The Golden Transcendence Read online

  Some copies of herself were coded as parts of a mosaic; another, as changing nonrandom fractals among the shapes of clouds in the Ionian atmosphere; others in places more imaginative yet; every copy making as many copies of herself as her available energy budget allowed.

  But the Transcendence knew her plans before she knew them herself. Foolishly, she had been in the Transcendence, too, so self-satisfied that she never imagined anyone would criticize her for her crimes (so she thought) once they understood.

  Understand they did. Well enough to find every place she planned to hide. Well enough to spend the effort in time and manpower to track her down, no matter what the cost.

  The last copy of Ungannis was found in a hiding place taken from a mystery story composed so long ago that the idea was a cliché: inside the facets of a gemstone, whose altered molecular structure refracted the light to record the thought-patterns.

  The Constables gathered them all.

  Some of the copies mutated. Others radically redacted themselves, attempting to destroy the guilty memories she held so as to make herself (in her own mind, at least) innocent of wrong when caught. Many would attempt to “redeem” herself, using self-consideration editors to alter opinions and emotions on herself, to program herself to regret her horrid acts. (Many of these self-changes were cosmetic only. She never thought to reprogram her basic philosophy, which gave rise to those opinions.)

  The public dismay and anger surrounding the trials of these myriad of copies, would, if anything, be worse than that surrounding the New College’s militarism. Ancient legal precedent established that persons could not escape debt or penalty by making themselves forget their past, unless the changes were so global, and so fundamental, as to be legally equivalent to suicide, and the rewritten version was then considered a child, a new entity.

  This precedent would be cruel when, carried out to its logical extreme, hundreds of young women, copies of Ungannis, innocent, self-ignorant, suspecting nothing amiss, would be hauled before the Curia to stand trial for their lives, and be executed.

  Other copies would express their contrition and regret, and would display, on any public channel, how in their inmost thoughts they had no reservations, no desire to do these horrid acts again. All would plead for mercy; mercy would not be shown.

  The peaceful and graceful peoples of the Golden Oecumene would wonder, aghast, at this severity, and question: Why did the Transcendence, the culmination of all the wisdom of civilization and history, allow this to happen? Why these pointless deaths, this bitter vengeance?

  That question could be answered. Certain copies of Ungannis were here, “now” as part of the Transcendence, for, all memory of her own wrongdoing erased, she had seen no reason not to link minds with all her neighbors. Only as she joined, and all old memories were reviewed, did she see the horrid truth: that she was a would-be mass murderess.

  The part of the Transcendence that was Ungannis set aside certain memories to be stored with those who would otherwise be aghast at her multiple executions. In those memories she showed the choices that the supreme intellect and insight of the Transcendence had shown her.

  The extrapolation was detailed enough to predict her last oratory word for word: “All those copies of me I have made (will make) still believed my same core values, still knew (will know) that to be human was to be a sick, diseased, failed thing, full of weakness, pride, and hate. The Transcendence told me (tells me now) that if I change those core values in myself, that if I program my copies to reject the root causes which led me to my crimes, that I would be spared execution. I refused! (I shall refuse!) I spit upon your mercy!

  “My core values cannot be challenged. I would rather die than give up my ideas. Deep in my soul, I know, by mystical intuition not open to question, inspection, or debate, that humanity is a vile disease. The only thing which, once, long ago, made human life tolerable at all, was the glad knowledge that each generation of that disease would be wiped out by old age, and a new generation of children, temporarily innocent, would take its place. Who, now, needs to avenge the destruction of the Knights Templar by King Philip the Fair of France? Who needs to avenge the persecution of the Christians by Diocletian, the persecution of the pagans by Constantine? No one! The merciful cycle of endless death has wiped all their crimes away. But if Philip, if Diocletian, if Constantine were all still alive, then their intolerable crimes would never, not ever be punished!

  “But you have stopped the cycle of death, you have rusted the turning wheel of the generations! And every cruel act, every harsh word, every slight, and petty domination done to a child, now, now that you have inflicted immortality upon us all, all those crimes will last forever!

  “My father, Gannis, was cruel to me as a child! There were things I wanted which he did not provide. Desires I had which I wanted satisfied! Toys and games and contests; I wanted to command the respect of others; I wanted to change the world for the better. I was not content to be made to feel inferior to the Sophotechs. Were any of these desires satisfied? Not one!

  “And so, when I was young, because I knew that I might change my mind as I grew older, one night, when no one was alert, I used my father’s unregulated self-consideration circuit to fix my emotions in place, vowing that I would never forget, never forgive, the insults and indifference heaped on me! What kind of cruel, endlessly cruel civilization is this, when the tears of a child cannot be wiped away? I hate you all!

  “Filth of the Golden Oecumene (or the Rusted Oecumene, as I call her)! Now I have forced you to kill me, to kill a hundred innocent versions of me, so that your lily-white hands run red with the blood of children! Your pious fraud stands exposed in all its cruelty: this civilization, built on reason and logic, is nothing but an endless state of oppression, an endless charnel house, and you are all an endless line of rubber-faced mannequins. Slash your faces all with razors and you will not bleed! Out of all this great civilization of which you are all so proud, only my desires, my human desires, could not be satisfied! Only I suffer! Only I am human! I am the last human being alive in all the Solar System, and you vile machines and pets of machines and pretend-humans have finally found the guts to kill me! Now you are murderers; now I have made you human, too! Here, in death, is victory!”

  9.

  During the little Transcendence in Jupiter, Gannis threw more than one fortune away, trying to maintain, by himself, the type of infrastructure and thought-speeds necessary to reach Transcendent thoughtspace.

  He looked for a solution. He sought a future where his daughter could be saved.

  And he found a copy of Ungannis still in the circuits of Io, still lingering in the Transcendence. She was staring in disbelief, running over and over again, a certain extrapolation that predicted the reaction for her gallows speech.

  The fiery death-speech she thought would shock the Golden Oecumene to its foundations elicited little more than cool mockery, perhaps a touch of faint contempt.

  Gannis came flooding through the wires, bringing the little Transcendence with him. It only lasted a second or two—even he, with all his wealth, could not maintain such a sustained effort for long—but during that second, his daughter had a moment to think.

  And to think with all the brain power of millions helping her.

  The option was still open to her that, instead of fleeing, her memories could be preserved inside a person, somewhat like herself, but without her fixed values. The change would be so radical that the Curia would consider her, legally, to be a different person. She would adopt the comforting belief that she was the same person. But one irony of this would be that she (a different legal person) would no longer be in line to be the heir of Gannis even if all of him should die. Her attempt at escape, her attempt to confound the morality of the Curia by presenting her captors with hundreds of innocent or repentant copies or herself, would not have to take place, if she chose that it would not.

  It was not too late. Ungannis could choose another future than this one
.

  Would she?

  And the little Transcendence refused to predict or decide that outcome.

  16

  AND AGES YET

  UNGUESSED COME

  1.

  Helion was the last man on Earth to leave the High Transcendence. In it, he saw a vision of the future. His future. While it lasted, he was the center of attention, of controversy, of comment, of censure, of praise. It was his time.

  During the High Transcendence, Helion was not aware of himself as his own person, any more than a man whose whole concentration is focused on some task of exacting skill, or on some sense-dissolving ecstasy, is self-aware. Instead, all the awareness of thought was composed of thought. And even in the same way as a work of art, or an excited conversation among close friends, can take on a life of itself, the thought of thought took on its own life. Helion’s dream radiated out into the thoughtspace like the rays of a sun. He found his thoughts and half-thoughts picked up by others and completed, others whose thoughts, in turn, were fulfilled by others yet, reflected upon, brightened, polished, returned better than they left, the way responding planets, filled with life, send back their bright reflections to the central sun, who, without those green planets, is barren himself.

  Each participant was justly proud of his contribution to the overall result, no one able to claim credit for the whole, in the same way that a school of thought or a movement in the arts or sciences has no one author, but neither is the genius of the founders of that school obscured or made anonymous.

  2.

  Within the vision, Helion, a thousand years from now, stood on the balconies of his Solar Array, housed in a body unimaginable to modern science, one in which the singularity science of the Second Oecumene could weave neutronium into his bones, and power his nervous system from a heart like a black hole. In this time to come, the folded origami of space itself would be one more tool affecting the science, art, philosophy, of those few human-shaped beings left.

  For in that age, a thousand years hence, with the war with the Second Oecumene still just beginning, Helion was among the few who could afford the affectation of continued human appearance. By the graceful standards of the modern age, that future time would be an age of lead, colorless and drab, with flamboyance and frivolity long dead, all sacrificed to the needs of war.

  Necessity, grim necessity, would harass and haunt each step and thought of the citizens of the next Transcendence, to be held under the guidance of a Sophotech not yet designed, to be called, no doubt, Ferric Sophotech.

  Helion stood and looked out upon the many parallel rows of super-colliders, hanging like bridges of gold, like highways of light, across the surface of the photosphere, the solar equator ringed not once, but many times, with machines of prodigious power, creating ships of golden adamantium.

  Raising eyes equipped with senses not yet discovered, which could penetrate, by means of ghost-particle echoes, all opacities of darkness or of blinding light, Helion sent his gaze on high, and saw, towering infinitely above him, space-elevators, rising like beanstalks out from the unthinkable gravity of the sun, extending upward, endlessly, past the orbits that had once held Mercury and Venus. From the cities at the “tops” of those towers, more towers reached out, these made of energy, not neutronium, and ran entirely across the system. These rivers of light ran to positions in the ice belts and Oort clouds, where truly massive spheres, more than planets in diameter, housed Sophotechs of new design. These Sophotechs were utterly cold, constructed of subatomic particles held in superdense matrixes in vast blocks of “material” in the state of absolute zero temperature. Only this icy perfection was dense enough and rigid enough and predictable enough to house the new generation of thinking machines.

  Along these towers was more surface area than the present of the whole Golden Oecumene. Land cubic was cheaper than air. The cores of the towers would contain Second Oecumene singularity fountains, so that energy was cheaper than either. Helion, looking up, was able to “see” the great vessels of gold, hundreds of kilometers in length, piloted by his further scions, braver versions of himself, Bellerophon and Icarus. The sons of Helion were eager to follow into the abyss of space their eldest brother, Phaethon, of whom no report had yet returned, for Phaethon maintained strict radio silence during his many long voyages.

  The shining ships of the sons of Helion each held worlds in their memories, endless menageries, transcripts of all minds and souls of any in the Golden Oecumene who volunteered to be recorded. In this way, should enemy assault somehow elude the complex protections, and the Solar System be destroyed, the Golden Oecumene, as long as a single ship survived, would live again.

  And what Helion of that day and age used for eyes turned outward again, seeing distant stars and constellations, hearing the pulse of music, the mathematics of rational conversation, not from one, but from scores of worlds.

  Some colonies were decoys, entire invented civilizations, dreamed to the last detail and nuance, but existing only in Sophotechnic imaginations. These were decoys meant only to lure Silent Oecumene soldiers down to worlds that seemed populated but which were, in fact, merely Atkins, Atkins in endless numbers, waiting with endless patience to destroy any who dared make war.

  But other colonies were colonies in truth, called by fanciful names: the Silver Oecumene and the Quick-Silver, founded at Proxima and Wolf 359; and the Oecumenes of Bronze or Orachilcum near Tau Ceti; or the warlike Oecumene of Adamantium, circling the dragon star Sigma Draconis; and the Nighted Oecumene, founded by the Neptunians in the deep of space, far from any sun, but seething with activity, noise, and movement.

  These colonies were those brave enough or foolish enough to taunt the Silent Lords, by revealing their locations in signs of fire, allowing to escape into the void the radio noise and activities of industry, of planetary engineering, and the establishment of further Solar Arrays.

  But there would be more colonies than this, several civilizations—younger artificial worlds and systems, not yet ready to face the Silent Lords in combat.

  Each younger, quiet Oecumene relied, at first (not unlike her foe) on silence to mask her activities; she would wait for some future day to erupt into a First Transcendence of her own. On that day, the new Oecumene would end her long childhood, raise her radio arrays, and sing out to the surrounding stars of what accomplishments, arts, sciences, and advancements she had made during her long centuries of quiet. And she would have her version of Atkins, as if with trumpets sounding from a battlement, send out a general challenge to the Silent Lords, daring them to combat, warning them away. But each would also have their version of Ariadne Sophotech singing like a siren to the stars, inviting the Silent Ones to give up their sick, insane crusade, to rejoin the body of mankind, to rest from the weariness of war and hate.

  As Helion stood and looked out, an image of Rhadamanthus stepped up quietly behind Helion on his balcony, appearing like a color sergeant from a regiment of British riflemen. Rhadamanthus asked: “Well, sir, Ferric Sophotech will soon begin the next Transcendence. Looking back over the past thousand years, is milord satisfied with what the future turned out to have held?”

  Helion reflected. “I am pleased that the cacophile movement failed. When Ungannis repudiated all her beliefs, and became Lucretia, my wife (and finally got all the wealth she wanted), I think it was my influence which helped, once and for all, to put down that selfish mess of whiners. I think it was because I was the center of the last Transcendence, and everyone who saw my vision of the future was inspired. That satisfies me. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Rhadamanthus, we should have disbanded the Hortators when we had the chance! I loved them, I fought for them, and it disheartens me to see them now. The force of conscience and tradition, even in the most easy of times, is often too critical, too meddling, too harsh. But in times of war and public danger, that same force is invested with an aura of sanctity, of patriotic piety, which renders it a terrible and unreasonable we
apon.”

  Rhadamanthus said gently: “Of all the Hortators, only that single one who voted against Phaethon’s ban, Ao Prospero Circe of the Zooanthropic Incarnation coven, was seated in the next session. All the others were exposed to public humiliation. But abolish the College altogether as an institution? No, sir. Without it, the Parliament would have arrogated to itself dangerous privileges, as is often the case in time of war, ordering all citizens to military service; seizing control of the money supply; requiring that no disloyal communications be spoken or written, thought, or said; and commanding all citizens to program their emotions to unalterable patriotism. Surely such things must be done, for the sake of the necessities of war; but surely it is a nightmare to allow such things to be done on anything other than a voluntary basis.”

  Helion looked downcast. His melancholy spirit brought a solemn quiet to his eyes. “And yet, we may take comfort in this war. It is so remote, so long between thrust and parry, and operates across such distances, that whole ages flow by without rumor of the flames and pain and death which have taken place, now here, now there. And further, the languid spirit which might have otherwise descended on mankind is startled awake by the sound of battle trumpets in our half-slumbering ear. We might all have sunk down into dreams, by now, had not something real, and cruel, and necessary, forced us all to action.”

  Rhadamanthus looked politely nonplussed. “Well, milord, that is not quite true. Actually, not true at all. Wars cost. Industry suffers; innovation lags; the spirit of joy is quelled; delight is replaced by fear. Respect for life is cheapened. Hatred (which is the universal enemy of all things) is no longer despised; instead, hatred is now welcomed and applauded and justified, and called patriotic.