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

by Neal Asher

  The Wald was both decoration and a nod to Naderite philsophies; about a third of Central City's atmosphere needs were taken care of in the shafts, with Geshel-designed scrubbers doing the rest. Thousands of varieties of trees and other plants—some food-bearing—had been genetically altered and adapted to weightlessness. Fully a third of the Axis City's biomass was botanical and concentrated in the Wald.

  One of Olmy's great pleasures was to tarzan through the Wald, flying from root to limb, drifting down the paths without benefit of traction fields. There were designated sport paths and quickways with many exercising homorphs and a few whizzing neomorphs and virtually no vehicles; he had timed himself on a thousand different occasions on the more difficult of these and had honed his time down to as little as fifteen minutes from outer facet to shaft bottom.

  Now, however, he felt no need to race. He tarzaned at a leisurely pace, arms folded behind his back, legs cocked like a skater's, kicking from broad leaf to smooth-worn root surface, following well-traveled courses down the path. More valuable than speed was the time to think.

  Plastic tubes containing thick luminescent soups of bacteria, known as light-snakes or glow-worms, wound through the Wald, each a meter thick and sometimes half a kilometer long. In glades, they would macrame across one side in dazzling bright patterns, proximity making some glow peach and red, others dull down to a rich dark gold. Homorphs often gathered in the glades to bathe in the light from the patterns; Olmy barely glanced into the few glades he passed, intent on his steady progress down the shaft.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach the Presiding Minister's quarters. He left the main path by way of a narrow fork, and drifted through the flowering hoops formed by a tormented root. The quarters floated in the middle of the P.M."s private glen.

  The residence was designed like an old eighteenth-century terrestrial English manor house, with many modifications to allow for the lack of up and down. There were three roofs, and ways to enter the house from six different angles. Bay windows opened on three axes. Geometric cypress growths screened one window against a glow-worm pattern at the far end of the glen.

  Monitors flew up to him as soon as he emerged from the flowering hoop tunnels and identified him positively, retreating to their other duties: hedge trimming, insect watch and keeping track of the P.M.'s pets.

  The house voice welcomed him and requested he enter by the bright door, facing the glow-worm pattern. The P.M. would be with him directly.

  Olmy braced himself into a dormier and watched with a mix of condescension and boredom a brief picting of the household's recent activities. When the pictor cleared, he saw an unfamiliar neomorph preceding the P.M. into the waiting room. The neomorph—vaguely fish-shaped, limbless—regarded Olmy with a crystalline fox face and picted casual greetings, but no ID. Olmy returned the greetings with a similar deletion, recognizing one of Toiler's aids. The neo-morph exited through the bright door, surrounded by its own midge-cloud of compact monitors.

  "Getting more and more daring, aren't they?" the P.M. asked, extending his hand. Olmy shook it. "Now I ask you—would you trust somebody you can't shake hands with?"

  "I've not trusted many I could shake hands with," Olmy said.

  The P.M. regarded him with a mixed expression of humor and not-quite-hidden irritation. "You've come to brief me on our newest ancestral guests." He ushered Olmy into his broad duodecahedral internal office. The P.M.'s round desk gimbaled on the single rod at the center; seven of the walls were covered by rootwood cases containing antique books and message blocks. Other walls held fine illusart and false windows opening onto time-delayed scenes of other rooms in the house, edited to take out whatever occupants were in them.

  "The President is still upset," Ingle said, tucking his elbows in to sit behind the desk. "I'm afraid most of the President's council are finding it difficult to understand why you brought the five back with you."

  "I only brought one," Olmy corrected. "The others followed on their own, unexpectedly."

  "Yes, well, however they got here, they're trouble. Secessionists are seeking advantages already, and concessions.

  They're not far from getting all their groups together—and this certainly could unite them. It could also convert the Korzenowski faction from a radical party to a popular front. The President's position could be endangered. Even so, he feels he doesn't have the time to oversee these difficulties directly, what with the Jart conferences still filling his days, so he's assigned Ser Oligand Toller—whom you've met, I believe—and myself."

  "Bearers of bad news are never appreciated," Olmy said.

  "Yes? Well, whether the news itself is actually good or bad depends on how we react, does it not? Frankly, I don't share all the President's misgivings—some, but not all. I feel we can turn the situation—and the news—to our advantage. Perhaps we can even achieve the consensus we need to face the Jarts effectively. Now, your message said you had more news."

  "Someone has hired at least one rogue in City Memory to penetrate the guest quarters. Someone is desperate to find out what all the fuss is."

  "Yes, that much I could have guessed," the P.M. said. "Well, then, perhaps it's time we released all we know. It's probably going to he common knowledge in a week or less, especially if rogues are in on it. What's your opinion, Ser Olmy?"

  "I've voiced it before, Ser; I should testify before the Nexus."

  The P.M. considered that for a moment. "I still have my doubts as to the wisdom of that. But you may be right. If the truth must be unveiled, let us do the unveiling, no? But delicately. Millions of neomorphs are already scared silly by the secession talk. Drop a bombshell into the middle of it—saying the Thistledown has returned to Earth? Not an easy decision. At any rate, we can't call a full Nexus because of the Jart conferences. A partial will have to do." He left the desk, betraying his nerves. "I'll need a heavy session of Talsit this evening." He crossed his arms and floated in the middle of the office, his voluminous black robes assuming billows of repose. "You will testify in person, then, as an agent of the Hexamon?"

  "The Frant and I," Olmy confirmed.

  "The Frant won't testify; it's against their creed to take an oath."

  "It will confirm my testimony. That's allowed."

  "And what then, Ser Olmy? How can we restrain our curious ones—whoever hired the rogue—or the Korzenowski faction, Pneuma be kind, after that?"

  "That may not be our greatest problem. There are still two thousand humans in the Thistledown; sooner or later, we have to bring them under our control. Our first guest, Vasquez, was already very close to learning how to manipulate the sixth chamber machinery. I assume others will eventually duplicate her work, despite the interdictions in the Thistledown libraries."

  "Star, Fate and Pneuma never see fit to limit our troubles, do they?" the P.M. said with a sigh that upset the billows of his robe. "Logos he praised."

  "Logos," Olmy echoed doubtfully.

  "We share a certain Geshel incredulity, don't we?" the P.M. said, watching Olmy's reaction carefully. "Not wise to reveal it to everyone, however, not from this lofty position, anyway. Is there immediate danger of our ... ancestors! Such a word—is there much chance of their disturbing the sixth chamber soon?"

  "Not with Vasquez in the Axis City. Not in a matter of months, or even a year."

  "Very well. First things first. I'd say it would be in our best interests, if we reveal at all—and that seems unavoidable now—to make a public show of our guests. They are extraordinary—and they might give us an advantage over the President's opposition. I'll have my secretaries plan an agitprop. Their advocate—your partner, Suli Ram Kikum—has she been useful?"

  "Very," Olmy said. "But her work has hardly begun."

  "Excellent," the P.M. said. "But we mustn't be too confident. If the Jarts start their offensive early, heaven forbid, decide to open a gate into a star's heart—then our visitors will mean next to nothing." Ingle shook his head, picting a chain of symbols—a gnat being
consumed in a solar prominence.

  *50*

  Corporal Rodzhensky lay with his back against the black library wall. Before him were scattered ration packets and tins, some Russian, most American. He snored lightly and regularly. Beside him, Major Garabedian had squatted to eat an American dinner of ham and potatos all gratin, imported from the fourth chamber as part of the as-yet-unratified treaty agreements.

  As he ate, he kept a wary eye on the American soldiers lounging several dozen meters across the quadrangle. The forces were exactly equal; ten Russians, ten Americans, all armed with rifles but without lasers. There would be no silent assassinations.

  Tensions had calmed slowly after the Americans had arrived at the behest of Corporal Rodzhensky and the Chinese man and woman. The library had been sealed ever since, with Lieutenant General Mirsky, Colonel Vielgorsky, Majors Belozersky and Yazykov and Lieutenant Colonel Pogodin held incommunicado. There had been some suspicion at first that American trickery was involved; Garabedian had decided otherwise after several hours of talks with Pritikin, Sinoviev and the American civilian leader, Hoffman.

  No one knew what had happened within the library, although Hoffman had expressed an all-too-plausible theory that made no one happy. Garabedian still mulled the theory over, shifting his eyes between the implacable black wall and the American soldiers.

  The Zampolits, Hoffman suggested, had tried to kill General Mirsky. Whether or not they succeeded, the library building had sealed itself off to prevent further violence and perhaps preserve evidence.

  All they could do was wait.

  It had been a week. During that time, Garabedian and Pletnev had managed to keep the Russian troops from doing anything unwise—factionalizing, spreading agitation or unfounded speculation. Work had proceeded on construction of their quarters in the fourth chamber. A few Russians—fifty-two, at last count—had simply left the camps and vanished into the fourth chamber woods. Five had been found so far, well fed—the woods were full of various edible plants. But three of those five had been fetal-curled and withdrawn in delayed shock.

  American psychologists had offered to help; there had been similar cases among the Americans, most notably Joseph Rimskaya, who had been stricken just three days before. He had wandered into the main Russian camp in the fourth chamber, weeping uncontrollablY, his clothes and back in shreds from self-flagellation. He had been returned to the

  Americans. But Garabedian did not think it wise to allow Russian soldiers access to American psychologists.

  What he felt, above all, was sadness, a sense of loss which almost overwhelmed his sense of duty. He—like Mirsky and most of the young officers had been part of the new Russian military experiment, begun to fix the problems highlighted by the manifold failures of the Little Death. They and their colleagues had worked with each other as a team, not as brutal antagonists in a throwback nineteenth-century system. They had achieved great things, increasing efficiency and decreasing alcoholism, desertion, violence and suicide.

  They had been the new breed, and their successes had made them cultural heroes. The conquest of the Potato would have brought them untold glory; instead, through some error he could not yet comprehend, they had failed miserably, and their heritage was now ashes.

  Garabedian understood all too well the pressures which drove his comrades to swim to the fourth chamber islands and lie down on the forest floor, pulling humus and mold over their soaking fatigues.

  The director of the Infinite Hexamon Nexus, Hulane Ram Seija, could trace his ancestry back to the Greater East Asian Geshels who had first returned man to space, thirteen centuries before; yet he looked less human than the Frant. In this, he was typical of many neomoph citizens occupying Central City.

  Ram Seija was round, one-half of his body brushed silvery metal, the other half an elegant black-and-green-swirled mineral shell from the worlds accessible through the 264 gate. His face, which could be projected to any of three different positions on the sphere, had large, inquiring eyes and a sharp-toothed grin which was definitely not designed to mask his basic aggressiveness. His two muscular arms had the twin advantanges of human appearance and prosthetic adaptability; they could stretch two meters if need be.

  He had no legs, using his arms and the ubiquitous traction fields to get from place to place.

  He was less than a century old and this was his second shape; for his first thirty years, he had been as homorphic as any orthodox Naderite. It was in those years that Ram Seija had made his contacts and learned the basic political skills. To Olmy, he exemplified the quintessential Journey Century Twelve Radical Geshel.

  Ram Seija was number four in the power hierarchy of the Hexamon, behind the President, the Presiding Minister of the Nexus and the Minister of the Joint Axis Council.

  In the Nexus Sphere, located just outside the flaw passage near the core of Central City, Ram Seija had convened twenty-three corporeal representatives and five senators in a discovery session. Twenty of the Nexus members were present incarnate, which was a word that had lost much of its meaning centuries before; now it meant little more than being in primary physical form. Such form did not necessarily include much flesh. By law, no partial personalities were allowed in the chambers however convenient that would have been for those still confined to the Jarts conference, being held on Timbl, the Frant home world.

  Ram Seija guided himself to the middle of the sphere and took on the golden armillary bands of light to announce the meeting's start.

  Olmy drifted at the outside, the Frant curled up beside him, only neck and head extended. Olmy had ended an exchange with Corprep Rosen Gardner some minutes before, on an apparently disputatious note; the New Orthodox Naderite leader of the Korzenowski faction had wanted a little preliminary testimony, and Olmy had resisted. Gardner was one of the few corpreps who broke procedure often and was tolerated nonetheless; he was also one of the few Korzenowski factioners who was reasonable in a debate. In the eyes of the radical Geshels, this—and his large following of Naderites—made him a particularly dangerous opponent.

  "In the name of Star, Fate, Pneuma and the Good Man, who sought equality and fair deals for all consumers, and who sought the end of overwhelming and inhuman technology, this meeting of the Infinite Hexamon Nexus convenes. There is news, gentlepeople," Ram Seija announced, "there is news.

  "Our testimony is from Ser Olmy. We also have corroboration from one of our valuable allies, who helped Ser Olmy with his investigation."

  Olmy and the Frant advanced to the center and received their armillary bands.

  "I have spent the past year in the Thistledown, at the request of the Presiding Minister," he said. "This Frant accompanied me. Together, we investigated an unusual intrusion. Do we have permission to playback our records and to testify by picting?"

  Ram Seija gave his permission.

  For each of the senators and corpreps, the seven chambers of the Thistledown were displayed in considerable detail. In a few minutes, they became acquainted with the new human occupants of the Thistledown's chambers. Olmy and the Frant had managed to record some five hundred individuals on their instruments. The compounds were shown, along with a few building interiors. Olmy then demonstrated that the various languages spoken by the new occupants derived from pre-Death Earth.

  The point of view of the picted testimony took a dizzying climb up the south polar cap of the first chamber and zoomed down the bore hole. The reactivated rotating docks and staging areas were briefly shown, and then the point of view emerged from the bore hole.

  At a distance of some thirty thousand kilometers, the crescent Earth dominated the darkness, the sun emerging from behind its limb in the west.

  The reaction in the Nexus chamber was extraordinary. Homiform corpreps gasped; all registered strong emotions in various ways.

  Gardner spoke first. "Blessed Konrad," he said. "He found a way to bring us home again."

  "Stricken; not testimony," Ram Seija decreed abruptly.

  "It is
truly Earth," Olmy said. "The Thistledown has returned to its construction orbit, automatically and without our knowledge. The creation of the Way did not remove us from all familiar spaces. It is possible that the Thistledown could have completed its intended journey. It did not. Instead, it sought out the sun and altered its course to return home.

  "But we did not escape all effects of the Way's creation. The Thistledown was indeed shifted into a neighboring continuum, but also into the relative past. It entered its current orbit some three centuries before its launch."

  The chamber was silent, stunned by the implications of what Olmy was saying.

  The picted testimony continued. In less than four minutes, it showed the beginning of the Death and concluded with the spectacle of Earth covered with a thick gray pall of smoke, on the threshold of the Long Winter.

  The stillness in the chamber was profound. Olmy quickly pushed on.

  "I returned to the city with one of the new occupants, a corporeal woman named Patricia Luisa Vasquez. Subsequently, four others violated the axis flaw by riding a vehicle near the city. They have been acquitted and made guests of Axis Nader. All of them, of course, are corporeal and primitive, of primary form and unsupplemented