Accelerando (58 page)

“That's the trouble with this damned polity.” Manfred takes another gulp of
hefeweisen
. “We've already got six million people living on this planet, and it's growing like the first-generation Internet. Everyone who is anyone knows everyone, but there are so many incomers diluting the mix and not knowing that there
is
a small world network here that everything is up for grabs again after only a couple of megaseconds. New networks form, and we don't even know they exist until they sprout a political agenda and surface under us. We're acting under time pressure. If we don't get things rolling now, we'll never be able to . . .” He shakes his head. “It wasn't like this for you in Brussels, was it?”

“No. Brussels was a mature system. And I had Gianni to look after in his dotage after you left. It will only get worse from here on in, I think.”

“Democracy 2.0.” He shudders briefly. “I'm not sure about the validity of voting projects at all, these days. The assumption that all people are of equal importance seems frighteningly obsolescent. Do you think we can make this fly?”

“I don't see why not. If Amber's willing to play the People's Princess
for us . . .” Annette picks up a slice of liverwurst and chews on it meditatively.

“I'm not sure it's workable, however we play it.” Manfred looks thoughtful. “The whole democratic participation thing looks questionable to me under these circumstances. We're under direct threat, for all that it's a long-term one, and this whole culture is in danger of turning into a classical nation-state. Or worse, several of them layered on top of one another with complete geographical collocation but no social interpenetration. I'm not certain it's a good idea to try to steer something like that—pieces might break off. You'd get the most unpleasant side effects. Although, on the other hand, if we can mobilize enough broad support to become the first visible planetwide polity . . .”

“We need you to stay focused,” Annette adds unexpectedly.

“Focused? Me?” He laughs, briefly. “I
used
to have an idea a second. Now it's maybe one a year. I'm just a melancholy old birdbrain, me.”

“Yes, but you know the old saying? The fox has many ideas—the hedgehog has only one, but it's a
big
idea.”

“So tell me, what is my big idea?” Manfred leans forward, one elbow on the table, one eye focused on inner space as a hot-burning thread of consciousness barks psephological performance metrics at him, analyzing the game ahead. “Where do you think I'm going?”

“I think—” Annette breaks off suddenly, staring past his shoulder. Privacy slips, and for a frozen moment Manfred glances round in mild horror and sees thirty or forty other guests in the crowded garden, elbows rubbing, voices raised above the background chatter. “Gianni!” She beams widely as she stands up. “What a surprise! When did you arrive?”

Manfred blinks. A slim young guy, moving with adolescent grace but none of the awkward movements and sullen lack of poise—he's much older than he looks, chickenhawk genetics.
Gianni?
He feels a huge surge of memories paging through his exocortex. He remembers ringing a doorbell in dusty, hot Rome: white toweling bathrobe, the economics of scarcity, autograph signed by the dead hand of von Neumann—“Gianni?” he asks, disbelieving. “It's been a long time!”

The gilded youth, incarnated in the image of a metropolitan toy-boy from the noughties, grins widely and embraces Manfred with a friendly bear hug. Then he slides down onto the bench next to Annette, whom he
kisses with easy familiarity. “Ah, to be among friends again! It's been too long!” He glances round curiously. “Hmm, how very Bavarian.” He snaps his fingers. “Mine will be a, what do you recommend? It's been too long since my last beer.” His grin widens. “Not in this body.”

“You're resimulated?” Manfred asks, unable to stop himself.

Annette frowns at him disapprovingly. “No, silly! He came through the teleport gate—”

“Oh.” Manfred shakes his head. “I'm sorry—”

“It's okay.” Gianni Vittoria clearly doesn't mind being mistaken for an historical newbie, rather than someone who's traveled through the decades the hard way.
He must be over a hundred by now,
Manfred notes, not bothering to spawn a search thread to find out.

“It was time to move and, well, the old body didn't want to move with me, so why not go gracefully and accept the inevitable?”

“I didn't take you for a dualist,” Manfred says ruefully.

“Ah, I'm not—but neither am I reckless.” Gianni drops his grin for a moment. The sometime minister for transhuman affairs, economic theoretician, then retired tribal elder of the polycognitive liberals is serious. “I have never uploaded before, or switched bodies, or teleported. Even when my old one was seriously—tcha! Maybe I left it too long. But here I am. One planet is as good as another to be cloned and downloaded onto, don't you think?”

“You invited him?” Manfred asks Annette.

“Why wouldn't I?” There's a wicked gleam in her eye. “Did you expect me to live like a nun while you were a flock of pigeons? We may have campaigned against the legal death of the transubstantiated, Manfred, but there are limits.”

Manfred looks between them, then shrugs, embarrassed. “I'm still getting used to being human again,” he admits. “Give me time to catch up? At an emotional level, at least.” The realization that Gianni and Annette have a history together doesn't come as a surprise to him: It's one of the things you must adapt to if you opt out of the human species, after all. At least the libido suppression is helping here, he realizes. He's not about to embarrass anyone by suggesting a ménage. He focuses on Gianni. “I have a feeling I'm here for a purpose, and it isn't mine,” he says slowly. “Why don't you tell me what you've got in mind?”

Gianni shrugs. “You have the big picture already. We are human,
metahuman, and augmented human. But the posthumans are things that were never really human to begin with. The Vile Offspring have reached their adolescence and want the place to themselves so they can throw a party. The writing is on the wall, don't you think?”

Manfred gives him a long stare. “The whole idea of running away in meatspace is fraught with peril,” he says slowly. He picks up his mug of beer and swirls it around slowly. “Look, we know, now, that a singularity doesn't turn into a voracious predator that eats all the dumb matter in its path, triggering a phase change in the structure of space—at least, not unless they've done something very stupid to the structure of the false vacuum, somewhere outside our current light cone.

“But if we run away,
we
are still going to be there. Sooner or later, we'll have the same problem all over again; runaway intelligence augmentation, self-expression, engineered intelligences, whatever. Possibly that's what happened out past the Böotes void—not a galactic-scale civilization, but a race of pathological cowards fleeing their own exponential transcendence. We carry the seeds of a singularity with us wherever we go, and if we try to excise those seeds, we cease to be human, don't we? So . . . maybe you can tell me what you think we should do. Hmm?”

“It's a dilemma.” A waitron inserts itself into their privacy-screened field of view. It plants a spun-diamond glass in front of Gianni, then pukes beer into it. Manfred declines a refill, waiting for Gianni to drink. “Ah, the simple pleasures of the flesh! I've been corresponding with your daughter, Manny. She loaned me her experiential digest of the journey to Hyundai
⁺⁴⁹⁰⁴
/
_-56
. I found it quite alarming. Nobody's casting aspersions on her observations, not after that self-propelled stock market bubble or 419 scam or whatever it was got loose in the Economics 2.0 sphere, but the implications—the Vile Offspring will eat the solar system, Manny. Then they'll slow down. But where does that leave us, I ask you? What is there for orthohumans like us to do?”

Manfred nods thoughtfully. “You've heard the argument between the
accelerationistas
and the time-binder faction, I assume?” he asks.

“Of course.” Gianni takes a long pull on his beer. “What do
you
think of our options?”

“The
accelerationistas
want to upload everyone onto a fleet of starwhisps and charge off to colonize an uninhabited brown dwarf planetary system. Or maybe steal a Matrioshka brain that's succumbed to
senile dementia and turn it back into planetary biomes with cores of diamond-phase computronium to fulfill some kind of demented pastoralist nostalgia trip. Rousseau's universal robots. I gather Amber thinks this is a good idea because she's done it before—at least, the charging off aboard a starwhisp part. ‘To boldly go where no uploaded metahuman colony fleet has gone before' has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?” Manfred nods to himself. “Like I say, it won't work. We'd be right back to iteration one of the waterfall model of singularity formation within a couple of gigaseconds of arriving. That's why I came back: to warn her.”

“So?” Gianni prods, pretending to ignore the frowns that Annette is casting his way.

“And as for the time-binders”—Manfred nods again—“they're like Sirhan. Deeply conservative, deeply suspicious. Holding out for staying here as long as possible, until the Vile Offspring come for Saturn—then moving out bit by bit, into the Kuiper belt. Colony habitats on snowballs half a light year from anywhere.” He shudders. “Spam in a fucking can with a light-hour walk to the nearest civilized company if your fellow inmates decide to reinvent Stalinism or Objectivism. No thanks! I know they've been muttering about quantum teleportation and stealing toys from the routers, but I'll believe it when I see it.”

“Which leaves what?” Annette demands. “It is all very well, this dismissal of both the
accelerationista
and time-binder programs, Manny, but what can you propose in their place?” She looks distressed. “Fifty years ago, you would have had six new ideas before breakfast! And an erection.”

Manfred leers at her unconvincingly. “Who says I can't still have both?”

She glares. “Drop it!”

“Okay.” Manfred chugs back a quarter of a liter of beer, draining his glass, and puts it down on the table with a bang. “As it happens, I
do
have an alternative idea.” He looks serious. “I've been discussing it with Aineko for some time, and Aineko has been seeding Sirhan with it—if it's to work optimally, we'll need to get a rump constituency of both the
accelerationistas
and the conservatives on board. Which is why I'm conditionally going along with this whole election nonsense. So, what's it worth to you for me to explain it?”

“So, who was the deadhead you were busy with today?” asks Amber.

Rita shrugs. “Some boringly prolix pulp author from the early twentieth, with a body phobia of extropian proportions—I kept expecting him to start drooling and rolling his eyes if I crossed my legs. Funny thing is, he was also close to bolting from fear once I mentioned implants. We
really
need to nail down how to deal with these mind/body dualists, don't we?” She watches Amber with something approaching admiration; she's new to the inner circle of the
accelerationista
study faction, and Amber's social credit is sky-high. Rita's got a lot to learn from her, if she can get close enough. And right now, following her along a path through the landscaped garden behind the museum seems like a golden moment of opportunity.

Amber smiles. “I'm glad I'm not processing immigrants these days: Most of them are so stupid it drives you up the wall after a bit. Personally I blame the Flynn effect—in reverse. They come from a background of sensory deprivation. It's nothing that a course of neural growth enhancers can't fix in a year or two, but after the first few you skullfuck, they're all the same. So
dull
. Unless you're unlucky enough to get one of the documentees from a puritan religious period. I'm no fluffragette, but I swear if I get one more superstitious woman-hating clergyman, I'm going to consider prescribing forcible gender reassignment surgery. At least the Victorian English are mostly just open-minded lechers, when you get past their social reserve. And they like new technology.”

Rita nods.
Woman-hating et cetera . . .
The echoes of patriarchy are still with them today, it seems, and not just in the form of resimulated ayatollahs and archbishops from the Dark Ages. “My author sounds like the worst of both. Some guy called Howard, from Rhode Island. Kept looking at me as if he was afraid I was going to sprout bat wings and tentacles or something.”
Like your son,
she doesn't add.
Just what was he thinking, anyway?
she wonders.
To be that screwed up takes serious dedication . . .
“What are you working on, if you don't mind me asking?” she asks, trying to change the direction of her attention.