The Fall of Sirius

by Wil McCarthy

  Vadim, who should certainly know better, looked ready to flee, but Malye more or less had him cornered. “I'm sorry,” she said, fixing him with an intense stare, grabbing the front of his tunic, pulling him toward her. “You'll have to be brave. Keep your sister calm.” And then he, too, went into the bag.

  Malye zipped them in and froze the zipper in the locked position. Already, the ball was inflating. Once again, Malye's ears popped, this time with a kind of papery rustling sound.

  She looked over at Grigory, who was struggling to pull a tight black pressure-equivalence garment on over his clothes. That was so completely the wrong thing to do, and his expression was so distant and confused, that at last it occurred to Malye that he was hypoxic, that his brain was not getting enough oxygen to solve even this simple puzzle. By the red emergency light it was impossible to check his skin color, but surely he was turning blue. Surely Malye herself was, too, or would be soon.

  Hypoxia was a strange condition: fickle, unpredictable, because the first thing it stole was the judgment required to recognize its symptoms. Surely her own judgment was suspect, too?

  “The mask first!” she shouted urgently. “Grig, put the mask on!”

  Her voice was tinny in her ears. She felt dizzy. Enough! She would be no help to anyone if she didn't get into her own vacuum gear immediately. She spied her mask on the floor, snatched it up, fussed with the straps for an anxious moment before pulling the whole thing down over her head like a hat that had no top, like a tight rubber hat that pulled down all the way over the face. For a moment she couldn't breathe at all, the clear rubber pressing firmly against her mouth and nose, held down tightly by the misplaced straps, but with a yank she managed to get the thing untwisted. The mouthpiece jammed its way between her lips, and the soft rubber mask formed a tight seal around the edges of her face, with the hard, clear visor an inch or so in front of her eyes.

  She exhaled sharply, essentially gagging into the mouthpiece, working against the resistance of disused valves. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the valves cleared and her breath was pulled gently from her, then forced gently back in as she inhaled. Breathing the same lungful of air, scrubbed clean by the mask's tiny filters. She tightened her straps, to make sure the seal stayed good as the pressure continued to drop. She'd need to hook up an oxygen bottle in the next few minutes, lest the air grow foul despite the mask's filters, but for the moment the need was not urgent.

  Grigory's was. He had dropped to his knees and managed to find his mask, but simply held it in his hands now and stared at it like he'd never seen such a thing before in his life. Ungently, Malye took it from him and forced it down over his face. That seemed to have some effect on him; he grabbed at the mask, twisting and pulling on it. But wrongly, uselessly. They struggled for several seconds.

  Malye first knew there was something very seriously wrong when she noticed the blood on her hands, hot and wet, gloss-black in the red emergency lighting. Grig's struggles intensified, becoming almost like convulsions before Malye managed to get the mask on him straight.

  Breathe, Grig! she wanted to say. Breathe, damn you! But with the rubber mouthpiece jammed between her teeth, she could say nothing.

  A final spasm, and then his body went limp in her arms, face and neck and visor smeared with blood. No rise and fall to his chest, no reaction in his wide, sightless eyes, barely visible behind the black-red smears. Malye pressed her hand against his neck, where the carotid artery would be, and found no pulse. Pressed harder; still nothing.

  Grigory! She would have shouted his name if she could.

  In her police and C.I. training courses, Malye had learned a number of resuscitation techniques, but all of them were years ago, the details hazy, and anyway none could be performed in vacuum. Oh, Ialah. In this day and age, death was no simple matter, no decisive, irrevocable leap into the great unknown—with proper attention Grigory Mikhailovot Kurosov could be roused, repaired, pumped full of oxygen once more and sent happily on his way. Some people had survived several hours exposure to hard vacuum, but there was nobody here to perform such miracles. There was nobody here to help at all.

  She could probably stuff Grig's body in a rescue ball and leave him here, hoping for the best... But today did not seem like the sort of day when the best things happened. Was anyone's luck likely to change?

  Malye's skin had begun to feel bloated, bruised with the pressures inside her. She was farting an almost continuous stream of gas, and the skin of her hands crawled with the slippery feel of vacuum, neither hot nor cold. If she didn't get into a pressure equivalence garment right away, she was likely to hurt herself, to start hemorrhaging or something.

  The apartment shook once again, almost knocking her off her feet. Ialah, she had to get out of here. She had to get the door open, get the children out of here. She had abandoned Tyumen, hijacked a shuttle to come and rescue them both, and Waisters or no Waisters, they would not come to harm while she lived.

  Even Andrei Brakanov had loved his children, loved and protected them fiercely and without reserve until the day he breathed his last. Indeed, Malye still felt his love hovering near her much of the time, like a vapor, an almost visible, almost palpable thing. Love was white, her father had once told her on an evening's walk through the gardens. And it tasted like batteries.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  214::02

  PINEGA, GATE SYSTEM:

  CONTINUITY 5218, YEAR OF THE DRAGON

  Malye awoke with a start and looked around her. Confused at first, then remembering where she was: the empty chamber Wende had given them to rest in. The walls were as white as ever, the three globes of intangible light still hovering, evenly spaced, around the room's geometric center. Viktor was on the couch across from hers, lying on his back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with slow regularity. And Sasha had moved to what would be the Queen's couch, and sprawled there now in merciful sleep, his back toward Malye and Viktor.

  She should probably find out how to work the lights, how to dim them or turn them off. Actually, she should probably get up and stay up, but just now the effort seemed enormous. Instead, she rolled over and went almost immediately back to sleep.

  When she woke next, it was with less alarm and confusion. She lay for a while with her eyes closed, wondering if she would sleep more, and when she did not, opened her eyes and sat up.

  Sasha and Viktor sat facing one another on the floor, cross-legged, in the corner that was farthest from Malye's couch. She heard their voices, too soft to make out. They appeared to be playing some sort of game with their fingers, something quick and intense, involving counting patterns that jumped from one hand to the other and back again. Their hands fluttered and stopped, fluttered and stopped, and then remained motionless for a while.

  “Oh, you win again,” she heard Viktor say. “You're not bad at this, you know that?”

  To Malye's eyes, both men looked a little better, Sasha less grief-stricken and Viktor not quite so weirdly jubilant. Emotional hangover, the morning after. The process had only just started, of course—for the foreseeable future, they would all be swinging through the obligatory cycles of denial and anger and despair. And Ialah, it could only get worse when the others were revived. Elle's five-year-old temper might never subside, and Vad... She didn't know what to expect from him. Such an odd child.

  But this moment seemed to be a respite of sorts. She wondered what game the two men were playing.

  “Good morning,” she said to them. They turned.

  “Oh. Malyene.” Viktor nodded politely. “I was starting to wonder if you'd wake up at all.”

  “I'm sorry. I had a very long day.”

  Viktor smiled at that. “A two thousand year day, heh? I must say, cryostasis did not seem very restful to me, either.” He paused, his smile fading. “You must forgive me, of course. You... said you were in the fighting before you came to us. And dragging those kids around, with everyone smothering and dying... A difficult day indeed.”
>
  Malye waved him to silence. Not now, not now. Don't sour the moment. “What game is that you're playing?”

  “Oh, this?” Viktor ducked his head self-consciously. “It's called two-ten. A children's game, actually; they play it in Kaluga and Varn. Played, I should say.”

  She grunted, nodded. Those were Creta's moons, both of them large worlds with high natural gravity and a reputation for pious austerity among the citizenry. Minitarians, mostly: no spices in their food, no sweets or toys for their children, lest Ialah think them weak, and undeserving of Paradise. But the cleverness of children would overcome any obstacle; even a monster knew that. And as for Paradise, well, she hoped the Minitarians were happier there than here, because they certainly weren't likely to return.

  “Would you like to learn how to play?” Viktor asked Malye.

  “It isn't difficult,” Sasha volunteered, politely but uncertainly, as if he were afraid of offending her.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. But you can teach my son.”

  The men exchanged looks, shrugged, and then began another game. Malye couldn't quite follow it, but it looked spirited enough as the two flashed their hands up again and again. Sasha actually grinned for a moment, faintly but noticeably, and then all at once the game was over.

  “Crap, you are good,” Viktor complained mildly. He looked up at Malye. “Colonel, I tried out that Congress of Advisors thing. Fairly astonishing. You might want to take a look before we go anywhere.”

  “Huh. Very well, where is it?”

  “I put it under your bed, there.”

  Without rising from the bed, she stuck her head down and looked underneath. The black handgrip was there, within easy reach. She reached.

  The thing felt light in her hand, as if it were hollow. She brought it up, examined it as she moved to a sitting position. The round trigger on top of it was obviously meant to be pressed with the thumb.

  She tried it.

  The white room went away, Viktor and Sasha along with it. She found herself instead in a huge amphitheater, walled in with plaster and wood, domed over with dark, painted frescoes from which hung at least a dozen chandeliers. She was on the dais at the chamber floor, rows and rows of benches and tables rising up before her into the distance, crowded with thousands of human beings in clashing, outlandish dress. The lighting was incandescent, yellow and dim.

  Her hand was empty, but in a distant way she could still feel the black handgrip, and her thumb holding down its trigger. Somehow she was not sitting anymore. Somehow, she was standing, and a man was standing here with her, unfamiliar, gray-skinned but otherwise human in appearance, his red hair standing out from his head, long and straight and not quite unruly.

  “Kiel kanst ye assisti?” the man asked her, smiling politely.

  Startled, she let her thumb up off the handgrip's trigger.

  Instantly, the enormous amphitheater became the white, octohedral chamber once more. She was sitting again, on the edge of her couch, Viktor and Sasha both staring at her expectantly.

  “Names of Ialah,” she sputtered. “What happened?”

  “That was the Congress,” Viktor said. “It's quite something, isn't it?”

  “Congress? What's it for? How does it work?”

  Smiling now, Viktor shrugged. “What's anything for? I don't know. Why don't you ask it?”

  “How does it work?” Malye repeated. “I wasn't here; I was in some other place. How did that happen? Where was I?”

  “I assure you, you never moved from that spot. You had that button down for just a moment, and I had my eyes on you the whole time. It does feel pretty real, though, doesn't it?”

  Instead of answering, Malye grunted, and depressed the trigger again.

  The vaulted Congress chamber returned.

  Released it.

  The white room. Viktor and Sasha.

  Depressed it yet again.

  Vaulted chamber.

  “Kiel kanst ye assisti?” asked the red-haired, gray-skinned man on the dais with her.

  “I...” she said experimentally. “I don't understand.”

  “Ah,” said the red-haired man. “Standard, late interstitial. Can you understand me now?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously.

  “Excellent, excellent. How may we assist you?”

  Assist. Advise? This was the Congress of Advisors, no? Was every face out there a personal advisor?

  “What is this place?” she asked, raising her arms and eyes in a gesture that took in the whole chamber.

  “This place,” the red-haired man replied, “is a sensory reproduction of the Senate floor on Council Station, Sol System, as it appeared during the closing decades of the Clementine Monarchy. It seats exactly five thousand, two hundred sixty-four individuals. Gravity level is zero point five two, the air a room-temperature mixture of oxygen/nitrogen/helium in five three two combination, at precisely three hundred millibars pressure. Lighting level is a spartan four watts per square meter, generated by electrical currents passing through tungsten resistor filaments in two hundred fifty-two evacuated glass bulbs. Much of the furniture and architectural adornment you see is of mahogany, a natural wood imported at great cost from Asia, a region of Earth which remained heavily forested at that time.”

  Malye gawked. The red-haired man paused for breath every so often, but he didn't fidget, didn't shift his weight from foot to foot or move through a range of facial expressions as people so often did when speaking. He looked human but awfully stiff, and he spoke... like he was reciting a memorized document. When police computers were made to speak in human voices, they sounded very much like that. And she got no feelings from him, no noises or colors spinning out from his center.

  “Are you a machine?” she asked the man.

  “I am part of a machine,” he replied. “I am a conjugate, self-organizing data structure, which despite a highly autonomous design has been for reasons of efficiency constrained to minimal self-awareness. My purpose is to serve as a visual and linguistic interface between the user, the historical archive, the oracular extrapolation and prediction engines, and the Congressional simulacra. My official title is 'Moderator,' but the user may assign me any name, title, or other designation that suits his needs.”

  “I see,” Malye said, overwhelmed. This... thing was very much like a police computer, in that every question seemed to provoke a torrent of information, the machine itself unable to distinguish between meaningful data and chaff. But it was very polished and elegant about it. Strange. “This is all very... Can I perhaps ask you to speak more succinctly?”

  The Moderator nodded. “Of course.”

  Huh. That was easy enough. “Who are all these people?” she tried, pointing out at the bizarre figures seated above, in the terraced arcs of benches and tables.

  “Those are the Congressional simulacra.”

  Malye sniffed, neither amused nor annoyed, nor even particularly surprised. Machines still did what you told them, she saw, and not what you wanted. “A little more information than that, please.”

  The Moderator swept his arm across the crowd. “The persons seated before you are the simulacra of pivotal figures from various points in human history, presented here as a powerful and flexible Congress of Advisors. They may be queried en masse, in groups, or individually, and may be tied in various ways to archival data and oracular algorithms as befits the needs of the user. In toto they may be regarded as representing the sum of human wisdom.”

  Malye peered out at the Congress, squinting in the dim light. “They all look like men to me.”

  The Moderator nodded his agreement. “The viewpoints and attitudes of women throughout history are preserved in archival data, and indeed, female influences on the course of history must not be underemphasized. However, many historical figures, when simulated accurately and in detail, refuse to acknowledge the validity or propriety of female opinions. This can lead to unproductive cycles of computation and dialogue which reduce the usef
ulness of this unit; for purposes of efficiency all members of the Congress are therefore male.”

  “There is no female Congress?”

  “This unit is not configured to provide such a service.”

  “Names,” Malye cursed. Of course, women had had nothing to do with history, nothing at all. She squashed the urge to argue—what good could it possibly do?—but a pall had been cast over the credibility of this device and its makers.

  This was a lot to take in, a lot to wake up to. She was tempted to release the thumb trigger again and go back to Viktor and Sasha. Such a lot that needed doing: reviving Elle and Vadim and the cryostasis patients, dealing with them, dealing with this strange future in which they found themselves. And dealing, yes, with Wende and her cohorts, telling them what they wanted—needed—to know before the Waisters returned to finish the colony off.

  Damn it. Damn it all. She released the trigger.

  Once again she was in the white room with Viktor and Sasha. They were both still staring at her, neither one appearing to have moved in the minute or two she'd been gone.

  “You know, you don't have to watch me,” she said to them.

  Viktor smiled. “Back with us already? You can't have learned all that much in so short a time.”

  “We have a lot to do,” she said, testily. “My children—”

  “Will be just fine where they are. Please, Colonel, spend as long with the Congress as you like. No time will be wasted—I'll promise to wake you if anything happens.”

  Viktor seemed to be enjoying a private joke, some amusing little secret he wasn't going to share until he was ready, and this clashed so sharply with Malye's restlessness that for a moment she didn't know what to say.

  “The Waisters are returning,” she reminded him, holding back the word “idiot” at the last moment.

  Viktor nodded. “So I've heard, yes. And there doesn't seem to be anything we can do about it right now, except maybe to inform ourselves. How do we know what we want, if we only barely know where we are?”