Asgard's Heart

by Brian Stableford

  "It is difficult to know what to deduce," she said, hesitantly, "but it is possible that some kind of programming was transmitted into Tulyar's brain, and that it was not the

  same programme that was biocopied into you."

  "By 'not the same' you mean to imply that it wasn't put there by the same side, don't you?" I said.

  "It is a possibility," she admitted.

  "You think Tulyar might have had something to do with the attack?"

  "It is a possibility," she said again. There were, alas, far too many possibilities.

  "Why has the war suddenly heated up?" I asked. "The macroworld must have been in trouble for a long time, to judge by the condition of the upper levels. Hundreds of thousands of years—maybe millions. How come the power got switched off now?"

  "The balance of power between the beleaguered masters of the macroworld and the destructive entities must have been in a state of equilibrium," she said. "Perhaps there had been a stalemate, lasting for what you would consider to be vast reaches of time. Perhaps, on the other hand, there has been ceaseless conflict in the regions below, with the balance of power constantly changing. We suspect that this worldlet, and others like it, may have been sealed off at some time in the distant past, and that we were deliberately hidden away, for our own protection. When we were provoked by what we learned about the existence of the greater universe to begin more adventurous exploration of the deep levels, we may have unwittingly exposed ourselves to the hostile attention of the destroyers. Our first encounter with them did, indeed, come near to accomplishing our destruction.

  "The second contact, in which you played a crucial role, probably began as an attack by the 'giants,' but this time there was an intervention by the masters of the macroworld, possibly undertaken at considerable risk to themselves. They may well have saved us from destruction, but they

  could not establish any direct communication. Only you managed to make any kind of sense out of the contact, and I believe that you were quite correct to construe what happened to you as a desperate plea for help.

  "Perhaps as a result of their foray in our support, the masters of the macroworld have lost further ground to their enemies, and that is why the power-supply has been interrupted. We erected what defences we could against attacks in software space, but—perhaps foolishly—had not expected anything so crude as a straightforward physical assault. The surprise factor gave the destroyers a temporary advantage that they should never have been allowed, and we have all suffered in consequence. We have now sealed our boundaries against further attacks of either kind, but we do not think that we are sufficiently powerful to resist indefinitely the assaults of a superior power. Steadfast defence may not be adequate to the demands of the situation. That is why it seems imperative that we make contact with the masters of the macroworld, and why you must give us what aid you can."

  It was a pretty fine speech, and a good story too. With the fate of the macroworld hanging in the balance, how could I possibly be so churlish as to refuse to have myself copied? On the other hand, if the battle was taking place on such a monumental scale, how could an insignificant little entity like me possibly make any difference?

  I didn't ask. I already knew what the Nine had elected to believe. Supposedly, I had a weapon: Medusa's head. There were, of course, little problems like not knowing what it was, how to use it, or what it was supposed to do, but I had it. At any rate, the Nine believed that I had it.

  "You live in software space," I said, rather feebly. "It's your universe. I can't even imagine what it would feel like to be a ghost in your kind of machine, or what the space I'd

  be in would look like—if look's the right word, given that I'd presumably have an entirely different set of senses."

  "That would depend entirely on the kind of copy which was constructed," she said, eager to reassure me. "Any copy would, of course, have to retain the essential features of your personality. Let us say that it would need to be topographically identical, but that there would still be a great deal of flexibility in regards to its folding. The manner in which you would perceive your environment would depend very much on the pattern of your own encryption. Just as the world that you presently inhabit is to some extent contained within the language that your culture has invented to describe it, so the constitution of the software universe depends on certain features of the language that allows you to operate there—but with a much greater degree of freedom.

  "Humanoid languages are easily translated into one another because the preconditions of the physical world exert such strong constraint on the descriptions you construct. Software languages are much less easy to translate one into another because the physical attributes of software space are not so rigidly pre-defined. That will be to our advantage in two ways. We desire to encode the copy of your personality in a language as esoteric as possible—one which will superimpose upon the perception of software space a way of 'seeing' radically different from that of the entities which would try to destroy you. It will also enable us to equip your software persona with perceptions that will make some kind of sense to you in terms of your present sensorium. Do you understand that?"

  The easy answer to that question was a simple "no." No doubt the Nine could have given me a much more elaborate and painstaking explanation, given time, but I was sure that they were hurrying for a reason, and I felt that I had to do the best I could.

  "What you mean," I said, carefully, "is that software space hasn't much in the way of properties of its own. Its properties are largely imposed by the programmes that operate in it, which can define it more or less as they like. So, if you turn me into a computer programme, the way I'll experience myself—and the world which I seem to inhabit— will depend very heavily on what kind of programme I am. Whatever arcane language I'm written in will determine the kind of being I seem to myself to be, and the kinds of beings which other programmes will appear to be."

  She nodded enthusiastically, and smiled, having slipped back into her silent-movie mode again. "That's correct," she said.

  "Do I get a choice?" I asked. "Can I be whatever I want to be?"

  "That's not possible," she replied, amiably. "There are powerful constraints on what we can do. But we must produce a copy which will be able to operate effectively; there is no need to fear that your copy will perceive itself in fashion which is radically alien."

  "That's a relief," I muttered, not entirely reassured. The word "radically" might conceal a multitude of complications. I noticed that we were now operating on the assumption that I was going to go ahead with the scheme.

  "Trust us, Mr. Rousseau," she said. "Please."

  There was something about the way she said it which implied that any trust I pledged was going to be severely tested in time to come. She had already admitted that she was by no means certain that her conjectural account of the situation was correct, and I had the feeling that there might be more in her speculations than she had yet cared to reveal.

  I stared into her beautiful face, which seemed to have softened slightly around the jawline. Her eyes were big and dark and pleading, and she was putting on a more convincing show than Jacinthe Siani had. She was doing her level best to present me with a sight to melt any human's heart. I'd never had much to do with women, and the specimens with which I'd lately come into contact were the kind that help one to build up a fair immunity to feminine charms, but I am only human.

  At least, I was then.

  "But what happens to me?" I asked stubbornly. "This flesh and blood thing with a sore back and a growing anxiety about the dangers of going to sleep?"

  It is possible," she said, "that the ultimate fate of your fleshly self might depend on the success of your copy in making contact with the masters of the macroworld. But in any case, the plans which you have made may proceed as you wish."

  I had already guessed that she was going to say something like that. Think of it not as losing a body, but gaining a soul.

  I felt a press
ing need to stall her, and perhaps to be on my own for a few minutes, to give the matter further thought, though I could see no alternative but to bow to the pressure of inevitability. I could have told her to switch herself off, but for some reason I didn't want to have to stare at the blank wall where she'd recently been.

  "Are you sure you can make me tough enough to get by?" I asked her. "To judge by what I've just seen, software is very easy to kill."

  "The weapon which you saw Myrlin use is one which can only be fired from real space," she said. "The entities which inhabit software space are by no means toothless, but they will not be able to project disruptive programming into you quite as easily as that."

  Which didn't mean, I noted, that they couldn't shoot destructive programming into my software self—only that they'd find it difficult.

  "Is there a constructive version of the weapon?" I asked her—on the spur of the moment, because the thought had only just occurred to me. "Can you transmit programmes through the air with a magic bazooka, instead of having to use wires the way our mysterious friends did when they injected Medusa into my brain?"

  "In theory, yes," she said. "But it is difficult in the extreme. The receiving matrix, whether organic or inorganic, would have to be very hospitable to the incoming programme—otherwise the effect would be purely disruptive. An alien programme really needs a physical bridge of some kind, like the artificial synapses that were in place during your contact, if it is to be efficiently intruded."

  It was interesting as a hypothetical question, but it didn't really connect up with the immediate problem, which was to reconcile my reluctant mind to the prospect of a peculiar duplication.

  "I need some fresh air," I told her. It was a stupid thing to say, because the air outside my igloo was not in any way fresher than the air within—I just felt that I needed to get outside.

  It turned out to be a stupid thing to do, too, because no sooner had I opened the door than John Finn stuck the business end of a needier into my windpipe and told me that if I didn't do exactly as he said various vital parts of my fleshy self would be scattered hither and yon amidst all the unpleasant debris which already littered the area.

  10

  "Look, John," I said, patiently. "I'm aware of the fact that you have a little learning difficulty, but even you must remember that we've been through all this before. If you wanted to exercise your death-wish, you could have done it this morning."

  "Personally," he said, "I'd just as soon kill you, but I'm assured that for some stupid reason you're considered to be quite valuable. No other hostage will do as well. Just behave yourself, and your freaky friends in the walls will make sure that no harm will come to you. No mindscramblers, no clever tricks at all—they'll just give us what we want, rather than risk any harm coming to you. See?"

  "What do you want?" I asked, flatly.

  "We want to get the hell out of here before those killing machines come back. We want that armoured truck the magic Muses have been building for you."

  While he talked he urged me into action. He came round behind me but he kept the needier jammed into my neck, so that if anything unexpected happened he could blow my brains out without any delay at all. I allowed him to shove me where he wanted me to go.

  "Whose bright idea was this?" I asked.

  "Just keep walking," he told me. The light was still gloomy, and there appeared to be nobody else about, but once we were away from the domes a couple of other armed men fell into step with us. I wasn't in the least surprised to see that they were Scarid soldiers. They were the only people around who were stupid enough not to realise that they were safer behind the Isthomi's defences, and that once outside them there'd be no way of getting all the way back up to level fifty-two.

  "You were bloody lucky to get away last time," I told him in a low voice. "The colonel's been regretting that she didn't shoot you ever since. She'll be ever so grateful for a second chance."

  "She isn't going to get it," he said optimistically.

  There was a car waiting for us in one of the Nine's labyrinthine tunnel-systems, and I gathered that one of Finn's friends had already made it clear to the Nine exactly what they wanted done. The Nine had apparently decided to play ball. I could only assume that they really did consider me a uniquely valuable asset, and were prepared to hand over the robot transporter rather than risk my being damaged. It also occurred to me, though, that the Nine seemed to have lost interest in the transporter and in the possibility of getting my fleshly self to the Centre by conventional means. So much for my plans going forward as I had intended.

  "I suppose I should have asked the Nine to take care of that bug you planted," I remarked, as I took my place in the front seat of the car. "You'd never have figured out that I was so important to the Nine if you hadn't listened in."

  He sat directly behind me, never relaxing the pressure of the gun on my skin. It reminded me very strongly of the first time I had visited this level, when Amara Guur had treated me in exactly the same fashion. The Nine had supplied Guur with a weapon that wouldn't fire, looking after me even though I wasn't nearly as valuable then as I seemed to be now. It would be too much to hope, though, that the weapon which Finn had now was useless. Someone had probably tried it out during the morning's skirmish.

  Another Scarid came out of the shadows to join us in the car, making three in all; they seemed desperately morose. They were all officers, but none of them seemed to be assuming command. I was puzzled, because I couldn't see why they'd consent to taking orders from a jerk like Finn. I could understand how they might feel very much out of their depth, and how eager they must be to get home. I also knew how this kind of strong-arm tactic was very much their way of doing things—but it still didn't add up that they would turn in their hour of need to a no-hoper like Finn.

  My puzzlement increased when a fourth figure came towards us from the direction of the village. It was Jacinthe Siani. She, of all people, should have known better than to get involved in this, but she was under Scarid orders now, and they probably hadn't given her a choice. She took her place behind me.

  "If you try to take the transporter out," I said, speaking in parole rather than English so that the Scarids could understand, "you'll very likely run into more of those things that attacked us. The Nine have defences now—here you're safe. You could be going to your deaths if you try to go up through the levels, even if you can figure out a route."

  "Shut up, Rousseau," said Finn, also in parole. "We know what we're doing."

  I shut up. After all, I told myself, why the hell should I care if John Finn and a bunch of Scarids wanted to get themselves killed? There was no reason at all—except that I didn't want them to take my transporter. If I was ever going to get to the Centre, I'd need it.

  It didn't take long to get to the manufactory where the Nine had been putting the robot together. It was even less well-lit than the residential area, and it seemed unnaturally still and silent. All the mechanical arms projecting from the walls were idle, mostly drawn back and folded. The transporter stood in lonely isolation in the middle of an open space. It seemed to be finished, and it had the special gleam of something brand new and never used. It was much bigger than the truck I'd used for work on the surface, but it didn't look so very different. Most of its elaborations were internal—although it did have a turret on top with three different guns mounted on it.

  "We're going to drive to a certain place," Finn told me, "where we have a couple of friends waiting. Then we're going to give you something to hold—it'll be a bomb, but don't worry about it going off, because I'll have the detonator safe about my person. Once we're out of the habitat, with Asgard's nice thick walls separating us, we'll be safe, and so will the bomb. We'll never see one another again."

  I reflected that it wasn't all bad news.

  Finn and I climbed into the front seat of the transporter, while the Scarids got into the cab behind us. There was a set of manual controls, although the robot was really int
ended to drive itself, or to interface with another silicon- based intelligence. The manual controls had been designed with a human driver in mind, though, and followed a common stereotype. I had no difficulty in starting up and driving off into the tunnel ahead. It was only just wide enough to accommodate us, but there was no problem in following it. I didn't have to make any turnings—the Nine had obviously been apprised already of the destination that Finn had in mind, and they were happy to open up a route that would take us directly there.

  There didn't seem to be any point in further exercising my limited powers of persuasion, so I did exactly what Finn wanted me to do, taking comfort from the fact that I was probably driving him to the doorstep of his appointment with death.

  When we stopped, I couldn't see anything much outside except for a circular space with an empty shaft above it. I assumed that it was a platform that could lift the truck up to the next level—maybe several levels.

  We remained in the cab while Finn carefully taped a cylindrical object to the part of my back that was most difficult for my hands to reach. It was no bigger than Myrlin's thumb, but if it really was an explosive device—and I was quite prepared to believe that it was—it could do a lot of damage.

  Finally, Finn ordered me to step out on to the platform. It wasn't until I got down that I saw the other waiting figures, away to the rear. They came slowly forward, and I got two shocks, the bigger one hard on the heels of the smaller.

  The first shock was that they weren't the Scarid soldiers I had been expecting—they were Tetrax. The second shock was that the one who led them out was 994-Tulyar. I knew him well enough to be sure that I could recognise his features, even though he had an expression on his face that I had never seen before. He looked at me with glittering eyes that somehow caught the light shining from the walls. With the empty, unlit shaft above me, I felt as though I were standing in a pool of darkness.

  "They told me you were missing," I said to him. When he made no reply, I realised that something was very wrong. I wondered briefly whether I could possibly have made a mistake in identification, but I knew in my heart that I hadn't. This was Tulyar—or, perhaps, had been Tulyar. I wondered whether the folklore of the Tetrax featured such beings as zombies.