Greenlaw interrupted. “That was the route by which the Urblastema attacked, wasn’t it?”
Bambang appeared embarrassed. “Yes indeed, Peej. Apparently, after the defeat of the Urb at Chiplex, a small remnant portion escaped deep underground. Unknown to us, it had developed means of encysting itself against a magma environment. Our mopup survey unfortunately stopped at Region D Prime of the lower mantle. Consequently, the Urb was able to utilize magma veins as a means of travel, surfacing well away from anywhere we expected it to appear.”
“And what of contamination of the lithosphere in general?”
“Models are still being grown in many simorg spheres, of course. But the best guess is that no widespread infection of the crust yet exists. The Urb-seed was small and weak and seemed to spend very few cycles doubling itself. Thank the First for the limits of one over e-squared! For some reason, it appeared intent on breaking through to the surface as soon as possible. A desire to deal with us unpredictable lifeforms first? Perhaps underground conditions were not optimal? …”
Despite himself, Greenlaw found his curiosity piqued. “That just doesn’t make sense. It could have remained hidden safely for years, building itself up into an unconquerable mass. Converting the globe from the inside out, it could have taken us completely by surprise. Instead, it tipped its hand by a premature assault. Frankly, I’m baffled.”
“Perhaps luck was simply on our side.”
Greenlaw smiled wryly. “Another superstition I find hard to credit.”
Bambang erected a cold facade employed usually only with noncommensals, becoming completely professional. As if to indicate that Greenlaw’s options were limited, he said, “Shall we tour the defenses then?”
“I think not. I have other plans.”
“May I hear them?”
“Certainly. They are contained in a single sentence.”
“Which is?”
“I’m going in.”
Bambang’s eyes widened to their utmost. Five whole seconds passed by Greenlaw’s onboard clock before the Indoasian found it possible to speak.
“Madness! Even if you’re intent on committing melancholy suicide, is it also necessary to contribute your corpse and talents to the Urb?”
“Spare me the melodramatics, please. I have no intention of dying. I will be using a new falseskin wholebody sheath which is immune to infection. Or so the crada assures me.”
Bambang considered. “Even so, is it proper for one of our senior operatives to risk his life in a field trial?”
“I have an additional goal, the personal matter to which I referred. I intend to bring back a piece of my mate.”
Bambang understood at once. “She had no offsite storage of splinters or shards then? She was never godelized or fredkinated? Not even a snippet? I see. Too bad.”
Greenlaw nodded. He had tried many times to convince Stroma to allow herself to be neurally mapped, but she had always refused, laughingly regarding such measures as paranoid and unnecessary.
Bambang continued. “So nothing of her mental patternings remains outside the clutches of the Urb. And you wish to replicate her. But ypu know we cannot allow you to bring an Urb-seed out. The danger is too great.”
“It will be contained within an onboard vesicle of the same impermeable material. Completely safe. And Procept approves. They would like a captive piece of the Urb to experiment on.”
“Allow me to confirm all this, Peej.”
“Permission granted.”
Bambang went unfocused. When he returned, his dour expression was overlaid with respect and awe.
“May I personally escort you to the borders of the zone, Peej?”
“It would be my pleasure, Haj.”
Grateful for the sheer essential humanity of his commensal, Greenlaw impulsively stuck out one of his long-fingered hands for an old-fashioned shake.
As Bambang gripped Greenlaw’s proffered hand, a wave of disorientation and deja vu swept over Greenlaw. For lengthy seconds, Greenlaw felt as if he were reiterating a scene he had lived through a hundred times before. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, the world whirl, and, startled, he broke contact.
“Are you well?” Bambang asked, plainly concerned.
Greenlaw felt onboard compensators swing into action. Primary reality stabilized.
“I’ve been existing on microsleep for a week,” Greenlaw explained. “But I can go another few hours.”
Bambang threw a sign acknowledging Supremacy of Somatopsychic Autonomy.
The two men, accompanied by Greenlaw’s single kibe and Bambang’s whole devoted flock, began to walk toward a line of what appeared, at this distance, to be a range of white hillocks, curiously wavering.
The men passed a squad of Sinochem Assault Beetles and DarMol Scout Giraffes. A crew from Bechtel-Kanematsu-Gosho was supervising kibes who were laying lines of buckytubes that would carry circulating superhot plasma: its release would be a last-ditch suicide defense.
As the group drew closer, the hillocks grew larger and larger, resolving themselves into separate entities. Finally they towered over the humans, more like living mountains, mobile indeed.
Twenty meters tall, bloated, white as paste, each topped by a normal-sized human rider who appeared dwarfed, the shuggoths shluffed noisily along in their continuous patrol, flattened ellipsoids massing as much as two basal blue whales apiece, separated from each other by only a quarter body-length. A damp-soil odor typical of mycotronic creatures filled the air.
From time to time feelers and pseudopods erupted from the shuggoths’ upper surfaces at random, to sample the environment.
“An impressive sight,” commented Greenlaw. “Although how the Urblastema regards them is a matter we might speculate on.”
Bambang bristled. “Your remark smells of defeatism, Peej—if I may be frank. I understand your distress, but we have a duty to crada and humanity to maintain our professionalism. The Urb, after all, is not invulnerable. As you well know, it relies on speed and bulk in its attack. If we can overwhelm it on either of those two fronts, then we stand a chance. Even as we speak, vast quantities of the new petahertz dizdeks are flowing down the feeder lines to the reservoirs of the splash-cannons you can see here. Soon, we will repel this incursion, as we have all others.”
“Leaving behind an ocean of disassembled, deconstructed slop. Plenty of raw feedstock. But not what was once here. Not what the Urb consumed. The people and trees and homes. Never that.”
“I’m sorry, Peej. But we will rebuild. And repopulate. If that is any consolation to you.”
Greenlaw sighed. “I suppose it will have to be. But enough talk. I wish to enter the zone now. Kibe—the box, please.”
The obedient mechanism opened the lid of the medium- sized biopoly container it held.
Revealed was what appeared to be an undifferentiated mass of thick semiliquid like mercury, silvery and reflective.
“You mentioned speed as a defense, Haj Bambang. Here you see the ultimate in that line. This falseskin presents no stable molecular identity onto which the Urb can latch. Entirely chameleonic. It shifts through a thousand random cellular identities a second, its surface a kaleidoscope of antigens, while still maintaining its large- scale integrity. Unable to latch on long enough to unriddle the nature of its victim, the Urb is frustrated and cannot usurp and convert the material. Nor, obviously, what it protects.”
Greenlaw turned to the box and plunged his hands in.
The liquid ran up his arms like twin snakes swallowing.
In seconds, Greenlaw was sheathed completely in silver, his eyes and mouth reduced to mild depressions, his nose plugged, his ears capped.
The kibe closed the lid on the empty box.
Bambang eyed the argent, statue-like form of his senior commensal. Plainly, the Indoasian was running a search through some little-accessed data trees.
Bambang spoke. “Mid to late twentieth century. A medium called ‘comics’…”
Operating now
entirely on inner metabolic reserves, tapping sensory feeds that ranged from satellites to the analog-vision of the falseskin itself, Greenlaw smiled at Bambang’s expression, the falseskin flowing over his parted lips like a seamless membrane.
“Exactly. I need only what I believe the reedpair authors called ‘a stick’ to appear completely in character.” Greenlaw’s words resounded normally, transmitted by vibrations of the falseskin. “Now, can you afford to slow those creatures down just a bit?”
“Certainly. But only for seconds.”
A wave of deceleration propagated clockwise around the necklace of shuggoths, counter to their direction of travel.
Greenlaw tensed his leg muscles, the falseskin likewise responding, incrementing his normal abilities.
A gap opened in the line.
At enhanced speed, without a final goodbye, Greenlaw sprinted for the opening.
And was through.
The realm of humanity and its obedient creations was behind him.
Now, there was nothing but the Urb.
And, most horribly of all, it was a domain of utter normality.
Greenlaw found himself standing in an orchard of fabric trees, the line of shuggoths a full half-klick behind him.
The scene was the essence of peace. The broad black leaves of the fabric trees waved peacefully in the perpetual wind from outside. Long draperies of fabric hanging down from the underside of the secretory branch-nodes rustled gently, tartan and paisley. Judging from their length, they had apparently just been harvested, for they did not even touch the ground. A chorus of insect life reached his shielded ears. From the underbrush bolted a basal rabbit, followed by a sinuous baseline snake.
No aberrations.
Yet utterly false.
Suddenly, Greenlaw felt the ground immediately beneath his soles come alive. He did not move. Soon, the probing of the mock soil subsided.
He hadn’t realized he had been tensed against the attack until it ceased. Initiating a relaxant cascade within himself, Greenlaw moved toward the closest tree. Stopping next to it, he lashed out at its trunk with a kick.
“Urb! Wake up!”
Unnaturally, the curtains of fabric moved quickly to envelop him, tasting, seeking to analyze and convert. Again, he did not resist. After a few seconds they slowly, reluctantly withdrew.
A pair of bark lips formed on the trunk of the “tree.”
“What are you?” said the Urb in an innocuous tenor.
Greenlaw spoke with a bravado he barely felt. To be actually conversing with this monstrosity surpassed all rational thinking.
“Your doom, Urb. Your extinction.”
“You are small, alone, unsupported. No tiny system so isolated can be self-sufficient for long. Soon you will have to come out of your shell. Then I shall be you, and you me.”
The lips were subsumed back into the tree, and the conversation was clearly at an end.
The Urb did not sound concerned. Did it understand emotions, threats, and bluffs? What had it retained of the million human personalities and memories it had swallowed? How much had been integrated into the core of its being?
Greenlaw knew that the original biological codings of the converted inhabitants of his region —animal, var, human, plant, and virus—no longer existed as such. The original proteins and nucleotides and parabases had all been converted to crafty rogue silicrobes identical to those that had mutated and escaped a dreadful five years ago. The same applied to all the unlucky inorganics of the region, down to an unknown depth.
Isotropy reigned.
The ultimate monoculture.
The orchard, the grass, the rabbit, the snake, the very crust: all these were now composed of Urb-stuff masquerading as what it had consumed. The simulation was perfect and complete until examined on a molecular level. Had Greenlaw, for instance, chosen to break off a branch of his recent interlocutor, to his ears it would have snapped convincingly, to his normal vision it would have revealed typical grain and texture, oozed the requisite sap.
The Urb, as best they understood, was able to draw directly somehow on the ultradense original information stored in sheldrakean morphic fields for its disguise. The templates of all that it had engulfed were available to it for instant replication. A feat currently beyond human abilities.
Whether a captured piece of Urb-stuff would allow Greenlaw to retrieve from those selfsame fields the information patterns of his mate, Stroma, was not certain. He had only the tentative promises of his crada that such might be possible.
Some of the morphic specialists claimed that any portion of Urb-stuff within his reach here in the orchard would have sufficed for his purposes. Others felt that the stuff forming the simulacrum of his wife would naturally resonate most strongly with the patterns he sought. Greenlaw did not quite know whom to believe. Perhaps the wisest course would be to snatch and run now, attain the safety beyond the shuggoths.
But his protective sheath seemed to be working as promised.
Any knowledge he could collect might help the defenders.
And he did so want to see Stroma.
Even her ghost.
The Urb had been right about one thing, however. His time here was limited by his inner reserves.
Moving swiftly, Greenlaw soon left the orchard far behind.
A busy road presented itself. Traffic crawled, hopped and skittered, bound in one direction toward Greenlaw’s residence in a luxurious neighborhood of tree-towers and zomehomes on the outskirts of the plex.
False, all a sham, Greenlaw kept reminding himself. He felt the neo-emotion known as sehnsucht, a wave of longing for the unattainable, mixed with nostalgia and grief. Harshly, he damped the neomote signal down.
Stepping into traffic, Greenlaw halted a two-rider tumblebug.
The driver was a slim fellow wearing the tattoon of the telecosm maintenance crada.
“What’s your trouble, Peej? And why the envirosuit?”
Greenlaw played the Urb’s game. “I can’t explain now. May I have a ride?”
The cryptohuman formed of Urb-stuff hesitated realistically before agreeing. “Certainly. Hop aboard.”
Greenlaw climbed on the tumblebug, and, after allowing a cargo-crawler to pass on the left, its driver took off.
Greenlaw remained silent for the trip—which took less time than running would have and conserved his resources as well—and the driver seemed reluctant to initiate conversation.
Was the Urb toying with him? All it would take to defeat Greenlaw would be to immobilize him in any of a hundred different ways until he either suffocated or opened up. Was the Urb (whose motives no one had ever fathomed) so intent on its simulation that it could not react to Greenlaw’s unique presence?
There was no certainty. None.
Greenlaw settled back into his seat.
Finally, they arrived at his destination, the periphery of his residential district.
Greenlaw turned to the driver. “If I were to ram my fist into your chest right now and squeeze your heart to Urb-pulp, you’d die horribly, I’m sure, and quite convincingly. But what would you really feel?”
The Urb did not relax his role. The cryptohuman assumed a look of terror. “Get—get out! I’m sending a nine-eleven instantly!”
Greenlaw dismounted and walked away.
Down noontime-empty streets, past Urb-children playing on Urb-grass, Urb-augie-doggies watching over them …
One final turn brought him face to face with his home.
From the inside, the falseskin absorbed his tears.
Greenlaw entered.
Stroma lay on an organiform couch, her pelt lustrous, nothing concealed. Her languid arms reached up for him, her nipples curled convulsively.
“I was just wishing you were here,” she said, her voice a knife through Greenlaw’s ears.
He knew then he had to put an end to this dangerous game.
Taking one of Stroma’s offered hands, Greenlaw snapped off her left index finger.
&nbs
p; There was no shout of pain, no scream.
The Urb had chosen to shut down the pseudo-Stroma and manifest itself.
“Again, you’ve failed,” said the Urb through Stroma’s lips, her wounded hand “bleeding” profusely onto the couch.
Almost against his will, Greenlaw said, “How so, Urb? And what do you mean, ‘again’?”
“This is approximately the five-hundredth time we have run this sequence, and still you persist in hating me.”
Greenlaw laughed. “So, you do understand bluffing! A fine attempt, Urb. But now I’m leaving.”
Greenlaw turned to go.
“No. Stop.”
Greenlaw’s legs were no longer under his control. He found himself forced to turn, to face Stroma.
Her finger was restored. Greenlaw’s hand unclenched by itself, and the fragment he held dropped to the carpet, there to be absorbed.
His voice at least still seemed his own. “I—I don’t understand. How did you get past the falseskin? …”
Stroma syrinx-laughed in her familiar manner. “Silly! I am your suit.”
With her words, his silver falseskin melted off him and disappeared.
He stood unprotected against the Urb.
“And I’m you too,” added Stroma.
At that instant, he knew it was true.
Information had just flooded into him, explaining the ache of his vanished birthright at last.
Three centuries ago, the Urb had conquered all.
The mysteriously unfollowed winning strategy Greenlaw had outlined to Bambang had indeed been implemented. Lurking deep inside the globe, the Panplasmodemonium had built itself up until it had erupted unstoppably everywhere.
And now—
“And now,” said Stroma tenderly, “I try to understand everything I am. Gaia, whose still-living molten center I encyst, was incredibly information-deep and information-dense. To measure Her in your old-fashioned plectic units would require an exponent larger than the number of atoms in the universe. The only way for me to grasp Her has been to recapitulate Her whole history since Her formation, on an accelerated scale. The endgame, though, is particularly puzzling. This incident with your mate, for example—Very deep.”
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