Read Online The Pandora Sequence: The Jesus Incident, the Lazarus Effect, the Ascension Factor by Frank Herbert - Free Book Online
Authors: Frank Herbert
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was as quick as any other Colonist, already scanning the area around them. She told him about the two Dashers as she passed over the ‘burner.
“Good rest,” he said.
She slipped into the hatch, heard it slam behind her then slid down to debriefing where she turned in her kill count and made her assessment of COA—Current Outside Activity.
The debriefing room was windowless with pale yellow walls and a single comdesk. Ary Arenson, a blond, gray-eyed man who never seemed to change expression, sat behind it. Everyone said he worked for Jesus Lewis, a rumor which predisposed Waela to walk and talk softly with him. Odd things happened to people who displeased Lewis.
She was tired now with a fatigue which watch always produced, a drained feeling, as though she were victim of a psychic Spinneret. The routine questions bored her.
“Yes, the Nerve Runner area appears sterilized.”
At the end of it, Arenson handed her a small square of brown Colony paper with a message which restored her energy. She read it at a glance:
“Report to Main Hangar for new kelp research team assignment.”
Arenson was glancing at his Comscreen as she read the note and now he changed expression, a wry smile. “Your replacement . . .” He pointed upward toward the Peak with his chin. “. . . just got it. A Dasher chewed his guts out. Stand by a blink. They’re sending another replacement.”
Chapter 11
Poetry, like consciousness, drops the insignificant digits.
—Raja Flattery, Shiprecords
SHIP’S WARNING that this could be the end of humankind left Flattery with a sense of emptiness.
He stared into the blackness which surrounded him, trying to find some relief. Would Ship really break the . . . recording? What did Ship mean by a recording?
Last chance.
His emotional responses told Flattery he had touched a deep core of affinity with his own kind. The thought that in some faraway future on a line through infinity there might be other humans to enjoy life as he had enjoyed it—this thought filled him with warm affections for such descendants.
“Do You really mean this is our last chance?” he asked.
“Much as it pains Me.” Ship’s response did not surprise him.
The words were torn from him: “Why don’t You just tell us how to . . .”
“Raj! How much of your free will would you give me!”
“How much would You take?”
“Believe Me, Raj, there are places where neither God nor Man dares intervene.”
“And You want me to go down to this planet, put Your question to them, and help them answer Your demand?”
“Would you do that?”
“Could I refuse?”
“I seek choice, Raj, not compulsion or chance. Will you accept?”
Flattery thought about this. He could refuse. Why not? What did he owe these . . . these . . . Shipmen, these replay survivors? But they were sufficiently human that he could interbreed with them. Human. And he still sensed that core of pain when he thought about a universe devoid of humans.
One last chance for humankind? It might be interesting . . . play. Or it might be one of Ship’s illusions.
“Is all this just illusion, Ship?”
“No. The flesh exists to feel the things that flesh feels. Doubt everything except that.”
“I either doubt everything or nothing.”
“So be it. Will you play despite your doubts?”
“Will You tell me more about this play?”
“If you ask a correct question.”
“What role am I playing?”
“Ahhhh . . .” It was a sigh of beatific grace. “You play the living challenge.”
Flattery knew that role. Living challenge. You made people find the best within themselves, a best which they might not suspect they possessed. But some would be destroyed by such a demand. Remembering the pain of responsibility for such destruction, he wanted help in his decision but knew he dared not ask directly. Perhaps if he learned more about Ship’s plans . . .
“Have You hidden in my memory things about the game that I should know?”
“Raj!” There was
“Good rest,” he said.
She slipped into the hatch, heard it slam behind her then slid down to debriefing where she turned in her kill count and made her assessment of COA—Current Outside Activity.
The debriefing room was windowless with pale yellow walls and a single comdesk. Ary Arenson, a blond, gray-eyed man who never seemed to change expression, sat behind it. Everyone said he worked for Jesus Lewis, a rumor which predisposed Waela to walk and talk softly with him. Odd things happened to people who displeased Lewis.
She was tired now with a fatigue which watch always produced, a drained feeling, as though she were victim of a psychic Spinneret. The routine questions bored her.
“Yes, the Nerve Runner area appears sterilized.”
At the end of it, Arenson handed her a small square of brown Colony paper with a message which restored her energy. She read it at a glance:
“Report to Main Hangar for new kelp research team assignment.”
Arenson was glancing at his Comscreen as she read the note and now he changed expression, a wry smile. “Your replacement . . .” He pointed upward toward the Peak with his chin. “. . . just got it. A Dasher chewed his guts out. Stand by a blink. They’re sending another replacement.”
Chapter 11
Poetry, like consciousness, drops the insignificant digits.
—Raja Flattery, Shiprecords
SHIP’S WARNING that this could be the end of humankind left Flattery with a sense of emptiness.
He stared into the blackness which surrounded him, trying to find some relief. Would Ship really break the . . . recording? What did Ship mean by a recording?
Last chance.
His emotional responses told Flattery he had touched a deep core of affinity with his own kind. The thought that in some faraway future on a line through infinity there might be other humans to enjoy life as he had enjoyed it—this thought filled him with warm affections for such descendants.
“Do You really mean this is our last chance?” he asked.
“Much as it pains Me.” Ship’s response did not surprise him.
The words were torn from him: “Why don’t You just tell us how to . . .”
“Raj! How much of your free will would you give me!”
“How much would You take?”
“Believe Me, Raj, there are places where neither God nor Man dares intervene.”
“And You want me to go down to this planet, put Your question to them, and help them answer Your demand?”
“Would you do that?”
“Could I refuse?”
“I seek choice, Raj, not compulsion or chance. Will you accept?”
Flattery thought about this. He could refuse. Why not? What did he owe these . . . these . . . Shipmen, these replay survivors? But they were sufficiently human that he could interbreed with them. Human. And he still sensed that core of pain when he thought about a universe devoid of humans.
One last chance for humankind? It might be interesting . . . play. Or it might be one of Ship’s illusions.
“Is all this just illusion, Ship?”
“No. The flesh exists to feel the things that flesh feels. Doubt everything except that.”
“I either doubt everything or nothing.”
“So be it. Will you play despite your doubts?”
“Will You tell me more about this play?”
“If you ask a correct question.”
“What role am I playing?”
“Ahhhh . . .” It was a sigh of beatific grace. “You play the living challenge.”
Flattery knew that role. Living challenge. You made people find the best within themselves, a best which they might not suspect they possessed. But some would be destroyed by such a demand. Remembering the pain of responsibility for such destruction, he wanted help in his decision but knew he dared not ask directly. Perhaps if he learned more about Ship’s plans . . .
“Have You hidden in my memory things about the game that I should know?”
“Raj!” There was
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