The Enigma Score

by Tepper, Sheri S

  At this point, the viggies joined the song, query and reply, antiphonally, circling, circling again, as it grew more and more true. ‘If,’ they sang, ‘then what?’ and Tasmin replied. ‘Then if,’ they sang, ‘what then?’ and Clarin told them.

  They sang of the good guys, Jamieson who lay wounded with the giligees working on him, Thyle Vowe, Grand Master of the Tripsingers, who worshipped the truth – Clarin sang this, much to Tasmin’s surprise – of Tripsingers and Explorers, and those people of peace who tilled the soil and loved Jubal. These people would not be allowed to stay, they would go in any case, but they would not want Jubal destroyed behind them.

  And lastly, they sang the names of villains. Spider Geroan, who had been healed of his affliction and then eaten. The Crystallites, who were liars. The troopers who blocked the way east. And finally, Harward Justin, Planetary Manager, who would destroy the Presences, very soon unless something was done.

  And finished singing.

  There was a long silence, unbroken. None of the members ventured song. At last it was the senior giligee, the one who carried Prime Priest Favel’s brain-bird, who called in a high, clear soprano that soared above them like a gyre-bird.

  ‘Come, Troupe leader. We must go to the Highmost Darkness, Lord of the Gyre-Birds, Smoke Master, the one the humans call Black Tower, and ask it what to do.’

  17

  They came to the Black Tower on the following day. Jamieson was unable to ride. Tasmin had held the boy before him on the saddle, cradling him like a baby while he slept.

  The troupes of Bondri and Chowdri had come by their own paths, swifter trails than the one followed by the humans. When Donatella and Clarin arrived, some distance ahead of Tasmin, Jamieson, and the spare mules, they found the troupes already singing.

  The humans made camp. None of them had eaten recently, and food, while uninteresting, was a necessity. The smell of heating rations woke even Jamieson.

  ‘I thought I was dead,’ he said wonderingly. ‘It came down on top of me.’

  ‘You probably would have been,’ Tasmin whispered, lifting the boy’s head to the cup. ‘Except for the giligees.’

  ‘Except for the what?’

  A long explanation followed, which had not really ended when Bondri Gesel came into their campsite, shaking his head.

  ‘We sang to the Black Tower,’ he chanted in a weary monotone. ‘It did not want to listen. It is full of annoyance and irritation. It is worse than when we were at the one you call the Watcher. It is not the skin that speaks, nor the deep parts. It is some middle part that is new to us, a part full of questions and anger. Something has happened to make it very angry, Tasmin Ferrence. Presences have been bothered!’

  ‘Bothered?’ asked Tasmin, uncertain what the viggy meant.

  ‘To the north. Loudsingers came. They made noises and shattered the fingers of many Presences, passing through the air in the confusion. The Presences were slow to wake, but now they are wakening. On all the world, they are wakening.’

  ‘The people following us,’ said Don. ‘I wondered how they got onto us so fast. They came in by air!’

  Bondri went on. ‘We have sung to the Highmost Darkness. We have told it everything we know. Then we sang everything you sang to us. It wants to sing to you.’

  ‘Me?’ Tasmin asked.

  ‘You. And the Explorer and the young female and this one. All of you.’

  Jamieson heaved himself into a sitting position. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to singing.’ He was staring at the viggy in complete absorption, turning to Tasmin. ‘Who did you say this was?’

  Tasmin introduced them. ‘Bondri, this is Jamieson, my friend. Bondri Gesel, leader of the viggies.’

  The young human and the viggy nodded their heads precisely at the same moment and to the same angle. Evidently ceremony knew no species. Tasmin fought down a snort of bleak amusement.

  ‘Bring him anyhow,’ said the viggy. ‘The Black Tower wants to look at him.’

  ‘Look?’ faltered Jamieson. ‘They can see?’

  ‘Not with eyes,’ admitted Bondri. ‘But they see, yes. When they want to.’

  ‘And you’ve told them all about what’s happening, with BDL and all?’

  ‘We are not sure Highmost Darkness, Smoke Master, Lord of the Gyre-Birds understands, because we do not understand. That is why it wants to see you.’ And Bondri turned away, stamping his feet a little as he went, head high and throat sack half distended.

  ‘He’s miffed,’ said Jamieson in awe.

  ‘He is that,’ agreed Tasmin as he got to his feet and joined the others in a straggling procession toward the Black Tower, the music box with the translator program at the ready.

  ‘How is it,’ the Tower asked, after laborious introductions had taken place, ‘that you have not proclaimed (sung, announced) our sentience before – if you have known it (contained a concept for) as you say you have known it.’

  Bondri translated this into Loudsinger language. They checked it against the translator. Viggy and machine were more or less in agreement. Bondri was waiting somewhat impatiently for a human response.

  Tasmin looked helplessly toward Clarin. They were assembled so near the monstrous monolith that it actually seemed to bend above them. The sounds that came from it came from here, there, everywhere. They had no sense of location. It was not like looking into a human – or a viggy – face. There was no way in which the question could be simply answered. There was no time for equivocation, for polite, diplomatic evasions. These words were the first between two totally different types of sentient creatures. Though they did not have the language of the viggies, which could speak only truth, Tasmin felt desperately that he should try.

  Clarin nodded to him, eyes fastened on his. ‘Tell it,’ she said. ‘Tell it the truth. Find the words, somehow, and tell it the truth.’

  ‘What do you want me to sing?’ whispered Bondri. ‘It is a very important question the god has asked.’

  ‘I don’t want you to sing,’ Tasmin cried. ‘I want to tell it myself. Me. And Clarin and Jamieson. I want to tell it exactly what we mean to say!’

  ‘Do the Loudsingers have the words?’

  ‘No, Bondri. You know we don’t have the words. We have to have a while to get the words.’

  ‘Then I will tell the Highmost Darkness that the Loudsinger is preparing an answer.’

  The troupe sang a short phrase, three times repeated, and a cascade of sound belled from the Tower.

  ‘It understands the difficulty this question poses,’ said Bondri. The Great One found intriguing alternatives in encoding it linguistically and can extrapolate there would be alternative possibilities in answer. It allows you time.’

  Shaking their heads over this, trying to believe they were living a reality rather than a dream, they gathered around Donatella’s synthesizer. Tasmin bent above the keyboard, making quick notations as the translator gave him each key concept. Clarin was beside him. Jamieson heaved himself up, tottering, and Vivian ran to hold him up.

  ‘Lie down, young man. You’re not fit to be up.’

  Jamieson grinned. ‘You think I’m going to let that old man do all the singing, Vivian?’ He staggered a little. ‘I’ll get stronger if I move around.’

  He went to peer over Tasmin’s shoulder. Tasmin looked up, shook his head disapprovingly, then turned back to the machine. After a time, Jamieson leaned closer, to help.

  Occasionally the translator beeped, clucked, and refused to offer anything at all. When this happened, Tasmin turned to Bondri and asked, ‘How would you say …’ or ‘Is this how you say …?’ Bondri offered him word or correction, and Tasmin returned to his work.

  What concepts would the Black Tower have? No organic ones, surely. One could not talk of hearts, of blood, of pain. Did they feel pain? Did they have honor? Did they understand truth? There were honorifics aplenty, so they had some concept of glory and power, but what did even these mean to them? They did understand beauty, so much was clear. The
re was not a phrase sung by the viggies that was not beautiful, and that could not be accidental. There was not a word or phrase in a successful Password that was not beautiful either, and that should have told them something. Though perhaps it told them only that viggy and human had similar esthetics.

  It emerged that the Presence had no concept of its own crystallinity. Its mind existed within the great crystal as the mind of humans existed within its cells. Was the human mind aware of its cellular nature, of its neurons and receptors? Only from the outside did that kind of awareness come. And what were the minds of the Presences after all but vast arrays of dislocations, molecular vacancies, self-reproducing line, and planar defects generating energy along infinitesimal fault lines, molecular neurons rather than biological ones, atoms of chromium instead of dopamine, with vacancies in the infinite grid serving as receptor cells.

  And yet they were aware. They knew inside from outside. They spoke from their own universe to a universe outside themselves. It would suffice – as a starting point.

  Slowly, lines of musical notation grew beneath Tasmin’s hands. More slowly yet, the words were chosen.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ sighed Jamieson, indicating a soaring line of vocalization. He was able to stand without help, able to move with only minor discomfort. Or so he told himself, refusing to admit how much of his competence at the moment was mere adrenaline. But he couldn’t sing that…

  ‘I can,’ said Clarin. Her voice was factual, without expression, and yet her eyes were alive with concentration.

  ‘Yes, better let Clarin do that. You take the other part. This will be yours, Clarin,’ Tasmin muttered, slashing the notation pen across the staff, notes blooming in its wake. ‘Here’s another one for you, Clarin. The main theme is mine. I’m leaving the embellishments to you two.’

  Jamieson grunted, making notes on his own machine, subvocalizing certain phrases to set them in mind.

  Tasmin scowled, erased, notated once more. ‘This cadence, here. Take it slow; don’t hurry it. Extend this syllable out, out, that’s the base. Build on that, don’t lose it. Come up on the vibrato softly, then let it grow, make it tremble….’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Clarin muttered, reaching for the pen and pointing to the screen. ‘Here, and here, do it this way.’ The glowing notes and words shivered and changed. Tasmin considered. Yes, it was better. Was it enough? Only the attempt would tell.

  ‘I don’t get this bit,’ Jamieson said. ‘Shouldn’t it fall into the minor, TA-daroo, like that? You’ve got it on the next syllable….’

  ‘No, it works. You initiate the harmonic line and Clarin comes in here, and me, here.’

  ‘What are they doing?’ Bondri whispered to Donatella.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the Explorer answered. ‘I’ve never seen anyone do it before.’

  ‘How can they make a song without singing it?’

  ‘It’s just something they do,’ she replied.

  An hour wore away, and most of another. Words and phrases were changed in meaning by others that came before or after, by subtle modifications in emphasis or key. They sang very softly to Bondri, phrase by phrase, and he nodded, wondering at the strangeness of this. What would the Great Ones make of this concept of difference? Of dominance of one group by another group? To the Great Ones, all viggies were alike, the same. The Great Ones seemed to know nothing of individuality. What would they think? What would they do?

  Bondri turned to the senior giligee for comfort.

  ‘All will be as all will be,’ it sang, quoting the fifth commandment of the Prime Song. ‘Be at peace, Bondri Wide Ears.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to sing,’ Bondri mumble-hummed, quoting Jamieson. This human language had some interesting things in it. Sarcasm, for instance. And irony. Bondri was very taken with both.

  ‘All right,’ Tasmin cried at last. ‘Pay attention, class. We’re almost sight reading this one, so hold your concentration. Get it right the first time, because we may not have a second chance. Donatella, help us with these effects – on this line right here….’

  ‘You expect me to sight read this!’ she exclaimed incredulously.

  ‘You can do it,’ announced Clarin through tight lips.

  ‘It’ll take all four boxes,’ Jamieson said. ‘Tasmin leads.’

  ‘Pronounce that word again,’ Tasmin was asking Bondri. ‘Dooo-vah-loo-im.’ He made another notation of accent on the keyboard. ‘Did you feed it to the other boxes, Jamieson?’

  ‘All in but that last change. All right.’

  They stood apart, breathing deeply, the boxes supported on their retractable stands. Tasmin keyed the first sounds he had scored, a low, brooding bass, pulsing beneath the words he was singing, the words he was thinking. It would not be enough to sing nonsense syllables. They had sung nonsense words for generations. This time he had to know what he meant.

  The bass built into a mighty chord of pure sound, noninstrumental in feeling, then faded away almost to silence as Tasmin began to sing.

  ‘Here in this beautiful land,’ he sang, ‘we lived on lies.’ This was a phrase Bondri had helped them with: a condition that is not real, a word that is warped.

  ‘Lies,’ sang Clarin and Jamieson, weaving the sound of lies into a dissonance, which throbbed for one moment and then resolved into an expectant harmonic.

  ‘Powerful ones let us move in these lands only if we lied.’ Tasmin had wanted the word freedom. Neither Bondri nor the translator could come up with anything. Did the Great Ones have any concept of freedom? How would they?

  ‘If we told the truth, they would force us [the word meant shatter or demolish] away from these lands of glory. Our voices would be silenced, our praise songs fallen into quiet.

  ‘The lies they put into our mouths were these….’

  Donatella bent frantically over her box making a wild clamor of bells. Beneath Jamieson’s fingers, trumpet sounds soared into incredible cascades of sound. Drums beat in an agitated thunder under Clarin’s hands.

  Three voices rose as one, separating into distinct upward spiraling tendrils of song. ‘They forced us to say there were no Presences [great beings, mighty nonmobile creatures]. They told us to say the Great Ones were no more than empty stones.’

  Silence. A tentative fluting. ‘Why? Why did they do this?’ Jamieson’s voice rose in a lilting cusp of sound, questioning, seeking, wheeling like a seeking gyre-bird, tumbling in the air, a question that moved so quickly it could not be caught or denied. ‘Why?’

  From the troupe of Bondri Gesel, an antiphon, unrehearsed, spontaneous as a fall of water. ‘Why?’ What creature could do this thing?’

  A return to the ominous base, the annunciatory drum.

  ‘The laws of man [this small, mobile creature not made as the Great Ones are made, other than the messengers of the gods] are clear,’ Tasmin sang. ‘Where sentient creatures already are [beings like the Great Ones in thinking, making concepts] humans may not go except as those small creatures will allow.’

  A hushed phrase, sung in unison, echoed by the troupe of Bondri Gesel. ‘We singers respect [obey, honor] the law.’

  ‘But the powerful ones do not respect the law,’ Clarin trumpeted.

  Silence. A cymbal, tapped. A woodblock sound, like the inexorable drop of water.

  ‘We, we the singing creatures, the speaking creatures, we respect the law and yet we lied…’

  Three voices rising in one great harmonic chord. ‘Because our concepts would be broken if we left the Great Ones. We did it out of fear, out of hope, out of love.’

  Voices trailing into silence. Liquescent flute sounds dripping away. A last faint call of a grieving trumpet, as though from a distant rampart, being abandoned. A last tap of slack headed, fading drum. Quiet.

  What a definition of hypocrisy, Clarin thought, almost hysterically. A symphony on human mendacity.

  From the Black Tower, not a quiver.

  The four of them stared up at the enormous height, their faces strained
with the concentration of the song, gradually relaxing, becoming slack. Jamieson staggered and collapsed on the ground, smiling apologetically at Donatella before he passed out. The giligees gathered around him again, chirping angrily.

  Tasmin wondered weakly if they’d gotten any of the words right. The word for love, for instance. Bondri had said it that way, but Bondri had had an odd expression on his wide face when he said it. Tasmin started to ask Bondri whether the word had ever even been used with the Presences.

  And was knocked to his knees by the song coming from the Black Tower.

  He could not understand a word of it. The translator chirped and gurgled, words fled across the screen only to be replaced with others. Words accumulated, multiple meanings were tried and discarded. Missing sense was filled in on the basis of speculation, words in parentheses bubbled and disappeared. Others came in their places.

  ‘Interesting! (occupying of intelligence). More interesting (even than) the exercise (amusement, occupation) we have (been engaged in). Small mobile creatures (having such) concepts has not (been considered). Our messengers have not (troubled us, announced to us) concepts. Northern entities (parts?) find this (intriguing). Southern parts (entities?) even now begin (debate upon) concepts implied. Deep buried sections (parts? entities?) where the (great water lies) also include themselves. Wonderful! Quite wonderful! Imperative: Explain love. Explain hope. Explain fear.’

  Just in case they missed it, the Black Tower sang it twice more, in variations. The translator compared versions two and three with version one and settled upon a single message.

  Bondri had huddled down beside Clarin, the two of them arguing over an explanation of love that would make sense to a crystalline being. An unlikely duo to be doing such a thing, Tasmin thought at first. Then, remembering certain things both Bondri and Clarin had done in the past, he thought perhaps they were the best ones to do so. Bondri was going on about loving sets of offspring, loving a good giligee, loving the troupe.