Where have I experienced this before? He cycled back into his newfound memories, taken away from the tableau of man and woman, not quite hearing the sweet, awful words that Beth was whispering now. I was in that room, talking to Ariane, back at the beginning, she seemed so nice and straightforward, I ... No. This isn't. I'm not remembering something from myself. Who? It came. He was Brendan, pressed flat to an outer wall of the chamber that contained them, hating and imagining for all that he was worth. Images of Ariane and John coupling in the room, invisible eyes focused on sliding, horrid genitalia, words of love and devotion whispered in the darkness, close to the traitorous wells of inhuman, uncaring ears.
He looked out of his own eyes again, watching Beth and Li-jiang make love with an uncanny joy and happiness written large enough to perceive on their bodies. I would never have minded like this before, he thought wonderingly, so why is it this difficult now? I was always in favor of a free access, everyone with everyone, within the limits of some conceptual naturality . This is bad; I ... I love her and want her for myself. I ... He suddenly thought about Brendan and swam back through that recurring scene that seemed to be the man's worst-ever moment.
I see, he thought. We did nothing together, that night in that room, but his mind supplied all the images that it needed to generate those emotions, to feel so bad. He loved her more desperately than I ever loved Beth, or anyone, and every moment that took her away from him was a moment of agony to be endured. Every experience that she had without him was an experience lost to him, an agony to be endured. Love leaves its own special scars, I guess. I thought Beth and I were closer than Bren and Ariane could ever have been. Her denial of me seems that much more profound. We know each other. It's silly, he realized, inexcusable, but . . . human. Now what do I say? I'm sorry? To whom? Beth?
Brendan? Everyone? Maybe it doesn't matter. This hurts too much.
Li-jiang'spenis, slimed with ichor , withdrew from Beth's body and the two embraced fiercely, laughing. They broke apart after a while and looked into each other's faces, smiling uncontrollably, and John turned back into his room, hoping that they didn't hear the soft whisper of his feet on the floor.
Brendan Sealock sat alone in front of the quantum conversion scanner and its attendant communication system, working. All indications had it that the experiment had been successful, and telltale signs on the various wave fronts seemed to say that the various subunits of Centrum, Bright Illimit, and Demogorgon were up and running. Krzakwa had gone away repeatedly during the course of the labor, drawn by some mysterious magnetism that was invisible to the other. Now he seemed to have departed for good. Sealock worked on through his cranial taps, whispering into the void, trying to reestablish communications with Demo in whatever guise he might manifest now as the primary controller function in Centrum.
It was a little bit like sitting in front of an old-time radio, a desperate air traffic controller, clutching a microphone, staring out of a stone tower into a fog-locked night, calling, "Flight X51A5, this is Mystery Lake Tower. Come in, X51A5. Do you read me? For God's sake, are you there, boy? Come in!" Brendan smiled faintly at the image. He's out there somewhere.
He scanned through the channels, seeing all the activity, trying to find the one that would let him talk to the man within again. At the moment of turnover, Demo's personality had been snatched away from him, rushing off to take its place somewhere within Centrum's complexity.
A bright light grew out of the mazy world that he searched, pulsing with insistent ruddy glow, calling his attention. He tapped onto it and listened. It said, "Hello, Bren ," in a strange voice, an unknown one.
"Demo?"
"This is BI GAM/Red SRA 051B:08R0:A0N7."
"Oh." Visuals came on now and the face floated in front of him: it was his own, projected in reverse of its mirror image, real and so faintly alien to him. "Can I talk to Demo?"
"The Master is engaged in Assembly setup and is currently dealing with the Interpreter SRAs . He sent me to communicate certain things to you in his stead."
Brendan felt vaguely disappointed, knowing he'd wantedto talk to the Arab, no longer caring about why. Still, this was probably better than nothing. "What things?"
"A preliminary survey of the working propulsion equipment in Iris indicates that most systems are functional. The power plant converter is, of course, still functional, and proves capable of using the lower Iridean atmosphere as fuel. The photon drive grid projects above the lithosphere and should be fireable , though it is currently immersed in dense, fluid hydrogen. We intend to light off shortly."
"You're going to fire off the engines?" He had a sudden memory of the thing they'd done to Aello , visions of fiery chaos, and thought of Jana. "What if the planet explodes?"
"Then it explodes. We're prepared to take that risk. This communiqué is a friendly warning to you all; it is a chance for you to place yourselves out of harm's way."
"What are the chances of success?"
"Odds of failure are calculated at 1:2027.048."
Brendan felt himself relax. All things considered, the chances of it working were pretty good. This would be something to see indeed. "OK. We'll begin our preparations immediately."
"Very well . . ."
"Wait a minute!"
"Input Queue NMI received. Proceed."
"Why are you doing this? I thought just being in control of a Bright Illimit-dominated Centrum would be enough for him."
"Long-term survival under those circumstances would have been a chancy thing. We mean to revive the mission. Enough submodules of Centrum itself survive to make that decision imperative."
"I see." He thought about it. It was probably a wise choice; Demogorgon would be giving himself a good reason to go on existing. And fantasies grow best in the hothouse climate of real adventure. "How long do we have?"
"Depending on the condition of the Uplink command system and how much rewrite the light-off procedures take, forty-seven hours, plus or minus eighteen minutes." Brendan could have laughed—a week ago he would have.
They would have to get Deepstar reassembled more or less overnight. "I'd still like to speak with Demo."
"At the moment, impossible. Call me on this wave interface after the light-off procedures are up and running. We may be able to manage it then. End transmission."
"Good-bye."
The ruby light pulsed once, then went out, and the world within Iris withdrew from his grasp.
Brendan walked across the moor by the pool, his feet drifting, lightly touching the surface, propelling himself along with a minimum of effort, immersed in the complexities of now and then. Things had changed, and with them himself, and with him the others. Are the changes great ones? Do I really feel different? Do they? What have we all become? Something new? I wonder. Are we really different or is this just another masque? Perhaps we are just fooling ourselves, rationalizing away any responsibility for feeling any pain, our own and that of each other. I know now that I am capable of lying to myself. I saw that facility in other people all along, and saw it in myself . . . but I thought I was different. I thought that, so long as I recognized the capacity for self-deceit in myself, it was all right to do it. The lies and fantasies were OK, just as long as I recognized them for what they were and paused every now and again to laugh at myself, to be embarrassed at my own silliness. Perhaps I was right, and this is just that little refreshing pause, that little sense of the "I" in me being renewed.... Or maybe I'm still lying to myself. Again. He walked on, immersed in a steep practicum of rumination, considering himself, both the natural being and the thing revealed by a forced march through his own past. I always used the memories, he mused, to wash away the terrors of any current hour that had grown too dense, too strong for me to handle easily. I reviewed myself mercilessly. He snorted, mirthless laughter emerging from his nose to echo in the silent, ersatz land. I did nothing of the sort! I used my memories in a self-serving way to absolve myself of any feeling I might have had about anything. Is that bad? Perhapsnot. A human being must have a means of survival, at all costs. Perhaps my greatest flaw lay in my lack of generosity toward others. They needed their lies and it was small of me to sneer at them. How much of that was unnecessary flaw and how much grew from my own needs? Did I serve a useful function in the midst of the others? I wonder if I really needed to . . . who am I to judge and who are they to judge me? Would I be happy in an existence divorced from all human needs, left to float my own way in a solitary jungle of thought?