Terrible Swift Sword
by
David Pascal
Part Two: 'Broken' (chapters 16-23)
(Note: Part Two is long, so I�m posting it on the FFML day by day in
smaller sections. Interested readers who would like to read or download
the whole of Part Two can find it at the SMJ Fanfiction Page at
http://www.geocities.com/~davidpascal/smj and get the whole piece there
� and really ought to, since it�s much more readably formatted.
Technically, none of the characters appearing in the original Saber
Marionette J series appear in TSS, though a few are referred to. Nor
(offhand) do I think there are any spoilers.
Saber Marionette J is owned and copyrighted by AnimeVillage.com * Satoru
Akahori * Hiroshi Negishi * Tsukasa Kotobuki * Kadokawa Shoten * Bandai
Visual * Sotsu Agency * TV Tokyo.)
Comments should be directed to: davidpascal@juno.com.)
16
The livery stable door that Belt and Fall had shut behind them rattled.
It fell silent, and then it rattled again.
There was complete stillness inside the stable. Nothing moved but golden
motes of dust, twirling in the beam of sunlight streaking down from an
open upper window. The hay lay sprawled, the head of the chevies ave it
bowed in sleep. Everything was almost supernaturally calm. Then
suddenly a low but piercing electronic note screeched through the air,
not unlike the haunting ancient cry of the twentieth-century modem
connecting to AOL. It hissed and quacked and stopped. Nothing happened.
Then Gel sat up in the buckboard. Sunlight from the open window gleamed
down across her golden naked shoulders. She stood up on the buckboard
floor. She turned her eerie superhuman head, and looked at the door.
Around her a deep ominous hum began to rise.
She turned her body toward the door. She began to glow.
17
The German�s name was Hans Gottlieb Hohenzollern-Gauleiter. Gauleiter
for short. The thirty-year-old Pierce didn�t get the full name for
several weeks, in part because he didn�t even bother to ask it. They
talked about other things. Nano-computation, parallel processing,
connectionist theory, neo-Merkleian neuroanatomy, AI, AL, assembler
correlations, on and on, morning to night. To Pierce�s amazement and
delight, Gauleiter actually had an inkling of what Pierce was talking
about half the time. More than an inkling � Gauleiter had experimented
on processors that Pierce barely dreamed of getting government support to
run. Gauleiter was a bit slow � everyone was � but at least he wasn�t
downright retarded like everyone else Pierce had had to reluctantly work
with. Gauleiter was almost � clever. At times. Gauleiter was
also�Pierce did not know how to express it. Most people would have said
�human�. But that was not a term of praise coming from Pierce. At first
Gauleiter had been shaky -- frail. But then as he guzzled the brews and
gobbled down the plates of meat and potatoes Pierce mandated, Gauleiter
swelled like a medicine ball. Nearly fifty, the man would laugh, curse,
bellow, gesticulate, assert. He drank like a fish, and philosophized
like an Archbishop.
What he did not quite do is give Pierce answers to every question he
asked. Some things Pierce wanted to know were �political�, Gauleiter
said, and added that he had been ordered not to speak to Pierce about
�political matters�. Pierce pressed, but they both knew Government
microphones were everywhere. Gauleiter simply shook his head no; and, if
pushed, held up his nail-less fingertips.
But � he said no with a curious, pensive look. A look that was not so
much �no�, as �not here; not now�. Pierce bided his time. He knew what
Gauleiter apparently did not know: that there were no personal secrets
in the Enclosure. Only scientific ones -- the ones the spies and their
masters were too intrinsically ignorant to grasp.
Pierce waited. And the day came. It was a good seven months after
Gauleiter first arrived. They�d eaten together, worked together, spent
days scrawling chalk formulae over blackboards together. Gauleiter had
even done the impossible: in the course of a biochemical experiment, a
vial Gauleiter was mixing had blown up in a cloud of black smoke, and
when Gauleiter�s face emerged from the fumes, his hair stood virtually
straight up and his face was black as charcoal, but for his huge,
blinking, puzzled white eyes. He looked so ludicrous that � Pierce
laughed. And when Gauleiter saw it, he laughed too. He realized, to his
amazement, that � he liked the man. That he was liked by him.
Pierce topped that first with another: he invited Gauleiter to dinner in
Gel�s room. It was a Sunday evening, and when Gauleiter entered, still
wearing his laboratory coat, he simply stood and gaped. The Japanese
fauna, the artificial brook, the low-slung tables, the Zen garden -- it
was like stepping into the home of an ascetic samurai diplomat in Heien
Japan. Most amazing of all was Gel. Gauleiter hadn�t met her. He�d
seen her on the test ranges, leaping and shredding metal, and
occasionally working out mathematical equations with Pierce. He didn�t
approach her. No one approached her. If they did, Pierce all but
exploded. Now she sat next to Pierce in full Imperial kimino, and when
Gauleiter looked at her, she looked back and bowed and smiled! �Konban
wa, Gauleiter-sensei. How kind of you to join us.�
Gauleiter�s jaw hung open. �How well you did that, madam.
Extraordinary!� He looked at Pierce. �So spontaneous in appearance.�
�It was spontaneous,� said Pierce, already sitting and eating.
�How �spontaneous� do we mean?�
Pierce shrugged. �As spontaneous as a combination of quantum computing
and fuzzy logic can take you. Not terribly, I suppose, given the archaic
technological constraints I have to work with. But what else can one do
here?� said Pierce, waving his hand to indicate what he obviously
considered Neanderthal surroundings. �It may seem impressive, but��
Gauleiter nodded. �Ja. It�s not human cognitive processing. I
understand.�
Pierce looked at Gel. He whispered: �She�s like a� beautifully
well-mannered, articulate, sweet, good�yet mildly autistic child. At
times we�re so close � I�m so close � and then she seems a thousand miles
away.�
Gauleiter nodded. He smiled. �You wish Pinochio to be a real boy.�
�I want Gel to be a real girl,� said Pierce, staring into his cup of
sake.
�You�ll never succeed the way you�re going,� mumbled Gauleiter into his
glass. �Magnificent though your efforts have been.�
�And why not?�
Gauleiter placed his glass on the table and placed it between his hands,
turning it like a rod as he ruminated.
�Ask yourself this, Doctor. What enabled man to produce the marionette �
indeed sentient computers at all, such as the Mesopotamia itself? You
know, of course. Cryostasis. You remember -- cryonics?�
�The Great Extinction.�
�Yes,� said Gauleiter. �The Great Extinction � the late twentieth and
early twenty-first centuries. As early as 1964 some men realized it was
possible to place people cheaply and easily into perfect suspended
animation simply by placing them in liquid nitrogen, where, at minus 196
centigrade, all molecular decay simply stopped � kaput!. The problem
was, taking human tissue to so low a temperature caused damage right down
to the molecular level. Conventional biologists regarded the idea of
biological revival after such damage to be impossible. Correctly so � in
conventional biotherapeutic terms. One would have to systematically
repair damage on the atomic scale, and that was not possible � in 1964.
Then in the 1980�s nanotechnology began to be developed, and nanotech
promised to do precisely that: atomic-scale machines, nano-devices, that
would enter the frozen patient�s brain, map out every neuron, every
synapse, plot out every area of damage, infer the previous healthy state,
then restructure everything back into place � perfectly. Or as near to
perfectly as possible. And of course in the mid-twenty-first century the
frozen cryonics patients were revived without the complications of
illness, accident, old age, that had required cryostasis in the first
place.�
�Thus returning to life healthy and whole,� said Pierce. �And not
incidentally making deep space travel possible. Only the humans beings
of that period were, as always, too stupid to grasp the implications of
scientific findings. So billions of people living in that time period
neglected to have cryonic suspension arranged, and died irrevocably.�
�Yes. But!� said Gauleiter, �What is relevant to us is that nano-devices
enabled man to make a perfect map of the human mind. After all, the
curious thing about the brain is that it�s made of neurons, and neurons
essentially do nothing apart from conveying electrical impulses to
another neuron. A liver cell does liver cell things and a sperm cell
does sperm cell things, but a neuron does nothing, really. It is like a
postman � it simply takes an electrical impulse from point A to point B.
Nanodevice-based neuroanalysis allowed us to make a perfect map of any
individual�s brain and replicate it in electronic terms � in other words,
make a device that carried the exact same electrical impulses in exactly
the same way.�
�A robot mind.�
�Yes, but a robot simulation operating exactly like a human mind. A mind
with emotions, physical sensations, instincts, feelings. A human mind,
but made of metal.�
�But you need nano-devices that can enter a human brain and disassemble
it and map it, synapse by synapse,� said Pierce. �And we don�t have
them. And even if we did, to map a female brain you have to have a
female! And on this godforsaken excuse for a planet we have neither.�
Pierce slammed his hand on the table top. �And yet I�ve seen it! I�ve
actually plotted the synaptic structures out on my computers. I�ve
worked out how to upload Gel�s existing memories and behavior patterns.
I can see how to do it. And still I can�t do a damned thing because I
just don�t have the tools. It�s like trying to pick up atoms using
telephone poles for chopsticks� Pierce shook his head and swore. �I
have all the theory in the world and I can�t, in practice, do anything.
Because all the idiots around me want from me is bombs and missiles and
land mines. Death. Death, instead of mind.�
Gauleiter patted his glass between his fingers. He�d already drunk it
down full six times, and knocked it over twice. �Yes. A great pity.� He
looked at Pierce with a strange, brave and slightly drunk expression, and
took a pencil out of his pocket and began to scribble on his napkin.
�However, providing better armaments for this freedom-loving nation is a
worthy task also, and our duty, as you have often reminded me, and
regarding that topic, I have worked out a number of equations regarding
more economical missile fuel ratios, perhaps you would not mind reviewing
them -- ?�
Gauleiter scribbled under three sections on his napkin labeled A, B, and
C as Pierce looked on, puzzled. Gauleiter�s equations beneath were �
simply nonsensical. Pierce wondered if the man was drunk, but on the
contrary Gauleiter looked back at him with eyes that were intensely
serious, even plaintive. His pencil pointed to the A, then to the
numeral �1� below, then B, then to the numeral �2� below that, then C �
and he handed the pencil to Pierce. �Speaking of military projects, you
recall the plasma fission equations we worked on? Transposing this series
here would result in � in greater enhancement of relevant data flow.
Doctor. Verstehen sie?�
Pierce thought for a moment that the Gartlanter was cracking up. What
the hell was he talking about? Then, of course, it came to him almost
instantly. He took the pencil and pointed to the C and then to a number
3 in Gauleiter�s equations. Gauleiter nodded, grinning, head bobbing up
and down. �Ja, ja!� Pierce wrote the equation: 1xy = 8 (x-y) � (1x -
2z). Then he pointed to himself with the pencil. Gauleiter looked at
the equation, and smiled. Completely ignoring the letters and the
mathematical symbols and looking just at the numbers, the numbers read 1
(the first letter of the alphabet), 8 (the eighth), 1(the first), and two
(the second): A, H, A, B. �Ahab,� he said. Ahab smiled.
Gauleiter wrote a string of further nonsense equations. Ahab translated:
DEVICES EXIST. NANODEVICES. HAVE SEEN. IN GARTLANT. BRAIN MAPPING.
MARIONETTES. THINK FEEL. CAN BE DONE. HAS BEEN.
Gauleiter stopped writing. His bit his lip. His hand stood poised over
the napkin. It shook a bit as he scribbled the next equation. WOMEN.
KILLED THEM. WE KILLED THEM ALL.
Gel�s koto concluded her koto variations on the traditional theme �Shoujo
Kakumei Utena�. She rose and placed the instrument beside her and,
bowing, gracefully shuffled on wooden clogs to a table opposite to begin
the height of the evening�s festivities � a demonstration of the
cha-no-yu, or formal Tea Ceremony. She turned and smiled at both her
guests, her white Imperial kimono rustling, and bowed again. Pierce�s
eyes, for once, were looking elsewhere. Staring at Gauleiter. And
Gauleiter�s stared down at his tokkuri � his sake flask. He reached for
it and had another.
18
Thirty-one years later, an aged one-legged Civil War veteran, with a
grizzled salt-and-pepper beard, was hobbling along toward Belt and Fall
on the creaky wood porch of Hiram�s Old Glory General Store in
Jacksonville, whistling �I�m In The Mood For Love�, when Belt grabbed him
by the collar and pulled his nose up hard, one-twentieth of an inch from
hers.
�Hey. Old human,� she growled.
�You talking to me, ma�am?� he whispered with what little air could
escape from his throat.
�Any people in this shithole town need killing?�
�A thriving urban metropolis like Jacksonville, ma�am?� gasped the
codger. �Why, guuuuuuuul-durn, there�s heaps!�
�Where can I find them?�
�Hmm�Let me see� Hernando�s Hideaway? Nick Taho�s? The Busy Bee?
Paolo�s Palace of Poon-tang?� Belt rattled him a little and he thought
quicker. �Oh I gotcha: the Tasty Tiparello Bar & Grill. Trendiest
night spot for primeval scum in all New Texas, ma�am. Thieves, rapists,
gamblers, murderers, sodomites, war criminals, heathens, child molesters
-- the whole kit, kat, and kaboodle. More dark doin�s at the Tasty Tip
than up Lucifer�s bunghole on Halloween, and thass a fact.�
�Where is it?�
�Right over there, �bout six places down.�
Belt looked in the direction of his wagging thumb. She gave a curt nod.
She flicked the old man aside. He flew through the front window of
Hiram�s Haberdashery with a loud crash of broken glass.
�Thank you, old human,� called Fall, peeping over through the gaping hole
in the store window. She made a �V� sign.
��urk?��
Belt grabbed her by the sleeve and dragged her along toward The Tasty
Tip.
19
McCabe lay in the buckboard, not moving. Dust motes danced like gold
specks still, in the beam of sunlight from the livery window. A chevy in
a stable quietly chewed hay. In one of the livery coaches there was a
slight rustling sound underneath a blanket. A squirrel leapt in from the
upper window and ran down a rope and stopped and then scuttled and jumped
over to sniffed McCabe. He slept, oblivious.
A panel in the back creaked and then made a sharp swift snapping sound as
a black-booted foot kicked it in.
A sinewy scarred hand appeared around the adjoining panel and pushed it
in.
Captain Ezekial P. Skinner stuck his bald head inside and looked around.
He spotted McCabe. He smiled with absolute delight. He withdrew his
head. He kicked in a few more panels, and slid inside. He walked over
to McCabe and looked down at him, lying there unconscious.
He grinned.
He pulled out his long steel Bowie Knife.
20
The two Confederate soldiers sat high on their chevies on a bluff
overlooking the dust rising from a distant set of blue dots scrambling
down below into Jacksonville. Major Jeffries, the older Confederate,
chewed some chewing tobacco. The younger of the Confederates, Jessie
Holt, peered through his binoculars and said, �Ol� Baldy�s in
Jacksonville, all right, and his company of Bluebellies�re right behind
him, Major. No doubt about it.�
The Major nodded. He gave the chewing tobacco in his mouth a final moist
satisfying chomp and spit it out. He rubbed the rough back of his gloved
hand across his mouth. He was not happy. He and his boys had trailed
that stupid-looking bald dude to where he�d met up with the rest of a
unit of Bluebellies outside Red Hat. But Red Hat � what the hell had
happened there? It looked like God had stuck His big foot personally out
of a cloud and stepped on it. Hard. The Major shook his head. This
whole operation was supposed to be simple. Simple! Shit.
�Do we keep following them, Major?�
�We do,� he said. They had to. The Supreme Commander had instructed
General Baker to assemble some men and retrieve a particular marionette
from the Badlands at all costs. At all costs � that was not a commission
the Commander gave lightly. Major Thaddeus Jeffries would give his life
to fulfill such a order coming from the Commander. But � after taking a
look at Red Hat � he had to admit that outcome seemed increasingly
likely.
�My guess,� said the Major, thinking aloud, �is that our boys in the
ravine got jumped by a bunch of Blues. We knew they picked up a
marionette at the test point, and there weren�t no trace of her in the
ravine. After our boys got hit, the andy must�ve up and swatted the
Blues down, �cept fer old Baldy out there. Then he followed her out here
to Red Hat. Reckon she headed toward Jacksonville from there.�
�You think she�s the one did Red Hat too, Major?�
�Looks it,� he said. �Don�t know. Ain�t gonna know unless we mosey over
to Jacksonville, I reckon.�
�All right!� said Jessie. �The boys ain�t stopped at a good waterin�
hole since Lord knows when. I can smell that webfoot chicken now!�
Jeffries smiled and shook his head. That Holt boy � you couldn�t keep
him down. All five of his brothers went to war for the Union and never
came back, and then the Union burned down his house with him almost still
in it. A Confederate had found him hiding in a field, motionless and
starving, covered with flies, and brought him to their camp. He�d looked
like a skeleton. He�d had the lousiest luck of any man in the unit. And
he�d turned into the best-looking, cheeriest, friendliest young man of
the bunch. Jessie Holt could find some good in any situation. But the
Major had to admit that how Jessie could find anything to smile about it
this particular situation stumped the bejesus out of him.
�Some city-made grub might do the boys good, I reckon,� said the Major.
�Long as they keep a low profile a-getting it. But finding out where the
andys are and what they�re doing comes first. And I don�t want no
shootin�, period, not �less we�re shot at first. There�s two or three
thousand people in and around Jacksonville,� he said. �I don�t want
another Red Hat.�
21
With his free hand, Skinner dipped a tin cup into a bucket of water and
sipped it. �Ah,� he went. He smiled. He knelt down next to the
unconscious McCabe, and with his other hand he pressed his knife
delicately against McCabe�s throat. He smiled again and had another sip.
Then �
He splashed the water into McCabe�s face. McCabe�s eyes flew open, and
winced, and he swore and coughed up a trace of water that had ended up
down his gullet. �What the -- !�
�Hi there, old buddy!� said Skinner.
McCabe�s head bobbed up. Slightly. Till he felt the edge of the knife
against his jugular.
�Zeke! Get that goddam pigsticker of yours offa my gizzard!�
�You think I should, old buddy? I don�t think I should.�
�We�re on the same side, dammit!� McCabe whispered.
�Are we? Yeah, that�s what I thought too. And then, suddenly, all my
men ended up dead. How very curious.�
�What the hell are you talking about?�
�Shit. You going to tell me you turned up in here next to that buckboard
I�ve been trailing by accident? I don�t believe in coincidences, old
compadre.�
�What? You think this is some kind of set-up?�
�Ah, now that�s the old G.V. I once new. Perceptive. Yes, G.V., I find
the notion of a set-up genuinely worth exploring.�
�I don�t even know where the hell you came from. Hell, if I was setting
you up, why would I be sittin� here tied up like busted bronco with a
lump on my head?�
�I don�t know. You tell me.�
McCabe glared at him. �Skinner, you were the dumbest damn piece of shit
that I ever served with in the Confederacy, and you are the dumbest damn
shit I ever worked with outside it. You want to cut my throat and go
thumb-wrestle those freak andys down by your lonesome? You go ahead.�
�Cut your throat? Now how would we have a neighborly conversation if I
did that? I wouldn�t cut your throat. Now cutting your ears off, that
might make you a bit more talkative -- .�
�Why the hell does everybody care so much about my ears?�
�What�s that supposed to mean?�
�That means, you stupid son of a bitch,� said McCabe evenly, �that if you
carve me up and I live, I�ll kill you. And you know it. And if you
carve me up and I die, you�ll be in this town facing those andys alone.�
�Till the Government comes.�
�Hell, you wouldn�t be here without some tin on and armed back-up if you
could get it. You haven�t even gotten word back from them, I bet. I�m
right, ain�t I?�
Skinner said nothing.
�C�mon, dammit! Lemme up!�
�Well�we do go back a long ways, you and me, I suppose�� Skinner
grinned.
Skinner pulled his knife up and held it point out beside his bald head.
He looked at McCabe, lying there all tied up.
Then he stopped smiling and stabbed it down hard.
22
It took a few months to get the whole story. Gauleiter would scribble a
fragment of a formula, erase it rapidly, then scratch another fragment
the next day. Eventually Ahab heard the whole story � not that he was
really sure he believed it. According to Gauleiter, when the escape pod
from the Mesapotamia crashed, it contained the standard colonizing
survivor�s tech equipment. That included, among other things, devices to
clone people, and devices to make android helpers. The problem was, both
were nanotech-based. And nanotechnology was the most dangerous
technology in existence. It operated by using invisible atomic scale
machinery called nanoassemblers that went up to anything solid,
disassembled it atom by atom, recorded the pattern, and then put the
atoms back � or into the pattern of another thing. It could turn water
into stone, or diamonds into baseballs. It could turn a human brain into
microchips and back again. A atomic-scale logic gate had been built as
far back as the Dark Ages in 1991 -- nanoassemblers now could compress
the total computing power of late-twentieth century earth into the head
of a pin.
There was only one drawback. If so much as one nanoassembler ever became
defective and got out of control, it would keep taking things apart �
forever. This was called the �grey goo� problem: a nanoassembler would
eat away a few atoms of earth to make two nanoassemblers in a few
minutes. Then two would eat more away and make four � in the same few
minutes. Four would make eight. Eight sixteen. Sixteen thirty-two. In
two days an entire world would be converted to a vast grey goo of
nanoassemblers. In three days a solar system.
As a result, scientists made absolutely sure that a nano-device was
�dedicated�. It could do or produce one thing and one thing only, and
stop. The story was only the nano-devices capable of cloning males had
survived the crash. That, said Gauleiter, was a lie. Faust�s lie. Of
the six men who had crashed onto Terratoo, Faust had been the only
scientist � a plant biologist. Joy had been a sociologist, Ieyesu a
historian, the rest mere ship�s personnel. Faust had claimed that the
programmer for the cloning nanoships had been damaged � that only men
could be cloned. He was believed because he was the only one capable of
knowing. Why would he lie? But he had lied, said Gauleiter -- because
he was obsessed with a woman who was still alive, alive in cryostasis on
the Mesapotamia. If men had women on Terratoo, Faust had reasoned,
they�d never strive and struggle to reach out into space for one. They�d
form their own cultures � primitive cultures, probably, given the level
of technological development on Terratoo � and forget her. Abandon her.
He refused to allow even the possibility. He set the cloning master
program to produce only males, and the other survivors accepted his
explanation that that was all it could do.
And was it so bad? They had no women, but they did have devices capable
of turning organic substrates into a cyborg-like master processor � the
brain of an android. Men made the bodies that housed them female. And
the �female� androids were beautiful, absolutely subservient, gentle,
productive, helpful, even in a vague sense aware. But to make them aware
in a fully human sense, they required an actual female brain to map, in
order to reproduce all the unique structures. And there were no females.
But there was a synaptic map of one: the synaptic structure of the
female called Lorelei. She had made a map of her own brain and uploaded
it to the ship�s computer. The pod�s computers carried a mirror copy.
With that as a template, android-creating devices could re-create, or
create variations upon, the original Lorelei. More importantly, the pods
had carried the template for a cryostasis mapper. This Faust kept for
his own personal use. Faust knew that a body could be cloned, but not
memories. And he was determined that his feelings for Lorelei would not
die. He directed the sum total of the scientific research of early
Gartlant to find a way to disassemble the structures encoding memories in
a human brain, and to restructure a second brain so that the memories
could be imposed on the new clone�s brain. It was an agonizing process �
nano-devices would tear apart the original�s brain atom by atom to get
the memories and then tear apart the clone�s brain atom by atom to
re-impose them so that the clone contained all the memories of the
original, in addition to its own. That way Faust�s clones were not new
Fausts, but one progressive, undying, obsessed individual, whose grip on
his own identity grew more crazed and lax with each �resurrection�. That
was Faust�s secret, and that was Gauleiter�s scientific duty: to effect
in the process. Faust was going mad, Gauleiter believed. Sacrificing
individuals for the sake of research. That�s why Gauleiter had defected.
They were � making women and killing them. Killing children.
CHILDREN? � scrawled Pierce in their equation-code.
Faust wanted to compare the cognitive maps of the marionettes he created
against the mapped minds of actual human females. His marionettes
weren�t developing well psychologically � not surprisingly, since Faust
brutalized them regularly. He sequestered an area and altered the
Gartlant cloning facilities to create a group little girls. Gauleiter
had been given the task of injecting them with a nano-device that
disassembled their brains. It didn�t have to be fatal -- the device
could reassemble the brains, in robotic form, or even in human form. But
Faust cared nothing about that. He simply wanted the synaptic maps � the
data. Gauleiter had killed six little girls. That was enough � . He
defected. It was defection or suicide.
Pierce wrote in their snatches of equation-scribbling: SO IF WE HAD A
NANODEVICE TO MAP THE BRAIN AND A FEMALE BRAIN TO MAP �
Gauleiter: YES YES � ONE COULD RESTRUCTURE A MARIONETTES BRAIN TO
PERFECTLY DUPLICATE FEMALE COGNITIVE FUNCTIONING. SENSES EMOTIONS
EVERYTHING.
Pierce: THEN WE HAVE TO GET ONE.
Gauleiter smiled.
Gauleiter: WE HAVE ONE.
The single nano-device was contained in a holder the size of a speck of
dust. Gauleiter had stuck it under his fingernail when he made his
escape. And when the interrogators and torturers in Joy�s new secret
intelligence services tore Gauleiter�s fingernails out with pliers to
assure themselves that he was telling them everything, he had fallen over
his fingernails and gathered them up in his bleeding hands. They had
laughed. But he had kept the fingernails, and caked in the blood under
them was a speck of dust that would give Pierce the thing he had wanted
most his whole life long.
All that they needed to do was clone a female, insert the nano-device to
map her brain � destroying it in the process � and then insert it into
Gel�s processors, restoring all the brain�s functions, absorbing all
Gel�s perceptions and programming. It was the formula for a otome kairo
� a madchen stromkreis � a maiden circuit. A marionette�s soul.
It was simple � in theory. Doing it was the hard part. Doing it without
getting caught and killed. Pierce had thought of just telling the New
Texan government that he had come up with a way of cloning females
himself. But Gauleiter had told him that the New Texas government had
known how to do that for over a century. So Faust claimed. Faust had
exchanged certain technical information with Joy in return for raw
materials in the early days. New Washington had the capacity. Why
hadn�t they done it? Gauleiter had no idea. It was a mystery � a
conspiracy of silence between Joy and Faust. But he remembered that
Faust had once said that any New Texan attempting to do so would be
killed by Joy without fail. Faust never lied when it came to death.
Pierce only had one further question for Gauleiter � why? Why risk one�s
life, undergo torture, to simply give this information to Pierce? He
waited till Gauleiter had drunk his usual fill during dinner with Ahab in
Gel�s room. He refused to believe till he knew why.
Gauleiter had simply smiled. �My faith,� he had said. � �The faith of a
scientist�.�
Pierce�s eyes opened, startled. He sipped his room-temperature sake. �I
heard someone use that phrase a long time ago,� said Pierce. �It
puzzled me.�
�Here in Neue Texas? A brother Tiplerite? Ha! Well, and why not, in so
diverse a land?�
� �Tiplerite�?�
�It is how we old Lutheran schismatics are called. You are a student of
the Bible, Herr Pierce?�
�Enough to know it�s crap,� he said.
Gauleiter laughed raucously. �This Texan bluntness. So marvellously
direct! My own society is far more circumscribed.�
�You can�t be telling me you believe that nonsense, Hans.�
�Your reading has been shallow, Doctor Ahab. I�m pleased! You seem more
human.�
Pierce was not pleased. �You expect me to accept as fact what are
obviously contrived myths?�
�A pre-scientific tribal people have no alternative but to express their
cosmological understandings in the form of myth. The question is whether
there is true and ultimately verifiable scientific content within that
myth. If primitive people worship a sun-god, do we assume there is no
such thing as a sun? Their visual perceptions pointed to a reality. Why
assume their spiritual perceptions did not do so as well?�
�Rubbish.�
�In the late twentieth century,� said Gauleiter, �there was a
mathematical physicist named Frank Tipler. A Texan, or a near-Texan.
The father of the �cosmological anthropic principle�. He produced a
100-page document asserting that, in its essential outlines, the
Judeo-Christian faith was quite correct. His mathematical projections
asserted that, in roughly eighty billion years, the entirety of the
universe would collapse in upon itself in a phenomenon known as the Big
Crunch. This you know, ja? This event would unleash sufficient energy
to allow an entity to compute, produce, and manipulate virtual simulacra
of all possible realities � virtual simulacra of everyone and everything
that had existed, did exist, or might exist. Such a being would be
functionally equivalent to God � would indeed be God. Gott in Himmel!
And since, he argued, all reality was fundamentally information, this
eternal moment � termed the Omega Point � would effectively resurrect
every living being, purge them of their flaws and impurities, and deliver
them out of bondage into an eternal perfection that could only be termed
Heaven.�
�Drivel.�
�You say this. But you have not studied the mathematics.�
�What do mathematics have to do with the soul?�
�Ah, no no, no, Tipler did not assert any such thing as a soul. He felt
that only physical matter existed, and that all physical beings were, in
essence, machines. Men are simply a special type of machine. It is the
very fact of being a machine that would allow the Gott of the Omega Point
to simulate all possible beings and so resurrect every one � myself,
yourself, Fraulein Gel, everyone.�
�Don�t insult machines by comparing them to men.�
�You don�t believe you have a soul, Herr Pierce?�
�No.�
�Nor Fraulein Gel?�
Pierce said nothing. He also believed in nothing, and expected nothing,
but he continued to desire. And what he desired, most of all, was a soul
for Gel. The Gartlanter had struck a chord.
�Gel will have a soul. But God won�t create it. I will.�
�Yes, this is exactly correct! This is the will of Gott! You are his
instrument, Ahab. You and I. This is our work.�
�Man, you�re raving!�
Gauleiter shook his head, excited. �You have grasped the central point,
Ahab. God does not exist but He will exist! Gott � the Omega Point �
will only come into being at the end of time. It is our function as
servants of this Gott to prepare the way for Him. To evolve upward. To
increase in scientific power and intellectual understanding. In
cooperation and charity. To approach Him and resemble Him. By
improving our species we approach Gott, and by approaching Gott we become
more and more like Him. Until the moment comes when all distinctions
shall be erased and Gott will be. Verstehen Sie? True, we must begin
with smaller projects, intermediate steps. Angels, perhaps��
Pierce laughed.
�Or perhaps � marionettes,� said Gauleiter. �Tipler theorized that the
next stage of intelligent life would be information processing machines,
you know��
Pierce�s laugh slowly faded.
�Ahab � we share the same vision, do we not? Something better than man.
This is what you are seeking, ja? This is what you see when you see
Fraulein Gel � something higher than yourself. We all journey in a
single direction and the end of that journey is Gott.�
Pierce looked at Gel delicately fingering her koto. The notes hung in
the air like light from gems
�You�re wrong,� said Pierce.
�How so, Herr Doctor?�
�We don�t all journey in the direction of something higher. Most human
beings stagnate, mindlessly, like slime in a swamp. Some do whatever
they can to pull down anything higher. To block it and stifle it and �
desecrate it. Nothing higher than man will ever arrive till man gives it
room to breathe, to exist. Till man vanishes.�
Gauleiter nodded. He sighed. �Ja, Tipler said this too. It is a
logically necessary consequence of time�s progress that our poor species
become extinct. �If the ascent of life into the Omega Point is to occur,�
he said, �one day the most advanced minds must be non-Homo Sapiens. We
must die, as individuals, as a species�� -- Ja, very sad.�
Pierce was silent. He stared into his cup of sake.
�But! The ending is happy! And that is my faith,� said Gauleiter,
concluding, slapping himself on the chest. �You know, Tipler�s ideas
influenced a theologian called Pannenberg, who became very popular among
computer scientist natives in an ancient nation called California. A
Lutheran sect there adopted it. So it survives among men of science to
this day. As you can see! That is my view of matters, in any case. And
why I live in hope. That is why I do what I do, that is why I labor.�
He downed his sake yet again. �But you, Herr Doktor � for what do you
labor? Why are you doing all this?� he said, sweeping his arm to
indicate the Enclosure.
Pierce�s eyes wanted to look up -- to look up at Gel. At all he had ever
loved. �Why are you doing all this,� said Gauleiter. So that nothing
can ever hurt Gel again, thought Pierce. Nothing. Nothing! -- But
instead he turned his face toward the nearest hidden mike and smiled and
said, �I seek only to serve the noble people of the great republic of New
Texas, and its glorious leader, President Joy.�
Gauleiter returned to his sake. He gave himself a little slap on the
head.
�Oh, ja,� he said. �I forgot.�
23
Skinner�s knife hit the ground one quarter-inch beside McCabe�s ear and
stuck there. Skinner winked. �Just funnin�, old compadre.�
Skinner grabbed McCabe by his shirt and stood up, pulling McCabe up as
well.
McCabe rocked a bit.
�You gonna fall down, or stand up?� said Skinner.
�Just cut the damn ropes.�
�Yassuh boss,� said Skinner, going behind McCabe and pulling his Bowie
Knife out of the ground and cutting the knots around McCabe�s wrist.
�Is that better, honey-bunch?� said Skinner.
McCabe, turning, instantly smashed his fist into Skinner�s face as hard
as he could. Skinner hit a post and fell down flat on his ass.
�Is that better, honey-bunch?� said McCabe.
Skinner spit blood. �You ain�t changed.�
�How the hell could a piece of shit like you ever have rode with Josiah
Royce!�
Skinner rubbed his jaw. He looked up at McCabe and chuckled. �Ah, days
of bygone glory! Yes indeed -- I rode with him bravely and proudly,
Gabriel,� he said. �Best days of my life, riding beside the great Josiah
Royce -- the greatest soldier of them all. And me there beside him. It
made me great too. Wasn�t I, Gabe? I was a hero then...�
� �Was� is right. What the hell are you now, you goddamned Judas?�
�Well, now. The pot�s calling the kettle black, ain�t it -- partner?
Why you so down on me? I fought while we had a chance to win. Fighting
otherwise is just plain stupid. When Royce died, it was all over.
Everybody knew it. I got out when the going was good. What right you
got to be so high and mighty, just �cause you went out and sucked on
desert cactus with a pack of Rebel fools for ten years? You�ve sold out
now, just like me.�
�We had a chance,� said McCabe, bitterly. �Even without Royce.�
� �Had� is right,� said Skinner, getting to his feet. �You ain�t got
shit, now.�
McCabe took a boxing stance. Skinner looked at him and chuckled. �Take
it easy, Hercules. I ain�t here to rassle.� He put his hands on his
hips. �Tell me something, man. What the hell is going on?�
McCabe stood down and relaxed his fists. He scowled and went over to the
water bucket and found a ladle and scooped up some water and poured it
down his face. He spit. �I ain�t got no idea,� he said.
�What the hell are you doing out here?�
McCabe gave him a surly look. �Order came down from the Acting
Commander. We�s supposed to go pick up a marionette in the Badlands.
Joy�s testing some new bomb, wants to see what happens to a doll standing
around next to it. We want to know too, I guess.�
�How�d you know about the blast?�
�You�re askin� me? How should I know?�
�You�re a traitor, traitor. That�s why we�re paying you. Remember?�
�I ain�t doin� this for the money,� said McCabe through his teeth,
furious.
�Yeah, yeah, I know, you just want to �end the war�, and save �yore pore
remainin� Southern bruthas fum an e-ter-nit-y of chewin� on cac-ti fur
th� noble cawse�. What do I care what your bullshit motives are? You�re
supposed to give us Feds word when something�s up.�
�What�s to send? �We got told to pick up a broken marionette�? Who
cares? Junkmen do the same every damn day. Hell, I risk my life every
time I send word to you boys, I don�t got to inform New Washington every
time I up and take a poop. Besides, there wasn�t time. We got the
order, we hit the saddle. We got there, we was watching through the
binoculars, and instead of one there�s three marionettes standing there
tied up, and then somebody else rides up to �em and � boom! Half the sky
lights up! When our eyes stop blinking, we take a second look, and two
of the andys are lighting out like jackrabbits with their cottontails on
fire. Some of the men went in to pick up the andy that�s down, and I
trailed the ones on the run personally. They hitched up with some boy,
and I don�t know which one of the dolls � if either -- is the one we�re
after. I made like some prospector and tagged along so�s I could ask �em
questions and find out things. But these andys � Jesus, they�re like
nothing I ever seen in my life.�
�How so?�
McCabe shook his head. �They�re faster, stronger�n any Saber I ever
seen. And � they�re like people, Zeke. They talk and think and feel.�
�Experimentals! No doubt about it.� Skinner grinned. �I fucked a
couple. Man, it�s like dipping it in a barrel of warm honey!�
�The last one -- the burned-up one � she turned up out of nowhere and
just plain pointed at the Caterpillar and � whammm! It was over! I
never saw nothing like it.�
Skinner pursed his lips, considering.
�What about the kid you mentioned? He die in the blast at Red Hat?�
�Some fool bible-thumper. Stumbled across the whole thing by accident.
I had to shoot him in the head. Figured the andys�d blow their fuses and
our boys could pick them up and put the pieces together later. Next
thing I know one of the andy�s hands is upside my throat. That�s the
last thing I remember,� said McCabe. �What about you?�
Skinner sneered. �I don�t have to tell you nothing, turncoat.� McCabe
instantly bunched up his fists. �But � for old times sake � what the
hell, eh? Just between us, we got an order from Pierce that a couple of
experimentals had got loose. We headed out and found a bunch of your
boys with one of them and cut them all down.�
�They�re all dead?� said McCabe.
�Of course. � Why, you gonna miss �em? Awww�Poor baby.�
�You piece of shit -- you had to kill them?�
�No. I killed them for the fun of it. � Now, calm down, he-ro. You
know the sooner we knock apart the Confederate guerilla network � with
the help of able patriots like you � the sooner all you Greys�ll all be
home safe and sound. That�s what you�re supposedly doing all this for,
isn�t it? Well?�
�You didn�t have to kill them,� said McCabe.
�Don�t underestimate your own boys,� said Skinner. �But anyways -- no
sooner do my men hit the marionette, than the marionette flattens my men
too. And I mean flattens. Melted a metal suit. Do you believe it?�
�I believe it.�
�So I followed her and the rest right down here to this place. Got to
admit I was surprised they didn�t just screw your head off.�
McCabe rubbed his forehead and nodded. �Me too.� He looked around.
�Well, they ain�t in here now. Thank God.�
Skinner grinned. �That means they�re out there. Look at that melted
lock! I tried that damn thing myself not five minutes ago. She must be
right down the street.�
�So what do we do now?�
Skinner walked over to the buckboard and began tying a chevy to it. �
�We�? I don�t know about you, but I�m getting the hell out of here.�
�Huh?�
� �Huh�? Cripes, you always were dumb, McCabe. With no Cat and no
Suits, there ain�t nothing a hundred miles around that can take down even
the first two experimentals, much less that third thing, whatever she is.
I�m a realist, not an asshole. I�m not going to throw my life away for
nothing. Fuck it. I�m heading back to the Enclosure. We located them,
we got an eye on them, that�s all we can do till we get back-up. What
happens next is up to Pierce,� said Skinner. �And I want to have a few
words with His Majesty myself � privately.�
�What about your men?�
�Fuck them too,� said Skinner. �If the andys don�t spot �em, my team�ll
just keep following them. That�s their orders. If the andys do, the
tussle may buy enough time for some back-up time to get out here.
Frankly I hope the andys do spot �em � I�d feel better with a diversion
covering my ass till I get it out of this dumb town safe.�
Skinner led the team to the front door. The lock that Fall had twisted
closed was still dripping molten slag.
�And what am I supposed to do?� said McCabe.
�Stick your head up your butt. That�s what you usually end up doing.�
Skinner got up on the buckboard seat. �Don�t worry. I�ll file your
report with intelligence. Hey, maybe they�ll toss you another thirty
pieces of silver.�
McCabe grabbed Skinner by the shirt shoulder. His eyes bored into
Skinner�s grinning face like a drill. �One of these days you may have a
fatal accident, Zeke.�
Skinner chuckled. �You know, Gabriel � when you get all macho like that,
you look exactly like Clint Eastwood. Cute little dimples and all.�
McCabe started to pull Skinner off the seat. Skinner lifted both hands.
�Now, now, Gabriel� said Skinner. �You want something to do? All
righty.� Skinner dug into his knapsack, and pulled out something long
and shiny and metallic. It was like a large silvery cigarette box with a
set of digital read-out displays and a set or wired black brass knuckles
on the end.
�See that button?� said Skinner. There was a button atop the brass
knuckle section. A person holding it could reach it and press it with
the thumb. �Don�t push that button till I�m way the hell out of here.
OK?�
�What the hell is this thing?�
�Lucius ripped it off. One of my men, Lucius. Currently deceased. At
the Enclosure they�ve been trying to develop a gun to take down an full
experimental in one shot. This is the test model. Poor Lucius, he was
real worried about one of the experimentals we were after, a shy,
retiring daisy called Belt. So he took this along without authorization,
just for insurance. Stuck it in a compartment inside his metal suit
while I was looking the other way � on purpose. Let�s you and me pretend
you got it off him yourself down in Red Hat, OK? I don�t know nothing
about it.�
�Why didn�t he use it?�
�Got killed too fast.�
�What�s the catch? Why you giving it to me?�
�What? You don�t trust me, old compadre? There�s no catch. � Well �
maybe one. See, the damn thing�s sort of unfinished. Got too much
complexity. Too much freakin� power. This prototype�s either jammed or
blown up every other time the trigger�s been pulled. They�re planning on
discontinuing it. Taking an experimental down just takes more power than
a hand-held weapon can contain. In other words -- it�s crap. 50-50:
maybe it�ll work, and maybe it�ll spread you over the street like
raspberry jam. � Though of course, that sorry fate would never happen to
a noble soldier of the glorious Confederacy like you, now would it? Try
it � you just might take down one of the andys. Or maybe blow your ass
to Kingdom Come. Less work for me later on either way.�
McCabe looked at the long silvery box. It had a strange, mother-of-pearl
iridescence to its surface. And � it was warm. A deep, humming warmth.
McCabe held it like a sawed-off shotgun and sighted it -- at Skinner�s
face.
Skinner cackled. He made a kissy-face at McCabe and said, �Toodle-oo,
honey-buns,� and flicked the reins. �Make sure you aim for the whites
of their eyes!� He laughed out loud, and tossed McCabe�s pistol out into
the hay. The chevies pushed through the doors and pulled Skinner and the
buckboard out into the bustling Jacksonville streets.
McCabe watched him go. Then he turned around and slowly went over to the
mound of hay where Skinner had tossed his pistol. He checked the
cartridges. Five bullets. For a moment he thought of Billy Truman, the
young boy he�d shot in the head. He felt filthy and ashamed. Take it
easy, Gabriel, he said. It had to be done. After all, there�s a war on.
There�s a war on. He wondered if that fool boy would think of that
excuse, if they ever ran across each other on the other side of the
Pearly Gates.
The god-damned war, he thought.
He took the experimental weapon in one hand and put the pistol in his
holster and headed out the doors.
A Union soldier bumped into him.
McCabe flinched automatically.
�My apologies, sir,� said McCabe. He turned to go.
The soldier put his hand on McCabe�s shoulder.
�Mister, ain�t I seen your face somewhere before?� asked the soldier
�Ugly face like mine? Probably on some wanted poster!� said McCabe, with
a big hearty laugh.
The Union soldier pulled out his pistol and raised it. �Yep. I believe
that�s exactly right.�
McCabe slammed the experimental weapon into his gut.
*