by Paul Anlee
“None of the Royal Family made it to the colonies, as far as I’m aware,” Hodge replied, with no change to his relaxed stance and distant gaze.
Strang bent down and uprooted a handful of grass. He waved it on the inner side of the barrier, trying to attract the attention of a nearby calf. The animal ignored him, and he let the blades fall to the ground.
“Not royalty, per se, I would agree,” Strang clarified. “Nevertheless, the Leader of your Church fancies himself above the representatives of the people.”
“We’ve held no elections yet, as far as I’m aware.”
“True. Do you think we ever will?”
Hodge squinted at the light strips mounted on the ceiling of the agricultural service tunnel a few kilometers overhead. “Our democracies on Earth made quite a mess of things in the end, didn’t they?”
“Surely, you don’t blame the planet’s demise on democracy!”
“I’d say we were doing a pretty good job of ruining the planet long before that thing consumed the Earth.”
“Yes, we had problems. But one can only imagine how severe they might have been if decisions had been left to a few people…or one.”
Hodge dropped his arms from the top of the fence. “And yet, it was a small elite who decided who would, and would not, survive when the Eater escaped its containment.”
Strang examined Hodge’s face, “You knew that we called it the Eater?”
“Yes. I even know how it came into being. The newscasts never got past calling it a ‘gray bubble’ or ‘big, gray ball’ or such. But I had my sources, you know, back in the home country.”
“Yes, but its origin and official name were designated Top Secret. There should have been no disclosure outside of Cabinet.”
“Nothing official, of course. Still, the Queen was most concerned.”
“She told you?”
“Her Majesty’s family and my own have an extensive history. She was distraught to learn that the vast majority of her subjects were doomed, even though the immediate family was to be saved. She wondered if she shouldn’t stay. Go down with the ship, so to speak.”
“The actions of your Church made all of that irrelevant.”
Hodge pulled a cloth handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and wiped his nose. “Pity, that,” he said. “But there’s no real evidence the Church was in any way linked with the release of the Eater. Alum merely took advantage of a bad situation.”
“His timing was rather convenient, I’d say.”
“Yes, perhaps.” Hodge sniffed. “Or perhaps he was simply well prepared. I’m happy to have been on the right side of history in the end.”
“I imagine,” Strang said.
Hodge replaced the cloth in its pocket. “You didn’t ask me here to discuss the demise of the Royal Family, though, did you? Nor the relative merits of elite rule versus representative democracies. What’s really on your mind, Jared?”
“I was called to a meeting with Alum yesterday.”
“Natural enough for the new Administration to wish to confer with the old. Especially given your position.”
“Indeed. I surmised he would want to discuss our programs for familiarizing new colonists with the Cybrid population, something related to my role in the former regime. The people whom the Vesta Project placed here were accustomed to working closely with the Cybrids. We’d come to appreciate them as our friends and colleagues, to see them for the people they truly are, and—”
“Really, Jared!” Hodge exclaimed. “The Cybrids are nothing more than machines.”
“Some believe otherwise. In any case, I was mistaken about Alum’s purpose for meeting with me. His view, the official view, of Cybrids is that they are to be viewed as our servants, little more than slaves.”
Hodge scoffed. “Cybrids can be neither servants nor slaves. They are machines. Just fancy toasters. They are not people.”
“Is that how you see it? You should meet with some of them. You’ll find they run the gamut on human qualities. Most of them were downloaded from accomplished people, but the range of their personalities matches of any group of individuals you’ve ever met.”
“They may accurately simulate human qualities but do not forget that they are not really people.”
Strang gave up. No point in pushing against a view based on entrenched religious ideology. He changed tactics.
“They may be only machines, but we rely on them. And not just to construct new habitats. We rely on them for our daily survival.”
He pointed off into the distance at a floating ovoid a few hundred meters away. “They even watch over our herds and crops.”
“Yes, well, all that will change soon,” Hodge stated.
“Alum talked about that. ‘People must have purpose in their lives,’ was how he put it. True enough. The original group of colonists was made up of selected representatives who could best preserve the intellectual and cultural legacy of humanity. They were to work side-by-side with the Cybrids, each in their own optimal environment, to expand our science and technology while we worked out how to survive without Earth. The group of colonists that Alum sent in their place aren’t up to filling that role. I’m not sure the Cybrids could even train them if they tried.”
Hodge peered at his friend. His eyes squinted not so much against the light but in critical measure of his friend. “Do you think these machines are better than people?”
Strang looked back at the distant herder Cybrid. “That’s not what I'm saying. But they are certainly our equals.”
“That is not how this administration sees it.”
“You mean, that’s not how your leader sees it.”
“Alum and the majority of the Governing Council are of one mind on this issue.”
“Tell me, Nigel. How long do you think it will be before Alum decides to dispense with our Governing Council? I didn’t sense an abundance of respect there. Our own history is rife with examples of absolute monarchs who chose to ignore all advice except their own.”
“Though Alum is wise and hears the Word of God, I don’t believe he has designs to rule as a dictator.”
“That’s exactly what he’s doing.”
“Only during this difficult transition period.”
Strang sighed heavily. “You do realize that once the rights of one group of people are discarded, it isn’t a big step to remove the rights of others, of all others save for the ruling elite. And your leader is well on his way to making that a ruling elite of only one. Him.”
“I see now why you didn’t want to meet in a public place. Such talk could be considered treason.”
“Who am I being treasonous to? No one elected Alum to lead this project.”
“He leads by virtue of the assent of his followers.”
“You mean, the followers who, thanks to Alum’s coup, now comprise the vast majority of the colonists on Vesta, Pallas, and Ceres? Minus a select few individuals from the old Administration. Oh, and not the Cybrids, whose rights he’s just conveniently removed.”
“Are you thinking to stir up some sort of trouble, Jared? I would discourage you from going too far down that road. I don’t believe anyone would benefit by pitting humanity against our robots.”
“Our robots? Hard for colonists to claim ownership over the Cybrids. Who among us can legitimately claim the robots are really theirs? As I recall, Kathy Liang single-handedly designed practically every Cybrid component.”
“Dr. Liang. Yes, another abomination to basic humankind.”
“At any rate, no one is talking about any kind of trouble, Nigel. I just think we need to think hard about disenfranchising a large group of sentient beings on whom we rely for our very survival.”
“Well, I suppose I could discuss this further with the Council if you think it might be of any help.”
“I doubt it will make much difference if everyone is of like mind with you and Alum. I do wish they could see it’s in their own self-interest to have a healthy level of respect f
or the Cybrids. Even if they can’t bring themselves to see them as people, they should see them as partners.”
“Perhaps you have a point.”
“I also think the Council would be wise to consider holding elections. Alum won’t live forever, and we of all people should be aware of the weaknesses of an unrestrained heritable monarchy.”
“I can raise the question but I can’t predict how the Council will receive the idea, let alone Alum.”
“That’s all I can ask. Will you do it?”
Hodge inspected the lush fields and forests, stretching off to the north and south. A few hundred meters away, he could see the rocky edge of a river that returned water to the colony tunnel many kilometers above them.
“Mm. And perhaps the next time we meet, we could try our hand at some fishing, seeing as how hunting isn’t due for approval for some years. Standing around in sorry fields and watching those bloody cows is not conducive to productive discussion, especially not this kind of discussion.”
Strang chuckled; they were back on familiar ground. “Yes, I think we could arrange that.” He held out his hand. “Thank you, Nigel.”
8
Dr. Phil removed the bandages and guided Greg/Darak to the mirror in the bathroom of his private hospital room.
Greg gingerly touched his new face. The combination of plastic surgery, dentistry, genetic editing, and stem cell injections had worked a modern miracle. He didn’t recognize himself.
His jet-black curls had been straightened and lightened to a nondescript mousy brown.
Father would smack me upside the head if he saw me now.
But Mother—thinking of her made him smile—she would’ve understood. She’d have found something nice to say. At the very least, she’d have appreciated the artful genetic modification to my hair follicles. From here on in, my hair will grow out in this same new color. I won’t have to be a slave to biweekly salon visits like she was for the better part of her adult life.
He tentatively pressed two fingers against his fleshy new lips. Gone were the thin, straight slashes of his forefather. In their place, were the lips of a movie star: full and inviting, with a little “cupid’s bow” in the middle. His once proud aquiline nose was now closer in shape to that of the British Isles than the central coast of India. His cheekbones were higher and straighter, and the capillaries near the surface of his skin had been made slightly more prominent, giving him a permanent hint of rosy red. His jaw line had been squared; and the musculature and nerves had been adjusted to pull his mouth upward. His new crowns were smaller than his previously prominent, natural canines, and his two central incisors looked ever so slightly longer.
He stepped back and admired the overall effect. He could feel as much as see the results of the stem cell injections and modifications to endogenous growth hormone-secreting cells—he was more muscular than he’d ever been. Nice!
“Remarkable, Dr. Phil. Simply remarkable!”
He regarded himself carefully in the mirror, imprinted the mental image onto his ID card, and updated the Pallas Central Registry.
When he’d arrived and registered his cover identity on Pallas, he’d wisely selected a birth country few would be familiar with. His skin tone, light for someone from Mumbai, had been within range for a tanned Romanian with a little gypsy blood. Now that his skin was genetically engineered to produce less melanin, his adopted nationality would be an easy sell.
“Hi, I’m Darak,” he said, testing how his elongated and thickened vocal cords sounded. Yes, his voice had taken on a much deeper, richer tone.
No one will connect Darak Legsu to Greg Mahajani. Not even Kathy would recognize me like this.
To complete the transition to Darak Legsu, he’d compiled a library of his idiosyncratic behaviors that might betray him, subtle but characteristic movements and speech mannerisms. Now, he used his lattice to alter them. He adopted a light, vaguely Eastern European accent he’d copied from the extensive language library at Pallas University, edited his sub-conscious hand movements, and adjusted his walking gate.
He forced the few remaining parts of his deep subconscious to make his body behave as if it belonged to someone else, to someone called Darak Legsu.
He took one last look in the mirror. The swelling was all but gone and the surgical scars were practically invisible. He felt great.
He’d managed to extend his recovery in the hospital by four days. After his official weekend, he’d worked with his line manager Cybrids in “ghost” mode, using a direct comm link and the comm-shifter device he’d invented for this express purpose.
He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Seeding entangled particles in front of an optical modem allowed him to generate a permanent shift-field linked to his lattice. He could transmit and receive messages instantly across the hundreds of millions of kilometers of empty space separating Pallas from Vesta, with none of the usual digital transmission delays.
If I didn’t have to worry about a human supervisor dropping in on me, I’d work this way all the time.
Using the start of a head cold as an excuse of, he’d made it through the work week without anyone dropping in on him unexpectedly. Another weekend of rest in his own apartment and he’d be ready to face the world as Darak Legsu.
In the meantime, he was looking forward to finishing up the simulated beach resort world for the Cybrids.
It was actually his interactions with Dr Phil that had inspired him. During the seven-day stay in the Vesta General Hospital, he’d been Dr. Phil’s only patient. Apart from the waste of resources, he felt sorry that someone with so much skill would have to spend most of his life in what amounted to suspended animation with nothing to do for work or pleasure.
Vacationland, when he finally released it, would give Cybrids like Dr. Phil some fun and diversion in their lives, a break from the drudgery of constant work and constant waiting. He hoped others would build on his open source code and develop further virtual worlds for the Cybrids.
Greg/Darak smiled at himself in the mirror. It was time to get back home to Pallas. He carefully erased all digital traces of his visits and surgery. As a final step, he regretfully erased related records in Dr. Phil’s mind and sent the Cybrid back to the OR to silently await his next client.
Greg had become a new man. A man who, from this day forward, would be known only as Darak Legsu. He hoped he would like himself.
9
“Don’t you Brits prefer tea?” Rumi, the owner and barista of Llama Café—Jared Strang’s favorite coffee house on Vesta—finished drying the heavy porcelain cup and set it atop his gleaming espresso machine.
“I still enjoy an afternoon tea every now and then, to be sure,” Jared answered. “But I’ve logged lamentably too many years of having to stay alert in long committee meetings. I find the caffeine jolt indispensable now. I dare say, I’ve grown to appreciate the flavor of the bitter brew.” His eyes took on a distant, unfocused look for a moment as he responded to an inSense lattice message.
“Well, in that case, I’ve got a real treat for you today.” Rumi pulled out a sack of medium roasted beans from below the counter. “This is my newest batch.”
He presented the bag for examination. “These are the best beans Vesta has produced yet.”
Jared swept his hand across the open bag and inhaled deeply. “Mmmm, wonderful. It’s aromatherapy. I always knew it would pay to culture a friendship with someone of your background, Rumi. You make me glad the YTG Church penetrated the Catholic strongholds of South America. If it weren’t for their infiltration, YTG wouldn’t have thought to bring coffee aficionados like you on Vesta.”
“Hey, we Kichwa have a long history of adapting to conquering powers. We adapted to the Incas, we adapted to the Spanish, and then the Americans, and finally the Chinese. Changing rulers is in our blood, man.” Rumi laughed his warm, infectious laugh, and Strang couldn’t help but respond.
“So, what’ll it be today? Your usual?” Rumi asked.
Rumi delivered Jared’s drink personally. He stood and watched expectantly as Jared took his first appreciative sip.
“You’re right. That’s your best yet,” commented the ex-Parliamentarian.
Rumi beamed. It was nice to have customers who recognized his skills and shared his passion for coffee. He glanced around the almost deserted café. “Quiet day. Mind if I sit for a while?”
“Not at all. I’m happy to have company. It makes for a dreary day, talking with no one but Cybrids and Administration.”
Rumi chuckled and took a seat. “Yeah, I hear you. That’s gotta be tough. So, tell me the truth. Are they really a lot smarter than us?”
“Administrators? I can assure you, they’re not,” Jared joked.
“Ha! No, I meant the robots, man.”
Jared chuckled at his own wit. “No, they’re not, either,” he said in a serious tone. “Except, they do have special built-in skills for their work.”
“Things like calculating orbital trajectories in real time?”
“Well, sure, but that’s no more a sign of superior intelligence than the human ability to catch a ball. It’s part of their machinery. In terms of general intelligence, the Cybrids are equivalent to the humans that provided their cognitive templates.”
“Still, it’s theoretically possible for them to be a lot smarter than us, right?”
“Yes, theoretically, I suppose. They learn faster and they can share data with one another almost instantly, giving them distributed access to tremendous stores of cumulative information. But I’m hardly an expert on Cybrid processor design. My job is—was—to aid humans in understanding and working with our electromechanical friends. More like a liaison, really. ”