Did she believe him? It hardly seemed to matter anymore. Whatever she did, he was going to keep on bombarding her with "evidence" like this, consistent with his claims. Whether he was deliberately lying or not -- and whether he was being fooled by another version of himself, or whether the "dust hypothesis" was right after all -- he was never going to let her out of here, back into the real world. Psychotic liar, fellow victim or calm purveyor of the truth, he was incapable of setting her free.
Her original was still out there -- with the money to save Francesca. That was the point of the whole insane gamble, the payoff for risking her soul. If she could remember that, cling to that, maybe she could keep herself sane.
Durham pressed on -- oblivious to her distress, or intent on delivering the coup de grace. He said, "Who could have engineered this? You know how long it took Max Lambert to translate a real-world bacterium. Do you honestly believe that I found someone who could manufacture a functioning -- novel -- pseudo-insect out of thin air . . . let alone an intelligent one?
"All right: you can't personally check macroscopic behavior against the Autoverse rules. But you can study all the biochemical pathways, trace them back to the ancestral species. You can watch an embryo grow, cell by cell -- following the gradients of control hormones, the differentiating tissue layers, the formation of the organs.
"The whole planet is an open book to us; you can examine whatever you like, scrutinize it on any scale, from viruses to ecosystems, from the activation of a molecule of retinal pigment to the geochemical cycles.
"There are six hundred and ninety million species currently living on Planet Lambert. All obeying the laws of the Autoverse. All demonstrably descended from a single organism which lived three billion years ago -- and whose characteristics I expect you know by heart. Do you honestly believe that anyone could have designed all that?"
Maria looked up at him angrily. "No. Of course it evolved; it must have evolved. You can shut up now -- you've won; I believe you. But why did you have to wake me? I'm going to lose my mind."
Durham squatted down and put a hand on her shoulder. She started sobbing drily as she attempted to dissect her loss into parts she could begin to comprehend. Francesca was gone. Aden was gone. All her friends. All the people she'd ever met: in the flesh, on the networks. All the people she'd ever heard of: musicians and writers, philosophers and movie stars, politicians and serial killers. They weren't even dead; their lives didn't lie in her past, whole and comprehensible. They were scattered around her like dust: meaningless, disconnected.
Everything she'd ever known had been ground down into random noise.
Durham hesitated, then put his arms around her clumsily. She wanted to hurt him, but instead she clung to him and wept, teeth clenched, fists tight, shuddering with rage and grief.
He said, "You're not going to lose your mind. You can live any life you want to, here. Seven thousand years means nothing; we haven't lost the old culture -- we still have all the libraries, the archives, the databases. And there are thousands of people who'll want to meet you; people who respect you for what you've done. You're a myth; you're a hero of Elysium; you're the sleeping eighteenth founder. We'll hold a festival in honor of your awakening."
Maria pushed him away. "I don't want that. I don't want any of that."
"All right. It's up to you."
She closed her eyes and huddled against the wall. She knew she must have looked like a petulant child, but she didn't care. She said fiercely, "You've had the last word. The last laugh. You've brought me to life just to rub my nose in the proof of your precious beliefs. And now I want to go back to sleep. Forever. I want all of this to vanish."
Durham was silent for a while. Then he said, "You can do that, if you really want to. Once I've shown you what you've inherited, once I've shown you how to control it, you'll have the power to seal yourself off from the rest of Elysium. If you choose sleep, then nobody will ever be able to wake you.
"But don't you want to be there, on Planet Lambert, when we make first contact with the civilization that owes its existence to you?"
24
(Rut City)
Peer was in his workshop, making a table leg on his lathe, when Kate's latest message caught his eye: You have to see this. Please! Meet me in the City.
He looked away.
He was working with his favorite timber, sugar pine. He'd constructed his own plantation from a gene library and plant cell maps -- modeling individual examples of each cell type down to an atomic level, then encapsulating their essential behavior in rules which he could afford to run billions of times over, for tens of thousands of trees. In theory, he could have built the whole plantation from individual atoms -- and that would have been the most elegant way to do it, by far -- but slowing himself down to a time frame in which the trees grew fast enough to meet his needs would have meant leaving Kate far behind.
He stopped the lathe and reread the message, which was written on a poster tacked to the workshop's noticeboard (the only part of his environment he allowed her to access, while he was working). The poster looked quite ordinary, except for an eye-catching tendency for the letters to jump up and down when they crossed his peripheral vision.
He muttered, "I'm happy here. I don't care what they're doing in the City." The workshop abutted a warehouse full of table legs -- one hundred and sixty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty-nine, so far. Peer could imagine nothing more satisfying than reaching the two hundred thousand mark -- although he knew it was likely that he'd change his mind and abandon the workshop before that happened; new vocations were imposed by his exoself at random intervals, but statistically, the next one was overdue. Immediately before taking up woodwork, he'd passionately devoured all the higher mathematics texts in the central library, run all the tutorial software, and then personally contributed several important new results to group theory -- untroubled by the fact that none of the Elysian mathematicians would ever be aware of his work. Before that, he'd written over three hundred comic operas, with librettos in Italian, French and English -- and staged most of them, with puppet performers and audience. Before that, he'd patiently studied the structure and biochemistry of the human brain for sixty-seven years; towards the end he had fully grasped, to his own satisfaction, the nature of the process of consciousness. Every one of these pursuits had been utterly engrossing, and satisfying, at the time. He'd even been interested in the Elysians, once.
No longer. He preferred to think about table legs.
He was still interested in Kate, though. He'd chosen that as one of his few invariants. And he'd been neglecting her lately; they hadn't met in almost a decade.
He looked around the workshop wistfully, his gaze falling on the pile of fresh timber in the corner, but then he strengthened his resolve. The pleasures of the lathe beckoned -- but love meant making sacrifices.
Peer took off his dustcoat, stretched out his arms, and fell backward into the sky above the City.
Kate met him while he was still airborne, swooping down from nowhere and grabbing his hand, nearly wrenching his arm from its socket. She yelled above the wind, "So, you're still alive after all. I was beginning to think you'd shut yourself down. Gone looking for the next life without me." Her tone was sarcastic, but there was an edge of genuine relief. Ten years could still be a long time, if you let it.