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  Spur paused in the doorway of his room and looked up and down the hall. None of the patients at his end of the ward were stirring; a lone maintenance bot dusted along the floor at the far end by the examining rooms. It was his last full day at the hospital. Now or never. He eased the door shut and turned the tell on.

  He began by checking for relatives on the upside. But when he searched on the surname Leung , he got 2.3 x 10 6 hits. Which, if any, of them might be his people? Spur had no way of knowing. Spur’s grandparents had expunged all records of their former lives when they had come to Walden, a requirement for immigrants to the Transcendent State. Like everyone else in his family, he had known the stern old folks only as GiGo and GiGa. The names on their death certificates were Jade Fey Leung and Chap Man-Leung, but Spur thought that they had probably been changed when they had first arrived at Freeport.

  He was tempted to greet his father and ask if he knew GiGo’s upside name, but then he would ask questions. Too many questions; his father was used to getting the answers he wanted. Spur went back to the tell. A refined search showed that millions of Leungs lived on Blimminey, Eridani Foxtrot, Fortunate Child, Moy and No Turning Back, but that there also appeared to be at least a scatter of Leungs on many of the Thousands Worlds. There was no help for it; Spur began to send greetings at random.

  He wasn’t sure exactly who he expected to answer, but it certainly wasn’t bots. When Chairman Winter had bought Walden from ComExplore IC, he decreed that neither machine intelligences nor enhanced upsiders would be allowed in the refuge he was founding. The Transcendent State was to be the last and best home of the true humans. While the pukpuks used bots to manufacture goods that they sold to the Transcendent State, Spur had never actually seen one until he had arrived at the hospital.

  Now he discovered that the upside swarmed with them. Everyone he tried to greet had bot receptionists, secretaries, housekeepers or companions screening their messages. Some were virtual and presented themselves in outlandish sims; others were corporeal and stared at him from the homes or workplaces of their owners. Spur relished these voyeuristic glimpses of life on the upside, but glimpses were all he got. None of the bots wanted to talk to him, no doubt because of the caution he could see scrolling across his screen. It warned that his greeting originated from “the Transcendent State of Walden, a jurisdiction under a consensual cultural quarantine.”

  Most of the bots were polite but firm. No, they couldn’t connect him to their owners; yes, they would pass along his greeting and no, they couldn’t say when he might expect a greeting in return. Some were annoyed. They invited him to read his own Covenant and then snapped the connection. A couple of virtual bots were actually rude to him. Among other things, they called him a mud hugger, a leech and a pathetic waste of consciousness. One particularly abusive bot started screaming that he was “a stinking useless fossil.”

  Spur wasn’t quite sure what a fossil was, so he queried the tell. It returned two definitions: 1 . an artifact of an organism, typically extinct, that existed in a previous geologic era. 2. something outdated or superceded. The idea that, as a true human, he might be outdated, superceded or possibly even bound for extinction so disturbed Spur that he got up and paced the room. He told himself that this was the price of curiosity. There were sound reasons why the Covenant of Simplicity placed limits on the use of technology. Complexity bred anxiety. The simple life was the good life.

  Yet even as he wrestled with his conscience, he settled back in front of the tell. On a whim he entered his own name. He got just two results:

  Comfort Rose Joerly and Prosper Gregory Leung

  Orchardists

  Diligence Cottage

  Jane Powder Street

  Littleton, Hamilton County,

  Northeast Territory, TS

  Walden

  and

  Prosper Gregory Leung

  c/o Niss (remotely—see note)

  Salvation Hospital

  Benevolence Park # 5

  Concord, Jefferson County,

  Southwest Territory, TS

  Walden

  Spur tried to access the note attached to Dr. Niss’s name, but it was blocked. That wasn’t a surprise. What was odd was that he had received results just from Walden. Was he really the only Prosper Gregory Leung in the known universe?

  While he was trying to decide whether being unique was good or bad, the tell inquired if he might have meant to search for Proper Gregory Leung or Phosphor Gregory L’ung or Procter Gregoire Lyon ? He hadn’t but there was no reason not to look them up. Proper Leung, it turned out, raised gosdogs for meat on a ranch out in Hopedale, which was in the Southwest Territory. Spur thought that eating gosdogs was barbaric and he had no interest in chatting with the rancher. Gregory L’ung lived on Kenning in the Theta Persei system. On an impulse, Spur sent his greeting. As he expected, it was immediately diverted to a bot. L’ung’s virtual companion was a shining green turtle resting on a rock in a muddy river.

  “The High Gregory of Kenning regrets that he is otherwise occupied at the moment,” it said, raising its shell up off the rock. It stood on four human feet. “I note with interest that your greeting originates from a jurisdiction under a consensual . . . ”

  The turtle didn’t get the chance to finish. The screen shimmered and went dark. A moment later, it lit up again with the image of a boy, perched at the edge of an elaborate chair.

  He was wearing a purple fabric wrap that covered the lower part of his body from waist to ankles. He was bare-chested except for the skin of some elongated duncolored animal draped around his thin shoulders. Spur couldn’t have said for sure how old the boy was, but despite an assured bearing and intelligent yellow eyes, he seemed not yet a man. The chair caught Spur’s eye again: It looked to be of some dark wood, although much of it was gilded. Each of the legs ended in a stylized human foot. The back panel rose high above the boy’s head and was carved with leaves and branches that bore translucent purple fruit.

  That sparkled like jewels.

  Spur reminded himself to breathe. It looked very much like a throne.

  III

  It takes two to speak the truth—one to speak and another to hear.

  —Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

  “Hello, hello,” said the boy. “Who is doing his talk, please?”

  Spur struggled to keep his voice from squeaking. “My name is Prosper Gregory Leung.”

  The boy frowned and pointed at the bottom of the screen. “Walden, it tells? I have less than any idea of Walden.”

  “It’s a planet.”

  “And tells that it’s wrongful to think too hard on planet Walden? Why? Is your brain dry?”

  “I think.” Spur was taken aback. “We all think.” Even though he thought he was being insulted, Spur didn’t want to snap the connection—not yet anyway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  The words coming out of the speakers did not seem to match what the boy was saying. His lips barely moved, yet what Spur heard was, “I’m the High Gregory, Phosphorescence of Kenning, energized by the tortoise of Eternal Radiation.” Spur realized that the boy was probably speaking another language and that what he was hearing was a translation. Spur had been expecting the censors built into the tell to buzz this conversation like they had buzzed so much of his chat with Leaf Benkleman, but maybe bad translation was just as effective.

  “That’s interesting,” said Spur cautiously. “And what is it that you do there on Kenning?”

  “Do?” The High Gregory rubbed his nose absently. “Oh, do ! I make luck.”

  “Really? People can do that on the upside?”

  “What is the upside?”

  “Space, you know.” Spur waved an arm over his head and glanced upward.

  The High Gregory frowned. “Prosper Gregory Leung breathes space?”

  “No, I breathe air.” He realized that the tell might easily be garbling his end of the conversation as well. “Only
air.” He spoke slowly and with exaggerated precision. “We call the Thousand Worlds the upside. Here. On my world.”

  The High Gregory still appeared to be confused.

  “On this planet.” He gestured at the hospital room. “Planet Walden. We look up at the stars.” He raised his hand to his brow, as if sighting on some distant landmark. “At night.” Listening to himself babble, Spur was certain that the High Gregory must think him an idiot. He had to change the subject, so he tapped his chest. “My friends call me Spur.”

  The High Gregory shook his head with a rueful smile. “You give me warmth, Spur, but I turn away with regret from the kind offer to enjoy sex with you. Memsen watches to see that I don’t tickle life until I have enough of age.”

  Aghast, Spur sputtered that he had made no such offer, but the High Gregory, appearing not to hear, continued to speak.

  “You have a fullness of age, friend Spur. Have you found a job of work on planet Walden?”

  “You’re asking what I do for a living?”

  “All on planet Walden are living, I hope. Not saved?”

  “Yes, we are.” Spur grimaced. He rose from the tell and retrieved his wallet from the nightstand beside the bed. Maybe pix would help. He flipped through a handful in his wallet until he came to the one of Comfort on a ladder picking apples. “Normally I tend my orchards.” He held the pix up to the tell to show the High Gregory. “I grow many kinds of fruit on my farm. Apples, peaches, apricots, pears, cherries. Do you have these kinds of fruit on Kenning?”

  “Grape trees, yes.” The High Gregory leaned forward in his throne and smiled. “And all of apples: apple pie and apple squeeze and melt apples.” He seemed pleased that they had finally understood one another. “But you are not normal?”

  “No. I mean yes, I’m fine.” He closed the wallet and pocketed it. “But . . . how do I say this? There is fighting on my world.” Spur had no idea how to explain the complicated grievances of the pukpuks and fanaticism that led some of them to burn themselves alive to stop the spread of the forest and the Transcendent State. “There are other people on Walden who are very angry. They don’t want my people to live here. They wish the land could be returned to how it was before we came. So they set fires to hurt us. Many of us have been called to stop them. Now instead of growing my trees, I help to put fires out.”

  “Very angry?” The High Gregory rose from his throne, his face flushed. “Fighting?” He punched at the air. “Hit-hit-hit?”

  “Not exactly fighting with fists,” said Spur. “More like a war.”

  The High Gregory took three quick steps toward the tell at his end. His face loomed large on Spur’s screen. “War fighting?” He was clearly agitated; his cheeks flushed and the yellow eyes were fierce. “Making death to the other?” Spur had no idea why the High Gregory was reacting this way. He didn’t think the boy was angry exactly, but then neither of them had proved particularly adept at reading the other. He certainly didn’t want to cause some interstellar incident.

  “I’ve said something wrong. I’m sorry.” Spur bent his head in apology. “I’m speaking to you from a hospital. I was wounded . . . fighting a fire. Haven’t quite been myself lately.” He gave the High Gregory a self-deprecating smile. “I hope I haven’t given offense.”

  The High Gregory made no reply. Instead he swept from his throne, down a short flight of steps into what Spur could now see was a vast hall. The boy strode past rows of carved wooden chairs, each of them a unique marvel, although none was quite as exquisite as the throne that they faced. The intricate beaded mosaic on the floor depicted turtles in jade and chartreuse and olive. Phosphorescent sculptures stretched like spider webs from the upper reaches of the walls to the barrel-vaulted ceiling, casting ghostly silver-green traceries of light on empty chairs beneath. The High Gregory was muttering as he passed down the central aisle but whatever he was saying clearly overwhelmed the tell’s limited capacity. All Spur heard was, “War Memsen witness there our luck call the L’ung . . . ”

  At that, Spur found himself looking once again at a shining green turtle resting on a rock on a muddy river. “The High Gregory of Kenning regrets that he is otherwise occupied at the moment,” it said. “I note with interest that your greeting originates from a jurisdiction under a consensual cultural quarantine. You should understand that it is unlikely that the High Gregory, as luck maker of the L’ung, would risk violating your covenants by having any communication with you.”

  “Except I just got done talking to him,” said Spur.

  “I doubt that very much.” The turtle drew itself up on four human feet and stared coldly through the screen at him. “This conversation is concluded,” it said. “I would ask that you not annoy us again.”

  “Wait, I . . . ,” said Spur, but he was talking to a dead screen.

  IV

  But if we stay at home and mind our business, who will want railroads? We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us.

  —Henry David Thoreau, Walden

  Spur spent the rest of that day expecting trouble. He had no doubt that he’d be summoned into Dr. Niss’s examining room for a lecture about how his body couldn’t heal if his soul was sick. Or some virtuator from Concord would be brought in to light communion and deliver a reproachful sermon on the true meaning of simplicity. Or Cary Millisap, his squad leader, would call from Prospect and scorch him for shirking his duty to Gold, which was, after all, to get better as fast he could and rejoin the unit. He had not been sent to hospital to bother the High Gregory of Kenning, luck maker of the L’ung—whoever they were.

  But trouble never arrived. He stayed as far away from his room and the tell as he could get. He played cards with Val Montilly and Sleepy Thorn from the Sixth Engineers, both of who were recovering from smoke inhalation they had suffered in the Coldstep burn. They were undergoing alveolar reconstruction to restore full lung function. Their voices were like ripsaws but they were otherwise in good spirits. Spur won enough from Sleepy on a single round of Fool All to pay for the new apple press he’d been wanting for the orchard. Of course, he would never be able to tell his father or Comfort where the money had come from.

  Spur savored a memorable last supper: an onion tart with a balsamic reduction, steamed duck leg with a fig dressing on silver thread noodles and a vanilla panna cotta. After dinner he went with several other patients to hear a professor from Alcott University explain why citizens who sympathized with the pukpuks were misguided. When he finally returned to his room, there was a lone greeting in his queue. A bored dispatcher from the Cooperative informed him that he needed to pick up his train ticket at Celena Station before 11 A.M. No video of this citizen appeared on the screen; all he’d left was a scratchy audio message like one Spur might get on his home tell. Spur took this as a reminder that his holiday from simplicity would end the moment he left the hospital.

  The breeze that blew through the open windows of the train was hot, providing little relief for the passengers in the first-class compartment. Spur shifted uncomfortably on his seat, his uniform shirt stuck to his back. He glanced away from the blur of trees racing past his window. He hated sitting in seats that faced backward; they either gave him motion sickness or a stiff neck. And if he thought about it—which he couldn’t help but doing, at least for a moment—the metaphor always depressed him. He didn’t want to be looking back at his life just now.

  A backward seat—but it was in first class. The Cooperative’s dispatcher probably thought he was doing him a favor. Give him some extra leg room, a softer seat. And why not? Hadn’t he survived the infamous Motu River burn? Hadn’t he been badly scorched in the line of duty? Of course he should ride in first class. If only the windows opened wider.

  It had been easy not to worry about his problems while he was lounging around the hospital. Now that he was headed back home, life had begun to push him again. He knew he should try to stop thinking, maybe take a nap. He closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. Without warning he was back in the nig
htmare sim again . . . and could smell burning hair. His hair. In a panic he dodged into a stream choked with dead fish and poached frogs. But the water was practically boiling and scalded his legs . . . only Spur wasn’t completely in the nightmare because he knew he was also sitting on a comfortable seat in a first-class compartment in a train that was taking him . . . the only way out was blocked by a torch waiting for Spur Vic had not yet set himself on fire, although his baseball jersey was smoking in the heat . . . I’m not afraid, Spur told himself, I don’t believe any of this . . . the anguished face shimmered in the heat of the burn and then Spur was dancing to keep his shoes from catching fire, and he had no escape, no choice, no time . . . with his eyes shut, Spur heard the clatter of the steel wheels on the track as: no time no time no time no time.

  He knew then for certain what he had only feared: Dr. Niss had not healed his soul. How could he, when Spur had consistently lied about what had happened in the burn? Spur didn’t mean to groan, but he did. When he opened his eyes, the gandy in the blue flowered dress was staring at him.

  “Are you all right?” She looked to be in her late sixties or maybe seventy, with silver hair so thin that he could see the freckles on her scalp.

  “Yes, fine,” Spur said. “I just thought of something.”