Starfish

"Local sterilizations went — okay, at first," Rowan said. "But then the projections started climbing. It looked bad for Mexico, they could lose their whole western seaboard before this is over, and of course that's about all they've got left these days anyway. They didn't have the resources to do it themselves, but they didn't want N'AmPac pulling the trigger either. Said it would give us an unfair advantage under NAFTA."

Scanlon smiled, despite himself.

"Then Tanaka-Krueger wouldn't trust Japan. And then the Columbian Hegemony wouldn't trust Tanaka-Krueger. And the Chinese, of course, they don't trust anybody since Korea…"

"Kin selection," Scanlon said.

"What?"

"Tribal loyalties. Never give the competition an edge. It's basically genetic."

"Isn't everything." Rowan sighed. "There were other things, too. Unfortunate matters of — conscience. The only solution was to find some completely disinterested party, someone everyone could trust to do the right thing without favoritism, without remorse —»

"You're kidding. You're fucking kidding."

" — so they gave the keys to a smart gel. Even that was problematic, actually. They had to pull one out of the net at random so no one could claim it'd been preconditioned, and every member of the consortium had to have a hand in team-training it. Then there was the question of authorizing it to take — necessary steps, autonomously…"

"You gave control to a smart gel? A head cheese?"

"It was the only way."

"Rowan, those things are alien!"

She grunted. "Not as alien as you might think. The first thing this one did was get another gel installed down on the rift, running simulations. We figured under the circumstances, nepotism was a good sign."

"They're black boxes, Rowan. They wire up their own connections, we don't know what kind of logic they use."

"You can talk to them. If you want to know that sort of thing, you just ask."

"Jesus Christ!" Scanlon put his face in his hands, took a deep breath. "Look. For all we know these gels don't understand the first thing about language."

"You can talk to them." Rowan was frowning. "They talk back."

"That doesn't mean anything. Maybe they've learned that when someone makes certain sounds in a certain order, they're supposed to make certain other sounds in response. They might not have any concept at all of what those sounds actually mean. They learn to talk through sheer trial and error."

"That's how we learn too," Rowan pointed out.

"Don't lecture me in my own field! We've got language and speech centers hardwired into our brains. That gives us a common starting point. Gels don't have anything like that. Speech might just be one giant conditioned reflex to them."

"Well," Rowan said. "So far it's done its job. We have no complaints."

"I want to talk to it," Scanlon said.

"The gel?"

"Yes."

"What for?" She seemed suddenly suspicious.

"You know me. I specialize in aliens."

Rowan said nothing.

"You owe me this, Rowan. You fucking owe me. I've been a faithful dog to the GA for ten years now. I went down to the rift because you sent me, that's why I'm a prisoner now, that's why — this is the least you can do."

Rowan stared at the floor. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'm so sorry."

And then, looking up: "Okay."

* * *

It only took a few minutes to establish the link.

Patricia Rowan paced on her side of the barrier, muttering softly into a personal mike. Yves Scanlon sat slumped in a chair, watching her. When her face fell into shadow he could see her contacts, glittering with information.

"We're ready," she said at last. "You won't be able to program it, of course."

"Of course."

"And it won't tell you anything classified."

"I won't ask it to."

"What are you going to ask it?" Rowan wondered aloud.

"I'm going to ask it how it feels," Scanlon said. "What do you call it?"

"Call it?"

"Yes. What's its name?"

"It doesn't have a name. Just call it gel." Rowan hesitated a moment, then added, "We didn't want to humanize it."

"Good idea. Hang on to that common ground." Scanlon shook his head. "How do I open the link?"

Rowan pointed at one of the touch screens embedded in the conference table. "Just activate any of the panels."

He reached out and touched the screen in front of his chair. "Hello."

"Hello," the table replied. It had a strange voice. Almost androgynous.

"I'm Dr. Scanlon. I'd like to ask you some questions, if that's okay."

"That's okay," the gel said after a brief hesitation.

"I'd like to know how you feel about certain aspects of your, well, your job."

"I don't feel," said the gel.

"Of course not. But something motivates you, in the same way that feelings motivate us. What do you suppose that is?"

"Who do you mean by us?"

"Humans."

"I'm especially likely to repeat behaviors which are reinforced," the gel said after a moment.

"But what motivates — no, ignore that. What is most important to you?"

"Reinforcement is important, most."