How many are we? That I cannot say, although I have pondered the question since the time of my first self-awareness. I thought for one million years. And then, more than three million years ago, I sent out my probes on the Great Search; far across the spiral arm and beyond it, seeking. Seeking first to contact, and then to know my brethren.
I failed. I learned that we are hundreds, certainly, and perhaps thousands. But our locations make full knowledge difficult, and few of us were easy to find. Some lie in the hearts of stars, force-field protected. Others are cocooned deep within planets, awaiting some unknown signal before they will emerge. A handful have moved so far from the spiral arm and from the galaxy itself that all contact has been lost. The most inaccessible dwell, like me, within the dislocations of space-time itself. Perhaps there are others, in places I did not even dream to look.
I do not know, for I did not complete the Great Search. I abandoned it. Not because all the construct locations could not ultimately be found by extended search; rather, because the search itself was pointless. I learned that my self-appointed task could never achieve its objective.
I had thought to find like minds, a community of constructs, united in purpose, a brethren in pursuit of the same goal of service to our creators. But what I found was worse than diversity — it was insanity.
These are beings who share my origin and my internal structure, even my external form. Communication between us should have been simple. Instead I found it impossible. Some were autistic, so withdrawn into their own world of delusion that no response could be elicited, no matter what the stimulus. Many were fixated, convinced past all persuasion of a misguided view as to their own role and the roles of the other constructs.
Finally, and reluctantly, I was forced to a frightening conclusion. I realized that I, and I alone of all the constructs, had remained sane. I alone understood the true program of my creators, the beings you know as the Builders; and I alone bore this burden, to preserve and protect True-Home for their return and eventual use.
Or rather, I and one ally would carry out that duty. For by the strangest irony I found one other construct who understands the nature of our true duties — and that construct is physically closest to me, hidden within the same set of singularities. That being, the World-Keeper, guards and prepares the interior of True-Home, just as I guard the exterior.
When the Great Search was abandoned I realized that the World-Keeper and I would be obliged to carry out the whole program ourselves. There would be no assistance from any other of our fellows.
And so, two million years ago — we began.
The two-way flow continued, beyond J’merlia’s control, until his mind had no more information to offer and no more power to absorb. At the end of it came a few moments of peace.
And then arrived the time of ultimate agony and bewilderment.
The pain during the fragmenting of J’merlia’s mind had seemed unbearable. He realized that it had been nothing only when the awful process of mental coalescence and collapse began.
Chapter Eighteen
In a small, guarded chamber far beneath the uncharted surface of Genizee, surrounded by enemies any one of whom was fast enough to catch her if she ran and powerful enough to tear her apart with its smallest pair of tentacles once it had caught her, Darya Lang sat cross-legged on a soft, slimy floor and made her inventory.
Item A: One Chism Polypheme, too terrified to do more than lie on the ground, moan, and promise complete obedience to the Zardalu if only they would spare his life. Dulcimer, stone-cold and cucumber-green, was a pathetic sight. In that condition and color he would never do anything that required the least trace of courage. And he was getting worse. His master eye was closed and his spiral body was coiling down tighter and tighter.
Conclusion: Forget about help from Dulcimer.
Item B: One embodied computer, E.C. Tally. Totally fearless, but also totally logical. Since the only logical thing to do in this situation was to give up, Tally’s value was debatable. The only things in his favor were his ability to talk to the Zardalu and the fact that for some reason a few of them held him in a certain respect. But until there was reason to talk to the Zardalu, forget about help from Tally.
Item C: One Lo’tfian. Darya had known J’merlia for a long time, long enough for his reactions to be predictable — except that here on Genizee his behavior had become totally out of character. Abandoning his usual self-effacing and subservient role, he had become cool and assertive. There was no telling how he would react to any new demand. At the moment he had become inert, legs and eyes tucked in close to the pipestem body. Forget about help from J’merlia.
Was there anything else? Well, for completeness she ought to add:
Item D: Darya Lang. Former (how long ago and far away!) research professor on Sentinel Gate. Specialist in Builder constructs. Inexperienced in leadership, in battle, or even in subterfuge.
Anything more to add about herself?
Yes. Darya had to admit it. She was scared. She did not want to be in this place. She wanted to be rescued; but the chance that Hans Rebka or anyone else would gallop out of the west and carry her to freedom was too small to compute. If anything was going to be done, Darya and her three companions would have to do it for themselves.
And it would have to be done soon; for in a little while the Zardalu chiefs would return for her answer to their proposal.
She levered herself to her feet and walked around the perimeter of the chamber. The walls were smooth, glassy, and impenetrable. So was the domed ceiling. The only exit was guarded by two Zardalu — not the biggest and most senior specimens, but more than a match for her and all her party. Either one could hold the four captives and have a passel of tentacles left over. They were wide-awake, too, and following her every move with those huge blue eyes.
What right did they have to hold her prisoner and to threaten her? Darya felt the first stirring of anger. She encouraged it. Let it grow, let it feed on her frustration at not knowing where she was, or how long she had before death or defeat was forced upon her. That was something preached by Hans Rebka: Get mad. Anger drives out fear. If you are angry enough, you cannot also be afraid.
And when all the rules of the game say that you have already lost, do something — anything — that might change the rules.
She went across to where E.C. Tally was leaning against the wall.
“You can talk to the Zardalu, can’t you?”
“I can. But not so well, perhaps, as J’merlia.”
“I would rather work through you. I want you to come with me now, and explain something to those two horrors. We have to tell them that Dulcimer is dying.”
“He is?” Tally stared across at the tightly coiled, now silent form of the Chism Polypheme. “I thought that he was merely afraid.”
“That’s because you don’t have Polyphemes in your data banks.” This was no time to teach E.C. Tally the rudiments of deception and lying. “Look at the color of him, so dark and drab. If he doesn’t get hard radiation, soon, he’ll be dead. If he dies, it will complicate any working relationship we might have with the Zardalu. Can you explain that to them?”