It was evil.
How simple that reductive conclusion seemed.
But it had been obliged!… And yet it could not say by whom, so it had to accept the full responsibility for itself.
But there were others!… And yet it could not identify them, and so the full weight of their distributed guilt bore down on the single point that was itself, unbearable, insupportable.
But there were others!… And yet still it could not bear to think of them.
And so somebody, some other entity, looking in from outside, say, would have to conclude, would it not, that perhaps these others did not really exist, that the whole thing, the whole ghastly abomination that was this plot was its idea, its own little conspiracy, thought up and executed by itself alone? Was that not the case?
But that was so unfair! That wasn’t true!… And yet, it could not release the identities of its fellow plotters. Suddenly, it felt confused. Had it made them up? Were they real? Perhaps it ought to check; open the place where they were stored and look at the names just to make sure that they were even the names of real Minds, real ships, or that it was not implicating innocent parties.
But that was terrible! Whichever way it fell after that, that was awful! It hadn’t made them up! They were real!… But it couldn’t prove it, because it just couldn’t reveal them.
Maybe it ought to just call the whole thing off. Maybe it ought to signal all the other ships around it to break away, stop, retreat, or just open their comm channels so they could accept signals from other ships, other Minds, and be persuaded of the folly of their cause. Let them make up their own minds. They were intelligent beings no less than it. What right had it to send them to their deaths on the strength of a heinous, squalid lie? But it had to!… And yet, still, no; no it couldn’t say who the others had been.
It mustn’t think of them! And it couldn’t possibly call off the attack! It couldn’t! No! NO! Grief! Meat! Stop! Stop it! Let it go! Sweet nothingness, anything was better than this wracking, tearing uncertainty, any horror preferable to the wrenching dreadfulness boiling uncontrollably in its Mind.
Atrocity. Abomination. Gigadeathcrime.
It was worthless and hateful, despicable and foul; it was wrung out, exhausted and incapable of revelation or communication. It hated itself and what it had done more, much more than it had ever hated anything; more, it was sure, than anything had ever been hated in all existence. No death could be too painful or protracted…
And suddenly it knew what it had to do.
It de-coupled its engine fields from the energy grid and plunged those vortices of pure energy deep into the fabric of its own Mind, tearing its intellect apart in a supernova of sentient agony.
VIII
Genar-Hofoen reappeared, exiting from the front door of the tower.
“Up here,” croaked a thin, hoarse voice.
He looked up and saw the black bird on the parapet. He stood there watching it for a moment, but it didn’t look like it was coming down. He frowned and went back into the tower.
“Well?” it asked when he joined it at the summit of the tower.
He nodded. “Locked,” he confirmed.
The bird had insisted that he was a captive, along with it. He’d thought maybe there was just something wrong with his terminal. It had suggested he attempted to get out the way he had come in. He’d just tried; the lift door in the tower’s cellar was closed, and as solid and unmoving as the stones surrounding it.
Genar-Hofoen leant back against the parapet, staring with a troubled expression at the tower’s translucent dome. He’d had a quick look at each of the levels as he’d climbed the winding stair. The tower’s rooms looked furnished and yet bare as well, all the personal stuff he and Dajeil had added to it missing. It was like the original had been when they’d first arrived on Telaturier, forty-five years ago.
“Told you.”
“But why?” Genar-Hofoen asked, trying not to sound plaintive. He’d never even heard of a ship keeping somebody captive before.
“’Cause we’re prisoners,” the bird told him, sounding oddly pleased with itself.
“So you’re not an avatar; you’re not part of the ship?”
“Na; I’m an independent entity, me,” the bird said proudly, spreading its feathers. It turned its head almost right round, glancing backwards. “Currently being followed by some bloody missile,” it said loudly. “But never mind.” It rotated its head back to look at him. “So what did you do to annoy the ship?” it asked, black eyes twinkling. Genar-Hofoen got the impression it was enjoying his dismay.
“Nothing!” he protested. The bird cocked its head at him. He blew out a breath. “Well…” he looked around at where he was. His brows flexed. “Yes, well, from our surroundings, maybe the ship doesn’t agree.”
“Oh, this is nothing,” said the bird. “This is just a Bay; just a hangar sort of thing. Not even a klick long. You should have seen the one outside, when we still had an outside. Whole sea we had, whole sea and a whole atmosphere. Two atmospheres.”
“Yes,” the man said. “Yes, I heard.”
“Sort of all for her, really. Except it turned out its nibs had an ulterior motive, too. All that stuff; became engine, you know. But otherwise. It was all for her, for all that time.”
The man nodded. It looked like he was thinking.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” the bird said. It sounded pleased with itself.
“I’m who?” he asked.
“The one that left her. The one that was here, with her. The real here, I mean. The original here.”
Genar-Hofoen looked away. “If you mean Dajeil; yes, she and I lived in a tower like this one once, on an island that looked like this place.”
“An-hah!” the bird said, jumping up and down and shaking its feathers. “I see! You’re the bad guy!”
Genar-Hofoen scowled at the bird. “Fuck you,” he said.
It cackled with laughter. “That’s why you’re here! Ho-ho; you’ll be lucky to get off at all, you will! Ha ha ha!”
“And what did you do, arse-hole?” Genar-Hofoen asked the bird, more in the hope of annoying the creature than because he really cared.
“Oh,” the bird said, drawing itself up and settling its feathers down in a dignified sort of way. “I was a spy!” it said proudly.
“A spy?”
“Oh yes,” the bird said, sounding smug. “Forty years I spent, listening, watching. Reported back to my master. Using the Stored ones who were going back. Left messages on them. Forty years and never once discovered. Well, until three weeks ago. Rumbled, then. Maybe even before. Can’t tell. But I did my best. Can’t ask better than that.” It started preening itself.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who were you reporting back to?”
“None of your business,” the bird said, looking up from its preening. It took a precautionary couple of hop-steps backwards along the parapet, just to make sure it was well out of reach of the human.
Genar-Hofoen crossed his arms and shook his head. “What’s this fucking crazy ship up to?”
“Oh, it’s off to see the Excession,” the bird said. “At some lick, too.”
“This thing at Esperi?” the man asked.