One
Dorsey Jefferson
March, 2310. The Sykes Academy
Dorsey Jefferson gazed with
longing at the large portrait of Earth.
Twenty meters square, it hung well above Dorsey’s reach, causing him to
look steeply upward. The depiction, as
Earth would have been seen from space, was not so distant as to make it
difficult to spot oceans and land masses, but nowhere near close enough to
engender a feeling of intimacy or true familiarity. Dorsey didn’t know who painted the picture,
but he knew one thing for sure: the
artist had rendered the work from one of the better known photographs of Earth
to be found from time to time in U-Space settlements; a poor, but cherished
substitute for the genuine article.
Just recently turned thirty-two,
Dorsey looked no more than twenty-five to most.
His dark-brown hair was long enough to require him to perpetually brush
it back atop his head, which he did with a single, deft gesture. His smile had a disarming effect, as did his
slightly crooked, aquiline nose. He was
imperfect and boyish, subversively endearing.
Among the many things that could be
said of Dorsey Jefferson, one was inescapable.
He was a fraud -- or blander,
as the cross-cultural U-Space term would have it. Not of a malevolent stripe, preying on the
weak and unguarded, naturally inclined toward brutal criminal behavior which
occurred frequently in the wide expanse of U-Space. Nothing nearly so despicable.
Dorsey merely operated as a creative
fabricator of his own personal history and qualifications as the need arose
during his pursuit of more interesting and promising opportunities.
Interesting and promising
opportunities in U-Space always ran
on the scarce side.
V V V V
Dorsey realized he’d lost track of
just how long he’d been staring at the picture of Earth in a way that could be
seen as fawning. If he’d been in the
privacy of his rooms or anywhere else apart from the eyes of passersby, that
would be one thing. But as it happened,
Dorsey was in a very public place.
He moved on, down the wide promenade connecting the
landing/transport complex with the classrooms, residences, dining hall and
other amenities of the Sykes Academy. Reminders
of his illegitimacy, that he was a blander, faced him from all angles: the
faces of students who had earned
their way to Sykes, a school with an impressive pedigree: one of only four
“serious” institutions of higher learning in the mostly unruly reaches of
U-Space. Sykes had standing.
Constructed one hundred fifty years
before Dorsey was born, the school had been envisioned by its creators as a
something akin to a shrine celebrating the potential of man in U-Space. Something so near-sacred deserved physical
grandeur, they reasoned. How else would
the students recognize its importance?
The result was the awe inspiring promenade, thirty five meters wide with
pale-blue polished stone floor intended to “soothe the eye” and “lift the
soul”. Works of art (of which the Earth
painting was one) ran the length of both sides and the curved ceiling topped
out at nearly one hundred meters above the walkway. Moreover, the entire excavation was situated
a full kilometer below the surface of the uneven rocky orb from which the
school took its name.
No one even bothered to discuss the layout of classrooms and other
essentials until this grand, central feature was completed.
The promenade also radiated the most exquisite EarthLight. (A more proper name would
have been sunlight; that’s what it was intended to approximate. EarthLight, however, had a more desirable
ring to it.)
How did they do it? Dorsey, not at all technically adept, didn’t
know. He didn’t particularly care. In fact, he preferred not knowing how the
phenomenal EarthLight was created, how Displacement Drives and Gravity Blankets
made impossible distances and impossible conditions manageable, didn’t
understand how as many as ten million separate messages and comms (some as
short as a few words, others hundreds of thousands of sentences long) could be conveyed
from one edge of known space to another in a single particle at the atomic
level with virtually no passage of time in the transfer of information. He liked not knowing because it made it seem
that man -- even in U-Space -- had control of a sort of magic. Besides, words were his thing. Words, people and their behavior, ideas that
couldn’t be drawn in a diagram or translated into the language of engineers and
scientists. Dorsey Jefferson may have
been a blander, but he was also an unfulfilled, yet slightly hopeful romantic.
“Hello, professor,” one student called out to Dorsey, appearing
from one of the nooks built into the walls, staggered on either side of the
promenade, just below the level of the art on display. The nooks, accessed through narrow, craggy
openings crafted to look like natural occurrences, provided space and seating
for study, meditation and discussion among students and faculty alike. It wasn't uncommon for a student or two to
commandeer a nook, then hover near the entrance, visible to passersby, as if to
say: "We've got this
one." An invitation of sorts.
Dorsey turned toward the sound of the voice and immediately knew
the student by sight, but couldn’t pull up a name.
“I’m taking your class next term,” the student enthused, obviously
hoping it would receive some measure of approval.
Dorsey smiled and nodded slightly.
“Which one?”
“Trends of the Modern Organized Criminal Enterprise. I’m hoping to go into transport logistics…so
it’s a must.”
“Very true.”
As Dorsey started to accelerate and move on, the student felt a
need to continue the exchange:
“Alain Mossgrove said you know everything about Dirty Water --
just like you were a member or something.”
An innocent comment, something designed to curry favor. The effect on Dorsey, however, was a slight
hiccup in his step that betrayed the nerve it had struck. Clearing his throat and looking over his
shoulder at the student, he responded:
“Important to know as much as possible about those people.”
“Are all of them so dangerous?” The kid asked, following at what
he must have thought was a respectable distance. “What I mean is, the stories that go around
make it seem like they’d enjoy killing someone as much as taking them for
everything they’ve got.”
“That’s always a possibility with Dirty Water -- and they tend to
do both. We’ll save the rest for next
term.” Dorsey moved on before the student could ask another question.
“My name’s Stem Kurdle, by the way,” the kid called after him,
receiving a half turn and wave by Dorsey.
Dirty Water (among the most notorious organized criminal groups in
U-Space, rivaled only by Slowe Staine) was an area of expertise for
Dorsey. But he wasn’t comfortable with
questions or theories as to how he’d cultivated his knowledge.
Dorsey stopped, once he was well past Stem Kurdle, pretending to
take in more of the striking sculptures and paintings, depicting inhospitable
U-Space worlds and repeated renderings of planet Earth. Feigning interest gave him a chance to
collect his wits and run the implication of Stem Kurdle’s words over in his
mind. Is it possible anyone genuinely
suspected something sinister about him?
V V V V
Dorsey’s dishonesty about himself, who he really was and where
he’d been in life, could be tied back to the name into which he’d been born. Officially, he was Dorsilonn Roederie
Jefferson (reduced to Dorsey in his younger years). However, Jefferson was the part that
mattered, according to his father. Millar
Jefferson repeated to his son (and anyone else who would listen) of the
family's direct descent from Thomas Jefferson, among the most famous Earth men
of his age: Vanquisher of American
marauders who attempted not once, but four separate times to invade England and
force on the citizens their crude ways.
"He harnessed electricity. First time in the history of mankind. He made it safe for usage." Millar
Jefferson could recite the "facts" without a word of deviation,
"He killed a multitude of dangerous animals prowling London...because very
few others could."
Pretty heady stuff for a boy of
Dorsey's ilk, born onto Hyland 6A, a food processing settlement centered in the
sparse, far reaches of U-Space. Existing
within stifling gray stone walls carved below the planet's surface (as most
settlements were to avoid the frequent bombardment of lethal radiation), Hyland
wound deep through excavated pockets large enough to accommodate the crushing
routine of endless labor.
Men and women as young as fifteen
and sometimes past sixty-five did the work of stripping raw syntho-grains. They sifted, scaled and sorted, purified and
packed, then repeated it all again and again.
Robotics and automation which would perform all such tasks more
efficiently were entirely impractical.
Human beings didn't breakdown, require expert attention or replacement
parts. Or, if they did, simple enough to
plug a brand new man or woman on the line in place of the old one.
Four generations of Jeffersons
preceded Millar as laborers on Hyland. While
it wasn’t clear how the Jefferson line came to be there, the certainty of their
connection to Thomas Jefferson was unassailable.
"Our direct damn link to Thomas Jefferson should have saved
our family from relocation," Dorsey's father said frequently, so as to
never lose sight of the reason for his misery laboring on Hyland 6A.
Millar Jefferson, with his long face,
tired features and prematurely arthritic joints, also clung to the belief that his ancestors,
along with countless others, were wrongly relocated from Earth during the
"age of removal”. Forced migration from Earth, the theory
held, explained the sheer number of human beings spread across the expanse of
U-Space, as well as their iron-solid separation from Earth-controlled
C-Space.
The elder Jefferson and longtime
cronies at his side passed on these stories to younger laborers on Hyland. They routinely suggested that one of the new
breed might have come from a distinguished line of humans and never even known
it. An alluring thought; that one might
be something more substantial than they’d been conditioned to believe.
“Who knows,” the elder Jefferson
said to more than a few young men and women laboring beside him, “you could
even be from a more substantial line than myself.”
As the new convert pondered the
possibility, Millar would always follow up with a disclaimer: “It’s not likely. The Jeffersons are an unusually special
lineage. But it’s possible.”
However, convincing as he may have been to dozens of
"uninitiated" Hylandites, the one he most hoped to reach with the
narrative evaded his influence.
Dorsey had vivid memories of his
father, at the end of an excruciating shift spent scaling the unusable crust
from syntho-grain links, fingers numb and calloused after years of the
repetitive task, kicking his shoes into a far corner of the tight quarters
inhabited by the family (on nights when he no longer had the funds to occupy a
seat at one of the taverns and drink his troubles away), reclining and
retelling stories of Jeffersons through the ages.
"Am I expected to remember all
of this?" Dorsey asked once, around the time of his fourteenth birthday --
a year shy of transitioning into the labor force.
"Expected to? Don't you want
to know about it all?"
"What good does it do? Past is past."
Millar Jefferson rose gradually from
his half-reclined position on that particular evening, jarred from the sincere
hope that his son would carry on the oral tradition of the family Jefferson,
and walked away, never to look at Dorsey quite the same way again.
V V V V
Administrators on Hyland 6A couldn't
do much about the discussions regarding family histories and Earth's conspiracy
to dislocate billions. At least, they
couldn't do much about it without antagonizing workers. Nor did they try. Sure, they would have preferred that everyone
on the planet contented themselves with the banal recorded entertainments piped
into the residences of laborers during off hours (music, insipid human dramatic
presentations – morality plays and cautionary tales for a modern age, and
“meditation” sessions). However, as long
as the tales of Jefferson and others like him didn't diminish output, they were
loath to put effort into quashing it.
The several dozen individuals (all
men) in charge of keeping production rolling and trouble away, as
administrators, lived slightly better lives
than average laborers on Hyland.
Larger quarters, a minimal, but reliable stake in the company, clean
clothes, unbent bodies and limbs, happy wives and well-educated children made
for a situation that helped salve the misery of living in a factory settlement. They didn't want a war with the rank and file.
Control over information regarding current events outside the planet, on
the other hand, was something else entirely.
Developments occurring throughout
U-Space considered potentially disruptive or demoralizing to the workers of
Hyland 6A were excised from the daily digests of news made available to the
population. In truth, very little
information from outside Hyland actually snuck through to the citizens.
Yet during much of Dorsey's youth,
an alternate means of contact with the far reaches of U-Space existed: crew members of cargo transports (molkas) delivering supplies and goods
or, conversely, removing processed grain for delivery, were a constant
presence.
The stories and tidbits they
brought, these men of constant travel served as the basis of addiction for some,
Dorsey Jefferson included. Even the
discussion of essentially inconsequential events in places completely
unfamiliar to the workers of Hyland 6A was thrilling.
Most tales tended toward the
harmless. The description of fashion
fads (which the plain-living people of Hyland could only barely grasp), popular
new games of chance invented on other worlds that were beginning to make the
rounds and rumors of intriguing items (small animals, plants and the like)
successfully smuggled off Earth and sold to the highest bidders in remote
corners of U-Space.
Many administrators aware of these
small scale violations looked the other way, avoiding discipline they had no
desire to dole out. However, a few of
the "overseers" theorized that the minutiae of U-Space would
eventually give way to a more significant storyline, potent enough to provide genuine
distraction for the workers.
And that is exactly what happened.
Sessions in which the cargo molka crew members held forth with
stories from around U-Space always took place in one or another of Hyland’s
taverns. Smaller, dark places were
avoided. The ‘nook and cranny’ joints
were inadequate to hold the numbers interested in listening. Since the visiting crewmen never, ever bought
their own drinks, having a large crowd to share the burden of keeping them
supplied made all the difference.
Dorsey knew of such evenings since he was ten. But he was only allowed in when he turned
fifteen and joined the Hyland workforce.
The first few weeks of his eligibility just happened to coincide with
the start of a storyline that lasted months in epic fashion.
V V V V
"Earth! The man said there's four of them...and
they're going to Earth," one of the process line laborers, speaking to
a coworker across the stacks of unrefined syntho-grains, was overheard to say
by Dorsey. Not that the other dozen
people in the room scaling the rough crusts couldn't hear, but few of them
seemed interested. One of the dozen had
a very specific interest: Millar Jefferson
watched intently as Dorsey made his way through the room, a pair of small,
durable carts with him to collect the discarded crusts and wheel them
away. Dorsey lingered, focusing on the
story being retold. Millar glared in his
son's direction, continuing to do so until the younger Jefferson noticed and
moved along.
It didn't prevent Dorsey from
getting the entire story. He'd been
hearing various fragments from workers in processing rooms the whole morning. Very few Hylandites had been at Binches (one
of the settlement's larger taverns) the previous night to hear the full telling
of the tale by visiting cargo crewmen (commonly known as joks). But word was spreading quickly among the
workforce anyway.
Millar Jefferson, even after Dorsey
had departed the room, made faces of sour frustration punctuating each sifting
move he executed to separate crust from edible grain. Why wasn't rearing his son as simple as
pulling away the undesirable elements and tossing them aside?
Dorsey continued to pick up more
shards of information through the day.
Most importantly, he learned that the four men set to attempt a trip to
Earth were a group of accomplished pobbers. Plenty of stories about pobbers operating
throughout U-Space had reached Hylandites before. The vast majority telling of violent
deaths. Pobbers lived and breathed to
build better and more advanced ketts
-- the commonspeak term for small vessels.
Large companies and settlements in
U-Space had their oversized molkas,
constructed by elite manufacturers who guarded their design secrets. Pobbers were going to revolutionize the
ability of average men and women to make their way around U-Space of their own
accord. These devoted innovators were necessarily
dreamers, tinkerers and experimenters, married to their passion and unafraid of
dying.
The real problem was the means by
which to construct an affordable, reliable displacement drive. Even laying hands on one of the
industrial-produced molkas didn't provide pobbers all the answers they
needed. Reverse engineering could only
take them so far.
Underpowered displacement drives
could be easily produced, but pobbers were intent on matching the big molkas
for sheer power and reach. It was one of
the reasons that many of them didn't tend to live all that long.
Who else could be expected to test
one's design? The pobber behind a new
drive prototype would have to get inside his or her creation, take it out and
test its abilities.
"A sweet goodbye to
haska!" had become the traditional war cry transmission heard over comms, typically
followed by the declaration, "It's quite alright to die!", signaling
that the pobber at the controls was about to transfer to the displacement
drive. These words were usually delivered
with over-the-top conviction, tightening the guts and lifting resolve necessary
to follow through.
Most failed. And failure meant certain death. In some instances, no one could say exactly
what happened to a pobber when they made their jump. They simply disappeared. A residue of their ketts could occasionally
be found somewhere between where they started and where they intended to go,
nothing more.
But the story making its way through
Hyland wasn’t the typical pobber test gone bad.
These pobbers, as Dorsey heard told, had built something that was not
only safe and consistent, but had the muscle to get them to Earth.
The most tantalizing part involved
the sole, immutable fact that people in U-Space knew about Earth: it was off limits to them. The home planet of man cared not a whit for
any settlements in U-Space, as long as they stayed on their side of the
dividing line.
The quartet of pobbers named itself
The Nohbuer Four (inspired by the name of their haska , or home planet). They were variously characterized as daring,
suicidal, pioneering and insane. Dorsey
couldn't say for himself which of the descriptions were most apt, he just
wanted to see what would happen. The
Nohbuer Four would never sift syntho-grains, never clear away discarded crusts
for disposal. The Nohbuer Four were
doing something. Even if that something
was rushing toward death.
Not surprisingly, Dorsey wasn’t the only one with fierce
interest. The taverns hosting cargo joks
with information to share became so crowded that wedging into the smallest
available spot was a test of wills. There
were better opportunities to find an unclaimed space in an establishment
featuring joks with uninspired narrative skills and less information to share, but
Dorsey strained and shoved his way into Binches, where Spotty John Figgle was
giving his take on things.
Named for the odd, uneven pigmentation of his skin, Spotty John
was a natural performer. He also seemed
to have a greater capacity for the hard stuff that was popular among joks, allowing
him to go on much longer into the night.
"They're set for departure in
less than a week," reported Spotty John a month after first mention of the
Nohbuer Four. "Nobody seems poised
to stop them, although opinions that someone should come from everywhere!"
One of the senior crew members on
the cargo molka, Keyenoaker, Spotty
John struck Dorsey as far less jaded and weary than most others who had put in
a comparable number of years hauling one thing and another around U-Space. He had expressive eyes and an active mouth
that curled into odd positions, punctuating what he'd just said, framing it and
adding context. With graying hair cut
very short, Spotty John wore the uniform of the company which employed him -- a
blue, one-piece canvas thing, stained and patched -- with an air of defiance. It was too small and non-descript a garment
for his personality, but he didn't allow it to diminish him.
The long stone bench running the length of the back wall of
Binches, where Spotty John invariably positioned himself, allowed him the most complete view of the
place and, more importantly, provided a view of him by the greatest number of people at one time.
Binches had more “character” than any other tavern in Hyland. While it was just as gray as every other
square meter of the settlement, effort had been made to give it a unique
look. Someone (no one could remember
who) had carved faces and figures into the stone bar where patrons purchased
their drinks.
The artful renderings appealed to Dorsey as evidence that there
had been a time in Hyland’s history when at least one person did something
other than work, eat, sleep and complain.
Moreover, on a small spot on the floor, up against the bar, Dorsey
found a place to fit nicely between two of the stone faces (one of which smiled
while the other seemed on the verge of tears).
Lighting in Binches had been reduced for the occasion to provide
dramatic effect and Dorsey felt pleasantly invisible in his cozy nook, almost
as if he’d been transported to some place beyond the stifling confines of
Hyland.
"They're really going, these
four?" Sparr, an ill-tempered process line worker asked Spotty John.
"No question about it. These boys are determined."
"I see them backing out,"
Sparr grumbled. "They should have kept the damn thing secret. If all of us
know -- in a place like this -- the Earth does, too."
"Don't be so sure," Spotty
John replied with a raised finger, not about to allow anyone to wrest control
of the moment from him. "I see all kinds of indications that Earth pays no
attention to what goes on in any of these haskas."
Sparr shook his head, finished his
drink and left. His seat remained vacant
very briefly, as another laborer filled it immediately.
"Also, they've got a good
plan," Spotty John continued. "Four automated capsules on their ketts.
Once they get close enough, the caps deploy and make for different
regions of the surface. At least one of
them should get to the ground. Can you
imagine? To walk on the face of the
Earth -- in the outdoors. What must the air smell of there?"
"If it's as bad as ours,
they've gone a long way for nothing," called out a middle-aged woman
squeezed in near the bar that Dorsey recognized as Cladine Sprow. Laughter followed, along with dozens of
little side conversations and more rounds of drinks.
As interest grew and anticipation
took hold, Hyland's productivity declined.
Conversations revolving around the Nohbuer Four dominated the production
line at all levels. Administrators took
note. Once they understood that the
visiting crewmen had thrown a snag into their well-oiled machine of human
effort, segregation between residents and non-residents of Hyland 6A became the
law.
A well-stocked, clean and inviting
tavern/restaurant appeared overnight -- the only place visiting crews were
allowed to venture beyond the landing and loading bays. No residents of Hyland were allowed for any
reason. Even the staff of this new
visitors-only establishment (brought in from other colonies) were kept from the
general population of Hylandites.
Most frustrating to Dorsey and the scores of others following the
ongoing story of the Nobhuer Four was the lack of closure. Spotty John Figgle and the other joks were
sequestered before the last developments of the rogue trip to Earth could be
shared.
The need to know what had happened was too great for Dorsey forget. He took the risk of sneaking into the brand
new drinking and eating establishment for visiting joks (no one had even
bothered to name it, it was simply, ‘the place’). Getting in wasn’t all that difficult, which
demonstrated how limited the thinking on Hyland was -- even on the part of
Administrators. They seemed to expect
that by merely erecting walls separating peoples that no one would think to
breach the divide.
Of course, it only lasted as long as it took for one of the staff
at the joks’ watering hole to notice that Dorsey didn’t belong there. But before being physically removed, contact
was made with Spotty John Figgle: The man
who had been so dynamic in his telling of the stories about U-Space sat with a
half-finished drink, looking uninterested and tired.
“They didn’t make it,” Spotty John told Dorsey when approached and
asked about the Nohbuer Four.
“That’s it?” Dorsey asked, wanting details.
“What can I tell you?
Nobody heard from them again.
They were caught…or killed on the way, for certain.”
Spotty John Figgle disappointed.
He could see it in Dorsey’s face.
“Listen,” the old jok said, placing a hand on Dorsey’s shoulder,
“is this your haska…or did you just end up here ‘cause you had no better options?”
“It’s my haska. I’m sixth
generation.”
“Right. If you want to know
about things like the Nohbuers, get the hell out of this place. There’s a lot to see. Not all of it is pretty, but, you know, you
get what you get.”
In the wake of the unsatisfying
close to the tale of the Nohbuer Four and Spotty John’s message, Dorsey found
working on the production line of Hyland unbearable.
“Pull yourself up and get down to
it,” was the advice his father offered.
No chance. He’d leave -- somehow -- before allowing life to sink into the slow, agonizing
demise that had long since gripped Millar Jefferson and most others around him.
V V V V
The Sykes promenade had grown
crowded. Dorsey was casually wending his
way along toward a midday meal at the mess when he’d stopped to gaze at the
portrait of Earth. The uninspiring food
in the mess (already a drag on Dorsey’s progress toward luncheon) combined with
the comments by Stem Kurdle, the eager student, to convince Dorsey that
returning to his quarters for a bite was far preferable. He couldn’t recall what foodstuffs remained
in his small kitchen, but there had to be something there to get the job done.
The reference to his intimate
familiarity with Dirty Water lingered in Dorsey’s mind longer than expected. Ordinarily, reminders of his big lie faded
shortly after popping up. The notion
that he was running out of ways to rationalize the deception occurred to him.
So back to his rooms it would be.
Before he could reach the row of residential lifts just off the
promenade, however, a hand took hold of Dorsey’s arm and brought him to a stop.
The smiling, roundish face looking
up at Dorsey from behind belonged to Tomas Witt, professor of history at Sykes
for more than two decades and the man most respected by Dorsey at the Academy.
“I have it,” Witt said in a hushed
tone, leaning up as close to Dorsey’s ear as he could. “Do you hear me? It’s in my possession!”
Witt, six inches shorter than
Dorsey, retained a full head of curly hair (albeit grayed from his sixty-two
years of life) and wide cheeks that lent an air of whimsy. Not that he was a soft touch or suffered
fools gladly. Anyone who assumed such
things was likely to awaken the “harsh” side of Tomas Witt which usually resulted
in being leveled by a sharp tongue kept well-hidden until needed.
“Not the -- ” Dorsey stopped
mid-sentence as Witt held up a hand and looked around as if anyone in earshot
were a threat.
V V V V
Witt poured two glasses of the
“good” syntho-wine he’d kept in his kitchen cabinet for years. Witt’s rooms were larger than Dorsey’s and
commensurate with a faculty member of his standing. They’d been the site of many long discussions
and dinners involving not only Dorsey, but other like-minded professors. A perfect place to hold court.
“You should save this for a special
occasion,” Dorsey murmured, tapping a fingernail against the glass, his chin
cradled lazily in his right palm.
Witt wagged a finger at him. “Don’t even try it, young man. You’re not going to diminish this moment.”
“Would I do that?” Dorsey
deadpanned, finally taking the glass and sipping the red liquid within.
“And you won’t get off that easily.”
“Won’t I? What does that mean?”
“I expect you to read it. All of it.” Witt replied, gaze remaining
fixed on his younger colleague as he drank from his own glass.
“Let me put it this way,” Dorsey
began, sliding the remains of his wine back toward Witt, “I politely refuse.”
It took something significant for
Dorsey Jefferson to flatly reject a request from the man who had become his
mentor and greatest champion among the other faculty members on Sykes, who were
notoriously slow to open up to newcomers.
In fact, Dorsey’s inflexibility arose from the one point on which he and
Tomas Witt were hopelessly at odds.
Witt belonged to a particular class
of social scientists (not that there were all that many around to be classified
in U-Space) known as orichasers, short
for origin chasers. Despite Earth’s
official story that the mass migration beginning in the late 22nd
century was purely voluntary, most in U-Space weren’t buying it.
Nearly three quarters of a century of
humans in U-Space went by before anything that could pass for reliable recorded
history began to be kept. Earth may have
had every detail chronicling the flush
of humanity into the wide reaches of space, but they weren’t talking.
People like Tomas Witt wanted to
know. Learning the truth about what had
happened meant more than virtually anything else to Witt. He described his need to find such answers as
emanating from the molecular level of his existence. If there was a higher being, Witt contended,
said being created him for this purpose.
It was his Vyyda.
“It doesn't bother you to not
understand how billions of human beings came to be out here?” Witt asked Dorsey
on more than one occasion over the course of their association.
“No offense, but it’s a fool’s
pursuit,” Dorsey would typically answer -- albeit in the most respectful tone
possible. “No one can say what happened -- too much time gone by. Besides, what’s past is past.”
“Dorsey, the difficulty of a problem
should never be the deciding factor when determining where to devote time and
effort. Find your patience. You can afford it, young as you are.”
Despite the rationale, Dorsey
continued to resist getting caught up in Witt's passion, just as the older man
refused to stop trying to drag him in.
But now, as Witt shared the
long-saved good wine, he had a new weapon in his arsenal with which to attack
his younger colleague’s indifference. Tomas
Witt had acquired writings -- a surreptitiously kept account of one common man
and his journey from the home planet to a life in U-Space. He had, very possibly, the beginning of
proof.
V V V V
Gas giants, hot Neptunes and the
like could be found in abundance throughout U-Space. Telluric worlds, on the other hand, occurred
rarely enough that once such a body had been discovered, excavated and provided
with a livable habitat, there was virtually no chance that it would ever be
abandoned. If a given settlement became
impossible for one group to sustain, there would always be another concern
ready to step in and take over (and a broker on hand to collect a commission).
The only exception to the rule
occurred when a planet proved dangerous.
A relatively insignificant case in
point: A smaller-sized body (roughly a
third the size of Earth) in the midst of a moderately populated cluster known
as the Iron Field, had been abandoned early in the 23rd century --
less than two years after receiving its charter and “importing”
citizen-laborers. To the best of
anyone’s knowledge, the world in question hadn’t been touched or explored by
humans in the centuries since. More, it
no longer was even designated by its charter name (FTC-45), referenced instead
on all maps and surveys of the region with a red circle. In the language of speculators and
developers, the red mark warned, You’re
better off with nothing than to take a chance on this place.
The story behind the reasons for
leaving FTC-45 dormant slipped into rumor and supposition. Scary stories were told to children and
gullible types which proposed that FTC-45 held some sort of intelligent life
which had done away with the humans attempting to establish a settlement. (This would be truly extraordinary given the complete absence of intelligent life on
any of the planets reached by mankind to date.)
More likely, in the minds of any who
bothered to theorize about the meaningless little world, it had been something
on the order of disease -- a single-celled, microscopic enemy. That was enough to keep not only speculators,
but also scavengers, salvage crews and junkers from the planet in search of
what may have been left behind. There
were enough other valuables to be picked and plundered from safer environments.
Tomas Witt, however, saw a different
potential in FTC-45: Its demise came
early enough in the human experiences in U-Space that clues as to what really
occurred during the mass exodus of mankind from Earth might be found there.
The trick was locating someone
willing to brave the risk and search whatever was left of the abandoned world.
“If I wasn’t so old, I might go
myself,” Witt had told Dorsey over a meal at Flood’s, the only dining option on
Sykes outside of the decent, but uninspired fare of the mess.
“And if you were to go and find
nothing of value,” Dorsey proposed, “but came away with whatever doomed the
people who settled it, would that be worth it?”
Witt dismissed Dorsey’s suggestion
with a wave of his hand. “Purely
academic. I can’t go. I don’t possess the equipment or expertise.”
The pair had shared many meals -- gleastin pie, filshen soup, seasoned pettly
grain noodles and syntho-greens (the best dishes possible, given the meager
and limited foodstuffs available to U-Space chefs) -- going over and over
FTC-45's potential. In the most
productive sessions, Witt could get Dorsey to speculate on what might still
exist on the abandoned world: Work
rosters, passenger manifests of the enormous transport molkas bringing in new
labor. Perhaps there were records of the
people involved with the creation of the settlement and their connection to
Earth.
“Doesn’t it frustrate you more to
not know what’s there and simply speculate on it?” Dorsey asked at one point.
Witt smiled. “Pondering the unknown is a frustrating
experience for you. In my eyes, it’s pure ecstasy. Dreaming of the answers to the unknown --
isn’t that what the imagination uses for sustenance?”
There were very few on Sykes who
were aware of Witt’s desire to gain access to FTC-45. It was the old historian's best and most
guarded secret.
Desperation to get hands on whatever
it was that might be found on the dead world ultimately reached the point where
Tomas Witt took something of a risk.
When no reputable salvage experts were willing to take the job, he
contracted a team of fifteen men best described as unsavory, promising them
ownership of whatever material goods they came upon as long as he was provided
anything along the lines of recorded information or logs (for which he would
also pay a price.)
Witt's previous attempts at
evidence for his theories (including the black market and other, abandoned
worlds, already picked clean) left him with an urgency. If there was something to be found, he had to
move.
"They'll hold you up for
everything they can get and still not turn it over to you," Dorsey
predicted when Witt shared the plan with him.
Such bands of miscreants weren't uncommon in U-Space, nor were the
problems in dealing with them.
The older man responded by tilting
his head to one side, a strange grin on his face. “I have a few things in mind
should trouble arise.”
V V V V
The questionable characters drafted
to explore FTC-45 found a great deal remaining within the confines of the
settlement. They reported the discovery
of materials and equipment so outdated that it was impossible to say what they
were. Witt, upon hearing that, found his
curiosity piqued, but remained focused on records, logs and data in any form.
“Yes,” came the reply, “we have a
lot of it. So much have we found that
it’s going to cost you more than the original agreement. Lots of work involved in getting all of these
things back with us.”
Dorsey Jefferson’s warning had come
true.
“You see?” Dorsey said when Witt
told him of the development. “And they
might not even have anything.”
Witt took it in stride. He wasn’t worried in the slightest. Instead, he began talking about one of the
few other faculty members on Sykes who knew about the project: Lisabette Troupe, well-respected professor of
theoretical geology -- a discipline that demanded imagination as the ever
expanding pursuit of new and untapped worlds marched on.
“Solid woman, Lisabette. Exemplary…in so many ways.” Witt had said this on more than one occasion
in Dorsey’s presence. It wasn’t that
Dorsey doubted Witt’s assessment in the slightest -- he liked her as well. But the sound in Witt’s voice when he spoke
of Professor Troupe made it seem to Dorsey that the words weren’t simply
professional admiration. Tomas Witt, he
concluded, loved Lisabette Troupe.
What hadn’t ever been known to
Dorsey was an interesting fact about Lisabette.
Witt shared it on the provision that it be kept secret. Lisabette had a brother, Percival Troupe --
Perce, for short. Perce Troupe didn’t
share the intellectual curiosity of his sister, nor the patience to wait for
things to come his way. He was a
thug. The leader of a small group
(loosely affiliated with Dirty Water) who used sheer force to take what they
wanted, occasionally contracting their services to others in need.
Just the sort of thing that Tomas Witt
needed at his disposal.
“I insisted that no blood be shed,”
Tomas said, pouring Dorsey a second glass of the wine.
Dorsey took the claim with a measure
of skepticism.
“Or,” Witt continued, off the look
on Dorsey’s face, “at least I requested
that no harm come to anyone which could not be fully healed if it was at all
possible.”
“You had this lined up all the
time? Even before your group of
scavengers left for the planet?”
“I would have sent Perce Troupe and
his men in to do the job in the first place if they’d been willing to take the
risk. I made a deal for the recovery of
certain items, Dorsey. This is too
important to be left in the greedy hands of unscrupulous scavengers.”
“And Professor Troupe’s brother and
his men gained control of the items?”
“They did.”
“And you now have them?”
“I do. Logs, manifests, labor schedules, training
records and requests for additional personnel -- made directly to Earth. And...among
all the marginally interesting records, there’s also something even more
valuable.”
“Which is?”
“A journal.”
“Congratulations,” Dorsey said,
lifting his glass.
“And I can tell you this: While it’s not a full picture of just what
went on during mass migration, the story confirms things that I have always suspected.”
“If it’s real.”
“Which is why I need your help.”
“My help? I’m not the history man here.”
“You’re the language expert. Scour it for word usage, proper idiomatic
phrases. Do your language forensics on
it.”
“Tomas, I won’t read it. I don’t believe in it.”
"I need your help," the
older man said with a voice uncharacteristically devoid of whimsy. "I intend to release this
information. Not simply among a few
colleagues interested in the question of its authenticity. This journal, once I'm reasonably sure it's
true, is going out to every corner of U-Space I can possibly reach. The sheer speculation of years and years is
going to be replaced by knowledge. And whatever that means to the balance of
things...so be it."
"Are you still planning to
release it to all corners of existence if I think it's something put together
by a blander?"
"What would someone have to
gain by creating a fraudulent piece of material such as this?"
"A person like you. Willing to pay."
“Doesn't it strike you as likely
that the small percentage of people in U-Space who could even begin to conceive
of such a plan would find a less difficult way to leverage profit?"
"That's...possible."
"Interesting that your thinking
went so quickly to fraud for profit."
Dorsey diverted his gaze to the
glass of wine before him. Tomas Witt was
the one he regretted deceiving the most.
"Yes. Because, you may remember, I’ve lived in the
reality of humanity for most of my life," Dorsey finally said.
Witt frowned. Dorsey didn’t want to walk the rhetoric back,
but knew he’d have to; the gray-haired professor could only stomach so much
cynicism at one time.
"...and that is why I am so
fortunate to be at Sykes where the pursuit of knowledge and...so forth
are...the essence of..." Dorsey said the words flatly, searching for a
sign in Witt’s face that he’d done adequate penance.
"Are you trying to say you'll
be happy to read the manuscript?" Witt asked before Dorsey hung much
longer on indecision.
A long pause.
"All except the happy
part."
Dorsey knew he’d read it. What point was there in putting up a fight
when Tomas Witt would never let it go?
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