by Greg Bear
“If we can live there, then others can live there, too. Will they resist us?”
“I don’t know,” Rhita said. “They might welcome us.”
“Who will they be?”
“The people who made the Way. Perhaps.”
Atta shook his head dubiously. “Whatever someone has, they protect from intruders. This all sounds dangerous and badly thought out. I would feel safer with an army in front of me.”
Oresias, sitting to one side, said, “Obviously, an army is out of the question. If this young woman is prepared to go, can an old strategos be less willing?”
Atta held up his spread hands. “You’re damned right I can. But her Imperial Hypsēlotēs commands.” He fixed his weary eyes on Rhita again. “What kind of weapons might they have?”
“Nothing we could defend ourselves against,” Rhita said.
“What does that mean?”
“From what my grandmother told me, they have weapons we might dream of making in a hundred or a thousand years.”
“What are they, gods?” Atta asked with a gloomy edge in his voice.
“An old kleroukhos on his plot might think they were gods, yes,” Rhita said. She blushed slightly, realizing she had used a queenly tactic against the strategos.
“What about an old soldier hoping to live on his pension?” Atta asked. “An old man who’s seen all the things this world has to offer, from the forests of Nea Karkhēdōn to Africa’s bottom?”
“You’ve seen nothing like the Way,” Rhita said, staring at him without blinking. Atta refused to engage in this kind of contest. He casually turned to Oresias.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Her Imperial Hypsēlotēs wishes us to end our days of service eaten by monsters or burned to ashes by gods.”
“Or being met by friends,” Rhita said, angry now at the strategos’s cynicism. “Friends who could bring the Oikoumenē back to its days of glory.”
“Treasure beyond the monster’s jaws,” Oresias said.
“Try to be more specific about their strengths and weaknesses…if they have any weaknesses,” Atta urged her gently. “We only have a few more hours before we start putting everything together. Help an old ass carry a heavier load.”
“I’ve never seen these things. I’ve only been told about them,” Rhita said, suddenly afraid again.
“Try to remember,” Atta said with a sigh. “Any scrap can only help.”
21
Thistledown, Fifth Chamber
The Jart bided quietly within Olmy, apparently unaware of any change in status. Olmy lay in the second room, eyes closed, probing delicately at his new companion, like a surgeon seeking the best point of entry to a sleeping but dangerous beast.
He could feel the depths of the asteroid all around him, unchanged across billions of years, implacable as time, primordial rock and carbonaceous materials and water that had fed and housed his people for centuries.
He looked at the empty plate which had once revealed the Jart’s placid patterns. Now the memory stores were empty; all that there was of the Jart had been successfully uploaded into Olmy’s implants.
His first discovery, in the first few seconds of investigating the Jart, was that a kind of translating shell, or interface, had been developed, either by the Jart itself in reaction to the probes of early researchers or, less likely, by the researchers themselves. Without the shell, Olmy would not have picked up sensible communications when Mar Kellen first hooked him to the system. The shell was incomplete but useful for a beginning.
Having confirmed that translated communication was possible, Olmy now double-checked his precautions. He had set both the Jart mentality—which occupied one implant—and a downloaded partial of himself apart from his primary self, and erected a number of barricades, not the least of which was a timer that regulated access to all of his implants. The partial conducted the early investigation and reported to him periodically.
In the super-fast world of implant functions, all of this took place within ten minutes of the uploading. Olmy’s partial determined that the Jart mentality was almost intact—that is, its major routines and subroutines appeared to follow the accepted rules for intelligence ordering. They were not fragmented. The Jart’s lesser routines did not appear to function properly, but he would reserve judgment on that until later.
One never assumed that any part of a ticking bomb was inert until one completely understood the bomb.
Within the first hour, Olmy’s partial had located some pieces of Jart experience-memory. The first attempts to transfer these disturbed the Jart. Parts of its mentality seemed to wake briefly from its timeless slumber, and once again Olmy received a cacophony of anxiety messages:
>Duty unclear. Presence of Duty arbiter(?)< >Unable to locate (self?)< >(Abominations)<
And then a lapse back into the quiet pool of seeming repose.
The memories he retrieved were far from clear or easy to translate. Jart sensoria were very different from human equivalents; “eyes” were sensitive to both light and sound, combining such signals in a way unique in the Hexamon’s experience. This did not cause Olmy’s major difficulty with the memories, however; algorithms had been known for centuries which could interpret nearly all sensory messages. What puzzled him (or rather, at this stage, his partial) most of all was the de-emphasis on individual perception to the advantage of larger cultural conditioning. A Jart individual’s personal perspective seemed almost irrelevant; and there was substantial evidence that this Jart at least acted more as a remote sensor than a self-willed individual.
Yet other indications contradicted this. The Jart had a strong, independent motivation routine—what in human terms might be analogous to an ego. There were enormously difficult associated complexes of social and hierarchical responses which meshed with this motivation routine, however. The Jart was strong-willed, yet in certain situations—when enmeshed in its social environment—it would be completely docile and obedient, lacking almost any will at all. And it would find no contradiction between these states.
For a Jart, obedience was indistinguishable from self-will, yet Olmy was certain Jarts did not comprise a group mind—at least, not this Jart. Perhaps the Jart carried a model or artificially imposed simulation of the Jart hierarchy, a kind of monitor or conscience.
For a time, as Olmy received data through the one-way link with his partial, he wondered if in fact two or more mentalities had been downloaded. It was difficult to accept such primary contradictions in the routines of an individual.
The partial was finally able to assemble a series of sensory memories that could be translated into human terms.
Not surprisingly, since the Jart had been highly stressed, the most prominent images were of its capture. Olmy saw what had to be the Way—quite flat and colorless—and brilliant objects in the foreground, picked out with amazing detail. The details changed frequently, making him wonder whether his partial was translating properly. The partial, anticipating the reactions to its primary, assured Olmy its interpretations were correct.
The Jart was perceiving objects from multiple and almost independent viewpoints, not in a Picasso-like Cubist fashion, but by processing the visual input through many different routines.
It then came to Olmy—and his partial independently concurred—that the Jart was using sensory interpreters adapted from other species. The Jart contained many visual “brains,” almost certainly patterned after those of non-Jart species.
During its capture, the Jart had apparently shuffled through these alternatives, trying to duplicate a human viewpoint by using routines from beings thought to be similar to humans.
Did this explain some of the confusion as to ego and motivation routines? Did Jarts literally engulf the mentalities of other species, carrying them around like tools in a kit?
How many intelligent species, how many cultures and societies had the Jarts conquered? What had happened to them?
Olmy worked for an additional hour, trying to make sen
se of the visual memories. Finally he was able to piece together a reasonably clear picture of the capture.
First level sense interpretation (perhaps the Jart’s natural routine):
The surround is pitchy black and cold, absent of sound. The foreground is occupied by hot and noisy objects moving very rapidly. The objects are machines, but the Jarts do not build machines like these (an image of seeding and virus-like development).
Second level sense interpretation (foreign?):
The background is filled with detail, sharp to the point of distraction; the foreground objects seem irrelevant, ignored. This routine simply cannot interpret machines or perhaps close objects at all.
(Is this an adapted sense routine, Olmy wondered, designed to augment or supplement the others? It seemed to have a minor place in the totality.) Olmy had no difficulty recognizing the Way. Tractor fields stretch across the vast expanse, brilliantly colored—purple and red.
Some fields recede in sparkling tatters from penetration beams. The beams pierce through and intersect—but again, this routine cannot interpret machines.
(An odd lack, Olmy thought; seeing was akin to thinking, however, and it was possible the species this routine had been “borrowed” from had no knowledge of technology.)
Third level (adapted Jart? Similar to the first):
The actions of the foreground objects are clearly understood, in the abstract. Each machine is sharply delineated.
Olmy recognized human armored physical penetrators (unmanned except by partials) and automated seek-and-destroy units, great and small—all nasty and black and seething with field energies. He shuddered. He had always disliked such weapons. They were simple and direct and unstoppable. They destroyed whatever they captured within their fields, reducing it to component atoms, pulses of heat and gamma rays.
The Jart had witnessed such weapons—yet had survived to be captured. And this Jart had been in the front lines of whatever skirmish in the Way these images represented. Humans sent only partials into such action.
Was this Jart a natural organism in any way, or an artificial creation entirely? The original human captors had not trusted the physical form to be typical of Jarts. Why trust the mentality?
Olmy concentrated on the sequence of events in the Jart’s capture. As more sense-memories arrived, he pieced together a humanly linear story.
The Jart occupies a small vehicle, weaving through tractor field boundaries like a dragonfly through walls of reeds. Above, throughout this section of the Way—
Very likely in the million kilometers or so of disputed territory at 1.9 ex 9—
Jart and human weapons engage in fierce combat. There is stalemate; this situation has continued for a considerable time.
(The Jart measures of time are not clear to Olmy)
The Jart’s vehicle encounters and destroys numerous small human machines scouring the Way’s barren surface. It encounters seek-and-destroy units and somehow evades them. It is now in territory behind the region of impasse, in human territory, where it will attempt to inflict a devastating blow to some command center—a large flawship or armored fortress. But its next encounter is with a cloud of penetrators
—and vehicles Olmy himself does not recognize
and before it can maneuver it is caught in thick layers of traction, the shell of its vehicle stressed and mangled. A research and reconnaissance machine quickly seals off the crash site in a traction bubble. The Jart lies within its environment cradle, pulses of light crawling over the surface of this transparent shield as its generator begins to fail. Remotes shaped like giant black beetles push through the bubble and neutralize the weakening environment cradle, pulling the Jart from its controls. The Jart body is already severely damaged. Another vehicle, almost as large as a flawship, moves over the surface of the way
—and the sense images blurred and came to an end.
Olmy opened his eyes. The Jart’s mission had been hopeless; he had never heard of organic forms occupying the Jart equivalent of penetrators. The entire action was more than suspicious—it was uncharacteristic, ludicrous.
Yet the humans had taken the bait, hoping—perhaps believing—that they had at last captured a Jart.
Perhaps they had. Perhaps the Jarts had been willing to give up the advantage of an enemy’s ignorance in order to slip their Trojan Horse past the walls. But then, why kill researchers immediately? Why open the belly of the horse before night has fallen and the Trojans are asleep?
Olmy closed his eyes and recalled the last few scattered visuals sent by his partial. They were too fragmentary to reassemble—
But connected to the last was a scouring, biting node of corrosion. Olmy withdrew from this acid sting and shoved the entire sequence into his third implant, isolating it immediately.
He then purged the third implant of all data contents.
The Jart was not slumbering.
Olmy waited for the downloaded partial in the second implant to deliver a self-analysis. When the data came through, the initiation string was badly flawed. The partial had been compromised.
The Jart was active. His precautions had almost failed.
Olmy raised more barricades around the isolated implants and prepared another partial. Sending partials into that alien hell was like sending himself—the partials were duplicated pieces of himself. His hormonal levels surged again and he fought back a sick, claustrophobic terror that almost overwhelmed his peripheral controls.
Less than two hours had passed since the uploading.
Studying the Jart was obviously going to involve a battle of wits. After wiping the second implant and putting another partial in to replace the one that had been compromised, Olmy waited for results from a new series of probes. The Jart mentality did not attempt to tag the data with corrosives, nor did it corrupt the partial.
They were taking each other’s measure.
Despite its attack on the first partial—a circumstance Olmy had been prepared for—the Jart had not yet succeeded in altering the basic system of the implants in which it was stored. Olmy believed the Jart did not understand the system it now occupied, but it probably knew that its status had changed.
His safeguards were effective. Having accomplished this much, he decided to leave the buried memory storage rooms and continue his interior researches in the fourth chamber.
The cramped quarters and the sensation of being surrounded by kilometers of rock had become oppressive. However, he was not yet ready to return to human society. There were a great many more probes to make and tests to run before he took that risk.
If the Jart was reawakening, the time had come to expose it to some of the greater reality of human existence.
22
Gaia, Alexandreia
Within the cavernous palace garage, Rhita stood at the center of the circle of members of the queen’s expedition. Clavicle in both hands, she closed her eyes and focused on the spinning globe. Continents raced beneath her disembodied eyes, their features etched in bright relief. There were many things about the display she did not understand. Certain features flashed as if they might be of interest; others were crosshatched or dotted. Some land masses or ocean areas were outlined in red or yellow. Yet the clavicle did not reveal the meaning of these functions; it simply rotated the globe to the Kanopic mouth of the Nilos, then twisted and rolled the globe again to the position of the gate, marked by a cross. Her point of view “fell” to the surface of the globe, and she crossed bright, feverishly colored landscapes to a grassland that burned with green fire. There was the gate, marked only by an unlikely cross with wide-splayed armtips.
She opened her eyes.
“It’s still there,” she said. Oresias stood beside her. She hesitantly took his hand and placed it on hers where it gripped the clavicle bar. “Close your eyes,” she said. He did, and she felt the projection move through her, into him. He stiffened as he had the first time they had shared the images, then forced himself to relax. After a few seconds, he o
pened his eyes.
“I confirm that,” he said. “We know our goal.”
Kleopatra sat in a portable throne on a stone platform above the circle. All turned toward the queen. She stood and held her hand out over them. “The blood of the keepers of Alexandros the Uniter, the Conqueror, flows in my veins.” Her lips twisted in that peculiar smile Rhita had seen several times. “However diluted by Persians and Nordic folk. To some, this seems like a royal whim, the shadowy wish of a weak queen. But can you feel this day’s importance? What you find, what you learn and bring back with you, could mean rebirth for the Oikoumenē, and a century of order and prosperity, rather than decline and strife. We might look for a talisman, for the penis of Aser or the lost magic of Neit; we might be fools. What we seek instead is real, and I only regret I cannot share your danger.” Her tone was convincing; none, Rhita saw, doubted the words of their Imperial Hypsēlotēs.
“Go with the gods and the spirts of your loved dead. Apollo shines upon you all. I love you as my children. I envy you.”
Sour, long-faced Jamal Atta’s eyes filled with tears. Oresias saluted the queen with a hand held high, fingers splayed—Alexandros’s sign of friendship and cooperation. “We will return, my Queen,” he called out.
“We will return,” the members called out in unison.
Kleopatra nodded and kneeled before them.
Rhita felt Oresias’s hand on her arm. He led her to the cab of a covered steam freight wagon. Seven such wagons waited to carry them and their equipment from the staging area in the garage to the aerodromos in the western desert, beyond the old nekropolis. “This had better be worthwhile,” he murmured in her ear, not in accusation, but in camaraderie.
Jamal Atta accompanied a tall, black-haired man with ruddy skin. Both climbed into Rhita’s wagon and found their assigned seats. When they were settled, and the wagons began to roll from the garage, the military advisor introduced the stranger. “This is your long-missing didaskalos, if I recall correctly,” Atta said. “He has just returned from Kallimakhos’s exile. Demetrios, this is your patient and disruptive student, Rhita Berenikē Vaskayza. She asked that you accompany us.”
