Chapter Sixty-Three

 

Mirsky and the three other "defectors" had been given small spherical quarters in the Central City Wald. Three Geshel homorphs—two females and one of uncertain sex—had been assigned to host them and guide their short-term education and accustomization.

Mirsky sat within his sphere, tuned to various channels of picted information—some translated for them by pedagog partials of their hosts. He and Rodzhensky had accepted temporary implants to help speed tutoring and interpretation. They watched and listened and said little. Rodzhensky stayed close to him, while Rimskaya—the American with the feminine name—kept aloof. The others he paid little attention to. They were very small ciphers in a huge mystery.

The hosts came to them, incarnate to minimize alarm, and taught brief, high density classes while their guests absorbed as much as they could.

The sense of urgency was thick in the air; except for their hosts, the Geshels paid little attention to the defectors. The Wald was almost deserted, most of its occupants taking new work positions to ready the precincts for whatever might come.

The reports from the farthest-flung defense stations had reached the now-divided Axis City. The Jarts had opened a remote gate and allowed the deep interior plasma of a star to enter the Way.

It would take about seventy hours for the destruction to reach the end of the Way, but the occupants of the Geshel precincts of the Axis City had to decide their course of action quickly. If they wished to remain in the Way, and not give it over to the Jarts, they had to have their precincts up to at least one-third light-speed before encountering the plasma front.

With the entry of star's material into the Way, the plasma temperature would drop considerably below the level required for fusing, but would still remain in the neighborhood of nine hundred thousand degrees. The passage of the Geshel precincts would change that, however.

When they actually hit the front, their space-time shock wave would smash the superhot plasma into a thin film. The film, lining the Way after their passage, heated to temperatures far beyond those necessary for fusion, would then fill the Way with an even more powerful plasma. In effect, the precincts would convert the plasma and the Way into a tube-shaped nova.

Mirsky, trying to keep track of the public discussions, thought their plans were deliriously, deliciously insane. Whether he died or not seemed minor; he was in the middle of a grand scheme, far more ostentatious than anything he could ever have imagined.

The Geshel politicians, given their freedom by the secessionists, made frantic plans. There had to be sufficient shielding front and rear to prevent the precincts' being flooded with hard radiation; that would place a heavy strain on the four main flaw generators left to them, which would be burdened enough with having to contact the flaw at such high velocities. Could it be done?

Yes, the physicists decided. But just barely.

There would also have to be shielding along the flaw passage. The flaw itself would be emitting very high levels of lethal radiation. Could all the required shielding be maintained?

Yes. But with even stronger reservations.

Despite the doubts, there was a surprising consensus among the precinct's occupants. They did not wish to return to Earth; they looked to the future, not the past. And having fought Jarts for centuries, they were not about to give up the Way to them now.

Rimskaya, drifting through the woods outside his sphere, avoided hearing all the details. He prayed devoutly, not caring who saw him or what their reaction was. His principal worry was, could God hear prayers spoken outside of normal space-time? Would there come a moment when they were completely cut off from God?

His assigned host, a female homorph, kept her distance at his request, realizing there was little she could do to assure him.

For her, his questions fell into an extinct classification of knowledge, as meaningless as how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.

Waiting for the news of the final plans to reach them, Rodzhensky and Mirsky floated a few meters from each other in the greenery. A macrame pattern of light-snakes brightened a deep three-dimensional glade beyond their quarters, casting leaf shadows over them.

Mirsky studied the young corporal carefully, noting the shine of his skin, the loose excitement around his lips, the way his eyes started from his face. The future is a drug for him, Mirsky thought. Was it that way for himself, as well?

"I understand so little," Rodzhensky confided, pulling himself along a branch closer to Mirsky's position in a crook. "But I feel I will understand—and they are so helpful! We are strange to them—don't you feel that? But they welcome us!"

"We're novelties," Mirsky said. He did not want to exhibit his own misgivings to the corporal. His own heart beat faster each time he thought of what they faced.

The female homorph assigned to the morose American tracted toward them.

"Your friend worries me," she said. "We're considering returning him to your people. . . . He won't admit it, but I think he's made the wrong decision."

"Give him time," Mirsky said. "We've all left a lot behind. We'll be very homesick. I'll talk to him."

"I will, too," Rodzhensky said enthusiastically.

"No," Mirsky said, holding up his hand. "Just me. We talked when I negotiated with the Americans, and we volunteered together."

Rodzhensky, abashed, agreed with a sharp nod.

Mirsky knocked on the pearl-colored translucent outer surface of the sphere. Within, Rimskaya answered, "Yes? What?" in English.

"Pavel Mirsky."

"No more talking, please."

"We don't have much time. Either you go back now, or you face up to our decision."

"Leave me alone."

"May I come in?"

The sphere's door dilated and Mirsky pulled himself inside. "They'll be leaving soon," he said. "There won't be any choice after they get started—you'll be here forever."

Rimskaya looked terrible—pale, his red hair sticking out in all directions, his face scruffy with a four-day's growth of beard. "I'm staying," he said. "I've made up my mind."

"That's what I told your hostess."

"You're speaking for me?"

"No."

"What does it matter to you? You're back from the dead. You don't give a damn about your position—your own people tried to kill you. Me, I've left. . . responsibilities, loyalties."

"Why?" Mirsky asked.

"Shit, I don't know."

"Maybe I do."

Rimskaya regarded him doubtfully.

"You want to see the ultimate," Mirsky said.

Rimskaya simply stared, neither confirming nor denying.

"You, me, Rodzhensky, maybe even the woman—we're misfits. We aren't happy with just living one life. We reach out." He held up a grasping hand. "I always wanted to see the stars."

"You wanted to see stars, so you went into space to fight a war!" Rimskaya said. "We don't know what we'll see. More of this godforsaken corridor." He wrapped his face in his hands. "All my life, I've been a hard-liner. Everyone thought I was a passionless old. . . asshole. Math and sociology and university. My life, held within four walls. When I was sent to the Stone—God, what an experience! And then this opportunity. . .”

"We know it will be interesting, far beyond what we could find on Earth."

"The others are going back to save Earth," Rimskaya said, fists curled tight against his sides.

"That makes us irresponsible? Perhaps. But no more so than all the people in this half of the city."

Rimskaya shrugged. "Look, I've made my decision, and I'm sticking with it. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"That's all I wanted to hear," Mirsky said.

"Are you wearing the implant they gave you?" Rimskaya asked.

Mirsky pulled his right ear forward and turned his head to show he was.

"I still have mine," Rimskaya said. He opened one fist to reveal the peanut-sized device.

"You'll need it," Mirsky said. He lingered a moment longer, and the American slowly raised the implant to his head and positioned it behind his ear.