She quashed the thought immediately, knowing it to be heretical. She was a practical woman, little interested in matters of individual philosophy, more concerned with consolidating the appeal of the Noosphere so that everyone would ultimately know that their lives were lived towards the goal of pure spirituality. Privately she did consider it time that new Advocates were found, if only to have fresh faces and fresh ideas, and to stifle the complaints of those within the Noocracy who had long been arguing that Julius and Orela should have passed on at their centenary. It was hard to deny any longer the view that both were growing increasingly eccentric and blind to the needs of the people. The new palace was a sheer extravagance when more resources were needed to combat poverty and the spread of the Dementia. It was also in appallingly bad taste.
Luis was tugging at her arm. The delegation from Ganymede had arrived.
She saw that Venzano was not at their head; they were led by his deputy, Salvadorian. The entire retinue was solemn, subdued. They settled into their alcove, leaving the Prime Arbiter’s place conspicuously vacant.
“Something’s up,” Luis remarked.
That much was evident. A few of the delegation raised wine goblins and picked at morsels, but their extreme decorum was obvious. Meanwhile the optic was concluding with a stirring feature on the pious Phoebans, who were so devoted to their ancestors that they eschewed child-bearing and communed thrice daily with the Noosphere. No one in the chamber was paying attention; everyone was watching Venzano’s table. Bezile sucked a flamesnow sherbet through a liquorice straw.
The optic dimmed, and presently the oratory flushed with opalescent light. Without ceremony or introduction, Julius and Orela rose through a floor valve.
Both were dressed in their official robes of dove-grey and scarlet. A long murmur of recognition and fealty came from the audience, tradition permitting no stronger response. Julius and Orela acknowledged it by raising their hands, palms outward, at once a wave and a plea for silence. The Advocates looked both serene and serious, Julius wearing a grey skullcap, Orela’s hair silvered and demurely pleated at her nape. A zeegee monitor drifted down and dilated to close-up.
“Welcome,” Orela said finally. “We are pleased so many of you could come, grateful to you for making the long journey here.”
“It’s been twelve years since we last met together,” Julius continued. “Could the time have passed that swiftly? It’s a genuine pleasure to see so many familiar and faithful faces.”
“As always,” Orela went on, “there have been many changes since we last convened. As always, we confront new challenges. We’ve convened this council in great haste because we believe that all of us in the Noospace face a danger graver than any the human race has experienced since we left our homeworld.”
Her voice was as soothing as nepenthe, but Bezile was inured to that and was rather insulted by what she was actually saying. Were the Advocates now adding hyperbole to the usual introductory pleasantries?
“A severe crisis confronts us,” Julius said, “and concerted action will be vital. Some of you, we know, have been concerned that we have rather neglected you in recent years. We admit that fault, though it was an error of omission rather than intent. An error which today we shall correct.”
“However,” said Orela, “we’re quite aware that many of you have been in transit for several days, and perhaps you would appreciate a little diversion first. An entertainment of sorts.” She gave a strange smile. “An entertainment that is also designed to educate.”
Everyone had been expecting the Advocates to explain Venzano’s absence, and the sudden switch of emphasis was rather disconcerting. Julius and Orela withdrew to the edge of the oratory. And then on to it stumbled a troupe of … Bezile could only think of them as manimals, versions of the brutish precursors of true human beings who had inhabited Earth millennia ago and whose exaggerated adventures on the juvenile channels continued to thrill children throughout the Settled Worlds.
But these were not plasticated holos: these were the real thing. There were eight of them, naked except for grubby loin-rags, their bodies hairy and grotesque, with sagging bellies, slobbering gap-toothed mouths and yellow-toenailed naked feet. Age hung on them in folds of wrinkled skin, blotches, bulging veins and tufts of hair where none should have been.
The assembly was uniformly shocked by the sight. The change in mood had been so abrupt and unexpected, the sight of the creatures so revolting that people could not hide their disgust. Luis snatched up the tranquince as two of the creatures—a male and a female—capered forward and began to perform a clumsy dance that would have been embarrassing had it not been such an awesome demonstration of bad taste.
Everyone sat rooted, unable to look away, as the manimals performed. While the two at the front spiralled clumsily around one another like two drunken beasts, the remaining six joined their hands together and conducted lumpen communal leaps into the air. Their naked feet crashed to the floor as they came down. They gave out barking howls of laughter and slapped one another’s flanks in mutual amusement. Spittle lathered their lips and chins. They had missing teeth, crooked limbs, elephantine thighs; their movements were the lumberings of the most brutish beasts. Meanwhile Julius and Orela looked on like doting parents.
Bezile scrutinized the other tables. Without exception, no one had been prepared for this, not even Modramistra, High Arbiter of the asteroid communes, an intelligent and diligent woman popularly felt to be Venzano’s successor in waiting. She was seated with her vast retinue at the centre of the chamber, and she was as agog as anyone else.
Now the creatures began to execute—or attempt to execute—a series of sequential leaps over one another’s backs. Once again, they tripped, stumbled, slobbered. Bettwys, who had no sense of decorum whatsoever, began to chuckle, and then others joined her, a timid, uncertain laughter spreading from table to table, growing in force as everyone released their unease the only way permissible. Soon the antics of the creatures were being greeted with outright laughter, the more so since Julius and Orela did not appear to object. They continued to watch the performance, paying no apparent heed to the reaction of their audience, smiles of patient amusement on their lips.
Now one of the male creatures had sprouted an erection through the filthy swaddling at its groin. It mounted a stooping female, clutched her by the shoulders and began thrusting madly. Within seconds it was over, the male pulling free and shambling away in a crouch, the female maintaining her pose as if nothing had happened; her inane smile revealed gapped yellowed teeth. Even Luis was now joining in the laughter, hiccuping his mirth like a regurgitating digester.
Bezile was repulsed: this was true vileness, and a studied insult to every one of them. They were complicit by default, by the sheer fact of their presence. How would the thousands of millions of ordinary citizens who would eventually see the transmission feel? How would they react to this disgraceful spectacle?
She saw that one of the few people apart from herself who still sat straight-faced and immobile was Modramistra herself. Well, at least she was in good company. Mercifully, the manimals were coming to the end of their performance, having clambered over one another in a shambolic attempt at a human pyramid which swiftly collapsed into a sprawling heap of grunts and tangled limbs. Finally they scampered off the oratory, disappearing down a side artery.
It occurred to Bezile that the creatures had never given any real indication of being aware of their audience, even at the very end. Their entire performance—if you could dignify it with such a word—had been done in the manner of trained beasts, operating on automatic. Even now the stench of them, the sour miasma of sweat and mortification, fouled the air. They were creatures from the murkiest depths of the human past, from the times when the human form was determined by the blind whims of evolution, when you could not alter so much as the colour of your eyes, let alone have a body in its perfect prime throughout a lifetime. She shivered at the thought, at the fact. The question was: why w
ere the Advocates parading the degeneracy of their origins before them?
The obvious answer was that they were truly mad. Unlike many others, Bezile had resisted this conclusion despite growing evidence, preferring to concentrate on the fact that the Noocracy continued to function reasonably efficiently, despite the Advocates’ occasional excesses. And she, having spent most of her lifetime in its service, had persevered and reserved judgement. But this was such an outrageous lapse in good taste she was at a loss to imagine how Julius and Orela could begin to justify it.
The Advocates had now returned to the centre of the oratory. The laughter had died quickly, leaving a nervous whispering. Luis nibbled furiously on the tranquince, golden fruit-flesh lathering his lips.
Julius and Orela were smiling at them.
“A shocking display, yes?” said Julius. “You were generous in your response, courteous and forbearing. Would anyone care to venture as to the origin of our performers?”
There was silence, and then a brave soul towards the rear of the hall shouted, “Protohumans!”
Julius nodded gravely. “A reasonable assumption,” he said. “But not, in fact, the case. Shall we try again?”
A longer pause, then a woman’s voice: “Spawn of the Augmenters!”
A nervous scattering of laughter.
“One would scarcely say they were Augmented,” said Orela.
“A failed experiment,” someone else said.
Julius shook his head. “These are no products of the Augmenters, or even true primitives. At least, they were not born that way.”
He waited for further suggestions, but none came.
“They are gymnasts,” Orela announced.
Everyone was perplexed at this.
“Those eight were once individuals like you or me,” Orela explained. “They were truly gymnasts, one of the nullgrav teams from Hristobel on Callisto who performed spectacularly during the Pan World Games on Ariel two years ago.”
“A devout and dedicated team who lived blameless lives,” Julius added. “Alas, they were also among the first to fall victims of the Dementia.”
The optic behind them was showing the team in action at the games, gracile athletes negotiating floating platforms as part of their routine. All were perfectly made, perfectly handsome; it was impossible to reconcile them with the brutes that had cavorted on the oratory.
“By sheer good fortune,” Julius said, “a medical team was on hand when they first began to exhibit symptoms of the Dementia. They were sedated and eventually brought to our Sanctuary. There their conditions were stabilized and they were given the best care we could provide. We hoped to find clues to the nature of the sickness by monitoring them. What we actually saw, however, was their slow degeneration into the primitives you saw before you.”
There was shocked silence at this. Most victims of the Dementia that were actually subdued before they killed themselves either became catatonic or had to be permanently sedated to control their aggression. But until now there had been no suggestion that there was a physical component to the disease.
“The mortal decay begins gradually,” Julius told them, “but soon progresses swiftly according to the actual biological age of the victim.”
“All the members of the team,” said Orela, “were aged between thirty-nine and sixty-one standard years. During the past year of their confinement, they underwent the degeneration appropriate to their ages. Our attempts to reverse the ageing proved ineffective.”
Julius allowed a pause before continuing: “Their mental processes also decayed, as you have seen. We were able to tame the grosser aspects of their madness by psychochemical intervention, but it’s plain that the manic and destructive phases merely mask an inexorable mental and physical decline. Organically, their brains do not appear to have suffered damage, but the higher cognitive functions have been lost. The pitiable end result is what you saw today.”
Bezile realized that Luis was offering her a napkin. She slapped his hand away, blinking the blurriness from her eyes. On the screen the athletes were still performing, weaving effortlessly through a series of free-floating obstacles like swimmers in a sea of air.
“What we are seeing,” said Orela, “is a reversion to an untutored and unmodified type. In other words, to the primitive in us all.”
Now the manimals were back on screen, captured in their performance, drooling and wrinkled. It was just possible to see a resemblance in certain cases between the former athlete and the hulking subhuman.
“As you know,” said Julius, “the Dementia usually results in death—an end that is perhaps preferable to what we see here.”
“We still have no antidote to it,” Orela continued, “and yet we are confident that at last we have identified its source.”
A wave of excitement swept through the chamber. Julius motioned for quiet.
“At the Sanctuary we began to explore the possibility that someone may have been tampering with the human genome. We began to suspect some kind of biological detonator that, under the right conditions, triggers the Dementia.”
It was Yuang of Titan who spoke up, rising from his seat:
“With respect,” he said, “I don’t see how that’s possible. One of the very first suggestions as to the origin of the Dementia was that it might be some kind of Augmenter slow-burn virus. I’ve had a team of biotecs exploring that very possibility. There’s simply no evidence of unusual proteins or any other biochemical agents in the tissue of the afflicted. We’ve seen similar senescence in some of our patients, but in our opinion the decay is simply a by-product of overwhelming mental changes.” He waited. Julius and Orela said nothing. “All our studies continue to suggest that if there is an infective agent, then it is of a type quite unknown to us. In fact, we believe it doesn’t exist. We tend increasingly to the view that the basis of the syndrome is psychological.”
Bravely spoken! thought Bezile, and not simply because Yuang had had the courage publicly to debate a point with the Advocates. Neither of his possibilities—a wholly new disease or an infective psychosis—was comforting, but that was no reason to reject them, or to pander to the desire for a tangible enemy that people always felt when they were under threat.
“We welcome your views,” Julius said. “Everyone knows that Titan is renowned as one of the highest centres of biological and medical excellence among the Settled Worlds, sometimes on a par with the Noosphere itself.”
He stopped to allow the mild rebuke to register. “Nevertheless,” he went on “the indicators point to Augmenter subversion of the Noosphere itself.”
“We intend to present proof of this to you quite shortly,” Orela said. “Proof that the Augmenters may in fact be planning a major assault against the Noosphere.”
There were startled murmurings at this, much muttered discussion. Bezile would have no part of it. She was tired of the flummery, and her impatience got the better of her. She hauled herself to her feet.
“According to the commentary, the Augmenter heresy has more or less been eradicated.”
“Among the worlds of the Noospace,” agreed Orela. “But, as you know, sympathizers remain, and many Augmented took refuge far beyond the human pale. There is every reason to believe that they are now mobilizing.”
“Mobilizing?”
“Indeed.”
But she did not immediately elaborate, even though Bezile waited. So, on an instinct—and because she wanted the issue aired—she said: “Is this in any way connected with the Prime Arbiter’s absence?”
The Advocates came to the edge of the oratory and looked down on her with their oceanic gazes. Bezile had to resist the powerful urge to sit down.
“Very perceptive of you, Bezile of Melisande,” said Julius. “You will, of course, be aware that Prime Arbiter Venzano is not with us. It is our sad duty to report that he was assassinated in his private quarters on board the ship carrying him here. All attempts to revive him or translate his psyche to the Noosphere failed.”
This time the shock was profound, and some of Venzano’s retinue, as though finally released from the constraints of the occasion, began openly to weep.
For several minutes the chamber was a pandemonium of distress and outrage. Who had done such a thing? And to the Prime Arbiter himself! How had the deed been accomplished? How could anyone be so vile as to deprive the highest official of the Noocracy of his right to a life in the hereafter? Even the soberest of their number was shocked by the depravity. Bezile realized that she had sat down willy-nilly. Luis, who had eaten three tranquince, was slouched in his seat like a drunkard, blubbering.
A figure came on to the oratory. It was Salvadorian, Venzano’s long-serving deputy, a hard-working man of good reputation. He told how he had found Venzano in his private shrine, a pulse-pistol hole in his temple. An immediate search of the ship had uncovered an intruder hiding in a vent duct. A pistol that had recently been fired was in his possession, and when confronted he had readily admitted the crime.
Palace guards now appeared, escorting a lanky figure with faceted eyes. Clothed in a crude leatherene bodysuit, he was improbably tall and long-limbed, his skin as pale as milk. An Augmenter, fashioned to survive in low-gravity environments distant from the sun.
Orela approached him. “Do you admit that you are responsible for the death of Prime Arbiter Venzano?”
“I admit it.”
“You killed him?”
“I fired the gun at his face.”
There were gasps of revulsion, cries of anger. Narrowchested, the Augmenter spoke in a reedy yet harsh voice. He spoke without remorse or fear.
“Tell us why,” Orela demanded.
The Augmenter looked over the assembly with his inhuman eyes. He said nothing.
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