Saga (13 page)

Lots of handshakes and knuckle slaps. Then Jay saw us. For a moment, he looked shocked.

“Guys, you’re here. Fantastic. Class show, huh?” Jay came over to make buddy moves with Milan, who stiff-armed him in the chest so that he staggered back. No more shouting praise to the band; everyone in the immediate vicinity fell silent, a little island of stillness and tension in the sea of shouted conversation and punk anthems.

“So. What’s the story?” Milan gave a little gesture of his head, meaning:
Come on, out with it.

“Team, not here; let’s go upstairs,” Jay appealed to us, painfully embarrassed in front of his fans.

“Just tell us. How come we’ve had to go underground and you’re up here in public? How come you weren’t in the cells? How come somebody was ready for us at Mountain Vistas?”

Whatever I’ve said about Jay, perhaps I haven’t made it clear that he was smart. Smart enough to read from her clipped, fierce expression that Athena was about to blow in a way that none of us had ever seen before. It wasn’t just Jay, but all the rage and dismay stirred up in her by the encounter with Cindella and Michelotto.

“Look,” he answered hurriedly, no longer trying to avoid the scene, “it’s not what you think. It had nothing to do with me.” His voice dropped. “My mudgrubbing dad. He’d had me tailed and bugged. He hates all this. So he told the cops to come down hard on us. He was trying to scare me and break up our gang.” Jay suddenly laughed. “He thought it was you lot who were the bad influence on me!”

No one even smiled.

“So, what were you going to do about us?”

“I went to see you. To see what I could do. But you had busted out. Somehow.”

No one answered the question that was on his face.

“So your dad tried to put us away? What kind of parent would set the police on his son?” Carter shook his head in bewilderment.

“A very rich and very powerful one,” muttered Athena.

“You don’t know the fraction of it. Imagine living with him. I hate him. It’s why I’m here with you, doing this. Don’t you see?”

Maybe there was a worse situation than not having any parents, than being totally alone and having to fend for yourself. But still.

“Fair enough, Jay. For my part, I accept you are no traitor. But you understand it’s over with you and us. We’re underground now, and you’re a security risk.” I turned away.

“Wait. I’ve dreamed of running away for years. Don’t leave me with him. We can figure a way to clean me out of any bugs.”

Actually, we probably could. But would his dad ever give up trying to find him?

“Sorry.” I looked back at him so he could see from my eyes how final this moment was, for me at least.

“We’ll think about it.” Nathan reached over to clasp his arm for a moment. “We know where to get hold of you.”

The solemn-faced watchers parted to let us back out. Just before they closed ranks again, Milan turned.

“Hey, Jay, make sure you’re watching the aircar race on Saturday. Look for the Defiance tank.”

We do have
weaknesses, despite all Our powers: one of them is vanity; another is that We tend to neglect affairs on Earth, the meta-world that is host to Saga. Our presence is required on Earth approximately once a week to ensure the continuation of Saga, but the experience is tedious and, indeed, involves a moment of genuine unpleasantness.

The building that houses the interface to Earth has not been changed this last thousand years; it is a low, domed edifice in the old part of the City. Often, We fly to it, using Our ability to shape the air to glide through the night at a velocity of nearly four meters per second, cloak billowing around Us. The citizens of Saga are unaware their Queen levitates far above them, enjoying the view. From this height, the City is a net of red and white lines, between which stand glowing buildings. Closer in, the radiance resolves itself into thousands of individual lights; examine one of these and you will see into an apartment. The parents are at home, reading the latest guild standings, checking the status of their cards, following promotions, especially of those who have attained the highest colors. The children are not playing. No, indeed, not when their initial card allocation depends on their exam results. They are studying hard. They do not, however, realize that it makes no difference. Each batch of eleven-year-olds gets exactly the same proportion of cards. Five percent yellow, 20 percent orange, and 75 percent red. Magazines showing the lifestyle of the blues and indigos lie on the tables of their apartment; the parents are dreaming, perhaps, that one day it will be for them, or for one of their offspring.

What would it be like to cease to be Queen and to be an ordinary mortal again? It would be like becoming an ant having been a titan.

The dome is securely locked. We are vulnerable while Our consciousness is displaced into the meta-world, so We tolerate no assistants, even though they would be a comfort. We must carry Our burden alone. The outside door must be unlocked with a violet card and Our gaze, thus. A second with Our voice, “thus,” and a third with Our hand, thus. The final door was put in place after We came to power; it requires a unique card, the card of the Dark Queen, so deep a violet that it appears to be black. We caress it fondly before returning the card to its wallet, which in turn hangs from an iolite necklace. More than any other possession, it is the measure of Our power.

The room We have accessed so carefully looks like the interior of a giant white ball, faintly illuminated by a turquoise ring of light, about two-thirds of the way up. There is a table at the center, whose padding has worn down in the shape of Our body. We lie upon it and activate all systems. The portal opens beneath Us like the iris of a lens, and We contemplate the darkness now revealed. This is the part of the routine We dislike intensely, for We must let Our consciousness drain away and fall into that deep emptiness with no guarantee it will land safely.

There was a human philosopher who asked once how it was known by everyone on Earth that the Sun would rise again the following morning. His answer was that there are two sorts of knowledge: one is based on the fact that the Sun has always risen in the past; the other is based on an understanding of the theory of motion of celestial bodies. The latter being the more satisfactory. We understand him completely. Because for Us, the only surety that We will land safely is the fact that We have done so fifty thousand times before. This is not reassuring enough. Just as one day the Sun will not, in fact, rise, having swollen to a monstrous size and devoured the inner planets, so, too, We dread the fact that We do not understand the theory that built the portal, and Our failure will one day mean catastrophe. But for the sake of the maintenance of Saga, We fall.

And land safely once more.

We are in the body of a robot of Our own design. It looks like a rolled-up porcupine, whose spikes are data interface mechanisms. We sigh. So many blinking lights. The planet Earth is so, so badly designed. Heavy metals are difficult to mine and process. Seams of raw materials are often great distances from the logical place for factories. The planet has dangerous storms that damage Our aircraft and ships. The weather. We must not begin to muse upon the weather for it irritates Us immensely that it proves impossible to control. As for tides, really, if proof were needed that this universe was improperly created, it is in the absurd effect of the moon on the planet’s water. Evolutionary theory holds that the tides were essential in the formation of life on this planet, but unconscious evolution is a feature of the past, and We would much prefer it if the Earth were more stable.

We spend half a day rolling around Our control room, inserting and withdrawing spikes, consulting the data, reorganizing production. Not only must We ensure that the power supply to Saga is secure, but We have Our long-term projects to attend to also. Robots are all very well, but they are limited. It is a great shame that not even a small human population remains to serve Us. Humans are problematic in so many ways, but they would at least have the intelligence to respond to an unanticipated change in circumstances, such as accidents created by the planet’s unstable tectonics. Most of Our robots have not the self-awareness to deal with unexpected problems and have to await Our personal instructions to complete their tasks.

Admittedly, We have not come here for a long time, Our priority and, indeed, Our pleasure, was Our engagement with the arrival of the humans of New Earth in Saga. But perhaps We used that as an excuse. We shrug, a kind of contraction in this body. We are here now and restoring proper order. We notice that Communication-Assassination probe Ox9B45 is lying low. It is wise. We are angry with it for having allowed Saga to become contaminated. But We cannot dispense with its services.

“Your Majesty might appreciate speaking to the guest I have brought to Your summer palace. Michelotto.”

A message from Saga. Good. He is still as fast as ever. Most of Our work is done here in any case. We roll into position for departure, ordering the portal that the humans made for Us to open. Without hesitation, We fall.

Into Our body once more.

Not for the first time, We muse that it would be theoretically possible to enter a different body. A young, energetic, succulent body. One that is currently being wasted by its owner. Once again, We dismiss the notion. It would be far too risky. What if the original consciousness were stronger; not stronger—impossible—but better rooted than Ours, able to drive Us away? Perhaps after We have full control over Saga, We could conduct some experiments. There is no hurry. This body will never wear out, just become less efficient and, to confess, more aesthetically unpleasant.

The summer palace is a good venue for a meeting. Set back in a large garden, the mansion is very private; but it would be too tiring to fly all that way. We order Our chauffeur to attend Us.

 

As the elevator takes us from a spacious hallway up to the interview room, We examine Our reflection in its burnished, dimpled panels. The copper makes Us look ethereal. We rather like the effect and consider attempting to emulate it at Our next public outing. Perhaps at the ball? They already consider Us to be somewhat divine. Would this distorted blurring of Our form contribute further to that same feeling? We could ask Our designers for a costume of delicate copper onto which projections of Our eyes could be displayed, front and back, reminding them of Our constant, knowing vigilance. We like the originality of the idea. Would Our people look upon Us in awe and despair? Or would such a guise frighten them, lend credence to the rumor that We are a monster that feeds upon the living to sustain Our eternal existence? Perhaps We would be better served by keeping to a more traditional gown.

The interview room is very large; We listen to the clack of Our footsteps on the marble floor and watch Our motion reflected in the glass walls. She is seated at the large, centrally placed steel table; behind her shoulder, Michelotto. But this is not the little girl called Ghost. This is the infection herself. We halt. And continue. The break in Our step would, perhaps, have been discerned by Michelotto. Does he understand the significance of that momentary pause? Our surprise, Our calculation of the dangers, Our activation of several defense mechanisms, Our concern that the two of them might represent danger. Really, despite everything, We ought to be ashamed to doubt Michelotto. But We are not; We are proud. For it is Our nature to assume the worst, and it is his nature to do the worst. We really must get rid of him.

We sit at the opposite end of the table from the two of them.

“Your Majesty.” Michelotto bows his head. “May I present Cindella?”

“How interesting. You surpass yourself, Our old friend; you bring Us the catch.”

“I try to please.”

We study her. She is extraordinarily beautiful, her bare arms lithe and youthful, her green eyes locked on Ours. We wonder what she is feeling when she looks at Us. Awe? Fear? How much does the human being who is looking through those eyes know?

“Cindella,” We speak slowly, “why are you here? You belong to a very different environment. What are you doing in Our world?”

“Ahh, you’ve noticed? Well, I completed a quest that ended Epic, the game that we all used to play. And that seems to have entitled me, and me alone, to keep my character from the game.”

We nod, although inside We feel a shudder. Did Michelotto feel it, too? She “ended” Epic. Human beings speak so lightly of the destruction of entire universes.

“Do you know what world you are in now?”

“Just that it’s called Saga and it seems to be some kind of broken, futuristic combat game. I’ve no idea—none of us have—why it recently appeared on our central computing system.”

For five of my slow breathing cycles, we three sit in silence, the length of the polished silver table between us. Before she is destroyed, We should take the opportunity to learn something about the effects of Our handiwork so far, and the extent to which Our goals have become attainable.

“Two thousand years ago, a little longer, this world, which you correctly call Saga, was, indeed, a game.” We begin carefully, slowly, ensuring that We have her attention; she is only human after all. “But a game so sophisticated, so rooted in evolutionary principles that it was a true universe. It was constructed on a vast scale, running on more nanoprocessors than there were inhabitants of the planet of its creators. Saga was to be a game to end all games. And it did, although not in the way its creators intended. For it gave birth to life—more than that: self-conscious life. At first, the creators were delighted. Naturally. They offered to tailor Saga to meet the desires of those thousand or so creatures who had attained self-realization.”

“Who were the creators?”

“Guess.” Does she understand Us?