by Toby Weston
Singularity’s Children
Singularity’s Children is the tale of a generation born into interesting times. A chronicle of the final decades of humanity’s million-year journey.
Early in the Third Millennium, the world is slipping beyond comprehension. Mastery of technology is deepening society’s divides; generating fantastic wealth for a few, and trauma and suffering for many. People are bewildered by relentless waves of boom and bust; kept in line by vast programs of computer-driven propaganda.
A few techno-optimists see past corporate greed and political charade. They dream of a post-scarcity utopia glittering on the horizon—a symbiotic future for all Singularity’s Children...
But ancient demons are not easily slain. The world is tired. The internet is dying. Wars ravage the former western democracies. Religions whisper promises of simpler times, while the rising power of the ‘Way Forward’ bewitches with its synthetic siren’s voices.
Against this backdrop plays an epic action-adventure of vivid world-building; a rich fabric, woven from colorful characters—not all human—who draw you into a terrifyingly familiar world of technology, morality and hope.
Frequently funny, often irreverent, occasionally indecent—Singularity’s Children is Hard SciFi, Biting and Subversive.
This Singularity's Children boxset includes the first three books in the series.
High Energy, Big Ideas. Blockbuster Action and Wild Set Pieces!
Book One - Denial
“Denial delivers a razor-sharp view of Earth's future, a tomorrow-land as disturbing as it is utterly plausible.”
Clarion Review
“Brilliantly written. Toby Weston creates a stark believable alternate future. This is classic world-building; a fabric of plot and characters woven from threads of philosophy, metaphysics and futuristic technology.”
Editor's review.
From the back cover:
Debt, wars and inequality are pushing society towards collapse. It's a world desiccated by soulless algorithms, pacified beneath the battlesuit's boot and numbed by the bewitching voices of computational propaganda.
Keith knows the 21st century is no place for a moral backbone. Not even a corporate expense account and the occasional synthetic liaison can air-gap him from the blood on his hands.
Niato is radicalised when he is recruited by an exotic mentor at his birthday party.
Stella lives above a brothel on a nomadic, floating tuna farm. Her life is brutal and precarious; she needs to find a tribe before she is destroyed by the jaded world around her.
Technology continues a relentless march towards its approaching event horizon. Progressive thinkers must defy obsolescence to survive in the increasingly post-human world.
Singularity's Children is vivid world-building.
The desperate lives of its characters draw the reader into a terrifyingly familiar world only a butterfly flap away.
Singularity’s
Children
Book One
Denial
By
Toby Weston
Copyright
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by
Lobster Books
Copyright © 2016 by Toby Weston
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Cover Illustration © 2016 by Toby Weston
1.6.7
Preface - Denial
The Earth of this book is not ours.
This is not important.
It is mostly a literary device to allow the author lenience with dates and with histories past and future.
Mostly.
A glossary of technologies and locations from the books and a full dramatis personæ of characters will be available at:
www.tobyweston.net
“Work saves man from three great evils: boredom, vice and need.”
Voltaire
Chapter 1 – Restricted Vocabulary
Globs of viscous sauce coiled with the current. A petite woman, in white one-piece overalls, worked her way around the pool's edge to where a paper cup and party hat floated half submerged, trapped up against a filter grating. The woman swept a fine net through the water, using its long telescopic pole to retrieve food and other party detritus before it could sink.
The other teenage boys, having lost interest in the pool and its residents, had moved away to play a variation of table tennis across the mounds of uneaten food that still decorated the picnic tables.
“His mother’s called Anna. She’s over there in the other pen,” the woman said, pointing across the pool. “She had to learn the Syntax as an adult, but Blue here grew up with the interface.”
Niato watched as a sequence of pixel-icons appeared on the screen of the large Companion lying across his knees. The woman would presumably be seeing the same symbols on the chunky pair of waterproof Spex she wore over the hood of her wetsuit.
'Blue; Anna; question'
“He wants to go back to his mother,” she explained.
Niato looked away in response to an agonising cry that morphed into a snarled expletive. Ignoring his friends, he turned again to the woman in the pool.
“Just a few minutes more?” he pleaded.
“Okay. Just a couple.”
'Blue; fish; question'
“Now he wants more fish,” she said.
“There aren't any,” Niato said, shaking the empty bucket.
“Send him 'Fish' and 'Empty'.”
“How is the fish empty?”
“It’s not. The grammar is simplified. 'Empty' stands in for any 'Negative'. It can mean 'no' or 'nothing'.”
Niato pecked at the matrix of symbols covering most of the Companion's screen—a grid of abstract, blocky, pixelated icons displaying a few dozen nouns and verbs. He chose symbols and strung together a sentence for the young dolphin.
'Fish; empty'
To soften the blow, Niato also sent:
'Boy; Blue; Friend'
Blue lifted his face out of the water and peered sideways at Niato. He wore a skull cap that housed the neural scanning tech which enabled their crude cross-species conversation. It was held in place by a tube of neoprene; it looked like a black balaclava with Blue's smiling beak poking comically out of the front.
Niato laughed.
'Boy; clock; house; question'
“He is asking when are you going home,” the woman translated.
‘Half; Clock'
“Is that right?” Niato asked before sending.
“You mean half an hour?”
“Yes,” Niato nodded.
“Yes. ‘Clock’ can be both time and hour. He will understand that.”
Niato pressed send. Blue's 'face' was fixed in a permanent smile, but Niato thought he could detect something in the eye watching him as his message arrived. The eye looked away for a second, then flicked back simultaneous to the arrival of a new message.
'Blue; house; empty'
“What does he mean?”
“I don't know. He’s getting tired. It’s time to let him get back to his mother.”
'Anna; house; empty; Blue; empty'
“What does that mean? The pool isn't empty?”
“Let's get back to your friends.”
The woman nodded to her colleague with the net. The cleaner acknowledged the signal, withdrew her pole, and turned away. She walked towards the small booth that controlled the wire mesh gate. The gate would release Blue from the smaller shallow poo
l, where he had been confined, to make it easier for the boys to 'experience' a close encounter.
'Fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; fish'
'Fish; empty' Niato sent with a smile. “You can't have any more fish, you greedy grandma!”
'Fish; fish; fish; fish; fish; moon; fish; fish; fish; fish; moon; fish; fish; fish; fish; moon; clock; empty'
Blue sent his message and then kept his small intense eye focused on Niato. He seemed to wait for some indication of comprehension. When nothing was forthcoming, he reared up and chittered loudly, then dipped below the ripples.
Without warning, he surfaced again and slapped his tail against the surface of the pool. With a startling clap, a sheet of freezing water splashed out and soaked Niato to the skin. The dolphin then powered away in a tight curve and raced off towards the gate, which had finished sliding open.
Niato stood and shook his arms. He ran his fingers through his streaming hair. His friends interrupted their hyperactive game to point and laugh uproariously at the drenched birthday boy.
He had announced his departure, leaving the other kids to laugh and cavort while waiting for autos or chauffeured limousines. He wound down the window to wave and shout farewell. He could smell weed. The auto pulled away from the curb and into traffic.
Behind him, an unmarked vehicle followed closely. Niato ignored it.
He had loved dolphins for as long as he could remember. He had learnt to swim for them, his mother encouraging him by promising that, once he had learnt, she would take him to the sea to play with them.
His grandfather hadn't approved, which meant his father hadn't either.
Since then, each year, partly to indulge her son, but also as a small act of rebellion calculated to annoy her husband, they had flown to the southern islands. As he got older, his mother focused more on her yoga and Niato had migrated towards proper diving; but at least once per trip they would go back to the sandy beach with its crystal waters where wild dolphins came into the shallows. It was their bond.
When he had heard there were dolphins nearby who could talk, he had insisted that he be allowed to visit. He hadn't fully appreciated the logistical unfeasibility of the request, but neither had he understood the vast magnitude of his family's wealth.
They arrived home. Gates swung open at their approach: silent oiled iron. One of the men bowed from behind the half-mirrored glass of the gatehouse. Niato recognised his face, but didn't recall his name.
The tailing vehicle didn't follow them onto the estate. It would round the corner and pull into a small compound hidden by the road's curve. The Munisai were a traditional and private family. Niato's grandfather insisted ugly realities stay out of sight and out of mind.
***
'Fish; fish; fish; moon; fish; fish; moon; clock; empty' – or something like that.
It was a riddle. It nagged at Niato. For weeks, it preoccupied his waking and sleeping mind. What had it meant? Blue had been waiting for something, expecting some response, but then, frustrated, he had lashed out and rage-quit.
Niato neglected his math and Nipponese and spent his time reading everything he could find relating to the Institute of Mammalian Cognition. Little was publicly accessible, but through the SubStation forums, he tracked down a few papers illegally hosted on a pirate academic site.
He ignored his Pot-Head friends, who mocked his obsession and were, anyway, becoming tiresome. He read research papers, understanding only fragments. He stumbled into forums of direct-action-collectives and spent days on boards full of anger and hate for those who kept these serene spirits of the open ocean in cramped, filthy pools.
He felt the first cold glimmer of understanding when he had found the full vocabulary of the pixel-icon language. A single one of its three by three icons could represent any one of five-hundred and twelve words, but they could be paired and arranged into more complicated grammars. The tiny subset he had been given on the Institute’s Companion had hardly scratched its surface. There had been so many questions he would have asked that were too clumsy and cryptic to formulate with the handful of symbols at his disposal. He had felt cheated. For a long time, he could not understand the point of hobbling their communication.
The limitation wasn't with the dolphin's capacity for learning. Blue was named explicitly in papers where researchers explored complex abstract concepts. He was a prodigy. The language might not be his mother tongue, but it was close. He had been communicating with the pixel-icons since he was a calf.
'Fish; fish; fish; moon; fish; fish; fish; moon; clock; empty'
Blue would have known the moon. Swimming cramped laps within the tiled artificial rectangle, it would have been one of the few intrusions of a wider organic world.
Awareness of privilege had begun eroding Niato's sense of worth. He needed a purpose. He decided he needed to talk with this friend again—and this time without the arbitrary limitations of a restricted vocabulary.
It had not been easy to get access to the Institute's computers, but he was a capable teenager with access to considerable resources. Even so, his first attempt at recruiting a Cyber-Ronin had ended with a scammer disappearing with all of his CryptoCoins. As a silver lining, the pity generated had transmuted via emotional alchemy into reputation, and he had made contact with a group of genuine hacktivists.
These new friends provided the means. At first, they had wanted to sell him their standard ransom-ware and cyber-griefing packages, but he wanted something more elegant. He wanted to talk to Blue and let him know he understood the crime. The Institute was keeping Blue physically captive; but, even worse, having given him the capacity to communicate, they were denying him the opportunity.
'Fish; fish; fish; moon; fish; fish; fish; moon; fish; fish; fish; moon; clock; empty'.
Days spent eating stiff, still fish. Tedium measured by the cycles of the moon. A life of repetition and monotony and at the end, when his time was over, nothing, empty.
The network penetration had been elegant: a remote, unaudited tunnel between Blue's interface and Niato's Companion. Illicit nights spent in secret communication had followed. The link between the two adolescent mammals became a joining of worlds.
Linguistic gag gone, Blue used his voice, at first, to rail furiously against his captors, with Niato lumped in alongside every other human. He was angry. Niato took long, patient weeks to establish some level of credibility; but slowly, as he explained in simple crude pixel-icon brush strokes the world outside the Institute, Blue had calmed down, hot anger transitioning into cold resolution.
They left childhood together. Their world views merged. Blue, in his pool, wanted to smash it all. Niato, with freedom to operate, felt obligated to assist.
'Big; ocean; dirty; question' Blue asked one day.
'Boy; clean; ocean' Niato replied, pecking out his response.
Over the next few years, newspapers gleefully reported Niato’s acts of sabotage and vandalism, delighting in the shame the Munisai clan's eldest son was bringing down on his family. His father, never hands-on, had tried clumsily to correct his son’s wayward course, but Niato had become an embarrassment and, eventually, at his grandfather’s insistence, he had been cast out.
As far as the family was concerned, he had been radicalised and recruited.
***
'Blue; clock; ocean; question'
'Today; night; four; clock' Niato selected the symbols on the surface of his Companion. The room was full of the sounds and smells of sleeping terrorists.
Blue didn't send a response but Niato, could imagine he would be whistling loudly in his pool, excitement making him fall back to native sounds.
Some of the others were now groaning and stretching as Companion alarms vibrated.
'Goodbye;'
'Boy; love; Blue' Niato sent, feeling a little self-conscious.
'Today; night; ocean' Blue sent back.
Niato struggled out of his sleeping bag. It was six o’clock in the afternoon, but
their direct-action-collective had been running on an adjusted cycle in preparation for tonight’s action and it felt like the middle of the night. Light from the dropping sun shone through slots in the blackout blinds. Somebody was making coffee. The smell made its way into the room and had the desired effect of accelerating the waking process.
Niato called up Basil, the captain of Nebulous, the group’s crowd-funded protest vessel which was lurking sixty miles offshore. They would stick around the newly freed dolphins for the first few days. Everything was ready. They had plenty of fish in reserve in case Blue or his mother were unable to hunt. Basil confirmed they would soon start motoring towards the rendezvous.