Spell that, sent Mahnmut. sent Mahnmut.

Orphu of Io did so.

What the hell is a gnostic? asked Mahnmut. He'd had several revelations about his old friend recently-including the fact that Orphu was an expert on James Joyce and Lost Era writers other than Proust-and he wasn't sure he was ready for more. asked Mahnmut. He'd had several revelations about his old friend recently-including the fact that Orphu was an expert on James Joyce and Lost Era writers other than Proust-and he wasn't sure he was ready for more.

It doesn't matter what a gnostic is, sent Orphu, sent Orphu, but a hundred years before the Christians burned Giordano Bruno at the stake in Venice, they burned a gnostic, a Sufi magus named Solomon Molkho in Mantua. Solomon Molkho taught that when the change occurred, the Dragon would be destroyed without weapons and but a hundred years before the Christians burned Giordano Bruno at the stake in Venice, they burned a gnostic, a Sufi magus named Solomon Molkho in Mantua. Solomon Molkho taught that when the change occurred, the Dragon would be destroyed without weapons and everything everything on Earth and in the heavens would be changed. on Earth and in the heavens would be changed.

"Dragons? Magus?" Mahnmut said aloud.

"What?" said Suma IV from the cockpit bubble.

"Say again?" commed Centurion Leader Mep Ahoo from his jumpseat in the troop transport module.

"Please say that again," came Prime Integrator Asteague/Che's British-accented voice from the Queen Mab, Queen Mab, telling Mahnmut that the mother ship was monitoring their intercom chatter as well as their official transmissions. But not, he fervently hoped, tapping into their tight-beam conversations. telling Mahnmut that the mother ship was monitoring their intercom chatter as well as their official transmissions. But not, he fervently hoped, tapping into their tight-beam conversations.

Never mind, sent Mahnmut. sent Mahnmut. I'll ask about the dragon and the maguses and such another time. I'll ask about the dragon and the maguses and such another time.

On the intercom, Mahnmut said, "Sorry...nothing...just thinking out loud."

"Let's maintain radio discipline," snapped Suma IV.

"Yes...uh...sir," said Mahnmut.

Down in the hold, Orphu of Io rumbled in the subsonic.

Odysseus' construction shuttle slowly approached the brightly lit glass city girdling the asteroid. Sensors from the shuttle confirmed that the underlying asteroid was roughly potato-shaped and about twenty kilometers long by almost eleven kilometers in diameter. Every square meter of the asteroid's nickel-iron surface was covered by the crystal city, with the steel, glass, and buckycarbon towers and bubbles rising to a maximum height of half a kilometer. Sensors showed that the entire structure was pressurized at sea-level Earth normal, that the molecules of air inevitably leaking out through the glass suggested Earth-norm oxygen-nitrogen-carbon-dioxide mix atmosphere, and that the internal temperatures would be comfortable for a human who had lived around the Mediterranean Sea before the late Lost Era climate changes...someone from Odysseus' era, for instance.

On the bridge of the Queen Mab Queen Mab a thousand kilometers away and holding, all of the command 'vecs monitored their sensors and screens more intently as an invisible tentacle of forcefield energy reached out from the crystal asteroid city, grabbed the construction shuttle, and pulled it in toward an airlock-like opening high on the tallest glass tower. a thousand kilometers away and holding, all of the command 'vecs monitored their sensors and screens more intently as an invisible tentacle of forcefield energy reached out from the crystal asteroid city, grabbed the construction shuttle, and pulled it in toward an airlock-like opening high on the tallest glass tower.

"Shut down the shuttle's thrusters and autopilot," commanded Cho Li.

Retrograde Sinopessen monitored Odysseus' biotelemetry and said, "Our human friend is fine. Excited...heart rate up a bit and adrenaline levels rising...he can see out that little window...but otherwise healthy."

Holographic images flickered above consoles and the chart table as the shuttle was drawn closer and then pulled into the dark rectangle of the airlock. A glass door slid shut. Sensors on the shuttle registered a forcefield differential pushing it "down"-substituting for gravity to within 0.68 Earth standard-and then the sensors recorded atmosphere rushing into the large airlock chamber. It was as breathable as the air at Ilium.

"Radio, maser, and quantum telemetric data is quite clear," reported Cho Li. "The glass of the city wall does not block it."

"He's not in the city yet," grumbled General Beh bin Adee. "He's just in the airlock. Don't be surprised if the Voice cuts off transmissions as soon as Odysseus is inside."

They watched on the subjective skin cameras-and so did everyone aboard the dropship some fifty thousand kilometers away-as Odysseus uncoiled from the small space, stretched, and began walking toward an interior door. Although wearing soft shipsuit clothing, the human had insisted over all the moravecs' protests on bringing his round shield and short sword. The shield was raised now and the sword was ready as the bearded man approached the brightly illuminated door.

"Unless anyone has any further need to study Jerusalem or the neutrino beam, I'll set course for Europe now," Suma IV said over the intercom.

No one protested, although Mahnmut was busy describing the colors of the Old City of Jerusalem to Ophu-the reds of the late afternoon sun on the ancient buildings, the gold gleaming of the mosque, the clay-colored streets and dark gray shadows of the alleys, the shocking, sudden green of olive groves here and there, and everywhere the slick, wet, slimy green of the amphibian creatures.

The dropship accelerated to Mach 3 and headed northeast toward the old capital of Dimashq in what had once been called Syria or the Kahn Ho Tep Province of Nyainqentanglha Shan West, Suma IV keeping a distance between the aircraft and the dome of nullifying energy over the dried-up Mediterranean. As they covered the length of old Syria and banked sharply left to head west along the Anatolian Peninsula over the bones of old Turkey, the ship fully stealthed and doing a silent Mach 2.8 at an altitude of thirty-four thousand meters, Mahnmut suddenly said, "Can we slow down and orbit near the Aegean coast south of the Hellespont?"

"We can," replied Suma IV over the intercom, "but we're behind schedule for our survey of the blue-ice city in France. Is there something along the coast up here that's worth our detour and time?"

"The site of Troy," said Mahnmut. "Ilium."

The dropship began decelerating and losing altitude. When it reached the crawling pace of three hundred kilometers per hour-and with the brown and green of the emptied Mediterranean approaching fast and the water of the Hellespont to the north-Suma IV retracted the stubby delta wings and unfolded the hundred-meter-long, multiplaned gossamer wings with their slowly turning propellers.

Mahnmut softly sang on the intercom- "They say that Achilles in the darkness stirred...

And Priam and his fifty sons Wake all amazed and hear the guns, And shake for Troy again."

Who's that? sent Orphu. I don't recognize that verse. I don't recognize that verse.

Rupert Brooke, Mahnmut replied on the tightbeam. Mahnmut replied on the tightbeam. World War Iera British poet. He wrote that on his way to Gallipoli...but he never got to Gallipoli. Died of disease along the way. World War Iera British poet. He wrote that on his way to Gallipoli...but he never got to Gallipoli. Died of disease along the way.

"I say," boomed General Beh bin Adee on the common band, "I can't say much for your radio discipline, little Europan, but that's a cracking good poem."

On the crystal city in polar orbit, the airlock door slid up and Odysseus entered into the city proper. It was filled with sunlight, trees, vines, tropical birds, streams, a waterfall tumbling from a tall outcropping of lichen-covered stone, old ruins, and small wildlife. Odysseus saw a red deer quit munching grass, raise its head, look at the human approaching behind his shield with sword raised, and then walk calmly away.

"Sensors indicate a humanoid form is approaching-not yet visible through the foliage," Cho Li radioed to the dropship.

Odysseus heard the footsteps before he saw her-bare feet on packed soil and smooth rock. He lowered his shield and slid his sword into the loop on his broad belt as she came into sight.

The woman was beautiful beyond words. Even the inhuman moravecs in their steel and plastic shells, with organic hearts thumping next to their hydraulic hearts, organic brains and glands nestling next to plastic pumps and nanocyte servomechanisms-even the moravecs one thousand kilometers away staring at their holograms recognized how incredibly beautiful the woman was.

Her skin was a tanned brown, her hair long and dark but streaked with blond, the curls flowing down over her bare shoulders. She wore only the slightest two-piece outfit of glittering but flimsy silk that emphasized her full, heavy breasts and broad hips. Her feet were bare but there were gold bracelets around her slim ankles and a riot of bracelets on each wrist, silver and gold clasps on her smooth upper arms.

As she came closer, Odysseus and the staring moravecs in space and the staring moravecs circling above ancient Troy saw that the woman's eyebrows arched in a sensuous curve over her amazingly green eyes, that her lashes were long and dark, and that what had looked like makeup around those amazing eyes from three meters away resolved into normal shadows and skin tones as she approached to within a meter of the stunned Odysseus. Her lips were soft, full, and very red.

In perfect Greek of Odysseus' era, in a voice as soft as a breeze through palms or the rustle of perfectly tuned wind chimes, the beautiful woman said, "Welcome, Odysseus. I have been waiting for you for many years. My name is Sycorax."

68.

On the second evening of his hike through the Atlantic Breach with Moira, Harman found himself thinking of many things.

Something about walking between the two high walls of water-the Atlantic was more than five hundred feet deep here, on their second day of walking, now almost seventy miles out from the coast-was absolutely mesmerizing. A bundle of protein memory stored in modified DNA helixes somewhere near his spine pedantically tugged at Harman's consciousness and wanted to fill in the details-(the word mesmerizing is based upon Franz Anton Mesmer, born May 23, 1734, in Iznang, Swabia, died March 5, 1815, in Meersburg, Swabia-German physician whose system of therapeutics known as mesmerism, in which he affected sympathetic control of his patients' consciousness, was the forerunner of the later practice of hypnotism...)-but Harman's mind, lost in labyrinths of thought, batted away the interruption. He was getting better at shutting down the nonessential voices roaring in and around his mind, but his head still hurt like a son of a bitch.

The five-hundred-foot-high walls of water on each side of the eighty-yard dry path were also frightening and even two days in the Breach hadn't fully acclimated Harman to the sense of claustrophobia and fear of imminent collapse. He'd actually been in the Atlantic Breach once before, two years earlier when he was celebrating his ninety-eighth birthday-leaving from faxnode 124 near the Loman Estate on what had once been the New Jersey coast of North America and walking two days out, two days back, but not covering nearly so much ground as he was with Moira-and the walls of water and deep gloom of the trench had not bothered him so much then. Of course, Of course, Harman thought, Harman thought, I was younger then. And believed in magic. I was younger then. And believed in magic.

He and Moira had not spoken in several hours, but their strides easily matched each other and they walked well together in silence. Harman was analyzing some of the information that now filled his universe, but mostly he was thinking about what he could and should do if he ever did manage to get back to Ardis.

The first thing he should do, he realized, is apologize to Ada from the bottom of his heart for having left on that idiotic voyage to the Golden Gate at Machu Picchu. His pregnant wife and unborn child should have come first. Consciously, he'd known that then, but he knew knew it now. it now.

Next Harman was trying to stitch together a plan for saving his beloved, his unborn child, his friends, and his species. This was not so easy.

What was easier easier with the million volumes of information that had been-literally-poured into him was seeing some options. with the million volumes of information that had been-literally-poured into him was seeing some options.

First of all, there were the reawakened functions his mind and body kept exploring, almost one hundred of them. The most important of these, at least in the short term, was the free-fax function. Rather than find nodes and activate machinery, the nano-machinery present in every old-style human, and now understood by Harman, could fax from anywhere to anywhere on the planet Earth and even-should the interdictions be dropped-from the surface of the planet to selected points in the 1,108,303 objects, machines, and cities in orbit around the Earth. Free-faxing could save them all from the voynix-and from Setebos and his loosened calibani, calibani, even from Caliban himself-but only if the fax machines and storage modules in orbit were turned back on for humans. even from Caliban himself-but only if the fax machines and storage modules in orbit were turned back on for humans.

Second, Harman now knew several ways he could get back up to the rings and even had a vague understanding of the alien-witch-thing named Sycorax who now ruled the former post-human orbital universe up there, but he had no clue as to how he and others could overpower Sycorax and Caliban-for Harman was certain that Setebos had sent his only begotten son up to the rings to interdict the fax function. But if they did did prevail, Harman knew that he would have to drown in more crystal cabinets before he'd have all the technical information he needed to reactivate the complicated fax and sensor satellites. prevail, Harman knew that he would have to drown in more crystal cabinets before he'd have all the technical information he needed to reactivate the complicated fax and sensor satellites.

Third, as Harman studied the many functions now available to him-many of which dealt with monitoring his own body and mind and finding data stored there-he knew that it would not be a problem sharing his newfound information. One of the lost functions was a simple sharing function-a sort of reverse sigling-wherein Harman could touch another old-style human, select the RNA-DNA caged protein memory packets he wanted to download, and the information would flow through his flesh and skin to the other person. It had been perfected for the Little Green Men prototypes almost two thousand years earlier, and quickly been adapted to human nanocyte function. All old-styles had this nano-induced DNA-bound memory capability and all old-styles had the hundred latent functions in their bodies and minds, but it took one informed person to start the rekindling of human abilities.

Harman had to smile. Moira could be...no, was was...annoying with her many little in-jokes and obscure references, but he understood now why she kept calling him "my young Prometheus." Prometheus, Prometheus, according to Hesiod, meant "foresighted" or "prophetic" and the character Prometheus in Aeschylus, and in the works of Shelley, Wu, and other great poets, was the Titan revolutionary who stole essential knowledge-fire-from the gods and brought it down to the groveling human race, elevating them into something almost like gods. Almost. according to Hesiod, meant "foresighted" or "prophetic" and the character Prometheus in Aeschylus, and in the works of Shelley, Wu, and other great poets, was the Titan revolutionary who stole essential knowledge-fire-from the gods and brought it down to the groveling human race, elevating them into something almost like gods. Almost.

"That's why you disconnected us from our functions," Harman said, not even realizing that he was speaking aloud.

"What?"

He looked at the post-human woman walking next to him in the gathering gloom. "You didn't want us to become gods. That's why you never activated our functions."

"Of course."

"Yet all of the posts except you chose to go off to another world or dimension and play at being gods."

"Of course."

Harman understood. The first necessity and prerogative for a god, small "g" or capital "G," was to have no other gods before him or her. He concentrated on his thoughts again.

Harman's thinking had changed since the crystal cabinet. Where it once centered on things, places, people, and emotions, it now was mostly figurative-a complicated dance of metaphors, metonymies, ironies, and synecdoches. With billions of facts-things, places, and people-set into his very cells, the focus of his thoughts had shifted to the connections and shades and nuances and recognition side of things. Emotions were still there-stronger, if anything-but where his feelings had once surged like some big, booming bass overpowering the rest of the orchestra, they now danced like a delicate but powerful violin solo.

Much too much murky metaphor for a mere measly man, thought Harman, looking with irony at the presumption of his own thoughts. thought Harman, looking with irony at the presumption of his own thoughts. And an awful lot of alliteration from an anxious asshole. And an awful lot of alliteration from an anxious asshole.

Despite his self-mockery, he knew that he now owned the gift of being able to look at things-people, places, things, feelings, himself-with the kind of recognition that can only come from maturing into nuance, growing into oneself, and in the learning how to accept ironies and metaphors and synecdoches and metonymies not only in language, but in the hardwiring of the universe.

If he could reconnect with his own kind, get back to any old-style human enclave, not just back to Ardis, his new functions would change humankind forever. He would not force them on anyone, but since this iteration of homo sapiens homo sapiens was very close to being eradicated from this post-postmodern world, he doubted if anyone under attack by voynix, was very close to being eradicated from this post-postmodern world, he doubted if anyone under attack by voynix, calibani, calibani, and a giant, soul-sucking brain skittering around on multiple hands would object too strenuously to gaining new gifts, powers, and a survival advantage. and a giant, soul-sucking brain skittering around on multiple hands would object too strenuously to gaining new gifts, powers, and a survival advantage.

Are these functions-in the long run-a survival advantage for my species? Harman asked himself. Harman asked himself.

The answer, which came in his own mental voice, was the clear cry of a Zen master hearing a stupid question from one of his acolytes-"Mu!"-meaning roughly, "Unask the question, stupid." This syllable was often to followed by the equally monosyllabic "Qwatz!" which was the Zen master's cry simultaneous with leaping and striking the stupid student about the head and shoulders with the heavy, weighted teacher's staff.

Mu. There is no "long run" here-that will be for my sons and daughters and their children to decide. Right now, everything-everything-exists in the short run.

And the threat of being disemboweled by a humpbacked voynix tends to focus the mind wonderfully well. If the functions were turned back on-Harman knew why the old functions, including the finder function, allnet, proxnet, farnet, as well as sigling, were not working-someone up there in the rings had turned off the transmissions as surely as they'd switched off the fax machines.

If the functions were turned back on...

But how could they be turned back on?

Once again, Harman studied the problem of getting back up to the rings and switching everything back on-power, servitors, fax, all of the functions.

He needed to know if there were others besides Sycorax up there, waiting, and what their defenses were. The million books he'd ingested in the crystal cabinet had no opinion on this crucial question.

"Why won't you or Prospero QT me up to the rings?" asked Harman. He turned to look at Moira and realized that he could just barely see her in the failing light. Her face was illuminated mostly by ringlight.

"We choose not to," she said in her most maddening Bartleby fashion.

Harman thought of the slug-throwing gun in his pack on the back. Would brandishing a weapon in her direction-and allowing her to read the sincerity in his face since the post-humans had their own functions for reading and understanding human reactions-would that combination convince her to quantum teleport him to Ardis or the rings?

He knew it wouldn't. She would never have given him the gun if it were a threat to her. She had some countermeasure built into the weapon-perhaps she could keep it from firing just by the force of her post-human thoughts, some simple brainwave circuitry built into the firing mechanism-or something equally as foolproof and bulletproof built into her.

"You and the magus went to all that trouble to kidnap me, ship me across India to the Himalayas, just to stick me in the crystal cabinet, drown me, and educate me," said Harman. These were the most words he'd strung together since they'd begun hiking the Breach, and he realized how banal and redundant they were. "Why did you do that if you don't want me to prevail against Setebos and the other bad guys?"

Moira did not smile again. "If you're meant to get to the rings, you'll find a way up there."

" 'Meant to' sounds like some sort of Calvinist predestination," said Harman, stepping over a low lump of desiccated coral. The Breach so far had been surprisingly easy-iron bridges over the few ocean-bottom abysses they'd encountered, paths blasted or lasered into rocky or coral ridges, gentle inclines for the most part and metal cables to help them descend or ascend where the going was steep-so Harman had not had to spend much time watching his feet. But it was hard to see detail in this falling light.

Moira had not responded or visibly reacted to his feeble witticism, so he said, "There are other Firmaries."

"Prospero told you that before."

"Yeah, but it's just sunk in. We old-styles don't have have to die or rebuild medicine from scratch. There are more rejuvenation tanks up there." to die or rebuild medicine from scratch. There are more rejuvenation tanks up there."

"Yes, of course. The post-humans prepared to serve an old-style population of one million. There are other Firmaries and blue-worm tanks on other orbital isles in both the equatorial and polar rings. Surely this is obvious."

"Yes, obvious," said Harman, "but you have to remember that I have all the savvy of a newborn babe."

"I have not forgotten that," said Moira.

"I don't have specific data on where the other Firmaries are," said Harman. "Can you pinpoint them for me?"

"I'll point them out for you after we douse the campfire tonight," Moira said drily.

"No. I mean on a chart of the rings."

"Do you have have a chart of the rings, my young Prometheus? Is that part of what you ate and drank back at the Taj?" a chart of the rings, my young Prometheus? Is that part of what you ate and drank back at the Taj?"

"No," said Harman, "but you can draw one for us-orbital coordinates, everything."

"Are you pondering immortality so soon after birth then, Prometheus?"

Am I? wondered Harman. Then he remembered his last thought before the realization that other Firmaries were in mothballs up there in the post-human rings-it had been of Ada, pregnant and injured. wondered Harman. Then he remembered his last thought before the realization that other Firmaries were in mothballs up there in the post-human rings-it had been of Ada, pregnant and injured.

"Why were all the operative fax-in/fax-out healing tanks on Prospero's isle?" he asked. Even as he asked the question, he'd seen the answer like a memory of a forgotten nightmare.

"Prospero arranged that to keep his captive Caliban fed," said Moira.

Harman felt his stomach lurch. Part of that was his reaction to having ever felt any friendly or forgiving thoughts toward the logosphere avatar magus. But most of the sudden surge of nausea came from the fact that he'd not eaten anything since two bites of that day's food bar before dawn that morning, and he'd forgotten even to drink from his hydrator tube in the past few hours. "Why are you stopping?" he asked Moira.

"It's too dark to walk," said the post-human. "Let's build our fire and cook our weenies and roast some marshmallows and sing camp songs. Then you can get a few hours' sleep and dream of living forever in the bright future of the blue-worm tanks."

"You know," said Harman, "you can really be a sarcastic pain in the ass sometimes."