by Sue Burke
Foehn releases some fluids from her roots. It might be mere reflex action.
Then Robert says, which I do not share with my sisters because they would not understand, “I hope I’ll see the results. I’ve been called to a rally in Bayonne to celebrate the insurgent victories, and I must attend by decree. We’ll pledge ourselves to the continued battle, and we’ll all be scrutinized. They might notice … No, erase that. Some things I shouldn’t even think. There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing. I support the revolution. I do. I do. Of course I do.”
He sits and stares for a while, then stands, tidies the lab, and when everything is in perfect order, he looks around, sighs, and leaves.
They need our guidance and love.
I stare through the network’s cameras at the dark, empty rooms for a while.
* * *
I was wrong when I said I would not enjoy seeing someone suffer. Pain seeps from Foehn’s roots. I block the enzymes to protect myself and wonder what to do, so I spend a day reviewing Robert’s notes. I could work faster with access to more sunlight and energy.
My new chip feels not like an eye, not like a leaf, and yet somewhat like them because I can sense with them, like a shadow passing over me, like a touch, enough to disorient the stem that holds the chip. But I do not suffer like Foehn.
With these chips, we are linked to a local network of the five of us and the institute. It does not connect to the wider human network that lets me access information or individuals anywhere in the world, or rather, everywhere that access is permitted.
Through our little network, we are receiving what a human brain would interpret as a musical hum, three harmonious notes, and a series of pastel colors. This trains humans to their new chips, and I find detailed information about the adaptation process, including what to do for difficulties like Robert’s. Eventually, nerve cells will grow and cluster around the chip and adapt to be able to interpret and control the input and output.
My old chip is so familiar I need not think about how it works. With it I can explore human arts, which Boreas and Foehn know nothing about. Partake of their culture and knowledge. They would be surprised by how creative humans are.
As the day ends, I stop studying, and sunset turns everything pink for a beautiful moment. All the plants around me settle into nightly torpor except for Foehn, who still complains, but more weakly. The weather remains dry and hot. The institute office is dark.
Robert left a week ago. As Beluga, I have searched for him in the human network. If he were transmitting, I would find him, and every human normally transmits or at least can be located all the time. His feed is missing. He could be blocked or restricted. He could be dead. If he is dead, will he be replaced? The institute has never been very important, and the revolution is sapping human resources.
He cared for us. Will anyone else?
I should rest, but I have too much to think about. I know how to help Boreas and Foehn, but I should speak only when spoken to. They like me silent when it is convenient for them, so I will choose to be silent even when it inconveniences them. They have taught me how to be cruel.
My upper leaves itch with thirst, but rain is coming tomorrow. Finally.
* * *
Just after a dawn muted by clouds but bright enough to be energizing, Foehn says, “Help me, Levanter! You know how to use your chip! Tell me how.” She sends me some ethylene, which damages a few rootlets, to emphasize that this is an order. I do not cringe.
“Yes, help,” Boreas says.
“I feel something odd,” the locustwood tree says. “Tell me about it.”
“Sometimes humans have trouble with their chips,” I say. During the night, I decided on a plan. A spiteful plan, I admit. “Let me search to see what can be done. The human system is hard to understand, and I have limited energy.”
“You remember getting your chip. The one Mirlo gave you!” Foehn insists. “What did you do?”
“I have lost that root. If the chip is bothering you, it must have been successful, not like the first time with Mirlo. This is good news.” I let her and Boreas think about that for a while. Then I say, “I will see what I can learn to help you.”
“Hurry!” Foehn sends more ethylene, as if that will help either of us.
The morning message comes from Pax, as usual, talking about a new city, making a total of three. Someone should answer, and I am the only entity at the Pax Institute. But I am not authorized.
Tell me of your lives and fates.
What would I say?
The building and equipment and its maintenance robots can operate automatically for a long time without Robert. I can control some functions without him, even some machines. Since he is gone, no one will notice. But I cannot turn on the irrigation.
Boreas and Foehn, I have learned, can do nothing at all, confined to the small artificial bamboo network. I spend the morning looking to see how to connect them to the larger network in case I ever wished to, or to block them if I had to. I would need the network authorization that Robert has and that as Beluga, a soil moisture sensor, I lack. Can I impersonate Robert? No. I have one passkey, which only lets me access the archive files. I can, however, approve new entities to our small artificial network. I have some power, more power than Boreas and Foehn, but less than a human.
I check the network to look for Robert and news. I can find only what is permitted by the revolution. The outskirts of a large city called Paris are burning, and no doubt humans are being hurt. The smoke is blowing west, not toward me. Instead, I sense rain-bearing winds from the sea. What is happening beyond the sea cannot drift this far, but humans are fighting and dying in many places. Their network cannot directly share pain the way our roots can. For that I am thankful. The quantity would be as suffocating to my roots as a flood. And in that sea of pain is Robert, somewhere.
We must beware of their nature, which is quarrelsome and destructive.
I have delayed long enough. They do not know I am punishing them, so it is not really punishment. “It will rain soon,” I announce. “That will help you adapt to the chips.”
“How?” Foehn demands.
“I will show you. Very soon.”
Foehn’s pain has upset the plants around her, even Earth plants. Boreas remains silent. The locustwood is sharing fructose with the female locustwoods. He would never display weakness to them. The ponytail tree seems to be dozing.
Around me, animals sense rain is about to fall and take shelter. When it begins, all the plants here in the forest garden murmur contentment. My uppermost leaves feel soothed.
“Foehn, Boreas, locustwood, listen to me. I will give you instructions. You must do as I say.” I treasure those words for a moment and repeat them with pleasure. “Do as I say. I can help. Locate your roots and rhizomes. Do you feel them? They are far from the chip. Those roots are as they always were, they have not changed. Examine your roots.… Now feel your outermost leaves. What do you feel?”
“Wet. Water. Rain!” Foehn says with increasing ions.
“Rain on leaves,” the locustwood says. “Soon on roots.”
Boreas says nothing. Is she paying attention at all?
“Feel your outermost leaves with your deepest roots. All that lies between them is not important.…” I do that, too. My new chip’s disorientation fades. I keep talking during the storm, then during the sunshine that follows, instructing them to notice parts of themselves and their surroundings rather than the chip, to notice the moisture that pierces to the root and brings us contentment.
I continue to monitor the human network. Heavy rain puts out fires in Paris. Other fires still burn in other places. There are quarrels on the Moon and Mars and space stations. Many humans seem to be like Foehn, willing to kill to get what they want. Are we better than they are?
I sent you to Earth to command with compassion.
How could Mother send such impossible instructions?
* * *
After three days, Foehn seems calmer. Boreas has sa
id a few words. I try talking to the ponytail tree, asking if she is well. She says “springtime,” then falls into silence, but that brief mumble seems healthy. The locustwood wants to know what the chip is for. That is a good question since it brings no connection to the larger human network, and we already have roots for communication among ourselves. Robert planned to show us the message from Mother to see if we would react but imagined no other purpose.
Still, my sisters do not know this, and they demand help.
“I will tell you what to do for the next step,” I say. “Through the chip you can sense a quiet sound and a gentle changing light. For now it will be faint, but it will grow stronger as you become more accustomed to it.”
“I see nothing,” Foehn says.
“It will be like this.” I show her and the others through our roots. “I can barely notice it yet myself. We must be patient.”
When the chips are fully functional, however, my sisters will discover what little they are worth. What will they do to me? I would remain their connection to the wider network, at least.
Today Pax sends a message with music. Since replies take fifty-five years to arrive, they will not notice Earth silence for a long time. But Stevland will be waiting. Humans will be born and die, meanwhile we bamboo live long enough to exchange a few messages. What would I ask if I could? What news would I send?
The human network tells of insurgent victories and the destruction of people, structures, animals, and even farms and forests. A grove of bamboo is ablaze, and I tell Boreas and Foehn what is happening.
“Humans kill, destroy, and die,” Boreas says. That is all they mean to her.
Then, in the afternoon, I find a notice that Robert’s connection has officially ceased to function. He exists no more.
We can partake of their culture and knowledge.
They know a lot about killing.
He was the one being that cared for me. He needed protection, and I could do nothing for him.
When Mirlo gave us chips and access to the human network, what did he want us to do? I search until I find his notes in a very old section of the archives. He left no clue that we were intelligent and capable of communication. Yet he knew what we were. He had to know.
Finally, I find a message labeled “For Boreas, Foehn, and Levanter.” It requires a passkey, and mine works. Surely here I will discover what he knew about us. Instead, the file contains passkeys, permissions, codes, and information about how to access human and machine networks. I look at it again and again, slowly realizing how much I now have, how much Mirlo gave me. This is pure joy. I can access and authorize access to every part of the institute subnetwork as well as to the wider human network. I can identify myself and anyone else in a way that will make us seem human.
We can have access. We can be like humans.
He knew. He understood how intelligent we were. He loved us.
Should I tell Boreas and Foehn? I will decide later. For now, I create my own access. I am now Levanter the human. Mirlo also provided a code to identify us as institute staff. Levanter, director of the Pax Institute. I am, at least in one way, now as powerful as a human being. More powerful than Boreas and Foehn.
But being human did not keep Robert alive.
* * *
By midsummer, our new chips work well, and I can irrigate our garden whenever we are thirsty. I have given Boreas, Foehn, the locustwood, and the ponytail tree limited access to the institute subnetwork and invented an excuse about not being able to do more. Even that makes my sisters deliriously happy.
In Mirlo’s records from Pax, Foehn discovers an account of how our ancestors competed artistically. She starts to grow new kinds of flowers, new pigments, new patterns, even to give her fruit new coloring and flavors. Although she continues to try to kill the beeches, she no longer gloats over their suffering. She is too busy.
Boreas quickly becomes frustrated with root communication when she sees how far the artificial network could reach. “Bamboo grows everywhere, in places across oceans and mountains. I want to communicate with them. How can I do that?”
I already know it cannot happen. “Those bamboo would have to get chips to be connected to our network.”
“Look,” Foehn interrupts. “I have red flowers now.”
“Get them chips and connections,” Boreas orders, as if it were that easy.
I spend several days researching and thinking. Finally, I realize something wonderful. I might be able to achieve what Boreas wants and help myself at the same time.
“I have an idea,” I say. “I can impersonate the director of the Pax Institute. The director sometimes issues updates on the care of Pax plants and animals. I could create an update telling farmers and gardeners that a chip placed in rainbow bamboo stems would allow those bamboo to connect to a network provided by the institute, and this connection to their peers will result in more beautiful and productive plants. There is a comparable network involving whales that improved their lives.”
“Do it!” Foehn orders.
“I will need energy. I need more sunshine and room to grow. The document will be large and complex.”
They communicate privately between each other. Foehn seems angry.
Finally, Boreas says, “You will get that.”
The next day, I start to stretch my roots into the sunny field I have long yearned for. I send robots to record Foehn’s new beauty. I invent data about improved yield and append Robert’s initial experimental plan. Finally, after ten days of work, I send out this update with instructions about how to link the chips to the bamboo network. I can approve them when they join.
Two days later, a grove in our river valley tells Boreas through their root network that they have been implanted with chips. She tells them why and explains how to adapt to their chips. I look forward to talking to other bamboo, eventually. That will improve my life as much as more sunshine.
* * *
Messages from Pax continue to arrive. I must answer them, and answer Stevland, although I have little to tell.
I can say that bamboo grows wherever seeds find suitable soil. However, we mean no more to humans than apple trees. On Pax, Stevland is protected and treasured. Why? Do humans there know what Stevland is? Are Pax humans different? The reports from Pax sometimes tell of violence and troubles, just like here. Do groves burn there, too?
We must protect ourselves from humans. Somehow, Mother commands them. With compassion. That will be impossible here. Earth and Pax are too different. But I have some powers now. Can I grow them into a small kind of dominance?
Stevland, I will say, we are your children on Earth, and we are thrilled by your message. Bamboo grows everywhere on this planet and we are treasured for our fruit and beauty, yet that is all they know of us. Our thoughts and words are secret to them. They fight to the death among themselves and need our guidance. We understand that, Mother. But why would humans let us lead them? How? Persuasion? Force? Can we truly love them? Help us dominate Earth. Tell us how.
I send my answer in a message that says, in human words, “Here is the sound of Earth. Find it on Pax.” My answer may disappoint Stevland, but I would be lying if I said things are well. A call for help is honest. How can she think we are more powerful than humans?
The answer will come in one hundred and ten years.
ALSO BY SUE BURKE
Semiosis
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUE BURKE spent many years working as a reporter and editor for a variety of newspapers and magazines. A Clarion Workshop alumnus, Burke has published more than thirty short stories in addition to working extensively as a literary translator. She lives in Chicago. Learn more about the Pax duology by visiting semiosispax.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1. Karola—Earth Year 2303
2. Arthur—Pax Year 210 Since Founding
3. Omrakash Bachchan—Earth Year 2443, Pax Year 210
4. Queen Thunderclap—20 Days Later
5. Jacques Mirlo—6 Days Later
6. Stevland—The Next Day
7. Zivon—2 Days Later
Epilogue: Levanter—2790 CE—Earth
Also by Sue Burke
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
INTERFERENCE
Copyright © 2019 by Sue Burke
All rights reserved.
Edited by Jen Gunnels
Cover photograph (anemones) by Jeff Rotman / Alamy Stock Photo Cover design by Jamie Stafford-Hill
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-31784-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-31782-7 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250317827
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First Edition: October 2019
