But the founders were also farsighted enough to know that such a system might
not be capable of serving the best interests of humanity forever. That it might,
in fact, so restrict humanity that it would choke it. No one had ever done or
been able to do what they were planning, so they had no certainty that what they
were doing was right, only that it was the sole alternative left to them.
And so, deep in the master program that they’d built to save the world, they
also planted a way to turn it off.
Five encoded printed circuit modules, all of which must be inserted to override
the system, he read with growing excitement. These modules are actually small
computers in their own right and complete basic interrupted circuits in the
heart of the master command computer. Early scientists created an exclusive club
for their number to disguise their intent. Only five full members. Other
associates knew the secret but did not have the circuits. Circuits disguised as
five large gold finger rings, with platinum faces and gold designs. Order of
insertion crucial but not known. Rings themselves said to provide clues.
Five golden rings. Five computer modules that would turn the master back into
the slave.
The computer had turned on its masters. To ensure that it would complete its
program, it had killed them all or caused them to be killed, but it could not
get around its own core programming instructions. It could not destroy the
rings. It could not lock them away; they must be in the hands of humans with
authority. It could not make it impossible for the rings to be inserted. Access
to the command module must be open, and public and humans must be allowed in. It
must not, in fact, move the primary interface far from the original, although
there was no clue as to where that might be. North America or Siberia probably,
but possibly in space, as that early civilization had had space stations and
limited interplanetary capabilities.
He sat back and sighed. He could not blame those ancient scientists for their
actions. In such a situation, with such terrible weapons perhaps minutes from
irrevocable launch, would he have hesitated, no matter what the risks? He
doubted it.
Five golden rings. Now, today, the system that had been created had far outlived
its usefulness. Now it strangled, restricted, limited humanity. The computer and
its subordinate machines still enforced the dictates and would do so
indefinitely, perhaps continuing to refine the system as they spread their
influence across the galaxy and even beyond. Every extraterrestrial civilization
would be a potential threat to humanity, as would every new idea or old
yearning.
But the same imperatives would mandate that the rings continue to exist—in the
hands of humans with authority. He knew computers well and knew how they
thought. If any of the rings had been lost or destroyed over the centuries,
duplicates would actually have been made. Still, a machine that had killed its
creators would not surrender its authority easily. There was no mandate that the
possessors of the rings know what they were or how they might be used. There was
no mandate to reveal the locations of the rings or the interface between ring
faces and computer.
A treasure hunt, indeed. Someone, or some group, had obviously stumbled on the
secret of the rings and amassed all the additional data the notebooks and papers
represented. All in longhand so that no computer would have access to them or
know that they existed. Clearly, that dead woman had been part of this, or was
perhaps a courier for an illegal tech group. Something had gone wrong. The
system had discovered that such information existed. And one woman had escaped
with the key, only to die here in this remote land.
But where were the rings today? Who had them? If they could be assembled, as
dangerous as that would be, and if the interface point could be discovered,
whoever had them would be able to control… everything.
Clearly the project had not been intended solely to assemble this information
but to locate the rings. This woman and her associates, if any, were clearly out
to track down those rings, the greatest treasure in the universe.
There was in fact only one clue in the papers, a single scribbled entry in the
margin of a middle sheet. In faded red ink, it was an original inscription, not
a copy or part of a copy.
It said: Chen has the three songbirds.
Chen. A common enough name, but the common had to be discarded. This had to be a
human with authority. A human with authority named Chen.
Lazlo Chen. It had to be him. The mixed-breed administrator for the nomadic
tribes of the east.
Hawks sat back, thinking hard. They had disguised their modules as rings,
officer’s insignia in a social club of scientists and technicians. Might that
tradition have also come down? Even if the five originators had been killed,
there were associates who might have escaped, associates who would know the
rings’ value and power. If the tradition had survived, even if the knowledge of
its origins had not, then Chen might just know who wore the other four.
And that, unfortunately, was the problem. Back at Council, he could have managed
some excuse to catch a ride over to Chen’s Tashkent base or at least to the
regional center out of which he worked in Constantinople. What could he do now?
He had but sixty-seven days of Leave to go, and it might well take longer than
that to get anywhere near Chen. In sixty-seven days they would come to pick him
up, take a readout before he’d even be allowed back into
Council— decontamination they cynically called it—and in seconds he’d be tried,
convicted, and executed by the machines who looked out for such things. And if
he wasn’t here to get picked up, they’d know immediately why, and a Val would be
sent on his trail armed with his memories and the way he thought and with access
to all the technology he lacked.
His eyes strayed to the dog-eared atlas that had also been in the case. He
picked it up and found the overview of central North America, then traced the
river systems, looking for something that would strike a chord. There were ports
allowed, small enclaves that handled the small but steady trade between foreign
shores and here, but he was separated from the eastern ports by many weeks of
riding through unfamiliar territory held by eastern nations friendly to no
stranger. To the south was Nawlins, of course, but it was small, controlled by
the Caje, and its business was almost entirely with Central and South America.
He suddenly stopped and sat upright. Mud Runner! He had almost forgotten about
him! A few years ago Mud Runner had been expelled from Council due to some
scandal never made public and appointed Resident Agent at Nawlins, where he’d
come from, and where he’d be out of the Council’s way.
Hawks thought furiously. Was Mud Runer still there? Was he still alive? And if
so, would he remember the eager young warrior who’d covered his watch many times
so the old fox could sneak off for his countless assignations?
Was there a choice?
He began to examine the atlas more closely. He’d be with the current and going
south. Two weeks to Nawlins—ten days if he got any breaks, three weeks if he ran
into trouble, as he inevitably would. Still, if the old boy was still there, and
if he remembered Hawks, and if he was willing to put his neck on the line just
to twit the Council, and if he could somehow arrange to get someone who would
obviously be a plains native on enough skimmers to take him halfway around the
world—there was a chance. Not much, but the alternatives were even less
palatable.
He went down to talk with Cloud Dancer.
He had thought about her a great deal over the past weeks, trying to sort out
his feelings. He had been lonely, and she had filled that loneliness. His heart
and mind had been leaden, and she had made them light. She was in many ways the
most amazing, wonderful woman he’d ever met. He both wanted her and needed her
very badly, he realized, yet he could not destroy her by returning to Council
with her, and he had determined that he could not remain here. Yet now, when he
knew he would return to Council only as a corpse, she still was beyond his
reach. She had already lost one husband; he could not ask her to marry a walking
dead man.