glory, when her basket was chosen for the burial of the old blood king. But that was a pretty name, a delicate name when a woman chose it. Emeez would have something stronger. She would have to think about that. There’d be plenty of time to make up her mind.
Seven
A Storm at Sea
Zdorab had been born in the wrong era. He had never realized it until now. Oh, he knew he didn’t fit in where he grew up or where he lived in Basilica before Nafai gave him the chance to save his life by coming with him into the desert. But now, at the end of his second stint as Nafai’s co-teacher of the children on the starship Basilica , Zdorab knew where he truly belonged. The trouble was, the culture that might have valued him had been gone for forty million years.
Whoever it was that built this starship, with its fineness of design and craftsmanship, was to be admired, of course. It was only after living in it that Zdorab understood that he also loved their way of life. True, they were confined indoors, but as far as Zdorab was concerned, outdoor life was over-rated. He did not miss insects. He did not miss excessive heat and cold, humidity and dryness. He did not miss the defecations of animals and the smells of strange things cooking or overfamiliar things rotting.
But it wasn’t the absence of annoyances that made him relish the life aboard ship. It was the positive things. A comfortable bed every night. Daily bathing in a shower of clean water. A life centered around the library, around learning and teaching. Computers that could play as well as work. Music perfectly reproduced. Toilets that cleaned themselves and had no odors. Clothing that could be cleaned without laundering. Meals prepared in moments. And all of it while traveling at some unfathomable speed on a hundred-year voyage to another star.
He tried explaining it to Nafai, but the young man merely looked at Zdorab in puzzlement and said, “But what about trees?” Obviously Nafai couldn’t wait to get to the new planet, which would no doubt be another place with lots of dirt and bugs and plenty of sweaty manual labor to do. Zdorab had played obsequious servant all the way across the desert; he loved the fact that in this starship there were no servants, because all work was either done by machines and computers or was so simple and easy that anyone could do it—and everyone did.
And he loved teaching the children. Some of them were barely children anymore, six years into the voyage. Oykib had shot up to nearly two meters now, at the apparent age of fourteen. He was lanky, but Zdorab had seen him working out in the centrifuge and his body was wiry with hard tight muscles. Zdorab knew he was middle-aged by the fact that he could see that beautiful young body and feel only the memory of desire. If there was any mercy in nature, it was the fading of the male libido with middle age. Some men, feeling the slackening of desire, went to heroic—or criminal—lengths to get the illusion of renewed sexual vigor. But for Zdorab it was a relief. It was better to think of Oykib and his even-more-beautiful younger brother, Yasai, as students. As friends of his son, Padarok. As potential mates of his daughter, Dabrota.
My son, he thought. My daughter. Good Lord. Who would ever have guessed, during his years in clandestine love affairs in the men’s city outside Basilica, that I would ever have a son and a daughter. And if any man laid hands on either one of them without my consent, I think I’d kill him.
And then he thought: I’m a jungle creature after all.
He was going to sleep again today, as Shedemei wakened to take his place. They would overlap for a few hours—the Oversoul said there was life support enough for that—and it would be good to see her. She was his best friend, the only one who knew his secrets, his inward struggles. He could tell her almost everything.
But he could not tell her about the little program he had set up in a life support computer, one of
Seven
A Storm at Sea
Zdorab had been born in the wrong era. He had never realized it until now. Oh, he knew he didn’t fit in where he grew up or where he lived in Basilica before Nafai gave him the chance to save his life by coming with him into the desert. But now, at the end of his second stint as Nafai’s co-teacher of the children on the starship Basilica , Zdorab knew where he truly belonged. The trouble was, the culture that might have valued him had been gone for forty million years.
Whoever it was that built this starship, with its fineness of design and craftsmanship, was to be admired, of course. It was only after living in it that Zdorab understood that he also loved their way of life. True, they were confined indoors, but as far as Zdorab was concerned, outdoor life was over-rated. He did not miss insects. He did not miss excessive heat and cold, humidity and dryness. He did not miss the defecations of animals and the smells of strange things cooking or overfamiliar things rotting.
But it wasn’t the absence of annoyances that made him relish the life aboard ship. It was the positive things. A comfortable bed every night. Daily bathing in a shower of clean water. A life centered around the library, around learning and teaching. Computers that could play as well as work. Music perfectly reproduced. Toilets that cleaned themselves and had no odors. Clothing that could be cleaned without laundering. Meals prepared in moments. And all of it while traveling at some unfathomable speed on a hundred-year voyage to another star.
He tried explaining it to Nafai, but the young man merely looked at Zdorab in puzzlement and said, “But what about trees?” Obviously Nafai couldn’t wait to get to the new planet, which would no doubt be another place with lots of dirt and bugs and plenty of sweaty manual labor to do. Zdorab had played obsequious servant all the way across the desert; he loved the fact that in this starship there were no servants, because all work was either done by machines and computers or was so simple and easy that anyone could do it—and everyone did.
And he loved teaching the children. Some of them were barely children anymore, six years into the voyage. Oykib had shot up to nearly two meters now, at the apparent age of fourteen. He was lanky, but Zdorab had seen him working out in the centrifuge and his body was wiry with hard tight muscles. Zdorab knew he was middle-aged by the fact that he could see that beautiful young body and feel only the memory of desire. If there was any mercy in nature, it was the fading of the male libido with middle age. Some men, feeling the slackening of desire, went to heroic—or criminal—lengths to get the illusion of renewed sexual vigor. But for Zdorab it was a relief. It was better to think of Oykib and his even-more-beautiful younger brother, Yasai, as students. As friends of his son, Padarok. As potential mates of his daughter, Dabrota.
My son, he thought. My daughter. Good Lord. Who would ever have guessed, during his years in clandestine love affairs in the men’s city outside Basilica, that I would ever have a son and a daughter. And if any man laid hands on either one of them without my consent, I think I’d kill him.
And then he thought: I’m a jungle creature after all.
He was going to sleep again today, as Shedemei wakened to take his place. They would overlap for a few hours—the Oversoul said there was life support enough for that—and it would be good to see her. She was his best friend, the only one who knew his secrets, his inward struggles. He could tell her almost everything.
But he could not tell her about the little program he had set up in a life support computer, one of
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