Berserker - Earth Descended Part 15

This year Bart got more attention from his s.h.i.+pmates than had been usual his last few days. Edris and Helsa looked at his teeth and wondered out loud if the s.h.i.+p shouldn't be straightening some of them for him.

"Oh, they're not terribly crooked. But it did as much for some of us when we were kids."

After lunch there was a general discussion of his future, carried on at times as if he were not there.

Ranjan said: "I still think the s.h.i.+p plans to provide him with a bride one of these days, one of these years.

Maybe it's already tried to hatch other people from the artificial wombs and something's gone wrong, so it's got poor Bart just marking time."

Another adult asked: "You still think there's a good supply of human genetic material on board?"

"Bound to be. Else the s.h.i.+p wouldn't have sterilized us, right?"

There was general agreement on that point, but on little else. One body of opinion held that the s.h.i.+p really wanted the people to take over, now that its own computers had grown crotchety and unreliable with breakdowns and damage. But some kind of glitch prevented it from simply saying what it wanted.

Schizophrenic, it fended off their attempts to gain control with one hand, while feeding and caring for them with the other.

The discussion soon got over Bart's head, but he listened intently, trying to weigh everything they said.

He listened for something that might give him confidence, but heard it not.

Twenty-nine.

"I know you've seen our biology lab before," Galina told him. "But I think you ought to take a real interest. All our futures may lie in this room."

He ceased scratching his back against the door-frame. "How so?"

"Sit down, Bart." When they were seated, she looked at him with concern. "Bart, if the machines never provide you with any people your own age-with a fertile female specifically-then it's going to be up to us to find some way to everitually produce more people, so that the human race can go on. I'm not sure that there are any people left alive on Earth."

"I see." He nodded seriously.

Galina spoke slowly and kept studying him for his reactions. "We know that when the s.h.i.+p was launched there was a large supply of human sperm and ova stored on board, all coded to genetic types, so that people could be conceived and raised by machines when the end of the voyage drew near."

"Uh-huh."

She sighed. "I myself suspect that most and perhaps nearly all of this genetic material was lost in some kind of accident that evidently disrupted the voyage in other ways as well. The s.h.i.+p speaks always of a revised schedule for the mission, a revised plan."

"I know."

"There's further evidence." She paused. "I said all the human seeds and eggs were coded as to type and potential? There's some indication in the available records that all of us now alive-except you, we don't know where you came from-were conceived from materials not considered of the highest quality. Not that we have any grave genetic defects, of course, no seriously defective material would have been placed aboard. But-not the best. This suggests to me that all the best material was somehow destroyed, and also that there may not be much material left."

Bart nodded, not knowing what else to say or do.

"Except you, Bart, as I said. There may have been a human crew aboard before the accident-whatever the accident was. You may be its only survivor. But I suppose your origins make little difference. Here you are and here we are, and there's the future to be faced. A future to be created-perhaps for the whole human race-out of whatever we have on hand. Would you like to learn something about biology?"

"I guess I'd better," said Bart.

They had a pretty good first lesson, distinguis.h.i.+ng plants and animals, marking the first great branches of the tree of life.

"What are those marks on your face?" Bart asked on impulse a few hours later, as they were leaving the lab to go to dinner. He felt he knew Galina pretty well now and wasn't shy about getting a little more personal.

"What marks?" She raised tentative fingers to her cheek.

"Those little lines in the skin, going out from the corners of your eyes."

Thirty.

Today marked a standard month since the s.h.i.+p had roused Bart from his first period of suspended animation. When he awoke, a machine equipped with measuring devices was waiting at his bedside. It quickly got busy to check his height and weight, looked into his eyes and mouth, listened to his chest.

"How much taller am I than a month ago, s.h.i.+p?"

"Approximately seventy millimeters," said the expressionless voice.

"And how much heavier?"

"Approximately ninety-five grams."

"Is that good?"

It wouldn't say. But it did adjust his diet, adding a delicious, creamy drink to that very breakfast, served in his room.

When he joined the other people he found Olen half bald, and learned that Basil had gone back to communing with the stars.

Galina gave him another biology lesson, more technical and duller than the first.

Thirty-one.

Today Bart heard that Dierdre was in her bed, too sick to get up.

"She always liked you, Bart," said Chao sadly. "Go in and talk to her a little."

He went into Deirdre's room, and found her looking much sicker than any human being he had ever seen before. She also seemed too dazed to talk very much.

"Galina's been giving her drugs," Chao explained when he came out. "Otherwise the pain gets too bad."

"Pain? From what?"

"They think it's cancer." Chao and others tried to explain.

Only later did they get around to telling him that Baruch had been killed in some kind of an explosion, trying to force a pa.s.sage to the for-bidden areas of the s.h.i.+p.

"Remember this photograph, Bart?" said Armin, cheering him up. "I took it of you at our last birthday party. We're going to have another one soon."

"You took it the year after the birthday party, Armin."

"Oh? Maybe you're right."

Galina was busy with her other work today and never got around to teaching him biology.

Thirty-two.

Deirdre had died, which came as no surprise to Bart but still left him with a hollow feeling. Thinking over matters of life and death, he stood at the edge of the garden, a high-domed region full of bright lights, vastly enlarged from the first little plot of synthetic soil. People were jogging for exercise around the walk that circled the perimeter of the garden, while others were working casually inside.

It was strange to see gray in the hair of some of them, but Bart guessed that was just one more thing that happened naturally with age. His own hair, crewcut when his s.h.i.+pmates were babies, was starting to fall over his forehead now.

He went to look up Basil, and asked to go out and see the stars again. Basil was willing. When they got to the observation port, he pointed out to Bart the prow of the s.h.i.+p, and the aft, or the stern as they sometimes called it, where the engines and their controls were supposed to be.

"And when some people finally get back there," Bart asked, "they'll really be able to take over the whole thing?"

Basil shrugged. He was looking mainly outward, at the stars.

Thirty-three Trac was the first person to meet Bart as he came down the corridor from his room, and as soon as she smiled in greeting he noticed that several teeth were missing from her lower jaw.

"Had a jaw cyst, Bart. At least that's what Galina and Solon say. They took it out. Spoils my famous beauty, but they think eventually they'll be able to do something about giving me artificial teeth."

"Couldn't the s.h.i.+p-??'

"It wouldn't help, whether it could or not. It's giving us less and less help these days. But never mind about that, come along, we've got something to show you."

He followed along. And then they were all jumping out at him, yelling Surprise! Birthday party! The common dining room was decorated with streamers and balloons, and the table set for a feast.

"We were going to have one next year, Bart, you know, ten years from the last, but then we decided why not have it now?"

"You can be whatever age you like, Bart. Be an honorary thirty-three with us, if you like."

"That's a third of a century, Mai," a woman cried. "Who wants to be that old?"

They were all good to him, as they usually were these days, petting and hugging him and fussing around, making it his party although it was supposed to be their birthday and he never said what honorary age he wanted. Actually he didn't want any, his own real age was good enough.

Later he found unnoticed in a corner something that he supposed had been dragged out of storage accidentally with the decorations. It was a wheeled plastic toy that he remembered fixing for Deirdre a month ago.

Thirty-four The marking tapes were up on the bulkheads again, and a few people were playing at the question-and-wrestle game. Meanwhile some had evidently been spending a lot of time working in the garden. It was now huge, and looked like the earthly gardens pictured in the s.h.i.+p's records, which none of them had ever seen in actuality.

"And now, Bart, we're going to have some prayers. Come along."

"Some what?"

"You'll see. It's another old idea that Basil's been putting into practice lately."

They had wanted to hold the prayer meetings out by the observation port, Bart learned, but there wasn't room enough for everyone, and all had wanted to attend the first meetings at least, to see what they were going to be like. That was a month or two ago and by now attendance was dropping slightly.

Bart didn't understand the theory of prayer too well, but at the meeting Basil and the others who got up to talk seemed to be speaking not only to the s.h.i.+p but to the world outside it, and to some force or power that had made them both.

Thirty-five.

When Bart emerged from his room most of his s.h.i.+pmates were there in the hall waiting for him, something that hadn't happened since they were sixteen, a day he could remember well. Today they were going to bring him to a meeting, they said, and at first Bart expected more prayers, but this meeting turned out to be more businesslike than that.

It was governmental council, held all day or most of the day around the big table with lunch coming as an interruption. Lunch included fruits and vegetables brought fresh from the garden, as well as the usual rations issued by the s.h.i.+p.

The proceedings got rather boring for Bart, though his friends made an effort to bring him into it all. They showed him their new system of recordkeeping, of recording all the discoveries of their research for easy access by Bart and future generations.

He looked the question at them.

"It's true, Bart," said Fay. A deep, gentle happiness glowed through her eyes at the thought. "The s.h.i.+p has recently promised us, therewill be future generations."

"Provided the mission is completed," someone put in.

"Yes. Well." That was enough for Fay, and for the people as a group.

Bart himself thought it sounded fine, but he would still like to know more. He asked the s.h.i.+p for details later but got nowhere, as usual.

Thirty-six.