The Armies of Memory

by John Barnes

  “Well, then,” I said, “tell me about Aurenga.”

  “We’re an odd world,” Ebles said. “If we had been closer in, I don’t think we’d have been settled at all, during the First Diaspora.”

  “The first?” I asked.

  “The founding of the Thousand Cultures. You call it the Diaspora because you didn’t know there’s been another one since, and ongoing. Aurenga is about seventy percent of Earth-sized—you could think of it as Söderblom with even more water, or a bigger young Mars with oceans, a smaller Wilson, or a smallish very wet proto-Venus. But in land area and population it’s a mere speck.”

  The island of Noucatharia, about half the size of the Big Island of Hawaii, was a high part of a mountain plateau on a submerged continent. Aurenga’s continents were all submerged, but plate tectonics were very active, and the more recent mountain ranges poked out above the water, so that about five percent of the surface area was dry land. The biggest contiguous bit of land was Serras-Lassús, a mountain chain three hundred kilometers west of Noucatharia, standing almost three kilometers above the shallow equatorial sea, a wind-wave-and-storm break that protected Noucatharia and created a kind of Caribbean-but-more-so.

  So much of Serras-Lassús was so vertical that it had only a few settlements, none of more than fifty people, along its inner, leeward face, and there were no plans to ever settle it much more extensively. Indeed, “by the standards of the First Diaspora, the whole planet only had about one-fifth of one standard colony space of habitable land,” Ebles said, a little defensively. “I know one rationale for the Council claiming jurisdiction over every bit of empty ground where people could live is that there’s only so much land, and so many organizations would like to plant a culture—but in our case, it’s doubtful anyone would use the land for anything else.”

  I nodded. “Well, at least you have a plausible line of defense if some idiot drags this into court. Is it ecologically long-term stable? You said it was kind of proto-Venus, with a young sun.”

  “Long term, no, it’s not stable at all. Low surface gravity, low total mass, so the scale height is very high, with a very high and feeble cold trap. So a great deal of water gets into the upper atmosphere and photosplits, and the gravity can’t hold the hydrogen. Even though Aurenga was abiotic before the Predecessors got there, it had a forty-five percent oxygen atmosphere just from photodissociation, enough so that the Predecessors had to create organisms to pull oxygen out of the atmosphere for safety.”

  “When were the Predecessors there?”

  “About a hundred thousand years ago. I suppose it’s no secret that Aurenga is out in the direction of Hammarskjöld and they settled there long before they came here.”

  “And yet they failed there.”

  He seemed to think a moment before deciding what to say next. “Shall we drop the pretense? The other aliens, the ones we both call the Invaders, massacred them. As they did everywhere that either Union or Council explorers have ever found Predecessor ruins.”

  The existence of Hammarskjöld was supposed to be a secret, the mission there had been a deep-black OSP operation, and officially the public had not been told that we knew where the Predecessors had gone, let alone that they had gone down fighting. I made a mental note to urge Margaret and the Board not to bother trying to preserve any secrets about that aspect of the OSP’s mission; our main rivals clearly knew most of what we did.

  We had sat silently for a minute or so; clearly he had said all he wanted to say about the aliens at this point, so I prompted. “So Aurenga is not long-term stable?”

  He shook his head. “But long enough for human purposes. Across the next quarter of a billion years, the sun will heat up and the dust will clear out of the inner system. Eventually the insolation will be at near-Venus levels, you’ll get a runaway water-based greenhouse, the oceans will boil, the carbonates in the crust will release CO2, and you’ll have a Venus. Plus the moon will fall. Aurenga captured an icy planetesimal sometime in the last half million years, so it has a big, highly reflective moon in steeply inclined rather elliptical orbit—the tides are impressive, too. Beautiful place, but we have not tamed it; we’re just living there while it’s still safe, or as safe as it was for the Predecessors, anyway.

  “Meanwhile, it’s an almost-paradise. We introduced all the Earth sea life we could get samples of, plus all the engineered stuff from all the oceans of all the settled worlds, just modifying it all to deal with the relatively low salinity. All that sea life had a population explosion—we could feed all of human space with all our fish. From the crosstree of a good-sized yacht, I’ve seen pods of whales extending to the horizon. Our harbors are dancing with porpoises, every river in Serras-Lassús is full of salmon, trout, and eels, there are penguins and polar bears on the polar islands, and we have beaches swarming with Söderblom mimicseals, and of course levithi and aurocs-de-mer from Wilson, and … well, you must let me take you reef-diving, and then over a big plate of oysters and fresh crab, we can—”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Ebles—may I call you by your first name, donz?—if they are going to make you retire as a spy, once Noucatharia joins the Council, I suggest you see if they’ll let you head up the bureau of tourism. It sounds delightful. And I take it your mission is to invite me to Aurenga, to spend some time in Noucatharia making informal cultural contacts as a first step to more formal political connections later? Well, I’ll accept, if you want me to.”

  “We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t.”

  “Are you sure? If Noucatharia accidentally allows us to learn of Aurenga’s position, particularly if we get the address of any open springer on Aurenga, Council of Humanity policy is that you will be invaded and seized.”

  Ebles looked down grimly at the table in front of him. “Things are in such a state that we have little choice. I’ve completed my mission for tonight. Please stay. Azalais will be back soon anyway.”

  “I thought she was just the contact person.”

  “She is, Giraut, but deu tropa gens, she also really likes you. So treat her kindly, or it’s a duel without limit with me.” His avian features pulled up into a sharp grin that was uncomfortably vulturelike.

  I smiled back. “It’s good to be home.”

  “It is. Always.”

  “If you’re done settling the problems of the universe,” Azalais said, returning to the table, “I’m starving.”

  “Well, that’s a problem I can settle, midons,” I said. Ebles had vanished. “Table Aintellect, can we get a platter of tapas, one more glass, and another carafe of Hedon Gore?”

  “Yes, sir, on its way.”

  “Thank you.” Her hands were resting on the table as if she might boost up and run, or as if she might grab me; I reached forward and gently lifted her fingertips from the table with mine, holding her hands lightly enough so that she could break the contact—in no way, I hoped, anything she could construe as my grabbing her. “Azalais, whatever you’re worried about, it’s all right. Sit down, and let’s talk.”

  Azalais made a face. “Most entendendors become mere memories, some become friends, a few become husbands, and that one became my big brother. Did he warn you that if you hurt me he’ll eviscerate you?”

  “No, but he did offer me duel without limit.”

  “Maybe he’s losing confidence as he gets older.” She sighed, and her expression was distant, but she looked me in the eye. “About our past connection. I suppose I should say ‘Now you know’ except I’m sure that you knew five minutes after our first contact.”

  “The OSP isn’t quite that good, but I’ve known for a long time, yes. May I ask …”

  “Anything!”

  I deliberately leaned back and relaxed. “Just tell me, honestly, how much you’ve been involved. Partly so that I can report it accurately to my superiors, partly so that I can protect you from being swept up in more than you should be, mostly because I am fond of you, too, and enjoying our little jeu di cor, and would like to continue i
t. Of course I’m assuming you weren’t part of the operation trying to kill me.”

  “No!”

  “Thank you for looking so distressed, midons. Well; so … you were in finamor with Ebles—”

  “And I was very passionately Traditional. I knew he had gone off to the Lost Legion colony. So five years later, without warning, Ebles turned up, said he’d never been able to forget me, and asked me to go with him to Noucatharia.

  “At first it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen; springing there was like stepping through a door from the fake world to the real one. Everyone in Traditional clothing all the time. Real men carrying real weapons and treating me with real courtesy. And in their bright clear sunlight, with that perfect air that their island gets—like Earth air but with more oxygen—you could take a deep breath and imagine that you weren’t on the planet Aurenga, today, but in the walled city of Aurenga in 1075, with the Great Conference of the Trobadors just starting, and all those wonderful voices performing in that magnificent thousand-year-old Roman theater, with Lord Raimbaut himself sitting in the place of honor.”

  “If that ever happened.”

  “If it did. What a natural qualifier that seems here—and what an odd one it would have seemed there in Masselha. I felt at home for the first time ever, Giraut. Everything so alive and so real.

  “And then … well, Noucatharia has an underside that is excruciating if you’ve loved the place—like discovering some wanton cruelty in a lover. I know that Ebles plans to show that underside to you.”

  “And you won’t say what it is, either?”

  “No. You will eventually understand why.” She sighed and looked down. “Anyway I came back here. To get away from the thing they are inviting you there to see. And to have time and space to play my music and to enjoy the things I enjoyed, while there was time.”

  “While there was time?”

  “To enjoy them.”

  “I understood that part, but—”

  She went on in a rush. “When Ebles said, ‘We can get you hired to work on the recordings of the Ix Cycle,’ well, there I was, and I did all the rest too. Only, you know … well, he told you about how I’ve come to feel. I guess I really wasn’t cut out to be a spy.”

  I shrugged. “You might be a better spy than you think you are,” I said. “The ability to like other people when you need to is not a trivial skill. Especially”—I reached for her hand “—when there is no reason to.”

  “Will this be all right with your superiors?”

  “As long as I’m not being played against them, they would think of it as something that might help.” I was painfully aware how true that was; my marriage to Margaret had broken on the rock of an affair she had had with an informant, and Shan, my boss and best friend at the time, had encouraged it because of the information she was gaining. I could marry Azalais, or rape her and leave her dead in an alley, and Margaret’s only concern in either case would be whether the OSP had gotten all the information it could out of the situation. “As far as I know, you’ve just been a messenger and a go-between in all this affair. No one is going to arrest you—if we were going to pick anyone up, it would be Ebles, but he’s far too valuable as a contact with the Noucathars.

  “You’re doing superb work as the producer of the Ix Cycle, so I want you to continue. I like your company and I enjoy being with you in bed, so, of course, if you like, stay. My bosses at the OSP will ask if there’s any advantage we can get from my association with you, probably conclude there isn’t much, and back-file it till there is. Meanwhile, we can enjoy each other, if that’s all right?”

  “It would be lovely.”

  The aintellect announced the food and it rolled out of the springer slot. After we were less hungry and picking at our food with frequent sips of that glorious red wine between, I asked, “Another question. Are you actually Ixist or is that part of your cover? I will confess I have muttered now and then that you are more Ixist than Ix—”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but that part will continue,” she said. “I really am Ixist. While I lived in Masselha, the story of Briand was all that anyone talked about for weeks—Ix’s preaching, the crisis, the blazing death of a world.”

  “Are the Noucathars all Ixists?”

  “Many, but not all—there’s violent opposition. The ultratraditionalists that are trying to kill you have also murdered four prominent Ixists in Noucatharia, and Ebles thinks but can’t prove that they are behind some anti-Ixist bombings and murders in Council space. The ultratrads were one of the reasons why I moved back here—I don’t think I will take up the robe and dagger full-time, ever—it seems very affected to me, and the opposite of what Ix meant to preach.”

  “That’s my feeling as well, for what it’s worth.”

  “I’ll cite you as a source—but if I do put on that silly outfit, I don’t want to be shot down on the street, or kidnapped and brutalized. And yes, the ultratrads have done all that in Noucatharia.”

  “And in Council space?”

  “We think so. And it’s so bizarre. I don’t know how anyone can say that Ixism is anti-traditional—if people would just think seriously about Ix’s words, they would see that the original Cathars—”

  Well, I had virtually invited a sermon, and I got one. The wine and the food remained good (it was Pertz’s), and everything else remained predictable (it was Azalais).

  When we had finished the carafe of wine, Azalais was tired, so she just sprang home; we promised we’d have a real evening out soon.

  Walking home from Pertz’s, I reveled in the warmth of food and wine suffusing my tired body, and in the progress on the case (so far without losing a friend). Descending the old familiar dark and silent streets, the sleeping city was like a comforting, too-often-seen movie playing in the background. It had gotten very late; recording would start late tomorrow, but I would still be short of sleep.

  The ever-dreaming part of my mind kept trying to turn out another song, and that impulse tangled into a puzzle: if Azalais and Ebles were telling the truth, then there were only about three thousand Noucathars, half of them children—presumably about fifteen hundred adults, then. And a “small minority” of them were trying to murder me … or to look as if they were trying to murder me.

  What is a “small minority” of fifteen hundred? When it’s a violent terrorist group, surely it’s a very small minority. Fewer than a hundred? Fewer than twenty would have seemed more likely.

  And yet … they had the resources to produce seven specially tailored chimeras grown in fast tanks. Twenty people might do that, if one of them were a quadrillionaire (but there were only maybe three hundred quadrillionaires in all of Council space), and the rest a mix of scientists. Such things were possible for heads of the most powerful organized crime families, or generals of secret armies. Twenty ordinary religious fanatics? That seemed beyond impossible.

  Somebody wasn’t telling the truth, or not the whole truth.

  I rounded a corner dose to a wall, ready to drop if I were fired on, or to close the distance and strike if there were someone waiting for me. I had not had that reflex as a jovent; Noupeitau had been an honorable place.

  The nagging thoughts led me into an alley. I ran to the other end of it, slipped out on the shadowy side, and went through one public springer to emerge from another a few blocks away, one of the best and simplest methods of shaking a tail. Sometimes practicing the habits of safety is simply soothing.

  This new street was steeper and narrower, but a harder place for my probably nonexistent shadow to trail me.

  New love stirring and old love lost—that situation was never far from igniting a song in an Occitan, for it had been a favorite theme of the original trobadori on Old Earth. The feeling wanted to put on its clothing of music and words, and to merge with my general sense that I was in danger and being lied to. Between loves … between unknown menaces …

  To the rhythm of my bootheels on the cobblestones, the phrases and the feelings
tried to find each other. I couldn’t have … I couldn’t have … Margaret? Paxa? My mother? Just to feel like I mattered to a woman? My old friend Bieris had pointed out to me, about the time that I was realizing what a cretin I had been raised to be, that everything an Occitan jovent did was for an audience of women. Perhaps I had not so much outgrown my jovent as found a more effective way to play to my audience?

  I hadn’t realized until earlier tonight, either, how much the aintellects were my audience, as well, standing between me and my human listeners, animated preferences picking through the field of art. And how strangely they saw us and our feelings and our art! To them, with no senses that they couldn’t turn on or off at will, everything was a reported construct—Raimbaut and Sherlock Holmes, Santa Claus and Ix and Margaret, were all equally stories. And so was that lonely sorry-for-himself-horny-and-rejected feeling that the first Guilhem had captured, on some lonely mountain road in Europe’s Middle Ages—that feeling, and Guilhem himself, and his Agnes, and the poem Guilhem made out of those feelings, and … history was so crowded with stories, and small wonder, for the history of “history” and of “story” begin with the same word, at some campfire ringed by war-chariots and stacked bronze axes.

  Of course aintellects saw everything as a story. They themselves were finally made up of nothing but an enormous number of symbols, directions to some machine about what to do next … in the same way that a musical score is a direction to “play these pitches for this long next” … or that a poem tells you to hear or think this word next … or that sharing human memory begins with an instruction: “remember the time when …”

  Here in the empty street (itself constructed centuries ago, to look this way, out of the memory of certain streets that now existed only in photographs) I could admit to myself that as uncomfortable as I was with the idea of an aintellect being a person—as sure as I was that we needed to keep the boundary between themselves and ourselves, and make sure power stayed on our side of the boundary—I could see their point of view too well.