by Ian Douglas
Never, though, was there any sense that the driver was actually on the moon. He still felt a normal, one-G gravity as he sat in his chair. When he looked away from the television screen, he saw his decidedly Earthbound surroundings, the crowds of tourists watching him, the tourist-centered hype and glitter of the theme park structure he was seated in. Not until the development of nanotechnic cephlinks were the bonds of mind and body truly severed, creating the illusion that the operator had acquired a new body.
Nowhere was this more evident than in the popular hubots—teleoperated human robots—that first appeared in crude form in the late twenty-first century, but which by the twenty-fourth century had acquired tremendous sophistication and sensory sensitivity.
—The Physics of Mind
DR. ELLEN CHANTAY
C.E. 2413
She smelled morning and felt sunlight on her face. "Just relax," a woman's voice said. "You're on New America now. Everything's fine."
This is more like it, Kara thought.
Kara opened her eyes and found herself looking into the face of a young somautomata technician. The viewall beyond showed a reassuring view of the ruggedly mountainous New American countryside—the Cascades north of Jefferson, she thought—with Columbia, New America's huge, close moon, rising immense and golden in an early morning haze.
"How are you feeling?" the tech asked. Her hair was red—not a natural auburn but a pale, brick red-pink fuzz with long earlocks twisted into luminous red, blue, and green DNA spirals, representing, Kara supposed, the latest fad in hair styling. Her breasts were bare above a smoky, translucent haze that clung to some parts of her body and swirled revealingly about others; the ends of her earlocks were weighted to keep them dangling first to one side of her nipples then the other as she moved, as though to call attention to generously large and buoyant assets that were almost certainly Companion-enhanced. The skin of her fingers and hands was Companion-refashioned in deep emerald, opalescent scales that faded away to normal skin halfway to her elbows.
Another technician stood behind her, ostentatiously male, nude save for the electrorganics embedded like black filigree in the skin of his left arm, shoulder, and chest, and with his head startlingly reshaped into the golden-eyed and unwinking head of an enormous bird of prey—a technofashion incarnation, Kara thought, of the Egyptian god Horus.
Kara closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She'd not been home in a good many months now, and it was hard to keep up with the lightning pace of fashion in the Confederation, especially in the cities.
"Captain?" the woman asked. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Yes," Kara said. "Just getting my bearings."
"Hubot projection can be a shock at first," the technician agreed. "Just take your time to get adjusted."
Kara didn't bother telling the woman that it wasn't the sensation of remote telepresence that was strange to her. It was her and her co-worker. She had plenty of experience with telepresence . . . in places and across distances that these two most likely had never dreamed of. Apparently they both assumed that Kara was inexperienced with this sort of thing.
"We're still not sure why your signal was delayed," the hawk-headed man said. His speech was crisp and clear, despite the horny, razor-edged beak. "We had your carrier signal and were alerted that you'd entered transference mode, but it was a full two minutes before your download actually came through. Do you remember anything happening just now, after you linked in on your ship? Anything at all?"
From the tone of his voice, he was worried about some sort of legal action. Interstellar hubot transference was still pretty new, and lots of people, even—or especially?—those who used the equipment, still regarded some aspects of its workings to be mysterious.
She decided that the simplest way to divert the questioning would be to lie. "Not a thing," she said. She shrugged. "I imagine that the transmission gear aboard Gauss needs better calibration."
"Maybe." The man sounded doubtful. "But we definitely had a transmission alert, meaning you should have arrived within the next second or two. Not two minutes."
Had she only been with Dev for two minutes? It had felt much longer than that . . . a result, she realized, of conducting a dialogue in an electronic media where thoughts were not constrained by the agonizingly slow cycling of chemical neurotransmitters.
"I wouldn't worry about it," she said. "I didn't notice any delay at all. I'll talk to someone when I go back aboard."
The hawk was silent for a moment, the head cocked slightly to one side, as though the man were listening. Kara guessed that he was tapping a download from his Companion. Usually you could tell when someone was doing that, from the vacant or somewhat distant unfocusing of his eyes, but this Horus-persona, she was finding, was impossible to read.
"Well, we can't find anything in our readings here," he said after a moment, "so I suspect you're right. And . . . if there is any problem with the link, you know, there's really nothing to worry about."
Lots of people, Kara knew, were afraid of what might happen if their robotic body failed while they were riding it, but she could dismiss those fears. She'd been there. When a teleoperated warstrider was destroyed, the comm link was cut and the operator woke up in his or her original, organic body. Usually. She was reminded of friends and comrades consigned to virtual worlds and suppressed a small shudder.
Still, the problems there seemed to have more to do with the effects of being in combat than with the simple fact of having your remote sensors cut off. There was nothing magical about telepresence save the way the human mind worked in the first place, which was more than enough magic for her.
"I'm sure everything will be fine," she told them both.
"Of course!" the red-haired woman said brightly. "Come on. Let's see how you like your temporary body."
It felt quite normal. Kara was seated in a large, back-tilting chair like the acceleration seat of a high-G shuttle. Looking down, she saw that the hubot's body was anonymously unisex, a meter and a half tall, trim, almost delicately petite compared with her own tall, rangy, and long-limbed org. When she raised an arm, she did so with fluid movements and very nearly the same range of motion as a human. She held her hand up before her face. It was startlingly lifelike in texture, but with a faint, gray-silver cast to it and no wrinkling, hairs, or blemishes at all. The fingers were long, slender, and supple, the fingers of a pianist, and when she lightly touched thumb to each fingertip in quick succession, they moved just as easily and felt just the same as the fingers she'd been born with.
Cables snaked in from left, right, and above, melding seamlessly with her sleek, synthflesh hide. At a mental command from one of the somautomata techs, the nanotechnic connectors dissolved and the cables retracted themselves; Kara could feel her internal power source throbbing gently, like a heartbeat, and sensed the ebb and flow of various autonomous system monitors, reassuring her that all systems were on-line and go.
Horus offered her his hand. She ignored it gracefully by gripping the chair's armrests to lever herself up. She stood easily, though she had to deliberately suppress the oddly telescoped sensation that her arms and legs weren't quite long enough. In some ways, it was easier to teleoperate a warstrider, a machine that was in no way at all humanoid. You didn't have to worry about walking in a strider; you simply pushed there with your mind and you were moving, effortlessly and with perfect, AI-imposed control. There were no AIs in a hubot; wearing one was more like wearing someone else's body, and her brain assumed that arms and legs, mass and reach, height and center of balance, would all be the same as they were in her own body she usually wore.
She took a couple of experimental steps, bouncing lightly on the treaded balls of her feet. The initial strangeness was already passing.
As she turned in place, she caught sight of herself in a mirror screen behind the chair. Her own face stared back at her, holographically projected over the front of the robot's blank and polished head. A low-level hubot's norma
l facial features were almost nonexistent, save for a slightly raised band at eye level where visual, aural, and olfactory sensors were stored. Most people, however, Kara included, maintained one or more personal analogs, limited software duplicates of themselves resident within their Companion's organic circuitry and serving as secretaries and stand-ins for routine business over communications links. That same internal programming, which created a duplicate of the person inside ViRsimulations, could shape the holoprojection of the hubot's face into a fair likeness of her own. The effect wasn't good enough to fool anyone, certainly—there was an odd stiffness about the face, almost as though it were pasted on—but the likeness was good enough to let others recognize who she was.
"If that body doesn't suit you," the hawk-headed technician told her, watching closely as she looked at her image, "we can transfer you easily enough to a different model. We have some excellent full-sensorium models that you will find match your org's sensory input in every way."
Kara knew about the top-of-the-line hubots, luxury models that were all but indistinguishable from bodies of flesh and blood. Not for me, she thought with a wry, inner smile that her hubot's holographic face matched with something approaching a grimace.
"No, thanks," she said. "This one will do fine."
"Are you sure? We have some female bodies that—"
"I'm sure, Horus," she said, her voice sharp. "I'm not into the full-sensory stuff, okay?"
"Absolutely, Captain! It's whatever you want! Not all of our customers are as . . . discerning as you are."
Meaning, she translated, they weren't as cheap. But then, Kara never had cared much for surface show, expensive or otherwise, when something simpler existed that served her needs just as well. She'd specifically reserved a Model 15 for this excursion, a version advertised as a high-endurance economy sports model. For a few thousand more yen or meg, depending on which currency she chose, she could have had a full-function, full-sensory hubot, a precision-crafted one, nanotechnically grown from the body casts and downloads of any of a variety of ViRsim entertainment personalities, machines identical in every outward detail to a genuine and healthy human body, and capable of experiencing every human sensation, including—or, given the enormous market for the things, especially—sexual arousal and satisfaction.
Kara was more than happy with the Mod 15, however, a utilitarian model that better suited both her nature and her present, no-nonsense mood.
"If the captain would like a download of some of New America's more popular tourist spots—" the red-haired woman began.
"Never mind the sales pitch," Kara told her. "I'm not a tourist. Is my credit good?" Her rental agreement, and the downloading of the fee, had been handled long distance, from the Gauss.
"Everything has been taken care of," the man said, and though Kara wouldn't have thought it possible, the rigid beak of the hawk's head smiled. "And we hope you enjoy your visit here!"
Kara grinned, and the holographic projection of her face echoed the thought, a little more naturally this time. "I certainly intend to."
Minutes later, Kara stepped out of the hubot office—walking out beneath a twice-life-size full-motion holo of two nude Model 3000s, fully human, a male and female linked in a close and passionately erotic tangle. BE THERE, the agency's name, was featured in meter-tall, glowing scarlet letters. Advertising hype scrolled steadily through the air as pulsing music throbbed to the couple's lovemaking. She gave a wry shake of her head at the holographic antics; sex, it appeared, and the rawer the better, was what sold product everywhere.
She had only to access the city net to summon a robot flitter that would take her out to the family estate at Cascadia, but one of the reasons she'd chosen a visit by teleoperated hubot was the opportunity it gave her to stroll Jefferson's pedestrianways and visit haunts she hadn't seen in years. She decided to walk to Franklin Park in the center of the city and take a flitter from there.
The city of Jefferson was much as Kara remembered it . . . large and bright and bustling. For centuries, New America had been something of a backwater world, an isolated outpost on the far periphery of the human Shichiju. It supported three separate colonies, one Ukrainian, one Cantonese, and one predominantly North American, and all descended from settlers who'd been seeking greater freedom and a better life elsewhere than under Japan's Hegemony on Earth. Before the Revolution, New America's quasi-independence had been preserved by a quirk of nature. Where most of the worlds of the Shichiju possessed one or more sky-els—the immense, surface-to-synchorbit elevators that made movement back and forth between space and surface cheap and easy—the gravitational tides raised by Columbia, New America's huge, close natural satellite, made such construction impossible. Here, any sky-el would be torn to shreds, assuming that it could be hung in the first place.
As a result, little of Jefferson's architecture followed the styles common elsewhere in the Shichiju, where Japanese influence had dominated for centuries. Cities here were more open, less closely packed. There were cities in the Shichiju, especially on old Earth, where it was no longer possible to walk from block to block or building to building in the open air. Underground tubeways, from simple slidewalks to more elaborate maglev train systems, were the principal means of moving from place to place, especially in the larger and more sprawling of Man's ant-heap megopoli, and in most, elevated causeways connected the separate buildings, allowing the population to move about in safe, climate-controlled, and enclosed comfort.
Jefferson, however, had always managed to maintain the look and feel of a small town nested into a valley between forested mountains and the sea, even when the rapid influx of immigrants over the past few years had swelled the city's population to several million. Much of the city had been destroyed during the Revolution, when Imperial forces had briefly occupied the planet. When the place was rebuilt, however, the team drawing up the plans had kept the look of the old city, and that included the broad, tree-lined walks and malls, and the numerous parks that helped separate the clusters of taller buildings.
The wonderful thing about the city was that it was still possible to walk there beneath the golden-white light of 26 Draconis. Amberbrush lined the walkways of the park, and flights of morninglories exploded skyward as pedestrians passed.
As always, though, Kara was more interested in the people than in the morninglories. Most native New Americans tended to be rather conservative folk, both in custom and in politics, but clothing styles and fashions showed the influence of many worlds and cultures. A casual stroll through a large public area could turn up citizens in anything from Scots kilts to Imperial kimonos to shipboard skinsuits to nothing at all. Nudity was increasingly common on the worlds of the Periphery, especially in gatherings in private homes, but it might be encountered anywhere.
Kara had been aware of the mix of fashion trends for as long as she could remember, and knew they'd existed in one form or another for centuries. The latest trend, however, had less to do with fashion than it did with the perception of what still constituted humanity. For some time now, but especially in the past three or four standard years, people who wanted to make a fashion statement—or catch the eye, or shock, or simply fantasize—had used Naga Companions to reshape their bodies.
Body sculpting, it was called. In the kilometer-and-a-half walk from Be There to Franklin Park, Kara encountered dozens of people far more outlandishly styled and refashioned than the Horus she'd met at the hubot rental. There walked a gargoyle in scales, horns, and claws, two-meter wings carried arched above his shoulders; here was a woman with four working arms. Across the way was an alien monstrosity of sheer fantasy, dragon-headed, centaur-limbed, shaggy-bodied. That last, Kara thought, might easily have been a gene-tailored pet of some sort . . . except that it was in deep conversation with a chunky, armor-hided creature with a humanoid stance and tentacles waving above his shoulders. She wasn't sure, but she thought the creature figured prominently in a popular ViRdrama fantasy.
Many of the huma
ns, she noticed, were also ViRdrama stars. Kara rarely indulged in ViRsimulated scenarios and didn't know the personalities well, but many of the faces and bodies she saw were familiar. Some, probably, were other downloaded tourists in high-end model hubots, but others were clearly real people, their features tailored by their Companions.
In an astonishingly short time, Companions had completely transformed the way Man looked at himself. No longer was a certain skin color or facial features or a particular number of arms the prerequisite for humanity. That particular revolution was even now having far-reaching effects that no one could have anticipated. If a man was human even if he looked like that winged, scaly, snake thing over there, then what about a gene-tailored human, a genie . . . creatures who were human in every important detail save for the fact that someone had tampered with their DNA before they were decanted to shape them for some particular task? What about AIs, the artificial intelligences that ran so much of human technology and exhibited intelligence in particular areas of a higher order than that of the people who'd designed them?
Or someone like Dev, who had no body at all?
Kara shook her robotic head in amusement at the thought. Her own feelings on the matter had been changing lately . . . and her unexpected meeting with Dev Cameron had brought her further along the road to change still. She'd very nearly decided that the question of what constituted humanity might well no longer have any real meaning. Better, perhaps, to judge each individual person on his, her, or its own merits, and forget about trying to force them into molds that simply might not fit.
She found herself wondering if Dev could download permanently to a hubot body, something that would allow him to move and interact in the world of reality again. Or did he prefer his disembodied state?
