* * * *
39
A
ttendants disconnected the case from the electronics and photonics that its program had controlled, and bore it to Guthrie’s private office. They set it on the desk and went out. For a while it lay alone. Eyestalks swung about, vision ranging over stone floor, silently occupied equipment, viewdome full of Moonscape and stars and waning Earth. This had been built since Guthrie came home from Alpha Centauri. The lenses fell to rest looking at a picture, an old photograph copied and recopied as the decades faded it, of Juliana and her children when they were young.
The door retracted to admit a form not unlike a knight in armor, which strode to take stance before the desk. Until the door shut, the sole sound was a soughing of the ventilation that neither one here had need of. Then, “Saludos,” rumbled Guthrie in the robot.
“Do you mean that?” gibed Guthrie in the box.
“Probably not.” The robot hesitated before he went on, sardonicism dissolving: “Or— I don’t know. You’ve caused a lot of grief, but you’re me, in a way.”
The other tone remained derisive. “Well, I wish you luck. Why not, considering who you are? You’ll have use for all you can get.”
The robot laid a hand across the base of his turret, as a man cups his chin when thinking. “How’ve you been?” he asked.
“Stupid question. Same as you’d’ve been. Half glad, half sorry that a spook can’t stew in a helpless rage. It passed some of the time, inventing new cusswords for the situation.”
“Didn’t your hookup help?” Quiviran apparatus wasn’t available, but prisoner Guthrie had had full multiceiver and data retrieval access, plus pulsation if he wanted to feel drunk.
His voice lightened. “Assorted shows did, yes. Classics especially. When did you last play the Helsinki OperaFaust and ideationally lust after Olga Wald? She must be pretty long in the tooth by now, if she’s still alive. A couple of new things were good too, things composed after you switched me off and tucked me away.”
“I think I know which you mean. And then the news.”
“I haven’t bothered with that for the last three or four daycycles.”
“Huh?” The robot’s lenses peered into the casket’s as if trying to find something behind their glitter. “I sure would have.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Not when it no longer had anything to do with anything you would ever do. You’d go for stuff that took you out of yourself for a short, short spell. Think about it.”
The robot straightened, gazed forth at the stars, and presently said, “I suppose so.”
“Oh, I am sort of curious,” the casket admitted. “Not enough to want details. But in a general way, what’s happened?”
The robot folded hands behind back and paced to and fro. “The Avantists are out,” he related. “Literally out. When their militia and most Sepo units declined to fight on, just about every top-rank political-bureaucratic-doctrinal honcho vamoosed, with quite a few of their understrappers. Some are in Hiroshima, calling themselves the North American government in exile, also claiming asylum. Meanwhile the Liberation junta is in Futuro, calling itself the interim government. The Federation Assembly’s bickering over whether to recognize it. However, the Council has accepted its invitation for the Peace Authority to restore order and bring relief to damaged areas. On the whole, the country’s functioning.”
“You think the Federation will recognize?”
“Eventually. After an election, anyway. Popular sentiment around the world seems to favor it.”
The voice tautened. “Do you by any chance know what’s become of Enrique Sayre?”
“The Sepo chief? Yes. Dead. As far as I’ve been able to find out, he didn’t escape because he lost time trying to make off with another copy of me he had stashed. He must have had some or other wild idea about advantages it could give him. The pursuit got wind of that and cornered him. Next day, a drumhead court martial—or kangaroo court, if you prefer—and a firing squad.”
Eyestalks rose, lay back, rose again. “Good,” murmured Guthrie in the box.
The robot halted his pacing and stared. “You say that?”
“Sure,” his voice snarled. “After what that slimester did to me.”
“But you’re programmed to—”
“Believe in Xuan’s revelation and the technosalvation to come.” The sneer died away. Quietly: “Yes. I do. But at the same time—” Barely to hear: “Can even you who’re me understand?”
The robot lifted a hand that was not quite steady, let it fall, and stammered, “You, you knew, you knew all along, you know it was forced on you. Into you.”
“Yes.” The answer was like metal. “And I had to work for the cause. Had to. Would yet, if I were more than a thing in a box. I’d destroy you.” The metal snapped across. “Nightmare.”
The robot looked down at his hands. “I can imagine a nightmare where I strangle Juliana. Not with these. With what were mine.”
“You know it. You can say it.”
“Only to you. To myself. Here, alone.”
They became without motion for minutes that neither counted.
Guthrie in the casket broke that stillness, harshly. “What do you know about the Lunarians?”
The robot started. “What? . . . Why?”
“Waiting for this meeting, I’ve maybe had more time than you to wonder. That ultimatum from the Avantists to you was such an incredible piece of stupidity. Not that governments or corporations haven’t often bungled worse yet. Just the same—”
“You mean, did the Lunarians fake it?” The robot recovered self-possession. “Of course the notion occurred to me. When the message came in, I beamed back to North America asking if they were serious. They replied yes, and our techs verified this was from their headquarters. We didn’t and we don’t know any way an outside party could have monkeyed with the transmissions. But now . . . assorted members of the former Synod, and several other bigwigs, deny having known anything about it.”
“They might well be lying. Or, I’d guess for some cases, their colleagues didn’t inform them, knowing they’d try to prevent or retract the threat. You’ve more knowledge of the Lunarians than I do. Could they have triggered it somehow?”
“They may have applied vectors,” the robot said. “Two or three key Avantists—probably not in the Synod itself, but close and trusted counselors —may have been moles in Selenarch pay. Besides that, or alternatively, humbler agents could have been at work, agents in a position to slip false data and computer worms into the sociodynamic programs the Avantists put so much faith in. That could’ve made the analysis of how Fireball would react come out wrong. Might be. Kyra Davis has brought me reason to believe the Lunarian lords intended this result, whether or not they had anything effective to do with actually causing it. But we haven’t the hard information, and I suspect we never will.”
The box formed a sigh. “It hardly matters. In either case, you need their support. Fireball’s deep in the dung pile.”
“‘Fraid so. Violation of law on a global scale. We couldn’t break troth—”
“I had to!” screamed the casket.
The robot laid a hand on it, most gently. “I know.”
He stood like that until the eyestalks stopped trembling. Then he stepped back and said, “Nothing will ever be the same again, that’s for certain. And Rinndalir, the Lunarian I’ve had most to do with, he makes no bones about being glad of it. I think he hopes the entire system will tear itself to pieces.”
Bodiless Guthrie had calmed anew. “From his viewpoint, if I’m not misjudging his culture, he’s right, you know. Also, I’d give moderate odds, from yours.”
“Huh?”
“Listen. This isn’t just the faith nailed into me speaking. At least, not entirely. Avantism has crumbled, no doubt, but the logic of events is as sound as ever. The Transfiguration Xuan foresaw, it’s going to happen regardless— maybe, now, a bit faster—unless something absolutely radical, some catas
trophe, kicks the whole chessboard over.”
“This isn’t quite that sort of upheaval,” the robot argued. “In fact, I expect, I hope everybody will pussyfoot through the next few years. What’s taken place has rocked them back. Me too.”
“Whether you can manage to pussyfoot is another matter. How long, for instance, can Fireball stay halfway human? Gets harder, makes less economic sense, all the time, doesn’t it? And soon, I’ve learned, you should be seeing full artificial intelligence.”
The robot made a chopping gesture. “That’s for then,” he said brusquely. Softer: “I came here today, first watch when I’ve had a couple of free hours, to ask you—myself—what we should do about you.”
The reply was immediate. “Terminate me.”
The robot raised his hands. “No, wait. You’re too dangerous to keep, the way you are, true. But a reprogramming—”
“Don’t insult our intelligence,” snapped the other. “To find how to reprogram, you’d have to make copy after copy of me and tinker them apart in hell, experimenting. Anyhow, I don’t want it. Even if I were changed, I wouldn’t want it.”
“Why?”
“Too much blood.”
“It’s on me too,” the robot whispered. “The exact figures aren’t in yet, but Fireball killed several hundred people, and hurt many more.”
“You’ll have to live with yours,” said the casket. He barked a laugh. “Live!” In quick, flat words: “You’ve got your duty, to those pilots who did the job and to everybody else. I’m not necessary, not obligated. And my actions brought it on.”
“Not your fault.”
“Let me go!” roared Guthrie. “In Juliana’s name, let me go!”
The robot spent hardly a minute in deciding. This was himself, after all. “Okay,” he said low. “In her name. When?”
“Soon as possible.”
“Anything you’d like first?”
Sudden tenderness responded. “Yes. One favor. A look at the last thing we really shared, we two.”
The casket had no need to say more. The robot picked him up and carried him over to a point from which, cradled in the hands, he saw among the stars Alpha Centauri.
* * * *
PART THREE
DEMENTER
40
C
ome,” Eiko said when Kyra began to voice the trouble that was in her, “before we speak of this, let us go to where peace is.”
Hand in hand they wandered from the apartment and down the passages. Folk who recognized one or both of them called greetings that were warm but not exuberant, and seemed to take for granted that they wouldn’t stop to talk. Others likewise went about their business or even their pleasure more quietly than of old. They hadn’t cheered, either, while Kyra and her fellow pilots led Holden’s men away for ferrying back to North America. Everybody was glad to see them leave, including themselves, but soberly. Returning to L-5 on her own, she found the hush deepened.
And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.
The fahrweg brought the pair to Trevorrow Preserve. Still mute, they walked across the meadows. A number of people had sought here, couples and small groups, none alone. For the same reason, Kyra thought. Sky and sun, clouds and breezes were artificial, the openness an illusion, but they were what there was, and the leaves, blossoms, winged creatures did genuinely live.
Nobody else was at the Tree, though. Maybe its mightiness roused feelings too strong for comfort. Kyra and Eiko climbed to the third stage. Thence a walkway ran along a nearly horizontal bough. At its end was another platform, with bench seats under two of the rails. Branches forking from the sides, growing up from below, drooping down from above, draped curtains of deep-green needles. They stirred and rustled in the wind. Glimpses of mass and height, growth and radiance, flickered through them. Warmth baked a resiny fragrance out of the bark, which was so strangely soft to touch. A thrush flew by.
They sat down, facing. Eiko’s breath, which the ascent had quickened, became easy again. She met Kyra’s gaze and smiled as a mother smiles at a child who is hurt. “Now we can talk,” she said.
Kyra looked from her, into distance. “Gracias, querida,” she replied tonelessly. “I don’t know, however—I’ve been wondering more and more while we came—what good it’ll do. Just tossing the obvious back and forth.”
“That is not for nothing. We should not merely know what is in our hearts, we should share it. And perhaps, barely perhaps, out of that will come a vision. I also have been thinking, you see. This is about Fireball and the future, surely?”
“Of course. You’re right, I’ve got to unload on somebody, and you—” Kyra looked back and spoke fast. “What’s happened lately wasn’t the real crisis. That’s building up like a breaker, and when it crashes over us, I don’t know if we, Fireball, will live through it. Your father, he understands politics better than most. What does he expect?”
“He says the reaction against Fireball, after what it did, will continue gathering force,” Eiko answered levelly. “Guthrie-san has shown what power he can wield, and it is horrifying. Fear breeds hatred. Emotion feeds on itself.”
“But we had to act!” Kyra cried. “We had to! Didn’t we?”
“You were true to yourselves—”
“Gracias,” Kyra mumbled. “I needed to hear that.”
“—as the Taira were,” Eiko finished.
Kyra blinked. “Hm?”
“Or the Sioux or the Confederates of your country’s past. They won their victories. But in the end their enemies broke them.” Eiko sighed. “Yet nothing is immortal. Where now are the Minamoto?”
“We could fight. We could make all Earth bow down to us.” Kyra’s voice dropped. “We won’t, plain to see. Hell, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t kill like that, not for troth or anything. The way Guthrie puts it is, ‘We’d have to become a goddamn government ourselves. What’d be the point?’“
“He will not hesitate to use his economic strength, I imagine. He can negotiate. Compromise. Buy time.”
Kyra nodded, then slumped, elbows on knees, staring at the deck. “Oh, yes. In the long run, what for?”
“I understand.” Eiko sat still a while in the murmurous wind.
Then she leaned over, patted her friend’s shoulder, and said quietly, “I have had some thoughts about that. Doubtless they are impractical, but you might care to hear them.”
Kyra lifted her head. “Say on.”
“The Federation will try to force Fireball and Luna under its control. They will resist. Which prevails, my father does not venture to predict, but he thinks the odds are that it will be the Federation, at least to a high degree. For he believes—he hopes, as I do, and as you seem to confirm for us, that Fireball will deny itself any further use of violence, the ultimate sanction.” Eiko paused. “But even if it nevertheless stays free, and Luna keeps her sovereignty—after all, they both mainly wish to preserve the order of things that has been—that order is doomed. Already, by what it did, Fireball has irretrievably changed everything, including itself. And time hastens onward.”
Kyra nodded again. “Social evolution. Machine evolution. The whole universe mutating out from under us.”
“We have other universes.”
Kyra’s eyes widened. “Huh?”
Eiko laughed a little. “Not literally, I suppose. I mean other worlds.”
“You mean we should emigrate? Eiko, you know better than that.”
“I have followed the technical arguments as best I was able. It is true, not many could go. But they would be those who truly desired.”
“Go? Where, for MacCannon’s sake? Where is any real estate we could use?”
Bare rocks, Kyra thought, barren wastes, crematorium heat, tomb cold, lethal radiation, unbreathable air or none—the beauty and the majesty of God, a wealth of resources which had saved Earth from being stripped and poisoned lifeless, but nowhere a place for the son of man to lay his head or
the daughter hers. Oh, you can fashion yet another colony on Mars or on a moon or asteroid, you can build yet another O’Neill, but what shall it profit? You will be no more free than you were. You can move to the Oort cloud, to the realm of the outermost comets, where the sun is merely the brightest of the stars, and it won’t be far enough.
“Alpha Centauri. The planet called Demeter.”
Kyra’s surprise was at Eiko saying such a thing. “Aren’t people done with fantasizing about that?” she fleered. “Hopeless. Habitable, yes, sort of, but the life has hardly started crawling out of the sea and it isn’t compatible with our kind anyway. As for the land, the stoniest desert on Earth is a Paradise garden by comparison.”
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