Wheelers

by Ian Stewart

  This informatic cancer had been eating at the heart of the Elders' political power for much of the present Continuity, covertly metastasizing, spreading the pro-skydiver sickness throughout the body politic. Memetic warfare of this kind was by no means new, however, and the Elders routinely operated counter-measures of their own—a kind of antibiautic. Normally the result was to reduce the effect of the rogues to a low-level infofection of Jovian cyberspace, but the Elders had not yet become aware of a dramatic new development: the sky diver rogues were evolving increasingly effective memes for antibiautic resistance. A powerful new technique of "memetic algorithms" constantly cross-bred wheeler belief systems against each other, and those that could resist the Elders' antibiautic remedies survived, while those that could not were removed from the reproductive system. The memes that evolved were robust, adaptable, astonishingly compactly coded, and impossible to interpret. In the long run, the Elders were going to lose this particular battle, but the long run would need to be a lot shorter to make Defier's upcoming insurrection a dead certainty.

  Which meant that in place of the gradual, undetectable uploading of rogue identities, the skydivers' actions would have to be more overt.

  This brought new dangers.

  The Conclave of the Elders had voted to call an extraordinary meeting, which was indeed extraordinary, since it had been the first such motion to pass in eighty million years. The vote had succeeded only because each individual in the Conclave recognized the seriousness of the problem posed by the Poisonbluvians. They disagreed, often fundamentally, about appropriate remedies, but disagreements were merely the foundations for discussion—indeed, without such disagreements, none of them would have any useful role to play in blimp society.

  A report from the Conclaves representative on the Subcommittee on Poisonbluvian Trespass, Venerable Mumblings of the Interminable Prevarication, had been received. Since Mumblings had read it, they all now remembered what was in it, but protocol demanded that it be gone over line by line so that every participant in the Conclave had the opportunity to squark his or her comments, thereby making them common property. Secretary wheelers scurried to and fro making extensive notes, so that minutes of the meeting could be prepared, to be reconsidered by the Conclave at the earliest opportunity. Because of the urgency of the circumstances, Intuitive Mediator of the Bland Outlook had proposed that they postpone consideration of the minutes in favor of coming to a decision on the substantive motion to refer the subcommittee's report back with a call for immediate clarification of its terms of reference. Mediator's proposal was now being voted on: they were, however, stalemated by a tied vote on whether to put the third subamendment to the ninth amendment to the motion to a vote. Several protocols dating back to the 137th Continuity made it clear that in such a case Mumblings would be permitted a casting vote, but there was a controversial reading of a 98th Continuity protocol that withdrew this right if the total path length of the amendment tree was less than four times the number of participants present and entitled to vote. So now they were focused on the key obstacle to further progress, which was whether Mumblings' casting vote counted as an extra entitlement to vote, or whether for the purposes of the 98th Continuity protocol he was restricted to a single vote, as normal. The situation was recursive and therefore unusually difficult to disentangle—and in this case there was the added problem of inadvertently offending Mumblings.

  Mediator loved this kind of thing.

  He was dimly aware that within a few more days the incoming snowstone would be irrevocably targeted on Poisonblue, and shortly after that those few Poisonbluvians left in the universe would have no further interest in the issue—except, perhaps, to establish a principle. But principles were the lifeblood of the Conclave's deliberations, and it would be important to bring the debate to a definite conclusion so that similar incidents could be avoided in future. Assuming that avoidance was the decision, which it wouldn't be if Irascible Thug of the Violent Demeanor got her way Ij only Thug would estivate!

  Fat chance.

  In the blurred outer region of his near-eye vision, Mediator became aware that one of the protocol symbiauts had removed a small ellipsoidal object from its underchassis. Some kind of peripheral wheeler device, perhaps? He didn't recall the design, but then, there were new casts of symbiauts every day—it was inevitable given the lack of central control over the whims of individuals. A pity that a citizen's entitlement to the design of its own offcasts had been built into constitutional law as an inalienable ri— The symhiaut was rolling the ellipsoid toward him! Mediator recognized the danger a split second ahead of the se-curiauts. Two of them surged into the air, their antigravity fields combining to shove him unceremoniously out of the sunken heptagon of the debating dais, and he felt a sharp pain as one of his nether trunklets was crushed against a food pile. A third securiaut aligned its beam to push the object aside, and two more leaped to cover it with their own bodies. From all directions more securiauts converged on the rogue protocol wheeler. Then the bomb exploded. Fragments of the self-sacrificing securiauts flew through the air like shrapnel. One took a chunk of integument out of Mediator's hide, just below a hearing patch, and he receded into a pseudo-estivational state to cut out the mindless terror that might otherwise have overwhelmed him.

  When he eventually resurfaced, the sky diver revolution was in full swing all over the planet. And the medicauts were obliged to tell him that Quick Decisions of the Unconsidered Implication had been fatally wounded by flying debris when the assassinous protocol symbiaut had self-destructed. The only rational thought that the news evoked was: a pity it wasn't Thug.

  The Subcommittee on Poisonbluvian Trespass was no longer a committee: it had been adjourned sine die and the chance that it would ever be revived seemed remote. It joined the endless ranks of dormant subcommittees, alive only in the minutes of long-ago bureaubondings. The only reasons for not killing it off were that this would require further deliberations and it would be easier to reconstitute the subcommittee if it were still technically in existence. The Conclave had more pressing problems, and unlike those of the extrajovians, these were serious. The Elders' political power base was under threat, the worst such since the 988th Continuity. That had been a genuine popular uprising; this was only a rebellion. Mumblings believed that it would be prudent not to exaggerate its likely effect. Mediator was inclined to concur, but the incoming damage reports were becoming worrisome.

  A secretary symbiaut read them out. Multiple systems failure on over ninety percent of cities, all caused by the infiltration of rogue symbiauts. Protected wheeler teams were being sent in where possible, but the infofection was spreading and could easily get out of control. There was a clear pattern of assassination attempts aimed at key figures in the hierarchy, requiring stepped-up security arrangements not just for Elders but for several bureaucratic tiers below them. There had been few successful murders, though: even the first assassination, of Decisions, had been an accidental consequence of an overambitious attempt to blow up the entire Conclave, and the rapid actions of securiauts had almost prevented the tragedy. The biggest worry, in many ways, was that an increasing proportion of citizens were retiring to their blisterponds and estivating, unable to face the growing anarchy, hoping that when they awoke in a few thousand years' time, or a few hundred thousand for the very timid, the world would be quiet and comfortable again. At least there had been little rioting: timely public proclamations of the draconian gathering laws had quelled any such tendencies.

  «What I am wondering,» said Bulbous Purveyor of the Implausible Objection, «is what all this is really about.»

  Stupid pompous fool. Mediator was careful to keep that thought to himself. «Purveyor, is that not obvious? It is an insurrection, an attempted coup. The skydiver cult is trying to assume power over all Secondhome.»

  «That much is indeed obvious. Less obvious is why they are doing this, and why they are doing it now.»

  Mediator's opinion of Purveyor climbed
several notches. Not such a fool after all. «You think there is more to it than that? Some hidden agenda?»

  «It can scarcely be coincidence that this revolt follows hard on the wheels of the extrajovians. Does no one else get the feeling that there has to be some connection? To me it seems very probable.»

  The Conclave digested this new contribution to its joint beliefs. Not just probable: a virtual certainty. A rethink was in order. Wasn't it amazing how Purveyor could occasionally put a trunk-let on features that were obvious once he had pointed them out? «You are suggesting that the extrajovians are responsible for the skydiver rebellion?»

  «Not exactly. However, it has occurred to me that the Poisonbluvians' wish to preserve their perverted kind would have an irresistible appeal to skydiver superstitions. All that rubbish about the Lifesoul Cherisher—and now there are new lifesouls to be cherished.»

  «Ah. So the Poisonbluvians have somehow opened communications with the skydivers?»

  «An interesting thought ... I confess I had not pursued the implications that far. Yes, they must have—do not ask how. What I had asked myself, though, was what the object of the rebellion must be. Our representative on the Subcommittee on Poisonbluvian Trespass may wish to comment?»

  Mumblings, who had been dozing off, immediately became wakeful. «First, the subcommittee is now adjourned. Moreover, its brief did not encompass skydiver rebellion.»

  «No, that is not what I mean. Your competence is not in question. Your advice is required. What can the extrajovians hope to gain by allying themselves with the skydiver cult? I can think of only one answer: they have concluded that the subcommittee will not complete its deliberations in time to avert the imminent snowstrike.»

  «Nonsense!» cried Mumblings. «Why, if the subcommittee had not been so abruptly adjourned, it would even now be pruning the amendment tree at an unprecedented rate! How could any intelligent entity so misconstrue a temporary procedural hitch?»

  «Xxxx!» Purveyor huffed his incredulity. «Be that as it may, the extrajovian concerns have now become self-fulfilling. If I am right, then the EJs' collusion with the skydiver cult has brought about the very impasse that they feared. However, let me hasten to my central point.» The others shuddered: "hasten" was not a word to be used in polite company It was the sort of word that poor dead Decisions would have used in order to be deliberately offensive. «One major purpose of the insurrection must be the seizure of the Diversion Engines on the Inner Moons. Indeed, all else may be a fogbank intended to obscure that objective. Remember: skydivers have successfully taken control of the Engines before, albeit temporarily, with the aid of rogue symbiauts. And that means—»

  «That we must order top-level security in the control complexes.» Mediator gestured to a nearby securiaut and instructed it accordingly There was no need for a vote: the air of consensus was overwhelming.

  «More than that,» said Purveyor. «If we keep open our lines of command with the Inner Moons, there is a danger of the infofection spreading to them, too. Yes, I know that we have stringent antiseptic measures in place already, but it would be a mistake to rely solely on those. The control complexes should be switched to autonomous mode immediately. Communications can be reopened once we have overcome the rebels and reestablished political control over Secondhome.»

  «What if some new impact threat to Secondhome should appear in the interim? That is an extreme precaution, Purveyor.»

  «These are extreme events. Impact threats have lengthy lead times. And any new threat would almost certainly pose less danger than the existing one.»

  «Xxxx! Well said. Nevertheless, I sense that we must vote. Purveyor: please formulate a clear motion. We all know that Mumblings is ready to second any proposal you put forward. Then you may speak in favor of the motion for no more than a quarter-day. Yes, a quarter-day! You were correct: we must hasten.» The calculated obscenity, coming from such a source, struck home, as Mediator had intended.

  Charles wasn't quite sure what attitude to adopt. Prudence had wrenched the lid right off Pandora's box, and the contents were flying everywhere. On the other hand, she was probably right. And if she hadn't tipped his hand . . .

  God, this was difficult.

  He was tired of dithering. Why not just say what was on his mind, for once? "Damn it, Prudence—I'm not disputing that you did the right thing, but it would have been wiser to discuss it with me first!"

  "From where I'm standing, Charles, wisdom dictated not letting you know. Fait accompli. That way you can't weasel out, chain me in irons, or soft-talk me into backing off." Shit. That sounded Jar too pat. "Okay, from where I was standing. You really have changed, haven't you? Except—bloody hell, Charlie, you can't expect me to set aside more than twenty years of mistrust and pain overnight, okay?" Something more was needed. "Look, I apologize, I acted out of turn, usurped your role, damaged your credibility, whatever. I won't do it again."

  "I doubt the occasion will arise. You've committed the future of the human race to a bunch of alien ecomystics. I've got to live with that."

  "Sure. But they're ecowarriors, too. They're the only bunch on Jupiter that had the savvy to realize that our nasty little oxygen-rich inferno might harbor intelligent life of a kind that your average Jovian could never have imagined in a blimp life span. They're the only bunch on this godforsaken gasball that can manage to lift one tiny trunklet for anything outside their own shortsighted mind-set. And by God, with as many eyes as they've got, that's an awful lot to be shortsighted with!"

  "I concede. Negotiations were getting nowhere. I think the Elders have been lying to us. What we needed was action. That's your specialty, I know, I know ..."

  "Charlie: my nephew risked his fucking life to come out here and put us in touch with the Jovians. My sister had to make the decision to send him here. Do you appreciate just what kind of guts that must have taken? Do you understand that Charity had only just gotten him back after eleven years of misery? She thought he was dead, Charlie. Her only son! Kidnapped by the fucking Chinese, dumped to die with the dogs on the streets . . . Good thing she didn't find that out until later, she'd have gone nuts—but . . ." With an effort. Prudence brought herself under control. In a way, all that was Charles's fault, though he couldn't have predicted it . . . "I had to do it for Moses," she finished lamely

  "Yes, I see that. And Moses' skydiver friends are the best chance we've got. I see that, too. So the real reason I brought you here was ... to find out what I can do to help." Liar. The real reason I brought you here was to see you. Say it. "Sorry. That's only part of it. It's time we— Don't give up on me, Prudence."

  "I gave up long ago. Don't ask too much, Charles. I've been on the wrong end of a sour relationship for a long, long time. You wrecked my career."

  I'm not sure you ever had a career, not in the academic world.

  Too impetuous. But he had the sense not to say it, or let his face show it. "At the start, I never intended to. Later . . . guilty as charged. Pru: this doesn't matter. There's a comet on the way."

  It matters to me. I'll survive the comet. You, too. "You're right."

  "So, I repeat: what can I do to help?"

  That was a difficult one. So much depended on Halfholder and her fellow cultists . . . Dear God, the future of humanity was in the gift of a bunch of alien nutcases . . . "Right now, not much. Stay in touch, offer them encouragement, play the Lifesoul Cherisher card for all we're worth . . . Damn it, Charlie, Halfholder could be killed, we're exploiting the poor creature . . . You know what they do to criminals like her? Ritual deflation, it's like skinning a human being alive, it's atrocious ..."

  Charles wanted to hold her in his arms and comfort her, but he had no right and he didn't dare risk being rebuffed . . . "Pru . . . Halfholder was a skydiver before any of us met her. She'd already chosen her path. Swoop to glory or crash in flames, that's the choice she made. She was never going to be ordinary. We just happened to turn up at the crisis point, that's all. But if we can help her s
ucceed ... do you understand what that will mean?"

  Prudence choked back tears. "Damn right I do. And you know what that involves, ex-Knight-of-the-garter Sir Charles bow-and-scrape Dunsmoore, faithfull former servant of Her useless bloody Majesty Queen Elizabeth IV?"

  "I think so." Charles had never felt less sympathy for the pathetic remnants of British royalty, desperately clinging to a position of influence in a third-rate undeveloping nation. Should have pensioned the buggers off long ago.

  "You're right. We've got to join forces. But if you expect me to kiss and make up, Charlie-boy you can shove your ex-knighthood where Good Queen Lizzie would blush to acknowledge."

  Sequestered in Orthodox Morality squodhome, Brave Defier was starting to relax. The campaign was going well. His wheelers were causing havoc everywhere, the Elders must have reached the point where they didn't even trust their own servauts. Call for some light refreshment—end up slit from mouth to mouth. Guerrilla warfare was wonderful, especially when all the guerrillas were yours.