Worlds Enough and Time w-3

  Worlds Enough and Time

  ( Worlds - 3 )

  Joe Haldeman

  In the last volume of the parable of Earth’s destruction and humanity’s doomed flight from it, Mariane O’Hara frantically records the lives of her family and contemporaries when most of the earth’s history and literature is wiped out from computer banks.

  Publisher’s Weekly

  Nebula Award-winner Haldeman (The Hemingway Hoax) concludes his Worlds trilogy with this smooth, sophisticated novel of interstellar travel. With the earth a war-blasted ruin, civilization’s last outposts are the orbital habitats known as Worlds. From one of these, New New York, the starship New home sets out for an earth-like planet in the Epsilon Eridani system. It carries thousands of colonists, including Marianne O’Hara (the resilient heroine of the previous volumes) and her extended marriage unit (or “line”) of John, Daniel and Evelyn. When Newhome is a year out, a rogue radio transmission scrambles their computer data, ranging from history and literature to physics and engineering, and communication from New New York ceases; perhaps this World has been annihilated. The colonists must press on for Epsilon, recovering whatever data they can and coping with further challenges, among them a crop blight and a persuasive new shipboard religion. Meanwhile O’Hara and her spouses endure more private tragedies. Haldeman shows his strengths here: the workings of Newhome are believably complex, the novel’s scientific background is neither strained nor especially complicated, and the reader’s attention is focused on O’Hara’s character, her inner life and her interpersonal relationships. Although the plot takes a sudden and unfortunate turn at the very end, Haldeman offers an appealing, humanistic finish to this acclaimed series.

  (May)

  Library Journal

  Written in the form of a diary, these are the reflections of a remarkable woman on the circumstances of her life aboard “New Home,” a traveling space station that represents the last remnants of humanity bound for an uncertain destination. This conclusion to the “Worlds” trilogy (Worlds, LJ 3/15/81; Worlds Apart, LJ 9/15/83) demonstrates Haldeman at his peak, an accomplished envisioner of the distant future. Unlike many technologically oriented sf adventures, this one features memorable characters and a well-integrated plot. Purchase where the author has a following or where hard sf is popular.

  [Contained a table. Best viewed with CoolReader.]

  Joe Haldeman

  WORLDS ENOUGH AND TIME

  life is not: a book not even when it seems to have pages and chapters beginning an end some progression

  and life is not: a movie even though sometimes it seems you sit alone in darkness watching ghosts flicker through a show electric in their rowdy lifelessness

  life is this: a work of amateur not/art we start just barely time to learn how to hold the brush which colors aren’t fugitive how to use an outline but we’re not allowed to start over not ever they shake their heads and take our canvases away.

  —benjaarons

  Enter the SF Gateway…

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were — and remain — landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

  Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

  Welcome to the SF Gateway.

  www.sf-gateway.com

  PROLOGUE: TRANSCRIPT

  30 December 2092 14:30 [2 Tsiolkovski 280]

  Subject: Marianne O’Hara

  MACHINE: Are you comfortable?

  O’HARA: What a stupid question. I feel like a pig on a spit.

  MACHINE: Relatively comfortable. Ready to continue.

  O’HARA: Oh yes.

  MACHINE: Why do you want to leave Earth?

  O’HARA: Why do you want to ask that question?

  MACHINE: It is the one I was told to ask first. Subsequent questions will be generated by your responses. Why do you want to leave Earth?

  O’HARA: It’s not Earth I’m leaving. It’s New New York. This satellite?

  MACHINE: The process will be faster and easier if you cooperate. Why do you want to leave Earth?

  O’HARA: The Earth doesn’t exist anymore, not the Earth I knew. Savages in radioactive ruins. Clever diseases. There’s nothing left to leave. No one I knew is left alive.

  MACHINE: If you were given the opportunity to go back to Earth, rather than leave on the starship, you wouldn’t go?

  O’HARA: No. I tried that already.

  MACHINE: Your emotional response is complicated.

  O’HARA: The situation is complicated.

  MACHINE: Going to Earth the first time, what was the landing like?

  O’HARA: I was terrified. The sense of falling, going so fast. I knew how safe it was but my body was all confused. The gravity and the hugeness of the world outside. Horizons. We bounced landing and the straps bruised my hips and shoulders. Then I started to laugh; I’m not sure why.

  MACHINE: What was full gravity like?

  O’HARA: I’d had it in gym all my life, but not being able to walk out of it was depressing. It was like wearing a heavy rucksack you could never take off. Queasy all the time at first, but that was probably the strange food and the New York City air and water. What passed for air and water. My period came a week early and the flow was heavier than ever before; they said that always happens.

  MACHINE: Why did you put off menarche until you were sixteen?

  O’HARA: You would’ve too if you’d grown up in the Scanlan line. The boys were animals.

  MACHINE: And?

  O’HARA: I was afraid. As a girl, I was good at everything. I was afraid I wouldn’t be as good at being a woman.

  MACHINE: And?

  O’HARA: My mother had frightening cramps, sick every month like clockwork.

  MACHINE: And?

  O’HARA: It scared me. Sex, I couldn’t understand why anybody would want to do it. Any woman.

  MACHINE: You understood why men would? Scanlan men?

  O’HARA: Scanlan boys were encouraged to be aggressive. Sexually aggressive, especially. One broke my hymen with his finger on the playground when I was ten. A couple of years later five older boys held me down by the swimming pool when nobody else was there and masturbated all over me, laughing like hyenas. Beasts.

  MACHINE: But they were punished?

  O’HARA: No. The first one, the hymen, said it was an accident and the others denied even having been near the swimming pool. The counselor sp
anked me for lying. But when they tried it again, get back at me for tattling, I was ready for them, broke one boy’s finger and gave another a good bite, drew blood. I got pretty beaten up in the process, but they didn’t harm me anymore after that. Other than the damage they did to my attitude to-ward males.

  MACHINE: But you were very active sexually after menarche.

  O’HARA: Maybe I was relieved to find out I liked it and could be as good as anybody at it. Besides, I went with a Devonite the first couple of years; they don’t stop fucking to eat. Got in the habit.

  MACHINE: And after you left him?

  O’HARA: He left me. Afterwards I spent a couple of years collecting boys, butterflying, sometimes two or three a week. The girls in the dorm called me Maneater. Then I met Daniel; we were a unit until I left for Earth.

  MACHINE: The Daniel who’s one of your husbands?

  O’HARA: Yes, we married eventually. After the war. My other husband, John, I’ve known longer. He introduced me to Daniel.

  MACHINE: Do you plan to keep it a triune?

  O’HARA: I love them both. It seems stable.

  MACHINE: What if Daniel or John wants another woman?

  O’HARA: It has happened a few times, with Daniel not John. Casual and temporary liaisons, nothing sneaky or serious. That I know of. We all have the freedom if we choose to exercise it.

  MACHINE: Have you?

  O’HARA: No.

  MACHINE: You hesitated then, and your physical reactions were interesting. Tell me what you were thinking.

  O’HARA: A man, a nice man in Demographics. He asked me last month; I said no but thought maybe. Guess I’m still considering it.

  MACHINE: Your body is. Suppose Daniel or John wanted to bring another woman into the marriage. Would you object?

  O’HARA: She would have to be someone very special to all of us. That’s the line rule: one veto is all it takes. If it was one of Dan’s recurrent morsels I’d show them both the airlock. He likes them beautiful but dumb.

  MACHINE: Then why do you suppose he was attracted to you?

  O’HARA: Do you have a sense of humor, or what?

  MACHINE: I’m going to introduce a few drops of various substances onto your tongue, one at a time. Tell me what they make you think of….

  (Only two months after this interview, O’Hara did allow another woman into their line, Evelyn Ten, who was beautiful but not dumb. Also twelve years younger than O’Hara, which bothered both of them for a time.)

  0. IDENTITIES

  My name is O’Hara Prime, just plain Prime to my friends, and although I am human I am not flesh and blood. I have lived for many centuries but will be twenty-nine years old forever.

  This document is “my” story only by default: none of the other people in it is cybernetic, so none of them could have lived through the entire span. Marianne O’Hara once called me a vampire, I think playfully. It’s true that I have never been exposed to the light of day, and that I live in a box, and will not die; do not age. But from people I consume only data, not blood.

  Marianne O’Hara was the flesh-human template for my personality, and we had frequent conversations after my initial programming. At first she only talked to me on birthdays and special times, like Launch Day. As she grew older, though, we would have rather long conversations regularly. She claimed that I, being forever young, helped keep her attitudes from completely ossifying.

  “Forever young.” By the age of fifty she had forgotten how old you can feel at twenty-nine.

  I could tell this story to another machine, if it were also human, in a few seconds of direct data transfer (and have done), but of course to tell it to “soft” humans I must resort to more complicated artifice. For your ease I will attempt to tell most of it in O’Hara’s words, in her style, at least up to the time of her death. The rest of the story is still hers in a real sense, as I hope will be made clear, but perforce I shall tell that part as seen through other eyes. She did not believe in ghosts, except for me.

  (The style you are reading here is my own; that is to say, O’Hara might have written this way if she had had my standards and resources of logic, vocabulary, and so forth. She was admittedly less formal. When I begin her story I shall attempt to recreate that quality.

  (Parts of her story will be in her own words, literally. She went through sporadic periods of almost compulsive journal- keeping, especially in times of trouble. She was a good diarist but obviously wrote with the eventuality of publication in mind. Her Earth diary was published before ’Home left orbit.)

  I was “born,” or became self-aware, on 29 December 2092 [27 O’Neill 280], but when my programming was complete, a few weeks later, I felt not quite thirty, the same age as O’Hara. She was born 6 June 2063 [2 Freud 214], which was twenty-two Earth years before the war; thirty-four years before the starship Newhome would leave the ruins of Earth behind.

  The program that created me was called “immersion,” or Aptitude Induction Through Voluntary Hypnotic Immersion. It is essentially a method of storing and transferring certain aspects of human personalities. Newhome needed to carry a broad cross-section of humanity in order to make a new start at Epsilon, but many of the people we needed either could not or would not leave the relative comfort and security of their satellite home, New New York. So we would make cybernetic copies of them, eventually to impose their aptitudes on willing volunteers, when colonization began. (Predictably few people would volunteer, of course—no matter how useless or redundant their own capabilities might be—and that is part of the story.)

  Marianne O’Hara was in charge of the Demographics Committee in Newhome’s later planning stages, so she had to decide who to take along and who to plug into the machine if they could not or would not go. Unwilling to ask people to put up with something she hadn’t herself undergone, she was the first colonist to submit to the induction process. The prologue to this document, above, is a transcript of part of her induction interview. (The other voice is my own, at the age of one day.)

  As she remarks, it is not comfortable. The subject is put into deep hypnosis, usually with the help of drugs, and the body is wired up to have forty-three physiological parameters monitored. Some of them are readable with noninvasive procedures—pulse, blood pressure, brain waves—but measuring such things as sphincter tension and the viscosity of vaginal mucosa requires the insertion of probes.

  Then, over the course of ten or so days, the subject is interrogated rapidly and thoroughly by the machine. Physiology recapitulates emotion; thus, the subject’s reaction to various stimuli serves to build up a quantitative map of her personality. These data are then integrated into a standard Turing macro-algorithm, to create a cybernetic person whose attitudes are similar to the subject’s. More than “similar.”

  Talking about this makes me feel strange. Like describing the process of conception, pregnancy, and birth might be for you: you could describe it accurately without mentioning love, or caring, or mystery. The mystery, we have in common.

  Going through the inverse procedure—taking a volunteer and forcing new aptitudes onto her personality—is even less comfortable, and to O’Hara’s relief, she was forbidden to try it. The volunteer is wired with several hundred implants. Similar questions are asked, but they are presented as hypnotic suggestions, with the proper answers being the one the “inductor” would have given. Physiological responses are induced in the volunteer, to mimic the inductor’s state of mind/body at the time of her response, which can be disturbing at a deep level. But it can successfully inject “talent” where there has been none.

  O’Hara was forbidden induction because she was already crammed full of talent. Four degrees, two of them doctorates, and the tenth highest tested intelligence in Newhome. A few people liked her in spite of that. Rather more were waiting for her to stumble, I see now.

  Which seems unfair. No one knows better than I what she had to live with, what she had to hold in. Although she enjoyed life, by and large, almost every mornin
g she woke up in a cold sweat, or woke up screaming in the grip of vivid memory. Her first twenty-one years were unremarkable except for scholarly achievement; then she went to Earth, and in the course of a few months there was assaulted, kidnapped, raped. She was close to one man who was then murdered; fell in love with another and had to abandon him. The day she left Earth was the day the bombs fell, and history stopped.

  She was mother to me, and twin sister, which is why I suppose I am doing this. But it’s important for other reasons.

  YEAR 0.005

  1. EARTHWATCH

  23 September 2097 [13 Bobrovnikov 290]—Two days after launch day; I guess that will be “Launch Day” from now on. Less than an hour into the second day, actually. Left both husbands and my wife in a snoring pile in John’s low-gee flat. I have a whole cot to myself and a measure of privacy, in exchange for tolerating a little more gravity. What’s a little gravity, when you’re lying down? Though of course I’m sitting now, typing.

  I will miss the touch of pen on paper. I didn’t type my journal very often in New New, even though the handwritten pages would eventually be read into the computer and the paper recycled. No sentimental anachronisms aboard Newhome, like paper for casual personal use. I even left behind the diary of my year on Earth, the year cut short at seven months. A leatherbound book from Bloomingdale’s.

  Bloomingdale’s. I just ate the last caviar I will have in all my life. We divided my small jar up four ways and each had two crackers’ worth. John opened a priceless bottle of Chateau d’Yquem, which also went four ways. Daniel followed with a mundane but effective liter of 200-proof chemically pure alcohol from the labs, which we mixed, variously, with Evy’s tomato juice and orange juice and Dan’s hot pepper sauce. John put all four together, saying it reminded him of the way they drank tequila in Guadalajara, a custom I had not embraced when I visited there. We had the telescope seek it out but, unsurprisingly, there was no sign of life, though we could see buildings and streets clearly. It would have been impenetrable smog a few years ago.