The Warrior Within Read online

  The Temple was still where he had seen it a few hours before, its huge bulk filling the Road. The sight of it bothered Karsman. It was not simply that it had been so long since the Temple had last moved that it was odd to be reminded that it was, after all, mobile. It was not even the sudden asymmetry and disorder, with the Temple uprooted from its appointed place and then left haphazardly in the middle of the Road. It was more that its status had changed. It was no longer the focus of the community, the ritual center lying at the heart of daily life. It had been reduced to just another machine, a convenient power source that could be commandeered at need and then abandoned. The transformation had diminished it, and Karsman wondered if he would ever see it in quite the same way again.

  Instead of taking Karsman straight to the Temple, Curinn turned aside and led him into an alley between two of the Builder towers. The two guards did not follow them, but remained at the mouth of the alley.

  “Where are you taking me?” Karsman asked, suddenly apprehensive. They were on the darkward side of the street, the walls of the alley lit red by the sun behind them. Ahead, heavy clouds were piled over the desert, their bases lost in darkness.

  Curinn gave no sign of having heard the question. He strode on. After a moment’s hesitation, Karsman followed him.

  When they emerged at the far end of the alley, Curinn turned to his left. They were in the permanent shadow of the buildings now, and the ground was cool beneath the soles of Karsman’s boots.

  A few paces from the mouth of the alley, Curinn stopped. He took something that looked like a flat box from a pouch on his belt and pressed it against the smooth gray metal wall of the building for a moment, then tucked it away again.

  As he stepped back, an opening appeared in the wall in front of him. It happened so quickly that Karsman was hard put to say whether a section of the wall had slid aside or simply vanished. He froze where he was, staring openmouthed at the dim space revealed.

  “Inside,” Curinn said, nodding toward the opening. “Go on.”

  Hesitantly, Karsman stepped forward, stooping slightly to avoid hitting his head on the top of the doorframe. As Curinn followed him in, the wall closed up again, sealing them off from the outside world.

  “How in the hells did you do that?” Karsman asked. He had been inside Builder structures before: some of the buildings had external doorways that gave access to the interior, but they seldom led to anything more than a few cramped passages and rooms too small or awkwardly shaped to be useful. This was different. Whatever Curinn had done had not only created a doorway that Karsman could swear had not been there before, but it had given them access to an interior space larger than any he had ever seen.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know, Karsman,” said Curinn. “Now just follow me, and stop asking questions.”

  Once Karsman’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness within, he began to be able to make out details. The walls of the space were made of the same gray metal as the outside walls of the buildings, but in places elaborate patterns made of very fine lines had been incised into the metal surfaces. The patterns were complex abstractions—sweeping arcs that dissolved into rectilinear scribbles, precise labyrinths that sprawled lopsidedly across a few meters of wall and then transformed into something else, solitary glyphs that resembled plants or stylized lightning. Faint white lights in the distant ceiling cast a weak and shadowless illumination over the whole space.

  He let Curinn guide him toward an opening in the floor on the far side of the space. A ramp descended into darkness.

  A good spot for a killing, said Warrior casually. Karsman could feel the persona readying itself to take control.

  Him or me?

  Let’s make it him, said Warrior.

  Karsman pushed Warrior back. Not now, he thought.

  Curinn took a light from his belt and shone it at the ramp.

  “Down,” he said. Karsman stayed where he was.

  “I’m not following you any farther until you tell me where we’re going,” he said.

  Curinn turned and looked at him in exasperation. “I told you. The Muljaddy wants to see you,” he said.

  “Down there?”

  “We’re taking a shortcut,” said Curinn.

  “We are, are we?”

  The two men stood and glared at each other. Finally, Curinn shook his head in frustration.

  “Just relax. No one wants to hurt you. The Muljaddy wants to talk to you, that’s all. We’re going this way to avoid attracting attention. And you should probably be grateful for that.”

  “And exactly whose attention are we avoiding?” Karsman asked.

  “Use your brain if you have one, Karsman.”

  Karsman looked down at the dim opening. Either his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, or it had brightened perceptibly since he last looked. He made out the beginning of a long passageway.

  “Fine,” he said. He started down the ramp, listening to the sound of Curinn’s boots behind him. “You do realize that they’ll have seen your little disappearing trick,” he called back over his shoulder. “The way you just stepped behind a building with a prisoner and vanished. I’m sure that won’t make them curious at all.”

  “They weren’t watching.”

  “No? You have heard of spy-eyes, haven’t you, Curinn? Little electronic things that—”

  Perhaps I should handle this, suggested Diplomat cautiously. Probably nothing to be gained from provoking a man with a gun.

  “Trust me, Karsman, our new friends are operating under some handicaps,” Curinn said. “They don’t have all the equipment they need to put a proper watch on the whole city.”

  That’s interesting, said Strategist. It opens up some new possibilities.

  Nice of you to come back at last, thought Karsman. I guess it must be that much easier to make plans when the situation doesn’t seem entirely hopeless.

  The persona did not respond, but Karsman got a sense of wounded pride.

  There were side openings branching off the passageway. With no points of reference for scale, it was difficult to judge distances, but Karsman had the impression that the side passages ran for a very long way. Clusters of red lights pulsed slowly in the gloom, with the slow rhythm of heartbeats.

  By Karsman’s estimate, they must already be under a different building from the one that they had entered. He wondered whether the passageway ran the entire length of the city. It seemed to run parallel to the Road, which would mean that the passages opening to either side must run directly away from it, probably well beyond the limits of the double line of buildings that made up the city. Karsman felt an urge to know where they led. Did they come to the surface somewhere in the badlands? Or did they lead to other cities? Were there more Builder cities, out in the deep desert?

  Curinn noticed his interest. “Don’t get ideas, Karsman,” he said. “Those don’t go anywhere you want to go.”

  Ahead of them, another ramp rose toward the surface. Karsman hesitated, uncertain whether to take it or to continue down the tunnel that stretched ahead of them.

  “Up,” said Curinn. “The Muljaddy’s waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Muljaddy was waiting for him two floors above.

  The room was like the one they had passed through before, an empty space with walls of bare Builder metal, but screens of woven silk in whites and golds had been used to create a room within a room. The tiles of the floor were hidden by thick rugs. In the center of the screened area, the Muljaddy sat on a throne-like chair, haloed by tiny lights that pulsed and sparkled as if alive. As Karsman hesitated, they looked up, lifting chubby hands to push back the white hood that covered their hairless head.

  “Approach,” the Muljaddy said. Their voice was high and fluting, with odd resonances and undertones. Karsman knew the voice well. He had heard it many times, chanting responses or preaching sermons in the Temple, but to have the Muljaddy address him directly, speaking to him personally, was new and strange.


  He walked slowly forward, stopping at the edge of the rugs. The Muljaddy nodded slowly, as if approving his decision not to come any nearer.

  “You may go,” the Muljaddy said, and Karsman heard the muffled click of Curinn’s boots on the metal tile as he withdrew.

  The Muljaddy and Karsman studied each other in silence. The Muljaddy was huge and soft, the beautiful sexless face as serene and impassive as the face of a statue. Their golden skin was flawless and the robes that swaddled them were spotlessly white. Despite their inhuman perfection, Karsman saw at once the resemblance between this Muljaddy and the others that he had seen and served in the capital. The family features were distinctive.

  “Karsman,” the Muljaddy said in that high, melodious voice.

  “You called me, Muljaddy,” said Karsman.

  “I did, I did. Karsman, do you serve me?”

  “Of course, Muljaddy.”

  He said it without thinking and then wondered if it was true. Everyone in the community served the Muljaddy, by necessity, from birth until death. But it was one thing to serve the Muljaddy as a laborer, or by participating in acts of worship where the Muljaddy and their siblings were sometimes difficult to differentiate from the gods. Karsman sensed the Muljaddy had something else in mind.

  “I have always been curious about you, Karsman,” the Muljaddy said. Their large brown eyes met and held his. “I always recognized that you were . . . different from the others.”

  Karsman said nothing. There was a trap in the Muljaddy’s words, but he had no idea yet where it lay. He waited for the Muljaddy to continue.

  “Why did you run away?”

  “Muljaddy?”

  “You were my aunt’s servant,” they said. “Then you left her. You traveled the Road, and you came here, and settled down. Why?”

  Karsman stared at the Muljaddy, his mouth open. “You knew?” he said. “You knew all along?”

  The Muljaddy shook their head. They smiled almost wistfully. “They do not tell me everything,” they said. “I was never very important.” They paused for a moment. “Until now.”

  Karsman had the same feeling that he felt sometimes at the top of the tallest buildings, a feeling of a gulf yawning under his feet, of a force dragging him out into the void.

  The Muljaddy said something else, but Karsman could make no sense of the words, if they were words. His vision dimmed for an instant. As his sight returned, the Muljaddy’s chair seemed to leap to the right. The Muljaddy jerked upright, then leaned slowly forward. A fold of silk on the screen behind them snapped sharply, then resumed its slow flutter in the breeze from the ventilation units.

  “Interesting,” said the Muljaddy. Karsman looked down. He was standing on the rug, yet he had no memory of walking forward.

  “What . . . did . . .”

  “How does it feel, Karsman?” the Muljaddy asked. “To be five people in one body?”

  Karsman frowned. Why five? he wondered. He knew that he had more personas than that. But his mind felt fuzzy. Try as he might, he could not remember them all. He felt a moment of doubt. Maybe the Muljaddy was right. Maybe there were only five.

  He opened his mouth to speak again, but no words came out. Warrior was struggling to take control, but something was blocking the persona. His muscles had gone slack, and it was all that he could do to stay on his feet.

  “Don’t try to move,” the Muljaddy advised, studying him with an air of mild curiosity.

  “I . . .” said Karsman.

  “Yes. You. Whoever that is. Tell me, Karsman, when do you feel most yourself? As the soldier? The doctor, the linguist, or the lover? Do any of those seem more real to you than the mind that you think of as your own?”

  “Warrior,” said Karsman. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, and it was a struggle to force the word out.

  The Muljaddy’s hairless eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

  Karsman fought against his body, trying to force his muscles into obedience. With a great effort, he managed to slide his right foot a little ways forward.

  If the Muljaddy noticed the tiny movement, they gave no sign.

  “There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” they said.

  Karsman tried to move his left foot, but nothing happened.

  “Who?” he managed to ask.

  The Muljaddy smiled. They closed their eyes and leaned back, the huge soft body slowly relaxing into its seat. As Karsman watched, the smooth contours of the face seemed to realign themselves. The family features that Karsman had noticed became sharper and more defined. The inhuman neutrality of the Muljaddy’s face gave way to something more feminine. The changes were subtle. It was still the Muljaddy that sat there, in that soft golden body, but something else seemed to have slipped inside.

  The Muljaddy’s eyes opened.

  “Hello, Liriel.”

  * * *

  Karsman felt as if the floor were swaying under his feet.

  “Mistress,” he said.

  The Muljaddy shifted in their seat. Even their body language had changed. The languid, economical gestures had given way to precise movements full of contained energy.

  “Why did you run from me?” asked a voice he remembered only too well.

  “Mistress,” Karsman said again. “I—”

  The Muljaddy smiled. The full lips belonged to the figure slumped in the chair in front of him, but the smile was hers. To Karsman, it seemed as if the woman who he had once served was looking out at him from behind a curtain of flesh.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the Muljaddy said in that borrowed voice. “The important thing now is that you are in a place where you can be useful to me. Do you still serve me?”

  “Of course, mistress. I am here for your needs.” The old formulas came back easily.

  “What I need is for you to be my eyes and ears. Do you know why those men are there?”

  “They . . . they said that they had come to kill a woman,” Karsman said. He stopped, struck by a thought. Could it be her, his former mistress, that the soldiers had come to kill? If that was the case, Mera was in no danger after all. But then why had the soldiers not simply gone to the capital? Why wait here for her, thousands of kilometers away?

  “Do you know who?” the Muljaddy asked.

  “No, mistress. Is it . . . is it you?”

  The Muljaddy gave a little snort of laughter.

  “Not me. Another woman altogether. An off-worlder named Lisandra Gad-Ayulia. But the name is unimportant. If she comes, she will almost certainly be using a different name.”

  “If she comes, mistress?”

  The Muljaddy shrugged, and Karsman remembered that gesture too. “She may be dead already. There have been reports . . . But someone clearly thinks that she’s on her way.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A soldier. An ordinary soldier, by all accounts. But now, something more. A person of importance, not because of who she is, but because of what she carries.”

  I wish you would stop talking in riddles, Karsman thought.

  “Do you know what the cities are, Liriel?”

  “The soldier . . . the soldier said that they were an Intelligence.”

  “In a sense, yes. In a sense, no. It might be better to say that they are a life-support system for an Intelligence. One of a very unusual kind.”

  Karsman waited for the Muljaddy to continue. He wondered if she would ever come to the point and, if she did, if he would understand what she had to say.

  “What do you know about the Muljaddy, Liriel? Do you believe we are gods?”

  “I—” Karsman struggled to find words. What if something he said was an unwitting heresy? “I believe you are holy, mistress,” he said at last.

  A sniff of amusement. “Diplomatic, at least,” the Muljaddy said. “Did you know that we can speak together, mind to mind?”

  “No, mistress.”

  “There’s no magic to it. Organic radio, nothing more. This is how I can speak to you now, thro
ugh this body. So no, we are not gods. We are post-humans—as you are now. And like you, we have engineered characteristics, things that evolution never gave us. One of them is this ability to communicate with one another. But it is more than simple communication. When we are linked, we can think together. We become a group mind, an Intelligence of a sort.”

  Karsman was entirely lost now. He shook his head, bewildered.

  “The Intelligence that this world was built to support is of the same kind. Not a monolith, but a colonial Intelligence, made up of individual minds linked together. The machine is empty now, but if someone loaded the right type of mind into it, it could come to life again.”

  “The right type—”

  “A gestalt mind is hard to create. We can link a few dozen individuals at a time, no more. After that you start to get diminishing returns—crosstalk, flapping, looping. The array processor solves that. It can execute millions, billions of instances in parallel, with no loss of efficiency. You just need the right seed to get it going. But it isn’t easy: we’ve been trying for centuries, and we’re no closer than when we started. We lack the knowledge to engineer a mind that’s both compatible with the processor’s protocols and stable and productive in an array execution context.”

  The stream of words meant nothing to Karsman. He focused instead on the part that he had understood.

  “The woman—” he said.

  “Yes,” the Muljaddy said. “Gad-Ayulia once had access to a very old store of information. In it, we think that she found a template for a mind compatible with the machine. And we believe that she intends to try to restart the processor.”

  “And the soldiers—”

  “—are here to stop her. The Power that sent them wants her captured and executed before she can complete her mission.”

  Karsman thought about that for a moment. He wanted to ask the Muljaddy what would happen if the soldiers failed to stop her. He had no clear idea what it would be like to share a world with a fully awakened Intelligence, but he suspected that it might not be survivable.

  “Mistress, what are your orders?” he said at last. “What should I do?”