Relic

14

There was no reason for them to visit Tespo. There were better beaches close to Pe’leoek than the one that fronted the extensive coastal scientific complex. Instead, for today’s sojourn Ruslan opted to take his two charges to Velet. Though the group of small, sandy islands lay some sixty kilometers offshore from the capital city, they were as close as the nearest public teleport platform.

In the five years since they had been rescued (it sounded so much better than “abducted,” the ever-cynical Ruslan thought) from Daribb, both young survivors had matured mentally as well as physically. Pahksen was now taller than Ruslan. With access to proper nutrition for the first time in his life, the once lanky adolescent had also filled out considerably. While still subscribing to a certain degree of the guardedness that had initially defined him, thanks to Ruslan’s efforts and the unending kindness of the Myssari he had mellowed from his feral hunter-gatherer days on Daribb. As for his younger counterpart…

If Ruslan and Pahksen were minor celebrities within the Myssari Combine, Cherpa was all but venerated. Wherever they went, every local desired to be recorded in her company, or touch the famous auburn follicles that had grown out (though not to knee length this time), or listen to her distinctive human laugh. Something about the melodious sound, so different from the far more subdued Myssari vocalizations of amusement, struck the humans’ hosts as irresistible. Ruslan quite understood. The girl’s laughter had nearly the same effect on him.

As had Pahksen, she had also matured physically. Her physical transformation was a wonderment to the Myssari, who knew of such changes only from the recordings they had salvaged from now-uninhabited human worlds. While many of those historical records featured perfectly preserved three-dimensional reproductions, they could not in any way begin to match the reality.

Yet always lurking in the background was the insistence of the Sectionary for Human History and Culture that the resurrection of the species be initiated. Twice a year Ruslan had to go, with Kel’les and Bac’cul and Cor’rin by his side, to plead before Yah’thom’s contemporaries that the time had not yet arrived for natural reproduction to commence and that instigating it via artificial insemination of surgically removed eggs and sperm would likely have deleterious effects on the pair of progenitors. Each time, he and his friends managed to persuade the senior scientists to postpone said proceedings for another half year.

Such efforts could not succeed forever, he knew. Through their extensive research into human affairs, the Sectionary knew as well as he did when young humans reached sexual maturity and became capable of reproduction. Only his insistence that rushing matters could result in permanent psychological damage managed to sustain an increasingly tenuous status quo.

It helped that while the relationship between Pahksen and Cherpa had improved since their removal from Daribb, it gave no indication of edging toward intimacy. Ruslan often thought that the two youths had little in common besides their humanity. That could still change with time, he knew. While Pahksen was now in his early twenties, Cherpa was only sixteen or so, their exact ages being unverifiable. Though the young man’s interests had broadened upon his arrival on Myssar and his exposure to Myssari civilization, none appeared to include romance. This simultaneously puzzled and relieved Ruslan.

Of course, it could all change tomorrow, he told himself. A touch, a glance, a spark, would be all that would be necessary to light the fuse. Then—fireworks. The Sectionary would be pleased.

Today, however, was all about unvisited islands, warm water, and exotic flora and fauna. Velet was a popular getaway among the citizens of Pe’leoek, but at this time of the year it ought not to be crowded. He told himself the day trip was for Pahksen’s and Cherpa’s benefit, but in reality it was as much for him as for them. As ever, the oceans of Myssar continued to remind him of the slightly less salty seas of Seraboth.

They dispensed with clothing as soon as they arrived. Neither of the two youths had been inculcated with anything resembling a nudity phobia, and the few locals who saw them regarded the naked bodies no differently from when they were clad. To the enchanted Myssari, both genders of the famous human survivors appeared equally exotic.

Cherpa was first into the water, splashing and laughing, trying to catch the spongy, nearly transparent bubble-like forms of startled basetch as they rose from the disturbed surface and tried to drift out of her way. Pahksen entered the shallow turquoise sea more deliberately, projecting a dignity that was heartfelt if somewhat misplaced. Seated on the beach of bright pink and green olivine sand, a contented Ruslan leaned back on his elbows and looked on. Beside him, Kel’les had lowered his body down into the center of the tripod formed by his legs. Ruslan smiled at the sight. No matter how many years he lived among the Myssari, he would never be able to think of a squatting individual as anything other than a triangular head in a basket.

“They have adapted very well as they have grown.”

Ruslan glanced at his friend. “The young always have an easier time of it.” He indicated the only other pair of human shapes on Myssar. Both were taut of body and sleek with youth. “Pahksen knows more about your technology than I ever would, and Cherpa speaks better Myssari than—well, than most Myssari.”

“She has a natural feel for linguistics,” Kel’les confirmed. “Did you know that she now speaks the major Vrizan and Hahk’na dialects as well?”

Ruslan’s eyebrows rose. “I knew she was working with Vrizani. I didn’t know she had been studying Hahk’nan.”

“Oh. I hope I have not spoiled a surprise.”

“I don’t think so.” Ruslan turned his gaze back toward the water. The glare moderated accordingly. The aging lenses of his eyes had been replaced by Myssari technicians several years ago. He could override their programming by simply thinking about it. Experts at rejuvenating their own bodies, the Myssari considered the devising of replacement parts for humans an engineering challenge. His left hip was artificial as well, a perfect reproduction built up of calcium- and phosphorus-based organosynth compounds. The resulting construction fooled not only his brain but his circulatory and nervous systems as well. Young and healthy, Cherpa and Pahksen had not yet required any such surgical interventions.

Kel’les gestured toward an irregular object lying on the sand nearby. “Despite her increasing maturity the female still maintains possession of the effigy.”

Ruslan regarded the doll. “It’s all she has of her childhood. Probably a gift from one of her parents. I never asked.”

“Nor will I,” Kel’les admitted. “As you know, the Myssari hold personal privacy in high regard.”

For other Myssari, Ruslan thought. Not so much for valuable specimens.

“Your love of immersing yourselves in water continues to astonish us,” his minder continued. Given the Myssari body design, all angles and awkwardness, Ruslan understood their innate hydrophobia. Myssari physicality was admirably suited to numerous activities, but swimming was not among them. They were the antithesis of streamlined.

“I regret to say that the General Sectionary’s impatience continues unabated.”

“With regard to what?” Having heard the declaration many times before, Ruslan was sure he knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from Kel’les’s mouth.

“I think you know,” his minder continued, confirming all suspicions. “It concerns the matter of commencing human repopulation through natural means. With each half year that passes, the forces clamoring for intensive cloning are strengthened. This is especially so since the female has reached reproductive status.”

It was too beautiful a day and setting to serve as a slave to the inexorable. “Surely we can put off the Sectionary for another year or so.” Something small, green, and many-winged landed on his right big toe. He brushed at it idly and it flew off on a complaining whistle.

“I was told you would say that.”

He chuckled. “So the Sectionary has become so expert in predicting human responses that they can now divine what I’m going to say?”

“They are studious, and the staff has not been idle.” Once again Kel’les indicated the two young, strong humans relaxing in the water. “However, it was decided, once again, not to force the issue.”

“Glad to hear it.” Ruslan considered the matter settled. But it was not.

“In their desire to accelerate the course of natural events, the Sectionary has decided that placing the youths in more familiar surroundings might induce—or even inspire—them to initiate the process of natural reproduction.”

That got Ruslan’s attention. “You don’t mean the Sectionary intends to send them back to Daribb?”

Kel’les was alarmed. “Nothing so foolish! If nothing else, the Vrizan are still there. But it was noted that there are numerous empty worlds on which the old human infrastructure is far better preserved than on Daribb. Seraboth, for example.”

“The Aura Malignance—” Ruslan began, only to have Kel’les atypically cut him off.

“Your homeworld has been thoroughly scrutinized. No sign of the great plague nor its virulent method of dispersal has ever been found on Seraboth. It died out when the last vulnerable hosts—the entire human population except yourself—expired. Seraboth is clean and has been so for some time. The surviving infrastructure there is far better preserved than on Daribb or comparable other worlds.” The intermet gestured toward the young humans frolicking in the tepid sea. “It would be a suitable place to reestablish your kind.” Small bright eyes met Ruslan’s. “You, of course, could opt to remain on Myssar, where your honorary citizenship will never expire.”

“It’s not my choice to say,” he finally replied. “Will it be their choice?”

“I am assured by Bac’cul that no coercion is being contemplated. The young humans will be offered the option. Whatever inducements the Sectionary can muster will of course be presented to them, though it is difficult for me to imagine what more can be offered. The same option will apply to you.”

He did not need to think about it. Having spent much of his adult life never expecting to set eyes on another living human, he was not about to let his two fellow survivors depart to pursue a future in which he would not participate. There was still sage advice to be passed on from an adult to youngsters, and as the only adult, he was bound to deliver it. If Cherpa and Pahksen decided to move to Seraboth, he would certainly go with them.

Despite all the decades he had spent living on Myssar and among its civilized, courteous people, the thought of leaving it permanently behind did not give him pause. It was a gentle world, and an accepting one, but it was not a civilization that had been developed of and for humans. A return to Seraboth, the world of his birth, would not constitute a hardship. He did not point out to the honestly concerned intermet that he, Ruslan, had never been offered the option to go back and live where the Myssari had found him.

Thoughts of home led him to another topic. One that had been seemingly set aside when the two young survivors had been discovered.

“Old Earth. What of my request? What of the search? For years now I’ve heard nothing. Has it all been forgotten? I’ve kept my part of the agreement to help in restoring the species; first by allowing my cells to be cloned and stored and subsequently by assisting in the growth and mental maturation of the two younger survivors.”

“It is not forgotten,” Kel’les told him. “I am assured that the work goes on.” His tone was apologetic and, insofar as Ruslan could tell, sincere. “Within the restrictions imposed by limited resources, true, but it goes on. You knew when you first made the bargain that the chances of locating the original human homeworld were limited.”

He dug one foot into the multicolored sand. Though something unseen tickled a toe, he did not withdraw his foot. Civilization on Myssar was so old and deeply established that those dangerous indigenous lifeforms that remained, no matter how large or small, survived only in carefully managed refuges. Nothing that dwelled in the sand, especially on a beach frequented by visiting city-dwellers, could harm him.

“After five years I’d say they were more than limited. I’d say they were nonexistent.”

“Ah.” Kel’les’s head rotated almost completely around before once more meeting the human’s gaze. “You have no confidence in our scientists.”

Ruslan shrugged. “I’m a realist. Always have been. It helps a lot.”

“Exactly the attitude necessary to aid the two young adult humans in their development.” The intermet rose, torso traveling in a straight line upward. “I will inform Cor’rin and the other members of the project of our conversation. They in turn will notify the Sectionary. May I also pass the word that should the youths opt to move to Seraboth you will go with them?”

Ruslan was no longer gazing at his minder or even at the two youngsters. His attention reached to the far horizon. What did it matter, after all, if he moved? Wasn’t one horizon much like another? A line dividing sky and sea, or sky and land. He lived at this end of the line of sight, wherever it might happen to terminate.

“Sure,” he replied. “There’s nothing holding me here.”

As incapable as the Myssari were of complex facial expression, he nonetheless suspected that he might have hurt the minder’s feelings. He offered no apology.

After all, on the day he had been removed from Seraboth, none had been tendered to him.

As the Myssari hoped, the change of setting did indeed stimulate excitement in Pahksen and Cherpa. Excitement at the prospect of returning to a once human-dominated world, excitement at encountering artifacts and relics closely linked to their own kind, excitement at the discovery of surviving human foods in gardens and on farms whose genetic lineage could be traced back to seeds that had originated on old Earth itself. Excitement, yes—but no spark.

Personality-wise, the two young humans remained as they had been on Myssar. Cherpa was ebullient, outgoing, energized by everything she saw and encountered, even if on occasion her verbalizations could turn addled. Pahksen was straightforward, determined, and suspicious of everything new but willing to learn. When certain hoped-for interpersonal developments did not occur, the members of the General Science Sectionary found themselves frustrated anew on an entirely different world.

Once again Ruslan had to persuade the Myssari senior scientists to be patient. Once again they restrained themselves. They would continue to hold off on compulsory artificial reproduction in the hopes that as the two young humans became more and more comfortable on the old-new world, they would be drawn closer together and Nature would take its course. The Sectionary would not, Kel’les repeatedly informed him, remain patient forever. As it turned out, the matter that never failed to focus everyone’s attention, Ruslan and Myssari alike, did indeed finally come to a head.

But not in the manner everyone expected.

No one could have failed to appreciate the natural beauty of the setting where Ruslan had chosen to live on Seraboth. Kel’les and the other Myssari were surprised when he informed them he did not want to return to the city where they had found him so very many years ago. Why should he go back there, he told them, when he had the best of the planet to choose from? No objection to his choice was raised by Pahksen or Cherpa, who after all knew nothing of his world. So it was that he’d had the Myssari restore a group of small but elaborate private homes located on a rocky peninsula that jutted out into one of Seraboth’s smaller seas. The views were spectacular and the climate salubrious. Cherpa was delighted with the location, while Pahksen gruntingly assented.

“Always the sea. Always the openness,” Bac’cul had commented when he had first been shown the site.

“Always whenever possible,” Ruslan had told him. “At least when it’s water and not liquid methane or something equally exotic. Besides, the homes were designed as vacation retreats and were in an unusually good state of preservation. There’ll be one for each of us and they’re close to one another. I can keep an eye on the youngsters while each of them adapts individually to their new habitat.”

Indeed, both Cherpa and Pahksen took to their new residences with a zest that only served to confirm the Sectionary’s foresight in instigating the move from Myssar. As time passed, everyone settled in. Even the resident Myssari, comprised of rotating teams from Myssar, took the time to customize the buildings that had been adapted by them for their research facilities. They had the benefit of assistance from fellow scientists who had been researching Serabothian civilization for decades.

Having come to know their initial specimen intimately over the years, the Myssari understood that Ruslan enjoyed having time to himself. Since there were no Myssari scheduled to visit him for study that morning and as none had contacted him to do so, he was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder. The swift spinning of his seat, suspended as it was an appropriate distance off the unforgiving ground, forced the individual who had accosted him to retreat a couple of steps. A surprised Ruslan found himself staring up at Pahksen.

In the two years since migrating from Myssar, the young man had stopped growing upward, but not outward. Recalling the lithe and hungry young Pahksen of Daribb, it was difficult for Ruslan to look at him now and realize he was seeing the same person. No longer needing to fight to survive and with everything he might desire provided by the helpful Myssari, the whiplike survivor had ballooned into a large and lazy young man. As evidenced by his occasional irritated outbursts, the old mental roughness was still there, but the body was on the cusp of surrendering to sloth.

This was, Ruslan mused as he waited to see what his visitor wanted, in sharp contrast to Cherpa, who seemingly by simply wishing it to be so had matured into a spectacular, healthy young woman. One who nonetheless rarely went anywhere without a certain repeatedly rejuvenated old toy in tow. Ruslan had to smile to himself every time he thought of the doll Oola. It might not qualify as a human survivor, but it certainly made the grade as a survivor of human culture.

It was a truly beautiful morning, he thought, and now Pahksen was showing him an expression designed to spoil it. He sighed inwardly.

“What is it this time? Another breakdown in communications? Cor’rin told you that the station techs are working on it.”

“You’re half right, I think.” The much younger man unslung a pack from his back and set it on the hard ground. As he did so a cluster of purple and yellow thushpins hurriedly uprooted themselves and scampered away in all directions, seeking safety from the crushing weight of the descending pack. Ruslan regarded the minor floral genocide with displeasure. Pahksen was careless about such things. This was not Daribb. He no longer had to worry about defending himself from the local flora and fauna. Seraboth was and always had been a benign world. Old habits die slowly, Ruslan told himself, manufacturing an excuse for the youth’s indifference.

Positioning the cushioned floating disc by subtly shifting his body mass, he spun his chair so that he was looking straight at his visitor. “Then I must also be half wrong.”

“You’re right about the communications but wrong about the source.” Pahksen indicated a second nearby, empty chair. “May I sit down?”

Odd, Ruslan thought. There were and never had been any formalities between them. But he welcomed the unusual degree of civility. “You don’t need my permission for that. You don’t need my permission for anything, Pahksen. You know that.”

“I always felt that I did. Part of it’s the age difference, I suppose.” He was looking down at his pack, toying with the shoulder straps. “I know that the Myssari want Cherpa and me to make a baby. Or babies, I guess I should say. They want to restart the species.”

This was nothing new, Ruslan thought. So eager were the Myssari, they could not have hid their intentions had they tried. Which, being inhumanly straightforward, they did not.

“Doesn’t sound like there’s a communications problem there.” He leaned forward, the disc tilting him toward the youth. “What’s wrong?”

Pahksen raised his gaze. “I’m willing. More than willing. But when I put the matter to Cherpa, she always has an excuse. She’s too young, she’s too uncertain, she’s too this, too that.”

“She is still a bit young,” a patient Ruslan pointed out.

“Not biologically. And with the best Myssari specialists in human physiology overseeing everything from conception to birth, it’s highly unlikely there would be any dangerous complications. You know what I think the real problem is?”

Ruslan had played the elder advisor for years now. “Tell me.”

“I don’t think Cherpa likes me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pahksen. You’re the only other surviving human. How could she not like you?”

The younger man’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “You don’t like me.”

Ruslan was genuinely startled. “That’s absurd! Of course I like you. I’d like any fellow survivor, automatically. How could I not? It’s wonderful to have your company, to just sit like this and talk with another human being. You’re developing into a fine individual. Everyone has growing pains, and yes, you’re no different. If I criticize you occasionally, it’s only because I want to do everything possible to assist in your maturation.”

“You don’t criticize Cherpa.” Pahksen’s tone was accusatory.

“Of course I do. Anyway, how would you know the details of how much I do or not? There are plenty of times she and I are together and you’re not around, just like right now it’s only you and me. How do you know what I say to her when you’re not present?”

A peculiar undertone crept into the younger man’s voice. “What do you say to her when I’m not around?”

It took a long moment for Ruslan to comprehend the full import of Pahksen’s query. When he finally did so, it took him a longer moment to overcome his shock and gather his thoughts enough to compose an appropriate response. It was hard to accept, but the youngster’s own words were the proof of it: his youthful, raging paranoia still retained its grasp.

“You’re not…” He hesitated and started over again. “You’re not implying, in any way, shape, or form, Pahksen, that you think there’s anything physical between Cherpa and me?”

The younger man shrugged with mock indifference. “How would I know, with all the times you two are together and I’m ‘not around’?”

A stunned Ruslan leaned back in his seat, which rocked slightly at the sudden weight shift. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start by denying it.” Fingers continued to play with the backpack’s straps.

“Fine, no problem. I deny it. Utterly and completely.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her sometimes.”

“Pahksen, I’m older than both of you put together.”

“No. You’re just old.” Satisfaction and frustration competed for dominance in the youth’s rejoinder.

“Okay, sure: I’m old. Doesn’t that satisfy you, then?”

“No, it doesn’t. Because while you’re old, you’re not too old. I know—I checked the records. So I know you’re not too old to have sex, or even to reproduce. You’re healthy enough. I’ve wondered for years now why Cherpa won’t have anything to do with me, why she doesn’t like me. It’s so obvious I feel like a complete idiot for not seeing it before. She won’t have anything to do with me because she’s waiting for an invitation from you.” His tone hardened. “If it hasn’t been accepted already.”

What could he say? Ruslan wondered. How could he respond? He needed to convince Pahksen once and for all that his bizarre fantasies were nothing more than that—the imaginings of a disturbed, unsettled mind that lacked self-confidence. A mind perhaps more disturbed and unsettled, he suddenly realized, than anyone had suspected. The Myssari would not have noticed. Not even the specialists among them were sufficiently attuned to human psychology. With only three examples to choose from, they could hardly be blamed for that.

But there was someone who could be held to account: Ruslan himself. How had he missed the signals? How had he ignored the signs? Judging from the intensity of Pahksen’s stare and the crisp, certain timbre of his voice, this had been building up in him for some time.

It was good it was out in the open now, though, Ruslan told himself. A symptom revealed was a symptom that could be treated. The first step was to straightforwardly refute the youth’s claims. This had been done. The next was to deal with his baseless obsession. In order to do so effectively, the patient would have to understand the need for, as well as participate willingly in, his own therapy.

“I’ve denied your unfounded suspicions, Pahksen. I’ll do whatever you think necessary to reassure you further. And I’d prefer not to bring Cherpa into this.”

The youth nodded. “We’re in agreement on something, then. I don’t want her to know about this, either. As to its resolution, I’ve already constructed what I think will be a believable scenario that will resolve everything.”

Feeling better now that the problem was out in the open and that Pahksen appeared to have worked out a way to deal with it, a relieved Ruslan nodded approvingly. “That’s most encouraging. What did you have in mind?”

Leaning forward, Pahksen rummaged in his pack until he brought out the neural neutralizer. An uncomprehending Ruslan stared at the weapon as the younger man calmly explained.

“I’m going to kill you.”