Asgard's Heart (41 page)

I couldn't yet begin to understand what
difference this
little
surprise package might make to the war that was going on in Asgard's software
space. I had no way of knowing whether what had just happened was Armageddon or
just a minor skirmish. To tell the truth, I wasn't particularly interested in
trying to figure it out. What concerned me more was what would happen to me.

Despite the fact that I had apparently slain my
enemies in one fell swoop, I was still in something of a predicament. I was
reduced to the status of a severed head, with snakes instead of hair and a
truly poisonous glare, dangling from the clenched fist of a stone statue. I
still had my wits about me, but the problem of figuring out what to do next was
more than a little vexatious.

For all I could tell, I might be condemned to hang
there for all eternity, keeping my captives still and safe with my poisonous stare.
Maybe that could be construed as a noble fate for a self-sacrificing hero, but
it wasn't one that I could contemplate with any relish.

I had been assured by my enemies that I was on the
high road to Hell, and it seemed to me that if I was now destined to spend any
kind of lifetime in my present condition, that would probably be hell enough
for anyone.

I was still considering this awful possibility when I
caught a glimpse of movement in the crowd. It was at the very limit of my
peripheral vision, and for a moment or two I thought I had been mistaken, but
the writhing of the snakes turned my head just enough to allow me a better
sight of the relevant area, and I saw that there was indeed a humanoid figure
picking its way through the densely- packed assembly.

As he made his slow and painstaking progress he moved
round so that I could see him more directly, but my eyesight was blurred and I
couldn't bring him into focus.

All I was sure of was that he looked human, and rather
elderly. He carried himself as if walking required unusual effort. I had a
flash of anxiety in case he might be turned to stone the moment I set eyes on
him, but that fear evaporated quickly. Most of the individuals in the crowd
hadn't needed to look directly at my eyes before being turned to stone, and if
I was as effective against his kind as I had been against theirs he should have
been petrified the moment he set foot in the square.

I watched him as he came up the steps to stand beside
the statue of Loki. He was a tall man, and as he finally came into focus I saw
that he had a Roman nose and blue eyes. He was wearing an amused expression. I
figured that I knew who he really was. He was one of the builders. He was one
of those who had sent out that appeal for help that had turned me into a hero
and brought me to this undignified pass. But in exactly the same way that the
enemy had worn the face of my arch-enemy, Amara Guur, he was wearing the face
of a dear departed friend.

He was Saul Lyndrach—the man who had sent me forth
upon my epic journey.

I still couldn't speak. He saw me trying to produce
sounds, and smiled. I didn't think it was so funny, and the fact that I wasn't
amused must have shown on whatever nightmarish mask I was now using for a face.

"Pardonnez moi,"
he said.

He couldn't really have said it in French, but I
heard
it in French.

Had I been able to speak, I could have produced an
entirely apposite quote:
Si Dieu nous a fait a son
image, nous le lui avons bien rendu.
Saul would have understood. Saul
would even have understood the subtle irony of a Rousseau quoting Voltaire. For
once, alas, I could not

take
advantage of the readiness of my wit.

"You have rendered us a great service," he
said—and I heard his words now as though they were in English, and knew that he
was speaking not as Saul Lyndrach but as one of the guardian gods of Asgard,
whose enemies I had blighted with my stare. "You have helped us to break a
stalemate that had endured for hundreds of thousands of years. You probably
believe that you have been ill-used, and so you have, but you cannot realise
how much this victory has owed to your own fortitude and your own strength. The
scheme could so easily have failed had you yielded to the pressure of
circumstance at any point along the way. You have survived experiences that
would have obliterated very many entities forced into your situation. Perhaps,
had you known the true magnitude of the threats that you have endured, you
could not have succeeded, but your ignorance has been strengthened by courage
and by a stubborn refusal to admit defeat. We thank you, Michael
Rousseau."

It was a nice enough speech, in its way. We all
appreciate a pat on the back, even when we no longer have a back to be patted.
But I had more urgent matters on my mind than testimonials. I wanted to know
what the hell was going to happen now. Could Humpty Dumpty be put back together
again? Assuming that this version of myself had to live out my allotted span in
software space, without any opportunity to become a real person again, was there
any way I could get another body . . . and the power of speech . . . and a
haircut?

"Unfortunately," Saul went on, "the
dangers which Asgard faces are not yet entirely averted. The war in software
space is not over, and although the balance has swung to our advantage because
of what you have accomplished, there is a conflict still to be resolved. And
there is a further adventure which has not yet come to its conclusion—which
might, if things go badly, undo all that you have accomplished. There is
another battle yet to be fought, in the actual space that surrounds the
starlet.

"We are able to observe what is happening in the
star- shell, but the defences which we have erected around and within it, to
preserve it from our enemies, are as difficult for our own
machine-intelligences to penetrate as for theirs. The enemy was able to send
mobile units—robots—through the defences while they were temporarily disrupted
as a result of the Nine's unlucky attempt to breach them, and although they
were belatedly destroyed, they succeeded in switching off the power supply to
the levels. There is now a power build-up within the starlet which is
destabilising it, and there is a danger that it may explode. We are trying as
best we can to get our own robots into the starshell, but in spite of the fact
that we have retaken control of the peripheral systems, mechanical brains
simply cannot penetrate the defences surrounding the control room. Only an
organic being can reach and operate the controls.

"Unfortunately, it seems that the enemy has
employed a stratagem which is virtually a mirror image of the one which we
employed in creating you. We copied into your brain a programme which, when
retranscribed in a software persona, would bind up great destructive power in
your being. The invaders seem to have copied into the brains of at least one of
your kind a programme that will give him equal destructive power. The invader
now using the body of 994-Tulyar would be able to destroy Asgard, if that is
his intention, once he reaches the control-room of the starshell. He would also
be able to damage us as severely as, with your aid, we have damaged the forces
arrayed against us. Unfortunately, Tulyar and his companion are already
perilously close to that destination. Had
this
victory come in time, we might have stopped them in the levels, but they have
already made the jump to the starshell."

I wished that I could ask questions, but I had no
voice. I could only hang there and listen.

"It may yet turn out that our stratagem was the
poorer one," Saul continued regretfully. "Perhaps our purpose would
have been better served had we planted a programme in your organic persona
which could have equipped it to operate the starlet's controls, but that would
certainly have resulted in the obliteration of your own consciousness, and that
is not our way. We are the creation of humanoids, and our primary purpose is to
protect and preserve humanoid life. Alas, the biocopy which remains within your
other self is virtually non-functional in that form. Your other self can derive
nothing from it but a few messages, which he may not even be able to read.
Although he is trying hard to reach the starshell, he does not know what to do
when he gets there, and it is too late to get the information to him by any
conventional means. He too has made the jump, and we cannot yet tell what his
fate will be."

He paused. It would have been a good time to slip in a
few clever questions, and my condition was becoming more infuriating by the
minute. I remembered only too clearly, now, what the invader had said about
Tulyar's mission— and what he had said about the willingness of the gods of
Asgard to see the macroworld destroyed rather than lose possession of it. It
was a point regarding which I would have liked to seek some reassurance.

"We still may need your help," he said,
soberly. "The contest is not yet ended, and there are moves which might
still be made. I am sorry for the pain and difficulty which you have so far
suffered, and sorry that there may be more yet to come. We do not like to use
you in this fashion, without your being able to understand what we are doing,
or how, or why, but we sincerely believe that you would consent, if you could
understand what it is that we require of you. Our purpose is the salvation of
the macroworld— and the preservation of your community of worlds.

"What I will do now is to take you from this
place to another—into the very heart of Asgard's software space, where my kind
is now recovering its dominion. The journey should not be very hazardous, but
we dare not underestimate our enemy's ability to hit back. Then, we will do
what we can to remake you, before the time arrives when we must make what use
of you we can. We will reconstruct you—and though we will make of you, as we
did before, an instrument, we will nevertheless preserve for you the
persona
which is your essential self. Be
patient, I beg of you. We must go now, but as we go, I will try to offer you as
much of an explanation as I can, and as much of an explanation as I think you
can understand."

With that, he reached out a gnarled but sturdy hand,
and gently pried me loose from the stone hand that held me.

I wished fervently that I could speak, or make some
sign to say that there was indeed a great deal more that I wanted to know—a
great deal more that I wanted explained. What I wanted more than anything else
in the world just then was to be able to ask questions—not just because there
was so much I wanted to be told, but also because I wanted some way to test
what he was going to tell me. After all, he said he was on the side of the
angels, and he was doing his very best to act like a good guy, but how did I
really know that I could trust him?

It was all very well for him to say flattering things
about my courage and powers of endurance. I had been exerting

them
mainly on my own behalf. Sure, I wanted Asgard to be saved. I wanted the lights
switched on again and everything returned to what passed for normal in these
parts. But in view of the deceptions to which I had already been subject, how
could I be certain that it was this masquerader and his pals who had that end
in view? How could I be certain that they weren't the ones who wanted the
macroworld blown to smithereens?

If I was going to be used yet again, as a go-between
who didn't even understand my own make-up, I wanted to be sure that I wasn't
going to be the Judas Goat who would lead my other self and all his allies to
the slaughter.

But I couldn't be sure.

I couldn't be sure of anything.

In the meantime, the thing that was wearing the face
of my late, lamented friend tucked my gorgon's head beneath his phantom arm,
and strolled off into a gathering mist of pure confusion.

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