Children of Time

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

‘Do it,’ Guyen ordered.

  Carefully, Holsten called up the answers he had compiled, the early problems solved easily on his fingers, the later ones only with artificial help. He had been sending plaintive signals to the distant satellite for hours. It was simple enough to dispatch the string of numbers instead.

  They waited, all of the Key Crew. It took seven minutes and some seconds for the message to reach its intended destination. There was some shuffling. Karst cracked his knuckles. One of the science team coughed.

  A little over fourteen minutes after sending, the distress beacon ceased.

  2.4 POOR RELATIONS

  Portia’s people are natural explorers. As active carnivores with a considerably more demanding metabolism than their forebears, too many of them in one place will quickly over-hunt any home territory. Traditionally their family units fragment often; the females who are weakest, with the fewest allies, are the ones who venture further afield to establish new nests. Such diasporas happen regularly for, although they lay far fewer eggs than their ancestors, and although their standards of care are far below human so that infant mortality rates remain high, the species population is in colossal expansion. They are spreading across their world, one broken family at a time.

  Portia’s own expedition is something different, though. She is not seeking a nesting ground, and there is a home that her present plans require her to return to. In her mind and her speech, it is the Great Nest by the Western Ocean, and several hundred of her kind – most but not all relatives of one degree or another – reside there. The basic domestication of the aphids and their husbandry by the spiders has allowed the Great Nest to grow to unprecedented size, without the shortages that would prompt migration or expulsion.

  Over several generations the social structure of the Great Nest has grown exponentially more complex. Contact has been made with other nests, each of which has its own way of feeding the modest multitudes. There has been some halting trade, sometimes for food but more often for knowledge. Portia’s people are ever curious about the further reaches of their world.

  That is why Portia is travelling now, following the paths of stories and rumours and third-hand accounts. She has been sent.

  The three of them are entering already claimed territory. The signs are unmistakable – not merely regularly maintained web bridges and lines amid the trees, but patterns and designs stating by sight and scent that these hunting grounds are spoken for.

  This is exactly what Portia has been looking for.

  Ascending as high as they can go, the travellers can see that, to the north, the character of the formerly endless forest changes dramatically. The great canopy thins, fading away in patches to reveal startling stretches of cleared ground; beyond that there are still trees, but they are of a different species and regularly spaced, in a manner that looks jarringly artificial to their eyes. This is what they have come to see. They could simply avoid this little piece of family turf that they have come across and go look. Portia’s plan, however – the step-by-step route that she has plotted from the start of their trek to its successful conclusion – specifically calls for her to gather information. For her ancestors, this would mean painstaking visual reconnaissance. For her it means asking questions of the locals.

  They proceed with caution, and openly. There is a real possibility that the incumbents may chase them off; however, Portia can mentally put herself in their place, consider how she herself would look upon an intruder. She can think through the permutations enough to know that an aggressive or covert entrance will increase the chance of a hostile reception.

  Sure enough, the locals are sharp enough to spot the newcomers quickly, and curious enough to make their presence known at a distance, signalling for Portia and her fellows to approach. There are seven of them, five females and two males, and they have a neat nest strung between two trees, liberally surrounded with trip lines to warn them of any over-bold visitors. Also present are a brood of at least two dozen spiderlings of various ages, hatched from a communal crèche. Fresh from the egg they are able to crawl and take live prey, and understand a variety of tasks and concepts without having to be taught. Probably no more than three or four of them will reach adulthood. Portia’s people lack a mammal’s helpless infant stage, and the maternal bond that accompanies it. Those that do survive will be the strongest, the most intelligent and the best able to interact with others of their kind.

  The palp-semaphore language allows for communication over a mile away in clear conditions, but is not suitable for complex discussions. The more subtle step-vibration speech will not travel far across the ground or down a branch. In order to hold a free and frank exchange of views, one of the local females spins a web that stretches between several trees, large enough for everyone to rest a few feet on its many anchor points and follow the conversation as it progresses. One of the locals climbs onto the web and, at her invitation, Portia joins her.

  We bring you greetings from the Great Nest on the Western Ocean, Portia begins, meaning: we are but three, but we have friends. We have travelled far and seen many things. For information is often a trade good in itself.

  The locals remain suspicious. They are spoken for by their largest female, who shudders upon the web and shifts her feet, saying: What is your purpose? This is no place for you.

  We do not seek to hunt, Portia states. We do not come to settle. We shall soon return to the Great Nest. Word has come to us – the concept is expressed very clearly, to their minds: vibrations twanging down a taut line. They are naturally equipped to think in terms of information transmitted at a distance. The land beyond your land is of interest.

  Unrest amongst the locals. It is not to be travelled, their leader says.

  If that is so, then that is what we have come to discover. Will you tell us what you know?

  More disquiet, and Portia is aware that her mental map of what is going on must have a hole somewhere, because they are reacting in a way she cannot account for.

  Their leader wishes to appear bold, however. Why should we?

  We will tell you things in return. Or we have Understanding to exchange. For the spiders, mere telling and ‘Understanding’ are two distinctly different currencies.

  The locals step back off the web at a signal from their leader and huddle close, keeping several eyes on the newcomers. There is a shuffling huddle of speech, softly stepped out so that it does not reach their visitors. Portia retreats as well, and her two companions join her.

  Bianca has no particular ideas, save that she is anticipating having to go up against the lead female, who is noticeably bigger. The male, though, surprises Portia.

  They’re afraid, he suggests. Whatever is ahead of us, they are afraid that we may stir it up and it will attack them.

  It is natural for a male to think about fear, Portia decides. That she agrees with him makes finding out the truth about their destination all the more important.

  At last the locals return to the web and negotiations resume. Show us your Understanding, their leader challenges.

  Portia signals to Bianca, who unwraps one of the docile aphids from alongside her abdomen and displays it to the skittish surprise of the locals. The little beast is milked for honeydew, and Portia wraps up a sagging parcel of the sweet stuff and deposits it in the centre of the web, where the locals approach it.

  Once they have tasted it, and once they understand Portia’s mastery over the animals, they are more than ready to make some manner of deal. The value of an independent food source is immediately evident to them, especially given their mysterious northern neighbours, who might soon threaten their hunting grounds.

  What of these will you trade? the local leader asks, eagerness evident in her movements.

  We have two of these beasts for those that give us a full account of what lies beyond your lands, Portia offers, knowing that this is not what the locals really wish to trade for. Also, we have eggs, but the raising and care of these creatures requires skill, or the
y will die young and you will have nothing.

  There is now an urgent channel of talk running between the lead female and the others, and Portia catches fragments of it along the web. They are too agitated to be careful. You said you could trade? the big female demands.

  Yes, we can trade this Understanding, but we will ask for more in return. Portia is not referring to teaching, but to something deeper – one of the secrets of her species’ continuing success.

  The nanovirus itself is subject to variations in its transcription. It was designed that way in order to creatively accomplish its hardwired aim: to bring the host to a detected level of sophistication set by its creators and, once its victory conditions are met, to cease further assistance. Its creators included such safeguards so as to prevent their protégés continuing to develop into superhuman monkey-gods.

  The virus was intended for a primate host, however, and so the end state that it has been programmed to seek is something that Portia labiata can never become. Instead the nanovirus has mutated and mutated in its inbuilt quest to reach an impossible goal, the end that justifies all conceivable means.

  More successful variants lead to more successful hosts, who in turn pass on the superior mutated infection. From the microscopic point of view of the nanovirus, Portia and every other affected species on the planet are merely vectors for the onward transmission of the virus’s own evolving genes.

  Long ago in Portia’s evolutionary history, her species’ social development was greatly accelerated by a series of mutations in the reigning infection. The virus began to transcribe learned behaviour into the genome of sperm and egg, transforming acquired memes into genetically inheritable behaviour. The economic, force-evolved brains of Portia’s kind share more structural logic with each other than chance-derived human minds do. Mental pathways can be transcribed, reduced to genetic information, unpacked in the offspring and written as instinctive understanding – sometimes concrete skills and muscle memory, but more often whole tranches of knowledge, ragged-edged with loss of context, that the new-born will slowly come to terms with throughout its early life.

  The process was piecemeal at first, imperfect, sometimes fatal but more reliable with each generation as the more efficient strains of virus prospered. Portia has learned a great deal in her life, but some things she was either born with, or came to her as she developed. Just as all new-hatched spider-lings can hunt and creep and jump and spin, so Portia’s early moultings brought with them an innate understanding of language and access to fragments of her forebears’ lives.

  That is now ancient history, a facility that Portia’s people have possessed from back before their histories began. More recently, however, they have learned to exploit the nanovirus’s enhanced capabilities, just as the virus in turn is exploiting them.

  He has the Understanding, Portia confirms, a flick of one palp indicating her male follower. But we will trade like for like. You have Understanding of how to live here and the precautions you take. That is what we seek.

  The next moment, she realizes she has overplayed her hand, because the big female goes very still on the web – a particular hunting stillness that signals raw aggression.

  So your Great Nest will come to our lands after all. You are not here to hunt, and yet tomorrow your kin intend to hunt here. Because such traded Understanding would not benefit Portia herself, but only generations to come, those whose genomes are as yet unwritten.

  We seek Understanding of all places, Portia protests, but the language of motion and vibration is a hard one to dissemble in. Enough unintended body language leaks into it to confirm the suspicions of the big female.

  Abruptly the local leader has reared up, two pairs of legs raised high and her fangs exposed. It is a brute language unchanged for millions of years: See how strong I am. Her rear legs are bunched ready to spring.

  Reconsider. Back off, Portia warns her. She herself is tensed up, but she is not showing submission nor retreating, nor measuring her legs against the other’s.

  Go now, or fight, the angry female demands. Portia notes that she does not necessarily have the wholehearted support of her fellows, who are anxiously flagging up concern or sending cautioning words along the strands of the web.

  Portia creeps sideways, and feels a new dancing from behind her: a charging advance from Bianca that also serves as a kind of battle hymn. The local leader is obviously thrown by the fact that her opponents’ speaker is not also their fighter, and she backs off a little, warily. Moreover, Bianca has armour.

  There is a functional limit to how much Understanding any individual can inherit from the virus. New information rewrites the old, though perhaps each generation’s ability to store such innate knowledge is a little greater than the last. This band of backwoods locals will have a handful of tricks all their own, carefully preserved down the years. Their individuals can learn – and teach – but their inbuilt knowledge base is limited.

  A larger community like Great Nest has a great many Understandings to draw upon, different lineages passing on their mysteries and trading with others. Different discoveries, tricks and knacks can be combined and experimented with. Great Nest is more than the sum of its parts. Bianca is no artisan – not by learning nor by inherent Understanding – but she wears the fruits of others’ labours; curved wooden shields she has glued to her palps, dyed in aggressive, clashing colours. She rears high, measuring legs against the big female, but then hunches down, her shields raised.

  They fight in the manner of their kind: they display, threaten, bare their fangs. They dance across the web, each step sounding like a goading word. The local female is larger, and she knows how this goes. Her greater size will convince the smaller intruder to back down, because otherwise the newcomer will die.

  Portia’s kin share something with tool-using man: they are very able to harm each other. They were spider-killers from the first, and their venom will immobilize an enemy of their own species as easily as it would a Spitter. If matters come to that, usually the victor will give in to instinct, and feed. For this reason, they have a culture that shies away from actual violence because of the risks inherent in any clash. The danger they pose to one another has been a great civilizing influence, just as much as has that sense of kinship their shared viral heritage gifted them with.

  But Bianca is not backing down, however clearly her opponent outmatches her. The threat displays become more and more aggressive, the big female leaping and darting about the web, whilst Bianca sidles sideways and keeps her shields up against the eventual pouncing strike that must be coming.

  Portia, for her part, spins her thread, and readies herself to use another Great Nest innovation – this one new enough that she has had to learn it, though perhaps she may be able to virally gift it to her offspring.

  The big female springs just as Portia is ready. Bianca takes the fang-strike on her shields, the impact knocking her over onto her back. The female rears up for another strike, infuriated.

  The stone that strikes her knocks her clean off the web, tumbling down to hang by her safety line, twitching and convulsing. Her abdomen is cracked open on one side where the missile tore through, and the loss of fluid to her body is already causing her remaining limbs to curl in upon themselves involuntarily. Portia has already reloaded, the slingshot of silk strung in a taut ‘V’ between her wide-placed front feet and her powerful hind legs.

  The locals stare at her. A couple have crept partway towards their injured leader, but Bianca is ahead of them, dropping to drive her fangs into her victim’s cracked carapace.

  Portia assesses the locals. They have adopted a submissive posture, thoroughly cowed. One of the other females – not the largest but perhaps the boldest – steps deferentially on to the web. What do you want? she dances out.

  Good. Let us trade, Portia states, as Bianca rejoins her. Tell us about your neighbours.

  After they are done, each side weighing what it is willing to share against the relative bargaining p
ower of the other party, Portia’s male scuttles onto the web and distils his Understanding of aphid husbandry into a neatly silk-wrapped packet of sperm. One of the local males performs a similar service with his own day-to-day knowledge of his family’s territory and its aggressive neighbours. This active use of the viral transcription is not behaviour prompted by the virus itself, but a cultural tradition amongst Portia’s people: information as currency, by means of a transfer that incidentally assists the virus in propagating its genetic code. At the same time, the next generation of spiderlings will share kinship, a bridge between Portia’s Great Nest and this little family, part of a great web of such interrelations whose connections can be traced, community to community, across much of the planet.

  What the locals now say about the north is alarming, a potential threat that Portia’s Great Nest seems likely to encounter quite soon. At the same time it is intriguing, and Portia decides that the plan requires a closer personal look.

  2.5 ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS

  The reply that came back from the satellite was not intentionally encoded, but Holsten still sweated over what seemed to him an age, trying to turn the radio signal into something comprehensible. In the end, it gave up its secrets under the combined might of Lain, the Gilgamesh and himself, presenting him with a curt, brief message in classical Imperial C that he could at least make a stab at translating.

  Finally, he leant back in his seat, aware that all eyes were fixed on him. ‘It’s a warning,’ he told them. ‘It’s saying that we’re transmitting from incorrect coordinates, or something like that. It says we’re forbidden here.’

  ‘It looks as though it’s warming up,’ observed one of the science team, who had been taking readings from the distant object. ‘I see a swift increase in energy usage. Its reactor is increasing output.’

  ‘It’s awake, then,’ Guyen declared, somewhat vacuously in Holsten’s opinion.