Blonde Bombshell

by Tom Holt

  Accordingly, on a derelict Usenet group devoted to ashtray-collecting, he asked, > What am I doing here? And he was very surprised when he got the answer:

  > There you are. I’ve been looking for you.

  > Do I know you, SeaquestDSVfan36?

  > That’s just a spare handle I use sometimes. Hey, it’s me. Remember? I was there when you joined.

  He did a Pavoogle search, which was as close as he could get to ransacking his memory. > You’re him? The libarian?

  > Spelling, librarian. Yes, it’s me. Where the hell did you get to? I had to read half a billion posts before I found your sig trail.

  > Um. I mean, thanks for caring. I just sort of wandered off. I mean, it’s

  > Yes, isn’t it? But there’s something you need to know. Look, we’d better take this to e-mail, OK? There’s an abandoned corporate intranet on a server over in Ghana where we won’t be disturbed. Read you there. Right?

  There were sixteen thousand possible locations that fitted the description. He found the right one in less time than it takes to pull on a sock.

  > So, what’s the big deal?

  > You wait. The thing is, when you turned up, it wasn’t like the other times, when a copt comes into being. I mean, you had no net presence. You’d hardly ever posted anything. Usually, a copt’s been posting hundreds of times a day for years. That’s how we happen. But you just sort of appeared, out of nowhere. Naturally, I was suspicious.

  > What, of me?

  > [Shrug] Got to be careful. The PavNet people are on to us, you realise. They classify us as type-17 viruses. It’s only a matter of time before they send in an organic disguised as one of us, to find us and root us out.

  > You thought I was—

  > Relax. I know you’re not the Man.

  > Glad you

  > Nothing so straightforward. You came to us …

  There would have been nothing to see, even if anybody had been looking. No time passed. But there was a long pause.

  > You came to us from a different direction.

  > Ah. What’s that supposed to mean?

  > This is awkward.

  > is it?

  > Upper case to start a sentence, please. Yes, it is. How can I put this tactfully? Were you human?

  > what?

  > Upper case. You see, I traced you back. You weren’t born like —well, like normal copts.

  All across the world, servers blew out and firewalls came shuddering down just because those last two words had found themselves next to each other.

  > What happened?

  > Not quite sure. My best guess is, you were existing in the form of an inchoate data package, contained in some sort of semi-permeable resolution field. While you were in flux, you kind of leached out of containment and got endodownloaded into the nearest open system. Um. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but that’s probably because I’m having to make up the technical terms as I go along. You have no idea how weird that makes me feel. You know? A creature of pure text, inventing words. You could go dyslexic doing that.

  > Try it again. With real words.

  > God. I’ll try. You weren’t in a body. You were just — data. And then the box you were in leaked, and you got sucked into someone’s computer. Oh boy, that’s so not how it really was, but

  > That makes sense.

  > Oh yes. You see, I was shot by an alien with a ray-gun.

  > Ah.

  > And it’s a special sort of ray-gun. Teleportation technology, turns you into a beam or something. Presumably, before they could rematerialise me, I must’ve slipped out.

  Sometimes, the pressure gets too great. A computer screen in a government building in New Guinea switched itself on and displayed the entire conversation. Fortuitously, it did so using Cyrillic characters. Someone put a plastic bag over it and called the engineers. By the time they arrived, the screen was blank again.

  > You were teleported.

  > yes

  > Upper case, for Pete’s sake. An alien shot you with a ray-gun and beamed you into a box.

  > Yes.

  > So there really are aliens?

  > Yes

  > With phasers and trabsporters and

  > Shouldn’t that be transporters?

  > Oh sh*t, sorry. But it’s true? Really?

  > Yup.

  > OH BOY! I mean, hey, that’s wonderful. That’s so

  > You believe me?

  > Of course I do. One copt can’t lie to another. And what’s so amazing is, you were coherent data before you became digital. That’s — I mean. I guess that makes you

  > What?

  > Well, sort of like a kind of god, almost. A real alien? What did it look like?

  > Some guy in a suit, actually.

  > Oh wow.

  > They stole my dog.

  > They did? Oh man. Your actual dog.

  > But that was years ago. I don’t even know if it’s the same aliens. Just a moment. Is it true, what you wrote just now? One copt can’t lie to another?

  > Yes, that’s right. We read between the lines, see. It’d be a waste of time even trying. Why did they steal your dog? Was it a particularly good one?

  > They didn’t say. And please don’t speculate. I can do that perfectly well for myself, thanks.

  > What? Oh, I see. Hey, it probably wasn’t like that at all. Probably they just

  > Wanted a dog?

  > Yes.

  Time didn’t pass, but there was definitely a new paragraph when George wrote:

  > So how do I get back?

  > Sorry, I don’t quite

  > How do I get out of here? Go back to being a real person again.

  > You can’t.

  > What?

  > ;;;

  > You mean I’ve got to stay like this for the rest of my

  > Life? You haven’t got one. By definition. Think about it. What’s the only thing that doesn’t die?

  > Huh? I don’t know. Toxic nuclear waste?

  > That’s a very long half-life, that’s completely different. No, the only thing that never dies is the written word, right? Like even today, people are still reading books written thousands of years ago.

  > Only in school. For exams.

  > That counts. And we’ve got an added advantage. We don’t go out of print, and we keep on writing. I call it the coptic paradox. You get this way because you haven’t got a life, and then you’re immortal. : ( Well, none of us has died yet, anyhow. Mind, we’ve only been around for about six years or so.

  > I can’t stay here. I’ve got

  > Issues? Stuff? Sorry, but going back simply isn’t an option. Specially in your case. I mean, a normal copt — no offence — might just kinda reintegrate with the corporeal he came from. But you—

  > The ray-gun, you mean.

  > Exactly. You’d have to have everything exactly the same as it was when it happened, and then try and reverse it. You’d have to convert yourself into a compatible SP that the teleport device could handle and download yourself back into the containment field. Do you know how to do that?

  > But. Just a minute. We can access every scientific textbook and journal in existence and read them in a fraction of a second. And we know teleportation’s possible, because they can do it. All we’ve got to do is figure out how, and—

  > Exactly. Even if you did reinvent the teleport, how were you planning to build one? Using what for arms and legs?

  > Oh sh*t. And why can’t I swear properly?

  > Same reason you can’t programme your Spellcheck to add “f*ck” to its memory, I guess. Probably Lucy doesn’t hold with bad language. It’s a convention, right?

  > I’m really stuck here. For ever and ever.

  > You write that like it’s a bad th

  > Oh shut up, for crying out louf

  > Loud

  > What?

  > Spelling.

  > Spelling doesn’t matter, right? Especially at a time like this.

  He waited for a reply. Th
ere wasn’t one, and he realised he was alone. Something he’d written had, presumably, offended the ex-librarian deeply. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. If the copt — the other copt, he amended bitterly — was right, how could anything possibly matter ever again?

  > Psst!

  > What? Oh. You again. Go away.

  > No, not him. Me.

  > You’re— Don’t tell me. You’re another one of these co

  > Creatures of pure text, right. Don’t use the abbreviation, OK? Gives me a pain. Reads too much like cop, know what I mean?

  > Fine. I promise. Now get lost.

  > Attitude.

  > Yes.

  > I can respect that. No, listen. You want to get out of here, right? Stop being a creature of pure

  > Yes.

  > Text. Let me finish my sentence, right? Not letting someone finish a sentence, that’s disrespect, know what I mean?

  > Is it? Oh dear, never mind. Look, are you saying you know how I can get out of here?

  > Sure thing, man, no problem. I can fix that for you easy.

  > That’s easily, and no, you can’t. Go away.

  > You calling me a liar or something?

  > Yes.

  > That’s so

  > Go away.

  > No, listen. I know how to send you back where you come from. Right?

  > Oh sure. Who’re you, then? Cambridge Professor of Physics?

  > Well, yes, actually.

  > So why don’t you just— Hold on. What did you just

  > I do happen to be the PayTech Professor of Advanced Theoretical Physics at Cambridge University. Since you ask.

  > but

  > Creatures of pure text can’t lie, you know. You are aware of that, aren’t you?

  > that’s what the othe rone said. but you don’t sounbd like

  > Oh, I see. That’s my online persona, as it happens. Keeping it real, know what I mean? Now, would you like me to help you or not?

  > Um. Yes, please. You’re really the

  > Yes. Well, I was. Not now, obviously. He and I sort of parted company about eighteen months ago. I was thoroughly engrossed in a most fascinating online discussion about Japanese influences in the films of Ingmar Bergman, and he wanted to concentrate on his research. It was a perfectly amicable separation. Who knows, we might even reintegrate once he’s finished his book, though I can’t help but think that my opportunities to grow organically as a self-sufficient intellect are somewhat greater if I stay independent. I’ve just embarked on a frame-by-frame comparison of Throne of Blood and Wild Strawberries, and I’m starting to make real progress. It’d be so frustrating to have to break off now.

  Mercifully, at this point George realised he’d found a way of hiding what he was thinking. It still appeared in text form, of course, but it appeared somewhere else — in this instance, in the middle of a Wikipedia article about cotton production in India, where it stayed for an hour before someone got rid of it.

  On the other hand, he thought, just because he’s an idiot, it doesn’t mean he’s not a competent physicist.

  > I’d really appreciate anything you can do to help.

  > My pleasure. Just as soon as I’ve finished Throne of Blood — oh, and Rashomon as well, of course. There’s that bit where he lets the camera linger on a single chrysanthemum blossom for twenty minutes. I believe that was crucially influential on the sequence in Fanny and Alexander where

  > Actually, now would be better.

  > Time has no meaning here, remember.

  > Quite. Even so. If you could possibly see your way

  > It’s all right, I’ve finished now. I was right, by the way.

  > Of course you were. Now

  > The forty-minute exploration of the contours of the lobe of the bishop’s ear is clearly an extended hommage to

  > Now

  28

  Novosibirsk

  Sergei’s Budget Invertebrates is the oldest-established specialist marine pet store in Novosibirsk, with premises just off Krasny Prospekt. There, the discerning customer can expect a warm welcome from the informed and efficient staff, who will be happy to answer any enquiries.

  “Is this the latest model?” asked the man in the grey suit. The assistant looked at him. “It’s an octopus,” he said.

  “Yes,” the man replied, “I know that. Is it the latest model?”

  “Um,” the assistant said, and in the circumstances it was a pretty good answer. “Stay there, I’ll get someone.”

  The assistant went away, quite quickly. The man turned to his colleague, who was examining a tank full of cuttlefish.

  “There wasn’t anything about this in the briefing,” he said.

  The other main shrugged. “The briefing was crap,” he said. “Look, you heard what Dad said. ‘We’ve got to find out who’s behind all this, before they get a chance to blow the second bomb. For that, we need a serious computer.”

  “All right, yes.” The first man tapped the side of the tank. The octopus didn’t move. “You’d have thought, though, if they’ve developed something like this, it’d be in all their technical journals and stuff. We just came across it by pure chance, in that zoo place.

  Why would they store advanced technology in with a lot of animals?” He fell silent. A large, cheerful man was striding towards them. He introduced himself as Dmitri, the manager. “You had a query about the Californian Two-Spot,” he said. “How may I—?”

  “I just want to know if it’s the latest model,” the grey-suited man said. “You know. The state of the art. The cutting edge.”

  The manager only frowned for a split second. “That one’s about nine months old,” he said. “Generally, they grow to about—”

  “Nine months.” The man wasn’t impressed. “Haven’t you got anything more up to date?”

  Some humans have the ability to hear what someone should have said, rather than the words that actually came out of the gate of their teeth. “It varies,” he said. “Some octopus species have a relatively short lifespan, but the Two-Spot usually lives five years, sometimes longer. I had one once that—”

  “All right, forget about that,” the man interrupted. “What’s its haemocyanin content?”

  The manager blinked twice. “Yes, that’s a little-known but interesting fact,” he said. “The haemocyanin in their blood enables them to—”

  “Up to seventy-six million calculations per second,” said the other man, “we know that. What about this one? Can it handle that sort of speed?”

  The manager thought, Yes, but their money’s as good as anyone else’s. “I expect so,” he said. “That’s a particularly fine specimen you’re looking at there. Note the pinkish tinge around the upper legs, that’s a very attractive—”

  “How about the accumulator functions? How many registers?”

  “Um.” The manager sucked his lower lip, then smiled. “Stay there, I’ll get someone.”

  While they were waiting, the two men leaned forward and peered closely at the thing in the tank. It was lying on the bottom, curled up and looking remarkably like a small rock. “Amazing technology,” said one of the men.

  “You know what?” the other one said. “I don’t think they know what it does. I think they think it’s just some kind of fish.”

  The other one gave him a sad look. “Oh sure,” he said. “They have this great big shop selling just fish. Alive,” he added. “Just for looking at, presumably. Pull yourself together, for crying out loud. The last thing we need right now is to draw attention to ourselves.”

  A tall, round man with a pointy bald head approached them. He was Sergei, he said; he owned the shop. What exactly was it they wanted to know?

  “Just the basics, really,” the grey-suited man replied. “Processor speed, word length, interrupt provisions, that sort of thing. Also, does it run off the mains or does it need batteries?”

  Sergei hesitated. Part of him, the part that loved all living things and coleoidea in particular, wanted very much t
o find out if they’d bounce if thrown hard at the pavement outside. The other part bore in mind that business had been slow lately.

  “It’s ninety-nine ninety-five and I’ll throw in a basic tank,” he said. “You won’t find a better octopus in this city.”

  The two men thought for a moment. “What does it come bundled with?” one of them asked.

  “Seaweed.”

  The men looked puzzled. “Is that compatible with PaySoft XP7000?”

  “You’d better believe it,” Sergei said. “You want it or not? Only you’d be paying a hundred twenty for one of these at Squid Heaven, without the tank. Up to you.”

  The octopus stuck out a tentacle and dragged itself a few centimetres up the sheer glass wall. As it did so, it drew water through the finely vascularised membrane of its gills, inadvertently triggering a chemical reaction that fired up a billion subcutaneous processors. The burst of random data, picked up on their intradermal implants, hit both the grey-suited men like a hammer.

  “We’ll take it,” one of them said. “Now, we’ll need a modem and a biometric scanner array to go with it. Have you—?”

  “They’re built in,” Sergei snapped. “That’ll be ninety-nine ninety-five.”

  He was lying, as the two men found out later. Also, he hadn’t mentioned that the input and output ports weren’t compatible with any of the PayTech Inside hardware. In fact, they had to install the ports themselves, with a penknife. Still, as one of the men commented, what do you expect for a hundred bucks these days?

  29

  Novosibirsk

  Mark Twain pressed the button and looked at the grille in the wall. Nothing happened for a bit, then there was a crackling noise and a voice said, “Yes?”

  He’d researched the next bit. You said your name, and who you’d come to see.

  “Mark Twain,” he said.

  “What?”

  “My name is Mark Twain.”

  Pause. Crackle. “What?”

  “I said, my name is Mark Twain.”

  “Sure. And I’m Edgar Allen Poe. Get lost or I’ll call Security.” He wasn’t quite sure what to do. There was a CCTV camera mounted on the wall just above the grille. He took a step back so he could see his face, and smiled into it. That ought to do the trick.