Not even the Transcendence.

“Ah,” Morag said, as if she was learning with me. “ ‘What peculiar privilege has this little agitation of brain which we call thought, that we must thus make it a model of the whole Universe?’ ”

“Who’s that?”

“David Hume. Not an engineer, so you won’t have heard of him. Face it, Michael. No mind can ever be fully cognizant of itself — and mind is not the goal of the cosmos anyhow. And the Redemption, this cack-handed do-it-yourself fix-up it means to inflict on human history, can only lead to disaster.”

Leropa had been silent for a long time. She said now, “Flawed god the Transcendence may be, but it is capable of at least one great act. Perhaps we can never atone for the suffering of past ages. But we can at least wipe it away. And, if we can’t atone, isn’t it our duty to do so?”

Alia said, “Leropa—”

“It is time for your decision, Michael Poole.”

The other voices, Alia, Morag, fell silent, and I was left alone.

I looked deep inside myself.

Could there be any possible ethical justification for the Cleansing? Could the elimination of suffering ever be worth the elimination of life itself?

If the great cauterization were done, then those unborn — including myself — would never have known it happened. It would not be felt, nor would the pain they might have suffered. But on the other hand, they would have no chance — no chance to make their own futures, to be glad to be alive, however briefly.

“Life comes first,” I said. “Everything else is secondary.” Yes, I thought as I framed the words; that was just.

“Then,” Leropa said, “what of the Redemption?”

The Transcendence was like an immense parent, I thought, brooding over the lives of its children — all of humanity, in the future and the past. And the Transcendence longed to make its children safe and happy, for all time.

But I was a parent, too. I had lost one child, saved another. If I could somehow have fixed Tom’s future at his birth, or even before he was conceived, so that his life would be lived out in safety — would I have done so? It seemed a monstrous arrogance to try to control events that might happen long after my death. How could I ever know what was best? And even if I did, wouldn’t I be taking away my son’s choices, his ability to live out his own life as he wanted?

You had to let go, I thought. You had to let your children make their own mistakes. Anything else verged on insanity, not love.

I didn’t have to say it. As I formulated these thoughts I glanced around the sky-mind of the Transcendence. There was a change, I thought. Those pinpoint awarenesses whirled in tight, angry knots, and giant reefs of wisdom loomed out of the dark like icebergs on a nighttime ocean. I had troubled the Transcendence with my decision, then. Perhaps that meant it was the right one.

On some level, the Transcendence must already have known, I thought. I was just a lever it used to lift itself back to sanity. But that didn’t mean it was happy about it. Or grateful.

Leropa hissed, “Michael Poole. You know that if the Redemption is abandoned, you will lose Morag forever, don’t you?”

I recoiled from this personal attack. So much for the lofty goals of the Transcendence, I thought; so much for transhuman love. “But I already lost her,” I said. “Nothing the Transcendence can do will make any difference to that. I guess it’s part of being human. And so is letting go.”

Leropa said, “Letting go?”

“Of the past, the dead. Of the future, the fate of your children. Even an arch-instrumentalist like me knows that much.”

Leropa laughed. “Are you forgiving the Transcendence, Michael Poole?”

“Isn’t that why I was brought here?”

“Good-bye, Michael Poole,” Leropa said. “We won’t meet again.”

And suddenly, I knew, it was over. I searched for Morag. Perhaps there was a trace of her left. But she was receding from me, as if she was falling down a well, her face diminishing, her gaze still fixed on me.

And then the stars swirled viciously around me — for an instant I struggled, longing to stay — but I was engulfed in the pain of an unwelcome rebirth, and a great pressure expelled me.

The six of them gathered in Conurbation 11729: Alia and Drea, Reath, and the three Campocs, Bale, Denh, and Seer.

Under the mighty electric-blue tetrahedral arch of the ancient cathedral, the undying walked their solitary paths. Some of them mumbled to themselves, continuing their lifelong monologues, but the very oldest did not speak at all. But even now she was aware of the presence of the Transcendence, in her and around her. And she was aware of its turmoil, like a storm gathering, huge energies drawing up in a towering sky above her.

Campoc Bale drew Alia aside. She could still faintly sense the extended consciousness he shared with his family, like a limited Transcendence of its own. And about him there was still that exotic sense of the alien, the different, which had given their lovemaking so much spice.

He said carefully, “We did not mean any harm to come to your ship, your family.”

“But you led the Shipbuilders to the Nord. ”

“Yes.” It was the first time he’d admitted it explicitly. “We were concerned that the Redemption would rip everything apart. We were right to be concerned, weren’t we?”

“And I was your tool, your weapon to use against the Transcendence.”

“You were more than that to me,” he said hotly.

“Your manipulation was gross. You threatened my sister, you endangered my family—”

“We would never have harmed Drea.” He looked up. “I think on some level you always knew that, didn’t you? And we did not mean the incident with the Shipbuilders to go so far.”

“Incident.My mother died, and my brother. Are you looking for forgiveness from me, Bale? Do you want redemption, after all that’s happened?”

“Alia, please—”

She laughed at him. “Go back to your Rustball and bury yourself in the empty heads of your brothers. You will never be a part of my life again.”

His broad face was full of loss, and she felt a faint stab of regret. But she turned her back on him and walked away.

Reath walked with her. “Weren’t you a little hard on him?”

She glared at him, refusing to answer.

He sighed. “It is a time of change for us all, I suppose.”

“What about you, Reath? What will you do now?”

“Oh, there will always be a role for me and my kind,” he said wryly. “Many of the Commonwealth’s great projects will continue whatever the Transcendence decides to do next: the political reunification of the scattered races of mankind is a worthwhile aim.”

“That’s noble, Reath.”

They came to Drea, who was sitting, looking bored, on a block of eroded rubble.

Reath asked, “And what of you two? Where will you go next?”

“Back to the Nord, ” Drea said immediately. “Where else? The Nord is home. Besides, I think my father needs us right now.” She reached up and took her sister’s hand. “Right, Alia?”

But Alia did not reply.

Reath turned to her. “Alia?”

She found a decision formulated in her head, a decision she hadn’t known she had made. “Not the Nord, ” she said. “Oh, I’ll miss Father — and you, Drea. I’ll visit; I always will. But—” But she couldn’t live there anymore. She had seen too much. The Nord and its unending journey were no longer enough for her. “I’ll find a role for myself. Maybe I can work for the Commonwealth, too… Someday I’ll find a new home.” She pulled Drea to her feet and hugged her. “Somewhere to have children of my own!”

Drea laughed, but there were tears in her eyes.

Reath watched them more seriously. “Alia.” His tone was grave, almost reprimanding; it was just as he had spoken to her when he had first met her.