The Jesus Incident by Frank Herbert
She took this to mean that Ship would show her a holo-record. “A projection? What are You going to . . .”
“Not that kind of projection. For this experience, you are the projection.”
“Me . . . the . . .”
“It is important that Shipmen learn about Yaisuah, who was also called Jesus. I have chosen you for this journey.”
She felt tightness in her chest# panic near. “How . . .”
“I know how, Hali Ekel, and so do you. Answer Me: How do your neurons function?”
Any med-tech knew that. She tossed it off without thinking: “A charged measure of acetylcholene across the synapses where . . .”
“A charged measure, yes. A bridge, a shortcut. You take shortcuts all the time.”
“But I . . .”
“I am the universe, Hali Ekel. Every part of Me—each part in its entirety—the universe. All Mine—including the shortcuts.”
“But my body . . . what . . .” She broke off, stopped by an intense fear for this precious flesh she wore.
“I will be with you, Hali Ekel. That matrix which is you, that also is part of the universe and Mine. You wish to know if I read your thoughts?”
She found the very idea deeply disturbing, an invasion of her privacy. “Do You?”
“Ekel . . .” Such sadness Ship put into her name. “Our powers are of the same universe. Your thought is My thought. How can I help but know what you think?”
She struggled for a deep breath. Ship’s words spoke of things just beyond her grasp, but WorShip had taught her to accept.
“Very well.”
“Now, are you ready to travel?”
She tried to swallow in a dry throat. Her mind searched for some logical objection to this thing which Ship proposed. A projection? The words represented such an insubstantial thing. Ship said she would be the projection. How threatening that sounded!
“Why . . . why must I go through . . . Time?”
“Through?” Ship’s tone conveyed an exquisite reprimand. “You persist in thinking of Time as linear and a barrier. That is not even close to the reality, but I will play that game if it reassures you.”
“What is . . . I mean, if it’s not linear . . .”
“Think of it as linear if you wish. Think of it as thousands of meters of computer tape unraveled and crammed into this little lab. You could move from one Time to another—a shortcut—just by reaching across the loops and folds.”
“But . . . I mean if you actually go across, how can you get back to . . .”
“You never let go of the now.”
In spite of that deep and grinding fear, she was interested. “Two places at one Time?”
“All Time is one place, Ekel.”
It occurred to her then that Ship had shifted from the personal and reassuring Hali to Ekel, subtly but definitely.
“Why are You calling me Ekel now?”
“Because I perceive that this is the line which you believe to be yourself. I do it to help you.”
“But if You take me somewhere else . . .”
“I have sealed this room, Ekel. You will have two bodies simultaneously, but separated by a very long Time and a very great distance.”
“Will I know both . . .”
“You will be conscious of only one flesh, but you will know both.”
“Very well. What do I do?”
“Stay there on the lab couch and accept the fact that I will make another body for you at another Time.”
“Will it . . .”
“If you do what I tell you to do, it will not hurt. You will understand the speech of this other place and I will give you an old body, an old woman. Old bodies are not as threatening to others. No one bothers an old woman.”
She tried to relax in obedience. Accept. But questions filled her mind. “Why are You sending me to . . .”
“Eavesdrop, Ekel. Observe and learn. And no matter what you see, do not try to interfere. You would cause unnecessary pain, perhaps even to yourself.”
“I just watch and . . .”
“Do not interfere. You will see the consequences presently of interfering with Time.”
Before she could ask another question, she felt a prickling along the back of her neck; a slither of chill swept down her spine. Her heart slammed against her ribcage.
Ship’s voice came from a long distance. “Ready, Ekel.” It was a command, not a question, but she answered, and her own voice echoed in her skull.
“Yesssssss. . . .”
Chapter 24
The mind is a mirror of the universe.
See the reflections?
The universe is no mirror for the mind.
Nothing out there
Nothing in here
Shows ourselves.
—Kerro Panille, The Collected Poems
WAELA TAOLINI lay in her groundside cubby, fatigue in her body, fatigue in her mind, but unable to sleep. Thomas had no mercy. Everything must be done to his perfectionist demands. He was a fanatic. They had spent twenty-one hours going through the operational routine for the new sub. Thomas would not wait for the arrival of the poet, who was somewhere in the bowels of Processing. No. We will use what time we have.
She tried to take a deep breath. Pain yanked a knot behind her breastbone.
She wondered how Thomas came to them. How could he be from Ship? Things he did not know, things that Shipmen took for granted, worried her. There was the incident with the Hooded Dasher.
He was calm, though, I’ll give him that.
What really surprised her was his ignorance of The Game.
A crowd had gathered behind the LTA hangar—off-shift crew, most of them drinking what Shipmen called Spinneret wine.
“What’s this about?” Thomas pointed his clipboard at the group.
“It’s The Game.” She looked at him with a new amazement. “You mean you don’t know The Game?”
“What Game? That’s just a bunch of drunks having a good time . . . strange, there was nothing in my briefing about liquors of any kind.”
“There have always been lab alcohols,” she said, “and at one time there were wines and brandies. But officially we can’t afford to give up any productive food for wine. Somehow, some do and the market is brisk. Those men,” she nodded toward the group, “have traded away some of their food chits for it.”
“So, they trade food for wine that costs food to make—maybe less food. Isn’t that their right?” His eyes squinted at her.
“Yes, but food’s short. They’re going hungry. In this place, going hungry means you slow down and here, Raja Thomas, if you slow down you die. And maybe someone else dies because of it.”
“Do you do it?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” her skin glowed red, “when I can afford the time.”
She followed Thomas as he strolled toward the crew, pulled the sleeve of his singlesuit to stop him short.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“It requires an even number of players, men or women. Each one buys into The Game with a certain number of food chits. They pair off any way they wish, and each one draws a wihi stick from a basket. They compare, and the longest stick wins a round. The shorter stick of the pair is eliminated, so those drawing the longer sticks pair up. They draw again, and so on until there is only one couple.”
“What about the food chits?”
“The players up the ante every round, so if there are a lot of people, The Game gets pretty expensive.”
“Does the last couple divide the chits?”
“No, they draw again. The one who draws the longer stick wins the chits.”
“That seems boring enough.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated, then: “The short stick runs the perimeter.”
She said it offhand, without as much as a blink.
“You mean they run around the outside . . .?” His thumb hung in the air over his shoulder.
She nodded. “The
“But they can’t possibly . . . that’s almost ten kilometers out in the open . . .”
“Some make it.”
“But why? Not for food, it’s not that bad yet, is it?”
“No, not for food. For favors, jobs, quarters, partners. For the thrill. For the chance to go out with a flash from a boring life. The long sticks are the losers. Food chits are a consolation prize. The winner gets to run the P.”
Thomas let out a long breath.
“What are the odds?”
“By experience, they work out just like the rest of The Game—fifty-fifty. Half don’t make it.”
“And it’s legal?”
It was her turn to look at him quizzically.
“They have the right to their own bodies.”
He turned to watch the people playing this . . . this game.
The crew had paired up, drawn, paired up, drawn, and was now down to the last pair. A man and a woman this time. The man had no nose, but wrinkled slits in his forehead pulsed with the moisture that Thomas took for breath. The woman looked vaguely like someone he had known.
They drew, and the woman matched longer. The crowd cheered and helped her gather her winnings. They tucked them in her collar and sleeves and belt. The last of the wine was passed around and the group began moving toward the west quarter exterior hatch.
“He’s really going out there?” Thomas followed them with his eyes.
“Did you notice his right eyebrow?”
“Yes,” he looked up at her, “it looked as though he had two eyebrows above it. And the nose . . .”
“Those were tattoos, hash marks. You get one for running the P.”
“Then this is his third? . . .”
“That’s right. His odds are still fifty-fifty. But there is a groundside saying: ‘You go once, you’ve had your flirt with death. You go twice, you live twice. Go three times and go for me.’”
“Charming.”
“It’s a good game.”
“You ever play it, TaoLini?”
She swallowed, and the glow faded out of her skin.
“No.”
“A friend?”
She nodded.
“Let’s get back to work,” he said, and walked her slowly back to the hangar.
Waela remembered this exchange with the odd feeling that she had missed something in Thomas’ responses.
Thomas would not even pause for WorShip. He permitted a grudging rest, hardly a hesitation, only when fatigue had them dropping programs and forgetting coordinates. During one of these rests he had started an odd conversation with her and it kept her awake now.
What was he trying to say to me?
They had been seated in the globe of plaz which would shield them in the depths of the sea. Workmen continued their activity all around the outside. She and Thomas sat so close to each other that they had been required to learn a special rhythm to keep from bumping elbows. Waela had missed the right sequence of keys for the dive train three times running.
“Take a rest.”
There was accusation in his tone, but she sank back into the sheltered contours of her seat, thankful for any relief, thankful even for the crash-harness which supported her. Muscles did not have to do what the harness did.
Presently, Thomas’ voice intruded on her consciousness.
“Once upon a time there was a fourteen-year-old girl. She lived on Earth, on a chicken farm.”
Lived on a chicken farm, Waela thought, then: He’s talking about me!
She opened her eyes.
“So, you’ve pried into my records.”
“That’s my job.”
A fourteen-year-old girl on a chicken farm. Her job!
She thought about that girl she had been—child of emigrants, grubbers in the dirt. Technopeasants. Gaulish middle-class.
I broke away from that.
No . . . to be honest, she had to admit that she had run away. A sun going nova meant little to a fourteen-year-old girl, a girl whose body had become a woman’s much earlier than her contemporaries.
I ran away to Ship.
She had held such conversations with herself many times. Waela closed her eyes. It was as though two people occupied her consciousness. One of them she called “Runaway,” and the other, “Honesty.” Runaway had objected to Shipman life and railed against groundside dangers.
Runaway asked, “Why was I chosen for this damned risky life, anyway?
Honesty replied, “As I recall it, you volunteered.”
“Then I must’ve parked my brains somewhere. What in hell was I thinking?”
“What do you know about Hell?” Honesty asked.
“Yeah, I have to know Hell before I can understand Paradise. Isn’t that what the Ceepee says?”
“You have it backwards, as usual.”
“You know why I volunteered, dammit!” The Runaway voice was edged with tears.
“Yes—because he died. Ten years with him and then—poof.”
“He died! That’s all you have to say about it, ‘He died.’”
“What else would there be to say?” Honesty’s voice was level, sure.
“You’re as bad as the Ceepee, always answering with questions. What’d Jim do to deserve that?”
“He tested for limits and found them when he ran the P.”
“But why doesn’t Ship or the Ceepee ever talk about it?”
“About death?” Honesty paused. “What’s there to talk about? Jim is dead and you’re alive, and that’s much more important.”
“Is it? Sometimes I wonder . . . I wonder what’s going to happen to me.”
“You live until you die.”
“But what’s going to happen!”
Honesty paused again, uncharacteristically, and said, “You fight to live.”
Waela! Waela, wake up!
It was Thomas’ voice. She opened her eyes, tipped her head onto the seatback and looked at him. Light glittered from the plaza above him and there was the sound of workmen pounding metal out in the hangar. She noted that Thomas, too, looked tired but was fighting it.
“I was telling you a story about Earth,” he said.
“Why?”
“It’s important to me. That fourteen-year-old girl had such dreams. Do you still have dreams about your life?”
Her skin began a nervous glow. Does he read minds?
“Dreams?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “What do I need with dreams? I have my work.”
“Is that enough?”
“Enough?” she laughed. “That’s not my worry. Ship is sending down my prince, remember?”
“Don’t blaspheme!”
“I’m not blaspheming, you are. Why do I have to seduce this poor idiot poet when . . .”
“We won’t argue that again. Leave now. Quit. But no more arguments.”
“I’m not a quitter!”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Why did you pry into my records?”
“I was trying to recapture that girl. If she won’t start with dreams, maybe she’ll get somewhere with dreamers. I want to tell her what’s become of those dreams.”
“Well, what’s become of them?”
“She still has them; she always will.”
Chapter 25
You specie of gods. Very well. Avata speaks that language now. Avata says consciousness is the Species-God’s gift to the individual. Conscience is the Individual-God’s gift to the species. In conscience you find the structure, the form of consciousness, the beauty.
—Kerro Panille, Translations from the Avata
HALI FELT no passage of time, but when the echoes of her own voice stopped reverberating in her consciousness, she found she was facing herself. She still sensed the tiny teaching lab which Ship had revealed behind the terminal in Records. And there was her own flesh in that lab. Her body lay stretched out on the yellow couch, and she stared down at it without knowing how she did this. Light filled the lab, splashed from
She wanted to speak and for a panic-seized instant wondered how she could do this. It was as though she struggled to get back into her body. Sudden calm washed her and she heard Ship’s voice.
“I am here, Ekel.”
“Is that like hybernation?” She had no sensation of speaking, but heard her own voice.
“Far more difficult, Ekel. I show you this because you must remember it.”
“I’ll remember.”
Abruptly, she felt herself tumbling slowly in darkness. And at the front of her awareness was Ship’s promise to give her another body for this experience. An old woman’s body.
How will that feel?
There was no answer except the tunnel. It was a long, warm tunnel and the most disturbing thing was that it contained no heartbeat, no pulse at all. But there was a glimmer of light at some distance and she could glimpse a hillside beyond the light. Raised shipside, she understood corridors without thinking about them, but when she emerged through the oval whiteness it was a shock to find herself in an unconfined area.
Now, there was a pulsebeat, though. It was in her breast. She put a hand there, felt rough fabric and looked down. The hand was dark, old and wrinkled.
That’s not my hand!
She looked around. It was a hillside. She felt the deep vulnerability of her presence here. There was sunlight, a golden glowing which felt good to this body. She looked at her feet, her arms: an old body. And there were other people at a distance.
Ship spoke in her mind: “It will take a moment for you to become acquainted with this body. Do not try to rush it.”
Yes—she could feel her awareness creeping outward through halting linkages. Sandals covered her feet; she felt the straps. Rough ground underfoot when she tried two shuffling steps. Fabric swished against her ankles—a coarsely woven sack of a garment. She felt how it abraded her shoulders when she moved; it was the only garment covering her body . . . no. There was a piece of cloth wound around her hair. She reached up and touched it, turning as she did this to face downhill.