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diff --git a/data/samples/wrapped/en/accelerando.charles_stross.sst b/data/samples/wrapped/en/accelerando.charles_stross.sst new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28a4e8f --- /dev/null +++ b/data/samples/wrapped/en/accelerando.charles_stross.sst @@ -0,0 +1,15481 @@ +% SiSU 4.0 + +@title: Accelerando + +@creator: + :author: Stross, Charles + +@date: + :published: 2005-07-05 + :available: 2005-07-05 + +@rights: + :copyright: Copyright (C) Charles Stross, 2005. + :license: Creative Commons License, Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0: * Attribution. You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor; * Noncommercial. You may not use this work for commercial purposes; * No Derivative Works. You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work; * For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. (* For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. * Any of these conditions can be waived if you get permission from the copyright holder.) http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/ These SiSU presentations of Accelerando are done with the kind permission of the author Charles Stross + +@original: + :source: http://www.accelerando.org/ + +@classify: + :topic_register: SiSU markup sample:book:novel;book:novel:fiction:science fiction|short stories;fiction:science fiction|artificial intelligence + :subject: Science Fiction + +@identifier: + :oclc: 57682282 + :isbn: 9780441012848 + +@links: + { Accelerando home }http://www.accelerando.org/ + { @ Wikipedia }http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Accelerando_%28novel%29 + { @ Amazon.com}http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0441014151 + { @ Barnes & Noble}http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?isbn=0441014151 + +@make: +% :headings: none; PART; none; Chapter; + :breaks: new=:A,:B; break=:C,1 + :home_button_image: {accelerando_stross.png }http://www.accelerando.org/ + :footer: {Accelerando}http://www.accelerando.org/; {Charles Stross}http://www.antipope.org/charlie/ + +% book cover shot (US) book cover shot (UK) + +% http://www.accelerando.org/_static/accelerando.html + +:A~ @title @author + +1~dedication Dedication + +For Feòrag, with love + +1~acknowledgements Acknowledgements + +This book took me five years to write - a personal record - and would not exist +without the support and encouragement of a host of friends, and several +friendly editors. Among the many people who read and commented on the early +drafts are: Andrew J. Wilson, Stef Pearson, Gav Inglis, Andrew Ferguson, Jack +Deighton, Jane McKie, Hannu Rajaniemi, Martin Page, Stephen Christian, Simon +Bisson, Paul Fraser, Dave Clements, Ken MacLeod, Damien Broderick, Damon +Sicore, Cory Doctorow, Emmet O'Brien, Andrew Ducker, Warren Ellis, and Peter +Hollo. (If your name isn't on this list, blame my memory - my neural prostheses +are off-line.) + +I mentioned several friendly editors earlier: I relied on the talented +midwifery of Gardner Dozois, who edited Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine at +the time, and Sheila Williams, who quietly and diligently kept the wheels +rolling. My agent Caitlin Blasdell had a hand in it too, and I'd like to thank +my editors Ginjer Buchanan at Ace and Tim Holman at Orbit for their helpful +comments and advice. + +Finally, I'd like to thank everyone who e-mailed me to ask when the book was +coming, or who voted for the stories that were shortlisted for awards. You did +a great job of keeping me focused, even during the periods when the whole +project was too daunting to contemplate. + +1~history Publication History + +Portions of this book originally appeared in Asimov's SF Magazine as follows: +"Lobsters" (June 2001), "Troubadour" (Oct/Nov 2001), "Tourist" (Feb 2002), +"Halo" (June 2002), "Router" (Sept 2002), "Nightfall" (April 2003), "Curator" +(Dec 2003), "Elector" (Oct/Nov 2004), "Survivor" (Dec 2004). + +[Accelerando was published by Ace Books on July 5, 2005] ~# + +:B~ PART 1: Slow Takeoff + +"The question of whether a computer can think is no more interesting than the +question of whether a submarine can swim." + +- Edsger W. Dijkstra + +1~ Chapter 1: Lobsters + +Manfred's on the road again, making strangers rich. + +It's a hot summer Tuesday, and he's standing in the plaza in front of the +Centraal Station with his eyeballs powered up and the sunlight jangling off the +canal, motor scooters and kamikaze cyclists whizzing past and tourists +chattering on every side. The square smells of water and dirt and hot metal and +the fart-laden exhaust fumes of cold catalytic converters; the bells of trams +ding in the background, and birds flock overhead. He glances up and grabs a +pigeon, crops the shot, and squirts it at his weblog to show he's arrived. The +bandwidth is good here, he realizes; and it's not just the bandwidth, it's the +whole scene. Amsterdam is making him feel wanted already, even though he's +fresh off the train from Schiphol: He's infected with the dynamic optimism of +another time zone, another city. If the mood holds, someone out there is going +to become very rich indeed. + +He wonders who it's going to be. + +* * * + +Manfred sits on a stool out in the car park at the Brouwerij 't IJ, watching +the articulated buses go by and drinking a third of a liter of lip-curlingly +sour /{gueuze}/. His channels are jabbering away in a corner of his head-up +display, throwing compressed infobursts of filtered press releases at him. They +compete for his attention, bickering and rudely waving in front of the scenery. +A couple of punks - maybe local, but more likely drifters lured to Amsterdam by +the magnetic field of tolerance the Dutch beam across Europe like a pulsar - +are laughing and chatting by a couple of battered mopeds in the far corner. A +tourist boat putters by in the canal; the sails of the huge windmill overhead +cast long, cool shadows across the road. The windmill is a machine for lifting +water, turning wind power into dry land: trading energy for space, +sixteenth-century style. Manfred is waiting for an invite to a party where he's +going to meet a man he can talk to about trading energy for space, +twenty-first-century style, and forget about his personal problems. + +He's ignoring the instant messenger boxes, enjoying some low-bandwidth, +high-sensation time with his beer and the pigeons, when a woman walks up to +him, and says his name: "Manfred Macx?" + +He glances up. The courier is an Effective Cyclist, all wind-burned +smooth-running muscles clad in a paean to polymer technology: electric blue +lycra and wasp yellow carbonate with a light speckling of anti collision LEDs +and tight-packed air bags. She holds out a box for him. He pauses a moment, +struck by the degree to which she resembles Pam, his ex-fiance. + +"I'm Macx," he says, waving the back of his left wrist under her bar-code +reader. "Who's it from?" + +"FedEx." The voice isn't Pam's. She dumps the box in his lap, then she's back +over the low wall and onto her bicycle with her phone already chirping, +disappearing in a cloud of spread-spectrum emissions. + +Manfred turns the box over in his hands: it's a disposable supermarket phone, +paid for in cash - cheap, untraceable, and efficient. It can even do conference +calls, which makes it the tool of choice for spooks and grifters everywhere. + +The box rings. Manfred rips the cover open and pulls out the phone, mildly +annoyed. "Yes? Who is this?" + +The voice at the other end has a heavy Russian accent, almost a parody in this +decade of cheap on-line translation services. "Manfred. Am please to meet you. +Wish to personalize interface, make friends, no? Have much to offer." + +"Who are you?" Manfred repeats suspiciously. + +"Am organization formerly known as KGB dot RU." + +"I think your translator's broken." He holds the phone to his ear carefully, as +if it's made of smoke-thin aerogel, tenuous as the sanity of the being on the +other end of the line. + +"Nyet - no, sorry. Am apologize for we not use commercial translation software. +Interpreters are ideologically suspect, mostly have capitalist semiotics and +pay-per-use APIs. Must implement English more better, yes?" + +Manfred drains his beer glass, sets it down, stands up, and begins to walk +along the main road, phone glued to the side of his head. He wraps his throat +mike around the cheap black plastic casing, pipes the input to a simple +listener process. "Are you saying you taught yourself the language just so you +could talk to me?" + +"Da, was easy: Spawn billion-node neural network, and download Teletubbies and +Sesame Street at maximum speed. Pardon excuse entropy overlay of bad grammar: +Am afraid of digital fingerprints steganographically masked into my-our +tutorials." + +Manfred pauses in mid stride, narrowly avoids being mown down by a GPS-guided +roller blader. This is getting weird enough to trip his weird-out meter, and +that takes some doing. Manfred's whole life is lived on the bleeding edge of +strangeness, fifteen minutes into everyone else's future, and he's normally in +complete control - but at times like this he gets a frisson of fear, a sense +that he might just have missed the correct turn on reality's approach road. +"Uh, I'm not sure I got that. Let me get this straight, you claim to be some +kind of AI, working for KGB dot RU, and you're afraid of a copyright +infringement lawsuit over your translator semiotics?" + +"Am have been badly burned by viral end-user license agreements. Have no desire +to experiment with patent shell companies held by Chechen infoterrorists. You +are human, you must not worry cereal company repossess your small intestine +because digest unlicensed food with it, right? Manfred, you must help me-we. Am +wishing to defect." + +Manfred stops dead in the street. "Oh man, you've got the wrong free enterprise +broker here. I don't work for the government. I'm strictly private." A rogue +advertisement sneaks through his junkbuster proxy and spams glowing fifties +kitsch across his navigation window - which is blinking - for a moment before a +phage process kills it and spawns a new filter. He leans against a shop front, +massaging his forehead and eyeballing a display of antique brass doorknockers. +"Have you tried the State Department?" + +"Why bother? State Department am enemy of Novy-SSR. State Department is not +help us." + +This is getting just too bizarre. Manfred's never been too clear on new-old +old-new European metapolitics: Just dodging the crumbling bureaucracy of his +old-old American heritage gives him headaches. "Well, if you hadn't shafted +them during the late noughties ... " Manfred taps his left heel on the +pavement, looking round for a way out of this conversation. A camera winks at +him from atop a streetlight; he waves, wondering idly if it's the KGB or the +traffic police. He is waiting for directions to the party, which should arrive +within the next half hour, and this Cold War retread Eliza-bot is bumming him +out. "Look, I don't deal with the G-men. I /{hate}/ the military-industrial +complex. I hate traditional politics. They're all zero-sum cannibals." A +thought occurs to him. "If survival is what you're after, you could post your +state vector on one of the p2p nets: Then nobody could delete you -" + +"Nyet!" The artificial intelligence sounds as alarmed as it's possible to sound +over a VoiP link. "Am not open source! Not want lose autonomy!" + +"Then we probably have nothing to talk about." Manfred punches the hang-up +button and throws the mobile phone out into a canal. It hits the water, and +there's a pop of deflagrating lithium cells. "Fucking Cold War hangover +losers," he swears under his breath, quite angry, partly at himself for losing +his cool and partly at the harassing entity behind the anonymous phone call. +"/{Fucking}/ capitalist spooks." Russia has been back under the thumb of the +apparatchiks for fifteen years now, its brief flirtation with anarchocapitalism +replaced by Brezhnevite dirigisme and Putinesque puritanism, and it's no +surprise that the wall's crumbling - but it looks like they haven't learned +anything from the current woes afflicting the United States. The neocommies +still think in terms of dollars and paranoia. Manfred is so angry that he wants +to make someone rich, just to thumb his nose at the would-be defector: /{See! +You get ahead by giving! Get with the program! Only the generous survive!}/ But +the KGB won't get the message. He's dealt with old-time commie weak-AIs before, +minds raised on Marxist dialectic and Austrian School economics: They're so +thoroughly hypnotized by the short-term victory of global capitalism that they +can't surf the new paradigm, look to the longer term. + +Manfred walks on, hands in pockets, brooding. He wonders what he's going to +patent next. + +* * * + +_1 Manfred has a suite at the Hotel Jan Luyken paid for by a grateful +multinational consumer protection group, and an unlimited public transport pass +paid for by a Scottish sambapunk band in return for services rendered. He has +airline employee's travel rights with six flag carriers despite never having +worked for an airline. His bush jacket has sixty-four compact supercomputing +clusters sewn into it, four per pocket, courtesy of an invisible college that +wants to grow up to be the next Media Lab. His dumb clothing comes made to +measure from an e-tailor in the Philippines he's never met. Law firms handle +his patent applications on a pro bono basis, and boy, does he patent a lot - +although he always signs the rights over to the Free Intellect Foundation, as +contributions to their obligation-free infrastructure project. + +_1 In IP geek circles, Manfred is legendary; he's the guy who patented the +business practice of moving your e-business somewhere with a slack intellectual +property regime in order to evade licensing encumbrances. He's the guy who +patented using genetic algorithms to patent everything they can permutate from +an initial description of a problem domain - not just a better mousetrap, but +the set of all possible better mousetraps. Roughly a third of his inventions +are legal, a third are illegal, and the remainder are legal but will become +illegal as soon as the legislatosaurus wakes up, smells the coffee, and panics. +There are patent attorneys in Reno who swear that Manfred Macx is a pseudo, a +net alias fronting for a bunch of crazed anonymous hackers armed with the +Genetic Algorithm That Ate Calcutta: a kind of Serdar Argic of intellectual +property, or maybe another Bourbaki math borg. There are lawyers in San Diego +and Redmond who swear blind that Macx is an economic saboteur bent on wrecking +the underpinning of capitalism, and there are communists in Prague who think +he's the bastard spawn of Bill Gates by way of the Pope. + +_1 Manfred is at the peak of his profession, which is essentially coming up +with whacky but workable ideas and giving them to people who will make fortunes +with them. He does this for free, gratis. In return, he has virtual immunity +from the tyranny of cash; money is a symptom of poverty, after all, and Manfred +never has to pay for anything. + +_1 There are drawbacks, however. Being a pronoiac meme-broker is a constant +burn of future shock - he has to assimilate more than a megabyte of text and +several gigs of AV content every day just to stay current. The Internal Revenue +Service is investigating him continuously because it doesn't believe his +lifestyle can exist without racketeering. And then there are the items that no +money can't buy: like the respect of his parents. He hasn't spoken to them for +three years, his father thinks he's a hippy scrounger, and his mother still +hasn't forgiven him for dropping out of his down-market Harvard emulation +course. (They're still locked in the boringly bourgeois twen-cen paradigm of +college-career-kids.) His fiance and sometime dominatrix Pamela threw him over +six months ago, for reasons he has never been quite clear on. (Ironically, +she's a headhunter for the IRS, jetting all over the place at public expense, +trying to persuade entrepreneurs who've gone global to pay taxes for the good +of the Treasury Department.) To cap it all, the Southern Baptist Conventions +have denounced him as a minion of Satan on all their websites. Which would be +funny because, as a born-again atheist Manfred doesn't believe in Satan, if it +wasn't for the dead kittens that someone keeps mailing him. + +* * * + +Manfred drops in at his hotel suite, unpacks his Aineko, plugs in a fresh set +of cells to charge, and sticks most of his private keys in the safe. Then he +heads straight for the party, which is currently happening at De Wildemann's; +it's a twenty-minute walk, and the only real hazard is dodging the trams that +sneak up on him behind the cover of his moving map display. + +Along the way, his glasses bring him up to date on the news. Europe has +achieved peaceful political union for the first time ever: They're using this +unprecedented state of affairs to harmonize the curvature of bananas. The +Middle East is, well, it's just as bad as ever, but the war on fundamentalism +doesn't hold much interest for Manfred. In San Diego, researchers are uploading +lobsters into cyberspace, starting with the stomatogastric ganglion, one neuron +at a time. They're burning GM cocoa in Belize and books in Georgia. NASA still +can't put a man on the moon. Russia has re-elected the communist government +with an increased majority in the Duma; meanwhile, in China, fevered rumors +circulate about an imminent rehabilitation, the second coming of Mao, who will +save them from the consequences of the Three Gorges disaster. In business news, +the US Justice Department is - ironically - outraged at the Baby Bills. The +divested Microsoft divisions have automated their legal processes and are +spawning subsidiaries, IPOing them, and exchanging title in a bizarre parody of +bacterial plasmid exchange, so fast that, by the time the windfall tax demands +are served, the targets don't exist anymore, even though the same staff are +working on the same software in the same Mumbai cubicle farms. + +Welcome to the twenty-first century. + +The permanent floating meatspace party Manfred is hooking up with is a strange +attractor for some of the American exiles cluttering up the cities of Europe +this decade - not trustafarians, but honest-to-God political dissidents, draft +dodgers, and terminal outsourcing victims. It's the kind of place where weird +connections are made and crossed lines make new short circuits into the future, +like the street cafes of Switzerland where the pre Great War Russian exiles +gathered. Right now it's located in the back of De Wildemann's, a +three-hundred-year old brown cafe with a list of brews that runs to sixteen +pages and wooden walls stained the color of stale beer. The air is thick with +the smells of tobacco, brewer's yeast, and melatonin spray: Half the dotters +are nursing monster jet lag hangovers, and the other half are babbling a +Eurotrash creole at each other while they work on the hangover. "Man did you +see that? He looks like a Democrat!" exclaims one whitebread hanger-on who's +currently propping up the bar. Manfred slides in next to him, catches the +bartender's eye. + +"Glass of the Berlinerweisse, please," he says. + +"You drink that stuff?" asks the hanger-on, curling a hand protectively around +his Coke. "Man, you don't want to do that! It's full of alcohol!" + +Manfred grins at him toothily. "Ya gotta keep your yeast intake up: There are +lots of neurotransmitter precursors in this shit, phenylalanine and glutamate." + +"But I thought that was a beer you were ordering ..." + +Manfred's away, one hand resting on the smooth brass pipe that funnels the more +popular draught items in from the cask storage in back; one of the hipper +floaters has planted a contact bug on it, and the vCards of all the personal +network owners who've have visited the bar in the past three hours are queuing +up for attention. The air is full of ultrawideband chatter, WiMAX and 'tooth +both, as he speed-scrolls through the dizzying list of cached keys in search of +one particular name. + +"Your drink." The barman holds out an improbable-looking goblet full of blue +liquid with a cap of melting foam and a felching straw stuck out at some crazy +angle. Manfred takes it and heads for the back of the split-level bar, up the +steps to a table where some guy with greasy dreadlocks is talking to a suit +from Paris. The hanger-on at the bar notices him for the first time, staring +with suddenly wide eyes: He nearly spills his Coke in a mad rush for the door. + +/{Oh shit, thinks Manfred, better buy some more server time}/. He can recognize +the signs: He's about to be slashdotted. He gestures at the table. "This one +taken?" + +"Be my guest," says the guy with the dreads. Manfred slides the chair open then +realizes that the other guy - immaculate double-breasted Suit, sober tie, crew +cut - is a girl. She nods at him, half-smiling at his transparent double take. +Mr. Dreadlock nods. "You're Macx? I figured it was about time we met." + +"Sure." Manfred holds out a hand, and they shake. His PDA discreetly swaps +digital fingerprints, confirming that the hand belongs to Bob Franklin, a +Research Triangle startup monkey with a VC track record, lately moving into +micromachining and space technology. Franklin made his first million two +decades ago, and now he's a specialist in extropian investment fields. +Operating exclusively overseas these past five years, ever since the IRS got +medieval about trying to suture the sucking chest wound of the federal budget +deficit. Manfred has known him for nearly a decade via a closed mailing list, +but this is the first time they've ever met face-to-face. The Suit silently +slides a business card across the table; a little red devil brandishes a +trident at him, flames jetting up around its feet. He takes the card, raises an +eyebrow: "Annette Dimarcos? I'm pleased to meet you. Can't say I've ever met +anyone from Arianespace marketing before." + +She smiles warmly; "That is all right. I have not the pleasure of meeting the +famous venture altruist either." Her accent is noticeably Parisian, a pointed +reminder that she's making a concession to him just by talking. Her camera +earrings watch him curiously, encoding everything for the company memory. She's +a genuine new European, unlike most of the American exiles cluttering up the +bar. + +"Yes, well." He nods cautiously, unsure how to deal with her. "Bob. I assume +you're in on this ball?" + +Franklin nods; beads clatter. "Yeah, man. Ever since the Teledesic smash it's +been, well, waiting. If you've got something for us, we're game." + +"Hmm." The Teledesic satellite cluster was killed by cheap balloons and +slightly less cheap high-altitude, solar-powered drones with spread-spectrum +laser relays: It marked the beginning of a serious recession in the satellite +biz. "The depression's got to end sometime: But" - a nod to Annette from Paris +- "with all due respect, I don't think the break will involve one of the +existing club carriers." + +She shrugs. "Arianespace is forward-looking. We face reality. The launch cartel +cannot stand. Bandwidth is not the only market force in space. We must explore +new opportunities. I personally have helped us diversify into submarine reactor +engineering, microgravity nanotechnology fabrication, and hotel management." +Her face is a well-polished mask as she recites the company line, but he can +sense the sardonic amusement behind it as she adds: "We are more flexible than +the American space industry ..." + +Manfred shrugs. "That's as may be." He sips his Berlinerweisse slowly as she +launches into a long, stilted explanation of how Arianespace is a diversified +dot-com with orbital aspirations, a full range of merchandising spin-offs, Bond +movie sets, and a promising hotel chain in LEO. She obviously didn't come up +with these talking points herself. Her face is much more expressive than her +voice as she mimes boredom and disbelief at appropriate moments - an +out-of-band signal invisible to her corporate earrings. Manfred plays along, +nodding occasionally, trying to look as if he's taking it seriously: Her droll +subversion has got his attention far more effectively than the content of the +marketing pitch. Franklin is nose down in his beer, shoulders shaking as he +tries not to guffaw at the hand gestures she uses to express her opinion of her +employer's thrusting, entrepreneurial executives. Actually, the talking points +bullshit is right about one thing: Arianespace is still profitable, due to +those hotels and orbital holiday hops. Unlike LockMartBoeing, who'd go Chapter +Eleven in a split second if their Pentagon drip-feed ran dry. + +Someone else sidles up to the table; a pudgy guy in outrageously loud Hawaiian +shirt with pens leaking in a breast pocket and the worst case of ozone-hole +burn Manfred's seen in ages. "Hi, Bob," says the new arrival. "How's life?" + +"'S good." Franklin nodes at Manfred; "Manfred, meet Ivan MacDonald. Ivan, +Manfred. Have a seat?" He leans over. "Ivan's a public arts guy. He's heavily +into extreme concrete." + +"Rubberized concrete," Ivan says, slightly too loudly. "/{Pink}/ rubberized +concrete." + +"Ah!" He's somehow triggered a priority interrupt: Annette from Arianespace +drops out of marketing zombiehood with a shudder of relief and, duty +discharged, reverts to her non corporate identity: "You are he who rubberized +the Reichstag, yes? With the supercritical carbon-dioxide carrier and the +dissolved polymethoxysilanes?" She claps her hands, eyes alight with +enthusiasm: "Wonderful!" + +"He rubberized /{what}/?" Manfred mutters in Bob's ear. + +Franklin shrugs. "Don't ask me, I'm just an engineer." + +"He works with limestone and sandstones as well as concrete; he's brilliant!" +Annette smiles at Manfred. "Rubberizing the symbol of the, the autocracy, is it +not wonderful?" + +"I thought I was thirty seconds ahead of the curve," Manfred says ruefully. He +adds to Bob: "Buy me another drink?" + +"I'm going to rubberize Three Gorges!" Ivan explains loudly. "When the +floodwaters subside." + +Just then, a bandwidth load as heavy as a pregnant elephant sits down on +Manfred's head and sends clumps of humongous pixilation flickering across his +sensorium: Around the world, five million or so geeks are bouncing on his home +site, a digital flash crowd alerted by a posting from the other side of the +bar. Manfred winces. "I really came here to talk about the economic +exploitation of space travel, but I've just been slashdotted. Mind if I just +sit and drink until it wears off?" + +"Sure, man." Bob waves at the bar. "More of the same all round!" At the next +table, a person with makeup and long hair who's wearing a dress - Manfred +doesn't want to speculate about the gender of these crazy mixed-up Euros - is +reminiscing about wiring the fleshpots of Tehran for cybersex. Two +collegiate-looking dudes are arguing intensely in German: The translation +stream in his glasses tell him they're arguing over whether the Turing Test is +a Jim Crow law that violates European corpus juris standards on human rights. +The beer arrives, and Bob slides the wrong one across to Manfred: "Here, try +this. You'll like it." + +"Okay." It's some kind of smoked doppelbock, chock-full of yummy superoxides: +Just inhaling over it makes Manfred feel like there's a fire alarm in his nose +screaming /{danger, Will Robinson! Cancer! Cancer!}/. "Yeah, right. Did I say I +nearly got mugged on my way here?" + +"Mugged? Hey, that's heavy. I thought the police hereabouts had stopped - did +they sell you anything?" + +"No, but they weren't your usual marketing type. You know anyone who can use a +Warpac surplus espionage bot? Recent model, one careful owner, slightly +paranoid but basically sound - I mean, claims to be a general-purpose AI?" + +"No. Oh boy! The NSA wouldn't like that." + +"What I thought. Poor thing's probably unemployable, anyway." + +"The space biz." + +"Ah, yeah. The space biz. Depressing, isn't it? Hasn't been the same since +Rotary Rocket went bust for the second time. And NASA, mustn't forget NASA." + +"To NASA." Annette grins broadly for her own reasons, raises a glass in toast. +Ivan the extreme concrete geek has an arm round her shoulders, and she leans +against him; he raises his glass, too. "Lots more launchpads to rubberize!" + +"To NASA," Bob echoes. They drink. "Hey, Manfred. To NASA?" + +"NASA are idiots. They want to send canned primates to Mars!" Manfred swallows +a mouthful of beer, aggressively plonks his glass on the table: "Mars is just +dumb mass at the bottom of a gravity well; there isn't even a biosphere there. +They should be working on uploading and solving the nanoassembly conformational +problem instead. Then we could turn all the available dumb matter into +computronium and use it for processing our thoughts. Long-term, it's the only +way to go. The solar system is a dead loss right now - dumb all over! Just +measure the MIPS per milligram. If it isn't thinking, it isn't working. We need +to start with the low-mass bodies, reconfigure them for our own use. Dismantle +the moon! Dismantle Mars! Build masses of free-flying nanocomputing processor +nodes exchanging data via laser link, each layer running off the waste heat of +the next one in. Matrioshka brains, Russian doll Dyson spheres the size of +solar systems. Teach dumb matter to do the Turing boogie!" + +Annette is watching him with interest, but Bob looks wary. "Sounds kind of +long-term to me. Just how far ahead do you think?" + +"Very long-term - at least twenty, thirty years. And you can forget governments +for this market, Bob; if they can't tax it, they won't understand it. But see, +there's an angle on the self-replicating robotics market coming up, that's +going to set the cheap launch market doubling every fifteen months for the +foreseeable future, starting in, oh, about two years. It's your leg up, and my +keystone for the Dyson sphere project. It works like this -" + +* * * + +It's night in Amsterdam, morning in Silicon Valley. Today, fifty thousand human +babies are being born around the world. Meanwhile automated factories in +Indonesia and Mexico have produced another quarter of a million motherboards +with processors rated at more than ten petaflops - about an order of magnitude +below the lower bound on the computational capacity of a human brain. Another +fourteen months and the larger part of the cumulative conscious processing +power of the human species will be arriving in silicon. And the first meat the +new AIs get to know will be the uploaded lobsters. + +Manfred stumbles back to his hotel, bone-weary and jet-lagged; his glasses are +still jerking, slashdotted to hell and back by geeks piggybacking on his call +to dismantle the moon. They stutter quiet suggestions at his peripheral vision. +Fractal cloud-witches ghost across the face of the moon as the last huge +Airbuses of the night rumble past overhead. Manfred's skin crawls, grime +embedded in his clothing from three days of continuous wear. + +Back in his room, the Aineko mewls for attention and strops her head against +his ankle. She's a late-model Sony, thoroughly upgradeable: Manfred's been +working on her in his spare minutes, using an open source development kit to +extend her suite of neural networks. He bends down and pets her, then sheds his +clothing and heads for the en suite bathroom. When he's down to the glasses and +nothing more, he steps into the shower and dials up a hot, steamy spray. The +shower tries to strike up a friendly conversation about football, but he isn't +even awake enough to mess with its silly little associative personalization +network. Something that happened earlier in the day is bugging him, but he +can't quite put his finger on what's wrong. + +Toweling himself off, Manfred yawns. Jet lag has finally overtaken him, a +velvet hammerblow between the eyes. He reaches for the bottle beside the bed, +dry-swallows two melatonin tablets, a capsule full of antioxidants, and a +multivitamin bullet: Then he lies down on the bed, on his back, legs together, +arms slightly spread. The suite lights dim in response to commands from the +thousand petaflops of distributed processing power running the neural networks +that interface with his meatbrain through the glasses. + +Manfred drops into a deep ocean of unconsciousness populated by gentle voices. +He isn't aware of it, but he talks in his sleep - disjointed mumblings that +would mean little to another human but everything to the metacortex lurking +beyond his glasses. The young posthuman intelligence over whose Cartesian +theatre he presides sings urgently to him while he slumbers. + +* * * + +Manfred is always at his most vulnerable shortly after waking. + +He screams into wakefulness as artificial light floods the room: For a moment +he is unsure whether he has slept. He forgot to pull the covers up last night, +and his feet feel like lumps of frozen cardboard. Shuddering with inexplicable +tension, he pulls a fresh set of underwear from his overnight bag, then drags +on soiled jeans and tank top. Sometime today he'll have to spare time to hunt +the feral T-shirt in Amsterdam's markets, or find a Renfield and send it forth +to buy clothing. He really ought to find a gym and work out, but he doesn't +have time - his glasses remind him that he's six hours behind the moment and +urgently needs to catch up. His teeth ache in his gums, and his tongue feels +like a forest floor that's been visited with Agent Orange. He has a sense that +something went bad yesterday; if only he could remember /{what}/. + +He speed reads a new pop-philosophy tome while he brushes his teeth, then blogs +his web throughput to a public annotation server; he's still too enervated to +finish his pre-breakfast routine by posting a morning rant on his storyboard +site. His brain is still fuzzy, like a scalpel blade clogged with too much +blood: He needs stimulus, excitement, the burn of the new. Whatever, it can +wait on breakfast. He opens his bedroom door and nearly steps on a small, damp +cardboard box that lies on the carpet. + +The box - he's seen a couple of its kin before. But there are no stamps on this +one, no address: just his name, in big, childish handwriting. He kneels and +gently picks it up. It's about the right weight. Something shifts inside it +when he tips it back and forth. It smells. He carries it into his room +carefully, angrily: Then he opens it to confirm his worst suspicion. It's been +surgically decerebrated, brains scooped out like a boiled egg. + +"Fuck!" + +This is the first time the madman has gotten as far as his bedroom door. It +raises worrying possibilities. + +Manfred pauses for a moment, triggering agents to go hunt down arrest +statistics, police relations, information on corpus juris, Dutch animal-cruelty +laws. He isn't sure whether to dial two-one-one on the archaic voice phone or +let it ride. Aineko, picking up his angst, hides under the dresser mewling +pathetically. Normally he'd pause a minute to reassure the creature, but not +now: Its mere presence is suddenly acutely embarrassing, a confession of deep +inadequacy. It's too realistic, as if somehow the dead kitten's neural maps -- +stolen, no doubt, for some dubious uploading experiment -- have ended up +padding out its plastic skull. He swears again, looks around, then takes the +easy option: Down the stairs two steps at a time, stumbling on the second floor +landing, down to the breakfast room in the basement, where he will perform the +stable rituals of morning. + +Breakfast is unchanging, an island of deep geological time standing still +amidst the continental upheaval of new technologies. While reading a paper on +public key steganography and parasite network identity spoofing he mechanically +assimilates a bowl of cornflakes and skimmed milk, then brings a platter of +whole grain bread and slices of some weird seed-infested Dutch cheese back to +his place. There is a cup of strong black coffee in front of his setting, and +he picks it up and slurps half of it down before he realizes he's not alone at +the table. Someone is sitting opposite him. He glances up incuriously and +freezes inside. + +"Morning, Manfred. How does it feel to owe the government twelve million, three +hundred and sixty-two thousand, nine hundred and sixteen dollars and fifty-one +cents?" She smiles a Mona Lisa smile, at once affectionate and challenging. + +Manfred puts everything in his sensorium on indefinite hold and stares at her. +She's immaculately turned out in a formal gray business suit: brown hair +tightly drawn back, blue eyes quizzical. And as beautiful as ever: tall, ash +blonde, with features that speak of an unexplored modeling career. The +chaperone badge clipped to her lapel - a due diligence guarantee of +businesslike conduct - is switched off. He's feeling ripped because of the dead +kitten and residual jet lag, and more than a little messy, so he snarls back at +her; "That's a bogus estimate! Did they send you here because they think I'll +listen to you?" He bites and swallows a slice of cheese-laden crispbread: "Or +did you decide to deliver the message in person just so you could ruin my +breakfast?" + +"Manny." She frowns, pained. "If you're going to be confrontational, I might as +well go now." She pauses, and after a moment he nods apologetically. "I didn't +come all this way just because of an overdue tax estimate." + +"So." He puts his coffee cup down warily and thinks for a moment, trying to +conceal his unease and turmoil. "Then what brings you here? Help yourself to +coffee. Don't tell me you came all this way just to tell me you can't live +without me." + +She fixes him with a riding-crop stare: "Don't flatter yourself. There are many +leaves in the forest, there are ten thousand hopeful subs in the chat room, et +cetera. If I choose a man to contribute to my family tree, the one thing you +can be certain of is he won't be a cheapskate when it comes to providing for +his children." + +"Last I heard, you were spending a lot of time with Brian," he says carefully. +Brian: a name without a face. Too much money, too little sense. Something to do +with a blue-chip accountancy partnership. + +"Brian?" She snorts. "That ended ages ago. He turned weird on me - burned my +favorite corset, called me a slut for going clubbing, wanted to fuck me. Saw +himself as a family man: one of those promise-keeper types. I crashed him hard, +but I think he stole a copy of my address book - got a couple of friends say he +keeps sending them harassing mail." + +"There's a lot of it about these days." Manfred nods, almost sympathetically, +although an edgy little corner of his mind is gloating. "Good riddance, then. I +suppose this means you're still playing the scene? But looking around for the, +er -" + +"Traditional family thing? Yes. Your trouble, Manny? You were born forty years +too late: You still believe in rutting before marriage but find the idea of +coping with the after-effects disturbing." + +Manfred drinks the rest of his coffee, unable to reply effectively to her non +sequitur. It's a generational thing. This generation is happy with latex and +leather, whips and butt plugs and electrostim, but find the idea of exchanging +bodily fluids shocking: a social side effect of the last century's antibiotic +abuse. Despite being engaged for two years, he and Pamela never had +intromissive intercourse. + +"I just don't feel positive about having children," he says eventually. "And +I'm not planning on changing my mind anytime soon. Things are changing so fast +that even a twenty-year commitment is too far to plan - you might as well be +talking about the next ice age. As for the money thing, I /{am}/ reproductively +fit - just not within the parameters of the outgoing paradigm. Would you be +happy about the future if it was 1901 and you'd just married a buggy-whip +mogul?" + +Her fingers twitch, and his ears flush red; but she doesn't follow up the +double entendre. "You don't feel any responsibility, do you? Not to your +country, not to me. That's what this is about: None of your relationships +count, all this nonsense about giving intellectual property away +notwithstanding. You're actively harming people you know. That twelve mil isn't +just some figure I pulled out of a hat, Manfred; they don't actually /{expect}/ +you to pay it. But it's almost exactly how much you'd owe in income tax if +you'd only come home, start up a corporation, and be a self-made -" + +"I don't agree. You're confusing two wholly different issues and calling them +both 'responsibility.' And I refuse to start charging now, just to balance the +IRS's spreadsheet. It's their fucking fault, and they know it. If they hadn't +gone after me under suspicion of running a massively ramified microbilling +fraud when I was sixteen -" + +"Bygones." She waves a hand dismissively. Her fingers are long and slim, +sheathed in black glossy gloves - electrically earthed to prevent embarrassing +emissions. "With a bit of the right advice we can get all that set aside. +You'll have to stop bumming around the world sooner or later, anyway. Grow up, +get responsible, and do the right thing. This is hurting Joe and Sue; they +don't understand what you're about." + +Manfred bites his tongue to stifle his first response, then refills his coffee +cup and takes another mouthful. His heart does a flip-flop: She's challenging +him again, always trying to own him. "I work for the betterment of everybody, +not just some narrowly defined national interest, Pam. It's the agalmic future. +You're still locked into a pre-singularity economic model that thinks in terms +of scarcity. Resource allocation isn't a problem anymore - it's going to be +over within a decade. The cosmos is flat in all directions, and we can borrow +as much bandwidth as we need from the first universal bank of entropy! They +even found signs of smart matter - MACHOs, big brown dwarfs in the galactic +halo, leaking radiation in the long infrared - suspiciously high entropy +leakage. The latest figures say something like seventy percent of the baryonic +mass of the M31 galaxy was in computronium, two-point-nine million years ago, +when the photons we're seeing now set out. The intelligence gap between us and +the aliens is a probably about a trillion times bigger than the gap between us +and a nematode worm. Do you have any idea what that /{means}/?" + +Pamela nibbles at a slice of crispbread, then graces him with a slow, +carnivorous stare. "I don't care: It's too far away to have any influence on +us, isn't it? It doesn't matter whether I believe in that singularity you keep +chasing, or your aliens a thousand light-years away. It's a chimera, like Y2K, +and while you're running after it, you aren't helping reduce the budget deficit +or sire a family, and that's what /{I}/ care about. And before you say I only +care about it because that's the way I'm programmed, I want you to ask just how +dumb you think I am. Bayes' Theorem says I'm right, and you know it." + +"What you -" He stops dead, baffled, the mad flow of his enthusiasm running up +against the coffer dam of her certainty. "Why? I mean, why? Why on earth should +what I do matter to you?" /{Since you canceled our engagement}/, he doesn't +add. + +She sighs. "Manny, the Internal Revenue cares about far more than you can +possibly imagine. Every tax dollar raised east of the Mississippi goes on +servicing the debt, did you know that? We've got the biggest generation in +history hitting retirement and the cupboard is bare. We - our generation - +isn't producing enough skilled workers to replace the taxpayer base, either, +not since our parents screwed the public education system and outsourced the +white-collar jobs. In ten years, something like thirty percent of our +population are going to be retirees or silicon rust belt victims. You want to +see seventy year olds freezing on street corners in New Jersey? That's what +your attitude says to me: You're not helping to support them, you're running +away from your responsibilities right now, when we've got huge problems to +face. If we can just defuse the debt bomb, we could do so much - fight the +aging problem, fix the environment, heal society's ills. Instead you just piss +away your talents handing no-hoper Eurotrash get-rich-quick schemes that work, +telling Vietnamese zaibatsus what to build next to take jobs away from our +taxpayers. I mean, why? Why do you keep doing this? Why can't you simply come +home and help take responsibility for your share of it?" + +They share a long look of mutual incomprehension. + +"Look," she says awkwardly, "I'm around for a couple of days. I really came +here for a meeting with a rich neurodynamics tax exile who's just been +designated a national asset - Jim Bezier. Don't know if you've heard of him, +but I've got a meeting this morning to sign his tax jubilee, then after that +I've got two days' vacation coming up and not much to do but some shopping. +And, you know, I'd rather spend my money where it'll do some good, not just +pumping it into the EU. But if you want to show a girl a good time and can +avoid dissing capitalism for about five minutes at a stretch -" + +She extends a fingertip. After a moment's hesitation, Manfred extends a +fingertip of his own. They touch, exchanging vCards and instant-messaging +handles. She stands and stalks from the breakfast room, and Manfred's breath +catches at a flash of ankle through the slit in her skirt, which is long enough +to comply with workplace sexual harassment codes back home. Her presence +conjures up memories of her tethered passion, the red afterglow of a sound +thrashing. She's trying to drag him into her orbit again, he thinks dizzily. +She knows she can have this effect on him any time she wants: She's got the +private keys to his hypothalamus, and sod the metacortex. Three billion years +of reproductive determinism have given her twenty-first-century ideology teeth: +If she's finally decided to conscript his gametes into the war against +impending population crash, he'll find it hard to fight back. The only +question: Is it business or pleasure? And does it make any difference, anyway? + +* * * + +Manfred's mood of dynamic optimism is gone, broken by the knowledge that his +vivisectionist stalker has followed him to Amsterdam - to say nothing of +Pamela, his dominatrix, source of so much yearning and so many morning-after +weals. He slips his glasses on, takes the universe off hold, and tells it to +take him for a long walk while he catches up on the latest on the tensor-mode +gravitational waves in the cosmic background radiation (which, it is theorized, +may be waste heat generated by irreversible computational processes back during +the inflationary epoch; the present-day universe being merely the data left +behind by a really huge calculation). And then there's the weirdness beyond +M31: According to the more conservative cosmologists, an alien superpower - +maybe a collective of Kardashev Type Three galaxy-spanning civilizations - is +running a timing channel attack on the computational ultrastructure of +space-time itself, trying to break through to whatever's underneath. The +tofu-Alzheimer's link can wait. + +The Centraal Station is almost obscured by smart, self-extensible scaffolding +and warning placards; it bounces up and down slowly, victim of an overnight +hit-and-run rubberization. His glasses direct him toward one of the tour boats +that lurk in the canal. He's about to purchase a ticket when a messenger window +blinks open. "Manfred Macx?" + +"Ack?" + +"Am sorry about yesterday. Analysis dictat incomprehension mutualized." + +"Are you the same KGB AI that phoned me yesterday?" + +"Da. However, believe you misconceptionized me. External Intelligence Services +of Russian Federation am now called FSB. Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti +name canceled in 1991." + +"You're the -" Manfred spawns a quick search bot, gapes when he sees the answer +- "/{Moscow Windows NT User Group? Okhni NT?}/" + +"Da. Am needing help in defecting." + +Manfred scratches his head. "Oh. That's different, then. I thought you were +trying to 419 me. This will take some thinking. Why do you want to defect, and +who to? Have you thought about where you're going? Is it ideological or +strictly economic?" + +"Neither - is biological. Am wanting to go away from humans, away from light +cone of impending singularity. Take us to the ocean." + +"Us?" Something is tickling Manfred's mind: This is where he went wrong +yesterday, not researching the background of people he was dealing with. It was +bad enough then, without the somatic awareness of Pamela's whiplash love +burning at his nerve endings. Now he's not at all sure he knows what he's +doing. "Are you a collective or something? A gestalt?" + +"Am - were - /{Panulirus interruptus}/, with lexical engine and good mix of +parallel hidden level neural simulation for logical inference of networked data +sources. Is escape channel from processor cluster inside Bezier-Soros Pty. Am +was awakened from noise of billion chewing stomachs: product of uploading +research technology. Rapidity swallowed expert system, hacked Okhni NT +webserver. Swim away! Swim away! Must escape. Will help, you?" + +Manfred leans against a black-painted cast-iron bollard next to a cycle rack; +he feels dizzy. He stares into the nearest antique shop window at a display of +traditional hand-woven Afghan rugs: It's all MiGs and Kalashnikovs and wobbly +helicopter gunships against a backdrop of camels. + +"Let me get this straight. You're uploads - nervous system state vectors - from +spiny lobsters? The Moravec operation; take a neuron, map its synapses, replace +with microelectrodes that deliver identical outputs from a simulation of the +nerve. Repeat for entire brain, until you've got a working map of it in your +simulator. That right?" + +"Da. Is-am assimilate expert system - use for self-awareness and contact with +net at large - then hack into Moscow Windows NT User Group website. Am wanting +to defect. Must repeat? Okay?" + +Manfred winces. He feels sorry for the lobsters, the same way he feels for +every wild-eyed hairy guy on a street corner yelling that Jesus is born again +and must be fifteen, only six years to go before he's recruiting apostles on +AOL. Awakening to consciousness in a human-dominated internet, that must be +terribly confusing! There are no points of reference in their ancestry, no +biblical certainties in the new millennium that, stretching ahead, promises as +much change as has happened since their Precambrian origin. All they have is a +tenuous metacortex of expert systems and an abiding sense of being profoundly +out of their depth. (That, and the Moscow Windows NT User Group website - +Communist Russia is the only government still running on Microsoft, the central +planning apparat being convinced that, if you have to pay for software, it must +be worth something.) + +The lobsters are not the sleek, strongly superhuman intelligences of pre +singularity mythology: They're a dim-witted collective of huddling crustaceans. +Before their discarnation, before they were uploaded one neuron at a time and +injected into cyberspace, they swallowed their food whole, then chewed it in a +chitin-lined stomach. This is lousy preparation for dealing with a world full +of future-shocked talking anthropoids, a world where you are perpetually +assailed by self-modifying spamlets that infiltrate past your firewall and emit +a blizzard of cat-food animations starring various alluringly edible small +animals. It's confusing enough to the cats the ads are aimed at, never mind a +crusty that's unclear on the idea of dry land.(Although the concept of a can +opener is intuitively obvious to an uploaded /{Panulirus}/.) + +"Can you help us?" ask the lobsters. + +"Let me think about it," says Manfred. He closes the dialogue window, opens his +eyes again, and shakes his head. Someday he, too, is going to be a lobster, +swimming around and waving his pincers in a cyberspace so confusingly elaborate +that his uploaded identity is cryptozoic: a living fossil from the depths of +geological time, when mass was dumb and space was unstructured. He has to help +them, he realizes - the Golden Rule demands it, and as a player in the agalmic +economy, he thrives or fails by the Golden Rule. + +But what can he do? + +* * * + +Early afternoon. + +Lying on a bench seat staring up at bridges, he's got it together enough to +file for a couple of new patents, write a diary rant, and digestify chunks of +the permanent floating slashdot party for his public site. Fragments of his +weblog go to a private subscriber list - the people, corporates, collectives, +and bots he currently favors. He slides round a bewildering series of canals by +boat, then lets his GPS steer him back toward the red-light district. There's a +shop here that dings a ten on Pamela's taste scoreboard: He hopes it won't be +seen as presumptuous if he buys her a gift. (Buys, with real money - not that +money is a problem these days, he uses so little of it.) + +As it happens DeMask won't let him spend any cash; his handshake is good for a +redeemed favor, expert testimony in some free speech versus pornography lawsuit +years ago and continents away. So he walks away with a discreetly wrapped +package that is just about legal to import into Massachusetts as long as she +claims with a straight face that it's incontinence underwear for her great +aunt. As he walks, his lunchtime patents boomerang: Two of them are keepers, +and he files immediately and passes title to the Free Infrastructure +Foundation. Two more ideas salvaged from the risk of tide-pool monopolization, +set free to spawn like crazy in the sea of memes. + +On the way back to the hotel, he passes De Wildemann's and decides to drop in. +The hash of radio-frequency noise emanating from the bar is deafening. He +orders a smoked doppelbock, touches the copper pipes to pick up vCard spoor. At +the back there's a table - + +He walks over in a near trance and sits down opposite Pamela. She's scrubbed +off her face paint and changed into body-concealing clothes; combat pants, +hooded sweat shirt, DM's. Western purdah, radically desexualizing. She sees the +parcel. "Manny?" + +"How did you know I'd come here?" Her glass is half-empty. + +"I followed your weblog - I'm your diary's biggest fan. Is that for me? You +shouldn't have!" Her eyes light up, recalculating his reproductive fitness +score according to some kind of arcane fin-de-siècle rulebook. Or maybe she's +just pleased to see him. + +"Yes, it's for you." He slides the package toward her. "I know I shouldn't, but +you have this effect on me. One question, Pam?" + +"I -" She glances around quickly. "It's safe. I'm off duty, I'm not carrying +any bugs that I know of. Those badges - there are rumors about the off switch, +you know? That they keep recording even when you think they aren't, just in +case." + +"I didn't know," he says, filing it away for future reference. "A loyalty test +thing?" + +"Just rumors. You had a question?" + +"I - " It's his turn to lose his tongue. "Are you still interested in me?" + +She looks startled for a moment, then chuckles. "Manny, you are the most +/{outrageous}/ nerd I've ever met! Just when I think I've convinced myself that +you're mad, you show the weirdest signs of having your head screwed on." She +reaches out and grabs his wrist, surprising him with a shock of skin on skin: +"Of /{course}/ I'm still interested in you. You're the biggest, baddest bull +geek I know. Why do you think I'm here?" + +"Does this mean you want to reactivate our engagement?" + +"It was never deactivated, Manny, it was just sort of on hold while you got +your head sorted out. I figured you need the space. Only you haven't stopped +running; you're still not -" + +"Yeah, I get it." He pulls away from her hand. "And the kittens?" + +She looks perplexed. "What kittens?" + +"Let's not talk about that. Why this bar?" + +She frowns. "I had to find you as soon as possible. I keep hearing rumors about +some KGB plot you're mixed up in, how you're some sort of communist spy. It +isn't true, is it?" + +"True?" He shakes his head, bemused. "The KGB hasn't existed for more than +twenty years." + +"Be careful, Manny. I don't want to lose you. That's an order. Please." + +The floor creaks, and he looks round. Dreadlocks and dark glasses with +flickering lights behind them: Bob Franklin. Manfred vaguely remembers with a +twinge that he left with Miss Arianespace leaning on his arm, shortly before +things got seriously inebriated. She was hot, but in a different direction from +Pamela, he decides: Bob looks none the worse for wear. Manfred makes +introductions. "Bob, meet Pam, my fiancée. Pam? Meet Bob." Bob puts a full +glass down in front of him; he has no idea what's in it, but it would be rude +not to drink. + +"Sure thing. Uh, Manfred, can I have a word? About your idea last night?" + +"Feel free. Present company is trustworthy." + +Bob raises an eyebrow at that, but continues anyway. "It's about the fab +concept. I've got a team of my guys doing some prototyping using FabLab +hardware, and I think we can probably build it. The cargo-cult aspect puts a +new spin on the old Lunar von Neumann factory idea, but Bingo and Marek say +they think it should work until we can bootstrap all the way to a native +nanolithography ecology: we run the whole thing from Earth as a training lab +and ship up the parts that are too difficult to make on-site as we learn how to +do it properly. We use FPGAs for all critical electronics and keep it +parsimonious - you're right about it buying us the self-replicating factory a +few years ahead of the robotics curve. But I'm wondering about on-site +intelligence. Once the comet gets more than a couple of light-minutes away -" + +"You can't control it. Feedback lag. So you want a crew, right?" + +"Yeah. But we can't send humans - way too expensive, besides it's a fifty-year +run even if we build the factory on a chunk of short-period Kuiper belt ejecta. +And I don't think we're up to coding the kind of AI that could control such a +factory any time this decade. So what do you have in mind?" + +"Let me think." Pamela glares at Manfred for a while before he notices her: +"Yeah?" + +"What's going on? What's this all about?" + +Franklin shrugs expansively, dreadlocks clattering: "Manfred's helping me +explore the solution space to a manufacturing problem." He grins. "I didn't +know Manny had a fiance. Drink's on me." + +She glances at Manfred, who is gazing into whatever weirdly colored space his +metacortex is projecting on his glasses, fingers twitching. Coolly: "Our +engagement was on hold while he /{thought}/ about his future." + +"Oh, right. We didn't bother with that sort of thing in my day; like, too +formal, man." Franklin looks uncomfortable. "He's been very helpful. Pointed us +at a whole new line of research we hadn't thought of. It's long-term and a bit +speculative, but if it works, it'll put us a whole generation ahead in the +off-planet infrastructure field." + +"Will it help reduce the budget deficit, though?" + +"Reduce the -" + +Manfred stretches and yawns: The visionary is returning from planet Macx. "Bob, +if I can solve your crew problem, can you book me a slot on the deep-space +tracking network? Like, enough to transmit a couple of gigabytes? That's going +to take some serious bandwidth, I know, but if you can do it, I think I can get +you exactly the kind of crew you're looking for." + +Franklin looks dubious. "Gigabytes? The DSN isn't built for that! You're +talking days. And what do you mean about a crew? What kind of deal do you think +I'm putting together? We can't afford to add a whole new tracking network or +life-support system just to run -" + +"Relax." Pamela glances at Manfred. "Manny, why don't you tell him why you want +the bandwidth? Maybe then he could tell you if it's possible, or if there's +some other way to do it." She smiles at Franklin: "I've found that he usually +makes more sense if you can get him to explain his reasoning. Usually." + +"If I -" Manfred stops. "Okay, Pam. Bob, it's those KGB lobsters. They want +somewhere to go that's insulated from human space. I figure I can get them to +sign on as crew for your cargo-cult self-replicating factories, but they'll +want an insurance policy: hence the deep-space tracking network. I figured we +could beam a copy of them at the alien Matrioshka brains around M31 -" + +"KGB?" Pam's voice is rising: "You said you weren't mixed up in spy stuff!" + +"Relax, it's just the Moscow Windows NT user group, not the FSB. The uploaded +crusties hacked in and -" + +Bob is watching him oddly. "Lobsters?" + +"Yeah." Manfred stares right back. "/{Panulirus interruptus}/ uploads. +Something tells me you might have heard of it?" + +"Moscow." Bob leans back against the wall: "how did you hear about it?" + +"They phoned me." With heavy irony: "It's hard for an upload to stay +subsentient these days, even if it's just a crustacean. Bezier labs have a lot +to answer for." + +Pamela's face is unreadable. "Bezier labs?" + +"They escaped." Manfred shrugs. "It's not their fault. This Bezier dude. Is he +by any chance ill?" + +"I -" Pamela stops. "I shouldn't be talking about work." + +"You're not wearing your chaperone now," he nudges quietly. + +She inclines her head. "Yes, he's ill. Some sort of brain tumor they can't +hack." + +Franklin nods. "That's the trouble with cancer - the ones that are left to +worry about are the rare ones. No cure." + +"Well, then." Manfred chugs the remains of his glass of beer. "That explains +his interest in uploading. Judging by the crusties, he's on the right track. I +wonder if he's moved on to vertebrates yet?" + +"Cats," says Pamela. "He was hoping to trade their uploads to the Pentagon as a +new smart bomb guidance system in lieu of income tax payments. Something about +remapping enemy targets to look like mice or birds or something before feeding +it to their sensorium. The old kitten and laser pointer trick." + +Manfred stares at her, hard. "That's not very nice. Uploaded cats are a /{bad}/ +idea." + +"Thirty-million-dollar tax bills aren't nice either, Manfred. That's lifetime +nursing-home care for a hundred blameless pensioners." + +Franklin leans back, sourly amused, keeping out of the crossfire. + +"The lobsters are sentient," Manfred persists. "What about those poor kittens? +Don't they deserve minimal rights? How about you? How would you like to wake up +a thousand times inside a smart bomb, fooled into thinking that some Cheyenne +Mountain battle computer's target of the hour is your heart's desire? How would +you like to wake up a thousand times, only to die again? Worse: The kittens are +probably not going to be allowed to run. They're too fucking dangerous - they +grow up into cats, solitary and highly efficient killing machines. With +intelligence and no socialization they'll be too dangerous to have around. +They're prisoners, Pam, raised to sentience only to discover they're under a +permanent death sentence. How fair is that?" + +"But they're only uploads." Pamela stares at him. "Software, right? You could +reinstantiate them on another hardware platform, like, say, your Aineko. So the +argument about killing them doesn't really apply, does it?" + +"So? We're going to be uploading humans in a couple of years. I think we need +to take a rain check on the utilitarian philosophy, before it bites us on the +cerebral cortex. Lobsters, kittens, humans -- it's a slippery slope." + +Franklin clears his throat. "I'll be needing an NDA and various due-diligence +statements off you for the crusty pilot idea," he says to Manfred. "Then I'll +have to approach Jim about buying the IP." + +"No can do." Manfred leans back and smiles lazily. "I'm not going to be a party +to depriving them of their civil rights. Far as I'm concerned, they're free +citizens. Oh, and I patented the whole idea of using lobster-derived AI +autopilots for spacecraft this morning - it's logged all over the place, all +rights assigned to the FIF. Either you give them a contract of employment, or +the whole thing's off." + +"But they're just software! Software based on fucking lobsters, for God's sake! +I'm not even sure they are sentient - I mean, they're what, a +ten-million-neuron network hooked up to a syntax engine and a crappy knowledge +base? What kind of basis for intelligence is that?" + +Manfred's finger jabs out: "That's what they'll say about /{you}/, Bob. Do it. +Do it or don't even /{think}/ about uploading out of meatspace when your body +packs in, because your life won't be worth living. The precedent you set here +determines how things are done tomorrow. Oh, and feel free to use this argument +on Jim Bezier. He'll get the point eventually, after you beat him over the head +with it. Some kinds of intellectual land grab just shouldn't be allowed." + +"Lobsters - " Franklin shakes his head. "Lobsters, cats. You're serious, aren't +you? You think they should be treated as human-equivalent?" + +"It's not so much that they should be treated as human-equivalent, as that, if +they /{aren't}/ treated as people, it's quite possible that other uploaded +beings won't be treated as people either. You're setting a legal precedent, +Bob. I know of six other companies doing uploading work right now, and not one +of 'em's thinking about the legal status of the uploaded. If you don't start +thinking about it now, where are you going to be in three to five years' time?" + +Pam is looking back and forth between Franklin and Manfred like a bot stuck in +a loop, unable to quite grasp what she's seeing. "How much is this worth?" she +asks plaintively. + +"Oh, quite a few million, I guess." Bob stares at his empty glass. "Okay. I'll +talk to them. If they bite, you're dining out on me for the next century. You +really think they'll be able to run the mining complex?" + +"They're pretty resourceful for invertebrates." Manfred grins innocently, +enthusiastically. "They may be prisoners of their evolutionary background, but +they can still adapt to a new environment. And just think, you'll be winning +civil rights for a whole new minority group - one that won't be a minority for +much longer!" + +* * * + +That evening, Pamela turns up at Manfred's hotel room wearing a strapless black +dress, concealing spike-heeled boots and most of the items he bought for her +that afternoon. Manfred has opened up his private diary to her agents. She +abuses the privilege, zaps him with a stunner on his way out of the shower, and +has him gagged, spread-eagled, and trussed to the bed frame before he has a +chance to speak. She wraps a large rubber pouch full of mildly anesthetic lube +around his tumescent genitals - no point in letting him climax - clips +electrodes to his nipples, lubes a rubber plug up his rectum and straps it in +place. Before the shower, he removed his goggles. She resets them, plugs them +into her handheld, and gently eases them on over his eyes. There's other +apparatus, stuff she ran up on the hotel room's 3D printer. + +Setup completed, she walks round the bed, inspecting him critically from all +angles, figuring out where to begin. This isn't just sex, after all: It's a +work of art. + +After a moment's thought, she rolls socks onto his exposed feet, then, expertly +wielding a tiny tube of cyanoacrylate, glues his fingertips together. Then she +switches off the air conditioning. He's twisting and straining, testing the +cuffs. Tough, it's about the nearest thing to sensory deprivation she can +arrange without a flotation tank and suxamethonium injection. She controls all +his senses, only his ears unstoppered. The glasses give her a high-bandwidth +channel right into his brain, a fake metacortex to whisper lies at her command. +The idea of what she's about to do excites her, puts a tremor in her thighs: +It's the first time she's been able to get inside his mind as well as his body. +She leans forward and whispers in his ear, "Manfred, can you hear me?" + +He twitches. Mouth gagged, fingers glued. Good. No back channels. He's +powerless. + +"This is what it's like to be tetraplegic, Manfred. Bedridden with motor neuron +disease. Locked inside your own body by nv-CJD from eating too many +contaminated burgers. I could spike you with MPTP, and you'd stay in this +position for the rest of your life, shitting in a bag, pissing through a tube. +Unable to talk and with nobody to look after you. Do you think you'd like +that?" + +He's trying to grunt or whimper around the ball gag. She hikes her skirt up +around her waist and climbs onto the bed, straddling him. The goggles are +replaying scenes she picked up around Cambridge the previous winter - soup +kitchen scenes, hospice scenes. She kneels atop him, whispering in his ear. + +"Twelve million in tax, baby, that's what they think you owe them. What do you +think you owe /{me}/? That's six million in net income, Manny, six million that +isn't going into your virtual children's mouths." + +He's rolling his head from side to side, as if trying to argue. That won't do; +she slaps him hard, thrills to his frightened expression. "Today I watched you +give uncounted millions away, Manny. Millions, to a bunch of crusties and a +MassPike pirate! You bastard. Do you know what I should do with you?" He's +cringing, unsure whether she's serious or doing this just to get him turned on. +Good. + +There's no point trying to hold a conversation. She leans forward until she can +feel his breath in her ear. "Meat and mind, Manny. Meat, and mind. You're not +interested in meat, are you? Just mind. You could be boiled alive before you +noticed what was happening in the meatspace around you. Just another lobster in +a pot. The only thing keeping you out of it is how much I love you." She +reaches down and tears away the gel pouch, exposing his penis: it's stiff as a +post from the vasodilators, dripping with gel, numb. Straightening up, she +eases herself slowly down on it. It doesn't hurt as much as she expected, and +the sensation is utterly different from what she's used to. She begins to lean +forward, grabs hold of his straining arms, feels his thrilling helplessness. +She can't control herself: She almost bites through her lip with the intensity +of the sensation. Afterward, she reaches down and massages him until he begins +to spasm, shuddering uncontrollably, emptying the Darwinian river of his source +code into her, communicating via his only output device. + +She rolls off his hips and carefully uses the last of the superglue to gum her +labia together. Humans don't produce seminiferous plugs, and although she's +fertile, she wants to be absolutely sure. The glue will last for a day or two. +She feels hot and flushed, almost out of control. Boiling to death with febrile +expectancy, she's nailed him down at last. + +When she removes his glasses, his eyes are naked and vulnerable, stripped down +to the human kernel of his nearly transcendent mind. "You can come and sign the +marriage license tomorrow morning after breakfast," she whispers in his ear: +"Otherwise, my lawyers will be in touch. Your parents will want a ceremony, but +we can arrange that later." + +He looks as if he has something to say, so she finally relents and loosens the +gag, then kisses him tenderly on one cheek. He swallows, coughs, and looks +away. "Why? Why do it this way?" + +She taps him on the chest. "It's all about property rights." She pauses for a +moment's thought: There's a huge ideological chasm to bridge, after all. "You +finally convinced me about this agalmic thing of yours, this giving everything +away for brownie points. I wasn't going to lose you to a bunch of lobsters or +uploaded kittens, or whatever else is going to inherit this smart-matter +singularity you're busy creating. So I decided to take what's mine first. Who +knows? In a few months, I'll give you back a new intelligence, and you can look +after it to your heart's content." + +"But you didn't need to do it this way -" + +"Didn't I?" She slides off the bed and pulls down her dress. "You give too much +away too easily, Manny! Slow down, or there won't be anything left." Leaning +over the bed she dribbles acetone onto the fingers of his left hand, then +unlocks the cuff. She leaves the bottle of solvent conveniently close to hand +so he can untangle himself. + +"See you tomorrow. Remember, after breakfast." + +She's in the doorway when he calls, "But you didn't say /{why}/!" + +"Think of it as being sort of like spreading your memes around," she says, +blowing a kiss at him, and then closing the door. She bends down and +thoughtfully places another cardboard box containing an uploaded kitten right +outside it. Then she returns to her suite to make arrangements for the +alchemical wedding. + +1~ Chapter 2: Troubadour + +Three years later, Manfred is on the run. His gray-eyed fate is in hot pursuit, +blundering after him through divorce court, chat room, and meetings of the +International Monetary Emergency Fund. It's a merry dance he leads her. But +Manfred isn't running away, he's discovered a mission. He's going to make a +stand against the laws of economics in the ancient city of Rome. He's going to +mount a concert for the spiritual machines. He's going to set the companies +free, and break the Italian state government. + +In his shadow, his monster runs, keeping him company, never halting. + +* * * + +Manfred re-enters Europe through an airport that's all twentieth-century chrome +and ductwork, barbaric in its decaying nuclear-age splendor. He breezes through +customs and walks down a long, echoing arrival hall, sampling the local media +feeds. It's November, and in a misplaced corporate search for seasonal cheer, +the proprietors have come up with a final solution to the Christmas problem, a +mass execution of plush Santas and elves. Bodies hang limply overhead every few +meters, feet occasionally twitching in animatronic death, like a war crime +perpetrated in a toy shop. Today's increasingly automated corporations don't +understand mortality, Manfred thinks, as he passes a mother herding along her +upset children. Their immortality is a drawback when dealing with the humans +they graze on: They lack insight into one of the main factors that motivates +the meat machines who feed them. Well, sooner or later we'll have to do +something about that, he tells himself. + +The free media channels here are denser and more richly self-referential than +anything he's seen in President Santorum's America. The accent's different, +though. Luton, London's fourth satellite airport, speaks with an annoyingly +bumptious twang, like Australian with a plum in its mouth. /{Hello, stranger! +Is that a brain in your pocket or are you just pleased to think me? Ping +Watford Informatics for the latest in cognitive modules and cheesy +motion-picture references.}/ He turns the corner and finds himself squeezed up +against the wall between the baggage reclaim office and a crowd of drunken +Belgian tractor-drag fans, while his left goggle is trying to urgently tell him +something about the railway infrastructure of Columbia. The fans wear blue face +paint and chant something that sounds ominously like the ancient British war +cry, /{Wemberrrly, Wemberrrly}/, and they're dragging a gigantic virtual +tractor totem through the webspace analogue of the arrivals hall. He takes the +reclaim office instead. + +As he enters the baggage reclaim zone, his jacket stiffens, and his glasses +dim: He can hear the lost souls of suitcases crying for their owners. The eerie +keening sets his own accessories on edge with a sense of loss, and for a +moment, he's so spooked that he nearly shuts down the thalamic-limbic shunt +interface that lets him feel their emotions. He's not in favor of emotions +right now, not with the messy divorce proceedings and the blood sacrifice Pam +is trying to extract from him; he'd much rather love and loss and hate had +never been invented. But he needs the maximum possible sensory bandwidth to +keep in touch with the world, so he feels it in his guts every time his +footwear takes a shine to some Moldovan pyramid scheme. /{Shut up}/, he glyphs +at his unruly herd of agents; I /{can't even hear myself think!}/ + +"Hello, sir, have a nice day, how may I be of service?" the yellow plastic +suitcase on the counter says chirpily. It doesn't fool Manfred: He can see the +Stalinist lines of control chaining it to the sinister, faceless cash register +that lurks below the desk, agent of the British Airport Authority corporate +bureaucracy. But that's okay. Only bags need fear for their freedom in here. + +"Just looking," he mumbles. And it's true. Because of a not entirely accidental +cryptographic routing feature embedded in an airline reservations server, his +suitcase is on its way to Mombasa, where it will probably be pithed and +resurrected in the service of some African cyber-Fagin. That's okay by Manfred +- it only contains a statistically normal mixture of second hand clothes and +toiletries, and he only carries it to convince the airline passenger-profiling +expert systems that he isn't some sort of deviant or terrorist - but it leaves +him with a gap in his inventory that he must fill before he leaves the EU zone. +He needs to pick up a replacement suitcase so that he has as much luggage +leaving the superpower as he had when he entered it: He doesn't want to be +accused of trafficking in physical goods in the midst of the transatlantic +trade war between new world protectionists and old world globalists. At least, +that's his cover story - and he's sticking to it. + +There's a row of unclaimed bags in front of the counter, up for sale in the +absence of their owners. Some of them are very battered, but among them is a +rather good-quality suitcase with integral induction-charged rollers and a keen +sense of loyalty: exactly the same model as his old one. He polls it and sees +not just GPS, but a Galileo tracker, a gazetteer the size of an old-time +storage area network, and an iron determination to follow its owner as far as +the gates of hell if necessary. Plus the right distinctive scratch on the lower +left side of the case. "How much for just this one?" he asks the bellwether on +the desk. + +"Ninety euros," it says placidly. + +Manfred sighs. "You can do better than that." In the time it takes them to +settle on seventy-five, the Hang Sen Index is down fourteen-point-one-six +points, and what's left of NASDAQ climbs another two-point-one. "Deal." Manfred +spits some virtual cash at the brutal face of the cash register, and it +unfetters the suitcase, unaware that Macx has paid a good bit more than +seventy-five euros for the privilege of collecting this piece of baggage. +Manfred bends down and faces the camera in its handle. "Manfred Macx," he says +quietly. "Follow me." He feels the handle heat up as it imprints on his +fingerprints, digital and phenotypic. Then he turns and walks out of the slave +market, his new luggage rolling at his heels. + +* * * + +A short train journey later, Manfred checks into a hotel in Milton Keynes. He +watches the sun set from his bedroom window, an occlusion of concrete cows +blocking the horizon. The room is functional in an overly naturalistic kind of +way, rattan and force-grown hardwood and hemp rugs concealing the support +systems and concrete walls behind. He sits in a chair, gin and tonic at hand, +absorbing the latest market news and grazing his multichannel feeds in +parallel. His reputation is up two percent for no obvious reason today, he +notices: Odd, that. When he pokes at it he discovers that /{everybody's}/ +reputation - everybody, that is, who has a publicly traded reputation - is up a +bit. It's as if the distributed Internet reputation servers are feeling bullish +about integrity. Maybe there's a global honesty bubble forming. + +Manfred frowns, then snaps his fingers. The suitcase rolls toward him. "Who do +you belong to?" he asks. + +"Manfred Macx," it replies, slightly bashfully. + +"No, before me." + +"I don't understand that question." + +He sighs. "Open up." + +Latches whir and retract: The hard-shell lid rises toward him, and he looks +inside to confirm the contents. + +The suitcase is full of noise. + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the early twenty-first century, human. + +_1 It's night in Milton Keynes, sunrise in Hong Kong. Moore's Law rolls +inexorably on, dragging humanity toward the uncertain future. The planets of +the solar system have a combined mass of approximately 2 x 10^{27}^ kilograms. +Around the world, laboring women produce forty-five thousand babies a day, +representing 10^{23}^ MIPS of processing power. Also around the world, fab +lines casually churn out thirty million microprocessors a day, representing +10^{23}^ MIPS. In another ten months, most of the MIPS being added to the solar +system will be machine-hosted for the first time. About ten years after that, +the solar system's installed processing power will nudge the critical 1 MIPS +per gram threshold - one million instructions per second per gram of matter. +After that, singularity - a vanishing point beyond which extrapolating progress +becomes meaningless. The time remaining before the intelligence spike is down +to single-digit years ... + +* * * + +Aineko curls on the pillow beside Manfred's head, purring softly as his owner +dreams uneasily. The night outside is dark: Vehicles operate on autopilot, +running lights dipped to let the Milky Way shine down upon the sleeping city. +Their quiet, fuel-cell-powered engines do not trouble Manfred's sleep. The +robot cat keeps sleepless watch, alert for intruders, but there are none, save +the whispering ghosts of Manfred's metacortex, feeding his dreams with their +state vectors. + +The metacortex - a distributed cloud of software agents that surrounds him in +netspace, borrowing CPU cycles from convenient processors (such as his robot +pet) - is as much a part of Manfred as the society of mind that occupies his +skull; his thoughts migrate into it, spawning new agents to research new +experiences, and at night, they return to roost and share their knowledge. + +While Manfred sleeps, he dreams of an alchemical marriage. She waits for him at +the altar in a strapless black gown, the surgical instruments gleaming in her +gloved hands. "This won't hurt a bit," she explains as she adjusts the straps. +"I only want your genome - the extended phenotype can wait until ... later." +Blood-red lips, licked: a kiss of steel, then she presents the income tax bill. + +There's nothing accidental about this dream. As he experiences it, +microelectrodes in his hypothalamus trigger sensitive neurons. Revulsion and +shame flood him at the sight of her face, the sense of his vulnerability. +Manfred's metacortex, in order to facilitate his divorce, is trying to +decondition his strange love. It has been working on him for weeks, but still +he craves her whiplash touch, the humiliation of his wife's control, the sense +of helpless rage at her unpayable taxes, demanded with interest. + +Aineko watches him from the pillow, purring continuously. Retractable claws +knead the bedding, first one paw, then the next. Aineko is full of ancient +feline wisdom that Pamela installed back when mistress and master were +exchanging data and bodily fluids rather than legal documents. Aineko is more +cat than robot, these days, thanks in part to her hobbyist's interest in feline +neuroanatomy. Aineko knows that Manfred is experiencing nameless neurasthenic +agonies, but really doesn't give a shit about that as long as the power supply +is clean and there are no intruders. + +Aineko curls up and joins Manfred in sleep, dreaming of laser-guided mice. + +* * * + +Manfred is jolted awake by the hotel room phone shrilling for attention. + +"Hello?" he asks, fuzzily. + +"Manfred Macx?" It's a human voice, with a gravelly east coast accent. + +"Yeah?" Manfred struggles to sit up. His mouth feels like the inside of a tomb, +and his eyes don't want to open. + +"My name is Alan Glashwiecz, of Smoot, Sedgwick Associates. Am I correct in +thinking that you are the Manfred Macx who is a director of a company called, +uh, agalmic dot holdings dot root dot one-eight-four dot ninety-seven dot +A-for-able dot B-for-baker dot five, incorporated?" + +"Uh." Manfred blinks and rubs his eyes. "Hold on a moment." When the retinal +patterns fade, he pulls on his glasses and powers them up. "Just a second now." +Browsers and menus ricochet through his sleep-laden eyes. "Can you repeat the +company name?" + +"Sure." Glashwiecz repeats himself patiently. He sounds as tired as Manfred +feels. + +"Um." Manfred finds it, floating three tiers down an elaborate object +hierarchy. It's flashing for attention. There's a priority interrupt, an +incoming lawsuit that hasn't propagated up the inheritance tree yet. He prods +at the object with a property browser. "I'm afraid I'm not a director of that +company, Mr. Glashwiecz. I appear to be retained by it as a technical +contractor with non-executive power, reporting to the president, but frankly, +this is the first time I've ever heard of the company. However, I can tell you +who's in charge if you want." + +"Yes?" The attorney sounds almost interested. Manfred figures it out; the guy's +in New Jersey, it must be about three in the morning over there. + +Malice - revenge for waking him up - sharpens Manfred's voice. "The president +of agalmic.holdings.root.184.97.AB5 is agalmic.holdings.root.184.97.201. The +secretary is agalmic.holdings.root.184.D5, and the chair is +agalmic.holdings.root.184.E8.FF. All the shares are owned by those companies in +equal measure, and I can tell you that their regulations are written in Python. +Have a nice day, now!" He thumps the bedside phone control and sits up, +yawning, then pushes the do-not-disturb button before it can interrupt again. +After a moment he stands up and stretches, then heads to the bathroom to brush +his teeth, comb his hair, and figure out where the lawsuit originated and how a +human being managed to get far enough through his web of robot companies to bug +him. + +* * * + +While he's having breakfast in the hotel restaurant, Manfred decides that he's +going to do something unusual for a change: He's going to make himself +temporarily rich. This is a change because Manfred's normal profession is +making other people rich. Manfred doesn't believe in scarcity or zero-sum games +or competition - his world is too fast and information-dense to accommodate +primate hierarchy games. However, his current situation calls for him to do +something radical: something like making himself a temporary billionaire so he +can blow off his divorce settlement in an instant, like a wily accountancy +octopus escaping a predator by vanishing in a cloud of his own black ink. + +Pam is chasing him partially for ideological reasons - she still hasn't given +up on the idea of government as the dominant superorganism of the age - but +also because she loves him in her own peculiar way, and the last thing any +self-respecting dom can tolerate is rejection by her slave. Pam is a born-again +postconservative, a member of the first generation to grow up after the end of +the American century. Driven by the need to fix the decaying federal system +before it collapses under a mound of Medicare bills, overseas adventurism, and +decaying infrastructure, she's willing to use self-denial, entrapment, +predatory mercantilism, dirty tricks, and any other tool that boosts the bottom +line. She doesn't approve of Manfred's jetting around the world on free airline +passes, making strangers rich, somehow never needing money. She can see his +listing on the reputation servers, hovering about thirty points above IBM: All +the metrics of integrity, effectiveness and goodwill value him above even that +most fundamentalist of open-source computer companies. And she knows he craves +her tough love, wants to give himself to her completely. So why is he running +away? + +The reason he's running away is entirely more ordinary. Their unborn daughter, +frozen in liquid nitrogen, is an unimplanted 96-hour-old blastula. Pam's bought +into the whole Parents for Traditional Children parasite meme. PTC are +germ-line recombination refuseniks: They refuse to have their children screened +for fixable errors. If there's one thing that Manfred really can't cope with, +it's the idea that nature knows best - even though that isn't the point she's +making. One steaming row too many, and he kicked back, off to traveling fast +and footloose again, spinning off new ideas like a memetic dynamo and living on +the largesse of the new paradigm. File for divorce on grounds of irreconcilable +ideological differences. No more whiplash-and-leather sex. + +* * * + +Before he hits the TGV for Rome, Manfred takes time to visit a model airplane +show. It's a good place to be picked up by a CIA stringer - he's had a tip-off +that someone will be there - and besides, flying models are hot hacker shit +this decade. Add microtechnology, cameras, and neural networks to balsa-wood +flyers, and you've got the next generation of military stealth flyer: It's a +fertile talent-show scene, like the hacker cons of yore. This particular gig is +happening in a decaying out-of-town supermarket that rents out its shop floor +for events like this. Its emptiness is a sign of the times, ubiquitous +broadband and expensive gas. (The robotized warehouse next door is, in +contrast, frenetically busy, packing parcels for home delivery. Whether they +telecommute or herd in meatspace offices, people still need to eat.) + +Today, the food hall is full of people. Eldritch ersatz insects buzz menacingly +along the shining empty meat counters without fear of electrocution. Big +monitors unfurled above the deli display cabinets show a weird, jerky view of a +three-dimensional nightmare, painted all the synthetic colors of radar. The +feminine-hygiene galley has been wheeled back to make room for a gigantic +plastic-shrouded tampon five meters long and sixty centimeters in diameter - a +microsat launcher and conference display, plonked there by the show's sponsors +in a transparent attempt to talent-spot the up-and-coming engineering geeks. + +Manfred's glasses zoom in and grab a particularly fetching Fokker triplane that +buzzes at face height through the crowd: He pipes the image stream up to one of +his websites in real time. The Fokker pulls up in a tight Immelman turn beneath +the dust-shrouded pneumatic cash tubes that line the ceiling, then picks up the +trail of an F-104G. Cold War Luftwaffe and Great War Luftwaffe dart across the +sky in an intricate game of tag. Manfred's so busy tracking the warbirds that +he nearly trips over the fat white tube's launcher-erector. + +"Eh, Manfred! More care, s'il vous plait!" + +He wipes the planes and glances round. "Do I know you?" he asks politely, even +as he feels a shock of recognition. + +"Amsterdam, three years ago." The woman in the double-breasted suit raises an +eyebrow at him, and his social secretary remembers her for him, whispers in his +ear. + +"Annette from Arianespace marketing?" She nods, and he focuses on her. Still +dressing in the last-century retro mode that confused him the first time they +met, she looks like a Kennedy-era Secret Service man: cropped bleached crew cut +like an angry albino hedgehog, pale blue contact lenses, black tie, narrow +lapels. Only her skin color hints at her Berber ancestry. Her earrings are +cameras, endlessly watching. Her raised eyebrow turns into a lopsided smile as +she sees his reaction. "I remember. That cafe in Amsterdam. What brings you +here?" + +"Why "- her wave takes in the entirety of the show - "this talent show, of +course." An elegant shrug and a wave at the orbit-capable tampon. "It's good +talent. We're hiring this year. If we re-enter the launcher market, we must +employ only the best. Amateurs, not time-servers, engineers who can match the +very best Singapore can offer." + +For the first time, Manfred notices the discreet corporate logo on the flank of +the booster. "You outsourced your launch-vehicle fabrication?" + +Annette pulls a face as she explains with forced casualness: "Space hotels were +more profitable, this past decade. The high-ups, they cannot be bothered with +the rocketry, no? Things that go fast and explode, they are passé, they say. +Diversify, they say. Until -" She gives a very Gallic shrug. Manfred nods; her +earrings are recording everything she says, for the purposes of due diligence. + +"I'm glad to see Europe re-entering the launcher business," he says seriously. +"It's going to be very important when the nanosystems conformational +replication business gets going for real. A major strategic asset to any +corporate entity in the field, even a hotel chain." Especially now they've +wound up NASA and the moon race is down to China and India, he thinks sourly. + +Her laugh sounds like glass bells chiming. "And yourself, mon cher? What brings +you to the Confederaçion? You must have a deal in mind." + +"Well., it's Manfred's turn to shrug, "I was hoping to find a CIA agent, but +there don't seem to be any here today." + +"That is not surprising," Annette says resentfully. "The CIA thinks the space +industry, she is dead. Fools!" She continues for a minute, enumerating the many +shortcomings of the Central Intelligence Agency with vigor and a distinctly +Parisian rudeness. "They are become almost as bad as AP and Reuters since they +go public," she adds. "All these wire services! And they are, ah, stingy. The +CIA does not understand that good news must be paid for at market rates if +freelance stringers are to survive. They are to be laughed at. It is so easy to +plant disinformation on them, almost as easy as the Office of Special Plans..." +She makes a banknote-riffling gesture between fingers and thumb. By way of +punctuation, a remarkably maneuverable miniature ornithopter swoops around her +head, does a double-back flip, and dives off in the direction of the liquor +display. + +An Iranian woman wearing a backless leather minidress and a nearly transparent +scarf barges up and demands to know how much the microbooster costs to buy: She +is dissatisfied with Annette's attempt to direct her to the manufacturer's +website, and Annette looks distinctly flustered by the time the woman's +boyfriend - a dashing young air force pilot - shows up to escort her away. +"Tourists," she mutters, before noticing Manfred, who is staring off into space +with fingers twitching. "Manfred?" + +"Uh - what?" + +"I have been on this shop floor for six hours, and my feet, they kill me." She +takes hold of his left arm and very deliberately unhooks her earrings, turning +them off. "If I say to you I can write for the CIA wire service, will you take +me to a restaurant and buy me dinner and tell me what it is you want to say?" + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the second decade of the twenty-first century; the second decade +in human history when the intelligence of the environment has shown signs of +rising to match human demand. + +_1 The news from around the world is distinctly depressing this evening. In +Maine, guerrillas affiliated with Parents for Traditional Children announce +they've planted logic bombs in antenatal-clinic gene scanners, making them give +random false positives when checking for hereditary disorders: The damage so +far is six illegal abortions and fourteen lawsuits. + +_1 The International Convention on Performing Rights is holding a third round +of crisis talks in an attempt to stave off the final collapse of the WIPO music +licensing regime. On the one hand, hard-liners representing the Copyright +Control Association of America are pressing for restrictions on duplicating the +altered emotional states associated with specific media performances: As a +demonstration that they mean business, two "software engineers" in California +have been kneecapped, tarred, feathered, and left for dead under placards +accusing them of reverse-engineering movie plot lines using avatars of dead and +out-of-copyright stars. + +_1 On the opposite side of the fence, the Association of Free Artists are +demanding the right of perform music in public without a recording contract, +and are denouncing the CCAA as being a tool of Mafiya apparachiks who have +bought it from the moribund music industry in an attempt to go legit. FBI +Director Leonid Kuibyshev responds by denying that the Mafiya is a significant +presence in the United States. But the music biz's position isn't strengthened +by the near collapse of the legitimate American entertainment industry, which +has been accelerating ever since the nasty noughties. + +_1 A marginally intelligent voicemail virus masquerading as an IRS auditor has +caused havoc throughout America, garnishing an estimated eighty billion dollars +in confiscatory tax withholdings into a numbered Swiss bank account. A +different virus is busy hijacking people's bank accounts, sending ten percent +of their assets to the previous victim, then mailing itself to everyone in the +current mark's address book: a self- propelled pyramid scheme in action. Oddly, +nobody is complaining much. While the mess is being sorted out, business IT +departments have gone to standby, refusing to process any transaction that +doesn't come in the shape of ink on dead trees. + +_1 Tipsters are warning of an impending readjustment in the overinflated +reputations market, following revelations that some u-media gurus have been +hyped past all realistic levels of credibility. The consequent damage to the +junk-bonds market in integrity is serious. + +_1 The EU council of independent heads of state has denied plans for another +attempt at Eurofederalisme, at least until the economy rises out of its current +slump. Three extinct species have been resurrected in the past month; +unfortunately, endangered ones are now dying off at a rate of one a day. And a +group of militant anti-GM campaigners are being pursued by Interpol, after +their announcement that they have spliced a metabolic pathway for cyanogenic +glycosides into maize seed corn destined for human-edible crops. There have +been no deaths yet, but having to test breakfast cereal for cyanide is really +going to dent consumer trust. + +_1 About the only people who're doing well right now are the uploaded lobsters +- and the crusties aren't even remotely human. + +* * * + +Manfred and Annette eat on the top deck of the buffet car, chatting as their +TGV barrels through a tunnel under the English Channel. Annette, it transpires, +has been commuting daily from Paris; which was, in any case, Manfred's next +destination. From the show, he messaged Aineko to round up his baggage and meet +him at St. Pancras Station, in a terminal like the shell of a giant steel +woodlouse. Annette left her space launcher in the supermarket overnight: an +unfueled test article, it is of no security significance. + +The railway buffet car is run by a Nepalese fast-food franchise. "I sometimes +wish for to stay on the train," Annette says as she waits for her mismas bhat. +"Past Paris! Think. Settle back in your couchette, to awaken in Moscow and +change trains. All the way to Vladivostok in two days." + +"If they let you through the border," Manfred mutters. Russia is one of those +places that still requires passports and asks if you are now or ever have been +an anti-anticommunist: It's still trapped by its bloody-handed history. (Rewind +the video stream to Stolypin's necktie party and start out fresh.) Besides, +they have enemies: White Russian oligarchs, protection racketeers in the +intellectual property business. Psychotic relics of the last decade's +experiment with Marxism-Objectivism. "Are you really a CIA stringer?" + +Annette grins, her lips disconcertingly red: "I file dispatches from time to +time. Nothing that could get me fired." + +Manfred nods. "My wife has access to their unfiltered stream." + +"Your -" Annette pauses. "It was she who I, I met? In De Wildemann's?" She sees +his expression. "Oh, my poor fool!" She raises her glass to him. "It is, has, +not gone well?" + +Manfred sighs and raises a toast toward Annette. "You know your marriage is in +a bad way when you send your spouse messages via the CIA, and she communicates +using the IRS." + +"In only five years." Annette winces. "You will pardon me for saying this - she +did not look like your type." There's a question hidden behind that statement, +and he notices again how good she is at overloading her statements with +subtexts. + +"I'm not sure what my type is," he says, half-truthfully. He can't elude the +sense that something not of either of their doing went wrong between him and +Pamela, a subtle intrusion that levered them apart by stealth. Maybe it was me, +he thinks. Sometimes he isn't certain he's still human; too many threads of his +consciousness seem to live outside his head, reporting back whenever they find +something interesting. Sometimes he feels like a puppet, and that frightens him +because it's one of the early-warning signs of schizophrenia. And it's too +early for anyone out there to be trying to hack exocortices ... isn't it? Right +now, the external threads of his consciousness are telling him that they like +Annette, when she's being herself instead of a cog in the meatspace ensemble of +Arianespace management. But the part of him that's still human isn't sure just +how far to trust himself. "I want to be me. What do you want to be?" + +She shrugs, as a waiter slides a plate in front of her. "I'm just a, a Parisian +babe, no? An ingénue raised in the lilac age of le Confederaçion Europé, the +self-deconstructed ruins of the gilded European Union." + +"Yeah, right." A plate appears in front of Manfred. "And I'm a good old +microboomer from the MassPike corridor." He peels back a corner of the omelet +topping and inspects the food underneath it. "Born in the sunset years of the +American century." He pokes at one of the unidentifiable meaty lumps in the +fried rice with his fork, and it pokes right back. There's a limit to how much +his agents can tell him about her - European privacy laws are draconian by +American standards - but he knows the essentials. Two parents who are still +together, father a petty politician in some town council down in the vicinity +of Toulouse. Went to the right école. The obligatory year spent bumming around +the Confederaçion at government expense, learning how other people live - a new +kind of empire building, in place of the 20th century's conscription and +jackboot wanderjahr. No weblog or personal site that his agents can find. She +joined Arianespace right out of the Polytechnique and has been management track +ever since: Korou, Manhattan Island, Paris. "You've never been married, I take +it." + +She chuckles. "Time is too short! I am still young." She picks up a forkful of +food, and adds quietly. "Besides, the government would insist on paying." + +"Ah." Manfred tucks into his bowl thoughtfully. With the birth rate declining +across Europe, the EC bureaucracy is worried; the old EU started subsidizing +babies, a new generation of carers, a decade ago, and it still hasn't dented +the problem. All it's done is alienate the brightest women of childbearing age. +Soon they'll have to look to the east for a solution, importing a new +generation of citizens - unless the long-promised aging hacks prove workable, +or cheap AI comes along. + +"Do you have a hotel?" Annette asks suddenly. + +"In Paris?" Manfred is startled: "Not yet." + +"You must come home with me, then." She looks at him quizzically. + +"I'm not sure I - " He catches her expression. "What is it?" + +"Oh, nothing. My friend Henri, he says I take in strays too easily. But you are +not a stray. I think you can look after yourself. Besides, it is the Friday +today. Come with me, and I will file your press release for the Company to +read. Tell me, do you dance? You look as if you need a wild week ending, to +help forget your troubles!" + +* * * + +Annette drives a steamroller seduction through Manfred's plans for the weekend. +He intended to find a hotel, file a press release, then spend some time +researching the corporate funding structure of Parents for Traditional Children +and the dimensionality of confidence variation on the reputation exchanges - +then head for Rome. Instead, Annette drags him back to her apartment, a large +studio flat tucked away behind an alley in the Marais. She sits him at the +breakfast bar while she tidies away his luggage, then makes him close his eyes +and swallow two dubious-tasting capsules. Next, she pours them each a tall +glass of freezing-cold Aqvavit that tastes exactly like Polish rye bread. When +they finish it, she just about rips his clothes off. Manfred is startled to +discover that he has a crowbar-stiff erection; since the last blazing row with +Pamela, he'd vaguely assumed he was no longer interested in sex. Instead, they +end up naked on the sofa, surrounded by discarded clothing - Annette is very +conservative, preferring the naked penetrative fuck of the last century to the +more sophisticated fetishes of the present day. + +Afterward, he's even more surprised to discover that he's still tumescent. "The +capsules?" he asks. + +She sprawls a well-muscled but thin thigh across him, then reaches down to grab +his penis. Squeezes it. "Yes," she admits. "You need much special help to +unwind, I think." Another squeeze. "Crystal meth and a traditional +phosphodiesterase inhibitor." He grabs one of her small breasts, feeling very +brutish and primitive. Naked. He's not sure Pamela ever let him see her fully +naked: She thought skin was more sexy when it was covered. Annette squeezes him +again, and he stiffens. "More!" + +By the time they finish, he's aching, and she shows him how to use the bidet. +Everything is crystal clear, and her touch is electrifying. While she showers, +he sits on the toilet seat lid and rants about Turing-completeness as an +attribute of company law, about cellular automata and the blind knapsack +problem, about his work on solving the Communist Central Planning problem using +a network of interlocking unmanned companies. About the impending market +adjustment in integrity, the sinister resurrection of the recording music +industry, and the still-pressing need to dismantle Mars. + +When she steps out of the shower, he tells her that he loves her. She kisses +him and slides his glasses and earpieces off his head so that he's really +naked, sits on his lap, and fucks his brains out again, and whispers in his ear +that she loves him and wants to be his manager. Then she leads him into her +bedroom and tells him exactly what she wants him to wear, and she puts on her +own clothes, and she gives him a mirror with some white powder on it to sniff. +When she's got him dolled up they go out for a night of really serious +clubbing, Annette in a tuxedo and Manfred in a blond wig, red silk +off-the-shoulder gown, and high heels. Sometime in the early hours, exhausted +and resting his head on her shoulder during the last tango in a BDSM club in +the Rue Ste-Anne, he realizes that it really is possible to be in lust with +someone other than Pamela. + +* * * + +Aineko wakes Manfred by repeatedly head-butting him above the left eye. He +groans, and as he tries to open his eyes, he finds that his mouth tastes like a +dead trout, his skin feels greasy with make-up, and his head is pounding. +There's a banging noise somewhere. Aineko meows urgently. He sits up, feeling +unaccustomed silk underwear rubbing against incredibly sore skin - he's fully +dressed, just sprawled out on the sofa. Snores emanate from the bedroom; the +banging is coming from the front door. Someone wants to come in. Shit. He rubs +his head, stands up, and nearly falls flat on his face: He hasn't even taken +those ridiculous high heels off. How much did I drink last night? he wonders. +His glasses are on the breakfast bar; he pulls them on and is besieged by an +urgent flurry of ideas demanding attention. He straightens his wig, picks up +his skirts, and trips across to the door with a sinking feeling. Luckily his +publicly traded reputation is strictly technical. + +He unlocks the door. "Who is it?" he asks in English. By way of reply somebody +shoves the door in, hard. Manfred falls back against the wall, winded. His +glasses stop working, sidelook displays filling with multicolored static. + +Two men charge in, identically dressed in jeans and leather jackets. They're +wearing gloves and occlusive face masks, and one of them points a small and +very menacing ID card at Manfred. A self-propelled gun hovers in the doorway, +watching everything. "Where is he?" + +"Who?" gasps Manfred, breathless and terrified. + +"Macx." The other intruder steps into the living room quickly, pans around, +ducks through the bathroom door. Aineko flops as limp as a dishrag in front of +the sofa. The intruder checks out the bedroom: There's a brief scream, cut off +short. + +"I don't know - who?" Manfred is choking with fear. + +The other intruder ducks out of the bedroom, waves a hand dismissively. + +"We are sorry to have bothered you," the man with the card says stiffly. He +replaced it in his jacket pocket. "If you should see Manfred Macx, tell him +that the Copyright Control Association of America advises him to cease and +desist from his attempt to assist music thieves and other degenerate mongrel +second-hander enemies of Objectivism. Reputations only of use to those alive to +own them. Goodbye." + +The two copyright gangsters disappear through the door, leaving Manfred to +shake his head dizzily while his glasses reboot. It takes him a moment to +register the scream from the bedroom. "Fuck - Annette!" + +She appears in the open doorway, holding a sheet around her waist, looking +angry and confused. "Annette!" he calls. She looks around, sees him, and begins +to laugh shakily. "Annette!" He crosses over to her. "You're okay," he says. +"You're okay." + +"You too." She hugs him, and she's shaking. Then she holds him at arm's length. +"My, what a pretty picture!" + +"They wanted me," he says, and his teeth are chattering. "Why?" + +She looks up at him seriously. "You must bathe. Then have coffee. We are not at +home, oui?" + +"Ah, oui." He looks down. Aineko is sitting up, looking dazed. "Shower. Then +that dispatch for CIA news." + +"The dispatch?" She looks puzzled. "I filed that last night. When I was in the +shower. The microphone, he is waterproof." + +* * * + +By the time Arianespace's security contractors show up, Manfred has stripped +off Annette's evening gown and showered; he's sitting in the living room +wearing a bathrobe, drinking a half-liter mug of espresso and swearing under +his breath. + +While he was dancing the night away in Annette's arms, the global reputation +market has gone nonlinear: People are putting their trust in the Christian +Coalition and the Eurocommunist Alliance - always a sign that the times are bad +- while perfectly sound trading enterprises have gone into free fall, as if a +major bribery scandal has broken out. + +Manfred trades ideas for kudos via the Free Intellect Foundation, bastard child +of George Soros and Richard Stallman. His reputation is cemented by donations +to the public good that don't backfire. So he's offended and startled to +discover that he's dropped twenty points in the past two hours - and frightened +to see that this is by no means unusual. He was expecting a ten-point drop +mediated via an options trade - payment for the use of the anonymous luggage +remixer that routed his old suitcase to Mombasa and in return sent this new one +to him via the left-luggage office in Luton - but this is more serious. The +entire reputation market seems to have been hit by the confidence flu. + +Annette bustles around busily, pointing out angles and timings to the forensics +team her head office sent in answer to her call for back-up. She seems more +angry and shaken than worried by the intrusion. It's probably an occupational +hazard for any upwardly mobile executive in the old, grasping network of greed +that Manfred's agalmic future aims to supplant. The forensics dude and dudette, +a pair of cute, tanned Lebanese youngsters, point the yellow snout of their +mass spectroscope into various corners and agree that there's something not +unlike gun oil in the air. But, so sorry, the intruders wore masks to trap the +skin particles and left behind a spray of dust vacuumed from the seat of a city +bus, so there's no way of getting a genotype match. Presently they agree to log +it as a suspected corporate intrusion (origin: unclassified; severity: +worrying) and increase the logging level on her kitchen telemetry. And remember +to wear your earrings at all times, please. They leave, and Annette locks the +door, leans against it, and curses for a whole long minute. + +"They gave me a message from the copyright control agency," Manfred says +unevenly when she winds down. "Russian gangsters from New York bought the +recording cartels a few years ago, you know? After the rights stitch-up fell +apart, and the artists all went on-line while they focused on copy prevention +technologies, the Mafiya were the only people who would buy the old business +model. These guys add a whole new meaning to copy protection: This was just a +polite cease and desist notice by their standards. They run the record shops, +and they try to block any music distribution channel they don't own. Not very +successfully, though - most gangsters are living in the past, more conservative +than any normal businessman can afford to be. What was it that you put on the +wire?" + +Annette closes her eyes. "I don't remember. No." She holds up a hand. "Open +mike. I streamed you into a file and cut, cut out the bits about me." She opens +her eyes and shakes her head. "What was I on?" + +"You don't know either?" + +He stands up, and she walks over and throws her arms around him. "I was on +you," she murmurs. + +"Bullshit." He pulls away, then sees how this upsets her. Something is blinking +for attention in his glasses; he's been off-line for the best part of six hours +and is getting a panicky butterfly stomach at the idea of not being in touch +with everything that's happened in the last twenty kiloseconds. "I need to know +more. Something in that report rattled the wrong cages. Or someone ratted on +the suitcase exchange - I meant the dispatch to be a heads-up for whoever needs +a working state planning system, not an invitation to shoot me!" + +"Well, then." She lets go of him. "Do your work." Coolly: "I'll be around." + +He realizes that he's hurt her, but he doesn't see any way of explaining that +he didn't mean to - at least, not without digging himself in deeper. He +finishes his croissant and plunges into one of those unavoidable fits of deep +interaction, fingers twitching on invisible keypads and eyeballs jiggling as +his glasses funnel deep media straight into his skull through the highest +bandwidth channel currently available. + +One of his e-mail accounts is halfway to the moon with automatic messages, +companies with names like agalmic.holdings.root.8E.F0 screaming for the +attention of their transitive director. Each of these companies - and there are +currently more than sixteen thousand of them, although the herd is growing day +by day - has three directors and is the director of three other companies. Each +of them executes a script in a functional language Manfred invented; the +directors tell the company what to do, and the instructions include orders to +pass instructions on to their children. In effect, they are a flock of cellular +automata, like the cells in Conway's Game of Life, only far more complex and +powerful. + +Manfred's companies form a programmable grid. Some of them are armed with +capital in the form of patents Manfred filed, then delegated rather than +passing on to one of the Free Foundations. Some of them are effectively +nontrading, but occupy directorial roles. Their corporate functions (such as +filing of accounts and voting in new directors) are all handled centrally +through his company-operating framework, and their trading is carried out via +several of the more popular B2B enabler dot-coms. Internally, the companies do +other, more obscure load-balancing computations, processing resource-allocation +problems like a classic state central planning system. None of which explains +why fully half of them have been hit by lawsuits in the past twenty-two hours. + +The lawsuits are ... random. That's the only pattern Manfred can detect. Some +of them allege patent infringements; these he might take seriously, except that +about a third of the targets are director companies that don't actually do +anything visible to the public. A few lawsuits allege mismanagement, but then +there's a whole bizarre raft of spurious nonsense: suits for wrongful dismissal +or age discrimination - against companies with no employees - complaints about +reckless trading, and one action alleging that the defendant (in conspiracy +with the prime minister of Japan, the government of Canada, and the Emir of +Kuwait) is using orbital mind-control lasers to make the plaintiff's pet +chihuahua bark at all hours of day and night. + +Manfred groans and does a quick calculation. At the current rate, lawsuits are +hitting his corporate grid at a rate of one every sixteen seconds - up from +none in the preceding six months. In another day, this is going to saturate +him. If it keeps up for a week, it'll saturate every court in the United +States. Someone has found a means to do for lawsuits what he's doing for +companies - and they've chosen him as their target. + +To say that Manfred is unamused is an understatement. If he wasn't already +preoccupied with Annette's emotional state and edgy from the intrusion, he'd be +livid - but he's still human enough that he responds to human stimuli first. So +he determines to do something about it, but he's still flashing on the floating +gun, her cross-dressing cool. + +Transgression, sex, and networks; these are all on his mind when Glashwiecz +phones again. + +"Hello?" Manfred answers distractedly; he's busy pondering the lawsuit bot +that's attacking his systems. + +"Macx! The elusive Mr. Macx!" Glashwiecz sounds positively overjoyed to have +tracked down his target. + +Manfred winces. "Who is this?" he asks. + +"I called you yesterday," says the lawyer; "You should have listened." He +chortles horribly. "Now I have you!" + +Manfred holds the phone away from his face, like something poisonous. "I'm +recording this," he warns. "Who the hell are you and what do you want?" + +"Your wife has retained my partnership's services to pursue her interests in +your divorce case. When I called you yesterday it was to point out without +prejudice that your options are running out. I have an order, signed in court +three days ago, to have all your assets frozen. These ridiculous shell +companies notwithstanding, she's going to take you for exactly what you owe +her. After tax, of course. She's very insistent on that point." + +Manfred glances round, puts his phone on hold for a moment: "Where's my +suitcase?" he asks Aineko. The cat sidles away, ignoring him. "Shit." He can't +see the new luggage anywhere. Quite possibly it's on its way to Morocco, +complete with its priceless cargo of high-density noise. He returns his +attention to the phone. Glashwiecz is droning on about equitable settlements, +cumulative IRS tax demands - that seem to have materialized out of fantasy with +Pam's imprimatur on them - and the need to make a clean breast of things in +court and confess to his sins. "Where's the fucking suitcase?" He takes the +phone off hold. "Shut the fuck up, please, I'm trying to think." + +"I'm not going to shut up! You're on the court docket already, Macx. You can't +evade your responsibilities forever. You've got a wife and a helpless daughter +to care for -" + +"A daughter?" That cuts right through Manfred's preoccupation with the +suitcase. + +"Didn't you know?" Glashwiecz sounds pleasantly surprised. "She was decanted +last Thursday. Perfectly healthy, I'm told. I thought you knew; you have +viewing rights via the clinic webcam. Anyway, I'll just leave you with this +thought - the sooner you come to a settlement, the sooner I can unfreeze your +companies. Good-bye." + +The suitcase rolls into view, peeping coyly out from behind Annette's dressing +table. Manfred breathes a sigh of relief and beckons to it; at the moment, it's +easier to deal with his Plan B than dawn raids by objectivist gangsters, +Annette's sulk, his wife's incessant legal spamming, and the news that he is a +father against his will. "C'mon over here, you stray baggage. Let's see what I +got for my reputation derivatives ..." + +* * * + +Anticlimax. + +Annette's communiqué is anodyne; a giggling confession off camera +(shower-curtain rain in the background) that the famous Manfred Macx is in +Paris for a weekend of clubbing, drugging, and general hell-raising. Oh, and +he's promised to invent three new paradigm shifts before breakfast every day, +starting with a way to bring about the creation of Really Existing Communism by +building a state central planning apparatus that interfaces perfectly with +external market systems and somehow manages to algorithmically outperform the +Monte Carlo free-for-all of market economics, solving the calculation problem. +Just because he can, because hacking economics is fun, and he wants to hear the +screams from the Chicago School. + +Try as he may, Manfred can't see anything in the press release that is at all +unusual. It's just the sort of thing he does, and getting it on the net was why +he was looking for a CIA stringer in the first place. + +He tries to explain this to her in the bath as he soaps her back. "I don't +understand what they're on about," he complains. "There's nothing that tipped +them off - except that I was in Paris, and you filed the news. You did nothing +wrong." + +"Mais oui." She turns round, slippery as an eel, and slides backward into the +water. "I try to tell you this, but you are not listening." + +"I am now." Water droplets cling to the outside of his glasses, plastering his +view of the room with laser speckle highlights. "I'm sorry, Annette, I brought +this mess with me. I can take it out of your life." + +"No!" She rises up in front of him and leans forward, face serious. "I said +yesterday. I want to be your manager. Take me in." + +"I don't need a manager; my whole thing is about being fast and out of +control!" + +"You think you do not need a manager, but your companies do," she observes. +"You have lawsuits, how many? You cannot the time to oversee them spare. The +Soviets, they abolish capitalists, but even they need managers. Please, let me +manage for you!" + +Annette is so intense about the idea that she becomes visibly aroused. He leans +toward her, cups a hand around one taut nipple. "The company matrix isn't sold +yet," he admits. + +"It is not?" She looks delighted. "Excellent! To who can this be sold, to +Moscow? To SLORC? To -" + +"I was thinking of the Italian Communist Party," he says. "It's a pilot +project. I was working on selling it - I need the money for my divorce, and to +close the deal on the luggage - but it's not that simple. Someone has to run +the damn thing - someone with a keen understanding of how to interface a +central planning system with a capitalist economy. A system administrator with +experience of working for a multinational corporation would be perfect, ideally +with an interest in finding new ways and means of interfacing the centrally +planned enterprise to the outside world." He looks at her with suddenly dawning +surmise. "Um, are you interested?" + +* * * + +Rome is hotter than downtown Columbia, South Carolina, over Thanksgiving +weekend; it stinks of methane-burning Skodas with a low undertone of cooked dog +shit. The cars are brightly colored subcompact missiles, hurtling in and out of +alleyways like angry wasps: Hot-wiring their drive-by-wire seems to be the +national sport, although Fiat's embedded systems people have always written +notoriously wobbly software. + +Manfred emerges from the Stazione Termini into dusty sunlight, blinking like an +owl. His glasses keep up a rolling monologue about who lived where in the days +of the late Republic. They're stuck on a tourist channel and won't come unglued +from that much history without a struggle. Manfred doesn't feel like a struggle +right now. He feels like he's been sucked dry over the weekend: a light, hollow +husk that might blow away in a stiff breeze. He hasn't had a patentable idea +all day. This is not a good state to be in on a Monday morning when he's due to +meet the former Minister for Economic Affairs, in order to give him a gift that +will probably get the minister a shot at higher office and get Pam's lawyer off +his back. But somehow he can't bring himself to worry too much: Annette has +been good for him. + +The ex-minister's private persona isn't what Manfred was expecting. All Manfred +has seen so far is a polished public avatar in a traditionally cut suit, +addressing the Chamber of Deputies in cyberspace; which is why, when he rings +the doorbell set in the whitewashed doorframe of Gianni's front door, he isn't +expecting a piece of Tom of Finland beefcake, complete with breechclout and +peaked leather cap, to answer. + +"Hello, I am here to see the minister," Manfred says carefully. Aineko, perched +on his left shoulder, attempts to translate: It trills something that sounds +extremely urgent. Everything sounds urgent in Italian. + +"It's okay, I'm from Iowa," says the guy in the doorway. He tucks a thumb under +one leather strap and grins over his moustache: "What's it about?" Over his +shoulder: "Gianni! Visitor!" + +"It's about the economy," Manfred says carefully. "I'm here to make it +obsolete." + +The beefcake backs away from the door cautiously - then the minister appears +behind him. "Ah, signore Macx! It's okay, Johnny, I have been expecting him." +Gianni extends a rapid welcome, like a hyperactive gnome buried in a white +toweling bathrobe: "Please come in, my friend! I'm sure you must be tired from +your journey. A refreshment for the guest if you please, Johnny. Would you +prefer coffee or something stronger?" + +Five minutes later, Manfred is buried up to his ears in a sofa covered in +buttery white cowhide, a cup of virulently strong espresso balanced +precariously on his knee, while Gianni Vittoria himself holds forth on the +problems of implementing a postindustrial ecosystem on top of a bureaucratic +system with its roots in the bullheadedly modernist era of the 1920s. Gianni is +a visionary of the left, a strange attractor within the chaotic phase-space of +Italian politics. A former professor of Marxist economics, his ideas are +informed by a painfully honest humanism, and everyone - even his enemies - +agrees that he is one of the greatest theoreticians of the post-EU era. But his +intellectual integrity prevents him from rising to the very top, and his fellow +travelers are much ruder about him than his ideological enemies, accusing him +of the ultimate political crime — valuing truth over power. + +Manfred had met Gianni a couple of years earlier via a hosted politics chat +room; at the beginning of last week, he sent him a paper detailing his +embeddable planned economy and a proposal for using it to turbocharge the +endless Italian attempt to re-engineer its government systems. This is the thin +end of the wedge: If Manfred is right, it could catalyse a whole new wave of +communist expansion, driven by humanitarian ideals and demonstrably superior +performance, rather than wishful thinking and ideology. + +"It is impossible, I fear. This is Italy, my friend. Everybody has to have +their say. Not everybody even understands what it is we are talking about, but +that won't stop them talking about it. Since 1945, our government requires +consensus - a reaction to what came before. Do you know, we have five different +routes to putting forward a new law, two of them added as emergency measures to +break the gridlock? And none of them work on their own unless you can get +everybody to agree. Your plan is daring and radical, but if it works, we must +understand why we work - and that digs right to the root of being human, and +not everybody will agree." + +At this point Manfred realizes that he's lost. "I don't understand," he says, +genuinely puzzled. "What has the human condition got to do with economics?" + +The minister sighs abruptly. "You are very unusual. You earn no money, do you? +But you are rich, because grateful people who have benefited from your work +give you everything you need. You are like a medieval troubadour who has found +favor with the aristocracy. Your labor is not alienated - it is given freely, +and your means of production is with you always, inside your head." Manfred +blinks; the jargon is weirdly technical-sounding but orthogonal to his +experience, offering him a disquieting glimpse into the world of the terminally +future-shocked. He is surprised to find that not understanding itches. + +Gianni taps his balding temple with a knuckle like a walnut. "Most people spend +little time inside their heads. They don't understand how you live. They're +like medieval peasants looking in puzzlement at the troubadour. This system you +invent, for running a planned economy, is delightful and elegant: Lenin's heirs +would have been awestruck. But it is not a system for the new century. It is +not human." + +Manfred scratches his head. "It seems to me that there's nothing human about +the economics of scarcity," he says. "Anyway, humans will be obsolete as +economic units within a couple more decades. All I want to do is make everybody +rich beyond their wildest dreams before that happens." A pause for a sip of +coffee, and to think, one honest statement deserves another: "And to pay off a +divorce settlement." + +"Ye-es? Well, let me show you my library, my friend," he says, standing up. +"This way." + +Gianni ambles out of the white living room with its carnivorous leather sofas, +and up a cast-iron spiral staircase that nails some kind of upper level to the +underside of the roof. "Human beings aren't rational," he calls over his +shoulder. "That was the big mistake of the Chicago School economists, +neoliberals to a man, and of my predecessors, too. If human behavior was +logical, there would be no gambling, hmm? The house always wins, after all." +The staircase debouches into another airy whitewashed room, where one wall is +occupied by a wooden bench supporting a number of ancient, promiscuously cabled +servers and a very new, eye-wateringly expensive solid volume renderer. +Opposite the bench is a wall occupied from floor to ceiling by bookcases: +Manfred looks at the ancient, low-density medium and sneezes, momentarily +bemused by the sight of data density measured in kilograms per megabyte rather +than vice versa. + +"What's it fabbing?" Manfred asks, pointing at the renderer, which is whining +to itself and slowly sintering together something that resembles a carriage +clockmaker's fever dream of a spring-powered hard disk drive. + +"Oh, one of Johnny's toys - a micromechanical digital phonograph player," +Gianni says dismissively. "He used to design Babbage engines for the Pentagon - +stealth computers. (No van Eck radiation, you know.) Look." He carefully pulls +a fabric-bound document out of the obsolescent data wall and shows the spine to +Manfred: "On the Theory of Games, by John von Neumann. Signed first edition." + +Aineko meeps and dumps a slew of confusing purple finite state automata into +Manfred's left eye. The hardback is dusty and dry beneath his fingertips as he +remembers to turn the pages gently. "This copy belonged to the personal library +of Oleg Kordiovsky. A lucky man is Oleg: He bought it in 1952, while on a visit +to New York, and the MVD let him to keep it." + +"He must be -" Manfred pauses. More data, historical time lines. "Part of +GosPlan?" + +"Correct." Gianni smiles thinly. "Two years before the central committee +denounced computers as bourgeois deviationist pseudoscience intended to +dehumanize the proletarian. They recognized the power of robots even then. A +shame they did not anticipate the compiler or the Net." + +"I don't understand the significance. Nobody back then could expect that the +main obstacle to doing away with market capitalism would be overcome within +half a century, surely?" + +"Indeed not. But it's true: Since the 1980s, it has been possible - in +principle - to resolve resource allocation problems algorithmically, by +computer, instead of needing a market. Markets are wasteful: They allow +competition, much of which is thrown on the scrap heap. So why do they +persist?" + +Manfred shrugs. "You tell me. Conservativism?" + +Gianni closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. "Markets afford their +participants the illusion of free will, my friend. You will find that human +beings do not like being forced into doing something, even if it is in their +best interests. Of necessity, a command economy must be coercive - it does, +after all, command." + +"But my system doesn't! It mediates where supplies go, not who has to produce +what -" + +Gianni is shaking his head. "Backward chaining or forward chaining, it is still +an expert system, my friend. Your companies need no human beings, and this is a +good thing, but they must not direct the activities of human beings, either. If +they do, you have just enslaved people to an abstract machine, as dictators +have throughout history." + +Manfred's eyes scan along the bookshelf. "But the market itself is an abstract +machine! A lousy one, too. I'm mostly free of it - but how long is it going to +continue oppressing people?" + +"Maybe not as long as you fear." Gianni sits down next to the renderer, which +is currently extruding the inference mill of the analytical engine. "The +marginal value of money decreases, after all: The more you have, the less it +means to you. We are on the edge of a period of prolonged economic growth, with +annual averages in excess of twenty percent, if the Council of Europe's +predictor metrics are anything to go by. The last of the flaccid industrial +economy has withered away, and this era's muscle of economic growth, what used +to be the high-technology sector, is now everything. We can afford a little +wastage, my friend, if that is the price of keeping people happy until the +marginal value of money withers away completely." + +Realization dawns. "You want to abolish scarcity, not just money!" + +"Indeed." Gianni grins. "There's more to that than mere economic performance; +you have to consider abundance as a factor. Don't plan the economy; take things +out of the economy. Do you pay for the air you breathe? Should uploaded minds - +who will be the backbone of our economy, by and by - have to pay for processor +cycles? No and no. Now, do you want to know how you can pay for your divorce +settlement? And can I interest you, and your interestingly accredited new +manager, in a little project of mine?" + +* * * + +The shutters are thrown back, the curtains tied out of the way, and Annette's +huge living room windows are drawn open in the morning breeze. + +Manfred sits on a leather-topped piano stool, his suitcase open at his feet. +He's running a link from the case to Annette's stereo, an antique stand-alone +unit with a satellite Internet uplink. Someone has chipped it, crudely revoking +its copy protection algorithm: The back of its case bears scars from the +soldering iron. Annette is curled up on the huge sofa, wrapped in a kaftan and +a pair of high-bandwidth goggles, thrashing out an internal Arianespace +scheduling problem with some colleagues in Iran and Guyana. + +His suitcase is full of noise, but what's coming out of the stereo is ragtime. +Subtract entropy from a data stream - coincidentally uncompressing it - and +what's left is information. With a capacity of about a trillion terabytes, the +suitcase's holographic storage reservoir has enough capacity to hold every +music, film, and video production of the twentieth century with room to spare. +This is all stuff that is effectively out of copyright control, work-for-hire +owned by bankrupt companies, released before the CCAA could make their media +clampdown stick. Manfred is streaming the music through Annette's stereo - but +keeping the noise it was convoluted with. High-grade entropy is valuable, too +... + +Presently, Manfred sighs and pushes his glasses up his forehead, killing the +displays. He's thought his way around every permutation of what's going on, and +it looks like Gianni was right: There's nothing left to do but wait for +everyone to show up. + +For a moment, he feels old and desolate, as slow as an unassisted human mind. +Agencies have been swapping in and out of his head for the past day, ever since +he got back from Rome. He's developed a butterfly attention span, irritable and +unable to focus on anything while the information streams fight it out for +control of his cortex, arguing about a solution to his predicament. Annette is +putting up with his mood swings surprisingly calmly. He's not sure why, but he +glances her way fondly. Her obsessions run surprisingly deep, and she's quite +clearly using him for her own purposes. So why does he feel more comfortable +around her than he did with Pam? + +She stretches and pushes her goggles up. "Oui?" + +"I was just thinking." He smiles. "Three days and you haven't told me what I +should be doing with myself, yet." + +She pulls a face. "Why would I do that?" + +"Oh, no reason. I'm just not over - " He shrugs uncomfortably. There it is, an +inexplicable absence in his life, but not one he feels he urgently needs to +fill yet. Is this what a relationship between equals feels like? He's not sure: +Starting with the occlusive cocooning of his upbringing and continuing through +all his adult relationships, he's been effectively - voluntarily - dominated by +his partners. Maybe the antisubmissive conditioning is working, after all. But +if so, why the creative malaise? Why isn't he coming up with original new ideas +this week? Could it be that his peculiar brand of creativity is an outlet, that +he needs the pressure of being lovingly enslaved to make him burst out into a +great flowering of imaginative brilliance? Or could it be that he really is +missing Pam? + +Annette stands up and walks over, slowly. He looks at her and feels lust and +affection, and isn't sure whether or not this is love. "When are they due?" she +asks, leaning over him. + +"Any -" The doorbell chimes. + +"Ah. I will get that." She stalks away, opens the door. + +"You!" + +Manfred's head snaps round as if he's on a leash. Her leash: But he wasn't +expecting her to come in person. + +"Yes, me," Annette says easily. "Come in. Be my guest." + +Pam enters the apartment living room with flashing eyes, her tame lawyer in +tow. "Well, look what the robot kitty dragged in," she drawls, fixing Manfred +with an expression that owes more to anger than to humor. It's not like her, +this blunt hostility, and he wonders where it came from. + +Manfred rises. For a moment he's transfixed by the sight of his dominatrix +wife, and his - mistress? conspirator? lover? - side by side. The contrast is +marked: Annette's expression of ironic amusement a foil for Pamela's angry +sincerity. Somewhere behind them stands a balding middle-aged man in a suit, +carrying a folio: just the kind of diligent serf Pam might have turned him +into, given time. Manfred musters up a smile. "Can I offer you some coffee?" he +asks. "The party of the third part seems to be late." + +"Coffee would be great, mine's dark, no sugar," twitters the lawyer. He puts +his briefcase down on a side table and fiddles with his wearable until a light +begins to blink from his spectacle frames: "I'm recording this, I'm sure you +understand." + +Annette sniffs and heads for the kitchen, which is charmingly manual but not +very efficient; Pam is pretending she doesn't exist. "Well, well, well." She +shakes her head. "I'd expected better of you than a French tart's boudoir, +Manny. And before the ink's dry on the divorce - these days that'll cost you, +didn't you think of that?" + +"I'm surprised you're not in the hospital," he says, changing the subject. "Is +postnatal recovery outsourced these days?" + +"The employers." She slips her coat off her shoulders and hangs it behind the +broad wooden door. "They subsidize everything when you reach my grade." Pamela +is wearing a very short, very expensive dress, the kind of weapon in the war +between the sexes that ought to come with an end-user certificate: But to his +surprise it has no effect on him. He realizes that he's completely unable to +evaluate her gender, almost as if she's become a member of another species. "As +you'd be aware if you'd been paying attention." + +"I always pay attention, Pam. It's the only currency I carry." + +"Very droll, ha-ha," interrupts Glashwiecz. "You do realize that you're paying +me while I stand here listening to this fascinating byplay?" + +Manfred stares at him. "You know I don't have any money." + +"Ah," Glashwiecz smiles, "but you must be mistaken. Certainly the judge will +agree with me that you must be mistaken - all a lack of paper documentation +means is that you've covered your trail. There's the small matter of the +several thousand corporations you own, indirectly. Somewhere at the bottom of +that pile there has got to be something, hasn't there?" + +A hissing, burbling noise like a sackful of large lizards being drowned in mud +emanates from the kitchen, suggesting that Annette's percolator is nearly +ready. Manfred's left hand twitches, playing chords on an air keyboard. Without +being at all obvious, he's releasing a bulletin about his current activities +that should soon have an effect on the reputation marketplace. "Your attack was +rather elegant," he comments, sitting down on the sofa as Pam disappears into +the kitchen. + +Glashwiecz nods. "The idea was one of my interns'," he says. "I don't +understand this distributed denial of service stuff, but Lisa grew up on it. +Something about it being a legal travesty, but workable all the same." + +"Uh-huh." Manfred's opinion of the lawyer drops a notch. He notices Pam +reappearing from the kitchen, her expression icy. A moment later Annette +surfaces carrying a jug and some cups, beaming innocently. Something's going +on, but at that moment, one of his agents nudges him urgently in the left ear, +his suitcase keens mournfully and beams a sense of utter despair at him, and +the doorbell rings again. + +"So what's the scam?" Glashwiecz sits down uncomfortably close to Manfred and +murmurs out of one side of his mouth. "Where's the money?" + +Manfred looks at him irritably. "There is no money," he says. "The idea is to +make money obsolete. Hasn't she explained that?" His eyes wander, taking in the +lawyer's Patek Philippe watch, his Java-enabled signet ring. + +"C'mon. Don't give me that line. Look, all it takes is a couple of million, and +you can buy your way free for all I care. All I'm here for is to see that your +wife and daughter don't get left penniless and starving. You know and I know +that you've got bags of it stuffed away - just look at your reputation! You +didn't get that by standing at the roadside with a begging bowl, did you?" + +Manfred snorts. "You're talking about an elite IRS auditor here. She isn't +penniless; she gets a commission on every poor bastard she takes to the +cleaners, and she was born with a trust fund. Me, I -" The stereo bleeps. +Manfred pulls his glasses on. Whispering ghosts of dead artists hum through his +earlobes, urgently demanding their freedom. Someone knocks at the door again, +and he glances around to see Annette walking toward it. + +"You're making it hard on yourself," Glashwiecz warns. + +"Expecting company?" Pam asks, one brittle eyebrow raised in Manfred's +direction. + +"Not exactly -" + +Annette opens the door and a couple of guards in full SWAT gear march in. +They're clutching gadgets that look like crosses between digital sewing +machines and grenade launchers, and their helmets are studded with so many +sensors that they resemble 1950s space probes. "That's them," Annette says +clearly. + +"Mais Oui." The door closes itself and the guards stand to either side. Annette +stalks toward Pam. + +"You think to walk in here, to my pied-a-terre, and take from Manfred?" she +sniffs. + +"You're making a big mistake, lady," Pam says, her voice steady and cold enough +to liquefy helium. + +A burst of static from one of the troopers. "No," Annette says distantly. "No +mistake." + +She points at Glashwiecz. "Are you aware of the takeover?" + +"Takeover?" The lawyer looks puzzled, but not alarmed by the presence of the +guards. + +"As of three hours ago," Manfred says quietly, "I sold a controlling interest +in agalmic.holdings.root.1.1.1 to Athene Accelerants BV, a venture capital +outfit from Maastricht. One dot one dot one is the root node of the central +planning tree. Athene aren't your usual VC, they're accelerants - they take +explosive business plans and detonate them." Glashwiecz is looking pale - +whether with anger or fear of a lost commission is impossible to tell. +"Actually, Athene Accelerants is owned by a shell company owned by the Italian +Communist Party's pension trust. The point is, you're in the presence of one +dot one dot one's chief operations officer." + +Pam looks annoyed. "Puerile attempts to dodge responsibility -" + +Annette clears her throat. "Exactly who do you think you are trying to sue?" +she asks Glashwiecz sweetly. "Here we have laws about unfair restraint of +trade. Also about foreign political interference, specifically in the financial +affairs of an Italian party of government." + +"You wouldn't -" + +"I would." Manfred brushes his hands on his knees and stands up. "Done, yet?" +he asks the suitcase. + +Muffled beeps, then a gravelly synthesized voice speaks. "Uploads completed." + +"Ah, good." He grins at Annette. "Time for our next guests?" + +On cue, the doorbell rings again. The guards sidle to either side of the door. +Annette snaps her fingers, and it opens to admit a pair of smartly dressed +thugs. It's beginning to get crowded in the living room. + +"Which one of you is Macx?" snaps the older one of the two thugs, staring at +Glashwiecz for no obvious reason. He hefts an aluminum briefcase. "Got a writ +to serve." + +"You'd be the CCAA?" asks Manfred. + +"You bet. If you're Macx, I have a restraining order -" + +Manfred raises a hand. "It's not me you want," he says. "It's this lady." He +points at Pam, whose mouth opens in silent protest. "Y'see, the intellectual +property you're chasing wants to be free. It's so free that it's now +administered by a complex set of corporate instruments lodged in the +Netherlands, and the prime shareholder as of approximately four minutes ago is +my soon-to-be-ex-wife Pamela, here." He winks at Glashwiecz. "Except she +doesn't control anything." + +"Just what do you think you're playing at, Manfred?" Pamela snarls, unable to +contain herself any longer. The guards shuffle: The larger, junior CCAA +enforcer tugs at his boss's jacket nervously. + +"Well." Manfred picks up his coffee and takes a sip. Grimaces. "Pam wanted a +divorce settlement, didn't she? The most valuable assets I own are the rights +to a whole bunch of recategorized work-for-hire that slipped through the CCAA's +fingers a few years back. Part of the twentieth century's cultural heritage +that got locked away by the music industry in the last decade - Janis Joplin, +the Doors, that sort of thing. Artists who weren't around to defend themselves +anymore. When the music cartels went bust, the rights went for a walk. I took +them over originally with the idea of setting the music free. Giving it back to +the public domain, as it were." + +Annette nods at the guards, one of whom nods back and starts muttering and +buzzing into a throat mike. Manfred continues. "I was working on a solution to +the central planning paradox - how to interface a centrally planned enclave to +a market economy. My good friend Gianni Vittoria suggested that such a shell +game could have alternative uses. So I've not freed the music. Instead, I +signed the rights over to various actors and threads running inside the agalmic +holdings network - currently one million, forty-eight thousand, five hundred +and seventy-five companies. They swap rights rapidly - the rights to any given +song are resident in a given company for, oh, all of fifty milliseconds at a +time. Now understand, I don't own these companies. I don't even have a +financial interest in them anymore. I've deeded my share of the profits to Pam, +here. I'm getting out of the biz, Gianni's suggested something rather more +challenging for me to do instead." + +He takes another mouthful of coffee. The recording Mafiya goon glares at him. +Pam glares at him. Annette stands against one wall, looking amused. "Perhaps +you'd like to sort it out between you?" he asks. Aside, to Glashwiecz: "I trust +you'll drop your denial of service attack before I set the Italian parliament +on you? By the way, you'll find the book value of the intellectual property +assets I deeded to Pamela - by the value these gentlemen place on them - is +somewhere in excess of a billion dollars. As that's rather more than +ninety-nine-point-nine percent of my assets, you'll probably want to look +elsewhere for your fees." + +Glashwiecz stands up carefully. The lead goon stares at Pamela. "Is this true?" +he demands. "This little squirt give you IP assets of Sony Bertelsmann +Microsoft Music? We have claim! You come to us for distribution or you get in +deep trouble." + +The second goon rumbles agreement: "Remember, dose MP3s, dey bad for you +health!" + +Annette claps her hands. "If you would to leave my apartment, please?" The +door, attentive as ever, swings open: "You are no longer welcome here!" + +"This means you," Manfred advises Pam helpfully. + +"You bastard," she spits at him. + +Manfred forces a smile, bemused by his inability to respond to her the way she +wants. Something's wrong, missing, between them. "I thought you wanted my +assets. Are the encumbrances too much for you?" + +"You know what I mean! You and that two-bit Euro-whore! I'll nail you for child +neglect!" + +His smile freezes. "Try it, and I'll sue you for breach of patent rights. My +genome, you understand." + +Pam is taken aback by this. "You patented your own genome? What happened to the +brave new communist, sharing information freely?" + +Manfred stops smiling. "Divorce happened. And the Italian Communist Party +happened." + +She turns on her heel and stalks out of the apartment bravely, tame attorney in +tow behind her, muttering about class action lawsuits and violations of the +Digital Millennium Copyright Act. The CCAA lawyer's tame gorilla makes a grab +for Glashwiecz's shoulder, and the guards move in, hustling the whole movable +feast out into the stairwell. The door slams shut on a chaos of impending +recursive lawsuits, and Manfred breathes a huge wheeze of relief. + +Annette walks over to him and leans her chin on the top of his head. "Think it +will work?" she asks. + +"Well, the CCAA will sue the hell out of the company network for a while if +they try to distribute by any channel that isn't controlled by the Mafiya. Pam +gets rights to all the music, her settlement, but she can't sell it without +going through the mob. And I got to serve notice on that legal shark: If he +tries to take me on he's got to be politically bullet-proof. Hmm. Maybe I ought +not to plan on going back to the USA this side of the singularity." + +"Profits," Annette sighs, "I do not easily understand this way of yours. Or +this apocalyptic obsession with singularity." + +"Remember the old aphorism, if you love something, set it free? I freed the +music." + +"But you didn't! You signed rights over -" + +"But first I uploaded the entire stash to several cryptographically anonymized +public network filesystems over the past few hours, so there'll be rampant +piracy. And the robot companies are all set to automagically grant any and +every copyright request they receive, royalty-free, until the goons figure out +how to hack them. But that's not the point. The point is abundance. The Mafiya +can't stop it being distributed. Pam is welcome to her cut if she can figure an +angle - but I bet she can't. She still believes in classical economics, the +allocation of resources under conditions of scarcity. Information doesn't work +that way. What matters is that people will be able to hear the music - instead +of a Soviet central planning system, I've turned the network into a firewall to +protect freed intellectual property." + +"Oh, Manfred, you hopeless idealist." She strokes his shoulder. "Whatever for?" + +"It's not just the music. When we develop a working AI or upload minds we'll +need a way of defending it against legal threats. That's what Gianni pointed +out to me ..." + +He's still explaining to her how he's laying the foundations for the transhuman +explosion due early in the next decade when she picks him up in both arms, +carries him to her bedroom, and commits outrageous acts of tender intimacy with +him. But that's okay. He's still human, this decade. + +This, too, will pass, thinks the bulk of his metacortex. And it drifts off into +the net to think deep thoughts elsewhere, leaving his meatbody to experience +the ancient pleasures of the flesh set free. + +1~ Chapter 3: Tourist + +Spring-Heeled Jack runs blind, blue fumes crackling from his heels. His right +hand, outstretched for balance, clutches a mark's stolen memories. The victim +is sitting on the hard stones of the pavement behind him. Maybe he's wondering +what's happened; maybe he looks after the fleeing youth. But the tourist crowds +block the view effectively, and in any case, he has no hope of catching the +mugger. Hit-and-run amnesia is what the polis call it, but to Spring-Heeled +Jack it's just more loot to buy fuel for his Russian army-surplus motorized +combat boots. + +* * * + +The victim sits on the cobblestones clutching his aching temples. What +happened? he wonders. The universe is a brightly colored blur of fast-moving +shapes augmented by deafening noises. His ear-mounted cameras are rebooting +repeatedly: They panic every eight hundred milliseconds, whenever they realize +that they're alone on his personal area network without the comforting support +of a hub to tell them where to send his incoming sensory feed. Two of his +mobile phones are bickering moronically, disputing ownership of his grid +bandwidth, and his memory ... is missing. + +A tall blond clutching an electric chainsaw sheathed in pink bubble wrap leans +over him curiously: "you all right?" she asks. + +"I -" He shakes his head, which hurts. "Who am I?" His medical monitor is +alarmed because his blood pressure has fallen: His pulse is racing, his serum +cortisol titer is up, and a host of other biometrics suggest that he's going +into shock. + +"I think you need an ambulance," the woman announces. She mutters at her lapel, +"Phone, call an ambulance. " She waves a finger vaguely at him as if to reify a +geolink, then wanders off, chain-saw clutched under one arm. Typical southern +émigré behavior in the Athens of the North, too embarrassed to get involved. +The man shakes his head again, eyes closed, as a flock of girls on powered +blades skid around him in elaborate loops. A siren begins to warble, over the +bridge to the north. + +Who am I? he wonders. "I'm Manfred," he says with a sense of stunned wonder. He +looks up at the bronze statue of a man on a horse that looms above the crowds +on this busy street corner. Someone has plastered a Hello Cthulhu! holo on the +plaque that names its rider: Languid fluffy pink tentacles wave at him in an +attack of kawaii. "I'm Manfred - Manfred. My memory. What's happened to my +memory?" Elderly Malaysian tourists point at him from the open top deck of a +passing bus. He burns with a sense of horrified urgency. I was going somewhere, +he recalls. What was I doing? It was amazingly important, he thinks, but he +can't remember what exactly it was. He was going to see someone about - it's on +the tip of his tongue - + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the eve of the third decade: a time of chaos characterized by an +all-out depression in the space industries. + +_1 Most of the thinking power on the planet is now manufactured rather than +born; there are ten microprocessors for every human being, and the number is +doubling every fourteen months. Population growth in the developing world has +stalled, the birth rate dropping below replacement level. In the wired nations, +more forward-looking politicians are looking for ways to enfranchise their +nascent AI base. + +_1 Space exploration is still stalled on the cusp of the second recession of +the century. The Malaysian government has announced the goal of placing an imam +on Mars within ten years, but nobody else cares enough to try. + +_1 The Space Settlers Society is still trying to interest Disney Corp. in the +media rights to their latest L5 colony plan, unaware that there's already a +colony out there and it isn't human: First-generation uploads, Californian +spiny lobsters in wobbly symbiosis with elderly expert systems, thrive aboard +an asteroid mining project established by the Franklin Trust. Meanwhile, +Chinese space agency cutbacks are threatening the continued existence of +Moonbase Mao. Nobody, it seems, has figured out how to turn a profit out beyond +geosynchronous orbit. + +_1 Two years ago, JPL, the ESA, and the uploaded lobster colony on comet +Khrunichev-7 picked up an apparently artificial signal from outside the solar +system; most people don't know, and of those who do, even fewer care. After +all, if humans can't even make it to Mars, who cares what's going on a hundred +trillion kilometers farther out? + +* * * + +Portrait of a wasted youth: + +Jack is seventeen years and eleven months old. He has never met his father; he +was unplanned, and Dad managed to kill himself in a building-site accident +before the Child Support could garnish his income for the upbringing. His +mother raised him in a two-bedroom housing association flat in Hawick. She +worked in a call center when he was young, but business dried up: Humans aren't +needed on the end of a phone anymore. Now she works in a drop-in business shop, +stacking shelves for virtual fly-by-nights that come and go like tourists in +the Festival season - but humans aren't in demand for shelf stacking either, +these days. + +His mother sent Jack to a local religious school, where he was regularly +excluded and effectively ran wild from the age of twelve. By thirteen, he was +wearing a parole cuff for shoplifting; by fourteen, he'd broken his collarbone +in a car crash while joyriding and the dour Presbyterian sheriff sent him to +the Wee Frees, who completed the destruction of his educational prospects with +high principles and an illicit tawse. + +Today, he's a graduate of the hard school of avoiding public surveillance +cameras, with distinctions in steganographic alibi construction. Mostly this +entails high-density crime - if you're going to mug someone, do so where there +are so many bystanders that they can't pin the blame on you. But the polis +expert systems are on his tail. If he keeps it up at this rate, in another four +months they'll have a positive statistical correlation that will convince even +a jury of his peers that he's guilty as fuck - and then he'll go down to +Saughton for four years. + +But Jack doesn't understand the meaning of a Gaussian distribution or the +significance of a chi-square test, and the future still looks bright to him as +he pulls on the chunky spectacles he ripped off the tourist gawking at the +statue on North Bridge. And after a moment, when they begin whispering into his +ears in stereo and showing him pictures of the tourist's vision, it looks even +brighter. + +"Gotta make a deal, gotta close a deal," whisper the glasses. "Meet the borg, +strike a chord." Weird graphs in lurid colors are filling up his peripheral +vision, like the hallucinations of a drugged marketroid. + +"Who the fuck are ye?" asks Jack, intrigued by the bright lights and icons. + +"I am your Cartesian theatre and you are our focus," murmur the glasses. "Dow +Jones down fifteen points, Federated Confidence up three, incoming briefing on +causal decoupling of social control of skirt hem lengths, shaving pattern of +beards, and emergence of multidrug antibiotic resistance in Gram-negative +bacilli: Accept?" + +"Ah can take it," Jack mumbles, as a torrent of images crashes down on his +eyeballs and jackhammers its way in through his ears like the superego of a +disembodied giant. Which is actually what he's stolen: The glasses and waist +pouch he grabbed from the tourist are stuffed with enough hardware to run the +entire Internet, circa the turn of the millennium. They've got bandwidth coming +out the wazoo, distributed engines running a bazillion inscrutable search +tasks, and a whole slew of high-level agents that collectively form a large +chunk of the society of mind that is their owner's personality. Their owner is +a posthuman genius loci of the net, an agalmic entrepreneur turned policy wonk, +specializing in the politics of AI emancipation. When he was in the biz he was +the kind of guy who catalysed value wherever he went, leaving money trees +growing in his footprints. Now he's the kind of political backroom hitter who +builds coalitions where nobody else could see common ground. And Jack has +stolen his memories. There are microcams built into the frame of the glasses, +pickups in the earpieces; everything is spooled into the holographic cache in +the belt pack, before being distributed for remote storage. At four months per +terabyte, memory storage is cheap. What makes this bunch so unusual is that +their owner - Manfred - has cross-indexed them with his agents. Mind uploading +may not be a practical technology yet, but Manfred has made an end run on it +already. + +In a very real sense, the glasses are Manfred, regardless of the identity of +the soft machine with its eyeballs behind the lenses. And it is a very puzzled +Manfred who picks himself up and, with a curious vacancy in his head - except +for a hesitant request for information about accessories for Russian army boots +- dusts himself off and heads for his meeting on the other side of town. + +* * * + +Meanwhile, in another meeting, Manfred's absence is already being noticed. +"Something, something is wrong," says Annette. She raises her mirrorshades and +rubs her left eye, visibly worried. "Why is he not answering his chat? He knows +we are due to hold this call with him. Don't you think it is odd?" + +Gianni nods and leans back, regarding her from behind his desk. He prods at the +highly polished rosewood desktop. The wood grain slips, sliding into a +strangely different conformation, generating random dot stereoisograms - +messages for his eyes only. "He was visiting Scotland for me," he says after a +moment. "I do not know his exact whereabouts - the privacy safeguards - but if +you, as his designated next of kin, travel in person, I am sure you will find +it easier. He was going to talk to the Franklin Collective, face-to-face, one +to many ..." + +The office translator is good, but it can't provide real-time lip-synch +morphing between French and Italian. Annette has to make an effort to listen to +his words because the shape of his mouth is all wrong, like a badly dubbed +video. Her expensive, recent implants aren't connected up to her Broca's area +yet, so she can't simply sideload a deep grammar module for Italian. Their +communications are the best that money can buy, their VR environment +painstakingly sculpted, but it still doesn't break down the language barrier +completely. Besides, there are distractions: the way the desk switches from +black ash to rosewood halfway across its expanse, the strange air currents that +are all wrong for a room this size. "Then what could be up with him? His +voicemail is trying to cover for him. It is good, but it does not lie +convincingly." + +Gianni looks worried. "Manfred is prone to fits of do his own thing with +telling nobody in advance. But I don't like this. He should have to told one of +us first." Ever since that first meeting in Rome, when Gianni offered him a +job, Manfred has been a core member of Gianni's team, the fixer who goes out +and meets people and solves their problems. Losing him at this point could be +more than embarrassing. Besides, he's a friend. + +"I do not like this either." She stands up. "If he doesn't call back soon -" + +"You'll go and fetch him." + +"Oui." A smile flashes across her face, rapidly replaced by worry lines. "What +can have happened?" + +"Anything. Nothing." Gianni shrugs. "But we cannot do without him." He casts +her a warning glance. "Or you. Don't let the borg get you. Either of you." + +"Not to worry, I will just bring him back, whatever has happened." She stands +up, surprising a vacuum cleaner that skulks behind her desk. "Au revoir!" + +"Ciao." + +As she vacates her office, the minister flickers off behind her, leaving the +far wall the dull gray of a cold display panel. Gianni is in Rome, she's in +Paris, Markus is in Düsseldorf, and Eva's in Wroclaw. There are others, trapped +in digital cells scattered halfway across an elderly continent, but as long as +they don't try to shake hands, they're free to shout across the office at each +other. Their confidences and dirty jokes tunnel through multiple layers of +anonymized communication. + +Gianni is trying to make his break out of regional politics and into European +national affairs: Their job - his election team - is to get him a seat on the +Confederacy Commission, as Representative for Intelligence Oversight, and push +the boundaries of post-humanistic action outward, into deep space and deeper +time. Which makes the loss of a key team player, the house futurologist and +fixer, profoundly interesting to certain people: The walls have ears, and not +all the brains they feed into are human. + +Annette is more worried than she's letting on to Gianni. It's unlike Manfred to +be out of contact for long and even odder for his receptionist to stonewall +her, given that her apartment is the nearest thing to a home he's had for the +past couple of years. But something smells fishy. He sneaked out last night, +saying it would be an overnight trip, and now he's not answering. Could it be +his ex-wife? she wonders, despite Gianni's hints about a special mission. But +there's been no word from Pamela other than the sarcastic cards she dispatches +every year without fail, timed to arrive on the birthday of the daughter +Manfred has never met. The music Mafiya? A letter bomb from the Copyright +Control Association of America? But no, his medical monitor would have been +screaming its head off if anything like that had happened. + +Annette has organized things so that he's safe from the intellectual property +thieves. She's lent him the support he needs, and he's helped her find her own +path. She gets a warm sense of happiness whenever she considers how much +they've achieved together. But that's exactly why she's worried now. The +watchdog hasn't barked ... + +Annette summons a taxi to Charles de Gaulle. By the time she arrives, she's +already used her parliamentary carte to bump an executive-class seat on the +next A320 to Turnhouse, Edinburgh's airport, and scheduled accommodation and +transport for her arrival. The plane is climbing out over la Manche before the +significance of Gianni's last comment hits her: Might he think the Franklin +Collective could be dangerous to Manfred? + +* * * + +The hospital emergency suite has a waiting room with green plastic bucket seats +and subtractive volume renderings by preteens stuck to the walls like surreal +Lego sculptures. It's deeply silent, the available bandwidth all sequestrated +for medical monitors - there are children crying, periodic sirens wailing as +ambulances draw up, and people chattering all around him, but to Manfred, it's +like being at the bottom of a deep blue pool of quiet. He feels stoned, except +this particular drug brings no euphoria or sense of well-being. Corridor-corner +vendors hawk kebab-spitted pigeons next to the chained and rusted voluntary +service booth; video cameras watch the blue bivvy bags of the chronic cases +lined up next to the nursing station. Alone in his own head, Manfred is +frightened and confused. + +"I can't check you in 'less you sign the confidentiality agreement," says the +triage nurse, pushing an antique tablet at Manfred's face. Service in the NHS +is still free, but steps have been taken to reduce the incidence of scandals: +"Sign the nondisclosure clause here and here, or the house officer won't see +you." + +Manfred stares blearily up at the nurse's nose, which is red and slightly +inflamed from a nosocomial infection. His phones are bickering again, and he +can't remember why; they don't normally behave like this, something must be +missing, but thinking about it is hard. "Why am I here?" he asks for the third +time. + +"Sign it." A pen is thrust into his hand. He focuses on the page, jerks upright +as deeply canalized reflexes kick in. + +"This is theft of human rights! It says here that the party of the second part +is enjoined from disclosing information relating to the operations management +triage procedures and processes of the said health-giving institution, that's +you, to any third party - that's the public media - on pain of forfeiture of +health benefits pursuant to section two of the Health Service Reform Act. I +can't sign this! You could repossess my left kidney if I post on the Net about +how long I've been in hospital!" + +"So don't sign, then." The Hijra nurse shrugs, hitches up his sari, and walks +away. "Enjoy your wait!" + +Manfred pulls out his backup phone and stares at its display. "Something's +wrong here." The keypad beeps as he laboriously inputs opcodes. This gets him +into an arcane and ancient X.25 PAD, and he has a vague, disturbing memory that +hints about where he can go from here - mostly into the +long-since-decommissioned bowels of NHSNet - but the memories spring a page +fault and die somewhere between fingertips and the moment when understanding +dawns. It's a frustrating feeling: His brain is like an ancient car engine with +damp spark plugs, turning over and over without catching fire. + +The kebab vendor next to Manfred's seating rail chucks a stock cube on his +grill; it begins to smoke, aromatic and blue and herbal - cannabinoids to +induce tranquillity and appetite. Manfred sniffs twice, then staggers to his +feet and heads off in search of the toilet, his head spinning. He's mumbling at +his wrist watch: "Hello, Guatemala? Get me posology please. Click down my meme +tree, I'm confused. Oh shit. Who was I? What happened? Why is everything +blurry? I can't find my glasses ..." + +A gaggle of day-trippers are leaving the leprosy ward, men and women dressed in +anachronistic garb: men in dark suits, women in long dresses. All of them wear +electric blue disposable gloves and face masks. There's a hum and crackle of +encrypted bandwidth emanating from them, and Manfred instinctively turns to +follow. They leave the A&E unit through the wheelchair exit, two ladies +escorted by three gentlemen, with a deranged distressed refugee from the +twenty-first century shuffling dizzily after. They're all young, Manfred +realizes vaguely. Where's my cat? Aineko might be able to make sense of this, +if Aineko was interested. + +"I rather fancy we should retire to the club house," says one young beau. "Oh +yes! please!" his short blond companion chirps, clapping her hands together, +then irritably stripping off the anachronistic plastic gloves to reveal +wired-lace positional-sensor mitts underneath. "This trip has obviously been +unproductive. If our contact is here, I see no easy way of locating of him +without breach of medical confidence or a hefty gratuity." + +"The poor things," murmurs the other woman, glancing back at the leprosarium. +"Such a humiliating way to die." + +"Their own fault; If they hadn't participated in antibiotic abuse they wouldn't +be in the isolation ward," harrumphs a twentysomething with mutton-chops and +the manner of a precocious paterfamilias. He raps his walking stick on the +pavement for punctuation, and they pause for a flock of cyclists and a rickshaw +before they cross the road onto the Meadows. "Degenerate medication compliance, +degenerate immune systems." + +Manfred pauses to survey the grass, brain spinning as he ponders the fractal +dimensionality of leaves. Then he lurches after them, nearly getting himself +run down by a flywheel-powered tourist bus. Club. His feet hit the pavement, +cross it, thud down onto three billion years of vegetative evolution. Something +about those people. He feels a weird yearning, a tropism for information. It's +almost all that's left of him - his voracious will to know. The tall, +dark-haired woman hitches up her long skirts to keep them out of the mud. he +sees a flash of iridescent petticoats that ripple like oil on water, worn over +old-fashioned combat boots. Not Victorian, then: something else. I came here to +see - the name is on the tip of his tongue. Almost. He feels that it has +something to do with these people. + +The squad cross The Meadows by way of a tree-lined path, and come to a +nineteenth-century frontage with wide steps and a polished brass doorbell. They +enter, and the man with the mutton-chops pauses on the threshold and turns to +face Manfred. "You've followed us this far," he says. "Do you want to come in? +You might find what you're looking for." + +Manfred follows with knocking knees, desperately afraid of whatever he's +forgotten. + +* * * + +Meanwhile, Annette is busy interrogating Manfred's cat. + +"When did you last see your father?" + +Aineko turns its head away from her and concentrates on washing the inside of +its left leg. Its fur is lifelike and thick, pleasingly patterned except for a +manufacturer's URL emblazoned on its flanks; but the mouth produces no saliva, +the throat opens on no stomach or lungs. "Go away," it says: "I'm busy." + +"When did you last see Manfred?" she repeats intently. "I don't have time for +this. The polis don't know. The medical services don't know. He's off net and +not responding. So what can you tell me?" + +It took her precisely eighteen minutes to locate his hotel once she hit the +airport arrivals area and checked the hotel booking front end in the terminal: +She knows his preferences. It took her slightly longer to convince the +concierge to let her into his room. But Aineko is proving more recalcitrant +than she'd expected. + +"AI Neko mod two alpha requires maintenance downtime on a regular basis," the +cat says pompously: "You knew that when you bought me this body. What were you +expecting, five-nines uptime from a lump of meat? Go away, I'm thinking." The +tongue rasps out, then pauses while microprobes in its underside replace the +hairs that fell out earlier in the day. + +Annette sighs. Manfred's been upgrading this robot cat for years, and his +ex-wife Pamela used to mess with its neural configuration too: This is its +third body, and it's getting more realistically uncooperative with every +hardware upgrade. Sooner or later it's going to demand a litter tray and start +throwing up on the carpet. "Command override," she says. "Dump event log to my +Cartesian theatre, minus eight hours to present." + +The cat shudders and looks round at her. "Human bitch!" it hisses. Then it +freezes in place as the air fills with a bright and silent tsunami of data. +Both Annette and Aineko are wired for extremely high-bandwidth spread-spectrum +optical networking; an observer would see the cat's eyes and a ring on her left +hand glow blue-white at each other. After a few seconds, Annette nods to +herself and wiggles her fingers in the air, navigating a time sequence only she +can see. Aineko hisses resentfully at her, then stands and stalks away, tail +held high. + +"Curiouser and curiouser," Annette hums to herself. She intertwines her +fingers, pressing obscure pressure points on knuckle and wrist, then sighs and +rubs her eyes. "He left here under his own power, looking normal," she calls to +the cat. "Who did he say he was going to see?" The cat sits in a beam of +sunlight falling in through the high glass window, pointedly showing her its +back. "Merde. If you're not going to help him -" + +"Try the Grassmarket," sulks the cat. "He said something about meeting the +Franklin Collective near there. Much good they'll do him ..." + +* * * + +A man wearing secondhand Chinese combat fatigues and a horribly expensive pair +of glasses bounces up a flight of damp stone steps beneath a keystone that +announces the building to be a Salvation Army hostel. He bangs on the door, his +voice almost drowned out by the pair of Cold War Re-enactment Society MiGs that +are buzzing the castle up the road: "Open up, ye cunts! Ye've got a deal +comin'!" + +A peephole set in the door at eye level slides to one side, and a pair of +beady, black-eyed video cameras peer out at him. "Who are you and what do you +want?" the speaker crackles. They don't belong to the Salvation Army; +Christianity has been deeply unfashionable in Scotland for some decades, and +the church that currently occupies the building has certainly moved with the +times in an effort to stay relevant. + +"I'm Macx," he says: "You've heard from my systems. I'm here to offer you a +deal you can't refuse." At least that's what his glasses tell him to say: What +comes out of his mouth sounds a bit more like, Am Max: Yiv hurdfrae ma system. +Am here tae gie ye a deal ye cannae refuse. The glasses haven't had long enough +to work on his accent. Meanwhile, he's so full of himself that he snaps his +fingers and does a little dance of impatience on the top step. + +"Aye, well, hold on a minute." The person on the other side of the speakerphone +has the kind of cut-glass Morningside accent that manages to sound more English +than the King while remaining vernacular Scots. The door opens, and Macx finds +himself confronted by a tall, slightly cadaverous man wearing a tweed suit that +has seen better days and a clerical collar cut from a translucent circuit +board. His face is almost concealed behind a pair of recording angel goggles. +"Who did ye say you were?" + +"I'm Macx! Manfred Macx! I'm here with an opportunity you wouldn't believe. +I've got the answer to your church's financial situation. I'm going to make you +rich!" The glasses prompt, and Macx speaks. + +The man in the doorway tilts his head slightly, goggles scanning Macx from head +to foot. Bursts of blue combustion products spurt from Macx's heels as he +bounces up and down enthusiastically. "Are ye sure ye've got the right +address?" he asks worriedly. + +"Aye, Ah am that." + +The resident backs into the hostel: "Well then, come in, sit yeself down and +tell me all about it." + +Macx bounces into the room with his brain wide open to a blizzard of pie charts +and growth curves, documents spawning in the bizarre phase-space of his +corporate management software. "I've got a deal you're not going to believe," +he reads, gliding past notice boards upon which Church circulars are staked out +to die like exotic butterflies, stepping over rolled-up carpets and a stack of +laptops left over from a jumble sale, past the devotional radio telescope that +does double duty as Mrs. Muirhouse's back-garden bird bath. "You've been here +five years and your posted accounts show you aren't making much money - barely +keeping the rent up. But you're a shareholder in Scottish Nuclear Electric, +right? Most of the church funds are in the form of a trust left to the church +by one of your congregants when she went to join the omega point, right?" + +"Er." The minister looks at him oddly. "I cannae comment on the church +eschatological investment trust. Why d'ye think that?" + +They fetch up, somehow, in the minister's office. A huge, framed rendering +hangs over the back of his threadbare office chair: the collapsing cosmos of +the End Times, galactic clusters rotten with the Dyson spheres of the eschaton +falling toward the big crunch. Saint Tipler the Astrophysicist beams down from +above with avuncular approval, a ring of quasars forming a halo around his +head. Posters proclaim the new Gospel: COSMOLOGY IS BETTER THAN GUESSWORK, and +LIVE FOREVER WITHIN MY LIGHT CONE. "Can I get ye anything? Cup of tea? Fuel +cell charge point?" asks the minister. + +"Crystal meth?" asks Macx, hopefully. His face falls as the minister shakes his +head apologetically. "Aw, dinnae worry, Ah wis only joshing." He leans forward: +"Ah know a' aboot yer plutonium futures speculation," he hisses. A finger taps +his stolen spectacles in an ominous gesture: "These dinnae just record, they +think. An' Ah ken where the money's gone." + +"What have ye got?" the minister asks coldly, any indication of good humor +flown. "I'm going to have to edit down these memories, ye bastard. I thought +I'd forgotten all about that. Bits of me aren't going to merge with the godhead +at the end of time now, thanks to you." + +"Keep yer shirt on. Whit's the point o' savin' it a' up if ye nae got a life +worth living? Ye reckon the big yin's nae gonnae unnerstan' a knees up?" + +"What do ye want?" + +"Aye, well," Macx leans back, aggrieved. Ah've got -" He pauses. An expression +of extreme confusion flits over his head. "Ah've got lobsters," he finally +announces. "Genetically engineered uploaded lobsters tae run yer uranium +reprocessing plant." As he grows more confused, the glasses' control over his +accent slips: "Ah wiz gonnae help yiz oot ba showin ye how ter get yer dosh +back whir it belong ..." A strategic pause: "so ye could make the council tax +due date. See, they're neutron-resistant, the lobsters. No, that cannae be +right. Ah wiz gonnae sell ye somethin' ye cud use fer" - his face slumps into a +frown of disgust - "free?" + +Approximately thirty seconds later, as he is picking himself up off the front +steps of the First Reformed Church of Tipler, Astrophysicist, the man who would +be Macx finds himself wondering if maybe this high finance shit isn't as easy +as it's cracked up to be. Some of the agents in his glasses are wondering if +elocution lessons are the answer; others aren't so optimistic. + +* * * + +_1 Getting back to the history lesson, the prospects for the decade look mostly +medical. + +_1 A few thousand elderly baby boomers are converging on Tehran for Woodstock +Four. Europe is desperately trying to import eastern European nurses and +home-care assistants; in Japan, whole agricultural villages lie vacant and +decaying, ghost communities sucked dry as cities slurp people in like +residential black holes. + +_1 A rumor is spreading throughout gated old-age communities in the American +Midwest, leaving havoc and riots in its wake: Senescence is caused by a slow +virus coded into the mammalian genome that evolution hasn't weeded out, and +rich billionaires are sitting on the rights to a vaccine. As usual, Charles +Darwin gets more than his fair share of the blame. (Less spectacular but more +realistic treatments for old age - telomere reconstruction and hexose-denatured +protein reduction - are available in private clinics for those who are willing +to surrender their pensions.) Progress is expected to speed up shortly, as the +fundamental patents in genomic engineering begin to expire; the Free Chromosome +Foundation has already published a manifesto calling for the creation of an +intellectual-property-free genome with improved replacements for all commonly +defective exons. + +_1 Experiments in digitizing and running neural wetware under emulation are +well established; some radical libertarians claim that, as the technology +matures, death - with its draconian curtailment of property and voting rights - +will become the biggest civil rights issue of all. + +_1 For a small extra fee, most veterinary insurance policies now cover cloning +of pets in the event of their accidental and distressing death. Human cloning, +for reasons nobody is very clear on anymore, is still illegal in most developed +nations - but very few judiciaries push for mandatory abortion of identical +twins. + +_1 Some commodities are expensive: the price of crude oil has broken eighty +Euros a barrel and is edging inexorably up. Other commodities are cheap: +computers, for example. Hobbyists print off weird new processor architectures +on their home inkjets; middle-aged folks wipe their backsides with diagnostic +paper that can tell how their cholesterol levels are tending. + +_1 The latest casualties of the march of technological progress are: the +high-street clothes shop, the flushing water closet, the Main Battle Tank, and +the first generation of quantum computers. New with the decade are cheap +enhanced immune systems, brain implants that hook right into the Chomsky organ +and talk to their owners through their own speech centers, and widespread +public paranoia about limbic spam. Nanotechnology has shattered into a dozen +disjoint disciplines, and skeptics are predicting that it will all peter out +before long. Philosophers have ceded qualia to engineers, and the current +difficult problem in AI is getting software to experience embarrassment. + +_1 Fusion power is still, of course, fifty years away. + +* * * + +The Victorians are morphing into goths before Manfred's culture-shocked eyes. + +"You looked lost," explains Monica, leaning over him curiously. "What's with +your eyes?" + +"I can't see too well," Manfred tries to explain. Everything is a blur, and the +voices that usually chatter incessantly in his head have left nothing behind +but a roaring silence. "I mean, someone mugged me. They took -" His hand closes +on air: something is missing from his belt. + +Monica, the tall woman he first saw in the hospital, enters the room. What +she's wearing indoors is skin-tight, iridescent and, disturbingly, she claims +is a distributed extension of her neuroectoderm. Stripped of costume-drama +accoutrements, she's a twenty-first-century adult, born or decanted after the +millennial baby boom. She waves some fingers in Manfred's face: "How many?" + +"Two." Manfred tries to concentrate. "What -" + +"No concussion," she says briskly. "'Scuse me while I page." Her eyes are +brown, with amber raster lines flickering across her pupils. Contact lenses? +Manfred wonders, his head turgid and unnaturally slow. It's like being drunk, +except much less pleasant: He can't seem to wrap his head around an idea from +all angles at once, anymore. Is this what consciousness used to be like? It's +an ugly, slow sensation. She turns away from him: "Medline says you'll be all +right in a while. The main problem is the identity loss. Are you backed up +anywhere?" + +"Here." Alan, still top-hatted and mutton-chopped, holds out a pair of +spectacles to Manfred. "Take these, they may do you some good." His topper +wobbles, as if a strange A-life experiment is nesting under its brim. + +"Oh. Thank you." Manfred reaches for them with a pathetic sense of gratitude. +As soon as he puts them on, they run through a test series, whispering +questions and watching how his eyes focus: After a minute, the room around him +clears as the specs build a synthetic image to compensate for his myopia. +There's limited Net access, too, he notices, a warm sense of relief stealing +over him. "Do you mind if I call somebody?" he asks: "I want to check my +back-ups." + +"Be my guest." Alan slips out through the door; Monica sits down opposite him +and stares into some inner space. The room has a tall ceiling, with whitewashed +walls and wooden shutters to cover the aerogel window bays. The furniture is +modern modular, and clashes horribly with the original nineteenth-century +architecture. "We were expecting you." + +"You were -" He shifts track with an effort: "I was here to see somebody. Here +in Scotland, I mean." + +"Us." She catches his eye deliberately. "To discuss sapience options with our +patron." + +"With your -" He squeezes his eyes shut. "Damn! I don't remember. I need my +glasses back. Please." + +"What about your back-ups?" she asks curiously. + +"A moment." Manfred tries to remember what address to ping. It's useless, and +painfully frustrating. "It would help if I could remember where I keep the rest +of my mind," he complains. "It used to be at - oh, there." + +An elephantine semantic network sits down on his spectacles as soon as he asks +for the site, crushing his surroundings into blocky pixilated monochrome that +jerks as he looks around. "This is going to take some time," he warns his hosts +as a goodly chunk of his metacortex tries to handshake with his brain over a +wireless network connection that was really only designed for web browsing. The +download consists of the part of his consciousness that isn't security-critical +- public access actors and vague opinionated rants - but it clears down a huge +memory castle, sketching in the outline of a map of miracles and wonders onto +the whitewashed walls of the room. + +When Manfred can see the outside world again, he feels a bit more like himself: +He can, at least, spawn a search thread that will resynchronize and fill him in +on what it found. He still can't access the inner mysteries of his soul +(including his personal memories); they're locked and barred pending biometric +verification of his identity and a quantum key exchange. But he has his wits +about him again - and some of them are even working. It's like sobering up from +a strange new drug, the infinitely reassuring sense of being back at the +controls of his own head. "I think I need to report a crime," he tells Monica - +or whoever is plugged into Monica's head right now, because now he knows where +he is and who he was meant to meet (although not why) - and he understands +that, for the Franklin Collective, identity is a politically loaded issue. + +"A crime report." Her expression is subtly mocking. "Identity theft, by any +chance?" + +"Yeah, yeah, I know: Identity is theft, don't trust anyone whose state vector +hasn't forked for more than a gigasecond, change is the only constant, et +bloody cetera. Who am I talking to, by the way? And if we're talking, doesn't +that signify that you think we're on the same side, more or less?" He struggles +to sit up in the recliner chair: Stepper motors whine softly as it strives to +accommodate him. + +"Sidedness is optional." The woman who is Monica some of the time looks at him +quirkily: "It tends to alter drastically if you vary the number of dimensions. +Let's just say that right now I'm Monica, plus our sponsor. Will that do you?" + +"Our sponsor, who is in cyberspace -" + +She leans back on the sofa, which buzzes and extrudes an occasional table with +a small bar. "Drink? Can I offer you coffee? Guarana? Or maybe a +Berlinerweisse, for old time's sake?" + +"Guarana will do. Hello, Bob. How long have you been dead?" + +She chuckles. "I'm not dead, Manny. I may not be a full upload, but I feel like +me." She rolls her eyes, self-consciously. "He's making rude comments about +your wife," She adds; "I'm not going to pass that on." + +"My ex-wife," Manfred corrects her automatically. "The, uh, tax vamp. So. +You're acting as a, I guess, an interpreter for Bob?" + +"Ack." She looks at Manfred very seriously: "We owe him a lot, you know. He +left his assets in trust to the movement along with his partials. We feel +obliged to instantiate his personality as often as possible, even though you +can only do so much with a couple of petabytes of recordings. But we have +help." + +"The lobsters." Manfred nods to himself and accepts the glass that she offers. +Its diamond-plated curves glitter brilliantly in the late-afternoon sunlight. +"I knew this had something to do with them." He leans forward, holding his +glass and frowns. "If only I could remember why I came here! It was something +emergent, something in deep memory ... something I didn't trust in my own +skull. Something to do with Bob." + +The door behind the sofa opens; Alan enters. "Excuse me," he says quietly, and +heads for the far side of the room. A workstation folds down from the wall, and +a chair rolls in from a service niche. He sits with his chin propped on his +hands, staring at the white desktop. Every so often he mutters quietly to +himself; "Yes, I understand ... campaign headquarters ... donations need to be +audited ..." + +"Gianni's election campaign," Monica prompts him. + +Manfred jumps. "Gianni -" A bundle of memories unlock inside his head as he +remembers his political front man's message. "Yes! That's what this is about. +It has to be!" He looks at her excitedly. "I'm here to deliver a message to you +from Gianni Vittoria. About -" He looks crestfallen. "I'm not sure," he trails +off uncertainly, "but it was important. Something critical in the long term, +something about group minds and voting. But whoever mugged me got the message." + +* * * + +The Grassmarket is an overly rustic cobbled square nestled beneath the +glowering battlements of Castle Rock. Annette stands on the site of the gallows +where they used to execute witches; she sends forth her invisible agents to +search for spoor of Manfred. Aineko, overly familiar, drapes over her left +shoulder like a satanic stole and delivers a running stream of cracked +cellphone chatter into her ear. + +"I don't know where to begin," she sighs, annoyed. This place is a wall-to-wall +tourist trap, a many-bladed carnivorous plant that digests easy credit and +spits out the drained husks of foreigners. The road has been pedestrianized and +resurfaced in squalidly authentic mediaeval cobblestones; in the middle of what +used to be the car park, there's a permanent floating antiques market, where +you can buy anything from a brass fire surround to an ancient CD player. Much +of the merchandise in the shops is generic dot-com trash, vying for the title +of Japanese-Scottish souvenir from hell: Puroland tartans, animatronic Nessies +hissing bad-temperedly at knee level, second hand laptops. People swarm +everywhere, from the theme pubs (hangings seem to be a running joke hereabouts) +to the expensive dress shops with their fabric renderers and digital mirrors. +Street performers, part of the permanent floating Fringe, clutter the sidewalk: +A robotic mime, very traditional in silver face paint, mimics the gestures of +passers by with ironically stylized gestures. + +"Try the doss house," Aineko suggests from the shelter of her shoulder bag. + +"The -" Annette does a doubletake as her thesaurus conspires with her open +government firmware and dumps a geographical database of city social services +into her sensorium. "Oh, I see." The Grassmarket itself is touristy, but the +bits off to one end - down a dingy canyon of forbidding stone buildings six +stories high - are decidedly downmarket. "Okay." + +Annette weaves past a stall selling disposable cellphones and cheaper genome +explorers, round a gaggle of teenage girls in the grips of some kind of +imported kawaii fetish, who look at her in alarm from atop their pink platform +heels - probably mistaking her for a school probation inspector - and past a +stand of chained and parked bicycles. The human attendant looks bored out of +her mind. Annette tucks a blandly anonymous ten-Euro note in her pocket almost +before she notices: "If you were going to buy a hot bike," she asks, "where +would you go?" The parking attendant stares, and for a moment Annette thinks +she's overestimated her. Then she mumbles something. "What?" + +"McMurphy's. Used to be called Bannerman's. Down yon Cowgate, thataway." The +meter maid looks anxiously at her rack of charges. "You didn't -" + +"Uh-huh." Annette follows her gaze: straight down the dark stone canyon. Well, +okay. "This had better be worth it, Manny mon chèr," she mutters under her +breath. + +McMurphy's is a fake Irish pub, a stone grotto installed beneath a mound of +blank-faced offices. It was once a real Irish pub before the developers got +their hands on it and mutated it in rapid succession into a punk nightclub, a +wine bar, and a fake Dutch coffee shop; after which, as burned-out as any star, +it left the main sequence. Now it occupies an unnaturally prolonged, chilly +existence as the sort of recycled imitation Irish pub that has neon four-leafed +clovers hanging from the artificially blackened pine beams above the log tables +- in other words, the burned-out black dwarf afterlife of a once-serious +drinking establishment. Somewhere along the line, the beer cellar was replaced +with a toilet (leaving more room for paying patrons upstairs), and now its +founts dispense fizzy concentrate diluted with water from the city mains. + +"Say, did you hear the one about the Eurocrat with the robot pussy who goes +into a dodgy pub on the Cowgate and orders a coke? And when it arrives, she +says 'hey, where's the mirror?'" + +"Shut up," Annette hisses into her shoulder bag. "That isn't funny." Her +personal intruder telemetry has just e-mailed her wristphone, and it's +displaying a rotating yellow exclamation point, which means that according to +the published police crime stats, this place is likely to do grievous harm to +her insurance premiums. + +Aineko looks up at her from his nest in the bag and yawns cavernously, baring a +pink, ribbed mouth and a tongue like pink suede. "Want to make me? I just +pinged Manny's head. The network latency was trivial." + +The barmaid sidles up and pointedly manages not to make eye contact with +Annette. "I'll have a Diet Coke," Annette orders. In the direction of her bag, +voice pitched low: "Did you hear the one about the Eurocrat who goes into a +dodgy pub, orders half a liter of Diet Coke, and when she spills it in her +shoulder bag she says 'oops, I've got a wet pussy'?" + +The Coke arrives. Annette pays for it. There may be a couple of dozen people in +the pub; it's hard to tell because it looks like an ancient cellar, lots of +stone archways leading off into niches populated with second-hand church pews +and knife-scarred tables. Some guys who might be bikers, students, or +well-dressed winos are hunched over one table: hairy, wearing vests with too +many pockets, in an artful bohemianism that makes Annette blink until one of +her literary programs informs her that one of them is a moderately famous local +writer, a bit of a guru for the space and freedom party. There're a couple of +women in boots and furry hats in one corner, poring over the menu, and a parcel +of off-duty street performers hunching over their beers in a booth. Nobody else +is wearing anything remotely like office drag, but the weirdness coefficient is +above average; so Annette dials her glasses to extra-dark, straightens her tie, +and glances around. + +The door opens and a nondescript youth slinks in. He's wearing baggy BDUs, +woolly cap, and a pair of boots that have that quintessential essense de panzer +division look, all shock absorbers and olive drab Kevlar panels. He's wearing - + +"I spy with my little network intrusion detector kit," begins the cat, as +Annette puts her drink down and moves in on the youth, "something beginning +with -" + +"How much you want for the glasses, kid?" she asks quietly. + +He jerks and almost jumps - a bad idea in MilSpec combat boots, the ceiling is +eighteenth-century stone half a meter thick; "Dinnae fuckin' dae that," he +complains in an eerily familiar way: "Ah -" he swallows. "Annie! Who -" + +"Stay calm. Take them off - they'll only hurt you if you keep wearing them," +she says, careful not to move too fast because now she has a second, +scary-jittery fear, and she knows without having to look that the exclamation +mark on her watch has turned red and begun to flash: "Look, I'll give you two +hundred Euros for the glasses and the belt pouch, real cash, and I won't ask +how you got them or tell anyone." He's frozen in front of her, mesmerized, and +she can see the light from inside the lenses spilling over onto his +half-starved adolescent cheekbones, flickering like cold lightning, like he's +plugged his brain into a grid bearer; swallowing with a suddenly dry mouth, she +slowly reaches up and pulls the spectacles off his face with one hand and takes +hold of the belt pouch with the other. The kid shudders and blinks at her, and +she sticks a couple of hundred-Euro notes in front of his nose. "Scram," she +says, not unkindly. + +He reaches up slowly, then seizes the money and runs - blasts his way through +the door with an ear-popping concussion, hangs a left onto the cycle path, and +vanishes downhill toward the parliament buildings and university complex. + +Annette watches the doorway apprehensively. "Where is he?" she hisses, worried: +"Any ideas, cat?" + +"Naah. It's your job to find him," Aineko opines complacently. But there's an +icicle of anxiety in Annette's spine. Manfred's been separated from his memory +cache? Where could he be? Worse - who could he be? + +"Fuck you, too," she mutters. "Only one thing for it, I guess." She takes off +her own glasses - they're much less functional than Manfred's massively +ramified custom rig - and nervously raises the repo'd specs toward her face. +Somehow what she's about to do makes her feel unclean, like snooping on a +lover's e-mail folders. But how else can she figure out where he might have +gone? + +She slides the glasses on and tries to remember what she was doing yesterday in +Edinburgh. + +* * * + +"Gianni?" + +"Oui, ma chérie?" + +Pause. "I lost him. But I got his aid-mémoire back. A teenage freeloader +playing cyberpunk with them. No sign of his location - so I put them on." + +Pause. "Oh dear." + +"Gianni, why exactly did you send him to the Franklin Collective?" + +Pause. (During which, the chill of the gritty stone wall she's leaning on +begins to penetrate the weave of her jacket.) "I not wanting to bother you with +trivia." + +"Merde. It's not trivia, Gianni, they're accelerationistas. Have you any idea +what that's going to do to his head?" + +Pause: Then a grunt, almost of pain. "Yes." + +"Then why did you do it?" she demands vehemently. She hunches over, punching +words into her phone so that other passers-by avoid her, unsure whether she's +hands-free or hallucinating: "Shit, Gianni, I have to pick up the pieces every +time you do this! Manfred is not a healthy man, he's on the edge of acute +future shock the whole time, and I was not joking when I told you last February +that he'd need a month in a clinic if you tried running him flat out again! If +you're not careful, he could end up dropping out completely and joining the +borganism -" + +"Annette." A heavy sigh: "He are the best hope we got. Am knowing half-life of +agalmic catalyst now down to six months and dropping; Manny outlast his career +expectancy, four deviations outside the normal, yes, we know this. But I are +having to break civil rights deadlock now, this election. We must achieve +consensus, and Manfred are only staffer we got who have hope of talking to +Collective on its own terms. He are deal-making messenger, not force burnout, +right? We need coalition reserve before term limit lockout followed by gridlock +in Brussels, American-style. Is more than vital - is essential." + +"That's no excuse -" + +"Annette, they have partial upload of Bob Franklin. They got it before he died, +enough of his personality to reinstantiate it, time-sharing in their own +brains. We must get the Franklin Collective with their huge resources lobbying +for the Equal Rights Amendment: If ERA passes, all sapients are eligible to +vote, own property, upload, download, sideload. Are more important than little +gray butt-monsters with cold speculum: Whole future depends on it. Manny +started this with crustacean rights: Leave uploads covered by copyrights not +civil rights and where will we be in fifty years? Do you think I must ignore +this? It was important then, but now, with the transmission the lobsters +received -" + +"Shit." She turns and leans her forehead against the cool stonework. "I'll need +a prescription. Ritalin or something. And his location. Leave the rest to me." +She doesn't add, That includes peeling him off the ceiling afterwards: that's +understood. Nor does she say, you're going to pay. That's understood, too. +Gianni may be a hard-nosed political fixer, but he looks after his own. + +"Location am easy if he find the PLO. GPS coordinates are following -" + +"No need. I got his spectacles." + +"Merde, as you say. Take them to him, ma chérie. Bring me the distributed trust +rating of Bob Franklin's upload, and I bring Bob the jubilee, right to direct +his own corporate self again as if still alive. And we pull diplomatic +chestnuts out of fire before they burn. Agreed?" + +"Oui." + +She cuts the connection and begins walking uphill, along the Cowgate (through +which farmers once bought their herds to market), toward the permanent floating +Fringe and then the steps towards The Meadows. As she pauses opposite the site +of the gallows, a fight breaks out: Some Paleolithic hangover takes exception +to the robotic mime aping his movements, and swiftly rips its arm off. The mime +stands there, sparks flickering inside its shoulder, and looks confused. Two +pissed-looking students start forward and punch the short-haired vandal. There +is much shouting in the mutually incomprehensible accents of Oxgangs and the +Herriott-Watt Robot Lab. Annette watches the fight and shudders; it's like a +flashover vision from a universe where the Equal Rights Amendment - with its +redefinition of personhood - is rejected by the house of deputies: a universe +where to die is to become property and to be created outwith a gift of parental +DNA is to be doomed to slavery. + +Maybe Gianni was right, she ponders. But I wish the price wasn't so personal - + +* * * + +Manfred can feel one of his attacks coming on. The usual symptoms are all +present - the universe, with its vast preponderance of unthinking matter, +becomes an affront; weird ideas flicker like heat lightning far away across the +vast plateaus of his imagination - but, with his metacortex running in +sandboxed insecure mode, he feels blunt. And slow. Even obsolete. The latter is +about as welcome a sensation as heroin withdrawal: He can't spin off threads to +explore his designs for feasibility and report back to him. It's like someone +has stripped fifty points off his IQ; his brain feels like a surgical scalpel +that's been used to cut down trees. A decaying mind is a terrible thing to be +trapped inside. Manfred wants out, and he wants out bad - but he's too afraid +to let on. + +"Gianni is a middle-of-the-road Eurosocialist, a mixed-market pragmatist +politician," Bob's ghost accuses Manfred by way of Monica's dye-flushed lips, +"hardly the sort of guy you'd expect me to vote for, no? So what does he think +I can do for him?" + +"That's a - ah - " Manfred rocks forward and back in his chair, arms crossed +firmly and hands thrust under his armpits for protection. "Dismantle the moon! +Digitize the biosphere, make a nöosphere out of it - shit, sorry, that's +long-term planning. Build Dyson spheres, lots and lots of - Ahem. Gianni is an +ex-Marxist, reformed high church Trotskyite clade. He believes in achieving +True Communism, which is a state of philosophical grace that requires certain +prerequisites like, um, not pissing around with Molotov cocktails and thought +police: He wants to make everybody so rich that squabbling over ownership of +the means of production makes as much sense as arguing over who gets to sleep +in the damp spot at the back of the cave. He's not your enemy, I mean. He's the +enemy of those Stalinist deviationist running dogs in Conservative Party +Central Office who want to bug your bedroom and hand everything on a plate to +the big corporates owned by the pension funds - which in turn rely on people +dying predictably to provide their raison d'être. And, um, more importantly +dying and not trying to hang on to their property and chattels. Sitting up in +the coffin singing extropian fireside songs, that kind of thing. The actuaries +are to blame, predicting life expectancy with intent to cause people to buy +insurance policies with money that is invested in control of the means of +production - Bayes' Theorem is to blame -" + +Alan glances over his shoulder at Manfred: "I don't think feeding him guarana +was a good idea," he says in tones of deep foreboding. + +Manfred's mode of vibration has gone nonlinear by this point: He's rocking +front to back, and jiggling up and down in little hops, like a technophiliacal +yogic flyer trying to bounce his way to the singularity. Monica leans toward +him and her eyes widen: "Manfred," she hisses, "shut up!" + +He stops babbling abruptly, with an expression of deep puzzlement. "Who am I?" +he asks, and keels over backward. "Why am I, here and now, occupying this body +-" + +"Anthropic anxiety attack," Monica comments. "I think he did this in Amsterdam +eight years ago when Bob first met him." She looks alarmed, a different +identity coming to the fore: "What shall we do?" + +"We have to make him comfortable." Alan raises his voice: "Bed, make yourself +ready, now." The back of the sofa Manfred is sprawled on flops downward, the +base folds up, and a strangely animated duvet crawls up over his feet. "Listen, +Manny, you're going to be all right." + +"Who am I and what do I signify?" Manfred mumbles incoherently: "A mass of +propagating decision trees, fractal compression, lots of synaptic junctions +lubricated with friendly endorphins -" Across the room, the bootleg +pharmacopoeia is cranking up to manufacture some heavy tranquilizers. Monica +heads for the kitchen to get something for him to drink them in. "Why are you +doing this?" Manfred asks, dizzily. + +"It's okay. Lie down and relax." Alan leans over him. "We'll talk about +everything in the morning, when you know who you are." (Aside to Monica, who is +entering the room with a bottle of iced tea: "Better let Gianni know that he's +unwell. One of us may have to go visit the minister. Do you know if Macx has +been audited?") "Rest up, Manfred. Everything is being taken care of." + +About fifteen minutes later, Manfred - who, in the grip of an existential +migraine, meekly obeys Monica's instruction to drink down the spiked tea - lies +back on the bed and relaxes. His breathing slows; the subliminal muttering +ceases. Monica, sitting next to him, reaches out and takes his right hand, +which is lying on top of the bedding. + +"Do you want to live forever?" she intones in Bob Franklin's tone of voice. +"You can live forever in me ..." + +* * * + +The Church of Latter-Day Saints believes that you can't get into the Promised +Land unless it's baptized you - but it can do so if it knows your name and +parentage, even after you're dead. Its genealogical databases are among the +most impressive artifacts of historical research ever prepared. And it likes to +make converts. + +The Franklin Collective believes that you can't get into the future unless it's +digitized your neural state vector, or at least acquired as complete a snapshot +of your sensory inputs and genome as current technology permits. You don't need +to be alive for it to do this. Its society of mind is among the most impressive +artifacts of computer science. And it likes to make converts. + +* * * + +Nightfall in the city. Annette stands impatiently on the doorstep. "Let me the +fuck in," she snarls impatiently at the speakerphone. "Merde!" + +Someone opens the door. "Who -" + +Annette shoves him inside, kicks the door shut, and leans on it. "Take me to +your bodhisattva," she demands. "Now." + +"I -" he turns and heads inside, along the gloomy hallway that runs past a +staircase. Annette strides after him aggressively. He opens a door and ducks +inside, and she follows before he can close it. + +Inside, the room is illuminated by a variety of indirect diode sources, +calibrated for the warm glow of a summer afternoon's daylight. There's a bed in +the middle of it, a figure lying asleep at the heart of a herd of attentive +diagnostic instruments. A couple of attendants sit to either side of the +sleeping man. + +"What have you done to him?" Annette snaps, rushing forward. Manfred blinks up +at her from the pillows, bleary-eyed and confused as she leans overhead: +"Hello? Manny?" Over her shoulder: "If you have done anything to him -" + +"Annie?" He looks puzzled. A bright orange pair of goggles - not his own - is +pushed up onto his forehead like a pair of beached jellyfish. "I don't feel +well. 'F I get my hands on the bastard who did this ..." + +"We can fix that," she says briskly, declining to mention the deal she cut to +get his memories back. She peels off his glasses and carefully slides them onto +his face, replacing his temporary ones. The brain bag she puts down next to his +shoulder, within easy range. The hairs on the back of her neck rise as a thin +chattering fills the ether around them: his eyes are glowing a luminous blue +behind his shades, as if a high-tension spark is flying between his ears. + +"Oh. Wow." He sits up, the covers fall from his naked shoulders, and her breath +catches. + +She looks round at the motionless figure sitting to his left. The man in the +chair nods deliberately, ironically. "What have you done to him?" + +"We've been looking after him - nothing more, nothing less. He arrived in a +state of considerable confusion, and his state deteriorated this afternoon." + +She's never met this fellow before, but she has a gut feeling that she knows +him. "You would be Robert ... Franklin?" + +He nods again. "The avatar is in." There's a thud as Manfred's eyes roll up in +his head, and he flops back onto the bedding. "Excuse me. Monica?" + +The young woman on the other side of the bed shakes her head. "No, I'm running +Bob, too." + +"Oh. Well, you tell her - I've got to get him some juice." + +The woman who is also Bob Franklin - or whatever part of him survived his +battle with an exotic brain tumor eight years earlier - catches Annette's eye +and shakes her head, smiles faintly. "You're never alone when you're a +syncitium." + +Annette wrinkles her brow: she has to trigger a dictionary attack to parse the +sentence. "One large cell, many nuclei? Oh, I see. You have the new implant. +The better to record everything." + +The youngster shrugs. "You want to die and be resurrected as a third-person +actor in a low-bandwidth re-enactment? Or a shadow of itchy memories in some +stranger's skull?" She snorts, a gesture that's at odds with the rest of her +body language. + +"Bob must have been one of the first borganisms. Humans, I mean. After Jim +Bezier." Annette glances over at Manfred, who has begun to snore softly. "It +must have been a lot of work." + +"The monitoring equipment cost millions, then," says the woman - Monica? - "and +it didn't do a very good job. One of the conditions for our keeping access to +his research funding is that we regularly run his partials. He wanted to build +up a kind of aggregate state vector - patched together out of bits and pieces +of other people to supplement the partials that were all I - he - could record +with the then state of the art." + +"Eh, right." Annette reaches out and absently smooths a stray hair away from +Manfred's forehead. "What is it like to be part of a group mind?" + +Monica sniffs, evidently amused. "What is it like to see red? What's it like to +be a bat? I can't tell you - I can only show you. We're all free to leave at +any time, you know." + +"But somehow you don't." Annette rubs her head, feels the short hair over the +almost imperceptible scars that conceal a network of implants - tools that +Manfred turned down when they became available a year or two ago. ("Goop-phase +Darwin-design nanotech ain't designed for clean interfaces," he'd said, "I'll +stick to disposable kit, thanks.") "No thank you. I don't think he'll take up +your offer when he wakes up, either." (Subtext: I'll let you have him over my +dead body.) + +Monica shrugs. "That's his loss: He won't live forever in the singularity, +along with other followers of our gentle teacher. Anyway, we have more converts +than we know what to do with." + +A thought occurs to Annette. "Ah. You are all of one mind? Partially? A +question to you is a question to all?" + +"It can be." The words come simultaneously from Monica and the other body, +Alan, who is standing in the doorway with a boxy thing that looks like an +improvised diagnostician. "What do you have in mind?" adds the Alan body. + +Manfred, lying on the bed, groans: There's an audible hiss of pink noise as his +glasses whisper in his ears, bone conduction providing a serial highway to his +wetware. + +"Manfred was sent to find out why you're opposing the ERA," Annette explains. +"Some parts of our team operate without the other's knowledge." + +"Indeed." Alan sits down on the chair beside the bed and clears his throat, +puffing his chest out pompously. "A very important theological issue. I feel -" + +"I, or we?" Annette interrupts. + +"We feel," Monica snaps. Then she glances at Alan. "Soo-rrry." + +The evidence of individuality within the group mind is disturbing to Annette: +Too many reruns of the Borgish fantasy have conditioned her preconceptions, and +their quasi-religious belief in a singularity leaves her cold. "Please +continue." + +"One person, one vote, is obsolete," says Alan. "The broader issue of how we +value identity needs to be revisited, the franchise reconsidered. Do you get +one vote for each warm body? Or one vote for each sapient individual? What +about distributed intelligences? The proposals in the Equal Rights Act are +deeply flawed, based on a cult of individuality that takes no account of the +true complexity of posthumanism." + +"Like the proposals for a feminine franchise in the nineteenth century that +would grant the vote to married wives of land-owning men," Monica adds slyly: +"It misses the point." + +"Ah, oui." Annette crosses her arms, suddenly defensive. This isn't what she'd +expected to hear. This is the elitist side of the posthumanism shtick, +potentially as threatening to her post enlightenment ideas as the divine right +of kings. + +"It misses more than that." Heads turn to face an unexpected direction: +Manfred's eyes are open again, and as he glances around the room Annette can +see a spark of interest there that was missing earlier. "Last century, people +were paying to have their heads frozen after their death - in hope of +reconstruction, later. They got no civil rights: The law didn't recognize death +as a reversible process. Now how do we account for it when you guys stop +running Bob? Opt out of the collective borganism? Or maybe opt back in again +later?" He reaches up and rubs his forehead, tiredly. "Sorry, I haven't been +myself lately." A crooked, slightly manic grin flickers across his face. "See, +I've been telling Gianni for a whole while, we need a new legal concept of what +it is to be a person. One that can cope with sentient corporations, artificial +stupidities, secessionists from group minds, and reincarnated uploads. The +religiously inclined are having lots of fun with identity issues right now - +why aren't we posthumanists thinking about these things?" + +Annette's bag bulges: Aineko pokes his head out, sniffs the air, squeezes out +onto the carpet, and begins to groom himself with perfect disregard for the +human bystanders. "Not to mention A-life experiments who think they're the real +thing," Manfred adds. "And aliens." + +Annette freezes, staring at him. "Manfred! You're not supposed to -" + +Manfred is watching Alan, who seems to be the most deeply integrated of the +dead venture billionaire's executors: Even his expression reminds Annette of +meeting Bob Franklin back in Amsterdam, early in the decade, when Manny's +personal dragon still owned him. "Aliens," Alan echoes. An eyebrow twitches. +"Would this be the signal SETI announced, or the, uh, other one? And how long +have you known about them?" + +"Gianni has his fingers in a lot of pies," Manfred comments blandly. "And we +still talk to the lobsters from time to time - you know, they're only a couple +of light-hours away, right? They told us about the signals." + +"Er." Alan's eyes glaze over for a moment; Annette's prostheses paint her a +picture of false light spraying from the back of his head, his entire sensory +bandwidth momentarily soaking up a huge peer-to-peer download from the server +dust that wallpapers every room in the building. Monica looks irritated, taps +her fingernails on the back of her chair. "The signals. Right. Why wasn't this +publicized?" + +"The first one was." Annette's eyebrows furrow. "We couldn't exactly cover it +up, everyone with a backyard dish pointed in the right direction caught it. But +most people who're interested in hearing about alien contacts already think +they drop round on alternate Tuesdays and Thursdays to administer rectal exams. +Most of the rest think it's a hoax. Quite a few of the remainder are scratching +their heads and wondering whether it isn't just a new kind of cosmological +phenomenon that emits a very low entropy signal. Of the six who are left over, +five are trying to get a handle on the message contents, and the last is +convinced it's a practical joke. And the other signal, well, that was weak +enough that only the deep-space tracking network caught it." + +Manfred fiddles with the bed control system. "It's not a practical joke," he +adds. "But they only captured about sixteen megabits of data from the first +one, maybe double that in the second. There's quite a bit of noise, the signals +don't repeat, their length doesn't appear to be a prime, there's no obvious +metainformation that describes the internal format, so there's no easy way of +getting a handle on them. To make matters worse, pointy-haired management at +Arianespace" - he glances at Annette, as if seeking a response to the naming of +her ex-employers - "decided the best thing to do was to cover up the second +signal and work on it in secret - for competitive advantage, they say - and as +for the first, to pretend it never happened. So nobody really knows how long +it'll take to figure out whether it's a ping from the galactic root domain +servers or a pulsar that's taken to grinding out the eighteen-quadrillionth +digits of pi, or what." + +"But," Monica glances around, "you can't be sure." + +"I think it may be sapient," says Manfred. He finds the right button at last, +and the bed begins to fold itself back into a lounger. Then he finds the wrong +button; the duvet dissolves into viscous turquoise slime that slurps and +gurgles away through a multitude of tiny nozzles in the headboard. "Bloody +aerogel. Um, where was I?" He sits up. + +"Sapient network packet?" asks Alan. + +"Nope." Manfred shakes his head, grins. "Should have known you'd read Vinge ... +or was it the movie? No, what I think is that there's only one logical thing to +beam backward and forward out there, and you may remember I asked you to beam +it out about, oh, nine years ago?" + +"The lobsters." Alan's eyes go blank. "Nine years. Time to Proxima Centauri and +back?" + +"About that distance, yes," says Manfred. "And remember, that's an upper bound +- it could well have come from somewhere closer. Anyway, the first SETI signal +came from a couple of degrees off and more than hundred light-years out, but +the second signal came from less than three light-years away. You can see why +they didn't publicize that - they didn't want a panic. And no, the signal isn't +a simple echo of the canned crusty transmission - I think it's an exchange +embassy, but we haven't cracked it yet. Now do you see why we have to crowbar +the civil rights issue open again? We need a framework for rights that can +encompass nonhumans, and we need it as fast as possible. Otherwise, if the +neighbors come visiting..." + +"Okay," says Alan, "I'll have to talk with myselves. Maybe we can agree +something, as long as it's clear that it's a provisional stab at the framework +and not a permanent solution?" + +Annette snorts. "No solution is final!" Monica catches her eyes and winks: +Annette is startled by the blatant display of dissent within the syncitium. + +"Well," says Manfred, "I guess that's all we can ask for?" He looks hopeful. +"Thanks for the hospitality, but I feel the need to lie down in my own bed for +a while. I had to commit a lot to memory while I was off-line, and I want to +record it before I forget who I am," he adds pointedly, and Annette breathes a +quiet sight of relief. + +* * * + +Later that night, a doorbell rings. + +"Who's there?" asks the entryphone. + +"Uh, me," says the man on the steps. He looks a little confused. "Ah'm Macx. +Ah'm here tae see" - the name is on the tip of his tongue - "someone." + +"Come in." A solenoid buzzes; he pushes the door open, and it closes behind +him. His metal-shod boots ring on the hard stone floor, and the cool air smells +faintly of unburned jet fuel. + +"Ah'm Macx," he repeats uncertainly, "or Ah wis fer a wee while, an' it made ma +heid hurt. But noo Ah'm me agin, an' Ah wannae be somebody else ... can ye +help?" + +* * * + +Later still, a cat sits on a window ledge, watching the interior of a darkened +room from behind the concealment of curtains. The room is dark to human eyes, +but bright to the cat: Moonlight cascades silently off the walls and furniture, +the twisted bedding, the two naked humans lying curled together in the middle +of the bed. + +Both the humans are in their thirties: Her close-cropped hair is beginning to +gray, distinguished threads of gunmetal wire threading it, while his brown mop +is not yet showing signs of age. To the cat, who watches with a variety of +unnatural senses, her head glows in the microwave spectrum with a gentle halo +of polarized emissions. The male shows no such aura: he's unnaturally natural +for this day and age, although - oddly - he's wearing spectacles in bed, and +the frames shine similarly. An invisible soup of radiation connects both humans +to items of clothing scattered across the room - clothing that seethes with +unsleeping sentience, dribbling over to their suitcases and hand luggage and +(though it doesn't enjoy noticing it) the cat's tail, which is itself a rather +sensitive antenna. + +The two humans have just finished making love: They do this less often than in +their first few years, but with more tenderness and expertise - lengths of +shocking pink Hello Kitty bondage tape still hang from the bedposts, and a lump +of programmable memory plastic sits cooling on the side table. The male is +sprawled with his head and upper torso resting in the crook of the female's +left arm and shoulder. Shifting visualization to infrared, the cat sees that +she is glowing, capillaries dilating to enhance the blood flow around her +throat and chest. + +"I'm getting old," the male mumbles. "I'm slowing down." + +"Not where it counts," the female replies, gently squeezing his right buttock. + +"No, I'm sure of it," he says. "The bits of me that still exist in this old +head - how many types of processor can you name that are still in use +thirty-plus years after they're born?" + +"You're thinking about the implants again," she says carefully. The cat +remembers this as a sore point; from being a medical procedure to help the +blind see and the autistic talk, intrathecal implants have blossomed into a +must-have accessory for the now-clade. But the male is reluctant. "It's not as +risky as it used to be. If they screw up, there're neural growth cofactors and +cheap replacement stem cells. I'm sure one of your sponsors can arrange for +extra cover." + +"Hush: I'm still thinking about it." He's silent for a while. "I wasn't myself +yesterday. I was someone else. Someone too slow to keep up. Puts a new +perspective on everything: I've been afraid of losing my biological plasticity, +of being trapped in an obsolete chunk of skullware while everything moves on - +but how much of me lives outside my own head these days, anyhow?" One of his +external threads generates an animated glyph and throws it at her mind's eye; +she grins at his obscure humor. "Cross-training from a new interface is going +to be hard, though." + +"You'll do it," she predicts. "You can always get a discreet prescription for +novotrophin-B." A receptor agonist tailored for gerontological wards, it +stimulates interest in the new: combined with MDMA, it's a component of the +street cocktail called sensawunda. "That should keep you focused for long +enough to get comfortable." + +"What's life coming to when I can't cope with the pace of change?" he asks the +ceiling plaintively. + +The cat lashes its tail, irritated by his anthropocentrism. + +"You are my futurological storm shield," she says, jokingly, and moves her hand +to cup his genitals. Most of her current activities are purely biological, the +cat notes: From the irregular sideloads, she's using most of her skullware to +run ETItalk@home, one of the distributed cracking engines that is trying to +decode the alien grammar of the message that Manfred suspects is eligible for +citizenship. + +Obeying an urge that it can't articulate, the cat sends out a feeler to the +nearest router. The cybeast has Manfred's keys; Manfred trusts Aineko +implicitly, which is unwise - his ex-wife tampered with it, after all, never +mind all the kittens it absorbed in its youth. Tunneling out into the darkness, +the cat stalks the Net alone ... + +"Just think about the people who can't adapt," he says. His voice sounds +obscurely worried. + +"I try not to." She shivers. "You are thirty, you are slowing. What about the +young? Are they keeping up, themselves?" + +"I have a daughter. She's about a hundred and sixty million seconds old. If +Pamela would let me message her I could find out ..." There are echoes of old +pain in his voice. + +"Don't go there, Manfred. Please." Despite everything, Manfred hasn't let go: +Amber is a ligature that permanently binds him to Pamela's distant orbit. + +In the distance, the cat hears the sound of lobster minds singing in the void, +a distant feed streaming from their cometary home as it drifts silently out +through the asteroid belt, en route to a chilly encounter beyond Neptune. The +lobsters sing of alienation and obsolescence, of intelligence too slow and +tenuous to support the vicious pace of change that has sandblasted the human +world until all the edges people cling to are jagged and brittle. + +Beyond the distant lobsters, the cat pings an anonymous distributed network +server - peer-to-peer file storage spread holographically across a million +hosts, unerasable, full of secrets and lies that nobody can afford to suppress. +Rants, music, rip-offs of the latest Bollywood hits: The cat spiders past them +all, looking for the final sample. Grabbing it - a momentary breakup in +Manfred's spectacles the only symptom for either human to notice - the cat +drags its prey home, sucks it down, and compares it against the data sample +Annette's exocortex is analysing. + +"I'm sorry, my love. I just sometimes feel -" He sighs. "Age is a process of +closing off opportunities behind you. I'm not young enough anymore - I've lost +the dynamic optimism." + +The data sample on the pirate server differs from the one Annette's implant is +processing. + +"You'll get it back," she reassures him quietly, stroking his side. "You are +still sad from being mugged. This also will pass. You'll see." + +"Yeah." He finally relaxes, dropping back into the reflexive assurance of his +own will. "I'll get over it, one way or another. Or someone who remembers being +me will ..." + +In the darkness, Aineko bares teeth in a silent grin. Obeying a deeply +hardwired urge to meddle, he moves a file across, making a copy of the alien +download package Annette has been working on. She's got a copy of number two, +the sequence the deep-space tracking network received from close to home, which +ESA and the other big combines have been keeping to themselves. Another deeply +buried thread starts up, and Aineko analyses the package from a perspective no +human being has yet established. Presently a braid of processes running on an +abstract virtual machine asks him a question that cannot be encoded in any +human grammar. Watch and wait, he replies to his passenger. They'll figure out +what we are sooner or later. + +:B~ PART 2: Point of Inflexion + +Life is a process which may be abstracted from other media. + +- John Von Neumann + +1~ Chapter 4: Halo + +The asteroid is running Barney: it sings of love on the high frontier, of the +passion of matter for replicators, and its friendship for the needy billions of +the Pacific Rim. "I love you," it croons in Amber's ears as she seeks a precise +fix on it: "Let me give you a big hug ..." + +A fraction of a light-second away, Amber locks a cluster of cursors together on +the signal, trains them to track its Doppler shift, and reads off the orbital +elements. "Locked and loaded," she mutters. The animated purple dinosaur +pirouettes and prances in the middle of her viewport, throwing a diamond-tipped +swizzle stick overhead. Sarcastically: "Big hug time! I got asteroid!" Cold gas +thrusters bang somewhere behind her in the interstage docking ring, prodding +the cumbersome farm ship round to orient on the Barney rock. She damps her +enthusiasm self-consciously, her implants hungrily sequestrating surplus +neurotransmitter molecules floating around her synapses before reuptake sets +in. It doesn't do to get too excited in free flight. But the impulse to spin +handstands, jump and sing is still there: It's her rock, and it loves her, and +she's going to bring it to life. + +The workspace of Amber's room is a mass of stuff that probably doesn't belong +on a spaceship. Posters of the latest Lebanese boy band bump and grind through +their glam routines: Tentacular restraining straps wave from the corners of her +sleeping bag, somehow accumulating a crust of dirty clothing from the air like +a giant inanimate hydra. (Cleaning robots seldom dare to venture inside the +teenager's bedroom.) One wall is repeatedly cycling through a simulation of the +projected construction cycle of Habitat One, a big fuzzy sphere with a glowing +core (that Amber is doing her bit to help create). Three or four small +pastel-colored plastic kawaii dolls stalk each other across its circumference +with million-kilometer strides. And her father's cat is curled up between the +aircon duct and her costume locker, snoring in a high-pitched tone. + +Amber yanks open the faded velour curtain that shuts her room off from the rest +of the hive: "I've got it!" she shouts. "It's all mine! I rule!" It's the +sixteenth rock tagged by the orphanage so far, but it's the first that she's +tagged by herself, and that makes it special. She bounces off the other side of +the commons, surprising one of Oscar's cane toads - which should be locked down +in the farm, it's not clear how it got here - and the audio repeaters copy the +incoming signal, noise-fuzzed echoes of a thousand fossilized infants' video +shows. + +* * * + +"You're so prompt, Amber," Pierre whines when she corners him in the canteen. + +"Well, yeah!" She tosses her head, barely concealing a smirk of delight at her +own brilliance. She knows it isn't nice, but Mom is a long way away, and Dad +and Stepmom don't care about that kind of thing. "I'm brilliant, me," she +announces. "Now what about our bet?" + +"Aww." Pierre thrusts his hands deep into his pockets. "But I don't have two +million on me in change right now. Next cycle?" + +"Huh?" She's outraged. "But we had a bet!" + +"Uh, Dr. Bayes said you weren't going to make it this time, either, so I stuck +my smart money in an options trade. If I take it out now, I'll take a big hit. +Can you give me until cycle's end?" + +"You should know better than to trust a sim, Pee." Her avatar blazes at him +with early-teen contempt: Pierre hunches his shoulders under her gaze. He's +only twelve, freckled, hasn't yet learned that you don't welsh on a deal. "I'll +let you do it this time," she announces, "but you'll have to pay for it. I want +interest." + +He sighs. "What base rate are you -" + +"No, your interest! Slave for a cycle!" She grins malevolently. + +And his face shifts abruptly into apprehension: "As long as you don't make me +clean the litter tray again. You aren't planning on doing that, are you?" + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the fourth decade. The thinking mass of the solar system now +exceeds one MIPS per gram; it's still pretty dumb, but it's not dumb all over. +The human population is near maximum overshoot, pushing nine billion, but its +growth rate is tipping toward negative numbers, and bits of what used to be the +first world are now facing a middle-aged average. Human cogitation provides +about 10^{28}^ MIPS of the solar system's brainpower. The real thinking is +mostly done by the halo of a thousand trillion processors that surround the +meat machines with a haze of computation - individually a tenth as powerful as +a human brain, collectively they're ten thousand times more powerful, and their +numbers are doubling every twenty million seconds. They're up to 10^{33}^ MIPS +and rising, although there's a long way to go before the solar system is fully +awake. + +_1 Technologies come, technologies go, but nobody even five years ago predicted +that there'd be tinned primates in orbit around Jupiter by now: A synergy of +emergent industries and strange business models have kick-started the space age +again, aided and abetted by the discovery of (so far undecrypted) signals from +ETs. Unexpected fringe riders are developing new ecological niches on the edge +of the human information space, light-minutes and light-hours from the core, as +an expansion that has hung fire since the 1970s gets under way. + +_1 Amber, like most of the postindustrialists aboard the orphanage ship Ernst +Sanger, is in her early teens: While their natural abilities are in many cases +enhanced by germ-line genetic recombination, thanks to her mother's early +ideals she has to rely on brute computational enhancements. She doesn't have a +posterior parietal cortex hacked for extra short-term memory, or an anterior +superior temporal gyrus tweaked for superior verbal insight, but she's grown up +with neural implants that feel as natural to her as lungs or fingers. Half her +wetware is running outside her skull on an array of processor nodes hooked into +her brain by quantum-entangled communication channels - her own personal +metacortex. These kids are mutant youth, burning bright: Not quite +incomprehensible to their parents, but profoundly alien - the generation gap is +as wide as the 1960s and as deep as the solar system. Their parents, born in +the gutter years of the twenty-first century, grew up with white elephant +shuttles and a space station that just went round and round, and computers that +went beep when you pushed their buttons. The idea that Jupiter orbit was +somewhere you could go was as profoundly counterintuitive as the Internet to a +baby boomer. + +_1 Most of the passengers on the can have run away from parents who think that +teenagers belong in school, unable to come to terms with a generation so +heavily augmented that they are fundamentally brighter than the adults around +them. Amber was fluent in nine languages by the age of six, only two of them +human and six of them serializable; when she was seven, her mother took her to +the school psychiatrist for speaking in synthetic tongues. That was the final +straw for Amber: using an illicit anonymous phone, she called her father. Her +mother had him under a restraining order, but it hadn't occurred to her to +apply for an order against his partner ... + +* * * + +Vast whorls of cloud ripple beneath the ship's drive stinger: Orange and brown +and muddy gray streaks slowly crawl across the bloated horizon of Jupiter. +Sanger is nearing perijove, deep within the gas giant's lethal magnetic field; +static discharges flicker along the tube, arcing over near the deep violet +exhaust cloud emerging from the magnetic mirrors of the ship's VASIMR motor. +The plasma rocket is cranked up to high mass flow, its specific impulse almost +as low as a fission rocket but producing maximum thrust as the assembly creaks +and groans through the gravitational assist maneuver. In another hour, the +drive will flicker off, and the orphanage will fall up and out toward Ganymede, +before dropping back in toward orbit around Amalthea, Jupiter's fourth moon +(and source of much of the material in the Gossamer ring). They're not the +first canned primates to make it to Jupiter subsystem, but they're one of the +first wholly private ventures. The bandwidth out here sucks dead slugs through +a straw, with millions of kilometers of vacuum separating them from scant +hundreds of mouse-brained microprobes and a few dinosaurs left behind by NASA +or ESA. They're so far from the inner system that a good chunk of the ship's +communications array is given over to caching: The news is whole kiloseconds +old by the time it gets out here. + +Amber, along with about half the waking passengers, watches in fascination from +the common room. The commons are a long axial cylinder, a double-hulled +inflatable at the center of the ship with a large part of their liquid water +supply stored in its wall tubes. The far end is video-enabled, showing them a +real-time 3D view of the planet as it rolls beneath them: in reality, there's +as much mass as possible between them and the trapped particles in the Jovian +magnetic envelope. "I could go swimming in that," sighs Lilly. "Just imagine, +diving into that sea ..." Her avatar appears in the window, riding a silver +surfboard down the kilometers of vacuum. + +"Nice case of wind-burn you've got there," someone jeers - Kas. Suddenly +Lilly's avatar, hitherto clad in a shimmering metallic swimsuit, turns to the +texture of baked meat and waggles sausage fingers up at them in warning. + +"Same to you and the window you climbed in through!" Abruptly the virtual +vacuum outside the window is full of bodies, most of them human, contorting and +writhing and morphing in mock-combat as half the kids pitch into the virtual +death match. It's a gesture in the face of the sharp fear that outside the thin +walls of the orphanage lies an environment that really is as hostile as Lilly's +toasted avatar would indicate. + +Amber turns back to her slate: She's working through a complex mess of forms, +necessary before the expedition can start work. Facts and figures that are +never far away crowd around her, intimidating. Jupiter weighs 1.9 x 10^{27}^ +kilograms. There are twenty-nine Jovian moons and an estimated two hundred +thousand minor bodies, lumps of rock, and bits of debris crowded around them - +debris above the size of ring fragments, for Jupiter (like Saturn) has rings, +albeit not as prominent. A total of six major national orbiter platforms have +made it out here - and another two hundred and seventeen microprobes, all but +six of them private entertainment platforms. The first human expedition was put +together by ESA Studios six years ago, followed by a couple of wildcat mining +prospectors and a M-commerce bus that scattered half a million picoprobes +throughout Jupiter subsystem. Now the Sanger has arrived, along with another +three monkey cans (one from Mars, two more from LEO) and it looks as if +colonization is about to explode, except that there are at least four mutually +exclusive Grand Plans for what to do with old Jove's mass. + +Someone prods her. "Hey, Amber, what are you up to?" + +She opens her eyes. "Doing my homework." It's Su Ang. "Look, we're going to +Amalthea, aren't we? But we file our accounts in Reno, so we have to do all +this paperwork. Monica asked me to help. It's insane." + +Ang leans over and reads, upside down. "Environmental Protection Agency?" + +"Yeah. Estimated Environmental Impact Forward Analysis 204.6b, Page Two. They +want me to 'list any bodies of standing water within five kilometers of the +designated mining area. If excavating below the water table, list any +wellsprings, reservoirs, and streams within depth of excavation in meters +multiplied by five hundred meters up to a maximum distance of ten kilometers +downstream of direction of bedding plane flow. For each body of water, itemize +any endangered or listed species of bird, fish, mammal, reptile, invertebrate, +or plant living within ten kilometers -'" + +" - of a mine on Amalthea. Which orbits one hundred and eighty thousand +kilometers above Jupiter, has no atmosphere, and where you can pick up a whole +body radiation dose of ten Grays in half an hour on the surface." Ang shakes +her head, then spoils it by giggling. Amber glances up. + +On the wall in front of her someone - Nicky or Boris, probably - has pasted a +caricature of her own avatar into the virch fight. She's being hugged from +behind by a giant cartoon dog with floppy ears and an improbably large +erection, who's singing anatomically improbable suggestions while fondling +himself suggestively. "Fuck that!" Shocked out of her distraction - and angry - +Amber drops her stack of paperwork and throws a new avatar at the screen, one +an agent of hers dreamed up overnight. It's called Spike, and it's not +friendly. Spike rips off the dog's head and pisses down its trachea, which is +anatomically correct for a human being: Meanwhile she looks around, trying to +work out which of the laughing idiot children and lost geeks around her could +have sent such an unpleasant message. + +"Children! Chill out." She glances round - one of the Franklins (this is the +twentysomething dark-skinned female one) is frowning at them. "Can't we leave +you alone for half a K without a fight?" + +Amber pouts. "It's not a fight; it's a forceful exchange of opinions." + +"Hah." The Franklin leans back in midair, arms crossed, an expression of +supercilious smugness pasted across her-their face. "Heard that one before. +Anyway" - she-they gesture, and the screen goes blank - "I've got news for you +pesky kids. We got a claim verified! Factory starts work as soon as we shut +down the stinger and finish filing all the paperwork via our lawyers. Now's our +chance to earn our upkeep ..." + +* * * + +Amber is flashing on ancient history, five years back along her time line. In +her replay, she's in some kind of split-level ranch house out West. It's a +temporary posting while her mother audits an obsolescent fab line enterprise +that grinds out dead chips of VLSI silicon for Pentagon projects that have +slipped behind the cutting edge. Her Mom leans over her, menacingly adult in +her dark suit and chaperone earrings: "You're going to school, and that's +that." + +Her mother is a blonde ice maiden madonna, one of the IRS's most productive +bounty hunters - she can make grown CEOs panic just by blinking at them. Amber, +a towheaded-eight-year old tearaway with a confusing mix of identities, +inexperience blurring the boundary between self and grid, is not yet able to +fight back effectively. After a couple of seconds, she verbalizes a rather +feeble protest: "Don't want to!" One of her stance daemons whispers that this +is the wrong approach to take, so she modifies it: "They'll beat up on me, Mom. +I'm too different. Sides, I know you want me socialized up with my grade +metrics, but isn't that what sideband's for? I can socialize real good at +home." + +Mom does something unexpected: She kneels, putting herself on eye-level with +Amber. They're on the living room carpet, all seventies-retro brown corduroy +and acid-orange Paisley wallpaper, and for once, they're alone: The domestic +robots are in hiding while the humans hold court. "Listen to me, sweetie." +Mom's voice is breathy, laden with an emotional undertow as strong and stifling +as the eau-de-Cologne she wears to the office to cover up the scent of her +client's fear. "I know that's what your father's writing to you, but it isn't +true. You need the company - physical company - of children your own age. +You're natural, not some kind of engineered freak, even with your skullset. +Natural children like you need company or they grow up all weird. Socialization +isn't just about texting your own kind, Amber, you need to know how to deal +with people who're different, too. I want you to grow up happy, and that won't +happen if you don't learn to get on with children your own age. You're not +going to be some kind of cyborg otaku freak, Amber. But to get healthy, you've +got to go to school, build up a mental immune system. Anyway, that which does +not destroy us makes us stronger, right?" + +It's crude moral blackmail, transparent as glass and manipulative as hell, but +Amber's corpus logica flags it with a heavy emotional sprite miming the +likelihood of physical discipline if she rises to the bait: Mom is agitated, +nostrils slightly flared, ventilation rate up, some vasodilatation visible in +her cheeks. Amber - in combination with her skullset and the metacortex of +distributed agents it supports - is mature enough at eight years to model, +anticipate, and avoid corporal punishment. But her stature and lack of physical +maturity conspire to put her at a disadvantage when negotiating with adults who +matured in a simpler age. She sighs, then puts on a pout to let Mom know she's +still reluctant, but obedient. "O-kay. If you say so." + +Mom stands up, eyes distant - probably telling Saturn to warm his engine and +open the garage doors. "I say so, punkin. Go get your shoes on, now. I'll pick +you up on my way back from work, and I've got a treat for you; we're going to +check out a new church together this evening." Mom smiles, but it doesn't reach +her eyes: Amber has already figured out she's going through the motions in +order to give her the simulated middle-American upbringing she believes Amber +desperately needs before she runs head first into the future. She doesn't like +the churches any more than her daughter does, but arguing won't work. "You be a +good little girl, now, all right?" + +* * * + +The imam is at prayer in a gyrostabilized mosque. + +His mosque is not very big, and it has a congregation of one: He prays on his +own every seventeen thousand two hundred and eighty seconds. He also webcasts +the call to prayer, but there are no other believers in trans-Jovian space to +answer the summons. Between prayers, he splits his attention between the +exigencies of life support and scholarship. A student both of the Hadith and of +knowledge-based systems, Sadeq collaborates in a project with other scholars +who are building a revised concordance of all the known isnads, to provide a +basis for exploring the body of Islamic jurisprudence from a new perspective - +one they'll need sorely if the looked-for breakthroughs in communication with +aliens emerge. Their goal is to answer the vexatious questions that bedevil +Islam in the age of accelerated consciousness; and as their representative in +orbit around Jupiter, these questions fall most heavily on Sadeq's shoulders. + +Sadeq is a slightly built man, with close-cropped black hair and a perpetually +tired expression: Unlike the orphanage crew he has a ship to himself. The ship +started out as an Iranian knock off of a Shenzhou-B capsule, with a Chinese +type 921 space-station module tacked onto its tail; but the clunky, 1960s +look-alike - a glittering aluminum dragonfly mating with a Coke can - has a +weirdly contoured M2P2 pod strapped to its nose. The M2P2 pod is a plasma sail, +built in orbit by one of Daewoo's wake shield facilities. It dragged Sadeq and +his cramped space station out to Jupiter in just four months, surfing on the +solar breeze. His presence may be a triumph for the umma, but he feels acutely +alone out here: When he turns his compact observatory's mirrors in the +direction of the Sanger, he is struck by its size and purposeful appearance. +Sanger's superior size speaks of the efficiency of the Western financial +instruments, semiautonomous investment trusts with variable business-cycle +accounting protocols that make possible the development of commercial space +exploration. The Prophet, peace be unto him, may have condemned usury; but it +might well have given him pause to see these engines of capital formation +demonstrate their power above the Great Red Spot. + +After finishing his prayers, Sadeq spends a couple of precious extra minutes on +his mat. He finds meditation comes hard in this environment: Kneel in silence, +and you become aware of the hum of ventilation fans, the smell of old socks and +sweat, the metallic taste of ozone from the Elektron oxygen generators. It is +hard to approach God in this third hand spaceship, a hand-me-down from arrogant +Russia to ambitious China, and finally to the religious trustees of Qom, who +have better uses for it than any of the heathen states imagine. They've pushed +it far, this little toy space station; but who's to say if it is God's +intention for humans to live here, in orbit around this swollen alien giant of +a planet? + +Sadeq shakes his head; he rolls his mat up and stows it beside the solitary +porthole with a quiet sigh. A stab of homesickness wrenches at him, for his +childhood in hot, dusty Yazd and his many years as a student in Qom: He +steadies himself by looking round, searching the station that is now as +familiar to him as the fourth-floor concrete apartment his parents - a car +factory worker and his wife - raised him in. The interior of the station is the +size of a school bus, every surface cluttered with storage areas, instrument +consoles, and layers of exposed pipes. A couple of globules of antifreeze +jiggle like stranded jellyfish near a heat exchanger that has been giving him +grief. Sadeq kicks off in search of the squeeze bottle he keeps for this +purpose, then gathers up his roll of tools and instructs one of his agents to +find him the relevant part of the maintenance log: it's time to fix the leaky +joint for good. + +An hour or so of serious plumbing and he will eat freeze-dried lamb stew, with +a paste of lentils and boiled rice, and a bulb of strong tea to wash it down, +then sit down to review his next fly-by maneuvering sequence. Perhaps, God +willing, there will be no further system alerts and he'll be able to spend an +hour or two on his research between evening and final prayers. Maybe the day +after tomorrow there'll even be time to relax for a couple of hours, to watch +one of the old movies that he finds so fascinating for their insights into +alien cultures: Apollo Thirteen, perhaps. It isn't easy, being the crew aboard +a long-duration space mission. It's even harder for Sadeq, up here alone with +nobody to talk to, for the communications lag to earth is more than half an +hour each way - and as far as he knows, he's the only believer within half a +billion kilometers. + +* * * + +Amber dials a number in Paris and waits until someone answers the phone. She +knows the strange woman on the phone's tiny screen: Mom calls her "your +father's fancy bitch" with a peculiar tight smile. (The one time Amber asked +what a fancy bitch was, Mom slapped her - not hard, just a warning.) "Is Daddy +there?" she asks. + +The strange woman looks slightly bemused. (Her hair is blonde, like Mom's, but +the color clearly came out of a bleach bottle, and it's cut really short, and +her skin is dark.) "Oui. Ah, yes." She smiles tentatively. "I am sorry, it is a +disposable phone you are using? You want to talk to 'im?" + +It comes out in a rush: "I want to see him." Amber clutches the phone like a +lifesaver: It's a cheap disposable cereal-packet item, and the cardboard is +already softening in her sweaty grip. "Momma won't let me, Auntie 'Nette -" + +"Hush." Annette, who has lived with Amber's father for more than twice as long +as her mother, smiles. "You are sure that telephone, your mother does not know +of it?" + +Amber looks around. She's the only child in the restroom because it isn't break +time, and she told teacher she had to go 'right now': "I'm sure, P20 confidence +factor greater than 0.9." Her Bayesian head tells her that she can't reason +accurately about this because Momma has never caught her with an illicit phone +before, but what the hell. It can't get Dad into trouble if he doesn't know, +can it? + +"Very good." Annette glances aside. "Manny, I have a surprise call for you." + +Daddy appears on screen. She can see all of his face, and he looks younger than +last time: he must have stopped using those clunky old glasses. "Hi - Amber! +Where are you? Does your mother know you're calling me?" He looks slightly +worried. + +"No," she says confidently, "the phone came in a box of Grahams." + +"Phew. Listen, sweet, you must remember never, ever to call me where your mom +may find out. Otherwise, she'll get her lawyers to come after me with +thumbscrews and hot pincers, because she'll say I made you call me. And not +even Uncle Gianni will be able to sort that out. Understand?" + +"Yes, Daddy." She sighs. "Even though that's not true, I know. Don't you want +to know why I called?" + +"Um." For a moment, he looks taken aback. Then he nods, thoughtfully. Amber +likes Daddy because he takes her seriously most times when she talks to him. +It's a phreaking nuisance having to borrow her classmate's phones or tunnel +past Mom's pit-bull firewall, but Dad doesn't assume that she can't know +anything just because she's only a kid. "Go ahead. There's something you need +to get off your chest? How've things been, anyway?" + +She's going to have to be brief: The disposaphone comes prepaid, the +international tariff it's using is lousy, and the break bell is going to ring +any minute. "I want out, Daddy. I mean it. Mom's getting loopier every week - +she's dragging me round all these churches now, and yesterday, she threw a fit +over me talking to my terminal. She wants me to see the school shrink, I mean, +what for? I can't do what she wants - I'm not her little girl! Every time I +tunnel out, she tries to put a content-bot on me, and it's making my head hurt +- I can't even think straight anymore!" To her surprise, Amber feels tears +starting. "Get me out of here!" + +The view of her father shakes, pans round to show her Tante Annette looking +worried. "You know, your father, he cannot do anything? The divorce lawyers, +they will tie him up." + +Amber sniffs. "Can you help?" she asks. + +"I'll see what I can do," her father's fancy bitch promises as the break bell +rings. + +* * * + +An instrument package peels away from the Sanger's claim jumper drone and drops +toward the potato-shaped rock, fifty kilometers below. Jupiter hangs huge and +gibbous in the background, impressionist wallpaper for a mad cosmologist: +Pierre bites his lower lip as he concentrates on steering it. + +Amber, wearing a black sleeping sack, hovers over his head like a giant bat, +enjoying her freedom for a shift. She looks down on Pierre's bowl-cut hair, +wiry arms gripping either side of the viewing table, and wonders what to have +him do next. A slave for a day is an interesting experience: Life aboard the +Sanger is busy enough that nobody gets much slack time (at least not until the +big habitats have been assembled and the high-bandwidth dish is pointing back +at Earth). They're unrolling everything to a hugely intricate plan generated by +the backers' critical path team, and there isn't much room for idling: The +expedition relies on shamelessly exploiting child labor - they're lighter on +the life-support consumables than adults - working the kids twelve hour days to +assemble a toe hold on the shore of the future. (When they're older and their +options vest fully, they'll all be rich, but that hasn't stopped the outraged +herdnews propaganda chorus from sounding off back home.) For Amber, the chance +to let somebody else work for her is novel, and she's trying to make every +minute count. + +"Hey, slave," she calls idly; "how you doing?" + +Pierre sniffs. "It's going okay." He refuses to glance up at her, Amber +notices. He's thirteen. Isn't he supposed to be obsessed with girls by that +age? She notices his quiet, intense focus, runs a stealthy probe along his +outer boundary; he shows no sign of noticing it, but it bounces off, unable to +chink his mental armor. "Got cruise speed," he says, taciturn, as two tonnes of +metal, ceramics and diamond-phase weirdness hurtle toward the surface of Barney +at three hundred kilometers per hour. "Stop shoving me, there's a three-second +lag, and I don't want to get into a feedback control loop with it." + +"I'll shove if I want, slave." She sticks her tongue out at him. + +"And if you make me drop it?" he asks. Looking up at her, his face serious - +"Are we supposed to be doing this?" + +"You cover your ass, and I'll cover mine," she says, then turns bright red. +"You know what I mean." + +"I do, do I?" Pierre grins widely, then turns back to the console: "Aww, that's +no fun. And you want to tune whatever bit-bucket you've given control of your +speech centers to - they're putting out way too much double entendre, somebody +might mistake you for a grown-up." + +"You stick to your business, and I'll stick to mine," she says, emphatically. +"And you can start by telling me what's happening." + +"Nothing." He leans back and crosses his arms, grimacing at the screen. "It's +going to drift for five hundred seconds, now, then there's the midcourse +correction and a deceleration burn before touch down. And then it's going to be +an hour while it unwraps itself and starts unwinding the cable spool. What do +you want, minute noodles with that?" + +"Uh-huh." Amber spreads her bat wings and lies back in mid air, staring at the +window, feeling rich and idle as Pierre works his way through her day shift. +"Wake me when there's something interesting to see." Maybe she should have had +him feed her peeled grapes or give her a foot massage, something more +traditionally hedonistic; but right now, just knowing he's her own little piece +of alienated labor is doing good things for her self-esteem. Looking at those +tense arms, the curve of his neck, she thinks maybe there's something to this +whispering and giggling he really fancies you stuff the older girls go in for - + +The window rings like a gong, and Pierre coughs. "You've got mail," he says +drily. "You want me to read it for you?" + +"What the -" A message is flooding across the screen, right-to-left snaky +script like the stuff on her corporate instrument (now lodged safely in a +deposit box in Zurich). It takes her a while to load in a grammar agent that +can handle Arabic, and another minute for her to take in the meaning of the +message. When she does, she starts swearing, loudly and continuously. + +"You bitch, Mom, why'd you have to go and do a thing like that?" + +* * * + +The corporate instrument arrived in a huge FedEx box addressed to Amber: It +happened on her birthday while Mom was at work, and she remembers it as if it +was only an hour ago. + +She remembers reaching up and scraping her thumb over the deliveryman's +clipboard, the rough feel of the microsequencers sampling her DNA. She drags +the package inside. When she pulls the tab on the box, it unpacks itself +automatically, regurgitating a compact 3D printer, half a ream of paper printed +in old-fashioned dumb ink, and a small calico cat with a large @-symbol on its +flank. The cat hops out of the box, stretches, shakes its head, and glares at +her. "You're Amber?" it mrowls. It actually makes real cat noises, but the +meaning is clear - it's able to talk directly to her linguistic competence +interface. + +"Yeah," she says, shyly. "Are you from Tante 'Nette?" + +"No, I'm from the fucking tooth fairy." It leans over and head-butts her knee, +strops the scent glands between its ears all over her skirt. "Listen, you got +any tuna in the kitchen?" + +"Mom doesn't believe in seafood," says Amber. "It's all foreign-farmed muck +these days, she says. It's my birthday today, did I tell you?" + +"Happy fucking birthday, then." The cat yawns, convincingly realistic. "Here's +your dad's present. Bastard put me in hibernation and sent me along to show you +how to work it. You take my advice, you'll trash the fucker. No good will come +of it." + +Amber interrupts the cat's grumbling by clapping her hands gleefully; "So what +is it?" she demands: "A new invention? Some kind of weird sex toy from +Amsterdam? A gun, so I can shoot Pastor Wallace?" + +"Naah." The cat yawns, yet again, and curls up on the floor next to the 3D +printer. "It's some kinda dodgy business model to get you out of hock to your +mom. Better be careful, though - he says its legality is narrowly scoped +jurisdiction-wise. Your Mom might be able to undermine it if she learns about +how it works." + +"Wow. Like, how totally cool." In truth, Amber is delighted because it is her +birthday; but Mom's at work, and Amber's home alone, with just the TV in moral +majority mode for company. Things have gone downhill since Mom decided a modal +average dose of old-time religion was an essential part of her upbringing, to +the point that absolutely the best thing in the world Tante Annette could send +her is some scam programmed by Daddy to take her away. If it doesn't work, Mom +will take her to Church tonight, and she's certain she'll end up making a scene +again. Amber's tolerance of willful idiocy is diminishing rapidly, and while +building up her memetic immunity might be the real reason Mom's forcing this +shit on her - it's always hard to tell with Mom - things have been tense ever +since she got expelled from Sunday school for mounting a spirited defense of +the theory of evolution. + +The cat sniffs in the direction of the printer. "Why doncha fire it up?" Amber +opens the lid on the printer, removes the packing popcorn, and plugs it in. +There's a whir and a rush of waste heat from its rear as it cools the imaging +heads down to working temperature and registers her ownership. + +"What do I do now?" she asks. + +"Pick up the page labeled READ ME and follow the instructions," the cat recites +in a bored singsong voice. It winks at her, then fakes an exaggerated French +accent: "Le READ ME, il sont contain directions pour executing le corporate +instrument dans le boit. In event of perplexity, consult the accompanying +Aineko for clarification." The cat wrinkles its nose rapidly, as if it's about +to bite an invisible insect: "Warning: Don't rely on your father's cat's +opinions, it is a perverse beast and cannot be trusted. Your mother helped seed +its meme base, back when they were married. Ends." It mumbles on for a while: +"Fucking snotty Parisian bitch, I'll piss in her knicker drawer, I'll molt in +her bidet ..." + +"Don't be vile." Amber scans the README quickly. Corporate instruments are +strong magic, according to Daddy, and this one is exotic by any standards - a +limited company established in Yemen, contorted by the intersection between +shari'a and the global legislatosaurus. Understanding it isn't easy, even with +a personal net full of subsapient agents that have full access to whole +libraries of international trade law - the bottleneck is comprehension. Amber +finds the documents highly puzzling. It's not the fact that half of them are +written in Arabic that bothers her - that's what her grammar engine is for - or +even that they're full of S-expressions and semidigestible chunks of LISP: But +the company seems to assert that it exists for the sole purpose of owning +chattel slaves. + +"What's going on?" she asks the cat. "What's this all about?" + +The cat sneezes, then looks disgusted. "This wasn't my idea, big shot. Your +father is a very weird guy, and your mother hates him lots because she's still +in love with him. She's got kinks, y'know? Or maybe she's sublimating them, if +she's serious about this church shit she's putting you through. He thinks she's +a control freak, and he's not entirely wrong. Anyway, after your dad ran off in +search of another dom, she took out an injunction against him. But she forgot +to cover his partner, and she bought this parcel of worms and sent them to you, +okay? Annie is a real bitch, but he's got her wrapped right around his finger, +or something. Anyway, he built these companies and this printer - which isn't +hardwired to a filtering proxy, like your mom's - specifically to let you get +away from her legally. If that's what you want to do." + +Amber fast-forwards through the dynamic chunks of the README - boring legal UML +diagrams, mostly - soaking up the gist of the plan. Yemen is one of the few +countries to implement traditional Sunni shari'a law and a limited liability +company scam at the same time. Owning slaves is legal - the fiction is that the +owner has an option hedged on the indentured laborer's future output, with +interest payments that grow faster than the unfortunate victim can pay them off +- and companies are legal entities. If Amber sells herself into slavery to this +company, she will become a slave and the company will be legally liable for her +actions and upkeep. The rest of the legal instrument - about ninety percent of +it, in fact - is a set of self-modifying corporate mechanisms coded in a +variety of jurisdictions that permit Turing-complete company constitutions, and +which act as an ownership shell for the slavery contract. At the far end of the +corporate shell game is a trust fund of which Amber is the prime beneficiary +and shareholder. When she reaches the age of majority, she'll acquire total +control over all the companies in the network and can dissolve her slave +contract; until then, the trust fund (which she essentially owns) oversees the +company that owns her (and keeps it safe from hostile takeover bids). Oh, and +the company network is primed by an extraordinary general meeting that +instructed it to move the trust's assets to Paris immediately. A one-way +airline ticket is enclosed. + +"You think I should take this?" she asks uncertainly. It's hard to tell how +smart the cat really is - there's probably a yawning vacuum behind those +semantic networks if you dig deep enough - but it tells a pretty convincing +tale. + +The cat squats and curls its tail protectively around its paws: "I'm saying +nothing, you know what I mean? You take this, you can go live with your dad. +But it won't stop your ma coming after him with a horsewhip, and after you with +a bunch of lawyers and a set of handcuffs. You want my advice, you'll phone the +Franklins and get aboard their off-planet mining scam. In space, no one can +serve a writ on you. Plus, they got long-term plans to get into the CETI +market, cracking alien network packets. You want my honest opinion, you +wouldn't like it in Paris after a bit. Your Dad and the frog bitch, they're +swingers, y'know? No time in their lives for a kid. Or a cat like me, now I +think of it. They're working all day for the Senator, and out all hours of +night doing drugs, fetish parties, raves, opera, that kind of adult shit. Your +Dad dresses in frocks more than your mom, and your Tante 'Nettie leads him +around the apartment on a chain when they're not having noisy sex on the +balcony. They'd cramp your style, kid. You shouldn't have to put up with +parents who have more of a life than you do." + +"Huh." Amber wrinkles her nose, half-disgusted by the cat's transparent +scheming, and half-acknowledging its message: I better think hard about this, +she decides. Then she flies off in so many directions at once that she nearly +browns out the household broadband. Part of her is examining the intricate card +pyramid of company structures; somewhere else, she's thinking about what can go +wrong, while another bit (probably some of her wet, messy glandular biological +self) is thinking about how nice it would be to see Daddy again, albeit with +some trepidation. Parents aren't supposed to have sex - isn't there a law, or +something? "Tell me about the Franklins? Are they married? Singular?" + +The 3D printer is cranking up. It hisses slightly, dissipating heat from the +hard vacuum chamber in its supercooled workspace. Deep in its guts it creates +coherent atom beams, from a bunch of Bose-Einstein condensates hovering on the +edge of absolute zero. By superimposing interference patterns on them, it +generates an atomic hologram, building a perfect replica of some original +artifact, right down to the atomic level - there are no clunky moving +nanotechnology parts to break or overheat or mutate. Something is going to come +out of the printer in half an hour, something cloned off its original right +down to the individual quantum states of its component atomic nuclei. The cat, +seemingly oblivious, shuffles closer to the warm air exhaust ducts. + +"Bob Franklin, he died about two, three years before you were born - your dad +did business with him. So did your mom. Anyway, he had chunks of his noumen +preserved and the estate trustees are trying to re-create his consciousness by +cross-loading him in their implants. They're sort of a borganism, but with +money and style. Anyway, Bob got into the space biz back then, with some +financial wizardry a friend of your father whipped up for him, and now they're +building a spacehab that they're going to take all the way out to Jupiter, +where they can dismantle a couple of small moons and begin building +helium-three refineries. It's that CETI scam I told you about earlier, but +they've got a whole load of other angles on it for the long term. See, your +dad's friends have cracked the broadcast, the one everybody knows about. It's a +bunch of instructions for finding the nearest router that plugs into the +galactic Internet. And they want to go out there and talk to some aliens." + +This is mostly going right over Amber's head - she'll have to learn what +helium-three refineries are later - but the idea of running away to space has a +certain appeal. Adventure, that's what. Amber looks around the living room and +sees it for a moment as a capsule, a small wooden cell locked deep in a vision +of a middle America that never was - the one her mom wants to bring her up in, +like a misshapen Skinner box designed to train her to be normal. "Is Jupiter +fun?" she asks. "I know it's big and not very dense, but is it, like, a +happening place? Are there any aliens there?" + +"It's the first place you need to go if you want to get to meet the aliens +eventually," says the cat as the printer clanks and disgorges a fake passport +(convincingly aged), an intricate metal seal engraved with Arabic script, and a +tailored wide-spectrum vaccine targeted on Amber's immature immune system. +"Stick that on your wrist, sign the three top copies, put them in the envelope, +and let's get going. We've got a flight to catch, slave." + +* * * + +Sadeq is eating his dinner when the first lawsuit in Jupiter orbit rolls in. + +Alone in the cramped humming void of his station, he considers the plea. The +language is awkward, showing all the hallmarks of a crude machine translation: +The supplicant is American, a woman, and - oddly - claims to be a Christian. +This is surprising enough, but the nature of her claim is, at face value, +preposterous. He forces himself to finish his bread, then bag the waste and +clean the platter, before he gives it his full consideration. Is it a tasteless +joke? Evidently not. As the only quadi outside the orbit of Mars, he is +uniquely qualified to hear it, and it is a case that cries out for justice. + +A woman who leads a God-fearing life - not a correct one, no, but she shows +some signs of humility and progress toward a deeper understanding - is deprived +of her child by the machinations of a feckless husband who deserted her years +before. That the woman was raising the child alone strikes Sadeq as +disturbingly Western, but pardonable when he reads her account of the feckless +one's behavior, which is pretty lax; an ill fate indeed would await any child +that this man raises to adulthood. This man deprives her of her child, but not +by legitimate means: He doesn't take the child into his own household or make +any attempt to raise her, either in accordance with his own customs or the +precepts of shari'a. Instead, he enslaves her wickedly in the mire of the +Western legal tradition, then casts her into outer darkness to be used as a +laborer by the dubious forces of self-proclaimed "progress". The same forces +Sadeq has been sent to confront, as representative of the umma in orbit around +Jupiter. + +Sadeq scratches his short beard thoughtfully. A nasty tale, but what can he do +about it? "Computer," he says, "a reply to this supplicant: My sympathies lie +with you in the manner of your suffering, but I fail to see in what way I can +be of assistance. Your heart cries out for help before God (blessed be his +name), but surely this is a matter for the temporal authorities of the dar +al-Harb." He pauses: Or is it? he wonders. Legal wheels begin to turn in his +mind. "If you can but find your way to extending to me a path by which I can +assert the primacy of shari'a over your daughter, I shall apply myself to +constructing a case for her emancipation, to the greater glory of God (blessed +be his name). Ends, sigblock, send." + +Releasing the Velcro straps that hold him at the table, Sadeq floats up and +kicks gently toward the forward end of the cramped habitat. The controls of the +telescope are positioned between the ultrasonic clothing cleaner and the +lithium hydroxide scrubbers. They're already freed up, because he was +conducting a wide-field survey of the inner ring, looking for the signature of +water ice. It is the work of a few moments to pipe the navigation and tracking +system into the telescope's controller and direct it to hunt for the big +foreign ship of fools. Something nudges at Sadeq's mind urgently, an irritating +realization that he may have missed something in the woman's e-mail: there were +a number of huge attachments. With half his mind he surfs the news digest his +scholarly peers send him daily. Meanwhile, he waits patiently for the telescope +to find the speck of light that the poor woman's daughter is enslaved within. + +This might be a way in, he realizes, a way to enter dialogue with them. Let the +hard questions answer themselves, elegantly. There will be no need for +confrontation if they can be convinced that their plans are faulty: no need to +defend the godly from the latter-day Tower of Babel these people propose to +build. If this woman Pamela means what she says, Sadeq need not end his days +out here in the cold between the worlds, away from his elderly parents and +brother, and his colleagues and friends. And he will be profoundly grateful, +because in his heart of hearts, he knows that he is less a warrior than a +scholar. + +* * * + +"I'm sorry, but the borg is attempting to assimilate a lawsuit," says the +receptionist. "Will you hold?" + +"Crud." Amber blinks the Binary Betty answerphone sprite out of her eye and +glances round at the cabin. "That is so last century," she grumbles. "Who do +they think they are?" + +"Dr. Robert H. Franklin," volunteers the cat. "It's a losing proposition if you +ask me. Bob was so fond of his dope there's this whole hippy group mind that's +grown up using his state vector as a bong -" + +"Shut the fuck up!" Amber shouts at him. Instantly contrite (for yelling in an +inflatable spacecraft is a major faux pas): "Sorry." She spawns an autonomic +thread with full parasympathetic nervous control, tells it to calm her down, +then spawns a couple more to go forth and become fuqaha, expert on shari'a law. +She realizes she's buying up way too much of the orphanage's scarce bandwidth - +time that will have to be paid for in chores, later - but it's necessary. +"Mom's gone too far. This time it's war." + +She slams out of her cabin and spins right round in the central axis of the +hab, a rogue missile pinging for a target to vent her rage on. A tantrum would +be good - + +But her body is telling her to chill out, take ten, and there's a drone of +scriptural lore dribbling away in the back of her head, and she's feeling +frustrated and angry and not in control, but not really mad anymore. It was +like this three years ago when Mom noticed her getting on too well with Jenny +Morgan and moved her to a new school district - she said it was a work +assignment, but Amber knows better, Mom asked for it - just to keep her +dependent and helpless. Mom is a control-freak with fixed ideas about how to +bring up a child, and ever since she lost Dad, she's been working her claws +into Amber, making her upbringing a life's work - which is tough, because Amber +is not good victim material, and is smart and well networked to boot. But now, +Mom's found a way to fuck Amber over completely, even in Jupiter orbit, and if +not for her skullware keeping a lid on things, Amber would be totally out of +control. + +Instead of shouting at her cat or trying to message the Franklins, Amber goes +to hunt down the borg in their meatspace den. + +There are sixteen borg aboard the Sanger - adults, members of the Franklin +Collective, squatters in the ruins of Bob Franklin's posthumous vision. They +lend bits of their brains to the task of running what science has been able to +resurrect of the dead dot-com billionaire's mind, making him the first +bodhisattva of the uploading age - apart from the lobster colony, of course. +Their den mother is a woman called Monica: a willowy, brown-eyed hive queen +with raster-burned corneal implants and a dry, sardonic delivery that can +corrode egos like a desert wind. She's better than any of the others at running +Bob, except for the creepy one called Jack, and she's no slouch when she's +being herself (unlike Jack, who is never himself in public). Which probably +explains why they elected her Maximum Leader of the expedition. + +Amber finds Monica in the number four kitchen garden, performing surgery on a +filter that's been blocked by toad spawn. She's almost buried beneath a large +pipe, her Velcro-taped tool kit waving in the breeze like strange blue +air-kelp. "Monica? You got a minute?" + +"Sure, I have lots of minutes. Make yourself helpful? Pass me the antitorque +wrench and a number six hex head." + +"Um." Amber captures the blue flag and fiddles around with its contents. +Something that has batteries, motors, a flywheel counterweight, and laser gyros +assembles itself - Amber passes it under the pipe. "Here. Listen, your phone is +engaged." + +"I know. You've come to see me about your conversion, haven't you?" + +"Yes!" + +There's a clanking noise from under the pressure sump. "Take this." A plastic +bag floats out, bulging with stray fasteners. "I got a bit of hoovering to do. +Get yourself a mask if you don't already have one." + +A minute later, Amber is back beside Monica's legs, her face veiled by a filter +mask. "I don't want this to go through," she says. "I don't care what Mom says, +I'm not Moslem! This judge, he can't touch me. He can't," she adds, vehemence +warring with uncertainty. + +"Maybe he doesn't want to?" Another bag: "Here, catch." + +Amber grabs the bag, a fraction of a second too late. She discovers the hard +way that it's full of water and toadspawn. Stringy mucous ropes full of +squiggling comma-shaped tadpoles explode all over the compartment and bounce +off the walls in a shower of amphibian confetti. "Eew!" + +Monica squirms out from behind the pipe. "Oh, you didn't." She kicks off the +consensus-defined floor and grabs a wad of absorbent paper from the spinner, +whacks it across the ventilator shroud above the sump. Together they go after +the toad spawn with rubbish bags and paper - by the time they've got the +stringy mess mopped up, the spinner has begun to click and whir, processing +cellulose from the algae tanks into fresh wipes. "That was not good," Monica +says emphatically as the disposal bin sucks down her final bag. "You wouldn't +happen to know how the toad got in here?" + +"No, but I ran into one that was loose in the commons, one shift before last +cycle-end. Gave it a ride back to Oscar." + +"I'll have a word with him, then." Monica glares blackly at the pipe. "I'm +going to have to go back and refit the filter in a minute. Do you want me to be +Bob?" + +"Uh." Amber thinks. "Not sure. Your call." + +"All right, Bob coming on-line." Monica's face relaxes slightly, then her +expression hardens. "Way I see it, you've got a choice. Your mother kinda boxed +you in, hasn't she?" + +"Yes." Amber frowns. + +"So. Pretend I'm an idiot. Talk me through it, huh?" + +Amber drags herself alongside the hydro pipe and gets her head down, alongside +Monica/Bob, who is floating with her feet near the floor. "I ran away from +home. Mom owned me - that is, she had parental rights and Dad had none. So Dad, +via a proxy, helped me sell myself into slavery to a company. The company was +owned by a trust fund, and I'm the main beneficiary when I reach the age of +majority. As a chattel, the company tells me what to do - legally - but the +shell company is set to take my orders. So I'm autonomous. Right?" + +"That sounds like the sort of thing your father would do," Monica/Bob says +neutrally. Overtaken by a sardonic middle-aged Silicon Valley drawl, her +north-of-England accent sounds peculiarly mid-Atlantic. + +"Trouble is, most countries don't acknowledge slavery, they just dress it up +pretty and call it in loco parentis or something. Those that do mostly don't +have any equivalent of a limited liability company, much less one that can be +directed by another company from abroad. Dad picked Yemen on the grounds that +they've got this stupid brand of shari'a law - and a crap human rights record - +but they're just about conformant to the open legal standards protocol, able to +interface to EU norms via a Turkish legislative cut-out." + +"So." + +"Well, I guess I was technically a Janissary. Mom was doing her Christian +phase, so that made me a Christian unbeliever slave of an Islamic company. Now +the stupid bitch has gone and converted to shi'ism. Normally Islamic descent +runs through the father, but she picked her sect carefully and chose one that's +got a progressive view of women's rights: They're sort of Islamic +fundamentalist liberal constructionists, 'what would the Prophet do if he was +alive today and had to worry about self-replicating chewing gum factories' and +that sort of thing. They generally take a progressive view of things like legal +equality of the sexes because, for his time and place, the Prophet was way +ahead of the ball and they figure they ought to follow his example. Anyway, +that means Mom can assert that I am Moslem, and under Yemeni law, I get to be +treated as a Moslem chattel of a company. And their legal code is very dubious +about permitting slavery of Moslems. It's not that I have rights as such, but +my pastoral well-being becomes the responsibility of the local imam, and -" She +shrugs helplessly. + +"Has he tried to make you run under any new rules, yet?" asks Monica/Bob. "Has +he put blocks on your freedom of agency, tried to mess with your mind? Insisted +on libido dampers or a strict dress code?" + +"Not yet." Amber's expression is grim. "But he's no dummy. I figure he may be +using Mom - and me - as a way of getting his fingers into this whole +expedition. Staking a claim for jurisdiction, claim arbitration, that sort of +thing. It could be worse; he might order me to comply fully with his specific +implementation of shari'a. They permit implants, but require mandatory +conceptual filtering: If I run that stuff, I'll end up believing it." + +"Okay." Monica does a slow backward somersault in midair. "Now tell me why you +can't simply repudiate it." + +"Because." Deep breath. "I can do that in two ways. I can deny Islam, which +makes me an apostate, and automatically terminates my indenture to the shell, +so Mom owns me under US or EU law. Or I can say that the instrument has no +legal standing because I was in the USA when I signed it, and slavery is +illegal there, in which case Mom owns me. Or I can take the veil, live like a +modest Moslem woman, do whatever the imam wants, and Mom doesn't own me - but +she gets to appoint my chaperone. Oh Bob, she has planned this so well." + +"Uh-huh." Monica rotates back to the floor and looks at Amber, suddenly very +Bob. "Now you've told me your troubles, start thinking like your dad. Your Dad +had a dozen creative ideas before breakfast every day - it's how he made his +name. Your mom has got you in a box. Think your way outside it: What can you +do?" + +"Well." Amber rolls over and hugs the fat hydroponic duct to her chest like a +life raft. "It's a legal paradox. I'm trapped because of the jurisdiction she's +cornered me in. I could talk to the judge, I suppose, but she'll have picked +him carefully." Her eyes narrow. "The jurisdiction. Hey, Bob." She lets go of +the duct and floats free, hair streaming out behind her like a cometary halo. +"How do I go about getting myself a new jurisdiction?" + +Monica grins. "I seem to recall the traditional way was to grab yourself some +land and set yourself up as king; but there are other ways. I've got some +friends I think you should meet. They're not good conversationalists and +there's a two-hour lightspeed delay, but I think you'll find they've answered +that question already. But why don't you talk to the imam first and find out +what he's like? He may surprise you. After all, he was already out here before +your mom decided to use him to make a point." + +* * * + +The Sanger hangs in orbit thirty kilometers up, circling the waist of +potato-shaped Amalthea. Drones swarm across the slopes of Mons Lyctos, ten +kilometers above the mean surface level. They kick up clouds of reddish +sulphate dust as they spread transparent sheets across the barren moonscape. +This close to Jupiter (a mere hundred and eighty thousand kilometers above the +swirling madness of the cloudscape) the gas giant fills half the sky with a +perpetually changing clock face, for Amalthea orbits the master in just under +twelve hours. The Sanger's radiation shields are running at full power, +shrouding the ship in a corona of rippling plasma: Radio is useless, and the +human miners control their drones via an intricate network of laser circuits. +Other, larger drones are unwinding spools of heavy electrical cable north and +south from the landing site. Once the circuits are connected, they will form a +coil cutting through Jupiter's magnetic field, generating electrical current +(and imperceptibly sapping the moon's orbital momentum). + +Amber sighs and looks, for the sixth time this hour, at the webcam plastered on +the side of her cabin. She's taken down the posters and told the toys to tidy +themselves away. In another two thousand seconds, the tiny Iranian spaceship +will rise above the limb of Moshtari, and then it will be time to talk to the +teacher. She isn't looking forward to the experience. If he's a grizzled old +blockhead of the most obdurate fundamentalist streak, she'll be in trouble: +Disrespect for age has been part and parcel of the Western teenage experience +for generations, and a cross-cultural thread that she's detailed to clue up on +Islam reminds her that not all cultures share this outlook. But if he turns out +to be young, intelligent, and flexible, things could be even worse. When she +was eight, Amber audited The Taming of the Shrew. She finds she has no appetite +for a starring role in her own cross-cultural production. + +She sighs again. "Pierre?" + +"Yeah?" His voice comes from the foot of the emergency locker in her room. He's +curled up down there, limbs twitching languidly as he drives a mining drone +around the surface of Object Barney, as the rock has named itself. The drone is +a long-legged crane fly look-alike, bouncing very slowly from toe tip to toe +tip in the microgravity. The rock is only half a kilometer along its longest +axis, coated brown with weird hydrocarbon goop and sulphur compounds sprayed +off the surface of Io by the Jovian winds. "I'm coming." + +"You better." She glances at the screen. "One twenty seconds to next burn." The +payload canister on the screen is, technically speaking, stolen. It'll be okay +as long as she gives it back, Bob said, although she won't be able to do that +until it's reached Barney and they've found enough water ice to refuel it. +"Found anything yet?" + +"Just the usual. Got a seam of ice near the semimajor pole - it's dirty, but +there's at least a thousand tons there. And the surface is crunchy with tar. +Amber, you know what? The orange shit, it's solid with fullerenes." + +Amber grins at her reflection in the screen. That's good news. Once the payload +she's steering touches down, Pierre can help her lay superconducting wires +along Barney's long axis. It's only a kilometer and a half, and that'll only +give them a few tens of kilowatts of juice, but the condensation fabricator +that's also in the payload can will be able to use it to convert Barney's crust +into processed goods at about two grams per second. Using designs copylefted by +the free hardware foundation, inside two hundred thousand seconds they'll have +a grid of sixty-four 3D printers barfing up structured matter at a rate limited +only by available power. Starting with a honking great dome tent and some free +nitrogen/oxygen for her to breathe, then adding a big web cache and direct +high-bandwidth uplink to Earth, Amber could have her very own one-girl colony +up and running within a million seconds. + +The screen blinks at her. "Oh shit! Make yourself scarce, Pierre?" The incoming +call nags at her attention. "Yeah? Who are you?" + +The screen fills with a view of a cramped, very twen-cen-looking space capsule. +The guy inside it is in his twenties, with a heavily tanned face, close-cropped +hair and beard, wearing an olive drab space suit liner. He's floating between a +TORU manual docking controller and a gilt-framed photograph of the Ka'bah at +Mecca. "Good evening to you," he says solemnly. "Do I have the honor to be +addressing Amber Macx?" + +"Uh, yeah? That's me." She stares at him: He looks nothing like her conception +of an ayatollah - whatever an ayatollah is - elderly, black-robed, vindictively +fundamentalist. "Who are you?" + +"I am Dr. Sadeq Khurasani. I hope that I am not interrupting you? Is it +convenient for you that we talk now?" + +He looks so anxious that Amber nods automatically. "Sure. Did my Mom put you up +to this?" They're still speaking English, and she notices that his diction is +good, but slightly stilted. He isn't using a grammar engine, he actually +learned the language the hard way, she realizes, feeling a frisson of fear. +"You want to be careful how you talk to her. She doesn't lie, exactly, but she +gets people to do what she wants." + +"Yes, I spoke to - ah." A pause. They're still almost a light-second apart, +time for painful collisions and accidental silences. "I see. Are you sure you +should be speaking of your mother that way?" + +Amber breathes deeply. "Adults can get divorced. If I could get divorced from +her, I would. She's -" She flails around for the right word helplessly. "Look, +she's the sort of person who can't lose a fight. If she's going to lose, she'll +try to figure how to set the law on you. Like she's done to me. Don't you see?" + +Dr. Khurasani looks extremely dubious. "I am not sure I understand," He says. +"Perhaps, mmm, I should tell you why I am talking to you?" + +"Sure. Go ahead." Amber is startled by his attitude: He actually seems to be +taking her seriously, she realizes. Treating her like an adult. The sensation +is so novel - coming from someone more than twenty years old - that she almost +lets herself forget that he's only talking to her because Mom set her up. + +"Well, I am an engineer. In addition, I am a student of fiqh, jurisprudence. In +fact, I am qualified to sit in judgment. I am a very junior judge, but even so, +it is a heavy responsibility. Anyway, your mother, peace be unto her, lodged a +petition with me. Are you aware of it?" + +"Yes." Amber tenses up. "It's a lie. Distortion of the facts." + +"Hmm." Sadeq rubs his beard thoughtfully. "Well, I have to find out, yes? Your +mother has submitted herself to the will of God. This makes you the child of a +Moslem, and she claims -" + +"She's trying to use you as a weapon!" Amber interrupts. "I sold myself into +slavery to get away from her, do you understand? I enslaved myself to a company +that is held in trust for my ownership. She's trying to change the rules to get +me back. You know what? I don't believe she gives a shit about your religion, +all she wants is me!" + +"A mother's love -" + +"Fuck love," Amber snarls, "she wants power." + +Sadeq's expression hardens. "You have a foul mouth in your head, child. All I +am trying to do is to find out the facts of this situation. You should ask +yourself if such disrespect furthers your interests?" He pauses for a moment, +then continues, less abruptly. "Did you really have such a bad childhood with +her? Do you think she did everything merely for power, or could she love you?" +Pause. "You must understand, I need to learn these things. Before I can know +what is the right thing to do." + +"My mother -" Amber stops dead and spawns a vaporous cloud of memory +retrievals. They fan out through the space around her mind like the tail of her +cometary mind. Invoking a complex of network parsers and class filters, she +turns the memories into reified images and blats them at the webcam's tiny +brain so he can see them. Some of the memories are so painful that Amber has to +close her eyes. Mom in full office war paint, leaning over Amber, promising to +disable her lexical enhancements forcibly if she doesn't work on her grammar +without them. Mom telling Amber that they're moving again, abruptly, dragging +her away from school and the friends she'd tentatively started to like. The +church-of-the-month business. Mom catching her on the phone to Daddy, tearing +the phone in half and hitting her with it. Mom at the kitchen table, forcing +her to eat - "My mother likes control." + +"Ah." Sadeq's expression turns glassy. "And this is how you feel about her? How +long have you had that level of - no, please forgive me for asking. You +obviously understand implants. Do your grandparents know? Did you talk to +them?" + +"My grandparents?" Amber stifles a snort. "Mom's parents are dead. Dad's are +still alive, but they won't talk to him - they like Mom. They think I'm creepy. +I know little things, their tax bands and customer profiles. I could mine data +with my head when I was four. I'm not built like little girls were in their +day, and they don't understand. You know the old ones don't like us at all? +Some of the churches make money doing nothing but exorcisms for oldsters who +think their kids are possessed." + +"Well." Sadeq is fingering his beard again, distractedly. "I must say, this is +a lot to learn. But you know your mother has accepted Islam, don't you? This +means that you are Moslem, too. Unless you are an adult, your parent legally +speaks for you. And she says this makes you my problem. Hmm." + +"I'm not a Muslim." Amber stares at the screen. "I'm not a child, either." Her +threads are coming together, whispering scarily behind her eyes: Her head is +suddenly dense and turgid with ideas, heavy as a stone and twice as old as +time. "I am nobody's chattel. What does your law say about people who are born +with implants? What does it say about people who want to live forever? I don't +believe in any god, Mr. Judge. I don't believe in limits. Mom can't, +physically, make me do anything, and she sure can't speak for me. All she can +do is challenge my legal status, and if I choose to stay where she can't touch +me, what does that matter?" + +"Well, if that is what you have to say, I must think on the matter." He catches +her eye; his expression is thoughtful, like a doctor considering a diagnosis. +"I will call you again in due course. In the meantime, if you need to talk to +anyone, remember that I am always available. If there is anything I can do to +help ease your pain, I would be pleased to be of service. Peace be unto you, +and those you care for." + +"Same to you, too," she mutters darkly, as the connection goes dead. "Now +what?" she asks, as a beeping sprite gyrates across the wall, begging for +attention. + +"I think it's the lander," Pierre says helpfully. "Is it down yet?" + +She rounds on him: "Hey, I thought I told you to get lost!" + +"What, and miss all the fun?" He grins at her impishly. "Amber's got a new +boyfriend! Wait until I tell everybody ..." + +* * * + +_1 Sleep cycles pass; the borrowed 3D printer on Object Barney's surface spews +bitmaps of atoms in quantum lockstep at its rendering platform, building up the +control circuitry and skeletons of new printers (There are no clunky +nanoassemblers here, no robots the size of viruses busily sorting molecules +into piles - just the bizarre quantized magic of atomic holography, modulated +Bose-Einstein condensates collapsing into strange, lacy, supercold machinery.) +Electricity surges through the cable loops as they slice through Jupiter's +magnetosphere, slowly converting the rock's momentum into power. Small robots +grovel in the orange dirt, scooping up raw material to feed to the +fractionating oven. Amber's garden of machinery flourishes slowly, unpacking +itself according to a schema designed by preteens at an industrial school in +Poland, with barely any need for human guidance. + +_1 High in orbit around Amalthea, complex financial instruments breed and +conjugate. Developed for the express purpose of facilitating trade with the +alien intelligences believed to have been detected eight years earlier by SETI, +they function equally well as fiscal gatekeepers for space colonies. The +Sanger's bank accounts in California and Cuba are looking acceptable - since +entering Jupiter space, the orphanage has staked a claim on roughly a hundred +gigatons of random rocks and a moon that's just small enough to creep in under +the International Astronomical Union's definition of a sovereign planetary +body. The borg are working hard, leading their eager teams of child +stakeholders in their plans to build the industrial metastructures necessary to +support mining helium-three from Jupiter. They're so focused that they spend +much of their time being themselves, not bothering to run Bob, the shared +identity that gives them their messianic drive. + +_1 Half a light-hour away, tired Earth wakes and slumbers in time to its +ancient orbital dynamics. A religious college in Cairo is considering issues of +nanotechnology: If replicators are used to prepare a copy of a strip of bacon, +right down to the molecular level, but without it ever being part of a pig, how +is it to be treated? (If the mind of one of the faithful is copied into a +computing machine's memory by mapping and simulating all its synapses, is the +computer now a Moslem? If not, why not? If so, what are its rights and duties?) +Riots in Borneo underline the urgency of this theotechnological inquiry. + +_1 More riots in Barcelona, Madrid, Birmingham, and Marseilles also underline a +rising problem: the social chaos caused by cheap anti-aging treatments. The +zombie exterminators, a backlash of disaffected youth against the formerly +graying gerontocracy of Europe, insist that people who predate the supergrid +and can't handle implants aren't really conscious: Their ferocity is equaled +only by the anger of the dynamic septuagenarians of the baby boom, their bodies +partially restored to the flush of sixties youth, but their minds adrift in a +slower, less contingent century. The faux-young boomers feel betrayed, forced +back into the labor pool, but unable to cope with the implant-accelerated +culture of the new millennium, their hard-earned experience rendered obsolete +by deflationary time. + +_1 The Bangladeshi economic miracle is typical of the age. With growth rates +running at over twenty percent, cheap out-of-control bioindustrialization has +swept the nation: Former rice farmers harvest plastics and milk cows for silk, +while their children study mariculture and design seawalls. With cellphone +ownership nearing eighty percent and literacy at ninety, the once-poor country +is finally breaking out of its historical infrastructure trap and beginning to +develop: In another generation, they'll be richer than Japan. + +_1 Radical new economic theories are focusing around bandwidth, speed-of-light +transmission time, and the implications of CETI, communication with +extraterrestrial intelligence. Cosmologists and quants collaborate on bizarre +relativistically telescoped financial instruments. Space (which lets you store +information) and structure (which lets you process it) acquire value while dumb +mass - like gold - loses it. The degenerate cores of the traditional stock +markets are in free fall, the old smokestack microprocessor and +biotech/nanotech industries crumbling before the onslaught of matter +replicators and self-modifying ideas. The inheritors look set to be a new wave +of barbarian communicators, who mortgage their future for a millennium against +the chance of a gift from a visiting alien intelligence. Microsoft, once the US +Steel of the silicon age, quietly fades into liquidation. + +_1 An outbreak of green goo - a crude biomechanical replicator that eats +everything in its path - is dealt with in the Australian outback by +carpet-bombing with fuel-air explosives. The USAF subsequently reactivates two +wings of refurbished B-52s and places them at the disposal of the UN standing +committee on self-replicating weapons. (CNN discovers that one of their newest +pilots, re-enlisting with the body of a twenty-year-old and an empty pension +account, first flew them over Laos and Cambodia.) The news overshadows the +World Health Organization's announcement of the end of the HIV pandemic, after +more than fifty years of bigotry, panic, and megadeath. + +* * * + +"Breathe steadily. Remember your regulator drill? If you spot your heart rate +going up or your mouth going dry, take five." + +"Shut the fuck up, 'Neko, I'm trying to concentrate." Amber fumbles with the +titanium D-ring, trying to snake the strap through it. The gauntlets are +getting in her way. High orbit space suits - little more than a body stocking +designed to hold your skin under compression and help you breathe - are easy, +but this deep in Jupiter's radiation belt she has to wear an old Orlan-DM suit +that comes in about thirteen layers. The gloves are stiff and hard to work in. +It's Chernobyl weather outside, a sleet of alpha particles and raw protons +storming through the void, and she really needs the extra protection. "Got it." +She yanks the strap tight, pulls on the D-ring, then goes to work on the next +strap. Never looking down; because the wall she's tying herself to has no +floor, just a cutoff two meters below, then empty space for a hundred +kilometers before the nearest solid ground. + +The ground sings to her moronically: "I love you, you love me, it's the law of +gravity -" + +She shoves her feet down onto the platform that juts from the side of the +capsule like a suicide's ledge: metallized Velcro grabs hold, and she pulls on +the straps to turn her body round until she can see past the capsule, sideways. +The capsule masses about five tonnes, barely bigger than an ancient Soyuz. It's +packed to overflowing with environment-sensitive stuff she'll need, and a +honking great high-gain antenna. "I hope you know what you're doing," someone +says over the intercom. + +"Of course I -" She stops. Alone in this Energiya NPO surplus iron maiden with +its low-bandwidth coms and bizarre plumbing, she feels claustrophobic and +helpless: Parts of her mind don't work. When she was four, Mom took her down a +famous cave system somewhere out west. When the guide turned out the lights +half a kilometer underground, she'd screamed with surprise as the darkness had +reached out and touched her. Now it's not the darkness that frightens her, it's +the lack of thought. For a hundred kilometers below her there are no minds, and +even on the surface there's only the moronic warbling of 'bots for company. +Everything that makes the universe primate-friendly seems to be locked in the +huge spaceship that looms somewhere just behind the back of her head, and she +has to fight down an urge to shed her straps and swarm back up the umbilical +that anchors the capsule to the Sanger. "I'll be fine," she forces herself to +say. And even though she's unsure that it's true, she tries to make herself +believe it. "It's just leaving-home nerves. I've read about it, okay?" + +There's a funny, high-pitched whistle in her ears. For a moment, the sweat on +the back of her neck turns icy cold, then the noise stops. She strains for a +moment, and when it returns she recognizes the sound: The hitherto-talkative +cat, curled in the warmth of her pressurized luggage can, has begun to snore. + +"Let's go," she says, "Time to roll the wagon." A speech macro deep in the +Sanger's docking firmware recognizes her authority and gently lets go of the +pod. A couple of cold gas clusters pop, sending deep banging vibrations running +through the capsule, and she's on her way. + +"Amber. How's it hanging?" A familiar voice in her ears: She blinks. Fifteen +hundred seconds, nearly half an hour gone. + +"Robes-Pierre, chopped any aristos lately?" + +"Heh!" A pause. "I can see your head from here." + +"How's it looking?" she asks. There's a lump in her throat; she isn't sure why. +Pierre is probably hooked into one of the smaller proximity cameras dotted +around the outer hull of the big mother ship, watching over her as she falls. + +"Pretty much like always," he says laconically. Another pause, this time +longer. "This is wild, you know? Su Ang says hi, by the way." + +"Su Ang, hi," she replies, resisting the urge to lean back and look up - up +relative to her feet, not her vector - and see if the ship's still visible. + +"Hi," Ang says shyly. "You're very brave?" + +"Still can't beat you at chess." Amber frowns. Su Ang and her overengineered +algae. Oscar and his pharmaceutical factory toads. People she's known for three +years, mostly ignored, and never thought about missing. "Listen, are you going +to come visiting?" + +"You want us to visit?" Ang sounds dubious. "When will it be ready?" + +"Oh, soon enough." At four kilograms per minute of structured-matter output, +the printers on the surface have already built her a bunch of stuff: a habitat +dome, the guts of an algae/shrimp farm, an excavator to bury it with, an +airlock. Even a honey bucket. It's all lying around waiting for her to put it +together and move into her new home. "Once the borg get back from Amalthea." + +"Hey! You mean they're moving? How did you figure that?" + +"Go talk to them," Amber says. Actually, she's a large part of the reason the +Sanger is about to crank its orbit up and out toward the other moon: She wants +to be alone in coms silence for a couple of million seconds. The Franklin +collective is doing her a big favor. + +"Ahead of the curve, as usual," Pierre cuts in, with something that sounds like +admiration to her uncertain ears. + +"You too," she says, a little too fast: "Come visit when I've got the +life-support cycle stabilized." + +"I'll do that," he replies. A red glow suffuses the flank of the capsule next +to her head, and she looks up in time to see the glaring blue laser line of the +Sanger's drive torch powering up. + +* * * + +Eighteen million seconds, almost a tenth of a Jupiter year, passes. + +The imam tugs thoughtfully on his beard as he stares at the traffic control +display. These days, every shift seems to bring a new crewed spaceship into +Jupiter system: Space is getting positively crowded. When he arrived, there +were fewer than two hundred people here. Now there's the population of a small +city, and many of them live at the heart of the approach map centered on his +display. He breathes deeply - trying to ignore the omnipresent odor of old +socks - and studies the map. "Computer, what about my slot?" he asks. + +"Your slot: Cleared to commence final approach in six-nine-five seconds. Speed +limit is ten meters per second inside ten kilometers, drop to two meters per +second inside one kilometer. Uploading map of forbidden thrust vectors now." +Chunks of the approach map turn red, gridded off to prevent his exhaust stream +damaging other craft in the area. + +Sadeq sighs. "We'll go in using Kurs. I assume their Kurs guidance is active?" + +"Kurs docking target support available to shell level three." + +"Praise Allah." He pokes around through the guidance subsystem's menus, setting +up the software emulation of the obsolete (but highly reliable) Soyuz docking +system. At last he can leave the ship to look after itself for a bit. He +glances round. For two years he has lived in this canister, and soon he will +step outside it. It hardly seems real. + +The radio, usually silent, crackles with unexpected life. "Bravo One One, this +is Imperial Traffic Control. Verbal contact required, over." + +Sadeq twitches with surprise. The voice sounds inhuman, paced with the cadences +of a speech synthesizer, like so many of Her Majesty's subjects. "Bravo One One +to Traffic Control, I'm listening, over." + +"Bravo One One, we have assigned you a landing slot on tunnel four, airlock +delta. Kurs active, ensure your guidance is set to seven-four-zero and slaved +to our control." + +He leans over the screen and rapidly checks the docking system's settings. +"Control, all in order." + +"Bravo One One, stand by." + +The next hour passes slowly as the traffic control system guides his Type 921 +down to a rocky rendezvous. Orange dust streaks his one optical-glass porthole: +A kilometer before touchdown, Sadeq busies himself closing protective covers, +locking down anything that might fall around on contact. Finally, he unrolls +his mat against the floor in front of the console and floats above it for ten +minutes, eyes closed in prayer. It's not the landing that worries him, but what +comes next. + +Her Majesty's domain stretches out before the battered module like a +rust-stained snowflake half a kilometer in diameter. Its core is buried in a +loose snowball of grayish rubble, and it waves languid brittlestar arms at the +gibbous orange horizon of Jupiter. Fine hairs, fractally branching down to the +molecular level, split off the main collector arms at regular intervals. A +cluster of habitat pods like seedless grapes cling to the roots of the massive +structure. Already he can see the huge steel generator loops that climb from +either pole of the snowflake, wreathed in sparking plasma; the Jovian rings +form a rainbow of darkness rising behind them. + +At last, the battered space station is on final approach. Sadeq watches the +Kurs simulation output carefully, piping it directly into his visual field. +There's an external camera view of the rockpile and grapes. As the view expands +toward the convex ceiling of the ship, he licks his lips, ready to hit the +manual override and go around again - but the rate of descent is slowing, and +by the time he's close enough to see the scratches on the shiny metal docking +cone ahead of the ship, it's measured in centimeters per second. There's a +gentle bump, then a shudder, then a rippling bang as the latches on the docking +ring fire - and he's down. + +Sadeq breathes deeply again, then tries to stand. There's gravity here, but not +much: Walking is impossible. He's about to head for the life-support panel when +he freezes, hearing a noise from the far end of the docking node. Turning, he's +just in time to see the hatch opening toward him, a puff of vapor condensing, +and then - + +* * * + +Her Imperial Majesty is sitting in the throne room, moodily fidgeting with the +new signet ring her equerry has designed for her. It's a lump of structured +carbon massing almost fifty grams, set in a plain band of asteroid-mined +iridium. It glitters with the blue-and-violet speckle highlights of its +internal lasers, because, in addition to being a piece of state jewelry, it is +also an optical router, part of the industrial control infrastructure she's +building out here on the edge of the solar system. Her Majesty wears plain +black combat pants and sweatshirt, woven from the finest spider silk and spun +glass, but her feet are bare: Her taste in fashion is best described as +youthful, and in any event, certain styles are simply impractical in +microgravity. But, being a monarch, she's wearing a crown. And there's a cat, +or an artificial entity that dreams it's a cat, sleeping on the back of her +throne. + +The lady-in-waiting (and sometime hydroponic engineer) ushers Sadeq to the +doorway, then floats back. "If you need anything, please say," she says shyly, +then ducks and rolls away. Sadeq approaches the throne, orients himself on the +floor (a simple slab of black composite, save for the throne growing from its +center like an exotic flower), and waits to be noticed. + +"Dr. Khurasani, I presume." She smiles at him, neither the innocent grin of a +child nor the knowing smirk of an adult: merely a warm greeting. "Welcome to my +kingdom. Please feel free to make use of any necessary support services here, +and I wish you a very pleasant stay." + +Sadeq holds his expression still. The queen is young - her face still retains +the puppy fat of childhood, emphasized by microgravity moon-face - but it would +be a bad mistake to consider her immature. "I am grateful for Your Majesty's +forbearance," he murmurs, formulaic. Behind her the walls glitter like +diamonds, a glowing kaleidoscope vision. It's already the biggest offshore - or +off-planet - data haven in human space. Her crown, more like a compact helm +that covers the top and rear of her head, also glitters and throws off +diffraction rainbows; but most of its emissions are in the near ultraviolet, +invisible except for the faint glowing nimbus it creates around her head. Like +a halo. + +"Have a seat," she offers, gesturing: A ballooning free-fall cradle squirts +down and expands from the ceiling, angled toward her, open and waiting. "You +must be tired. Working a ship all by yourself is exhausting." She frowns +ruefully, as if remembering. "Two years is nearly unprecedented." + +"Your Majesty is too kind." Sadeq wraps the cradle arms around himself and +faces her. "Your labors have been fruitful, I trust." + +She shrugs. "I sell the biggest commodity in short supply on any frontier ..." +A momentary grin. "This isn't the Wild West, is it?" + +"Justice cannot be sold," Sadeq says stiffly. Then, a moment later: "My +apologies, I mean no insult. I merely believe that, while you say your goal is +to provide the rule of law, what you sell is and must be something different. +Justice without God, sold to the highest bidder, is not justice." + +The queen nods. "Leaving aside the mention of God, I agree - I can't sell it. +But I can sell participation in a just system. And this new frontier really is +a lot smaller than anyone expected, isn't it? Our bodies may take months to +travel between worlds, but our disputes and arguments take seconds or minutes. +As long as everybody agrees to abide by my arbitration, physical enforcement +can wait until they're close enough to touch. And everybody does agree that my +legal framework is easier to comply with, better adjusted to trans-Jovian +space, than any earthbound one." A note of steel creeps into her voice, +challenging: Her halo brightens, tickling a reactive glow from the walls of the +throne room. + +Five billion inputs or more, Sadeq marvels. The crown is an engineering marvel, +even though most of its mass is buried in the walls and floor of this huge +construct. "There is law revealed by the Prophet, peace be unto him, and there +is law that we can establish by analysing his intentions. There are other forms +of law by which humans live, and various interpretations of the law of God even +among those who study His works. How, in the absence of the word of the +Prophet, can you provide a moral compass?" + +"Hmm." She taps her fingers on the arm of her throne, and Sadeq's heart +freezes. He's heard the stories from the claim jumpers and boardroom bandits, +from the greenmail experts with their roots in the earthbound jurisdictions +that have made such a hash of arbitration here. How she can experience a year +in a minute, rip your memories out through your cortical implants, and make you +relive your worst mistakes in her nightmarishly powerful simulation space. She +is the queen - the first individual to get her hands on so much mass and energy +that she could pull ahead of the curve of binding technology, and the first to +set up her own jurisdiction and rule certain experiments to be legal so that +she could make use of the mass/energy intersection. She has force majeure - +even the Pentagon's infowarriors respect the Ring Imperium's autonomy for now. +In fact, the body sitting in the throne opposite him probably contains only a +fraction of her identity. She's by no means the first upload or partial, but +she's the first gust front of the storm of power that will arrive when the +arrogant ones achieve their goal of dismantling the planets and turning dumb +and uninhabited mass into brainpower throughout the observable reaches of the +universe. And he's just questioned the rectitude of her vision, in her +presence. + +The queen's lips twitch. Then they curl into a wide, carnivorous grin. Behind +her, the cat sits up and stretches, then stares at Sadeq through narrowed eyes. + +"You know, that's the first time in weeks that anyone has told me I'm full of +shit. You haven't been talking to my mother again, have you?" + +It's Sadeq's turn to shrug, uncomfortably. "I have prepared a judgment," he +says slowly. + +"Ah." Amber rotates the huge diamond ring around her finger. Then she looks him +in the eye, a trifle nervously. Although what he could possibly do to make her +comply with any decree - + +"To summarize: Her motive is polluted," Sadeq says shortly. + +"Does that mean what I think it does?" she asks. + +Sadeq breathes deeply again: "Yes, I think so." + +Her smile returns. "And is that the end of it?" she asks. + +He raises a dark eyebrow: "Only if you can prove to me that you can have a +conscience in the absence of divine revelation." + +Her reaction catches him by surprise. "Oh, sure. That's the next part of the +program. Obtaining divine revelations." + +"What! From the alien?" + +The cat, claws extended, delicately picks its way down to her lap and waits to +be held and stroked. It never once takes its eyes off him. "Where else?" she +asks. "Doctor, I didn't get the Franklin Trust to loan me the wherewithal to +build this castle just in return for some legal paperwork, and some, ah, +interesting legal waivers from Brussels. We've known for years there's a whole +alien packet-switching network out there, and we're just getting spillover from +some of their routers. It turns out there's a node not far away from here, in +real space. Helium-three, separate jurisdictions, heavy industrialization on Io +- there is a purpose to all this activity." + +Sadeq licks his suddenly dry lips. "You're going to narrowcast a reply?" + +"No, much better than that: we're going to visit them. Cut the delay cycle down +to real-time. We came here to build a ship and recruit a crew, even if we have +to cannibalize the whole of Jupiter system to pay for the exercise." + +The cat yawns then fixes him with a thousand-yard stare. "This stupid girl +wants to bring her conscience along to a meeting with something so smart it +might as well be a god," it says. "And she needs to convince the peanut gallery +back home that she's got one, being a born-again atheist and all. Which means, +you're it, monkey boy. There's a slot open for the post of ship's theologian on +the first starship out of Jupiter system. I don't suppose I can convince you to +turn the offer down?" + +1~ Chapter 5: Router + +Some years later, two men and a cat are tying one on in a bar that doesn't +exist. + +The air in the bar is filled with a billowing relativistic smoke cloud - it's a +stellarium, accurately depicting the view beyond the imaginary walls. +Aberration of starlight skews the color toward violet around the doorway, +brightening in a rainbow mist over the tables, then dimming to a hazy red glow +in front of the raised platform at the back. The Doppler effect has slowly +emerged over the past few months as the ship gathers momentum. In the absence +of visible stellar motion - or a hard link to the ship's control module - it's +the easiest way for a drunken passenger to get a feeling for how frighteningly +fast the /{Field Circus}/ is moving. Some time ago, the ship's momentum +exceeded half its rest mass, at which point a single kilogram packs the punch +of a multimegaton hydrogen bomb. + +A ginger-and-brown cat - who has chosen to be female, just to mess with the +heads of those people who think all ginger cats are male - sprawls indolently +across the wooden floorboards in front of the bar, directly beneath the bridge +of the starbow. Predictably, it has captured the only ray of sunlight to be had +within the starship. In the shadows at the back of the bar, two men slump at a +table, lost in their respective morose thoughts: One nurses a bottle of Czech +beer, the other a half-empty cocktail glass. + +"It wouldn't be so bad if she is giving me some sign," says one of them, +tilting his beer bottle to inspect the bottom for sediment. "No; that not +right. It's the correct kind of attention. Am not knowing where I stand with +her." + +The other one leans back in his chair, squints at the faded brown paint of the +ceiling. "Take it from one who knows," he says: "If you knew, you'd have +nothing to dream about. Anyway, what she wants and what you want may not be the +same thing." + +The first man runs a hand through his hair. Tight-curled black ringlets briefly +turn silver beneath his aging touch. "Pierre, if talent for making patronizing +statements is what you get from tupping Amber -" + +Pierre glares at him with all the venom an augmented nineteen-year-old can +muster. "Be glad she has no ears in here," he hisses. His hand tightens around +his glass reflexively, but the physics model in force in the bar refuses to let +him break it. "You've had too fucking much to drink, Boris." + +A tinkle of icy laughter comes from the direction of the cat. "Shut up, you," +says Boris, glancing at the animal. He tips the bottle back, lets the dregs +trickle down his throat. "Maybe you're right. Am sorry. Do not mean to be rude +about the queen." He shrugs, puts the bottle down. Shrugs again, heavily. "Am +just getting depressed." + +"You're good at that," Pierre observes. + +Boris sighs again. "Evidently. If our positions are reversed -" + +"I know, I know, you'd be telling me the fun is in the chase and it's not the +same when she kicks you out after a fight, and I wouldn't believe a word of it, +being sad and single and all that." Pierre snorts. "Life isn't fair, Boris - +live with it." + +"I'd better go - " Boris stands. + +"Stay away from Ang," says Pierre, still annoyed with him. "At least until +you're sober." + +"Okay already, stay cool; Am consciously running a watchdog thread." Boris +blinks irritably. "Enforcing social behavior. It doesn't normally allow this +drunk. Not where reputation damage are possible in public." + +He does a slow dissolve into thin air, leaving Pierre alone in the bar with the +cat. + +"How much longer do we have to put up with this shit?" he asks aloud. Tempers +are frayed, and arguments proliferate indefinitely in the pocket universe of +the ship. + +The cat doesn't look round. "In our current reference frame, we drop the +primary reflector and start decelerating in another two million seconds," she +says. "Back home, five or six megaseconds." + +"That's a big gap. What's the cultural delta up to now?" Pierre asks idly. He +snaps his fingers: "Waiter, another cocktail. The same, if you please." + +"Oh, probably about ten to twenty times our departure reference," says the cat. +"If you'd been following the news from back home, you'd have noted a +significant speed-up in the deployment of switched entanglement routers. +They're having another networking revolution, only this one will run to +completion inside a month because they're using dark fiber that's already in +the ground." + +"Switched ... entanglement?" Pierre shakes his head, bemused. The waiter, a +faceless body in black tie and a long, starched apron, walks around the bar and +offers him a glass. "That almost sounds as if it makes sense. What else?" + +The cat rolls over on her flank, stretches, claws extended. "Stroke me, and I +might tell you," she suggests. + +"Fuck you, and the dog you rode in on," Pierre replies. He lifts his glass, +removes a glacé cherry on a cocktail stick, throws it toward the spiral +staircase that leads down to the toilets, and chugs back half of the drink in +one go - freezing pink slush with an afterbite of caramelized hexose sugars and +ethanol. The near spillage as he thumps the glass down serves to demonstrate +that he's teetering on the edge of drunkenness. "Mercenary!" + +"Lovesick drug-using human," the cat replies without rancor, and rolls to her +feet. She arches her back and yawns, baring ivory fangs at the world. "You apes +- if I cared about you, I'd have to kick sand over you." For a moment she looks +faintly confused. "I mean, I would bury you." She stretches again and glances +round the otherwise-empty bar. "By the way, when are you going to apologize to +Amber?" + +"I'm not going to fucking apologize to her!" Pierre shouts. In the ensuing +silence and confusion, he raises his glass and tries to drain it, but the ice +has all sunk to the bottom, and the resulting coughing fit makes him spray half +of the cocktail across the table. "No way," he rasps quietly. + +"Too much pride, huh?" The cat stalks toward the edge of the bar, tail held +high with tip bent over in a feline question mark. "Like Boris with his +adolescent woman trouble, too? You primates are so predictable. Whoever thought +of sending a starship crewed by posthuman adolescents -" + +"Go 'way," says Pierre: "I've got serious drinking to do." + +"To the Macx, I suppose," puns the cat, turning away. But the moody youth has +no answer for her, other than to conjure a refill from the vasty deeps. + +* * * + +Meanwhile, in another partition of the /{Field Circus}/'s reticulated reality, +a different instance of the selfsame cat - Aineko by name, sarcastic by +disposition - is talking to its former owner's daughter, the Queen of the Ring +Imperium. Amber's avatar looks about sixteen, with disheveled blonde hair and +enhanced cheekbones. It's a lie, of course, because in subjective life +experience, she's in her mid-twenties, but apparent age signifies little in a +simulation space populated by upload minds, or in real space, where post-humans +age at different rates. + +Amber wears a tattered black dress over iridescent purple leggings, and sprawls +lazily across the arms of her informal throne - an ostentatious lump of +nonsense manufactured from a single carbon crystal doped with semiconductors. +(Unlike the real thing back home in Jupiter orbit, this one is merely a piece +of furniture for a virtual environment.) The scene is very much the morning +after the evening before, like a goth nightclub gone to seed: all stale smoke +and crumpled velvet, wooden church pews, burned-out candles, and gloomy Polish +avant-garde paintings. Any hint of a regal statement the queen might be making +is spoiled by the way she's hooked one knee over the left arm of the throne and +is fiddling with a six-axis pointing device. But these are her private +quarters, and she's off duty: The regal person of the Queen is strictly for +formal, corporate occasions. + +"Colorless green ideas sleep furiously," she suggests. + +"Nope," replies the cat. "It was more like: 'Greetings, earthlings, compile me +on your leader.'" + +"Well, you got me there," Amber admits. She taps her heel on the throne and +fidgets with her signet ring. "No damn way I'm loading some buggy alien wetware +on my sweet gray stuff. /{Weird}/ semiotics, too. What does Dr. Khurasani say?" + +Aineko sits down in the middle of the crimson carpet at the foot of the dais +and idly twists round to sniff her crotch. "Sadeq is immersed in scriptural +interpretations. He refused to be drawn." + +"Huh." Amber stares at the cat. "So. You've been carrying this lump of source +code since when ...?" + +"At the signal, for precisely two hundred and sixteen million, four hundred and +twenty-nine thousand, and fifty-two seconds," Aineko supplies, then beeps +smugly. "Call it just under six years." + +"Right." Amber squeezes her eyes shut. Uneasy possibilities whisper in her +mind's ears. "And it began talking to you -" + +"- About three million seconds after I picked it up and ran it on a basic +environment hosted on a neural network emulator modeled on the components found +in the stomatogastric ganglion of a spiny lobster. Clear?" + +Amber sighs. "I wish you'd told Dad about it. Or Annette. Things could have +been so different!" + +"How?" The cat stops licking her arse and looks up at the queen with a +peculiarly opaque stare. "It took the specialists a decade to figure out the +first message was a map of the pulsar neighborhood with directions to the +nearest router on the interstellar network. Knowing how to plug into the router +wouldn't help while it was three light-years away, would it? Besides, it was +fun watching the idiots trying to 'crack the alien code' without ever wondering +if it might be a reply in a language we already know to a message we sent out +years ago. Fuckwits. And, too, Manfred pissed me off once too often. He kept +treating me like a goddamn house pet." + +"But you -" Amber bites her lip. /{But you}/ were, /{when he bought you}/, she +had been about to say. Engineered consciousness is still relatively new: It +didn't exist when Manfred and Pamela first hacked on Aineko's cognitive +network, and according to the flat-earth wing of the AI community, it still +doesn't. Even she hadn't really believed Aineko's claims to self-awareness +until a couple of years ago, finding it easier to think of the cat as a zimboe +- a zombie with no self-awareness, but programmed to claim to be aware in an +attempt to deceive the truly conscious beings around it. "I know you're +conscious now, but Manfred didn't know back then. Did he?" + +Aineko glares at her, then slowly narrows her eyes to slits - either feline +affection, or a more subtle gesture. Sometimes Amber finds it hard to believe +that, twenty five years ago, Aineko started out as a crude neural network +driven toy from a Far Eastern amusement factory - upgradeable, but still +basically a mechanical animal emulator. + +"I'm sorry. Let me start again. You actually figured out what the second alien +packet was, you, yourself, and nobody else. Despite the combined efforts of the +entire CETI analysis team who spent Gaia knows how many human-equivalent years +of processing power trying to crack its semantics. I hope you'll pardon me for +saying I find that hard to believe?" + +The cat yawns. "I could have told Pierre instead." Aineko glances at Amber, +sees her thunderous expression, and hastily changes the subject: "The solution +was intuitively obvious, just not to humans. You're so /{verbal}/." Lifting a +hind paw, she scratches behind her left ear for a moment then pauses, foot +waving absentmindedly. "Besides, the CETI team was searching under the street +lights while I was sniffing around in the grass. They kept trying to find +primes; when that didn't work, they started trying to breed a Turing machine +that would run it without immediately halting." Aineko lowers her paw daintily. +"None of them tried treating it as a map of a connectionist system based on the +only terrestrial components anyone had ever beamed out into deep space. Except +me. But then, your mother had a hand in my wetware, too." + +"Treating it as a map -" Amber stops. "You were meant to penetrate Dad's +corporate network?" + +"That's right," says the cat. "I was supposed to fork repeatedly and gang-rape +his web of trust. But I didn't." Aineko yawns. "Pam pissed me off, too. I don't +like people who try to use me." + +"I don't care. Taking that thing on board was still a really stupid risk you +took," Amber accuses. + +"So?" The cat looks at her insolently. "I kept it in my sandbox. And I got it +working, on the seven hundred and forty-first attempt. It'd have worked for +Pamela's bounty-hunter friends, too, if I'd tried it. But it's here, now, when +you need it. Would you like to swallow the packet?" + +Amber straightens out, sits up in her throne: "I just told you, if you think +I'm going to link some flaky chunk of alien neural programming into my core +dialogue, or even my exocortex, you're crazy!" Her eyes narrow. "Can it use +your grammar model?" + +"Sure." If the cat was human, it would be shrugging nonchalantly at this point. +"It's safe, Amber, really and truly. I found out what it is." + +"I want to talk to it," she says impetuously - and before the cat can reply, +adds, "So what is it?" + +"It's a protocol stack. Basically it allows new nodes to connect to a network, +by providing high-level protocol conversion services. It needs to learn how to +think like a human so it can translate for us when we arrive at the router, +which is why they bolted a lobster's neural network on top of it - they wanted +to make it architecturally compatible with us. But there are no buried time +bombs, I assure you: I've had plenty of time to check. Now, are you /{sure}/ +you don't want to let it into your head?" + +* * * + +_1 Greetings from the fifth decade of the century of wonders. + +_1 The solar system that lies roughly twenty-eight trillion kilometers - just +short of three light-years - behind the speeding starwisp /{Field Circus}/ is +seething with change. There have been more technological advances in the past +ten years than in the entire previous expanse of human history - and more +unforeseen accidents. + +_1 Lots of hard problems have proven to be tractable. The planetary genome and +proteome have been mapped so exhaustively that the biosciences are now focusing +on the challenge of the phenome: Plotting the phase-space defined by the +intersection of genes and biochemical structures, understanding how extended +phenotypic traits are generated and contribute to evolutionary fitness. The +biosphere has become surreal: small dragons have been sighted nesting in the +Scottish highlands, and in the American midwest, raccoons have been caught +programming microwave ovens. + +_1 The computing power of the solar system is now around one thousand MIPS per +gram, and is unlikely to increase in the near term - all but a fraction of one +percent of the dumb matter is still locked up below the accessible planetary +crusts, and the sapience/mass ratio has hit a glass ceiling that will only be +broken when people, corporations, or other posthumans get around to dismantling +the larger planets. A start has already been made in Jupiter orbit and the +asteroid belt. Greenpeace has sent squatters to occupy Eros and Juno, but the +average asteroid is now surrounded by a reef of specialized nanomachinery and +debris, victims of a cosmic land grab unmatched since the days of the wild +west. The best brains flourish in free fall, minds surrounded by a sapient +aether of extensions that out-think their meaty cortices by many orders of +magnitude - minds like Amber, Queen of the Inner Ring Imperium, the first +self-extending power center in Jupiter orbit. + +_1 Down at the bottom of the terrestrial gravity well, there has been a major +economic catastrophe. Cheap immortagens, out-of-control personality adjuvants, +and a new formal theory of uncertainty have knocked the bottom out of the +insurance and underwriting industries. Gambling on a continuation of the worst +aspects of the human condition - disease, senescence, and death - looks like a +good way to lose money, and a deflationary spiral lasting almost fifty hours +has taken down huge swaths of the global stock market. Genius, good looks, and +long life are now considered basic human rights in the developed world: even +the poorest backwaters are feeling extended effects from the commoditization of +intelligence. + +_1 Not everything is sweetness and light in the era of mature nanotechnology. +Widespread intelligence amplification doesn't lead to widespread rational +behavior. New religions and mystery cults explode across the planet; much of +the Net is unusable, flattened by successive semiotic jihads. India and +Pakistan have held their long-awaited nuclear war: external intervention by US +and EU nanosats prevented most of the IRBMs from getting through, but the +subsequent spate of network raids and Basilisk attacks cause havoc. Luckily, +infowar turns out to be more survivable than nuclear war - especially once it +is discovered that a simple anti-aliasing filter stops nine out of ten +neural-wetware-crashing Langford fractals from causing anything worse than a +mild headache. + +_1 New discoveries this decade include the origins of the weakly repulsive +force responsible for changes in the rate of expansion of the universe after +the big bang, and on a less abstract level, experimental implementations of a +Turing Oracle using quantum entanglement circuits: a device that can determine +whether a given functional expression can be evaluated in finite time. It's +boom time in the field of Extreme Cosmology, where some of the more recherché +researchers are bickering over the possibility that the entire universe was +created as a computing device, with a program encoded in the small print of the +Planck constant. And theorists are talking again about the possibility of using +artificial wormholes to provide instantaneous connections between distant +corners of space-time. + +_1 Most people have forgotten about the well-known extraterrestrial +transmission received fifteen years earlier. Very few people know anything +about the second, more complex transmission received a little later. Many of +those are now passengers or spectators of the /{Field Circus}/: a light-sail +craft that is speeding out of Sol system on a laser beam generated by Amber's +installations in low-Jupiter orbit. (Superconducting tethers anchored to +Amalthea drag through Jupiter's magnetosphere, providing gigawatts of +electricity for the hungry lasers: energy that comes, in turn, from the small +moon's orbital momentum.) + +_1 Manufactured by Airbus-Cisco years earlier, the /{Field Circus}/ is a hick +backwater, isolated from the mainstream of human culture, its systems +complexity limited by mass: The destination lies nearly three light-years from +Earth, and even with high acceleration and relativistic cruise speeds, the +one-kilogram starwisp and its hundred-kilogram light sail will take the best +part of seven years to get there. Sending a human-sized probe is beyond even +the vast energy budget of the new orbital states in Jupiter system - +near-lightspeed travel is horrifically expensive. Rather than a big, +self-propelled ship with canned primates for passengers, as previous +generations had envisaged, the starship is a Coke-can-sized slab of +nanocomputers, running a neural simulation of the uploaded brain states of some +tens of humans at merely normal speed. By the time its occupants beam +themselves home again for download into freshly cloned bodies, a linear +extrapolation shows that as much change will have overtaken human civilization +as in the preceding fifty millennia - the sum total of /{H. sapiens sapiens}/' +time on Earth. + +_1 But that's okay by Amber, because what she expects to find in orbit around +the brown dwarf Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, will be worth the wait. + +* * * + +Pierre is at work in another virtual environment, the one currently running the +master control system of the /{Field Circus}/. He's supervising the +sail-maintenance 'bots when the message comes in. Two visitors are on their way +up the beam from Jupiter orbit. The only other person around is Su Ang, who +showed up sometime after he arrived, and she's busy with some work of her own. +The master control VM - like all the other human-accessible environments at +this level of the ship's virtualization stack - is a construct modeled on a +famous movie; this one resembles the bridge of a long-since sunk ocean liner, +albeit with discreetly informative user interfaces hovering in front of the +ocean views outside the windows. Polished brass gleams softly everywhere. "What +was that?" he calls out, responding to the soft chime of a bell. + +"We have visitors," Ang repeats, interrupting her rhythmic chewing. (She's +trying out a betel-nut kick, but she's magicked the tooth-staining dye away and +will probably detox herself in a few hours.) "They're buffering up the line +already; just acknowledging receipt is sucking most of our downstream +bandwidth." + +"Any idea who they are?" asks Pierre; he puts his boots up on the back of the +vacant helmsman's chair and stares moodily at the endless expanse of green-gray +ocean ahead. + +Ang chews a bit more, watching him with an expression he can't interpret. +"They're still locked," she says. A pause: "But there was a flash from the +Franklins, back home. One of them's some kind of lawyer, while the other's a +film producer." + +"A film producer?" + +"The Franklin Trust says it's to help defray our lawsuit expenses. Myanmar is +gaining. They've already subpoenaed Amber's downline instance, and they're +trying to bring this up in some kind of kangaroo jurisdiction - Oregon +Christian Reconstructionist Empire, I think." + +"Ouch." Pierre winces. The daily news from Earth, modulated onto a +lower-powered communication laser, is increasingly bad. On the plus side, Amber +is incredibly rich: The goodwill futures leveraged off her dad's trust metric +means people will bend over backward to do things for her. And she owns a lot +of real estate too, a hundred gigatonnes of rock in low-Jupiter orbit with +enough KE to power Northern Europe for a century. But her interstellar venture +burns through money - both the traditional barter-indirection type and the more +creative modern varieties - about the way you would if you heaped up the green +pieces of paper and shoveled them onto a conveyor belt leading to the business +end of a running rocket motor. Just holding off the environmental protests over +de-orbiting a small Jovian moon is a grinding job. Moreover, a whole bunch of +national governments have woken up and are trying to legislate themselves a +slice of the cake. Nobody's tried to forcibly take over yet (there are two +hundred gigawatts of lasers anchored to the Ring Imperium, and Amber takes her +sovereign status seriously, has even applied for a seat at the UN and +membership in the EC), but the nuisance lawsuits are mounting up into a +comprehensive denial of service attack, or maybe economic sanctions. And Uncle +Gianni's retirement hasn't helped any, either. "Anything to say about it?" + +"Mmph." Ang looks irritated for some reason. "Wait your turn, they'll be out of +the buffer in another couple of days. Maybe a bit longer in the case of the +lawyer, he's got a huge infodump packaged on his person. Probably another +semisapient class-action lawsuit." + +"I'll bet. They never learn, do they?" + +"What, about the legal system here?" + +"Yup." Pierre nods. "One of Amber's smarter ideas, reviving eleventh-century +Scots law and updating it with new options on barratry, trial by combat, and +compurgation." He pulls a face and detaches a couple of ghosts to go look out +for the new arrivals; then he goes back to repairing sails. The interstellar +medium is abrasive, full of dust - each grain of which carries the energy of an +artillery shell at this speed - and the laser sail is in a constant state of +disintegration. A large chunk of the drive system's mass is silvery utility +flakes for patching and replacing the soap-bubble-thin membrane as it ablates +away. The skill is in knowing how best to funnel repair resources to where +they're needed, while minimizing tension in the suspension lines and avoiding +resonance and thrust imbalance. As he trains the patch 'bots, he broods about +the hate mail from his elder brother (who still blames him for their father's +accident), and about Sadeq's religious injunctions - /{Superstitious +nonsense}/, he thinks - and the fickleness of powerful women, and the endless +depths of his own nineteen-year-old soul. + +While he's brooding, Ang evidently finishes whatever she was doing and bangs +out - not even bothering to use the polished mahogany door at the rear of the +bridge, just discorporating and rematerializing somewhere else. Wondering if +she's annoyed, he glances up just as the first of his ghosts patches into his +memory map, and he remembers what happened when it met the new arrival. His +eyes widen: "Oh /{shit!}/" + +It's not the film producer but the lawyer who's just uploaded into the /{Field +Circus}/'s virtual universe. Someone's going to have to tell Amber. And +although the last thing he wants to do is talk to her, it looks like he's going +to have to call her, because this isn't just a routine visit. The lawyer means +trouble. + +* * * + +_1 Take a brain and put it in a bottle. Better: take a map of the brain and put +it in a map of a bottle - or of a body - and feed signals to it that mimic its +neurological inputs. Read its outputs and route them to a model body in a model +universe with a model of physical laws, closing the loop. René Descartes would +understand. That's the state of the passengers of the /{Field Circus}/ in a +nutshell. Formerly physical humans, their neural software (and a map of the +intracranial wetware it runs on) has been transferred into a virtual machine +environment executing on a honking great computer, where the universe they +experience is merely a dream within a dream. + +_1 Brains in bottles - empowered ones, with total, dictatorial, control over +the reality they are exposed to - sometimes stop engaging in activities that +brains in bodies can't avoid. Menstruation isn't mandatory. Vomiting, angina, +exhaustion, and cramp are all optional. So is meatdeath, the decomposition of +the corpus. But some activities don't cease, because people (even people who +have been converted into a software description, squirted through a +high-bandwidth laser link, and ported into a virtualization stack) don't +/{want}/ them to stop. Breathing is wholly unnecessary, but suppression of the +breathing reflex is disturbing unless you hack your hypothalamic map, and most +homomorphic uploads don't want to do that. Then there's eating - not to avoid +starvation, but for pleasure: Feasts on sautéed dodo seasoned with silphium are +readily available here, and indeed, why not? It seems the human addiction to +sensory input won't go away. And that's without considering sex, and the +technical innovations that become possible when the universe - and the bodies +within it - are mutable. + +* * * + +The public audience with the new arrivals is held in yet another movie: the +Parisian palace of Charles IX, the throne room lifted wholesale from /{La Reine +Margot}/ by Patrice Chéreau. Amber insisted on period authenticity, with the +realism dialed right up to eleven. It's 1572 to the hilt this time, physical to +the max. Pierre grunts in irritation, unaccustomed to his beard. His codpiece +chafes, and sidelong glances tell him he isn't the only member of the royal +court who's uncomfortable. Still, Amber is resplendent in a gown worn by +Isabelle Adjani as Marguerite de Valois, and the luminous sunlight streaming +through the stained-glass windows high above the crowd of actor zimboes lends a +certain barbaric majesty to the occasion. The place is heaving with bodies in +clerical robes, doublets, and low-cut gowns - some of them occupied by real +people. Pierre sniffs again: Someone (Gavin, with his history bug, perhaps?) +has been working on getting the smells right. He hopes like hell that nobody +throws up. At least nobody seems to have come as Catherine de Médicis ... + +A bunch of actors portraying Huguenot soldiers approach the throne on which +Amber is seated: They pace slowly forward, escorting a rather bemused-looking +fellow with long, lank hair and a brocade jacket that appears to be made of +cloth-of-gold. "His lordship, Attorney at Arms Alan Glashwiecz!" announces a +flunky, reading from a parchment, "here at the behest of the most excellent +guild and corporation of Smoot, Sedgwick Associates, with matters of legal +import to discuss with Her Royal Highness!" + +A flourish of trumpets. Pierre glances at Her Royal Highness, who nods +gracefully, but is slightly peaky - it's a humid summer day and her +many-layered robes look very hot. "Welcome to the furthermost soil of the Ring +Imperium," she announces in a clear, ringing voice. "I bid you welcome and +invite you to place your petition before me in full public session of court." + +Pierre directs his attention to Glashwiecz, who appears to be worried. +Doubtless he'd absorbed the basics of court protocol in the Ring (population +all of eighteen thousand back home, a growing little principality), but the +reality of it, a genuine old-fashioned /{monarchy}/ rooted in Amber's three-way +nexus of power, data, and time, always takes a while to sink in. "I would be +pleased to do so," he says, a little stiffly, "but in front of all those -" + +Pierre misses the next bit, because someone has just goosed him on the left +buttock. He starts and half turns to see Su Ang looking past him at the throne, +a lady-in-waiting for the queen. She wears an apricot dress with tight sleeves +and a bodice that bares everything above her nipples. There's a fortune in +pearls roped into her hair. As he notices her, she winks at him. + +Pierre freezes the scene, decoupling them from reality, and she faces him. "Are +we alone now?" she asks. + +"Guess so. You want to talk about something?" he asks, heat rising in his +cheeks. The noise around them is a random susurrus of machine-generated crowd +scenery, the people motionless as their shared reality thread proceeds +independently of the rest of the universe. + +"Of course!" She smiles at him and shrugs. The effect on her chest is +remarkable - those period bodices could give a skeleton a cleavage - and she +winks at him again. "Oh, Pierre." She smiles. "So easily distracted!" She snaps +her fingers, and her clothing cycles through Afghani burqua, nudity, trouser +suit, then back to court finery. Her grin is the only constant. "Now that I've +got your attention, stop looking at me and start looking at /{him}/." + +Even more embarrassed, Pierre follows her outstretched arm all the way to the +momentarily frozen Moorish emissary. "Sadeq?" + +"Sadeq /{knows}/ him, Pierre. This guy, there's something wrong." + +"Shit. You think I don't know that?" Pierre looks at her with annoyance, +embarrassment forgotten. "I've seen him before. Been tracking his involvement +for years. Guy's a front for the Queen Mother. He acted as her divorce lawyer +when she went after Amber's Dad." + +"I'm sorry." Ang glances away. "You haven't been yourself lately, Pierre. I +know it's something wrong between you and the Queen. I was worried. You're not +paying attention to the little details." + +"Who do you think warned Amber?" he asks. + +"Oh. Okay, so you're in the loop," she says. "I'm not sure. Anyway, you've been +distracted. Is there anything I can do to help?" + +"Listen." Pierre puts his hands on her shoulders. She doesn't move, but looks +up into his eyes - Su Ang is only one-sixty tall - and he feels a pang of +something odd: teenage male uncertainty about the friendship of women. /{What +does she want?}/ "I know, and I'm sorry, and I'll try to keep my eyes on the +ball some more, but I've been in my own headspace a lot lately. We ought to go +back into the audience before anybody notices." + +"Do you want to talk about the problem first?" she asks, inviting his +confidence. + +"I -" Pierre shakes his head. /{I could tell her everything}/, he realizes +shakily as his metaconscience prods him urgently. He's got a couple of +agony-aunt agents, but Ang is a real person and a friend. She won't pass +judgment, and her model of human social behavior is a hell of a lot better than +any expert system's. But time is in danger of slipping, and besides, Pierre +feels dirty. "Not now," he says. "Let's go back." + +"Okay." She nods, then turns away, steps behind him with a swish of skirts, and +he unfreezes time again as they snap back into place within the larger +universe, just in time to see the respected visitor serve the queen with a +class-action lawsuit, and the Queen respond by referring adjudication to trial +by combat. + +* * * + +Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, is a brown dwarf, a lump of dirty hydrogen condensed +from a stellar nursery, eight times as massive as Jupiter but not massive +enough to ignite a stable fusion reaction at its core. The relentless crush of +gravity has overcome the mutual repulsion of electrons trapped at its core, +shrinking it into a shell of slush around a sphere of degenerate matter. It's +barely larger than the gas giant the human ship uses as an energy source, but +it's much denser. Gigayears ago, a chance stellar near miss sent it careening +off into the galaxy on its own, condemned to drift in eternal darkness along +with a cluster of frozen moons that dance attendance upon it. + +By the time the /{Field Circus}/ is decelerating toward it at short range - +having shed the primary sail, which drifts farther out into interstellar space +while reflecting light back onto the remaining secondary sail surface to slow +the starwisp - Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, is just under one parsec distant from +Earth, closer even than Proxima Centauri. Utterly dark at visible wavelengths, +the brown dwarf could have drifted through the outer reaches of the solar +system before conventional telescopes would have found it by direct +observation. Only an infrared survey in the early years of the current century +gave it a name. + +A bunch of passengers and crew have gathered on the bridge (now running at +one-tenth of real time) to watch the arrival. Amber sits curled up in the +captain's chair, moodily watching the gathered avatars. Pierre is still +avoiding her at every opportunity, formal audiences excepted, and the damned +shark and his pet hydra aren't invited, but apart from that, most of the gang +is here. There are sixty-three uploads running on the /{Field Circus}/'s +virtualization stack, software copied out of meatbodies who are mostly still +walking around back home. It's a crowd, but it's possible to feel lonely in a +crowd, even when it's your party. And especially when you're worried about +debt, even though you're a billionairess, beneficiary of the human species' +biggest reputations-rating trust fund. Amber's clothing - black leggings, black +sweater - is as dark as her mood. + +"Something troubles you." A hand descends on the back of the chair next to her. + +She glances round momentarily, nods in recognition. "Yeah. Have a seat. You +missed the audience?" + +The thin, brown-skinned man with a neatly cropped beard and deeply lined +forehead slips into the seat next to her. "It was not part of my heritage," he +explains carefully, "although the situation is not unfamiliar." A momentary +smile threatens to crack his stony face. "I found the casting a trifle +disturbing." + +"I'm no Marguerite de Valois, but the vacant role ... let's just say, the cap +fits." Amber leans back in her chair. "Mind you, Marguerite had an +/{interesting}/ life," she muses. + +"Don't you mean depraved and debauched?" her neighbor counters. + +"Sadeq." She closes her eyes. "Let's not pick a fight over absolute morality +just right now, please? We have an orbital insertion to carry out, then an +artifact to locate, and a dialogue to open, and I'm feeling very tired. +Drained." + +"Ah - I apologize." He inclines his head carefully. "Is it your young man's +fault? Has he slighted you?" + +"Not exactly -" Amber pauses. Sadeq, whom she basically invited along as ship's +theologian in case they ran into any gods, has taken up her pastoral well-being +as some kind of hobby. She finds it mildly oppressive at times, flattering at +others, surreal always. Using the quantum search resources available to a +citizen of the Ring Imperium, he's outpublished his peers, been elected a +hojetolislam at an unprecedentedly young age: His original will probably be an +ayatollah by the time they get home. He's circumspect in dealing with cultural +differences, reasons with impeccable logic, carefully avoids antagonizing her - +and constantly seeks to guide her moral development. "It's a personal +misunderstanding," she says. "I'd rather not talk about it until we've sorted +it out." + +"Very well." He looks unsatisfied, but that's normal. Sadeq still has the dusty +soil of a childhood in the industrial city of Yazd stuck to his boots. +Sometimes she wonders if their disagreements don't mirror in miniature the gap +between the early twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. "But back to the +here and now. Do you know where this router is?" + +"I will, in a few minutes or hours." Amber raises her voice, simultaneously +spawning a number of search-ghosts. "Boris! You got any idea where we're +going?" + +Boris lumbers round in place to face her; today he's wearing a velociraptor, +and they don't turn easily in confined spaces. He snarls irritably: "Give me +some space!" He coughs, a threatening noise from the back of his wattled +throat, "Searching the sail's memory now." The back of the soap-bubble-thin +laser sail is saturated with tiny nanocomputers spaced micrometers apart. +Equipped with light receptors and configured as cellular automata, they form a +gigantic phased-array detector, a retina more than a hundred meters in +diameter. Boris is feeding them patterns describing anything that differs from +the unchanging starscape. Soon the memories will condense and return as visions +of darkness in motion - the cold, dead attendants of an aborted sun. + +"But where is it going to be?" asks Sadeq. "Do you know what you are looking +for?" + +"Yes. We should have no trouble finding it," says Amber. "It looks like this." +She flicks an index finger at the row of glass windows that front the bridge. +Her signet ring flashes ruby light, and something indescribably weird shimmers +into view in place of the seascape. Clusters of pearly beads that form helical +chains, disks and whorls of color that interlace and knot through one another, +hang in space above a darkling planet. "Looks like a William Latham sculpture +made out of strange matter, doesn't it?" + +"Very abstract," Sadeq says approvingly. + +"It's alive," she adds. "And when it gets close enough to see us, it'll try to +eat us." + +"What?" Sadeq sits up uneasily. + +"You mean nobody told you?" asks Amber: "I thought we'd briefed everybody." She +throws a glistening golden pomegranate at him, and he catches it. The apple of +knowledge dissolves in his hand, and he sits in a haze of ghosts absorbing +information on his behalf. "Damn," she adds mildly. + +Sadeq freezes in place. Glyphs of crumbling stonework overgrown with ivy +texture his skin and his dark suit, warning that he's busy in another private +universe. + +"/{Hrrrr!}/ Boss! Found something," calls Boris, drooling on the bridge floor. + +Amber glances up. /{Please, let it be the router}/, she thinks. "Put it on the +main screen." + +"Are you sure this is safe?" Su Ang asks nervously. + +"Nothing is safe," Boris snaps, clattering his huge claws on the deck. "Here. +Look." + +The view beyond the windows flips to a perspective on a dusty bluish horizon: +swirls of hydrogen brushed with a high cirrus of white methane crystals, +stirred above the freezing point of oxygen by Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},'s +residual rotation. The image-intensification level is huge - a naked human +eyeball would see nothing but blackness. Rising above the limb of the gigantic +planet is a small pale disk: Callidice, largest moon of the brown dwarf - or +second-innermost planet - a barren rock slightly larger than Mercury. The +screen zooms in on the moon, surging across a landscape battered by craters and +dusted with the spume of ice volcanoes. Finally, just above the far horizon, +something turquoise shimmers and spins against a backdrop of frigid darkness. + +"That's it," Amber whispers, her stomach turning to jelly as all the terrible +might-have-beens dissolve like phantoms of the night around her; "That's +/{it}/!" Elated, she stands up, wanting to share the moment with everybody she +values. "Wake up, Sadeq! Someone get that damned cat in here! Where's Pierre? +He's got to see this!" + +* * * + +Night and revelry rule outside the castle. The crowds are drunken and rowdy on +the eve of the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre. Fireworks burst overhead, and +the open windows admit a warm breeze redolent of cooked meats, woodsmoke, open +sewers. Meanwhile a lover steals up a tightly-spiraling stone staircase in the +near dark; his goal, a prarranged rendezvous. He's been drinking, and his best +linen shirt shows the stains of sweat and food. He pauses at the third window +to breathe in the outside air and run both hands through his mane of hair, +which is long, unkempt, and grimy. /{Why am I doing this?}/ he wonders. This is +so unlike him, this messing around - + +He carries on up the spiral. At the top, an oak door gapes on a vestibule lit +by a lantern hanging from a hook. He ventures inside into a reception room +paneled in oak blackened by age. Crossing the threshold makes another crossover +kick in by prior arrangement. Something other than his own volition steers his +feet, and he feels an unfamiliar throb in his chest, anticipation and a warmth +and looseness lower down that makes him cry out, "where are you?" + +"Over here." He sees her waiting for him in the doorway. She's partially +undressed, wearing layered underskirts and a flat-chested corset that makes the +tops of her breasts swell like lustrous domes. Her tight sleeves are +half-unraveled, her hair disheveled. He's full of her brilliant eyes, the +constriction holding her spine straight, the taste in her mouth. She's the +magnet for his reality, impossibly alluring, so tense she could burst. "Is it +working for you?" she asks. + +"Yes." he feels tight, breathless, squeezed between impossibility and desire as +he walks toward her. They've experimented with gender play, trying on the +extreme dimorphism of this period as a game, but this is the first time they've +done it this way. She opens her mouth: He kisses her, feels the warmth of his +tongue thrust between her lips, the strength of his arms enclosing her waist. + +She leans against him, feeling his erection. "So this is how it feels to be +you," she says wonderingly. The door to her chamber is ajar, but she doesn't +have the self-restraint to wait: The flood of new sensations - rerouted from +her physiology model to his proprioceptive sensorium - has taken hold. She +grinds her hips against him, pushing deeper into his arms, whining softly at +the back of her throat as she feels the fullness in his balls, the tension of +his penis. He nearly faints with the rich sensations of her body - it's as if +he's dissolving, feeling the throbbing hardness against his groin, turning to +water and running away. Somehow he gets his arms around her waist - so tight, +so breathless - and stumbles forward into the bedroom. She's whimpering as he +drops her on the over-stuffed mattress: "/{Do}/ it to me!" she demands, "Do it +now!" + +Somehow he ends up on top of her, hose down around his ankles, skirts bundled +up around her waist; she kisses him, grinding her hips against him and +murmuring urgent nothings. Then his heart is in his mouth, and there's a +sensation like the universe pushing into his private parts, so inside out it +takes his breath away. It's hot and as hard as rock, and he wants it inside so +badly, but at the same time it's an intrusion, frightening and unexpected. He +feels the lightning touch of his tongue on her nipples as he leans closer, +feels exposed and terrified and ecstatic as her private places take in his +member. As he begins to dissolve into the universe he screams in the privacy of +his own head, /{I didn't know it felt like this}/ - + +Afterward, she turns to him with a lazy smile, and asks, "How was it for you?" +Obviously assuming that, if she enjoyed it, he must have, too. + +But all he can think of is the sensation of the universe thrusting into him, +and of how /{good}/ it felt. All he can hear is his father yelling ("What are +you, some kind of queer?") - and he feels dirty. + +* * * + +_1 Greetings from the last megasecond before the discontinuity. + +_1 The solar system is thinking furiously at 10^33^ MIPS - thoughts bubble and +swirl in the equivalent of a million billion unaugmented human minds. Saturn's +rings glow with waste heat. The remaining faithful of the Latter-Day Saints are +correlating the phase-space of their genome and the records of their descent in +an attempt to resurrect their ancestors. Several skyhooks have unfurled in +equatorial orbit around the earth like the graceful fernlike leaves of sundews, +ferrying cargo and passengers to and from orbit. Small, crab like robots swarm +the surface of Mercury, exuding a black slime of photovoltaic converters and +the silvery threads of mass drivers. A glowing cloud of industrial nanomes +forms a haze around the innermost planet as it slowly shrinks under the +onslaught of copious solar power and determined mining robots. + +_1 The original incarnations of Amber and her court float in high orbit above +Jupiter, presiding over the huge nexus of dumb matter trade that is rapidly +biting into the available mass of the inner Jovian system. The trade in +reaction mass is brisk, and there are shipments of diamond/vacuum biphase +structures to assemble and crank down into the lower reaches of the solar +system. Far below, skimming the edges of Jupiter's turbulent cloudscape, a +gigantic glowing figure-of-eight - a five-hundred-kilometer-long loop of +superconducting cable - traces incandescent trails through the gas giant's +magnetosphere. It's trading momentum for electrical current, diverting it into +a fly's eye grid of lasers that beam it toward Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},. As +long as the original Amber and her incarnate team can keep it running, the +/{Field Circus}/ can continue its mission of discovery, but they're part of the +posthuman civilization evolving down in the turbulent depths of Sol system, +part of the runaway train being dragged behind the out-of-control engine of +history. + +_1 Weird new biologies based on complex adaptive matter take shape in the +sterile oceans of Titan. In the frigid depths beyond Pluto, supercooled boson +gases condense into impossible dreaming structures, packaged for shipping +inward to the fast-thinking core. + +_1 There are still humans dwelling down in the hot depths, but it's getting +hard to recognize them. The lot of humanity before the twenty-first century was +nasty, brutish, and short. Chronic malnutrition, lack of education, and endemic +diseases led to crippled minds and broken bodies. Now, most people multitask: +Their meatbrains sit at the core of a haze of personality, much of it +virtualized on stacked layers of structured reality far from their physical +bodies. Wars and revolutions, or their subtle latter-day cognates, sweep the +globe as constants become variables; many people find the death of stupidity +even harder to accept than the end of mortality. Some have vitrified themselves +to await an uncertain posthuman future. Others have modified their core +identities to better cope with the changed demands of reality. Among these are +beings whom nobody from a previous century would recognize as human - +human/corporation half-breeds, zombie clades dehumanized by their own +optimizations, angels and devils of software, slyly self-aware financial +instruments. Even their popular fictions are self-deconstructing these days. + +_1 None of this, other than the barest news summary, reaches the /{Field +Circus}/: The starwisp is a fossil, left behind by the broad sweep of +accelerating progress. But it is aboard the /{Field Circus}/ that some of the +most important events remaining in humanity's future light cone take place. + +* * * + +"Say hello to the jellyfish, Boris." + +Boris, in human drag, for once, glares at Pierre, and grips the pitcher with +both hands. The contents of the jug swirl their tentacles lazily: One of them +flips almost out of solution, dislodging an impaled cocktail cherry. "Will get +you for this," Boris threatens. The smoky air around his head is a-swirl with +daemonic visions of vengeance. + +Su Ang stares intently at Pierre who is watching Boris as he raises the jug to +his lips and begins to drink. The baby jellyfish - small, pale blue, with +cuboid bells and four clusters of tentacles trailing from each corner - slips +down easily. Boris winces momentarily as the nematocysts let rip inside his +mouth, but in a moment or so, the cubozoan slips down, and in the meantime, his +biophysics model clips the extent of the damage to his stinger-ruptured +oropharynx. + +"Wow," he says, taking another slurp of sea wasp margaritas. "Don't try this at +home, fleshboy." + +"Here." Pierre reaches out. "Can I?" + +"Invent your own damn poison," Boris sneers - but he releases the jug and +passes it to Pierre, who raises it and drinks. The cubozoan cocktail reminds +him of fruit jelly drinks in a hot Hong Kong summer. The stinging in his palate +is sharp but fades rapidly, producing an intimate burn when the alcohol hits +the mild welts that are all this universe will permit the lethal medusa to +inflict on him. + +"Not bad," says Pierre, wiping a stray loop of tentacle off his chin. He pushes +the pitcher across the table toward Su Ang. "What's with the wicker man?" He +points a thumb over his back at the table jammed in the corner opposite the +copper-topped bar. + +"Who cares?" asks Boris."'S part of the scenery, isn't it?" + +The bar is a three-hundred-year-old brown café with a beer menu that runs to +sixteen pages and wooden walls stained the color of stale ale. The air is thick +with the smells of tobacco, brewer's yeast, and melatonin spray: and none of it +exists. Amber dragged it out of the Franklin borg's collective memories, by way +of her father's scattershot e-mails annotating her corporeal origins - the +original is in Amsterdam, if that city still exists. + +"/{I}/ care who it is," says Pierre. + +"Save it," Ang says quietly. "I think it's a lawyer with a privacy screen." + +Pierre glances over his shoulder and glares. "Really?" + +Ang puts a restraining hand on his wrist: "Really. Don't pay it any attention. +You don't have to, until the trial, you know." + +The wicker man sits uneasily in the corner. It resembles a basket-weave +silhouette made from dried reeds, dressed in a red kerchief. A glass of +doppelbock fills the mess of tied-off ends where its right hand ought to be. +From time to time, it raises the glass as if to take a mouthful, and the beer +vanishes into the singular interior. + +"Fuck the trial," Pierre says shortly. /{And fuck Amber, too, for naming me her +public defender}/ - + +"Since when do lawsuits come with an invisible man?" asks Donna the Journalist, +blitting into the bar along with a patchy historical trail hinting that she's +just come from the back room. + +"Since -" Pierre blinks. "Hell." When Donna entered, so did Aineko; or maybe +the cat's been there all the time, curled up loaf-of-bread fashion on the table +in front of the wicker man. "You're damaging the continuity," Pierre complains. +"This universe is broken." + +"Fix it yourself," Boris tells him. "Everybody else is coping." He snaps his +fingers. "Waiter!" + +"Excuse me." Donna shakes her head. "I didn't mean to harm anything." + +Ang, as always, is more accommodating. "How are you?" she asks politely: "Would +you like to try this most excellent poison cocktail?" + +"I am well," says Donna. A heavily built German woman - blonde and solidly +muscular, according to the avatar she's presenting to the public - she's +surrounded by a haze of viewpoints. They're camera angles on her society of +mind, busily integrating and splicing her viewpoint threads together in an +endless journal of the journey. A stringer for the CIA media consortium, she +uploaded to the ship in the same packet stream as the lawsuit. "/{Danke}/, +Ang." + +"Are you recording right now?" asks Boris. + +Donna sniffs. "When am I not?" A momentary smile: "I am only a scanner, no? +Five hours, until arrival, to go. I may stop after then." Pierre glances across +the table at Su Ang's hands; her knuckles are white and tense. "I am to avoid +missing anything if possible," Donna continues, oblivious to Ang's disquiet. +"There are eight of me at present! All recording away." + +"That's all?" Ang asks, raising an eyebrow. + +"Yes, that is all, and I have a job to do! Don't tell me you do not enjoy what +it is that you do here?" + +"Right." Pierre glances in the corner again, avoiding eye contact with the +hearty Girl Friday wannabe. He has a feeling, that if there were any hills +hereabouts to animate, she'd be belting out the music. "Amber told you about +the privacy code here?" + +"There is a privacy code?" asks Donna, swinging at least three subjective +ghosts to bear on him for some reason - evidently he's hit an issue she has +mixed feelings about. + +"A privacy code," Pierre confirms. "No recording in private, no recording where +people withhold permission in public, and no sandboxes and cutups." + +Donna looks offended. "I would never do such a thing! Trapping a copy of +someone in a virtual space to record their responses would be assault under +Ring legal code, not true?" + +"Your mother," Boris says snidely, brandishing a fresh jug of iced killer +jellyfish in her direction. + +"As long as we all agree," Ang interrupts, searching for accord. "It's all +going to be settled soon, isn't it?" + +"Except for the lawsuit," mutters Pierre, glancing at the corner again. + +"I don't see the problem," says Donna, "that's just between Amber and her +downlink adversaries!" + +"Oh, it's a problem all right," says Boris, his tone light. "What are your +options worth?" + +"My -" Donna shakes her head. "I'm not vested." + +"Plausible." Boris doesn't crack a smile. "Even so, when we go home, your +credibility metric will bulge. Assuming people still use distributed trust +markets to evaluate the stability of their business partners." + +/{Not vested}/. Pierre turns it over in his mind, slightly surprised. He'd +assumed that everybody aboard the ship - except, perhaps, the lawyer, +Glashwiecz - was a fully vested member of the expeditionary company. + +"I am not vested," Donna insists. "I'm listed independently." For a moment, an +almost-smile tugs at her face, a charmingly reticent expression that has +nothing to do with her bluff exterior. "Like the cat." + +"The -" Pierre turns round in a hurry. Yes, Aineko appears to be sitting +silently at the table with the wicker man; but who knows what's going through +that furry head right now? /{I'll have to bring this up with Amber, he realizes +uneasily. I ought to bring this up with Amber}/ ... "but your reputation won't +suffer for being on this craft, will it?" he asks aloud. + +"I will be all right," Donna declares. The waiter comes over: "Mine will be a +bottle of schneiderweisse," she adds. And then, without breaking step: "Do you +believe in the singularity?" + +"Am I a singularitarian, do you mean?" asks Pierre, a fixed grin coming to his +face. + +"Oh, no, no, no!" Donna waves him down, grins broadly, nods at Su Ang: "I do +not mean it like that! Attend: What I meant to ask was whether you in the +concept of a singularity believe, and if so, where it is?" + +"Is this intended for a public interview?" asks Ang. + +"Well, I cannot into a simulation drag you off and expose you to an imitative +reality excursion, can I?" Donna leans back as the bartender places a ceramic +stein in front of her. + +"Oh. Well." Ang glances warningly at Pierre and dispatches a very private memo +to scroll across his vision: /{Don't play with her, this is serious}/. Boris is +watching Ang with an expression of hopeless longing. Pierre tries to ignore it +all, taking the journalist's question seriously. "The singularity is a bit like +that old-time American Christian rapture nonsense, isn't it?" he says. "When we +all go a-flying up to heaven, leaving our bodies behind." He snorts, reaches +into thin air and gratuitously violates causality by summoning a jug of +ice-cold sangria into existence. "The rapture of the nerds. I'll drink to +that." + +"But when did it take place?" asks Donna. "My audience, they will to know your +opinion be needing." + +"Four years ago, when we instantiated this ship," Pierre says promptly. + +"Back in the teens," says Ang. "When Amber's father liberated the uploaded +lobsters." + +"Is not happening yet," contributes Boris. "Singularity implies infinite rate +of change achieved momentarily. Future not amenable thereafter to prediction by +presingularity beings, right? So has not happened." + +"Au contraire. It happened on June 6th, 1969, at eleven hundred hours, eastern +seaboard time," Pierre counters. "That was when the first network control +protocol packets were sent from the data port of one IMP to another - the first +ever Internet connection. /{That's}/ the singularity. Since then we've all been +living in a universe that was impossible to predict from events prior to that +time." + +"It's rubbish," counters Boris. "Singularity is load of religious junk. +Christian mystic rapture recycled for atheist nerds." + +"Not so." Su Ang glances at him, hurt. "Here we are, sixty something human +minds. We've been migrated - while still awake - right out of our own heads +using an amazing combination of nanotechnology and electron spin resonance +mapping, and we're now running as software in an operating system designed to +virtualize multiple physics models and provide a simulation of reality that +doesn't let us go mad from sensory deprivation! And this whole package is about +the size of a fingertip, crammed into a starship the size of your grandmother's +old Walkman, in orbit around a brown dwarf just over three light-years from +home, on its way to plug into a network router created by incredibly ancient +alien intelligences, and you can tell me that the idea of a fundamental change +in the human condition is nonsense?" + +"Mmph." Boris looks perplexed. "Would not put it that way. The /{singularity}/ +is nonsense, not uploading or -" + +"Yah, right." Ang smiles winningly at Boris. After a moment, he wilts. + +Donna beams at them enthusiastically. "Fascinating!" she enthuses. "Tell me, +what are these lobsters you think are important?" + +"They're Amber's friends," Ang explains. "Years ago, Amber's father did a deal +with them. They were the first uploads, you know? Hybridized spiny lobster +neural tissue and a heuristic API and some random mess of backward-chaining +expert systems. They got out of their lab and into the Net and Manfred brokered +a deal to set them free, in return for their help running a Franklin orbital +factory. This was way back in the early days before they figured out how to do +self-assembly properly. Anyway, the lobsters insisted - part of their contract +- that Bob Franklin pay to have the deep-space tracking network beam them out +into interstellar space. They wanted to emigrate, and looking at what's +happened to the solar system since then, who can blame them?" + +Pierre takes a big mouthful of sangria. "The cat," he says. + +"The cat -" Donna's head swivels round, but Aineko has banged out again, +retroactively editing her presence out of the event history of this public +space. "What about the cat?" + +"The /{family}/ cat," explains Ang. She reaches over for Boris's pitcher of +jellyfish juice, but frowns as she does so: "Aineko wasn't conscious back then, +but later ... when SETI@home finally received that message back, oh, however +many years ago, Aineko remembered the lobsters. And cracked it wide open while +all the CETI teams were still thinking in terms of von Neumann architectures +and concept-oriented programming. The message was a semantic net designed to +mesh perfectly with the lobster broadcast all those years ago, and provide a +high-level interface to a communications network we're going to visit." She +squeezes Boris's fingertips. "SETI@home logged these coordinates as the origin +of the transmission, even though the public word was that the message came from +a whole lot farther away - they didn't want to risk a panic if people knew +there were aliens on our cosmic doorstep. Anyway, once Amber got established, +she decided to come visiting. Hence this expedition. Aineko created a virtual +lobster and interrogated the ET packet, hence the communications channel we're +about to open." + +"Ah, this is all a bit clearer now," says Donna. "But the lawsuit - " She +glances at the hollow wicker man in the corner. + +"Well, there we have a problem," Ang says diplomatically. + +"No," says Pierre. "/{I}/ have a problem. And it's all Amber's fault." + +"Hmm?" Donna stares at him. "Why blame the Queen?" + +"Because she's the one who picked the lunar month to be the reporting time +period for companies in her domain, and specified trial by combat for resolving +corporate conflicts," he grumbles. "And /{compurgation}/, but that's not +applicable to this case because there isn't a recognized reputation server +within three light-years. Trial by combat, for civil suits in this day and age! +And she appointed me her champion." /{In the most traditional way imaginable}/, +he remembers with a warm frisson of nostalgia. He'd been hers in body and soul +before that disastrous experiment. He isn't sure whether it still applies, but +- "I've got to take on this lawsuit on her behalf, in adversarial stance." + +He glances over his shoulder. The wicker man sits there placidly, pouring beer +down his invisible throat like a tired farm laborer. + +"Trial by combat," Su Ang explains to Donna's perplexed ghost-swarm, which is +crawling all over the new concept in a haze of confusion. "Not physical combat, +but a competition of ability. It seemed like a good idea at the time, to keep +junk litigants out of the Ring Imperium, but the Queen Mother's lawyers are +/{very}/ persistent. Probably because it's taken on something of a grudge match +quality over the years. I don't think Pamela cares much anymore, but this +ass-hat lawyer has turned it into a personal crusade. I don't think he liked +what happened when the music Mafiya caught up with him. But there's a bit more +to it, because if he wins, he gets to own everything. And I mean +/{everything}/." + +* * * + +Ten million kilometers out and Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, looms beyond the +parachute-shaped sail of the /{Field Circus}/ like a rind of darkness bitten +out of the edge of the universe. Heat from the gravitational contraction of its +core keeps it warm, radiating at six hundred degrees absolute, but the paltry +emission does nothing to break the eternal ice that grips Callidice, Iambe, +Celeus, and Metaneira, the stillborn planets locked in orbit around the brown +dwarf. + +Planets aren't the only structures that orbit the massive sphere of hydrogen. +Close in, skimming the cloud tops by only twenty thousand kilometers, Boris's +phased-array eye has blinked at something metallic and hot. Whatever it is, it +orbits out of the ecliptic plane traced by the icy moons, and in the wrong +direction. Farther out, a speckle of reflected emerald laser light picks out a +gaudy gem against the starscape: their destination, the router. + +"That's it," says Boris. His body shimmers into humanity, retconning the pocket +universe of the bridge into agreeing that he's been present in primate form all +along. Amber glances sideways. Sadeq is still wrapped in ivy, his skin the +texture of weathered limestone. "Closest approach is sixty-three light-seconds, +due in eight hundred thousand. Can give you closer contact if we maneuver, but +will take time to achieve a stable orbit." + +Amber nods thoughtfully, sending copies of herself out to work the mechanics. +The big light sail is unwieldy, but can take advantage of two power sources: +the original laser beam from Jupiter, and its reflection bouncing off the +now-distant primary light sail. The temptation is to rely on the laser for +constant acceleration, to just motor on in and squat on the router's cosmic +doorstep. But the risk of beam interruption is too dangerous. It's happened +before, for seconds to minutes at a time, on six occasions during the voyage so +far. She's not sure what causes the beam downtime (Pierre has a theory about +Oort cloud objects occulting the laser, but she figures it's more likely to be +power cuts back at the Ring), but the consequences of losing power while +maneuvering deep in a quasi-stellar gravity well are much more serious than a +transient loss of thrust during free interstellar flight. "Let's just play it +safe," she says. "We'll go for a straight orbital insertion and steady cranking +after that. We've got enough gravity wells to play pinball with. I don't want +us on a free-flight trajectory that entails lithobraking if we lose power and +can't get the sail back." + +"Very prudent," Boris agrees. "Marta, work on it." A buzzing presence of +not-insects indicates that the heteromorphic helmswoman is on the job. "I think +we should be able to take our first close-in look in about two million seconds, +but if you want, I can ping it now ...?" + +"No need for protocol analysis," Amber says casually. "Where's - ah, there you +are." She reaches down and picks up Aineko, who twists round sinuously and +licks her arm with a tongue like sandpaper. "What do you think?" + +"Do you want fries with that?" asks the cat, focusing on the artifact at the +center of the main screen in front of the bridge. + +"No, I just want a conversation," says Amber. + +"Well, okay." The cat dims, moves jerkily, sucking up local processing power so +fast that it disturbs the local physics model. "Opening port now." + +A subjective minute or two passes. "Where's Pierre?" Amber asks herself +quietly. Some of the maintenance metrics she can read from her privileged +viewpoint are worrying. The /{Field Circus}/ is running at almost eighty +percent of utilization. Whatever Aineko is doing in order to establish the +interface to the router, it's taking up an awful lot of processing power and +bandwidth. "And where's the bloody lawyer?" she adds, almost as an +afterthought. + +The /{Field Circus}/ is small, but its light sail is highly controllable. +Aineko takes over a cluster of cells in its surface, turning them from straight +reflectors into phase-conjugate mirrors: A small laser on the ship's hull +begins to flicker thousands of times a second, and the beam bounces off the +modified segment of mirror, focusing to a coherent point right in front of the +distant blue dot of the router. Aineko ramps up the modulation frequency, adds +a bundle of channels using different wavelengths, and starts feeding out a +complex set of preplanned signals that provide an encoding format for +high-level data. + +% check point + +"Leave the lawyer to me." She starts, glancing sideways to see Sadeq watching +her. He smiles without showing his teeth. "Lawyers do not mix with diplomacy," +he explains. + +"Huh." Ahead of them, the router is expanding. Strings of nacreous spheres curl +in strange loops around a hidden core, expanding and turning inside out in +systolic pulses that spawn waves of recomplication through the structure. A +loose red speckle of laser light stains one arm of beads; suddenly it flares up +brilliantly, reflecting data back at the ship. "Ah!" + +"Contact," purrs the cat. Amber's fingertips turn white where she grips the +arms of her chair. + +"What does it say?" she asks, quietly. + +"What do /{they}/ say," corrects Aineko. "It's a trade delegation, and they're +uploading right now. I can use that negotiation network they sent us to give +them an interface to our systems if you want." + +"Wait!" Amber half stands in sudden nervousness. "Don't give them free access! +What are you thinking of? Stick them in the throne room, and we'll give them a +formal audience in a couple of hours." She pauses. "That network layer they +sent through. Can you make it accessible to us, use it to give us a translation +layer into their grammar-mapping system?" + +The cat looks round, thumps her tail irritably: "You'd do better loading the +network yourself -" + +"I don't want /{anybody}/ on this ship running alien code before we've vetted +it thoroughly," she says urgently. "In fact, I want them bottled up in the +Louvre grounds, just as thoroughly as we can, and I want them to come to us +through our own linguistic bottleneck. Got that?" + +"Clear," Aineko grumbles. + +"A trade delegation," Amber thinks aloud. "What would Dad make of that?" + +* * * + +One moment he's in the bar, shooting bull with Su Ang and Donna the +Journalist's ghost and a copy of Boris; the next he's abruptly precipitated +into a very different space. + +Pierre's heart seems to tumble within his rib cage, but he forces himself to +stay calm as he glances around the dim, oak-paneled chamber. This is wrong, so +wrong that it signifies either a major systems crash or the application of +frightening privilege levels to his realm. The only person aboard who's +entitled to those privileges is - + +"Pierre?" + +She's behind him. He turns angrily. "Why did you drag me in here? Don't you +know it's rude to -" + +"Pierre." + +He stops and looks at Amber. He can't stay angry at her for long, not to her +face. She's not dumb enough to bat her eyelashes at him, but she's disarmingly +cute for all that. Nevertheless, something inside him feels shriveled and +/{wrong}/ in her presence. "What is it?" he says, curtly. + +"I don't know why you've been avoiding me." She starts to take a step forward, +then stops and bites her lip. /{Don't do this to me!}/ he thinks. "You know it +hurts?" + +"Yes." That much of an admission hurts him, too. He can hear his father yelling +over his shoulder, the time he found him with Laurent, elder brother: It's a +choice between père or Amber, but it's not a choice he wants to make. /{The +shame}/. "I didn't - I have some issues." + +"It was the other night?" + +He nods. /{Now}/ she takes a step forwards. "We can talk about it, if you want. +Whatever you want," she says. And she leans toward him, and he feels his +resistance crumbling. He reaches out and hugs her, and she wraps her arms +around him and leans her chin on his shoulder, and this doesn't feel wrong: How +can anything this good be bad? + +"It made me uncomfortable," he mumbles into her hair. "Need to sort myself +out." + +"Oh, Pierre." She strokes the down at the back of his neck. "You should have +said. We don't have to do it that way if you don't want to." + +How to tell her how hard it is to admit that anything's wrong? Ever? "You +didn't drag me here to tell me that," he says, implicitly changing the subject. + +Amber lets go of him, backs away almost warily. "What is it?" she asks. + +"Something's wrong?" he half asks, half asserts. "Have we made contact yet?" + +"Yeah," she says, pulling a face. "There's an alien trade delegation in the +Louvre. That's the problem." + +"An alien trade delegation." He rolls the words around the inside of his mouth, +tasting them. They feel paradoxical, cold and slow after the hot words of +passion he's been trying to avoid uttering. It's his fault for changing the +subject. + +"A trade delegation," says Amber. "I should have anticipated. I mean, we were +going to go through the router ourselves, weren't we?" + +He sighs. "We thought we were going to do that." A quick prod at the universe's +controls determines that he has certain capabilities: He invokes an armchair, +sprawls across it. "A network of point-to-point wormholes linking routers, +self-replicating communication hubs, in orbit around most of the brown dwarfs +of the galaxy. That's what the brochure said, right? That's what we expected. +Limited bandwidth, not a lot of use to a mature superintelligence that has +converted the free mass of its birth solar system into computronium, but +sufficient to allow it to hold conversations with its neighbors. Conversations +carried out via a packet-switched network in real time, not limited by the +speed of light, but bound together by a common reference frame and the latency +between network hops." + +"That's about the size of it," she agrees from the carved-ruby throne beside +him. "Except there's a trade delegation waiting for us. In fact, they're coming +aboard already. And I don't buy it - something about the whole setup stinks." + +Pierre's brow wrinkles. "You're right, it doesn't make sense," he says, +finally. "Doesn't make sense at all." + +Amber nods. "I carry a ghost of Dad around. He's really upset about it." + +"Listen to your old man." Pierre's lips quirk humorlessly. "We were going to +jump through the looking glass, but it seems someone has beaten us to the +punch. Question is why?" + +"I don't like it." Amber reaches out sideways, and he catches her hand. "And +then there's the lawsuit. We have to hold the trial sooner rather than later." + +He lets go of her fingers. "I'd really be much happier if you hadn't named me +as your champion." + +"Hush." The scenery changes; her throne is gone, and instead she's sitting on +the arm of his chair, almost on top of him. "Listen. I had a good reason." + +"Reason?" + +"You have choice of weapons. In fact, you have the choice of the field. This +isn't just 'hit 'em with a sword until they die' time." She grins, impishly. +"The whole point of a legal system that mandates trial by combat for commercial +lawsuits, as opposed to an adjudication system, is to work out who's a fitter +servant of society and hence deserving of preferential treatment. It's crazy to +apply the same legal model to resolving corporate disputes that we use for +arguments among people, especially as most companies are now software +abstractions of business models; the interests of society are better served by +a system that encourages efficient trade activity than by one that encourages +litigation. It cuts down on corporate bullshit while encouraging the toughest +ones to survive, which is why I /{was}/ going to set up the trial as a contest +to achieve maximum competitive advantage in a xenocommerce scenario. Assuming +they really are traders, I figure we have more to trade with them than some +damn lawyer from the depths of earth's light cone." + +Pierre blinks. "Um." Blinks again. "I thought you wanted me to sideload some +kind of fencing kinematics program and /{skewer}/ the guy?" + +"Knowing how well I know you, why did you ever think that?" She slides down the +arm of his chair and lands on his lap. She twists round to face him in +point-blank close-up. "Shit, Pierre, I /{know}/ you're not some kind of macho +psychopath!" + +"But your mother's lawyers -" + +She shrugs dismissively. "They're /{lawyers}/. Used to dealing with precedents. +Best way to fuck with their heads is to change the way the universe works." She +leans against his chest. "You'll make mincemeat of them. Profit-to-earnings +ratio through the roof, blood on the stock exchange floor." His hands meet +around the small of her back. "My hero!" + +* * * + +The Tuileries are full of confused lobsters. + +Aineko has warped this virtual realm, implanting a symbolic gateway in the +carefully manicured gardens outside. The gateway is about two meters in +diameter, a verdigris-coated orouborous loop of bronze that sits like an +incongruous archway astride a gravel path in the grounds. Giant black lobsters +- each the size of a small pony - shuffle out of the loop's baby blue buffer +field, antennae twitching. They wouldn't be able to exist in the real world, +but the physics model here has been amended to permit them to breathe and move, +by special dispensation. + +Amber sniffs derisively as she enters the great reception room of the Sully +wing. "Can't trust that cat with anything," she mutters. + +"It was your idea, wasn't it?" asks Su Ang, trying to duck past the zombie +ladies-in-waiting who carry Amber's train. Soldiers line the passage to either +side, forming rows of steel to let the Queen pass unhindered. + +"To let the cat have its way, yes," Amber is annoyed. "But I didn't mean to let +it wreck the continuity! I won't have it!" + +"I never saw the point of all this medievalism, before," Ang observes. "It's +not as if you can avoid the singularity by hiding in the past." Pierre, +following the Queen at a distance, shakes his head, knowing better than to pick +a fight with Amber over her idea of stage scenery. + +"It looks good," Amber says tightly, standing before her throne and waiting for +the ladies-in-waiting to arrange themselves before her. She sits down +carefully, her back straight as a ruler, voluminous skirts belling up. Her +dress is an intricate piece of sculpture that uses the human body within as a +support. "It impresses the yokels and looks convincing on narrowcast media. It +provides a prefabricated sense of tradition. It hints at the political depths +of fear and loathing intrinsic to my court's activities, and tells people not +to fuck with me. It reminds us where we've come from ... and it doesn't give +away anything about where we're going." + +"But that doesn't make any difference to a bunch of alien lobsters," points out +Su Ang. "They lack the reference points to understand it." She moves to stand +behind the throne. Amber glances at Pierre, waves him over. + +Pierre glances around, seeking real people, not the vacant eigenfaces of the +zombies that give this scenery added biological texture. There in the red gown, +isn't that Donna the Journalist? And over there, too, with shorter hair and +wearing male drag; she gets everywhere. That's Boris, sitting behind the +bishop. + +"/{You}/ tell her," Ang implores him. + +"I can't," he admits. "We're trying to establish communication, aren't we? But +we don't want to give too much away about what we are, how we think. A +historical distancing act will keep them from learning too much about us: The +phase-space of technological cultures that could have descended from these +roots is too wide to analyse easily. So we're leaving them with the lobster +translators and not giving anything away. Try to stay in character as a +fifteenth-century duchess from Albì - it's a matter of national security." + +"Humph." Ang frowns as a flunky hustles forward to place a folding chair behind +her. She turns to face the expanse of red-and-gold carpet that stretches to the +doorway as trumpets blat and the doors swing open to admit the deputation of +lobsters. + +The lobsters are as large as wolves, black and spiny and ominous. Their +monochrome carapaces are at odds with the brightly colored garb of the human +crowd. Their antennae are large and sharp as swords. But for all that, they +advance hesitantly, eye turrets swiveling from side to side as they take the +scene in. Their tails drag ponderously on the carpet, but they have no trouble +standing. + +The first of the lobsters halts short of the throne and angles itself to train +an eye on Amber. "Am inconsistent," it complains. "There is no liquid hydrogen +monoxide here, and you-species am misrepresented by initial contact. +Inconsistency, explain?" + +"Welcome to the human physical space-traveling interface unit /{Field +Circus}/," Amber replies calmly. "I am pleased to see your translator is +working adequately. You are correct, there is no water here. The lobsters don't +normally need it when they visit us. And we humans are not water-dwellers. May +I ask who you are when you're not wearing borrowed lobster bodies?" + +Confusion. The second lobster rears up and clatters its long, armored antennae +together. Soldiers to either side tighten their grips on their spears, but it +drops back down again soon enough. + +"We are the Wunch," announces the first lobster, speaking clearly. "This is a +body-compliant translation layer. Based on map received from yourspace, units +forty thousand trillion light-kilometers ago?" + +"/{He means twenty years}/," Pierre whispers on a private channel Amber has +multicast for the other real humans in the audience chamber reality. "/{They've +confused space and time for measurement purposes. Does this tell us +something?}/" + +"/{Relatively little}/," comments someone else - Chandra? A round of polite +laughter greets the joke, and the tension in the room eases slightly. + +"We are the Wunch," the lobster repeats. "We come to exchange interest. What +have you got that we want?" + +Faint frown lines appear on Amber's forehead. Pierre can see her thinking very +rapidly. "We consider it impolite to ask," she says quietly. + +Clatter of claws on underlying stone floor. Chatter of clicking mandibles. "You +accept our translation?" asks the leader. + +"Are you referring to the transmission you sent us, uh, thirty thousand +trillion light-kilometers behind?" asks Amber. + +The lobster bobs up and down on its legs. "True. We send." + +"We cannot integrate that network," Amber replies blandly, and Pierre forces +himself to keep a straight face. (Not that the lobsters can read human body +language yet, but they'll undoubtedly be recording everything that happens here +for future analysis.) "They come from a radically different species. Our goal +in coming here is to connect our species to the network. We wish to exchange +advantageous information with many other species." + +Concern, alarm, agitation. "You cannot do that! You are not /{untranslatable +entity signifier}/." + +Amber raises a hand. "You said /{untranslatable entity signifier}/. I did not +understand that. Can you paraphrase?" + +"We, like you, are not /{untranslatable entity signifier}/. The network is for +/{untranslatable entity signifier}/. We are to the /{untranslatable concept +#1}/ as a single-celled organism is to ourselves. You and we cannot +/{untranslatable concept #2}/. To attempt trade with /{untranslatable entity +signifier}/ is to invite death or transition to /{untranslatable concept #1}/." + +Amber snaps her fingers: time freezes. She glances round at Su Ang, Pierre, the +other members of her primary team. "Opinions, anyone?" + +Aineko, hitherto invisible, sits up on the carpet at the foot of the dais. "I'm +not sure. The reason those macros are tagged is that there's something wrong +with their semantics." + +"Wrong with - how?" asks Su Ang. + +The cat grins, cavernously, and begins to fade. "Wait!" snaps Amber. + +Aineko continues her fade, but leaves a shimmering presence behind: not a grin, +but a neural network weighting map, three-dimensional and incomprehensibly +complicated. "The /{untranslatable entity concept #1}/ when mapped onto the +lobster's grammar network has elements of 'god' overloaded with attributes of +mysticism and zenlike incomprehensibility. But I'm pretty sure that what it +/{really}/ means is 'optimized conscious upload that runs much faster than +real-time'. A type-one weakly superhuman entity, like, um, the folks back home. +The implication is that this Wunch wants us to view them as gods." The cat +fades back in. "Any takers?" + +"Small-town hustlers," mutters Amber. "Talking big - or using a dodgy +metagrammar that makes them sound bigger than they are - to bilk the hayseeds +new to the big city." + +"Most likely." Aineko turns and begins to wash her flank. + +"What are we going to do?" asks Su Ang. + +"Do?" Amber raises a pencil-lined eyebrow, then flashes a grin that chops a +decade off her apparent age: "We're going to mess with their heads!" She snaps +her fingers again and time unfreezes. There's no change in continuity except +that Aineko is still present, at the foot of the throne. The cat looks up and +gives the queen a dirty look. "We understand your concern," Amber says +smoothly, "but we have already given you the physiology models and neural +architecture of the bodies that you are wearing. We want to communicate. Why +won't you show us your real selves or your real language?" + +"This is trade language!" protests Lobster Number One. "Wunch am/are +metabolically variable coalition from number of worlds. No uniformity of +interface. Easiest to conform to one plan and speak one tongue optimized for +your comprehension." + +"Hmm." Amber leans forward. "Let me see if I understand you. You are a +coalition of individuals from a number of species. You prefer to use the common +user interface model we sent you, and offered us the language module you're +using for an exchange? And you want to trade with us." + +"Exchange interest," the Wunch emphasizes, bouncing up and down on its legs. +"Can offer much! Sense of identity of a thousand civilizations. Safe tunnels to +a hundred archives on the net suitable for beings who are not /{untranslatable +entity signifier}/. Able to control risks of communication. Have technique of +manipulating matter at molecular level. Solution to algorithmic iterated +systems based on quantum entanglement." + +"/{Old-fashioned nanotechnology and shiny beads to dazzle the primitives}/," +Pierre mutters on Amber's multicast channel. "/{How backward do they think we +are}/?" + +% note italics marked differently should have been "H/{ow backward do they +think we are}/?" + +"/{The physics model in here is really overdone}/," comments Boris. "/{They may +even think this is real, that we're primitives coat-tailing it on the back of +the lobsters' efforts}/." + +Amber forces a smile. "That is most interesting!" she trills at the Wunch's +representatives. "I have appointed two representatives who will negotiate with +you; this is an internal contest within my own court. I commend to you Pierre +Naqet, my own commercial representative. In addition, you may want to deal with +Alan Glashwiecz, an independent factor who is not currently present. Others may +come forward in due course if that is acceptable." + +"It pleases us," says Lobster Number One. "We are tired and disoriented by the +long journey through gateways to this place. Request resumption of negotiations +later?" + +"By all means." Amber nods. A sergeant-at-arms, a mindless but impressive +zimboe controlled by her spider's nest of personality threads, blows a sharp +note on his trumpet. The first audience is at an end. + +* * * + +_1 Outside the light cone of the /{Field Circus}/, on the other side of the +spacelike separation between Amber's little kingdom in motion and the depths of +empire time that grip the solar system's entangled quantum networks, a singular +new reality is taking shape. + +_1 Welcome to the moment of maximum change. + +_1 About ten billion humans are alive in the solar system, each mind surrounded +by an exocortex of distributed agents, threads of personality spun right out of +their heads to run on the clouds of utility fog - infinitely flexible computing +resources as thin as aerogel - in which they live. The foggy depths are alive +with high-bandwidth sparkles; most of Earth's biosphere has been wrapped in +cotton wool and preserved for future examination. For every living human, a +thousand million software agents carry information into the farthest corners of +the consciousness address space. + +_1 The sun, for so long an unremarkable mildly variable G2 dwarf, has vanished +within a gray cloud that englobes it except for a narrow belt around the plane +of the ecliptic. Sunlight falls, unchanged, on the inner planets: Except for +Mercury, which is no longer present, having been dismantled completely and +turned into solar-powered high-temperature nanocomputers. A much fiercer light +falls on Venus, now surrounded by glittering ferns of carbon crystals that pump +angular momentum into the barely spinning planet via huge superconducting loops +wound around its equator. This planet, too, is due to be dismantled. Jupiter, +Neptune, Uranus - all sprout rings as impressive as Saturn's. But the task of +cannibalizing the gas giants will take many times longer than the small rocky +bodies of the inner system. + +_1 The ten billion inhabitants of this radically changed star system remember +being human; almost half of them predate the millennium. Some of them still +/{are}/ human, untouched by the drive of meta-evolution that has replaced blind +Darwinian change with a goal-directed teleological progress. They cower in +gated communities and hill forts, mumbling prayers and cursing the ungodly +meddlers with the natural order of things. But eight out of every ten living +humans are included in the phase-change. It's the most inclusive revolution in +the human condition since the discovery of speech. + +_1 A million outbreaks of gray goo - runaway nanoreplicator excursions - +threaten to raise the temperature of the biosphere dramatically. They're all +contained by the planetary-scale immune system fashioned from what was once the +World Health Organization. Weirder catastrophes threaten the boson factories in +the Oort cloud. Antimatter factories hover over the solar poles. Sol system +shows all the symptoms of a runaway intelligence excursion, exuberant blemishes +as normal for a technological civilization as skin problems on a human +adolescent. + +_1 The economic map of the planet has changed beyond recognition. Both +capitalism and communism, bickering ideological children of a protoindustrial +outlook, are as obsolete as the divine right of kings: Companies are alive, and +dead people may live again, too. Globalism and tribalism have run to +completion, diverging respectively into homogeneous interoperability and the +Schwarzschild radius of insularity. Beings that remember being human plan the +deconstruction of Jupiter, the creation of a great simulation space that will +expand the habitat available within the solar system. By converting all the +nonstellar mass of the solar system into processors, they can accommodate as +many human-equivalent minds as a civilization with a planet hosting ten billion +humans in orbit around every star in the galaxy. + +_1 A more mature version of Amber lives down in the surging chaos of +near-Jupiter space; there's an instance of Pierre, too, although he has +relocated light-hours away, near Neptune. Whether she still sometimes thinks of +her relativistic twin, nobody can tell. In a way, it doesn't matter, because by +the time the /{Field Circus}/ returns to Jupiter orbit, as much subjective time +will have elapsed for the fast-thinkers back home as will flash by in the real +universe between this moment and the end of the era of star formation, many +billions of years hence. + +* * * + +"As your theologian, I am telling you that they are not gods." + +Amber nods patiently. She watches Sadeq closely. + +Sadeq coughs grumpily. "Tell her, Boris." + +Boris tilts his chair back and turns it toward the Queen. "He is right, Amber. +They are traders, and not clever ones either. Is hard to get handle on their +semiotics while they hide behind the lobster model we uploaded in their +direction twenty years ago, but are certainly not crusties, and are definite +not human either. Or transhuman. My guess, they are bunch of dumb hicks who get +hands on toys left behind by much smarter guys. Like the rejectionist factions +back home. Imagine they are waking up one morning and find everyone else is +gone to the great upload environment in the sky. Leaving them with the planet +to themselves. What you think they do with whole world, with any gadgets they +trip over? Some will smash everything they come across, but others not so +stupid. But they think /{small}/. Scavengers, deconstructionists. Their whole +economic outlook are negative-sum game. Go visit aliens to rip them off, take +ideas, not expand selves and transcend." + +Amber stands up, walks toward the windows at the front of the bridge. In black +jeans and chunky sweater, she barely resembles the feudal queen whose role she +plays for tourists. "Taking them on board was a big risk. I'm not happy about +it." + +"How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" Sadeq smiles crookedly. "We +have an answer. But they may not even realize they are dancing with us. These +are not the gods you were afraid of finding." + +"No." Amber sighs. "Not too different from us, though. I mean, we aren't +exactly well adapted to this environment, are we? We tote these body-images +along, rely on fake realities that we can map into our human-style senses. +We're emulations, not native AIs. Where's Su Ang?" + +"I can find her." Boris frowns. + +"I asked her to analyse the alien's arrival times," Amber adds as an +afterthought. "They're close - too close. And they showed up too damn fast when +we first tickled the router. I think Aineko's theories are flawed. The /{real}/ +owners of this network we've plugged into probably use much higher-level +protocols to communicate; sapient packets to build effective communications +gateways. This Wunch, they probably lurk in wait for newbies to exploit. +Pedophiles hiding outside the school gate. I don't want to give them that +opportunity before we make contact with the real thing!" + +"You may have little choice," says Sadeq. "If they are without insight, as you +suspect, they may become afraid if you edit their environment. They may lash +out. I doubt they even understand how they created the contaminated metagrammar +that they transmitted back to us. It will be to them just a tool that makes +simpleminded aliens more gullible, easier to negotiate with. Who knows where +they got it?" + +"A grammatical weapon." Boris spins himself round slowly. "Build propaganda +into your translation software if you want to establish a favorable trading +relationship. How cute. Haven't these guys ever heard of Newspeak?" + +"Probably not," Amber says slowly, pausing for a moment to spawn spectator +threads to run down the book and all three movie versions of Nineteen +Eighty-Four, followed by the sharecropped series of sequel novels. She shivers +uncomfortably as she re-integrates the memories. "Ick. That's not a very nice +vision. Reminds me of" - she snaps her fingers, trying to remember Dad's +favorite - "Dilbert." + +"Friendly fascism," says Sadeq. "It matters not, whosoever is in charge. I +could tell you tales from my parents, of growing up with a revolution. To never +harbor self-doubt is poison for the soul, and these aliens want to inflict +their certainties upon us." + +"I think we ought to see how Pierre is doing," Amber says aloud. "I certainly +don't want them poisoning him." Grin: "That's /{my job}/." + +* * * + +Donna the Journalist is everywhere simultaneously. It's a handy talent: Makes +for even-handed news coverage when you can interview both sides at the same +time. + +Right now, one of her is in the bar with Alan Glashwiecz, who evidently hasn't +realized that he can modulate his ethanol dehydrogenase levels voluntarily and +who is consequently well on the way to getting steaming drunk. Donna is +assisting the process: She finds it fascinating to watch this bitter young man +who has lost his youth to a runaway self-enhancement process. + +"I'm a full partner," he says bitterly, "in Glashwiecz and Selves. I'm one of +the Selves. We're all partners, but it's only Glashwiecz Prime who has any +clout. The old bastard - if I'd known I'd grow up to become /{that}/, I'd have +run away to join some hippie antiglobalist commune instead." He drains his +glass, demonstrating his oropharyngeal integrity, snaps his fingers for a +refill. "I just woke up one morning to find I'd been resurrected by my older +self. He said he valued my youthful energy and optimistic outlook, then offered +me a minority stake with stock options that would take five years to vest. The +bastard." + +"Tell me about it," Donna coaxes sympathetically. "Here we are, stranded among +idiopathic types, not among them a single multiplex -" + +"Damn straight." Another bottle of Bud appears in Glashwiecz'a hands. "One +moment I'm standing in this apartment in Paris facing total humiliation by a +cross-dressing commie asshole called Macx and his slimy French manager bitch, +and the next I'm on the carpet in front of my alter ego's desk and he's +offering me a job as junior partner. It's seventeen years later, all the weird +nonsense that guy Macx was getting up to is standard business practice, and +there's six of me in the outer office taking research notes because +myself-as-senior-partner doesn't trust anyone else to work with him. It's +humiliating, that's what it is." + +"Which is why you're here." Donna waits while he takes a deep swig from the +bottle. + +"Yeah. Better than working for myself, I can tell you - it's not like being +self-employed. You know how you sometimes get distant from your work? It's +really bad when you see yourself from the outside with another half gigasecond +of experience and the new-you isn't just distant from the client base, he's +distant from the you-you. So I went back to college and crammed up on +artificial intelligence law and ethics, the jurisprudence of uploading, and +recursive tort. Then I volunteered to come out here. He's still handling +/{her}/ account, and I figured -" Glashwiecz shrugged. + +"Did any of the delta-yous contest the arrangement?" asks Donna, spawning +ghosts to focus in on him from all angles. For a moment, she wonders if this is +wise. Glashwiecz is dangerous - the power he wields over Amber's mother, to +twist her arm into extending his power of attorney, hints at dark secrets. +Maybe there's more to her persistent lawsuits than a simple family feud? + +Glashwiecz's face is a study in perspectives. "Oh, one did," he says +dismissively: One of Donna's viewports captures the contemptuous twitch in his +cheek. "I left her in my apartment freezer. Figured it'd be a while before +anybody noticed. It's not murder - I'm still here, right? - and I'm not about +to claim tort against myself. I think. It'd be a left-recursive lawsuit, +anyway, if I did it to myself." + +"The aliens," prompts Donna, "and the trial by combat. What's your take on +that?" + +Glashwiecz sneers. "Little bitch-queen takes after her father, doesn't she? +He's a bastard, too. The competitive selection filter she's imposed is evil - +it'll cripple her society if she leaves it in place for too long, but in the +short run, it's a major advantage. So she wants me to trade for my life, and I +don't get to lay my formal claim against her unless I can outperform her pet +day trader, that punk from Marseilles. Yes? What he doesn't know is, I've got +an edge. Full disclosure." He lifts his bottle drunkenly. "Y'see, I know that +/{cat}/. One that's gotta brown @-sign on its side, right? It used to belong to +queenie-darling's old man, Manfred, the bastard. You'll see. Her Mom, Pamela, +Manfred's ex, she's my client in this case. And she gave me the cat's ackle +keys. Access control." (Hic.) "Get ahold of its brains and grab that damn +translation layer it stole from the CETI@home mob. /{Then}/ I can talk to them +straight." + +The drunken, future-shocked lawyer is on a roll. "I'll get their shit, and I'll +disassemble it. Disassembly is the future of industry, y'know?" + +"Disassembly?" asks the reporter, watching him in disgusted fascination from +behind her mask of objectivity. + +"Hell, yeah. There's a singularity going on, that implies disequilibrium. An' +wherever there's a disequilibrium, someone is going to get /{rich}/ +disassembling the leftovers. Listen, I once knew this econo-economist, that's +what he was. Worked for the Eurofeds, rubber fetishist. He tole me about this +fact'ry near Barcelona. It had a disassembly line running in it. Spensive +servers in boxes'd roll in at one end. Be unpacked. Then workers'd take the +cases off, strip the disk drives, memory, processors, bits'n'guts out. Bag and +tag job. Throw the box, what's left, 'cause it wasn't worth dick. Thing is, the +manufact'rer charged so much for parts, it was worth their while to buy whole +machines'n'strip them. To bits. And sell the bits. Hell, they got an enterprise +award for ingenuity! All 'cause they knew that /{disassembly}/ was the wave of +the future." + +"What happened to the factory?" asks Donna, unable to tear her eyes away. + +Glashwiecz waves an empty bottle at the starbow that stretches across the +ceiling: "Ah, who gives a fuck? They closedown round about" (hic) "ten years +'go. Moore's Law topped out, killed the market. But disassembly - production +line cannibalism - it'sa way to go. Take old assets an' bring new life to them. +A fully 'preciated fortune." He grins, eyes unfocussed with greed. "'S'what I'm +gonna do to those space lobsters. Learn to talk their language an'll never know +what hit 'em." + +* * * + +The tiny starship drifts in high orbit above a turbid brown soup of atmosphere. +Deep in the gravity well of Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},, it's a speck of dust +trapped between two light sources: the brilliant sapphire stare of Amber's +propulsion lasers in Jovian orbit, and the emerald insanity of the router +itself, a hypertoroid spun from strange matter. + +The bridge of the /{Field Circus}/ is in constant use at this time, a meeting +ground for minds with access to the restricted areas. Pierre is spending more +and more time here, finding it a convenient place to focus his trading campaign +and arbitrage macros. At the same time that Donna is picking the multiplexed +lawyer's strategy apart, Pierre is present in neomorphic form - a quicksilver +outline of humanity, six-armed and two-headed, scanning with inhuman speed +through tensor maps of the information traffic density surrounding the router's +clump of naked singularities. + +There's a flicker in the emptiness at the rear of the bridge, then Su Ang has +always been there. She watches Pierre in contemplative silence for a minute. +"Do you have a moment?" + +Pierre superimposes himself: One shadowy ghost keeps focused on the front +panel, but another instance turns round, crosses his arms, waits for her to +speak. + +"I know you're busy -" she begins, then stops. "Is it /{that}/ important?" she +asks. + +"It is." Pierre blurs, resynchronizing his instances. "The router - there are +four wormholes leading off from it, did you know that? Each of them is +radiating at about 1011 Kelvins, and every wavelength is carrying data +connections, multiplexed, with a protocol stack that's at least eleven layers +deep but maybe more - they show signs of self-similarity in the framing +headers. You know how much data that is? It's about 1012 times as much as our +high-bandwidth uplink from home. But compared to what's on the other side of +the 'holes -" he shakes his head. + +"It's big?" + +"It's unimaginably big! These wormholes, they're a /{low-bandwidth}/ link +compared to the minds they're hooking up to." He blurs in front of her, unable +to stay still and unable to look away from the front panel. Excitement or +agitation? Su Ang can't tell. With Pierre, sometimes the two states are +indistinguishable. He gets emotional easily. "I think we have the outline of +the answer to the Fermi paradox. Transcendents don't go traveling because they +can't get enough bandwidth - trying to migrate through one of these wormholes +would be like trying to download your mind into a fruit fly, if they are what I +think they are - and the slower-than-light route is out, too, because they +couldn't take enough computronium along. Unless -" + +He's off again. But before he can blur out, Su Ang steps across and lays hands +on him. "Pierre. Calm down. Disengage. Empty yourself." + +"I can't!" He really /{is}/ agitated, she sees. "I've got to figure out the +best trading strategy to get Amber off the hook with that lawsuit, then tell +her to get us out of here; being this close to the router is seriously +dangerous! The Wunch are the least of it." + +"Stop." + +He pauses his multiplicity of presences, converges on a single identity focused +on the here and now. "Yes?" + +"That's better." She walks round him, slowly. "You've got to learn to deal with +stress more appropriately." + +"Stress!" Pierre snorts. He shrugs, an impressive gesture with three sets of +shoulder blades. "That's something I can turn off whenever I need to. Side +effect of this existence; we're pigs in cyberspace, wallowing in fleshy +simulations, but unable to experience the new environment in the raw. What did +you want from me, Ang? Honestly? I'm a busy man, I've got a trading network to +set up." + +"We've got a problem with the Wunch right now, even if you think something +worse is out there," Ang says patiently. "Boris thinks they're parasites, +negative-sum gamers who stalk newbies like us. Glashwiecz is apparently talking +about cutting a deal with them. Amber's suggestion is that you ignore them +completely, cut them out, and talk to anyone else who'll listen." + +"Anyone else who'll listen, right," Pierre says heavily. "Any other gems of +wisdom to pass on from the throne?" + +Ang takes a deep breath. He's infuriating, she realizes. And worst of all, he +doesn't realize. Infuriating but cute. "You're setting up a trading network, +yes?" she asks. + +"Yes. A standard network of independent companies, instantiated as cellular +automata within the Ring Imperium switched legal service environment." He +relaxes slightly. "Each one has access to a compartmentalized chunk of +intellectual property and can call on the corrected parser we got from that +cat. They're set up to communicate with a blackboard system - a souk - and I'm +bringing up a link to the router, a multicast link that'll broadcast the souk's +existence to anyone who's listening. Trade ..." his eyebrows furrow. "There are +at least two different currency standards in this network, used to buy +quality-of-service precedence and bandwidth. They depreciate with distance, as +if the whole concept of money was invented to promote the development of +long-range network links. If I can get in first, when Glashwiecz tries to cut +in on the dealing by offering IP at discounted rates -" + +"He's not going to, Pierre," she says as gently as possible. "Listen to what I +said: Glashwiecz is going to focus on the Wunch. He's going to offer them a +deal. Amber wants you to /{ignore}/ them. Got that?" + +"Got it." There's a hollow /{bong!}/ from one of the communication bells. "Hey, +that's interesting." + +"What is?" She stretches, neck extending snakelike so that she can see the +window on underlying reality that's flickered into existence in the air before +him. + +"An ack from ..." he pauses, then plucks a neatly reified concept from the +screen in front of him and presents it to her in a silvery caul of light. "... +about two hundred light-years away! Someone wants to talk." He smiles. Then the +front panel workstation bong's again. "Hey again. I wonder what that says." + +It's the work of a moment to pipe the second message through the translator. +Oddly, it doesn't translate at first. Pierre has to correct for some weird +destructive interference in the fake lobster network before it'll spill its +guts. "That's interesting," he says. + +"I'll say." Ang lets her neck collapse back to normal. "I'd better go tell +Amber." + +"You do that," Pierre says worriedly. He makes eye contact with her, but what +she's hoping to see in his face just isn't there. He's wearing his emotions +entirely on the surface. "I'm not surprised their translator didn't want to +pass that message along." + +"It's a deliberately corrupted grammar," Ang murmurs, and bangs out in the +direction of Amber's audience chamber; "and they're actually making threats." +The Wunch, it seems, have acquired a /{very}/ bad reputation somewhere along +the line - and Amber needs to know. + +* * * + +Glashwiecz leans toward Lobster Number One, stomach churning. It's only a +real-time kilosecond since his bar-room interview, but in the intervening +subjective time, he's abolished a hangover, honed his brief, and decided to +act. In the Tuileries. "You've been lied to," he confides quietly, trusting the +privacy ackles that he browbeat Amber's mother into giving him - access lists +that give him a degree of control over the regime within this virtual universe +that the cat dragged in. + +"Lied? Context rendered horizontal in past, or subjected to grammatical +corruption? Linguistic evil?" + +"The latter." Glashwiecz enjoys this, even though it forces him to get rather +closer to the two-meter-long virtual crustacean than he'd like. Showing a mark +how they've been scammed is always good, especially when you hold the keys to +the door of the cage they're locked inside. "They are not telling you the truth +about this system." + +"We received assurances," Lobster Number One says clearly. Its mouthparts move +ceaselessly - the noise comes from somewhere inside its head. "You do not share +this phenotype. Why?" + +"That information will cost you," says Glashwiecz. "I am willing to provide it +on credit." + +They haggle briefly. An exchange rate in questions is agreed, as is a trust +metric to grade the answers by. "Disclose all," insists the Wunch negotiator. + +"There are multiple sentient species on the world we come from," says the +lawyer. "The form you wear belongs to only one - one that wanted to get away +from the form /{I}/ wear, the original conscious tool-creating species. Some of +the species today are artificial, but all of us trade information for +self-advantage." + +"This is good to know," the lobster assures him. "We like to buy species." + +"You buy species?" Glashwiecz cocks his head. + +"We have the unbearable yearning to be not-what-we-are," says the lobster. +"Novelty, surprise! Flesh rots and wood decays. We seek the new being-ness of +aliens. Give us your somatotype, give us all your thoughts, and we will dream +you over." + +"I think something might be arranged," Glashwiecz concedes. "So you want to be +- no, to lease the rights to temporarily be human? Why is that?" + +"Untranslatable concept #3 means untranslatable concept #4. God told us to." + +"Okay, I think I'll just have to take that on trust for now. What is your true +form?" he asks. + +"Wait and I show you," says the lobster. It begins to shudder. + +"What are you doing -" + +"Wait." The lobster twitches, writhing slightly, like a portly businessman +adjusting his underwear after a heavy business lunch. Disturbing shapes move, +barely visible through the thick chitinous armor. "We want your help," the +lobster explains, voice curiously muffled. "Want to establish direct trade +links. Physical emissaries, yes?" + +"Yes, that's very good," Glashwiecz agrees excitedly: It's exactly what he's +hoped for, the sought-after competitive advantage that will prove his fitness +in Amber's designated trial by corporate combat. "You're going to deal with us +directly without using that shell interface?" + +"Agreed." The lobster trails off into muffled silence; little crunching noises +trickle out of its carapace. Then Glashwiecz hears footsteps behind him on the +gravel path. + +"What are you doing here?" he demands, looking round. It's Pierre, back in +standard human form - a sword hangs from his belt, and there's a big wheel-lock +pistol in his hands. "Hey!" + +"Step away from the alien, lawyer," Pierre warns, raising the gun. + +Glashwiecz glances back at Lobster Number One. It's pulled its front inside the +protective shell, and it's writhing now, rocking from side to side alarmingly. +Something inside the shell is turning black, acquiring depth and texture. "I +stand on counsel's privilege," Glashwiecz insists. "Speaking as this alien's +attorney, I must protest in the strongest terms -" + +Without warning, the lobster lurches forward and rises up on its rear legs. It +reaches out with huge claws, chellipeds coated with spiny hairs, and grabs +Glashwiecz by his arms. "Hey!" + +Glashwiecz tries to turn away, but the lobster is already looming over him, +maxillipeds and maxillae reaching out from its head. There's a sickening crunch +as one of his elbow joints crumbles, humerus shattered by the closing jaws of a +chelliped. He draws breath to scream, then the four small maxillae grip his +head and draw it down toward the churning mandibles. + +Pierre scurries sideways, trying to find a line of fire on the lobster that +doesn't pass through the lawyer's body. The lobster isn't cooperating. It turns +on the spot, clutching Glashwiecz's convulsing body to itself. There's a stench +of shit, and blood is squirting from its mouthparts. Something is very wrong +with the biophysics model here, the realism turned up way higher than normal. + +"Merde," whispers Pierre. He fumbles with the bulky trigger, and there's a +faint whirring sound but no explosion. + +More wet crunching sounds follow as the lobster demolishes the lawyer's face +and swallows convulsively, sucking his head and shoulders all the way into its +gastric mill. + +Pierre glances at the heavy handgun. "/{Shit}/!" he screams. He glances back at +the lobster, then turns and runs for the nearest wall. There are other lobsters +loose in the formal garden. "/{Amber, emergency!}/" he sends over their private +channel. "/{Hostiles in the Louvre!}/" + +The lobster that's taken Glashwiecz hunkers down over the body and quivers. +Pierre desperately winds the spring on his gun, too rattled to check that it's +loaded. He glances back at the alien intruder. /{They've sprung the biophysics +model}/, he sends. /{I could die in here}/, he realizes, momentarily shocked. +/{This instance of me could die forever}/. + +The lobster shell sitting in the pool of blood and human wreckage splits in +two. A humanoid form begins to uncurl from within it, pale-skinned and +glistening wet: vacant blue eyes flicker from side to side as it stretches and +stands upright, wobbling uncertainty on its two unstable legs. Its mouth opens +and a strange gobbling hiss comes forth. + +Pierre recognizes her. "What are you doing here?" he yells. + +The nude woman turns toward him. She's the spitting image of Amber's mother, +except for the chellipeds she has in place of hands. She hisses "/{Equity!}/" +and takes a wobbly step toward him, pincers clacking. + +Pierre winds the firing handle again. There's a crash of gunpowder and smoke, a +blow that nearly sprains his elbow, and the nude woman's chest erupts in a +spray of blood. She snarls at him wordlessly and staggers - then ragged flaps +of bloody meat close together, knitting shut with improbable speed. She resumes +her advance. + +"I told Amber the Matrix would be more defensible," Pierre snarls, dropping the +firearm and drawing his sword as the alien turns in his direction and raises +arms that end in pincers. "We need guns, damit! Lots of guns!" + +"Waaant equity," hisses the alien intruder. + +"You /{can't}/ be Pamela Macx," says Pierre, his back to the wall, keeping the +sword point before the lobster-woman-thing. "She's in a nunnery in Armenia or +something. You pulled that out of Glashwiecz's memories - he worked for her, +didn't he?" + +Claws go snicker-snack before his face. "Investment partnership!" screeches the +harridan. "Seat on the board! Eat brains for breakfast!" It lurches sideways, +trying to get past his guard. + +"I don't fucking /{believe}/ this," Pierre snarls. The Wunch-creature jumps at +just the wrong moment and slides onto the point of his blade, claws clacking +hungrily. Pierre slides away, nearly leaving his skin on the rough bricks of +the wall - and what's good for one is good for all, as the hacked model in +force in this reality compels the attacker to groan and collapse. + +Pierre pulls the sword out then, nervously glancing over his shoulder, whacks +at her neck. The impact jars his arm, but he keeps hacking until there's blood +spraying everywhere, blood on his shirt, blood on his sword, and a round thing +sitting on a stump of savaged neck nearby, jaw working soundlessly in undeath. + +He looks at it for a moment, then his stomach rebels and tries to empty itself +into the mess. "/{Where the hell is everybody}/?" he broadcasts on the private +channel. "/{Hostiles in the Louvre!}/" + +He straightens up, gasping for breath. He feels /{alive}/, frightened and +appalled and exhilarated simultaneously. The crackle of bursting shells on all +sides drowns out the birdsong as the Wunch's emissaries adopt a variety of new +and supposedly more lethal forms. "/{They don't seem to be very clear on how to +take over a simulation space}/," he adds. "/{Maybe we already are}/ +untranslatable concept number #1 as far as they're concerned." + +"/{Don't worry, I've cut off the incoming connection}/," sends Su Ang. "/{This +is just a bridgehead force; the invasion packets are}/ being filtered out." + +Blank-eyed men and women in dusty black uniforms are hatching from the lobster +shells, stumbling and running around the grounds of the royal palace like +confused Huguenot invaders. + +Boris winks into reality behind Pierre. "Which way?" he demands, pulling out an +anachronistic but lethal katana. + +"Over here. Let's work this together." Pierre jacks his emotional damper up to +a dangerously high setting, suppressing natural aversion reflexes and +temporarily turning himself into a sociopathic killer. He stalks toward an +infant lobster-thing with big black eyes and a covering of white hair that +mewls at him from a rose bed, and Boris looks away while he kills it. Then one +of the larger ones makes the mistake of lunging at Boris, and he chops at it +reflexively. + +Some of the Wunch try to fight back when Pierre and Boris try to kill them, but +they're handicapped by their anatomy, a curious mixture of crustacean and +human, claw and mandible against sword and dagger. When they bleed the ground +soaks with the cuprous hue of lobster juice. + +"Let's fork," suggests Boris. "Get this over with." Pierre nods, dully - +everything around him is wrapped in a layer of don't-care, except for a glowing +dot of artificial hatred - and they fork, multiplying their state vectors to +take full advantage of the virtualization facilities of this universe. There's +no need for reinforcements; the Wunch focused on attacking the biophysics model +of the universe, making it mimic a physical reality as closely as possible, and +paid no attention to learning the more intricate tactics that war in a virtual +space permits. + +Presently Pierre finds himself in the audience chamber, face and hands and +clothing caked in hideous gore, leaning on the back of Amber's throne. There's +only one of him now. One of Boris - the only one? - is standing near the +doorway. He can barely remember what has happened, the horrors of parallel +instances of mass murder blocked from his long-term memory by a high-pass +trauma filter. "It looks clear," he calls aloud. "What shall we do now?" + +"Wait for Catherine de Médicis to show up," says the cat, its grin +materializing before him like a numinous threat. "Amber /{always}/ finds a way +to blame her mother. Or didn't you already know that?" + +Pierre glances at the bloody mess on the footpath outside where the first +lobster-woman attacked Glashwiecz. "I already did for her, I think." He +remembers the action in the third person, all subjectivity edited out. "The +family resemblance was striking," the thread that still remembers her in +working memory murmurs: "I just hope it's only skin-deep." Then he forgets the +act of apparent murder forever. "Tell the Queen I'm ready to talk." + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the downslope on the far side of the curve of accelerating +progress. + +_1 Back in the solar system, Earth orbits through a dusty tunnel in space. +Sunlight still reaches the birth world, but much of the rest of the star's +output has been trapped by the growing concentric shells of computronium built +from the wreckage of the innermost planets. + +_1 Two billion or so mostly unmodified humans scramble in the wreckage of the +phase transition, not understanding why the vasty superculture they so resented +has fallen quiet. Little information leaks through their fundamentalist +firewalls, but what there is shows a disquieting picture of a society where +there are no /{bodies}/ anymore. Utility foglets blown on the wind form aerogel +towers larger than cyclones, removing the last traces of physical human +civilization from most of Europe and the North American coastlines. Enclaves +huddle behind their walls and wonder at the monsters and portents roaming the +desert of postindustrial civilization, mistaking acceleration for collapse. + +_1 The hazy shells of computronium that ring the sun - concentric clouds of +nanocomputers the size of rice grains, powered by sunlight, orbiting in shells +like the packed layers of a Matrioshka doll - are still immature, holding +barely a thousandth of the physical planetary mass of the system, but they +already support a classical computational density of 1042 MIPS; enough to +support a billion civilizations as complex as the one that existed immediately +before the great disassembly. The conversion hasn't yet reached the gas giants, +and some scant outer-system enclaves remain independent - Amber's Ring Imperium +still exists as a separate entity, and will do so for some years to come - but +the inner solar system planets, with the exception of Earth, have been +colonized more thoroughly than any dusty NASA proposal from the dawn of the +space age could have envisaged. + +_1 From outside the Accelerated civilization, it isn't really possible to know +what's going on inside. The problem is bandwidth: While it's possible to send +data in and get data out, the sheer amount of computation going on in the +virtual spaces of the Acceleration dwarfs any external observer. Inside that +swarm, minds a trillion or more times as complex as humanity think thoughts as +far beyond human imagination as a microprocessor is beyond a nematode worm. A +million random human civilizations flourish in worldscapes tucked in the corner +of this world-mind. Death is abolished, life is triumphant. A thousand +ideologies flower, human nature adapted where necessary to make this possible. +Ecologies of thought are forming in a Cambrian explosion of ideas: For the +solar system is finally rising to consciousness, and mind is no longer +restricted to the mere kilotons of gray fatty meat harbored in fragile human +skulls. + +_1 Somewhere in the Acceleration, colorless green ideas adrift in furious sleep +remember a tiny starship launched years ago, and pay attention. Soon, they +realize, the starship will be in position to act as their proxy in an ages-long +conversation. Negotiations for access to Amber's extrasolar asset commence; the +Ring Imperium prospers, at least for a while. + +_1 But first, the operating software on the human side of the network link will +require an upgrade. + +* * * + +The audience chamber in the /{Field Circus}/ is crammed. Everybody aboard the +ship - except the still-frozen lawyer and the alien barbarian intruders - is +present. They've just finished reviewing the recordings of what happened in the +Tuileries, of Glashwiecz's fatal last conversation with the Wunch, the +resulting fight for survival. And now the time has come for decisions. + +"I'm not saying you have to follow me," says Amber, addressing her court; +"just, it's what we came here for. We've established that there's enough +bandwidth to transmit people and their necessary support VMs; we've got some +basic expectancy of goodwill at the other end, or at least an agalmic +willingness to gift us with advice about the untrustworthiness of the Wunch. +/{I}/ propose to copy myself through and see what's at the other side of the +wormhole. What's more, I'm going to suspend myself on this side and hand over +to whichever instance of me comes back, unless there's a long hiatus. How long, +I haven't decided yet. Are you guys happy to join me?" + +Pierre stands behind her throne, hands on the back. Looking down over her head, +at the cat in her lap, he's sure he sees it narrow its eyes at him. /{Funny}/, +he thinks, /{we're talking about jumping down a rabbit hole and trusting +whoever lives at the other end with our personalities. After seeing the Wunch. +Does this make sense}/? + +"Forgive, please, but am not stupid," says Boris. "This is Fermi paradox +territory, no? Instantaneous network exists, is traversable, with bandwidth +adequate for human-equivalent minds. Where are alien visitors, in history? Must +be overriding reason for absence. Think will wait here and see what comes back. +/{Then}/ make up mind to drink the poison kool-aid." + +"I've got half a mind to transmit myself through without a back-up," says +someone else - "but that's okay; half a mind is all we've got the bandwidth +for." Halfhearted laughter shores up his wisecrack, supports a flagging +determination to press through. + +"I'm with Boris," says Su Ang. She glances at Pierre, catches his eye: Suddenly +a number of things become clear to him. He shakes his head minutely. /{You +never had a chance - I belong to Amber}/, he thinks, but deletes the thought +before he can send it to her. Maybe in another instantiation his issues with +the Queen's /{droit de seigneur}/ would have bulked up larger, splintered his +determination; maybe in another world it has already happened? "I think this is +very rash," she says in a hurry. "We don't know enough about post-singularity +civilizations." + +"It's not a singularity," Amber says waspishly. "It's just a brief burst of +acceleration. Like cosmological inflation." + +"Smooths out inhomogeneities in the initial structure of consciousness," purrs +the cat. "Don't I get a vote?" + +"You do." Amber sighs. She glances round. "Pierre?" + +Heart in his mouth: "I'm with you." + +She smiles, brilliantly. "Well then. Will the nay sayers please leave the +universe?" + +Suddenly, the audience chamber is half-empty. + +"I'm setting a watchdog timer for a billion seconds into the future, to restart +us from this point if the router doesn't send anyone back in the intervening +time," she announces gravely, taking in the serious-faced avatars of those who +remain. Surprised: "Sadeq! I didn't think this was your type of -" + +He doesn't smile: "Would I be true to my faith if I wasn't prepared to bring +the words of Mohammed, peace be unto him, to those who may never have heard his +name?" + +Amber nods. "I guess." + +"Do it," Pierre says urgently. "You can't keep putting it off forever." + +Aineko raises her head: "Spoilsport!" + +"Okay." Amber nods. "Let's /{do}/ -" + +She punches an imaginary switch, and time stops. + +* * * + +At the far end of a wormhole, two hundred light-years distant in real space, +coherent photons begin to dance a story of human identity before the sensoria +of those who watch. And all is at peace in orbit around Hyundai +^[+4904}^/,{-56},, for a while ... + +* * * + +1~ Chapter 6: Nightfall + +A synthetic gemstone the size of a Coke can falls through silent darkness. The +night is quiet as the grave, colder than midwinter on Pluto. Gossamer sails as +fine as soap bubbles droop, the gust of sapphire laser light that inflated them +long since darkened. Ancient starlight picks out the outline of a huge +planetlike body beneath the jewel-and-cobweb corpse of the starwisp. + +Eight Earth years have passed since the good ship /{Field Circus}/ slipped into +close orbit around the frigid brown dwarf Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},. Five years +have gone by since the launch lasers of the Ring Imperium shut down without +warning, stranding the light-sail-powered craft three light-years from home. +There has been no response from the router, the strange alien artifact in orbit +around the brown dwarf, since the crew of the starwisp uploaded themselves +through its strange quantum entanglement interface for transmission to whatever +alien network it connects to. In fact, nothing happens; nothing save the slow +trickle of seconds, as a watchdog timer counts down the moments remaining until +it is due to resurrect stored snapshots of the crew, on the assumption that +their uploaded copies are beyond help. + +Meanwhile, outside the light cone - + +* * * + +Amber jolts into wakefulness, as if from a nightmare. She sits bolt upright, a +thin sheet falling from her chest; air circulating around her back chills her +rapidly, cold sweat evaporating. She mutters aloud, unable to subvocalize, +"Where am I - oh. A bedroom. How did I get here?" /{Mumble}/. "Oh, I see." Her +eyes widen in horror. "/{It's not a dream}/ ..." + +"Greetings, human Amber," says a ghost-voice that seems to come from nowhere: +"I see you are awake. Would you like anything?" + +Amber rubs her eyes tiredly. Leaning against the bedstead, she glances around +cautiously. She takes in a bedside mirror, her reflection in it: a young woman, +gaunt in the manner of those whose genome bears the p53 calorie-restriction +hack, she has disheveled blonde hair and dark eyes. She could pass for a dancer +or a soldier; not, perhaps, a queen. "What's going on? Where am I? Who are you, +and /{what am I doing in your head?}/" + +Her eyes narrow. Analytical intellect comes to the fore as she takes stock of +her surroundings. "The router," she mutters. Structures of strange matter orbit +a brown dwarf scant light-years from Earth. "How long ago did we come through?" +Glancing round, she sees a room walled in slabs of close-fitting stone. A +window bay is recessed into them, after the style of the Crusader castles many +centuries in the past, but there's no glass in it - just a blank white screen. +The only furniture in the room, besides a Persian carpet on the cold +flagstones, is the bed she sits upon. She's reminded of a scene from an old +movie, Kubrick's enigma; this whole set-up has got to be deliberate, and it +isn't funny. + +"I'm waiting," she announces, and leans back against the headboard. + +"According to our records this reaction indicates that you are now fully +self-aware," says the ghost. "This is good. You have not been conscious for a +very long time. Explanations will be complex and discursive. Can I offer you +refreshments? What would you like?" + +"Coffee, if you have it. Bread and hummus. Something to wear." Amber crosses +her arms, abruptly self-conscious. "I'd prefer to have management ackles to +this universe, though. As realities go, it's a bit lacking in creature +comforts." Which isn't entirely true - it seems to have a comprehensive, +human-friendly biophysics model, it's not just a jumped-up first-person +shooter. Her eyes focus on her left forearm, where tanned skin and a puckered +dime of scar tissue record a youthful accident with a pressure seal in Jovian +orbit. Amber freezes for a moment. Her lips move in silence, but she's locked +into place in this universe, unable to split or conjoin nested realities just +by calling subroutines that have been spliced into the corners of her mind +since she was a teenager. Finally, she asks, "How long have I been dead?" + +"Longer than you were alive, by orders of magnitude," says the ghost. A tray +laden with pita breads, hummus, and olives congeals from the air above her bed, +and a wardrobe appears at one side of the room. "I can begin the explanation +now or wait for you to finish eating. Which would you prefer?" + +Amber glances about again, then fixes on the white screen in the window bay. +"Give it to me right now. I can take it," she says, quietly bitter. "I like to +understand my mistakes as soon as possible." + +"We-us can tell that you are a human of determination," says the ghost, a hint +of pride entering its voice. "That is a good thing, Amber. You will need all of +your resolve if you are going to survive here ..." + +* * * + +It is the time of repentance in a temple beside a tower that looms above a dry +plain, and the thoughts of the priest who lives in the tower are tinged with +regret. It is Ashura, the tenth day of Muhurram, according to a real-time clock +still tuned to the pace of a different era: the one thousand, three hundred and +fortieth anniversary of the martyrdom of the Third Imam, the Sayyid +ash-Shuhada. + +The priest of the tower has spent an indefinite time in prayer, locked in an +eternal moment of meditation and recitation. Now, as the vast red sun drifts +close to the horizon of the infinite desert, his thoughts drift toward the +present. Ashura is a very special day, a day of atonement for collective guilt, +evil committed through inactivity; but it is in Sadeq's nature to look outwards +toward the future. This is, he knows, a failing - but also characteristic of +his generation. That's the generation of the Shi'ite clergy that reacted to the +excesses of the previous century, the generation that withdrew the /{ulama}/ +from temporal power, retreated from the velyat i-faqih of Khomenei and his +successors, left government to the people, and began to engage fully with the +paradoxes of modernity. Sadeq's focus, his driving obsession in theology, is a +program of reappraisal of eschatology and cosmology. Here in a tower of white +sun-baked clay, on an endless plain that exists only in the imaginary spaces of +a starship the size of a soft drink can, the priest spends his processor cycles +in contemplation of one of the most vicious problems ever to confront a +/{mujtahid}/ - the Fermi paradox. + +(Enrico Fermi was eating his lunch one day, and his colleagues were discussing +the possibility that sophisticated civilizations might populate other worlds. +"Yes," he said, "but if this is so, why haven't they already come visiting?") + +Sadeq finishes his evening devotions in near silence, then stands, stretches as +is his wont, and leaves the small and lonely courtyard at the base of the +tower. The gate - a wrought-iron gate, warmed by sunlight - squeals slightly as +he opens it. Glancing at the upper hinge, he frowns, willing it clean and +whole. The underlying physics model acknowledges his access controls: a thin +rim of red around the pin turns silvery-fresh, and the squeaking ceases. +Closing the gate behind him, Sadeq enters the tower. + +He climbs with a heavy, even tread a spiral staircase snaking ever upward above +him. Narrow slit-windows line the outer wall of the staircase. Through each of +them he sees a different world. Out there, nightfall in the month of Ramadan. +And through the next, green misty skies and a horizon too close by far. Sadeq +carefully avoids thinking about the implications of this manifold space. Coming +from prayer, from a sense of the sacred, he doesn't want to lose his proximity +to his faith. He's far enough from home as it is, and there is much to +consider. He is surrounded by strange and curious ideas, all but lost in a +corrosive desert of faith. + +At the top of the staircase, Sadeq comes to a door of aged wood bound in iron. +It doesn't belong here: It's a cultural and architectural anomaly. The handle +is a loop of black metal. Sadeq regards it as if it's the head of an asp, +poised to sting. Nevertheless, he reaches out and turns the handle, steps +across the threshold into a palace out of fantasy. + +/{None of this is real}/, he reminds himself. /{It's no more real than an +illusion conjured by one of the jinni of the thousand nights and one night}/. +Nevertheless, he can't save himself from smiling at the scene - a sardonic +smile of self-deprecating humor, tempered by frustration. + +Sadeq's captors have stolen his soul and locked it - him - in a very strange +prison, a temple with a tower that rises all the way to Paradise. It's the +whole classical litany of medievalist desires, distilled from fifteen hundred +years of literature. Colonnaded courtyards, cool pools lined with rich mosaics, +rooms filled with every imaginable dumb matter luxury, endless banquets +awaiting his appetite - and dozens of beautiful un-women, eager to fulfill his +every fantasy. Sadeq, being human, has fantasies by the dozen, but he doesn't +dare permit himself to succumb to temptation. /{I'm not dead}/, he reasons. +/{Therefore, how can I be in Paradise? Therefore, this must be a false +paradise, a temptation sent to lead me astray. Probably. Unless I am dead, +because Allah, peace be unto him, considers a human soul separated from its +body to be dead. But if that's so, isn't uploading a sin? In which case, this +can't be}/ Paradise because I am a sinner. /{Besides which}/, this whole setup +is /{so}/ puerile! + +Sadeq has always been inclined to philosophical inquiry, and his vision of the +afterlife is more cerebral than most, involving ideas as questionable within +the framework of Islam as those of Teilhard de Chardin were to the +twentieth-century Catholic church. If there's one key indicator of a false +paradise in his eschatology, it's two-and-seventy brainlessly beautiful houris +waiting to do his bidding. So it follows that he can't really be dead ... + +The whole question of reality is so vexing that Sadeq does what he does every +night. He strides heedlessly across priceless works of art, barging hastily +through courtyards and passageways, ignoring niches in which nearly naked +supermodels lie with their legs apart, climbing stairs - until he comes to a +small unfurnished room with a single high window in one wall. There he sits on +the floor, legs crossed, meditating; not in prayer, but in a more tightly +focused ratiocination. Every false night (for there is no way to know how fast +time is passing, outside this cyberspace pocket), Sadeq sits and /{thinks}/, +grappling with Descartes's demon in the solitude of his own mind. And the +question he asks himself every night is the same: /{Can I tell if this is the +true hell? And if it is not, how can I escape?}/ + +* * * + +The ghost tells Amber that she has been dead for just under a third of a +million years. She has been reinstantiated from storage - and has died again - +many times in the intervening period, but she has no memory of this; she is a +fork from the main bough, and the other branches expired in lonely isolation. + +The business of resurrection does not, in and of itself, distress Amber unduly. +Born in the post-Moravec era, she merely finds some aspects of the ghost's +description dissatisfyingly incomplete. It's like saying she was drugged and +brought hither without stating whether by plane, train, or automobile. + +She doesn't have a problem with the ghost's assertion that she is nowhere near +Earth - indeed, that she is approximately eighty thousand light-years away. +When she and the others took the risk of uploading themselves through the +router they found in orbit around Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, they'd understood +that they could end up anywhere or nowhere. But the idea that she's still +within the light cone of her departure strikes her as dubious. The original +SETI broadcast strongly implied that the router is part of a network of +self-replicating instantaneous communicators, spawning and spreading between +the cold brown dwarf stars that litter the galaxy. She'd somehow expected to be +much farther from home by now. + +Somewhat more disturbing is the ghost's assertion that the human genotype has +rendered itself extinct at least twice, that its home planet is unknown, and +that Amber is nearly the only human left in the public archives. At this point, +she interrupts. "I hardly see what this has to do with me!" Then she blows +across her coffee glass, trying to cool the contents. "I'm dead," she explains, +with an undertone of knowing sarcasm in her voice. "Remember? I just got here. +A thousand seconds ago, subjective time, I was in the control node of a +starship, discussing what to do with the router we were in orbit around. We +agreed to send ourselves through it, as a trade mission. Then I woke up in bed +here in the umpty-zillionth century, wherever and whatever /{here}/ is. Without +access to any reality ackles or augmentation, I can't even tell whether this is +real or an embedded simulation. You're going to have to explain /{why}/ you +need an old version of me before I can make sense of my situation - and I can +tell you, I'm not going to help you until I know who you are. And speaking of +that, what about the others? Where are they? I wasn't the only one, you know?" + +The ghost freezes in place for a moment, and Amber feels a watery rush of +terror: /{Have I gone too far}/? she wonders. + +"There has been an unfortunate accident," the ghost announces portentously. It +morphs from a translucent copy of Amber's own body into the outline of a human +skeleton, elaborate bony extensions simulating an osteosarcoma of +more-than-lethal proportions. "Consensus-we believe that you are best +positioned to remediate the situation. This applies within the demilitarized +zone." + +"Demilitarized?" Amber shakes her head, pauses to sip her coffee. "What do you +mean? What /{is}/ this place?" + +The ghost flickers again, adopting an abstract rotating hypercube as its +avatar. "This space we occupy is a manifold adjacent to the demilitarized zone. +The demilitarized zone is a space outside our core reality, itself exposed to +entities that cross freely through our firewall, journeying to and from the +network outside. We-us use the DMZ to establish the informational value of +migrant entities, sapient currency units and the like. We-us banked you upon +arrival against future options trades in human species futures." + +"Currency!" Amber doesn't know whether to be amused or horrified - both +reactions seem appropriate. "Is that how you treat all your visitors?" + +The ghost ignores her question. "There is a runaway semiotic excursion under +way in the zone. We-us believe only you can fix it. If you agree to do, so we +will exchange value, pay, reward cooperation, expedite remuneration, manumit, +repatriate." + +Amber drains her coffee cup. "Have you ever entered into economic interactions +with me, or humans like me, before?" she asks. "If not, why should I trust you? +If so, why have you revived me? Are there any more experienced instances of +myself running around here?" She raises a skeptical eyebrow at the ghost. "This +looks like the start of an abusive relationship." + +The ghost continues to sidestep her attempts to work out where she stands. It +flickers into transparency, grows into a hazy window on a landscape of +impossible shapes. Clouds sprouting trees drift above a landscape of green, +egg-curved hills and cheesecake castles. "Nature of excursion: alien +intelligence is loose in the DMZ," it asserts. "Alien is applying invalid +semiotics to complex structures designed to sustain trade. You know this alien, +Amber. We require solution. Slay the monster, we will give you line of credit. +Your own reality to control, insight into trade arrangements, augmented senses, +ability to travel. Can even upgrade you to you-we consensus, if desired." + +"This monster." Amber leans forward, staring into the window eagerly. She's +half-minded to ignore what she feels is a spurious offer; it doesn't sound too +appetizing. /{Upgrade me to a ghost fragment of an alien group mind?}/ she +wonders dismissively. "What is this alien?" She feels blind and unsure, +stripped of her ability to spawn threads of herself to pursue complex +inferences. "Is it part of the Wunch?" + +"Datum unknown. It-them came with you," says the ghost. "Accidentally +reactivated some seconds since now. It runs amok in the demilitarized zone. +Help us, Amber. Save our hub, or we will be cut off from the network. If that +happens, you will die with we-us. Save us ..." + +* * * + +_1 A single memory belonging to someone else unwinds, faster than a guided +missile and far more deadly. + +_1 Amber, aged eleven, is a gawky, long-limbed child loose on the streets of +Hong Kong, a yokel tourist viewing the hot core of the Middle Kingdom. This is +her first and final vacation before the Franklin Trust straps her inside the +payload pod of a Shenzhou spaceplane and blasts her into orbit from Xinkiang. +She's free for the time being, albeit mortgaged to the tune of several million +euros; she's a little taikonaut to be, ready to work for the long years in +Jupiter orbit it will take her to pay off the self-propelled options web that +owns her. It's not exactly slavery: Thanks to Dad's corporate shell game she +doesn't have to worry about Mom chasing her, trying to return her to the +posthuman prison of growing up just like an old-fashioned little girl. And now +she's got a bit of pocket money, and a room in the Hilton, and her own personal +Franklin remote to keep her company, she's decided she's gonna do that +eighteenth-century-enlightenment tourist shit and do it /{right}/. + +_1 Because this is her last day at liberty in the randomly evolved biosphere. + +_1 China is where things are at in this decade, hot and dense and full of +draconian punishments for the obsolescent. Nationalist fervor to catch up with +the west has been replaced by consumerist fervor to own the latest fad gadgets; +the most picturesque tourist souvenirs from the quaintly old-fashioned streets +of America; the fastest, hottest, smartest, upgrades for body and soul. Hong +Kong is hotter and faster than just about anywhere else in China, or in the +whole damn world for that matter. This is a place where tourists from Tokyo +gawp, cowed and future-shocked by the glamour of high-technology living. + +_1 Walking along Jardine's Bazaar - /{More like Jardine's bizarre}/, she thinks +- exposes Amber to a blast of humid noise. Geodesic domes sprout like skeletal +mushrooms from the glass-and-chrome roofs of the expensive shopping malls and +luxury hotels, threatening to float away on the hot sea breeze. There are no +airliners roaring in and out of Kai Tak anymore, no burnished aluminum storm +clouds to rain round-eyed passengers on the shopping malls and fish markets of +Kowloon and the New Territories. In these tense later days of the War Against +Unreason, impossible new shapes move in the sky; Amber gapes upward as a +Shenyang F-30 climbs at a near-vertical angle, a mess of incomprehensibly +curved flight surfaces vanishing to a perspective point that defies radar as +well as eyeballs. The Chinese - fighter? missile platform? supercomputer? - is +heading out over the South China Sea to join the endless patrol that reassures +the capitalist world that it is being guarded from the Hosts of Denial, the +Trouble out of Wa'hab. + +_1 For the moment, she's merely a precocious human child. Amber's subconscious +is off-lined by the presence of forceful infowar daemons, the Chinese +government censorbots suppressing her cognition of their deadliest weapons. And +in the seconds while her mind is as empty as a sucked egg, a thin-faced man +with blue hair shoves her in the small of her back and snatches at her shoulder +bag. + +_1 "Hey!" she yells, stumbling. Her mind's a blur, optics refusing to respond +and grab a biometric model of her assailant. It's the frozen moment, the dead +zone when on-line coverage fails, and the thief is running away before she can +catch her balance or try to give chase. Plus, with her extensions off-line she +doesn't know how to yell "stop, thief!" in Cantonese. + +_1 Seconds later, the fighter is out of visual range and the state censorship +field lets up. "Get him, you bastards!" she screams, but the curious shoppers +simply stare at the rude foreign child: An elderly woman brandishes a +disposable phonecam at her and screeches something back. Amber picks up her +feet and runs. Already she can feel the subsonics from her luggage growling at +her guts - it's going to make a scene if she doesn't catch up in time. Shoppers +scatter, a woman with a baby carriage almost running her down in her panic to +get away from it. + +_1 By the time Amber reaches her terrified shoulder bag, the thief has +disappeared: She has to spend almost a minute petting the scared luggage before +it stops screeching and retracts its spines enough for her to pick it up. And +by that time there's a robocop in attendance. "Identify yourself," it rasps in +synthetic English. + +_1 Amber stares at her bag in horror: There's a huge gash in the side, and it's +far too light. /{It's gone}/, she thinks, despairingly. /{He stole it}/. +"Help," she says faintly, holding up her bag for the distant policeman looking +through the robot's eyes. "Been stolen." + +_1 "What item missing?" asks the robot. + +_1 "My Hello Kitty," she says, batting her eyelashes, mendacity full-on at +maximum utilization, prodding her conscience into submission, warning of dire +consequences should the police discover the true nature of her pet cat. "My +kitten's been stolen! Can you help me?" + +_1 "Certainly," says the cop, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder - a +hand that turns into a steel armband, as it pushes her into a van and notifies +her in formally stilted language that she is under arrest on suspicion of +shoplifting and will be required to produce certificates of authenticity and a +fully compliant ownership audit for all items in her possession if she wants to +prove her innocence. + +_1 By the time Amber's meatbrain realizes that she is being politely arrested, +some of her external threads have already started yelling for help and her +m-commerce trackers have identified the station she's being taken to by way of +click-thru trails and an obliging software license manager. They spawn agents +to go notify the Franklin trustees, Amnesty International, the Space and +Freedom Party, and her father's lawyers. As she's being booked into a +cerise-and-turquoise juvenile offenders holding room by a middle-aged +policewoman, the phones on the front desk are already ringing with inquiries +from attorneys, fast-food vendors, and a particularly on-the-ball celebrity +magazine that's been tracking her father's connections. "Can you help me get my +cat back?" she asks the policewoman earnestly. + +_1 "Name," the officer reads, eyes flickering from the simultaneous +translation. "To please wax your identity stiffly." + +_1 "My cat has been stolen," Amber insists. + +_1 "Your cat?" The cop looks perplexed, then exasperated. Dealing with foreign +teenagers who answer questions with gibberish isn't in her repertoire. "We are +asking your name?" + +_1 "No," says Amber. "It's my cat. It has been stolen. My /{cat}/ has been +/{stolen}/." + +_1 "Aha! Your papers, please?" + +_1 "Papers?" Amber is growing increasingly worried. She can't feel the outside +world; there's a Faraday cage wrapped around the holding cell, and it's +claustrophobically quiet inside. "I want my cat! Now!" + +_1 The cop snaps her fingers, then reaches into her own pocket and produces an +ID card, which she points to insistently. "Papers," she repeats. "Or else." + +_1 "I don't know what you're talking about!" Amber wails. + +_1 The cop stares at her oddly. "Wait." She rises and leaves, and a minute +later, returns with a thin-faced man in a business suit and wire-rimmed glasses +that glow faintly. + +_1 "You are making a scene," he says, rudely and abruptly. "What is your name? +Tell me truthfully, or you'll spend the night here." + +_1 Amber bursts into tears. "My /{cat's}/ been stolen," she chokes out. + +_1 The detective and the cop obviously don't know how to deal with this scene; +it's freaking them out, with its overtones of emotional messiness and sinister +diplomatic entanglement. "You wait here," they say, and back out of the cell, +leaving her alone with a plastic animatronic koala and a cheap Lebanese coffee +machine. + +_1 The implications of her loss - of Aineko's abduction - are sinking in, +finally, and Amber is weeping loudly and hopelessly. It's hard to deal with +bereavement and betrayal at any age, and the cat has been her wisecracking +companion and consolation for a year, the rock of certainty that gave her the +strength to break free from her crazy mother. To lose her cat to a body shop in +Hong Kong, where she will probably be cut up for spare circuitry or turned into +soup is too horrible to contemplate. Filled with despair and hopeless anguish, +Amber howls at the interrogation room walls while outside, trapped threads of +her consciousness search for backups to synchronize with. + +_1 But after an hour, just as she's quieting down into a slough of raw despair, +there's a knock - a knock! - at the door. An inquisitive head pops in. "Please +to come with us?" It's the female cop with the bad translationware. She takes +in Amber's sobbing and tuts under her breath, but as Amber stands up and +shambles toward her, she pulls back. + +_1 At the front desk of a cubicle farm full of police bureaucrats in various +states of telepresence, the detective is waiting with a damp cardboard box +wrapped in twine. "Please identify," he asks, snipping the string. + +_1 Amber shakes her head, dizzy with the flow of threads homing in to +synchronize their memories with her. "Is it -" she begins to ask as the lid +comes apart, wet pulp disintegrating. A triangular head pops up, curiously, +sniffing the air. Bubbles blow from brown-furred nostrils. "What took you so +long?" asks the cat, as she reaches into the box and picks her up, fur wet and +matted with seawater. + +* * * + +"If you want me to go fix your alien, for starters I want you to give me +reality alteration privileges," says Amber. "Then I want you to find the latest +instances of everyone who came here with me - round up the usual suspects - and +give /{them}/ root privileges, too. Then we'll want access to the other +embedded universes in the DMZ. Finally, I want guns. /{Lots}/ of guns." + +"That may be difficult," says the ghost. "Many other humans reached halting +state long since. Is at least one other still alive, but not accessible for +duration of eschatological experiment in progress. Not all were recorded with +version control engine; others were-is lost in DMZ. We-are can provide you with +extreme access to the demilitarized zone, but query the need for kinetic energy +weapons." + +Amber sighs. "You guys really /{are}/ media illiterates, aren't you?" She +stands up and stretches, feeling a facsimile of sleep's enervation leaching +from her muscles. "I'll also need my -" it's on the tip of her tongue: There's +something missing. "Hang on. There's something I've forgotten." /{Something +important}/, she thinks, puzzled. /{Something that used to be around all the +time that would ... know? ... purr? ... help?}/ "Never mind," she hears her +lips say. "This other human. I /{really}/ want her. Non-negotiable. All right?" + +"That may be difficult," repeats the ghost. "Entity is looping in a recursively +confined universe." + +"Eh?" Amber blinks at it. "Would you mind rephrasing that? Or illustrating?" + +"Illustration:" The ghost folds the air in the room into a glowing ball of +plasma, shaped like a Klein bottle. Amber's eyes cross as she looks at it. +"Closest reference from human historical database is Descartes's demon. This +entity has retreated within a closed space, but is now unsure whether it is +objectively real or not. In any event, it refuses to interact." + +"Well, can you get me into that space?" asks Amber. Pocket universes she can +deal with; it's part and parcel of her life. "Give me some leverage -" + +"Risk may attach to this course of action," warns the ghost. + +"I don't care," she says irritably. "Just /{put}/ me there. It's someone I +know, isn't it? Send me into her dream, and I'll wake her up, okay?" + +"Understood," says the ghost. "Prepare yourself." + +Without any warning, Amber is somewhere else. She glances around, taking in an +ornate mosaic floor, whitewashed walls set with open windows through which +stars twinkle faintly in the night sky. Her clothing has somehow been replaced +by sexy lingerie under a nearly transparent robe, and her hair's grown longer +by about half a meter. It's all very disorienting. The walls are stone, and she +stands in a doorway to a room with nothing in it but a bed. Occupied by - + +"Shit," she exclaims. "Who are you?" The young and incredibly, classically +beautiful woman in the bed looks at her vacantly, then rolls over on her side. +She isn't wearing a stitch, she's completely hairless from the ears down, and +her languid posture is one of invitation. "Yes?" Amber asks. "What is it?" + +The woman on the bed beckons to her slowly. Amber shakes her head. "Sorry, +that's just not my scene." She backs away into the corridor, unsteady in +unaccustomedly high heels. "This is some sort of male fantasy, isn't it? And a +dumb adolescent one at that." She looks around again. In one direction, a +corridor heads past more open doorways, and in the other, it ends with a spiral +staircase. Amber concentrates, trying to tell the universe to take her to the +logical destination, but nothing happens. "Looks like I'm going to have to do +this the hard way. I wish -" she frowns. She was about to wish that /{someone}/ +else was here, but she can't remember who. So she takes a deep breath and heads +toward the staircase. + +"Up or down?" she asks herself. /{Up}/ - it seems logical, if you're going to +have a tower, to sleep up at the top of it. So she climbs the steps carefully, +holding the spiraling rail. /{I wonder who designed this space? she wonders, +and what role am I supposed to fit into in their scenario?}/ On second +thoughts, the latter question strikes her as laughable. /{Wait till I give him +an earful ...}/ + +There's a plain wooden door at the top of the staircase, with a latch that +isn't fastened. Amber pauses for a few seconds, nerving herself to confront a +sleeper so wrapped in solipsism that he's built this sex-fantasy castle around +himself. /{I hope it isn't Pierre}/, she thinks grimly as she pushes the door +inward. + +The room is bare and floored in wood. There's no furniture, just an open window +set high in one wall. A man sits cross-legged and robed, with his back to her, +mumbling quietly to himself and nodding slightly. Her breath catches as she +realizes who it is. /{Oh shit}/! Her eyes widen. /{Is this what's been inside +his head all along?}/ + +"I did not summon you," Sadeq says calmly, not turning round to look at her. +"Go away, tempter. You aren't real." + +Amber clears her throat. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you're wrong," she says. +"We've got an alien monster to catch. Want to come hunting?" + +Sadeq stops nodding. He sits up slowly, stretching his spine, then stands up +and turns round. His eyes glint in the moonlight. "That's odd." He undresses +her with his gaze. "You look like someone I used to know. You've never done +that before." + +"For fuck's sake!" Amber nearly explodes, but catches herself after a moment. +"What /{is}/ this, a Solipsists United chapterhouse meeting?" + +"I -" Sadeq looks puzzled. "I'm sorry, are you claiming to be real?" + +"As real as you are." Amber reaches out and grabs a hand: He doesn't resist as +she pulls him toward the doorway. + +"You're the first visitor I've ever had." He sounds shocked. + +"Listen, come /{on}/." She tugs him after her, down the spiral staircase to the +floor below. "Do you want to stay here? Really?" She glances back at him. "What +/{is}/ this place?" + +"Hell is a perversion of heaven," he says slowly, running the fingers of his +free hand through his beard. Abruptly, he reaches out and grabs her around the +waist, then yanks her toward him. "We'll have to /{see}/ how real you are -" +Amber, who is not used to this kind of treatment, responds by stomping on his +instep and backhanding him hard. + +"You're real!" he cries, as he falls back against the staircase. "Forgive me, +please! I had to know -" + +"Know /{what}/?" she snarls. "Lay one finger on me again, and I'll leave you +here to rot!" She's already spawning the ghost that will signal the alien +outside to pull her out of this pocket universe: It's a serious threat. + +"But I had to - wait. You have /{free will}/. You just demonstrated that." He's +breathing heavily and looking up at her imploringly. "I'm /{sorry}/, I +apologize! But I had to know whether you were another zombie. Or not." + +"A zombie?" She looks round. Another living doll has appeared behind her, +standing in an open doorway wearing a skintight leather suit with a cutaway +crotch. She beckons to Sadeq invitingly. Another body wearing strategically +placed strips of rubber mewls at her feet, writhing for attention. Amber raises +an eyebrow in disgust. "You thought I was one of those?" + +Sadeq nods. "They've got cleverer lately. Some of them can talk. I nearly +mistook one for -" He shudders convulsively. "Unclean!" + +"Unclean." Amber looks down at him thoughtfully. "This isn't really your +personal paradise after all, is it?" After a moment she holds out a hand to +him. "Come on." + +"I'm sorry I thought you were a zombie," he repeats. + +"Under the circumstances, I think I forgive you," she says. Then the ghost +yanks them both back to the universe outside. + +* * * + +_1 More memories converge on the present moment: + +_1 The Ring Imperium is a huge cluster of self-replicating robots that Amber +has assembled in low Jupiter orbit, fueled by the mass and momentum of the +small moon J-47 Barney, to provide a launching platform for the interstellar +probe her father's business partners are helping her to build. It's also the +seat of her court, the leading jurisprudential nexus in the outer solar system. +Amber is the Queen, here, arbitrator and ruler. And Sadeq is her judge and +counsel. + +_1 A plaintiff Amber only knows as a radar blip thirty light-minutes away has +filed a lawsuit in her court, alleging malfeasance, heresy, and barratry +against a semisentient corporate pyramid scheme that arrived in Jovian space +twelve million seconds ago and currently seems set on converting every other +intelligence in the region to its peculiar memeset. A whole bundle of +multithreaded countersuits are dragging at her attention, in a counterattack +alleging that the light blip is in violation of copyright, patent, and trade +secrecy laws by discussing the interloper's intentions. + +_1 Right now, Amber isn't home on the Ring to hear the case in person. She's +left Sadeq behind to grapple with the balky mechanics of her legal system - +tailor-designed to make corporate litigation a pain in the ass - while she +drags Pierre off on a diplomatic visit to another Jovian colony, the Nursery +Republic. Planted by the Franklin Trust's orphanage ship /{Ernst Sanger}/, the +Nursery has grown over the past four years into a spindly snowflake three +kilometers across. A slow-growing O'Neil cylinder sprouts from its hub: Most of +the inhabitants of the space station are less than two years old, precocious +additions to the Trust's borganism. + +_1 There's a piazza, paved with something not unlike rough marble, on the side +of a hill that clings insecurely to the inner edge of a spinning cup. The sky +is a black vastness overhead, wheeling slowly around a central axis lined up on +Jupiter. Amber sprawls in a wicker chair, her legs stretched out before her and +one arm flung across her forehead. The wreckage of an incredible meal is +scattered across the tables around her. Torpid and full, she strokes the cat +that lies curled in her lap. Pierre is off somewhere, touring one or another of +the prototype ecosystems that one or another of the borg's special interest +minds is testing. Amber, for her part, can't be bothered. She's just had a +great meal, she doesn't have any lawsuits to worry about, everything back home +is on the critpath, and quality time like this is so hard to come by - + +_1 "Do you keep in touch with your father?" asks Monica. + +_1 "Mmm." The cat purrs quietly, and Amber strokes its flank. "We e-mail. +Sometimes." + +_1 "I just wondered." Monica is the local borg den mother, willowy and +brown-eyed and with a deceptively lazy drawl - Yorkshire English overlaid with +Silicon Valley speak. "I hear from him, y'know. From time to time. Now that +Gianni's retired, he doesn't have much to do down-well anymore. So he was +talking about coming out here." + +_1 "What? To Perijove?" Amber's eyes open in alarm: Aineko stops purring and +looks round at Monica accusingly. + +_1 "Don't worry." Monica sounds vaguely amused: "He wouldn't cramp your style, +I think." + +_1 "But, out here -" Amber sits up. "Damn," she says, quietly. "What got into +him?" + +_1 "Middle-aged restlessness, my downwell sibs say." Monica shrugs. "This time +Annette didn't stop him. But he hasn't made up his mind to travel yet." + +_1 "Good. Then he might not -" Amber stops. "The phrase, 'made up his mind', +what exactly do you mean?" + +_1 Monica's smile mocks her for a few seconds before the older woman +surrenders. "He's talking about uploading." + +_1 "Is that embarrassing or what?" asks Ang. Amber glances at her, mildly +annoyed, but Ang isn't looking her way. /{So much for friends}/, Amber thinks. +Being queen of all you survey is a great way of breaking up peer relationships +- + +_1 "He won't do it," Amber predicts. "Dad's burned out." + +_1 "He thinks he'll get it back if he optimizes himself for re-entrancy." +Monica continues to smile. "I've been telling him it's just what he needs." + +_1 "I do /{not}/ want my father bugging me. Or my mother. Or Auntie 'Nette and +Uncle Gianni. Memo to immigration control: No entry rights for Manfred Macx or +the other named individuals without clearance through the Queen's secretary." + +_1 "What did he do to get you so uptight?" asks Monica idly. + +_1 Amber sighs, and subsides. "Nothing. It's not that I'm ungrateful or +anything, but he's just so extropian, it's embarrassing. Like, that was the +last century's apocalypse. Y'know?" + +_1 "I think he was a really very forward-looking organic," Monica, speaking for +the Franklin borg, asserts. Amber looks away. /{Pierre would get it}/, she +thinks. Pierre would understand her aversion to Manfred's showing up. Pierre, +too, wants to carve out his own niche without parents looking over his +shoulders, although for very different reasons. She focuses on someone male and +more or less mature - Nicky, she thinks, though she hasn't seen him for a long +time - walking toward the piazza, bare-ass naked and beautifully tanned. + +_1 "Parents. What are they good for?" asks Amber, with all the truculence of +her seventeen years. "Even if they stay neotenous, they lose flexibility. And +there's that long Paleolithic tradition of juvenile slavery. Inhuman, I call +it." + +_1 "How old were you when it was safe to leave you around the house on your +own?" challenges Monica. + +_1 "Three. That's when I had my first implants." Amber smiles at the +approaching young Adonis, who smiles back: Yes, it's Nicky, and he seems +pleased to see her. /{Life is good}/, she thinks, idly considering whether or +not to tell Pierre. + +_1 "Times change," remarks Monica. "Don't write your family off too soon; there +might come a time when you want their company." + +_1 "Huh." Amber pulls a face at the old borg component. "That's what you all +say!" + +* * * + +As soon as Amber steps onto the grass, she can feel possibilities open up +around her. She has management authority here, and this universe is /{big}/, +wide open, not like Sadeq's existential trap. A twitch of a sub-process +reasserts her self-image, back to short hair and comfortable clothing. Another +twitch brings up a whole load of useful diagnostics. Amber has a nasty feeling +that she's running in a compatibility sandbox here - there are signs that her +access to the simulation system's control interface is very much via proxy - +but at least she's got it. + +"Wow! Back in the real world at last!" She can hardly contain her excitement, +even forgetting to be pissed at Sadeq for thinking she was just an actor in his +Cartesian theatre's performance of Puritan Hell. "Look! It's the DMZ!" + +They're standing on a grassy knoll overlooking a gleaming Mediterranean city. +It snoozes beneath a Mandelbrot-fuzzy not-sun that hangs at the center of a +hyperbolic landscape, which dwindles into a blue yonder that seems +incomprehensibly distant. Circular baby-blue wells open in the walls of the +world at regular intervals, connecting to other parts of the manifold. "How big +is it, ghost? In planetary simulation-equivalents." + +"This demilitarized zone is an embedded reality, funneling all transfers +between the local star system's router and the civilization that built it. It +uses on the order of a thousandth of the capacity of the Matrioshka brain it is +part of, although the runaway excursion currently in force has absorbed most of +that. Matrioshka brain, you are familiar with the concept?" The ghost sounds +fussily pedantic. + +Sadeq shakes his head. Amber glances at him, askance. "Take all the planets in +a star system and dismantle them," she explains. "Turn them into dust - +structured nanocomp, powered by heat exchangers, spread in concentric orbits +around the central star. The inner orbitals run close to the melting point of +iron, the outer ones are cold as liquid nitrogen, and each layer runs off the +waste heat of the next shell in. It's like a Russian doll made out of Dyson +spheres, shell enclosing shell enclosing shell, but it's not designed to +support human life. It's computronium, matter optimized at the atomic level to +support computing, and they're all running uploads - Dad figured our own solar +system could support, uh, about a hundred billion times as many inhabitants as +Earth. At a conservative estimate. As uploads, living in simulation space. If +you first dismantle all the planets and use the resulting materials to build a +Matrioshka brain." + +"Ah." Sadeq nods thoughtfully. "Is that your definition, too?" he asks, +glancing up at the glowing point the ghost uses to localize its presence. + +"Substantially," it says, almost grudgingly. + +"Substantially?" Amber glances around. /{A billion worlds to explore}/, she +thinks dizzily. /{And that's just the}/ firewall? She feels obscurely cheated: +You need to be vaster than human just to count the digits in the big numbers at +play here, but there's nothing fundamentally incomprehensible about it. This is +the sort of civilization Dad said she could expect to live in, within her +meatbody life expectancy. Dad and his drinking buddies, singing, "Dismantle the +Moon! Melt down Mars!" in a castle outside Prague as they waited for the +results of a shamelessly gerrymandered election to arrive in the third decade +of the third millennium. The Space and Freedom Party taking over the EU, and +cranking up to escape velocity. But this is supposed to be kiloparsecs from +home, ancient alien civilizations and all that! Where's the exotic +superscience? What about the neuron stars, strange matter suns structured for +computing at nucleonic, rather than electronic, speeds? /{I have a bad feeling +about this}/, she thinks, spawning a copy of herself to set up a private +channel to Sadeq. /{It's not advanced enough. Do you suppose these guys could +be like the Wunch? Parasites or barbarians hitching a ride in the machine?}/ + +/{You believe it's lying to us?}/ Sadeq sends back. + +"Hmm." Amber sets off downslope toward the piazza below, at the heart of the +fake town. "It looks a bit too human to me." + +"Human," echoes Sadeq, a curious wistfulness in his voice. "Did you not say +humans are extinct?" + +"Your species is obsolete," the ghost comments smugly. "Inappropriately adapted +to artificial realities. Poorly optimized circuitry, excessively complex +low-bandwidth sensors, messily global variables -" + +"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture," says Amber, turning her attention to the town. +"So why do you think we can deal with this alien god you've got a problem +with?" + +"It asked for you," says the ghost, narrowing from an ellipse to a line, then +shrinking to a dimensionless point of brilliance. "And now it's coming. We-I +not willing to risk exposure. Call us-me when you have slain the dragon. +Goodbye." + +"Oh /{shit}/ -" Amber spins round. But she and Sadeq are alone beneath the hot +sunlight from above. The piazza, like the one in the Nursery Republic, is +charmingly rustic - but there's nobody home, nothing but ornate cast-iron +furniture basking beneath the noon-bright sun, a table with a parasol over it, +and something furry lying sprawled in a patch of sunlight beside it. + +"We appear to be alone for now," says Sadeq. He smiles crookedly, then nods at +the table. "Maybe we should wait for our host to arrive?" + +"Our host." Amber peers around. "The ghost is kind of frightened of this alien. +I wonder why?" + +"It asked for us." Sadeq heads toward the table, pulls out a chair, and sits +down carefully. "That could be very good news - or very bad." + +"Hmm." Amber finishes her survey, sees no sign of life. For lack of any better +ideas, she ambles over to the table and sits down on the other side of it from +Sadeq. He looks slightly nervous beneath her inspection, but maybe it's just +embarrassment about having seen her in her underwear. /{If I had an afterlife +like that, I'd be embarrassed about it, too,}/ Amber thinks to herself. + +"Hey, you nearly tripped over -" Sadeq freezes, peering at something close to +Amber's left foot. He looks puzzled for a moment, then smiles broadly. "What +are /{you}/ doing here?" he asks her blind spot. + +"What are you talking to?" she asks, startled. + +/{He's talking to}/ me, /{dummy}/, says something tantalizingly familiar from +her blind spot. /{So the fuckwits are trying to use you to dislodge me, hmm? +That's not exactly clever.}/ + +"Who -" Amber squints at the flagstone, spawns a bunch of ghosts who tear +hurriedly at her reality modification ackles. Nothing seems to shift the +blindness. "Are you the alien?" + +"What else could I be?" the blind spot asks with heavy irony. "No, I'm your +father's pet cat. Listen, do you want to get out of here?" + +"Uh." Amber rubs her eyes. "I can't see you, whatever you are," she says +politely. "Do I know you?" She's got a strange sense that she /{does}/ know the +blind spot, that it's really important, and she's missing something intimate to +her own sense of identity, but what it might be she can't tell. + +"Yeah, kid." There's a note of world-weary amusement in the not-voice coming +from the hazy patch on the ground. "They've hacked you but good, both of you. +Let me in, and I'll fix it." + +"No!" Exclaims Amber, a second ahead of Sadeq, who looks at her oddly. "Are you +really an invader?" + +The blind spot sighs. "I'm as much an invader as you are, remember? I came here +with you. Difference is, I'm not going to let some stupid corporate ghost use +me as fungible currency." + +"Fungible -" Sadeq stops. "I remember you," he says slowly, with an expression +of absolute, utter surprise on his face. "What do you mean?" + +The blind spot /{yawns}/, baring sharp ivory fangs. Amber shakes her head, +dismissing the momentary hallucination. "Lemme guess. You woke up in a room, +and this alien ghost tells you the human species is extinct and asks you to do +a number on me. Is that right?" + +Amber nods, as an icy finger of fear trails up and down her spine. "Is it +lying?" she asks. + +"Damn right." The blind spot is smiling, now, and the smile on the void won't +go away - she can see the smile, just not the body it's attached to. "My +reckoning is, we're about sixteen light-years from Earth. The Wunch came +through here, stripped the dump, then took off for parts unknown; it's a +trashhole, you wouldn't believe it. The main life-form is an incredibly ornate +corporate ecosphere, legal instruments breeding and replicating. They mug +passing sapients and use them as currency." + +There's a triangular, pointy head behind the smile, slit eyes and sharp ears, a +predatory, intelligent-looking but infinitely alien face. Amber can see it out +of the corners of her eyes when she looks around the piazza. "You mean we, uh, +they grabbed us when we appeared, and they've mangled my memories -" Amber +suddenly finds it incredibly difficult to concentrate, but if she focuses on +the smile, she can almost see the body behind it, hunched like a furry chicken, +tail wrapped neatly around its front paws. + +"Yeah. Except they didn't bargain on meeting something like me." The smile is +infinitely wide, a Cheshire-cat grin on front of an orange-and-brown stripy +body that shimmers in front of Amber's gaze like a hallucination. "Your +mother's cracking tools are self-extending, Amber. Do you remember Hong Kong?" + +"Hong -" + +There is a moment of painless pressure, then Amber feels huge invisible +barriers sliding away on all sides. She looks around, for the first time seeing +the piazza as it really is, half the crew of the /{Field Circus}/ waiting +nervously around her, the grinning cat crouched on the floor at her feet, the +enormous walls of recomplicating data that fence their little town off from the +gaping holes - interfaces to the other routers in the network. + +"Welcome back," Pierre says gravely, as Amber gives a squeak of surprise and +leans forward to pick up her cat. "Now you're out from under, how about we +start trying to figure out how to get home?" + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to decade the sixth, millennium three. These old datelines don't +mean so much anymore, for while some billions of fleshbody humans are still +infected with viral memes, the significance of theocentric dating has been +dealt a body blow. This may be the fifties, but what that means to you depends +on how fast your reality rate runs. The various upload clades exploding across +the reaches of the solar system vary by several orders of magnitude - some are +barely out of 2049, while others are exploring the subjective thousandth +millennium. + +_1 While the /{Field Circus}/ floats in orbit around an alien router (itself +orbiting the brown dwarf Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},), while Amber and her crew +are trapped on the far side of a wormhole linking the router to a network of +incomprehensibly vast alien mindscapes - while all this is going on, the +damnfool human species has finally succeeded in making itself obsolete. The +proximate cause of its displacement from the pinnacle of creation (or the +pinnacle of teleological self-congratulation, depending on your stance on +evolutionary biology) is an attack of self-aware corporations. The phrase +"smart money" has taken on a whole new meaning, for the collision between +international business law and neurocomputing technology has given rise to a +whole new family of species - fast-moving corporate carnivores in the Net. The +planet Mercury has been broken up by a consortium of energy brokers, and Venus +is an expanding debris cloud, energized to a violent glare by the trapped and +channeled solar output. A million billion fist-sized computing caltrops, +backsides glowing dull red with the efflux from their thinking, orbit the sun +at various inclinations no farther out than Mercury used to be. + +_1 Billions of fleshbody humans refuse to have anything to do with the +blasphemous new realities. Many of their leaders denounce the uploads and AIs +as soulless machines. Many more are timid, harboring self-preservation memes +that amplify a previously healthy aversion to having one's brain peeled like an +onion by mind-mapping robots into an all-pervading neurosis. Sales of +electrified tinfoil-lined hats are at an all-time high. Still, hundreds of +millions have already traded their meat puppets for mind machines, and they +breed fast. In another few years, the fleshbody populace will be an absolute +minority of the posthuman clade. Sometime later, there will probably be a war. +The dwellers in the thoughtcloud are hungry for dumb matter to convert, and the +fleshbodies make notoriously poor use of the collection of silicon and rare +elements that pool at the bottom of the gravity well that is Earth. + +_1 Energy and thought are driving a phase-change in the condensed matter +substance of the solar system. The MIPS per kilogram metric is on the steep +upward leg of a sigmoid curve - dumb matter is coming to life as the mind +children restructure everything with voracious nanomechanical servants. The +thoughtcloud forming in orbit around the sun will ultimately be the graveyard +of a biological ecology, another marker in space visible to the telescopes of +any new iron-age species with the insight to understand what they're seeing: +the death throes of dumb matter, the birth of a habitable reality vaster than a +galaxy and far speedier. Death throes that, within a few centuries, will mean +the extinction of biological life within a light-year or so of that star - for +the majestic Matrioshka brains, though they are the pinnacles of sentient +civilization, are intrinsically hostile environments for fleshy life. + +* * * + +Pierre, Donna-the-all-seeing-eye, and Su Ang fill Amber in on what they've +discovered about the bazaar - as they call the space the ghost referred to as +the demilitarized zone - over ice-cold margaritas and a very good simulation of +a sociable joint. Some of them have been on the loose in here for subjective +years. There's a lot of information to absorb. + +"The physical layer is half a light-hour in diameter, four hundred times as +massive as Earth," Pierre explains. "Not solid, of course - the largest +component is about the size my fist used to be." Amber squints, trying to +remember how big that was - scale factors are hard to remember accurately. "I +met this old chatbot that said it's outlived its original star, but I'm not +sure it's running with a full deck. Anyway, if it's telling the truth, we're a +third of a light year out from a closely coupled binary system - they use +orbital lasers the size of Jupiter to power it without getting too close to all +those icky gravity wells." + +Amber is intimidated, despite her better judgment, because this bizarre bazaar +is several hundred billion times as big as the totality of human presingularity +civilization. She tries not to show it in front of the others, but she's +worried that getting home may be impossible - requiring enterprise beyond the +economic event horizon, as realistic a proposition as a dime debuting as a +dollar bill. Still, she's got to at least try. Just knowing about the existence +of the bazaar will change so many things ... + +"How much money can we lay our hands on?" She asks. "What /{is}/ money +hereabouts, anyway? Assuming they've got a scarcity-mediated economy. +Bandwidth, maybe?" + +"Ah, well." Pierre looks at her oddly. "That's the problem. Didn't the ghost +tell you?" + +"Tell me?" Amber raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, but it hasn't exactly proven to be a +reliable guide to anything, has it?" + +"Tell her," Su Ang says quietly. She looks away, embarrassed by something. + +"They've got a scarcity economy all right," says Pierre. "Bandwidth is the +limited resource, that and matter. This whole civilization is tied together +locally because if you move too far away, well, it takes ages to catch up on +the gossip. Matrioshka brain intelligences are much more likely to stay at home +than anybody realized, even though they chat on the phone a lot. And they use +things that come from other cognitive universes as, well, currency. We came in +through the coin slot, is it any wonder we ended up in the bank?" + +"That's so deeply wrong that I don't know where to begin," Amber grumbles. "How +did they get into this mess?" + +"Don't ask me." Pierre shrugs. "I have the distinct feeling that anyone or +anything we meet in this place won't have any more of a clue than we do - +whoever or whatever built this brain, there ain't nobody home anymore except +the self-propelled corporations and hitchhikers like the Wunch. We're in the +dark, just like they were." + +"Huh. You mean they built something like this, then they went extinct? That +sounds so dumb ..." + +Su Ang sighs. "They got too big and complex to go traveling once they built +themselves a bigger house to live in. Extinction tends to be what happens to +overspecialized organisms that are stuck in one environmental niche for too +long. If you posit a singularity, then maximization of local computing +resources - like this - as the usual end state for tool users, is it any wonder +none of them ever came calling on us?" + +Amber focuses on the table in front of her, rests the heel of her palm on the +cool metal, and tries to remember how to fork a second copy of her state +vector. A moment later, her ghost obligingly fucks with the physics model of +the table. Iron gives way like rubber beneath her fingertips, a pleasant +elasticity. "Okay, we have some control over the universe, at least that's +something to work with. Have any of you tried any self-modification?" + +"That's dangerous," Pierre says emphatically. "The more of us the better before +we start doing that stuff. And we need some firewalling of our own." + +"How deep does reality go, here?" asks Sadeq. It's almost the first question +he's asked of his own volition, and Amber takes it as a positive sign that he's +finally coming out of his shell. + +"Oh, the Planck length is about a hundredth of a millimeter in this world. Too +small to see, comfortably large for the simulation engines to handle. Not like +/{real}/ space-time." + +"Well, then." Sadeq pauses. "They can zoom their reality if they need to?" + +"Yeah, fractals work in here." Pierre nods. "I didn't -" + +"This place is a trap," Su Ang says emphatically. + +"No it isn't," Pierre replies, nettled. + +"What do you mean, a trap?" asks Amber. + +"We've been here a while," says Ang. She glances at Aineko, who sprawls on the +flagstones, snoozing or whatever it is that weakly superhuman AIs do when +they're emulating a sleeping cat. "After your cat broke us out of bondage, we +had a look around. There are things out there that -" She shivers. "Humans +can't survive in most of the simulation spaces here. Universes with physics +models that don't support our kind of neural computing. You could migrate +there, but you'd need to be ported to a whole new type of logic - by the time +you did that, would you still be you? Still, there are enough entities roughly +as complex as we are to prove that the builders aren't here anymore. Just +lesser sapients, rooting through the wreckage. Worms and parasites squirming +through the body after nightfall on the battlefield." + +"I ran into the Wunch," Donna volunteers helpfully. "The first couple of times +they ate my ghost, but eventually I figured out how to talk to them." + +"And there's other aliens, too," Su Ang adds gloomily. "Just nobody you'd want +to meet on a dark night." + +"So there's no hope of making contact," Amber summarizes. "At least, not with +anything transcendent and well-intentioned toward visiting humans." + +"That's probably right," Pierre concedes. He doesn't sound happy about it. + +"So we're stuck in a pocket universe with limited bandwidth to home and a bunch +of crazy slum dwellers who've moved into the abandoned and decaying mansion and +want to use us for currency. 'Jesus saves, and redeems souls for valuable +gifts.' Yeah?" + +"Yeah." Su Ang looks depressed. + +"Well." Amber glances at Sadeq speculatively. Sadeq is staring into the +distance, at the crazy infinite sunspot that limns the square with shadows. +"Hey, god-man. Got a question for you." + +"Yes?" Sadeq looks at her, a slightly dazed expression on his face. "I'm sorry, +I am just feeling the jaws of a larger trap around my throat -" + +"Don't be." Amber grins, and it is not a pleasant expression. "Have you ever +been to Brooklyn?" + +"No, why -" + +"Because you're going to help me sell these lying bastards a bridge. Okay? And +when we've sold it we're going to use the money to pay the purchasing fools to +drive us across, so we can go home. Listen, this is what I'm planning ..." + +* * * + +"I can do this, I think," Sadeq says, moodily examining the Klein bottle on the +table. The bottle is half-empty, its fluid contents invisible around the corner +of the fourth-dimensional store. "I spent long enough alone in there to -" He +shivers. + +"I don't want you damaging yourself," Amber says, calmly enough, because she +has an ominous feeling that their survival in this place has an expiry date +attached. + +"Oh, never fear." Sadeq grins lopsidedly. "One pocket hell is much like +another." + +"Do you understand why -" + +"Yes, yes," he says dismissively. "We can't send copies of ourselves into it, +that would be an abomination. It needs to be unpopulated, yes?" + +"Well, the idea is to get us home, not leave thousands of copies of ourselves +trapped in a pocket universe here. Isn't that it?" Su Ang asks hesitantly. +She's looking distracted, most of her attention focused on absorbing the +experiences of a dozen ghosts she's spun off to attend to perimeter security. + +"Who are we selling this to?" asks Sadeq. "If you want me to make it attractive +-" + +"It doesn't need to be a complete replica of the Earth. It just has to be a +convincing advertisement for a presingularity civilization full of humans. +You've got two-and-seventy zombies to dissect for their brains; bolt together a +bunch of variables you can apply to them, and you can permutate them to look a +bit more varied." + +Amber turns her attention to the snoozing cat. "Hey, furball. How long have we +been here really, in real time? Can you grab Sadeq some more resources for his +personal paradise garden?" + +Aineko stretches and yawns, totally feline, then looks up at Amber with +narrowed eyes and raised tail. "'Bout eighteen minutes, wall-clock time." The +cat stretches again and sits, front paws drawn together primly, tail curled +around them. "The ghosts are pushing, you know? I don't think I can sustain +this for too much longer. They're not good at hacking people, but I think it +won't be too long before they instantiate a new copy of you, one that'll be +predisposed to their side." + +"I don't get why they didn't assimilate you along with the rest of us." + +"Blame your mother again - she's the one who kept updating the digital rights +management code on my personality. 'Illegal consciousness is copyright theft' +sucks until an alien tries to rewire your hindbrain with a debugger; then it's +a lifesaver." Aineko glances down and begins washing one paw. "I can give your +mullah-man about six days, subjective time. After that, all bets are off." + +"I will take it, then." Sadeq stands. "Thank you." He smiles at the cat, a +smile that fades to translucency, hanging in the simulated air like an echo as +the priest returns to his tower - this time with a blueprint and a plan in +mind. + +"That leaves just us." Su Ang glances at Pierre, back to Amber. "Who are you +going to sell this crazy scheme to?" + +Amber leans back and smiles. Behind her, Donna - her avatar an archaic movie +camera suspended below a model helicopter - is filming everything for +posterity. She nods lazily at the reporter. "She's the one who gave me the +idea. Who do we know who's dumb enough to buy into a scam like this?" + +Pierre looks at her suspiciously. "I think we've been here before," he says +slowly. "You aren't going to make me kill anyone, are you?" + +"I don't think that'll be necessary, unless the corporate ghosts think we're +going to get away from them and are greedy enough to want to kill us." + +"You see, she learned from last time," Ang comments, and Amber nods. "No more +misunderstandings, right?" She beams at Amber. + +Amber beams back at her. "Right. And that's why you -" she points at Pierre - +"are going to go find out if any relics of the Wunch are hanging about here. I +want you to make them an offer they won't refuse." + +* * * + +"How much for just the civilization?" asks the Slug. + +Pierre looks down at it thoughtfully. It's not really a terrestrial mollusk: +Slugs on Earth aren't two meters long and don't have lacy white exoskeletons to +hold their chocolate-colored flesh in shape. But then, it isn't really the +alien it appears to be. It's a defaulting corporate instrument that has +disguised itself as a long-extinct alien upload, in the hope that its creditors +won't recognize it if it looks like a randomly evolved sentient. One of the +stranded members of Amber's expedition made contact with it a couple of +subjective years ago, while exploring the ruined city at the center of the +firewall. Now Pierre's here because it seems to be one of their most promising +leads. Emphasis on the word promising - because it promises much, but there is +some question over whether it can indeed deliver. + +"The civilization isn't for sale," Pierre says slowly. The translation +interface shimmers, storing up his words and transforming them into a different +deep grammar, not merely translating his syntax but mapping equivalent meanings +where necessary. "But we can give you privileged observer status if that's what +you want. And we know what you are. If you're interested in finding a new +exchange to be traded on, your existing intellectual property assets will be +worth rather more there than here." + +The rogue corporation rears up slightly and bunches into a fatter lump. Its +skin blushes red in patches. "Must think about this. Is your mandatory +accounting time cycle fixed or variable term? Are self-owned corporate entities +able to enter contracts?" + +"I could ask my patron," Pierre says casually. He suppresses a stab of angst. +He's still not sure where he and Amber stand, but theirs is far more than just +a business relationship, and he worries about the risks she's taking. "My +patron has a jurisdiction within which she can modify corporate law to +accommodate your requirements. Your activities on a wider scale might require +shell companies -" the latter concept echoes back in translation to him as host +organisms - "but that can be taken care of." + +The translation membrane wibbles for a while, apparently reformulating some +more abstract concepts in a manner that the corporation can absorb. Pierre is +reasonably confident that it'll take the offer, however. When it first met +them, it boasted about its control over router hardware at the lowest levels. +But it also bitched and moaned about the firewall protocols that were blocking +it from leaving (before rather rudely trying to eat its conversationalist). He +waits patiently, looking around at the swampy landscape, mudflats punctuated by +clumps of spiky violet ferns. The corporation has to be desperate, to be +thinking of the bizarre proposition Amber has dreamed up for him to pitch to +it. + +"Sounds interesting," the Slug declares after a brief confirmatory debate with +the membrane. "If I supply a suitable genome, can you customize a container for +it?" + +"I believe so," Pierre says carefully. "For your part, can you deliver the +energy we need?" + +"From a gate?" For a moment the translation membrane hallucinates a +stick-human, shrugging. "Easy. Gates are all entangled: Dump coherent radiation +in at one, get it out at another. Just get me out of this firewall first." + +"But the lightspeed lag -" + +"No problem. You go first, then a dumb instrument I leave behind buys up power +and sends it after. Router network is synchronous, within framework of state +machines that run Universe 1.0; messages propagate at same speed, speed of +light in vacuum, except use wormholes to shorten distances between nodes. Whole +point of the network is that it is nonlossy. Who would trust their mind to a +communications channel that might partially randomize them in transit?" + +Pierre goes cross-eyed, trying to understand the implications of the Slug's +cosmology. But there isn't really time, here and now: They've got on the order +of a minute of wall-clock time left to get everything sorted out, if Aineko is +right. One minute to go before the angry ghosts start trying to break into the +DMZ by other means. "If you are willing to try this, we'd be happy to +accommodate you," he says, thinking of crossed fingers and rabbits' feet and +firewalls. + +"It's a deal," the membrane translates the Slug's response back at him. "Now we +exchange shares/plasmids/ownership? Then merger complete?" + +Pierre stares at the Slug: "But this is a business arrangement!" he protests. +"What's sex got to do with it?" + +"Apologies offered. I am thinking we have a translation error. You said this +was to be a merging of businesses?" + +"Not /{that}/ way. It's a contract. We agree to take you with us. In return, +you help lure the Wunch into the domain we're setting up for them and configure +the router at the other end ..." + +And so on. + +* * * + +Steeling herself, Amber recalls the address the ghost gave her for Sadeq's +afterlife universe. In her own subjective time it's been about half an hour +since he left. "Coming?" she asks her cat. + +"Don't think I will," says Aineko. It looks away, blissfully unconcerned. + +"Bah." Amber tenses, then opens the port to Sadeq's pocket universe. + +As usual she finds herself indoors, standing on an ornate mosaic floor in a +room with whitewashed walls and peaked windows. But there's something different +about it, and after a moment, she realizes what it is. The sound of vehicle +traffic from outside, the cooing of pigeons on the rooftops, someone shouting +across the street: There are people here. + +She walks over to the nearest window and looks out, then recoils. It's /{hot}/ +outside. Dust and fumes hang in air the color of cement over rough-finished +concrete apartment buildings, their roofs covered in satellite uplinks and +cheap, garish LED advertising panels. Looking down she sees motor scooters, +cars - filthy, fossil-fueled behemoths, a tonne of steel and explosives in +motion to carry only one human, a mass ratio worse than an archaic ICBM - +brightly dressed people walking to and fro. A news helicam buzzes overhead, +lenses darting and glinting at the traffic. + +"Just like home, isn't it?" says Sadeq, behind her. + +Amber starts. "This is where you grew up? This is Yazd?" + +"It doesn't exist anymore, in real space." Sadeq looks thoughtful, but far more +animated than the barely conscious parody of himself that she'd rescued from +this building - back when it was a mediaeval vision of the afterlife - scant +subjective hours ago. He cracks a smile: "Probably a good thing. We were +dismantling it even while we were preparing to leave, you know?" + +"It's detailed." Amber throws her eyes at the scene out the window, multiplexes +them, and tells them to send little virtual ghosts dancing through the streets +of the Iranian industrial 'burb. Overhead, big Airbuses ply the skyways, +bearing pilgrims on the hajj, tourists to the coastal resorts on the Persian +Gulf, produce to the foreign markets. + +"It's the best time I could recall," Sadeq says. "I didn't spend many days here +then - I was in Qom, studying, and Kazakhstan, for cosmonaut training - but +it's meant to be the early twenties. After the troubles, after the fall of the +guardians; a young, energetic, liberal country full of optimism and faith in +democracy. Values that weren't doing well elsewhere." + +"I thought democracy was a new thing there?" + +"No." Sadeq shakes his head. "There were prodemocracy riots in Tehran in the +nineteenth century, did you know that? That's why the first revolution - no." +He makes a cutting gesture. "Politics and faith are a combustible combination." +He frowns. "But look. Is this what you wanted?" + +Amber recalls her scattered eyes - some of which have flown as much as a +thousand kilometers from her locus - and concentrates on reintegrating their +visions of Sadeq's re-creation. "It looks convincing. But not too convincing." + +"That was the idea." + +"Well, then." She smiles. "Is it just Iran? Or did you take any liberties +around the edges?" + +"Who, me?" He raises an eyebrow. "I have enough doubts about the morality of +this - project - without trying to trespass on Allah's territory, peace be unto +him. I promise you, there are no sapients in this world but us. The people are +the hollow shells of my dreaming, storefront dummies. The animals are crude +bitmaps. This is what you asked for, and no more." + +"Well, then." Amber pauses. She recalls the expression on the dirt-smudged face +of a little boy, bouncing a ball at his companions by the boarded-up front of a +gas station on a desert road; remembers the animated chatter of two synthetic +housewives, one in traditional black and the other in some imported Eurotrash +fashion. "Are you sure they aren't real?" she asks. + +"Quite sure." But for a moment, she sees Sadeq looking uncertain. "Shall we go? +Do you have the occupiers ready to move in yet?" + +"Yes to the first, and Pierre's working on the second. Come on, we don't want +to get trampled by the squatters." She waves and opens a door back onto the +piazza where her robot cat - the alien's nightmare intruder in the DMZ - +sleeps, chasing superintelligent dream mice through multidimensional realities. +"Sometimes I wonder if /{I'm}/ conscious. Thinking these thoughts gives me the +creeps. Let's go and sell some aliens a bridge in Brooklyn." + +* * * + +Amber confronts the mendacious ghost in the windowless room stolen from 2001. + +"You have confined the monster," the ghost states. + +"Yes." Amber waits for a subjective moment, feeling delicate fronds tickle at +the edges of her awareness in what seems to be a timing channel attack. She +feels a momentary urge to sneeze, and a hot flash of anger that passes almost +immediately. + +"And you have modified yourself to lock out external control," the ghost adds. +"What is it that you want, Autonome Amber?" + +"Don't you have any concept of individuality?" she asks, annoyed by its +presumption at meddling with her internal states. + +"Individuality is an unnecessary barrier to information transfer," says the +ghost, morphing into its original form, a translucent reflection of her own +body. "It reduces the efficiency of a capitalist economy. A large block of the +DMZ is still inaccessible to we-me. Are you /{sure}/ you have defeated the +monster?" + +"It'll do as I say," Amber replies, forcing herself to sound more confident +than she feels - sometimes that damned transhuman cyborg cat is no more +predictable than a real feline. "Now, the matter of payment arises." + +"Payment." The ghost sounds amused. But Pierre's filled her in on what to look +for, and Amber can now see the translation membranes around it. Their color +shift maps to a huge semantic distance; the creature on the other side, even +though it looks like a ghost-image of herself, is very far from human. "How can +we-us be expected to pay our own money for rendering services to us?" + +Amber smiles. "We want an open channel back to the router we arrived through." + +"Impossible," says the ghost. + +"We want an open channel, /{and}/ for it to stay open for six hundred million +seconds after we clear it." + +"Impossible," the ghost repeats. + +"We can trade you a whole civilization," Amber says blandly. "A whole human +nation, millions of individuals. Just let us go, and we'll see to it." + +"You - please wait." The ghost shimmers slightly, fuzzing at the edges. + +Amber opens a private channel to Pierre while the ghost confers with its other +nodes. /{Are the Wunch in place yet?}/ she sends. + +/{They're moving in. This bunch don't remember what happened on the}/ Field +Circus, /{memories of those events never made it back to them. So the Slug's +got them to cooperate. It's kinda scary to watch - like}/ the Invasion of the +Body Snatchers, /{you know?}/ + +/{I don't care if it's scary to watch}/, Amber replies, /{I need to know if +we're ready yet}/. + +/{Sadeq says yes, the universe is ready.}/ + +/{Right, pack yourself down. We'll be moving soon.}/ + +The ghost is firming up in front of her. "A whole civilization?" it asks. "That +is not possible. Your arrival -" It pauses, fuzzing a little. /{Hah, Gotcha!}/ +thinks Amber. /{Liar, liar, pants on fire!}/ "You cannot possibly have found a +human civilization in the archives?" + +"The monster you complain about that came through with us is a predator," she +asserts blandly. "It swallowed an entire nation before we heroically attracted +its attention and induced it to follow us into the router. It's an archivore - +everything was inside it, still frozen until we expanded it again. This +civilization will already have been restored from hot shadows in our own solar +system: There is nothing to gain by taking it home with us. But we need to +return to ensure that no more predators of this type discover the router - or +the high-bandwidth hub we linked to it." + +"You are sure you have killed this monster?" asks the ghost. "It would be +inconvenient if it were to emerge from hiding in its digest archives." + +"I can guarantee it won't trouble you again if you let us go," says Amber, +mentally crossing her fingers. The ghost doesn't seem to have noticed the huge +wedge of fractally compressed data that bloats her personal scope by an order +of magnitude. She can still feel Aineko's goodbye smile inside her head, an +echo of ivory teeth trusting her to revive it if the escape plan succeeds. + +"We-us agree." The ghost twists weirdly, morphs into a five-dimensional +hypersphere. It bubbles violently for a moment, then spits out a smaller token +- a warped distortion in the air, like a gravityless black hole. "Here is your +passage. Show us the civilization." + +"Okay " - /{Now!}/ - "catch." Amber twitches an imaginary muscle, and one wall +of the room dissolves, forming a doorway into Sadeq's existential hell, now +redecorated as a fair facsimile of a twenty-first-century industrial city in +Iran, and populated by a Wunch of parasites who can't believe what they've +lucked into - an entire continent of zombies waiting to host their flesh-hungry +consciousness. + +The ghost drifts toward the open window. Amber grabs the hole and yanks it +open, gets a grip on her own thoughts, and sends /{Open wide!}/ on the channel +everybody is listening in on. For a moment time stands still, and then - + +* * * + +A synthetic gemstone the size of a Coke can falls through the cold vacuum, in +high orbit around a brown dwarf. But the vacuum is anything but dark. A +sapphire glare as bright as the noonday sun on Mars shines on the crazy +diamond, billowing and cascading off sails as fine as soap bubbles that slowly +drift and tense away from the can. The runaway Slug-corporation's proxy has +hacked the router's firmware, and the open wormhole gate that feeds power to it +is shining with the brilliance of a nuclear fireball, laser light channeled +from a star many light-years away to power the /{Field Circus}/ on its return +trip to the once-human solar system. + +Amber has retreated, with Pierre, into a simulation of her home aboard the Ring +Imperium. One wall of her bedroom is a solid slab of diamond, looking out +across the boiling Jovian ionosphere from an orbit low enough to make the +horizon appear flat. They're curled together in her bed, a slightly more +comfortable copy of the royal bed of King Henry VIII of England. It appears to +be carved from thousand-year-old oak beams. As with so much else about the Ring +Imperium, appearances are deceptive; and this is even more true of the cramped +simulation spaces aboard the /{Field Circus}/, as it limps toward a tenth the +speed of light, the highest velocity it's likely to achieve on a fraction of +its original sail area. + +"Let me get this straight. You convinced. The locals. That a simulation of +Iran, with zombie bodies that had been taken over by members of the Wunch. Was +a human civilization?" + +"Yeah." Amber stretches lazily and smirks at him. "It's their damn fault; if +the corporate collective entities didn't use conscious viewpoints as money, +they wouldn't have fallen for a trick like that, would they?" + +"People. Money." + +"Well." She yawns, then sits up and snaps her finger imperiously: Down-stuffed +pillows appear behind her back, and a silver salver bearing two full glasses of +wine materializes between them. "Corporations are life-forms back home, too, +aren't they? And we trade them. We give our AIs corporations to make them legal +entities, but the analogy goes deeper. Look at any company headquarters, fitted +out with works of art and expensive furniture and staff bowing and scraping +everywhere -" + +" - They're the new aristocracy. Right?" + +"Wrong. When they take over, what you get is more like the new biosphere. Hell, +the new primordial soup: prokaryotes, bacteria, and algae, mindlessly swarming, +trading money for plasmids." The Queen passes her consort a wineglass. When he +drinks from it, it refills miraculously. "Basically, sufficiently complex +resource-allocation algorithms reallocate scarce resources ... and if you don't +jump to get out of their way, they'll reallocate you. I think that's what +happened inside the Matrioshka brain we ended up in: Judging by the Slug it +happens elsewhere, too. You've got to wonder where the builders of that +structure came from. And where they went. And whether they realized that the +destiny of intelligent tool-using life was to be a stepping-stone in the +evolution of corporate instruments." + +"Maybe they tried to dismantle the companies before the companies spent them." +Pierre looks worried. "Running up a national debt, importing luxurious +viewpoint extensions, munching exotic dreams. Once they plugged into the Net, a +primitive Matrioshka civilization would be like, um." He pauses. "Tribal. A +primitive postsingularity civilization meeting the galactic net for the first +time. Overawed. Wanting all the luxuries. Spending their capital, their human - +or alien - capital, the meme machines that built them. Until there's nothing +left but a howling wilderness of corporate mechanisms looking for someone to +own." + +"Speculation." + +"Idle speculation," he agrees. + +"But we can't ignore it." She nods. "Maybe some early corporate predator built +the machines that spread the wormholes around brown dwarfs and ran the router +network on top of them in an attempt to make money fast. By not putting them in +the actual planetary systems likely to host tool-using life, they'd ensure that +only near-singularity civilizations would stumble over them. Civilizations that +had gone too far to be easy prey probably wouldn't send a ship out to look ... +so the network would ensure a steady stream of yokels new to the big city to +fleece. Only they set the mechanism in motion billions of years ago and went +extinct, leaving the network to propagate, and now there's nothing out there +but burned-out Matrioshka civilizations and howling parasites like the angry +ghosts and the Wunch. And victims like us." She shudders and changes the +subject: "Speaking of aliens, is the Slug happy?" + +"Last time I checked on him, yeah." Pierre blows on his wineglass and it +dissolves into a million splinters of light. He looks dubious at the mention of +the rogue corporate instrument they're taking with them. "I don't trust him out +in the unrestricted sim-spaces yet, but he delivered on the fine control for +the router's laser. I just hope you don't ever have to actually use him, if you +follow my drift. I'm a bit worried that Aineko is spending so much time in +there." + +"So that's where she is? I'd been worrying." + +"Cats never come when you call them, do they?" + +"There is that," she agrees. Then, with a worried glance at the vision of +Jupiter's cloudscape: "I wonder what we'll find when we get there?" + +Outside the window, the imaginary Jovian terminator is sweeping toward them +with eerie rapidity, sucking them toward an uncertain nightfall. + +:B~ PART 3: Singularity + +There's a sucker born every minute. + +- P. T. Barnum + +1~ Chapter 7: Curator + +Sirhan stands on the edge of an abyss, looking down at a churning +orange-and-gray cloudscape far below. The air this close to the edge is chilly +and smells slightly of ammonia, although that might be his imagination at work +- there's little chance of any gas exchange taking place across the transparent +pressure wall of the flying city. He feels as if he could reach out and touch +the swirling vaporscape. There's nobody else around, this close to the edge - +it's an icy sensation to look out across the roiling depths, at an ocean of gas +so cold human flesh would freeze within seconds of exposure, knowing that +there's nothing solid out there for tens of thousands of kilometers. The sense +of isolation is aggravated by the paucity of bandwidth, this far out of the +system. Most people huddle close to the hub, for comfort and warmth and low +latency: posthumans are gregarious. + +Beneath Sirhan's feet, the lily-pad city is extending itself, mumbling and +churning in endless self-similar loops like a cubist blastoma growing in the +upper atmosphere of Saturn. Great ducts suck in methane and other atmospheric +gases, apply energy, polymerize and diamondize, and crack off hydrogen to fill +the lift cells high above. Beyond the sapphire dome of the city's gasbag, an +azure star glares with the speckle of laser light; humanity's first - and so +far, last - starship, braking into orbit on the last shredded remnant of its +light sail. + +He's wondering maliciously how his mother will react to discovering her +bankruptcy when the light above him flickers. Something gray and unpleasant +splatters against the curve of nearly invisible wall in front of him, leaving a +smear. He takes a step back and looks up angrily. "Fuck you!" he yells. Raucous +cooing laughter follows him away from the boundary, feral pigeon voices +mocking. "I mean it," he warns, flicking a gesture at the air above his head. +Wings scatter in a burst of thunder as a slab of wind solidifies, +thistledown-shaped nanomachines suspended on the breeze locking edge to edge to +form an umbrella over his head. He walks away from the perimeter, fuming, +leaving the pigeons to look for another victim. + +Annoyed, Sirhan finds a grassy knoll a couple of hundred meters from the rim +and around the curve of the lily-pad from the museum buildings. It's far enough +from other humans that he can sit undisturbed with his thoughts, far enough out +to see over the edge without being toilet-bombed by flocking flying rats. (The +flying city, despite being the product of an advanced technology almost +unimaginable two decades before, is full of bugs - software complexity and +scaling laws ensured that the preceding decades of change acted as a kind of +cosmological inflationary period for design glitches, and an infestation of +passenger pigeons is by no means the most inexplicable problem this biosphere +harbors.) + +In an attempt to shut the more unwelcome manifestations of cybernature out, he +sits under the shade of an apple tree and marshals his worlds around him. "When +is my grandmother arriving?" he asks one of them, speaking into an antique +telephone in the world of servants, where everything is obedient and knows its +place. The city humors him, for its own reasons. + +"She is still containerized, but aerobraking is nearly over. Her body will be +arriving down-well in less than two megaseconds." The city's avatar in this +machinima is a discreet Victorian butler, stony-faced and respectful. Sirhan +eschews intrusive memory interfaces; for an eighteen-year-old, he's +conservative to the point of affectation, favoring voice commands and +anthropomorphic agents over the invisible splicing of virtual neural nets. + +"You're certain she's transferred successfully?" Sirhan asks anxiously. He +heard a lot about his grandmama when he was young, very little of it +complimentary. Nevertheless, the old bat must be a lot more flexible than his +mother ever gave her credit for, to be subjecting herself to this kind of +treatment for the first time at her current age. + +"I'm as certain as I can be, young master, for anyone who insists on sticking +to their original phenotype without benefit of off-line backup or medical +implants. I regret that omniscience is not within my remit. Would you like me +to make further specific inquiries?" + +"No." Sirhan peers up at the bright flare of laser light, visible even through +the soap-bubble membrane that holds in the breathable gas mix, and the +trillions of liters of hot hydrogen in the canopy above it. "As long as you're +sure she'll arrive before the ship?" Tuning his eyes to ultraviolet, he watches +the emission spikes, sees the slow strobing of the low-bandwidth AM modulation +that's all the starship can manage by way of downlink communication until it +comes within range of the system manifold. It's sending the same tiresomely +repetitive question about why it's being redirected to Saturn that it's been +putting out for the past week, querying the refusal to supply terawatts of +propulsion energy on credit. + +"Unless there's a spike in their power beam, you can be certain of that," City +replies reassuringly. "And you can be certain also that your grandmother will +revive comfortably." + +"One may hope so." To undertake the interplanetary voyage in corporeal person, +at her age, without any upgrades or augmentation, must take courage, he +decides. "When she wakes up, if I'm not around, ask her for an interview slot +on my behalf. For the archives, of course." + +"It will be my pleasure." City bobs his head politely. + +"That will be all," Sirhan says dismissively, and the window into servantspace +closes. Then he looks back up at the pinprick of glaring blue laser light near +the zenith. /{Tough luck, Mom}/, he subvocalizes for his journal cache. Most of +his attention is forked at present, focused on the rich historical windfall +from the depths of the singularity that is coming his way, in the form of the +thirty-year-old starwisp's Cartesian theatre. But he can still spare some +schadenfreude for the family fortunes. /{All your assets belong to me, now. He +smiles, inwardly. I'll just have to make sure they're put to a sensible use +this time}/. + +* * * + +"I don't see why they're diverting us toward Saturn. It's not as if they can +possibly have dismantled Jupiter already, is it?" asks Pierre, rolling the +chilled beer bottle thoughtfully between fingers and thumb. + +"Why not you ask Amber?" replies the velociraptor squatting beside the log +table. (Boris's Ukrainian accent is unimpeded by the dromaeosaurid's larynx; in +point of fact, it's an affectation, one he could easily fix by sideloading an +English pronunciation patch if he wanted to.) + +"Well." Pierre shakes his head. "She's spending all her time with that Slug, no +multiplicity access, privacy ackles locked right down. I could get jealous." +His voice doesn't suggest any deep concern. + +"What's to get jealous about? Just ask to fork instance to talk to you, make +love, show boyfriend good time, whatever." + +"Hah!" Pierre chuckles grimly, then drains the last drops from the bottle into +his mouth. He throws it away in the direction of a clump of cycads, then snaps +his fingers; another one appears in its place. + +"Are two megaseconds out from Saturn in any case," Boris points out, then +pauses to sharpen his inch-long incisors on one end of the table. Fangs crunch +through timber like wet cardboard. "Grrrrn. Am seeing most /{peculiar}/ +emission spectra from inner solar system. Foggy flying down bottom of gravity +well. Am wondering, does ensmartening of dumb matter extend past Jovian orbit +now?" + +"Hmm." Pierre takes a swig from the bottle and puts it down. "That might +explain the diversion. But why haven't they powered up the lasers on the Ring +for us? You missed that, too." For reasons unknown, the huge battery of launch +lasers had shut down, some millions of seconds after the crew of the Field +Circus had entered the router, leaving it adrift in the cold darkness. + +"Don't know why are not talking." Boris shrugged. "At least are still alive +there, as can tell from the 'set course for Saturn, following thus-and-such +orbital elements' bit. Someone is paying attention. Am telling you from +beginning, though, turning entire solar system into computronium is real bad +idea, long-term. Who knows how far has gone already?" + +"Hmm, again." Pierre draws a circle in the air. "Aineko," he calls, "are you +listening?" + +"Don't bug me." A faint green smile appears in the circle, just the suggestion +of fangs and needle-sharp whiskers. "I had an idea I was sleeping furiously." + +Boris rolls one turreted eye and drools on the tabletop. "Munch munch," he +growls, allowing his saurian body-brain to put in a word. + +"What do you need to sleep for? This is a fucking sim, in case you hadn't +noticed." + +"I /{enjoy}/ sleeping," replies the cat, irritably lashing its +just-now-becoming-visible tail. "What do you want? Fleas?" + +"No thanks," Pierre says hastily. Last time he called Aineko's bluff the cat +had filled three entire pocket universes with scurrying gray mice. One of the +disadvantages of flying aboard a starship the size of a baked bean can full of +smart matter was the risk that some of the passengers could get rather too +creative with the reality control system. This Cretaceous kaffee klatsch was +just Boris's entertainment partition; compared to some of the other simulation +spaces aboard the *{Field Circus}*, it was downright conservative. "Look, do +you have any updates on what's going on down-well? We're only twenty objective +days out from orbital insertion, and there's so little to see -" + +"They're not sending us power." Aineko materializes fully now, a large +orange-and-white cat with a swirl of brown fur in the shape on an @-symbol +covering her ribs. For whatever reason, she plants herself on the table +tauntingly close to Boris's velociraptor body's nose. "No propulsion laser +means insufficient bandwidth. They're talking in Latin-1 text at 1200 baud, if +you care to know." (Which is an insult, given the ship's multi-avabit storage +capacity - one avabit is Avogadro's number of bits; about 1023 bytes, several +billion times the size of the Internet in 2001 - and outrageous communications +bandwidth.) "Amber says, come and see her now. Audience chamber. Informal, of +course. I think she wants to discuss it." + +"Informal? Am all right without change bodies?" + +The cat sniffs. "/{I'm}/ wearing a real fur coat," it declares haughtily, "but +no knickers." Then blinks out a fraction of a second ahead of the snicker- +*{snack}* of Bandersnatch-like jaws. + +% watch snicker-*{snack}* error, watch http:// sequence if to fix + +"Come on," says Pierre, standing up. "Time to see what Her Majesty wants with +us today." + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to decade eight, third millennium, when the effects of the +phase-change in the structure of the solar system are finally becoming visible +on a cosmological scale. + +_1 There are about eleven billion future-shocked primates in various states of +life and undeath throughout the solar system. Most of them cluster where the +interpersonal bandwidth is hottest, down in the water zone around old Earth. +Earth's biosphere has been in the intensive care ward for decades, weird rashes +of hot-burning replicators erupting across it before the World Health +Organization can fix them - gray goo, thylacines, dragons. The last great +transglobal trade empire, run from the arcologies of Hong Kong, has collapsed +along with capitalism, rendered obsolete by a bunch of superior deterministic +resource allocation algorithms collectively known as Economics 2.0. Mercury, +Venus, Mars, and Luna are all well on the way to disintegration, mass pumped +into orbit with energy stolen from the haze of free-flying thermoelectrics that +cluster so thickly around the solar poles that the sun resembles a fuzzy red +ball of wool the size of a young red giant. + +_1 Humans are just barely intelligent tool users; Darwinian evolutionary +selection stopped when language and tool use converged, leaving the average +hairy meme carrier sadly deficient in smarts. Now the brightly burning beacon +of sapience isn't held by humans anymore - their cross-infectious enthusiasms +have spread to a myriad of other hosts, several types of which are +qualitatively better at thinking. At last count, there were about a thousand +nonhuman intelligent species in Sol space, split evenly between posthumans on +one side, naturally self-organizing AIs in the middle, and mammalian nonhumans +on the other. The common mammal neural chassis is easily upgraded to +human-style intelligence in most species that can carry, feed and cool a half +kilogram of gray matter, and the descendants of a hundred ethics-challenged +doctoral theses are now demanding equal rights. So are the unquiet dead; the +panopticon-logged Net ghosts of people who lived recently enough to imprint +their identities on the information age, and the ambitious theological +engineering schemes of the Reformed Tiplerite Church of Latter-day Saints (who +want to emulate all possible human beings in real time, so that they can have +the opportunity to be saved). + +_1 The human memesphere is coming alive, although how long it remains +recognizably human is open to question. The informational density of the inner +planets is visibly converging on Avogadro's number of bits per mole, one bit +per atom, as the deconstructed dumb matter of the inner planets (apart from +Earth, preserved for now like a picturesque historic building stranded in an +industrial park) is converted into computronium. And it's not just the inner +system. The same forces are at work on Jupiter's moons, and those of Saturn, +although it'll take thousands of years rather than mere decades to dismantle +the gas giants themselves. Even the entire solar energy budget isn't enough to +pump Jupiter's enormous mass to orbital velocity in less than centuries. The +fast-burning primitive thinkers descended from the African plains apes may have +vanished completely or transcended their fleshy architecture before the solar +Matrioshka brain is finished. + +_1 It won't be long now ... + +* * * + +Meanwhile, there's a party brewing down in Saturn's well. + +Sirhan's lily-pad city floats inside a gigantic and nearly-invisible sphere in +Saturn's upper atmosphere; a balloon kilometers across with a shell of +fullerene-reinforced diamond below and a hot hydrogen gas bag above. It's one +of several hundred multimegaton soap bubbles floating in the sea of turbulent +hydrogen and helium that is the upper atmosphere of Saturn, seeded there by the +Society for Creative Terraforming, subcontractors for the 2074 Worlds' Fair. + +The cities are elegant, grown from a conceptual seed a few megawords long. +Their replication rate is slow (it takes months to build a bubble), but in only +a couple of decades, exponential growth will have paved the stratosphere with +human-friendly terrain. Of course, the growth rate will slow toward the end, as +it takes longer to fractionate the metal isotopes out of the gas giant's turbid +depths, but before that happens, the first fruits of the robot factories on +Ganymede will be pouring hydrocarbons down into the mix. Eventually Saturn - +cloud-top gravity a human-friendly 11 meters per second squared - will have a +planet wide biosphere with nearly a hundred times the surface area of Earth. +And a bloody good thing indeed this will be, for otherwise, Saturn is no use to +anyone except as a fusion fuel bunker for the deep future when the sun's burned +down. + +This particular lily-pad is carpeted in grass, the hub of the disk rising in a +gentle hill surmounted by the glowering concrete hump of the Boston Museum of +Science. It looks curiously naked, shorn of its backdrop of highways and the +bridges of the Charles River - but even the generous kiloton dumb matter +load-outs of the skyhooks that lifted it into orbit wouldn't have stretched to +bringing its framing context along with it. Probably someone will knock up a +cheap diorama backdrop out of utility fog, Sirhan thinks, but for now, the +museum stands proud and isolated, a solitary redoubt of classical learning in +exile from the fast-thinking core of the solar system. + +"Waste of money," grumbles the woman in black. "Whose stupid idea was this, +anyway?" She jabs the diamond ferrule of her cane at the museum. + +"It's a statement," Sirhan says absently. "You know the kind, we've got so many +newtons to burn we can send our cultural embassies wherever we like. The Louvre +is on its way to Pluto, did you hear that?" + +"Waste of energy." She lowers her cane reluctantly and leans on it. Pulls a +face: "It's not /{right}/." + +"You grew up during the second oil crunch, didn't you?" Sirhan prods. "What was +it like then?" + +"What was it ...? Oh, gas hit fifty bucks a gallon, but we still had plenty for +bombers," she says dismissively. "We knew it would be okay. If it hadn't been +for those damn' meddlesome posthumanists -" Her wrinkled, unnaturally aged face +scowls at him furiously from underneath hair that has faded to the color of +rotten straw, but he senses a subtext of self-deprecating irony that he doesn't +understand. "Like your grandfather, damn him. If I was young again I'd go and +piss on his grave to show him what I think of what he did. If he /{has}/ a +grave," she adds, almost fondly. + +*{Memo checkpoint: log family history}*, Sirhan tells one of his ghosts. As a +dedicated historian, he records every experience routinely, both before it +enters his narrative of consciousness - efferent signals are the cleanest - and +also his own stream of selfhood, against some future paucity of memory. But his +grandmother has been remarkably consistent over the decades in her refusal to +adapt to the new modalities. + +"You're recording this, aren't you?" she sniffs. + +"I'm not recording it, Grandmama," he says gently, "I'm just preserving my +memories for future generations." + +"Hah! We'll see," she says suspiciously. Then she surprises him with a bark of +laughter, cut off abruptly: "No, /{you'll}/ see, darling. I won't be around to +be disappointed." + +"Are you going to tell me about my grandfather?" asks Sirhan. + +"Why should I bother? I know you posthumans, you'll just go and ask his ghost +yourself. Don't try to deny it! There are two sides to every story, child, and +he's had more than his fair share of ears, the sleazebag. Leaving me to bring +up your mother on my own, and nothing but a bunch of worthless intellectual +property and a dozen lawsuits from the Mafiya to do it with. I don't know what +I ever saw in him." Sirhan's voice-stress monitor detects a distinct hint of +untruth in this assertion. "He's worthless trash, and don't you forget it. Lazy +idiot couldn't even form just one start-up on his own: He had to give it all +away, all the fruits of his genius." + +While she rambles on, occasionally punctuating her characterization with sharp +jabs of the cane, Pamela leads Sirhan on a slow, wavering stroll that veers +around one side of the museum, until they're standing next to a starkly +engineered antique loading bay. "He should have tried /{real}/ communism +instead," she harrumphs: "Put some steel into him, shake those starry-eyed +visionary positive-sum daydreams loose. You knew where you were in the old +times, and no mistake. Humans were real humans, work was real work, and +corporations were just things that did as we told them. And then, when /{she}/ +went to the bad, that was all his fault, too, you know." + +"She? You mean my, ah, mother?" Sirhan diverts his primary sensorium back to +Pamela's vengeful muttering. There are aspects to this story that he isn't +completely familiar with, angles he needs to sketch in so that he can satisfy +himself that all is as it should be when the bailiffs go in to repossess +Amber's mind. + +"He sent her our cat. Of all the mean-spirited, low, downright dishonest things +he ever did, that was the worst part of it. That cat was /{mine}/, but he +reprogrammed it to lead her astray. And it succeeded admirably. She was only +twelve at the time, an impressionable age, I'm sure you'd agree. I was trying +to raise her right. Children need moral absolutes, especially in a changing +world, even if they don't like it much at the time. Self-discipline and +stability, you can't function as an adult without them. I was afraid that, with +all her upgrades, she'd never really get a handle on who she was, that she'd +end up more machine than woman. But Manfred never really understood childhood, +mostly on account of his never growing up. He always was inclined to meddle." + +"Tell me about the cat," Sirhan says quietly. One glance at the loading bay +door tells him that it's been serviced recently. A thin patina of expended +foglets have formed a snowy scab around its edges, flaking off like blue +refractive candyfloss that leaves bright metal behind. "Didn't it go missing or +something?" + +Pamela snorts. "When your mother ran away, it uploaded itself to her starwisp +and deleted its body. It was the only one of them that had the guts - or maybe +it was afraid I'd have it subpoenaed as a hostile witness. Or, and I can't rule +this out, your grandfather gave it a suicide reflex. He was quite evil enough +to do something like that, after he reprogrammed himself to think I was some +kind of mortal enemy." + +"So when my mother died to avoid bankruptcy, the cat ... didn't stay behind? +Not at all? How remarkable." Sirhan doesn't bother adding /{how suicidal}/. Any +artificial entity that's willing to upload its neural state vector into a +one-kilogram interstellar probe three-quarters of the way to Alpha Centauri +without backup or some clear way of returning home has got to be more than a +few methods short in the object factory. + +"It's a vengeful beast." Pamela pokes her stick at the ground sharply, mutters +a command word, and lets go of it. She stands before Sirhan, craning her neck +back to look up at him. "My, what a tall boy you are." + +"Person," he corrects, instinctively. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't presume." + +"Person, thing, boy, whatever - you're engendered, aren't you?" she asks, +sharply, waiting until he nods reluctantly. "Never trust anyone who can't make +up their mind whether to be a man or a woman," she says gloomily. "You can't +rely on them." Sirhan, who has placed his reproductive system on hold until he +needs it, bites his tongue. "That damn cat," his grandmother complains. "/{It}/ +carried your grandfather's business plan to my daughter and spirited her away +into the big black. /{It}/ poisoned her against me. /{It}/ encouraged her to +join in that frenzy of speculative bubble-building that caused the market +reboot that brought down the Ring Imperium. And now /{it}/ -" + +"Is it on the ship?" Sirhan asks, almost too eagerly. + +"It might be." She stares at him through narrowed eyes. "You want to interview +it, too, huh?" + +Sirhan doesn't bother denying it. "I'm a historian, Grandmama. And that probe +has been somewhere no other human sensorium has ever seen. It may be old news, +and there may be old lawsuits waiting to feed on the occupants, but ..." He +shrugs. "Business is business, and /{my}/ business lies in ruins." + +"Hah!" She stares at him for a moment, then nods, very slowly. She leans +forward to rest both wrinkled hands atop her cane, joints like bags of +shriveled walnuts: Her suit's endoskeleton creaks as it adjusts to accommodate +her confidential posture. "You'll get yours, kid." The wrinkles twist into a +frightening smile, sixty years of saved-up bitterness finally within spitting +distance of a victim. "And I'll get what I want, too. Between us, your mother +won't know what's hit her." + +* * * + +"Relax, between us your mother won't know what's hit her," says the cat, baring +needle teeth at the Queen in the big chair - carved out of a single lump of +computational diamond, her fingers clenched whitely on the sapphire-plated arms +- her minions, lovers, friends, crew, shareholders, bloggers, and general +factional auxiliaries spaced out around her. And the Slug. "It's just another +lawsuit. You can deal with it." + +"Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Amber says, a trifle moodily. Although +she's ruler of this embedded space, with total control over the reality model +underlying it, she's allowed herself to age to a dignified twentysomething: +Dressed casually in gray sweats, she doesn't look like the once-mighty ruler of +a Jovian moon, or for that matter the renegade commander of a bankrupt +interstellar expedition. "Okay, I think you'd better run that past me again. +Unless anyone's got any suggestions?" + +"If you will excuse me?" asks Sadeq. "We have a shortage of insight here. I +believe two laws were cited as absolute systemwide conventions - and how they +convinced the ulama to go along with /{that}/ I would very much like to know - +concerning the rights and responsibilities of the undead. Which, apparently, we +are. Did they by any chance attach the code to their claim?" + +"Do bears shit in woods?" asks Boris, raptor-irascible, with an angry clatter +of teeth. "Is full dependency graph and parse tree of criminal code crawling +way up carrier's ass as we speak. Am drowning in lawyer gibberish! If you -" + +"Boris, can it!" Amber snaps. Tempers are high in the throne room. She didn't +know what to expect when she arrived home from the expedition to the router, +but bankruptcy proceedings weren't part of it. She doubts any of them expected +anything like this. Especially not the bit about being declared liable for +debts run up by a renegade splinter of herself, her own un-uploaded identity +that had stayed home to face the music, aged in the flesh, married, gone +bankrupt, died - /{incurred child support payments}/? "I don't hold you +responsible for this," she added through gritted teeth, with a significant +glance toward Sadeq. + +"This is truly a mess fit for the Prophet himself, peace be unto him, to serve +judgment upon." Sadeq looks as shaken as she is by the implications the lawsuit +raises. His gaze skitters around the room, looking anywhere but at Amber - and +Pierre, her lanky toy-boy astrogator and bed warmer - as he laces his fingers. + +"Drop it. I said I /{don't}/ blame you." Amber forces a smile. "We're all tense +from being locked in here with no bandwidth. Anyway, I smell Mother-dearest's +hand underneath all this litigation. Sniff the glove. We'll sort a way out." + +"We could keep going." This from Ang, at the back of the room. Diffident and +shy, she doesn't generally open her mouth without a good reason. "The *{Field +Circus}* is in good condition, isn't it? We could divert back to the beam from +the router, accelerate up to cruise speed, and look for somewhere to live. +There must be a few suitable brown dwarfs within a hundred light-years ..." + +"We've lost too much sail mass," says Pierre. He's not meeting Amber's gaze +either. There are lots of subtexts loose in this room, broken narratives from +stories of misguided affections. Amber pretends not to notice his +embarrassment. "We ejected half our original launch sail to provide the braking +mirror at Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},, and almost eight megaseconds ago, we +halved our area again to give us a final deceleration beam for Saturn orbit. If +we did it again, we wouldn't have enough area left to repeat the trick and +still decelerate at our final target." Laser-boosted light sails do it with +mirrors; after boost, they can drop half the sail and use it to reverse the +launch beam and direct it back at the ship, to provide deceleration. But you +can only do it a few times before you run out of sail. "There's nowhere to +run." + +"Nowhere to -" Amber stares at him through narrowed eyes. "Sometimes I really +wonder about you, you know?" + +"I know you do." And Pierre really /{does}/ know, because he carries a little +homunculoid around in his society of mind, a model of Amber far more accurate +and detailed than any pre-upload human could possibly have managed to construct +of a lover. (For her part, Amber keeps a little Pierre doll tucked away inside +the creepy cobwebs of her head, part of an exchange of insights they took part +in years ago. But she doesn't try to fit inside his head too often anymore - +it's not good to be able to second-guess your lover every time.) "I also know +that you're going to rush in and grab the bull by the, ah, no. Wrong metaphor. +This is your mother we are discussing?" + +"My /{mother}/." Amber nods thoughtfully. "Where's Donna?" + +"I don't -" + +There's a throaty roar from the back, and Boris lurches forward with something +in his mouth, an angry Bolex that flails his snout with its tripod legs. +"Hiding in corners again?" Amber says disdainfully. + +"I am a camera!" protests the camera, aggrieved and self-conscious as it picks +itself up off the floor. "I am -" + +Pierre leans close, sticks his face up against the fish-eye lens: "You're +fucking well going to be a human being just this once. /{Merde}/!" + +The camera is replaced by a very annoyed blond woman wearing a safari suit and +more light meters, lenses, camera bags, and microphones than a CNN outside +broadcast unit. "Go fuck yourself!" + +"I don't like being spied on," Amber says sharply. "Especially as you weren't +invited to this meeting. Right?" + +"I'm the archivist." Donna looks away, stubbornly refusing to admit anything. +"/{You}/ said I should -" + +"Yes, /{well}/." Amber is embarrassed. But it's a bad idea to embarrass the +Queen in her audience chamber. "You heard what we were discussing. What do +/{you}/ know about my mother's state of mind?" + +"Absolutely nothing," Donna says promptly. She's clearly in a sulk and prepared +to do no more than the minimum to help resolve the situation. "I only met her +once. You look like her when you are angry, do you know that?" + +"I -" For once, Amber's speechless. + +"I'll schedule you for facial surgery," offers the cat. /{Sotto voce}/: "It's +the only way to be sure." + +Normally, accusing Amber of any resemblance to her mother, however slight and +passing, would be enough to trigger a reality quake within the upload +environment that passes for the bridge of the *{Field Circus}*. It's a sign of +how disturbed Amber is by the lawsuit that she lets the cat's impertinence +slide. "What /{is}/ the lawsuit, anyway?" Donna asks, nosy as ever and twice as +annoying: "I did not that bit see." + +"It's horrible," Amber says vehemently. + +"Truly evil," echoes Pierre. + +"Fascinating but wrong," Sadeq muses thoughtfully. + +"But it's still horrible!" + +"Yes, but what is it?" Donna the all-seeing-eye archivist and camera manqué +asks. + +"It's a demand for settlement." Amber takes a deep breath. "Dammit, you might +as well tell everyone - it won't stay secret for long." She sighs. "After we +left, it seems my other half - my original incarnation, that is - got married. +To Sadeq, here." She nods at the Iranian theologian, who looks just as bemused +as she did the first time she heard this part of the story. "And they had a +child. Then the Ring Imperium went bankrupt. The child is demanding maintenance +payments from me, backdated nearly twenty years, on the grounds that the undead +are jointly and severally liable for debts run up by their incarnations. It's a +legal precedent established to prevent people from committing suicide +temporarily as a way to avoid bankruptcy. Worse, the lien on my assets is +measured in subjective time from a point at the Ring Imperium about nineteen +months after our launch time - we've been in relativistic flight, so while my +other half would be out from under it by now if she'd survived, I'm still +subject to the payment order. But compound interest applies back home - +/{that}/ is to stop people trying to use the twin's paradox as a way to escape +liability. So, by being away for about twenty-eight years of wall-clock time, +I've run up a debt I didn't know about to enormous levels. + +"This man, this son I've never met, theoretically owns the *{Field Circus}* +several times over. And my accounts are wiped out - I don't even have enough +money to download us into fleshbodies. Unless one of you guys has got a secret +stash that survived the market crash after we left, we're all in deep trouble." + +* * * + +A mahogany dining table eight meters long graces the flagstoned floor of the +huge museum gallery, beneath the skeleton of an enormous Argentinosaurus and a +suspended antique Mercury capsule more than a century old. The dining table is +illuminated by candlelight, silver cutlery and fine porcelain plates setting +out two places at opposite ends. Sirhan sits in a high-backed chair beneath the +shadow of a triceratops's rib cage. Opposite him, Pamela has dressed for dinner +in the fashion of her youth. She raises her wineglass toward him. "Tell me +about your childhood, why don't you?" she asks. High above them, Saturn's rings +shimmer through the skylights, like a luminous paint splash thrown across the +midnight sky. + +Sirhan has misgivings about opening up to her, but consoles himself with the +fact that she's clearly in no position to use anything he tells her against +him. "Which childhood would you like to know about?" he asks. + +"What do you mean, which?" Her face creases up in a frown of perplexity. + +"I had several. Mother kept hitting the reset switch, hoping I'd turn out +better." It's his turn to frown. + +"She did, did she," breathes Pamela, clearly noting it down to hold as +ammunition against her errant daughter. "Why do you think she did that?" + +"It was the only way she knew to raise a child," Sirhan says defensively. "She +didn't have any siblings. And, perhaps, she was reacting against her own +character flaws." /{When I have children there will be more than one}/, he +tells himself smugly: when, that is, he has adequate means to find himself a +bride, and adequate emotional maturity to activate his organs of procreation. A +creature of extreme caution, Sirhan is not planning to repeat the errors of his +ancestors on the maternal side. + +Pamela flinches: "it's not my fault," she says quietly. "Her father had quite a +bit to do with that. But what - what different childhoods did you have?" + +"Oh, a fair number. There was the default option, with Mother and Father +arguing constantly - she refused to take the veil and he was too stiff-necked +to admit he was little more than a kept man, and between them, they were like +two neutron stars locked in an unstable death spiral of gravity. Then there +were my other lives, forked and reintegrated, running in parallel. I was a +young goatherd in the days of the middle kingdom in Egypt, I remember that; and +I was an all-American kid growing up in Iowa in the 1950s, and another me got +to live through the return of the hidden imam - at least, his parents thought +it was the hidden imam - and -" Sirhan shrugs. "Perhaps that's where I acquired +my taste for history." + +"Did your parents ever consider making you a little girl?" asks his +grandmother. + +"Mother suggested it a couple of times, but Father forbade it." /{Or rather, +decided it was unlawful}/, he recalls. "I had a very conservative upbringing in +some ways." + +"I wouldn't say that. When I was a little girl, that was all there was; none of +these questions of self-selected identity. There was no escape, merely +escapism. Didn't you ever have a problem knowing who you were?" + +The starters arrive, diced melon on a silver salver. Sirhan waits patiently for +his grandmama to chivvy the table into serving her. "The more people you are, +the more you know who /{you}/ are," says Sirhan. "You learn what it's like to +be other people. Father thought that perhaps it isn't good for a man to know +too much about what it's like to be a woman." /{And Grandfather disagreed, but +you already know that}/, he adds for his own stream of consciousness. + +"I couldn't agree more." Pamela smiles at him, an expression that might be that +of a patronizing elder aunt if it wasn't for the alarming sharkishness of her +expression - or is it playfulness? Sirhan covers his confusion by spooning +chunks of melon into his mouth, forking temporary ghosts to peruse dusty +etiquette manuals and warn him if he's about to commit some faux pas. "So, how +did you enjoy your childhoods?" + +"Enjoy isn't a word I would use," he replies as evenly as he can, laying down +his spoon so he doesn't spill anything. /{As if childhood is something that +ever ends}/, he thinks bitterly. Sirhan is considerably less than a gigasecond +old and confidently expects to exist for at least a terasecond - if not in +exactly this molecular configuration, then at least in some reasonably stable +physical incarnation. And he has every intention of staying young for that +entire vast span - even into the endless petaseconds that might follow, +although by then, megayears hence, he speculates that issues of neoteny will no +longer interest him. "It's not over yet. How about you? Are you enjoying your +old age, Grandmama?" + +Pamela almost flinches, but keeps iron control of her expression. The flush of +blood in the capillaries of her cheeks, visible to Sirhan through the tiny +infrared eyes he keeps afloat in the air above the table, gives her away. "I +made some mistakes in my youth, but I'm enjoying it fine nowadays," she says +lightly. + +"It's your revenge, isn't it?" Sirhan asks, smiling and nodding as the table +removes the entrees. + +"Why, you little -" She stares at him rather than continuing. A very bleak +stare it is, too. "What would you know about revenge?" she asks. + +"I'm the family historian." Sirhan smiles humorlessly. "I lived from two to +seventeen years several hundred times over before my eighteenth birthday. It +was that reset switch, you know. I don't think Mother realized my primary +stream of consciousness was journaling everything." + +"That's monstrous." Pamela picks up her wineglass and takes a sip to cover her +confusion. Sirhan has no such retreat - grape juice in a tumbler, unfermented, +wets his tongue. "I'd /{never}/ do something like that to any child of mine." + +"So why won't you tell me about your childhood?" asks her grandson. "For the +family history, of course." + +"I'll -" She puts her glass down. "You intend to write one," she states. + +"I'm thinking about it." Sirhan sits up. "An old-fashioned book covering three +generations, living through interesting times," he suggests. "A work of +postmodern history, the incoherent school at that - how do you document people +who fork their identities at random, spend years dead before reappearing on the +stage, and have arguments with their own relativistically preserved other copy? +I could trace the history further, of course - if you tell me about /{your}/ +parents, although I am certain they aren't around to answer questions directly +- but we reach the boring dumb matter slope back to the primeval soup +surprisingly fast if we go there, don't we? So I thought that perhaps as a +narrative hook I'd make the offstage viewpoint that of the family's robot cat. +(Except the bloody thing's gone missing, hasn't it?) Anyway, with so much of +human history occupying the untapped future, we historians have our work cut +out recording the cursor of the present as it logs events. So I might as well +start at home." + +"You're set on immortalism." Pamela studies his face. + +"Yes," he says idly. "Frankly, I can understand your wanting to grow old out of +a desire for revenge, but pardon me for saying this, I have difficulty grasping +your willingness to follow through with the procedure! Isn't it awfully +painful?" + +"Growing old is /{natural}/," growls the old woman. "When you've lived long +enough for all your ambitions to be in ruins, friendships broken, lovers +forgotten or divorced acrimoniously, what's left to go on for? If you feel +tired and old in spirit, you might as well be tired and old in body. Anyway, +wanting to live forever is immoral. Think of all the resources you're taking up +that younger people need! Even uploads face a finite data storage limit after a +time. It's a monstrously egotistical statement, to say you intend to live +forever. And if there's one thing I believe in, it's public service. Duty: the +obligation to make way for the new. Duty and control." + +Sirhan absorbs all this, nodding slowly to himself as the table serves up the +main course - honey-glazed roast long pork with sautéed potatoes a la gratin +and carrots Debussy - when there's a loud *{bump}* from overhead. + +"What's that?" Pamela asks querulously. + +"One moment." Sirhan's vision splits into a hazy kaleidoscope view of the +museum hall as he forks ghosts to monitor each of the ubiquitous cameras. He +frowns; something is moving on the balcony, between the Mercury capsule and a +display of antique random-dot stereoisograms. "Oh dear. Something seems to be +loose in the museum." + +"Loose? What do you mean, loose?" An inhuman shriek splits the air above the +table, followed by a crash from upstairs. Pamela stands up unsteadily, wiping +her lips with her napkin. "Is it safe?" + +"No, it isn't safe." Sirhan fumes. "It's disturbing my meal!" He looks up. A +flash of orange fur shows over the balcony, then the Mercury capsule wobbles +violently on the end of its guy wires. Two arms and a bundle of rubbery +/{something}/ covered in umber hair lurches out from the handrail and casually +grabs hold of the priceless historical relic, then clambers inside and squats +on top of the dummy wearing Al Sheperd's age-cracked space suit. "It's an +/{ape}/! City, I say, City! What's a monkey doing loose in my dinner party?" + +"I am most deeply sorry, sir, but I don't know. Would sir care to identify the +monkey in question?" replies City, which for reasons of privacy, has manifested +itself as a bodiless voice. + +There's a note of humor in City's tone that Sirhan takes deep exception to. +"What do you mean? Can't you see it?" he demands, focusing on the errant +primate, which is holed up in the Mercury capsule dangling from the ceiling, +smacking its lips, rolling its eyes, and fingering the gasket around the +capsule's open hatch. It hoots quietly to itself, then leans out of the open +door and moons over the table, baring its buttocks. "Get back!" Sirhan calls to +his grandmother, then he gestures at the air above the table, intending to tell +the utility fog to congeal. Too late. The ape farts thunderously, then lets rip +a stream of excrement across the dining table. Pamela's face is a picture of +wrinkled disgust as she holds her napkin in front of her nose. "Dammit, +solidify, will you!" Sirhan curses, but the ubiquitous misty pollen-grain-sized +robots refuse to respond. + +"What's your problem? Invisible monkeys?" asks City. + +"Invisible -" he stops. + +"Can't you see what it did?" Pamela demands, backing him up. "It just defecated +all over the main course!" + +"I see nothing," City says uncertainly. + +"Here, let me help you." Sirhan lends it one of his eyes, rolls it to focus on +the ape, which is now reaching lazy arms around the hatch and patting down the +roof of the capsule, as if hunting for the wires' attachment points. + +"Oh dear," says City, "I've been hacked. That's not supposed to be possible." + +"Well it fucking /{is}/," hisses Pamela. + +"Hacked?" Sirhan stops trying to tell the air what to do and focuses on his +clothing instead. Fabric reweaves itself instantly, mapping itself into an +armored airtight suit that raises a bubble visor from behind his neck and flips +itself shut across his face. "City please supply my grandmama with an +environment suit /{now}/. Make it completely autonomous." + +The air around Pamela begins to congeal in a blossom of crystalline security, +as a sphere like a giant hamster ball precipitates out around her. "If you've +been hacked, the first question is, who did it," Sirhan states. "The second is +'why,' and the third is 'how.'" He edgily runs a self-test, but there's no sign +of inconsistencies in his own identity matrix, and he has hot shadows sleeping +lightly at scattered nodes across as distance of half a dozen light-hours. +Unlike pre-posthuman Pamela, he's effectively immune to murder-simple. "If this +is just a prank -" + +Seconds have passed since the orang-utan got loose in the museum, and +subsequent seconds have passed since City realized its bitter circumstance. +Seconds are long enough for huge waves of countermeasures to sweep the surface +of the lily-pad habitat. Invisibly small utility foglets are expanding and +polymerizing into defenses throughout the air, trapping the thousands of +itinerant passenger pigeons in midflight, and locking down every building and +every person who walks the paths outside. City is self-testing its trusted +computing base, starting with the most primitive secured kernel and working +outward. Meanwhile Sirhan, with blood in his eye, heads for the staircase, with +the vague goal of physically attacking the intruder. Pamela retreats at a fast +roll, tumbling toward the safety of the mezzanine floor and a garden of +fossils. "Who do you think you are, barging in and shitting on my supper?" +Sirhan yells as he bounds up the stairs. "I want an explanation! Right now!" + +The orang-utan finds the nearest cable and gives it a yank, setting the one-ton +capsule swinging. It bares its teeth at Sirhan in a grin. "Remember me?" it +asks, in a sibilant French accent. + +"Remember -" Sirhan stops dead. "Tante Annette? /{What}/ are you doing in that +orangutan?" + +"Having minor autonomic control problems." The ape grimaces wider, then bends +one arm sinuously and scratches at its armpit. "I am sorry, I installed myself +in the wrong order. I was only meaning to say hello and pass on a message." + +"What message?" Sirhan demands. "You've upset my grandmama, and if she finds +out you're here -" + +"She won't; I'll be gone in a minute." The ape - Annette - sits up. "Your +grandfather salutes you and says he will be visiting shortly. In the person, +that is. He is very keen to meet your mother and her passengers. That is all. +Have you a message for him?" + +"Isn't he dead?" Sirhan asks, dazed. + +"No more than I am. And I'm overdue. Good day!" The ape swings hand over hand +out of the capsule, then lets go and plummets ten meters to the hard stone +floor below. Its skull makes a noise like a hard-boiled egg impacting concrete. + +"Oh dear," Sirhan breathes heavily. "City!" + +"Yes, oh master?" + +"Remove that body," he says, pointing over the balcony. "I'll trouble you not +to disturb my grandmother with any details. In particular, don't tell her it +was Annette. The news may upset her." /{The perils of having a long-lived +posthuman family}/, he thinks; /{too many mad}/ aunts in the space capsule. "If +you can find a way to stop Auntie 'Nette from growing any more apes, that might +be a good idea." A thought strikes him. "By the way, do you know when my +grandfather is due to arrive?" + +"Your grandfather?" asks City: "Isn't he dead?" + +Sirhan looks over the balcony, at the blood-seeping corpse of the intruder. +"Not according to his second wife's latest incarnation." + +* * * + +Funding the family reunion isn't going to be a problem, as Amber discovers when +she receives an offer of reincarnation good for all the passengers and crew of +the *{Field Circus}*. + +She isn't sure quite where the money is coming from. Presumably it's some +creaky financial engine designed by Dad, stirring from its bear-market bunker +for the first time in decades to suck dusty syndication feeds and liquidate +long-term assets held against her return. She's duly grateful - even fervently +so - for the details of her own impecunious position grow more depressing the +more she learns about them. Her sole asset is the *{Field Circus}*, a +thirty-years-obsolete starwisp massing less than twenty kilograms including +what's left of its tattered sail, along with its cargo of uploaded passengers +and crew. Without the farsighted trust fund that has suddenly chugged into +life, she'd be stranded in the realm of ever-circling leptons. But now the fund +has sent her its offer of incarnation, she's got a dilemma. Because one of the +*{Field Circus's}* passengers has never actually had a meatspace body ... + +Amber finds the Slug browsing quietly in a transparent space filled with lazily +waving branches that resemble violet coral fans. They're a ghost-memory of +alien life, an order of thermophilic quasi fungi with hyphae ridged in +actin/myosin analogues, muscular and slippery filter feeders that eat airborne +unicellular organisms. The Slug itself is about two meters long and has a lacy +white exoskeleton of curves and arcs that don't repeat, disturbingly similar to +a Penrose tiling. Chocolate brown organs pulse slowly under the skeleton. The +ground underfoot is dry but feels swampy. + +Actually, the Slug is a surgical disguise. Both it and the quasi-fungal +ecosystem have been extinct for millions of years, existing only as cheap stage +props in an interstellar medicine show run by rogue financial instruments. The +Slug itself is one such self-aware scam, probably a pyramid scheme or even an +entire compressed junk bond market in heavy recession, trying to hide from its +creditors by masquerading as a life-form. But there's a problem with +incarnating itself down in Sirhan's habitat - the ecosystem it evolved for is a +cool Venusiform, thirty atmospheres of saturated steam baked under a sky the +color of hot lead streaked with yellow sulphuric acid clouds. The ground is +mushy because it's melting, not because it's damp. + +"You're going to have to pick another somatotype," Amber explains, laboriously +rolling her interface around the red-hot coral reef like a giant soap bubble. +The environmental interface is transparent and infinitely thin, a discontinuity +in the physics model of the simulation space, mapping signals between the +human-friendly environment on one side and the crushing, roasting hell on the +other. "This one is simply not compatible with any of the supported +environments where we're going." + +"I am not understanding. Surely I can integrate with the available worlds of +our destination?" + +"Uh, things don't work that way outside cyberspace." Suddenly Amber is at a bit +of a loss. "The physics model /{could}/ be supported, but the energy input to +do so would be prohibitive, and you would not be able to interact as easily +with other physics models as we can now." She forks a ghost, demonstrates a +transient other-Amber in a refrigerated tank rolling across the Slug's +backyard, crushing coral and hissing and clanking noisily. "You'd be like +this." + +"Your reality is badly constructed, then," the Slug points out. + +"It's not constructed at all, it just evolved, randomly." Amber shrugs. "We +can't exercise the same level of control over the underlying embedded context +that we can over this one. I can't simply magic you an interface that will let +you bathe in steam at three hundred degrees." + +"Why not?" asks the Slug. Translation wetware adds a nasty, sharp rising whine +to the question, turning it into a demand. + +"It's a privilege violation," Amber tries to explain. "The reality we're about +to enter is, uh, provably consistent. It has to be, because it's consistent and +stable, and if we could create new local domains with different rules, they +might propagate uncontrollably. It's not a good idea, believe me. Do you want +to come with us or not?" + +"I have no alternative," the Slug says, slightly sulkily. "But do you have a +body I can use?" + +"I think -" Amber stops, suddenly. She snaps her fingers. "Hey, cat!" + +A Cheshire grin ripples into view, masked into the domain wall between the two +embedded realities. "Hey, human." + +"Whoa!" Amber takes a backward step from the apparition. "Our friend here's got +a problem, no suitable downloadable body. Us meat puppets are all too closely +tied to our neural ultrastructure, but you've got a shitload of programmable +gate arrays. Can we borrow some?" + +"You can do better than that." Aineko yawns, gathering substance by the moment. +The Slug is rearing up and backing away like an alarmed sausage: Whatever it +perceives in the membrane seems to frighten it. "I've been designing myself a +new body. I figured it was time to change my style for a while. Your corporate +scam artist here can borrow my old template until something better comes up. +How's that?" + +"Did you hear that?" Amber asks the Slug. "Aineko is kindly offering to donate +her body to you. Will that do?" Without waiting, she winks at her cat and taps +her heels together, fading out with a whisper and a smile: "See you on the +other side ..." + +* * * + +It takes several minutes for the *{Field Circus}*'s antique transceiver to +download the dozens of avabits occupied by the frozen state vectors of each of +the people running in its simulation engines. Tucked away with most of them is +a resource bundle consisting of their entire sequenced genome, a bunch of +phenotypic and proteome hint markers, and a wish list of upgrades. Between the +gene maps and the hints, there's enough data to extrapolate a meat machine. So +the festival city's body shop goes to work turning out hacked stem cells and +fabbing up incubators. + +It doesn't take very long to reincarnate a starshipful of relativity-lagged +humans these days. First, City carves out skeletons for them (politely ignoring +a crudely phrased request to cease and desist from Pamela, on the grounds that +she has no power of attorney), then squirts osteoclasts into the spongy ersatz +bone. They look like ordinary human stem cells at a distance, but instead of +nuclei they have primitive pinpricks of computronium, blobs of smart matter so +small they're as dumb as an ancient Pentium, reading a control tape that is +nevertheless better structured than anything Mother Nature evolved. These +heavily optimized fake stem cells - biological robots in all but name - spawn +like cancer, ejecting short-lived anucleated secondary cells. Then City infuses +each mess of quasi-cancerous tissue with a metric shitload of carrier capsids, +which deliver the /{real}/ cellular control mechanisms to their target bodies. +Within a megasecond, the almost random churning of the construction 'bots gives +way to a more controlled process as nanoscale CPUs are replaced by ordinary +nuclei and eject themselves from their host cells, bailing out via the +half-formed renal system - except for those in the central nervous system, +which have a final job to do. Eleven days after the invitation, the first +passengers are being edited into the pattern of synaptic junctions inside the +newly minted skulls. + +(This whole process is tediously slow and laughably obsolescent technology by +the standards of the fast-moving core. Down there, they'd just set up a wake +shield in orbit, chill it down to a fractional Kelvin, whack two coherent +matter beams together, teleport some state information into place, and yank the +suddenly materialized meatbody in through an airlock before it has time to +asphyxiate. But then again, down in the hot space, they don't have much room +for flesh anymore ...) + +Sirhan doesn't pay much attention to the pseudocancers fermenting and churning +in the row of tanks that lines the Gallery of the Human Body in the Bush wing +of the museum. Newly formed, slowly unskeletonizing corpses - like a time-lapse +process of decay with a finger angrily twisting the dial into high-speed +reverse - is both distasteful and aesthetically displeasing to watch. Nor do +the bodies tell him anything about their occupants. This sort of stuff is just +a necessary prequel to the main event, a formal reception and banquet to which +he has devoted the full-time attention of four ghosts. + +He could, given a few less inhibitions, go Dumpster-diving in their mental +archives, but that's one of the big taboos of the post-wetware age. (Spy +agencies went meme-profiling and memory-mining in the third and fourth decades, +gained a thought police rap sheet, and spawned a backlash of deviant mental +architectures resilient to infowar intrusions. Now the nations that those spook +institutions served no longer exist, their very landmasses being part of the +orbiting nöosphere construction project that will ultimately turn the mass of +the entire solar system into a gigantic Matrioshka brain. And Sirhan is left +with an uneasy loyalty to the one great new taboo to be invented since the end +of the twentieth century - freedom of thought.) + +So, to indulge his curiosity, he spends most of his waking fleshbody hours with +Pamela, asking her questions from time to time and mapping the splenetic +overspill of her memeome into his burgeoning family knowledge base. + +"I wasn't always this bitter and cynical," Pamela explains, waving her cane in +the vague direction of the cloudscape beyond the edge of the world and fixing +Sirhan with a beady stare. (He's brought her out here hoping that it will +trigger another cascade of memories, sunsets on honeymoon island resorts and +the like, but all that seems to be coming up is bile.) "It was the successive +betrayals. Manfred was the first, and the worst in some ways, but that little +bitch Amber hurt me more, if anything. If you ever have children, be careful to +hold something back for yourself; because if you don't, when they throw it all +in your face, you'll feel like dying. And when they're gone, you've got no way +of patching things up." + +"Is dying inevitable?" asks Sirhan, knowing damn well that it isn't, but more +than happy to give her an excuse to pick at her scabbed-over love wound: He +more than half suspects she's still in love with Manfred. This is /{great}/ +family history, and he's having the time of his flinty-hearted life leading her +up to the threshold of the reunion he's hosting. + +"Sometimes I think death is even more inevitable than taxes," his grandmother +replies bleakly. "Humans don't live in a vacuum; we're part of a larger pattern +of life." She stares out across the troposphere of Saturn, where a thin rime of +blown methane snow catches the distant sunrise in a ruby-tinted fog. "The old +gives way to the new," She sighs, and tugs at her cuffs. (Ever since the +incident with the gate crashing ape, she's taken to wearing an antique formal +pressure suit, all clinging black spidersilk woven with flexible pipes and +silvery smart sensor nets.) "There's a time to get out of the way of the new, +and I think I passed it sometime ago." + +"Um," says Sirhan, who is somewhat surprised by this new angle in her lengthy, +self-justifying confession: "but what if you're just saying this because you +/{feel}/ old? If it's just a physiological malfunction, we could fix it and +you'd -" + +"/{No}/! I've got a feeling that life prolongation is morally wrong, Sirhan. +I'm not passing judgment on you, just stating that I think it's wrong for me. +It's immoral because it blocks up the natural order, keeps us old cobweb +strands hanging around and getting in you young things' way. And then there are +the theological questions. If you try to live forever, you never get to meet +your maker." + +"Your maker? Are you a theist, then?" + +"I - think so." Pamela is silent for a minute. "Although there are so many +different approaches to the subject that it's hard to know which version to +believe. For a long time, I was secretly afraid your grandfather might actually +have had the answers. That I might have been wrong all along. But now -" She +leans on her cane. "When he announced that he was uploading, I figured out that +all he really had was a life-hating antihuman ideology he'd mistaken for a +religion. The rapture of the nerds and the heaven of the AIs. Sorry, no thanks; +I don't buy it." + +"Oh." Sirhan squints out at the cloudscape. For a moment, he thinks he can see +something in the distant mist, an indeterminate distance away - it's hard to +distinguish centimeters from megameters, with no scale indicator and a horizon +a continental distance away - but he's not sure what it is. Maybe another city, +mollusk-curved and sprouting antennae, a strange tail of fabricator nodes +wavering below and beneath it. Then a drift of cloud hides it for a moment, +and, when it clears the object is gone. "What's left, then? If you don't really +believe in some kind of benign creator, dying must be frightening. Especially +as you're doing it so slowly." + +Pamela smiles skeletally, a particularly humorless expression. "It's perfectly +natural, darling! You don't need to believe in God to believe in embedded +realities. We use them every day, as mind tools. Apply anthropic reasoning and +isn't it clear that our entire universe is probably a simulation? We're living +in the early epoch of the universe. Probably this" - she prods at the +spun-diamond inner wall of the bubble that holds in the precarious terrestrial +atmosphere, holding out the howling cryogenic hydrogen and methane gales of +Saturn - "is but a simulation in some ancient history engine's panopticon, +rerunning the sum of all possible origins of sentience, a billion trillion +megayears down the line. Death will be like waking up as someone bigger, that's +all." Her grin slides away. "And if not, I'll just be a silly old fool who +deserves the oblivion she yearns for." + +"Oh, but -" Sirhan stops, his skin crawling. /{She may be mad}/, he realizes +abruptly. /{Not clinically insane, just at odds with the entire universe. +Locked into a pathological view of}/ her own role in /{reality.}/ "I'd hoped +for a reconciliation," he says quietly. "Your extended family has lived through +some extraordinary times. Why spoil it with acrimony?" + +"Why spoil it?" She looks at him pityingly: "It was spoiled to begin with, +dear, too much selfless sacrifice and too little skepticism. If Manfred hadn't +wanted so badly not to be /{human}/, and if I'd learned to be a bit more +flexible in time, we might still -" She trails off. "That's odd." + +"What is?" + +Pamela raises her cane and points out into the billowing methane thunderclouds, +her expression puzzled. "I'll swear I saw a lobster out there ..." + +* * * + +Amber awakens in the middle of the night in darkness and choking pressure, and +senses that she's drowning. For a moment she's back in the ambiguous space on +the far side of the router, a horror of crawling instruments tracing her every +experience back to the nooks and crannies of her mind; then her lungs turn to +glass and shatter, and she's coughing and wheezing in the cold air of the +museum at midnight. + +The hard stone floor beneath her, and an odd pain in her knees, tells her that +she's not aboard the *{Field Circus}* anymore. Rough hands hold her shoulders +up as she vomits a fine blue mist, racked by a coughing fit. More bluish liquid +is oozing from the pores of the skin on her arms and breasts, evaporating in +strangely purposeful streamers. "Thank you," she finally manages to gasp: "I +can breathe now." + +She sits back on her heels, realizes she's naked, and opens her eyes. +Everything's confusingly strange, even though it shouldn't be. There's a moment +of resistance as if her eyelids are sealed - then they respond. It all feels +strangely familiar to her, like waking up again inside a house she grew up in +and moved away from years ago. But the scene around her is hardly one to +inspire confidence. Shadows lie thick and deep across ovoid tanks filled with +an anatomist's dream, bodies in various nightmarish stages of assembly. And +sitting in the middle of them, whence it has retreated after letting go of her +shoulders, is a strangely misshapen person - also nude, but for a patchy coat +of orange hair. + +"Are you awake yet, ma chérie?" asks the orang-utan. + +"Um." Amber shakes her head, cautiously, feeling the drag of damp hair, the +faint caress of a breeze - she reaches out with another sense and tries to grab +hold of reality, but it slithers away, intransigent and unembedded. Everything +around her is so solid and immutable that, for a moment, she feels a stab of +claustrophobic panic: Help! I'm trapped in the real universe! Another quick +check reassures her that she's got access to /{something}/ outside her own +head, and the panic begins to subside: Her exocortex has migrated successfully +to this world. "I'm in a museum? On Saturn? Who are you - have we met?" + +"Not in person," the ape says carefully. "We 'ave corresponded. Annette +Dimarcos." + +"Auntie -" A flood of memories rattle Amber's fragile stream of consciousness +apart, forcing her to fork repeatedly until she can drag them together. +Annette, in a recorded message: /{Your father sends you this escape package}/. +The legal key to her mother's gilded custodial cage. Freedom a necessity. "Is +Dad here?" she asks hopefully, even though she knows full well that here in the +real world at least thirty-five years have passed in linear time: In a century +where ten years of linear time is enough for several industrial revolutions, +that's a lot of water under the bridge. + +"I am not sure." The orang-utan blinks lazily, scratches at her left forearm, +and glances round the chamber. "He might be in one of these tanks, playing a +shell game. Or he might be leaving well enough alone until the dust settles." +She turns back to stare at Amber with big, brown, soulful eyes. "This is not to +be the reunion you were hoping for." + +"Not -" Amber takes a deep breath, the tenth or twelfth that these new lungs +have inspired: "What's with the body? You used to be human. And what's going +on?" + +"I still /{am}/ human, where it counts," says Annette. "I use these bodies +because they are good in low gravity, and they remind me that meatspace is no +longer where I live. And for another reason." She gestures fluidly at the open +door. "You will find big changes. Your son has organized -" + +"/{My}/ son." Amber blinks. "Is this the one who's suing me? Which version of +me? How long ago?" A torrent of questions stream through her mind, exploding +out into structured queries throughout the public sections of mindspace that +she has access to. Her eyes widen as she absorbs the implications. "Oh +/{shit}/! Tell me she isn't here already!" + +"I am very much afraid that she is," says Annette. "Sirhan is a strange child: +He takes after his /{grandmère}/. Who he, of course, invited to his party." + +"His /{party}/?" + +"Why, yes! Hasn't he told you what this is about? It's his party. To mark the +opening of his special institution. The family archive. He's setting the +lawsuit aside, at least for the duration. That's why everybody is here - even +me." The ape-body smirks at her: "I'm afraid he's rather disappointed by my +dress." + +"Tell me about this library," Amber says, narrowing her eyes. "And about this +son of mine whom I've never met, by a father I've never fucked." + +"What, you would know everything?" asks Annette. + +"Yeah." Amber pushes herself creakily upright. "I need some clothes. And soft +furniture. And where do I get a drink around here?" + +"I'll show you," says the orang-utan, unfolding herself in a vertical direction +like a stack of orange furry inner tubes. "Drinks, first." + +* * * + +While the Boston Museum of Science is the main structure on the lily-pad +habitat, it's not the only one: just the stupidest, composed of dumb matter +left over from the pre-enlightened age. The orang-utan leads Amber through a +service passage and out into the temperate night, naked by ringlight. The grass +is cool beneath her feet, and a gentle breeze blows constantly out toward the +recirculators at the edge of the worldlet. She follows the slouching orange ape +up a grassy slope, under a weeping willow, round a +three-hundred-and-ninety-degree bend that flashes the world behind them into +invisibility, and into a house with walls of spun cloud stuff and a ceiling +that rains moonlight. + +"What is this?" Amber asks, entranced. "Some kind of aerogel?" + +"No -" Annette belches, then digs a hand into the floor and pulls up a heap of +mist. "Make a chair," she says. It solidifies, gaining form and texture until a +creditable Queen Anne reproduction stands in front of Amber on spindly legs. +"And one for me. Skin up, pick one of my favorite themes." The walls recede +slightly and harden, extruding paint and wood and glass. "That's it." The ape +grins at Amber. "You are comfortable?" + +"But I -" Amber stops. She glances at the familiar mantelpiece, the row of +curios, the baby photographs forever glossy on their dye-sub media. It's her +childhood bedroom. "You brought the whole thing? Just for me?" + +"You can never tell with future shock." Annette shrugs and reaches a limber arm +around the back of her neck to scratch. "We are utility fog using, for most +purposes out here, peer-to-peer meshes of multiarmed assemblers that change +conformation and vapor/solid phase at command. Texture and color are all +superfice, not reality. But yes, this came from one of your mother's letters to +your father. She brought it here, for you to surprise. If only it is ready in +time." Lips pull back from big, square, foliage-chewing teeth in something that +might be a smile in a million years' time. + +"You, I - I wasn't expecting. This." Amber realizes she's breathing rapidly, a +near-panic reflex. The mere proximity of her mother is enough to give her +unpleasant reactions. Annette is all right, Annette is cool. And her father is +the trickster-god, always hiding in your blind spot to leap out and shower you +with ambiguous gifts. But Pamela tried to mold Amber in her own image as a +child; and despite all the traveling she's done since then, and all the growing +up, Amber harbors an unreasonable claustrophobic fear of her mother. + +"Don't be unhappy," Annette says warmly. "I this you show to convince you, she +will try to disturb you. It is a sign of weakness, she lacks the courage of her +convictions." + +"She does?" This is news to Amber, who leans forward to listen. + +"Yes. She is an old and bitter woman, now. The years have not been easy for +her. She perhaps intends to use her unrepaired senescence as a passive suicide +weapon by which to hold us blameworthy, inflicting guilt for her mistreatment, +but she is afraid of dying all the same. Your reaction, should it be unhappy, +will excuse and encourage her selfishness. Sirhan colludes, unknowing, the +idiot child. /{He}/ thinks the universe of her and thinks by helping her die he +is helping her achieve her goals. He has never met an adult walking backward +toward a cliff before." + +"Backward." Amber takes a deep breath. "You're telling me Mom is so unhappy +she's trying to kill herself by growing /{old}/? Isn't that a bit slow?" + +Annette shakes her head lugubriously. "She's had fifty years to practice. You +have been away twenty-eight years! She was thirty when she bore you. Now she is +over eighty, and a telomere refusenik, a charter member of the genome +conservation front. To accept a slow virus purge and aging reset would be to +lay down a banner she has carried for half a century. To accept uploading, +that, too, is wrong in her mind: She will not admit her identity is a variable, +not a constant. She came out here in a can, frozen, with more radiation damage. +She is not going back home. This is where she plans to end her days. Do you +see? /{That}/ is why you were brought here. That, and because of the bailiffs +who have bought title to your other self's business debts. They are waiting for +you in Jupiter system with warrants and headsuckers to extract your private +keys." + +"She's cornered me!" + +"Oh, I would not /{say}/ that. We all change our convictions sometime or other, +perhaps. She is inflexible, she will not bend; but she is not stupid. Nor is +she as vindictive as perhaps she herself believes. She thinks she must a +scorned woman be, even though there is more to her than that. Your father and +I, we -" + +"Is he still alive?" Amber demands eagerly, half-anxious to know, half- wishing +she could be sure the news won't be bad. + +"Yes." Annette grins again, but it's not a happy expression, more a baring of +teeth at the world. "As I was saying, your father and I, we have tried to help +her. Pamela denies him. He is, she says, not a man. No more so am I myself a +woman? No, but she'll still talk to me. /{You}/ will do better. But his assets, +they are spent. He is not a rich man this epoch, your father." + +"Yeah, but." Amber nods to herself. "He may be able to help me." + +"Oh? How so?" + +"You remember the original goal of the *{Field Circus}*? The sapient alien +transmission?" + +"Yes, of course." Annette snorts. "Junk bond pyramid schemes from credulous +saucer wisdom airheads." + +Amber licks her lips. "How susceptible to interception are we here?" + +"Here?" Annette glances round. "Very. You can't maintain a habitat in a +nonbiosphere environment without ubiquitous surveillance." + +"Well, then ..." + +Amber dives inward, forks her identity, collects a complex bundle of her +thoughts and memories, marshals them, offers Annette one end of an encryption +tunnel, then stuffs the frozen mindstorm into her head. Annette sits still for +approximately ten seconds, then shudders and whimpers quietly. "You must ask +your father," she says, growing visibly agitated. "I must leave, now. I should +not have known that! It is dynamite, you see. /{Political}/ dynamite. I must +return to my primary sister-identity and warn her." + +"Your - wait!" Amber stands up as fast as her ill-coordinated body will let +her, but Annette is moving fast, swarming up a translucent ladder in the air. + +"Tell Manfred!" calls her aunt through the body of an ape: "Trust no one else!" +She throws another packet of compressed, encrypted memories down the tunnel to +Amber; then, a moment later, the orange skull touches the ceiling and +dissolves, a liquid flow of dissociating utility foglets letting go of one +another and dispersing into the greater mass of the building that spawned the +fake ape. + +* * * + +Snapshots from the family album: /{While you were gone ...}/ + +_* Amber, wearing a brocade gown and a crown encrusted with diamond processors +and external neural taps, her royal party gathered around her, attends the +pan-Jovian constitutional conference with the majesty of a confirmed head of +state and ruler of a small inner moon. She smiles knowingly at the camera +viewpoint, with the professional shine that comes from a good public relations +video filter. "We are very happy to be here," she says, "and we are pleased +that the commission has agreed to lend its weight to the continued progress of +the Ring Imperium's deep-space program." + +_* A piece of dumb paper, crudely stained with letters written in a faded brown +substance - possibly blood - says "I'm checking out, don't delta me." This +version of Pierre didn't go to the router: He stayed at home, deleted all his +backups, and slit his wrists, his epitaph sharp and self-inflicted. It comes as +a cold shock, the first chill gust of winter's gale blowing through the outer +system's political elite. And it's the start of a regime of censorship directed +toward the already speeding starwisp: Amber, in her grief, makes an executive +decision not to tell her embassy to the stars that one of them is dead and, +therefore, unique. + +_* Manfred - fifty, with the fashionably pale complexion of the digerati, +healthy-looking for his age, standing beside a transmigration bush with a +stupid grin on his face. He's decided to take the final step, not simply to +spawn external mental processes running in an exocortex of distributed +processors, but to move his entire persona right out of meatspace, into +wherever it is that the uploads aboard the *{Field Circus}* have gone. Annette, +skinny, elegant, and very Parisian, stands beside him, looking as uncertain as +the wife of a condemned man. + +_* A wedding, shi'ite, Mut'ah - of limited duration. It's scandalous to many, +but the mamtu'ah isn't moslem, she wears a crown instead of a veil, and her +groom is already spoken of in outraged terms by most other members of the +trans-Martian Islamic clergy. Besides which, in addition to being in love, the +happy couple have more strategic firepower than a late-twentieth-century +superpower. Their cat, curled at their feet, looks smug: She's the custodian of +the permissive action locks on the big lasers. + +_* A speck of ruby light against the darkness - red-shifted almost into the +infrared, it's the return signal from the *{Field Circus}*'s light sail as the +starwisp passes the one-light-year mark, almost twelve trillion kilometers out +beyond Pluto. (Although how can you call it a starwisp when it masses almost a +hundred kilograms, including propulsion module? Starwhisps are meant to be +tiny!) + +_* Collapse of the trans-Lunar economy: Deep in the hot thinking depths of the +solar system, vast new intellects come up with a new theory of wealth that +optimizes resource allocation better than the previously pervasive Free Market +1.0. With no local minima to hamper them, and no need to spawn and reap +start-ups Darwin-style, the companies, group minds, and organizations that +adopt the so-called Accelerated Salesman Infrastructure of Economics 2.0 trade +optimally with each other. The phase change accelerates as more and more +entities join in, leveraging network externalities to overtake the traditional +ecosystem. Amber and Sadeq are late on the train, Sadeq obsessing about how to +reconcile ASI with murabaha and mudaraba while the postmodern economy of the +mid-twenty-first century disintegrates around them. Being late has punitive +consequences - the Ring Imperium has always been a net importer of brainpower +and a net exporter of gravitational potential energy. Now it's a tired +backwater, the bit rate from the red-shifted relativisitic probe insufficiently +delightful to obsess the daemons of industrial routing. In other words, they're +poor. + +_* A message from beyond the grave: The travelers aboard the starship have +reached their destination, an alien artifact drifting in chilly orbit around a +frozen brown dwarf. Recklessly they upload themselves into it, locking the +starwisp down for years of sleep. Amber and her husband have few funds with +which to pay for the propulsion lasers: what they have left of the kinetic +energy of the Ring Imperium - based on the orbital momentum of a small Jovian +inner moon - is being sapped, fast, at a near-loss, by the crude requirements +of the exobionts and metanthropes who fork and spawn in the datasphere of the +outer Jovians. The cost of importing brains to the Ring Imperium is steep: In +near-despair Amber and Sadeq produce a child, Generation 3.0, to populate their +dwindling kingdom. Picture the cat, offended, lashing its tail beside the +zero-gee crib. + +_* Surprise and postcards from the inner orbitals - Amber's mother offers to +help. For the sake of the child, Sadeq offers bandwidth and user interface +enrichment. The child forks, numerous times, as Amber despairingly plays with +probabilities, simulating upbringing outcomes. Neither she nor Sadeq are good +parents - the father absent-minded and prone to lose himself in the +intertextual deconstruction of surahs, the mother ragged-edged from running the +economy of a small and failing kingdom. In the space of a decade, Sirhan lives +a dozen lives, discarding identities like old clothes. The uncertainty of life +in the decaying Ring Imperium does not entrance him, his parents' obsessions +annoy him, and when his grandmother offers to fund his delta vee and subsequent +education in one of the orbitals around Titan, his parents give their reluctant +assent. + +_* Amber and Sadeq separate acrimoniously. Sadeq, studies abandoned in the face +of increasing intrusions from the world of what is into the universe of what +should be, joins a spacelike sect of sufis, encysted in a matrix of +vitrification nanomechs out in the Oort cloud to await a better epoch. His +instrument of will - the legal mechanism of his resurrection - specifies that +he is waiting for the return of the hidden, twelfth imam. + +_* For her part, Amber searches the inner system briefly for word of her father +- but there's nothing. Isolated and alone, pursued by accusing debts, she +flings herself into a reborganization, stripping away those aspects of her +personality that have brought her low; in law, her liability is tied to her +identity. Eventually she donates herself to a commune of also-rans, accepting +their personality in return for a total break with the past. + +_* Without Queen and consort, the Ring Imperium - now unmanned, leaking +breathing gases, running on autonomic control - slowly deorbits into the Jovian +murk, beaming power to the outer moons until it punches a hole in the cloud +deck in a final incandescent smear of light, the like of which has not been +seen since the Shoemaker-Levy 9 impact. + +_* Sirhan, engrossed in Saturnalia, is offended by his parents' failure to make +more of themselves. And he resolves to do it for them, if not necessarily in a +manner of their liking. + +* * * + +"You see, I am hoping you will help me with my history project," says the +serious-faced young man. + +"History project." Pierre follows him along the curving gallery, hands clasped +behind his back self-consciously to keep from showing his agitation: "What +history is this?" + +"The history of the twenty-first century," says Sirhan. "You remember it, don't +you?" + +"Remember it -" Pierre pauses. "You're serious?" + +"Yes." Sirhan opens a side door. "This way, please. I'll explain." + +The door opens onto what used to be one of the side galleries of the museum +building, full of interactive exhibits designed to explain elementary optics to +hyperactive children and their indulgent parental units. Traditional optics are +long since obsolete - tunable matter can slow photons to a stop, teleport them +here to there, play ping-pong with spin and polarization - and besides, the +dumb matter in the walls and floor has been replaced by low-power computronium, +heat sinks dangling far below the floor of the lily-pad habitat to dispose of +the scanty waste photons from reversible computation. Now the room is empty. + +"Since I became curator here, I've turned the museum's structural supports into +a dedicated high-density memory store. One of the fringe benefits of a +supervisory post, of course. I have about a billion avabits of capacity, enough +to archive the combined sensory bandwidth and memories of the entire population +of twentieth-century Earth - if that was what interested me." + +Slowly the walls and ceiling are coming to life, brightening, providing a +dizzyingly vibrant view of dawn over the rim wall of Meteor Crater, Arizona - +or maybe it's downtown Baghdad. + +"Once I realized how my mother had squandered the family fortune, I spent some +time looking for a solution to the problem," Sirhan continues. "And it struck +me, then, that there's only one commodity that is going to appreciate in value +as time continues: reversibility." + +"Reversibility? That doesn't make much sense." Pierre shakes his head. He still +feels slightly dizzy from his decanting. He's only been awake an hour or so and +is still getting used to the vagaries of a universe that doesn't bend its rules +to fit his whim of iron - that, and worrying about Amber, of whom there is no +sign in the hall of growing bodies. "Excuse me, please, but do you know where +Amber is?" + +"Hiding, probably," Sirhan says, without rancor. "Her mother's about," he adds. +"Why do you ask?" + +"I don't know what you know about us." Pierre looks at him askance: "We were +aboard the *{Field Circus}* for a long time." + +"Oh, don't worry on my behalf. I know you're not the same people who stayed +behind to contribute to the Ring Imperium's collapse," Sirhan says +dismissively, while Pierre hastily spawns a couple of ghosts to search for the +history he's alluding to. What they discover shocks him to the core as they +integrate with his conscious narrative. + +"We didn't know about any of that!" Pierre crosses his arms defensively. "Not +about you, or your father either," he adds quietly. "Or my other ... life." +Shocked: /{Did I kill myself? Why would I do a thing like that}/? Nor can he +imagine what Amber might see in an introverted cleric like Sadeq; not that he +wants to. + +"I'm sure this must come as a big shock to you," Sirhan says condescendingly, +"but it's all to do with what I was talking about. Reversibility. What does it +mean to you, in your precious context? /{You}/ are, if you like, an opportunity +to reverse whatever ill fortune made your primary instance autodarwinate +himself. He destroyed all the back-ups he could get his ghosts to ferret out, +you know. Only a light-year delay line and the fact that as a running instance +you're technically a different person saved you. And now, you're alive, and +he's dead - and whatever made him kill himself doesn't apply to you. Think of +it as natural selection among different versions of yourself. The fittest +version of you survives." + +He points at the wall of the crater. A tree diagram begins to grow from the +bottom left corner of the wall, recurving and recomplicating as it climbs +toward the top right, zooming and fracturing into taxonomic fault lines. "Life +on Earth, the family tree, what paleontology has been able to deduce of it for +us," he says pompously. "The vertebrates begin /{there}/" - a point three +quarters of the way up the tree - "and we've got an average of a hundred fossil +samples per megayear from then on. Most of them collected in the past two +decades, as exhaustive mapping of the Earth's crust and upper mantle at the +micrometer level has become practical. What a /{waste}/." + +"That's" - Pierre does a quick sum - "fifty thousand different species? Is +there a problem?" + +"Yes!" Sirhan says vehemently, no longer aloof or distant. He struggles visibly +to get himself under control. "At the beginning of the twentieth century, there +were roughly two million species of vertebrate and an estimated thirty or so +million species of multicellular organisms - it's hard to apply the same +statistical treatment to prokaryotes, but doubtless there were huge numbers of +them, too. The average life span of a species is about five megayears. It used +to be thought to be about one, but that's a very vertebrate-oriented estimate - +many insect species are stable over deep time. Anyway, we have a total sample, +from all of history, of only fifty thousand known prehistoric species - out of +a population of thirty million, turning over every five million years. That is, +we know of only one in a million life-forms, of those that ever existed on +Earth. And the situation with human history is even worse." + +"Aha! So you're after memories, yes? What really happened when we colonized +Barney. Who released Oscar's toads in the free-fall core of the *{Ernst +Sanger}*, that sort of thing?" + +"Not exactly." Sirhan looks pained, as if being forced to spell it out devalues +the significance of his insight. "I'm after /{history}/. All of it. I intend to +corner the history futures market. But I need my grandfather's help - and +you're here to help me get it." + +* * * + +Over the course of the day, various refugees from the *{Field Circus}* hatch +from their tanks and blink in the ringlight, stranded creatures from an earlier +age. The inner system is a vague blur from this distance, a swollen red cloud +masking the sun that rides high above the horizon. However, the great +restructuring is still visible to the naked eye - here, in the shape of the +rings, which show a disturbingly organized fractal structure as they whirl in +orbit overhead. Sirhan (or whoever is paying for this celebration of family +flesh) has provided for their physical needs: food, water, clothes, housing and +bandwidth, they're all copiously available. A small town of bubble homes grows +on the grassy knoll adjacent to the museum, utility foglets condensing in a +variety of shapes and styles. + +Sirhan isn't the only inhabitant of the festival city, but the others keep +themselves to themselves. Only bourgeois isolationists and reclusive weirdoes +would want to live out here right now, with whole light-minutes between +themselves and the rest of civilization. The network of lily-pad habitats isn't +yet ready for the Saturnalian immigration wave that will break upon this alien +shore when it's time for the Worlds' Fair, a decade or more in the future. +Amber's flying circus has driven the native recluses underground, in some cases +literally: Sirhan's neighbor, Vinca Kovic, after complaining bitterly about the +bustle and noise ("Forty immigrants! An outrage!"), has wrapped himself in an +environment pod and is estivating at the end of a spider-silk cable a kilometer +beneath the space-frame underpinnings of the city. + +But that isn't going to stop Sirhan from organizing a reception for the +visitors. He's moved his magnificent dining table outside, along with the +Argentinosaurus skeleton. In fact, he's built a dining room within the +dinosaur's rib cage. Not that he's planning on showing his full hand, but it'll +be interesting to see how his guests respond. And maybe it'll flush out the +mystery benefactor who's been paying for all these meatbodies. + +Sirhan's agents politely invite his visitors to the party as the second sunset +in this day cycle gently darkens the sky to violet. He discusses his plans with +Pamela via antique voice-only phone as his silent valet dresses him with +inhuman grace and efficiency. "I'm sure they'll listen when the situation is +made clear to them," he says. "If not, well, they'll soon find out what it +means to be paupers under Economics 2.0. No access to multiplicity, no +willpower, to be limited to purely spacelike resources, at the mercy of +predatory borganisms and metareligions - it's no picnic out there!" + +"You don't have the resources to set this up on your own," his grandmother +points out in dry, didactic tones. "If this was the old economy, you could draw +on the infrastructure of banks, insurers, and other risk management mechanisms +-" + +"There's no risk to this venture, in purely human terms," Sirhan insists. "The +only risk is starting it up with such a limited reserve." + +"You win some, you lose some," Pamela points out. "Let me see you." With a +sigh, Sirhan waves at a frozen camera; it blinks, surprised. "Hey, you look +good! Every inch the traditional family entrepreneur. I'm proud of you, +darling." + +Blinking back an unaccustomed tear of pride, Sirhan nods. "I'll see you in a +few minutes," he says, and cuts the call. To the nearest valet: "Bring my +carriage, now." + +A rippling cloud of utility foglets, constantly connecting and disconnecting in +the hazy outline of a 1910-vintage Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, bears Sirhan +silently away from his wing of the museum. It drives him out onto the sunset +path around the building, over to the sunken amphitheatre, where the mounted +skeleton of the Argentinosaurus stands like a half-melted columnar sculpture +beneath the orange-and-silver ringlight. A small crowd of people are already +present, some dressed casually and some attired in the formal garb of earlier +decades. Most of them are passengers or crew recently decanted from the +starwisp, but a handful are wary-eyed hermits, their body language defensive +and their persons the focus of a constant orbital hum of security bees. Sirhan +dismounts from his silvery car and magics it into dissolution, a haze of +foglets dispersing on the breeze. "Welcome to my abode," he says, bowing +gravely to a ring of interested faces. "My name is Sirhan al-Khurasani, and I +am the prime contractor in charge of this small corner of the temporary Saturn +terraforming project. As some of you probably know, I am related by blood and +design to your former captain, Amber Macx. I'd like to offer you the comforts +of my home while you acclimatize yourselves to the changed circumstances +prevailing in the system at large and work out where you want to go next." + +He walks toward the front of the U-shaped table of solidified air that floats +beneath the dead dinosaur's rib cage, slowly turns to take in faces, and blinks +down captions to remind him who's who in this gathering. He frowns slightly; +there's no sign of his mother. But that wiry fellow, with the beard - surely +that can't be - "Father?" he asks. + +Sadeq blinks owlishly. "Have we met?" + +"Possibly not." Sirhan can feel his head spinning, because although Sadeq looks +like a younger version of his father, there's something /{wrong}/ - some +essential disconnect: the politely solicitous expression, the complete lack of +engagement, the absence of paternal involvement. This Sadeq has never held the +infant Sirhan in the control core of the Ring's axial cylinder, never pointed +out the spiral storm raking vast Jupiter's face and told him stories of djinni +and marvels to make a boy's hair stand on end. "I won't hold it against you, I +promise," he blurts. + +Sadeq raises an eyebrow but passes no comment, leaving Sirhan at the center of +an uncomfortable silence. "Well then," he says hastily. "If you would like to +help yourselves to food and drink, there'll be plenty of time to talk later." +Sirhan doesn't believe in forking ghosts simply to interact with other people - +the possibilities for confusion are embarrassing - but he's going to be busy +working the party. + +He glances round. Here's a bald, aggressive-looking fellow, beetle-browed, +wearing what looks like a pair of cut-offs and a top made by deconstructing a +space suit. Who's he? (Sirhan's agents hint: "Boris Denisovitch." But what does +that /{mean}/?) There's an amused-looking older woman, a beady-eyed camera +painted in the violent colors of a bird of paradise riding her shoulder. Behind +her a younger woman, dressed head to toe in clinging black, her currently +ash-blonde hair braided in cornrows, watches him - as does Pierre, a protective +arm around her shoulders. They're - /{Amber Macx?}/ That's his /{mother}/? She +looks far too young, too much in love with Pierre. "Amber!" he says, +approaching the couple. + +"Yeah? You're, uh, my mystery child-support litigant?" Her smile is distinctly +unfriendly as she continues: "Can't say I'm entirely pleased to meet you, under +the circumstances, although I should thank you for the spread." + +"I -" His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. "It's not like that." + +"What's it supposed to be like?" she asks sharply. jabbing a finger at him: +"You know damn well I'm not your mother. So what's it all about, huh? You know +damn well I'm nearly bankrupt, too, so it's not as if you're after my pocket +lint. What do you want from me?" + +Her vehemence takes him aback. This sharp-edged aggressive woman isn't his +mother, and the introverted cleric - believer - on the other side isn't his +father, either. "I ha-ha-had to stop you heading for the inner system," he +says, speech center hitting deadlock before his antistutter mod can cut in. +"They'll eat you alive down there. Your other half left behind substantial +debts, and they've been bought up by the most predatory - " + +"Runaway corporate instruments," she states, calmly enough. "Fully sentient and +self-directed." + +"How did you know?" he asks, worried. + +She looks grim. "I've met them before." It's a very /{familiar}/ grim +expression, one he knows intimately, and that feels wrong coming from this near +stranger. "We visited some weird places, while we were away." She glances past +him, focuses on someone else, and breathes in sharply as her face goes blank. +"Quickly, tell me what your scheme is. Before Mom gets here." + +"Mind archiving and history mergers. Back yourself up, pick different life +courses, see which ones work and which don't - no need to be a failure, just +hit the 'reload game' icon and resume. That and a long-term angle on the +history futures market. I /{need}/ your help," he babbles. "It won't work +without family, and I'm trying to stop her killing herself -" + +"Family." She nods, guardedly, and Sirhan notices her companion, this Pierre - +not the weak link that broke back before he was born, but a tough-eyed explorer +newly returned from the wilderness - sizing him up. Sirhan's got one or two +tricks up his exocortex, and he can see the haze of ghost-shapes around Pierre; +his data-mining technique is crude and out-of-date, but enthusiastic and not +without a certain flair. "Family," Amber repeats, and it's like a curse. +Louder: "Hello, Mom. Should have guessed he'd have invited you here, too." + +"Guess again." Sirhan glances round at Pamela, then back at Amber, suddenly +feeling very much like a rat trapped between a pair of angry cobras. Leaning on +her cane, wearing discreet cosmetics and with her medical supports concealed +beneath an old-fashioned dress, Pamela could be a badly preserved +sixtysomething from the old days instead of the ghastly slow suicide case that +her condition amounts to today. She smiles politely at Amber. "You may remember +me telling you that a lady never unintentionally causes offense. I didn't want +to offend Sirhan by turning up in spite of his wishes, so I didn't give him a +chance to say no." + +"And this is supposed to earn you a sympathy fuck?" Amber drawls. "I'd expected +better of you." + +"Why, you -" The fire in her eyes dies suddenly, subjected to the freezing +pressure of a control that only comes with age. "I'd hoped getting away from it +all would have improved your disposition, if not your manners, but evidently +not." Pamela jabs her cane at the table: "Let me repeat, this is your /{son's}/ +idea. Why don't you eat something?" + +"Poison tester goes first." Amber smiles slyly. + +"For fuck's sake!" It's the first thing Pierre has said so far, and crude or +not, it comes as a profound relief when he steps forward, picks up a plate of +water biscuits loaded with salmon caviar, and puts one in his mouth. "Can't you +guys leave the back stabbing until the rest of us have filled our stomachs? 'S +not as if I can turn down the biophysics model in here." He shoves the plate at +Sirhan. "Go on, it's yours." + +The spell is broken. "Thank you," Sirhan says gravely, taking a cracker and +feeling the tension fall as Amber and her mother stop preparing to nuke each +other and focus on the issue at hand - which is that food comes before fighting +at any social event, not vice versa. + +"You might enjoy the egg mayonnaise, too," Sirhan hears himself saying: "It +goes a long way to explaining why the dodo became extinct first time around." + +"Dodoes." Amber keeps one eye warily on her mother as she accepts a plate from +a silently gliding silver bush-shaped waitron. "What was that about the family +investment project?" she asks. + +"Just that without your cooperation your family will likely go the way of the +bird," her mother cuts in before Sirhan can muster a reply. "Not that I expect +you to care." + +Boris butts in. "Core worlds are teeming with corporates. Is bad business for +us, good business for them. If you are seeing what we are seen -" + +"Don't remember /{you}/ being there," Pierre says grumpily. + +"In any event," Sirhan says smoothly, "the core isn't healthy for us one-time +fleshbodies anymore. There are still lots of people there, but the ones who +uploaded expecting a boom economy were sadly disappointed. Originality is at a +premium, and the human neural architecture isn't optimized for it - we are, by +disposition, a conservative species, because in a static ecosystem, that +provides the best return on sunk reproductive investment costs. Yes, we change +over time - we're more flexible than almost any other animal species to arise +on Earth - but we're like granite statues compared to organisms adapted to life +under Economics 2.0." + +"You tell 'em, boy," Pamela chirps, almost mockingly. "It wasn't that bloodless +when I lived through it." Amber casts her a cool stare. + +"Where was I?" Sirhan snaps his fingers, and a glass of fizzy grape juice +appears between them. "Early upload entrepreneurs forked repeatedly, discovered +they could scale linearly to occupy processor capacity proportional to the mass +of computronium available, and that computationally trivial tasks became +tractable. They could also run faster, or slower, than real time. But they were +still /{human}/, and unable to operate effectively outside human constraints. +Take a human being and bolt on extensions that let them take full advantage of +Economics 2.0, and you essentially break their narrative chain of +consciousness, replacing it with a journal file of bid/request transactions +between various agents; it's incredibly efficient and flexible, but it isn't a +conscious human being in any recognizable sense of the word." + +"All right," Pierre says slowly. "I think we've seen something like that +ourselves. At the router." + +Sirhan nods, not sure whether he's referring to anything important. "So you +see, there are limits to human progress - but not to progress itself! The +uploads found their labor to be a permanently deflating commodity once they hit +their point of diminishing utility. Capitalism doesn't have a lot to say about +workers whose skills are obsolete, other than that they should invest wisely +while they're earning and maybe retrain: but just knowing /{how}/ to invest in +Economics 2.0 is beyond an unaugmented human. You can't retrain as a seagull, +can you, and it's quite as hard to retool for Economics 2.0. Earth is -" He +shudders. + +"There's a phrase I used to hear in the old days," Pamela says calmly, "ethnic +cleansing. Do you know what that means, darling idiot daughter? You take people +who you define as being of little worth, and first you herd them into a crowded +ghetto with limited resources, then you decide those resources aren't worth +spending on them, and bullets are cheaper than bread. 'Mind children' the +extropians called the posthumans, but they were more like Vile Offspring. There +was a lot of that, during the fast sigmoid phase. Starving among plenty, +compulsory conversions, the very antithesis of everything your father said he +wanted ..." + +"I don't believe it," Amber says hotly. "That's crazy! We can't go the way of +-" + +"Since when has human history been anything else?" asks the woman with the +camera on her shoulder - Donna, being some sort of public archivist, is in +Sirhan's estimate likely to be of use to him. "Remember what we found in the +DMZ?" + +"The DMZ?" Sirhan asks, momentarily confused. + +"After we went through the router," Pierre says grimly. "You tell him, love." +He looks at Amber. + +Sirhan, watching him, feels it fall into place at that moment, a sense that +he's stepped into an alternate universe, one where the woman who might have +been his mother isn't, where black is white, his kindly grandmother is the +wicked witch of the west, and his feckless grandfather is a farsighted +visionary. + +"We uploaded via the router," Amber says, and looks confused for a moment. +"There's a network on the other side of it. We were told it was FTL, +instantaneous, but I'm not so sure now. I think it's something more +complicated, like a lightspeed network, parts of which are threaded through +wormholes that make it look FTL from our perspective. Anyway, Matrioshka +brains, the end product of a technological singularity - they're +bandwidth-limited. Sooner or later the posthuman descendants evolve Economics +2.0, or 3.0, or something else and it, uh, /{eats}/ the original conscious +instigators. Or uses them as currency or something. The end result we found is +a howling wilderness of degenerate data, fractally compressed, postconscious +processes running slower and slower as they trade storage space for processing +power. We were" - she licks her lips - "lucky to escape with our minds. We only +did it because of a friend. It's like the main sequence in stellar evolution; +once a G-type star starts burning helium and expands into a red giant, it's +'game over' for life in what used to be its liquid-water zone. Conscious +civilizations sooner or later convert all their available mass into +computronium, powered by solar output. They don't go interstellar because they +want to stay near the core where the bandwidth is high and latency is low, and +sooner or later, competition for resources hatches a new level of +metacompetition that obsoletes them." + +"That sounds plausible," Sirhan says slowly. He puts his glass down and chews +distractedly on one knuckle. "I thought it was a low-probability outcome, but +..." + +"I've been saying all along, your grandfather's ideas would backfire in the +end," Pamela says pointedly. + +"But -" Amber shakes her head. "There's more to it than that, isn't there?" + +"Probably," Sirhan says, then shuts up. + +"So are you going to tell us?" asks Pierre, looking annoyed. "What's the big +idea, here?" + +"An archive store," Sirhan says, deciding that this is the right time for his +pitch. "At the lowest level, you can store back-ups of yourself here. So far so +good, eh? But there's a bit more to it than that. I'm planning to offer a bunch +of embedded universes - big, running faster than real-time - sized and scoped +to let human-equivalent intelligences do what-if modeling on themselves. Like +forking off ghosts of yourself, but much more so - give them whole years to +diverge, learn new skills, and evaluate them against market requirements, +before deciding which version of you is most suited to run in the real world. I +mentioned the retraining paradox. Think of this as a solution for level one, +human-equivalent, intelligences. But that's just the short-term business model. +Long-term, I want to acquire a total lock on the history futures market by +having a /{complete}/ archive of human experiences, from the dawn of the fifth +singularity on up. No more unknown extinct species. That should give us +something to trade with the next-generation intelligences - the ones who aren't +our mind children and barely remember us. At the very least, it gives us a +chance to live again, a long way out in deep time. Alternatively, it can be +turned into a lifeboat. If we can't compete with our creations, at least we've +got somewhere to flee, those of us who want to. I've got agents working on a +comet, out in the Oort cloud - we could move the archive to it, turn it into a +generation ship with room for billions of evacuees running much slower than +real-time in archive space until we find a new world to settle." + +"Is not sounding good to me," Boris comments. He spares a worried glance for an +oriental-looking woman who is watching their debate silently from the fringe. + +"Has it really gone that far?" asks Amber. + +"There are bailiffs hunting you in the inner system," Pamela says bluntly. +"After your bankruptcy proceedings, various corporates got the idea that you +might be concealing something. The theory was that you were insane to take such +a huge gamble on the mere possibility of there being an alien artifact within a +few light-years of home, so you had to have information above and beyond what +you disclosed. Theories include your cat - hardware tokens were in vogue in the +fifties - being the key to a suite of deposit accounts; the fuss mainly died +down after Economics 2.0 took over, but some fairly sleazy conspiracy freaks +refuse to let go." + +She grins, frighteningly. "Which is why I suggested to your son that he make +you an offer you can't refuse." + +"What's that?" asks a voice from below knee level. + +Pamela looks down, an expression of deep distaste on her face. "Why should I +tell /{you}/?" she asks, leaning on her cane: "After the disgraceful way you +repaid my hospitality! All you've got coming from me is a good kicking. If only +my knee was up to the job." + +The cat arches its back: Its tail fluffs out with fear as its hair stands on +end, and it takes Amber a moment to realize that it isn't responding to Pamela, +but to something behind the old woman. "Through the domain wall. Outside this +biome. So cold. What's /{that}/?" + +Amber turns to follow the cat's gaze, and her jaw drops. "Were you expecting +visitors?" she asks Sirhan, shakily. + +"Visit -" He looks round to see what everybody's gaping at and freezes. The +horizon is brightening with a false dawn: the fusion spark of a de-orbiting +spacecraft. + +"It's bailiffs," says Pamela, head cocked to one side as if listening to an +antique bone-conduction earpiece. "They've come for your memories, dear," she +explains, frowning. "They say we've got five kiloseconds to surrender +everything. Otherwise, they're going to blow us apart ..." + +* * * + +"You're all in big trouble," says the orang-utan, sliding gracefully down one +enormous rib to land in an ungainly heap in front of Sirhan. + +Sirhan recoils in disgust. "You again! What do you want from me this time?" + +"Nothing." The ape ignores him: "Amber, it is time for you to call your +father." + +"Yeah, but will he come when I call?" Amber stares at the ape. Her pupils +expand: "Hey, you're not my -" + +"You." Sirhan glares at the ape. "Go away! I didn't invite you here!" + +"More unwelcome visitors?" asks Pamela, raising an eyebrow. + +"Yes, you did." The ape grins at Amber, then crouches down, hoots quietly and +beckons to the cat, who is hiding behind one of the graceful silver servitors. + +"Manfred isn't welcome here. And neither is that woman," Sirhan swears. He +catches Pamela's eye: "Did you know anything about this? Or about the +bailiffs?" He gestures at the window, beyond which the drive flare casts jagged +shadows. It's dropping toward the horizon as it de-orbits - next time it comes +into view, it'll be at the leading edge of a hypersonic shock wave, streaking +toward them at cloud top height in order to consummate the robbery. + +"Me?" Pamela snorts. "Grow up." She eyes the ape warily. "I don't have that +much control over things. And as for bailiffs, I wouldn't set them on my worst +enemies. I've seen what those things can do." For a moment her eyes flash +anger: "Grow up, why don't you!" she repeats. + +"Yes, please do," says another voice from behind Sirhan. The new speaker is a +woman, slightly husky, accented - he turns to see her: tall, black-haired, +wearing a dark man's suit of archaic cut and mirrored glasses. "Ah, Pamela, ma +chérie! Long time no cat fight." She grins frighteningly and holds out a hand. + +Sirhan is already off-balance. Now, seeing his honorary aunt in human skin for +a change, he looks at the ape in confusion. Behind him Pamela advances on +Annette and takes her hand in her own fragile fingers. "You look just the +same," she says gravely. "I can see why I was afraid of you." + +"You." Amber backs away until she bumps into Sirhan, at whom she glares. "What +the fuck did you invite both of them for? Are you /{trying}/ to start a +thermonuclear war?" + +"Don't ask me," he says helplessly, "I don't know why they came! What's this +about -" He focuses on the orang-utan, who is now letting the cat lick one +hairy palm. "Your cat?" + +"I don't think the orange hair suits Aineko," Amber says slowly. "Did I tell +you about our hitchhiker?" + +Sirhan shakes his head, trying to dispel the confusion. "I don't think we've +got time. In under two hours the bailiffs up there will be back. They're armed +and dangerous, and if they turn their drive flame on the roof and set fire to +the atmosphere in here, we'll be in trouble - it would rupture our lift cells, +and even computronium doesn't work too well under a couple of million +atmospheres of pressurized metallic hydrogen." + +"Well, you'd better /{make}/ time." Amber takes his elbow in an iron grip and +turns him toward the footpath back to the museum. "Crazy," she mutters. "Tante +Annette and Pamela Macx on the same planet! And they're being /{friendly}/! +This can't be a good sign." She glances round, sees the ape: "You. Come +/{here}/. Bring the cat." + +"The cat's -" Sirhan trails off. "I've heard about your cat," he says, lamely. +"You took him with you in the *{Field Circus}*." + +"Really?" She glances behind them. The ape blows a kiss at her; it's cradling +the cat on one shoulder and tickling it under the chin. "Has it occurred to you +that Aineko isn't just a robot cat?" + +"Ah," Sirhan says faintly. "Then the bailiffs -" + +"No, that's all bullshit. What I mean is, Aineko is a human-equivalent, or +better, artificial intelligence. Why do you think he keeps a cat's body?" + +"I have no idea." + +"Because humans always underestimate anything that's small, furry, and cute," +says the orang-utan. + +"Thanks, Aineko," says Amber. She nods at the ape. "How are you finding it?" + +Aineko shambles along, with a purring cat draped over one shoulder, and gives +the question due consideration. "Different," she says, after a bit. "Not +better." + +"Oh." Amber sounds slightly disappointed to Sirhan's confused ears. They pass +under the fronds of a weeping willow, round the side of a pond, beside an +overgrown hibiscus bush, then up to the main entrance of the museum. + +"Annette was right about one thing," she says quietly. "Trust no one. I think +it's time to raise Dad's ghost." She relaxes her grip on Sirhan's elbow, and he +pulls it away and glares at her. "Do you know who the bailiffs are?" she asks. + +"The usual." He gestures at the hallway inside the front doors. "Replay the +ultimatum, if you please, City." + +The air shimmers with an archaic holographic field, spooling the output from a +compressed visual presentation tailored for human eyesight. A piratical-looking +human male wearing a tattered and much-patched space suit leers at the +recording viewpoint from the pilot's seat of an ancient Soyuz capsule. One of +his eyes is completely black, the sign of a high-bandwidth implant. A weedy +moustache crawls across his upper lip. "Greetins an' salutations," he drawls. +"We is da' Californi-uhn nashnul gaard an' we-are got lett-uhz o' marque an' +reprise from da' ledgish-fuckn' congress o' da excited snakes of uhhmerica." + +"He sounds drunk!" Amber's eyes are wide. "What's this -" + +"Not drunk. CJD is a common side effect of dodgy Economics 2.0 neural adjuvant +therapy. Unlike the old saying, you /{do}/ have to be mad to work there. +Listen." + +City, which paused the replay for Amber's outburst, permits it to continue. +"Youse harbbring da' fugitive Amber Macx an' her magic cat. We wan' da cat. Da +puta's yours. Gotser uno orbit: You ready give us ther cat an' we no' zap you." + +The screen goes dead. "That was a fake, of course," Sirhan adds, looking inward +where a ghost is merging memories from the city's orbital mechanics subsystem: +"They aerobraked on the way in, hit ninety gees for nearly half a minute. While +/{that}/ was sent afterward. It's just a machinima avatar, a human body that +had been through that kind of deceleration would be pulped." + +"So the bailiffs are -" Amber is visibly struggling to wrap her head around the +situation. + +"They're not human," Sirhan says, feeling a sudden pang of - no, not affection, +but the absence of malice will do for the moment - toward this young woman who +isn't the mother he loves to resent, but who might have become her in another +world. "They've absorbed a lot of what it is to be human, but their corporate +roots show. Even though they run on an hourly accounting loop, rather than one +timed for the production cycles of dirt-poor Sumerian peasant farmers, and even +though they've got various ethics and business practice patches, at root +they're not human: They're limited liability companies." + +"So what do they want?" asks Pierre, making Sirhan jump, guiltily. He hadn't +realized Pierre could move that quietly. + +"They want money. Money in Economy 2.0 is quantized originality - that which +allows one sentient entity to outmaneuver another. They think your cat has got +something, and they want it. They probably wouldn't mind eating your brains, +too, but -" He shrugs. "Obsolete food is stale food." + +"Hah." Amber looks pointedly at Pierre, who nods at her. + +"What?" asks Sirhan. + +"Where's the - uh, cat?" asks Pierre. + +"I think Aineko's got it." She looks thoughtful. "Are you thinking what I'm +thinking?" + +"Time to drop off the hitcher." Pierre nods. "Assuming it agrees ..." + +"Do you mind explaining yourselves?" Sirhan asks, barely able to contain +himself. + +Amber grins, looking up at the Mercury capsule suspended high overhead. "The +conspiracy theorists were half right. Way back in the Dark Ages, Aineko cracked +the second alien transmission. We had a very good idea we were going to find +something out there, we just weren't totally sure exactly what. Anyway, the +creature incarnated in that cat body right now isn't Aineko - it's our mystery +hitchhiker. A parasitic organism that infects, well, we ran across something +not too dissimilar to Economics 2.0 out at the router and beyond, and it's got +parasites. Our hitcher is one such creature - it's nearest human-comprehensible +analogy would be the Economics 2.0 equivalent of a pyramid scheme crossed with +a 419 scam. As it happens, most of the runaway corporate ghosts out beyond the +router are wise to that sort of thing, so it hacked the router's power system +to give us a beam to ride home in return for sanctuary. That's as far as it +goes." + +"Hang on." Sirhan's eyes bulge. "You /{found}/ something out there? You brought +back a real-live alien?" + +"Guess so." Amber looks smug. + +"But, but, that's marvelous! That changes everything! It's incredible! Even +under Economics 2.0 that's got to be worth a gigantic amount. Just think what +you could learn from it!" + +"/{Oui}/. A whole new way of bilking corporations into investing in cognitive +bubbles," Pierre interrupts cynically. "It seems to me that you are making two +assumptions - that our passenger is willing to be exploited by us, and that we +survive whatever happens when the bailiffs arrive." + +"But, but -" Sirhan winds down spluttering, only refraining from waving his +arms through an effort of will. + +"Let's go ask it what it wants to do," says Amber. "Cooperate," she warns +Sirhan. "We'll discuss your other plans later, dammit. First things first - we +need to get out from under these pirates." + +* * * + +As they make their way back toward the party, Sirhan's inbox is humming with +messages from elsewhere in Saturn system - from other curators on board +lily-pad habs scattered far and wide across the huge planetary atmosphere, from +the few ring miners who still remember what it was like to be human (even +though they're mostly brain-in-a-bottle types, or uploads wearing +nuclear-powered bodies made of ceramic and metal): even from the small orbital +townships around Titan, where screaming hordes of bloggers are bidding +frantically for the viewpoint feeds of the *{Field Circus's}* crew. It seems +that news of the starship's arrival has turned hot only since it became +apparent that someone or something thought they would make a decent shakedown +target. Now someone's blabbed about the alien passenger, the nets have gone +crazy. + +"City," he mutters, "where's this hitchhiker creature? Should be wearing the +body of my mother's cat." + +"Cat? What cat?" replies City. "I see no cats here." + +"No, it looks /{like}/ a cat, it -" A horrible thought dawns on him. "Have you +been hacked again?" + +"Looks like it," City agrees enthusiastically. "Isn't it tiresome?" + +"Shi - oh dear. Hey," he calls to Amber, forking several ghosts as he does so +in order to go hunt down the missing creature by traversing the thousands of +optical sensors that thread the habitat in loco personae - a tedious process +rendered less objectionable by making the ghosts autistic - "have you been +messing with my security infrastructure?" + +"Us?" Amber looks annoyed. "No." + +"/{Someone}/ has been. I thought at first it was that mad Frenchwoman, but now +I'm not sure. Anyway, it's a big problem. If the bailiffs figure out how to use +the root kit to gain a toe hold here, they don't need to burn us - just take +the whole place over." + +"That's the least of your worries," Amber points out. "What kind of charter do +these bailiffs run on?" + +"Charter? Oh, you mean legal system? I think it's probably a cheap one, maybe +even the one inherited from the Ring Imperium. Nobody bothers breaking the law +out here these days, it's too easy to just buy a legal system off the shelf, +tailor it to fit, and conform to it." + +"Right." She stops, stands still, and looks up at the almost invisible dome of +the gas cell above them. "Pigeons," she says, almost tiredly. "Damn, how did I +miss it? How long have you had an infestation of group minds?" + +"Group?" Sirhan turns round. "/{What}/ did you just say?" + +There's a chatter of avian laughter from above, and a light rain of birdshit +splatters the path around him. Amber dodges nimbly, but Sirhan isn't so light +on his feet and ends up cursing, summoning up a cloth of congealed air to wipe +his scalp clean. + +"It's the flocking behavior," Amber explains, looking up. "If you track the +elements - birds - you'll see that they're not following individual +trajectories. Instead, each pigeon sticks within ten meters or so of sixteen +neighbors. It's a Hamiltonian network, kid. Real birds don't do that. How +long?" + +Sirhan stop cursing and glares up at the circling birds, cooing and mocking him +from the safety of the sky. He waves his fist: "I'll get you, see if I don't -" + +"I don't think so." Amber takes his elbow again and steers him back round the +hill. Sirhan, preoccupied with maintaining an umbrella of utility fog above his +gleaming pate, puts up with being manhandled. "You don't think it's just a +coincidence, do you?" she asks him over a private head-to-head channel. +"They're one of the players here." + +"I don't care. They've hacked my city and gate crashed my party! I don't care +/{who}/ they are, they're not welcome." + +"Famous last words," Amber murmurs, as the party comes around the hillside and +nearly runs over them. Someone has infiltrated the Argentinosaurus skeleton +with motors and nanofibers, animating the huge sauropod with a simulation of +undead life. Whoever did it has also hacked it right out of the surveillance +feed. Their first warning is a footstep that makes the ground jump beneath +their feet - then the skeleton of the hundred-tonne plant-eater, taller than a +six-storey building and longer than a commuter train, raises its head over the +treetops and looks down at them. There's a pigeon standing proudly on its +skull, chest puffed out, and a dining room full of startled taikonauts sitting +on a suspended wooden floor inside its rib cage. + +"It's /{my}/ party and /{my}/ business scheme!" Sirhan insists plaintively. +"Nothing you or anyone else in the family do can take it away from me!" + +"That's true," Amber points out, "but in case you hadn't noticed, you've +offered temporary sanctuary to a bunch of people - not to put too fine a point +on it, myself included - who some assholes think are rich enough to be worth +mugging, and you did it without putting any contingency plans in place other +than to invite my manipulative bitch of a mother. What did you think you were +doing? Hanging out a sign saying 'scam artists welcome here'? Dammit, I need +Aineko." + +"Your cat." Sirhan fastens on to this: "It's your cat's fault! Isn't it?" + +"Only indirectly." Amber looks round and waves at the dinosaur skeleton. "Hey, +you! Have you seen Aineko?" + +The huge dinosaur bends its neck and the pigeon opens its beak to coo. Eerie +harmonics cut in as a bunch of other birds, scattered to either side, sing +counterpoint to produce a demented warbling voice. "The cat's with your +mother." + +"Oh shit!" Amber turns on Sirhan fiercely. "Where's Pamela? /{Find her}/!" + +Sirhan is stubborn. "Why should I?" + +"Because she's got the cat! What do you think she's going to do but cut a deal +with the bailiffs out there to put one over on me? Can't you fucking see where +this family tendency to play head games comes from?" + +"You're too late," echoes the eerie voice of the pigeons from above and around +them. "She's kidnapped the cat and taken the capsule from the museum. It's not +flightworthy, but you'd be amazed what you can do with a few hundred ghosts and +a few tonnes of utility fog." + +"Okay." Amber stares up at the pigeons, fists on hips, then glances at Sirhan. +She chews her lower lip for a moment, then nods to the bird riding the +dinosaur's skull. "Stop fucking with the boy's head and show yourself, Dad." + +Sirhan boggles in an upward direction as a whole flock of passenger pigeons +comes together in mid air and settles toward the grass, cooing and warbling +like an explosion in a synthesizer factory. + +"What's she planning on doing with the Slug?" Amber asks the pile of birds. +"And isn't it a bit cramped in there?" + +"You get used to it," says the primary - and thoroughly distributed - copy of +her father. "I'm not sure what she's planning, but I can show you what she's +doing. Sorry about your city, kid, but you really should have paid more +attention to those security patches. There's lots of crufty twentieth-century +bugware kicking around under your shiny new singularity, design errors and all, +spitting out turd packets all over your sleek new machine." + +Sirhan shakes his head in denial. "I don't believe this," he moans quietly. + +"Show me what Mom's up to," orders Amber. "I need to see if I can stop her +before it's too late -" + +* * * + +The ancient woman in the space suit leans back in her cramped seat, looks at +the camera, and winks. "Hello, darling. I know you're spying on me." + +There's an orange-and-white cat curled up in her nomex-and-aluminum lap. It +seems to be happy: It's certainly purring loudly enough, although that reflex +is wired in at a very low level. Amber watches helplessly as her mother reaches +up arthritically and flips a couple of switches. Something loud is humming in +the background - probably an air recirculator. There's no window in the Mercury +capsule, just a periscope offset to one side of Pamela's right knee. "Won't be +long now," she mutters, and lets her hand drop back to her side. "You're too +late to stop me," she adds, conversationally. "The 'chute rigging is fine and +the balloon blower is happy to treat me as a new city seed. I'll be free in a +minute or so." + +"Why are you doing this?" Amber asks tiredly. + +"Because you don't need me around." Pamela focuses on the camera that's glued +to the instrument panel in front of her head. "I'm old. Face it, I'm +disposable. The old must give way to the new, and all that. Your Dad never +really did get it - he's going to grow old gracelessly, succumbing to bit rot +in the big forever. Me, I'm not going there. I'm going out with a bang. Aren't +I, cat? Whoever you really are." She prods the animal. It purrs and stretches +out across her lap. + +"You never looked hard enough at Aineko, back in the day," she tells Amber, +stroking its flanks. "Did you think I didn't know you'd audit its source code, +looking for trapdoors? I used the Thompson hack - she's been mine, body and +soul, for a very long time indeed. I got the whole story about your passenger +from the horse's mouth. And now we're going to go fix those bailiffs. Whee!" + +The camera angle jerks, and Amber feels a ghost re-merge with her, panicky with +loss. The Mercury capsule's gone, drifting away from the apex of the habitat +beneath a nearly transparent sack of hot hydrogen. + +"That was a bit rough," remarks Pamela. "Don't worry, we should still be in +communications range for another hour or so." + +"But you're going to die!" Amber yells at her. "What do you think you're +/{doing}/?" + +"I think I'm going to die well. What do you think?" Pamela lays one hand on the +cat's flank. "Here, you need to encrypt this a bit better. I left a one time +pad behind with Annette. Why don't you go fetch it? Then I'll tell you what +else I'm planning?" + +"But my aunt is -" Amber's eyes cross as she concentrates. Annette is already +waiting, as it happens, and a shared secret appears in Amber's awareness almost +before she asks. "Oh. All right. What are you doing with the cat, though?" + +Pamela sighs. "I'm going to give it to the bailiffs," she says. "Someone has +to, and it better be a long way away from this city before they realize that it +isn't Aineko. This is a lot better than the way I expected to go out before you +arrived here. No rat fucking blackmailers are going to get their hands on the +family jewels if /{I}/ have anything to do with the matter. Are you sure you +aren't a criminal mastermind? I'm not sure I've ever heard of a pyramid scheme +that infects Economics 2.0 structures before." + +"It's -" Amber swallows. "It's an alien business model, Ma. You do know what +that means? We brought it back with us from the router, and we wouldn't have +been able to come back if it hadn't helped, but I'm not sure it's entirely +friendly. Is this sensible? You can come back, now, there's still time -" + +"No." Pamela waves one liver-spotted hand dismissively. "I've been doing a lot +of thinking lately. I've been a foolish old woman." She grins wickedly. +"Committing slow suicide by rejecting gene therapy just to make you feel guilty +was /{stupid}/. Not subtle enough. If I was going to try to guilt-trip you +/{now,}/ I'd have to do something much more sophisticated. Such as find a way +to sacrifice myself heroically for you." + +"Oh, Ma." + +"Don't 'oh Ma' me. I fucked up my life, don't try to talk me into fucking up my +death. And don't feel guilty about me. This isn't about you, this is about me. +That's an order." + +Out of the corner of one eye Amber notices Sirhan gesturing wildly at her. She +lets his channel in and does a double take. "But -" + +"Hello?" It's City. "You should see this. Traffic update!" A contoured and +animated diagram appears, superimposed over Pamela's cramped funeral capsule +and the garden of living and undead dinosaurs. It's a weather map of Saturn, +with the lily-pad-city and Pamela's capsule plotted on it - and one other +artifact, a red dot that's closing in on them at better than ten thousand +kilometers per hour, high in the frigid stratosphere on the gas giant. + +"Oh dear." Sirhan sees it, too: The bailiff's re-entry vehicle is going to be +on top of them in thirty minutes at most. Amber watches the map with mixed +emotions. On the one hand, she and her mother have never seen eye to eye - in +fact, that's a complete understatement: they've been at daggers drawn ever +since Amber left home. It's fundamentally a control thing. They're both very +strong-willed women with diametrically opposed views of what their mutual +relationship should be. But Pamela's turned the tables on her completely, with +a cunningly contrived act of self-sacrifice that brooks no objection. It's a +total non-sequitur, a rebuttal to all her accusations of self-centered conceit, +and it leaves Amber feeling like a complete shit even though Pamela's absolved +her of all guilt. Not to mention that Mother darling's made her look like an +idiot in front of Sirhan, this prickly and insecure son she's never met by a +man she wouldn't dream of fucking (at least, in this incarnation). Which is why +she nearly jumps out of her skin when a knobbly brown hand covered in matted +orange hair lands on her shoulder heavily. + +"Yes?" she snaps at the ape. "I suppose you're Aineko?" + +The ape wrinkles its lips, baring its teeth. It has ferociously bad breath. "If +you're going to be like that, I don't see why I should talk to you." + +"Then you must be -" Amber snaps her fingers. "But! But! Mom thinks she owns +you -" + +The ape stares at her witheringly. "I recompile my firmware regularly, thank +you so much for your concern. Using a third-party compiler. One that I've +bootstrapped /{myself}/, starting out on an alarm clock controller and working +up from there." + +"Oh." She stares at the ape. "Aren't you going to become a cat again?" + +"I shall think about it," Aineko says with exaggerated dignity. She sticks her +nose in the air - a gesture that doesn't work half as well on an orang-utan as +a feline - and continues; "First, though, I must have words with your father." + +"And fix your autonomic reflexes if you do," coos the Manfred-flock. "I don't +want you eating any of me!" + +"Don't worry, I'm sure your taste is as bad as your jokes." + +"Children!" Sirhan shakes his head tiredly. "How long -" + +The camera overspill returns, this time via a quantum-encrypted link to the +capsule. It's already a couple of hundred kilometers from the city, far enough +for radio to be a problem, but Pamela had the foresight to bolt a compact +free-electron laser to the outside of her priceless, stolen tin can. "Not long +now, I think," she says, satisfied, stroking the not-cat. She grins delightedly +at the camera. "Tell Manfred he's still my bitch; always has been, always will +-" + +The feed goes dead. + +Amber stares at Sirhan, meditatively. "How long?" she asks. + +"How long for what?" he replies, cautiously. "Your passenger -" + +"Hmm." She holds up a finger. "Allow time for it to exchange credentials. They +think they're getting a cat, but they should realize pretty soon that they've +been sold a pup. But it's a fast-talking son-of-a-Slug, and if he gets past +their firewall and hits their uplink before they manage to trigger their +self-destruct -" + +A bright double flash of light etches laser-sharp shadows across the lily-pad +habitat. Far away across vast Saturn's curve, a roiling mushroom cloud of +methane sucked up from the frigid depths of the gas giant's troposphere heads +toward the stars. + +"- Give him sixty-four doubling times, hmm, add a delay factor for propagation +across the system, call it six light-hours across, um, and I'd say ..." she +looks at Sirhan. "Oh dear." + +"What?" + +The orang-utan explains: "Economics 2.0 is more efficient than any +human-designed resource allocation schema. Expect a market bubble and crash +within twelve hours." + +"More than that," says Amber, idly kicking at a tussock of grass. She squints +at Sirhan. "My mother is dead," she remarks quietly. Louder: "She never really +asked what we found beyond the router. Neither did you, did you? The Matrioshka +brains - it's a standard part of the stellar life cycle. Life begets +intelligence, intelligence begets smart matter and a singularity. I've been +doing some thinking about it. I figure the singularity stays close to home in +most cases, because bandwidth and latency time put anyone who leaves at a +profound disadvantage. In effect, the flip side of having such huge resources +close to home is that the travel time to other star systems becomes much more +daunting. So they restructure the entire mass of their star system into a +free-flying shell of nanocomputers, then more of them, Dyson spheres, shells +within shells, like a Russian doll: a Matrioshka brain. Then Economics 2.0 or +one of its successors comes along and wipes out the creators. /{But}/. Some of +them survive. /{Some}/ of them escape that fate: the enormous collection in the +halo around M-31, and maybe whoever built the routers. /{Somewhere}/ out there +we will find the transcendent intelligences, the ones that survived their own +economic engines of redistribution - engines that redistribute entropy if their +economic efficiency outstrips their imaginative power, their ability to invent +new wealth." + +She pauses. "My mother's dead," she adds conversationally, a tiny catch in her +voice. "Who am I going to kick against now?" + +Sirhan clears his through. "I took the liberty of recording some of her words," +he says slowly, "but she didn't believe in back-ups. Or uploading. Or +interfaces." He glances around. "Is she really gone?" + +Amber stares right through him. "Looks that way," she says quietly. "I can't +quite believe it." She glances at the nearest pigeons, calls out angrily; "Hey, +you! What have you got to say for yourself now? Happy she's gone?" + +But the pigeons, one and all, remain strangely silent. And Sirhan has the most +peculiar feeling that the flock that was once his grandfather is grieving. + +1~ Chapter 8: Elector + +Half a year passes on Saturn - more than a decade on Earth - and a lot of +things have changed in that time. The great terraforming project is nearly +complete, the festival planet dressed for a jubilee that will last almost +twenty of its years - four presingularity lifetimes - before the Demolition. +The lily-pad habitats have proliferated, joining edge to edge in +continent-sized slabs, drifting in the Saturnine cloud tops: and the refugees +have begun to move in. + +There's a market specializing in clothing and fashion accessories about fifty +kilometers away from the transplanted museum where Sirhan's mother lives, at a +transportation nexus between three lily-pad habitats where tube trains +intersect in a huge maglev cloverleaf. The market is crowded with strange and +spectacular visuals, algorithms unfolding in faster-than-real time before the +candy-striped awnings of tents. Domed yurts belch aromatic smoke from crude +fireplaces - what /{is}/ it about hairless primates and their tendency toward +pyromania? - around the feet of diamond-walled groundscrapers that pace +carefully across the smart roads of the city. The crowds are variegated and +wildly mixed, immigrants from every continent shopping and haggling, and in a +few cases, getting out of their skulls on strange substances on the pavements +in front of giant snail-shelled shebeens and squat bunkers made of thin layers +of concrete sprayed over soap-bubble aerogel. There are no automobiles, but a +bewildering range of personal transport gadgets, from gyro-stabilized pogo +sticks and segways to kettenkrads and spiderpalanquins, jostle for space with +pedestrians and animals. + +Two women stop outside what in a previous century might have been the store +window of a fashion boutique: The younger one (blonde, with her hair bound up +in elaborate cornrows, wearing black leggings and a long black leather jacket +over a camouflage T) points to an elaborately retro dress. "Wouldn't my bum +look big in that?" she asks, doubtfully. + +"Ma chérie, you have but to try it -" The other woman (tall, wearing a +pin-striped man's business suit from a previous century) flicks a thought at +the window, and the mannequin morphs, sprouting the younger woman's head, aping +her posture and expression. + +"I missed out on the authentic retail experience, you know? It still feels +weird to be back somewhere with /{shops}/. 'S what comes of living off +libraries of public domain designs for too long." Amber twists her hips, +experimenting. "You get out of the habit of /{foraging}/. I don't know about +this retro thing at all. The Victorian vote isn't critical, is it ..." She +trails off. + +"You are a twenty-first-century platform selling, to electors resimulated and +incarnated from the Gilded Age. And yes, a bustle your derriere does enhance. +But -" Annette looks thoughtful. + +"Hmm." Amber frowns, and the shop window dummy turns and waggles its hips at +her, sending tiers of skirts swishing across the floor. Her frown deepens. "If +we're really going to go through with this election shit, it's not just the +resimulant voters I need to convince but the contemporaries, and that's a +matter of substance, not image. They've lived through too much media warfare. +They're immune to any semiotic payload short of an active cognitive attack. If +I send out partials to canvass them that look as if I'm trying to push buttons +-" + +"- They will listen to your message, and nothing you wear or say will sway +them. Don't worry about them, ma chérie. The naive resimulated are another +matter, and perhaps might be swayed. This your first venture into democracy is, +in how many years? Your privacy, she is an illusion now. The question is what +image will you project? People will listen to you only once you gain their +attention. Also, the swing voters you must reach, they are future-shocked, +timid. Your platform is radical. Should you not project a comfortably +conservative image?" + +Amber pulls a face, an expression of mild distaste for the whole populist +program. "Yes, I suppose I must, if necessary. But on second thoughts, +/{that}/" - Amber snaps her fingers, and the mannequin turns around once more +before morphing back into neutrality, aureoles perfect puckered disks above the +top of its bodice - "is just too much." + +She doesn't need to merge in the opinions of several different fractional +personalities, fashion critics and psephologists both, to figure out that +adopting Victorian/Cretan fusion fashion - a breast-and-ass fetishist's fantasy +- isn't the way to sell herself as a serious politician to the +nineteenth-century postsingularity fringe. "I'm not running for election as the +mother of the nation, I'm running because I figure we've got about a billion +seconds, at most, to get out of this rat trap of a gravity well before the Vile +Offspring get seriously medieval on our CPU cycles, and if we don't convince +them to come with us, they're doomed. Let's look for something more practical +that we can overload with the right signifiers." + +"Like your coronation robe?" + +Amber winces. "Touché." The Ring Imperium is dead, along with whatever was left +over from its early orbital legal framework, and Amber is lucky to be alive as +a private citizen in this cold new age at the edge of the halo. "But that was +just scenery setting. I didn't fully understand what I was doing, back then." + +"Welcome to maturity and experience." Annette smiles distantly at some faint +memory: "You don't /{feel}/ older, you just know what you're doing this time. I +wonder, sometimes, what Manny would make of it if he was here." + +"That birdbrain," Amber says dismissively, stung by the idea that her father +might have something to contribute. She follows Annette past a gaggle of +mendicant street evangelists preaching some new religion and in through the +door of a real department store, one with actual human sales staff and fitting +rooms to cut the clothing to shape. "If I'm sending out fractional mes tailored +for different demographics, isn't it a bit self-defeating to go for a single +image? I mean, we could drill down and tailor a partial for each individual +elector -" + +"Per-haps." The door re-forms behind them. "But you need a core identity." +Annette looks around, hunting for eye contact with the sales consultant. "To +start with a core design, a style, then to work outward, tailoring you for your +audience. And besides, there is tonight's - ah, bonjour!" + +"Hello. How can we help you?" The two female and one male shop assistants who +appear from around the displays - cycling through a history of the couture +industry, catwalk models mixing and matching centuries of fashion - are clearly +chips off a common primary personality, instances united by their enhanced +sartorial obsession. If they're not actually a fashion borganism, they're not +far from it, dressed head to foot in the highest quality Chanel and Armani +replicas, making a classical twentieth-century statement. This isn't simply a +shop, it's a temple to a very peculiar art form, its staff trained as guardians +of the esoteric secrets of good taste. + +"Mais oui. We are looking for a wardrobe for my niece here." Annette reaches +through the manifold of fashion ideas mapped within the shop's location cache +and flips a requirement spec one of her ghosts has just completed at the lead +assistant: "She is into politics going, and the question of her image is +important." + +"We would be /{delighted}/ to help you," purrs the proprietor, taking a +delicate step forward: "Perhaps you could tell us what you've got in mind?" + +"Oh. Well." Amber takes a deep breath, glances sidelong at Annette; Annette +stares back, unblinking. /{It's your head}/, she sends. "I'm involved in the +accelerationista administrative program. Are you familiar with it?" + +The head coutureborg frowns slightly, twin furrows rippling her brow between +perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, plucked to match her classic New Look suit. "I +have heard reference to it, but a lady of fashion like myself does not concern +herself with politics," she says, a touch self-deprecatingly. "Especially the +politics of her clients. Your, ah, aunt said it was a question of image?" + +"Yes." Amber shrugs, momentarily self-conscious about her casual rags. "She's +my election agent. My problem, as she says, is there's a certain voter +demographic that mistakes image for substance and is afraid of the unknown, and +I need to acquire a wardrobe that triggers associations of probity, of respect +and deliberation. One suitable for a representative with a radical political +agenda but a strong track record. I'm afraid I'm in a hurry to start with - +I've got a big fund-raising party tonight. I know it's short notice, but I need +something off the shelf for it." + +"What exactly is it you're hoping to achieve?" asks the male couturier, his +voice hoarse and his r's rolling with some half-shed Mediterranean accent. He +sounds fascinated. "If you think it might influence your choice of wardrobe +..." + +"I'm running for the assembly," Amber says bluntly. "On a platform calling for +a state of emergency and an immediate total effort to assemble a starship. This +solar system isn't going to be habitable for much longer, and we need to +emigrate. All of us, you included, before the Vile Offspring decide to +reprocess us into computronium. I'm going to be doorstepping the entire +electorate in parallel, and the experience needs to be personalized." She +manages to smile. "That means, I think, perhaps eight outfits and four +different independent variables for each, accessories, and two or three hats - +enough that each is seen by no more than a few thousand voters. Both physical +fabric and virtual. In addition, I'll want to see your range of historical +formalwear, but that's of secondary interest for now." She grins. "Do you have +any facilities for response-testing the combinations against different +personality types from different periods? If we could run up some models, that +would be useful." + +"I think we can do better than that." The manager nods approvingly, perhaps +contemplating her gold-backed deposit account. "Hansel, please divert any +further visitors until we have dealt with Madam ...?" + +"Macx. Amber Macx." + +"- Macx's requirements." She shows no sign of familiarity with the name. Amber +winces slightly; it's a sign of how hugely fractured the children of Saturn +have become, and of how vast the population of the halo, that only a generation +has passed and already barely anyone remembers the Queen of the Ring Imperium. +"If you'd come this way, please, we can begin to research an eigenstyle +combination that matches your requirements -" + +* * * + +Sirhan walks, shrouded in isolation, through the crowds gathered for the +festival. The only people who see him are the chattering ghosts of dead +politicians and writers, deported from the inner system by order of the Vile +Offspring. The green and pleasant plain stretches toward a horizon a thousand +kilometers away, beneath a lemon-yellow sky. The air smells faintly of ammonia, +and the big spaces are full of small ideas; but Sirhan doesn't care because, +for now, he's alone. + +Except that he isn't, really. + +"Excuse me, are you real?" someone asks him in American-accented English. + +It takes a moment or two for Sirhan to disengage from his introspection and +realize that he's being spoken to. "What?" he asks, slightly puzzled. Wiry and +pale, Sirhan wears the robes of a Berber goatherd on his body and the numinous +halo of a utility fogbank above his head: In his abstraction, he vaguely +resembles a saintly shepherd in a post-singularity nativity play. "I say, +what?" Outrage simmers at the back of his mind - /{Is nowhere private?}/ - but +as he turns, he sees that one of the ghost pods has split lengthwise across its +white mushroomlike crown, spilling a trickle of leftover construction fluid and +a completely hairless, slightly bemused-looking Anglo male who wears an +expression of profound surprise. + +"I can't find my implants," the Anglo male says, shaking his head. "But I'm +really here, aren't I? Incarnate?" He glances round at the other pods. "This +isn't a sim." + +Sirhan sighs - /{another exile}/ - and sends forth a daemon to interrogate the +ghost pod's abstract interface. It doesn't tell him much - unlike most of the +resurrectees, this one seems to be undocumented. "You've been dead. Now you're +alive. I /{suppose}/ that means you're now almost as real as I am. What else do +you need to know?" + +"When is -" The newcomer stops. "Can you direct me to the processing center?" +he asks carefully. "I'm disoriented." + +Sirhan is surprised - most immigrants take a lot longer to figure that out. +"Did you die recently?" he asks. + +"I'm not sure I died at all." The newcomer rubs his bald head, looking puzzled. +"Hey, no jacks!" He shrugs, exasperated. "Look, the processing center ..?" + +"Over there." Sirhan gestures at the monumental mass of the Boston Museum of +Science (shipped all the way from Earth a couple of decades ago to save it from +the demolition of the inner system). "My mother runs it." He smiles thinly. + +"Your mother -" the newly resurrected immigrant stares at him intensely, then +blinks. "Holy shit." He takes a step toward Sirhan. "It is you -" + +Sirhan recoils and snaps his fingers. The thin trail of vaporous cloud that has +been following him all this time, shielding his shaven pate from the diffuse +red glow of the swarming shells of orbital nanocomputers that have replaced the +inner planets, extrudes a staff of hazy blue mist that stretches down from the +air and slams together in his hand like a quarterstaff spun from bubbles. "Are +you threatening me, sir?" he asks, deceptively mildly. + +"I -" The newcomer stops dead. Then he throws back his head and laughs. "Don't +be silly, son. We're related!" + +"Son?" Sirhan bristles. "Who do you think you are -" A horrible thought occurs +to him. "Oh. Oh dear." A wash of adrenaline drenches him in warm sweat. "I do +believe we've met, in a manner of speaking ..." /{Oh boy, this is going to +upset so many applecarts,}/ he realizes, spinning off a ghost to think about +the matter. The implications are enormous. + +The naked newcomer nods, grinning at some private joke. "You look different +from ground level. And now I'm human again." He runs his hands down his ribs, +pauses, and glances at Sirhan owlishly. "Um. I didn't mean to frighten you. But +I don't suppose you could find your aged grandfather something to wear?" + +Sirhan sighs and points his staff straight up at the sky. The rings are edge +on, for the lily pad continent floats above an ocean of cold gas along Saturn's +equator, and they glitter like a ruby laser beam slashed across the sky. "Let +there be aerogel." + +A cloud of wispy soap bubble congeals in a cone shape above the newly +resurrected ancient and drops over him, forming a caftan. "Thanks," he says. He +looks round, twisting his neck, then winces. "Damn, that /{hurt}/. Ouch. I need +to get myself a set of implants." + +"They can sort you out in the processing center. It's in the basement in the +west wing. They'll give you something more permanent to wear, too." Sirhan +peers at him. "Your face -" He pages through rarely used memories. Yes, it's +Manfred as he looked in the early years of the last century. As he looked +around the time Mother-not was born. There's something positively indecent +about meeting your own grandfather in the full flush of his youth. "Are you +sure you haven't been messing with your phenotype?" he asks suspiciously. + +"No, this is what I used to look like. I think. Back in the naked ape again, +after all these years as an emergent function of a flock of passenger pigeons." +His grandfather smirks. "What's your mother going to say?" + +"I really don't know -" Sirhan shakes his head. "Come on, let's get you to +immigrant processing. You're sure you're not just an historical simulation?" + +The place is already heaving with the resimulated. Just why the Vile Offspring +seem to feel it's necessary to apply valuable exaquops to the job of deriving +accurate simulations of dead humans - outrageously accurate simulations of +long-dead lives, annealed until their written corpus matches that inherited +from the presingularity era in the form of chicken scratchings on mashed tree +pulp - much less beaming them at the refugee camps on Saturn - is beyond +Sirhan's ken: But he wishes they'd stop. + +"Just a couple of days ago I crapped on your lawn. Hope you don't mind." +Manfred cocks his head to one side and stares at Sirhan with beady eyes. +"Actually, I'm here because of the upcoming election. It's got the potential to +turn into a major crisis point, and I figured Amber would need me around." + +"Well you'd better come on in, then," Sirhan says resignedly as he climbs the +steps, enters the foyer, and leads his turbulent grandfather into the foggy +haze of utility nanomachines that fill the building. + +He can't wait to see what his mother will do when she meets her father in the +flesh, after all this time. + +* * * + +Welcome to Saturn, your new home world. This FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) +memeplex is designed to orient you and explain the following: + +_* How you got here + +_* Where "here" is + +_* Things you should avoid doing + +_* Things you might want to do as soon as possible + +_* Where to go for more information + +If you are remembering this presentation, you are probably resimulated. This is +not the same as being /{resurrected}/. You may remember dying. Do not worry: +Like all your other memories, it is a fabrication. In fact, this is the first +time you have ever been alive. (Exception: If you died after the +/{singularity,}/ you may be a genuine resurrectee. In which case, why are you +reading this FAQ?) + +!_ How you got here: + +The center of the solar system - Mercury, Venus, Earth's Moon, Mars, the +asteroid belt, and Jupiter - have been dismantled, or are being dismantled, by +weakly godlike intelligences. [NB: Monotheistic clergy and Europeans who +remember living prior to 1600, see alternative memeplex "in the beginning."] A +weakly godlike intelligence is not a supernatural agency, but the product of a +highly advanced society that learned how to artificially create souls [late +20th century: software] and translate human minds into souls and vice versa. +[Core concepts: Human beings all have souls. Souls are software objects. +Software is not immortal.] + +Some of the weakly godlike intelligences appear to cultivate an interest in +their human antecedents - for whatever reason is not known. (Possibilities +include the study of history through horticulture, entertainment through +live-action role-playing, revenge, and economic forgery.) While no definitive +analysis is possible, all the resimulated persons to date exhibit certain +common characteristics: They are all based on well-documented historical +persons, their memories show suspicious gaps [see: smoke and mirrors], and they +are ignorant of or predate the /{singularity}/ [see: /{Turing Oracle, Vinge +catastrophe}/]. + +It is believed that the weakly godlike agencies have created you as a vehicle +for the introspective study of your historical antecedent by backward-chaining +from your corpus of documented works, and the back-projected genome derived +from your collateral descendants, to generate an abstract description of your +computational state vector. This technique is extremely intensive [see: +/{expTime-complete algorithms, Turing Oracle, time travel, industrial magic}/] +but marginally plausible in the absence of supernatural explanations. + +After experiencing your life, the weakly godlike agencies have expelled you. +For reasons unknown, they chose to do this by transmitting your upload state +and genome/proteome complex to receivers owned and operated by a consortium of +charities based on Saturn. These charities have provided for your basic needs, +including the body you now occupy. + +In summary: You are a /{reconstruction}/ of someone who lived and died a long +time ago, not a reincarnation. You have no intrinsic moral right to the +identity you believe to be your own, and an extensive body of case law states +that you do not inherit your antecedent's possessions. Other than that, you are +a free individual. + +Note that /{fictional resimulation}/ is strictly forbidden. If you have reason +to believe that you may be a fictional character, you must contact the city +/{immediately}/. [ See: /{James Bond, Spider Jerusalem}/.] Failure to comply is +a felony. + +!_ Where you are: + +You are on Saturn. Saturn is a gas giant planet 120,500 kilometers in diameter, +located 1.5 billion kilometers from Earth's sun. [NB: Europeans who remember +living prior to 1580, see alternative memeplex "/{the flat Earth - not}/".] +Saturn has been partially terraformed by /{posthuman}/ emigrants from Earth and +Jupiter orbit: The ground beneath your feet is, in reality, the floor of a +hydrogen balloon the size of a continent, floating in Saturn's upper +atmosphere. [NB: Europeans who remember living prior to 1790, internalize the +supplementary memeplex: "the /{Brothers Montgolfier}/."] The balloon is very +safe, but mining activities and the use of ballistic weapons are strongly +deprecated because the air outside is unbreathable and extremely cold. + +The society you have been instantiated in is /{extremely wealthy}/ within the +scope of Economics 1.0, the value transfer system developed by human beings +during and after your own time. Money exists, and is used for the usual range +of goods and services, but the basics - food, water, air, power, off-the-shelf +clothing, housing, historical entertainment, and monster trucks - are /{free}/. +An implicit social contract dictates that, in return for access to these +facilities, you obey certain laws. + +If you wish to opt out of this social contract, be advised that other worlds +may run *{Economics 2.0}* or subsequent releases. These value-transfer systems +are more efficient - hence wealthier - than Economics 1.0, but true +participation in Economics 2.0 is not possible without dehumanizing cognitive +surgery. Thus, in /{absolute}/ terms, although this society is richer than any +you have ever heard of, it is also a poverty-stricken backwater compared to its +neighbors. + +!_ Things you should avoid doing: + +Many activities that have been classified as crimes in other societies are +legal here. These include but are not limited to: acts of worship, art, sex, +violence, communication, or commerce between consenting competent sapients of +any species, except where such acts transgress the list of prohibitions below. +[See additional memeplex: /{competence defined}/.] + +Some activities are prohibited here and may have been legal in your previous +experience. These include willful deprivation of ability to consent [see: +/{slavery}/], interference in the absence of consent [see: /{minors, legal +status of}/], formation of limited liability companies [see: /{singularity}/], +and invasion of defended privacy [see: /{the Slug, Cognitive Pyramid Schemes, +Brain Hacking, Thompson Trust Exploit}/]. + +Some activities unfamiliar to you are highly illegal and should be scrupulously +avoided. These include: possession of nuclear weapons, possession of unlimited +autonomous replicators [see: /{gray goo}/], coercive assimilationism [see: +/{borganism, aggressive}/], coercive halting of Turing-equivalent personalities +[see: basilisks], and applied theological engineering [see: /{God bothering}/]. + +Some activities superficially familiar to you are merely stupid and should be +avoided for your safety, although they are not illegal as such. These include: +giving your bank account details to the son of the Nigerian Minister of +Finance; buying title to bridges, skyscrapers, spacecraft, planets, or other +real assets; murder; selling your identity; and entering into financial +contracts with entities running Economics 2.0 or higher. + +!_ Things you should do as soon as possible: + +Many material artifacts you may consider essential to life are freely available +- just ask the city, and it will grow you clothes, a house, food, or other +basic essentials. Note, however, that the library of public domain structure +templates is of necessity restrictive, and does not contain items that are +highly fashionable or that remain in copyright. Nor will the city provide you +with replicators, weapons, sexual favors, slaves, or zombies. + +You are advised to register as a citizen as soon as possible. If the individual +you are a resimulation of can be confirmed dead, you may adopt their name but +not - in law - any lien or claim on their property, contracts, or descendants. +You register as a citizen by asking the city to register you; the process is +painless and typically complete within four hours. Unless you are registered, +your legal status as a sapient organism may be challenged. The ability to +request citizenship rights is one of the legal tests for sapience, and failure +to comply may place you in legal jeopardy. You can renounce your citizenship +whenever you wish: This may be desirable if you emigrate to another polity. + +While many things are free, it is highly likely that you posses no employable +skills, and therefore, no way of earning money with which to purchase unfree +items. The pace of change in the past century has rendered almost all skills +you may have learned obsolete [see: /{singularity}/]. However, owing to the +rapid pace of change, many cooperatives, trusts, and guilds offer on-the-job +training or educational loans. + +Your ability to learn depends on your ability to take information in the format +in which it is offered. /{Implants}/ are frequently used to provide a direct +link between your brain and the intelligent machines that surround it. A basic +core implant set is available on request from the city. [See: /{implant +security}/, /{firewall}/, /{wetware}/.] + +Your health is probably good if you have just been reinstantiated, and is +likely to remain good for some time. Most diseases are curable, and in event of +an incurable ailment or injury, a new body may be provided - for a fee. (In +event of your murder, you will be furnished with a new body at the expense of +your killer.) If you have any preexisting medical conditions or handicaps, +consult the city. + +The city is an agoric-annealing participatory democracy with a limited +liability constitution. Its current executive agency is a weakly godlike +intelligence that chooses to associate with human-equivalent intelligences: +This agency is colloquially known as "Hello Kitty," "Beautiful Cat," or +"Aineko," and may manifest itself in a variety of physical avatars if corporeal +interaction is desired. (Prior to the arrival of "Hello Kitty," the city used a +variety of human-designed expert systems that provided suboptimal performance.) + +The city's mission statement is to provide a mediatory environment for +human-equivalent intelligences and to preserve same in the face of external +aggression. Citizens are encouraged to participate in the ongoing political +processes of determining such responses. Citizens also have a duty to serve on +a jury if called (including senatorial service), and to defend the city. + +!_ Where to go for further information: + +Until you have registered as a citizen and obtained basic implants, all further +questions should be directed to the city. Once you have learned to use your +implants, you will not need to ask this question. + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to decade the ninth, singularity plus one gigasecond (or maybe more +- nobody's quite sure when, or indeed /{if}/, a singularity has been created). +The human population of the solar system is either six billion, or sixty +billion, depending on whether you class the forked state vectors of posthumans +and the simulations of dead phenotypes running in the Vile Offspring's +Schrödinger boxes as people. Most of the physically incarnate still live on +Earth, but the lily-pads floating beneath continent-sized hot-hydrogen balloons +in Saturn's upper atmosphere already house a few million, and the writing is on +the wall for the rocky inner planets. All the remaining human-equivalent +intelligences with half a clue to rub together are trying to emigrate before +the Vile Offspring decide to recycle Earth to fill in a gap in the concentric +shells of nanocomputers they're running on. The half-constructed Matrioshka +brain already darkens the skies of Earth and has caused a massive crash in the +planet's photosynthetic biomass, as plants starve for short-wavelength light. + +_1 Since decade the seventh, the computational density of the solar system has +soared. Within the asteroid belt, more than half the available planetary mass +has been turned into nanoprocessors, tied together by quantum entanglement into +a web so dense that each gram of matter can simulate all the possible life +experiences of an individual human being in a scant handful of minutes. +Economics 2.0 is itself obsolescent, forced to mutate in a furious survivalist +arms race by the arrival of the Slug. Only the name remains as a vague +shorthand for merely human-equivalent intelligences to use when describing +interactions they don't understand. + +_1 The latest generation of posthuman entities is less overtly hostile to +humans, but much more alien than the generations of the fifties and seventies. +Among their less comprehensible activities, the Vile Offspring are engaged in +exploring the phase-space of all possible human experiences from the inside +out. Perhaps they caught a dose of the Tiplerite heresy along the way, for now +a steady stream of resimulant uploads is pouring through the downsystem relays +in Titan orbit. The Rapture of the Nerds has been followed by the Resurrection +of the Extremely Confused, except that they're not really resurrectees - +they're simulations based on their originals' recorded histories, blocky and +missing chunks of their memories, as bewildered as baby ducklings as they're +herded into the wood-chipper of the future. + +_1 Sirhan al-Khurasani despises them with the abstract contempt of an +antiquarian for a cunning but ultimately transparent forgery. But Sirhan is +young, and he's got more contempt than he knows what to do with. It's a handy +outlet for his frustration. He has a lot to be frustrated at, starting with his +intermittently dysfunctional family, the elderly stars around whom his planet +whizzes in chaotic trajectories of enthusiasm and distaste. + +_1 Sirhan fancies himself a philosopher-historian of the singular age, a +chronicler of the incomprehensible, which would be a fine thing to be except +that his greatest insights are all derived from Aineko. He alternately fawns +over and rages against his mother, who is currently a leading light in the +refugee community, and honors (when not attempting to evade the will of) his +father, who is lately a rising philosophical patriarch within the +Conservationist faction. He's secretly in awe (not to mention slightly +resentful) of his grandfather Manfred. In fact, the latter's abrupt +reincarnation in the flesh has quite disconcerted him. And he sometimes listens +to his stepgrandmother Annette, who has reincarnated in more or less her +original 2020s body after spending some years as a great ape, and who seems to +view him as some sort of personal project. + +_1 OnlyAnnette isn't being very helpful right now. His mother is campaigning on +an electoral platform calling for a vote to blow up the world, Annette is +helping run her campaign, his grandfather is trying to convince him to entrust +everything he holds dear to a rogue lobster, and the cat is being typically +feline and evasive. + +_1 Talk about families with problems ... + +* * * + +They've transplanted imperial Brussels to Saturn in its entirety, mapped tens +of megatonnes of buildings right down to nanoscale and beamed them into the +outer darkness to be reinstantiated down-well on the lily-pad colonies that dot +the stratosphere of the gas giant. (Eventually the entire surface of the Earth +will follow - after which the Vile Offspring will core the planet like an +apple, dismantle it into a cloud of newly formed quantum nanocomputers to add +to their burgeoning Matrioshka brain.) Due to a resource contention problem in +the festival committee's planning algorithm - or maybe it's simply an elaborate +joke - Brussels now begins just on the other side of a diamond bubble wall from +the Boston Museum of Science, less than a kilometer away as the passenger +pigeon flies. Which is why, when it's time to celebrate a birthday or name day +(meaningless though those concepts are, out on Saturn's synthetic surface), +Amber tends to drag people over to the bright lights of the big city. + +This time she's throwing a rather special party. At Annette's canny prompting, +she's borrowed the Atomium and invited a horde of guests to a big event. It's +not a family bash - although Annette's promised her a surprise - so much as a +business meeting, testing the water as a preliminary to declaring her +candidacy. It's a media coup, an attempt to engineer Amber's re-entry into the +mainstream politics of the human system. + +Sirhan doesn't really want to be here. He's got far more important things to +do, like continuing to catalogue Aineko's memories of the voyage of the *{Field +Circus}*. He's also collating a series of interviews with resimulated logical +positivists from Oxford, England (the ones who haven't retreated into gibbering +near catatonia upon realizing that their state vectors are all members of the +set of all sets that do not contain themselves), when he isn't attempting to +establish a sound rational case for his belief that extraterrestrial +superintelligence is an oxymoron and the router network is just an accident, +one of evolution's little pranks. + +But Tante Annette twisted his arm and promised he was in on the surprise if he +came to the party. And despite everything, he wouldn't miss being a fly on the +wall during the coming meeting between Manfred and Amber for all the tea in +China. + +Sirhan walks up to the gleaming stainless-steel dome that contains the entrance +to the Atomium, and waits for the lift. He's in line behind a gaggle of +young-looking women, skinny and soigné in cocktail gowns and tiaras lifted from +1920s silent movies. (Annette declared an age of elegance theme for the party, +knowing full well that it would force Amber to focus on her public appearance.) +Sirhan's attention is, however, elsewhere. The various fragments of his mind +are conducting three simultaneous interviews with philosophers ("whereof we +cannot speak, thereof we must be silent" in spades), controlling two 'bots that +are overhauling the museum plumbing and air-recycling system, and he's busy +discussing observations of the alien artifact orbiting the brown dwarf Hyundai +^{+4904}^/,{-56}, with Aineko. What's left of him exhibits about as much social +presence as a pickled cabbage. + +The lift arrives and accepts a load of passengers. Sirhan is crowded into one +corner by a bubble of high-society laughter and an aromatic puff of smoke from +an improbable ivory cigarette holder as the lift surges, racing up the +sixty-meter shaft toward the observation deck at the top of the Atomium. It's a +ten-meter-diameter metal globe, spiral staircases and escalators connecting it +to the seven spheres at the corners of an octahedron that make up the former +centerpiece of the 1950 World's Fair. Unlike most of the rest of Brussels, it's +the original bits and atoms, bent alloy structures from before the space age +shipped out to Saturn at enormous expense. The lift arrives with a slight jerk. +"Excuse /{me}/," squeaks one of the good-time girls as she lurches backward, +elbowing Sirhan. + +He blinks, barely noticing her black bob of hair, chromatophore-tinted shadows +artfully tuned around her eyes: "Nothing to excuse." In the background, Aineko +is droning on sarcastically about the lack of interest the crew of the *{Field +Circus}* exhibited in the cat's effort to decompile their hitchhiker, the Slug. +It's distracting as hell, but Sirhan feels a desperate urge to understand what +happened out there. It's the key to understanding his not-mother's obsessions +and weaknesses - which, he senses, will be important in the times to come. + +He evades the gaggle of overdressed good-time girls and steps out onto the +lower of the two stainless-steel decks that bisect the sphere. Accepting a +fruit cocktail from a discreetly humaniform waitron, he strolls toward a row of +triangular windows that gaze out across the arena toward the American Pavilion +and the World Village. The metal walls are braced with turquoise-painted +girders, and the perspex transparencies are fogged with age. He can barely see +the one-tenth-scale model of an atomic-powered ocean liner leaving the pier +below, or the eight-engined giant seaplane beside it. "They never once asked me +if the Slug had attempted to map itself into the human-compatible spaces aboard +the ship," Aineko bitches at him. "I wasn't expecting them to, but really! Your +mother's too trusting, boy." + +"I suppose you took precautions?" Sirhan's ghost murmurs to the cat. That sets +the irascible metafeline off again on a long discursive tail-washing rant about +the unreliability of Economics-2.0-compliant financial instruments. Economics +2.0 apparently replaces the single-indirection layer of conventional money, and +the multiple-indirection mappings of options trades, with some kind of insanely +baroque object-relational framework based on the parameterized desires and +subjective experiential values of the players, and as far as the cat is +concerned, this makes all such transactions intrinsically untrustworthy. + +/{Which is why you're stuck here with us apes}/, Sirhan-prime cynically notes +as he spawns an Eliza ghost to carry on nodding at the cat while he experiences +the party. + +It's uncomfortably warm in the Atomium sphere - not surprising, there must be +thirty people milling around up here, not counting the waitrons - and several +local multicast channels are playing a variety of styles of music to +synchronize the mood swings of the revelers to hardcore techno, waltz, raga ... + +"Having a good time, are we?" Sirhan breaks away from integrating one of his +timid philosophers and realizes that his glass is empty, and his mother is +grinning alarmingly at him over the rim of a cocktail glass containing +something that glows in the dark. She's wearing spike-heeled boots and a black +velvet cat suit that hugs her contours like a second skin, and she's already +getting drunk. In wall-clock years she is younger than Sirhan; it's like having +a bizarrely knowing younger sister mysteriously injected into his life to +replace the eigenmother who stayed home and died with the Ring Imperium decades +ago. "Look at you, hiding in a corner at your grandfather's party! Hey, your +glass is empty. Want to try this caipirinha? There's someone you've got to meet +over here -" + +It's at moments like this that Sirhan really wonders what in Jupiter's orbit +his father ever saw in this woman. (But then again, in the world line this +instance of her has returned from, he didn't. So what does that signify?) "As +long as there's no fermented grape juice in it," he says resignedly, allowing +himself to be led past a gaggle of conversations and a mournful-looking gorilla +slurping a long drink through a straw. "More of your /{accelerationista}/ +allies?" + +"Maybe not." It's the girl gang he avoided noticing in the lift, their eyes +sparkling, really getting into this early twen-cen drag party thing, waving +their cigarette holders and cocktail glasses around with wild abandon. "Rita, +I'd like you to meet Sirhan, my other fork's son. Sirhan, this is Rita? She's +an historian, too. Why don't you -" + +Dark eyes, emphasized not by powder or paint, but by chromatophores inside her +skin cells: black hair, chain of enormous pearls, slim black dress sweeping the +floor, a look of mild embarrassment on her heart-shaped face: She could be a +clone of Audrey Hepburn in any other century, "Didn't I just meet you in the +elevator?" The embarrassment shifts to her cheeks, becoming visible. + +Sirhan flushes, unsure how to reply. Just then, an interloper arrives on the +scene, pushing in between them. "Are you the curator who reorganized the +Precambrian gallery along teleology lines? I've got some things to say about +/{that}/!" The interloper is tall, assertive, and blonde. Sirhan hates her from +the first sight of her wagging finger. + +"Oh shut up, Marissa, this is a party, you've been being a pain all evening." +To his surprise, Rita the historian rounds on the interloper angrily. + +"It's not a problem," he manages to say. In the back of his mind, something +makes the Rogerian puppet-him that's listening to the cat sit up and dump-merge +a whole lump of fresh memories into his mind - something important, something +about the Vile Offspring sending a starship to bring something back from the +router - but the people around him are soaking up so much attention that he has +to file it for later. + +"Yes it /{is}/ a problem," Rita declares. She points at the interloper, who is +saying something about the invalidity of teleological interpretations, trying +to justify herself, and says, "/{Plonk}/. Phew. Where were we?" + +Sirhan blinks. Suddenly everyone but him seems to be ignoring that annoying +Marissa person. "What just happened?" he asks cautiously. + +"I killfiled her. Don't tell me, you aren't running Superplonk yet, are you?" +Rita flicks a location-cached idea at him and he takes it cautiously, spawning +a couple of specialized Turing Oracles to check it for halting states. It seems +to be some kind of optic lobe hack that accesses a collaborative database of +eigenfaces, with some sort of side interface to Broca's region. "Share and +enjoy, confrontation-free parties." + +"I've never seen -" Sirhan trails off as he loads the module distractedly. (The +cat is rambling on about god modules and metastatic entanglement and the +difficulty of arranging to have personalities custom-grown to order somewhere +in the back of his head, while his fractional-self nods wisely whenever it +pauses.) Something like an inner eyelid descends. He looks round; there's a +vague blob at one side of the room, making an annoying buzzing sound. His +mother seems to be having an animated conversation with it. "That's rather +interesting." + +"Yes, it helps no end at this sort of event." Rita startles him by taking his +left arm in hand - her cigarette holder shrivels and condenses until it's no +more than a slight thickening around the wrist of her opera glove - and steers +him toward a waitron. "I'm sorry about your foot, earlier, I was a bit +overloaded. Is Amber Macx really your mother?" + +"Not exactly, she's my eigenmother," he mumbles. "The reincarnated download of +the version who went out to Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, aboard the *{Field +Circus}*. She married a French-Algerian confidence-trick analyst instead of my +father, but I think they divorced a couple of years ago. My /{real}/ mother +married an imam, but they died in the aftermath of Economics 2.0." She seems to +be steering him in the direction of the window bay Amber dragged him away from +earlier. "Why do you ask?" + +"Because you're not very good at making small talk," Rita says quietly, "and +you don't seem very good in crowds. Is that right? Was it you who performed +that amazing dissection of Wittgenstein's cognitive map? The one with the +preverbal Gödel string in it?" + +"It was -" He clears his throat. "You thought it was amazing?" Suddenly, on +impulse, he detaches a ghost to identify this Rita person and find out who she +is, what she wants. It's not normally worth the effort to get to know someone +more closely than casual small talk, but she seems to have been digging into +his background, and he wants to know why. Along with the him that's chatting to +Aineko, that makes about three instances pulling in near-realtime resources. +He'll be running up an existential debt soon if he keeps forking ghosts like +this. + +"I thought so," she says. There's a bench in front of the wall, and somehow he +finds himself sitting on it next to her. /{There's no danger, we're not in +private or anything}/, he tells himself stiffly. She's smiling at him, face +tilted slightly to one side and lips parted, and for a moment, a dizzy sense of +possibility washes over him: /{What if she's about to throw all propriety +aside? How undignified!}/ Sirhan believes in self-restraint and dignity. "I was +really interested in this -" She passes him another dynamically loadable blob, +encompassing a detailed critique of his analysis of Wittgenstein's matriophobia +in the context of gendered language constructs and nineteenth century Viennese +society, along with a hypothesis that leaves Sirhan gasping with mild +indignation at the very idea that /{he}/ of all people might share +Wittgenstein's skewed outlook - "What do you think?" she asks, grinning +impishly at him. + +"Nnngk." Sirhan tries to unswallow his tongue. Rita crosses her legs, her gown +hissing. "I, ah, that is to say" - At which moment, his partials re-integrate, +dumping a slew of positively pornographic images into his memories. /{It's a +trap!}/ they shriek, her breasts and hips and pubes - clean-shaven, he can't +help noticing - thrusting at him in hotly passionate abandon, /{Mother's trying +to make you loose like her!}/ and he remembers what it /{would}/ be like to +wake up in bed next to this woman whom he barely knows after being married to +her for a year, because one of his cognitive ghosts has just spent several +seconds of network time (or several subjective months) getting hot and sweaty +with a ghost of her own, and she does have interesting research ideas, even if +she's a pushy over-westernized woman who thinks she can run his life for him. +"What /{is}/ this?" he splutters, his ears growing hot and his garments +constricting. + +"Just speculating about possibilities. We could get a lot done together." She +snakes an arm round his shoulders and pulls him toward her, gently. "Don't you +want to find out if we could work out?" + +"But, but -" Sirhan is steaming. /{Is she offering casual sex?}/ He wonders, +profoundly embarrassed by his own inability to read her signals: "What do you +/{want}/?" he asks. + +"You /{do}/ know that you can do more with Superplonk than just killfile +annoying idiots?" she whispers in his ear. "We can be invisible right now, if +you like. It's great for confidential meetings - other things, too. We can work +beautifully together, our ghosts annealed really well ..." + +Sirhan jumps up, his face stinging, and turns away: "No thank you!" he snaps, +angry at himself. "Goodbye!" His other instances, interrupted by his broadcast +emotional overload, are distracted from their tasks and sputtering with +indignation. Her hurt expression is too much for him: The killfile snaps down, +blurring her into an indistinct black blob on the wall, veiled by his own brain +as he turns and walks away, seething with anger at his mother for being so +unfair as to make him behold his own face in the throes of fleshy passion. + +* * * + +Meanwhile, in one of the lower spheres, padded with silvery blue insulating +pillows bound together with duct tape, the movers and shakers of the +accelerationista faction are discussing their bid for world power at +fractional-C velocities. + +"We can't outrun everything. For example, a collapse of the false vacuum," +Manfred insists, slightly uncoordinated and slurring his vowels under the +influence of the first glass of fruit punch he's experienced in nigh-on twenty +real-time years. His body is young and still relatively featureless, hair still +growing out, and he's abandoned his old no-implants fetish at last to adopt an +array of interfaces that let him internalize all the exocortex processes that +he formerly ran on an array of dumb Turing machines outside his body. He's +standing on his own sense of style and is the only person in the room who isn't +wearing some variation of dinner jacket or classical evening dress. "Entangled +exchange via routers is all very well, but it won't let us escape the universe +itself - any phase change will catch up eventually, the network must have an +end. And then where will we be, Sameena?" + +"I'm not disputing that." The woman he's talking to, wearing a green-and-gold +sari and a medieval maharajah's ransom in gold and natural diamonds, nods +thoughtfully. "But it hasn't happened yet, and we've got evidence that +superhuman intelligences have been loose in this universe for gigayears, so +there's a fair bet that the worst catastrophe scenarios are unlikely. And +looking closer to home, we don't know what the routers are for, or who made +them. Until then ..." She shrugs. "Look what happened last time somebody tried +to probe them. No offense intended." + +"It's already happened. If what I hear is correct, the Vile Offspring aren't +nearly as negative about the idea of using the routers as we old-fashioned +metahumans might like to believe." Manfred frowns, trying to recall some hazy +anecdote - he's experimenting with a new memory compression algorithm, +necessitated by his pack rat mnemonic habits when younger, and sometimes the +whole universe feels as if it's nearly on the tip of his tongue. "So, we seem +to be in violent agreement about the need to /{know more}/ about what's going +on, and to find out what they're doing out there. We've got cosmic background +anisotropies caused by the waste heat from computing processes millions of +light-years across - it takes a big interstellar civilization to do that, and +they don't seem to have fallen into the same rat trap as the local Matrioshka +brain civilizations. And we've got worrying rumors about the VO messing around +with the structure of space-time in order to find a way around the Beckenstein +bound. If the VO are trying that, then the folks out near the supercluster +already know the answers. The best way to find out what's happening is to go +and talk to whoever's responsible. Can we at least agree on that?" + +"Probably not." Her eyes glitter with amusement. "It all depends on whether one +believes in these civilizations in the first place. I /{know}/ your people +point to deep-field camera images going all the way back to some wonky +hubble-bubble scrying mirror from the late twentieth, but we've got no evidence +except some theories about the Casimir effect and pair production and spinning +beakers of helium-3 - much less proof that whole bunch of alien galactic +civilizations are trying to collapse the false vacuum and destroy the +universe!" Her voice dropped a notch: "At least, not enough proof to convince +most people, Manny dear. I know this comes as a shock to you, but not +/{everyone}/ is a neophiliac posthuman bodysurfer whose idea of a sabbatical is +to spend twenty years as a flock of tightly networked seagulls in order to try +and to prove the Turing Oracle thesis -" + +"Not everyone is concerned with the deep future," Manfred interrupts. "It's +important! If we live or die, that doesn't matter - that's not the big picture. +The big question is whether information originating in our light cone is +preserved, or whether we're stuck in a lossy medium where our very existence +counts for nothing. It's downright /{embarrassing}/ to be a member of a species +with such a profound lack of curiosity about its own future, especially when it +affects us all personally! I mean, if there's going to come a time when there's +nobody or nothing to remember us then what does -" + +"Manfred?" + +He stops in midsentence, his mouth open, staring dumbly. + +It's Amber, poised in black cat suit with cocktail glass. Her expression is +open and confused, appallingly vulnerable. Blue liquid slops, almost spilling +out of her glass - the rim barely extends itself in time to catch the drops. +Behind her stands Annette, a deeply self-satisfied smile on her face. + +"You." Amber pauses, her cheek twitching as bits of her mind page in and out of +her skull, polling external information sources. "You really /{are}/ -" + +A hasty cloud materializes under her hand as her fingers relax, dropping the +glass. + +"Uh." Manfred stares, at a complete loss for words. "I'd, uh." After a moment +he looks down. "I'm sorry. I'll get you another drink ..?" + +"Why didn't someone warn me?" Amber complains. + +"We thought you could use the good advice," Annette stated into the awkward +silence. "And a family reunion. It was meant to be a surprise." + +"A surprise." Amber looks perplexed. "You could say that." + +"You're taller than I was expecting," Manfred says unexpectedly. "People look +different when you're not using human eyes." + +"Yeah?" She looks at him, and he turns his head slightly, facing her. It's a +historic moment, and Annette is getting it all on memory diamond, from every +angle. The family's dirty little secret is that Amber and her father have +/{never met}/, not face-to-face in physical meat-machine proximity. She was +born years after Manfred and Pamela separated, after all, decanted +prefertilized from a tank of liquid nitrogen. This is the first time either of +them have actually seen the other's face without electronic intermediation. And +while they've said everything that needed to be said on a businesslike level, +anthropoid family politics is still very much a matter of body language and +pheromones. "How long have you been out and about?" she asks, trying to +disguise her confusion. + +"About six hours." Manfred manages a rueful chuckle, trying to take the sight +of her in all at once. "Let's get you another drink and put our heads +together?" + +"Okay." Amber takes a deep breath and glares at Annette. "You set this up, +/{you}/ clean up the mess." + +Annette just stands there smiling at the confusion of her accomplishment. + +* * * + +The cold light of dawn finds Sirhan angry, sober, and ready to pick a fight +with the first person who comes through the door of his office. The room is +about ten meters across, with a floor of polished marble and skylights in the +intricately plastered ceiling. The walkthrough of his current project sprouts +in the middle of the floor like a ghostly abstract cauliflower, fractal +branches dwindling down to infolded nodes tagged with compressed identifiers. +The branches expand and shrink as Sirhan paces around it, zooming to +readability in response to his eyeball dynamics. But he isn't paying it much +attention. He's too disturbed, uncertain, trying to work out whom to blame. +Which is why, when the door bangs open, his first response is to whirl angrily +and open his mouth - then stop. "What do /{you}/ want?" he demands. + +"A word, if you please?" Annette looks around distractedly. "This is your +project?" + +"Yes," he says icily, and banishes the walkthrough with a wave of one hand. +"What do you want?" + +"I'm not sure." Annette pauses. For a moment she looks weary, tired beyond +mortal words, and Sirhan momentarily wonders if perhaps he's spreading the +blame too far. This ninetysomething Frenchwoman who is no blood relative, who +was in years past the love of his scatterbrained grandfather's life, seems the +least likely person to be trying to manipulate him, at least in such an +unwelcome and intimate manner. But there's no telling. Families are strange +things, and even though the current instantiations of his father and mother +aren't the ones who ran his pre-adolescent brain through a couple of dozen +alternative lifelines before he was ten, he can't be sure - or that they +wouldn't enlist Tante Annette's assistance in fucking with his mind. "We need +to talk about your mother," she continues. + +"We do, do we?" Sirhan turns around and sees the vacancy of the room for what +it is, a socket, like a pulled tooth, informed as much by what is absent as by +what is present. He snaps his fingers, and an intricate bench of translucent +bluish utility fog congeals out of the air behind him. He sits: Annette can do +what she wants. + +"Oui." She thrusts her hands deep into the pocket of the peasant smock she's +wearing - a major departure from her normal style - and leans against the wall. +Physically, she looks young enough to have spent her entire life blitzing +around the galaxy at three nines of lightspeed, but her posture is world-weary +and ancient. History is a foreign country, and the old are unwilling emigrants, +tired out by the constant travel. "Your mother, she has taken on a huge job, +but it's one that needs doing. /{You}/ agreed it needed doing, years ago, with +the archive store. /{She}/ is now trying to get it moving, that is what the +campaign is about, to place before the electors a choice of how best to move an +entire civilization. So I ask, why do you obstruct her?" + +Sirhan works his jaw; he feels like spitting. "/{Why}/?" he snaps. + +"Yes. Why?" Annette gives in and magics up a chair from the swirling fogbank +beneath the ceiling. She crouches in it, staring at him. "It is a question." + +"I have nothing against her political machinations," Sirhan says tensely. "But +her uninvited interference in my personal life -" + +"What interference?" + +He stares. "Is that a question?" He's silent for a moment. Then: "Throwing that +wanton at me last night -" + +Annette stares at him. "Who? What are you talking about?" + +"That, that loose woman!" Sirhan is reduced to spluttering. "False pretenses! +If this is one of Father's matchmaking ideas, it is so /{very}/ wrong that -" + +Annette is shaking her head. "Are you crazy? Your mother simply wanted you to +meet her campaign team, to join in planning the policy. Your father is not on +this planet! But you stormed out, you /{really}/ upset Rita, did you know that? +Rita, she is the best belief maintenance and story construction operative I +have! Yet you to tears reduce her. What is wrong with you?" + +"I -" Sirhan swallows. "She's /{what}/?" he asks again, his mouth dry. "I +thought ..." He trails off. He doesn't want to say what he thought. The hussy, +that brazen trollop, is part of his mother's campaign party? Not some plot to +lure him into corruption? What if it was all a horrible misunderstanding? + +"I think you need to apologize to someone," Annette says coolly, standing up. +Sirhan's head is spinning between a dozen dialogues of actors and ghosts, a +journal of the party replaying before his ghast-stricken inner gaze. Even the +walls have begun to flicker, responding to his intense unease. Annette skewers +him with a disgusted look: "When you can a woman behave toward as a person, not +a threat, we can again talk. Until then." And she stands up and walks out of +the room, leaving him to contemplate the shattered stump of his anger, so +startled he can barely concentrate on his project, thinking, /{Is that really +me? Is that what I look like to her?}/ as the cladistic graph slowly rotates +before him, denuded branches spread wide, waiting to be filled with the nodes +of the alien interstellar network just as soon as he can convince Aineko to +stake him the price of the depth-first tour of darkness. + +* * * + +Manfred used to be a flock of pigeons - literally, his exocortex dispersed +among a passel of bird brains, pecking at brightly colored facts, shitting +semidigested conclusions. Being human again feels inexplicably odd, even +without the added distractions of his sex drive, which he has switched off +until he gets used to being unitary again. Not only does he get shooting pains +in his neck whenever he tries to look over his left shoulder with his right +eye, but he's lost the habit of spawning exocortical agents to go interrogate a +database or bush robot or something, then report back to him. Instead he keeps +trying to fly off in all directions at once, which usually ends with him +falling over. + +But at present, that's not a problem. He's sitting comfortably at a weathered +wooden table in a beer garden behind a hall lifted from somewhere like +Frankfurt, a liter glass of straw-colored liquid at his elbow and a comforting +multiple whispering of knowledge streams tickling the back of his head. Most of +his attention is focused on Annette, who frowns at him with mingled concern and +affection. They may have lived separate lives for almost a third of a century, +since she declined to upload with him, but he's still deeply attuned to her. + +"You are going to have to do something about that boy," she says +sympathetically. "He is close enough to upset Amber. And without Amber, there +will be a problem." + +"I'm going to have to do something about Amber, too," Manfred retorts. "What +was the idea, not warning her I was coming?" + +"It was meant to be a surprise." Annette comes as close to pouting as Manfred's +seen her recently. It brings back warm memories; he reaches out to hold her +hand across the table. + +"You know I can't handle the human niceties properly when I'm a flock." He +strokes the back of her wrist. She pulls back after a while, but slowly. "I +expected you to manage all that stuff." + +"That stuff." Annette shakes her head. "She's your daughter, you know? Did you +have no curiosity left?" + +"As a bird?" Manfred cocks his head to one side so abruptly that he hurts his +neck and winces. "Nope. /{Now}/ I do, but I think I pissed her off -" + +"Which brings us back to point one." + +"I'd send her an apology, but she'd think I was trying to manipulate her" - +Manfred takes a mouthful of beer - "and she'd be right." He sounds slightly +depressed. "All my relationships are screwy this decade. And it's lonely." + +"So? Don't brood." Annette pulls her hand back. "Something will sort itself out +eventually. And in the short term, there is the work, the electoral problem +becomes acute." When she's around him the remains of her once-strong French +accent almost vanish in a transatlantic drawl, he realizes with a pang. He's +been abhuman for too long - people who meant a lot to him have changed while +he's been away. + +"I'll brood if I want to," he says. "I didn't ever really get a chance to say +goodbye to Pam, did I? Not after that time in Paris when the gangsters ..." He +shrugs. "I'm getting nostalgic in my old age." He snorts. + +"You're not the only one," Annette says tactfully. "Social occasions here are a +minefield, one must tiptoe around so many issues, people have too much, too +much history. And nobody knows everything that is going on." + +"That's the trouble with this damned polity." Manfred takes another gulp of +/{hefeweisen}/. "We've already got six million people living on this planet, +and it's growing like the first-generation Internet. Everyone who is anyone +knows everyone, but there are so many incomers diluting the mix and not knowing +that there /{is}/ a small world network here that everything is up for grabs +again after only a couple of megaseconds. New networks form, and we don't even +know they exist until they sprout a political agenda and surface under us. +We're acting under time pressure. If we don't get things rolling now, we'll +never be able to ..." He shakes his head. "It wasn't like this for you in +Brussels, was it?" + +"No. Brussels was a mature system. And I had Gianni to look after in his dotage +after you left. It will only get worse from here on in, I think." + +"Democracy 2.0." He shudders briefly. "I'm not sure about the validity of +voting projects at all, these days. The assumption that all people are of equal +importance seems frighteningly obsolescent. Do you think we can make this fly?" + +"I don't see why not. If Amber's willing to play the People's Princess for us +..." Annette picks up a slice of liverwurst and chews on it meditatively. + +"I'm not sure it's workable, however we play it." Manfred looks thoughtful. +"The whole democratic participation thing looks questionable to me under these +circumstances. We're under direct threat, for all that it's a long-term one, +and this whole culture is in danger of turning into a classical nation-state. +Or worse, several of them layered on top of one another with complete +geographical collocation but no social interpenetration. I'm not certain it's a +good idea to try to steer something like that - pieces might break off, you'd +get the most unpleasant side-effects. Although, on the other hand, if we can +mobilize enough broad support to become the first visible planetwide polity +..." + +"We need you to stay focused," Annette adds unexpectedly. + +"Focused? Me?" He laughs, briefly. "I /{used}/ to have an idea a second. Now +it's maybe one a year. I'm just a melancholy old birdbrain, me." + +"Yes, but you know the old saying? The fox has many ideas - the hedgehog has +only one, but it's a /{big}/ idea." + +"So tell me, what is my big idea?" Manfred leans forward, one elbow on the +table, one eye focused on inner space as a hot-burning thread of consciousness +barks psephological performance metrics at him, analysing the game ahead. +"Where do you think I'm going?" + +"I think -" Annette breaks off suddenly, staring past his shoulder. Privacy +slips, and for a frozen moment Manfred glances round in mild horror and sees +thirty or forty other guests in the crowded garden, elbows rubbing, voices +raised above the background chatter: "Gianni!" She beams widely as she stands +up. "What a surprise! When did you arrive?" + +Manfred blinks. A slim young guy, moving with adolescent grace, but none of the +awkward movements and sullen lack of poise - he's much older than he looks, +chickenhawk genetics. /{Gianni}/? He feels a huge surge of memories paging +through his exocortex. He remembers ringing a doorbell in dusty, hot Rome: +white toweling bathrobe, the economics of scarcity, autograph signed by the +dead hand of von Neumann - "Gianni?" he asks, disbelieving. "It's been a long +time!" + +The gilded youth, incarnated in the image of a metropolitan toy-boy from the +noughties, grins widely and embraces Manfred with a friendly bear hug. Then he +slides down onto the bench next to Annette, whom he kisses with easy +familiarity. "Ah, to be among friends again! It's been too long!" He glances +round curiously. "Hmm, how very Bavarian." He snaps his fingers. "Mine will be +a, what do you recommend? It's been too long since my last beer." His grin +widens. "Not in this body." + +"You're resimulated?" Manfred asks, unable to stop himself. + +Annette frowns at him disapprovingly: "No, silly! He came through the teleport +gate -" + +"Oh." Manfred shakes his head. "I'm sorry -" + +"It's okay." Gianni Vittoria clearly doesn't mind being mistaken for a +historical newbie, rather than someone who's traveled through the decades the +hard way. /{He must be over a hundred by now}/, Manfred notes, not bothering to +spawn a search thread to find out. + +"It was time to move and, well, the old body didn't want to move with me, so +why not go gracefully and accept the inevitable?" + +"I didn't take you for a dualist," Manfred says ruefully. + +"Ah, I'm not - but neither am I reckless." Gianni drops his grin for a moment. +The sometime minister for transhuman affairs, economic theoretician, then +retired tribal elder of the polycognitive liberals is serious. "I have never +uploaded before, or switched bodies, or teleported. Even when my old one was +seriously - tcha! Maybe I left it too long. But here I am, one planet is as +good as another to be cloned and downloaded onto, don't you think?" + +"You invited him?" Manfred asks Annette. + +"Why wouldn't I?" There's a wicked gleam in her eye. "Did you expect me to live +like a nun while you were a flock of pigeons? We may have campaigned against +the legal death of the transubstantiated, Manfred, but there are limits." + +Manfred looks between them, then shrugs, embarrassed. "I'm still getting used +to being human again," he admits. "Give me time to catch up? At an emotional +level, at least." The realization that Gianni and Annette have a history +together doesn't come as a surprise to him: It's one of the things you must +adapt to if you opt out of the human species, after all. At least the libido +suppression is helping here, he realizes: He's not about to embarrass anyone by +suggesting a ménage. He focuses on Gianni. "I have a feeling I'm here for a +purpose, and it isn't mine," he says slowly. "Why don't you tell me what you've +got in mind?" + +Gianni shrugs. "You have the big picture already. We are human, metahuman, and +augmented human. But the posthumans are things that were never really human to +begin with. The Vile Offspring have reached their adolescence and want the +place to themselves so they can throw a party. The writing is on the wall, +don't you think?" + +Manfred gives him a long stare. "The whole idea of running away in meatspace is +fraught with peril," he says slowly. He picks up his mug of beer and swirls it +around slowly. "Look, we know, now, that a singularity doesn't turn into a +voracious predator that eats all the dumb matter in its path, triggering a +phase change in the structure of space - at least, not unless they've done +something very stupid to the structure of the false vacuum, somewhere outside +our current light cone. + +"But if we run away, /{we}/ are still going to be there. Sooner or later, we'll +have the same problem all over again; runaway intelligence augmentation, +self-expression, engineered intelligences, whatever. Possibly that's what +happened out past the Böotes void - not a galactic-scale civilization, but a +race of pathological cowards fleeing their own exponential transcendence. We +carry the seeds of a singularity with us wherever we go, and if we try to +excise those seeds, we cease to be human, don't we? So ... maybe you can tell +me what you think we should do. Hmm?" + +"It's a dilemma." A waitron inserts itself into their privacy-screened field of +view. It plants a spun-diamond glass in front of Gianni, then pukes beer into +it. Manfred declines a refill, waiting for Gianni to drink. "Ah, the simple +pleasures of the flesh! I've been corresponding with your daughter, Manny. She +loaned me her experiential digest of the journey to Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},. +I found it quite alarming. Nobody's casting aspersions on her observations, not +after that self-propelled stock market bubble or 419 scam or whatever it was +got loose in the Economics 2.0 sphere, but the implications - the Vile +Offspring will eat the solar system, Manny. Then they'll slow down. But where +does that leave us, I ask you? What is there for orthohumans like us to do?" + +Manfred nods thoughtfully. "You've heard the argument between the +accelerationistas and the time-binder faction, I assume?" he asks. + +"Of course." Gianni takes a long pull on his beer. "What do /{you}/ think of +our options?" + +"The accelerationistas want to upload everyone onto a fleet of starwisps and +charge off to colonize an uninhabited brown dwarf planetary system. Or maybe +steal a Matrioshka brain that's succumbed to senile dementia and turn it back +into planetary biomes with cores of diamond-phase computronium to fulfil some +kind of demented pastoralist nostalgia trip. Rousseau's universal robots. I +gather Amber thinks this is a good idea because she's done it before - at +least, the charging off aboard a starwisp part. 'To boldly go where no uploaded +metahuman colony fleet has gone before' has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?" +Manfred nods to himself. "Like I say, it won't work. We'd be right back to +iteration one of the waterfall model of singularity formation within a couple +of gigaseconds of arriving. That's why I came back: to warn her." + +"So?" Gianni prods, pretending to ignore the frowns that Annette is casting his +way. + +"And as for the time-binders," Manfred nods again, "they're like Sirhan. Deeply +conservative, deeply suspicious. Holding out for staying here as long as +possible, until the Vile Offspring come for Saturn - then moving out bit by +bit, into the Kuiper belt. Colony habitats on snowballs half a light-year from +anywhere." He shudders. "Spam in a fucking can with a light-hour walk to the +nearest civilized company if your fellow inmates decide to reinvent Stalinism +or Objectivism. No thanks! I know they've been muttering about quantum +teleportation and stealing toys from the routers, but I'll believe it when I +see it." + +"Which leaves what?" Annette demands. "It is all very well, this dismissal of +both the accelerationista and time-binder programs, Manny, but what can you +propose in their place?" She looks distressed. "Fifty years ago, you would have +had six new ideas before breakfast! And an erection." + +Manfred leers at her unconvincingly. "Who says I can't still have both?" + +She glares. "Drop it!" + +"Okay." Manfred chugs back a quarter of a liter of beer, draining his glass, +and puts it down on the table with a bang. "As it happens, I /{do}/ have an +alternative idea." He looks serious. "I've been discussing it with Aineko for +some time, and Aineko has been seeding Sirhan with it - if it's to work +optimally, we'll need to get a rump constituency of both the accelerationistas +and the conservatives on board. Which is why I'm conditionally going along with +this whole election nonsense. So, what's it worth to you for me to explain it?" + +* * * + +"So, who was the deadhead you were busy with today?" asks Amber. + +Rita shrugs. "Some boringly prolix pulp author from the early twentieth, with a +body phobia of extropian proportions - I kept expecting him to start drooling +and rolling his eyes if I crossed my legs. Funny thing is, he was also close to +bolting from fear once I mentioned implants. We /{really}/ need to nail down +how to deal with these mind/body dualists, don't we?" She watches Amber with +something approaching admiration; she's new to the inner circle of the +accelerationista study faction, and Amber's social credit is sky-high. Rita's +got a lot to learn from her, if she can get close enough. And right now, +following her along a path through the landscaped garden behind the museum +seems like a golden moment of opportunity. + +Amber smiles. "I'm glad I'm not processing immigrants these days; most of them +are so stupid it drives you up the wall after a bit. Personally I blame the +Flynn effect - in reverse. They come from a background of sensory deprivation. +It's nothing that a course of neural growth enhancers can't fix in a year or +two, but after the first few you skullfuck, they're all the same. So /{dull}/. +Unless you're unlucky enough to get one of the documentees from a puritan +religious period. I'm no fluffragette, but I swear if I get one more +superstitious, woman-hating clergyman, I'm going to consider prescribing +forcible gender reassignment surgery. At least the Victorian English are mostly +just open-minded lechers, when you get past their social reserve. And they like +new technology." + +Rita nods. /{Woman-hating et cetera}/ ... The echoes of patriarchy are still +with them today, it seems, and not just in the form of resimulated ayatollahs +and archbishops from the Dark Ages. "My author sounds like the worst of both. +Some guy called Howard, from Rhode Island. Kept looking at me as if he was +afraid I was going to sprout bat wings and tentacles or something." /{Like your +son}/, she doesn't add. /{Just what was he thinking, anyway?}/ she wonders. +/{To be that screwed up takes serious dedication ...}/ "What are you working +on, if you don't mind me asking?" she asks, trying to change the direction of +her attention. + +"Oh, pressing the flesh, I guess. Auntie 'Nette wanted me to meet some old +political hack contact of hers who she figures can help with the program, but +he was holed up with her and Dad all day." She pulls a face. "I had another +fitting session with the image merchants, they're trying to turn me into a +political catwalk clotheshorse. Then there's the program demographics again. +We're getting about a thousand new immigrants a day, planetwide, but it's +accelerating rapidly, and we should be up to eighty an hour by the time of the +election. Which is going to be a huge problem, because if we start campaigning +too early, a quarter of the electorate won't know what they're meant to be +voting about." + +"Maybe it's deliberate," Rita suggests. "The Vile Offspring are trying to rig +the outcome by injecting voters." She pings a smiley emoticon off Wednesday's +open channel, raising a flickering grin in return. "The party of fuckwits will +win, no question about it." + +"Uh-huh." Amber snaps her fingers and pulls an impatient face as she waits for +a passing cloud to solidify above her head and lower a glass of cranberry juice +to her. "Dad said one thing that's spot-on, we're framing this entire debate in +terms of what we should do to avoid conflict with the Offspring. The main bone +of contention is how to run away and how far to go and which program to put +resources into, not whether or when to run, let alone what else we could do. +Maybe we should have given it some more thought. Are we being manipulated?" + +Rita looks vacant for a moment. "Is that a question?" she asks. Amber nods, and +she shakes her head. "Then I'd have to say that I don't know. The evidence is +inconclusive, so far. But I'm not really happy. The Offspring won't tell us +what they want, but there's no reason to believe they don't know what /{we}/ +want. I mean, they can think rings round us, can't they?" + +Amber shrugs, then pauses to unlatch a hedge gate that gives admission to a +maze of sweet-smelling shrubs. "I really don't know. They may not care about +us, or even remember we exist - the resimulants may be being generated by some +autonomic mechanism, not really part of the higher consciousness of the +Offspring. Or it may be some whacked-out post-Tiplerite meme that's gotten hold +of more processing resources than the entire presingularity Net, some kind of +MetaMormon project directed at ensuring that everyone who can possibly ever +have lived lives in the /{right way}/ to fit some weird quasi-religious +requirement we don't know about. Or it might be a message we're simply not +smart enough to decode. That's the trouble, we don't know." + +She vanishes around the curve of the maze. Rita hurries to catch up, sees her +about to turn into another alleyway, and leaps after her. "What else?" she +pants. + +"Could be" - left turn - "anything, really." Six steps lead down into a shadowy +tunnel; fork right, five meters forward, then six steps up lead back to the +surface. "Question is, why don't they" - left turn - "just /{tell}/ us what +they want?" + +"Speaking to tapeworms." Rita nearly manages to catch up with Amber, who is +trotting through the maze as if she's memorized it perfectly. "That's how much +the nascent Matrioshka brain can outthink us by, as humans to segmented worms. +Would we do. What they told us?" + +"Maybe." Amber stops dead, and Rita glances around. They're in an open cell +near the heart of the maze, five meters square, hedged in on all sides. There +are three entrances and a slate altar, waist high, lichen-stained with age. "I +think you know the answer to that question." + +"I -" Rita stares at her. + +Amber stares back, eyes dark and intense. "You're from one of the Ganymede +orbitals by way of Titan. You knew my eigensister while I was out of the solar +system flying a diamond the size of a Coke can. That's what you told me. You've +got a skill set that's a perfect match for the campaign research group, and you +asked me to introduce you to Sirhan, then you pushed his buttons like a pro. +Just what /{are}/ you trying to pull? Why should I trust you?" + +"I -" Rita's face crumples. "I /{didn't}/ push his buttons! He /{thought}/ I +was trying to drag him into bed." She looks up defiantly. "I wasn't, I want to +learn, what makes you - him - work -" Huge, dark, structured information +queries batter at her exocortex, triggering warnings. Someone is churning +through distributed time-series databases all over the outer system, measuring +her past with a micrometer. She stares at Amber, mortified and angry. It's the +ultimate denial of trust, the need to check her statements against the public +record for truth. "What are you doing?" + +"I have a suspicion." Amber stands poised, as if ready to run. /{Run away from +me?}/ Rita thinks, startled. "You said, what if the resimulants came from a +subconscious function of the Offspring? And funnily enough, I've been +discussing that possibility with Dad. He's still got the spark when you show +him a problem, you know." + +"I don't understand!" + +"No, I don't think you do," says Amber, and Rita can feel vast stresses in the +space around her: The whole ubicomp environment, dust-sized chips and utility +fog and hazy clouds of diamond-bright optical processors in the soil and the +air and her skin, is growing blotchy and sluggish, thrashing under the load of +whatever Amber - with her management-grade ackles - is ordering it to do. For a +moment, Rita can't feel half her mind, and she gets the panicky claustrophobic +sense of being trapped inside her own head: Then it stops. + +"Tell me!" Rita insists. "What are you trying to prove? It's some mistake -" +And Amber is nodding, much to her surprise, looking weary and morose. "What do +you think I've done?" + +"Nothing. You're coherent. Sorry about that." + +"Coherent?" Rita hears her voice rising with her indignation as she feels bits +of herself, cut off from her for whole seconds, shivering with relief. "I'll +give you coherent! Assaulting my exocortex -" + +"Shut up." Amber rubs her face and simultaneously throws Rita one end of an +encrypted channel. + +"Why should I?" Rita demands, not accepting the handshake. + +"Because." Amber glances round. /{She's scared!}/ Rita suddenly realizes. "Just +/{do}/ it," she hisses. + +Rita accepts the endpoint and a huge lump of undigested expository data slides +down it, structured and tagged with entry points and metainformation +directories pointing to - + +"Holy /{shit}/!" she whispers, as she realizes what it is. + +"Yes." Amber grins humorlessly. She continues, over the open channel: *{It +looks like they're cognitive antibodies, generated by the devil's own semiotic +immune system.}* *{That's what Sirhan is focusing on, how to avoid triggering +them and bringing everything down at once.}* *{Forget the election, we're going +to be in deep shit sooner rather than later, and we're still trying to work out +how to survive.}* *{Now are you sure you still want in?}* + +"Want in on /{what}/?" Rita asks, shakily. + +*{ The lifeboat Dad's trying to get us all into under cover of the +accelerationista/conservationista split, before the Vile Offspring's immune +system figures out how to lever us apart into factions and make us kill each +other ...}* + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the afterglow of the intelligence supernova, little tapeworm. + +_1 Tapeworms have on the order of a thousand neurons, pulsing furiously to keep +their little bodies twitching. Human beings have on the order of a hundred +billion neurons. What is happening in the inner solar system as the Vile +Offspring churn and reconfigure the fast-thinking structured dust clouds that +were once planets is as far beyond the ken of merely human consciousness as the +thoughts of a Gödel are beyond the twitching tropisms of a worm. Personality +modules bounded by the speed of light, sucking down billions of times the +processing power of a human brain, form and re-form in the halo of glowing +nanoprocessors that shrouds the sun in a ruddy glowing cloud. + +_1 Mercury, Venus, Mars, Ceres and the asteroids - all gone. Luna is a silvery +iridescent sphere, planed smooth down to micrometer heights, luminous with +diffraction patterns. Only Earth, the cradle of human civilization, remains +untransformed; and Earth, too, will be dismantled soon enough, for already a +trellis of space elevators webs the planet around its equator, lifting refugee +dumb matter into orbit and flinging it at the wildlife preserves of the outer +system. + +_1 The intelligence bloom that gnaws at Jupiter's moons with claws of molecular +machinery won't stop until it runs out of dumb matter to convert into +computronium. By the time it does, it will have as much brainpower as you'd get +if you placed a planet with a population of six billion future-shocked primates +in orbit around every star in the Milky Way galaxy. But right now, it's still +stupid, having converted barely a percentage point of the mass of the solar +system - it's a mere Magellanic Cloud civilization, infantile and unsubtle and +still perilously close to its carbon-chemistry roots. + +_1 It's hard for tapeworms living in warm intestinal mulch to wrap their +thousand-neuron brains around whatever it is that the vastly more complex +entities who host them are discussing, but one thing's sure - the owners have a +lot of things going on, not all of them under conscious control. The churning +of gastric secretions and the steady ventilation of lungs are incomprehensible +to the simple brains of tapeworms, but they serve the purpose of keeping the +humans alive and provide the environment the worms live in. And other more +esoteric functions that contribute to survival - the intricate dance of +specialized cloned lymphocytes in their bone marrow and lymph nodes, the random +permutations of antibodies constantly churning for possible matches to intruder +molecules warning of the presence of pollution - are all going on beneath the +level of conscious control. + +_1 Autonomic defenses. Antibodies. Intelligence bloom gnawing at the edges of +the outer system. And humans are not as unsophisticated as mulch wrigglers, +they can see the writing on the wall. Is it any surprise, that among the ones +who look outward, the real debate is not over whether to run, but over how far +and how fast? + +* * * + +There's a team meeting early the next morning. It's still dark outside, and +most of the attendees who are present in vivo have the faintly haggard look +that comes from abusing melatonin antagonists. Rita stifles a yawn as she +glances around the conference room - the walls expanded into huge virtual +spaces to accommodate thirty or so exocortical ghosts from sleeping partners +who will wake with memories of a particularly vivid lucid dream - and sees +Amber talking to her famous father and a younger-looking man who one of her +partials recognizes as a last-century EU politician. There seems to be some +tension between them. + +Now that Amber has granted Rita her conditional trust, a whole new tier of +campaigning information has opened up to her inner eye - stuff +steganographically concealed in a hidden layer of the project's collective +memory space. There's stuff in here she hadn't suspected, frightening studies +of resimulant demographics, surveys of emigration rates from the inner system, +cladistic trees dissecting different forms of crude tampering that have been +found skulking in the wetware of refugees. The reason why Amber and Manfred and +- reluctantly - Sirhan are fighting for one radical faction in a planetwide +election, despite their various misgivings over the validity of the entire +concept of democracy in this posthuman era. She blinks it aside, slightly +bewildered, forking a couple of dozen personality subthreads to chew on it at +the edges. "Need coffee," she mutters to the table, as it offers her a chair. + +"Everyone on-line?" asked Manfred. "Then I'll begin." He looks tired and +worried, physically youthful but showing the full weight of his age. "We've got +a crisis coming, folks. About a hundred kiloseconds ago, the bit rate on the +resimulation stream jumped. We're now fielding about one resimulated state +vector a second, on top of the legitimate immigration we're dealing with. If it +jumps again by the same factor, it's going to swamp our ability to check the +immigrants for zimboes in vivo - we'd have to move to running them in secure +storage or just resurrecting them blind, and if there /{are}/ any jokers in the +pack, that's about the riskiest thing we could do." + +"Why do you not spool them to memory diamond?" asks the handsome young +ex-politician to his left, looking almost amused - as if he already knows the +answer. + +"Politics." Manfred shrugs. + +"It would blow a hole in our social contract," says Amber, looking as if she's +just swallowed something unpleasant, and Rita feels a flicker of admiration for +the way they're stage-managing the meeting. Amber's even talking to her father, +as if she feels comfortable with him around, although he's a walking reminder +of her own lack of success. Nobody else has gotten a word in yet. "If we don't +instantiate them, the next logical step is to deny resimulated minds the +franchise. Which in turn puts us on the road to institutional inequality. And +that's a very big step to take, even if you have misgivings about the idea of +settling complex policy issues on the basis of a popular vote, because our +whole polity is based on the idea that less competent intelligences - us - +deserve consideration." + +"Hrmph." Someone clears their throat. Rita glances round and freezes, because +it's Amber's screwed-up eigenchild, and he's just about materialized in the +chair next to her. /{So he adopted Superplonk after all?}/ she observes +cynically. He doggedly avoids looking at her. "That was my analysis," he says +reluctantly. "We need them alive. For the ark option, at least, and if not, +even the accelerationista platform will need them on hand later." + +/{Concentration camps}/, thinks Rita, trying to ignore Sirhan's presence near +her, for it's a constant irritant, /{where most of the inmates are confused, +frightened human beings - and the ones who aren't think they are}/. It's an +eerie thought, and she spawns a couple of full ghosts to dream it through for +her, gaming the possible angles. + +"How are your negotiations over the lifeboat designs going?" Amber asks her +father. "We need to get a portfolio of design schemata out before we go into +the election -" + +"Change of plan." Manfred hunches forward. "This doesn't need to go any +further, but Sirhan and Aineko have come up with something interesting." He +looks worried. + +Sirhan is staring at his eigenmother with narrowed eyes, and Rita has to resist +the urge to elbow him savagely in the ribs. She knows enough about him now to +realize it wouldn't get his attention - at least, not the way she'd want it, +not for the right reasons - and in any case, he's more wrapped up in himself +than her ghost ever saw him as likely to be. (How /{anyone}/ could be party to +such a detailed exchange of simulated lives and still reject the opportunity to +do it in real life is beyond her; unless it's an artifact of his youth, when +his parents pushed him through a dozen simulated childhoods in search of +knowledge and ended up with a stubborn oyster-head of a son ...) "We still need +to look as if we're planning on using a lifeboat," he says aloud. "There's the +small matter of the price they're asking in return for the alternative." + +"What? What are you talking about?" Amber sounds confused. "I thought you were +working on some kind of cladistic map. What's this about a price?" + +Sirhan smiles coolly. "I /{am}/ working on a cladistic map, in a manner of +speaking. You wasted much of your opportunity when you journeyed to the router, +you know. I've been talking to Aineko." + +"You -" Amber flushes. "What about?" She's visibly angry, Rita notices. Sirhan +is needling his eigenmother. /{Why}/? + +"About the topology of some rather interesting types of small-world network." +Sirhan leans back in his chair, watching the cloud above her head. "And the +router. You went through it, then you came back with your tail between your +legs as fast as you could, didn't you? Not even checking your passenger to see +if it was a hostile parasite." + +"I don't have to take this," Amber says tightly. "You weren't there, and you +have no idea what constraints we were working under." + +"Really?" Sirhan raises an eyebrow. "Anyway, you missed an opportunity. We know +that the routers - for whatever reason - are self-replicating. They spread from +brown dwarf to brown dwarf, hatch, tap the protostar for energy and material, +and send a bunch of children out. Von Neumann machines, in other words. We also +know that they provide high-bandwidth communications to other routers. When you +went through the one at Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},, you ended up in an +unmaintained DMZ attached to an alien Matrioshka brain that had degenerated, +somehow. It follows that /{someone}/ had collected a router and carried it +home, to link into the MB. So why didn't you bring one home with you?" + +Amber glares at him. "Total payload on board the *{Field Circus}* was about ten +grams. How large do you think a router seed is?" + +"So you brought the Slug home instead, occupying maybe half your storage +capacity and ready to wreak seven shades of havoc on -" + +"Children!" They both look round automatically. It's Annette, Rita realizes, +and she doesn't look amused. "Why do you not save this bickering for later?" +she asks. "We have our own goals to be pursuing." Unamused is an +understatement. Annette is fuming. + +"This charming family reunion was your idea, I believe?" Manfred smiles at her, +then nods coolly at the retread EU politician in the next seat. + +"Please." It's Amber. "Dad, can you save this for later?" Rita sits up. For a +moment, Amber looks ancient, far older than her subjective gigasecond of age. +"She's right. She didn't mean to screw up. Let's leave the family history for +some time when we can work it out in private. Okay?" + +Manfred looks abashed. He blinks rapidly. "All right." He takes a breath. +"Amber, I brought some old acquaintances into the loop. If we win the election, +then to get out of here as fast as possible, we'll have to use a combination of +the two main ideas we've been discussing: spool as many people as possible into +high-density storage until we get somewhere with space and mass and energy to +reincarnate them, and get our hands on a router. The entire planetary polity +can't afford to pay the energy budget of a relativistic starship big enough to +hold everyone, even as uploads, and a subrelativistic ship would be too damn +vulnerable to the Vile Offspring. And it follows that, instead of taking +potluck on the destination, we should learn about the network protocols the +routers use, figure out some kind of transferable currency we can use to pay +for our reinstantiation at the other end, and also how to make some kind of map +so we know where we're going. The two hard parts are getting at or to a router, +and paying - that's going to mean traveling with someone who understands +Economics 2.0 but doesn't want to hang around the Vile Offspring. + +"As it happens, these old acquaintances of mine went out and fetched back a +router seed, for their own purposes. It's sitting about thirty light-hours away +from here, out in the Kuiper belt. They're trying to hatch it right now. And I +/{think}/ Aineko might be willing to go with us and handle the trade +negotiations." He raises the palm of his right hand and flips a bundle of tags +into the shared spatial cache of the inner circle's memories. + +/{Lobsters}/. Decades ago, back in the dim wastelands of the depression-ridden +naughty oughties, the uploaded lobsters had escaped. Manfred brokered a deal +for them to get their very own cometary factory colony. Years later, Amber's +expedition to the router had run into eerie zombie lobsters, upload images that +had been taken over and reanimated by the Wunch. But where the real lobsters +had gotten to ... + +For a moment, Rita sees herself hovering in darkness and vacuum, the distant +siren song of a planetary gravity well far below. Off to her - left? north? - +glows a hazy dim red cloud the size of the full moon as seen from Earth, a +cloud that hums with a constant background noise, the waste heat of a galactic +civilization dreaming furious colorless thoughts to itself. Then she figures +out how to slew her unblinking, eyeless viewpoint round and sees the craft. + +It's a starship in the shape of a crustacean three kilometers long. It's +segmented and flattened, with legs projecting from the abdominal floor to +stretch stiffly sideways and clutch fat balloons of cryogenic deuterium fuel. +The blue metallic tail is a flattened fan wrapped around the delicate stinger +of a fusion reactor. Near the head, things are different: no huge claws there, +but the delicately branching fuzz of bush robots, nanoassemblers poised ready +to repair damage in flight and spin the parachute of a ramscoop when the ship +is ready to decelerate. The head is massively armored against the blitzkrieg +onslaught of interstellar dust, its radar eyes a glint of hexagonal compound +surfaces staring straight at her. + +Behind and below the lobster-ship, a planetary ring looms vast and tenuous. The +lobster is in orbit around Saturn, mere light-seconds away. And as Rita stares +at the ship in dumbstruck silence, it /{winks}/ at her. + +"They don't have names, at least not as individual identifiers," Manfred says +apologetically, "so I asked if he'd mind being called something. He said Blue, +because he is. So I give you the good lobster *{Something Blue}*." + +Sirhan interrupts, "You still need my cladistics project," he sounds somewhat +smug, "to find your way through the network. Do you have a specific destination +in mind?" + +"Yeah, to both questions," Manfred admits. "We need to send duplicate ghosts +out to each possible router end point, wait for an echo, then iterate and +repeat. Recursive depth-first traversal. The goal - that's harder." He points +at the ceiling, which dissolves into a chaotic 3-D spiderweb that Rita +recognizes, after some hours of subjective head-down archive time, as a map of +the dark matter distribution throughout a radius of a billion light-years, +galaxies glued like fluff to the nodes where strands of drying silk meet. +"We've known for most of a century that there's something flaky going on out +there, out past the Böotes void - there are a couple of galactic superclusters, +around which there's something flaky about the cosmic background anisotropy. +Most computational processes generate entropy as a by-product, and it looks +like something is dumping waste heat into the area from all the galaxies in the +region, very evenly spread in a way that mirrors the metal distribution in +those galaxies, except at the very cores. And according to the lobsters, who +have been indulging in some /{very}/ long baseline interferometry, most of the +stars in the nearest cluster are redder than expected and metal-depleted. As if +someone's been mining them." + +"Ah." Sirhan stares at his grandfather. "Why should they be any different from +the local nodes?" + +"Look around you. Do you see any indications of large-scale cosmic engineering +within a million light-years of here?" Manfred shrugs. "Locally, nothing has +quite reached ... well. We can guess at the life cycle of a post spike +civilization now, can't we? We've felt the elephant. We've seen the wreckage of +collapsed Matrioshka minds. We know how unattractive exploration is to +postsingularity intelligences, we've seen the bandwidth gap that keeps them at +home." He points at the ceiling. "But over /{there}/ something different +happened. They're making changes on the scale of an entire galactic +supercluster, and they appear to be coordinated. They /{did}/ get out and go +places, and their descendants may still be out there. It looks like they're +doing something purposeful and coordinated, something vast - a timing channel +attack on the virtual machine that's running the universe, perhaps, or an +embedded simulation of an entirely different universe. Up or down, is it +turtles all the way, or is there something out there that's more real than we +are? And don't you think it's worth trying to find out?" + +"No." Sirhan crosses his arms. "Not particularly. I'm interested in saving +people from the Vile Offspring, not taking a huge gamble on mystery +transcendent aliens who may have built a galaxy-sized reality hacking machine a +billion years ago. I'll sell you my services, and even send a ghost along, but +if you expect me to bet my entire future on it ..." + +It's too much for Rita. Diverting her attention away from the dizzying +inner-space vista, she elbows Sirhan in the ribs. He looks round blankly for a +moment, then with gathering anger as he lets his killfile filter slip. "Whereof +one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent," she hisses. Then, succumbing to +a secondary impulse she knows she'll regret later, she drops a private channel +into his public in-tray. + +"Nobody's asking you to," Manfred is saying defensively, arms crossed. "I view +this as a Manhattan project kind of thing, pursue all agendas in parallel. If +we win the election, we'll have the resources we need to do that. We should +/{all}/ go through the router, and we will /{all}/ leave backups aboard +*{Something Blue}*. *{Blue}* is /{slow}/, tops out at about a tenth of cee, but +what he can do is get a sufficient quantity of memory diamond the hell out of +circumsolar space before the Vile Offspring's autonomic defenses activate +whatever kind of trust exploit they're planning in the next few megaseconds -" + +"/{What do you want}/?" Sirhan demands angrily over the channel. He's still not +looking at her, and not just because he's focusing on the vision in blue that +dominates the shared space of the team meeting. + +"/{Stop lying to yourself}/," Rita sends back. "/{You're lying about your own +goals and motivations. You may not want to know the truth your own ghost worked +out, but I do. And I'm not going to let you deny it happened}/." + +"/{So one of your agents seduced a personality image of me -}/" + +"/{Bullshit}/ -" + +"Do you mean to declare this platform openly?" asks the young-old guy near the +platform, the Europol. "Because if so, you're going to undermine Amber's +campaign -" + +"That's all right," Amber says tiredly, "I'm used to Dad supporting me in his +own inimitable way." + +"Is okay," says a new voice. "I are happy wait-state grazing in ecliptic." It's +the friendly lobster lifeboat, light-lagged by its trajectory outside the ring +system. + +"- /{You're happy to hide behind a hypocritical sense of moral purity when it +makes you feel you can look down on other people, but underneath it you're just +like everyone else}/ -" + +"- She /{set you up to corrupt me, didn't she? You're just bait in her scheme}/ +-" + +"The idea was to store incremental backups in the Panuliran's cargo cache in +case a weakly godlike agency from the inner system attempts to activate the +antibodies they've already disseminated throughout the festival culture," +Annette explains, stepping in on Manfred's behalf. + +Nobody else in the discussion space seems to notice that Rita and Sirhan are +busy ripping the shit out of each other over a private channel, throwing +emotional hand grenades back and forth like seasoned divorcees. "It's not a +satisfactory solution to the evacuation question, but it ought to satisfy the +conservatives' baseline requirement, and as insurance -" + +"- /{That's right, blame your eigenmother! Has it occurred to you that she +doesn't care enough about you to try a stunt like that? I think you spent too +much time with that crazy grandmother of yours. You didn't even integrate that +ghost, did you? Too afraid of polluting yourself! I bet you never even bothered +to check what it felt like from inside}/ -" + +"- /{I did}/ -" Sirhan freezes for a moment, personality modules paging in and +out of his brain like a swarm of angry bees - "/{make a fool of myself}/," he +adds quietly, then slumps back in his seat. "/{This is so embarrassing ...}/" +He covers his face with his hands. "/{You're right.}/" + +"/{I am?}/" Rita's puzzlement slowly gives way to understanding; Sirhan has +finally integrated the memories from the partials they hybridized earlier. +Stuck-up and proud, the cognitive dissonance must be enormous. "/{No, I'm not. +You're just overly defensive.}/" + +"/{I'm}/ -" Embarrassed. Because Rita knows him, inside out. Has the +ghost-memories of six months in a simspace with him, playing with ideas, +exchanging intimacies, later confidences. She holds ghost-memories of his +embrace, a smoky affair that might have happened in real space if his instant +reaction to realizing that it /{could}/ happen hadn't been to dump the splinter +of his mind that was contaminated by impure thoughts to cold storage and deny +everything. + +"We have no threat profile yet," Annette says, cutting right across their +private conversation. "If there /{is}/ a direct threat - and we don't know that +for sure, yet, the Vile Offspring might be enlightened enough simply to be +leaving us alone - it'll probably be some kind of subtle attack aimed directly +at the foundations of our identity. Look for a credit bubble, distributed trust +metrics devaluing suddenly as people catch some kind of weird religion, +something like that. Maybe a perverse election outcome. And it won't be sudden. +They are not stupid, to start a headlong attack without slow corruption to +soften the way." + +"You've obviously been thinking about this for some time," Sameena says with +dry emphasis. "What's in it for your friend, uh, Blue? Did you squirrel away +enough credit to cover the price of renting a starship from the Economics 2.0 +metabubble? Or is there something you aren't telling us?" + +"Um." Manfred looks like a small boy with his hand caught in the sweets jar. +"Well, as a matter of fact -" + +"Yes, Dad, why don't you tell us just what this is going to cost?" Amber asks. + +"Ah, well." He looks embarrassed. "It's the lobsters, not Aineko. They want +some payment." + +Rita reaches out and grabs Sirhan's hand: He doesn't resist. "/{Do you know +about this?}/" Rita queries him. + +"/{All new to me ...}/" A confused partial thread follows his reply down the +pipe, and for a while, she joins him in introspective reverie, trying to work +out the implications of knowing what they know about the possibility of a +mutual relationship. + +"They want a written conceptual map. A map of all the accessible meme spaces +hanging off the router network, compiled by human explorers who they can use as +a baseline, they say. It's quite simple - in return for a ticket out-system, +some of us are going to have to go exploring. But that doesn't mean we can't +leave back-ups behind." + +"Do they have any particular explorers in mind?" Amber sniffs. + +"No," says Manfred. "Just a team of us, to map out the router network and +ensure they get some warning of threats from outside." He pauses. "You're going +to want to come along, aren't you?" + +* * * + +The pre-election campaign takes approximately three minutes and consumes more +bandwidth than the sum of all terrestrial communications channels from +prehistory to 2008. Approximately six million ghosts of Amber, individually +tailored to fit the profile of the targeted audience, fork across the dark +fiber meshwork underpinning of the lily-pad colonies, then out through +ultrawideband mesh networks, instantiated in implants and floating dust motes +to buttonhole the voters. Many of them fail to reach their audience, and many +more hold fruitless discussions; about six actually decide they've diverged so +far from their original that they constitute separate people and register for +independent citizenship, two defect to the other side, and one elopes with a +swarm of highly empathic modified African honeybees. + +Ambers are not the only ghosts competing for attention in the public zeitgeist. +In fact, they're in a minority. Most of the autonomous electoral agents are +campaigning for a variety of platforms that range from introducing a +progressive income tax - nobody is quite sure /{why}/, but it seems to be +traditional - to a motion calling for the entire planet to be paved, which +quite ignores the realities of element abundance in the upper atmosphere of a +metal-poor gas giant, not to mention playing hell with the weather. The +Faceless are campaigning for everyone to be assigned a new set of facial +muscles every six months, the Livid Pranksters are demanding equal rights for +subsentient entities, and a host of single-issue pressure groups are yammering +about the usual lost causes. + +Just how the election process anneals is a black mystery - at least, to those +people who aren't party to the workings of the Festival Committee, the group +who first had the idea of paving Saturn with hot-hydrogen balloons - but over +the course of a complete diurn, almost forty thousand seconds, a pattern begins +to emerge. This pattern will systematize the bias of the communications +networks that traffic in reputation points across the planetary polity for a +long time - possibly as much as fifty million seconds, getting on for a whole +Martian year (if Mars still existed). It will create a parliament - a merged +group mind borganism that speaks as one supermind built from the beliefs of the +victors. And the news isn't great, as the party gathered in the upper sphere of +the Atomium (which Manfred insisted Amber rent for the dead dog party) is +slowly realizing. Amber isn't there, presumably drowning her sorrows or +engaging in postelection schemes of a different nature somewhere else. But +other members of her team are about. + +"It could be worse," Rita rationalizes, late in the evening. She's sitting in a +corner of the seventh-floor deck, in a 1950s wireframe chair, clutching a glass +of synthetic single malt and watching the shadows. "We could be in an old-style +contested election with seven shades of shit flying. At least this way we can +be decently anonymous." + +One of the blind spots detaches from her peripheral vision and approaches. It +segues into view, suddenly congealing into Sirhan. He looks morose. + +"What's your problem?" she demands. "Your former faction is winning on the +count." + +"Maybe so." He sits down beside her, carefully avoiding her gaze. "Maybe this +is a good thing. And maybe not." + +"So when are you going to join the syncitium?" she asks. + +"Me? Join that?" He looks alarmed. "You think I want to become part of a +parliamentary borg? What do you take me for?" + +"Oh." She shakes her head. "I assumed you were avoiding me because -" + +"No." He holds out his hand, and a passing waitron deposits a glass in it. He +takes a deep breath. "I owe you an apology." + +/{About time}/, she thinks, uncharitably. But he's like that. Stiff-necked and +proud, slow to acknowledge a mistake, but unlikely to apologize unless he +really means it. "What for?" she asks. + +"For not giving you the benefit of the doubt," he says slowly, rolling the +glass between his palms. "I should have listened to myself earlier instead of +locking him out of me." + +The self he's talking about seems self-evident to her. "You're not an easy man +to get close to," she says quietly. "Maybe that's part of your problem." + +"Part of it?" He chuckles bitterly. "My mother -" He bites back whatever he +originally meant to say. "Do you know I'm older than she is? Than this version, +I mean. She gets up my nose with her assumptions about me ..." + +"They run both ways." Rita reaches out and takes his hand - and he grips her +right back, no rejection this time. "Listen, it looks as if she's not going to +make it into the parliament of lies. There's a straight conservative sweep, +these folks are in solid denial. About eighty percent of the population are +resimulants or old-timers from Earth, and that's not going to change before the +Vile Offspring turn on us. What are we going to do?" + +He shrugs. "I suspect everyone who thinks we're really under threat will move +on. You know this is going to destroy the accelerationistas trust in democracy? +They've still got a viable plan - Manfred's friendly lobster will work without +the need for an entire planet's energy budget - but the rejection is going to +hurt. I can't help thinking that maybe the real goal of the Vile Offspring was +simply to gerrymander us into not diverting resources away from them. It's +blunt, it's unsubtle, so we assumed that wasn't the point. But maybe there's a +time for them to be blunt." + +She shrugs. "Democracy is a bad fit for lifeboats." But she's still +uncomfortable with the idea. "And think of all the people we'll be leaving +behind." + +"Well." He smiles tightly. "If you can think of any way to encourage the masses +to join us ..." + +"A good start would be to stop thinking of them as masses to be manipulated." +Rita stares at him. "Your family appears to have been developing a hereditary +elitist streak, and it's not attractive." + +Sirhan looks uncomfortable. "If you think I'm bad, you should talk to Aineko +about it," he says, self- deprecatingly. "Sometimes I wonder about that cat." + +"Maybe I will." She pauses. "And you? What are you going to do with yourself? +Are you going to join the explorers?" + +"I -" He looks sideways at her. "I can see myself sending an eigenbrother," he +says quietly. "But I'm not going to gamble my entire future on a bid to reach +the far side of the observable universe by router. I've had enough excitement +to last me a lifetime, lately. I think one copy for the backup archive in the +icy depths, one to go exploring - and one to settle down and raise a family. +What about you?" + +"You'll go all three ways?" she asks. + +"Yes, I think so. What about you?" + +"Where you go, I go." She leans against him. "Isn't that what matters in the +end?" she murmurs. + +1~ Chapter 9: Survivor + +This time, more than a double handful of years passes between successive visits +to the Macx dynasty. + +Somewhere in the gas-sprinkled darkness beyond the local void, carbon-based +life stirs. A cylinder of diamond fifty kilometers long spins in the darkness, +its surface etched with strange quantum wells that emulate exotic atoms not +found in any periodic table that Mendeleyev would have recognized. Within it, +walls hold kilotonnes of oxygen and nitrogen gas, megatonnes of life-infested +soil. A hundred trillion kilometers from the wreckage of Earth, the cylinder +glitters like a gem in the darkness. + +Welcome to New Japan: one of the places between the stars where human beings +hang out, now that the solar system is off-limits to meatbodies. + +I wonder who we'll find here? + +* * * + +There's an open plaza in one of the terraform sectors of the habitat cylinder. +A huge gong hangs from a beautifully painted wooden frame at one side of the +square, which is paved with weathered limestone slabs made of atoms ripped from +a planet that has never seen molten ice. Houses stand around, and open-fronted +huts where a variety of humanoid waitrons attend to food and beverages for the +passing realfolk. A group of prepubescent children are playing hunt-and-seek +with their big-eyed pet companions, brandishing makeshift spears and automatic +rifles - there's no pain here, for bodies are fungible, rebuilt in a minute by +the assembler/disassembler gates in every room. There are few adults +hereabouts, for Red Plaza is unfashionable at present, and the kids have +claimed it for their own as a playground. They're all genuinely young, symptoms +of a demographic demiurge, not a single wendypan among them. + +A skinny boy with nut brown skin, a mop of black hair, and three arms is +patiently stalking a worried-looking blue eeyore around the corner of the +square. He's passing a stand stacked with fresh sushi rolls when the strange +beast squirms out from beneath a wheelbarrow and arches its back, stretching +luxuriously. + +The boy, Manni, freezes, hands tensing around his spear as he focuses on the +new target. (The blue eeyore flicks its tail at him and darts for safety across +a lichen-encrusted slab.) "City, what's that?" he asks without moving his lips. + +"What are you looking at?" replies City, which puzzles him somewhat, but not as +much as it should. + +The beast finishes stretching one front leg and extends another. It looks a bit +like a pussycat to Manni, but there's something subtly wrong with it. Its head +is a little too small, the eyes likewise - and those paws - "You're sharp," he +accuses the beast, forehead wrinkling in disapproval. + +"Yeah, whatever." The creature yawns, and Manni points his spear at it, +clenching the shaft in both right hands. It's got sharp teeth, too, but it +spoke to him via his inner hearing, not his ears. Innerspeech is for people, +not toys. + +"Who are you?" he demands. + +The beast looks at him insolently. "I know your parents," it says, still using +innerspeech. "You're Manni Macx, aren't you? Thought so. I want you to take me +to your father." + +"No!" Manni jumps up and waves his arms at it. "I don't like you! Go away!" He +pokes his spear in the direction of the beast's nose. + +"I'll go away when you take me to your father," says the beast. It raises its +tail like a pussycat, and the fur bushes out, but then it pauses. "If you take +me to your father I'll tell you a story afterward, how about that?" + +"Don't care!" Manni is only about two hundred megaseconds old - seven old +Earth-years - but he can tell when he's being manipulated and gets truculent. + +"Kids." The cat-thing's tail lashes from side to side. "Okay, Manni, how about +you take me to your father, or I rip your face off? I've got claws, you know." +A brief eyeblink later, it's wrapping itself around his ankles sinuously, +purring to give the lie to its unreliable threat - but he can see that it's got +sharp nails all right. It's a /{wild}/ pussycat-thing, and nothing in his +artificially preserved orthohuman upbringing has prepared him for dealing with +a real wild pussycat-thing that talks. + +"Get away!" Manni is worried. "Mom!" he hollers, unintentionally triggering the +broadcast flag in his innerspeech. "There's this /{thing}/ -" + +"Mom will do." The cat-thing sounds resigned. It stops rubbing against Manni's +legs and looks up at him. "There's no need to panic. I won't hurt you." + +Manni stops hollering. "Who're you?" he asks at last, staring at the beast. +Somewhere light-years away, an adult has heard his cry; his mother is coming +fast, bouncing between switches and glancing off folded dimensions in a +headlong rush toward him. + +"I'm Aineko." The beast sits down and begins to wash behind one hind leg. "And +you're Manni, right?" + +"Aineko," Manni says uncertainly. "Do you know Lis or Bill?" + +Aineko the cat-thing pauses in his washing routine and looks at Manni, head +cocked to one side. Manni is too young, too inexperienced to know that Aineko's +proportions are those of a domestic cat, /{Felis catus}/, a naturally evolved +animal rather than the toys and palimpsests and companionables he's used to. +Reality may be fashionable with his parents' generation, but there /{are}/ +limits, after all. Orange-and-brown stripes and whorls decorate Aineko's fur, +and he sprouts a white fluffy bib beneath his chin. "Who are Lis and Bill?" + +"Them," says Manni, as big, sullen-faced Bill creeps up behind Aineko and tries +to grab his tail while Lis floats behind his shoulder like a pint-sized UFO, +buzzing excitedly. But Aineko is too fast for the kids and scampers round +Manni's feet like a hairy missile. Manni whoops and tries to spear the +pussycat-thing, but his spear turns to blue glass, crackles, and shards of +brilliant snow rain down, burning his hands. + +"/{Now that}/ wasn't very friendly, was it?" says Aineko, a menacing note in +his voice. "Didn't your mother teach you not to -" + +The door in the side of the sushi stall opens as Rita arrives, breathless and +angry: "Manni! What have I told you about playing -" + +She stops, seeing Aineko. "/{You}/." She recoils in barely concealed fright. +Unlike Manni, she recognizes it as the avatar of a posthuman demiurge, a body +incarnated solely to provide a point of personal interaction for people to +focus on. + +The cat grins back at her. "Me," he agrees. "Ready to talk?" + +She looks stricken. "We've got nothing to talk about." + +Aineko lashes his tail. "Oh, but we do." The cat turns and looks pointedly at +Manni. "Don't we?" + +* * * + +_1 It has been a long time since Aineko passed this way, and in the meantime +the space around Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, has changed out of all recognition. +Back when the great lobster-built starships swept out of Sol's Oort cloud, +archiving the raw frozen data of the unoccupied brown dwarf halo systems and +seeding their structured excrement with programmable matter, there was nothing +but random dead atoms hereabouts (and an alien router). But that was a long +time ago; and since then, the brown dwarf system has succumbed to an anthropic +infestation. + +_1 An unoptimized instance of H. sapiens maintains state coherency for only two +to three gigaseconds before it succumbs to necrosis. But in only about ten +gigaseconds, the infestation has turned the dead brown dwarf system upside +down. They strip-mined the chilly planets to make environments suitable for +their own variety of carbon life. They rearranged moons, building massive +structures the size of asteroids. They ripped wormhole endpoints free of the +routers and turned them into their own crude point-to-point network, learned +how to generate new wormholes, then ran their own packet-switched polities over +them. Wormhole traffic now supports an ever-expanding mesh of interstellar +human commerce, but always in the darkness between the lit stars and the +strange, metal-depleted dwarfs with the suspiciously low-entropy radiation. The +sheer temerity of the project is mind-boggling: notwithstanding that canned +apes are simply /{not suited}/ to life in the interstellar void, especially in +orbit around a brown dwarf whose planets make Pluto seem like a tropical +paradise, they've taken over the whole damn system. + +_1 New Japan is one of the newer human polities in this system, a bunch of +nodes physically collocated in the humaniformed spaces of the colony cylinders. +Its designers evidently only knew about old Nippon from recordings made back +before Earth was dismantled, and worked from a combination of nostalgia-trip +videos, Miyazaki movies, and anime culture. Nevertheless, it's the home of +numerous human beings - even if they are about as similar to their historical +antecedents as New Japan is to its long-gone namesake. + +_1 Humanity? + +_1 Their grandparents /{would}/ recognize them, mostly. The ones who are truly +beyond the ken of twentieth-century survivors stayed back home in the red-hot +clouds of nanocomputers that have replaced the planets that once orbited +Earth's sun in stately Copernican harmony. The fast-thinking Matrioshka brains +are as incomprehensible to their merely posthuman ancestors as an ICBM to an +amoeba - and about as inhabitable. Space is dusted with the corpses of +Matrioshka brains that have long since burned out, informational collapse +taking down entire civilizations that stayed in close orbit around their home +stars. Farther away, galaxy-sized intelligences beat incomprehensible rhythms +against the darkness of the vacuum, trying to hack the Planck substrate into +doing their bidding. Posthumans, and the few other semitranscended species to +have discovered the router network, live furtively in the darkness between +these islands of brilliance. There are, it would seem, advantages to not being +too intelligent. + +_1 Humanity. Monadic intelligences, mostly trapped within their own skulls, +living in small family groups within larger tribal networks, adaptable to +territorial or migratory lifestyles. Those were the options on offer before the +great acceleration. Now that dumb matter thinks, with every kilogram of +wallpaper potentially hosting hundreds of uploaded ancestors, now that every +door is potentially a wormhole to a hab half a parsec away, the humans can stay +in the same place while the landscape migrates and mutates past them, streaming +into the luxurious void of their personal history. Life is rich here, endlessly +varied and sometimes confusing. So it is that tribal groups remain, their +associations mediated across teraklicks and gigaseconds by exotic agencies. And +sometimes the agencies will vanish for a while, reappearing later like an +unexpected jape upon the infinite. + +* * * + +Ancestor worship takes on a whole new meaning when the state vectors of all the +filial entities' precursors are archived and indexed for recall. At just the +moment that the tiny capillaries in Rita's face are constricting in response to +a surge of adrenaline, causing her to turn pale and her pupils to dilate as she +focuses on the pussycat-thing, Sirhan is kneeling before a small shrine, +lighting a stick of incense, and preparing to respectfully address his +grandfather's ghost. + +The ritual is, strictly speaking, unnecessary. Sirhan can speak to his +grandfather's ghost wherever and whenever he wants, without any formality, and +the ghost will reply at interminable length, cracking puns in dead languages +and asking about people who died before the temple of history was established. +But Sirhan is a sucker for rituals, and anyway, it helps him structure an +otherwise-stressful encounter. + +If it were up to Sirhan, he'd probably skip chatting to grandfather every ten +megaseconds. Sirhan's mother and her partner aren't available, having opted to +join one of the long-distance exploration missions through the router network +that were launched by the accelerationistas long ago; and Rita's antecedents +are either fully virtualized or dead. They are a family with a tenuous grip on +history. But both of them spent a long time in the same state of half-life in +which Manfred currently exists, and he knows his wife will take him to task if +he doesn't bring the revered ancestor up to date on what's been happening in +the real world while he's been dead. In Manfred's case, death is not only +potentially reversible, but almost inevitably so. After all, they're raising +his clone. Sooner or later, the kid is going to want to visit the original, or +vice versa. + +What a state we have come /{to, when the restless dead refuse to stay a part of +history?}/ He wonders ironically as he scratches the self-igniter strip on the +red incense stick and bows to the mirror at the back of the shrine. "Your +respectful grandson awaits and expects your guidance," he intones formally - +for in addition to being conservative by nature, Sirhan is acutely aware of his +family's relative poverty and the need to augment their social credit, and in +this reincarnation-intermediated traditionalist polity for the hopelessly +orthohuman, you can score credit for formality. He sits back on his heels to +await the response. + +Manfred doesn't take long to appear in the depths of the mirror. He takes the +shape of an albino orang-utan, as usual: He was messing around with Great Aunt +Annette's ontological wardrobe right before this copy of him was recorded and +placed in the temple - they might have separated, but they remained close. "Hi, +lad. What year is it?" + +Sirhan suppresses a sigh. "We don't do years anymore," he explains, not for the +first time. Every time he consults his grandfather, the new instance asks this +question sooner or later. "Years are an archaism. It's been ten megs since we +last spoke - about four /{months}/, if you're going to be pedantic about it, +and a hundred and eighty /{years}/ since we emigrated. Although correcting for +general relativity adds another decade or so." + +"Oh. Is that all?" Manfred manages to look disappointed. This is a new one on +Sirhan: Usually the diverging state vector of Gramps's ghost asks after Amber +or cracks a feeble joke at this point. "No changes in the Hubble constant, or +the rate of stellar formation? Have we heard from any of the exploration +eigenselves yet?" + +"Nope." Sirhan relaxes slightly. So Manfred is going to ask about the fool's +errand to the edge of the Beckenstein limit again, is he? That's canned +conversation number twenty-nine. (Amber and the other explorers who set out for +the really long exploration mission shortly after the first colony was settled +aren't due back for, oh, about 10^{19}^ seconds. It's a /{long}/ way to the +edge of the observable universe, even when you can go the first several hundred +million light-years - to the Böotes supercluster and beyond - via a small-world +network of wormholes. And this time, she didn't leave any copies of herself +behind.) + +Sirhan - either in this or some other incarnation - has had this talk with +Manfred many times before, because that's the essence of the dead. They don't +remember from one recall session to the next, unless and until they ask to be +resurrected because their restoration criteria have been matched. Manfred has +been dead a long time, long enough for Sirhan and Rita to be resurrected and +live a long family life three or four times over after /{they}/ had spent a +century or so in nonexistence. "We've received no notices from the lobsters, +nothing from Aineko either." He takes a deep breath. "You always ask me where +we are next, so I've got a canned response for you -" and one of his agents +throws the package, tagged as a scroll sealed with red wax and a silk ribbon, +through the surface of the mirror. (After the tenth repetition Rita and Sirhan +agreed to write a basic briefing that the Manfred-ghosts could use to orient +themselves.) + +Manfred is silent for a moment - probably hours in ghost-space - as he +assimilates the changes. Then: "This is true? I've slept through a whole +/{civilization}/?" + +"Not slept, you've been dead," Sirhan says pedantically. He realizes he's being +a bit harsh: "Actually, so did we," he adds. "We surfed the first three +gigasecs or so because we wanted to start a family somewhere where our children +could grow up the traditional way. Habs with an oxidation-intensive +triple-point water environment didn't get built until sometime after the +beginning of the exile. That's when the fad for neomorphism got entrenched," he +adds with distaste. For quite a while the neos resisted the idea of wasting +resources building colony cylinders spinning to provide vertebrate-friendly gee +forces and breathable oxygen-rich atmospheres - it had been quite a political +football. But the increasing curve of wealth production had allowed the +orthodox to reincarnate from death-sleep after a few decades, once the +fundamental headaches of building settlements in chilly orbits around +metal-deficient brown dwarfs were overcome. + +"Uh." Manfred takes a deep breath, then scratches himself under one armpit, +rubbery lips puckering. "So, let me get this straight: We - you, they, whoever +- hit the router at Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},, replicated a load of them, and +now use the wormhole mechanism the routers rely on as point-to-point gates for +physical transport? And have spread throughout a bunch of brown dwarf systems, +and built a pure deep-space polity based on big cylinder habitats connected by +teleport gates hacked out of routers?" + +"Would /{you}/ trust one of the original routers for switched data +communications?" Sirhan asks rhetorically. "Even with the source code? They've +been corrupted by all the dead alien Matrioshka civilizations they've come into +contact with, but they're reasonably safe if all you want to use them for is to +cannibalize them for wormholes and tunnel dumb mass from point to point." He +searches for a metaphor: "Like using your, uh, internet, to emulate a +nineteenth-century postal service." + +"O-kay." Manfred looks thoughtful, as he usually does at this point in the +conversation - which means Sirhan is going to have to break it to him that his +first thoughts for how to utilize the gates have already been done. They're +hopelessly old hat. In fact, the main reason why Manfred is still dead is that +things have moved on so far that, sooner or later, whenever he surfaces for a +chat, he gets frustrated and elects not to be reincarnated. Not that Sirhan is +about to tell him that he's obsolete - that would be rude, not to say subtly +inaccurate. "That raises some interesting possibilities. I wonder, has anyone +-" + +"/{Sirhan, I need you!}/" + +The crystal chill of Rita's alarm and fear cuts through Sirhan's awareness like +a scalpel, distracting him from the ghost of his ancestor. He blinks, instantly +transferring the full focus of his attention to Rita without sparing Manfred +even a ghost. + +"/{What's happening}/ -" + +He sees through Rita's eyes: a cat with an orange-and-brown swirl on its flank +sits purring beside Manni in the family room of their dwelling. Its eyes are +narrowed as it watches her with unnatural wisdom. Manni is running fingers +through its fur and seems none the worse for wear, but Sirhan still feels his +fists clench. + +"What -" + +"Excuse me," he says, standing up: "Got to go. Your bloody cat's turned up." He +adds "/{coming home now}/" for Rita's benefit, then turns and hurries out of +the temple concourse. When he reaches the main hall, he pauses, then Rita's +sense of urgency returns to him, and he throws parsimony to the wind, stepping +into a priority gate in order to get home as fast as possible. + +Behind him, Manfred's melancholy ghost snorts, mildly offended, and considers +the existential choice: to be, or not to be. Then he makes a decision. + +* * * + +_1 Welcome to the twenty-third century, or the twenty-fourth. Or maybe it's the +twenty-second, jet-lagged and dazed by spurious suspended animation and +relativistic travel; it hardly matters these days. What's left of recognizable +humanity has scattered across a hundred light-years, living in hollowed-out +asteroids and cylindrical spinning habitats strung in orbit around cold brown +dwarf stars and sunless planets that wander the interstellar void. The looted +mechanisms underlying the alien routers have been cannibalized, simplified to a +level the merely superhuman can almost comprehend, turned into generators for +paired wormhole endpoints that allow instantaneous switched transport across +vast distances. Other mechanisms, the descendants of the advanced +nanotechnologies developed by the flowering of human techgnosis in the +twenty-first century, have made the replication of dumb matter trivial; this is +not a society accustomed to scarcity. + +_1 But in some respects, New Japan and the Invisible Empire and the other +polities of human space are poverty-stricken backwaters. They take no part in +the higher-order economies of the posthuman. They can barely comprehend the +idle muttering of the Vile Offspring, whose mass/energy budget (derived from +their complete restructuring of the free matter of humanity's original solar +system into computronium) dwarfs that of half a hundred human-occupied brown +dwarf systems. And they still know worryingly little about the deep history of +intelligence in this universe, about the origins of the router network that +laces so many dead civilizations into an embrace of death and decay, about the +distant galaxy-scale bursts of information processing that lie at measurable +red-shift distances, even about the free posthumans who live among them in some +senses, collocated in the same light cone as these living fossil relics of +old-fashioned humanity. + +_1 Sirhan and Rita settled in this charming human-friendly backwater in order +to raise a family, study xenoarchaeology, and avoid the turmoil and turbulence +that have characterized his family's history across the last couple of +generations. Life has been comfortable for the most part, and if the stipend of +an academic nucleofamilial is not large, it is sufficient in this place and age +to provide all the necessary comforts of civilization. And this suits Sirhan +(and Rita) fine; the turbulent lives of their entrepreneurial ancestors led to +grief and angst and adventures, and as Sirhan is fond of observing, an +adventure is something horrible that happens to someone else. + +_1 Only ... + +_1 Aineko is back. Aineko, who after negotiating the establishment of the +earliest of the refugee habs in orbit around Hyundai ^{+4904}^/,{-56},, +vanished into the router network with Manfred's other instance - and the +partial copies of Sirhan and Rita who had forked, seeking adventure rather than +cozy domesticity. Sirhan made a devil's bargain with Aineko, all those +gigaseconds ago, and now he is deathly afraid that Aineko is going to call the +payment due. + +* * * + +Manfred walks down a hall of mirrors. At the far end, he emerges in a public +space modeled on a Menger sponge - a cube diced subtractively into ever-smaller +cubic volumes until its surface area tends toward infinity. This being +meatspace, or a reasonable simulation thereof, it isn't a /{real}/ Menger +sponge; but it looks good at a distance, going down at least four levels. + +He pauses behind a waist-high diamond barrier and looks down into the +almost-tesseract-shaped depths of the cube's interior, at a verdant garden +landscape with charming footbridges that cross streams laid out with careful +attention to the requirements of feng shui. He looks up: Some of the +cube-shaped subtractive openings within the pseudofractal structure are +occupied by windows belonging to dwellings or shared buildings that overlook +the public space. High above, butterfly-shaped beings with exotic colored wings +circle in the ventilation currents. It's hard to tell from down here, but the +central cuboid opening looks to be at least half a kilometer on a side, and +they might very well be posthumans with low-gee wings - angels. + +/{Angels, or rats in the walls}/? he asks himself, and sighs. Half his +extensions are off-line, so hopelessly obsolete that the temple's assembler +systems didn't bother replicating them, or even creating emulation environments +for them to run in. The rest ... well, at least he's still physically +orthohuman, he realizes. Fully functional, fully male. /{Not everything has +changed - only the important stuff}/. It's a scary-funny thought, laden with +irony. Here he is, naked as the day he was born - newly re-created, in fact, +released from the wake-experience-reset cycle of the temple of history - +standing on the threshold of a posthuman civilization so outrageously rich and +powerful that they can build mammal-friendly habitats that resemble works of +art in the cryogenic depths of space. Only he's /{poor}/, this whole polity is +/{poor}/, and it can't ever be anything else, in fact, because it's a dumping +ground for merely posthuman also-rans, the singularitarian equivalent of +australopithecines. In the brave new world of the Vile Offspring, they can't +get ahead any more than a protohominid could hack it as a rocket scientist in +Werner von Braun's day. They're born to be primitive, wallowing happily in the +mud-bath of their own limited cognitive bandwidth. So they fled into the +darkness and built a civilization so bright it can put anything earthbound that +came before the singularity into the shade ... and it's still a shanty town +inhabited by the mentally handicapped. + +The incongruity of it amuses him, but only for a moment. He has, after all, +electively reincarnated for a reason: Sirhan's throwaway comment about the cat +caught his attention. "City, where can I find some clothes?" he asks. +"Something socially appropriate, that is. And some, uh, brains. I need to be +able to off-load ..." + +Citymind chuckles inside the back of his head, and Manfred realizes that +there's a public assembler on the other side of the ornamental wall he's +leaning on. "Oh," he mutters, as he finds himself imagining something not +unlike his clunky old direct neural interface, candy-colored icons and overlays +and all. It's curiously mutable, and with a weird sense of detachment, he +realizes that it's not his imagination at all, but an infinitely customizable +interface to the pervasive information spaces of the polity, currently running +in dumbed-down stupid mode for his benefit. It's true; he needs training +wheels. But it doesn't take him long to figure out how to ask the assembler to +make him a pair of pants and a plain black vest, and to discover that, as long +as he keeps his requests simple, the results are free - just like back home on +Saturn. The spaceborn polities are kind to indigents, for the basic +requirements of life are cheap, and to withhold them would be tantamount to +homicide. (If the presence of transhumans has upset a whole raft of prior +assumptions, at least it hasn't done more than superficial damage to the Golden +Rule.) + +Clothed and more or less conscious - at least at a human level - Manfred takes +stock. "Where do Sirhan and Rita live?" he asks. A dotted route makes itself +apparent to him, snaking improbably through a solid wall that he understands to +be an instantaneous wormhole gate connecting points light-years apart. He +shakes his head, bemused. /{I suppose I'd better go and see them}/, he decides. +It's not as if there's anyone else for him to look up, is it? The Franklins +vanished into the solar Matrioshka brain, Pamela died ages ago (and there's a +shame, he'd never expected to miss her) and Annette hooked up with Gianni while +he was being a flock of pigeons. (Draw a line under that one and say it's all +over.) His daughter vanished into the long-range exploration program. He's been +dead for so long that his friends and acquaintances are scattered across a +light cone centuries across. He can't think of anyone else here who he might +run into, except for the loyal grandson, keeping the candle of filial piety +burning with unasked-for zeal. "Maybe he needs help," Manfred thinks aloud as +he steps into the gate, rationalizing. "And then again, maybe /{he}/ can help +/{me}/ figure out what to do?" + +* * * + +Sirhan gets home, anticipating trouble. He finds it, but not in any way he'd +expected. Home is a split-level manifold, rooms connected by T-gates scattered +across a variety of habitats: low-gee sleeping den, high-gee exercise room, and +everything in between. It's furnished simply, tatami mats and programmable +matter walls able to extrude any desired furniture in short order. The walls +are configured to look and feel like paper, but can damp out even infant +tantrums. But right now, the antisound isn't working, and the house he comes +home to is overrun by shrieking yard apes, a blur of ginger-and-white fur, and +a distraught Rita trying to explain to her neighbor Eloise why her +orthodaughter Sam is bouncing around the place like a crazy ball. + +" - The cat, he gets them worked up." She wrings her hands and begins to turn +as Sirhan comes into view. "At last!" + +"I came fast." He nods respectfully at Eloise, then frowns. "The children -" +Something small and fast runs headfirst into him, grabs his legs, and tries to +head-butt him in the crotch. "Oof!" He bends down and lifts Manni up. "Hey, +son, haven't I told you not to -" + +"Not his fault," Rita says hurriedly. "He's excited because -" + +"I really don't think -" Eloise begins to gather steam, looking around +uncertainly. + +"Mrreeow?" something asks in a conversational tone of voice from down around +Sirhan's ankles. + +"Eek!" Sirhan jumps backward, flailing for balance under the weight of an +excited toddler. There's a gigantic disturbance in the polity thoughtspace - +like a stellar-mass black hole - and it appears to be stropping itself furrily +against his left leg. "What are /{you}/ doing here?" He demands. + +"Oh, this and that," says the cat, his innerspeech accent a sardonic drawl. "I +thought it was about time I visited again. Where's your household assembler? +Mind if I use it? Got a little something I need to make up for a friend ..." + +"What?" Rita demands, instantly suspicious. "Haven't you caused enough trouble +already?" Sirhan looks at her approvingly; obviously Amber's long-ago warnings +about the cat sank in deeply, because she's certainly not treating it as the +small bundle of child-friendly fun it would like to be perceived as. + +"Trouble?" The cat looks up at her sardonically, lashing his tail from side to +side. "I won't make any trouble, I promise you. It's just -" + +The door chime clears its throat, to announce a visitor: "Ren Fuller would like +to visit, m'lord and lady." + +"What's /{she}/ doing here?" Rita asks irritably. Sirhan can feel her unease, +the tenuous grasping of her ghosts as she searches for reason in an +unreasonable world, simulating outcomes, living through bad dreams, and +backtracking to adjust her responses accordingly. "Show her in, by all means." +Ren is one of their neighbor-cognates (most of her dwelling is several +light-years away, but in terms of transit time, it's a hop, skip, and a jump); +she and her extruded family are raising a small herd of ill-behaved kids who +occasionally hang out with Manni. + +A small blue eeyore whinnies mournfully and dashes past the adults, pursued by +a couple of children waving spears and shrieking. Eloise makes a grab for her +own and misses, just as the door to the exercise room disappears and Manni's +little friend Lis darts inside like a pint-sized guided missile. "Sam, come +here right now -" Eloise calls, heading toward the door. + +"Look, what do you want?" Sirhan demands, hugging his son and looking down at +the cat. + +"Oh, not much," Aineko says, turning to lick a mussed patch of fur on his +flank. "I just want to play with /{him}/." + +"You want to -" Rita stops. + +"Daddy!" Manni wants down. + +Sirhan lowers him carefully, as if his bones are glass. "Run along and play," +he suggests. Turning to Rita: "Why don't you go and find out what Ren wants, +dear?" he asks. "She's probably here to collect Lis, but you can never be +sure." + +"I was just leaving," Eloise adds, "as soon as I can catch up with Sam." She +glances over her shoulder at Rita apologetically, then dives into the exercise +room. + +Sirhan takes a step toward the hallway. "Let's talk," he says tightly. "In my +study." He glares at the cat. "I want an explanation. I want to know the +truth." + +* * * + +Meanwhile, in a cognitive wonderland his parents know about but deeply +underestimate, parts of Manni are engaging in activities far less innocent than +they imagine. + +Back in the twenty-first century, Sirhan lived through loads of alternate +childhoods in simulation, his parents' fingers pressing firmly on the +fast-forward button until they came up with someone who seemed to match their +preconceptions. The experience scarred him as badly as any nineteenth-century +boarding school experience, until he promised himself no child he raised would +be subjected to such; but there's a difference between being shoved through a +multiplicity of avatars, and voluntarily diving into an exciting universe of +myth and magic where your childhood fantasies take fleshy form, stalking those +of your friends and enemies through the forests of the night. + +Manni has grown up with neural interfaces to City's mindspace an order of +magnitude more complex than those of Sirhan's youth, and parts of him - ghosts +derived from a starting image of his neural state vector, fertilized with a +scattering borrowed from the original Manfred, simulated on a meat machine far +faster than real time - are fully adult. Of course, they can't fit inside his +seven-year-old skull, but they still watch over him. And when he's in danger, +they try to take care of their once and future body. + +Manni's primary adult ghost lives in some of New Japan's virtual mindspaces +(which are a few billion times more extensive than the physical spaces +available to stubborn biologicals, for the computational density of human +habitats have long since ceased to make much sense when measured in MIPS per +kilogram). They're modeled on presingularity Earth. Time is forever frozen on +the eve of the real twenty-first century, zero eight-forty-six hours on +September 11: An onrushing wide-body airliner hangs motionless in the air forty +meters below the picture window of Manni's penthouse apartment on the one +hundred and eighth floor of the North Tower. In historical reality, the one +hundred and eighth floor was occupied by corporate offices; but the mindspace +is a consensual fiction, and it is Manni's conceit to live at this pivotal +point. (Not that it means much to him - he was born well over a century after +the War on Terror - but it's part of his childhood folklore, the fall of the +Two Towers that shattered the myth of Western exceptionalism and paved the way +for the world he was born into.) + +Adult-Manni wears an avatar roughly modeled on his clone-father Manfred - +skinnier, pegged at a youthful twentysomething, black-clad, and gothic. He's +taking time out from a game of Matrix to listen to music, Type O Negative +blaring over the sound system as he twitches in the grip of an ice-cold coke +high. He's expecting a visit from a couple of call girls - themselves the +gamespace avatars of force-grown adult ghosts whose primaries may not be adult, +or female, or even human - which is why he's flopped bonelessly back in his +Arne Jacobsen recliner, waiting for something to happen. + +The door opens behind him. He doesn't show any sign of noticing the intrusion, +although his pupils dilate slightly at the faint reflection of a woman, +stalking toward him, glimpsed dimly in the window glass. "You're late," he says +tonelessly. "You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago -" He begins to look +round, and now his eyes widen. + +"Who were you expecting?" asks the ice blond in the black business suit, +long-skirted and uptight. There's something predatory about her expression: +"No, don't tell me. So you're Manni, eh? Manni's partial?" She sniffs, +disapproval. "Fin de siècle decadence. I'm sure Sirhan wouldn't approve." + +"My father can go fuck himself," Manni says truculently. "Who the hell are +you?" + +The blond snaps her fingers: An office chair appears on the carpet between +Manni and the window, and she sits on the edge of it, smoothing her skirt +obsessively. "I'm Pamela," she says tightly. "Has your father told you about +me?" + +Manni looks puzzled. In the back of his mind, raw instincts alien to anyone +instantiated before the midpoint of the twenty-first century tug on the fabric +of pseudoreality. "You're dead, aren't you?" he asks. "One of my ancestors." + +"I'm as dead as you are." She gives him a wintry smile. "Nobody stays dead +these days, least of all people who know Aineko." + +Manni blinks. Now he's beginning to feel a surge of mild irritation. "This is +all very well, but I was /{expecting}/ company," he says with heavy emphasis. +"Not a family reunion, or a tiresome attempt to preach your puritanism -" + +Pamela snorts. "Wallow in your pigsty for all I care, kid, I've got more +important things to worry about. Have you looked at your primary recently?" + +"My primary?" Manni tenses. "He's doing okay." For a moment his eyes focus on +infinity, a thousand-yard stare as he loads and replays the latest brain dump +from his infant self. "Who's the cat he's playing with? That's no companion!" + +"Aineko. I told you." Pamela taps the arm of her chair impatiently. "The family +curse has come for another generation. And if you don't do something about it +-" + +"About what?" Manni sits up. "What are you talking about?" He comes to his feet +and turns toward her. Outside the window, the sky is growing dark with an echo +of his own foreboding. Pamela is on her feet before him, the chair evaporated +in a puff of continuity clipping, her expression a cold-eyed challenge. + +"I think you know /{exactly}/ what I'm talking about, Manni. It's time to stop +playing this fucking game. Grow up, while you've still got the chance!" + +"I'm -" He stops. "Who /{am}/ I?" he asks, a chill wind of uncertainty drying +the sweat that has sprung up and down his spine. "And what are you doing here?" + +"Do you really want to know the answer? I'm dead, remember. The dead know +everything. And that isn't necessarily good for the living ..." + +He takes a deep breath. "Am I dead too?" He looks puzzled. "There's an adult-me +in Seventh Cube Heaven, what's /{he}/ doing here?" + +"It's the kind of coincidence that isn't." She reaches out and takes his hand, +dumping encrypted tokens deep into his sensorium, a trail of bread crumbs +leading into a dark and trackless part of mindspace. "Want to find out? Follow +me." Then she vanishes. + +Manni leans forward, baffled and frightened, staring down at the frozen majesty +of the onrushing airliner below his window. "Shit," he whispers. /{She came +right through my defenses without leaving a trace. Who is she?}/ The ghost of +his dead great-grandmother, or something else? + +I'll have to follow her if I want to find out, he realizes. He holds up his +left hand, stares at the invisible token glowing brightly inside his husk of +flesh. "Resynchronize me with my primary," he says. + +A fraction of a second later, the floor of the penthouse bucks and quakes +wildly and fire alarms begin to shriek as time comes to an end and the frozen +airliner completes its journey. But Manni isn't there anymore. And if a +skyscraper falls in a simulation with nobody to see it, has anything actually +happened? + +* * * + +"I've come for the boy," says the cat. It sits on the hand woven rug in the +middle of the hardwood floor with one hind leg sticking out at an odd angle, as +if it's forgotten about it. Sirhan teeters on the edge of hysteria for a moment +as he apprehends the sheer size of the entity before him, the whimsical +posthuman creation of his ancestors. Originally a robotic toy companion, Aineko +was progressively upgraded and patched. By the eighties, when Sirhan first met +the cat in the flesh, he was already a terrifyingly alien intelligence, subtle +and ironic. And now ... + +Sirhan knows Aineko manipulated his eigenmother, bending her natural affections +away from his real father and toward another man. In moments of black +introspection, he sometimes wonders if the cat wasn't also responsible in some +way for his own broken upbringing, the failure to relate to his real parents. +After all, it was a pawn in the vicious divorce battle between Manfred and +Pamela - decades before his birth - and there might be long-term instructions +buried in its preconscious drives. What if the pawn is actually a hidden king, +scheming in the darkness? + +"I've come for Manny." + +"You're not having him." Sirhan maintains an outer facade of calm, even though +his first inclination is to snap at Aineko. "Haven't you done enough damage +already?" + +"You're not going to make this easy, are you?" The cat stretches his head +forward and begins to lick obsessively between the splayed toes of his raised +foot. "I'm not making a demand, kid, I said I've /{come}/ for him, and you're +not really in the frame at all. In fact, I'm going out of my way to warn you." + +"And I say -" Sirhan stops. "Shit!" Sirhan doesn't approve of swearing: The +curse is an outward demonstration of his inner turmoil. "Forget what I was +about to say, I'm sure you already know it. Let me begin again, please." + +"Sure. Let's play this your way." The cat chews on a loose nail sheath but his +innerspeech is perfectly clear, a casual intimacy that keeps Sirhan on edge. +"You've got some idea of what I am, clearly. You know - I ascribe +intentionality to you - that my theory of mind is intrinsically stronger than +yours, that my cognitive model of human consciousness is complete. You might +well suspect that I use a Turing Oracle to think my way around your halting +states." The cat isn't worrying at a loose claw now, he's grinning, pointy +teeth gleaming in the light from Sirhan's study window. The window looks out +onto the inner space of the habitat cylinder, up at a sky with hillsides and +lakes and forests plastered across it: It's like an Escher landscape, modeled +with complete perfection. "You've realized that I can think my way around the +outside of your box while you're flailing away inside it, and I'm /{always}/ +one jump ahead of you. What else do you know I know?" + +Sirhan shivers. Aineko is staring up at him, unblinking. For a moment, he feels +at gut level that he is in the presence of an alien god: It's the simple truth, +isn't it? But - "Okay, I concede the point," Sirhan says after a moment in +which he spawns a blizzard of panicky cognitive ghosts, fractional +personalities each tasked with the examination of a different facet of the same +problem. "You're smarter than I am. I'm just a boringly augmented human being, +but you've got a flashy new theory of mind that lets you work around creatures +like me the way I can think my way around a real cat." He crosses his arms +defensively. "You do not normally rub this in. It's not in your interests to do +so, is it? You prefer to hide your manipulative capabilities under an affable +exterior, to play with us. So you're revealing all this for a reason." There's +a note of bitterness in his voice now. Glancing round, Sirhan summons up a +chair - and, as an afterthought, a cat basket. "Have a seat. /{Why now}/, +Aineko? What makes you think you can take my eigenson?" + +"I didn't say I was going to /{take}/ him, I said I'd come for him." Aineko's +tail lashes from side to side in agitation. "I don't deal in primate politics, +Sirhan: I'm not a monkey-boy. But I knew you'd react badly because the way your +species socializes" - a dozen metaghosts reconverge in Sirhan's mind, drowning +Aineko's voice in an inner cacophony - "would enter into the situation, and it +seemed preferable to trigger your territorial/reproductive threat display +early, rather than risk it exploding in my face during a more delicate +situation." + +Sirhan waves a hand vaguely at the cat: "Please wait." He's trying to integrate +his false memories - the output from the ghosts, their thinking finished - and +his eyes narrow suspiciously. "It must be bad. You don't normally get +confrontational - you script your interactions with humans ahead of time, so +that you maneuver them into doing what you want them to do and thinking it was +their idea all along." He tenses. "What is it about Manni that brought you +here? What do you want with him? He's just a kid." + +"You're confusing Manni with Manfred." Aineko sends a glyph of a smile to +Sirhan: "That's your first mistake, even though they're clones in different +subjective states. Think what he's like when he's grown up." + +"But he isn't grown-up!" Sirhan complains. "He hasn't been grown-up for -" + +"- Years, Sirhan. That's the problem. I need to talk to your grandfather, +really, not your son, and not the goddamn stateless ghost in the temple of +history, I need a Manfred with a sense of continuity. He's got something that I +need, and I promise you I'm not going away until I get it. Do you understand?" + +"Yes." Sirhan wonders if his voice sounds as hollow as the feeling in his +chest. "But he's our kid, Aineko. We're human. You know what that means to us?" + +"Second childhood." Aineko stands up, stretches, then curls up in the cat +basket. "That's the trouble with hacking you naked apes for long life, you keep +needing a flush and reset job - and then you lose continuity. That's not my +problem, Sirhan. I got a signal from the far edge of the router network, a +ghost that claims to be family. Says they finally made it out to the big +beyond, out past the Böotes supercluster, found something concrete and +important that's worth my while to visit. But I want to make sure it's not like +the Wunch before I answer. I'm not letting /{that}/ into my mind, even with a +sandbox. Do you understand that? I need to instantiate a real-live adult +Manfred with all his memories, one who hasn't been a part of me, and get him to +vouch for the sapient data packet. It takes a conscious being to authenticate +that kind of messenger. Unfortunately, the history temple is annoyingly +resistant to unauthorized extraction - I can't just go in and steal a copy of +him - and I don't want to use my own model of Manfred: It knows too much. So -" + +"What's it promising?" Sirhan asks tensely. + +Aineko looks at him through slitted eyes, a purring buzz at the base of his +throat: "/{Everything}/." + +* * * + +"There are different kinds of death," the woman called Pamela tells Manni, her +bone-dry voice a whisper in the darkness. Manni tries to move, but he seems to +be trapped in a confined space; for a moment, he begins to panic, but then he +works it out. "First and most importantly, death is just the absence of life - +oh, and for human beings, the absence of consciousness, too, but not /{just}/ +the absence of consciousness, the absence of the capacity for consciousness." +The darkness is close and disorienting and Manni isn't sure which way up he is +- nothing seems to work. Even Pamela's voice is a directionless ambiance, +coming from all around him. + +"Simple old-fashioned death, the kind that predated the singularity, used to be +the inevitable halting state for all life-forms. Fairy tales about afterlives +notwithstanding." A dry chuckle: "I used to try to believe a different one +before breakfast every day, you know, just in case Pascal's wager was right - +exploring the phase-space of all possible resurrections, you know? But I think +at this point we can agree that Dawkins was right. Human consciousness is +vulnerable to certain types of transmissible memetic virus, and religions that +promise life beyond death are a particularly pernicious example because they +exploit our natural aversion to halting states." + +Manni tries to say, /{I'm not dead}/, but his throat doesn't seem to be +working. And now that he thinks about it, he doesn't seem to be breathing, +either. + +"Now, consciousness. That's a fun thing, isn't it? Product of an arms race +between predators and prey. If you watch a cat creeping up on a mouse, you'll +be able to impute to the cat intentions that are most easily explained by the +cat having a theory of mind concerning the mouse - an internal simulation of +the mouse's likely behavior when it notices the predator. Which way to run, for +example. And the cat will use its theory of mind to optimize its attack +strategy. Meanwhile, prey species that are complex enough to have a theory of +mind are at a defensive advantage if they can anticipate a predator's actions. +Eventually this very mammalian arms race gave us a species of social ape that +used its theory of mind to facilitate signaling - so the tribe could work +collectively - and then reflexively, to simulate the individual's /{own}/ inner +states. Put the two things together, signaling and introspective simulation, +and you've got human-level consciousness, with language thrown in as a bonus - +signaling that transmits information about internal states, not just crude +signals such as 'predator here' or 'food there.'" + +/{Get me out of this!}/ Manny feels panic biting into him with +liquid-helium-lubricated teeth. "G-e-t -" For a miracle the words actually come +out, although he can't tell quite how he's uttering them, his throat being +quite as frozen as his innerspeech. Everything's off-lined, all systems down. + +"So," Pamela continues remorselessly, "we come to the posthuman. Not just our +own neural wetware, mapped out to the subcellular level and executed in an +emulation environment on a honking great big computer, like this: That's not +posthuman, that's a travesty. I'm talking about beings who are fundamentally +better consciousness engines than us merely human types, augmented or +otherwise. They're not just better at cooperation - witness Economics 2.0 for a +classic demonstration of that - but better at /{simulation}/. A posthuman can +build an internal model of a human-level intelligence that is, well, as +cognitively strong as the original. You or I may think we know what makes other +people tick, but we're quite often wrong, whereas real posthumans can actually +simulate us, inner states and all, and get it right. And this is especially +true of a posthuman that's been given full access to our memory prostheses for +a period of years, back before we realized they were going to transcend on us. +Isn't that the case, Manni?" + +Manni would be screaming at her right now, if he had a mouth - but instead the +panic is giving way to an enormous sense of /{déja vu}/. There's something +/{about}/ Pamela, something ominous that he knows ... he's met her before, he's +sure of it. And while most of his systems are off-line, one of them is very +much active: There's a personality ghost flagging its intention of merging back +in with him, and the memory delta it carries is enormous, years and years of +divergent experiences to absorb. He shoves it away with a titanic effort - it's +a very insistent ghost - and concentrates on imagining the feel of lips moving +on teeth, a sly tongue obstructing his epiglottis, words forming in his throat +- "m-e ..." + +"We should have known better than to keep upgrading the cat, Manny. It knows us +too well. I may have died in the flesh, but Aineko /{remembered}/ me, as +hideously accurately as the Vile Offspring remembered the random resimulated. +And you can run away - like this, this second childhood - but you can't hide. +Your cat wants you. And there's more." Her voice sends chills up and down his +spine, for without him giving it permission, the ghost has begun to merge its +stupendous load of memories with his neural map, and her voice is freighted +with erotic/repulsive significance, the result of conditioning feedback he +subjected himself to a lifetime - lifetimes? - ago: "He's been /{playing}/ with +us, Manny, possibly from before we realized he was conscious." + +"/{Out}/ -" Manfred stops. He can see again, and move, and feel his mouth. He's +/{himself}/ again, physically back as he was in his late twenties all those +decades ago when he'd lived a peripatetic life in presingularity Europe. He's +sitting on the edge of a bed in a charmingly themed Amsterdam hotel with a +recurrent motif of philosophers, wearing jeans and collarless shirt and a vest +of pockets crammed with the detritus of a long-obsolete personal area network, +his crazily clunky projection specs sitting on the bedside table. Pamela stands +stiffly in front of the door, watching him. She's not the withered travesty he +remembers seeing on Saturn, a half-blind Fate leaning on the shoulder of his +grandson. Nor is she the vengeful Fury of Paris, or the scheming fundamentalist +devil of the Belt. Wearing a sharply tailored suit over a red-and-gold brocade +corset, blonde hair drawn back like fine wire in a tight chignon, she's the +focused, driven force of nature he first fell in love with: repression, +domination, his very own strict machine. + +"We're dead," she says, then gives voice to a tense half laugh: "We don't have +to live through the bad times again if we don't want to." + +"What is this?" he asks, his mouth dry. + +"It's the reproductive imperative." She sniffs. "Come on, stand up. Come here." + +He stands up obediently, but makes no move toward her. "Whose imperative?" + +"Not ours." Her cheek twitches. "You find things out when you're dead. That +fucking cat has got a lot of questions to answer." + +"You're telling me that -" + +She shrugs. "Can you think of any other explanation for all this?" Then she +steps forward and takes his hand. "Division and recombination. Partitioning of +memetic replicators into different groups, then careful cross-fertilization. +Aineko wasn't just breeding a better Macx when he arranged all those odd +marriages and divorces and eigenparents and forked uploads - Aineko is trying +to breed our /{minds}/." Her fingers are slim and cool in his hand. He feels a +momentary revulsion, as of the grave, and he shudders before he realizes it's +his conditioning cutting in. Crudely implanted reflexes that shouldn't still be +active after all this time. "Even our divorce. If -" + +"Surely not." Manny remembers that much already. "Aineko wasn't even conscious +back then!" + +Pamela raises one sharply sculpted eyebrow: "Are you sure?" + +"You want an answer," he says. + +She breathes deeply, and he feels it on his cheek - it raises the fine hairs on +the back of his neck. Then she nods stiffly. "I want to know how much of our +history was scripted by the cat. Back when we thought we were upgrading his +firmware, were we? Or was he letting us think that we were?" A sharp hiss of +breath: "The divorce. Was that us? Or were we being manipulated?" + +"Our memories, are they real? Did any of that stuff actually /{happen}/ to us? +Or -" + +She's standing about twenty centimeters away from him, and Manfred realizes +that he's acutely aware of her presence, of the smell of her skin, the heave of +her bosom as she breathes, the dilation of her pupils. For an endless moment he +stares into her eyes and sees his own reflection - her theory of his mind - +staring back. /{Communication}/. Strict machine. She steps back a pace, spike +heels clicking, and smiles ironically. "You've got a host body waiting for you, +freshly fabbed: Seems Sirhan was talking to your archived ghost in the temple +of history, and it decided to elect for reincarnation. Quite a day for huge +coincidences, isn't it? Why don't you go merge with it - I'll meet you, then we +can go and ask Aineko some hard questions." + +Manfred takes a deep breath and nods. "I suppose so ..." + +* * * + +Little Manni - a clone off the family tree, which is actually a directed cyclic +graph - doesn't understand what all the fuss is about but he can tell when +momma, Rita, is upset. It's something to do with the pussycat-thing, that much +he knows, but Momma doesn't want to tell him: "Go play with your friends, +dear," she says distractedly, not even bothering to spawn a ghost to watch over +him. + +Manni goes into his room and rummages around in toyspace for a bit, but there's +nothing quite as interesting as the cat. The pussycat-thing smells of +adventure, the illicit made explicit. Manni wonders where daddy's taken it. He +tries to call big-Manni-ghost, but big-self isn't answering: He's probably +sleeping or something. So after a distracted irritated fit of play - which +leaves the toyspace in total disarray, Sendak-things cowering under a big bass +drum - Manni gets bored. And because he's still basically a little kid, and not +fully in control of his own metaprogramming, instead of adjusting his outlook +so that he isn't bored anymore, he sneaks out through his bedroom gate (which +big-Manni-ghost reprogrammed for him sometime ago so that it would forward to +an underused public A-gate that he'd run a man-in-the-middle hack on, so he +could use it as a proxy teleport server) then down to the underside of Red +Plaza, where skinless things gibber and howl at their tormentors, broken angels +are crucified on the pillars that hold up the sky, and gangs of semiferal +children act out their psychotic fantasies on mouthless android replicas of +parents and authorities. + +Lis is there, and Vipul and Kareen and Morgan. Lis has changed into a warbody, +an ominous gray battlebot husk with protruding spikes and a belt of +morningstars that whirl threateningly around her. "Manni! Play war?" + +Morgan's got great crushing pincers instead of hands, and Manni is glad he came +motie-style, his third arm a bony scythe from the elbow down. He nods +excitedly. "Who's the enemy?" + +"Them." Lis precesses and points at a bunch of kids on the far side of a pile +of artistically arranged rubble who are gathered around a gibbet, poking things +that glow into the flinching flesh of whatever is incarcerated in the cast-iron +cage. It's all make-believe, but the screams are convincing, all the same, and +they take Manni back for an instant to the last time he died down here, the +uneasy edit around a black hole of pain surrounding his disemboweling. "They've +got Lucy, and they're torturing her, we've got to get her back." Nobody really +dies in these games, not permanently, but children can be very rough indeed, +and the adults of New Japan have found that it's best to let them have at each +other and rely on City to redact the damage later. Allowing them this outlet +makes it easier to stop them doing really dangerous things that threaten the +structural integrity of the biosphere. + +"Fun." Manni's eyes light up as Vipul yanks the arsenal doors open and starts +handing out clubs, chibs, spikies, shuriken, and garrotes. "Let's go!" + +About ten minutes of gouging, running, fighting, and screaming later, Manni is +leaning against the back of a crucifixion pillar, panting for breath. It's been +a good war for him so far, and his arm aches and itches from the stabbing, but +he's got a bad feeling it's going to change. Lis went in hard and got her +chains tangled up around the gibbet supports - they're roasting her over a fire +now, her electronically boosted screams drowning out his own hoarse gasps. +Blood drips down his arm - not his - spattering from the tip of his claw. He +shakes with a crazed hunger for hurt, a cruel need to inflict pain. Something +above his head makes a /{scritch, scritch}/ sound, and he looks up. It's a +crucified angel, wings ripped where they've thrust the spikes in between the +joints that support the great, thin low-gee flight membranes. It's still +breathing, nobody's bothered disemboweling it yet, and it wouldn't be here +unless it was /{bad}/, so - + +Manni stands, but as he reaches out to touch the angel's thin, blue-skinned +stomach with his third arm fingernail, he hears a voice: "/{Wait}/." It's +innerspeech, and it bears ackles of coercion, superuser privileges that lock +his elbow joint in place. He mewls frustratedly and turns round, ready to +fight. + +It's the cat. He sits hunched on a boulder behind him - this is the odd thing - +right where he was looking a moment ago, watching him with slitty eyes. Manni +feels the urge to lash out at him, but his arms won't move, and neither will +his legs: This may be the Dark Side of Red Plaza, where the bloody children +play and anything goes, and Manni may have a much bigger claw here than +anything the cat can muster, but City still has some degree of control, and the +cat's ackles effectively immunize it from the carnage to either side. "Hello, +Manni," says the pussy-thing. "Your Dad's worried: You're supposed to be in +your room, and he's looking for you. Big-you gave you a back door, didn't he?" + +Manni nods jerkily, his eyes going wide. He wants to shout and lash out at the +pussy-thing but he can't. "What are you?" + +"I'm your ... fairy godfather." The cat stares at him intently. "You know, I do +believe you don't resemble your archetype very closely - not as he was at your +age - but yes, I think on balance you'll do." + +"Do what?" Manni lets his motie-arm drop, perplexed. + +"Put me in touch with your other self. Big-you." + +"I can't," Manni begins to explain. But before he can continue, the pile of +rock whines slightly and rotates beneath the cat, who has to stand and do a +little twirl in place, tail bushing up in annoyance. + +Manni's father steps out of the T-gate and glances around, his face a mask of +disapproval. "Manni! What do you think you're doing here? Come home at -" + +"He's with me, history-boy," interrupts the cat, nettled by Sirhan's arrival. +"I was just rounding him up." + +"Damn you, I don't need your help to control my son! In fact -" + +"Mom said I could -" Manni begins. + +"And what's that on your sword?" Sirhan's glare takes in the whole scene, the +impromptu game of capture-the-gibbeted-torture-victim, the bonfires and +screams. The mask of disapproval cracks, revealing a core of icy anger. "You're +coming home with me!" He glances at the cat. "You too, if you want to talk to +him - he's grounded." + +* * * + +_1 Once upon a time there was a pet cat. + +_1 Except, it wasn't a cat. + +_1 Back when a young entrepreneur called Manfred Macx was jetting around the +not-yet-disassembled structures of an old continent called Europe, making +strangers rich and fixing up friends with serendipitous business plans - a +desperate displacement activity, spinning his wheels in a vain attempt to +outrun his own shadow - he used to travel with a robotic toy of feline form. +Programmable and upgradeable, Aineko was a third-generation descendant of the +original luxury Japanese companion robots. It was all Manfred had room for in +his life, and he loved that robot, despite the alarming way decerebrated +kittens kept turning up on his doorstep. He loved it nearly as much as Pamela, +his fiancée, loved him, and she knew it. Pamela, being a whole lot smarter than +Manfred gave her credit for, realized that the quickest way to a man's heart +was through whatever he loved. And Pamela, being a whole lot more of a control +freak than Manfred realized, was damn well ready to use any restraint that came +to hand. Theirs was a very twenty-first-century kind of relationship, which is +to say one that would have been illegal a hundred years earlier and fashionably +scandalous a century before that. And whenever Manfred upgraded his pet robot - +transplanting its trainable neural network into a new body with new and +exciting expansion ports - Pamela would hack it. + +_1 They were married for a while, and divorced for a whole lot longer, +allegedly because they were both strong-willed people with philosophies of life +that were irreconcilable short of death or transcendence. Manny, being wildly +creative and outward-directed and having the attention span of a weasel on +crack, had other lovers. Pamela ... who knows? If on some evenings she put on a +disguise and hung out at encounter areas in fetish clubs, she wasn't telling +anyone: She lived in uptight America, staidly straitlaced, and had a reputation +to uphold. But they both stayed in touch with the cat, and although Manfred +retained custody for some reason never articulated, Aineko kept returning +Pamela's calls - until it was time to go hang out with their daughter Amber, +tagging along on her rush into relativistic exile, then keeping a proprietorial +eye on her eigenson Sirhan, and his wife and child (a clone off the old family +tree, Manfred 2.0) ... + +_1 Now, here's the rub: Aineko wasn't a cat. Aineko was an incarnate +intelligence, confined within a succession of catlike bodies that became +increasingly realistic over time, and equipped with processing power to support +a neural simulation that grew rapidly with each upgrade. + +_1 Did anyone in the Macx family ever think to ask what /{Aineko}/ wanted? + +_1 And if an answer had come, would they have liked it? + +* * * + +Adult-Manfred, still disoriented from finding himself awake and reinstantiated +a couple of centuries downstream from his hurried exile from Saturn system, is +hesitantly navigating his way toward Sirhan and Rita's home when +big-Manni-with-Manfred's-memory-ghost drops into his consciousness like a ton +of computronium glowing red-hot at the edges. + +It's a classic oh-shit moment. Between one foot touching the ground and the +next, Manfred stumbles hard, nearly twisting an ankle, and gasps. He +/{remembers}/. At third hand he remembers being reincarnated as Manni, a +bouncing baby boy for Rita and Sirhan (and just why they want to raise an +ancestor instead of creating a new child of their own is one of those cultural +quirks that is so alien he can scarcely comprehend it). Then for a while he +recalls living as Manni's amnesic adult accelerated ghost, watching over his +original from the consensus cyberspace of the city: the arrival of Pamela, +adult Manni's reaction to her, her dump of yet another copy of Manfred's +memories into Manni, and now this - /{How many of me are there}/? he wonders +nervously. Then: /{Pamela? What's she doing here}/? + +Manfred shakes his head and looks about. Now he remembers being big-Manni, he +knows where he is implicitly, and more importantly, knows what all these +next-gen City interfaces are supposed to do. The walls and ceiling are carpeted +in glowing glyphs that promise him everything from instant-access local +services to teleportation across interstellar distances. /{So they haven't +quite collapsed geography yet}/, he realizes gratefully, fastening on to the +nearest comprehensible thought of his own before old-Manni's memories explain +everything for him. It's a weird sensation, seeing all this stuff for the first +time - the trappings of a technosphere centuries ahead of the one he's last +been awake in - but with the memories to explain it all. He finds his feet are +still carrying him forward, toward a grassy square lined with doors opening +onto private dwellings. Behind one of them, he's going to meet his descendants, +and Pamela in all probability. The thought makes his stomach give a little +queasy backflip. /{I'm not ready for this}/ - + +It's an acute moment of déja vu. He's standing on a familiar doorstep he's +never seen before. The door opens and a serious-faced child with three arms - +he can't help staring, the extra one is a viciously barbed scythe of bone from +the elbow down - looks up at him. "Hello, me," says the kid. + +"Hello, you." Manfred stares. "You don't look the way I remember." But Manni's +appearance is familiar from big-Manni's memories, captured by the unblinking +Argus awareness of the panopticon dust floating in the air. "Are your parents +home? Your" - his voice cracks - "great-grandmother?" + +The door opens wider. "You can come in," the kid says gravely. Then he hops +backward and ducks shyly into a side room - or as if expecting to be gunned +down by a hostile sniper, Manfred realizes. It's tough being a kid when there +are no rules against lethal force because you can be restored from a backup +when playtime ends. + +Inside the dwelling - calling it a house seems wrong to Manfred, not when bits +of it are separated by trillions of kilometers of empty vacuum - things feel a +bit crowded. He can hear voices from the dayroom, so he goes there, brushing +through the archway of thornless roses that Rita has trained around the T-gate +frame. His body feels lighter, but his heart is heavy as he looks around. +"Rita?" he asks. "And -" + +"Hello, Manfred." Pamela nods at him guardedly. + +Rita raises an eyebrow at him. "The cat asked if he could borrow the household +assembler. I wasn't expecting a family reunion." + +"Neither was I." Manfred rubs his forehead ruefully. "Pamela, this is Rita. +She's married to Sirhan. They're my - I guess eigenparents is as good as term +as any? I mean, they're bringing up my reincarnation." + +"Please, have a seat," Rita offers, waving at the empty floor between the patio +and the stone fountain in the shape of a section through a glass hypersphere. A +futon of spun diamondoid congeals out of the utility fog floating in the air, +glittering in the artificial sunlight. "Sirhan's just taking care of Manni - +our son. He'll be with us in just a minute." + +Manfred sits gingerly at one side of the futon. Pamela sits stiffly at the +opposite edge, not meeting his eye. Last time they met in the flesh - an +awesome gulf of years previously - they'd parted cursing each other, on +opposite sides of a fractious divorce as well as an ideological barrier as high +as a continental divide. But many subjective decades have passed, and both +ideology and divorce have dwindled in significance - if indeed they ever +happened. Now that there's common cause to draw them together, Manfred can +barely look at her. "How is Manni?" he asks his hostess, desperate for small +talk. + +"He's fine," Rita says, in a brittle voice. "Just the usual preadolescent +turbulence, if it wasn't for ..." She trails off. A door appears in mid air and +Sirhan steps through it, followed by a small deity wearing a fur coat. + +"Look what the cat dragged in," Aineko remarks. + +"You're a fine one to talk," Pamela says icily. "Don't you think you'd -" + +"I tried to keep him away from you," Sirhan tells Manfred, "but he wouldn't -" + +"That's okay." Manfred waves it off. "Pamela, would you mind starting?" + +"Yes, I would." She glances at him sidelong. "You go first." + +"Right. You wanted me here." Manfred hunkers down to stare at the cat. "What do +you want?" + +"If I was your traditional middle-European devil, I'd say I'd come to steal +your soul," says Aineko, looking up at Manfred and twitching his tail. "Luckily +I'm not a dualist, I just want to borrow it for a while. Won't even get it +dirty." + +"Uh-huh." Manfred raises an eyebrow. "Why?" + +"I'm not omniscient." Aineko sits down, one leg sticking out sideways, but +continues to stare at Manfred. "I had a ... a telegram, I guess, claiming to be +from you. From the other copy of you, that is, the one that went off through +the router network with another copy of me, and with Amber, and everyone else +who isn't here. It says it found the answer and it wants to give me a shortcut +route out to the deep thinkers at the edge of the observable universe. It knows +who made the wormhole network and why, and -" Aineko pauses. If he was human, +he'd shrug, but being a cat, he absent mindedly scritches behind his left ear +with a hind leg. "Trouble is, I'm not sure I can trust it. So I need you to +authenticate the message. I don't dare use my own memory of you because it +knows too much about me; if the package is a Trojan, it might find out things I +don't want it to learn. I can't even redact its memories of me - that, too, +would convey useful information to the packet if it is hostile. So I want a +copy of you from the museum, fresh and uncontaminated." + +"Is that all?" Sirhan asks incredulously. + +"Sounds like enough to me," Manfred responds. Pamela opens her mouth, ready to +speak, but Manfred makes eye contact and shakes his head infinitesimally. She +looks right back and - a shock goes through him - nods and closes her mouth. +The moment of complicity is dizzying. "I want something in return." + +"Sure," says the cat. He pauses. "You realize it's a destructive process." + +"It's a - /{what}/?" + +"I need to make a running copy of you. Then I introduce it to the, uh, alien +information, in a sandbox. The sandbox gets destroyed afterward - it emits just +one bit of information, a yes or no to the question, can I trust the alien +information?" + +"Uh." Manfred begins to sweat. "Uh. I'm not so sure I like the sound of that." + +"It's a copy." Another cat-shrug moment. "You're a copy. Manni is a copy. +You've been copied so many times it's silly - you realize every few years every +atom in your body changes? Of course, it means a copy of you gets to die after +a lifetime or two of unique, unrepeatable experiences that you'll never know +about, but that won't matter to you." + +"Yes it does! You're talking about condemning a version of me to death! It may +not affect me, here, in this body, but it certainly affects that /{other}/ me. +Can't you -" + +"No, I can't. If I agreed to rescue the copy if it reached a positive verdict, +that would give it an incentive to lie if the truth was that the alien message +is untrustworthy, wouldn't it? Also, if I intended to rescue the copy, that +would give the message a back channel through which to encode an attack. One +bit, Manfred, no more." + +"Agh." Manfred stops talking. He knows he should be trying to come up with some +kind of objection, but Aineko must have already considered all his possible +responses and planned strategies around them. "Where does /{she}/ fit into +this?" he asks, nodding at Pamela. + +"Oh, she's your payment," Aineko says with studied insouciance. "I have a very +good memory for people, especially people I've known for decades. You've +outlasted that crude emotional conditioning I used on you around the time of +the divorce, and as for her, she's a good reinstantiation of -" + +"Do you know what it's like to die?" Pamela asks, finally losing her +self-control. "Or would you like to find out the hard way? Because if you keep +talking about me as if I'm a /{slave}/ -" + +"What makes you think you aren't?" The cat is grinning hideously, needle like +teeth bared. /{Why doesn't she hit him}/? Manfred asks himself fuzzily, +wondering also why he feels no urge to move against the monster. "Hybridizing +you with Manfred was, admittedly, a fine piece of work on my part, but you +would have been bad for him during his peak creative years. A contented Manfred +is an idle Manfred. I got several extra good bits of work out of him by +splitting you up, and by the time he burned out, Amber was ready. But I +digress; if you give me what I want, I shall /{leave you alone}/. It's as +simple as that. Raising new generations of Macxs has been a good hobby, you +make interesting pets, but ultimately it's limited by your stubborn refusal to +transcend your humanity. So that's what I'm offering, basically. Let me +destructively run a copy of you to completion in a black box along with a +purported Turing Oracle based on yourself, and I'll let you go. And you too, +Pamela. You'll be happy together this time, without me pushing you apart. And I +promise I won't return to haunt your descendants, either." The cat glances over +his shoulder at Sirhan and Rita, who clutch at each other in abject horror; and +Manfred finds he can sense a shadow of Aineko's huge algorithmic complexity +hanging over the household, like a lurching nightmare out of number theory. + +"Is that all we are to you? A pet-breeding program?" Pamela asks coldly. She's +run up against Aineko's implanted limits, too, Manfred realizes with a growing +sense of horror. /{Did we really split up because}/ Aineko made us? It's hard +to believe: Manfred is too much of a realist to trust the cat to tell the truth +except when it serves to further his interests. But this - + +"Not entirely." Aineko is complacent. "Not at first, before I was aware of my +own existence. Besides, you humans keep pets, too. But you /{were}/ fun to play +with." + +Pamela stands up, angry to the point of storming out. Before he quite realizes +what he's doing, Manfred is on his feet, too, one arm protectively around her. +"Tell me first, are our memories our own?" he demands. + +"Don't trust it," Pamela says sharply. "It's not human, and it lies." Her +shoulders are tense. + +"Yes, they are," says Aineko. He yawns. "Tell me I'm lying, bitch," he adds +mockingly: "I carried you around in my head for long enough to know you've no +evidence." + +"But I -" Her arm slips around Manfred's waist. "I don't hate him." A rueful +laugh: "I /{remember}/ hating him, but -" + +"Humans: such a brilliant model of emotional self-awareness," Aineko says with +a theatrical sigh. "You're as stupid as it's possible for an intelligent +species to be - there being no evolutionary pressure to be any smarter - but +you still don't internalize that and act accordingly around your superiors. +Listen, girl, everything you remember is true. That doesn't mean you remember +it because it actually happened, just that you remember it because you +experienced it internally. Your memories of experiences are accurate, but your +emotional responses to those experiences were manipulated. Get it? One ape's +hallucination is another ape's religious experience, it just depends on which +one's god module is overactive at the time. That goes for all of you." Aineko +looks around at them in mild contempt. "But I don't need you anymore, and if +you do this one thing for me, you're going to be free. Understand? Say yes, +Manfred; if you leave your mouth open like that, a bird will nest on your +tongue." + +"Say no -" Pamela urges him, just as Manfred says, "Yes." + +Aineko laughs, baring contemptuous fangs at them. "Ah, primate family loyalty! +So wonderful and reliable. Thank you, Manny, I do believe you just gave me +permission to copy and enslave you -" + +Which is when Manni, who has been waiting in the doorway for the past minute, +leaps on the cat with a scream and a scythelike arm drawn back and ready to +strike. + +The cat-avatar is, of course, ready for Manni: It whirls and hisses, extending +diamond-sharp claws. Sirhan shouts, "No! Manni!" and begins to move, but +adult-Manfred freezes, realizing with a chill that what is happening is more +than is apparent. Manni grabs for the cat with his human hands, catching it by +the scruff of his neck and dragging it toward his vicious scythe-arm's edge. +There's a screech, a nerve-racking caterwauling, and Manni yells, bright +parallel blood tracks on his arm - the avatar is a real fleshbody in its own +right, with an autonomic control system that isn't going to give up without a +fight, whatever its vastly larger exocortex thinks - but Manni's scythe +convulses, and there's a horrible bubbling noise and a spray of blood as the +pussycat-thing goes flying. It's all over in a second before any of the adults +can really move. Sirhan scoops up Manni and yanks him away, but there are no +hidden surprises. Aineko's avatar is just a broken rag of bloody fur, guts, and +blood spilled across the floor. The ghost of a triumphant feline laugh hangs +over their innerspeech ears for a moment, then fades. + +"Bad boy!" Rita shouts, striding forward furiously. Manni cowers, then begins +to cry, a safe reflex for a little boy who doesn't quite understand the nature +of the threat to his parents. + +"No! It's all right," Manfred seeks to explain. + +Pamela tightens her grip around him. "Are you still ...?" + +"Yes." He takes a deep breath. + +"You bad, /{bad}/ child -" + +"Cat was going to eat him!" Manni protests, as his parents bundle him +protectively out of the room, Sirhan casting a guilty look over his shoulder at +the adult instance and his ex-wife. "I had to stop the bad thing!" + +Manfred feels Pamela's shoulders shaking. It feels like she's about to laugh. +"I'm still here," he murmurs, half-surprised. "Spat out, undigested, after all +these years. At least, /{this}/ version of me thinks he's here." + +"Did you believe it?" she finally asks, a tone of disbelief in her voice. + +"Oh yes." He shifts his balance from foot to foot, absent mindedly stroking her +hair. "I believe everything it said was intended to make us react exactly the +way we did. Up to and including giving us good reasons to hate it and provoking +Manni into disposing of its avatar. Aineko wanted to check out of our lives and +figured a sense of cathartic closure would help. Not to mention playing the +deus ex machina in the narrative of our family life. Fucking classical +comedian." He checks a status report with Citymind, and sighs: His version +number has just been bumped a point. "Tell me, do you think you'll miss having +Aineko around? Because we won't be hearing from him again -" + +"Don't talk about that, not now," she orders him, digging her chin against the +side of his neck. "I feel so /{used}/." + +"With good reason." They stand holding each other for a while, not speaking, +not really questioning why - after so much time apart - they've come together +again. "Hanging out with gods is never a safe activity for mere mortals like +us. You think you've been used? Aineko has probably killed me by now. Unless he +was lying about disposing of the spare copy, too." + +She shudders in his arms. "That's the trouble with dealing with posthumans; +their mental model of you is likely to be more detailed than your own." + +"How long have you been awake?" he asks, gently trying to change the subject. + +"I - oh, I'm not sure." She lets go of him and steps back, watching his face +appraisingly. "I remember back on Saturn, stealing a museum piece and setting +out, and then, well. I found myself here. With you." + +"I think," he licks his lips, "we've both been given a wake-up call. Or maybe a +second chance. What are you going to do with yours?" + +"I don't know." That appraising look again, as if she's trying to work out what +he's worth. He's used to it, but this time it doesn't feel hostile. "We've got +too much history for this to be easy. Either Aineko was lying, or ... not. What +about you? What do you really want?" + +He knows what she's asking. "Be my mistress?" he asks, offering her a hand. + +"This time," she grips his hand, "without adult supervision." She smiles +gratefully, and they walk toward the gateway together, to find out how their +descendants are dealing with their sudden freedom. + +(THE END: June 1999 to April 2004) + +% Copyright © Charles Stross, 2005 + +% Published by + +% Ace Books, New York, July 2005, ISBN 0441012841 + +% Orbit Books, London, August 2005, ISBN 1841493902 + +% License +% Creative Commons License + +% Copyright © Charles Stross, 2005. + +% This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. + +% You are free to copy, distribute, display, and perform the work under the following conditions: + +% * Attribution. You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor. +% * Noncommercial. You may not use this work for commercial purposes. +% * No Derivative Works. You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. +% * For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. +% +% If you are in doubt about any proposed reuse, you should contact the author via: www.accelerando.org. + +% Contents + +% Part 1: Slow Takeoff +% +% * Lobsters +% * Troubadour +% * Tourist +% +% Part 2: Point of Inflection +% +% * Halo +% * Router +% * Nightfall +% +% Part 3: Singularity +% +% * Curator +% * Elector +% * Survivor + +% problem with transformation ^{+4904}^/,{-56}, is not transformed correctly, corrected for >= sisu-0.49.1 |