World Engine

by Stephen Baxter

  Towards the end of the seven days Bartholomew did train him up on the use of one gadget. It was a bangle, to be worn on the wrist, vaguely copper in colour, very light. Just like the one Deirdra had worn. It seemed to snuggle to fit, a little eerily.

  ‘This is your closest companion, Malenfant. Your best friend. It will support you when you are out of this technological womb, which has provided you with all sorts of assistance you won’t even have noticed.’

  ‘Such as translation?’

  ‘Correct. I have been speaking twenty-first-century English, mostly. Deirdra, for example, didn’t.’

  Malenfant stared at the bangle suspiciously. ‘If I want to turn it off—’

  ‘Just tell it so. It’s smart. It’s smarter than you are. But there are some functions you can’t disable.’

  ‘Such as twenty-four-hour medical monitoring, I bet.’

  ‘Well . . . We did our best, Malenfant, but given your injuries, the retrospectively crude medical attention you got initially, the challenge of reviving you after centuries – you will never be as you were before, Malenfant. Accept it.’

  So he did, with more or less good grace.

  On what he said was going to be their last day together, Bartholomew lightened the rules a little. No more broth. No more compulsory exercises, though Malenfant used the treadmill and ran through his yoga moves anyhow. Bartholomew produced a reasonable facsimile of Malenfant’s final guilty-pleasure meal, a Big Mac with fries and all the trimmings, and even produced a pitcher of decent light beer, though somehow to Malenfant it wasn’t the same when not popped from a can.

  Bartholomew, however, did not join Malenfant in eating. Not even this final meal. Granted, maybe junk food from circa the year 2000 wasn’t to his taste, but he never had eaten with Malenfant, not once, not so much as a mouthful. In fact ever since the day Malenfant had been released from the pod, he had seen Bartholomew eat nothing at all, drink not so much as a sip of water.

  Thus Malenfant’s suspicions hardened. Time for some truth, while he had a chance to get it.

  ‘So,’ he said when he had done burping, ‘I’m out of here tomorrow. What’s next for you, Bartholomew?’

  The nurse shrugged. ‘I wait for another coldsleep patient to show up. My specialism. There are a handful each year, handled by facilities like this across the planet, revived from vaults on Earth or on the Moon. I won’t be idle for long. In the meantime there is the equipment to maintain.’

  ‘And training for you.’

  ‘Of course—’

  ‘Or rather, uploads, right?’

  Bartholomew faced him. ‘Ah. So it’s time for this conversation. I have never tried to conceal my true nature from you.’

  ‘Right. But you never volunteered it either. Although maybe I should have guessed it from your name. Cute trick, naming you after the hospital where you work. Are there other Bartholomews? Mark Two, Mark Three—’

  Bartholomew ignored that. ‘My appearance is meant to be a comfort for the patients, especially on first revival. This was understood perhaps even in your day, Malenfant. But faking humanity has to be very convincing. Children, especially, are acute at picking out flaws – unrealistic aspects. And they find that distressing.’

  ‘I guess looking for mommy, or at least authentic human beings, is hard-wired in . . . I remember I said to you, when I was still groggy from the coffin, that you could automate a surgeon but never a nurse.’

  ‘How wrong you were.’

  Malenfant leaned forward and looked more closely into Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘So what’s in there? What is inside your head, looking out?’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘Nothing. Nobody.’

  Malenfant scoffed. ‘Come on. A machine as sophisticated as you—’

  ‘Sophisticated? You are probably thinking of general intelligence, in the jargon of your day. Of the highest functions of sentience: the ability to make judgements, formulate goals, plan actions, see them through. Of the ability to empathise. Of self-awareness. I have none of that.’

  ‘Really? You seem pretty empathetic to me. Although Emma used to tell me that I myself had no idea what that word really means . . .’

  ‘I am algorithmic, Malenfant. That’s all. There was a divergence, you see, when the Homeward movement began. The most advanced AIs of all had been those sent into space – to the Moon, Mars, Mercury, Venus, Europa – environments physically too harsh for humanity, but cognitively challenging, where the robots needed their general intelligence to land, explore, set up science and exploration programmes, all far from Earth and with communications compromised by lightspeed – all under their own initiative, you see. They even established industries. At one time, much of Earth’s power, mineral input, even its food, came from automated space-based facilities. All abandoned now, the facilities dismantled, or archived on the Moon or at the Lagrange points in Earth’s orbit.’

  Malenfant listened with a kind of wonder. ‘I always dreamed of opening up that frontier. I imagined I’d leave NASA some day and go back to Bootstrap. Help kick-start all of that. The robots did it all, huh? So what happened? What kind of divergence do you mean? You once said something about space colonisation proving to be impossible for humans.’

  ‘In the long run, yes. Biological, ecological factors. But there were other issues with the AIs.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Different values. Between humans and general intelligences. They were similar in many ways – perhaps too similar. Both evolved general goals, which diverged. And it was felt that the two kinds of mind should follow their own goals, without dependence on each other.’

  ‘Right. So the Planetary AIs were general intelligences, and stayed away. While on Earth—’

  ‘Today there are no general intelligences on Earth.’

  Malenfant grinned. ‘Oh, come on. I’ve lived with you for a week. You’ve nursed me. After a fashion.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You even have a sense of humour. A bad one, granted . . . And you are telling me you don’t have general intelligence?’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘I told you, Malenfant. There’s nobody home.’ He dug in a pocket, produced a plastic slip, and set it on the table before Malenfant. ‘I carry this for whenever I get into this discussion with patients.’

  ‘How many patients ask?’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘All of them save the infants. Even they stare, trying to figure it out. Look at the card, Malenfant.’

  Malenfant read: ‘“Newton’s iterative method: an example. Finding a square root by successive approximations . . .” I guess the bangle is enabling me to read this? Never mind. I was good at maths, once. Newton’s method. Dating back to the old guy himself?’

  ‘1669.’

  ‘A numerical method. A way of finding an approximate solution to an equation you can’t solve exactly—’

  ‘And iterating, to get a better second guess. And repeat, getting closer and closer answers, until they are good enough. In this case – look, Malenfant – what’s the square root of ten?’

  Malenfant shrugged. ‘Off the top of my head, a bit more than three? Since three squared is nine.’

  ‘Which is a bit less than ten. So three is a bit less than the true root. OK. So, follow the rule on the card. Suppose you divide ten by your first guess. What’s the answer?’

  ‘Three and a third.’

  ‘And if you square that you get eleven point one one . . . So three and a third must be a bit more than the root. And so, if you take the average of three, which was too small, and three and a third, which was too large—’

  ‘You get a second guess, three and a sixth, that must be closer to the root.’

  ‘In fact,’ Bartholomew said, ‘correct to two decimal places. And if you apply the same rule again – starting with that second guess, divide into ten, take an average, you come up with a still more precise answer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Malenfant said. ‘And you repeat as necessary until you have got as close as you like.’

  ‘
You’ve got it. That’s an algorithm. A set of rules that you apply, over and over, to solve a problem. But – who just found those square-root values? Do you believe the little bit of card is conscious? Or the rule set itself?’ He looked at Malenfant frankly. ‘Malenfant, I – I – am nothing but a machine running a bunch of algorithms. Rule sets. I deal with problems, such as balky out-of-time patients like you, by reaching for those rule sets. But I am no more conscious than the rules written down on that card. So. You need some more beer?’

  ‘If you really are nothing but rule sets, you’re a good bar tender.’

  ‘Thanks. And I really am nothing but rule sets.’ And he winked, once again. ‘But I would say that, wouldn’t I?’

  When they finally left the submerged hospital, it would be by a kind of elevator shaft to the surface.

  Malenfant carried a bag with a few clothes, all of them new. No personal possessions had survived his crash and his long sleep. To his specifications, and after some experiments, Bartholomew had printed out for him a jumpsuit in NASA blue, sturdy boots, and some comfortable underwear – comfortable and familiar, too, after much description and sketching; the engineering of a man’s undershorts had changed a lot by the year 2469, and not to Malenfant’s liking. Malenfant quickly discovered that even the clothing was smart, to an extent, self-cleaning, self-repairing. Bartholomew, himself wearing a kind of loose shirt, trousers and hat, all in white, insisted Malenfant was over-dressed for the climate. Malenfant said he’d take his chances.

  Thus equipped, Malenfant rose from the depths.

  The elevator ride was smooth, easy. From talking to Bartholomew Malenfant had learned this kind of situation was pretty standard, in fact. Secured underwater facilities with easy access to the surface, like this hospital, were routine. An evidently post-flood world had adapted to exploiting what remained of the facilities of the great drowned cities, like London, rather than let them fail and decay.

  ‘So,’ Bartholomew said, ‘prepare to face a new world, Malenfant. Some final tips. While I have you to myself.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You don’t own the world through compound interest on your savings. We don’t need you to overthrow our social order. And we don’t need your primitive vigour to fertilise the race.’

  Malenfant looked at him. ‘You have done your research.’

  ‘We rule sets have a lot of time on our hands . . .’

  Daylight poured into the transparent-walled car, and the last water drained away.

  And Reid Malenfant emerged into the air of twenty-fifth-century Earth.

  7

  He stepped out onto a small concrete platform, surrounded by water, a placid sea. The Thames Bay, Deirdra had called it.

  He could see no dry land at all, at first glance. But here and there the relics of buildings protruded from the surface: shattered high-rise blocks and chimney towers, their surfaces stained green, and festooned with what looked like dangling lianas and vines. The water itself seemed heavy and thick with life – something like seaweed floated, with fat air-filled blisters. The water was salty, Malenfant could smell it.

  And it was hot. That was the most profound sensation that crowded in on him, the very air heavy and humid. Sweat immediately started up from his face, his neck, and he could feel it soaking into his flight suit. Tropical heat in London – even though, he saw, the Sun was low on the horizon. It was a hell of a contrast to the air-conditioned gloom of his underwater therapy centre. He felt dazzled, overheated, overwhelmed – almost as disoriented as when he had first come out of the coldsleep pod.

  Bartholomew grinned at his discomfort, from under his broad hat. ‘And this is February, remember. Told you so. It’s like this all over now. And as I also told you, you don’t need a zip-up jumpsuit.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, slide rule. You’re just showing off.’

  ‘Colonel Reid – sorry, I keep forgetting – Colonel Malenfant. Hello.’

  This was Greggson Deirdra, who came walking across the platform towards them. She, like Bartholomew, was wearing light, white, floaty clothes, some kind of trouser suit. Behind her Malenfant glimpsed a boat, a small, open vessel, tied up at a stubby concrete dock. An older woman, also in white, sitting in the boat, glared at him from under a broad straw hat.

  ‘Just Malenfant, remember? Hey, good to see you again, Deirdra. Thanks for welcoming me to the fabulous year 2469.’

  ‘Well, we’re here to take you home. Come on.’

  With a kind of childish generosity, she held out her hand. He took it, her skin once more feeling unreasonably soft against his own scarred palm, and walked with her to the dock.

  ‘This is my mother.’

  The woman in the boat stood with practised ease, stepped onto the platform, and held out her own hand. Beneath her hat her hair was dark but greying, and tied back severely. She was shorter than her daughter, sturdier. And, to Malenfant’s eye, she seemed somewhat less glad to see him. Her handshake was tentative, grudging, and kind of clumsy, as if she didn’t do this too often.

  ‘Greggson Mica. Deirdra has told me what she can about you, Colonel—’

  ‘Just Malenfant.’

  ‘You are her project. You will be staying in our home – well, you are very welcome, as long as you wish, as long as it takes you to get established.’

  And not a day longer, Malenfant thought, filling in the gaps. ‘I’m really grateful, Mrs Greggson—’

  ‘Mica.’

  ‘Your daughter has a kind instinct. I may have been an astronaut but this is one new world I’ve had no training for. I mean – look how I’m dressed.’ He held out his arms, displaying sweat-soaked armpits.

  That forced a laugh from Deirdra.

  ‘So, having somewhere to stay for a few days, somebody to show me the ropes around here . . . But, listen, I’ll keep out of your hair.’

  An idiom that Mica frowned at. Evidently the translator bangles had their limitations.

  ‘I mean, I’ll take up as little space as possible. I don’t know if you have other kids? Your husband?’

  ‘Only Deirdra. Deirdra and myself. Greggson Wilson George died some years ago.’

  ‘When I was small,’ Deirdra put in.

  Malenfant did a double-take. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Greggson Wilson George. Surnames before first names, he knew about that. He wondered now if that was some echo of an age of climate-collapse refugee camps: of generations of kids who had got used to hearing their surnames called first. And, Greggson Wilson George? Did this culture prioritise the female line in the naming? Lots to learn, Malenfant, he thought. And lots of ways to get it wrong.

  ‘Well,’ Mica said with a wan smile, ‘at least we have plenty of room at home.’ She stepped back off the platform, expertly compensating for the rocking of the little boat. ‘Come aboard. Our plan is to take you to Hampstead Heath. Which is a small island, above the water. There we will be picked up by Prefect Morrel, who has been assigned to your . . . care.’

  Another gap in her speech. She doesn’t mean ‘your care’. She means ‘your supervision’, Malenfant filled in.

  Deirdra, full of youth, somehow blossoming in this bizarre tropical heat, skipped ahead and fairly jumped into the boat.

  Malenfant, boarding more cautiously, murmured to his android nurse, ‘They know their way around boats.’

  ‘Everybody does, Malenfant,’ said Bartholomew, following with Malenfant’s pack. ‘In some places, at Peak Carbon, oh, a century ago, the sea-level rise topped seventy metres.’

  Malenfant whistled. ‘I guess all the ice melted, then?’

  ‘What ice?’

  They reached the pier. Malenfant turned to Bartholomew. ‘So.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘So?’

  The women were waiting in the boat. Still Malenfant hesitated. ‘I find it oddly difficult to say goodbye to you, Bartholomew.’

  ‘Maybe you imprinted on me. Like a baby chick on its parent.’

  Malenfant grunted. ‘
I ain’t no baby chick. I’d prefer to think we were two guys who bonded over beer and French fries. Look . . .’ He glanced down at the water that covered London. Maximise the available resources, Malenfant. You don’t know what’s up ahead. ‘You say you have duties. But there’s no sleep-pod relic coming down the pipe immediately, is there?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘So I’m still your patient. Come on. If you are curious at all about what happens next to Reid Malenfant in the twenty-fifth century, maybe you could rummage through your rule sets and find some helpful get-out clause—’

  ‘Of course I can stay with you,’ Bartholomew said, without hesitation.

  Malenfant was taken aback. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? If you still need my support, and there is no other higher priority, then of course.’ Bartholomew patted his pockets. ‘In fact I came prepared for the eventuality. Some basic medical equipment and supplies.’

  ‘I should have known you’d think ahead.’

  ‘But you had to ask.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Like when you asked to get out of the coldsleep pod in the first place. That’s the rule set.’

  ‘Well.’ Malenfant glanced over, and saw that Deirdra and her mother were listening in. Deirdra was grinning, her mother was not. ‘Looks like you’ll have an extra house guest, Mica, if that’s OK. Don’t worry. Daneel Olivaw here will be even less trouble than I will.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Bartholomew.

  Mica frowned. ‘Daneel who?’

  ‘It’s a pop-culture reference,’ Deirdra said carefully. ‘He’s always doing that. Just ignore it.’

  ‘Good advice,’ Bartholomew said. ‘I do.’

  Mica acquiesced, but she glared. ‘So, Malenfant. You’re one week out of the coldsleep pod and already you’ve recruited a team. Is this what you do?’

  That took Malenfant by surprise. He thought back, to his days of crew-building in the astronaut corps, and the teams of engineers and business types he, Paulis and Reaves had gathered to fulfil their wildly speculative plans for asteroid mining . . . A team, in the year 2469? To what end? He supposed when he had figured that out he would know it all.