Aurora Wolf

Traces Of Forever

By

Alex P. Perdian

Piers stared out the ship’s rear observation window, watching the planet fade in the distance, intent on etching the scene in his memory forever. Gisaur had been home to his people for over a millennium.

“It’s finished,” he said, more to himself than his mother, who stood jammed up against him. But then the room was crowded with refugees, all wanting to say goodbye in their own way.

A moment later, the ship entered hyperspace and the planet vanished, followed by the crowd dispersing, except for his mother. She held her ground, holding onto his arm for support. “Are you all right?”

“Starting over won’t be easy.”

“For us,” he said, frowning. His mother was sixty-two. “But the younger ones will have it easier.”

“Maybe.”

He glanced away, remembering how a minor shift in their sun’s radiation spectrum destroyed Gisaur in just a dozen years, wiping out over a thousand years of history.

But evacuating a colony of a million proved a logistical nightmare. Thirteen years elapsed before they were ready, thirteen years of deadly radiation.

“They’ll make it,” he said softly. “And so will we.”

“If we can find another world to accept us.”

He nodded, wishing she had kept silent. Inquiries for settling on the only nearby world were refused and no amount of pleading with the inhabitants changed their minds. The delay cost him his mate and son, as well as his father.

At least now they were underway, he reminded himself. But the prospects of finding a home in this sector were non-existent. The last time his people tried, they were forced to settle on Gisaur, only marginally inhabitable until bioengineered. Now totally uninhabitable.

“Piers, don’t listen to an old woman’s misgivings.”

“Are you reading my thoughts?”

“I don’t need telepathy for that. You’re my son.”

“Sorry, mom,” he said, exhaling loudly. Both knew this would be a long journey, a move to another sector, where, if lucky, they would find a human colony willing to accept them, or failing that, an unpopulated world capable of being bioengineered. “It just makes me angry.”

“Why shouldn’t it? Do you think I’m immune? We all feel the same.”

“Do we?” he said, his voice barely a whisper. Not many had lost as many family members as he, but until a few weeks ago, he was too busy to dwell on the pain, to give vent to his anger. Now he found it difficult to rein in his bitterness.

Through the centuries, their sun changed them, making them telepaths, a rare trait among scattered human colonies, but until the catastrophe, no one realized how deeply their gift terrified others.

“You’ll make it, Piers, and I expect you to watch over your sister. She’s quite headstrong.”

“That’s your job,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“Just for a while longer. The radiation has done too much damage.”

“Don’t say that,” he said defensively, not wanting to accept the truth. “A cure could be found tomorrow.”

“So says my historian.”

He saw her grinning as she said, “I expect you to write the authoritative history of Gisaur.”

“I will, mom.” And he meant it.

#

“No!” Piers said, angry at his sister Mei Lan. “You’re not leaving this room!” He stood blocking the door inside their quarters, a cramped suite of small rooms onboard one of the many transports comprising the Gisaur flotilla.

“You’re not my father!”

He gritted his teeth. His sister was twenty-three, confident she knew everything. At forty-five, he knew better.

If their mother still lived, she could have dealt with Mei Lan, but her cremated remains were inside the cupboard, alongside the loved ones brought with them from Gisaur.

“No. I’m not your father. But I’m your brother . . . and a lot older. The Council has forbidden it.”

“Why? These people aren’t going to let us settle here. And I want off this ship, even if it’s only for a little while.”

“You’ll never get near a transit station,” he said, more sympathetic to her cause than he let on.

Seven years had elapsed since their departure from Gisaur and he too wanted off the ship. But this was only the third planet in the Murac sector where negotiations had reached the end stage, and the Council was refusing to jeopardize the talks. The first two worlds refused to let them settle, giving into their populations’ hysteria.

Idiots, he thought. His people’s telepathic abilities only worked among themselves, not on other humans. You had to have been raised on Gisaur, subject to its solar radiation during your formative years.

“Well, I’m going to see for myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said, determined to prevent a confrontation between her and the authorities.

“What if no one lets us settle?”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said, unwilling to admit that similar thoughts crossed his mind. But then everyone was stressed. Ship maintenance was a nightmare, as was keeping people fed, and protecting the flotilla against marauders was a never ending task.

“This is the last human colony in the Murac sector.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said, his voice cracking, revealing his own fears. The planet below, Pinar, looked so inviting, an ideal place to settle. With only nine million inhabitants and much of the preliminary bioengineering work done, his people could easily be absorbed.

But then this sector was like the one they hailed from, in that none of the regional powers had territorial claims on it, meaning its worlds were open to colonization and bioengineering, unlike the next two sectors on their flight path.

“Please, Piers?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry.”

#

Piers sat on the edge of his desk, staring down at the only pupil remaining behind. The other students fled as soon as class ended, but not his nephew Nigul. The boy’s mother, Mei Lan, insisted he learn the history of Gisaur.

“Why, uncle Piers? This is Pinar.”

“Your mother and I came from Gisaur. It’s where our people originated.”

“That’s not what the other teachers say. They say we all came from the same planet in the beginning.”

Piers shook his head. The boy was sharp, perhaps too sharp. “That was a long time ago,” he said, determined to engage his nephew, to encourage his inquisitiveness, even if it weren’t of Gisaur, “a very long time.”

“And no one knows its location, right?”

“What makes us so sure we all originated on the same planet?”

He watched his nephew purse his mouth, thinking, and then say, “Can you give me a clue?”

“Is it because we’re biologically the same?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“Are you sure? What about sharing a common language? Or using the same set of time parameters?”

He saw the boy’s puzzled expression, thinking he had to choose between explanations, but then his nephew jumped to his feet, saying, “I’ve got to go, uncle Piers. I’m late for my next class.”

#

After Nigul departed, Piers went home. He taught only one class, the history of Gisaur, but after twenty-five years on Pinar, attendance had dropped significantly.

He entered his sister’s bedroom, pausing by the door, his eyes sweeping around the room. Then the attending nurse excused herself.

As he sat next to Mei Lan’s bed, he clasped her hand, ignoring the odor emanating from her emaciated body, a stench eerily reminiscent of their mother’s last few days.

His sister was dying, another victim of the plague carried to Pinar by inter-sector traders. Her mate, a Pinar native, had already succumbed, which was when he moved in with her and Nigul.

“How are you feeling today?” he said, waiting patiently as she struggled to open her eyes.

“Better.”

He kissed her forehead, suppressing his anger. Damn traders, he thought, mumbling under his breath.

Though the plague spread rapidly, only those with a genetic susceptibility had anything lethal to fear. Nigul, like him, was free of that risk. And the boy was also normal.

Sadly, not all such unions between Pinar natives and his people resulted in viable offspring. About a quarter of the time, children were defective, physically fine but mentally flawed, unable to speak or learn, empty minds called TuBonks, a tragedy touching everyone.

“Why so angry, Piers?”

“Sorry,” he said, embarrassed his emotions had gotten away from him. “I was thinking about TuBonks.”

He swore softly, having known too many victims. Before the full onslaught of puberty struck, the children were forced to undergo the Ritual of Release, a euphemism for termination, preventing the surge of hormones that made them so violently destructive.

It was a repulsive practice . . . barbaric . . . but even worse was that he understood the need for it. Pinar was too small a colony to support disruptive and non-productive elements, or to risk contaminating the gene pool any further.

“You need to let it go.”

“I think you’re starting to recover.”

“My dear brother, you know that’s not true.”

“Don’t joke about such things.”

“I wish you could have found someone else, Piers.”

“I have you.”

“When I’m gone, take care of Nigul. He’s your family now.”

“What about his grandparents?”

“They’ll help . . . but I’m giving you custody.”

“I promise.”

As she nodded off, he bowed his head. Unlike Mei Lan, he never took a mate, but then memories of his first love and child were too precious to risk diluting.

He closed his eyes, remembering her and his son, and then pulling up memories of a young Mei Lan and his parents, reliving moments from the past, laughing silently at their childhood antics.

Then his sister’s mind touched his, her gentle telepathic communication. She had joined him in his memories, sharing the joys of their mutual past.

A few minutes later, a wave of melancholy swept over him. One day no one would be capable of telepathy, of keeping the past alive . . . of keeping loved ones alive.

“Don’t be sad,” he heard her whisper inside his head. “Our memories may die, but we’ll live on in your books.”

Will you, he thought. Besides being the most prominent Gisaur historian, he was also his family’s chronicler, but that wasn’t the same, not like sharing real memories.

“It’s all we have, brother.”

“They’re only facts,” he said, recalling his conversations with other Gisaur survivors, all voicing the same complaint, the same regret, a diminishing pool of people to share memories with.

#

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Nigul said, standing over his uncle Piers as the old man sat at his desk.

“Why not? I feel fine.”

Nigul shrugged, tired of arguing, telling himself it was probably for the best. Though his uncle was ailing, his writing kept him going. After sixty years on Pinar, he was one of the older Gisaur survivors, a hundred and five. “How’s the book coming?”

“Slow . . . but I’m still on schedule.”

“Good. Well, it’s time I got back to work, but Ju Tanti will check on you after school.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Nonsense. She likes spending time with you.” He glanced over his shoulder as he left the room, wondering how his uncle hung on. Yet the thought of losing him was disconcerting. After his mother died, Piers raised him.

Then when he took Anya as his mate, he built a small separate dwelling out back for his uncle, giving him the privacy he needed. It was a fortuitous decision, as he and Anya soon had two children, one of them a TuBonk.

#

Once his nephew departed, Piers shuffled across the room to bed, no longer needing to keep up a pretense. He doubted he would finish the book, but he intended to try. It helped him stave off death.

He was proud of Nigul. His nephew was a well respected agricultural engineer, a valuable asset to Pinar, a role that would have pleased Mei Lan.

After all these years, her death still troubled him. It should have been him. Worse, a year after her passing, they found a cure for the plague.

He stared across the room at the closet, not bothering to wipe away the moisture at the corners of his eyes. They were all there, the cremated remains of his family.

#

Nigul was waylaid by his daughter as he returned home from work, saying, “I can’t visit grandfather Piers this evening.”

“Did you visit him after school?” he said, aware she was just looking for a way out of visiting his uncle, whom she called grandfather.

“No. I had to do my homework, and now I have to take Ustam to the park. The others are going to let him play this time.”

“That will be a first,” he said, watching her blush and then stumble over a reply. “Just visit grandfather Piers for a little while. You’ll still have time to go to the park.”

“But mom says—”

“Ju Tanti!”

“Oh, all right.”

He watched her turn away pouting, but then he understood more than she realized. His uncle bored her, always talking about Gisaur, a history he elaborated on in four authoritative books, though only the first two were well received.

To most of Pinar, Gisaur was a distant memory. The two populations were well integrated and people weren’t interested in a bygone era and place that less than a tenth of them hailed from.

The past was the past, at least for most of them. But not for him. His son Ustam was a TuBonk.

Initially, TuBonks were thought to be a first generation anomaly. Now it was recognized that the genetic mutation was buried deep within the genome of all mixed offspring, destined to randomly express itself in succeeding generations.

He winced, desperately wanting to help his son, but with all the technology at their disposal, there was still no cure.

#

“There you are,” Piers said. “You’re late.” He was sitting on his small patio with a tray of sweets on the table in front of him, sweets especially prepared for Ju Tanti and Ustam by his part-time aide. “Sit down.”

“Where did you get these?” Ju Tanti said. “They look different.”

“It’s an old Gisaur recipe,” he said, having found it that morning while rummaging through memories of his grandparents. He watched her pop one into her mouth and then take Ustam’s hand, saying, “Try one.” He kept silent, listening as she went on to tell Ustam to chew and then swallow.

“Well?” he said.

“It’s very good, grandfather Piers.”

He waited, but when she failed to reach for another, he hid his disappointment. If only she were telepathic, he thought, wishing he could share memories of the tangy taste, of the potent fragrances released when you chewed. “How was school today?”

“I got all the questions right on the quiz.”

“Excellent,” he said, seeing the glow in her expression. “And Ustam?”

“Mom took him to school with her.”

He nodded, smiling. Ju Tanti was only twelve, but sharp like her father. He admired her. With few complaints, she took care of her brother.

“It’s almost time for him to undergo the Ritual,” he said, keeping his eyes riveted on her. “How do you feel about that?”

“He’s not violent.”

“Not now. But once puberty’s well underway . . .”

“He would never hurt me!”

“How are your parents holding up?”

“Mom’s upset. But dad says there’s no choice.”

#

After Ju Tanti and Ustam departed, Piers made his way back to bed. Though enjoying the visits, they exhausted him, and he knew Ju Tanti often came against her will. Still, he wouldn’t forsake them for anything.

Poor Ustam, he thought. When the boy was younger, he tried to help, but all his telepathic probing found was a barrier to a blank mind, a repository of nothingness. Now, in nine weeks, it would be over. The Ritual’s governing committee had spoken.

#

Nigul leaned against the wall in the commons room, listening to Ju Tanti and Anya talk.

“But mom, it’s not fair.”

“We’ve had this discussion before, Ju Tanti. It’s not our decision. Tomorrow Ustam undergoes the Ritual.”

“Can I take him to see grandfather Piers?”

“Your grandfather’s dying. He can’t even get out of bed anymore.”

“But he can’t die.”

“Ju Tanti . . .”

“He says everything ends when he dies.”

Nigul tensed at the words, remembering his uncle’s belief that his memories kept people alive. Was Piers’ right? Sadly, he would never know. Still, that conviction had kept his uncle going, that is until recently. Now the doctors were saying anytime.

A chill ran up his spine. To lose his son and uncle at the same time was a devastating thought. Worse, once his uncle was gone, he would have lost the only person who shared memories of his mother.

“But, mom, Ustam wants to say goodbye to grandfather Piers.”

“This is going to be our last dinner together.”

“We won’t be gone long. Please?”

“Oh, all right, but don’t be late for dinner.”

After Ju Tanti ran out of the room pulling Ustam after her, Nigul hugged Anya, asking how she was holding up.

“I’m all cried out.”

He kissed her. “What’s up with Ju Tanti?”

“I told her Piers needed to be encouraged to let go. That it’s alright for him to leave us.”

#

When Piers opened his eyes, he saw Ju Tanti standing over him. He smiled, or at least in his mind he did, listening as she talked to Ustam.

“Mom says if we rub his forehead like this and tell him it’s all right, he can let go. See how I’m doing it? Come on, Ustam. You try it. It won’t hurt. Give me your hand.”

Piers felt Ustam’s hand on his forehead, but the sensation felt odd, not the touch he remembered. Oh, no, he thought, realizing the boy was well into puberty.

His first reaction was to flee, recalling horror tales of TuBonks in puberty, but his body was unresponsive, no longer under his command. Then he scolded himself. This was Nigul’s son.

He quieted his mind, focusing his telepathy, but like so many years before, he found himself blocked by a TuBonk’s mental barrier.

Then the barrier’s strength spiked, scaring him. An instant later, it was followed by a steep drop of equal magnitude, only to be followed by yet another spike.

What was happening? The prelude to a violent TuBonk outburst? He pushed harder, refusing to be intimidated, burrowing during the plunges in strength.

#

Nigul was at the kitchen table when Ju Tanti burst into the room, yelling that grandfather Piers was dead.

“When?” he said, jumping to his feet.

“Right now. We were rubbing his forehead, telling him—”

“Where’s Ustam?”

“He’s with grandfather Piers.”

With Ju Tanti at his side, he rushed across the yard to his uncle’s residence, where he spied Ustam sitting on the bed next to Piers.

As he strode across the room, his son turned and said, “He’s dead, dad.”

Nigul stopped in mid-stride. “You spoke?“

“It was grandfather Piers’ gift.”

#

“I still can’t believe it,” Anya said. “I was only gone for an hour.”

Nigul nodded. It was midnight and they were alone in his study, snuggled up against one another on the sofa. Today, he lost an uncle but gained a son.

“Tell me again.”

“I’m still not that clear on all the details, but apparently during puberty, the mental barrier of a . . . of a TuBonk is unstable, penetrable by a telepath.”

“How come we’re only finding this out now?”

“There was never anything to indicate it was possible,” he said, hugging her tightly. “Think about it. TuBonks aren’t from Gisaur. They’re not telepathic. And they become quite violent around Ritual time.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“No, but the good news is we still have a fair number of Gisaur telepaths around, and I’m sure our scientists can develop a technique to mimic it.”

“We have our son back, Nigul.”

“Yes and no. I mean yes . . . but he’s still developing. According to Ustam his mind was blank, no self-identity, nothing inside. All his knowledge of himself, us . . . his sister . . . came from Piers. He’s a work in progress.”

“But he’s whole.”

“That he is.”

As Anya began crying again, he recalled what else Ustam told him, confirming why Piers hung on for so long.

His uncle believed everyone from the past he held dear would continue to exist so long as he kept those memories alive, but once he died, they would cease to exist, only a footnote in some journal or an image in a scrap book.

Maybe he was right, Nigul thought, aware his son now held all of Piers’ memories, meaning his mother and uncle still lived.