Permutation City

mentally invoked its records; the last event shown was his most recent random transition. Whatever he’d done since, there was no trace of it.

He said dully, “The name means nothing to me.”

Stranger still, the thought of spending twenty-nine days sketching beetles left him cold. Any passion he’d felt for insect taxonomy had vanished along with his memories—as if the whole package had belonged to someone else entirely, who’d now claimed it, and departed.

28

As the City slowly imprinted itself upon her brain—every dazzling sunset leaving its golden afterimage burning on her nonexistent retinas, every journey she made wiring maps of the nonexistent streets into her nonexistent synapses—Maria felt herself drifting apart from her memories of the old world. The details were as sharp as ever, but her history was losing its potency, its meaning. Having banished the idea of grieving for people who had not died—and who had not lost her—all she seemed to have left to feel was nostalgia… and even that was undermined by contradictions.

She missed rooms, streets, smells. Sometimes it was so painful it was comical. She lay awake thinking about the shabbiest abandoned buildings of Pyrmont, or the cardboard stench of ersatz popcorn wafting out of the VR parlors on George Street. And she knew that she could reconstruct her old house, all of its surroundings, all of Sydney, and more, in as much detail as she wished; she knew that every last idiot ache she felt for the amputated past could be dealt with in an instant. Understanding exactly how far she could go was more than enough to rid her of any desire to take a single step in that direction.

But having chosen to make no effort to relieve the pangs of homesickness, she seemed to have forfeited her right to the emotion. How could she claim to long for something which she could so easily possess—while continuing to deny it to herself?

So she tried to set the past aside. She studied the Lambertians diligently, preparing for the day when contact would be permitted. She tried to immerse herself in the role of the legendary eighteenth founder, roused from her millennia of sleep to share the triumphant moment when the people of Elysium would finally come face to face with an alien culture.

Lambertian communities—despite some similarities to those of terrestrial social insects—were far more complex, and much less hierarchical, than the nests of ants or the hives of bees. For a start, all Lambertians were equally fertile; there was no queen, no workers, no drones. The young were conceived in plants at the periphery of the local territory, and upon hatching usually migrated hundreds of kilometers to become members of distant communities. There, they joined teams and learned their speciality—be it herding, defense against predators, or modeling the formation of planetary systems. Specialization was usually for life, but team members occasionally changed professions if the need arose.

Lambertian group behavior had a long evolutionary history, and it remained the driving force in cultural development—because individual Lambertians were physically incapable of inventing, testing or communicating the models by which the most sophisticated ideas were expressed. An individual could learn enough about a model while taking part in a successful dance to enable it to exchange roles with any other individual the next time the dance was performed—but it could never ponder the implications of the idea itself, in solitude. The language of the dance was like human writing, formal logic, mathematical notation and computing, all rolled into one—but the basic skills were innate, not cultural. And it was so successful—and so much in tune with other aspects of their social behavior—that the Lambertians had never had reason to develop a self-contained alternative.

Individuals were far from unthinking components, though. They were fully conscious in their own right; groups performed many roles, but they did not comprise “communal minds.” The language of sounds, movements and scents used by individuals was far simpler than the group language of the dance, but it could still express most of the concepts which preliterate humans had dealt with: intentions, past experience, the lives of others.

And individual Lambertians spoke of individual death. They knew that they would die.

Maria searched the literature for some clue to the way they dealt with their mortality. Corpses were left where they dropped; there was no ritual to mark the event, and no evidence of anything like grief. There were no clear Lambertian analogs for any of the human emotions—not even physical pain. When injured, they were acutely aware of the fact, and took steps to minimize damage to themselves—but it was a matter of specific instinctive responses coming into play, rather than the widespread biochemical shifts involved in human mood changes. The Lambertian nervous system was “tighter” than a human’s; there was no flooding of regions of the brain with large doses of endogenous stimulants or depressants—everything was mediated within the enclosed synapses.

No grief. No pain. No happiness? Maria retreated from the question. The Lambertians possessed their own spectrum of thoughts and behavior; any attempt to render it in human terms would be as false as the colors of the Autoverse atoms themselves.

The more she learned, the more the role she’d played in bringing the Lambertians into existence seemed to recede into insignificance. Fine-tuning their single-celled ancestor had seemed like a matter of the utmost importance, at the time—if only for the sake of persuading the skeptics that Autoverse life could flourish. Now— although a few of her biochemical tricks had been conserved over three billions years of evolution—it was hard to attribute any real significance to the choices she’d made. Even though the whole Lambertian biosphere might have been transformed beyond recognition if she’d selected a different shape for a single enzyme in A. hydrophila, she couldn’t think of the Lambertians as being dependent on her actions. The decisions she’d made controlled what she was witnessing on her terminal, nothing more; had she made other choices, she would have seen another biosphere, another civilization—but she could not believe that the Lambertians themselves would have failed to have lived the very same lives without her. Somehow, they still would have found a way to assemble themselves from the dust.

If that was true, though—if the internal logic of their experience would have been enough to bring them into existence—then there was no reason to believe that they would ever be forced to conclude that their universe required a creator.

She tried to reconcile this growing conviction with the Contact Group’s optimism. They’d studied the Lambertians for thousands of years—who was she to doubt their expertise? Then it occurred to her that Durham and his colleagues might have decided to feign satisfaction with the political restrictions imposed upon them, until they knew where she stood on the issue. Until she reached the same conclusions, independently? Durham might have guessed that she’d resist being pressured into taking their side; it would be far more diplomatic to leave her to form her own opinions—even applying a little reverse psychology to aim her in the right direction.

Or was that sheer paranoia?

After five days of studying the Lambertians, tracing the history of their increasingly successful attempts to explain their world—and five nights trying to convince herself that they’d soon give it all up and recognize their status as artificial life—she could no longer hold the contradictions in her head.

She phoned Durham.

It was three in the morning, but he must have been out of the City; Standard Time set a rate, but no diurnal cycle, and behind him was a dazzling sunlit room.

She said bluntly, “I think I’d like to hear the truth now. Why did you wake me?”

He seemed unsurprised by the question, but he replied guardedly. “Why do you think?”

“You want my support for an early expedition to Planet Lambert. You want me to declare—with all the dubious authority of the ’mother’ of the Lambertians—that there’s no point waiting for them to invent the idea of us. Because we both know it’s never going to happen. Not until they’ve seen us with their own eyes.”

Durham said, “You’re right about the Lambertians—but forget the politics. I woke you because your territory adjoins the region where the Autoverse is run. I want you to let me use it to break through to Planet Lambert.” He looked like a child, solemnly confessing some childish crime. “Access through the hub is strictly controlled, and visible to everyone. There’s plenty of unused space in the sixth public wedge, so I could try to get in from there— but again, it’s potentially visible. Your territory is private.”