Implied Spaces

by Walter Jon Williams

  “I grew tired,” he said. “Not of my surroundings, but of all that was necessary to maintain them. Now if I want something, I’ll rent, and let someone else do the work.” He looked up. “But you’d be surprised how well I’ve adapted to simplicity. My cabin has a stone floor that I laid myself, out of rock that I carried to the site in a barrow. And when I took my stroll through Midgarth, I carried a rug rolled up in my pack, and that was my bed.”

  She smiled. “I’ll wager it was a nice rug.”

  “It was. Two hundred thousand double knots per square meter, or something like that. But still it was a rug, not a down mattress.” He began to stroke the place where his mustache had been, caught himself, and lowered his hand.

  “Midgarth was something of a relief. A place that’s completely unwired, where I can’t be monitored by anyone with access to the net.”

  “Are there still people who do that?”

  “A surprising number. Bitsy keeps me informed of the total—and also turns off cameras here and there, so I can have a little privacy.” He frowned. “She turned off all the public cameras between your lab and the pier, so that we won’t be observed and there won’t be speculation about what this dinner might mean for our future. But it’s possible one of our fellow diners might be recording us, and in that case Bitsy can do nothing.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “You used to hate those people. You were quite the campaigner for privacy rights.”

  He shrugged. “I still hate them. It’s just that I’ve decided the fight is unwinnable, and now I just go to places—like Tremaine Island—where I can’t be monitored.”

  “They’re still watching you.” Daljit seemed bemused. “After all this time.”

  Aristide smiled thinly. “Behind that comment, I can’t help but sense the question: They still think you matter?”

  Daljit looked at her graceful hands. “That wasn’t what I meant. Really.”

  He decided that the better part of self-knowledge required that he not pursue this particular topic any further.

  “One of the aspects of the surveillance that I most detest,” he said, “is that the consciousness that someone is watching turns me into a performer. I’m not an entertainer, and I don’t want to be one. I’m not here to please the fans, I’m here to do serious work.”

  She shook her head. “Oh my,” she said. “You really are of a very different generation from mine.”

  “I’ve lived a space of time that spans Mohammed and Einstein. I was nearly seventy before I got my second body. I’ve earned my every prejudice the hard way.”

  Daljit smiled. “I won’t disagree. But you might try looking at Larry’s Life for the contrary view.”

  “Let me guess. He’s recorded his own life in amazing detail, and edited it down into episodes that are watched by millions.”

  “Yes. But somehow he’s made it fascinating.”

  Aristide sighed. “How old is he?”

  “A hundred and—thirty-something, I think.”

  “Let him grow another thousand years, and maybe he’ll have something worthwhile to say.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “I’m barely seven hundred myself,” Daljit said finally.

  “Ah.” He glanced out the window, at the fabulous cityscape. “That wasn’t what I meant. Really.”

  She smiled at the echo of her own words. “I remember having to remind myself that you were old.”

  “And forgetful. I’ve forgotten most of those centuries, you know.”

  She looked at him. “Have you forgotten me?”

  He returned her look. “When I saw you last, you were an Amazon.”

  She laughed. “I’ve been a lot of people since then!”

  “Such as?”

  “I was a solli-glider in Momrath. I had wings, feathers, and eyes as big as my fists.”

  “That sounds delightful.”

  Delicately, he breathed in an oyster off its shell.

  “I had a hard time leaving that incarnation,” she said. “But the opportunity came for the job at the Institute, so I came here.” She looked out at the audacious horizon, the pinnacles and domes and the swirling motes between them. “It’s a place of such high energies. I accomplish things here. And if I want to fly again, all I have to do is strap on a pair of wings.”

  “What sorts of things do you accomplish?”

  “Designing plants and animals for all the pockets. And for the settlements in other star systems.”

  He sipped his cocktail. “Do you also design people?”

  She shook her head. “For that, I need more seniority.”

  The waitron arrived, a hairy-legged faun with horns, livery, and a powdered wig. Aristide looked at Daljit.

  “Shall we order dinner? Or would you like another drink?”

  “Let’s eat.”

  They ordered. Aristide continued his exploration of the seafood menu; Daljit chose the wine. The faun trotted away on cloven hooves, and Daljit looked after him.

  “I spent a few years as a boy,” she said. “After I left you, and before Momrath.”

  Aristide regarded her. “How was it?”

  “Overrated.”

  He nodded. “So I’ve always thought.”

  “And the penis is less accurate than I’d imagined.”

  “You could have got one that’s better engineered. Most men do, I believe.”

  She looked at him with honest curiosity. “Have you?”

  “I am improved all-round,” Aristide said. “Faster reflexes, glial cells Einstein would envy, a pulmonary system like unto a god. High arches, strong teeth, eyes that can see in dim light, an epidermis of uncommon durability…”

  “That would be a yes, I take it?”

  He finished his drink. “When all’s said and done, who would take an organ—any organ—that’s substandard, provided you had a choice?”

  “I chose one that was supposed to be dead average. I wanted to give the standard model craft a test-drive before taking out the souped-up version.”

  “That was probably wise.” He viewed her. “And yet, here you are. No wings, no penis, no red hair, and a rather charming mole.”

  She smiled, and drew her index finger down her jaw, as if to reassure herself of her current shape.

  “I miss the wings,” she said. “But perhaps I, like you, am choosing simplicity.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps so.”

  “And you? Have you ever been anything but male?”

  He made an equivocal gesture. “The options weren’t so readily available when I was young,” he said, “at least not without surgery and other inconveniences. By the time reincarnation became common, I had grown set in my personality—and my identity seemed to work for everyone, so I never had reason to change.” He offered her a lean smile. “Though I recently received a download from one of the Pablos—the one who went to Tau Ceti. He claimed to have invented a new gender, and was very enthusiastic.”

  “Have you loaded the experience?”

  “No.” There was silence, and then he said, “Tau Ceti is a more extreme environment than Sol. More extreme adaptations are required.”

  “That sounds like an excuse,” she said. “If the other Pablo liked it that much, maybe you should have immersed yourself.”

  “Perhaps.” His tone was skeptical. “Remember what I said about the consciousness of an audience turning everything into performance? How more so than with sex, knowing it’s intended for someone else to experience? It runs clean up against my taste, and besides, I know I’m a bad actor.” Then he laughed. “And on top of that I like women, Daljit! I always have!”

  “So do I!” said the faun as he trotted up with a pair of glasses and a bottle of wine. “I like all of them! All the time!” He looked at Daljit with bright eyes. “Want my number, sugar?”

  Daljit declined with laughter. The waitron feigned disappointment and opened the bottle. The wine was a mellow honey color, with the scent of sunshine and citrus.
The faun waited for approval, then left them to their pleasure. They savored the wine and the last of the oysters in silence, as the sun’s corona slowly faded and Myriad City became a blaze of light along the port side of the craft. Other than the cooling corona, the sky overhead was black—the handful of lights visible now the sun was gone were the few settlements on the far side of the universe.

  The world of Topaz held only six billion people, all on a surface area of 26x109 square kilometers, over 52,000 times that of Earth. It was barely inhabited at all. Most of the land masses, and almost all the oceans, were unexplored. Topaz was a fairly new pocket universe, having been created only four hundred years earlier, and though the inhabitants were reproducing quickly, and not dying at all, it would take millennia to occupy all the niches available for modified humanity.

  Humanity had over a hundred billion descendants on various pockets, far more than could have ever existed on Earth. Billions more lived on nearby star systems. Earth itself was in the process of a millennium-long reset after many millennia of abuse, and at present had only a few hundred thousand inhabitants, just enough to restart the species should something go terribly wrong with the wormhole worlds.

  Daljit lowered her glass. “Why Aristide?” she asked. “That’s what I can’t work out.”

  He looked at her over the rim of his glass. The brilliant shoreline glittered in his eyes like the missing stars.

  “Do you regret,” he said, “staying behind?”

  She tilted her head and considered this. “You mean, do I regret not getting blown up? No.”

  “The Big Belch was regrettable, yes. But I meant—”

  “What you really mean is, Do you regret remaining in the Sol system? Because if you didn’t, at least a bit, you wouldn’t have asked the question.”

  “Touché,” he said. His look was bleak.

  She looked at him. “Do you regret being the Pablo who stayed behind?”

  “The others—aside from the one who got toasted—are living interesting lives. Terraforming, building new settlements, new platforms, new universes.”

  “New genders. Don’t forget Tau Ceti.”

  He nodded. “I’m the Pablo who stayed behind. To coordinate things, supposedly, though they don’t actually need me for that. But—though my avatars are leading interesting lives—it seems to me that they aren’t getting any closer to answering any fundamental questions.”

  She smiled. “The Existential Crisis.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Do you think you can find fundamental answers by transforming yourself into a swordsman and exploring the implied spaces?”

  “If I haven’t found any existential answers,” he said deliberately, “I’ve certainly found an existential threat.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Touché, yourself,” she said.

  He smiled, sighed, and decided to lighten the mood.

  “The implied spaces intrigue me. As a metaphor, if nothing else.”

  She smiled, and was as willing, for the sake of digestion at least, to avoid discussing the darkness on the near horizon.

  “And you explore squinches with your cat and your sword,” she said. “I can’t help but think that’s romantic.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said, “but catalogs of ants and spiders don’t seem very romantic when I’m working on them.”

  “The romance lies in the sword, I think.”

  He glanced at Tecmessa in its case, leaning against the boat’s smooth paneled walls, then turned back to her.

  “Remember when I said that I’m still being monitored by lots of people?” he said. “Every so often, one of them wants to kill me. It’s irrational, because all they can do is kill the time since my last backup, but then assassins were never known for the lucid quality of their thought.”

  “You could have got a gun,” she pointed out. “Or a taser. Or a magic wand, or a Ring of Power. But instead you got a broadsword.”

  “Guns and tasers are good for only one thing. A sword is more flexible. When I was off in Midgarth, I managed to take a couple prisoners with Tecmessa. If I’d had a gun I would have had to shoot them—and in any case, guns won’t work in Midgarth. The rules of the universe won’t permit it.” He paused, as Daljit’s face had brightened with delight.

  “Your sword has a name!” Daljit exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

  Aristide blinked. “If you say so.”

  “That’s the mark of a romantic. Next thing, you’ll be wearing a mask and a cape.”

  “Maintaining the secret identity as a millionaire playboy would be a problem,” Aristide said. “I’m afraid it would be too exhausting.”

  She just looked at him. “Millionaire playboy?” she asked.

  “Bruce Wayne,” he said.

  “Who?”

  He was thunderstruck.

  “You don’t know Batman?” he said.

  She looked at him blankly. “I guess not,” he said.

  He felt an obscure sense of betrayal.

  “I lived with you for a dozen years!” he said.

  “Fourteen. But what’s this Batman got to do with it?”

  “Nothing,” he sighed. “Apparently.”

  They returned to the laboratory to find Bitsy still sitting before Daljit’s display.

  “Terra-cotta, through and through,” Bitsy reported. “Trace elements show that all three balls were made from the same type of clay.” Her tail gave an irritated little switch. “And I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know that the origin of the clay is unknown. It could have come from any pocket with unexplored clay deposits, which could be any of them.”

  “Thank you for your efforts,” Aristide said. He set Tecmessa’s case against the long table, then picked up the remaining samples, wrapped them, and returned them to his pocket.

  Daljit returned to her seat and peered at the display over the silhouette of the cat that squatted before it.

  “I should check your work,” she said. “But I suppose it would be futile.”

  Bitsy rose to her feet and stretched.

  “Reproducing the results of another researcher is the hallmark of the scientific method,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.” She jumped onto the floor and rubbed herself against Aristide’s legs.

  There was a chime from Daljit’s pocket. She took a small card out of the pocket, and looked at its display.

  “Put it on the wall,” she said.

  One of the neutral-colored walls brightened to show a tall, imposing woman standing behind her desk. The image was life-sized. Her skull had grown a kind of exoskeletal helmet that overshadowed her eyes—her many eyes, of different sizes, which waved on stalks, alongside other sensory organs of less obvious purpose. Her hands had an extra digit on which cilia waved, for fine manipulation under the supervision of her magnifying eyes.

  It looked as if she had a large, pale crab perched on her head.

  From the shoulders down she was a standard woman, if powerfully built. As she talked she walked back and forth behind her desk while her hands made chopping gestures.

  “Fedora,” Daljit said, “thank you for working late.”

  “Daljit,” she said. “I’ve had a chance to examine one of the three heads you passed on to me, and I’m going to have to inform the police. I’ve found evidence of a crime.”

  Daljit smiled, still a little under the influence of the wine.

  “Beyond the decapitation, you mean?”

  Fedora wasn’t amused. “The brain structures were badly decomposed, but they were clearly unusual. I got the DNA from the skull and sequenced it, and it’s plain the deceased was created as a pod person. I checked the register and saw that it wasn’t one of the few remaining types of legal pod people, so I’ll be calling the police as soon as I finish talking to you.”

  Aristide stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Madam,” he said.

  A pair of Fedora’s eyes turned toward him as she paced, while the rest remained focused on Dalj
it.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “May I suggest you not inform the police just yet? I—”

  The pair of eyes shifted back to Daljit.

  “Who is this person?” she asked.

  Daljit blinked. “This—” she hesitated. “This is the man who… collected… the heads.”

  “I see.” All Fedora’s eyes turned to Aristide. “Sir,” she said, “I am absolutely required to inform the authorities when an unlicensed pod person is discovered. There are no exceptions.”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest that you break the law,” Aristide said. “I was just going to suggest that you be careful which authority you report to. Because—”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of this,” Fedora said. “This is a grave security matter. The last time we had wholesale pod person creation it started the Control-Alt-Delete War.”

  “I know, madam. I was there.”

  She seemed a little surprised. “Well then,” she said. “You certainly understand the gravity of this crime.”

  “Yes,” Daljit said. “But Fedora, I don’t think you quite understand who you’re talking to.”

  “I don’t?” She stiffened, and her sensory complex turned to Pablo. “Who are you then?”

  “This,” said Daljit, “is Pablo Monagas Pérez.”

  Fedora’s eyes seemed to waver and lose focus.

  “Oh,” she said.

  05

  The image of Fedora faded from the wall, which resumed its neutral color. There was a moment of silence.

  Daljit turned to Aristide.

  “It’s the nightmare scenario, isn’t it?” she said. “The end of civilization.”

  His level gaze remained fixed on the empty wall. “It certainly seems so.”

  “The priests were in Midgarth because it’s full of undocumented bodies,” she said. “There’s natural breeding there, and poor record-keeping. The people there aren’t equipped with network implants that broadcast an alert if a mind is tampered with. The priests can suck people through wormholes to some pocket where their minds can be altered. Once their wetware is corrupted, they can be returned through the same wormhole. Equipped with plausible identities they can be sent as agents to other pockets.”