Magic Dirt: The Best of Sean Williams (41 page)

“One month,” Martin answered, realising that the topic would not be so easily evaded.

“I presume you are cognisant of the risks, then?”

“Yes.” That Martin could answer with certainty. His Uncle Arthur had more frequent dealings with the Plutocracy than most people; he had made sure that Martin knew what was at stake. “Of every ten thousand inductees, one will never wake from the death-sleep.”

“And a dozen others will experience difficult transitions,” added M. Bennett, glancing at the bald young man. “Even today, after hundreds of years of research, a sound awakening alone is no guarantee of success.”

With a jolt, Martin suddenly realised what Spyro Xenophou was. Braving the young man’s dark stare, he asked him directly: “When was
your
birthday?”

“In June,” M. Guillard answered for him. “You’ll have to forgive my ward, Martin. He woke six weeks ago and hasn’t spoken since. Part of him resists; the fear of death is strong in him still.” She shrugged. “It is often that way with the more established families, although that seems paradoxical.”

“Not really,” said the AI node. “Social evolution, albeit relatively rapid in the last five hundred years, still has a long way to go before it eradicates the base impulses present in every human. The concept of passing through death is still paralysing, I am told, even among those for whom revenation is a common occurrence.”

“That would not be the case if it were available to all who wanted it,” said M. Bennett. “By restricting the process, we perpetuate a class system that is both prejudicial and morally abhorrent.”

“The system of Houses makes perfect sense, and you know it,” M. Guillard insisted. “Otherwise there would be chaos. Even with the present ratio of one reve for every four thousand natural humans, there are problems.”

“I must concur,” said the android. “By removing the tools of government from the hands of the shortlived, Earth and the rest of the System has achieved the kind of long-term stability only dreamed about in pre-history.”

“But at what cost?” M. Bennett accentuated her point with one finger on the table-top. “The Plutocracy is in-bred and constantly at risk of stagnation.”

“Hence the revolutionary trends,” said the mod. “Balance, feedback, homeostasis.”

“Desperation,”
retaliated M. Bennett. “We may reach for the stars, but inside we are all still frightened children in need of reassurance.”

Martin sank back into his seat, glad that the spotlight had drifted from him. Both his sponsor and uncle had warned him to steer clear of such debates, to be wary of associating with any one camp among the reves. There would plenty of time for that after his induction. If things went as planned, he would have centuries in which to grapple with the arguments for and against — although he believed that he already understood it well enough to reach his own conclusion. The problem was that it kept changing.

Revenation was an expensive process, restricted by necessity to the few. Applicants had not only to demonstrate fitness but ability to pay their way through the process and out the other side. A single immortal life would be an expensive burden upon the welfare system if that person proved to be unproductive. As result, only wealthy families could afford to raise a member to reve status. And the wealthiest families already contained significantly large numbers of reves; some had even brought their line to an end in order to spare a single member from death, although this practice had waned over the years.

Hence the appearance — illusory or not — of inbreeding, and of decadence.

Watching M. Guillard speak, with her many gestures and flourishes, the often direct way she manipulated conversation to suit her own agenda, Martin was reminded of his school-years, and the rumours that had circulated among his fellow students. The reves were vampires, he had been told once: un-dead and un-living creatures frozen forever in a state of inanimate animation. Infrequent glimpses had confirmed this impression: of pallid, beautiful people riding past in patient comfort; aloof and isolated, even dismissive at times. Although information was wide-spread about the truth, it had only added to their mysteriousness: cut a reve and it failed to bleed; bury another, and it could be exhumed without damage a month or a century later; expose a third to deadly viruses and its pseudo-animate cells would be completely unaffected.

Yet inflict upon any reve a magnetic field of more than a few thousand Tesla and he or she would experience spasms, even unconsciousness. Or put it to the flame and watch it burn like summer kindling to nothing, as though its life had vanished in a single, sudden flash.

Reves were potentially immortal, and some — such as M. Bennett, a reve herself — would add
immoral
to the charge. In his younger years, Martin had hated and feared them. But now he was among them, potentially about to become one of them. He found the thought wildly disorienting.

The string quartet playing in the background had acquired a singer. To the tune of an ancient folk-song, she began to recite:

On the golden hill where the sun once stood,

and the blood-red man with hearts for eyes

sold words that sung of forever, forever,

 Paul Merrick found his first love, and died.

Martin wondered to himself whether the man who had given immortality to the world had felt the same confusion when choosing life over mortal passion. Perhaps he was still feeling it today. Sadly, Martin was unable to question him directly, since the reve had departed for Capella two hundred years ago. And in the end, he supposed, there could only be one answer.

Humanity’s ambassador to the stars was only nominally human. That fact alone spoke volumes.

Survival of the fittest.
..

“To which Familial Affiliate do you belong, Martin?” asked Professor Munton, startling him out of his reverie.

Martin inwardly cursed himself for not paying attention. The question, easily anticipated once the subject had been brought up, was one he had nonetheless hoped to avoid. Confronted with it, he mentally tossed a coin, and honesty won. In the back of his mind, he heard his uncle curse in turn.

“None,” he replied to the fat man’s question.

“Impossible,” stated M. Bennett. “There hasn’t been a foundling House for three hundred years.”

“That’s correct,” said M. Guillard. “Unless — wait! Martin, you wouldn’t be the son of that engineer we’ve been hearing about, would you? Alex Winterford, wasn’t that his name?”

He shrugged. There was no use denying it. “At your service.”

“Oh, tremendous!” The fat scholar clapped once. “Marianne, what a coup! The founding father of the House Winterford, right here at our table! You couldn’t have brought anybody more interesting to talk to had it been Paul Merrick himself! Tell me, Martin —”

“Attends,
Algiers.” M. Guillard raised a finger to her lips. “Don’t jinx the poor boy before his time. Let him tell his own story at his own pace.”

“Do I have to?” Although Martin didn’t want to sound churlish, he couldn’t help it.

“Of course not, as I said before.” M. Guillard winked. “You can leave if you’d rather not talk.”

“I’d rather not do either, to be honest.”

“Tish. What do you fear? That we will embarrass you, or judge you? If the latter, please bear in mind the diverse natures arrayed at this table. Surely you realise that our opinions will be firmly divided?”

“Too true.” The mod’s skin rippled a pale green.

“And you shouldn’t be afraid of your innocence, if that’s the case,” said M. Bennett, regarding Martin with intense eyes. “It is your very naivety we crave. So much time has passed since someone new joined our ranks that any uncorrupted viewpoint is welcome.”

“‘Uncorrupted’, Elaine?” asked M. Guillard. “By what, exactly?”

“By
reves,
of course, Marianne.” M. Bennett scowled across the table at the older woman. “Or
‘tous les beaux morts en vie’,
if you prefer. There are none in his immediate family. The only one he’s ever met in person, prior to now, would be his sponsor — and then only after his application was approved. His viewpoint will be quite external to our affairs, and all the more valuable for it.”

“Is that true, Martin?” asked the rem. “You came this far without a patron ward, or even a beneficiary?”

Martin studied the faces watching him expectantly, and realised just how expertly he had been trapped. To refuse an answer now would be insulting, and to answer incompletely would only encourage more questions. Still, just because he had been backed into a cul-de-sac didn’t mean he had to abandon common sense. He would be better off revealing a measure of the truth before all of it was pried out of him, hoping all the while that they would grow tired of him sooner rather than later.

“Yes,” he said, “A paternal great-uncle ran a water mine on Titan for a while, I think, and my grandmother helped design a starship, but none of my blood ancestors came close to meeting the fiscal requirements.”

“What changed?” prompted the mod.

“My Uncle Arthur and Aunt Sue both forewent their reproductive rights to further their careers,” he explained with deliberate paucity of detail. “At the same time, my father followed my grandmother into aerospace design and patented an improvement on the Komalchi drive. These three incomes combined were enough to guarantee either myself or my sister a hearing from the Applications Board.”

M. Bennett frowned at that. “I’ve heard of whole families pooling their resources — large families, too — and not coming close.”

“Didn’t you catch the names, Elaine?” asked M. Guillard, her smile as cutting as a shark’s. “Arthur Winterford, despite his short-lived status, is Chief Executive Officer of the American Multi-Immersal Conglomerate, which currently controls twenty-seven percent of the System’s broadcast media. And Martin’s mother’s sister, Susan Firth, prefers to operate under the
nom de plume
‘Jenny Martinez’ in order to avoid accusations of nepotism.”

Among the raised eyebrows, where allowed by physique, and the silent surprise evident in every stare, only one voice stood out:

“Jenny who?”

M. Guillard pursed her lips in annoyance. “Really, Count. You can’t be that isolated, can you? M. Martinez is the author credited with the resurgence of the novel — the planet’s first best-seller in four hundred years.”

“News to me, I’m afraid.” The rem turned to face Martin. “The AMIC and Komalchi connections both make sense, though. Your grandmother must be proud to have such successful children.”

“She would have been, I’m sure. She died when I was fifteen, just before I made my primary application.”

“I’m sorry. Is there a connection between the two events?”

“Obviously there is,” said the AI node before Martin could answer: “
Mortality.”

Martin confirmed this with a nod, unwilling to elaborate how close to the mark the AI node’s guess was. His uncle’s grief had been profound at the death of his mother. Restricted by breeding laws to families no larger than four, with only one child inheriting that generation’s right to reproduce in turn, mortal humanity had become well-used to uncles and aunts leaving their estates to siblings’ progeny. In Martin’s case, and his sister’s, that had amounted to a fortune almost too vast to comprehend. When his uncle had first suggested that they should use this capital to advance one family member to reve status — thereby removing him or her forever from the threat of age and natural death — he had in part been motivated by that grief, and fear that another loved-one would succumb before he did. At least this way, one child would have a chance of avoiding the fate awaiting the remainder of his family.

In part, anyway. The rest Martin had no intention of even thinking in such company.

“You mentioned a sister,” said M. Bennett. “You were chosen above her, is that correct?”

“No. I’m older and therefore theoretically first in line, yes, but that wasn’t really an issue. She wants to have children, you see.”

“And you don’t?” The question was playfully put by M. Guillard.

Don’t I
? Martin asked himself, although he knew the only answer he could give: “Whether I failed the examination, or fail at the Change, or not, is irrelevant. I was sterilised at thirteen, and have always expected to be childless. Perhaps a niece or nephew will follow me, one day, if I succeed.”

“Nobly put.” The ancient reve touched his arm lightly. “Indeed, once a family is established, subsequent revenations from that line become more likely with time. The chances are you will have blood relations to keep you company before long.”

“I hope so.”

“Certainement.”
M. Guillard pulled away. “But look, Martin, your glass is empty. Spyro will top you up while you tell us about your plans for the future, if you have any.”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead,” he lied, handing his glass over. The bald reve took it from him without comment and collected the scholar’s as well before heading off through the crowd.

“No?” M. Guillard expressed her disappointment with a sniff, then brightened. “I know what we’ll do, then. We’ll advise you now. What do you think, Elaine? Plutocrat or star-voyager? How best should Martin while away eternity?”

M. Bennett shrugged noncomittally before suggesting the former. PERIPETY-WEYN, the AI node, immediately disagreed, and went on at length to explain that, in his opinion, the System government was stable, and would be for a very long time; what was needed was not more politicians, but explorers with courage enough to venture into the dark.