Accelerando

by Charles Stross

  Manfred feels Pamela’s shoulders shaking. It feels like she’s about to laugh. “I’m still here,” he murmurs, half-surprised. “Spat out, undigested, after all these years. At least, this version of me thinks he’s here.”

  “Did you believe it?” she finally asks, a tone of disbelief in her voice.

  “Oh yes.” He shifts his balance from foot to foot, absentmindedly stroking her hair. “I believe everything it said was intended to make us react exactly the way we did. Up to and including giving us good reasons to hate it and provoking Manni into disposing of its avatar. Aineko wanted to check out of our lives and figured a sense of cathartic closure would help. Not to mention playing the deus ex machina in the narrative of our family life. Fucking classical comedian.” He checks a status report with Citymind, and sighs: His version number has just been bumped a point. “Tell me, do you think you’ll miss having Aineko around? Because we won’t be hearing from him again—”

  “Don’t talk about that, not now,” she orders him, digging her chin against the side of his neck. “I feel so used.”

  “With good reason.” They stand holding each other for a while, not speaking, not really questioning why—after so much time apart—they’ve come together again. “Hanging out with gods is never a safe activity for mere mortals like us. You think you’ve been used? Aineko has probably killed me by now. Unless he was lying about disposing of the spare copy, too.”

  She shudders in his arms. “That’s the trouble with dealing with posthumans; their mental model of you is likely to be more detailed than your own.”

  “How long have you been awake?” he asks, gently trying to change the subject.

  “I—oh, I’m not sure.” She lets go of him and steps back, watching his face appraisingly. “I remember back on Saturn, stealing a museum piece and setting out, and then, well. I found myself here. With you.”

  “I think”—he licks his lips—“we’ve both been given a wake-up call. Or maybe a second chance. What are you going to do with yours?”

  “I don’t know.” That appraising look again, as if she’s trying to work out what he’s worth. He’s used to it, but this time it doesn’t feel hostile. “We’ve got too much history for this to be easy. Either Aineko was lying, or . . . not. What about you? What do you really want?”

  He knows what she’s asking. “Be my mistress?” he asks, offering her a hand.

  “This time”—she grips his hand—“without adult supervision.” She smiles gratefully, and they walk toward the gateway together, to find out how their descendants are dealing with their sudden freedom.