A Million Open Doors Read online

  You don't dodge a semosta, either, so we all followed along, Aimeric because he had to and the rest of us because Nou Occitan law allows any citizen to witness any government transaction, and we were all dying of curiosity.

  The King indicated we were going to the nearest springer station, perhaps half a km away, and we walked there in silence. I kept trying to figure out what could possibly be going on.

  As we all crowded into the springer booth, the King said, "I should warn all of you we're going to the springer at the Embassy. Try not to be startled by the light."

  He pushed the go button and yellow light blasted into our faces, hot on the skin and stabbing to the eyes.

  Some nervous squeaking Embassy person—my eyes did not adjust before he was gone—guided us to the conference room, where, mercifully, someone had thought to tune the lights to Occitan levels.

  We all drew a breath for a moment, taking in the real wooden furniture (grain too wavy to be tankgrown) and the walls covered with vus from all over the Thousand Cultures; some of them seemed to be quite long, several minutes at least.

  Garsenda moved forward—only then did I realize she had been pressed back against me—and stood in the hand-on-the-hip pose she used to tell people she was not impressed, especially when she was.

  The Ambassador from the Human Council Office had gray hair and a deeply lined face; she wore a plain black uniform, not much different from the Interstellar one. It looked uncomfortable. I wondered how much choice they allowed her in her clothing, and for that matter in her cosmetic surgery. It seemed very strange to me that, knowing our local customs, they had chosen to be represented by a woman—and not just a woman, but an older and bluntly plain one.

  Her first official action was to order coffee for everyone; it came in just a moment, and there was an alcohol-scrubber tablet discreetly in the saucer. I tossed mine in, and noticed that everyone else did the same.

  She gained some points in grace by not asking who all these extra people were, but I suppose after six years she knew our ways.

  "Please forgive my clumsiness," she said, "but to make sure—the Aimeric de Sanha Marsao I have here is the one who was born in Utilitopia, Caledony, on Nansen?"

  "The former Ambrose Carruthers at your service," Aimeric said, with a little hand-flourish. His smile looked fake; the joke, such as it was, seemed intended to fall flat, as if he wanted to indicate his attitude but not to allow them to be amused by it.

  I thought I saw the Ambassador stifle a very mannish grin. The PM visibly winced and the King blinked hard.

  "Good," she said. "Let me explain very briefly why we've interrupted your evening. We have just made our first official springer contact with your home culture—apparently after they received the radio directions, it took them about a year to decide to do it, but Caledony now has a springer. Now, you may recall that when the first springer was built here, a few years ago, Castellhoza de Sanha Agnes and Azalais Cormagne returned from Lange to assist in the social transitions—because they had fourteen years' experience with the Springer Changes there, and they were native here. They worked for your government for a stanyear or so, mostly to help you get through the Connect Depression and the growth explosion that followed it."

  As she had spoken, I had been watching Aimeric. It seemed as if another man had settled into his body—a serious, intense, and restless older man—and I had the sudden thought that those of us who had only seen him in the Quartier might not have seen all of him. "I worked with Castellhoza. So that's what you want me to do? Go to Caledony and do the same thing for them? I assume you're sending someone to St. Michael as well, at least as soon as their springer opens?"

  "Yes—in fact, we're sending Yevan Petravich through the springer to Utilitopia, and then he'll catch the suborbital over to St. Michael from there. Apparently their springer won't be done for another few months."

  Aimeric nodded emphatically. "Yevan's a good person for the job. He came here as a missionary, and he hasn't been happy at his lack of converts—he must be overjoyed to be returning to his Mother Church in Novarkhangel." He drew a long breath and looked around. The pause stretched out until it seemed it had to tear. Bieris was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. Marcabru and I were looking at each other, as if one of us would have something to say. The PM had a funny, twisted smile, but the King and the Ambassador were impassive.

  Finally Aimeric got up and walked over to the coffee pot, pouring himself another cup. "It's different for me, you know. Very different from Yevan's situation. My whole reason for leaving Nansen ... well, I was eighteen then, and it's been what—eighteen stanyears of experience, twenty-five stanyears by the clock? a long time anyway—my reason for leaving was that the trip was one-way. Certainly I came, in a large part, because I loved everything I had ever read or seen about the culture of Nou Occitan, and the planet Wilson. But what I loved best about it—I confess this, companho—was that Nou Occitan was not Caledony and it was not on Nansen.

  "So before we talk further at all—must it be me? Forty-two of us from Caledony survived the voyage, and almost all of us were economists—it was just about the only occupation Caledony exported. Isn't there anyone who wants to go back?"

  The PM nodded and cleared his throat. "Eighteen have suicided since. Sixteen are married with young children, and ... well, you would understand why I would not send a family with growing children to Caledony—"

  "That's wise and humane," Aimeric said. "So eight are left."

  "Three are severely ill emotionally," the PM said. "Six years in the tank, and six years in the tight confines of the ship, and then being released into a society that's much freer than the one you grew up in—not everyone can deal with that. Same reason there are so many suicides, I suppose. Of the five remaining, you're the only one with experience in either economics or government, and you're one of three without a serious criminal conviction."

  Aimeric sighed. "So it's me or no one?"

  The Ambassador shrugged. "We could send people from the Interstellar Coordination Corps—"

  "I'll go," Aimeric said.

  The Ambassador glared at him. "Those are highly trained people, and while we'd certainly like to have you, I'm sure that—"

  "You've got to have somebody who knows Caledony," Aimeric said, bluntly. "Your bureaucrats had enough trouble here, where things are pretty open and straightforward, with accepting ordinary cultural differences—"

  "Well, the ICC personnel at that time all came from Earth, Dunant, Passy, and Ducommon—" The Ambassador sounded unhappy. "That's changed a little—"

  "The ICC people who tried so hard to make a mess here have all been promoted since, so they have even more power," Aimeric said. "And an interest in teaching the true way to the natives does not usually weaken with time. And let me promise you—Caledons will not tolerate one tenth of what Occitans will." He looked at the wall for a moment, thinking hard, and finally said. "No, you were right to ask. And I have to go." Then a little light came into his eyes, and he said, "Who's next in line after me?"

  "Faith McSweeney."

  I didn't know her, but it seemed to decide Aimeric. "I assume I depart from here? How soon?"

  The three of them looked at each other and nodded slowly; for the first time I realize this had also been Aimeric's interview for the job, and that had he wanted to, he could easily have persuaded them he was the wrong man. His choosing to do this seemed very unlike him—but so did everything he had done and said since the King had walked into Pertz's Tavern.

  "Departure is from here, yes," the Ambassador said. "Seventeen o'clock tomorrow—I know that's fast, but the sooner we can get you there the better from the standpoint of the Council of Humanity's relations with the Caledon government. Will that be all right?"

  Aimeric laughed, the first time I had heard him do so in hours now. "Ja,ja, certainly!" He looked directly at the PM and said, "Remember, I run with the jovents, and there's nothing of any importance I would be doing."r />
  The Ambassador seemed baffled, but went on. "Try not to eat or drink in the last three hours before you spring, and you might want to avoid alcohol tomorrow. Apparently springing across a difference of more than a percent or so in gravity upsets many people's stomachs. Your baggage allowance is twenty-five tonnes, so if you like we can just ship everything in your digs."

  "That would be good—I've got to remember to pick up my laundry and return everything I've borrowed." He looked around the room slowly. "If that's all, then obviously I have a lot to get done. So, companho—"

  "There is one more thing," the Ambassador said, "and it's possibly relevant to your friends. In the last few years, allowances for people doing this sort of work have gotten much more generous. You may take with you, as assistants, personal aides, or whatever you wish to call them, up to eight friends or relatives." The Ambassador's eyes twinkled, and despite her being an official, and not at all pretty, I liked her. "Supposedly that will help preserve your sanity."

  "Clearly you haven't really looked at these friends of mine," Aimeric said. "Preserving my sanity is not at all what I keep them around for." There was a strange sad warmth in his eyes as he looked around the room again.

  THREE

  We parted in haste at the springer station in the Quartier de Jovents; Aimeric had a lot of comming to do, and the rest of us had to think.

  I went home briefly and picked up my lute, playing idly as I considered.

  If I went—I'd have two years in another system, and not many people had that, since stepping through an offplanet springer was still so expensive. Of course, the expense was just the problem—the Council of Humanity kept the price directly proportional to energy cost, but since that depended on the square of the gravitational potential traversed, and a simple ski lift of 750 meters cost as much as a beer, it seemed likely that going from orbit around one giant star to another, six and a half light-years away, would add up to a lot of beer. No, it was a real commitment—if I didn't like it, I would have to serve out my time anyway to get my free ride back, because I couldn't possibly afford to buy passage.

  On the other hand, it would give me a highly unusual service record, many new things to see ... romance and adventure, no matter how dull Aimeric claimed his homeworld was.

  And then again—the Dark would be a time to quietly read and think and compose, and following it would come the great explosion of Northern Spring. While Terraust's blackened lands were covered by meters-thick snow, the rivers and freshwater seas of Terrbori would fill to flood with snowmelt, thundershowers would roar up its fjords and canyons, and its meadows would explode into grass and flowers.

  Polar bamboo would burst up even before the soot-darkened snow could melt, hurrying to begin its climb to ten full meters before the Northern Autumn's fire could destroy it again.

  At least I would see Northern Summer—surely I would be back before three years were out.

  But I would miss Northern Spring, and I could only recall one of them. With its twelve-stanyear year, Wilson makes a homebody of you—a lucky person might see eight of each season, so missing one was not to be done lightly.

  Also, there was my own career. I was, I had to admit, only adequate as either composer or poet, but my performances of other people's work were being very enthusiastically received—non-jovents were coming down to the Quartier to see me perform. The next two or three years could prove critical in gaining a high place among the joventry, and, though the doings of jovents weren't supposed to matter, when jovents hung up their epees, moved to the more regulated parts of town, and settled into the kind of quiet life that my parents led, they tended to keep their friendships and loyalties. A hero among the jovents was likely to be first in line when the best appointed positions in art, politics, or business were being handed out.

  Finally, two people weighed in the balance, now that Raimbaut was dead and his psypyx stored: Marcabru, my best friend, and Garsenda, my entendedora, focus of my finamor and inspiration to my art. Surely no real Occitan could be expected to leave his mistress? Except, of course, out of loyalty to his friends...

  The mere thought of separation from either Marcabru or Garsenda seemed unbearable, and for the moment that fact made my decision for me. All for one, and one for all. Of course, if they disagreed with each other, then I would have to make up my own mind.

  It did not seem possible that my luck could be bad enough for them to disagree.

  Marcabru first, I thought, since I could com him. Talking to your entendedora on the com is hopelessly ne gens, so I would have to go to Garsenda's place in person.

  He had an answer, a definite one. "Giraut, I know just how you feel. Part of me is dying to go, too, but I've got something wonderful here in Noupeitau—I was going to announce it at midnight, but then we got shanghaied out of Pertz's and all this stuff with Aimeric's appointment came up. You know next stanyear is a Variety Year for the monarchy?"

  "Ja, I occasionally com up the news. When I'm stuck in the dentist's office or something. So what?"

  "They've picked the variation and the finalists. The announcement will be out in a few hours. Instead of the usual boring middle-aged fart with a bunch of scientific papers or public service awards, it's to be a donzelha. And among the finalists—"

  I guessed. "Yseut! Marcabru, that's wonderful. Of course you're right—you couldn't possibly go!"

  Images dance through my head—a young poet-queen, my best friend her Consort, thus surely a term-peerage for me and very likely an appointment to the Court for Garsenda. These were the kinds of dreams you usually waited twenty years for, and here was the chance to have them while we were young enough to enjoy them.

  "With so much that could happen—" I said, and then stopped myself from saying something sure to offend him.

  He laughed, having read my mind. "You're right, of course. Even if it isn't Yseut, to have it be one of our generation, a donzelha to give the Palace some grace and style— god, it will be exciting to be alive!"

  "Ja, ja, ja! I'm going to talk to Garsenda now. Maybe you and I can get together later, and perhaps even go say goodbye to Aimeric. Oh, won't he be furious when he finds out he's going to miss all of this!"

  "Let's plan on it," Marcabru said, grinning at me. "Seeing him off, I mean, and making him furious. And now, Giraut, if you don't mind, you did com me less than an hour after my entendedora and I got home—" He let the com wideangle a little to show me he was not wearing any shirt, and continued to widen it down his naked torso.

  "Of course!" I waved a mock salute and turned off the link.

  Pausing only to throw on my best cape and pull on my best boots, I sprinted down the winding stairs, ran all the way through five blocks of narrow, winding streets, crowded even two hours before dawn with vendors, pushing and shoving my way through like a properly love-crazed jovent, and raced up the stairs to Garsenda's place.

  She wasn't home.

  I pulled out my com and called a location on her. She was at Entrepot, which was strictly an Interstellar hangout.

  Part of the normal, even essential, stupidity of being a jovent is that you don't always catch on very quickly. One part of my mind remembered the number of times in the past few weeks when she'd been unaccountably missing (of course I hadn't called locations on her then because it hadn't been urgent, and to do so would have been a mark of distrust). Another part reminded me of that weird, ear-scarring jewelry. Still another whispered that Garsenda was very young, even for eighteen, and was always the first one onto any trend or fashion...

  And everything else just shouted them down and headed me for Entrepot, as quickly as I could go while keeping any dignity.

  It took me half an hour to walk there. When I got there I called another com and it said she was in a back room, so I followed the walkways around the dance/fight floor, enduring the catcalls and kissy-noises and shouts of "Grandpa wears a dress!" from the young Interstellars hanging on the railings, and headed for that room. Some part of me insis
ted on knowing.

  Garsenda had always been attracted to the arts—or rather to artists. And in just that one way, the Interstellars were true Occitans—they valued their artists. So naturally when she decided to start climbing the other social ladder behind my back, she had joined their equivalent of the arts scene.

  Which is why when I opened the door, there were three cameras running (one automatically focused on me as I stood there). What they were filming was Garsenda, wearing thigh-high spikeheeled boots and nothing else, her head thrown back in a pose of ecstasy while a boy crouched in front of her, sucking one nipple and clamping the other with what looked like a bright orange giant pair of pliers out of some cartoon. Neither of them noticed me, so I closed the door and left. Probably she'd recognize me in the shots from the third camera, and that would be enough.

  I wasn't sure, and hadn't wanted to check, but I thought the boy might have been one of the ones who fought us the night Raimbaut died.

  On my way out, I decided someone had insulted me. I drew and cut him down without any warning, a hard slash across the throat. Technically you're entitled to do that. It didn't make me feel any better, so I used my neuroducer to stab one I thought had made a face at me, right in the kidneys, and sneaked a very real kick to his head as he fell. Even that didn't offend his friends enough to overcome their terror (I suppose I must have looked pretty alarming in that mood) so I cut down two more of the cowards, but then the rest fled, and to pursue them would have been ne gens, so I had to leave without any sort of brawl to either work out my rage or put me into the hospital.

  Striding into the street, I tried to formulate some plan of action. In the days before the springer had brought all its changes, just six stanyears back, my choices would have been fairly simple: I could kill myself, or wait and apply to leave on one of the ships that departed every ten stanyears or so.