Ben Bova - Children Of The Mind

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CHILDREN OF THE MIND
To Barbara Bova,
whose toughness, wisdom, and empathy
make her a great agent
and an even better friend
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
1. “I’m Not Myself”
2. “You Don’t Believe in God”
3. “There Are Too Many of Us”
4. “I Am a Man of Perfect Simplicity”
5. “Nobody Is Rational”
6. “Life Is a Suicide Mission”
7. “I Offer Her This Poor Old Vessel”
8. “What Matters Is Which Fiction You Believe”
9. “It Smells Like Life to Me”
10. “This Has Always Been Your Body”
11. “You Called Me Back from Darkness”
12. “Am I Betraying Ender?”
13. “Till Death Ends All Surprises”
14. “How They Communicate with Animals”
15. “We’re Giving You a Second Chance”
16. “How Do You Know They Aren’t Quivering in Terror”
17. “The Road Goes On without Him Now”
Afterword
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to:
Glenn Makitka, for the title, which seems so obvious now, but which never
crossed my mind until he suggested it in a discussion in Hatrack River on
America Online;
Van Gessel, for introducing me to Hikari and Kenzaburo Oe, and for his masterful
translation of Shusaku Endo's Deep River;
Helpful readers in Hatrack River, like Stephen Boulet and Sandi Golden, who
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caught typographical errors and inconsistencies in the manuscript;
Tom Doherty and Beth Meacham at Tor, who allowed me to split Xenocide in half in
order to have a chance to develop and write the second half of the story
properly;
My friend and fellow weeder in the vineyards of literature, Kathryn H. Kidd, for
her chapter-by-chapter encouragement;
Kathleen Bellamy and Scott J. Alien for Sisyphean service;
Kristine and Geoff for careful reading that helped me resolve contradictions and
unclarities; and
My wife, Kristine, and my children, Geoffrey, Emily, Charlie Ben, and Zina, for
patience with my strange schedule and self-absorption during the writing
process, and for teaching me all that is worth telling stories about.
This novel was begun at home in Greensboro, North Carolina, and finished on the
road at Xanadu II in Myrtle Beach, in the Hotel Panama in San Rafael, and in Los
Angeles in the home of my dear cousins Mark and Margaret Park, whom I thank for
their friendship and their hospitality. Chapters were uploaded in manuscript
form into the Hatrack River Town Meeting on America Online, where several dozen
fellow citizens of that virtual community downloaded it, read it, and commented
on it to the book's and my great benefit.
CHAPTER 1
“I'M NOT MYSELF”
"Mother. Father. Did I do it right?"
The last words of Han Qing-jao, from
The God Whispers of Han Qing-jao
Si Wang-mu stepped forward. The young man named Peter took her hand and led her
into the starship. The door closed behind them.
Wang-mu sat down on one of the swiveling chairs inside the small metal-walled
room. She looked around, expecting to see something strange and new. Except for
the metal walls, it could have been any office on the world of Path. Clean, but
not fastidiously so. Furnished, in a utilitarian way. She had seen holos of
ships in flight: the smoothly streamlined fighters and shuttles that dipped into
and out of the atmosphere; the vast rounded structures of the starships that
accelerated as near to the speed of light as matter could get. On the one hand,
the sharp power of a needle; on the other, the massive power of a sledgehammer.
But here in this room, no power at all. Just a room.
Where was the pilot? There must be a pilot, for the young man who sat across the
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room from her, murmuring to his computer, could hardly be controlling a starship
capable of the feat of traveling faster than light.
And yet that must have been precisely what he was doing, for there were no other
doors that might lead to other rooms. The starship had looked small from the
outside; this room obviously used all the space that it contained. There in the
corner were the batteries that stored energy from the solar collectors on the
top of the ship. In that chest, which seemed to be insulated like a
refrigerator, there might be food and drink. So much for life support. Where was
the romance in starflight now, if this was all it took? A mere room.
With nothing else to watch, she watched the young man at the computer terminal.
Peter Wiggin, he said his name was. The name of the ancient Hegemon, the one who
first united all the human race under his control, back when people lived on
only one world, all the nations and races and religions and philosophies crushed
together elbow to elbow, with nowhere to go but into each other's lands, for the
sky was a ceiling then, and space was a vast chasm that could not be bridged.
Peter Wiggin, the man who ruled the human race. This was not him, of course, and
he had admitted as much. Andrew Wiggin sent him; Wang-mu remembered, from things
that Master Han had told her, that Andrew Wiggin had somehow made him. Did this
make the great Speaker of the Dead Peter's father? Or was he somehow Ender's
brother, not just named for but actually embodying the Hegemon who had died
three thousand years before?
Peter stopped murmuring, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. He rubbed his
eyes, then stretched and groaned. It was a very indelicate thing to do in
company. The sort of thing one might expect from a coarse fieldworker.
He seemed to sense her disapproval. Or perhaps he had forgotten her and now
suddenly remembered that he had company. Without straightening himself in his
chair, he turned his head and looked at her.
"Sorry," he said. "I forgot I was not alone."
Wang-mu longed to speak boldly to him, despite a lifetime retreating from bold
speech. After all, he had spoken to her with offensive boldness, when his
starship appeared like a fresh-sprouted mushroom on the lawn by the river and he
emerged with a single vial of a disease that would cure her home world, Path, of
its genetic illness. He had looked her in the eye not fifteen minutes ago and
said, "Come with me and you'll be part of changing history. Making history." And
despite her fear, she had said yes.
Had said yes, and now sat in a swivel chair watching him behave crudely,
stretching like a tiger in front of her. Was that his beast-of-the-heart, the
tiger? Wang-mu had read the Hegemon. She could believe that there was a tiger in
that great and terrible man. But this one? This boy? Older than Wang-mu, but she
was not too young to know immaturity when she saw it. He was going to change the
course of history! Clean out the corruption in the Congress. Stop the Lusitania
Fleet. Make all colony planets equal members of the Hundred Worlds. This boy who
stretched like a jungle cat.
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"I don't have your approval," he said. He sounded annoyed and amused, both at
once. But then she might not be good at understanding the inflections of one
such as this. Certainly it was hard to read the grimaces of such a round-eyed
man. Both his face and his voice contained hidden languages that she could not
understand.
"You must understand," he said. "I'm not myself."
Wang-mu spoke the common language well enough at least to understand the idiom.
"You are unwell today?" But she knew even as she said it that he had not meant
the expression idiomatically at all.
"I'm not myself," he said again. "I'm not really Peter Wiggin."
"I hope not," said Wang-mu. "I read about his funeral in school."
"I do look like him, though, don't I?" He brought up a hologram into the air
over his computer terminal. The hologram rotated to look at Wang-mu; Peter sat
up and assumed the same pose, facing her.
"There is a resemblance," she said.
"Of course, I'm younger," said Peter. "Because Ender didn't see me again after
he left Earth when he was -- what, five years old? A little runt, anyway. I was
still a boy. That's what he remembered, when he conjured me out of thin air."
"Not air at all," she said. "Out of nothing."
"Not nothing, either," he said. "Conjured me, all the same." He smiled wickedly.
"I can call spirits from the vasty deep."
These words meant something to him, but not to her. In the world of Path she had
been expected to be a servant and so was educated very little. Later, in the
house of Han Fei-tzu, her abilities had been recognized, first by her former
mistress, Han Qing-jao, and later by the master himself. From both she had
acquired some bits of education, in a haphazard way. What teaching there had
been was mostly technical, and the literature she learned was of the Middle
Kingdom, or of Path itself. She could have quoted endlessly from the great poet
Li Qing-jao, for whom her one-time mistress had been named. But of the poet he
was quoting, she knew nothing.
"I can call spirits from the vasty deep," he said again. And then, changing his
voice and manner a little, he answered himself. "Why so can I, or so can any
man. But will they come when you do call for them?"
"Shakespeare?" she guessed.
He grinned at her. She thought of the way a cat smiles at the creature it is
toying with. "That's always the best guess when a European is doing the
quoting," he said.
"The quotation is funny," she said. "A man brags that he can summon the dead.
But the other man says that the trick is not calling, but rather getting them to
come."
He laughed. "What a way you have with humor."
"This quotation means something to you, because Ender called you forth from the
dead."
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He looked startled. "How did you know?"
She felt a thrill of fear. Was it possible? "I did not know, I was making a
joke."
"Well, it's not true. Not literally. He didn't raise the dead. Though he no
doubt thinks he could, if the need arose." Peter sighed. "I'm being nasty. The
words just come to my mind. I don't mean them. They just come."
"It is possible to have words come to your mind, and still refrain from speaking
them aloud."
He rolled his eyes. "I wasn't trained for servility, the way you were."
So this was the attitude of one who came from a world of free people -- to sneer
at one who had been a servant through no fault of her own. "I was trained to
keep unpleasant words to myself as a matter of courtesy," she said. "But perhaps
to you, that is just another form of servility."
"As I said, Royal Mother of the West, nastiness comes unbidden to my mouth."
"I am not the Royal Mother," said Wang-mu. "The name was a cruel joke --"
"And only a very nasty person would mock you for it." Peter grinned. "But I'm
named for the Hegemon. I thought perhaps bearing ludicrously overwrought names
was something we might have in common."
She sat silently, entertaining the possibility that he might have been trying to
make friends.
"I came into existence," he said, "only a short while ago. A matter of weeks. I
thought you should know that about me."
She didn't understand.
"You know how this starship works?" he said.
Now he was leaping from subject to subject. Testing her. Well, she had had
enough of being tested. "Apparently one sits within it and is examined by rude
strangers," she said.
He smiled and nodded. "Give as good as you get. Ender told me you were nobody's
servant."
"I was the true and faithful servant of Qing-jao. I hope Ender did not lie to
you about that."
He brushed away her literalism. "A mind of your own." Again his eyes sized her
up; again she felt utterly comprehended by his lingering glance, as she had felt
when he first looked at her beside the river. "Wang-mu, I am not speaking
metaphorically when I tell you I was only just made. Made, you understand, not
born. And the way I was made has much to do with how this starship works. I
don't want to bore you by explaining things you already understand, but you must
know what -- not who -- I am in order to understand why I need you with me. So I
ask again -- do you know how this starship works?"
She nodded. "I think so. Jane, the being who dwells in computers, she holds in
her mind as perfect a picture as she can of the starship and all who are within
it. The people also hold their own picture of themselves and who they are and so
on. Then she moves everything from the real world to a place of nothingness,
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which takes no time at all, and then brings it back into reality in whatever
place she chooses. Which also takes no time. So instead of starships taking
years to get from world to world, it happens in an instant."
Peter nodded. "Very good. Except what you have to understand is that during the
time that the starship is Outside, it isn't surrounded by nothingness. Instead
it's surrounded by uncountable numbers of aiúas."
She turned away her face from him.
"You don't understand aiúas?"
"To say that all people have always existed. That we are older than the oldest
gods ..."
"Well, sort of," said Peter. "Only aiúas on the Outside, they can't be said to
exist, or at least not any kind of meaningful existence. They're just ... there.
Not even that, because there's no sense of location, no there where they might
be. They just are. Until some intelligence calls them, names them, puts them
into some kind of order, gives them shape and form."
"The clay can become a bear," she said, "but not as long as it rests cold and
wet in the riverbank."
"Exactly. So there was Ender Wiggin and several other people who, with luck,
you'll never need to meet, taking the first voyage Outside. They weren't going
anywhere, really. The point of that first voyage was to get Outside long enough
that one of them, a rather talented genetic scientist, could create a new
molecule, an extremely complex one, by the image she held of it in her mind. Or
rather her image of the modifications she needed to make in an existing... well,
you don't have the biology for it. Anyway, she did what she was supposed to do,
she created the new molecule, calloo callay, only the thing is, she wasn't the
only person doing any creating that day."
"Ender's mind created you?" asked Wang-mu.
"Inadvertently. I was, shall we say, a tragic accident. An unhappy side effect.
Let's just say that everybody there, everything there, was creating like crazy.
The aiúas Outside are frantic to be made into something, you see. There were
shadow starships being created all around us. All kinds of weak, faint,
fragmented, fragile, ephemeral structures rising and falling in each instant.
Only four had any solidity. One was that genetic molecule that Elanora Ribeira
had come to create."
"One was you?"
"The least interesting one, I fear. The least loved and valued. One of the
people on the ship was a fellow named Miro, who through a tragic accident some
years ago had been left somewhat crippled. Neurologically damaged. Thick of
speech, clumsy with his hands, lame when he walked. He held within his mind the
powerful, treasured image of himself as he used to be. So -- with that perfect
self-image, a vast number of aiúa assembled themselves into an exact copy, not
of how he was, but of how he once was and longed to be again. Complete with all
his memories -- a perfect replication of him. So perfect that it had the same
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utter loathing for his crippled body that he himself had. So ... the new,
improved Miro -- or rather the copy of the old, undamaged Miro -- whatever -- he
stood there as the ultimate rebuke of the crippled one. And before their very
eyes, that old rejected body crumbled away into nothing."
Wang-mu gasped, imagining it. "He died!"
"No, that's the point, don't you see? He lived. It was Miro. His own aiúa -- not
the trillions of aiúas making up the atoms and molecules of his body, but the
one that controlled them all, the one that was himself, his will -- his aiúa
simply moved to the new and perfect body. That was his true self. And the old
one ..."
"Had no use."
"Had nothing to give it shape. You see, I think our bodies are held together by
love. The love of the master aiúa for the glorious powerful body that obeys it,
that gives the self all its experience of the world. Even Miro, even with all
his self-loathing when he was crippled, even he must have loved whatever
pathetic remnant of his body was left to him. Until the moment that he had a new
one."
"And then he moved."
"Without even knowing that he had done so," said Peter. "He followed his love."
Wang-mu heard this fanciful tale and knew that it must be true, for she had
overheard many a mention of aiúas in the conversations between Han Fei-tzu and
Jane, and now with Peter Wiggin's story, it made sense. It had to be true, if
only because this starship really had appeared as if from nowhere on the bank of
the river behind Han Fei-tzu's house.
"But now you must wonder," said Peter, "how I, unloved and unlovable as I know I
am, came into existence."
"You already said. Ender's mind."
"Miro's most intensely held image was of his own younger, healthier, stronger
self. But Ender, the images that mattered most in his mind were of his older
sister Valentine and his older brother Peter. Not as they became, though, for
his real older brother Peter was long dead, and Valentine -- she has accompanied
or followed Ender on all his hops through space, so she is still alive, but aged
as he has aged. Mature. A real person. Yet on that starship, during that time
Outside, he conjured up a copy of her youthful self. Young Valentine. Poor Old
Valentine! She didn't know she was so old until she saw this younger self, this
perfect being, this angel that had dwelt in Ender's twisted little mind from
childhood on. I must say, she's the most put-upon victim in all this little
drama. To know that your brother carries around such an image of you, instead of
loving you as you really are -- well, one can see that Old Valentine -- she
hates it, but that's how everyone thinks of her now, including, poor thing,
herself -- one can see that Old Valentine is really having her patience tried."
"But if the original Valentine is still alive," said Wang-mu, puzzled, "then who
is the young Valentine? Who is she really? You can be Peter because he's dead
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and no one is using his name, but ..."
"Quite puzzling, isn't it?" said Peter. "But my point is that whether he's dead
or not, I'm not Peter Wiggin. As I said before, I'm not myself."
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. The hologram above the
terminal turned to look at him. He had not touched the controls.
"Jane is with us," said Wang-mu.
"Jane is always with us," said Peter. "Ender's spy."
The hologram spoke. "Ender doesn't need a spy. He needs friends, if he can get
them. Allies at least."
Peter reached idly for the terminal and turned it off. The hologram disappeared.
This disturbed Wang-mu very much. Almost as if he had slapped a child. Or beaten
a servant. "Jane is a very noble creature, to treat her with such disrespect."
"Jane is a computer program with a bug in the id routines."
He was in a dark mood, this boy who had come to take her into his starship and
spirit her away from the world of Path. But dark as his mood might be, she
understood now, with the hologram gone from the terminal, what she had seen. "It
isn't just because you're so young and the holograms of Peter Wiggin the Hegemon
are of a mature man," said Wang-mu.
"What," he said impatiently. "What isn't what?"
"The physical difference between you and the Hegemon."
"What is it, then?"
"He looks -- satisfied."
"He conquered the world," said Peter.
"So when you have done the same, you will get that look of satisfaction?"
"I suppose so," said Peter. "It's what passes for a purpose in my life. It's the
mission Ender has sent me on."
"Don't lie to me," said Wang-mu. "On the riverbank you spoke of the terrible
things I did for the sake of my ambition. I admit it -- I was ambitious,
desperate to rise out of my terrible lowborn state. I know the taste of it, and
the smell of it, and I smell it coming from you, like the smell of tar on a hot
day, you stink of it."
"Ambition? Has a stench?"
"I'm drunk with it myself."
He grinned. Then he touched the jewel in his ear. "Remember, Jane is listening,
and she tells Ender everything."
Wang-mu fell silent, but not because she was embarrassed. She simply had nothing
to say, and therefore said nothing.
"So I'm ambitious. Because that's how Ender imagined me. Ambitious and
nasty-minded and cruel."
"But I thought you were not yourself," she said.
His eyes blazed with defiance. "That's right, I'm not." He looked away. "Sorry,
Gepetto, but I can't be a real boy. I have no soul."
She didn't understand the name he said, but she understood the word soul. "All
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my childhood I was thought to be a servant by nature. To have no soul. Then one
day they discovered that I have one. So far it has brought me no great
happiness."
"I'm not speaking of some religious idea. I'm speaking of the aiúa. I haven't
got one. Remember what happened to Miro's broken-down body when his aiúa
abandoned it."
"But you don't crumble, so you must have an aiúa after all."
"I don't have it, it has me. I continue to exist because the aiúa whose
irresistible will called me into existence continues to imagine me. Continues to
need me, to control me, to be my will."
"Ender Wiggin?" she asked.
"My brother, my creator, my tormentor, my god, my very self."
"And young Valentine? Her too?"
"Ah, but he loves her. He's proud of her. He's glad he made her. Me he loathes.
Loathes, and yet it's his will that I do and say every nasty thing. When I'm at
my most despicable, remember that I do only what my brother makes me do."
"Oh, to blame him for --"
"I'm not blaming, Wang-mu. I'm stating simple reality. His will is controlling
three bodies now. Mine, my impossibly angelic sister's, and of course his own
very tired middle-aged body. Every aiúa in my body receives its order and place
from his. I am, in all ways that matter, Ender Wiggin. Except that he has
created me to be the vessel of every impulse in himself that he hates and fears.
His ambition, yes, you smell his ambition when you smell mine. His aggression.
His rage. His nastiness. His cruelty. His, not mine, because I am dead, and
anyway I was never like this, never the way he saw me. This person before you is
a travesty, a mockery! I'm a twisted memory. A despicable dream. A nightmare.
I'm the creature hiding under the bed. He brought me out of chaos to be the
terror of his childhood."
"So don't do it," said Wang-mu. "If you don't want to be those things, don't do
them."
He sighed and closed his eyes. "If you're so bright, why haven't you understood
a word I've said?"
She did understand, though. "What is your will, anyway? Nobody can see it. You
don't hear it thinking. You only know what your will is afterward, when you look
back in your life and see what you've done."
"That's the most terrible trick he's played on me," said Peter softly, his eyes
still closed. "I look back on my life and I see only the memories he has
imagined for me. He was taken from our family when he was only five. What does
he know of me or my life?"
"He wrote The Hegemon."
"That book. Yes, based on Valentine's memories, as she told them to him. And the
public documents of my dazzling career. And of course the few ansible
communications between Ender and my own late self before I -- he -- died. I'm
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only a few weeks old, yet I know a quotation from Henry IV, Part I. Owen
Glendower boasting to Hotspur. Henry Percy. How could I know that? When did I go
to school? How long did I lie awake at night, reading old plays until I
committed a thousand favorite lines to memory? Did Ender somehow conjure up the
whole of his dead brother's education? All his private thoughts? Ender only knew
the real Peter Wiggin for five years. It's not a real person's memories I draw
on. It's the memories Ender thinks that I should have."
"He thinks you should know Shakespeare, and so you do?" she asked doubtfully.
"If only Shakespeare were all he had given me. The great writers, the great
philosophers. If only those were the only memories I had."
She waited for him to list the troublesome memories. But he only shuddered and
fell silent.
"So if you are really controlled by Ender, then ... you are him. Then that is
yourself. You are Andrew Wiggin. You have an aiúa."
"I'm Andrew Wiggin's nightmare," said Peter. "I'm Andrew Wiggin's self-loathing.
I'm everything he hates and fears about himself. That's the script I've been
given. That's what I have to do."
He flexed his hand into a fist, then extended it partway, the fingers still
bent. A claw. The tiger again. And for a moment, Wang-mu was afraid of him. Only
a moment, though. He relaxed his hands. The moment passed. "What part does your
script have in it for me?"
"I don't know," said Peter. "You're very smart. Smarter than I am, I hope.
Though of course I have such incredible vanity that I can't really believe that
anyone is actually smarter than I am. Which means that I'm all the more in need
of good advice, since I can't actually conceive of needing any."
"You talk in circles."
"That's just part of my cruelty. To torment you with conversation. But maybe
it's supposed to go farther than that. Maybe I'm supposed to torture you and
kill you the way I so clearly remember doing with squirrels. Maybe I'm supposed
to stake your living body out in the woods, nailing your extremities to tree
roots, and then open you up layer by layer to see at what point the flies begin
to come and lay eggs in your exposed flesh."
She recoiled at the image. "I have read the book. I know the Hegemon was not a
monster!"
"It wasn't the Speaker for the Dead who created me Outside. It was the
frightened boy Ender. I'm not the Peter Wiggin he so wisely understood in that
book. I'm the Peter Wiggin he had nightmares about. The one who flayed
squirrels."
"He saw you do that?" she asked.
"Not me," he said testily. "And no, he never even saw him do it. Valentine told
him later. She found the squirrel's body in the woods near their childhood home
in Greensboro, North Carolina, on the continent of North America back on Earth.
But that image fit so tidily into his nightmares that he borrowed it and shared
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file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Ben%20Bova%20-%20Children%20Of%20The%20Mind.tx CHILDRENOFTHEMINDToBarbaraBova,whosetoughness,wisdom,andempathymakeheragreatagentandanevenbetterfriendCONTENTSAcknowledgments1.“I’mNotMyself”2.“YouDon’tBelieveinGod”3.“ThereAreTooManyofUs”4.“IAmaManofPerfectSimplicity”5.“Nobod...

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Ben Bova - Children Of The Mind.pdf

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：235 页 大小：533.38KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-07

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