Authors: Jr. L. E. Modesitt
Adiamante (20 page)
“Thank you, Coordinator. Thank you so very much,” was all Henslom had to say, and he was still seething inside, and he hadn't heard a word I said. He turned and walked quickly toward the shuttle that waited to take him into Parwon center.
I wanted to kick him. He was denser than collapsed depleted uranium. Why did he think that, when he was on a mission to slag Old Earth, I should be going out of my way to protect him? He couldn't even see that by not protecting him, I was trying to let him see reality enough for him to make an intelligent choice, to avoid stupidity.
The others turned toward the cyb lander, all except for
Kemra, who waited, then asked, “Why are you so angry? You weren't hurt. You're upset with us, yet you have no reason to be pleased with our arrival.”
Kemra, who waited, then asked, “Why are you so angry? You weren't hurt. You're upset with us, yet you have no reason to be pleased with our arrival.”
“Any form of stupidity and unnecessary death bothers me, and it really upsets me when people refuse to see what is.”
She frowned, then asked more quietly, “The vorpals, the prairie dogsâare they why the draffs don't live away from the locials?” The wind, colder than when we had left, blew her short and sandy hair forward to touch the edge of her cheeks, softening the hard planes of her face.
“Some of the reasons,” I said. “The bears have lost their fear of humans, and the cougars never had much. That doesn't count the scorpion packs, the centipedes, or the rattlers, except they've always been dangerous, except now they rattle after they strike, instead of before.”
“How can you demis live out there?” She gestured in the general direction of ourâmyâhouse.
“We can generally sense most of them. We do have ways of protecting ourselves, as you saw, but those with children must be exceedingly careful. Most of the predators zero in on any human child.”
“Then why ⦔
“It's hard to fight danger if you don't grow up to recognize it.” And besides, we weren't about to give up Old Earth to the predators. “As I said, and, as no one heard, we won't coddle stupidity among ourselves.” I stopped again. “You saw those palaces in the ruins. That was stupidity, too, incredible, arrogant stupidity. The first demis isolated themselves in luxury behind an impenetrable wall. Look what happened. We can't do that. We have to stay in touch with our bodies and our world. No isolation on pristine nets.”
She shook her head.
I wanted to say more, but the Construct is strong within usâeven within me, grieving and confused as I was.
Behind her, the snow swirled toward the north end of the field like a dark curtain falling across the piñons, and I knew I'd have to hurry if I didn't want to be caught in Parwon for the night.
A single flake of snow caught on her hair, and one image superimposed itself on another, and the words came to mind, unbidden:
“ ⦠for whitest flakes will gown my grace,
and jewels of ice will frame my face ⦠.”
and jewels of ice will frame my face ⦠.”
I looked away and swallowed. After I moment, I pulled myself together.
“You actually looked human for a moment, Coordinator Ecktor.”
“We're all human ⦠if we choose to be.” That was the best I could do, and it wasn't enough.
She shook her head again. “We've seen your view of Old Earth. Perhaps you should visit us.”
“Perhaps.” Anything but another Jykserian episode. If a visit to hell would help, I'd go, just so long as I didn't have to threaten or make the first strike. “Perhaps.”
“I'll be in touch.”
Then she was gone, and I walked through the flurries to the flitter.
T
he snow had begun to fall sometime in the night, and by the time I rose, in the grayness before true dawn, it was more than ankle deep. Ankle deep and powdery, the kind that came out of the north, lasting and cold, falling in a fog-like curtain.
he snow had begun to fall sometime in the night, and by the time I rose, in the grayness before true dawn, it was more than ankle deep. Ankle deep and powdery, the kind that came out of the north, lasting and cold, falling in a fog-like curtain.
When the kettle began to whistle, I filled the dark green pot with boiling water and dropped the tea caddy inside. Yslena had made the pot and sent it, three years or so earlier. Looking at the dark green curved sides of the pot, I realized I needed to link with her before longâbut with the time differential, she was asleep.
While the tea steeped, I toasted some breadâthe heavy kind, because I've never been good at making the light kind. Morgen had been, but everything I get involved with turns out heavy, including bread.
It was the last loaf I had in the keeper, and that meant either using comptime credits or making bread. I still had plenty of preserves, and I slathered them across the two slices of toast. A chunk of cheese, more ripe than I would have liked, and a bowl of dried pear slices completed breakfast, and I sat down to eat, my eyes lifting to the window.
The piñons on the edges of the ridge were concealed by the falling snow, but neither Swift-Fall-Hunter nor the raven were likely to be perched there in the storm. The sambur never browsed higher than halfway up the slopes, either.
After finishing the pear slices and cheese, I took a long swallow of tea, then held the mug with both hands under my chin and let steam and spice of tea, bergamot-scented, wreathe my face. After I finished, I set the heavy green mug on the table and looked back to the window and the falling snow. My fingers found their way to the adiamante oval on the tableâstill smooth, heavy, and nonreactive.
Adiamanteâuseless for anything except defense, unable to argue, unable to threaten. Were we the adiamante of the universe?
Idly, I wondered if the prairie dogs in their hummocks thought about cold or snow. Unlike eagles or the less force-evolved species such as cougars and bears, the prairie dogs and vorpals and kalirams were harder to read,
more difficult to gain a sense of their presence and purpose. Another evolutionary adaptation?
more difficult to gain a sense of their presence and purpose. Another evolutionary adaptation?
After setting down the adiamante on the table, I swallowed the last of the tea and headed for the shower. Hot showers helped remove the chill from bones and soul.
After showering, I pulled on heavy running trousers, shirt, boots, and a jacketâplus one of the sheath knivesâand stepped outside where the snow kept falling.
With a deep breath, I headed westward, boots dropping near-silently into the growing white powder as I tried to maintain a quick and even pace despite the uncertain footing. Was that lifeâtrying to maintain the pace despite the treacherous ground across which we had to move? Was it all in vain? I shouldn't have been so desperately lyrical because that lyricism called up other lyricism.
“ ⦠and words we whispered flamed in vain
against Old Earth's last reign and rain ⦠.”
against Old Earth's last reign and rain ⦠.”
Except that I was running through snow, not rain, avoiding sagebrush, cedars, junipers, and rocks half-hidden by snow. I almost wished I'd find a vorpal, but they never showed up when I was angry enoughâor stupidly desperate enoughâto take one on.
I pushed my thoughts in other directions.
Dialogue one: Had it been fair to let Henslom's cybs be killed by the vorpals? No ⦠but wouldn't it have been less fair to delude them by protecting them? Or was that a rationalization?
I reached the end of the ridge and headed downhill, more to the south this time, away from the meleysen groves. For whatever reason, the orangish smell was more pronounced and close to obnoxious when light snow was falling.
Dialogue two: Why are we trapped by the Construct, like mutants trapped by the meleysens? Because we had no
choice left except to subject ourselves to it. Unthinking aggression was genetically positive for clawing humanity to the top of the ecological totem pole, except that it ended up destroying that totem pole. With high technology, strike-first aggression proved unworkable. At last count, our infrequent interstellar surveys had proven that. Three more planets were uninhabited and uninhabitable. Why couldn't the cybs see? Was it because their whole logic structure was either-or, on-off, one-two?
choice left except to subject ourselves to it. Unthinking aggression was genetically positive for clawing humanity to the top of the ecological totem pole, except that it ended up destroying that totem pole. With high technology, strike-first aggression proved unworkable. At last count, our infrequent interstellar surveys had proven that. Three more planets were uninhabited and uninhabitable. Why couldn't the cybs see? Was it because their whole logic structure was either-or, on-off, one-two?
The snow continued to fall, and my steps slowed as I trotted uphill once again, senses alert for possible predators, hand straying to the hilt of the sharp knife at my belt.
“W
hat about that shuttle system operating between the locials and the asteroid stations around the planet? Or the spacing of those stations? Those nickel-iron hunks are positioned in almost symmetrical stable orbits,” observed Gibreal.
hat about that shuttle system operating between the locials and the asteroid stations around the planet? Or the spacing of those stations? Those nickel-iron hunks are positioned in almost symmetrical stable orbits,” observed Gibreal.
“Each is also generating a magnetic field now, except for one, and they're sending a lot of equipment there,” added Kemra. “They weren't building fields before, even if they use a lot of equipment that taps the planetary fields.”
“What are they up to?” asked Weapons. “You've spent more time with them than anyone.”
Kemra did not answer.
“All their shuttlecraft in use tap the magnetic fields, more efficiently than our magboosts,” admitted Gorum, “but that sort of system is almost useless for warcraft. The
fields fluctuate, and some planets and systems have comparatively minuscule fields.”
fields fluctuate, and some planets and systems have comparatively minuscule fields.”
“Just hit them and get it over with,” interjected Weapons. The image of a lightning bolt flashed across the net.
“There's something we're missing,” mused the navigator. “Something obvious. I could feel a tremendous frustration from their Coordinator.”
“Oh ⦠you're definitely doing your job, then ⦠.” An undulating female figure, overripe and nude, paraded the netline, but through a signature filter.
“Sanitize it,” snapped Gibreal.
The figure vanished.
“Explain, nav,” the commander added.
“I've reported on the wildlife and the marcyb casualties, but their Coordinator was furiousâthe first time I've seen that from any of themâwhen he talked about our not seeing and listening. And there was a plea there, too.”
“Spare us?” suggested Gorum. “Please don't roll over us?”
“No. More like spare usâus the cybs, I mean. It was almost as though he were pleading for us not to be stupid enough to destroy ourselves.”
“That is interesting, if true.” Gibreal's words were almost distant. “I have trouble believing that, but perhaps you'd better investigate more. We have a day or two more before we're ready.”
“Something else disturbs me,” added the nav. “Except for the nontalking heads, the ruins at Cherkrik, and the Great Wallâthere's nothing left. Think about it. More than ten millennia of building things, and there are less than a dozen remnants on an entire planet?”
“They didn't take care of things,” snapped Weapons.
“There were once pyramids on several continents built of hard stone that massed more than some fleets. If they'd
just neglected them, they'd still be there. Or there would be some remnants. There aren't.”
just neglected them, they'd still be there. Or there would be some remnants. There aren't.”
“So they went around destroying their heritage,” pointed out Gibreal. “That's certainly not new, especially if they wanted to rewrite history. Peoples everywhere have eradicated the unpleasant past. These demis are just the first to have both the will, the technology, and the time to do so successfully.”
“Then why the Hyberniums? Those scenes do not paint them as exactly good people. And the Coordinator went out of his way to show me those luxurious palaces of the old-time demis and to point out the problems they had caused. None of them live like that now.”
“That's so they can claim they're honest. A partial truth to varnish over their guilt.”
“I don't think so,” mused the nav, the odor of libraries and ancient books overlaid with the bright light of laboratories. “I think it's all a way of subtly warning us.”
“That's idiotic,” countered Gorum. “Why don't they just tell us that if we don't get out of their heavens they'll destroy us? Because they can't.”
“That is not a verifiable proposition,” interjected MYL-ERA.
“The power build-up isn't quite complete,” said Gibreal. “Do you suppose we could provide them with a warning of sorts?”
“What do you have in mind, ser?” asked Ideomineo.
“Such as?” followed the cybnav.
“Perhaps a demonstration might be in order for your demi friend, Kemra. Some moon-polishing, perhaps, in a remote area clearly visible from earth.”
The image of ancient door creaking open filled the net, with a darkness oozing forth.
“Sanitize it,” grumbled Gibreal.
The cybnav's lips clamped together.
THE CYB'S TALE
S
can the files of old, and praise the copper wires that preceded the net and the fibrelines. Scan the tale of halfJack, the father of cybs, cyb before cybs. The tale is ancient, from before The Flight, from before the SoshWars, but true for all its age and obscurity.
can the files of old, and praise the copper wires that preceded the net and the fibrelines. Scan the tale of halfJack, the father of cybs, cyb before cybs. The tale is ancient, from before The Flight, from before the SoshWars, but true for all its age and obscurity.
After Ibmer made the first cyb, there was Jack, and he was a hardcopy programmer, of that ancient cult that bears the same resemblance to cybs as alchemists did to chemists. In those names, without the clarity of identity, all humans were of the single undifferentiated type, and they all had many names. Jack's name was Jackson Green Crossfield, and he was a times-removed ancestor of Greencross. That is another story.
From the beginning, Jack marveled at the crystalline clarity of the logic, that binary clarity of yes or no, on or off. No analog shades of gray for Jack, disciple of forgotten Bebege, just black and white, on and off.
But what could he do? He was flesh and blood, and the mechcybs of his youth were metal and plastic and composite. To bridge that gap was seen as less possible than reaching the distant stars. The early mechcybs had no souls and died when the power failed. They had no scanners, and no will.
But Jack worked with a graphite stick and electroplastic discs and all the tools of the ancient age to reduce the illogic of human thought to the single-valued logic that admits of no indecision.
While Jack struggled with his task, the mechcybs that had been the size of a starlander shrank to the size of a
travel case, and Jack acquired one, and he began to program, shrinking his long chains and intricate punch cards, for those came before the commandlines, into shorter and shorter phrases. The punchcards were replaced with circular plastic discs and then with logic magbubbles.
travel case, and Jack acquired one, and he began to program, shrinking his long chains and intricate punch cards, for those came before the commandlines, into shorter and shorter phrases. The punchcards were replaced with circular plastic discs and then with logic magbubbles.
Jack created new languages, Basek, and Gummaul, and Fortable, and Debasted, and all of those that preceded mechlink and have been lost in the dead circuits of the past. And he used those languages to refine the crystalline clarity of logic, to turn the one-two, on-off, into a pattern that could not fail. A pattern that could not be changed by the ephemeral flow of hormonal secretions, or the instinctive and unreasoned reaction to a hot wind or the scent of flowers extracted and sprayed across exposed flesh.
The work was arduous, and Jack's limbs weakened. He built himself a chair that would carry him anywhere, and neural jacks in his hands to supplant the rigors of the keyboard. And he continued to refine the cybmech languages, and to create ever more simply complex logic operators.
When his heart would pump no more, he had a mech-heart installed; and the heart was monitored by the lines that linked to his weak organic nerves. And when his lungs failed, he replaced them with blowers that were crosslinked to his second cybself.
As his organic body disintegrated, he struggled to replicate his thoughts in the arcane and antique crystals of the ancientsâto transfer his thoughts, his knowledge, and his understanding of the clarity of one-two, on-off. As his synapses would hold no more and began to leak their bytes, he replicated them and transferred them into his second cybself, a cybmech with multi-redundant circuits, and replicating and recharging power sources hidden deep within the recesses of OldCity. Jack called that second self halfJack.
When the transfer was complete, his old body sighed
once and then no more, and in time, it was rendered unto ashes, and a metal plate placed upon a wall, and a few humans looked and left.
once and then no more, and in time, it was rendered unto ashes, and a metal plate placed upon a wall, and a few humans looked and left.
Within those recesses, his thoughts net-linked with the mechcyb, and the patterns flickered through the matrices and the soul crystals, and halfJack woke, and said, “I am halfJack, and more than Jack ever was.”
And so it was, for Jack had never run the net-lines, or multilinked, or uploaded or downloaded, or duped and cross-checked. All of these and more could halfJack do, and he did, serving and sustaining even to the times of Greencross.
To this day, we honor halfJack, the first cyb, the cyb who ensured that logic was logic and not emotion, cyb before there were cybs.
Other books
Carnival of Death by Carnival of Death (v5.0) (mobi)
Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette by John Dummer
Ever, Sarah by Hansen, C.E.
Body Thief by Barry, C.J.
Brides Of The Impaler by Edward Lee
Jocelynn Drake - [Asylum Tales 02] by Dead Mans Deal
#TripleX by Christine Zolendz, Angelisa Stone
Just a Little Faith by Amy J. Norris
Taught by the Tycoon by Shelli Stevens
Who's Your Daddy? by Lauren Gallagher