fanaticism. It is our experience that these belief structures are exceptionally virulent, only matched for pathology by irrational economic and moral codes, and capable of persisting in the face of all evidence, suffering, and reason.”
“Angels are real,” Perceval said, measuring her tones, permitting her brow to furrow so the Fisher King would know she struggled to understand. “I am in the presence of one right now. We make them.”
“But in so constructing the metaphors surrounding your relationship with your artificial intelligences—if I understand correctly what these servants are—you reinforce a historical sophipathology which has resulted in untold billions of deaths, both of humans and other biologicals.”
“So by sophipathology, you mean … a heresy?” That was familiar ground, and Perceval for a moment breathed easier. “We do not prosecute heresies anymore, Administrator Danilaw. That, for us, is ancient history.”
But rather than similarly relieved, the Fisher King looked if possible more tired and distressed. “I mean the kind of ingrained flaw in one’s reason that would lead one to align one’s self so strongly with a brand of dogma that one might identify others as heretics, actually.”
Perceval pressed her fingernails into her palms. She had anticipated that the cultural disconnect would be vast, and she was only just coming to understand how vast it might be. He spoke. For the most part, he used words she understood. But the manner in which he used them left her feeling as if she had just listened to a recording of some nonhuman creature reciting abstract poetry. It was easier to follow the thought processes of an angel.
She said, “I do not understand. How is it that you live without angels?”
He rubbed his face in what she thought was exasperation, though it could have just been exhaustion. She was learning that these alien humans were much like Means—fragile, of fragmented memory, and prone to easy exhaustion—and that in other ways they were not Mean at all.
“How do you live with them?” His irritation, if that was what it was, turned into a headshake. “We just do.”
She folded her hands together, interlacing the fingers. She huffed across the knuckles, producing a whistling noise. “I think we should conduct further conversations in person,” she said. “You and Captain Amanda have my permission to dock your ship and come aboard.”
“We will have to observe quarantine,” the Fisher King said. “It will not be so different than this.”
“Different enough,” Perceval said. “The Angel Samael will assist you with your docking arrangements and requirements for environmental isolation. That is my will.”
With a mental signal to Nova, she cut the connection. Tristen had not moved from his seat on the grassy berm opposite, but his hands were folded and he was regarding her. “Turning them over to an angel when they’ve expressed such a strong distaste for the whole concept? I’m not sure that’s politic.”
“Maybe they’ll find out how useful angels are and suffer a thought infection.”
Tristen smiled. “He gets on your nerves.”
Perceval shook her hair back, smoothing the locks behind her shoulders with both hands. “He’s a smug, self-righteous, condescending Mean,” she said. “If he thinks we’re uncivilized thugs, well—”
“We need him, Perceval,” her First Mate cautioned. “Unless you really want to go and take his planet from him.”
Her toes curled into the verdant green turf underfoot. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tempt me.”
14
it is a library, and I am its necromancer
I lose! They’re loaded dice. Time always plays
With loaded dice.
—WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS, “Time and the Witch Vivien”
Danilaw Bakare had not realized how thoroughly he anticipated the barbaric splendor of the generation ship’s interior until its grandeur overwhelmed his expectations entirely. The docking bay had the same blasted, repurposed, resurfaced look that characterized the mottled exterior of the vessel. It was also vast, cradling the Quercus entire. Danilaw stood on the tiny habitation deck watching the long, seemingly animate arms of the Jacob’s Ladder embrace the scull, growing over the air lock and avoiding the motes and ports. He could not avoid the comparison to a dodecapus sensitively enveloping its prey.
He sealed his helmet one-handed and turned to make sure Captain Amanda, too, was ready. Seeing her mirror the gesture made him grin; it was good that they were looking out for each other.
“Once more unto the breach,” she said, patting his space-suited shoulder with a bulky gauntlet. There were weapons on her belt, and the Free Legate jewel over her eye told him she knew both physically and ethically how to use them, but that didn’t make him any more