Short fiction complete, p.180
Short Fiction Complete, page 180
Fain crossed the width of the room, retaking his seat next to Bomeer. “Unfortunately,” he went on, “they possess more raw materials necessary for ship building than any of the Worlds. Likewise, their construction facilities are among the finest in the Empire—”
“But they are a member of the Empire, even if in name only,” Javas finished for him. “As such, they cannot, will not refuse, outright or otherwise, the needs of the Empire.”
Fain shrugged. The chief of staff of the Imperial Military Forces had maintained throughout his career that a firmer hand was needed with the Frontier Worlds and, while he did not exactly welcome the opportunity to use force, had long maintained that it was necessary and that he was prepared to use it.
“We need Pallatin’s cooperation in this,” Javas said firmly. “Do what is required, Commander.”
Fain nodded in sharp agreement, the slight hint of satisfaction in his manner telling Javas that he was not displeased with the decision.
This meeting, like so many of the others, had lasted hours. Javas rubbed his face with both hands in an attempt to perk himself up and a sudden feeling of frustration swept over him, interrupting the subject at hand. Blinking the tiredness from his eyes he let them wander over the study, taking in the viewscreen and the handcrafted woodwork of the cabinetry, the massive wooden desk beneath his fingertips; he’d personally designed this room and all its contents for the Emperor, had it equipped with every convenience, every comfort his father might want. Javas was surprised, when he reluctantly took the study as his own, at how comfortable the room was, how it seemed to “fit” him. The feeling disturbed him.
“Why did he do it? Why did he pardon his own murderer?” Javas pounded a fist on the desk in frustration, startling both men seated across from him. He leaned forward and rested his chin on steepled fingers, staring intently at the two. “You knew him, Fain, better than anyone. Why?”
“I can’t answer that, sire.” Fain sat rigidly in his chair, not quite at attention, and returned the new Emperor’s gaze. There was strength in those eyes, Javas realized, but pain and frustration lay behind them as well.
“Nor can I,” Bomeer added softly. He ran a hand absently through thick brown hair more unruly than usual. “Sire, no one could have detected the extent of the threat your father’s—‘caretaker’ presented to his health. No one.” He let his gaze fall to the floor as he chose his words, then regarded Javas seriously, but carefully. “Sire, I served your father all my life and, while I sometimes opposed him, loved him as a brother. I spoke candidly to him of my feelings in all things, even when my feelings went against his—as they did concerning this project. It is true that the bluntness of my remarks angered him on occasion, but my advice was always accepted at face value. May I be so bold as to speak bluntly now?”
Fain turned slightly in his chair, an eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.
“If I learned nothing else from my father, it was to seek—and consider—the counsel of others. Speak freely.”
Bomeer cleared his throat softly, and without further hesitation said, “Sire, you are blaming yourself for your father’s death.”
“Is that so, Academician?” Javas heard the anger rising in his voice. “And how about you, Commander? Do you concur?”
Fain’s answer was instantaneous. “I do.” He paused, then, as if taking further measure of his new Emperor before continuing. “And if I, too, may speak candidly, sire?”
Javas nodded.
“The guilty parties have been found out, and your father’s death itself will rally the Hundred Worlds to his dream. There is much to do, but it is my considered opinion that any preoccupation with his death can serve only to keep us from achieving your father’s goals.”
Javas opened his mouth to refute the statement, but instead nodded slowly in the realization that the two shared his feelings of guilt. Looking first to one, then the other, he saw that each seemed as tired as he himself felt, and he was certain that a glance into a mirror would show the same circles under his eyes that he saw under those of his companions.
He pushed away from the desk and crossed silently to the viewscreen on the opposite wall. Arms folded across his chest, he stared idly at the graphic representation of the Pallatin system Fain had been discussing.
They’re right, he thought, still standing before the screen. We are blaming ourselves. He sighed heavily and returned to the desk.
“Thank you for your honesty,” said the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds.
“Commander, when can you depart for Pallatin?”
They lay next to each other, legs still entangled in the satin sheets of the huge bed, and stared tranquilly at the branches of the trees swaying gently above them. From time to time the rustling boughs parted enough to reveal a field of stars as unfamiliar to Javas as those seen from Luna. He propped himself up on an elbow and smiled at the way the holographic forest around them was augmented by the scent of leaves and flowers, and how the singing of a night bird in the distance seemed to call forth the twin moons now rising through a clearing of thin saplings. He returned his attention to her, taking in the way her hair cascaded over her pale shoulders and how her breasts rose and fell as she breathed. She faced away from him, gazing at the rising of the moons, and he couldn’t read her expression. Their lovemaking had been passionate, but preoccupied in the knowledge that she was leaving.
Despite the impression of openness suggested by the holographic forest, the room had grown warm, and as Javas stroked the smooth flatness of Adela’s stomach with his left hand, his fingertips glided softly over a thin sheen of perspiration. He furrowed his brow in concentration and silently ordered the temperature lowered a few degrees. An extra moment of will as he concentrated gave rise to a whisper of air that enveloped the bed chamber like a breeze, seeming more a natural part of the “forest” than that of the room’s cooling system. Still unaccustomed to the integrator, and still learning to use it with the effortless ease his father had shown, he was already beginning to appreciate some of the finer opportunities it presented.
Adela’s breathing had slowed to normal, and was now almost inaudible as she took his hand in both of hers and brought it to her lips, turning to him amid the jumbled covers. She pulled Javas to her and embraced him in a long, warm kiss, but before he could return it, she pulled away and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Without a word she left his side, crossing to a small settee marking the edge of the room and stood, her back to him, silhouetted against the moons as she admired the vista around them.
“Thank you,” she said tenderly, “for the vision of home. I’ve missed it so.”
“I had it programmed some time ago,” he replied, still leaning on his elbow. “It was to be a gift.” She’s so tiny, he thought, watching the moonlight through the moving trees play across the gentle curves of her body. “Although I’d not intended it as a going-away gift.”
It made sense, of course, for her to leave. If anyone could convince Pallatin of the necessity of their cooperation, it was she. Hadn’t she, after all, convinced him? If Fain ultimately had to use force to bring Pallatin into line, it wouldn’t be for lack of her persuasive talents. Then there was the time factor. They both had come to terms with the fact that she would need to follow this project through to its conclusion, requiring either long periods of cryosleep or travel at relativistic speeds or, more likely, both. The round trip would take nearly forty years, in real time, while she would age only a few. He shook his head at the thought of how much older he would be, now that rejuvenation was out of his reach, when she returned.
A bird flew past so close she started for a moment, then giggled in the realization of how silly she was to be so completely fooled by something that wasn’t even there. I love all the childlike, joyously simple things about you, he thought pleasantly as her laughter reached his ears. I’m going to miss them. The thought reminded him of another, more important, reason why he hadn’t fought her decision to go: Her personal safety. Until he learned the full truth surrounding his father’s death, he preferred she be somewhere else.
There was a soft chiming, so faint that it might have gone unnoticed but for its intrusion in the peaceful setting all around them.
“Acknowledged.” Javas pulled a robe around him then went to Adela, who had not moved from her spot near the settee. Standing behind her, he encircled her in his strong arms and kissed her once on the neck.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She wordlessly retrieved a light, knee-length tunic from the foot of the bed and slipped it over her head, smoothing it with the palms of her hands before cinching it around her narrow waist.
“I have to go.”
Javas nodded and, after taking one last look around at the serene Grisian forest, addressed the room system. “Cancel and store display.” The scene instantly dissolved and was replaced by his bed chamber.
He wanted to hold her. ask—no, command—her to stay, but knew better than to try. Instead, he took her upturned face in his hands and kissed her.
“Good-bye,” he said simply.
Adela smiled and, reaching up to his face, played smooth fingertips over the stubble on his cheek. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, then turned and quietly let herself out of his bed chamber.
And out of his life for the next forty years.
Acknowledgement: The character of the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds is drawn from “Call Him Lord,” by Gordon R. Dickson, and is used here with his kind permission.
Bushido
There are words whose emotional connotations are clear and powerful, yet whose simple denotations are not so obvious. . . .
Saito Konda grimaced against the pain, hoping that his three friends could not see his suffering. He did not want their sympathy. He was far beyond such futile emotions. All that was left to him was hate—and the driving will to succeed.
He was sitting in his laboratory, his home, his hospital room, his isolation chamber. They were all the same place, the same metal-skinned module floating five hundred kilometers above the Earth.
The two men and one woman having tea with him had been his friends since undergraduate days at the University of Tokyo, although they had never met Konda in the flesh. That would be the equivalent of murdering him.
They were discussing their work.
“Do you actually believe you can succeed?” asked Miyoko Toguri, her almond eyes shining with admiration. Once Konda had thought she might have loved him; once he had in fact loved her. But that was long ago, when they had been foolish romantic students.
“I have solved the equations,” Konda replied, hiding his pain. “As you know, if the mathematics have beauty, the experiment will eventually be successful.”
“Eventually,” snorted Raizo Yamashita. Like the others he was sitting on the floor, in deference to Konda’s antiquated sense of propriety. Raizo sat cross-legged, his burly body hunched slightly over the precisely placed low lacquered table, his big fists pressed against his thighs. “Eventually could be a thousand years from now.”
“I think not,” said Konda, his eyes still on lovely Miyoko. He wondered how she would look in a traditional kimono. with her hair done properly. As it was, she was wearing a western-style blouse and skirt, yet she still looked beautiful to him.
The two men wore the latest-mode glitter slacks and brightly-colored shirts. Konda’s nostrils flared at their American ways. The weaker America becomes in real power, the more our people imitate her decadent styles. He himself was in a comfortable robe of deep burgundy, decorated with white flying cranes.
It happened that Konda reached for the teapot at the same moment that Miyoko did. Their hands met without touching. He poured tea for himself, she for herself. When they put the pots down again, her holographic image merged with the real teapot on Konda’s table. Her hand merged with his. He could not feel the warmth of her living flesh, of course. If he did. it would undoubtedly kill him.
Tomoyuki Umezi smiled, somewhat ruefully. The window behind him showed the graceful snow-capped cone of Fujiyama. He raised his tiny cup.
“To the stars,” he toasted.
The other three touched their cups to his. But they felt no physical contact. Only their eyes could register the holographic images.
“And to time,” Konda added, as usual.
Back in their university days. Tomo had laughingly suggested that they form a rock group and call it the Four Dimensions. since three of them were trying to conquer space while Konda was pouring his soul and all the energy of his wasting body into mastering time.
They had never met physically. Konda had been in isolation chambers all his life, first in an incubator in the AIDS ward of the charity hospital, later in the observation sections of medical research facilities. He had been born with no effective immune system, the genetic gift of his mother, a whore, and whoever his father might have been. They had also gifted him with a chameleon virus that was slowly, inexorably, turning his normal body cells into cancerous tumors.
The slow and increasingly painful death he was suffering could be brought to a swift end merely by exposure to the real world and its teeming viruses and bacteria. But the medical specialists prevented that. From his unwanted birth, Konda had been their laboratory animal, their prized specimen, kept alive for them to study. Isolated from all the physical contamination that his body could never cope with. Konda learned as a child that his mind could roam the universe and all of history. He became an outstanding scholar, a perverse sort of celebrity within academic circles, and was granted a full scholarship to Tokyo University, where he “met” his three lifelong friends. Now he lived in a special module of a space station, five hundred kilometers above the Earth’s surface, waited upon by gleaming antiseptic robots.
The four of them did their doctoral theses jointly, a theoretical study of faster-than-light propulsion. Their studies were handsomely supported by the corporations that funded the university. Japan drew much of its economic strength from space, beaming electrical energy to cities throughout Asia from huge power satellites. But always there was competition from others: the Europeans. the Chinese, the Arabs were all surging forward, eager to displace Japan and despoil its wealth.
The price of peaceful competition was a constant, frenetic search for some new way to stay ahead of the foreign devils. If any nation achieved a faster-than-light drive, the great shoguns of industry insisted that it must be Japan. The life of the nation depended on staying ahead of their competitors. There could be no rest as long as economic ruin lurked on the horizon.
For all the years since their university days, the three others continued to work on turning their theories into reality, on producing a workable interstellar propulsion system: a star drive. Miyoko accepted the chair of the physics department at the University of Rangoon, the first woman to be so honored. Dour Raizo became the doyen of the research laboratory at a major aerospace firm in Seattle. USA. long since absorbed into the Mitsubishi Corporation. Tomo waited patiently for his turn at the mathematics chair in Tokyo.
From the beginning. Konda had been far more fascinated with the temporal aspects of space-time than the spatial. Since childhood he had been intrigued by history, by the great men who had lived in bygone ages. While his friends labored over the star drive. Konda strove to produce a time machine.
In this he followed the intellectual path blazed by Hawking and Taylor and the AAPV group from the unlikely location of South Carolina, a backwater university in the backwater USA.
He felt he was close to success. Alone, isolated from the rest of humanity except for the probing doctors and these occasional holographic meetings with his three distant friends, he had discovered that it should be possible to tap the temporal harmonics and project an object—or even a person—to a predetermined point in spacetime. It was not much different from achieving interstellar flight, in theory. Konda felt that his work would be of inestimable aid to his three friends.
His equations told him that to move an eighty-kilo human being from the crest of one space-time wave to the harmonically similar crest of another, would take all the energy generated by all of Japan’s power satellites orbiting between the Earth and the Moon for a period of just over six hours. When he was ready for the experiment, the Greater Nippon Energy Consortium had assured him. the electrical power would be made available to him. For although the consortium had no interest in time travel. Konda had presented his work to them as an experiment that could verify certain aspects of faster-than-light propulsion.
Konda had to assemble the equipment for his experiments, using the robots who accompanied him in his isolation module of the space station. His friends helped all they could. Konda had to tell them what he was trying to do. But he never told them why. He never showed them the hatred that drove him onward.
They thought he was trying to help them in their quest for a star drive. They believed that if he could transport an object across time, it would help them learn how to transport objects across light-years of space. But Konda had another goal in mind, something very different.
Konda dreamed of making contact with a specific person, longed with all his soul to reach across the years and summon one certain hero out of history: Isoroku Yamamoto. Grand Admiral of the Japanese Imperial Fleet in the year 1941 (old calendar). Admired by all. even his enemies. Yamamoto was known as ‘the sword of his Emperor.’ ”
Konda remembered the day when he first told his friends of his yearning to reach the doughty old admiral. “There are no men like Yamamoto any more,” he had said. “He was a true samurai. A warrior in the ancient tradition of bushido.”
Raizo Yamashita had laughed openly. “A warrior who started a war that we lost. Badly.”
