A novel by Charles Stross
Copyright © Charles Stross, 2005
Published by
Ace Books, New York, July 2005, ISBN 0441012841
Orbit Books, London, August 2005, ISBN 1841493902
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Copyright © Charles Stross, 2005.
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Dedication
For Feòrag, with love
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.
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).
Contents
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
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.
* * *
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * *
Welcome to the early twenty-first century, human.
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 1027
kilograms. Around the
world, laboring women produce forty-five thousand babies a
day, representing 1023
MIPS of processing power. Also around the
world, fab lines casually churn out thirty million
microprocessors a day, representing 1023
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?”
* * *
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.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.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.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.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.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.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.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.
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 –
* * *
Welcome to the eve of the third decade: a time of chaos
characterized by an all-out depression in the space
industries.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.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.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.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.
* * *
Getting back to the history lesson, the prospects for the decade look mostly medical.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 reflexi
