CHAPTER THREE
Transtemporal Vehicle Kleio
non-congruent
“Now that was tasty, Raibert,” Philosophus said. “Why hadn’t we tried it already?”
“I thought we had,” Doctor Raibert Kaminski replied as his plate lifted smoothly from the table and followed the rest of the china and flatware off to reclamation. “In fact, I was almost certain we had.”
“A variant we enjoyed on our way home from Alesia came close,” the voice inside his head said. “Except that it didn’t have the bay leaves and oregano.” The voice paused, then continued with the equivalent of a silent shrug. “Now that I think about it, that probably isn’t very surprising, I suppose. Most purists would be appalled by the adulteration of shrimp scampi with either of those spices!”
“‘Consistency is the bugaboo of small minds,’ Philo,” Kaminski observed. “‘And—’”
“‘And experiment is the key to serendipity,’” the connectome said, completing the quotation for him with a soft electronic chuckle. “An interesting attitude for a historian.”
“I became a historian in the first place because of the way I want to ‘run and find out,’” Kaminski riposted. “You haven’t figured that out after fifty-plus years of sharing the same senses?”
“Ah, but for an abstract citizen such as myself, the universe is eternally new,” Philo replied. “You flesh-and-blood types are so limited in what you can forget. Mind you, you’re amazingly good at it, considering the fact that you can’t simply erase it at the source. I, on the other hand, can deliberately select memories to seal or delete, thereby re-creating a blank canvas upon which to paint. And, of course, I’m incapable of forgetting by accident.”
“My, you are pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” Kaminski chuckled.
“I suppose I am, actually,” Philo acknowledged. “It’s not every day someone spends eleven months attached to Julius Caesar’s own headquarters. I’d like to see one of those thumb-fingered ART Preservation teams manage that!”
Kaminski chuckled again, more loudly, but he had to agree with his abstract companion. And it had been very much a joint effort, he acknowledged. Without the resources of their home century’s infosystems, Philosophus’ ability to support his mission had been limited, but it had also been essential. The infosystem of a TTV was tiny compared to the cloud-supported systems available back home. A Transtemporal Vehicle like Kleio had a total capacity of little more than a couple of exabytes, but that was at least enough to sustain Philosophus’ complete personality alongside Kleio’s limited, nonsentient attendant program, and the TTV’s bandwidth was great enough to let the abstract citizen interface with Kaminski’s wetware. Not quite as completely as he might have at home; that was the one thing Kaminski really didn’t like about fieldwork. Back home, Philosophus was his integrated companion, a constant presence, counselor, assistant, and friend, as available to him as his own thoughts thanks to his wetware implants and the infosystem. But without the depth of the system-wide Infonet, they simply didn’t have the bandwidth to sustain that level of connectivity in the field.
They did have enough to make Philosophus available to augment Kaminski’s merely human language skills and memory for detail, of course, and the AC had provided the link he needed to the TTV’s survey and reconnaissance assets. That was one of several reasons they’d been able to insert the human into Caesar’s staff as an expert geographer. Maps in the ancient world—even Roman maps—tended to be less than reliable. But if “Titus Aluis Camillus” said there was a river between Caesar’s army and his intended field of battle, then by Mars, there was a river exactly where he’d said it was. And it was exactly as deep as he’d said it was, too.
There were advantages to being able to deploy effectively invisible surveillance remotes as needed.
“Fair’s fair, Philo,” Kaminski said after a moment. “The ART Preservation teams aren’t intended for long-term observation and interaction.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Philo replied with an audible—for certain values of the word “audible,” at least—sniff. “Finesse isn’t exactly their middle name, is it?”
Kaminski shook his head in acknowledgment.
In many ways, the Antiquities Rescue Trust was the wrecking ball of historical research, and it was unfortunately true that ART Preservation and its proponents still enjoyed substantial pull in the Ministry, even after they’d been slapped with a number of restrictions thanks to records exposed by a certain professor and his abstract companion.
It was, after all, so much easier to physically transport the treasures of antiquity—or even the inhabitants of antiquity—to the thirtieth century for proper study than it was to spend weeks or months on the dirty, smelly, often tedious, and almost equally often dangerous business of physically inserting a researcher into antiquity, instead. It was hard to argue against the thoroughness with which a properly equipped lab could delve into the most deeply hidden secrets of something like the original canvas of da Vinci’s The Last Supper, for example, or the Nike of Samothrace, which—like the Venus de Milo—ART Preservation had recovered undamaged for the benefit of the thirtieth century’s museums. Both Kaminski and Philo, however, belonged to the ART Observation branch. Analyzing artifacts—including human ones, assuming the sanity of the humans in question was sufficiently robust to survive the shock of transplantation—was one thing. Understanding them required that they be studied in their own, original environments.
That was what Kaminski and Philo had decided almost fifty years ago, and nothing had happened to change their minds since. Oh, there were moments when Kaminski, at least, rather envied some of ART’s more spectacular triumphs. The physical extraction of the entire Library of Alexandria, for example. That had been a rather lively endeavor, and he’d burned a lot of bridges when he and Philo went public with the records of ART’s…overzealous approach. But he also didn’t regret the positive influence the new laws and restrictions had had on ART, nor did it hurt that those restrictions barely touched him and his companion. They always remained covert in order to sustain his period-specific cover lest they defeat their entire purpose. Being unable to charge into the past festooned with rail-rifles and light energy weapons was a complete nonissue in their case.
Of course, the mere fact that they’d inserted themselves into the historical process meant the history itself would be changed. It was axiomatic that an observer affected the phenomenon under observation, and that was certainly true when it came to interactive temporal research. As a consequence, no observer could examine a completely accurate version of the actual history involved. But if he was sufficiently unobtrusive, he could avoid introducing any changes—on the macro level, at least—which would invalidate his observations. And it was always possible, as Kaminski himself had done on more than one occasion, to return and reinsert oneself into the same historical event multiple times, giving one alternative perspectives on the event itself and, presumably, balancing out any unintended effects one might have introduced.
He supposed it might be argued that that was really all ART did across both the Preservation and Observation branches, but it was the difference between a flint knapper, using a bit of antelope horn to peel away single flakes of flint at a time, and someone using a sledgehammer to produce gravel. The notion of inserting commando teams to seize and hold the Great Library until the conveyors could haul every book and scroll away while gunning down anyone who tried to stop them offended Kaminski’s sense of morality to the point where he’d been driven to do something about it.
The fact that the entire event had been erased from the timestream the moment the last conveyor, the last commando, withdrew meant someone from ART could always go back to the library, of course. The original iteration of the books—and, for that matter, of any scholars or librarians who’d been “killed” in the raid—were “still there” in every sense that mattered. But he couldn’t honestly call what ART Preservation did “research,” despite the peer pressure he and Philo used to encounter to join them. None of the several hundred people who’d “died” had stayed dead after ART withdrew, and Kaminski admitted that he’d been just as agog over the library’s contents as anyone else. But the retrieval mission had added virtually nothing to modern scholarship’s understanding of day-to-day life in Alexandria. That had been the task of the Observation branch personnel, like Kaminski and Philo, who’d been inserted into Alexandria before the raid—less as scholars than as survey parties mapping out where its teams of time bandits could find the richest historical plunder.
“Did you ever really speculate on what it might’ve been like to do temporal research if the causalists had been right, Philo?” Kaminski asked.
“No, I haven’t. Because there wouldn’t be any temporal research if they’d been right.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” He shook his head. “An observer wouldn’t actually have to interact with anyone. Admittedly, our data set would be a lot poorer, but simply sending a TTV back and deploying invisible remotes to get real-time imagery and sound wouldn’t directly impact any of the history involved.”
“Unless the causalists’ worst-case arguments had been accurate,” Philo pointed out. “You might’ve been able to eliminate direct contamination of the societies involved, but there’d always have been the chance of some totally random change in the environment impacting indirectly upon human decisions. If Andover’s First Theory had proved accurate, for example, the mere fact that a single ‘extraneous’ causality was introduced into the timestream at any point would have ‘reset’ every other event, down to the molecular level, thereafter. Think about that one!”
“I’d rather not. But even Andover was willing to admit that interpretation might be a little extreme.”
“Granted, granted.” Philo gave the soft electronic sound he used as the equivalent of a shrug when he chose not to project a visible avatar through Kaminski’s wetware. “But even his Second Theory posited the possibility for an avalanche of tiny changes turning into a catastrophic event.”
“True, but that was inherent in his underlying logic,” Kaminski pointed out. “And then there was Chen’s theory.”
“I cannot believe you’ve brought that old chestnut into this discussion!” Philo moaned. But there was laughter in his moan and Kaminski sat back with his beer stein, smiling.
Most physical humans looked for compatibility in any abstract citizen with whom they might enter into companionship. Not all physical citizens decided to do that, nor did all abstract citizens develop any desire to create a long-term partnership with someone still fundamentally limited to the nonelectronic universe. It was more common than not, however, although the “firewalls” between personalities tended to be very much a matter of personal taste. In more extreme cases there were no firewalls, really, and the personalities involved tended to flow and merge, incorporating bits and pieces of one another’s code. At the opposite extreme were those personalities—organic and abstract—which became little more than close friends, possibly visiting in the outer fringes of one another’s personalities on rare occasions, but mostly limited to the equivalent of verbal conversation.
Most, however, lay somewhere in the middle, very much like Kaminski and Philo. Each of them had, upon occasion, used the other’s “senses” to experience something he wasn’t directly equipped to experience, like Philo’s appreciation for Kaminski’s willingness to experiment with recipes and flavors. Their personalities had never even come close to merging, though, and both of them preferred it that way. The two of them were closer to one another than either of them was to anyone else in the entire universe, but theirs was definitely a case of Philia’s brotherly love, possibly with a substantial dash of Agape’s unconditional love, but totally devoid of Eros’ sexual connotations.
Philo was the brother Kaminski had never had, and Kaminski was the portal into the material world Philo had yearned for. Unlike “meat” humans who’d had their personalities converted into connectomes in order to access the abstract world, Philo had begun his existence as what had once been called an artificial intelligence. The term was still technically accurate, although it was virtually never used any longer, outside a smattering of ancient laws. But despite all the “meat” humans who’d made the transition into Philo’s universe, there was still a difference there, a sort of wondering delight and fascination, when he stepped out of the abstract universe through Kaminski’s implants. Kaminski felt much the same on his excursions into the abstract realities to which Philo had introduced him, yet they’d both realized long ago that the differences between them were almost more important to maintaining their fifty-three-year relationship than any similarities.
But one trait they shared in full was a delight in contrarian discussions. In fact, they infuriated many of their mutual friends by their ability to effortlessly swap sides in midargument just to keep a good debate going.
“Well,” the flesh-and-blood half of their relationship said now, “it’s always possible Chen really was right, you know. I mean, if we did somehow manage to fundamentally change the past—beyond the temporary spikes, I mean—we really might simply ‘reset’ ourselves out of existence. For all we know, we might’ve done that thousands of times by now!”
“Oh, puh-leeze!” Philo’s chosen human avatar—a hulking, red-haired, red-bearded Viking, complete with the horned helmet real Vikings hadn’t worn—manifested itself in Kaminski’s field of vision so that it could roll its eyes at him. “We have petabytes of real-world data demonstrating that nothing of the sort happens!”
“But if Chen was right, we wouldn’t have any data demonstrating that it did!” Kaminski grinned at him. “The data would never have existed in the first place.”
“Can you say ‘circular logic’?” Philo inquired pleasantly, beetling bushy red eyebrows at him, and Kaminski laughed.
“Well, I’d have to concede that the fact that we’ve inflicted so many temporary changes on the timestream without ever changing a single damned thing ‘downstream’ from the change would tend to suggest both Andover and Chen were…worrying unduly, shall we say? For that matter, Andover admitted as much.”
“Maybe he did, but even death hasn’t stopped Chen asserting on my side of the interface that the math supports him.” Philo rolled his blue eyes again. “I’m tempted to suggest that he program his own VR where it actually does work that way and move into it!”
“Now, now,” Kaminski chided. “Let’s be mature about this!”
The sound of a raspberry was unmistakable, and he laughed again.
“On a somewhat more pragmatic level, how much longer to home?” he asked.
“About a hundred twenty-three hours, absolute, according to Kleio,” Philo replied promptly.
The TTV’s onboard systems didn’t quite cross the threshold into self-awareness. They’d been designed that way as part of the access security built into the Ministry’s vehicles. In fact, although no one was supposed to be gauche enough even to talk about it, the Ministry had insisted upon its own version of the ancient “two-pilot” rule. Only an abstract citizen could insert itself into the infostructure to fully operate the TTV’s systems, but the TTV was locked out of transtemporal flight without a live human being—either flesh or synthoid—on the bridge. There were some who thought the precaution was both outmoded and more than a little condescending, but neither Kaminski nor Philo were in that group. Perhaps they might have been, Kaminski admitted, if either of them had possessed any desire to go scudding about through history without the other along for the ride. Because they didn’t, the requirement imposed no hardship on them.
And, in an absolute worst-case scenario, he thought on the privacy side of their firewall, even if something horrible happened to either of us, the other one could still punch the auto-recall to get himself back home. I just don’t know if I’d want to.
“Already two thirds of the way there?” he said out loud. “I’m tempted to say ‘we’re making good time,’ except I know how much it would irritate you if I did.”
“You are so good to me,” Philo said dryly.
“I try. But since we still have whole absolute days to kill, why don’t we pull out that aerial imagery you got of the Battle of Thapsus? There are a couple of points I’d like to get your take on, maybe bounce a few observations back and forth.”
“Of course.” Philo’s avatar disappeared, replaced by an aerial view of a first-century BCE Mediterranean seaport. “What would you like to—”
A strident alarm Raibert Kaminski had never encountered, even in training, slammed through his virtual hearing. He jerked upright in his seat, the TTV shook and bucked madly, its lights went instantly and totally dark, and he felt himself actually rising upward out of his chair in an utterly impossible freefall.
The artificial gravity stuttered back on and he dropped heavily back into his seat.
“Philo!” he shouted, physically and mentally alike, but there was no answer. “Philo!”
And then the second shock wave hit. He flew out of his chair, his skull cracked against a bulkhead, and he slid down it to the floor.