GROUND / CH. 25:APPLICANTS
GEMSMITH OFFICES, THE CAPITAL, MONDAY MORNING.
“You seem a little nervous,” Rachel observed, as the man entered. He was in his mid-thirties and was practically shaking like a leaf.
“I was warned to expect a tough interview,” the man said.
“Oh? Who said that?” Rachel asked.
“University receptionist I got the details from,” he replied.
“Fair enough, I told her we were fairly tough. But please, relax. I'm not trying to catch you out. At this stage, it's more about trying to judge if you're someone who can fit into the team. There will be some probing questions, of course. Like for instance, I've read your C.V., and I see a gap.”
“In my employment record?”
“Yes.”
“I was, urm, concentrating on a hobby.”
“You worked for six months after graduating, and then gave yourself a six month holiday?”
“I went on tour with a band I was in,”
“And?”
“That marked the end of the band.”
“I meant, why didn't you put it in?”
“It wasn't a time I like to bring up at interviews.”
“Why not?” Rachel pressed.
He sighed, and said “Because when the lead singer of a band you're in gets convicted of drug-dealing, even though you had no idea and still find it hard to believe, some of the mud sticks. I mean... we were playing, we were travelling, when did he find time? Not to mention what did he do with the money? He still owes me some of my share of the concert takings.”
“What do you play?”
“Bass guitar, well, I did.”
“You've given it up?”
“I've left that scene,” he shrugged.
“Still got the guitar?”
“Them, yes.”
“Style of music?”
“Age of chaos rock.”
“Oooh, as in 'sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll?'”
“I guess that's where he got the idea from. I just liked the music.”
“What do you think of Martian styles?”
“Ah, this is where I step carefully, isn't it?”
“I've lived there but I'm not a native. Honest answers, please.”
“I prefer something with more beat and more bite than what I've heard from Mars. All that flowing water stuff? Not for me.”
Rachel smiled, “Ah, you mean export music. What about the local music? Folk roots, by which half of them mean fitting new words to chaos-age melodies.”
“Oh? I don't think I've heard any of it.”
“Not even Code Red? To the tune of 'House of the rising sun?'”
“That's Martian Folk?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Urm, reappraisal, I guess I'm a fan of Martian Folk. That song was what got me playing bass.”
“What about Mer melodies?”
“I can't play them, out of my skill-set. What is this? A complete get-to-know my taste in music?”
“It's quite simple, really. We don't have the net out there. There are recordings of course, but reruns get boring pretty early on, and tastes vary too much. Like on Mars, the tendency is to socialise together. If the music is going to drive you crazy, or your music is going to drive others crazy, then you get excluded. You get too excluded, you don't survive well.”
“Oh, right.”
“Next issue on the social level. Attachments?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you have a wife, fiancée, or significant other figure whose smile lights up your day and who'd have the emotional power to make you change your plans?”
“Not yet,” he said. Rachel thought he looked a bit hopeful.
“Like me, for instance. I'll almost certainly not go back, unless my new boyfriend decides he can come along too.”
“Are there rules about dating?”
“No oath-breakers. That means Christians and non-Christians don't even consider romance. There are a few unattached in each category, but not in your age-group.”
“I'm not opposed to dating someone younger.”
Rachel laughed. “Sorry, the oldest in the 'someone younger' category is about six so far. Let's get on to religious affiliations and attitudes.”
“Lapsed Catholic,” he admitted. “which gets me kicked out the door, I expect.”
“Were you confirmed?”
“Yes.”
“You'd better sort that out with God, then hadn't you? Otherwise some Mer might indeed decide you're breaking an oath.”
“But I don't really feel I can go back; too many things I don't accept. But I do believe in God.”
“I have been taught that there are good things as well as bad in every human embodiment of God's universal church, which is of course what 'catholic' eans. I said sort out your relationship with God, not with a particular denomination. See if there's another denomination you can accept.”
“I've been meaning to, but...” he shrugged, “I've not made it a priority.”
“Tell me about why you applied,”
“You're going to laugh, I expect.”
“You've always wanted to meet some aliens?”
“I've always wanted to know what aliens think of God. They really believe in a triune God?”
“They call him 'the One who is three', or 'the One who is, and is three'. They used to have a sacrificial system until the light-cone of the crucifixion got there and all the prophets said 'God has done a wonderful thing, there must be no more sacrifices and we must trust in the One'.”
“The light-cone of the crucifixion?”
“Yes. You know how physics tells us events on a light-cone are simultaneous. God has told us not to explore past it. The theological implications are yet to be fully developed. I've heard some people suggest that us meeting the Groundlings might be enough to trigger a church council.”
“Dare I ask what their attitude is to iconography? Representations that don't look like people really do?”
“They're shape shifters. They can't represent people in a way that doesn't look like a person. They also haven't had an incarnation. Therefore no images of creatures or animals used in worship. They have religious symbols, such as the three-lobed trinity symbol. chronologically they didn't have any photography until recently, but they've no problem with putting pictures of historic people on the wall. But they'd probably think you were starting a new religion if you dared to start praying to it. That would earn you a hundred day fast, which they think is an appropriate time for meditation.”
“A hundred day fast?”
“Yes. They can survive it, I'm told, if they enter a semi-coma state that can cause memory loss but normally brings a new respect for God. But most people wouldn't do that, they'd try to hang on and then hunger triggers their survival instinct, and they'll bud themselves, splitting up into a group of clones with no memory of what the parent did, and held innocent by the law. The little ones are then fed and found foster parents.”
“Wow. That must make an impact on the gene pool.”
“The gene pool is rather poor anyway. Not much genetic mixing happening. It takes longer takes more trust.”
“That... sounds rather like bad news.”
“It is. So is the vanishing ocean.”
“Why aren't they panicking?”
“Because that's the way of the world, the system has losses. Maybe there'll be another wet cycle like there was a few hundred years ago when the sea level went up again. They'd view Earth's water cycle as akin to perpetual motion, I think.”
“The sea-levels went up?”
“So their legends say. According to a compilation of them, in the wet cycle was fire in the sky and water in the air, the ground was shaken, the rivers filled and the waters rose year on year.”
“And you want an exo-geologist to come and look at the rocks, wave a magic wand and tell you if it's some kind of tectonic action or comets or what?”
“Yes.”
“That's urm... optimisitic. Do you know how many PhD-decades it took before someone finally worked out what killed the dinosaurs?”
“I thought the answer was nothing, we just call them birds these days.”
“Exactly, we didn't even know what the question was!”
“The people of Ground have three guesses, depending who you ask. But they didn't have microscopes until recent months, they relied on what you might call sense of taste instead. So really, experimental geology beyond hitting outcrops with a hammer doesn't exist there. And they certainly don't have Mer cutting tools.”
“Nor do I.”
“One of the little known facts about the crew that's out there at the moment is it includes a full-member of the fabricator's guild. That is to say, if you can accurately describe the tool you need, she probably can make it for you. Want a big version of a rock-cutter that sits on a tripod and drills core samples, lifting them out by forcefield a meter at a time and can go down a kilometer or ten, depending how long you're prepared to wait, not to mention how much space you've got for cores? She's working on it this week. More complicated forcefield designs might need the help of a forcefield designer, but Queen Heather's out there too, and she was trained in forcefield design when she was a student, and the bubble ship is an extension of that technology. She says her physics brain is a bit rusty, but it's slowly getting back in gear.”
“And I'd really get to play with such magical tools and rub shoulders with the queen-mother?”
“If you get past the next few interviews, pass the psych exam, take some tests, sort out your relationship with God, take the requisite oaths not to divulge any secrets of the deep, and so on.”
“The next few interviews?”
“Yes. You don't think I'm going to send someone who hasn't thought it all through, do you? Have you told your parents?”
“No.”
“OK, Dr Denson, between now and this time next week, or arrange another time with the secretary if that doesn't suit, I want you to speak to your parents and any other family members, read what's on this crystal — don't panic, it should only take an hour or two — and take some serious steps about getting back in touch with God. If you're interested in helping us find out what's going on, that is.”
“I am, Dr Ngbila, I am.”
----------------------------------------
GEMSMITH OFFICES, THE CAPITAL, MONDAY AFTERNOON.
“Please, take seats!” Rachel told the family.
“You really want to interview us all?” asked the boy. He was fourteen.
“Unless you're planning on not all going, in which case, good-bye, I'm not going to split up families.”
“So, like, if I ran away from home...” he said, earning looks of horror from his parents.
“You could be picked up by the police in about half an hour, and brought back to your loving parents, and get enrolled in with a psych-counsellor who'd be very interested in exploring your negative attitude to this unique opportunity.”
“I'm not negative.”
“No? Then what was that about running away from home?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged.
“Well, since I'm talking to you anyway, what do you imagine it'd be like living on a different planet?”
“School all day, just somewhere different, none of my friends, grown-ups doing grown-up things, no network. I'd probably just read and be bored.”
“What would you like it to be like? If, knowing what you know about it, all your fantasies came true.”
“All of them?”
“Let your imagination run riot,” Rachel said. “Hopes, dreams, anything.”
“There was this one dream. It was weird, not scary like getting eaten by blobs of jelly, but odd. Jessica was there, and we went for walks and watched the twin suns go down. You know, like we liked each other or something weird like that. Then we'd stay in tents in the desert and stay up too late looking at the stars and working at the same time.
"Hopes... I'd love to learn the local language and play sports or something with alien kids my age. I'd get to use some really wonderful technology and discover some stuff so that I'd get my doctorate by the time I'm twenty. Not going to happen, is it?”
“I'm not aware of Jessica's parents applying, no.”
“They can't, they're dead. Jessica lives with foster parents. She's a genius, you ought to be taking her.”
“Really?” Rachel looked at Tina, his mother, for confirmation.
“Always been good at languages, and maths, she's skipped ahead two years, and last I heard considered what she was doing to be baby-stuff.”
“OK, well, the problem with staying in tents in the desert, well, it's so dry that your eyeballs would dehydrate, so you need a forcefield. That helps with the predators too. Language learning would be a good thing to do. Close-contact sports with the kids your age... might be too risky. So far we know that the common cold is potentially deadly to them, we don't know about other diseases. But they do do archery. In general, we're stronger and faster, they're much more adaptable, not just because they can sprout wings and so on, but their eyes have zoom lenses, so they can really pick out a target.”
“Cool.”
“Want to tell me about the wonderful technology you think you'll be working with?” Rachel asked.
“I dreamt about one bit, no, two, the same dream as with Jessica. There's this tripod thing, and every minute or two it lifts this rock-core out of the ground, and goes 'ping' and we have to take it out and lay it on the ground, so it can dig another one up. And then we get this other gizmo, about this big.” he gestured with his hand, “and first we press one button and it puts a barcode on the top end of the core, so you know which way is up, you know? But not stickers or ink, it cuts it in with a laser. Then we press another button and scan along the length of the core, top to bottom, and then a third button and it puts a more complicated code on the bottom. Then we put the rock-core on the pile with the others, because it's too dark to do much else, and then we've got another minute to back to looking at the stars. And her hair is past her shoulders.”
“Does Jessica know how you feel about her?” Tina, his mother asked.
“That's the funny thing, I don't. Her hair's short and she says keeps it that way so she looks ugly. And she's right, so she's just a weird friend from Church. In the dream she was really pretty, though.”
“Do you get many prophetic dreams, Theo?” his father asked.
“Prophetic?” Theo almost shrieked.
“Well, we're not there yet, are we? And yet there you are, planning your wedding with Jess...”
“Don't tease, Steve,” his wife chided. “We've known Jessica's foster parents for ages.”
“Jessica really likes them,” Theo supplied, “she really doesn't want to move on.”
“Any reason she should?” Rachel asked.
“Jess's foster-mother's ill, going down hill.” Steve said “Jess can be pretty fragile herself, emotionally. The two together... it's not good for anyone.”
“Can't you foster Jess, mum? dad?” Theo asked.
“And take her to a dangerous planet where we don't know of any harmless creatures?”
“There are a few,” Rachel reassured them.
“You're taking me,” Theo pointed out.
“That's different, you're our son. Social services can't just let us take her away and not be able to do visits and stuff. They've got a duty to protect her, you know?”
“Jess told me once she was old enough to choose her foster parents under Mer law.”
“Is she Mer?” Rachel asked.
“Partly,” Theo said, “on her mother's side. I think it was her mother's mum.”
“Well, that must complicate things for Social services,” Rachel said. “Who's training her in the womanly arts?”
“The womanly arts?” Tina asked.
“Disembowling sharks, blow-darts, that sort of thing?”
“No one, it's not come up, as far as I know.” Tina said.
“Oh dear,” Rachel said. “I think social services have seriously dropped the ball there. Even if she's not being fostered by Mer, they shouldn't deny her that part of her heritage. Knowing Mer, I expect that there will be treaty provisions about that sort of thing.”
“You mean that she'd be able to demand to choose her foster parents?” Theo asked.
“I mean that if she went to the Mer embassy then that might be the last Social Services saw her, but it wouldn't be the last they heard of it.” Rachel said, “I also mean that she probably ought to be fostered by a Mer family, or live somewhere there are lots of Mer around so she can get some remedial training.”
“Like Ground?” Theo asked.
“We don't even know we're going yet, Theo,” Tina pointed out.
“Theo's quite accurately described a couple of devices that are just being designed by a Mer fabricator on Ground, though,” Rachel said, “so why don't we get on with finding out when his prophecy comes true and leave getting Jessica there to others for now?”
----------------------------------------
“Jessica?” Theo whispered into the phone, “It's me, Theo. We're going to Ground.”
“You are? You lucky dog!”
“No, we, not me. I just wanted to be the first to tell you. Don't call back, we're in a meeting. Bye!”
“What do you mean? Theo? Theo!” But he'd hung up. Then she screamed in inarticulate rage at her unresponsive wrist-unit.
“What's the matter, Jessica?” her foster-mother asked.
“Theo just rang, whispered something about being in a meeting but that I'm going to Ground like he is and rang off.”
“Going to ground? What, hiding?”
“No, Ground, the new planet.”
“Are you saying you've applied?”
“On my own? No! Don't be silly.”
“Would you like to go there?”
“Yes! If you can't come, then as soon as I'm old enough.”
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Bring me the house unit, can you, dear?” Her foster-mother said, waving in it's general direction, and musing on the thought that Jessica probably didn't know she'd earned a PhD in paleontology before declaring it all far too well known to hold her interest any more. Maybe... maybe there were better things to do with her last few years on Earth. Or not Earth as the case might be.
“You're going to phone his Mum?”
“Not yet. Close the door as you go out, I need to talk to dad in private, and then some other people in about how to get us all there.”
“Be serious, mum.” Jessica said.
“I studied paleontology. It got boring because everyone had found out almost everything already. It doesn't sound like that's true on Ground, now, does it? God's going to call me home in his own good time, and having interesting problems to solve would stop me feeling sorry for myself. Plus of course, if Theo's going, then having someone his own age to shout at him when he's being silly might help keep him sane, don't you think?”
Jessica grinned, A lot of her relationship with Theo involved her correcting his faults, it seemed. She didn't know why, but it passed the time.
----------------------------------------
GEMSMITH OFFICES, WEDNESDAY MORNING.
“Hello Veronica, Colin, Vivian and Rodger,” Rachel welcomed the next family, “Vivian, you look like you're bursting to ask something.”
“I don't know why you need me here,” the girl said. “We've got really important hockey match today and I'm supposed to be goal keeper. Can't I please go to the match? I could get to the station on time to join the others, I'm sure.”
“Vivian, we've discussed this,” her mother said.
“When does the match start, and where?” Rachel asked.
“It's up north,” her father supplied, “it starts at two o'clock, and we thought it would be fine, but the connections are terrible. First a hypersonic, then two maglevs, with each connection wasting fifty minutes because everything connects in the wrong direction.”
“And total travel time is what, something like an hour and a half otherwise?” Rachel asked, working backwards.
“Yes,”
“OK, Vivian,” Rachel said, “If you promise to count this interview as at least as important as the hockey match for your future, your education, your job-prospects and for the key relationships in your life, and if you can agree with your team that you'll meet them there without upsetting the person who's expecting to be goal-keeper right now, AND — this one's important — give me the exact coordinates you need to get to, then I'll get you there on time as long as no one's declared a no-fly zone in the area or something.”
“By helicopter?” Vivian asked, amazed at the privilege that'd be.
“Boring, not very fast, and noisy,” Rachel said, “I've got a bubble-probe sitting on the roof, though.”
“We'd go faster than light?” Vivian asked, amazed.
“You don't really want to be surrounded by gravitationally shredded bits of atmosphere, do you? It makes an awful lot of radiation and wastes a lot of antimatter. But hypersonic at the edge of space is a real possibility. It depends on where we're going whether that's worth getting that high though or not. Deal?”
“You're serious?” Vivian asked.
“Vivian, you're here because as a family you're applying to travel more than two thousand light-years away. So far, there are only four people alive that have been there and back, and I've been there there and back twice. Let's compare that with Everest, shall we? Every year for the past two centuries or so about five hundred people get to the top. So there have been a hundred thousand trips up it. Compared to five. That makes going to Ground it about a twenty thousand times rarer than getting to the peak of Everest. It takes a week at warp ten, plus any delays in places you need to stop, and you can't go faster than that. Well, it'd take a real life-or-death emergency to persuade anyone to go to warp eleven, because it's so risky. At warp twelve you just can't navigate or maintain the bubble safely. So, if me taking half an hour to drop you off for a hockey game helps you to realise what you're getting into and concentrate, then I'll happily do it.”
Vivian's mother, embarrassed for her daughter, who'd gone bright red, said “thank you, Dr Ngbila.”
“Can I go too?” Rodger, Vivian's younger brother, asked.
“Yes,” Rachel said, “there's space for all of you.”
“Wow!”
“So, Vivian, you have a call to make, I think,” Rachel said.
“I can miss the game, I'm sorry,” Vivian said.
“But there's no need, is there? You don't need to let your team-mates down, you don't need to disappoint Rodger, and you don't need to miss the chance to fly in a bubble ship. You never know, your parents might decide not to go to Ground after all.”
“I know the advertisement talked about young families, and ours aren't exactly young, so thank you for considering us. Has anyone else applied with older children?”
“Yes. Through to the next stage, there are two families, also with with a fourteen year-old each. They're long-standing friends, a boy and a girl, not yet girlfriend-boyfriend but all the relevant parents are spotting signs of a deep attachment, sorry Vivian. Then, I'm interviewing yourselves today, then there's a family with some younger kids, I think seven and ten, coming on Friday, and there's another family with a fifteen year old son and a twelve year old daughter seriously considering coming, but wondering about boarding school for their son. I've said it's their choice, but we certainly can't fund it.”
“And everyone is considering home-schooling options?”
“Of some kind, yes. I'm encouraging the others to consider the older ones making the most of every informal education opportunity they get, and lending a hand teaching the younger ones. I don't think any university would consider refusing a student who'd spent a few years on Ground, learned to speak the local language, interacted culturally with the locals, helped out in everything from geophysics, archeology, paleontology, and medical emergencies to report writing and statistical analysis, and had a few ground-breaking papers to their names.”
“Ground-breaking papers?” Rodger asked.
“You're twelve, so it's been Shakespeare this year, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“OK, Rodger, what if, rather than having to write basically the same end-of-term essay on Shakespeare as every other English-speaking twelve year-old for the last generation or two, your history-and-English project was to talk to kids from Ground about one of their famous plays, and rather than summarising the plot of the Shakespeare play, you summarise the plot of the play from Ground. Then, your Mum or Dad or whoever is teaching you, gets you to read a Shakespeare play, or at least watch a film version, and you learn about life in Elizabethan England, but for your project at the end you compare the themes, see if you can find any that are the same, and so on. You probably get a grown-up to help make the write-up of it sound less like a child has written it — during which you learn about those things — but the content is yours, and your name is on it as the main author.
"Then it gets published in the 'Young Authors' section of the ESSCG's reports. Your summary of the play from Ground — with a translation of the script even — would be the first time that anyone from the Solar System had read the play. And that is called a ground-breaking contribution to academic knowledge, and people at universities who want to learn about the culture on Ground will read what you've written for a long long time.”
“Wow.”
“I don't know I'd want people reading what I wrote when I was twelve,” Vivian said, from the lofty age of fifteen.
“That's why I suggested getting a grown-up to help.”
“So you're thinking that this sort of... education by doing things would really be acceptable to universities instead of formal qualifications?”
“Crafts, design and technology: they help Sathzakara Ship-builder to rebuild Mick's crashed bubble-ship; geology, they help document the strata of Ground, and identify key identifying features in them; astronomy, they — very respectfully — study some of the local planets with astronomer Takan of Ground, who's something like three hundred years old and rose to be a general in their civil war. Biology, they have some knowledge-swapping sessions with Academician Lana — she's the one who rescued Mick — and in exchange teach her how we'd use dyes with a microscope to highlight different parts of plant cells. And so on. That sort of an educational background, combined with a desire to learn more, would certainly be sufficient to get them entrance to study at the Atlantis Academy, assuming they've picked up Mer on their way, which they probably will. Mars University would also be happy to accept them.”
Vivian's eyes had been growing bigger and bigger as Rachel laid out this plan, “Please can we come?”
“It's go, Vivian. I'm not likely to go back.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone I've liked all my life but I thought wasn't interested in me asked me out when I met him again a couple of weeks ago. And he's not allowed to travel much.”
“Not allowed? Because of his job?”
“Sort of. Now... part of you getting ready to go to Ground means you'll need learn things that you need to to keep secret. Secrets that people around you would be really impressed to learn. Things that you wouldn't learn unless you were Mer, for instance about Mer forcefields and bubble-ships. Things that foreign spies have killed to try to find out. So, I'm going to tell you a little secret, and if you can keep it that'll be a good demonstration that you can be trusted. And if you can't then.. well, it would be sad to gossip away your chance to go to Ground, wouldn't it?”
Vivian and Rodger nodded.
“OK, well, my boyfriend's name is Albert. He can go to Mars, because with a Mer-built ship he can get back from Mars in a couple of days, but he's not supposed to be anywhere that he'd be unable to be contacted, or from where getting back would take more than a week. Getting back from Ground might take more than a week, it depends on what gets in the way. And those rules are because when Queen Ursula dies or gets too old, then Albert's due to be king.”
Vivian gasped, “and you'll be queen!”
“Albert is rather hoping for that, yes. I'm not really looking forward to the being queen bit, but I do like the idea of Albert as my husband. We've been careful and kept away from cameras so far, and Albert has been much better at not blurting out that he's in love than his great-grandfather was. But there have been comments about him looking happy, and rumours are bound to start. At some time you're probably going to be asked if you've heard anything, since you're getting lifts in a bubble ship from me, the woman who was on the news with Prince John and Karella about Mick's discovery. And you mustn't lie, because a thought-hearer will know you're lying, but you mustn't tell the truth either. You mustn't even think 'I mustn't say anything that Rachel told me', because a thought-hearer would hear that, too. What you must think is things like 'it is wrong to gossip', 'what I know or don't know is nothing to do with these people', 'keeping secrets means keeping trust', or if the questioning is getting really pointed, 'I won't hurt people who have trusted me.'”
“Would it hurt?” Vivian's mother asked.
“I have another seven interviews to do, maybe more. There are more press around every day, just because of the interviews. Imagine what it'd be like if you were someone who got nervous in a crowd and there were five hundred reporters blocking the doorway? People have to work here. If the press were trying to climb into the airvents, like they did last time there was a royal wedding likely, then I'd have to do the interviews in Atlantis or something. Yes, it would hurt. Broken trust always hurts. And in this case, of course, it would also hurt you. What I've said is a secret, probably some kind of low-grade official secret, actually, but isn't a secret of the deep. If you can't keep my little secret, though, no one is going to trust you with secrets of the deep.”
“And we don't get to Ground without knowing them?” Vivian's father asked.
“In case of food poisoning, or that sort of thing, everyone travelling a long way on a small bubble ship needs to learn how to get out of the bubble, how to get the computer to locate where you are, how to set off the emergency beacon, stabilize it enough to help yourselves get rescued, things like that. In other words you need some control over the ship. All Mer ships are military vessels, treasure-troves of secret technology — secrets of the deep. To get to Ground, therefore, yes, you need to be trusted by the High council of Atlantis to know and preserve secrets of the deep. That is why the position announcement spoke about being full citizens of Atlantis after four years. You'll be honorary citizens before you start there.”
“I now understand why the initial application form was so long and detailed,” he said.
“You passed that part, or you wouldn't be talking to me. Your academic and technical expertise makes you suitable, your attitude is commendable, and so on. Basically this is a get-to-know-you session, to help me judge if you're ready to uproot yourselves from your friends and family, move to a new world, fit into a new community and so on.”
“Have you rejected many people?” Rodger asked.
“Not many, no. It is bad to gossip, remember?”
“Gossip means talking about people?”
“Yes.”
“Don't newspapers do that, daddy?”
“Yes,” his father said, “We do. But we're supposed to make sure that either what they say is not secret or it's very important that it not be secret.”
“Oh.”
“And you really think it's appropriate to have a reporter there?” he asked Rachel.
“Let me ask you, Colin. Why might Queen Heather, daughter of Alice Findhorn-Bunting, have suggested that having a reporter there would be important?”
“Because you want the Solar system to know about the people on Ground. It might become a tourist spot, I guess, in a few decades, but... there's a million alien people there and a lot of stupid ideas about aliens already.”
“In some ways, if you take on the job, you're going to have a much tougher job than Alice F.B. ever did. Mars didn't have flesh-eating monsters that would be right at home in an age-of-chaos B-movie, for instance.”
“Ground does?” Vivian's mother asked.
“Yes,” Rachel said. “There are brainless life-forms there that would be quite happy — if I can use the word happy for a brainless life-form — to digest your soft bits and leave your bones.”
“And you need to shoot them up with a big gun?” Rodger asked, enthusiastically.
“Nope, that wouldn't really hurt them. If you cut them up you just get two smaller flesh-eating life-forms, or a hundred, or a million that are so small you don't spot them slowly eating your shoes before they start on your feet. You need to eat onions or garlic so they get poisoned if they try to eat you, then you're entirely safe against that threat.”
“And the other threats?” Vivian asked.
“Wolf-like pack animals that paint one another to show what tribe they're in, and have a vocabulary of about six hundred words. You could probably out-run one, but a sharp knife or spear is quite effective too. Because they're intelligent, you may not hunt them, only kill them to protect yourself or others. They think the locals are very tasty, and by the looks of it think that humans might be tasty too. From the other perspective, the locals think they're very tasty, and the only humans who've tried the meat say they taste like they'd imagine a mixture of rotten meat and bread that went mouldy a month ago would taste like.”
She paused while the children made gagging sounds, before continuing, “And then we're told that there are cute little fluffy creatures about rabbit size that the doggies hunt too, which if they can will inject one of those wolf things with a fast-acting sedative and then call their friends to the party. They're called bone-eaters.”
“They eat their bones?” Rodger asked in horror.
“And their squishy bits too.”
“Cool” Vivian said, “Revenge of the killer fluffy bunnies!”
“We don't know what the sedative would do to humans yet, but if you see a cute little furry bunny-sized thing, then don't try to pick it up, kids, instead leave the area quickly.”
“Is this stuff secret too?” Colin asked.
“Dangerous animals on Ground? No.”
“So... am I allowed to write about this interview?”
“You are, yes. Please leave out personal details, but I'll make it clear if there's anything that I don't want published. But there are a few more dangerous animals. Here's the full pamphlet,” Rachel said.
“I'm a bit confused about something,” Veronica admitted.
“What's that?”
“Well, firstly, shouldn't you be asking me about my past research or something, like that, and secondly, why are you speaking to the children as if we're going when by the sound of it we've got a lot more interviews and things to get through.”
“OK. Well, it's quite simple, Veronica. I've skim-read your doctoral thesis, your recent publications, and your application form. So have others. You've told a truthsayer that you wrote the truth on the application forms, that there's nothing you know of that would prevent you being able to go, that you think you're prepared for the total change of lifestyle. You've both lived on Mars for a bit so I know you understand about dome-living, that gloop needs some flavouring, and growing your own food isn't that bad...
Basically we've agreed that your skills would be helpful. Nothing I've seen so far says to me that you're not going. Your kids have reacted well to everything I've said, and all the interviews and things that are coming are to help everyone to be as sure as possible what you're getting into, that it wouldn't be a mistake for you to go, and things like that.”
“In other words, we're not on a short-list where we're competing with others, but we're provisionally on the team already?”
“Yes. Some people aren't at that stage yet — maybe there are questions I've got about their application forms, that sort of thing. But I don't believe in calling people in to interview just to keep them on tender-hooks. Until you decide to withdraw or we discover some reason that it wouldn't be a good idea for you to go, you're on the passenger list.”
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NEWSPAPER ARTICLE
Going to Ground
No, not hiding, but going to talk to aliens. Unless we decide not to, or one of us is discovered to have some kind of physical or mental illness that means we shouldn't go, that is. Comments from the staff in the office here about us needing to be mad to consider going seem to be muted.
To quote A.A.Milne, 'Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday'... (except, apparently it was actually Wednesday), the beautiful post-doctoral researcher in my life, asked me what I thought about her plying her trade on another planet. 'Back to Mars again? I think I could swing it with the boss.' I replied, thinking of where we'd met. Nowhere nearly that close, came the reply. 'What would I do?' I foolishly asked. Apparently my beloved had anticipated my question, and she said 'Basically the same job, but a bit further from your office. See what your boss thinks.'
My boss, bless his tiny little soul, took all of thirty seconds from the first mention at the possibility of him getting rid of me for two years or more before he said 'So.. you go there, send us science reports about an alien world the readers can't get enough of, and maybe even get eaten in the name of Science. If so, we'll put up a little plaque. Now, where's the catch again?'
That was Wednesday evening. On Thursday, things really got moving. We got a big pile of forms to fill in, some things to read, and the short and intensely personal questionnaire that anyone whose ever contemplated visiting Atlantis will recognise. Unusually, it actually came in the hands of a truth-sayer.
She was very polite, but said, 'don't bother going filling in the rest unless the answer to all these questions is no, or not-applicable, or the answer to the last one is yes.' The last one being 'did the above events happen only before you became a Christian if you are one'. We both filled in 'not applicable' to that box. Apparently, if you murdered your husband, wife or child before becoming a Christian, Atlantis won't automatically object to you going to Ground. Having filled in lots of 'no's on the short form, and sworn to the truth-sayer that it was accurate, we were handed a drop-in appointment for basic psychological testing. The truthsayer said that waiting times were quite long at peak times, so it might be a good place to start filling in the long forms. She was right, and according to the report from that test, I'm entirely average on most things except for cynicism. My wife could have told them that.
'Hurry up and wait' is a common description of life in the military, and for a while I felt that we were in a military operation. They asked if we were free the next day — last Friday, and as soon as the children were out of school we were whisked off to GemSmith offices where there were forms to fill in, introductory assessments with computers and with people, confirming that we were who our forms said we were, that we'd discussed this as a family, that our kids didn't mind the thought of going, had we told our parents we were applying (no, we were planning to at the weekend), and filling in yet more forms about work and our attitude to growing our own vegetables, and would we prefer to be vegetarian or eat rabbit? Rabbit's not kosher, but neither of us are Jewish, and we've lived on Mars, 'We've eaten it before.'
'Really, dad?', 'Yes, son'. 'Have we ever eaten bunny?'
'I don't think so.' 'Why not? I want to eat bunny burgers!' 'Me too! Less greenhouse gasses!' My wife and I look at each other in a moment of mutual shock. Why didn't we know our beloved offspring wanted to eat Peter Rabbit and friends? Did you know that rabbit meat is far less environmentally guilt-laden than beef, pork or intensively-raised lamb and chicken? We just thought our little ones wouldn't be easy to convince. Apparently they're past that stage where furry things need cuddles; now they need cooking instead. That's good, actually, well... almost: apparently there are furry rabbit things in the mountains of Ground that are dangerous killers known as 'bone eaters'. They didn't manage to get their general-anesthetic-laden claw into the research probe that was filming them, but according to a little data-crystal we got given yesterday, one of them tried as soon as it spotted it. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Due to popular demand, we did indeed find someone to sell us some bunny-burgers, and yesterday we got called back for what we thought was yet another round of pre-interview assessments. We were wrong. We had a very pleasant chat with Dr Rachel Ngbila, who is due to inherit the GemSmith corporation and, as she pointed out, is the only living person to have come back from Ground twice. Four people have now made that round trip. Bubble-ship travel is as safe as anyone can make it, but there have been accidents, and the problem with moving at multiple times the speed of light is you can have no idea what's going to be in your path at the time you get there. Fortunately the physics of space-time compression means that you can stop instantly, and return to normal space in just a few milliseconds. But what if the reason you've just stopped quickly was because of an asteroid that has not only just blocked the path of the star you were aiming at, but it is also sufficiently close that it hits you just after you emerge from bubble-space?
There were a lot of reported near-misses and one damaged probe before the navigation program could be changed to make the automatic response if something blocked the view of the navigation star to simply drop to something massively sub-light but stay within the bubble. A collision while in the bubble is not good — ripping nuclei apart by gravity and accelerating the resultant bits into an established bubble drains power — but it is unlikely to kill unless the object you run into is a large planet.
Dr Ngbila, early in the interview, offered my daughter a lift to a hockey-match in the bubble-ship. Later on, she informed us that although we still had some more assessments to go through, we were on the passenger list unless we changed our minds or something comes up that would make going a bad idea. I have the impression that in Dr Ngbila's mind the main reason for the personal interview was to judge how our children would react with potentially scary new information and unexpected changes of plan. She deemed their reactions reasonable and told us we were going. I don't know what she throws at individuals or couples without children, nor where she has had experience dealing with grumpy teen-agers, but she did well.
We had been under the mistaken impression that there were a set number of research posts, but no. The main issue for Dr Ngbila seemed to be would we contribute to the research and would we fit in. It seems that the government of Ground have not set a quota on how many people come to look at their planet. So, we're probably going. Sorry, Mum, it looks like we won't be visiting for Christmas.
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SPACE, THURSDAY MORNING.
“Bubble probe 2R25, to Russia approach. I request permission to enter your controlled airspace and land in St Petersburg.”
“Purpose of your visit?”
“I have a passenger with diplomatic status from the Restored Kingdom.”
“Name?”
“My name is Dr Rachel Ngbila, citizen of the Restored Kingdom and of Atlantis.”
“And your passenger?”
“He will identify himself on landing, sir. His Imperial Majesty's Ambassador in the Restored Kingdom was involved in arranging this flight, with His Imperial Majesty's full knowledge and approval.”
“Bubble Probe you are clear to enter Imperial Airspace and dock at the foreign dock of St Petersburg military port.”
“Thank you sir.”
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ST PETERSBURG
“Welcome to Russia, your highness,” the Tsar greeted Albert.
“Thank you, your Imperial Majesty,” Albert replied, “let me introduce Dr. Rachel Ngbila, who I have known for most of my life, and who, as the Mer say, I now walk together with.”
“Welcome to Russia then also, Rachel. So, is it just a social visit? The ambassador said not quite.”
“Her Imperial Majesty Svetlana the Great supported the Bubble Ship Research programme most generously, Imperial Majesty. Under the terms of that support, I have an obligation to the Imperial House of Russia, thanks to something I brought back from Ground. Meaning no disrespect, I remind your Imperial Majesty that the terms state that one third of the demonstration sample (if it is a significant quantity) or of the first significant shipment belong to your house, sir. I don't imagine I will be the only person to bring back something that could be traded, either, so my colleagues would like to know how they should discharge future obligations to your Imperial House. Albert was kind enough to arrange the visit... Otherwise I imagine it would not have been easy for me to ask such questions in person.”
“Mother would have been pleased to hear the programme was bringing results, scientific as well as material. But what exotic item have you brought back with you?”
“A cloth, Imperial Majesty,” she handed him a handkerchief-sized square of it. “It is used as a wall-hanging on Ground, because as shape-shifters they do not wear clothes.
As you see, it feels a bit like a warmer version of silk and changes colour when touched or when there is a loud noise. I brought back three bolts of it, two of which like that sample change between blue or green. The third changes between red and yellow.”
“Ah, and the red and yellow one is for us?”
“I would not presume to dictate, Imperial Majesty. I used some of one bolt to make myself a dress, but have the other two bolts in the ship.”
“Strictly speaking, it ought to be a third of the red-yellow and two thirds of the blue-green, shouldn't it?” Albert interjected.
“I leave the choice to his Imperial Majesty,” Rachel said.
“And I leave the choice to my wife and daughters,” the Tsar said. “What can you tell me about the manufacturing process?”
“Very little, imperial Majesty. I can tell you it is a cottage industry on Ground, but that the local demand is reducing because of changes in fashion. I'm fairly sure that at least part of the process involves secretions from the producer themselves, quite possibly all of it.
“A bolt of fabric takes perhaps a month to produce, and different producers make different colours, but there are only three colour-pairs on the market. Also, no one can tell the producer once they're on the shelf. Apparently there is quite a lot on the shelf... I exchanged them for some of my own craft-work which I'd signed. I'm sure Magdalena's signature would be worth more, as she's far more famous there, but she's not really into handicrafts. So, they considered the rarity value of what I was offering, the fact that I was providing support to Magdalena when she broke lots of rules and rescued Jakav, and they decided it was a more than fare trade.”
“And you expect to be importing lots of this cloth in the future?”
“I expect that three bolts of it will be coming back with each supply ship — which I think are planned for four to six a year.”
“So the cloth will be very rare.”
“That is the expectation with all trade with Ground, Imperial Majesty. There is not much space on a supply ship, and we are bound by Atlantis trade laws — only material that is in surplus or plentifully available can be traded, and never at rates that do not give fair profit to both sides.”
“You will become very rich. The person who made this cloth too?”
“The three people who made the cloth, and the person who introduced me to them and who will rent out what I traded. Their society is not as unequal as ours, nor as large. Even the richest could not afford to buy many great luxuries. Instead, they are normally rented out. The people who made the cloth ought to derive a regular income from the pieces I made.”
“Until they are broken.”
“I traded crystal coasters.” Rachel said, “I doubt anyone will manage to break one by accident.”
“Ah. You have the instinct for business, I see.”
“I was raised to look after the family company, Imperial Majesty.”
“Hmmm, yes. Future trades are likely, you think?”
“I see no reason they should not be,” Rachel replied.
“And it is, as I presume you correctly supposed, a family and not a state matter.”
“I had help reaching that conclusion: I discussed the matter with Queen Heather before I left Ground.”
“Ah, yes, of course! I had not remembered that honoured lady is there. Hmm, she will be staying there long?”
“She said nothing to me about leaving, Imperial Majesty. I believe she is quite enjoying herself being in the middle of a research community again.”
“Very good. Very good. You are named as contact person for the question of water-loss on Ground, are you not?”
“Yes, Imperial Majesty. I hope to speak to the Imperial University and the Imperial Academy of Sciences, regarding the apparent lack of interest from their staff, and to discover if somehow a mistake in communication or in procedure had been made.”
“No mistake,” The Tsar said. “It is simply that land on Mars and citizenship of Atlantis are not great inducements for most, and there has not yet been a formal decision on the issue of academic cooperation.”
“You are very well informed, Imperial Majesty.”
“You are not the only young person interested in the results of that deliberation.” He pushed a button on his desk, and spoke to the servant who entered, “Please inform my wife and daughters that Prince Albert and Dr Rachel Ngbila are about to be offered a cup of tea, and they will then escort any of them who wish to go to the bubble ship parked in docks. Those who go may then choose which of two rolls of an exotic fabric that has come from the planet Ground belongs to the family, and also discuss other matters.”
“All your daughters, Imperial Majesty?”
“You may inform Anastasia that I expect her to talk to Dr Ngbila. And that if she wishes to hand her something, she may.”