Renascence

Illustration by George M. Krauter

I think he told me this because I am his daughter. Not that he begot me in his flesh. When I was born, he was still homebound on a voyage that had begun almost three hundred years before. When we spoke, he was machine. But my father and my mother bear the genomes of him and his mate. They were created with the same basic memories, harking back to Earth itself, and even with some shared recollections of lives lived afterward. Also, it happens I resemble her as she was when young. Machine or no, of course he loved me once we had met.

What he said was that if I cared to hear the full tale of why he had returned so much earlier than planned, he would be glad to tell me. Oh, but I cared!

I think, too, he needed this. He had downloaded his knowledge into the appropriate databases, but that is impersonal. He had communed with the Life Mother of our planet, but that is sacred. I wonder if she counseled him to seek ordinary human connection. She may well have. In his awareness, the terror and solitude were only days behind him. Unbroken, he was nonetheless shaken, wounded. Maybe those hours with me helped speed his healing. Maybe he went back the stronger for it, to face the thing again. I would like to believe so.

We walked out of Rydberg and upstream along the Argen. On our right the poplars whispered with breeze; their pale leaves snared sunlight and spattered it across their shadows. On our left the river gleamed and murmured. Beyond it a farmscape, green, green, and golden, rolled away toward hills left wild. Here and there, brightness flashed off an attendant robot. Both moons were aloft, wan crescents in a blue crossed by cloud scraps and wings. The air drifted warm, full of herbal smells.

We soon got past sight of the town. When we came to a mossy bank, I knelt to drink—the water here has a slight iron tang—and sat down on the softness. A butterfly went past like a bit of rainbow. I could well-nigh feel the presence of the Life Mother, watching over and warding everything with which our ancestors seeded this world. The black hole seemed more than remote, it seemed to lie in another reality.

But my companion had gone there. The body that he wore today stood upright, two-legged, two-armed, two-handed, until it settled at my side. In its turret he produced the moving image of his mortal head, which could have been my father’s, blocky, red-dish-haired, rugged-featured. Somehow these homelinesses made that of which he spoke all the more freezingly alien.

And he himself had not been human then, not really, in the way I am. Nor was he now, in spite of the many everyday touches that endeared him to me. I cannot tell his story or that of his Demeter as it was to them. My brain is not electrophotonic. I do not have machine sensors or capabilities. Nor was I ever grown as an adult in a tank; I was born from a womb. No memories of past existences were ever downloaded into me; mine are just what came directly to this one organism during the thirty years I have been alive. Pseudo-experiences in a dream box give little feeling for organometallic regenesis. Those are too unanimal. I will not understand them until I have been through my own. Do you?

I must tell what I heard as I heard it, in ordinary language, therefore fragmentary and often false—what they found yonder. They awaited strangeness. Theirs was the first expedition to the first black hole identified within practicable range of any dwelling place that any of our races have found thus far. Yet their ship, at not greatly less than the speed of light, was a century and a half in passage. “Maybe we should’ve expected not only surprises, but thunderbolts,” his voice rumbled to me like my father’s. “How could we have known, though? For sure, nobody could’ve warned us.”

At the moment it computed as best, the ship closed circuits to awaken them. Reactivation brought an instant’s bewilderment. In their minds, they had begun accelerating outward and had finished lasering their farewells back to our world. Now immediately they confronted foreign space, and our Sun was among the stars, by no means the brightest.

Orientation crystallized. Micro-gravity and the silence of airlessness were familiar enough. Most of the sky around them had changed little: the stellar horde, red, yellow, blue-white; the galactic band toppling through it, an iciness broken by black gulfs of cosmic dust; nebulae lacily aglow; sister galaxies afar and afar; radio seethings, hard particle sleets. Despite it, this was foreign space. Before them burned the fire that ringed their destination.

Anson Guthrie gusted a sigh. “Well, old girl,” he said, “we made it.”

Of course those were not sounds. They were signals that he willed into his transmitter. But her brain interpreted them as he intended, for she too had many fleshly as well as machine lives behind her. They possessed communicators more subtle or more powerful, to use at need. What they wanted at this minute was to be together.

They could not clasp hands. Their braincases lay deep within a heavily shielded control complex. However, they had means to generate their images for one another. She “saw” him in his young manhood, on a beach where surf brawled beneath a sharp wind. For him, she appeared as she had first been synthesized, long ago on a planet long since destroyed—dark-haired, amber-skinned, hazeleyed, she whom in her manifold recreations on our various worlds and in their various histories we have always named Demeter. A forest surrounded her.

They stared, laughed, ignored the contradictory settings, and feigned an embrace. Their lips met. “Darling,” she said, immortally his beloved. Then she stepped back. Her smile trembled. “That was sweet, in its ghostly fashion. Just the same—”

“Wait’ll we go mortal again,” he answered. “I’ll give you some sweetness that isn’t ghostly. You’ll be walking bowlegged.” It came out more harsh than humorous. He had never quite liked being a download, an encoding of memories and synapses. For him it was thin stuff compared to being organically alive. Whenever his program was put into a newly made human Guthrie, he most often had it simultaneously removed from the neural network, declaring that for the time being he was tired of the machine condition and it didn’t care to continue by itself.

Demeter completed her sentence: “—We’d better pay attention to where we are.”

“Right,” he agreed, a lilt entering his tone. After all, adventures and achievements are possible to machines where humans can never go, let alone survive. When organic, he regretted that he could not perfectly remember everything he had encountered.

A versatile problem-solver, the ship would have determined this was a safe region. But it was robotic, without conscious personality. The minds aboard it were what would perceive and seek to understand.

Demeter consulted its database and instruments. One of the downloads that went to make the very first Life Mother, at Alpha Centauri—and thus, eventually, passed into the first Demeter Daughter—had been a space pilot’s. While she examined the parameters of vessel and orbit, Guthrie linked himself to an astrophysics program. Thereby made expert, he studied the black hole around which they swung.

Their distance was a cautious twenty astronomical units. Magnification and enhancement were required to get sight of the body. With a mass of some ten sol, its event horizon was a few tens of kilometers across. In the screen it showed as a blue-rimmed dot of utter darkness. Had the ship’s path not been at a high inclination, not even that much would have been visible, for around it whirled an accretion disc. Matter spiraling inward gave off a torrent of quanta. Millions of kilometers out, the fire was dim, radio hues, but closer in it blazed ever more savagely, microwave, optical, ultraviolet, X-ray, a maelstrom through which lightnings leaped and shadowlike transients flickered. At first he could not really see it; his mind must learn how. He never became able to make visual sense of the inner edge, where atoms were plunging to oblivion through a time that his clocks measured as infinite.

Demeter joined her regard to his and whispered, “I knew we would be awed, but this—”

“Yes, we certainly had to come look close up,” he said as low. “Already I find things I can’t explain, things we probably couldn’t have noticed from home base.”

She took her own refuge in straightforward science. “Like the reason the disc is so bright?”

He formed a chuckle. “Give us a chance to snoop around first, will you?” Thoughtfully: “Yes, they do wonder about that. No companion star to steal material from. The interstellar medium’s got to be denser hereabouts than average. My guess at the moment is that Packer’s idea is right. You remember? When the supernova went off, its gas caught up with the planetary nebula puffed out at the red giant stage, and a part has been rebounding from the shock wave ever since. It’s happened preferentially in the equatorial plane because of rotation, and gravity would reinforce this, and then as the stuff gets near there’ll be the effects of distorted space-time—maybe. We don’t know yet. Nor do we know whether this is a typical or a fluke, like maybe a quite small and close companion that got blown to bits in the explosion. We’re here to find out.”

Her voice caressed him. “Dear old bear. Metal or meat, you do like to growl on and on, don’t you?”

“Aw, you’re just saying that to make me feel good. Let’s get busy.”

Their condition had its advantages. They could commence work directly, and go for hours before they needed a download’s equivalent of sleep. If anything, the temptation in the years ahead of them would be to neglect the human side of their psyches. That could have ill consequences. They must make a point of idle talk, relived memories, participatory illusions. At the moment, though, fascination caught them up.

Initial observations went fast; the ship’s hypercomputers interpreted them faster. Guthrie and Demeter set it cruising, zigzagging inward, at accelerations that would have crushed their mortal bodies.

This was through daycycles that I cannot tell about, for we organics cannot be single-minded methodical; and as for their respites from it now and then, those belonged to them alone. I can merely say that they took pictures, spectra, meter readings from hundreds of positions and angles; they obtained long-base parallaxes; they sampled atoms, molecules, dustmotes, meteoroids, and measured the streamings of these. It was all preliminary. Probes to the black hole, and into it, were for later. But the explorers were not so distant from their origins on ancient Earth that there was not a special eagerness in this initial quest.

They found what they hoped for.

The data fell into a Euclid-clear pattern. “Planets,” Demeter said like a song. “At least two planets.”

“Well, if some pulsars have them, why not a black hole?” Guthrie replied. “The question is how.”

Can jovian or superjovian worlds in remote orbits survive a supernova blast that vaporizes lesser, closer ghosts? Most of their own mass will go likewise, the gas and ice; but might the dense cores remain, incandescent, perhaps molten, then slowly cooling? Or it is possible that an eerie rebirth takes place, whole new bodies coalescing in the less energetic fraction of the matter that burst from the giant star? However small, that fraction must still amount to several times what encircles our Sun.

“This isn’t a pulsar,” Demeter said. Her exultation shivered a little. “How violently did it die, when its remnant was too big to collapse down into quarks, but is falling in on itself forever?” Resolution returned with laughter. “Nevertheless those planets move. Let’s us!”

By now they were not far from the inner one, and laid an intercept course. Rounding its primary at a mean distance of about three astronomical units, it had a mass of about two and a half terra. The mean specific gravity, 5.8, betokened a metallic body with a rocky crust; spectral and radioactivity analysis would give details. The rotation period was 8.7 hours, with slight axial tilt. Those were the preliminary numbers. What met the travelers, as they took parking orbit and gazed out, was a terrible majesty.

Seen from there, in the ecliptic plane, the accretion disc became a double convex lens, two degrees across. Its edges hazed away in a radio blur against the stars. Inwardly the radiance heightened, until at the middle a furnace of annihilation and creation blazed gamma-white. Electrons, protons, and their antiparticles foun-tained forth, hurled on electric fields to which, even at this remove, the circuits of the ship thrummed. You, looking straight at the single octave your eyes can use, would have beheld a fierce iridescence; then you would have died. Guthrie and Demeter saw the whole fury, stopped down a thousandfold lest it burn out their sensors. They quickly turned to the planet.

At first it appeared stark as any moon. Polar caps and scattered ice fields mottled darkling mountains, uplands, plains, valleys. Impact craters were surprisingly few. Those of volcanoes exceeded them by hundreds. A smoke plume, big enough to be visible from space, declared that eruptions still went on; surely other diastrophisms did as well. Most features looked oddly smooth, as if eroded, although the highest of them must be geologically new. Subtle colors washed the underlying grays and browns, hints of rose, violet, marigold. Micalike points of brightness sparkled. Could the atmosphere be responsible? It misted the line between day and night; as the ship swept from hemisphere to hemisphere, it made vague sunrises and sunsets; but otherwise it seemed almost of vacuum clarity.

Guthrie and Demeter were a long while silent. In human phase, they would no doubt at once have sought telescopic views. As downloads, they had machine patience. They considered what was around them, absorbing it piece by piece, thinking. At the backs of their minds they sensed the instruments and computers to which they were linked, at work, as you might be half aware of some routine thing your hands are doing.

“Beautiful, in its way,” she mused at last. “And terrifying.”

“How come?” he asked.

“Oh, philosophically. So many suns and worlds in the Universe, but life so rare. This—” Her shadow self gestured. “It’s as if nature were always blindly trying to make a place for life, and nearly always failing.”

“Well she lucked out with us, and we’re carrying on the job for her. Give us a few million years.”

The argument was old between them. After all their centuries, everything between them was, save for whatever newnesses they found outside themselves. Still, they had not wearied of saying their feelings to one another, as they had not wearied of making love.

“How much time has this planet had?” she wondered.

“We should soon be able to make a pretty fair guess. The observations are taking shape. Listen.”

Presently: “Thin air, mostly nitrogen. That suggests the planets did form after the blowup, wouldn’t you say? A boiloff oughtn’t to have left any air at all.”

“And no jovian planet could have condensed this close to a working sun, especially a blue giant,” she pointed out.

“Um-m, friction with the supernova gases could’ve shortened the original orbit. But if this body dates from after the explosion, I’d have expected more of an atmosphere, considering its size. Maybe, in that environment, there weren’t a lot of comets, to bring in volatiles. Notice the scarcity of craters. We’ll want to check whether the system’s got anything like a Kuiper belt or an Oort cloud.”

He felt how she thrilled. Year upon year of discovery! However, her words stayed meditative. “Perhaps the atmosphere was originally thicker, but radiation from the accretion disc kicked most of it free. High-energy photons making ions, which the ambient electric and magnetic fields accelerated away—yes, destroying chemical compounds too, letting hydrogen break from ammonia and escape while nitrogen stayed behind—Any complex organic molecules that had formed were degraded. Maybe nothing remains on the surface but frozen carbon dioxide mingled with water ice, and… elemental carbon?”

“Hm, I should think that scenario depends quite a bit on the planet’s personal magnetic field. How strong is it?… Hold on!” Guthrie exclaimed. “Something damn funny here.”

She glanced at the data and gasped.

The field was not simple or steady. Nor did its pulsations follow the shudders that passed through the black hole disc and out across space. It choired. Around a stable half gauss, which must arise from the core, vibrated electronic voices, faint but multi-millionfold. Intricate harmonics went from horizon to horizon, around the curve of the globe. Digitals blinked, one-null-null-one-one-one… beyond counting. Thermocells registered scores of points whose cold suggested cryogenics underground. Fluctuant radio bands soughed in the heavens—

“Don’t just float there,” Guthrie croaked to the ship. “Give us a real look.”

It heard, without knowing that it heard, although the command he sent down the circuits was what it responded to. Magnified imagery brought the surface within optical meters. Guthrie and Demeter saw.

Crystalline. No better word came to them. Valleys, plains, hills, mountainsides bore an endless intricacy of shapes. A coral reef might give a hint of description, here reaching aloft, there hugging the ground, convoluted, porous, sometimes blockily massive, sometimes clockwork delicate, always more fantastic than dreams. But these forms were generally sharp-edged, angular, akin to spar, quartz, pyrites, shards of glass, facets on jewels. Among their murky hues, occasional mirror brightnesses flung light back to space. And surely the totality of them reached deeply downward.

During an orbit and an orbit, the watchers learned that weirdness did not cover the entire globe. Extensive regions of it, amounting to about a fourth, were ordinary rock, regolith, dust scudding before chill winds. “Around the meteor craters especially,” Guthrie muttered. “That might explain why they’re few. The rest have been… eaten, converted. Sites rich in minerals? Those that are left may be poor, unless the thing simply hasn’t gotten to them yet.” “What is it?” For a time Demeter lay mute, until she blurted, “A monstrous artifact? Who could have built it?”

Guthrie shrugged phantom shoulders and put bravado in his ghost-voice. “I dunno. But 1 kind of doubt that. To me, this hasn’t got the look of anything serving a purpose. Individual structures, yeah, but no overall coordination. At least, that’s my first impression.”

“Those signals—”

“Are they signals? Communication? Let’s do whatever analysis we can.”

Eagerness flamed. “If it is intelligent, we’ll call to it!”

“Yeah? If it is a cybercosm, do we necessarily want it to know about us?”

She made no answer. He felt her remembering what has engulfed Earth. Not that that is evil in itself; but our worlds are biocosms.

“No, I don’t suppose it can be,” she said at last. A hope, a fear?

The ship kept orbit. Its receivers drank in the emissions from the planet. Its computers ran through the data, over and over, seeking patterns that could mean awareness. Information is equivalent to negative entropy. But billions of gigabits must be sifted to determine how often the statistically improbable occurred and what its nature was.

Guthrie and Demeter made what observations they were able to. They studied, thought, discussed. Setting the clues they got alongside that which astronomers at home had learned and conjectured, they began to sketch out a history of this system.

Closely determined at close range, the black hole’s mass indicated how large the original star must have been, and thus the manner of its perishing. The ship had automatically collected data on its surroundings as it traveled. Although the nebula given off in the early stages of death had dissipated, traces remained in the interstellar medium, and the shock wave of the supernova was still clearly identifiable. Calculation forward from theory and extrapolation backward from fact converged on a date for that moment of ultimate violence; about a billion years ago.

While part of the ejected matter was falling back as astrophysicist Packer had proposed, it was insufficient for the accretion disc. The bulk of that came from gas in orbit, approximately normal to the axis of rotation. Every such orbit would have decayed by now, except that as an atom approached, the radiation turned it into plasma, which the electromagnetic fields accelerated. This slowed but did not stop inward spiraling. The disc had once been far brighter. In less than another billion years, it would be nearly extinct.

Even so, the quantity involved was immense. Guthrie’s notion that a small, close-in companion had been destroyed could well be right. A cloud that was dense by cosmic standards must formerly have extended for tens of astronomical units. Perhaps that explained how new planets had formed. Or perhaps it explained how the remnants of old ones had moved inward. Geology on the ground ought to show which was true—or that both were false.

In either case, the surface that Guthrie and Demeter saw had to be comparatively fresh. Whether it grew incandescent from the crashing together of planetesimals or from a billow of fire that seared away its outer layers, an object this size would not cool off soon.

Despite that, elaborate formations decked it, where intricate electrical processes went on. The power clearly came from the disc, with possibly a geothermal component. The electricity could not be a direct result of resonance or induction. It was too complex, and it showed itself to have multitudinous points of origin, where energy was somehow concentrated. Yet the emissions were not messages. There were no transmitters, only leakages. Analysis revealed no codes; apparently the complexity was just a question of innumerable impulses in immense variety.

“What is it?” Demeter puzzled. “Why is it?”

“You know the Universe hasn’t got any ‘why,’ ” Guthrie said.

“Apart from what sentient life makes,” she reminded him.

His being caressed hers. “Thanks for that,” he said.

While they waited, they had not devoted themselves entirely to science. At intervals the mind must rest, it must dream. It must remember. From their private databanks, he and she evoked years reaching back through millennia—

—Anson Guthrie, whose Fireball Enterprises gave humankind its first real bridgehead beyond Earth and whose download led an exodus of rebels to Alpha Centauri. The need for an intelligence to guide and make strong the ecology they precariously sowed. Kyra Davis and Eiko Tamura, whose downloads went into the creation of Demeter Mother, tinged by what Guthrie recalled of his wife who died on Earth. The oneness she slowly gained with life, the knowledge and feeling, until at last she could do what had been impossible until then: download from Guthrie’s neural network to a living body built around his genome. Her later shaping of a mate for him, who was her mortal self. And thus the opening of the stars, as ships bore quiescent programs to worlds prepared for new flesh. Lifespan after lifespan, the same souls housed over and over, now in organic form, now inorganic, but always aware and always, they hoped, growing toward a measure of wisdom—and multiple, the number of their avatars no longer knowable—

—I call this to your mind precisely because it is so familiar. Until we have ourselves been reborn, we shall not understand it, and not until we have had many rebirths shall we discern the full meaning of it. Meanwhile we should think upon it.

As nearly as disembodied minds may, Guthrie and Demeter relived the centuries of their love. I have glimpsed it in my father and my mother, who are among their incarnations. It is strong and it is strange; for beneath the ordinariness he wears like armor, he is the eternal hero, while she half remembers how again and again she has been a Life Mother. But the ways in which they shared it, these particular two who sought to the black hole, that concerns no one else.

In the end, after all the knowledge was in that could be gathered from aloft, he asked, “When do we send a robot down for a proper look?”

“Soon,” she replied. “But not a robot. Telepresence would be too tricky, too clumsy, under these conditions and with this many unknowns. If nothing else, imagine what harm beyond repair we might do, bumbling around like that. No, I’ll go”

“Huh? Wait just a flinkin’ minute. I—”

Her merriment kissed him. “You haven’t shucked your machismo yet, have you?” Soberly: “In case of trouble, I think you’d be better at mounting a rescue operation. You’ve been in more roughhouses.” The soundless voice rang: “And I want to go, Anse!”

He felt the spirit of Kyra Davis, who once ranged the Solar System, smuggled him away from the enemies, waged the first space dogfight in history, and bore the first child born at Alpha Centauri. He yielded. “OK, if you insist on me hanging around up here gnawing the fingernails I haven’t got, OK” The undertone went: Come back to me, querida.

Yes, if she perished, he could doubtless find another. Although they had brought no spare copies of themselves, for they had found the emotional dangers were too great (also to a download), plenty existed on every human-settled world. But the last branch-off from her line of descent had occurred almost four hundred years earlier, a vast gap in what they had done and known together. Nor could any such union resurrect this one Demeter. Her shade must forever be among those for whom he grieved.

There are still people who say we have abolished death. It is not so. It never can be so.

Speaking little more of what mattered most, the couple set about their prosaic preparations. Study the numerous kinds of map, choose a landing site, plan a schedule of exploration, plan for as many contingencies as were readily conceivable. Plant relay satellites to keep the ship in contact wherever it was. Have the appropriate robot transfer their braincases to appropriate machine bodies.

His was gracile, six-armed, capable of swift movement and of steering equipment by remote control. Hers was twice the bulk, thickly shielded, four stout legs beneath a boxy torso, two arms ending in hands, four specialized limbs, sensory turret forward of the transceiver dish, powerpack good for a thousand strenuous hours. Once upon a time such an exchange of masculine and feminine shapes had been occasion for ribaldry; today they took it for granted.

He did generate his human face in his own turret and say awkwardly, “Have a care, sweetheart. Buena suerte.”

Her image smiled back. “Luck to you, too. Love you. Adiós.” She could not keep her fervor hidden.

He helped her exit, then stood by.

Riding a launcher down, she exulted. Again she was free, in open space. Stars encompassed her, more stars than darkness, a galaxy filled with their hundreds of billions. Dared she hope someday to know them all? And galaxies beyond them—They sang to her sensors, the multitudinous music of the spectrum. The launcher pulsed, accelerating. She recalled the feel of a horse between her knees, sunlit meadows, wind in her hair.

The planet swelled in sight until it occupied half the sky, no longer ahead but below. Crags rose jagged. Her destination came over the rim and she eased down to it. Unsecuring from the vehicle, she set foot on the world.

The site was a flat-topped, steepsided block, like a small mesa, at the middle of a broad valley. Bare and swart, it overlooked crystalline figures clustered densely as far as vision reached. Mountains walled the horizon in the west, otherwise its arc met a deep purplish heaven. Auroras flickered overhead. Beyond them burned the accretion disc, near noon. Ripplings passed through its lens, lightnings forked, annihilation raged at the white heart and sent hard radiation cataracting. Gusts of air whined thin, dry, bitterly cold. Gravity dragged. When she tuned in, Demeter heard a susurrus of hidden electric tides.

“Landed safe,” she called unnecessarily, out of ancient habit. To transmit every sensation would have required a broader band than was available, but Guthrie followed what she saw and did.

For an hour she simply peered at what lay around her. Thereafter she used instruments, optical and electronic. Finally she said, “I’m ready to start off.”

“Are you sure?” he fretted.

“Sooner or later, I was bound to, wasn’t I? Damn the torpedoes! But I will be careful, querido. I truly don’t want to hurt something this wonderful.”

Descent was tricky. She weighed over 40 percent again what she would have weighed at home. Stones rattled from underfoot and bounded downslope murderously fast. Drifts of grit slithered beneath her tread. Thrice she nearly fell. Her body could not tire, but when she reached the bottom her mind was breathing hard.

“Collect your wits, girl,” she muttered, and focused vision on a thing that rose out of the ground before her. About a meter tall, it half suggested a shrub made out of enormous black snowflakes strewn with glitter, exquisite in a goblin fashion. Her touch found it scratchy—fractal, she ascertained—and very slightly vibrant. She could trace buried connections a short distance down into the soil, then their sign was lost in background noise. Roots? No, couldn’t be.

The soil… it was not regolith: inorganic, anhydrous, but finer-grained. What chemistry had milled it?

Other businesses were mingled with a diversity of coralline and prismatic assemblages. Some were darkly ashen, some nacreous, occasional ones reflective as mirrors. Light played across their geometry, soft hues and shimmers, hard brilliances. A kilometer distant, solitary among them, a thing like an arabesque latticework reared globular, six meters high. Sparks flashed and trembled along its intertwined loops. A flaw of wind from that direction carried sounds that might have been made by glass chimes.

“Lovely, a fairyland,” Demeter crooned.

Guthrie’s response came harsh. “Easy, there. In the old stories, the genuine old stories, the fairy folk were not good to deal with.”

“But we’re the aliens here,” she answered, and set forth. Her goal was the hollow globe. Not only was it unique, lines of electric current seemed to converge upon it and flow back from it.

She heard fragile structures snap, she sensed abrupt chaos where circuits broke asunder. No matter how cautiously she moved, this ponderous body of hers crushed and split what it passed through. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said against all reason.

“Don’t be,” Guthrie counseled. “There’s no dearth of ’em.”

“But it feels—no, you can’t feel what’s happening, can you?”

“Pain? Come on.”

“Oh, no. Except—when I’ve been a mother, and a tree or a flower died—”

“You’re not serious! Are you?”

She halted, sensing electricity fade away from her and make new patterns elsewhere, beneath the flaming lens. “Not really,” she admitted. “It reminds me… but no, it isn’t biological.”

“How could it be? Whatever carbon atoms are in this stuff, they’re secondary.” He had no cause to lecture her about carbon, the single element capable of spontaneously joining into molecules complex enough to encode life. “Remarkable, yes,” he added. “Unbelievable, if we didn’t have it right on hand. How the hell could crystals like these ever grow? Conductive hookups, semiconductors, capacitors, maybe actual heat pumps—We thought we knew fairly well what the possible geochemistries are for every kind of planet under every kind of sun. We were wrong. God damn, but we were wrong! Here’s a scientific revolution. And it’s ours, honey, ours.”

His excitement gripped her. She pushed on, heedless. Destruction crackled and shrilled louder, the nearer she came to the globe.

It was not perfectly symmetrical, and ends curved from the periphery, as if it were growing outward. Nor was the interior quite empty; a three-dimensional spiderweb of thin strands crisscrossed and interwove. The light-flashes came off small pennons—metallic?—fluttering to every breeze. Where they struck together, they belled. Radio waves pulsed from the entirety, a hiss and throb echoed by underground electromagnetic surges. Deep below lay a node of matter close to absolute zero.

She stopped. It was Guthrie who spoke, “Judas priest,” in marvel.

A member uncoiled from the lattice, swung around, and seized her.

At first she was merely astounded. The clutch encircled her turret and tightened. A second cable-thick limb whipped out, groped down her side, and closed on a leg.

Guthrie roared an obscenity. Demeter dug in her heels and strained backward. Her motors snarled. She felt the strain go through her captor, she saw the whole huge structure tremble. But it held her fast.

Her tool arms attacked with diamond saw and geologist’s hammer. They barely bit. The cables were incredibly tough. Strands of perfect molecules, she thought wildly—fullerenes?—She pitched her weight to and fro. The cables drew her forward.

“Hang on!” Guthrie shouted. “I’m coming!”

He was above the opposite hemisphere. The computer in his body made its grim calculations. While the ship boosted, he gathered weapons.

The globe hugged Demeter against its lattice. Tendrils from within coiled about her, threadlike but soon enmeshingly many.

“Anse,” she begged, “don’t take reckless chances. Whatever happens, Anse, thank you, mil gracias for all our time—Oh—”

Inside the globe, something pushed out of the ground. A steel trumpet flower, she thought amidst the craziness. No, not really. As it stretched upward on its stalk, she saw that the petals moved and that their edges were serrated. By now she could do no more than kick a little.

The corolla swung back and forth. Its blind seeking found the target. Very slowly, it swayed toward her.

“I’m about to launch,” Guthrie’s voice tolled. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t risk yourself,” she pleaded, knowing he would. “I’m only one download.”

“You’re my woman,” he said. “If that thing hurts you, there’s going to be a valley full of nothing but slag.”

“No, Anse, por favor, you mustn’t—”

A deep whistling went through her receiver. His vehicle had left the ship.

The corolla fumbled across her. When it found the turret, the petals drew shut, a hangman’s cap. Her optics went black.

She felt the vibration as the petals cut through her shielding. It was like a scream.

I have heard that a download does not, cannot fear its extinction. But surely it can fear for those it loves, and sorrow at leaving them, and regret losing this miraculous Universe. I think a part of Demeter withdrew to her past lives and sought peace in the recounting of how very much she had had. Another part of her still thought desperately, less about any way by which she might escape than about the whole of her plight, what had brought it about, what it meant.

And enlightenment came. We know this because of what she cried at the end.

A sensation pierced her, akin to agony. The corolla had ripped her shield open, pulled it apart, and started exuding a substance—an acid?—that attacked the casing beneath. Radiation from the disc struck the petals. Secondary showers rained out of them into her brain.

The ground shook. The noise of it toned in her. Guthrie had landed, meters away.

The corolla withdrew as if startled. Radiation flooded directly upon her. Particles and photons tore through picocircuits. Memory banks and logical functions degraded. Thunder blasted her awareness. It whirled down a vortex of night.

She saw Guthrie come striding. His body was meant for speed, not strength. The cables that held her could pluck him in pieces. He gave that no heed. In two of his hands an atomic hydrogen torch spouted flame. In two of his hands a laser projector made an energy sword. In two of his hands a sledge hammer swung, breaking a way to left and to right. So he came for her.

Lunacy ran wild. The past shattered and dissolved. With the last of herself Demeter wept, “Anse, darling, have mercy. This is alive—” Her mind fell from her as if into a black hole.

He said nothing to me of the battle he had waged except, “I got her free and took her back to the ship. I was her shield while we flew, of course.”

Of course.

“Was she terribly hurt?” I breathed.

“Bad enough. I deactivated her and steered for home.”

I mustered courage to ask, “She could have waited safely, couldn’t she? While you did more science there?”

“I couldn’t have,” he answered. The bleakness thawed on his generated countenance. “Besides, alone, I’d’ve been less than half as effective as the two of us. I could easily have blundered into a situation where not even the ship survived. Better to cut our losses.”

“How… how is she?”

“She’s being restored. Many of her memories were undamaged. Most of what’s gone can be replaced, along with the essential personality. I’ll get her back.”

Such is the primitive will to life on behalf of a beloved. In a download too. I think that otherwise we would not be peopling the stars.

“I’m glad,” I said, in full honesty, and laid my hand over his. The sun had warmed it. Light danced on water, wind talked in leaves, a smell of wild thyme blew above the riverbank.

“What then?” I asked.

“We’ll return,” he said. “Better prepared, and not by ourselves. This calls for a major expedition.”

“It’s certainly strange.”

“More than strange.”

My head snapped up at his tone. I stared at him.

“She knew,” he said. “On the edge of death, she knew. Because she’s been the Life Mother, again and again, clear back to Centauri. Through all the differences, she suddenly recognized the sameness.”

I waited.

“That’s a living planet,” he said.

“But how can it be?”

“What is life? Don’t we have to define it by what it does? It stores, copies, and transmits information; converts energy; recycles matter; maintains homeostasis; repairs and reproduces itself, grows, evolves. Don’t I count as alive in this phase of mine? I do those things, one way or another.”

“But you—you began as organic. Life has to.”

“Probably. Only carbon has the properties to bootstrap up from the smallest molecules. However, once we’d developed technology, we built inorganic systems that’re alive by any reasonable standard.”

He was silent for a span before he went on—how quietly—“A vegetative life yonder, I suppose. Mainly, the electric currents are incidental, like the changing potentials in your cells. Although… it seems to have some kind of unity, integration. Local activity focused on the thing that grabbed my Demeter. Why did it? To save the valley from a trampling invader? Or was the action just a sort of tropism? How did it get the ability? I’ve wondered if maybe it processes ores. But then how are they passed on to it? An ecology—

“Sure, things must have been much simpler at first. Metals and silicates aren’t very labile. I imagine, though, the radiation drives chemistry and crystallography hard. And an equivalent of catalysis—” He paused. “Does anything correspond to animals? And what might the evolution go on toward?

“We need to know.”

“How could it have started?” I heard my voice thin and shivery.

“That’s what we really need to know,” Guthrie said. Each word struck after the next, like blows on a nail head. “Wreckage from a ship—or what?—how many ages ago? Or deliberate seeding? Were the crew organic… or were they not? We’ve never found spoor of any intelligent beings besides us and our creations. Until now—maybe. Remember, on Earth, it’s the cybercosm that rules, minds more powerful than we believe anything in a biocosm can ever become. What are they doing? What may other cybercosms have been doing? We dream our dreams of the future. What may theirs be?”

He gazed past me, beyond the sky. “I told my Demeter the question ‘Why?’ is meaningless. I was mistaken. We all thought we’d learned some of the basics in the Universe. We were mistaken.”

The stream rustled past us on its way to the sea.

Guthrie straightened at my side. Light poured across the image of his living face. “We’ve got to set that right,” he said.