Transcendence

Chapter Twenty-Four

The definition of reality; the meaning of existence; the nature of the universe.

The philosophies of the spiral arm on these subjects were at least as numerous and diverse as the intelligences who populated it. They ranged from the Inverse Platonism of Teufel — What you see is all there is, and maybe a bit more — to the Radical Pragmatism of the Tristan free-space Manticore — Reality is whatever I decide it should be — all the way to the Dictum of Inseparability espoused by the hive-mind of Decantil Myrmecons — The Universe exists as a whole, but it is meaningless to speak of the function of individual components.

Darya had no doubts about her own view: The universe was real, and anyone who believed otherwise needed a brain tune-up. There certainly was an objective reality.

But could that reality ever be comprehended by a living, organic being, one whose intelligence and logical faculties had to operate in the middle of a raging cauldron of glands and hormones and rampant neurotransmitters?

That was a far more subtle question. Darya herself was inclined to answer no. If one wanted a good example, all one had to do was examine recent events.

Look at yesterday. On her return to the Erebus from the surface of Genizee, the objective universe had been an old and worn-down and shabby place, a weary present grinding its way forward into a pointless future. She had been swept by the random tides of exhaustion from confusion to anger to total languid indifference.

And now, one day later? Twelve hours of forty-fathom slumber had pumped ichor into her veins. She had followed that with a meal big enough to stun a Bolingbroke giant, and discovered that the universe had been remade while she slept. It gleamed and glowed now like the lost fire-treasure of Jesteen.

And she glowed with it.

The Erebus was winding its way slowly and quietly out of the depths of the Torvil Anfract. Darya sat knee to knee in silent companionship with Hans Rebka, staring at the panorama beyond the hulk of the ship. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him. The view from the observation bubble helped. It was never the same for two seconds: now it showed a lurid sea of smoky red, lit by the sputtering pinwheel fireworks of tiny spiral galaxies rotating a million billion times too fast to be real; a few moments later all was impenetrable blackness, darkness visible. But by then touch had substituted for vision. The ship moved through the abyss with a shuddering irregular slither that created a tremor in Darya from hips to navel. An invisible something caressed her skin — caressed her inside her skin, with the most delicate and knowing of sensual fingers.

“More macroscopic quantum states,” Hans Rebka said lazily. He waved his hand at a Brownian-movement monitor. “But they’re getting smaller. Another few minutes and we’ll be back to normal scale.”

“Mmmph.” The intellectual part of Darya nodded and tried to look serious. The idiot rest of her grinned and drooled in sheer delight at the sybaritic pleasures of the world. Nothing ought to be allowed to feel so good. Wasn’t he feeling it, the way that she was? Something wrong with the man, had to be.

“And according to Dulcimer’s flight plan,” Rebka continued, “it’s the last time we’ll meet macro-states. Another few minutes and Graves should flip right back to normal. He’s feeling better already, just knowing what it is that’s wrong with him.”

“Ummm.” If you were to run tourist ships out to this part of the Anfract, and keep them here for a few hours — assuming that anyone could stand such a wonderful feeling for so long — you could make your fortune. And maybe you could be on the ship yourself, for every trip.

“Hey.” He was staring at her. “What are you looking so pleased about? I thought you’d feel down today, but you’re wall-to-wall grin.”

“Yeah.” Darya gazed into his eyes and amended her last thought. He wasn’t feeling it. You would run ships of female tourists out here.

But the tingle inside her was fading, and at last she could speak. “Why shouldn’t I grin? We found the Zardalu, we all escaped from Genizee, we’ve got the live infant as evidence for the Council, and we’re on the way home. Don’t we have a right to smile?”

“We do. Graves and Tally and me do. You don’t.”

“Hans, if you’re going to start that nonsense again about me and Louis Nenda… he was only trying to explain what they were going to do with the Indulgence, I’m sure he was. And then when I wouldn’t listen to him, he put his hand on—”

“That’s not a problem anymore. We know what happened to the Indulgence. While you were snoring your head off, Kallik located a flight plan in a locked file in the Erebus’s backup computer. Nenda and Atvar H’sial are heading for Glister and Nenda’s old ship.”

That stopped Darya for a moment. She had been hoping to return to Glister herself in the near future, but it was not the right time to mention it. “Well, if you think that I’m smiling because Nenda and I had been—”

“Haven’t thought about that all day.”

He had, though, Darya was sure of it — he had answered much too fast. She was getting to know Hans Rebka better than she had ever known anyone.

“I’m not worrying about you and Nenda, or you and anyone.” His face was no longer lazy or lacking emotion. “I’m worrying about you, and only you. You didn’t come here to find the Zardalu, I know that.”

“I came to be with you.”

“Nuts. Maybe a little bit of that, and I’d like to think so. But mainly you came to find the Builders.”

So she had! It was hard to remember it that way now, but he had pinpointed her original motives for leaving Sentinel Gate. Whether she liked it or not, he was getting to know her, too, better than anyone had ever known her. The flow through the empathy pipe ran both ways. It had been open for only a year. How well would they know each other in a century?

“And now,” he was continuing, “you’re going home with-out a thing.”

“Nonsense! I have a new artifact to think about. An amazing one. The Torvil Anfract is a Builder creation, the strangest we’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe. But can I quote what a certain professor told me, back on Sentinel Gate? ‘There was nothing more interesting in my life than Builder artifacts — so long as the Builders remained hidden. But once you meet the Builders’ sentient constructs, and think you have a chance to find the Builders themselves, why, the past is irrelevant. artifacts can’t compete.’ Remember who said that?”

He was not expecting an answer. Darya had one, but she did not offer it. Instead she looked again out of the observation bubble. In the sky outside, the blackness was breaking to a scatter of faint light. A view of the spiral arm was coming into view; the real spiral arm, as it ought to look, undistorted by singularity sheets or quantum speckle or Torvil chimeras. They must be almost out of the Anfract.

“But you’re no closer to the Builders now than you were a year ago,” Hans went on. “Farther away, in some ways. When we were dealing with the Builder constructs on Glister and Serenity, you thought that The-One-Who-Waits and Speaker-Between held the key to the exact plans and intentions of the Builders. Now we find that Guardian and World-Keeper agree completely with each other — but they don’t agree with the other constructs at all. It’s a mess and it’s a muddle, and you have to be disappointed and miserable.”

Darya didn’t feel the least bit miserable or disappointed. She had questions, scores of them, but that was what the world was all about.

She smiled fondly at Hans Rebka — or was she just smiling at the warm feeling inside her? Surely a bit of both. “Of course Guardian and World-Keeper agree with each other. You’d expect them to — because they are the same entity. They are one construct existing in a mixed quantum state, just the way J’merlia existed. But in their case, it’s permanent.” And then, while Hans jerked his head back and stared along his nose at her in astonishment, she went on. “Hans, I’ve learned more about Builders and constructs in the past year than anyone has ever known. And you know what? Every new piece of information has made things more puzzling. So here’s the central question: If all the constructs are earnest and industrious and incapable of lying, and if they are all busy carrying out the agenda of their creators, then why is everything so confusing?”

She did not expect an answer. She would have been upset if Hans Rebka had tried to offer one. He was going to be the tryout audience for the paper she would write when she returned to Sentinel Gate. Their departure from the research institute had hardly been a triumph. She laughed to herself. Triumph? Their exit had been a disaster; Professor Merada, wringing his hands and moaning about the artifact catalog; Glenna Omar, her neck covered in burn ointment and bandages; Carmina Gold firing off outraged messages to the Alliance Council… The next paper that Darya produced had better be really good.

“I’ll tell you why we’ve been confused, Hans. The Builder constructs have terrific physical powers, we know that by direct experience. And it’s tempting to think that anything with that much power has to know what it’s doing. But I don’t believe it anymore. For one thing, they all have different ideas as to their purpose. How come? There’s only one plausible answer: They contradict each other, because each construct had to develop its ideas for itself.

“Our assumption that the machines have been following a well-defined Builder program is nonsense. There’s no such program — or if there is, the constructs don’t know it.

“I’ll tell you what I think happened. Five million years ago, the Builders upped and vanished. The machines were left behind. Like the other artifacts, they’re relics left by the Builders. But there’s one big difference: the constructs are intelligent. They sat and waited for the promised return — real or imaginary — of their creators; and while they waited, they invented agendas to justify their own existence. And each construct made up a Builder Grand Design in which it played the central role. Sound familiar? — just like humans?

“It wasn’t the Builders who decided Genizee was a special place that one day they’d settle down in. They evolved on a gas-giant planet, for God’s sake — what would they want with a funny little world like Genizee? It was Guardian who decided that its planet was special and set up a weird quarantine system to keep space around it free of anyone who failed the test of ethical behavior. Apparently we passed, and the Zardalu failed. Pretty weird, you might say, but the other constructs are just as bad. The-One-Who-Waits thought that Quake was uniquely special, and Speaker-Between knew that Serenity was the only important place.”

Rebka was shaking his head. “I think you’re wrong. I think the Builders are still around, but they don’t want us looking for them. I think they tried to confine the Zardalu to Genizee, but the Zardalu escaped, and got out of control. The Great Rising took care of the Zardalu, they were no problem anymore. But now the Builders are worried about us. Maybe we’ll get out of control, too. I think the Builders are scared of us.”

Darya frowned at him. He did not seem to realize that one was not supposed to interrupt the logical flow of a presented paper.

“Hans, you’re as bad as the constructs! You’re trying to make us important. You want the Builders to like us, or be afraid of us, or even hate us, but you can’t accept the idea that they don’t care about us or know we exist because on their scale of things we are insignificant.”

She paused for breath, and he squeezed in his question: “Well, if you’re so smart and so sure you know what’s going on, tell me this: Where are the Builders now?”

“I don’t know. They could be anywhere — at the galactic center, out in free-space a billion light-years away, on a whole new plane of existence that we don’t know about. It makes no difference to my argument.”

“All right, suppose they are gone. What role do we play in their affairs.”

“I already told you.” Darya grabbed his arm. One did not do that in a written paper, either, but no matter. “None. Not a thing. We’re of no importance to the Builders whatsoever. They don’t care what we do. They created their constructs, and they left. They have no interest in the artifacts, either — they’re big deals to us, but just throwaway items to them, left-behind boxes in an empty house.

“The Builders have no interest in humans, Cecropians, or anyone else in the spiral arm. No interest in you. No interest in me. That’s the hardest bit to swallow, the one that some people will never accept. The Builders are not our enemies. They are not our friends. We are not their children, or their feared successors; we are not being groomed to join them. The Builders are indifferent to us. They don’t care if we chase after them or not.”

“Darya, you don’t mean that. If you don’t chase after them you’ll be giving up everything — abandoning your lifework.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I wouldn’t chase them — only that they don’t care if I do or I don’t. Of course I’ll chase them! Wherever the Builders went, their constructs couldn’t go. But maybe we can go. We’re not the types to wait for an invitation. Humans and Cecropians, even Zardalu, we’re a pushy lot. Every year we learn a little bit more about one of the artifacts, or find a path that takes us farther into the interior of another. In time we’ll understand it all. Then we’ll find where the Builders went, and in time we’ll go after them. They don’t care what we do now, or what we are. But maybe they won’t be indifferent to what we will be, when we learn to find and follow them.”

As she spoke, Darya was running the sanity checks on her own ideas. Publishable as a provocative think piece? Probably — her reputation would help with that. Credible? No way. For people like Professor Merada there had to be supporting evidence. Proof. Documentation. References. Without them, her paper would be viewed as evidence that Darya Lang had gone over the edge. She would become one of the Institute’s crackpots, banished to that outer darkness of the lunatic fringe from which there was no return.

Unless she did her homework.

And such homework.

She could summarize current progress in penetrating and understanding Builder artifacts. That was easy; she could have managed it without leaving Sentinel Gate. She could describe the Torvil Anfract, too, and offer persuasive evidence that it was an artifact of unprecedented size and complexity. She could and would organize another expedition to it. But for the rest…

She began to speak again, outlining the program to Hans Rebka. They would need more contact with Builder sentient constructs. On Glister, certainly, and on Serenity, too, once they found a way to make that jump thirty thousand light-years out of the galactic plane. Naturally they would have to return to the Anfract, and understand the mixed-quantum-state being, Guardian/World-Keeper. The use of macroscopic quantum states offered so much potential, it too could not be ignored. And of course they would have to hunt down other constructs, with help from Guardian, and interact with them long enough to detail their functions. Perhaps humans and Cecropians and the other organic intelligences would have to become new leaders for the constructs, defining a new agenda for them, one that corresponded to the reality of the Builders’ departure. And they must return to Genizee, too, and learn how to handle the Zardalu. Julian Graves would insist on it, no matter what anyone else wanted.

Hans Rebka listened. After a while he took a deep breath. Darya did not seem to realize what she was proposing. She imagined that she was describing a research effort. It was nothing like that. It was a long-term development program for the whole spiral arm. It would involve all organic and inorganic intelligences in decades of work — centuries of work, lifetimes of work. Even if she was wrong about the Builders (Hans believed that she was) she was describing a monstrous project.

That did not faze her at all. He studied her intent face. She was looking forward to it.

Could it be done? He did not know. He knew it would not go as smoothly as Darya seemed to imagine — nothing in the real world ever did. But he knew he would never talk her out of trying. And she would need all the help that she could get.

Which left him — where?

Hans Rebka leaned forward and took Darya’s hands in his. She did not seem to notice. She was till talking, shaping, formulating.

He sighed. He had been wrong. Trouble was not ending as the Erebus wound its leisurely and peaceful way out of the Torvil Anfract. Trouble was just beginning.