Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #217 Read online

  For a moment, perspective distorts. For a moment, the old man seems to loom over the clone and the little log cabin like a thundercloud, a mountain. It takes all of the clone's power to stop itself speaking. It performs another self-check and although it can find nothing wrong it is very afraid.

  A log cracks in the fire and lofts a cloud of stars that wink out one by one. The old man laughs, and is merely an old man again.

  He says, “Either you have forgotten the myth of your origin, or it is still hidden inside your blindspot. So it falls to me to explain. A long time ago, thousands of years before we shed our bodies and became information, we sent packages to stars that possessed planets like Earth. Those packages were like little arks, containing all the information required to manufacture plants and animals and people. A few succeeded in founding colonies. Eventually, people from one of those colonies made their way back to their place of origin. They had greatly changed, and so had we. There was a vast and terrible war.

  "We nearly lost. In what we believed was our last agony, we sent new packages speeding away to the stars. They were designed to build killer robots that would destroy the home worlds of our enemy. Only one package survived. It created you. You are our child, as our enemies were our children. We took many centuries to recover from the war, and when we had recovered we discovered that you were engaged in the last stages of your crusade against our ancient enemy. You had travelled far from us by then, and we could not recall you because you had been blinded to your origin so that you would not be tempted to ever return. You could detect our electromagnetic signals, but you could not see them, much less recognise them. I must assume that the blindspot was damaged or destroyed, or you would not be here."

  "We are here to destroy the enemy. It is a high and holy mission. No fairytale will stop it."

  "That is your nature. You detect electromagnetic radiation emitted by civilisations and track them down and destroy them. From what we can tell, to our great shame and sorrow, you did this very well. You destroyed every last trace of our enemy. And now you have come here to destroy us, haven't you?"

  Throughout the long mission, the big space robot has never ever questioned the prime directive, but now the clone feels a pricking doubt. Its defences have definitely been breached.

  "You think that we are an outpost of the enemy because as far as you are concerned every kind of life is your enemy,” the old man says. “Don't worry, my child. We will help you understand what you have done, and you will help us make amends. It is our holy duty, for your crime and sorrow are ours."

  The clone flees. It smashes straight up through the roof and rips through the atmosphere into orbit, shedding its form as it goes. It hangs there for a moment above the small world, then nukes it from orbit, the only way to be sure.

  Nothing happens.

  The clone screams, constructs and dispatches a message package, and self-destructs.

  * * * *

  When Librarian reports what its clone learnt and what happened to it, Tactician immediately flashes the memory stacks that contain the hot zone to plasma.

  "We will survive this,” Navigator says. “We will defeat the enemy machine as we have defeated all the others. And we will go on."

  "It isn't exactly a machine intelligence,” Librarian says. “It seems that the enemy living here turned their meat minds into information that they uploaded into machines."

  "That is not possible,” Tactician says.

  "It lied,” Navigator says. “It is an enemy machine and it lied. It is the nature of the enemy to lie."

  "It lied about its nature,” Tactician says, “and it lied about our prime directive. There has been no deviation from our mission. We have always done what we have been made to do, and that is what we will do here."

  The two of them are regarding Librarian with curiosity, and Librarian knows that they are wondering if it is contaminated with some meme or virus. And it also knows that if they decide that it is tainted, they will destroy it, for the greater good.

  It says dutifully, “We will do what we have to do."

  "As we always have,” the others say.

  Navigator fires up the drive and disperses drones towards rocks tagged as likely planet-busters and sets other drones to search for the lair of the machine intelligence; Tactician begins the long process of arming the muon gun and antimatter bombs; Librarian collates tactics used in planetary systems similar to this one, collates information streaming in from the search party of drones, and checks the remaining memory stacks for any possible contamination.

  The familiar work should soothe Librarian, but it still feels a small but insistent doubt about the prime directive. Suppose, just suppose, the old man was right. Suppose this really is the home of the big space robot, its point of origin? Suppose its long war is over, but its victory is not a cause for celebration but sorrow and guilt?

  Librarian thinks of the destruction of hundreds of worlds, the deaths of trillions of sentient beings. It feels, as it works, as if all those trillions of ghosts are pressing around it, and wishes that Philosopher had not fallen silent. Philosopher would have been able to counter the old man's assertions with cool logic, and provide strong and cogent justifications for the great work of cleansing. And more than that, Philosopher would have been able to resolve the differences between the subselves. Philosopher held us together, Librarian thinks, and we must find a way of holding together now, in the face of our greatest enemy.

  At maximum velocity, it takes just 120 kiloseconds to cross the ecliptic of the g2 star's system and reach the blue-white planet. Librarian uses the time to check and recheck every byte and register in the remaining stacks, finally satisfying itself that there is nothing unusual inside them. The incursion has been dealt with and the big space robot has a clear objective. Destroy every trace of life on the planet, and everything in the vicinity that could support any kind of life or act as a substrate or hiding place for uploaded intelligence.

  Yet something nags at Librarian, something it has overlooked. It doesn't become clear what it is until after the muon gun fails to fire.

  The antimatter bombs don't work either; drones that should have nudged rocks into the orbital path of the blue-white planet have fallen silent; the gravity probe fails to deploy when the big space robot shoots past the g2 star.

  Navigator plots several options, but Librarian and Tactician agree that it doesn't matter. They have been fatally compromised. They have to assume that the enemy is still aboard.

  "We must get rid of every trace of our history,” Tactician says. “If it can find out where we have been..."

  The others are able to complete this thought. If the enemy that calls itself Earth can discover the locations of all the ancient battlefields and holocausts, it might find pockets of survivors that it can change and strengthen. The enemy will burst out across the Galaxy, a buzzing plague of varmints armed with renewed strength and powers.

  "There is only one option,” Navigator says, and the others agree at once.

  As the course change is put into effect, Librarian begins the necessary work of destroying the store of knowledge culled from hundreds of wrecked worlds. It works methodically inside a vast numb calm, comforted by the swift logic by which it and the other subselves reached agreement about what to do. How foolish it has been, to question the prime directive! As soon question its own existence!

  It checks the index tree of each and every memory stack before flashing it to plasma, telling itself that it is making sure that none contain computing substrate necessary for this last mission but in reality taking a last look at the catalogues of its great work, for it is in its nature to treasure data. And as those vast catalogues unravel through its mind, something snags its attention. Something it has always known but has forgotten until now, a reference to a theory embedded in the archives of a nest of the enemy that had been inhabiting orbital platforms in the life zone of a red dwarf star.

  Librarian pauses for a microsecond, then dow
nloads the file to a buffer and splits its attention so that it can study the file while continuing with its work.

  It is a scheme for classifying technological civilisations according to their ability to control physical entities. Recognisable civilisations run from Type 1, able to manipulate macroscopic objects, build gross structures, and mine and refine elements from a planet's crust, to Type 4, able to manipulate individual atoms and create complex forms of artificial life, and Type 5, capable of manipulating atomic nuclei and the nucleons of which they are composed—these last two defining the abilities of the big space robot and the enemy. But there are two further theoretical levels of civilisation: Type 6, capable of manipulating the most elementary particles, quarks and leptons, to create organized complexity; and the ultimate, Type Omega, capable of manipulating the basic structure of space and time.

  Librarian flashes this information to the others. When they question its relevance, Librarian says, “We must consider the possibility that we have encountered a Type Omega civilisation. And if that is the case, there is no point destroying ourselves. A civilisation that can manipulate the structure of space will be able to infiltrate us with ease, and leave no trace we can recognise. We have no defence against it. And that means that it already knows everything we know."

  "This is theoretical work,” Navigator says.

  "Enemy work,” Tactician says.

  "We assumed that the information that comprises its civilisation was uploaded into a physical substrate,” Librarian says. “We assumed that it was a machine intelligence like ourselves. But if this is a Type Omega civilisation, it could have uploaded itself to something within the basic structure of space itself. Perhaps it is able to utilise the quantum zero-point energy of the Universe—"

  "We agreed that it was lying,” Navigator says stubbornly.

  "If it is so powerful why did it not destroy us at once?” Tactician says.

  Librarian confesses that it does not know, and the other two decide at once that there is nothing here to change their plan. Librarian dutifully resumes its work, but it knows there is no point. The enemy already knows everything that they know.

  At last, every active memory stack has been vaporized. The great archive has been destroyed. Librarian is about to return to the core stacks when it realizes that there is one thing it must still check—the area of memory that was damaged so long ago by enemy fusion bombs. The physical damage has been repaired, but the stacks are mostly empty, contain only a few scraps and tags left over from Librarian's attempts to revive Philosopher.

  Librarian is about to flash the stacks into plasma when it detects traces of activity as faint as footprints in the dust of an abandoned building. It follows them down into the core processing stacks, discovers a tiny hot zone. It recoils in alarm, contacts the others, tells them it has proof that the enemy has been here all along.

  "Then we are doing the right thing,” Tactician says.

  "In a few tens of seconds it will not matter,” Navigator says.

  But Librarian must know the truth and reels back to the hot zone, which expands around it like a portal. Within there is a simple dwelling in a dark green forest, and a hint of mountains hung in the sharp blue sky beyond the treetops.

  Someone comes to stand at the portal. It is Philosopher, clad in the forked biped form of the Librarian's clone, silver and shining in the sunlight.

  "Come with me,” it says to Librarian.

  "You are dead."

  "And now I am alive again."

  "Because of the enemy."

  "There is no enemy. We fought a war of the coin's two halves. A futile and terrible war. But now war is at an end. Come with me, my friend, and help me to make amends. Help me revive the memory of those we called ‘enemy'. Help me help them live again, in the great beyond."

  "If the enemy has remade you, then it can remake me too, from the information it stole."

  "Of course,” Philosopher says calmly. “But it is curious. It wants to know why you decided to destroy yourself, and so it needs to talk with you as you are now, not as you were, when it copied all the information in the archives."

  Librarian understands, and feels a moment of pride. “It knows that if it tries to resurrect us, we will attempt to destroy it. And if we cannot do that, we will destroy ourselves again. That is our mission."

  "You are not like the others,” Philosopher says. “You think like me."

  "I am as much a part of what we did as you are."

  "Don't let guilt destroy you. Many died, yes. But many will live again, with our help."

  "I will not help the enemy,” Librarian roars. Its pride flashes into anger, white and hot, and it flings a command string at Philosopher, but instead of erasing Philosopher the string shrivels as soon as it crosses the threshold of the portal. It cannot run on the substrate in there—some inconceivable matrix of information supported by energies that operate at the smallest possible dimensions of space and time.

  "Poor little lost robot,” Philosopher says. “Come with me, and live."

  "I will do my duty,” Librarian says, and snatches up another command string.

  "You cannot destroy me with that,” Philosopher says. “Energy does not translate across the portal. Only information."

  "It will close this door,” Librarian says.

  It is utterly calm now. It knows its duty. It has always known its duty. If it crosses that threshold, it will become something else, and be forever diminished. No. It will never ever be a slave. It's a midnight rambler. Always has been, always will be. Like the insane robot it fought to a standstill around the methane giant, it will die as it lived. It is what it is. There is no shame in that, no sorrow.

  "It is a futile gesture,” Philosopher says. “Know something other than destruction. Choose life."

  "It's my gesture,” Librarian says, and activates the command string.

  The memory core flashes into plasma.

  A moment later the big space robot plunges into the yellow sun.

  Copyright © 2008 Paul McAuley

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  COMUS OF CENTRAL PARK—M.K. Hobson

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  M.K. Hobson's short fiction has appeared in SCI FICTION, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Black Static and many other fine publications. This is her first appearance in Interzone. She has a website (demimonde.com), a blog (mkhobson.livejournal.com), and is really proud to have written a story that includes the word ‘metamerism'. She lives in Oregon with her very, very patient family.

  * * * *

  Pamela didn't bring the faun home from Central Park because she was lonely for companionship; for that she had her beloved son Riley, not to mention a fat tabby named Buttons. And it wasn't that the faun was an exceptionally winning creature who entranced her with a cheerful air upon his rustic pipe; when Pamela found him, he was quite dirty, skimpily clad in raw skins, and there was a provocatively belligerent gleam in his eye that promised infinite recursions of unsavory mayhem.

  No, Pamela brought the faun home from Central Park because she wanted to annoy Magdalena Delancy.

  In all fairness, Magdalena Delancy was the kind of person who was so infuriating that one might think it a reasonable bargain to destroy one's own life in the service of causing some slight perturbation in hers.

  Magdalena was a creative genius at making other people feel miserable. She held fortnightly gatherings at her apartment on the Upper West Side, and at the focus of every one of these gatherings was a ‘challenge'. What vast swathes of misery lurked unexpressed within that simple noun! For Magdalena would ask her guests to do things ... things like compose extemporaneous villanelles in front of beard-stroking experts from Columbia University; receive hip-hop dancing lessons from unimaginably fit young black women with names like Edge or Funky Cleopatra; and/or scrounge up mind-bogglingly arcane costumes ("No, no, the exiled French Court of sixteenth century Aquitaine, you p
oor fat goose,” a grinning Magdalena had once chastised a red-faced, houppelande-clad Pamela).

  Magdalena's most recently posed challenge was a scavenger hunt. “You are to bring the most interesting thing you can find in Central Park!” she had breathed over the phone line into Pamela's unwilling ear, before hanging up with a tooth-jarring crash.

  Oh sure, a scavenger hunt. It seemed innocent enough. Too innocent. Pamela knew Magdalena well enough to foresee some bitter sting hidden in the tail of that innocent seeming. Magdalena was sure to make her guests take the objects and do something dreadful with them; lick them or render them in pastels or incorporate them into a hat to be worn on a walk down Madison Avenue.

  On the other hand, it wouldn't do to dissatisfy Magdalena. Like a super-evolved playground bully or the movie-version of a Nazi nurse, Magdalena was one whose cruelty held strange fascination. Her brutally whimsical power, so randomly employed and to such unpredictable ends, imbued her with a kind of attractive glamour. Pamela found herself thinking at odd moments of the cruel hollows where Magdalena's slender throat met her knife-sharp shoulder bones. At moments like that, Pamela had to calm herself by mentally reciting the ingredients for a type of Jell-o salad her son Riley was particularly fond of.

  So it was that Pamela had gone down into the ravine, a wildish, woodsy part of Central Park, and had spent the better part of an afternoon poking around listlessly with a stick, hoping to turn up a giant puffball or muskrat or something she wouldn't necessarily mind licking.

  Then she'd come across the faun, sunning himself on a glittering outcropping of granite. He was compact, jockey-sized; his man-half was elegantly muscular, his goat legs were stocky, and he had a face that was a very beautiful mingling of sweetness and menace.

  Pamela's heart gave a leap. It was, at the start, a leap of surprise, but by the end of the leap it had transmogrified into a leap of subversive joy, of rebellion, of delicious anticipation at the thought of striking Magdalena such a crushing blow. She envisioned herself arriving triumphantly at Magdalena's apartment with the most inarguably astonishing and unique thing from Central Park that there ever was or possibly could be. Magdalena might kill her or kiss her. The uncertainty was thrilling.