Nest of Worlds

By Marek S. Huberath and Michael Kandel

Nest of Worlds is the first novel to appear in English from contemporary Polish science fiction master Marek S. Huberath. This metafictional adventure, owing as much to Borges, Saramago, and even Thomas More as it does to Stanislaw Lem, describes a world where every thirty-five years, all residents must move to a new “Land,” each a rigid caste society based on hair color, and each person bears a Significant Name that foretells the manner of their deaths. As new arrivals in the land of Davabel, Gavein Throzz, now a high-ranking "black" and Ra Mahleiné, a lowly “white,” defy the authorities who try to separate them as they struggle to build their new lives.

Soon, Gavein finds himself at the center of an epidemic of deaths, though he himself remains suspiciously unharmed. He discovers a book titled Nest of Worlds, populated by characters busy reading their own versions of Nest of Worlds—and the key to solving the mysterious epidemic may lie within this even more mysterious novel. Nest of Worlds is a riveting and mind-bending tour through the nature of narrative, reality, love, and the darkest aspects of human nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Restless Books
• Release date: Jan 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989983273

Marek S. Huberath

Marek S. Huberath has been a major figure in Polish science fiction since his debut in 1987 with the short story "Wrocieeś Sneogg, wiedziaam . . ." (recently translated into English by Michael Kandel as "Yoo Retoont Sneogg, Ay Noo..."). Confronting moral and philosophical issues rather than future technical possibilities, he is heir to the titans of Soviet-era Eastern European literary science fiction. A three-time winner of the Janusz A. Zajdel Award (the Polish equivalent of the Hugo), Huberath is also a professor of biophysics and biological physics at Jagiellonian University in Krakow, and an avid mountain climber, who has said that he feels most comfortable with the air under his feet.

Book preview

Nest of Worlds

by Marek S. Huberath

Translated from the Polish by Michael Kandel

The Only Version

All things defined, distinct.

Black and white, zero and one.

Here is song and song alone.

1

The thuds of the stabilizers stopped; the plane came to rest on the runway. The roar of the engines changed in tone and finally died. But the thunder continued in Gavein’s head; its incessancy now turned into a migraine. Over the loudspeaker, the pilot gave them the time in Davabel.

The trip had taken thirty-six hours—in great discomfort, on a metal seat that locked the hips in a tight cage. Getting up to use the bathroom was possible only during certain announced periods. You could also take off your black metal glasses then. A line would form to the single toilet. Afterward you had to resume your seat and put the glasses on immediately; and again it became insufferably hot. Sweat ran down your back. Your skin itched. Through the glasses the darkness was a brownish purple.

During one of the rest periods, the man next to Gavein had said, Know why we have to wear these glasses and sit in these ass boxes?

No, Gavein muttered.

The man was seventy, heavy and fat. He overflowed his seat. He pressed against Gavein. I know, because I’ve flown before. It’s for your protection, double protection . . .

He likes to talk, Gavein thought. Retired, obviously. Of course he’s flown before.

The glasses are so you won’t see how this crate bends and shudders in the wind, the old man went on. And the metal seat, that’s so you don’t jump out of the plane in panic in case your glasses fall off.

Gavein grunted, as though appreciating the joke, but he didn’t start a conversation.

He was deep in his own thoughts. He kept seeing his wife, at the moment of parting. On Ra Mahleiné’s face there had been doubt, apprehension. When an angel loses its faith, it cannot conceal the loss. And her face was an angel’s: mild, sweet, with the innocent, bottomless blue eyes of a child. Gavein had drowned in that blue, and he wished to remain drowned in it for the rest of his life.

At their parting, her eyes were fixed, grave, severe, though bottomless as ever. Not seductive eyes now but hard, unyielding. It was the look of a woman who loves with all her heart and is afraid. Then the tears came. Too soon and too abundantly.

As he walked away down the corridor, her mask cracked.

Gavein! Gavein! The cry of a torn heart. Four years of solitude for her, against five of marriage. She struggled as a bird struggles, but two barriers separated them now, and a cordon of officials and soldiers. He could not take her in his arms one more time.

Life had treated them unequally: giving him three days of flight to Davabel, giving her four years on a ship. She chose this herself, to be able to stay with him, to fool time, to get around the marriage law.

They had learned about the law completely by accident. A piece of information, overheard, can change a person’s life. Ra Mahleiné chose the trip of maximum compensation herself; he would never have dreamt of asking her to do such a thing. He was surprised it came to her so easily—she simply told him what they would do.

Painful thoughts—he couldn’t shake them. Fragments of memory passed before him, images.

Their marriage, from the first, had been a breaking of the rules. The most basic rule. Whites were the upper crust in Lavath. Others were treated better in Lavath than in other Lands, but a mixed marriage was out of the question.

Ra Mahleiné was one of those who were given their social category unanimously. Her hair was golden yellow, her eyes azure—not gray, which often indicated a problem.

Gavein began tanning as soon as the spring sun grew strong. Men as a rule had a slightly darker complexion, but with this couple the difference was striking.

A joke: Ra Mahleiné believed that her breasts were too light. She told him this only later, when she was sure of him. Once, before they slept, nestled in his arms, she murmured in her soft, sweet voice that she always thought of them, her breasts, as poor Pale Things, the nipples hardly visible. He never would have believed that such a wonderfully put together white woman could have such a complex.

She told him of her slight physical imperfections before he could notice them himself—and even when he wouldn’t have noticed them. She played with him a little, teasing, obviously able to read his mind, not afraid, only curious for his reaction. Or perhaps she simply prattled like a child, because her thoughts were still innocent, like a child’s, or so he felt.

You know, I have one shoulder higher than the other, she once said.

In Lavath, half the population has a problem with their spines, and anyone who does any sport has uneven shoulders.

I have uneven shoulders without a sport.

I don’t believe it.

You see—this was at the beginning of their acquaintance—my spine is crooked, and that’s why the shoulder blades won’t line up. When I’m old, I’ll be a hunchback.

It’s possible.

All she could do then was give him one of those bright looks that fascinated him: defenseless, guiltless, crystal pure. But the mirror of the soul did not reflect everything, for those child’s eyes of hers hid her ability to make decisions and the strength to stick to them.

Lavath law did not forbid marriage between people of different ages. But the precisely tuned system of rewards, discounts, and entitlements kept the difference to a minimum. Couples were supposed to marry upon graduation, not sooner, not later, and of course marry within their social category. The pressure was great, but the two got their way: Ra Mahleiné pretended she was pregnant. That caused a tempest in her family but brought about the desired result. The couple told the truth only after the wedding, when the matter was settled. And then, during the battle with the Office of Segregation, they had all their relatives on their side.

At first they planned the trip in the usual way, without compensation: for both of them, four years of separation. By chance, a worker at the Office of Segregation, a colleague of Ra Mahleiné, told her about the compulsory marriage law.

A change of Land by one spouse automatically annulled the union. Both Ra Mahleiné, staying in Lavath, and Gavein, arriving in Davabel, would have to marry within a period of six months, and in the absence of their own choice they would have to marry persons selected from among arrivals by the local segregation office.

But if they traveled with compensation, they would never have to part again.

2

Toward the end of the flight, the passengers were finally permitted to remove the metal glasses, though they still had to sit in the frames that gripped their hips. Sometimes the pilot turned on a weak lightbulb to consult his map; the light showed the faces of the passengers. The seats were in pairs, by the windows. The whole interior of the plane: sewn canvas, and the duralumin ribs of the hull, and the frets connecting them, painted dark gray. Here and there the paint was flaking.

This one is wired together properly, said Gavein’s neighbor. Nothing rattles. But I flew once on a metal strato: a national airline, at the altitude of minutes—you understand? On its wings it had only two engines. Awful, as if we were being hammered . . . The worst was when it fell into an air pocket. Then the wings flapped, like a bird . . . This one is a different story: solid plates, strong wires. Although the canvas doesn’t keep out the cold . . .

Silent the whole way, and now he has to chatter, Gavein thought with annoyance but gave a nod. This was the first time for him. Boarding the plane, he had managed to count as many as ten engines, five on either side. Three on the wing blades, two by the hull. The engines by the hull were jets, and their noise was deafening. Apparently there was an advantage to combining jets and propellers. He had read something about that in a newspaper.

It was freezing. Winters in Davabel were as severe as in Lavath. The whole long trip was a haze in his memory now, a time without events, a semiconscious enduring. The roar of the engines had crushed remembering.

Unbuckle your safety belts, please. You can leave the plane, crackled the loudspeaker. Weak orange lights came on. Gavein unbuckled the metal shell of his seat and pulled his burlap bag out from under it. Not many possessions there for the next thirty-five years of his life. He pulled his shoes on feet swollen from so many hours without movement.

Patiently he waited on line to exit. The frozen surface of the airfield in Davabel gleamed like glass under the night sky. Only the landing strip was black. Behind a protective metal mesh, the pilot’s cabin now blazed with light: the crew was preparing for the return flight.

In the distance stood the dark terminal building. The passengers had to walk there, carrying their suitcases and backpacks. Everyone went very slowly. Some slipped and fell; the retireds regained their feet with difficulty. Women sobbed, trying to get up from the ice. Gavein managed all right, slipping only once, not seriously, and his backpack cushioned the fall.

Inside the terminal, the first thing he saw was a clock: a massive black sphere attached to the end of a curved metal pipe that hung from the ceiling. The clock’s time differed only thirty-two minutes from what the pilot had said; so they had arrived pretty much on schedule.

He got in line with the others. The official stood at his station like a cashier at a supermarket. Finally Gavein’s turn came. The man in uniform glanced at the passport, then looked at Gavein carefully.

Gavein Throzz?

Gavein nodded yes; he was drowsy.

The man stamped a large rectangle by the exit visa from Lavath. You’ll receive a resident visa for thirty-five years. When that period is up, you proceed to Ayrrah, he said. It was a formula. Please go to decoding. That window over there. He pointed.

Window 16 had a computer with a heavy metal keyboard in an armored box. The finish was worn away at the places where fingers touched the most. The official at this window was a young woman with flaming red hair. Her complexion was so fair it gave her face the look of a white cat, the kind with a pink nose and pink lips, except that someone had put a red wig on it.

She was a living placard for Davabel: Equal Rights for Reds. The thought amused him.

Your passport, please, she ordered. Perhaps he had looked at her disrespectfully. He hadn’t intended to insult her—but old habits die hard. In Lavath, no one took redheads seriously.

Gavein Throzz? . . . A peculiar name. She had a piping voice, too high. I’ll simply call you Dave, all right?

Gavein is an old, traditional name in Lavath. It has no short form, whereas Dave comes from David. You can say Throzz, if my first name is a problem.

We rarely use last names here, or titles, as you do in Lavath, she said. Let’s forget about Gavein. I’ll put Dave down for you. And?

What do you mean, and?

Your real name, of course, your Significant Name, she insisted, but avoiding his eyes.

The law of Lavath, and, to the best of my knowledge, the law of Davabel, too, guarantees privacy . . . limits the making public of Names, Gavein replied stiffly.

You invoke that legality? She gave him a sardonic look. She had pretty blue-green eyes (like those of a white cat).

Not waiting for his answer, she fed his passport into the slot of the reader.

You weren’t afraid to take a plane? she asked, cocking her head with mock surprise. That she could do. She hadn’t actually said his Name. I would never fly . . . I wouldn’t have your nerve. Letting him know, by this, that her Significant Name was the same as his.

He said nothing.

She’s waiting for me to make a date with her after work, he thought.

We have to confirm the information on your passport, she said finally.

She left her place to enter something into the passport at another computer. She was short and fine-boned. She’s showing off her figure, he thought, because she didn’t need to leave her desk. She wore a black tunic and green slacks that narrowed to polished boots. Epaulets. And a badge indicating the terminal authority.

Gavein took his passport back casually and moved ahead in the line. The customs officer had a large face, a square jaw, and huge hands in rubber gloves. He emptied the entire contents of Gavein’s bag on a counter; he found crackers, two apples, tea bags. All these he put in a plastic envelope.

You’ll get a receipt. Bringing in food and animals is not permitted. You understand: bacteria, mold . . . they spread, and we must protect our country.

Gavein stuffed his few possessions back into the bag.

The officer told Gavein to hurry; he was holding up the line. Next window, currency, he said.

The cashier said, When you leave this building, your Lavath money will be worthless. It must be returned by way of Ayrrah and Llanaig.

Gavein obediently took out his canvas wallet and produced a thick roll of worn, green banknotes. They gave off an unpleasant smell.

The money stinks, observed the cashier pleasantly. Like rancid butter, when there’s a lot of it.

The smell is from all the hands that held it, from their sweat, said Gavein. There’s two million here.

The official counted it methodically. Every now and then he dipped his fingers in a disinfecting fluid.

Correct. That’ll be 9,617 packets, he said and counted out a smaller pile of different bills. The color was the same.

Where next? Gavein asked. This was the last window. The person behind him was bringing out his foul savings.

The Office of Hierarchy and Classification. Room 12. The window on the left. The cashier pointed.

3

This official was also dark-haired. He reached for Gavein’s passport.

Relatively few adults coming from Lavath. It might be a demographic dip . . . , he mumbled. Do you know that eight transports ago we even had a geront? Quite a rarity. He was black, of course.

The official subjected Gavein’s hair and face to close scrutiny. Excellent. I can certify that you are black. There is no doubt about it. We won’t need the commission to vote on it.

In strong light, there’s a reddish tint to my hair, Gavein said, confident of his appearance. And my eyes are light . . . grayish.

The official looked him over one more time.

False modesty, he said. You’re within the norm. I’m classifying you black. You get the highest Lavath rating, a three. At the same time he stamped a large B in a special column.

You are allowed to darken your hair, he informed Gavein. Many reds, can you imagine, dye their hair. They have no shame.

The official kept talking as he filled out forms.

In Davabel, reds are required by law to have at least a two-inch strip of natural hair on the crown of their head. Grays—not to mention whites—may not dye their hair at all; for them it’s a punishable offense.

We have different rules, Gavein said. Is this resocialization? In Davabel you seem to be conducting a kind of racial resocialization.

Excuse me?

What you were saying about the use of dye.

Yes, resocialization, said the official. You are home now.

He held out a brochure.

Read this. In Davabel, you see, matters of classification, the rules for categorizing humanity, are treated more seriously than in Lavath. We have solved the mystery of the order of incarnations and in a way that allows no doubt. On that basis it has been possible to create a just hierarchy.

The explanation of this mystery is also in the brochure?

Unfortunately the brochure contains only a summary, the basic principles. The official rubbed his nose. I personally feel that it should go into more detail. But you’ll get the full picture at the lecture.

I see, said Gavein, without enthusiasm.

In Davabel, problems are taken note of . . . that you may never have encountered until now.

Gavein said nothing, so the official went on.

For example, vocabulary. You should not use such words as ‘brunet’ or ‘blond.’ Never a color in conjunction with the word ‘hair.’ Be careful to say only ‘black,’ ‘red,’ ‘gray,’ and ‘white’ . . . Forget those other words as quickly as you can, for your own good.

It’s illegal . . . ?

Of course not. But for saying ‘blond,’ you could be knifed. The police are not always nearby.

There was a moment of silence.

You should set yourself up, get married. Now is a good time . . . Personally I recommend you take a red or gray woman. Blacks are trouble because they have too many rights.

But I already . . .

You already have a wife? The official marked something down on a form. But you can look around, give it thought . . . A simple declaration is enough to annul a hastily entered relationship. She’s arriving on a female transport?

Gavein nodded.

Any children left in Lavath?

No.

At least we have that. I am not an advocate of foster parenting, though it is commonly done. Today there are a lot of children remaining, two grays and a red. No blacks, unfortunately. But you can think about it. Their ages are two, five, and sixteen.

I’m waiting for my wife.

A purely formal question. She isn’t white, is she?

Gavein lowered his eyes.

You’ve misunderstood me, surely.

Gavein said, She’s tall, graceful, slender. A natural blonde.

White.

My wife won’t stick a knife in me.

I didn’t mean to insult you. Our classification of people is sensible. Even our climate doesn’t favor whites. Their hair falls out, their teeth, their nails. Too little pigment . . . Possibly it’s in the genes. But you’ll see for yourself. In ten years your tall and natural wife will be . . . still tall and natural, but bald and toothless. The thallium in the atmosphere affects them. Why do you need an old hag? You’re better off forgetting her.

Gavein didn’t reply. He was not about to get into an argument with the official.

Where is this lecture?

That’s after orientation. You’ll be given a schedule.

And when you move to Ayrrah in a few years, Gavein thought bitterly, you’ll have to listen to this same crap.

Over there is the airline representative. He’ll take care of you. The official pointed.

Gavein got up from his chair. He put the folded brochure in his pocket. He didn’t intend to read it.

His place was taken by the next passenger, who had been standing, per regulations, at a distance of six meters from the window.

4

Again, the redhead official. As if she was sticking to him. Gavein followed her down corridors that went on and on.

The long flight, and perhaps also the fact that the air here was cleaner than in Lavath, made him feel slightly dazed.

Finally they reached the communal bedroom: iron beds, their frames scratched but not rusting. These were not bad accommodations; it could have been just pallets on the floor. Into a tag holder on a bed, the official put an airline tag that read Dave Throzz.

Forgive the quality of the bedding, poor for us. In Davabel we have good mattresses, both foam rubber and inflated. What you see here is designed to help new arrivals make the transition. The beds come from a military hospital, that’s why they’re all white and identical. You’ll stay here a night or two. In the meantime the Immigration Department will find something for you. Blacks get the best jobs. Her lip curled a little.

She shouldn’t betray her feelings, he thought. Social segregation, after all, is inevitable.

When she left, Gavein shoved his bag under the bed, took off only his boots and coat, and fell as he was on the dirty sheets. He had been told that people coming to Davabel had no resistance to local diseases; he feared infection.

The lights came on a few more times—more passengers from the plane, all of them retireds, not one middle.

It was hard falling asleep in a hall with a hundred and twenty men. The air was stuffy, but you couldn’t open a window because of the wind. The snoring didn’t let up—this one, that one—and the man to the right chomped in his sleep. When he finally closed his mouth and started grinding his teeth instead, it got quieter. Unfortunately, someone else started making muffled groans, as if smothered by a pillow. A nightmare, no doubt.

Gavein mentally calculated the time of Ra Mahleiné’s trip. She should have arrived. The thirty-two extra minutes made no important difference.

He slept poorly, kept waking up at first, and the dreamless sleep he finally fell into brought no relief.

Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. He thought at first that it was early dawn, but it was day, only overcast, dismal. He opened his heavy eyes: the redhead.

You’re not diabetic? she asked.

Aeriella . . . He didn’t like her any better today. Though she had the same Name as Ra Mahleiné.

No, he snapped.

We were afraid you’d gone into a coma. It’s four in the afternoon. There’s a talk in just a little while for blacks.

You work two shifts? he asked. His head was clearing.

Today I’m on duty in the afternoon. I was assigned to you.

You assigned yourself to me, red bitch, he thought.

He was wrong: she left him immediately. He joined a group of a few dozen people waiting in a small conference room. A few more travelers were brought in: all black middles. Finally the speaker appeared: it was the official from Hierarchy and Classification whom Gavein met yesterday.

Many of you were surprised, he began, by the careful attention to social segregation that you encountered here upon your arrival. He spoke from memory, though he had an index card with notes on the table before him. Everything is written down in the flier that was given to you, but I’ll wager a month’s salary that none of you has taken a look at it. He smiled benevolently and looked around the room.

The reply was silence.

Exactly. The official removed his cap and placed it on the table, badge facing the room. Here in Davabel we have discovered the law of the sequence of incarnations and can say with complete confidence that a white born among us is in the first incarnation, the lowest form of person. A white middle coming to Davabel represents a second incarnation, and so on.

This idea of four incarnations can’t be the only way of describing the human condition, Gavein thought, recalling a lecture given in Lavath. And here they’ve gone and made an inalterable law of sequence.

As one changes Land, his passport category rises, until in a subsequent Land that category is wiped to zero—until, in other words, his imperfection is revealed. But if he moves on, his category begins to grow, explained the official. At the same time he drew four bar graphs on the board, with rising columns. The highest column of each graph was at a different place on the x-axis. This makes it clear. Even a moron can see that the more times one is incarnated, the longer the revelation of his imperfection will be postponed. Any questions?

Again no one said anything.

There was truth in it: if each subsequent incarnation elevated a person, then the wiping of his category to zero must occur later and later in life, and therefore, when it occurred, it would befall fewer people.

You see, said the official triumphantly. He went on to discuss the principle in more detail, from which it turned out that not only was Gavein black and Ra Mahleiné white but, in addition, he was in his third incarnation and she only in her second, a further disqualification of her as a wife for him.

I wonder who here is in the same boat, Gavein thought, looking around the room. Everyone in the audience seemed bored. No one was sitting forward. The ones who had married prematurely were no doubt pleased by this opportunity to dump their wives.

After the talk there was no time for questions. The necessary formalities of annulment were taken care of for the men who wanted. Those who remained had to listen to a recorded speech that—as far as Gavein could tell—said nothing new about the four incarnations.

5

Then he was conducted to a minibus parked in front of the terminal. They waited for a few other travelers and left.

Immediately beyond the airport they entered the metropolitan area of Davabel, kilometer after kilometer of buildings.

Small wooden houses, single level or double level, with tiny gardens stuck on. Impermanent, uninteresting. Now and then larger complexes went by, several stories that housed government offices, a hospital, a bank, a department store.

Whereas Lavath was covered with concrete high-rises that went on and on. They soared like rock cliffs, the canyons among them barely a few hundred meters in width. At the bottom of the canyons were narrow asphalt streets and a chessboard of well-trod footpaths across extensive lawns. The severe climate made the huddling of buildings necessary: heat conservation. In comparison, the buildings of Davabel seemed pitiful, lacking the proper mass.

He remarked this to the driver.

We have a simple system, topologically, the driver replied. The streets go from north to south, the avenues from west to east.

It’s the same with us, Gavein said. He still felt himself a citizen of Lavath. "Except that ours are a bit farther apart. And if a street goes from northwest to southeast, it’s called a promenade; from northeast to southwest,