Newtons wake, p.4
Newton's Wake, page 4
‘That agrees with my stochastics,’ said the ship.
It was, however, with more than usual attention and apprehension that Lamont brought the ship to a halt about five hundred metres from the rock. He kept the lasers powered up and on a dead man’s switch. He sent a swarm of hand-sized probes to scuttle around the rock. One by one they reported back, confirming the remote analyses: there was nothing metallic in the asteroid but pure meteoric iron, unchanged since the system had condensed out of its protoplanetary disc.
Relaxing somewhat, Lamont released another swarm, of miners and manufacturers this time. Self-organising to a degree, they were nevertheless kept on a tight-beamed leash by the ship’s AI. Their task was to set up the big solar mirrors and small power stations, and to build the machinery of extraction and refining as far as possible from the material of the rock itself, from a small seed stock of replicators and assemblers. Lamont disengaged himself from the webbing and drifted over to the shower pod. Cleaned by recyled piss, dried by recycled air, he kicked himself through the hydroponics corridor, harvesting fresh vegetables on the way, and threw a meal together in the kitchen unit. As he ate he caught up with news, text, and pictures and audio, on the deep-space channels, everything half a light-hour out of date. He noted and acknowledged the Joint Chiefs’ general alert, wondering idly if he and his ship could or would be conscripted, if the struggle really came. He watched the Armand company’s recording of the emergent machines in the ancient relic with a sort of fascinated horror. He replayed it several times, just to get the images stabilised in his head, just so they didn’t run off on their own and give him nightmares.
With flicks of his fingers and toes he made his way back to the control room and webbed himself in and zoomed up some images of the past hour’s progress. What he saw made him recoil so hard that the webbing sang. The miners and manufacturers were making machinery all right: war machines identical to those he’d just seen on the recording.
‘Abort abort abort!’ he yelled, stabbing switches that didn’t get any response.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ said the Hungry Dragon.
F
rom the narrow window nothing was visible of their destination, only the rolling and varied green of countryside with few roads, and then, quite suddenly, the long strip of tarmac and fleeting glimpses of flat buildings and bright-painted vehicles. After the aircraft had landed Carlyle hoped to see more of where she was, but something docked with the door as soon as it came to a halt, and there was nothing to see but ribbed translucent plastic. She and the other passengers shuffled forward through the long tube to a terminal building. There was a minute or so of milling about in some kind of windowless antechamber. Carlyle managed to place herself momentarily beside the renegade suit. It now had the helmet and shoulder pieces back on, so it looked less bizarre, as long as you didn’t notice the helmet was empty. She seized the opportunity to speak to it.
‘Don’t do this,’ she hissed. ‘You’re just making trouble for yourself when the rest of us arrive. Stick with us and we’ll give you anything this lot have to offer—’
‘How uncharacteristic,’ sneered Shlaim. ‘How very kind. How very … late.’
‘Full manumission!’ Carlyle whispered. ‘We can wipe your slate totally, throw in a free download and free upgrade.’
The suit didn’t have to face her to look at her, but it did.
‘Do you seriously think,’ Shlaim’s voice said, ‘that I would pass up the first chance I’ve had to escape to civilisation, in exchange for a promise from you?’ Its armpiece gesticulated at the surroundings. ‘What makes you think I would want to live among the Carlyles, even free?’
‘You can go anywhere. Anywhere you like.’
‘So far, I like it here.’ It turned away.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Carlyle, smiling. She had just thought of a way to sabotage his chances of escape.
Then Armand moved in between her and the suit, and Koshravi to her other side. They escorted her to a door which opened on to a wide plaza surrounded by low glass-fronted buildings. Aircars were taking off and landing, others were parked near the sides. The sun was by now near its zenith, very high; they must have travelled far to the south. A dry heat struck sweat instantly from her face. The air smelled of dust and plants. People strolled or hurried to and from the aircars, thin colourful clothes flapping in the downdraughts. The noise, echoing off the buildings, was horrendous. The whole setup looked like a massive design flaw in some utopian architectural showpiece.
Armand led the way to a four-seater aircar. Ducking under gull-wing doors, Koshravi and Carlyle took the back seat, Armand and the suit the front.
‘The Joint Chiefs,’ said Armand, leaning back, keeping his hands away from the manual controls. The craft took off vertically, then as it rose above the square shot forward in a sharp climb. Carlyle felt herself pressed against the back of the seat. As the aircar levelled off at two thousand metres she looked out of the window. They were just clearing the edge of the skyport. Ahead of them a city filled the landscape almost to the horizon. Sea glinted beyond its far side. The buildings over which the aircar flitted were large complexes, hundreds of metres high, separated by parkland, linked by roads and monorails. Aircars and other small craft that looked like giant bees whizzed about at various levels. The ground traffic looked about half as fast and twice as dangerous.
‘What city is this?’ Carlyle asked.
‘It’s called New Start,’ said Armand. ‘Capital of Eurydice.’
‘You have only one government?’
‘If that,’ said Armand. ‘There’s an elected Assembly which has an Executive that’s in charge of routine stuff, but the final authority is a sort of emergency committee. A junta, to be frank.’
‘The Joint Chiefs are the collective presidency of the Reformed Government,’ said Koshravi stiffly, frowning at Armand’s flippant tone.
Armand responded with a placating wave. ‘Let’s not argue the point.’
They were approaching a higher and larger central block of buildings, which as the aircar descended resolved into the tall towers of a city centre, their lower levels joined by walkways, suspension bridges and trellises, looped by the monorail lines, the whole infiltrated by greenery and fringed by lower buildings in a warren of narrow streets. The aircar dropped to a rooftop and landed on a pad marked by a large circled ‘A.’
As she followed Armand to the top of a liftshaft her knees wobbled. Behind her the aircar birled back into the sky. In the fast-dropping elevator her head felt lighter than her feet, and she took a single quick step to recover her balance as the lift decelerated.
‘Are you all right?’ Koshravi asked.
She swallowed hard, ears popping. ‘Fine.’ She glanced down at herself. Her knees were still knocking. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To see the Joint Chiefs,’ said Armand.
Koshravi knocked lightly on her shoulder. ‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘They’re only human beings.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ added Armand, with a dark chuckle.
The doors sighed open on an acre of carpet.
She found herself walking in step beside Koshravi and behind the suit, not sparing the guards a glance, her heels coming down firmly on a carpet that deadened their thud and ate their dirt. Through big pseudowood doors with uniforms saluting and rifles presenting at either side, to stand before a table of the real deal, its hardwood fragrance filling the air like an unlit expensive cigar. The table had nine people sitting behind it. Six men, three women, all with the subtle but unmistakeable signs of age on their smooth faces. In front of each was a pad and a pen, a glass of water, and a little racked nameplate showing their post. The Joint Chiefs all wore antique grey or black suits with white shirts or blouses, severely plain.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Chair. ‘At ease. Take a seat.’
Armand sat on the left between Carlyle and the suit, Koshravi to her right. Carlyle looked back at the Joint Chiefs with a faint, polite smile. They might be potential enemies, but they were also potential clients. Everyone was a potential client; you just had to get them hooked, or duff them up a bit.
‘You are not a prisoner,’ Chair said to Carlyle. ‘Neither are you an accredited representative of another power. We have, at the moment, no provision for diplomatic relations. Nor are you one of our citizens. We can offer you the status of resident alien, pro tem.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘That’s acceptable, if it has no hidden catches.’
‘Very well. We have examined a transmission from Mr. Armand. It includes a deposition by a piece of software claiming to be an uploaded human personality, one Isaac Shlaim, currently running in this suit, which I gather is your property. Before further questioning the upload, we wish to hear what you have to say.’ He leaned forward with a look of open interest and query. The others all pinned her likewise with their gaze.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Before I say anything further, I’d like to point out that we may have a difference of opinion as to the legal status of my, uh, former familiar, and that I understand you find my view of its status unacceptable. I have no wish to antagonise anyone by arguing over that.’
‘The facts will be quite enough,’ said Chair.
‘Fine. Well, I don’t dispute that it’s who it says it is—an upload of a Professor Shlaim.’
‘With respect,’ said Space, ‘that is not the most pressing question before us. We wish to hear your version of who you are and what you represent, and of what’s going on in the galaxy.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Carlyle. ‘Well, I’ll come back to the matter of Shlaim presently. As for the big picture. My name is Lucinda Carlyle. I’m a member of an exploration team sent to this planet by my family. The Carlyles are, you might say, a family business. We specialise in exploring the wormhole skein and organising traffic through it. The skein stretches aw the way back tae the Solar System, and takes in, well, a whole load a planets.’
‘Do you claim to own or rule these planets?’ asked Chair.
‘Good God, no! Just the skein and the gates.’
‘I … see,’ said Space, wincing slightly. ‘And who does rule them?’
She shrugged. ‘What our clients do is their business, see? But if you’re asking who else is out there, well, there are three other powers that we know about, kindae wee empires like. There’s the one we thought you were at first—America Offline. They’re farmers—terraformers. They’re descended from the folks who escaped the Hard Rapture due to no being wired up, and they kindae continue like that. We get on aw right wi them, they trade through the wormholes an’ sic, but they’re no sae keen on us poking around in the posthuman tech. And there usually is some lying around, near the gates, so we sometimes, well, fall out if you see what I mean. But we run into a lot more trouble wi the next lot, the Knights of Enlightenment, they’re mainly Japs wi’ some Chinks and Indians an’ that, and they try to kindae understand the posthuman tech without becoming posthuman themselves. They’re intae hacking rather than salvage, if you like.’
‘And what is, ah, salvage?’ asked State.
Carlyle smiled at her brightly. ‘What we do, like what we were doing this morning. Tae hear thae Japs go on about it you’d think it was clear-cutting or strip-mining or something. I mean, it’s no like we don’t leave enough for them.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said State. ‘Please go on.’
‘And they’re no intae terraforming, nor mining on planets either. In fact they object tae it. Some kindae religious thing, or maybe scientific. Anyway, that’s AO and KE for you. The third lot, DK, they’re a whole different kettle ae fish.’
‘DK?’ Space sounded as though the acronym had troubling echoes.
‘We think it stands for Demokratische Kommunistbund, or maybe Democratic Korea or Kampuchea for all I know. As to how they got started, yi can guess. Guerillas and peasants and what have you. Whatever, they’re communists, and they’re space settlers.’ She waved a hand in a circle. ‘Intae orbital habitats. Their big thing is increasing their population. They don’t terraform, but they do strip-mine terrestrial planets. Tend tae avoid the posthuman tech, but they’ll buy it fae us, or licence it fae the Knights.’ She sat back. ‘That’s it,’ she said, looking at a row of faces frozen in various degrees of disbelief. ‘Course,’ she added, ‘they all have starships. They aw fittle. But the skein is way more convenient for a lot ae stuff. So we dae deals wi them all.’
Chair took a deep breath and scratched his chin. ‘These powers, they … come into conflict with each other?’
‘Oh, sure, but it’s complicated.’ Carlyle frowned, then brightened. ‘You know that kids’ game: sea, ship, fish?’ She gestured with a flat palm, two fingers like scissor blades, and a fist, several times. ‘Sea floats ship. Ship catches fish. Fish swims through sea. It’s like that.’
Chair leaned back. The Joint Chiefs all looked at each other, as if conferring silently.
‘What you’ve told us,’ Chair said at last, ‘tends to corroborate Professor Shlaim’s deposition. He described three competing barbarian migrations, and one gang of criminals.’
‘Who are the criminals?’ Carlyle asked, gamely trying to make the question sound genuine.
‘Yourselves,’ Chair said. ‘The Carlyles.’
‘Oh aye? And who’s the law?’
‘That,’ said Chair, ‘is a reasonable question. It’s why we are not treating you as a criminal. We do however insist on freeing your slave.’
Carlyle made a smoothing-over gesture. ‘Please yourselves,’ she said. ‘But there is one thing I’d warn you about, before you try tae download the Professor. As I’m sure you can see, there is no way in the normal course of things that he could take over my suit. Whatever it was allowed him to do that didnae come fae me, and I’ll bet it didnae come fae youse lot, either. Am I right?’
She turned to glare at Armand, who nodded reluctantly.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘So my guess is, it came fae that big burst signal that Mr Armand was so worried about. You’re dealing wi a thoroughly corrupt piece of software here. Don’t expect the wetware tae come out any cleaner.’
The suit clenched its glove and banged its knee-joint. ‘This is outrageous—’
Koshravi joined in the subsequent burst of general laughter and reached across Carlyle’s lap to the suit. ‘Don’t worry, Professor Shlaim,’ she said. ‘We have thorough debugging protocols for human downloads. For us it’s an old problem, and a solved problem.’
‘Not if it’s aliens you’re dealing with,’ said Carlyle, shrewdly but desperately.
‘The principles are the same,’ said Koshravi.
‘Indeed they are,’ said Chair. ‘Mrs Koshravi, if you would be so good as to arrange the matter?’
‘Of course,’ said Koshravi. ‘After you, Professor Shlaim.’
The medic and the suit left the room.
Space was staring at her. ‘You mentioned starships,’ he said. ‘We have always understood that faster-than-light travel raised the possibility of causality violations.’
‘Oh aye, it does an aw, except if you try tae bring one about you run intae the CPC.’
‘CPC?’ Again with the troubled echo.
‘Chronology Protection Conjecture. Say ye try tae send a signal intae the past, or your ship’s course mucks about too much wi the light-cone consistency conditions. Ye’ll find the transmitter disnae work, or your course takes longer or goes a different way than you plotted it, or—as the saying goes—she was never your grandmother in the first place.’
‘Do I take you to imply that God intervenes, or the Universe somehow arranges matters to prevent causality violations?’
‘God, or Nature, aye, that’s one way of looking at it. Another is, well, it just cannae be done, like trying to build a perpetual motion machine, or making two plus two equal five. It adds up tae the same thing, you might say.’
‘But—’
‘Let us leave philosophy to the physicists,’ said Chair. ‘I understand the gate on North Continent is closed. Can we expect starships from your … family to turn up? Will they be able to find us?’
‘Oh, sure, once you’ve been through a gate you’ve got the real world coordinates. Just feed them fae your suit’s instruments tae a starship navigation computer, and away ye go. I expect some of our ships tae turn up in few weeks.’ She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘But don’t worry, they’ll no turn up last week.’
Carlyle brushed the palms of her hands together, and sat back. ‘In the meantime,’ she added, ‘it would behoove you to be nice to me.’
‘Quite so,’ said Chief, abstractedly. He sighed. ‘Let us move on.’
The Joint Chiefs turned their attention to Armand.
‘What do you recommend?’ asked Defence. ‘To deal with the war machines, not the Carlyle starships.’
‘Pull back the troops and nuke the relic,’ said Armand.
Carlyle almost jumped out of her seat, but said nothing. A tactical nuke would keep the gate closed even longer, which might be no bad thing, even if it did waste the posthuman artifact.
‘Nuclear groundburst in atmosphere?’ said Airborne, looking up from something invisible above her pad. ‘This had better be for a good reason.’
‘You’ll have seen the recordings,’ said Armand, in a level tone.
Airborne pursed her lips. ‘Precipitate,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
‘No,’ said Armand. ‘I would say dilatory.’
Some of the fine lips smiled at that.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Space. ‘Now that the transmission has taken place, observation and isolation would be more appropriate. Horse, stable door, et cetera. You do realise that following up the signal, if such it was, with the unmistakeable signature of an EMP could only make matters worse?’
Armand shrugged. ‘Assuming that signalling is the only function of the machinery. I beg leave to doubt that.’
