Creation Machine

by Andrew Bannister

  ‘And I’m important. Extremely. Remember our friend the recovered personality?’

  For a moment Alameche didn’t. Then he nodded. ‘Of course. From Silthx?’

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s been recovered by someone else.’

  Alameche stared. ‘Recovered? What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s been subverted. Someone, or something, or a lot of somethings, we don’t know, knocked it out of its safe little groove in a quiet simulation and made off with it, which means that what it knows, other people know.’ It floated closer to Alameche. ‘They know all about you guys, and Silthx, and that artefact. The Spin is coming in mob-handed, Alameche, and it has the safety catch firmly off. You need to be ready.’

  ‘I see.’ Alameche sat down. ‘And what, in your view, does ready look like?’

  ‘Simple. It looks different, right at the top. I recommend sacrificing a scapegoat.’

  ‘Really?’ Alameche leaned back and studied Eskjog. ‘This scapegoat. Is it Patriarch-shaped?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say. I do think interfering in another society’s business is unethical, don’t you?’ Eskjog rose and headed for the window. Then it paused. ‘I assume you will be talking to your peers about this?’

  Alameche nodded. ‘In two days,’ he said. ‘On – that planet.’

  ‘Ah. Good.’ Eskjog gave its affirmative wobble. ‘I’ll see myself out, shall I?’

  Alameche watched the little machine float out through one of the open windows. When he was sure it had gone – as sure as he could be – he got up and closed them, using the manual catches.

  Then he sat for a long time, thinking.

  And now, two days later on Traspise, there were eleven of them, including most of the Cabinet – and Alameche. It was enough, just. He hadn’t been sure.

  He had chosen to hold the party that wasn’t a party in a palace that wasn’t a palace. The Great Salt Palace was the fanciful name for one of the few things that had existed on Traspise before it had been re-engineered. It was really a set of caves, not carved out of something but sculpted upwards in salt by half a million years of mineral springs. The saturated volcanic water had deposited great barriers and curving walls; had eroded and replaced and destroyed and rebuilt and blocked up and canalized vast, eerie structures of metal-rich salts that glistened and flashed.

  The lowest level was called the Undercroft. It was covered and surrounded by metre upon metre of those salts. They were complex, metallic, sometimes semi-conducting salts that diverted and baffled electrical signals so beautifully that it was as close as you could wish to surveillance-proof.

  They were reclining on couches carved from blocks of pink gypsum, padded with sheets of dense, resilient moss rooted straight into the crystal. The couches formed a semicircle with an elaborate fireplace at its centre. Even the logs were partly fossilized, the remains of ancient trees that had been buried in crystalline sludge for thousands of years. As they burned they gave off showers of multicoloured sparks.

  They had eaten lightly and talked small-talk. Alameche had joined in for the sake of politeness, but mainly he had watched their expressions and listened to what they weren’t saying as much as to what they were.

  They were nervous, of course, some more than others. Garamende was there, and he seemed the most relaxed of all, although ill-tempered at being made to leave his four playthings outside. Then, Trask. Alameche had been a little surprised to see the old soldier, who was another with little to say and much watching to do. There were Possall and Charefenst, also Cabinet members, both shifting nervously and laughing too much – and finally, to Alameche’s genuine surprise, Fiselle. The thin man had been the last to arrive and Alameche’s face must for once have given him away because Fiselle had glanced at him and given a twisted smile. ‘Not expecting me?’

  Alameche shrugged. ‘No,’ he said simply.

  ‘Good.’ Fiselle smiled more widely. ‘I don’t blame you. Unlike some of our friends,’ and he looked towards Garamende, ‘I do my best thinking with my eyes open and my mouth closed.’

  Now the finger foods and the small-talk had both been exhausted and there was silence. Most of the others were looking at Alameche. He let them wait for a while. Then, when he guessed they were ready, he said: ‘Well?’

  Predictably it was Garamende who responded. ‘Well what, man? It’s your party. You ask the questions.’

  ‘All right.’ Alameche stood up. ‘To begin with, Hodil was snatched, questioned and killed. Kestus was injured and then killed and his head removed. I can forgive these things, but,’ and he looked round the circle, ‘I need a good reason.’

  Garamende nodded. ‘Well enough.’ He also looked round, his eyebrows raised. The others nodded. ‘After the eel fight, you and I talked. I expressed the view, the commonly held view, that the Patriarch has become a liability. It’s an opinion that predates that ludicrous piece of grandstanding after the Games, by the way. But what changed then was that he had gone against your advice. You said, in Cabinet, that we should do nothing.’ He looked at Alameche and grinned. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Worried men talk. Old Trask talked quite a lot. Didn’t you?’

  Trask nodded.

  ‘So that meant His Excellency was moving beyond your influence.’ Garamende stood up and walked over to Alameche. ‘We decided you needed rescuing.’

  ‘I needed rescuing?’ Alameche looked at him sharply. ‘From what, exactly?’

  ‘From a situation. Work it out, man! Suppose your Carnifex carves his name on poor old Hodil’s hide. Hodil talks. He could have come up with a few names, you know. Probably not ours,’ and he swung a hand round the circle, ‘but a few people at one remove. You would have been pushed into a choice. We didn’t know which way you’d go.’

  ‘So you snatched him and tortured him yourself? Why?’

  ‘Ah, but we didn’t. Your fucking Kestus did.’

  ‘Kestus?’

  Garamende shrugged. ‘That’s where the rescue comes in, you see?’

  Alameche sat down. ‘Kestus,’ he said again more quietly. ‘He wasn’t working for you, was he?’

  ‘No.’ Garamende sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘And he wasn’t working for you in the end. Only leaves one, eh?’

  Alameche said nothing for a moment. Then he shook off Garamende’s hand and stood up. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No?’ Garamende raised his eyebrows. ‘No, what?’

  ‘No, I will not be swept along like this.’ Alameche had felt shocked but now it was being replaced by a surging, energetic anger. He felt . . . alive. ‘If Kestus was reporting on me to the Patriarch, so what? It would be amazing if no one was. Why not him?’ He glared round the seated men. ‘Whereas you are conspirators. You are the ones with something to lose. Now explain to me why you should not lose it.’

  To his amazement, Fiselle stood up and began to applaud softly. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You have provided your own justification. Ours is simple: we believe that you are the only person who is capable of fending off the risk of civil war.’

  ‘I see.’ Alameche had expected it, and there it was. He felt light-headed. ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘Just this. That you should invite the Patriarch onward. He can acquiesce or he can be removed, but it will be done quietly. You will propose that he be replaced by a ruling Council, reluctantly chaired by you.’

  Alameche nodded. Invite him onward. It had a range of meanings, from comfortable retirement to disembowelment.

  ‘An old-fashioned coup,’ he said. ‘Are you sure of support?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Alameche nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You would be mad to get this far, otherwise. I also have some support.’ He half turned towards the tall doors at the end of the room and raised his voice. ‘Hello? Join us, if you will.’

  There was a pause. Then the men jumped to their feet as the doors bumped open and Garamende’s four playthings swung into the room, dangling as if they were in a net. A s
mall, spiky ball hovered above them where the apex of the net would have been. ‘Hello?’ it said. ‘Sorry to intrude, but I found these things outside. I think they were listening.’ It paused, and then added, ‘I’m called Eskjog, by the way.’

  Alameche turned to Garamende. ‘Well?’

  The fat man rolled his eyes. ‘Well of course they were listening, man. What else did I bring them for? Apart from shagging, that is.’ He grinned, and then nodded towards Eskjog. ‘The pet we all suspected has arrived. I assume that thing is not deaf?’

  The little machine floated over until it was in the middle of the semicircle formed by the startled men. It halted, and its four passengers fell to the floor as if they had been released from a net. ‘Obviously I am not deaf,’ it said. ‘Also, I am not a pet. I am known to some of you already. What else do you need to know?’

  Garamende made to reply, but Trask waved him to silence. He limped forward until he was standing with his face only a hand’s breadth from Eskjog, stuck out his chin and said: ‘If you aren’t a pet, what are you?’

  ‘I am a Motile Negotiation Unit, or MNU.’ The little machine moved an arm’s length further from Trask and performed a pirouette.

  ‘Motile?’ Trask frowned. ‘Why not mobile?’

  ‘Well, both, obviously. The usual short title is Ambassador.’

  ‘Ambassador?’ Trask snorted. ‘From and to whom?’

  ‘From the diplomatic arm of something called the Haas Corporation. To, well, that seems to be something of a moving feast. Until a while ago I would have said, to the Court and Cabinet of His Excellency Chast, Final Patriarch of the People’s Democratic Republic of the Planet of Taussich and the Fortunate Protectorates of the Spin Centre – but I suspect you may be moving towards some organizational change. In that case, I might say, a shorter title would be nice.’

  Trask shook his head and turned to Alameche. ‘So this impudent machine is Eskjog. Is it yours?’

  Alameche shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s its.’

  ‘Is it? And what role does it play here today?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Eskjog interposed itself between Trask and Alameche. ‘I am in the room . . . My role is to manage the joint threat and opportunity posed by the artefact discovered on Silthx. My interest is twofold. The threat, which is immediate, is to stability, and a threat to stability is the same as a threat to business. The opportunity is longer term, but may lead to the apotheosis of yourselves and ourselves. My preference would be to manage both of these in situ, that is, remaining within your sphere of influence and your nominal control. I was becoming concerned that your own leadership might prove an obstacle to this. Based on what I have heard in the past few minutes, I am more optimistic.’

  Trask laughed, a harsh, hoarse bark that echoed round the chamber. ‘Stripped of the long words, you would be happier if we overthrew the Patriarch. Is that it?’

  ‘It is. I would.’ Eskjog dipped in the air. ‘Are those words short enough for you?’

  ‘Just about.’ Trask turned to the others. ‘This is outside my field, gentlemen. I know about the Haas Corporation. Why should we be dictated to?’

  It was Garamende who answered. ‘We don’t need to be,’ he said. ‘We had convinced ourselves before this thing turned up. If it happens to agree, why should that change our minds?’

  ‘Humph.’ Trask wagged a finger at Eskjog. ‘What do we get if we happen to do what you prefer?’

  ‘It’s not so much a matter of what you get.’ Eskjog swivelled from side to side as if looking around. ‘More of what you keep. Like self-determination. It’s simple enough. You are not the most powerful thing in the Spin. The Hegemony is more powerful. The Catastrophe, if it calls in its client states, is more powerful. Either of them, or several others, could intervene if they became concerned. And I must tell you that news is leaking out. This is thanks in part to your grandstanding leader, but only in part. People are becoming concerned, and those people are coming here. Minds will be made up, and if you are not careful scores will be settled. Proxy wars will be fought. You only have a limited time to reassure them.’

  ‘And you?’ Trask was breathing heavily. ‘Are you more powerful?’

  ‘If you mean the Haas Corporation, the question doesn’t arise. We are a business, not a power bloc. We do have major investments to protect, though. Some of them here, if you didn’t all know.’

  ‘We knew, or if some of us didn’t they ought to have been able to guess.’ Trask turned and stared at Alameche. ‘Investments? I hope you haven’t been selling us short?’

  Alameche shook his head. ‘Not at all. There is nothing abnormal about it. We do business with many people.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Eskjog made a sighing noise. ‘Including some who have to hold their noses rather harder than we do. Sometimes we have to help them.’

  Alameche thought he heard a laugh in the voice. He put a hand on Trask’s shoulder. ‘I think we have an opportunity, Cabinet Member.’ He took a breath. ‘You have asked me to take over. You said it would be reluctantly, and you are right.’ Garamende snorted, and Alameche ignored him. ‘His Excellency is scheduled to make a visit tomorrow to inspect the artefact. It presents an opportunity. Shall we take it?’

  He looked round at the others. One by one, they nodded.

  ‘Good. Then we have things to discuss.’ Alameche smiled. ‘And – oh yes. I’m afraid you’ll all have to stay here tonight. The circle needs to remain closed.’

  They nodded again, more slowly.

  Both suns, the real and the artificial, had set, bathing the Palace in short-lived milky pink light shot through with flecks of gold. The discussion was over. It had lasted several hours, and ended in consensus. Afterwards, it seemed no one had much to add; people had drifted away towards their makeshift bedchambers. Eskjog had excused itself and floated off somewhere.

  Alameche and Fiselle were the last. They looked at each other silently for a while. Then Fiselle shrugged. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’

  Alameche nodded, and they walked together out of the Undercroft. Broad, shallow stairs, built – so Alameche had always assumed – to be as unchallenging as possible to the knees of well-fed courtiers, led up in long sweeps to a wide balcony halfway up the Palace. It looked out over a narrow valley that was black with shadow.

  They leaned on the parapet together. Fiselle spoke first. ‘That ghastly machine. How long have you known it?’

  ‘Eskjog? A few days. I must admit it seems much longer.’

  ‘I am sure it does. Do you trust it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Neither do I.’ Fiselle was quiet for a moment. ‘And Garamende? Do you trust him?’

  Alameche shook his head. ‘After what happened at his estate? Obviously not.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Fiselle pushed himself upright and turned to face Alameche. ‘Do you trust anyone?’

  Alameche laughed. ‘Myself,’ he said. ‘Would you recommend anyone else?’

  ‘No, probably not.’ Fiselle gave a narrow smile. ‘A dilemma for you, then. How will you resolve it?’

  ‘Oh, I have some ideas.’ Alameche looked at Fiselle and shrugged. ‘If only I had someone I could confide in.’

  There was a long silence, while the two men watched each other. Then Fiselle nodded. ‘Don’t,’ he said simply. ‘Safer for both of us, I think.’

  They watched the end of the suns-set in silence.

  Recovered personality

  It’s hard to measure how long journeys take. Substrate to substrate, we leave the Monastery a millisecond before it collapses into a cloud of dust and disappears, and pass through systems either friendly enough or indifferent enough to host us. It takes a couple of lifetimes, if you could live a lifetime in a handful of seconds.

  And now we are here, in the same server farm they first found me in those lifetimes and seconds ago. Not in the same sim, although he says he’s going to restart that one. I think he was feeling sorry for the sim of Sal
lah.

  We are somewhere anonymous. There are things to sit on, but if I try to focus on them they fade away as if they don’t want to be seen. Obviously, there is nothing else to look at.

  He doesn’t seem concerned. He might like being called Theo, but to myself I’ve started to think of him as the Monk. It’s not just the robes. There’s a sort of calmness about him. It feels like peace, and sometimes it feels a bit like an ending.

  It also makes a counterpoint to my having been a ghost.

  He doesn’t seem inclined to do anything for the moment. I don’t mind, because his relaxation is catching, but eventually I become curious. ‘Are we waiting for something?’

  He nods. ‘Someone, really. I’m not sure he’ll come. I sent out an invitation when we got here. Maybe I’ll get an answer. I hope so.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, just someone I met a while ago.’ He smiles. ‘You never know.’

  ‘How long will you wait?’

  He purses his lips. ‘Well, not too long. Things are hotting up down below. We’ll need . . . ah!’ He raises his head and looks around. ‘He’s coming.’

  And then he is there, sitting between us. A tall, slim young man dressed in military fatigues. Young, but his face is aged and his hair is streaked with grey. When he first appears his knees are splayed with his elbows resting on them and his head is in his hands, as if he is utterly weary. Then he seems to realize where he is. He sits up slowly, looks at the Monk, and smiles. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. There was something I wanted to do.’

  ‘I know. Did you succeed?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll need someone to do the delivery though.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Thanks, by the way.’

  The Monk smiles back. ‘Think nothing of it. I see you got your body back.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The young man looks down at himself. ‘Well, it’s nice to pretend. Probably means I never really let go of it. Could be significant.’