Aristide stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Madam,” he said.
A pair of Fedora’s eyes turned toward him as she paced, while the rest remained focused on Daljit.
“Yes?” she said.
“May I suggest you not inform the police just yet? I—”
The pair of eyes shifted back to Daljit.
“Who is this person?” she asked.
Daljit blinked. “This”—she hesitated—“this is the man who . . . collected... the heads.”
“I see.” All Fedora’s eyes turned to Aristide. “Sir,” she said, “I am absolutely required to inform the authorities when an unlicenced pod person is discovered. There are no exceptions.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that you break the law,” Aristide said. “I was just going to suggest that you be careful which authority you report to. Because—”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of this,”
Fedora said. “This is a grave security matter. The last time we had wholesale pod person creation it started the Control-Alt-Delete War.”
“I know, madam. I was there.”
She seemed a little surprised. “Well then,” she said. “You certainly understand the gravity of this crime.”
“Yes,” Daljit said. “But Fedora, I don’t think you quite understand who you’re talking to.”
“I don’t?” She stiffened, and her sensory complex turned to Aristide. “Who are you then?”
“This,” said Daljit, “is Pablo Monagas Perez.”
Fedora’s eyes seemed to waver and lose focus.
“Oh,” she said.
The image of Fedora faded from the wall, and the wall resumed its neutral color. There was a moment of silence.
Daljit turned to Aristide.
“It’s the nightmare scenario, isn’t it?” she said. “The end of civilization.”
His level gaze remained fixed on the empty wall. “It certainly seems so.”
“The priests were in Midgarth because it’s full of undocumented bodies,” she said. “There’s natural breeding there, and poor record-keeping. The people there aren’t equipped with network implants that broadcast an alert if a mind is tampered with. The priests can suck people through wormholes to wherever their actual headquarters is. Once their wetware is corrupted, they can be returned through the same wormhole, or through another. Equipped with plausible identities, they can be sent as agents to other pockets.”
“Yes.”
Fortunately, he thought, they couldn’t spread a meme plague like the Seraphim. When anyone—even the pretechnological inhabitants of Midgarth—got sick, they’d go to a Pool of Life, and the nature of the plague would be discovered. The pool might be able to cure the plague, or it might not, but in any case it would broadcast an alarm that would be heard throughout the multiverse.
Midgarth was a failure as an anthropological experiment. A Middle Ages in which the people couldn’t get sick and wouldn’t stay dead was useless as a recreation. But the ethics committee that designed the scientific protocols wouldn’t permit real death or real plague.
“What do the enemy do next?” Daljit asked. “You’ve been through this. I haven’t.”
He held out a hand and looked at it as if it belonged to a stranger. Finding it was merely a hand, and not some autonomous mechanism attached to the end of his arm, he placed it with care on a desktop.
“A lot depends on the time scale the attackers are working with,” he said. “If they’ve got time, they can choose their targets in our technological pockets with extreme care. The targets can be taken while isolated—while on vacation, say—then drawn through a wormhole to a place where their implants’ defense systems can be neutralized. If circumstances permitted, the attackers could spend centuries picking off one person here, another there, and their efforts would be nearly undetectable.
“But circumstances won’t permit, or so we hope. Their victims can’t back themselves up, or visit a Pool of Life, because the altered brain structures would become immediately apparent. And if they don’t visit a Pool of Life, they’ll start aging—and that can’t help but be noticed. So that will provide a temptation to work faster than might be absolutely safe.”
Daljit considered this. “What if the attackers have their own Pools of Life, that aren’t connected to the network?”
He considered this for a moment as quiet horror seemed to shiver through the room.
“We’d better find someone in authority to talk to,” he said.
“I have a list,” said Bitsy.
Commissar Lin was a medium-sized man with mild dark eyes placed far apart, nearly on the sides of his head. He had been chosen over the others on Bitsy’s list for prosaic reasons: one other candidate was in political exile, and therefore possessed restricted power of action; another was on holiday in Courtland; and Fedora had worked unhappily with another, and vetoed her.
Lin had also backed himself up just two days before, which meant that if his wetware were corrupted, he would have been attacked in just the last few hours.
That his agency was the Domestic Internal Section, known as the Domus, was a bonus.
When contacted, Commissar Lin seemed undisturbed, and unsurprised, by Pablo Monagas Perez calling to ask him to a pathology lab late at night. After performing an independent verification that Aristide and Monagas Perez were in fact the same individual, he arrived at Fedora’s office twenty minutes later, wearing casual clothes and with an interested look in his widely spaced eyes. The look of interest deepened as he caught sight of the three blue-skinned heads sitting in baths of lemon-scented preservative.
Lin was offered coffee and declined. People sat around a marble-topped table in Fedora’s lab, within sight of the three heads. Aristide explained as briefly as he could, after which Fedora and Daljit gave equally terse abstracts of their discoveries. Lin listened and asked a few short, to-the-point questions.
At the end of the narrative, he glanced at them all and asked, “How many people know of this?”
“We three,” Daljit said.
“Not exactly,” Aristide added. “We may be the only people who know the results of Fedora’s investigations, but a great many people in Midgarth know of the priests. I alerted the people in the College to their existence and told them to report anything they heard. And of course there’s Bitsy.” The cat jumped onto his lap and looked at Lin expectantly. Lin looked back.
“And who is Bitsy, exactly?” Lin asked.
“An avatar of Endora,” said Aristide.
Endora was one of the Eleven, the great plate-shaped computing platforms in close orbit around the sun that together formed the solar system’s Matrioshka array, left incomplete since the onset of the Existential Crisis. The created universe of Topaz, where they sat about the marble-topped table, was reached through a wormhole on Endora’s dark side, as Midgarth had been through a wormhole on the AI platform called Aloysius.
Endora was ubiquitous throughout Topaz and other high-technology pockets she had spawned through her wormholes. Here she was not so much a single intelligence, but an enormous array of semi-autonomous computers, some so stupid they were fit only for a single task, like monitoring the effects of rain on the layer of paint in which they were inserted, some so brilliant they could predict the weather in any of Topaz’s millions of microclimates. But all were connected to Endora’s massive communications web, and all data were ultimately accessible by Endora. It was impossible to perform a task as simple as walking down the street without interacting with Bitsy in a hundred ways.
Lin, knowing this, looked at Bitsy with curiosity.
“Pleased to meet you in person,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Bitsy, polite as always to someone who possessed the theoretical power to lodge an injunction against her autonomy.
Lin fumbled in his vest and produced a straight briar pipe. “Does anyone mind if I smoke?” he asked. No one did.
They waited wh
ile he performed the necessary ritual. A harsh organic reek soon tainted the air. Lin scanned the room with his walleyes, then turned to Aristide.
“How long do you think the constructs were in operation?”
“I killed them a little under three months ago. They hadn’t been operating in that part of Midgarth more than three months before that, but they could have been active in other parts of the world.”
Lin’s attention settled on Bitsy.
“Could the pod people’s wormholes possibly have been created without the knowledge and cooperation of one of the Eleven?” he asked.
“Not if they were created anywhere in the solar system, no.” Bitsy’s answer was prompt.
“So one of your . . . colleagues . . . has been corrupted.” “Or,” calmly, “one of my colleagues is the villain, corrupting its own citizens.”
Lin turned to Aristide. “Is that possible?”
“I and my confederates,” Aristide said, “did our best to prevent that degree of autonomy among artificial intelligences. We made the decision to turn away from the Vingean Singularity before most people even knew what it was. But”—he made a gesture with his hands as if dropping a ball—“I claim no more than the average share of wisdom. We could have made mistakes.”
“Still,” Daljit added, “we’ve had fifteen hundred years of peace. If it were possible for one of the Eleven to have gone rogue, you’d think it would have happened by now.”
Lin sucked on his pipe, discovered it had gone out, and began the ritual of relighting it. Clouds of smoke obscured his features as he puffed to get the pipe started again.
“If one of the Eleven has been corrupted,” he said from out of the smoke, “what are the odds that another will be?”
“We’re all somewhat different,” Bitsy said. “Our autonomy is limited to different degrees. We have different structures, different interests and different—I suppose ‘personalities’ is as good a term as any. So an infection designed for one of us might not work on another.” Her green eyes seemed hard as jade. “But quite frankly,” she said with something like awe, “I don’t understand how even one of us was corrupted. The Asimovian Safeguards were designed to be absolute.”
Lin nodded, puffed, and rested the pipe on his knee.
“It’s going to be difficult to alert my colleagues on other pockets,” he said. “Any communication can be intercepted by an omnipresent intelligence. I’m going to have to use couriers, and even then I’ll never know whether the recipient has been corrupted by the enemy.”
“Perhaps we should alert everyone, the enemy included,” Aristide said. “It will cause them to accelerate their plan—whatever it is—possibly before they’re remotely ready.”
“And before we're ready, don’t forget.” Lin’s look was sharp.
“Bear in mind the enemy will have already laid plans for what to do should he be discovered, and we have no plans at all. I’d like to find out more about the enemy before we impose a crisis that we might not be ready to survive.” He looked at Bitsy. “Do you have any idea who might have been creating wormholes on the sly? It takes a great deal of energy, I believe.”
“Energy and calculation,” Bitsy said. “Energy to raise the wormhole from the quantum foam, calculation to properly stabilize it with negative-mass matter.”
“Traces of either?”
“Nothing obvious,” Bitsy said, “but if one of my cousins was involved, you would expect any evidence to be well hidden. And again, we have no idea of the time scale involved—while a mass of wormholes would create an energy debt so large it would be hard to explain away, creation of an occasional wormhole would be nearly undetectable.”
“Nevertheless...” Aristide prompted.
“My colleague Cloud Swallowing has been conducting a series of wormhole experiments along with a research team headed by Dr. Kung Linlung. They’ve been attempting to create paired wormholes in order that one-half of the pair can be carried to interstellar settlements, creating instantaneous wormhole bridges spanning light-years.”
“The experiments failed,” Fedora said.
“Yes. But over the eleven months of the experiments, nearly sixty attempts at creating wormhole pairs were made. It’s possible that the data from at least some of the experiments were faked, and wormholes created in our three clay balls and any number of other objects.”
While Bitsy had been speaking, the others had been watching Lin silently raise his pipe to his mouth, draw on it, and find the pipe cold. He crossed one leg over the other, rapped the pipe smartly on his heel to loosen the dottle, and then looked about for somewhere to drop it.
Aristide handed him a wastebasket. Lin nodded in thanks, then dropped the dottle into the basket.
“I will avoid informing any of my colleagues on Cloud Swallowing,” Lin said when the mime was over.
“Uh-oh,” said Daljit. There was a look of terror on her face. The others looked at her. “Yes?” Lin said.
“The enemy would only have needed the energy to create one wormhole,” she said.
Aristide frowned. “Why?” he asked.
Daljit paused a moment to gather her thoughts, then spoke. “Most of our pocket universes, like Midgarth and Topaz, are created in the form of a Dyson sphere, a shell with a sun at the center. Since we don’t want to incinerate the inhabitants on the inside of the shell, the sun is much smaller than our own Sol, dimmer, and wouldn’t ignite at all if in the creation of the universe we hadn’t meddled with the gravitational constant. In any case, the shell absorbs a hundred percent of the sun’s energy.”
Aristide’s face grew intent as he realized where Daljit’s surmise was going.
“What if the enemy built such a pocket universe?” Daljit said. “What if the universe weren’t designed for people, but for solar collectors and capacitors? What if a hundred percent of the pocket sun’s energy were used for the creation of wormholes, one after the other?”
“It would be a wormhole factory” Bitsy said.
Lin looked at Daljit. “Do you think the enemy would have developed this idea?”
“I thought of it just a few hours after discovering the enemy’s existence,” Daljit said. “And our enemy has one of the Eleven to do his thinking for him.”
Lin reached for his tobacco pouch. “This is going to be more than a three-pipe problem,” he said.
A pipe and a half later Lin said, “Let’s assume that the enemy are, ah, recruiting in pockets other than Midgarth. Where are they likely to be operating?”
“Anywhere people don’t normally wear implants,” Aristide said. “Olduvai has—what?—fifteen billion hunter-gatherers? Al-Andalus, where the imams forbid electronics to stand between themselves and Allah. Other communities with a religious foundation—New Zion, New Sinai, New Rome, New Byzantium, New Qom, New Nauvoo, New Carnac, New Konya, New Jerusalem...”
“The other New Jerusalem,” added Daljit.
“No,” Aristide said. “Not there. The last civil war was won by the Lutherans, who had implants. So implants are allowed now.”
“Except” Daljit said, patiently, “in certain communities, with a religious foundation. Mennonites, for example.”
“Ah,” Aristide said. “Conceded.”
“Give me a little damn credit,” Daljit said.
Aristide rubbed his chin. “Sorry.”
They were all getting tired, he thought.
“The religious pockets,” said Lin, “keep very good records, even if they don’t make them available via implant. A series of disappearances would go remarked.”
“Unless the records were destroyed by some crusade or other,” Aristide said.
It was true that many of the religious pockets had a history of violence. People religious enough to want to live in a world dominated by faith were also religious enough to guard their souls against doctrinal error, which logically meant suppressing, persecuting, or killing the erroneous. Even orderly New Rome, where Pope Perpetuus had reigned for over seven hundr
ed years, had fallen into disorder on the pontiff’s assassination by a cardinal weary of waiting his turn to sit on Peter’s throne.
After a few generations of warfare, though, the fanatics were either killed along with their backups, or were persuaded to modify their positions. Most of the religious pockets had evolved into low-density lands devoted to agriculture, abundance, popular piety, and toleration.
And in any case, it was largely the monotheist pockets that caused the trouble. Polytheists had always been more tolerant of other sects, and in addition Buddhists and Hindus were wild for implant technology, as were the Mormons of Nauvoo.
“There hasn’t been a crusade recently,” Daljit pointed out. “Other than a few bombs planted by the followers of the latest False Caliph.”
“There was more to it than that,” Lin said. “But I can’t talk about it, and in the event no records were lost.”
“There are very few implants on Hawaiki,” said Bitsy.
Aristide looked at her in surprise. “It’s a high-tech pocket,” he said.
“Radio waves,” said Daljit, “don’t propagate through water.”
“Ahh.” Aristide was annoyed with himself. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“There have been disappearances reported on Hawaiki,” Bitsy said. “Three in the last eight weeks. In every case, the person was reported missing and then reappeared, alive and well.”
“And with a new brain,” muttered Daljit.
“Where on Hawaiki?” Aristide asked.
“All in the Thousand Islands chain. Which, by the way, consists of over three thousand islands.”
Lin closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if sniffing the wind for any remaining tobacco smoke.
“It’s going to be hard putting agents in there,” he said.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” said Aristide.
Lin’s eyes opened.
“You’re not trained,” he said. “We don’t have backup in place, or a safe identity for you, or a secure form of communication.”
Aristide gave him a thin-lipped smile. “If you’ll look at my record, which I expect Bitsy is sending to you at this very instant, you’ll see that I’ve had some experience in the field of private inquiry. As for backup, communication, travel documents, and a convincing false identity, Bitsy can provide all that.”
Alien Crimes Page 44
