Denner's Wreck

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He turned and headed back for where he had left one of the machines awaiting orders.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I knew a woman once from another village, a village far from here, on the south coast where the eastern forests give way to sandy beaches, who claimed that she had once been a guest of Lord Hollingsworth of the Sea. As she told it, she had been playing on the beach as a girl, throwing sand out onto the drifting watersheets and watching as they first tried to eat it, then spat it back up in hundreds of little spurts that sent it bouncing around madly—apparently that was a popular game among the young people around there. As she played, though, something rose up from the sea, a great black shape that she could never describe clearly. She once said it looked something like an ear of corn the size of a house, or perhaps a giant fish, though of course there are no true fish in salt water.

  "At any rate, a man came out of this thing and spoke to her, and told her not to fling sand on the watersheets, because it could kill them. They were delicate, this man told her, and trying to eat the sand could give them the equivalent of a very bad stomach-ache, one so bad that it could kill the weaker ones.

  "She thought this worrying about watersheets was absurd, and said so, despite her fear and wonder at this person's strange appearance and even stranger mode of travel, which she took for an odd sort of boat. The man retorted that she knew nothing of the sea or its creatures.

  "She admitted that she knew very little, and after some further discussion she found that she had agreed to visit with the man in his home beneath the sea.

  "The man was Lord Hollingsworth, of course, and his home the sunken palace Atlantis, deep beneath the ocean. They rode there together in the boat, or fish, or whatever it was, and he showed her many of the sea's creatures, weird and frightening things of every size and shape.

  "You know, a watersheet is so thin that if you get the right angle, you can put your hand right through it and not even notice. It's so thin that it tears apart into practically nothing if you pick it up, so thin that you can only see it by the way it changes the texture of the water's surface—but it's so strong, in some ways, that it can live through the worst storms, storms that will smash a boat or a house to splinters. Well, this woman said that there were creatures in the sea that made watersheets seem as normal as rabbits. There were things that changed color and shape, things that swam by spitting out pieces of their own flesh, things that glowed in the dark, things with flesh she could see through, so that she could watch their blue-green blood flowing. There were worms kilometers long, things like fish with heads at both ends—oh, she could go on for hours describing the monstrosities Lord Hollingsworth showed her.

  "But what she really remembered was the Power's own comments on these creatures. ‘You know,’ she said he said, ‘I never get tired of watching these. They're stranger than anything I could ever make.'

  "And of course, I'm sure that you'll be struck with the same thing that struck her, and that struck me when I heard that—if he didn't make all the creatures in the sea, who did?"

  —from a conversation with

  Atheron the Storyteller

  * * * *

  In all the old stories, the tales of the ancient times when death was a common thing, the heroes always faced certain doom bravely, daring their foes to step forth and do battle, loudly proclaiming their faith in whatever noble cause they served, right to the last.

  Geste wondered how, in all the hells of every dead religion that had ever been preached, anyone could ever believe such tripe. He was facing death now, he knew, and he was too terrified to stand, let alone laugh in its face. He fell back in his chair, teeth chattering, his entire body shaking with fear, forcing his eyes to stay open in the forlorn hope that he might see and fend off at least one or two attacks, extending his existence for a few precious seconds.

  All he saw was his own face, mockingly reflected in the stasis field.

  Thaddeus's laughter surrounded him, roaring laughter that did not sound sane to him.

  “You thought you had me, didn't you, Trickster?” Thaddeus shouted. “You thought that you had me in stasis forever, out of your way, so you could go on playing God with these pitiful primitives, go on playing your stupid games with the women! Well, Trickster, it looks like I'm the one with the last laugh, the one with the best trick!"

  Geste could not have answered had he wanted to. He had lived his entire life, centuries now, with the conviction that he would live on until he grew tired of it—and the happy suspicion that he would never grow tired of it. Death was for other, lesser beings, never for A.T. Geste of Achernar IV.

  Now he knew, with absolute certainty, that Thaddeus was going to kill him, and the thought of death, of ending, of nonexistence, tumbled down on him like an endless avalanche. He waited, trembling, for oblivion.

  It wasn't fair, something screamed in the back of his mind. Sure, mortals died all the time, but they knew they were going to die, they were told from early childhood that they would someday die, and no one had ever told him that, no one had prepared him. He had been promised eternal life, and he was being cheated out of it because he had been stupid enough to stand up for what was right, instead of cowering like the rest.

  “How did you hide that thing, anyway?” Thaddeus asked. “I didn't see, either through my puppet or on the recordings. It's a good trick, Geste—not good enough, of course, but a good trick. How did you do it?"

  Like the swift and sudden dawn of Denner's Wreck, the realization burst in Geste's mind that Thaddeus was not going to kill him immediately. He wanted something, first. Fear washed away. It was if he had been trapped inside a mounting wave that had broken upon the seashore—not the little waves of this tideless, moonless planet, or anything from the tamed and broken oceans of Terra, but the great pounding surf of Achernar IV. He was still afloat, drifting against his will, but he was no longer blind and drowning. He was able to think again.

  “I'll tell you how I survived, if you like,” Thaddeus said, as if making casual conversation. “It wasn't hard. What you have in the bubble there is an old-fashioned clone. I made him about sixty, seventy years ago now, did a little surgery when he was about a year old, destroyed his personality, juiced up his growth hormones to bring him up close to my own size, and then grew a receiver into the brain, so that I could use that body myself. I've got a little switch here, so that, up until a few minutes ago, I could use whichever body I fancied at any given time. I did some adjustments, so we'd be as indistinguishable as possible—sped up his growth, as I said, and carved some scars, that sort of thing. A neat job, wasn't it?"

  Geste managed to nod. His reflected face bobbed up and down on the stasis field, distorting as it slid across the magnifying curve of the sphere.

  “I figured it might be useful to have a back-up of myself."

  Geste fought to control his trembling; it lessened, but did not stop.

  “That's about the smallest stasis generator I've ever seen, Geste; did you build it yourself?"

  Geste twisted his head to one side, then back.

  “No? Aulden?"

  Another twist and return.

  “No? Well, it doesn't matter. Is it collapsible? Is that it? I don't really see how it could be, though."

  Thaddeus paused, but Geste did not respond.

  “You know, with that clone of mine, I had the switching mechanism set so that if the signal ever got interrupted, I'd be in control of my own body again, so here I am. A little safety measure. Has it occurred to you just what you would have done to me, if I hadn't done that?” Thaddeus's voice, which had been bantering and conversational, took on an edge.

  Geste shuddered once more, then managed to still himself.

  “I don't think you've thought about that, Geste. You see, I am always in my own body, the essential self; I've never trusted technological transmigration. If I'm in another body, I don't know it's still me. Sure, lots of people have transferred into other bodies, or machines—it's been goi
ng on for millenia—but how do you know that they didn't just die, that the mind in the new body isn't a simulation that thinks it's the same person? I'm sure you've heard the philosophical debates about this, haven't you?"

  Geste nodded.

  “I was sure you had. So you see, I keep my consciousness, my personality, my soul, in my own head, this same one I was born with seven thousand years ago. When I used that other body, it was all remote control, using a little transceiver arrangement at the base of the brain. When you put that body into stasis, you cut off all the input and output through that transceiver. You cut off my brain, Geste. I wasn't in the stasis field, not the real me, so I stayed conscious the whole time, but I was cut off from my own body, because I can't run both at the same time. And I couldn't switch back, Geste—the control is worked from whichever body I'm controlling at the time. We're talking about total sensory deprivation. I had a very bad second or two, wondering if the emergency switch would work—I had designed it for when the clone was killed, not enfielded. I suppose you thought you were being merciful, using a stasis field instead of a blaster, but what if I hadn't had my little switch, Geste? You wouldn't even have known what you'd done to me! I'd have starved, rotted, conscious the whole time!” His voice rose to a cracking screech.

  Geste, his mind still slowly emerging from panic, saw the error in this; Thaddeus would not have stayed conscious once his body deteriorated below a certain level, and in a state of total sensory deprivation he would have felt no pain, had no sensation of the passing of time.

  Still, it would have been a gruesome fate indeed, and Geste, shaken and terrified as he was, decided not to quibble.

  “Now, how did you get that stasis generator in here?” Thaddeus demanded.

  The thought of actually answering Thaddeus truthfully occurred to him, but he suppressed it. Right now, he was sure, only the fact that he had information Thaddeus wanted was keeping him alive. Besides, he was sure that his voice would tremble—if he could speak at all. He remained silent.

  “Damn it, punk, do you want me to have to dissect you to find out?"

  Geste shuddered again, even while a part of his mind wondered what would happen if an autopsy knife cut into the mouth of the bent-space pocket. Would it pop back out into normal space, its integrity disrupted? What would it do to his head if that happened?

  His gorge rose in his throat.

  No, he desperately told himself, the knife couldn't cut the pocket, he was sure. It was far more likely that the blade would break.

  “I'm sending some machines, Geste—we'll see if they can't convince you to be a little more forthcoming with your information."

  Geste sat, watching the triangular black floater bumping helplessly against its own reflection on the stasis field, never spilling a drop of whatever beverage it held.

  The machines Thaddeus sent would not be as ineffective, he was sure. He lifted the stasis generator, thinking hard.

  Thaddeus spoke again, but this time his voice was cut off in mid-word.

  “What the hel...” he began.

  Geste looked up, suddenly hopeful.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Lady Tsien lives in the treetops of the southern jungles, where she leads a horde of strange manlike creatures. Travelers there report that these creatures shout taunts at them as they pass by below, whooping with laughter and calling insults. Some claim that these were once true men and women, but that Lady Tsien ensorcelled them; others say that that's nonsense, for there are certainly men and women who have met Lady Tsien and come away unscathed, and no one can name anyone who turned up missing after seeking her out..."

  —from the tales of

  Atheron the Storyteller

  * * * *

  The machine was not meant for riding on, but Bredon managed to cling to it. He sat precariously atop its central box, his feet on two of the forward appendages, his hands clutching the edge. “Go to the war room,” he ordered. “Ka nama kaa lajerama!"

  Giving the password again was probably unnecessary, he knew, but it reassured him.

  The machine started forward smoothly, and Bredon held on tightly, ready to jump aside, out of danger, if it threw him off.

  His caution was unnecessary. This mount did not make the abrupt starts, stops, and jerks of an unbroken horse. It made no attempt to dislodge him at all, but glided swiftly to its destination, doors sliding out of its way as it approached. It did not need to give any audible commands; it belonged here, and the doors recognized that. Unlike Bredon, the machine was a part of Fortress Holding. Other machines let it pass unchallenged, and paid no attention to its passenger.

  Five minutes after Bredon ordered it to the war room, his motorized mount stopped dead in a tiny corridor. This cramped little passage ended in a door that did not open unasked as the machine approached.

  This, Bredon guessed, was the final door. The war room would be just beyond it.

  Thaddeus might well be there, too.

  “Ka nama kaa lajerama!” Bredon shouted. “Get into the war room, as fast as you can! Cut your way in if you have to!” It occurred to him that even if the machine couldn't open the door, maybe a human could, and he yelled, “Emergency override! Human in danger!"

  Then he dove off his perch and landed rolling.

  The door slid open, while Bredon's erstwhile transport sped forward so quickly that it struck the receding edge of the door a glancing blow on its way into the war room.

  Moving as swiftly and silently as he could, Bredon got into a tense crouch at the corner of the doorframe, ready to spring into the room beyond or to flee, whichever might seem advisable. Then he leaned forward and peered around.

  “What the hell?” Thaddeus's voice said. “What do you think you're doing here, you stupid machine?"

  Bredon could not see Thaddeus. Leaning as far forward as he dared, he could still see only part of the chamber beyond the door.

  The war room was huge, and every inch of it seemed to be lined with machinery. Bredon had never seen anything like it.

  In Arcade and aboard the Skyland all the machinery was hidden away, to be maintained and operated by the artificial intelligences designed for that purpose. Systems generally functioned in response to spoken orders, and needed no switches or levers. Communications equipment projected images or voices from tiny, hidden openings, when necessary, but more often projected them directly through solid walls or created them entirely through invisible fields requiring no openings at all.

  Thaddeus apparently did not trust such indirect methods. His war room was jammed with archaic screens, projectors, dials, gauges, switches, buttons, and so forth. Lights flickered and blinked in a rainbow of colors; the machinery itself was mostly steel gray.

  The bristling arrays of gadgetry seemed threatening and evil to Bredon, like the flensed bones of tortured intelligences. He knew that that was foolish, that silicon life needed no skin to protect it, that Thaddeus had not tortured his machines, that the missing outer layer had never been there to be removed, but the image stayed with him.

  The machine he had ridden stood in the center of the room, gleaming and motionless. A small scanner atop one appendage was pointed to Bredon's left; that, combined with the direction of the voice, convinced him that Thaddeus was in the left-hand corner of the vast room.

  “Awaiting orders,” the machine said.

  “Aren't you supposed to be somewhere? Wait, I know you; you're a patrol and repair robot, aren't you?"

  “Affirmative."

  “Well, what are you doing here? I didn't call you. Did you get a signal from something in here?"

  Bredon knew that in a few seconds Thaddeus would find out what was going on. If he were to make any use of the element of surprise, he needed to do it quickly.

  “Negative,” the machine said.

  Bredon dove through the door, rolled, and leapt to his feet in the center of the room. Before he was fully upright he shouted, “Ka nama kaa lajerama, ka nama kaa lajerama! Abort all pr
ogramming! Abort, abort, abort!"

  The effect was all he could have asked for. All around him, the hundreds of screens and image areas reacted. Most of them abruptly went blank; others flickered or shifted. Machines beeped and whistled from every side; dials dropped to zero. Lights flashed, blinked on, blinked off, changed color, and a baleful red suddenly predominated.

  Thaddeus was there, inhumanly huge, wearing flowing black robes. He had looked up from the patrol machine in astonishment at Bredon's sudden entrance, but before he could do anything about this intrusion he was distracted by the beeping. He spun, amazingly fast for so immense a man, and saw the blank screens and red lights.

  His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “What did you do?” he screamed. “What did you do?"

  Screens showed “ready” messages, red lights blinked. Horrified, Thaddeus turned slowly in a full circle, looking at his machines, mouth open. “No!” he shouted. “Stop it! Defend me! I programmed you all—you can't obey him!"

  Bredon, flushed with his sudden victory, took advantage of this opportunity and jumped at the huge immortal, intending to knock him down and beat his head against the metal floor.

  Thaddeus, completing his turn, saw the attack coming. With the speed his rebuilt nerves and muscles provided, he was able to react before Bredon landed. The immortal's arms were up and braced, fending the primitive off.

  Bredon responded as he had been trained; his father had taught him from an early age that he must never let the prey escape. As Thaddeus tried to fling him away he grabbed the Terran's wrist and clamped down.

  Thaddeus tried to pull free, and discovered he could not. When he pulled back his arm, Bredon came with it. He saw that to pry the primitive loose with his other hand he would have to bring his face and body too close for safety, that it would give Bredon an opening.

  Bredon bared his teeth in a snarl, and Thaddeus decided against getting any closer than necessary.

  “You, robot!” Thaddeus called. “Get this thing off me!” He held out his arm with Bredon dangling from it like a sloth in a tree.