The Sorienti leaned back into the tasseled arms of her couch. “I wish you wouldn’t mention them so loudly, even between ourselves.”
“No one would believe me.”
“The others never saw them,” the Regal said. “They were too busy fighting the flames.” She hesitated briefly. “You were wise to confide in me first.”
Mirasol locked eyes with her new patroness, then looked away. “There was no one else to tell. They’d have said I built a pattern out of nothing but my own fears.”
“You have your faction to think of,” the Sorienti said with an air of sympathy. “With such a bright future ahead of them, they don’t need a renewed reputation for paranoid fantasies.”
She studied the screen. “The Patternists are winners by default. It certainly makes an interesting case study. If the new garden grows tiresome we can have the whole crater sterilized from orbit. Some other faction can start again with a clean slate.”
“Don’t let them build too close to the edge,” Mirasol said.
Her corporate ladyship watched her attentively, tilting her head.
“I have no proof,” Mirasol said, “but I can see the pattern behind it all. The natives had to come from somewhere. The colony that stocked the crater must have been destroyed in that huge landslide. Was that your work? Did your people kill them?”
The Sorienti smiled. “You’re very bright, my dear. You will do well, up the Ladder. And you can keep secrets. Your office as my secretary suits you very well.”
“They were destroyed from orbit,” Mirasol said. “Why else would they hide from us? You tried to annihilate them.”
“It was a long time ago,” the Regal said. “In the early days, when things were shakier. They were researching the secret of starflight, techniques only the Investors know. Rumor says they reached success at last, in their redemption camp. After that, there was no choice.”
“Then they were killed for the Investors’ profit,” Mirasol said. She stood up quickly and walked around the cabin, her new jeweled skirt clattering around the knees. “So that the aliens could go on toying with us, hiding their secret, selling us trinkets.”
The Regal folded her hands with a clicking of rings and bracelets. “Our Lobster King is wise,” she said. “If humanity’s efforts turned to the stars, what would become of terraforming? Why should we trade the power of creation itself to become like the Investors?”
“But think of the people,” Mirasol said. “Think of them losing their technologies, degenerating into human beings. A handful of savages, eating bird meat. Think of the fear they felt for generations, the way they burned their own home and killed themselves when they saw us come to smash and destroy their world. Aren’t you filled with horror?”
“For humans?” the Sorienti said. “No!”
“But can’t you see? You’ve given this planet life as an art form, as an enormous game. You force us to play in it, and those people were killed for it! Can’t you see how that blights everything?”
“Our game is reality,” the Regal said. She gestured at the viewscreen. “You can’t deny the savage beauty of destruction.”
“You defend this catastrophe?”
The Regal shrugged. “If life worked perfectly, how could things evolve? Aren’t we Posthuman? Things grow; things die. In time the cosmos kills us all. The cosmos has no meaning, and its emptiness is absolute. That’s pure terror, but it’s also pure freedom. Only our ambitions and our creations can fill it.”
“And that justifies your actions?”
“We act for life,” the Regal said. “Our ambitions have become this world’s natural laws. We blunder because life blunders. We go on because life must go on. When you’ve taken the long view, from orbit—when the power we wield is in your own hands—then you can judge us.” She smiled. “You will be judging yourself. You’ll be Regal.”
“But what about your captive factions? Your agents, who do your will? Once we had our own ambitions. We failed, and now you isolate us, indoctrinate us, make us into rumors. We must have something of our own. Now we have nothing.”
“That’s not so. You have what we’ve given you. You have the Ladder.”
The vision stung Mirasol: power, light, the hint of justice, this world with its sins and sadness shrunk to a bright arena far below. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, we do.”
Twenty Evocations
1. EXPERT SYSTEMS. When Nikolai Leng was a child, his teacher was a cybernetic system with a holographic interface. The holo took the form of a young Shaper woman. Its “personality” was an interactive composite expert system manufactured by Shaper psychotechs. Nikolai loved it.
2. NEVER BORN. “You mean we all came from Earth?” said Nikolai, unbelieving.
“Yes,” the holo said kindly. “The first true settlers in space were born on Earth—produced by sexual means. Of course, hundreds of years have passed since then. You are a Shaper. Shapers are never born.”
“Who lives on Earth now?”
“Human beings.”
“Ohhhh,” said Nikolai, his falling tones betraying a rapid loss of interest.
3. A MALFUNCTIONING LEG. There came a day when Nikolai saw his first Mechanist. The man was a diplomat and commercial agent, stationed by his faction in Nikolai’s habitat. Nikolai and some children from his crèche were playing in the corridor when the diplomat stalked by. One of the Mechanist’s legs was malfunctioning, and it went click-whirr, click-whirr. Nikolai’s friend Alex mimicked the man’s limp. Suddenly the man turned on them, his plastic eyes dilating. “Gene-lines,” the Mechanist snarled. “I can buy you, grow you, sell you, cut you into bits. Your screams: my music.”
4. FUZZ PATINA. Sweat was running into the braided collar of Nikolai’s military tunic. The air in the abandoned station was still breathable, but insufferably hot. Nikolai helped his sergeant strip the valuables off a dead miner. The murdered Shaper’s antiseptic body was desiccated, but perfect. They walked into another section. The body of a Mechanist pirate sprawled in the feeble gravity. Killed during the attack, his body had rotted for weeks inside his suit. An inch-thick patina of grayish fuzz had devoured his face.
5. NOT MERITORIOUS. Nikolai was on leave in the Ring Council with two men from his unit. They were drinking in a free-fall bar called the ECLECTIC EPILEPTIC. The first man was Simon Afriel, a charming, ambitious young Shaper of the old school. The other man had a Mechanist eye implant. His loyalty was suspect. The three of them were discussing semantics. “The map is not the territory,” Afriel said. Suddenly the second man picked an almost invisible listening device from the edge of the table. “And the tap is not meritorious,” he quipped. They never saw him again.
…A Mechanist pirate, malfunctioning, betraying gene-lines. Invisible listening devices buy, grow, and sell you. The abandoned station’s ambitious young Shaper, killed during the attack. Falling psychotechs produced by sexual means the desiccated body of a commercial agent. The holographic interface’s loyalty was suspect. The cybernetic system helped him strip the valuables off his plastic eyes…
6. SPECULATIVE PITY. The Mechanist woman looked him over with an air of speculative pity. “I have an established commercial position here,” she told Nikolai, “but my cash flow is temporarily constricted. You, on the other hand, have just defected from the Council with a small fortune. I need money; you need stability. I propose marriage.”
Nikolai considered this. He was new to Mech society. “Does this imply a sexual relationship?” he said. The woman looked at him blankly. “You mean between the two of us?”
7. FLOW PATTERNS. “You’re worried about something,” his wife told him. Nikolai shook his head. “Yes, you are,” she persisted. “You’re upset because of that deal I made in pirate contraband. You’re unhappy because our corporation is profiting from attacks made on your own people.”
Nikolai smiled ruefully. “I suppose you’re right. I never knew anyone who understood my innermost feeling the way you do.” He looked at her
affectionately. “How do you do it?”
“I have infrared scanners,” she said. “I read the patterns of blood flow in your face.”
8. OPTIC TELEVISION. It was astonishing how much room there was in an eye socket, when you stopped to think about it. The actual visual mechanisms had been thoroughly miniaturized by Mechanist prostheticians. Nikolai had some other devices installed: a clock, a biofeedback monitor, a television screen, all wired directly to his optic nerve. They were convenient, but difficult to control at first. His wife had to help him out of the hospital and back to his apartment, because the subtle visual triggers kept flashing broadcast market reports. Nikolai smiled at his wife from behind his plastic eyes. “Spend the night with me tonight,” he said. His wife shrugged. “All right,” she said. She put her hand to the door of Nikolai’s apartment and died almost instantly. An assassin had smeared the door handle with contact venom.
9. SHAPER TARGETS. “Look,” the assassin said, his slack face etched with weariness, “don’t bother me with any ideologies…Just transfer the funds and tell me who it is you want dead.”
“It’s a job in the Ring Council,” Nikolai said. He was strung out on a regimen of emotional drugs he had been taking to combat grief, and he had to fight down recurrent waves of weirdly tainted cheerfulness. “Captain-Doctor Martin Leng of Ring Council Security. He’s one of my own gene-line. My defection made his own loyalty look bad. He killed my wife.”
“Shapers make good targets,” the assassin said. His legless, armless body floated in a transparent nutrient tank, where tinted plasmas soothed the purplish ends of socketed nerve clumps. A body-servo waded into the tank and began to attach the assassin’s arms.
10. CHILD INVESTMENT. “We recognize your investment in this child, shareholder Leng,” the psychotech said. “You may have created her—or hired the technicians who had her created—but she is not your property. By our regulations she must be treated like any other child. She is the property of our people’s corporate republic.”
Nikolai looked at the woman, exasperated. “I didn’t create her. She’s my dead wife’s posthumous clone. And she’s the property of my wife’s corporations, or, rather, her trust fund, which I manage as executor…No, what I mean to say is that she owns, or at least has a lienhold on, my dead wife’s semiautonomous corporate property, which becomes hers at the age of majority…Do you follow me?”
“No. I’m an educator, not a financier. What exactly is the point of this, shareholder? Are you trying to re-create your dead wife?”
Nikolai looked at her, his face carefully neutral. “I did it for the tax break.”
…Leave the posthumous clone profiting from attacks. Semiautonomous property has an established commercial position. Recurrent waves of pirate contraband. His slack face bothers you with ideologies. Innermost feelings died almost instantly. Smear the door with contact venom…
11. ALLEGIANCES RESENTED. “I like it out here on the fringes,” Nikolai told the assassin. “Have you ever considered a breakaway?”
The assassin laughed. “I used to be a pirate. It took me forty years to attach myself to this cartel. When you’re alone, you’re meat, Leng. You ought to know that.”
“But you must resent those allegiances. They’re inconvenient. Wouldn’t you rather have your own Kluster and make your own rules?”
“You’re talking like an ideologue,” the assassin said. Biofeedback displays blinked softly on his prosthetic forearms. “My allegiance is to Kyotid Zaibatsu. They own this whole suburb. They even own my arms and legs.”
“I own Kyotid Zaibatsu,” Nikolai said.
“Oh,” the assassin said. “Well, that puts a different face on matters.”
12. MASS DEFECTION. “We want to join your Kluster,” the Superbright said. “We must join your Kluster. No one else will have us.”
Nikolai doodled absently with his light pen on a convenient videoscreen. “How many of you are there?”
“There were fifty in our gene-line. We were working on quantum physics before our mass defection. We made a few minor breakthroughs. I think they might be of some commercial use.”
“Splendid,” said Nikolai. He assumed an air of speculative pity. “I take it the Ring Council persecuted you in the usual manner—claimed you were mentally unstable, ideologically unsound, and the like.”
“Yes. Their agents have killed thirty-eight of us.” The Superbright dabbed uneasily at the sweat beading on his swollen forehead. “We are not mentally unsound, Kluster-Chairman. We will not cause you any trouble. We only want a quiet place to finish working while God eats our brains.”
13. DATA HOSTAGE. A high-level call came in from the Ring Council. Nikolai, surprised and intrigued, took the call himself. A young man’s face appeared on the screen. “I have your teacher hostage,” he said.
Nikolai frowned. “What?”
“The person who taught you when you were a child in the crèche. You love her. You told her so. I have it on tape.”
“You must be joking,” Nikolai said. “My teacher was just a cybernetic interface. You can’t hold a data system hostage.”
“Yes, I can,” the young man said truculently. “The old expert system’s been scrapped in favor of a new one with a sounder ideology. Look.” A second face appeared on the screen; it was the superhumanly smooth and faintly glowing image of his cybernetic teacher. “Please save me, Nikolai,” the image said woodenly. “He’s ruthless.”
The young man’s face reappeared. Nikolai laughed incredulously. “So you’ve saved the old tapes?” Nikolai said. “I don’t know what your game is, but I suppose the data has a certain value. I’m prepared to be generous.” He named a price. The young man shook his head. Nikolai grew impatient. “Look,” he said. “What makes you think a mere expert system has any objective worth?”
“I know it does,” the young man said. “I’m one myself.”
14. CENTRAL QUESTION. Nikolai was aboard the alien ship. He felt uncomfortable in his brocaded ambassador’s coat. He adjusted the heavy sunglasses over his plastic eyes. “We appreciate your visit to our Kluster,” he told the reptilian ensign. “It’s a very great honor.”
The Investor ensign lifted the multicolored frill behind his massive head. “We are prepared to do business,” he said.
“I’m interested in alien philosophies,” Nikolai said. “The answers of other species to the great questions of existence.”
“But there is only one central question,” the alien said. “We have pursued its answer from star to star. We were hoping that you would help us answer it.”
Nikolai was cautious. “What is the question?”
“‘What is it you have that we want?’”
15. INHERITED GIFTS. Nikolai looked at the girl with the old-fashioned eyes. “My chief of security had provided me with a record of your criminal actions,” he said. “Copyright infringement, organized extortion, conspiracy in restraint of trade. How old are you?”
“Forty-four,” the girl said. “How old are you?”
“A hundred and ten or so. I’d have to check my files.” Something about the girl’s appearance bothered him. “Where did you get those antique eyes?”
“They were my mother’s. I inherited them. But you’re a Shaper, of course. You wouldn’t know what a mother was.”
“On the contrary,” Nikolai said. “I believe I knew yours. We were married. After her death, I had you cloned. I suppose that makes me your—I forget the term.”
“Father.”
“That sounds about right. Clearly you’ve inherited her gifts for finance.” He reexamined her personnel file. “Would you be interested in adding bigamy to your list of crimes?”
…The mentally unstable have a certain value. Restraint of trade puts a different face on the convenient videoscreen. A few minor breakthroughs in the questions of existence. Your personnel file persecuted him. His swollen forehead can’t hold a data system…
16. PLEASURE ROAR. “You need to avoid getting s
et in your ways,” his wife said. “It’s the only way to stay young.” She pulled a gilded inhaler from her garter holster. “Try some of this.”
“I don’t need drugs,” Nikolai said, smiling. “I have my power fantasies.” He began pulling off his clothes.
His wife watched him impatiently. “Don’t be stodgy, Nikolai.” She touched the inhaler to her nostril and sniffed. Sweat began to break out on her face, and a slow sexual flush spread over her ears and neck.
Nikolai watched, then shrugged and sniffed lightly at the gilded tube. Immediately a rocketing sense of ecstasy paralyzed his nervous system. His body arched backward, throbbing uncontrollably.
Clumsily, his wife began to caress him. The roar of chemical pleasure made sex irrelevant. “Why…why bother?” he gasped.
His wife looked surprised. “It’s traditional.”
17. FLICKERING WALL. Nikolai addressed the flickering wall of monitor screens. “I’m getting old,” he said. “My health is good—I was very lucky in my choice of longevity programs—but I just don’t have the daring I once did. I’ve lost my flexibility, my edge. And the Kluster has outgrown my ability to handle it. I have no choice. I must retire.”
Carefully, he watched the faces on the screens for every flicker of reaction. Two hundred years had taught him the art of reading faces. His skills were still with him—it was only the will behind them that had decayed. The faces of the Governing Board, their reserve broken by shock, seemed to blaze with ambition and greed.
18. LEGAL TARGETS. The Mechanists had unleashed their drones in the suburb. Armed with subpoenas, the faceless drones blurred through the hallway crowds, looking for legal targets.
Suddenly Nikolai’s former Chief of Security broke from the crowd and began a run for cover. In free-fall, he brachiated from handhold to handhold like an armored gibbon. Suddenly one of his prosthetics gave way and the drones pounced on him, almost at Nikolai’s door. Plastic snapped as electromagnetic pincers paralyzed his limbs.
“Kangaroo courts,” he gasped. The deeply creased lines in his ancient face shone with rivulets of sweat. “They’ll strip me! Help me, Leng!”
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