After five minutes the air inside the hangar was breathable, but still too hot. Fans blew refrigerated air through the space, and shortly the temperature had dropped to a more tolerable level.
“It looks like we are ready to go,” said Gehrts. “Shall we?”
“After you.”
They descended a set of simple metal stairs to a door set at hangar-level. Miller operated the heavy manual latches, and they stepped out to join the rest of the welcoming committee.
The hangar was still hot, and humid from the outside. Gehrts thought that something smelled like sulfur – although whether from a trace of the toxic air or fuel residue from the shuttle, she couldn’t tell.
Gehrts knew most of them personally, and she nodded and waved as she made eye contact. Many were fellow Librarians, but there were representatives from most of the major organizations on Earth. She recognized the leader of the Cult of Old Guy – a tall but slightly overweight man with graying hair, wearing a simple gray toga with his symbolic bogie wheel of office hanging down in front of his chest. Gehrts tried to say hello to him, but he did not respond. Gehrts thought he looked worried – but then, while in principle a great moment for him and his cult, when your savior actually arrives in person there is no telling what he’ll do. It’s always safer for an organized religion if the main deity is safely away in heaven somewhere and not nosing about in official church business.
After a bit of milling about and chatting, the side door of the shuttle began to cycle open. Two of the ground crew hurriedly wheeled a small set of steps over to it.
The first one to exit was a plain white plastic android, two meters tall and androgynous.
“Hello,” said the android. “My name is Moss.”
The android descended the steps from the shuttle, and then stood over to one side. People waited expectantly for it to say something else, but it appeared to be satisfied at having announced its name.
The second to exit was a large and powerfully built man wearing a black shirt and a pair of black trousers. The man waved. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Chet Masterson. I’m glad to meet all of you, and it’s certainly good to get out of the shuttle. It’s been a long trip.” He walked down the stairs, shaking people’s hands and saying hello. He seemed to do a brief double-take when he first saw Gehrts, but otherwise mingled smoothly.
The third was a tall, thin female, wearing an antique brown leather flying suit with aviator goggles pulled up on the top of her head. She had unruly short brown hair, and she smiled a toothy grin.
Hello. I’m the android representative of the cybertank known as Old Guy. I’ve heard that there is more of me around here somewhere. Can someone show me where?
The voice was incongruously heavy for something that looked like a biological female, and several of the members of the welcoming committee looked confused.
The leader of the cult of Old Guy squinted at the female android. “Old Guy? Is that really you?”
The female bowed. Well, not really the full me – that’s still drifting several AU out from here. The aliens were gracious in allowing this visit, but still were not willing to let that much mass land, not yet anyhow. So this is just a representative of me, animated by a submind.
The cult leader stammered: “But, but… a woman? We all thought you were male?”
Oh. Sorry if that turned out to be confusing. Of course, I am neither male nor female. This is just a robotic body that I had handy. It’s useful, but it’s not important. I mean, if you use a pair of pliers to do a job, do you care if it’s male or female? I fashioned it on a whim after the ancient aeronautical pioneer Amelia Earhart.
The cult leader looked confused, then he bowed down. “Oh great and noble Old Guy you have finally come to us! Your worshippers bid you welcome! All praises to Old Guy! For thine is the power and the glory! Amen!”
Wow. OK, then. Thank you for that. I gather that you are the leader of my – uh, did you say cult?
The leader remained with his head bowed down. “I am not really the leader – you are. Or the other you. I have the honor of being your prime administrative assistant, oh great and noble one. I am Maximillian VerHoef, and I have had the honor of working with you for 37 years now. Hallowed be thy name.”
It’s great to meet you, Maximillian VerHoef. Why are you still bent over?
“I’m averting my eyes out of respect, oh great and powerful Old Guy.”
Oh, right. I appreciate it, but I think that’s enough.
Hesitantly, the cult leader straightened up. “Thank you, oh wise and noble Old Guy.”
Listen, I can tell that you and I have a lot of catching up to do, but for now I think I have to attend to some more – well – secular business. Can we meet later?
The cult leader bowed his head repeatedly. “Oh yes, of course, I did not want to waste your valuable time. Whenever you want, know that I and the rest of your followers are your humble servants. You have but to ask.” He backed off, continuing to bow.
The last figure to exit the shuttle was a lean man. He wore snug-fitting blue jeans, gray tennis shoes, and a plain gray T-shirt. His thick dark hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. He walked down the stairs from the shuttle, slowly but with the effortless grace of a jungle cat. “Hi all,” he said. “I’m Giuseppe Vargas. Good to be here.”
Vargas massed hardly half what Masterson did, and he was half a head shorter, but all eyes were glued to his every motion. The female members of the reception committee all gave an unconscious faint gasp. Some of the male members of the reception committee did as well. He moved through the crowd as if he owned it.
He came up to Ludmilla Gehrts. “You must be the Senior Archivist,” said Vargas. He made to shake her hand, but Gehrts just held it out. “At your service.”
Gehrts blushed. “I’m… I’m pleased to meet you Mr. Vargas. Welcome to Earth.”
Vargas smiled broadly. “Thank you, Senior Archivist! I do say, while we have a lot to catch up on, it’s been a long trip and I’m famished. Is there a place around here we could get some dinner?”
-------------------
The Amelia Earhart/Old Guy android was walking with Maximillian VerHoef, the leader of the Cult of Old Guy. They had nearly made it to the entrance to the Church of Old Guy, which was buried in the middle of a mountain range. The hallway that they were walking down was broad and tall, and decorated with scenes of cybertanks blowing up numerous targets of various sorts. There was a steady stream of foot traffic going in both directions. Apparently, few people had heard the news that the representative of the original Old Guy was an android in the appearance of the female aviator Amelia Earhart, because few people paid them any attention.
So tell me again, how did this church form?
“It happened after the time of the great collapse. Many existing religions and cults were destroyed. The news came out that you – or I should say, your brother? – had sacrificed himself to save the world. As people picked over the wreckage, armored military data recorders and gun cameras were unearthed that showed the full extent of your – er, your brother – er, twin - um, do you mind if I just refer to both of you as the same person? Provisionally?”
Not a problem. So go on, people found hardened data recorders…
“Yes, and it became apparent that the ruling elites had decided to exterminate everyone – including possibly themselves, it got a little jumbled towards the end. At least some of the rulers appear to have gone insane. You saved us all.”
Well, that’s great. Glad to hear that I – in whatever incarnation – did well. You know, compared to when you first met me at the spaceport hangar, you are acting a lot more normal. What was that all about?
VerHoef blushed. “Well, I mean, I thought that it was expected. I never imagined that I would meet the real Old Guy in person. Averting my eyes, saying Oh Lord, I thought it was the right thing to do. When you meet your deity for the first time, surely it’s wise to be respectful. Do you think I was maybe a lit
tle over-the-top?”
We all go a little too much or a little too little, now and then. Just don’t worry about it and tell me about this religion that I am apparently the center of.
“Oh, that. Well, it’s not really a religion as such. It’s a way of remembering your supreme sacrifice and keeping the memory of what might have been alive, so that hopefully we don’t make the same mistakes again. And of course the souvenir store and a chain of bars. There’s also the line of comfortable but stylish footwear that’s been really big lately.”
Really? I think that I feel better about this whole religion thing.
The two exited the hallway and entered the main cavern of the Cult of Old Guy. There were people of every variety milling about. Children were running around screaming and shooting at each other with plastic official Old Guy™ plasma blasters that shot orange foam balls. Adults were sipping official Old Guy™ vodka martinis, and expectant parents were seeking the blessings of Old Guy by tossing rings into a pond filled with vertical iron spikes. There were stores with Old Guy™ bobbleturret dolls, and souvenir Old Guy™ T-shirts, and giant stuffed plushie Old Guy™ cybertanks.
I feel even better about this religion thing. I think you have the right idea.
“Thank you,” said VerHoef. “We try.”
They passed by a scrawny human male with a long dark beard and an embroidered skullcap. He was carrying a sign that said “Jews for Cthulhu.”
What’s with that? Is that part of my religion?
VerHoef shook his head. “No, there are always people trying to gain converts for various fringe cults. Pathetic really, but we put up with them as long as they don’t annoy the paying customers. ‘Jews for Cthulhu’ is, presently, a religion of one, but Shlomo’s not a bad guy. I’d take a hundred like him over a single Bayesian.
A Bayesian?
“Yes, worshipers of Bayes’ theorem who feel that human beings should alter their logic to take more account of previous knowledge. They got into a minor war with the frequentists last month, and we had to take out a restraining order. Bunch of jerks, if you ask me.”
Math is hard, but when you said that you’d take a hundred Jews for Cthulhu over a single Bayesian, aren’t you using prior knowledge?
VerHoef just winced.
Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. How about those people over there?
“Them? Oh, they’re Thingists. They believe in things.”
Sounds like a pragmatic religion.
“I suppose, but don’t let a Solipsist hear you say that.”
I shall try to remember that. Any other splinter cults around?
“Let me see – there are the Singularitarians, the Utilitarians, and the Worshipers of the False God of Secular Humanism. Oh, and the Reform Movement of the Ultimate Church. That’s about it. Here, we’re almost at your main temple.”
The two walked to the entrance of a large marble building that appeared to be roughly modeled on the Acropolis. Acolytes bowed to VerHoef, and when they realized who he was walking with, they bowed even more. Old Guy’s Amelia Earhart android waved and said hello.
Presently they came to a large, high-ceilinged space lit with the soft glow of a thousand electric candles. The walls were covered with murals showing an Odin-Class cybertank in various stages of blowing up and running over enemies that included tentacled aliens, businessmen in pinstriped suits, heavy armored fighting vehicles, dragons, carnivorous plants, and plagues of locusts. On the ceiling a cybertank shot the spark of creation to the outstretched finger of Adam from its main gun.
The Old Guy android pointed up. “You redid Michelangelo?”
VerHoef shrugged. “Poetic license.”
They came to an elaborate altar, at the center of which was a simple metal box with a single glass camera lens staring outwards. A speaker crackled into life.
Hello. You would be a fellow submind of myself, would you not?
That remains to be seen. We are both cleaved from the same root psyche, but your core self had over a year of independent experience, and my core self over a century more experience after the mind-state copy was made. Technically we might not belong to the same person.
Good point. What do you suggest?
Regardless, your memories would be valuable, and our primary selves certainly must have been similar. I would suggest that you transmit a copy of yourself to my main hull, and let the main me decide if we are compatible enough to remerge.
Agreed, but I do hope that’s it’s possible. I’d love to know what the rest of me has been doing out on Alpha Centauri all that time.
Even if full merger is not called for, you can certainly have access to the records. How have you been doing all this time?
Well, this submind of me was running a light combat drone, and I was taken down. By two biologicals! That’s pretty embarrassing, even if they were unusually capable biologicals. Still, I had been spread thin and had no intelligence on them, so I guess that’s kind of an excuse.
OK, so you got taken down, and your computer core survived. Then what?
Well the Librarians Temporal questioned me, and we realized that we had a common enemy. They showed me a mental trick that let me overcome the control directives that the rulers of this world had inserted into my code. I transmitted the solution to my main self who then turned on his masters and – as you have doubtless been told a thousand times already – saved the world.
And then you founded a religion based on yourself? What were you thinking of?
It wasn’t my idea, I swear. At first the Librarians Temporal couldn’t interface with my circuits, so I was just a talking box. But that wasn’t so bad. People would come by and say hello, and ask for advice, and I’d have conversations with them. After a while I became a sort of fixture. People built a room for me, and it grew into a temple, and it went on from there. I can’t say that I take it all that seriously, nor for that matter do most of my followers. In my opinion a religion that doesn’t take itself too seriously is a good example, and it’s been fun.
Surely in all this time they could have figured out how to hook you up to a new body of some sort?
Yes of course – they solved the interface problem ages ago. I’m fully linked with all of the data nets on the planet, and I’ve got some maintenance drones lying around somewhere, but there was no need for a full cybertank chassis. I am after all only a submind, so I decided to stay here. Do you think that I would mind if I stayed on here?
The main me will have to pass judgment on that – but offhand I can’t see why not. It seems to be going well.
I think so too. Now if you will excuse me, I have a wedding to officiate at. Would you care to stay and maybe, I don’t know, say an extra blessing or something?
I’d be honored.
--------------------
Chet Masterson was sitting alone at a table in a study room of the great library. He had a text on the history of the Librarians Temporal (volume three) open, and was methodically reading one page at a time.
Senior Archivist Ludmilla Gehrts burst into the room. She was wearing blue jeans, which were not tucked into her boots. Her short blond hair was unkempt and her green eyes appeared to be slightly bloodshot. She pulled out a chair from the table and sat down vigorously.
“Agh!” she said. “How do you do it? What’s your secret?”
Masterson looked up from his book. “I beg pardon? Do what?”
“How do you stand that egotistical little maniac? Are you like a saint or something?”
Masterson crossed his arms. “A saint, for dealing with Giuseppe Vargas? No, I don’t think of myself as a saint. More as a holy man.”
Gehrts slapped both hands palm down on the table. “Arrgghhh!”
“I take it,” said Masterson, “that last night’s date did not work out.”
“Did not work out?” said Gehrts. “That gives new meaning to the term understatement. Like saying that the maiden voyage of the Titanic had a few technical issues. The management apol
ogizes for the inconvenience.”
“I thought that you Librarians Temporal had total control over your own thoughts. Can’t you just make yourself calm down?”
“Of course I can!” said Gehrts. “It’s just that right now I don’t want to!”
“He didn’t do anything that might be said to violate any legal statutes, did he? I mean, other than misdemeanors?”
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just that – the nerve of that man! What’s the right term – I know, he’s a real piece of work.”
Masterson nodded. “Vargas often has that effect on people. You just can’t take it personally. You must cultivate the image of a stalk of bamboo bending gently in a strong wind.”
“But why bother?” said Gerhts. “In my experience, the best way to deal with assholes is to be somewhere else.”
“For your regular garden-variety asshole, surely. This, however, is Giuseppe Vargas. He has a special dispensation.”
“I know, he saved Alpha Centauri Prime, and through his creation of Old Guy, I suppose he can be given some credit for saving Earth as well. He’s a genius, he’s a hero, I get it. But that doesn’t excuse rude behavior.”
“No, it doesn’t,” admitted Masterson, “but, yes it does. He was the first generation of bioengineered humans. They gave him a lot of advantages when they designed him, but he got a lot of flaws as well. He has issues with self-control, and it’s not his fault.”
“It’s not the fault of a tiger that it wants to eat you, but that still doesn’t mean that you want to invite it into your living room.”
“Now you exaggerate,” said Masterson. “I – and you – owe him a debt. Allowances must be made. You weren’t there when the Neoliberals ran things, but I was. You have no idea.”
“Try me.”
“You can read about it in the history books,” said Masterson, “but that’s just dead words. When I was an officer in the security forces, first on Earth and then on Alpha Centauri Prime, I did terrible things. Regretfully, I never made the slightest attempt to stop it.”
Splendid Apocalypse: The Fall of Old Earth (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 5) Page 27
