by Johan Kalsi
He lay there, and waited to die. The shadow moved slowly during the day. The itching subsided, and his lungs relaxed. The plants held him to the ground, and it took some of his depleted strength to pull his arm off the ground, snapping stems. He held a leaf between his fingers.
The laminae were soft. The mutant things fluttered beneath his fingers like the delicate toy drones he collected as a child. In the cup of his hand, it appeared to glow faintly. He snapped a leaf off its petiole, and feeling he might be in a dream, he put the leaf in his mouth.
His tongue did not swell. His tortured lips did not ignite. Desperately he clutched at the leaves and stuffed them into his mouth, chewing and mashing just enough to swallow a wadded bolus without choking on it. His eyes watered as he stuffed more bites into his mouth and his stomach erupted in alien pleasure. The taste was, in a word, bizarre. No combination of rolled oats and spiced poatamk vinegar could have been odder. It tasted of woven cloth, lemon and meat.
His hands tore apart the stalks and his mouth devoured the harvest like a combinator. It took a relatively long stretch of time for his stomach to recognize that he was no longer starving, and in fact, no longer hungry. He lay back onto the strange bed of green, feeling hope for the first time a long time.
He rubbed the food against his face, and it soothed his cracked skin. He closed his eyes with the stuff in his mouth.
He noticed now that the tractor had not gone missing. An enormous lump near the base of the monument was covered in green. Spanch covered the 44. It crawled up the base of the monument and had reached a point twice as high as the height of the tractor.
The tractor would rust away and be buried under the plants. His 15,000 plots might die. For all he knew, he had lost everything he owned.
But he would sleep here. When he woke, he would stand and start walking, determined to find his family.
He awoke to find his limbs buried in spanch and two robots standing over him. Both were nearly identical to the black market machine that had sold him the data packets. The way the setting sun shone, it was difficult to see, but these models had the distinct orange authorized markings of the Accamian Correlation on their respective chassis.
“Hello,” said the first one.
The second one said, “We're from the Correlation. We're here to help you.”
BOOK TWO: CENTURY 100
Chapter 6: Noegenesis
Universal 128
The Canon Archive of Ouffland was the largest and most significant library, museum, school of wisdom and technological university of the late first Galactic Empire, and the first organized effort to address the transgalactic challenge of [[AlgoDecay.]] It was dedicated to the Canons, the seven pre-Imperial goddesses of wisdom: Literature, Visual Art, Technology, Life, Gold, Space and History and established under the pre-planned, posthumous direction of its spiritual founder, Caden Jaggis, to whom was dedicated the key subroutine modeling system known as [[Noegenesis]]. This system counteracted instances of AlgoDecay upon the identification and isolation of the instance. Noegenesis formed the core academic principle of The Canon Archive as it was painstakingly constructed in a sterile, non-Algorythmic environment.
—Infogalactic Entry: Grand Category: Galactic Institutions
Moykitsch returned from the market to find her children at work, rebuilding the garden wall. The water engines at Bankhead had rerouted two nearby aquifers, and a few days earlier, this had caused a minor sinkhole at the corner of the garden. A little further north and their humble house would now have an unwanted indoor pool.
Of course, city ambassadors for Bankhead had visited their family personally, apologized profusely, and even included an extremely modest promise of future credit as a symbol of contrition. Bramsom, her husband, told them to keep the credit. The city had more pressing financial concerns than rebuilding private land, he insisted. Bramsom, Bramsom’s friends from work and a few of the ladies in the neighborhood spent an afternoon with Moykitsch filling in the hole and replanting some recovery vegetables and trimming it with flowers. The couple laid a base of lunacrete bricks, showing the older kids how to make layers to repair the easier section of wall.
Within a week, the kids had built the wall, without much need of correction or revision, almost halfway to the height of the original. Her youngest one, four (Holocronian) years old could not reach, so she had distracted herself by making a simple picket around the compost area. Noticing with just a secret whisper of relief that no laundry had been dropped at the door, Moykitsch stepped over Boox, their lazy purebred hansilla, on her way into the archway of the open door.
Moykitsch laid her bags down and put the stuff away. Four packages of laundry had been brought in from the front by the kids. No relief after all. She spoke one of her mantras to herself:
“Money,” she said, “is never a bad thing.”
She had heard stories of robots on distant worlds like the “nearby” Holocrone and even beyond, and believed the reports of machines that washed, dried, pressed and packaged laundry all without the touch of human hands, and sometimes on long days thought that sounded nice. Mostly though, she couldn’t imagine clothing her own flesh in such sterile and inhuman textile.
The laundry beckoned her, but she shirked her duties for twenty minutes so she could go help the kids rebuild the wall.
“Momma! Look what I did! Without water! They all balance!”
She smiled and side-hugged the middle one - Pascel - and kissed him on the head. “That’s just fantastic, buddy. I’m afraid they won’t stick that way.”
“But it goes faster!”
She squeezed him. “And it will fall down faster too. That’s why we mix the dust with the water.”
The third child had glops of the stuff all over him. Moykitsch knew the middle one hated to make a mess and hated baths even more, which is probably what had given him the idea to avoid liquefying the mortar in the first place.
“Fall down like Forley's robot?”
The child's eyes widened and his muscles stiffened. He had caught his own cussing too late. Moy's blood went cold.
“What did you say?”
“Forley.“ He was referring to his big brother Fortran, who had been missing for an hour longer than usual. He was a hard worker given to the occasional diverting jaunt.
“After that,” she said, sternly.
“Robot,” he said, quietly.
The other kids gathered at a safe distance for the forthcoming beating, a mix of awe and terror on their faces. Moy could hardly think.
“Daddy!” screamed the kids. Moykitsch turned. Bram, indeed, was home, early by six hours or more.
He was smiling but Moy could not.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “What happened?”
His leathered, weathered face lost in thought, Bram struggled to find words.
“We finished early.”
“Why, what happened? Did whatever-that-electrical-thing-is screw things up again?”
“No, Moy. We finished early. And I got picked.”
It slowly dawned on her.
“Picked? Done? You said it would be fourteen days more!”
“I said it could be fourteen days more. And I said that four days ago. It was unanimous by the way.”
“Who was? Who picked?”
“The guys. We all voted and mine was the only one not for me.”
“Of course it was!” she said, “You’ve been there the longest, you work the hardest, they love you.”
“No, Moy, it could have been any of them. They’ve all worked hard. It’s an honor. I can’t believe it. I gotta get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“Kids!” she yelled. “Wash up! Daddy got picked! Not you mister. We need to talk.”
Once she was out of town, Moy rode the family’s sturdiest horse Rolanda straight north into the undulating forest. She leaned against the saddle front, hugging the big warmblood with her thighs, smoothly shifting Rolandas pace by hand as the terrain dictated.
&n
bsp; The confession had come easy enough. Pascel hardly even realized he was confessing anything, other than using the bad word “robot.“ Forley had found something in a cave in the woods.
She had some idea of the route Forley might be returning by, so she took that even though it was a bit longer than she normally would have taken if she had just been going to the forest for her own sake.
Sure enough, a tall, permanently sun-bronzed boy of fourteen came loping through an open unbroken field. He had gone off without his leg-builders, so looked a little like he was floating in the slightly lower-than-galactic average gravity. Moy clenched her teeth. When kids went off course, they did in style.
His eyes grew wide with recognition as she crested a hill and bore down on him. He looked to either side nervously, as if one of his more disobedient younger siblings had conveniently appeared nearby.
She dismounted before Rolanda had come to a full stop and charged, chin first, at her son.
“Hello, For. Having fun withering your bone density on such a beautiful day?”
He looked down at his ankles.
“I uh, forgot—”
“You took them off. Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in?”
“I needed to get mortar—”
“In the forest? The wall is half done, mister, and your father came home early! He got picked. The opening ceremony is tomorrow!”
“How was I supposed to kno—”
“Maybe by not leaving your brothers and sisters to build the wall by themselves while you went wandering off to play in the forest!”
Her face was flushed red. He hung his head like he’d been slapped. He was taller than his mother, and a few weeks ago had broken another boy’s arm in a fistfight, but he wouldn’t dream of trying to get physical with her.
She stepped into his space and gripped his chin. She looked up into his dewy eyes with fire in her own.
“Now you listen, Fortran Caden Irontime. Very carefully. Don’t say another word. Look at me when I’m talking to you. This is very serious. Your father’s job depends on it. Our community depends upon it. If you lie to me right now, I will beat you so badly that your father will have to bandage you up before he beats you to death. Don’t even think about it. Answer this question:”
“Did you find a robot somewhere?”
Moy had never said such a bad word in front of any of her children before. It clearly shocked Forley, whose face strained to keep from crying. He rubbed his eyes with his big hands, as if they had been flooded with dust.
“Ma – I – mama.”
“Answer the question, honey. It is important. You know the truth will keep your punishment from being really bad. Did you find one?”
He nodded his head mutely.
“Take me to it, right now.”
Although Moy had grown up with these woods and practically had the entire zone memorized from girls’ militia training, the cave was a complete surprise to her. She vaguely recognized a number of boulders surrounding it, but they appeared to have been recently scattered. She figured they might have been moved by the recent earthquake.
The cave opening was small. A rock larger than the opening was poised above it, with rock dust all around. It had caught on some roots, or it likely would have fallen over the opening without anyone being any the wiser.
Forley slid down the opening feet first. Moy followed him, but more cautiously, bracing her arms against the cave walls. They shone their lights in the cold chamber. The rocks here were slick to stand on. She followed Forley to a turn in the tunnel and nearly went blind when her lamp struck the bright, sheer blue surface hidden in a nook about the size of a man.
She turned down the lamp. Forley scratched his ear and shifted his feet absently.
The thin chrysolite wall rose to her chest. Beyond that was the face of a dark-colored antique robot. She blinked away a tear.
“Did you break the chrysolite, Forley? This glassy stuff. Did you break it?”
He shrugged.
“So yes. Who else has seen this?”
“Nobody,” he said, glumly.
“Who else have you told?”
“The girls. The older boys. None of them believe me. 'Cept Pascel. 'Cause he's stupid.”
Moy studied the antique face. There were marks in old Continexal. She recognized the characters, but not the words, except a few: “Caden. Jaggis. Servo.”
“This thing,” she said. “It has algorithms in it.”
Forley didn't know what those were.
“It's like a poison, but for terraforming and computers and...“ she stopped when she realized he had no idea what “terraforming“ or “computers“ were, and would likely only ever learn about them if his father's service earned him entrance into the Canon Archive Academy. “It's the reason why 'robot' is a bad word.”
“Hurry, heat your light to 'warm,'“ she said. She picked up a shard from the floor and held it near Forley's lamp. The chrysolite expanded and became soft. She took that peice and filled in a section in front of Servo's face. The chrysolite hardened within seconds. She got another piece and did the same until the entire hole was mended. She ran his lamp over the surface to smooth it. Then she and Forley tossed dust from the cave onto the chrysolite to dull its natural glow.
Outside the cave, she told Forley to balance on the side of the cave and push the boulder caught in the roots. It fell into the opening, obscuring it completely.
Moy hugged Forley.
“I'm sorry, mama.”
“I love you,” she said. She stood back and looked him in the eye. “Never, ever, ever speak of this to anyone ever again. Swear to me, on your honor.”
“I swear, mama.”
“Good. Now let's go home. Tomorrow will be the biggest day of our lives.“
The Canon Archive worksite still had massive mounds of turned earth blotting the countryside. The reed grasses were not laid, yet, and construction equipment of all sorts looked as if it had been hastily abandoned in place. A huge crowd of workers and townies had gathered. The building itself rose like a tower on the flat prairie land, far from any community. In an almost poetic flourish, a herd of about sixty deer loped in the fields behind it, away from the people.
Bram, Moy and the kids checked in at the carver’s table, and Bram was escorted away through a gap in the crowd. People in the crowd recognized Moy, and must have known Bram had been picked, so they parted and guided them up toward the front, where other families of picked men had gathered.
A young woman from Canon Promotions handed Moy a program, and she took several more for the kids to share. Moy did not know the girl personally, but she thought she resembled a family she knew.
“Horton?”
The girl brightened, “Yes! My Dad’s Valmer. Valmer and Nets?”
“Oh of course! Your mother and I helped on the Founder’s Show a few years ago! Your dad I’m sure has worked with my husband.”
The girl passed on to the next family coming in. She handed them more programs. Moy felt empathy for her. Moy had been hired on to Canon Promotions when she was single, too, but that was back when the building project was in full swing, with more than a decade left for completion. Moy met Bram through the company and was married off and free of the job in less than a year. This girl would be retained if she needed the money, but the Archive would no longer be matchmaker it used to be. Now most of the employees would be established men, scholars and scientists from the temporary schools. Even the construction and maintenance men who remained on board would be from the ranks of experience, like Bram.
The crowd pressed in. Moy looked at the line of picked men. It now wound back and forth like a snake, disappearing into the crowd. Stepped scaffolding climbed the sparkling face of the cathedral Canon Archive. It seemed as if all of Ouffland had stopped for this moment. A massive rectangular stone stood above the grand entryway. It had faint marks on it that were vaguely discernible as letters of the alphabet, but Moy couldn’t make out the words.
The stone sign stood on six rectangular columns, three on either side, with a broad arcade of angled pillars leading into the large main doorways. The scaffolding obscured most of the columnwork, but a seventh great column stood, front and center in the pavilion before the courtyard. This column reached, like a spire, into the heaven with a faint point at the very top.
The line of men began to move. An elderly man at the front of it was instantly recognized by everyone who could see him. Viddo Jaggis Morel had been the first baby born in Ouffland, back when it was little more than a domed bunker in the frozen wastes, right after the natives were moved out and first weather regulator had begun the slow shift upward to allow for a temperate forest to bloom. The son of a hardworking laboring family, he joined the Canon Archive project as an adult of fourteen years, and had been present at its groundbreaking. Two of his younger siblings were still alive, and they were on hand with their families to watch Viddo ascend the staircase.
The old man picked his way slowly, and the only impatience Moy felt was out of concern that he might tumble over from exhaustion. Steadily he rose until, holding the rails with both hands, he made it to the top. Moy wondered how much of the stone etching he could see. She believed his vision had mostly failed, a symptom of decades in the welding bays.
A young man at the top presented him with a chisel and hammer. Viddo took them and strode to a spot where he faced the center of the markings. With the efficiency of a much younger man, he placed the chisel and without hesitation struck a blow that rang out like a bell.
Moy's heart swelled at the one-note song. Its sound rolled over the crowd and swept them up in a wave of joy. A great cheer burst out, and Viddo struck an impromptu second blow. He turned, arms up-stretched at the cheering crowd below. Moy had no doubt that the hardened old working man had tears in his eyes.
