The others came in more rapidly, or seemed to, once Julian got over the initial strangeness.
As each of the fifteen presented himself or herself, another part of the vast, but now not endless, structure became clear. When they all had logged in, the ocean was more like an inland sea, huge and complex, but thoroughly mapped and navigable.
And they sailed together for what seemed like hours, in a voyage of mutual exploration. The only one they had ever jacked with outside the Twenty was Marty, who was a sort of godfather figure, remote because he only jacked one-way with them now.
Julian was a vast treasure of quotidian detail. They were hungry for his impressions of New York, Washington, Dallas-every place in the country had been drastically changed by the social and technological revolution, the Universal Welfare State, that the nanoforge had wrought. Not to mention the endless Ngumi War.
The nine who had been soldiers were fascinated with what the soldierboy had become. In the pilot program they had been taken from, the primitive machines were little more than stick men with one laser finger. They could walk around and sit or lie down, and open a door if the latch was simple. They all knew from the news what the current machines were capable of doing, and in fact three of them were warboys, after a fashion. They couldn't go to the conventions, but they followed units and jacked into soldierboy crystals and strings. It was nothing like being jacked two-way with an actual mechanic, though.
Julian was embarrassed by their enthusiasm but could share their amused feedback at his embarrassment. He was familiar enough with that from his platoon.
A lot of it became more and more familiar-feeling as he grew used to the scale of it. It wasn't only that the Twenty had been together so long; they had also been around a long time. At thirty-two, Julian was the oldest in his platoon by several years; all together, they had less than three hundred years of experience. The aggregate age of the Twenty was well over a thousand, a lot of that time spent in mutual contemplation.
They weren't exactly a "group mind," but they were a lot closer to that state than Julian's platoon. They never argued, except for amusement. They were gentle and content. They were humane ... but were they quite human?
This was the question that had been in the back of Julian's mind from the time Marty first described the Twenty: maybe war is an inevitable product of human nature. Maybe to get rid of war, we have to become something other than human.
The others picked up on this worry and said no, we're still human in all the ways that count. Human nature does change, and the fact that we've developed tools to direct that change is quintessentially human. And it must be a nearly universal concomitant to technological growth everywhere in the universe; otherwise, there would be no universe. Unless we're the only technological intelligence in the universe, Julian pointed out; so far there's no evidence to the contrary. Maybe our own existence is evidence that we're the first creatures to evolve far enough to hit the reset button. Someone does have to be first.
But maybe the first is always the last.
They caught the hopefulness that Julian was protecting with pessimism. You're much more idealistic than us, Tyler pointed out. Most of us have killed, but none of us was driven to attempt suicide by remorse over the act.
Of course there were a lot of other factors, which Julian didn't have to explain. He was cushioned by wisdom and forgiveness-and suddenly had to get out!
He pulled the plug and was surrounded but alone, fifteen people staring down at the wildflowers. Staring into their collective soul.
He checked his watch and was shocked. Only twelve minutes had actually passed during all those seeming hours.
One by one they unjacked. Mendez kneaded his face and grimaced. "You felt outnumbered."
"That's part of it... out-gunned. All of you are so good at this, it's automatic. I felt, I don't know, out of control."
"We weren't manipulating you."
Julian shook his head. "I know. You were being very careful that way. But I felt like I was being absorbed anyhow. By... by my own willingness. I don't know how long I could stay jacked with you before becoming one of you."
"And that would be such a bad thing?" Ellie Frazer said. She was the youngest, almost Amelia's age, beautiful hair prematurely white.
"Not for me, I think. Not for me personally." Julian studied her quiet beauty and knew, along with everyone else, exactly how desperately she desired him. "But I can't do it yet. The next stage of this project involves going back to Portobello with a set of false memories, infiltrating the command cadre. I can't be as ... obviously different as you are."
"We know that," she said. "But you could still spend a lot more time with us – "
"Ellie," Mendez said gently, "turn off the goddamned pheromones. Julian knows what's best for him."
"I don't, actually. Who would? Nobody's ever done anything like this before."
"You have to be cautious," Ellie said in a way that was reassuring and infuriating: we know exactly what you think, and though you're wrong, we'll go along with it.
Marc Lobell, the chess master and wife murderer who had stayed out of the circle to answer the phone, ran pounding over the little bridges and skidded to a stop in front of them.
"A guy in uniform," he said, panting. "Here to see Sergeant Class."
"Who is it?" Julian said.
"A doctor," he said. "Colonel Zamat Jefferson."
MENDEZ IN ALL THE authority of his own black uniform, came along with me to meet Jefferson. He stood up slowly when we walked into the shabby foyer, setting down a Reader's Digest half his age.
"Father Mendez; Colonel Jefferson," I said. "You went to some trouble to find me."
"No," he said, "it was some trouble to get here, but the computer tracked you down in a few seconds."
"To Fargo."
"I knew you'd take a bicycle. There was only one place to do that at the airport, and you left them an address."
"You pulled rank."
"Not on civilians. I showed them my ID and said I was your doctor. Which is not false."
"I'm okay now. You can go."
He laughed. "Wrong on both counts. Can we sit?"
"We have a place," Mendez said. "Follow me."
"What is 'a place'?" Jefferson said.
"A place where we can sit." They looked at each other for a moment and Jefferson nodded.
Two doors down the corridor, we turned into an unmarked room. It had a mahogany conference table with overstuffed chairs and an autobar. "Something to drink?"
Jefferson and I wanted water and wine; Mendez asked for apple juice. The bar wheelie brought our orders while we were sitting down.
"Is there some way we can help each other?" Mendez said, folding his hands on his small paunch.
"There are some things Sergeant Class might shed some light on." He stared at me for one second. "I suddenly made full colonel and had orders cut for Fort Powell. Nobody in Brigade knew anything about it; the orders came from Washington, some 'Medical Personnel Redistribution Group.'"
"This was a bad thing?" Mendez said.
"No. I was gratified. I've never been happy with the Texas and Portobello posting, and this move took me back to the area where I grew up.