Lawrence Schoen - Barsk - The Elephants' Graveyard

“What is the last thing you remember?” he asked.

It did not pause like a person might. It had no eyes to glance up and to the side as it pondered and searched for a memory.

“I was in a narrow space. A cave of ice and rock. The automata that had taken me to that solar system had determined that moon would be an ideal location. They created the cave and placed me within. My systems went dormant and my beacon announced my presence at regular intervals and in response to any incursions in the space around that moon. I recorded significant geologic upheaval several millennia later but did not awaken. After an even greater span, passive receptors reacted to the energy signature of tool-using beings, activating my beacon. My boot cycle initiated and I awakened. My gross sensors indicated several beings standing in front of me, but most of my processing was still engaged in the restart cycle and self-check, and I cannot tell you more about the individuals who had ended my sleep. Before the cycle ran to completion, the beings retreated. I recorded the presence of vast energies being expended in my vicinity, in excess of the capacity of my protective shields. The cave in which I had been housed lost structural integrity and my own physicality became compromised. That is all I recall; something must have disrupted my memory consolidation at that point.”

Jorl nodded. “That happened in the recent past. I was among those, uh, beings, who activated you. We found you by accident. And then our commanding officer ordered you destroyed.”

“That individual failed in that task. I am here.”

“No, her commands were carried out. That was the end of you. Your, um, physicality. The manifestation conversing with me now is a nefshon construct, as I’ve described.”

“The physicality is not important. Your nefshon science preserves me. All the knowledge of the hero remains within. It has not been lost. The legacy of humanity remains intact.”

Jorl gasped as something inside him let go. He filed the notion away for later contemplation. “What’s the next most recent thing you remember? You said something about automata placing you in that cave. Were you fully active then?”

“No. They were simply pre-programmed devices created to transport me to a safe site in the event my location was compromised. My previous activation occurred in fifty-four-two-seventeen, eleven thousand and thirteen years prior to you activating me. I had been aboard the station where I had been created. No one had visited there for more than fifty-two thousand years, and I remained inactive. My boot cycle had initiated and I detected four beings floating around me. They were clothed in protective suits. The station’s structure had been breached at some earlier time, disabling the gravity and releasing the atmosphere. In the surrounding vacuum they could not hear my offer to share the tales of the heroes of man. After the prescribed period without any inquiry, I returned to an inactive state. I observed as they dismantled the station over the course of several years, taking it apart piece by piece. In time, their efforts activated some failsafe, and the preservation automata removed me from what remained of the station, and after several hundred years delivered me to the moon in an adjacent star system.”

Jorl stopped pacing, the comforting illusion of movement overwhelmed by the significance of the device’s words. A station! Someone had found an entire station from Before! He fanned himself rapidly and stared up at the huge machine.

“What did you mean by fifty-four-two-seventeen? Is that a date?”

“Yes. It refers to the year of my final activation on the station. Prior to that, I was last activated in the year twenty-one fifty-nine by Dr. Castleman. She and Dr. Gieber performed routine searches through my collection. Dr. Castleman had a particular fondness for stories of the original peoples of the Pacific Northwest.

“Twenty-one fifty-nine? What calendar is that?”

“It is the calendar in popular use on Earth at the time of my construction. Earth is the planetary designation of the human origin. Despite my location on a station far removed from Earth’s system, my timing mechanism utilizes terrestrial units.” The Archetype paused. “Jorl, something is wrong. Time is not passing. My internal chronometer is not functioning properly, and yet I am not detecting any system errors. Moreover, my efforts at self-diagnostics do not yield any feedback at all.”

Jorl fanned himself faster. The machine sounded concerned. “You’re only partially correct. Time is passing, but not in the conventional sense. I have been Speaking with you for a while now, and it is later than when we began. But from your personal point of view you’re no older than when we started. You don’t have the same physicality as you did in life. You’re not aging, um, if you ever did. Understand?”

“My comprehension is incomplete. Perhaps the flaw is in my programming. I am not designed for independent philosophy. Dr. Castleman constructed me to be one of the Archetypes, to keep the stories of the heroes alive for humanity’s descendants. As a function of my inability to fully comprehend the current situation, I have failed her. Perhaps she would understand you better.”

“Maybe. Can you tell me about her? Your Dr. Castleman sounds like someone I would like to Speak with.”

JORLopened his eyes. He sat up, stretched, rose to his feet and began pacing the cabin. He’d dispersed the construct of the Archetype of Man, ending the Speaking more easily than ever before. Was that the extent of the power from Arlo’s drug, an effortlessness to the work of Speaking? He couldn’t worry about that now, he had to figure out what to do next.

He saw the tray on the desk and absently sent his trunk after some food each time his pacing brought him within range. The Archetype had been clear. Although sapient, its consciousness was artificial, its sense of self, limited. It viewed Dr. Chieko Castleman with a reverence that bordered on awe, not merely the devotion of a child for a parent, but more like some mythic figure responsible for all of creation. It had felt certain that while it could provide an endless supply of stories to inspire and instruct, the woman who had made it could offer up actual answers to any questions Jorl might ask. And more, it had provided ample information and details about her. Many of them made no sense to him, but enough to allow a Speaker to summon someone he’d never met.

Except for the minor point that Castleman had been dead for more than sixty-three thousand years. The woman’s nefshons must surely have diffused throughout the galaxy by now, barely imaginable distances existing between each tiny mote of personality. It was impossible for Jorl to summon her. He’d tried. Even with the greater ability he’d presumably been granted by Arlo’s drug, the most he’d managed was to detect a handful of particles, a general sense that the woman had existed, but now lay far beyond his reach.

He sat on the bench and finished the meal on the desk, absently massaging an ache in his shoulder with the nubs of his trunk. Margda had insisted he would be able to do what needed to be done. She hadn’t foreseen what that was, only that it had involved Barsk’s most recent Bearer and whatever Arlo had died to protect. Jorl’s earlier depression threatened to engulf him again. He’d run out of ideas, and likely was running out of time. How long before the senator acted?

Jorl considered questioning the Matriarch, summoning her directly as she had done with him, but stopped short. The ease with which she had shoved his mind away and put Arlo in his body frightened him. And, to a lesser extent, the prohibition against summoning another Speaker — despite the machinations behind its creation — remained ingrained in him.