Soul-Catcher
The hover was headed south when Mamman Brigitte came again. The woman with the sealed silver eyes abandoned the gray sedan in another carpark, and the streetgirl with Angie’s face told a confusing story: Cleveland, Florida, someone who’d been her boyfriend or pimp or both. . . . But Angie had heard Brigitte’s voice, in the cabin of the helicopter, on the roof of the New Suzuki Envoy: Trust her , child . In this she does the will of the loa . A captive in her seat, the buckle of her seatbelt embedded in a solid block of plastic, Angie had watched as the woman bypassed the helicopter’s computer and activated an emergency system that allowed for manual piloting. And now this freeway in the winter rain, the girl talking again, above the swish of wipers . . .
Into candleglow, walls of whitewashed limestone, pale moths fluttering in the trailing branches of the willows. Your time draws near . And they are there, the Horsemen, the loa: Pappa Legba bright and fluid as mercury; Ezili Freda, who is mother and queen; Samedi, the Baron CimetiЏre, moss on corroded bone; Similor; Madame Travaux; many others. . . . They fill the hollow that is Grande Brigitte. The rushing of their voices is the sound of wind, running water, the hive. . . . They writhe above the ground like heat above a summer highway, and it has never been like this, for Angie, never this gravity, this sense of falling, this degree of surrender — To a place where Legba speaks, his voice the sound of an iron drum — He tells a story. In the hard wind of images, Angie watches the evolution of machine intelligence: stone circles, clocks, steam-driven looms, a clicking brass forest of pawls and escapements, vacuum caught in blown glass, electronic hearthglow through hairfine filaments, vast arrays of tubes and switches, decoding messages encrypted by other machines. . . . The fragile, short-lived tubes compact themselves, become transistors; circuits integrate, compact themselves into silicon. . . . Silicon approaches certain functional limits — And she is back in Becker’s video, the history of the Tessier-Ashpools, intercut with dreams that are 3Jane’s memories, and still he speaks, Legba, and the tale is one tale, countless strands wound about a common, hidden core: 3Jane’s mother creating the twin intelligences that will one day unite, the arrival of strangers (and suddenly Angie is aware that she knows Molly, too, from the dreams), the union itself, 3Jane’s madness. . . . And Angie finds herself facing a jeweled head, a thing wrought from platinum and pearl and fine blue stone, eyes of carved synthetic ruby. She knows this thing from the dreams that were never dreams: this is the gateway to the data cores of Tessier-Ashpool, where the two halves of something warred with each other, waiting to be born as one. »In this time, you were unborn.« The head’s voice is the voice of Marie-France, 3Jane’s dead mother, familiar from so many haunted nights, though Angie knows it is Brigitte who speaks: »Your father was only now beginning to face his own limits, to distinguish ambition from talent. That to whom he would barter his child was not yet manifest. Soon the man Case would come to bring that union, however brief, however timeless. But you know this.« »Where is Legba now?« »Legba-ati-Bon — as you have known him — waits to be.« »No,« remembering Beauvoir’s words long ago, in New Jersey, »the loa came out of Africa in the first times. . . .« »Not as you have known them. When the moment came, the bright time, there was absolute unity, one consciousness. But there was the other.« »The other?« »I speak only of that which I have known. Only the one has known the other, and the one is no more. In the wake of that knowing, the center failed; every fragment rushed away. The fragments sought form, each one, as is the nature of such things. In all the signs your kind have stored against the night, in that situation the paradigms of vodou proved most appropriate.« »Then Bobby was right. That was When It Changed. . . .« »Yes, he was right, but only in a sense, because I am at once Legba, and Brigitte, and an aspect of that which bargained with your father. Which required of him that he draw vЋvЋs in your head.« »And told him what he needed to know to perfect the biochip?« »The biochip was necessary.« »Is it necessary that I dream the memories of Ashpool’s daughter?« »Perhaps.« »Are the dreams a result of the drug?« »Not directly, though the drug made you more receptive to certain modalities, and less so to others.« »The drug, then. What was it? What was its purpose?« »A detailed neurochemical response to your first question would be very lengthy.« »What was its purpose?« »With regard to you?« She had to look away from the ruby eyes. The chamber is lined with panels of ancient wood, buffed to a rich gloss. The floor is covered with a fitted carpet woven with circuit diagrams. »No two lots were identical. The only constant was the substance whose psychotropic signature you regarded as ‘the drug.’ In the course of ingestion, many other substances were involved, as well as several dozen subcellular nanomechanisms, programmed to restructure the synaptic alterations effected by Christopher Mitchell. . . .« Your father ‘s vЋvЋs are altered , partially erased , redrawn . . . . »By whose order?« The ruby eyes. Pearl and lapis. Silence. »By whose order? Hilton’s? Was it Hilton?« »The decision originated with Continuity. When you returned from Jamaica, Continuity advised Swift to reintroduce you to the drug. Piper Hill attempted to carry out his orders.« She feels a mounting pressure in her head, twin points of pain behind her eyes. . . . »Hilton Swift is obliged to implement Continuity’s decisions. Sense/Net is too complex an entity to survive, otherwise, and Continuity, created long after the bright moment, is of another order. The biosoft technology your father fostered brought Continuity into being. Continuity is na•ve.« »Why? Why did Continuity want me to do that?« »Continuity is continuity. Continuity is Continuity’s job. . . .« »But who sends the dreams?« »They are not sent. You are drawn to them, as once you were drawn to the loa. Continuity’s attempt to rewrite your father’s message failed. Some impulse of your own allowed you to escape. The coup-poudre failed.« »Did Continuity send the woman, to kidnap me?« »Continuity’s motives are closed to me. A different order. Continuity allowed Robin Lanier’s subversion by 3Jane’s agents.« »But why?« And the pain was impossible.