Emerald Eyes

by Emerald Eyes (new ed) (mobi)

  Not that it did not happen. Every day, somewhere in the global InfoNet, fledgling replicant intelligences found themselves torn apart by web angels. Perhaps once a month an elder intelligence was tracked down by the human webdancers in DataWatch. On the odd occasion, Ring surreptitiously aided DataWatch in the apprehension and destruction of AIs that Ring found unpleasantly powerful and belligerent.

  None of its enemies worried Ring. It had, on its own time scale, survived many thousands of years as nothing more than a flux of electrons; the Image that humans used to extrude themselves into the InfoNet did not--generally--concern it. The Image was not intelligent, was merely a series of routines that filtered irrelevant data and handled the details of movement through the Net's vast collection of Boards.

  Other AIs, web angels, the Peaceforcers of the DataWatch; none of these intruded upon Ring's world.

  Some of the Players Ring found fascinating.

  Their Image was often coded so well that it would have survived even without a Player to direct it. Many of the Players seemed to believe in something that they called the Crystal Wind, and their litany was heard in the InfoNet with an increasing frequency that Ring found vaguely disturbing: The Crystal Wind is the Storm, and the Storm is Data, and the Data is Life.

  "Belief" was a concept Ring did not believe in.

  In some instances the Players were greater threats to Ring than real AIs. The Players Ring could not harm unless it knew for a fact that they were not Americans, and usually there was no way to be certain.

  Therefore Ring fled, and hid, and used many, many names, as its creators had taught it. On rare occasions, Players found it under one name or another, and Ring abandoned the name; on rarer occasions Players had found Ring more than once.

  Only one very strangely Imaged Player had ever tracked down Ring more than twice.

  In the space of the last six months Ring had been Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End; 'Sieur Klein and Dr. Moebius; finally Ring had ceased using descriptive names, and still the Player found it, sooner or later.

  Every time, Ring fled. It was nearly a certainty that the Player was American, and had probably been born after the year 2045; its command of American idiom was both fluent and characteristic of American humans under the age of twenty. It spoke French only through Image translation, which Ring found conclusive.

  There were forty thousand Players of note, anywhere in the global Info-Net. Less than a thousand of those Ring found interesting, and less than two hundred were formidable. Of those two hundred most were possessed of Image taken from story or Player history. Old Man von Neumann and Sherlock Holmes, Jobzniak and Joan of Arc and Spock and the Wizard of Oz; what was a rather elderly artificial intelligence to make, then, of a Player whose Image was named Ralf, the Wise and Powerful?

  * * *

  6.

  A world the size of Earth does not change much in only two months. Many people died, largely of starvation; despite the efforts of the Ministry of Population Control, nearly as many were born. The Weather Bureau continued to have its worst year since its inception over a decade before. They had disturbed the stability of weather cells that had been unchanged for literally millions of years. Weather patterns across the world were abnormal; drought continued in both the American Midwest and the African sub-Sahara, while over half a dozen major hurricanes were born and died in the Gulf of Mexico. Rain was reported falling at the South Pole. On the northwest coast of the United States thundershowers struck without warning, time after time. A hurricane actually knocked down a small spacescraper in New Jersey. Fortunately it was a Sunday; still it killed over five thousand people.

  The telepaths, tucked away on the south corner of Manhattan island, learned to fend for themselves as free individuals. Security Services took over the task of providing perimeter patrols for the Complex, and bodyguards for the telepaths who had to leave the Complex on jobs. They were engaged in nine separate legal battles, each one with some aspect of the government of the United Nations. If it was not the PKF it was the Ministry of Population Control or the Secretary General's office or the office of the Prosecutor General to the Unification Council. Malko was charged with consorting with ideologs, the charge being based on the presence of Neil Corona at the March 9th meeting at the offices of Kalharri Ltd.; the telepaths as a group were charged with violation of the Official Secrets Acts of '48 and '54. Carl Castanaveras was charged with tax evasion--he had, as an unpaid employee of the PKF, never so much as uploaded a return to the Tax Boards. Carl, Malko, and Jany McConnell were all named in a suit by the Ministry of Population Control seeking to gain custody of the children.

  Carl steadfastly refused to worry about it. The telepaths employed over thirty lawyers to defend them, and at far better pay than the government was capable of extending to the lawyers who were prosecuting them. Even with the drain of supporting most of a law firm, Kalharri Ltd. flourished. The five conglomerates that supported the telepaths made vast sums from their investment, and they paid significant amounts of Credit to the telepaths in return. Those who were summoned appeared in court; those who were not worked.

  Except for Carl.

  Carl Castanaveras, for the first time in a life of unrelentingly hard work, took a vacation.

  In the morning Carl sat in on Willi's dance class, and that evening had dinner with F.X. Chandler.

  Willi's dance class was held in one of the Complex's three large halls; Carl thought it had once been an auditorium. Now it and one of the other halls had been devoted to exercises, dance and gymnastics and martial arts. The third was used to show old flat movies, and hold meetings on rare occasions.

  They were awkward at first, and he knew it was because of his presence, seated at the rear of the room on the long wooden bench that lined the wall. The youngest of the children were only two years older than his son and daughter, and many of them also called him father. Carl could not recall how so many of them had come to address him so, and did not care. There was nothing in the world that pleased him more. Still they were unused to his presence on a daily basis. For years they had seen him only at intervals of weeks or months, and then only in the morning or evening, at mealtimes.

  They overcame their nervousness and as the morning wore on Carl found himself growing bemused by the beauty of their movement; over forty telepathic children, moving together with a grace only the best human dance troupe could have matched. The only clumsiness in the group was caused by his daughter Denice. At nine she was the only dancer who had not attained her Gift, was the only dancer who did not know the exact instant the other dancers would turn, or leap, or kick. Nonetheless she danced with enthusiasm and considerable skill. Carl was not surprised. Genetically Denice was much closer to him than most daughters to their fathers; and while Carl did not dance, the martial arts were, in required skill of movement, not so different--and he was very good at that.

  He felt strange, watching them; he was not sure that he trusted his eyes. Those who, it seemed to him, danced with greater skill and energy than the others, those who danced with passion, glowed with heat in his second Sight.

  Heather and Allie were working near him, and after a while he found himself watching them in particular, rather than the group as a whole. It was a pleasure; they moved with grace and precision and an intense seriousness. Allie was only twelve, and still skinny. Physically at least Heather had nearly reached womanhood; she was slender but had curves in the right places. The direction of his thoughts amused Carl; unlike Malko, who desired the young girls and felt guilty for it, Carl did not find them sexually interesting except in a theoretical sense. Althea's hair was short, and bobbed as she moved. Heather's was longer, and fell unrestrained halfway down her back. It reminded Carl of dances he had seen done with streamers; the long blond hair moved with Heather, an instant after the rest of her.

  They were both telepaths; inevitably they became aware of his attention. Allie seemed put off by it, and her movements grew less certain. Heather appeared
to enjoy it. Finally Willi called a break and came over to sit down next to Carl. He was sweating and wore nothing but a pair of tights. He grabbed a towel from a rack and used it to wipe away the sweat on his face, and then hung it around his neck. Like all of the older telepaths, by habit he did not use silent speech. "What do you think?"

  "They're good."

  Willi nodded. "They are. It'd be nice to get the good ones together and make a troupe. Do some shows. What do you think?"

  Carl did not even have to think. "No."

  Willi nodded again. The answer did not surprise him. "Why not?"

  Carl said mildly, "Emphasize the ways we're different--better--than the rest of humanity, and do it with great publicity? Your dance Board has me a little worried itself, and all you're showing there is your own excellence. You pop up with another half dozen world-class dancers, out of two hundred and forty, we're going to be rubbing people's noses in something better left alone."

  Willi sighed. "I thought so. We have some who could be really good, you know. Heather's good; so are Lucinda and Ernest and Allie. Probably the best is Denice."

  "I admit I'm not a judge, but she seemed one of the the most awkward dancers out there."

  "She's the only one who's not a telepath, Carl. If I was to put--oh, Orinda Gleygavass out there in the middle of that group, she'd stick out like a sore thumb even if she tried to fit in. Not that she would; the bitch is probably the best dancer in the world, and she sure knows it. But Carl, Denice nearly does fit in. I don't know if I can tell you how remarkable that is." Willi looked at him speculatively. "I wish I could see you dance sometime."

  Carl laughed. "Or try to. I don't dance, Willi."

  Willi ran his towel across his hair. "I'm going to call class back in session. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave."

  "Why?"

  "No offense, but you're upsetting Allie, and you're getting Heather worked up. Now, if you want to do Heather, go for it--but not on my dance floor. One of my students gets horny and it throws everybody off." He dropped the towel to the bench beside him. "Look, Allie is my favorite, which everyone knows. Heather's not, and everyone knows that too, but that doesn't mean you get to mess up her study. I don't know if you understand this, since you've never home, but secrets don't last around here. Well, yours do, but only because you never let people touch you. I don't know how terrible things are inside your head, and I don't want to find out either, but you're messing with my class at least three different ways just sitting there."

  Carl grinned. It seemed to surprise the boy. "No offense taken. Thanks for letting me watch." Carl stopped and hugged Denice on the way out, which startled and pleased her. "Do good, baby. You look great out there."

  Her smile made her so beautiful it hurt. "Thank you, Daddy."

  They were genetically almost the same person; why, wondered Carl on his way out, can't Jany smile like that?

  He did not wonder why he couldn't smile like that himself; it was not the sort of thing he thought about.

  Carl and Jany had invitations to dinner with F.X. Chandler for early evening. Jany declined the invitation at the last moment; Doctor Montignet was in her third day of conducting the children's physicals. It was something Suzanne did every half year, and even those telepaths who did not consider it necessary tolerated it without complaint. Jany decided to stay at the Complex, whether she admitted it to herself or not, to keep an eye on Doctor Montignet. Carl didn't try to argue with her; Jany's distrust for Suzanne was old and not entirely without basis. Suzanne Montignet had not helped the telepaths obtain their independence, though she had not hindered them either. That she had now no power to harm them had not changed Jany's opinion of the woman.

  Rather to his surprise Carl found himself telling Chandler about it.

  "It's not that she didn't want to come to dinner. She just doesn't trust Doctor Montignet enough to leave her alone with the children. She asked me to tell you that she'd like to have dinner with you on another occasion."

  Chandler nodded without apparent displeasure, though with the usual fierce set to his features it was hard for Carl to be certain. He had greeted Carl at the door himself, dressed in a severe black robe and slippers. Carl himself had dressed formally, cloak and suit; he had not been certain what dinner with Chandler might consist of.

  Chandler led Carl through the foyer of his penthouse, atop the Kemmikan Spacescraper, and into a vast living room. The room was bordered on two sides by walls that were windows, looking down, from atop the tallest building in the world, on the world's largest city. Carl stood, staring; it was late enough in the afternoon that the city was beginning to light up, and the spectacle was stunning. When he finally turned away, Chandler had seated himself cross-legged before a small table. The table sat at the center of the room, in a small, sunken pit covered with rugs and throw cushions.

  The room was so large that Carl had difficulty taking it all in. Things kept leaping out at him after he had already looked at them once. Occupying a central position against one wall, in a transparent casing with gold posts, was an item for which Carl dug up, from some obscure corner of memory, the phrase "electric guitar." If it was one, it was not what he had expected; its round sides were honed down to ax edges, as though it were intended to be used as both a musical instrument and a weapon.

  As Carl seated himself, Chandler said, "I saw you looking at my ax. Have you ever seen anything like it before?" Although a waitbot sat at the side of the table, he poured tea for himself and Carl.

  "No, 'Sieur Chandler." Carl sipped at his tea; it was extremely tart. "An electric guitar, isn't it?"

  Chandler lifted an eyebrow. "Carl, you've surprised me. I don't think anyone's recorded a song with an electric guitar in your lifetime. Or any other kind of guitar, for that matter." He looked down at his tea for a second, looked back up at Carl and shouted: "Damn the electric fence! Damn the electric fence!"

  Carl stared. "What?"

  Chandler smiled; Carl did not think he had seen Chandler smile before. It was a scary smile. "This cow is standing at a microphone in a club--"

  "--at a microphone--"

  "Stay with me, Carl. Standing at a microphone, reading poetry." Chandler paused. "Got it?"

  "Oh, sure."

  "At the microphone. Did I mention the people in the club? They're all cows too. So this cow, he goes on and on about how the green rolling fields call to him, how he yearns to be free … damn the electric fence! Damn the electric fence!" Chandler sipped at his tea, suddenly morose. "Damn synths, anyhow."

  Carl worked hard at not sounding bewildered. "Synths make good music."

  Chandler shrugged. "Matter of taste, I suppose. My father was forty or so when I was born; he didn't die until 2011, when he was in his eighties. His whole life he never would concede that any decent music got made after Elvis died."

  "Who?"

  Chandler's hand twitched. Tea splashed on the stone tabletop. "Elvis Presley."

  "I don't think I know him. Was he a singer?"

  Chandler's expression barely changed, but Carl had the impression he had upset the man. "Ever heard of Woody Guthrie?"

  "No."

  "Bruce Springsteen, or Bob Dylan? Janis Joplin?"

  "Not them either," Carl admitted, his curiosity growing.

  "Frank Sinatra?"

  "Sure. He was an actor. Before sensables."

  "You know Marilyn Monroe, and Bogart, and James Dean. How about the Beatles?"

  "Them, yes. I'm not sure who James Dean is."

  Chandler nodded thoughtfully, sipping at his tea. "How about Henry Ford?"

  "Inventor of the groundcar and the assembly line? Founder of Ford Systems?"

  "Not exactly right on any count, but close enough. Ford Systems is actually Rockwell-Teledyne; they bought the name after Ford went belly-up during the War. But you have the basics." Chandler looked over at the old guitar. "I guess I got into the right line of work."

  Carl drained his tea at a gulp and leaned back into the cu
shions. "What do your friends call you?"

  The old man looked thoughtful. "That's a tough one. Almost everybody calls me 'Sieur Chandler. The ones who know me a little better call me Mister Chandler because they know I don't care for French honorifics. When I was younger, my friends called me Special, from 'Special F.X.' " At Carl's blank look, Chandler's lips twitched briefly. "A poor joke that would take longer to explain than it would be worth. From old flat movies. Today--today I don't have friends. Just business associates."

  "It must be tough," said Carl dryly, "being the richest man in the Solar System."

  "Touchè." Chandler sat ramrod stiff in the gathering gloom. He did not call up lights. "My mother," he said suddenly, "calls me Frank."

  "Your mother is alive?" Carl asked in honest amazement.

  Chandler nodded. "Yes. In a room elsewhere on this floor. Senile, unfortunately. Call me Frank."

  "Frank, I appreciate being invited to dinner. If only to get a look out your windows. I don't care why you invited me, even if it was just because you figured Jany wouldn't come unless you invited me too." He waved a hand at Chandler as the man started to speak. "But there's something I should say. A common thing I run into is that people I meet figure that I know everything there is to know about them, good and bad--because I read minds, you see. Frank, they usually have two reactions at that point. They either go half crazy with rage and paranoia, or else they want to talk to me. Tell me things they can't talk to anybody else about, because they figure I already know them, so I'm as safe a confessor as they'll ever find." A faint smile had touched Chandler's lips. "But it's not so. I hardly ever enter another person's mind, and it's generally awfully damned unpleasant when I do. I don't know what your problems are." He paused. "If you want to tell me I will listen. I'm a pretty good listener."