded, then set in plain view under a tiny white flag. “You’re next,” the Blues called out in a practiced voice. “We’ll melt your fort and then you, Golds. Soon.”

Tule was embarrassed. It showed. And undoubtedly Xo was inventing excuses to explain his capture.

A new assault began on the east, but Ord’s squad saw none of it. They were below, doing work meant for robots, hands cold despite their gloves and their backs aching from the hard cutting and lifting. Everyone said, “The big attack is tomorrow. Tomorrow.” There was excitement, and nervousness, but it was all just a game. This was a prattle used for decades, and it had to be the same kind of noise Alice had made when she was like them.

“Tomorrow,” they told each other.

But not Ord.

They consciously ignored him, and he discovered that he didn’t care like he should care. It was as if there was a traitor inside him, and the traitor announced itself with, of all things, indifference.

 

 

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Ord replied. “How’s prison?”

Xo shrugged and removed his mask. “Tiny. Boring. Cold.”

“Too bad.” They were in the trees above the pasture, on the main trail. From here the fort looked strong, tall and secretive, the rotting east wall showing only the faint beginnings of a slump. Ord had been the last one to leave it, and he had sat here, waiting for Xo. Alice had promised that the boy would come this way, out of habit. And he would be alone, Tule walking anywhere but with him. “How did they catch you?” Ord asked. “What went wrong?”

“They cheated, I think. Illegal equipment, I’m almost sure.”

“Should we report them?” You went to your siblings who in turn complained to theirs. “We could tell your brothers—”

“Later. Maybe.”

Ord nodded and stood up.

“How’s Ravleen? Still furious with you?”

Ord removed his mask, pointing to some of his bruises.

“I hate her,” Xo promised. “I wish you’d broken both arms.”

“Maybe I will.”

They began to walk. Some noise came from the city—the musical rise and fall of a siren—then the snowfall blotted it out, or it ceased.

Xo said, “I wish we were done.”

“So do I.”

“They’ve stuck me into a prison box. It’s ridiculous.”

Boxes were cramped and soundproofed, the heat bled out of them.

“I’m bored,” the boy complained.

Ord paused and looked at Xo, then he looked everywhere else. Then just as Alice had told him, he said, “We can be home by noon tomorrow, if you want.”

A hopeful little smile surfaced.

“Ravleen has a plan.”

Xo said, “That’s against the rules,” and laughed, shaking his head. “I’m a prisoner of war. You can’t tell me anything.”

They weren’t far from where Xo had begged to be hit with the careful stone. “We’re shoring up the east wall. Making it strong again.”

“How?”

“With the keep. Except it doesn’t have enough snow.” He paused, then said, “That’s why we’re robbing snow from the west wall. It’s got too much anyway. Remember my gargoyle?” He drew a dramatic X on the boy’s chest. “It’s thinnest below the gargoyle.”

Xo wasn’t speaking, or breathing. This was against every rule, and the wickedness was delicious. He smiled and then stopped smiling, as if someone might notice; and he asked, “How thin is thin?”

“Like this.” Ord put up his hands.

“She’ll know I told. Ravleen will.”

“How can you know anything?” Ord countered. “If Ravleen tells Tule anything, then Tule’s the likely suspect.”

“But will the Blues believe me?”

“Maybe not, but it’s easy enough to test. And if you’re right, they might not have time to cut a hole through the east wall anyway.”

The boy stepped back and looked around, shivering as if he was cold.

“Who knows?” he muttered. “Maybe I’ll crack. First thing in the morning, before they put me in that stupid box.”

8

Boredom can claim some of the blame. What new challenges had we attacked in the last thousand millennia? And there was a genuine urge to accomplish something good. And most important was the idea itself. The plan. We were intoxicated. Drunk and in love, it seemed so perfectly possible and lovely to us … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

A single set of stairs climbed to the penthouse, in a tight spiral, the stairwell itself decorated with an elaborate mural. Yesterday, Ord was too nervous to pay attention. Today, the mural seemed to force itself on him, showing him various Chamberlains caught in the midst of historic and heroic acts. He saw worlds rebuilt, aliens embraced, and the far edges of the galaxy explored. His own motions caused the scenes to change, the artwork fluid and theoretically infinite; and riding on a single step, hand on the polished railing, Ord found it all quite strange, thinking of the care spent on a mural that almost no one ever saw.

He was deposited at the penthouse door. Touching the milky crystal, he said, “It’s working. Just like you promised.”

The door dissolved, Alice standing before him.

“It’s working,” he repeated, breathing in little gulps. “Did you watch everything?”

“Enough of it.” Something was different now. Worrisome. Alice wore a heavy dark robe, the room beyond black, unbordered, and cold. But she did smile at him, telling him, “Thank you,” and then, “I’m glad it’s going well,” with a mixture of pride and pleasure. She was watching a point beside him, saying, “That Nuyen is a fool. Don’t you agree?”

Ord felt uneasy, saying nothing.

“I would invite you inside,” Alice continued, “but this isn’t a good time. I am sorry.”

Her face seemed simple, worn down. If she’d had red eyes, he would have guessed that she had been crying. And perhaps she was crying, in a fashion. He reminded himself how little of her was visible, and he asked, “Are you all right?”

Her eyes tracked toward him, no other response offered.

Ord stepped backward and dropped his gaze.

“I’m just distracted,” Alice explained, “and tired. My long trip has caught up with me at last.”

That seemed very unlikely.

And she told him, “Tomorrow, once you’re done fighting, I want you cto come tell me everything, little brother. I promise. We’ll have a celebration, to enjoy your triumph.” She paused, then said, “Stop worrying, please. Everything will be fine.”

He said, “I know,” without confidence.

Then the door began to reform as she said, “Good night.” For an instant, it sounded as if she were crying. But then he realized, with cynicism, that someone like Alice might conjure any emotion, put on any face … sadness was just a different kind of creation … .

He pushed the thought aside, turned and stepped back onto the stairs.

 

 

Two robots waited in Ord’s room—security models—and with gray voices, in unison, they said, “You’re wanted in the main arena. No, don’t change clothes. Go now.”

“Who’s there?” he stammered.

“Lyman, and the others.” The robots were silent, probably asking what they could tell him. “Several hundred adults have arrived today. They wish to speak with you.”

The main arena was underground, deep inside the Chamberlain mountain—a vast room with seating for twenty thousand, false granite and perfect wood covering the walls and arched ceiling—and the brothers and sisters looked inconsequential with so much space around them. They sat in a block before the stage, and Ord had to wonder: Why here? Why not in a smaller arena? But then he realized this was as far from the penthouse as any place, which might be important. Were security baffles in use? From the stage a single brother waved at him. Lyman. Sitting beside him was a sister, a giant figure, three meters tall and built out of light and conjured flesh. “Up here,” said Lyman. “We’re just starting.”

Every step was hard work, every breath a labor.

“Ord?” said the giant sister. “My name is Vivian. Eleven hundred and twenty.”

Eleven twenty was nothing. He felt like telling her that he wasn’t impressed, that he knew their Twelve and that she was nothing beside Alice. And maybe Vivian read his thoughts, taking his hand and squeezing, her hand feeling like heated plastic, almost burning him before she said, “I’m glad to meet you.” Her presence was tangible, her energies making the air and stage vibrate. “Sit, if you would. Sit here and talk with us.”

A chair appeared between his brother and sister.

Lyman leaned close and said, “Relax.”

A couple of hundred faces watched them. The oldest adults were giants, wearing Chamberlain faces and bodies out of tradition. To be mannerly. Vivian had the highest rank, it seemed. Now she leaned forward, telling Ord, “Your big brother did what was right, you know. Perhaps he should have warned us sooner, but we understand. We do.”

“What do you want?” Ord whispered.

“We need your help,” Vivian explained. “I understand that our sister likes you? That for some reason she’s taken an interest in you? Not that she dislikes any of us, of course. But you’ve spoken to her—”

“Yes.”

“More than once, according to Lyman.”

“Just now, a few minutes ago.” His voice was soft and loud. He could barely hear himself, but the words were enlarged and thrown across the arena. “Is Alice in trouble?”

“Why? Do you think she should be in trouble?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

Vivian made him notice her smile. Her face was incomplete, a patch of strange gray light on one side of her forehead. “She’s come from the Core, is that right? Ord? Do you hear me?”

He nodded. “Straight from there.”

“But has she told you why she was there?”

He didn’t like Vivian; he didn’t appreciate her tone. But this was important, and he took pains to say, “She told me that she came here from there and that’s all. That’s what I know.”

Lyman leaned close again, following some script. Ord realized that he was here to put their little brother at ease, prompting him when necessary, and he was sick with worry and exhaustion. “She was at the Core,” he muttered. “We know it now.”

“We’re certain,” Vivian echoed.

“She was working on a special project,” Lyman continued. “With other Chamberlains and Sanchexes … with nearly half of the Families, no one younger than One Hundred.”

“Doing what?” the boy asked.

Lyman shut his eyes, saying nothing.

Vivian told him, “It is a secret,” with her voice betraying frustration. Yet she made herself laugh, as if to defuse the tension. As if to fool Ord. “I can’t get access to their secret, little brother. Though I have sources who claim, and with some reason, that they’re working on FTL travel.”

“It’s not possible,” Ord replied. “Nothing goes faster than light.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” his sister said. “Perhaps this is just a story meant to fool prying eyes.”

Ord felt himself sinking away.

“Eleven Chamberlains were there,” Vivian continued. “But now all except two of them have departed, including Alice. She arrived here the instant we saw her depart, but the others have taken other directions. Why? And why have the other Families departed in the same mysterious way?” She paused, then said, “I don’t know, honestly. I have questions that I would love to ask.”

Murmurs spread, then collapsed.

“Two Chamberlains are left there?” Ord managed. “Where is there?”

Everyone wanted to know. People whispered among themselves until Vivian lifted one of her hands, waiting for silence. Then she said, “They were clustered beside the central black hole, inside its envelope of gases and plasmas. They’ve been there for several thousand years, it seems. Honestly, I don’t know what type of work they were pursuing.”

Ord shifted his weight, hands wrestling with one another.

Vivian asked, “Has she given any hint of an explanation? Has our dear sister given you one clue?”

He whispered, “No.”

Then he asked, “Why can’t you ask her?”

She blinked and made a show of swallowing, then admitted, “Alice has set up barriers. A part of me is wrestling with them now, but she seems adamant to exclude everyone but you.”

Ord looked at the audience, reading the same lost, worried expressions. Even Vivian seemed like a little girl mystified by events, angered by her limitations and perhaps glad too. In secret. She could do nothing of substance. No clear responsibilities could be set on her oversized shoulders. It seemed obvious to Ord … and suddenly he wondered if it was his insight, or if perhaps Alice had given it to him.

“When do you see Alice again, little brother?”

Ord blinked, trying to remember.

Lyman appreciated his confusion, touching an arm and saying, “What’s important is that we go on with our ordinary lives. As well as we can, Ord. But Alice has come here for some reason, and if she wishes to tell us anything, we need to listen.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll see her then.”

“When you do,” Vivian instructed, “ask if she will talk with us. Will you do that for us?”

“That’s all we want,” said Lyman.

“Please,” said the giant sister.

“Please,” said two hundred mouths, in unison, whispers rising to the pink granite ceiling and echoing back down at them again.

9

Ian rarely told war stories. But once, I remember, coming home after a hard day’s snowball fight, he found me on the yard, stopped me, and launched into a long tale about finding our enemies hiding in a certain solar system. They had built redoubts out of worlds, and he explained how he had grabbed comets, accelerating them to near-light velocities … how he had pummeled worlds until their crusts melted, our enemies slaughtered … and he wept at the end, and shook, still ashamed of his cruelty while his audience, this little girl, kept thinking what an enormous, wonderful snowball fight that must have been … !

—Alice’s testimony

 

In all but name, the Golds won the war that next morning.

The Electric Blues stuck to their old battle plan, troops charging the east wall and artillery firing from the west. But there was no final assault. When it seemed inevitable, there was a pause, a sudden lull, then the sound of motion, troops scrambling over slick terrain on the south. There was little pretense of subterfuge. Ravleen and Ord stood together on the south wall, and one of them smiled beneath her mask, satisfied with the world. The other wished he could feel relief, but there wasn’t any. Nor was there any sense of dread and foreboding, which was a constant surprise to him. It was as if Ord was empty, all the worry drained from him; sometimes he couldn’t even remember Alice or the Core, as if they had been carefully, thoroughly etched from his mind.

Ravleen noticed enough to ask, “What’s the matter?” She poked him with a finger, telling him, “You look funny. What are you thinking?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

But she didn’t press him, too happy to care. Today her cast was soft, without a sling; and with that bad arm she hugged Ord, every Gold watching them and everyone surprised.

Alice had been right.

A Sanchex would do anything for a victory, provided you left her pride intact.

“Beg for forgiveness,” his sister had instructed. “Weep. Grovel. And tell her your plan between weepy moments. Trust me, she’ll see its beauty. And she’ll take it for herself.”

For a deed that wasn’t his fault, Ord had apologized … and didn’t his pride matter too?

“It’s happening,” Ravleen whispered.

She said, “They believe the little shit.”

Then she hugged Ord again, saying, “When the time comes, stand next to me.” A wink, a smile, and she assured him, “That’s only fair.”

 

 

The Blues entered the pasture from the southwest, carrying their snowguns and grenades and finally showing their own flag, a blue rectangle flapping in the bright windy air. There was a pause as they gathered themselves, then they let out a roar, charging as cannons and mortars threw heat into the west wall. As promised, the ice beneath the gargoyle had been undermined. A squad of Blues surged through the sudden hole, excited and confident. There was moderate fire from above, plus some raucous cursing. The Golds were disconsolate, without question. The first squad beckoned for others, more than half of the Blues pouring into the courtyard, in less than a minute, marshaling and charging the flagpole, nothing between them and it but a crude little wall of fresh-cut ice——and there was a sound, wet and strong, and massive. Something was falling. A wedge of ice broke free of the west wall, sliding over the new hole as Ravleen shot to her feet, shouting:

“Fire.”

It wasn’t a fight. Ord stood behind the new wall, firing without aiming, without heart. Four squads fired double-shots at close range, knocking the enemy off their feet. Cannons on the west wall had been turned, barrels depressed, and the fourth cannon was on the ground, slugs of ice knocking people unconscious. Limbs were shattered. Facemasks and the flesh beneath were split open, blood bright against the white surfaces. And even still the Blues mounted a final charge, adrenaline carrying them over the wall, one girl able to put her hands on the pole’s knotted rope an instant before Ravleen shot her from behind, in the head, her body limp and Ord watching her fall and lie still.

In days everyone would be well again, ready to play again. Yet Ord felt sad enough to cry, watching Ravleen lead her troops across the courtyard, driving their enemies into a corner and abusing anyone with a hint of fight left in them. Then the prisoners were disarmed and tied together, and Ravleen launched an assault on the enemy cannons, capturing them and more prisoners and chasing the rest into the woods.

Ord stayed behind, guarding Blues. He sat on the trampled snow with his gun empty, and after a while he couldn’t hear the distant shouts. He watched the masked faces, thinking how the eyes looked angry and a little afraid, but not much, and even the anger seemed false. And it wasn’t because this was only a game. They were too young to know how to be truly angry or honestly scared. They were children. Sitting there, thinking thoughts that weren’t entirely his own, Ord tried to imagine a world filled with danger; and he couldn’t. The part of him that was him looked at the fort and the clear bright sky, and he couldn’t believe that this quiet wouldn’t last for all time.

10

Something did go wrong. We failed somewhere and knew it at once and could do nothing … and the worst of it was that we had time, too much time, to dwell on the failure … blaming one another, and Nature, the Almighty and even those awful people who had brought us forth into our miserable lives … !

—Alice’s testimony

 

The staircase was filled with brothers and sisters, half again as many as he had seen yesterday. The stairs were locked in place, no one moving but Ord, him climbing toward the penthouse and no one speaking louder than a whisper. “Good luck,” they told him. The freckled, red-haired faces were grim and tired in many ways, and the climb seemed to last for ages. Halfway to the top, Ord was crying, wiping at his eyes with alternating sleeves. “Be strong,” the whispers demanded. Yet the Chamberlain faces seemed anything but strong, in stark contrast to the heroic images in the mural. Lyman was the last face, Ord recognizing the long hair and something in the voice, his brother saying, “We’re proud of you, you know.”

Vivian emerged from the wall beside them, still tall, stepping out of the mural as if it was syrup and bending until her giant face was near enough to kiss Ord. “Alice is waiting, I think. That much I can see, I think.” She paused, and the gray patch on her forehead brightened. “Listen to what she tells you, ask questions, and please tell her how much we’d like to see her. Soon.”

Ord looked down the stairwell, faces watching him; then he thought to ask, “What’s happening in the Core? Do you know?

Nobody spoke.

He looked at Vivian. “What can you see now?”

“Nothing new,” she lied. Looking as winded as Ord felt, she sighed and put a large warm hand on his back, shepherding him toward the crystal door. “Good luck, little brother. You’ll do well.”

The doorway dissolved as it re-formed behind him. He stopped, then the blackness was washed away with starlight. In an instant, with a faint dry sound, grass erupted from the twisting floor and grew seeds, the air filled with summer sounds and dampness. The stars were brilliant and colorful, and countless, separated by light-weeks, or less. At the sky’s zenith was an oval, not large, velvety black and vague at its edges. This was the Core, Ord knew, and the oval was the giant shroud draped over the central black hole. This sky could be a live image—

“Exactly so,” said a voice, close and soft.

—and around him was a terraformed world. Ord knelt and broke off a stem of grass, putting it to his mouth, tasting the green juice. It was earthly life. And as if to prove that point, an insect landed on his face and bit him, drawing blood before he swatted it, the little body smearing under his fingers.

“Walk,” Alice instructed. “Straight on.”

The room was a hilltop, and there were people—his size, his proportions—sitting in the brilliant darkness, watching the sky. It was a peaceful scene, familiar yet tied to an exotic place; and Ord was afraid, pausing and his heart beating faster.

“Who are they?” he whispered.

Alice was silent.

“Hello?” he tried.

A boy turned and said, “Hi. Who are you?”

Ord stepped close and gave his first name. The group repeated, “Ord,” as Alice said, “Sit with them.”

They weren’t people but instead facsimiles conjured up with the grass and bugs. Below them was a city, a sprinkling of soft lights and darkness between. It was a pioneer community, not large, homes set in the middle of wide rich yards. A tiny crescent moon was rising over distant mountains. It seemed like a lovely world, larger than the Earth, its gravity stronger and the air tasting clean and new.

Faces smiled. The facsimiles weren’t too different from him, their heads narrow and their hair abundant and long, tied into intricate braids that leaked their own soft light. They were the children of pioneers, the first generation born on this world. Like Ord, they had tough brains and rapid powers of healing. Like him, they could be decades old, no inherent end in their lives. But they’d never leave their flesh, they could only travel in starships, and if they wanted to terraform any world larger than a comet, they would have to work in teams, as a multitude, relying on numbers in place of Chamberlain skills.

And yet.

Someday they would have children. Not clones, but unique, even radical babies. They would marry and make families—institutions older than any Chamberlain—and each child would be unlike anyone on any of the million living worlds.

Ord felt envy, or Alice fed envy to him. Probably before he was old enough to leave the Earth, these children would fill this world with their descendants; then the multitudes would spill onto that little moon and whatever else circled the unseen sun. A great green explosion of life … and before Ord could hope to visit, this place would become mature and crowded … .

“You look warm,” the facsimile boy observed. “Why don’t you take off that silly suit?”

The snowsuit was damp with perspiration. Ord stripped to his underclothes, then he sat with them on the warm bristly grass. Without prompting, the others introduced themselves, by name, the last small girl saying, “Alice,” and then, “Chamberlain.”

She was dark as coal. “Chamberlain?” Ord echoed. “Is that your real name?”

“Of course,” she replied. “A lot of people are named after the Families. At least here they are.”

“You’re not from here,” said a second girl. “Are you?”

“But that’s okay,” said the boy, acting like their leader. “We like meeting people.”

Ord asked, “Why use the Chamberlain name?”

“In thanks,” she answered.

“Because,” said the boy, “the Chamberlains help make all these suns behave. They keep gas from falling into the black holes. And we’re very, very grateful for their help. Aren’t we grateful?”

His friends nodded in unison, with fervor.

“Who terraformed this world?” Ord inquired.

“Alice,” the children giggled. “The real one.”

Then the boy added, “We’re buying it from her.” He spoke with pride, as if to say, “We buy only from the best.”

The false Alice looked nothing like Ord’s sister. Her face was as narrow as an ax blade, big black eyes reflecting starlight. Ord asked, “Have you ever seen Alice? Does she visit you?”

“Not now,” the girl giggled. “Why would she?”

“What do you think of her?”

“She’s a wonderful great person,” the boy reported, no room for compromise. “Everyone knows that.”

“I pray for her,” the dark Alice confessed. “Every night, just before I sleep, I wish her nothing but the best.”

Everyone nodded. Conviction hung thick in the air.

“Where’s Alice now?”

Hands lifted, pointing to the cold black smear overhead.

“What is she doing there?”

“Working,” said the boy. “With Chamberlains and other Families. Doing important experiments.” He was pleased to report this news. “They’ve found ways to move faster than light. Easily.”

Everyone but the dark Alice murmured in agreement.

“Soon,” said the boy, “we’ll be able to go anywhere. The Families will put the entire universe in our reach.”

“No,” said Alice.

Faces turned.

She had a quiet, firm voice. “That’s not what they’re doing.”

The other children seemed surprised, but no one had a rebuke to offer.

“It’s much more important than FTL. A million times more.” Suddenly she had his sister’s face, round and pale. Nobody else noticed. Looking at Ord, she asked, “Why can’t everyone have Alice’s powers?”

“It’s a rule,” he responded.

“But why?”

He paused, thinking hard. “If everyone was like Alice—”

“—there wouldn’t be room in this galaxy. Every Alice needs energy and space and fancy work to do.” The real Alice took Ord’s hand, squeezing and explaining, “This galaxy is just too small of a pasture. If we want to be like her, we need more grass.”

Some of the children laughed.

Ord swallowed and asked, “But if we could go anywhere—?”

“Everywhere has life already. Everywhere has its Families and its multitudes, no room for the likes of Alice.” She shrugged, sadness showing on her face. “Certainly not for trillions and trillions of full-grown Alices.”

Ord nodded, glancing at the black smear.

“But there’s something better than FTL,” she promised. “Put enough energy into a tiny place, in just the proper way, and a fresh young universe will precipitate from nothing. Am I right, little brother?”

He remembered something mentioned by his tutor. It was a theory, ancient but useless; vacuums themselves could create universes that would separate from theirs. An umbilical cord would exist, then dissolve, and it happened constantly, too swift to notice.

Ord felt a sudden chill.

“The trick,” said Alice, “is to keep your umbilical open. What’s the good in making a new universe that you can’t see? Wouldn’t it be nice if you could enter it and learn what’s possible? Can you imagine the challenges? The potentials? For everyone, of course … .”

Alice was weeping, wiping her face with both hands.

A little boy said, “I don’t understand you.”

“Imagine if everyone, every Family and all of humanity, could extend themselves into endless new universes. Each of us might have our own, each with its own wonders. Each of you would be given Alice’s powers, then more, and you could dive down the cord and close it up after you, if you dared.” She grabbed Ord’s hand, her hands cold and wet. “Isn’t that the loveliest sweetest possibility? What would you do, little one, if you had it in your power to make it true?”

Something is wrong—

—and she said, “Precisely,” with a dead gray voice. “As wrong as wrong has ever been, I should hope.”

Again he looked at the black oval, a single golden spark blossoming at its center. But it faded and vanished, lost … an illusion, he told himself … nothing else … !

Alice turned to the children, explaining to them, “We succeeded. We created a universe and the umbilical cord. But what’s difficult, perhaps even impossible, is to leave the way open just enough. No more than the perfect amount, you pray.”

The sky brightened. A great soundless flash of light obscured the stars, blue-white and sudden, and the children began to mutter among themselves, and moan.

Alice was saying, “Our universe might be someone’s creation. Not an original thought, I admit … but perhaps some other Family, in some unknown place, produced this … perhaps they preside over us now … just as their universe was created in turn … .”

The children had hands lifted over their eyes. They weren’t real children, just facsimiles; yet Ord found himself terrified for them, leaping to his feet, shouting, “Run! Hide!” He grabbed one little boy, trying to make him start for home. But the first wave of heat and hard radiations pierced them. In an instant, the long grass had burst into flames, and the boy squirmed in agony, then died, his body shriveled and blackened, blowing away as ash. And Ord screamed as the world beneath him evaporated. He felt it shatter, an inconsequential bit of grime; and he was twisting in the scalding light, screaming until a familiar soft voice whispered:

“Relax.”

Alice said:

“The new universe has flowed into ours, for just this moment.”

And with a pained dead voice, she told him:

“You don’t know how sorry we feel … you can’t know … tell everyone, please … will you, little one?”

 

 

Only Lyman was waiting for him. The others had seen the same feed, had gone to the nearest arena to watch the walls. The two brothers stood at the top of the empty stairwell, both trembling, Lyman holding the wall with his hands, saying with a wisp of a voice, “At least we know. We know what it is.”

Ord held himself, soaked with perspiration and wearing nothing but his underclothes.

“Vivian thinks it’s temporary … it won’t last … .” Lyman couldn’t stand anymore, dropping to his knees and beating the floor with his fists, no strength in his arms. Finally, he asked, “Will Alice talk to us now?”

“I don’t know,” Ord confessed. Then he tried to apologize with a low choking voice.

But his brother didn’t care. He shrugged and said, “You don’t know how terrible this is going to be. Nobody can.”

Nobody?

“Which is a blessing, I think.” Another useless blow to the floor, then Lyman looked up at him. “If we knew, we couldn’t live. The grief would crush us, Ord. No one could survive a moment, knowing how awful this will be … .”

11

We accepted our duty, at last. A few of us remained behind, fighting to close the umbilical even when we knew it couldn’t be closed prematurely … heroic deaths after a catastrophic blunder … and the bulk of us rushed toward places distant and populated, places where we could save other lives … and then it was decided that one of us, a volunteer, should journey home, home to the Earth, for the express purpose of standing trial, to admit guilt in a public way … hundreds of billions doomed, human and alien, and a single soul promising to swallow as much blame as possible … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

In the morning, before the local dawn, the Chamberlain mansion sent word to the government that Alice was barricaded in the penthouse. A chaotic, oftentimes bitter group of elected officials decided that high-ranking Nuyens would accompany the appropriate legal officers. The suspected murderess would be arrested, hopefully without incident. That no existing prison could hold her was deemed a minor problem. More than once, in soft dry voices, the officers remarked that if a Twelve wished, she could leave the Earth a vivid red drop of liquid stone and iron.

It had been a clear cold night in the high mountains. That oddity of climate helped make the officers even more uneasy, stepping onto the famous ground and seeing the house, vast and brilliant in the early light. Huge bear-dogs watched them with indifference. The much less impressed Nuyens led the way, taking them under the PRIDE AND SACRIFICE emblem and upstairs. A single Chamberlain—a sister of modest rank—joined their strange procession, telling everyone how sorry she was and how this wasn’t anyone’s fault except for a tiny few members of many, many Families.

“Not our Family,” responded one of the Nuyens.

Vivian glared at the speaker, then turned and put the stairs into motion again.

 

 

Ord watched them pass. Dressed in a clean snowsuit, he was standing in the hallway, sleepless but alert. Everyone ignored him, and when they were above he stepped into the stairwell, leaned over the railing and watched how they curled higher and higher, his eyes losing them with distance and the glare of the lights.

As always, the bear-dogs begged for attention.

He ignored them, hurrying to the tube and running fast through the sunny woods, then across the pasture. But only Ravleen was waiting at the fort. She was sitting on the west wall, her cast removed, her eyes red and sleepless. “You’re late,” she warned, then smiled. Then she told him with a strong certain voice, “That explosion won’t reach us here. It’s not large enough.”

Ord knew that already.

“We did calculations,” she continued. “It’s a lot like a supernova, only bigger. Hotter. Dust clouds and distance will keep the Earth safe.”

And the melted planets, he thought. And the dead people.

“What are you thinking?”

Ord looked over the pasture. Yesterday’s bootprints gave the snow a ragged, exhausted appearance. “Nobody’s going to attack today,” he ventured.

“If they do,” Ravleen said, “we’ll stop them.”

“I was tired of being at home,” he confessed, swallowing with a tight dry throat. “I watched my wall all night—”

“Talk about something else,” Ravleen warned him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The red eyes looked out of the clean gold mask. “Let’s just sit and say nothing.”

A light breeze lifted their flag, then dropped it. On a day like this, Ord knew, they should have heard city sounds; but not this morning, and the silence was unnerving. Everyone everywhere was scared. It wasn’t just the explosion or the deaths, it also was the Peace itself. Would it survive? The sacred trusts had been violated, but could some sense of normalcy return? And when? And what about the Families themselves—?

A slow creaking made Ord blink and turn. Someone was climbing one of the rope ladders. Ravleen picked up her snowgun, watching the familiar figure scramble over the parapet to join them.

“Ah,” she growled, “the traitor.”

Ord was surprised to see Xo. He should be the last Gold willing to come here. But he stood before them, smiling so that they could see his teeth, saying, “I escaped.” He was nervous and obvious, forcing a laugh before he said, “A legal escape. Nobody came to guard me this morning.”

Ravleen kept her hand on the gun.

Xo told her, “Congratulations for winning.” Then he turned to Ord, adding, “Our plan sure worked, didn’t it?”

“What plan?” asked Ravleen.

“Didn’t you tell her?” The boy acted horrified. He removed his mask to show his expression, saying, “We planned it together, Ravleen. I would pretend to be a traitor, and Ord—”

“Shut up.”

“—Ord would go to you—”

“You’re lying. Shut up.”

The boy closed his mouth, then grinned. Ord saw the new tooth, whiter than the others, and something about the grin made him bristle.

“I’m no traitor,” Xo told them.

Nobody spoke.

Then he said, “Your Families were the ringleaders.” The tone was superior and a little shrill. “We didn’t even help you. I heard all about it. My brothers and sisters were talking, and they said they warned you that it was dangerous and they didn’t want any part of it—”

“Quiet,” Ord snapped.

“—and you did it anyway. And did it wrong.”

Ravleen stared down into the courtyard.

Xo swallowed and straightened his back, then with great satisfaction said, “Now you’ll have to pay for the damages and deaths. All your wealth is going to be spent, and you’ll be poor. You won’t even be Families anymore! It’s as if we set a trap, and in you walked—!”

Ravleen shot him in the head, no warnings. She put twin slugs into his mouth, knocking him off the wall. Then she stood and looked down at Xo, sprawled out on his back, and she winked at Ord, saying, “Watch.” And she jumped after him, feet first, boots landing on the boy’s chest and her momentum shattering ribs and lungs and the heart beneath her.

His chest crushed, Xo flung his arms into the air, hands grasping at nothing and then falling limp.

Ravleen began to kick him. His body had died, past all suffering; but she worked on the face with a sick thoroughness, without pause, kicking and kicking until she was finally exhausted; then she stepped back and looked up on the wall, telling Ord, “You can help me.”

Except that Ord wasn’t standing there. It was a sister, some other Chamberlain, and she smiled without smiling, eyes full of misery and joy.

“Help you?” she asked, pleased with this most tiny revenge.

Then she said, “Another time, perhaps. But thank you for offering.”

12

I watched them force the penthouse door. I watched them not find me. I did enjoy their panic, I’ll admit, but in all honesty I wasn’t actually hiding from them. And then one of the Nuyens engaged her treacherous little brain and decided to look inside the original mansion, the majority of me waiting in my one-time bedroom, peering outdoors at a vivid cold winter from ten million years ago … .

—Alice’s testimony

 

The city was trees, towering green trees with natural chambers in the trunks and large branches, tiny luxury apartments housing several million smallish people with prehensile tails and strong limbs. Almost everyone was inside, watching the live feeds from the Core. For a long while, Ord walked unnoticed down a wide avenue, feeling like the last living person on the planet. He left his snowsuit on, wiping sweat from his eyes. A small park opened up before him, and he saw motion, then tiny brown shapes. He approached the children with a certain caution, practicing his smile, and when they saw him, they stopped and stared. Too young to watch the Core and understand, they also were too young to recognize a Chamberlain on sight. One boy laughed and said, “You look funny. What kind of person are you?”

“Are you sick?” asked a young girl.

“Funny hair,” said a third child. “Sick funny hair!”

Ord took a breath and held it. There were nearly a dozen children gawking at him. To the boy who had said You look funny, he said, “Here,” and handed him the old snowgun. “For you.”

“What is it?” the boy sputtered.

Ord didn’t explain. Removing his boots, he asked, “Who wants these?”

A tiny hand reflexively shot up.

He gave away his boots, then his mask. Then he removed his snowsuit, and paused, and told his astonished little audience, “I am sorry. I want you to know, I’m sorry.”

They didn’t understand why he should apologize, but the words were locked in their minds.

“And Alice is sorry too,” he added, flinging the snowsuit behind them and turning, running off on bare feet as the children began making claims and counterclaims for this strange unusable prize.

Ord trotted back to the estate, the mountains and the snow.

And only then, gazing out of the jungle at the towering white ridges, did he realize that he’d never seen his home from this vantage point. From outside. And he ran faster, crossing a line, the first wet pancakes of snow burning his toes, causing him to run faster still.