Wind Spindle Chapter 9

 Mano danced in dark purple light. The pounding of drums led him down the rungs of the spiraling double helix where like a spider he dipped, clung, swung, stopped to investigate and examine, and again swung down, stopping to dance on the rungs. The logic of nature could only be reached in this way, and only changed with respect to the rhythms designed by nature itself; the only way up and down the spirals was on the rungs. The patterns of the helix spun open for him, revealing the glimmering designs of the codes, so mathematically similar to the unfolding patterns in flowers and seashells. He danced up and down the helixes, as upon spiral stairs. It was the old editing dream, which he’d had since childhood.

He opened his eyes.

It was still dark purple all around.

He tried to blink.

Fear fluttered through his abdomen. He could still feel the physical sensation of fear, which was good. He was able to purse his lips to breath out, then saw the dim green sleeping lights of the lab and breathed out with real relief.

A nursebot padded gently up his arm and perched on his chest.

“You are ready for solid food.” It said in a soft, feminine voice.

Mano tried to say words and merely grunted, then managed a slurred cuss. Aphasia.  His speech center was still damaged. He would need therapy and this was not a good time for a lengthy recovery effort. He directed a thought at the med panel, which woke with a few scrolling prompts. He was able to spell out,

“I HAVE WORK TO DO.”

“The feeding tube had been prepared.” The nursebot replied.

Mano had been attended by human nurses when he nearly lost his life years ago in the accident, and he remembered now how belligerent they could be. The nursebots, doubtless, had been programmed by an actual nurse.

“SIT ME UP TO EAT PROPERLY.” He spelled, realizing that he was truly hungry. “KNEELDOWN BREAD.” he thought of his late wife’s freshly-steamed hand-ground corn in the husk, half pudding and half crunchy-sweet kernels.  Even the reconstituted substitute would be passable at the moment “AND TEA.”

“Stew,.” the bot replied, “And you may have kneeldown bread.”

Mano revived after the meal. He was able to take a fully supported upright seated position. Still his speech was, for all rights and purposes, gone. He did not have time to correct that now.

He reached his thoughts through the med panel and found that the bots had been efficient while he slept. He was able to feel his way across the interface from the medpod and into the tower system and, for the first time in days, into the open external grid which was like a highway in the midst of construction, with tatters of the old grid pushed aside and new connections being laid.

He stopped, the searching tendrils of his thoughts withdrawing.

If any networks had been repaired, he was sending his own mind into a shadow grid. No signals were running as yet, but the first ones might be distorted. His mind would sustain more damage if the distortion was drastic enough. It was unlikely, but possible.

He rested for a time, listening to his own breathing. The music in his dream, the rhythm of the Butterfly dance, began thumping away in his mind- a mere earworm. He tried to ignore it, but the song became more insistent. He saw the dancers in his memory and the words seemed to thrum through his bones.

“I am here, here, here…”

Butterflies. Why was he thinking of butterflies? There were a few lepidopteran species in the Bowl, but the adapted moths were the most vigorous and could withstand conditions in the true desert.

Why was he thinking about this?

It was risky to allow his mind to explore the repairing grid; in a situation like this with expensive hardware he should establish redundancies. That was what he needed now: backups for his mind. His knowledge, pertinent memories and motivations must be duplicated in a protected domain.

Efforts to upload an entire human mind onto hardware or even into a data cloud had failed for centuries. The problem wasn’t the speed of synapses and it wasn’t the pattern of neural connections, but in the lack of interaction between the parts of the mind and body. The human mind, being alive, elastic and adaptive, could not be stored in a stationary or even interactive domain no matter its power because the very existence of a mind was generated by the internal reactions of consciousness to itself.  The theory of cognitive architecture suffered from one fundimental fault: architecture was static, but a mind was an ever-evolving symphony, or an orchestra, as Wolf Singer had written, "without a conductor". A mind was much more than a brain.

The pounding of drums and the singing began to loop through his mond again. Mano allowed his mind to drift now, into the music. He allowed himself to daydream, seeing swarms of butterflies (more properly called kaleidoscopes). But a group of moths was called an eclipse. Eclipse, eclipse…

Mano gasped.

Herds or schools of animals often thought with a shared mind, moving in perfect choreography, avoiding predators and chasing food. Much like a human mind, the separate parts moved in symphony, in continuous interaction.

And in the Firestar wars, spy mothbots had been deployed by the Chinese government. They had been stored in one of the caverns outside Atruros Mons, near Kinlani. He’d read about them.

He could back up his mind in an eclipse of mothbots. Those bots could be repaired and upgraded. They would have enough drive to contain his most crucial knowledge, even if only a dozen or so were still viable. 

If he could find them, reboot them, he would have a functioning backup to his mind with a spectacular added advantage: his local, real-time data recon would be hugely comprehensive. Unlike merging with a network of drones, he would be able to operate each private bot with  interdepebndence and collate the collective "mind" of the eclipse without using a public interface.  Also, he could operate the individuals or the eclipse with complete independence.

His mind could be everywhere. 

 

Tassy followed Anso up the Miner’s Tube stairway, a long, steep stairway with tight walls, occasionally marked with pictographs of mining history.  Three stories down the original cave dwellings of Kinlani dwellings were roped off, preserved for the coming generations, but there were still some current living dwellings in the complex.  Tassy liked the textures in stone left by the old mining equipment, and dragging her fingers along the wall as she did every time she visited. It was a comfort, even a little one, to feel her fingers rippling across the cool rock. 

Anso’s husband, Tocho, was playing the Erhu fiddle; they heard the soaring, poignant song as they came through the painted iron door.  Tocho stood when they entered, set his fiddle aside and wrapped his muscular arms around Anso, rocking him.  

Tassy sighed happily.  This was her second home.  From doing the care rotas she had been in most homes in the Dxi complex and even in the Bowl and she'd seen some vey cosy and elegant homes, but none quite  as tasteful or beautiful as Tocho and Anso's.  She remembered how carefully they had carved and painted the walls when they had first aquired the property, buffing the designs smooth on the stone before putting down the first coats of paint.  Tassy had gazed in wonder at the rainbow lines circling the walls, and the painted creatures that emerged at intervals, dancing on the shadows of each others' feet across the walls and ceilings from room to room: beetles, geckos, jackrabbits and coyotes: twins, to represent twin spirits, Anso had said .  They had even commissioned echoes of the same designs woven into the furniture and wall coverings. 

“You weren’t hurt.”Tocho said.

“No one was.”

Anso pulled back, looking at Tocho.  “Especially not…him.”

Tocho’s mouth twisted in mild bitterness.  “Him. Well, of course not. Sociopaths have excellent survival instincts. Usually at the expense of everyone else,” he said. 

“Del couldn’t have known about it,” said Tassy.  “Nobody knew it was coming, not even Mano.”

Tassy didn’t resent how her brother’s husband felt about Del.  As a Bowl security officer he thought the worst of pretty much everyone anyway, but with a wry, philosophical slant.  Tocho didn’t like Del because he was a security risk: big, proud and, it was true, a little self-absorbed. Broadcasters needed that kind of confidence, she thought.   Also, Del was a bit of a bully, especially when he was younger, and Anso had been among his unlucky targets.  But on the side of good luck, the larger, more imposing Tocho and Anso had been sweethearts since grade school,  so Tocho had always protected Anso.  Del had tried to corner Anso alone a few times, but had never succeeded.  Tassy believed this had been the beginning of Tocho's security career.  He tended to protect all the more fragile souls at school, and never boasted about it.  He seemed born to be a guard.

Tassy sighed and threw herself into a sheepskin-draped chair. 

“What’s wrong?” Tocho watched her carefully.

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Anso.

“But what happened?”

“I nearly killed Kallo.” said Tassy.

“Not true.” said Anso. 

“I eliminated manual override.  I thought…” she stood, pacing, her stomach sour, “She’s so reckless.  I worried that she’d accidentally trigger a chute when she wasn’t ready.  Mano always monitors her control panel so I thought she’d be safer. Bypassing manual override is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Tocho and Anso looked at each other for a long moment.  Tocho said, “So trying to protect her was the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“I still almost killed her.  And I need to mention,” she said to Tocho, “That Del was the one who saved her.  He flew out and brought her in. If he hadn’t done that, I’d be a murderer right now.”

“Let’s have some milk vodka. Come on. Sit. You’ve always done your best for all of us.”

Tassy laughed.  “I don’t like her.  I never did.”

“That never mattered. You were trying to protect her from herself.  You had to. She’s a child, and it might well be said, not hugely popular wiht anyone aside from flight fans.”

Tassy sighed again.

Tocho poured cups of milk vodka.  Anso put his arms around his sister.  “We need to calm you down.”

“I need to fix things. I haven’t been doing right by them. The only thing that will calm me down is to fix this.”

“Or,” Tocho filled their glasses and lifted his, “Or to hear some good news.” 

Anso glanced sharply at him.  “Not now.”

“I think now is perfect.”

“We should wait.”

“We can’t wait much longer.” Tocho clinked his cup to theirs.  They all drank.

“Our number was chosen,” said Tocho.

“Oh.  Oh!” Tassy realized what he meant.  “You can have a child?”

Tocho grinned.

Tassy threw her arms around him.  “That’s wonderful! So wonderful! We should be celebrating!”

“And,” said Tocho, “We have a request.”

Tassy froze. Knowing. 

“So much love from so much family,” Tocho continued, “And you two were twins!  So rare! What if-“

“You move too fast,” said Anso.  “Slow down.”

“I can’t,” said Tassy.

“You won’t have to be the primary caregiver.  We’ll do that,”

“No.”  Tassy felt cold to her marrow, frozen.  She hated saying it, and had to. “No. I don’t-I can’t-“ She was being ungrateful, selfish.  But none of those thoughts changed the cold center of the feeling. 

The rarity of it, a chance to raise a child.  The cghance to carry a child. Tassy, Anso and Tocho were all in the care rotas and knew many children, played with and read to and accompanied many children to educational events.  They believed, like most on Mars, that it was the best way to raise children, with everyone in the community involved to help with and care for the next generations.  Only people like Del, who considered himself too busy, and Kallo, the permanent child herself, were so self-centered they didn’t take part in the child care rotas.

But the chance, the treasured chance to have your very own child  on a world with a very small carrying capacity was something nearly everyone wanted.  Tassy was chilled by what it might do to Anso and Tocho’s marriage if she said no. 

But she couldn’t say yes.  She couldn’t because every cell of her body did not want to.  How could she not want to? How could she be so hollow of heart? She asked herself.  The answer came quickly.

She wasn’t hollow.  Her heart was full of her work.  Her life was full, full to brimming with her work. So full that she didn’t want to carry a child in her body, a privilege most women on Mars would put aside everything for.

Tassy’s heart shrank in dread.  This was going to be bad.

But her shrinking heart was calling out the answer over and over.

No. 

 The landing party stared coldly at Del, then at Jennifer.

"Shall I kill her?" Anma brought her sleeve to her mouth, wiping a bit of drool.

"No, Anma,.” said Lady Jewell. ”She has complete immunity.  We will have to release her.  But how did you know?"

"Dark communications from the barge that brought you here.  They were hers." Anma exchanged a glance with Hank full of understanding.

"But we couldn't find out who she was conversing with," Anma’s eerie eyes came to rest on Del. "Interworld Guild. There’s our answer,”

"Oh. No, no!” Del laughed too loudly, and softened his voice to sound warm and casual. “I was heading for the Bowl to bring the first news of the Independent Mars grid," he smiled, "Until the grid is built we will send flyers with updates on the rebuilds, weather, and other news."

"Who will own the new grid?" asked The Lady. Her enormous, deep-dark eyes bored into his.

"Mars," said Del. “Free and open only to Mars.” He flashed his most charming grin. "Interworld may buy a signal when the work is comple-"

“And what business do you have with this liar?” The Lady tilted her head toward Jennifer, who was now sitting limply on the sand and panting in her helmet.

"I want to explain,” Del began, "I know nothing about-"

“Don’t bother, Del,” said Jennifer. “They know. But they don’t know it all. So now would be a good time to shut up.”

“My Lady, I promise you-” said Del.

“There is no call for promises. The situation is clear. And it seems best that you take your friend’s advice. If either of you come within the Bowl boundaries you will be detained. When the grids are rebuilt your profiles will be updated, and the world will be informed of the charges against Jennifer and the evidence to the suggest that you, Del, are a potential accomplice.”

“But-please, My Lady-”

“Our security protocols will not allow us to investigate you further at this time. You have had quite the career,” said the Lady, with gentle compassion. “I watched you on the broadcasts many times. A shame. Might I suggest Earth?”

 

Kallo circled the 24-kilometer-wide dome of Kinlani Observatory, now weirdly still; it's kilometer-diameter receiver dishes usually spun and shifted as they rotated under widening and narrowing armatures, but now they were frozen still, glittering darkly around the rim of Artruros volcano like hematite gems. Normally she would be able to receive the channel from the Observatory, but of course everything was dead.  Crows followed her in flight, curious and probably hungry.  But she had no cookies for them now.

The trench steppes stretched east in thousands of rows of quadroquinoa as exact as an old-fashioned circuit board, punctuated by cistern pumps at the switchbacks.  Herds of adapted sheep crept like dingy clouds along the steppes and west of the Observatory, where the concentric rings of yurts  and hogans of the merging communities of Kinlani and New Khan looked bare, dry and vulnerable under the still, dry CAP towers.

If Kallo could take off again from one of the work platforms surrounding the Observatory tower, she would be able to make it back to the central grid tower from here.  If not, she'd be grounded unless the Observatory tube station was working. Her body quailed at the thought of being stuck on the ground.