Alien Earth. Megan Lindholm

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ