LYNX
Sitting upon a flat rock high above my cave, I let my gaze drift. Wind Mother has stripped the Ice Giants of their frosting of snow. For as far as I can see to the north and east, jagged ice mountains shimmer in the light of the rising full moon. The summer evening smells earthy and wet.
I draw up one knee and prop my elbow atop it to listen to mammoths trumpeting. The Ice Giants add their own rumbling voices to the music of nightfall. For a short while, I grant myself the right to just listen and look.
The air is aglow, turning the world faintly emerald. It’s called oxyluciferin 27—the enzyme produced by Bioluminescent Algae Omega. The project was designed to feed the world, provide fuel, and cool the planet. My people, the Sealion People, named it zyme. It’s been nine hundred twenty-five summers since Year Zero, the moment the zyme reached tipping point in the Pacific Ocean. There were many Jemen scientists involved in the algae project. My beloved teacher, Dr. John Arakie, blamed himself for the catastrophic consequences, but I don’t think he was the only scientist responsible.
Locks of black hair blow around my face as I massage my heavy brow ridge. I have seen nineteen summers, hard summers of war, death, and starvation. Though two babies were born last winter, my people are almost gone. There are only twenty-two Sealion People left in the world. We all know what that means. The hoofbeats of extinction beat in our hearts. It’s inevitable now. Soon, we must plead with the Rust People elders to allow us to marry into their clans, but I doubt they will agree. Our peoples have warred since just after Year Zero. There is currently a peace agreement, but they continue to think Sealion People are ignorant sub-humans, beneath their dignity.
That’s why I sit upon this black boulder, to consider the errors made by the ancient gods that we call the Jemen. From here, I can see my village, Sky Ice Village, nestled in a huge sea cave just above the algae line to the west. The seven mammoth-hide lodges glow like seashell lanterns. I miss my people. Almost no one comes to see me now, not even my best friend, Quiller. Over the past three summers, I have occasionally gone down to visit my family. But never for long. They’re afraid of me. So long as I am there, women hide their children inside lodges, and warriors keep one hand on belted weapons.
Why wouldn’t they? I live in a cave with a strange crystal being, a quantum computer named Quancee. That makes me exotic and alien. Not only that, the stories about me, spun by my former student, Sticks the Dog Soldier, are fantastic and terrifying, and untrue. At least, largely untrue, though I admit strands of the tales are accurate. That’s what makes them powerful. No one really knows what is true and what is not. At first, I tried to counter them by constantly correcting people, but over the past two summers it has brought me nothing but heartache. People seem to want to believe I am a magical being. The more bizarre the story, the more they cling to it. In the eyes of both the Sealion People and the Rust People, I have grown strange beyond anyone’s ability to understand.
So I am alone. My only company now is the wordless voice of an ancient quantum computer and the half-intelligible voices of the massive glaciers quaking through the earth around me.
This fact makes me neither happy nor sad. Each day I float suspended like a wing-seed in a haze of glittering information. I talk to myself a good deal, and to Quancee. No matter what anyone says, I know she’s alive. Every moment I am with her, I feel her concern for me, her love for me. The solace of such love is this: only there, in the echoing silences that stretch between the qubits, can my life be molded into something that has meaning. But Quancee is dying. I’ve known it for three summers. She says I have almost learned as much as I can, and soon I must let her go and become the great teacher I am meant to be.
But I’m not ready to let her go.
Quancee’s lessons are like unripe fruit rolling around inside me. They bang around my head and occasionally a sweet scent flies up, but for the most part my understanding is a thin veneer, so weightless it can blow away at any instant and leave me in despair and confusion. Recite the solution to the Riemann hypothesis . . . the Yang-Mills existence and mass gap . . . Navier-Stokes existence and smoothness . . . Quancee tells me there are patterns that tie everything together, and I await the joyous moment when all that has wounded or defeated me will fall away and I will finally see. But I don’t. Not yet.
Until then, I can’t bear to let her go.
I must continue to study and think. When I grow too exhausted to concentrate, I stride the glaciers looking for the bodies of ancient gods and the evidence of the great Jemen war that ravaged this land once called Merica.
With the arrival of summer, streams of meltwater constantly flow down from the Ice Giant Mountains and flood every low spot, every crater. To the south, vast lakes fill the craters and shimmer across the thin strip of tundra that lines the coast. The craters are the most obvious evidence of the ancient war, though I have found far more grisly evidence.
I will not climb into the Ice Giant Mountains without veering wide around the ice cave where a desiccated Jemen man sits silently in the rear with his hands folded in his lap, or quickly passing the woman lying on her belly near the glacial summit with her fingers embedded in the ice—as though still struggling to crawl away from her enemy after a thousand summers. Then there are the slaughter pens. Piles of bodies in various stages of undress that shame me to look upon. I refuse to go near those places again. The lolling thighs and shrunken genitals are agonizing . . . things that were never supposed to be exposed to casual strangers. But worst of all to me are the severed parts of giant creatures that should not exist. A monstrous scaled wing lying on the ice. Gigantic skulls three times the size of ours. Here and there, claw-like feet with tightly curled toes. Many of the skulls are shattered, as though they were dropped from some great height. Or perhaps they fell dead from the sky, killed by a Jemen weapon that I cannot even imagine.
Movement catches my eye.
Down the mountain slope, a pride of giant lions trots the trail through the pines. They are massive predators, taller than I am, with powerful front legs for grabbing and holding prey. I’ve sat here reminiscing for too long. The animals are out on their nightly hunts. Soon dire wolves and short-faced bears will silently creep through the darkness.
Rising, I pick up my spear and trot away along the icy bison trail that winds down the slope through the trees. The last windstorm tore many pine cones loose and tumbled them down the trail. I leap over them, afraid they will crunch beneath my hide boots and draw the lions’ attention. The only time I’ve ever felt safe around the prides was when Arakie was with me, for the prides always left us alone—as though he was a member of the pride. Though I never saw my dear friend change into an animal, Sticks says he saw Arakie change into a giant lion the night he died. I don’t disbelieve him. Our most ancient stories say that Jemen had to learn to change into animals to survive the crushing cold that descended upon the world after the zyme started to spread. I suspect, however, that Quancee projected those animal shapes to protect the last of the Jemen who’d been condemned to remain on earth while the rest flew to the stars. I’ve never asked, because it doesn’t matter now. She’s failing and too weak to shield me in that way, and I know it.
As I curve around the trail, I see the square entry filled with blue light—the entry to the last Jemen stronghold. Deep inside, Quancee stands hidden in a small chamber.
It’s another three heartbeats before I realize a man leans back against the left side of the entry. The hood of his lion-hide cape is pulled up, but inside it, brown hair frames his small oval face with its long nose and pointed chin. The Rust People consider him to be the last god to walk the earth.
When he sees me, Vice Admiral Jorgensen calls, “Did you show them the cavern of the blue faces? What did they say?”
He seems unnaturally eager to know, as though it matters a great deal to his plans for the future. I don’t answer right away. It’s hard for me to fathom the way he thinks. Like a deadly spider, he builds an intricate web of words to trap his prey.
I finish climbing up the hill and sit down cross-legged opposite the entry, four paces away. I don’t like being too close to him. Laying my spear across my lap, I hold tight to the shaft. The mammoth-bone spearpoint shines green in the growing zyme light.
For a few moments, my gaze locks with his. Homo sapiens’ faces are so unlike those of my people, Denisovan reecur. Denisovans are closely related to Rust People, whom he calls Neandertals. Denisovans and Neandertals have similar heavy faces with broad noses and receding chins. And we are very different from the half-human Dog Soldiers who guide the Rust People. They have flat skulls and large feral ears.
Finally, I answer, “I’ll walk down and find Quiller tomorrow. We’ll go there together.”
Jorgensen angrily slaps dust from his cape. “Which means you did not show them. That displeases me greatly, Lynx.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Why is it so hard for you to perform the simple tasks I give you?”
“I needed to think about it for a time. That’s all.”
Jorgensen heaves a breath, and it frosts the air before him. “Your archaic human brain is not very good at thinking things through. You should let me do that. All you have to do is follow my orders.”
Over the past two summers, our relationship has grown increasingly strained. He gets frustrated with my apparent stupidity. The truth is that I must ponder the possible ramifications of his orders before I act upon them. He exhibits a perverse joy in showing me the horrors committed by his long-vanished people, and I don’t understand why. It’s as though he hates his own species.
Leaning forward, he waves a hand through the cold air. “Explain why you want to just take Quiller there. Why not take the entire village to see the caverns?”
“She is the matron of the Blue Dolphin clan now. It’s her decision, not mine, and certainly not yours.”
“Lynx . . .” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t show you these things for my own amusement. It’s vitally important that they know the truth—”
“Why?”
“Why? That’s the kind of ridiculous question that annoys me.” He shoves back his hood, and his shoulder-length brown hair blows around his face. “Don’t you think they ought to know the truth about their ‘gods’?”
“Your truth. Not their truth.”
“Truth is truth. Period.” He glares, then turns away to gander southward at the line of volcanoes rising from the tundra. Smoke cloaks their cones, blotting out the campfires of the dead that sprinkle the glossy green sky.
“Quancee committed crimes against humanity. Your people should know that, Lynx. My family is in the first cavern. So is Arakie’s. If your people are ever to get beyond their superstitions about the device and—”
“But we are not human—not Homo sapiens. So she committed no crimes against our people. She is innocent to us.”
“Innocent?” He laughs the word. “Quancee is a weapon. The most powerful weapon the world has ever seen. Protecting it is a crime against life itself.”
My heart starts to pound. “Arakie left me as her caretaker. I plan to carry out that obligation.”
“Leaving you as her caretaker was another epic mistake on his part. God knows he made a lot of them.”
Sighing, I reply, “Vice Admiral, I’m tired. I don’t wish to argue with you tonight.”
“Promise me you will—”
“I just told you I will show Quiller tomorrow. After that, it’s up to her to decide if the rest of the Sealion People should be shown.”
For a time Jorgensen peers out at the verdant glowing ocean. “After all that John Arakie taught you, you continue to think that the primitive ways of your people matter. Clan matrons and silly myths—”
Offended, I say, “My people are not primitive.”
Jorgensen gets to his feet and props his hands on his hips. “John agreed with you. He thought you were his greatest creation, did he ever tell you that?”
“Not exactly, no. He said—”
“He gave your species the genetic structure that would allow you to create a sort of mystical symbiotic relationship with Quancee after he was gone. Over the generations, most of you lost the genes. You, Lynx, are the rare exception. You may be the only one left who has the ability to bond with the computer—and that’s why you are dangerous. Quancee can blind you and mislead you—”
“She is not blinding me to anything.”
His smile is condescending. “The computer is not a she, Lynx. It’s a mechanical device. You have to stop thinking it’s alive.”
I’ve never trusted Jorgensen. The Vice Admiral did not appear to me until after John Arakie was dead, and I suspect the timing was no coincidence. Arakie’s death freed Jorgensen from ancient military obligations. Did he also think he would automatically become Quancee’s caretaker?
“Can’t you also be her caretaker?” I ask.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to be its caretaker.”
Solemnly, I reply, “Then I will take the best care of Quancee that I can. That’s what Arakie wanted.”
With a barely disguised glee, he says, “But you are a bad caretaker, Lynx. Quancee is almost useless now. It’s falling apart. The only way to take care of it is to repair it. Can you do that?”
“No, I can’t. Can you?”
He nods, but it’s a faint gesture. “Within limits, yes, and it must be repaired. That computer has the ability to do things you cannot possibly comprehend. It can spin dreams from nothingness and leap through the coordinates of time. Not only that, if it was working properly, Quancee could extend your life for centuries and give you the ability—”
“I don’t want to live forever.”
“Of course you don’t.” He laughs again. “That’s why Arakie chose you. He knew you’d never ask Quancee to do anything, because you’re not smart enough to conceive the questions.”
I wonder about that. It’s possible. He does have a much larger brain than I do, and he seems to understand complex arguments that baffle me.
“Arakie said no one could repair her. He told me that when the supply ships stopped coming—”
“John was a geneticist.” As icy wind gusts up the mountain slope, his cape whips and snaps around him. “He was my best friend, and my commanding officer after the treaty, but he should never have altered his genome so that he could become its caretaker. He developed an unnatural obsession with Quancee. I swear he looked upon that computer as his beloved child. He never understood the little details of how it works. Keep in mind, before I was forced into the military, I was a computer engineer, and I barely understand Quancee. She was created by the greatest minds on earth, but soon after her creation, she transcended all of our understandings.”
Hope fills me when I look up at him. “What did you mean when you said you could repair Quancee ‘within limits’?”
As though contemplating whether or not to answer, he tilts his head back and frowns up at the Road of Light that paints a swath across the pale green sky. Sealion People believe that at death souls follow that sacred road to get to the campfires of the dead where our ancestors wait to greet us. After a time, Jorgensen bows his head. “Even if I could find the necessary components, at this stage of its decay, I’ll never be able to completely repair it, but I might be able to configure something useful from its last working parts.”
“You mean the components to repair Quancee exist?”
“Of course they exist.” He walks a short distance away to grimace out at the glowing ocean. “In the last days of the war—” he gestures to the cavern behind me—“we packed the Stronghold with supplies of every kind, including every possible component we might need for Quancee. But during the bombardment, many of the tunnels and caves collapsed. The tunnel where we stored Quancee’s supplies is buried a mile deep beneath tons of debris. I’ll never get to them, and even if I could, they’ve been lying unused for centuries. I doubt they’re functional.”
Bursting with hope, I ask, “But if we could find them and they were functional, couldn’t Quancee tell us how to repair her?”
He pauses. “Well, yes, Lynx, but it doesn’t want to be repaired. Didn’t it tell you?”
The words hang in the air.
“Of course she wants to—”
“Don’t you think both Arakie and I wanted to repair it? I crawled on my belly through every tunnel I could, despite the fact that Quancee told us to stop looking.”
“But . . .” I spread my hands. “Why would she do that?”
“It wants to die.” His preternaturally blue eyes shine even in the darkness, like a wolf’s eyes. Another unholy creation of the Jemen.
“Why would she want to die?”
Jorgensen waves a hand through the moonlight. “The Stronghold switched hands several times. That computer was the key to winning the war. We all wanted it. Then, for no apparent reason, Quancee started shutting down systems of its own volition.”
“Yes, Arakie told me about that. He said Quancee was heartsick over being used to kill thousands, and she—”
“Thousands?” Jorgensen stares at me like I’m an idiot. “Billions died, Lynx. But I’ll bet you can’t even conceive that number, can you?”
I stare at him with my mouth open. “I will speak with Quancee about it. She will explain.”
He rolls his eyes. “You should be asking Quancee how to save Sealion People. That would be a productive use of your last moments with her. Don’t you know extinction is right around the corner?”
I examine him through half-lidded eyes. “Do you care if my people go extinct?”
Another laugh as he shakes his head. “No. In fact, I think it’s for the best. There’s no doubt in my mind but that the earth is better off without hominins.” He obsessively dusts off his cape again and starts walking away down the bison trail.
“Why is the earth better off without us?” I call after him.
He flips up his hood and continues walking. Over his shoulder he answers, “Ask Quancee about the original arguments.”
“What arguments?”
Jorgensen halts in the trail with his back to me. At last, he turns. “Quancee calculated the probable consequences of Homo recr. Many scientists, including me, agreed with Quancee that re-creating archaic species would be a tragic mistake.”
“Why?”
“For God’s sake, Lynx.” He stabs a finger at me. “The seeds of everything evil that we became are in you! And look at your history. It proves Quancee was right. You warred with the Rust People for centuries. You know why?”
I swallow hard. “Why?”
He pronounces each word separately: “The. Will. To. Survive. At. Any. Cost. That’s the essence of what hominins are.” Jorgensen turns away so that I can’t see his face, just the side of his hood. “We destroy everything we touch. It was unconscionable to condemn the earth to go through it all over again.”
“I don’t believe you. Arakie told me—”
“Oh, you need not repeat his words,” he says through a long exhalation. “I can recite his argument from memory: ‘The archaic species will evolve along a different path. They will never develop a Homo sapiens brain, and without that brain the earth will be safe.’” After five long heartbeats, he adds, “He was wrong. And he knew it at the end. He’d already documented the mutations that would lead to modern humanity.”
Jorgensen strides away into the growing darkness.
I watch him for as long as I can, until he disappears into the black weave of tree shadows. No one, especially me, should ever let Jorgensen out of his sight.