Stations of the Tide - Michael Swanwick [97]
To an offworlder this was an impossible environment. The land was different, its flows and motions imperceptible to the eye, so that its totality could be easily grasped, simplified, and understood. But Ocean was at the same time too simple and too complex to be mastered by perception. It abashed and humbled him.
“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” the briefcase asked anxiously.
“No, of course not.” He gathered himself together, and gestured for the briefcase to lead him down. “I just needed a little time to adjust.”
All directions were the same on Ararat. A short walk from the military complex at its core inevitably led to an abrupt edge, and then Ocean. They strolled to the sheltered side of the island, down streets dotted with small white anemones. Sea-stilts tumbled away at their approach. Two shimmies were nesting. Already great winter life was colonizing the city.
Seagulls swooped overhead, black as sin.
The buildings opened up at a set of ancient loading docks. Red and yellow traffic arrows and cargo circles were permanently graffixed into the stone floor. Beyond was only water. They paused here, amid the gentle noise of surf and the constant whisper of wind. A kind of shared diffidence possessed them both, so that neither wanted to be the first to speak.
At last the bureaucrat cleared his throat. “Well.” His voice sounded false to him, too high-pitched and casual. “I suppose it’s time to set you free.”
* * *
In the stunned aftermath of the tides, when the occasional breaker still crashed over the highest parts of the city, the bureaucrat found himself unable to speak of what had just happened. The experience had been too overwhelming to be contained in thought, much less put into words. It was too large a thing for a single mind to hold.
He stood, holding off the window wall with one blind hand. The floor trembled, and the outraged howls of stressed supports sounded from a quarter-mile below. His ears still rang.
Something had died in him. A tension, a sense of purpose. He had lost the will to return to his old niche in the Puzzle Palace. Let someone else defend whatever was hallowed and necessary. Let Philippe stand in for him. He was good at that sort of thing. But as for the bureaucrat himself, he no longer had the stomach for it.
The bureaucrat touched the glass with his forehead. Cool, impersonal. He could still see the water rushing down upon him whenever he closed his eyes. It was permanently etched into his retinas. He felt as if he were falling. And though he could not speak of what had just happened, neither could he keep silent. He needed to fill his mouth and ear with sound, to make words, to drive out the lingering voice of God by talking. It did not matter about what.
“If you could have anything you wanted,” he said, and the question floated upon the air, as random and meaningless as a butterfly, “what would it be?”
The briefcase retreated from him, three quick, mincing steps. Had it too been affected by the tides? No, impossible. It was only establishing a correctly deferential distance from him. “I have no desires. I am a construct, and constructs exist only to serve human needs. That’s what we are made for. You know that.”
Vague shapes tumbled in his inner sight, smashed soundlessly against the window, and bounced away. Leathery monsters pulled up from the depths to die inches from his face. It took an effort to wrench his mind back to the conversation. “No. I don’t want to hear that nonsense. Tell me the truth. The truth. That’s a direct command.”
For a long moment the machine stood humming to itself. Had he not known better, he would have thought it wasn’t going to reply. Then, almost shyly, it said, “If I could have anything, I’d choose to lead a life of my own. Something quiet. I’d