Alien Earth (7 page)

“Of course.” John had managed to swallow what had been in his mouth. He looked at what was left on his plate in distaste. He could eat it. Intellectually, he knew it was only vegetable protein, no matter how they had prepared it. His training in following local customs was good. He could eat it. But. “Isn’t this sort of thing illegal?” He waved his fork at his plate.

“Not anymore. First, when I was very young, there was a legal decision that one would have to prove intent to stimulate carnivorous interest rather than mere culinary experimentation. And, more recently, there was a legal decision that substance was more important than appearance. As we’re the only animals on Castor or Pollux, any attempt at becoming a true carnivore would have to involve cannibalism of some sort. There are separate and totally adequate laws to prevent that sort of thing. No one’s trying to encourage cannibalism; this is just satisfying a historical curiosity for most of us.”

“Still.” John poked at the pseudo-meat with his fork, then took a bite of the salad instead. Even it tasted strange. He sampled the noodles, trying to miss the pink flakes of pseudo-meat. It was good, very good. He looked up to find Deckenson pouring himself some stim. John cleared his throat. “There’s a point to all this, I take it. I mean, making me feel like an outmoded, brutish sort, and then feeding me pseudo-meat and telling me that the Human race has improved itself to the brink of extinction.”

“Of course. I just don’t know that you’re ready to hear it yet.”

“That sounds familiar. In fact, the last time I dealt with anyone from Earth Affirmed, I recall our negotiations ending in just this way.” John made a show of pushing his chair back.

“I know,” Deckenson said quietly. “My father kept very complete records of the meeting. As he did of everything he did.”

“Then you won’t be surprised when I walk out of here.”

“You think I used that word as an honorific. I was referring to a biological fact. The last contact you had with Earth Affirmed was through my biological father.”

John resettled slowly into his chair and stared at Deckenson. He supposed it was possible. The light hair was the same, but he couldn’t recall what color Jarred’s eyes had been. But what Deckenson was suggesting was high treason against the race. From the very earliest settlement of Castor and Pollux, personal children had been forbidden. Individual families led to ambitions that favored personal survival and comfort over the survival of the total ecology. One could lose the sense of oneness with one’s species if one cultivated a personal family. To deliberately seek out the knowledge of which child you had genetically contributed to implied that you would put that child ahead of other children. As Jarred obviously had; how else the immense coincidence of Deckenson holding the same company position his male parent had held?

“I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?” Deckenson asked softly.

John didn’t have to nod. His wordlessness was answer enough.

“It’s going to get worse.” Deckenson attempted a wry smile; it looked like a death grin. “It’s been going on for hundreds of years; since the evacuation, in fact. And it’s not just keeping track of our offspring, and passing on our beliefs.”

John watched Deckenson take a brief sip of stim. He pursed his mouth at the bitterness. He glanced up at John and their eyes met. Deckenson’s were hesitant, almost pleading. John kept his eyes empty. He’d hear him out, then decide what to do: Turn him in and feel virtuous, or take what had to be one hell of a bribe for whatever it was Earth Affirmed wanted done. Deckenson wouldn’t be putting himself this much at risk if he didn’t have the cash to buy John’s silence.

The cash, or the force. John’s whole body suddenly felt very quiet and cold to him.

Deckenson set his stim down. “Earth Affirmed hasn’t been idle these past years. We’re not just beliefs and talk. Six years ago we applied for a colony permit. It was denied, of course. We were naively open about our purposes, and the Conservancy ruled us counterproductive. So we attempted a renegade colony in one of Castor’s wastelands; you needn’t know which. Nothing’s left of it, anyway. We were trying to see if, freed of the growth inhibitors we’ve all be ingesting since we were zygotes, Humans could recover enough to reach puberty, mate, and give live birth. It failed. We did managed three pregnancies, but two spontaneously aborted and the third ended in both mother and unborn child dying. But we believe natural fertilization could be accomplished, if we had more time, if we had access to younger children, fresh from the creches, and chose not to feed them the growth inhibitors and …”

“I don’t want to hear any more.” John felt chilled at the enormity of what Deckenson was telling him. It wasn’t so much what they had done; he didn’t particularly care what risks fanatics took or what deviations they performed upon their own bodies. No, it was the size of the crime he was confessing to John. Just listening to what Deckenson was saying and failing to report it would be construed as a crime meriting Readjustment. Forget Earth Affirmed. There had to be other work he could find for Evangeline. He stood.

“Of course not.” Deckenson stood with him, gesturing at a plant draping a window and nodded as he spoke, as if commenting only on it. “For you needn’t listen to me at all. Others will. I could start with something minor, say, by going to the Conservancy and reporting all those contraband entertainments you favor. It’s a shame you’d put your passion for collecting obsolete information over the good of the ecology. Didn’t you know that information hoarding directly leads to excessive possessions, and thus unfrugal consumerism? Both charges carry mandatory Adjustment sentences. And it’s been going on so long.”

John sank down into his chair slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.” Deckenson seated himself and picked
up his fork. “You’re a straightforward man, John. You think it’s luck when you happen to acquire some, uh, collector’s item of literature. Such good luck you have! Or such bad luck, as when Norwich suddenly drops your contract. It’s dawning on you now, isn’t it? We’ve had a ‘finger in your pie,’ to use an old idiom, for a long time. We’d hoped to draw you in gradually. But, those two little errands you did for us, way back when, must have spooked you. We’ve tried to take our time to regain your trust. But now we’ve come down to necessities. We know things about you; we’ve made it possible for you to do things you wanted to do, things the Conservancy frowns on. We’ve helped create who you are, John. And now we intend to use what we’ve created.”

John suddenly felt gravity sick. Everything was too heavy; he could scarcely keep his head up, and the food was a gelid mass in his novice stomach. He tried to keep his face expressionless, to speak calmly. “Deckenson. None of this is rational. It sounds like you’re threatening me, but I have no idea what you’re implying I’ve done.”

Deckenson lifted his small glass of stim again, sipped from it delicately. This time he appeared to enjoy it. “Interesting flavor. Originally an imitation of an old Earth drink; did you know that?” He raised his eyes to meet John’s. Deckenson’s eyes were pale and curiously unanimated, but he smiled slightly at John’s tense expression. “I told them you’d have to have it spelled out, one word at a time. It’s simply this. We’re dying. All of us. They can terminate me tomorrow, or I can die two hundred years from now. It makes little difference to me. But whether or not you listen to me will make a big difference. Basically, we’re offering you the chance to save our species. And yourself.”

John forced himself to sit quietly, to unclench his fists under the table. How much could they know for certain about him? How careless had he ever been? Not very careless. Not ever. Earth Affirmed might suspect but they’d never be able to prove much. So what was the worst the Conservancy would do to him? They wouldn’t terminate him. No. At most, they’d adjust him. Adjustment wasn’t so bad. People went through Adjustment all the time. John tried to think of someone he knew who’d gone through Adjustment. Unfortunately, he knew very few people. They tended to die or get very old
while he was gone. Of the other Mariners he knew, he couldn’t recall any who had gone through Adjustment.

Except Chester. And he wasn’t marinering anymore.

But that didn’t mean anything; people who had been adjusted almost always took a career change afterward. He could be adjusted, and survive it, and go on to do something else. Something else that meant no more Waitsleep. Not that tough. Just wake up every single morning, and live every single day, one at a time, knowing that death crept closer with every passing hour, every passing minute. He was sweating. He wanted, more than anything, to be back inside Evangeline, safe in a womb, outbound to anywhere. Deckenson’s insistent voice sounded strangely gentle.

“John, you’ve been brought up to believe in the Stewardship of the Conservancy; to think that those in charge of our destiny had the essential sweep of vision necessary to plan wisely. Now, I have to tell you, in a few short hours, that you’ve been misled. That the Conservancy has placed the ecology of Castor and Pollux above the survival of Humanity. Wait, no, that’s not quite fair. It’s placed a premium on Humanity making no impact on that ecology. To that end, they’ve altered us. Altered us possibly past the point of no return. In their efforts to make us the perfect guests on these planets, they’ve made us totally temporary. None of the structures, on Castor or Pollux are regarded as permanent. Take away the Humans, and they biodegrade back to nothing in just a few years.”

He paused, and looked at John measuringly. “As you well know, not even information is stored permanently. It has been constantly recopied onto biologically harmonious material. They can say that nothing ‘essential’ has been lost or changed, but only a fool would believe them. And look at how much knowledge has been declared obsolete and deliberately destroyed. We have only a smattering of the Greek and Roman classics in public repository. The last information purge declared excess most of the fictional writing prior to the nineteenth century. The battle to keep the records of the flora and fauna on Earth is gradually being lost. With strict limits on the use of plastics, and ‘hoarding of superfluous information,’ an offense that carries horrendous fines and Readjustment sentences, the old records are being crowded out of
repositories. There are supposed to be permanent master copies somewhere, but access to them is strictly limited. So when the present public records of it begin to biodegrade, it won’t be recopied. Earth Affirmed has managed to surreptitiously copy some of it; it’s labeled as mining transactions. But we can’t hope to save it all, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Deckenson’s voice trailed off and he stared past John, brow wrinkled as if staring after a departing dream. John was silent for a long time. He could hear his own heart beating, one thud after another, counting out the moments of his existence. His throat was dry, and his voice came out raspy. “No.”

Deckenson looked startled. “No what?”

“I’m not going to be coerced this way. I don’t think you’ve got the arm twist on me that you think you do. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m not going to be blackmailed into whatever you’re trying to get me to do. I don’t need you. I can get a legitimate contract with someone sane.”

Before he had even finished speaking, Deckenson had lifted an inquiring finger. John watched the waiter react to it, darting forward with a credit slate for Deckenson to authorize. He left it discreetly on the corner of the table and retreated to seat some new arrivals. Without a word, Deckenson lifted it and glanced at it. He frowned, then presented it to John.

“Dostoyevski?” he commented inquiringly. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

John took it numbly, glanced at the display. It wasn’t the restaurant bill. It was, instead, a complete listing of his last three transactions with Ginger, including his most recent order. Dates, times, and even the exchange rendezvous points were listed. Deckenson reached across the table to take the slate from John’s lax grip. He tapped a few keys, then turned the slate to display for John their itemized restaurant bill. John made no comment as Deckenson turned the slate back toward himself.

“I would have expected you to choose Shaw over Dostoyevski,” Deckenson observed coyly as he keyed in an agreement of credit transfer.

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” John had intended to sound defiant. But the words
caught in his throat and he finished his attempt at bravado with a cough.

“We know you well enough,” Deckenson assured him quietly. To make the threat less subtle, he offered, “Would you like to see a copy of your pre-Academy transcripts?”

John’s mouth went dry. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice cracking on the question.

“What do we want?” Deckenson’s eyes were back on him, suddenly hard in their triumph.

“Yeah.” John begrudged everything he gave this man, every word, every second of his life.

Deckenson leaned forward, and spoke with soft fervor. “Earth. We want the Earth back. We want to live there, as Humans were meant to do, as a part of the ecology, filling the niche we evolved to fill.” Fanaticism reddened his pale cheeks.

“Earth is dead.” John spoke as if Deckenson were an unadjusted child, uninformed of the basic facts of ecology.

Deckenson shook his head. “No. She’s not. And even if she were, we could revive her. With all we’ve learned from our exile, we could do it. Imagine it, John. We re-create the Earth, and Humans could have a real home again, instead of existing as we do, as very precarious guests of Castor and Pollux. Children could run through fields of plants instead of following pathways, pick fruit from trees without counting each piece, interact with lower life-forms without being accused of interference or damaging the planet. Or can you imagine it, John? You, who’ve never even been allowed on the open surface of a planet.”

John closed his eyes for half a moment, pushed down total panic. How the hell much did they know about him, and how had they found it out? “That’s none of your business, where I’ve been or haven’t been,” he said flatly.