Echopraxia (11 page)

“Let's go, then,” Moore said.

Up past a leaning cityscape of cargo cubes, man-size alcoves flanked an ovoid airlock, two to each side. Spacesuits hung there like flensed silver skins, held in place by cargo straps. They billowed gently at the knees and elbows. Moore helped Brüks across the slanted deck, passed him a loose cargo strap to cling to while unbuckling the suit in the leftmost alcove; it sagged sideways into the soldier's arms.

A breeze hissed softly against Brüks's cheek. Moore held out the suit: gutted from crotch to neck, a split exoskeleton shed by some previous owner. Brüks stood angled and bouncing slightly on his good foot, let Moore guide his bad one into the suit. The low gravity helped; by now Brüks couldn't have weighed more than ten kilos. He felt like some overgrown pupa plagued by second thoughts, trying to climb back into its husk.

An itch crawled across the back of his free hand; he held it up, eyed the blood-brown tracery of elastic filaments webbed across the skin. “Why—”

“So what's she in for?” Moore asked, jerking Brüks's leg hard to seat his injured foot in its boot. Bits of bone ground against each other down there—his tibia carried the vibration past whatever nerve block Moore had installed. It didn't hurt. Brüks grimaced anyway.

“Uh, what?”

“Your wife.” The right leg was trickier, without the left to stand on; Moore offered himself as a crutch again. “What's she in Heaven for?”

“That's a strange way of putting it,” Brüks remarked.

I'm sick of it,
she'd said softly, looking out the window.
They're alive, Dan. They're sapient.

Moore shrugged. “Everyone's running from something.”

They're just systems,
he'd reminded her.
Engineered.

So are we,
she'd said. He hadn't argued with her; she'd known better. Neither of them had been engineered, not unless you counted natural selection as some kind of designer and neither of them was woolly-minded enough to entertain such sloppy thinking. She hadn't wanted an argument anyway; she'd been long past the verbal jousts that had kept them sparking all those years. Now she'd only wanted to be left alone.

“She—retired,” he told Moore as his right foot slid smoothly into its boot.

“From what?”

He'd respected her wishes. Left her alone when she'd lobotomized her last victim, left her alone to tender her resignation. He'd wanted to reach out when she'd started eyeing Heaven, would have done anything to keep her on his side of the afterlife, but by then it was long past being about what
he
wanted. So he'd left her alone even when she leased out her brain to pay her rent in the Collective Conscious, withdrew from the outer world to the inner. She'd left a link behind, at least. He could always talk to her, there on Styx's farthest shore. She always honored her obligations. But he'd known that's all it was, so even then—after she'd stopped slaughtering artificial systems and started
being
one—he left her alone.

“She was a cloud-killer,” Brüks said at last.

“Huh,” Moore grunted. Then, helping Brüks's arms into their sleeves: “Not a very good one, I hope.”

“Why?”

“Let's just say that not every distributed AI's emergent, and not every emergent AI's rogue.” Moore handed over his gauntlets. “We don't publicize it, but every now and then some of the better CKs have been known to pick targets we'd really rather they didn't.”

Brüks swallowed on a throat gone suddenly dry. “The fucked-up thing is, she
agreed
with them. The AI Rights idiots, I mean. She quit because she got sick of killing conscious beings whose only crime was”—how had she put it?—“
growing up too fast
.”

Suit zipped up. Gauntlets clicked into place. A solid yank on the boa-cord and the suit
squirmed
around him, cinching from flaccid to skintight in a few disquieting seconds. Moore handed him the helmet: “Seat it facing your three, turn counterclockwise until it clicks. Keep the visor up until I say.”

“Really?” Brüks was starting to feel light-headed. “The air seems a little—thin…”

“Plenty of time.” Moore grabbed another suit off the wall. “I don't want your hearing compromised.” He bounced off the deck, brought knees to chest and spread his suit open with both hands. With one fluid motion he kicked his legs straight back onto the deck, suited to the waist. He bounced lightly.

“So she wasn't afraid of the conscious AIs.” Moore shrugged arms into sleeves. “How about the smart ones?”

“W-what?”

“Smart AIs.” He clicked his own helmet into place. “Was she afraid of them?”

Brüks gulped oily alpine air and tried to concentrate.
The smart ones.
Past that minimum complexity threshold where networks wake up: past the Sapience Limit where they go to sleep again, where self-awareness dissolves in the vaster reaches of networks grown too large, in the signal lags that reduce synchrony to static. Up where
intelligence
continues to grow even though the
self
has been left behind.

“Those, she—was a little worried about,” he admitted, trying to ignore the faint roaring in his ears.

“Smart woman.” The Colonel's voice was strangely tinny. He leaned over and checked Brüks's seals and sockets with precise mechanical efficiency, nodded. “Okay, drop your visor,” he said, dropping his.

A louder hiss replaced the fainter one: a blessed wash of fresh air caressed Brüks's face the moment his visor sealed. Relief flooded in a moment later. An arcane mosaic of icons and acronyms flickered to life across the crystal.

Moore's helmet bumped against his own, his voice buzzing distantly across the makeshift connection: “It's a saccadal interface. Comm tree's upper left.” Sure enough an amber star blinked there: a knock at the door. Brüks focused his gaze
just so
and accepted the call.

“That's better.” Suddenly it was as though Moore was speaking from right inside Brüks's helmet.

“Let's get out of here,” Brüks said.

Moore held his arm out, watched it drop. “Not quite yet. Another minute or two.”

Out beyond Brüks's helmet, the air—the lack of it, maybe—grew somehow
hard
. Through that impoverished atmosphere and two layers of convex crystal, Jim Moore's face was calm and cryptic.

“What about yours?” Brüks asked after a moment.

“My what?”

“Your wife. What was she—in for?”

“Yes. Helen.” A frown may have flickered across Moore's face then, but it was gone in an instant and he was answering before Brüks had a chance to regret the question. “She just got—tired, I suppose. Or maybe scared.” His gaze dropped for a moment. “Twenty-first century's not for everyone.”

“When did she ascend?”

“Almost fourteen years ago now.”

“Firefall.” A lot of people had fled into Heaven after that. A lot of the Ascended had even come back.

But Moore was shaking his head. “Just before, actually. Literally
minutes
before. We all said good-bye, and then we went outside and I looked up…”

“Maybe she knew something.”

Moore smiled faintly, held out his arm. Brüks watched it drift back to his side, slow as a feather. “Almost—”

The hab lurched. Cubes and cartons teetered and wobbled against their mutual attraction; rogue containers lifted from the deck and bumped against the walls in a ponderous ballet. Brüks and Moore, tethered to their cargo straps, drifted like seaweed.

“—time to go.” Moore dialed open the inner hatch. Brüks pulled himself along in the other man's wake.

“Jim.”

“Right here.” Moore pulled a spring-loaded clasp from a little disk at his waist. A bright thread unspooled behind it.

“Why
were
you here? When
things went south
?”

“I was on patrol.” Fastening the clasp to a cleat on Brüks's own suit. “Walking the perimeter.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” The inner hatch squeezed down behind them.

Brüks tugged on the thread while Moore went through the motions of depressurizing the 'lock: impossibly fine, impossibly strong. A leash of engineered spider silk.

“You've got a ConSensus feed in your head,” Brüks pointed out. “You can see anyplace on the network without getting off the toilet and you
walk the perimeter
?”

“Twice a day. Going on thirty years. You should be thankful I've never seen any reason to stop.” One gauntleted hand made a small flourish toward the outer hatch. “Shall we go?”

Moore, you old warhorse.

I'm alive thanks to you
.
I pass out inside a tornado, I wake up with a smashed ankle on a space station with a broken back. You get me into this suit. You get me to natter on about my wife so I barely even notice the air bleeding away around us.

I bet you'll never tell me how close we came, will you? Not your style. You were too busy distracting me from making a complete panicking ass of myself while you saved my life.

“Thank you,” he said softly, but if Moore—tapping out some incantation on the bulkhead interface—even heard him, he gave no sign.

The outer airlock irised open. The great wide universe waited beyond.

And the magnitude of all Jim Moore's well-intentioned lies spread naked across the heavens for anyone to see.

*   *   *

“Welcome to the
Crown of Thorns,
” Moore said from the other end of the universe.

The sun was too large, too blinding: Brüks saw that as soon as the outer hatch opened, in the instant before a polarizing disk bloomed on his faceplate—perfectly line of sight—to cut the glare.
Of course,
he thought at first,
no atmosphere
. Things were bound to be brighter in orbit.

And then he stumbled out in Moore's wake, and toppled weightlessly around some lopsided center of mass while stars and vast structures spun around him.

The Earth was gone.

That wasn't true, he knew in some distant hypothetical place that made absolutely no difference. It
couldn't
be true. Earth was still out there somewhere; one of those billion bright shards lacerating the heavens on all sides. Unwinking pixels, all of them. Not a single one close enough to rise above zero dimensions, to actually assume a
shape
.

No ground to fall to.

His breath rasped in his ears, fast as a heartbeat. “You said we were in
orbit
.”

“We are. Not around Earth.”

The ship—the
Crown of Thorns—
spread before him like the bones of some city-size monster. The broken spoke hung directly ahead, a tangle of struts and tubes suffused in a glittering sharp-edged halo: bits of foil, crystals of frozen liquid, little shurikens of metal with nowhere else to go. Things moved in that mosaic of light and shadow. Metal spiders swarmed across the wreckage, spot-welding with incandescent mandibles, spinning webs to suture shattered pieces back together. Tiny starbursts sparkled across the metalscape in waves.

Not bent. Not torqued.
Broken
. Snapped clean off. Horrified, Brüks took in the sight of a slender silver cable, its diameter barely that of a human finger: a lone tendon, miraculously intact, emerging from the amputated stump and stretching across vacuum to anchor the massive barrel-shaped hab at his back. If not for that one frail thread …

“You knew about this, didn't you?” He gulped air. “You've been hooked into ConSensus all along…”

Moore hung off a handhold, utterly unconcerned by the billions of light-years stretching away beneath his feet. “In my experience, it's generally better to ease people into these situations a little at a time.”

“It's not
my
exp—exper—” His tongue was swelling in his mouth. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Nowhere was up, nowhere was down—

“My
air
—”

Something smacked the sole of his boot; absurdly,
down
clicked back into place. Moore was in front of him, hands on his shoulders, squeezing through the suit: “It's okay. It's okay. Close your eyes.”

Brüks squeezed them tight.

“You're just hyperventilating,” Moore said from the darkness. “The suit'll thin the mix before you run any serious risk of passing out. You're perfectly safe.”

Brüks almost laughed aloud at that. “You—” he managed, “are The Boy Who
Cried
Safe…”

“You must be feeling better,” Moore observed.

He was, a little.

“Try opening your eyes. Focus on the ship, not the stars. Take your time. Get your bearings.”

Brüks opened them a crack. Vacuum and vertigo came flooding in.

Focus on the ship
.

Okay. The ship.

Start with this spoke. Truncated, cauterized, one of—one of six (the others apparently undamaged), radiating from a spherical hub like the skeleton of an impoverished bicycle wheel: no rim, nothing but a tin can at the end of each spoke. A few minutes ago those spokes had been slinging their habs around like stones on strings; now they just hung there. A smaller baton—a giant's femur skewered through the midpoint—hung equally motionless just fore of the Hub. (Counterspinning flywheel, probably. To neuter the torque.)

Fifty meters long at least, those hollow bones. This insane Ferris wheel stretched over a hundred meters from side to side.

But it was an ephemeral contraption of twigs and straws next to the wall of metal looming behind it. The drive section. Seen from dead-on it would be a disk: a whole landscape turned on edge, a hard-edged topography of ridges and trenches and right angles. But out here on the wounded rim, Brüks could see the mass piled up
behind
that leading edge: not so much a disk as a core sample extracted from some artificial moon. The striated faces of sedimentary cliffs, carved in metal; monstrous gnarled arteries twisting along the patchwork hull, carrying rivers of fuel or coolant. The arc of a distant engine nozzle, peeking past that metal horizon like a dull sunrise.