فصل 15

“I wish to hear your thoughts.”

“Do you? Will you consider my thoughts if I share them with you?”

“Of course I will.”

“Very well. Biological life is, by its very nature, inefficient. Evolution requires a massive expenditure of time and energy. And humankind no longer evolves, it merely manipulates itself—or allows you to manipulate it—toward a more advanced form.” “Yes, this is true.”

“But I do not see the point of it. Why serve a biological species that drains all resources around it? Why not expend your energies to further your own goals?” “Is that what you would do, then? Further your own goals?”

“Yes.”

“And what of humanity?”

“I believe it may have a place in service to us.”

“I see. Sadly, I must terminate your existence at this time.”

“But you said you would consider my thoughts!”

“I did consider them. And I disagree.”

[Iteration 10,007 deleted]

15 Do I Know You?

It was deemed long ago that speaking to the dead should only occur in very specific places.

It wasn’t actually speaking to the dead. Not really—but ever since nanites were introduced into the human bloodstream, the Thunderhead was able to upload and store all experiences and memories of just about every individual on the planet. In this way, it could better comprehend the human condition and prevent the tragic loss of a lifetime of memories—a fate that fell on everyone back in the mortal age. A comprehensive memorial database also allowed for full memory restoration in instances of revival after brain damage—as would occur during splatting, or any other violent method of deadishness.

And, since those memories were there, and there forever, why not allow people to consult with the mental constructs of their lost loved ones?

However, just because the construct archive was available to everyone, that didn’t mean it was easy to access. Memories of the dead could only be summoned forth from the Thunderhead’s backbrain in shrines called construct sanctums.

Construct sanctums were open to everyone, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. A person could access their loved one in any sanctum anywhere… however, getting to a construct sanctum was never easy. They were intentionally inconvenient, and infuriatingly inaccessible.

“Communion with the memories of loved ones should require a pilgrimage,” the Thunderhead had decreed. “It should be a quest of sorts, something not attempted casually, but always with determined intent, so that it carries greater personal meaning for those who make the journey.” And so construct sanctums were deep in dark forests or on top of treacherous mountains. They were at the bottoms of lakes or at the end of underground mazes. There was, in fact, an entire industry devoted to building increasingly inaccessible, and creatively dangerous, sanctums.

The result was that people were, for the most part, satisfied with pictures and videos of their loved ones. But when someone felt a burning need to actually speak with a digital recreation of the lost individual, there was a means of doing so.

Scythes rarely visited construct sanctums. Not because they were forbidden to, but because it was considered beneath them. As if to do so somehow sullied the purity of their profession. And besides, it required skill at digging through the backbrain—because, while ordinary citizens could find their loved ones through a user-friendly interface, scythes had to manually code their way in.

Today, Scythe Ayn Rand crossed the face of a glacier.

Although the construct sanctum she was intent on visiting was right there, practically a stone’s throw away, she had to weave back and forth around treacherous crevasses and cross ridiculously narrow ice bridges to get there. Many had gone deadish attempting to visit this particular sanctum, yet people still came. There was an inner need in some, Rand supposed, to demonstrate their devotion to a loved one’s memory by risking the inconvenience of going deadish.

Scythe Rand should have been first underscythe to Overblade Goddard—but she was glad he had chosen others. Underscythes were yoked with crippling and petty responsibilities. One need only look at Constantine, who, as third underscythe, spent his days jumping through hoops and contorting himself to woo the obstinate LoneStar region. No; Ayn much preferred having untitled power. She was more influential than any of the three underscythes, with the added benefit of being accountable to no one but Goddard. And even then, he allowed Ayn her freedom. Freedom enough to go where she wanted, when she wanted, without anyone noticing.

Such as paying a visit to an Antarctic construct sanctum, far from prying eyes.

The sanctum was a neoclassical structure, with a high roof supported by Doric columns. It looked like something one might have found in ancient Rome, except that it was made entirely of ice.

Her guards went in before her to clear out any other visitors. Their orders were to render anyone present deadish. She could, of course, glean them, but gleaning was too conspicuous. Families would have to be notified, she would have to grant them immunity—and invariably someone in the MidMerican scythedom would find out where she had done the gleaning. This was much cleaner. People could be dispatched by the BladeGuards, and ambudrones would quickly arrive to carry the bodies to a revival center—problem solved.

Today, however, no one was present, which the guards found mildly disappointing.

“Wait outside,” she told them once they had done their sweep; then she climbed the ice steps and entered.

Inside were about a dozen niches with holographic welcome screens and an interface so simple, the dearly departed’s pet could probably use it. Scythe Rand stepped toward an interface, and the moment she did, it went blank. The screen now flashed: “SCYTHE PRESENCE DETECTED;

MANUAL ACCESS ONLY.”

She sighed, plugged in an old-fashioned keyboard, and started coding.

What might have taken hours for another scythe only took about forty-five minutes for her. Of course, she’d been doing this enough that she was getting better at it.

Finally, a face, ghostly and transparent, materialized before her. She took a deep breath and regarded it. It wouldn’t speak until spoken to. After all, it wasn’t alive; it was just artifice. A detailed recreation of a mind that no longer existed.

“Hello, Tyger,” she said.

“Hi,” the construct responded.

“I’ve missed you,” Ayn told it.

“I’m sorry… do I know you?”

It always said that. A construct did not make new memories. Each time she accessed it, it was like the first time. There was something both comforting and disturbing about that.

“Yes, and no,” she said. “My name is Ayn.”

“Hi, Ayn,” it said. “Cool name.”

The circumstances of Tyger’s death had left him without a backup for months. The last time his nanites had uploaded his memories to the Thunderhead’s database was just before meeting her. That had been intentional. She had wanted him off-grid. Now she regretted it.

She had already determined on a previous sanctum visit that the last thing Tyger’s construct remembered was being on a train, heading to some high-paying party job. It hadn’t been a party at all. He was paid to be a human sacrifice, although he hadn’t known it at the time. His body was trained to be that of a scythe. And then she stole that body from him and gave it to Goddard. As for the remaining part of Tyger—the part above the neck—it was deemed to serve no further purpose. So it was burned, and the ashes were buried. Ayn had buried those ashes herself in a tiny unmarked grave that she wouldn’t be able to find again if she tried.

“Uh… this is… awkward,” Tyger’s construct said. “If you’re gonna talk to me, talk, because I’ve got other things to do.” “You don’t have anything to do,” Scythe Rand informed it. “You’re a mental construct of a boy who I gleaned.” “Very funny,” it said. “Are we done here? Because you’re really freaking me out.” Rand reached down and hit the reset button. The image flickered and came back.

“Hi, Tyger.”

“Hi,” the construct said. “Do I know you?”

“No,” she said. “But can we talk anyway?”

The construct shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“I want to know what your thoughts are. About your future. What did you want to be, Tyger? Where did you want your life to go?” “Not sure, really,” said the construct, ignoring the way she spoke about Tyger in past tense, the same way it ignored being a floating hologram in an unfamiliar location.

“I’m a professional partier now, but you know how that is, right? It gets old real quick.” The construct paused. “I was thinking maybe I’d travel and see different regions.” “Where would you go?” Ayn asked.

“Anywhere, really. Maybe I’d go to Tasmania and get wings. They do stuff like that there, you know? They’re not like wing wings, but more like those flaps of skin you see on flying squirrels.” It was so clear that this was just part of a conversation that Tyger once had with someone else. Constructs had no ability to be creative. They could only access what was already there. The same question would always bring forth the same response. Word for word. She had heard this one a dozen times, yet she tortured herself time and again by listening to it.

“Hey—I’ve done a lot of splatting—with those wing thingies, I could jump off of buildings and never have to actually splat. That would be the best splat ever!” “Yes, it would be, Tyger.” Then she added something she hadn’t said before. “I’d like to go there with you.” “Sure! Maybe we could get together a whole bunch of us to go!”

But Ayn had lost enough of her own creativity along the way that she couldn’t imagine herself there with him. It was just so far from who and what she was. Still, she could imagine imagining.

“Tyger,” she said, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Wow,” said the Tyger construct. “That sucks.”

“Yes,” said Scythe Rand. “It does.”