Lanier—lying on the couch, hand gripping the African print upholstery, staring up at the featureless cream-colored ceiling, ostensibly resting—knew this much, and very little more: Their quarters were located in the outer reaches of the rotating cylindrical precinct called Axis Nader: five apartments along a hallway, each with a bedroom, a bathroom and a living room; at the end of the hallway, a communal dining area and a large, circular lounge. The centrifugal force at this level of the precinct was just slightly less than that at the Stone’s chamber floors. All the quarters were closed off and lacked real windows, though illusart windows of idyllic terrestrial scenes in the apartments and lounge provided a sensation of spaciousness which was hard to deny.
Someone had gone to considerable effort to make the accommodations pleasant and familiar. What Lanier gathered, from all the fuss, was that they were important people.
Whether they were prisoners or honored guests, it was impossible to tell for the time being.
He turned his head to one side, reached over to a stack of magazines on the coffee table near the couch, picked up a copy of STERN and flipped through it, not really looking at the turning pages. His eyes kept tracking the apartment, lingering on little details the art glass vase in one corner of a bureau, red and purple with overlaid gold threads; the rich-feeling couch fabric; the books, that lined one shelf; and the memory cubes stacked in an ebony wood holder nearby.
He was about to put the magazines down on a frosted glass coffee table when he realized he hadn’t looked at the issue’s date. March 4, 2004.
Over a year old. Where did they find it?
Or any of the objects in the apartments?
“May I come in?” Patricia asked. The apartment door became transparent and he saw her standing in the hallway. Judging by her attitude, she could not see in.
“Yes,” he said. ”Please do.”
She continued standing outside. ”Garry, are you home?”
He puzzled this over for a moment; she hadn’t heard him.
Symbols appeared in the air to one side of the door, flickering rapidly, little marvels of cailigraphympicts, Patricia had called them, statements made up of single symbols called icons.
When nothing happened, he approached the door and the room voice, sexless and melodic, asked, “You have a visitor, Mr. Lanier. Would you like Patricia Luisa Vasquez to enter?”
“Yes, please, let her in,” he said. The door became opaque again and then slid aside.
“Hello,” she said. ”we’re all meeting in a half hour getting together with the woman who was in the hangar. Olmy says she’s our ‘advocate’. I thought I’d talk things over with you first.”
“Good idea,” he said. ”Let’s sit.”
He took a comfortable leather-upholstered chair and Patricia sat on the couch. She folded her hands in her lap and regarded him steadily, her lips pursed as if to hold back a smile.
“What in hell happened to you?” Lanier asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? I was kidnapped. I think we were being invaded, or something. I was half-crazy then. Maybe more than half. So I took a train to the third chamber, and Olmy found me there. He had a Frant with him—a nonhuman.”
“Who is Olmy?”
“You met him —the one who took us here and arranged for the quarters to be done in period.”
“Yes, I met him, but who is he, what rank, what importance?”
“He’s an agent of some sort. He does work for the Nexus—the main governing body of the Hexamon. He’s been my teacher for the past few days, ever since we got here. Were we being invaded?”
“Yes,” Lanier said. ”By Russians.” He told her what had happened and she listened intently.
“I think that’s one reason Olmy wanted me out of the chambers,” she said. ”He thought I might be in danger. I’m not yet sure why he chose me in particular, but ...” She shrugged. ”I have some ideas. They’ve already put me through tests. They’ll test you, too. Diagnostics, psychological, everything—all in a few minutes. It doesn’t hurt. They’re really interested in our bodies. We’re historical curiosities.”
“I’ll bet. At any rate, when I heard you had been kidnapped, I went a bit crazy myself. Judith Hoffman made it up to the Stone from Station Sixteen—”
“How wonderful!” Patricia said. ”Was anybody with her?”
“Yes—nobody we knew.”
Patricia’s expression of joy stiffened.
“She obviously decided I wasn’t going to be very effective anymore. You were the last straw, I think.”
“Me?”
“Hoffman told me to take care of you. I couldn’t prevent what happened on Earth, and I lost you, besides. I don’t take failure very well, Patricia.” He rubbed his cheeks and eyes. “Failure. Yes. I suppose you could call losing the whole Earth failure.”
Patricia gripped her hands tightly between her knees. ”Not lost,” she murmured.
“So Hoffman authorized an expedition to find you.”
“It’s good to have you all here—my friends, my helpers.”
Her sudden cheeriness had an edge.
“We’re really guests here, then?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. They weren’t expecting you—though when Olmy first heard, he knew it had to be the tuberider. They consulted him right away since he had been down the corridor most recently.”
“Do they know about the Stone—what we’ve been doing?”
“Yes, I suppose they do. Olmy must have told them.”
“And do they plan to do anything with us? I mean, I assume they’re still interested in the Stone ... “
“I’m not sure. Some of them are. It’s confusing, and I’ve only been taking lessons steadily for the last couple of days. It’s all very political, that’s what Olmy tells me.”
“They’re advanced, aren’t they?” Lanier asked.
“Oh, yes, but not so much we can’t understand a lot of things. Our rooms, for example—they’re not very different from that apartment in the third chamber. The one Takahashi showed me.”
Lanier hadn’t mentioned Tagahashi’s treason. He didn’t think it necessary now.
“All the.decorations are illusions,” Patricia said. ”There’s a pictor—a kind of projector—in each room. It makes our minds feel and see the elaborations. The furniture is here in basic shape and function, but everything else is projected. They’ve had this technology for a long time, centuries. They’re as used to it as we are to electricity.”
Lanier reached out and riffled the copy of STERN, then pulled a copy of TIME from beneath it. ”These magazines, that vase”—he pointed to the art glass—”are just records stored somewhere, projected?”
“I suppose they must be.”
“Are they watching us now?”
“No. They told me they aren’t, anyway. Privacy is very important here.”
“You said you had an idea why they wanted you.”
“Well ... just a guess. Olmy might have been worried I would find a way to change the sixth chamber machinery.”
“But he wanted to keep you safe.”
“Out of trouble.” She stood and nodded at the decorations.
“Do you like what they’ve done?”
“It’s thorough.” He shrugged. ”It’s comfortable.”
“They’re good at matching decor to people. My rooms are comfortable, too. Not very much like home, though. I’m ...”
The edge in her cheerfulness became fully visible for an instant, making her eyes hard and determined. ”I’m not taking everything well. Some parts of me are pretty messed over.”
“That’s ... not unexpected,” Lanier said.
“They’re going to help,” she said. ”They’re going to help me find home. They can, you know. They don’t know it yet. But they will. I’ve learned that much since I’ve been here. The corridor is very twisty.” She tangled her fingers and tugged her arms against them. ”Let’s go join the others.”
Olmy stood in the center of the circular lounge, Suli Ram Kikura beside him. He introduced her to each of the five, formally and at length, telling her the functions they had served on the Thistledown.
Lanier was impressed by how much Olmy knew; he seemed to have kept a dossier on all of them.
“And this is Ser Suli Ram Kikura, your advocate. Your arrival on the tuberider was highly illegal, so she’s been of service to you already. She had your court case negated because of the circumstances.”
“And under authority from the Presiding Minister,” she added. “It’s not something an advocate of my standing could have accomplished on her own.”
“She may underestimate herself,” Olmy said.
“Now that we know each other’s names, I think we’d better get everything out in the open,” Ram Kikura said. Olmy took a seat and folded his arms. ”First of all, most of the citizens and clients of the Axis City and the communities along the Way—what you call the corridor—talk to each other by picting.” She touched the torque around her neck and looked at Heineman. Flashes of light darted before his eyes. ”I’m wearing a personal pictor. You will all be given pictors in a couple of days. It won’t be absolutely necessary for you to learn the graphicspeech, but it will be very helpful. Lessons should take no more than two or three days. Miss Vasquez, I understand, already has a rudimentary knowledge of picts.”
“Amenities,” Patricia said.
“I speak American English, and have for years, because I am proud of my ancestry, which is North American, specifically United States of America, even more specifically, California.
“When you first saw me, you might have noticed I was picting a flag from the U.S.A. over my left shoulder. This is frequently done by Ameriphiles; it symbolizes our pride. After the Death, it was considered shameful to claim either Russian or American heritage. Those who did so were persecuted. Americans were persecuted more than Russians. When South Americans and Mexicans repopulated large sections of North America, people claiming to be citizens of the United States were arrested. The Naderites of that time were trying to create a unified world government, and there was resentment against the former Superpowers.”
“That’s changed?” Heineman asked.
Ram Kikura nodded. ”The United States gave us most of our culture, the foundations of our laws and government. We feel about America as you might feel about Rome or Greece. Citizens take considerable pride in having American ancestors. If your presence becomes generally known—”
Lanier clenched one hand tightly, worried by the implications of indefinite secrecy.
“—then I will have to act as your theatrical agent, I’m afraid.”
Her smile seemed to indicate both humor and confidence. Lanier released some of the tension in his fist.
Farley shook her head. ”I’m Chinese. Do I miss out?”
Ram Kikura smiled. ”Not in the least. Those with Chinese heritage make up at least a third of the Hexamon—far more than Americans.
“As for your status for the time being, your presence here is being treated as a Hexamon secret. You will not have any further contact with citizens of the Hexamon until that situation changes. Nevertheless, you have all the rights accorded to Hexamon guests. Not even the President himself could take those rights from you. One of them is the right to have an advocate represent your interests and advise you. Should anyone here object to my being your advocate, let me know immediately, and another will be assigned.” She looked from face to face. There were no objections; she hadn’t expected any.
“Your status here is that of potential client innocents. That is, you may be of service to the Hexamon, and such services will gain you advantages—what you might term payment—but for the moment you are not to be disturbed. As innocents, you will be studied unless you object and the knowledge gained from these studies will be invested for you in certain Hexamon information banks. It will also be available to the Nexus and other governing bodies of the Hexamon, whether you object or not.”
“I have some questions,” Lanier said.
“Please ask them.”
“What’s the Hexamon ... and the Nexus?”
“The Hexamon is the totality of human citizens. You might call it the state. The Nexus is the main lawmaking body of this city, and of the Way from the Thistledown and the forbidden territory to mark two ex nine. That is, the two-billion-kilometer point of the Way.”
“You’re all descended from the Stoners—the people who lived in the Thistledown?” Carrolson asked.
“Yes,” Ram Kikura said.
“Excuse me,” Heineman said. ”How many people live here? How large is this Axis City?”
Ram Kikura smiled and picted instructions to the empty walls.
There were no data pillars anywhere—apparently their functions had been integrated into the inconspicuous room pictors. A very solid looking image of the Axis City appeared next to her, rotating slowly. Heineman leaned forward in his seat, frowning in concentration.
“One hundred million humans occupy the city and the Way. Ten million live off-city, along the Way, chiefly traders and coordinators of the five hundred and seventy-one active wells. Ninety million live in the Axis City. Of these, seventy million are in City Memory. Most of those have lived out their legal two incarnations and have retired their bodies to exist as personality patterns in the City Memory environment. Under special circumstances, they may be assigned new bodies, but most often they are content in Memory. Some five million deviant personalities—those who are incomplete or deranged in such a way they cannot be redeemed, even with extreme methods of therapy—are kept inactive.”
“People don’t die?” Carrolson asked.
“Death and dying here usually refer to loss of corporeal states, not mental states. In a word, no, or very rarely,” Ram Kikura said.
“All of us are equipped with implants.” She touched a spot behind her ear, then moved her finger to a spot above the bridge of her nose.
“They supplement our reasoning, and should an accident occur, they retain a record of our most recent experiences and personality. The implant is almost indestructible—it is the first thing we recover from the victim of an accident. Every few days, we update our backups in City Memory with reds from these implants. That way, a personality can be quickly reconstructed. All we need to do is make a final update and inhabit a new body, and the resurrection is indistinguishable from the original.”
She looked around the room, ready to field more questions.
There were none; implications were beginning to sink in.
”I’ll use Olmy as an example,” Ram Kikura said. ”With his permission ... ?”
Olmy nodded.
“He is something of a rarity because of his age and history. His original body was born five centuries ago. His first death was by accident; the destruction was not total, so he was reconstructed. Since he was considered important to the Hexamon and was involved in dangerous work, he was allowed three incarnations, rather than the usual two. His present body is adapted for specialty work; it’s a popular type and is completely self-contained. His waste systems are also closed. Within his abdomen there is a small power supply; all his wastes are reprocessed internally. He needs to replace his power source and bring in supplementary materials only once a year. He requires water every three months.”
“Are you human?” Carrolson asked Olmy pointedly.
“I am,” Olmy said. ”I presume you’re curious about my sexuality?”
“What ... Yes, frankly,” Carrolson admitted. Heineman squinted one eye and raised the opposite brow.
“I am fully masculine by birth and choice, and my sexual organs are functional.”
“They are, indeed,” Ram Kikura said. ”But natal sexual orientation, even in those born naturally, is not necessarily permanent.”
“You mean, once a man, not always a man?” Farley asked.
“Or a woman. Or man or woman. Many neomorphs today have no specific sexual orientation.”
“You talk about those born naturally,” Heineman said. “You have test-tube babies, that sort of thing?”
“At the risk of shocking you—which may be unavoidable—most people today are not born of man and woman. Their personalities are created by one or more parents through the merging of partial personalities in City Memory, with the infusion of what we call Mystery from at least one individual, usually a parent. The young personality is educated and tested in City Memory, and if it passes certain tests, it ‘matures,’ that is, it earns its first incarnation, most often as a mature young adult. The corpus the personality inhabits may be designed by the parents, or by the individual. If in time the corporeal citizen uses its two incarnations, it then retires to City Memory.”
Carrolson started to say something, thought better of it, then decided to speak anyway. ”Are the people without bodies—in the computers are they human, are they alive?” she asked.
“They believe so,” Ram Kikura said. ”They have specific rights, and certain duties, as well, though by necessity their say in government is less than that of corporeal citizens. But if I may suggest we are not discussing the subjects of most immediate importance ...” She pointed toward the rotating image of the city.
“This is where you will stay. For the time being, you cannot return to the Thistledown. Your home will be in this precinct, Axis Nader, where conditions are reasonably familiar—design, culture, people. Though you may not meet them for some time, this precinct is inhabited by orthodox Naderites.
“Miss Vasquez has told Ser Olmy that some of you are aware of the basics of our history. Then you will understand that orthodox Naderites typically prefer conditions as close to those of Earth as possible. This section contains many areas of natural beauty and as few illusions in the public thoroughfares as possible. There are two other rotating precincts—Axis Thoreau and Axis Euclid—spaced beyond the Central City. Axis Thoreau is also occupied by Naderites, though of a more liberal persuasion.”
“More questions,” Lanier said. ”When can we return to our people?”
“I don’t know. That decision isn’t ours to make.”
“Can we send a message to them?”
“No,” Olmy said. ”Technically, your people are in violation.”
“Isn’t the situation a little unusual?” Lanier asked. ”Now that the Thistledown has returned to Earth ...” Olmy looked distinctly uncomfortable. ”Unusual. And very complicated.”
Patricia touched Lanier’s hand and gave a slight shake of her head: enough for now.
“After you’ve eaten, you will have time to become reacquainted and learn how to use your accommodations. Then you may rest. Tomorrow morning, you will be awakened in your rooms. Please return here.”
In the hallway, Patricia walked close to Lanier. ”We’re pawns,” she said in an undertone. ”We’ve set off alarms.”
She held her finger to her lips and darted into her doorway.