Arthur Clarke - Firstborn

“Alexander’s campaigns were remarkable, Bisesa — an astounding feat of logistics and motivation. He built a whole fleet in the great harbor here at Babylon, and then had to engineer the whole length of the Euphrates to make the river navigable. He had his fleet circumnavigate Africa, raiding the shore to survive. Meanwhile from Babylon his troops drove east and west, laying rail tracks and military roads, and planting cities everywhere. Took him five years to make ready, then another ten years of campaign-ing before he had taken it all, from Spain to India. Of course he drained the strength of his people in the process…”

Emeline touched Bisesa’s arm. “Where is your telephone?”

Bisesa sighed. “It insisted on being taken back to the temple so that Abdi could download as much of his astronomy observations as possible. It is curious.”

Emeline frowned. “I admit I struggle to follow your words.

What is strangest of all is the obvious affection you feel for this phone. But it is a machine. A thing!”

Captain Grove smiled. “Oh, it’s not so unusual. Many of my men have fallen in love with their guns.”

“And in my time,” Bisesa said, “many of our machines are sentient, like the phone. As conscious as you or me. It’s hard not to feel empathy for them.”

Eumenes approached, a rather chill figure who scattered the flimsy courtiers, though he was as gaudily dressed as they were.

“You speak of astronomy. I hope the astronomy we perform here is of a quality to be useful to you,” he said. “The Babylonian priest-hood had a tradition of observing long before we came here. And the telescopes designed by the engineers of the Othic School are as fine as we could make them. But who knows what one may read in a sky that is presumably as manufactured as the earth we walk on?”

Emeline said, “We have astronomers back in Chicago. Telescopes too, that made it through the Freeze — I mean, the Discontinuity. I know they’ve been observing the planets. Which are all changed, they say, from what they were before— you know. Lights on Mars. Cities! I don’t know much about it. Just what I read in the newspapers.”

Bisesa and Grove stared at her.

Bisesa said, “Cities on Mars?”

And Captain Grove said, “You have newspapers? ”

The chiliarch considered. “There are other—” He hunted for the word. “ Scientists. Other scientists in Chicago?”

“Oh, all sorts,” Emeline said brightly. “Physicists, chemists, doctors, philosophers. The university kept working, after a fashion, and they are establishing a new campus in New Chicago, south of the ice, so they can keep working after we close down the old city.”

Eumenes turned to Bisesa. “It seems to me you must travel to this Chicago, a place of science and learning from an age more than twenty centuries removed from the days of Alexander. It is there, perhaps, that you will have the best chance of addressing the great question that has propelled you here.”

Grove warned, “It will take the devil of a time to get there.

Months—”

“Nevertheless it is clearly necessary. I will arrange your transport.”

Emeline raised an eyebrow. “It looks as if we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, Bisesa.”

Bisesa felt bewildered by the suddenness of Eumenes’s decision-making. “You always did understand,” she said. “More than any other of Alexander’s people, you always saw that the key to this whole situation is the Firstborn, the Eyes. Everything else, empires and wars, is a distraction.”

He grunted. “If I had lacked perceptiveness I should not have survived long at Alexander’s court, Bisesa. You’ll see few others you’ll remember from those days three decades ago. All dispatched in the purges.”

“All save you,” she said.

“Not least because I ensured that it was I who organized those purges…”

There was a peal of trumpets, and a great shouting.

A troop of soldiers entered the room, sarissae held high. Following them came a grotesque figure in a transparent toga, stick-thin, trembling a little, his brilliantly painted face twisted into a grin.

Bisesa remembered: this was Bagoas, a Persian eunuch and favorite of Alexander’s.

“No longer so pretty as he was,” Eumenes said sternly. “And yet he survives, as I do.” He raised his wine cup in mock salute.

And then came the King himself. He was surrounded by a group of tough-looking young men in expensive purple robes.

Waddling as if already drunk, he staggered and might have fallen if not for the way he leaned on a stocky little page who walked beside him. He wore lurid purple robes, and a headdress of ram’s horns rising from a circlet of gold. His face was a memory of the beauty that Bisesa remembered, with that full mouth, and a strong nose that rose straight to a slightly bulging forehead, from which his hair in ringlets had been swept back. His skin, always ruddy, was blotchy and scarred, his cheeks and jowls heavy, and his powerful frame swaddled in fat. Bisesa felt shocked at the change in him.

The courtiers threw themselves to the floor in obeisance. The soldiers and some of the senior figures stood their ground, gestur-ing elaborately. The little page who supported him was a Neanderthal boy, his brutish face shining with cream, the thick hair on his head twisted into tight curls. And as the King passed her, Bisesa smelled a stink of piss.

“Thus the ruler of the world,” Emeline whispered as he passed, sounding rather nineteenth-century frosty to Bisesa.

“But so he is,” Grove said.

“He had no choice but to conquer the world again,” Eumenes murmured. “Alexander believes he is a god — the son of Zeus in-carnated at Ammon, which is why he wears the robes of Ammon, and the horns. But he was born a man, and only achieved godhood by his conquests. After the Discontinuity all that was wiped away, and so what was Alexander then? It was not to be tolerated. So he began it all over again; he had to.”

Bisesa said, “But it isn’t as it was before. You say there are steam trains here. Maybe this is a new start for civilization. A unified empire, under Alexander and his successors, fueled by technology.”

Grove smiled, wistful. “Do you remember poor old Ruddy Kipling used to say the same sort of thing?”

“I do not think Alexander shares your ‘modern’ dreams,”

Eumenes said. “Why should he? There are more of us than you, far more; perhaps our beliefs, overwhelming yours, will shape reality.”

“According to my history books,” Emeline said a bit primly, “in the old world Alexander died in his thirties. It’s an un-Christian thing to say. But maybe it would have been better if he had died here, instead of living on and on.”

“Certainly his son thought so,” Eumenes said dryly. “And that is why — look out!” He pulled Bisesa back.

A squad of soldiers came charging past, their long sarissae lowered. In the middle of the room there was a knot of commotion.

Shouting began, and screaming.

And Alexander had fallen.

Alexander, isolated on the floor, cried out in his thick Macedonian Greek. His courtiers and even his guards were backing away from him, as if fearful of blame. A vivid red stain spread over his belly.

Bisesa thought it was wine.

But then she saw the little Neanderthal page standing over him, his expression slack, a knife in his massive hand.

“I was afraid of this,” Eumenes snapped. “It is the anniversary of the War with the Son —and you and your Eye have everybody stirred up, Bisesa Dutt. Captain Grove, get them out of here, and out of the city, as fast as you can. Either that or risk them getting swept up in the purges that will follow.”