Accelerando

by Charles Stross

  Eight Earth years have passed since the good ship Field Circus slipped into close orbit around the frigid brown dwarf Hyundai +4904/-56. Five years have gone by since the launch lasers of the Ring Imperium shut down without warning, stranding the light-sail-powered craft three light years from home. There has been no response from the router, the strange alien artifact in orbit around the brown dwarf, since the crew of the starwhisp uploaded themselves through its strange quantum entanglement interface for transmission to whatever alien network it connects to. In fact, nothing happens; nothing save the slow trickle of seconds, as a watchdog timer counts down the moments remaining until it is due to resurrect stored snapshots of the crew, on the assumption that their uploaded copies are beyond help.

  Meanwhile, outside the light cone—

  Amber jolts into wakefulness, as if from a nightmare. She sits bolt upright, a thin sheet falling from her chest; air circulating around her back chills her rapidly, cold sweat evaporating. She mutters aloud, unable to subvocalize, “Where am I—oh. A bedroom. How did I get here?” Mumble. “Oh, I see.” Her eyes widen in horror. “It’s not a dream . . .”

  “Greetings, human Amber,” says a ghost-voice that seems to come from nowhere. “I see you are awake. Would you like anything?”

  Amber rubs her eyes tiredly. Leaning against the bedstead, she glances around cautiously. She takes in a bedside mirror, her reflection in it—a young woman, gaunt in the manner of those whose genome bears the p53 calorie-restriction hack; she has disheveled blond hair and dark eyes. She could pass for a dancer or a soldier; not, perhaps, a queen. “What’s going on? Where am I? Who are you, and what am I doing in your head?”

  Her eyes narrow. Analytical intellect comes to the fore as she takes stock of her surroundings. “The router,” she mutters. Structures of strange matter orbit a brown dwarf scant light years from Earth. “How long ago did we come through?” Glancing round, she sees a room walled in slabs of close-fitting stone. A window bay is recessed into them, after the style of the Crusader castles many centuries in the past, but there’s no glass in it—just a blank white screen. The only furniture in the room, besides a Persian carpet on the cold flagstones, is the bed she sits upon. She’s reminded of a scene from an old movie, Kubrick’s enigma; this whole setup has got to be deliberate, and it isn’t funny.

  “I’m waiting,” she announces, and leans back against the headboard.

  “According to our records this reaction indicates that you are now fully self-aware,” says the ghost. “This is good. You have not been conscious for a very long time. Explanations will be complex and discursive. Can I offer you refreshments? What would you like?”

  “Coffee, if you have it. Bread and hummus. Something to wear.” Amber crosses her arms, abruptly self-conscious. “I’d prefer to have management ackles to this universe, though. As realities go, it’s a bit lacking in creature comforts.” Which isn’t entirely true—it seems to have a comprehensive, human-friendly biophysics model; it’s not just a jumped-up first-person shooter. Her eyes focus on her left forearm, where tanned skin and a puckered dime of scar tissue record a youthful accident with a pressure seal in Jovian orbit. Amber freezes for a moment. Her lips move in silence, but she’s locked into place in this universe, unable to split or conjoin nested realities just by calling subroutines that have been spliced into the corners of her mind since she was a teenager. Finally, she asks, “How long have I been dead?”

  “Longer than you were alive, by orders of magnitude,” says the ghost. A tray laden with pita breads, hummus, and olives congeals from the air above her bed, and a wardrobe appears at one side of the room. “I can begin the explanation now or wait for you to finish eating. Which would you prefer?”

  Amber glances about again, then fixes on the white screen in the window bay. “Give it to me right now. I can take it,” she says, quietly bitter. “I like to understand my mistakes as soon as possible.”

  “We-us can tell that you are a human of determination,” says the ghost, a hint of pride entering its voice. “That is a good thing, Amber. You will need all of your resolve if you are going to survive here . . .”

  It is the time of repentance in a temple beside a tower that looms above a dry plain, and the thoughts of the priest who lives in the tower are tinged with regret. It is Ashura, the tenth day of Muhurram, according to a real-time clock still tuned to the pace of a different era: the one thousand, three hundred and fortieth anniversary of the martyrdom of the Third Imam, the Sayyid ash-Shuhada.

  The priest of the tower has spent an indefinite time in prayer, locked in an eternal moment of meditation and recitation. Now, as the vast red sun drifts close to the horizon of the infinite desert, his thoughts drift toward the present. Ashura is a very special day, a day of atonement for collective guilt, evil committed through inactivity; but it is in Sadeq’s nature to look outward toward the future. This is, he knows, a failing—but also characteristic of his generation. That’s the generation of the Shi’ite clergy that reacted to the excesses of the previous century, the generation that withdrew the ulama from temporal power, retreated from the velyat i-faqih of Khomenei and his successors, left government to the people, and began to engage fully with the paradoxes of modernity. Sadeq’s focus, his driving obsession in theology, is a program of reappraisal of eschatology and cosmology. Here in a tower of white sunbaked clay, on an endless plain that exists only in the imaginary spaces of a starship the size of a soft drink can, the priest spends his processor cycles in contemplation of one of the most vicious problems ever to confront a mujtahid—the Fermi paradox.

  (Enrico Fermi was eating his lunch one day, and his colleagues were discussing the possibility that sophisticated civilizations might populate other worlds. “Yes,” he said, “but if this is so, why haven’t they already come visiting?”)

  Sadeq finishes his evening devotions in near silence, then stands, stretches as is his wont, and leaves the small and lonely courtyard at the base of the tower. The gate—a wrought-iron gate, warmed by sunlight—squeals slightly as he opens it. Glancing at the upper hinge, he frowns, willing it clean and whole. The underlying physics model acknowledges his access controls: A thin rim of red around the pin turns silvery-fresh, and the squeaking ceases. Closing the gate behind him, Sadeq enters the tower.

  He climbs with a heavy, even tread, a spiral staircase snaking ever upward above him. Narrow slit-windows line the outer wall of the staircase. Through each of them he sees a different world. Out there, nightfall in the month of Ramadan. And through the next, green misty skies and a horizon too close by far. Sadeq carefully avoids thinking about the implications of this manifold space. Coming from prayer, from a sense of the sacred, he doesn’t want to lose his proximity to his faith. He’s far enough from home as it is, and there is much to consider. He is surrounded by strange and curious ideas, all but lost in a corrosive desert of faith.

  At the top of the staircase, Sadeq comes to a door of aged wood bound in iron. It doesn’t belong here: It’s a cultural and architectural anomaly. The handle is a loop of black metal. Sadeq regards it as if it’s the head of an asp, poised to sting. Nevertheless, he reaches out and turns the handle, steps across the threshold into a palace out of fantasy.

  None of this is real, he reminds himself. It’s no more real than an illusion conjured by one of the jinni of the thousand and one nights.Nevertheless, he can’t save himself from smiling at the scene—a sardonic smile of self-deprecating humor, tempered by frustration.

  Sadeq’s captors have stolen his soul and locked it—him—in a very strange prison, a temple with a tower that rises all the way to Paradise. It’s the whole classical litany of medievalist desires, distilled from fifteen hundred years of literature. Colonnaded courtyards, cool pools lined with rich mosaics, rooms filled with every imaginable dumb matter luxury, endless banquets awaiting his appetite—and dozens of beautiful un-women, eager to fulfill his every fantasy. Sadeq, being human, has fantasies by the dozen, but he doesn’t d
are permit himself to succumb to temptation. I’m not dead, he reasons; therefore, how can I be in Paradise? Therefore, this must be a false paradise, a temptation sent to lead me astray. Probably. Unless I am dead, because Allah, peace be unto him, considers a human soul separated from its body to be dead. But if that’s so, isn’t uploading a sin? In which case, this can’t be Paradise because I am a sinner. Besides which, this whole setup is so puerile!

  Sadeq has always been inclined to philosophical inquiry, and his vision of the afterlife is more cerebral than most, involving ideas as questionable within the framework of Islam as those of Teilhard de Chardin were to the twentieth-century Catholic Church. If there’s one key indicator of a false paradise in his eschatology, it’s two-and-seventy brainlessly beautiful houris waiting to do his bidding. So it follows that he can’t really be dead . . .

  The whole question of reality is so vexing that Sadeq does what he does every night. He strides heedlessly across priceless works of art, barging hastily through courtyards and passageways, ignoring niches in which nearly naked supermodels lie with their legs apart, climbing stairs—until he comes to a small unfurnished room with a single high window in one wall. There he sits on the floor, legs crossed, meditating; not in prayer, but in a more tightly focused ratiocination. Every false night (for there is no way to know how fast time is passing, outside this cyberspace pocket), Sadeq sits and thinks, grappling with Descartes’s demon in the solitude of his own mind. And the question he asks himself every night is the same. Can I tell if this is the true hell? And if it is not, how can I escape?

  The ghost tells Amber that she has been dead for just under a third of a million years. She has been reinstantiated from storage—and has died again—many times in the intervening period, but she has no memory of this; she is a fork from the main bough, and the other branches expired in lonely isolation.

  The business of resurrection does not, in and of itself, distress Amber unduly. Born in the post-Moravec era, she merely finds some aspects of the ghost’s description dissatisfyingly incomplete. It’s like saying she was drugged and brought hither without stating whether by plane, train, or automobile.

  She doesn’t have a problem with the ghost’s assertion that she is nowhere near Earth—indeed, that she is approximately eighty thousand light years away. When she and the others took the risk of uploading themselves through the router they found in orbit around Hyundai +4904/-56 they’d understood that they could end up anywhere or nowhere. But the idea that she’s still within the light cone of her departure strikes her as dubious. The original SETI broadcast strongly implied that the router is part of a network of self-replicating instantaneous communicators, spawning and spreading between the cold brown dwarf stars that litter the galaxy. She’d somehow expected to be much farther from home by now.

  Somewhat more disturbing is the ghost’s assertion that the human genotype has rendered itself extinct at least twice, that its home planet is unknown, and that Amber is nearly the only human left in the public archives. At this point, she interrupts. “I hardly see what this has to do with me!” Then she blows across her coffee glass, trying to cool the contents. “I’m dead,” she explains, with an undertone of knowing sarcasm in her voice. “Remember? I just got here. A thousand seconds ago, subjective time, I was in the control node of a starship, discussing what to do with the router we were in orbit around. We agreed to send ourselves through it, as a trade mission. Then I woke up in bed here in the umpty-zillionth century, wherever and whatever here is. Without access to any reality ackles or augmentation, I can’t even tell whether this is real or an embedded simulation. You’re going to have to explain why you need an old version of me before I can make sense of my situation—and I can tell you, I’m not going to help you until I know who you are. And speaking of that, what about the others? Where are they? I wasn’t the only one, you know?”

  The ghost freezes in place for a moment, and Amber feels a watery rush of terror. Have I gone too far? she wonders.

  “There has been an unfortunate accident,” the ghost announces portentously. It morphs from a translucent copy of Amber’s own body into the outline of a human skeleton, elaborate bony extensions simulating an osteosarcoma of more-than-lethal proportions. “Consensus-we believe that you are best positioned to remediate the situation. This applies within the demilitarized zone.”

  “Demilitarized?” Amber shakes her head, pauses to sip her coffee. “What do you mean? What is this place?”

  The ghost flickers again, adopting an abstract rotating hypercube as its avatar. “This space we occupy is a manifold adjacent to the demilitarized zone. The demilitarized zone is a space outside our core reality, itself exposed to entities that cross freely through our firewall, journeying to and from the network outside. We-us use the DMZ to establish the informational value of migrant entities, sapient currency units and the like. We-us banked you upon arrival against future options trades in human species futures.”

  “Currency!” Amber doesn’t know whether to be amused or horrified—both reactions seem appropriate. “Is that how you treat all your visitors?”

  The ghost ignores her question. “There is a runaway semiotic excursion under way in the zone. We-us believe only you can fix it. If you agree to do so, we will exchange value, pay, reward cooperation, expedite remuneration, manumit, repatriate.”

  Amber drains her coffee cup. “Have you ever entered into economic interactions with me, or humans like me, before?” she asks. “If not, why should I trust you? If so, why have you revived me? Are there any more experienced instances of myself running around here?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow at the ghost. “This looks like the start of an abusive relationship.”

  The ghost continues to sidestep her attempts to work out where she stands. It flickers into transparency, grows into a hazy window on a landscape of impossible shapes. Clouds sprouting trees drift above a landscape of green, egg-curved hills and cheesecake castles. “Nature of excursion: Alien intelligence is loose in the DMZ,” it asserts. “Alien is applying invalid semiotics to complex structures designed to sustain trade. You know this alien, Amber. We require solution. Slay the monster, we will give you line of credit. Your own reality to control, insight into trade arrangements, augmented senses, ability to travel. Can even upgrade you to you-we consensus, if desired.”

  “This monster.” Amber leans forward, staring into the window eagerly. She’s half-minded to ignore what she feels is a spurious offer; it doesn’t sound too appetizing. Upgrade me to a ghost fragment of an alien group mind? she wonders dismissively. “What is this alien?” She feels blind and unsure, stripped of her ability to spawn threads of herself to pursue complex inferences. “Is it part of the Wunch?”

  “Datum unknown. It-them came with you,” says the ghost. “Accidentally reactivated some seconds since now. It runs amok in the demilitarized zone. Help us, Amber. Save our hub, or we will be cut off from the network. If that happens, you will die with we-us. Save us . . .”

  A single memory belonging to someone else unwinds, faster than a guided missile and far more deadly.

  Amber, aged eleven, is a gawky, long-limbed child loose on the streets of Hong Kong, a yokel tourist viewing the hot core of the Middle Kingdom. This is her first and final vacation before the Franklin Trust straps her inside the payload pod of a Shenzhou spaceplane and blasts her into orbit from Xinkiang. She’s free for the time being, albeit mortgaged to the tune of several million euros; she’s a little taikonaut to be, ready to work for the long years in Jupiter orbit it will take her to pay off the self-propelled options web that owns her. It’s not exactly slavery: Thanks to Dad’s corporate shell game she doesn’t have to worry about Mom chasing her, trying to return her to the posthuman prison of growing up just like an old-fashioned little girl. And now she’s got a bit of pocket money, and a room in the Hilton, and her own personal Franklin remote to keep her company, she’s decided she’s gonna do that eighteenth-century-enlightenment tourist shit and do
it right.

  Because this is her last day at liberty in the randomly evolved biosphere.

  China is where things are at in this decade, hot and dense and full of draconian punishments for the obsolescent. Nationalist fervor to catch up with the West has been replaced by consumerist fervor to own the latest fad gadgets, the most picturesque tourist souvenirs from the quaintly old-fashioned streets of America, the fastest hottest smartest upgrades for body and soul. Hong Kong is hotter and faster than just about anywhere else in China, or in the whole damn world for that matter. This is a place where tourists from Tokyo gawp, cowed and future-shocked by the glamour of high-technology living.

  Walking along Jardine’s Bazaar—more like Jardine’s bizarre, she thinks—exposes Amber to a blast of humid noise. Geodesic domes sprout like skeletal mushrooms from the glass-and-chrome roofs of the expensive shopping malls and luxury hotels, threatening to float away on the hot sea breeze. There are no airliners roaring in and out of Kai Tak anymore, no burnished aluminum storm clouds to rain round-eyed passengers on the shopping malls and fish markets of Kowloon and the New Territories. In these tense later days of the War Against Unreason, impossible new shapes move in the sky; Amber gapes upward as a Shenyang F-30 climbs at a near-vertical angle, a mess of incomprehensibly curved flight surfaces vanishing to a perspective point that defies radar as well as eyeballs. The Chinese—fighter? missile platform? supercomputer?—is heading out over the South China Sea to join the endless patrol that reassures the capitalist world that it is being guarded from the Hosts of Denial, the Trouble out of Wa’hab.

  For the moment, she’s merely a precocious human child. Amber’s subconscious is off-lined by the presence of forceful infowar daemons, the Chinese government censorbots suppressing her cognition of their deadliest weapons. And in the seconds while her mind is as empty as a sucked egg, a thin-faced man with blue hair shoves her in the small of her back and snatches at her shoulder bag.