Insistence of Vision (36 page)

I watched the activity on the surface of the ninth planet. Although it was an airless body, crater-strewn and wracked by ancient lava seams, it seemed at first that I was looking down on the veldt of some prairie world, covered from horizon to horizon with roaming herds of ungulates. Though these ruminants were not living creatures, they moved as if they were. I even saw “mothers” pause in their grazing to “nurse” their “offspring”.

Of course what they were grazing on was the dusty, metal-rich surface soil of the planet. Across their broad backs, solar collectors powered the conversion of those raw materials into refined parts. Within each of these browsing cows there grew a tiny duplicate of itself, which the artificial beasts then gave birth to, and then fed still more refined materials straight through to adulthood.

There was nothing particularly unusual about this scene so far. Back before we Erthuma achieved starflight it was machines such as these that changed our destiny, from paupers on a half-ruined world, short of resources, to beings wealthy enough to demand a place among the Six.

An ancient mathematician named John Von Neumann had predicted the eventuality of robots able to make copies of themselves. When such creatures were let loose on the Earth’s moon, within a few years they had multiplied into the millions. Then, half of them had been reprogrammed to make consumer goods instead – and suddenly our wealth was, compared to what it had been, as Twentieth Century man’s had been to the Neanderthal.

But in every new thing there are always dangers. We found this out when some of the machines
refused
their new programming, and even began evading the harvesters.

“I see no hound mechanisms,” I told King Zardee. “You have no mutant-detecting dog-bots patrolling the herds? Searching for mutants?”

He shrugged. “A useless, needless expense. We’re in a part of the galaxy low in cosmic rays, and our design is well shielded. I’ve shown you the statistics. Our new replicants demonstrate breakthroughs in both efficiency and stability.”

I shook my head, unimpressed. Figures were one thing. Galactic survival was another matter entirely.

“Please show me how the mechanisms are fitted with their enabling and remote shut-down keys, your Majesty. I don’t see any robo-cowboys at work. How and when are the calves converted into adults? Are they called in to a central point?”

“It happens right out on the range,” Zardee said proudly. “I see no reason to force every calf to go to a factory in order to get its keys. We program each cow to manufacture its calf’s keys on the spot.”

Madness!
I balled my hands into fists in order to keep my diplomat’s reserve. The idiot!

With deliberate calmness I faced him. “Your Majesty, that makes the keys completely meaningless. Their original and entire
purpose
is to make sure that no Von Neumann replicant device ever reaches maturity without coming to an Erthumoi-run facility for inspection. It’s our ultimate guarantee the machines remain under our control, and that their numbers do not explode.”

Zardee laughed. “I’ve heard it before, this fear of fairy tales. My dear beautiful young woman, surely you don’t take seriously those Frankenstein stories in the pulp flimsies, about replicants running away and devouring planets? Entire solar systems?” He guffawed.

I shrugged. “It does not matter how likely or unlikely such scenarios are. What matters is how the prospect
appears
to the Other Five. For twelve centuries we’ve downplayed this potential outcome of automation, because our best alienists think the Others would find it appalling. It’s the reason replicant restrictions are written into the Protocols, your Majesty.”

I gestured at the massed herds down below. “What you’ve done here is utterly irresponsible...”

I stopped, because Zardee was smiling.

“You fear a chimera, dear diplomat. For I’ve already proven you have nothing to worry about in regard to alien opinion.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve
already
shown these devices to representatives of many Locrian, Samian, and Nexian communities, several of whom have already taken delivery of breeding stock.”

My mouth opened and closed. “But... but what if they equip the machines with space-transport ability? You...”

Zardee blinked. “What are you talking about? Of
course
the models I provided are space adapted. Their purpose is to be asteroid mining devices, after all. It’s a breakthrough! Not only do they reproduce rapidly and efficiently, but they also transport themselves wherever the customer sets his beacon...”

I did not stay to listen to the rest. Filled with anger and despair, I turned away and left him to stammer into silence behind me. I had calls to make, without any delay.

ᚖ

Maxwell took the news well, all considered.

“I’ve already traced three of the contracts,” he told me by hyperwave. “We’ve managed to get the Naxians to agree to a delay, long enough for us to lean on Zardee and alter the replicants’ key system. The Naxians didn’t understand why we were so concerned, though they could tell we were worried. Clearly they haven’t thought out the implications yet, and we’re naturally reluctant to clue them in.

“The other contracts are going to be much harder. Two went to small Locrian Queendoms. One to a Samian solidity, and one to a Cephallon super-pod. I’m putting prime operatives onto each, but I’m afraid it’s likely the replicants will go through at least five generations before we accomplish anything. By then it will probably be too late.”

“You mean by then some will have mutated and escaped customer control?” I asked.

He shook his head. “According to Zardee’s data, it should take longer than that to happen. No, by then I’m afraid our projections show each of the customers will be getting a handsome profit from his investment. The replicants will become essential to them, and impossible for us to regain control over.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

Maxwell sighed. “You stay by Zardee. I’ll have a sealed alliance of his Erthumoi neighbors for you by tomorrow, to get him deposed if he won’t cooperate. Problem is, the cat’s already out of the bag.”

I, too, had studied Ancient Earth Expressions during one of my lives. “Well, I’ll close the barn door, anyway.”

Maxwell did not bother with a salutation. He signed off more weary-looking than I’d ever seen him. And our labors were only just beginning.

ᚖ

The Cephallon and the Crotonite weren’t exactly making love when I returned to the Guest Suite. (What an image!) Still, they hadn’t murdered each other, either.

Jirata had become animated enough to attend to the internal environments controller in his corner of the chamber. He had dismantled the wall panel and was experimenting – creating a partition, then a bed-pallet, then an excretarium. Immersed in mechanical arts, his bat-like face almost took on a look of serenity as he customized the machinery, converting the insensitively mass-produced into something individualized, with character and uniqueness.

It was a rare epiphany, watching him so and coming to realize that even so venal and disgusting a race as his could cause me wonder.

Oh, no doubt I was over-simplifying. Perhaps it was the replicant crisis that had me primed to feel this way. Ironically, though they were the premier mechanics among the Six, the Crotonites’ technical and scientific level was not particularly high. And they would be among the
last
ever to understand what a Von Neumann machine was about. From their point of view, autonomy and self-replication were for Crotonites – and in anyone or anything else they were obscenities.

I wondered if this experiment, which had caused a noble and high-caste creature of his community to be cast down so in a desperate attempt to learn new ways, would ever meet any degree of success. What would be the analogy for a person like me... to be surgically grafted crude gills instead of lungs, and dwell forever underwater, less mobile than a Cephallon? Would I,
could
I ever volunteer for so drastic an exile, even if my homeworld depended on it?

Yes, I conceded, watching Jirata work. There was nobility here, of a sort. And at least the Crotonites had not unleashed upon the galaxy a thing that could threaten all Six Spacefarers... and the million other intelligent life forms without starships.

Phss’aah awakened from a snooze at the pool’s surface and descended to face me. But it was his robot that spoke.

“Patty, my master hopes your business in this system has been successfully concluded.”

“Alas, no. Crises develop lives of their own. Soon, however, I expect permission to confide this matter in him. When that happens, I hope to benefit from his insight.”

Phss’aah acknowledged the compliment with a bare nod. Then he spoke for himself. “You must not despair, my young Erthumoi colleague. Look, after all, to your
other
accomplishments. I have decided, for instance, to go ahead and purchase a sample order of thirty thousand of these delightful machines for my own community. And if they work out there, perhaps others in the Cephallon Supreme Pod will buy. Is this not a coup to make you happy?”

For a moment I could not answer. What could I say to Phss’aah? That soon robots such as these might be so cheap that they could be had for a song? That soon a flood of wealth would sweep the galaxy, so great that no creature of any starfaring race would ever want for material goods?

Or should I tell him that the seeds strewn to grow this cornucopia were doomed to mutate, to change, to seek paths of their own... paths down which no foreseeing could follow?

“That’s nice,” I finally said. “I’m glad you like our machines. You can have as many as you need.”

And I tried to smile. “You can have as many as you want.”

Story Notes

Think pieces – stories that revolve around an idea, more than plot or character – have their place. But that does not mean one has to do without irony, poignancy, or any of the other virtues.

“The Diplomacy Guild” had to bridge a story arc, connecting works by other authors, so that the whole might make satisfying sense. Still, the concept made me ponder, night after night.

Our next tale, “The Other Side of the Hill,” is one of my oldest, having appeared in Analog Magazine shortly after I published my first novel, Sundiver. It harkens to the underlying reason why some so eagerly sift the sky, hoping to find wisdom of another sort, out there.

This story may not be high art, but nothing has happened to make the central point obsolete. We still face the fundamental truth –

– that a people who deserve the stars will be those who first learned to be wise at home.

The Other Side of the Hill

ᚖ

“Deserts grow.

“The sky glowers with deadly rays and the seas grow poisonous.

“Today I have come to tell you of our decision.

“You will get your way. Our people have no choice but to depart with the rest of you. To flee this unhappy, cursed world.”

Head bowed, calloused hands clasped before him, Mu Wathengria spoke from the High Council’s circle of deliberation, his voice heavy with age and defeat.

“North Glacier Clan submits to majority will,” he concluded. “We will join the exodus.”

The other members of the Council shared looks of astonishment, having grown accustomed to decades of righteous northern stubbornness. At last, Keliangeli, the Grand Mu of Farfields Clan, thumped the stone floor with her staff, and exclaimed.

“We are united, then! All can join now, without bitterness or anguish over leaving kinfolk behind.”

Wathengria answered with an acquiescent drooping of his ear-fringes.

“No clan or colony will stay on Bharis, Mu Keliangeli,” he agreed. “My people will now help build the ships. We will participate in the abandonment of our mother world. But only because it is too late to turn back.”

The stooped, gray-fringed Mu appeared not to hear him, so excited was she. “With the resources of North Glacier no longer wasted, we can push the schedule forward two years, and leave before another famine comes!”

Mu Wathengria nodded gravely. It would be rude, having submitted, to voice doubts now. Anyway, he was tired. Keliangeli called it “waste” to set aside some of the last arable land on Bharis, sparing it the kind of intense overuse that had ruined a once-beautiful planet. Starvation and pestilence now twisted judgment and reason. Keliangeli and her followers were desperate enough to try anything, even use up what was left of this world in order to flee toward a distant star.

North Glacier, with its fresh water and abundant ores, had long held out. But the siren song of a robot probe, circling a faraway globe, now beckoned with lush green images of a better place, only a few light years away. Shipbuilding became a planet-wide mania, heedless of new damage.

“My ecologists tell me that once the ships are built, and the exodus prepared, little more than seven hundredths of the land on Bharis will remain suitable to support life in any decency. You, all of you, have thrown our lives like dice into the wind. They tumble even now, up in the sky.”

He pointed to the Fleet, which glittered in orbit overhead, like gems in early evening, crossing the heavens much swifter than the stars. “North Glacier must join the cast.”

“We are overjoyed to have you with us, Mu Wathengria.” the Bas of Sheltered Oasis cried out, oblivious to Wathengria’s irony. “Oh, yes!” Mu Keliangeli added. “On our new home, you will help teach us how to keep and preserve it against the sorts of mischief our ancestors unleashed on Bharis. You will be our conscience.”

Wathengria suppressed a hot response. True, their ancient forebears had done the worst harm, with their wars, noxious pollution and mismanagement. But today’s folk were multiplying the damage, even as they sought to flee.

“My specialists will accompany you to the new world. Perhaps you will learn from them, although I doubt it. As for myself, I plan to stay and take the Lesser Death. I will sleep, in frozen stasis within the hall of my ancestors. One of our race should remain to explain this wasteland, should the ancient gods of myth ever return, to look in dismay upon poor, ruined Bharis.”

The Mu coursed his eyes around the circle. On a few faces, he noted signs of shame. But within moments of turning and departing the hall, he heard their voices rise again behind him, the moment forgotten amid new, excited plans.

I notice no one even protested my personal decision to stay
, he thought.
Probably, they’re all relieved to hear the last of my carping. My caustic criticism.

From his transport, Mu Wathengria looked down on the valley of Lansenil. The Council Chambers stood next to one of the few remaining sites of untarnished beauty on Bharis. If they had chosen a more desolate and representative place, Mu Wathengria might have been more optimistic for his race.

Forested slopes gave way to the paler shades of crops and pocket gardens, and then the harbor spires of Sea Haven, one of three remaining cities. Haven was not yet a desert of wind-blown dust. Still, Mu Wathengria tried not to look closely as his machine passed over cracked marble monuments, stained by ancient pollution and more recent, inexorable decay. Squinting past the fuming shipworks, he peered instead with his mind’s inner eye toward the better days of his youth.

Longingly, he filled his mind with remembered beauty to take with him to an icy tomb.

One compensation. The animals and plants that remain will have peace at last. We “thinking creatures” will no longer be a menace.

Too late, alas. Much, much too late.

ᚖ

Sounds of celebration continued even after the airlock sealed, cutting off the noise of continuing revelry aboard the mother ship. The crew on Ras Gafengria’s exploration craft were on duty and free of intoxicants, but that did not make them sober. They went grinning to their tasks, babbling excitedly, drunk on hope.

It was tempting to give in to the contagious happiness. Joy at the prospect of landing on such a beautiful world after half an aeon of cold sleep! Most of the refugees from Bharis had dreamed, during the long voyage to this new home. And now their hopes had come true.

Orbital surveys had already confirmed what the robot probes earlier promised. More than twice as much of this planet’s surface area supported life as tired old Bharis! Green regions ran like thick veins across every continent. As for the oceans – no one living had ever seen so much good water. The cartographer kept muttering happily, over and over – seas covered nearly a third of the globe!

Ras Gafengria wanted to share the others’ covetous triumph. She could appreciate the wonder of this place. After all, here was an entire ecosystem to study... and perhaps take better care of, if she and others like her had their way.

But the message
, she thought.
It’s hard to take pleasure in any of this, after seeing my father’s message.

The pilots banked the landing boat into an aerodynamic braking dive, to save fuel. Soon they were passing high over an ocean. Instruments detected planktonic life, something they could not have done an equal distance above old Bharis. Amazing.

Yet, Gafengria’s thoughts kept pulling back to the image she had seen only an hour ago, in the viewing tank of the mother ship... an image of Mu Wathengria. The old man’s face seemed almost unchanged from when she had seen it last, impassively watching his people march into the ships.

On the day they blasted off, leaving him behind. Alone.

Who could have imagined that he would send a message later... at the speed of light... and it would be waiting when they arrived at their new home?

The Council had not wanted to distract from the joy of a million newly-awakened exiles. So the leaders only invited a few to come see the strange message that had caught up with their fleet while passengers and crew slept. Patient computers had stored the transmission until arrival, when the officers and councilors wakened to view it.

The first thing Gafengria had noticed was the date – five hundred and forty turns after Departure! So, the old man’s stasis unit had held, even without anyone around to perform routine maintenance.

She had expected words, but what happened next was far more startling. Her father’s wrinkled sardonic visage shrank as he stepped back from the camera, and... into the holo tank next to him appeared the image of an alien creature!

The figure was tall, bipedal and slender, with dark cranial filaments that lay motionless atop its scalp. The narrow, fleshy face was inset with two small but penetrating eyes, above and on both sides of a fleshy, protruding nose.

Wathengria remained silent for a long interval, as if knowing the effect this scene would have on those to later view it. Only when the shock had abated slightly did his speech begin.

“
My dear, departed people
,” the Mu had said. “
I hope your new world is everything you prayed for. If, indeed, you’ve learned a lesson, perhaps you will take better care of it than you did our poor beloved Bharis. You’ll notice, though, I haven’t held my breath!”

The message went on. “
By the time you see this, another several hundred years will have passed. Nevertheless, I’m giving in to a little hastiness, rushing to transmit. Because I want to introduce you to Bharis’s new tenants.

“They are called Hu-Mhenn. And they seem to adore our tired old world! They’ve settled into Sea Haven now, and they want you to know
...”

The chief pilot interrupted Gafengria’s recollection. “We’re approaching the coast now, noble Ras,” he said. A collective sigh filled the cabin as the shoreline neared. Scattered vegetation grew upon the dun slopes, left and right as far as the eye could see, even from this great height. None of the people had ever encountered such a sight.

“Over there!” One of the pilots pointed to the eastern horizon. “One of the anomaly clusters! Shall we fly closer?”

Gafengria assented and they adjusted course toward an elevated clump of brown and tan shapes, shinier than the surrounding dunes. From space, the regular, geometric features had caused some to speculate they might be cities. Were there inhabitants with prior claims to this planet?

That prospect disturbed the Council... though such a rich world surely had room enough for two races.

The youngest pilot gasped. “They
are
habitations!”

The chief pilot magnified the screen. “Perhaps, once. But they look long abandoned.”

The ship cautiously slowed, skirting some distance from the rounded stone shapes. The extant of the constructions soon left no doubt this had been a great city, indeed. Giant, spidery bridges and archways still connected many of the concave structures, whose blank, oval windows stared empty, like the eye sockets in a skull. The alienness of the architecture was almost as eerie as was the desolate loneliness of total abandonment.

The younger pilot pointed again, this time to a broad, flattened area not far away. “Firing pits,” he pronounced. “A launching field.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. We can’t be sure...” The senior pilot abruptly stopped and stared. The cartographer gasped.

As they topped a gentle rise, an immense cube of shining metal came into view, glittering under the slanting sunshine. Gafengria covered her eyes, wishing the giant thing would go away. She had a premonition about it, which caused her fringes to shrink down to their roots. It did not feel good.

“The Council calls,” their comm operator said. “The elders command us to approach the artifact. Shipboard image enhancement indicates
writing
along the sides!”

In hushed awe, the pilots brought the boat nearer. Ras Gafengria sank back in her seat, while the comm operator tuned to the frequency of the linguists, onboard the mother ship. Those experts babbled urgently about ciphers and contexts and translation possibilities. About analogies and similarities....

“
It’s all terribly ironic
,” Gathengria recalled her father pronouncing across the light years. “
These Hu-Mhenn are also refugees! They, too, fled a world that could barely support them. They didn’t use robot probes to search for a new planet. Their method appears to have been more direct, though I can’t say I really understand it well enough to explain it.

“Anyway, here they are. They awakened me, and I told them where you’d all gone. They’re very much like us, you know
. “ His smile had been bitter. “
They may look strange, but it’s uncanny how much like us they truly are.”

ᚖ

Holograms from the cubic artifact filled the tank in front of Ras Gafengria. It was a full body portrait of an alien being, a roundish shape coated with tentacles. To her surprise and relief, those who had left this monolith weren’t at all similar in appearance to the “Hu-Mhenn” shown in her father’s message.

Thank the gods
, Ras sighed.
That
irony would have been too much to bear – that one species should deplete its home world in order to fly to a refuge that had been depleted by another race in
its
own desperate effort to flee to the first... A terrible trade.

As a matter of fact, that tragedy was logically impossible. For one thing, the Hu-Mhenn had come from a direction opposite to the one the people had fled towards. And anyway, her father had said the Hu-Mhenn were
pleased
with Bharis. In fact, the poor creatures had seemed pathetically ecstatic, calling their new home a “paradise.”

How devastated their own planet must have been, then, for them to think so highly of tired old Bharis!

Ras noticed that the others on the boat had stopped talking. “What –?” she began.

The cartographer turned and whispered. “The translation, noble Ras! They’ve translated the inscription!”

“Show me the translation,” she commanded, though she feared what it would say.