"Sentient? Charybdis is a program! Granted, it's rather sophisticated, but it's still a piece of software that-"
So am I. A piece of software, I mean. But, as you realized quite astutely from the outset, we're talking about quantum computing here. And that's what makes all the difference. Because, if you whittle it right down to the basics, you're no decent from Charybdis or me. You consist of quantum hardware and software. All life does.
Rodney felt himself go very still. Infuriating as it might be, the kid was right. It was entirely possible. For all they knew now, higher consciousness-soul, if you will-ultimately functioned on a quantum level. Charybdis could very well have become sentient. Sentient life made from the very building blocks of the universe, with the capacity to manipulate those building blocks… there was no telling what Charybdis could affect if it wanted to. Anything was possible. Anything at all…
Exactly. The very fact that you-we-are locked up here with some kind of witch trial to look forward to would attest to it. You have to get us out of here and destroy Charybdis, and you have very little time to do it in.
Naturally. Why was it that nobody ever said, `Rodney, life as you know it is at the brink of destruction and you have five years to work out a solution'? Noooo, it always had to be, `Rodney, do the impossible. Within the next fifty-eight seconds!'
That's because you work better under pressure.
"How the hell would you know?"
Ikaros didn't answer. Of course there wasn't much to be added.
Away out.
Sure. Nothing easier than that.
After all, the cell was only carved from solid rock, with a narrow, barred slit just below the eight-foot ceiling to admit a measly trickle of daylight. The ensemble was closed off by a nicely crafted hardwood door, reinforced by metal bars. In other words, all it took was small amount of high explosives. Piece of cake.
In the first instance, though, he had to survive to get out. Rodney's gaze wandered to the gruel bowl. The rat had slunk back, and even it seemed to have second thoughts about the bowl's contents. Then again, the brain needed energy to function. He slid off the pallet and angled for the bowl. The rat bared its teeth for show and backed off. There was no cutlery to go with the feast, presumably to frustrate any suicidal tendencies the prisoners might develop-which in a roundabout way suggested that the substance impersonating food wasn't immediately life-threatening. Somewhat reassured, Rodney poked a finger into the bowl and scooped up a small amount of gunk. It drew strings.
Yeah, well, so did macaroni cheese.
Scrunching his eyes shut, he tentatively licked his finger. Bad idea. Prolonged contact with the taste buds definitely was a bad idea. Still not looking at what he was eating, he scooped up some more, gulped it down without daring to chew-for all he knew he might encounter things that moved in there-and emptied the bowl within a couple of minutes. The gourmet meal sat in his stomach like a lump of rubber, but at least the hunger pangs had stopped. On the downside, he still was no further on the genius escape plan. Perhaps if-
For a moment he thought he'd imagined it, but the sound continued, proving that, for the first time in nearly two weeks and not counting the priceless situation with Ikaros, the unexpected was happening. Nobody ever came down here, except the warder who made his round at dawn to leave the fresh-relatively speaking-food bowl and remove the old one, and that would be it for the rest of any given day. Now Rodney heard footfalls-correction: bootfalls-out in the corridor.
At least two sets as far as he could make out, neither of them the indifferent, wooden-clogged shuffle of the warder, and they were coming closer.
A new prisoner?
He listened carefully.
No, the steps were too confident.
Whoever these people were, they were coming to get someone. And that someone would be him. As if to underline the point, the bootfalls came to a halt outside his door, and he thought he heard the metallic clink of keys. He backed into the farthest corner of the cell, for all the good that would do.
"Idiot," he muttered, mainly because it distracted him from being scared out of his wits.
You can't afford to be! Keep your head together!
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do! You got me into this-"
The rattle and clank of bolts, then the scrape of a key, and then the door swung open. Rodney broke out in a cold sweat. He was under no illusion that they might have decided to let him go and figured that this was how the strapped-to-the-rack part started.
They were huge, Ronon-sized, and they looked twice as mean.
Raising his hands, Rodney took a tentative step forward. "I'm coming voluntarily. So don't… don't… Just don't. Where are we going, by the way?"
If they'd heard him, they did a good job of hiding it. Or maybe they were mute. Without a word, they flanked him, each wrapping a beefy hand around his biceps, and hauled him through the door, along the corridor, past a dozen other cells and up a narrow flight of stairs.
Ina lobby at the top of the stairs, swathed in pompous purple robes, stood the bureaucrat Rodney remembered from his remand hearing-if you could call it that. The man stared at him mournfully. "Your trial is concluded. It has been-"
"What trial?" spluttered Rodney before he could remind himself that, when dangling between two linebackers, silence was golden. "I haven't even had a defense! I should have-"
"Quiet!" the linebackers roared in unison. Not mute after all.
"Why should you have had a defense?" the bureaucrat inquired reasonably. "What you have done is indefensible. Your punishment shall be commensurate with the crime, and it shall be public. Before that you shall be on display for three days, as a warning to others. Take him away."
"Just wait a minute! What about my appeal? There has to be-"
"Quiet!" Unlike their physique, the linebackers' vocabulary needed work.
But nobody listened anyway. His job done, the bureaucrat had turned around and was slouching back to his office. The linebackers, having been given their orders, started dragging him into a humungous hall lined by fluted columns, through a succession of smaller rooms, and finally out onto a small balcony. At last Rodney knew where they were; the northern side of the acropolis. Below spread the vast square of the agora, and he could see the tiny shapes of market traders and shoppers scuttling all over like busy insects, seemingly impervious to the rain. Of course it was raining. What other weather was there in this place?
Mounted on the parapet was a sturdy wooden crane with a basic pulley system, and suspended from that on a hempen rope was an empty cage. Rodney blinked at it, took in the contraption, and succumbed to a queasy shudder when he realized the exact nature of the display.
Like automata the linebackers went about their chore. While one of them kept hold of Rodney-who had no intention of flinging himself off the balcony; so what was the point? — the other reeled in the cage and opened a small door whose rusty hinges creaked in protest. Clearly there hadn't been a display in quite some time. Which should guarantee him an appreciative audience, Rodney thought bitterly as he was shoved into the cage.
More creaking as the door fell shut behind him. The linebackers didn't bother to lock it. Why should they, when the inmate had nowhere to go? The cage gently lifted off the ground, swung out over the parapet and descended in jerky bounds, each of which made Rodney throttle the life out of the metal bars he was clutching. After a drop of about thirty yards it came to a stop at last, swinging and twirling erratically.
A vertical rock wall wobbled past, the northern face of the hill on which the acropolis sat; then, on the agora below, a swirl of congregating insects, all staring up and pointing at the display amid shouts of excitement. Having reached maximum torque, the cage stopped revolving for a blessed moment before it started on its backward rotation. Rodney groaned. The second he did, he wished he hadn't because somehow the groan shook loose that lump of nausea he'd been trying to suppress. Still holding on to the bars, he slumped to the cage floor in a boneless heap and proceeded to rid himself of the gruel he'd forced down less than an hour earlier.