by Greg Bear
The answer spread out like an iron snowflake, sending beautiful sharp blades into all corners of his mind, each tip pointing and spearing memories, facts.
The end of Japanese history was the birth of the twentieth century in Japan. The slow, dull plodding of the Japanese people was ended by a horror they had never known, the horror of their own blindness and weakness. The blood-red sun rose over two cities; here was the new honor, the new war, no worse than the fire-death which shrank bodies into pugilistic dwarfs in Tokyo and other cities, but more precise, Buddha-like, uncompromising.
Yet the revealed weakness was not a lack of fighting strength or honor, but the weakness of clinging to all the old boats which had ferried the Japanese across so many rivers. Old conceptions, old, enchanting myths, carried out by hand and sword, hand and gun, hand and modern technology, turned into blood and ash and bits of whitened bone sticking from smoking darkness. Like a beast, the gorgeous past wrapped itself in silken folds, and when the outside blood soaked through, it had taken so long the blood was mixed with their own…
The answer would not be banished.
“I carried it with me,” he said.
The first impulse was overwhelming. If he’d had a blade handy, he would have killed himself. Then he stepped away from the mat on the grass in horror, staring at it as if a ghost was sitting there. “I’m a robot,” he said. “Rigid.” He held his hands to his head. The anguish was like an incineration. He had thought the answer would bring relief, but now he faced an unacceptable, impossible solution that would neither break apart nor dissolve. It had come on him too swiftly to absorb piece by piece. All its barbs were sunk deep, growing more complex with every heartbeat.
The invisible presence on the mat waited for him. It was too old to chase after him, but now, shriveled like a mummy, its eyes were still bright. The frog-demon waited. “Clockwork warrior, clockwork leader,” he said, “battling a daughter with all of history built into her…. Sanity didn’t have a chance.” He felt a chill and picked up his robe to warm him.
He had forgotten about the tapas. He picked up the palm-sized pad from the rock where he’d left it. “Reasoning mode,” he said. “And speech.” The screen lighted. “Argue with me,” he said.
“State the argument, please.”
He told the machine about the hideous answer. The tapas hummed. “It is not customary for a small unit to deal with such complex issues. You may refer to an augmented unit or connect this unit to an extension.”
He put the pad down and walked into the house, to Anna’s room. She was napping soundly on the sleep-field. He found the suitcase-sized extension and carried it quietly back to the rockgarden.
Connected, the pad hummed again, then listed the access numbers of banks it was going to consult.
“Just argue with me,” Kawashita said. “Dissuade me.”
“You fear being the slave of cultural tradition,” the tapas said.
“I fear being a thing without will.”
“But it is clear that all living things are bound by guidelines, some of which may not be crossed without great effort.”
“What guidelines?”
“Without tecto surgery, a human may not have three arms. Without juvenates, a human may not live more than two hundred years.”
“And the boundaries of the mind?”
“Large, but they exist. A human has more difficulty conceiving of warp technology than a Crocerian does. But all of these boundaries may be overcome. Humans refer the problems of visualizing higher spaces to their machines. The more choices one has, the more freedom to choose—and human extensions such as this unit were designed to expand those choices.”
“But does my culture limit me? Was my heritage the cause of the evil things I allowed to happen, the evil I myself caused?”
“It is not the talent of this unit to know individual humans and their character. But if the problem is put as a theoretical—”
“Do it,” Kawashita said.
“Then it is possible your actions were determined by prior cultural conditioning.”
“But I won’t accept lack of personal responsibility. That’s a worse sin—giving in to that answer—than my original crimes.”
“Explain.”
“I refuse to blame the beauties of my heritage for the things I did! Or for the things any Japanese has done.”
“There is something in every heritage, every philosophy, that renders it useless before certain problems.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In time no philosophy or creed can prevent the commission of acts contrary to its sense. No creed is detailed enough to cover all the possible interpretations that can be made. Thus, Christianity brought more swords than peace, Buddhism unleashed more wars than contemplations, and the worst of any creed has been magnified. More examples can be given. The trait doesn’t end with humans. Living beings are too complex to be encompassed by any single set of rules.”
“But why do men choose to be perverse? Why are some weak, others strong? Why did I fail?”
“This unit is specifically enjoined against attempting further answers.”
Kawashita stammered for a moment. He’d never heard a tapas refuse to answer. “What enjoins you?”
“This unit senses the upset state of the questioner and suggests he speak with another human. This unit is specifically enjoined against acting as a psychiatrist.”
Kawashita clenched his fists and lifted them in fury. “I don’t request psychiatric help! I just want to know why we do the things we do!” The tapas hummed. “Damn you, don’t lock up on me! I’ll put the question differently…” But no matter how he phrased it, the tapas merely hummed. He picked up the pad and attached case and swung them against a wall. “Damn all these things,” he muttered in Japanese, shoulders stooped, arms hanging at his sides. “All my learning. Nothing has helped me. Half-answers…I don’t even know the proper questions.” He held one hand to his forehead, palm to skin, and leaned his head back. “I have to go to the source,” he said. “The kami. They must know.” His hand came away damp with sweat.
Outside, the day sky was up in the dome. He could see a few stars even so, and the moving point of the Waunter’s ship—but it was a machine’s interpretation. Somewhere sensors were relaying the heaven’s patterns. Wherever the kami had gone, they might still try to reach him, to explain. And he wouldn’t have their answers interpreted by machines. The damned things would all lock up on him at the crucial moment.
He picked up a box and stuffed a few provisions into it—a piece of fruit from the garden, some vegetables left over from dinner the night before, a handful of cooked rice. He carried the box under one arm, crossing the compound to the gate in the stone wall. He swung the gate wide. Behind him something started beeping, and voices spoke throughout the house.
It was important to ask his questions outside. He ran across the lawn and through the young forest, under the peristyle roof to the air lock.
“Open,” he ordered. The door swung wide and he stepped into the chamber. “Cycle.”
“This unit cannot cycle unless the occupants are adequately protected by environment packages or suits.”
“Cycle! I gave an order!”
“This unit—”
He ran outside and picked up a stone, then returned to the lock and hammered at the light, which indicated a vox mechanism was working. “Let…me…out…now!” The rock smashed the light, but the air lock stayed closed.
“Yoshio!” someone called. He ignored it.
He was kicking the door with the sides of his bare feet, bruising them and splitting the skin, when Nestor ran up, her gown swirling. “Yoshio! Stop, please stop!” She grabbed at him, and he turned to her, glaring.
“You all try to stop me. Everything is misleading, fouling my mind! Impure! All the progress, all the learning, makes my
brain rot with disgust!”
Nestor backed off. “Med unit,” she said. Yoshio returned to kicking the lock door. “It won’t let you out unless you put on a suit,” she said. “Where do you want to go?”
“Out to speak,” he said. “Everything stops me.”
“You’re just forgetting, there’s not much air outside. You can’t ask questions if there’s no air to breathe. Nothing will hear you, and you’ll die anyway before you get an answer. Who are you going to ask?”
“The kami, the stars.”
“Then it’s best to use a transmitter, don’t you think? Reach them much quicker, wherever they are.”
Kawashita looked at her sadly. “Anna,” he said. “It’s all going wrong.”
“I know, I know.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “It’s been too much. You asked too much of yourself.”
“Never too much! I’m a warrior!” He pushed away from the hatch and tried to kick the hatch again, but lost his balance and fell to the floor with a sickening jolt. “I am not weak, I make up my own mind. I’m an individual, and I can do what I will…” he said in harsh gasps. He lifted his head up, then let it fall back.
“MED UNIT!” Anna screamed. The sphere and two cubes floated up. “Don’t make him sleep, don’t impair CNS, just calm him down.”
When they were done, Yoshio stared at nothing, his lips moving. His eyes focused on Anna, and he smiled at her faintly. “My love,” he said. “All that I love, all that I believe.” The cubes dropped arms and gently lifted him back to the house.
Thirty-Eight
On the fourth day of orbit the circling hawk decided to come down. Anna stood outside the dome, watching the lander’s star fall, then grow larger and rise, then seem to sit motionless in the sky. It was describing a graceful curve, getting brighter every second. The last few instants of its flight it seemed to burn, plunging toward the concrete, leaving a trail of cloud and glowing air. It touched down gently as a feather.
She sealed the air lock and walked under the peristyle roof into the light of dome day. Her hand reached down to the signaling sensors and flipped off the alarm. In the house Kawashita sat on a cushion, looking out the open doors at the rock garden. “They’re down,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” he answered. “I’m sorry—”
“You’ve already apologized twice. That’s enough. And nothing to apologize for, unless you say it to your foot, or your ankle, or the lump on your skull.”
“You are angry.”
“I am. Not at you—not just at you, anyway. At everything. The Peloros won’t be back for a week. Until then, we’re stuck. No way out, and them outside.”
“You worry about the Waunters?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t answer our transmissions, didn’t even send notice to our orbit sensors.”
“Perhaps their ship isn’t equipped to send.”
“Listeners? Don’t be silly.”
“So we wait.”
“I’m sick of waiting. Waiting for you to finally crack up, feeling my back tingle every time I wonder if they’ve landed or not…sick of not knowing why I’m so anxious.”
“I have abused you,” Kawashita said. “Expected too much from you.”
“Shit,” Anna said. “I’m a rock as far as that goes, but I have the right to be irritated, don’t I? I don’t like seeing your goddamned quest tear you apart. Save me from saints and revolutionaries!”
Kawashita stood and flexed his legs in the shaft of light coming through the doors. “I am calm now. It won’t happen again. I didn’t know I could be dangerous.”
Nestor held her hand to her mouth and bit lightly at her knuckles. “I’m glad to hear it’s over,” she said. “You’d start me biting my nails again.”
“I don’t think it’s over, but I won’t be violent again. I think I see why I call the Perfidisians kami. They can’t be like you and me, not like the Aighors, the Crocerians. They’re something else, in another category.”
“I won’t dispute that. If anyone has a right to a theory, you do. But how are you going to face yourself? I mean, that’s what you’ve been after, isn’t it?”
“I can face myself without knowing all the answers. I’m not the one to know—but the Perfidisians, they know for me.”
Anna sat down and held both hands in her lap. “Are you done here?”
Kawashita smiled. “Poor restless Anna. Anxious to get on with things.”
“Well?”
“Yes. We can go wherever we want. They aren’t here anymore.”
She took a deep breath. “We both took risks,” she said. “I’m surprised we made it this far.”
The radio chimed and they went into the equipment shed to answer it. “This unit has a message from Alae and Oomalo Waunter,” the device said. “They request permission to visit and talk.”
“It’s domestic,” Kawashita said, grinning at her. “They’ve come to visit.”
“They’re not the casual type. But I suppose we’re obliged to talk to them. I’ll answer,” she told the unit. “Nestor here. What can we do for you?”
“Greetings, madam. This is Oomalo Waunter. We’ve come to discuss transferring deed to our share of the planet’s profits. When can we meet with you?”
“Whenever you wish, Mr. Waunter. We have no set schedules here.”
“Then my wife and I will be at the dome entrance in an hour. We have to store our probe first—forgot it in the rush last time.”
“We await.” She switched the radio off and shook her head. “Who the hell would buy a ten-percent share of eventual profits for this place?”
“A fool, or a far-sighted speculator. We’re inviting them inside?”
“We’ll talk for an hour—that should be enough—then show them out. They’re not my favorite people.”
Thirty-Nine
“It’s beautiful—really remarkable, what you’ve done here,” Oomalo Waunter said. His wife agreed with a nod and tight smile.
“Thank you,” Anna said. “It passes the time. My husband is sleeping now. He had a bad fall yesterday.”
“Oh?” Alae said.
“So I’ll conduct the business. There’s a table under the tree”—she pointed—“and it’s very pleasant to sit in the shade.”
“Do you have an affidavit from Mr. Kawashita stating you’re empowered to conduct his business?” Oomalo asked. Anna didn’t show a glimmer of irritation.
“As his wife, I’m legally empowered without any affidavit, so long as he gives recorded and witnessed approval before final dispensation.”
“Of course.”
“So—what are the circumstances?”
“We plan to settle down on a colony world, sell the ship, sell our holdings here—is this being recorded?”
“Of course not,” Anna lied.
“We don’t want certain people to be able to trace us,” Alae said. Oomalo’s grin shifted a notch, but he held it firm and continued. “We need to build up enough capital to see us through the next couple of centuries. We’re not Abstainers, you know, so we have to make our plans way ahead of time.”
“I see,” Anna said. “Do you have a buyer?”
“The purchasers wish to remain anonymous. We’ll represent their concerns until the deal is final.”
“What’s the bid?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss that with you. They’re quite interested, however.”
“I can’t consent to the deal until I know who the purchaser is, and what’s being bid.”
“You can’t interfere with our attempt to sell,” Alae said, cocking her head to one side, eyes wide.
“It seems the provisions of the contract conflict here—” Oomalo began.
“No,” Anna said calmly, “not at all. Read it carefully. Majority holder has the right to appro
ve any changes in ownership which might affect his holdings. We can’t interfere with your attempt to set up a deal—but if you want any sale to go through Centrum files, we must know the particulars. We’ll be circumspect, of course.”
Alae sighed with irritation. “Well,” Oomalo said, “I think we can trust you. Hafkan Bestmerit is interested in buying our share.”
“Very good,” Anna said. “They’re tough characters to negotiate with. And their bid?”
“Option of seven billion, royalties of one degree, considerations for twelve million.”
“More than a fair offer,” Anna said. “I doubt they’ll make anything off the deal. There’s nothing here.”
“I’m not sure that’s been determined yet,” Alae said sharply. Anna shook her head.
“I’m convinced, my husband is convinced. But if Hafkan Bestmerit isn’t, that’s all to your advantage.”
“Final word should come through in the next few days.” Oomalo took a deep breath and looked across the low hills. “It’s really quite pleasant here. We’re having difficulties with some instruments in our lander. Do you have replacements for a DN65 inertial guidance rotor?”
