Beowulf's Children
Chapter 15

THE VERDICT

I tell them that if they will occupy themselves with the study of mathematics, they will find in it the best remedy against the lusts of the flesh.
--THOMAS MANN, The Magic Mountain

    The clouds were gray, tinged with orange where Tau Ceti licked them from beneath, at the seventh dawn after Robor's return. A lone pterodon circled overhead, skawing mournfully to the misted cairn of Mucking Great Mountain. Its angular wings flapped somberly.
    The early light had yet to transform the fertile fields and roads and buildings of Camelot into a community. It remained a sleeping thing, and but for the four hundred people gathered in the small graveyard, it would have seemed deserted.
    The coffins were small. Not much was needed for bones. Mary Ann had asked that her child be cremated. Cadmann told her gently that that was out of the question: additional tissue tests might be needed at some future time.
    She asked that Linda be buried up on the Bluff; but every member of the colony wanted to be present for the ceremony. A compromise was reached. The ceremony was performed in the colony graveyard. Joe and Linda would be buried up on the Bluff, side by side.
    Sylvia held Cadzie, who was oddly quiet. The past week had been hard for him.
    Cadmann looked out at his friends and family, and tried to hold his voice even. "We knew what we did when we came here. We entrusted our seed, breed, and generation to a world no human being had touched. We knew that there would be grief, but also joy."
    Mary Ann clung to his arm, wan and fragile and shattered inside.
    "There has been joy here, so far from Earth. There has been--" He faltered. The words wouldn't flow. "The joy of hard work, shared by friends and family. The joy of discovery, of a new land. The joy of love and birth and growth. There is a price for everything in this life, and we thought we had paid that price."
    His vision clouded. "We were foolish enough to think that one generation can pay the way for the next. God has showed us that each must pay his own way through life. My daughter is gone. The man she loved, our friend and companion for twenty years, is gone." He looked out over the faces in the crowd. He knew each one of them. Had been present when many of them were born. This was their world . . . 
    Wasn't it?
    "By a miracle, their baby, my grandchild, was saved. We have an obligation to keep that child--" Gently, softly, he took Cadzie from Sylvia's arms. "--this child safe. He belongs to all of us now. We have . . . " The hurt was bubbling up now, faster and faster and he didn't seem to be able to get the barriers up in time to stop it. "We have to keep this world safe."
    He held Cadzie to his chest, felt the life in that small bundle. Smelled the fresh baby smell, and heard the small heart beating, and knew how close, how terribly close death had come to this small thing that he loved so dearly. Suddenly the ground had struck his knees. How had that happened? Sylvia was prying Cadzie out of his arms. His forehead struck Linda's coffin, and all of the things that he had never said, had thought that there would be time to say, boiled out of him, scorched him with their scorn, and turned all of his carefully planned words into a, miserable slurry of lies.
    And when, after a while, Sylvia and Justin helped him up, and the final words were spoken by Zack, Cadmann felt high above himself, with the pterodons, up in the clouds, watching these small, insignificant people scratching in the dirt of Avalon, burying their dead in the earth that would, too soon, receive them all.

    Aaron's den was crowded with bodies and talk, and warmed by a crackling thornwood fire. Chaka pressed his big palms against the northern window, feeling the vibration as big fat sparse drops shattered against it. Beyond the deserted beach, waves rolled and crashed as if attempting to wash all trace of Man and his words from Avalon.
    A tiny human shape rode a sliver of wood and plastic atop a black wave. Idiot. Probably showing off for the kaffeeklatsch that had not invited him.
    Chaka turned, for the thousandth time examining Aaron's living space, speculating on what it revealed about the Star born's de facto president. It was small, actually--smaller than many of the other Surf's Up dwellings. Not elaborate, or richly appointed.
    But what it was, was precise, to a degree that made Chaka vaguely uncomfortable. Aaron had designed and built it himself. Every joint of wood dovetailed into every other joint with machined precision. The couches were built into the walls, chairs fitted to tables, windows slanted to give the illusion of more room and positioned to catch the maximum of natural light.
    But there was something almost . . . what? Womblike? Aaron's lair was really a bachelor pad, without room for a cohabitant, no matter how often or intensely he might entertain overnight guests.
    He knew, for instance, that no woman had ever slept on Aaron's narrow bed. It was too narrow for lovemaking--such intimate activity invariably took place on the living-room divan. Or the floor, or the shower, or standing up in a hammock. Aaron was nothing if not a sexual athlete. The bed was almost too narrow for sleep. Even unconscious, Aaron's discipline was Spartan.
    A kitchen/dinette for meals, a living room for guests, a den for conspirators, a library for study, an exercise room for physical torture, and a bedroom for sleep, all fitted about one another like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, in perhaps two-thirds the space of the average dwelling. Odd.
    Katya made coffee at the counter along one wall, using the elaborate samovar she had installed to keep a constant supply of hot water. She seemed to be giving the conversation only half of her attention. The rest of her mind was probably evaluating the relational dynamic between Jessica and Aaron. Jessica stood next to Aaron's chair, idly fondling his hair. Not that Katya was directly interested in Aaron--any fool could see that she was in love with Justin. But a Tragon-Weyland alliance would affect Avalonian history for the next three centuries.
    The monitor next to Aaron's huge easy chair looked blank at first glance, and Chaka took a moment to study it. Pale brown, with a fine texture . . . faded ornate lettering . . . and then it leapt into focus.
    It was the Scribeveldt, that northeastern region of the continent which had never been seen except through cameras aboard Geographic. Flat and featureless, endless pampas, with one river and few streams. Chaka watched cursor points draw tracks in speeded-up motion. They made pale graceful curves that crossed each other rarely, as if something immense was trying to write messages to Geographic.
    Chaka cleared his throat and spoke to the computer screen. "Edgar, you on?"
    He was looking at the top of Edgar's head. Eyes glanced up, fell again. "Yeah."
    Trish Chance's fingers clamped on Chaka's forearm, and she swung him around into a gaudy, passionate kiss. Edgar looked up again, fighting a smile. "I'm here. I'm listening. Hi, Chaka. Hi, Trish. Enough already." 
    "Hi, Edgar," Trish sang sweetly.
    "Edgar, it's official," Aaron said, and it was suddenly clear he was speaking to them all. "No expedition to the mainland. Not even for Grendel Scout graduations. Nothing until they understand what happened." 
    "That's a quote?" Chaka asked. 
    "Condensation. Accurate, though."
    "They won't understand until we learn more," Chaka said. "And we won't learn until we've been there awhile." 
    Katya asked, "Chaka? What do you think happened?"
    Chaka shook his head. "Avalon Weird. It's a locked-room mystery. I don't have any ideas. Neither does my father." He caught Aaron's change of expression, and met his eyes. Father.
    "Your father," Aaron said, "is as likely to have ice on his mind as any other First. Your father is not closer to an answer than anyone else. They will never find out. Something killed our friends. They won't let us go until we know, and we can't know unless we go. It's a perfect dilemma." 
    "I wouldn't go that far," Chaka said. 
    "Oh? Why not?"
    Chaka sipped black coffee. "The point is, one day we will go back. This edict won't last forever." 
    "Sure, we'll outnumber them one day," Trish said.
    "I won't wait that long." Jessica stood at the wet bar where Katya waited for water to boil. There was jittery energy in her stance, in her voice. "Something killed Linda. Linda and Joe, but not the baby. How can you sleep, not knowing what did that? You say Avalon Weird, you're talking about something that almost wiped this world clean of us! I have to know what killed my sister."
    "Your father's the one who won't let us find out," Aaron said.
    Jessica nodded. "Loyalty. Dad's big on loyalty. He'll fight Zack every step, but once a decision is made--" 
    "Loyalty to the king," Aaron said, skirting sarcasm only by the blandness of his expression. "A cardinal virtue of the warrior."
    "Chaka Zulu would agree," Chaka said without a trace of irony. "Courage, obedience to the king, protection of the weak. Universals." He was already thinking in terms of robot probes. Earth's solar system had been explored by probes long before the first men set foot on Mars. Neat little multi-wheeled bugs had crawled over the faces of Mars and the outer moons. Cassandra had to have templates . . .
    "Well, we're not bound by obedience," Aaron said. "To Zack, or Colonel Weyland, or the council, or all the icebound Earth Born at once."
    "Ice, ice, ice," Chaka exploded. "Why is it always ice when the Earth Born aren't doing what we want?"
    Aaron took a moment to shape his response, and Toshiro stole that moment. "The First are not always wrong. Jessica has the scar to show, and Mack what's-his-name died--" 
    "Mack Reinecke," Chaka said. "He was a Bottle Baby too, just younger than Justin. Most of you weren't old enough to be there--"
    Aaron was listening, silent. The story would get told, no matter what he did.
    "Four of the First took us on campout," Toshiro said. "Zack Moskowitz needed exercise. Zack and Rachael, Hendrick Sills, Carolyn McAndrews. They wanted coffee. And they took eight of us, the oldest children, whoever might be big enough to carry his pack. I was eleven. At that, Trish got too tired and Hendrick had to tie her pack to his own. Made Hendrick a little surly.
    "So we made camp at night, and the next morning the First set us collecting coffee. We got bored with that, so they took over and we went exploring. An hour later we were looking at a pterodon nest. It was below us, across jagged rock cliffs.
    "We watched it until we got hungry, and then we went back for lunch. Trish told Zack. Zack told us not to go anywhere near a pterodon nest, and Hendrick backed him. Aaron, you asked Zack what he thought would happen. He didn't know. Hendrick didn't know.
    "We went off again. Mack Reinecke led us around to a place we could get down into the nest. Mack was in the nest--"
    "So was I," Aaron said. "And four eggs, way bigger than hen's eggs, and leathery. I took one."
    "Yes you did," Toshiro said. "And then one of the adults came back. We all scrambled away as best we could. The other big bird caught us coming up the rocks. That one slashed Jessica across the head and neck, a great gaudy scary slash. Aaron fought them off with rocks while the rest of us got away.
    "It took a skeeter to find Mack. He was part eaten. The pterodons knocked him off the rocks."
    "All right, Toshiro," Aaron said. "I'll even give you this. Zack and Hendrick gave us the same advice we'd give the Grendel Biters now. We acted like we had ice on our minds. We were children." 
    "So what will we do?" Katya asked quietly. 
    "Go back."
    The Second looked at each other. Nobody said anything until Chaka asked, "How?"
    Aaron shrugged. "Once we decide what we'll do, the how becomes a mere tactics and logistical detail. Are we agreed that we'll go?"
    There was a chorus of ayes, Chaka's not among them. Aaron noticed. He raised an interrogative eyebrow. "Have we a problem?"
    "Maybe," Chaka said. "Edgar is worried about the weather."
    Suddenly, Edgar's onscreen attention was theirs. "There's no doubt about it, the sun is heating up, and the local life-forms--"
    "Wow," Trish giggled. "How much? I mean if this is the end we should have a hell of a party--"
    "It's not going to cremate us, Trish!" Edgar said indignantly. "You have apocalyptic tastes." 
    "Oh," she pouted. "Sorry."
    Like hell, Chaka thought. She's playing a game, and I can't see it.
    "It's normal variance," Edgar said. "Tau Ceti has a fifty-year cycle. We're coming up on the maximum output. More energy means more variable weather. Higher winds. Weather gets less predictable . . . say, two days ahead instead of four. I've had Cassandra mark out regions on the mainland where we could get tornadoes." A map replaced Edgar's face for a long moment; then he reappeared. The Scribeveldt was an angry red. "Here in Camelot we could get hurricanes and typhoons along the north and west coast. The ecology seems to be heating up too, but you'll have to ask the Chakas about that."
    "The wild Joeys around the Stronghold have disappeared," Chaka said. "The tame Joeys were tearing up their claws trying to burrow. It was making Mary Ann Weyland crazy until she turned them loose. They burrowed in and estivated. At sea we're getting eels--"
    "Eels?" Jessica asked.
    "There've been over thirty eels since Big Mama," Chaka said. "Eels in nearly every Camelot stream. Father thinks the solar cycle is the trigger. More ultraviolet, and the eels start to spawn. Probably triggers other biological reactions too, but there isn't enough biology on this island to notice."
    "But there'll be a lot on the mainland?" Aaron asked. "Interesting. We'd better make sure Edgar is watching that, too. Edgar?"
    "Yeah. Aaron, weather problems will get serious in about four months. Tornadoes that can tear Robor to tinsel before you can say shit-oh-dear. We could do worse than to leave Robor in his nice safe hangar for the whole season. Watch the mainland from orbit, send some probes, let the First cool down for a year. We can collect so many good questions that it'll drive them crazy by the time the weather settles down."
    Chaka waited for Aaron to destroy Edgar. He was surprised when Aaron mildly said, "Sitting on our asses isn't exactly to my taste, but it certainly makes a good default option. Can you and Chaka work up some probes for the interesting mainland ecologies? Chaka, we do this right and we'll have your father foaming at the mouth." 
    "Hell, yes," Chaka said.
    "You'll work on that? Maybe you could talk to Edgar in the bedroom for a while."
    Edgar coughed, seeming almost embarrassed. "Not too long a talk, okay? I have an appointment with Toshiro." 
    Chaka waited for the criticism, and was again surprised to see Aaron nod understandingly. "This will only take a minute. The rest of us can map out a way to return to the mainland. We'll flash it to you later for comment and refinement." Edgar winked off.
    Chaka went into the bedroom and closed the door.

    The room was near silent until the monitor returned to a view of the Scribeveldt.
    "Edgar," Katya said, "could be a problem." 
    "Asset," Aaron said absently. "The secret to life is turning stumbling blocks into stepping-stones."
    "And just how do you do that?"
    His grin was pure evil. Instead of answering. Aaron templed his fingers and narrowed his eyes at Trish. "I believe that you have things to do and people to see."
    Trish grabbed her gym bag from the corner. "And places to go. On my way."
    "Oh, and Trish--you will be endearingly clumsy, won't you?"
    She took a step toward the door and stumbled, barely catching herself. She assumed her best poor-little-me expression. "I just don't know what's wrong with me today." And she was gone.
    Jessica stooped to look carefully into Aaron's eyes. "And just what are you up to?"
    "I could tell you," he said cheerfully, "but then I'd have to kill you."

    "Tsuruashi-dashi," Toshiro barked. Edgar's mind swirled. He was staggering through that twilight zone between fatigue and utter exhaustion. He'd been marching back and forth across the hard rubber gymnasium floor for what seemed like hours but couldn't have been more than fifty minutes.
    His legs were sacks of wet sand. The fire in his chest threatened to engulf him. Toshiro stood before him in white pajamas, a garment he called a gi, with a black sash knotted about the waist.
    Edgar kept his mind on that belt. His father had earned one back on Earth. Toshiro had earned his by satisfying Cassandra's kinesthetic model of a third dan karate expert. Joe Sikes had tried to interest Edgar in the formal dances, the complex and challenging stances, the terrifying strikes and kicks of Kyukushin karate. Edgar had learned only his own terrifying vulnerability. He was as likely to perform surgery on a friend as to kill with a mae-geri front kick.
    Now Joe was dead. Maybe this penance was a way of keeping a little of his father alive.
    Edgar stood in the Tsuruashi-dashi, the crane stance, balanced on his left leg, the right foot tucked up on his thigh, arms spread for balance. His calf was cramping, his toes digging into mat for balance so hard that he felt his toenails ready to rip free.
    Toshiro wasn't the laughing funster now. Not the talented guitarist, nor the avid surfer, or careful lover. When he donned that white uniform something else came out. Maybe he was channeling a sixteenth-century samurai. Or Thomas DeTorquemada. One of those fun guys.
    No mirth shone in Toshiro's eyes, but finally he acknowledged Edgar's suffering. Toshiro softened his voice momentarily. "Do you feel the similarity between this and the yoga Tree Pose?"
    Edgar's whole body trembled. Why was this so damned hard? Bruce Lee made it look easy. He was drowning in a sea of lactic acid. "I, uh . . . I have to stand on one leg?" 
    "That's the obvious answer. Look deeper." 
    The room was spinning. This asshole wasn't going to let him put his foot down until he answered! He was going to fall, crack his head, and his brains would run out on the mat. Maybe then the Shogun of Suffering would be satisfied. Edgar almost smiled to himself, appreciating the alliteration.
    Wait. Suddenly, he had the answer. "Balance," he gasped. "I have to concentrate on the same place in my body, you know, at my navel."
    "Just below your navel, and three inches in. The center of mass. In Japanese, ham. In sanscrit, Manipura. All right, bring your foot down slowly."
    Edgar nearly collapsed, almost didn't hear the polite applause from the side of the gym. He turned and saw Trish. She was dressed in a tan leotard that revealed the curves and angles of that magnificent body more than simply nudity ever could. What was she doing here? Was she here to watch him make a fool of himself? This was only his tenth lesson. It wasn't fair!
    Toshiro seemed to read Edgar's mind. "Trish asked if she could join us today. It's her fourth lesson. She's having some trouble with her stances." 
    Trouble? Trish? Hard to believe.
    She smiled at him. He wasn't certain, but it might have been the first time he had ever seen it up close. Even when stern she was just drop-dead gorgeous. But her smile was sort of sweet, and disarmingly girlish. "Do you mind?" 
    "Well, ah--"
    "I thought it might be a good idea for her to see a student who is better than she is, but not so much better that it is discouraging," Toshiro said quietly.
    I'm better than she is? At something physical?
    Suddenly, and quiet dramatically, all of the fatigue flitted away on wings of testosterone. He felt an inch taller, and his muscles--flabby and girded with fat though they were--were suddenly steel bands. Well, rubber bands. But bands nonetheless.
    She stood by his side. Taller than he by an inch, and devastatingly feminine for all of the muscle now clearly revealed to view.
    "Today you learn to teach what you know," Toshiro said. "Let her take her stance, and you make the corrections."
    "Would you?" she asked. There was no mockery in her voice, but some part of him still just couldn't believe it.
    "Zenkutsu-dachi!" Toshiro barked. Trish bent her front knee, and leaned forward, straightening her rear leg. She wobbled badly.
    "Oh," Edgar said, and just like that his mind slipped into analytic mode. "I see the problem. Your knee is leaning past your toes. And your hips are twisted wrong, see . . . ?
    Toshiro nodded approval.

    The shower beat down on Edgar's back like a rain of needles, sluicing the sweat and dust from his body. It felt terrific. It just might have been the first time he had ever actually felt good after a workout. Before this, karate sessions functioned mainly to assuage guilt.
    With the second half of the day's lesson devoted to teaching Trish, her wide, liquid-brown, humbly grateful eyes following his every move, he had actually gotten out of his head and done well! Maybe his punches and kicks weren't like Toshiro's--blur-fast and savagely precise--but at least they were correct. And Trish liked what she saw. He could tell. A karate man knows these things.
    "Toshiro?" he said dreamily, working the soap into his pudgy sides.
    Toshiro was rinsing. He was smooth-muscled, his body like a swimmer's. Hard, flat plates rounded by a thin fat padding. For a startling moment Edgar realized that he could have a body like that. 
    Wow.
    "Yes, Edgar?" 
    "I really did all right today, didn't I?"
    "You did fine." Toshiro grinned at him. "I think that Trish would agree with that. Don't you?"
    Edgar's face felt hotter than the water beating against it. He thought about Trish again, and realized that he'd better change the subject before his body reacted too obviously. 
    "You figured out the karate stuff from the tapes, right?" 
    "Your dad was a help--he'd studied a long time ago. But mostly from the pictures." Toshiro's face was a little dreamy and distant. "Some of it was difficult, but I had balance from surfing. The stances you just do until your legs get so tired that the only way to keep erect is to do them correctly. Then you experiment, I mean, they had thermographs and electromyographs of these old karate masters going through their moves, so you can make pretty good guesses about what was going on under their uniforms, but finally you just have to make guesses." 
    "I think you did pretty well."
    "I wish they had recorded the Grandmaster, Mas Oyama, in his prime. He could kill bulls with his bare hands." 
    "No." His mind swam. Edgar Sikes, bull-killer. Master of Men.
    Toshiro turned off his shower and toweled vigorously. 
    Edgar followed him. "You know, you're really smart." 
    Toshiro shrugged. "You're the computer whiz." 
    "But I never realized all the intelligence that goes into learning to use your body. I mean the yoga, and the surfing, and the karate . . . it's physical smarts, but it's intelligence. You must be as smart as Aaron is. Like Trish is as strong as he is."
    Toshiro looked at him, a touch of reserve leashing the energy in the black eyes. "So?"
    "So why do you both follow him? He calls the shots, doesn't he?"
    Toshiro paused, and Edgar thought that he saw the muscles along his jaw hunching tightly. Then his friend and teacher relaxed. "I guess I'm a little like Justin," he said. "Neither of us wants to be a leader. Justin doesn't think anybody has to be leader. I'm realistic, but it won't be me. Give me the sand, and the sun. And time to work on the old Samurai stuff. Hai!"
    Toshiro's left foot whipped up and at Edgar's jaw. That wasn't full speed . . . Edgar was thinking and then realized that he had blocked it, automatically, with his right hand.
    Toshiro smiled. "Some must be students. Otherwise there could be no teachers. Who wants to live in such a world?"