Arkadya tilted her head to the side and winced. “Who composed this?”
“What? You mean the music? It’s a background tape—sea sounds from Earth. It’s a couple of centuries old.”
She looked at me oddly. “You’re really absorbed by the whole planetary thing, aren’t you? ‘Sea sounds.’”
“Mars will have seas someday. That’s what our whole Project is about, isn’t it?”
She looked disturbed. “Sure…We’re working at it, Hans, but that doesn’t mean we have to live there. I mean, that’s centuries from now, isn’t it? Even if we’re still alive, we’ll be different people by then. Just think of being trapped down a gravity well. I’d choke to death.”
I said quietly, “I don’t think of it as being for the purposes of settlement. It’s a clearer, more ideal activity. The instigation by Fourth-Level cognitive agents of a Third-Level Prigoginic Leap. Bringing life itself into being on the naked bedrock of space-time…”
But she was shaking her head and backpedaling toward the door. “I’m sorry, Hans, but those sounds, they’re just…getting into my blood somehow…She shook herself, shuddering, and the filigree beads woven into her blonde hair clattered loudly. “I can’t bear it.”
“I’ll turn it off.”
But she was already leaving. “Goodbye, goodbye…We’ll meet again soon.”
She was gone. I was left to steep in my own isolation, while the roaring surf gnawed and mumbled at its shore.
One of Kulagin’s servos met me at his door and took my hat. Kulagin was seated at a workplace in a screened-off corner of his marigold-reeking domicile, watching stock quotations scroll down a display screen. He was dictating orders into a microphone on his forearm gauntlet. When the servo announced me he unplugged the jack from his gauntlet and stood, shaking my hand with both of his. “Welcome, friend, welcome.”
“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
“No, not at all. Do you play the Market?”
“Not seriously,” I said. “Later, maybe, when the royalties from Eisho Zaibatsu pile up.”
“You must allow me to guide your eyes, then. A good Posthumanist should have a wide range of interests. Take that chair, if you would.”
I sat beside Kulagin as he sat before the console and plugged in. Kulagin was a Mechanist, but he kept himself rigorously antiseptic. I liked him.
He said, “Odd how these financial institutions tend to drift from their original purpose. In a way, the Market itself has made a sort of Prigoginic Leap. On its face, it’s a commercial tool, but it’s become a game of conventions and confidences. We Cicadas eat, breathe, and sleep rumors, so the Market is the perfect expression of our Zeitgeist.”
“Yes,” I said. “Frail, mannered, and based on practically nothing tangible.”
Kulagin lifted his plucked brows. “Yes, my young friend, exactly like the bedrock of the cosmos itself. Every level of complexity floats freely on the last, supported only by abstractions. Even natural laws are only our attempts to strain our vision through the Prigoginic event horizon…If you prefer a more primal metaphor, we can compare the Market to the sea. A sea of information, with a few blue-chip islands here and there for the exhausted swimmer. Look at this.”
He touched buttons, and a three-dimensional grid display sprang into being. “This is Market activity in the past forty-eight hours. It looks rather like the waves and billows of a sea, doesn’t it? Note these surges of transaction.” He touched the screen with the light pen implanted in his forefinger, and gridded areas flushed from cool green to red. “That was when the first rumors of the iceteroid came in—”
“What?”
“The asteroid, the ice-mass from the Ring Council. Someone has bought it and is mass-driving it out of Saturn’s gravity well right now, bound for Martian impact. Someone very clever, for it will pass within a few thousands of klicks from C-K. Close enough for naked-eyed view.”
“You mean they’ve really done it?” I said, caught between shock and joy.
“I heard it third-, fourth-, maybe tenth-hand, but it fits in well with the parameters the Polycarbon engineers have set up. A mass of ice and volatiles, well over three klicks across, targeted for the Hellas Depression south of the equator at sixty-five klicks a second, impact expected at UT 20:14:53, 14-4-'-54…That’s dawn, local time. Local Martian time, I mean.”
“But that’s months from now,” I said.
Kulagin smirked. “Look, Hans, you don’t push a three-klick ice lump with your thumbs. Besides, this is just the first of dozens. It’s more of a symbolic gesture.”
“But it means we’ll be moving out! To Martian orbit!”
Kulagin looked skeptical. “That’s a job for drones and monitors, Hans. Or maybe a few rough and tough pioneer types. Actually, there’s no reason why you and I should have to leave the comforts of C-K.”
I stood up, knotting my hands. “You want to stay? And miss the Prigoginic catalyst?”
Kulagin looked up with a slight frown. “Cool off, Hans, sit down, they’ll be looking for volunteers soon enough, and if you really mean to go I’m sure you can manage somehow…The point is that the effect on the Market has been spectacular…It’s been fairly giddy ever since the Comptroller’s death, and now some very big fish indeed is rising for the kill. I’ve been following his movements for three day-shifts straight, hoping to feast on his scraps, so to speak…Care for an inhale?”
“No, thanks.”
Kulagin helped himself to a long pull of stimulant. He looked ragged. I’d never seen him without his face paint before. He said, “I don’t have the feeling for mob psychology that you Shapers have, so I have to make do with a very, very good memory…The last time I saw something like this was thirteen years ago. Someone spread the rumor that the Queen had tried to leave C-K, and the Advisers had restrained her by force. The upshot of that was the Crash of ’Forty-one, but the real killing came in the Rally that followed. I’ve been reviewing the tapes of the Crash, and I recognize the fins and flippers and big sharp teeth of an old friend. I can read his style in his maneuvering. It’s not the slick guile of a Shaper. It’s not the cold persistence of a Mechanist, either.”
I considered. “Then you must mean Wellspring.”
Wellspring’s age was unknown. He was well over two centuries old. He claimed to have been born on Earth in the dawn of the Space Age, and to have lived in the first generation of independent space colonies, the so-called Concatenation. He had been among the founders of Czarina-Kluster, building the Queen’s habitat when she fled in disgrace from her fellow Investors.
Kulagin smiled. “Very good, Hans. You may live in moss, but there’s none on you. I think Wellspring engineered the Crash of ’Forty-one for his own profit.”
“But he lives very modestly.”
“As the Queen’s oldest friend, he was certainly in a perfect position to start rumors. He even engineered the parameters of the Market itself, seventy years ago. And it was after the Rally that the Kosmosity-Metasystems Department of Terraformation was set up. Through anonymous donations, of course.”
“But contributions came in from all over the system,” I objected. “Almost all the sects and factions think that terraforming is humanity’s sublimest effort.”
“To be sure. Though I wonder just how that idea became so widely spread. And to whose benefit. Listen, Hans. I love Wellspring. He’s a friend, and I remember the cold. But you have to realize just what an anomaly he is. He’s not one of us. He wasn’t even born in space.” He looked at me narrowly, but I took no offense at his use of the term born. It was a deadly insult against Shapers, but I considered myself a Polycarbon first and Cicada second, with Shaperism a distant third.
He smiled briefly. “To be sure, Wellspring has a few Mechanist knickknacks implanted, to extend his life span, but he lacks the whole Mech style. In fact he actually predates it. I’d be the last to deny the genius of you Shapers, but in a way it’s an artificial genius. It works out well enough on IQ
tests, but it somehow lacks that, well, primeval quality that Wellspring has, just as we Mechanists can use cybernetic modes of thinking but we can never be actual machines…Wellspring simply is one of those people at the farthest reaches of the bell curve, one of those titans that spring up only once a generation. I mean, think what’s become of his normal human contemporaries.”
I nodded. “Most of them have become Mechs.”
Kulagin shook his head fractionally, staring at the screen. “I was born here in C-K. I don’t know that much about the old-style Mechs, but I do know that most of the first ones are dead. Outdated, crowded out. Driven over the edge by future shock. A lot of the first life-extension efforts failed, too, in very ugly ways…Wellspring survived that, too, from some innate knack he has. Think of it, Hans. Here we sit, products of technologies so advanced that they’ve smashed society to bits. We trade with aliens. We can even hitchhike to the stars, if we pay the Investors’ fare. And Wellspring not only holds his own, he rules us. We don’t even know his real name.”
I considered what Kulagin had said while he switched to a Market update. I felt bad. I could hide my feelings, but I couldn’t shake them off. “You’re right,” I said. “But I trust him.”
“I trust him too, but I know we’re cradled in his hands. In fact, he’s protecting us right now. This terraforming project has cost megawatt after megawatt. All those contributions were anonymous, supposedly to prevent the factions from using them for propaganda. But I think it was to hide the fact that most of them were from Wellspring. Any day now there’s going to be an extended Market crash. Wellspring will make his move, and that will start the rally. And every kilowatt of his profits will go to us.”
I leaned forward in my chair, interlacing my fingers. Kulagin dictated a series of selling orders into his microphone. Suddenly I laughed.
Kulagin looked up. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh like you meant it, Hans.”
“I was just thinking…You’ve told me all this, but I came here to talk about Valery.”
Kulagin looked sad. “Listen, Hans. What I know about women you could hide under a microchip, but, as I said, my memory is excellent. The Shapers blundered when they pushed things to the limits. The Ring Council tried to break the so-called Two-Hundred-Barrier last century. Most of the so-called Superbrights went mad, defected, turned against their fellows, or all three. They’ve been hunted down by pirates and mercenaries for decades now.
“One group found out somehow that there was an Investor Queen living in exile, and they managed to make it to her shadow, for protection. And someone—you can imagine who—talked the Queen into letting them stay, if they paid a certain tax. That tax became the Queen’s Percentage, and the settlement became Czarina-Kluster. Valery’s parents—yes, parents; it was a natural birth—were among those Superbrights. She didn’t have the schooling Shapers use, so she ranks in at only one forty-five or so.
“The problem is those mood cycles of hers. Her parents had them, she’s had them since she was a child. She’s a dangerous woman, Hans. Dangerous to herself, to all of us. She should be under the dogs, really. I’ve suggested that to my friends in Security, but someone stands in my way. I have my ideas who.”
“I’m in love with her. She won’t speak to me.”
“I see. Well, I understand she’s been full of mood suppressants lately; that probably accounts for her reticence…I’ll speak frankly. There’s an old saying, Hans, that you should never enter a discreet with someone crazier than you are. And it’s good advice. You can’t trust Valery.”
He held up his hand. “Hear me out. You’re young. You’ve just come out from under the dogs. This woman has enchanted you, and admittedly she has the famous Shaper charm in full measure. But a liaison with Valery is like an affair with five women, three of whom are crazy. C-K is full to bursting with the most beautiful women in human history. Admittedly you’re a bit stiff, a bit of an obsessive perhaps, but you have a certain idealistic charm. And you have that Shaper intensity, fanaticism even, if you don’t mind my saying so. Loosen up a little, Hans. Find some woman who’ll rub the rough edges off of you. Play the field. It’s a good way to recruit new friends to the Clique.”
“I’ll keep what you said in mind,” I said.
“Right. I knew it was wasted effort.” He smiled ironically. “Why should I blight the purity of your emotions? A tragic first love may become an asset to you, fifty or a hundred years from now.” He turned his attention back to the screen. “I’m glad we had this talk, Hans. I hope you’ll get in touch again when the Eisho Zaibatsu money comes through. We’ll have some fun with it.”
“I’d like that,” I said, though I knew already that every kilowatt not spent on my own research would go—anonymously—to the terraforming fund. “And I don’t resent your advice. It’s just that it’s of no use to me.”
“Ah, youth,” Kulagin said. I left.
Back to the simple beauty of the lichens. I had been trained for years to specialize in them, but they had taken on beauty and meaning for me only after my Posthumanist enlightenment. Viewed through C-K’s philosophies, they stood near the catalysis point of the Prigoginic Leap that brought life itself into being.
Alternately, a lichen could be viewed as an extended metaphor for the Polycarbon Clique: a fungus and an alga, potential rivals, united in symbiosis to accomplish what neither could do alone, just as the Clique united Mechanist and Shaper to bring life to Mars.
I knew that many viewed my dedication as strange, even unhealthy. I was not offended by their blindness. Just the names of my genetic stocks had a rolling majesty: Alectoria nigricans, Mastodia tessellata, Ochrolechia frigida, Stereocaulon alpinum. They were humble but powerful: creatures of the cold desert whose roots and acids could crumble naked, freezing rock.
My gel frames seethed with primal vitality. Lichens would drench Mars in one green-gold tidal wave of life. They would creep irresistibly from the moist craters of the iceteroid impacts, proliferating relentlessly amid the storms and earthquakes of terraformation, surviving the floods as permafrost melted. Gushing oxygen, fixing nitrogen.
They were the best. Not because of pride or show. Not because they trumpeted their motives, or threatened the cold before they broke it. But because they were silent, and the first.
My years under the dogs had taught me the value of silence. Now I was sick of surveillance. When the first royalty payment came in from Eisho Zaibatsu, I contacted one of C-K’s private security firms and had my apartments swept for bugs. They found four.
I hired a second firm to remove the bugs left by the first.
I strapped myself in at a floating workbench, turning the spy eyes over and over in my hands. They were flat videoplates, painted with one-way colorshifting polymer camouflage. They would fetch a nice price on the unofficial market.
I called a post office and hired a courier servo to take the bugs to Kulagin. While I awaited the servo’s arrival, I turned off the bugs and sealed them into a biohazard box. I dictated a note, asking Kulagin to sell them and invest the money for me in C-K’s faltering Market. The Market looked as if it could use a few buyers.
When I heard the courier’s staccato knock, I opened my door with a gauntlet remote. But it was no courier that whirred in. It was a guard dog.
“I’ll take that box, if you please,” said the dog.
I stared at it as if I had never seen a dog before. This dog was heavily armored in silver. Thin powerful limbs jutted from its silver-seamed black-plastic torso, and its swollen head bristled with spring-loaded taser darts and the blunt nozzles of restraint webs. Its swiveling antenna tail showed that it was under remote control.
I spun my workbench so that it stood between me and the dog. “I see you have my comm lines tapped as well,” I said. “Will you tell me where the taps are, or do I have to take my computer apart?”
“You sniveling little Shaper upstart,” commented the dog, “Do you think your royalties can buy you out
from under everyone? I could sell you on the open market before you could blink.”
I considered this. On a number of occasions, particularly troublesome meddlers in C-K had been arrested and offered for sale on the open market by the Queen’s Advisers. There were always factions outside C-K willing to pay good prices for enemy agents. I knew that the Ring Council would be overjoyed to make an example of me. “You’re claiming to be one of the Queen’s Advisers, then?”
“Of course I’m an Adviser! Your treacheries haven’t lured us all to sleep. Your friendship with Wellspring is notorious!” The dog whirred closer, its clumped camera eyes clicking faintly. “What’s inside that freezer?”
“Lichen racks,” I said impassively. “You should know that well enough.”
“Open it.”
I didn’t move. “You’re going beyond the bounds of normal operations,” I said, knowing that this would trouble any Mechanist. “My Clique has friends among the Advisers. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Open it, or I’ll web you and open it myself, with this dog.”
“Lies,” I said. “You’re no Adviser. You’re an industrial spy, trying to steal my gemstone lichen. Why would an Adviser want to look into my freezer?”
“Open it! Don’t involve yourself more deeply in things you don’t understand.”
“You’ve entered my domicile under false pretenses and threatened me,” I said. “I’m calling Security.”
The dog’s chromed jaws opened. I twisted myself free of the workbench, but a thready spray of white silk from one of the dog’s facial nozzles caught me as I dodged. The filaments clung and hardened instantly, locking my arms in place where I had instinctively raised them to block the spray. A second blast caught my legs as I struggled uselessly, bouncing off a tilted Froth-wall.
“Troublemaker,” muttered the dog. “Everything would have gone down smooth without you Shapers quibbling. We had the soundest banks, we had the Queen, the Market, everything… You parasites gave C-K nothing but your fantasies. Now the system’s crumbling. Everything will crash. Everything. I ought to kill you.”
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