Free Asgard's Heart by Brian Stableford Page A
Authors: Brian Stableford
the wrong
side, ten thousand life-systems might be blown to atoms.
The Tetrax had always posed as great believers in the
brotherhood of humanoid races, and were never slow to preach to others the
doctrine that truly civilized people outgrew the folly of war. I had always
had my doubts as to whether the likes of 994-Tulyar really believed that, but
673-Nisreen seemed less of a hypocrite. For him, the thought that the godlike
beings who had built Asgard were involved in the kind of war where multiple
genocide might qualify as a minor incident must be a very shocking one.
As I had said to Jacinthe Siani, it was beginning to
look as if we were inhabitants of a rather disappointing universe.
9
My own
room was mercifully undamaged, and I was glad to be able to retreat into it at
last. I removed my bloodstained shirt as carefully as I could, and inspected
the damage with the aid of a couple of mirrors. The cuts seemed superficial,
and were already on the mend—I obviously healed quickly now that the Isthomi
had tuned up my body. I knew, though, that it was no good being potentially
immortal if I persisted in such hazardous activities as standing next to explosions
and playing hunt-the-human with fire-spitting dragons. What it would take to
kill me, I didn't know, but I didn't particularly want to test myself to the
limit.
I asked the dispenser to give me something for my headache,
and was pleased that it was still capable of obliging me, even though the
something was only aspirin.
Then I sat down on my bed, and relaxed for a little
while.
A little chime sounded, but it wasn't the door or the
phone. It was the Nine's discreet request for permission to ennoble my walls
with their active presence.
"Okay," I said, tiredly. "I'm
decent." It was a slight exaggeration, but I knew that the Nine didn't
care.
They presented me with the customary female image, but
she was standing, and she was wearing the Star Force uniform. It would have
been in keeping with the propriety of the moment if she'd had a regulation
flame-pistol in her belt, but even the Nine weren't prepared to go that far for
the sake of mere appearances.
"I haven't made up my mind yet," I told her.
"And although it probably testifies to the limitations of my imagination,
I actually care far more about what's going to happen to this sad bundle of
meaty bones than the heroic exploits of any non-carbon copy of its animating
spirit."
"I would like you to tell me about the
dream," she said calmly.
"The dream?"
"When you were unconscious in the aftermath of
the incident in the garden you had a dream."
"Is it important?"
"I believe so. It is the means by which the
biocopy in your brain is making itself known to you. The imagery is undoubtedly
borrowed—much as the image which I present to you now is borrowed—but there
seems to be a serious attempt at communication going on . . . perhaps a
desperate one."
I told her as much as I could remember. She winkled
out a few extra details by shrewd cross-examination. I was glad I'd had the
aspirin.
"The core of the dream," she assured me,
"is the series of images which you saw in approaching its climax. The
wolf-pack; the diseased world-tree; the ship of the dead; the traitor; the
fiery army; the bridge; the face of a god."
"I don't think it means anything in
particular," I told her. "I know where it comes from. It's part of
another myth-set from my homeworld—the set from which we borrowed the name
Asgard. The things I saw were all part of the build-up to Gotterdammerung . . . the twilight of the gods.
It's not unnatural that I should try to represent a war inside Asgard in those
terms: the gods versus the giants in the ultimate conflict. How else could I
try to get to grips with what's happening here? It all comes out of something I
read once, just like Medusa."
"There is no way that the biocopy can make itself
known to you save by exploiting the meaning of your own ideas," she told
me. "It must speak to you by means of
side, ten thousand life-systems might be blown to atoms.
The Tetrax had always posed as great believers in the
brotherhood of humanoid races, and were never slow to preach to others the
doctrine that truly civilized people outgrew the folly of war. I had always
had my doubts as to whether the likes of 994-Tulyar really believed that, but
673-Nisreen seemed less of a hypocrite. For him, the thought that the godlike
beings who had built Asgard were involved in the kind of war where multiple
genocide might qualify as a minor incident must be a very shocking one.
As I had said to Jacinthe Siani, it was beginning to
look as if we were inhabitants of a rather disappointing universe.
9
My own
room was mercifully undamaged, and I was glad to be able to retreat into it at
last. I removed my bloodstained shirt as carefully as I could, and inspected
the damage with the aid of a couple of mirrors. The cuts seemed superficial,
and were already on the mend—I obviously healed quickly now that the Isthomi
had tuned up my body. I knew, though, that it was no good being potentially
immortal if I persisted in such hazardous activities as standing next to explosions
and playing hunt-the-human with fire-spitting dragons. What it would take to
kill me, I didn't know, but I didn't particularly want to test myself to the
limit.
I asked the dispenser to give me something for my headache,
and was pleased that it was still capable of obliging me, even though the
something was only aspirin.
Then I sat down on my bed, and relaxed for a little
while.
A little chime sounded, but it wasn't the door or the
phone. It was the Nine's discreet request for permission to ennoble my walls
with their active presence.
"Okay," I said, tiredly. "I'm
decent." It was a slight exaggeration, but I knew that the Nine didn't
care.
They presented me with the customary female image, but
she was standing, and she was wearing the Star Force uniform. It would have
been in keeping with the propriety of the moment if she'd had a regulation
flame-pistol in her belt, but even the Nine weren't prepared to go that far for
the sake of mere appearances.
"I haven't made up my mind yet," I told her.
"And although it probably testifies to the limitations of my imagination,
I actually care far more about what's going to happen to this sad bundle of
meaty bones than the heroic exploits of any non-carbon copy of its animating
spirit."
"I would like you to tell me about the
dream," she said calmly.
"The dream?"
"When you were unconscious in the aftermath of
the incident in the garden you had a dream."
"Is it important?"
"I believe so. It is the means by which the
biocopy in your brain is making itself known to you. The imagery is undoubtedly
borrowed—much as the image which I present to you now is borrowed—but there
seems to be a serious attempt at communication going on . . . perhaps a
desperate one."
I told her as much as I could remember. She winkled
out a few extra details by shrewd cross-examination. I was glad I'd had the
aspirin.
"The core of the dream," she assured me,
"is the series of images which you saw in approaching its climax. The
wolf-pack; the diseased world-tree; the ship of the dead; the traitor; the
fiery army; the bridge; the face of a god."
"I don't think it means anything in
particular," I told her. "I know where it comes from. It's part of
another myth-set from my homeworld—the set from which we borrowed the name
Asgard. The things I saw were all part of the build-up to Gotterdammerung . . . the twilight of the gods.
It's not unnatural that I should try to represent a war inside Asgard in those
terms: the gods versus the giants in the ultimate conflict. How else could I
try to get to grips with what's happening here? It all comes out of something I
read once, just like Medusa."
"There is no way that the biocopy can make itself
known to you save by exploiting the meaning of your own ideas," she told
me. "It must speak to you by means of