Grail - Elizabeth Bear [75]
“We have learned to treat for this genetic illness. That treatment is one of the root causes of our prosperity; we require it of all citizens and productive members of society, and we will not permit sophipathologies to become reestablished in our culture.”
The old Perceval would have licked her lips and glanced aside at Tristen, seeking the counsel of his expression. But she and her colony had weathered many storms and attempted revolutions, and she would give nothing away to this representative of the potential enemy.
“Perhaps you could give me some examples of what you consider an illness of the thought,” she said. “I suspect there are many possible definitions.”
“I have heard you mention angels,” he said, with all the care of a diplomat who expects his words to be unwelcome. “Considering the history of the Jacob’s Ladder as a vessel for the Kleptocratic exploitation of those infected by New Evolutionist religious memes, we would consider a belief in angels as a likely pathology. Especially as it is historically and epistemologically linked to similarly illogical and toxic beliefs such as idolatry, worship of one’s own culture as chosen and deserving above all others, and religious and ideological fanaticism. It is our experience that these belief structures are exceptionally virulent, only matched for pathology by irrational economic and moral codes, and capable of persisting in the face of all evidence, suffering, and reason.”
“Angels are real,” Perceval said, measuring her tones, permitting her brow to furrow so the Fisher King would know she struggled to understand. “I am in the presence of one right now. We make them.”
“But in so constructing the metaphors surrounding your relationship with your artificial intelligences—if I understand correctly what these servants are—you reinforce a historical sophipathology which has resulted in untold billions of deaths, both of humans and other biologicals.”
“So by sophipathology, you mean … a heresy?” That was familiar ground, and Perceval for a moment breathed easier. “We do not prosecute heresies anymore, Administrator Danilaw. That, for us, is ancient history.”
But rather than similarly relieved, the Fisher King looked if possible more tired and distressed. “I mean the kind of ingrained flaw in one’s reason that would lead one to align one’s self so strongly with a brand of dogma that one might identify others as heretics, actually.”
Perceval pressed her fingernails into her palms. She had anticipated that the cultural disconnect would be vast, and she was only just coming to understand how vast it might be. He spoke. For the most part, he used words she understood. But the manner in which he used them left her feeling as if she had just listened to a recording of some nonhuman creature reciting abstract poetry. It was easier to follow the thought processes of an angel.
She said, “I do not understand. How is it that you live without angels?”
He rubbed his face in what she thought was exasperation, though it could have just been exhaustion. She was learning that these alien humans were much like Means—fragile, of fragmented memory, and prone to easy exhaustion—and that in other ways they were not Mean at all.
“How do you live with them?” His irritation, if that was what it was, turned into a headshake. “We just do.”
She folded her hands together, interlacing the fingers. She huffed across the knuckles, producing a whistling noise. “I think we should conduct further conversations in person,” she said. “You and Captain Amanda have my permission to dock your ship and come aboard.”
“We will have to observe quarantine,” the Fisher King said. “It will not be so different than this.”
“Different enough,” Perceval said. “The Angel Samael will assist you with your docking arrangements and requirements