Cenotaxis

by Sean Williams

  I don't know why I resist my enemy's torturer. After all, the truth is as much theirs as it is mine. It belongs to all humanity.

  They should have to work it out for themselves. Perhaps that's it. They wouldn't believe me if I did try to tell them. Prophets are, after all, without honor in their own country. Prophets and gods.

  The fabric of the tent rustles. A head pokes through. Completely hairless with high cheekbones and a full mouth, its owner, another frag, is a female known to me as Alice-Angeles. The Fort she once belonged to died with all the rest, leaving her with a condition not dissimilar to autism. A fragment of a much larger, absent whole, she possesses certain skills of organization and resource management that make her invaluable during our days of guerrilla offensives.

  She speaks rapidly and without inflection. I am, at this moment, just another resource to be managed.

  "Engagement in fifty minutes. The Apparatus asks you to reconnect."

  "Yes, of course. Thanks for advising me."

  Alice-Angeles leaves without acknowledging my gratitude.

  "Bring me up to speed," I instruct the gestalt.

  The Apparatus's tone, as it does as I ask, is not disapproving. It knows there's no possibility of me playing hooky. I just need to get my bearings. "Teams Epsilon, Omicron, and Mu are in position to penetrate the security perimeter. We have confirmed the enemy's jamming frequencies and have tested our alternate communications systems. They will be effective until we enter the compound, at which point we will revert to encrypted radio."

  I still haven't quite pinpointed the day. "What about enemy movements?"

  "None since midnight. Freight and passenger transfer remains suspended in both directions."

  Ah, yes. We are attacking the base of the Paratlantis orbital tower. In the days of the Old-Timers, before humanity reached out to space, this location was known only for an unnamed volcano bubbling out of the intersection between the Mid-Atlantic Ridge and the equator. It subsequently grew into a sprawling island, only partly natural, which at least three times in the nine hundred millennia since has been a major hub of industry and politics for the globe. The destructive power of the volcano beneath is carefully contained. For longer than nearly everyone living, the tower above has stood as a symbol of Earth's connection to the stars.

  We aren't going to bring it down, although I'm sure the enemy would like to at times. The falling cable would cause too much damage. Instead we intend to send carefully timed packets of nanotech seeds codenamed Crucis-8 swarming up the tower to Smitherman City in geosynchronous orbit and beyond, there to infect the enemy's fleet. We've trudged for days across the ocean floor and tunneled our way through the island's basaltic heart. In the lush forests surrounding the abandoned city, we await our chance.

  It looks as though that chance has come. Bergamasc had suspended movements up and down the tower in response to an earlier attack, leaving the entire route clear of traffic. Fearing the embargo might soon end, I'd stayed up late the previous night making final preparations. Several teams will attack at once, and I will be in one of them.

  A leader stands alone, but that's no excuse to avoid the front line.

  "Watch the horizon," I tell the Apparatus. "If they spot us here, we're caught between a rock and a high place."

  "I believe the phrase you're referring to—"

  "I know, I know. Just keep an eye out and leave the aphorisms to me."

  Alice-Angeles awaits me outside the tent with a dozen other frags in full battle dress. Active camouflage tests paint the grove with strange blind spots and mirages. My empty armor stands a meter taller than me but is as slender-limbed as a stick insect. I crouch and lean backward into its open thorax. Gentle manipulators tuck my limbs protectively around my trunk as the thorax sighs shut. The suit cradles me like a parent would a child. It takes little more than a second to interface my motor centers with the suit, so I feel as though I am moving my own limbs. The suit stands. I test weapons, communications, and life support. The Apparatus does the same, and our results match.

  "We're ready," says Alice-Angeles, her whisper almost husky over the maser intercom we've developed to bypass the enemy's jamming systems. Narrowband lights wink all around me as the suits exchange information at superfast machine rates. In some cases the camouflage is so good I can only discern each suit by the wireframe outline mine casts over the view of the leafy backdrop.

  "Proceed."

  We glide in single file through the undergrowth, barely parting the bushes as we pass. Our artificial feet leave no impressions to show that we've been there. Birds sing on, undisturbed, even though we pass within meters of their perches. I watch idly as one of my troopers goes some distance from his assigned path to avoid breaking a single strand of spiderweb.

  Elsewhere on the island, three other teams power up in readiness for our arrival. We are Team Alpha. All four teams carry doses of Crucis-8, plus explosive charges we will lay to make it look as though our intention was further sabotage at the tower's base, not its top.

  We walk stealthily but steadily for an hour, rocked in our artificial wombs like zygotes in ages past. The day is crystalline and beautiful, too perfect for war, and I am reminded again of my early days. But war doesn't stop for weather, or reminiscences. As many battlefields have been stained red under fair skies as foul.

  The edge of the forest comes into sight. Through the branches I can see the crumbling walls and fallen roofs of the city's northern outskirts. A series of rotten concrete columns, spaced a dozen meters apart, mark where a maglev transportation system once led to the ocean's edge and, from there, to the rest of the world. Now, only hypersonic aircraft connect the base of the Paratlantis tower to the enemy's base camps. Supplies rocket down the cable by force of gravity, and swoop away when atmosphere's fingers begin to grip.

  At the forest's edge I raise a needle-tipped hand and call for a halt. This is our last chance to turn back. Take one more step and we are committed.

  "Give me the latest telemetry," I instruct the Apparatus. "Raw data will do." A torrent of images, ranging from dagger-sharp to grainy and indistinct, floods through my brain. I see nothing untoward.

  "We await your word," husks Alice-Angeles.

  "I know," I tell her. "I'll give it to you in a moment, when I'm sure what course is best."

  I cannot immediately identify what arrests me on the brink. If telemetry tells me the way ahead is clear, shouldn't I believe it? Our objective is right there before us, a perfectly straight line rising up from the heart of the decaying cityscape, the only thing for miles around not corrupted by age. Ripples of rainbow light move along it as the sun shifts in the sky. What am I waiting for? What has made me nervous, deep down in my gut?

  We stand there a full hour, as motionless as mantises waiting for prey to happen by. I can sense the frags stewing in their idleness. They need something to do beyond checking and rechecking their preparedness. They need an objective. But that alone is not reason enough to move forward. There is too much at stake. Should the enemy catch us here, much will be lost. I have seen too many of my companions fall in recent years. The shame of withdrawal weighs like a feather on the scales of life, compared to that.

  "We're pulling out," I eventually tell the others. "It's not safe."

  "Telemetry indicates—"

  "I know what telemetry indicates, Alice-Angeles. Regardless, we are aborting the mission and retreating to our camps. Inform the other teams."

  "But we're right here, right now—"

  "And we will be back." In my mind I relive the sights and smells of a burning flagship that Bergamasc sends me in an attempt to shame me. "When the right day comes, we'll be here."

  Word spreads through the troops and we retreat into the forest. I feel only surety, but the unease of my companions haunts me. I can hear it over the silent maser channels and see it in the way they walk: Webs break and flowers crush underfoot without a second thought. If they could know what was in my mind, they would be r
eassured. If I could share with them the certainty I feel, their doubt would be assuaged. But I am apart from them. They must take me at my word. There is no other way.

  Half an hour into our sullen journey, red lights flash across every mental screen. The Apparatus sends an alarm, but we have already reacted, pulling with unnatural speed under cover and adopting compact crouches that reduce our visibility even further.

  A deafening sonic boom rolls across the island, followed shortly by two more. I trace the progress of the three hyperjets as they swoop back up into the stratosphere, leaving a rain of powered combat drones falling in their wake. In aerodynamic mode, they are dart-like, the size of a child, with stubby navigational fins. On reaching land they sprout six legs and can move as fast as a panther. Their forelimbs are equipped with blades, projectile weapons, and cutting lasers. Their individual intelligences are small, but combined they can be formidably focused.

  Whistling and spinning, these potent machines of death rain down upon the decayed city of Paratlantis.

  A murmuring starts up. Maser eyes wink and flash.

  "How did he know?"

  "How did he...?"

  "How...?"

  I don't say anything. There's no need. Had we proceeded as planned, we would have been running for our lives along the empty streets, pursued by hordes of deadly drones. Instead we are alive. I have saved us all.

  "Keep moving," I tell the others. "When they find the city empty, they might move out into the jungle. Let's not be here when they come."

  This time there are no arguments. We glide like wraiths through the slender trunks and hanging vines. A lizard with round, green eyes watches me from above, utterly unfazed by my disguise.

  "We never did manage to work out how you made your decisions."

  I watch Bergamasc as he paces back and forth outside the bars of my stone cell. Each step marks out a discrete interval of time. The room is five paces across, generating a rhythm that is almost soothing. Pace-pace-pace-pace-pace... turn. Pace-pace-pace-pace-pace... turn. My enemy's martial 7/4 beat keeps my mind alert.

  "There'd be no mystery at all," I say, "if you'd accept the truth of who I am."

  Bergamasc's piercingly blue eyes flash at me from under his lowered brows. "Take Paratlantis, for instance. I infiltrated your group; our spy was feeding us everything we needed to know. We had your attack plan, your timetable, the lot. We were careful not to spook you. But you turned back at the last minute, and the net we cast caught nothing. I still don't know what tipped you off."

  He isn't listening to me and for a moment I consider saying nothing at all. Reason prevails.

  "So you did have a spy," I grant him. "I was beginning to wonder."

  "So was I." Bergamasc's frustration has a self-deprecating edge. "I changed encryption keys, tactical staff, AI protocols; you name it—to no effect. I might as well have broadcast my plans on an open frequency for all the good it did me. Most of the time." He nods to himself, and keeps pacing.

  "I got you in the end."

  Bergamasc takes great satisfaction in the fact of my captivity. I suppose that's understandable, given our history. I am unsure of the precise day I'm occupying, but it seems to be in the middle of my stay: past the unfortunate necessity of torture but not so prolonged that a new and very different frustration has begun to set in.

  "Why did you fight?" he asks me. "What did the loss of life gain you? What did the fall of Lima? Did you do it to make some kind of statement—a show to the rest of the galaxy that you stood up to me, and that they should stand up to me too?" His expression is one of puzzlement, possibly genuine. "No one cares, Jasper. I'm not a tyrant. Humanity has bigger things to worry about."

  "But you are here," I retort, "even though I'm sure you think you have better things to do with your time."

  He shakes his head. "The galaxy can take care of itself for a while. The Forts may be gone, but we've come up with some pretty effective substitutes. As you clearly have."

  "What do you mean?" I ask, fearing for the first time for the Apparatus.

  "The Forts were killed by a weapon that targeted the communications systems they used, isolating the frags and cutting off their thoughts. Anything using those systems to try to build a new Fort is targeted by the same people, whoever they are. Don't use the same systems, though, and you can avoid being shot at." Turn. Bergamasc stops pacing. Every strand of his short, white hair bristles with invisible energy; the Van de Graaff generator of his thoughts won't let him rest. "I know there's a Fort somewhere here on Earth. It's the only way you could've stayed ahead of us for so long. Give me access to it. Tell it to talk to us."

  "There is no Fort," I tell him, even as I wonder how my old friend the Apparatus is faring. The gestalt has been silent through all my days in captivity, most likely because of jamming but perhaps for more sinister reasons. It may be a pale imitation of the galaxy-spanning minds Bergamasc mourns, but I am not handing it over to the invaders without a fight. "You were on my territory, which gave me the advantage. Or perhaps there really is a God, after all."

  "I refuse to accept," he grinds out through jaw tightly clenched, "that your God is a tangible force in the universe. I deny its relevance as a metaphor for human existence. I see no reason to keep having this conversation."

  "God is both tangible and a metaphor. It is the endpoint of every conversation. Meditate on the concept of God and you will find that it's the one and only unavoidable conclusion."

  "I'm not the meditating type. Hand control of the Earth over to me now."

  "Why should I give you anything? All you've done is take from me. Well, this you can't take. It's like understanding. Some things you have to find for yourself."

  "I understand you well enough, Jasper. I've faced more than a few reluctant collaborators in my time."

  "Is that how you think of me?"

  "Deep down, yes. You know I'm the best hope the human race has for survival now the Forts are gone."

  "So why am I fighting you?"

  "That's what I want to know." He starts pacing again. "Me, I think Earth was isolated too long. Containment and Quarantine be damned. Isolation is bad for most people, and it's bad for cultures too. There's a limit to how much we can work out on our own."

  "Exactly. Open your mind," I tell him. "Listen and you will hear God telling you what you need to know."

  He shakes his head. "Give me your Fort and I'll tell you who betrayed you."

  "No one betrayed me."

  "No? Do you remember how you were captured? Do you think it was only because you let your guard down?"

  There is a simple answer to that question. I haven't lived that day yet, so the knowledge cannot be in my mind.

  "What are you driving at?" I ask him. "Are you suggesting that one of my own turned me in?"

  "Think about it," he says. "I'll tell you the truth when you're ready to talk."

  "It won't work. I trust my friends implicitly. You can't make me doubt their loyalty to me."

  Bergamasc doesn't argue with that. He leaves me to ponder this new thought, congratulating himself no doubt for his cleverness. My contempt for him only grows. There is no depth to which he will not stoop. I will not allow him to cast a shadow over what I know to be true.

  This is the truth, inasmuch as such truths can be contained in words.

  We here on Earth knew about the death of the Forts—there were in fact frags of several living here, unregistered, when the Slow Wave rolled by—but we do not mourn them. Once we might have, perceiving them, as most people do, as the pinnacle of human evolution. With slow, meticulous thoughts, they spanned the galaxy from edge to edge, and had even begun to make forays beyond, into the much larger universe. They defied a Prime's comprehension.

  They were, however, not gods. I don't know if they pondered such issues during their complex symphonies of slow-time cognition. If they had, I'm sure they would have reached the same conclusion as the ancient minds of Earth: that "God" has been many things to m
any cultures down the history of the human race. Rule-giver, punisher, benefactor, creator, destroyer, lover—God is, in other words, everything that humanity is itself, and what it yearns to be. God was born when humanity became self-aware, and God has grown with every leap of humanity from Earth to the planets, to the stars, across all the galaxy. The idea of God is therefore greater than any Fort, greater than all the Forts combined. For every advance we make as a species, God inches that much further ahead, forever out of reach.

  God, born in what we are, is what we aspire to be.

  Must it always be so? That was the question asked by the ancient minds of Earth. Brilliant intelligences, long spent, they turned their thoughts inward rather than outward, seeking the limits of humanity's evolution and trying to find a way past them, to new possibilities. Rather than snap forever at the heels of the idea of God, which will remain beyond us even if we manage to place the entire universe under our dominion, they sought another way to transcend. If humanity imagines God in its own image, with more than a pinch of desire, couldn't that recipe be extended to create something real?

  Humans are explorers. The unknown draws us onward and outward, just like the idea of God, across every boundary and beyond every pale. We do not stay confined for long.

  The ancient minds of Earth caught in their deepest thoughts a glimpse of a better path. The purpose of their grand experiment was to follow that path to its only possible conclusion. That's where I come in. Helwise MacPhedron and her pretender king might not want to hear it, but the experiment was undoubtedly a success. Humanity has overtaken God at long last, and I am here to prove it.

  War. Chaos. Mayhem.

  Ground troops play an unprecedented role in the occupation of Earth. Conventional tactics aren't available to my enemy, so he resorts to older methods. And dirtier tactics, some might say, although I do feel a measure of sympathy for him. The task before him is a difficult one; the circumstances that make Earth desirable work against him at every turn, and the resistance isn't going away in a hurry.