Eejit: A Tale of the Final Fall of Man (19 page)

“Golly, that’s a thought!” Contro exclaimed happily. “I mean, shooey does have
some
properties – we don’t have the ability to
completely
drain matter of vitality – but if we could drain it completely maybe it
would
be like this darkerness stuff you’re talking about! And then of course it wouldn’t exist at all, so it would fade away! Gosh, you know this could mean that we could get even
more
energy from transpersion and final-state shooey, and then the pollutant issue with shooey itself – not that it’s
much
of a pollutant because well, it’s just black dust really, absolutely harmless, doesn’t even clog stuff up or get smeared on anything because it’s got no friction worth speaking of – anyway that whole problem would go away because
everything
would be used and then the shadow would just sort of slip out of sight!”

Actually, Janya reflected as Contro prattled away, he
did
seem more excited by this than he had by the mere random events of daily life. And he was right, maybe it
was
a discovery with even more impressive and far-reaching significance than they’d originally thought. And to think, she reflected a little smugly, the whole idea had only come to her because she’d remembered a stray line from a book of historical poetry she had read a while ago:
That husk, that gouged-empty shell, that wind and that darkness; that final fall of dust from the death-sigh of a nuclear giant
.

Of course
, she added to herself,
this still leaves the problem of us being under the control of a madman and his mad synth
.

Since Waffa and Sally weren’t around, and Contro could be absolutely no help at all on the next subject she wanted to raise, Janya identified the closest eejit equivalent to a synthetic intelligence expert. This was a lofty two-hundred-and-fifty-six-minute configuration job with a computer engineering skill-set and a predisposition for zone-outs and hysterical temporary blindness at an assortment of triggers. He called himself E.J. 256 – “E.J. for Ee Jit” – and he was impressively knowledgeable.

“I’m wondering,” she asked him, “about the hub or synthetic intelligence system the Artist is using to keep our synth – Bruce – activated.”

“Most likely a hub,” E.J. 256 nodded, “there are none of the markers one would expect from the computer being brought off synthetic intelligence standby by another synth, there’s a whole series of handshake and counter-response protocols that are completely different for one synth waking up another. For a synthetic intelligence coming off standby as it enters a hub’s sphere of influence, it’s a whole different set.”

“But it could be faked?”

“Probably,” E.J. 256 shrugged his broad shoulders. “Once we take as read that Bruce is controlling all the electronic data we receive, we have to accept the possibility that any and all of it is forged or altered in some way, and for any or no real reason, beyond the passing whim of a sentient being. I can see no reason for it to do so, of course – it makes no practical difference to us whether Bruce was brought off standby by a hub or by a second synthetic intelligence node,” he paused, and snapped his fingers. “
Although
,” he went on, “of course, a synth would mean a ship or station of sufficient size to support a stand-alone entity, while a hub could be the size of a suitcase, which tends to change the landscape a little,” he snapped his fingers again, and pointed his index fingers in a way that reminded Janya of Glomulus Cratch in a not-entirely-welcome manner. “Although, on the
other
hand, the Artist could have a hub and any number of synthetic intelligence nodes like Bruce, and they could be any size equal to or larger than the
Tramp
. Maybe even
smaller
, if it was pared down. Very difficult to say. So it doesn’t necessarily follow that there is a vessel of any great size or complexity,” he looked apologetic. “It’s all
probabilities
.”

“Where would he have gotten a hub from? Could he have built one?”

“Again, possible,” E.J. 256 admitted. “It’s a formidable creative mind we are facing here, if he has the skills to build this underspace drive
and
a functioning synthetic intelligence hub. Even if the hub
is
causing some of the irregularities we’re experiencing. Current theories of synthmorphia suggest that Bruce should come off standby as the same universal synthetic intelligence it always was, and yet we’re seeing this is not the case. Whether this is because of the unknown damage sustained in The Accident – which we knew was there, but which hadn’t actually manifested while the computer was in synthetic intelligence standby – or because of the Artist convoying Bruce up with a behaviourally-abnormal hub or otherwise flawed synth…”

“And what about that sphere of influence?” Janya asked. “What sort of
reach
does the Artist’s hub need? I mean, to keep Bruce active. How close do they need to be?”

She waited for a moment, then realised that E.J. 256 had blanked out. So she waited – the catatonia usually only lasted a minute or two – and looked around a little awkwardly while E.J. 256 stood and stared blankly into the middle distance.

Finally, with a little sleepy shake-twitch of his head and a half-embarrassed, half-annoyed grimace, he came back.

“Sorry,” he said, and waved a hand in front of his face. “Completely vagued out there for a second. I was thinking about dandelion seeds and … never mind,” he shook-twitched again. “What were you asking? About the hub range, right?”

“Right.”

“Right, well, once the handshake is done and the computer is off standby and in full Bruce, so to speak, there’s only an umbilical signal required to keep the synthetic intelligence active. That’s very difficult to sever without the full cooperation of the synth, because the signal is generated by a decentralised system – basically any part of the hub can send, and any part of Bruce can receive. Going back onto standby is usually a matter of mutual agreement rather than forced disconnection.”

“But sufficient distance should do it, right?” Janya said. “That’s why there’s standby in the first place, for those long-haul deep-space flights.”

“Well, exactly,” E.J. 256 agreed. “The Artist and his hub, or whatever other mechanism he was using for the convoy, would have had to be with him when he was shadowing us. As for the range … anywhere within this solar system should do it.”

“That’s a big distance to cover if we want Bruce back on standby,” Janya concluded sourly.

“Indeed so. And that’s assuming the Artist stays behind on Jauren Silva, and doesn’t follow us with the hub the way he most likely has been already. And add to
that
the fact that he apparently has access to a near-instant transportation drive. There may not be
any
sufficient distance we can put between him and us.”

“But it seemed like he needed the synthetic intelligence to
steer
properly,” Janya mused. “That was what Bruce was saying on the bridge, anyway.”

“I don’t know about that,” E.J. 256 said apologetically. “I’m not bridge crew. But if that
is
the case, then chances are the Artist will stay with
us
rather than returning to the surface and risking our escape. Of course, escape is a moot point, since Bruce seems to be firmly on the Artist’s side, and will not allow us to turn tail and fly away. Unless we manage to further disable the synth’s control of ship systems. I understand Sally has employed a suppressing device, although of course some details have been placed off-limits.”

“Hm,” Janya said, then frowned. “Speaking of the suppressing device, she went down to the planet with it. Is it still going to work?”

“As far as we can tell purely from ship operations, it still is,” E.J. 256 said. “Bruce hasn’t spoken to me much, and I haven’t had the pleasure of examining Sally’s work, but it most likely has a similar range to the hub itself. Within this solar system, whatever the so-called game changer is doing to Bruce, it will continue doing it.”

“Unless Bruce and the Artist decide to take the
Tramp
out of the system and break the connection,” Janya said, “while Sally’s down on the planet.”

“That is a risk,” E.J. 256 conceded. “From what I have gathered, Sally had to set up her game changer
in situ
, as it were, with a similar series of handshake protocols even if they were on a subliminal level for Bruce itself.
Therefore
, once severed, I would think she would
at the very least
need to return to the ship in order to re-establish the game changer in the same way as before.”

“And Bruce might not allow that,” Janya said.

“Bruce might just chew the lander up with the
Tramp
’s docking bay doors,” E.J. 256 agreed.

“Nothing much we can do to prevent Bruce from leaving the system though, is there?” Janya said.

“Only what Sally has already done,” E.J. 256 shrugged. “Take the relative drive and navigation offline, so the
Tramp
can only fly blind, at cruising subluminal. It would take us months, probably years, to get out of the game changer’s range at those speeds.”

“Or Bruce could just dip us into the underspace and bring us out a billion light-years away,” Janya added.

“Or that.”

“And whatever the Artist did to make it insane, the damage might already be done.”

“We won’t know,” E.J. 256 admitted, “until we get rid of that hub and get the computer back onto standby. Until then…”

E.J. 256 faded out again, eyes turning glassy. Janya gave him a supportive little pat on the arm and headed on her way. He was used to people vanishing in mid-conversation.

Leaving the engine room she wandered the ship for a while, sticking to the outer areas and peering out of the windows wherever possible. Troubled and frowning, she studied the planet curving away beneath them. Eyes narrowed, she peered into the velvety darkness of the space surrounding them. After a time, she rubbed unconsciously at the scar along her forearm – the longest and heaviest in her collection – and gave a sigh. Then she turned and made her way to the medical bay.

Cratch was listening to his music again, this time a spot of sluggish swamp jazz with steel drums ringing through it. The pale, skeletal man was hunched over a console, blonde hair hanging down and concealing whatever he was working on. Humming along to the music and apparently completely absorbed, he nevertheless looked up as soon as Janya stepped into the room.

“Janya,” he said, putting down the microstylus he’d been holding. He rose and stepped into the middle of the room with his long, spidery hands spread – his ‘harmless’ act. “What brings you here? Aside from near-total lack of alternatives.”

“What are you working on?” she asked, pointing at the metal panel lying on the console where he had left it.

“Oh,” he looked back at it, then waved an embarrassed hand. “Nothing really. Well, come and look,” he stepped over to the console and picked up the round-cornered square metal plate. “It’s like an allergy screen,” he said, pointing at the series of smaller squares he had apparently etched onto the surface. “I’m taking a leaf out of Sally’s book and going low-tech, you see. These squares each get a different sort of sensitive epoxy placed on them, and then we can test their reactions to this underspace thing. Either just by studying it before and after a jump, or by sticking it outside the ship when we go ‘down’ there, or by dipping it into one of those blobs if we happen to see more of them,” he handed her the plate. “And the best thing is, it’s all chemical and reactive, no real computer interface at all.”

“Not bad,” she said, and frowned. “Why are you using a microstylus? Isn’t that for fine-detail electronics stuff?”

Glomulus looked embarrassed again. “The right tools for the right job, eh?” he said, stepping across the room to switch off the music. “Well, admittedly any old scalpel or basic metal scoring tool would do for this, but my access to them is … limited and the ones I have, I like to look after. I could have just banged away at the plate using the leg of my stool, but I wanted to be a
little
bit scientific.”

“Fair enough.”

“And until we deal with the whole Bruce-issue, we’re not likely to be doing much with our electronics anyway,” he concluded. “So might as well use the tools for other things. What have we found out about Jauren Silva?” he went on, taking the panel and setting it back on the console next to the stylus. “Anything alive down there? Apart from the landing team, one hopes, and the presumably massive quantities of plants, as the name of the planet and its lovely greenness would suggest,” he paused, and glanced towards the windows. “As much as we can see through the cloud cover, of course.”

“Mass quantities of plant and fungal life,” Janya nodded, “and a non-sentient animal biomass right up at the top end of the charts. It seems to be just different shades of jungle all the way around, with a couple of tiny almost-overgrown poles and a lot of bodies of water that are essentially subterranean due to the layers of roots, mulch, undergrowth and canopy. It’s hard to tell where the trees give way to petrified trunk-and-root systems, and where
those
give way to actual caves. That is, of course, if we can trust anything Bruce is feeding us.”

“Indeed,” Glomulus said with a ghost of previous good humour. “And the party?”

“We went to comms silence shortly after landing in an attempt to minimise Bruce’s interference, but they seemed to be okay and there haven’t been any emergency pings.”

“Not that Bruce would necessarily allow them,” Cratch pointed out. “Interpersonal comms are only closed as long as it
says
they are, or
lets
them be.”

“It’s all we have.”

“True.”

“We’re still getting a steady all-clear pulse from Sally’s comm,” Janya added, “and that’s routed through her game changer device so presumably if that gets compromised it’s all over for our attempted subterfuge anyway. And Bruce
knows
about the device, presumably, so it’s probably doing its best to break through it. Unless it just doesn’t care.”