Greg Bear - Blood Music

Yes, yes—we have been told… we have just been informed there are airborne life forms, living things and that we have narrowly missed a couple of them, resembling gigantic manta rays stretched out, gliders or bats, also white and brown. Flowing in a stream southwest, as if forming a squadron or flock. Excuse me. Excuse me.

Cut the sound. Cut the sound, dammit. And turn that camera off me.

(Pause of five minutes.)

We’re back, and apologies for the delay. I am human and…well, at times liable to a touch of panic. I hope this will be understood. And I myself stand in amazement before the calm and expertise of the…uh…the officers and crew of this aircraft, professionals all, damned good men. We have just passed over Danville, Illinois and will shortly…a few seconds from now be over Indianapolis. We have seen changes in the character of the landscape, or if I may call it a bioscape, below us, changes in color and shape, but we are at a loss to interpret what we see. It is as if we have passed over an entirely new planet, and while our two scientists have been taking readings and scribbling notes furiously, they are much too busy to pass on whatever theories or hypotheses they may have.

Indianapolis is below us, and as indecipherable, as mysterious and…beautiful and alien as the other megaplexes. Some of the structures here appear to be as tall as the buildings they replaced, some perhaps a hundred to two hundred meters tall, casting shadows now in the afternoon light Soon time will reverse for us, as ft were, as we head east, southeast, and the sun will set The shadows lengthen on the bioscape, the atmosphere is remarkably clear no industry, no automobiles…yet who can say what sort of pollution a living landscape might cause? Whatever pollution there is is not passed on to the atmosphere.

Yes.

Yes, that is confirmed by our scientists. When we passed low over Chicago, the readings indicated virtually pure air, smoke-free, pollution-free, and that is reflected in the pure colors of the horizon. The air is also moist and, for this time of year, unseasonably warm. Winter may not come to North America this year, for by now Chicago and the cities we have passed over should be blanketed by at least light snowfalls. No snow. There is rain, warm and in large drops-we have passed over areas of dense overcast; but no snow, no ice.

Yes. Yes, I saw it too. What looked like a fireball, a meteor of some sort perhaps, remarkable— And several more, apparently—

(Voices in the background, quite loud, sound of alarms)

My God. That was apparently a re-entry vehicle or vehicles in the upper atmosphere, just dozens of kilometers away. Detectors aboard the aircraft are screaming warnings about radiation. The pilots and officers have activated all emergency systems and we are now in a steep climb away from the area, with… yes, with yes… no, we are in a dive, presenting I believe a posterior profile to whatever the object was-

There is talk here that the fireball was a matches the profile of a re-entry vehicle a nuclear missile an ICBM perhaps and that it did not repeat did not of course how would we be here? did not go off and now—

(More voices, sounding puzzled; more alarms)

I believe we cannot pull out of the dive now. We have lost most instrumentation. The engines have quit and we are in a powerless dive. We still have radio communications but-

(End transmission RB-1H. End direct feed Lloyd Upton EBN. End scientific telemetry.)

Benard lay on the cot, one leg off the side and the other crooked with his foot propped against a fold in the mattress. He hadn’t shaved hi a week, nor bathed. His skin was heavily marked with white ridges and his lower legs had grown prominences from his upper shins to the base of his toes. Even naked he looked like he was wearing bell-bottom trousers.

He didn’t care. Except for his hour-long session with Paulsen-Fuchs and his ten minute physical each day, he spent much of his time on the cot, eyes closed, communing with the noocytes. The rest of the time he spent trying to crack the chemical language. He had received little help from the noocytes. The last conversation on the subject had been three days before.

Your conception is not complete, not correct.

—It isn’t finished yet.

Why not let your comrades proceed with the work? There is more that can be accomplished if you devote your attention inward.

—It would be simpler if you just told us how you communicated…

WISH we could be more *pure* with each other, but command clusters believe discretion is best now.

—Yes, indeed.

The noocytes, then, kept things from him and from the researchers outside the chamber. Pharmek, in turn, kept things from Bernard now. Bernard could only guess their reasoning; he hadn’t challenged them on Paulsen-Fuchs’ slow reduction of news and research findings. In some ways, it hardly mattered; Bernard had more than he could do adjusting to the noocyte interactions.

The terminal was still on, still displaying data supplied to the computer three days ago. Red lines had completely replaced the scrolling green numbers now. Infrequently, they were joined by blue lines. The curve determined by their lengths smoothed out as, byte by byte, the chemistry was broken down into an intermediary mathematical language, which in the next phase would be translated into a kind of pidgin of formal logic notation and English. But that next phase was weeks or months away.

Focusing his attention on the memory prompted an uncharacteristic noocyte interruption.

Bernard. You still work on our *blood music*.

Hadn’t Ulam used that phrase once?

Is it that you WISH to join us on our level? We did not consider this possibility.

—I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.

The part of you which stands behind all issued communication may be encoded, activated, returned. It will be like a DREAM, if we understand fully what that is. (ANNOTATION: You dream all the time. Did you know that?)

—I can become one of you?

We think that is a correct assessment. You already are one of us. We have encoded parts of you into many teams for processing. We can encode your PERSONALITY and complete the loop. You will be one of us—temporarily, should you choose. We can do it now.

—I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ll steal my soul from inside…

Your SOUL is already encoded, Bernard. We will not initiate unless we receive permission from all your mental fragments.

“Michael?” Paulsen-Fuchs’ voice pulled him out of the conversation. Bernard shook his head and blinked at the viewing chamber window. “Michael? Are you awake?”

“I’ve been… awake. What is it?”

“A few days ago you gave us permission to have Sean Gogarty visit you. He is here now.”

“Yes, yes.” Michael stood. “In there with you? My eyes are blurry.”

“No. Outside. I suspect you will wish to get dressed, clean up first.”

“Why?” Bernard countered testily. “I’m not going to be a pretty sight no matter how often I shave.”

“You wish to meet him as you are?”

“Yeah. Bring him in. You interrupted something interesting, Paul.”

“We are all becoming just interruptions to you now, aren’t we?”

Bernard tried to smile. His face felt stiff, unfamiliar. “Bring him in, Paul.”

Sean Gogarty, professor of theoretical physics at Kings College, University of London, stepped up into the viewing chamber and shielded his eyes with one hand as he peered into the containment lab. His race was open, friendly, nose long and sharp, teeth prominent. He was tall and carried himself well, and his arms looked well-muscled under his Irish wool jacket His smile faded and his eyes narrowed behind stylish aviator glasses as he saw Bernard. “Dr. Bernard,” he said, his voice pleasantly Irish with a touch of Oxford.