Asimov's SF, April-May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “We have been helpful, on occasion,” the golem said. “How could we not, given that we are moral beings, respectful of God's Creation? We were sent as observers, but we were not forbidden to intervene in the evolution of human consciousness. I and my kin certainly made some slight contribution to human intellectual progress—perhaps more than we knew, but less than we sometimes hoped. We have never been great originators of technology, though, for we are not much given to manipulation, even though the hands we pretend to have are fully capable of use. As for moral progress ... you and I might disagree as to what that ought to comprise, even though we would both disagree with the Selenites. Even after twenty thousand years of study, I am not certain whether human beings are capable of the kind of moral progress that the True Civilization has embraced, or what significance that incapacity might have, if it were to be insuperable. That, I assume, is one of the reasons why the matter of endoskeletal intelligence has recently become a bone of contention within the True Civilization—although I am at a loss to know why it should concern the ethereals at all, since their ancients consider the transactions of material life to be vulgar and inconsequential. The interest of rogue machines like the one that calls itself Talos is understandable; to them, natural endoskeletal intelligence must seem to be a proof of sorts that they are not the abominations that their makers claim. The mere existence of the human race presumably seems to be of quasi-messianic significance to at least some of the mad machines.”

  “That's why de Vere asked me if I had ever clasped hands with Talos,” Francis said, not framing the guess as a question. “He assumed that I would know, if I had done so, that he really is a man of metal, not the human he seems to be to innocent eyes. What other magic tricks can you play?”

  “Enough to sustain my disguises, but fewer than is sometimes reputed. All wizards grow in the popular estimation once they have passed on to fresher fields or gone to their graves. I have only been in Britain once before, and even then spent far more time in Less Britain than this island, but I gave rise to more legends then than reason could ever have anticipated, despite that all my efforts came to nothing.”

  Francis guessed his meaning readily enough. “You were Merlin,” he said. “I was never sure, myself, whether King Arthur ever existed, let alone the wizard attributed to his court by Norman romance—but here we are, seated at a round table, and Edward de Vere has rechristened himself Gawain. The man has a sense of humor, whatever his faults.”

  “Perhaps Malory's muddled epic will give you some insight into my limitations,” the golem said. “Arthur's reign was unsustainable, in the end, and the grail of transubstantiation unattainable at the time. Muffet might yet be able to attain the same end by other means.”

  “Kelley's angel has a great deal to say about transfiguration,” Francis observed, “but transubstantiation is the Roman Church's word. Are you taking about the same thing?”

  “What I mean by the word I borrowed from your religious doctrine,” the golem said, “is the process by which the union of different species is achieved in the making of Fleshcores. I believe that the ethereals mean something analogous, but on a much larger scale. They have a very different idea of the essential constitution of life and its relationship to the many dimensions making up the universe—they perceive nine, but there are probably more. I am certainly oversimplifying their ideas, and probably distorting them, but I believe they see the ether itself as a kind of bodily fluid, and matter as a kind of skin. To them, the perceptible universe is an individual of sorts, capable of metamorphoses akin to those that exoskeletal species routinely undergo, and those that exoskeletal intelligences learn to contrive as they evolve toward incorporation into fleshcores.”

  That was too much to take in at one gulp, even for the cleverest man in England. Francis thought it best to seek clarification. “Your own magic doesn't extend to the transformation of human flesh,” he deduced. “That is why you call the end that you sought as Merlin the grail, explicitly linking it to the Church's legendry of transubstantiation—but you think that Raleigh's Spider Matriarchs had some such magic, and that Muffet might have mastered its elements before his guides were killed.”

  “It is not magic,” the golem said, placidly, “and I do not trust the Arachnids, as Raleigh seems to do. Were they to become powerful on Earth, they might be no better from the human viewpoint than the Selenites, and perhaps worse. The Selenites certainly fear that prospect, on their own behalf. Forgive me, Master Bacon, for cutting your questions short, for I'm sure that you have many more to ask, but time is pressing. I have long had a means of returning home, which I have taken too much for granted. I fear that it can no longer be used without risk, and there may be danger even in exposing its existence, but it is also a means by which help might be summoned and sent to thwart the Selenite invasion. I would like to take some companions with me, for examination by and consultation with the Great Fleshcores. I want to take at least one who is entirely innocent of my direct influence, or any other extraterrestrial interference. I therefore invite you to come with me.”

  The sudden change of tack, and the conclusion to which it had raced, took Francis aback. He became suddenly conscious of the waves lapping at the side of the ship, and the gentle rocking of the vessel in the water, which reminded him that he was not on solid ground, and that the tide in the Thames estuary changed direction at the whim of the sun and moon. He looked at Faust, who smiled faintly, sympathizing with the shock that he had suffered.

  “Can I be sure that I would be able to return?” Francis wanted to know.

  “I can offer no guarantees, but I have only been away from home for twenty thousand years. I cannot believe that the Great Fleshcores will have changed, and I am certain that they would not detain you against your will. If I am successful in my entreaties, they will be eager to send you home, in order to serve as an ambassador to the Selenites’ opponents.”

  “Does de Vere support Drake's claim that Thomas Digges extracted a promise from the fleshcore to which he talked, that humankind would be let alone?” Francis asked.

  “De Vere has told us what was said to the fleshcore,” the golem answered, “and he confirms that the fleshcore seemed to consent—but he cannot be sure that Thomas Digges is the one who did the asking.”

  “You think it was Aristocles? The angel, that is, not the insect.”

  “It is possible that the ethereal inhabiting Digges’ body was controlling his speech. We are not convinced that it was the same ethereal as the one that is now supplying Kelley with information. Whatever the truth of the matter, though, it seems that the Great Fleshcores did make a promise—and I am certain that they will do everything they can to keep it.”

  “As yet,” Francis pointed not, “they have done nothing.”

  “That is a mystery,” the golem agreed. “The Selenites have obviously cut off their own hyperetheric link to the Core, but there must also have been a more widespread and more general disruption of intragalactic communications, else the Great Fleshcores would surely have been able to do something. I am sorry, Master Bacon, but I must press you for an answer. The timing of the enterprise needs to be precise, and the other companions I hope to take should be arriving momentarily.”

  Francis bit his lip, wishing that he had more time to reflect. “What other companions?” he asked.

  “Walter Raleigh and Patience Muffet,” the golem replied. “Rabbi Low and Doctor Faust will also come with me; if you agree, that will make up a party of six. It will be a great adventure, and might secure the independent future of the human race, God willing.”

  Francis was still not ready to take the plunge. “Do you have any firm proof of God's existence?” he asked, “or are you required to accept His existence as a matter of faith, as we are?”

  “We are unable to doubt the existence of God,” was the golem's slightly evasive but steadfastly patient reply, “but we cannot pretend to understand His nature, or know His purpose; nor do we believe that the
ethereals know any more, although their ancients pretend otherwise. Whether or not you and I need faith to sustain our belief in God, we both need trust to sustain our conviction that He has our interests at heart.”

  “What of the Devil?” Francis asked, unable to resist the temptation. “Are you able to doubt his existence?”

  “There is no Devil,” the golem replied. “But that is not to say that there is no evil, and the ultimate source of that evil is as puzzling to us as it is to you.”

  “But there is war in Heaven,” Francis said, softly. “Kelley says so.”

  “The ethereals do seem to be at odds with one another,” was all that the golem would concede, “but I find it exceedingly difficult to think that any of their kind might be rebels against the Divine Will. The fact that humans find it a relatively easy thing to believe is one of the most remarkable things about them. I must press you for an answer: will you come?”

  “Tell me how you intend to travel,” Francis said, aware that it was the last question he had any right to ask.

  “I have a means to improvise a hyperetheric link,” the golem told him. “The expedition has to be done in two stages, because the interstellar transmission apparatus had to be hidden in another dimension, anchored to a point in orbit around the Earth. The problem of alignment imposes stern practical difficulties, which prevent the establishment of such apparatus on the surface of a world like this one. Folding the apparatus into the material manifold is as simple as the folding process required for transmission, but we will have to make the initial ascent to the platform via an ultraetheric canal. The Selenites might try to attack the platform once it has materialized, even though they would be forced to operate an inconveniently long way from their base, but I do not believe that they can prevent our departure; de Vere, Marlowe, and two of Raleigh's Adapted Men should be able to defend the platform successfully against any insects that can reach it by ether-ship or etheric flight. You must decide now: will you come?”

  Francis had made his decision, which seemed to him to be inevitable. “Of course I will,” he said. “How could I do otherwise?”

  The seeming old man relaxed momentarily, but got to his feet almost immediately. “Thank you,” he said. “I must go now, to look for Raleigh and Patience Muffet, and to give the captain his orders.”

  Francis felt stunned. The consciousness slowly caught up with him that he had just brought his familiar life to a full stop, and embarked upon another. Anthony would be extremely annoyed with him.

  Heidenberg and Faust were already heading for the chart-room door, but Judah Low remained sitting, apparently ready to assist Francis with any more questions he might have.

  “What would have happened if I hadn't accepted your invitation?” Francis asked.

  “The launch would have taken you upriver when the tide turned, at least as far as the port of London. You'd have had a fine tale to tell Queen Jane and John Dee—but they might not have believed you, without the kind of proof that my master gave you.”

  That was true enough, Francis thought. Even the queen, who loved him like a favorite son, might hesitate to believe that he had left Lambeth by night to visit the legendary Merlin, who was also Trithemius, Prometheus, and a giant snail. Francis Drake would believe him, he felt sure—but he was not so certain of Dee, given that he had no proofs to offer the mathematician of the sort that Aristocles had given to Edward Kelley, let alone the sort that Talos had presumably provided. None of that mattered now, though.

  “Will you allow Anthony to go with de Vere and Marlowe?” he asked. “He's a brave man, if there's any fighting to be done—and he certainly won't want to return to London without me.”

  “He may come as far as the platform, if he so desires,” the Rabbi said. “He will be very welcome—especially if there is fighting to be done, although we hope that no such eventuality will arise. Should you not ask him first, though?”

  Oh, he'll say yes, Francis thought. He'll leave the Earth behind and lay his life on the line for me, poor lad—it has ever been his fate in life. He did not say that to the Rabbi, though.

  Judah Low took his silence as an invitation to say more. “Faust and I have been preparing for this all our lives,” he said, with a curious mixture of pride and restrained excitement, “which have been, as you now know, a little longer than the usual human span.”

  “I too might have benefited from a little more opportunity to prepare,” Francis said, amiably, “but I'm a scholar, and I dare say that is preparation enough for any kind of educational journey.” It was sheer bravado, but he was proud of himself for being capable even of that.

  The door to the chart-room burst open again as he finished, and Anthony rushed in, holding aloft an arm whose wrist was gripped by a gigantic parrot with red and blue plumage.

  “I told you that I saw a firebird!” he exclaimed.

  “He is actually a macaw,” said the young woman who came in behind Anthony, “and his name is Agamemnon.”

  * * * *

  5

  The Himmel put down anchor again some distance east of Tilbury, but Francis did not think that she had traveled as far as Sheerness. He could not judge the length of the journey very well because he had spent the time below decks, furiously scribbling letters of apology to the queen and everyone else to whom he owed an obligation. By the time his conscience was satisfied there were eight envelopes separately addressed and sealed, containing twelve letters in all; he passed the bundle to the vessel's captain, having extracted a solemn oath that they would be sent back to London with all possible expedition.

  The execution of this duty had given Francis no time to acquaint himself with Patience Muffet or to reacquaint himself with the individual who claimed to be Walter Raleigh. The latter bore no resemblance to the flamboyant courtier Francis had seen as a boy, although he claimed to remember both the brothers, having been on friendly terms with their father. Nicholas Bacon had not had many friends at court, by virtue of his rumored Elizabethan sympathies, but Francis was prepared to believe that Raleigh had been one; he was not so sure, though, that the dark half-human creature who now laid claim to Raleigh's memory could really be reckoned the same man.

  The metamorphosis that Raleigh had undergone, as a result of Arachnid alchemy, had not robbed him of all semblance of humanity, but Francis certainly could not reckon him an alluring advertisement for the science in question. He had been an uncommonly handsome man, but now was very ugly; his skin was dark, coarse, and hairy, and the shape of his face had been transformed into an inverted isosceles triangle, somewhat reminiscent of that of a broad-browed goat—or an artist's impression of a demon, modeled on some such animal. On the other hand, Raleigh had no giant spiders with him at present to sow further fear and panic among those who beheld him, and the members of his small contingent of Adapted Men were mere echoes of his own form. Now that he had glimpsed the true appearance of Rabbi Low's golem, Francis felt that he had learned a significant lesson in visual tolerance.

  Patience Muffet, by contrast, seemed entirely human in appearance—not unusually pretty, perhaps, although her face was innocent of any pock-marks, but certainly personable. It seemed that Arachnid alchemy had not transformed her physically at all, but there was something slightly disturbing about her intense gaze, and the manner in which she communicated with her winged spy. The bird had soon deserted Anthony's wrist in favor of her shoulder, and was forever muttering incomprehensibly into her ear. Francis had felt offended when he first saw the bird, imagining that it had been sent to Lambeth to spy on him, but he had realized soon enough that it must actually have been sent to spy on Faust and his companions. Patience was obviously wary of the secret society to which these ill-assorted companions belonged, although she too could not have hesitated long before accepting the golem's invitation.

  “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting your father,” Francis said, when he finally found an opportunity to introduce himself properly, “but I have heard great things abo
ut him.”

  “You have only heard a fraction of the truth, Master Bacon,” she assured him, with a stiff manner that had more anxiety in it than politeness. “Now that he has come home, your reputation as the cleverest man in England will be gravely imperiled.”

  “I am not so exceedingly fond of it as to be determined to defend it,” he assured her, refusing to take offense. “I shall be delighted to learn what he has to teach me about the alchemy of the flesh. Ever since Francis Drake introduced me to the concept of evolution, I have been fascinated by it.”

  “Perhaps I shall find time to acquaint you with some of his ideas,” she said, but then broke off the conversation and went in search of her stalwart Raleigh.

  The place where they eventually came ashore again was a kind of island in the marsh—or a promontory, at least—with a little wood trailing along its low-set ridge. The wood was dense enough to ensure that no crewmen on any passing boat, no matter how close it came to land, would realize that some busy enterprise had formed a clearing in its center, and had established some kind of machine there. Half a dozen of the thirty laborers who had performed this task were similar in appearance to Raleigh, with dark, leathery skins, but the rest were Europeans, including a handful of Englishmen. Francis assumed that they were all members of the society that de Vere had mentioned, who had been abruptly summoned to fulfill their oaths of allegiance. Those who had not made their way to Kent overland must have sailed from the Continent with the Order's Superiors.

  The parts of the machine had certainly not been fashioned in any local forge, and must have been shipped from the Netherlands in the Himmel's hold. They were not the only things that the golem's companions had brought with them; the first things that Francis was taken to see when he and Anthony arrived at the construction site were the suits that they would wear on their expedition.