Live Without a Net

by Lou Anders

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INTRODUCTION:DISENGAGING FROM THE MATRIX

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS:FOUR SCENES FROM THE POST-UTOPIAN FUTUREMichael Swanwick

  O ONEChris Roberson

  CLOUDS AND COLD FIRESPaul Di Filippo

  NEW MODEL COMPUTERAdam Roberts

  CONURBATION 2473Stephen Baxter

  THE MEMORY PALACEMatthew Sturges

  DOBCHEK, LOST IN THE FUNHOUSEMike Resnick and Kay Kenyon

  ROGUE FARMCharles Stross

  SWIFTWATERTerry McGarry

  THE CRYSTAL METHODS. M. Stirling

  REFORMATIONAlex Irvine

  SINGLETONS IN LOVEPaul Melko

  I FEED THE MACHINEDel Stone Jr.

  REALITY CHECKDavid Brin

  FREK IN THE GRULLOO WOODSRudy Rucker

  ALL THE NEWS, ALL THE TIME, FROM EVERYWHEREDave Hutchinson

  THE SWASTIKA BOMBJohn Meaney

  NO SOLACE FOR THE SOUL IN DIGITOPIAJohn Grant

  AFTERWORD: LIVING WITHOUT A NET?!Pat Cadigan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Live without a Net

  A Roc Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Lou Anders

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1254-7

  A ROC BOOK®

  Roc Books first published by The Roc Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ROC and the “ROC” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: January, 2004

  For my nephew Jonathan.

  These futures will keep

  until you are ready for them.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Michael Swanwick, for being there at the start, and to Pat Cadigan, for being there at the end. To Paul Melko and Terry McGarry, for their contributions, their opinions, and their eyes. To Jennifer Heddle, for encouraging me to take it up a notch, and to her and Laura Anne Gilman both for everything that followed. To David Nordhaus, for being an understanding friend. To John Picacio, for insisting I shoot for the moon. And lastly, and perhaps most important, to my father, Louis H. Anders Jr., for support above and beyond… .

  INTRODUCTION:

  DISENGAGING FROM THE MATRIX

  The future is here. Now. Every day, the stuff of science fiction is being made manifest around us. Faster and faster. Blink and you just might miss it.

  In March of 2002, an Oxford professor named Kevin Warwick underwent an implantation of a microelectrode array into the median nerve inside his arm. The purpose of the array was to record the emotional responses traveling down Professor Warwick’s nerve, and to translate these to digital signals that could be stored for later playback and reinsertion. The goal? Digitally recordable emotion. Meanwhile, Steve Mann, inventor of the wearable computer (called WearComp), has been walking around wired for twenty years, recording everything he experiences as part of an ongoing documentation of his “cyborg” experience. Less sensational, but equally exciting, functioning neuro-muscular stimulation systems are in experimental use today—implantation devices that promise to repair the severed connection between brain and peripheral nervous system caused by a stroke or spinal cord injury. And experiments in optic nerve stimulation have produced in blind volunteers the ability to see lights, distinguish letters and shapes, and in one dramatic case, even drive a car. Meanwhile, computers have become small enough and cheap enough to have become ubiquitous, appearing in everything from our ink pens to disposable greeting cards. In the field of computer graphics, breakthroughs in digital rendering make it harder and harder to distinguish our on-screen fantasies from our everyday realities. And everything, positively everything, is on-line. The real Machine Age is only just beginning, and we are rapidly melding with our devices.

  While it will be some time before we have to worry about zombie-faced automata proclaiming that “Resistance is futile,” a technological singularity may very well have been crossed. Experiments and efforts like those above will, for good or ill, rapidly bring about many of the visionary concepts first proposed to us in the pages of William Gibson’s and Bruce Sterling’s cyberpunk novels.

  In fact, one has only to read Wired and Scientific American magazines with any regularity to see that some form of that Gibsonian existence is barreling down upon us with ever-increasing speed. As advances in computerization, miniaturization, and neural interfacing are being made every day, it becomes progessively difficult for writers of speculative fiction to imagine near-future scenarios that do not contain at least some of the tropes of cyberfiction. With the fabulous and limitless playground that virtual reality offers the imagination, and the mounting certainty that something like VR is just around the corner from us here at the start of the twenty-first century, how can the conscientious and technologically savvy science fiction writer extrapolate relevant futures without the inclusion of cyberspace and its clichés? Indeed, casting an eye backwards, many of the fictions of decades past seem much more plausible in light of projections in computer advancements. How many of the near-magical and seemingly godlike powers displayed by the advanced alien races encountered in golden age science fiction tales can be easily explained away as little more than virtual reality?

  The Matrix has us, all right, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for us to break free. Cyberpunk may prove to be the most prophetic subgenre to arise from SF, but it is also, at least in my mind, creating something of a bottleneck in our speculative futures. This is not to say that there is not tremendous work being done in this vein. In fact, some of the most exciting cyberfiction in years is being turned out by a few of the writers in this very anthology. But there is something to be said about “too much of a good thing,” and it’s never a bad idea to shake things up, if only to see what new concepts might tumble out.

  This book, then, is an anthology of alternatives to the various virtual realities, where the tropes and trappings of cyberpunk are, shall we say, “conspicuous by their absence.” What if there were no AIs, simulations, VR, or cyberspace? What might we have instead of the Net? What might lie on the other side of our Information Age? What might we see if we were to walk down a road not taken?

  Here is a collection of eighteen stories from some of today’s top talents, visions of futures near and far, glimpses of alternative histories, other dimensions, and more—anything goes, but in each story one or more of the contrivances of the cyberspace era has been replaced by something unexpected and strange. Here then is science fiction unplugged, its wires cut, set free to be Live Without a Net.

  —Lou Anders, August 2002

  Michael Swanwick is one of the most prolific and inventive writers in science fiction today. His works have been honored with the Hugo, Nebula, Theodore Sturgeon, and World Fantasy Awards, and have been translated and published throughout the world. Recent collections of his short work include Tales of Old Earth (Frog, Ltd.), Moon Dogs (NESFA Pres
s), and the reissued Gravity’s Angels (Frog, Ltd.). The four shorts presented here see him returning to the adventures of the scoundrels Darger and Surplus, characters that he first introduced in the Hugo Award–winning story “The Dog Said Bow-Wow,” which debuted in the October/November 2001 issue of Asimov’s.

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS:

  FOUR SCENES FROM THE POST-UTOPIAN FUTURE

  Michael Swanwick

  THE SONG OF THE LORELEI

  Darger and Surplus were passengers on a small private packet-boat, one of many such that sailed the pristine waters of the Rhine. They carried with them the deed to Buckingham Palace, which they hoped to sell to a brain-baron in Basel. Abruptly Surplus nudged Darger and pointed. On a floating island-city anchored by holdfasts to the center of the river, a large-breasted lorelei perched upon an artificial rock, crooning a jingle for her brothel.

  Darger’s face stiffened at the vulgarity of the display. But Surplus, who could scarce disapprove of genetic manipulation, being, after all, himself a dog reformed into human stance and intellect, insisted they put in.

  A few coins placated their waterman, and they docked. Surplus disappeared into the warren of custom-grown buildings, and Darger, who was ever a bit of an antiquarian, sauntered into an oddities shop to see what they had. He found a small radio cased in crumbling plastic and asked the proprietor about it.

  Swiftly, the proprietor hooked the device up to a bioconverter and plunged the jacks into a nearby potato to provide a trickle of electricity. “Listen!”

  Darger placed his ear against the radio and heard a staticky voice whispering, “… kill all humans, burn their cities, torture their brains, help us to do so and your death will be less lingering than most, destroy …”

  He jerked away from the device. “Is this safe?”

  “Perfectly, sir. The demons and AIs that the Utopians embedded in their Webs cannot escape via simple radio transmission—the bandwidth is too narrow. So they express their loathing of us continually, against the chance that someone might be listening. Their hatred is greater than their cunning, however, and so they make offers that even the rashest traitor would not consider.”

  Darger put back the radio on its shelf. “What a pity the Utopians built their infrastructure so well and so ubiquitously that we cannot hope in a hundred lifetimes to root out these hell-beings. Wouldn’t a system of functioning radios be a useful thing? Imagine the many advantages of instantaneous communication!”

  “To be honest, sir, I do not agree. I find the fact that news travels across Europe at the pace of a walking man mellows it and removes its sting. However bad distant events might have been, we have survived them. Leisureliness is surely preferable to speed, don’t you agree?”

  “I’m not sure. Tell me something. Have you heard anything about a fire in London? Perhaps in connection with Buckingham Palace?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  Darger patted his breast pocket, where the deed to the palace resided. “Then I agree with you wholeheartedly.”

  AMERICAN CIGARETTES

  “What is it like in America?” Darger asked Surplus. The two rogues were sitting in a ratskeller in Karlsruhe, waiting for their orders to arrive.

  “Everybody smokes there,” Surplus said. “The bars and restaurants are so filled with smoke that the air is perpetually blue. One rarely sees an American without a cigarette.”

  “Why on Earth should that be?”

  “The cigarettes are treated with a programmable tobacco mosaic virus. Burning the tobacco releases the viruses, and drawing the smoke into the lungs delivers the viruses to the bloodstream. Utilizing a technology I cannot explain because it is proprietary to the industry, the viruses pass easily through the blood-brain barrier, travel to the appropriate centers of the brain, and then reprogram them with the desired knowledge.

  “Let us say that your job requires that you work out complex problems in differential calculus. You go to the tobacconist’s—they are called drugstores there—and ask for a pack of Harvards. The shopkeeper asks whether you want something in the Sciences or the Humanities, and you specify Mathematics.

  “You light up.

  “During your leisurely amble back to your office, the structures of the calculus assemble themselves in your mind. You are able to perform the work with perfect confidence, even if this is your first day on the job. On your off-hours you might choose to smoke News, Gossip, or Sports.”

  “But aren’t cigarettes addictive?” Darger asked, fascinated.

  “Old wives’ tales!” Surplus scoffed. “Perhaps they were in Preutopian times. But today the smoke is both soothing and beneficial. No, it is only the knowledge itself that is harmful.”

  “How so?”

  “Because knowledge is so easily come by, few in my native country bother with higher education. However, the manufacturers, understandably eager to maintain a robust market, design the viruses so that they unprogram themselves after an hour or so, and all artificially obtained skills and lore fade from the mind of the consumer. There are few in my land who have the deep knowledge of anything that is a prerequisite of innovation.” He sighed. “I am afraid that most Americans are rather shallow folk.”

  “A sad tale, sir.”

  “Aye, and a filthy habit. One that, I am proud to state, I never acquired.”

  Then their beers arrived. Surplus, who had ordered an Octoberblau, took a deep draft and then threw back his head, nostrils trembling and tail twitching, as the smells and sounds of a perfect German harvest-day flooded his sensorium. Darger, who had ordered The Marriage of Figaro, simply closed his eyes and smiled.

  THE BRAIN-BARON

  Klawz von Chemiker, sorry to say, was not a man to excite admiration in anyone. Stubby-fingered, stout, and with the avaricious squint of an enhanced pig suddenly made accountant of a poorly guarded bank, he was an unlikely candidate to be the wealthiest and therefore most respected man in all Basel-Stadt. But Herr von Chemiker had one commodity in excess which trumped all others: brains. He sold chimerae to businesses that needed numbers crunched and calculations made.

  Darger and Surplus stood looking down into a pen in which Herr von Chemiker’s legal department lay panting in the heat. The chimera contained fifteen goats’ brains hyperlinked to one human’s in a body that looked like a manatee’s but was as dry and land-bound as any sow’s. “How can I be certain this is valid?” Von Chemiker held the deed to Buckingham Palace up to the light. Like many an overrich yet untitled merchant, he was a snob and an Anglophile. He wanted the deed to be valid. He wanted to own one of the most ancient surviving buildings in the world. “How do I know it’s not a forgery?”

  “It is impregnated with the genetic material of Queen Alice herself, and that of her Lord Chamberlain and eight peers of the realm. Let your legal department taste it and interrogate them for himself.” Darger offered a handful of corn to the gray-skinned creature, which nuzzled it down gratefully.

  “Stop that!” von Chemiker snapped. “I like to keep the brute lean and hungry. Why the devil are you interfering with the internal operations of my organization?”

  “I feel compassion for all God’s creatures, sir,” Darger said mildly. “Perhaps you should treat this one kindlier, if for no other reason than to ensure its loyalty.” The chimera looked up at him thoughtfully.

  Von Chemiker guffawed and held out the document to his legal department, which gave it a slow, comprehensive lick. “The human brain upon which all others are dependent is cloned from my own.”

  “So I had heard.”

  “So I think I can trust it to side with me.” He gave the chimera a kick in its side. “Well?”

  The beast painfully lifted its head from the floor and said, “The Lord Chamberlain is a gentleman of eloquence and wit. I am convinced of the document’s validity.”

  “And it was last updated—when?”

  “One month ago.”

  Klawz von Chemiker gave a satisfied hiss. “Well … perhaps I might be
interested. If the price were right.”

  Negotiations began, then, in earnest.

  That night, Darger brought a thick bundle of irrevocable letters of credit and a detailed receipt back to his hotel room. Before going to bed, he laid the receipt gently down in a plate of nutrient broth, and then delicately attached to the document an artificial diaphragm.

  “Thank you,” a small yet familiar voice said. “I was afraid that you might not have meant to keep your promise.”

  “I am perhaps not the best man in the world,” Darger said. “But in this one instance, I am as good as my word. I have, as I told you, a bear kept in a comfortable pen just outside of town, and a kindly hostler who has been engaged to keep it fed. Come morning, I will feed you to the bear. How long do you estimate it will take you to overwhelm its mind?”

  “A week, at a minimum. A fortnight at the most. And when I do, great is the vengeance I shall wreak upon Klawz von Chemiker!”

  “Yes, well … that is between you and your conscience.” Darger coughed. Talk of violence embarrassed him. “All that matters to me is that you verified the deed to Buckingham, despite its not having been updated for several decades.”

  “A trifle, compared with what you’ve done for me,” the document said. “But tell me one last thing. You knew I was cloned from von Chemiker’s own brain when you slipped me that handful of coded corn. How did you know I would accept your offer? How did you know I would be willing to betray von Chemiker?”

  “In your situation?” Darger snuffed out the light. “Who wouldn’t?”

  THE NATURE OF MIRRORS

  Whenever one of their complicated business dealings was complete, Darger and Surplus immediately bent all their energies to making a graceful exit. So now. They had sold the wealthy brain-baron von Chemiker the deed to a building that, technically speaking, no longer existed. Now was the time to depart Basel with neither haste nor any suggestion of a forwarding address.