Heirs of the New Earth (3 page)

The captain found the warrior sitting alone in his cabin. African drums played and pungent incense burned, filling the room with potent vapors. The captain sat down opposite the warrior, remembering their first meeting in the lush swamps of Rd'dyggia. Shortly before, the Cluster had seemingly spoken to Ellis in a vision. Ellis had sought G'Liat out to help interpret that vision. “How are you doing?” asked Ellis, at last.

"I am caged,” said the warrior. “I want out."

"There's no guard on the door,” admitted the captain. “I haven't decided if I'm going to press charges."

"My sense of honor prevents me from leaving,” said G'Liat, simply.

"Why did you kill McClintlock?” asked Ellis. Clyde McClintlock, a one-time colonel and an evangelist, had been posing as the ship's cook. As it had with Ellis, the Cluster had spoken to McClintlock in emotional symbolism. At the time, Ellis had interpreted the communication as evidence that the Cluster was a powerful life form. Clyde McClintlock had interpreted the visions as a message from God incarnate. “You could have subdued him. It would have been very simple for you."

"We are all specist, Captain. Have you ever longed to hunt whales as your ancestors did? Be honest.” G'Liat leaned forward.

Ellis swallowed hard. “I've thought about it."

"When you sort out your feelings on this matter, you will be a better warrior,” explained G'Liat. “Once you've done that, you are welcome to return to Rd'dyggia. I will teach you more."

"I'm not sure I want to learn what you have to teach,” said Ellis, looking at the floor.

"This is not the Captain Ellis speaking who sought me out.” G'Liat leaned back revealing a deep cut left by McClintlock when they had struggled.

"No,” said Ellis, simply. “The universe seems to have changed for me."

"That is as it should be. The offer still stands,” said G'Liat. The warrior stood and looked out the window over his bunk. “I saw you with the Clusters. Did you succeed in talking to them?"

Ellis remained silent for several minutes. “I succeeded in hearing what they had to say."

G'Liat turned, his hands folded. “Nine tenths of communication is listening. May I look into your mind? I would like to see what they had to say.” The warrior referred to electronic technology that the Rd'dyggians had developed that allowed direct brain-to-brain communication between beings.

Ellis shook his head slowly. “No, not this time. My thoughts are my own. They always have been. I realize now that's why you couldn't see the second Cluster vision. It's personal and I didn't want you to see."

"Indeed, your ability to block me is strong, perhaps unique.” G'Liat looked toward the floor. “You hadn't known me long at that time. You certainly had no reason to trust me. Does our friendship mean nothing? I helped you learn the origin of the Cluster. Can't you let me see what you learned?"

Ellis looked into the warrior's large, black eyes. After a moment, the captain held his hand open toward the chair opposite. “Sit, and I'll tell you the tale."

After a long day of work, Timothy Gibbs trudged home. As he pondered what he would have for dinner, he looked to the sky. The sight made him pause. Usually, there was so much pollution that city lights just reflected back and the night sky was a deep rusty orange. On this night, Gibbs actually saw a few of the brighter stars overhead. He traced out the Big Dipper then the Summer Triangle, made up of the stars Vega, Altair, and Deneb. Four lights, brighter than those stars leisurely moved across the sky. His forehead creased. They weren't blinking like aircraft and they seemed too bright for Confederation spacecraft, which were the raw black of their Erdonium hulls. However, the four lights looked like a group of Confederation spacecraft moving in a diamond formation.

Gibbs shrugged, then shook his head, remembering that being outside on the streets wasn't entirely safe. Continuing on, he stepped into his apartment building and frowned at the new graffiti that had appeared on the walls; the local gang felt it necessary to mark their territory. Timothy Gibbs sighed relief after he used his palm imprint reader to enter the apartment and the door was safely locked behind him.

Gibbs removed his uniform shirt, then turned on the teleholo with the volume down low providing a simple background noise. The hologram showed a picture of four of the Clusters. A red light flashed under the three-dimensional image. It was some kind of a news alert. Gibbs was too hungry to pay much attention; newsflashes were a routine occurrence during the war against the Cluster. As Gibbs had mentioned to Sinclair, the events all happened so far away, it hardly mattered to him.

After selecting a meal of roast beef and potatoes, he stepped over to the dresser and frowned at the lack of underwear. While dinner cooked, he made his weekly round of the apartment and picked up the dirty clothes and tossed them into the washer-dryer unit. The dinner-ready chime sounded. Gibbs retrieved his meal from the preparation unit and shoved plates aside on the table, upsetting the flies, and sat down, habitually reaching for a bottle of Dairtox—a drug necessary for human life on most parts of Earth, as it kept the pollutants in the atmosphere from building up to toxic levels in the lungs.

The teleholo flickered and the image blurred as Gibbs began to eat. He slumped, a forkful of beef smothered in gravy halfway to his mouth. He would probably have to take his own unit into the shop the next day so he could fix it. The picture of the Clusters morphed into an indistinct shape and a single syllable began repeating from the speakers: “da ... da ... da..."

Annoyed, Gibbs put his fork on the plate, stepped over to the table, and slammed his fist down next to the teleholo. The image solidified into that of a young man with strangely haunting eyes. Gibbs appraised the image wondering if he was getting an incoming call. That seemed to be it—the interrupt function on the teleholo was broken. It should have chimed and thrown the image into one section of the view. Instead, it was trying to play over the broadcast, causing interference. Irritated by the confirmation that the teleholo was on the fritz, Gibbs fingered the volume stud. He assumed it must be a sales call. It would be quickest to answer and be done with it. “Hello, this is Tim Gibbs."

"Dad?” said the figure on the teleholo.

Gibbs fell into the chair facing the teleholo. “Uh, I think you have the wrong number."

"Are you Timothy Allen Gibbs?” asked the figure as Gibbs reached out to disconnect the call.

Gibbs blinked a few times. He looked at the young man's eyes again, then looked over to the hologram of his mother—they were identical. No wonder the eyes were haunting.

"Are you Timothy Gibbs?” asked the young man again.

"I am,” Gibbs responded, cautiously. “Who are you?"

"I'm Jeremy Williams,” said the young man. “I'm pretty sure I'm your son."

"Pretty sure?” Gibbs leaned forward, examining the young man. “How did you find out? How could you find out?” Fatherhood anonymity laws prevented Gibbs from reporting his name at the Depository. The only information they had came from the DNA he'd left behind. Sure, someone could use that to trace his identity, but it would be a difficult chore. The same laws prevented paternal surnames from being passed from generation to generation. Except in rare cases, most people took their surnames from their mothers in the thirtieth century.

"I didn't find out,” said Williams, his brow creased. “I was just thinking about my father and suddenly the name Timothy Gibbs came to my mind. Without thinking about it, I found myself dialing your teleholo. I live in the Los Angeles sector.” Williams looked down, as though seeing the number he'd input for the first time. “You're in Southern Arizona, aren't you? I don't know anyone in Southern Arizona."

"I don't know if you're my son,” said Gibbs, shaking his head. “How could I know?"

Williams held out his arms, imploring. “You must be. I feel it. I've never felt anything so strongly in my life! Don't you feel it?"

Gibbs rapidly shook his head. This was too much at the moment. He wanted very desperately to believe—to know the child he was never allowed to know. If Williams was his child, were there more? “I don't know...” Gibbs hugged himself, guarding against the holographic arms reaching toward him even though the hologram was just empty air—an illusion.

Williams’ arms dropped to his side and he looked toward the ground. The young man gathered resolve, then looked up again. He typed something into his console on the other end. “I'm a computer programmer in the L.A. Sector. I'm transmitting my number. You can call me anytime.” He paused. “Do you want me to give you a location where you can check my DNA? You could find out if I really am your son?"

Gibbs shook his head, more slowly. “No, that won't be necessary. Give me some time. I'll try to call in a few days, once I've sorted out my feelings."

Williams nodded, accepting the verdict—saddened, but understanding. “I know you're my dad,” he said. “I don't know how, but I know. My emotions have never been so strong about anything before.” With that, Williams terminated the call.

The image of the Clusters reappeared over the dais. With the volume up, Gibbs was able to hear what the announcer was saying. “Four Cluster ships entered Earth space today. There has been no evidence of personnel from the ships trying to land. Based on evidence of the Cluster's appearance at the planet Sufiro, we believe they are just here to observe. There is no cause for panic or alarm. We will keep you updated. In the meantime, we advise the citizens of the Earth to go about their daily business."

Timothy Gibbs continued watching the teleholo, hugging himself. First, a son he never knew called out of the blue. Now the distant, mysterious Cluster had appeared around Earth. Military ships had gone to a state of emergency. As he watched the images of the Clusters on the teleholo, Timothy Gibbs—a man who had never really loved; never really been loved; a man who didn't feel strongly about much of anything aside from his own survival—began to feel regret for the lost opportunities in his life. A tear eased its way down Gibbs’ cheek followed by another. His emotions turned from regret to anger as he brusquely rubbed the tears from his face.

"What do I have to feel bad about?” growled Gibbs to the empty room. “I'm no different than most people on this miserable planet. Just a guy trying to make ends meet.” With that, he stood and returned to his dinner that was growing cold.

After finishing dinner, Gibbs gathered the old plates from the table and placed them in the recycler. Mindlessly, he puttered around the apartment, cleaning. Were one to ask him what he was doing or why, he wouldn't have been able to answer. He simply felt compelled to put his life in some order.

A while later, Gibbs dropped onto his cot, exhausted. The teleholo continued to play news updates about the Cluster. In the meantime, he dreamed he was married to Louise Sinclair. Their grown son, Jeremy Williams—no Jeremy Sinclair-Gibbs—was home for a visit. They sat down to a dinner that looked more like it was from the 20th century than the 30th. A turkey steamed in the middle of table, surrounded by bowls full of potatoes, green beans and cranberry sauce. Gibbs’ subconscious had pulled the image of the meal from stories of the first Thanksgiving when colonists had come from England to the United States. Certainly, Gibbs had never experienced food set out as he saw in the dream.

Someone banged at the door. Gibbs excused himself from the table and answered. His jaw dropped open when he saw his mother. She pointed an accusatory finger at her son. Charlotte Gibbs’ skin began to dry and decay on her skeleton. Her jaw, no longer attached by muscle, fell open in a silent scream.

"Mom,” called Gibbs. “You're still alive?"

A voice croaked from the recesses of the open mouth. “No. I died ten years ago.” The mummified vision of Timothy Gibbs’ mother moved past her son and turned. “I've come to ask why you never tried to contact me. Why didn't you try to find me? Didn't you love your mother?"

Gibbs gasped for air. “Of course I loved you, Mom. The government took you to a retirement home. They didn't tell me where."

"Why didn't you ask?"

"It wouldn't have done any good. You owed too many taxes. I couldn't help. I wanted to, but there was nothing I could do.” Gibbs hugged himself, trying to keep his emotions at bay, trying to keep from being overwhelmed.

"You could have fought the government,” said Gibbs’ mother. As she spoke, Charlotte Gibbs desiccated further, becoming little more than a skeleton.

"No one can fight the government. I would have been destroyed!” Gibbs chewed on his finger.

"Your body might have been destroyed, but you would have proven that you had a soul. You would have proven your worth as a human being. You would have proven you cared about something besides yourself."

Timothy Gibbs woke in a cold sweat, clutching his sheet to himself. He stood and rushed over to the table with the hologram of his mother, picked it up and hurled it to the floor, smashing its micro-circuitry. The image of his mother was gone forever. “Leave me alone!” he shouted to the smashed holographic display. “I'm only a guy doing his best to make it in this world! Leave me alone!"

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The next morning,
Nicholas Sanson
arrived at Alpha Coma Bereneces. Repairs to the
Sanson
proceeded immediately under the supervision of Chief Engineer Mahuk. The space-suited repair crews swarmed about the ship like gnats around a light post. Many of the people on the repair crew shook their heads at what they perceived to be an amateurish job of rerouting the conduits. Many commented that it was a miracle that the ship had not simply vaporized upon leaping into the fourth dimension of space-time as it returned from the globular cluster. It would take nearly two weeks for the crews to return
Sanson
to her former grandeur.

The
Nicholas Sanson
was an elegant and beautiful ship. Most star ships in the 30th century were simple and functional black cylinders with engines glowing blue at the stern. Those ships were like arrows in the night, designed to shoot through the fourth dimension as quickly and efficiently as possible. The
Sanson
, on the other hand, was designed to map the fourth dimension, feeling its way along, charting the subtleties of gravity's ever-changing pathways, ultimately allowing all other ships to thrust their way through the void. Like the other ships, she was built of black Erdonium: the only material known that could withstand the ravages of the fourth dimension. She was also generally cylindrical, but she bulged in places Navy ships did not and attached to her hull were eight fan-like sensor arrays that swept back toward the vessel's stern—almost like sails. They pivoted subtly, sensing the gravitational interactions of many stars. Each of those arrays controlled a seemingly petite engine. The glow from each engine surrounded the ship like a halo.