Accelerando

by Charles Stross

  “Yeah,” she says, shyly. “Are you from tante’Nette?”

  “No, I’m from the fucking tooth fairy.” It leans over and head-butts her knee, strops the scent glands between its ears all over her skirt. “Listen, you got any tuna in the kitchen?”

  “Mom doesn’t believe in seafood,” says Amber. “It’s all foreign-farmed muck these days, she says. It’s my birthday today, did I tell you?”

  “Happy fucking birthday, then.” The cat yawns, convincingly realistic. “Here’s your dad’s present. Bastard put me in hibernation and sent me along to show you how to work it. You take my advice, you’ll trash the fucker. No good will come of it.”

  Amber interrupts the cat’s grumbling by clapping her hands gleefully. “So what is it?” she demands. “A new invention? Some kind of weird sex toy from Amsterdam? A gun, so I can shoot Pastor Wallace?”

  “Naah.” The cat yawns, yet again, and curls up on the floor next to the 3D printer. “It’s some kinda dodgy business model to get you out of hock to your mom. Better be careful, though—he says its legality is narrowly scoped jurisdiction-wise. Your mom might be able to undermine it if she learns about how it works.”

  “Wow. Like, how totally cool.” In truth, Amber is delighted because it is her birthday, but Mom’s at work, and Amber’s home alone, with just the TV in moral majority mode for company. Things have gone downhill since Mom decided a modal average dose of old-time religion was an essential part of her upbringing, to the point that absolutely the best thing in the world tante Annette could send her is some scam programmed by Daddy to take her away. If it doesn’t work, Mom will take her to church tonight, and she’s certain she’ll end up making a scene again. Amber’s tolerance of willful idiocy is diminishing rapidly, and while building up her memetic immunity might be the real reason Mom’s forcing this shit on her—it’s always hard to tell with Mom—things have been tense ever since she got expelled from Sunday school for mounting a spirited defense of the theory of evolution.

  The cat sniffs in the direction of the printer. “Why doncha fire it up?” Amber opens the lid on the printer, removes the packing popcorn, and plugs it in. There’s a whir and a rush of waste heat from its rear as it cools the imaging heads down to working temperature and registers her ownership.

  “What do I do now?” she asks.

  “Pick up the page labeled READ ME and follow the instructions,” the cat recites in a bored singsong voice. It winks at her, then fakes an exaggerated French accent: “Le READ ME, il sont contain directions pour executing le corporate instrument dans le boit. In event of perplexity, consult the accompanying Aineko for clarification.” The cat wrinkles its nose rapidly, as if it’s about to bite an invisible insect. “Warning: Don’t rely on your father’s cat’s opinions. It is a perverse beast and cannot be trusted. Your mother helped seed its meme base, back when they were married. Ends.” It mumbles on for a while. “Fucking snotty Parisian bitch. I’ll piss in her knicker drawer. I’ll molt in her bidet . . .”

  “Don’t be vile.” Amber scans the READ ME quickly. Corporate instruments are strong magic, according to Daddy, and this one is exotic by any standards—a limited company established in Yemen, contorted by the intersection between shari’a and the global legislatosaurus. Understanding it isn’t easy, even with a personal net full of subsapient agents that have full access to whole libraries of international trade law—the bottleneck is comprehension. Amber finds the documents highly puzzling. It’s not the fact that half of them are written in Arabic that bothers her—that’s what her grammar engine is for—or even that they’re full of S-expressions and semidigestible chunks of LISP: But the company seems to assert that it exists for the sole purpose of owning chattel slaves.

  “What’s going on?” she asks the cat. “What’s this all about?”

  The cat sneezes, then looks disgusted. “This wasn’t my idea, big shot. Your father is a very weird guy, and your mother hates him lots because she’s still in love with him. She’s got kinks, y’know? Or maybe she’s sublimating them, if she’s serious about this church shit she’s putting you through. He thinks she’s a control freak, and he’s not entirely wrong. Anyway, after your dad ran off in search of another dom, she took out an injunction against him. But she forgot to cover his partner, and she bought this parcel of worms and sent them to you, okay? Annie is a real bitch, but he’s got her wrapped right around his finger, or something. Anyway, he built these companies and this printer—which isn’t hardwired to a filtering proxy, like your mom’s—specifically to let you get away from her legally. If that’s what you want to do.”

  Amber fast-forwards through the dynamic chunks of the READ ME—boring legal UML diagrams, mostly—soaking up the gist of the plan. Yemen is one of the few countries to implement traditional Sunni shari’a law and a limited liability company scam at the same time. Owning slaves is legal—the fiction is that the owner has an option hedged on the indentured laborer’s future output, with interest payments that grow faster than the unfortunate victim can pay them off—and companies are legal entities. If Amber sells herself into slavery to this company, she will become a slave and the company will be legally liable for her actions and upkeep. The rest of the legal instrument—about ninety percent of it, in fact—is a set of self-modifying corporate mechanisms coded in a variety of jurisdictions that permit Turing-complete company constitutions, and which act as an ownership shell for the slavery contract. At the far end of the corporate shell game is a trust fund of which Amber is the prime beneficiary and shareholder. When she reaches the age of majority, she’ll acquire total control over all the companies in the network and can dissolve her slave contract; until then, the trust fund (which she essentially owns) oversees the company that owns her (and keeps it safe from hostile takeover bids). Oh, and the company network is primed by an extraordinary general meeting that instructed it to move the trust’s assets to Paris immediately. A one-way airline ticket is enclosed.

  “You think I should take this?” she asks uncertainly. It’s hard to tell how smart the cat really is—there’s probably a yawning vacuum behind those semantic networks if you dig deep enough—but it tells a pretty convincing tale.

  The cat squats and curls its tail protectively around its paws. “I’m saying nothing, you know what I mean? You take this, you can go live with your dad. But it won’t stop your ma coming after him with a horsewhip, and after you with a bunch of lawyers and a set of handcuffs. You want my advice, you’ll phone the Franklins and get aboard their off-planet mining scam. In space, no one can serve a writ on you. Plus, they got long-term plans to get into the CETI market, cracking alien network packets. You want my honest opinion: You wouldn’t like it in Paris after a bit. Your dad and the frog bitch, they’re swingers, y’know? No time in their lives for a kid. Or a cat like me, now I think of it. They’re working all day for the senator, and out all hours of night doing drugs, fetish parties, raves, opera, that kind of adult shit. Your dad dresses in frocks more than your mom, and your tante’Nettie leads him around the apartment on a chain when they’re not having noisy sex on the balcony. They’d cramp your style, kid. You shouldn’t have to put up with parents who have more of a life than you do.”

  “Huh.” Amber wrinkles her nose, half-disgusted by the cat’s transparent scheming, and half-acknowledging its message. I better think hard about this, she decides. Then she flies off in so many directions at once that she nearly browns out the household broadband. Part of her is examining the intricate card pyramid of company structures; somewhere else, she’s thinking about what can go wrong, while another bit (probably some of her wet, messy glandular biological self ) is thinking about how nice it would be to see Daddy again, albeit with some trepidation. Parents aren’t supposed to have sex—isn’t there a law, or something? “Tell me about the Franklins? Are they married? Singular?”

  The 3D printer is cranking up. It hisses slightly, dissipating heat from the hard vacuum chamber in its supercooled workspace. Deep in i
ts guts it creates coherent atom beams, from a bunch of Bose-Einstein condensates hovering on the edge of absolute zero. By superimposing interference patterns on them, it generates an atomic hologram, building a perfect replica of some original artifact, right down to the atomic level—there are no clunky moving nanotechnology parts to break or overheat or mutate. Something is going to come out of the printer in half an hour, something cloned off its original right down to the individual quantum states of its component atomic nuclei. The cat, seemingly oblivious, shuffles closer to the warm air exhaust ducts.

  “Bob Franklin, he died about two, three years before you were born—your dad did business with him. So did your mom. Anyway, he had chunks of his noumen preserved and the estate trustees are trying to re-create his consciousness by cross-loading him in their implants. They’re sort of a borganism, but with money and style. Anyway, Bob got into the space biz back then, with some financial wizardry a friend of your father whipped up for him, and now they’re building a spacehab that they’re going to take all the way out to Jupiter, where they can dismantle a couple of small moons and begin building helium-three refineries. It’s that CETI scam I told you about earlier, but they’ve got a whole load of other angles on it for the long term. See, your dad’s friends have cracked the broadcast, the one everybody knows about. It’s a bunch of instructions for finding the nearest router that plugs into the galactic Internet. And they want to go out there and talk to some aliens.”

  This is mostly going right over Amber’s head—she’ll have to learn what helium-three refineries are later—but the idea of running away to space has a certain appeal. Adventure, that’s what. Amber looks around the living room and sees it for a moment as a capsule, a small wooden cell locked deep in a vision of a middle America that never was—the one her mom wants to bring her up in, like a misshapen Skinner box designed to train her to be normal. “Is Jupiter fun?” she asks. “I know it’s big and not very dense, but is it, like, a happening place? Are there any aliens there?”

  “It’s the first place you need to go if you want to get to meet the aliens eventually,” says the cat, as the printer clanks and disgorges a fake passport (convincingly aged), an intricate metal seal engraved with Arabic script, and a tailored wide-spectrum vaccine targeted on Amber’s immature immune system. “Stick that on your wrist, sign the three top copies, put them in the envelope, and let’s get going. We’ve got a flight to catch, slave.”

  Sadeq is eating his dinner when the first lawsuit in Jupiter orbit rolls in.

  Alone in the cramped humming void of his station, he considers the plea. The language is awkward, showing all the hallmarks of a crude machine translation: The supplicant is American, a woman, and—oddly—claims to be a Christian. This is surprising enough, but the nature of her claim is, at face value, preposterous. He forces himself to finish his bread, then bag the waste and clean the platter, before he gives it his full consideration. Is it a tasteless joke? Evidently not. As the only quadi outside the orbit of Mars, he is uniquely qualified to hear it, and it is a case that cries out for justice.

  A woman who leads a God-fearing life—not a correct one, no, but she shows some signs of humility and progress toward a deeper understanding—is deprived of her child by the machinations of a feckless husband who deserted her years before. That the woman was raising the child alone strikes Sadeq as disturbingly Western, but pardonable when he reads her account of the feckless one’s behavior, which is pretty lax; an ill fate indeed would await any child that this man raises to adulthood. This man deprives her of her child, but not by legitimate means. He doesn’t take the child into his own household or make any attempt to raise her, either in accordance with his own customs or the precepts of shari’a. Instead, he enslaves her wickedly in the mire of the Western legal tradition, then casts her into outer darkness to be used as a laborer by the dubious forces of self-proclaimed “progress.” The same forces Sadeq has been sent to confront, as representative of the umma in orbit around Jupiter.

  Sadeq scratches his short beard thoughtfully. A nasty tale, but what can he do about it? “Computer,” he says, “a reply to this supplicant: My sympathies lie with you in the manner of your suffering, but I fail to see in what way I can be of assistance. Your heart cries out for help before God (blessed be his name), but surely this is a matter for the temporal authorities of the dar al-Harb.” He pauses. Or is it? he wonders. Legal wheels begin to turn in his mind. “If you can but find your way to extending to me a path by which I can assert the primacy of shari’a over your daughter, I shall apply myself to constructing a case for her emancipation, to the greater glory of God (blessed be his name). Ends, sig-block, send.”

  Releasing the Velcro straps that hold him at the table, Sadeq floats up and kicks gently toward the forward end of the cramped habitat. The controls of the telescope are positioned between the ultrasonic clothing cleaner and the lithium hydroxide scrubbers. They’re already freed up, because he was conducting a wide-field survey of the inner ring, looking for the signature of water ice. It is the work of a few moments to pipe the navigation and tracking system into the telescope’s controller and direct it to hunt for the big foreign ship of fools. Something nudges at Sadeq’s mind urgently, an irritating realization that he may have missed something in the woman’s e-mail: There were a number of huge attachments. With half his mind he surfs the news digest his scholarly peers send him daily. Meanwhile, he waits patiently for the telescope to find the speck of light that the poor woman’s daughter is enslaved within.

  This might be a way in, he realizes, a way to enter dialogue with them. Let the hard questions answer themselves, elegantly. There will be no need for confrontation if they can be convinced that their plans are faulty: no need to defend the godly from the latter-day Tower of Babel these people propose to build. If this woman Pamela means what she says, Sadeq need not end his days out here in the cold between the worlds, away from his elderly parents and brother, and his colleagues and friends. And he will be profoundly grateful because, he in his heart of hearts, he knows that he is less a warrior than a scholar.

  “I’m sorry, but the borg is attempting to assimilate a lawsuit,” says the receptionist. “Will you hold?”

  “Crud.” Amber blinks the Binary Betty answerphone sprite out of her eye and glances round at the cabin. “That is so last century,” she grumbles. “Who do they think they are?”

  “Dr. Robert H. Franklin,” volunteers the cat. “It’s a losing proposition if you ask me. Bob was so fond of his dope there’s this whole hippy group mind that’s grown up using his state vector as a bong—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Amber shouts at him. Instantly contrite (for yelling in an inflatable spacecraft is a major faux pas). “Sorry.” She spawns an autonomic thread with full parasympathetic nervous control, tells it to calm her down, then spawns a couple more to go forth and become fuqaha, expert on shari’a law. She realizes she’s buying up way too much of the orphanage’s scarce bandwidth—time that will have to be paid for in chores, later—but it’s necessary. “Mom’s gone too far. This time it’s war.”

  She slams out of her cabin and spins right round in the central axis of the hab, a rogue missile pinging for a target to vent her rage on. A tantrum would be good—

  But her body is telling her to chill out, take ten, and there’s a drone of scriptural lore dribbling away in the back of her head, and she’s feeling frustrated and angry and not in control, but not really mad anymore. It was like this three years ago when Mom noticed her getting on too well with Jenny Morgan and moved her to a new school district—she said it was a work assignment, but Amber knows better. Mom asked for it—just to keep her dependent and helpless. Mom is a control freak with fixed ideas about how to bring up a child, and ever since she lost Dad, she’s been working her claws into Amber, making her upbringing a life’s work—which is tough, because Amber is not good victim material, and is smart and well networked to boot. But now, Mom’s found a way to fuck Amber over co
mpletely, even in Jupiter orbit, and if not for her skullware keeping a lid on things, Amber would be totally out of control.

  Instead of shouting at her cat or trying to message the Franklins, Amber goes to hunt down the borg in their meatspace den.

  There are sixteen borg aboard the Sanger—adults, members of the Franklin Collective, squatters in the ruins of Bob Franklin’s posthumous vision. They lend bits of their brains to the task of running what science has been able to resurrect of the dead dot-com billionaire’s mind, making him the first bodhisattva of the uploading age—apart from the lobster colony, of course. Their den mother is a woman called Monica—a willowy, brown-eyed hive queen with raster-burned corneal implants and a dry, sardonic delivery that can corrode egos like a desert wind. She’s better than any of the others at running Bob, except for the creepy one called Jack, and she’s no slouch when she’s being herself (unlike Jack, who is never himself in public). Which probably explains why they elected her Maximum Leader of the expedition.

  Amber finds Monica in the number four kitchen garden, performing surgery on a filter that’s been blocked by toad spawn. She’s almost buried beneath a large pipe, her Velcro-taped tool kit waving in the breeze like strange blue air-kelp. “Monica? You got a minute?”

  “Sure, I have lots of minutes. Make yourself helpful? Pass me the antitorque wrench and a number six hex head.”

  “Um.” Amber captures the blue flag and fiddles around with its contents. Something that has batteries, motors, a flywheel counterweight, and laser gyros assembles itself—Amber passes it under the pipe. “Here. Listen, your phone is engaged.”