by Greg Bear
“We have had many good years, Garry,” she said. Then, with her usual directness, she said, “What’s more important to us now, our past together, or our future?”
He could not answer. In a way, he was being forced to stay alive. That implied that he wanted his future to be brief…. Yet he did not wish to die. He simply wanted equality and justice, and under the present circumstances, immortality did not seem just. He was willing to die for these convictions. “Just us, now,” he said.
She held his hand more firmly. “All right,” she said. “Just now.”
Lanier knew that Karen would not stay at his side forever. Once the isolation was lifted—almost certain within the next few months—she would become active again, and perhaps separation would drive them apart again. He didn’t want that, but they were no longer well matched. He could accept being old; she could not.
Still, there were many people he would like to see again.
Questions he would like to have answered.
Whatever happened to Patricia?
Was she home, or alive in some other alternate universe, or had she died trying?
Thistledown orbited Earth every five hours and fifty minutes, as it had since the Sundering. In some regions of the Earth, the asteroid’s bright star was worshipped even after decades of education and social engineering; humanity’s psychological yolk sacs could not be eliminated so easily.
The news that the Earth’s saviors might soon leave—so the stories had been simplified—caused panic in some areas, relief in others. Those who worshipped the Thistledown and its occupants believed they were leaving out of disgust for Earth’s sins. They were correct in a sense; but if the Earth could not abandon its past, neither could the Hexamon.
With the re-opening on schedule, and Korzenowski’s wonders performing flawlessly, the Nexus Special Committee set about healing some of the worst wounds in their relations with Earth.
There was not much time; nor did they expend an enormous amount of effort. The Hexamon was enthused; hysteria was not possible, or at least highly unlikely, in the population of the orbiting bodies, but an almost drugged sense of splendor reigned. They were proud of their power and cleverness; they were happy to be working to solve otherwise insoluble problems. And they felt that Earth would benefit in the long run, that the Way would bring prosperity to them all.
Mirsky’s warnings were virtually forgotten. Hadn’t the so-called avatar vanished without trace? If his strength had been so enormous, why hadn’t he put a stop to the vote and forced the Hexamon to do things his way? Even Korzenowski gave Mirsky little consideration. There was too much to do, too many compulsions exterior and interior; and the interior compulsions grew stronger with each day.
The Engineer tracted from one end of the bore hole to the other, wrapped in his closed-end, baggy red robe like an overgrown infant.
The long, slender shapes of three flawships—transported from Axis Thoreau two days before, threaded through the Thistledown bore holes—hung suspended in softly glowing traction cradles, huge dark spindles along his accustomed path.
These were fully armed vessels, brought in as precaution. They could also be used to explore the Way.
Korzenowski looked down on the wide, cylindrical valley of the sixth chamber and felt a yearning he could neither analyze nor repress. The foundation on which all of his assembled partials had been integrated now colored him through and through. He did not protest; something was wrong within him, but it did not stop his work; if anything, it made him more brilliant.
For Olmy, dreaming had never been the same with implants, and it had changed even more radically since the Jart had taken over.
Sleep was not necessary for an implant-aided homorph. The processing of experiences and memories—and the relaxation and play of an overworked subconscious mind—took place during Olmy’s waking hours; these activities were assigned to surrogate mentalities within the implants. Essentially, Olmy’s concentrated conscious effort could continue at all hours while a parallel mentality “slept” and dreamed. The mentality could then refine and filter Olmy’s subconscious mental contents.
The process had been perfected across centuries.
Olmy’s dreams were intense, as real as waking experiences, like living in another universe with different (and changing) rules; but he did not access them unless he wanted to. They had accomplished their purpose without his necessarily being aware. Eventually, after five or six years, dream contents were purged or compressed in his personal implant, and either downloaded to external personal memory or deleted. Olmy tended to delete such contents. He was not fond of experiencing his own dreams, and seldom did so unless he felt they might hold the resolution to a pressing personal difficulty.
Now, however, the Jart mentality occupied all of Olmy’s available implant space, including his personal implant. Olmy, even when he had been in control, had had to reassign subconscious processing to its natural center—his primary mentality.
He had had the choice of either sleeping and dreaming naturally, or filtering out waking dream experiences. Before the Jart’s conquest, he had chosen the latter. Dreaming while awake posed few problems; he was mentally disciplined enough to not be distracted.
Now, however, the Jart was controlling and manipulating not only the implants, but his primary conscious and subconscious routines—those activities which took place within his organic brain. Olmy’s conscious primary self was often shunted into the dream-world abruptly and without warning.
It was a realm filled with monsters. The subconscious, all those agents and routines which handled automatic responses, was in a terrible state. Olmy could be consciously calm, but his fundamental self was terrified, helpless, and in a panic.
Often, when the Jart did not need his immediate attention, he was forced to wander the dream landscape like a character in a bad biochrone.
Forced to confront his dreams directly, Olmy found signs of character flaws that further undermined his already low morale. (Why hadn’t he dealt with these flaws through Talsit or other therapy decades or centuries ago? He might not have made the disastrous decision to ingest the Jart if he had been fully rational…) In his dreams, he repeatedly found suicidal urges and had to fight them off—small, insect-like creatures that threatened to eat away his limbs or bite off his head.
Sometimes it took all his courage and will just to survive until the Jart allowed his consciousness access to the external world.
In time, he wondered whether the Jart knowingly put him to this torture as a kind of revenge; drowning him in his own mind, just as the Jart had been forced to drown in its thoughts until it had slumped into timeless stasis…
But he had no proof, no evidence the Jart could be cruel or vengeful. It simply needed his entire mind to sweep for information, or practice its masquerade as a human being.
When his personality was foremost and in apparent control of his body, he could not act on any impulse or plan unless approved by the Jart.
So far, the Jart had not tripped any of those algorithmic snares that would kill them both. Not even Olmy knew where they were; the partial had managed to erase itself just before Olmy’s surrender—the Jart’s single lapse thus far—and only the partial had known the locations and character of the snares.
The Jart, having satisfied itself that its position was now secure, began to give Olmy more and more control, and to act more and more as a firm rider on a horse, rather than a puppet master. For the first time, it expressed its wishes as a demand, rather than simply forcing him to act.
We must speak with Korzenowski. Make us available for the reopening.
“They’ll open a test connection first,” Olmy explained. “It would be better to wait for the final re-opening. Even better not to be seen in public at all…”
The Jart considered this. We are both on >borrowed time<, no, fellow expediter? We must act quickly. The risk of early exposure does not outweigh the risk of finding your pitfalls. Once his test opening i
s made, Korzenowski may have great difficulty closing it.
The sixth chamber machinery had been examined and certified, and repaired or replaced where necessary; ten thousand corporeal humans, some seventy thousand partials and innumerable robots and remotes had done their finest work the past few weeks, at Korzenowski’s direction. The next major test was at hand.
In the final hours before the first connection, the Engineer rested in his spherical quarters, attached to the wall of the bore hole like a cocoon. He was mentally and physically near complete exhaustion. Even dividing himself into a dozen partials could not lighten the burden he carried. He had felt this burden before, and in one way it exhilarated him, but it had a sour edge.
Once, gate-openers in the Way had relied on psychological self-mastery. The cloak of ceremony wrapped around a gate-opener’s duties served as a reminder that a fogged or unfocused mind could not properly use a clavicle…
Yet Korzenowski, his mind in turmoil, was about to use the entire sixth chamber—in effect, the Thistledown itself—as a clavicle, opening something analogous to a huge gate.
He curled tighter in his red robes, resting within a tube of sleepfield lines. Eyes closed, he released a small cloud of Talsit, the last genuine Talsit in the Terrestrial Hexamon, as far as he knew. The session would not last long enough to clear his thoughts completely, but it would help. The fog filled the sleepfield and he inhaled deeply, evenly, letting the tiny particles enter through lungs, skin, wherever they could, cleansing, correcting, soothing.
“Ser Korzenowski.”
He opened his eyes. Through the thinning Talsit fog, he saw a man floating nearby. The sphere was locked; no one could enter without the monitor notifying him. He uncurled, brushing away the last wisps.
Again, it was Olmy. His friend’s appearance startled Korzenowski; he looked unkempt, his eyes did not seem to focus properly, and he smelled like an ill-tended homorph; he also smelled afraid. Korzenowski’s nose wrinkled.
“I would have invited you in,” Korzenowski said. “No need to enter like a thief.”
“Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Why hide?”
Olmy shrugged. Korzenowski noted that he wore no pictor.
“We’ve been close friends, more than that even, for a long time.”
Korzenowski stretched out and braced himself against a weak traction field. This sudden awkwardness was peculiar; they had always been at ease around each other.
“You’ve always relied upon my judgment…trusted me. And I’ve always trusted you.”
The Engineer liked this conversation less and less. Olmy seemed scattered, almost twitchy. “Yes.”
“I’d like to make an unusual request. Something the Hexamon might disapprove of. I can’t explain all my reasons now…But I think you’ll have major problems opening a test link with the Way.”
“My old friend, I’m expecting problems.”
“Not like this. I’ve been researching, collecting everything that we know about Jarts. I think I’ve found a way to prevent even greater problems when we complete the reopening. It may even help with the test. I’m asking you to send a message down the Way through the test link.”
“A message to the Jarts?”
Olmy nodded.
“What sort of message?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Korzenowski grimaced. “Trust has its limits, Olmy.”
“It’s necessary; it might save us all from a hideous battle.”
“What did you learn that could save us all?”
Olmy shook his head.
“I can’t do something so unusual with so little explanation.”
“Have I ever asked anything of you before?”
“No.”
“This may be primitive, and uncalled for, Konrad…but you owe me a favor.”
“Very primitive,” Korzenowski agreed. For a moment, he had a strong urge to call security. The urge passed, but it added to his sense of unease.
“You must trust me that this is very important, and that I cannot explain now.”
Korzenowski regarded the man who had saved his life and arranged for his resurrection. “You have unique privileges in this community,” he said. “But as you said, you’ve never taken advantage of them before…or taken advantage of me. What sort of message is it?”
Olmy gave him a memory block. “It’s recorded here, in a code the Jarts might understand.”
“A message directly to the Jarts?” Korzenowski could not conceive of a way in which Olmy might turn traitor; still, the idea shocked him. “A warning?”
“Think of it as an overture for peace.”
“You’re playing at diplomacy with the worst enemies we’ve ever faced? Does the president or the head of Thistledown Defense know about this?”
Olmy shook his head, obviously unwilling to say more.
“I ask you just one thing. Will this jeopardize the reopening?”
“Solemn oaths are old-fashioned, too. I give you my solemn oath that this will not jeopardize the re-opening. It may ensure its success.”
Korzenowski accepted the memory block, wondering if there were some quick way he could come to understand its contents. Knowing Olmy, probably not. “I’ll transmit it through the link on one condition…That you explain to me, very soon, what you are up to. What has really happened to you.”
Olmy nodded.
“Where can I contact you?” Korzenowski said.
“I’ll be at the opening of the test link,” Olmy said. “Farren Siliom has invited me.”
“The neo-Geshel observers want to keep watch on all of us. I’d just as soon not have an audience.”
“Difficult times for all of us,” Olmy said.
Korzenowski slipped the block into his robe’s pocket. Olmy stretched out his hand and the Engineer clasped it. Then he left the small quarters.
Will he transmit the message? the Jart asked as they exited the bore hole.
“Yes,” Olmy answered. “Damn you to whatever Jarts call hell.”
The Jart’s internal voice seemed tinged with sorrow. We are like brothers, yet we do not trust each other.
“Not at all,” Olmy said.
I cannot convince you of the urgency of my mission now.
“You haven’t yet.”
When your people open the Way again, I do not know what they will find…but it will not likely be pleasant.
“They’re prepared.”
Your passion is curious. I can do your kind no harm. You carry the message of descendant command. That is the message your friend will transmit—that you are not enemies, must not be enemies.
54
Earth
On his last day on Earth, Lanier cut wood for their stove—more a decorative item than a necessity—and enjoyed the physical labor. The positioning of the iron wedge and the solid slam of the sledge. The stacking of the logs. Solid, muscle-straining, authoritative, ancient rituals.
He watched Karen baking bread, and tasted a slice from a fresh loaf early in the afternoon.
“Today, I am free of my little helpers,” he said, pointing to a red mark on a wall calendar. The last of his internal medical remotes would have dissolved by now.
“You should call Christchurch for another check-up,” Karen said, following him with her green-gold eyes.
“They won’t remove the implant,” Lanier said. “Until they agree to do that, I’m boycotting Ras Mishiney’s little medical tyranny.”
She smiled, obviously not agreeing, but not willing to argue any more.
“Fine bread,” he said, putting on his boots, grimacing at the new muscles he had found chopping wood. “Makes the whole world cheerful again, just by its smell.”
“Old English recipe, with some Hunan embellishments,” Karen said, removing a second loaf from the oven. “My mother used to call it Four Unities Bread.” She slipped the loaf onto a rack on the tile counter. “Going walking?”
He nodded. “Need to stretch and coo
l down after all that labor. Want to go along?”
“Four more loaves,” she said, taking his arm and kissing him on the cheek. She stroked his gray stubble with one hand, solicitous, gentle. “You go on. I’ll have dinner ready when you get back.”
He took the short trail behind the house, into an old coniferous forest that had managed to survive clear-cutting throughout the twentieth century. The thick arching ferns and spreading canopy of branches cast everything into a sun-spotted green gloom. Birds cut devious flutters through the undergrowth and high overhead.
He had hiked about two kilometers from the house when a weakness along his right side became apparent. Walking a few more meters, he felt a numbness accompanied by a dull tickle. His armpits became wet with sweat and he leaned on his walking stick, legs shivering like a sick dog’s. Finally, he couldn’t stand up any longer, and he half-sat, half-fell onto an old mossy stump.
Right side. Left brain. A new hemorrhage had occurred in the left side of his brain.
“I’ve had the little helpers,” he said, his voice high and childlike with pain. “They must have fixed me. This shouldn’t happen.”
A shadow crossed his face. Half bent over, unable to get up, he twisted his head to one side and saw Pavel Mirsky standing no more than two meters away.
“Garry. Can you come with me now?”
“I’m not supposed to be sick. The helpers…”
“They were not working right, perhaps?”
Fading fast. “I don’t know.”
“Inferior. Not Talsit. Pseudo-Talsit.”
“The medicals should have fixed it.”
“Nothing human is perfect.” Mirsky sounded very calm, yet he was doing nothing to help Lanier, not even calling for aid. Lanier had left his communicator in the cabin.
There was not much pain now, just the black tunnel, the doors slamming on memory. “It’s now, isn’t it? You’re here because it’s now.”
