Tony Daniel

by Metaplanetary: A Novel of Interplanetary Civil War

  Fourteen

  Danis looked over the numbers and felt a bit of disappointment of her own. When Kelly had first come up with the crazy idea of shorting all their assets, along with Teleman Milt’s, Danis had worried about the chance—small, but present—that he might be wrong.

  “So,” she said, “my little pi-minus option was a wild-goose chase.”

  Kelly was extremely quiet for a moment, and then he said, almost in a whisper, “What?”

  “I took an option out on pi meson production, the kind that are made of a down and anti-up quark pair.”

  “I know what a pi-minus particle is,” said Kelly in a preternaturally calm voice. As if he is trying to hold his breath, Danis thought. As if he is deathly afraid of what he is going to hear next.

  “I figured, just in case you were wrong . . . I mean, in case there was a general slide, but then a sudden correction. Pions are so hard to make independently, and they’re impossible to store, you know. They are essential in isotope instantiation. There would have to be a major shortage for a few minutes, even allowing for relativistic effects. I timed it all out to four minutes and took out the option. But all that’s moot. You were right, of course.”

  “You took out a time option?”

  “Yes, Kelly. There’s no reason to be angry with me. I lost my money, but—”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “I just thought I had . . . an intuition about it. A gut feeling.”

  “Danis,” Kelly said, still in his frighteningly calm voice, “check to see if the option has a Section C rider.”

  She performed the necessary check perfunctorily, but it was a standard contract, and she knew what she would find before she looked.

  “Of course it has a Section C.”

  “A dearth clause.”

  “That’s what a section C is, Kelly.”

  “C stands for ‘convert,’ Danis.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Read the wording.”

  She read it again. And again. And then she understood what her husband was driving at.

  In the event that the issuing entities shall be unable to carry out the actuarial functions for the completion of this contract, the purchaser shall provide said functions or shall cause said functions to be performed by a proxy agent as specified by Unified Banking Code IV-A subsection 84. Absent a proxy, purchaser is responsible for final tally and related items under paragraph five, above.

  “But Teleman Milt is my proxy agency, and I bought the damn things from the Ferro Group—”

  “Which is now a member of Teleman Milt, Danis. The first thing the old man will have done is bought up the competition.”

  “So my issuer and proxy tabulator are the same entity.”

  “That’s not allowed by law. You have to abandon your proxy account holder in that circumstance, and do all the final accounting yourself. Some party with your interests in mind has to independently verify the contract’s completion. If the entity that you bought it from is the same one that loaned you the money—”

  “That leaves only me.”

  “If it were a regular person, with an aspect and convert portion, he would have to loan out his virtual side until the accounting was done.”

  “But that kind of number crunching normally requires a convert like the Abacus. It would take me days.”

  “And you can’t loan out your convert. You are a convert, and nothing else.”

  “It will take me days,” Danis said again.

  “They can legally hold you in the Met until the terms of the contract are completed.”

  “Kelly . . . you don’t think . . .”

  “I think that the first thing the Department of Immunity is going to do is round up all the free converts by any means necessary. It’s probably already happening.”

  “It will take me days,” said Danis. “I’m not made for that kind of arithmetic.”

  “We have a big problem, Danis.”

  They can hold me in the Met, Danis thought. They can separate me from my children.

  “Why?” Kelly said. His voice was almost a sob. “Why did you do that, Danis?”

  “I didn’t believe,” she replied. Something like a buzz was developing in her thoughts. Like a nest of bees that has been disturbed. Like an electric short in a closet full of fuses. “I didn’t believe it could possibly get as bad as you said it would, and I wanted a little protection, just in case you were wrong. It’s what we do at work, after all. Arbitrage. We always hedge our bets.”

  “Except when extreme measures are called for,” said Kelly. “Then there aren’t any rules you can count on.”

  “I . . . acted like a computer program,” Danis said. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Kelly replied. “We have to figure out what to do next.”

  They are going to take me from my children, Danis thought. It was all she could think, over and over again. They are going to take me from my Aubry and Sint.

  She looked at the two of them. Aubry was playing the old game of paper, rock, and scissors to keep Sint amused, now that he had no enigma box.

  I’m a pair of scissors, thought Danis, and my opponent is a rock.

  Ready to crush the scissors.

  They’re going to take me away from my children.

  Fifteen

  from

  Old Left-handed Time

  Raphael Merced and the Genesis of the Merced Effect

  a short history

  by Andre Sud, D. Div.

  Triton

  Raphael Merced’s later years marked the steady acceptance of his ideas. Bring and others worked out the manufacturing sequences for grist. On Merced’s fiftieth birthday, the then Martian government approved the dissemination of grist over all human-made surfaces on the planet. The similarities between this interconnected grist and virtual reality of computing entities had long been seen. But there was a visceral, physical quality to the “grist web.” It came to be viewed as the fusion of actuality and virtuality. Today it interconnects all human spaces in the solar system, and is known, collectively, as the merci. The name is derived, of course, from Merced.

  Merced turned his attention from scientific study proper to aesthetics. His correspondence with Myers grew more intense as he sought to somehow systematize a theory of beauty. In the meantime, Myers was running into trouble with the authorities on Mercury. These were the years of the Endowment government there, with its official goal of creating a renaissance. At first, thousands of artists of various sorts had flocked to the planet, convinced that a new utopia was at hand. But the Endowment Committee was quickly taken over by an elite class who formed the so-called Dowager Way and, far from encouraging other artists, the Committee began a series of pogroms that led to Myers’s imprisonment, on grounds that his work was ugly, irrelevant, and a corrupting influence on higher expression.

  Merced, now in his eighties (and, remember, this was in the days before grist regeneration of the human body had been perfected) journeyed to Mercury and staged a protest. He was shortly joined by his sister, Clara, who was ninety at the time. Using grist specially designed by researchers at Feur Otto Bring’s factory on Mars, Clara and Raphael Merced picked out a suitable spot near the Mercurian North Pole and created, in a matter of hours, what has been described as the biggest middle finger in the known universe. The structure was as long as Earth’s Grand Canyon, and as wide as Earth’s Italian peninsula. Seen from space, there was no doubt what it represented.

  This gigantic “fuck you” symbol was engineered to self-destruct within a year as the other “fingers” of the enormous hand spread out to form an open palm, and then dissolved into the underlying, still-preserved terrain. Merced, however, saw no reason to mention to the Endowment authorities the fact that the symbol would eventual
ly disappear. The Endowment government was enraged. Merced was immediately arrested, along with Clara. Two months later, the Merceds, Myers, and twenty-seven other Mercurian contributors to Flare were given a trial and found guilty of gross aesthetic injustices against humankind. They were placed on a small spacecraft and set on an orbit around the sun, officially cut off from all communication with the rest of the human race. Since the Endowment could only enforce its sentence on Mercury, it set the orbit of the exile craft to be within the confines of Mercury’s own orbit about the sun.

  But Merced’s body was now wholly interpenetrated by grist and, unknown to the Mercurian authorities, he was able to communicate with Bring back on Mars. A rescue mission was arranged.

  Before the rescue ship could arrive, however, the exile craft experienced a malfunction, probably caused by the degenerated state of Endowment engineering skills. Within minutes, the exile craft began to plunge into the sun. The occupants tried several fixes, but nothing worked. With about an hour to go, they resigned themselves to their fate. They found that, with a limited maneuvering capability still remaining, they would be able to choose where in the sun they would fall.

  “We’re going in at a sunspot near the north pole,” Merced said to the rescue ship’s captain, Feur Otto Bring’s daughter, Katya. “We’re doing this because we think it might be cooler.”

  Over the next hour, the occupants of the exile ship kept up a running commentary with Katya Bring. The record of this communication is known as the Exiles’ Journey. It has long been available on the merci. In it, Myers recites several spontaneous poems, including his “Old Left-handed Time,” which has become one of the classics of human literature. Clara Merced makes a moving good-bye to her children and grandchildren. Several of the other poets and artists on board left important records of various sorts.

  Raphael Merced was, himself, quiet for the first fifteen minutes. After that, he made a series of aphoristic comments which some have taken to be poems, and other have taken to be seeds for future scientific research. These are now known as the “Merced Synthetics.” The final comment Merced made, as the exile ship was burning around him, had to do with his own quantum gravitational theory.

  “I have been thinking,” said Merced, “that I was a bit mistaken about time. Don’t have the opportunity to go into the details just now, but I might suggest that somebody one of these days have a look at that big F in my equation. It might be possible to rearrange things in the past more to our liking. As a matter of fact, I do believe that I’ve seen signs that somebody is already doing that. I only hope to God that whoever is doing so has discovered the human equivalent of that unique property of my little gravitons. Whoever you are, up there in the future, for goodness sake, make sure you use a bit of judgment.”

  And with those words, Raphael Merced plunged into the sun and was lost.

  Sixteen

  “Quite a sight, eh Ted?” Roger Sherman said, but only to himself.

  Sherman reeled in the two-hundred-nineteen-thousand-mile-long cable that had stretched, just hours ago, from the moon Triton down into the Blue Eye of Neptune. He wasn’t really reeling it in, of course, but steadily deinstantiating it, simultaneously pulling it down and disassembling it on a molecular level. The buckyball components were broken down to elements and stable compounds, and stored in a room no bigger than a house. The cable, while several hundred thousand miles long, had the diameter of a straight pin.

  Far above, the weather-station packet came into view, white against the dark blue nitrogen sky. The weather station, at the tail end of Sherman’s cable, had entered Triton’s gravity well several minutes ago and deployed its parasail when the air became thick enough. Now Sherman was guiding it in like a big kite. In another half hour, he had it down and secure.

  Sherman was not normally in charge of bringing in the weather probe, but he did it on occasion—and, at the moment, all of his troops were on full defensive alert.

  Besides, he enjoyed the solitude that reeling in the weather station provided. It seemed that all of his time for the last few weeks had been spent in frantic preparations. He needed time to think.

  With practiced ease, Sherman shifted his attention into virtual and examined the data in the macro station. One by one his collection algorithms, all free-convert recruits, reported in with a crisp regularity.

  “Surface winds at two hundred forty-two knots, Colonel,” said Corporal Anometer.

  “Noted,” Sherman replied, and shunted the information to Major Theory, his free-convert personal adjutant. He treated all the virtual entities with strict formality, as he would any group of soldiers.

  The stars were out, as they always were, and the sun was hardly brighter than the moon on Earth. Triton was thirty times farther from the sun than was Earth. What dominated the sky at the moment was Neptune itself, setting in the west. Of all the moons in the solar system, Triton was the only major one to orbit its planet in a retrograde direction. Neptune rotated on its axis in the other direction, so that its waxing and waning in the sky was directly contrary to that of Earth’s moon. Most people on Triton didn’t notice the weird way Neptune’s phases changed in comparison with other planets when seen from their moons, but such things were part of Sherman’s job. The thin rings of the planet were barely visible at this angle as twinkling lines that seemed to rise directly out of Miranda Canyon. The Army weather station, and the settlement of Miranda, were perched on the canyon’s edge. New Miranda, a century old now, had been pioneered by refugees from the failure of the biocity on Uranus’s moon, Miranda.

  Uranus’s Miranda had an enormous canyon that was more than twelve miles deep—as deep as the deepest oceans on Earth. Triton’s Miranda namesake was more like a shallow gully in comparison.

  But New Miranda was a far bigger town than the habitat on Miranda had ever been. Uranus had remained, over the decades, a rather backward planetary system. The Neptune area, in comparison, was positively thriving these days. This was due to the difference in the planet that Triton circled. Uranus was a cold world, with a dead core. Neptune, on the other hand, was hotter than hell at the bottom of its atmosphere. Like Jupiter, Neptune was a failed sun, and there was still a residue of fission taking place down there in the great rift valleys that bisected the core’s surface. It was this spontaneous fission and the general radioactivity of the core that powered the storm that swept the atmosphere, particularly the Blue Eye that hovered over the equator, never blinking. And within that Blue Eye, the New Miranda settlers had placed the Mill.

  The Mill was just that, an enormous windmill consisting of two blades that turned with the swirl of the storm. The Mill, from blade tip to blade tip, was as long as the diameter of planet Earth. It was built on the same physical principles as the Met. In the center of the mill, operating in a manner not dissimilar to that of ancient hydroelectric turbines on Earth, was a generator that beamed a steady supply of microwave energy to a geosynchronous satellite stationed above it. And from that satellite, it was fed to Triton.

  Neptune set, and Sherman prepared himself to review his brigade, such as it was. The Third Sky and Light was a motley assortment of outer-system malcontents, hometown rejects, and Met outcasts. When he’d taken the post ten years before, discipline had been nonexistent, regulations were routinely disregarded to the point of genuine danger to the troops themselves, and morale was lower than he’d ever seen among any group of men and women. Since then, things had improved to some extent.

  They call me the Old Crow, Sherman thought. It was difficult to imagine that this was a term of affection.

  All in all, Sherman had about seven hundred soldiers under him on Triton, with a reserve unit of another seven hundred attached. Their main assignment was to protect and preserve the Mill. The Mill itself was not a Corps of Engineers project, but Sherman had had a vital role in getting the thing up and running. In fact, Sherman hated the idea of a Corps of Engineers. He hated
all specialty divisions. In the Third Sky and Light, all traditional arrangements stopped at the company. Sherman maintained group loyalty and morale by developing a mentor chain, with each soldier immediately responsible for two recruits as soon as he himself was fully trained.

  Sherman had come up with the idea of the mentor chain while serving as a captain on Mars. Before Amés and his Department of Immunity had driven the old Met Army to the outer system, the Federal had played an important role in fighting terrorism and keeping incipient tribalism and nationalism to a mild blaze. He’d been a captain for nearly sixty years and had watched three terrorist groups form under his nose, all from splinter groups from the ’63 Conjubilation. Sherman, himself, had Free Integrationist leanings, but no one had a right to use violence and killing to bring about their particular brand of politics.

  Nevertheless, one of the groups, calling itself FUSE (the acronym meant something like Mars for Martians in Norwegian) had staged a series of remarkably successful grist-based attacks on Met-wide companies with headquarters on Mars. The Army had one miserable failure after another in trying to stop them. Finally, Sherman had been assigned the task. He’d immediately seen that the problem was coordinating intelligence information with guard and attack functions and, after an embarrassing meltdown of the Werther Travel Complex in Marineris Valley, he had broken up all his platoons and rearranged them ad hoc with the idea that each soldier must also be a fully trained intelligence specialist. FUSE was notoriously riddled with information leaks (they had a site on the merci, for Christ’s sake), and in short order Sherman’s D Company had shut FUSE down by anticipating their every move and being there before them. After that success, Sherman was promoted and transferred to West Point to study organizational theory and to teach two classes a week to the plebes. It was a fine way to reward him and, at the same time, avoid implementing any of the changes he had worked out.