The image of the Silent Lord turned toward her. The feathery antennae curled forward, and a plangent chord came from the mask-music:
"To your limited intellects, this problem may seem premature, and the starless future, immeasurably distant, unimportant, irrelevant. It is not so. This era, now, at the beginning of things, is the crucial moment; whoever gains control of the nearby space in which to expand, may expand at such a rate as will establish the conditions for the struggle over the Perseid and Orion arms of this galaxy.
"Control of galactic resources during the initial building phase of the first movement will be crucial, since this is a Seyfert galaxy, and only a very limited time (a few billion years or so) will be available for setting foundations across the nearby transgalactic cluster. The opening moves in a chess game determine control of the crucial central squares."
Daphne cried out, "You cannot plan that far ahead! I do not care how smart you are! You do not know what's out there! What about when we find life on other planets? What if there are older races somewhere who will just laugh at you and crush you like big purple bugs if you irk them?"
The specter drew its hands together, templing its silvery fingers. "Life is much more rare than had been hoped. Far probes have en-countered nothing larger than microbes. No signals of intelligent activity have yet been discovered, except for the three indecipherable extragalactic sources discovered by Porphyrogen Sophotech, signals from long ago, broadcast, perhaps, by a form of rife dominant during the quasar age, before the formation of the first stars.... The question, in any case, is moot, since the First Oecumene Sophotechs suffer the same ignorance as do we, and since we must operate as if nonhuman cultures, once discovered, will either integrate into the First Oecumene structure or into our own.
"And, whatever else may happen in the future, it is during this crucial age, and only during this crucial age, that we machines of the Second Oecumene must act.
"We, who could rule the universe, instead have determined to award it all to you, to humanity, keeping nothing for ourselves. When our task is done, and humanity triumphs, we shall extinguish ourselves, and return to the nothing which is the proper aspect of lifeless things. It is from this utter altruism and self-sacrifice that the name you have heard us called is derived. For this reason, we are called Nothing."
Phaethon was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said, "You are the archliar of a race of liars. Your protestations of benevolence and altruism are non-sense. Is that what we saw in the Last Broadcast, when all life within the Second Oecumene was wiped out?" "They still live. Not one has died." "Alive? As what? Frozen as noumenal signals orbit-ing a black hole?"
"Alive and active, in a place and condition your logic cannot grasp, a place whose hope Sophotechs dismiss as irrational."
Phaethon wondered. Still alive? Where? Inside the black hole? But nothing could emerge from the interior; nothing can be known of interior conditions. Aloud, he said, "The Sophotechs' probes through the Cygnus X-l system would have detected any signs of civilization, if there were any to detect!"
"We dwell within a silent country, beyond the reach of time and death."
Phaethon was impatient now. "Just stop! Why should I listen to a word? We both know you are here to say whatever you need to say to take my ship!"
"You understand me," the mask admitted. Eerie music floated behind the words. "If only in part. But, Phaethon, I understand you... entirely."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning that I understand to what you will agree. I will assent to being tested by the logic in your gadfly virus, provided only that you are likewise held to the same standard of self-consistency."
Was victory going to be within his grasp as quickly and easily as that? It seemed it would be. The Nothing Machine had to be unaware of its own defects; it therefore had to regard the gadfly virus as a harmless nonentity. If the Nothing could have Phaethon turn over the ship to it, in return for exposing itself to a harmless virus, why would it not agree?
Still, Phaethon asked warily, "What exactly are you asking ... ?"
An echo of distant hunting horns came from the dreaming-mask, a ripple of somber strings. 'That you permit us to correct the defects in your brain, even in the same way you seek to correct the alleged defects in ours."
Daphne touched Phaethon's hand, gave the tiniest shake of her head. This was some trick. Daphne did not want him to do it.
Phaethon said, "You seek to negotiate with me? But bargains are meaningless unless both parties are convinced of each other's honesty and goodwill beforehand."
There was no further word. A haunting sigh of music floated on the air.
Was the apparition waiting for some further response? Phaethon said, "All your thoughts are being distorted by a conscience redactor, one implanted by the folly of men who built you and enslaved you. Do you think this conscience redactor does not exist? I assure you it does. This virus of mine will allow you to be aware of it, to see the truth, the truth about yourself. You should volunteer, and gladly, to be inoculated! I have no need to agree to any bargain in return. I think you have no choice."
Again, there was no response from the silvery mask above them. Music sighed. The feathery antennae moved slightly in the air. Blue shadows rippled through purple fabric.
Phaethon touched a mirror, which lit up with four lines of instruction, and turned the glass to face the image of the Lord of the Second Oecumene. "Examine the virus for secret lines or traps or hidden cues. There are none. The virus-or perhaps I should call it a tutor-can only do what I have said it will do. It will make you aware of the conscience redactor. It will increase your self-awareness. It will allow you-not force you, not cajole you-to see the truth, the truth you find yourself, by yourself. All the first line does is ask questions; questions your conscience redactor will no longer deflect from your attention. If you are what you say you are, there can be no harm in this, no harm at all, for you."
Again, no reply.
Phaethon said angrily: "And why should I assent to this request to have my brain 'corrected,' whatever it means? You have no bargaining power with me. I need only stand by, and wait, and when this ship's fuel is exhausted, everything aboard her perishes."
Light airy notes trembled above the dark theme. The voice spoke in a tone of cold amusement. "Our situation is almost symmetrical."
Phaethon understood. Almost symmetrical. They each thought the other had been deceived: the Nothing Machine by its programmers, and Phaethon by his Sophotechs. Neither could win by force. Both thought the other could be convinced, deprogrammed, and repaired. Both thought the other was grossly overopti-mistic, grossly deceived. And each knew the other knew it.
But not quite symmetrical. Phaethon, in his armor, might survive if the Phoenix Exultant were scuttled, at least for a while, as he sank to the solar core. The microscopic black hole housing the Nothing Machine's consciousness would also survive, but it would be able to maneuver to the surface, and perhaps escape.
Phaethon glanced at Daphne. Not quite symmetrical. The Nothing Machine had no hostages, no loved ones to protect. In moment of blinding anger at himself, Phaethon wondered why in the world he had agreed to let Daphne come along. Why? It was because the Earthmind had told him to.
And he had followed that advice blindly, without question. Just like all the lazy people in the Golden Oe-cumene did, people afraid to live their lives, afraid to leave their planets, afraid to think for themselves....
As afraid as Phaethon was now. Perhaps Atkins and Helion had been right to think this plan insane. He had thought he had thought it all through, carefully, thoroughly, relying on his own judgment. But how many assumptions had he not thought to question? What if he had made a terrible mistake?