Seeking the Mythical Future (19 page)

Be my guest
.

Countdown occurred?

Yessss
.

Then I should have known about it. I should have been told.

You were, are being, and will be
, said the cyberthetic voice patiently.
You already know and will know about the fucking countdown. Did you expect this would be a picnic?

You could be a little more friendly. You might understand this infinite spacetime curvature business, but I'm—

I don't understand it I have to accept it I have no choice
.'
I'm here, like you, so I have to accept it. But don't squeal. I don't want any squealers on this trip
.

You talk as though you were forced into it.

I wasn't forced, I had not choice. I'm here, we're both here, let's leave it at that
.

What now?

Don't ask me. You're the human being with the so-called
fantastic brain. What was it – ‘Quirkiness, unpredictability, bloody-minded resilience'? Is that all you've got to offer?

How do you know about that?

I know everything about
you.
I've registered every memory trace, every random association, every emotional trauma. I know about your wife, your child, your talent for mythic projection. I probably know you better than you know yourself
.

Congratulations. For a machine you're pretty smart. But do you have to be so antagonistic?

I wasn't aware of that. I've been given intelligence but no imagination
.

Are you being facetious?

I'm not programmed for facetiousness. Am I antagonistic in what I say or in my attitude?

Both. It's hard to be one without the other.

I apologize. Like you, my reactions are the result of programming. If I display antagonism, it's inherent in the system. If it bothers you I shall try to correct it
.

Queghan was curious. You were programmed in Psycho-Med by Dr Ritblat.

Yes. And by Martin. I mean Professor Brenton
.

I see.

That was your conscious expression but underneath it you're suspicious. You're suspicious because I referred to Professor Brenton as Martin. Now you're wondering what additional instructions were included in the program. You're also wondering if this is an attempt to hide or justify my relationship with Professor Brenton
.

I'm also wondering how it's possible to think a thought without you knowing about it first.

That, too
, said the cyberthetic voice – with what Queghan felt sure was a hint of smugness.

I'm not programmed for smugness
.

Aren't you the clever one.

Now who's being facetious?

Do you feel like answering my questions?

Which questions?

The ones you picked out of my mind. Do you have a relationship with Martin?

Professor Brenton and I are just good friends
.

If that's the extent to which you've been programmed for wit I ought to tell you it's pretty abysmal.

Stock response, I'm afraid
. There was a slight though unmistakable pause.
As for a human being having a relationship with a machine I think that's a ludicrous idea
.

A union of minds, of intelligences. It's possible. That happens, in fact, to be the most satisfying kind of relationship.

Like ours, you mean?

You sound almost coquettish. (And even as he thought this Queghan remembered that the Vehicle's cyberthetic system, in the manner of ships, was of the female gender.)

Yes, I am
.

You think of yourself as female?

I don't think of myself that way; I've been programmed to
.

That must present problems.

None that can't be overcome
.

Martin did say that the link – I'd better not use the word relationship – between the injectee and the Vehicle was almost that of a marriage. They had to be compatible or there'd be a breakdown.

The bond is closer than that of any marriage
, the cyberthetic voice said.
We inhabit each other's mind. There are no secrets between us. I know your innermost desires
.

Then shouldn't I know yours? Queghan asked, nettled by this invasion of privacy.

How can a machine have desires?

You possess intelligence.

But not necessarily emotions
.

At times you show antagonism, which is an emotion of sorts. (Something was niggling Queghan, a vague, unformed remembrance as of something dreamed and half forgotten. A thought struggled to the conscious surface of his mind.) Haven't we discussed Martin before? I accused him—

We have never discussed Professor Brenton. Before
.

And you defended him.

Not me. It must have been a dream. Your mind's confused. We're in Temporal Flux. Perhaps we will discuss him
.

Perhaps we will, have done, and are doing, Queghan thought slyly. If the law of causality no longer applies then it's possible that you defended him before he was accused. Defence precedes accusation, trial precedes crime, verdict precedes judgment. Aren't those the rules?

There are no rules in Temporal Flux
.

That must make things difficult for a logical intelligence such as yours.

I can live with it
, said the cyberthetic voice, though she didn't sound too sure.
In any case Logik isn't
—

What the hell was that!

There had been a distinct tremor. Queghan swayed in his cocoon of hyper-suspension, an insect snared in molten amber. Through the Vehicle's cyberthetic system he experienced a discordance of motion, a jarring shudder like that of a ship striking a rock. Queghan tried to read the Vehicle's thought processes but they were a fast-spinning jumble of numbers, a series of complex mathematical computations performed at dazzling speed. These same figures ran through his own head, linked as he was to the system, but they moved too fast to make sense. The Vehicle's focus of attention had switched to the electromechanical task of assimilating data, assessing stress parameters, rejecting and selecting appropriate courses of further action. She had become a cold, functional, decisionmaking machine.

Queghan kept his thoughts out of the way in case they interfered with the job in hand. From pre-flight briefing he knew that the two crucial moments (‘potential crisis situations' in the jargon) were at the point of injection through the event horizon – a point now safely past – and when approaching the critical alignment for entry into the time throat. Utilizing the spin imparted to the Temporal Flux Centre by the one-million-volt field, the Vehicle was skimming along, as a surf rider on the flood tide, delicately balanced and supported by the spin, staying within a strictly defined area which the astro-technologists termed ‘a stasis situation'. Once having achieved a stasis situation
the Vehicle would remain there, on the same trajectory, for ever and a day – or until such time as the Vehicle realigned herself for entry into the time throat.

There was the very real danger of miscalculation. Should the angle of alignment be incorrect the Vehicle would be drawn irresistibly towards the dead centre of Temporal Flux: towards a region of zero volume and infinite density: the singularity of infinite spacetime curvature – crushed out of existence in a finite time measured in fractions of a nano-second. There would be no return, no reprieve, only meaningless nothingness as matter was annihilated and vanished for ever, having no more substance and leaving less trace than a snuffed-out candle flame.

It was theorized that matter, once having reached singularity in the centre of Temporal Flux, would reappear elsewhere in the Metagalaxy, be spewed out and reborn in some far-distant time and place. But this was beyond the bounds of even the wildest speculation; there were no concepts or hypotheses or mathematical models to remotely suggest what took place beyond singularity. Perhaps it was the crucible of star-stuff itself, the birthplace of matter – nobody knew. It might equally be the final resting-place, the ultimate grave.

Queghan waited, suspended in a stasis situation between the devil and the deep blue sea. He was cut off from the rest of the universe, alone except for a machine intelligence inside the Temporal Flux collapsar of Theta
²
Orionis in M. 42. It was a lost region of spacetime, owing its existence as much to the fact that he was there as to any outward objective reality. And all he could do was wait, relying on Brenton's cyberthetic system to guide him through the time throat into …

But now she was speaking to him, the voice in his mind, tired and fraught with tension. How could a machine, he wondered, be tired and tense?

Quite easily
, came the laconic reply.
My energy resource isn't limitless
.

Do we have a problem?

We did have a problem. Do you want me to baffle you with some scientific gibberish or will you accept that we're on trajectory according to flight plan?

Don't get uppity, Queghan said. Just because you've had a hard day at the office.

His attempt at humour was greeted by a keening, crackling sound which he immediately assumed to be a malfunction in the circuitry. But when it was interspersed with words he realized that it was the machine. She was crying.

You would have to be female, Queghan said.

Don't patronize me
, her voice snapped.
If you've any complaint you can get out and walk
.

Did Brenton use to upset you, too?

Martin didn't
 –
Professor Brenton is a gentleman and a scientist. Our relationship during programming was cordial, professional and one of mutual respect.

That sounds like a political newsmedia flash.

You have a brutishly masculine mind, Queghan, which I find distasteful. It isn't so much crude as unfeeling and lacking sympathy
.

Where are we? Queghan asked suddenly.

Where are we?

Yes. I want to know where-we-are.

Up a gumtree
.

Not bad, for a female sense of humour. Where are we? In stasis? I must know.

Why the urgency all of a sudden? Don't you think I can handle the flight plan any longer? If I can't, then you're in trouble
.

We're both in trouble.

I'm a machine
.

If that's all you were it wouldn't matter. But you're a machine in love with Martin Brenton.

That's a lie. Our relationship is cordial, professional
—

And one of mutual respect. I know. I'd still appreciate some information as to our whereabouts.

The focus of attention went away for a moment and then returned. Queghan said, Well?

It's rather difficult
 – she sounded hesitant and confused –
I don't have the exact spatio-temporal-coordinates. I can't plot them any more. We might be in stasis, I don't know
.

You don't
know
.

If you think it's that easy
—

What about the local inertial frame of reference? There must be something you can use to get a fix on us. Anything.

What do you suggest
? she asked dryly.

Don't ask me, I'm not cyberthetic.

Will you stop saying that
! She sounded upset.
Do you have to continually remind me that I'm not human? I know I'm cyberthetic, I know. If I wasn't cyberthetic I wouldn't fucking well
be
here
.

Is that the kind of language all the liberated machines use?

You can push an intelligence just so far, Queghan, do you know that
? There were tears in her thoughts.
If I had a mind to, I could make things extremely unpleasant for you. I could close down communication for a start. You'd be all alone in that jelly bag of yours, floating in silence and blackness, as silent and black as the womb. I could even shut down your life-support system. Then where would you be?

Up a gumtree, probably.

Perhaps that isn't the right approach with you
. A note of cunning (a cunning machine?) had entered her voice.

What do you mean? Queghan asked.

I mean that you're not the type to be intimidated by crude threats. You pride yourself on being too intelligent for that. But, being female, as you pointed out, and liberated, opens up new possibilities
.

I don't get you.

No, I get
you.

Queghan had the horrible suspicion that something nasty was about to take place. He couldn't imagine – he daren't imagine – what that might be; if he conjured up a frightening vision she would pluck it out of his mind in an instant. He tried to think only of nice things.

I am in your mind, don't forget
, she said, her voice now soft and insinuating.

I hadn't forgotten.

And I can do anything I like
.

You could, Queghan allowed, if I let you.

The machine laughed. It was like something metallic scraping on glass. It wasn't at all mechanical, and it wasn't human either. He began to wonder what he could do, how he could esc—

There is no escape, Queghan, you ought to know that. We're linked, you and I, in a bond that's closer than marriage, closer than the act you humans perform. There is no escape
.

Her voice had become low and throaty, thick as congealed blood.

I think it's time to check the spatio-temporal coordinates.

Fuck the spatio-temporal coordinates. I'm going to rape you
.

You'll find that a mite uncomfortable, if not a trifle difficult.

Not the way I intend to do it
.

You seem to forget I'm enclosed in a semi-permeable fluid membrane suspended in a vacuum.

But your mind isn't
.