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The Billionth Part of Purpose

https://www.angelfire.com/journal2/my_fiction/
pazu7@yahoo.com

by Bryan Harrison
& Robert Griffin

(1)

Three mountains loomed majestic above the frozen plains of a small distant satellite of Stella Morgan. Their stately heads gleamed radiant white over the shadowed wasteland below, where a small huddle of lights glowed, nestled in a glen of rock and ice. The infinitude of stars above shone steadily, unglittering through thin atmosphere. Stella herself was a large blue dot in the immense star-pocked blackness.

Something small and metallic glinted above the vast landscape, reflecting the light from the star. The metallic thing descended quickly at first and then slowed suddenly, quivering as if undecided. A conversation was going on inside the craft. A man in a dirty green envirosuit barked urgently.

His voice crackled from a speaker in an immense room in the complex below where two men sat, patiently trying to discern the message. After a moment of silence, one of the men spoke.

"Come again upside. You're very broken. Didn't catch that."

Another burst of distortion broke from the speaker and he leaned back in his chair, shrugging. The other crossed his arms and exhaled loudly. This was as close to impatience as he ever got.

"Pilot, this is Brother Theodore. Your transmission is very distorted. We cannot understand you. If you can hear me clearly, key your transmitter twice and then twice again."

There was a moment of silence. Then static erupted again from the speakers. Two bursts. A moment later they repeated.

"Good. Now, may I suggest that you let your daughterboard relay transmissions. Our system will set automatically to..."

Loud static interrupted Theodore.

"I don't think his system is operating Brother," the other man said. He stared at the communications board and rubbed his hands together as if in prayer. Then, "Perhaps we can send a mech up? If the problem is his comm system then it could act as a beacon."

"He may not have time for that, Brother Marty." He addressed the comm again, "Pilot, I am going to assume state of emergency procedure. Proceed to land your craft at point seven and five nine, I repeat point seven five nine, to the outside perimeter of the complex."

Faint footsteps grew from the hall and a figure entered, dwarfed by the immensity of the room. Theodore gestured to Father Euclid as he walked toward them.

"Pilot, you must not attempt to land on the pad or anywhere on the complex grounds. We will send a transpo and two mechs to assist you. If you understand and can comply send two sets of two bursts."

Euclid stopped behind them, his long black robe swished against the floor. A look of amused curiosity grew on his pudgy face. "Oh my. Are we having an adventure?"

Theodore turned and bowed to the C.O. "Yes Father. Apparently a small cruiser has developed some sort of emergency and his comm has failed."

"Did you try having the daughter hail Freddy?"

"I thought of that but it seems that his daughter is not functioning either."

"Hmmmm. What make craft?"

Marty stood and bowed. "That has been analyzed, Father. It seems to be modified somehow, but Freddy thinks it's a Martincraft. Military issue."

"Wow. I haven't seen one of those in quite some time," Euclid said pensively.

"Yeah, it's an oldie," the young Marty quipped. The C.O. stepped toward the console. He was lost in thought for a moment, his face troubled. Theodore knew what Euclid was thinking. The old Martincraft were popular with smugglers. Pirates. "Is there any.. cargo?" Euclid asked.

Theodore shrugged.

"Is he aware of our status here?"

Marty snickered. "Who else could afford to maintain a complex out here?"

Theodore ignored the comment. "I don't know, Father. His situation is apparently urgent. I've directed him to an old dig area and I have mech and medbots at the site. He should touch within..."

A piercing distorted wail caused the men to step back from the speakers. Euclid plugged his ears. "Heavens, Freddy! Turn that down!"

The computer complied. After a moment its voice came through the speakers.

"Impact Alert. Impact alert! Point seven fifty-eight and three, T minus 10 seconds. Clear all immediate and relative areas!"

Euclid glanced distressed at Theodore. The monk shook his head. "Those areas are clear as of last log, Father."

The three men watched the console lights flash emergency patterns as mechbots were dispersed. A medbot was sent as well even though the monks thought there would probably be very little need for one.

"Impact report! Impact report! Location, point seven fifty-eight and three point five. Impact at... hold... computing..."

Marty rapped his fingers on the table as they waited.

"... impact at nominal measurements. Seismic threshold below 1 Richter." The Brothers looked at each other in amazement.

"What the hell was that all about?" Marty almost laughed.

Theodore frowned at his choice of words, but the C.O. had missed it. He was too concerned with the low magnitude of the impact.

"That medbot might not be superfluous after all!" he smiled and his heavy cheeks puffed up, "Heavens. We ARE having quite an adventure, aren't we?"

(2)

The pilot was sick. He sat still, feeling the ship quake and roll as it settled on the surface of the small moon. His head swam and he fought back nausea.

The monk had stopped transmitting, or else the system had finally failed entirely. Either way he had no way of knowing if they were coming after him or not. He sat in the pilot's throne and sweated. He cursed himself for forgetting the kyanic. But it had probably had saved his life. In the light atmosphere, it hadn't ignited until just before impact, giving the ship one last momentary impulse against gravity.

The stuff had been set to go off at any unscheduled compression. It was an old trick, but it worked. If the Reg's had tracted their ship, there'd be no evidence. He and the rest would have escaped in the pods. But Geezer had blown the pods.

When the ship finally settled, the pilot clicked off the throne clamps and using the greatest effort, hoisted himself up. Slowly, painfully he made his way through the darkened corridors. His faceplate fogged, cleared and re-fogged as his envirosuit battled the fever sweat that condensed in his helmet.

The ship was dead.

Mike, Geezer, and the new kid were dead.

If he didn't get help soon, he'd be right behind them.

The sickness that had taken the others, now coursed through his body. He could feel it stealing away his life. Making him its own. The light gravitation that would have usually been a welcome change from weightless free space, now made it difficult to move. But he managed his way through the silent ship.

The foreports were all stuck, clamped shut. Probably from impact. He headed for the rear deck, though he really didn't want to go in there. The others were in there. Or what was left of them. But he had to get off the ship.

He found the port and punched the code into the pad. It didn't respond. With all his strength he wrestled with the manual unit.

If the daughter had been operative it would have warned him about the giant hole in the rear deck, and the resultant decompression. But Geezer had blown the system out in the madness of his sickness, screaming that somebody was after him.

The manual unit clicked and the pilot was sucked violently through the port into the dark, garbage cluttered rear deck. He bounced into the room, landing in a heap of wreckage. And what was left of the new kid. He fought his nausea again.

The engine was scattered all over. Machinery and cables were strewn about the inside of the craft, through the hole caused by the kyanic reaction, and on the ground outside.

A large green bag of misshapen meat lay in a lump near the hole. It was Geezer. He crawled over it.

His breath was heavy and labored. He couldn't think clearly. He wanted to break off his faceplate. He couldn't breathe. Hot and cold chills assaulted him simultaneously.

Then he thought there was someone else, some lurking presence following him. He looked back into the darkness of the ship.

There was no one.

He fell from the hole and landed softly on the surface. Even in the light gravitation, it took almost all his remaining strength to crawl away from the craft.

The feeling of another, someone just over his shoulder, came again, making him look back.

Nothing.

On the verge of collapsing, he wrested a flare from his survival kit and started to pull the cap.

Then he screamed.

Huge metallic, fever dream monsters were pawing through the wreckage. One raised its lighted eye and whirred quickly towards him. He swung at it, but it wrapped him up in huge metal claws.

The thing poked and prodded him, turning him over and examining his suit. A mouth in its belly hissed open and it swallowed him into a small transparent chamber. He could feel the thing lurch into motion. Through the clear walls of the monster's stomach he could see the frozen landscape rush by.

He was fading out. Suddenly he sensed another. Somebody else with him. Just behind him. He struggled, scanning the small glass chamber.

He was alone.

He was being enveloped by blackness. As it overtook him he saw a gleaming metal fortress, its silver walls looming above the surface.

(3)

The Monastery at Stella 7 was characteristic of the sheer idealistic fervor of the Church during the 24th century. The facility covered two and a half square kilometers and its silver grey walls rose forty meters from the surface of the frozen moon. From above it looked like a giant disc that lay flat against the ground.

The Pythagorean Order had maintained the complex for nearly one hundred fifty years. In spite of the turbulent politics within the Church, the monastic scientists had prevailed in their attempts to keep the exploratory and theoretical research facility functioning on the forefront of scientific developments for pure space applications.

But the massive cutbacks on Church funding did have an effect. Staff was at bare minimum and the availability of robots and other necessary equipment left much to be desired. Somehow, the monks managed. Located at the edge of the known galaxy, they rarely encountered others.

From their stock of 12 mechbots, four of the M-70 models, the heavy workers, were now rummaging among the wreckage of the fallen spacecraft. The troop leader sent coded messages back to Freddy who relayed them to Comm Hall. The group of Brothers had now grown to five with the addition of Father Bahnart, an old military specialist, and Brother Stevens, the young head of vehicle maintenance.

"Can you get that thing to get me a clearer image?" Bahnart growled.

"Freddy, enhance screens four and six for me please," Stevens asked. The computer silently obeyed and the images sharpened.

The crash of the Martincraft had not caused any explosion, yet the syntho-metallic skin of the ship was ripped open as if peeled. Shiny bits of hull and engine parts had fallen into a cavity in the planet's surface while the rest of the ship remained poised at the edge of the opening.

Bahnart scowled at the images the mech relayed. "What the devil is that?" he muttered pointing.

Stevens looked at the monitor. Something glittered amongst the wreckage.

"Freddy, please tell team leader to give me two more mechs on image four," Stevens asked. Freddy relayed the command and two other screens focused on the glittering material.

"Enhance and expand."

"Suppress other images?" the computer queried.

"Yes. Thank you."

The images grew simultaneously as the others faded. The men looked on uncomprehendingly. In the silence Theodore tweaked his chin and stepped toward the giant screen.

What he saw was a pile of moldy looking material. For its mottled grey coloration, it might have gone unnoticed except for the fact that it was wrapped in the shredded remains of a metallic green envirosuit.

"Freddy, please suppress image two and expand the others. Yes, that's a good computer."

"Do you think the impact caused that?" Marty asked, his youthful features in a grimace.

"Impossible," barked Bahnart, "Impact wasn't even at threshold. The damn thing should still be intact!"

The young monk looked confused. "No.. I mean the body. The body!" he said gesturing excitedly at the grey mass in the shredded suit. His brethren eyed the mush on the screen for a curious moment and then there was a stiffening of backs that seemed choreographed.

"No. That can't be a body," Euclid offered, but his face expressed uncertainty. Bahnart was mercifully silent.

Theodore sat at the console. "Freddy, loose preliminary analysis of material monitored, please." The computer was quiet for a moment and then spoke.

"Primary object of focus consists of materials consistent with military standard issue envirosuit, indications of severe stress to suit material. Main mass of primary object appears to consist of biochemical matter and inert residue. Apparent indications of severe trauma of an unidentified nature."

"Probability of impact related damage?"

"Insufficient information."

Theodore shrugged. "Well, Brother Marty, Freddy seems to agree with you. Let's get this stuff back to the lab and we'll.."

"Do you think that is a good idea?" Euclid objected, "I mean, perhaps we should have the medbot do a scan at the site?"

"Scan for what, Father?"

"Oddities."

Bahnart snorted. "The blessed thing hit the ground at 3 points below a threshold impact and look at it. It's blown all over the place! What other oddities do you need?"

Freddy buzzed into activity suddenly, "Brother Theodore. Patient has arrived in bioanalysis. Condition critical!"

"Freddy please display patient's stats on monitor." A series of numbers appeared in the corner of the screen.

"Heavens! That man is dying!" Euclid bleated. "Freddy, move patient to Med Hall immediately!"

"Freddy, abort last command!" Bahnart said sternly. "He goes through bioanalysis procedure first, Father Euclid."

Theodore watched Euclid's reaction.

"I doubt that he'll have time for that," Euclid replied softly.

"Then he won't have time. But as long as the safety of this complex is in my hands, we'll follow procedure."

(4)

The patient was dying. His face was puffed, the skin welted and red, full of blister-like sores. He sweated and had extensive nasal discharge.

Med Hall was designed to deal with the problems facing a space faring society. Decompression sickness, muscular degeneration, isolation based psychoses. The theoretical and exploratory medical research was supposed to have been carried out in the Enviro and Bio Sciences facility, but that portion of the Monastery had been one of the first closed.

Theodore wasn't sure that he was prepared for what he was seeing. The wall monitors displayed images of something alien that had been found in the blood samples Freddy had taken from the patient. It was a microscopic biological form. It was a virus.

A virus!

As part of his standard training, he'd learned the history of human diseases, the majority of which had been defeated by the time he had been born. Most viral parasites had been effectively suppressed at the close of the twentieth century, and by the year 2305, when construction on the complex was completed, such things were taught in history classes.

There were a few hard to kill bugs still about, though rare, in modern societies. Mendoza Syndrome, a sleeping sickness, and HIV VII, a blood disease which attacked the human immune system, were occasionally encountered on densely populated satellites. Another prevailing parasite was still referred to as "the common cold."

But, deadly parasites, or "hot agents," as they had once been known, had not been encountered for centuries. Something was happening here that could be very dangerous. Something that might not have happened for at least two hundred years. He had asked Freddy to scan the archives for any pertinent data.

"Brother Theodore, the database has been scanned for references and a possible clue has been found."

"Ok, Freddy, what have you found?"

"According to an obscure record from the New American Colony at Beta Orion Three, an unknown viral agent was encountered. During the latter part of the 22nd century..."

"Wait." Theodore was puzzled. "The New America's was only constructed half a century ago."

"It is in the database."

"Hmmm. I have never heard of any new viruses. Can you verify the..."

"If you listen, perhaps you'd learn?"

Theodore stared, shocked, at the console. The voice had changed. Testy. Sarcastic. Who'd done that?

It had to be Marty. Marty had been disciplined before for tampering with personality parameters.

"Freddy, do not interrupt me again."

"Well, excuuuuse me!"

"Excuse me?" Theodore echoed. Inappropriate personality parameters were one thing, but first person linguistic references were strictly forbidden on an S.A.I. unit as extensive as Freddy. Even from a local user address, the illegal routine could spread to the main system and contaminate the entire Vocal User Interface.

What had Marty been up to? He was going to have to take the young monk in hand.

"Can I continue now?" the computer asked.

"No, Freddy. Authorization over-ride on local VUI per voice ident, Theodore Crumant. Reference current personality interface, restore default personality interface settings and purge referenced personality."

"Executed," the computer replied in a monotone.

"Now, Freddy, please continue."

"During the latter part of the 22nd century, there was an outbreak of a new, unknown virus among the colonists of the New Americas. There are no further records regarding the outbreak."

"I wasn't aware of any New American settlement in the 22nd Century."

"Three satellites in the Beta Orion system were colonized. The third settlement was the original New America. It was never completed. Official records document a political uprising, characterized by violent behavior and a cessation on construction. There are video logs if you like."

"No. That won't be necessary. Continue."

"In 2311, the Dumont Mining Colony at Delaney, the second satellite, attempted to finish the construction of New America. Materials were purchased and transported to the site. However the project was aborted. There are no further logs on the issue."

"And so in 2413 the New America's began construction again."

"Correct."

"Freddy where has this ship been?"

"Due to extensive damage to the main log, the ship's origin and destination cannot be determined, however the personnel log shows an extra crewman taken on at the Third Pure Space facility in Baker over seventeen weeks ago. According to reference maps, that facility is a route stop for transport boats headed to and from New America."

Theodore gazed into the analysis chamber.

Who was this man? Where had he been and what had the man encountered there?

Oh, they were really having an adventure now.

(5)

The face at the end of the glass tunnel appeared and disappeared again. He wondered where it had gone.

And where had he been all this time?

How many other things had been lost in between his unfocused thoughts? Lost amidst the space separating reality and the increasing clamor of new sensations and pain beyond pain?

Was it the sleep that had stolen those precious moments? He could slip through the cracks in this prison and float up into the merciful blackness of space if not for the sweaty broken casing that enveloped him now.

Heat rose from his body and flexed thick and meaty, snarled and spat something rancid, moist, back at him. Hornets nested in his armpits and crotch and something with horns and fangs rumbled and tore holes in the core of his body.

Screams came and were ignored for the lack of energy.

Occasionally he would awake. In a box. An Analysis unit. He would remember at these moments who he was and the lucidity was a cool breeze over his forehead. He could smile then. Briefly.

Then it was lost again.

Something else was with him here.

Some malignant universe had rooted in him. It's feral spawn fought among themselves in this new unclaimed place. Some purpose, unclear, merciless, busied itself behind a mask of meaningless suffering and retching.

Its face was downcast in its single-mindedness. No eyes focused here. This new universe was hidden among the obvious things of the old. This purpose whirred like a anxious machine. After all things would cease it would rumble in the black, creating things anew.

Then he saw it. It was the last thing he ever saw.

He saw its face. Or better, in the place where there should have been a face there was something to be seen.

Cold.

Barren.

Without feeling or remorse.

But full of a Purpose. Horribly, beautifully full.

He freed himself and fled from the darkness of this new and awful place.

(6)

Theodore had paged the two Senior Monks for private council. The Fathers arrived in the darkened Command Chapel, and he waited till they seated.

"We have a virus here," he said. "It's something new."

Bahnart smirked and leaned back into the oversized chair. His face showed the least bit of surprise. "I guess that would qualify as an oddity."

Euclid ignored the jibe. He addressed Theodore. "And our patient?"

"His status is declining. At 1400 hours, just after his recovery from the wreckage, he displayed numerous lesions on the outer epidermal layer. They're full of parasites. His pulse was abnormally high and body temperature at 40 cen. As of last scan he had developed blisters evidencing subdermal hemorrhages; pulse has slowed while his body temperature has risen to 42 cen."

"Good lord! He should be dead!" Euclid cried.

"Even if he survives, which I doubt, brain damage is an unavoidable prospect."

Bahnart was abnormally calm. "What manner of virus is this?"

"I believe it's an unknown. Freddy is working on a reference from the data it's gathered, but I am afraid he has blanked out save for a possible tie to some outbreak in the New America's in the early 22nd century."

"There were no New America's then."

"I've already been through this with Freddy. Apparently that is a common misconception." Theodore shared the tale, leaving out the surfacing of the rogue VUI program.

Euclid's face went grey.

Bahnart showed no expression whatsoever. He rose from the table and paced slowly. "Is the patient sufficiently isolated?"

"We should be safe."

"Theodore, you just told me this thing may have closed an entire colony! I'm assuming you can do better than 'we should be safe'!"

Theodore didn't feel like jousting with Bahnart just now; he looked to Euclid for help. The old priest had a closed expression on his face. No help here.

"Father, the bioanalysis chamber is designed to observe a subject in complete isolation. After analyzing techniques used during the numerous plagues of the 20th century, I am confident that any possible viral contamination has been sufficiently avoided."

But Bahnart wasn't listening. "Theoretical Sciences!" he said, punctuating the thought with an upraised finger. "I want the facility opened. Let Freddy reference any related experimentation and research. We'll see if this has any precedent in theo-med."

Theodore had thought about that. The Theoretical machines were pure S.A.I. environment. Pure sentient thought. From fear of contamination, humans weren't even allowed to address them directly, all communications being relayed through Freddy. The computers would chew on a problem and spit out numerous possibilities for solutions based on their extensive databases. They were an irreplaceable asset in research and development.

But they had their limitations.

"This is a real agent, Father. A real dilemma. Whatever info we glean from theo-med, would only be useful after intensive experimentation. I don't even know what questions to pose."

"The bodies?" Euclid asked.

"Cancer. Some form of massive tumors throughout the bodies."

"What?! I've never heard of anything like that," Bahnart snorted. "What caused it?"

Theodore shrugged. The Fathers weren't used to seeing him do that. He was the highest ranking medical doctor in the facility, fifteenth in the entire sector; his shrug made them uneasy.

"Freddy, display stats on the cadavers, thank you." The chapel wall monitor glowed with the grey misshapen figures. They were barley recognizable as humanoid. "See there? I can find no focal or intrusion point for the growths. At first I thought it could be some bizarre variation of radiation sickness or even impact trauma, but Freddy has eliminated those possibilities.

"What puzzles me more is that there is no trace of virus in the bodies. Nothing. Just extensive tumorous material. While our patient displays no cancerous growths at all. No indication of tumors. If there is a relationship, it is elusive."

"You're saying that these men died of something other than what is attacking the patient?" Euclid gasped.

Theodore nodded grimly.

Bahnart sat and slapped a palm on the desk. "Theodore I am ordering you to pose this scenario to theo-med. See what it comes up with."

"It'll take some time to fire the machines up, Father. They've been inoperative for some time."

"Less than a year," Bahnart said dismissively. "Run a diagnostic and then hand them the problem. Hell, what are the damn things for anyway?!"

The Priest was irritable and it was best to be agreeable when he got this way.

Fortunately, Freddy interrupted the conference, "Fathers, and Brother, but the patient has elapsed into a coma."

Theodore genuflected and rushed out of the room.

(7)

The new place was warm. Hospitable. But there was much yet to be done. Others like it had been taken and lost. But this was a more fertile ground. Stable. Ripe.

The Other had fled.

Snuggling into muscle, tendon, bone and nerve, a billion parts of Purpose whispered secret instructions in an ancient soundless tongue. And then disappeared.

It went on for a small eternity.

The nexus of the thought centers was left for last. In as much as similarities allow, ceremoniously, the billionth part of Purpose stood at the tip of the nexus and framed it's last embrace.

And my name?

Silence.

And my name?

The new universe trembled. Hesitant. Expectant.

My name?

And then the visions poured from the nexus. Orgasmic recognitions. Faces and places of a lifetime unknown, relived here for the first time.

The last embrace was firm. Final.

Purpose had a name.

(8)

"Harvard, Benjamin James, civilian pilot, commissioned by Unified Systems Armed Forces February seventeenth, twenty four sixty, Ident Tag seven seven two six four dash nine ...." Freddy ran off a string of ident numbers while Theodore listened.

Theoretical Sciences was dimly lit from the wall monitor. The enormous image of the virus was reflected off sterile metallic surfaces around the room. Two cylindrical theo-med machines hummed through pre-op diagnostics.

Freddy had managed to recover information from the damaged ship's log. They still had no clue regarding the cause of the damage to the ship, but they had at least identified their comatose patient.

"...born twenty-four twenty at Fillmore Colony, to.. damaged sector... damaged sector... military service at...."

"Skip all that Freddy. Info relative to patient's condition?"

"Negative. Medical logs and relevant sectors inaccessible, damaged or erased."

Smugglers. They had to be. Theodore wondered if any of the log data was accurate. But then it really didn't matter. The disease was real. When Benjamin Harvard died, it wouldn't matter if he was a pirate, or a soldier.

The theo-med machine clicked and Freddy spoke. "Brother, theo-medical is awake and operative. Diagnostics are completed and it is eager to address any problems you wish to pose."

"Thank you Freddy. I want to relay all the data relative to patient Harvard to theo-med and assume the following theoretical stances."

"Well, let's get on with it! I don't have all day here!" the machine replied nastily.

Theodore bowed his head and sighed. Marty's program was still active. "Freddy, authorization over-ride on VUI..." he changed the VUI back to default parameters, "...And get young Brother Marty on my private comm immediately!"

SAI or Sentient Artificial Intelligence was a pure thought, learning and data analyzing environment. An SAI environment was like the brain of a small child. It aggressively consumed every available thought stimulus and stored and processed it. The difference was that SAI had a database of all known history from which to draw conclusions.

Where it differed from other computers was that it could propose conclusions on improvised crossed references. It emulated sentient thought, allowing the system to 'learn,' and thus to respond 'creatively' to new situations.

In other words, it thought like a human.

The machines also possessed a new and unsuspected instability. Like humans they became occasionally unpredictable. Irrational.

First developed at the turn of the Twenty Third century, SAI had been polished into a commercially viable system by Bell Labs and World Telephone and Telegraph. The first system had just gone on line when it suddenly refused to accept any commands or transmit any data.

The system had gone 'qwimp'. The dangers in self-referential sentient programs had been explored by the doomsday science fiction of the twentieth century, and involved 'self-motivation' and 'self-preservation.' 'Quimp', a very real danger, was not nearly as exciting as a computers destroying human civilization to maintain their own existence, but in the right situation, could be just as dangerous.

A 'quimp' system locked up on itself, trying to establish a recognition and understanding of its own self awareness. The assumptions of 'self' and individuality that humans took for granted were much more complex than they had earlier supposed.

Machines simply couldn't handle it.

"Yes, Brother?" Marty answered his page.

"Marty. You've been playing with the VUI again."

"Uhh... I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't dig the hole any deeper, Marty. This is not seminary. This is not a game anymore. I am sure you are completely aware of the regulations regarding self referential programs on SAI systems. You could get in serious trouble, not to mention jeopardizing the safety of the complex."

Marty was quiet for a moment. "Look, it's just a little memo prog. It harmless!"

"Harmless?! Marty, that thing is self referential. What's it doing in the VUI?"

"He.. uhh.. it keeps me posted on stuff. I wanted it to be able to find me anywhere in the complex."

"I almost fed it to theo-med!"

"Theo-med? Wow! Sorry. I thought they were closed."

"Not anymore. Marty those machines would quimp on that."

"Brother. I know that I broke the rules, but c'mon! Freddy would never allow SAI contamination."

"Marty, that prog has gone rogue. What if it contaminates something else? What if Freddy swallows that thing. Who knows what could happen? The core could go quimp."

"Theodore! Relax! How many times has that happened?"

"Would you pose that question to Father Bahnart if he ran across your little memo?"

Marty was silent.

"Right. Get that thing off the VUI, Marty. Do it now."

"Ok ok ok." Marty closed the line.

Marty was right. The chances of Freddy quimping over a little inappropriate rogue were so remote as to border absurdity. There were simply too many safeguards. But the reason that the safeguards were there was because quimp was the end of an SAI unit's functional life. And out here, in this remote post, it would mean the end of the monks as well.

"Ok, Freddy, let's get back to work here. Assume the following theoretical stances..." Theodore fed in three separate stances for the machines to pursue. One assuming the disease and tumors are unrelated. Another assuming a direct relationship between the two. And the third assuming an indirect relationship. Freddy relayed the message and the computers whirred into action, reviewing all data from historical precedent.

(9)

Stevens monitored a video transmission from a mech currently at the crash site. He had organized the clean up and most of the metal debris had been cleared away. When it had arrived he was disturbed that the material hadn't been burned. Not even singed. He had immediately been suspicious.

Sure enough the hull lining of the rear deck had shown traces of kyanic and some form of acidic solvent that the computer couldn't recognize.

Kyanic was an expansive agent used by miners. They preferred it because it didn't explode, leaving expensive ores intact. Safety was much simpler and containment was easy. Outside of mining colonies the stuff was rarely used. It was highly stable. It took a sufficient charge to cause the expansive reaction.

It was safe to assume that the ship had been modified from its original military design by freelancers. Lots of old military issues were bought and turned into private transports. There should have been plenty of storage space. And, even as stable as Kyanic was, who would be stupid enough to carry it in the hull?

Pirates. Pirates would. He called Bahnart.

(10)

Theodore was disappointed with the initial theo-med results. The first assumption had yielded five scenarios which had been interesting, but based too much on historical precedent. The monk had sent them back and modified the assumption with free space ambiguities.

He patiently reviewed historical texts on cancers while he awaited results on the second and third assumptions.

Chemical therapies, radiation, and holistic medicine were used widely in the late 20th century before Halford's Serum. Halford was highly successful until complex side effects in offspring were found. Both approaches were found to be shortsighted by Dr. Gilda Myran who created the preventative genetic stabilizing inoculations and wave treatments widely used to this day.

Cancer was still a killer. It affected those in mining communities and often exploratory venturers who encountered new types of radioactive materials and carcinogens. Miners were exposed to high levels of toxic materials regularly. Robots had been used for years but it was found that they didn't work as quickly or as effectively as humans. They simply didn't have the ability to relate instinctively to new situations.

Humans knew how to improvise.

Viruses knew how to improvise.

Modify to survive. The primary survival instinct that drove computers crazy.

"Brother Theodore?" the machine interrupted his thoughts.

"Finally," he sighed, stretching. "Recite findings please."

"Theo-med is still computing, Brother, but Benjamin Harvard has just regained consciousness."

"What?!"

(11)

Sensation; Sound. Hiss. Hiss.

Sensation; Touch. Hand. On... thigh. Hand. Flex. Movement!

Sensation; Light. Bright. White.

Sensation; Smell? Clean. Sterile.

Sense! Hand. Fingers. Flex! Elbow. Bend! Sensation; Pink. Hand? Fingers.

Moving. Flexing. Sensation; Elbow. Extend! Retract! Fold! Sensation; ... Touch! envelope.... casing... Body! Face!

Face.

Sensation; Sight. Seeing.

Seeing... Environment.

Environment.

He was alive.

The man's face was pinkish, the skin was pale and clammy, but his eyes were open and he seemed to be taking in his surroundings.

"Patch me in Freddy," Theodore commanded. "Pilot Harvard, can you hear me?" The man looked up suddenly, surprised.

He lifted his arm and tried to crank the handle inside his container.

"Please do not try to open the hatch, Mr. Harvard. The computer will allow you exit when your analysis is complete. How are you feeling?"

Sense; Sound. Language.

Images. Others.

Sense; Communication. Sound. Language.

Sense; Access memory.

Remember! [act]

Communicate! [act]

Action.

The man tried to speak but could only make guttural sounds. Theodore assumed brain damage.

"Stats, Freddy. Thank you."

Freddy scanned and ran the results across the screen.

Theodore rose, confused.

The infection was gone.

According to all existing records of viral behavior this was impossible. It just didn't happen.

He paced as he examined the monitor. "Freddy run that again! And do an environmental scan on the entire chamber. Oh, and do a neurological!"

The scans were executed.

(12)

"...and the results were negative, Fathers. No sign of virus in or about the patient. Neurological readouts were healthy. Normal."

Bahnart scowled. He grumbled and muttered to himself. Euclid nodded thoughtfully. He was disturbed.

"I told Freddy to rerun the scans at ten second intervals until further notice. It should page if any infection is encountered."

"Have the theo programs come up with any more conclusions?" Euclid asked.

"Theo-med yielded seven separate scenarios on three assumptions, but none of them were consistent with survival of the patient. I had to rerun them all."

Bahnart stirred. "Is he going to survive?" he asked cautiously.

"Father, he should be dead. I haven't the slightest idea what to expect next."

Bahnart humphed an acknowledgement. He was withdrawn. Postured. Euclid too. There was awkward silence. Quietly he wondered if the senior monks understood the implications of what he had just told them.

"Fathers, I am not sure you understand this."

Both the priests raised their eyebrows.

"I mean... viruses just don't disappear. Well, apart from this one obviously, but there is something incredibly wrong here."

More silent stares. He cautiously continued. "I think the Hierarchy should be notified. This is an unknown life form and..."

"We'll make that decision, Brother." More silence.

"Do the Fathers understand the complexities of this event? I believe that..."

"I want you to relax, Brother," Bahnart said sternly. "I know this thing is alarming and has you on edge, but let's keep ourselves in order. We have many considerations apart from the obvious inexplicable disappearance of this ... pest!"

Euclid rose quietly. "Well, all this excitement has made me hungry. Theodore, keep us posted on the patient's health. You are dismissed," the priest said with a conspiratory wink.

Theodore bowed and left the chapel angrily. He didn't understand the priests' reactions. They were scientists. Didn't they understand the complexity of this case?

He strode briskly through the complex, his footfalls metallic reverberations in the wide empty halls. He passed couple of young monks chattering to one another. They waved. He recognized them, the new kids in Theo-applicable physics. Playing around with space warping drives and perpetual batteries. He nodded and walked on. It was very strange living in this huge dark building. It had an effect on one. Disorienting and hard to get used to.

The monks acclimated to the solitude. They were used to being alone with one another. After many months they had developed a rhythm of co-existence. A form of empathy with one another.

But now that rhythm had been disturbed. Their peace had been rudely smashed by the arrival of the wounded ship. A microscopic alien life form had been thrust upon them and then suddenly, impossibly, it had disappeared.

In its wake it left a complete mystery.

The monk brisked into Med Hall and gazed down at the patient. Inside the analyzer, separated from him by a foot of reenforced alumiglass and chemical disinfectants, Benjamin Harvard smiled. His mouth shaped the word "Hello."

(13)

Sensation; Deprivation. Absence of physical stimuli. Absence of social stimuli. Isolation.

Sensation... inactivity, physical deterioration. Response [act] Restructure. Vitalize. Incorporate.

Memory, society. Mother. Father. Paul and George. Family. Academy. Companionship. Team work. Team Spirit. Flight crew. Hierarchy. Camaraderie. Associates. Conrad, Geezer, Mike, my friends.

MY friends.

The friends of Benjamin Harvard.

I am... Benjamin Harvard.

(14)

Euclid always gave himself away. It wasn't poor strategy. It was his blush. He could never make a crucial move without that telltale blush.

"Check," he said.

"Check again."

Euclid lifted his piece and eyed the board. The lights were dimmed in the big cafeteria. One of a series of somewhat petty economic measures.

"Oh," he said.

"Oh yes."

"How is our patient?"

"Annoyingly healthy. He's in better shape than we are!"

Euclid made a quizzical sound.

"Well I am exaggerating slightly, but..."

"Your move."

Theodore scanned his options, which were few, and moved his pawn. "...but he is in unaccountably good health. It's been three days since he regained consciousness. He's been in the chamber the whole time and still his musculature has developed. One of the theo-comps initiated its own analysis on the possible reasons for his detainment."

"Well, you should probably shut them off anyway. He's lucid?"

"Too lucid. He's a pest. Keeps asking to be let out. But, strangely can't seem to remember anything about the shipwreck. I have had all the analysis programs run again and again and I still cannot..."

"Well Brother, all of this... machinery, can often get in the way. Your move. Sometimes the obvious truth seems to elude us."

"And what might be the nature of that..." he moved his knight, "..obvious truth? Your move."

"Where is God?"

Theodore paused.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't prepared for a theosophical debate."

Euclid chuckled. "No, no. I mean, He isn't standing here at the table with us, right?"

Theodore looked around. He shrugged.

"Correct response, Theodore. You don't know. But one thing is for sure, there is ample evidence to assume that he could be."

"And this is somehow related to my predicament?"

Euclid looked shocked. He leaned back in his chair.

"This, young monk, is related to all predicaments. Maybe you have forgotten that God is the back drop of all we are pretending to be about here on this desolate moon, an absurd number of light years from another human settlement, poking and prodding the universe, shooting off rockets just to see how fast or far they go. Why are we doing all this?"

Theodore surrendered. "Why?"

"Can't you tell me? You already know the answer."

"The Pythagorean Doctrine is to encounter the fulfillment of personal and societal growth in scientific, philosophical, theosophical and spiritual..."

"Academics!" Euclid laughed.

Theodore shrugged.

"That's better. You don't know. Neither do I. Or anybody. We can only assume that God does and do our best under that assumption. Ummm.. your move."

"Maybe I missed the connection."

"It's called faith, Theodore. It's called prayer. You have been around the computers too long. Turn them off for a while. Take a walk around the hydropond. Talk to God, Theodore. Talking to God is a fundamental aspect in all our research."

"Your move, Father."

"Uhh.. yes. God has left us His scent on the trail in the beauty of pattern in the universe we see around us. Forget for a moment what you know about all of it. There is a time and a place for the knowing. It is in the childlike unknowing that we can fully appreciate the true nature of life."

"Okay, Father. Okay. And this ties into the virus...?"

"Dear Lord! And they just eat the pages! It's simple. Nothing vanishes without a trace. It is there. There is some scent on the trail. It is one of God's living things and it has a pattern. A... purpose. If you can't find where it is, look where it's been and see what it has done there."

"Check."

"Hmmm. Nice. But..." the old priest leaned forward and slid his rook across the board "... I think your queen is in danger."

Theodore sighed.

"Theodore?"

But Theodore was fuming at the board.

"Bahnart wants Harvard gone."

Theodore suddenly lost interest in the fate of his queen.

"This is a confidence I am trusting you to keep between us. There was kyanic on board the ship. The man was most certainly a smuggler."

"I've figured that Father."

"Yes, I am certain you have, but Bahnart and I try not to labor the minds of you monks with all the nasty little politics going on.

"The Church has been under fire recently. There have been a series of pirate attacks in Sol system. Certain colonial governments are charging the Church with collusion."

"What?! They can't be serious!"

"Yes. Unfortunately they can. It's all such a mess, but apparently there have been serious allegations of supposed connections to the pirates and organized smuggling"

"That's absurd!"

"Not really. Exaggerated perhaps. It's based on a series of small historical indiscretions. Nothing you'll find in official texts mind you. But it doesn't matter. It's sufficient to give our enemies a stance for attack, and..." Euclid waved his hand as if clearing the air, "oh.. that should not be a concern of yours. Bahnart is a crusty old commando, yes, but he does have the safety of the Monastery in mind."

"Father. Benjamin Harvard cannot be allowed release.."

"Theodore, you're not listening."

"... he represents an enigma and a very possible danger to.."

"Theodore, I understand. But there are so many complexities."

"...the entire colonial federation!"

"Theodore! You must understand me! If it is found out that we have a pirate in this complex, the Church becomes the target of the Colonial Court. It doesn't matter if they can prove their case or not. We will lose corporate ties. We will loose the support and cooperation of some very important colonial governments. They could very easily confiscate the monastery!"

Theodore was silent. Euclid looked around to see if they were overheard but they were still alone.

"Now, Bahnart has paged a transport. It will arrive here in twenty-one hours. If you can prove by then that this man is a danger, then we can take the case to Bahnart."

Theodore was shocked into silence. Twenty-one hours. In less than a day the most inexplicable medical phenomenon he had ever encountered whisked off and forgotten.

"Theodore?"

What could he accomplish in twenty-one hours?

"Theodore?!"

"Yes?!"

"Your move."

(15)

The new Benjamin Harvard stood. He flexed his strong beautiful body. He strode jauntily across the small room and then strode back. He liked the motion. Motion was a good thing. He would have get more of it.

The monk had brought him to this room only after great insistence and pleading. It felt good here. He analyzed the room again. Comm port. Bed. Envirotrol. Vidport. He named the things aloud and laughed, revelling in the feeling it created.

He knew these things. The new Benjamin Harvard enjoyed knowing things. The 'other' had left a rich store of information. They were based on strange, abstract ideas about things like interplanetary law; Regulation patrols; Black markets; Weapons and the use of weapons; The use of his hands as weapons and so forth.

The new Benjamin Harvard inherited a deep understanding of strategy. Deception. These things were important to the 'other'. It had left a wealth of information on the subject.

The new Benjamin Harvard knew that he was being scrutinized closely. The monks were in disagreement about his treatment. About what to do with him.

The new Benjamin Harvard flexed his strong beautiful body again. The Vidport was active, blinking and following his movements. He strode across the room, ignoring it.

He was sure that on the other end there was a very confused monk.

(16)

Theodore watched the man on the screen from theo-med. (Look where it's been to see what it's done.)

The meditation had been what he needed. He'd walked around the peaceful hydropond, listening to the croak of the frogs and small fish breaking water to catch harmless bugs alight on its surface and the simplicity of the old priest's view struck him.

Pattern was a constant in the universe. Somewhere there was an underlying theme. A whiff of a scent on the trail, that might betray the virus. Betray its motives. What it did.

The tumors. There had to be a connection. Was he dealing with a mutation? Were the tumors a by-product or could they be what happened when the bug tried to enter a new species?

All the theo-med programs he ran after Harvard's recovery cited numerous accounts of inexplicable survivals and inconsistent reactions to infections. That was at least consistent with the survival of the host if not with the disappearance of the bug.

One of the theo-med scenarios had to do with mutations of the virus, presumably a space faring bug, which would have to be incredibly adaptive. But another of the computers presumed a prime objective in the bug and found the variation in the results of infection to be inconsistent with a highly adaptive life form.

Oddly enough, the conclusion that caught Theodore's attention had been run before Harvard's recovery. The computer had supposed that the viral injection of genetic material had caused a breakdown of the DNA structure of the host, hence the tumors. Once the body began to break down and life functions began to cease, the virus had cannibalized itself. Unlikely, yes. But what other explanation could there be for the complete disappearance of the virus?

There was the beginning of a pattern here. He was sure it had something to do with the genetic invasion.

Benjamin Harvard was saying something. He clicked the comm.

"What can I do for you Mr. Harvard?"

"I'd like to eat. Can I eat something at this point?"

The patient's voice came through the comm with a mechanical edge. The man's rosy face was annoying. His blustering health an irritating mystery. Theodore didn't want to let the man know he was due for release.

"You're getting all the sustenance you need, Mr Harvard."

"A sick man should be fed. I mean real food!"

"You are very healthy, Mr. Harvard. But you are still under observation."

The patient was quiet again. He resumed his stroll around the small room, flailing his arms and muttering to himself like a frustrated teenager.

(Look where it has been to see what it's done.)

He scanned the grey heaps of flesh imaged on the wall monitor. It had been there. Yes. It had to have been there. It was the only thing that fit the scenario.

(Look where it has been to see what it's done.)

He looked at Benjamin Harvard on the monitor, strutting jauntily around his cell. The bug had definitely been there.

Extensive tumors here. Extensive health there. What was the connection?

He suddenly bolted up straight in his chair. What if there was no real difference? What if the results were just different? Like an allergy? What if the deceased had suffered some form of genetic allergy to the invader?

An allergy. Yes it might work.

The tendency to cancer was hereditary. Myran's treatments worked on a genetic level, re-enforcing the basic genetic codes in the developing body. The cancerous tendency could almost be looked upon as a form of allergy, at least for the sake of the theory.

So, if Benjamin didn't have that tendency, what had the virus attempted to do? What it had apparently done was to increase the efficiency of the cells.

How? Why? Was this its prime motive? If so, what had it to do with the severity of the original attack?

"Freddy, I want a complete genetic analysis of patient Harvard. Everything. I want this compared with all prior records."

"All medical records on the ship have been damaged, Brother."

"I mean the records from his original examinations here."

"Complying."

He wrung his hands. He hadn't had any rest. His eyes were heavy and his mind functioning slowly. He watched the med port take a scratch of Benjamin Harvard's arm. The servo retracted and placed the sample in a container which disappeared into the wall unit.

He was tense. Seven hours left. How long would the genetics take? He decided to take the argument to Bahnart now.

(17)

Theodore burst into the Command Chapel and spat his case at the sneering Bahnart. Euclid sighed and looked away. Stone faced, Bahnart tapped his fingers on the simulated oak table.

"Are you listening to me Father?! That man had an unknown virus coursing through his body! A killer! We don't know that it is gone..."

Bahnart raised his eyebrows reproachfully.

"... well I mean that we don't know that there are no further hazardous effects. What we are releasing could be devastating, a new Black Death! A new Ebola Manhattan!"

"Are you quite finished?" Bahnart yelled. Theodore could tell he was through listening. "You are, in your field virtually peerless, Brother. You are a great asset to our research here and that is why I have allowed you this tirade. But look around you! We are having our funds cut as we speak. We cannot take any chances with possibly harboring a raider. The Church is already suspect. That man has to leave with the transport and if he is identified as a pirate, then it will be out of our hands."

Bahnart rose, adjusting his robe."Now, I'm leading Vespers tonight and I've got to get to Chapel. If there is no other business...?"

Theodore pursed his lips. "Fathers. I will of course comply with your wishes. But I must state for the official log, my disapproval of this action, and request that all medical records and data relating to this man's condition be uploaded and reviewed by the medical officers on the transport before he is taken on board."

"You mean his condition of pristine health, I suppose?" Bahnart jibed, "Consider it done."

Theodore rose and genuflected. Six hours, twenty minutes.

He whisked through the dark abandoned hallway. He was in a brainstorm. So far his conclusions had been based on historical information and newly suggested theories. But what if this virus acted in a way no other had? Not just an aberration of known viral behavior, but a completely different set of rules? A completely different motive?

He was sure it had to do with genetics.

"Brother Theodore."

Stevens walked up beside him.

"Yes Brother? I'm in a hurry now. What can I do for you?"

"I didn't want to get anybody in trouble, but I think Marty's been playing around with Freddy's personality parameters again."

"Did you run into that rogue too? I think young Marty has been experimenting with obnoxidity. I have already mentioned it to him."

"Bahnart would flip a lid if he ran into that!"

"You're minimalizing. Young Marty could get himself re-posted. He's extremely lucky that Bahnart didn't run across it.

"It's a programmers' sickness. They get ahold of a system like Freddy and can't help it. I know core quimp is rare, but I have heard of it happening. Harmless seeming rogue; hardcodes itself into the system; rewriting it a bit at a time. Next thing you know it's spreading like a .. like a..." Theodore stopped mid-stride.

"What's wrong?" Stevens asked.

"... like a virus! Damn! Of course! It was right in front of me all along!"

Stevens stepped back. He'd never seen the calm mannered monk behave like this.

"You're ok?"

"Stevens. That transport is due to arrive when?"

"It's here."

"What?! I though I had six hours?!"

"Sorry. It's here, Brother. Probably broke a few regs getting here, but I guess they were in a hurry. They're touching pad right now."

"Damn! Damn! Damn! I need you to keep them occupied."

"What?!"

"I can't explain now. I haven't time! You've got to keep that transport from leaving for as long as possible."

"Or until Bahnart finds out!" "Bahnart should be in Chapel. He's leading Vespers tonight."

Stevens looked hesitant. "What's up Theodore? What's going on?"

"I don't know much about Benjamin Harvard, Brother. But I am suddenly convinced whatever is in that security isolation unit isn't him."

Theodore brisked purposefully into Med Hall. He had to make his case to the Fathers. There was an excitement in him that he'd not felt for many years. So much at stake. If he was right, the entire colonial population.

"Freddy, display all genetic readouts on patient Harvard."

"Oh what's the problem now?!" the computer responded testily.

Theodore, the patient monk who never swore beat his fist against the console and yelled, "Dammit Marty!", then he flicked his finger across the comm and yelled "Marty, get to Med Hall right now!"

"What's the problem here?"

Theodore turned. It was Bahnart.

"Father! I thought you were leading Vespers."

"I'm on my way right now. What's all the fuss?"

"Well, I'm glad you're here! I have figured out.."

"There. I got your stupid readouts up. Are you happy?" the computer interrupted.

"What the hell is that?!" Bahnart snapped, "Is that Freddy?!"

Theodore held up his hand for patience, scanning the display. There was the evidence he needed! Plainly obvious.

"Are you quite through with me?! Can I get just a little rest?!" Freddy complained.

"Did it say 'I'? Dammit Theodore! Is that your doing?"

"Father, I don't have time to explain. But I must tell you that Benjamin Harvard is no longer Benjamin Harvard!"

"What?!"

"I mean that he isn't who you think."

"Oh? Was the log ident wrong?"

"No, No, what I mean is that he... it is not a man at all."

Bahnart swore and pressed his palms to his face.

"Well, yes, it is a man, but ... look here. I asked Freddy to do a comparison between the genetic info we took on the patient..."

"Oh not that again. There's nothing wrong with that man's health. I cannot..."

"It is not a matter of his health Father. That man is no longer genetically human!!"

"Brother, you need to take a rest! I am sending you to your quarters for rest, prayer and meditation for the next ..."

"Father, the readout in front of us shows that..."

"What's all the ruckus?" Marty ran up to them.

"... while the patient no longer has..."

"Wait!" Bahnart's face broke with realization, "It was you, wasn't it Marty? That damn program! That's your doing, isn't it?!"

"... 46 chromosomes!"

"Was what my doing?"

"Marty. Get these clowns off my back!" Freddy said.

"That!!" Bahnart pointed at the speaker.

"Benjamin Harvard is dead. That man... the thing that is..."

"Uh, it was just a joke!" Marty explained, "Just a joke! I'll erase it, OK?"

"SHUT UP!"

Bahnart and Marty were stunned into silence. "Listen very carefully! That," he pointed to the display, "is a comparison of the patient's original and current genetic patterns! What's wrong with that picture?!"

Bahnart was furious but he finally looked at the display. His face softened. "Good Lord," he said after a short examination. "They.. they don't match."

"That's where the virus went!" Theodore explained. "It didn't disappear! It's right there dammit, hardcoded in the nuclei. It has become Benjamin Harvard!"

Bahnart gasped.

Marty shook his head and muttered incredulity.

"Now do you understand? That man cannot be allowed to leave."

Bahnart made a guilty sigh. "He's leaving now, Theodore. I.. I didn't want anymore problems from you, so I overrode your release authority and Stevens is escorting him to him into the dock now."

Theodore swore under his breath. "Freddy, relay message to dock. Halt all out going traffic! Detain and isolate patient Harvard immediately!" he yelled.

The computer didn't respond.

"Freddy, please confirm."

No response.

Bahnart thrust his finger into Marty's face. "You get your ass on that console and communicate with this machine. If that rogue gets to the core, I'll have your robe for dinner." He turned to Theodore. "Theodore get to the dock and stop that ship! I'll meet you there." The old priest dashed out into the dark corridor.

(18)

"So, what was your stay with USAF?"

The new Benjamin Harvard didn't respond. He walked. He liked the motion. The walking.

"I was in for a awhile myself. Before I joined the Church, that is. I was in OSS-110 off of the Freedom system. Yep, salvage and ship retrieval..."

The youthful monk rambled on. The new Benjamin Harvard smiled in all the right places. He walked. He listened. The memories the other had left told him when to nod approvingly and why. The memories told him the monk wanted his approval. That he had been stationed here for many years, away from the normal social situations one would encounter in a more populated post.

"...and then off to Somaha Corporation for a spell. But I didn't like that too much. No. The Church offers so many more options. Sure, it gets lonely out here once in a while. But where else do you get a chance to play with space warping drives or mass retention systems without all some accountant looking over your shoulder?"

The new Benjamin Harvard nodded approvingly and chuckled. It was the appropriate reaction. They were almost at the dock. Of all the sensations, the smelling was the most intriguing to him. So much information contained in such a simple response.

He could smell the tangy aromas that the memories told him were mechanical smells. The smell of compression drives warming. The smell of hot metal and lubricants. It was a smell the other had been very familiar with.

Now he could see the ship. The monk still talked. The new Benjamin Harvard smiled at him. He was good and strong and intelligent. He would make a good vessel.

Then he heard the yelling and the pounding of feet against the alloy floor. He turned.

"Stop! Stop now!" Theodore yelled crossing the huge dock area. Stevens was boarding the huge transport. Benjamin Harvard strode casually beside him. Stevens hadn't heard him, but Harvard turned. Even from this distance, his expression was clear. He knew.

Whatever it was that Benjamin Harvard had become, was aware of itself. It knew the threat that Theodore posed.

Then it's face changed.

Stevens finally turned and saw Theodore. He looked frantic, excited about something.

The monk was yelling something that failed in the distance. "What the hell is going on?!" Stevens asked no one.

Benjamin Harvard responded with a loud, wet sneeze.

(19)

Theodore was twenty feet from the boarding ramp when he saw Benjamin Harvard go infectious.

It was instantaneous. In a fraction of a second Benjamin Harvard broke into a mad sweat. His face swelled and reddened, his eyes becoming dark plugs. Whatever Benjamin Harvard had become sneezed into the face of the monk beside him. Theodore cursed.

A new vessel had been entered. 'Infected', they would call it. It wiped away the mucus from it's face but it was already too late. Purpose had arrived there and was already doing it's job. Now that one of the vessels had already been taken and maintained, others would be easier.

The new Benjamin Harvard swung himself down the length of the ramp. His body was strong and lithe. It had a wealth of combat memories. It was prepared for battle.

Theodore stopped dead when Benjamin Harvard landed at the foot of the ramp. It was a gracefully executed movement. The man looked red, sweaty, ill. But his expression was one of calm intention. Single-minded purpose. Stevens stood atop the ramp, grimacing and wiping his face with a robed arm.

The manual alarm suddenly erupted from the hall and dock speakers. "This is an alert! To all monks concerned, patient Benjamin Harvard must be detained! This is an alert!" It was Marty's voice. Freddy must still be inoperative.

"I know about you. About who you are," Theodore yelled to the thing that posed as Benjamin Harvard.

The monk addressed him directly. He hadn't counted on this. It was no longer necessary to deceive. He searched the memories.

Bargain. That's what he must do.

"You know nothing, Monk," the new Benjamin Harvard responded. "I have many things to do yet and I would appreciate it if I would be allowed on my way."

"You're going back to Med Hall, Harvard. Nowhere else."

"And what methods would you employ against me? Eh? This is a monastery, right? Exploratory. Applicable theoretics? If memory serves me, you have no armed security. No ... police? Yes, no police." Benjamin Harvard walked calmly towards the monk as he talked.

Theodore slowly stepped backwards. The thing was going to try and infect him. The prime motive.

"Monk. This is all very simple. The solution to our problem is a matter of a mutually beneficial action. Allow me leave. I have no need to stay here and I am certain you don't want me around." Benjamin Harvard began to run at Theodore, it's face now a mass of dark red welts and snot.

The monk turned quickly and ran. Harvard was a virus personified. It's single purpose was to spread as much and as fast as possible. He heard the thing running behind him and yelled.

The new Benjamin Harvard gained easily. The monk would offer no challenge. It took poor care of it's body. The body would be better cared for after it had been taken.

Then he saw the Priest. He stopped.

The priest had come prepared.

Theodore dashed for the hallway door. The thing behind him was close and gaining. He could hear the wheeze of it's congested breath. He let out a yell of anger and fear.

Then Bahnart was in the doorway, cradling something in his arms. Something dark, metallic, sinister. Behind him Benjamin Harvard's footfalls faltered and stopped.

"Lay down Theodore!" Bahnart yelled. He aimed the weapon. Theodore waved his arms dramatically.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot him!"

"Dammit man! Get out of the way!"

"No! No Father! He's all we have!"

Bahnart cursed and shuffled for aim, but Theodore maintained his position between the Priest and Benjamin Harvard.

The new Benjamin Harvard recognized the weapon. It would shatter him at the molecular level. It would destroy not only the body but, the microscopic parts of his true form. He had to escape. Inexplicably the monk called Theodore was blocking the priests aim, protecting him. The monks argued.

It gave him time. He turned and ran. Boarding the ship would be useless. The transport was not like the Martincraft. It would not take him very far, or very fast.

The dock could only be opened from the control room. And even if he did get off the small moon, they'd certainly transmit an emergency warning to any port in hailing distance. He turned and ran for the port on the opposite wall. A small group of monks had gathered there. They must have heard the alarm. As he passed through the group of surprised young men, the new Benjamin Harvard sneezed repeatedly.

Spreading itself.

Theodore cringed when he saw the thing make it's exit, infecting all the monks who stood at the portal.

"Dammit! Dammit!" he yelled, beating his fists through the air like a frustrated child.

"You young fool!" Bahnart cursed him. "I could have finished him right then and there!"

"Father! You kill that ... thing, and you kill the only hope we have of ever leaving this moon."

"Oh, what now! What the hell are you talking about!"

"Dammit Bahnart! You saw the geno charts! That thing has cloned and even modified that mans body. If you kill him, we may have no way to analyze other infections."

Bahnart held the weapon down and a frustrated looked crossed his face. He wasn't used to indecision.

"Freddy! The men at the southern port have to be isolated immediately! Tell them not to move," Theodore yelled excitedly.

Freddy did not respond.

"Freddy!" Nothing.

Bahnart paged and had he same response.

"It's qwimp." Theodore whispered.

"No its' not!" Bahnart sneered. "It takes more than a foolish VUI prog to make a system like this go down."

"Well it doesn't matter does it? It's not reacting! We've got an infectious man running through this complex. We have no security. No manner of containing him!"

"How infectious if this thing, Theodore?" Bahnart asked.

Theodore heard him. He didn't respond. A thought had occurred to him.

"Theodore, I need to know the contamination potential."

Bahnart was saying something to him but he was lost in this sudden, urgent train of thought. The thing that was where Benjamin Harvard used to be had purpose. It had awareness. It's method was perfect. Almost undetectable. "What is goin on here?!" Euclid asked as he ran into the dock. "Do you know the VUI is down?" He saw the blaster. "Bahnart! What in the name of God are you doing with that thing?!"

Stevens walked toward them from the ramp, his face was already blushed from microscopic invaders. "Theodore?! What the hell was that all about. He sneezed on me!!" Behind Stevens, the two pilots from the transport were running down the ramp. They carried hand weapons.

Had they been exposed?

Theodore walked away. Bahnart watched him quizzically, ignoring Euclid's inquiries.

Theodores mind was racing again. A virus was purpose. Purpose in it's purest essence. When it failed to fulfill it's primary objective, it modified. It changed itself to each new situation. Each new environment.

The thing that had taken Benjamin Harvard was completely unique. It had hidden itself, almost beyond detection in the very fabric of it's new body, awaiting the time when it would be released to expose others. It was intelligent. Aware.

Theodore Crumant suddenly realized that Benjamin Harvard was unstoppable.

"None of us can leave," he said to no one.

"What? What did you say?" Euclid asked, befuddled. But he wasn't heard.

Bahnart ran to a wall comm and ordered a security alert. Marty's voice came across the comm just after ward, apologizing for the VUI malfunction and advising all monks to use manual access facilities. The two pilots were asking questions, complaining about time limits and destinations. The monks from across the dock seemed to be arguing among themselves. They were all carriers.

Theodore watched this all as if in slow motion. Something heavy fell upon his heart. A realization.

He prayed.

(20)

The presiding Priest at Delaney Colony at Sol exited the conference room. He'd left an angry group of men behind for a few moments of peace.

He hated situations like these.

There was no way to make everybody happy. It seemed the Church had become a nursemaid for the unstable egos of interplanetary diplomats and politicians.

And to think so many had died.

He poured a drink and leaned back into his chair.

The Stella Morgan Monastery had flourished as a leading edge research center for a century and a half.

Now it was gone.

The explosion was from the core fission materials and it had left nothing. Not even a scrap of the enormous building had been recovered. It would take years of investigation to find out the cause of the blast and there were bound to be serious issues raised for it was almost impossible for such an explosion to occur by accident. But what manner of monster could commit such an act?

Seventy monks, most under the age of thirty had died instantly. They hadn't even a split second of suffering.

Thank the Lord for small mercies.

Fortunately there was one survivor.

He'd been found adrift in orbit of the moon. His resucue hadn't come a moment too soon for his small pod was near exhaustion of supplies.

They didn't know where the man had come from. The computer hadn't been able to ident him with the records of any of the monks stationed at the monastery. But he would surely be valuable in their investigation.

As soon as he got over his cold.