Eon

by Greg Bear

  “How many individuals are there within your craft?” the voice asked.

  “Four,” Lanier said. ”One injured.”

  “They are all corporeal humans?”

  “We’re all humans. What are you?”

  “You are now in a reception area for illegal vehicles. Do not attempt escape; the area is sealed.”

  The machine removed its grapples and lifted away from the aircraft.

  Lanier saw they were in a broad, uncluttered hangar-like enclosure, the walls smooth black and gray. Slender silver cables coiled before the cockpit windscreen. The plane hung from cables attached to a pale silver toms suspended below the hangar ceiling.

  Three large metallic gray mechanical workers surrounded the aircraft, pushing it along. They moved on four delicate jointed legs, their bulky bodies divided into hemispheres connected by a narrow flexible casing.

  There was no sign of human life in the hangar. At two points, elliptical portals about four meters wide opened in the walls, but they gave no clue as to who was preparing to greet them.

  “Will you address the person who has tentatively confirmed your identity?” the voice asked, still as pleasant and melodic as ever.

  “Who is it? I mean, who identified us?”

  The next voice was instantly recognizable. ”Garry, it’s Patricia. There are four of you? Who are they?”

  “That’s her—we’ve found her,” Lanier said. ”Or she’s found us.”

  “I thought someone would come after me—it’s just like I said. They’re my friends.” Patricia leaned forward, hoping to receive the picted images more clearly. She had spotted Lanier inside the cockpit. “They must all be terrified.”

  She watched the black flaw patrol machine rise into its cavity above and behind the aircraft.

  “They could be in serious trouble with the city authorities,” Olmy said. ”I’m trying to get the case cleared and suppressed, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “They’ve come looking for me,” she said. ”You can’t blame them for that.”

  “They rode the axial flaw, and that’s strictly forbidden.”

  “Yes, but how could they know?”

  Olmy didn’t answer. ”I know who they are,” he said. “Your boss Lanier, the scientist Carrolson, the Chinese Caucasian called Farley, and the engineer, Heineman.”

  “You recognize them? You kept track of all of us, didn’t you?”

  The mechanical workers pushed and guided the aircraft into a dilated entrance to a side chamber. The iris closed behind the plane and the hangar lights darkened.

  Patricia stepped out of the chamber and took Olmy’s proffered hand. He led her to the inspection hangar lock.

  Suli Ram Kikura entered the chamber. She had not yet met Patricia, but she had become fully acquainted with her. The advocate picted a brief conversation with Olmy. Patricia was not in line to pick up the exchanged visual symbols—not that she could have understood many of them, anyway—but she could get the gist from the woman’s attitude.

  The woman was a corporeal advocate. She was taking Olmy’s deposition and relaying it to the pre-trial court.

  The V/STOL hatch opened. A worker settled on its jointed haunches a few yards away, sensors fully extended to record the disembarking of the passengers.

  History, Patricia thought. We’re all history here.

  Lanier came out first. Patricia restrained an urge to wave to him; instead, she lifted up on tiptoes and nodded. He returned the nod and descended the hatch steps. Farley came next.

  Carrolson waited in the doorway. Lanier pointed back into the cabin and said loudly, “We have an injured man inside. He may need assistance.”

  Olmy and the woman conferred again and the woman touched her silver torque. As she did so, she glanced at Patricia and smiled. Her pictor projected an American flag above her left shoulder; she had American ancestors and was proud of it.

  “What do we do?” Carrolson asked. ”Leave him there?”

  “Tell your friends a medical worker is coming,” Olmy said in an undertone.

  “He’ll be okay. Help is coming,” Patricia said. Lanier tried to approach but was blocked by a worker.

  “Let him pass!” Patricia pleaded. ”Olmy, what harm can they do?”

  “They’re in quarantine,” Olmy said, pointing to the glowing red line surrounding the V/STOL at chest level.

  Patricia turned to Lanier, holding up one hand. ”They’re not going to hurt you. Everything’s okay. Just wait a moment.”

  “It’s good to see you,” Lanier said, keeping an eye on the scuttling workers. ”We had no idea we’d ever find you.”

  Patricia swallowed back a lump in her throat. She turned to Olmy. ”We have to stay together,” she told him. ”We have to help each other.”

  Olmy smiled at her, but that didn’t mean assent; he picted with the woman again and she touched her necklace once more.

  “A decision is being made now,” he said.

  “Whether they’re criminals or guests?” Patricia asked.

  “Oh, they will be guests,” the woman said in perfect English.

  “They will be sampled now,” Olmy said. ”Perhaps it would be best if you told them.”

  “Garry,” Patricia said, “they’re really interested in our skin cultures. One of the workers the machines is going to approach you and collect skin scrapings. It doesn’t hurt. And the cabin’s waste tank—they’ll want that, too.”

  “Here’s the medical team,” Olmy said. He would have to contact everyone involved later and have them swear out statements of secrecy.

  Two more corporeal citizens and a smaller worker entered the chamber and approached the red line. As they passed through, red chevrons appeared over their shoulders; they were now in quarantine also.

  Lanier, Carrolson and Farley allowed the medical worker to pull back the sleeves of their jumpsuits and take samples. The worker then withdrew, touching the red line. It was instantly surrounded by a lovely lilac glow; when the glow dissipated, the worker crossed the line and came to a halt.

  The medical team—all homorph—entered the aircraft hatch. A few minutes later, Heineman walked out on his own power between them. The lead homorph picted a message to Olmy.

  “He was in pain but not seriously injured,” Olmy told Patricia. “They have relieved his pain but have not yet given him healers.”

  “Virgin specimens, like me, right?” Patricia asked. Olmy agreed and walked with her to the line.

  It vanished as they approached. ”Quarantine is over,” the lead medical homorph stated. He picted a few simplicities at Patricia and she acknowledged the politeness. Then she rushed forward and hugged Lanier, Carrolson and Farley, lingering with each. When Heineman’s turn came, she hugged him more gingerly.

  ”Don’t spare me. I feel pretty good,” he told her. ”Where in hell are we?”

  “I’m receiving a judgment,” said the advocate, still flying the American flag on her shoulder. She approached the group with hands extended.

  “She has an implant, they all do,” Patricia explained to Lanier, touching her head. ”She’s listening to the court decision now.”

  “The case is cleared from all pre-trial court records, and negated by circumstance,” the woman announced. ”You are all guests of the Axis Nader.” With a meaningful glance at Olmy, Ram Kikura added, “By authority of the Presiding Minister.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Vielgorsky stood in front of the black panel which marked the entrance of the third chamber library. Across the plaza, almost shadowless in the tubelight, Belozersky and Yazykov walked cautiously toward him. Behind them followed two squads of SSTs, their rifles unslung.

  Mirsky and Pogodin watched from the abandoned NATO security post, a small room in the overhang equipped with a video monitor. Mirsky toyed with the loud-hailer switches.

  Pogodin looked at him. ”We’re taking a chance now,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Pogodin turned bac
k to the screen. Mirsky aimed the American listening device at them and increased the volume.

  “We won’t need more soldiers,” Vielgorsky said. ”I have already sent Mirsky and Pogodin to the fourth chamber for detention.”

  “He seems to be cooperating,” Pogodin said quietly.

  Mirsky nodded. There was indeed a risk here; it had become apparent to him in the past couple of days that without Vielgorsky, he could not rule; he had neither the experience nor the inclination to engage in political intrigue and survive for long. Vielgorsky was the best of the political officers. If he and Mirsky could not work together, then no cooperation was possible. Mirsky doubted that he could kill all of them, which was the alternative. It would be better for him to turn himself over to the Americans or became lost in the cities and fend for himself.

  “I think it is time you see what we fought for, and learn how to use it,” Vielgorsky said.

  “I have no desire to imitate Mirsky,” Belozersky said. ”I do not care for that place.”

  “Comrade,” Vielgorsky said patiently, “knowledge is power. Do you want to be more ignorant than the rest? I have been in there, and I am still Vielgorsky, still Party Secretary.”

  “Yes ...” Yazykov said. ”It doesn’t frighten me.”

  “Nor I,” Belozersky said hastily. ”But—”

  “Then let’s enter and see what Mirsky was up to, spending so much time here.”

  Mirsky trained the video cameras on them until they passed out of view.

  There was something else at stake. Was it possible to be ignorant of the character of one’s own country, after having spent one’s entire life within its borders? Yes; there was no basis for comparison, and however much he knew, without comparison the knowledge was dormant.

  Even with the library’s information, he had to conduct an experiment. However unfair the test was, he would now judge his country and all it stood for by how Vielgorsky acted.

  “He’ll take their weapons,” Mirsky said. ”We can’t have them armed when I appear.”

  “You’re going down there now?” Pogodin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You trust Vielgorsky that much?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a risk.”

  “Not just for you,” Pogodin said. ”We cooperated with you—Pletnev, the scientists, myself, Annenkovsky, Gara—“

  Mirsky headed for the stairwell. His back crawled as he descended the stairs. He was more afraid now then when he had leaped from the heavy-lifter in the bore hole. Strangely, he felt like a child again. And he was tired. He had observed the same weariness in the American, Lanier.

  Opening the door. Stepping out onto library floor. Only the three Zampolits had entered: Vielgorsky, holding a pistol on Belozersky, Yazykov standing to one side staring at his fellow political officer in dismay. Their rifles lay scattered on the floor, kicked out of reach.

  “Come forward, Comrade General,” Vielgorsky said. He took several steps to one side, still pointing the pistol, and bent to pick up an AKV. Belozersky stared at Mirsky with uncomprehending hatreds.

  Yazykov’s face was blank, tightly controlled. Mirsky walked across the plaza toward them.

  When he was five meters from the group, Vielgorsky turned the pistol away from Belozersky, lifted it and sighted along the barrel at Mirsky.

  “I do not thank you, Comrade,” he said. He squeezed the trigger.

  Mirsky’s view of things skewed, as if the anamorphic lens on a motion picture projector were suddenly twisted. One side of his head seemed very large. He fell on his knees and leaned forward, bowed, then fell over, his cheek smacking sharply against the yielding floor.

  That hurt more than whatever had happened to his head. His one good eye blinked.

  Vielgorsky lowered the pistol, handed it to Belozersky, walked toward the scattered rifles, picked up and aimed an AKV at the chairs and globes on the plaza and began firing a clip. Teardrops shattered and bullets ricocheted, the sound somewhat distant and unimpressive in the large hall, even with the echoes.

  Belozersky’s yell of triumph and delight was cut short by a very big sound, impossible to describe. The three political officers twitched; Vielgorsky dropped his weapon and jerked his head back.

  Yazykov clapped his hands to his ears and mouth. All three collapsed.

  White streamers jetted from the ceiling all around the plaza and untwisted into thick fog.

  The fog lay down over them and Mirsky closed his eye, grateful at last for the undisturbed slumber.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Lanier—lying on the couch, hand gripping the African print upholstery, staring up at the featureless cream-colored ceiling, ostensibly resting—knew this much, and very little more: Their quarters were located in the outer reaches of the rotating cylindrical precinct called Axis Nader: five apartments along a hallway, each with a bedroom, a bathroom and a living room; at the end of the hallway, a communal dining area and a large, circular lounge. The centrifugal force at this level of the precinct was just slightly less than that at the Stone’s chamber floors. All the quarters were closed off and lacked real windows, though illusart windows of idyllic terrestrial scenes in the apartments and lounge provided a sensation of spaciousness which was hard to deny.

  Someone had gone to considerable effort to make the accommodations pleasant and familiar. What Lanier gathered, from all the fuss, was that they were important people.

  Whether they were prisoners or honored guests, it was impossible to tell for the time being.

  He turned his head to one side, reached over to a stack of magazines on the coffee table near the couch, picked up a copy of STERN and flipped through it, not really looking at the turning pages. His eyes kept tracking the apartment, lingering on little details the art glass vase in one corner of a bureau, red and purple with overlaid gold threads; the rich-feeling couch fabric; the books, that lined one shelf; and the memory cubes stacked in an ebony wood holder nearby.

  He was about to put the magazines down on a frosted glass coffee table when he realized he hadn’t looked at the issue’s date. March 4, 2004.

  Over a year old. Where did they find it?

  Or any of the objects in the apartments?

  “May I come in?” Patricia asked. The apartment door became transparent and he saw her standing in the hallway. Judging by her attitude, she could not see in.

  “Yes,” he said. ”Please do.”

  She continued standing outside. ”Garry, are you home?”

  He puzzled this over for a moment; she hadn’t heard him.

  Symbols appeared in the air to one side of the door, flickering rapidly, little marvels of cailigraphympicts, Patricia had called them, statements made up of single symbols called icons.

  When nothing happened, he approached the door and the room voice, sexless and melodic, asked, “You have a visitor, Mr. Lanier. Would you like Patricia Luisa Vasquez to enter?”

  “Yes, please, let her in,” he said. The door became opaque again and then slid aside.

  “Hello,” she said. ”we’re all meeting in a half hour getting together with the woman who was in the hangar. Olmy says she’s our ‘advocate’. I thought I’d talk things over with you first.”

  “Good idea,” he said. ”Let’s sit.”

  He took a comfortable leather-upholstered chair and Patricia sat on the couch. She folded her hands in her lap and regarded him steadily, her lips pursed as if to hold back a smile.

  “What in hell happened to you?” Lanier asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I was kidnapped. I think we were being invaded, or something. I was half-crazy then. Maybe more than half. So I took a train to the third chamber, and Olmy found me there. He had a Frant with him—a nonhuman.”

  “Who is Olmy?”

  “You met him —the one who took us here and arranged for the quarters to be done in period.”

  “Yes, I met him, but who is he, what rank, what importance?”

  “He’s an agent of some sort
. He does work for the Nexus—the main governing body of the Hexamon. He’s been my teacher for the past few days, ever since we got here. Were we being invaded?”

  “Yes,” Lanier said. ”By Russians.” He told her what had happened and she listened intently.

  “I think that’s one reason Olmy wanted me out of the chambers,” she said. ”He thought I might be in danger. I’m not yet sure why he chose me in particular, but ...” She shrugged. ”I have some ideas. They’ve already put me through tests. They’ll test you, too. Diagnostics, psychological, everything—all in a few minutes. It doesn’t hurt. They’re really interested in our bodies. We’re historical curiosities.”

  “I’ll bet. At any rate, when I heard you had been kidnapped, I went a bit crazy myself. Judith Hoffman made it up to the Stone from Station Sixteen—”

  “How wonderful!” Patricia said. ”Was anybody with her?”

  “Yes—nobody we knew.”

  Patricia’s expression of joy stiffened.

  “She obviously decided I wasn’t going to be very effective anymore. You were the last straw, I think.”

  “Me?”

  “Hoffman told me to take care of you. I couldn’t prevent what happened on Earth, and I lost you, besides. I don’t take failure very well, Patricia.” He rubbed his cheeks and eyes. “Failure. Yes. I suppose you could call losing the whole Earth failure.”

  Patricia gripped her hands tightly between her knees. ”Not lost,” she murmured.

  “So Hoffman authorized an expedition to find you.”

  “It’s good to have you all here—my friends, my helpers.”

  Her sudden cheeriness had an edge.

  “We’re really guests here, then?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. They weren’t expecting you—though when Olmy first heard, he knew it had to be the tuberider. They consulted him right away since he had been down the corridor most recently.”

  “Do they know about the Stone—what we’ve been doing?”

  “Yes, I suppose they do. Olmy must have told them.”

  “And do they plan to do anything with us? I mean, I assume they’re still interested in the Stone ... “