Permanence

by Karl Schroeder

  "Visitors," said a voice in Michael's earphone. It seemed human, male, nondescript. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that this was probably the voice of an AI, not that of an autotroph.

  "Hello," continued the voice. "We are with you now."

  "Who are you?" asked Herat. "Who speaks? The autotrophs? Or their agent?"

  "I am the interface with God," said the voice.

  Herat sent Michael one of his patented long-suffering glances.

  "Why did you ask us to come here in person?" asked Herat. "We know we could have just transmitted you the text we wish you to translate."

  "Our outside interface is untrustworthy," said the voice.

  "Outside interface… you mean Arless and his people?"

  "Yes. This information is not for them."

  "Why not?" asked Herat.

  The AI did not answer.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Herat's investigations took them to Dis, Michael had come to believe he was an old hand when it came to aliens. True, he'd never met a live one, but for years he and the professor had rooted through the debris left by civilizations that had preceded humanity into space. So when he heard they were going to Dis, he was interested— but not apprehensive.

  On the morning of their arrival he and Herat had ridden an elevator up from the spin-section of the opulent research ship they had brought and Michael suited up in freefall. He had seen photos of Dis during the trip out, but these were muddy and dark and he really didn't know what to expect. As the airlock opened, he found himself staring at a landscape— complete with hills, forests, and buildings— floodlit by their ship and hanging perpendicular to him like a wall. Everything was magically clear, as if this were a model suspended a meter away. He resisted the urge to reach out; he knew what he was seeing was kilometers away.

  They jetted over and as they flew Michael began to feel a presentiment— an inkling that he should have prepared himself better for this place. The ruined landscape— large patches of which had drifted off into space leaving a mesh of girders behind— stretched off into darkness in every direction. He struggled to retain his impression that it was across from him, not down, but failed. In an instant he found himself descending, like some kind of hesitant angel, onto what appeared to be a frozen circle of Hell.

  After that experience he was more judicious in his preparations for encountering the alien. He thought he'd done pretty well at Jentry's Envy. But since he had not expected to meet autotrophs here at a human world, he had not prepared himself for coming out here. The autotroph compound was nothing like Dis; it was, if anything, too inhabited. But as they stood next to the buzzing cloud that was the autotroph's artificial intelligence, he found himself struggling to keep his attention focused on the matter at hand.

  The green people's AI was silent. They had shown it the Chicxulub writing and now it was querying the autotroph database. Apparently, there were several levels of connotation to Chicxulub writing. It wasn't simply a matter of surface meaning and implication; each word in effect punned off its neighbors and contained multiple allusions. Also, the primary physical metaphors of Chicxulub were inhuman: a metaphor using a galvanic proximity sense as its basis couldn't be simply converted into a visual or tactile equivalent. The AI might be laboriously changing its own mind into something like a Chicxulub/human hybrid. For a few minutes, it would become alien not only to Michael and Herat, but to its own creators.

  Michael's attention kept drifting away from it to the chaos all around them. He had no doubt this was the equivalent of a bustling human town and he supposed such a place would look just as incomprehensible to the autotrophs. But he couldn't even tell which things were the aliens and which were machines or helper species.

  There were things like big birds here. They circled up near the intense lights, above the flower. Were those the autotrophs? He'd noticed hundreds of odd oval pods, which hung from the inside folds of the red material. Most were still, but one or two thrashed like flies caught in a spider's web. The motion was unsettling; though he knew the autotrophs did not devour one another, or indeed anything living, he had to look away from those twitching bodies.

  One of the tripod things wheeled by. It was really just four legs joined at a central pod; each leg was as loose as a tentacle and it tended to roll along on three while holding the fourth up like an attentive head. The tripod that passed stood a good three meters high. It didn't turn its leg/head as it went by and Michael didn't turn to watch it go; he knew it was still moving away because the catwalk bounced slightly with its movements.

  "I have several translations," said the AI abruptly. Michael looked at the Herat, who grinned.

  "Are they all true, or is one better than the others?" Herat asked the cloud. To one side, their guide had crossed his arms and was looking the other way.

  "You must decide," said the bug-covered terminal. "I do not have the context to know.

  "These are some translations into terms you may understand. Chicxulub language is self-modifying, so the best translation is one that uses what you call puns to convey the meaning:

  "Self-containered: to evert, encome-pass farship's precreative behestination. Your orgasmasher's detournement is presended."

  Michael and Herat exchanged glances.

  "The Chicxulub were funny guys," said Herat after a moment.

  "There is another translation that shows the allusive layer of the message," said the AI. "It could be translated into any number of human mythologies. This one is Greco-Roman:

  "Daughter of Saturn, you may escape your devouring father's belly by wielding the bright sword that we have forged for you."

  The words hit Michael like a shock of cold water— or the sudden presence of powerful kami. He didn't understand what he had just heard, but he felt there was a vast and authoritative mind behind the words.

  "The most literal translation," continued the AI, "would be:

  "To the Chicxulub or those like them: The Other you fought has become your Self. To resolve that crisis, follow this starship to its birthplace. There you will find a new use has been made of your ancient weapon."

  Herat frowned. "This is a Lasa speaking."

  Michael felt a sinking feeling. He knew what ancient weapon the Lasa referred to. There had been only one Chicxulub weapon that mattered: the self-reproducing starships that had fanned out across the galaxy sixty-five million years ago. They had visited millions of planets and obliterated any world that threatened to develop sentient life. They had visited Earth; it was their weapon that had caused the extinction of the dinosaurs.

  The Chicxulub had wanted the galaxy to themselves. They got it— and were the galaxy's sole inhabitants for millions of years, until they died out.

  Michael leaned against the catwalk's railing. He stared out over the busy autotroph amphitheater, not seeing it.

  Herat was scowling. "But Jentry's Envy was not intended just for the Chicxulub," he muttered. "It's a gift for everyone or anyone who comes along."

  "There's still something we're missing," admitted Michael. The translation that rang most loudly in his mind was the one that began, Daughter of Saturn…

  "Saturn is Chronos— god of time," said Herat. "Saturn devoured his children. Like the Chicxulub destroyed all their potential successors?"

  After studying the deep, misty well below them for a while, Michael said, "I think we're focusing on the wrong thing here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It'll be great if we can figure out exactly what this means," Michael said reluctantly. "But more important right now, is to ask what this message has to do with the murder of Linda Ophir? And who concealed it from us and why?"

  "Who?" Herat shrugged. "Only Crisler had the authority to spoof the inscape system. So he did it. That means he probably had the message translated before we arrived on the scene…"

  Michael nodded. "And that he probably had Linda killed as well." They had discussed this possibility a number of times since they learned of t
he inscape spoofing. But the speculation had never led anywhere before.

  He hesitated to say where his thoughts were going now. "If this message is a reference to a weapon— or even if Crisler only thinks it is," Michael said, "then maybe we have our motive. Crisler is after the Chicxulub weapon."

  The Chixculub had built self-reproducing starships that fanned out across the galaxy, destroying any world that hinted at having or developing sentient life. Humanity had hitherto outlawed self-reproducing machines; there was no human research to which Crisler could turn to develop such a horrible weapon. And that was as it should be.

  Herat cursed. "He wants to wipe out the rebels by creating weapons that can reproduce? Michael, that's crazy. How are his machines to distinguish between rebel and loyalist?"

  There were hints in the archaeological record that the Chicxulub had been wiped out by their own machines, after inevitable genetic drift and social pressures had rendered them unrecognizable to those machines. The final era of the Chicxulub must have been a nightmare time: All innovation was outlawed, all social and genetic innovation crushed, and everything that could be done had been done. Everything that could be thought had been thought. Everything else was illegal, and lurking in deep space were the soulless executioners who would wipe away any group who tried to change things.

  Herat was shaking his head. "Michael, I don't think this message really says that there's a weapon at the Twins. It's something else."

  "It doesn't say that the Lasa made a weapon. But the technology behind it might be turned into one. I bet that's what Crisler's thinking."

  Herat nodded sharply. "We'd best get this news to the local authorities. We need to have Crisler questioned. Think Rue's people would be up to it?"

  "I don't know. Certainly the R.E.'s arm doesn't reach this far—"

  "Leave now!"

  They both turned. Their guide was walking back along the catwalk.

  "Thank you," Michael said in the general direction of the AI as they clattered away after the green man. The swarming dots of the AI made no reply.

  Herat told Professor Waldt what the message said, but Michael noticed he didn't mention Linda Ophir or anything else about the Envy. He had odd notions about discretion. Michael was thinking hard about the murder; he barely noticed their surroundings until they were back at the base of the ladder, where Arless waited.

  Before the guide could escape back up the ladder, Michael turned to thank him for his help. "One more thing," he said as the green man turned indifferently away. "I know I'm unfamiliar with the autotrophs, but… we saw a lot of creatures and machines in the compound. Which ones were the autotrophs themselves? The tripod things?"

  The guide shook his head.

  "The bird things?"

  The green man shook his head and this time he laughed, a harsh and contemptuous sound.

  "They were all around you, but you did not know how to see them," he said.

  "I don't understand."

  The guide shrugged and began to climb. "You wouldn't," he said. "An autotroph is not a thing. An autotroph is a system."

  Michael watched the green form recede up the shaft. He didn't understand— not even remotely. After a few moments Herat put a hand on his shoulder and returned his attention to the world of humanity and politics.

  20

  THEY HAD ONLY a few more days at Oculus. Jentry's Envy was still travelling at speed and in order to catch her Rue would need to gather her crew and passengers together in a new cargo magsail and ride the beam to rendezvous. If they missed this window, there would not be another one for years; no other cycler followed the Envy's route and without her Erythrion was inaccessible.

  Though tired after her meeting, Rue was determined to make the most of her time here. Still, she dawdled as she made her way through the huge and bustling market of Lux. She wore her captain's uniform and felt eyes upon her wherever she went. She hadn't enjoyed the sensation on Treya, where she was more of a curiosity than a celebrity; here she reveled in it.

  Most amazing was that she simply didn't need money. Some shopkeepers vied to give her wares for free, simply for the honor of being able to say that she had chosen goods from their establishment. They would have followed her, Max, and Rebecca out of the stores and down the street, were it not that the crew of the Envy was accompanied by a glowering security man from the monastery.

  "I just can't believe we're really here," said Rebecca for the third time. Directly overhead, Colossus glowed placidly. All the towers of the city were built to twine like vines upward toward its fixed light. The palette of colors used in the street was complementary to that serene amber radiance; the street was thronged with colorful people, who in the distance faded into a kind of silken dream-landscape of pastels.

  Rebecca held up a transparent bag that held a folded, shimmering gown. She was loaded down with such bags, but seemed to be enjoying the extra weight. "Corinna will never wear this!" she said with a grin.

  "Because you were hoping she'd let you have it," laughed Rue. They had gifts for everyone: some recently imported R.E. movies for Evan and, in addition to the gown, some new Oculan symphonies for Corinna. There was much more to buy of course and everything they bought here would be worth a hundred times its price back on Erythrion. The most valuable trade items within the halo were, after all, hand-crafted works of art.

  The better shops advertised their class with intricately carved and painted facades. Rue stopped indecisively between a jewelry store whose front was one gigantic jaguar's-head (door in the mouth) and an antiquities dealer whose storefront looked like the entrance of an Earth-Egyptian temple. "Ooh, where next?"

  "Jewelry is light," Rebecca pointed out. "You can carry more of it on the trip." She strolled toward the jewelry store.

  Max watched until she was inside the shop. "Remember how I said last night that there were too many politicos and ship captains around? I started nosing around. It seems there's a movement afoot to break up the Cycler Compact."

  Although this didn't come as a complete surprise, Rue was still shocked. She had been about to follow Rebecca into the shop, but hesitated. "How?" she asked.

  Max grimaced. "The line is that faster-than-light travel makes the cyclers obsolete. Too expensive. Instead, they want to ship cargoes directly to the lit worlds. From there they can go by FTL to any other halo world, after all."

  "Or to any R.E. world," she pointed out, "and more cheaply."

  "Exactly. If we dismantle the Compact, the halo worlds are at the mercy of the R.E. The idea's being sold as a way of bringing the far-flung parts of the Compact together through FTL, but in the long run it's still more expensive than travel between the lit worlds."

  "We'll just wither and die," she said. "Like Erythrion is."

  He nodded grimly. "The chief proponents of this new deal are a bunch of idiots from—"

  She held up a hand. "Let me guess. New Armstrong? And their head man is named Mallory?"

  "How'd you know that?"

  "Just a guess."

  "We'll completely lose our autonomy," Max went on. "The only way to get to another halo world will be through the R.E."

  "I wonder how long this has been going on?" mused Rue. "Do you think New Armstrong's been siphoning off the remaining cyclers somehow?… That's not supposed to be possible, but maybe they got to one or two of the captains. That could explain why Erythrion hasn't seen a cycler in years." The very thought outraged her; could the decline of Erythrion and the coup at Treya and the lawlessness of the Stations that had led to her running away, have all had a common source?

  "No place is free of politics," said Max in a tired voice. He had been enjoying the shopping, Rue knew, but he looked sad again now.

  She bit her lip, wondering whether to tell him what she had been thinking. "Max… do you like it here?"

  He shrugged. "It's way better than Treya."

  "If you could settle down here… would you?"

  He appeared surprised. "What are you say
ing?"

  "Just that we've been offered a chance to do that. We could ship a new captain and crew up to the Envy. Buy houses here, live well… not worry about this political stuff anymore."

  He shook his head. "But Evan and Corinna—"

  "Could join us. We'd get them to disembark at Maenad and fly back here by FTL— or buy them tickets back to Erythrion. I think we're rich enough to do that."

  Max scratched at his head. Clearly he hadn't thought of this possibility. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. "You know… I, yes. I think it would be good for me, being here. A place to rest, finally, away from Leda and Erythrion's silly excuse for society."

  Rue was happy and simultaneously felt a flutter of anxiety. Had Max decided at this moment? And would that decision draw the rest of them along, just as his decision to go after the Envy had drawn her here?

  She looked around at the market, speculating seriously for the first time about being able to return here— maybe as often as she wanted. Now that she was noticing details, a small, nondescript door caught her attention. It was sandwiched between the ostentatious facades and she wouldn't have given it a second glance were it not that a small neatly carved sign over it said, "NeoShintoist Chapter of Oculus."

  "Don't tell Rebecca about this idea yet," she said to Max. "It's just an idea, so far." She eyed the door again. "Why don't you join her? I've got something to do; I'll be back in a minute."

  "Hmm? Uh, okay," said Max, puzzled. "Suit yourself. But Rebecca's a good shopper. Don't be surprised if all the good stuff is gone when you get back!"

  Her bodyguard followed as Rue gently knocked on the door, then, when there was no answer, eased it open. A set of stairs led up from the street. Apparently the NeoShintoists weren't wealthy or important enough to afford a storefront.

  Rue felt slightly nervous as she mounted the stairs. She was invading Mike's territory, in a way, by coming in here. But as always, her curiosity was stronger than her caution.

  The stairs let into a surprisingly sumptuous lounge that overlooked the street. An elderly man sat in a deep armchair by the window. As Rue entered the room he rose and bowed to her.