InterstellarNet: Enigma
by
Edward M. Lerner
Books by Edward M. Lerner
InterstellarNet series
InterstellarNet: Origins (*)
InterstellarNet: New Order (*)
InterstellarNet: Enigma (*)
Fleet of Worlds series (with Larry Niven)
Fleet of Worlds
Juggler of Worlds
Destroyer of Worlds
Betrayer of Worlds
Fate of Worlds
Other Books
Probe (*)
Moonstruck (*)
Creative Destruction (collection)
Fools’ Experiments
Small Miracles
Countdown to Armageddon / A Stranger in Paradise (collection)
Frontiers of Space, Time, and Thought (collection) (*)
Energized
A Time Foreclosed (chapbook) (*)
(*) Available from FoxAcre Press
InterstellarNet: Enigma
Copyright © 2015 by Edward M. Lerner
(Portions of this work incorporate, with substantial revisions, material that first appeared in Analog as “The Matthews Conundrum” (November 2013) and “Championship B’tok” (September 2014).
This novel is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
www.foxacre.com
For Ben
May your future always be this big (but never as problematic)
Table of Contents
Contents
PROLOGUE
THE MATTHEWS CONUNDRUM
CHAMPIONSHIP B’TOK
THE XOOL EMERGENCE
THE XOOL RESISTANCE
WAR AGAINST THE XOOL
THE ELMAN SOLUTION
Afterword
Behind the Scenes
InterstellarNet History: Key Milestones
Dramatis Personae
About the Author
PROLOGUE
From pole to pole, from one shoreline to the next, from mountaintop to deepest valley, the land was barren. Nothing crept over the ground, nor burrowed beneath, nor flapped its wings overhead. Except for the crack of thunder and the occasional seismic event, only the whistle of the wind and the patter of the rain ever disturbed the silence.
And yet the world’s lakes and oceans teemed with life. Single-celled forms, in a bewildering variety. Fungal cell clusters. Vast bacterial mats, afloat on the storm-wracked waves. Jellyfish, more or less. Sponges, of a sort.
For eons, the few changes that transpired came slowly. But unlike the ceaseless sleet of the cosmic rays, the drift of the continents, the uplift of the mountains and their weathering into dust, the advance and retreat of glaciers, the stately dance of the planets, and the ages-long rotation of the galaxy itself, life was about to dramatically transform ….
THE MATTHEWS CONUNDRUM
CHAPTER 1
“It ain’t a fit night out for man or beast,” the autocab said. The words had a pretentious tone to them, as though it were quoting someone. Or maybe this was just AI wit.
Either way, the effort was wasted. From the garlic-smelling interior of the passenger compartment, Joshua Matthews grunted indifferently. He sensed the dawn through the twin filters of heavy rainfall and a pleasant buzz. The buzz he understood. He didn’t recall the downpour starting. He didn’t remember the hour being so late. Or, rather, so early.
He had evidently nodded off.
A peal of thunder rolled on and on. The drumbeat of rain on the cab intensified. A summer thunderstorm was hardly out of the ordinary in Charleston. But a downpour like this? Unannounced? How had the forecasters missed it?
Joshua subvocalized a weather query to the net. His neural implant returned only an intracranial, mind’s-ear hiss.
“Driver.” Hmm. His tongue felt too large in his mouth. He tried again. “Cab!”
“How may I be of service?” the vehicle replied.
“Do you have infosphere connectivity?”
“There’s a localized outage, sir.” Lightning flashed. The in-ceiling speaker crackled with static. “Probably the storm.”
“How far?” It came to Joshua that he did not feel well. His bed would be much more comfortable than the autocab.
“Ten minutes to the address you gave me, sir. That is, if traffic and the weather don’t get worse. Without net access, who can say?”
In the cab window, Joshua’s reflection was pasty. It had been a hell of a party. Who better to indulge than the guest of honor? Still, he had overdone the munchies, and perhaps more alco-hide nanomeds would have been prudent.
His stomach rumbled ominously. His tongue felt larger still. His lips tingled. “As fastht as you can.”
At last the cab turned into the canopied semicircular driveway of his condominium. “Thankth,” Joshua managed. His door swung open: however weird his voice had become, his implanted ID chip evidently sufficed for authenticating his payment.
He stumbled out just in time, vomiting explosively onto the brick-paved entryway. A cacophony of shrieks, bleeps and discordant warbles flooded his mind’s ear. He had no sooner rerouted one alarm to voicemail than another replaced it. And another. And the next. He stumbled against the side of the cab.
The liveried doorman stared. In disapproval at Joshua’s obvious drunkenness? In distaste at the mess? Joshua cringed. Within his head, sirens continued to blare. “Th-orry about that, Alan.”
Alan unfroze and scurried over. “Dr. Matthews. It is you. My lord, it is you.” He offered a handkerchief. We’ve been so worried.”
“Worried?” Joshua repeated. “Why?”
It was Alan’s turn to be confused. “You’ve been missing for weeks, sir.”
• • • •
Lalande Implosion: the global economic crisis that began in 2006. Unlike many historical turning points, the collapse of Earth’s petroleum economy had an unambiguous cause—electrical cars had become practical almost overnight. The revolutionary fuel-cell technology for those cars originated in the interstellar radio message with whose receipt in 2002 we mark the start of modern human history. (See related entry, First Contact.)
On balance, reduced energy costs were a boon for the world economy. In the short term, however, plunging demand for petroleum impoverished the major oil-producing countries. In response, the United Nations in 2010 enacted the Protocol on Interstellar Technology Commerce. The protocol established the Interstellar Commerce Union (ICU) and gave it authority over all aspects of the human side of trans-species technology import and export.
The epochal message came from Lalande 21185, transmitted by the species popularly known as the Leos (after the constellation, Leo Minor, in which their star can be seen). The message revealed to human analysts that the Leos still used vacuum tubes and analog computing. Earth’s reply included primers on quantum mechanics, transistors, and digital computing. Due to light-speed delay, it was not known until seventeen years later that Earth’s message had unintentionally triggered a reciprocal economic crisis and technology upheaval among the Leos.
—Internetopedia
• • • •
Groveling, like partying, worked best in person.
Joshua assumed he had been summoned to Geneva, more than seven thousand kilometers, to grovel. Now he waited on a sofa, trying not to squirm or stare.
Dr. Robyn Tanaka Astor, secretary-general of the Interstellar Commerce Union, glided expressionlessly from one exercise apparatus to the next. She seemed indifferent to her workout, the panoramic view from her penthouse office windows, and Joshua. The gym equipment was first-rate; the furniture and bare walls wer
e entirely utilitarian.
The Augmented trained like normal people fidgeted, only more systematically. An AI submind constantly supervised every element of health maintenance: exercise, neural and hormonal biofeedback loops, and armadas of nanomeds and nanosensors. It kept the Augmented wiry and thin almost to the point of gauntness. The regimen was joyless and pragmatic, its sole purpose to postpone the inevitable next phase: uploading.
Her features were finely chiseled, her widely spaced eyes an astonishing green, and her jet-black hair flowed to her shoulders. Augmentation gave her an imposing, charismatic presence. The overall effect was of unapproachable androgynous beauty. She was seventy-five, twenty years older than Joshua. She could have passed for half her age.
“Ir am displeased,” she began abruptly in the Augmented first person. Returned from an unknown task on the infosphere, her eyes finally found him. Immobilized him. Impaled him. “You have disgraced the ICU.”
Was that her human side speaking or her AI side? Had the latter, the erstwhile Astor 2215, taken its name from John Jacob Astor, or Mary Astor, or—?
Did it matter?
Augmentation was new; the Augmented population was still tiny. The symbiotic brilliance of the composite mind suited them to positions of authority and responsibility far outside the circles in which Joshua moved. She was the only Augmented he knew—if two stressful interviews during the vetting process qualified as knowledge.
This situation was stressful, if not surreal. Perhaps that was why his mind kept jumping to other things. Whether all the Augmented were like her. Whether Robyn Tanaka had been aloof to begin with. Whether her/its/their present iciness had something to do with the Augmentation procedure. What decanting an AI into a human brain had done to, well, both of them.
Did it matter?
And while his mind refused to come to grips with present problems, the professional opportunity—the career coup—of a lifetime was slipping between his fingers. “I’m very sorry,” Joshua said. “Truly, I am. I wish I could explain my disappearance.”
“Your absence is explained.” All inflection had vanished. That was the AI side, coldly rephrasing Joshua’s wording.
“The police can’t explain it,” he countered hesitantly.
“Permit mir to summarize,” she/it/they said. “You departed the party at the Ritz-Trump by autocab. Two days ago—call it a month later—you arrived home. Between those events, we know nothing.
“Your family filed a missing-person report, but the police found no trace of you. There were no ransom requests. Only obvious crooks and cranks answered your parents’ reward offer. With no signs of foul play, the police lost interest in the matter after you reappeared.”
Joshua studied his shoes. “The police believe I was off on a drunk the whole time.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” she asked atonally.
A mind’s ear trill made him start. Her netted message linked to a 3-V clip. Hotel security system? Public-safety spy eye? Random passerby with a smartphone?
How hardly mattered.
Time froze for Joshua as the scene looped. There he was: staggering from the autocab. Retching convulsively. Staring like a deer caught in headlights. Wiping vomit and thick strings of saliva from his face. Falling back against the taxi. The ambulance racing away, its sirens keening, with him inside.
“But don’t you find any of this … incongruous?” Because I’m not a drunk, damn it! “If you would just look at the police files you’d see that—”
“Access the non-public case file of a police investigation? You imagine that because Ir could probably hack into a police database, that Ir will? If so, you are mistaken. It suffices to know the authorities see no crime here.”
Just for a moment, Joshua toyed with getting the police to drop the investigation. Suppose he indicated that he wouldn’t press charges. Maybe then, armed with a copy of their findings (but would they release the file to him even then? He’d better find that out first), he could get Tanaka Astor to consider the anomalies of his long absence. Maybe then he could save his appointment.
As quickly, the temptation passed. He had lost a month from his life. He wanted to know why. And whom to blame. And for them to pay for what they’d done. For any of that to happen, he needed to get the cops reengaged.
Somehow.
He stood, shoulders squared. “Madame Secretary-General, I understand how irresponsible this looks. Yes, I had been drinking, but please hear me out.
“Wherever I disappeared to was off the net. Family, friends, the police, your office—many people kept trying, at higher and higher levels of priority, to reach me. All those undelivered messages remained queued on comm servers. Suddenly, I reappeared on the net. You’re seeing me inundated by alarms and crash-priority messages. That’s why I appear so confused.”
His digital doppelgänger dry-heaved again. Joshua winced. The vid was not pretty. “For the rest, somehow I had eaten some crab. I’m massively allergic. The hospital confirmed an allergic reaction.”
Tanaka Astor never broke her rhythm on the elliptical trainer. “Dr. Matthews, your dietary indiscretions are of no concern to the ICU. Your month-long absence from work on a binge is.”
Stepping outside her circuit of exercise equipment, she fixed her gaze on Joshua. The undivided attention of an Augmented was a terrifying thing. His heart pounded.
She said, “You had friends and supporters in the organization, but you also have detractors. Your critics think only family connections got you into the ICU. Despite the skeptics, Ir endorsed your recommendation for an official ICU history. Despite the skeptics, Ir considered your application, one of many, for appointment as our official historian.”
Had friends? Joshua suddenly wanted to be anywhere else. How much had his very public humiliation injured an institution he loved?
“For purposes of compiling the 175th anniversary history, Ir considered your family ties, if anything, a plus. Ir presumed your family background offered a unique resource for the task. And so Ir entrusted to you the duties of ICU historian.
“The Augmented make very few mistakes, Dr. Matthews. Here, it is clear, Ir made one. It seems that the cynics had it right. You were not up to the task.
“In vino veritas, Dr. Matthews. In wine is truth. Your friends gave you a party to celebrate your good fortune. There, you had some wine. There, you confronted your inadequacies. You realized you were in over your head.
“The mystery, Dr. Matthews, is not your as-yet undisclosed hideaway. The mystery is your shameful, very public return.”
It’s not true! I don’t know where I was! Joshua somehow held the scream inside. In their consensual net vision, the damning video clip started over. “I recognize that these events have embarrassed the organization. For that I apologize.”
Despite Tanaka Astor’s beliefs, Joshua felt as qualified—and eager—as ever to serve. But did feelings matter to an Augmented? Facts alone might sway her, and Joshua had none. That left only one thing to say. “To spare the ICU further embarrassment, I resign as historian. I’ll resume my former duties.”
“Correction.” The inflectionless precision of the AI facet was unmistakable. “The historian serves at the pleasure of the secretary-general. Civil-service protections do not apply. Effective immediately, you have no affiliation with the ICU.”
CHAPTER 2
Corinne Elman thrashed in her sleep, knowing that she dreamed, helpless to wake herself. Her recurring nightmare took many forms. The God’s-eye view was the worst: too vast, too fast, too horrible.
Only God’s eye could encompass this much deception.
She woke screaming, and Denise stopped shaking her. Absent the worried expression, Denise’s sleep-tousled appearance might have been comical. “Nightmare?”
Corinne nodded, her hands trembling. “Sorry for disturbing you. Go back to sleep.”
“Will you be okay?”
“A dream hasn’t hurt me yet,” Corinne lied. Sunlight peeked between the bedroo
m curtains. Her neural implant said 5:34. She would never fall back asleep. “I’ll be fine, hon.”
She tucked Denise in, then padded barefoot to the living room. She drew back the drapes, seeking serenity in the view.
Your average reporter didn’t own a penthouse overlooking Central Park, but she was hardly the average newsie. Twenty years before, she had broken the story of the oncoming starship. That got her the first interview with the ship’s Foremost. That got her the pool-reporter seat on the lifeboat orientation cruise, hobnobbing with United Planets bigwigs and the top scientists from Himalia.
That got her almost killed, and twenty years of nightmares. And counting …
Corinne’s memoir, 3-V specials, and interviews with less articulate principals had made her rich. She had assigned most of the royalties to victims’ families so she could live with herself. Then another talk-show offer would come in, or another anniversary of the Himalia Incident would roll around, and she would convince herself to milk it one last time.
The park looked pleasantly uncrowded this early. Something she couldn’t make out was going on near the lake. She resisted netting for the information. Instead Corinne dressed for a jog and rode down the express elevator. She would see what was happening.
How had she devolved from investigative reporter to celebrity? She had turned into a one-trick pony—in an age when gengineered ponies learned many tricks. Corinne managed a “Morning, Charles,” to the doorman on her way outside.
She dodged the still light traffic, crossing Central Park West into the park. The morning breeze felt great. The smart-tar path was resilient beneath her feet. She tried to concentrate on her breathing and maintaining a steady pace.
And failed.
“Walt,” she subvocalized.
“You’re up early,” Walt answered instantly. “What’s the story?”
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