X377 at a proximate distance of 210 light-years. Particu-

  lar caution needed. Computer SJC1>>

  Ship’s Captain Hungaman stood rigid, according to Mili-

  tary Morality, while he waited for his four upper echelon personnel to assemble before him. Crew Commander

  Mabel-Mo Hole was first, followed closely by Chief Tech-

  nician Ida Precious. The thin figure of Provost-Marshal of Reps and Revs Dido Shappi entered alone. A minute later,

  Army Commander General Barakuta entered, to stand

  rigidly to attention before the ship’s captain.

  “Be easy, people,” said Hungaman. As a rep served

  all parties a formal drink, he said, “We will discuss the latest summary of the month’s progress from Space

  Journey Control One. You have all scanned the commu-

  nication?”

  The four nodded in agreement. Chief Technician Pre-

  cious, clad tightly from neck to feet in dark green plastic, spoke. “You observe the power node now produces our

  maximum power yet, Captain? We progress toward the

  enemy at 2.144. More acceleration is needed.”

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  B R I A N W. A L D I S S

  Hungaman asked, “Latest estimate of when we come

  within destruction range of enemy galaxy?”

  “Fifteen c’s approximately. Possibly fourteen point six

  niner.” She handed Hungaman a slip of paper. “Here is

  the relevant computation.”

  They stood silent, contemplating the prospect of fif-

  teen more centuries of pursuit. Everything spoken was

  recorded by SJC2. The constant atmosphere control was

  like a whispered conversation overheard.

  Provost-Marshal Shappi spoke. His resemblance to a

  rat was increased by his small bristling mustache. “Reps

  and revs numbers reduced again since last mensis, due to

  power node replacement.”

  “Figures?”

  “Replicants, 799. Revenants, 625.”

  The figures were instantly rewired at SJC1 for

  counter-checking.

  Hungaman eyed Crew Commander Hole. She re-

  sponded instantly. “Sixteen deaths, para-osteoporosi-

  pneu. Fifteen undergoing revenant operations. One

  destroyed, as unfit for further retread treatment.”

  A nod from Hungaman, who turned his paranoid-type

  gaze on the member of the quartet who had yet to speak,

  General Barakuta. Barakuta’s stiff figure stood like a memorial to himself.

  “Morale continuing to decline,” the general reported.

  “We require urgently more challenges for the men. We

  have no mountains or even hills on the Beatitude. I strongly suggest the ship again be enlarged to contain at least five fair-sized hills, in order that army operations be conducted with renewed energy.”

  Precious spoke. “Such a project would require an in-

  take of 106 mettons new material aboard ship.”

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  A B OA R D T H E B E AT I T U D E

  Barakuta answered. “There is this black hole 8875,

  only three thousand LY away. Dismantle that, bring con-

  stituent elements on board. No problem.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Hungaman. “We have to meet

  the challenges of the centuries ahead.”

  “You are not pleased by my suggestion?” Barakuta

  again.

  “Military Morality must always come first. Thank you.”

  They raised ceremonial flasks. All drank in one gulp.

  The audience was ended.

  Barakuta went away and consulted his private comp, un-

  aligned with the ship’s computers. He drew up some

  psycho-parameters on Ship’s Captain Hungaman’s state

  of mind. The parameters showed ego levels still in de-

  cline over several menses. Indications were that Hunga-

  man would not initiate required intake of black hole

  material for construction of Barakuta’s proposed five

  hills.

  Something else would need to be done to energize the

  armies.

  Once the audience was concluded, Hungaman took a

  walk to his private quarters to shower himself. As the

  walkway carried him down his private corridor, lights

  overhead preceded him like faithful hounds, to die behind him like extinguished civilizations. He clutched a slip of paper without even glancing at it. That had to wait until he was blush-dried and garbed in a clean robe.

  In his relaxation room, Barnell, Hungaman’s revenant

  servant, was busy doing the cleaning. Here was someone

  with whom he could be friendly and informal. He greeted

  the man with what warmth he could muster.

  2 1 5

  B R I A N W. A L D I S S

  Barnell’s skin was gray and mottled. In his pale face,

  his mouth hung loosely; yet his eyes burned as if lit by an internal fire. He was one of the twice-dead.

  He said, “I see from your bunk you have slept well.

  That’s good, my captain. Last night, I believe I had a

  dream. Revs are supposed not to dream, but I believe I

  dreamed that I was not dreaming. It is curious and unsci-

  entific. I like a thing to be scientific.”

  “We live scientific lives here, Barnell.” Hungaman was

  not attending to the conversation. He was glancing at his standalone, on the screen of which floated the symbols

  miqoesiy. That was a puzzle he had yet to solve—together with many others.

  With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the rev.

  “Scientific? Yes, of course, my captain. But in this

  dream I was very uncomfortable because I dreamed I was

  not dreaming. There was nothing. Only me, hanging on a

  hook. How can you dream of nothing? it’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s very funny,” agreed Hungaman. Barnell told

  him the same story once a mensis. Memories of revs were

  notoriously short.

  He patted Barnell’s shoulder, feeling compassion for

  him, before returning down the private corridor to the

  great public compartment still referred to as “the bridge.”

  Hungaman turned his back to the nearest scanner and

  reread the words on the slip of paper Ida Precious had

  given him. His eye contact summoned whispered words:

  “The SJC1 is in malfunction mode. Why does its report say it is seeing orange blossom drifting in space? Why is no

  one else remarking on it? Urgent investigation needed.”

  He stared down at the slip. It trembled in his hand, a

  silver fish trying to escape back into its native ocean.

  2 1 6

  A B OA R D T H E B E AT I T U D E

  “Swim away!” He released his grasp on the fish. It

  swam across to the port, swam through it, swam away

  into space. Hungaman hurried to the port; it filled the

  curved wall. He looked out at the glorious orange blos-

  som, falling slowly past, falling down forever, trying to figure out what was strange about it.

  But those letters, miqoesiy—they might be numbers . . .

  q might be 9, y might be 7. Suppose e was = . . . Forget it.

  He was going mad.

  He spread wide his arms to press the palms of his

  hands against the parency. It was warm to the touch. He

  glared out at the untouchable.

  Among the orange blossom were little blue birds, flit-

  ting back and forth. He heard their chirruping, or thought he did. One of the birds flew out and through the impermeable parency. It fluttered about in the distant reaches of the control room. Its cry suggested it was saying “Attend!” over and over.

  “Attend! Attend! Attend!”

  They were traveling in the direction of an undiscovered

  solar system, coded as X377. It was only 210 LYs dis-

  tant. A main sequence sun was orbited by five planets,

  of which spectroscopic evidence indicated highpop life

  on two of its planets. Hungaman set obliteration time

  for when the next watch’s game of Bullball was being

  played. Protesters had been active previously, demon-

  strating against the obliteration of suns and planets in

  the Beatitude’s path. Despite the arrests then made, there remained a possibility that more trouble might

  break out: but not when Bullball championships were

  playing.

  *

  *

  *

  2 1 7

  B R I A N W. A L D I S S

  This watch, Fugitives were playing the champions of F

  League, Flying Flagellants. Before 27 and the start of

  play, Hungaman took his place in the Upper Echelon tier.

  He nodded remotely to other Uppers, otherwise keeping

  himself to himself. The dizziness was afflicting him

  again. General Barakuta was sitting only a few seats

  away, accompanied by an all-bronze woman, whether rep

  or real Hungaman could not tell at this distance.

  The horn blew, the game started, although the general

  continued to pay more attention to his lady than to the

  field.

  In F League, each side consisted of forty players. Num-

  bers increased as leagues climbed toward J. Gravdims un-

  der the field enabled players to make astonishing leaps.

  They played with two large heavy balls. What made the

  game really exciting—what gave Bullball its popular

  name of Scoring ’n’ Goring—was the presence of four

  wild bulls, which charged randomly round the field of

  play, attacking any player who got in their way. The great terrifying pitiable bulls, long of horn, destined never to evolve beyond their bovine fury.

  Because of this element of danger, by which dying

  players were regularly dragged off the field, the participants comprised, in the main, revs and reps. Occasionally, however, livers took part. One such current hero of Bullball was fair-haired Surtees Slick, a brute of a man who

  had never as yet lost a life, who played half-naked for the FlyFlajs, spurning the customary body armor.

  With a massive leap into the air, Slick had one of the

  balls now—the blue high-scorer—and was away down the

  field in gigantic hops. His mane of yellow hair fluttered behind his mighty shoulders. The crowd roared his name.

  “Surtees . . . Surtees . . .”

  2 1 8

  A B OA R D T H E B E AT I T U D E

  Two Fugs were about to batter him in midair when

  Slick took a dip and legged it across the green plastic. A gigantic black bull known as Bronco charged at him.

  Without hesitation, Slick flung the heavy ball straight at the bull. The ball struck the animal full on the skull.

  Crunch of impact echoed through the great arena (ampli-

  fied admittedly by the mitters fixed between the brute’s

  horns).

  Scooping up the ball, which rebounded, Slick was

  away, leaping across the bull’s back toward the distant

  enemy goal. He swiped away two Fug revs who flung

  themselves at him and plunged on. The goalkeeper was

  ahead, rushing out like a spider from its lair. Goalkeepers alone were allowed to be armed on the field. He drew his

  dazer and fired at the yellow-haired hero. But Slick knew the trick. That was what the crowd was shouting: “Slick

  knows the trick!” He dodged the stun and lobbed the great ball overarm. The ball flew shrieking toward the goal.

  It vanished. The two teams, the Fugitives and the Fla-

  gellants, also vanished. The bulls vanished. The entire

  field became instantly empty.

  The echo of the great roar died away.

  “Surtees . . . Surtees . . . Sur . . .”

  Then silence. Deep dead durable silence.

  Nothing.

  Only the eternal whispered conversation of air vents

  overhead.

  Hungaman stood up in his astonishment. He could not

  comprehend what had happened. Looking about him, he

  found the vast company of onlookers motionless. By

  some uncanny feat of time, all were frozen; without

  movement they remained, not dead, not alive.

  Only Hungaman was there, conscious, and isolated by

  2 1 9

  B R I A N W. A L D I S S

  his consciousness. His jaw hung open. Saliva dripped

  down his chin.

  He was frightened. He felt the blood leave his face, felt tremors seize his entire frame.

  Something had broken down. Was it reality or was it

  purely a glitch, a seizure of his perception?

  Gathering his wits, he attempted to address the crew

  through his bodicom. The air was dead.

  He made his way unsteadily from the Upper Echelon. He

  had reached the ground floor when he heard a voice call-

  ing hugely, “Hungaman! Hungaman!”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  He ran through the tunnel to the fringes of the playing

  field.

  The air was filled with a strange whirring. A gigantic

  bird of prey was descending on him, its claws out-

  stretched. Its aposematic wings were spread wide, as wide as the field itself. Looking up in shock, Hungaman saw

  how fanciful the wings were, fretted at the edges, iridescent, bright as a butterfly’s wings and as gentle.

  His emotions seemed themselves almost iridescent, as

  they faded from fear to joy. He lifted his arms to welcome the creature. It floated down slowly, shrinking as it came.

  “A decently iridescent descent!” babbled Hungaman,

  he thought.

  He felt his life changing, even as the bird changed,

  even as he perceived it was nothing but an old tattered

  man in a brightly colored cloak. This tattered man looked flustered, as he well might have done. He brushed his

  lank hair from his eyes to reveal a little solemn brown

  face like a nut, in which were two deeply implanted blue

  2 2 0

  A B OA R D T H E B E AT I T U D E

  eyes. The eyes seemed to have a glint of humor about

  them.

  “No, I said that,” he said, with a hint of chuckle. “Not

  you.”

  He put his hands on his hips and surveyed Hungaman,

  just as Hungaman surveyed him. The man was a perfect

  imitation of human—in all but conviction.

  “Other life-forms, gone forever,” he said. “Don’t you

  feel bad about that? Guilty? You and this criminal ship?

  Isn’t something lost forever—and little gained?”

  Hungaman found his voice.

  “Are you responsible for the clearing of the Bullball

  game?”

  “Are you responsible for the destruction of an ancient

  culture, established on two planets for close on a million years?”

  He did not say the word “years,” but that was how

  Hungaman understood it. All he could manage by way of

  return was a kind of gurgle. “Two planets?”

  “The Slipsoid system? They were 210 LYs distant from

  this ship—offering no threat to your passage. Our two

  planets were connected by quantaspace. It forms a

  bridge. You destructive people know nothing of quanta-

  space. You are tied to the material world. It is by quantaspace that I have arrived here.” He threw off his cloak. It faded and was gone like an old leaf.

  Hungaman tried to sneer. “Across 210 LYs?”

  “We would have said ten meters.”

  Again, it was not the word “meters” he said, but that

  was how Hungaman understood it.

  “The cultures of our two Slipsoid planets were like the

  two hemispheres of your brain, I perceive, thinking in

  2 2 1

  B R I A N W. A L D I S S

  harmony but differently. Much like yours, as I suppose,

  but on a magnificently grander scale. . . .

  “Believe me, the human brain is, universally speaking,

  as obsolete as silicon-based semiconductors . . .”

  “So . . . you . . . came . . . here . . .”

  “Hungaman, there is nothing but thinking makes it so.

  The solid universe in which you believe you live is generated by your perceptions. That is why you are so trou-

  bled. You see through the deception, yet you refuse to see through the deception.”

  Hungaman was recovering from his astonishment. Al-

  though disconcerted at the sudden appearance of this pre-

  tense of humanity, he was reassured by a low rumbling

  throughout the ship: particles from the destroyed worlds

  were being loaded on board, into the cavernous holds.

  “I am not troubled. I am in command here. I ordered

  the extinction of your Slipsoid system, and we have ex-

  tinguished it, have we not? Leave me alone.”

  “But you are troubled. What about the orange blossom

  and the little blue bird? Are they a part of your reality?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. What orange blossom?”

  “There is some hope for you. Spiritually, I mean. Be-

  cause you are troubled.”

  “I’m not troubled.” He squared his shoulders to show

  he meant what he said.

  “You have just destroyed a myriad lives and yet you

  are not troubled?” Inhuman contempt sounded. “Not a

  little bit?”

  Hungaman clicked his fingers and began to walk back

  the way he had come. “Let’s discuss these matters, shall

  we? I am always prepared to listen.”

  The little man followed meekly into the tunnel. At a

  certain point, Hungaman moved fast and pressed a but-

  2 2 2