Asimov's SF, April-May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Why?” Francis asked.

  “That is an excellent question. I wish I knew the answer. It might turn out to be a good thing—or it might not.”

  Francis tried to take some crumb of comfort from the mere possibility that it might be a good thing, although he was uncomfortably aware that he did not seem to have enjoyed overmuch good fortune since he had accepted the golem's invitation to step out of his familiar life into an adventure beyond the bounds of Earth. “What is a Shadow, exactly?” he asked, and was unable to resist a petulant impulse to add: “Or is that, too, beyond the limits of Ethereal wisdom?”

  “I cannot be absolutely certain,” Lumen replied, evenly, “but it must be some kind of being that exists in more dimensions than the four of which your senses are aware, probably in more dimensions than the nine of which I am normally aware. The universe is far more massive than is accountable in terms of the matter visible and tangible to human and fleshcore senses, and far more energetic than is accountable in terms of Ethereal perceptions. Much of its constituency is hidden, and much of the force that sustains its structure and motion originates in that hidden sector—which is, we presume, the realm of God. Ethereals have long considered themselves intermediaries between God's realm and the material cosmos, by virtue of our extensions into other dimensions, but that is largely vanity—a delusion of the ancients, which nascents like myself and Aristocles do not share. The ancients have long been aware of other such extradimensional entities, but have grown used to considering them legendary. Plainly, they are not. If what we saw on the surface of that devastated world can be trusted, they are emerging by the thousand from the energetic flux of the Pit's accretion disk—but what their objective is, I have no idea. Nor, I presume, on the basis of what we have just learned, have the Fleshcores.”

  Francis was tempted to remark, bitterly, that the Ethereal seemed to have learned more than he had, and had taken some care to ensure that margin of advantage, but he knew that recriminations were futile. “Have they come to save the True Civilization, do you think,” he asked his former passenger, “or to destroy it?”

  “The Fleshcores will prefer the former hypothesis,” Lumen told him, “but they are no more privy to the Divine Plan than we are. The ancients have been anticipating a gross transubstantiation for some time. Aristocles trusts their means of divination, but I am skeptical. Their claim to have lived through previous transubstantiations, undergoing radical metamorphosis while retaining their fundamental intelligence, is dubious in the extreme. Memory is transient and sometimes fickle, especially when extended over billions of Earthly years.”

  Francis was certain that his actual body, wherever it might be, could not move a muscle, but he commanded his delusional form to kneel down, by way of experiment—and it did. He took up a handful of sand, and let it trickle through his fingers. The sand was very fine, almost fluid, and it seemed slightly effervescent to the touch.

  “How old are you?” he asked, when he looked up again at the false angel.

  “Less than a million Earthly years,” Lumen told him.

  “Have you been interested in humankind as long as the Fleshcores that dispatched Low's golem?” Francis asked.

  “No,” Lumen replied. “Aristocles was the first to take an interest, but even that interest hardly dates back further than the advent of human history. It was not until I joined in that its dabbling became a game, and that was no more than five thousand years ago.”

  “A game,” Francis repeated. “All this is a game to you?”

  “Not any more,” Lumen told him. “It ceased to be a game when John Dee's ether-ship set off a chain-reaction of responses, which appears to have brought us to this. The Fleshcore was wrong to deduce that Aristocles and I have deliberately precipitated this crisis. To the extent that we played a catalytic role, our intentions were neither malevolent nor mischievous. In any case, attributing blame will not help. The point is to discover why we have been brought here.”

  Francis looked up again, then, and saw the sphinx.

  It had materialized out of nowhere, as if in response to Lumen's assertion. He had seen stone models of sphinxes, and had read their mythology, so it did not seem unfamiliar or menacing, in spite of its intimidating size. He felt quite confident in meeting its gaze, even though it must have measured fifty feet from nose to tail, and stood twelve feet high on all fours. Its face was handsome, more masculine than he had expected, although it had no beard.

  “Do you have a riddle for me?” he asked.

  “I do,” said the sphinx, in a voice that seemed very soft, considering the size of the beast. “It is man.”

  Francis was not unduly surprised, although he had, inevitably, hoped that “man” might be the answer rather than the riddle. “In that case,” he replied, trying to seem casual as well as confident, “I have one for you; it is God.”

  “He is a riddle to us all, alas,” the creature said, with an oddly wistful smile. “Even in the narrow confines of your own tiny world, you must understand that He made many worlds rather than one, of many different sorts, with many different populations.”

  “The plurality of worlds is the prevalent opinion now,” Francis admitted, “but the horizons of our imagination were narrower not so very long ago. Nowadays, we accept that if God's creativity is as infinite as He is, he must have made an infinite number of worlds, filling the entire plenum of space, and that he might well have made creatures of every imaginable sort to occupy their surfaces and interstices.”

  “We do not limit Him to imaginable sorts,” the sphinx told Francis. “You certainly should not, given that your native imagination is limited to so few dimensions, and so feeble even with respect to the dimensions you perceive. You are familiar, I suppose, with the assembly of species that calls itself the True Civilization?”

  “I had just made its acquaintance for the first time when I received your invitation,” Francis said, sarcastically. “I might have got to know it a little better had your summons not been so peremptory. I do know, though, that Thomas Digges once made a treaty with that civilization's Fleshcore rulers on behalf of humankind, which specified that humankind should be let alone. Alas, that treaty seems to have become worthless now.”

  “I know that,” the sphinx told him. “That is why time is pressing. Whether God feels that pressure, we do not know, but we certainly feel it when events move uncomfortably swiftly. We are late upon the scene, and we regret that. We are not used to making haste. What I would like to know, Man, is what you think of the goal of the True Civilization: its manner of worship.”

  Francis was tempted to ask why the Shadow needed to know, but he too felt the pressure of time, and felt that he ought not to procrastinate even to the extent of demanding a clearer notion of exactly what he was being asked. The vision that the fleshcore had vouchsafed him was still fresh in his mind, ready to supply an answer. “At first,” he said, “I liked the idea of all creatures living within the scope of a vast harmony, with each species evolving slowly toward what Digges and the Fleshcore both call symbiosis. Digges liked it too, while he was still convinced that his adventure had been a dream. Now I tend to agree with Francis Drake that the cost of that sort of harmony is too high a price to pay. Drake is not a bellicose man by any means, for all his skill in fighting, but he is a man who values his freedom. In his opinion, the kind of harmony represented by the insects he encountered in the Moon might be just about bearable, but only because it still retains the possibility of disagreement, competition, and conflict. An end to all predation inevitably seems an attractive goal to prey species, but even vegetables compete for light, water, and the space to grow. Without that competition, there would be no trees, no flowers, and no grasses. Change requires turmoil, and creativity requires change. John Dee, when he had properly absorbed the lessons that Digges and Drake brought back from the moon, declared that the finest of all God's creations is what Tom and the Fleshcore both call evolution: the capacity for creativity delegated to
organisms themselves, to individuals and populations: the freedom to make themselves more than they presently are. Do you know what I mean by the parable of the talents, as found in our Earthly gospel?”

  “Yes,” said the sphinx, “I do.”

  “Then that is my answer to the riddle of man: his worth is to be measured not by what he has so far received, but what he might yet make of his potential. That is why we need to resist the invasion of insects that intends to adapt us to life in their version of the True Civilization, and also why we should be wary of the temptations of the Arachnids, even though we need to develop our own alchemy of the flesh. It is also, I think, why we ought to be wary of the generosity of the Fleshcores, who are bound to see us as potential recruits to their own kind of symbiosis. I do not know, as yet, what the cost might be of accepting help from the Ethereals, and I am certainly grateful for the help we have received thus far—but I agree with all those who are intent on reminding me that they are not angels, and have their own interests at heart. I would say the same of Shadows, even though I realize that Lumen and I have no way home, and no prospect of continuing any kind of life at all, if you will not help us now.”

  “The cost of evolution,” the sphinx reminded him, “is that individuals must die, that species must die, that worlds must die ... and that entire universes must die.”

  “I do see that,” Francis assured the creature. “Without death, the tendency toward stasis is irresistible. That fact is reflected in the different attitude of the Fleshcores and their insect associates, and the differences Lumen has sketched out between the ancients and the nascents of his own kind. It is certainly evident in humans, short-lived as we are, and I would hazard a guess that Shadows are not immune to it. I know that we talking now about more than the deaths of a few individuals, but I am still uncertain as to whether what is actually at stake is the death of a planet, the death of a galactic civilization, or the death of an entire universe?”

  “Opinions differ,” the sphinx told him, “but nothing can be ruled out. The conflict within the True Civilization, catalyzed by the quarrels instituted by its first confrontation with natural endoskeletal intelligence, might be a factor in the impending transubstantiation; there are some who believe it.”

  “What is involved in a transubstantiation?” Francis asked, adding, by way of explanation for his need to ask: “We use the word in a rather narrow sense, albeit an important one for those who believe in it.”

  “Material universes come and go,” the sphinx told him. “Not randomly, to be sure—far from randomly, if those who claim to survive transubstantiations can be trusted—but rather more frequently than observers sometimes suspect. You have no idea how fragile a material universe is, within the greater scheme of things, nor how easily it might be transformed by the whim of God.”

  “The whim?” Francis queried. “You see God as a whimsical being, then?”

  “Creativity unlimited,” the sphinx informed him, “implies a certain artistic temperament—but we do not know the mind of God any better than you do. We, too, act for our own purposes ... and on our own whims.”

  “And what do you intend to do with us,” Francis asked, “when we have slaked the thirst of your whimsical curiosity?”

  “This,” said the Shadow, reverting to its true, quite unimaginable self.

  * * * *

  10

  Francis did not know what to expect when he unfolded on to the orbital platform, but he was not surprised to find it occupied by giant insects—human-sized insects, that is—whose appearance put him in mind of the kind of larva that Englishmen called a Devil's coach-horse. He still felt rather unsteady after enduring the process of being put back together again—which had, for various reasons, been even more disconcerting than the process of being torn apart—and had only the vaguest idea of what he might expect of himself, but his hastily conceived plan required him not to put up any resistance at this point. He allowed himself to be seized by the Devil's coach-horses and held.

  The Selenites waited for a few minutes to discover whether anyone else would follow Francis, but soon decided that he must be alone. They made no attempt to remove his helmet or to interrogate him at the orbital station, but simply returned him to the focal point of the hyperetheric transmitter and dispatched him to the surface of the moon. There he was received by another party of insects, less heavily armed and armored and more reminiscent in appearance of worker ants. The ant-like Selenites wasted no time before taking him below the surface. Although Francis looked swiftly around before being swallowed up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Selenite Armada, or some fraction of it, he saw nothing but a bleak monochrome plain, pitted and strewn with dust.

  He was not taken far into the interior. Nor did he have to wait long, seated on a stone ledge in a sealed room, attended by two guards, before an interrogator was summoned. The interrogator was more reminiscent of a damsel-fly than an ant, largely by virtue of its glossy blue coloring. It had a head that was somewhat less intimidating than the heads of the ant-like Selenites, let alone the fearsomely jawed heads of the Devil's coach-horses, because it had little in the way of palps and mandibles, but it had the same large compound eyes. Its mouth, carefully equipped with lips capable of sounding the plosives of human languages, but devoid of mammalian teeth, seemed very strange indeed.

  The interrogator put its head close to Francis’ helmet in order to tell him, in English, that he might remove it. He did so, meekly. The air in the sublunar chamber was odorous, but not particularly rank. Francis breathed it in gratefully enough.

  “Three went through,” the interrogator said, unceremoniously. “One is dead. Where is the third?” The second sentence of the three told Francis that the Selenites must have sent an expeditionary force to the world with the ruined surface, which had found Judah Low's body, but that the investigators had not lingered long, presumably—and rightly—fearful of capture by their unrebellious kin.

  “Safe, I hope,” Francis replied. “The world's fleshcore is uninjured. The True Civilization has been interrupted, but it will be restored. It will be transfigured, but not in the way that you might hope or imagine. You must not launch the Armada. Let Earth alone, and a diplomatic settlement might yet be reached.”

  “Is that the message you brought from the Great Fleshcores?” the interrogator asked.

  “That was the message that I was sent back to deliver,” Francis countered, evasively.

  The interrogator seemed to be satisfied. The return of a single human must seem to the Selenites to be a feeble diplomatic overture, expressive of no great insistence. The Selenites were evidently working on the assumption that a fait accompli would eventually be acceptable to the Great Fleshcores, at least to the extent that the Fleshcores would let the lunar rebels pursue their own Reformist objectives with respect to humankind. The Selenites were counting on widespread support among other insects, at least, assuming that the involvement of the Arachnids would guarantee that.

  “Are my friends alive?” Francis asked.

  “The humans who attempted to defend the orbital transmitter against our assault suffered several casualties,” the interrogator told him, “but only one has died; the other true humans have been given appropriate medical treatment and segregated from the Arachnid hybrids and the fleshcore probe. You will be imprisoned with the other humans, but you will not be harmed. When the battle is won, you will be returned to the surface of your planet. Our intention has always been to preserve and protect your species, and to prepare it for proper incorporation into the True Civilization. When we have destroyed the Arachnids and the rogue machines, there will be no further need for violence.”

  Francis did not believe that the interrogator meant what it said; it had to know that the war would go on for centuries, if not for millennia, even if the Arachnids and the freethinking machines could be removed from the immediate battlefield—which seemed unlikely.

  “You must not launch the Armada,” Francis repeated—bu
t the warning was half-hearted, and he did not attempt to back it up with threats. He had already made his own plans. He could have wished for more time to accustom himself to his borrowed form and the abilities that went with it, but while he was manifest in his familiar and fundamental guise, he was confined by its limitations. So was Lumen, of whose presence within him the Selenite interrogator seemed unsuspecting—or perhaps uncaring.

  “The Armada is already half way to Earth,” the interrogator told him, with what might have been a trace of smug satisfaction. It hesitated, seemingly searching for a mot juste. Eventually, it added: “The die is cast.” It had obviously learned the English language from an educated source, and was enthusiastic to show off its skill, even though it had no idea that it was talking to the cleverest Englishman of all.

  The interrogation, Francis knew, had been a tokenistic gesture. The Selenites did not believe that there was anything more they needed to know. They had expected him to be sent back to say exactly what he had said, if he were ever sent back at all. The worker ants took him away again, hurrying him through dimly lit corridors. He was content to be hurried; time was running out. When he made his move, he would have to be exceedingly swift.

  There were three men in the cell to which Francis was committed, two of them abed. The one who was still standing, apparently quite well, was Anthony. The other two were Kit Marlowe and Edward de Vere; they had obviously been hurt, but whatever medical treatment the Selenites had administered was taking effect; they both contrived to sit up when the newcomer arrived, and both seemed heartily glad to see him alive and quite well.

  Anthony's greeting was understandably effusive, but Francis had to cut him short. “What became of Faust?” he demanded.

  Anthony was startled by the question, but de Vere replied from his sickbed. “Died a hero,” he said. “But for him and Raleigh, we'd never have got the three of you away. Raleigh's alive, and the golem too, but the insects took them away. What news of Low and the girl?”