Again I longed to remember this. Just the fact that humans had lived so long, and come so far, would have been beyond the imaginations of most people alive in my own cramped and dangerous century.
But it was a saga full of tragedy. I saw the scars of war, and of mindless natural disasters, where trillions of human lives had been destroyed like needles on a burning pine tree.
Leropa said, “Look at it all, Michael Poole. Look at these particles of humanity trapped in the suffering of the past. And the Transcendence loves every one of them.”
I thought I understood. “It is unbearable.”
“Yes. How can the Transcendence face the infinite possibilities of the future, when its past is knotted up with blood and pain?”
It was the paradox of a god born of human flesh and blood. To achieve full awareness the Transcendence had to absorb every human consciousness, even far into the past. And that meant it had to absorb all that pain. The Transcendence needed Redemption, a cleansing of the pain of the past, before it could advance to the mighty possibilities of the future.
Leropa said carefully, “You see it, don’t you? You see it all. And you understand.”
“Yes,” I breathed. Of course I did. I had shrunk from the hubris of the project. But here and now, surrounded by the vast echoing halls of the mind of the Transcendence, I felt swept up, seeing only the magnificence of this great ambition.
The Transcendence was not infinite, not yet. But it believed it was approaching a singularity, a gathering-up of complexity and cohesion, which would drive it along asymptotic pathways of possibility to an infinity of capability and comprehension. Beyond that point it would no longer be human, for there was no commonality between the infinite and the finite. But unless it was able to resolve the dilemma of Redemption before that point of singularity, the product of that great phase change would be a flawed creation — infinite, yes, but imperfect.
“It will be a wounded god,” I said. Just as Rosa had intuited. It was an unthinkable outcome.
Through the Witnessing and the Hypostatic Union, it tried to bring the suffering of the past into its full awareness, and so to atone. But mere watching could never be enough. So the Transcendence went further. In the Restoration, every human that possibly could have existed would be brought into reality. It would be a stunning, shining moment of rectification. Such trivialities as causality and consequence would be abandoned — but the Transcendence would be infinite, I reminded myself; and to an infinite being even infinite tasks are trivial.
But still it wasn’t enough.
Leropa said, her voice silky, “One way or another the Redemption must be completed. And if atonement cannot be achieved then it would be better to make a simplifying choice.”
I knew what she meant. “If you don’t exist, you can never suffer.” The ultimate simplicity of extermination.
“The Cleansing is within our grasp, if we will it to be done.”
She was right. It was right. And at that moment even the dreadful notion of the Cleansing didn’t dismay me. I was within the Transcendence, yet I was the Transcendence. For a brief moment I shared its huge ambitions, and its limitless fears — and I faced its dilemma. I felt as if I were trapped under an immense weight.
And, in that moment, I fully accepted Leropa’s logic. History must be cleansed, one way or another. And it must be done now…
But Alia whispered in my metaphoric ear. “Michael. Wait. Think. What would Morag say? ”
Morag?…
“You always were a berk, Michael Poole.”
I imagined I could see her, a kind of elusive shadow glimpsed from the corner of my eye.
“A berk? Charming.”
“You always have to meddle, meddle, meddle.”
“If you’re going on about the hydrate project, I get enough of that from Tom.”
“Not that. I admit that’s necessary. But it had to be you doing it, didn’t it, Michael? It fit your personality like a glove, didn’t it? An excuse to tinker. You were always mucking about at home, too. All those pointless do-it-yourself projects you never finished.”
“Morag—”
“Your half-built conservatory, that you abandoned because you ran out of money. Or the way you changed half the windows in the house, then left the rest because you got bored. Or the way—”
“Morag. Is all this going anywhere?”
“And now here you are fiddling with all of human history,” she said. “You think it’s a coincidence that this weird old woman picked you? Of course you’re going to want to plunge your hands in up to the elbows. It’s what you do. You’re a meddler, Michael. An instrumentalist.”
I sighed. “You always go over the top, don’t you?”
“All right. Put it this way. You’re childish. You’re like a kid in an art show. You want to touch the paintings, scrape bits off, deface them, draw your own copies, put them in new frames. Because you’re not mature enough yet just to sit back and enjoy the view — without meddling. ”
I thought that over. “But that’s what we’re like. Humans, I mean. We’re a species who do things.”
“Not necessarily,” Alia said now. “There are other ways to be.” And she widened my perspective yet again.
There was a spectrum of minds, here within the Transcendence itself, and still more beyond its still-expanding walls. I sensed these different minds as if hearing voices at the ends of long corridors. All of them were human or post-human, and most were more or less like my own. But there were sorts of mind quite different to mine, other ways of thinking, other ways to live.
The strange Coalescents in their vast hives were one example.
And with Alia’s gentle guidance I came on a people, a branch of mankind, who had long ago settled on a world in the Sagittarius Arm. It was a water-world, like an Earth drowned under an almost global ocean. The people here, post-people anyhow, had given up clothes and spaceships and even tools, and developed bodies like otters or small dolphins, and now spent all their lives in the endless calm of the water.
Alia said, “They gave up their minds. They knew it was happening. What you don’t use, you lose. But they didn’t care…”
I didn’t understand. “They could do so much more. They once did. But they put it all aside. And they’ve left themselves vulnerable. A volcanic spasm, an asteroid strike—”
“They don’t care! They have the present, they have each other, and that’s enough.”
There was a deep question here, Alia said. What was the purpose of intelligence? Was intelligence the highest outcome of the evolutionary process — or, like everything else, a mere means to an end?
“Intelligence is expensive,” Alia said. “There’s the energy cost of your big brain itself. And you need a lot of infrastructure to support it — some equivalent of eyes, hands, legs, to give you the information you need on the external world, and the capability of manipulating it.”
“So why bother getting smart at all?”
“Because there are circumstances where it is the only choice…”
Humanity’s chimplike ancestors had been kicked out of their ancestral forests by climate change. The savannah was a harsh environment, where you were exposed to extremes of temperature, easily spotted by predators, and where water and food sources were scattered far and wide. In order to survive, human intelligence had had to mushroom.