Asgard's Heart

by Brian Stableford

  I took my hands off the rail, and stood upright, slightly surprised to find that I could do it.

  "You chose this," I accused her. "We could experience this according to any scheme of interpretation—any framework of appearances that we cared to import. Why didn't you give us Star Force uniforms and flame pistols? Why not an armoured car and a road to drive it on? We could have felt at home there. Why this fantasy . . . this fairyland?"

  "Do you remember what happened to Amara Guur when you fought him in the flower garden?" she countered. "Do you remember why he couldn't fight effectively?"

  I remembered. Unlike me, he'd never been in low-gee before. When the fight started, his instincts took over, and all his reflexes were wrong. He was betrayed by his own skills.

  She saw that I understood. "This isn't the world you've always known," she said. "If I were to make it look like that world, you'd be forever trying to act as if it were. Here, you must act on this world's terms. We have a great deal of latitude in converting our experience into pseudo-sensory interpretations, but we don't have complete freedom. The constraints this world exercises on the way you can see and manipulate it are weaker than the constraints of the world where your other self lives, but there are constraints. There is an actuality here, which must be accepted in order to be dealt with."

  "Yes," I said, "but this is silly."

  "On the contrary," she assured me, gravely. "It may seem to you to be absurd to build a world of experience out of bits of ancient mythologies and literary fantasies with which you had contact in your youth, but it is the perfect strategy for the circumstances. Those fantasies had real meaning for you once, and still do, although you have put them away as childish things. There has always been a private world within your mind—a refuge which offered relief from the oppressive solidity of the world of material objects. That world reproduces the kind of dominion that your personality has within your corporeal body—a power which still has limitations, but lesser ones. The magical world of your ancient myths and folklore fantasies arises out of an attempt to map the properties of the mind onto the properties of the spatial universe. Software space really is that kind of universe, where the personality holds that kind of dominion.

  "You are now in a world which can best be understood—which can only be understood—in terms recalling the ideative framework of myths and fantasies. My borrowing may seem unduly confused, but the confusion is inherent in your own memories and your own mind, which can draw with careless abandon on all kinds of source-materials. The point is that these experiences can and do make a kind of sense to you—you are at home here, and when the time comes to act, you will be able to draw on resources other than the reflexes which you learned in order to operate in the material world—resources which are far less likely to let you down."

  "Less likely?" I queried.

  "There are no guarantees, Mr. Rousseau. You still have to learn to draw upon those resources, and make the most of them. We are embarked upon a journey into great danger, and we will surely meet enemies. I cannot tell how powerful they may be, or how clever, but they will certainly oppose us with all the strength and cunning they can bring to bear."

  I put my hand on the hilt of my sword, gingerly, not knowing what it would feel like. It felt solid enough, but I knew too much to find that feeling of solidity reassuring. I reminded myself that it wasn't really solid. Nor was the ship. Nor was I. Nor was the whole vast world in which I was adrift.

  "I thought you copied us into an arcane language, so that the hostile software couldn't get at us," I remarked. "Come to think of it, I thought there were good reasons why you couldn't copy yourself, so how come you're here?" The horrible suspicion began to dawn on me as I spoke that I might have been lured into volunteering for this mission on false pretences.

  "What you see before you," she said, with a disarming smile, "has more in common with one of my scions than with the ninefold being which formerly employed this appearance to speak to you. I am not so much a copy as a redaction. I have no more power here than you or Myrlin, and I strongly suspect that I may have less. I still believe that you have weapons other than the ones with which I have provided you, and that when the time comes you may find a way to import extra power into the appearance of the gorgon's head which I have added to our arsenal. It is important that you understand this; you may look to me for explanations, but when the battle begins, I am no more powerful than you, and probably less."

  "You'd better give us those explanations," I said, with a hint of bitterness. "Now I'm here, I have the feeling that we haven't gone into this deeply enough in our hurried conversations of the past few days."

  "We are encoded in an arcane language," she said. "It will not be easy for destructive programmes of any kind to attack us—especially if, as I hope, the invaders of Asgard are unintelligent automata. But we must assume that whatever forces are arrayed against us will have some power to react to our presence and adapt to it, with a view to destroying us. I think that we must expect our enemies to break into the frame of meaning that we are imposing upon software space. They will appear as monstrous irruptions of various kinds—I cannot tell what precise forms they will take, but in order to attack us they will have to formulate themselves according to the patterns that we have preset. They will, in effect, have to translate themselves into the symbolic language which we have adopted—a language based in your imagination."

  "I have a depressing feeling," I said, "that you're telling me that the things which are trying to kill me are going to do it by turning themselves into the stuff of my worst nightmares."

  "That is a neat way of putting it," she conceded with irritating equanimity.

  "And our friends, if we have any?" Myrlin put in. "They too will have to intrude themselves, in much the same way?"

  "If we receive any help," she agreed, "it will follow a similar pattern of manifestation."

  I looked at the deck where the silent soldiers were arrayed, preternaturally still.

  "What about those guys?" I asked.

  "Automata," she said. "Non-sentient programmes, very limited in what they can do. But they will help to defend us when the time comes, and if we are fortunate we may not have to face anything more adept than they are. The enemy may not find it easy to dispose of them."

  I had the suspicion that she was being deliberately optimistic. While we were talking I had grown more accustomed to my bizarre surroundings. I was beginning to acquire a feeling of belonging here. It was as though that peculiar fellow who had elected to make his living as a snapper-up of unconsidered technological trifles in the desolate caves of upper Asgard had all the while been nursing an alter ego compounded out of the fascinations of his infancy: an all- purpose hero equipped to fend off nightmares and confront the gods on their own terms.

  It's sad, in a way, to be forced to acknowledge the desperate lengths to which the human condition forces us to go, within the secret confines of our inmost souls, in search of solace and wish-fulfilment. But I guess our private fantasies are no more unique than our faces, and partake of no more artistry.

  In another way, though, our capacity for fantasy is a hopeful thing, because it reassures us that whatever the cold and empty universe does in its mindless attempt to crush our vaulting ambition and make us see how small and stupid we really are, we can mould something better out of our common clay, and rise from our galactic gutter to contemplate the stars.

  I stood up straight, staring past the gorgon's head at the empty sea ahead of us, and wondered what kind of fabulous shore it was that we were trying to reach.

  13

  I came out of the interface with the sensation of waking from a dreamless sleep. The filaments had already withdrawn from my flesh, and I was slumped in the chair.

  Susarma Lear bent over me as soon as I opened my eyes, and for once her own eyes were warmed with faint concern. It seemed that she was getting to like me just a little, despite the fact that I was not cast in the Star Force's best heroi
c mould.

  "You okay, Rousseau?" she asked.

  I breathed out, and felt the inside of my mouth with my tongue. It was a bit fuzzy, with the merest hint of an unpleasant taste.

  "Sure I'm okay," I told her. "You ever hear a document complain about being put through a photocopier?"

  Her eyes hardened again. "You're a real wit, Rousseau," she said. "You know that?" I knew it, but it didn't seem polite to agree, given that she sounded so unenthusiastic about it.

  "How's Myrlin?" I asked, peering round the edge of my hood at the other occupied chair. He was coming round too, and he put up a hand to signal that he was adequate to the task of getting up and getting ready for the next step in our campaign.

  There was no rush; now that the Nine's robot arms were programmed, they could put a new truck together more quickly than would have been humanly possible, but that still wasn't quite the same as waving a magic wand and saying the word of power. In the real world, these things take time.

  I got out of the chair and left the room, heading back home. I intended to use up a precious hour or so doing absolutely nothing—not even thinking, if I could possibly avoid it. I thought I could. I wasn't keen on having company, but the colonel came with me. There were obviously things on her mind.

  "I still don't understand," she said, "why the bastards didn't call on me. They must have known what was happening, even if they couldn't stop it themselves. I could have plugged Finn."

  I hadn't had the time or the inclination to fill her in on the whole thing. Clearly, the Nine hadn't taken pains to explain it to her either.

  "It was a set-up," I told her, tersely. "The Nine wanted them to take the truck. We think they might be able to lead us to the Centre. Whatever got into Tulyar's brain during the software skirmishing seems to have sole tenancy now, and I guess it has a mission of its own to complete. It may not be entirely compos mentis, and there's a chance that it isn't very intelligent, but it does want to go somewhere. We're going to follow it."

  "We?"

  "You said you wanted to come. Changed your mind?"

  "Hell, no. Anywhere out of here will look pretty good to me. But are you sure that you know what you're doing?"

  "No," I said, succinctly. "But there's nothing much to be gained by staying put, is there? I'd catch some sleep if I were you—in fact, if I were you, I'd consider myself very lucky to be able to catch some sleep without wondering if some clever nightmare might gobble me up and wake up in my place."

  She looked at me suspiciously. "You think you might end up like Tulyar? You're afraid that something got into your head, too, and might be planning to take over?"

  "So far," I told her, "I feel as though I'm in sole charge. The Isthomi figure that I got some kind of donation—a weapon for my software self to use—but they think that its only function as far as I'm concerned is to feed information into my dreams. We're hoping that the software which got to me was sent by the good guys, and that they're gentlemanly enough not to do me any permanent damage—but there's no way to be sure just yet."

  "If you turn into somebody else," she said, with a less-than-wholehearted attempt at levity, "what would you like me to do about it? Should I shoot him?"

  "Well," I said, "I guess it all depends whether you like him better than me. But if you can stand him, I'd like you to look after him for me. Someday he might want to give my body back, and I'd rather it wasn't all shot up."

  It says something for my state of mind that this faintly surreal conversation sounded perfectly normal. I wondered if I might already be losing my grip, and suppressed a small shudder as I remembered the bleak stare in 994-Tulyar's eyes. If I ever looked like that, I'd try to avoid mirrors.

  "Why do you think Tulyar—the thing that's in Tulyar's body—is heading for the Centre?" she asked. "If the easiest way to get there is the way your alter ego is going, through software space, why are the enemy trying to do things the other way about, sending their copy through real space?"

  That was a good question, and I'd already asked it of the Nine. "We probably won't know until we get there," I said. "But the way the Isthomi have it figured, the builders were humanoid—pretty much like you and me, now that the Isthomi have massaged our quiet DNA into toughening up our bodies. They created artificial intelligences to control Asgard: man-made gods, much more powerful than themselves. Maybe they didn't entirely trust the gods they made, or maybe they were fearful of exactly the kind of invasion they seem to have suffered, but for one reason or the other they may have reserved some key controls for purely mechanical operation. The Isthomi believe that there are some switches down there which can only be thrown by hand. Their guess is that when the invaders got the upper hand, the builders sealed off the Centre to protect those switches, and that it wasn't until the moment of contact, when they made a biocopy of one of themselves in Tulyar's brain, that the invaders finally got themselves a pair of hands—or, given Tulyar's authority and the gullibility of the Scarida, several pairs of hands."

  She thought about it for a moment or two, and I could see that she didn't like it. I could hardly blame her. It had far too many wild guesses in it to suit me.

  "These hypothetical systems which need mechanical operation," she said, testily. "What exactly would they be?"

  I shrugged.

  "Well," she said, "they obviously don't include the light- switch, do they?"

  "Apparently not," I said. "Unless Tulyar isn't their only pair of hands. Maybe he's got cleverer hands than the guys who switched off the lights. On the other hand. . . ."

  I stopped, wondering whether it was really worth going on with the game of make-believe.

  "Go on," she said, tiredly. She was obviously wondering the same thing, but she wasn't about to leave the sentence dangling.

  "On the other hand," I went on, "It might have been the other side which switched out the lights. Maybe Tulyar's

  gone to switch them back on."

  She studied my face carefully. We were out in the open again now, almost back on my own doorstep, and unless I invited her in the question-and-answer session was reaching its end. She had one last play to make.

  "What you're telling me," she said, "is that you don't really know which side we're on. We don't know who the invaders are, or what their purpose is, any more than we know who the builders are. And we have no way of knowing for sure which are the good guys and which are the bad guys."

  "That's about the size of it," I said. "We have to go after Tulyar with an open mind. The only problem is, I opened mine a bit too wide. I don't know what the hell is happening in this goddamn war—but I'm no longer in a position to dodge the draft."

  She decided to let me go, and left me standing on my doorstep while she went on to her own little igloo, presumably intending to follow my advice and get some rest. But my plans to put in a little quiet time were not to be allowed to run smoothly. 673-Nisreen had been waiting for my return, and I could hardly shut the door in his face.

  "Mr. Rousseau," he said, in that scrupulously polite manner which brooked no opposition, "may I talk to you?"

  "Sure," I said, wearily. "What is it?" I didn't invite him in, because I had a sneaking suspicion that it might be difficult to get rid of him. While we stood outside, I figured, it should be obvious to him that ours was to be just a passing encounter, not to be too long extended.

  He was pretty quick on the uptake, and came straight to the point.

  "I have received orders from 994-Tulyar," he said. "They were delivered to me after he quit this level."

  "And what do the orders say?" I asked.

  "That I am to do everything possible to detain you here, and to sabotage the Isthomi systems if I can."

  I raised my eyebrows. "I infer from the fact that you're telling me this that you have no intention of carrying out the orders," I said.

  "The Isthomi have told me that 994-Tulyar has been taken over in some way by an alien personality. They say that you can confirm this."

  I nod
ded, slowly. "I think it's true," I said cautiously.

  "In that case," he said, "I would like to accompany you when you go in pursuit."

  I was astonished. High adventure wasn't the Tetron style, and the Nine must have told him that he would probably be a lot safer here than down below.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "It is a matter of duty," he said.

  "I would have thought that your duty was here, looking after the rest of your people."

  His small dark eyes glistened in the faint light as he blinked. His wizened monkey-like face seemed strangely forlorn for a brief moment.

  "I can do no 'looking after,' Mr. Rousseau, as I think you know. In other circumstances, it is true, the obligation placed upon me would be to learn everything I can from the Isthomi, which might be of value to my people, but I have thought about the way things stand, and I believe that a different course of action is demanded."

  "So you want to come with me—to the Centre." I was still having difficulty believing it.

  "If things remain as they are, Mr. Rousseau, I will never regain contact with my people. We are in the depths of the macroworld, surrounded by enemies. The only hope there seems to be for our salvation is that you, your brave colonel, and your giant friend will somehow find a way to rectify the power-loss. 994-Tulyar, or whatever alien entity now uses his body, may try to prevent you. It would not be honourable for me to stay here while you undertake such a mission. I must go with you."

  "673-Nisreen," I said, hesitantly, "you're a scientist, not a fighting man—not even a peace officer."

  "Are you a fighting man, Mr. Rousseau?"

  It is sometimes necessary to come face-to-face with unpalatable truths. "I am now, Dr. Nisreen," I said.