Asgard's Heart

by Brian Stableford

  I still couldn't sense the velocity of my fall. The darkness was near-total, and the suit I was wearing prevented my feeling the friction of the air against my skin. I had a dreadful suspicion, though, that my wings hadn't grown yet. In fact, I had a dreadful suspicion that they weren't going to grow at all.

  I tried to calculate how far I might have to fall. I'd done sufficient mental arithmetic while we were coming through the levels to have some vague idea of the distances that were probably involved. The radius of the macroworld was something on the order of fourteen thousand kilometres, from which one had to subtract the depth of the levels and the radius of the starshell. I figured that if I called those seven and four thousand I probably wouldn't be too far out. That meant that I had something in the region of three thousand kilometres to fall. The gravity here was probably about a ninth or a tenth of Earth-normal, and I figured that that would lead to an acceleration not too far away from a metre per second. On the other hand, that neglected air resistance, which would in the circumstances be considerable. It also neglected the effects of friction on my suit. I couldn't quite see how to go about the job of calculating whether and how quickly I would turn into a meteor, and whether that could possibly happen before I actually landed. It did seem very unlikely, but the whole situation was so bizarre that I really didn't feel able to discount it.

  "Is everyone all right?" asked Susarma Lear, startling me somewhat. In trying to absorb myself so deeply in my silly calculations I had somehow let it slip from my mind that we could still talk to one another with the aid of radio.

  "I don't know," I said, truthfully. "I can't see or feel a thing. Maybe I have wings and maybe I don't."

  "You have wings," said Urania. "I have Clio with me. She has you all under observation."

  "I feel fine," Myrlin assured me.

  "Nisreen?" I asked.

  "I am quite well," the Tetron assured me, and if the smoothness of his parole was anything to go by, he was telling the truth.

  "Unfortunately," the scion's voice chipped in again, with a sudden hint of urgency, "it seems that we are not alone. There are other winged creatures, in considerable numbers, approaching from below. We will be among them in a few minutes."

  "Can that brain-in-a-box tell us what they are?" demanded Susarma Lear.

  "Only that they are very large; they have masses considerably greater than our own."

  "I can't see a thing," she complained. I could imagine her finger tightening about the trigger of her needier, desperate to find a target.

  "How can they see us?" inquired Myrlin, with a similar note of desperation.

  "Perhaps they can't," I ventured, hopefully, peering into the night and bringing my own gun round to aim at the gloomy void which still separated me by thousands of kilometres from the tiny sparkling worldlet which was Asgard's heart.

  "I fear," said Urania—who would, of course, be the first to encounter danger if danger there was—"that they may not rely on light."

  My mind, unprompted by any conscious effort, conjured up the image of a host of gigantic vampire bats homing in on us unerringly with the aid of their sonar, avid for our blood.

  Urania made a noise, then. It wasn't a scream—I don't believe that she could ever have produced a scream—but it was a sound that had shock in it, and maybe terror. I hadn't thought her capable of terror, and that small sound suddenly seemed dreadfully ominous.

  "What is it?" asked Susarma sharply.

  She received no answer.

  Then, I caught sight of the swarm of shifting shadows, silhouetted against the diffuse light which was still far below them. As they eclipsed the pinpricks I formed a hurried impression of their number, which was far more than I could count, and though in that first brief moment the shadows seemed quite small they were growing with terrible rapidity.

  "Oh merde," I murmured, as I tried to brace the hand

  which held the needier, and prepared to fire.

  But I never had a target to aim at. The tiny light on my helmet showed me flickering wings, but they were too far away, moving far too quickly relative to my own downward course. I longed to let loose a stream of needles, though I could hardly begin to believe that such trivial missiles could be effective against the mothlike leviathans which whirled like a Stygian maelstrom from the starry mass of the mysterious Centre. Every time I tried to line up a shot, the flicker of leathery wings snatched the targets away.

  I still had not fired a single shot when I fell with distressing smoothness into the gaping maw of a monstrous shadow, and was grabbed with sufficient force to knock me senseless yet again.

  30

  Being beheaded is not very pleasant, even when it happens to a dream-self that can take it.

  I didn't know that I could take it when the blade sliced through me, so I was able to savour the unpleasantness to the full. I was in the process of trying to utter a few last words—nothing, I fear, of any particular note—but discovered that without a throat I could only gurgle wetly. My mouth opened and my tongue tried to wrap itself around a syllable of protest, but no sound came out.

  Surprisingly, though, the stream of my consciousness continued on its weary way without any hint of interruption. Indeed, the effect which my beheading had on the people who were watching seemed to be far greater than the effect it had on me.

  I already knew that I was not a pretty sight, and I did not suppose that my transformation into a bodiless head held aloft by a malevolent godling would improve my image, but I was quite unprepared for what actually happened.

  The laughter which had been echoing around the great plaza died away. The faces which had been full of amusement had just time to change, as a wave of pure horror spread through the multitude, signified by dilating eyes and hands brought swiftly upwards in hopeless defence. Thousands of mouths opened to speak—or to howl with anguish—but were no more capable of giving vent to sound than my own impotent lips. Silence descended like a curtain, and all movement ceased.

  The thing which had mockingly called itself Loki had turned my gaze away from his own when he struck the crucial blow, but I could still see him out of the corner of my eye. His pale complexion was even paler now, and the paleness had quickly claimed his eyes and his hair. He was as still and silent as the rest.

  Like them, he had been turned to stone.

  The only sound I could hear was the hissing of serpents, and the only movement which remained was the stirring of those same serpents as they writhed around the stone hand which grasped them, making the head to which they were anchored rock and sway.

  The Nine, interpreting my dreams with casual confidence in their ability to do so, had told me that I had been given a weapon, which might be used against the forces which had injured them. They had not been entirely accurate in their judgment. The biocopy which had been thrust into my brain hadn't been designed to give me a weapon when my persona was re-encoded—it had been designed to make me into a weapon.

  I had found Medusa, and she was me.

  The invaders of Asgard's software space had never realised precisely what tactics were being used against them. I knew now why the one which had appeared as Loki had still been hesitant, playing for time until he felt safe—until he had seen my body decay to a point where he thought that it posed no further threat. He had been anxious, and rightly so. The enemy had been bluffed and deluded into contriving my capture and my apparent destruction, not knowing that my destruction would trigger their own. I was a booby-trap bomb ... a Trojan Horse ... a gorgon in sheep's clothing.

  I couldn't yet begin to understand what difference this little surprise package might make to the war that was going on in Asgard's software space. I had no way of knowing whether what had just happened was Armageddon or just a minor skirmish. To tell the truth, I wasn't particularly interested in trying to figure it out. What concerned me more was what would happen to me.

  Despite the fact that I had apparently slain my enemies in one fell swoop, I was still in somethin
g of a predicament. I was reduced to the status of a severed head, with snakes instead of hair and a truly poisonous glare, dangling from the clenched fist of a stone statue. I still had my wits about me, but the problem of figuring out what to do next was more than a little vexatious.

  For all I could tell, I might be condemned to hang there for all eternity, keeping my captives still and safe with my poisonous stare. Maybe that could be construed as a noble fate for a self-sacrificing hero, but it wasn't one that I could contemplate with any relish.

  I had been assured by my enemies that I was on the high road to Hell, and it seemed to me that if I was now destined to spend any kind of lifetime in my present condition, that would probably be hell enough for anyone.

  I was still considering this awful possibility when I caught a glimpse of movement in the crowd. It was at the very limit of my peripheral vision, and for a moment or two I thought I had been mistaken, but the writhing of the snakes turned my head just enough to allow me a better sight of the relevant area, and I saw that there was indeed a humanoid figure picking its way through the densely- packed assembly.

  As he made his slow and painstaking progress he moved round so that I could see him more directly, but my eyesight was blurred and I couldn't bring him into focus.

  All I was sure of was that he looked human, and rather elderly. He carried himself as if walking required unusual effort. I had a flash of anxiety in case he might be turned to stone the moment I set eyes on him, but that fear evaporated quickly. Most of the individuals in the crowd hadn't needed to look directly at my eyes before being turned to stone, and if I was as effective against his kind as I had been against theirs he should have been petrified the moment he set foot in the square.

  I watched him as he came up the steps to stand beside the statue of Loki. He was a tall man, and as he finally came into focus I saw that he had a Roman nose and blue eyes. He was wearing an amused expression. I figured that I knew who he really was. He was one of the builders. He was one of those who had sent out that appeal for help that had turned me into a hero and brought me to this undignified pass. But in exactly the same way that the enemy had worn the face of my arch-enemy, Amara Guur, he was wearing the face of a dear departed friend.

  He was Saul Lyndrach—the man who had sent me forth upon my epic journey.

  I still couldn't speak. He saw me trying to produce sounds, and smiled. I didn't think it was so funny, and the fact that I wasn't amused must have shown on whatever nightmarish mask I was now using for a face.

  "Pardonnez moi," he said.

  He couldn't really have said it in French, but I heard it in French.

  Had I been able to speak, I could have produced an entirely apposite quote: Si Dieu nous a fait a son image, nous le lui avons bien rendu. Saul would have understood. Saul would even have understood the subtle irony of a Rousseau quoting Voltaire. For once, alas, I could not

  take advantage of the readiness of my wit.

  "You have rendered us a great service," he said—and I heard his words now as though they were in English, and knew that he was speaking not as Saul Lyndrach but as one of the guardian gods of Asgard, whose enemies I had blighted with my stare. "You have helped us to break a stalemate that had endured for hundreds of thousands of years. You probably believe that you have been ill-used, and so you have, but you cannot realise how much this victory has owed to your own fortitude and your own strength. The scheme could so easily have failed had you yielded to the pressure of circumstance at any point along the way. You have survived experiences that would have obliterated very many entities forced into your situation. Perhaps, had you known the true magnitude of the threats that you have endured, you could not have succeeded, but your ignorance has been strengthened by courage and by a stubborn refusal to admit defeat. We thank you, Michael Rousseau."

  It was a nice enough speech, in its way. We all appreciate a pat on the back, even when we no longer have a back to be patted. But I had more urgent matters on my mind than testimonials. I wanted to know what the hell was going to happen now. Could Humpty Dumpty be put back together again? Assuming that this version of myself had to live out my allotted span in software space, without any opportunity to become a real person again, was there any way I could get another body . . . and the power of speech . . . and a haircut?

  "Unfortunately," Saul went on, "the dangers which Asgard faces are not yet entirely averted. The war in software space is not over, and although the balance has swung to our advantage because of what you have accomplished, there is a conflict still to be resolved. And there is a further adventure which has not yet come to its conclusion—which might, if things go badly, undo all that you have accomplished. There is another battle yet to be fought, in the actual space that surrounds the starlet.

  "We are able to observe what is happening in the star- shell, but the defences which we have erected around and within it, to preserve it from our enemies, are as difficult for our own machine-intelligences to penetrate as for theirs. The enemy was able to send mobile units—robots—through the defences while they were temporarily disrupted as a result of the Nine's unlucky attempt to breach them, and although they were belatedly destroyed, they succeeded in switching off the power supply to the levels. There is now a power build-up within the starlet which is destabilising it, and there is a danger that it may explode. We are trying as best we can to get our own robots into the starshell, but in spite of the fact that we have retaken control of the peripheral systems, mechanical brains simply cannot penetrate the defences surrounding the control room. Only an organic being can reach and operate the controls.

  "Unfortunately, it seems that the enemy has employed a stratagem which is virtually a mirror image of the one which we employed in creating you. We copied into your brain a programme which, when retranscribed in a software persona, would bind up great destructive power in your being. The invaders seem to have copied into the brains of at least one of your kind a programme that will give him equal destructive power. The invader now using the body of 994-Tulyar would be able to destroy Asgard, if that is his intention, once he reaches the control-room of the starshell. He would also be able to damage us as severely as, with your aid, we have damaged the forces arrayed against us. Unfortunately, Tulyar and his companion are already perilously close to that destination. Had this victory come in time, we might have stopped them in the levels, but they have already made the jump to the starshell."

  I wished that I could ask questions, but I had no voice. I could only hang there and listen.

  "It may yet turn out that our stratagem was the poorer one," Saul continued regretfully. "Perhaps our purpose would have been better served had we planted a programme in your organic persona which could have equipped it to operate the starlet's controls, but that would certainly have resulted in the obliteration of your own consciousness, and that is not our way. We are the creation of humanoids, and our primary purpose is to protect and preserve humanoid life. Alas, the biocopy which remains within your other self is virtually non-functional in that form. Your other self can derive nothing from it but a few messages, which he may not even be able to read. Although he is trying hard to reach the starshell, he does not know what to do when he gets there, and it is too late to get the information to him by any conventional means. He too has made the jump, and we cannot yet tell what his fate will be."

  He paused. It would have been a good time to slip in a few clever questions, and my condition was becoming more infuriating by the minute. I remembered only too clearly, now, what the invader had said about Tulyar's mission— and what he had said about the willingness of the gods of Asgard to see the macroworld destroyed rather than lose possession of it. It was a point regarding which I would have liked to seek some reassurance.

  "We still may need your help," he said, soberly. "The contest is not yet ended, and there are moves which might still be made. I am sorry for the pain and difficulty which you have so far suffered, and sorry that there may be more yet t
o come. We do not like to use you in this fashion, without your being able to understand what we are doing, or how, or why, but we sincerely believe that you would consent, if you could understand what it is that we require of you. Our purpose is the salvation of the macroworld— and the preservation of your community of worlds.

  "What I will do now is to take you from this place to another—into the very heart of Asgard's software space, where my kind is now recovering its dominion. The journey should not be very hazardous, but we dare not underestimate our enemy's ability to hit back. Then, we will do what we can to remake you, before the time arrives when we must make what use of you we can. We will reconstruct you—and though we will make of you, as we did before, an instrument, we will nevertheless preserve for you the persona which is your essential self. Be patient, I beg of you. We must go now, but as we go, I will try to offer you as much of an explanation as I can, and as much of an explanation as I think you can understand."

  With that, he reached out a gnarled but sturdy hand, and gently pried me loose from the stone hand that held me.

  I wished fervently that I could speak, or make some sign to say that there was indeed a great deal more that I wanted to know—a great deal more that I wanted explained. What I wanted more than anything else in the world just then was to be able to ask questions—not just because there was so much I wanted to be told, but also because I wanted some way to test what he was going to tell me. After all, he said he was on the side of the angels, and he was doing his very best to act like a good guy, but how did I really know that I could trust him?

  It was all very well for him to say flattering things about my courage and powers of endurance. I had been exerting

  them mainly on my own behalf. Sure, I wanted Asgard to be saved. I wanted the lights switched on again and everything returned to what passed for normal in these parts. But in view of the deceptions to which I had already been subject, how could I be certain that it was this masquerader and his pals who had that end in view? How could I be certain that they weren't the ones who wanted the macroworld blown to smithereens?