The Ascension Factor by Frank Herbert
Ben knew that the kelp—Avata—had been the survival key to humans on Pandora. It was difficult, maybe impossible, for humans to relate to a sentient … kelp. And this new kelp was not the same creature that the pioneers had encountered. Ben had studied The Histories enough to agree with the experts—this kelp was fragmented, it was not the single sentient being of old. Many of the faithful among the people of Pandora claimed that this was why Avata formed Crista Galli, to present itself in an acceptable form. This theory was fast gaining support.
Then what does it want?
To live!
The sudden thought intruded on his mind like a shout, startling him alert. It was a voice he almost recognized. He listened deep inside himself, head tilted, but nothing more came. The sleeper still slept.
The kelp, the body of Avata, was responsible for the stability of the very planet itself. One moon had pulverized itself to asteroids while several continents had ripped apart like tissue paper after the kelp was killed off by the bioengineer Jesus Lewis. Now, the kelp was replanted and the land masses returned after a couple of centuries under the sea. Humans were relearning to live on land as well as on or undersea. It pained Ben that people were still just scratching in dirt when they should be thriving.
That’s the Director’s fault, he reminded himself, not the kelp’s.
The Director refused to recognize publicly the sentience of the kelp and used it simply as a mechanism, a series of powerful switches that controlled worldwide currents and, to some degree, weather. Everyone knew this was getting more difficult daily. There was more kelp daily, and very little of it was hooked up to Current Control.
The kelp is resisting Flattery, he thought. When it breaks completely free, I want it to have a conscience.
Ben’s diligent research, with a few leads from Crista, uncovered the secret reports and he knew the real depth of Flattery’s interest in what one paper called “the Avata Phenomenon.” Ben had spoken with the Zavatans, monks in the hills who used the kelp in their rituals.
Crista says the Director should be consulting the kelp! he thought. And I get the same story from those monks.
She stirred again, and he knew she would wake soon. She would see the dockside shops fill with vendors and hear the morning calls from the street of: “Milk! Juices!” “Eggs! We have licensed squawk eggs today!” This was one of the many small pleasures that the Director had denied her—human companionship. Ben knew that he, too, in his way, would deny her this.
For now, he reminded himself. Soon, we will have all the time in the world together.
From the coffee shop below he could hear the faint scrape of furniture, the metallic clink of utensils and china.
Ben Ozette leaned back against the wall and let out a long, slow breath. Though he’d refused to admit it until now, he was surprised to be alive. He’d not only touched the forbidden Crista Galli, but he’d kissed her. It was twelve hours later and he was still breathing. They’d made it through the night without Vashon Security hunting them down. He waited for Crista to wake, for Rico’s code-knock at the door, to see what they would make of the rest of their lives.
Chapter 8
When you see a cloud rising in the west, you say at once, “A shower is coming,” and so it comes to pass. And when you see the south wind blow, you say, “There will be a scorching heat,” and so it comes to pass. You hypocrites! you know how to judge the face of the sky and of the earth; but how is it that you do not judge this time?
—Jesus
Crista Galli’s first memory of waking up that morning on Kalaloch was of the way the light caught the carved cup in Ben Ozette’s hand, and of his hand. She wanted that hand to touch her, to brush her cheek or rest on her shoulder. It was so still, that hand balancing the cup on his knee, that she lay there for a while wondering whether he had fallen asleep sitting up beside the bed. She shuddered at the thought of sitting in one of those pieces of ghastly Islander furniture, a living creature that they called “chairdog.”
Kalaloch, too, was waking outside. She heard the stirrings of people and the stutter of engines starting as the dozer and crawler crews headed for another day’s work advancing the perimeter. The hungry and homeless of a dozen grounded islands also woke from their sleep in the gritty folds of greater Kalaloch.
Crista listened to the closer, warmer sound of Ben’s quiet breathing.
God, she thought, what if I’d killed him?
She stifled a giggle, imagining the news lead as Ben himself might have written it: “HoloVision’s popular Nightly News correspondent Ben Ozette was kissed to death last night on assignment …” The warmth, the taste of that kiss replayed itself in her mind. This was her first kiss, the one she’d nearly given up on.
Ben suffered no ill effects, which she attributed to the action of Flattery’s daily dose of antidote, still in her system. Yet she had received the flood of Ben’s past with the touch of his lips to her own, a cascade of memories, emotions and fear that nearly paralyzed her with its unexpected clarity and force.
There were these matters of his life that she preferred not to know: Ben’s first kiss, a pretty redhead; his last kiss, Beatriz Tatoosh. Both of these and more lingered on her own lips. She witnessed his first lovemaking through the memory of his cells, witnessed his birth, the sinking of Guemes Island, the deaths of his parents. His memories impregnated her very cells, waiting for her own emotional trigger that would call them to life.
She had received his memories with his kiss, too stunned to tell him. Her dreams that night were his dreams, his memories. She saw Shadowbox as he saw it, as the organ of truth in a body riddled with lies. She knew that he, like herself, was vulnerable and lonely and had a life to live for others. She did not want to keep this from him, the fact that she now owned his life. She did not want to lose him now that they had finally found each other, and she did not want to be the death of him, either.
Ben was not afraid of “the Tingle,” as people called it—this kelp death that supposedly lurked in her touch as it did in some kelp, within her very chemistry. Sometimes she didn’t believe it, either. Flattery himself had developed the antidote, which he saw to it that she received daily. It did not diminish the chemical messages she received, such as Ben’s memories. It merely muted those that her body might send. Still, none dared touch her and all of her attendants in Flattery’s compound kept her at a safe distance.
This was the first morning in her memory that she did not wake up to attendants, endless tests, to the difficult task of being a revered prisoner in the great house of the Director. Crista had slept the refreshing sleep of the newborn in spite of their escape, their hiding, her first kiss. An emptiness rumbled through her stomach as delicious aromas rose to her of pastries, hot breads, coffee.
Somewhere beneath them hot sebet sizzled on a grill. Meat was something she craved. Flattery’s labtechs had explained this to her, some mumbo-jumbo about her Avatan genes affecting her protein synthesis, but she knew this simply as hunger. She also hungered for fresh fruits of all kinds, and nuts and grains. The very thought of a salad gagged her and always had.
Though they’d fled here in the night, Crista had memorized the warrenlike underground system they took to get from the Director’s complex at the Preserve to this Islander community at Kalaloch. She was reminded of the maze of kelpways down under. She knew nothing of the local geography save that she was near the sea, relieving some other hunger that rumbled within.
She heard the sea now, a wet pulse over the babble of street vendors and the increasing traffic of the day. Pandorans were an early lot, she’d heard, but unhurried. It is difficult for the hungry to hurry. Only a very few remained on their traditional organic islands. Drifting the seas had become much too dangerous a life in this day of jagged coastlines and sea lanes choked with kelp. The majority who settled landside still called themselves “Islander” and retained their old manners of dress and custom. Those Islanders whom she’d known at the Preserve compound were
Crista Galli tucked the cover under her chin and stretched backward, unfolding to the sunlight, aware of some new modesty in the company of Ben Ozette. She had all of the intimacies of his life stored in her head, now, and she was afraid of what he might think of her if he knew. She felt herself flush, a bit of a voyeur, as she remembered his first night with Beatriz.
Men are so strange, Crista thought. He’d brought her here on the run from Vashon security and the Director, assured her that they were safely hidden in this tiny cubby, then he sat up all night beside her rather than join her in bed. He’d already proven immune to her deadly touch, and she liked the kiss as much as the daring gesture of the kiss.
The attentions of other men, the Director among them, had taught her something of the power of her beauty. Ben Ozette was attracted to her, which had been clear the first time she’d looked into his eyes. They were green, something like her own only darker. She treasured the one magic kiss they had shared before she slept. She treasured his memories that now were hers, the family she shared with him, his lovers …
Her reverie was interrupted by a shriek in the street below, then a long, high-voiced wail that chilled her in spite of her warm bed. She lay quiet while Ben set aside his cup and rose to the window.
They’ve found someone, she thought, someone who’s been killed.
Ben had told her about the bodies in the streets in the morning, but it was something too far from her life to imagine.
“The death squads leave them for a lesson,” he said. “Bodies are there in the mornings for people to see when they go to work, when they take the children to their creche. Some have no hands, some have no tongues or heads. Some are mutilated obscenely. If you stop to look, you are questioned: ‘Do you know this man? Come with us.’ No one wants to go with them. Sooner or later a wife is notified, or a mother or a son. Then the body is removed.”
Ben had seen hundreds of such bodies in his work, and she had glimpsed these the night before in the speedy unreeling of his memories into her own. This wail she thought must come from a mother who had just found her dead son. Crista was not tempted to look outside. Ben returned to his watch at her bedside.
Had he seen anything of her when she kissed him? Such a thing happened sometimes with the kelp, but seldom anymore with herself. It had happened with others who’d touched her. First, the shock of wide-eyed disbelief; then, the unfocused eyes and the trembling; at last, the waking and the registry of stark terror. For those who had been lucky enough to wake.
What did I show them? she wondered. Why some and not all? She had studied the kelp’s history and found no help there, precious little comfort. She still smoldered over some research tech’s pointed reference to her “family tree.”
She remembered how she had been kept alive down under by the cilia of the kelp that probed the recesses of her body. She received the ministrations of the mysterious, nearly mythological Swimmers, the severest of human mutations. Adapted completely to water, Swimmers resembled giant, gilled salamanders more than humans. They occupied caves, Oracles, abandoned Merman outposts and some kelp lagoons. She had been one with the kelp, more kelp than human, for her first nineteen years. Some of Flattery’s people thought that she had been manufactured by the kelp, but she herself believed that couldn’t be true.
A lot of other Pandorans sported the green-eyed gene of the kelp, including Ben. At a little over a meter and a half tall she could look over the heads of most women and looked most men nearly in the eye. Her surface network of blue veins was slightly more visible than other people’s because she was nearly pale enough to be translucent. The blood in her veins was red, based on iron, and incontrovertibly human—facts that had been established her first day out of the kelp.
Her full lips puckered slightly when she was thinking, hanging on the edge of a kiss. Her straight, slender nose flared slightly at the nostrils and flared even more when she was angry—another emotion she dared not indulge among Flattery’s people.
Crista had been educated by the touch of the kelp, which infused in her certain genetic memories of the humans that it had encountered. Before Flattery took power, most humans contacted the kelp by being buried at sea. She had to shut out the flood of memories that came rolling in with the sounds of the nearby waves. She treated herself to another languorous stretch then turned to Ben.
“Did you sit up all night?”
“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he said. He stood slowly, working out the kinks in his body, then sat on the edge of her bed.
Crista sat up and leaned against his shoulder. The disturbance below their window was gone. They faced the plaz, the morning sunlight off the bay, and Crista was lulled into a half-sleep by the warmth from the window, the coziness of Ozette beside her, and the harmonious chatter of the street vendors. In the distance she heard the heavy machinery of construction tear into the hills.
“Will we leave here soon?” she asked. She was invigorated by the sunlight, the plop-plop-plop of waves against the bulkhead and a whiff of broiling sebet on the air. The years of lies and imprisonment at the hands of the Director washed through her like a current of cold blood. Every morning that she had awakened in his compound she simply wanted to curl up under those covers and doze. Today, wherever Ben Ozette was going, Crista was going with him.
Someone whistled at their hatch, a short musical phrase, repeated once. It was the same kind of whistle-language that she’d heard from dockside the night before.
Ozette grunted, rapped twice on the deck. A single whistle replied.
“Our people,” he said. “They will move us this morning, much as I’d like to show you the neighborhood. Rico is setting it up. The whole world knows by now that you’re gone. The reward for your return, and for my head, will be enough to tempt even good people … on either side. There is much hunger.”
“I can’t go back there,” she said. “I won’t. I have seen the sky. You kissed me …”
He smiled at her, offered her a drink of his water. But he did not kiss her.
She knew that he would be killed if caught, that Flattery had already signed his death warrant. The Warrior’s Union would take care of it, had probably already taken care of every servant and selected others at the Preserve.
The night before, emerging from the underground, they had dodged from building to building along the waterfront streets, fearful of security patrols enforcing Flattery’s curfew. Crista had stopped in the open to look at the stars and at Pandora’s nearer moons. She bathed firsthand in the touch of a cool breeze on her face and arms, smelled the charcoal cookery of the poor, saw the stars with only the atmosphere in her way.
“I want to go outside,” she whispered. “Can we go out soon, to the street?”
Always the answer from the Director had been no. It was always no. “The demons,” they would say at first, “you would hardly make a meal for them.” Or, later, “The Shadows want you killed,” the Director would say. Lately, he had repeated, “You can’t tell—the swine could look like anyone. It would be horrible if they got their hooks into you.”
The Director had a particular leer that gave her the creeps, though to hear him tell it no one could protect her but him, no one she could trust in the world but him. For most of that five years she had believed him. Shadowbox changed all that. Then Ben Ozette came to do his story, and she realized that the only reason Flattery forbade her touch was his fear that she would learn something from him, from his people, and expose his intricate system of lies.
“Yes,” Ben said. “We’ll get out soon. Things are going to get very hot here very soon …”
He stiffened suddenly and swore under his breath. He pointed at a Vashon security patrol working their way down the pierside toward them: two men on each side of the street. They poured an insidious stillness over a choppy sea of
Each guard carried a small lasgun slung under one arm, and from each belt hung various tools of the security trade: coup baton for infighting hand to hand, charges for the lasguns, a fistful of small but efficient devices of chemical and mechanical restraint. They each wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses—trademark of the Warrior’s Union, the Director’s personal assassination squad. Among the people there was much smiling, headshaking, shoulder-shrugging; some cringed.
Crista watched the pair work their way along the dockside street and felt the small hairs rise on her arms and the back of her neck.
“Don’t worry,” Ben said, as though reading her mind. With his hand on her bare shoulder like that she believed it was possible that he was reading her mind—or, at least, her emotions. She loved his touch. She felt a new flood of his life enter through her skin. It stored itself somewhere in her brain while her eyes went on watching the street.
The security team left one man in front of each building in turn while the other searched inside. They were close.
“What do we do?” she asked. He reached to the other side of the bed for a bundle of Islander clothes and set them in her lap. “Get dressed,” he said, “and watch. Stay back from the plaz.”
A sudden, concussive whump and a flash of orange blasted from the harbor, then a roil of black smoke. The street turned into a scramble of bodies as people ran to their boats dockside and to their firefighting stations. Pandorans had used hydrogen for their engines and stoves, their welding torches and power production since the old days. Hydrogen storage tanks were everywhere, and fire one of their great fears.