I watched the party, which had split into loose subcliques. Kulagin was near the door with his closest sympathizers, Mechanist officers from Czarina-Kluster banks and quiet Security types. Nearby, faculty from the Kosmosity-Metasystem campus talked shop with a pair of orbital engineers. On the ceiling, Shaper designers talked fashion, clinging to hooks in the feeble gravity. Below them a manic group of C-K folk, “Cicadas,” spun like clockwork through gravity dance steps.
At the back of the room, Wellspring was holding forth amid a herd of spindly-legged chairs. I leapt gently over the couch and glided toward him. The dogs sprang after me with a whir of propulsive fans.
Wellspring was my closest friend in C-K. He had encouraged my defection when he was in the Ring Council, buying ice for the Martian terraforming project. The dogs never bothered Wellspring. His ancient friendship with the Queen was well known. In C-K, Wellspring was a legend.
Tonight he was dressed for an audience with the Queen. A coronet of gold and platinum circled his dark, matted hair. He wore a loose blouse of metallic brocade with slashed sleeves that showed a black underblouse shot through with flickering pinpoints of light. This was complemented by an Investor-style jeweled skirt and knee-high scaled boots. The jeweled cables of the skirt showed Wellspring’s massive legs, trained to the heavy gravity favored by the reptilian Queen. He was a powerful man, and his weaknesses, if he had any, were hidden within his past.
Wellspring was talking philosophy. His audience, mathematicians and biologists from the faculty of C-K K-M, made room for me with strained smiles. “You asked me to define my terms,” he said urbanely. “By the term we, I don’t mean merely you Cicadas. Nor do I mean the mass of so-called humanity. After all, you Shapers are constructed of genes patented by Reshaped genetics firms. You might be properly defined as industrial artifacts.”
His audience groaned. Wellspring smiled. “And conversely, the Mechanists are slowly abandoning human flesh in favor of cybernetic modes of existence. So. It follows that my term, we, can be attributed to any cognitive metasystem on the Fourth Prigoginic Level of Complexity.”
A Shaper professor touched his inhaler to the painted line of his nostril and said, “I have to take issue with that, Wellspring. This occult nonsense about levels of complexity is ruining C-K’s ability to do decent science.”
“That’s a linear causative statement,” Wellspring riposted. “You conservatives are always looking for certainties outside the level of the cognitive metasystem. Clearly every intelligent being is separated from every lower level by a Prigoginic event horizon. It’s time we learned to stop looking for solid ground to stand on. Let’s place ourselves at the center of things. If we need something to stand on, we’ll have it orbit us.”
He was applauded. He said. “Admit it, Yevgeny. C-K is blooming in a new moral and intellectual climate. It’s unquantifiable and unpredictable, and, as a scientist, that frightens you. Posthumanism offers fluidity and freedom, and a metaphysic daring enough to think a whole world into life. It enables us to take up economically absurd projects such as the terraforming of Mars, which your pseudopragmatic attitude could never dare to attempt. And yet think of the gain involved.”
“Semantic tricks,” sniffed the professor. I had never seen him before. I suspected that Wellspring had brought him along for the express purpose of baiting him.
I myself had once doubted some aspects of C-K’s Posthumanism. But its open abandonment of the search for moral certainties had liberated us. When I looked at the eager, painted faces of Wellspring’s audience, and compared them to the bleak strain and veiled craftiness that had once surrounded me, I felt as if I would burst. After twenty-four years of paranoid discipline under the Ring Council, and then two more years under the dogs, tonight I would be explosively released from pressure.
I sniffed at the phenethylamine, the body’s own “natural” amphetamine. I felt suddenly dizzy, as if the space inside my head were full of the red-hot Ur-space of the primordial de Sitter cosmos, ready at any moment to make the Prigoginic leap into the “normal” space-time continuum, the Second Prigoginic Level of Complexity…Posthumanism schooled us to think in terms of fits and starts, of structures accreting along unspoken patterns, following the lines first suggested by the ancient Terran philosopher Ilya Prigogine. I directly understood this, since my own mild attraction to the dazzling Valery Korstad had coalesced into a knotted desire that suppressants could numb but not destroy.
She was dancing across the room, the jeweled strings of her Investor skirt twisting like snakes. She had the anonymous beauty of the Reshaped, overlaid with the ingenious, enticing paint of C-K. I had never seen anything I wanted more, and from our brief and strained flirtations I knew that only the dogs stood between us.
Wellspring took me by the arm. His audience had dissolved as I stood rapt, lusting after Valery. “How much longer, son?”
Startled, I looked at the watch display on my forearm. “Only twenty minutes, Wellspring.”
“That’s fine, son.” Wellspring was famous for his use of archaic terms like son. “Once the dogs are gone, it’ll be your party, Hans. I won’t stay here to eclipse you. Besides, the Queen awaits me. You have the Queen’s Percentage?”
“Yes, just as you said.” I unpeeled the box from the stick-tight patch on my hip and handed it over.
Wellspring lifted its lid with his powerful fingers and looked inside. Then he laughed aloud. “Jesus! It’s beautiful!”
Suddenly he pulled the open box away and the Queen’s gift hung in midair, glittering above our heads. It was an artificial gem the size of a child’s face, its chiseled planes glittering with the green and gold of endolithic lichen. As it spun it threw tiny glints of fractured light across our faces.
As it fell, Kulagin appeared and caught it on the points of four extended fingertips. His left eye, an artificial implant, glistened darkly as he examined it.
“Eisho Zaibatsu?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “They handled the synthesizing work; the lichen is a special variety of my own.” I saw that a curious circle was gathering and said aloud, “Our host is a connoisseur.”
“Only of finance,” Kulagin said quietly, but with equal emphasis. “I understand now why you patented the process in your own name. It’s a dazzling accomplishment. How could any Investor resist the lure of a living jewel, friends? Someday soon our initiate will be a wealthy man.”
I looked quickly at Wellspring, but he unobtrusively touched one finger to his lips. “And he’ll need that wealth to bring Mars to fruition,” Wellspring said loudly. “We can’t depend forever on the Kosmosity for funding. Friends, rejoice that you too will reap the profits of Landau’s ingenious genetics.” He caught the jewel and boxed it. “And tonight I have the honor of presenting his gift to the Queen. A double honor, since I recruited its creator myself.” Suddenly he leapt toward the exit, his powerful legs carrying him quickly above our heads. As he flew he shouted, “Goodbye, son! May another dog never darken your doorstep!”
With Wellspring’s exit, the non-Polycarbon guests began leaving, forming a jostling knot of hat-fetching servos and gossiping well-wishers. When the last was gone, the Clique grew suddenly quiet.
Kulagin had me stand at a far corner of his studio while the Clique formed a long gauntlet for the dogs, arming themselves with ribbons and paint. A certain dark edge of smoldering vengeance only added a tang to their enjoyment. I took a pair of paint balloons from one of Kulagin’s scurrying servos.
The time was almost on me. For two long years I’d schemed to join the Polycarbon Clique. I needed them. I felt they needed me. I was tired of suspicion, of strained politeness, of the glass walls of the dogs’ surveillance. The keen edges of my long discipline suddenly, painfully, crumbled. I began shaking uncontrollably, unable to hold it back.
The dogs were still, taping steadily to the last appointed instant. The crowd began to count down. Exactly at the count of zero the two dogs turned to go.
T
hey were barraged with paint and tangled streamers. A moment earlier they would have turned savagely on their tormentors, but now they had reached the limits of their programming, and at long last they were helpless. The Clique’s aim was deadly, and with every splattering hit they split the air with screams of laughter. They knew no mercy, and it took a full minute before the humiliated dogs could hop and stagger, blinded, to the door.
I was overcome with mob hysteria. Screams escaped my clenched teeth. I had to be grappled back from pursuing the dogs down the hall. As firm hands pulled me back within the room I turned to face my friends, and I was chilled at the raw emotion of their faces. It was as if they had been stripped of skin and watched me with live eyes in slabs of meat.
I was picked up bodily and passed from hand to hand around the room. Even those that I knew well seemed alien to me now. Hands tore at my clothing until I was stripped; they even took my computer gauntlet, then stood me in the middle of the room.
As I stood shivering within the circle, Kulagin approached me, his arms rigid, his face stiff and hieratic. His hands were full of loose black cloth. He held the cloth over my head, and I saw that it was a black hood. He put his lips close to my ear and said softly, “Friend, go the distance.” Then he pulled the hood over my head and knotted it.
The hood had been soaked in something; I could smell that it reeked. My hands and feet began to tingle, then go numb. Slowly, warmth crept like bracelets up my arms and legs. I could hear nothing, and my feet could no longer feel the floor. I lost all sense of balance, and suddenly I fell backward, into the infinite.
My eyes opened, or my eyes closed, I couldn’t tell. But at the limits of vision, from behind some unspoken fog, emerged pinpoints of cold and piercing brightness. It was the Great Galactic Night, the vast and pitiless emptiness that lurks just beyond the warm rim of every human habitat, emptier even than death.
I was naked in space, and it was so bitterly cold that I could taste it like poison in every cell I had. I could feel the pale heat of my own life streaming out of me like plasma, ebbing away in aurora sheets from my fingertips. I continued to fall, and as the last rags of warmth pulsed off into the devouring chasm of space, and my body grew stiff and white and furred with frost from every pore, I faced the ultimate horror: that I would not die, that I would fall forever backward into the unknown, my mind shriveling into a single frozen spore of isolation and terror.
Time dilated. Eons of silent fear telescoped into a few heartbeats and I saw before me a single white blob of light, like a rent from this cosmos into some neighboring realm full of alien radiance. This time I faced it as I fell toward it, and through it, and then, finally, jarringly, I was back behind my own eyes, within my own head, on the soft floor of Kulagin’s studio.
The hood was gone. I wore a loose black robe, closed with an embroidered belt. Kulagin and Valery Korstad helped me to my feet. I wobbled, brushing away tears, but I managed to stand, and the Clique cheered.
Kulagin’s shoulder was under my arm. He embraced me and whispered, “Brother, remember the cold. When we your friends need warmth, be warm, remembering the cold. When friendship pains you, forgive us, remembering the cold. When selfishness tempts you, renounce it, remembering the cold. For you have gone the distance, and returned to us renewed. Remember, remember the cold.” And then he gave me my secret name, and pressed his painted lips to mine.
I clung to him, choked with sobs. Valery embraced me and Kulagin pulled away gently, smiling.
One by one the Clique took my hands and pressed their lips quickly to my face, murmuring congratulations. Still unable to speak, I could only nod. Meanwhile Valery Korstad, clinging to my arm, whispered hotly in my ear, “Hans, Hans, Hans Landau, there still remains a certain ritual, which I have reserved to myself. Tonight the finest chamber in the Froth belongs to us, a sacred place where no glassy-eyed dog has ever trespassed. Hans Landau, tonight that place belongs to you, and so do I.”
I looked into her face, my eyes watering. Her eyes were dilated, and a pink flush had spread itself under her ears and along her jawline. She had dosed herself with hormonal aphrodisiacs. I smelled the antiseptic sweetness of her perfumed sweat and I closed my eyes, shuddering.
Valery led me into the hall. Behind us, Kulagin’s door sealed shut, cutting the hilarity to a murmur. Valery helped me slip on my air fins, whispering soothingly.
The dogs were gone. Two chunks of my reality had been edited like tape. I still felt dazed. Valery took my hand, and we threaded a corridor upward toward the center of the habitat, kicking along with our air fins. I smiled mechanically at the Cicadas we passed in the halls, members of another day crowd. They were soberly going about their day shift’s work while the Polycarbon Clique indulged in bacchanalia.
It was easy to lose yourself within the Froth. It had been built in rebellion against the regimented architecture of other habitats, in C-K’s typical defiance of the norm. The original empty cylinder had been packed with pressurized plastic, which had been blasted to foam and allowed to set. It left angular bubbles whose tilted walls were defined by the clean topologies of close packing and surface tension. Halls had been snaked through the complex later, and the doors and airlocks cut by hand. The Froth was famous for its delirious and welcome spontaneity.
And its discreets were notorious. C-K showed its civic spirit in the lavish appointments of these citadels against surveillance. I had never been in one before. People under the dogs were not allowed across the boundaries. But I had heard rumors, the dark and prurient scandal of bars and corridors, those scraps of licentious speculation that always hushed at the approach of dogs. Anything, anything at all, could happen in a discreet, and no one would know of it but the lovers or survivors who returned, hours later, to public life…
As the centrifugal gravity faded we began floating. Valery half-towing me. The bubbles of the Froth had swollen near the axis of rotation, and we entered a neighborhood of the quiet industrial domiciles of the rich. Soon we had floated to the very doorstep of the infamous Topaz Discreet, the hushed locale of unnumbered elite frolics. It was the finest in the Froth.
Valery looked at her timepiece, caressing away a fine film of sweat that had formed on the flushed and perfect lines of her face and neck. We hadn’t long to wait. We heard the mellow repeated bonging of the discreet’s time alarm, warning the present occupant that his time was up. The door’s locks unsealed. I wondered just what member of C-K’s inner circle would emerge. Now that I was free of the dogs, I longed to boldly meet his eyes.
Still we waited. Now the discreet was ours by right and every moment lost pained us. To overstay in a discreet was the height of rudeness. Valery grew angry, and pushed open the door.
The air was full of blood. In free-fall, it floated in a thousand clotting red blobs.
Near the center of the room floated the suicide, his flaccid body still wheeling slowly from the gush of his severed throat. A scalpel glittered in the mechanically clenched fingers of the cadaver’s outstretched hand. He wore the sober black overalls of a conservative Mechanist.
The body spun, and I saw the insignia of the Queen’s Advisers stitched on his breast. His partially metallic skull was sticky with his own blood; the face was obscured. Long streamers of thickened blood hung from his throat like red veils.
We had cometaried into something very much beyond us. “I’ll call Security,” I said.
She said two words. “Not yet.” I looked into her face. Her eyes were dark with fascinated lust. The lure of the forbidden had slid its hooks into her in a single moment. She kicked languidly across one tessellated wall, and a long streak of blood splattered and broke along her hip.
In discreets one met the ultimates. In a room with so many hidden meanings, the lines had blurred. Through constant proximity pleasure had wedded with death. For the woman I adored, the private rites transpiring there had become of one unspoken piece.
“Hurry,” she said. Her lips were bitter with a thin grease of aphro
disiacs. We interlaced our legs to couple in free-fall while we watched his body twist.
That was the night the Queen called off her dogs.
It had thrilled me in a way that made me sick. We Cicadas lived in the moral equivalent of de Sitter space, where no ethos had validity unless it was generated by noncausative free will. Every level of Prigoginic Complexity was based on a self-dependent generative catalyst: space existed because space existed, life was because it had come to be, intelligence was because it is. So it was possible for an entire moral system to accrete around a single moment of profound disgust…Or so Posthumanism taught. After my blighted consummation with Valery I withdrew to work and think.
I lived in the Froth, in a domestic-industrial studio that reeked of lichen and was much less chic than Kulagin’s.
On the second day-shift of my meditation I was visited by Arkadya Sorienti, a Polycarbon friend and one of Valery’s intimates. Even without the dogs there were elements of a profound strain between us. It seemed to me that Arkadya was everything that Valery was not: blonde where Valery was dark, covered with Mechanist gimmickry where Valery had the cool elegance of the genetically Reshaped, full of false and brittle gaiety where Valery was prey to soft and melancholy gloom. I offered her a squeezebulb of liqueur; my apartment was too close to the axis to use cups.
“I haven’t seen your apartment before,” she said. “I love your airframes, Hans. What kind of algae is it?”
“It’s lichen,” I said.
“They’re beautiful. One of your special kinds?”
“They’re all special,” I said. “Those have the Mark III and IV varieties for the terraforming project. The others have some delicate strains I was working on for contamination monitors. Lichen are very sensitive to pollution of any sort.” I turned up the air ionizer. The intestines of Mechanists seethed with bacteria, and their effects could be disastrous.
“Which one is the lichen of the Queen’s jewel?”
“It’s locked away,” I said. “Outside the environs of a jewel its growth becomes very distorted. And it smells.” I smiled uneasily. It was common talk among Shapers that Mechanists stank. It seemed to me that I could already smell the reek of her armpits.
Schismatrix Plus Page 41
