“In the first place, a blueprint is neither human nor alive. I happen to believe that these are both.”
“Even when frozen?”
“You wouldn’t consider yourself dead, would you, lover, if you were riding unconscious in an SA chamber? Which brings us to the second place: you might as well argue that you or I or Nick or anyone is only a bundle of information.”
“I didn’t want to argue philosophy. What I was really getting at is this: could a billion zygotes have been stored much more compactly, and just as accurately, in digital form, as information records?”
Annie took deep thought over that one. “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “You could fairly easily, I suppose, record anyone’s genetic architecture, as it were. But not a protopersonality, as represented by the patterns of brain activity—in that sense a zygote has developed nothing to record. There is as yet no brain. Whereas even a three- or four-month fetus has quite a lot going on between the ears.”
Scurlock was back. No one besides Dirac, and probably the reclusive Carol, even realized that he had been absent from the station for almost a full day.
He reported privately to Dirac, and he handed over to the Premier a small, mysterious, innocent-looking piece of hardware.
“You actually spoke to a functioning machine?”
“Sir, I did.” The tall man was once more seated opposite the Premier in the latter’s private quarters. He described how his physical journey had been accomplished according to plan. To make the secret journey possible, Dirac had taken an extra turn at sentry himself and had arranged for Hawksmoor to be distracted.
Dirac let out a long sigh. “Then I was right.”
“Yes sir. You were right. The great machine is certainly not dead. Though I believe much weakened.”
“And this?” Dirac was balancing the little piece of hardware in his hand. It looked like an anonymous spare part from somewhere inside one of a million complex Solarian devices.
“A secure communications device. So it informed me. Anything you say near it will be heard—over there. Now and then the machine may use it to talk to you. It said it would not talk to you very often, lest some speech come through at a moment when you might find it embarrassing.”
“How considerate. So, it is listening to us now?”
“I assume so, Premier.”
“And what else can you tell me? What were you able to observe?”
“Very little, Premier. I rode the space sled over there and looked around until I discovered what looked like a hatch. Then I waited, in accordance with your instructions. After several minutes the hatch opened and a small machine came out to investigate my presence.”
“A small machine of the type you encountered here on the station, during the berserker occupation?”
“Yes, the same type, as far as I could tell.”
“Go on.”
“When I made an openhanded gesture to the small machine, it escorted me inside the hatch—it wasn’t an airlock, of course. I didn’t get any farther than just inside, and there was very little to see. Just metal walls. I didn’t really learn anything about the machine’s interior construction.”
“I didn’t really think you would be able to.” Dirac tossed up the little piece of hardware and caught it in midair. “You have done well.”
Jenny was delighted when Nick came to report that he was on the verge of starting their great secret project.
He had succeeded in copying Freya, without Freya’s being aware of it, and in making the necessary alteration in the fundamental programming of Freya2. Soon it should be possible to begin operations with a pair of the artificial wombs located in an area seldom visited by fleshly people.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Nick told himself and Jenny. If the secret work should be noticed, he could make some excuse, disguise the work as something other than what it was. But Nick thought it unlikely that anyone would even notice that the project was going on.
Jenny was growing enthusiastic. “But first, of course, we must select from the cargo the zygotes we want to use.”
“Yes. We have a billion to choose from. If you don’t want to go out there, I’ll bring likely samples for your consideration.”
“And after that, it is still going to take years.”
“As I see it, we shall have years. I can control the yacht’s drive indefinitely. And the Premier will not really be disappointed, I believe. I tell you, he is in no hurry at all to get started for home. The only thing that worries me …”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. An idle thought.”
Nick didn’t want to tell Jenny what he’d heard from Freya, that Dirac had apparently been contemplating a secret project of his own, something along the lines of Nick’s.
He started to devise a simple program to let a robot sort through zygotes, a preliminary step in picking out the pair they’d use. One for Jenny’s new body. And one for Nick’s own body, the first and very likely the only fleshly form that he would ever have.
Nick’s imagination kept coming back to the vital, difficult questions that could not be avoided. Might it be possible to push forward on two fronts at once, start trying to make both methods, growth and capture, work? Or would running two secret projects simply make discovery twice as likely?
The capture method would require him somehow to seize control of suitable adults and wipe their brains clear of pattern without killing any of the body’s vital organs—to injure the brains delicately, precisely, without destroying the tissue’s capacity to take and retain the patterns of thought once again.
Murder. Sheer murder of innocent bystanders. Despite his determination to be ruthless, he shrank from the thought. Not to mention the difficulties he and Jenny would face after technical success. Even if they could somehow avoid the Premier’s wrath and that of other potential victims, what human society would give shelter to such murderers?
Of course it would be years quicker than growing zygotes. And the actual capture should pose no great difficulty. Nick, in his suit mode, could easily overpower any organic human not wearing armor, and few wore armor these days except on sentry duty.
The real difficulty was that very few adults were currently available; and none of the available bodies appeared to be ideal choices. On Nick’s next visit to the yacht he entered the corridor housing the ship’s medirobots and read the biological specifications on Fowler Aristov, the would-be colonist mentor who still reposed there in the deep freeze. Not Nick’s ideal of a body for himself, but acceptable, he supposed, in an emergency.
But what about Jenny? She came first. He must find the right fleshly envelope for her, even if he failed to accomplish as much for himself. And among the organic females currently available, none, in Nick’s opinion, came up to the standard of beauty that was required.
No, he had better stick to method one. Given sufficient time and care, human bodies could certainly be grown in the station’s artificial wombs. There was an overabundance of zygotes aboard the station among which to rummage for desirable genetics. Despite the scrambled records, a suitable pair could certainly be located, given time for the slow mechanical search required.
That, of course, was only the beginning. Assuming that suitable bodies for himself and Jenny could be grown, the next step, loading their personalities into those immature brains, was surely going to present new difficulties. According to the plan he’d worked out with Freya2, that phase would have to be accomplished concurrently with the process of organic growth. Organic brains and minds would have to be fabricated in successive levels of refinement, as a sculptor cuts away the stone in finer and finer increments.
And either method, stealing bodies or growing them, would eventually require that the information-storage masses in which the two disembodied people now resided—three skulls’ volume each—be physically moved to the place where the organic vessels were being prepared.
Several members of Dirac’s crew, now even Brabant and Engadi
n to some degree, were growing increasingly dissatisfied with his continued emphasis on somehow recouping his personal losses.
The political adviser scooped up a handful of tiles and let them go clattering to the deck, then watched moodily as a small machine came rushing to arrange the statglass rectangles in some kind of order. Varvara brooded: “First we spent our days searching for a woman who wasn’t here when the berserkers came. Now we’re looking for a tile, a single tile, that no one in God’s universe could find!”
The bodyguard, grumbling in general agreement, compared the latter task to that of locating one star in the Galaxy, without a chart.
Dirac’s adviser and mistress urged: “We’ve fought the berserker to a standstill. What we ought to be trying to do now, and I’ve already told him so, is get the whole station free of its grip. All right, sure, save the tiles if we can. The best way to do that is to go after the berserker now and make sure that it’s dead.”
“You mean go aboard it?”
“That’s what I mean. Dangerous, sure. But if we wake up and think we’ll realize that just staying here, devoting ourselves to meaningless tasks, is suicidal. If the berserker doesn’t get us, the nebula is sooner or later going to close in and we’ll be trapped.”
“So? What do we do?”
“If repairing the yacht is really out of the question, then we must go aboard the berserker, make sure it’s dead, and find some way to manipulate its drive. That’s the only way we can start ourselves back in the right direction. That method saves the protolives as well; we can tow the station and its cargo out of the nebula again.”
Everyone agreed on at least one point: If they maintained their present course, heading straight into the nebula, sooner or later they would inevitably get trapped in a shifting of the Mavronari’s clouds, caught so that centuries instead of days of travel would be needed to restore them to their homes.
After long days of searching through cargo bins and various pieces of equipment, it still seemed impossible to determine whether or not the tile containing Lady Genevieve’s donation had ever been turned over to the filing system. The problem of finding this protochild among nearly a billion others appeared to be practically impossible.
Barring success with the software, the only way to locate one tile among the billion might be to have people, or robots, physically examine all the stored tiles, one after another. “Is there only one machine on board designed to do such testing? Get through a million tiles a year, and we can finish the job in only ten centuries.”
“Of course the chances are we’d find it in half that time.”
Something like a hundred thousand tiles per standard month. That would mean three thousand a day. More than a hundred an hour.
Neither Zador or Hoveler could remember what had been done with that particular tile, in the panicky moments right after the alert was sounded, other than that it had been put down either on the arm of Hoveler’s chair or on the edge of his console.
On several details the two bioworkers’ memories were in conflict. Well, organic brains tended toward the unreliable in many ways.
Nevertheless Dirac continued to insist that a strong effort be made to find his family donation. The Premier had now publicly announced that he might be able to reclaim Jenny only by reconstituting her from her genes. Of course his wife’s full genetic code would not be available from the zygote, but that would provide a start. And the full code might be here somewhere. Sometimes parents who donated a protochild to the colonizing project were asked to leave their own complete genetic records as well. Neither Hoveler nor Zador knew with certainty whether this had been done in the case of the Lady Genevieve. If it had, and the specimen could be found, then cloning should be possible. Zador and Hoveler themselves had performed such procedures in the past, for special medical reasons.
Dirac at about this time unveiled a surprise: a personal service system, really an elaborate bodyguard, which he called Loki. Nick was called upon to bring over from the station to the yacht, openly in this case, another container of three skulls’ capacity. Yet another trustworthy personality, as the Premier explained to Nick, to relieve Nick of some of his duties and to provide protection if need be even against a berserker.
Days passed. Grumbling among the crew increased, but with Nick’s and Loki’s and Brabant’s help, Dirac still remained firmly in control.
And even if Scurlock and Carol behaved strangely, and other people began to suspect that Dirac had opened negotiations with a berserker, he had long since established and would energetically maintain an iron control over the people with him.
“Nick, tell me—can a program experience true emotions?”
“I can indeed, sir.”
“As I expected from you—a perfectly programmed response.”
Dirac and Scurlock talked again, with the berserker’s communication device locked away where they felt sure it would be able to hear nothing.
The Premier was saying: “All a berserker ever needs is life to kill, and a means of killing. One might argue that a protocolonist sealed inside a statglass tile is not really alive, but whether you call that entity a unit of life or of potential life is a fine philosophical point, probably not too interesting to a berserker.”
“You mean, sir, that the zygotes will be valuable items with which to bargain for our own lives and freedom?”
Dirac, without actually saying anything, or even nodding, conveyed agreement.
The other man, pale-eyed, still very youthful in appearance, asked, “If it considers them alive, why didn’t it kill them, destroy the tiles, when it had the chance?”
“For one thing, each tile is very tough, designed and built to protect its contents. They aren’t that easy to destroy; you’d need individual attention to each one, or else very heavy weapons, to achieve mass destruction.
“But I think you’re right, the berserker, as we’ve thought all along, must have had some reason beyond that. Some more ambitious scheme in mind—doubtless along the lines of growing and training a goodlife legion, as several have suggested. But our boarding evidently took it by surprise, and now it’s lost that chance. Perhaps it was willing to open negotiations with us in an effort to win it back.”
Kensing was having trouble standing the strain with no relief in sight. He approached Dirac with the urgent plea that everyone left alive suit up at once in armor, take up such weapons as they had available, and launch an expedition, a probing attack, against the berserker itself. The issue had to be resolved, and all the evidence suggested that the foe was almost if not entirely helpless.
Dirac was sharply critical of this proposal. “Don’t be a fool! Don’t you see it’s doing its best to lure us into trying something of the kind?”
Kensing was ready to argue. “Or else it’s preparing to launch some kind of an attack against us, fixing up what hardware it has left for a maximum effort. The more time we give it, the harder it’s going to hit us when it’s ready.” He concluded with an anguished plea: “How else are we ever going to get home?”
The bioworkers had mixed feelings. They didn’t want to provoke another berserker attack, but at the same time they fiercely resisted the idea of their billion charges being carried on helplessly into the Mavronari Nebula.
Dirac, helped in no small degree by his own reputation for ruthlessness, as well as his charisma, continued to squelch the plan put forward separately by Kensing and Engadin. He publicly opposed launching any kind of attack on the enemy just now, and provided reasons—the enemy was trying to lure them into something of the kind.
But Nick and a few others were becoming increasingly convinced that such a rash move would interfere with Dirac’s own agenda, which required him not only to survive this disaster personally but to emerge from it with power intact.
Everything else, everyone else’s plans and hopes, must wait while he continued his search for the all-important (to him) person he was determined not to lose. In truth, his real goal was power. His “b
eloved” had really never been anything more than a means to that.
Some of his more knowledgeable, cynical shipmates explained to others that for Dirac to go home without his politically necessary bride would be such a political disaster that doubtless he would prefer not to go home at all.
“What’s that to us? Let him stay here if he wants to. We want to go home.”
But even without using or directly threatening force, the Premier could always make most people see things his way.
ELEVEN
Awakening to the sounds of water drilling and drumming on her high roof, the Lady Genevieve immediately remembered how, shortly before putting herself to sleep this last time, she had mentioned to Nick that when in her fleshly body she had liked listening to the rain.
Waking in this new mode of existence was always very unlike waking when she was in her body. Consciousness now came and went all in a piece, in an unmeasurable instant, like switching a light on or off, with none of either the luxury or the difficulty that had attended the process when she still inhabited her flesh. Coming out of deathlike sleep now, in semidarkness, she found herself occupying a very solid feeling though totally imaginary bed, somewhere in what ought to have been the Dean’s Quarters. She was waking to the sound of earthly rain, British rain, London rain, drumming now for her unreal ears upon the distant imaginary slates of the imaginary Abbey’s imaginary roof, cascading from the mouths of gargoyles onto the imaginary streets outside.
She wondered whether the real Abbey, somewhere very far from this spaceship, in which she was imprisoned, astronomically remote beyond light-years and light-years of busy space, carried any such creatures incorporated into its upper stonework, or whether these semi-reptilian monstrosities had been conceived and born only in some chaotic spasm of Nick’s imagination. He had admitted to her wistfully that he lacked the historical resources to be sure his duplication was exact.
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