"But wherever I had the variable decision-gate of an axon/dendrite junction I used two transfinite number-generator arrays. There's nothing but free-will connectors here." Krzakwa felt a sudden dawning of comprehension and, with it, an overlay of terror. "These are Turing circuits!" But the old, outlawed machines had been based on a primitive OS strictly limited by the number of simultaneous relations that they could make. They had been somewhat smarter than men, but still comprehensible. This . . . "What are you planning to do?"
Sealock laughed quietly. "Don't look so upset, Tem. This thing is only a classical tabula rasa; a blank mind of not quite infinite potential. I'll use my own mind as software, then, with me acting as a metacompiler , I'm going to let the contents of the Artifact flow in on top. If there's anything there, I'll get it."
"Shit." The Selenite looked at him dubiously. "You're going to get killed." A shrug. "Could be."
"But ... no controls, Brendan! No GAM, no Redux? What happens if you can't handle it?"
"I guess we know that one, don't we? Bury me in the sun and try to publish my work. I've been an asshole all my life." He passed a hand over his brow, felt the connectors embedded in his hair. "Well, it's ready. Want to hold my hand?"
"But I ..." A long, shaky sigh. "OK." The two men reached for the waveguide terminals and began plugging in.
"Ready?"
Krzakwa answered with an electronic nod. Sealock entered the circuitry in a long, smooth flow, and the Selenite felt his mind expand and grow vastly attenuated as it filled a space infinitely larger than that which had spawned it.
A ghostly voice spoke to him. "There's a lot of room in here. Room to grow. I like it. Here goes . . ." He opened a communication channel through the QC scanner to the Artifact and felt its presence, a lurking, massive dybbuk awaiting his action. He opened himself to it. A swift tongue of data flowed in, then retreated; there was a diminishing, triumphant cry, then: gone. Krzakwa opened his eyes and stared at Sealock's still form with horror. He made a frantic search of the circuitry, but it was empty. He stole a quick look into the man's head: there was a heartbeat, he still breathed, the limbic system still sparkled and fired metronomically, but the higher functions were flat, blank. The amygdala had nothing to coordinate and the corpus callosum had no messages to transport. The being had fled to an unknown distance.
"Discharged . . .," Tem whispered, aghast, and began the series of actions that were all he could do to try to reach in after the receding personality. He brought in the GAM-and-Redux that should have been there in the first place and began a bit-by-bit download of the periphery of the hole inthe circuitry through which Brendan had fallen. It would be a long and tedious search. Brendan Sealock fell away into darkness, then light.
Riding the MPT, John and Ariane skimmed along the surface in a complex series of ballistic course changes, following a trail of vestigial heat tracked by the infrared scanner. Every so often the musician would steal a glance back at the eclipse in progress, but more often he watched the ice pass below, looking for craters.
"I suppose you've thought of the legal ramifications of our discovery," he said. "Under the homesteading provisions, anything that even looks like an artifact must immediately be reported and is confiscated by the IAAU pending secondary confiscation by the Pansolar authorities. We're treading on some pretty bad stuff here, though of course the possible material benefits, not to mention the adventure, make it a hundred times over worth while."
"If we—or rather if Bren can decipher the thing's mode of transmission, then it is. Otherwise the USEC people will snatch everything away as soon as they get here."
"That's assuming that what we find out is something valuable. If only there were a loophole in the laws that we could make use of, either to get ownership of the Artifacts or to cordon off Aello sufficiently to hide the shuttlecraft."
"Well—Aello's pretty much of a mess right now—it's still in the process of reaccreting the mass it lost when we dug out the ship. Anyway, the minute they get here they will be able to deduce that something mighty strange has been going on there. And since we haven't claimed homestead there, we will probably get into trouble for Aello's disruption."
"You're just making that up. I certainly don't remember any laws concerning the blowing up of satellites."
"The pollution laws might apply, if they feel like stretching them."
"You know, perhaps we should start working on a weapon ..."
"John, you're turning into a regular Attila. Whatever happened to your principles? You want to have a revolution?"
Cornwell smiled to himself. "There are parallels. But, no, as far as fighting for our finds goes, I would as soon not risk killing anyone. There are other ways of using a weapon than killing. As far as my principles go—well, I don't feel nearly as much of the reverent fear for other people as I did. Maybe I'm beginning to grow up. People aren't fragile . . . maybe I was overemphasizing my own feelings, I don't know. Yet. Anyway, if I've changed, well, fuck it. That's the way it is." As the MPT performed a propelled hover forty meters over the Ocypetan surface, something rather peculiar was happening below. The ice seemed to be getting whiter, less dim anyway. The complex shadow which moved ever forward about halfway to the horizon now was hiding the small craters and surface irregularities which it engulfed. Though their eyes adapted well and disguised the slow change that was taking place, there could be no mistake for the infrared instrument they were watching.
"Hey," said Ariane, astonishment showing, "it's getting warmer!" John pulled himself around in his harness and stole a look at the eclipse. "Look at that thing! Why the fuck didn't somebody predict this? The atmosphere's acting like a huge lens— sunlight is being focused on Ocypete!"
Ariane formed a link with Shipnet through the Clarke and spent a few moments analyzing the preliminary results of Jana's depth probes of the Iridean atmosphere. "Jesus Christ!" she said. "This is just the beginning of the effect!"
And indeed the blotch-sun was very bright inside the almost washed-out blue planet. As the eclipse had progressed, and the light from the sun passed through denser and denser layers of the Iridean atmosphere, the combination of increasing indices of refraction and changing angles of incidence were producing an effect unheard of in asterology, though it was true that an occasional sun dog had been reported from Triton, light making an erratic course through the middle reaches of the Neptunian atmosphere and emerging through a hole in the splotchy upper atmosphere haze to produce a pearl of light in the otherwise Stygian eclipse. But nothing like this. The implications were not a little frightening. Ariane and John were spellbound by the scene: they slowed the MPT and stared at the skyward conjunction.
"What . . . what about the neon?" asked John finally, his thoughts tinged with apprehension. "It's close to its melting point right now. A few degrees and . . ."
"Exactly. In some places it's going to be pretty messy. There shouldn't be any problems near the center of the ocellus, though."
"Do you think Jana ..."
Abruptly the thought-voice of Demogorgon was with them. "Ariane. John. You've already figured out what's happening? We've got an emergency here. The 'net is reporting that some of the equipment, most especially the large superconductor array and the microwave transmitter, will not tolerate exposure to a much dirtier vacuum than we've got now. If the pressure even doubles we're going to have real trouble. Ariane, would you like to get back here to erect a static barrier, or shall I?" The woman cursed. "I hadn't thought of that. Tem can do it, can't he?"
"He's working with Brendan and they've cut all contact with Shipnet, locked themselves in. You're the only one left. Of course we're dealing with low odds here, but if something goes wrong, well, that would be it."
"All right, I'm coming back. God damn it. I don't have much experience with this stuff—Brendan could handle that section of Shipnet and have it done in a minute. I guess Jana will have to wait. . . ."
It wasn't cold anymore. The rays of the magnified sun were
streaming in through the 60vet's windshield, and Jana felt that she was finally starting to warm up. Just like in the huge window of the old lamasery upon which the Tibetan Observatory had been grafted. After a night of observing through the archaic four-meter reflector, she would go down, frozen to the bone because of some stoic bureaucrats who had decreed that more work could be done in cold temperatures. The sun would eventually break through the mists across the Himalayas and she would bask there until breakfast period was over. She had worn black habitually during those years just to catch the radiation more effectively. It had been good, despite everything.
They should have been here by now, she thought. I'm way past the point where they'll be convinced. A minute passed; another. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach a panic grew. Unless they came very soon she would die. She felt as if she must be crying. Stop! she thought. I've got to stop it. OK, don't lose control—there is still time. Oh no! Please fucking no! The door doesn't have a Shipnet link; I can't close it unless I can move, and I'm . . . I'm . . . and the controls on the suit have been wrecked. What an idiot I am.
If only they would come.
On the craggy highland ice of Ocypete's sub-Iris point something was happening. A methane clathrate boulder rolled in almost infinitely slow motion down a slope, leaving an irregular, crumbly rille in its wake. Elsewhere a humpback mountain began to slump. A dust was slowly accumulating in shallow declivities, as neon gas, percolating through the upper few centimeters of regolith, carried the very light particles of gases still frozen with it.
All across the vastness of the sub-Iridean zone tiny movements were occurring. An observer would probably miss most of them: perhaps he would catch something in his peripheral vision, maybe the occasional subsidence of a hill. Yet the rate of change was growing almost geometrically. Finally, in a deep crater, the first liquid neon appeared as a shiny clear droplet. Enough neon gas had accumulated there to allow the element to exist in its flowing state. In a dekaminute the landscape was covered with small yet growing pools of light. And yet the sun waxed brighter behind its infrastellar intermediary.
The eclipse was far from over.
Harmon Prynne was in a hurry. Making a final visual inspection of the fusion plant, noting the barely visible red glow of excited neon radiating from the bank of wheellikesuperconducting tori , he sighed. There was nothing else he could do. Through the Shipnet link he cut the function by ninety-nine percent. Another adjustment brought the generator directly in line with the circuits in the CM, and a second later he discharged the accumulator elements as a skyward microwave signal.
That done with, the man made a hasty retreat toward the nearby moor dome, scuttling across the ice like a strange skimming stone. Once through the static portal and into the lush holographic image, he began to remove the space suit, dropping the segments as he bounced. Finally he came through the door between the environment dome and the CM dome, his eyes slowly adapting to the dim eclipse light that was the only illumination, coming in through the transparent ceiling. Another leap took him into the Command Module, and hard against the receiving wall. He sealed the entry and let out another sigh, this one longer and more ragged.
Perhaps they had been making this whole thing too dramatic.
In the common room, Beth, Vana, Axie, and Demogorgon were sitting about in the midroom amphitheater, talking and watching the progress of the eclipse through the windows.
"Well, you made it," said Demogorgon. "Is everything shut down?"
"Yeah. All nominal so far." He opened a com-channel and said, "John, what's your arrival time?"
"Should be back in about fifteen minutes, Harmon. Did you see the mist at the horizon line? Opticals suggest it's primarily methane dust carried aloft by the neon—still very low pressure levels. Right now it's barely visible to the naked eye."
Beth turned from the window. "We can see nothing here, John. Though maybe the double barrier we're looking through is hiding it."
"Let's get the satellite to bring visuals in from the highlands—should be some interesting stuff going on out there." John and Ariane broke contact. Prynne puzzled over his new-found uncertainty. He had never been one to ascribe complex or hidden motivations to himself; but then again most of the time his behavior satisfied his concept of his normal self. Now, he was not particularly pleased with himself. Eventually, as he lay back amidst the compressible tiers of the crater, he knew that it was somehow linked to the way Brendan had distanced himself. Without the other man around, Harmon felt considerably more ill at ease about the whole situation. Especially now, in a semicrisis .
"Harmon, we're going to the Illimitor World now. Want to come?" The speaker was Vana. He felt a surge of annoyance grow, then fade suddenly. These people are my friends, he thought, and said, "No. Go ahead. I think I'll concentrate on the situation here, in this world. Have fun."
"Beth?"
The woman shook her head, staring out into the vivid moonscape.
"D'you want to go, Axie?" Vana said, executing a slow somersault across the room. "You seemed to like it last time."
Ockelsgave the other woman a quizzical look, and glanced at Harmon, then at Demogorgon, who was stretching out on the floor, preparatory to the experience. After a moment of tension she seemed to relax, and a little smile appeared, inflating her cheekbones and for a moment making her beautiful. "Sure. Where'll we go this time?"
Demogorgon gestured confidently. "Leave everything to your friendly demigod. Circlets arranged?
Everyone comfortable? One, two, three, and gone."
Harmon watched as the three lapsed into a kind of narcolepsy and settled into various nonpremeditated positions. For a brief moment he was tempted to follow them; but his repairman's skills were all that they had between themselves and disaster until Ariane returned. He felt a sense of duty strongly, not to mention fear. He exchanged a tired glance with Beth, who apparently had lost her enthusiasm over the eclipse and was staring away into nowhere, looking pale and distracted, then turned to face a necessary external reality.
Ariane fired the retrojet and the MPT slid along a barely perceptible downward arc until, not twenty paces from the CM dome, it contacted the ice and electrostatic attraction brought it to a stop. She and John dismounted and, summoning two work-units, made for the fusion generator.
"This shouldn't be too hard," said Ariane.
Out of nowhere, two spider-legged work machines appeared, carrying with apparent ease the girder maker as well as a bulky container holding a just fabricated field modulus device. Though it was a tedious procedure, the machines soon had constructed a simple enclosure of struts around the fusion equipment, and, guided by Ariane's precise control, the housing was calibrated and subsequently turned on. A quick reading showed that the operation had been successful, and Ariane reactivated the battery tori . That crisis, at least, was over. They made for the CM, somewhat exhilarated by the danger now that it was over.
Demogorgon stood with his back against the elaborately inscribed inner wall of the high pinnacle at Suraxheian and looked out across the broad meadows that lined the surrounding countryside, gentling its contours. It had been a good visit, bringing him still closer to the two women, and it made him happy. He wished that Prynne had come along, but knew that much the same purpose was being served by his duties in that "real" world far above. The anger and jealousy were gone, now, and Prynne needed what he was getting out there.
A flicker in the springtime light made him glance up at the two suns overhead. They seemed unchanged, but . . . the sky flickered again. How . . . Demogorgon looked around at his world. For some unaccountable reason it seemed rather grainy and far away. In the distance he could see the Brendan-like GAM running toward him. Suddenly it stumbled and fell. Demo took a step forward, lurching away from the wall. A ripple surged through the universe, twisting at his insides, then the GAM was before him, standing again, agonized. It turned to stare at the fading sky.
"Master?" it whispered, and then vanished.
>
Demogorgon stared into the dimness. "Brendan?" What's happening? He felt a cold, hard tremor of fear.
The world blacked out for an instant, then wrenched itself back to an artificially brilliant normalcy. Vana and Axie were standing below him on the hillside, looking frightened. It was as if . . . Demogorgon said, "We've got to get out of here!" and they fled upward through an electronic storm.
Cornwell and Methol were sitting beside each other in the common room, a little distance from Beth. They'd tried talking with her, but she was unresponsive, affectively flat. The feeling washed over them and soon they gave up their attempts to talk to each other and joined her in staring out at the moonscape, at the slowly waxing eclipse storm.
The hatch to Brendan's room crackled open. Krzakwa climbed through, looking more like an apparition than if his hair had been standing on end. "Sealock's dead," he told them. There was silence and Methol felt a numbness stealing over her. Cornwell said, "What?" but the Selenite had turned and gone away again. They rose to follow him, holding hands as they went. Beth sat for a long moment, staring out the window, then she turned and looked at the still open hatchway. It didn't sink in. Dead? Death couldn't happen in the dawn of the twenty-second century, not to real people.
She too stood and walked out of the room.
Demogorgon surfaced from the Illimitor World and lay for a moment flat on his back in the little padded amphitheater. He could hear Axie and Vana stirring beside him and, some distance away, a commotion. He stood and, without looking at the two women, walked slowly to the open door of Sealock's chamber. Something, some odd feeling of anticipatory dread, made him not want to look inside, but he did nonetheless. There was the horrid tableau of tangled machinery, four motionless people, eyes upon him, and in the midst of it all a man's still body.
He crossed the room on slow, dead feet, feeling suspended far above everything, and stood looking down on him. He looked at the others and saw it in them. "He's gone, isn't he?" Ariane Methol nodded slowly and then, clutching at him, began to cry silently.
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