Accelerando (27 page)

While he's brooding, Ang evidently finishes whatever she was doing and bangs out—not even bothering to use the polished mahogany door at the rear of the bridge, just discorporating and rematerializing somewhere else. Wondering if she's annoyed, he glances up just as the first of his ghosts patches into his memory map, and he remembers what happened when it met the new arrival. His eyes widen. “Oh
shit!
”

It's not the film producer but the lawyer who's just uploaded into the
Field Circus
's virtual universe. Someone's going to have to tell Amber. And although the last thing he wants to do is talk to her, it looks like he's going to have to call her, because this isn't just a routine visit. The lawyer means trouble.

Take a brain and put it in a bottle. Better: Take a map of the brain and put it in a map of a bottle—or of a body—and feed signals to it that mimic its neurological inputs. Read its outputs and route them to a model body in a model universe with a model of physical laws, closing the loop. René Descartes would understand. That's the state of the passengers of the
Field Circus
in a nutshell. Formerly physical humans, their neural software (and a map of the intracranial wetware it runs on) has been transferred into a virtual machine environment executing on a honking great computer, where the universe they experience is merely a dream within a dream.

Brains in bottles—empowered ones, with total, dictatorial control over the reality they are exposed to—sometimes stop
engaging in activities that brains in bodies can't avoid. Menstruation isn't mandatory. Vomiting, angina, exhaustion, and cramp are all optional. So is meatdeath, the decomposition of the corpus. But some activities don't cease, because people (even people who have been converted into a software description, squirted through a high-bandwidth laser link, and ported into a virtualization stack) don't
want
them to stop. Breathing is wholly unnecessary, but suppression of the breathing reflex is disturbing unless you hack your hypothalamic map, and most homomorphic uploads don't want to do that. Then there's eating—not to avoid starvation, but for pleasure: Feasts on sautéed dodo seasoned with silphium are readily available here, and indeed, why not? It seems the human addiction to sensory input won't go away. And that's without considering sex, and the technical innovations that become possible when the universe—and the bodies within it—are mutable.

The public audience with the new arrivals is held in yet another movie: the Parisian palace of Charles IX, the throne room lifted wholesale from
La Reine Margot
by Patrice Chéreau. Amber insisted on period authenticity, with the realism dialed right up to eleven. It's 1572 to the hilt this time, physical to the max. Pierre grunts in irritation, unaccustomed to his beard. His codpiece chafes, and sidelong glances tell him he isn't the only member of the royal court who's uncomfortable. Still, Amber is resplendent in a gown worn by Isabelle Adjani as Marguerite de Valois, and the luminous sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows high above the crowd of actor zimboes lends a certain barbaric majesty to the occasion. The place is heaving with bodies in clerical robes, doublets, and low-cut gowns—some of them occupied by real people. Pierre sniffs again: Someone (Gavin, with his history bug, perhaps?) has been working on getting the smells right. He hopes like hell that nobody throws up. At least nobody seems to have come as Catherine de Médicis . . .

A bunch of actors portraying Huguenot soldiers approach the throne on which Amber is seated. They pace slowly forward, escorting a rather bemused-looking fellow with long, lank hair and a brocade jacket
that appears to be made of cloth-of-gold. “His lordship, Attorney at Arms Alan Glashwiecz!” announces a flunky, reading from a parchment. “Here at the behest of the most excellent guild and corporation of Smoot, Sedgwick Associates, with matters of legal import to discuss with Her Royal Highness!”

A flourish of trumpets. Pierre glances at Her Royal Highness, who nods gracefully, but is slightly peaky—it's a humid summer day and her many-layered robes look very hot. “Welcome to the furthermost soil of the Ring Imperium,” she announces in a clear, ringing voice. “I bid you welcome and invite you to place your petition before me in full public session of court.”

Pierre directs his attention to Glashwiecz, who appears to be worried. Doubtless he'd absorbed the basics of court protocol in the Ring (population all of eighteen thousand back home, a growing little principality); but the reality of it, a genuine old-fashioned
monarchy
rooted in Amber's three-way nexus of power, data, and time, always takes a while to sink in. “I would be pleased to do so,” he says, a little stiffly, “but in front of all those—”

Pierre misses the next bit, because someone has just goosed him on the left buttock. He starts and half turns to see Su Ang looking past him at the throne, a lady-in-waiting for the Queen. She wears an apricot dress with tight sleeves and a bodice that bares everything above her nipples. There's a fortune in pearls roped into her hair. As he notices her, she winks at him.

Pierre freezes the scene, decoupling them from reality, and she faces him. “Are we alone now?” she asks.

“Guess so. You want to talk about something?” he asks, heat rising in his cheeks. The noise around them is a random susurrus of machine-generated crowd scenery, the people motionless as their shared reality thread proceeds independently of the rest of the universe.

“Of course!” She smiles at him and shrugs. The effect on her chest is remarkable—those period bodices could give a skeleton a cleavage—and she winks at him again. “Oh, Pierre.” She smiles. “So easily distracted!” She snaps her fingers, and her clothing cycles through Afghani burqua, nudity, trouser suit, then back to court finery. Her grin is the only constant. “Now that I've got your attention, stop looking at me and start looking at
him
.”

Even more embarrassed, Pierre follows her outstretched arm all the way to the momentarily frozen Moorish emissary. “Sadeq?”

“Sadeq
knows
him, Pierre. This guy, there's something wrong.”

“Shit. You think I don't know that?” Pierre looks at her with annoyance, embarrassment forgotten. “I've seen him before. Been tracking his involvement for years. Guy's a front for the Queen Mother. He acted as her divorce lawyer when she went after Amber's dad.”

“I'm sorry.” Ang glances away. “You haven't been yourself lately, Pierre. I know it's something wrong between you and the Queen. I was worried. You're not paying attention to the little details.”

“Who do you think warned Amber?” he asks.

“Oh. Okay, so you're in the loop,” she says. “I'm not sure. Anyway, you've been distracted. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Listen.” Pierre puts his hands on her shoulders. She doesn't move, but looks up into his eyes—Su Ang is only one-sixty tall—and he feels a pang of something odd: teenage male uncertainty about the friendship of women.
What does she want?
“I know, and I'm sorry, and I'll try to keep my eyes on the ball some more, but I've been in my own headspace a lot lately. We ought to go back into the audience before anybody notices.”

“Do you want to talk about the problem first?” she asks, inviting his confidence.

“I—” Pierre shakes his head.
I could tell her everything,
he realizes shakily as his metaconscience prods him urgently. He's got a couple of agony-aunt agents, but Ang is a real person and a friend. She won't pass judgment, and her model of human social behavior is a hell of a lot better than any expert system's. But time is in danger of slipping, and besides, Pierre feels dirty. “Not now,” he says. “Let's go back.”

“Okay.” She nods, then turns away, steps behind him with a swish of skirts, and he unfreezes time again as they snap back into place within the larger universe, just in time to see the respected visitor serve the queen with a class-action lawsuit, and the Queen respond by referring adjudication to trial by combat.

Hyundai
⁺⁴⁹⁰⁴
/
_-56
is a brown dwarf, a lump of dirty hydrogen condensed from a stellar nursery, eight times as massive as Jupiter but not massive enough to ignite a stable fusion reaction at its core. The relentless crush
of gravity has overcome the mutual repulsion of electrons trapped at its core, shrinking it into a shell of slush around a sphere of degenerate matter. It's barely larger than the gas giant the human ship uses as an energy source, but it's much denser. Gigayears ago, a chance stellar near miss sent it careening off into the galaxy on its own, condemned to drift in eternal darkness along with a cluster of frozen moons that dance attendance upon it.

By the time the
Field Circus
is decelerating toward it at short range—having shed the primary sail, which drifts farther out into interstellar space while reflecting light back onto the remaining secondary sail surface to slow the starwhisp—Hyundai
⁺⁴⁹⁰⁴
/
_-56
is just under one parsec distant from Earth, closer even than Proxima Centauri. Utterly dark at visible wavelengths, the brown dwarf could have drifted through the outer reaches of the solar system before conventional telescopes would have found it by direct observation. Only an infrared survey in the early years of the current century gave it a name.

A bunch of passengers and crew have gathered on the bridge (now running at one-tenth of real-time) to watch the arrival. Amber sits curled up in the captain's chair, moodily watching the gathered avatars. Pierre is still avoiding her at every opportunity, formal audiences excepted, and the damned shark and his pet hydra aren't invited, but apart from that most of the gang is here. There are sixty-three uploads running on the
Field Circus
's virtualization stack, software copied out of meatbodies who are mostly still walking around back home. It's a crowd, but it's possible to feel lonely in a crowd, even when it's your party. And especially when you're worried about debt, even though you're a billionairess, beneficiary of the human species' biggest reputations-rating trust fund. Amber's clothing—black leggings, black sweater—is as dark as her mood.

“Something troubles you.” A hand descends on the back of the chair next to her.

She glances round momentarily, nods in recognition. “Yeah. Have a seat. You missed the audience?”

The thin, brown-skinned man with a neatly cropped beard and deeply lined forehead slips into the seat next to her. “It was not part of my heritage,” he explains carefully, “although the situation is not unfamiliar.” A
momentary smile threatens to crack his stony face. “I found the casting a trifle disturbing.”