Accelerando e-3

by Charles Stross

  Sirhan has misgivings about opening up to her, but consoles himself with the fact that she’s clearly in no position to use anything he tells her against him. “Which childhood would you like to know about?” he asks.

  “What do you mean, which?” Her face creases up in a frown of perplexity.

  “I had several. Mother kept hitting the reset switch, hoping I’d turn out better.” It’s his turn to frown.

  “She did, did she,” breathes Pamela, clearly noting it down to hold as ammunition against her errant daughter. “Why do you think she did that?”

  “It was the only way she knew to raise a child,” Sirhan says defensively. “She didn’t have any siblings. And, perhaps, she was reacting against her own character flaws.” When I have children there will be more than one, he tells himself smugly: when, that is, he has adequate means to find himself a bride, and adequate emotional maturity to activate his organs of procreation. A creature of extreme caution, Sirhan is not planning to repeat the errors of his ancestors on the maternal side.

  Pamela flinches: “it’s not my fault,” she says quietly. “Her father had quite a bit to do with that. But what -

  what different childhoods did you have?”

  “Oh, a fair number. There was the default option, with Mother and Father arguing constantly – she refused to take the veil and he was too stiff-necked to admit he was little more than a kept man, and between them, they were like two neutron stars locked in an unstable death spiral of gravity. Then there were my other lives, forked and reintegrated, running in parallel. I was a young goatherd in the days of the middle kingdom in Egypt, I remember that; and I was an all-American kid growing up in Iowa in the 1950s, and another me got to live through the return of the hidden imam – at least, his parents thought it was the hidden imam – and -” Sirhan shrugs. “Perhaps that’s where I acquired my taste for history.”

  “Did your parents ever consider making you a little girl?” asks his grandmother.

  “Mother suggested it a couple of times, but Father forbade it.” Or rather, decided it was unlawful, he recalls.

  “I had a very conservative upbringing in some ways.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. When I was a little girl, that was all there was; none of these questions of self-selected identity. There was no escape, merely escapism. Didn’t you ever have a problem knowing who you were?”

  The starters arrive, diced melon on a silver salver. Sirhan waits patiently for his grandmama to chivvy the table into serving her. “The more people you are, the more you know who you are,” says Sirhan. “You learn what it’s like to be other people. Father thought that perhaps it isn’t good for a man to know too much about what it’s like to be a woman.” And Grandfather disagreed, but you already know that, he adds for his own stream of consciousness.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Pamela smiles at him, an expression that might be that of a patronizing elder aunt if it wasn’t for the alarming sharkishness of her expression – or is it playfulness? Sirhan covers his confusion by spooning chunks of melon into his mouth, forking temporary ghosts to peruse dusty etiquette manuals and warn him if he’s about to commit some faux pas. “So, how did you enjoy your childhoods?”

  “Enjoy isn’t a word I would use,” he replies as evenly as he can, laying down his spoon so he doesn’t spill anything. As if childhood is something that ever ends, he thinks bitterly. Sirhan is considerably less than a gigasecond old and confidently expects to exist for at least a terasecond – if not in exactly this molecular configuration, then at least in some reasonably stable physical incarnation. And he has every intention of staying young for that entire vast span – even into the endless petaseconds that might follow, although by then, megayears hence, he speculates that issues of neoteny will no longer interest him. “It’s not over yet. How about you? Are you enjoying your old age, Grandmama?”

  Pamela almost flinches, but keeps iron control of her expression. The flush of blood in the capillaries of her cheeks, visible to Sirhan through the tiny infrared eyes he keeps afloat in the air above the table, gives her away. “I made some mistakes in my youth, but I’m enjoying it fine nowadays,” she says lightly.

  “It’s your revenge, isn’t it?” Sirhan asks, smiling and nodding as the table removes the entrees.

  “Why, you little -” She stares at him rather than continuing. A very bleak stare it is, too. “What would you know about revenge?” she asks.

  “I’m the family historian.” Sirhan smiles humorlessly. “I lived from two to seventeen years several hundred times over before my eighteenth birthday. It was that reset switch, you know. I don’t think Mother realized my primary stream of consciousness was journaling everything.”

  “That’s monstrous.” Pamela picks up her wineglass and takes a sip to cover her confusion. Sirhan has no such retreat – grape juice in a tumbler, unfermented, wets his tongue. “I’d never do something like that to any child of mine.”

  “So why won’t you tell me about your childhood?” asks her grandson. “For the family history, of course.”

  “I’ll -” She puts her glass down. “You intend to write one,” she states.

  “I’m thinking about it.” Sirhan sits up. “An old-fashioned book covering three generations, living through interesting times,” he suggests. “A work of postmodern history, the incoherent school at that – how do you document people who fork their identities at random, spend years dead before reappearing on the stage, and have arguments with their own relativistically preserved other copy? I could trace the history further, of course – if you tell me about your parents, although I am certain they aren’t around to answer questions directly – but we reach the boring dumb matter slope back to the primeval soup surprisingly fast if we go there, don’t we? So I thought that perhaps as a narrative hook I’d make the offstage viewpoint that of the family’s robot cat. (Except the bloody thing’s gone missing, hasn’t it?) Anyway, with so much of human history occupying the untapped future, we historians have our work cut out recording the cursor of the present as it logs events. So I might as well start at home.”

  “You’re set on immortalism.” Pamela studies his face.

  “Yes,” he says idly. “Frankly, I can understand your wanting to grow old out of a desire for revenge, but pardon me for saying this, I have difficulty grasping your willingness to follow through with the procedure! Isn’t it awfully painful?”

  “Growing old is natural,” growls the old woman. “When you’ve lived long enough for all your ambitions to be in ruins, friendships broken, lovers forgotten or divorced acrimoniously, what’s left to go on for? If you feel tired and old in spirit, you might as well be tired and old in body. Anyway, wanting to live forever is immoral. Think of all the resources you’re taking up that younger people need! Even uploads face a finite data storage limit after a time. It’s a monstrously egotistical statement, to say you intend to live forever. And if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s public service. Duty: the obligation to make way for the new. Duty and control.”

  Sirhan absorbs all this, nodding slowly to himself as the table serves up the main course – honey-glazed roast long pork with sautéed potatoes a la gratin and carrots Debussy – when there’s a loud bump from overhead.

  “What’s that?” Pamela asks querulously.

  “One moment.” Sirhan’s vision splits into a hazy kaleidoscope view of the museum hall as he forks ghosts to monitor each of the ubiquitous cameras. He frowns; something is moving on the balcony, between the Mercury capsule and a display of antique random-dot stereoisograms. “Oh dear. Something seems to be loose in the museum.”

  “Loose? What do you mean, loose?” An inhuman shriek splits the air above the table, followed by a crash from upstairs. Pamela stands up unsteadily, wiping her lips with her napkin. “Is it safe?”

  “No, it isn’t safe.” Sirhan fumes. “It’s disturbing my meal!” He looks up. A flash of orange fur shows over the balcony, then the Mercury capsule wobbles viol
ently on the end of its guy wires. Two arms and a bundle of rubbery something covered in umber hair lurches out from the handrail and casually grabs hold of the priceless historical relic, then clambers inside and squats on top of the dummy wearing Al Sheperd’s age-cracked space suit.

  “It’s an ape! City, I say, City! What’s a monkey doing loose in my dinner party?”

  “I am most deeply sorry, sir, but I don’t know. Would sir care to identify the monkey in question?” replies City, which for reasons of privacy, has manifested itself as a bodiless voice.

  There’s a note of humor in City’s tone that Sirhan takes deep exception to. “What do you mean? Can’t you see it?” he demands, focusing on the errant primate, which is holed up in the Mercury capsule dangling from the ceiling, smacking its lips, rolling its eyes, and fingering the gasket around the capsule’s open hatch. It hoots quietly to itself, then leans out of the open door and moons over the table, baring its buttocks. “Get back!” Sirhan calls to his grandmother, then he gestures at the air above the table, intending to tell the utility fog to congeal. Too late. The ape farts thunderously, then lets rip a stream of excrement across the dining table. Pamela’s face is a picture of wrinkled disgust as she holds her napkin in front of her nose. “Dammit, solidify, will you!” Sirhan curses, but the ubiquitous misty pollen-grain-sized robots refuse to respond.

  “What’s your problem? Invisible monkeys?” asks City.

  “Invisible -” he stops.

  “Can’t you see what it did?” Pamela demands, backing him up. “It just defecated all over the main course!”

  “I see nothing,” City says uncertainly.

  “Here, let me help you.” Sirhan lends it one of his eyes, rolls it to focus on the ape, which is now reaching lazy arms around the hatch and patting down the roof of the capsule, as if hunting for the wires’ attachment points.

  “Oh dear,” says City, “I’ve been hacked. That’s not supposed to be possible.”

  “Well it fucking is,” hisses Pamela.

  “Hacked?” Sirhan stops trying to tell the air what to do and focuses on his clothing instead. Fabric reweaves itself instantly, mapping itself into an armored airtight suit that raises a bubble visor from behind his neck and flips itself shut across his face. “City please supply my grandmama with an environment suit now. Make it completely autonomous.”

  The air around Pamela begins to congeal in a blossom of crystalline security, as a sphere like a giant hamster ball precipitates out around her. “If you’ve been hacked, the first question is, who did it,” Sirhan states. “The second is ‘why,’ and the third is ‘how.’” He edgily runs a self-test, but there’s no sign of inconsistencies in his own identity matrix, and he has hot shadows sleeping lightly at scattered nodes across as distance of half a dozen light-hours.

  Unlike pre-posthuman Pamela, he’s effectively immune to murder-simple. “If this is just a prank -”

  Seconds have passed since the orangutan got loose in the museum, and subsequent seconds have passed since City realized its bitter circumstance. Seconds are long enough for huge waves of countermeasures to sweep the surface of the lily-pad habitat. Invisibly small utility foglets are expanding and polymerizing into defenses throughout the air, trapping the thousands of itinerant passenger pigeons in midflight, and locking down every building and every person who walks the paths outside. City is self-testing its trusted computing base, starting with the most primitive secured kernel and working outward. Meanwhile Sirhan, with blood in his eye, heads for the staircase, with the vague goal of physically attacking the intruder. Pamela retreats at a fast roll, tumbling toward the safety of the mezzanine floor and a garden of fossils. “Who do you think you are, barging in and shitting on my supper?” Sirhan yells as he bounds up the stairs. “I want an explanation! Right now!”

  The orangutan finds the nearest cable and gives it a yank, setting the one-ton capsule swinging. It bares its teeth at Sirhan in a grin. “Remember me?” it asks, in a sibilant French accent.

  “Remember -” Sirhan stops dead. “Tante Annette? What are you doing in that orangutan?”

  “Having minor autonomic control problems.” The ape grimaces wider, then bends one arm sinuously and scratches at its armpit. “I am sorry, I installed myself in the wrong order. I was only meaning to say hello and pass on a message.”

  “What message?” Sirhan demands. “You’ve upset my grandmama, and if she finds out you’re here -”

  “She won’t; I’ll be gone in a minute.” The ape – Annette – sits up. “Your grandfather salutes you and says he will be visiting shortly. In the person, that is. He is very keen to meet your mother and her passengers. That is all.

  Have you a message for him?”

  “Isn’t he dead?” Sirhan asks, dazed.

  “No more than I am. And I’m overdue. Good day!” The ape swings hand over hand out of the capsule, then lets go and plummets ten meters to the hard stone floor below. Its skull makes a noise like a hard-boiled egg impacting concrete.

  “Oh dear,” Sirhan breathes heavily. “City!”

  “Yes, oh master?”

  “Remove that body,” he says, pointing over the balcony. “I’ll trouble you not to disturb my grandmother with any details. In particular, don’t tell her it was Annette. The news may upset her.” The perils of having a long-lived posthuman family, he thinks; too many mad aunts in the space capsule. “If you can find a way to stop Auntie

  ‘Nette from growing any more apes, that might be a good idea.” A thought strikes him. “By the way, do you know when my grandfather is due to arrive?”

  “Your grandfather?” asks City: “Isn’t he dead?”

  Sirhan looks over the balcony, at the blood-seeping corpse of the intruder. “Not according to his second wife’s latest incarnation.”

  *

  Funding the family reunion isn’t going to be a problem, as Amber discovers when she receives an offer of reincarnation good for all the passengers and crew of the Field Circus.

  She isn’t sure quite where the money is coming from. Presumably it’s some creaky financial engine designed by Dad, stirring from its bear-market bunker for the first time in decades to suck dusty syndication feeds and liquidate long-term assets held against her return. She’s duly grateful – even fervently so – for the details of her own impecunious position grow more depressing the more she learns about them. Her sole asset is the Field Circus, a thirty-years-obsolete starwhisp massing less than twenty kilograms including what’s left of its tattered sail, along with its cargo of uploaded passengers and crew. Without the farsighted trust fund that has suddenly chugged into life, she’d be stranded in the realm of ever-circling leptons. But now the fund has sent her its offer of incarnation, she’s got a dilemma. Because one of the Field Circus’s passengers has never actually had a meatspace body…

  Amber finds the Slug browsing quietly in a transparent space filled with lazily waving branches that resemble violet coral fans. They’re a ghost-memory of alien life, an order of thermophilic quasi fungi with hyphae ridged in actin/myosin analogues, muscular and slippery filter feeders that eat airborne unicellular organisms. The Slug itself is about two meters long and has a lacy white exoskeleton of curves and arcs that don’t repeat, disturbingly similar to a Penrose tiling. Chocolate brown organs pulse slowly under the skeleton. The ground underfoot is dry but feels swampy.

  Actually, the Slug is a surgical disguise. Both it and the quasi-fungal ecosystem have been extinct for millions of years, existing only as cheap stage props in an interstellar medicine show run by rogue financial instruments. The Slug itself is one such self-aware scam, probably a pyramid scheme or even an entire compressed junk bond market in heavy recession, trying to hide from its creditors by masquerading as a life-form. But there’s a problem with incarnating itself down in Sirhan’s habitat – the ecosystem it evolved for is a cool Venusiform, thirty atmospheres of saturated steam baked under a sky the color of hot lead streaked with yellow sulphuric acid clouds
.

  The ground is mushy because it’s melting, not because it’s damp.

  “You’re going to have to pick another somatotype,” Amber explains, laboriously rolling her interface around the red-hot coral reef like a giant soap bubble. The environmental interface is transparent and infinitely thin, a discontinuity in the physics model of the simulation space, mapping signals between the human-friendly environment on one side and the crushing, roasting hell on the other. “This one is simply not compatible with any of the supported environments where we’re going.”

  “I am not understanding. Surely I can integrate with the available worlds of our destination?”

  “Uh, things don’t work that way outside cyberspace.” Suddenly Amber is at a bit of a loss. “The physics model could be supported, but the energy input to do so would be prohibitive, and you would not be able to interact as easily with other physics models as we can now.” She forks a ghost, demonstrates a transient other-Amber in a refrigerated tank rolling across the Slug’s backyard, crushing coral and hissing and clanking noisily. “You’d be like this.”

  “Your reality is badly constructed, then,” the Slug points out.

  “It’s not constructed at all, it just evolved, randomly.” Amber shrugs. “We can’t exercise the same level of control over the underlying embedded context that we can over this one. I can’t simply magic you an interface that will let you bathe in steam at three hundred degrees.”

  “Why not?” asks the Slug. Translation wetware adds a nasty, sharp rising whine to the question, turning it into a demand.

  “It’s a privilege violation,” Amber tries to explain. “The reality we’re about to enter is, uh, provably consistent. It has to be, because it’s consistent and stable, and if we could create new local domains with different rules, they might propagate uncontrollably. It’s not a good idea, believe me. Do you want to come with us or not?”