“What do you remember?”
“Not much. Is this important?”
“Indulge me, Mr. Schlencker.”
“She was . . . soft. Too soft. I kind of remember her as being like dough.”
“Soft? And your father was hard?”
“Oh yes.”
“But now he’s dead.”
“If you can believe your eyes,” Schlencker replied. “Of course, you haven’t got any.”
“Now that was funny, Mr. Schlencker.”
The young man sat back, nonplussed.
“You’ve seen a psychologist?”
“Yeah. I took some tests when I came to the gymnasium.”
Despacio smiled slightly, tugged at his beard. “Did you ever tell the psychologist about how you like to hurt yourself?” he asked.
Schlencker abruptly stood up. “What? Have you been spying on me?”
“Sit down, Mr. Schlencker. Sit. Just a lucky guess.”
“How the hell could you guess something . . . like that?”
“We’ve been working together for over a year.”
“Working. That’s all. Hey, how did you know my dad was dead?”
“Now that was in the dossier they gave me.”
“Oh.”
Despacio leaned back in his chair and considered his pupil. “Do you realize,” he said, “that you could very well live to be five hundred years old with the new treatments? Some people—the lucky ones—are already five hundred or more. But now, just about everyone will be. I, on the other hand, am indefinite. But the point is, both of us are going to be around a very, very long time.”
“Yes.”
“How do you suppose, Mr. Schlencker, that we will keep from going mad?”
“Mad? Crazy mad?”
“Crazy mad.”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“I have a theory.”
“Yes.”
“Are you interested?”
Schlencker was quiet for a moment, then said, “I guess.”
“Music,” said Despacio.
“Do you mean us, personally?”
“I mean everybody.”
“People will have to listen to music?”
“To keep from drifting off. To remember how to feel. To remember how it feels to think clearly and with true feeling.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“When you are five hundred years old, your father will have been dead for four hundred and eighty-two years.”
“I can’t wait.”
Despacio leaned forward and motioned on the table’s keyboards.
“Do you hate your father, Mr. Schlencker?”
“Yes,” Schlencker replied. “Yes, I do.”
“Well then. Hatred. You have hatred. Maybe we can find something else. But we’ll start with the hatred. You’d better never forget that if you ever want to write music,” said Despacio. “Now show me what you brought in today.”
Twenty-eight
from
Quatermain’s Guide
The Advantages of the Strong Force
A Guide to and History of the Met
by Leo Y. Sherman
The Science of the Met
Although the theoretical possibility of space tethers was known in the twentieth century, the materials sciences were unable to produce a composite with the required tensile strength. Buckyballs had been invented, but superstrong and superelastic matter had to await the full working out of the principles of quantum electro- and chromodynamics, and the nanotech revolution which began in the 2300s and is continuing to this day.
By the early 2400s, nanotechnologists had united buckyball constructions with superconducting quantum interference devices (SQUIDs) to create a reproducible molecular chain that displayed quantum behavior on the macro level. Buckyball SQUIDs behave like the individual components in an atom—that is, electrons, protons, neutrons, and the protons’ and neutrons’ constituent quarks. They do this by creating a kind of “resonating chamber”—much like an organ pipe. As sound resonates in a musical pipe, particles take the form of standing waves in a SQUID.
The most important behavior that the nanotechnological engineers were able to produce, at least in regard to the Met, is the strong nuclear force.
The strong interaction is the force that holds the nucleus of an atom together even though the clump of positively charged protons wants to blow apart, since like electrical charges repel. The strong force is actually a by-product of the color force of quarks, which make up the protons. Normally, the strong force operates only in a strictly prescribed distance, which is, naturally, close to the diameter of an atomic nucleus (about 10– 13 centimeters). But at that range, the strong force is 100 times stronger than the force of electromagnetism. This means, in principle, that it is 100 times stronger than the chemical bonds that make up most ordinary construction material. In a chain of buckyball SQUIDs, the strong force is manifested as a “particle” that is 0.5 centimeters across—visible to the naked human eye. By the mid 2400s such chains were being regularly produced in the laboratory.
The strong force has one more peculiar property that is essential in Met construction. It does not obey the inverse square law of both electromagnetism and gravity. Within the range of the strong force, quarks that are farther away are actually pulled more strongly than quarks that are closer together. You can picture it as a rubber band connecting two particles. The more you stretch the rubber band, the harder it pulls the particles. When the particles are close together, the rubber band is slack. It is this property of the strong force, operating on a macro level, that gives the Met cables their ability to bend without breaking. Torque forces that would easily separate material made of mere chemical bonds cannot overcome the strong force manifested by the buckyball SQUIDs, and the Met holds together.
In fact, there is no known force generated by the turnings of the planets that is even close to pushing the Met’s structural tolerances. If you live or travel in the Met, you are as safe as you are on the surface of a planet (and they are, themselves, held together, on the level of the atomic nucleus, by the strong force of nature).
Twenty-nine
After two years of composition work with Despacio, Claude Schlencker’s concerto took the first prize in the Met-wide competition for new composers. Its subtitle was “Meditations in Red.” He wrote it in the key of Charm, with several quick transpositions to Strange and Bottom.
Despacio was the first person to whom Claude broke the news. His lessons had continued past Claude’s graduation from Asap Gymnasium and into his enrollment in Suisui University on Mercury.
“It’s going to be performed,” Claude told him. “Here. In the Solar Hall in Bach.”
“By a virtual orchestra?” said Despacio.
“No,” said Claude. “By bodies.”
Despacio looked sad for a moment. “I see,” he said. Then he brightened. “It’s quite good, you know, Mr. Schlencker. Better than anything in a long while.”
“I owe it all to you.”
“Do you?”
Claude blinked, then sat down in his usual chair. That is, what he imagined to be his chair, even though it was only so much coding. Just as Despacio was.
“No,” he said. “Not all.”
“Let us always be honest with one another, Mr. Schlencker.”
Claude was silent for a moment, and then he decided to ask the question he’d been wanting to ask for some time now.
“Do you have a first name, Despacio?”
“Yes,” said the composer. “Yes, I do.”
“I hate my name,” Claude said.
“It’s a fine name.”
“I hate it.”
“Very well, then. You hate it.”
“I wa
nt to use another one. To sign my work. For everything. I would like it to be . . . a name that means something to me. A name that means something else to me than ‘Claude Schlencker’ does.”
Despacio tugged his beard. Claude felt he must have been mistaken, but he could have sworn the old composer’s eyes were . . . misty. But that could not be. He wasn’t real, and he couldn’t cry.
“When they first . . . programmed me . . . long before they fed in the mentalities and ran me through evolution, they used to have a name for me. It is what I’ve always thought of as my first name, because it was, you see, first. I’ve never told anyone.”
“Will you tell me?”
“It was an acronym, from English words. Not really a proper name at all.”
“What was it?”
“Artificial Musical Expression System. With the accent on ‘Expression.’ “ Despacio sat down in the chair across from Claude. “It’s really rather horrible. That’s why I never use it.”
“Amés,” Claude said.
“Amés.”
“May I use it?”
“You may,” replied Despacio. “You may, indeed. I have no further use for it, I can assure you.”
“Amés,” said the former Claude Schlencker. “From now on, that will be me.”
Thirty
from
Quatermain’s Guide
The Advantages of the Strong Force
A Guide to and History of the Met
by Leo Y. Sherman
Government
The Met is a democracy. It is based on an interlocking amalgamation of directorates each with its own function or geographic provenance. Met citizens “vote with their channel selectors,” with each citizen guaranteed membership in at least three directorates, and each having the ability to change allegiances at any time. Directorate members usually then elect a board, who appoint the director general and various higher-ups. Most positions under the subdirectorate level are based on merit, as judged by these appointed officers. Sometimes membership in a directorate can swing widely, especially during merci events prominently featuring a particular directorate or associated group, whether in a positive or negative light. Within minutes, relative voter strength can double or triple, as Met citizens exercise their “right to change channels.”
This form of modified popular democracy has its roots in the last century and is a direct result of the famous “Conjubilation of 2993.” During that e-year, when Earth and Mars were in planetary opposition in their orbits, a major span was constructed connecting the two sides of the Diaphany bend not far from the center. Promoters trumpeted the Conjubilation as a major cultural event on the merci, but it soon grew far beyond their expectations and then beyond their control. Nearly six million people made the trip to the span, and millions more attended in the virtuality. Many important cultural and scientific movements had their origins in the event, but most importantly for us here, a series of demonstrations broke out against the old Federal Republic. These in turn had their beginnings in the music and art festival called the Merge.
At the Merge, political opinions transformed daily, but the consensus seemed to be that something had to change in the way the government of the time did things. Matters were not helped for the old Republic when the then president of the Republic, Quim Fukuyama, put in a personal appearance and, after a rather mediocre speech, told everyone to “please go home.” As a result of the “Please Go Home” speech, the Republic was sent packing in the next election, and activists from the Merge elected. They quickly put into place the directorate-based government (the directorates were at first called havens) that we have today in the Met.
The most important political figure to arise out of the Merge was a LAP going by the singular name of Amés. Amés had come into the merge as a featured musician (he was a composer). It was Amés who first saw the need for a directorate interlock and, after campaigning vigorously (some have claimed ruthlessly) for such an entity, he was appointed its director. Since that time, Director Amés has been reappointed to the post.
How did a musical composer transform himself into the politician who would unite the crumbling Met government?
Director Amés has said that he always had political ambitions.
“My music is about movement and action—getting things done. That’s one of the reasons I have always insisted on conducting my own compositions. It’s the music of change and growth, and not every conductor can bring that kind of commitment to its performance,” he said in a famous merci interview at the Merge of ’93. “What I do as a composer and conductor is to order the world. It’s chaos out there—and chaos is deadly. My music is about order and strength. I’m not talking about order like the old fogies of the Republic want—keeping things running more or less like they always have. I’m talking about order that leads to action—to remaking the world around us into what we want, and not what the chaos forces on us. That’s what I do as a musician—and that’s what the Met sorely needs from its leaders.”
The original system of directorates that arose after the old Republic government fell was, itself, a shaky affair. Direct democracy had never been tried before on such a large scale. Day after day directorates rose enormously in popularity and influence, only to find themselves destroyed in the merci polls the moment they attempted anything the slightest bit unpopular. And, in direct democracy, to fall in the polls is to be voted out of office.
What was needed was someone who could handle both the political coordination of the directorates and sway popular opinion and keep it in line long enough for the government to do its job. What was needed was someone who knew the ins and outs of popular entertainment on the merci, but who could also shoulder the task of real governing. On the merci political shows, and in the think tanks and news bullpens, the star of the Merge of ’93 was soon seen everywhere. Everyone who was anyone on the political pundit circuit had to have Amés appear on his or her show or play in his or her game milieu.
Amés might have gone down in history as any other forgotten talk-show guest, had it not been for the untimely death of the governor of Mercury that occurred precisely at the height of Amés’s popularity on the merci. Within one new-cycle day, the young composer went from a politically hot newcomer to the head of the richest planet in the solar system. Using this power base and his own popularity in the moment, Amés quickly began consolidating the directorates under his governance. At first, the directorates were loath to give up their influence, as fleeting as that influence could be, but the merci polls were overwhelming in Amés’s favor, and a series of unlucky accidents befell those directors who opposed him. It was almost as if the popular will had swept them from life as well as from office.
“Music was never something soothing for me, but a challenge to be met. I had a teacher who saw to that. He never let me use music as some kind of escape from responsibility. There are all these notes. They can be put to work in beautiful ways, if only you know how to arrange them in the most useful way,” Amés said shortly after his ascent to Director of the Interlocking Directorates of the Met. “The directorates work in the same way. Separately, they are a bunch of discordant notes. But together—together, we can make the most beautiful music the human race has ever heard.”
Thirty-one
At first, Aubry Graytor didn’t notice the little man. He was barely over five-foot-two and was dressed nondescriptly. Aubry was having enough trouble making her way in the crush of the customs check to pay much attention to any of the adults around her. But the man was insistently tugging on the sleeve of her father’s shirt. Her father pulled away, but then the man said something into his ear, and Kelly directed Aubry and Sint to a side passage with an alcove where there were some advertisements for a spa on Venus. They started to speak, but her father told them to shut up. He turned his attention to the little man.
“All right,” Kelly said. “H
ow is she in danger?”
Her father didn’t mention who “she” was, but Aubry had a notion it was her mother. Danis was now being processed through the free-convert portion of the customs check.
“There have been hostilities,” the little man said. His voice was surprisingly gentle and soft. “There’s no formal declaration of war yet, but all free converts are being detained. They’re claiming that they contain technology that’s proprietary to the Met.”
“We were worried about a clause in a contract that might have delayed her,” her father said.
“They’re using anything and everything to get a legal hold on free converts,” said the man. “If there is the slightest doubt, they aren’t going to let her go.”
“Oh God,” Kelly said. Then he looked hard at the man, the way he sometimes looked at Aubry when he knew she was only telling him part of the truth about something. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“My name is Sherman,” said the little man. “Leo Sherman. That’s not important. I work for the Friends of Tod, a group dedicated to free-convert rights—”
“We’ve never had any trouble in that regard,” said her father, “except for a comment here and there.”
“You’re from Mercury,” Leo Sherman said. “The farther out you get, the less freedom for free converts. There’s some slave labor on Mars. Look, we have to work fast. I’ve got a legal convert jamming the system right now, arguing each and every case. Your wife is probably in queue for a hearing.”
“You mean these trials are going on in the virtuality?”
“Yes. But our legal sentient isn’t doing much good. We haven’t won a single case yet. We have slowed the process down enough so that we can seek out . . . alternatives.”
“Alternatives? To what?”
“To your wife being detained and put to work crunching numbers in Noctis Labyrinthus. You have heard of Silicon Valley, haven’t you? That’s what the free converts who get sent there call it. It’s like an aspect being sent to the salt mines.”
Tony Daniel Page 19
