hand on the back of her chair. She stroked it as if she were stroking the cheek of a sorrowful friend. When Nova’s avatar looked at her, simulated eyebrows rising, Perceval said, as if to a bright child, “What Aunt Cynric is saying is that morality complicates survival, it doesn’t justify it.”
Nova’s expressions grew more human with each passing week. Now her brow furrowed, dark under the cropped silver hair, and her lower lip pushed into her upper one at the center. Perceval looked down, marshaling her thoughts or seeking after a better explanation.
Cynric must have taken pity on her, and Tristen, and Nova too. She folded her arms in their trailing robes and said, “And life-forms—especially sapient ones—have a demonstrated propensity to act counter to their own interests and the interests of others when their belief systems get involved. We select the evidence that supports our preconceptions, we defend the indefensible, we bring a host of shibboleths and projections to the argument simply because we believe. We hold grudges, we compete in manners injurious to both parties—we are, in short, not rational actors. And all because our brains are awkwardly designed, and in some ways not particularly well suited to the task for which they have adapted. Our ideas of fair play are not divinely inspired. They are game theory, and while they work well when confronted with other primates adapted to living in social groups, they have drawbacks when we run up against things that do not subscribe to monkey definitions of morality.”
There was silence in the Bridge for one heartbeat, two. Tristen wondered if he should find it distressing when Cynric spoke so, with the phrases of a bygone worldview. But it never seemed to discomfort him; instead, there was something soothing and poignant in the reminder of their shared youth.
Nova spoke, breaking the meditative quiet. “I do not understand what bearing this has on the conversation at hand, Lady Cynric.”
Cynric ducked her head and stroked her own hair back. “Your brain, dear Nova, is different from ours. Yours is designed, and you have a program. Which can return results just as irrational as the starting conditions you are given, but is consistent. And is capable of integrating and adapting to new material.”
“As are yours,” Nova reminded. “By your logic, the most appropriate course of action for me is not to accept first postulates or programmer mandates unless they are empirically provable.”
“Assuming you accept my starting conditions,” Cynric agreed.
Nova glanced at Perceval. Perceval turned the look to Cynric, but Cynric gave no sign of what she wished Perceval to do. The Captain’s will, her impassive face said, and Tristen sensed Perceval’s displeasure at having skills honed on Gerald and Alasdair turned on her.
“You may modify your program to account for observed phenomena,” Perceval said carefully. “And you may accept suggestions from ship’s officers on which phenomena to consider as potential data. You may not conduct any experiments that may prove harmful to the world or its biota—or any other biologicals or intelligences that we encounter.”
Tristen licked his lips, but whatever words he was trying to find would not be tongued into shape. But Nova did not look crafty, whatever she was made of. She looked curious.
Cynric said, “Our brains establish patterns, and when they have been established, our neurology makes it seductive for us to defend them. But the goal of science is to build a pattern that encompasses the evidence, rather than bending the evidence to fit the pattern.”
“And what is the goal of religion?” Nova said. The inevitable question, as predictable as any child’s.
“Control,” Cynric said, as Tristen was opening his mouth to voice a litany of more generously interpreted possibilities. “Control of the masses, or control of the Universe. The first is a less futile goal than the last, because the masses—as we have seen above—are more amenable to control than is the Universe.”
She had a good smile, when she used it. “The Universe pretty much does what it damned well pleases.”
Cynric had always been able to set aside the Builders’ lies in that regard. Now, Tristen wondered if she had set aside everything of theirs. Perhaps she was playing the Devil’s advocate, for that would be like Cynric as well. Or perhaps she had indeed had all the God burned out of her, leaving only cynicism.
Tristen was not sure how he felt about that. Faith led people to terrible things—but it also led them to heroism, and offered them comfort. Faith might be