The New Space Opera 2 (61 page)

“So you're saying that the sample wasn't enough to form a basis for translation, Dr. Balcescu?” This was Doc Swainsea. “Then why are we here?”

“Because it
is
a language, and I know what they're saying,” said Bal
cescu wearily. By his expression, you'd have thought he was being forced to explain the alphabet to a room full of four-year-olds. “You see, we've enlarged the boundaries of human-contact space quite a bit in the last couple of hundred years—the Hub system has seen to that. Just a few weeks ago, I was out in the Brightman system doing something that would have been unthinkable only generations ago—xenolinguistic fieldwork with untainted living cultures.” He gave Chinh-Herrera a bit of a sideways look. “In other words, speaking alien with aliens. Our linguistic database has also expanded hugely. So I figured that it was worth a try to see if there were any similarities between what we heard at Rainwater Hub and any of the other cultures we've recorded on the outskirts of contact space. I spent hours and hours going through different samples, comparing points of apparent overlap…”

“
And
, Dr. Balcescu?” That was Captain Watanabe. She wasn't big on being lectured, either.

“And there are similarities—distant and tenuous, but similarities nevertheless—between what we heard yesterday and some of the older speech systems we've found out toward the galactic rim. I can't say exactly what the relationships are—that will take years of study, and, to be honest, a great deal more information about this latest language—but there are enough common elements that I think I can safely translate what we heard, at least roughly.” He looked around expectantly, almost as if he was waiting for polite applause from the captain and the others. He didn't get it. “I used what we already know about these particular rim dialects as a ratchet, combined with some guesswork…”

“Get to the point, Doctor,” said the captain. “Tell us what it said. A lot of good men and women are dead already, and the rest of us are stranded forty-six parsecs from the nearest Confederation hub.”

“Sorry, of course.” He pointed to the comm screen and the picture of the monstrous apparition jumped back onto it. I'd seen it before, of course—everyone had been watching it over and over, trying to understand what had happened—but it still scared the brass marbles off me. It was like something out of an old ghost story, the kind they tell down in the engine bay on a slow shift, with the lights down. The thing was like some wailing spirit, a banshee heralding death—and not just the death of a few, but of the whole human race. How could we beat something like that?

As the image billowed and stretched in achingly slow motion, like living flame, Balcescu spoke.

“What it seems to be saying, as far as I can tell, is, unfortunately, just as
bellicose as its actions suggest. It boils down to this.” He said it like a man reciting a memorized speech, all emotion squeezed out of his voice. “
Your death is upon you. Only black ash will show that you ever lived. The Outward-reaching Murder Army
—that's the best I can do, that's pretty much what they're saying—
will spit upon the stars that give you life, extinguishing them all. The cold will suck the life from you. All memory of you will be obliterated.
” Balcescu shook his head. “Not exactly Shakespeare. In fact, a rather crude translation, but it makes the main points.”

The monstrous shape still rippled slowly on the comm screen, its face glowing like a dying sun.

“Well,” said Captain Watanabe after a long silence. “Now that we know what it said, I'm sure we all feel a lot better.”

 

Everybody on board the
Lakshmi
continued to hurry around as the days went past, but with what seemed like an increasing hopelessness. Rainwater was one of the longest and most important holes—without it, it would take us years, maybe decades, to make our way back. There was no other shortcut from this part of the rim.

Under emergency regs, most of the passengers had been put into cryo, except for those like Balcescu who had a job to do. I didn't have much to keep me occupied, so I spent a lot of time with the people who had time to spend with me. Chinh-Herrera the navigator didn't have much to do either, once he'd plotted the various ways back home that bypassed Rainwater, but when he was done, he didn't really want to talk. I'd bring him wine and stay awhile, but it wasn't much fun.

One evening I got called up to Balcescu's room, an unused officer's cabin he'd been given. To my surprise, as I got there, Doc Swainsea was just leaving, dressed in civilian clothes—a dress, of all things—and carrying her shoes. She smiled at me as she went past but it was a sad one and she didn't really seem to see me. Balcescu was sitting in the main room listening to music—kind of pretty, old-fashioned music for a change—and when he saw my face, he smiled a little bit too.

“We all deal with fear in different ways,” he said, as if that explained something. “Did you bring my coffee, Mr. Jatt?”

I put the tray down. “There's plenty of coffee down in the commons room,” I told him, a touch grumpily, I guess. “Cups, spoons, you name it. Even stuff that tastes like sugar. It's practically a five-star restaurant down there.” I wasn't sure what that meant, but I'd heard it in old movies.

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Is it the revolt of the proletariat, then, Mr.
Jatt?” he asked. “
The Admirable Crichton
? If we are all going to die, let it be as equals?”

I'd seen
The Admirable Crichton
, as a matter of fact, but I didn't remember anyone using a word like “proletariat.” Still, I got the gist. “Some would say we were already equals, Mr. Balcescu,” I said. “The Confederation Constitution, for one. I've read it. Have you?”

He laughed. “Touché, my good Jatt. As it happens, I have. It has its moments, but I think it would make a dull libretto. Unlike this.” He gestured loosely to the air and I realized that he was drunk, so I started pouring the coffee. We might die as equals, but it probably wouldn't be soon, and in the meantime, I'd be the one who'd have to clean up any messes. “I said,
unlike this
,” he told me again, more loudly. The music was getting loud too, some men singing in deep voices, all very dramatic.

“I heard you!” I practically shouted back. “Here's whitener if you want some. And sweetener.”

“I haven't been able to get this out of my head for days!” He waved his hand over the chair arm and the music got quieter, although I could still hear it. “
Don Giovanni
. That…thing…that alien projection we saw reminds me of the Commendatore's statue. Come to drag us all to hell.” He laughed and reached clumsily for the coffee. I held the cup until he had a grip on it.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Balcescu,” I said. “Unless you want something else, I'd better be going.”

“That's what…Diana said.”

“Pardon?”

“Dr. Swainsea. Never mind.” He laughed again, another in a line of some of the saddest laughs I had ever heard. “Don't you know
Don Giovanni
? My God, what do they teach cabin boys these days?”

“How to deal with drunken idiots, mostly, Mr. Balcescu. No, I don't know
Don Giovanni
. One of those old Mafia films?”

He shook his head. He seemed to like doing it enough that he kept it up for a bit. “No, no.
Don Giovanni
the
opera
. Mozart. About a terrible man who seduces women—preys on them, really.” He began to shake his head again, then seemed to remember that he'd done that already, and for a good long while, too. “At the end, the murdered spirit of one of the women's fathers, the Commendatore, comes after him in the form of a terrible statue. In his foolishness and his pride, Don Giovanni invites the ghost to supper. So the statue, the ghost, whatever you want to call it—it
comes
. It's going to take him to his judgment. Listen!” He cocked an ear
toward the music. “The Commendatore's statue is saying,
‘Tu m'invitasti a cena, il tuo dover or sai. Rispondimi: verrai tu a cenar meco?'
That means, ‘You invited me to dinner—now will you come dine with
me
?' In other words, he's going to take him off to hell. And Don Giovanni says, ‘I'm no coward—my heart is steady in my breast.' He'd rather go to the devil than show himself afraid—that's panache!” Balcescu was lost in it now, his eyes closed as the music swelled and the voices boomed. “The ghost takes his hand, and Don Giovanni cries out, ‘It's so freezing cold!' The ghost tells him it's his last moment on earth—repent! ‘
No, no, ch'io non me pento!
' Don Giovanni tells him—he won't repent!” Balcescu sat back in his chair, eyes still closed, and sighed. “That is Art. That's what Art can do!”

He said it—slurred it a bit, actually—as though it were the end of a beautiful dream, but I could hear the music in the background and nobody sounded very happy—not even the stony-voiced thing that I guessed was the Commendatore's statue. Made sense. What did the poor old Commendatore have to look forward to after his revenge, anyway? He was already dead.

“I don't get you, Mr. Balcescu.”

He frowned. “You really should call me ‘Doctor,' Mr. Jatt. I am a doctor, you know.
Art
, I said. Art teaches us the things that reality can't. Teaches us to live with the things that seem beyond endurance. Missed chances. Failed love affairs. Suffering and death—the stuff of actual life.”

He was lecturing again and I didn't like it. “But what's so good about that?” I asked. “I don't
like
your kind of art—that high-falutin' stuff that's just like real life. Why can't it be the other way around—why can't life imitate the stuff
I
like? Like
Casablanca
, y'know? Some scary bits, some laughs, then the good guys win—a decent ending, y'know? Why can't life be like
that
?” I was getting kind of angry.

“Ah, well. You know what Oscar Wilde once said? ‘God and other artists are always a little obscure.'” Balcescu looked just as struck by dark thoughts as I was, his thin face sagging into lines of weariness. All of us on the
Lak
' were feeling that way, trying to follow our routines in the long shadow of doom—or at least permanent exile. “You know, I shouldn't even
be
here,” he said after a while. “I was going to go back to my home in the Gliese Ring, but a colleague asked me to come to the opening of an exhibit at the Xenobiology Gardens on Col Hydrae 7. Just a big party, basically, but he used some of my material from the
Xenolinguistic Encyclopedia
and thought I'd like…” He shook his head. “And here I am. Never going home, now. 'Cause I said yes to a goddamn cocktail party…” He
fell silent again for a long moment. “Never mind, Mr. Jatt. I've kept you long enough. I'm sure you have more important people to help.”

As I've told you, I didn't really like Balcescu much, and I usually don't give a crap for other people's self-pity, but I suddenly felt sorry for him. Don't ask me why—he wasn't any worse off than the rest of us—but I did. A little.

“Mr. Balcescu, how old do you think I am?”

The reaction was slowed by alcohol, but when it came he looked mildly startled. “How
old
are you? My dear Mr. Jatt, how the hell should I know? Ten? Eleven, but small for your age?”

“Has it ever occurred to you to wonder why a Confederation cruiser would have an able-bodied shipman ten or eleven years old?”

“But you're…you're a cabin boy, aren't you?”

“That's the name of my job, yes. But I'm a legit grade CS6 shipman, bucking for grade seven. I'm forty-three years old, Mr. Balcescu. I've been shipping out on Confederation ships for twenty-five years.”

His eyes went wide. “But…look at you! You're a kid!”

“I look like a kid, but I'm just about your age…right? Although right now, you look about ten years older. You look like crap, in fact.”

He straightened up a little, which was what I'd intended. “What happened to you? Is it some kind of genetic thing?”

“Yeah, but not in the way you mean. My parents were Highfielders—they were subscribers to Reverend Highfield's generation ship. You may have heard of that—the Highfielder movement started up about the same time the X-Malkins were splitting off. My parents' church said that the Confederation system was full of sinners and was doomed to be destroyed by the Lord, so they planned to send their children away to find another home outside the system, somewhere far away across the galaxy. And to make sure that we'd be able to survive on ship as long as possible, they worked with geneticists to retard our aging processes—see, they started this project before we were even born. That was supposed to give us an advantage for a long-haul trip—keep us small, easy to feed, revved-up immune systems. So don't worry about me, Mr. Balcescu—I'll hit puberty eventually, but it won't be for another twenty or thirty years. I'm looking forward to sex, though. I hear it's a lot of fun.”

“What…what happened?” Balcescu was listening now, all right. “Why didn't you go?”

“Do you remember Katel's World?”

For a moment, he couldn't place it. Then he went a little pale. I see
that a lot when I tell people. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Those were your parents?”

“My folks and about a thousand other Highfielders. And, of course, a few thousand of their children. That's why the Confederation went in, to protect the children. But as you probably remember, things didn't work out so well with that. I was one of about eight hundred that were rescued alive. I grew up in an orphanage, but I always wanted to see the big black—I figure it's sort of what I was born for. So here I am.”