Accelerando (34 page)

“Lied? Context rendered horizontal in past, or subjected to grammatical corruption? Linguistic evil?”

“The latter.” Glashwiecz enjoys this, even though it forces him to get rather closer to the two-meter-long virtual crustacean than he'd like. Showing a mark how they've been scammed is always good, especially when you hold the keys to the door of the cage they're locked inside. “They are not telling you the truth about this system.”

“We received assurances,” Lobster Number One says clearly. Its mouthparts move ceaselessly—the noise comes from somewhere inside its head. “You do not share this phenotype. Why?”

“That information will cost you,” says Glashwiecz. “I am willing to provide it on credit.”

They haggle briefly. An exchange rate in questions is agreed, as is a trust metric to grade the answers by. “Disclose all,” insists the Wunch negotiator.

“There are multiple sentient species on the world we come from,” says the lawyer. “The form you wear belongs to only one—one that wanted to get away from the form
I
wear, the original conscious tool-creating species. Some of the species today are artificial, but all of us trade information for self-advantage.”

“This is good to know,” the lobster assures him. “We like to buy species.”

“You buy species?” Glashwiecz cocks his head.

“We have the unbearable yearning to be not-what-we-are,” says the lobster. “Novelty, surprise! Flesh rots and wood decays. We seek the new beingness of aliens. Give us your somatotype, give us all your thoughts, and we will dream you over.”

“I think something might be arranged,” Glashwiecz concedes. “So you want to be—no, to lease the rights to temporarily be human? Why is that?”

“
Untranslatable concept #3
means
untranslatable concept #4
. God told us to.”

“Okay, I think I'll just have to take that on trust for now. What is your true form?” he asks.

“Wait and I show you,” says the lobster. It begins to shudder.

“What are you doing—”

“Wait.” The lobster twitches, writhing slightly, like a portly businessman adjusting his underwear after a heavy business lunch. Disturbing shapes move, barely visible through the thick chitinous armor. “We
want your help,” the lobster explains, voice curiously muffled. “Want to establish direct trade links. Physical emissaries, yes?”

“Yes, that's very good,” Glashwiecz agrees excitedly: It's exactly what he's hoped for, the sought-after competitive advantage that will prove his fitness in Amber's designated trial by corporate combat. “You're going to deal with us directly without using that shell interface?”

“Agreed.” The lobster trails off into muffled silence; little crunching noises trickle out of its carapace. Then Glashwiecz hears footsteps behind him on the gravel path.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, looking round. It's Pierre, back in standard human form—a sword hangs from his belt, and there's a big wheel-lock pistol in his hands. “Hey!”

“Step away from the alien, lawyer,” Pierre warns, raising the gun.

Glashwiecz glances back at Lobster Number One. It's pulled its front inside the protective shell, and it's writhing now, rocking from side to side alarmingly. Something inside the shell is turning black, acquiring depth and texture. “I stand on counsel's privilege,” Glashwiecz insists. “Speaking as this alien's attorney, I must protest in the strongest terms—”

Without warning, the lobster lurches forward and rises up on its rear legs. It reaches out with huge claws, chellipeds coated with spiny hairs, and grabs Glashwiecz by his arms. “Hey!”

Glashwiecz tries to turn away, but the lobster is already looming over him, maxillipeds and maxillae reaching out from its head. There's a sickening crunch as one of his elbow joints crumbles, humerus shattered by the closing jaws of a chelliped. He draws breath to scream, then the four small maxillae grip his head and draw it down toward the churning mandibles.

Pierre scurries sideways, trying to find a line of fire on the lobster that doesn't pass through the lawyer's body. The lobster isn't cooperating. It turns on the spot, clutching Glashwiecz's convulsing body to itself. There's a stench of shit, and blood is squirting from its mouthparts. Something is very wrong with the biophysics model here, the realism turned up way higher than normal.

“Merde,”
whispers Pierre. He fumbles with the bulky trigger, and there's a faint whirring sound but no explosion.

More wet crunching sounds follow as the lobster demolishes the
lawyer's face and swallows convulsively, sucking his head and shoulders all the way into its gastric mill.

Pierre glances at the heavy handgun.
“Shit!”
he screams. He glances back at the lobster, then turns and runs for the nearest wall. There are other lobsters loose in the formal garden.
“Amber, emergency!”
he sends over their private channel.
“Hostiles in the Louvre!”

The lobster that's taken Glashwiecz hunkers down over the body and quivers. Pierre desperately winds the spring on his gun, too rattled to check that it's loaded. He glances back at the alien intruder.
They've sprung the biophysics model,
he sends.
I could die in here,
he realizes, momentarily shocked.
This instance of me could die forever
.

The lobster shell sitting in the pool of blood and human wreckage splits in two. A humanoid form begins to uncurl from within it, pale-skinned and glistening wet: Vacant blue eyes flicker from side to side as it stretches and stands upright, wobbling uncertainty on its two unstable legs. Its mouth opens and a strange gobbling hiss comes forth.

Pierre recognizes her. “What are you doing here?” he yells.

The nude woman turns toward him. She's the spitting image of Amber's mother, except for the chellipeds she has in place of hands. She hisses,
“Equity!”
and takes a wobbly step toward him, pincers clacking.

Pierre winds the firing handle again. There's a crash of gunpowder and smoke, a blow that nearly sprains his elbow, and the nude woman's chest erupts in a spray of blood. She snarls at him wordlessly and staggers—then ragged flaps of bloody meat close together, knitting shut with improbable speed. She resumes her advance.

“I
told
Amber the Matrix would be more defensible,” Pierre snarls, dropping the firearm and drawing his sword as the alien turns in his direction and raises arms that end in pincers.
“We need guns, dammit! Lots of guns!”

“Waaant equity,”
hisses the alien intruder.

“You
can't
be Pamela Macx,” says Pierre, his back to the wall, keeping the sword point before the lobster-woman-thing. “She's in a nunnery in Armenia or something. You pulled that out of Glashwiecz's memories—he worked for her, didn't he?”

Claws go snicker-snack before his face. “Investment partnership!” screeches the harridan. “Seat on the board! Eat brains for breakfast!” It lurches sideways, trying to get past his guard.

“I don't fucking
believe
this,” Pierre snarls. The Wunch-creature jumps at just the wrong moment and slides onto the point of his blade, claws clacking hungrily. Pierre slides away, nearly leaving his skin on the rough bricks of the wall—and what's good for one is good for all, as the hacked model in force in this reality compels the attacker to groan and collapse.

Pierre pulls the sword out then, nervously glancing over his shoulder, whacks at her neck. The impact jars his arm, but he keeps hacking until there's blood spraying everywhere, blood on his shirt, blood on his sword, and a round thing sitting on a stump of savaged neck nearby, jaw working soundlessly in undeath.

He looks at it for a moment, then his stomach rebels and tries to empty itself into the mess.
“Where the hell
is
everybody?”
he broadcasts on the private channel.
“Hostiles in the Louvre!”

He straightens up, gasping for breath. He feels
alive,
frightened and appalled and exhilarated simultaneously. The crackle of bursting shells on all sides drowns out the birdsong as the Wunch's emissaries adopt a variety of new and supposedly more lethal forms.
“They don't seem to be very clear on how to take over a simulation space,”
he adds. “
Maybe we already are
untranslatable concept number #1
as far as they're concerned.
”

“Don't worry, I've cut off the incoming connection,”
sends Su Ang.
“This is just a bridgehead force; the invasion packets are being filtered out.”

Blank-eyed men and women in dusty black uniforms are hatching from the lobster shells, stumbling and running around the grounds of the royal palace like confused Huguenot invaders.

Boris winks into reality behind Pierre. “Which way?” he demands, pulling out an anachronistic but lethal katana.

“Over here. Let's work this together.” Pierre jacks his emotional damper up to a dangerously high setting, suppressing natural aversion reflexes and temporarily turning himself into a sociopathic killer. He stalks toward an infant lobster-thing with big black eyes and a covering of white hair that mewls at him from a rose bed, and Boris looks away while he kills it. Then one of the larger ones makes the mistake of lunging at Boris, and he chops at it reflexively.

Some of the Wunch try to fight back when Pierre and Boris try to
kill them, but they're handicapped by their anatomy, a curious mixture of crustacean and human, claw and mandible against sword and dagger. When they bleed the ground soaks with the cuprous hue of lobster juice.

“Let's fork,” suggests Boris. “Get this over with.” Pierre nods, dully—everything around him is wrapped in a layer of don't-care, except for a glowing dot of artificial hatred—and they fork, multiplying their state vectors to take full advantage of the virtualization facilities of this universe. There's no need for reinforcements; the Wunch focused on attacking the biophysics model of the universe, making it mimic a physical reality as closely as possible, and paid no attention to learning the more intricate tactics that war in a virtual space permits.

Presently Pierre finds himself in the audience chamber, face and hands and clothing caked in hideous gore, leaning on the back of Amber's throne. There's only one of him now. One of Boris—the only one?—is standing near the doorway. He can barely remember what has happened, the horrors of parallel instances of mass murder blocked from his long-term memory by a high-pass trauma filter. “It looks clear,” he calls aloud. “What shall we do now?”

“Wait for Catherine de Médicis to show up,” says the cat, its grin materializing before him like a numinous threat. “Amber
always
finds a way to blame her mother. Or didn't you already know that?”

Pierre glances at the bloody mess on the footpath outside where the first lobster-woman attacked Glashwiecz. “I already did for her, I think.” He remembers the action in the third person, all subjectivity edited out. “The family resemblance was striking,” the thread that still remembers her in working memory murmurs. “I just hope it's only skin-deep.” Then he forgets the act of apparent murder forever. “Tell the Queen I'm ready to talk.”

Welcome to the downslope on the far side of the curve of accelerating progress.

Back in the solar system, Earth orbits through a dusty tunnel in space. Sunlight still reaches the birth world, but much of the rest of the star's output has been trapped by the growing concentric shells of computronium built from the wreckage of the innermost planets.

Two billion or so mostly unmodified humans scramble in the wreckage of the phase transition, not understanding why the vasty superculture they so resented has fallen quiet. Little information leaks through their fundamentalist firewalls, but what there is shows a disquieting picture of a society where there are no
bodies
anymore. Utility foglets blown on the wind form aerogel towers larger than cyclones, removing the last traces of physical human civilization from most of Europe and the North American coastlines. Enclaves huddle behind their walls and wonder at the monsters and portents roaming the desert of postindustrial civilization, mistaking acceleration for collapse.