Peter visited me, just before he died.
Didn't he hate your caves?
He did.
Understandable. How do you live without the sun?
We've been over this before. You could never understand…vegetable.
Tree, thank you. Anyway, back to topic.
He asked me a question.
Yes?
If I could die now or live forever, which would I choose?
Tricky. What did you say?
I told him that I would say whatever he wanted me to.
Ah.
It was difficult for him to give up, more so than for any of the others.
Even Miro?
Miro was out of place. Jane and their children were making history, were living history, and he was…
A relic of the past.
Precisely. It wasn't so much difficult for him to die as difficult for him to live.
Still…Jane…
Jane understood. Anyway, she's different now.
Different in what way?
Less human.
Did it make a difference?
Eternal life, he mused. Never growing old. Never decaying. Never dying. Who hasn't wished for it? Who couldn't long for it? Who wouldn't kill for it? Oh, the irony.
It had been humanity's dream for ages uncountable, stretching back into the long-forgotten past. Sorcerers, alchemists, scientists: all had devoted their lives to the search for the one true holy grail – although, of course, the scientists, with their stem-cell research and genetic analysis, would scoff if he presented this particular metaphor to them.
It didn't matter what you called it, though, or who did it. As far as the world knew, every single attempt had failed.
Peter laughed silently to himself. Arrogance! Who am I, to be given this gift – who, to be one of a handful out of uncountable billions? Undeserving? Undoubtedly. Yet the greater sin: to cast this life away, to reject the universe and everything in it. What a waste. What a waste.
He stood on a cliff, gazing down on the thriving city below. Silver moonlight accented his grey hair and illuminated his face; still proud, still strong. Nothing and no-one could take that away from him.
Still alone.
One by one, his friends – companions – friends – had abandoned him. Ender was but the first – yet that death pained him still. Why, Ender? Why! I needed…I, who had never needed anyone before…I needed you. I needed your love, like you once needed mine. But you were tired of life and love. Tired of hope. Tired of being. My Absalom!
But he had moved on; he, and Wang-mu, and Valentine. Miro and Jane. Jakt, and Plikt. Would it be clichéd to say they lived happily ever after? It doesn't matter – it isn't true, anyway. Of course they were happy at first. They were young and in love. The whole universe was at their feet. There was nothing that they couldn't do.
Naturally, it was Miro who first made that statement literal. A decade after Ender's death, a decade after the discovery of instantaneous travel – and Valentine had a heart attack. A family problem, dormant for three thousand years since the Hegemon's death and now flaring up with a vengeance. Valentine lay in a hospital bed, one arm paralysed; Jakt kept vigil by her side. The others were gathered in a room nearby, brightly lit and sparsely furnished. Silence ruled, challenged only occasionally by muted whispers. Then – shouting – Miro jumping from his seat, gasping.
'So obvious! Oh, god, so simple! Why…why not? Jane. Jane!"
She had half risen, staring up at her husband beside her. Now she stood, almost frightened by Miro's outburst. "Shush dear, quietly. Quiet. What is it?"
Miro whirled, grabbing her shoulders. "Take Valentine! Take her to Out-space. Visualise a new heart, a new arm – hell, why not a new body? You can do it, can't you? Please? Tell me you can." The last sentence whispered, almost a prayer.
Jane looked stunned. "Yes…yes, why not? I can. We can! Why didn't I think of this before?" Then she shut her eyes, took a deep breath – and disappeared.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
That, of course, was only the beginning. Valentine and Jakt were both twenty again, reliving their lives in a way others could only dream of. Jane didn't wait for her and Miro's old age to give them new bodies – and after they reappeared, shining with youth and health, the others were quick to try for themselves.
So where did it all go wrong?
It had been a secret from the start – on that, they were agreed. Even for Jane, renewing billions would be absolutely impossible – and, if word got out, people would go to desperate measures to extend their lives. It wasn't for them to play God – it wasn't for mere humans to decide who lived and who died, out of the universe's multitude of souls. That responsibility was just too much.
So only a few more were gifted – the surviving inhabitants of Luisitania, the ones who had been there at the beginning. They had to leave their homes and start again – but none begrudged that price. And none, Peter realised suddenly, had ever returned to Jane, to ask for more. And more. And more.
That's it, then. We were greedy – oh, oh so greedy. But how could we help ourselves? Like children in a candy shop, temptations on all sides. Another body, and another, and another. Still so much to see. Still so much to do.
They'd traveled the worlds – following, maybe, in Ender's long-gone footsteps. Had he felt the same, when he'd passed through, so many years ago? None of them knew, except Valentine – and she wasn't telling.
In hindsight…I guess that Valentine was always a bit quieter than the rest of us. Of course she was older, far older, but…it was more than that. Sometimes, she would brood, her thoughts hidden and lips sealed for weeks on end. Even Jakt couldn't bring her out of those moods. Maybe she was smarter than the rest of us all along. Maybe she realized from the beginning exactly what would happen, what was happening to all of us.
We were becoming sick of life.
It wasn't anything quantifiable, or definable. Nothing sudden; nothing certain. But, over time, they began to realise that something was missing. Their whole universe was just playing out the same pattern, over and over and over again. Nothing original. Nothing new. They looked at the world through jaded eyes; they heard life through ears that had listened to the same words over and over again. For those who had survived countless decades, any happiness was transient. Burdens, though – mistakes and regrets, worries and failures, the whole utter pointlessness of it all – they weighed more heavily with each year that passed.
Plikt had been the first to give up.
Give up? No. Acknowledge futility. Surrender – and, through surrender, conquer death.
She'd left them, to live out her natural life on Trondheim. And, for some reason they didn't admit even to themselves – maybe fear, maybe anger, maybe shame – no-one had returned to that planet until the news came through that she was dead.
I still remember that day.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
They had gathered after the funeral, hands thrust deep into pockets, staring at the unremarkable patch of ground that held the last remains of the being once known as Plikt. Despite the fairly large attendance, they were the only ones who knew her by that name; identity had changed with everything else during the transition into a new life.
It was a cold day, and this small group was the only one remaining. The others had gone home, to sit by a fire and reflect in private. She'd been a good person, they'd think. A pillar of the community. Solitary, yes, and private – but always ready with a kind word, or a helping hand. And if her smiles had been a little wistful, or her gaze had turned a little more often than normal to the starlit sky above – well, we all have our flaws, and hers, perhaps (not to speak ill of the dead, but…perhaps) was to never let anyone in, never allow visitors to her own private world.
She'd been the closest to Ender, apart from Valentine. We'd almost forgotten. She'd loved him. She'd understood him. And she had recognized the slow decay he'd suffered, recognized it in perhaps the only other human beings ever to live that long and feel that way.
Jane had been the first to speak. "This is what she wanted, is it?" she asked incredulously, gesturing at the gravestone. "A week, and all the flowers will be gone. A month, and it'll be covered in weeds. A year and no-one will be able to read her name."
"Oh, shut up," hissed Wang-mu. She took a deep breath. "Let's go." Pointedly addressed at everyone except Jane.
Should I have taken that as a warning? Some sort of hint, some reason to think that, out of our little group, she was closest to the inevitable – to actually…admiring Plikt … for what she'd done.
"What?" Peter could hear Jane asking to the others as he hurried to catch up with Wang-m. "It's true, isn't it?"
Hah. Did Jane ever truly understand what it was to be human? I thought she had. But now…I don't envy Miro, after all. Isn't that strange. Irony is the only constant in life – the gods' little tricks.
Irony, yes, that he preferred his position to Miro's, when any thinking observer would consider otherwise. After all, it wasn't Miro's wife that had vanished, leaving nothing but a few lines. A farewell note, Peter still believed. Still wanted to believe. Nothing but a farewell note. Not a delusion, or a brave pretense. And definitely not a suicide note…
Dear beloved (she had written),
As I write this, I realise that I will never see you again. Somehow, that doesn't sadden me as it should. You understand why. And you must understand another simple truth, about Plikt. She was the bravest of us. The best of us. When nothing is worth living for, what is worth dying for? Dignity? Honour?
I choose sanity.
A new existence, either in this universe or beyond. Haven't decided. I feel excited for the first time in decades. Spontaneity. Life as it was meant to be lived – death, faced and defied or accepted as was meant to be.
Don't cry for me.
Wang-mu.
And he hadn't.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
He stood on a cliff, gazing down on the thriving city below. Silver moonlight illuminated his movements as he stepped forwards, towards the edge. Limbs still strong. Head held proud. Nothing and no-one could take that away from him.
He stepped forward, pulling his lips into a thin smile vicious with sarcasm and cynicism. Let it never be said that the Peter, the Hegemon, died peacefully. One last thought, as he reached the drop. Plummeted. One last thought.
Eternal life. Who wouldn't die for it?
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Reviews bring great happiness! Please tell me what you think. Updates coming soon (by my standards, at least).