Accelerando

by Charles Stross

  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 postenlightenment 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 on 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 a 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 to 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.
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br />   “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 strands 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.