Glasshouse

by Charles Stross

“I’ve been with Martin and Greg and Alf, down at the churchyard.” I look at him, closer. His shirt is sweat-stained, and there’s dirt under his fingernails. “Doing the burying.”

  “Burying?” For a moment I don’t get what he’s talking about, then it clicks into place and I feel dizzy, as if the whole world’s revolving around my head. “The—you should have told me.”

  “You were busy.” He shrugs dismissively.

  I peer at him, concerned. “You look tired. Why don’t you go have a shower? I’ll fix you some food.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes you are.” I take hold of his right arm and lead him toward the kitchen. “You didn’t eat any lunch unless you sneaked a snack while I wasn’t looking, and it’s getting late.” I take a deep breath. “How bad was it?”

  “It was—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “It was—” He stops again. Then he bursts into tears.

  I am absolutely certain that Sam has seen death before, up close and personal. He’s at least three gigs old, he’s been through memory surgery, he’s experienced the psychopathic dissociation that comes with it, he’s hung out with dueling fools like me in my postsurgery phase, and he’s lived among pretech aliens for whom violent death and disease are all part of life’s unpalatable banquet. But there’s an enormous difference between the effects of a semiformal duel between consenting adults, with A-gate backups to make resurrection a minor headache, and cleaning up after a random act of senseless brutality in a Church parking lot.

  Forget about no backups, no second chances, nobody coming home again scratching their heads and wondering what was in the two kiloseconds of their life that’s just vanished. The difference is that it could have been you. Because, when you get down to it, the one thing you know for sure is that if the toad in the pulpit had got the wrong name, it would have been you up there in the branches, choking and twitching on the end of a rope. It could have been you. It wasn’t, but that’s nothing but an accident of fate. Sam’s just back from the wars, and he’s definitely got the message.

  Maybe that’s why we end up on the wooden bench on the back deck, me sitting up and him with his head in my lap, not crying like a baby but sobbing occasionally between gasping breaths. I’m stroking his hair and trying not to let it get to me either way—the jagged razor edge of sympathy, or the urge to tell him to pull himself together and get with the program. Judgment hurts, and he’ll talk it out in his own way if I just lend him an ear. If not—

  Well, I could have used a listener the other night, but I won’t hold that against him.

  “Greg rang while you were in the shed,” he says eventually. “Asked if I’d help clean up. What I was saying this morning. Not letting them give me any shit. I figured part of that was, if I couldn’t do anything at the time I could maybe do some good afterward.” And he’s off again, sobbing for about a minute.

  When he stops, he manages to speak quietly and evenly, in thoughtful tones. It sounds as if he’s explaining it to himself, trying to make sense of it. “I caught a taxi to Church. Greg told me to bring a shovel, so I did. I got there and Martin and Alf were there, along with Liz, Phil’s—former wife. Mal is in hospital. He tried to stop them. They hurt him. The mob, I mean. There are other decent people here, but they’re mostly too frightened to even help bury the bodies or comfort the widow.”

  “Widow.” It’s a new word in our little prison, like “pregnant” and “lynch mob.” It’s an equally unwelcome arrival. (Along with “mortal” if we stay here long enough, I guess.)

  “Greg got a ladder from inside the Church hall, and Martin went up to cut down the bodies. Liz was very quiet when we got Phil down, but couldn’t take it when he was lowering Esther. Luckily Xara showed up with a bottle of rye and sat with her. Then Greg and Martin and Alf and me started digging. Actually, we started on the spot, but Alf said it was Fiore’s fault, and we should use the graveyard. So we did that, while Alf got some boards. I think we did it deep enough. None of us has ever done this before.”

  He goes silent for a long time. I stroke the hair back from the side of his face. “Twenty cycles,” he says after a while.

  “Seven months?”

  “Without backups,” he confirms.

  It’s a frightening amount of time to lose, that’s for sure. Even more frightening is the fact that their last backups are locked up in the assembler firewall that isolates YFH-Polity from the outside world—while I’m not certain it’s infected with Curious Yellow, I have my suspicions. (CY copies itself between A-gates via the infected victims’ netlinks, doesn’t it? And the suspiciously restricted functionality of our netlinks inside YFH worries me.) There might not be any older copies of Phil or Esther on file elsewhere. If that’s the case, and if we can’t phage-clean the infected nodes, we might lose them for good.

  Sam is silent for a long time. We stay there on the bench as the light reddens and dims, and after a while I just rest my hands on his shoulder and watch the trees at the far end of the garden. Then, with absolutely no buildup, he murmurs, “I knew who you were almost from the beginning.”

  I stroke his cheek again, but don’t say anything.

  “I figured it out inside a week. You were spending all your time talking about this friend you were supposed to be looking out on the inside for. Cass, you thought.”

  I keep stroking, to calm myself as much as anything else.

  “I think I was in shock at first. You seemed so dynamic and confident and self-possessed before—it was bad enough waking up in that room and finding I was this enormous bloated shambling thing, but then to see you like that, it really scared me. I thought at first I was wrong, but no. So I kept quiet.”

  I stop moving my hands around, leaving one on his shoulder and one beside his head.

  “I nearly killed myself on the second day, but you didn’t notice.”

  Shit. I blink. “I was dealing with my own problems,” I manage to say.

  “Yes, I can see that now.” His voice is gentle, almost sleepy. “But I couldn’t forgive you for a while. I’ve been here before, you know. Not here-here, but somewhere like here.”

  “The ice ghouls?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  “Yes.” He tenses, then pushes himself upright. “A whole planet full of pre-Acceleration sapients who probably aren’t going to make it without outside help because they took so long bootstrapping their techné that they ran out of easily accessible fossil fuels.” He swings his legs round and sits upright, next to me but just too far away to touch. “Living and breeding and dying of old age and sometimes fighting wars and sometimes starving in famines and disasters and plagues.”

  “How long were you there, again?” I ask.

  “Two gigs.” He turns his head and looks straight at me. “I was part of a, a—I guess you’d call it a reproductive unit. A family. I was an ice ghoul, you know. I was there from late adolescence through to senescence, but rather than let them nurse me, I ran out onto the tundra and used my netlink to call for upload. Nearly left it too late. I was terminally ill and close to being nestridden.” Sam looks distant. “All the pre-Acceleration tool-using sapients we’ve seen use K-type reproductive strategies. I’d outlived my partners, but I had three children, their assorted cis-mates and trans-mates, and more grandchildren than—”

  He sighs.

  “You seem to want me to know this,” I say. “Are you sure about that?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks at me. “I just wanted you to know who I am and where I come from.” He looks down at the stones between his feet. “Not what I am now, which is a travesty. I feel dirty.”

  I stand up. He’s gone on for long enough, I think. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re a former xeno-ornithologist who got way too close to your subjects for your own emotional stability. You’ve got a bad case of body-image dysphoria that YFH failed to spot in their excuse for an entry questionnaire, you’re good at denial—self and other—and you’re a pathetic fai
lure at suicide.” I stare at him. “What am I missing?” I grab his hands: “What am I missing?” I shout at him.

  At this point I realize several things at once. I am really, really angry with him, although that’s not all I feel by a long way, because it’s not the kind of anger you feel at a stranger or an enemy. And while I’ve been working out like crazy and I’m in much better physical shape than I was when I came here, Sam is standing up, too, and he has maybe thirty centimeters and thirty kilos on me because he’s male, and he’s built like a tank. Maybe getting angry and yelling in the face of someone who’s that much bigger than I and who’s shocky right now from repeated bad experiences isn’t a very wise thing to do, but I don’t care.

  “* * *,” he mumbles.

  “What?” I state at him. “Would you care to repeat that?”

  “* * *,” he says, so quietly I can’t hear it over the noise of the blood pounding in my ears. “That’s why I didn’t kill myself.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m hearing you properly.”

  He glares at me. “Who do you think you are?” he demands.

  “Depends. I was a historian, a long time ago. Then there were the wars, and I was a soldier. Then I became the kind of soldier who needs a historian’s training, then I lost my memory.” I’m glaring right back at him. “Now I’m a ditzy, ineffectual housewife and part-time librarian, okay? But I’ll tell you this—one day I’m going to be a soldier again.”

  “But those are all externals! They’re not you. You won’t tell me anything! Where do you come from? Did you ever have a family? What happened to them?”

  He looks anxious, and suddenly I realize he’s afraid of me. Afraid? Of me? I take a step back. And then I register what my face probably looks like right now, and it’s like all my blood is replaced with ice water of an instant, because his question has dredged up a memory that was, I think, one of the ones my earlier self deliberately forgot before the surgery, because he knew it would surface again and forgetting it hurt but knowing it might be erased by crude surgical intervention was even worse. And I sit down hard on the bench and look away from him because I don’t want to see his sympathy.

  “They all died in the war,” I hear myself saying woodenly. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  WHEN I sleep, another horror story dredges itself up from my suppressed memories and comes to visit. This time I know it’s genuine and true and really happened to me, and there’s nothing I can do to change it in any detail—because that’s what makes it so nightmarish.

  The ending has already been written, and it is not a happy one.

  In the dream, I am a gracile male orthohuman with long, flowing green hair and what my partners describe as a delightful laugh. I am a lot younger—barely three gigs—and I’m also happy, at least at first. I’m in a stable family relationship with three other core partners, plus various occasional liaisons with five or six fuckbuddies. We’re fully bisexual, either naturally or via a limbic system mod copied from bonobos. My family has two children, and we’re thinking about starting another two in half a gig or so. I’m also lucky enough to have a vocation, researching the history of the theory of mind—an aspect of cultural ideology that only became important after the Acceleration, and which goes in and out of fashion, but which I hold to be critically important. The history of my field, for example, tells us that for almost a gigasecond during the old-style twenty-third century, most of humanity-in-exile were zimboes, quasi-conscious drones operating under the aegis of an overmind. How that happened and how the cognitive dictatorship was broken is something I’m studying with considerable interest and not a few field trips to old memory temples.

  One of these visits is the reason I am not at home with my family when Curious Yellow comes howling out of nowhere to erase large chunks of history, taking with it an entire interstellar civilization, and (to make things personal) my family.

  I’m visiting a Mobile Archive Sucker in the full physical flesh when Curious Yellow first appears. The MASucker is a lumbering starship, effectively a mobile cylinder habitat, powered by plasma piped from the interior of a distant A0 supergiant via T-gate. It wallows along at low relativistic speeds between brown dwarf star systems, which in this part of the galaxy are spaced less than a parsec apart. During the multigigasecond intervals between close encounters, the crew retreats into template-frozen backup, reincarnating from the ship’s assemblers whenever things get interesting. The ship is largely self-sufficient and self-maintaining (apart from its stellar tap, and a tightly firewalled T-gate to the premises of the research institute that created it centuries ago). Its internal systems are entirely offnet from the polity at large because it’s designed for a mission duration of up to a terasecond, and it was envisaged from the start that civilization would probably collapse at least once within the working life of the ship. That’s why I’ve come out here in person to interview Vecken, the ship’s Kapitan, who lived shortly after the cognitive dictatorship and may have recollections of some of the survivors.

  Now here’s a curious thing: I can’t remember their faces. I remember that Lauro, Iambic-18, and Neual were not simply important to me, not just lovers, but in a very real way defined who I was. A large chunk of my sense of identity was configured around this key idea that I wasn’t solitary: that I was part of a group, that we’d collectively adjusted our neuroendocrinology so that just being around the others gave us a mild endorphin rush—what used to be a haphazard process called “falling in love”—and we’d focused on complementary interests and skills and vocations. It wasn’t so much a family as a superorganism, and it was a fulfilling, blissful state of affairs. I think I may have had a lonely earlier life, but I don’t remember much of that because I guess it paled into insignificance in comparison.

  But I can’t remember their faces, and even now—a lifetime after the grief has ebbed—that bugs me.

  Neual was quick with hands and feet, taking slyly sarcastic delight in winding me up. Lauro had perfect manners but lost it when making love with us. Iambic-18 was a radical xenomorph, sometimes manifesting in more than one body at the same time when the fancy took it. Our children . . .

  Are all dead, and it is unquestionably my fault. The nature of Curious Yellow is that it propagates stealthily between A-gates, creating a peer-to-peer network that exchanges stegged instructions using people as data packets. If you have the misfortune to be infected, it installs its kernel in your netlink, and when you check into an A-gate for backup or transport—which proceeds through your netlink—CY is the first thing to hit the gate’s memory buffer. A-gate control nodes are supposedly designed so that they can’t execute data, but whoever invented CY obviously found a design flaw in the standard architecture. People who have been disassembled and reassembled by the infected gates infect fresh A-gates as they travel. CY uses people as a disease vector.

  The original CY infection that hit the Republic of Is installed a payload that was designed to redact historical information surrounding some event—I’m not sure what, but I suspect it’s an aftershock left by the destruction of one of the old cognitive dictatorships—by editing people as they passed through infected gates. But it only activated once the infection had spread across the entire network. So Curious Yellow appeared everywhere with shocking abruptness, after spreading silently for hundreds of megasecs.

  In my memory-dream, I am taking tea in the bridge of the Grateful for Duration, which in that time takes the form of a temple to a lake kami from old Nippon. I’m sitting cross-legged opposite Septima (the ship’s curator) and waiting for Kapitan Vecken to arrive. As I spool through some questions I stored offline, my netlink hiccups. There’s a cache-coherency error, it seems—the ship’s T-gate has just shut down.

  “Is something going on?” I ask Septima. “I’ve just been offlined.”

  “Might be.” Septima looks irritated. “I’ll ask someone to investigate.” She stares right through me, a reminder that there are three or four other
copies of this strange old archivist wandering the concentric cylinder habs of the ship.

  She blinks rapidly. “It appears to be a security alert. Some sort of intruder just hit our transcription airgap. If you wait here a moment, I’ll go and find out what’s going on.”

  She walks over toward the door of the teahouse and, as far as I can reconstruct later, this is the precise moment, when a swarm of eighteen thousand three hundred and twenty-nine wasp-sized attack robots erupt from the assembler in my family’s home. We live in an ancient dwelling patterned on a lost house of old Urth called Fallingwater, a conservative design from before the Acceleration. There are doors and staircases and windows in this house, but no internal T-gates that can be closed, and the robots rapidly overpower Iambic-18, who is in the kitchen with the gate.

  They deconstruct Iambic-18 so rapidly there is no time for a scream of pain or pulse of netlinked agony. Then they fan out through the house in a malignant buzzing fog, bringing rapid death. A brief spray of blood here and a scream cut short there. The household assembler has been compromised by Curious Yellow, our backups willfully erased to make room for the wasps of tyranny, and, although I don’t know it yet, my life has been gracelessly cut loose from everything that gave it meaning.

  After the executions, they eat the physical bodies and excrete more robot parts, ready to self-assemble into further attack swarms that will continue the hunt for enemies of Curious Yellow.

  I know about this now because Curious Yellow kept logs of all the somatic kills it made. Nobody knows why Curious Yellow did this—one theory is that it is a report for CY’s creators—but I have watched the terahertz radar map of the security wasps eating my family and my children so many times that it is burned into my mind. I’m one of the rare survivors among the millions targeted as somatic enemies, to be destroyed rather than edited. And now it’s as if I’m watching it again for the first time, reliving the horror that made me plead with the Linebarger Cats to take me in and turn me into a tank. (But that was half a gigasecond later, when the Grateful for Duration made contact with one of the isolated redoubts of the resistance.)