Kali looked good. Dark hair, bright eyes, and a smile that suggested she lived in a world that was endlessly amusing. They introduced the kids, who within a few minutes retreated upstairs, ostensibly doing homework. We could hear soft music and occasional conversation and laughter.
“Can I get you guys something to drink?” she asked.
I was unfamiliar with the choices and went for something called a Virginia bullet. It was okay, but a little strong for my tastes.
“Do you by any chance know Les Fremont?” asked Alex.
“I know him to say hello to. That’s about all.”
“He had a connection with Baylee. I understand they spent a lot of time together.”
“Yeah. Wish I could help, but I don’t have anything on that. I can tell you that Fremont shares the same passion for Golden Age archeology that Baylee did. But that’s about it.”
“Do you know where we can locate him?”
“Herbert,” he said, addressing the house AI, “what do you have?”
“He still lives in Chantilly, Jay.” Herbert gave us an address. Chantilly was on the shore of Lake Washington.
“Okay,” said Alex. “Good. How about Luciana Moretti? Do you know anything about her?”
Jay repeated the name to himself. Frowned. “I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“She’s an adjunct of the Southwick Foundation. And a music professor.”
“Oh, yes. A music professor with an interest in archeology. She used to show up at conferences.”
“Did you ever run into her?”
“I did. Nice lady. But it’s like Fremont. Strictly hello, and it’s been nice to meet you. You want Herbert to check?”
“Please.”
“Herbert?” he said.
“She was formerly an instructor at Beckham University,” he said. “Left there three years ago. Took up a similar position at the Amazon College of the Arts.”
“Where’s that?” asked Alex.
“Corinthia,” said the AI.
“It’s in South America,” added Jay. “On the Amazon, of course.”
Sixteen
No single place in the world so embodies the spirit of the age as New York. If a time ever comes when its name is unknown, when it has disappeared from the maps, we will have forgotten who we are.
We caught a maglev into Chantilly. The last ten minutes of the ride took us along the lakeshore. We saw piers and boats and a few people fishing. And then, without warning, the Washington Monument rising from the water. It was supposed to be taller than the original one although there was no way to be sure. But reconstructing it constituted the ultimate act of defiance by the American people against the rising seas that were engulfing them and the rest of the world.
The cupola and dome of the old Capitol building had at one time also risen above the lake waters. But they were deemed to suggest a broken nation. They detracted from the grandeur expressed by the obelisk, so they were taken down.
I knew, of course, what the Golden Age capital had looked like in its halcyon era. When we’d visited Atlantis in the tour sub a few years earlier, there’d been no emotional reaction to the submerged ruins because there was no record of Atlantis in its prime. But this was different. Riding along that lakefront, I wondered what visitors to Andiquar, arriving in ten or eleven thousand years, would see? You wander around near Independence Park and the Hall of the People, and you get a sense that they will be there forever. But forever is a long time. The people who lived in Washington before the waters came probably thought that about their city. But it’s all temporary, baby. Perpetuity is an illusion.
The planet was no longer a place Neil Armstrong would have recognized. Most of the historic Golden Age cities had been located on or near water. Consequently, they were for the most part gone. Paris and Rome remained. And Madrid and Tehran. A few others.
The international borders were gone as well. They’d dissolved during the Fourth Millennium, and with them the nation-states they’d defined. All prior attempts to form a world body had ultimately failed, resulting in international disruptions, until the rise of the World Union at the beginning of the Fifth Millennium. The much-feared global government had finally appeared, but it turned out to be, at worst, no more inefficient or corrupt than the governments that had preceded it. Its major contribution, during those early centuries, had been that it kept the peace. Gradually, when the turmoil subsided, and the Dark Age had passed, a quiet and efficient civilization emerged. On Earth, everyone lived, effectively, in a county or its equivalent. It may have been that a fair level of tranquillity finally arrived because people had decent lives. Controls were in place to keep power-grabbing loons at a distance. Professional politicians no longer existed. And maybe, as Ingmar Moseka commented, liberal education was available to all, and the result was a responsible population that wasn’t as easy to fool as it had been in earlier times. Laws were made and policies developed by citizens who served a limited term, then returned to their lives. And people were free to live as they wished, without having to worry about where their next meal was coming from.
Advanced technology made food and housing available for all. AIs and robots did most of the work that no one else wanted to be bothered with. Most people managed careers, some simply lived lives of leisure. And humanity’s movement to the stars, which had begun in the twenty-sixth century, accelerated. The half dozen worlds we occupied at the beginning of the Dark Age blossomed, a thousand years later, into a vast network.
People lived at leisure everywhere if they so desired. Even on the home world, it wasn’t necessary to work if one wasn’t inclined. Education was available for all, as was opportunity, and in the end, success was defined primarily by one’s contribution to the community. Major achievements, scientific, literary, artistic, began to come in from distant worlds.
The people of Earth, however, never forgot who they were. They were never quite ready to accept equality with those whom they still thought of as colonials. Despite that, throughout the several hundred worlds of the Confederacy, the human race gradually evolved into a family.
Well, at least we’d gotten closer than ever before.
Les Fremont was still active with the North American Archeological Institute. He’d written two books on what he called expeditions into time, and he still participated in fieldwork. We arrived shortly after noon at a modest chateau located in a neighborhood filled with oaks and hedges. Kids tossed balls around at a corner playground. Fremont’s home had a small lawn, surrounded by a plastene fence. A swing hung from a tree limb.
The cab pulled into the driveway, and Fremont came out the front door. He was a large, elderly man who walked with a limp. He waved as we got out of the cab and moved carefully down the steps leading off his deck. “Alex?” he asked.
Alex waved back. “Hello, Dr. Fremont.” He looked around. “Beautiful place.”
“Thank you. My name’s Les, by the way.”
They both turned toward me. “My colleague, Chase Kolpath.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Chase.” Fremont extended a hand and led us inside. “Hot out there.” It was.
We sat down in the living room, and he asked what we’d like to drink. “We only have wine and fruit juice,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think of it. I tend to overlook stuff now.”