Greg Bear - [Eon Trilogy 1] - Eon (rescan) (v1.0)

by Neal Asher

  "Nor I," Belozersky said hastily. "But—"

  "Then let's enter and see what Mirsky was up to, spending so much time here."

  Mirsky trained the video cameras on them until they passed out of view. There was something else at stake. Was it possible to be ignorant of the character of one's own country, after having spent one's entire life within its borders? Yes; there was no basis for comparison, and however much he knew, without comparison the knowledge was dormant. Even with the library's information, he had to conduct an experiment.

  However unfair the test was, he would now judge his country and all it stood for by how Vielgorsky acted.

  "He'll take their weapons," Mirsky said. "We can't have them armed when I appear."

  "You're going down there now?" Pogodin asked.

  "Yes."

  "You trust Vielgorsky that much?"

  "I don't know. It's a risk."

  "Not just for you," Pogodin said. "We cooperated with you—Pletnev, the scientists, myself, Annenkovsky, Garabedian."

  Mirsky headed for the stairwell. His back crawled as he descended the stairs. He was more afraid now then when he had leaped from the heavy-lifter in the bore hole. Strangely, he felt like a child again. And he was tired. He had observed the same weariness in the American, Lanier.

  Opening the door.

  Stepping out onto library floor. Only the three Zampolits had entered: Vielgorsky, holding a pistol on Belozersky, Yazykov standing to one side staring at his fellow political officer in dismay. Their rifles lay scattered on the floor, kicked out of reach.

  "Come forward, Comrade General," Vielgorsky said. He took several steps to one side, still pointing the pistol, and bent to pick up an AKV. Belozersky stared at Mirsky with uncomprehending hatreds. Yazykov's face was blank, tightly controlled. Mirsky walked across the plaza toward them.

  When he was five meters from the group, Vielgorsky turned the pistol away from Belozersky, lifted it and sighted along the barrel at Mirsky. "I do not thank you, Comrade," he said. He squeezed the trigger.

  Mirsky's view of things skewed, as if the anamorphic lens on a motion picture projector were suddenly twisted. One side of his head seemed very large. He fell on his knees and leaned forward, bowed, then fell over, his cheek smacking sharply against the yielding floor. That hurt more than whatever had happened to his head. His one good

  eye blinked.

  Vielgorsky lowered the pistol, handed it to Belozersky, walked toward the scattered rifles, picked up and aimed an AKV at the chairs and globes on the plaza and began firing a clip. Teardrops shattered and bullets ricocheted, the sound somewhat distant and unimpressive in the large hall, even with the echoes.

  Belozersky's yell of triumph and delight was cut short by a very big sound, impossible to describe. The three political officers twitched; Vielgorsky dropped his weapon and jerked his head back. Yazykov clapped his hands to his ears and mouth. All three collapsed. White streamers jetted from the ceiling all around the plaza and untwisted into thick fog.

  The fog lay down over them and Mirsky closed his eye, grateful at last for the undisturbed slumber.

  *44*

  Lanier—lying on the couch, hand gripping the African print upholstery, staring up at the featureless cream-colored ceiling, ostensibly resting—knew this much, and very little more:

  Their quarters were located in the outer reaches of the rotating cylindrical precinct called Axis Nader: five apartments along a hallway, each with a bedroom, a bathroom and a living room; at the end of the hallway, a communal dining area and a large, circular lounge. The centrifugal force at this level of the precinct was just slightly less than that at the Stone's chamber floors. All the quarters were closed off and lacked real windows, though illusart windows of idyllic terrestrial scenes in the apartments and lounge provided a sensation of spaciousness which was hard to deny.

  Someone had gone to considerable effort to make the accommodations pleasant and familiar. What Lanier gathered, from all the fuss, was that they were important people. Whether they were prisoners or honored guests, it was impossible to tell for the time being. He turned his head to one side, reached over to a stack of magazines on the coffee table near the couch, picked up a copy of STERN and flipped through it, not really looking at the turning pages. His eyes kept tracking the apartment, lingering on little details: the art glass vase in one corner of a bureau, red and purple with overlaid gold threads; the rich-feeling couch fabric; the books that lined one shelf; and the memory cubes stacked in an ebony wood holder nearby.

  He was about to put the magazines down on a frosted glass coffee table when he realized he hadn't looked at the issue's date. March 4, 2004. Over a year old. Where did they find it?

  Or any of the objects in the apartments?

  "May I come in?" Patricia asked. The apartment door became transparent and he saw her standing in the hallway.

  Judging by her attitude, she could not see in.

  "Yes," he said. "Please do."

  She continued standing outside. "Garry, are you home?"

  He puzzled this over for a moment; she hadn't heard him. Symbols appeared in the air to one side of the door, flickering rapidly, little marvels of cailigraphympicts, Patricia had called them, statements made up of single symbols called icons. When nothing happened, he approached the door and the room voice, sexless and melodic, asked, "You have a visitor, Mr. Lanier. Would you like Patricia Luisa Vasquez to enter?"

  "Yes, please, let her in," he said. The door became opaque again and then slid aside.

  "Hello," she said. "we're all meeting in a half hour getting together with the woman who was in the hangar. Olmy says she's our 'advocate.' I thought I'd talk things over with you first."

  "Good idea," he said. "Let's sit."

  He took a comfortable leather-upholstered chair and Patricia sat on the couch. She folded her hands in her lap and regarded him steadily, her lips pursed as if to hold back a smile.

  "What in hell happened to you?" Lanier asked.

  "Isn't it obvious? I was kidnapped. I think we were being invaded, or something. I was half-crazy then. Maybe more than half. So I took a train to the third chamber, and Olmy found me there. He had a Frant with him—a nonhuman."

  "Who is Olmy?"

  "You met him—the one who took us here and arranged for the quarters to be done in period."

  "Yes, I met him, but who is he, what rank, what importance?"

  "He's an agent of some sort. He does work for the Nexus—the main governing body of the Hexamon. He's been my teacher for the past few days, ever since we got here. Were we being invaded?"

  "Yes," Lanier said. "By Russians." He told her what had happened and she listened intently.

  "I think that's one reason Olmy wanted me out of the chambers," she said. "He thought I might be in danger. I'm not yet sure why he chose me in particular, but..." She shrugged. "I have some ideas. They've already put me through tests. They'll test you, too. Diagnostics, psychological, everything—all in a few minutes. It doesn't hurt. They're really interested in our bodies. We're historical curiosities."

  "I'll bet. At any rate, when I heard you had been kidnapped, I went a bit crazy myself. Judith Hoffman made it up to the Stone from Station Sixteen—"

  "How wonderful!" Patricia said. "Was anybody with her?"

  "Yes—nobody we knew."

  Patricia's expression of joy stiffened.

  "She obviously decided I wasn't going to be very effective anymore. You were the last straw, I think."

  "Me?"

  "Hoffman told me to take care of you. I couldn't prevent what happened on Earth, and I lost you, besides. I don't take failure very well, Patricia." He rubbed his cheeks and eyes. "Failure. Yes. I suppose you could call losing the whole Earth failure."

  Patricia gripped her hands tightly between her knees. "Not lost," she murmured.

  "So Hoffman authorized an expedition to find you."

  "It's good to have you all here—my friends, my helpers." Her sudden
cheeriness had an edge.

  "We're really guests here, then?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes. They weren't expecting you—though when Olmy first heard, he knew it had to be the tuberider. They consulted him right away since he had been down the corridor most recently."

  "Do they know about the Stone—what we've been doing?"

  "Yes, I suppose they do. Olmy must have told them."

  "And do they plan to do anything with us? I mean, I assume they're still interested in the Stone..."

  "I'm not sure. Some of them are. It's confusing, and I've only been taking lessons steadily for the last couple of days.

  It's all very political, that's what Olmy tells me."

  "They're advanced, aren't they?" Lanier asked.

  "Oh, yes, but not so much we can't understand a lot of things. Our rooms, for example—they're not very different from that apartment in the third chamber. The one Takahashi showed me."

  Lanier hadn't mentioned Takahashi's treason. He didn't think it necessary now.

  "All the decorations are illusions," Patricia said. "There's a pictor—a kind of projector—in each room. It makes our minds feel and see the elaborations. The furniture is here in basic shape and function, but everything else is projected. They've had this technology for a long time, centuries. They're as used to it as we are to electricity."

  Lanier reached out and riffled the copy of STERN, then pulled a copy of TIME from beneath it. "These magazines, that vase"—he pointed to the art glass—"are just records stored somewhere, projected?"

  "I suppose they must be."

  "Are they watching us now?"

  "No. They told me they aren't, anyway. Privacy is very important here."

  "You said you had an idea why they wanted you."

  "Well ... just a guess. Olmy might have been worried I would find a way to change the sixth chamber machinery."

  "But he wanted to keep you safe."

  "Out of trouble." She stood and nodded at the decorations. "Do you like what they've done?"

  "It's thorough." He shrugged. "It's comfortable."

  "They're good at matching decor to people. My rooms are comfortable, too. Not very much like home, though. I'm..."

  The edge in her cheerfulness became fully visible for an instant, making her eyes hard and determined. "I'm not taking everything well. Some parts of me are pretty messed over."

  "That's ... not unexpected," Lanier said.

  "They're going to help," she said. "They're going to help me find home. They can, you know. They don't know it yet.

  But they will. I've learned that much since I've been here. The corridor is very twisty." She tangled her fingers and tugged her arms against them. "Let's go join the others."

  Olmy stood in the center of the circular lounge, Suli Ram Kikura beside him. He introduced her to each of the five, formally and at length, telling her the functions they had served on the Thistledown. Lanier was impressed by how much Olmy knew; he seemed to have kept a dossier on all of them.

  "And this is Ser Suli Ram Kikura, your advocate. Your arrival on the tuberider was highly illegal, so she's been of service to you already. She had your court case negated because of the circumstances."

  "And under authority from the Presiding Minister," she added. "It's not something an advocate of my standing could have accomplished on her own."

  "She may underestimate herself," Olmy said.

  "Now that we know each other's names, I think we'd better get everything out in the open," Ram Kikura said. Olmy took a seat and folded his arms. "First of all, most of the citizens and clients of the Axis City and the communities along the Way—what you call the corridor—talk to each other by picting." She touched the torque around her neck and looked at Heineman. Flashes of light darted before his eyes. "I'm wearing a personal pictor. You will all be given

  pictors in a couple of days. It won't be absolutely necessary for you to learn the graphicspeech, but it will be very helpful. Lessons should take no more than two or three days. Miss Vasquez, I understand, already has a rudimentary knowledge of picts."

  "Amenities," Patricia said.

  "I speak American English, and have for years, because I am proud of my ancestry, which is North American, specifically United States of America, even more specifically, California.

  '"When you first saw me, you might have noticed I was picting a flag from the U.S.A. over my left shoulder. This is frequently done by Ameriphiles; it symbolizes our pride. After the Death, it was considered shameful to claim either Russian or American heritage. Those who did so were persecuted. Americans were persecuted more than Russians. When South Americans and Mexicans repopulated large sections of North America, people claiming to be citizens of the United States were arrested. The Naderites of that time were trying to create a unified world government, and there

  was resentment against the former Superpowers."

  "That's changed?" Heineman asked.

  Ram Kikura nodded. "The United States gave us most of our culture, the foundations of our laws and government. We feel about America as you might feel about Rome or Greece. Citizens take considerable pride in having American ancestors. If your presence becomes generally known—"

  Lanier clenched one hand tightly, worried by the implications of indefinite secrecy.

  "—then I will have to act as your theatrical agent, I'm afraid." Her smile seemed to indicate both humor and confidence. Lanier released some of the tension in his fist.

  Farley shook her head. "I'm Chinese. Do I miss out?"

  Ram Kikura smiled. "Not in the least. Those with Chinese heritage make up at least a third of the Hexamon—far more than Americans.

  "As for your status for the time being, your presence here is being treated as a Hexamon secret. You will not have any further contact with citizens of the Hexamon until that situation changes. Nevertheless, you have all the rights accorded to Hexamon guests. Not even the President himself could take those rights from you. One of them is the right to have an advocate represent your interests and advise you. Should anyone here object to my being your advocate, let me know immediately, and another will be assigned." She looked from face to face. There were no objections; she hadn't expected any.

  "Your status here is that of potential client innocents. That is, you may be of service to the Hexamon, and such services will gain you advantages—what you might term payment—but for the moment you are not to be disturbed. As innocents, you will be studied unless you object and the knowledge gained from these studies will be invested for you in certain Hexamon information banks. It will also be available to the Nexus and other governing bodies of the Hexamon, whether you object or not."

  "I have some questions," Lanier said.

  "Please ask them."

  "What's the Hexamon ... and the Nexus?"

  "The Hexamon is the totality of human citizens. You might call it the state. The Nexus is the main lawmaking body of this city, and of the Way from the Thistledown and the forbidden territory to mark two ex nine. That is, the two-billion-kilometer point of the Way."

  "You're all descended from the stoners the people who lived in the Thistledown?" Carrolson asked.

  "Yes," Ram Kikura said.

  "Excuse me," Heineman said. "How many people live here? How large is this Axis City?"

  Ram Kikura smiled and picted instructions to the empty walls. There were no data pillars anywhere—apparently their functions had been integrated into the inconspicuous room pictors.

  A very solid looking image of the Axis City appeared next to her, rotating slowly. Heineman leaned forward in his seat, frowning in concentration.

  "One hundred million humans occupy the city and the Way. Ten million live off-city, along the Way, chiefly traders and

  coordinators of the five hundred and seventy-one active wells. Ninety million live in the Axis City. Of these, seventy million are in City Memory. Most of those have lived out their legal two incarnations and have retired their bodies to exist as personality patt
erns in the City Memory environment. Under special circumstances, they may be assigned new bodies, but most often they are content in Memory. Some five million deviant personalities—those who are incomplete or deranged in such a way they cannot be redeemed, even with extreme methods of therapy—are kept inactive."

  "People don't die?" Carrolson asked.

  "Death and dying here usually refer to loss of corporeal states, not mental states. In a word, no, or very rarely," Ram Kikura said. "All of us are equipped with implants." She touched a spot behind her ear, then moved her finger to a spot above the bridge of her nose. "They supplement our reasoning, and should an accident occur, they retain a record of our most recent experiences and personality. The implant is almost indestructible—it is the first thing we recover from the victim of an accident. Every few days, we update our backups in City Memory with reds from these implants. That way, a personality can be quickly reconstructed. All we need to do is make a final update and inhabit a new body, and the resurrection is indistinguishable from the original."