My forearm gauntlet was ruined. I said, “I’ve committed no crime against the state, Coordinator. I love C-K.”
“These are strange days,” the tiger rumbled. “Our routines are in decay. No one is above suspicion. You picked a bad time to make your home mimic a discreet, young man.”
“I did it openly,” I said.
“There are no rights here, Cicada. Only the Queen’s graces. Dress yourself and ride the tiger. We need to talk. I’m taking you to the Palace.”
The Palace was like one gigantic discreet. I wondered if I would ever leave its mysteries alive.
I had no choice.
I dressed carefully under the tiger’s goggling eyes, and mounted it. It smelled of aging lubrication. It must have been in storage for decades. Tigers had not been seen at large in C-K for years.
The halls were crowded with Cicadas going on and off their day shifts. At the tiger’s approach they scattered in terror and awe.
We exited the Froth at its cylinder end, into the gimbaling cluster of interurban tube roads.
The roads were transparent polycarbon conduits, linking C-K’s cylindrical suburbs in an untidy web. The sight of these shining habitats against the icy background of the stars gave me a sharp moment of vertigo. I remembered the cold.
We passed through a thickened knot along the web, a swollen intersection of tube roads where one of C-K’s famous highway bistros had accreted itself into being. The lively gossip of its glittering habitués froze into a stricken silence as I rode by, and swelled into a chorus of alarm as I left. The news would permeate C-K in minutes.
The Palace imitated an Investor starship: an octahedron with six long rectangular sides. Genuine Investor ships were crusted with fantastic designs in hammered metal, but the Queen’s was an uneven dull black, reflecting her unknown shame. With the passage of time it had grown by fits and starts, and now it was lumped and flanged with government offices and the Queen’s covert hideaways. The ponderous hulk spun with dizzying speed.
We entered along one axis into a searing bath of blue-white light. My eyes shrank painfully and began oozing tears.
The Queen’s Advisers were Mechanists, and the halls swarmed with servos. They passively followed their routines, ignoring the tiger, whose chromed and plated surfaces gleamed viciously in the merciless light.
A short distance from the axis the centrifugal force seized us and the tiger sank creaking onto its massive legs. The walls grew baroque with mosaics and spun designs in filamented precious metals. The tiger stalked down a flight of stairs. My spine popped audibly in the increasing gravity, and I sat erect with an effort.
Most of the halls were empty. We passed occasional clumps of jewels in the walls that blazed like lightning. I leaned against the tiger’s back and locked my elbows, my heart pounding. More stairs. Tears ran down my face and into my mouth, a sensation that was novel and disgusting. My arms trembled with fatigue.
The Coordinator’s office was on the perimeter. It kept him in shape for audiences with the Queen. The tiger stalked creaking through a pair of massive doors, built to Investor scale.
Everything in the office was in Investor scale. The ceilings were more than twice the height of a man. A chandelier overhead gushed a blistering radiance over two immense chairs with tall backs split by tail holes. A fountain surged and splattered feebly, exhausted by strain.
The Coordinator sat behind a keyboarded business desk. The top of the desk rose almost to his armpits, and his scaled boots dangled far above the floor. Beside him a monitor scrolled down the latest Market reports.
I heaved myself, grunting, off the tiger’s back and up into the scratchy plush of an Investor chair seat. Built for an Investor’s scaled rump, it pierced my trousers like wire.
“Have some sun shades,” the Coordinator said. He opened a cavernous desk drawer, fished elbow-deep for a pair of goggles, and hurled them at me. I reached high, and they hit me in the chest.
I wiped my eyes and put on the goggles, groaning with relief. The tiger crouched at the foot of my chair, whirring to itself.
“Your first time in the Palace?” the Coordinator said.
I nodded with an effort.
“It’s horrible, I know. And yet, it’s all we have. You have to understand that, Landau. This is C-K’s Prigoginic catalyst.”
“You know the philosophy?” I said.
“Surely. Not all of us are fossilized. The Advisers have their factions. That’s common knowledge.” The Coordinator pushed his chair back. Then he stood up in its seat, climbed up onto his desk top, and sat on its forward edge facing me, his scaled boots dangling.
He was a blunt, stocky, powerfully muscled man, moving easily in the force that flattened me. His face was deeply and ferociously creased with two centuries of seams and wrinkles. His black skin gleamed dully in the searing light. His eyeballs had the brittle look of plastic. He said, “I’ve seen the tapes the dogs made, and I feel I understand you, Landau. Your sin is distance.”
He sighed. “And yet you are less corrupt than others…There is a certain threshold, an intensity of sin and cynicism, beyond which no society can survive…Listen. I know about Shapers. The Ring Council. Stitched together by black fear and red greed, drawing power from the momentum of its own collapse. But C-K’s had hope. You’ve lived here, you must have at least seen it, if you can’t feel it directly. You must know how precious this place is. Under the Cicada Queen, we’ve drawn survival from a state of mind. Belief counts, confidence is central.” The Comptroller looked at me, his dark face sagging. “I’ll tell you the truth. And depend on your goodwill. For the proper response.”
“Thank you.”
“C-K is in crisis. Rumors of the Queen’s disaffection have brought the Market to the point of collapse. This time they’re more than rumors, Landau. The Queen is on the point of defection from C-K.”
Stunned, I slumped suddenly into my chair. My jaw dropped. I closed it with a snap.
“Once the Market collapses,” the Coordinator said, “it means the end of all we had. The news is already spreading. Soon there will be a run against the Czarina-Kluster banking system. The system will crash, C-K will die.”
“But…,” I said. “If it’s the Queen’s own doing…” I was having trouble breathing.
“It’s always the doing of the Investors, Landau; it’s been that way ever since they first swept in and made our wars into an institution…We Mechanists had you Shapers at bay. We ruled the entire system while you hid in terror in the Rings. It was your trade with the Investors that got you on your feet again. In fact, they deliberately built you up, so that they could maintain a competitive trade market, pit the human race against itself, to their own profit…Look at C-K. We live in harmony here. That could be the case everywhere. It’s their doing.”
“Are you saying,” I said, “that the history of C-K is an Investor scheme? That the Queen was never really in disgrace?”
“They’re not infallible,” the Coordinator said. “I can save the Market, and C-K, if I can exploit their own greed. It’s your jewels, Landau. Your jewels. I saw the Queen’s reaction when her…damned lackey Wellspring presented your gift. You learn to know their moods, these Investors. She was livid with greed. Your patent could catalyze a major industry.”
“You’re wrong about Wellspring,” I said. “The jewel was his idea. I was working with endolithic lichens. ‘If they can live within stones they can live within jewels,’ he said. I only did the busywork.”
“But the patent’s in your name.” The Coordinator looked at the toes of his scaled boots. “With one catalyst, I could save the Market. I want you to transfer your patent from Eisho Zaibatsu to me. To the Czarina-Kluster People’s Corporate Republic.”
I tried to be tactful. “The situation does seem desperate,” I said, “but no one within the Market really wants it destroyed. There are other powerful forces preparing for a rebound. Please understand—it’s not for any personal gain that I must keep my patent
. The revenue is already pledged. To terraforming.”
A sour grimace deepened the crevasses in the Coordinator’s face. He leaned forward, and his shoulders tightened with a muffled creaking of plastic. “Terraforming! Oh, yes, I’m familiar with the so-called moral arguments. The cold abstractions of bloodless ideologues. What about respect? Obligation? Loyalty? Are these foreign terms to you?”
I said, “It’s not that simple. Wellspring says—”
“Wellspring!” he shouted. “He’s no Terran, you fool, he’s only a renegade, a traitor scarcely a hundred years old, who sold himself utterly to the aliens. They fear us, you see. They fear our energy. Our potential to invade their markets, once the star drive is in our hands. It should be obvious, Landau! They want to divert human energies into this enormous Martian boondoggle. We could be competing with them, spreading to the stars in one fantastic wave!” He held his arms out rigid before him, his wrists bent upward, and stared at the tips of his outstretched fingers.
His arms began to tremble. Then he broke, and cradled his head in his corded hands. “C-K could have been great. A core of unity, an island of safety in the chaos. The Investors mean to destroy it. When the Market crashes, when the Queen defects, it means the end.”
“Will she really leave?”
“Who knows what she means to do.” The Coordinator looked exhausted. “I’ve suffered seventy years from her little whims and humiliations. I don’t know what it is to care anymore. Why should I break my heart trying to glue things together with your stupid knick-knacks? After all, there’s still the discreet!”
He looked up ferociously. “That’s where your meddling sent the Councilman. Once we’ve lost everything, they’ll be thick enough with blood to swim in!”
He leapt from his desk top, bounced across the carpet, and dragged me bodily from the chair. I grabbed feebly at his wrists. My arms and legs flopped as he shook me. The tiger scuttled closer, clicking. “I hate you,” he roared, “I hate everything you stand for! I’m sick of your Clique and their philosophies and their pudding smiles. You’ve killed a good friend with your meddling.
“Get out! Get out of C-K. You have forty-eight hours. After that I’ll have you arrested and sold to the highest bidder.” He threw me contemptuously backward. I collapsed at once in the heavy gravity, my head thudding against the carpet.
The tiger pulled me to my feet as the Coordinator clambered back into his oversized chair. He looked into his Market screen as I climbed trembling onto the tiger’s back.
“Oh, no,” he said softly. “Treason.” The tiger took me away.
I found Wellspring, at last, in Dogtown. Dogtown was a chaotic subcluster, pinwheeling slowly to itself above the rotational axis of C-K. It was a port and customhouse, a tangle of shipyards, storage drogues, quarantines, and social houses, catering to the vices of the footloose, the isolated, and the estranged.
Dogtown was the place to come when no one else would have you. It swarmed with transients: prospectors, privateers, criminals, derelicts from sects whose innovations had collapsed, bankrupts, defectors, purveyors of hazardous pleasures. Accordingly the entire area swarmed with dogs, and with subtler monitors. Dogtown was a genuinely dangerous place, thrumming with a deranged and predatory vitality. Constant surveillance had destroyed all sense of shame.
I found Wellspring in the swollen bubble of a tubeway bar, discussing a convoluted business deal with a man he introduced as “the Modem.” The Modem was a member of a small but vigorous Mechanist sect known in C-K slang as Lobsters. These Lobsters lived exclusively within skin-tight life-support systems, flanged here and there with engines and input-output jacks. The suits were faceless and dull black. The Lobsters looked like chunks of shadow.
I shook the Modem’s rough room-temperature gauntlet and strapped myself to the table.
I peeled a squeezebulb from the table’s adhesive surface and had a drink. “I’m in trouble,” I said. “Can we speak before this man?”
Wellspring laughed. “Are you joking? This is Dogtown! Everything we say goes onto more tapes than you have teeth, young Landau. Besides, the Modem is an old friend. His skewed vision should be of some use.”
“Very well.” I began explaining. Wellspring pressed for details. I omitted nothing.
“Oh, dear,” Wellspring said when I had finished. “Well, hold on to your monitors, Modem, for you are about to see rumor break the speed of light. Odd that this obscure little bistro should launch the news that is certain to destroy C-K.” He said this quite loudly, and I looked quickly around the bar. The jaws of the clientele hung open with shock. Little blobs of saliva oscillated in their mouths.
“The Queen is gone, then,” Wellspring said. “She’s probably been gone for weeks. Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped. Even an Investor’s greed has limits. The Advisers couldn’t lead her by the nose forever. Perhaps she’ll show up somewhere else, some habitat more suited to her emotional needs. I suppose I had best get to my monitors and cut my losses while the Market still has some meaning.”
Wellspring parted the ribbons of his slashed sleeve and looked casually at his forearm computer. The bar emptied itself, suddenly and catastrophically, the customers trailed by their personal dogs. Near the exit, a vicious hand-to-hand fight broke out between two Shaper renegades. They spun with piercing cries through the crunching grip-and-tumble of free-fall jujitsu. Their dogs watched impassively.
Soon the three of us were alone with the bar servos and half a dozen fascinated dogs. “I could tell from my last audience that the Queen would leave,” Wellspring said calmly. “C-K had outlived its usefulness, anyway. It was important only as the motivational catalyst for the elevation of Mars to the Third Prigoginic Level of Complexity. It was fossilizing under the weight of the Advisers’ programs. Typical Mech shortsightedness. Pseudopragmatic materialism. They had it coming.”
Wellspring showed an inch of embroidered undercuff as he signaled a servo for another round. “The Councilman you mentioned has retired to a discreet. He won’t be the last one they haul out by the heels.”
“What will I do?” I said. “I’m losing everything. What will become of the Clique?”
Wellspring frowned. “Come on, Landau! Show some Posthuman fluidity. The first thing to do, of course, is to get you into exile before you’re arrested and sold. I imagine our friend the Modem here can help with that.”
“To be sure,” the Modem enunciated. He had a vocoder unit strapped to his throat, and it projected an inhumanly beautiful synthesized voice. “Our ship, the Crowned Pawn, is hauling a cargo of iceteroid mass drivers to the Ring Council. It’s for the Terraforming Project. Any friend of Wellspring’s is welcome to join us.”
I laughed incredulously. “For me, that’s suicide. Go back to the Council? I might as well open my throat.”
“Be at ease,” the Modem soothed. “I’ll have the medimechs work you over and graft on one of our shells. One Lobster is very much like another. You’ll be perfectly safe, under the skin.”
I was shocked. “Become a Mech?”
“You don’t have to stay one,” Wellspring said. “It’s a simple procedure. A few nerve grafts, some anal surgery, a tracheotomy…You lose on taste and touch, but the other senses are vastly expanded.”
“Yes,” said the Modem. “And you can step alone into naked space, and laugh.”
“Right!” said Wellspring. “More Shapers should wear Mech technics. It’s like your lichens, Hans. Become a symbiosis for a while. It’ll broaden your horizons.”
I said, “You don’t do…anything cranial, do you?”
“No,” said the Modem offhandedly. “Or, at least, we don’t have to. Your brain’s your own.”
I thought. “Can you do it in”—I looked at Wellspring’s forearm—“thirty-eight hours?”
“If we hurry,” the Modem said. He detached himself from the table.
I followed him.
The Crowned Pawn was under way. My skin clung magnetically to a ship’s gi
rder as we accelerated. I had my vision set for normal wavelengths as I watched Czarina-Kluster receding.
Tears stung the fresh tracks of hair-thin wires along my deadened eyeballs. C-K wheeled slowly, like a galaxy in a jeweled web. Here and there along the network, flares pulsed as suburbs began the tedious and tragic work of cutting themselves loose. C-K was in the grip of terror.
I longed for the warm vitality of my Clique. I was no Lobster. They were alien. They were solipsistic pinpoints in the galactic night, their humanity a forgotten pulp behind black armor.
The Crowned Pawn was like a ship turned inside out. It centered around a core of massive magnetic engines, fed by drones from a chunk of reaction mass. Outside these engines was a skeletal metal framework where Lobsters clung like cysts or skimmed along on induced magnetic fields. There were cupolas here and there on the skeleton where the Lobsters hooked into fluidic computers or sheltered themselves from solar storms and ring-system electrofluxes.
They never ate. They never drank. Sex involved a clever cyber-stimulation through cranial plugs. Every five years or so they “molted” and had their skins scraped clean of the stinking accumulation of mutated bacteria that scummed them over in the stagnant warmth.
They knew no fear. Agoraphobia was a condition easily crushed with drugs. They were self-contained and anarchical. Their greatest pleasure was to sit along a girder and open their amplified senses to the depths of space, watching stars past the limits of ultraviolet and infrared, or staring into the flocculate crawling plaque of the surface of the sun, or just sitting and soaking in watts of solar energy through their skins while they listened with wired ears to the warbling of Van Allen belts and the musical tick of pulsars.
There was nothing evil about them, but they were not human. As distant and icy as comets, they were creatures of the vacuum, bored with the outmoded paradigms of blood and bone. I saw within them the first stirrings of the Fifth Prigoginic Leap—that postulated Fifth Level of Complexity as far beyond intelligence as intelligence is from amoebic life, or life from inert matter.
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