The Pagoin smiled. ‘That’s what I thought.’
Tekton climbed into the cylinder field and braced himself. What did the Entity want to show him?
This time when space fell at him the transition was exhilarating. In an instant he had become an infinitesimal stitch in a majestic tapestry and yet he was also the central knot from which everything else would unravel. He hung in Sole’s eye. In Sole’s mind. In Sole’s heart.
Humanesque concepts all.
And with that one powerful thought Tekton’s humanesque framework fragmented. Him—the stitch, the mote, the minutest particle of matter—recomposed and he became a bounding, lightless energy shifting and expanding restlessly, thrusting against other equal forces.
Quintessence.
He [it] was a burgeoning intransigent, negative pulse. An energy rubbing and pulling. Sophisticated and raw in one cosmic breath. Time irrelevant.
He [it] was suffused with cold-warmth. And gradually he [it] became more than his [its] senses. A type of cognition formed. Not thinking but knowing. There was a difference. A billion mysteries unlocked and drenched his [its] cold-warmth with their knowledge.
Phantom Energy had its own sentience: giddy, infantile, wise and wily. Knowing offered everything and he [it] luxuriated in it. He [it] played and romped and fed greedily. Stirred. More answers than questions. A bath of answers.
But one single question.
He [it] gorged on answers to reach the question. But bloated knowledge slowed him [it], and he [it] lost purpose or meaning or momentum with the swollen greatness of himself [itself].
Many, many, many resided in that corpulent space/time: quarrelling and bargaining and gossiping in the manner of all-knowledgers. They had been there since the true for-ever. Unrelated, yet born of the same.
But he [it] alone retained memory of the question. And when the stirring came again, the itch that gave him [it] purpose, he [it] reached... grasping, grasping...
Imploding/explosion. Collapsing/expansion.
Separation.
A final glimpse. For-ever in a moment. Comprehension in emptiness. Ending in a beginning. Life in death, life in death, life in death...
* * *
Tekton fell painfully back into humanesque thought, as if his body had been compressed into a tiny box.
He took time to orientate. A straw was forced to his lips. Blood wiped from his nostril. Lotion applied to his face.
Eventually he was able to focus on the Pagoin who ministered to him.
‘Was that liberating?’ the Pagoin asked.
Tekton shuddered, barely able to reply. ‘No,’ he whispered.
The Pagoin helped him to the taxi. ‘Do you require medical assistance, Godhead?’
The Lostol archiTect waved him off and instructed the taxi to leave. Back in his rooms Tekton raised his privacy level and took to his bed. He stayed there for several days, imbibing only fluids while he attempted to assimilate his experience.
His minds remained quiet, both of them raw and unable to offer elucidation oh the experience; bruised like fruit dropped from a crate. The ‘all-knowing’ sense fell quickly away, so incapable was either mind of sustaining the memory or comprehension of such a torrent.
What had Sole wished him to know?
When finally the shock subsided, one overriding thought prevailed. Tekton forced himself to get up and bathe. When he had eaten he sat himself at his bureau.
Moud, what do you know of Rho Junction?
That is an exponentially expanding subject, Godhead. Could you be more specific?
Moud, can the contents of our conversations be monitored, in any way?
Not that I am aware of, Godhead. Not unless you allow it.
Then I wish you to provide a list of all the manufacturers on Rho Junction.
I am prohibited from actively searching for such information, the moud replied primly.
And what, my incompetent little moud, does actively searching mean? A thick tendril of anger began to uncurl in Tekton’s breast. Had they deliberately engaged the stupidest, most spineless of assistants for him?
Some information is freely available on Studium Net. However, OLOSS has safeguards in place to prevent unverified information about dubious markets from being accessed by just anyone.
Just anyone! Are you implying that I fit that description?
That is their phraseology, Godhead, not mine.
Tekton made an audible clicking noise with his teeth. Hibernate, he ordered the moud.
The faint buzzing sound that signified its presence in his mind fell silent immediately.
Tekton paced the length of his sitting room several times and then ordered honey, bread and mokka to be sent to his quarters. In his present mood he didn’t feel like the company of the other tyros.
Instead he disrobed and climbed into his lotion sack to try and relax while he waited for the light meal to arrive. What he needed was someone outside OLOSS influence to snoop for him. Jo-Jo Rasterovich would have been the perfect solution but Tekton doubted that he could get compliance from the vagabond mineral scout after their previous encounter.
In fact, logic-mind urged again, perhaps he should order his moud to add Rasterovich to his list of potentially dangerous personages whose whereabouts he monitored.
Paranoia! sniffed free-mind. Rasterovich was far too indolent and obtuse to be of any significant threat. And there must be countless Rasterovich types in Orion. Tekton just needed to locate one.
Logic-mind checked back in. He must verify the Pellegrinis’ delivery dates. While Tekton had enjoyed his brief interlude with Marchella Pellegrini on Araldis, he had no doubts about their efficacy when it came to business. Patriarchal caste societies like the Latinos of
Araldis generally honoured their agreements, bound as they were by notions of honour and status.
What was it that the woman had negotiated for?
Logic-mind stamped upon his erotic memories and set about reviewing the contents of his negotiation.
Aaaah, yes. That’s right. She wanted a tyro for one of her kind.
Never! squealed logic-mind. Those Latinos are so socially primitive.
Who cares? free-mind replied. Just ask the question. Be seen to be upholding the agreement.
Tekton saw the sense in free-mind’s suggestion. He slid out of his sack and patted the excess of lotion from his body with an absorbent cloth.
Moud?
The hum returned. Yes, Godhead?
Make an appointment with the Chief Astronemein.
* * *
Balbao, the Balol scientific Chief-of-Station and Tekton did not share similar interests, ideals or biorhythms. In their previous two encounters the C-o-S had exhibited little concern for Tekton’s complaints. This would work perfectly in his favour and Tekton approached the meeting confident that Balbao would deny his request instantaneously. He would then be able to relay the difficulties he was having to Marchella Pellegrini on Araldis and basically stall—indefinitely—for time.
On previous occasions he had met with the C-o-S in a laboratory but today the Balol assistant ushered Tekton into Balbao’s private rooms.
Tekton took a moment to absorb the size and luxury of them: the garish gold-plated fittings and pattern-switching floor covering.
The Balol sat perched in a swivel armchair with his feet on the ledge of a window facsimile. He sipped something frothy from a fluted glass and flexed his neck frill as if deep in thought.
Tekton ahem-ed politely to gain his attention.
‘Yes, Godhead?’
Tekton detected Balbao’s sarcasm. To the astronemeins the tyros were merely convenient study animals.
‘I have a request.’
Balbao gargled the last sip of his drink before he answered. ‘Let me guess. Longer opening times at the Melange bar? Pickled Ink Squid on the room-service menu? Lotion towels in the diner?’
‘I’m sure
you are well aware that I do not use towels. They are too abrasive. And while your humour is mild and inoffensive, it also suggests that you perceive us to be frivolous and superficial.’
‘Superficial? You, Tekton? I would never think such a thing.’
Tekton fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I wager, Balbao, that it will be our endeavours which uncover the truths about the Entity. Not your tedious measurements and excruciating empirical observations.’
Balbao frowned. His skin turned an unflattering shade of grey like the first puffs of a storm cloud.
Tekton assessed him as suitably enraged, and delivered his request. ‘I wish to petition for a new tyro and I want you to support me to Higher Intelligence Affairs.’
The Balol’s crest flattened into his thick neck and he made an odd choking splutter. ‘You j-joke, of course?’
‘Humour is not a strong Lostolian trait. I wish to petition for a female from the Latino races to join us here.’
‘A Latino female?’ Balbao flicked quickly through some images until he got a representation. His absent look suggested that his moud was enlightening him about Latinos. After a few moments he let out an unattractive hawking sound as though he had a throat full of phlegm. ‘Godhead, you do have a sense of humour... a female tyro from a repressed, patriarchal society.’
‘Bigotry can achieve wonders,’ stated Tekton loftily. ‘Makes the mind hungry.’
Balbao snorted. ‘Then you won’t be surprised to hear that not only will I not support your application, but I will fight it to my last breath.’
Tekton conjured a look of annoyance. ‘That is regrettable,’ he lamented. ‘But I will not be denied.’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ growled Balbao.
Perfect, thought Tekton.
* * *
Tekton took a taxi to the Melange bar to celebrate his easy manipulation of Balbao. To his disappointment only Labile Connit was there. He had barely spoken to the Geneer in his months on Belle-Monde. The man appealed to him almost as little as Balbao did, although his skin colour had a pleasant golden hue as opposed to the grey pigmentation of the Balol. It seemed rather unbalanced of nature, Tekton thought, to bestow such a radiant skin on a Geneer: they were such dour and imperative-bound types.
Yet you could not do without them, his logic-mind piped in.
Not yet, countered free-mind.
In a far more expansive mood than earlier and contemplating the notion that with his Sole-gained enhancements he might never have to consult a Geneer again, Tekton engaged Labile Connit in conversation.
Connit was hunched over a table-screen that was blurred by the spills from his row of empty agave-beer glasses. Tekton could smell the sweetness of the beer’s succulent base.
‘Good morning, Connit. May I buy you a beverage?’
‘Shure. Why not?’ the Geneer slurred and waved his hand. ‘After thish many I’ll drink with anyone.’
Tekton ignored the insult and ordered drinks via his moud.
They sat in awkward silence until the waiter served them. That is, Tekton felt a trifle awkward. Connit seemed oblivious to anything other than the flicker of images running across the table-screen.
‘The entertainment is tediously limited here, don’t you think?’ commented Tekton.
Connit shrugged. ‘I hate this place.’ Then, to Tekton’s surprise, tears brimmed and trickled down the young Geneer’s cheeks.
A crying drunk, said Tekton’s free-mind. Disgusting!
But useful, countered logic-mind. Drunker the better when it comes to secrets.
Tekton ordered Connit another beer, this time with a shot of fatta extract. Fatta extract was expensive but as tasteless as vodka and was known for its numbing effect on the humanesque amygdala.
‘It sounds as if you need a sabbatical. Or perhaps a visit with your family? That is... I don’t know where you come from but it can’t be too far. Orion is rather small.’
Connit slurped down the fatta-laced beer, none the wiser. ‘No. No... Impossible!’ He shook his head vehemently.
Why not? Tekton wondered. The tyros were free to go anywhere, anytime, unless their sponsors had set restrictions. Tekton’s main sponsor was GOHI and his minor sponsor was his studium. He imagined the others had similar arrangements.
Moud, who is Labile Connit’s sponsor?
The Group of Higher Intelligence.
And?
Tekton sipped his juice while he waited for the moud to answer. Really, it was bordering on the ineffectual as bio-ware went.
Godhead, there seems to be an anomaly in my information.
Yes?
Godhead Connit’s co-sponsor is stated as being an industrial company called CGE.
And who in-a-Lostol’s-fine-skin are they?
I have searched the Orion companies register and they do not appear to exist.
Aha! gloated logic-mind. A secret!
‘What programme entertains you so, Labile?’ Tekton enquired.
Connit scowled and turned the table-screen off abruptly. He drew shapes in the spilled beer and didn’t bother to answer.
Moud?
The station AI informs me that Godhead Connit has been streaming Unbound broadcasts.
Unbound? Tekton had heard of Unbound—vaguely. Where do they emanate from?
There is no proven point of origin though it is commonly held that they originate from Consilience.
‘How interesting,’ Tekton murmured.
‘Whassat?’ slurred Connit.
Tekton realised that he’d spoken aloud and smiled blandly at the Geneer. ‘What is what?’
‘What’d you shay?’
‘Perhaps you should get some sleep, my dear Connit, for I said nothing at all.’ Tekton smiled again and excused himself.
On the taxi ride home he flipped things between his minds.
Why would one of Orion’s top Geneers be watching streams originating from Consilience? And why would he not be able to visit his family?
Logic-mind was of the opinion that Connit was showing all the symptoms of dislocation syndrome.
Dislocation syndrome. Pah! said free-mind. He’s lonely and he’s hiding something.
When he got back to his quarters, Tekton told his moud to stream Unbound to his viewing screen. He spent impatient minutes while the moud ran lists of the programmes broadcast in the last hour through the myriad of sub-broadcasts that came through the Unbound node. The political propaganda from the countless groups uncensored by the OLOSS charter was at worst unintelligible and at best sinister.
Tekton felt a moment’s relief that OLOSS had a powerful military force to suppress such anarchical tendencies among sentients. Those insufferable
Extropists perpetuated much of this lawless behaviour. He wondered if they realised that in their desire for post-humanesque evolution they had swayed dangerously close to anti-humanesque. How peeved they must be by the appearance of Sole.
‘Narrow the search. Reject “authentic war” and “combat injury”
The feed dropped to a more manageable ten thousand channels. Tekton continued refining his search based on the glimpse he’d had across the viewing table in the Melange bar. With five hundred channels left he began to question the fruitfulness of what he was doing. What was he expecting to find? Why was he even bothering?
No good reason, said logic-mind.
Searching for a clue, said free-mind.
A clue to what? What had suddenly so intrigued him about the recalcitrant and graceless Geneer?
Tekton left the screen and went to his bed where he disrobed and ordered the room into complete darkness. There he let thoughts percolate in his mind for a time, letting them flower into possibilities in the way he let his designs mutate.
Moud, call Miranda Seeward.
Yes, Godhead.
When Miranda answered he climbed from his bed and returned to his living space. ‘Good day, Miranda.’
‘Indeed it must be, Tekton,’ she said wryly, ‘since you forgot to dress.�
��
He glanced down at his naked body and then back at his muse. ‘Come now. Don’t pretend to be shocked.’
‘Shocked, pah! Now, what disturbs you enough to call me stark naked? Something that obviously cannot wait until tonight.’
Tonight?
The tyros’ weekly meeting, his moud reminded him.
Ah, yes... Now, how to say this so that she won’t be too curious? ‘I am concerned for Labile Connit. I spoke with him this morning and he seems beset by melancholy. Perhaps there is some way we could cheer him up. A surprise visit from his family, perhaps.’
Miranda’s mouth dropped open, sending her chins into an outrageous wobble. ‘Tekton, how thoughtful! I had noticed the same thing. You know, you really are a treasure under that brittle self-serving exterior.’ She leaned closer to the screen. ‘And I should know.’ She winked. ‘I have the fondest memories of our tryst on Scolar.’
Tekton felt his akula swamping his objectivity. Miranda seemed able to arouse him with the merest hint of her over-abundant pheromones. He made an effort to repress the rush. ‘As do I, my dear. But it is Labile we should be thinking of at this moment. ..’
She frowned at having the conversation deflected from one of her favourite topics. ‘Well, though your intentions are noble I think we would have little joy locating his kin. It is rumoured that he was incubated at an illegal birth-station.’
‘Then he has no family?’
‘Not a jot.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’
‘Then we must think of something else,’ said Tekton.
Miranda gave him a sceptical look. ‘I will put some thought into it. We can discuss it this evening.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’ Tekton ended the call and sat at his viewer for several moments, thinking of his conversation with Labile.
Moud, tell me what you can about Labile Connit’s origins.
Godhead, Connit has a privacy lock on his biographical information.
Isn’t there another way to access it?
No, Godhead.
If the moud had been corporeal Tekton would have kicked it. Really, it was next to useless.
He returned to his bed and resumed his darkened thinking. Geneers, he mused, were linear thinkers by and large. Moud, search biographical details of Labile Connit’s genetic parents.
The Sentients of Orion Page 38
