Accelerando

by Charles Stross

  “I don’t—”

  There’s a throaty roar from the back, and Boris lurches forward with something in his mouth, an angry Bolex that flails his snout with its tripod legs. “Hiding in corners again?” Amber says disdainfully.

  “I am a camera!” protests the camera, aggrieved and self-conscious as it picks itself up off the floor. “I am—”

  Pierre leans close, sticks his face up against the fish-eye lens. “You’re fucking well going to be a human being just this once. Merde!”

  The camera is replaced by a very annoyed blond woman wearing a safari suit and more light meters, lenses, camera bags, and microphones than a CNN outside broadcast unit. “Go fuck yourself!”

  “I don’t like being spied on,” Amber says sharply. “Especially as you weren’t invited to this meeting. Right?”

  “I’m the archivist.” Donna looks away, stubbornly refusing to admit anything. “You said I should—”

  “Yes, well.” Amber is embarrassed. But it’s a bad idea to embarrass the Queen in her audience chamber. “You heard what we were discussing. What do you know about my mother’s state of mind?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Donna says promptly. She’s clearly in a sulk and prepared to do no more than the minimum to help resolve the situation. “I only met her once. You look like her when you are angry, do you know that?”

  “I—” For once, Amber’s speechless.

  “I’ll schedule you for facial surgery,” offers the cat. Sotto voce: “It’s the only way to be sure.”

  Normally, accusing Amber of any resemblance to her mother, however slight and passing, would be enough to trigger a reality quake within the upload environment that passes for the bridge of the Field Circus. It’s a sign of how disturbed Amber is by the lawsuit that she lets the cat’s impertinence slide. “What is the lawsuit, anyway?” Donna asks, nosy as ever and twice as annoying. “I did not that bit see.”

  “It’s horrible,” Amber says vehemently.

  “Truly evil,” echoes Pierre.

  “Fascinating but wrong,” Sadeq muses thoughtfully.

  “But it’s still horrible!”

  “Yes, but what is it?” Donna the all-seeing-eye archivist and camera manqué asks.

  “It’s a demand for settlement.” Amber takes a deep breath. “Dammit, you might as well tell everyone—it won’t stay secret for long.” She sighs. “After we left, it seems my other half—my original incarnation, that is—got married. To Sadeq, here.” She nods at the Iranian theologian, who looks just as bemused as she did the first time she heard this part of the story. “And they had a child. Then the Ring Imperium went bankrupt. The child is demanding maintenance payments from me, backdated nearly twenty years, on the grounds that the undead are jointly and severally liable for debts run up by their incarnations. It’s a legal precedent established to prevent people from committing suicide temporarily as a way to avoid bankruptcy. Worse, the lien on my assets is measured in subjective time from a point at the Ring Imperium about nineteen months after our launch time—we’ve been in relativistic flight, so while my other half would be out from under it by now if she’d survived, I’m still subject to the payment order. But compound interest applies back home—that is to stop people trying to use the twin’s paradox as a way to escape liability. So, by being away for about twenty-eight years of wall-clock time, I’ve run up a debt I didn’t know about to enormous levels.

  “This man, this son I’ve never met, theoretically owns the Field Circus several times over. And my accounts are wiped out—I don’t even have enough money to download us into fleshbodies. Unless one of you guys has got a secret stash that survived the market crash after we left, we’re all in deep trouble.”

  A mahogany dining table eight meters long graces the flagstoned floor of the huge museum gallery, beneath the skeleton of an enormous Argentinosaurus and a suspended antique Mercury capsule more than a century old. The dining table is illuminated by candlelight, silver cutlery and fine porcelain plates setting out two places at opposite ends. Sirhan sits in a high-backed chair beneath the shadow of a triceratops’s rib cage. Opposite him, Pamela has dressed for dinner in the fashion of her youth. She raises her wineglass toward him. “Tell me about your childhood, why don’t you?” she asks. High above them, Saturn’s rings shimmer through the skylights, like a luminous paint splash thrown across the midnight sky.

  Sirhan has misgivings about opening up to her, but consoles himself with the fact that she’s clearly in no position to use anything he tells her against him. “Which childhood would you like to know about?” he asks.

  “What do you mean, which?” Her face creases up in a frown of perplexity.

  “I had several. Mother kept hitting the reset switch, hoping I’d turn out better.” It’s his turn to frown.

  “She did, did she,” breathes Pamela, clearly noting it down to hold as ammunition against her errant daughter. “Why do you think she did that?”

  “It was the only way she knew to raise a child,” Sirhan says defensively. “She didn’t have any siblings. And, perhaps, she was reacting against her own character flaws.” When I have children there will be more than one, he tells himself smugly: when, that is, he has adequate means to find himself a bride, and adequate emotional maturity to activate his organs of procreation. A creature of extreme caution, Sirhan is not planning to repeat the errors of his ancestors on the maternal side.

  Pamela flinches. “It’s not my fault,” she says quietly. “Her father had quite a bit to do with that. But what—what different childhoods did you have?”

  “Oh, a fair number. There was the default option, with Mother and Father arguing constantly—she refused to take the veil and he was too stiff-necked to admit he was little more than a kept man, and between them they were like two neutron stars locked in an unstable death spiral of gravity. Then there were my other lives, forked and reintegrated, running in parallel. I was a young goatherd in the days of the middle kingdom in Egypt, I remember that; and I was an all-American kid growing up in Iowa in the 1950s, and another me got to live through the return of the hidden imam—at least, his parents thought it was the hidden imam—and—” Sirhan shrugs. “Perhaps that’s where I acquired my taste for history.”

  “Did your parents ever consider making you a little girl?” asks his grandmother.

  “Mother suggested it a couple of times, but Father forbade it.” Or rather, decided it was unlawful, he recalls. “I had a very conservative upbringing in some ways.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. When I was a little girl, that was all there was; none of these questions of self-selected identity. There was no escape, merely escapism. Didn’t you ever have a problem knowing who you were?”

  The starters arrive, diced melon on a silver salver. Sirhan waits patiently for his grandmama to chivvy the table into serving her. “The more people you are, the more you know who you are,” Sirhan says. “You learn what it’s like to be other people. Father thought that perhaps it isn’t good for a man to know too much about what it’s like to be a woman.” And Grandfather disagreed, but you already know that, he adds for his own stream of consciousness.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Pamela smiles at him, an expression that might be that of a patronizing elder aunt if it wasn’t for the alarming sharkishness of her expression—or is it playfulness? Sirhan covers his confusion by spooning chunks of melon into his mouth, forking temporary ghosts to peruse dusty etiquette manuals and warn him if he’s about to commit some faux pas. “So, how did you enjoy your childhoods?”

  “Enjoy isn’t a word I would use,” he replies as evenly as he can, laying down his spoon so he doesn’t spill anything. As if childhood is something that ever ends, he thinks bitterly. Sirhan is considerably less than a gigasecond old and confidently expects to exist for at least a terasecond—if not in exactly this molecular configuration, then at least in some reasonably stable physical incarnation. And he has every intention of staying young for that entire vast span�
��even into the endless petaseconds that might follow, although by then, megayears hence, he speculates that issues of neoteny will no longer interest him. “It’s not over yet. How about you? Are you enjoying your old age, Grandmama?”

  Pamela almost flinches, but keeps iron control of her expression. The flush of blood in the capillaries of her cheeks, visible to Sirhan through the tiny infrared eyes he keeps afloat in the air above the table, gives her away. “I made some mistakes in my youth, but I’m enjoying it fine nowadays,” she says lightly.

  “It’s your revenge, isn’t it?” Sirhan asks, smiling and nodding as the table removes the entrees.

  “Why, you little—” She stares at him rather than continuing. A very bleak stare it is, too. “What would you know about revenge?” she asks.

  “I’m the family historian.” Sirhan smiles humorlessly. “I lived from two to seventeen years several hundred times over before my eighteenth birthday. It was that reset switch, you know. I don’t think Mother realized my primary stream of consciousness was journaling everything.”

  “That’s monstrous.” Pamela picks up her wineglass and takes a sip to cover her confusion. Sirhan has no such retreat—grape juice in a tumbler, unfermented, wets his tongue. “I’d never do something like that to any child of mine.”

  “So why won’t you tell me about your childhood?” asks her grandson. “For the family history, of course.”

  “I’ll—” She puts her glass down. “You intend to write one,” she states.

  “I’m thinking about it.” Sirhan sits up. “An old-fashioned book covering three generations, living through interesting times,” he suggests. “A work of postmodern history, the incoherent school at that—how do you document people who fork their identities at random, spend years dead before reappearing on the stage, and have arguments with their own relativistically preserved other copy? I could trace the history further, of course—if you tell me about your parents, although I am certain they aren’t around to answer questions directly—but we reach the boring dumb matter slope back to the primeval soup surprisingly fast if we go there, don’t we? So I thought that perhaps as a narrative hook I’d make the offstage viewpoint that of the family’s robot cat. (Except the bloody thing’s gone missing, hasn’t it?) Anyway, with so much of human history occupying the untapped future, we historians have our work cut out recording the cursor of the present as it logs events. So I might as well start at home.”

  “You’re set on immortalism.” Pamela studies his face.

  “Yes,” he says idly. “Frankly, I can understand your wanting to grow old out of a desire for revenge, but pardon me for saying this, I have difficulty grasping your willingness to follow through with the procedure! Isn’t it awfully painful?”

  “Growing old is natural,” growls the old woman. “When you’ve lived long enough for all your ambitions to be in ruins, friendships broken, lovers forgotten or divorced acrimoniously, what’s left to go on for? If you feel tired and old in spirit, you might as well be tired and old in body. Anyway, wanting to live forever is immoral. Think of all the resources you’re taking up that younger people need! Even uploads face a finite data storage limit after a time. It’s a monstrously egotistical statement, to say you intend to live forever. And if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s public service. Duty: the obligation to make way for the new. Duty and control.”

  Sirhan absorbs all this, nodding slowly to himself as the table serves up the main course—honey-glazed roast long pork with sautéed potatoes a la gratin and carrots Debussy—when there’s a loud bump from overhead.

  “What’s that?” Pamela asks querulously.

  “One moment.” Sirhan’s vision splits into a hazy kaleidoscope view of the museum hall as he forks ghosts to monitor each of the ubiquitous cameras. He frowns; something is moving on the balcony, between the Mercury capsule and a display of antique random-dot stereoisograms. “Oh dear. Something seems to be loose in the museum.”

  “Loose? What do you mean, loose?” An inhuman shriek splits the air above the table, followed by a crash from upstairs. Pamela stands up unsteadily, wiping her lips with her napkin. “Is it safe?”

  “No, it isn’t safe.” Sirhan fumes. “It’s disturbing my meal!” He looks up. A flash of orange fur shows over the balcony, then the Mercury capsule wobbles violently on the end of its guy wires. Two arms and a bundle of rubbery something covered in umber hair lurches out from the handrail and casually grabs hold of the priceless historical relic, then clambers inside and squats on top of the dummy wearing Al Sheperd’s age-cracked space suit. “It’s an ape! City, I say, City! What’s a monkey doing loose in my dinner party?”

  “I am most deeply sorry, sir, but I don’t know. Would sir care to identify the monkey in question?” replies City, which for reasons of privacy has manifest itself as a bodiless voice.

  There’s a note of humor in City’s tone that Sirhan takes deep exception to. “What do you mean? Can’t you see it?” he demands, focusing on the errant primate, which is holed up in the Mercury capsule dangling from the ceiling, smacking its lips, rolling its eyes, and fingering the gasket around the capsule’s open hatch. It hoots quietly to itself, then leans out of the open door and moons over the table, baring its buttocks. “Get back!” Sirhan calls to his grandmother, then he gestures at the air above the table, intending to tell the utility fog to congeal. Too late. The ape farts thunderously, then lets rip a stream of excrement across the dining table. Pamela’s face is a picture of wrinkled disgust as she holds her napkin in front of her nose. “Dammit, solidify, will you!” Sirhan curses, but the ubiquitous misty pollen-grain-sized robots refuse to respond.

  “What’s your problem? Invisible monkeys?” asks City.

  “Invisible—” he stops.

  “Can’t you see what it did?” Pamela demands, backing him up. “It just defecated all over the main course!”

  “I see nothing,” City says uncertainly.

  “Here, let me help you.” Sirhan lends it one of his eyes, rolls it to focus on the ape, which is now reaching lazy arms around the hatch and patting down the roof of the capsule, as if hunting for the wires’ attachment points.

  “Oh dear,” says City, “I’ve been hacked. That’s not supposed to be possible.”

  “Well it fucking is,” hisses Pamela.

  “Hacked?” Sirhan stops trying to tell the air what to do and focuses on his clothing instead. Fabric reweaves itself instantly, mapping itself into an armored airtight suit that raises a bubble visor from behind his neck and flips itself shut across his face. “City. Please supply my grandmama with an environment suit now. Make it completely autonomous.”

  The air around Pamela begins to congeal in a blossom of crystalline security, as a sphere like a giant hamster ball precipitates out around her. “If you’ve been hacked, the first question is, who did it,” Sirhan states. “The second is ‘why,’ and the third is ‘how.’ ” He edgily runs a self-test, but there’s no sign of inconsistencies in his own identity matrix, and he has hot shadows sleeping lightly at scattered nodes across a distance of half a dozen light hours. Unlike pre-posthuman Pamela, he’s effectively immune to murder-simple. “If this is just a prank—”

  Seconds have passed since the orangutan got loose in the museum, and subsequent seconds have passed since City realized its bitter circumstance. Seconds are long enough for huge waves of countermeasures to sweep the surface of the lily-pad habitat. Invisibly small utility foglets are expanding and polymerizing into defenses throughout the air, trapping the thousands of itinerant passenger pigeons in midflight and locking down every building and every person who walks the paths outside. City is self-testing its trusted computing base, starting with the most primitive secured kernel and working outward. Meanwhile Sirhan, with blood in his eye, heads for the staircase, with the vague goal of physically attacking the intruder. Pamela retreats at a fast roll, tumbling toward the safety of the mezzanine floor and a garden of fossils. “Who do you think you are,
barging in and shitting on my supper?” Sirhan yells as he bounds up the stairs. “I want an explanation! Right now!”

  The orangutan finds the nearest cable and gives it a yank, setting the one-ton capsule swinging. It bares its teeth at Sirhan in a grin. “Remember me?” it asks, in a sibilant French accent.

  “Remember—” Sirhan stops dead. “tante Annette? What are you doing in that orangutan?”

  “Having minor autonomic control problems.” The ape grimaces wider, then bends one arm sinuously and scratches at its armpit. “I am sorry. I installed myself in the wrong order. I was only meaning to say hello and pass on a message.”

  “What message?” Sirhan demands. “You’ve upset my grandmama, and if she finds out you’re here—”

  “She won’t. I’ll be gone in a minute.” The ape—Annette—sits up. “Your grandfather salutes you and says he will be visiting shortly. In the person, that is. He is very keen to meet your mother and her passengers. That is all. Have you a message for him?”

  “Isn’t he dead?” Sirhan asks, dazed.

  “No more than I am. And I’m overdue. Good day!” The ape swings hand over hand out of the capsule, then lets go and plummets ten meters to the hard stone floor below. Its skull makes a noise like a hard-boiled egg impacting concrete.

  “Oh dear.” Sirhan breathes heavily. “City!”

  “Yes, oh master?”

  “Remove that body,” he says, pointing over the balcony. “I’ll trouble you not to disturb my grandmother with any details. In particular, don’t tell her it was Annette. The news may upset her.” The perils of having a long-lived posthuman family, he thinks, too many mad aunts in the space capsule. “If you can find a way to stop Auntie ’Nette from growing any more apes, that might be a good idea.” A thought strikes him. “By the way, do you know when my grandfather is due to arrive?”

  “Your grandfather?” asks City. “Isn’t he dead?”

  Sirhan looks over the balcony, at the blood-seeping corpse of the intruder. “Not according to his second wife’s latest incarnation.”