Existence

by David Brin

  While grinning and taking another drink, Hamish felt flush from his sudden, passionate spill of words. In truth, it had felt like delivering a movie plot pitch to some producer, spinning—in a matter of seconds—a wonderful, nefarious scheme that would make perfect sense on-screen. One that meshed with human nature and history, and that … well … in fact most of it was already underway in the modern world.

  The sociologist blinked rapidly a few times.

  “I’m not sure that ‘tyranny’ is the word Plato would use.”

  Oops. Hamish was suddenly aware that others had turned to watch his outburst. Damn. I got so into story mode, I wound up portraying the clade aristos as villains! My next step would have been to explain how a trio of quirky heroes might proceed to bring the whole edifice crashing … in less than ninety minutes of view-time.

  He worked at his plate while thinking. How to get out of this?

  “No, of course not,” he murmured after chewing and swallowing. “In fact, such perfect security would likely lessen the harshness of future rulers. No need for the iron-boot cruelty portrayed in that George Orwell novel. Why bother? Perfect rulers, all knowing and secure, would scarcely need brutality. They would, in fact, try for platonic paradise.

  “But please,” he urged, “go back to your point about how a pyramidal social order will be improved by Confucian ways.”

  She nodded, clearly as eager to get on track as he was to be quiet a while.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Brookeman—”

  With his most disarming smile, he reached over to touch her hand.

  “Call me Hamish.”

  “Very well … Hamish.” Her fine complexion changed hue and she smiled shyly, charmingly, before hurrying on. “Way back in the twentieth century leaders of Singapore and Japan, and then Great China, pondered non-Western ways to manage a complex modern society. Finding the occidental enlightenment far too brash and unpredictable, they cleverly designed methods to incorporate technology and science—along with limited aspects of capitalism and democracy—into a social order that also remained traditional and essentially pyramidal, without the chaos, friction, and unpredictability found in America or Europe. Much of their inspiration came from Asian history, which had much longer stretches of stable and noble governance than the West.”

  Yeah, sure, he thought while she kept talking. But will any of this really matter when brainiac machines burst upon the scene? They’ll have priorities. And first will be a humanity that is well ordered. Predictable. They won’t try to exterminate or enslave us, though I’ve exploited that cliché many times, in books and films. No, they’ll want us calm and ruled by our own kind, in ways they can easily model and guide.

  It had taken Hamish years to reach this conclusion, after decades spent loathing and resisting the notion of artificial minds. Only recently did he accept the inevitable. Especially when he realized—Whatever logic applied to other elites will apply to the new AI lords. They’ll want us to tithe resources to support their passions and goals. Beyond that, they’ll want their human vassals to be content. Happy. Perhaps even imagining we’re still in charge.

  Illusions like the one being spun by the alluring sociologist, who talked on—as a palate-clearing salad was consumed and cleared away, making room for the main course of farm-raised realbeef, deliciously tender and rare—about how the East Asian version of aristocratism was so much better than any other feudal order.

  The sociologist appeared blithely unaware that Hamish’s thoughts had split—part of him paying attention, another portion distantly contemplative, and a third greedily wondering what her body was like, under the silken sari.

  “Even in olden times, the Confucians mixed deep conservatism and belief in hierarchy with the concept of meritocracy. The brightest children of the poor and merchant castes could sometimes test their way into higher levels of the pyramid, applying their talents to augment the prestige of their liege.” She chirped a short, proud hiccup over the double rhyme, then took a quick sip of wine.

  Hamish found amusing how her model interlaced with his own, though with one difference—that he knew what cool, cybernetic entities would sit, inevitably, at the very top of the social order, above even the First Estate. Still, this woman was generally on the right side … and more interesting than anybody else at this end of the table. And she was clearly smitten—most likely by his celebrity status.

  Anyway, he decided to accept the inevitable by the time dessert arrived—an Earth-shaped medley that their host gleefully opened with a saber, exposing alternating layers of crusty pastry, gelato, and chocolate that, like the planet itself, terminated in a delightfully molten core.

  Even later, though, as they staggered side by side, giggling, on their way to her room, Hamish remained partly detached—the same detachment that had kept Carolyn at a cool distance all those years, till she finally left. And even then, he could not stop picturing the AI minds deciding to formulate themselves as ideal Confucian mandarins. So serenely confident that they might tolerate and reward the best of those below. Might the new uber-lairds allow a few humans to rise, through “merit” and join them, at the pinnacle? Perhaps as cyborgs, enhanced to operate at their level?

  It represented everything he had preached against for decades. Yet, to be honest, Hamish found his views shifting gradually. For there was also a strong temptation to want that destiny. The mad dream of the godmakers, its tug was undeniable.

  If we handle the transition right, the New Pyramid will be smart, gracious, calm. People will have their elections, and other toys. Above them, aristos will maintain stability. And at the peak? Ais will slip into their top niche gracefully, with hardly a ripple.

  Then, after a few centuries of tranquility, maybe we’ll be ready to unbury that damned Havana Artifact from some cold, dark closet, and talk about the stars.

  ENTROPY

  Optimists offer evidence that things will be all right, like the fact that major war has been evaded—despite some burns and narrow scrapes—and that most individuals today know far more peace than their ancestors did. Even in this economy, hundreds of millions strive each day with real hope of climbing out of poverty, seeing their children healthier and better educated. Except in the toxoplasma hot zone, interpersonal violence is down again, on a per capita basis.

  Yes, there are rumors and worried models predicting a coming conflagration—one between classes, rather than nation states. But who really yearns for such a thing to happen?

  What if the optimists are right? Suppose we in this generation are—on average—growing both smarter and more sane at a decent clip. That average still leaves a billion human beings, out of almost ten billion, who are steeped in rage, or dogmatic rigidity, or delusional repetition of discredited mistakes. You know such people. Do you recognize those traits in some of your neighbors? Or perhaps that face in the mirror?

  Remember that one harm-doer can wreck what took many hands to build. A thousand professionals may be needed, to counteract something virulent released by a single malignant software or bioware designer. It’s not that sociopaths are smarter—they generally aren’t. But they have the element of surprise, plus the brittleness of a society with many vulnerable points of attack.

  Suppose the ratio of goodness and skill continues to rise—that each year far more decent and creatively competent people join the workforce than sociopaths. Will that suffice? Perhaps.

  But then, imagine someone finds a simple way to make black holes or antimatter using common materials and wall current? Even if 99.999 percent of the population refrains, the crazy 0.001 percent might kill us all. And there are other scenarios—conceivable ways that one lunatic might outweigh all the rest of us, no matter how high a fraction are good and sane.

  If the ratio improves, but the series doesn’t converge, then there’s no hope.

  —Pandora’s Cornucopia

  37.

  ARCHIPELAGO

  Peng Xiang Bin really wanted to follow up on one comment
that had been made by the alien entity within the worldstone. When shown images of the other interstellar messenger egg—the Havana Artifact being studied in America—Courier of Caution had made clear its disdain and hatred, calling the beings who dwelled inside that vessel liars.

  Despite all the remaining translation problems, that word came through vividly and clear. It was intriguing and more than a bit chilling. Clearly Paul and Anna and the professor wanted to learn more about that, as well. But Dr. Nguyen insisted on sticking to their list of scheduled questions.

  So, Bin concentrated on drawing another set of ancient characters. When a completed line of figures floated across the surface of the egg-shaped thing, he also spoke the question aloud.

  “How did you arrive on Earth?”

  The reply came in two parts. While Courier of Caution painted ideograms and uttered antiquated words, an image took shape nearby, starting as night’s own darkness. Anna Arroyo quickly arranged for an expanded version of the picture to billow outward from their biggest 3-D display, revealing a black space vista, dusted with stars.

  In arch tones that seemed beautifully and appropriately old-fashioned, Professor Yang Shenxiu translated the ancient ideograms, aloud.

  “Pellets, hurled from the homefire,

  Thrown by godlike arms of light,

  Cast to drift for time immeasurable,

  Through emptiness unimaginable…”

  One star, amid a powdery myriad, seemed to pulsate, aiming narrow, sharp twinkles outward.…

  “Capture those constellation images!” Dr. Nguyen commanded, with no time for courtesy.

  “I’m on it!” Menelaua snapped. His fingers left the animatronic crucifix hanging from his neck and waggled in the air with desperate speed, while the islander grunted and hopped in his seat.

  Bin stared as several of the winking rays seemed to propel tiny dots in front of them. One of these zoomed straight toward his point of view, growing into a wide, reflective surface that loomed at those watching.

  “Photon sail!” Anna diagnosed. “A variant on the Nakamura design. Driven onward by a laser, at point of origin.”

  Bin grunted, amazed by her quickness—and that he actually grasped some of her meaning! The space windjammer hurtled past his viewpoint, which swiveled around to give chase—and he briefly glimpsed a tiny, smooth shape dragged behind the giant sail, brilliantly radiant in the home star’s propelling beam …

  … which finally shut down, perhaps after many years, leaving just a natural glow from the original sun, a glitter that diminished as separation increased and decades passed in seconds. With no laser light to catch anymore, the diaphanous sail contracted, folding and collapsing into a small container at one end of a little egg, whose former brightness now faded, till it could only be made out as a seed-shaped ripple, starlit, hurtling at speeds Bin couldn’t begin to contemplate.

  “Neat trick with the sail,” Paul commented. “Tuck it away, when it’s not needed for propulsion or energy collection, so it won’t snag interstellar particles. With bi-memory materials, it could expand or contract with very little effort. I bet they use it later to slow down.”

  Bin now grasped how the worldstone must have come across the incredible gulf between stars—a method sure to provoke feelings of kinship from this colony of wealthy yachting enthusiasts. At the same time, he wondered, What would ancient peoples, in China or India, have made of these images?

  They would have thought in terms of gods and monsters.

  How easy it would be, to chuckle over such naïveté. But, in fact, could anyone guarantee that modern humanity was advanced enough to understand, even now? In ways that mattered most?

  Meanwhile, Scholar Yang’s narration continued.

  “Slow time passed while the galaxy turned,

  A new star loomed—its light, a cushion.”

  The pellet turned around and redeployed its sail, which now took a gentler, braking push from a brightening light source ahead. Our sun, Bin realized. It had to be.

  “Knew it!” the islander exulted. “Of course there’s no laser at this end. So sunshine alone won’t be enough.”

  As the star ahead grew from a pinpoint into a tiny, visible disc, a new object abruptly loomed in front of the worldstone—a great, banded sphere, replete with tier after tier of whirling, multicolored storms.

  “Chosen beforehand—a giant ball waited,

  Ready to catch … pull … assist…”

  Yang Shenxiu’s translation stumbled as, even with computer aissistance, he could only offer guesses. Well, after all, Courier had a limited useful human vocabulary. Ancient Indus and Chinese people knew very little about astronomy, planetary navigation and all that.

  Just like me, Bin thought as the striped, cloudy ball approached rapidly.

  “A gravity swing past Jupiter,” Anna murmured in apparent admiration. “Like threading a microscopic needle across centuries and light-years. They had to time it perfectly.”

  The mighty gas planet swerved by, unnervingly fast, and the pellet, its sail billowed open, then plunged past the sun in a hairpin swerve before veering into black space. Far … far … until it paused at the end of a towering arc … then plummeted inward again, approaching the star from a different angle, filling the sail once more with torrents of light.

  Paul interjected. “But it would still have loads of excess velocity. This needle must have been threaded many times, offering multiple swings past other planets, as well as Jupiter and the sun, again and again.”

  His appraisal was borne out, as the broiling solar sphere darted by, making Bin’s eyes water. Just after nearest passage, the sail furled back into its container … and soon a smaller ball swung past, so close that Bin felt as if he were passing through the topmost of its churning, yellow clouds, while a brief, glowing aura surrounded the image.

  “Atmospheric braking through the atmosphere of Venus. Dang! They’d need orbital figures down to ten decimals, in order to plan this from so far away, so long in advance.”

  Then, another sudden veer and gyre past Jupiter.…

  “Yes, though it could make small, real-time adjustments, between encounters, by tacking with the sail,” Anna replied. “Still they wouldn’t arrange it in such detail without a destination in mind.” She made her own rapid finger movements. “They had to know about Earth already. From instruments, like our LifeSeeker Telescope … only far more advanced. They’d know it had an oxygen atmosphere, life, nonequilibrium methane, possibly chlorophyll. Even so—”

  Without shifting his transfixed gaze, Bin had to shake his head. There was no way that ancient peoples could have made anything of this, even if Courier showed them all the same images and told them about these worlds, named after their gods—or the other way around. Bin’s head seemed to spin, nauseated, as the whirling, planetary dance went through several further encounters—more dizzying, gut-wrenching pirouettes—until the sense of pell-mell speed finally diminished. The pace grew sedate—if no less urgent. Then another dot approached, slowly, gracefully. Bin guessed which planet from its greenish-blue glitter.

  “It must have intended to fine-tune its approach to Earth,” Paul commented, “by gradually tacking on sunlight till entering a high, safe orbit, perhaps at a Lagrange point. Then it would spend some time—centuries—evaluating the situation. Maybe use the sail as a telescope mirror, to gather light and make detailed observations from a secure distance. Then wait.”

  “Wait … for what?” Anna was doubtful. “For the planet to produce space travelers? But, the temporal coincidence is incredible! To launch this thing, timed so it arrived only a few thousand years before we made it into space? How could they have known?”

  Bin marveled how these skilled people grasped so much, so quickly. Even allowing for all of their fancy tools and aids. It was a privilege, just to be in such company.

  Paul pressed his disagreement. “Anyway, how do we know there was anything special about the time they chose? Maybe these stone-things hav
e been arriving at a steady rate, all across the last billion years, filling the solar system by now! We never surveyed the asteroid belt for objects anywhere near this small. That astronaut only happened to snag one that drifted into visible reach—”

  “It’s still an appalling coincidence,” Anna persisted. “There has to be—”

  “Comrades, please,” Professor Yang Shenxiu urged, raising his eyes briefly from his own work station. “Something is happening.”

  The glitter of Earth had begun resolving itself into a dot, and then a ball, flecked with clouds and glinting seas. Only now, the storytelling image turned and zoomed in upon the star-traveling pellet. Once again, the little box at its front end opened, the sail re-emerging.

  “At long last, the goal lay in sight,

  Now to approach gently and find a perch,

  To focus, study, and appraise,

  Then to sleep again and wait.

  Until a time of claiming,

  When allures are certain. Ready…”

  Only, this time, something went wrong. As the sail came out of its box, amid a glitter of sharp reflections, several of the lines abruptly snapped! One corner of the vast, luminous sheet dimpled inward. More lines crossed each other the wrong way. Bin blinked, feeling his gut clench as the sail rapidly fouled and collapsed, its slender cables knotted, spoiled.

  “Evidently, something went badly wrong at the last minute,” Paul commented, unnecessarily.

  Bin found he could barely breathe from tension, watching a drama that had unfolded many millennia ago. He felt sympathy for the worldstone. To have traveled so far, and come so near success, only for all plans to unravel. Yang Shenxiu recited ideograms conveying Courier’s sense of tragedy and dashed hope.

  “Failure! Luck evades us,

  While this globe reaches out,

  To cast my fate.”

  Bin glanced at the scholar, who seemed far away in time and space, his eyes glittering with soft laser reflections cast by his helper apparatus. Of course, the alien entity’s florid vocabulary must have come from its long era spent with early humans, many centuries ago, in more poetical days.