The Terridae believed the lost Earth was heaven and utopia combined. In their artificial planet, they moved slowly through the universe in search of it. And in their eyes, the rediscovery of Earth was to be the Event. Now they said the Event was coming! Earl Dumarest - who was born on Earth and knew the truth - was an unwelcome visitor among them. If they knew of Earth's whereabouts, they were not telling him. But another Event was already on its way. A Cyclan ship was rapidly approaching the Terridae's world, confident that this time Dumarest would fall into their heartless clutches. Dumarest was not ready to flee - but if he stayed there would be no Earth for him, only a long, lingering doom. (First published 1982)
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
154
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Buried deep beneath the scarred surface of a lonely world the cavern held the awesome grandeur of a legendary tomb—a tremendous
mausoleum buttressed by massive columns which formed an adamantine protection for the soaring tiers of featureless ovoids
within their embrace, though it was even now being despoiled by men and machines.
To Master Elge, Cyber Prime, the fabrication was the reverse of a tomb, the ovoids far from being coffins, but the desecration
was real, and he watched as units were freed from their housings and swung down into the arms of waiting cradles to be wheeled
silently away.
And each ovoid held a living, thinking brain.
This was the reward for which cybers dedicated their lives. They worked until they grew physically inefficient then were stripped
of hampering flesh, their brains removed from their skulls and placed in containers, sealed from harm while fed with nutrients,
at last hooked into series with others of their own kind to form a part of the tremendous complex which was the heart and
power of the Cyclan.
But now Central Intelligence was threatened and with it the security of the whole.
“Twelve dozen units,” said Jarvet from where he stood at Elge’s side. “The entire section. As you instructed, Master.”
And how many before them? Elge knew the exact number but even one would have been too many. “Results?”
“As yet totally negative.”
“Numbers tested?”
“Eighteen selected at random.” That was more than enough for a representative sample. The aide added, “I ordered a halt at
twenty for your decision.”
The aide could anticipate what the decision would be, Elge knew, but as his was the final responsibility his must be the deciding
voice.
He turned, tall, thin, the scarlet robe shielding the taut lines of his body, maintained at optimum efficiency and carrying
no surplus fat. To Elge as to all cybers food was to be used as fuel, eaten from necessity not pleasure. Training and an operation
performed at puberty on the cortex had rid them of the capacity for emotion.
Jarvet fell into step behind him as Elge moved to a passage where a moving way carried them to a laboratory in which technicians
worked over the freed ovoids. Many lay open to reveal their contents and Elge looked dispassionately at the convoluted brains
rested beneath transparent covers amid their attendant mechanisms. Components designed never to fail. And they had not failed—the
fault lay within the brains themselves.
But the fault was yet to be determined.
“Nothing, Master.” Icelus gave his report. “No trace of any foreign bacteria or virus. No radiation-scarring or isotopic accumulation.
No discernible tissue decay. No aggravated pressure zones. The Homochon elements are enlarged but only within anticipated
parameters. No change in the cortex. Nothing can be discerned in the physical condition which could account for the aberration.”
He added, “The conclusions are as before.”
At that time units had been sterilized with flame and reduced to their component atoms for fear of contamination, and examinations
had been conducted in isolated areas by technicians who still remained isolated on distant worlds. Entire banks of machinery
had been volatilized—Elge knew the details.
“Is there any traceable pattern?”
“No. The brains are old and that is the only thing we can be sure of.”
“Any correlations?”
“None.” Icelus was definite. “The thing seems to strike at random. These units are younger than the last yet older than the
ones before. There is no similarity as to location or apparent vulnerability. These are from Bank 8 Tier 5. Those before came from Bank 3 Tier 9.”
Different caverns and different positions—diversifying the units was an elementary precaution against total loss by unforeseen
damage. Yet even that had provided no defense. The aberration must, somehow, be inherent. But what?
“Your orders, Master?” Icelus was waiting. “Shall I continue with the examinations?”
How often must he go over the same ground? There was a point beyond which any further effort would be worse than useless—efficiency
demanded the full utilization of each and every facility and the technicians had other work.
Elge said, “Terminate.”
“All, Master?”
“All.” Every brain to be thrown into a furnace to be consumed by fire, the components dissolved into basic elements, the residue
to be blasted deep into space. To Jarvet he said, “Order an assembly. I will meet the Council in an hour.”
They sat at a long table, the warm hue of their robes the only touch of color in the bleakness of the chamber. Dekel was the
first to speak, as Elge had predicted, but the mental achievement gave him little pleasure. The man was old, patterns established;
the merest tyro could have done as well.
“This matter concerns Central Intelligence?”
“Yes.”
“You have fresh information?” Boule was swift in his attack. “There is nothing to be gained by discussing what we already
have covered.”
Like Dekel and the rest, he was old, but that was to be expected—men did not achieve power without the passage of time. But
age was relative and small signs betrayed when the fine edge had been crossed; the delicate balance between optimum efficiency
and the insidious decline toward senility. Signs watched for by all as they all watched Elge. He with the highest office must
demonstrate his ability to hold it.
From where he sat Therne said, “From my study of recent information I arrive at the conclusion that nothing new can be learned
of the degeneration of the units by further examinations.”
“Agreed. That is why I ordered a termination of all such activity.” Elge continued, “There is no need to detail the negative
findings. They are as before. Nor is there need to discuss extrapolations of probable consequences should the aberrations continue. The prediction of internal collapse based on an exponential
curve leads to near-certain disaster.”
This seemed so obvious as to need no comment.
Alder said, “Why have we been summoned?”
“To review the situation. Later I shall want from each of you detailed plans of optimum survival based on all possible contingencies.
Now I wish to cover the base problem. From a summation of all findings relevant to the affected units it is logical to accept
the premise that there is no mechanical or biological cause for the derangements. The brains involved failed because of some
inherent fault other than external cause. Agreed?”
Boule demurred. “That need not necessarily be the case. Because we cannot find a cause does not mean that one does not exist.”
“True, but all precautions have been taken as regards shielding and monitoring.” Elge was curt. “I submit the fault could
lie in the region of the psyche. To illustrate the point I have arranged for a demonstration.” A communicator stood on the
table before him. Activating the instrument he said, “Now.”
Abruptly the room turned black.
It was the complete elimination of all light and for a moment they felt as if blinded and buried deep in a tomb, shielded
for eons from the sun. Then, slowly, light came and with it an image.
It floated above the table; a three-dimensional hologram depicting a male, nude, set with wires which sprouted from his skull
like the tendrils of some strange and oddly designed creature. The eyes were closed, sunken beneath prominent brows, the ears
padded. Mouth and nose were covered by a mask and the medium in which he floated was not air or space.
“Water warmed and maintained at his individual body heat.” The accompanying voice whispered through the chamber. “All senses
have been blocked or negated so as to deny the intelligence any external stimuli. The electrodes on the skull relay the encephalic
readings of the cortex.”
Another picture joined the first; a depiction of wavering lines traced by delicate points. The wave pattern of the subject’s
brain, which all could read.
“Total disorientation was achieved in a remarkably short space of time,” continued the voice. “Hallucinations followed leading
to a complete catatonic withdrawal. Note the zeta and lambda lines.” A pause, then, “Three hours later.” A flick and the figure
could be seen with knees drawn up to its chin, arms wrapped around the knees. “The classic fetal position. Twelve hours later
when removed from the tank.”
They looked at an idiot.
“Enough.” Elge had no wish to stare at the drooling, vacuous-eyed, blank-faced vegetable. The point, surely, had been made.
“The subject was of low intelligence,” he explained. “Run as a comparison with others of a higher level of capability. The
greater the intelligence the longer was individual awareness maintained.”
Dekel said, “Your conclusion?”
“The derangement affecting the units has some relation to sensory deprivation.”
After a moment Boule said, “We are talking of minds accustomed to a degree of sensory deprivation for the major part of their
lives. And need I remind you that when sealed in their units they are provided with external stimuli in the form of communication
with others of their kind together with cybers in rapport? I find the conclusion lacking in conviction.”
Therne said, “If the matter is one of the need for external stimuli I agree there remains a doubt as to the validity of the
conclusion. As sanity is being maintained the cause must lie elsewhere.”
“Sanity is not being maintained,” reminded Elge. “Not in all units at all times. If so there would be no problem. You have
studied the recordings made of communication with affected units—what did you find?”
“Delusion,” admitted Therne. “Ravings. Systems of logic built on false premises.”
“Withdrawal. Intelligences disoriented and drifting in a void of speculation. A denial of accepted fact.” Elge looked from
one to the other. “I stand by my conclusion.”
“That the aberrations are induced by sensory deprivation?”
“That a relationship could exist.” Elge was precise. “If so it may be necessary to reaffirm established frameworks of reference.
With this in mind I have taken steps to investigate the value of certain methods.” Again he activated the communicator. “Continue.”
This time the room didn’t turn black but color and movement shone where there had been emptiness. The chamber was equipped,
like an operating theater, with muted greens and sterile whites, with metal and plastic and the sheen of crystal. To one side
lay an opened ovoid, the brain clearly visible. In the foreground stood a squat machine in the shape of a man. A grotesque
parody with a domed head, rounded torso and oddly fashioned limbs. Around it, both robot and brain technicians worked in smooth
coordination.
“Attempts to provide units with separate, operational vehicles have been made several times,” explained the accompanying voice.
“All have led to failure. A direct brain transplant to a human body is impossible because of the enlargement of the engrafted
Homochon elements which takes place after the unit has been sealed into its container. The use of substitute physical hosts
was tried and abandoned because of the low-return anticipated against the high-effort such attempts entailed. We are now attempting
to couple the brain to a mechanical analogue of the human shape. Once the attachments have been made and activated the analogue
will become an extension of the unit’s intelligence. As yet we have had little success in this line of experimentation.”
In the glowing depiction figures moved in accelerated tempo, wires and pipes and terminals meshing to form a complex web.
A moment later the scene slowed to show the robot now standing alone. As they watched, it stirred, one arm lifting, to lower,
to lift again. Then it paused like a child who has made a discovery and now broods over what it has found.
“The first reaction. Two hours later we had this.”
The arm again, moving like a hammer, up and down, up and down. The dome of the head moved a little, the body tilting to allow
the scanners set in the parody of eyes to stare upward at a brightly polished surface.
“Thirty-two minutes later.”
A man hurtled through the air as a steel arm smashed into his chest and filled his lungs with splintered bone. Spewing blood
he fell, tripping another, joined by a third with an oddly twisted neck. A fourth, head pulped, dropped like a stone as the
robot moved. It swayed, turned, lurched forward, the massive arm lifting to slam down with crushing force, pulping the exposed brain, sending it to spatter in all directions.
In his office Elge touched a control and watched as a galaxy was born. The air filled with the cold glitter of countless
points of radiance interspersed with sheets and curtains of luminescence, the ebon smudges of interstellar dust. A masterpiece
of electronic wizardry; each mote of light held in a mesh of electromagnetic forces, the whole forming a compressed depiction
of the galactic lens.
With such diminution details had to be lost; the billions of individual worlds, comets, asteroids, satellites, rogue planets,
meteors, the drifting hail of broken suns. But the stars were present and, as he watched, scarlet flecks appeared in scattered
profusion.
The power of the Cyclan.
A power vast and yet almost invisible. Each fleck represented a world which had lost self-determination in its reliance on
the services provided by the Cyclan, though the planets were unaware of the trap into which they had fallen. It did not take
an army to move a mountain when a touch could shift the stone which led to an avalanche. One touch could exert pressure where
it would achieve the greatest gain, use persuasion and play on lust and greed, envy and hatred, anger and fear—all the weapons
forged by emotion-cursed humanity against itself. The Cyclan stood aloof as it manipulated the destiny of captive worlds.
His power was hidden, unsuspected by most, but nonetheless real.
“Master.” Jarvet had entered the office to stand beside the Cyber Prime, the blazing depiction illuminating his face, dotting
it with rainbow patches. “The reports from Siguri and Guptua?”
These details could not be ignored. On Siguri a drunken young fool had threatened a cyber and had slapped him in the face,
the act compounded in its folly by having been done in public. The physical injury was slight, but the man had committed an
unpardonable crime.
Elge said, “From a check of his background it is obvious the culprit fears ridicule more than death. Order the failure of
the crops on Heght. They provide the basis of his Family’s income. At the same time seduce him into making heavy investments in the Chan-Pen Enterprise. It will fail and his House be
ruined. He, himself, will be ostracized and vilified.”
This was using a hammer to crack a nut and yet no insult to any cyber could be allowed to pass unpunished. The fool would
pay with ridicule and dishonor and final death by his own or another’s hand. His Family would be disgraced and their power
lost—payment for having given birth to the one who had struck the blow. All would know the details and, knowing, would fear
the Cyclan. And wit. . .
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