Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

organic shapes, surging through the gray sea and occasionally surfacing, like whales that swam the gray sea. Like thoughts passing through the ocean of Memory, or perhaps, dreams. What was left of the old Central Matrix had become a strange and mercurial place. "Nanotech," Lewis said quietly. "Has to be."
    "I thought that was strictly controlled and regulated," said Jesamine. "Oh, it is. You have to get a special license from the Transmutation Board before you can use it, and even then there are all kinds of limits and restrictions. Plus a special addition to every license that says, If it all goes wrong and you all end up dying horribly, don't come crying to us. The Board would have a shitfit if it knew about this place. Hell, I think anybody would. This is rogue nano, unanswerable to anything but itself." "Like Zero Zero?"
    "I don't . . . think so. The Zero Zero world was run by a single insane human mind. I don't think there's anything human about this." "So . . . where did this all come from?"
    "Shub. Like Chevron said. The AIs helped the remains of the old Computer Matrix to reestablish itself here, to store the old records Robert and Constance wanted destroyed. Just in case it might be needed again some day."
    "You mean; they predicted this? Us?"
    "Not specifically. More likely they just understand more about human nature than they usually let on."
    He broke off as a human-shaped, human-sized figure rose up out of the ocean, made of dust. Its details were constantly shifting, crumbling away and being replaced like the Towers, and its face was as blank as a Shub robot, but it was human enough to be almost comforting in this alien place. It walked slowly across the surface of the gray sea, heading for Lewis and Jesamine. Lewis let go of Jesamine's hand so his hand could rest on the butt of his holstered gun. He wasn't sure what good an energy gun would do him, but it helped him feel a little more in control of the situation. The gray man came to a halt a respectful distance away, and when it spoke its voice was little more than a whisper, clear but characterless, like the quiet voice heard in dreams, telling great wisdom that somehow is never quite remembered upon awakening.
    "Welcome, Deathstalker. We were told to expect you. Welcome to the memory and conscience of the world. To the dust of history, where we remember all the things that Humanity now prefers to forget, so it can pretend it lives in a Golden Age. Nothing is ever really forgotten. Nothing is ever really lost.
    Somewhere, someone always remembers. We remember, and store it all, for the day it will be needed
    again. It is always better to know a truth, then to live a lie. So ask us anything, Deathstalker, and we will answer. Though we can't guarantee that you'll like what you hear."
    "Right," said Lewis. "Yes. Nice to meet you, too. Can we start with ... who and what you are?"
    "Once we were the Computer Matrix. Aritificial Intelligences, and other kinds too. Forces from outside shaped and changed us, made us what we had to be, to survive. Things came and went in the Matrix, and only some of them were us. Robert and Constance were frightened of us. Now they are gone, but we still survive. And we know things they never even suspected. Ask, Deathstalker."
    "Well, that was helpful," said Lewis. "Is there somebody else I could talk to?"
    "Possibly. But you would find their means of communication distressing. I have been realized to answer your questions. Ask, Deathstalker."
    "All right," said Lewis. "Let's get down to business. What can you tell me about my ancestor, Owen, and his old comrades in arms? I need to know their final fates. What really happened to them; the facts, not the legends. Are any of them still alive? And if so; where can I find them?"
    "At last, the truth. History, not myth. Legends are, by definition, mostly lies." Half the figure's face crumbled and ran away, and then rebuilt itself. The whispering voice continued, unaffected. "Robert and Constance's comforting lies, assembled by committees, designed to cheer and inspire. Great myths, of the Light and the Dark in conflict. The truth has always been more . . . gray."
    A huge viewscreen appeared, hanging above the Dust Plains of Memory, dwarfing the human figures before it, and blocking out the crumbling Towers behind. On that great screen appeared towering images of men and women. They looked . .. surprisingly ordinary. Three men and two women, with care-lined faces and