Trojan Horse

by Michael Swanwick

  Elin's body trembled with shock, and by slow degrees she realized that she had retreated to the surface world.

  Tory's head was still cradled in her arms. A wetware tech standing nearby looked stunned, her face gray.

  Elin gathered herself together, said as gently as she could, "Tory, what is that you're seeing?"

  Tory turned his stark, haunted eyes on her, and it took an effort of will not to flinch. Then he spoke, his words shock­ingly calm.

  "It is-what is. It's reality. The universe is a damned cold machine, and all of us only programs within it. We perform the actions we have no choice but to perform, and then we fade into nothingness. It's a cruel and noisy place."

  "I don't understand-didn't you always say that we were just programs? Wasn't that what you always believed?"

  "Yes, but now I experience it."

  Elin noticed that her hand was slowly stroking his hair; she did not try to stop it. "Then come down, Tory. Let them deprogram you."

  He did not look away. "Mcfcevo," he said.

  The tech, recovered from her shock, reached toward a piece of equipment. Landis battered her hand away. "Hold it right there, techie! Just what do you think you're doing?"

  The woman looked impatient. "He left instructions that if the experiment turned out badly, I was to pull the terminator switch."

  "That's what I thought. There'll be no mercy killings while I'm on the job, Mac."

  "I don't understand." The tech backed away, puzzled. "Surely you don't want him to suffer."

  Landis was gathering herself for a withering reply when the intercom cut them all off. A flash of red shot through the sensorium, along with the smell of bitter almond, a prickle of static electricity, the taste of kimchi. "Emergency! We've got an emergency!" A black and white face materialized in Elin's mind. "Emergency!"

  Landis flipped into the circuit. "What's the problem? Show us."

  "You're not going to believe this." The face disappeared and was replaced by a wide-angle shot of the lake.

  The greenish-black water was calm and stagnant. The thrust-cone island, with its scattered grass and weeds, slumbered.

  And God walked upon the water.

  They gawked, all of them. Coral walked across the lake, her pace determined but not hurried, her face serene. The pink soles of her bare feet just touched the surface.

  / didn't believe her, Elin thought wildly. She saw Father Landis begin to cross herself, her mouth hanging open, eyes wide in disbelief. Halfway through her gesture, the Jesuitical wet ware took hold. Her mouth snapped shut, and her face became cold and controlled. She pulled herself up straight.

  "Hans," the priest said, "push the button."

  "No!" Elin shrieked, but it was too late. Still hooked into the intercom, she saw the funny little man briskly, efficiently obey.

  For an instant, nothing happened. Then bright glints of light appeared at all of the condenser units, harsh and actinic. Steam and smoke gushed from the machinery, and a fraction of a second later, there was an ear-slapping gout of sound.

  Bits of the sky were blown away.

  Elin turned, twisted, fell. She scrambled across the ground and threw her arms around Tory.

  The air was in turmoil. The holes in the dome roof-small at first-grew as more of the dome flaked away, subjected to stresses it wasn't designed to take. An uncanny whistling grew to a screech, then a scream, and then there was an all-encompassing whoomph, and the dome shattered.

  Elin was flung upward, torn away from Tory, painfully flung high and away. All the crater was in motion, the rocks tearing out of the floor, the trees splintering upward, the lake exploding into steam.

  The screaming died-the air was gone. Elin's ears rang furiously, and her skin stung everywhere. Pressure grew within her, the desire of her blood to mate with the vacuum, and Elin realized that she was about to die.

  A quiet voice said: This must not be.

  Time stopped.

  Elin hung suspended between moon and death. The shards and fragments of an instant past crystallized and shifted. The world became not misty, exactly, but apositional. Both it and she grew tentative, possibilities rather than actual things.

  Come be God with me now, Coral said, but not to Elin.

  Tory's presence flooded the soupy uncertainty, a vast and powerful thing, but wrong somehow, twisted. But even as Elin felt this, there was a change within him, a sloughing off of identity, and he seemed to straighten, to heal.

  All around, the world began to grow more numinous, more real. Elin felt tugged in five directions at once. Tory's pres­ence swelled briefly, then dwindled, became a spark, less than a spark, nothing.

  Yes.

  With a roaring of waters and a shattering of rocks, with an audible thump, the world returned.

  Elin unsteadily climbed down the last flight of stone stairs from the terraces to the lake-front. She passed by two guards at the foot of the stairs, their facepaint as hastily applied as their programming, several more on the way to the nearest trellis farm. They were everywhere since the incident.

  She found the ladder up into the farm and began climbing. It was biological night, and the agtechs were long gone.

  Hand over hand she climbed, as far and high as she could, until she was afraid she would miss a rung and tumble off. Then she swung herself onto a ledge, wedging herself be­tween strawberry and yam planters. She looked down on the island, and though she was dizzyingly high, she was only a third of the way up.

  "Now what the hell am I doing here?" she mumbled to herself.

  She swung her legs back and forth, answered her own question: "Being a piss-ass drunk." She cackled. There was something she didn't have to share with Coral. She was capable of getting absolutely blitzed and walking away from the bar before it hit her. It was something metabolic.

  Below, Tory and Coral sat quietly on their monkey island. They did not touch, did not make love or hold hands or even glance at one another-they just sat. Being gods.

  Elin squinted down at the two. "Like to upchuck all over you," she mumbled. Then she squeezed her eyes and fists tight, drawing tears and pain. Dammit, Tory!

  Blinking hard, she looked away from the island, down into the jet-black waters of the lake. The brighter stars were reflected there. A slight breeze rippled the water, making them twinkle and blink, as if lodged in a Terran sky. They floated lightly on the surface, swarmed and coalesced, and formed Tory's face in the lake. He smiled warmly, invitingly.

  A hand closed around her arm, and she looked up into the stern face of a security guard. "You're drunk, Ms.," he said, "and you're endangering property."

  She looked where he pointed, at a young yam plant she had squashed when she sat down, and began to laugh. Smoothly, professionally, the guard rolled up her sleeve, clamped a plastic bracelet around her wrist. "Time to go," he said.

  By the time the guard had walked Elin up four terraces, she was nearly sober. A steady trickle of her blood wound through the bracelet, was returned to her body cleansed of alcohol. A sacrilegious waste of wine, in her opinion.

  In another twenty steps, the bracelet fell off her wrist. The guard snapped it neatly from the air and disappeared. Despair closed in on her again. Tory, my love! And since there was no hope of sleep, she kept on trudging up the terraces, back toward Hans's rathskeller, for another bellyful of wine.

  There was a small crowd seated about the rock that served Hans as a table, lit by a circle of hologram-generated fairy lights. Father Landis was there, and drinking heavily. "To­morrow I file my report," she announced. "The synod is pulling out of this, withdrawing funding."

  Hans sighed, took a long swig of his own wine, winced at its taste. "I guess that's it for the Star Maker project, huh?"

  Landis crossed her fingers. "Pray God." Elin, standing just outside the circle, stood silently, listening.

  "I don't ever want to hear that name again," a tech grumbled.

  "You mustn't confuse God with what you've just seen," Landis admon
ished.

  "Hey, come on!" Hans said. "She moved time backwards or something. I saw it myself. This place exploded-doesn't that prove something?"

  Landis grinned, reached out to ruffle his hair. "Sometimes I worry about you, Hans. You have an awfully small concept of God." Several of the drinkers laughed.

  He blushed, said, "No, really."

  "Well, I'll try to keep this"- she leaned forward, rapped her mug against the rock, "fill this up again, hey?-keep it simple. We had analysts crawl up and down Coral's descrip­tion of the universe, and did you know there was no place in it anywhere for such things as mercy, hope, faith? No, we got an amalgam of substrates, supraprograms, and self-metaediting physics. Now what makes God superior to us is not just intellect-we've all known some damn clever bastards. And it's not just power, or I could go and buy an atomic device on the black market and start my own religion.

  "No, by definition God is my moral superior. Now I myself am but indifferently honest-but to Coral, moral con­siderations don't even exist. Get it?''

  Only Elin noticed the haunted, hopeless light in Landis's eyes or realized that she was spinning words effortlessly, without conscious control. Deep within, the woman was caught in a private crisis of faith.

  "Yeah, I guess." Hans scratched his head. "I'd still like to know just what happened between her and Tory there at the end."

  "I can answer that," a wetware tech said. The others turned to face her, and she smirked, the center of attention. "What the hell, they plant the censor blocks in us all tomorrow-this is probably my only chance to talk about it.

  "We reviewed all the tapes, and found that the original problem stemmed from a basic design flaw. Shostokovich should never have brought his ego along. The God state is very ego-threatening; he couldn't accept it. His mind twisted it, denied it, made it into a thing of horror. Because to accept it would mean giving up his identity." She paused.

  "Now we don't understand the why or how of what hap­pened. But what was done is very clearly recorded. Coral came along and stripped away his identity."

  "Hogwash!" Landis was on her feet, belligerent and un­steady. "After all that happened, you can't say they don't have any identity! Look at the mess that Coral made to join Tory to her-that wasn't the work of an unfeeling, identity-free creature."

  "Our measurements showed no trace of identity at all," the tech said in a miffed tone.

  "Measurements! Well, isn't that just scientific as all get-out?" The priest's face was flushed with drunken anger. "Have any of you clowns given any thought to just what we've created here? This gestalt being is still young-a newborn infant. Someday it's going to grow up. What happens to us all when it decides to leave the island, hey? I-" She stopped, her voice trailing away. The drinkers were silent, had all drawn away from her.

  " 'Scuse me," she muttered. "Too much wine." And sat.

  "Well." Hans cleared his throat, quirked a smile. "Any­body for refills?"

  The crowd came back to life, a little too boisterous, too noisily, determinedly cheerful. Watching from the fringes, outside the circle of light, Elin had a sudden dark fantasy, a walking nightmare.

  A desk tech glanced her way. He had Tory's eyes. When he looked away, Tory smiled out of another's face. The drinkers shifted restlessly, chattering and laughing, like danc­ers pantomiming a party in some light opera, and the eyes danced with them. They flitted from person to person, materi­alizing now here, now there, surfacing whenever an individ­ual chanced to look her way.

  She heard a quiet voice say, "We were fated to be lovers."

  Go away, go away, go away, Elin thought furiously, and the hallucination ceased.

  After a moment spent composing herself, Elin quietly slipped around to where Landis sat. "I'm leaving in the morning," she said. The new persona had taken; they would not remove her facepaint until just before the lift up, but that was mere formality. She was cleared to leave.

  Landis looked up, and for an instant the woman's doubt and suffering were writ plain on her face. Then the mask was back, and she smiled. "Just stay away from experimental religion, hey kid?" They hugged briefly. "And remember what I told you about stubbing your toes."

  There was one final temptation to be faced. Sitting in the hut, Tory's terminal in her lap, Elin let the soothing green light of its alphanumerics wash over her. She thought of Tory, of his lean body under hers in the pale blue earthlight. "We were meant to be lovers," he'd said. She thought of life without him.

  The terminal was the only artifact Tory had left behind that held any sense of his spirit. It had been his plaything, his diary, and his toolbox, and its memory still held the Trojan horse programs he had been working with when he was-transformed.

  One of those programs, she knew, would make her a god.

  She stared up through the ivy at the domed sky. Only a few stars were visible between the black silhouetted leaves, and these winked off and on with the small movements she made breathing. She thought back to Coral's statement that Elin would soon join her, merging into the unselfed, autistic state that only Tory's meddling had spared her.

  "God always keeps her promises," Tory said quietly.

  Elin started, looked down, and saw that the grass to the far side of the hut was moving, flowing. Swiftly it formed the familiar, half-amused, half-embittered features of her lover, continuing to flow until all of his head and part of his torso rose Up from the floor.

  She was not half so startled as she would have liked to be. Of course the earlier manifestations of Tory had been real, not phantoms thrown up by her grief. They were simply not her style.

  Still, Elin rose to her feet apprehensively. "What do you want from me?"

  The loam-and-grass figure beckoned. "Come. It is time you join us."

  "I am not a program," Elin whispered convulsively. She backed away from the thing. "I can make my own decisions!"

  She turned and plunged outside, into the fresh, cleansing night air. It braced her, cleared her head, returned to her some measure of control.

  A tangle of honeysuckle vines on the next terrace wall up moved softly. Slowly, gently, they became another manifes­tation, of Coral this time, with blossoms for the pupils of her eyes. But she spoke with Tory's voice.

  "You would not enjoy godhood," he said, "but the being you become will."

  "Give me time to think!" she cried. She wheeled and strode rapidly away, out of the residential cluster, through a scattering of boulders, and into a dark meadow.

  There was a quiet kind of peace here, and Elin wrapped it about her.

  She needed that peace, for she had to decide between her humanity and Tory. It should have been an easy choice, but-the pain of being without.

  Elin stared up at the earth; it was a world full of pain. If she could reach out and shake all the human misery loose, it would flood all of creation, extinguishing the stars and poi­soning the space between.

  There was, if not comfort, then a kind of cold perspective in that, in realizing that she was not alone, that she was merely another member of the commonality of pain. It was the heritage of her race. And yet-somehow-people kept on going.

  If they could do it, so could she.

  Some slight noise made her look back at the boulder field. Tory's face was appearing on each of the stones, every face slightly different, so that he gazed upon her with a dozen expressions of love. Elin shivered at how alien he had be­come. "Your need is greater than your fear," he said, the words bouncing back and forth between faces. "No matter what you think now, by morning you will be part of us."

  Elin did not reply immediately. There was something in her hand--Tory's terminal. It was small and weighed hardly at all. She had brought it along without thinking.

  A small, bleak cry came from overhead, then several oth­ers. Nighthawks were feeding on insects near the dome roof. They were too far, too fast, and too dark to be visible from here.

  "The price is too high," she said at last. "Can you under­stand that? I won't give up my
humanity for you."

  She hefted the terminal in her hand, then threw it as far and as hard as she could. She did not hear it fall.

  Elin turned and walked away. Behind her, the rocks smiled knowingly.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 6f956508-1fe3-479b-b6d4-0cbd699943ef

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 03.06.2008

  Created using: ConvertLIT, Lit2FB2 software

  Document authors :

  traum

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/