The Mind Pool

Chapter 1

LINK NETWORK COMPLETE. STAND BY FOR CONFERENCE CONNECT.

The musical disembodied voice sounded from all sides. In the last few seconds before final Link Connection, Dougal MacDougal turned to the two men standing next to him in the domed hall.

“I want to emphasize it one more time. This is strictly a briefing for the Ambassadors. Although the hearing takes place in the Star Chamber, there’s currently no criminal charge at issue. I’m sure you want to keep it that way. That means your testimonies have to be as accurate and complete as possible. No concealing of information, even if it makes you look bad. Understood?”

Ambassador Dougal MacDougal was a tall, imposing figure. The traditional robes of office were handed down from one Terran Ambassador to the next, but on him they sat as though made for his shoulders alone. The other two men exchanged the briefest of glances before they nodded.

“And be consistent,” went on MacDougal. “You are in enough trouble already. You don’t want to add to it by contradicting each other.”

“I understand perfectly.” Luther Brachis was a match for MacDougal in height, and massively broader. Even in the low gravity of the Ceres’ Star Chamber, his booted tread shook the gold and white floor. He was in full uniform. On his left breast sat a phalanx of military decorations, and the swirling Starburst of Solar Security was blazoned across his right sleeve. No matter that those meant less than nothing to the alien ambassadors. They mattered to him.

His eyes, a weary grey-blue, were unreadable as they met Dougal MacDougal’s. “I will describe everything, and conceal nothing.”

“Very good.” The Ambassador turned at once to the other man. “I know you two never stop bickering. I just want to tell you, this isn’t the time and place for it. If you have anything to disagree on, do it now. The link will close in a few seconds.”

Esro Mondrian had to look up to meet MacDougal’s glare. Both MacDougal and Brachis towered over him by a full head, and in contrast to them his build was slender, even frail. Unlike them, he was also wearing the plainest of costumes. The severe black uniform of Boundary Security, precisely tailored and meticulously clean, stood unadorned by medals or insignia of office. Only the single fire opal at his left collar served as his identification badge — and concealed its other multiple functions as communicator, computer, warning system, and weapon.

Mondrian shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of concealing information from anyone who legitimately has a need to know it. As soon as we have full identification for the parties tapping in to the Link, and a secure line, I’ll give them all the information that I believe appropriate.’

His voice was agreeable and low in volume, but it was not offering the commitment that Dougal MacDougal was asking. Before MacDougal could reply, the lights for full Mattin Link operation began to blink. The Terran Ambassador gave Mondrian one unsatisfied scowl and turned to face the sunken well of the room. In front of them, the hemisphere of the Star Chamber’s central atrium had been empty. Now three oval patterns of light were flickering into existence within it. As the men watched, the lights gradually solidified to reveal the three-dimensional images of the Ambassadors.

On the far left hung a shrouded, pulsing mass of dark purple. The image steadied, and the shape became the swarming aggregate of a Tinker Composite, imaging in from Mercantor in the Fomalhaut system. The Tinker had clustered to form a symmetrical ovoid with appendages of roughly human proportions. Next to it (but fifty-plus lightyears away in real space, halfway across the domain of the Stellar Group) loomed the dark green bulk of an Angel. And far off to the right, beyond a vacant spot in the assembly and still showing the margin of rainbow fringes that marked signal transients, hovered the lanky tubular assembly of a Pipe-Rilla. It was linking in from its home planet around Eta Cassiopeiae, a mere eighteen lightyears away.

MATTIN LINK NETWORK COMPLETE, said the same pleasant human voice. THE CONFERENCE MAY NOW PROCEED.

It was a historic moment. The representatives of the Stellar Group were in simultaneous full audio and visual contact for the first time in twenty-two Earth years. Dou-gal MacDougal, conscious that he was about to take part in a singular event of Stellar Group history, adjusted his already-perfect robes and stepped forward to fill the one remaining spot in the tableau of ambassadors. “Greetings. I am Dougal MacDougal, Solar Ambassador to the Stellar Group. Welcome to the Ceres’ Star Chamber. Can you all see and hear me, and each other?”

The question was pure diplomatic formality. The Link computers would have confirmed full audio and visuals before permitting any of the participants to enter link mode. Yes,” said the Pipe-Rilla, in a fair approximation to human speech. “Yes,” echoed the Tinker, and, after a few seconds, the computer-generated response of the Angel Ambassador.

“As you know,” went on MacDougal, “we have called this special meeting to discuss a difficult situation. A recent event here in the Sol system is cause for grave concern, and it could be a problem affecting the whole Stellar Group. We may have to consider unusual — maybe unprecedented — control measures. Naturally, any such decision must involve all members of the Stellar Group. But first, you need to know the background of the problem. For that purpose, I have arranged for you to receive a briefing from two of the principals involved in this matter from the beginning,”

“Preparing to pass the buck.” Luther Brachis spoke with an impassive face and without moving his lips.

“Naturally.” Both men had learned the parade ground knack of invisible speech long ago, but the trick could still come in useful. “Did you ever doubt it?” went on Mondrian softly. “Mac’s a good bureaucrat, if he’s nothing else. He decided long ago where he was going to place the blame.”

“First, a statement from Commander Luther Brachis,” said MacDougal, as though he had managed to intercept Mondrian’s last remark. “Commander Brachis is the Chief of Solar System Security. As such, he is responsible for monitoring all anomalous events that occur within half a lightyear of Sol.” MacDougal turned away from the other Ambassadors, and moved so that all four were in line facing the witnesses. Hidden lamps came on to frame Brachis in a crossfire of illumination.

“You may begin,” said MacDougal.

Brachis nodded to the four shapes in their cocoons of light. His thoughts, whatever they were, would not be read from his blunt lion’s face.

“The Ambassador correctly stated my duties. Security is my job, from Apollo Station and the Vulcan Nexus, out to the edge of the Oort Cloud and the Dry Tortugas. I have held that position for five years.

“Two years ago, I received a request for a development project on Cobweb Station. That station is a research facility about twelve billion kilometers from Sol. It is a free orbiting artificial structure, in the ecliptic, and roughly halfway between the orbits of Neptune and Persephone. Cobweb Station has served as a research center for more than seventy Earth years. The proposed project was a secret one, but that is not unusual for the facility. I approved the request, and the project began under the code name, Operation Morgan. With your permission, we will defer description of the nature of the project itself until Commander Mondrian’s testimony.” Brachis paused, and waited for the four stylized gestures of assent.

“Then I will say no more than this: From my point of view, Operation Morgan was conducted with the highest level of security. Twenty of my department’s most experienced and valued guards were assigned to the project. They took up residence on Cobweb Station for the duration of the project. General supplies of volatiles were dropped in from the Oort Cloud, and energy came through the solar system’s supply grid. That power was controlled from the Vulcan Nexus, with the master boards here on Ceres. In two years of operation, no anomaly of any kind was ever noted. All progress reports on Operation Morgan indicated excellent results, with no substantial difficulties experienced or projected.

“That situation ended twenty days ago. On that date, an anomalous energy demand triggered a flag in our general power monitoring system.

“This concludes the first part of my testimony.” Brachis glanced from one Ambassador to the next. “Are there questions?”

The four figures facing him were silent. There was only the usual faint hiss of the Mattin Link connection. The Angel was restlessly waving its upper lobes, while Dougal MacDougal was glancing from side to side. Brachis knew better than to expect support from the Solar Ambassador.

“With your permission, then, I will continue. The changed energy requirement that I referred to came directly from Cobweb Station. Unfortunately it happened during a quiet period, very near to a change of shift. The evidence of increased load was not at first noticed by my staff. I take full responsibility for that operational failure. However, the demand change was registered by our automatic monitoring system, together with a lengthy communications silence. A probe was dispatched to Cobweb Station.

“It arrived too late. All my staff were dead. The station was empty of human life. The Mattin Link had been operated. And I finally learned things about the nature of Operation Morgan that I should have taken the time to learn long ago. All activities at Cobweb Station are under my jurisdiction. I take full responsibility for what happened there.”

He had finished his testimony and was ready to stand down, but now there was a stir from the ranks of the Ambassadors. “You said that the Mattin Link was activated.” It was the Pipe-Rilla, gently vibrating her thorax plates. “For transmission of objects, or for signals only?”

“For objects.”

“Then, to what destinations?”

“I do not know. But the energy drain says that it must have been many lightyears.”

As Brachis was giving his testimony, new individual components had flown in silently to join the Tinker Composite. Now it bulked much larger than a human. There was a fluttering of tiny purple-black wings, and then a sibilant facsimile of human speech came again through the Link. “We would like the records, if you please. We wish to attempt our own analysis of possible destinations. And we wish to know more about the nature of the project you term Operation Morgan.”

“Very well. But for that, I will with your permission defer to Commander Mondrian. My own records will be sent to you at once, and I will of course be available to answer any further questions.” Luther Brachis stepped back, ceding the spotlight to Esro Mondrian.

His companion had been performing his own close inspection of the Ambassadors. There was no chance of recognizing any particular assembly of Tinker Composites, but the Angels and Pipe-Rillas both had stability of structure. It was possible mat he had met one of them before, on their own home worlds. In any case, he knew he would have to talk right past Dougal MacDougal if he hoped for any kind of sympathetic response from the alien Ambassadors.

“My name is Esro Mondrian. I am Chief of Boundary Survey security. My territory begins half a lightyear from Sol, where it meets the region controlled by Commander Brachis. It extends all the way out to, and includes, the Perimeter. Between us, Commander Brachis and I divide the responsibility for human species security. However, Operation Morgan was my initiative and its failure is my responsibility, not his.

“I have worked in the past with each of your own local monitoring groups, and I have visited your home systems. We are fortunate, all our species, in that we live in stable, civilized regions, where there are few unknown dangers. But out on the Perimeter, fifty lightyears and more from Sol, there are no such guarantees.”

Down in the sunken atrium in front of Mondrian there was an odd grunting sound. It was Dougal MacDougal, clearing his throat. He did not speak, but he did not need to. Mondrian understood the message. Get on with it, man. The Ambassadors didn’t link in from halfway to the Perimeter just to hear platitudes from you.

And yet they had to hear this, whether MacDougal liked it or not. Esro Mondrian hurried on.

“Out on the Perimeter, distances are enormous. But our resources to monitor what is happening out there are limited, and operating uncertainties are large. A few years ago I realized that we were losing ground. The Perimeter constantly increases in size, but our capability was not growing with it. We had to have some new type of monitoring instrument — one that could function with minimal support from the home bases, and also one that was tougher and more flexible than anything that we could make with the pan inorganica brains. It was while I was wrestling with that problem, and evaluating alternatives! — none of them satisfactory — that I was approached by a scientist, Livia Morgan. She offered an intriguing prospect. She could, she claimed, develop symbiotic forms that combined organic and inorganic components. By the end of our first meeting, I was convinced that what she had might be perfect for our needs.” Mondrian nodded at one or the figures in front of him. “I also knew of at least one example, sufficient to prove that such a blend of organic with inorganic was not impossible.”

The Angel acknowledged the reference with a wave of blue-green fronds. It was itself a symbiotic life-form, discovered a century and a half earlier when the expanding wave-front of the Perimeter had reached the star Capella and the planets around it. The visible part of the Angel was the Chassel-Rose, slow-moving, mindless, and wholly vegetable. Shielded within the bulbous central section lived the sentient crystalline Singer, relying upon the Chassel-Rose for habitat, transportation, and communication with the external world.

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” said the computerized voice of the Angel.

Mondrian stared back at the gently waving fronds. The Angels had that disconcerting habit of employing human clichйs and proverbs at every opportunity. No one was ever sure if it represented the symbiote’s perverse ideas of racial politeness, or served some wild sense of humor.

“Regarding the entities that Livia Morgan proposed to create.” Mondrian had realized after a few seconds that the Angel intended to offer no further comment. “I will from this point term them the Morgan Constructs. They were designed specifically to patrol the Perimeter. Their performance specifications were drawn very precisely. Each unit had to be mobile, durable, and highly intelligent. Livia Morgan told me once that they would be — I quote — ‘indestructible.’ Fortunately, she was exaggerating. However, they were designed to be very tough, since they would cruise the unexplored regions of the Perimeter, and perhaps there encounter life forms inimical to them and to everyone in the Stellar Group. However, I intended that they should serve a reporting function only. They would be able to protect themselves from attack, but they would not, under any circumstances, harm a known intelligent life form, or any life form that might possibly have intelligence.

“I was present at every initial demonstration of the Morgan Constructs. They were exposed to each of our four species, and to the seven other possibly intelligent organisms within the Perimeter. They were also allowed to interact with a variety of Artefacts, simulacra of differing degrees of apparent intelligence. The Constructs recognized each known form. The unknown ones, they responded to in a friendly and harmless manner. They treated the Artefacts with caution and respect. When attacked themselves, they did no more than remove themselves from harm’s way. However, they did so too reluctantly, and would have been destroyed in any real attack. I therefore authorized the next stage of the work, to raise the Constructs to a higher level of sophistication. Livia Morgan began that program. But somehow, out on Cobweb Station, a crucial design blunder must have been made.” Mondrian faced Dougal MacDougal. “May I show the images obtained by the probe?”

“Carry on. But hurry. We can’t hold the link indefinitely.”

“I want to warn you all, these scenes are deeply disturbing.” As Mondrian spoke, a sphere of darkness was forming behind him. Within it glowed the rough-textured ovoid of Cobweb Station as it had been seen by one of the bristle probes. At first the whole station sat in the field of view. It grew in size, and increased steadily in resolution. Soon dozens of flattened and twisted objects could be seen, floating outside the airlocks. Many of them were quite unrecognizable, little more than fused fragments of metal and plastic. The camera ignored those. It closed remorselessly on a score of space suits. Each one was filled, but if their occupants had been alive when they were expelled from the locks, they would not have survived for long. The detailed images showed missing limbs, disemboweled trunks, and headless torsoes. The camera locked on one figure, a turning eyeless corpse that lacked feet and hands. “That is the mortal remains of Dr. Livia Morgan.” Mondrian’s voice was unnaturally calm. “Although neither she nor the guards were able to send distress signals from Cobweb Station, the monitors preserved a complete record of their last few hours. Based on that evidence, Morgan Constructs are cunning, and deadly, and utterly inimical to human life. I would Tike to express my admiration for the performance of the guards assigned to Cobweb Station by Commander Brachis. Although they had no warning when the Constructs ran wild, they did not give up or panic. There were seventeen Morgan Constructs on Cobweb Station, each at a different stage of development, and each designed with a different level of sophistication. The guards were able to destroy fourteen of them completely, inside or outside the station, but with great loss of life. Dr. Morgan and four surviving guards attempted to negotiate with the remaining three. She was seized and systematically dismembered. Unless you insist, I do not propose to show you details of those scenes.

“The remaining guards were hounded through the station interior. They managed to destroy two more Morgan Constructs before they were killed themselves. By the time that the bristle probes reached Cobweb Station, it was empty of all life.

“Seventeen Constructs.” The whistling voice of the Tinker Composite spoke at once. “Fourteen died, and later two more …”

“You are quite correct.” The images behind Mondrian were fading. “As Commander Brachis told you, the Mat-tin Link had been operated. That should have been impossible for a Construct which had received no assistance or training. It is a further proof of extraordinary intelligence. The seventeenth Morgan Construct — the most recently developed, and the most sophisticated — has disappeared. We are doing our best to trace it, but our working assumption must be a pessimistic one. Somewhere within the fifty-eight lightyear radius of the Known Sphere — close to the Perimeter, we hope, rather than near one of our home worlds — there is a formidable threat, of unknown magnitude. I do not believe that any of our races is in immediate danger, particularly since the Constructs were designed and trained to work out on the Perimeter, and it is likely that the escaped one will have chosen to flee there. But we cannot guarantee that, or that the Construct will stay in one place. The purpose of today’s meeting was to inform you of these unfortunate facts; and to hear your suggestions as to ways of dealing with the situation. That is the end of my official statement. Are there questions?”

Mondrian waited, glancing from one oval pool of light to the next. The Tinker, Angel, and Pipe-Rilla were too alien for him to be able to read their feelings. Dougal MacDougal merely seemed irritable and decidedly uneasy.

“Then, your Excellencies.” Mondrian took a step backwards, intending to align himself with Luther Brachis. “With your permission—”

“Questions!” The fourteen-foot figure of the Pipe-Rilla was unfolding, rising high on its stick-thin legs. The fore-limbs were clutching the tubular trunk, and the long antennas were waving. “I have questions.”

Mondrian stepped forward again and waited, while the Pipe-Rilla went through a writhing of limbs and a preliminary buzzing.

“Tell us more about the capability of the Morgan Constructs. A being, designed for defense but turned against its makers, sounds unpleasant. But it does not sound like a great threat, or a cosmic issue. Presumably you designed these Constructs without major means of aggression?’

“They were designed that way, true enough.” Mondrian glanced around, to see if Luther Brachis wanted to make any comment. The other man seemed more than ready to stay in the background. “However, as I mentioned, the Constructs were all equipped with considerable powers of self-defense, to protect them from possible enemies of unknown strength. Remember, they were supposed to operate alone, far from any support, against any dangers. Unfortunately, their defensive powers can also be used offensively. Their power plants can produce small fusion weapons. Their power lasers and shearing cones are enough to destroy any ship. They contained the best detection equipment that we could produce, since we wanted them to be able to find other life forms at the longest possible range. I could give you full details, but perhaps a single example is more informative: any single Morgan Construct could destroy a city, or lay waste a fair-sized planetoid. The surviving Construct, unfortunately, was the best equipped of the seventeen that were made.”

Throughout Mondrian’s reply there had been a slow stirring within the Tinker Composite. As he ended there came a burst of speech, so fast that the computers cut in to decipher and re-translate it.

“Why? gabbled the Tinker. “Why, why, why? In the name of Security, you humans have produced a danger to yourselves and to all the other species of the Stellar Group. Why does anyone need a Morgan Construct? Consider yourselves. You have been exploring the region around your Sun for six hundred of your years. We have watched that exploration for more than three centuries, ever since humans discovered our world and offered us space travel. And what have we seen? The Perimeter now encloses a region one hundred and sixteen lightyears in diameter, with more than two thousand star systems and a hundred and forty-three life-supporting planets. And nowhere, at any place within that vast region, has any species been found that is in any way murderous or aggressive — except your own. You humans are lifting a mirror to the universe, seeing your own faces within it, and declaring the cosmos terrifying. We, the Tinkers, say two things: First, until you created your Morgan Constructs there was no danger anywhere. Second, tell us why you continue this insane rush to expand the Perimeter. It now ends fifty-eight lightyears away from Sol. Will you humans be satisfied when it has reached eighty lightyears? Or one hundred lightyears? Will you stop then? When will you stop?”

Esro Mondrian looked to MacDougal. He saw no support there. “I cannot answer your general questions, Ambassador. However, I can make a relevant point. I have long suggested that the Perimeter be frozen, or at least the expansion slowed. You say that the region within the Perimeter has no dangers to any of us—”

“Had none.” The Tinker was a blizzard of components, flying furiously about the central cluster. “Had none until your species created one.”

“—but the region outside the Perimeter may contain absolutely anything. Who knows how dangerous it might be, to all of us?” Mondrian turned to face the Terran area of the atrium. “With all respect, Ambassador MacDougal, I must say that I agree completely with the Tinker Ambassador. I know that such decisions are made at levels well above mine, but as long as expansion does proceed, something like the Morgan Constructs is essential. We must take measures to protect ourselves against whatever lies — ”

“That’s enough.” Dougal MacDougal moved one hand, and the lights illuminating Esro Mondrian were instantly extinguished. “Commander, you are removed from the witness stand. You were brought here to present a statement of a situation, not to offer your personal — and unsound — views on human exploration. , MacDougal moved out of the atrium, and turned so that he could be seen by the other three ambassadors of the Stellar Group. “Fellow Ambassadors, my apologies to all of you. As you have heard, both these men bear fault in permitting this serious problem to arise. Their own words convict them of error and of negligence. As soon as this meeting is over, you have my word that I will move at once to have them removed from office. They will never again be in a position to—”

“No-o-o.” The word came rolling from the Angel, delivered slowly and heavily through its computer link. “We will not permit such action.”

Rarely for him, MacDougal was caught off balance. “You mean — you do not want me to dismiss Commander Mondrian and Commander Brachis?”

“No indeed.” The topmost frond of the Angel went into slow but wide-ranging oscillation. “That cannot be. The punishment must fit the crime. We, the Angels of Sellora, request a move at once to Closed Hearing. We request full closure, without staff. There should be no one but Ambassadors present.”

“But then the record—”

“There must be no record. The subject for discussion is a question so serious that it can be pursued only in full closed hearing. For this, we invoke our ultimate Ambassadorial privilege.”

Even as the Angel spoke, an opaque screen was flickering into existence around the atrium. The lighted areas around the four Ambassadors were visible for a few seconds more, then there was nothing in the center of the Star Chamber but a ball of scintillating darkness.

Luther Brachis stepped forward to stand next to Esro Mondrian. The two men were alone, outside the dark sphere. Within it sat the four Ambassadors of the Stellar Group. Their earlier meeting had been the first full audio and visual meeting in twenty-two years. Now came the first Closed Hearing in more than a century.