Harvest the Fire

by Poul Anderson

  “Do you feel we owe you access?” he began, keeping his tone mild. “Your folk chose to go live on the fringe of deep space because they wanted no part of our civilization.”

  “We lack the means to follow Anson Guthrie to Alpha Centauri, like Rinndalir and his camarilla,” Lirion responded as quietly. “Proserpina is the last hope of our breed in the Solar System, not to be engulfed and in the end go extinct.”

  Lunarians generally preferred challenge to blandness. “Have you then concluded that altruism is, after all, a virtue? You want this World Federation that you loathe to supply you, when you have nothing to exchange that we need.”

  “We wish for a single large consignment. Given that, the engineers say they can build a fusion-powered factory to make more, not as copiously as on Mercury, but sufficient.”

  “I ask you again, why should we? You’re not dying of hunger or cold.”

  One rarely got a glimpse of a Lunarian’s heart, if that was what Venator saw. “Better so, maychance, than what must happen if you deny us,” Lirion told him somberly. “We foresee imprisonment, where we and all who stem from us are locked into eternal sameness, as adventurous and alive as barnacles on a stone.”

  “Have you no inner resources?”

  “A machine spoke there,” Lirion scoffed. “Abstractions, mental constructs, the Teramind admiring its own exaltedness, is that for living creatures? Behold Earth’s gain for aiding us—a society new and strange, doing deeds and dreaming dreams to shake you out of your stagnation.”

  Yes, thought Venator, that is exactly what we fear. Aloud: “We think of it as equilibrium. World-weariness? Why, the world is so rich that no human lifetime is enough to explore all of it.”

  “You are satisfied, then—stabilized, you say. Lest new discovery threaten your order of things, you are ending antimatter production.”

  “Read in what motives you will. The plain fact is that it’s no longer needed. We are caching a supply for any foreseeable contingencies.” Venator paused. “The cache is thoroughly guarded, you understand. May I speak frankly? Power like that, in—uncontrolled—hands, is too risky, however distant from us they may be.”

  Lirion showed no umbrage. He laughed, a low trill in his throat. “Eyach, you did not come here for us to toss clichés at one another.”

  “No. I hope to sound you out.”

  Lirion raised his brows. “In what wise?” He sipped his wine, savoringly, while he listened.

  “You’ve announced your aim of persuading the Federation to release a quantity of antimatter to Proserpina. You’re free to argue for that, of course. I daresay you have inducements to offer influential Terrans.” Saying “bribes” would be impolite, and would doubtless amuse the Lunarian. “But you have been observed doing very little persuading, either on public channels or in private talks.”

  Lirion finger-shrugged. “I soon saw there was small point in it. Yes, Federation citizens may publish their words, elect their parliamentarians, debate in their committees, vote on their measures, but you know still better than I, it is the cybercosm that decides.”

  “Do you honestly think of it as our overlord? I can’t believe that. You’re intelligent and educated. You realize humans and machines are parts of the same system, and sophotects are individuals as conscious as you are.”

  “Nay, not quite thus. Their minds are avatars of the One, and it has come to have its own ends, which are not remotely human.”

  How could they be? thought Venator. “Is a hammer your enemy because it can drive a nail better than your fist? It’s all mind evolving, human and machine together.”

  “Maychance, once humans have ceased to be human.” Lirion made a chopping gesture. His voice, though, turned gentle, and he smiled. “Let us not stumble into philosophical dispute, alike tedious and bootless. Truth to say,”—if it was truth, Venator thought—“your coming raises a wisp of optimism. Can it be that through you the cybercosm will speak directly to me?”

  A milligram of candor would be wise. “I’ll be happy to convey any messages, but I am not a sophotect myself.”

  Lirion cocked his head. “So, a download? I suspected as much. Then I should in courtesy ask your name.”

  Venator would not explain that it wasn’t that simple, that even in life he had been a synnoiont who from time to time entered into a communion with the cybercosm as full as was possible for an organic being. But he might as well be frank about things that meant nothing to the other. “Once I was Lucas Mthembu.”

  Unexpected memories came astir, a little cradle song of his mother’s, a lion walking golden on a summer-golden veldt, the Brain Garden where he lost his childhood and gained his life’s meaning, savory food and drink, stalking a killer down a nighted alley, fishing on a lake that sheened beyond the horizon, conflict, comradeship, Lilisaire of the flame-red mane, who tricked him to his sharpest defeat and lived on in him ever afterward—“But I’ve used many different tags since then. Venator will do.”

  No need to explain that it meant “hunter” in a language forgotten by all but the great database. Nor should Lirion know that this was not a straightforward download from a living human with which he dealt, but one copied back from its union with the One—Oh, longing for Nirvana!

  “I would be most interested to hear whatever you care to tell me about your life, Donrai Venator,” the Lunarian said. “And belike it would give me some helpful insights. We are indeed isolated on Proserpina, out among comets and stars.”

  Venator formed a laugh. “I shan’t recite you an autobiography. But yes, let’s talk, let’s get acquainted.”

  The conversation went on for two or three hours, lively and pleasant in a sword’s-point fashion. Each had much to ask and much to relate. The Lunarian was by turns discursive, incisive, pragmatic, lyrical, witty, always charming. Venator recollected stories told of him while he lived here, tales of a champion athlete and go player, ruthless entrepreneur and historical scholar, gourmet and gourmand, sexually voracious and given to long spans alone, corrupt politician, neo-feudal lord, dangerous conspirator, and, just possibly, idealist on behalf of his people. Although he was too haughty to boast, it grew clear that after he moved to Proserpina his saga became an epic.

  Yet at the end almost nothing germane to the issue had been said by either party. (Almost nothing.) There was a desultory discussion of trade. (Would they not like more water on Mars?—No, not at present, and should the need arise, robots could go bring in a comet.) There was mention of safeguards. (Surely any notion of warheads launched from Proserpina against Earth, or vice versa, was ridiculous!—Yes, but if ever violence broke out in yonder deeps, an Earth that had supplied the means must answer heavily to herself.) Both recognized the futility and dropped the subjects. Lirion said he had talks scheduled with two more persons, but unless the government relented, he expected soon to start home. Meanwhile, what Donrai Venator had remarked, concerning the status and encouragement of private ventures in a postcapitalist economy, was fascinating, and would he explain further? …

  They parted company with expressions of mutual respect and goodwill. In life Venator had been able to make his face a fluid mask when he chose; but he was rather glad that now he had no face. As he walked back to headquarters, his mind went in full cry on the spoor of his quarry.

  Already earlier he had winded scents. The intelligence corps of the Peace Authority numbered few Lunarians, none of whom would have been trusted in this business. No Terran could have trailed Lirion unnoticed, especially down into an old section where only Lunarians and other metamorphs lived. But maintainor robots went everywhere, as vital as breath and scarcely more heeded. Before Lirion landed, Venator had put observation programs into certain of them.

  The man from Proserpina repeatedly, quietly made his way to an apartment in the old quarter. Sometimes he spent hours there. The place was leased to one Seyant, a Lunarian about whom little could be discovered except that he traveled a good deal, everywhere around the Moon.

&nbs
p; It took considerable detective work on Venator’s part—he was a bit surprised when he finally succeeded—but he learned that, about a year ago, equipment had been brought into the apartment and work had been done that indicated something to do with communications.

  Since then, unbreakable quantum encryptions had often gone in and out. That was no crime, of course, nor very unusual, and Venator had no proof that anyone inside had been tapping into the government’s secret database. It wasn’t supposed to be possible.

  However, once alerted, the system was able to sketch out several different ways in which it might be done. All required certain unique capabilities. Venator judged that, if his corps raided the apartment, they would not find a program for the purpose, or any other hard evidence. The information, whatever it was, had been stolen, the coded news had reached Proserpina, and Lirion was here to take charge of the operation—whatever it was.

  What instructions had he sent in advance? Probably laser beams had been making their days-long journeys back and forth for years, tenuous threads slowly woven into a plot. Venator had no idea what the intent was; or else he had too many conflicting ideas. But the time for action must be drawing nigh, because Lirion said he would soon depart.

  The corps might arrest him on grounds of suspicion, which might barely be tenable under the law, less in hopes of wringing out the truth—he must have provisions against that, a suicide bomblet merely the most obvious—than to upset the conspiracy. Venator was dubious whether that would work either. At best, it would leave the organization unprobed, intact, ready to wreak new mischief.

  Today he had met with the ringleader. His human intuition, which no pure sophotect could quite have matched, confirmed him in a decision he had been nurturing. Surveillance was the method, secretly watching and listening to the enemy in his councils. It was his fortune to have a means available.

  Ancient though the apartment was, its plans remained in the city’s archival database, together with records of structural changes made over the centuries. Those were few. Terrans seldom cared to take over places meant for Lunarians, taller than they and with curious tastes in layout and decor. During a former period of unrest, tenants had installed heavy screening against all kinds of eavesdropping, which had subsequently been kept up-to-date. Later, others added what they presumably meant for an emergency bolt-hole. From a cabinet, a trap gave on a vertical shaft that led to a tunnel on the next level down, and so away through a labyrinth of fixed machines: air and water recyclers, pumps, thermal equalizers, and the like.

  A sophotect in a miniature body had crept up into the cabinet and found that it was outfitted with camouflaged, passive optical and sonic fibers; a person there could look out into the main room and hear what went on. Venator felt sure the door was also concealed, indistinguishable from its wall. He had no reason to believe that anyone had used the facility for lifetimes, if ever. The spy reported finding no locks, detectors, alarms, or other precautions.

  Perhaps the current occupants didn’t know it existed, perhaps they had failed to give it thought. They were mortal, therefore fallible.

  He would have himself smuggled in.

  Not as he was. This body, or any that would hold his braincase, was too big, too metallic, much too noticeable electronically. A connection to the outside would also be. A quick foray for spying purposes was one thing, a prolonged stay was something else.

  Once brought there, he must lurk alone, physically helpless, a box with nothing but speaker, sensors, and spirit. He dared not even post watchers in the neighborhood. An ultrasmall robot should be able safely to creep up to him about once per daycycle. If action seemed imminent, he would give it the sign to go fetch a larger one to remove him.

  Otherwise, it could become a long while alone in the dark, but he had machine patience. Moreover, he had what no machine did, the subtle understanding, the ability to guess rightly what a word or a gesture implied, that came from memories of having been human.

  As for the hazard—in his present state he was incapable of fear. What he did feel was glee. Until he gained his reward, the return to transcendent Oneness, next best was matching wits with an opponent such as Lirion.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jesse Nicol was haunted by his last evening in Oceania.

  He had been standing at the starboard rail of the upper promenade deck on the Okuma ’Olo, glaring west. It was less a ship than a town afloat, home to some four thousand people. Beneath him tiers went like a landscape, flower gardens aglow between hedges of close-trimmed privet or carefree lavender, bougainvillea and fuchsia brightening the white sides of cabins, rustly bamboo around the turf of hidden nooks, here and there a palm tree silhouetted against heaven, a stream splashing in small cataracts down to a pool where children frolicked. Their cries reached him, faint and sweet, as did the notes of a flute somewhere else, through air where a ghost of fragrance lingered while it cooled away toward nightfall.

  Three similar communities lay in sight, widely spaced across the sea, and Nauru hove darkly on the northern horizon. Lights had begun to twinkle forth over the island. The Lahui Kuikawa had long since become too many for it, but it remained the heart of their nation. Near it the water was blanketed by aquaculture that stretched beyond sight. Elsewhere, waves ran low and whisperful, violet-blue with fragile foam streaks, molten-bright out where the sun came down to meet them.

  A band of Keiki Moana swam by, pinniped incarnations of grace. Light from the west swirled in their wakes.

  Nicol ignored them. He had ended an hour of solitary pacing to stop where he was and curse his destiny.

  A soft footfall broke through to him. He turned about as Ianeke approached. For a moment they were still, he struggling to get rid of his thoughts, she uncertain.

  “You stand lonely, Jesse,” she said in Anglo. Her fluency had played its minor part in drawing them together.

  “It’s my choice,” he answered.

  She half reached for him, let her hand fall, and said, “I won’t trouble you if you don’t want me to.”

  He made a smile. “How could I not?” And in truth she was comely, brown and rounded, hair tumbling night-black past a face in which all the bloodlines of Earth seemed harmoniously mingled, her attire a wraparound skirt and a wreath of jasmine.

  Her own smile flashed back at him. “That’s better.” Seriousness returned. He heard the concern in her. “But you’re always lonely, aren’t you? I mean inside yourself, where it counts.”

  “What else can I be, when I’m always among strangers?” he retorted without thinking. Immediately he wanted to protest that he hadn’t expressed self-pity. But that could sound worse yet. He was too sparkbrained impulsive.

  “No, we’re your friends here!” she exclaimed, stricken. In some ways they were unreasonably vulnerable, these dwellers in mid-Pacific. Was it because they had scant contact with the rest of the world, or was it due to an obscure influence of the Keiki, those metamorphic seals, the other half of their society?

  Certainly they had made him welcome, first as a visitor, then as a person who began to imagine he might pass his life among them. Boundless was the patience with which they forgave his gaucheries and explosions of bad temper, while teaching him mainly by example. He often wondered how much was natural kindness and how much was for the sake of his interesting foreignness, or even his verses.

  “You and I—” Ianeke’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes,” he must agree. She had gone beyond kindness, she honestly cared for him.

  He could not break free of his mood. She regarded him with distress before she asked, “Were you making your new poem? I’m sorry if I interrupted. I’ll go away and let you work.” That too was genuine. Her culture made creativity an ideal, more powerful than he had found anywhere else.

  He shook his head. “No, no, it’s done.”

  Her eyes widened, then she bit her lip. “You sound displeased.”

  “I am. It’s garbage.”

  “I can’t believe that.
You are too hard on yourself, ipo—dear one. How often have I told you? You are.” She touched his hand. He felt and heard and saw the sympathy.

  Sympathy! He nearly recoiled.

  “There’s nothing in it, nothing,” he rasped.

  “May I hear it?” She dared another smile. “Now is a good hour. You said the idea came at just this time, a few days ago.”

  “As you like.” He took his eyes from her, staring above the Keiki Moana in their waves, and mumbled,

  “The sunset throws a road across the sea,

  Ephemeral as fire, with barely breath

  Or ripple of a wrinkle on its bed,

  Nor signs to tell the day, “This way to death.’

  They who descend past infra-violet,

  Through that great night which underlies it, find

  No quietness for silt that sank from life

  To where the planetary millstones grind.

  How will those ocean folk remember us?

  How shall they and how can they? What we are

  Has bones too thick to walk the western road

  That smolders out beneath an eastern star.”

  “I do like,” she said low.

  He spat across the rail. “It’s empty, I tell you! No sense of what I wanted to say—”

  She moved to his side. “Of what is burning in you to say.”

  “Ha. The word for me is poetaster.”

  “No. You have the gift, you have the fire.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, somewhere in my genome. What matter, when I don’t have anything to use it for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  His fists knotted. “What I’ve been wandering the world in search of, and thought for a while I might have found here. The—the symbols and the substance.” He drew a ragged breath. “Why has nothing new, nothing with real feeling in it, been done—in writing, music, every art, yes, every science—for centuries, I say, except by tiny enclaves like yours?”