Accelerando (25 page)

Her Imperial Majesty is sitting in the throne room, moodily fidgeting with the new signet ring her equerry has designed for her. It's a lump of structured carbon massing almost fifty grams, set in a plain band of
asteroid-mined iridium. It glitters with the blue-and-violet speckle highlights of its internal lasers, because in addition to being a piece of state jewelry, it is also an optical router, part of the industrial control infrastructure she's building out here on the edge of the solar system. Her Majesty wears plain black combat pants and sweatshirt, woven from the finest spider silk and spun glass, but her feet are bare: Her taste in fashion is best described as youthful, and in any event certain styles are simply impractical in microgravity. But, being a monarch, she's wearing a crown. And there's a cat, or an artificial entity that dreams it's a cat, sleeping on the back of her throne.

The lady-in-waiting (and sometime hydroponic engineer) ushers Sadeq to the doorway, then floats back. “If you need anything, please say,” she says shyly, then ducks and rolls away. Sadeq approaches the throne, orients himself on the floor (a simple slab of black composite, save for the throne growing from its center like an exotic flower), and waits to be noticed.

“Dr. Khurasani, I presume.” She smiles at him, neither the innocent grin of a child nor the knowing smirk of an adult: merely a warm greeting. “Welcome to my kingdom. Please feel free to make use of any necessary support services here, and I wish you a very pleasant stay.”

Sadeq holds his expression still. The queen is young—her face still retains the puppy fat of childhood, emphasized by microgravity moon-face—but it would be a bad mistake to consider her immature. “I am grateful for Your Majesty's forbearance,” he murmurs, formulaic. Behind her the walls glitter like diamonds, a glowing kaleidoscope vision. It's already the biggest offshore—or off-planet—data haven in human space. Her crown, more like a compact helm that covers the top and rear of her head, also glitters and throws off diffraction rainbows, but most of its emissions are in the near ultraviolet, invisible except for the faint glowing nimbus it creates around her head. Like a halo.

“Have a seat,” she offers, gesturing: A ballooning free-fall cradle squirts down and expands from the ceiling, angled toward her, open and waiting. “You must be tired. Working a ship all by yourself is exhausting.” She frowns ruefully, as if remembering. “Two years is nearly unprecedented.”

“Your Majesty is too kind.” Sadeq wraps the cradle arms around himself and faces her. “Your labors have been fruitful, I trust.”

She shrugs. “I sell the biggest commodity in short supply on any frontier . . .” A momentary grin. “This isn't the Wild West, is it?”

“Justice cannot be sold,” Sadeq says stiffly. Then, a moment later. “My apologies, I mean no insult. I merely believe that while you say your goal is to provide the rule of law, what you
sell
is and must be something different. Justice without God, sold to the highest bidder, is not justice.”

The queen nods. “Leaving aside the mention of God, I agree—I can't sell it. But I can sell participation in a just system. And this new frontier really is a lot smaller than anyone expected, isn't it? Our bodies may take months to travel between worlds, but our disputes and arguments take seconds or minutes. As long as everybody agrees to abide by my arbitration, physical enforcement can wait until they're close enough to touch. And everybody
does
agree that my legal framework is easier to comply with, better adjusted to trans-Jovian space, than any earthbound one.” A note of steel creeps into her voice, challenging. Her halo brightens, tickling a reactive glow from the walls of the throne room.

Five billion inputs or more,
Sadeq marvels. The crown is an engineering marvel, even though most of its mass is buried in the walls and floor of this huge construct. “There is law revealed by the Prophet, peace be unto him, and there is law that we can establish by analyzing his intentions. There are other forms of law by which humans live, and various interpretations of the law of God even among those who study His works. How, in the absence of the word of the Prophet, can you provide a moral compass?”

“Hmm.” She taps her fingers on the arm of her throne, and Sadeq's heart freezes. He's heard the stories from the claim jumpers and boardroom bandits, from the greenmail experts with their roots in the earthbound jurisdictions that have made such a hash of arbitration here. How she can experience a year in a minute, rip your memories out through your cortical implants, and make you relive your worst mistakes in her nightmarishly powerful simulation space. She is the
queen
—the first individual to get her hands on so much mass and energy that she could pull ahead of the curve of binding technology, and the first to set up her own jurisdiction and rule certain experiments to be legal so that she could make use of the mass/energy intersection. She has
force majeure
—even the Pentagon's infowarriors respect the Ring Imperium's autonomy for now. In fact, the body sitting in the throne opposite him probably
contains only a fraction of her identity. She's by no means the first upload or partial, but she's the first gust front of the storm of power that will arrive when the arrogant ones achieve their goal of dismantling the planets and turning dumb and uninhabited mass into brainpower throughout the observable reaches of the universe. And he's just questioned the rectitude of her vision, in her presence.

The queen's lips twitch. Then they curl into a wide, carnivorous grin. Behind her, the cat sits up and stretches, then stares at Sadeq through narrowed eyes.

“You know, that's the first time in
weeks
that anyone has told me I'm full of shit. You haven't been talking to my mother again, have you?”

It's Sadeq's turn to shrug, uncomfortably. “I have prepared a judgment,” he says slowly.

“Ah.” Amber rotates the huge diamond ring around her finger. Then she looks him in the eye, a trifle nervously. Although what he could possibly do to make her comply with any decree—

“To summarize: Her motive is polluted,” Sadeq says shortly.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” she asks.

Sadeq breathes deeply again. “Yes, I think so.”

Her smile returns. “And is that the end of it?” she asks.

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Only if you can prove to me that you can have a conscience in the absence of divine revelation.”

Her reaction catches him by surprise. “Oh, sure. That's the next part of the program. Obtaining divine revelations.”

“What! From the alien?”

The cat, claws extended, delicately picks its way down to her lap and waits to be held and stroked. It never once takes its eyes off him. “Where else?” she asks. “Doctor, I didn't get the Franklin Trust to loan me the wherewithal to build this castle just in return for some legal paperwork, and some, ah, interesting legal waivers from Brussels. We've known for years there's a whole alien packet-switching network out there, and we're just getting spillover from some of their routers. It turns out there's a node not far away from here, in real space. Helium-three, separate jurisdictions, heavy industrialization on Io—there is a
purpose
to all this activity.”

Sadeq licks his suddenly dry lips. “You're going to narrowcast a reply?”

“No, much better than that: We're going to
visit
them. Cut the delay cycle down to real time. We came here to build a ship and recruit a crew, even if we have to cannibalize the whole of Jupiter system to pay for the exercise.”

The cat yawns then fixes him with a thousand-yard stare. “This stupid girl wants to bring her conscience along to a meeting with something so smart it might as well be a god,” it says. “And she needs to convince the peanut gallery back home that she's got one, being a born-again atheist and all. Which means, you're
it,
monkey boy. There's a slot open for the post of ship's theologian on the first starship out of Jupiter system. I don't suppose I can convince you to turn the offer down?”

S
OME YEARS LATER
,
TWO MEN AND A CAT ARE TYING
one on in a bar that doesn't exist.

The air in the bar is filled with a billowing relativistic smoke cloud—it's a stellarium, accurately depicting the view beyond the imaginary walls. Aberration of starlight skews the color toward violet around the doorway, brightening in a rainbow mist over the tables, then dimming to a hazy red glow in front of the raised platform at the back. The Doppler effect has slowly emerged over the past few months as the ship gathers momentum. In the absence of visible stellar motion—or a hard link to the ship's control module—it's the easiest way for a drunken passenger to get a feeling for how frighteningly fast the
Field Circus
is moving. Some time ago, the ship's momentum exceeded half its rest mass, at which point a single kilogram packs the punch of a multimegaton hydrogen bomb.

A ginger-and-brown cat—who has chosen to be female, just to mess with the heads of those people who think all ginger cats are male—sprawls indolently across the wooden floorboards in front of the bar, directly beneath the bridge of the starbow. Predictably, it has captured the
only ray of sunlight to be had within the starship. In the shadows at the back of the bar, two men slump at a table, lost in their respective morose thoughts: One nurses a bottle of Czech beer, the other a half-empty cocktail glass.

“It wouldn't be so bad if she is giving me some sign,” says one of them, tilting his beer bottle to inspect the bottom for sediment. “No, that not right. It's the correct kind of attention. Am not knowing where I stand with her.”

The other one leans back in his chair, squints at the faded brown paint of the ceiling. “Take it from one who knows,” he says. “If you knew, you'd have nothing to dream about. Anyway, what she wants and what you want may not be the same thing.”

The first man runs a hand through his hair. Tight-curled black ringlets briefly turn silver beneath his aging touch. “Pierre, if talent for making patronizing statements is what you get from tuping Amber—”

Pierre glares at him with all the venom an augmented nineteen-year-old can muster. “Be glad she has no ears in here,” he hisses. His hand tightens around his glass reflexively, but the physics model in force in the bar refuses to let him break it. “You've had too fucking much to drink, Boris.”

A tinkle of icy laughter comes from the direction of the cat. “Shut up, you,” says Boris, glancing at the animal. He tips the bottle back, lets the dregs trickle down his throat. “Maybe you're right. Am sorry. Do not mean to be rude about the queen.” He shrugs, puts the bottle down. Shrugs again, heavily. “Am just getting depressed.”

“You're good at that,” Pierre observes.

Boris sighs again. “Evidently. If our positions are reversed—”

“I know, I know, you'd be telling me the fun is in the chase and it's not the same when she kicks you out after a fight, and I wouldn't believe a word of it, being sad and single and all that.” Pierre snorts. “Life isn't fair, Boris: Live with it.”

“I'd better go—” Boris stands.

“Stay away from Ang,” says Pierre, still annoyed with him. “At least until you're sober.”

“Okay already, stay cool. Am consciously running watchdog thread.” Boris blinks irritably. “Enforcing social behavior. It doesn't normally allow this drunk. Not where reputation damage are possible in public.”

He does a slow dissolve into thin air, leaving Pierre alone in the bar with the cat.

“How much longer do we have to put up with this shit?” he asks aloud. Tempers are frayed, and arguments proliferate indefinitely in the pocket universe of the ship.

The cat doesn't look round. “In our current reference frame, we drop the primary reflector and start decelerating in another two million seconds,” she says. “Back home, five or six megaseconds.”

“That's a big gap. What's the cultural delta up to now?” Pierre asks idly. He snaps his fingers. “Waiter, another cocktail. The same, if you please.”

“Oh, probably about ten to twenty times our departure reference,” says the cat. “If you'd been following the news from back home, you'd have noted a significant speed-up in the deployment of switched entanglement routers. They're having another networking revolution, only this one will run to completion inside a month because they're using dark fiber that's already in the ground.”

“Switched . . . entanglement?” Pierre shakes his head, bemused. The waiter, a faceless body in black tie and a long, starched apron, walks around the bar and offers him a glass. “That almost sounds as if it makes sense. What else?”

The cat rolls over on her flank, stretches, claws extended. “Stroke me, and I might tell you,” she suggests.

“Fuck you, and the dog you rode in on,” Pierre replies. He lifts his glass, removes a glacé cherry on a cocktail stick, throws it toward the spiral staircase that leads down to the toilets, and chugs back half of the drink in one go—freezing pink slush with an afterbite of caramelized hexose sugars and ethanol. The near spillage as he thumps the glass down serves to demonstrate that he's teetering on the edge of drunkenness. “Mercenary!”

“Lovesick drug-using human,” the cat replies without rancor, and rolls to her feet. She arches her back and yawns, baring ivory fangs at the world. “You apes—if I cared about you, I'd have to kick sand over you.” For a moment she looks faintly confused. “I mean, I would bury you.” She stretches again and glances round the otherwise-empty bar. “By the way, when are you going to apologize to Amber?”

“I'm not going to fucking apologize to her!” Pierre shouts. In the
ensuing silence and confusion, he raises his glass and tries to drain it, but the ice has all sunk to the bottom, and the resulting coughing fit makes him spray half of the cocktail across the table. “No way,” he rasps quietly.

“Too much pride, huh?” The cat stalks toward the edge of the bar, tail held high with tip bent over in a feline question mark. “Like Boris with his adolescent woman trouble, too? You primates are so predictable. Whoever thought of sending a starship crewed by posthuman adolescents—”

“Go 'way,” says Pierre. “I've got serious drinking to do.”

“To the Macx, I suppose,” puns the cat, turning away. But the moody youth has no answer for her, other than to conjure a refill from the vasty deeps.

Meanwhile, in another partition of the
Field Circus
's reticulated reality, a different instance of the selfsame cat—Aineko by name, sarcastic by disposition—is talking to its former owner's daughter, the Queen of the Ring Imperium. Amber's avatar looks about sixteen, with disheveled blond hair and enhanced cheekbones. It's a lie, of course, because in subjective life experience, she's in her midtwenties, but apparent age signifies little in a simulation space populated by upload minds, or in real space, where posthumans age at different rates.

Amber wears a tattered black dress over iridescent purple leggings, and sprawls lazily across the arms of her informal throne—an ostentatious lump of nonsense manufactured from a single carbon crystal doped with semiconductors. (Unlike the real thing back home in Jupiter orbit, this one is merely a piece of furniture for a virtual environment.) The scene is very much the morning after the evening before, like a goth nightclub gone to seed: all stale smoke and crumpled velvet, wooden church pews, burned-out candles, and gloomy Polish avant-garde paintings. Any hint of a regal statement the queen might be making is spoiled by the way she's hooked one knee over the left arm of the throne and is fiddling with a six-axis pointing device. But these are her private quarters, and she's off duty. The regal person of the Queen is strictly for formal, corporate occasions.

“Colorless green ideas sleep furiously,” she suggests.

“Nope,” replies the cat. “It was more like: ‘Greetings, earthlings, compile me on your leader.' ”

“Well, you got me there,” Amber admits. She taps her heel on the throne and fidgets with her signet ring. “No damn way I'm loading some buggy alien wetware on my sweet gray stuff.
Weird
semiotics, too. What does Dr. Khurasani say?”

Aineko sits down in the middle of the crimson carpet at the foot of the dais and idly twists round to sniff her crotch. “Sadeq is immersed in scriptural interpretations. He refused to be drawn.”

“Huh.” Amber stares at the cat. “So. You've been carrying this lump of source code since when . . . ?”

“At the signal, for precisely two hundred and sixteen million, four hundred and twenty-nine thousand, and fifty-two seconds,” Aineko supplies, then beeps smugly. “Call it just under six years.”

“Right.” Amber squeezes her eyes shut. Uneasy possibilities whisper in her mind's ears. “And it began talking to you—”

“—About three million seconds after I picked it up and ran it on a basic environment hosted on a neural network emulator modeled on the components found in the stomatogastric ganglion of a spiny lobster. Clear?”

Amber sighs. “I wish you'd told Dad about it. Or Annette. Things could have been so different!”

“How?” The cat stops licking her arse and looks up at the queen with a peculiarly opaque stare. “It took the specialists a decade to figure out the first message was a map of the pulsar neighborhood with directions to the nearest router on the interstellar network. Knowing how to plug into the router wouldn't help while it was three light years away, would it? Besides, it was fun watching the idiots trying to ‘crack the alien code' without ever wondering if it might be a reply in a language we already know to a message we sent out years ago. Fuckwits. And, too, Manfred pissed me off once too often. He kept treating me like a goddamn house pet.”

“But you—” Amber bites her lip.
But you
were,
when he bought you,
she had been about to say. Engineered consciousness is still relatively new: It didn't exist when Manfred and Pamela first hacked on Aineko's cognitive network, and according to the flat-earth wing of the AI community, it still doesn't. Even she hadn't really believed Aineko's
claims to self-awareness until a couple of years ago, finding it easier to think of the cat as a zimboe—a zombie with no self-awareness, but programmed to claim to be aware in an attempt to deceive the truly conscious beings around it. “I know you're conscious
now,
but Manfred didn't know back then. Did he?”

Aineko glares at her, then slowly narrows her eyes to slits—either feline affection, or a more subtle gesture. Sometimes Amber finds it hard to believe that, twenty-five years ago, Aineko started out as a crude neural-network-driven toy from a Far Eastern amusement factory—upgradeable, but still basically a mechanical animal emulator.

“I'm sorry. Let me start again. You actually figured out what the second alien packet was, you, yourself, and nobody else. Despite the combined efforts of the entire CETI analysis team who spent Gaia knows how many human-equivalent years of processing power trying to crack its semantics. I hope you'll pardon me for saying I find that hard to believe?”

The cat yawns. “I could have told Pierre instead.” Aineko glances at Amber, sees her thunderous expression, and hastily changes the subject. “The solution was intuitively obvious, just not to humans. You're so
verbal
.” Lifting a hind paw, she scratches behind her left ear for a moment then pauses, foot waving absentmindedly. “Besides, the CETI team was searching under the streetlights while I was sniffing around in the grass. They kept trying to find primes; when that didn't work, they started trying to breed a Turing machine that would run it without immediately halting.” Aineko lowers her paw daintily. “None of them tried treating it as a map of a connectionist system based on the only terrestrial components anyone had ever beamed out into deep space. Except me. But then, your mother had a hand in my wetware, too.”

“Treating it as a map—” Amber stops. “You were meant to penetrate Dad's corporate network?”

“That's right,” says the cat. “I was supposed to fork repeatedly and gang-rape his web of trust. But I didn't.” Aineko yawns. “Pam pissed me off, too. I don't like people who try to use me.”

“I don't care. Taking that thing on board was still a really stupid risk you took,” Amber accuses.