by Neil Clarke
“About fifty-nine thousand kilometers per second.”
The speed of a passing thought.
And if this thing does think, it’ll have logic gates, synapses—it’s going to be a net of some kind. And if the net’s big enough, there’s an I in the middle of it. Just like me, just like Dix. Just like the chimp. (Which is why I educated myself on the subject, back in the early tumultuous days of our relationship. Know your enemy and all that.)
The thing about I is, it only exists within a tenth-of-a-second of all its parts. When we get spread too thin—when someone splits your brain down the middle, say, chops the fat pipe so the halves have to talk the long way around; when the neural architecture diffuses past some critical point and signals take just that much longer to pass from A to B—the system, well, decoheres. The two sides of your brain become different people with different tastes, different agendas, different senses of themselves.
I shatters into we.
It’s not just a human rule, or a mammal rule, or even an Earthly one. It’s a rule for any circuit that processes information, and it applies as much to the things we’ve yet to meet as it did to those we left behind.
Fifty-nine thousand kilometers per second, the chimp says. How far can the signal move through that membrane in a tenth of a corsec? How thinly does I spread itself across the heavens?
The flesh is huge, the flesh is inconceivable. But the spirit, the spirit is—
Shit.
“Chimp. Assuming the mean neuron density of a human brain, what’s the synapse count on a circular sheet of neurons one millimeter thick with a diameter of five thousand eight hundred ninety-two kilometers?”
“Two times ten to the twenty-seventh.”
I saccade the database for some perspective on a mind stretched across thirty million square kilometers: the equivalent of two quadrillion human brains.
Of course, whatever this thing uses for neurons have to be packed a lot less tightly than ours; we can see right through them, after all. Let’s be superconservative, say it’s only got a thousandth the computational density of a human brain. That’s—
Okay, let’s say it’s only got a ten-thousandth the synaptic density, that’s still—
A hundred thousandth. The merest mist of thinking meat. Any more conservative and I’d hypothesize it right out of existence.
Still twenty billion human brains.
Twenty billion.
I don’t know how to feel about that. This is no mere alien.
But I’m not quite ready to believe in gods.
I round the corner and run smack into Dix, standing like a golem in the middle of my living room. I jump about a meter straight up.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He seems surprised by my reaction. “Wanted to—talk,” he says after a moment.
“You never come into someone’s home uninvited!”
He retreats a step, stammers: “Wanted, wanted—”
“To talk. And you do that in public. On the bridge, or in the commons, or—for that matter, you could just comm me.”
He hesitates. “Said you—wanted face to face. You said, cultural tradition.”
I did, at that. But not here. This is my place, these are my private quarters. The lack of locks on these doors is a safety protocol, not an invitation to walk into my home and lie in wait, and stand there like part of the fucking furniture . . .
“Why are you even up?” I snarl. “We’re not even supposed to come online for another two months.”
“Asked Chimp to get me up when you did.”
That fucking machine.
“Why are you up?” he asks, not leaving.
I sigh, defeated, and fall into a convenient pseudopod. “I just wanted to go over the preliminary data.” The implicit alone should be obvious.
“Anything?”
Evidently it isn’t. I decide to play along for a while. “Looks like we’re talking to an, an island. Almost six thousand klicks across. That’s the thinking part, anyway. The surrounding membrane’s pretty much empty. I mean, it’s all alive. It all photosynthesizes, or something like that. It eats, I guess. Not sure what.”
“Molecular cloud,” Dix says. “Organic compounds everywhere. Plus it’s concentrating stuff inside the envelope.”
I shrug. “Point is, there’s a size limit for the brain, but it’s huge, it’s . . .”
“Unlikely,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
I turn to look at him; the pseudopod reshapes itself around me. “What do you mean?”
“Island’s twenty-eight million square kilometers? Whole sphere’s seven quintillion. Island just happens to be between us and 428, that’s—one in fifty billion odds.”
“Go on.”
He can’t. “Uh, just . . . just unlikely.”
I close my eyes. “How can you be smart enough to run those numbers in your head without missing a beat and stupid enough to miss the obvious conclusion?”
That panicked, slaughterhouse look again. “Don’t—I’m not—”
“It is unlikely. It’s astronomically unlikely that we just happen to be aiming at the one intelligent spot on a sphere one and a half AU’s across. Which means . . .”
He says nothing. The perplexity in his face mocks me. I want to punch it.
But finally, the lights flicker on: “There’s, uh, more than one island? Oh! A lot of islands!”
This creature is part of the crew. My life will almost certainly depend on him some day.
That is a very scary thought.
I try to set it aside for the moment. “There’s probably a whole population of the things, sprinkled through the membrane like, like cysts I guess. The chimp doesn’t know how many, but we’re only picking up this one so far, so they might be pretty sparse.”
There’s a different kind of frown on his face now. “Why Chimp?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why call him Chimp?”
“We call it the chimp.” Because the first step to humanizing something is to give it a name.
“Looked it up. Short for chimpanzee. Stupid animal.”
“Actually, I think chimps were supposed to be pretty smart,” I remember.
“Not like us. Couldn’t even talk. Chimp can talk. Way smarter than those things. That name—it’s an insult.”
“What do you care?”
He just looks at me.
I spread my hands. “Okay, it’s not a chimp. We just call it that because it’s got roughly the same synapse count.”
“So gave him a small brain, then complain that he’s stupid all the time.”
My patience is just about drained. “Do you have a point or are you just blowing CO2 in—”
“Why not make him smarter?”
“Because you can never predict the behavior of a system more complex than you. And if you want a project to stay on track after you’re gone, you don’t hand the reins to anything that’s guaranteed to develop its own agenda.” Sweet smoking Jesus, you’d think someone would have told him about Ashby’s Law.
“So they lobotomized him,” Dix says after a moment.
“No. They didn’t turn it stupid, they built it stupid.”
“Maybe smarter than you think. You’re so much smarter, got your agenda, how come he’s still in control?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say.
“What?”
I let a grim smile peek through. “You’re only following orders from a bunch of other systems way more complex than you are.” You’ve got to hand it to them, too; dead for stellar lifetimes and those damn project admins are still pulling the strings.
“I don’t—I’m following?—”
“I’m sorry, dear.” I smile sweetly at my idiot offspring. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the thing that’s making all those sounds come out of your mouth.”
Dix turns whiter than my panties.
I drop all pretense. “What were you thinking, chimp? That you c
ould send this sock-puppet to invade my home and I wouldn’t notice?”
“Not—I’m not—it’s me,” Dix stammers. “Me talking.”
“It’s coaching you. Do you even know what ‘lobotomized’ means?” I shake my head, disgusted. “You think I’ve forgotten how the interface works just because we all burned ours out?” A caricature of surprise begins to form on his face. “Oh, don’t even fucking try. You’ve been up for other builds, there’s no way you couldn’t have known. And you know we shut down our domestic links too, or you wouldn’t even be sneaking in here. And there’s nothing your lord and master can do about that because it needs us, and so we have reached what you might call an accommodation.”
I am not shouting. My tone is icy, but my voice is dead level. And yet Dix almost cringes before me.
There is an opportunity here, I realize.
I thaw my voice a little. I speak gently: “You can do that too, you know. Burn out your link. I’ll even let you come back here afterward, if you still want to. Just to—talk. But not with that thing in your head.”
There is panic in his face, and, against all expectation, it almost breaks my heart. “Can’t,” he pleads. “How I learn things, how I train.The mission . . .”
I honestly don’t know which of them is speaking, so I answer them both: “There is more than one way to carry out the mission. We have more than enough time to try them all. Dix is welcome to come back when he’s alone.”
They take a step toward me. Another. One hand, twitching, rises from their side as if to reach out, and there’s something on that lopsided face that I can’t quite recognize.
“But I’m your son,” they say.
I don’t even dignify it with a denial.
“Get out of my home.”
A human periscope. The Trojan Dix. That’s a new one.
The chimp’s never tried such overt infiltration while we were up and about before. Usually, it waits until we’re all undead before invading our territories. I imagine custom-made drones never seen by human eyes, cobbled together during the long dark eons between builds; I see them sniffing through drawers and peeking behind mirrors, strafing the bulkheads with X-rays and ultrasound, patiently searching Eriophora’s catacombs millimeter by endless millimeter for whatever secret messages we might be sending one another down through time.
There’s no proof to speak of. We’ve left trip wires and telltales to alert us to intrusion after the fact, but there’s never been any evidence they’ve been disturbed. Means nothing, of course. The chimp may be stupid, but it’s also cunning, and a million years is more than enough time to iterate through every possibility using simpleminded brute force. Document every dust mote; commit your unspeakable acts; put everything back the way it was, afterward.
We’re too smart to risk talking across the eons. No encrypted strategies, no long-distance love letters, no chatty postcards showing ancient vistas long lost in the redshift. We keep all that in our heads, where the enemy will never find it. The unspoken rule is that we do not speak, unless it is face to face.
Endless idiotic games. Sometimes I almost forget what we’re squabbling over. It seems so trivial now, with an immortal in my sights.
Maybe that means nothing to you. Immortality must be ancient news to you. But I can’t even imagine it, although I’ve outlived worlds. All I have are moments: two or three hundred years, to ration across the life span of a universe. I could bear witness to any point in time, or any hundred-thousand, if I slice my life thinly enough—but I will never see everything. I will never see even a fraction.
My life will end. I have to choose.
When you come to fully appreciate the deal you’ve made—ten or fifteen builds out, when the trade-off leaves the realm of mere knowledge and sinks deep as cancer into your bones—you become a miser. You can’t help it. You ration out your waking moments to the barest minimum: just enough to manage the build, to plan your latest countermove against the chimp, just enough (if you haven’t yet moved beyond the need for human contact) for sex and snuggles and a bit of warm mammalian comfort against the endless dark. And then you hurry back to the crypt, to hoard the remains of a human life span against the unwinding of the cosmos.
There’s been time for education. Time for a hundred postgraduate degrees, thanks to the best caveman learning tech. I’ve never bothered. Why burn down my tiny candle for a litany of mere fact, fritter away my precious, endless, finite life? Only a fool would trade book-learning for a ringside view of the Cassiopeia Remnant, even if you do need false-color enhancement to see the fucking thing.
Now, though. Now, I want to know.” This creature crying out across the gulf, massive as a moon, wide as a solar system, tenuous and fragile as an insect’s wing: I’d gladly cash in some of my life to learn its secrets. How does it work? How can it even live here at the edge of absolute zero, much less think? What vast, unfathomable intellect must it possess, to see us coming from over half a light-year away, to deduce the nature of our eyes and our instruments, to send a signal we can even detect, much less understand?
And what happens when we punch through it at a fifth the speed of light?
I call up the latest findings on my way to bed, and the answer hasn’t changed: not much. The damn thing’s already full of holes. Comets, asteroids, the usual protoplanetary junk careens through this system as it does through every other. Infra picks up diffuse pockets of slow outgassing here and there around the perimeter, where the soft vaporous vacuum of the interior bleeds into the harder stuff outside. Even if we were going to tear through the dead center of the thinking part, I can’t imagine this vast creature feeling so much as a pinprick. At the speed we’re going we’d be through and gone far too fast to overcome even the feeble inertia of a millimeter membrane.
And yet. Stop. Stop. Stop.
It’s not us, of course. It’s what we’re building. The birth of a gate is a violent, painful thing, a spacetime rape that puts out almost as much gamma and X as a microquasar. Any meat within the white zone turns to ash in an instant, shielded or not. It’s why we never slow down to take pictures.
One of the reasons, anyway.
We can’t stop, of course. Even changing course isn’t an option except by the barest increments. Eri soars like an eagle among the stars, but she steers like a pig on the short haul; tweak our heading by even a tenth of a degree, and you’ve got some serious damage at 20 percent light-speed. Half a degree would tear us apart: the ship might torque onto the new heading, but the collapsed mass in her belly would keep right on going, rip through all this surrounding superstructure without even feeling it.
Even tame singularities get set in their ways. They do not take well to change.
We resurrect again, and the Island has changed its tune.
It gave up asking us to stop stop stop the moment our laser hit its leading edge. Now it’s saying something else entirely: dark hyphens flow across its skin, arrows of pigment converging toward some offstage focus like spokes pointing toward the hub of a wheel. The bull’s-eye itself is offstage and implicit, far removed from 428’s bright backdrop, but it’s easy enough to extrapolate to the point of convergence six light-secs to starboard. There’s something else, too: a shadow, roughly circular, moving along one of the spokes like a bead running along a string. It too migrates to starboard, falls off the edge of the Island’s makeshift display, is endlessly reborn at the same initial coordinates to repeat its journey.
Those coordinates: exactly where our current trajectory will punch through the membrane in another four months. A squinting God would be able to see the gnats and girders of ongoing construction on the other side, the great piecemeal torus of the Hawking Hoop already taking shape.
The message is so obvious that even Dix sees it. “Wants us to move the gate . . .” and there is something like confusion in his voice. “But how’s it know we’re building one?”
“The vons punctured it en route,” the chimp points out. “It could have sensed th
at. It has photopigments. It can probably see.”
“Probably sees better than we do,” I say. Even something as simple as a pinhole camera gets hi-res fast if you stipple a bunch of them across thirty million square kilometers.
But Dix scrunches his face, unconvinced. “So sees a bunch of vons bumping around. Loose parts—not that much even assembled yet. How’s it know we’re building something hot?”
Because it is very, very smart, you stupid child. Is it so hard to believe that this, this—organism seems far too limiting a word—can just imagine how those half-built pieces fit together, glance at our sticks and stones and see exactly where this is going?
“Maybe’s not the first gate it’s seen,” Dix suggests. “Think there’s maybe another gate out here?”
I shake my head. “We’d have seen the lensing artifacts by now.”
“You ever run into anyone before?”
“No.” We have always been alone, through all these epochs. We have only ever run away.
And then always from our own children.
I crunch some numbers. “Hundred eighty-two days to insemination. If we move now, we’ve only got to tweak our bearing by a few mikes to redirect to the new coordinates. Well within the green. Angles get dicey the longer we wait, of course.”
“We can’t do that,” the chimp says. “We would miss the gate by two million kilometers.”
“Move the gate. Move the whole damn site. Move the refineries, move the factories, move the damn rocks. A couple hundred meters a second would be more than fast enough if we send the order now. We don’t even have to suspend construction, we can keep building on the fly.”
“Every one of those vectors widens the nested confidence limits of the build. It would increase the risk of error beyond allowable margins, for no payoff.”
“And what about the fact that there’s an intelligent being in our path?”
“I’m already allowing for the potential presence of intelligent alien life.”
“Okay, first off, there’s nothing potential about it. It’s right fucking there. And on our current heading, we run the damn thing over.”