by Tony Daniel
Sometimes, though, in very odd circumstances, the Merced effect didn’t work. Or, rather, it worked strangely, with information transferred as if in an unbreakable code. It might as well be gibberish, but the math said that it wasn’t gibberish. That was impossible, of course, according to all known laws of physics in the year 3012 C. E., Li’s twenty-fourth e-year of existence. Li rather thought that a complete revision of contemporary physics wasn’t going to be necessary. But to solve the apparent anomaly would make her name and ensure her employment—perhaps even lead to her achieving LAP status. Besides, the problem fascinated her.
And so she got on, steadily chipping away at her research—throwing away solution after solution when experiment didn’t confirm calculation, or pristine and beautifully worked-out calculations didn’t mesh with one another. She thought of each failure as a small gain in knowledge—her Edisonian “1,000 substances that don’t work as lightbulb filament.”
And, when she wasn’t working, Techstock was at her door, usually ravenous in every way. Their trysts followed a predetermined order with few variations: Techstock would show up with flowers—real flowers plucked from the beds of the Citizen’s Garden in Far Calay. Li was particularly fond of the Mercurian daisies—enhanced with iridescent, molecule-sized light-emitting diodes and batteries. They gathered the sun in a way no natural flower could, and literally brightened up a room for many hours. While Li took care of the flowers, Techstock would order up a full meal. He substantiated the food from the apartment’s grist—a fantastically expensive process. Techstock, who had led an austere life as a youngster, loved to indulge himself in expensive luxury whenever he could get away with it—indulgence that included, Li did not kid herself, his mistress as well. In any case, Techstock had impeccable taste; the food was always delicious, and was something Li could not have afforded to cook from raw materials, much less instantiate from the grist.
Techstock always tore through his meal and was finished before Li was even half done with hers. Immediately after eating, Techstock would wipe his mouth and move his tongue around the inside of his cheeks as his interior pellicle freshened his breath. Li knew this was the signal that Techstock was ready to fuck.
She quickly freshened her own self up, and they went into the bedroom. Techstock closed the door, locked it with a sophisticated cipher that would filter out any snooping devices down to the atomic level, and turned out the lights. Li felt like a sort of reverse Psyche, with her Cupid revealing himself in the darkness as a god, while outside in the living room and kitchen, in the broad daylight, he was unquestionably a man with the usual appetites.
Techstock surrounded Li with his pellicle and pulled her within himself, shared himself with her, viscerally. After a moment, their hearts beat as one. Their breath was wholly shared, and, during that coitus, Li could see the multifarious world through the eyes of a LAP.
There was a virtual portion of Techstock that was implanted within Venus’s atmosphere, riding those sulfurous winds. There were dozens of individual aspects, bodies: teaching, loving, and, yes, fucking other students at graduate schools throughout the Met. There was the overall feeling of wholeness, of oneness, that was the secret ingredient to being a LAP—for all of the aspects and converts within the LAP communicated instantly and seamlessly with one another. All of them were him. For Li, it was like being inside a kaleidoscope. No, it was like being a kaleidoscope.
As Techstock came within her, the kaleidoscope turned. Li’s world—her presence inside his awareness—exploded into colorful shards. She gave up, let go, fell apart, lost herself in him, and, after he was done, he brought her back together again—her lone self in her bed.
This was a time that Li treasured, for finally he would talk to her. It was not profound talk. He would speak of his difficult childhood or of his own children, of whom he was inordinately proud and whom he spoiled without meaning to. The weather the government had ordered up. Some show he’d watched on the merci about horses, and how bad he’d been at virtual horseback riding when he’d tried to participate in the program. Little things. Never physics. That, they saved for the office, where Techstock took a very different tack with Li, and was impassive, even stilted, when dealing with her. Nevertheless, she enjoyed his favor behind the scenes, his name as coauthor on her papers. Her research grants always seemed to go through. Perhaps, Li sometimes had to remind herself, they would have gone through anyway. Perhaps she was brilliant in her own right, as her colleagues were constantly telling her. Li didn’t really care what was true, as long as she could continue with her work and with her very contained private life with its very intense private affair.
Then the war came and destroyed everything.
Three
From
Grist-based Weapons
Federal Army Field Manual
Compiled by Forward Development Lab, Triton
Gerardo Funk, Commandant
Section I: Introduction
1. Purpose and Scope
This manual is a guide for the military use of grist (grist-mil)—its use as weaponry, for the destruction of obstacles, and for covert and time-delayed attacks. Both conventional and guerrilla tactics will be considered.
2. Grist-based weapons
AKA “grist-mil” weapons. Grist-based weapons incorporate Josephson-Feynman nano-technology as either a means or an end to the destruction of areas, structures, materials, or people in order to achieve a military objective. They have both offensive and defensive uses. A grist-mil weapon normally consists of a nanotechnological mechanism and an algorithm, either sentient or “dumb,” that is in control of the deployment of the grist on a molecular level.
3. The type of attack desired and the method of stealth employed for concealment are two complementary elements in design of these weapons and their use in the field.
4. Comments
Field users of this manual are encouraged to submit feedback for its improvement. Comments should reference section and subsection, and should be forwarded to Commandant, Forward Development Lab. Knit address: 33 Echo Replication Charlie Toro.
Four
This wasn’t going well at all. Colonel Theory, deputy commander of the military forces on Triton, was certain that he’d taken the necessary precautions. He’d memorized—literally, of course—all the important books on human psychology, particularly those that examined courtship and mating rituals. He’d picked the best meeting place on the merci—at least the portion of the merci that was still open to fremden business.
But somehow the lovely oak fixtures and perfectly blooming artificial flowers of Café Camus were not doing the trick. Or rather, they were playing another trick entirely. Jenny Fieldguide was gazing at his manly form with feminine longing. Oh, he’d read enough to know what that look in her eyes meant. You didn’t have to be a biological human to understand that . The problem was, she wasn’t listening to a thing he said. The other problem was that the manly, if virtual, form he was displaying was not his own, but that of his good friend and colleague, Captain John Quench.
“What it comes down to,” said Theory, “is that most of my friends are virtual entities. They’re free converts. Like Theory here.”
Theory nodded at “himself” across the table. This wasn’t Theory, but Quench, who had put on Theory’s form expressly for this little tête-à-tête. Quench, as Theory, smiled wanly at Jennifer, who returned his polite smile.
She hates the sight of me! Theory thought. All is lost! But, being a determined sort of program, he pressed gamely onward. “Why, sometimes I think of myself as a virtual entity, I’m around them so much.”
Jennifer laughed. She had a lovely laugh. It was beautifully bell-like—but that was probably the atmospheric algorithm here at Café Camus. The place was designed to present all guests in their best light—and in their best sound, odor, taste, and texture, as well.
Jennifer reached out and gently touched his wrist. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Even here on the m
erci, you still feel pretty physical to me.”
Across the table, Quench groaned. Theory knew that he had agreed to appear today, and to appear as Theory, only at Theory’s imploring. Theory also knew that Quench was originally a biological woman, and that he was in love with—indeed, engaged to—a man named Arthur, who was a biologist on Europa.
The problem was, Theory had borrowed Quench’s body one fateful night to attend a dance in the physical world. He’d danced, all right. He’d also winded up kissing Jennifer Fieldguide, and falling in—well, it couldn’t logically be called love. He hardly knew her. Infatuation, then. Becoming seriously infatuated with her.
When Quench found out—after a romantic call from Jennifer—he’d been rightfully indignant. He’d threatened to tell the woman the truth himself, but Theory had put him off the idea. And then had come the first battle of the war, and one thing and another (including Theory’s promotion to colonel for outstanding service in a battle), and here it was, weeks later, and poor Jennifer still quite deluded as to who her suitor had been.
“You see, the thing is,” said Theory. He wished he could clear his throat to buy some more time, but one’s throat was always perfectly clear in Café Camus. He settled for repeating himself. “The thing is…”
Jennifer gazed at him with doe eyes. Her brown hair shone with a radiant luster, as if she were perfectly backlit no matter how she moved about.
“The thing is: I’m actually him ,” Theory said, pointing to Quench, “and he is me.”
“Yes, and I like men,” Quench said.
Jennifer sat back, stunned. The analytical part of Theory noted that the contrast ratio of light to dark in the room changed from 3:2 to 2:1, giving Jennifer a gorgeous, dramatic luminosity. He also noted, through his dismay, that her lipstick was now subtly reshading itself from red to wine.
“I’m confused,” Jennifer said. “I mean, really confused. Are you saying that you’re gay, John?”
“No. I’m a heterosexual. I mean he is,” he said, pointing to Quench.
“He just said he was gay,” Jennifer pointed out.
Theory paused, gathered his thoughts. “What I mean is that I am not Captain John Quench.”
“I’m Quench,” said Quench.
“But I thought you were Colonel Theory.”
“I’m Theory,” said Theory.
Quench began to laugh. He might have taken Theory’s visual image, but he definitely retained his own hearty roar. “Maybe this will help,” Quench said. He waved his hand and immediately converted back to his normal persona in the virtuality—that is, the picture of himself in physical reality. Which was an exact replica of the image Theory was currently inhabiting.
Jennifer turned to Theory. “You see, that’s why I told you I don’t like free converts all that much,” she said. “I mean, they may be technically human beings, and all that, but they have no regard for a person’s feelings.”
Doom settled on Theory. The Café Camus was probably putting the best face on him, but it was doom inside, and doom all the way down!
“I am a free convert,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Jennifer laughed again. The bell-like tinkle of doom! “You danced with me. In the real world. You kissed me, John.”
“My name is Theory,” he said, and changed back into himself.
Jennifer gazed at him for a long moment. Her face turned a pale, delicate white. Like a lily. Then tears glazed her eyes.
“You kissed me,” she whispered. “ You.”
He hung his head. “Yes. It was I who kissed you. Me—Theory. But I was inhabiting John Quench’s body that night. We traded, he and I—”
More drama from the café light sources. “You traded! ”
“John played me that night, and I played him. It was a bet. A stupid bet.”
“Okay,” Jennifer said with a nervous laugh.
“I have to confess to putting him up to it,” said Quench.
“We both regret the mix-up,” Theory continued lamely. “But if you’ll just—”
“Regret the mix-up!” Jennifer’s chair scraped backward, and she rose from the table. “You used me to prove some kind of sick point, and you regret the mix-up?”
Theory, too, stood up. He wanted to reach out, touch her hand, to wipe her tears, which were now freely streaming down her face like little pearls. He held himself back from doing either.
“It wasn’t to prove any point, Jennifer,” said Theory. “The truth is, I liked you. I liked your mind. You’re a little young, of course, but I can already tell that you’re independent. And you’ve got a good heart, too. I saw that so clearly that night. And…and the truth is that I think you’re beautiful. The most beautiful creature I ever saw!”
Jennifer shook her head slowly from side to side.
“You thought I was beautiful?” Jennifer said. Theory could see that she was trembling. “You’re a fucking computer program!”
“I’m a man,” said Theory. He stated it as the plain fact it was. “I’m a man who wants to see you again.”
“Are you joking? ”
“No.”
She turned to Quench. Theory could tell that she still wanted to believe somehow that Quench was the man who had kissed her. “And what do you have to say?” she asked.
“What I have to say,” replied Quench, “is that, aside from my fiancé Arthur, Colonel Theory here is the best man I’ve ever met—meat or code or what have you. I’d die for this man, and, frankly, I almost have a time or two.” Quench cracked one of his enormous smiles. It lit the Café Camus with a cheerful, sunny ambience. “I think you ought to give the man a chance.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jennifer turned back to Theory. He met her gaze as best he could. Hope? Could it be?
“Never in a million years,” Jennifer said. “Neptune years, too!”
She turned and stalked out of the café. The mahogany doors inset with leaded French panes gently opened for her, then closed behind her.
Theory collapsed in his chair. “Oh, God,” he moaned. “I’ve ruined it.”
Quench snatched two sherries from the tray of a passing waiter. The waiter continued on as if he had not been inconvenienced in the least. Quench set the drink down in front of Theory.
“I think she likes you,” he said to Theory. “Just give her a while to get used to the idea.”
“She just wrote me off for good.”
“She didn’t slap you, did she? Didn’t call you a pig or a bastard or a son of a bitch.”
“As good as.”
“I know women,” said Quench. “I used to be one, remember, and shall be again, as soon as my promotion comes through.” He picked up his sherry, took a sniff. “If she’d have thought those things, she’d have said them. Now, drink up.”
Theory picked up his sherry and considered it indifferently.
“Go ahead.”
Quench drained his cup. Theory took a sip. It really was quite good. Everything was always excellent here at the Café Camus—if a bit overpriced.
“What should I do?” Theory asked.
“Give it a week, then call on her. Ask her out.”
“To where?”
“Well, you’ve worked enough mischief with my body. Ask her to someplace in the virtuality, you murf!”
“You think she’ll go out with me? After this?”
“Who the hell knows? Especially since you didn’t get around to telling her that you have a son.” Quench set his cup down forcefully on the table. A waiter materialized and quickly set another sherry in front of him. “Anyway, I know you , Theory,” Quench continued. “You’re going to try. You’d try even if I didn’t push you to it. You’re the most dogged, persistent, obstinate fellow I ever met when it comes to something you’ve set your mind to.”
“We’ll see about that,” Theory said. But he knew Quench was right. He wouldn’t give up until all hope was lost. Giving up wasn’t in his nat
ure.
Maybe there is something to all that free-convert bigotry after all, he thought. I certainly can be a calculating bastard.
Theory took another measured sip of his sherry and considered how he might win Jennifer Fieldguide’s love.
Five
From
Grist-based Weapons
Federal Army Field Manual
Compiled by Forward Development Lab, Triton
Gerardo Funk, Commandant
Section II: Tactical Considerations
Military grist is effective for both attack and defense, and for demolitions.
Direct Assault
For many applications, grist-mil can be used “as-is.” These weapons generally perform one or all of the following tasks:
1. Dissolve physical integrity of defender, leading to destruction.
2. Disable algorithm of defender’s grist, leading to destruction.
3. Sunder defender from command and control, leading to confusion and ineffectiveness on the battlefield.
4. Subvert defender’s grist to attacker’s use for one of the above functions.
The general purpose is the immediate destruction of the enemy.
Delayed Assault
Often a delayed or timed assault is called for. Multiple function weapons can wait until conditions are ripe for activation. They may also carry out a series of assaults over the course of their use. When primed with a controlling algorithm of sufficient intelligence, such weapons can adapt themselves to changing battlefield conditions and prove many times more effective than “dumb” weapons.
Fortification and Defense
Defense applications include:
1. Fortification
A grist perimeter serves as both a warning device and a frontline defense against enemy assault. Such deployment is made at a company, command, or theater level.
2. Mines and minefields