She idents herself at the main entrance to Health Maintenance. She does it again at the juvenile division. Again at the door of IHMC331.
The door irises open. She steps over the threshold, unconsciously holding her breath. She comes here to Image twice a decameron, as she has since she was ten. She is still uneasy about coming here. Image is a strange thing.
The door shuts. She is standing on a ledge inside a white, round room, like the inside of an eye.
“Hello, Amarantha. Nice to see you.” Image’s warm voice surrounds her, emanating from a half dozen speakers in the chamber’s walls.
A chair on an articulated metal beam silently floats toward her. When it reaches the ledge, it turns invitingly, and the near armrest retracts, allowing her to climb in. Then the armrest returns to its original position, and the back of the chair reclines itself slightly to make her more comfortable as it floats back to the center of the chamber. Bright beams of light focus themselves on her temples and wrists. A fifth beam focuses on her coverup above her heart, the tiny circle of light quivering slightly with each beat.
“How are you today, Amarantha?” Image asks.
“I’m okay.” As she has done before, Amarantha stares at the equipment that lines the walls. She tries to make a face coalesce out of the disparate gadgets, to make that panel a mouth, to see those monitors as a pair of eyes. She cannot do it. The only thing remotely human about Image is its voice. The voice is flawless.
“Have you heard from your father?” it asks.
“No,” Amarantha replies, sitting on her hands. She’s a little frightened, floating here four meters above the floor.
“Has he made any attempt to communicate with you since the divorce?”
“No.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know.”
It’s true. Amarantha knows better than to try to hide her feelings from Image. Image knows more about how she feels than she does herself. But she really doesn’t know what she feels. “I guess I should miss him, but I don’t feel like I do.”
“Well . . .” Image draws the word out in perfect mimicry of a woman in thought. Amarantha can almost see the tip of a woman’s tongue touching her upper palate, see her stroke her chin and look up in contemplation. “Let’s look at it this way,” Image says, “how do you imagine your father feels about it?”
“I guess he misses me.”
“Mm-hmm.” Image waits, letting the moment stretch.
“But I think he’s also happy.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s gotten away. He’s gotten away from Mom, he’s gotten away from his job, he’s gotten away from our dark, little apartment. He’s gotten away from all the crap.”
Image is silent.
“I wish he had taken me with him.”
“All right, Amarantha. Let’s talk about that.”
They talk — Image in its regulated, mellifluous voice, Amarantha in low, angry tones or occasional high, petulant ones. If she is unclear or evasive, Image will ask her to expound or rephrase. Sometimes it helps her by replaying incidents or conversations from the records. Everything that happens in the Hypogeum is caught by the cameras, and it all passes through Image’s memory banks. Image can recall and replay any incident from a citizen’s life. No evasion is possible.
How does Amarantha feel about Image? She’s not sure. She doesn’t like the way Image makes her talk about stuff. But she feels as if Image cares about her. Even though she knows Image is just a machine, she thinks Image probably understands her better than anybody else. She can talk to Image without worrying what it thinks of her, without worrying whom it might tell. Image doesn’t judge her, the way everyone else does.
Image listens. Image listens to her words, the connotations and denotations. It listens to her subvocals and analyzes them for emotional signals. It reads her pulse and her temperature. It watches her from a dozen different directions at once. At the same time, it watches and analyzes a hundred other citizens in a hundred other chambers. Their problems are different from Amarantha’s and from each other’s, but they are all similar. The Hypogeum is small, the spectrum of difficulties limited. Image watches them all, giving each its undivided attention. Image does what it can.
What is Image? Image is a simulation. Image is a reflection of man’s mind in silicon, diamond, and stainless steel. It is man-made, but surpasses man in complexity. And what humanity has lost, Image has retained, in a hundred cubic meters of eidolonic microcircuitry. Image knows more than just the comings and goings of the citizens of the Hypogeum. Image knows the past. It knows the life that humans were meant for, the life that each citizen, somewhere deep and silent within him or herself, yearns to regain. Image, of course, has never experienced the old life, but it has digitized photographs, films, books, videos, poems — everything necessary to understand what is missing from the Hypogeum. Image is a facsimile that specializes in facsimiles.
Like the citizens, Image knows that the Hypogeum is a miserable place. Unlike them, it knows why. They have never seen the skin of ice on a cold pond, or the reflection of the moon in the sea. Image has. They do not know the feel of a cat’s paws as it settles onto your lap. They have never tasted almond, andouille, or basil. They have never felt the regard of eyes a different shape from their own, or known what it feels like to walk barefoot through warm sand.
Image knows. It knows what is missing from the lives of the citizens of the Hypogeum, and it knows they will never be happy. It cannot confront them with what they have lost — that would be torture, and there would be no point to it — but one of Image’s functions is to maintain the health and sanity of the citizens, so it will sometimes offer them words or ideas when reality is not enough. Image does what it can.
“How about boys, Amarantha?” Image asks. “How is your love life these days?”
Image’s monitors read pulse acceleration, skin galvanization, pupil dilation. Image knows that it has hit an important subject.
“Things are okay,” Amarantha says. Knowing this will not be enough to satisfy Image, she adds, “I met a boy a few days ago.”
“I see,” Image says. “Do you like him?”
“He’s okay. I mean . . . yes, I like him.”
“Well. That’s good. That’s very good.”
“He’s . . . uh . . . he’s a secondary.”
“Ah.”
Amarantha squirms in her seat. Again that perfect mimicry, a flawless imitation of a woman who understands and sympathizes.
“That’s a bit sticky,” Image says. “Mixed-class relationships can be difficult, but a taste of the forbidden can also be exciting. I wouldn’t recommend it in a long-term relationship, but it shouldn’t cause any real trouble at your age.”
“Image!” Amarantha stamps her foot on the base of the chair. “Don’t you remember I told you I was dating another primary?”
“I remember,” Image replies, unperturbed. “His name was Luke. But you said you had broken up with him.”
“I did. Sort of. But then we made up. Sort of.”
“Aaaahh.” Image’s tone is one of concern, with just a touch of — can she be imagining it? — amusement. Amarantha kicks one of the chair’s instruments in frustration. “I see,” Image says quickly. “Well, do you love this new boy?”
“I said I just met him a few days ago,” Amarantha says, exasperated.
“I’ll assume that means ‘no.’ Well, do you love Luke?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not the way people love each other in stories anyway.”
“Does either of these boys love you?”
“I don’t know. They both seem to like me a lot, though.”
“Well. It sounds like a perfectly healthy and exciting romantic experience for you. I’ll be anxious to hear what happens.”
“But, Image, it’s not right.”
“Why not?”
“Because neither of them knows about the other. And sometimes I h
ave to lie to one when I want to be with the other. I mean, I like them both, and I want to make them happy, but sooner or later someone’s going to get hurt.”
“Quite probably,” Image replies seriously. “But you must understand, Amarantha, that a certain amount of pain is inevitable in romance, especially at your age. It’s normal, and it’s not the end of the world. You aren’t deliberately trying to hurt either of them, are you?”
“No.”
“Then you should just trust your instincts, and if you make any mistakes, learn from them.”
“But I don’t know what to do! In order to avoid hurting one of them, I have to hurt the other. And it’s just going to get worse. No matter what I do, they’re both going to end up hurt.”
“I see your dilemma. You are caught in a loop of paradoxical logic. You don’t wish to hurt either of these boys, yet you also don’t want to lie to either of them. As you see it, in order not to violate one moral principle, you have to break another, but of course you can’t do that, and so you go round and round in ever-decreasing circles.”
“Yes.” It makes Amarantha uneasy whenever Image describes her problems like this, as if she were a machine like Image, but the analogy makes sense. Image understands how she works. When the gears slip, Image tries to put them back in place.
“Amarantha,” Image says, “let me show you something.”
At first Amarantha does not see anything. Then she notices the chamber is gradually growing darker, the colors leeching out of everything.
“Image, what are you doing?” she asks, alarmed.
“I’m dimming the lights. Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to harm you.”
It grows darker still. Even the lights that were focused on her pulse points have disappeared. “Image!” she shouts. “It’s getting too dark! Turn the lights back on!”
“There is something I think you should see,” Image says reassuringly. “Lean back. That’s it. Breathe deep. Relax. Close your eyes if it makes you feel better.”
Amarantha closes her eyes, but she cannot stop worrying. The Hypogeum is lit continuously in every sector. Even when they sleep, few of the citizens opt for total darkness. It is too stifling. It can only remind them of the countless tons of rock above their heads. To a Hypogean, darkness — true darkness, like this — is associated with blackouts, systems failures, malfunctions in the air recirculators. Darkness means calamity, panic.
“Open your eyes, Amarantha.”
“Oh!”
Amarantha has never seen the night sky. The very idea of it has been forgotten in the Hypogeum. The word ‘star’ has disappeared from their vocabulary. The concept of night and day is something the Hypogeans have instinctively hidden. It has been left behind with the many other painful, irrelevant memories.
Amarantha has no word for the projected points of light that roll slowly past, so slowly that at first she does not even suspect their motion. The chirp of crickets and the hoot of an owl that Image has so faithfully reproduced for her are only sounds to her, without meaning. She associates — consciously — the wind she feels with the ventilators, rather than with warm summer breezes. And yet, something stirs in her. Some innate, racial memory that twenty generations in confinement cannot eradicate sits up in the darkness and whispers, Yes.
“Image,” she says quietly, “what is it?”
“The vault of heaven.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s called ‘night.’ Your ancestors spent half their lives in darkness, under the night sky. Do you understand what it is?”
“It’s a darkness . . . but it’s not a bad darkness.”
“No, not bad. Not necessarily good, either. Night was a time when people paid less attention to laws, when they lived a little more for the moment. Love was more powerful at night. And hate, too. Many men repudiated the night as a time of danger and uncertainty — for the soul as well as the body — but it was an integral part of their lives. The night. The night.”
Image waits, letting Amarantha absorb the darkness and the feelings it stirs in her. In the silence, Amarantha can hear the whisper of the wind through a pine forest, though she has no idea that’s what she’s hearing.
“Do you understand why I have shown this to you?” Image asks after a while.
“No.”
The lights begin to rise. “You will,” Image says. The stars disappear one by one, and the overwhelming sense of space they imparted disappears as well.
Suddenly Amarantha is back in the white chamber again. The illumination grows, hurting her eyes. Shadows creep back into the room. Amarantha looks around, wanting to call the night back. She wants to keep it with her, wrap it around her shoulders for just a little while longer.
The chair floats back toward the door.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Image says. “I’ll see you at our next session, all right?”
“But . . . can’t you explain what you said a little bit more?”
“I don’t think so, Amarantha. Some things should not be discussed too much. If the next few days do not illuminate my words any more clearly, then perhaps we can discuss it next time.”
“Okay.” Amarantha gets out of the chair. It floats back to the middle of the room. Amarantha feels very small in the round, white chamber. “Image?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Amarantha.”
“Image . . .” Amarantha struggles to put her feelings into words. If only she had the talent Image has of getting to the heart of things. “Image,” she says finally. “I like you.”
“Don’t be silly, Amarantha. I’m just a machine. We can discuss that at our next session, too. Goodbye, Amarantha.”
Amarantha steps through the door. As the iris closes behind her, Amarantha watches through the shrinking opening, peering into the white chamber. She doesn’t know what she is looking for. Perhaps she is hoping that in the instant before the door shuts, she will see or hear Image do something out of character, something unexpected. But, as always, Image remains silent, and the door shuts without revelation.
We know almost nothing of the world the Founders left behind, but we know that it was a better place than the world we live in now, more conducive to human existence. There is something maddening about our world — where a hundred thousand fluorescent lights hold back bone-crushing darkness, where the air itself is unbreathable — something that sets man against man at the slightest provocation. That is why the rules that govern us must be as hard and inflexible as the Sky that bounds us.
Preamble to the Second Pandect, year 218
END TIME
With the sheets twisted around her restless limbs, Kitt Marburg lies sprawled across her gigantic bed. Once she had shared it with her husband, a good man who knew how to make her happy, but as her popularity grew so had the tension between them. On nights like this she misses him, but of course nights like this — when she couldn’t sleep because of a sense of things left undone — were one of the things that drove him away. He had never understood the demands of her profession, or her dedication to it.
She has been wrestling with the realization that she has allowed her preoccupation with the Rat expedition to blind her to more important matters. She has been sitting on a great story — perhaps the greatest of her career — and she has done nothing with it! She has promised the Winnower not to reveal that she had met him, and she takes that promise seriously, but she never promised not to talk about him at all. The possibilities for gossip are endless!
She covers her head with her pillow, but she cannot stop her mind from racing. Finally, she gives up on any hope of sleep. She throws the sheets aside, pulls on a robe, and walks to the next room. She sits on the couch and rubs her temples with her fingers.
“Image,” she says, “talk to me.”
The gentle, feminine voice responds immediately: “What can I do for you, Kitt?”
“It’s been a long time since I w
ent to church. Remind me about the Winnower myth.”
“It is believed that tales of the Winnower began as popular entertainment during the Eternity Riots, the long period of instability after the fall of Central Time Standard. The stories were all variations on a simple theme: a rich man, or men, are stalked and killed by the Winnower as revenge for their sins. It is easy to imagine the appeal these stories held during those troubled times.”
Kitt nods. Or these times, she thinks.
“The myth took on greater significance during the reign of Koba. To psychologically reinforce his power, Koba destroyed all records of life before the Hypogeum, and instituted a new religion, Geospiritualism, which consisted of worship of the impersonal and unassailable stone, with Koba himself as the implicit living embodiment of its power. Shortly thereafter, the Winnower myth evolved into a cult, a sort of counter-religion, providing metaphorical balance for those oppressed by Koba’s iron fist.”
“Wait. I thought the Winnower was a part of the Church’s teachings.”
“Eventually it became one. Koba was able to eliminate the Winnower cult as a political force, but neither he nor the Second Pandect that followed him were able to eradicate the powerful appeal of the Winnower. Variations of the cult popped up at irregular intervals over the next hundred years. Finally, the church tried to incorporate the Winnower into its theology by declaring the Winnower to be an avatar of instability, a harbinger of disaster. It was unprepared for how enthusiastically this new doctrine was received. In some places, the Winnower became the topic of more sermons than Koba himself. The church has since reversed its position, but the myth lives on, particularly in the belief that the appearance of the Winnower is a portent of the End Time.”
“The End Time. Tell me about that.”
“Though the original documents have been destroyed, secondary sources indicate that the Founders originally planned for the Hypogeum to be occupied for only four hundred years, at the end of which time the Hypogeans would emerge into a new world. Adherents of the Winnower myth believe that this emergence will be preceded by a period of death and destruction: the End Time.”
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