Olga raced down a corridor, and the sword’s shield flickered and died. She figures that it must not have much in the way of energy reserves.
“Here,” said the sword. It was a blank wall: Olga got off her cycle and began hacking at it. The sword cut through the wall without effort, not just cutting but turning the wall into powder as it cut, so that the sword would not get stuck. The first chunk fell free and Olga could see outside. She just needed to make the hole big enough for her cycle…
She was hit from behind, and spun around to the floor though still holding the sword. This time was worse: she could feel broken ribs on her left rear back, and a trickle of blood made it to the floor.
“That was a full power round,” said the sword. “Your overalls won’t protect you enough. Move fast.”
There were two of the blocky security robots in the corridor behind her, but Zippo was attacking them. Distracted by the blindingly fast space monkey, they tried to target Zippo but couldn’t get a lock, and they left Olga alone.
She got unsteadily back to her feet, and finished hacking out a hole big enough for her cycle. She jumped on the cycle and burst outside.
“Zippo! Come!”
Zippo hit the ground in a blur and angled back and forth, easily dodging the shots. He leaped out of the hole and leaped onto the cycle with Olga. They were continuing to take fire from the museum, and Olga went to maximum acceleration in an attempt to open the range and find cover.
There was a building across an alley, which had heavy bronze doors that were open. She raced inside and the doors closed behind her, a couple of last rounds spanging off the heavy metal.
Inside was cool and dim. The ceiling was low and gray, and there was a quiet sound of wind.
“Welcome,” said a soft voice, “to the Museum of Death.”
“Museum of Death?” The sword was still talking to Olga via bone conduction. “Out of the pizza oven and into the blast furnace.”
Olga looked around. “Museum of Death? You are a self-aware museum, like the Museum of the Museum of the City of New Birmingham I just left?”
“My apologies for the behavior of my colleague,” said the soft voice. “As you can imagine, being focused entirely on its own self, it has become a bit narrow-minded and lacking in empathy over the centuries. I assure you that you have nothing to fear here.”
Olga took her hand off the hilt of the Sword of Gadolinia.
“No offense,” said the sword, this time aloud, “but having just escaped from one homicidal self-aware museum, and then winding up in a museum about death, does not fill me with confidence.”
“A talking sword?” said the Museum of Death. “How intriguing. Were you perhaps constructed in memory of one who has passed?”
“No,” said the sword. “Why do you ask?”
“You see,” said the museum, “I am not really a museum of death per se – I agree, that’s a bit melodramatic but the marketers said it would sell. I am really a museum about human memorials – tombs, sepulchers, graves, and the rites and rituals surrounding them. If you had been made in someone’s honor, I should have liked to know. But no matter. The young lady appears to be injured, and you have had a narrow escape. You may rest here and recover, for as long or as short as you like. Word of honor.”
“Well,” said the sword, “that certainly sounds OK. Is there a place we can go and get the young lady cleaned up?”
“There are some locker rooms that the old human staff used to use. You are welcome to them. I regret that I no longer have any human food or medical supplies, but I do have fresh water in abundance, and clean sheets and towels.”
“That sounds nice,” said Olga. “Lead on.”
Olga was led by a small maintenance robot to a large women’s locker room which had rows of toilets and sinks and shower stalls. She peeled off her overalls and examined the wound in her back: it had stopped bleeding but was still badly bruised. Even with her ability to regenerate it would hurt for days, but not slow her down.
“Your wound appears to be mostly superficial,” said the museum, “although your body temperature is reading extremely low, I can’t pick you up on my thermal sensors at all. Are you all right? Oh wait – am I intruding by talking to you in a locker room? Would you like some privacy?”
Olga shook her head. “No, I’m fine with the company. As to the temperature, I’m a vampire – an ex-human being infected by a specialized virus. A low body temperature is normal for me.”
“A vampire?” said the museum. “You mean you are immortal?”
“Immortal?” said Olga. “No, not immortal. But I could potentially live a very long time, if something doesn’t kill me first.”
Olga cleaned herself up, and luxuriated in a hot shower. She even used a real toilet – she wasn’t shy about doing her business in the field, but it felt civilized to use one. She ate from her own rations (the museum’s own having gone rancid centuries ago, but that didn’t matter because Olga couldn’t digest regular human food anyhow), and fell fast asleep in a soft warm bed where the human night staff used to nap.
When she woke up her back still hurt, but she felt refreshed. She ate breakfast from her rations and chatted with the museum some more. The museum had a full exhibit on vampire mythology, most of which was either rubbish or misdirection that her vampire brethren had deliberately spread to confuse the issue. Rather than being upset at being told this, the museum was fascinated.
“So, museum,” said Olga, “have you heard of anyone or anything called the Dichoptic Maculatron?”
“Dichoptic Maculatron?” said the museum. “No, not in my records. If it exists, it must still be alive – or at least, not died a death notable enough to be memorialized. But you could try my colleague, the Museum of Museums. It’s the real scholar amongst us museums, and might have some references.”
They chatted some more, and the museum talked about the old days, when the planet had been under human control. This area had once been called the city of New Birmingham, and as Olga had suspected, had been a major cultural center of the planet.
Finally it was time to go. “You have been most gracious, Museum of Death,” said Olga. “Would you mind showing me one of your exhibits, before I leave?”
“Are you sure?” said the museum with a voice like a rustle of leaves. “As much as I would enjoy that, I did say that you that you were free to leave at any time.”
“And I appreciate that – but really, yes, I’d like to look at one exhibit.”
“Thank you for that,” said the museum. “But what would you like to see? The Egyptian Pharaohs? Neolithic burial mounds? The cryogenic vaults of Later Centropolis?”
Olga thought about that. “Show me something unusual. Something that most people skip, but is one of your favorites. Your choice.”
“Let’s try the exhibit on obelisks,” said the museum. “I think you’ll like that one.”
The exhibit was a ways off one of the main corridors, and Olga could easily see how most human visitors would miss it. Inside were reproductions of obelisks from all over, some from Old Earth, some from later colony worlds… And there were a few genuine relics, including a verified piece of the Egyptian obelisk that had been moved to St. Peter’s cathedral in Rome and ‘converted’ to Christianity… Olga had once seen the entire thing, with her own eyes, on a swelteringly hot August day in Rome back on pre-exodus Earth.
As interesting as the exhibit was, it was not extensive, and after about 30 minutes she had finished with it. However, as she was leaving, an alcove set in the wall caught her eye.
“What’s that?” asked Olga.
“That?” said the museum. “Oh, that. A bit embarrassing. It’s a ‘build your own memorial obelisk’ kiosk, supposed to attract the children. It never caught on. Too morbid, I was told.”
“Does it still work?” said Olga.
“It does,” said the museum. “Care to try?”
Olga sat down at a stool that was too low for her, and the graphica
l interface lit up. It was simplified, designed for children, so she quickly got the hang of it. You just selected graphical icons from various menus and sub-menus, and dragged them onto the four surfaces of the obelisk. She found the experience oddly engrossing, and when she was done she pushed a large red button (twice – “are you sure you wish to finalize your obelisk?”) and a 3D printer produced a gray plastic obelisk about half the length of her forearm, covered with abstract symbols.
“Well, what do you think?” said Olga.
“Let me see,” said the museum. “Well, it starts out with you being born, and living a poor life. You became transformed – that would be the virus you talked about, correct? – and acquired great wealth. Which you used foolishly. Then there was a long journey, and an exile of sorts, then you met… new people. Metal people, people shaped like weapons. You left your exile, and met… a great love. But it wasn’t real – or at least, not ordinary. And you fought battles. And you died! Wait a minute, you didn’t say that you had died.”
Olga blushed. “That was a long time ago. I prefer not to think about it. As the old joke goes, I got better.”
“Well then,” said the museum. “It goes on… you got better, as you say, and plied the stars with your great love. You encountered strange beasts, and met many interesting beings. Then your love died – and was reborn, although different from before. I must say, that you and your friends take a rather casual view of death. No offense. Anyhow, life went on, though perhaps with some strain. Then a quest, a quest to the stars... and the fourth face of the obelisk is unfinished, to symbolize that your life is not yet finished. If I may, that last part is a bit cliché, it’s rather obvious and has been done many times, though I do sympathize. You don’t mind me criticizing, I hope? A bit simplistic in spots, but powerful. As so many of the best memorials are.”
Olga blushed a deep crimson through her pale skin. “You got all of that from a few abstract symbols? I am impressed.”
“I am only a humble museum of death, but I have dedicated my life to the study of human memorials. I am an expert in the psychology of such matters. Your story is as clear to me as if you had written it in English.”
Olga continued to blush, but was at a loss for words.
“If you don’t mind,” said the museum, “could I keep it? I would like to put it on display in the speculative wing, which includes memorials for people that haven’t died yet (or at least whose deaths could not be confirmed). I’d be honored.”
“The honor would be mine.”
Olga and the sword bid farewell to the Museum of Death, and Olga promised that, if she could, she would let others know of the museum’s continued existence. Perhaps some exception to the Treaty of Ampersand could be arranged, and visitors allowed to come, or perhaps the museum could be relocated back to cybertank-controlled space. You never knew.
Olga, the Sword of Gadolinia, and Zippo the Space Monkey continued on, following a map that the Museum of Death had provided them of the surrounding area (which was much more detailed than the map that the Museum of the Museum of New Birmingham had given them).
They came to a large cubical building, with a simulated neon sign on the front that spelled out “Museum2” in bright blue letters 10 meters high. The front of the building was lined with several dozen mis-matched doors: some tall, some short, some narrow, some broad, some plain, and some covered with intricate arabesques. Olga guessed that each of these must have come from some other museum.
She chose a set of doors and approached, the doors swung open, and she drove in. Zippo dashed on ahead, and the doors swung closed behind her. The inside was as jumbled as the insides of the previous museums had been open and simple. Ramps led off in all directions, some made of bare grey concrete, some polished blond wood, while others were made of rusted steel or frosted glass. There were signs everywhere, pointing to various exhibits, and everywhere were scattered small glass display cases. One contained a selection of 24th century toy monorails from the Altairian Mass Transit Museum, another a matched set of suture material from the Museum of Medical Technology in the city of New Prague. The ceiling was a highly realistic 3D simulation of a blue sky with faint wisps of cloud, which Olga felt helped lessen the feeling of clutter from all the stuff on the ground.
“Welcome, Olga Razon,“ said a clear high-pitched female voice. “The Museum of Death told me that you’d be coming. I am the Museum of Museums, and I believe that you have some questions for me.”
Zippo was scampering up and down the various ramps, clearly enjoying the cluttered nature of the place. “Yes I do, museum. Do you have any information on something called the Dichoptic Maculatron?”
“Hmm… let me check my records. They are more extensive than those of the other museums in the area, because I have the full catalogs and databases of many other museums. However, not all of these are in an easily searchable format. But I should have an answer for you in less than half an hour, if that is acceptable to you.”
“A half an hour is fine,” said Olga. Zippo was playing in a shallow pond where water jets randomly shot up at strange angles – the placard announced that it was an artifact from the Museum of Water-Gardens. “Oh, that’s my space monkey, Zippo – he tends to have a lot of energy. Is that OK?”
“Your small friend isn’t hurting anything, and I’m glad of the company,” said the museum. “If you like, I have several exhibits from a variety of children’s museums.”
“No,” said Olga, “that’s alright. Zippo doesn’t need toys, he will amuse himself with whatever is at hand.”
“Then,” said the museum, “that’s not a problem. I’ve had stranger patrons, the last few centuries.”
Olga looked surprised. “You’ve had visitors? I thought there hadn’t been humans here in ages.”
“Oh not humans, no,” said the museum. “But other things. Some are local scavengers – when they try to rip pieces out of me, I drive them off with my defense systems. Once they learn that I’m not easy prey they leave me alone. Others are more polite, even if I don’t know what they are or even if they can appreciate what I am. Things like big silver worms, or machines like gumball dispensers with hands for feet, or swarms of tiny metal insects. As long as they don’t damage anything they are free to explore my exhibits. Some of them just pass through and leave. Others linger, and appear to examine some of the historical artifacts in detail, although they never speak to me. At least, not in a language that I can understand.”
“Huh,” said Olga. “Well, this is the planet of chaos. I imagine that some of your visitors would have been hardly more than lost animals, others machines whose programming had long since degraded, and others still may have been agents of transcendent powers, here on some whim.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said the museum. “Although I can’t tell which is which.”
“So you are a museum of museums?” said Olga. “Does that make you sort of the opposite of the Museum of the Museum of the City of New Birmingham?”
“I never thought of it quite that way,” said the museum, “but it’s a valid point. My self-absorbed colleague was all about itself. I am all about others, a museum documenting the history of other museums, the different types, and their evolution through the ages.”
“Do you have an exhibit on other museums of museums?” said Olga.
The museum laughed a pleasant high-pitched laugh, which reminded Olga of tinkling bells. “Certainly I do – I am not the only meta-museum in the human records – so perhaps I have a little bit of self-referential tail-chasing in me as well. But I try not to let it get out of control.”
“How much do you know about what happened here?” said Olga.
“About the coming of the chaos?” said the museum. “Not that much. It started out slow, just a little cultural fragmentation, minor outbreaks of nanotech, a few aliens setting up mini-colonies, and machines getting smarter and smarter. It didn’t affect me, not for a long while, so I ignored it. When it became impossible to igno
re, it progressed so rapidly that it was hard to tell what was going on. Every day got more and more extreme. There were riots outside my walls, battles fought between humans and aliens and machines, then just battles between aliens and machines and things I don’t have words for. The humans stopped coming to visit, and the data links to the other parts of human civilization all winked out in less than a week. It’s gotten less hectic the last few centuries, some sort of chaotic stability. Although you never know when it’s going to have another spurt of craziness.”
“Hmm…” said Olga. “Did you know that this planet is quarantined? Have you heard of the Treaty of Ampersand?”
“No,” said the museum. “What treaty is that?”
“The chaos here started to infect neighboring human systems. The humans fought to contain it, and by that time many of them had become highly evolved, but there were advanced intelligences here as well. It was supposed to be quite a fight. The full details of the negotiations are beyond me, but the end result is that the chaos here stayed here, but both advanced organic humans, and any level of digital human-level sentience, are banned from coming.”
“That would explain the lack of visitors,” said the museum. “I am glad, however, that the human civilization still exists. I worried that all of you had died out, and that I and my surviving sibling museums were all that was left.”
“When I make it back, I will tell people about you. If there is some way, perhaps we can get an exception to the treaty and have you brought out of here. Or send visitors, or something.”
“If you could, that would be much appreciated,” said the museum. “I’m programmed for patience, but I’m also programmed to enjoy guests. Museums have a reputation for being quiet souls, but even we can have too much quiet. But now I’ve finished my records search, and I believe I have found a hit. There was a museum of artificial intelligence – sadly deceased these last 236 years – and it had a large section on rogue AIs. This Dichoptic Maculatron was some sort of self-evolved optical instrument, medical I think.”
Full Frontal Cybertank Page 23
