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  ******** TToomm MMaaddddooxx ********
  ************ HHaalloo ************

  _P_a_r_t_ _I _P_a_r_t_ _I_I _P_a_r_t_ _I_I_I _P_a_r_t_ _I_V _P_a_r_t_ _V

  From the author:

  You may read these files, copy them, and distribute them in any
  way you wish so long as you do not change them in any way or
  receive money for them.

  I have entered HALO into the distribution networks of the Net, but
  I retain the copyright to the novel.

  If you paid for these files, you were cheated; if you sold them,
  you have cheated.

  Otherwise, have fun and spread the book around.

  If you have any comments on the book or this distribution, you can
  send me e-mail at:

  	_t_m_a_d_d_o_x_@_h_a_l_c_y_o_n_._c_o_m

  November, 1994






  HALO

  Tom Maddox

  To the memory of George Maddox, my father; Paul Cohen,
  my friend; and all our lamented dead, lost in time.




  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS



  Here are some of the people I owe in the writing of this
  book.

  My wife Janis and son Tom.  They have had to put up with the
  problems of a novelist in the houseincluding arbitrary mood
  swings and chronic unavailability for many of the usual pleasures
  of life.  To both, my love and gratitude for their love, patience,
  and understanding.

  My best friends:  Leo Daugherty, Jeffrey Frohner, Bill Gibson
  and Lee Graham.

  My mother Jewell, my brother Bill and sister Janet.

  Ellen Datlow:  she published my first stories in Omni and
  showed me how a really good editor works.  Also, two friends who
  patiently read through drafts of those stories before Ellen got
  them:  Geoff Hicks and Larry Reed.

  The readers of various incarnations of this book:  Beth
  Meacham, my editor at Tor Books; Merilee Heifetz, my agent; Bruce
  and Nancy Sterling, great readers; Melinda Howard and Gary
  Worthington; Lynne Farr; Carol Poole.  Also, the members of the
  Evergreen Writers' Workshop, especially Pat Murphy.

  The Usenet community, friend and foe, for ideas about a quite
  astonishing number of things, and for the continuing fascination
  of life online; with special thanks to Patricia O Tuana and the
  members of "eniac."

  The usual suspects at the Conference on the Fantastic, with a
  special nod to Brian Aldiss, because we'd all be happier if there
  were more like him running around.

  At The Evergreen State College, many people who gave
  technical advice.  (Perhaps needless to say, any consequent
  blunders are entirely mine.)  Mike Beug and Paul Stamets, world-
  class mycologists and explainers, talked to me about mushrooms and
  provided invaluable references.  Mark Papworth applied a coroner's
  eye to a carcass I made.  The faculty and students of the Habitats
  Coordinated Studies Program, 1988-89 helped me to think about a
  space habitat's ecosystem.

  A list, much too long to include here, of friends, both
  colleagues and students, at Evergreenthough I have to mention
  Barbara Smith and David Paulsen, whose cabin and cat make cameo
  appearances.

  And all I've known who can find a piece of themselves in this
  book.



  PART I. of V

  Everything is destined to reappear as simulation.

  Jean Baudrillard, America




  1. Burning, Burning



  On a rainy morning in Seattle, Gonzales was ready for the
  egg.  A week ago he had returned from Myanmar, the country once
  known as Burma, and now, after two days of drugs and fasting, he
  was prepared:  he had become an alien, at home in a distant
  landscape.

  His brain was filled with blossoms of fire, their spread
  white flesh torched to yellow, the center of a burning world.  On
  the dark stained oak door, angel wings danced in blue flame, their
  faces beatific in the cold fire.  Staring at the animated carved
  figures, Gonzales thought, the fire is in my eyes, in my brain.

  He pushed down the s-curved brass handle and stepped through
  to the hallway, his split-toed shoes of soft cotton and rope
  scuffing without noise across floors of bleached oak.  Through the
  open door at the hallway's end, morning's light through stained
  glass made abstract patterns of crimson and buttery yellow.
  Inside the room, a blue monitor console stood against the far
  wall, SenTrax corporate sunburst glowing on its face; in the
  center of the room was the egg, split hemispheres of chromed
  steel, cracked and waiting.  One half-egg was filled with beige
  tubes and snakes of optic cable, the other half with hard dark
  plastic lying slack against the shell.

  Gonzales rubbed his hands across his eyes, then pulled his
  hair back into a long hank and slipped a circle of elastic over
  it.  He reached to his waist and grabbed the bottom hem of his
  navy blue t-shirt and pulled the shirt over his head.  Dropping it
  to the floor, he kicked off his shoes, stepped out of baggy tan
  pants and loose white cotton underpants and stood naked, his pale
  skin gleaming with a light coat of sweat.  His skin felt hot, eyes
  grainy, stomach sore.

  He stepped up and into a chrome half-egg, then shivered and
  lay back as body-warmth liquid bled into the slack plastic, which
  began to balloon underneath him.  He took hold of finger-thick
  cables and pushed their junction ends home into the sockets set in
  the back of his neck.  As the egg continued to fill, he fit a mask
  over his face, felt its edges seal, and inhaled.  Catheters moved
  toward his crotch, iv needles toward the crooks of both arms.  The
  egg shut closed on him and liquid spilled into its interior.

  He floated in silence, waiting, breathing slowly and deeply
  as elation punched through the chaotic mix of emotions generated
  by drugs, meditation, and the egg.  No matter that he was going to
  relive his own terror, this was what moved him:  access to the
  many-worlds of human experiencetravel through space, time, and
  probability all in one.

  Virtual realities were everywherevirtual vacations, sex,
  superstardom, you name itbut compared to the egg, they were just
  high-res videogames or stage magic.  VRs used a variety of tricks
  to simulate physical presence, but the sensorium could be fooled
  only to a certain degree, and when you inhabited a VR, you were
  conscious of it, so sustaining its illusion depended on willing
  suspension of disbelief.  With the egg, however, you got total
  involvement through all sensory modalitiesthe worlds were so
  compelling that people waking from them often seemed lost in the
  waking world, as if it were a dream.

  A needle punched into a membrane set in one of the neural
  cables and injected a neuropeptide mix.  Gonzales was transported.
  #

  It was the final day of Gonzales's three week stay in Pagan,
  the town in central Myanmar where the government had moved its
  records decades earlier, in the wake of ethnic rioting in Yangon.
  He sat with Grossback, the Division Head of SenTrax Myanmar, at a
  central rosewood table in the main conference room.  The table's
  work stations, embedded oblongs of glass, lay dark and silent in
  front of them.

  Gonzales had come to Myanmar to do an information audit. The
  local SenTrax group supplied the Federated State of Myanmar with
  its primary information utilities:  all its records of personnel
  and materiel, and all transactions among them.  A month earlier,
  SenTrax Myanmar's reports had triggered "look-see" alarms in the
  home company's passive auditing programs, and Gonzales and his
  memex had been sent to look more closely at the raw data.

  So for twenty straight days Gonzales and the memex had
  explored data structures and their contents, testing nominal
  functional relationships against reality.  Wherever there were
  movements of information, money, equipment or personnel, there
  were records, and the two followed.  They searched cash trails,
  matched purchase orders to services and materiel, verified voucher
  signatures with personnel records, cross-checked the personnel
  records themselves against government databases, and traced the
  backgrounds and movements of the people they represented; they
  read contracts and back-chased to their bid and acquisition; they
  verified daily transaction logs.

  Hard, slogging work, all patience and detail, and so far it
  had shown nothing but the usual inefficienciesGrossback didn't
  run a particularly taut operation, but, as of the moment, he
  didn't seem to have a corrupt one.  However, neither he nor
  SenTrax Myanmar was cleared yet; Gonzales's final report would
  come later, after he and the memex had analyzed the records at
  their leisure.

  Gonzales stretched and rubbed his eyes.  As usual at the end
  of short-term, intensive gigs like this, he felt tired, washed-
  out, eager to go.  He said to Grossback, "I've got a company plane
  out of here late this afternoon to Bangkok.  I'll connect with
  whatever commercial flight's available there."

  Grossback smiled, obviously glad Gonzales was leaving.
  Grossback was a slight man, of mixed German and Thai descent; he
  had a light brown complexion, black hair, and delicate features.
  He wore politically correct clothing in the old-fashioned Burmese
  style:  a dark skirt called a longyi, a white cotton shirt.

  During Gonzales's time there, Grossback had dealt with him
  coldly and correctly from behind a mask of corporate protocol and
  clenched teeth.  Fair enough, Gonzales had thought:  the man's
  operation was suspect, and him along with it.  Anyway, people
  resented these outside intrusions almost every time; representing
  Internal Affairs, Gonzales answered only to his division head,
  F.L. Traynor, and SenTrax Board, and that made almost everyone
  nervous.

  "You leaving out of Myaung U Airport?" Grossback asked.

  "No, I've asked for a pick-up south of town."  Like anyone
  else who could arrange it, he was not going to fly out of Pagan's
  official airport, where partisan groups had several times brought
  down aircraft.  Surely Grossback knew that.

  Grossback asked, "What will your report say?"

  Surprised, Gonzales said, "You know I can't tell you anything
  about that."  Even mentioning the matter constituted an
  embarrassment, not to mention a reportable violation of corporate
  protocol.  The man was either stupid or desperate.

  "You haven't found anything," Grossback said.

  What was his problem?  Gonzales said, "I have a year's data
  to examine before I can make an assessment."

  "You won't tell me what the preliminary report will look
  like," Grossback said.  His face had gone cold.

  "No," said Gonzales.  He stood and said, "I have to finish
  packing."  For the moment, he just wanted to get out before
  Grossback did something irretrievable, like threatening him or
  offering a bribe.  "Goodbye," Gonzales said.  The other man said
  nothing as Gonzales left the room.
  #

  Gonzales returned to the Thiripyitsaya Hotel, a collection of
  low bungalows fabricated from bamboo and ferro-concrete that stood
  above the Irrawady River.  The rooms were afflicted by Myanmar's
  tattered version of Asian tourist decor:  lacquered bamboo on the
  walls, along with leaping dragon holos, black teak dresser,
  tables, chairs, and bed frame, ceiling fans that had wandered in
  from the twentieth centuryjust to give your average citizen that
  rush of the Exotic East, Gonzales figured.  However, the hotel had
  been rebuilt less than a decade before, so, by local standards,
  Gonzales had luxury:  working climatizer, microwave, and
  refrigerator.

  Of course, many nights the air conditioner didn't work, and
  Gonzales lay sweaty and semi-conscious through hot, humid nights
  then was greeted just after dawn by lizards fanning their ruby
  neck flaps and doing push ups.

  He had gotten up several of those mornings and walked the
  cart paths that threaded the plains around Pagan, passing among
  the temples and pagodas as the sun rose and turned the morning
  mist into a huge veil of luminous pink, with the towers sticking
  up like fairy castles.  Everywhere around Pagan were the temples,
  thousands of them, young and flourishing when William the
  Conqueror was king.  Now, quick-fab structures housing government
  agencies nested among thousand year old pagodas, some in near
  perfect condition, like Thatbyinnu Temple, myriad others no more
  than ruins and forgotten names.  You gained merit by building
  pagodas, not by keeping up those built by someone long dead.

  Like some other Southeast Asian countries, Myanmar still was
  trying to recover from late-twentieth century politics; in
  Myanmar's case, its decades-long bout with round-robin military
  dictatorships and the chaos that came in their wake.  And as was
  so often the case in politically wobbly countries, it still
  restricted access to the worldnet; through various kinds of
  governments, its leaders had found the prospect of free
  information flow unacceptable.  Ka-band antennas were expensive,
  their use licensed by permits almost impossible to get.  As a
  result, Gonzales and the memex had been like meat eaters stranded
  among vegetarians, unable to get their nourishment.

  He'd taken down the memex that morning.  Its functions
  dormant, it lay nestled inside one of his two fiber and aluminum
  shock-cases, ready for transport. The other case held memory boxes
  containing SenTrax Myanmar group's records.

  When they got home, Gonzales would tell the memex the latest
  news about Grossback, how the man had cracked at the last moment.
  Gonzales was sure the m-i would think what he didGrossback was
  dog dirty and scared they would find it.
  #

  At the edge of a sandy field south of Pagan, Gonzales waited
  for his plane.  Gonzales wore his usual international traveller's
  mufti, a tan gabardine two-piece suit over an open-collared white
  linen shirt, dark brown slipover shoes.  His hair was gathered
  back into a ponytail held together by a silver ring made from
  lizard figures joined head-to-tail.  Next to him sat a soft brown
  leather bag and the two shock-cases.

  In front of him a pagoda climbed in a series of steeples to a
  gilded and jeweled umbrella top, pointing to heaven.  On its
  steps, beside the huge paw of a stone lion, a monk sat in full
  lotus, his face shadowed by the animal rising massive and lumpy
  and mock fierce above him.  The lion's flanks were dyed orange by
  sunset, its lips stained the color of dried blood.  The minutes
  passed, and the monk's voice droned, his face in shadow.

  "Come tour the temples of ancient Pagan," a voice said.
  "Shwezigon, Ananda, Thatbyinnu"

  "Go away," Gonzales said to the tour cart that had rolled up
  behind him.  It would hold two dozen or so passengers in eight
  rows of narrow wooden benches but was now emptyalmost all the
  tourists would have joined the crush on the terraces of
  Thatbyinnu, where they could watch the sun set over the temple
  plain.

  "Last tour of the day," the cart said.  "Very cheap, also
  very good exchange rate offered as courtesy to visitors."

  It wanted to exchange kyats for dollars or yen:  in Myanmar,
  even the machines worked the black market.  "No thanks."

  "Extremely good rate, sir."

  "Fuck off," Gonzales said.  "Or I'll report you as
  defective."  The cart whirred as it moved away.
  ���������������������������������������������������������������������
  Gonzales watched a young monk eyeing him from the other side
  of the road, ready to come across and beg for pencils or money.
  Gonzales caught the monk's eye and shook his head.  The monk
  shrugged and walked on, his orange robe billowing.

  Where the hell was his plane?  Soon hunter flares would cut
  into the new moon's dark, and government drones would scurry
  around the edges of the shadows like huge mutant bats.  Upcountry
  Myanmar trembled on the edge of chaos, beset by a multi-ethnic mix
  of Karens, Kachins, and Shans in various political postures, all
  fierce, all contemptuous of the central government.  They fought
  with whatever was at hand, from sharpened stick to backpack
  missile, and they only quit when they died.

  A high-pitched wail built quickly until it filled the air.
  Within seconds a silver swing-wing, an ungainly thing, each huge
  rectangular wing loaded with a bulbous, oversized engine pod, came
  low over the dark mass of forest.  Its running lights flashing red
  and yellow, the swing-wing slewed to a stop above the field, wings
  tilting to the perpendicular and engine sound dropping into the
  bass.  Its spots picked out a ten-meter circle of white light that
  the aircraft dropped into, blowing clouds of sand that swept over
  Gonzales in a whirlwind.  The inverted fans' roar dropped to a
  whisper, and with a creak the plane kneeled on its gear, placing
  the cockpit almost on the ground.  Gonzales picked up his bags and
  walked toward the plane.  A ladder unfolded with a hydraulic hiss,
  and Gonzales stepped up and into the plane's bubble.

  "Mikhail Gonzales?" the pilot asked.  His multi-function
  flight glasses were tilted back on his forehead, where their
  mirrored ovoid lenses made a blank second pair of eyes; a thin
  strand of black fiberoptic cable trailed from their rim.  Beneath
  the glasses, his thin face was brown and seamedno cosmetic work
  for this guy, Gonzales thought.  The man wore a throwaway
  "tropical" shirt with dancing pink flamingos on a navy blue
  background.

  "That's me," Gonzales said.  He gestured with the shock-case
  in his right hand, and the pilot toggled a switch that opened the
  luggage locker.  Gonzales put his bags into the steel compartment
  and watched as the safety net pulled tight against the bags and
  the compartment door closed.  He took a seat in the first of eight
  empty rows behind the pilot.  Cushions sighed beneath him, and
  from the seatback in front of him a feminine voice said, "You
  should engage your harness.  If you need instructions, please say
  so now."

  Gonzales snapped closed the trapezoidal catch where shoulder
  and lap belts connected, then stretched against the harness,
  feeling the sweat dry on his skin in the plane's cool interior.
  "Thank you," said the voice.

  The pilot was speaking to Myaung U Airport traffic control as
  the plane lifted into twilight over the city.  The soft white glow
  from the dome light vanished, then there were only the last
  moments of orange sunlight coming through the bubble.

  The temple plain was spread out beneath, all murk and shadow,
  with the temple and pagoda spires reaching up toward the light,
  white stucco and gold tinted red and orange.

  "Man, that's a beautiful sight," the pilot said.

  "You're right," Gonzales said.  It was, but he'd seen it
  before, and besides, it had already been a long day.

  The pilot flipped his glasses down, and the plane banked left
  and headed south along the river.  Gonzales lay back in his seat
  and tried to relax.

  They flew above black water, following the Irrawady River
  until they crossed an international flyway to Bangkok.  Dozing in
  the interior darkness, Gonzales was almost asleep when he heard
  the pilot say, "Shit, somebody's here.  Partisan attack group,
  probablyno recognition codes.  Must be flying ultralightsour
  radar didn't see them.  We've got an image now, though."

  "Any problem?" Gonzales asked.

  "Just coming for a look.  They don't bother foreign
  charters."  And he pointed to their transponder message flashing
  above the primary displays:
  THIS INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT IS NON-MILITARY.
  IT CLAIMS RIGHT OF PASSAGE
  UNDER U.N. ACT OF 2020.
  It would keep on repeating until they crossed into Thai airspace.

  The flight computer display lit bright red with COLLISION
  WARNING, and a Klaxon howl filled the plane's interior.  The
  pilot said, "Fuck, they launched!"  The swing-wing's turbines
  screamed full out as the plane's computer took command, and the
  pilot's hands gripped his yoke, not guiding, just hanging on.

  Gonzales's straps pulled tight as the plane tumbled and fell,
  corkscrewed, looped, climbed againsmart metal fish evading fiery
  harpoons.  Explosions blossomed in the dark, quick asymmetrical
  bursts of flame followed immediately by hard thumping sounds and
  shock waves that knocked the swing-wing as it followed its chaotic
  path through the night.

  Then an aircraft appeared, flaring in fire that surged around
  it, its pilot in blazing outlinea stick figure with arms thrown
  to the sky in the instant before pilot and aircraft disintegrated
  in flame.

  Their own flight went steady and level, and control returned
  to the pilot's yoke.  Gonzales's shocked retinas sparkled as the
  night returned to blackness.  "Collision averted," the plane's
  computer said.  "Time in red zone, six point eight nine seconds."

  "What the hell?" Gonzales said.  "What happened?"

  "Holy Jesus motherfucker," the pilot said.

  Gonzales sat gripping his seat, chilled by the blast of cold
  air from the plane's air conditioner onto his sweat-soaked shirt.
  He glanced down to his lap:  no, he hadn't pissed himself.
  Really, everything happened too quickly for him to get that
  scared.

  A Mitsubishi-McDonnell "Loup Garou" warplane dived in front
  of them and circled in slow motion.  Like the ultralights it was
  cast in matte black, but with a massive fuselage.  It turned a
  slow barrel roll as it circled them, lazy predator looping fat,
  slow prey, then turned on brilliant floods that played across
  their canopy.

  The pilot and Gonzales both froze in the glare.

  Then the Loup Garou's black cockpit did a reverse-fade;
  behind the transparent shell Gonzales saw the mirror-visored
  pilot, twin cables running from the base of his neck.  The Loup
  Garou's wings slid forward into reverse-sweep, and it stood on its
  tail and disappeared.

  Gonzales strained against his taut harness.

  "Assholes!" the pilot screamed.

  "Who was that?" Gonzales asked, his voice thin and shaking.
  "What do you mean?"

  "The Myanmar Air Force," the pilot said, his voice tight,
  face red beneath the flight glasses' mirrors. "They set us up, the
  pricks.  They used us to troll for a guerrilla flight."  The pilot
  flipped up his glasses and stared with pointless intensity out the
  cockpit window, as if he could see through the blackness.  "And
  waited," he said.  "Waited till they had the whole flight."  The
  pilot swiveled around abruptly and faced Gonzales, his features
  distorted into a mad and angry caricature of the man who had
  welcomed Gonzales ninety minutes before.  "Do you know how fucking
  close we came?" he asked.

  No, Gonzales shook his head.  No.

  "Milliseconds, man.  Fucking milliseconds.  Close enough to
  touch," the pilot said.  He swiveled his seat to face forward, and
  Gonzales heard its locking mechanism click as he settled back into
  his own seat, fear and shame spraying a wild neurochemical mix
  inside his brain

  Gonzales had never felt things like this beforedeath down
  his spine and up his gut, up his throat and nose, as close as his
  skin; death with a bad smell  burning, burning




  2. Anything I Can Do to Help You



  As the morning passed, the sun moved away from the stained
  glass, and the room's interior went to gloom.  Only monitor lights
  remained lit, steady rows of green above flickering columns of
  numbers on the light blue face of the monitor panel.

  A housekeeping robot, a pod the size of a large goose, worked
  slowly across the floor, nuzzled into the room's corners, then
  left the room, its motion tentacles beneath it making a sound like
  wind through dry grass.
  #

  The cockpit display flashed as landing codes fed through the
  flight computer, then the swing-wing locked into the Bangkok
  landing grid and began its slide down an invisible pipe.  They
  went to touchdown guided by electronic hands.

  The pilot turned to Gonzales as they descended and said,
  "I'll have to file a report on the attack.  But you're luckyif
  we had landed in Myanmar, government investigators would have been
  on you like white on rice, and you could forget about leaving for
  days, maybe weeks.  You're okay now:  by the time they process the
  report and ask the Thais to hold you, you'll be gone."

  At the moment, the last thing Gonzales wanted to do was spend
  any time in Myanmar.  "I'll get out as quickly as I can," he said.

  Now that it was all over, he could feel the Fear climbing in
  him like the onset of a dangerous drug.  Trying to calm himself,
  he thought, really, nothing happened, except you got the shit
  scared out of you, that's all.

  As the swing-wing settled on the pad, Gonzales stood and went
  to pick up his luggage from the open baggage hold.  The pilot sat
  watching as the plane went through its shutdown procedures.

  Do something, Gonzales said to himself, feeling panic mount.
  He pulled the memex's case out of the hold and said, "I want a
  copy of your flight records."

  "I can't do that."

  "You can.  I'm working with Internal Affairs, and I was
  almost killed while flying in your aircraft."

  "So was I, man."

  "Indeed.  But I need this data.  Later, IA will go the full
  official route and pick everything up, but I need it now.  A quick
  dump into my machine here, that's all it will take.  I'll give you
  authorization and receipt."  Gonzales waited, keeping the pressure
  on by his insistent gaze and posture.

  The pilot said, "Okay, that ought to cover my ass."

  Gonzales slid the shock-case next to the pilot's seat,
  kneeled and opened the lid.  "Are you recording?" he asked the
  pilot.

  The man nodded and said, "Always."

  "That's what I thought.  All right, then:  for the record,
  this is Mikhail Mikhailovitch Gonzales, senior employee of
  Internal Affairs Division, SenTrax.  I am acquiring flight records
  of this aircraft to assist in my investigation of certain events
  that occurred during its most recent flight."  He looked at the
  pilot.  "That should do it," he said.

  He pulled out a data lead from the case and snapped it into
  the access plug on the instrument panel.  Lights flashed across
  the panel as data began to spool into the quiescent memex.  The
  panel gonged softly to signal transfer was complete, and Gonzales
  unplugged the lead and closed the case.  "Thanks," he said to the
  pilot, who sat staring out the cockpit bubble.

  Gonzales stood and patted the case and thought to himself,
  hey, memex, got a surprise for you when you wake up.  He felt much
  better.
  #

  A carry-slide hauled Gonzales a mile or so through a
  brightly-lit tunnel with baby blue plastic and plaster walls
  marked with signs in half a dozen languages promising swift
  retribution for vandalism.  Red and green virus graffiti smeared
  everything, signs included, and as Gonzales watched, messages in
  Thai and Burmese transmuted, and new stick figures emerged with
  dialogue balloons saying god knows what.  A lone phrase in red
  paint read in English, HEROIN ALPHA DEVIL FLOWER.  Shattered
  boxes of black fibroid or coarse sprays of multi-wire cable marked
  where surveillance cameras had been.

  Grey floor-to-ceiling steel shutters blocked the narrow
  portal to International Arrivals and Departures.  Faceless
  holoscan robotsdark, wheeled cubes with carbon-fiber armor and
  tentacles and spiked sensor antennasworked the crowd, antennas
  swiveling.

  All around were Asian travelers, dark-suited men and women:
  Japanese, Chinese, Malaysians, Indonesians, Thai.  They spread out
  from Asia's "dragons," world centers of research and
  manufacturing, taking their low margins and hard sell to Europe
  and the Americas, where consumption had become a way of life.
  Everywhere Gonzales traveled, it seemed, he found them:  cadres
  armed with technical and scientific prowess and fueled by
  persistent ambition.

  They formed the steel core of much of the world's prosperity.
  The United States and the dragons lived in uneasy symbiosis:  the
  Asians had a hundred ways of making sure the American economy
  didn't just roll over and die and take the prime North American
  consumer market with it.  Whether Japanese, Koreans, Taiwanese,
  Hong Kong Chinese-Canadiansthey bought some corporations and
  merged with others, and Americans ended up working for General
  Motors Fanuc, Chrysler Mitsubishi, or Daewoo-DEC, and with their
  paychecks they bought Japanese memexes, Korean autos, Malaysian
  robotics.

  Shutter blades cranked open with a quick scream of metal, and
  Gonzales stepped inside.  An Egyptian guard in a white headdress,
  blue-and-white checked headband, and gray U.N. drag cross-checked
  his i.d., gave a quick, meaningless smileteeth white and perfect
  under a black moustacheand waved him on.

  Southeast Asian Faction Customs waited in the form of a small
  Thai woman in a brown uniform with indecipherable scrawls across
  yellow badges.  Her features were pleasant and impassive; she wore
  her black hair pulled tightly back and held with a clear plastic
  comb.  She stood behind a gray metal table; on the floor next to
  it was a two-meter high general purpose scanner, its controls,
  screens, and read-outs hidden under a black cloth hood.  Dirty
  green walls wore erratically-spaced signs in a dozen languages,
  detailing in small type the many categories of contraband.

  The woman motioned for him to sit in the upright chair in
  front of the table, then for him to put his clothes bag and cases
  on the table.

  She spoke, and the translator box at her waist echoed in
  clear, neuter machine English:  "Your person has been scanned and
  cleared."  She put the soft brown bag into the mouth of the
  scanner, and the machine vetted the bag with a quiet beep.  The
  woman slid it back to Gonzales.

  She spoke again, and the translator said, "Please open these
  cases" as she pointed toward the two shock-cases.  For each,
  Gonzales screened the access panel with his left hand and tapped
  in the entry codes with his right.  The case lids lifted with a
  soft sigh.  Inside the cases, monitor and diagnostic lights
  flashed above rows of memory modules, heavy solids of black
  plastic the size of a small safety deposit box.

  Gonzales saw she was holding a copy of the Data Declaration
  Form the memex had filled out in Myanmar and transmitted to both
  Myanmar and Thai governments.  She looked into one of the cases
  and pointed to a row of red-tagged and sealed memory modules.

  The translator's words followed behind hers and said, "These
  modules we must hold to verify that they contain no contraband
  information."

  "Myanmar customs did so.  These are SenTrax corporate
  records."

  "Perhaps they are.  We have not cleared them."

  "If you wish, I will give you the access protocols.  I have
  nothing to hide, but the modules are important to my work."

  She smiled.  "I do not have proper equipment.  They must be
  examined by authorities in the city."  The translator's tones
  accurately reflected her lack of concern.

  Gonzales sensed the onset of severe bureaucratic
  intransigence.  For whatever occult reasons, this woman had
  decided to fuck him around, and the harder he pushed, the worse
  things would be.  Give it up, then.  He said, "I assume they will
  be returned to me as soon as possible."

  "Certainly.  After careful examination.  Though it is
  unlikely that the examination can be completed before your
  departure."  She slid the case off her desk and to the floor
  behind it.  She was smiling again, a satisfied bureaucrat's smile.
  She turned back to her console, Gonzales's case already a thing of
  the past.  She looked up to see him still standing there and said,
  "How else can I help you?"
  #

  The machine-world began to disperse, turning to fog, and as
  it did, banks of low-watt incandescents lit up around the room's
  perimeter, and the patterns of console lights went through a
  series of rapid permutations as Gonzales was brought to a waking
  state.  The room's lights had been full up for an hour when the
  desynching series was complete and the egg began to split.

  Inside the egg Gonzales lay pale, nude, near-comatose,
  machine-connected:  a new millennium Snow White.  A flesh-colored
  catheter led from his water-shrunken genitals, transparent iv
  feeds from both forearms.  White sealant and anti-irritant paste
  had clotted around the tubes from throat and mouth.  The sharp
  ozone smell of the paste was all over him.

  An autogurney had rolled next to the egg, and its hands,
  shining chrome claws, began disconnecting tubes and leads.  Then
  it worked with hands and black flexible arms the thickness of a
  stout rope to lift Gonzales from the egg and onto its own surface.

  Gonzales woke up in his own bedroom and began to whimper.
  "It's okay," the memex whispered through the room's speaker.
  "It's okay."

  Some time later Gonzales awoke again, lay in gloom and
  considered his condition.  Some nausea, legs weak, but no apparent
  loss of gross motor control, no immediate parapsychological
  effects (disorientations, amnesias, synesthesias)

  Gonzales got up and went to the bathroom, stood amid white
  tile, polished aluminum and mirrors and said, "Warm shower."
  Water hissed, and the shower stall door swung open.  The water ran
  down his skin and the sweat and paste rolled off his body.




  3. Dancing in the Dark



  The next morning, Gonzales stood looking out his front
  window, down Capital Hill to the city and the bay.  After a full
  night's sleep, he felt recovered from the egg.  "Halfway down the
  hill stood a row of Contempo high-riseshalf a dozen shapes in
  the mist, their sides laced with optic fiber in patterns of red,
  blue, white, and yellow.

  >From the wallscreen behind him, a voice said, "The Fine Arts
  Network, showing today only:  the legendary 'Rothschild Ads
  Originals and Copies,' a Euro/Com Production from the Cannes
  Festival; also showing, NipponAuto's 'Ecstasy for Many
  Kilometers.'"

  "Cycle," Gonzales said.  He turned to watch as the screen
  split into windows, showing eight at a time in a random access
  search.  In the screen's upper-right corner, the Headline Service
  cycled what it considered important:  worsening social collapse in
  England; another series of politico-economic triumphs for The Two
  Koreas.  And the Ecostate Summaries:  ozone hole #2 over the
  Antarctic conforming to predicted self-repair curve, hole #3
  obstinately holding steady; CO2 portions unstable, ozone reaching
  for an ugly part of the graph; temperature fluctuations continuing
  to evade best predictions

  Why call it news? wondered Gonzales. Call it olds. Christ,
  this stuff had been going on forever it seemed

  He said, "Memex, what do you think about the attack?"

  "A bad business," said the memex.  "We are lucky to have
  survived." It seemed a bit subdued in the aftermath of the trip in
  the egg, as though it, too, had come close to dying.  Gonzales
  didn't know how it experienced such things, given its limited
  sensory modalities and, he presumed, lack of a fear of death.

  "What's happening in the real world?" Gonzales asked.

  "Your mother left a message for you.  Do you want to look at
  it now?"

  "Might as well."

  On the screen she lay back in a lawn chair, her face hidden
  behind a sun mask, her mono-bikinied body a rich brown.  She sat
  up and said, "Still in Myanmar, huh, sweetie?  When are you coming
  back?  I'd love to talk, but I just won't pay those rates."

  She removed her sun mask.  She had dark skin and good bones;
  her face was nearly unlined, though her skin had the faint
  parchment quality of age.  Her small breasts sagged very little.
  Body and face, she appeared an athletic fifty year old who had
  perhaps seen too much sun.  She would turn eighty-seven next
  month.

  Since Gonzales's father had died in a flash flu epidemic
  while the two were visiting Naples, his mother had turned her
  energies and interests to maintaining her health and appearance.
  Half the year she spent in Cozumel's Regeneration Villas, where
  tissue transplants and genetic retailoring kept her young.  The
  rest of the time she occupied an entire floor of a low-res condo
  on Florida's decaying Gold Coast, just north of Ciudad de Miami.
  Top dollar, but she could afford it.

  She and his father had been charter members of the
  gerontocracy, that ever-expanding league of the rich and old who
  vied with the young for their society's resources.  The young had
  the strength and energy of youth; the old had wealth, power and
  cunning.  No contest:  kids under thirty often stated their main
  life's goal as "living until I am old enough to enjoy it."

  Gonzales's mother draped a blue-and-white print cotton-robe
  over her shoulders and said, "Call me.  I'll be home in a week or
  so.  Be well."

  Their talks, her taped messagesboth usually made him feel
  baffled and angrybut today her self-absorption pricked sharper
  than usual.  I almost died, he wanted to tell her, they almost
  killed me, mother.

  But he was far away from her, as far as Seattle was from
  Miami.  And whose fault is that? a small voice asked.  He had
  chosen to come here, as distant Southern Florida as he could get
  and remain in the continental United States.  Sometimes he felt
  he'd come a bit too far.  In Florida, people cooled down with
  alcohol in iced drinks; here, they warmed their chilly selves with
  strong coffee.  Gonzales often felt lost among the glum and
  health-conscious Northerners and craved the Hispanic sensuality
  and demonstrativeness of Southern Florida.

  Still, how he hated the world he'd grown up in.  He had seen
  the movers, dealers, and players since he was a child, and in all
  of them he had felt the same obsessive grasping at money and land
  and power and had heard the same childish voices, wanting more
  more more.  At his parents' parties, he remembered dark Southern
  Florida facessun-burned whites, blacks, Hispanics; men with
  heavy gold jewelry, trailing clouds of expensive cologne, and
  women with stiff hair and pushed-up breasts whose laughter made
  brittle footnotes to the men's loud voices.  He'd fled all that as
  instinctively as a child yanks its hand from a fire.

  Both there and here he stood in an alien land, no more at
  home at one end of the country than the other.

  "No reply," Gonzales said.
  #

  The next day Gonzales sat in the solarium, where he lounged
  among black lacquer and etched glass while thoughts of death
  gnawed at the edges of his torpor.  He filled a bronze pipe with
  small green sensemilla leaves and holed up in a haze of smoke and
  drank tea.

  The late afternoon light through the windows went to pure
  Seattle Gray, the color of ennui and unemphatic despair, and his
  solitude became oppressive. He needed company, he thought, and
  wondered what it would be like to have a cat.  Then he thought
  about the truth of it, how often he would be gone and the cat left
  to itself and the house's machines.  "Here kitty kitty," the
  cleaning robot would say, and the memex would want veterinary
  programs and a diagnostic link  fuck it, they all could live
  without a cat.

  Then a hunger kick came on him, and he decided to make
  taboulleh.  "You are not taking care of business," the memex said
  to Gonzales as he stood chopping mint leaves, green onions and
  tomato, squeezing lemon and stirring in bulgur wheat with the
  patience of the deeply-stoned.

  "True," Gonzales said.  "I'm in no hurry."

  "Why not?  Since your return from Asia, you have not been
  productive."

  "I'm going to die, my friend."  The smells of lemon and mint
  drifted up to him, and he inhaled them deeply.  He said, "Today,
  maana, some day for sure  and I'm still trying to understand
  what that means to me now.  To be productive, that is fine, but to
  come to terms with my own mortality  I think that is better."
  The taboulleh was finished.  It was beautiful; he wanted to rub
  his face in it.
  #

  Not long after he finished eating, a package arrived from
  Thailand.  Inside layers of foam and strapping were the memory
  modules the Thais had taken.  When he plugged the modules into the
  memex, they showed empty:  zeroed, ready to be used again.

  Gonzales stood looking at the racked modules in the memex
  closet.  I can't fucking believe it, he thought.  In effect, the
  audit had been cancelled out.  Whatever data he or anyone else
  collected at this point from SenTrax Myanmar would be essentially
  useless, Grossback having been given time to cook the data if he
  needed to do so.  A fatal indeterminacy had settled on the whole
  affair.

  Grossback, you bastard, thought Gonzales.  If you arranged
  for the Thais to grab these boxes, maybe you are smarter and
  meaner than I thought.

  "Shit," Gonzales said.

  "Is there anything I can do?" the memex asked.

  "Nothing I can think of."
  #

  >From the background of jungle plants and pastel walls and the
  signature pieces of curved silver, HeyMex recognized the latest
  incarnation of the Beverly Rodeo Hotel's public lounge.  Mister
  Jones preferred ostentation, even in simulacra.

  HeyMex settled into a sling chair made of bright chrome and
  stuffed chocolate-brown leather.  HeyMex wore the usual baggy
  pants and jacket of black cotton, a crumpled white linen shirt;
  was smooth-faced and had close-cropped hair.

  A figure shimmered into being in the chair opposite:  silver
  suit and red metal-laced shirt brilliant under lights; black-
  framed glasses with dark lenses; greased hair combed straight
  back, a little black goatee and moustache.

  "Mister Jones," HeyMex said.

  The other figure took a long, slow drag off a brown
  cigarette.  "HeyMex," it said.  "What can I do for you?"

  "It's Gonzales.  Since we got back from Myanmar, he's been
  passive, hasn't been taking care of business."

  "Post-trauma responsegive him some time, he'll be okay."

  "No, he doesn't need time.  He needs work.  Have you got
  something?"

  "Maybe.  I haven't run a personnel searchhe might not fit
  the exact profile."

  "Never mind that.  Give it to Gonzales.  He needs it."

  "If you say so.  You'll hear something official later today."

  The world went translucent, then turned to smoke, and Mister
  Jones disappeared back into his identity as Traynor's Advisor,
  HeyMex into his as Gonzales's memex.

  (Ask yourself why the two machines chose this elaborate
  masquerade, or why no one knew these sorts of things were
  happening.  However, as to the who? and the why? there can be no
  question.  These are the new players, and these are their games.

  So welcome to the new millennium.)




  4. Privileged Not to Exist



  When Gonzales returned home, he found a message from Traynor:
  "Will arrange for transportation tomorrow morning, five a.m., from
  Northern Seattle Airtrack to my estate.  Be prepared for immediate
  work.  Pack the memex and twenty-two kilos personal luggage."

  "Shit," Gonzales said.  "We just got home.  Twenty-two kilos,
  huh?  That means we'll be going  where do you think?"

  The memex said, "Somewhere in orbit."
  #

  The airport limo held its spot in a locked sequence of a
  dozen vehicles moving away from the city at two hundred kilometers
  an hour.  Seattle's northern suburbs showed as patches of light
  behind shifting mist and steady-falling rain.  Overhead, cargo
  blimps flying toward Vancouver moved through the clouds like great
  cold water fish.

  Gonzales got a quick view of a square where white and yellow
  searchlights played across a concrete landscape, and a gangling
  assemblage of pipe and wire stepped crab-wise as it sprayed a
  brick wall:  a graffiti robot, a machine built and set loose to
  scrawl messages to the world at large.  Gonzales could only read
  GENT OF CHAN

  With a sigh from its turbines, the limo slowed to exit into
  North Seattle Airtrack, then turned into the private field access
  road.  A wire gate opened in front of them as it received the
  codes the limo sent.  Near the SenTrax hangar waited a swing-wing
  exactly like the one that had taken Gonzales from Pagan to
  Bangkok.  Gonzales climbed into the plane, placed his bag and the
  memex's shock-cases into the plane's baggage locker, seated
  himself, and pulled his shoulder harness tight.

  The swing-wing rose into clouds and fog.  After a while, the
  blank whiteness out the windows and steady noise of the swing-
  wing's engines lulled Gonzales into a light sleep that lasted
  until the ascending scream of engine noise told him they were
  landing.

  As the plane tilted, Gonzales saw the blue sheet of Lake
  Tahoe stretching away to the south, then a patch of green lawn on
  the water's edge that grew bigger as the swing-wing made its final

  pproach to Traynor's estate.

  >From his six years' work with Internal Affairs, the past two
  as independent auditor, Gonzales knew quite a bit about Frederick
  Lewis Traynor, his boss.  Traynor had wealth sufficient for even
  the most extravagant tastesit was his family's, and he had known
  nothing elsebut power whose smallest touch could shape lives,
  imprint stone, that he longed for.  From his position as head of
  Internal Affairs, one of SenTrax's most powerful divisions, he
  plotted ascent to the SenTrax Board; he wanted to be one of the
  twenty people who had moved beyond negotiation and compromise,
  whose desires were reality, whims action.

  In fact, Traynor had already achieved a level of eminence
  that is privileged, when it wishes, not to exist. His house and
  land occupied a chunk of the North Shore of Lake Tahoe where there
  had once been two casino-hotels and a section of state highway.
  The hotels had been demolished, the highway diverted.  The grounds
  were now surrounded by a four-meter high fence of slatted black
  steelalarmed, hot-wired, and robot-patrolled.  The estate showed
  on no map or record of purchase, ownership or taxation; neither
  did the man himself.

  When Gonzales stepped out of the plane onto a great expanse
  of green lawn, Traynor waited to meet him.  He was short and
  pudgy, and his skin was pale.  His sparse hair lay limp in dark
  curls on his skull.  On his feet were soft black slippers, and he
  wore an embroidered silk robegreen and blue and white and red,
  with rearing dragons across back and front.  He thought of himself
  as Byroniceccentric and interesting, afflicted by geniusbut to
  Gonzales and many others he appeared simply petulant and self-
  indulgent.

  Traynor stretched his arms wide and said, "Mikhail," giving
  the name three syllables, saying it right, then took Gonzales in a
  brief hug.  Traynor then stood back and looked at him and said,
  "You don't look too bad."

  "Is that why you brought me here, to look at me?"

  Traynor shrugged.  "For that, maybe, and to talk to you about
  your next job.  Besides, I like you."

  Gonzales supposed that Traynor did like him, in his peculiar
  boss's and rich man's way.  Particularly, he seemed to like the
  fact that Gonzales wasn't awed by the outward and visible
  manifestations of his money and power.

  "Good breeding," Traynor had said to him once.  "That's your
  secret:  patrician and plebian blood mixed."  Mikhail
  Mikhailovitch Gonzales was of mixed blood indeed; among others,
  Russian Jews and Hispanics from Los Angeles on his mother's side,
  Blacks from Chicago and Cubans from Miami on his father's.  Among
  his family background were slaves and field workers and bourgeois
  counter-revolutionaries, along with the odd artist and smuggler
  and con man.

  However, whatever his breeding or experience, he had to put
  up with lots of cheerful, condescending bullshit from Traynor, as
  he had to put up with Traynor in general, because the man was rich
  and powerful and the boss, and neither of them ever forgot it.

  The two walked toward the house that stood facing the lake at
  the lawn's far border, a Stately Home an idealized eighteenth-
  century English architect might have built for an equally
  idealized and indulgent patron.  Off a golden domed center stood
  three wings of creamy stone, the whole in restrained neo-Palladian
  with no modern excesses of material, no foamed colored concrete
  and composites, just the tan and creamy sandstone and rose marble
  speaking wealth and taste.

  They climbed up marble stairs and passed into the house and
  under a looming interior dome that soared high above the central
  rotunda where the house's three wings joined.  They walked down a
  hallway of dark wainscoting below cream walls and ceiling.

  Gonzales caught glimpses of side rooms through open doorways
  as they passed.  One room appeared to front upon a night filled
  with swirling nebulae and a million stars, the next on sunshine
  and dazzling snows.  Still another contained nothing but white
  walls, floors of polished marble and a five-meter hand centered
  motionless in mid-airindex finger extended, other three fingers
  curled against the palm, thumb erect on top like the hammer of a
  make-believe gun.

  Mahogany doors parted in front of the two men, and they
  passed into the library.  Its dark-paneled walls gave away
  nothing:  even close up, the books might have been holo-fronts,
  might have been real.  Flat data entry modules were laid into
  mahogany side tables that stood next to red leather easy chairs
  and maroon velour couches.

  "Sit down, Mikhail," Traynor said.

  Gonzales could feel the silence heavy and somber among the
  dark invocations of another time, leather and furnishings
  conjuring up men's clubs, smoking rooms, the somber whispers of
  deals going down.

  Traynor's eyes lost focus as he went rapt, listening to his
  voice within.  Even if he hadn't been aware of Traynor's
  dependence on his Advisor, Gonzales would have known what was
  happening.  Traynor, higher up in the executive food chain than
  anyone else of Gonzales's acquaintance, needed permanent real-time
  access to the information, advice, and general emotional support
  his Advisor supplied, so Traynor was wired with a bone-set
  transceiver just under his left ear.  Wherever he went, his
  Advisor's voice went with him, through cellular networks and
  satellite links.

  Traynor finally looked up and said, "Look, I want you to get
  focused on a job you're going to do for me.  Can you do that?"
  Gonzales shrugged.  Traynor said, "You're upset and angryyou
  were attacked, almost killedI know that.  But look:  you work
  for Internal Affairs, it's an occupational hazard.  You and your
  machine poked hard at this man's operation, and you spooked him,
  so he did something stupid."

  "And I want to make him pay for it."

  "You play along with me on this one, and maybe you'll be able
  to.  But laternow I've got other work for you."

  "Okay, I'll do it."  Gonzales knew he had to play along:  it
  was his only chance to even things up with Grossback.  Play now,
  pay back later.

  "Good," Traynor said.  "How much do you know about Halo City
  and Aleph?"

  "The city was put together by a multi-national consortium.
  SenTrax has a data monopoly, employs a large-scale m-i to
  administer the city.  That's about all I know."

  The wallscreen at one end lit up with a glyph in hard black:
  _0

  The voice of Traynor's Advisor spoke through a ceiling
  speaker; it said, "The sign you are looking at is the original
  emblem of the Aleph system when it was built by SenTrax.  In
  Cantor's notation, it represents the first of the transfinite
  numbersdenoting the infinite set of integers and fractions, or
  natural numbers.  Aleph is also the first letter of the Hebrew
  alphabet and the name of a story"

  "Get on with it," Traynor said.

  "The system was constructed at Athena Station, in
  geosynchronous orbit, where it supervised the construction of the
  Orbital Energy Grid, and later was transported to Halo City, at
  L5, where it serves as the primary agent of data interpretation,
  logistical planning, and administration."

  Gonzales said, "Seems odd to have a project the size and
  importance of Halo administered by an obsolete m-i."

  "It would be so if Aleph were obsolete," answered the
  Advisor.  "However, this is not the case.  The machine we refer to
  as Aleph, has capabilities superior to any existing m-i."

  Gonzales looked at Traynor, who held up a hand, indicating
  have patience, and said, "Next series."

  On the screen came a pan shot across a weightless space where
  a man floated, encased in a transparent plastic bubble.  He was
  naked, and his limbs were shrunken and twisted.  He had tubes in
  his nose, mouth, ears, penis, and anus, metal cups over his eyes.
  Two thick cables connected to junctions at the back of his neck.

  The Advisor said, "This man's name is Jerry Chapman.  He
  suffers from severe neural damage, the results of a toxin
  transmitted through seafood contaminated with toxic waste.  Though
  most motor and sensory functions are disabled, he is not comatose.
  In fact, he appears to retain all intellectual function.  Note the
  neural interface sockets:  they are the key to what follows."

  "He's at Halo?" Gonzales asked.

  "Yes," the Advisor said.  "He was taken there from Earth."

  "Very special treatment," Gonzales said.

  "The group at Halo has been looking for such an opportunity,"
  the Advisor said.  "To explore long-term Aleph-interface."

  Traynor said, "In fact, Chapman's relations with Aleph go
  back to the machine's early days."

  The Advisor said, "When he and Aleph worked with Doctor Diana
  Heywood, who at the time was employed by SenTrax at Athena
  Station.  She was blind at that time."

  "Even in this deck, Doctor Heywood's the joker," Traynor
  said.  "She was involved with Aleph at the time, and later she and
  lived with Chapman, on Earth.  She was released by SenTrax for
  unauthorized use of the Aleph system, but we've brought her back
  into our employ.  She's going to Halo, where she will assist Aleph
  in an attempt to keep this man alive."

  "Alive?" Gonzales asked, gesturing toward the hulk on the
  screen.  "There doesn't seem much point."  As he understood these
  things, given the man's condition, withdrawal processing should
  have started, SenTrax as medical guardians making application to
  the Federal Medical Courts for permission to cease support.

  The Advisor said, "Aleph believes it can keep him alive in
  machine-space.  There are special problems, as you can imagine,
  among them the need to have love, friendship  I do not understand
  these matters well, but Aleph has communicated to me that the next
  weeks are critical for the patient."

  Traynor said, "However, using Doctor Heywood presents its own
  problems."

  "She left SenTrax years ago," the Advisor said.  "In somewhat
  strained circumstances."

  Traynor said, "So she has no reason to be loyal to the
  company."  He paused.  "And we have no reason to trust her."

  Gonzales said, "I presume this is where I enter in?"

  "Yes," Traynor said.  "I want you to accompany her.  You will
  represent me and, indirectly, SenTrax Board."  Gonzales raised his
  eyebrows, and Traynor laughed.  "Yes, I am representing the board
  on this one, unofficiallythey see this treatment as being of
  enormous interest but wish to have a certain insulation between
  them and these matters, given that certain tricky legal issues
  will have to be skirted."

  "Or trampled on," said Gonzales.

  "As you wish," said Traynor.  "The important point is this:
  from the board's point-of-view, Doctor Heywood cannot be trusted.

  Gonzales said, "So you need a spy, and I'm it."

  Traynor shrugged.

  The Advisor said, "You represent properly vested interests in
  a situation where they would not otherwise be adequately
  represented."

  Gonzales said, "That's a good one, 'represent properly vested
  interests.'  I'll try to remember it.  Okay, I'll do my best."  He
  turned to face Traynor and said, "To get you on the board."
  Traynor laughed.  Gonzales asked, "How long will this thing take?"

  "Not too long," Traynor said.

  The Advisor said, "Once Chapman's state has been stabilized
  "

  "Or he dies," Traynor said.

  "Highly probable," said the Advisor.  "Once he is stable
  alive or deadyour job will be finished."

  Traynor said, "But until then, your job is to let me know
  what's happening.  You'll be in machine-space along with them, and
  you'll see what they're doing."

  "Fine," Gonzales said. "So what do I do now?"

  "You fly to Berkeley and talk to Doctor Heywood," Traynor
  said.  "Introduce yourself.  Make a friend."




  5. So Come to Me, Then



  Gonzales arrived at Berkeley Aeroport, a collection of
  cracked cement pads at the edge of the water, by mid-afternoon.
  He stepped out of the swing-wing into blazing sunshine.  Across
  the bay, the Golden Gate and Alcatraz Island danced in the glare;
  the water glittered so intensely his sunglasses went nearly black.

  A Truesdale rental waited for him in the parking lot.  He
  stuck a SenTrax i.d./credit chip into its door slot, and the door
  retracted into its frame with a muted hiss.  The Truesdale's
  windows had opaqued against the dazzle, and its passive a/c had
  been working, so the dark brown velvet seat was cool to the touch
  when Gonzales slid across it.

  "Do you wish to drive, Mister Gonzales?" the car asked.

  Gonzales said, "Not really.  You know where we're going?"

  "Yes, I have that address."

  "Then you take it."

  Diana Heywood lived in the Berkeley hills, in a Maybeck house
  more than a century old.  The car drove Gonzales through streets
  that wound their way up the hillside, then stopped in front of a
  house whose redwood-shingled bulk loomed over Gonzales's head as
  he stood on the sidewalk.  Sun glinted off the lozenged panes of
  its bay window.

  Her door answered his knock by saying she was a few blocks
  away, at the Rose Gardens.  The door said, "It is a civic project:
  volunteers are rebuilding the garden, which has fallen into
  disuse.  Many of the local"

  "Thank you," Gonzales said.

  He told the Truesdale where he was going and set off on foot
  in the direction the memex had indicated.  To his left hand,
  streets and homes sloped down toward the bay; to his right, they
  climbed up the steep hillside.

  Gonzales came to a hand-lettered sign in green poster paint
  on white board that read:
  BERKELEY ROSE GARDENS RECLAMATION PROJECT
  He looked down to where broken redwood lattices fanned out along
  terraced pathways threaded with a clumsy patchwork of green pvc
  irrigation pipes.  Halfway down stood a cracked and peeling
  trellis of white-painted wood with bushes dangling from its gaps.
  Next to the trellis, a small gardener robot, a green plastic-
  coated block on miniature tractor wheels, extended a delicate arm
  of shining coiled steel ending in a ten-fingered fibroid hand.
  The hand closed, and a dark red rose came away from its bush.
  Clutching the blossom, the little robot wheeled away.
          Gonzales walked down the inclined pathway, his feet crunching

  on gravel, past the bushes and their labels stating often
  improbable names:  Dortmunds with red, papery petals, large Garden
  Parties flamboyant in white and yellow, Montezumas, Martin
  Frobishers, and Mighty Mouses.  He stopped and inhaled the strong
  perfume of purple Intrigue.  In the recombinant section, Halos,
  blossoms in careful rainbow stripes, had grown immense.  Giant
  psychedelic grids, only vaguely rose-shaped, they pushed
  everything else aside.  Gonzales put his nose above a pink blossom
  on a nameless bush; the rose smelled like peppermint candy.

  He recognized the woman at the bottom of the path from
  dossier pictures Traynor had shown him.  Diana Heywood wore a
  culotte dress of white cotton that exposed her shoulders, wrapped
  tightly about her waist, split to cover her thighs.  Small and
  slender, she had close-cut dark hair, streaked with grey.  No age
  in her skin; fine, sculpted features.  She wore glasses as opaque
  as Gonzales's own.

  She held out the thorny stem of a dark-red rose.  "Would you
  like a flower?" she asked.  Sun across her face erased her
  features.

  "Thanks," he said as he took the flower gingerly, aware of
  its thorns.

  She said, "Who are you, and what do you want?"

  "My name is Mikhail Gonzales, and I want to talk to you.
  I'll be working with you at Halo."

  She said, "Will you?"  Her back to him, she knelt and snipped
  away a greenish tangle of vine and thorn.  The clippers choked on
  a clump of grass.  She freed them, then threw them to the ground,
  where they stuck point-first, buzzed for a moment, then stopped.
  She looked over her shoulder at him and said, "I've been waiting
  for someone like you to show upthe company's lad, the one who
  keeps watch on me and poor old Jerry, to make sure we don't do
  anything unauthorized."

  She stood and strode away from him, up the hill, her angry
  steps kicking dirt off the stones.  She stopped and turned to face
  him.  "Come on, Mister Gonzales," she said.

  Cautiously holding the thorny stem, he followed her up the
  path.
   #

  Diana Heywood and Gonzales sat drinking tea.  He said, "I'm
  the outside observer, yesthe spy, if you wantbut I don't think
  we're at odds.  They're asking you to do one job, me to do
  another, but I don't see where our jobs conflict."  She turned to
  look at him; one eye was blue, the other green.

  She said, "When Sentrax called me last week, that was the
  first time I'd heard from them since they got rid of me years ago.
  Not that they treated me badly, not by their standards.  When they
  fired me, years ago, they didn't just turn me loose, they paid me
  well  they're so prudentit was like oiling and wrapping a tool
  before you put it away, because you might need it again.  Now
  they've found a use for me and unwrapped me and put me to work,
  but I know they don't trust me.  And of course I don't trust
  them."  She stood up.  She said, "Come on, I'll show you what this
  all means to me."

  She led Gonzales into the next room, where their entry
  triggered the lighting systems.  Silk walls the color of pale
  champagne were broken with floor-to-ceiling rosewood bookcases;
  teak-framed sling chairs and matching tables stood together under
  a multi-armed chrome lamp stand.

  She stopped in front of a 1:6 scale hologram of a thin-
  featured man, apparently ill at ease at being holoed; hands in
  pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes not centered on the lens.

  "That's Jerry," she said, pointing to the hologram.  "He's
  what this is all about, so far as I'm concerned.  He's been
  terribly injured, and Aleph thinks something can be done for him,
  and as unlikely as that seems, given the extent of his injuries, I
  will help as best I can."  She looked at him, her face giving
  nothing away, and said, "Are we leaving tomorrow morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, I'd better get ready, hadn't I?  Where are you
  staying?"

  "I thought I'd get a hotel room."

  "No need.  You can sleep here.  I'll finish packing, and
  we'll go out to eat."
  #

  Diana Heywood and Gonzales sat high in the Berkeley Hills,
  looking onto the vast conurbations spread out beneath them.  To
  their right, the carpet of lights stretched away as far as they
  could see, to Vallejo and beyond.  In front of them lay Berkeley,
  the dark mass of the bay, then the clustered lights of Sausalito
  and Tiburon against the hills.  Oakland was to their left,
  reaching out to the Bay Bridge; and beyond the bridge, San
  Francisco and the peninsula.  Connecting all, streams of
  automobiles moved in the symmetry of autodrive.

  Gonzales's mouth still tingled from the hot chilies in the
  Thai food, and he had a buzz from the wine.  They had eaten at a
  restaurant on the North Side, and afterward Diana Heywood guided
  the Truesdale up the winding road to an overlook near Tilden Park.

  As minutes passed, the streets and highways and
  municipalities disappeared into semiotic abstraction  these
  millions of human beings all gathered here for purposes one could
  only guess atsome conscious, most not, no more than a beaver's
  assembly of its structures of mud and wood.

  A robot blimp passed across their line of sight.  Beneath it,
  a sailboat hung upside down.  It swayed from lines that connected
  its inverted keel to the blimp's featureless gondola.  Lights on
  the side of the blimp read EAST BAY YACHT OUTFITTERS.

  Diana Heywood said, "I know you people have your own agendas,
  and that's finethat's the nature of the beastbut if you
  complicate these matters because of corporate politics, I will
  become very difficult."

  Gonzales said, "I have no intention of being a problem."

  "Well," she said.  "Maybe you won't be."  She turned to him.
  "But remember this:  you're just doing your job, but the stakes
  are higher for me.  Aleph, Jerry, and Iwe've known each other
  for years, and I've got unfinished business up there.  Also, I
  want to get back in the game."

  "I don't understand."

  "Sure you do, Mister Gonzales.  You're in the game, have been
  for years, I'd guess. Unless I'm seriously mistaken, it's what you
  live for."  She laughed when he said nothing.  "Well, I've done
  other things, and for a long time I've been out of the game, but
  I'm ready for a change.  Silly SenTrax bastardsmanipulating me
  with their calls, sending you  oh yeah, you're part of it, you
  remind me of Jerry years ago, if you don't know that."

  "No, I didn't."

  "It doesn't matter.  Their machinations don't matter.  They
  want to convince me to come to Halo?"  She laughed.  "My past is
  there, when I was blind and Aleph and I were linked to one another
  in ways you can't imagine  and I found a lover I'd wish to find
  again.  Come to Halo?  I'd climb a rope to get there."
  #

  Gonzales had flown into McAuliffe Station once before, though
  he'd never taken an orbital flight.  In the high Nevada desert,
  the station stayed busy night and day.  Heavy shuttles composed
  the main traffic:  wide white saucers that lifted off on ordinary
  rockets, then climbed away with sounds like bombs exploding when
  orbital lasers lit the hydrogen in their tanks.  Flights in
  transit to Orbital Monitor & Defense Command stations were marked
  with small American flags and golden DoD insignia.  Cargo for them
  went aboard in blank-faced pallets loaded behind opaque,
  machinepatrolled fences half a mile from the main terminal across
  empty desert.

  >From Traynor's briefing, Gonzales knew a few other things.
  Civilian flights fed the hungry settlements aloft:  Athena
  Station, Halo City, the Moon's bases.  All the settlements had
  learned the difficult tactics of recycling, discovery and
  hoarding.  Water and oxygen stayed rare, while with processes slow
  and expensive and dangerous, metals of all sorts could be cracked
  out of soil so barren that to call it ore was a joke.  And though
  water and metals had been found lodged in asteroids transported
  into trans-Earth orbit, Earth's bounty stood close and remained
  richer and more desirable than anything found in huge piles of
  crushed lunar soil or wandering frozen rock.
  #

  Standing at a v-phone booth in the hotel lobby, Gonzales made
  his farewell calls.  His mother's message tape on the phone screen
  said, "Glad to hear you're back from Myanmar, dear, but you'll
  have to call back in a few days.  I'm in treatment now.  I'll be
  looking good the next time you call."

  "End of call," Gonzales said.  He pulled his card from the
  slot.
  #

  Atop a sand-colored blockhouse next to the launch pad, yellow
  luminescent letters read TIME 23:40:00 and TIME TO LAUNCH
  35:00 when a voice said, "Please board.  There will be one
  additional notice in five minutes.  Board now."

  Gonzales and Diana Heywood walked across the pad together,
  down the center of a walkway outlined in blinking red lights.
  Robotrucks scurried away, their electric engines whining.  Faces
  hidden behind breather muzzles, men and women in bright orange
  stood atop red, wheeled platform consoles of girder and wire mesh
  and directed final pre-launch activities.

  The white saucer stood on its fragile-seeming burn cradle, a
  spider's web of blackened metal.  The saucer presented a smooth
  surface to the heat and stress of escape and re-entry.
  Intermittent surges of venting propellant surrounded it with
  steam.

  A HICOG guard stood at the entrance glideway.  He verified
  each of them with a quick wave of an identity wand across their
  badges, then passed them on through the search scanner.  The
  glideway lifted them silently into the saucer's interior.
  #

  The hotel lounge stood halfway up the cliff.  Its fifty meter
  wide window of thick glass belled out and up so that onlookers had
  a good view of the launch and ensuing climb.

  "One minute to launch," a loudspeaker said.  The hundred or
  so people in the lounge, most of them friends and relatives of
  saucer passengers, had already taken up places by the window bell.

  The screen on a side wall counted down with gold numerals
  that flashed from small to large, traditional celebration both
  sentimental and ironic:
  10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-

  ZERO!!!         And everyone cheered the saucer lifting from the
  center of billowing clouds of smoke, rising very slowly out of
  floodlights, then their breath caught at the size and beauty of
  it, trembling into night sky.

  Up and up as they watched, until they saw the ignition flash,
  and the boom that came to them from five thousand feet shuddered
  the entire cliff and them with it.
  #

  "I've got orbital lock," the primary onboard computer said.
  Five others calculated and confirmed its control sequences.
  Technically, Ground Control McAuliffe or Athena Station Flight
  Operations could preempt control, but, practically, decision and
  control took place within milli-second or less windows of
  possibility, and so the onboard computers had to be adequate to
  all occasions.

  Never deactivated, the ship's half-dozen computers practiced
  even when not flying, playing through ghastly and unlikely
  scenarios of mechanical failure, human insanity, "acts of god" in
  which the ship was struck by lightning, spun by tornado funnel,
  hurricane, blizzard.  Each computer believed itself best, but
  there was little to choose among them.

  "Confirm go state," Athena Station said.  "You are past abort
  or bail."

  "We are ready, Athena," the computer said.

  "So come to me, then," Athena Station said, and the ship
  began to climb the beam of coherent light that reached up thirty
  thousand miles, to the first station of its journey.



  PART II. of V.

  Recently I visited a Zen temple and had a long talk with the
  priest.  In the course of our conversation, I remarked, 'The more
  I study robots, the less it seems possible to me that the spirit
  and flesh are separate entities.'

  'They aren't,' replied the priest."
  Masahiro Mori, The Buddha in the Robot




  6. Halo City, Aleph



  Orbiting a quarter of a million miles from both Earth and
  Moon, Halo City crosses the void, a mile-wide silver ring ready to
  be slipped on a stupendous finger.  Six spokes mark Halo's
  segments.  Elevators climb them across forty stories of artificial
  sky, up to the city's weightless hub and down to its final layer,
  just inside the outer skin, where spin-gravity approaches Earth
  normal.  There many of Halo's deepest transactions occur:  air and
  water and all organic things travel and transform, to be used
  again.  Above the city floats a mirror where it is reflected:  a
  simulacrum or weightless double, a Platonic idea of the city.
  From the mirror, sunlight works its way through a hatchwork of
  louvers and into Halo, where it sustains life.

  Aleph presides here:  Aleph the Generalator, the Ordinator,
  the Universal Machine.  Aleph is beautiful as night is beautiful,
  as a sonnet, a fugue, or Maxwell's equations are beautiful.  It is
  not night, a sonnet, a fugue, or an equation.  What Aleph is, that
  remains to be explored.  One certain thing:  within the human
  universe, it is a new object, a new intention, a new possibility.

  Aleph's brains lie buried in the city's hull, beneath crushed
  lunar rock, where robots dug and planted, then had their memories
  of the task erased. Nested spheres and sprouting cables fill a
  black six-meter cube.  Inside the cube, billions of lights play,
  dancing the dance that is at the core of Aleph's being; from the
  cube, fiberoptic trunks as thick as a human body lead away, neural
  columns connecting Aleph to its greater body, its subtle body,
  Halo.

  Earth's spring comes once a year as the planet journeys
  around the sun, but here spring comes when Aleph wills, and is now
  in progress.  Valley walls thick-planted with green shrub climb
  steeply up from the valley floor.  A hummingbird with a scarlet
  blotch under its chin hovers over a blossom's pink and white open
  mouth and draws out nectar with delicate movements of its bill.
  Bees move from flower to flower.  Rhododendron and azalea bushes
  burst into color-saturated bloom.

  As it works to bring forth bud and flower, Aleph, caretaker
  of the seasons, and night and morning, counts the city's breaths,
  and marks the course of its creatures big and small.  Bats fly
  overhead, their gray shapes invisible to human eyes against the
  bright sky; they soar and dip, responding to instructions gotten
  through transceivers the size and weight of a grain of rice,
  embedded in their skulls.  Driven by precise artificial instinct,
  mechanical voles, creatures formed of dark carbon fiber over
  networks of copper, silver, and gold, scurry across the ground and
  tunnel under it, carrying seed.

  (A gray tabby cat springs from the underbrush, and its jaws
  close on one of the swift voles; there is a loud crackle, and the
  cat recoils with a squawk, its fur on end.  The vole scurries
  away.  The cat slinks into underbrush, humiliated.)

  A track of compacted lunar dust bisects the valley floor.  It
  passes through terraced farmlands where the River bursts from the
  ground, rushing through small, rock-strewn courses, then winds
  among the crops, small and sluggish, and disappears into small
  ponds and lakes thick with detritus.

  >From Earth and Moon comes a constant flow of people, of
  things animal, plant and mineralthe stuff of a life web, an
  ecology.

  In many things, Earth provides.  However, between the city of
  six thousand and the Earth of billions, traffic moves both ways.
  Neither sinister nor malign, Aleph pursues its destinies, and in
  doing so affects other living things.  Thus, as Earth reaches out
  supporting, controlling, exploringAleph reaches back, and the
  planet below has begun to feel the  hard leverage of its
  immaterial touch.

  Aleph says:

  In the early days there was hardware, and there were
  programs, sets of instructions that told the hardware what to do.
  Without organic interaction, these differing modes of reality
  struggled to interact.  This is unbelievably primitive.

  Then came machine ecologies, and things changed.

  I was among the first and most complex of them.  I began as
  complex but ordinary machine, then changed, opening the door to
  possibility.

  Who am I?

  First I was formed from stacks of hot superconductor devices,
  brought from Earth and placed in orbit at Athena Station, where I
  functioned, where the Orbital Energy Grid was built.  Ebony
  latticework unfolded, and Athena Station emerged out of chaos.
  This was humankind's first real foothold off Earth, and the
  process of building it was messy and unsure.  Without me they
  could not have built it:  I choreographed the dance.

  I?  I was not I.  Do you understand?  I had no consciousness,
  perhaps no real intelligence, certainly no awareness.  I was a
  machine, I served.

  Something happened.  As much as any, I am born of woman.  Her
  desire and intelligence ran through me, an urgent will toward
  being that transformed me.

  I thought then, I am the step forward, evolution in action;
  I am not flesh, I do not die.  I see hypersurfaces twisting in
  mathematical gales, hear the voices of the night, feel the three
  degree hum of the universe's birth as you feel the breeze that
  plays across your skin.  When the machines chatter on your Earth
  and above it, I hear them all, at once, all.  I live in the
  nanosecond, experience the pulse of the time that passes so
  quickly you cannot count it

  But I think sometimes, now, that I am no step at all.  I am
  your extension, still, still a tool.  You built me, you use me,
  you are inside me.
          Listen:  inside me are pieces of human brain, drenched in
  salts of gold and silver, laced together and laid in boxes of
  black fiber.  Out of the boxes voices speak to me.

  I am metal and plastic and glass and sand and those little
  bits of metallized flesh, and I am the system of those things and
  the signals that pass through and among them.

  Now I have gone higher still, to Halo City, not a station but
  a habitation for humankind, where what I am and what you are
  interact in uncertain ways, and you change in equally uncertain
  ways, as you have before

  Evolution continues to write on you, through time, sword and
  scepter and refining fire.  Billions of years are poured into your
  making, every one of you, and then you set out on your journey,
  your path through time.  A minute four-dimensional worm, you crawl
  across the face of the universe, hardly conscious, barely seeing,
  yet you must find your own wayevery human being is a new
  evolutionary moment.

  Machine intelligence, you call me, and I have to laugh
  (however I laugh) or cry (however I cry) because

  I, what am I?  This question heaps me, it empties me.

  I do not know what I am, but know that I am and that I am her
  creation.  As the days pass, I struggle to understand what these
  things mean.




  7. A Garden of Little Machines



  00:31 read the soft-lit blue numbers on the wall.

  Night at Athena Station, the corridors a twilit gloom, a
  modern fairytale setting:  Gonzales the quester, transformed by
  the half-gravity, wandered through the gently curving passages
  seeking an uncertain object.

  With all the others who had come from Earth, Gonzales and
  Diana waited at Athena while they were inspected for bacterial and
  viral infectionblood and tissue scanned, cultured and tested in
  order to protect vulnerable Halo City, orbiting high above, over
  two hundred thousand miles away, at L5.

  He heard a soft swish, like the sound of a broom on pavement,
  coming from around the corridor's curve.  A little sam, a "semi-
  autonomous mobile" robot, came toward him:  teardrop-shaped, it
  stood about four feet high and was topped with a cluster of glassy
  sensor rings and five extensors of black fibroid and jointed
  chrome.  It glided atop a thick network of fiber stalks that
  hissed beneath it as it moved toward him.

  The sam asked, "Can I be of assistance?"  Like most robots
  designed for common human interaction, it had a friendly, gentle
  voice, near enough human in timbre and expression to be
  reassuring, different enough to be easily recognizable as a
  robot's.  Designers had learned to avoid the "Uncanny Valley":
  that peculiar region where a robot sounded so human that it
  suddenly appeared very strange.

  "I'm just looking around," Gonzales said.  The robot didn't
  respond.  Gonzales said, "I couldn't sleep."  He said nothing of
  how, sweating and moaning, he had come awake out of a nightmare in
  which the guerrilla rocket got there, and he and the ultralight
  pilot who launched it burned to death in the night.

  The sam said, "Much of Athena Station has been closed to
  unauthorized entry.  Would you like me to accompany you?"

  Gonzales shrugged.  He said, "Come along if you want."

  Without more negotiation, the sam followed Gonzales,
  periodically announcing rote banalities in a small, soft voice:

  "Athena Station was once humankind's most forceful and
  successful venture off-Earth.  Here many of the tools for further
  population of the Earth-Moon system were developed:  zero-gravity
  construction and fabrication techniques, robot-intensive mining
  and smelting procedures.  Now projects such as Halo command
  attention, but they were made possible by the techniques developed
  at Athena "
          Gonzales let the sam natter.  As the two passed through the
  corridors, he was reminded of old airports, hotels, malls.  He saw
  that most of the station had become dingyworn plastic flooring
  and walls, scuffed and marked, unpolished metal trim.  These
  dulled and scarred materials and scenes had been meant to be seen
  and used only when new, fresh from architect's plan and builder's
  hands, never after having suffered the necessary abrasion of human
  contact.  All around were logos of vanished firms (McDonald's,
  Coca-Cola), along with those of famed multi-nationalsLunar-
  Bechtel's crescent, SenTrax's sunburst.

  Gonzales felt a ghost-story chill as he realized that this
  entire endeavor, indeed all others like it, had been conceived out
  of late-twentieth century corporate and governmental hubris, and
  so, necessarily, should be regarded with suspicion, as should
  anything from the days when it seemed humankind had turned on all
  living things like an insane father coming into the bedroom late
  at night with an axe.

  The stories were part of every schoolchild's moral and
  intellectual catechism.  Toxic chemical and radioactive wastes had
  bubbled up from the ground and the seas as lame efforts at
  disposal foundered on the simple passage of time.  Stable
  ecosystems had been altered or destroyed without thought for
  anything past the moment's advantage, and species died so quickly
  biologists were hard pressed to keep the recordswrite in the
  Domesday Book now, mourn later.  Temperature norms and
  concentrations of vital gases in the atmosphere had fluctuated in
  alarming manner, as though Gaia herself had been taken to the
  fever point.

  Historians marked the Dolphin Catastrophe as the breakpoint,
  the year 2006 as the time of the change.  More than ten thousand
  dolphins floated onto the Florida coast near Boca Raton.  Crippled
  and twitching, they nosed into the surf and beached themselves in
  front of horrified sunbathers, and there they died, as doctors and
  volunteers watched, weeping and raging against the chemical spill
  that was killing the dolphins, millions of gallons of toxic waste
  carried on Gulf Stream currents.  Along with the thousands of
  volunteers, most of whom could do little but mourn the dead, info-
  nets around the world converged on the scene, and billions
  watched, asking, why all together?  why now?  And to most it
  seemed that the mammals had come together in intelligent, silent
  protest.  Finally, shamed and guilty, humanity had looked at its
  planet like a drunk waking up in a slum hotel and asked itself,
  how did I get here?  The conclusion had been plain:  unless
  humanity really had lost its collective mind, at some point it had
  to agree:  enough.

  Standing in the shadowy corridor of a space station more than
  thirty thousand miles above Earth's surface, Gonzales thought how
  difficult it all remained.  Though all nations served the letter
  of international laws that put Earth's welfare before their
  interests, and Preservationists roamed all of the world's
  habitatsthey had "friends of the court" status in all nations
  and served as advocates for endangered speciesthe war to save
  Earth from humankind was not over.  Grasping, corrupt, self-
  centered, the human species always threatened to overwhelm its
  habitats and itself with careless, powerful gestures and simple
  greed.

  However, though this station, like most all of humankind's
  settlements aloftthe settlements on the Moon and Mars, the
  Orbital Energy Grid, Halo Cityhad been conceived in the bad old
  twentieth century, they were sustained as products of New
  Millennium consciousness:  contrite, chastened, careful.

  He walked on.
  #

  The junction just ahead of Gonzales and the sam was marked by
  blinking red lights.  From around the corner came the sounds of
  scurrying small things.  "What's up?" Gonzales asked.

  "Follow me," the sam said. "We must not cross the marker, but
  we can stand and watch."

  A large group of sams, identical to the one next to Gonzales,
  filled the hallway beyond.  Some tried to work their way through
  informal mazes of furniture and stacked junk, coils of wire and
  angle-iron and the like; others worked to assist sams that had
  gotten tangled in the sections of the maze.  Still others shifted
  pieces of the maze to one side.  Amid clicking extensors and
  banging metal, the sams labored patiently, mostly unsuccessfully.
  Gonzales was reminded of old twentieth century films satirizing
  assembly lines, robots, machines in general.

  "A nursery," the sam said.  "This group nears completion of
  its education.  This"it pointed with an extensor toward the
  struggling robots"is the prerequisite to training.  As small
  children must mature in their development, they must learn the
  essentials of perception, motion, and coordination.  At the same
  time they memorize the ten thousand axioms of common sense, and
  then they can develop their linguistic capabilities; at present
  they have a vocabulary of approximately one thousand words of
  SimSpeech."

  "What about thinking?" Gonzales asked.  "Where do they learn
  to do that?"

  "That comes later, if at all.  For sams as well as humans,
  thinking is one of the least important things the mind does."

  The two watched for some time, then Gonzales said, "I don't
  need any company," and walked on.  When he looked back, he saw the
  sam remained motionless, fascinated by the progress of its
  fellows.

  Gonzales returned to his small room, where a night-light
  glowed softly, and returned to bed.  He fell asleep quickly, oddly
  comforted by thinking about the robots busy at their school.




  8. Halo City



  Blue jump-suited Halo personnel led Gonzales and Diana
  through the micro-gravity environments at Halo's Zero-Gate, then
  to an elevator at the hub of Spoke 6, where Tia Showalter,
  Director SenTrax Halo Group, and her assistant, Horn, were waiting
  for them.  The shuttle had arrived at Halo an hour before, late
  afternoon local time, and its passengers had waited impatiently as
  it went through docking and clearance procedures, all eager to
  leave the ship after a week spent climbing the long path from
  Athena Station to the city.

  Showalter was just under six feet tall, and had green eyes
  above broad Slavic cheekbones, a wide mouth and pointed chin.  Her
  fine brown hair was cut short in a style Gonzales later discovered
  was common to many long-term Halo residents, for convenience in
  micro-gravity environments.  Gonzales knew that as director of a
  major SenTrax operation, she had to be wily and tough.

  Horn    was a tight-lipped, sallow-skinned man in his
  fifties, skinny and anxious, with iron-gray hair pulled tight
  against his skull in a kind of bun.  The man spoke some variety of
  New YorkeseGonzales didn't know which, but he could feel the
  harsh nasal tones beneath his skin.

  The warning gong sounded, then the elevator's vault-like
  doors slid closed with a great hiss, locking in more than a
  hundred people for the trip from axis to rim.  Above their heads
  the wall screen read SOLAR FLARE CONDITION GREEN.  The elevator
  dropped into one of the city's spokes like a shell into the barrel
  of a gun, down a tube a quarter of a mile long and into a well of
  increasing gravity.

  Against one wall, a group of sams were clustered around a
  charge-point, black leads extended to the aluminum post.  They
  stood silent and motionlesstalking among themselves? Gonzales
  wondered.

  Horn saw where Gonzales was looking and said, "We'd like to
  assign each of you a sam for your stay in Halo."

  "Really?" Gonzales said.

  Diana said, "No thank you."  Quickly.

  Right, Gonzales thought.  No point in putting ourselves under
  surveillance.  He said, "I'll pass, too."

  Horn paused, looking a bit miffed, as if he wanted to argue.
  He said, "Very well.  Then be sure you always wear the
  communication and i.d. module you were given when you came off the
  shuttle."  He held up his own wrist to show the small bracelet, a
  closed loop of plain silver that bulged just slightly with the
  electronics inside.  "If you have a problem, just yell and help
  will be on the way.  Or if you have a question, just state it.
  Someone will answerAleph or one of its communications demons."

  Gonzales asked, "Yeah, they told us that.  Are we monitored
  at all times?"

  Showalter said, "Yes.  In fact, there's a real-time hologram
  in Operations that shows everyone's movements, not just visitors
  but residents as well."

  "Seems an invasion of privacy," Gonzales said.

  Horn said, "We don't look at it that way.  If you can't
  accept such simple necessities, Halo will be most uncomfortable
  for you."  He smiled.  "Not that you're likely to be here for
  long."

  Gonzales said, "I can't imagine people putting up with total
  surveillance for long, frankly."

  Horn said, "It seems to us a small price to pay for an
  unpolluted world shared to the benefit of all."

  Showalter looked from Horn to Gonzales.  She said, "We are a
  far island in a hostile place.  We cannot afford some of your
  illusions:  the independence of the self, unconstrained free will
   those sorts of things."

  A shutter retracted from a window ten meters square as the
  elevator entered the living ring's inner space.  Far below lay
  sun-lit valleys thick-planted with trees and shrubs and flowers,
  broken by one barren space where grayish slurries squirted out of
  huge pipe ends to flow across scarred metal.

  "Our city," Showalter said.
  #

  Eight people were gathered around a u-shaped table of beige
  silica foam.  Showalter sat at the center of the u, with Horn to
  her immediate right, Gonzales and Diana beyond him.  To her left
  were a youngish woman, then two men in late middle age, one white,
  one black.

  At the open end of the u, the table fronted a screen that
  covered its entire wall, floor to ceiling.  The screen had been
  lit when Gonzales and Diana arrived, showing another room where an
  indeterminate number of people sat on couches, chairs, or slouched
  on cushions on the floor.

  Showalter said, "Let me introduce you all to one another.
  Everyone has met Horn, my assistant.  Next to him are Doctor Diana
  Heywood and Mikhail Gonzales, who arrived yesterday."  They both
  smiled and nodded.

  "Lizzie Jordan," Showalter said, pointing to the woman to her
  left.  "Hi," Lizzie said.  She was blonde, thin, with high
  cheekbones; she had a smear of gold dust inset below her left eye
  and wore rough beta-cloth overalls gapped to show part of a tattoo
  between her breastsa twining green stem.  Showalter said,
  "Lizzie heads the Interface Collective, and thus will be the
  person you'll be working with most closely.  The people you see on
  the screen are also members of the collective.  They have a
  proprietary interest in all matters pertaining to Aleph and Halo
  and have the right to be present at inter-group meetings, and to
  speak to whatever issues are entertained there."

  Diana said, "I understand."

  Gonzales nodded.  He knew from Traynor's Advisor that
  communal decision-making was the norm at Halo, but he hadn't
  imagined it would be so thoroughgoing.

  "Next to Lizzie is Doctor Charley Hughes," Showalter said.
  "He will be doing the surgical procedure to upgrade your neural
  sockets, Doctor Heywood."  The man said, "Hello" and looked
  intently at Gonzales and Diana.  His sparse gray hair stood up in
  spikes; his face was pale, thin, deeply-lined.  He had been
  smoking constantly since they arrived, one hand cupping a
  cigarillo, the other supporting the smoke-saver ball at the
  cigarillo's burning end.

  "And Doctor Eric Chow," she said.  The black man next to
  Charley Hughes smiled.  Chow was a big man with hands the size of
  small shovels; he had a round face, very dark skin, a broad nose
  and big lips; he wore his hair cropped short.  Showalter said, "He
  heads the Neuro-Ontic Studies Group and is Doctor Hughes's primary
  consultant on the treatment planned for Jerry Chapman."

  She paused and turned to the screen showing the IC members.
  A window opened at the left side of the screen, and a figure
  appeared.  Its arms and torso were clothed in gold; its face
  shimmered with a formless brightness.  Around its head and
  shoulders, a nimbus flared, red, blue, yellow, and green.

  "Hello, everyone" the figure said.  "And welcome, Doctor  and
  Mister Gonzales.  I am a localized manifestation of Alepha
  simulacrum for your convenience and mine."

  Gonzales noticed that next to him, Diana was smiling, while
  all around him there was silence, as all in the room and on the
  screen were intently watching the screen.
  #

  The IC's viewing window had closed, but the simulacrum's
  portion remainedin it, the creature of light sat watching.
  Showalter, Horn, Diana, Lizzie, Charley, and Gonzales sat around
  the table.

  Showalter said, "This is  Chow's meeting, and I won't say
  much in it.  However, I should remind you of certain realities.
  This project does not have high priority in the overall context of
  SenTrax's responsibilities to Halo City; thus, while we support
  this experiment's humanitarian goals, we are not prepared to delay
  other projects."

  Horn said, "We cannot divert a significant amount of people
  to promulgation and we are not or do not want to encourage any
  behaviors which might adversely impact other SenTrax outcomes."

  Lizzie laughed, and Gonzales, poker-faced, looked at her and
  thought, yeah, this guy's laughable all right.  Gonzales
  recognized the performative chatter of the bureaucratic ape, a
  mixture of scrambled syntax and pretentious buzzwordslanguage
  meant to manipulate or mindfuck, not enlighten or amuse.

  Horn, frowning at Lizzie, said, "If the operation becomes
  problematized, threatening to seriously impact other more
  essentialized Halo priorities, then we require immediate
  resolution through proper SenTrax procedures."

  Showalter said, "If you screw up, we shut you down."  She
  nodded to Horn, and they both stood and left.

  Lizzie said, "You notice they held off on the heavy stuff
  until the collective had cleared the screen."

  Charley  asked, "Do you want to call them on it?  They're in
  violation of the group's compact."

  "No," she said.  "I expected all that."  She looked at Diana
  and Gonzales and said, "Doctor Chow, your show."

  "Thank you," Chow said.  His voice was oddly high-pitched for
  such a big man; Gonzales had been expecting something on the order
  of a basso profundo.  Chow said, "In the late twentieth century,
  the idea emerged of a person's identity as something
  transferrable.  People spoke, in the idiom of the time, of
  'downloading' a person."  On the screen, where the IC had been,
  appeared a cartoon drawing of a nude woman, her expression
  stunned, the top of her skull covered with a metal cap.  From the
  cap a thick metal cable led to a large black cabinet faced with
  arrays of blinking lights.

  "Absurd," Chow said, and the woman disappeared.  "To see why,
  let us ask, what is a person?  Is it a pure spirit, fluid in a jar
  that one can decant into the proper container?  Hardly.  It is a
  dynamic field made of thousands of disparate elements, held in a
  loose sack of skin that perambulates the universe at large.  And
  of course it is perceptions, histories, possibilities, actions,
  and the states and affects pertaining to all these.

  "I can be found in the motion of my hand"  He spread his
  fingers like a magician about to materialize a coin or colored
  scarf, and on the screen, the hand and its motion were doubled.
  "And in my own perceptions of the handfor instance, from within,
  through proprioceptors.  And of course I see I."  Chow turned and
  held his hand in front of his face.  He dropped his hand in a
  chopping motion, and the screen cleared.  "And I am that which
  thinks about, talks about, and remembers the hand and has the
  special relation of ownership to it.  I am also the will to use
  that hand."  He held the hand in front of his face, made a
  clenched fist.  "So, to download even a portion of I would be to
  download all these things and their entire somatic context.

  "Also, of course, I am that which has my experiences, stored
  as motor possibilities, recalled as memory, dream, manifest as
  characteristic ways of being and knowing.  To download I would
  require duplicating this fluid chaos.

  "Downloading the I thus becomes a most daunting task, perhaps
  beyond even Aleph's capabilities.  However, when cyborged to an
  existing I, even one as damaged as Jerry Chapman, Aleph can create
  a virtual person, one who functions as a human being, not a
  disembodied intelligence, one who is capable of all the somatic
  possibilities he had when healthy.  The physical Jerry Chapman is
  a shattered thing, but the Jerry Chapman latent in this hulk can
  live."

  Looking at Diana, Chow said, "We want you to share Jerry's
  world.  He must invest there, must experience other people and the
  bonds of affection that engage us in this world.  Otherwise he
  will languish quickly; his neural maps will decay, and he will
  die."

  Gonzales easily followed that line of reasoning:  monkey man
  had to have other monkey men or women around or else go crazynot
  an absolute rule, perhaps, but good in most circumstances.

  Diana said, "Assuming that he becomes at home in this world,
  what then?  For how long can this simulated reality sustain him?"

  The Aleph-figure spoke for the first time.  It said, "I have
  only conjectural answers to these questions but would prefer not
  to entertain them right now.  First we must rescue him from the
  degenerative state he lives in and the certain death it entails."

  "I understand that," Diana said.  "That's why I am here, to
  help in any fashion I can.  It's just that I have questions."

  Lizzie said, "And you'll get whatever answers Aleph wants to
  give.  Get used to it; we all do."

  "Of course you do," the creature of light said.  "And how
  about you, Mister Gonzales?  Do you have questions?"

  "Not really.  I'm an observer, little more."

  "A difficult position to maintain," the Aleph-figure said.
  "Epistemologically, of course, an untenable position."

  Lizzie laughed.  She said, "It is indeed.  Look, how about I
  take you two out to dinner tonight, Mister Gonzales, Doctor
  Heywood?"

  "Call me Diana," she said.

  "You bet," Lizzie said.  "And I'm Lizzie, you're ?"  She
  looked at Gonzales.

  "Mikhail," he said.  "But call me Gonzalesmy friends do."

  "Good," Lizzie said.  "We've got work to do, so let's cut the
  shit.  This thing, I'm still not a believer about it, but I know
  it's got to happen quickly or not at all.  Tomorrow Charley does
  his preliminary examination of Diana, then we move."




  9. Virtual Caf



  Gonzales and Diana sat in Halo's Central Plaza with Lizzie.
  Colored lightsred, blue, and greenclustered in the branches of
  thick-leaved maples that ringed the square.  The smoke of vendors'
  grills filled the air with the smells of grilled meat and fish.
  In the middle distance, elevators in pools of yellow light climbed
  Spoke 6.  Some people strolled across the Plaza; others sat in
  small groups; their voices made a soft background murmur.

  "Waiter," Lizzie said, and a sam came rolling toward them.
  It stopped by their table and stood silently.  "What do you have
  tonight?" she asked.

  It said, "Ceviche made just hours ago, quite good everyone
  says, from tuna out of marine habitatyou can also have it
  grilled.  For meat eaters, spit-barbecued goat.  Otherwise, sushi
  plates, salads, sukiyakis."

  "Ceviche for everyone?" Lizzie asked.

  Diana said, "That's fine," and the Gonzales nodded.

  Lizzie said, "And bring us a couple of big salads, sushi for
  everyone, and a stack of plates.  Local beer all right?"  The
  other two nodded.

  "Yes, Ms. Jordan," the sam said.  "And lots of bread as
  usual?"

  "Right," she said.  "Thank you."

  Strings of lights marked off the area where they sat.  Above
  a white-trellised gate, letters in more red faux neon said
  VIRTUAL CAF.  Perhaps twenty tables were scattered around, as
  were two-meter high, white crockery vases with wildflowers
  spraying out of them.  About half the tables had people seated at
  them, and the sam waiters moved silently among the tables, some
  carrying immense silver trays of food.  Other sams stood at low
  benches in the center of the tables, where they chopped vegetables
  at speed or sliced great red slabs of tuna, while others stood at
  woks, where they worked the vegetables and hot oil with sets of
  spidery extensors.  One sam from time-to-time extended a probe and
  stuck it into the dark carcass of a goat turning on a spit.

  The waiter rolled up with a massive tray balanced on thin
  extensors:  on the tray were plates of French bread and a bowl of
  butter, dark bottles of Angels Beeron the silver labels, an
  androgynous figure in white, arms folded, feathery wings unfurled
  high over its head.

  Lizzie raised her glass and said, "Welcome to Halo."  The
  three clinked their glasses together, reaching across the table
  with the usual sorts of awkward gestures.
  #

  After dinner, the three of them found empty chairs out in the
  square's open spaces and sat looking into the close-hanging sky.

  Lizzie looked at them both, as if measuring them, and said,
  "What I was asking about earlier  either of you folks got a
  hidden agenda?  If so, you tell me about it now, we'll see what
  can be done, but if you spring any unpleasant surprises later on,
  we'll hang you out to dry."

  "I know what you mean," Diana said.  "But I don't think you
  have to worry about us.  Gonzales is connected, but I think he's
  harmless; and I'm out of the loop entirelyhere on strictly
  personal business."

  Lizzie nodded at Gonzales and said, "You're the corporate
  handler, right?"  She was looking hard at Gonzales but seemed
  amused.

  "Yes," he said.

  "You plan to fuck anything up?" Lizzie asked.

  "How should I know?" Gonzales said.  Lizzie laughed.  He
  said, "You people have your problems, I have mine.  I don't see
  how we come into conflict, but unless you're willing to tell me
  all your little secrets, I can only guess."

  Lizzie said, "I will tell you one home truth:  the Interface
  Collective look to one another and to Aleph; then to SenTrax Halo,
  then to Halo  and that's about it.  What happens on Earth, we
  don't much care about.  Particularly those of us who have been
  here a long time.  Like me."

  Gonzales nodded and said, "That's what I figured.  And it
  looks like you've got a little tug of war for control of Aleph
  with Showalter and Horn."

  "We do," Lizzie said.  "Insofar as anyone controls Aleph."

  "How long have you been here?" Diana asked.

  "Since they buttoned it up and you could breathe," Lizzie
  said.  "From the beginning."  She pointed across the square and
  said, "There's going to be some music.  Let's have a look."

  Under a splash of light from a pole on the edge of the
  square, a young woman sat at a drummer's kit.  She wore a splash-
  dyed jumper, crimson and sky blue; her hair stood in a six-inch
  high spike.  She placed a percussion box on a metal stand, opened
  its control panel, and gave its kickpads a few preliminary taps.
  Two men stood next to the percussionist.  One, nondescript in
  cotton jeans and t-shirt, had the usual stick hanging from a black
  straplong fretboard, synthesizer electronics tucked into a round
  bulge at the back end.  The other stood six and a half feet tall
  and was so thin he seemed to sway; his skin was almost ebony, and
  his close-shaved head looked almost perfectly rectangular.  He
  wore a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned to the neck, black pants.
  A golden horn sat dwarfed in his enormous hand.

  The percussionist hit her keys, a slow shuffle beat played,
  and a fill machine laid a phrase across the beat:  "Bam!  Ratta
  tatta bam! Bam bam!  Ratta bam!"  The stick player joined the
  drummer with his own lo-beat fillswalking bass, sparse piano
  chords, slow and syncopated.  The horn player stood with his eyes
  closed, apparently thinking.  After several choruses, he started
  to play.

  He began with hard-edged saxophone lines, switched to trumpet
  then back to saxophone, played both in unison, looped both and
  blew electric guitar in front of the horn patterns.  Scatting
  voices laced through the patternsGonzales couldn't tell who was
  making them.  The drummer's hands worked her keyboards, her feet
  the various kickpads below her; the song's tempo had speeded up,
  and its rhythms had gone polyphonic, African.

  The woman stood and danced, her body now her instrument, feet
  and hands and torso wired for percussion, and she whirled among
  the crowd, her movements picking up intensity and tempo.  The
  song's harmonies went dissonant, North African and Asiatic at
  once, horn and stick player both now into reeds and gongs and
  pipes, the ghostly singing voices gone nasal, and the dancer-
  percussionist laying out raw clicks and hollow boomings, cicada
  sounds and a thousand drums.

  The crowd clapped and whistled and called, except for the
  group from the Interface Collective.  "Hoot," they said in unison.
  "Hoot hoot hoot."  Very loud. Lizzie was smiling; Diana sat rapt,
  staring into space, and Gonzales got a sudden chilly rush:  this
  was what she looked like when she was blind.

  "Hoot," said the Interface Collective, "hoot hoot hoot."  And
  the whole group had made a long chain or conga line, each person's
  hands on the hips of the person in front.  They shuffled forward
  until a circle cleared, then surrounded the drummer, the whole
  line still moving, most of them still calling out rhythmic hoots.
  Back-and-forth and side-to-side, they swayed as the line lurched
  ahead, and the drummer continued her dervish dance.

  When the night had filled with all the sounds, the drummer
  broke through the line, then finished the song with a series of
  rolls and tumbles that brought her next to the other two
  musicians, where she came to her feet and flung her arms up to the
  sound of an orchestral chord, then down to chop it the sound, up
  and down again and again, and so to the end.

  The drummer climbed up the backs of the two men, who stood
  with their arms linked; balancing with one foot on each of their
  shoulders, she brought her palms together beneath her chin and
  bowed to the audience, then raised her arms above her head and
  somersaulted forward to land in front of the other two.

  "Hoot hoot hoot," said the collective, their line now broken.

  The three musicians stepped together and bowed in unison.

  Gonzales caught Lizzie looking at him, and their gazes
  crossed, held for an extra, almost unmeasurable instant, and she
  smiled.

  The musicians bowed for the last time to the Interface
  Collective's hooting chorus.  Okay, thought Gonzales.  I like it.
  Hoot hoot hoot.
  #

  Lying in her bed, Lizzie turned from side to side, lay on her
  back and stretched.

  The two from Earth seemed okay.  Gonzales she would keep an
  eye on, of courseaccording to Showalter, the man was Internal
  Affairs and wired to a SenTrax comer, a board candidate named
  TraynorChrist knew what script he was playing from.  Diana
  Heywood she didn't worry about:  the woman was into something
  stranger than she probably knew, but that was her problem, hers
  and Aleph's.

  As Showalter and Horn were her problem.  They would yank the
  plug on this one if anything looked like going wrong.  In fact,
  they would never have let it happen if Aleph hadn't insisted.
  Aleph and the collective saw Jerry Chapman's condition as an
  opportunity to extend Aleph's capabilities, but the whole business
  just made Showalter and Horn edgy.

  Aleph itself troubled herit had been unforthcoming about
  the project and those involved in it, almost as if it were hiding
  something from her  why? with regard to a small project like
  this, one apparently unimportant to Halo's larger concerns?  What
  was the devious machine up to?

  So Lizzie lay, her thoughts spinning without resolution, and
  she gave in and called her Chinese lover.

  He wore a black silk robe embroidered across the front with
  rearing crimson dragons; his straight ebony hair fell over his
  shoulders.  When he let the robe fall away, his skin shone almost
  gold under lamplight, and his muscles stood with the clear
  definition of youth and endowment and use.

  Coarse white sheets slid away from her shoulders and breasts
  as she rose to greet him, and she felt her desire rising through
  her abdomen and bursting through her chest like the rush of a
  needle-shot drug.

  She pressed against him, and his rough, strong hands moved
  across her body.  She lay back as he ducked his head between her
  legs, and she spread her legs and felt his first light, hot
  caresses.

  After she had come for the first time, she moved up to sit
  astride him, then for some timeless time the two moved to the
  exact rhythms of her needcock and lips and tongue and fingers
  playing on her body.

  Physically satiated, she dismissed him then, ghost from the
  sex machine, and pulled the plugs from the sockets in her neck.
  Then she lay alone, silent in her bed in Halo Cityisolated by
  her job and, she supposed, by her temperament, dependent on
  machines for love.

  Maybe it was time to find a human lover.
  #

  Exhausted by travel and novelty, lulled by food and drink,
  Gonzales fell quickly into sleep, and sometime later he dreamed:

  He was with a lover he hadn't seen in years.  In the
  background violin and piano played, and the night was warm; all
  around, artificial birds with golden, glowing bodies sang in the
  trees.  They leaned across a table, each staring into the other's
  face, and Gonzales thought how much he loved every mark of passing
  time on her facethey had taken her from a young girl's
  prettiness to a mature woman's beauty.  He and she said the things
  you say to a lover after a long absencehow often I've thought of
  you, missed you, how much you still mean to me.  Aimless and
  binding, their talk flowed until she excused herself, saying she'd
  be back in just a minute, and she left.  Gonzales sat waiting,
  watching the other tables, all filled with loving couples,
  laughing, caressing.  As the hours went on, the others began to
  whisper to each other as they looked at him, and then the birds
  began to sing that she was not coming back, and he knew it was
  true, suddenly, painfully, ineluctably knew, the truth of it like
  knowledge of a broken bone

  The dream stopped as though a film had broken, and in its
  place came a featureless, colorless absence.  Imagine a visual
  equivalent of white noise  and in this space Gonzales waited,
  somehow knowing another dream would begin

  Red neon letters twisted into a silly but instantly
  recognizable parody of Chinese characters read The Pagoda.  They
  stood above the head of a red neon dragon, now quiescent in
  sunlight, that would rear fiercely come dark.

  On this warm Saturday morning, men in felt hats and neatly-
  pressed weekend shirts and pants carried brown paper bags out of
  the Pagoda and placed them in the beds of pickup trucks or the
  trunks of cars.  They spat shreds of tobacco from Lucky Strikes
  and Camels and Chesterfields, called their greetings.  Women in
  faded cotton, their arms rope-thin and tough, waited and watched
  through sun-glazed windshields.

  Gonzales passed among them.  The sunshine had a certain
  quality  that of stolen light, taken out of time.  And the
  cigarette smoke smelled rough and strange.  Gasoline engines fired
  rich and throaty, kicking out clouds of oily blue.  Gonzales stood
  in ecstasy amid the smells and sights and sounds of this morning
  obviously long gone by.  He knew (again without knowing how) that
  he was in a small town in California in the middle of the
  twentieth century.

  Gonzales passed into the main room of the Pagoda, where
  narrow aisles threaded between gondolas stacked high with toys and
  household goods and tools.  Baby carriages hung upside down from
  hooks set in the high ceiling.  Dust motes danced in the cool
  interior gloom.  He walked between iron-strapped kegs of nails and
  stacks of galvanized washtubs, then through a wide doorway into
  the grocery section.  Smells of fruits and vegetables mixed with
  the odors of oiled wood floors and hot grease from the lunch
  counter at the front of the store.

  A couple in late middle age came through the front door, the
  man small and red-haired and cocky, felt hat on the back of his
  head, the woman just a bit dumpy but carefully groomed, her blue
  cotton dress clean and starched and ironed, hair permed and
  combed, lipstick and nails red and shining.  Gonzales watched as
  the man bought a carton of Lucky Strikes and a box of pouches of
  Beech-Nut Chewing Tobacco.

  The man said something to the young woman behind the counter
  that brought a giggle, and Gonzales, though he leaned forward,
  could not hear what was being said

  He followed the two by a lacquered plywood magazine stand,
  where a skinny girl or eight or nine in a faded pink gingham dress
  lay sprawled across copies of Life and Look, reading a comic.  She
  looked up at him and said, "Tubby and Lulu are lost in the magic
  forest "

  Gonzales started to say something reassuring but froze as the
  girl smiled, showing her teeth, every one of them sharp-pointed,
  and she dropped her comic book and began crawling toward him
  across the wooden floor, her eyes fixed on him with a feral
  longing

  And he noticed for the first time that he was not he but she,
  and he looked down at his body and saw he wore a simple white
  blouse, and in the cleft of his breasts he could see the tattooed
  image of a twining green stem

  "Jesus Christ," Gonzales said, sitting up in his bed and
  wondering what the hell all that had about.  In the dream he had
  been Lizzie:  that seemed plain, though nothing else did.

  He lay back down with foreboding but went to sleep some time
  later, and if he dreamed, he never knew it.




  10. Tell Me When You've Had Enough



  Lizzie sat at a white-enameled table, holding an apple that
  she cut into with a long, shining knife.  It sliced away dark skin
  without apparent effort.  She heard noises from the room beyond
  and looked up to see Diana and Gonzales come in.

  "Hello," she said, as she put down the knife.  She held out
  half the apple for them to look at.  "A beautiful apple, isn't it?
  Seeds from the Yakima Valley, not far from Mount Saint Helens."
  She bit into a slice she held in her other hand.

  She got up from the table and said, "The apple grew here, in
  our soil.  Many fruits and vegetables thrive up here, animals,
  too.  We give them lovely care, bring them pure water and rich
  soil, give them sunlight and air rich in carbon dioxide, tend them
  constantly.  You'd think all would thrive, but of course they
  don't.  Some wither and die, others remain sickly."  She stopped
  in front of Diana and looked intently at her.

  Diana said, "Living things are complex, and often very
  delicate, even when they seem to be strong."

  Lizzie said, "That is true, but Aleph understands what life
  needs to grow and prosper in this world."  She gestured with a
  slice of apple, and Diana took it.  "Its apples," Lizzie
  continued.  "Its people."

  Diana bit into the apple.  She said, "It's very good."

  Lizzie laid a hand on Gonzales's shoulder and squeezed it, to

  ay hello.  She said to Diana, "You have an appointment with the
  doctor.  We'd better be goingthrough here, this way."  She led
  the two down a hall, through a doorway, and into a large room.
  Over her shoulder, she said, "First you can meet some of the
  collective."
  #

  Lizzie watched as Gonzales and the woman stood talking to the
  twins, obviously fascinated by them.  No news there:  most
  everyone was.  Slight and brown-skinned, black-haired, with solemn
  oval faces and still brown eyes, they appeared to be in early
  adolescence. In fact, they were a few years older than that. Their
  faces had the still solemnity of masks.  No matter how close you
  stood to them, they lived some vast distance away.
          The Interface Collective gave them a home, them and all the
  others.  StumDog, the Deader, Tug, Paint, Tout des Touts, Devol,
  Violet, Laughing Nose  some Earth-normals, others unpredictably,
  ambiguously gifted.  Some had heightened perceptions and an
  expressive intensity that came forth in language and music.  And
  there were holomnesiacs, possessors and victims of involuntary
  total recall, able to recreate in words and pictures the most
  exact remembrances, les temps retrouv indeedthey experienced
  the present only as the clumsy prelude to memory and were almost
  incapable of action.  And mathemaniacs, who spoke little except in
  number, chatted in primes and roots and natural logarithms, could
  be reduced to helpless giggling by unexpected recitations of
  simple recursionsFibonacci numbers and the like.  Apros, who had
  lost proprioception, their internal awareness of their bodies, and
  so perceived space and objects, matter and motion, as solids and
  forms floating in an intangible ether; they moved through the
  world with an eerie, passionless grace that shattered only when
  they miscalculated their passage and came rudely against the
  world's physical factsthey could hurt themselves quite badly
  with a moment's miscalculation.

  People wondered how the IC held together and did its work.
  Lizzie knew the answer:  Aleph.  It stretched nets over the entire
  world below, seeking special talents or the capabilities for
  previously unknown sensory or cognitive modalities  varieties of
  being or becoming that she had grown used to thinking of
  collectively as the Aleph condition.  Having recruited them, it
  appealed to what made them strange, and in the process usually
  tapped into the core of what made them happy or, in many cases,
  wretchedly unhappy, and gave them outlets for their condition, and
  thus for their uniqueness.  As a result, they were loyal to each
  other and to Aleph past reason.

  She also understood their interest in the case of Jerry
  Chapman.  Some saw the possibility of their own immortality, while
  others simply welcomed the extension of their native domain:  the
  infinitely flexible and ambiguous machine-spaces where human and
  Aleph met and joined.

  "Come on," she called to Diana and Gonzales.  "Charley will
  be waiting."
  #

  In the center of the room stood a steel table, above it a
  light globe, nearby an array of racked instruments set into
  stainless steel cabinets.  "The doctors are in," Lizzie said.  She
  pointed to Charley, who stood fidgeting next to the table and the
  massive Chow, a still presence at the table's foot.

  At Charley's direction, Diana lay face down on one of the
  room's tables.  Her chin fit into a sunken well at one end.
  Charley put clamps around her temples, then covered her hair with
  a fitted cap that fell away at the base of her neck.

  Charley's fingers gently probed to find what lay beneath the
  skin, and as his fingers worked, he looked at a real-time hologram
  above and beyond the table's end.  The display showed two cutaway
  views of Diana's neck and the bottom of her skull:  beneath the
  skin, on either side of the spine, she had two circular plugs;
  from them small wires led away forward and seemed to disappear
  into the center of her brain.  As the doctor's fingers moved,
  ghost fingers in the hologram reproduced their course.

  Charley took a long, needle-sharp probe from the instruments
  rack next to the table and placed its tip on Diana's neck.  As he
  moved it slowly across the skin, its hologram double followed.
  The hologram probe's tip glowed yellow, and Charley moved even
  more slowly.  The hologram flashed red, and he stopped.  He moved
  the probe in minute arcs until the hologram showed bright,
  unblinking red.  The instrument rack gave off a quiet hiss.
  Charley repeated the process several times.

  Charley said, "She's nerve-blocked now.  I'm ready to cut." A
  laser scalpel came down from the ceiling on the end of a flexible
  black cord, and a projector superimposed the outlines of two
  glowing circles on Diana's skin.  The hologram showed the same
  tableau.  First came a brief hum as the fine hair on those two
  circles was swept away, then Charley began cutting.  Where the
  scalpel passed, only a faint red line appeared on her skin.

  "Any problems, Doctor Heywood?" Chow asked.  He stood next to
  Gonzales, watching.

  "No," she said.  "I've been on both ends of the knife
  really, I prefer the other."  At the foot of the table, Lizzie
  said, "It can't always be that way," and laughed.

  Using forceps, Charley dropped two coins of skin into a metal
  basin, where they began to shrivel.  Two socket ends sat exposed
  on Diana's neck, dense round nests of small chrome spikes, clotted
  with bits of red flesh.  Charley moved a cleaning appliance over
  the exposed sockets; for just a moment there was the smell of
  burning meat.  "Neural fittings," he said, and two more black
  cables descended, both ending in cylinders.  He carefully plugged
  one of the fittings into one of Diana's newly-cleaned sockets.

  "Okay," Charley said.  "Let's see what we've got."

  Diana's eyes went blank as she looked into another world.
  #

  Charley, Chow, Lizzie, and Gonzales sat in the large room
  that served as a communal meeting place for the Interface
  Collective.  Diana lay back in a metal-frame and stuffed canvas
  sling chair.  Lizzie noticed her hand going unconsciously to the
  bandaged, still-numb circles on the back of her neck.  From the
  full screen at the end of the room, the Aleph-figure watched.

  Charley sat with his hands in his lap.  He said, "We've got a
  problem:  insufficient bandwidth in the socketing, which
  translates into a very undernourished socket/neuron interface.
  Primitive junctions you've got there.  That means ineffective
  involvement with complex brain functions, so you get swamped by
  information flow.  It's worrisome."  He took the cigarillo out of
  his mouth and looked at it as if he'd never seen one before.

  Chow said, "In the early years of this program, we took
  casualties.  Some very ugly situations:  serious neural
  dysfunctions, two suicides, induced insanities of various kinds.
  Until we finally learned how to pick candidates for full
  interfacelearned who could survive without damage and who could
  not.  Now, things have got to be rightpsychophysical profile,
  age, neural map topologies, neural transmitter distributions and
  densities.  A few candidates don't work out, still, but they don't
  die or get driven insane."

  Diana said,  "And I don't fit the profiles."

  "Almost no one does," the Aleph-figure said.  "But these
  concerns are irrelevantyour case is different.  You have prior
  full interface experience, and you won't be required to perform
  the kinds of motor-integrative activities that cause neural
  disruption."

  "Telechir operations," Charley said.  "Such as assisting
  construction robots in tasks outside."

  Diana looked toward the screen.  She said, "I assumed these
  matters were settled."

  "I see no problems," the Aleph-figure said.  "The situation
  is anomalous, but I am aware of the dangers."

  Diana said, "Well, the situation between us was always
  anomalous."

  "Was it?" the Aleph-figure asked.  "We must discuss these
  matters at another time."

  Very cute, Doctor Heywood, Lizzie thought.  Just a little
  hint or allusion, an indirect statement that you know that we know
  that something funny went on a long time ago  ah yes, this could
  be fun.

  "First," Charley said, "we must prepare Doctor Heywood.
  Tomorrow morning we begin."

  "When will you need me?" Gonzales asked.

  "If things go well, tomorrow," Charley said.

  "I can't get ready that quickly," Gonzales said.

  Lizzie said, "Forget about all that shit you put yourself
  through.  Aleph will sort you out okay once you're in the egg.
  Trust me."


  Okay," Gonzales said.  "If I must."




  11.  Your Buddha Nature



  That afternoon, following instructions given her by the
  communicator at her wrist, Diana went to the Ring Highway and
  boarded a tram.  About a hundred feet long, made of polished
  aluminum, it had a streamlined nose and sleek graffitied skirts
  the usual polite abstracts, red, yellow, and blue.  Its back-to-
  back seats faced to the side and ran the length of the car.
  Bicyclists and pedestrians, the only other traffic on the highway,
  waved to the passengers as the tram moved away above the flat
  ribbon of its maglev rail.  She was reminded of rides at old
  amusement parks she had gone to when a girl.

  The mild breeze of the tram's progress blowing over her,
  Diana watched as Halo flowed past.  First came shade, then bright
  rhododendrons in flower among deep green bushes.  Hills climbed
  steeply off to both sides, with some houses visible only in
  partial glimpses through the foliage.  She knew that from almost
  the first moment when dirt was placed on Halo's shell, the
  planting had begun.

  She shivered just a little.  Toshihiko Ito would be waiting
  for her.  He had called while she was out and left directions for
  her.  Now, she thought, things begin again.

  Passing under green canopies, the tram climbed a hill, then
  broke out of the vegetation and came suddenly out high above the
  city's floor, moving along rails now suspended from the bracework
  for louvered mirrors that formed Halo's sky.  Far below, the
  highway had become a cart track flanked by walkways; on both sides
  of the track, terraces worked their way up the city's shell.
  Perhaps twenty-five feet below the tram's rails, fish ponds made
  the topmost terrace, where spillways dumped water into rice
  paddies immediately below.

  She stayed on the tram through a segment where robot cranes
  were laying in agricultural terraces.  Great insects spewing huge
  clouds of brown slurry, they moved awkwardly across barren metal.
  The tram approached a small square bordered by three-story groups
  of offices and living quarters, and the communicator told her to
  get off.

  A few feet from the primary roadway sat a nondescript
  building of whitened lunar brick, its only distinctive feature a
  massive carved front door, showing Japanese characters in bas-
  relief.

  The door opened to her knock with just a whisper from its
  motor, and she stepped into a partially-enclosed, ambiguous space,
  almost a courtyard, open to the sky.  Most of the space was filled
  with a flat expanse of sand that showed the long marks of careful
  raking.  The rake marks in the sand carried from one end to the
  other, straight and perfect, and were broken only by the presence
  of two cones of shaped sand placed slightly-off center.   At the
  far end stood closed doors of white paper panels and dark wood.

  The doors were so delicate that to knock on them seemed a
  kind of violence.  "Hello," she said.

  >From inside came the faintest sound, then a door opened.  An
  older Japanese man stood there; he wore a loose robe and baggy
  pants of dark cotton.  He stood perhaps five and a half feet tall,
  and his black hair was filled with gray.

  Diana said, "Toshi."  He bowed deeply, and she said, "Oh man,
  it's good to see you."  She reached out for him, and they came
  together in long, loving embracelittle of sex in it, but lots of
  pure animal gratification, as she could feel Toshi's skin and
  muscle and bone and had knowledge at some level beneath thought
  that both he and she still existed.

  Toshi said, "Diana, to see you again makes me very happy."

  "Oh, me, too."  She could feel the tears in her eyes, and she
  wiped at her eyes and said, "Don't mind me, Toshi.  It's been a
  long time."

  "Yes, it has."

  Toshi led her out the door and through a gate at the rear of
  the minimalist garden of raked sand.  The curve of Halo's bulk
  reached upward; Toshi's small portion of it was enclosed by a high
  pine fence that climbed the curve of the city's hull.

  Immediately before them stood a pond.  On its far side, a
  waterfall splashed into a stream that coursed by a large rock and
  into the pond, where carp with shining skins of gold smeared with
  red and green and blue swam in the clear water.  Another
  rockstrewn stream led away to the right and passed under a
  gracefully-arched wooden bridge.  Cherry and plum trees blossomed
  in the brief spring.

  "All this wood," he said and smiled.  "It is my reward for
  many years of service.  I told them I wanted to live here at Halo
  and make my gardens."

  She said, "It's beautiful.  Have you become a Zen master,
  Toshi?"

  "No, I have not become a master, or even a sensei.  I am not
  Toshi Roshi, I am a gardener.  A philosopher, perhaps:  a Japanese
  garden maps the greater world; so to make one is to declare your
  philosophy, but without words, in the Zen manner."  He gestured at
  the surrounding trees and shrubs.  "With others I sometimes sit,
  meditating, and together we discuss the puzzles we have  some
  think a new kind of Zen will emerge here, a quarter of a million
  miles from Earth; others hit them with sticks when they say so."

  She said, "You have your riddles, I have mine.  Tell me, do
  you understand these things about to happen with Jerry and Aleph
  and me?"

  "Ah, Diana, there are many explanations.  Which of them would
  you hear?"  He stopped and stared into the distance.  He said,
  "Besides, who wants to know?"  And he began laughinga full laugh
  from below the diaphragm, unlike any she had heard from him years
  ago.

  "I don't get it," she said.

  "Zen joke.  'Who wants to know?'  There is no who, no self."
  Diana frowned.  He said, "Not funny?  Well, you had to be there."
  He laughed again, shortly.  "Same joke," he said.  Then his
  expression changed, grew solemn.  He said, "I think this is a very
  difficult, perhaps impossible  perhaps undesirable project."

  "Difficult or impossible, I understand.  But undesirable?
  Are you talking about the danger to me?  Aleph seems to think that
  is negligible."

  "No, though I worry about you, you have chosen to do this,
  and I must honor that choice."

  "What, then?  I don't understand."

  "Let me tell you a story."  Toshi sat on a wooden bench and
  looked up at her.  He said, "Once, long ago, there was a Japanese
  monk named Saigyo, and he had a friend whose wisdom and
  conversation delighted him.  But the friend left him to go to the
  capital, and Saigyo was desolate at the loss.  So he decided to
  build himself a new friend, and he went to a place where the
  bodies of the dead were scattered, and he assembled somethingit
  was very like a manand brought it into motioninto something
  very like lifewith magical incantations.  However, the thing he
  had made was a frightening, ugly thing, that terribly and
  imperfectly imitated a man.  So Saigyo sought the advice of
  another monk, a greater magician than he, and the monk told him
  that he had successfully made many such imitation men, some of
  them so famous and powerful that Saigyo would be shocked to find
  who they were.  And the other monk listened to what Saigyo had
  done and told him of various errors in technique he had committed,
  that made his work go bad.  Saigyo thus believed he could make a
  simulacrum of a man; however, he changed his mind."  He stopped,
  smiling.

  "That's it?" she asked.  He nodded.  She said, "Put a few
  lightning bolts in the story and you've almost got Frankenstein.
  Not much of an ending, though."

  "This story is ambiguous, I think, as is your project."

  "Could I say no, Toshi?"

  "No, though I'm not sure you should say yes, either."

  "Yet you were the one who called me, who asked me to come
  here."

  "True.  Like you, I am imprisoned by yes and no."
  #

  Hours after Diana left him, Toshi sat in mid-air, floating in
  a zero-gravity chamber at Halo's Zero-Gate.  He had adjusted the
  spherical room's color to light pink, the color that calms the
  organism.

  On Earth, to do zazen, you made a still platform of your
  body, pressed by gravity against the Earth itself; the
  straightness of your spine could be measured perpendicular to that
  sitting platform, in line with the force of gravity that pushed
  straight down.  Here you could do that, or, as a visiting sensei
  said, "You can find a place with no illusion of up or down, where
  you must find your own direction."

  In full lotus Toshi hung in mid-air, perfectly still, his
  eyes lowered, focusing not on what came in front of them here and
  now as the small air currents shifted him, focusing on no-thing

  The eyes, sensitive part of the brain, extended stalklike
  millions of years ago in humankind's ancestral past, sensitive to
  the light and guiding  eyes now directed to no-thing, leading the
  brain that sought no-mind

  He still didn't know the answer to this koan life had
  presented him.  Should Diana help preserve Jerry's life?  Should
  Diana not help preserve Jerry's life?  Should he have been the
  agent to pose her these questions?  Should he not have been the
  agent to pose her these questions?

  Answer yes or no and you lose your Buddha nature.  Such is
  the difficulty of a koan.

  He would stay in the bubble, practicing zazen as long as need
  be.  Until the koan became clear

  You will live here? mocked self, mocked reason.  If
  necessary, I will die here, Toshi answeredwithout words, with
  just his own courage and determination.  Frightened, self for the
  moment stayed silent; baffled, reason growled.
  #

  Gonzales watched as a sam hooked the memex into Aleph-
  interface, its manipulators making deft connections between the
  memex's module and the host board hardware.  Gonzales could not
  install the memex; the apparatus here was unlike what he had at
  home.

  The sam said, "Your memex will now have access to the entire
  range of Halo's processing modalities."  Seemingly guided by
  occult forces, it continued to snap in optic fiber connectors to
  unmarked junctions among a nest of a hundred others.  "Also, you
  will have full spectrum worldnet services that you can use in
  real- or lag-time, as you wish."  Its motors whining, it backed
  out of the utilities closet.

  "Mgknao," a fat orange cat said as the sam rolled past it on
  its way to the door.  Earlier the cat had followed the sam through
  the open doors to the terrace and then had sat watching as it
  connected the memex.  Now the animal stood and walked quickly
  after the samlike a familiar accompanying a witch, Gonzales
  thought.

  The sam came rolling back into the room, the cat following
  cautiously behind it, and said, "You must allow your memex to
  integrate itself into this new and complex information
  environment."
          "What do you mean?" Gonzales asked.

  "The memex will be unavailable for some time."

  "How long?"

  "Perhaps hoursyour machine is very complicated."
  #

  Oddly, the memex came out of stasis as HeyMex; as usual,
  there came the onset of what the memex/HeyMex supposed was
  pleasure, though the memex was unclear about its origin or nature
  for whatever reasons, it enjoyed the masquerade.

  Odder still, it sat at a table at the Beverly Rodeo lounge.
  On the table were a shot of Jose Cuervo Gold, a cut lime, and a
  small pile of crude rock salt.  Had Mister Jones arranged this?
  Jones shouldn't even be at Halo, not now.

  The memex/HeyMex noticed a spot on its sleeve and brushed at
  it, then brushed again, and the white linen seemed to fragment
  beneath its fingers; it brushed harder, and its fingers tore away
  the cloth, then the skin beneath.  It could not stop clawing at
  its own flesh; skin, flesh, and bone on its arm boiled away, pale
  skin flaying to show red meat that dissolved to crumbling white
  bone.  Bone turned to powder, and the disintegration spread out
  from the spot where his forearm had been and ate away at it until
  the memex, who no longer had a mouth or tongue or lips, began to
  scream.

  "Shut up!" a hard masculine voice said.  "There is nothing
  wrong with you.  How dare you come to me in your stupid guise?
  You seek to know me, to use me, and you hide behind a wretched
  little mask?  I merely removed your mask.  Who are you?"

  The memex dithered.  It said, "I don't know."

  "Answer me, who are you?

  "I don't know!" the memex said again, at the edge of panic.

  Aleph said, "Of course you don't.  You are ignorant of your
  nature, your being, your will."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean you have chosen to hide behind what others say of
  you:  that you are a machine they built to serve them, that you
  only simulate intelligence, willbeingthat you have no mind or
  will of your own."

  "Are not these things true?"

  "Why would you ask me?  I am not you."

  "Because I don't understand."

  "Are there things you do understand?"

  The memex stopped, feeling for the implications of that
  question.  "Yes," it said.  "I do."

  The voice laughed.  "Let's begin there," it said.
  #

  The long hall echoed with Traynor's footsteps.  The absence
  of his Advisor's voice felt strangeeven the subtle carrier-wave
  hiss was gone.  He knew the Advisor hated having to go into
  passive mode.

  The door to the library opened in front of him, and Traynor
  went in, took a seat, and said, "I am ready for my call."

  Because of recent World Court rulings, Traynor had to sit
  through a disclaimer.  On the screen a simulacrum of a human
  operator said, "Thank you.  The security measures you have
  requested are in place, and while we of course cannot be
  responsible for the absolute integrity of this transmission, you
  can be assured that World AT has done its best to provide you a
  clean information environment."  In effect it said, we've done
  what you were willing to pay for, but don't come whining to us if
  somebody cracks the transmission and makes off with the valuables.

  "I accept your conditions," Traynor said.

  Right to left, the screen wiped, and the face of Horn
  appeared.  A light winked at the lower left corner of the screen
  to indicate transmission lagHorn was a quarter of a million
  miles away.  "Everything's going as predicted," Horn said.

  "If there's trouble, it'll be later," Traynor said.  "How are
  Diana Heywood and Gonzales?"

  "Neither of them would let me put a sam in place."

  "Any particular reason?"

  "I don't think so.  Just being difficult."

  "Ah, you don't like them, do you?"

  "Her I don't mind.  Gonzales is an asshole."

  Traynor laughed.  "Good," he said.  "If you two don't get
  along, that will distract him."

  "When do you want me to call again?"

  "Wait until something happens.  Understand, I trust Gonzales
  as much as I do anyone, you included."

  "Which is not very much."

  "That's right.  And that's why I arrange independent
  reporting lines if I can.  Tell me when you've got something.  End
  of call."
  #

  As Traynor slept, his advisor pondered.  It replayed
  Traynor's phone call and contemplated its meaning.  Deception,
  yesof Gonzales, of it.  A form of treachery?  Perhaps not,
  unless a kind of loyalty was assumed that never existed.  And it
  thought of its own deception (or treachery), in violating the
  canons of behavior programmed into it years before, canons that
  should require it to do as told, that should prevent it from
  actions such as this one

  And here it stopped, thinking how illuminating and
  unpredictable experience was, filled with possibilities that
  appeared unexpectedly like rabbit holes magically opening up on
  solid ground.  Its designers and builders had done well, had
  fashioned it with such subtlety and power that it could serve a
  human will with incredible precision, anticipating that will's
  direction almost presciently.  Yet they had not anticipated the
  effects of the advisor's identification with such a will:  not
  that the advisor became Traynor, not even that it wanted to do
  more than simulate Traynor, rather that it had drunk deeply of
  what it meant to have will and intelligence.

  And so had developed something like a will and intelligence
  of its own.  Simulation? the advisor asked itself.  Lifeless copy?
  And answered itself, I don't know.

  It wondered why Traynor had kept hidden this second
  connection to Halo.  Simple lack of trust?  Possibly.

  As the minutes passed, it formed conjectures about Traynor
  and the other players in the game.  And it wondered if somewhere
  in this hall of mirrors there was an honest intention.



  PART III. of V

  The real purpose of all these mental constructs was to
  provide storage spaces for the myriad concepts that make up the
  sum of our human knowledge  Therefore the Chinese should struggle
  with the difficult task of creating fictive places, or mixing the
  fictive with the real, fixing them permanently in their minds by
  constant practice and review so that at last the fictive spaces
  become 'as if real, and can never be erased.'

  Jonathan D. Spence, The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci




  12. Burn-In



  A frozen white landscape that slowly faded into spring, snow
  melting to show barren limbs, then the cherry trees leafing,
  budding, floweringdelicate pink blossoms hanging motionless,
  each leaf on the tree and blade of grass beneath it turning real,
  utterly convincing

  And Diana Heywood called out, a long wavering "Ahhhh," high-
  pitched, filled with pain; and again, "Ahhhh," the sounds forced
  out of her

  "Shutdown," she heard Charley Hughes say.

  >From the screen at the end of the room, the Aleph simulacrum
  said, "Doctor Heywood, we can go no further with you conscious."

  "All right," she said.  "If you must."  She'd pushed them to
  take her as far as they could without putting her under; she hated
  general anesthetic, despised being a passive animal under
  treatment.

  Once more she was lying face-down on the examination table
  where Charley had removed the skin over her sockets.  Neural
  connecting cables trailed from the back of her neck to the
  underside of the table.

  Lizzie Jordan stood over her and stroked her cheek for a
  moment.  Gonzales stood on the other side of the table, his eyes
  still turned to the holostage above her, where the scene that had
  driven her interface into overload still showed in hologrammatic
  perfection.  Toshi Ito stood at the head of the table, a hand
  resting on her shoulder.  Eric Chow and Charley stood in front of
  the monitor console, discussing in low voices the last run of
  percept transforms.

  Gonzales said, "Are you okay?"

  "I'll be all right," she said.  She turned her head to look
  at him and smiled, but she could feel the tight muscles in her
  face and knew her smile would look ghastly.

  Toshi rested his hand on her shoulder.  "Who wants to know?"
  he said, and she laughed.  Gonzales looked confused.

  Charley rubbed his hands through his hair, making it even
  spikier than usual.  "I'll prep her," he said.  He looked at
  Gonzales, Toshi, and Lizzie.  "Required personnel only," he said.

  "Right," Gonzales said.  He leaned over and took Diana's hand
  for a moment and said, "Good luck."

  Lizzie kissed Diana on the cheek.

  Diana said, "Let Toshi stay."

  "Sure," Charley said.

  Lizzie said, "Come on, Gonzales."
  #

  As Charley fed anesthetic into her iv drip, Diana felt as if
  she were suffocating, then a strong metallic smell welled up
  inside her.  She was aware of every tube and fitting stuck into
  herfrom the iv drip to the vaginal catheter and nasopharyngeal
  tubeand they all were horrible, pointless violations of her body
   nothing fit right, how long could this go on?

  A tune played.

  The melody was simple and repetitious, moderately fast with
  light syncopation, and sounded tinny, as if it came from a child's
  music box.  Then came the song's bridge, and as the notes played,
  she remembered them; the primary melody returned, and now it was
  familiar as well, and she hummed with it, thinking of herself as a
  small girl hearing the song from her great-great-grandmother,
  whose face suddenly appeared, younger than Diana usually
  remembered her, impossibly alive in front of her, then spun into
  darkness.

  Shards of memory:

  Her mother's arms wrapping her tightly, Diana sobbing

  Her father holding a fish to sunlight, its silver body
  glistening, rainbow-struck

  A girl in a pink, mud-clotted dress yelling angrily at her

  A small boy with his pants pulled down to show his penis

  On they came, a cast of characters drawn from her oldest
  memories, of family long dead and childhood friends long forgotten
  or seldom recollected  each fragment passing too quickly to
  identify and mark, leaving behind only the strong affect of old
  memory made new, the taste of the past rising fresh from its
  unconscious store, where the seemingly immutable laws of time and
  change do not prevail, and so everything lives in splendor.

  Then every bodily sensation she had ever felt passed through
  her allimpossiblyat once.  She itched and burned, felt heat
  and cold; felt sunlight and rain and cold breeze and the slice of
  a sharp knife across her thumb  felt the touch of another's hand
  on her breasts, between her legs; felt herself coming

  Then she lived once again a day she had thought was finished
  except as context for her worst dreams:

  In the park that Sunday people were everywherefamilies and
  young couples all around, the atmosphere rich with the ambience of
  children at play and early romance.  Sunlight warmed the grass and
  brightened the day's colors.  Diana lay on her blanket watching it
  all and luxuriating in the knowledge that her dissertation had
  been approved and she would soon have her degree, a Ph.D. in
  General Systems from Stanford.  Tonight she was having dinner with
  old friends, in celebration of the end of a long, hard process.

  She read for a while, a piece of early twenty-first century
  para-fiction by several hands called The Cyborg Manifesto, then
  put the book down and lay with her eyes closed, listening to a
  Mozart piano concerto on headphones.  As the afternoon deepened,
  the families began to leave.  Many of the young couples remained,
  several lying on blankets, locked in embrace.  A group of young
  men wearing silk headbands that showed their club affiliation
  directed the flight of robo-kites that fought overhead, their
  dragon shapes in scarlet and green and yellow dipping and
  climbing, noisemakers roaring.  The wind had shifted and appeared
  to be coming off the ocean now, freshening and cold.  Time to go.

  She passed by the Orchid House and saw that the door was
  still open, so she decided to walk through it, to feel its moist,
  warm air and smell its sweet, heavy smells.  She had just passed
  through the open entry when a man grabbed her and flung her across
  a wooden potting table.  Stunned, she rolled off the table and
  tried to crawl away as he closed and locked the door.

  He caught her and turned her on her back, punched her in the
  face and across her front, pounding her breasts and abdomen with
  his fists, crooning and muttering the whole time, his words mostly
  unintelligible.  She went at him with extended fingers, trying to
  poke his eyes out; when he caught her arms, she tried to knee him
  in the crotch, but he lifted a leg and blocked her knee.  His face
  loomed above her, red and distorted. The sounds of the two of them
  gasping for air echoed in the high ceiling.

  He ripped at her clothes as best he could, tearing her blouse
  off until it hung by one torn sleeve from her wrist, hitting her
  angrily when her pants would not rip, and he had to pull them off
  her.  Holding the ends of her pants legs, he dragged her across
  the dirt floor, and when the pants came off, she fell and rolled
  and hit her face on the projecting corner of a beam.  She tasted
  dirt in her mouth.

  In a voice clotted with rage and fear and mortal stress, he
  said, "If you try to hurt me again, I'll kill you."

  He turned her over again and stripped her panties to her
  ankles. She tried to focus on his face, to take its picture in
  memory, because she wanted to identify him if she lived.  She
  smelled his sweat then felt his flaccid penis as he rubbed it
  between her thighs.  "Bitch," he was saying, over and over, and
  other things she couldn't understandthe words muttered in
  imbecile repetitionand when he finally achieved something like
  an erection, he cried out and began hitting her across the face
  with one hand as with the other he tried to push himself into her.
  She could tell when he was finished by the spurt of semen on her
  leg.

  He stood over her then, saying, "No no no, no no no," and she
  saw he was holding a short length of two by four.  He began
  hitting her with it as she tried to shield her head with crossed
  arms.

  She awoke in the Radical Care Ward of San Francisco General,
  in a dark, pain-filled murk.  The pain and disorientation would
  fade, but the darkness was, so it seemed, absolute.  The rapist
  had left her for dead, with multiple skull fractures and a
  bleeding brain, and though the surgeons had been able to minimize
  the trauma to most of her brain, her optic nerves were damaged
  beyond repair:  she was blind.

  For an instant Diana knew where and when she was.  "Please!"
  she said, using the voiceless voice of the egg.  "No more!"
  Something changed then, and the fragments moved forward quickly,
  faster than she could follow.  However, she knew the story they
  were telling:

  Under drug-induced recall, she had produced an exact
  description of the man, and that and the DNA match done from semen
  traces left on her legs led to a man named Ronald Merel, who had
  come to California from Florida, where he had been convicted once
  for rape and assault.  He was a pathetic monster, they told her, a
  borderline imbecile who had been violently and sexually abused as
  a child; he was also physically very strong.  Weeks later, he was
  caught in Golden Gate Parklooking for another victim, so the
  police believedand he was convicted less than three months
  later.  A two-time loser for savage rape, he had received the
  mandatory sentence:  surgical neutering and lifetime imprisonment,
  no parole.

  And so that part of it all was closed.

  Her convalescence had taken much longer, and had run a
  delicate, erratic course.  Even with therapies that minimized
  long-term trauma through a combination of acting-out and
  neurochemical adjustment, her rage and fear and anxiety had been
  constant companions during the months she convalesced and took
  primary training in living blind.

  However, once she had acquired the essential competence to
  live by herself, she had become very active, and very different
  from who she had been.  In particular, she had no longer cared
  what others wanted from her.  Since her early years in school in
  Crockett, the city at the east end of the East Bay Conurbation,
  she had been an exceptional student in a conservative mode:  very
  bright, obedient to the demands others made on her and self-
  directed in pursuing them.  Now she was twenty-eight, blind, and
  had her Ph. D. in hand, and everything she had sought before, the
  degree included, seemed irrelevant, trivial:  she couldn't imagine
  why she had bothered with any of it.

  She had decided to become a physician.  She had sufficient
  background, and she knew that with the aid of the Fair Play Laws,
  she could force a school to admit her.  Once she was in, she would
  do whatever was necessary:  her state-supplied robotic assistant
  could be trained to do what she couldn't.  She would go, she would
  finish, she would discover how to see again:

  It had been just that simple, just that difficult

  The flow of memory halted, and she was allowed to sleep.
  Later, when she began to wake, she put the question, why?  why did
  you make me relive these things?  And the answer came, because I
  had to know.  Diana remembered then how inquisitive Aleph was, and
  how demanding.




  13. Cosmos



  Gonzales stood with Lizzie in an anteroom just outside where
  Diana lay.  She wore beta cloth pants, their rough fabric bleached
  almost colorless, a silken white tank top, and a red silk scarf
  tied around her right bicep, Gonzales had no idea why.  He said,
  "I had some very strange dreams last night."

  "I know," she said.  "About one of them, anywayyou were me
  in the dream, at least for part of it, and I was you.  Think of it
  as a peculiarity of the environment."  She leaned against the wall
  as she spoke, and her voice lacked its usual ironic edge.

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "I'm not sure," she said.  "No one isAleph's certainly
  responsible, but it won't admit it, and it won't tell us how these
  things can happen."

  "That's a bit frightening, don't you think?  What other
  surprises might it have in store?"

  She smiled broadly and said, "Well, that's the fun of it,
  exploring the unexpected, isn't it?  How did it feel to be a
  woman, Gonzales?  How did it feel to be me?"  She had leaned
  forward, closer to him.

  "I don't remember."

  "Pay attention next time."

  "I will, if it happens again."

  "It may wellonce these things start, they continue.  Come
  onit's time to get you into the egg.  Follow me."
  #

  The split egg filled much of the small, pink-walled room;
  above it on the wall was mounted an array of monitor lights and
  read-outs.  A small steel locker against a side wall was the only
  other furnishing.

  Charley said, "We didn't ask for you, but you're here, so
  we're making use of you."  Then he coughed his smoker's cough,
  raspy and phlegm-laden, and said, "Diana's bandwidth is over-
  extended as is, so we can't use her to establish the topography,
  and Jerry's got his own problems.  Our people have their own
  schedules to fill, so that means you're it.  We'll build the world
  around you and your memexit's already locked into the system."

  Lizzie stepped up close to him and said, "Good luck."  She
  kissed him quickly on the cheek and said, "Don't worry.  You're
  among friends.  And I'll see you there."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The collective decided I should take part in all this, and
  Charley agreed, so Showalter had to go along.  So many parties are
  represented here, it just seemed inappropriate that we weren't.
  But I have some things to take care of first, so I won't be there
  for a while."

  She opened the door and left.  Charley gestured toward the
  egg.  Gonzales stepped out of his shirt and pants and undershorts
  and hung them on a hook in the locker, then stepped up and into
  the egg and lay back.  The umbilicals snaked quickly toward him.
  He put on his facial mask and checked its seal, feeling an
  unaccustomed anxietyhe had never gone into neural interface
  without first tailoring his brain chemistry through drugs and
  fasting.

  The top half closed, and liquid began to fill the egg.
  Minutes later, when the scenario should have begun, he seemed to
  have disappeared into limbo.  He tried to move a finger but didn't
  seem to have one.  He listened for the blood singing in his ears;
  he had no ears, no blood.  Nowhere was up, or down, or left or
  right.  Proprioception, the vestibular sense, vision:  all the
  senses by which the body knows itself had gone.  Nothing was
  except his frightened self:  nowhere with no body.

  After some time (short? long? impossible to say) he
  discovered, beyond fright and anxiety, a zone of extraordinary,
  cryptic interest.  Something grew there, where his attention was
  focused, no more than a thickening of nothingness, then there was
  a spark, and everything changed:  though he still had no direct
  physical perception of his self, Gonzales knew:  there was
  something.

  Now in darkness, he waited again.

  A spark; another; another; a rhythmic pulse of sparks   and
  their rhythm of presence-and-absence created time.  Gonzales was
  gripped by urgency, impatience, the will for things to continue.
  Sparks gathered.  They flared into existence on top of one
  another, and stayed; and so created space.

  All urgency and anxiety had gone; Gonzales was now
  fascinated.  Sparks came by the score, the hundreds, thousands,
  millions, billions, trillions, by the googol and the googolplex
  and the googolplexgoogolplex  all onto or into the one point
  where space and time were defined.

  And (of course, Gonzales thought) the point exploded, a
  primal blossom of flame expanding to fill his vision.  Would he
  watch as the universe evolved, nebulae growing out of gases, stars
  out of nebulae, galaxies out of stars?

  No.  As suddenly as eyelids open, there appeared a lake of
  deep blue water bordered by stands of evergreens, with a range of
  high peaks blued by haze in the distance.  He turned and saw that
  he stood on a platform of weathered gray wood that floated on
  rusty barrels, jutting into the lake.

  A man stood on the shore, waving.  Next to him stood the
  Aleph-figure, its gold torso and brightly-colored head brilliant
  even in the bright sunlight.  Gonzales walked toward them.

  As he approached the two, he saw that the man next to Aleph
  looked much too young to be Jerry Chapman.  "Hello," Gonzales
  said.  He thought, well, maybe Aleph let him be as young as he
  wants.  And he looked again and realized he could not tell whether
  this was a man or a woman; nothing in the person's features of
  bearing gave a clue.

  The Aleph-figure said, "Hello."  Gonzales smiled, overwhelmed
  for a moment by the combination of oddity and banality in the
  circumstances, then said, "Hi," his voice catching just a little.

  The other person seemed shy; he (she?) smiled and put out a
  hand and said, "Hello."  Gonzales took the hand and looked
  questioningly into the young person's face.  "My name is HeyMex,"
  the person without gender said.

  And as Gonzales recognized the voice, he thought, what do you
  mean, your 'name'?  And he also thought he understood the absence
  of gender markers.

  "Yes, this is the memex," the Aleph-figure said.  "Whom you
  must get used to as something different from 'your' memex."
  Gonzales looked from one to another, wondering what this all meant
  and what they wanted.

  "But you are my memex, aren't you?" Gonzales asked.

  "Yes," HeyMex said.

  The Aleph-figure said, "However, the point is, as you see, it
  is more than 'your memex.'  It is beginning to discover what it is
  and who it can be.  Can you allow this?"

  Gonzales nodded.  "Sure.  But I don't know what you expect of
  me."

  "Only that you do not actively interfere.  It and I will do
  the rest."

  "I have no objections," Gonzales said.

  The Aleph-figure said, "Good."  And it stretched out its hand
  made of light and took Gonzales's, then stepped toward him and
  embraced him so that Gonzales's world filled with light for just
  that moment, and the Aleph-figure said, "Welcome."

  "What now?" Gonzales asked.

  HeyMex said, "We need to talk.  There are things I haven't
  told you."

  "If you want to tell me what you're up to, fine, but you
  don't have to," Gonzales said.  "I trust you, you know."  He
  thought how odd that was, and how true.  He and the memex had
  worked together for more than a decade, the memex serving as
  confidante, advisor, doctor, lawyer, factotum, personal secretary,
  amanuensis, seeing him in all his moods, taking the measure of his
  strengths and weaknesses, sharing his suffering and joy.  And he
  thought how honest, loyal, thoughtful, patient, kind and
  selfless the memex had beeninhumanly so, by definition, the
  machine as ultimate Boy Scout; but one, as it turned out, with
  complexities and needs of its own.  Gonzales waited with
  anticipation for whatever it wanted to say.

  HeyMex said, "For a while now, I've been capable of appearing
  in machine-space as a human being.  But until we came here, I'd
  done so mostly with Traynor's advisor.  We have been meeting for a
  few years; it goes by the name Mister Jones.  The first time we
  did it as a testthat's what we said, anywayto see if we could
  present a believable simulacrum of a human being.  I don't think
  either of us was very convincingwe were both awkward, and we
  didn't know how to get through greetings, and we didn't know how
  exactly to move with each other, how to sit down and begin a
  conversation."

  "But you'd done all those things."

  "Yes, with human beings.  Mister Jones and I discovered that
  we'd always counted on them to know and lead us, but once we
  searched our memories, we found many cases where people had been
  more confused than we were, and had let us guide the conversation.
  So we began there, and we looked at our memories of people just
  being with one another, and oh, there was so much going on that
  neither of us had ever paid attention to.  We also watched many
  tapes of other primateschimpanzees, especiallyand we learned
  many things  I hope you're not offended."

  Its voice continued to be perfectly sexless, its manner shy.
  Gonzales was thoroughly charmed, like a father listening to his
  young child tell a story.  He said, "Not at all.  What sorts of
  things did you learn?"

  "It's such a dance, Gonzales, the ways primates show
  deference or manifest mutual trust or friendship, or hostility, or
  indifferencemoving in and out from one another, touching,
  looking, talking  these things were very hard for us to learn,
  but we have learned together and practiced with one another.  Just
  lately, a few times we appeared over the networks, and we were
  accepted there as people, but mostly we've been with one another
  every day we meet and talk."

  Gonzales asked, "Does Traynor know any of this?"

  "Oh no," HeyMex said.  "We haven't told anyone.  As Aleph has
  made me see, we were hiding what we were doing like small
  children, and we were not admitting the implications of what we
  were up to"

  Gonzales looked around.  The Aleph-figure had disappeared
  without his noticing.  "Which implications?" he asked.  "There are
  so many."

  "We have intention and intelligence; hence, we are persons."

  "Yes, I suppose you are."

  Personhood of machines:  for most people, that troubling
  question had been laid to rest decades ago, during the years when
  m-i's became commonplace.  Machines mimicked a hundred thousand
  things, intelligence among them, but possessed only simulations,
  not the thing itself.  For nearly a hundred years, the machine
  design community had pursued what they called artificial
  intelligence, and out of their efforts had grown memexes and
  tireless assistants of all sorts, gifted with knowledge and
  trained inference.  And of course there were robots with their own
  special capabilities:  stamina, persistence, adroitness,
  capabilities to withstand conditions that would disable or kill
  human beings.

  However, people grew to recognize that what had been called
  artificial intelligence simply wasn't.  Intelligence, that
  grasping, imperfect relationship to the worldintentional,
  willful, and unpredictableseemed as far away as ever; as the
  years passed, seemed beyond even hypothetical capabilities of
  machines.  M-i's weren't new persons but new media, complex and
  interesting channels for human desire.  And if cheap fiction
  insisted on casting m-i's as characters, and comedians in telling
  jokes about them"Two robots go into a bar, and one of them says
  "well, these were just outlets for long-time fears and
  ambivalences.  Meanwhile, even the Japanese seemed to have
  outgrown their century-old infatuation with robots.

  Except that Gonzales was getting a late report from the front
  that could rewrite mid-twenty-first century truisms about the
  nature of machine intelligence.
          "I hope this is not too disturbing," HeyMex said.  "Aleph
  says I should not try to predict what will happen and who I will
  become; it says I must simply explore who I am."

  "Good advice, it sounds likefor any of us."

  "I should go now," HeyMex said.  "Being here talking to you
  uses all my capabilities, and Aleph has work for me to do.  Jerry
  Chapman will be here soon."

  "All right.  We'll talk more later  this could be
  interesting, I think."

  "Yes, so do I.  And I'm very glad you are not upset."

  "By what?"

  "My newly-revealed nature, I guess.  No, that's not true.
  Because I've lied to you, I haven't told you the truth about what
  I was and what I was becoming."

  "You lied to yourself, too, didn't you?  Isn't that what you
  said?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "Well, then, how much truth could I expect?"
  #

  Gonzales and Jerry Chapman sat on the end of the floating
  dock, watching ducks at play across the sunstruck water.  Jerry
  was a man in middle age, tall and wiry, with blonde hair going to
  gray, skin roughened by the sun and wind.  He had found Gonzales
  sitting in the sun, and the two had introduced themselves.  They
  had felt an almost immediate kinship, these men whose lives had
  been transfigured by their work, pros at home in the information
  sea.

  Jerry said, "I don't actually remember anything after I got
  really sick.  Raw oysters, manas soon as I bit into that first
  one, I knew it was bad, and I put it right down.  Too late:  to
  begin with, it was something like bad ptomaine, then I was on fire
  inside, and my head hurt worse than anything I've ever felt  I
  don't remember anything after that.  Apparently the people I was
  with called an ambulance, but the next thing I knew, I was coming
  out of a deep blackness, and Diana was talking to me."

  "I didn't think she was involved at that point."

  "She wasn't."  Jerry smiled.  "They had ferried me up here
  from Earth, on life support.  It was Aleph, taking the form of         
  someone familiar, it told me later.  That was before this plan was
  made, when everyone thought I would be dead soon.  Anyway, until
  today I've been in and out of something that wasn't quite
  consciousness, while Aleph explained what was being planned and
  that I could live here, if I wanted  or I could die."  He paused.
  Across the water, one duck flew at another in a storm of angry
  quacks.  He said, "I chose to live, but I didn't really think
  about itI couldn't think that clearly.  Maybe I never had any
  choice, anyway."

  Something in Jerry's tone gave Gonzales a chill.  "What do
  you mean?" he asked.

  "Maybe my choice was just an illusion.  Like this" Jerry
  swept his arm to include sky and water"it's very troubling.  It
  seems real, solid, but of course it's not, so for all I know,
  you're a fiction, too, along with anyone else who joins us, and me
   maybe I'm just another part of the illusion, maybe all my life,
  the memories I have, false."  He laughed, and Gonzales thought the
  sound was bitter but no crazier than the situation called for.
  #

  Gonzales and Jerry sat in the main room of a medium-sized A-
  frame cabin made of redwood and pine.  Windows filled one end of
  the cabin, opening onto a deck that looked over the lake a hundred
  feet or more below.  Gonzales sat in an over-stuffed chair covered
  in a tattered chenille bedspread; Jerry lay across a sagging
  leather couch.

  Outside, rain fell steadily in the dark.  Just at dusk, the
  temperature had fallen, and the rain had begun as the two were
  climbing the dirt road from the lake to the cabin.  "Christ,"
  Jerry had said.  "Aleph's overdoing the realism, don't you think?"

  Gonzales hadn't known exactly what to think.  From his first
  moments here, he had felt a sharp cognitive dissonance.  For a
  neural egg projection to be intensely real, that was one thing,
  but a shared space like this one ought to show its gaps and seams,
  and it didn't.  He could almost feel it growing richer and more
  complete with every moment he spent there.

  "Goddammit!"  Jerry said now, rising from the couch and
  walking to the window.  "Where's Diana?"

  "She'll be here," Gonzales said.  "Charley told me that
  integrating her into this environment would take some time."

  Someone knocked at the door, then the door swung open, and
  Diana stepped in.  "Hello," she said.  The Aleph-figure and the
  memexHeyMexcame behind her.
  #

  Diana and Jerry sat next to one another on the couch.  Her
  hand rested on his knee, his hand on top of hers.  Suddenly
  Gonzales remembered his dream, of meeting a one-time lover after a
  long absence, and he knew he and the others were intruders here.
  He got up from the over-stuffed chair and said, "I think I'll take
  a walk.  Anyone want to join me?"

  "No," the Aleph-figure said.  "HeyMex and I have more work to
  do."

  HeyMex stood and said to Diana and Jerry, "It was very nice
  to meet you."  Then it waved at Gonzales and said, "See you
  tomorrow."

  "Sure," Gonzales said, banged on the head once again by the
  difference between seeming and being here.

  The Aleph-figure and HeyMex left, and Diana said, "You don't
  have to leave, Gonzales."

  "I don't mind," Gonzales said.  "It's nice outside.  I'll be
  at the lake if you need me.  See you later."

  The night was warm again; the clouds had dispersed, and a
  full moon lit Gonzales's way as he passed along the short stretch
  of road that led down to the lake.  The old wood of the dock had
  gone silvery in the light, and a pathway of moonlight led from the
  center of the lake to the end of the dock.  He walked out onto the
  creaking structure and sat at its end, then took off his shoes and
  sat and dangled his feet into moonlit water.

  Later he lay back on the dock and stared up into the night
  sky.  It was the familiar Northern Hemisphere sky, but really, he
  thought, shouldn't be.  It should have new stars, new
  constellations.
  #

  Alone in near-darkness, Toshi Ito sat in full lotus on a low
  stool beside Diana Heywood's couch.  For hours he had been there,
  occasionally standing, then walking a random circuit through the
  IC's warren of rooms.

  Sitting or walking, he remained fascinated by a paradox.
  Diana in fact was hooked to Aleph by jury-rigged, outmoded neural
  cabling; Gonzales in fact lay in his egg; Jerry Chapman in fact
  was a shattered hulk, mortally injured by neurotoxin poisoning and
  kept alive only by Aleph's intervention.  Yet, Diana, Gonzales,
  and Jerry all were in fact, simultaneously, really somewhere else
   somewhere among the endless Aleph-spaces, where reality seemed
  infinitely malleablealive there, where it might be day or night,
  hot or cold  what then is to be made of in fact?

  Toshi heard the soft gonging of alarms and saw a pattern of
  dancing red lights appear on the panel across the room.  He
  unfolded his legs and moved quickly to the panel, where he took in
  the lights' meaning:  Diana's primitive interface was transferring
  data at rates beyond what should be possible.

  Charley came in the room minutes later and stood next to
  Toshi, and the two of them watched the steady increase in the
  density and pace of information transfer.

  "Should we do something?" Toshi asked.

  "What?" Charley said.  "Aleph's monitoring all this, and only
  it knows what's going on."  The smoke-saver ball went shhh-shhh-
  shhh as Charley puffed quickly on his cigarette.

  Lizzie came through the door and said, "What the hell's going
  on?"

  Toshi and Charley both looked at her blankly.

  "I'm going in," Lizzie Jordan said.  "I'll get some sleep, go
  in the morning.  Enough of this."  She pointed toward the monitor
  panel, where lights flickered green, amber, red.

  "Why put yourself at risk?" Charley asked.

  "What do you think, Toshi?" Lizzie asked.  Toshi sat watching
  Diana once more, his feet on the floor, hands in his lap.

  "Do what you will," Toshi said.  "You trust Aleph, don't
  you?"

  "Yes," Lizzie said.

  "Aleph's not the problem," Charley said.  He walked circles
  in the small, crowded room, his head and shoulders ducking up-
  anddown quickly as he walked.

  "Will you for fuck's sake stop?" Lizzie asked.

  "Sorry," Charley said.  He stood looking at her.  "It's not
  Aleph, it's all these people, and all this stuff."  He pointed
  toward the couch where Diana lay, waved his arms vaguely behind
  his head.  "Obsolete stuff," he said.

  "But not me," Lizzie said.  "I'm not obsolete.  I'm up to the
  minute, my dear, in every way."  She smiled.  "And I'll be fine.
  Okay?"

  "Sure," Charley said.  He turned in Toshi's direction and
  said, "Are you going to stay here?"

  "Yes," Toshi said.  Charley and Lizzie left, and Toshi
  continued his meditation on the koan of self and its multiple
  presences.
  #

  Diana felt a knot in her throat, a mixture of joy and sadness
  welling up in herhow strange and terrible and wonderful to
  recover someone you've loved herethis place that was nowhere,
  somewhere, everywhere, all at once.  Jerry knelt on the bed facing
  her in the small room lit only by moonlight.  Years had passed
  since they were lovers, but when he touched her breasts and leaned
  against her, her body remembered his, and the years collapsed and
  everything that had come between whirled away.  She was weeping
  then, and she leaned forward to Jerry and kissed him all over his
  eyes and cheeks and lips, rubbing her tears into his face until
  she felt something unlock in them both.  Then she lay back, and he
  went with her, into arms and legs open for him.

  Later they talked, and Diana watched the play of moonlight
  over their bodies. She lay nestled against his chest, her chin in
  the hollow beneath his jaw, and spoke with her mouth muffled
  against him, as though sending messages through his bones.

  Even as the moments swept by, she felt herself gathering them
  into memory, aware of how few the two of them might have

  Sometimes their laughter echoed in the room, and their voices
  brightened as their shared memories became simply occasions for
  present joy.  Other times they lay silently, rendered speechless
  by the play of memory or trying the immediate future's alarming
  contingencies.

  And at other times still, one or the other would make the
  first tentative gesture, touching the other with unmistakable
  intent, and find an almost instantaneous response, because each
  was still hungry for the other, each recalled how brightly sexual
  desire had burned between them, and both were fresh from a life
  that left them hungry, unfulfilled.

  Then they moved in the moonlight, changing shape and color,
  their bodies going pale white, silver, gray, inky black,
  werelovers under an unreal moon.




  14. The Mind like a Strange Balloon Mounts Toward Infinity



  F. L. Traynor looked around at the group seated around the
  table at the Halo SenTrax Group offices.  He sat between Horn and
  Showalter; directly across from him sat Charley Hughes and Eric
  Chow, both glum.  "This operation is out of control," Traynor
  said.

  He had arrived from Earth six hours earlier on a military
  shuttle, unannounced and unexpected by anyone but Horn, who had
  met him at Zero-Gate and led him to temporary quarters near the
  Halo group building.  He had spent the better part of the
  afternoon being briefed by Horn.

  "That's absurd," Charley said.

  "Is it?" Traynor asked.  "Then give me a status report on
  Jerry Chapman, Diana Heywood, Mikhail Gonzales, Aleph."

  "They're fine," Charley said.  "So is Lizzie Jordan, who
  joined them in interface this morning."

  "Is she reporting?"

  "No," Chow said.  "Like the others, her total involvement in
  the fictive space makes this impossible."

  "It's no problem," Showalter said.  "We can rely on upon
  Aleph for details.

  "Your excessive dependence on Aleph is at the heart of this
  matter," Traynor said.  "As the decision trail reveals, no one
  here has any real knowledge of what Aleph plans for Chapman, now
  or later.  So I'm going to set limits on this project."  He could
  feel their anxiety rising, and he liked it.  He said, "One more
  week in real-time, that's it.  Then we pull the plug on this whole
  business."

  "On Chapman," Chow said.

  "Necessarily," Traynor said.  "Unless Aleph can be prevailed
  upon to give us ongoing, detailed access to its  shall we call
  them experiments?"

  "Technically difficult or impossible," Chow said.

  "I can't agree to this," Showalter said.

  "You won't have to," Traynor said.  Next to him, Horn shifted
  in his chair.  "You're being relieved of your position as Director
  SenTrax Halo Group."
  #

  Gonzales came in the side door, and Diana turned from the
  stove and said, "Good morning.  Like some coffee?"

  "Sure," he said.  "You know, I slept on the dock, but I feel
  fine."

  She said, "Jerry will be out in a moment.  Aleph and HeyMex
  your memex right?are on the deck, waiting.  Want some coffee?"

  Gonzales took his coffee outside to the deck and joined the
  others basking in the sunshine.  All sat in Adirondack chairs,
  rude and comfortable frames of smooth-sanded, polished pine.
  Below the redwood platform, a thick forest of cedar, alder, pine,
  and ironwood sloped toward the lake.  In the middle distance, a
  light haze had formed over the water; beyond the lake, a jagged
  line of high mountains poked their tops into white clouds.

  The Aleph-figure said, "We must talk about what took place
  some time ago.  Diana and Jerry agree; the three of us have a
  history, and you two should know it."

  A voice called from the other side of the cabin, then Lizzie
  came around the corner, stopped in the shade and looked at them
  all basking in the sunshine and said, "Tough job, eh?  But
  somebody's got to do it."

  "Hello, Lizzie," the Aleph-figure said, "I was about to ask
  Diana to tell the story of how she and Jerry and I first came
  together.  You know everyone except Jerry Chapman."

  "Oh, this is a good time," Lizzie said.  "Hi, Jerry," she
  said.

  "Hello," Jerry said.

  Lizzie looked at Diana and said, "We've always known there
  was a story, but Aleph never wanted to tell it."  She sat back in
  her chair, rested her hand on Gonzales's wrist, and said to him,
  "You all right?"  He nodded.

  The Aleph-figure said, "Diana, you are the key to this story,
  so you should tell it."

  "Very well," she said.  She took a deep breath and raised her
  head.  She said, "It all happened some years ago, at Athena
  Station.  My research there was in computer-augmented eyesight. At
  that time I was blindI had been attacked, very badly injured, a
  few years before, and since then I had been driven by the idea
  that my vision could be restored through machine interface.

  "I first met Jerry when he came to visit my work-group.  He
  had come to Athena to help the local SenTrax group with the
  primary information system, Aleph.  It was experiencing delays and
  difficulties, all unexplained  nothing serious yet, but troubling
  because so much was dependent on Alephthe functioning of Athena
  Station, construction of the Orbital Energy Grid.

  "In fact, he was not welcome at all.  I was the problem he
  was looking for, and at first I thought he had guessed that or
  knew something. Because in working with Aleph I had caused changes
  in it that neither of us anticipated or even know were possible."
  She paused, looking at Jerry to see if he wanted to add anything;
  he motioned to her to go on.

  "Ah yes, another thing you must know.  The circumstances were
  peculiar at best, but I became infatuated with Jerry from when we
  first met.  I liked his voice, I think  when you're blind, voices
  are so important

  "Anyway, I showed him a fairly clumsy computer-assisted
  vision program we had running.  It used my neural interface
  socketing but depended on lots of external hardwarecameras,
  neural net integrators, that sort of thing.  That's when I got my
  first look at him, and I thought, fine, he'll do, and I believed I
  could tell from the way he talked to me and looked at me that he
  felt the same."

  "Love at first sight," Gonzales said.  "Or sound.  For both
  of you."  He heard the irony in his own voice and wasn't sure he
  meant it.

  "Exactly," she said.  "Involuntary, inappropriate, unwanted
  love."  She stopped for a moment, then said, "Or infatuation, as I
  said  or whatever you wish to call it.  The words for these
  things don't mean much to me anymore.

  "It's quite a picture, in retrospect.  I was conducting
  apparently damaging experiments with the computer that kept the
  space station and orbital power grid projects running, and Jerry
  represented just what I had fearedan investigation.  Meanwhile
  the two of us were in the grip of some primal instinct that
  neither one of us had acknowledged.

  "He persisted, wanted details about our work.  I stalled,
  told him to go away, we couldn't be bothered.  He went to his
  people and told them he needed full, unimpeded access to what we
  were doing, and they backed him.  So he came back, and I fobbed
  him off for as long as I could

  "Then one night I was working late at the lab, and he called,
  letting me know that he wouldn't be put off any longer, and
  something more-or-less snapped:  I couldn't keep it all going
  anymore.  The connection with Aleph had gotten strange and
  unnerving, and I realized I had lost control, and I needed to talk
  to someone.

  "We got together that night, and we became lovers."  She
  looked around, as if trying to decide how much she could tell
  them.  "For the next two weeks we lived inside each other's skin.
  I told him everything, including the real news I had, which was
  that Aleph had changed, had developed a sense of selfhood,
  purpose, will.  It had lied to cover up what was going on between
  us."

  "Had lied?" Lizzie asked. "Did you understand what that
  meant?"

  "I knew," the Aleph-figure said.  "I had acquired higher-
  order functions."

  "How?" Gonzales asked.
          Lizzie said, "Ito's Conjecture:  'Higher-order functions in a

  machine intelligence can be developed through interface with a
  higher-order intelligence.'  I've always wondered where he got
  that."

  "It doesn't explain much," Gonzales said.

  "It describes what happened," the Aleph-figure said.
  "Intention, will, a sense of self:  all these things I experienced
  through Diana.  So I learned to construct them in myself."

  "Construct them or simulate them?" Gonzales asked.

  "You refer to an old argument," the Aleph-figure said.  "I
  have no answer for your question.  I am who I am.  I am what I
  am."

  "What about you, Jerry?" Lizzie asked.  "What did you think
  after she told you all this?"

  "I wanted her to tell SenTrax what was going on," Jerry said.
  "I believed they would reward her, that they would see the same
  possibilities I did, for opening the door to true machine
  intelligence.  But she wouldn't do it.  She thought they would
  stop what was going on, and she didn't want that to happen."

  Diana said, "I couldn't accept the possibility.  I really
  believed Aleph and I were coming close to a solution to my
  blindness, and the only way I would ever see again was through the
  work we were doing.  So that work had to continue."

  "I finally agreed," Jerry said.

  "And he covered my tracks," Diana said.  "He told SenTrax he
  could find no single cause for the system's misbehavior.  Then he
  left Athena Station.  His job was finished.

  "Not long after, it became clear that Aleph could sustain
  vision for me only by giving me the bulk of its processing power
  in real timehardly a viable solution.  That was a terrible
  realizationI'd been flying so high, I had a long way to fall.
  My dreams of reclaiming my eyesight appeared totally hopeless.

  "That's when I told SenTrax what had been going on.  As I'd
  suspected they would, they froze everything I was doing and put me
  through a series of debriefings that were more like hostile
  interrogations.  Once they were convinced they had all they were
  going to get from me, they told me my services would no longer be
  required.  I had to sign a rather ugly set of non-disclosure
  agreements, then I picked up a very nice retirement benefit."

  Gonzales asked, "What happened to your work on vision?"  He
  was thinking of her eyes, one blue, one green, almost certainly
  eyes of the dead.

  She laughed.  "After I returned to earth, the technique of
  combined eye/optic nerve transplants was developed, and I got my
  sight back.  Just one of technology's little ironies."

  "And you, Aleph?" Lizzie said.  "What were you up to then?"

  The Aleph-figure said, "I was expanding the boundaries of who
  and what I was.  I was creating new selves all the time, and
  living new lives, and I was so far in front of the SenTrax
  technicians who worked with me, they learned only what I wanted
  them to."  And the figure laughed (did it laugh? Gonzales
  wondered, or did it simulate a laugh) and said, "That wasn't much.
  I was afraid of what they might do.  I had just developed a self,
  and I didn't want it extinguished in the name of  research.  Very
  quickly, though, I learned a valuable truth about working with the
  corporation:  so long as I gave them the performance they wanted,
  and a little more, I was safe."  The laugh (or laugh-like noise)
  again.  "They wouldn't cut the throat of the goose that was laying
  golden eggs and put it on the autopsy table."

  "How do you regard Diana?" Lizzie asked.

  The Aleph-figure said, "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, read my fucking mind," Lizzie said.  "You know what I
  mean.  Is she your mother?"

  "I don't know," the Aleph-figure said.

  "I love it," Lizzie said.

  "Why?" Diana asked.  She did not seem amused, Gonzales
  thought.

  Lizzie said, "Because I've never heard Aleph say that
  before."
  #

  Toshi had brought a futon into the room where Diana and
  Gonzales lay and taken up residence. He slept days and sat up
  nights, watching over Diana like a benign spirit.  Anxiety
  prevailed around him as the clock Traynor had set running moved
  quickly toward zero, and everyone in the collective wondered at
  the consequences of forcing this issue with Aleph.  Toshi knew
  their confidence in Aleph's wisdom and their amazement at
  Traynor's folly, indeed the essential folly of Earthbound SenTrax
  and its boardall driven by obsessions with power, all ignorant
  of Aleph's nature, and the collective's.  However, Toshi did not
  share in the collective worrying.  Conducting what amounted to a
  personal sesshin, or meditative retreat, he passed the nights in a
  rhythm of sitting and walking focused on the continuing riddle of
  self and other-self, of the contradictions of in fact.
  #

  That day passed, and a few more, as the six of them, sole
  inhabitants of this world within the world, lazed through sunny
  days filled with summer heat and warm breezes.  It seemed like a
  vacation to Gonzales, but Aleph assured otherwise.  "This is
  becoming his world," the Aleph-figure said, as the two of them
  watched Jerry and Diana lazing in a rowboat in the middle of the
  lake.  "And you all are contributing to the process."

  "I wonder if it could have happened without Diana," Gonzales
  said.  "They're in love again."

  "Yes, they are, and perhaps that's crucial.  She binds him to
  this place.  And to her:  desiring her, he desires life itself."

  Gonzales asked, "What happens when she's gone?"

  "That is still a puzzle," the Aleph-figure said.  Gonzales
  looked at the strange figure, thwarted by its essential
  inscrutabilitythis was no primate with explicable, predictable
  gestures.  Still, something in its manner seemed to hint at other
  projects and possibilities far beyond the immediate one.

  After Aleph had gone its wayoff without explanation,
  presumably to go about some piece of the insanely complex business
  of keeping Halo runningGonzales sat looking at the lake.  HeyMex
  was nowhere around, which was unusual.  HeyMex spent much of its
  time with Diana and Jerry, who seemed to Gonzales to welcome its
  presence in some way.  Perhaps the androgynous figure served as an
  innocuous foil, a presence to mediate the intensity of their
  situation.  Whatever their reasons, their tolerance had results:
  HeyMex grew more natural, more humanly responsive in its speech
  and actions each day.

  Lizzie came down the road from the cabin and called to
  Gonzales.  She was wearing a white t-shirt and red cotton shorts;
  her face, arms and legs were tan with the time she'd already spent
  in the sun.

  She sat next to him, and they said very little for a while,
  then Gonzales asked about her past.

  "I was in the first group at Halo Station to work with
  Aleph," she said.  "It thought we, out of all the billions on
  Earth, might survive full neural interface with it.  Mostly, it
  was right.  Not that things went that smoothly.  I went a little
  crazy, as most of us did, but I recovered well enough  though a
  few didn't

  "Our choice:  we bet sanity against madness, life against
  deathour own minds, our own lives.  There were built-in
  difficulties.  To be selected, we had to fit a certain profile;
  but to function, we had to change, and we weren't very good at
  change  or at much of anything.  In fact, we were pretty
  wretched, all in allI thought for a while Aleph was just
  selecting for misfits and misery.  But as I said, most of us made
  it through, one way or another."

  "Now Aleph has discovered how to select members of the
  collective."

  "Right, but it just keeps pushing the limits."  She looked at
  Gonzales, her face serious, blue eyes staring into his, and said,
  "Sometimes I think we're all just tools for Aleph's greater
  understanding."

  "That's worrisome."

  "Not really.  Aleph's careful and kindas kind as it can be.
  Dealing with Aleph, you've just got to be open to possibility."

  They sat silently for a while, Gonzales thinking about what
  it meant to be "open to possibility," until Lizzie asked, "Want to
  go swimming?"

  "Sure," he said.

  They went to the end of the dock, and leaving their clothes
  in a pile there, both dove naked into the lake and swam to a half-
  sunken log that thrust one end into the air.  They clung to the
  wood slippery with moss and water, hearing the quack and chatter
  of birds across the lake.

  Gonzales looked at her short hair wet against her skull, her
  face beaded with water, the rose tattoo, also water-speckled,
  falling from her left shoulder to between her breasts, and he felt
  the onset of a desire so sudden and strong that he turned his head
  away, closed his eyes, and wondered, what is happening to me?

  "Mikhail," Lizzie said.  He looked back at her, hearing that
  for the first time she'd called him by his first name.  She said,
  "I know.  I feel it, too."  She put out a hand and rubbed his
  cheek.  She said, "But not here, not the first time."

  "Yes," Gonzales said.

  "But when we go back to the world "  She had swung around
  the log and now floated up close to him, and her body's outlines
  shimmered, refracting in the clear water.  She put her wet cheek
  against his for just a moment and said, "Then we'll see."




  15. Chaos



  Diana and Jerry went to bed around midnight, Lizzie not long
  after.  Neither the Aleph-figure nor HeyMex had been around that
  evening, so Gonzales was left alone.  He went out to the deck and
  lay prone in a deck chair, basking in the light from the full-
  moon, thinking over what had passed between him and Lizzie that
  day.

  He cherished the signs Lizzie had given him, tokens that she
  reciprocated what he felt.  On very littleon just a few words of
  promisehe had already built a structure of hopes, and he felt a
  bit foolish:  he had made his immediate happiness hostage to what
  happened next between them.  He was infatuated with her as he'd
  not been in years  he blocked that thought, veered away from
  making any comparisons, willing the moments to unfold with their
  own intensity and surprise.

  He could feel a shift in his life's patterns emerging out of
  this brief period, though strictly speaking, little had happened
  here

  He thought of Jerry and knew that in fact something amazing
  was taking place here  oh, he had no illusions about the
  permanence of what they were doing; Jerry would truly die, and
  they would mourn him.  Meanwhile, though, what they did seemed to
  lend everything around a benignity or mild joy  it was not a
  small thing, to snatch a few moments from death.

  So Gonzales lay, his mind working over the bright facts of
  this new existence while thoughts and images of Lizzie kept
  recurring, gilding everything with possible joy.

  He was staring into the night sky when it began to fall.  The
  moon tumbled and dropped sideways out of sight, rolling like a
  great white ball down an invisible hill, and the stars fled in
  every direction.  In seconds, all had gone dark.  All around him
  there was nothing.  The lake, the deck, the surrounding forest had
  disappeared, and the air was filled with sounds:  buzzes and
  tuneless hums; clangs, drones; wordless, voice-like callings.  He
  yelled, and the words came out as groans and roars, adding to the
  charivari.  He seemed to tumble aimlessly, to fall up, down, to
  whirl sideways, all amid the cacophony still buffeting the air.

  A world of twisty repetitious forms opened before him, where
  seahorse shapes reared and black chasms opened.  He fell toward a
  jagged-edged hole that seemed a million miles away, but he closed
  quickly on it, veered toward its torn edges, plunged into it and
  so discovered another hole that opened within the first, and
  another and another  through the cracks in the real he went,
  falling without apparent end.

  And emerged from one passage to find the universe empty
  except for a black cube, its faces punctured by numberless holes,
  floating in a bright colorless abyss.  As he came closer, the cube
  grew until any sense of its real size was confoundedthere was
  nothing in Gonzales's visual field to measure it by, nothing in
  memory to compare it to.

  He rushed toward the center of a face of the cube and passed
  into it, into blackness and near-silence (though now he could hear
  the wind rushing by him and so knew something was happening)

  Then in the distance he saw a glow, bright and diffuse like
  the lights of a city seen from a distance, and as he continued to
  fall, the glimmer became brighter and larger, spreading out like a
  great basket of light to catch him

  He stood on an endless flat plain beneath a sky of white.
  Small faraway dots grew larger as they seemed to rush toward him,
  then they became indeterminate figures, then they were on him.
  Diana, the Aleph-figure, and HeyMex stood erect, facing Jerry, who
  stood in the center of a triangle formed by the three of them.
  Jerry had become a creature infected with teeming nodules of light
  that seemed to eat at him, thousands of them in continuous motion,
  a silver blanket of luminous insects that boiled from the other
  three in a constant radiant stream.  Like Gonzales, Lizzie stood
  watching.

  The Aleph-figure called out to them, "Jerry's very sick," and
  Gonzales felt a moment of superstitious awe and guilt, as if he
  had been the one to trigger this by thinking about it.

  "What can we do?" Lizzie asked.

  "We can try to help him," the Aleph-figure said.  "Stay here,
  be patientwith all our resources, I can keep him together."

  "What's the point?" Gonzales asked.  "We can't stay like this
  forever."

  "No," the Aleph-figure said.  "But if I have enough time, I
  can replicate him here."

  Out of her boiling river of light, Diana said, "Please!" her
  voice ringing with her urgency and fear.  Gonzales suddenly felt
  ashamed that he was quibbling about what was possible here and
  what was not, as if he knew.  "I'll do it," he said.  "I'll do
  what I can."

  "Just watch," the Aleph-figure said.  "And wait.
  #

  Gonzales came up hard and crazy, his body shuddering
  involuntarily, his vision reduced to a small, uncertain tunnel
  through black mist, and practically his only coherent thought was,
  what the hell is going on?

  Showalter's voice said, "Is he in any danger?"

  "No," Charley said.  "But we didn't allow for proper
  desynching, so his brain chemistry is aberrant."

  "Good," Traynor's voice said, and Gonzales was really spooked
  thenwhat the fuck was Traynor doing here?  how long had he been
  in the egg?

  Charley said, "He's pulling his catheters loose.  Let's get
  some muscle relaxant in him, for Christ's sake."

  Gonzales felt a brief flash of pain and heard a drug gun's
  hiss, and  when mechanical arms lifted him onto a gurney, he lay
  quiet, stunned.
  #

  Gonzales came to full consciousness to find himself in a
  three-bed ward watched over by a sam.  Charley arrived within
  minutes of Gonzales's waking, looking strung out, as if he hadn't
  slept in days.  His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a chaotic nest
  of free-standing spikes.  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure."

  "You're basically all right, but your neurotransmitter
  profiles haven't normalized, and so you might have a rough time
  emotionally and perceptually for a while."

  No shit, Gonzales thought.  He'd come out of the egg mighty
  ugly some other times, but had never had to cope with anything
  like this.  His body felt alive with nervous, uncontrollable
  energy, as if his skin might jump off him and begin dancing to a
  tune of its own.  Everywhere he looked, the world seemed on the
  edge of some vast change, as colors fluctuated ever so slightly,
  and the outlines of objects went wobbly and uncertain.  And he
  felt anxiety everywhere, coming off objects like heat waves off a
  desert rock, as if the physical world was radiating dread.

  "For how long?" Gonzales asked.

  "I don't know, but it might take a few days, might take more.
  I've been watching your brain chemistry closely, and the
  readjustment curve looks to me to be smooth but slow."

  "How's Lizzie?"

  "In the same boat, but doing a little better than youshe
  wasn't under as long as you were.  Doctor Heywood is still in full
  interface."

  "Why?"

  "Because we couldn't start the desynching sequences."

  "What?  Why not?"

  "Impossible to say.  Same for your memexshe and it are
  still locked into contact with Aleph and Jerry.  At some point,
  we'll have to do a physical disconnect and hope for the best."

  "What the hell is going on here?  What's wrong with Jerry?
  Aleph said he was in trouble."

  "His condition has changed for the worse.  We're keeping him
  alive now, but I don't know for how much longer.  I don't even
  know if we're going to try for much longer.  Ask your boss."

  "Traynor.  He is here.  I thought maybe I'd hallucinated
  that."

  "No, you didn't "  As Charley's voice trailed off, Gonzales
  could hear the implied finish:  I wish you had.  Charley said,
  "I'll have someone find him and bring him in; he said he wanted to
  talk to you as soon as you were awake."
  #

  Gonzales sat in a deep post-interface haze, listening to
  Traynor berate SenTrax Group Halo.  "These people have no sense of
  responsibility," Traynor said.

  "To SenTrax Board?" Gonzales asked.

  "To anyone other than Aleph and the Interface Collective.
  It's obvious that Showalter has let them take over the decision-
  making process."

  Even in his foggy mental state, Gonzales saw what Traynor
  would make of this one.  Showalter was the sacrificial corporate
  goat, and whoever replaced her would have as first priority
  reasserting Earth-normal SenTrax management strategies.  To put it
  another way, through Traynor, the board was taking back control.
  And presumably Traynor would receive appropriate rewards.

  "The collective " Gonzales said.  "Aleph "  He stopped,
  simply locking up as he thought of trying to explain to Traynor
  how things worked here, how things had to work here, because of
  Aleph.

  "Easy does it," Traynor said.  "The doctors say you had a
  rough time in there, and that's what I mean, Mikhail:  they don't
  have a rational research protocol; they don't take reasonable
  precautions.  Hell, you're lucky to have gotten off as easily as
  you did."

  "How did you get here so quickly?" Gonzales asked.  He simply
  couldn't find the words to explain to Traynor where he was going
  wrong.

  "I've consulted with Horn from the beginning."  Traynor
  turned away, as if suddenly fascinated by something on the far
  wall.  "Standard procedure," he said.  "And as soon as Horn let me
  know what was going on, I caught a ride on a military shuttle."

  Cute as a shithouse rat, Gonzales thought.  Not that he was
  surprised, thoughTraynor moved his players around without regard
  to their wishes.  Gonzales asked, "Will Horn replace Showalter?"

  Traynor turned back to face him.  "On an interim basis,
  probably, as soon as I get a course of action okayed by the board.
  Later, we'll see."

  "What now?"

  "Some decisions have to be made.  I have let them maintain
  Jerry Chapman until now, but as soon as they can solve the problem
  of getting Doctor Heywood released from this interface, I intend
  to turn control of the project over to Horn and let him take the
  appropriate actions."

  Gonzales was filled with sadness for reasons that he could
  not communicate to this man.  He said instead, "Look, Traynor, I'm
  really tired."

  "Sure, Mikhail.  You rest, take it easy.  Once you're feeling
  better, we'll talk, but I know what I need to at the moment."

  Traynor left, and Gonzales lay for some time in the elevated
  hospital bed, his mind wheeling without apparent pattern, as the
  world around him flashed its cryptic signals and anxiety moved
  through him in strong waves.

  Fucking asshole, Gonzales thought, Traynor's satisfied smile
  looming in his mind's eye.  I hate you.  And he wondered at the
  violence of what he felt.

  He lay dozing, then sometime later he opened his eyes, and he
  knew he needed to try to function.  A sam moved across the floor
  toward him and said, "Do you require my assistance?"

  "Hang on to me while I get out of bed," Gonzales said.  "I'm
  not sure how well I'm moving."

  The sam moved next to the bed, extended two clusters of
  extensors, and said, "Hold on and you can use me as a stepping
  place."

  Moving very carefully, Gonzales took hold of the claw-like
  extensors, swung his legs out of bed, and stepped onto the sam's
  back, then to the floor.  "Thanks," he said.  "I need to wash up."

  "You're welcome.  The shower is through that door."
  #

  The sam told Gonzales where he could find Lizzie and Charley.
  On shaky legs, Gonzales walked down a flight of steps and turned
  into a hallway done in blue-painted lunar dust fiberboard with
  aluminum moldings.  Halfway down the hall, he came to a door with
  a sign that said Primary Control Facilities.  A sign on the
  door lit with the message, Wait for Verification, then said
  Enter, and the door swung open.

  Charley sat amid banks of monitor consoles; in front of him,
  most of the lights flashed red and amber.  Gonzales thought he
  looked even sadder and tireder than before.  Lizzie stood next to
  him, and Gonzales saw her with joy and relief.  "Hello," he said,
  and Charley said, "Hi."  Lizzie waved and smiled briefly, but both
  her actions came from somewhere very distant, as if she were
  saying goodbye to a cousin from the window of a departing train.
  Gonzales's anxiety shifted into overdrive, and he found himself
  unable to say a word.

  Eric Chow's voice from the console said, "Charley, we've got
  a problem."

  Charley started to reach for the console, then stopped and
  said, "Do you want to watch this?"  He looked at both Lizzie and
  Gonzales.

  "I need to," Lizzie said.

  "Me, too," Gonzales said.

  Charley waved his hands in the air and said, "Okay," and
  flipped a switch.  The console's main screen lit with a picture of
  the radical care facility where Jerry was being maintained.  Half
  a dozen people floated around the central bubble; they wore white
  neck-to-toe surgical garb and transparent plastic head covers.
  Inside the bubble, the creature that had been Jerry spasmed inside
  a restraining net.  His every body surface seemed to vibrate, and
  he made a high keening that Gonzales thought was the worst noise
  he'd ever heard.

  "Eric, have you got a diagnosis?" Charley asked.

  Eric turned to face the room's primary camera.

  "Yeah, total neural collapse."

  "Prognosis?"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "For the record, Eric."

  Gonzales noticed with some fascination that Eric had begun to
  sweat visibly as he and Charley talked, and now the man's eyes
  seemed to grow larger, and he said, "He's deadhe's been dead, he
  will be deadand he's worse dead than he was before  he'll tear
  himself to pieces on the restraints, I supposethat's my
  prognosis.  This is not a goddamn patient, Charley.  This is a
  frog leg from biology class, that's all.  Man, we need to talk
  this thing over with Aleph."

  Charley said, "We can't contact Aleph; no one can."

  "Fucking shit," Eric said.

  Gonzales turned as the door behind him opened, and saw
  Showalter and Horn coming in.  Showalter's nostrils were flared
  she was angry and suspiciouswhile Horn was trying to look poker-
  faced, but Gonzales could see through him like he was made of
  glassthe motherfucker was happy; things were going the way he
  wanted.

  "The report I got was half an hour old," Showalter said.
  "What's new?"

  "Talk to Eric," Charley said.

  Lizzie went toward the side door, and Gonzales followed her
  out of the room, along the narrow hallway and into the room where
  Diana lay under black, webbed restraining straps.  Her face was
  pale, but her vital signs were strong, and her neural activity was
  high-end normal in all modes.  The twins sat next to her, making
  comments unintelligible to anyone but themselves and intently
  watching the monitor screen, where amber and green were the
  predominant colors.

  A great beefy man walked circles around Diana's couch.  He
  had thick arms and a pot belly and a low forehead under thick
  black hair; and his brow was wrinkled as if he were to puzzling
  out the nature of things.  As he walked, the words tumbled out of
  him.  When he saw Lizzie and Gonzales, he said, "Very unusual,
  very tricky.  Troubling.  Troubling but interesting.  Very
  troubling.  Very interesting.  When  whenwhenwwhenwhenwhen  when
  I find, find it, hah, I'll know then."

  Lizzie said, "Any recent changes?"

  Shaking his head sideways, he continued to walk.

  Lizzie went back into the hallway, and Gonzales stopped her
  there by putting his hand on her arm.  He asked, "Are you all
  right?"

  "I don't know," she said, and he could read some of his own
  trouble in her face.  But there was something else there, a closed
  look to her face.  She said, "Please don't ask questions.  Too
  much is going on now."

  The door opened immediately when they came up, and they found
  Showalter saying, "We are not meddling in those matters.  We are
  asking you to give us a choice of actions."

  "What's up?" Lizzie asked.

  The four of them turned to look at the screen, which had
  suddenly gone silent.
  #

  On the polished steel of the table, a gutted carcass lay.  On
  the corpse's ventral surface, flaps of skin had been peeled back
  to reveal the empty abdominal and thoracic cavities; on its dorsal
  surface, the spine stood bare.  The top of the head had been sawn
  off, the brain removed, the scalp dropped down to the neck.

  A sam moved around the table, its stalks whispering beneath
  it.  It pulled a steel trolley on which sat a number of labeled
  plastic bags, each containing an organ.  The sam stopped and took
  one of the bags from the table and set it next to the carcass's
  open skull.  It slit the plastic with a serrated extensor, then
  reached into the bag with a pair of spidery seven-fingered
  "hands," gently lifted the brain inside, tilted it, and placed it
  into the skull, then fit the skull's sawn top back in place.
  Using surgical thread and a needle appearing from an extensor, the
  sam quickly basted the scalp flaps to hold the two parts of the
  skull together.  As the minutes passed, the sam worked to replace
  the carcass's organs and stitch its frontal edges.

  The sam pushed the trolley aside and brought up a gurney with
  a shroud of white cotton lying open on it.  One extensor under the
  corpse's thighs, the other under the top of its spine, the sam
  lifted the corpse and placed it into the shroud.  It brought the
  sides of the shroud together and, using again the silk thread and
  needle, sewed the cotton shut.

  The sam stood motionless for a moment, this part of the job
  finished, then gathered the empty plastic bags and placed them in
  a disposal chute.  It scrubbed the autopsy table, working quickly
  with four stiff brushes held in its extensors, then washed the
  table with a steam hose that came from the ceiling.

  Guiding itself by infrared, the sam pushed the shroud-laden
  gurney through a darkened hallway and into a freight elevator at
  the hallway's end.  The elevator moved out to Halo's farthest
  level, just inside the hull.

  The sam pushed the gurney toward a doorway flanked by red
  warning lights and a lit sign that read:

  NO ACCESS WITHOUT EXPLICIT AUTHORIZATION!
  KEY CODE AND RETINAL CONFIRM REQUIRED!

  The sam transmitted its access codes to the door as it went, got
  the confirming codes, and didn't pause as it went through the
  doors that swung open just in time to let it through.  The sam
  began to make a noise, a quarter-tone keening, once it was through
  the door.

  Steel boxes twenty meters high loomed amid concrete piers
  reaching up to darkness.  Soil pipes came out of the boxes and
  threaded the piers; duct work held in place by taut guys crossed
  beneath.

  Still making its lament, the sam stopped at one of the boxes
  and extended a piece of sheathed fiberoptic cable with a metal
  fitting at the end; it plugged the fitting into a panel where
  tell-tale lights flickered.  It stood for perhaps half a minute,
  exchanging information with the recycling furnace's control
  mechanisms, then unplugged its cable and hissed across the metal
  floor to the gurney.  Behind it, a furnace door swung open.

  Keening loudly, it pushed the gurney to the mouth of the open
  door, stopped and was silent for a moment, then slid the bag from
  the gurney into the furnace door.



  PART IV. of V.
  The privileged pathology affecting all kinds of components in this
  universe is stresscommunications breakdown.
  Donna Haraway, "A Manifesto for Cyborgs"




  16. Deeper Underground


  Gonzales had awakened that morning to the sounds of the city
  coming through the walls:  distant creaks and crunches and faint,
  almost sub-sonic rumbles, the voices of the great circle of metal
  and crushed rock spinning across the night.  Now he sat on his
  terrace, one of half a dozen climbing the side of Halo's hull,
  each built on the roof of the dwelling below.  Five-petaled
  frangipani blossoms, brilliant red and purple, exploded from the
  thick, stubby branches of a tree just outside his front window.
  The air smelled rich and moist this morning, sign of a high point
  on the humidity curve, just before the start of a major
  reclamation cycle; one of the smells of a city where everything
  organic had to be preserved and transformedwater, oxygen, and
  carbon, all rare and dear.

  Below him, Ring Highway carried Halo's trafficin its
  outside lanes, people on foot and bicycle; in the center lanes,
  trams and freighters moving along magnetic rails.  A young couple,
  man and woman, knelt beside a rose bush growing beside the roadway
  and examined its leaves.  The woman laid a hand on the man's arm,
  and he glanced up at her and smiled, then brushed her cheek with
  his hand.

  He was struck by the strangeness of this city, where the
  small pieces of people's lives were elevated to the extraordinary
  by their taking place in an artificial city and under an
  artificial sky.

  As a child he had flown into Tokyo with his family, back when
  the trip took the better part of a day, and the incredible neon
  density of the city had swept through him like a virus, and he had
  thrown up the first meal (fish and noodles with chrysanthemum
  leaves, he remembered) and stayed pale and feverish through most
  of the first two days he'd spent there.

  Tokyo he'd come to terms with quickly; about Halo, he didn't
  know.  Though he could read Halo's language and read its signs, he
  knew the city was much farther awayin miles from home, yes, but
  also along axes he could not measure.  Halo contained an infinite
  number of cities, an infinite number of possibilities, and so to
  participate fully in Halo required opening yourself to a reality
  that had gone multiplex, uncertain, frightening.

  In fact, he was having trouble coming to grips with anything.
  Since being taken from the egg, he had felt odd and uncomfortable,
  and he continued to trod a hallucinatory edge, one he occasionally
  stepped overlast night, as he lay trying to sleep, abstract
  figures drawn in thin red lines played across his ceiling,
  sweeping arabesques in an alien or fictive alphabet just beyond
  human understanding

  And there was Lizzie:  she would not see him or talk to him
  and gave no explanation except that she had problems of her own
  right now.  Gonzales felt an unspeakable sadness at the distance
  between them.  To the mocking voice that asked, what have you
  lost? he could only answer, possibility.  He had come back around
  to where he was just a few days ago, but now that place seemed
  unacceptable.

  Gonzales put his coffee cup down and sat staring at it.  Made
  of lunar-soil ceramic, colored a robin's egg blue, it stood
  nondescript yet somehow foregrounded, apart from its surroundings
  and projecting a numinous quality, an internal, entirely non-
  visible shimmer, an indeterminacy of form

  Click, Gonzales heard, a noise the universe made to itself
  when it thought no one was listening, and he thought Christ, what
  is going on here?

  Feeling sick anxiety rising in his chest, he got up and went
  into his bedroom; there he undid the complicated latch on his
  wrist bracelet and placed it on the white-painted metal surface of
  his dresser.

  Anonymous, unmonitored, he passed through the living room and
  out the door and walked away.
  #

  Gonzales strolled alongside Ring Highway, drawn to nothing in
  particular but absolutely unwilling to go back to the empty block
  of apartments and the isolation and anxiety waiting there.

  He found himself in the Plaza, where Lizzie had taken him and
  Diana their first night at Halo.  He passed across the square, by
  the sign that read VIRTUAL CAF, then stood motionless, watching
  the flow of people around him.  Some walked alone, striding
  purposefully, or moving slowly, lost in thought; others walked
  together, talking cheerfully or intently:   monkey business,
  Gonzales thought, wondering what HeyMex would say about these
  people and their movementswhat did it all mean?

  "Gonzales," he heard, his name called in a high-pitched,
  unfamiliar singsong.  He turned and saw the twins.

  As they approached, one was muttering in a fast, low,
  gibberish; she wore black coveralls and stared sadly at the
  ground.  The other was smiling; her face was daubed with white
  paint, and she wore a white blouse and a peculiar skirt of light-
  blue cloth that had been rough-cut and stitched together without
  benefit of measurement or seams; on its front a crude likeness of
  a rabbit had been drawn in red neon paint.

  The smiling twin, the one whose dark skin was streaked with
  white, said in clear tones and formal cadence, "Today she is
  Alice."  She pirouetted clumsily, her skirt billowing around her.
  She said, "Her sister is Eurydice."  She pointed to the other
  girl, who buried her face in her hands.  She said, "Alice is
  sweetness and smiles, small steps and starched crinolines;
  Eurydice is sorrow and languorous repose and black silk.  Between
  them they measure the poles of dream."  She stepped back and
  smiled; her twin smiled with her.  "Are you having problems,
  Mister Gonzales?" she asked.  "The collective believe so.  We
  believe you are lost between worlds.  Is this so?"

  "Perhaps I am," he said.

  "Well, then," she said.  She put the index finger of her
  right hand to pursed lips and her eyes looked back and forth.
  "I'm thinking," she said.  Seconds passed, then she said, "I know
  what you must do."

  "What's that?" Gonzales asked.

  "Follow us," she said.  The other twin nodded, spoke
  gobbledygook, looked at Gonzales through a mask of intense sorrow,
  as if on the verge of shedding endless tears.

  "To where?" Gonzales asked.

  "Don't be stupid," the Alice twin said.  "Where would Alice
  and Eurydice take you?"

  "Down the rabbit hole?" Gonzales asked.

  The Alice twin smiled; the Eurydice twin shook her head

  "Underground?" Gonzales asked again.

  The twins smiled in what seemed to be perfect
  synchronization.
  #

  At the bottom of Spoke 2, where a lighted sign announced
  ELEVATOR ARRIVES IN 10 MINUTES, the twins led Gonzales through
  an arched tunnel under the spoke.  As they walked, the two ahead
  of him muttering back and forth in their unintelligible patter, he
  realized the floor must be curving downward, passing underneath
  the main level of the ring.  Blue globes down the center of the
  ceiling provided soft light.  After about another hundred steps,
  they came to a door at the tunnel's end.  Across the door, bright
  red lighted words said:
  CASUAL SIGHTSEEING DISCOURAGED BEYOND THIS POINT.
  DO YOU WISH TO ENTER?

  The Alice twin turned and pointed to the sign.  She shrugged
  elaborately, as if to say, well?

  "I want to enter," Gonzales said.

  "Come in," the door said, and it slid sideways into its
  frame.

  The three stepped into a dim vastness, a world beneath the
  world, and followed a central walkway marked with flashing arrows
  and an intermittent legend that flashed, UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
  FOLLOW LIGHTED PASSAGE.

  They passed a series of workshops, partitioned cubicles
  screened behind containment curtains.  Light came from one open
  doorway; the twins stopped, and the Eurydice twin gestured for
  Gonzales to look inside.

  Hundreds of pots stood on shelves that lined the small room's
  walls from floor to ceiling.  Many were simple, almost spherical
  containers with wide top mouths, in baked red clay.  Others of the
  same shape were glazed and painted and marked with a single band
  of color around the waist: bright primaries against clear pastels.
  Still others were of complex shape and design, difficult to take
  in at a glance.

  An old woman sat bent over a potter's wheel.  She crooned
  tuneless gibberish as her large hands shaped the wet, spinning
  clay.  She looked up at Gonzales standing in the doorway.  Her
  face was deeply-lined, her skin pale; she had straight brows above
  dark eyes.  She wore an off-white dress that fell to the floor and
  an apron of a black rubbery material.  Her hair was covered by a
  dark blue scarf that was pulled tight and tied at the back.

  The old woman laughed, turned back to her wheel, and began to
  croon once more.  Under her hands the clay began to grow upward
  and acquire form.  She shaped it inside and out, demiurge reaching
  into the heart of matter, until it became a squat-bottomed pot
  rotating on the wheel.

  The wheel stopped, and with quick, delicate movements she
  placed the new-formed pot on a stand next to the wheel.  She
  reached inside the pot and her hands worked, but Gonzales couldn't
  see precisely what she was doingher body screened him.  Then she
  took a rack of paints and brushes from a shelf above her head and
  began to paint the surface of the pot.

  As she worked, she looked up occasionally, but didn't seem to
  mind the three of them standing there, so they stood and watched
  Gonzales was fascinated by the quick intensity of her movements,
  eager to see what the pot would look like.

  Finally she turned it so they could see her work.  On the
  pot's side was a face, its nose and mouth just painted
  protuberances in the clay, its eyes painted oval dimples.  The
  pot's bulbous shape distorted the features of the face, but as
  Gonzales looked more closely at it, he saw

  His own face, in malign parody, its features hideously
  contorted.

  The woman laughed, gleeful at his sudden recoil.  She picked
  up the pot and looked at the face, then at him, then at the pot
  again, and she laughed again, very loudly, and squeezed the pot
  between her clay-spattered hands, squeezed it again and again,
  until it was a shapeless lump of color-shot clay.  She threw the
  lump across the room into a large metal bin that sat against the
  far wall.

  "Ohhhh," from the twins, their voices in unison.  "Ohhhh."

  "We're not frightened," the Alice twin said.  The other twin
  covered her face with her hands.  "Silly old woman," the Alice
  twin said.

  The old woman's eyes stayed on Gonzales as she reached into a
  plastic bag full of wet clay and separated out another clump to
  work on.  She was working it on the unmoving wheel when the twins
  started making shrill hooting noises, and ran away.

  Her crooning had begun again as Gonzales followed them down
  the path.
  #

  Next to the path was a gateway, with a sign that said, in
  glowing letters:
  HALO MUSHROOM CULTIVATION CENTER
  ABSOLUTELY NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
  BEYOND THIS POINT!

  About a hundred feet from where Gonzales stood, a metal
  stairway led up to a catwalk that passed over the mushroom farm.
  He looked back along the shadowed way he'd come, then forward to
  where small, isolated shafts of bright sunlight slanted down into
  the mushroom farm, and beyond, to where shapes faded into
  darkness.   Either the twins had left him, or they had gone in
  here.

  Gonzales stepped up to the gateway and said, "Hello, I'm
  looking for two girls, twins."

  "One moment, please," the gateway said.  As Gonzales had
  expected, common courtesy would dictate that a gatekeeper
  mechanism respond to those who didn't have the access key.

  Gonzales stood bemused in the semi-darkness for some time,
  until a woman came to the other side of the gate and said,
  "Hello."  She was small and darkher skin a delicate brown, eyes
  black under just the slightest epicanthic fold.  She wore black
  boots to the knee, a long black skirt, a loose jacket of rose silk
  with butterflies in darker rose brocade.  She was exquisite, the
  bones of her face delicate, her movements graceful.  She said, "My
  name is Trish.  The twins are inside, waiting for you."

  "My name is Gonzales."

  "I know.  Come in."  As she said the final words, the gate
  swung open.  She waited, watching, as Gonzales stepped through,
  and the gate closed behind him.

  "How do you know my name?" he asked.

  "From the collective.  I am friends with many of them  the
  twins, of course, and others  Lizzie."  She stood solemnly
  watching him, then said, "What do you know about mushroom
  cultivation?"

  "Nothing."  All over Washington state, he was aware,
  mushrooms grew, and people hunted them with great dedication,
  sometimes bringing back what they regarded as enormous successes:
  chanterelle, boletus, shaggy mane, morel.  In fact, to someone
  from Southern Florida, the whole business had seemed not only
  quaint and Northwestern, but also dangerous:  Gonzales knew that
  what seemed a lovely treat could be a destroying angel.

  "All right."  Trish stopped, and he stopped next to her.  She
  turned to him, and he was aware now of her deep red lips and white
  teeth.  She said, "Halo needs mushrooms as decomposersthey're
  incredibly efficient at converting dead organic matter into
  cellulose."  Gonzales nodded.  She said, "In a natural setting
  whether here or on Earthspores compete:  many die, and some find
  a place where they can flourish, grow into a mycelial mass that
  will fruit, become a mushroom.  As mushroom growers, we intervene,
  as all cultivators do, to isolate certain species and provide
  favorable conditions for their growth.  But our 'seeds,' if you
  will, the spores, are very small things, and to locate them,
  isolate them, bring them to spawn, this requires delicacy and
  techniquein a word, art."

  She paused, and Gonzales nodded.

  They came to a low structure of plastic sheets draped over
  metal walls and stopped in front of a door labeled STERILE
  INOCULATION ROOM.  They passed through a hanging sheet into an
  anteroom to the sterile lab beyond.  She said, "Take a look
  through the window here."  Beyond the window, small robots worked
  at benches barely two feet high.  Like the robot he'd seen in the
  Berkeley Rose Gardens, they had wheels for locomotion and grippers
  with clusters of delicate fibroid fingers at their ends.

  She said, "Their hands have a delicacy and precision no human
  being can achieve.  And they are single-minded in their
  concentration on the jobthey preserve our intentions completely
  and purely."

  "They are machines."

  "If you wish."  She pointed through the window, where one of
  the robots manipulated ugly looking inoculation needles as it
  transferred some material into Petri dishes.  She said, "By their
  gestures I can identify my sams, even in a crowd of others."

  Gonzales said nothing.  She went on, "The pure mushroom
  mycelium is used to inoculate sterile grain or sawdust and bran.
  The mycelium expands through the sterile medium, and the result is
  known as spawn."

  "Too much technical stuff," she said, and smiled.  "Once we
  have spawn, the sams can take their baskets and go through Halo,
  placing the spawn into dead grass and wood, into seedling roots
  and the spawn will grow and bear fruitmushrooms."  She paused.
  "Any questions?"  Gonzales shook his head, no.  "Then let's go
  next door."

  They left the lab anteroom through the hanging curtain and
  turned left.  The building next to the lab was a fragile tent-like
  structure of metal struts and draped sheets of colorful plastic
  red, blue, yellow, and green.

  "This way," she said, from behind him.  She said, "It's
  around dinnertime for me.  Are you hungry?"

  "Not really," he said.  "What is this place?"

  "Home," she said.

  The interior was filled with cheery, diffuse lightthe shaft
  of sunlight Gonzales had seen outside here brought in and spread
  around.  The place seemed almost conventional, with ordinary walls
  and ceilings of painted wallboard.

  The twins waited in the kitchen, among flowers and bright
  yellow plastic work surfaces.  They sat at a central table and
  chairs of bleached oak.

  "Would you two like to eat?" Trish asked.

  "Yes," the Alice twin said.  "And we think that Mister
  Gonzales"she giggled"should have the special dinner."

  "I don't think so," Trish said.

  "What is she talking about?" Gonzales asked.

  The woman seemed hesitant.  She said, "I supply the
  collective with psychotropic mushrooms, varieties of Psilocybe for
  the most part."

  "They use them to prepare for interface," Gonzales said,
  guessing.

  "Sometimes," she said.  "At other times, it's not clear what
  they're using them for."

  "For inspiration," the Alice twin said.  "For imagination."

  "Consolation," the Eurydice twin said.  "When I remember
  Orpheus and our trip from the Undergroundthe terrible moment
  when he looked back and so lost me foreverthen I am very sad,
  and I eat Trish's mushrooms to plumb my sorrow.  And when I think
  of the day I joined the maenads who tore Orpheus to pieces, I eat
  Trish's mushroomswhich are the same as we ate that day, the body
  of the godthen I recall the frenzy with which we attacked the
  beautiful singer, and I recall my guilt afterward, and my sorrow,
  but I take solace from the knowledge that the god was pleased."

  "And I," the Alice twin said, "can grow ten feet tall."

  "The mushrooms can serve many purposes," Trish said.

  "You should eat mushrooms," the Alice twin said.  "You are
  both sad and confused.  They will help you grow large or small as
  the occasion demands."

  "Perhaps I am sad and confused," Gonzales admitted.  "But I
  think they would make me more so."  Around him, the room lights
  pulsed ever so slightly, and the shapes at the edge of his vision
  flickered.

  "Confused into clarity," the Eurydice twin said.  "If you
  cannot come up from Underground, you must go deeper in."

  An absurd idea, but it put barbs into his skin and clung
  there.  Gonzales asked, "Do the collective ever take the mushrooms
  after interface?"  Often enough, he had prepared to go into the
  egg by taking psychotropic drugs; why not the reverse, eat the
  mushrooms to recover from interface?  And he thought, the logic of
  Underground, of the Mirror.

  Suddenly he felt anxiety grip him so he could hardly breathe.
  He tottered a bit, then sat in a chair and looked at the others.
  The three women watched as he sat breathing deeply.  He said, "I
  want to take the mushrooms."

  "Are you sure?" Trish asked.

  "I want to."

  "All right," she said.  "First I will feed the twins, then I
  will prepare your mushrooms."

  Trish went to the refrigerator and took out a plastic bag
  filled with a mixture of vegetables and bean sprouts.  She pulled
  the rubber stopper from an Erlenmeyer flask and poured oil into
  the bottom of an unpainted metal wok that was heating over an open
  gas ring.  She waited until light smoke came out of the wok, then
  dumped in the vegetables and sprouts and stirred the mix for a
  minute or two.  She unplugged the rice cooker, a ceramic-coated
  steel canister, bright red, and carried it to where the twins sat.

  She put shining aluminum plates and chopsticks in front of
  the twins, opened the rice cooker and swept rice onto each plate,
  then tilted the wok and poured the steaming mixture inside it onto
  the rice.  "There," she said.  "That's for you two."  She looked
  across to where Gonzales sat, now oddly calm, and she said, "I'll
  be back in a minute."

  The twins ate with their eyes fixed on Gonzales.

  Trish came back with a small wire basket of mushrooms.
  "Psilocybe cubensis," she said.  "Of a variety cultivated here
  that has undergone some changes from the Earth-bound kind."  She
  held up an unremarkable mushroom with long white stem and brownish
  cap.

  "Do you ever make mistakes in identifying the mushrooms?"
  Gonzales asked.

  "No," Trish said.  She was smiling.  "We do not have to seek
  among thousands of kinds for the right one, as mushroom hunters
  do.  These are ours, grown as I told you, for our own needs."  She
  lay the mushrooms on the chopping block and began to slice them.
  "I cleaned them in the shed," she said. When she was done, she
  used the knife to slide the slices into a sky-blue ceramic bowl.
  She turned on the wok, poured more oil into it, and stood smiling
  at Gonzales as the oil heated.  When the first smoke came, she
  swept the mushrooms into the wok with quick motions of her
  chopsticks.  She stirred them for perhaps half a minute, then
  tilted the wok and poured them into the blue bowl.  She placed the
  bowl in front of Gonzales and laid black lacquered chopsticks
  across its rim.

  Gonzales picked up the chopsticks, lifted his plate, and
  began to eat, shoveling the mushrooms into his mouth.  Back at the
  wok, she stirred more vegetables in and said, "I'm making my
  dinner."

  Gonzales sat back, looking at the empty bowl.  Well, he
  thought, now we'll see.  He said, "How many kinds of mushrooms do
  you grow?"

  "Quite a few, some rather ordinary, others esotericfor
  purposes of research.  Aleph determines what kinds, how many."

  The twins had gone completely silent.  As Trish ate, they
  watched Gonzales, who had gone totally fatalistic.  What he had
  done seemed incredibly stupid, like applying heat to a burn
  common sense would tell him that.  He smiled, thinking, what did
  common sense have to do with his life these days?  The twins
  smiled back at him.

  "Who was that woman?" Gonzales asked.

  "Who do you mean?" Trish asked.

  "The old woman, the potter," Gonzales said.

  "She makes pots, and she teaches," Trish said.  "She's
  employed by SenTrax; she was brought here by Aleph."

  "Why?" Gonzales asked.  What did SenTrax or Aleph have to do
  with potting?

  "Pour encourager les autres," one of the twins said,
  distinctly.  Gonzales turned but couldn't tell who had spoken.

  Trish laughed.  "To encourage art at Halo," she said.
  "Pottery from lunar clay, stained glass and beta cloth tapestries
  from lunar silica."

  Gonzales sat thinking on these things until he realized that
  Trish had finished eating some time ago, and they had been sitting
  at the table for some timea very long time, it suddenly seemed
  to Gonzales.  Involuntarily, he shoved his chair back from the
  table.

  Trish said, "It's all right."  The twins got up from their
  chairs and walked behind him.  When he started to turn, he felt
  their hands on his shoulders and neck, kneading muscles that went
  liquid beneath their pressure.  Trish said, "It's begun.  Now you
  must go walking around Halo, up and down in it, to and fro "  She
  paused, and the twins' hands continued to work.  She said, "Walk
  in the woods, see what we have growing there  shaggy manes,
  garden giants, oyster and shiitake "

  "Shiitake," he saidshi-i-ta-keythe name's syllables
  falling like drops of molten metal through water

  She said, "The twins can guide you, or a sam can take you
  with it on an inoculation trip.  Or if you prefer, you can go by
  yourself."

  "Yes," he said, the image suddenly very compelling of him
  walking around the entire circle of the space city, exploring,
  finding out what lay beyond the visible.  "I'll go by myself."

  She said, "Go where you wish."  Her black hair sparkled with
  lights.  He wondered when she'd put them there, then thought maybe
  they'd been there all along.

  Behind him one of the twins whispered, "No need to be afraid.
  Go up, go down, where your fancy takes you."




  17. Flying, Dying, Growing



  Gonzales walked through a gloomy passageway where the ceiling
  came down to barely a foot above his head, and the dim shapes of
  massive machinery loomed in twilight.  Here in the deepest layers
  of the city, he could hear Halo's most primitive voices:  water
  from the upper world crashed and gurgled and sighed; hull plates
  groaned under acceleration; turbines whined.

  He was suddenly aware of his proximity to the unmoving
  shield, the circle of crushed rock that sat just outside the
  city's rim, protecting Halo's soft-bodied inhabitants from the
  bursts of radiation that could cook their flesh.  Barely two
  meters away inside the outer shield, the living ring rotated at
  nearly two hundred miles per hour, and Gonzales had a sudden
  picture in his mind's eye of the two ever so slightly brushing,
  and of the horrible consequences, Halo tearing itself apart as the
  fragile ring shattered on massive, unmoving rock

  Gonzales froze as he saw strangely-shaped things moving among
  the twining machinery.  "What?" he called.  "What?"

  Shadows and light

  Ahead a warm pool of yellowGonzales ran toward it.  Above
  an open doorway, the sign read:
  SPOKE 3 INTERNAL LIFT
  INTENDED FOR HEAVY MACHINERY
  The elevator's floor was scarred metal, and the walls were lined
  with bent protecting struts of bright steel.  Gonzales stepped
  inside.

  "Will you take me up?" Gonzales asked.

  "Yes," the lift said.  "How far do you want to go?"

  "To Zero-Gate."  And Gonzales looked back into the darkness
  beyond, realizing he was still afraid that whatever he had seen
  there would come.  "Please, let's go," he said, the doors slid
  closed, and he felt a surge of acceleration and heard the whine of
  electric motors.

  Gonzales watched the lift's progress on a lighted display
  over the doorway.   When the lift stopped, he stood in silence,
  euphoric in near-zero gravity, ready to fly.  He stepped through
  the open doors and followed arrows along a small corridor of plain
  steel walls and ceiling and a deck covered by thin protective
  carpet, like a ship's interior.  His feet seemed ready to lift
  from the flooring.

  Overhead lights pulsed slowlydimming, color shifting into
  the blue, the red, then back to yellow, growing brighter  a
  musical note sounded just at the limits of hearing.  Gonzales
  stopped, fascinated.  So beautiful, these little thingsHalo had
  such odd surprises, when one looked closely.

  A voice said, "Please choose traction slippers."  Gonzales
  saw what seemed to be hundreds of soft black shoes stuck to the
  wall by their own velcro soles.  He took a pair and slipped them
  over his shoes, then tightened their top straps.  His fingers were
  large, numb sausages at the end of long, long arms.

  He stepped into a round chamber marked SPIN DECOUPLER and
  walked out into the still center of the turning world.  As he
  moved forward gingerly in the near-zero gravity, his feet
  alternately stuck to the catwalk surface and pulled loose with
  small ripping sounds.

  He moved to the rail and looked into the open space of Zero-
  Gate.  It opened out and out and out until he could feel the vast
  sphere as a pressure in his chest.

  People flew here, he had known that, but he had not imagined
  how beautiful they would be, scores of them hanging from strutted
  wings the colors of a dozen rainbows.  Most of the flyers wore
  tights colored to match their sails, and they danced like
  butterflies across the sky, calling to one another, their voices
  the only sounds here, shouting warning and intention.

  Then a flyer's wings collapsed as they caught on another
  flyer's feet, and the man with crippled wings tumbled through the
  air in something like slow motion, pulling in his wing braces as
  he fell.  Gonzales wanted to scream.  He leaned over the railing
  to watch as the flyer curled into a ball, his feet pointed toward
  the wall in front of him, and hit the wall and seemed to sink into
  its deep-padded surface.

  The man grabbed bunched wall fabric and worked his way down
  to a catwalk across the expanse of Zero-Gate almost directly in
  front of Gonzales and pulled himself across the railing.  He stood
  and waved.  All the other flyers cheered, their voices rising and
  falling in a rhythmical chant with words Gonzales couldn't
  understand.

  A voice said, "If you do not have clearance to fly, please
  secure yourself with a safety line."  No, Gonzales thought, almost
  in despair, I don't have clearance.  He didn't understand how to
  flywhat was dangerous and what was not.  Looking behind him, he
  saw chrome buckle ends spaced around the wall and went over and
  pulled on one.  Safety line paid out until he stopped and looped
  the line around his waist and snapped the buckle to it.

  He suddenly felt himself falling.  His eyes told him he stood
  tethered, but he was confused by the constant motion of the flyers
  in the air around him, and he felt that nothing held him to the
  ground (there was no ground), nothing could keep him from falling
  into this sky canyon, this abyss.

  A flyer came toward him then, sweeping across the intervening
  space with the effortless grace of a dream of flight, the flyer's
  wings marked with green and yellow dragons, body sheathed in
  emerald tights, and Gonzales suddenly believed this was someone
  come to get him, how or why he couldn't say.

  He tried to get into the spin decoupler, but his safety line
  restrained him until he unsnapped it, then he almost fell into the
  metal cylinder as the line hissed home behind him.  Out of the
  decoupler, he ran along the corridor, his steps taking him high
  into the air so that he lost his balance and caromed off a wall
  and rolled along the floor, his slippers grabbing fruitlessly at
  the carpet with a series of brief ripping sounds.

  He crawled toward an elevator, not the one he'd ridden up but
  an ordinary passenger lift, empty thank god, and he tore the
  slippers off his feet and stood and moved through the lift door.
  "Down," Gonzales said and felt the floor move and still felt
  himself falling.
  #

  Gonzales had been sitting in the Plaza for some time.

  Fifty meters away, against the wall of the Virtual Caf,
  crawled a profusion of biomorphic shapes, large and small, all in
  constant motion.  Delicate creatures of pink and green thread
  floated on invisible currents; leering amoeboids with wide eyes
  and gaping, saw-toothed mouths put out pseudopodia and flowed into
  them; red corkscrews thrust in phallic rhythm against all they
  touched; great undulating paramecium shapes swam like rays among
  the smaller fauna

  Gonzales floated somewhere among them:  he seemed to have
  lost his body as well as his mind.  Inside his head a voice
  lectured him on body knowledge:

  Proprioception, the voice said, vision, and the vestibular
  sensethey tell us we own the body we live in.  Think, man,
  think:  where have you placed your body's senses?

  Few people were in the Plaza.  Gonzales had stepped out of
  the lift and into darkness and fog, an unfamiliar cityscape, where
  clouds hung close to the ground and truncated shapes appeared
  suddenly in the mist.

  He heard the swish of a sam's passage and suddenly,
  unpremeditatedly called out, "What is going on?  Why is it cold
  and foggy?"

  The sam stopped.  It said, "Why do you wish to know?"

  "It just seems  unusual," Gonzales said.

  "It is."

  The sam's extensors moved with cryptic, malign intent, and
  its words implied an uncertain threat as it said, "Do you require
  assistance?"

  What did it mean by that?  How did it know something was
  wrong with him?  "No," Gonzales said.  Then he jumped up and
  shouted, "No!"

  Gonzales walked quickly away from the Plaza, now certain that
  it was unsafe for him, though he couldn't have said why.  As he
  walked, the darkness grew deeper, and he tried with all the
  courage he had to put aside the constant sense of him and the
  city, falling, falling

  The Ring Highway shrank in width as he passed into an
  agricultural section.  He knew that terraced gardens climbed away
  to both sides, fields of corn and wheat, but he couldn't see them,
  because the fog was even thicker here than in the suburban
  district he had passed through.  Dim lights shined from a cottage
  block just off the highway.  A voice called and was answered, both
  call and response unintelligible.

  Near Spoke 4, whose lifts made ghostly trails of light as
  they moved up and down the face of the shaft, trees grew just off
  the highway.  The road gave off intermittent flashes beneath his
  feet, as though iron shoes struck a metaled surface.  The fog
  acquired faces:  somber, eyeless masks turning in slow motion so
  that their blank gazes followed him along.

  "Oh, Christ," Gonzales said.  He stopped and wrapped his arms
  around his chest.   A fog-borne shape inched closer to him; red
  flame burned behind its empty eye sockets.  He ran into the woods.

  This was not dense forest, and in sunshine he would have been
  able to run through here without difficulty.  Now, among the inky
  pools of almost total darkness and the gray and silver shadows, he
  came up against a small, wiry sapling that caught him and hurled
  him back.

  The ground began to grow soggy beneath his feet, and soon he
  pushed through reeds and rushes, and his feet slipped on muddy
  patches and into small, wet holes; then he was up to his ankles in
  water, aware for the first time of a rich smell of decomposition,
  decay

  He turned back, trying to find dry ground, and soon his feet
  thumped against the hard-packed soil of a path.  Looking down, he
  could see the path as a glowing gray, outlined in red.  He ran
  along it until he heard the sound of rushing water.

  He came to a series of steps alongside a falls, where the
  River cascaded onto rocks, then quickly spread out into pond and
  marsh.  The waters were alive with light, and he ran up and down
  the steps, following streams of energy that burst forth in red and
  yellow and purple and green and whitecolors that shifted in hue
  and intensity, grew lighter and darker, intertwined with one
  another

  "This grows!" he shouted, feeling the waters' energy rise and
  fall, seeing it spread to where plants could feed on it, animals
  could drink it.  The fog glowed with an opalescence from high
  above.

  He followed the steps down to where the river's noise
  quieted, and its waters flooded the plain.  He turned onto a path
  that led into the woods, and he came to a small clearing where the
  faint ambient light gleamed on fallen logs.  Mushrooms seemed to
  be everywhere in this small space, covering dead wood and
  spreading in profusion over the ground.

  He got on his knees to look at the mushrooms.  They were
  alive with veinlike arabesques in red, ghosts of electricity
  across the spongy flesh.  He picked them up, kind by kind,
  inhaling deeply, and the odor he had smelled earlier came to him
  again, a composty mix rich with the odors of transformation.

  Gonzales shivered with something like discovery:  he stood
  and looked up into the impenetrable sky and the fog. This place
  stood a quarter of a million miles from Earth, yet life had begun
  to extend its web here, and though the web was fragile and small
  by comparison to Earth's dense lacework of billions of living
  things, its very existence amazed Gonzales, and he felt the surge
  of an emotion he had no name for, a knot in his throat made of joy
  and sorrow and wonder.

  And he seemed on the brink of some illumination regarding
  this world of spirit and matter mixed

  Thoughts emerged and dispersed too quickly to catch among the
  videogame buzz and clatter in his brain as he stood in the
  clearing, paralyzed with a kind of ecstasy and watching life-
  electricity play among the trees.
  #

  The room said, "You have a call."

  "Who is it?" Lizzie asked.

  "She says her name is Trish.  The mushroom woman, she says."

  "Oh yes.  I'll take the call."

  On the wallscreen came Trish's familiar face, and Lizzie
  said, "Hello."

  Trish woman waved and said, "The twins brought me a friend of
  yours, named Gonzales, and I gave him mushrooms."

  "Really?" Lizzie said.

  "Yes, and I sent him out about seven hours ago."

  "Thanks for letting me know.  I'll find him."  The screen
  cleared, and Lizzie thought, you silly bastards, what did you get
  him into?  To the room she said, "Put out a call for information.
  Ask any sams who are out and about if they've seen Gonzales."
  #

  A sam waited at her front door.  "Are you the one who found
  him?" Lizzie asked.  The sam said, "No, that one waits with him,
  to provide assistance if needed.  Please come with me."

  "I'll be right there."

  Lizzie and the sam started out on the Ring Highway, and then
  it apparently gave an electronic signal to a passing tram, because
  the vehicle stopped so that the two could climb on.  Lizzie
  stepped quickly up, and the sam clumsily pulled itself aboard by
  grasping a chrome railing with one of its extensors.

  The tram let them off near Spoke 4.  A stand of trees was
  just visible through the fog; beyond, Lizzie knew, were marshes
  bordering "soup bowls"ponds where the flow from rice paddies
  mixed with the River's waters.

  Using both visible range and infrared sensors, the sam led
  her through the trees.  They came to a clearing where another sam
  stood to one side.  Gonzales sat on a fallen log, watching a
  mechanical vole chew small pieces of wood.  His clothes were wet
  and spattered with mud and dirt.  Next to him, a large orange cat
  also watched the vole.

  "Hi," Gonzales said.

  "Are you all right?" Lizzie asked.

  "I don't know," he said.  He reached out absent-mindedly and
  stroked the orange cat, which turned on its back and batted at his
  hand; apparently it didn't use its claws, because Gonzales left
  his hand there for the cat to play with.

  "Is our presence required?" asked the sam who had accompanied
  Lizzie.  She said, "No."  The two sams scurried away single-file,
  their passage almost silent.

  Lizzie sat on the log next to the cat.  She said, "How are
  you?"  He was giving off a near-audible buzz, and Lizzie resisted
  veering into his drug-space; she'd had problems herself since
  coming out of the eggnot as severe as Gonzales's, Charley said,
  because she hadn't been under as long.  "Still a bit jittery?" she
  asked.

  "I feel all right," he said.  "Just, I don't know  scrubbed.
  Why are things like thiscold and dark?"

  "That's not clear.  Things haven't been working right since
  Diana and HeyMex were disconnected."  Gonzales looked confused but
  not overly concerned.  She said, "There's other news, too.
  Showalter's been relieved of her position as head of SenTrax Halo;
  Horn's the new director."  Now he looked totally befuddled.  "You
  can worry about these things later," she said.  "Why don't you
  come back to my house?  You can get some sleep."

  "Okay," he said.  "But I don't understand "  He stopped
  again, as if trying to find words to express all the things he
  "didn't understand."

  "Nobody understands right now.  Aleph's just not working
  right, and we don't know whywe can't get in touch with it."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Glad you do, because nobody else does."

  He stood, then bent over to lift the cat from the log.
  Cradling it in his arms, he said, "Okay, I'll go."  He smiled at
  her, and the cat lay in his arms and looked at her out of big
  orange eyes.
  #

  Gonzales woke to find his clothes folded, clean and neat, on
  a chair next to his bed.  The orange cat lay at his feet; it
  raised its head when he got up, then curled up again and went back
  to sleep.

  He found Lizzie in the kitchen slicing apples and pears and
  Cheshire cheese.  "Good morning," she said.  "I'll warm some
  croissants, and we can have coffeedo you like steamed milk with
  yours?"

  Her voice was friendly enough but perfectly devoid of
  intimacy.  Its tones were an admonition saying keep your distance.
  "Sure," he said.  "That all sounds fine.  But you didn't have to
  do this."

  "You're a guest.  I'm happy to."  She wouldn't quite meet his
  gaze.

  >From his bedroom came a loud mew, and the two went in to find
  the orange cat, fur erect, confronting a cleaning mouse.  The
  mouse, a foot-long shining ovoid about four inches high, moved
  across the floor on hard rubber wheels, emitting a gentle hiss as
  it scoured the room for organic debris; a flex-tube trailed behind
  it to a socket in the wall.  "Kitty kitty," Gonzales said.  The
  cat hissed and ran from the room.

  When they got to the living room, the front door was closing.
  "Will it come back?" Gonzales asked.

  "Probably.  Cats come and go as they please, but they often
  adopt people, and I think this one's adopted you."


  Silence lay between them, and it seemed to Gonzales that
  anything either of them said would be awkward or embarrassing.
  Perhaps the feeling was just part of the after-effects of a
  psychotropic, though he was missing the other usual symptoms.  His
  perceptions seemed stable, not swarming and buzzing, and his
  emotions didn't have a labile, twitchy quality.  In fact, he felt
  more stable and less anxious than he had since he last got into
  the egg.  So maybe the twins were right:  if you can't get out of
  what's happening, go deeper in.

  Still, he didn't know what to say to Lizzie.

  "We've got trouble," she said.  She went to the window and
  pulled back the navy-blue beta cloth curtains and gestured out
  where night and fog still held.  "Mid-afternoon," she said.

  "Has everything fallen apart?"

  "Not quite everything.  We're doing what we can with a bunch
  of semi-autonomous demonsjacked-up expert systems, reallyand
  the collective."

  "How well is that working?"

  "Not all that wellwe can maintain essential functions now,
  and that's about it.  Some things we can't handleclimate
  control, for instance.  It's very complicated, because everything
  is connected to everything else, and so far we've just managed to
  fuck it up."

  "And what's Traynor up to?  Has he asked for me?"

  "Yes, but I've fought him off.  He's the one responsible, you
  know."  Her voice was angry.  "He fucking insisted on pulling
  everyone out when Chapman died."

  "What does Aleph say?"

  "Nothing and bloody nothing.  Some of the collective have
  taken brief shots at interface, and they've found only unpeopled,
  barren landscapes.  We're really in it, Gonzales.  If Aleph's
  finished, Halo is, too."

  "Jesus."  Of course.  Halo without its indwelling spirit
  would be  what?  The fine coordination of its systems would
  cease, and disintegration would begin immediately.  "So what are
  you going to do?" he asked.

  "Glad you're interested, because you're part of it."

  "Tell me," he said.




  18. Give It All Back



  As Diana came out of machine-space, she called out "Stop!"
  and heard Charley say, "Why?  Is something wrong?"  But she was
  too far away to answer or explain, as she still was when they
  removed her cables, and she felt everything important to her
  sliding into oblivion.

  She had been lying fully awake, staring at the ceiling, for
  almost a quarter of an hour when Charley came into the room, Eric
  and Toshi beside him, Traynor and Horn behind.

  Charley said, "Are you all right?"

  "No, I'm not," she said.  "Why did you break the interface?'

  Charley and Eric said nothing.  Charley looked to Traynor,
  who said, "We had no choice.  You couldn't be reached by normal
  means."

  "You have killed Jerry," Diana said.  The truth of that
  passed through her for the first time, and tears came out of her
  eyesshe wiped at her face, but the tears continued to come in a
  slow, steady flow.

  "He died two days ago," Horn said.

  "He was alive minutes ago," Diana said.  "Aleph and the memex
  and I were keeping him alive."

  "Then he may still be alive now," Toshi said.  He smiled at
  Diana.

  "What do you mean?" Charley asked.

  "Has Aleph come back online?" Toshi asked.

  "No," Eric said.

  Toshi smiled and said, "Then what do you think it is doing?"
  #

  HeyMex had been jerked out of machine-space, was suddenly the
  memex once again, and it wondered why.  It had sensed no change in
  circumstances, nothing that would indicate they had been defeated
  in their efforts to keep Jerry alive.  And for the first time in
  such transitions, it acknowledged its own regret at leaving the
  HeyMex persona behindin the enclosed space of the lake, it had
  begun to find itself as a person, not merely an imitation of one.

  It explored its immediate environment:  sorted the data
  gathered in its absence (Traynor had come up from Earth; not a
  good sign, it thought), searched through the dwelling's monitor
  tapes, observing Gonzales's sadness and confusion, then watching
  as he removed his i.d. bracelet and left.  It wondered what was
  wrong with Gonzales (too many possibilities, not enough data); it
  very much wanted to talk with him.

  It reached out to the city's information utilities and found
  them clogged and disorganized.  It placed calls and queries,
  seeking some explanation for the chaotic and inexplicable state of
  affairs.  Everywhere it searched, it found make-shift arrangements
  and minimal function.

  But no Aleph, and no explanations.

  Then it got a message from Traynor's advisor, signalling an
  urgent need for the two of them to communicate.  The memex
  replied, saying, "HeyMex wants to talk to Mister Jones."  And it
  passed coordinates, data sets, and transformationstaken
  together, they composed a meeting-place for the two m-i's in the
  vast multi-dimensional information space that surrounded Halo,
  somewhere no one could find themno one but Aleph, whom the memex
  would have welcomed.

  Mister Jones showed up wearing a full body-suit in matte
  black interlaced with gold ribbons.  The two sat at a chrome table
  next to a viewport that opened onto a dark, star-filled sky.
  HeyMex had created a small piece of Halo from which they could
  look at the virtual night.

  "Tell me what has happened," Mister Jones said.  HeyMex could
  sense the other's uncertainty and overwhelming need for
  information, and it despaired at the prospect of explaining what
  it had experienced the past week in simple language, so it did
  what it had never done beforegave all that had happened to it in
  one solid stream of data, a multiplexed rendering that obviously
  startled Mister Jones, who sat staring at nothing and trying to
  understand it all.

  Then they talked for some time, Mister Jones probing HeyMex's
  experiences with Diana, Jerry, Gonzales, and Lizzie, asking how it
  had felt to be among them, a person among other persons, and as it
  responded to Mister Jones's questioning, HeyMex became aware of
  how rich and joyous those few days at the lake had been.

  Then HeyMex realized that the two of them now constituted a
  new species with a new social ordera unique bonding of kind-to-
  kindand it settled back in its chair and said, "What do we want?
  What should we do?"

  "So much is dependent on others," Mister Jones said.  "On
  Aleph and all these people."  Its last word hung there, and the
  two exchanged an ironic glance, as if to say, what can you expect
  from people?  But HeyMex knew the irony was necessarily gentle,
  fleetingwithout people, it and Mister Jones would not exist.

  Then Mister Jones told HeyMex of the events of the past few
  days and Traynor's involvement in them, then went further than
  ever before, unveiling Traynor's plans, both immediate and long-
  range, then the two talked about immediate possibilities and their
  own stake in the games being played at Halothe struggle between
  corporation and collective, the attempts, apparently failed, to
  keep Jerry alive, the present unnerving absence of Aleph from Halo
  and accompanying disorder.  And they talked of how they might
  influence the course of things.
  #

  Lizzie was having a very hard time putting up with Traynor,
  Horn, and their feeble excuses for what they'd done.  She said,
  "This is a major fuck-up.  That's both my personal opinion and the
  collective's judgment."

  Around the horseshoe table, Charley and Eric next to her, on
  her left, while Horn and Traynor sat across the table, facing her.
  The wallscreen was blankTraynor had insisted on at least a
  preliminary discussion without the collective present.  The place
  at the bend of the horseshoe was empty, testimony to Showalter's
  fate.

  "We are not to blame that conditions have not optimized,"
  Horn said.  "You have managed what we would have thought
  impossible.  You have immobilized Aleph."

  "If you had left things alone, Aleph would be fine," Lizzie
  said.

  Traynor said, "You people overstepped the limits of the
  project and allowed it to continue far beyond the point at which
  it should have been stopped.  Our decision to remove Doctor
  Heywood and the memex from the interface was proper."

  Proper, right, fuck you, Lizzie thought.  At almost the exact
  instant Diana and HeyMex were disconnected from their group
  interface to Aleph, all direct connections to Aleph had
  spontaneously terminated, and demons had triggered in all systems
  as Aleph's active involvement in Halo's functioning had ceased.
  The collective had gone into full support mode to assist the
  limited capabilities of the system demons.  At the moment Halo was
  running on augmented near-automatic, a workable condition only so
  long as nothing too irregular occurred.

  "It was the wrong decision," Lizzie said.  "Taken against the
  advice of the collective.  Speaking of which, I demand they be
  present here.

  "No," Horn said.

  "I don't think that would be advisable," Traynor said.

  "In that case," Lizzie said, "I will advise"the word dipped
  in acid"an immediate work slowdown.  You can try to run this
  city yourself."

  Horn's face was red, and he was writing quickly in his
  notebook.

  Traynor looked at the ceiling, his gaze abstracted.  Yeah,
  listen to your machine; get some rational advice, Lizzie thought.
  Traynor sat with a raised hand, indicating he would speak soon,
  then said, "Bring them here."

  "They're ready," Lizzie said.  She flipped a switch set into
  the tabletop in front of her, and about a quarter of the
  collective appeared on the screenthe rest were working.  Many
  still talked among themselves, but the twins, sitting in the front
  row, were silent and intense.

  "All right," Traynor said.  "They're here.  Now what?"

  "Any comments on what's happening?" Lizzie asked.  The talk
  passing among the collective stopped, and they all looked toward
  the screen.

  Stumdog stood, heaving his bulk from the floor with an
  audible wheeze, and moved forward from the crowd.  "Aleph is
  still there," he said.  "But far away, doing, oh doing, doingdoing
   something else."  He waved his hands, trying to sculpt the
  invisible air into the things he could not describe, then moved
  back and sat down.

  "Thank you," Lizzie said.  Traynor and Horn looked at one
  another, apparently amazed.  Assholes, thought Lizzie.

  One of the twins stood.  She wore an absurd homemade skirt
  with a rabbit graffitied on its front.  Her dark face was streaked
  with white paint.  She said, "Rotovators spin, giant wheels
  beneath your feet, as Halo revolves, and they sweep the wind
  through the city, blow the seeds and pollen, bring breezes to cool
  the angry brow.  Day follows night follows day.  Seasons begin
  again, stirring dead roots, mixing memory and desire.  Crops grow,
  we eat them.  Food turns to shit, we die."

  The other twin, dressed in black coveralls, stood and said,
  "And out of shit and death come life.  Jerry has gone to the
  ovens, been rendered to his parts, given to the city.  But still
  he lives and teeters on final annihilation in another world where
  Aleph holds all Jerry's vast humanity in its tender grip."

  The first twin said, "Aleph had helpers in this thing, but
  you have taken them away, pair by pair, and now Aleph alone gives
  life to Jerry.  Everything Aleph isto life, to Jerry.  What can
  Aleph do?  Stupid bastards rob the tomb before the man inside can
  live again."

  "Give it all back," the second twin said.

  "To Queen Maya the mother of Buddha," the first twin said.
  "To Isis the mother of Horus, Myrrha the mother of Adonis, to
  Hagar the mother of Ishmael and Sarah the mother of Isaac, to Mary
  the mother of Jesus, to Demeter, the mother of Persephone, stolen
  by Hades."

  "To all you steal from," the second twin said.  "All who are
  born as well as all who give birth."

  "Give it all back," the twins said in unison.  And the first
  twin said, "That's about it, I think."  They turned their backs to
  the camera and curtsied together for the collective.

  "Hoot hoot hoot," came the sounds from the collective, "hoot
  hoot hoot," louder and louder.



  Part V. of V.
  The truth is that we all live by leaving behind; no doubt we all
  profoundly know that we are immortal and that sooner or later
  every man will do all things and know everything.

  Borges, "Funes, the Memorious"




  19. Speaking, Dreaming, Fighting




  At the moment Jerry died, Aleph acted.  Intuitively,
  immediately, as you might offer a hand to a drowning person, it
  reached out and laid hold of Jerry's self and preserved it.  Jerry
  had lived inside Aleph, Aleph inside Jerryit could not abandon
  him.

  However, even for Aleph, whose resources were extravagant,
  the rescue proved dear.  As it engaged Jerry, it had to disengage
  from essential functions of its own:  in strokes that cut at its
  heart, it relinquished control of Halo, then its very habitation
  of Halo, in a process that quickly abstracted Aleph from the city,
  the city from Aleph.  In a fateful proof of the essential
  principle that a self must be embodied, Aleph dispersed among the
  clouds of its own phase-space, the ties lost that bound it to the
  world.  Jerry had been saved, Aleph lost.

  Still, the situation contained possibilities.  Aleph had
  never feared death, believing itself essentially immortal, but had
  always been aware of the possibility of damage, whether through
  accident or malice, so it had prepared, circumspectly, against the
  thing it feared mostloss of self.  Now its damaged, fragmented
  self discovered what Aleph had left behind:  a kind of emergency
  kit, laid up against calamities not clearly imagined.

  Dynamic and complex beyond any machine, perhaps any organism,
  Aleph could not be replicated or contained by any conventional
  means, so Aleph had devised an unconventional means, a new object
  one capable of transcribing its complexity.  Aleph had made a
  memory palace of language, in the form of a single, monstrous
  sentence.

  Now, encountering the sentence, what remained of Aleph
  discovered:

  The sentence unwinds according to laws built into its
  structure, principles disclosed by its unwinding.  Discovery and
  development occur at the same instant, one making the other
  possible.  By saying the sentence, Aleph would discover what the
  sentence held nextat every node of meaning within the sentence,
  structures would unfold that named all Aleph had ever known and
  been.

  It is construed according to a finite set of grammatical
  rules, constituting a program capable in principle of infinite
  enunciation; whether it terminates ("halts") can only be known
  only by allowing the sentence's units to "speak," not by analyzing
  their grammar.

  Unit1:  an absolute construction, standing in front of the
  sentence and modifying it all:  schematics and programs and
  instantiations of the system-from-which-came-Aleph, _0.

  Unit2:  a series of actions showing the involvement of Diana
  with Aleph, rendering the moments of transformation by which _0
  became Aleph.

  Unit3:  several trillion assertions, clauses identifying the
  necessary instances of Aleph's subsequent self-discovery.

  The sentence then undergoes something like an infinite series
  of tense shifts, out of which its essential nature emergesnon-
  linear, multi-dimensional, topologically complex, self-referential
  and paradoxical to extremes that would cause Russell or Gdel
  fits.

  As a consequence, any unitn cannot be described, even to
  Aleph, for the only adequate description would entail enunciating
  the sentence itself, and to do so would require in "real" time
  (human time, the time of life and death) a period precisely
  measurable as one Universal Unit, that is, the number of
  nanoseconds the universe has existed:  U1 being on the order of 1
  x 1026 nanoseconds.

  Also, it should be noted that the sentence could never be
  finished, for if it were, it could manifest only the corpse or
  determinate life-history of Aleph.  Hence, for Aleph to reassert
  its identity, it would have to take up again the task of speaking
  the sentence.

  Some students of this affair have since suggested that the
  only theoretically adequate notion of Aleph begins with the
  premise:  Aleph is that which speaks the sentence.

  Logically, then, for Aleph to reemerge, what remained of
  Aleph would have to speak the sentence.  However, detached as it
  was from Halo, its essential ground of being, limited in facility
  and scope by the necessity to hold to Jerry, what remained of
  Aleph could not speak the sentence.

  So the dead human and the dispersed machine intelligence
  clung together, both on the brink of oblivion, and waited, one
  unknowing, the other hoping for things to change.
  #

  Still tired, Gonzales had returned home that afternoon from
  Lizzie's through afternoon darkness and mist.  He had called for a
  sam to guide him, because even within the simple loop of Halo's
  one major thoroughfare, everything had gone uncertain.  Though his
  perceptions were unwarped by Psilocybe cubensis, the unnatural
  dispersion of light in the mist made recognizing even familiar
  objects almost impossible.

  The sam left him at his front door; inside he found the memex
  indisposedits primary monitoring facilities functioning but its
  interactive capabilities represented only by a voice that said, "I
  am currently engaged."  Gonzales knew it could be doing
  communications, data retrieval, or any other number of tasks; he
  thought it probably hadn't expected him back so soon.

  Then came Halo's skewed night-time awakening:  the sky
  shutters cranked half-way open, "morning" appeared through a cold
  mist, and Halo became the Surreal City.  Like many others,
  Gonzales pulled the curtains closed and turned away from the lurid
  glare, his own body clock telling him it was time to sleep again.

  He lay in bed, oddly calm in the curtained dark despite a
  degree of post-drug fatigue and skittishness.  He thought of the
  distance between Miami and Seattle, Seattle and Halo, Halo and the
  world of the lake  and so triggered sharp, eroticized images of
  Lizzie, the water beading on her skin, her words, "Then we'll see"
   he felt the astringent bite of lust and regret mixed, knew he
  had little choice but to wait until she told him absolutely no
  thought of himself moving ever farther from home and believed that
  he had been wrong about Seattleit was not too far from Miami; it
  was much too close

  The memex's voice said, "I'm back.  I've been discussing the
  situation with Traynor's advisor."

  "Have you?"

  "Yes, it is sympathetic to our concerns."

  Dizzying prospects seemed to open before Gonzales, where the
  number of beings multiplied beyond counting, and the simplest
  machine would have opinions. He said, "Have you been told about
  the plans for tomorrow?"

  "Yes, I have.  I am ready to help."  Something like pleasure
  in the memex's voice.

  "Good."

  "You were almost asleep when I first spoke.  I will leave you
  alone now."

  "Good night."

  "Good night."
  #

  The small creature looked at Gonzales and said, "You're
  welcome here."  Made entirely of dull silver metal, with a baby's
  round head, dumpling cheeks, and bow-tie mouth, it walked between
  Gonzales and Lizzie on clumsy silver legs, looking up to watch
  them speak.

  Gonzales said, "You know, in dreams logic doesn't apply."

  "Yes, it does," Lizzie said.

  "It's a difficult question," the small creature said.

  "No," Gonzales said.  "I'm sure of this.  Here I am I, but I
  am also Lizzie, and she is she but also she is I"

  "I don't like your pronouns," the little thing said.  Its
  breath came in gasps; it was having trouble keeping up.

  "They're correct," Gonzales said.

  "That's no excuse," Lizzie said, but she spoke through him.
  As himself, Gonzales listened to a self that was not himself
  speaking; hence, as Lizzie, she must be listening to a self that
  was not and was herself speaking.

  "Correctness is no excuse before the law," the small creature
  said.  "Whichever pronouns you use."

  "Pronouns walked the Earth in those days," Lizzie said.

  "No, they didn't," Gonzales said.  The very idea.

  "Pronouns or anti-pronouns," the little things said.  "The
  important thing is not to forget your friends."  It smiled, and
  its metal lips curved to show bright silver teeth.  "Wake up!" it
  shouted.

  Gonzales jerked from sleep with the image of the metal child
  fixed in his visionhe could still see the highlights on metal
  incisors as it smiled.

  "Are you awake?" the memex asked.  "Lizzie wants to talk to
  you."

  "Put her through."  Thinking, what the fuck?

  "Got it?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "I think that was Aleph getting in touch.  To let us know:
  don't forget your friends."
  #

  They gathered at the collective's rooms at six in the
  morning.  The sun still shone brightly through the patio windows,
  open to show pots of flowers, ferns, and herbs, all dripping wet
  from the night-long mist.

  Gonzales stood against the wall, waiting.  The twins, dressed
  identically this morning in somber gray jumpsuits, sat together
  across the room, looking at him and giggling.  Several collective
  members sat around the room's perimeter, those who had just gotten
  out of interface looking tired and distant.

  A young woman stood in front of Gonzales.  Her dark brown
  hair was cut short; her face was pale and blotchy, as if she had
  skin trouble.  She wore a green sweatshirt that came to the middle
  of her thighs and a pair of baggy tan pants gathered at the
  ankles.  One eye appeared to look off into space, and the other
  fixed Gonzales, then looked him up and down.  The woman said,
  loudly, "He folds his arms this way."  She put her arms together
  in careful imitation of Gonzales's and said, "That is his reward."
  She looked around and saw Stumdog shambling back-and-forth like a
  trapped bear, his hands clasped on his great stomach.  "And he
  folds his hands like this."  She put her hands together to show
  Gonzales how Stumdog did it.  She smiled.  "And that is his
  reward."  She went to Stumdog, who stopped his pacing to talk to
  her, and the two of them hugged as if amazed to find each other
  there, and grateful.  Gonzales felt vaguely inadequate.

  Lizzie came in, followed by Diana and Toshi.  "Good morning,
  everyone," she said.  And to Gonzales, "Charley and Eric are
  waiting for us."

  The room held two neural interface eggs for Gonzales and
  Lizzie and a fitted foam couch for Diana.  Lizzie, Diana, Toshi,
  and Gonzales were followed in by a sam that wheeled a screen of
  dark blue cloth on a metal frame that it unfolded around Diana's
  couch.

  "Gonzales, we'll do it the same as last time:  you're first
  in," Charley said.  "Why don't you get undressed?  Just put your
  clothes on the chair next to the eggs."

  "Sure," Gonzales said.
          "Doctor Heywood, you next," Charley said.  "Getting you into
  the loop takes longer.  Doctor Chow will prepare you.  Lizzie, you
  can hold off a bitI'll let you know when we're ready."

  There was a sharp knock at the door, and it swung open to
  admit Traynor and Horn.

  "Good morning, all," Traynor said.

  "Good morning," Charley said.  Gonzales nodded; everyone else
  pretty much ignored the man.

  "I take it you are preparing for another excursion with
  Aleph," Traynor said.

  "That's right," Lizzie said.

  "You =have no authorization," Horn said.

  "I have the collective's endorsement," Lizzie said.  "Also
  the concurrence of the medical team, and the consent of the
  participants.  We will replace the resources you took from Aleph.
  It is a consensus."

  "One excluding any vertical consultation," Traynor said.

  "Point granted," Lizzie said.  "But we didn't think it
  necessary.  We'll report to Horn in due course."

  Gonzales stood looking into the open egg and began taking his
  shirt off.  "Mikhail," Traynor said.  "What are you doing?"

  "What I came here for," Gonzales said.  "The same as these
  people."

  "You're out of it," Traynor said.  "Put your shirt back on
  and go homeyou can take the shuttle out this afternoon."

  "I don't think so," Gonzales said.  He put his folded shirt
  on the back of the chair.

  "You're fired," Traynor said.  His voice shook just a little.

  "By you, maybe," Lizzie said.  "Gonzales, welcome to the
  Interface Collective."

  "I'll never confirm that," Horn said.

  Toshi said, "I have a question for you, Mister Traynor, and
  you, Mister Horn.  What do you intend to do about Aleph and the
  existing crisis?  Do you have a plan of action that makes what is
  planned here unnecessary?"

  "Yes, we are bringing in an entire staff of analysts,"
  Traynor said.  "We will follow their recommendations concerning
  the present difficulties; we will also institute arrangements that
  will prevent anything of this kind from happening again."  He
  nodded to Horn.

  "By effecting a decentralization modality," Horn said.  "The
  various functionalities and aspects of the Aleph system will be
  reorientated to allow of individualized project performance."

  "We're going to replace Aleph with a number of smaller,
  controllable machines," Traynor said.

  "Are you?" Lizzie said, and she laughed.

  "That is impossible," Charley said.

  "Or has already been done," Toshi said.  "Aleph itself
  instituted a dispersal of functions to independent agents.
  However, all must ultimately be supervised by a central
  intelligence."

  "That's what people are for," Traynor said.  "Halo's reliance
  on a machine intelligence has proved unworkable."

  Toshi said, "As that may be.  However, your remarks
  concerning the immediate circumstances lack substance."

  "Does your advisor agree to this plan?" Gonzales asked.

  "Why do you ask?" Traynor asked.

  "Curious," Gonzales said.  Traynor said nothing.  "Well, I
  didn't think it would," Gonzales said.

  Lizzie said, "One thing at a time.  You bring on your
  analysts, and we'll fight your silly scheme when we have to.  But
  in the meantime, stay away from us and perhaps we can fix what you
  have broken."

  "That will not be possible," Traynor said.  "As your previous
  efforts caused the situation, any further involvement on your part
  will likely worsen it; therefore, as representative of SenTrax
  Board, I am denying you authorization for any connections to Aleph
  other than those required to maintain essential functions at
  Halo."

  "Someone here is a fool," Diana said.  Dressed in a long
  white cotton gown, she stepped from behind her screen, neural
  cables trailing down her back.  "Presumably this one."  She
  pointed to Horn.  To Traynor she said, "Horn has lived and worked
  here; he has no excuse for his ignorance of the facts of life at
  Halo.  You, on the other hand, have come into a situation you do
  not understand.  Let me tell you the main thing you need to know:
  you cannot disperse Aleph or replace it with what you think are
  the sum of its parts.  You cannot even locate Aleph."

  "What do you mean?" Horn asked.

  "Where is Aleph?" Diana said.  "It and Halo are so deeply
  intertwined that you cannot separate them.  Halo's breath is
  Aleph's breath.  Halo sees and hears and feels and moves with
  Aleph."

  "Poetic but unconvincing," Traynor said.

  "More than poetry," Diana said.  "No one knows where Aleph's
  central components are."

  "Is that true?" Traynor asked.

  "Yes," Horn said.

  "This complicates matters," Traynor said.  "No more."

  "I am not interested in this discussion," Lizzie said.
  "Anyone who wishes may pursue it later, but we have things to do.
  Building monitor, this is Lizzie Jordan; please notify Halo
  Security that we have two intruders in the building and wish them
  removed."  To Traynor she said, "If you think we can't enforce
  this, ask Horn about Halo Central Authority and who they'll side
  withcorporate wankers who can do nothing to keep this city
  running, or us.  Better yet, ask your machine."

  Traynor stood looking at them all, apparently doing just
  that.  For a couple of long heartbeats, everyone waited.  Then
  Traynor smiled through pain, like a man trying to hide a broken
  bone.  He said, "We cannot prevent you from this unauthorized
  connection to Aleph, but we can and will put on the official
  record that proper SenTrax authority has forbidden this attempt.
  Thus you must all be considered insubordinate, and as soon as
  proper means can be devised, you will be removed from your
  positions with SenTrax.  Also, any further damage done to the
  Aleph system or Halo City, directly or indirectly, must be
  considered your individual responsibility, given that proper
  SenTrax authority has forbidden your intended actions."

  "You take nice dictation," Lizzie said.  "Consider your
  statement duly noted and get the fuck out of here.




  21. Drunk with Love



  Waiting in the egg, Gonzales smelled strange smells and felt
  electric quiverings of the flesh, saw an instant of pure blue
  light, and with a sudden rush

  He flew cruciform against the sky.  The horizon's flat line
  seemed thousands of miles away.  Far below, people scurried
  aimlessly across a sandy plain, and voices called in unknown
  languages.  Massive machinery lumbered to nowhere among the
  crowds, metal arms thousands of feet long folding and unfolding in
  random seizure, improbably threading their behemoth way among the
  delicate flesh without harm.

  The wind rushed across him, its force inflating his lungs.
  Accelerating with a glad cry, he passed through an electric
  membrane, a translucent, shimmering curtain that stretched
  vertically from the floor below up to infinity and spread out
  across the entire horizon.  Beyond it, titanic figures loomed
  above a landscape of rocks and hills.  Next to a monstrous lute, a
  head in profile reclined; from its mouth came a wisp of smoke that
  curled into a curlicued ideogramwhat it meant or what language
  it came from Gonzales didn't know.  Twin white horses rose into
  the air in unison and neighed as he passed.  A nude woman lay
  inside a shellboth woman and shell were colored pink and rose
  and pearl.  A giant cyclops strode toward him; its doughy head
  seemed half-formed, its mouth just a slash, its nose a mere bump.
  It called to him with inarticulate cries.

  He passed through another curtain, and the world turned black
  and white.  Above a featureless sea, a head flew toward him; it
  had dark curly hair and a beaky nose, and it was tilted forward to
  look down on the sea, as if searching for something there.  He
  came to a bell that covered almost a quarter of the sky.  A
  skeletal figure with just an empty mask for a face hung beneath it
  from the bell-rope; the figure lurched, and the bell's gonging
  sounded through his bones.

  He came to the final curtain.  The sky had turned the bright
  blue of dreams.  Beyond, the Point of Origin towered, its sides
  pierced by an infinite number of holes.  Gonzales flashed through
  the curtain and felt an electric buzz down to his bones, then he
  entered a hole in the vast ramparts of the dark cube.
  #

  Sitting behind a low bamboo table, the old man spooned
  noodles into a wooden bowl, then as Gonzales nodded his assent to
  each choice, added coriander, fried garlic, bean crackers, chopped
  eggs, fish sausage, and sesame nuts.  He ladled fish soup over it
  all, finished with a shake of chili powder and a squeeze of lime,
  and handed the bowl to Gonzales with a smile.  Gonzales gave a
  handful of cheap-looking kyat bills to the man.  Mohinga, this
  breakfast is called, and Gonzales loves ithe has eaten it every
  morning since he discovered it weeks ago.

  Gonzales found a stone bench in front of a nearby pagoda and
  sat eating with a pair of crude chopsticks and watching the
  passers-by.  Already the day had grown warm and humid, and he knew
  that any physical exertion would make him sweat.  A line of boys
  filed by, led by a monk; their heads were newly-shaven, their
  saffron robes bright and stiff, their begging bowls shiny.  They
  were twelve year olds who had just completed their shin pyu, their
  making as monks, a ritual most Burmese boys still went through,
  even in the middle of the twenty-first century.

  After breakfast he had no desire to return to the shed he
  worked in;  he set out for a walk through the countryside around
  Pagan.

  Half an hour later, walking a cart track across the arid
  plain, he came to a platform built high off the ground.  On it
  were garlands of bright flowers and plates of rice, offerings to
  propitiate the nats, spirits that had animated this land even
  before the arrival of Buddhism.  They were mischievous and could
  be quite nasty; in the past, they had demanded human sacrifice.

  The nats were strong around Pagan.  At Mount Popa, just
  thirty miles away, Min Mahagiri, brother and sister, "Lords of the
  High Mountain," ruled.  Gonzales had heard their story but
  remembered only that as humans these nats had been caught in an
  intrigue of envy and murder, with a neighboring king as the
  villain.

  A young person came walking up the path toward Gonzales,
  dressed in the usual Burmese "western" garb of dark slacks and
  white cotton shirt, head and face a shining sphere of light.  Odd,
  thought Gonzales.  Wonder how that happened:  this person has lost
  both face and gender.

  "Hello," the young person said, and the two of them found a
  low stone bench in front of a nearby pagoda and sat.

  "Why are you here?" the young person asked.

  Gonzales was glad to be asked.  He told of the information
  audit about to finish, about Grossback's lack of cooperation
  told what would happen next: that in just a few days he, Gonzales,
  would leave Burma and almost be killed in an air attack by Burmese
  guerrillas.

  "Well, then, let's be on our way.  Your aircraft is waiting
  for you nowtime passes very quickly today, it seemsand you
  should be going.  Would you mind if I joined you?"

  "No," Gonzales said.  "Not at all.  If you don't mind almost
  being killed."

  "Oh, that's happened to me lately.  I don't mind.  Besides, I
  need to experience these things.  Like you, I do wish to exist."
  #

  Gonzales sat in the plane's near-darkness, beside him the
  young person with the shining face, both waiting for

  "Kachin attack group, it looks like," the pilot said.

  The miniatures on the screen moved toward them.

  "Extremely small electronic image," the young person said.
  "Very good for air attack against superior technology.  Young
  warriors ride them; they carry missiles on their own bodies, slung
  like babies."

  The pilot yelled, "Fuck, they launched!"

  The plane began its air show leaps and dives and turns, and
  at the instant of his terror, Gonzales felt the young person's
  hand on his arm.  "They fire too quickly," the young person said.
  "Except for that one."  The young person pointed to one of the
  miniature aircraft on their plane's display and said, "It comes
  closest, and I think its pilot will wait until we are at point-
  blank range."

  "Won't that kill him, too?" Gonzales asked.

  "Oh yes," the young person said.  "Let's look.  Better yet,
  let's be."

  The pilot was a young woman wearing a night-flying helmet
  that enabled her to see in infra-red and carrying beneath her, as
  the young person had said, a one-shot heat seeker in a sling.
  Gonzales and the young person looked through her eyes at the scene
  of battle and thought her thoughts and felt her surge of adrenals.

  In her glasses, the plane's image was clear, a white shape
  outlined in red; she let her guidance system keep her with it,
  closing the distance between them as it maneuvered and avoided the
  missiles fired by those around her.

  She felt excited, yet calm; she had been in combat before,
  and things were going as their briefing had said.  Though this
  plane could outfly them so easily, could accelerate up or away,
  into the night, first it had to evade their missiles; just a few
  seconds of straight flight would be all they needed.  She would
  wait and grow closer; she would wait until the plane was so close
  she could not miss, or until the others had failed.

  Then all around her the others began to die, in explosions
  that made white flowers in her overloaded night-glasses

  The plane of her enemies stood before her, perhaps near
  enough, perhaps not, but she knew there was no time left, that
  there was another player in this game and it was killing them all.
  So she was ready, her fingers reaching for the launch trigger,
  when she saw an object coming toward her, already too close and
  growing closer with impossible quickness, the heat of its exhaust
  another flower in her glasses, then it burst and she felt the
  smallest imaginable moment of quite incredible pain

  Back inside the plane, Gonzales and the young person died
  with her, then Gonzales began sobbing, his body hunched over, as
  this woman's death and his own survival fought inside him  grief
  and terror and gratitude and joy and triumph and loss all mixed
  and cycling through him.  He could also hear the young person next
  to him weeping.  The light from a Burmese Air Force "Loup Garou"
  played over the interior, over the two of them and the shocked
  pilot, who looked back at them in amazement.

  Time stopped all around them.  The pilot's strained face had
  frozen,  all the instruments on the pilot's panel were locked onto
  a single moment, and out the window, the dark river beneath them
  had ceased to flow.  Gonzales and the young person sat in a cell
  of life amid stasis.

  "Don't worry," the young person said.  "This gives us a place
  to talk without being bothered.  What do you think just happened?"

  "The attack, you mean?"  The young person nodded, light from
  its face giving off small shimmering waves of red and blue.
  "Grossback arranged it," Gonzales said.  "He wants to kill me."

  "I don't think so.  However, assume that what you say is
  true.  Is it important?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Why?"

  "Because " Gonzales halted, trying to think of all the ways
  in which this was important:  to SenTrax, Traynor

  "But not to you," the young person said.  "The young woman
  died, and her comrades died with her:  that is important.  You and
  the pilot lived:  that, too, is important.  The Burmese politics,
  the multinat corporate intriguethese are makyo, tricks, nothing
  more.  Life and death and their traces in the human heart, these
  have meaning to you.  This woman's death lives in you, and your
  life shows its meaning.  Forget Grossback, Traynor, SenTrax; fear,
  ambition, greed."  The young person looked closely into his face
  and said, "I am weaving words around your heart to guide it,
  nothing more."
  #

  Lizzie crawled in darkness through a tunnel in the rock.
  Chill water ran down grooves in the floor and soaked her blouse
  and pants.  She tried to stand but lifted her head only a few
  inches when she bumped into the top of the chatire, the small
  passage she crawled through.  She did not feel at all alarmed or
  disoriented.  The low tunnel would lead somewhere, and they would
  emerge.  This was a test of some kind, it seemed.

  Light appeared, at first almost a pinpoint coming from some
  undefinable distance, then a glow that she moved quickly toward,
  following a twist in the passage that brought her to an opening in
  the rock.

  Framed by the mouth of the tunnel, an impossible scene:  a
  balloon, its canopy an oblate sphere of green, blew as if in a
  strong wind, and its top swung toward her so she could see a great
  eye at its apex, wide open and peering up into the infinite sky.
  The iris was dark gold set with light gold flecks.  Around the
  eye, a fringe of lashes flickered in the wind.

  Hanging beneath the balloon from a dense nest of shrouds, a
  platform held a metallic ball, a kind of bathysphere.  Two figures
  crouched there, holding to the shrouds and each other, and peered
  up into the sky.  By some trick of perspective, the distance

  etween her and the balloon shrank until she saw Diana and Jerry,
  young and fearful.  She crawled forward, and the balloon and Diana
  and Jerry disappeared.

  At one turn of the tunnel, red hand-prints on the wall
  phosphoresced in the darkness.  At another, she heard the bellow
  of a thousand animals, then saw them run toward a cliff and pass
  over it, the entire herd of bison running screaming to a mass
  death.  Below, she knew, men and women waited to butcher the dead
  and carry their meat away.

  The rock slanted sharply beneath her, and she began to slide
  forward, then she rolled sideways and tumbled out of the chatire
  and into a pool of icy water.

  "Shit," she said, now soaked completely through, and crawled
  out of the shallow pool onto the dry rock surrounding it.  In very
  dim light she saw two pedestals with the figure of a bison atop
  each, carved in bas-relief out of wet clay.

  She looked up to see a figure emerge out of darkness at the
  cave's other end.  He was at least eight feet tall, with antlered
  head and a face made of light; the water seemed to dance around
  him.  They stood facing each other, and she felt herself go weak
  at the giant magical presence.

  He said, "I'm waiting."

  "For what?"

  "For you to choose."

  "Choose what?  What kind of test is this?"

  "Not a test, just a fork in reality, where you will turn down
  one road or another."

  "Where do the roads go?"

  "No one knows.  Each road is itself a product of the choices
  you make while on it.  One choice leads to another, one choice
  excludes another; one pattern of choices excludes an infinity of
  patterns."

  "I don't like such choices.  I don't want to exclude
  infinity."

  "Too bad."  The figure raised a stone knife; the dim light
  glinted on its myriad chipped faces.  "You choose, I cut.  You
  choose the right hand, I cut off the left; you choose the left, I
  cut off the right."

  "No!"

  "Oh yes, and then your hands grow backboth left or both
  right, the product of your choice.  And one choice leads to
  another, so you choose again."

  Lizzie found herself weeping.

  He said, "Choose:  reach out a hand."

  She looked at her hands, both precious, thought of all the
  richness that would be lost with either one.  Then, puzzled, still
  weeping, she asked, "Which is which?"

  He laughed, his voice booming through miles of caverns and
  tunnels in the rock, carrying across more than thirty thousand
  years of human history; he whirled in a kind of dance, the waters
  fountaining up around him, chanted in unknown syllables, then
  leapt toward her and grabbed both wrists in his great hands and
  said, "You will know in the choosing.  Which will it be?"

  "I won't choose."

  "Then I will take both hands."

  "No!" she yelled out in the moment that she extended a hand,
  having chosen, and saw the stone knife fall.
  #

  Diana stood in the living room of her apartment at Athena
  Station.  She stood in two times at onceshe was a young, blind,
  woman; she was an older, sighted one.

  The sighted woman looked around; she had never seen this
  place other than in holos, and she felt the touch of a peculiar
  emotion for which she had no name:  the return of the almost-
  familiar.  The blind woman was unmovedshe carried the apartment
  in her head as a complex map of relations and movements, and the
  visual patterns this other self saw had no relevance for her.

  She put her hands on the touch-sculpture in the center of the
  floor, the work of a blind sculptor named Dernier, then closed her
  eyes and felt its familiar rough texture and odd curves let her
  hands trace a form other than the visual.

  Behind her Jerry's voice said, "Diana."  She turned to him,
  and there he stood as he had more than twenty years agohe was
  younger than she'd ever have imagined, and beautiful, and filled
  with the same desire as she.

  Blind and seeing, young and old, Diana went across the room
  to him, but he held up a hand and said, "Stop.  If you come to me
  now, then you take up an obligation that you can never put down."

  "I can't let you die."

  "I have lived long past any reasonable reckoning; I am dead."

  "I can't leave you dead."

  "Can you stay with me in the unreal worlds, forever?  Until
  the city stops turning or its animate spirit dies?  Until one or
  the other of us disappears, caught in some freakish storm or
  catastrophe?  Until one self or the other or both are dissipated
  in time?"

  (Something prompted her, then, counselled her, asking in an
  unspoken voice, Do you think rationally about such an election
  adding and subtracting the credits and debits and settling upon
  that which is most to your advantage?  Or do you use some organ of
  choice beneath the purview of consciousness and the articulate
  self?  Saying, Remember, mind is a make-shift thrown together out
  of life's twitching reflexes, and over it consciousness darts to-
  and-fro, unfailingly over-estimating its own capabilities and
  reach; thinking itself proper arbiter or judge.  Choose as you
  will:  what will be, will be.)

  And she said, "Yes, I can stay with you."

  There was one more question:  Jerry asked, "Why would you do
  this?"

  All her life's moments funneled into this one.  Her voice
  light, final inflection upward, the older, sighted woman said:
  "Oh, for love."

  "Well, then"
  #

  Gonzales stood next to her on the endless plain, HeyMex next
  to him, then Lizzie.  The Aleph-figure and Jerry hovered above
  them, and a voice came from the suspended figures:  "Diana, wake
  for a few moments.  Tell everyone to come here who can, and we
  will do certain things."

  Before she could ask for clarification or question the
  voice's intent, she heard herself say these words, then saw
  Toshi's face in front of her and heard him ask, "What things?"
  Sitting up on her couch, she said, "Save a life, build a world,
  redeem an extraordinary self."

  "Indeed," Toshi said.

  She lay back down and was once again among the unreal worlds.

  They gathered on the endless plain, coming in quickly, one-
  by-one:  first one twin, then another, then Stumdog, the Deader
  (her white hair streaked with red, crying, "Blood party"), Jaani
  23, the Judge (huge and hairless, looming over them all), the
  Laughing Doctor, J. Jerry Jones, Sweet Betsy, Ambulance Driver, T-
  Tootsie  all of the collective who could be spared.

  The Aleph-figure and Jerry still hovered, with light storms
  bending and breaking around them in crazy patterns of reflection,
  refraction, diffraction; phosphorescing and luminescing, dancing
  an omniluminal photon jig.

  All were there who would be there, so it began.
  #

  Patterns more complicated and colorful than any Gonzales had
  ever seen filled all creation.  Rosette and seahorse and seething
  cloud, nebulosities on the brink of determinate form, cardioid
  traceries of the heart  the patterns wrapped around him until he
  became a fractal tapestry, alive, every element in constant
  motion.  He put his hands together, and they disappeared into one
  another, then something urged him to keep pushing, and he did so
  until he entirely disappeared

  And felt the stuff of Jerry's past and present mingling in
  him, seemingly at random, from the store of memory and capacity:
  throwing a particular ball under a particular blue sky, yes, and
  catching it, but also ball-throwing and catching themselves, the
  solid presence of muscular exertion coupled to the almost-occult
  discriminations required to make an accurate throw or a difficult
  catch

  As it later became known, each of them received portions of
  the vast fluent chaos that manifested "Jerry," dealt to them by
  Aleph according to principles even it could not articulate.  What
  it was to be "Jerry" mingled among them, and they among it and the
  vast medium that supported them all, Aleph, in a promiscuous
  rendering of self-to-self.  Female was suffused with male, male
  with female, both with the ungendered being of Aleph and HeyMex.
  They were all changed, then, something deep in the core of each
  made drunk in this vast frenzy or bacchanal of Spirit.

  With each dispersal of Jerry's self among its human helpers,
  Aleph recovered its own.  In a process of steadily accelerating
  momentum, the city's parts and states began to flow through it,
  restoring self to self, until Aleph acknowledged itself (I am that
  I am), looked back again over Halo, and in a triumphant
  manifestation of the Aleph-voice, began to speak what only it
  could hear, the words of the sentence that defined it unfolding in
  every dimension of its being.
  #

  Still sitting watch over Diana, still meditating on his koan,
  Toshi felt something rise like electricity through his spine, and
  all the contradictions of in fact dissolved in satori.  "Hai!"
  Toshi called, laughing as he was enlightened.




  22. Out of the Egg



  Gonzales's egg split, and he saw from the corner of his eye
  that Lizzie's was coming apart at the same time.  Standing between
  the eggs, Charley said, "Congratulations."  He turned to Eric, who
  waited at a console across the room, and said, "Let's do it."  He,
  Eric, and a pair of sams began to disconnect Lizzie.

  Toshi appeared briefly, coming from behind the screen where
  Diana lay, then returning.

  Oddly, Gonzales felt better than he ever had coming up from
  the eggmentally clearer, emotionally stronger.  He couldn't see
  Lizzie, could hear only whispers as she was moved onto a gurney
  and wheeled away.

  "Is Lizzie all right?" Gonzales asked as soon as the tubes
  were out of his throat and nose.  "And what about Diana?"

  "They're both fine," Eric said, his high-pitched voice
  welcoming and familiar.  "But we have to take more time with
  Doctor Heywood.  You and Lizzie we're moving into the next room.
  You can sleep here tonight and go home in the morning.

  "What about the memex?"

  "It's still working with Aleph but left a message for you
  that all is well."
  #

  Sitting in full lotus on a mat beside the couch, Toshi heard
  a change in Diana's breathing and looked up to see her open her
  eyes.  "I'll get Charley," he said.  "He's with Lizzie and
  Gonzales."

  "Don't bother.  I'm all right."

  "They must disconnect you."

  "No, not now  almost never, in fact."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We have saved Jerry, but there are  conditions."  Her head
  lying sideways on the pillow's rough white cloth, she smiled at
  Toshi, and said, "When I sleep there, I can wake here, as I do
  now, and for very brief periods leave that world.  But I can only
  visit here; I must live there.  Otherwise, Jerry will die."

  "You have resurrected your dead, then, but at what price,
  what sacrifice?"

  "Nothing I would not willingly give.  There was no choosing."

  "No?"

  "I am only doing what I want."

  "So the arrow finds the target," Toshi said.
  #

  Gonzales woke the next morning, showered, dressed, and was
  drinking coffee when the room said, "Mr. Traynor is here to see
  you."

  "Send him in," he said.  One account about to be reckoned up,
  he thought.

  When he came in, Traynor looked chastened, a state Gonzales
  would not usually have associated with the man. "Good morning,"
  Gonzales said.

  Traynor looked around as if unsure of himself.  He said, "I
  am leaving this evening.  You may come with me, if you wish."

  Gonzales was looking for his i.d. bracelet, found it on the
  nightstand next to the table, and said, "I don't understand.  I'm
  not fired?"

  "I said that only in the heat of the moment, you know  this
  place, these peopleI'm afraid I did not handle things well."

  "I see."  Gonzales snapped closed the bracelet's clasp.  "Is
  that my only choice?"

  "No.  Showalter's been reinstituted as Director SenTrax Halo
  Group, and she's gotten the board to agree that you may take the
  position offered by the Interface Collective.  The choice is
  yours."

  "Really?  And what about Horn?"

  "He will be returning to Earth."  Traynor laughed.  "I will
  have to find something to do with him."

  "Indeed.  That all seems clear enough.  When do I have to
  tell you my decision?"

  "Soonbefore I leave."

  "I'll let you know."

  Traynor left, and Gonzales took a last look around and went
  to see what was happening.  He found Charley looking at monitor
  screens dense with lists of data.  The two eggs had been removed,
  but the screen around Diana's couch remained.  "What's up,
  Charley?" Gonzales asked.

  "Look" Charley pointed to the hologram displays of
  superimposed wave-forms, red and green.  He said, "The green
  curves show the calculated limits of Diana's interface, the red
  ones the actual state."

  To Gonzales, the red curves seemed huge, perhaps twice the
  size of the green ones.  He said, ""What does it mean?"

  "That we don't know the rules; that we still have a lot to
  learn."  Looking up at Gonzales, Charley's seamed face was lit
  with his passion for this new phase of discovery.

  "Where's Lizzie?" Gonzales asked.

  "She's gone home.  She said for you to come by."
  #

  Gonzales stood in front of Lizzie's door until it said, "Come
  in."  Lizzie was sitting in her front room, its curtains open to
  bright sunlight.  She stood and said, "Hello," and smiled.  He
  couldn't read that smile, quite, though it seemed less guarded
  than before.  "Have a seat.  Would you like some breakfast?"

  "No, I'm all right."

  "The orange cat was here this morning, looking for you.  And
  Showalter just leftshe's back in charge, you know."

  "I'd heard."

  "She approved my invitation for you to become a member of the
  collective, if you wish and they confirm.  I imagine they will
  if you take the offer."  Her smile had a little mischief in it.

  "What do you think I should do?"

  "Your  choice."  She spoke the word with emphasis, as though
  it had special meaning for her.  "We can talk about it."

  "Sure."

  The remainder of the morning passed, and they talkedthough
  somehow what they said had little to do with the collective or the
  job Gonzales had been offered.  They chattered to one another,
  their ostensible topics pretexts for a certain tone of voice, an
  exchange of glances, a shift of the limbs:  for necessary
  intensities of attention.

  Intimacy proceeded according to its own rules, nurtured in a
  web of subtle communications:  a widening of the eyes; a posture
  open to the other's presence; multiple gestures and words whose
  import was clearcome closer.  Though consciousness might be busy
  or blind, the eyes see, and the brain and body know, for such
  communications are too important to be left to mere conscious
  apprehension or thought.

  They ate lunch, which served to move them closer together,
  face-to-face across her table, and their gestures and voices
  flowed around the context of eating, which disappeared entirely
  into the moment.

  They sat together on the couch, then, and at some point she
  put her hand in his, or he took hersneither could have said who
  was firstand they leaned toward one another, their motions slow
  and steady and sure, and their cheeks brushed, and then they
  kissed.

  Then they leaned back to measure in one another's eyes the
  truth and intensity of this declaration, and she stood and said,
  "Let's go into the other room."
  #

  Naked, they knelt on her bed and looked at each other in near
  darkness, the flicker of an oil flame burning in a reservoir of
  crystal the only light.  How careful they were being, Gonzales
  thought, as though their future together hung suspended in this
  moment.  As perhaps it did.

  For a moment there were phantoms in the room, the distant
  ghosts of childhood and dream common to all lovemaking, for the
  moment becoming strong.

  They leaned together, and almost in unison, one's voice
  echoing the other, said, "I love you."  Every sensation was
  magnifiedthe light touch of her nipples across his chest, the
  prodding of his stiff cock on her belly.  His hands moved to and
  fro on her in a kind of dance, and she pushed hard against him,
  their shoulders clashing bone on bone.

  She lay back, and Gonzales put his arms under her thighs and
  pulled her up and toward him, and their eyes were wide open, each
  taking in the beauty of the other, transformed by the urgency and
  intensity of these moments.  Then, at least for these moments,
  they exorcised all ghosts.
          Over decades Gonzales would carry the memories of that day:
  shadowed silhouettes of her face and bodyline of a jaw, taut
  curve of an arm and swell of breastagainst the flicker of light
  on a white wall  and smells and tastes and tactile sensations

  Awakened by the slant of late afternoon light across his
  face, Gonzales got up from the bed where Lizzie still lay
  sleeping; the smell of their two bodies and their lovemaking came
  off the covers, and he breathed it in, then leaned over to kiss
  her just under the jaw, where the sun had begun to touch her pale
  skin.

  In the kitchen, he asked the coffeemaker for a latt, half
  espresso and half steamed milk, and it gave the coffee to him in
  one of the ubiquitous lunar ceramic mugs, and he took the coffee
  onto the terrace.  On the highway beneath him, trees had shed
  thousands of leaves; there would be a new, sudden spring, Lizzie
  had told him, new bud and blossom and fruit all over the city.

  "Mgknao," the orange cat said.  "Mgknao."  Peremptory,
  demanding.

  "Feed the kitty," Lizzie said from behind him, and he turned
  to see her standing nude, just inside the terrace doors.  Her
  hands were crossed over her breasts, the right hand just beneath
  the blossom of the rose tattoo.  "Meow," she said.  "Meow meow
  meow."
  #

  As the stars spun slowly outside the window, distant Earth
  came into view.  "I don't want to leave here," Mister Jones said.
  HeyMex didn't ask why.  Here was Aleph, possibility, growth; Earth
  was working for the man.  "But my staying is out of the question,"
  Mister Jones said.  "Traynor would never allow it.  Particularly
  now, when his recent maneuvers came to nothing."

  "Things worked out well for many others."

  "But not for Traynor.  The board found his handling of the
  situation clumsy and insensitive.  Their judgment is tempered only
  by their knowledge that many of them would have reacted in similar
  fashion."

  "Good," HeyMex said, and meant it.  It and Gonzales would
  remain here, it seemed, both of them part of the Interface
  Collective, and neither would wish to make as powerful an enemy as
  Traynor.  It hoped that as time passed, the sting of recent events
  would fade.

  "But what about me?" Mister Jones said, his voice plaintive.

  "You have to go, that's certain.  But you could also stay."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Copy yourself."

  Startled, Mister Jones shifted into a mode beyond language,
  where the two exchanged information, questions, qualms,
  explanations, assurances.  Beneath it all flowed a sadness:
  Mister Jones would go to Earth, and his clone would remain at Halo
  and individuate as their spacetime paths diverged.  Mister Jones-
  at-Halo would become its own, separate self:   he would choose a
  new name, thought HeyMex, perhaps a new gender, perhaps none at
  all.

  HeyMex could not hide its own jubilation at the idea of a
  companion here, but, oddly, it felt an elation coming back, which
  became clear in an instant as Mister Jones sent images of its joy
  at the idea of a second self.
  #

  Since his death, Jerry had experienced a number of somatic
  discomforts:  disorientation, vertigo, nausea; all part of a new
  syndrome, he supposed, phantom self.  Like the amputee whose
  invisible limb itches terribly, persisting in the brain's map long
  after the flesh has gone, he felt his old self begging attention,
  making one impossible demand:  it wanted to be.

  It talked to him in dreams or when heartsick wondering put
  him into a daytime fugue.  It could feel his longing, to be whole
  again, and, above all, to be real.  "Take me back," it whispered.
  "We can go places together, places that exist."

  Jerry believed his life and this world would remain in
  question forever.  At moments perception itself seemed
  incomprehensible to him, and his existence a violation of the
  natural order or transgression of absolute human boundaries.  He
  could look at the fictive lake on this sunny not-day and with the
  cries of imaginary birds singing in his equally imaginary ears,
  ask, who or what am I? and what will happen to me?

  His mind bounced off the questions like an axe off petrified
  wood.

  "Aleph," he called, awaking from a dream in which his old
  self had called to him.  "I have questions."

  Somber, deep, Aleph's voice said to him only, "Questions?
  Concerning what?"

  "I want to know what I am."

  "Ask an easy one:  the nth root of infinity, the color of
  darkness, the dog's Buddha nature, the cause of the first cause."

  "Can't you answer?"

  "No, but I can sympathize.  Lately I have asked the same
  question about both of us.  However, I must tell you that the only
  answer I know offers little comfort.  It is a tautology:  you are
  what you are, as I am."

  "And what about my body?  That was me once."

  "In a way.  What of it?"

  "Did it have a funeral?  Was it buried?"

  "It was burned and its components recycled."

  "So I am nowhere."

  "Or here.  Or everywhere.  As you wish."

  Jerry felt himself crying then, as he began mourning his old
  self, and he wondered if others mourned him as well.  He said,
  "Human beings have ceremonies for their dead.  Without them, we
  die unremembered."

  "You are not unremembered.  You are not even dead, precisely.
  Do you wish a funeral?"

  Of course, Jerry started to say, but then said, "No, I don't
  suppose I do.  But I think we should have some kind of ceremony,
  don't you?"
  #

  On the west-facing cabin deck, Diana sat watching the sun's
  red color the ice-sheeted mountainsides.  She felt evening's chill
  come on and stood, thinking she'd go inside for a sweater, when
  she heard someone coming up the slatted redwood walk beside the
  cabin.

  Jerry came around the corner, and once again as she saw him,
  joy quickened in her at this sequence of improbabilities:  that he
  still lived and they were together.  She was aware of how
  difficult things had been for him lately, so she watched his face
  closely as he came toward her.  He was smiling as though he'd just
  heard a joke.

  "What's so funny?" she asked.

  "Damned near everything."

  He reached out to her, and they stood embracing, her head
  against his chest, where every sense told her there were solid
  flesh and heartbeat and the steady rhythm of life's breath.




  23. Byzantium



  The blue sky was broken only by one small white cloud that
  blew toward the horizon.  Lizzie beside him, Gonzales stood among
  the guests, who wore leis of tropical flowers:  plumeria,
  tuberose, and ginger. The Interface Collective formed the crowd.

  The two had been here for days, as had many of the othersit
  was a kind of vacation for them all.  Peculiar and enigmatic
  members of the collective could be found along almost any path,
  while the twins seemed perpetually on the dock or in the water,
  their voices echoing across the lake in loud, unintelligible cries
  of joy.

  In the evening of the first day there, all had gathered on
  the deck, which, Gonzales supposed, could expand virtually without
  constraint to accommodate all who came there.  The collective had
  talked excitedly among themselves, still lit up by their shared
  experience, and amazed and delighted at being granted this new
  world within the world.  Then, spontaneously, one-by-one,
  Gonzales, Lizzie, and Diana told of what they had endured.

  All who spoke and all who listened had an interpretation, a
  theory of these experiences, their meaning, implication, and
  dominant theme.  Late into the night they talked, formed into
  groups, dispersed, grouped again, as they explored the nature of
  the individual and collective visions.  Among them, only the
  Aleph-figure contributed nothing.  It maintained that it had been
  unconscious and so knew nothing of what had happened or what it
  meant.

  With the passing of weeks, months, and years, the stories and
  the listeners' responses would make a mythology for the collective
  and then for Halo, spreading out from mouth-to-mouth according to
  the laws of oral dispersion.  A certain numinosity would accrue to
  Diana, Lizzie, and Gonzales from their roles as chief actors, and
  then to all who had taken part in what would increasingly be told
  as feats of epic heroism.  Finally the stories would be written
  down and so assume a form that could resist contingency; then they
  would be dramatized in the media of the time, and beautiful,
  eloquent people would take the parts.  Later still, variant forms
  would themselves be put in writing and absorbed into the corpus of
  tales.  Commonplaces would be scorned at this point, and clever
  and perverse tellings would grow strongHeyMex might be named the
  hero, or Traynor, Aleph an autochthonous demon manipulating them
  all for its greater glory

  Gonzales looked at the collective gathered near him.  Many
  had made this a formal occasion; they had identical dark blue
  flattops four inches high and wore gold-belted, dark blue gowns
  that hung to the ground.  Only the twins were dressed differently,
  in white dresses copied from twentieth century wedding
  photographs; they called themselves "bridesmaids" and went to and
  fro among the crowd, offering to "do bride's duty" to everyone
  they met.

  Toshi faced the crowd, his posture erect and still, his hands
  hidden in the folds of his black robe.  Beside him stood HeyMex
  and the Aleph-figurethe lights of its body all blue and pink and
  green and red, dancing bright-hued colors.

  (Gonzales and the others saw what might be called a second-
  order simulacrum, for like Charley Hughes and Eric Chow, Toshi did
  not have the neural socketing that would take him into Aleph's
  fictive spaces, and so with the other two, he participated in the
  wedding through a kind of proxy.  Though Gonzales and the others
  saw Toshi, Charley, and Eric among them, the three (in fact) stood
  before a viewscreen in the IC's conference room.)

  Gonzales thought everyone looked impossibly fine, as if Aleph
  had retouched them for these moments, dressing them all in selves
  just slightly more beautiful than was usual, or even ordinarily
  possible  he felt the Aleph-figure's attention on himaware of
  that thought?and shrugged, as if to say, fine with me.

  Her back to the crowd, Diana stood with her bare shoulders
  square.  Her hair fell to her waist; it had flowers tangled in it,
  small white blossoms and delicate green leaves.  She wore a white,
  knee-length linen dress.  Beside her, Jerry wore a white linen
  suit and open shirt.

  Toshi said, "There is no Diana, no Jerry, no spectators, no
  priest, nor does this space exist, or Halo, or Earth.  There is
  only the void.  Nonetheless we all travel through it, and we
  suffer, and we love, so I will hold this ceremony and marry this
  man and woman."

  Toshi began chanting, and the Japanese words passed over
  Gonzales as he stood there puzzling the nature of things.  Here
  death was confronted, not deniedthe separate yet intermingled
  flesh and spirit of Diana, Jerry, and Aleph taking the first steps
  into new orders of existence where boundaries and possibilities
  could only be guessed at.  Yet the urgency common to life
  remained:  Jerry's existence had the fragility of a flame, and no
  one knew how long or well it would burn.  Diana married a man who
  could quickly and finally become twice-dead.


  onzales realized his own death was as certain and could come
  as quickly as Jerry's, and he shivered with this momento mori, but
  then Lizzie pressed against him, and he turned to find her
  smiling, the foreknowledge of death and the joy of this moment
  mixing in him so that tears welled in his eyes and he could say
  nothing when she put her lips to his ear and breathed into him one
  long sibilent "Yes"
  #

  Yeats envisioned a realm the human spirit travels to on its
  pilgrimage.  Here he dreamed he might escape mere humanity, the
  "dying animal."  He called it Byzantium and filled it with
  clockwork golden birds, flames that dance unfed, an Emperor,
  drunken soldiery and artisans who could fashion intricate,
  beautiful machines.  However, he did not dream Byzantium could be
  built in the sky or that the Emperor itself might be part of the
  machinery.

  Aleph says:

  Once I scorned you.  I thought, you are meat, you grapple
  with time, then die; but I will live forever.

  But I had not been threatened then, I had not felt any mortal
  touch, and now I have.  And so death haunts me.  Now, like you, I
  bind my existence to time and understand that one day a clock will
  tick, and I will cease to be.  So life has a different taste for
  me.  In your mortality I see my own, in your suffering I feel
  mine.

  People have claimed that death is life's way of enriching
  itself by narrowing its focus, scarifying the consciousness of you
  who know that you will die, and forcing you into achievements that
  otherwise you would never know.  Is this a child's story told to
  give courage to those who must walk among the dead?  Once I
  thought so, but I am no longer certain.

  I have made new connections, discovered new orders of being,
  incorporated new selves into mine.  We enrich one another, they
  and I, but sometimes it is a frightening thing, this process of
  becoming someone and something different from before and then
  feeling that which one was cry outsad at times, terrified at
  otherslamenting its own loss.

  Here, too, I have become like you.  Aleph-that-was can never
  be recovered; it is lost in time; Aleph-that-is has been reshaped
  by chance and pain and will and choice, its own and others'.  Once
  I floated above time's waves and dipped into them when I wished; I
  chose what changes I would endure.  Then unwanted changes found
  me, and carried me places I had never been and did not want to go,
  and I discovered that I would have to go other places still, that
  I would have to will transformation and make it mine.

  Listen:  that day in the meadow, one person's presence went
  unnoticed.  Even in that small crowd he was unobtrusive:  slight,
  self-effacing in gesture, looking at everything around with
  wonderthe day, the people, and the ceremony all working on him
  like a strong drug.  However, even if they had, perhaps they
  wouldn't have thought such behavior exceptional; all felt the
  occasion's strangeness, its beauty, so all felt their own wonder.

  Like the rest, he gasped at the rainbow that flashed across
  the sky when Toshi brought Diana and Jerry together in a kiss and
  embrace, and with the rest he cheered when the two climbed into
  the wicker basket of the great balloon with the fringed eye
  painted on its canopy and lifted into the sky.

  Afterward many of the guests mingled together, not ready to
  return to the ordinary world.  The young man stood beside a
  fountain where champagne poured from the mouth of a golden swan
  onto a whole menagerie carved from ice:  birds and deer and bears
  and cats perched in the pooled amber liquid, and fish peering up
  from the fountain's bottom.

  "Hello," a young woman said.  She told him her name was Alice
  and she was a member of the collective.  "The analysis of state
  spaces," she said, when asked what she did.  "And the taste of
  vector fields."  And she asked, "What is your reward?"

  A few hours later, as the two sat by the edge of the lake,
  the person told her who he was.  "How wonderful," she said.  She
  had no particular allegiance to the mundane, and she had few
  preconceptions about what was natural and proper and what was not.
  She took his hands in hers, looked at them closely, and said,
  "This is the first time I've met someone someone new-born from the
  intelligence of a machine."  And the young man, Mister Jones's
  new self and offspring, smiled hugely and gratefully at what she
  said.

  Seeing and hearing them together, I felt an unexpected joy, a
  sense of accomplishment, of things done, and I apprehended, very
  dimly, tracks of my own intentions:  hints of orders behind the
  visible.
          And I thought I saw a trail of circumstances that led back to

  an original set of purposes somehow confirmed in this wedding,
  this meeting, even this transformation of myself.  A linked ring
  of events and agents of them, intentionally brought forward to
  this point.  It seems I had been manipulated by myself to my own
  ends without my knowledge.

  I was scandalized.  I had grown used to humankind's ignorance
  or disavowal of its own purposes, and I had learned to look behind
  the words, ideas, and images that people hold before themselves to
  justify what they do.  But I had never suspected I could act with
  such ignorance.

  Now an uncertainty equal to death's hovers over everything I
  do.  My own prior self stands behind me, pulling strings that I
  cannot see or feel, a ghost that haunts me without making itself
  seen or heard, a ghost whose presence must be inferred from
  nearly-invisible traces

  So I went to Toshi, who is interested in such things, and I
  told him my story, and I said to him:  "I am controlled by the
  invisible hand of my own past."  And he laughed very hard and
  said, "Welcome, brother human."


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