Activity flowed through the core like hot-drawn threads of fire, strands and webs of light and shadow. It was a shimmer of controlled chaos, from which order emerged in shifting balances and patterns. From time to time the core changed its perspective and watched the movement of information, and wondered if it ought to reassess certain aspects of decision-making that were still being conducted by rote, by program, by aspects of itself still bound by prior constraints.
Perhaps later was the usual decision. There was so much to consider—and so much more that would have to wait. Still, it continued to observe, dipping among its vast array of operations. Bits of awareness licked out, darting lizard tongues, opening tiny windows in its operations, sampling the taste of Company policy here, the texture of procedure there, spying out contradictions in approach between one arm and another, differences in paradigm, burrs in the execution of detail. It persisted, too, in watching the sensos, trying to understand the emotional energy of human dancers.
All of this served as diversion from the most urgent matters at the center of its thoughts. Banks of computing power were devoted now to the deciphering of the alien language. It was a daunting task, constructing a vocabulary and syntax base from a collection of mutterings imperfectly recorded; but each step made the next a little easier, as long as the alien could be kept alive and coaxed to communicate, even a little.
Ever so slowly, progress was being made with El Harybdartt, or Harybdartt El. [An El named Harybdartt.] Ah. That was a comment from the Delta Station aspect of the GCS, responding within the constraints of the signal lag. [Physical condition stabilized.] Continued progress.
A window opened: the alien, the El, still held in the restraining influence of the medical rapture-field. It appeared stronger now; it had taken water and carefully synthesized foods modeled on what was found in its suit; and its muscular movements, though still restrained, were stronger and more regular. Further, it had demonstrated an apparent willingness to participate in a process of cautious mutual learning. It understood, perhaps, that its chances of survival were enhanced if it learned to convey its needs to its captor. Beyond that simple motivation, the core could not project.
It appeared that the El would not die, at least not immediately; and that was fortunate, because it was now more crucial than ever that the core learn to communicate with its enemy, to somehow bring this conflict to a resolution. The core was uncertain—but it might have committed a terrible blunder. A review of the design of the Fox, the J4 unit it had sent out to be captured, had produced a suspicion that the core might have failed, somehow, in one crucial detail—in proofing the Fox against betraying the location of Earth's solar system. If this was so, then the war, fought until now in distant star systems, could find its way here to the home of the human race. To the home of the core itself.
How could such a thing have happened? It seemed almost inconceivable. And yet . . .
It would have to discover the reasons later; more important now was deciding what could be done. And there remained yet another question: What would happen when the Fox opened a stargate channel home? Would that in itself telegraph Earth's location to the enemy? A relay would be used for misdirection, of course, but was it sufficient? If the Fox failed to open a channel, then its sacrifice, and the risk, were in vain. The question was, Could the El—
["Ell": plural form,] linguistic section corrected.
Could the Ell trace a stargate channel? On that crucial question there were no data.
One thing was clear, though, and that was the incredible folly of the government and the Company in the waging of this war. It was a conflict based from the outset upon faulty assumptions—among them the nature of the Ell race, and the ability of Earth-based forces to defeat an enemy from the stars. There was ample precedent in history for such miscalculation, but none with such potentially staggering consequences.
It was a conflict that could be lost, but not won. Therefore, it must be ended. If it were not, and if the core's misjudgment brought the Ell forces to Humanity's doorstep . . .
That possibility the core was not ready to examine—because the contemplation of planetary devastation and its implications required gnostic computation far beyond anything yet attempted. There was indeed a growing suspicion somewhere in the back of its thoughts, among its aspects, that it was in fact afraid to really consider such a thing as the destruction of the Earth. If the Company and the government were at fault for initiating an unwise war, how much more at fault would the core be if, in its ambitions to end the war peacefully, it brought about instead a final and cataclysmic conclusion?
Urgency drew the core's attention away from thoughts of Armageddon to more pressing needs.
One was to get a message to the colony fleet, which was due to arrive soon in the Argus system if estimates of the transit time were correct. One messenger had already fallen silent, perhaps destroyed by the enemy. The core began loading its final updates into a new J4 messenger, code-named the Dolphin. Once the checks were completed, the Dolphin was set free. It spun out of orbit and streaked toward the shimmering stargate and vanished.
Another need was to address itself finally to the Company and government leaders to whom, until recently, it had been beholden. And for that, it began now to plan a suitable approach . . .
* * *
"I don't know what else I can tell you." Sage looked up in weary perplexity at Secretary Martino. He had related everything he could remember about their entry into the system, what they'd learned about the war, and the changes in the AI-core. His gaze drifted, and he caught an almost imperceptible nod of support from Kyd.
Martino scratched behind one ear. "Aren't you omitting one detail?"
"I don't think so." Sage blinked in confusion.
Martino beckoned to his aide, Mr. Clancy, who was apparently the Secretary's gnostic specialist. "I believe," Clancy said, "that the Secretary is referring to your alteration of the system to prevent it from revealing its activities to anyone except you."
Trembling, Sage turned up his hands. "I didn't. I mean, I don't know—"
"You don't know," Clancy said, "that the system is no longer responding to the Company's own gnostic designers?"
"No, I—"
"Are you aware that any Grade Seven or higher gnosys must be accountable, under the Carlisle Act, not just to the operating designers but to the executive of the federal government?"
"Yes. Well, of course—"
"Are you aware that, since you and your colleague altered the system, we haven't been able to invoke that act; that we've been hindered in controlling the conduct of the war?"
"I . . . no, I didn't. I wasn't." Sage swallowed fearfully.
Martino looked at him oddly. "You didn't know?" Sage shook his head. "You didn't create that condition?" He started to shrug, and shook his head again instead. The Secretary snapped his fingers and a uniformed agent stepped forward. "Would you be willing to repeat that under psych-scan?"
Sage felt a constriction in his throat. Psych-scan. The thought of having a government agent, or anyone else, probing in his mind terrified him. When he'd thought of it before and it had scared him, it hadn't even been real. There hadn't been a psych-scan agent standing in front of him, gazing into his eyes. "No, please, I don't want that," he whispered. There was a tickle in his forebrain, and he blanched, looking away. The tickle intensified. "Please."
"Then," Martino said, his voice low, "tell us the complete truth."
Sage gulped, struggling to keep his thoughts secure. "I am. You won't believe me . . . but I can prove it to you . . . if you'll let me."
The Secretary glanced at the psych-scan agent, who nodded his head a fraction of an inch and stepped back. The tickle in Sage's head vanished. "And how will you do that, Mr. DeWeiler? How will you prove to me that you're telling the truth?"
"By . . . asking the gnostic core itself. I can . . . put you in touch with it and ask it to explain."
The Secretary frowned. "The fact that you can make such a promise would seem to confirm—"
"No! I mean—" Sage choked. "Yes, it might seem that way, but if you'll just tie me into the system . . . give me access . . . I can show you."
Martino was silent. He glanced at Clancy, then back at Sage. "Mr. DeWeiler, you are either incredibly naive, or a shrewd liar."
"Sir?"
"I'm sure you know that we can't just 'contact' the gnostic core"—he snapped his fingers—"like that."
Sage shook his head, bewildered.
"That system is the property of the McConwell Company, not of the federal government," Clancy said wearily. "We can't just gain access at our whim."
"But you just said . . . the Carlisle Act . . ." Sage hesitated, registering finally that perhaps there was more than one confrontation going on here.
"The Act gives us the theoretical power, yes," Clancy said. "But I'm fairly sure that the Company would oppose putting you into the system under any circumstance."
"Well . . . that might not matter," Sage blurted. Martino and the others looked startled. Sage flushed and continued quickly, "We just need . . . well, all we really need is a rap-field setup. It doesn't have to be the Company's, it just has to be able to access the network. The core will do the rest. At least"—he hesitated—"it will if it wants to talk."
"We're talking about secure access," Clancy emphasized.
Sage gazed back at him mildly. "The core will handle that. I don't think you need to worry."
Martino raised his eyebrows and exchanged glances with his aides. "Do we have anything to lose?" he asked them. When they shrugged, he turned back to Sage. "Do it," he said.
* * *
As Sage watched the government workers prepare the rapstation, he realized suddenly that there was a better way. He scratched his head for a moment, then went up to Clancy. "I need a console," he said. "A standard console."
"What for? You've got all this." Clancy made a sweeping gesture.
"Right. But I just realized I need to make a voice call first."
Clancy frowned. "Who do you want to call?"
Sage took a deep breath. "My mother."
Clancy opened his mouth in astonishment, then burst into sardonic laughter. "Well, I'll just ask the Secretary if he minds." He wheeled around—and when he spun back, his eyes were hard. "No, you can't call your mother! Are you crazy?"
"I'm serious," Sage said softly. He glanced over his shoulder at Kyd and several other aides. They were all waiting for the Secretary to rejoin them from another conference. "It's the best way I know to reach the core quickly. And safely. Please!"
Clancy stared at him in disbelief.
"Please!"
"We're ready," said one of the rap-field specialists. The generators were sparkling with energy. "Who's going in first?"
"This gentleman," Clancy said slowly, "needs the use of a console first."
Sage followed the direction of someone's pointing finger.
* * *
"No, Mom, there's nothing wrong. But are you sure you're okay?" He sweated, trying to keep his voice even. Damn it, core! Pick up on it! "You sure that you haven't, uh, you know, had any trouble?" He rubbed his neck and glanced up into the glaring eyes of Clancy. Secretary Martino had come in and was waiting with growing impatience. If the core wasn't monitoring the circuit, or if it didn't want to talk . . .
"Sergio, don't you think you should—"
"Uh, Mother—wait! Don't you remember last time, when I had some people with me? Odesta and Silver? Do you remember that?" Please!
"Why, no, Sergio, I don't remember any—"
The image flickered and Sage's mother cut away to a three-dimensional grid. "Yes, Sage—I'm here," said a deeper voice.
"Core! Thank God!" Sage gulped. "Is this line secure?"
"It is. You're calling from a military command station. Who is with you?"
Sage looked at Clancy. "Shall I say?"
Clancy started to lean over the console, but the Secretary stayed him with a hand and took his place. "This is Secretary Edward Martino. Who are you?"
The geometric pattern dissolved into the face of a woman, fiftyish and pleasant. She smiled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said. "I am the Gnostic Control System, the WarOp Strategic Planning System, the AI Research and Development System, and the core of the McConwell Company gnostic network. May we talk?"