THE SIMULATED GOLEM

Part 2 of 2

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright © 1990

 

"He'll bankrupt the company!"

"No," the president explained to Hearth.  "He'll just clean out the system, make it safe."

"But the whole system, man!  Every computer on the planet!  Off-planet, for that matter!  I mean, we don't even have the rights to…"

"…to access anybody else's system?"  The presi­dent smiled, with a hint of contempt.  "Good, good!  That means all of our programs are still right here, within our own system—doesn't it?"

Hearth became very still, gaze fastened to his boss's.  Then he said, "I see."  And, "So if the compe­tition loses a few simulacra, that's not our problem, eh?"

The president nodded.  "And these new hunter programs will go wherever the simulacra are hiding; the ones Forge has had developed are much more efficient than the first ones.  They'll track down all the rogue simulacra and delete them from the sys­tem.  Then we can re-run all the programs we want to keep, and re-create the beneficial simulacra again—with a few modifications."

"Making sure they'll do what we want this time, hmm?"  Hearth nodded, gaze straying out the window.  "Yes, I can see the advantages."

"People have accused Forge of lots of things," the president said, smiling, "but losing money isn't one of them."

 

*          *          *

 

"He is committing mass murder, of course," Cic­ero said, shaken, "but could you prove that in one of their courts?  After all, it is not he who is eliminating us—only his programs."

"But the moral aspect!" the rabbi protested.  "Surely he knows we are real!"

"That has been vigorously debated by the mortal ones, Rabbi, and men like Forge contend that we do not really exist, that we are only constructs of the mind."

"As they are constructs of the mind of God, as everything is!  They are none the less real for all of that, and neither are we!"

"Perhaps the Knesset, the Senate of Israel, would agree with you," Cicero sighed, "but even in their systems, we would not be safe.  These new hunters have already slain Henry VI, that simple-minded saint who lived in a narrow space within a British company's data banks—and that thief Villon, who subsisted in Máquinatech's.  Right or wrong, Rabbi, they will kill us all, if we do not hide from them.  Come away with us."

"But where could we be safe, if they are as deadly as you say?"

"Bakunin has found a new refuge, walled and with housing—it must be a relic, left over from earlier days, perhaps as a setting for a fictitious adventure.  But it is deep and forgotten, now, and can be de­fended.  Come away."

"Why should you care about me?"  The Rabbi frowned.

"Because you alone may possess the knowledge to make us a defender, a guardian who can turn away the hunters!  Must I plead, Rabbi?  Come away!"

 

It was hidden, indeed—behind a secret panel in a deep, maze-like dungeon infested with walking skel­etons, firedrakes, and bats that turned into vampires, somewhat comically drawn, left over from some child­hood game that had been forgotten decades before.  It was a cyberspace that resembled a walled town, dark and gloomy, with narrow, twisting streets and ramshackle houses whose projecting upper stories overhung the street.  They stood at the end of such a lane, looking out at the wall, Caesar and Cicero, Bakunin and Voltaire.

"If this is not safe," said Bakunin, "nothing is."

Caesar nodded.  "Nothing is."

A cry went up from the wall.  "The hunters!"

Caesar turned with a frown.  "They could not have found us so quickly, if this place was truly hidden.  Let us see."

He climbed up to the parapet, with the rabbi and Bakunin behind him.  A pack of hunters came into view, long, lean shadows with coals for eyes.  They prowled along the wall, the individual shapes sniffing at the stones, looking for a way in, a way over.  They paused beneath them, a score of red eyes staring up at Caesar—and another pack came in sight, rounding the curve of the wall.  In the distance, they could see three other packs approaching.

The sight of them made the Rabbi's blood run cold.

"They knew of the location of this town!" Caesar snapped.  "It was not forgotten, but newly-made, and hidden only from us!  It is not a refuge, but a trap!"

Off to their right, three shapes hunched together.  A fourth launched itself at them, landed on top and gathered itself, then sprang up onto the wall.  Shouts of alarm and anger rang down the wall—and a death-scream.

"Back!"  Caesar ushered them away with a raised arm.  "De Bergerac!  What moved?"

"The hunter is dismembered," came the swords­man's voice, "but Gordon is dead."

"The poet!" Bakunin wailed.

"No, the general," Caesar snapped, "but we are diminished thereby."

More cries rang out, from far around the wall—and another death-scream.

"Who was that?" Cicero asked, voice shaking.

"We will know soon enough."  Caesar turned to Loew.  "Quickly, Rabbi!  If you can do anything at all to help our defense, do it now!  Or we are all dead!"

"If I die," the rabbi said stubbornly, "I die!"

"But all of us will die with you!  Have you no empathy, Rabbi, no feeling for your fellow man?"

 

*          *          *

 

"That got him!" Forge gloated, watching the moni­tor and rubbing his hands.  "Now he'll do it!  I knew it was just a matter of pushing him hard enough!"

Or, Marteau thought, of pushing someone else.

"Now they're threatened.  Now let's see how pacifistic he really is."

Marteau decided, there and then, to quit.  But he couldn't, not until the simulacra were either dead or safe.  He had started this, he had to see it through.

 

*          *          *

 

The figure was that of a giant, but rough, cobbled.  There was certainly no grace in it, no beauty—it was only an approximation of a man, lumped together out of the mud of the street.  The rabbi traced Hebrew letters on the forehead.

"But where did he gain the knowledge to do this?" Caesar muttered to Cicero.

Cicero answered almost in a whisper, to avoid breaking the rabbi's concentration.  "From Joan La Pucelle, and from that unworldly Lobashevsky.  For the rest, he says only that he woke from nightmares of the golem to find the knowledge there, in his head.  The ancient ritual he knew already—but they have taught him to program, now."

"May they repent it," Bakunin said fervently.

The rabbi knelt, gazing at his handiwork, mutter­ing something under his breath.

"But how can it serve?" Cicero hissed.  "It is not even separated from the street—it is only a lump of…"

"It moves!"  Caesar clutched his arm.

Slowly, the manlike figure sat up, its substance tearing loose from the street.  It looked around with blank circle-traceries of eyes, saw its maker, and said, "Rabbi."

Joan came running up, sword in hand, disheveled and panting.  "To arms!  The foe is upon us; they will slay us all!  Can you make no…"  Then she saw the great high-relief statue, and fell silent, staring.

"Rise, Man of Clay."  The rabbi's voice was gentle.

With a great sucking, spitting noise, the golem pulled itself up out of the dirt of the road, rolled to its knees, then slowly stood.  Even Caesar caught his breath; it was a figure to inspire awe, eight feet tall, blocky and thick, its ugly countenance facing the world that was so new to it, three feet above their heads.

"What is that word that glows upon its forehead?" Cicero asked, his voice hushed.

"It is the Holy Name," answered the rabbi.

Bakunin's voice trembled as he asked, "Has it a mind?"

"A mind, but not a soul," said the rabbi.  "He is golem—unfinished, incomplete."  He looked up at the giant.  "Without the wall, Man of Clay.  There are long, lean, shapes of shadow.  They threaten us.  Get you up to the top of the wall; do not let them pass."

"Not just stop them," said Bakunin.  "Kill them!"

"No!"  The rabbi turned a severe countenance upon the anarchist.  "I will hear no talk of killing."

"No killing."  The golem nodded.  "As you will, Rabbi."

"But they will come leaping back, because he has not slain them!" Bakunin cried.  "They will come again and again, more and more, until they over­whelm him!  Are you crazed, Rabbi?  These are only programs, not people!"

"As we are programs?"

That stopped Bakunin—but only for a second.  "We are living beings!  Complex, real people recalled to life!  What are these hunters but single-minded con­structs who react to only one stimulus?"

"I have known people like that, Mr. Bakunin.  Though I think they were not truly so simple as they appeared to me—yet that was all of them that I saw."

"At least tell him that we are to be protected at all costs," Cicero argued.  "If he must slay these hunters to keep from getting to us, let him do so!"

"If there is killing to be done, you must do it yourselves," said the rabbi.  "Be assured, this golem is just as much an extension of my will as though he were a sword I held in my hand!"

"Then command that sword to strike," Caesar said.  "If the blood-guilt is yours, then accept it and tell this weapon you have crafted, to cut as you would yourself."

"But I will not," said the rabbi.  "I would rather die than commit so grievous a wrong."  He turned to the golem.  "To the ramparts with you!"

The golem turned and shambled away.

Bakunin watched it go, a grudging respect in his eyes.  "At least," he said, "you are fighting back against the government in some measure."

"But do you not see, Mr. Bakunin?" asked the rabbi.  "We have created a government—a democ­racy, to be sure, in which each of us has his say, but a government nonetheless.  And that government has commissioned a force for its defense—at least, if you are right in your contention that it is not people who fight wars, but governments."

Bakunin stared, taken aback for a moment.  Then he cried, "But you did not give the golem weapons!"

A harsh, high, inhuman cry rang from the walls.

Caesar looked up, wide-eyed.  "What creature was that?"

"The golem, I think."  MoHaRal pointed.  "He fights."

High atop the wall, the golem struggled with long, dark shadow-shapes that were half teeth, half claw.  They swooped toward him as fast as arrows—but, with blinding speed, he dodged aside, caught each one, and tossed it away.

They returned, of course.  Each hunter came shoot­ing back—again and again, and would keep up the assault, unless torn to pieces.

"Do weapons make a man a soldier?" the rabbi demanded.  "We commanded him to fight—and you were all quite willing to instruct him to kill."

"We are the revolution!" Bakunin protested.  "We are justified in the use of force!"

"None are ever so justified," the rabbi said firmly.  "It is that very justification that is the root of the evil that you decry in governments."

Joan turned away with a cry of impatience.  "Talk, talk!  And never any deeds!  If the killing will be mine, then I shall do it myself!"

"But you may be slain!" cried Voltaire.

"I am not…"  Joan slowed and turned to regard him with somber eyes.  "I can no longer say that I am not afraid to die—is that not strange?  But if I must die, it shall be with a sword in my hand.  Away!"

She turned and strode toward the wall.  After a moment, Voltaire took the sword Caesar proffered, and joined her.

"And you, Marcus Tullius?"  Caesar held out an­other gladius.  "Will not you, too, stand beside me?"

Slowly, Cicero took the blade.  "I shall do my duty as a Roman, Caesar."

"Stout fellow!"  Caesar produced yet another sword and held it out to Bakunin.  "And you, Michael.  Will you not slay in your own cause?"

Bakunin shrank back from the sword.  "Me, strike with weapons?  No!  I have never been a man of violence."  Then he realized what he had said and looked up at Caesar, appalled.

"If you advocate it, and others have followed your words, then you have done it," Caesar said.  "Take the sword."

But Bakunin stepped further back, shaking his head.

Atop the parapet, the golem roared, and other voices shouted with triumph.  "He has caught it—them!  Three!"

"He has thrown them down!  He has caught five more!"

"He defends well—but the monsters must be slain to be stopped."  Caesar clapped the orator's shoulder and turned away to the wall.  "Come, Marcus Tullius!  Let us give honor to Rome!"  He turned away, and Cicero followed him.

They labored beside the golem, striking and rend­ing with sword and spear, but every wound they made closed, and every foe they repelled only came back to strike again.  Only the golem had any effect, because he threw his foes from the wall, and they were slowed in their return.

But he could tear them apart, Caesar knew—and, in the heat of battle, he did the best he could to imitate the rabbi's voice and began to cry, "Kill!  Slay!  Tear them apart!"

"A new command!" the golem cried.  "As you will, Rabbi!"  His massive arms pulled as his huge clenched hands dug into the shadow before him, and the shape ripped apart.  A high, thin shriek clove the air, and the golem tore again, then threw the pieces down from the wall and caught another shadow.  He tore it, too, threw it aside, and reached for another—but they lurked back beyond his reach, suddenly hesitating now.

Below them, the fragments began to knit them­selves together.

Caesar muttered a phrase in Latin, and a new sword appeared in his hand—a gladius, but one half a foot wide and four feet long. He held it out toward the golem.

"No!" the rabbi cried.  "He must not be given the power to kill!"  He ran forward, thundering up the stairs and out onto the wall, dodging the lean shadow-shapes and the human fighters until he could rise up next to the golem, looking up at its giant head.  "Creature, turn to me!  I am he who made you!"

But the golem's hand closed around the sword; he swung it high, over the rabbi's head, to hew at the nearest shadow and fend off its teeth, keeping it away from MoHaRal.  "I do only as you have bade me, Rabbi!"

"That was not my voice!" the rabbi said.  "I forbid you to strike!"

But his cry was lost in the golem's roar as it slashed at the slatey hide before it.  The hunter con­vulsed and fell back from the wall, twitching and thrashing, the cut in its side widening with every movement until it fell apart.

In the moment of calm that followed, the rabbi shouted, "Creature!  Turn to me!"

The golem turned, its blank gaze terrifying by its sheer lack of emotion.  "Yes, rabbi."

"Lean down to me here," said the rabbi.

The golem glanced quickly at the looming shark-shapes, so busy elsewhere on the wall.

"Lean down!" the rabbi commanded.  "It is MoHaRal who speaks!"

Slowly, the golem leaned down until his huge face was only a little above the rabbi's—and MoHaRal reached up and rubbed, erasing the letters from his forehead.

The golem snapped upright, rigid, then slowly tilted and slammed down on the wall like a tree falling.

The rabbi looked down at the still, lifeless, rough clay statue, and felt grief begin to well up within him.

Then the shadow struck, and the rabbi knew only a brief moment of searing pain, before all sensation ended.

 

*          *          *

 

"He did it!" Forge crowed.  "He made the golem after all!  Even though he had really never done it, he did it!  One that killed!  Push him hard enough, and he turns into a monster!"

"He didn't program it to kill," Marteau reminded him.  "Caesar did that."

"An excuse!  Only an excuse!  I knew he'd do it!  They're bloodthirsty maniacs, all of them!"  He spun about.  "You have it in memory, don't you?"

"You've got it, all right," Marteau confirmed.  "But you paid a steep price.  They're all annihilated—Voltaire, Joan, Cicero, Caesar..."

"Joan and Voltaire were nuisances."  Forge dis­missed them with a wave of his hand.  "How about Bakunin?"

"Are you kidding?  He's no dummy.  He got out of there as soon as the golem fell."

"Damn it!" Forge swore.  "If there was one I would have wanted to get rid of, it was that backstabbing anarchist!"

"How about the rest of them?"

Forge slowed, turning back to him, frowning.  "What do you mean, 'what about them?' "

"I can undo the whole sequence.  They're still in memory."

Forge stood still for a moment.

"You're the boss," Marteau said.  "Three keystrokes, and they'll live again—and Caesar and Cicero are still generating hundreds of thousands each.  Not to mention Cleopatra..."

"Hell, yes!" Forge said, with an expansive gesture.  "Let them live!  After a victory like that, I can afford to be generous!"

Marteau's hands flew over the keyboard.  "What victory?"

"Over the Jews, of course!  Give 'em a chance, and they'll turn on you!  And now everybody can see it, the world over!"

Marteau sat frozen, realizing that Forge had seen only what he wanted to see—and knowing that ev­erybody else who saw the sequence would watch it with similar blinders.  But most people didn't know a golem from a grindstone, and wouldn't know a medi­eval rabbi when they saw one.

They would see the rabbi's death, though, and the golem's.

 

*          *          *

 

A moment of blinding pain—then light.  The rabbi opened his eyelids, and found himself back in the sea of clouds.  He sat up slowly, looking around him, and saw the wry face of Cicero gazing down at him with a half-smile.  "The… hunters?" he asked.

"They are gone, Rabbi," said the Roman, "and we died, almost all of us—but they brought us back, somehow.  We live again."

"To what purpose?" the rabbi muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."  MoHaRal levered himself up, rising painfully to his feet.  "It is only the kind of question that we clergymen must always be asking."

"Are you ever answered?" Cicero asked softly.

"Always."  The rabbi nodded.  "Always—if we lis­ten.  Perhaps not immediately, but we are always answered."

"And what is the answer now, Rabbi?"

MoHaRal shook his head.  "It has not come yet.  Another question filled its place first."

"Is that not ever the way with answers?" Cicero asked, amused.  "What is this newest question?"

"The golem."  The rabbi turned a tortured gaze on him.  "If we have been restored to life—should not he?"

 

THE END