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  LOVELOCK

  THE MAYFLOWER TRILOGY

  BOOK I

  ORSON SCOTT CARD

  AND

  KATHRYN H. KIDD

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

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  TOR BOOKS BY ORSON SCOTT CARD

  The Folk of the Fringe

  Future on Fire (editor)

  Future on Ice (editor)

  Lovelock (with Kathryn H. Kidd)

  Pastwatch: The Redemption of Christopher Columbus

  Saints

  Songmaster

  The Worthing Saga

  Wyrms

  THE TALES OF ALVIN MAKER

  Seventh Son

  Red Prophet

  Prentice Alvin

  Alvin Journeyman

  Heartfire

  ENDER

  Ender’s Game

  Speaker for the Dead

  Xenocide

  Children of the Mind

  Ender’s Shadow

  Shadow of the Hegemon

  HOMECOMING

  The Memory of Earth

  The Call of the Earth

  The Ships of Earth

  Earthfall

  Earthborn

  SHORT FICTION

  Maps in a Mirror: The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card (hardcover)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 1: The Changed Man (paperback)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 2: Flux (paperback)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 3: Cruel Miracles (paperback)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 4: Monkey Sonatas (paperback)

  LOVELOCK

  To our good friends the Childs,

  particularly

  Dennis, who has the right tool for suitors and sheep,

  Carla, with a soft shoulder and a warm heart,

  and Derek—welcome home

  CONTENTS

  Foreword: On Collaboration

  1. Leavetaking

  2. Off Earth

  3. The Ark

  4. Odie’s Funeral

  5. The Apple and the Coconut

  6. Freefall

  7. Rebellion

  8. Independence

  9. Subterfuge

  10. Cages

  11. Discoveries

  12. Animals

  FOREWORD

  ON COLLABORATION

  Science fiction has a long, proud tradition of collaboration between first-rate writers, who, together, produce work that is different from—and sometimes better than—what either of them produces alone. My first exposure to the power of collaboration was Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle’s brilliant The Mote in God’s Eye. I soon read both authors’ solo work as well, and was surprised to discover that Mote was not just an average of the two styles. The result of the collaboration was a new “virtual author” who was neither Niven nor Pournelle. Neither could have produced the novel alone.

  Since those days, however, a new kind of “collaboration” has sprung up in the science fiction field. I realized this when a book packager approached me with the idea of putting together a series of “collaborations.” My job would be to come up with a plot outline and some basic world creation for a science fiction novel. Then a young, unknown (i.e., desperate) writer would be engaged to do the actual word-by-word writing. I would have approval of all chapters and could reject any of them or ask for whatever changes I wanted. I could nominate my novice collaborator, or the packager would be glad to find someone for me. This would be good for the young writers, said the packager, because the commercial value of my name would get them far more exposure than they could otherwise hope for. It would be good for me, because it would help keep my name constantly before the public and would bring in some extra royalties without my having to do all that hard work.

  Needless to say, this was a flattering proposal, not least because I was not then and am not now convinced that my name has any particular commercial value. American Express has not yet called me to do one of their TV ads. Naturally, to have a packager treat me as if the mere presence of my name on the cover of a book would guarantee sales was heady stuff. Also, I’m lazy. I keep wishing somebody else could do the work of writing my books. And wasn’t this sort of thing right in the tradition of the Renaissance artist’s workshop? An apprentice writer, learning from the (ahem) master even as he helps take some of the burden from the master’s shoulders…

  The trouble was, as a reviewer in those days for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, I had actually read some of these collaborations and reviewed one of them in print. The one I reviewed happened to be the first in Isaac Asimov’s “Robot City” series, and Asimov’s young collaborator was no novice—it was Michael Kube-McDowell, who had already published his own Trigon Disunity trilogy to much critical praise and reader enthusiasm. Imagine my surprise, then, when the resulting novel turned out to be far below either writer’s standards. It was as if neither writer felt responsible for the quality of the product. If he had any misgivings, Kube-McDowell’s unconscious could always whisper to him, Hey, it’s Asimov’s story, not mine; and Asimov might unconsciously say, Oh well, I didn’t really write it anyway. Whatever the reason, the result was pretty thin. And in the months and years to come, I found that Kube-McDowell’s and Asimov’s “collaboration” was the best of these master-apprentice works.

  I didn’t want to do that.

  But I did want to do something like what Harlan Ellison depicted in his great collection Partners in Wonder. His project, back in the 70s, was to collaborate with other leading sf writers on a single story each. He talked about each writer composing first drafts of various sections and then passing them to the other for rewrites. Each had to show respect for the other’s work—but also could freely expand upon or reshape what the other had done. It sounded like a wonderful process, akin to the experiences I had had in theatre back at the beginning of my career, where playwright, director, and actors all push and pull on the story to give it a final shape that none of them could have produced on their own.

  So instead of agreeing to the packager’s proposal, I began to think of a writer whose work I admired, and who could do things with fiction that I didn’t know how to do. There were obvious choices within the field, of course—I would have loved to see what John Kessel and I might produce together, or Nancy Kress, or Karen Joy Fowler. The trouble was that I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be interested, and I’m just shy enough that I didn’t have the courage to ask. (One of them has since made it very clear that my instinct was correct, and there would have been no interest.) And outside the field of science fiction, the chances were even slimmer. I didn’t think Anne Tyler or Harry Crews or Tom Gavin or François Camoin or John Hersey or James Clavell would want to collaborate with me on a science fiction story, let alone a novel.

  When I stopped fantasizing, I realized that I did know one writer whose work I admired and who was doing things I didn’t know how to do; and best of all, I knew she wouldn’t laugh in my face when I proposed the collaboration. Kathy Helms Kidd had been my friend since back in the days when she was a reporter for the Deseret News and I was an assistant editor at The Ensign in Salt Lake City. I had been a witness at her wedding to Clark Kidd. And I had goad
ed her into writing a Mormon novel to help me launch my small publishing company, Hatrack River Publications. That first novel of hers, Paradise Vue, has gone through three printings and has given a new shape to Mormon publishing—it’s been fun to watch other publishers come out with novels clearly attempting to imitate Kathy’s inimitable humor and incisive truthfulness of vision. They always fall short; and Hatrack River has prospered.

  Since then Kathy had written other excellent books for Hatrack River, and was also working on a mainstream novel, Crayola Country. She had strengths that I couldn’t match, among them her natural humor; her ability to create a whole community of quirky, fascinating people; her deft handling of pain. I wanted to see what the two of us would produce through collaboration. So I proposed the idea, and we began to develop a storyline, starting with the basic premise of “small towns in space.”

  We talked it back and forth during the days I was hiding out with her and Clark while I worked on another novel (I often have to change environments to kick-start a new project). Neither of us can remember which of us thought of the ideas we ended up keeping. But at the end of the process, we had characters and situations that we, at least, found compelling. The story had grown larger than the original concept—the small towns are still there, but while the story takes place within those small towns, it is not really about them. Instead, our narrator, an enhanced capuchin monkey named Lovelock, had graduated from observer to protagonist, and the novel you are holding in your hands was born.

  The process we worked with was a true collaboration. As you read this novel, you will have no way of knowing which of us wrote the first draft of any chapter; in fact, I don’t remember myself anymore, except that my impression is that we each did first draft on about half. And both of us felt free to make changes in the other’s work. We each had respect for the strengths the other brought to the project and valued each other’s contributions. And we both felt keenly responsible for the quality of the outcome.

  The trouble was, we knew perfectly well that in today’s publishing climate, when sf readers saw that this book was by Orson Scott Card, whom they have probably heard of, and Kathryn H. Kidd, whom they have almost certainly not (since her publications have been in another genre) these readers would naturally conclude that this was another of those master-apprentice “collaborations,” and therefore not likely to be very good.

  Well, we can’t be sure that you’ll think this novel is good—though we do, or we wouldn’t have sent it off to be published. But we wanted you to know that whatever flaws this book might have did not result from having a junior writer do the real work on an outline written by the senior one. This is a true collaboration from beginning to end.

  Ellison also warned that collaboration, when done well, isn’t easier than writing alone—it’s harder. Twice as much work for half the money, is the way I remember him putting it. I mentioned that to Kathy at the beginning of our project, and we both laughed. It would be different for us.

  As in so many other things, Ellison was right. But you don’t collaborate in order to save time or avoid work. You collaborate in order to create a story that neither of you could have created as well alone.

  (Just think, Kathy. We only have to do this two more times.)

  —Orson Scott Card

  Greensboro, 16 September 1993

  LOVELOCK

  CHAPTER ONE

  LEAVETAKING

  If I had known what Mayflower held for me, I might have stayed in New Hampshire. Even if I had been dragged screaming from our clapboard house, I could have hidden myself before we ever got on the space shuttle. Carol Jeanne would have searched, of course, and for a long time. But she would never have found me, and, as much as she would have mourned my loss, eventually she would have left without me. There was a new world waiting for her—to observe it, understand it, and transform it. The playground of her dreams. What was love compared to that?

  I had already lost her; I should have known. Who can compete with a new planet for a gaiologist’s heart? But at the time I was too naive to understand anything that mattered. In those days my devotion to Carol Jeanne was so strong that even if I had known what would happen on the Ark, the terrible things I would do, the frightening course my life would take, I still would have gone with her, gladly. It didn’t occur to me that I could live for a single day without her. What would a little murder have mattered to me then? I was besotted.

  From the moment Carol Jeanne received her invitation, there was no doubt that she would accept it. I also welcomed the move to the village of Mayflower on the interstellar Ark. A great adventure; she was so happy I couldn’t help but be delighted myself. And there was a personal benefit: the artificial atmosphere of the Ark would be warmer and brighter than New England’s.

  Because I was Carol Jeanne’s witness, she and I were so close that the two of us were almost one individual. On the morning we left she awoke me first, before she got her own husband out of bed.

  “Lovelock,” she whispered, leaning over my pillow. “Are you awake? It’s time.”

  I was instantly alert, but I lay in bed with my eyes closed, knowing she would put her hand on my forehead to awaken me. Her touch was so gentle.

  “Lovelock! I know you’re awake. I can feel you trembling.”

  I couldn’t help that; my body always gives me away.

  I raised my hand and squeezed her finger, the way I always greeted her in the mornings. When I opened my eyes, she was smiling.

  “That’s better, you wretched little slug. We’ll be leaving soon. Make yourself some breakfast; I’ll get everyone else out of bed.”

  I lay in bed for a moment or two, as Carol Jeanne went to awaken Red. It was a thankless task, because Red was a heavy sleeper, lethargic and snappish in the mornings, thinking only of himself. Usually Carol Jeanne let him awaken himself after we had gone to work. In his own sweet time, he’d rouse himself and then make breakfast for Lydia and Emmy. At the end of each day, when we saw him after work, he had transformed himself into the perfect husband and father. I always suspected that Red’s real personality was the early morning one, when his guard was down and he was nasty and irritable. But even if the nice evening self was a fake, I still gave him points for trying.

  I heard Carol Jeanne awaken him in the next room, but not as tenderly as she had awakened me moments before. She knew the difference between us. Red grunted a reply and stumbled toward the bathroom. Sounded like a morning I should stay away from him for at least an hour. I went to the kitchen and tore open three bananas for breakfast.

  When I returned to the sleeping area, both the girls were awake. Emmy, like all human babies, was completely useless and incompetent, even now that she was old enough to walk. She was wet, but instead of taking her soggy diaper off, she just stood there crying, doing nothing to help, nothing even to cooperate as Carol Jeanne struggled to get her into fresh clothes. Humans are born so stupid; but that’s the script their DNA has prepared for them, so I didn’t blame Emmy. In fact, as a cool, dispassionate observer, I couldn’t help but notice that most of the difficulty was caused by Carol Jeanne’s incompetence at dressing her own child. As much as I loved Carol Jeanne, I had to admit that Red was a better mother than she was. Red could have soothed Emmy in a moment, and in the meantime he could flip clothes onto a child as fast as he dealt cards; Carol Jeanne, on the other hand, made everything twice as hard as it needed to be, and every sound that Emmy made only exasperated her more.

  I may be a witness, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not allowed to help. I distracted Emmy from the task at hand, entertaining her with meaningless chatter and funny faces. Almost at once the little girl forgot her discomfort. “You are my hero, Lovelock,” said Carol Jeanne. If only she had really believed her own words.

  The older daughter, Lydia, wasn’t as easy to pacify. “Lovelock’s watching me get dressed,” she complained when I turned my attention to her. “He keeps staring at me. Tell him not to look at me.”

&
nbsp; “Tell him yourself, Lydia. He isn’t staring. He’s only being friendly.”

  I didn’t understand this human obsession with privacy and modesty. What—did Lydia, in her little prepubescent brain, suppose that I had some interspecies hankering for her neotenous, immature body? I knew where I wasn’t wanted. Turning my back on Lydia, I reached for Emmy. She held out her arms for me. I clambered into her clumsy embrace and held my breath as she hugged me with dangerous enthusiasm. The real benefit of this was that it always made Lydia crazy with jealousy when I let Emmy hug me.

  “I want a hug, too,” she wailed.

  “Please don’t get them competing with each other, Lovelock,” Carol Jeanne said. “Not today.”

  I scrambled out of Emmy’s hug and climbed over Carol Jeanne to get to Lydia, who was reaching for me with a look of coy triumph on her face. Poor child—she thought she was the one manipulating me. Once enfolded in her false little embrace, I permitted myself an audible sigh. Carol Jeanne was usually oblivious to how much I endured for her sake, but I still tried to help her notice. Already I had heard Red grumble, Emmy cry, and Lydia whine—and Red’s parents weren’t even awake yet. Not for the first time, I wished that Carol Jeanne and I were going to the Ark without the rest of her family. If I could have thought of a way to do it, I would have.

  As Carol Jeanne clumsily took care of the girls—setting them at the table, where they splashingly ate their cold cereal—I settled myself in a corner to do my job: recording how Carol Jeanne spent her last morning on Earth. I thought it was appropriate to see that she dressed herself only after her children were dressed and ready to go, ate only after her children had eaten. The leading scientist of her time, and still she placed her children before the weighty concerns of her work. Thus did the greatest of all gaiologists humbly act out her natural role within the species. She had said it herself, once: Gaiologists must always recognize that they are part of the living organism, never an outside observer, and never, not for a moment, impartial or unbiased about anything. To help her make her point, I never recorded Red doing these family chores, even though he was the one who usually did them. Why should I have? He had his own witness, didn’t he?