Memorymakers, p.14
Memorymakers, page 14
Jabu felt most comfortable with the center-of-the-Earth hypothesis, and he thought of himself now as a beautifully flaming meteorite or comet, his tiny ember a microcosm of what the larger ball of fire might have been at one time, before it began cooling and formed an outer crust. This was a fear-allaying thought, one that seemed true according to the visceral sensations it imparted.
Actually, he realized the ember might have come from afar, or it might have been in this place, (his center of centers, for all time. But if it was within the Earth, it was moving through the universe with the planet and its solar system. A moving center? Shouldn’t a center be stationary?
No, it didn’t have to be. But he would feel more comfortable if it were. It seemed less safe if it moved.
These concepts were mind-boggling to Jabu, and he considered himself deficient as a scholar or theoretician of such matters. He understood his weaknesses well. The more he considered the possibilities, the more he feared mental and physical breakdown, the stressing of fragile emotions that led inevitably to shittah. Still, the voyages had to be made, and with them went thoughts—rambling, stretching thoughts that one day might attain what they sought.
It would be a perfect joining.
The ember glowed hotter, as it always did when piercing the great fireball from whence it came. Jabu feared these times most, for it seemed to him that fire naturally wanted to merge with fire, that in one instance, the final instance known to this sentient, Jabu, the ember would not be able to extricate itself from a greater force.
He tried to think of other things in such times.
Some Ch’Var scholars said that Ch’Vars originated off Earth, but this was by no means a unanimous opinion. There were many divisions of opinion over many issues. Even when statements from Mother Ch’Var could be located, they were subject to interpretation and spirited argument.
Mythology held that Gweens preceded Ch’Vars on Earth’s surface. But this was not conclusive according to some, who believed this followed the design of the collective Ch’Var brain, to test the planet’s surface and develop important information before Ch’Vars formed themselves into human shape. It was well known that a thing could best be fully learned by doing it, however, so in this theoretical postulation the Ch’Vars could not sit back and watch too long. At some point they had to commit themselves.
Theories! The Director laughed, a soundless howling within.
He wanted to scream in fear, for it seemed to him that he had been inside the great molten mass too long, that he would never pull free. Then he sensed coolness, and he felt like a fleck of orange sunset dust, turning gray and cold as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. He felt he should be happy at this, for it suggested he might be piercing the icy core of Homaal, entering. But something was different this time, an element out of place. Those Harvey children.
This speck of dust, this Director in an infinite line of Directors, felt not in control as he should have been. Even though he stood at the helm of the Ch’Var race, he was buffeted by it, and in turn the Ch’Vars were buffeted, even controlled, by forces greater than their own. Sometimes even Gweens seemed superior, and in this among all moments of reflection he found himself unable to place any order to the universe. There was an order out there, at least he thought there was, but maybe he felt this because so many people assumed it. Maybe it was all chaos out there in the distance, and in the foreground, and within his own being.
Cold, so cold in his body. A good sign, but still different than before.
“Ch’Vars and Gweens, these are the races of mankind.” Where did he learn that? Too much data in his mind from unknown sources so that it could not be questioned, could not be analyzed, could not be turned inside out for its workings, for its fallibilities.
Ch’Vars and Gweens . . . mankind. . . of course, there had long been theories of alien races, of peculiar sentients that were like humans but unlike them. Was anything at all alien in the universe, or was this concept intrinsically parochial, one that betrayed foolishness, ineffectiveness and insignificance in the perspective of the observer?
He felt a maudlin sense of love for all living things in all places, a desire to embrace all knowledge and experience, and he guffawed at himself for this.
I am only a man, he thought, despite my position. One more human among the countless.
He was inside Homaal now, a tiny cooling ember in a great frigid place, a spot of fire fighting for its brief period of existence, its birthright.
His mind was a stream fed by tributaries of experience, and in the final analysis—at least the final one he could imagine—all logic seemed to wash away into brilliant, mindless colors, into fiery, bursting supernovas and nebulas and pyrotechnics . . . and thence to greenswards and infinite, turquoise seas.
Homaal surrounded him, the known place that was an unknown place, and across the turrets of his fortress he saw little orange, purple and yellow succulent plants growing from the vast ice plain, as if the frozen white were a warm desert, as if the diffused orange glow beyond the pale, translucent sky were a nutrient-bearing sun. This was a sky that should not have been. He smelled jasmine borne on a cool breeze.
He shivered, pulled his insulcoat tight across the front.
The Director turned, and inside his fortress, beyond the glass doors of the balcony on which he stood, he saw Margaret Tung, head of the Inventing Corps, awaiting him. A tall, heavyset Oriental, she wore the blue insulcoat of the Corps, with a gold star cluster lapel insignia.
Jabu always left and arrived on this balcony, and though he never varied this he felt he could if he wanted to. He might arrive inside one time, or on the roof, or on a different balcony. But he always did it this way, the known way, for it comforted him most (if only a little) during the perils of travel.
This fortress was a place of strength and serenity to him, as he imagined it must have been for all who preceded him here.
As if in a dream, the doors opened without seeming to be touched, and he was inside, facing Margaret Tung. She was as tall as Jabu, and he tried to focus on her eyes but could not.
It was always like that here upon first arriving—the dreamstate—and for several moments he would feel like a somnambulist. Now as he gazed upon Tung while she awaited his words he felt an uncomfortable tingling in his brain, as if it were a limb with interrupted circulation, coming back from sleep. The olive pupils of Tung’s eyes became clear, and she was gazing steadily at him. A pragmatic woman, she had her own theories about Homaal, and in each of them she tried to rely upon pure science, upon the known. But ultimately, even the most scientific-wrapped theory she came up with was only that, a theory—flawed and unprovable. Mysticism prevailed.
We are magicians, Jabu thought.
Jabu told her now of the Harvey children, of Thomas Harvey’s embidium that Jabu carried in his pocket, and of Emily Harvey’s wild assertions. He explained why she had not accompanied him, and said, “We must to her.” But he heard a degree of hesitancy in his voice, and he realized he had acted impulsively, assuming that Tung would see the logic of his wishes. She was disturbingly independent, a woman who used her unique, essential talents as an inventor extraordinaire to get her way with the Director.
“Long have we known the importance of the Nebulons,” Tung said with an irritating regality, “and as they diminish, my Corps works feverishly to develop substitute organisms. My time is better spent here, continuing the effort. We are very close and should not break stride.”
“I understand your concern about the creative process, the way you don’t like to be disturbed in the midst. . . and I wouldn’t be making this request of you if it wasn’t important.”
“I must return to my projects,” she replied, a hard tone. “There is no point in me seeing the girl, for I can do nothing with her. If she did something to the Nebulons, the viruses, that is beyond my realm. I am laboring for a substitute, and the answer is linked to artificial embidiums. I have nothing to do with real Nebulons, with the Nebulons you say this witch has stolen.”
“But you must see her! You must try!”
“What is done is done, My Lord Director.”
Jabu wished he had the strength to force his will upon her, but in the battle of wills he had long ago given up any such attempt. Permitting Tung free rein had resulted in a number of astounding inventions that complemented the natural powers of the Directorship. He was grateful she had at least consented to the artificial Nebulon and embidium projects, but she should go an essential step further, acceding to his request.
Request! I should not be making requests of her!
He met her gaze, saw no defiance there, hardly any emotion whatsoever, only the intransigent look of an equal who had made up her mind and would not be deterred.
Her appearance before him whenever he called for her indicated that he might have a slight edge, but it was ever so slight, neatly imperceptible. Still he sensed this advantage and wondered how he might enlarge upon it, and as he stared at her he saw a shift in her eyes, a weakening.
Her eyes hardened again, and she said: “I must return to my work, mustn’t let inspiration slip. We’re close on both projects, maybe a little closer on the Nebulon project man on the embidiums. The Nebulons must be solved first, I believe, and from that the link to the other.”
Jabu nodded, though he began to envision an argument that might sway her, that Emily Harvey might hold a key essential to the invention process. But his words wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t form themselves into a logical order that he could convey.
He detected relief in Tung’s expression.
She turned and hurried away.
The frigid interior world known as Homaal was an ice plain that stretched as far as the eye could absorb in all directions around the ancient rock fortress Lordmother had built, which according to legend stood at the plain’s precise center. Jabu did his best thinking away from the fortress, far out on the ice plain, where the crispness of the air cleared his thoughts, aligning problems in neat orderings that allowed him to prioritize, dealing with the most essential first.
With his insulcoat secured tightly around him and the hood snug, he leaned forward on the ice-cycle, peering through the windshield. This vehicle speeding across the white plain resembled a motorcycle, but instead of tires it had two narrow parallel skids, with friction belts on the bottom of each that made purchase on slick surfaces.
He glanced back, and the gray stone turrets of the fortress were just above the horizon, with the main portions of the walls out of sight. Jabu looked forward again and spun a tiny finger gear on the handlebar, increasing the vehicle’s speed and causing wind to whip hard around the windshield, slapping cold air against his face.
How to deal with Margaret Tung . . . Such a stubborn woman, and though she would never admit it she had limitations, important limitations. She didn’t have all the answers, and sometimes Jabu pushed her to admit her ignorance. She didn’t know, for example, where the oxygen in this tiny, enclosed world came from. Always the admissions came slowly and reluctantly from her.
Jabu made another finger-gear setting and then another, until the maximum speed had been reached and the cold wind was fierce against his face. Soon the fortress could no longer be seen behind him. He brought the vehicle to a stop and swung a leg over to disembark.
From a carrier on the rear of the ice-cycle he removed a thick, soft tahnchair pad, which he placed on the ice and sat upon.
He gazed away, past a foreground of succulent orange and purple plants, into a nearly featureless distance. He had never gone farther than this, just beyond the horizon of the fortress, and neither had anyone he had ever heard of. Curiously, though it seemed illogical, he harbored no interest in what lay beyond, and he wondered why he felt this way.
Fear? He felt a little now, he thought, but not much, more a selective disinterest about this particular unknown. He could not remain focused on the subject, and soon it slipped away entirely.
Lordmother walked here, according to the teachings, and Jabu felt her sacred energy flowing through him, sorting priorities. The continuance of the Ch’Var race emerged above all, the essential of essentials, but in its path he saw a mammoth, ghostlike image of Emily Harvey, preventing a long, thin line of Ch’Vars from advancing into the future.
He struggled, a mental tug-of-war, and with the force of concentration he partially scattered the image of the Harvey girl. Through the fragments of her countenance he envisioned all Ch’Vars happy, with manufactured or cloned embidiums in every brain and an unlimited supply of artificial Nebulons. His people had no worries of any kind.
Perhaps Margaret Tung was right in her own way, within her limitations.
Now the image of Emily Harvey returned with ferocity, scattering his halcyon vision to dust. And this time no amount of effort could clear his mind of her.
Emily Harvey’s mouth formed a lover’s smile just for him, and this so frightened and unnerved Jabu that he leaped on his ice-cycle and fled across the plain, toward the security of his fortress.
Chapter 17
Motives: In all acts, in all times, in all people. Beware!
—Rornuri, the first Director chosen by Mother Ch’Var
Emily and Thomas managed to scrape up enough money for their cab fare home. When they arrived, Emily counted out the money carefully and paid the robot driver, a friendly machine that made no comment about their disheveled appearance or the fact that it had picked them up in a rough part of the city. Nor did it object when they gave it an enthusiastic thank-you in place of the tip usually earmarked for the Robo-Cabbies Educational Fund.
As Emily and Thomas walked up the long stone pathway that led to their front door, apprehension seized her. The house lay in sunset shadows and seemed less like home than ever before, and she realized she no longer wanted to live there. No longer could she tolerate Victoria or even Mrs. Belfer, and in an alarming twist of emotion she felt herself building a wall between herself and her father. Emily felt like giving him an ultimatum, forcing him to choose between wife and daughter.
I’d lose that confrontation, she thought.
And she described her feelings to Thomas.
“The old house looks the same to me,” Thomas responded from the top of the stairs. “I think things will be fine, even with Victoria. It will smooth out if you give it a chance. You’re just tired.”
Emily thought her brother might be correct. They had been through a terrible experience that would take time to recover from, to set it in perspective. She wouldn’t get all of her rest in one night. She tried to set negative thoughts aside, but when she crossed the porch she thought of Gweens and Ch’Vars, of the mystery she had been exposed to through Nebulons or drugs or both. She had seen no mention of these racial divisions in books, magazines, newspapers, on television or on the radio. None of the adults or children in her life had ever mentioned such people. But she had information on them in her mind, flickering bits of data that pulsed and receded, just out of her reach for the moment but approaching, inexorably approaching.
“I feel so peculiar about what happened,” she said, “like . . . like something’s hatching within me.”
Thomas giggled as he turned the door handle. “What are you going to do, break through your outer shell, peck your way out and turn into a weird alien? I’d like to see that. My sister the lizard-woman.”
She nudged him playfully, but didn’t feel that way inside. Nothing bothered Thomas for long, if at all. He’d floated through the experience like a charmed person, unaware most of the time that evil forces were raging around him.
Lucky Boy, she thought, remembering her nickname for him.
Her brother soared with ideas and dreams, it seemed, even in the instants of emergency when he’d helped her produce the Chalk Man that rescued them. Emily seemed cursed with the burdensome task of seeking explanations for puzzles that didn’t want to be solved. Ch’Var and Gween memories stirred again within her: dim, ineffable thought forms.
Mrs. Belfer greeted them at the front door, red wig askew, eyes bleary from alcohol. Her cheeks puffed from the sides of her face like miniature pillows daubed with pink paint.
“Whazzis?” she said, and wrapped her fat arms around the children. “My babies are back,” she sobbed, and tears ran down her face.
Emily was touched by the housekeeper’s greeting, and some of the negative feelings she’d experienced while approaching the house retreated. But not for long.
“Look who’s here!” Mrs. Belfer shouted when they were in the living room. “Oh, Victoria! Come out, come out, wherever you are!” She laughed at her own silliness and glanced at Emily. “Your step-mom’s been really, really worried about you. Could barely make it to the boutique yesterday.”
Mrs. Belfer laughed again and coughed on her own saliva. She grabbed a brandy bottle by the neck and stumbled from the room, muttering as she went, “But your poor dad’s really broken up about you, yes indeed.”
I need to get out of this zoo, Emily thought.
Victoria’s familiar voice filled the room with unwelcome sound. “Mon Dieu, look at the filthy urchins! Where have you been for two days? We’ve been worried sick, and the police are out searching every place. Do you realize how many people you’ve inconvenienced?” She threw herself on the couch, curled into a feline pose.
“We got kidnapped,” Thomas said. “By that guy who was going to give me the free party. He wasn’t so bad at first. He took us to this place that had all kinds of neat things—gold toys and stuff, this neat-o train. But then things got weird and I saw Booger . . . in a dream, I think. And there was this monster named Peenchay, but Emily’s Chalk Man chewed him up and we got away.”
