Existence (52 page)

Well,
Gerald noted.
They do seem to have finally got their act together.

Now, at last, we may get the full story.

Who would think that the biggest problem of First Contact would turn out to be one of personality. Of disorganization. Or immaturity.

But perhaps the worst is behind us, now.

PESSIMISM

According to the Medea Hypothesis, many of Earth’s mass extinctions were perpetrated by life itself.

Sure, the dinosaurs were wiped out by a random asteroid. Some other die-offs came from impacts or volcanic activity. Yet, Earth’s greatest calamity—the Kirschvink Glaciation of 650 million years ago, when ice covered the whole planet from pole to equator—was caused by sea algae pumping oxygen into the air while depleting CO
2
, plunging Earth into a deep freeze. And life—human civilization—may be doing the opposite right now. Our greenhouse overheating shows there are limits to the biosphere’s famed ability to self-correct.

Life can get out of hand, as when cancer cells destroy the organism that nurtures them. So, is that humanity’s analog? “Cancer” to the living globe? Was Earth’s recent die-off in diversity and biomass wrought by life’s own “biocidal” tendency? What if the Medea Hypothesis extends beyond this planet, to all living worlds?

On the other hand, life on Earth never before had the capacity to
look at itself.
To notice what it’s doing. And perhaps take corrective action. Is that humanity’s true role?

Short-sighted selfishness isn’t new. All creatures do that. We’re the first to
perceive
the slippery slope. To contemplate our self-made paths to hell. What we do about it will define whether we’re truly sapient. Whether we’re a cancer to Mother Earth … or her new brain. Her conscience.

—
Maturation’s Code

40.

WAITING FOR GUIDOT

Hamish fumed.
The Prophet made a point of inviting me here, to help forge a historic alliance. Now I’m snubbed, while power brokers gather behind closed doors.

It took just a moment for his illusion of self-importance to collapse.

*   *   *

Hamish had been sitting near the back of an auditorium-theater, in the sprawling Glaucus-Worthington mansion, trying to find a comfortable position for his long legs while intellectuals from Tenskwatawa’s Renunciation Movement compared notes with scholars employed by the consortium of rich families called the clade. If they were going make common cause, the boffins who served both groups must get their stories straight. There was plenty to discuss—

Like surface justifications for society’s new direction, with varied messages tempered and adjusted for different social sectors, castes, and interest groups.

Marching orders for the politicians and bureaucrats that each group already had locked in, plus plans for collecting more.

Also on the agenda—though less pressing—were methodologies for
good governance
once control was achieved. The presence of this topic made Hamish feel better about the whole thing. If humanity was fated to slip back into traditional patterns, then the new lords should take their duties seriously.

Or, at least, they want to seem that way. It costs little to put some intellectuals on your fealty payroll and get them exchanging papers about
newblesse oblige
—the aristocratic duty to rule wisely. We’ll see if the coming feudal order really goes that way. Tenskwatawa had better keep his wits about him, for all our sakes!

The morning filled with presentations and panel discussions. Sushmeeta, the sociologist from Dharamsala, avoided eye contact with Hamish as she gave her speech about “neo-Confucian” social structures. Recalling their time together last night with mild fondness, he grinned openly when her eyes seemed about to pass over him. But there was no moment of contact. Perhaps she felt embarrassed, or piqued that he did not stay the whole night … or else anxious not to have their mini-affair revealed by gaze analysis. If so, the act of
avoiding
contact could betray that something was up between them … not that he cared much who knew.

There were all sorts of possibilities and Hamish admitted to being curious. A bit.
Maybe, after all, it’s simply a matter of professionalism. She had her way with me—collected a bedded celebrity—and now she’s concentrating on business.
Carolyn had seemed to do that, when first they met, exhibiting a combination of passion and self-control that Hamish couldn’t help but find impressive. Only later, when laughter became a big part of it, did the relationship move toward love.

Toward. But did it ever really get there?
he wondered.
And if so … why couldn’t it stay?

Sushmeeta’s presentation was, in fact, pretty good. An excellent appraisal—steeped in impressive historical evidence—of how oligarchic rule might be made sturdier, more effective and last longer, by lacing it with meritocracy.

Naturally, the intellectuals liked that part. They would. There was appreciative applause when Sushmeeta finished and sat back down in the second row. Hamish preferred to observe from farther back, where he could get up and stretch his legs.

Ah well. Maybe during lunch.…

Of possibly more interest to the First Estate were talks on “Swaying Mass Opinion Through Ubiquitous Ambient Persuasion” and “Verifying the Loyalty of Retainers Through Personality Tomography.”

A panel on intellectual property law sought common ground between the patricians, who viewed patents and copyrights as profitable rents, and the Renunciators, who saw tight licensing of ideas as tool to control “progress.” Advisers for both factions reached consensus—to seek legislation ending all expiration dates on patents. Intellectual property should be forever.

A side bonus: that might help corral some sci-tech types into joining the alliance.

Hamish noted that those giving papers seemed jittery—perhaps due to boffin drugs they sniffed, popped, or sorbed through skin patches. Out in the world, they might be discreet, but here among peers they spoke openly of the latest mind-accelerating substances. Was that what kept them agitated? Or was it lack of World Mesh access from this closed and secret conference?

It’s hard to believe that a hundred years ago folks seriously talked about technocracy—putting the world’s top scientists and intellectual elites in charge.

Of course, the people in this room weren’t “top.” The greatest members of the Fifth Estate kept their distance from the superrich, and especially from Tenskwatawa’s movement. Still, the very idea of technocracy always offended Hamish. And it would surely never happen now. Ironically thanks to methods that these experts were concocting, for their employers in the First Estate.

Hamish listened and took mental notes—half for the sake of the Movement but also as grist for future stories—two goals that pulled, deliciously, in opposite directions. For, while he approved of these proposals in real life—(they might save the world)—he couldn’t help also coming up with great ways to set them in tales of villainy! “Ambient persuasion” and “personality tomography” were euphemisms for mind-control—a dark vein that he had mined in novels, films, and games like
Triumph of the Force
.

So? Some of this stuff was just too cool not to portray in his next tech-bashing tale. Used by some enemy conspiracy—a government agency, or cabal of eco-nuts—instead of allies of the Prophet. Such was the art of fiction. Pick an authority figure as the nearly omnipotent bad guy—the choice depended on your grudges—but anti-authority had been the ongoing theme ever since the invention of Hollywood.

His hand ached from scribbling ideas on the permitted pad of old-fashioned paper.
If only I had access to some vidrec or gisting tools.

Alas, even Wriggles, the mini-ai in his earring, was shut down by some kind of high-tech jamming system.
Well, these are dangerous topics.
Mere hearsay or rumors were harmless. It didn’t matter if millions believed terrible things about the Movement or the clade, even some that were true! But they must never be
verified
.

Around eleven, during a ten-minute break, Hamish was returning from the profligately perfumed men’s room when a conference manager announced the next talk: “Eugenic Refinement of Bloodlines and the Enhancement of Nobility.”

The title struck Hamish as creepy and—if truth be told—sort-of quasi-Nazi. Others in the audience seemed to agree, as dozens drifted away to get coffee or converse in antechambers. The speaker stepped toward the podium, but Hamish was watching Tenskwatawa, along with two key aides, join Rupert Glaucus-Worthington at a side exit, along with Yevgeny Bogolomov, Helena duPont-Vonessen, and other top moguls. Rupert, in particular, had a distracted, worried demeanor. Something weighed heavily on the old man.

Hamish took a swift scan of the auditorium and saw that all the top people in both factions were leaving, or had already left.
This must be it. The real gathering,
he thought, and started forward …

… only to stop as the Prophet, sharp-eyed, glanced his way. With a simple head shake and apologetic smile, Tenskwatawa told Hamish—
No. This is not for you.
Then, the Movement’s leader seemed to dismiss all thought of Hamish and turned away, following their host to some other meeting place. One presumably even more private and secure, where deals could be struck and humanity’s future decided.

Hamish sat down heavily as the eugenics talk was delivered—appropriately, it seemed—by a frumpy little man with an Austrian accent. But Hamish felt too stunned and hurt to pay much heed.

Well, what did you expect? Especially after the way Rupert treated you yesterday. For thousands of years, actors, storytellers, and enchanters knew their place … generally little higher than acrobats and courtesans. Even when famous or beloved, they did not hobnob or discuss policy with kings. Only our recent, adolescent culture exalted entertainers or men of ideas, and that’s sure to change when things settle back to the human norm.

Ah well. I always knew there were some things I’d miss about the Enlightenment.

So, here he belonged, among the other boffins. Not just any entertainer, but a master of mass communications, he should find the topics fascinating and have much to contribute. Yet, Hamish found it hard to focus as the speaker droned on.

“… so we see from these data that one consistent failure mode, leading to the downfall of noble houses in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, across all recorded millennia, was adherence to foolish patterns of marriage and reproduction!

“Of course, arranged marriages often helped seal family alliances—useful in the short term. But it led to calamitous narrowing of aristocratic gene pools! How often were the accomplishments of brilliant rulers frittered by their dullard sons?

“Observe, the effects of inbreeding on just three royal houses, the Hohenzollerns, Hapsburgs, and Romanovs. Monarchs who were certifiably inferior in both intelligence and temperament ignited half a century of agony! Hundreds of millions dead, the ruin of all three houses, and aristocracy discredited for several wasted generations, till memory of that horror faded at last.”

Hamish scanned some of the technical graphics, bobbing over both speaker and audience like blimps filled with charts and animated data. Apparently, the little scholar’s point was similar to the Hindi sociologist—only his notion of “meritocracy” extended to the noble bloodlines themselves.

“Then there is the problem of
brain drain
—that many of the brightest children of aristocracy abandon it! While maintaining some level of comfort, they choose instead the company of
techies,
applying their minds to expertise in some branch of science or art or other.…”

Hamish twitched as a soft tingle stroked his ear. He quashed an impulse to suddenly sit up. Keeping still, he subvocalized a question in the confines of his throat, with closed mouth.

“WRIGGLES? IS THAT YOU?”

The tingling went away … then returned, stronger. Yet, the voice of his aissistant remained silent. Perhaps the suppressor field that jammed mesh-communications in the Glaucus-Worthington mansion had sputtered, allowing personal devices to wake a little—enough to be irritating.

Hamish reached up to remove the earring—

—when the tingle became a low, grating sound.… that swelled into a mutter … then gathered into words.

“Hamish Brookeman, if you hear this, touch the seat in front of you.”

Um.

That wasn’t Wriggles.

Hamish barely hesitated. He was already leaning forward. One lazy sweep of a hand was enough to comply.

“Good. Please go to the empty seat directly across the aisle. Feel along the left side, under the padding. Stay casual.”

Hamish thought about how someone might surreptitiously overcome the jamming. Perhaps with a directional maser, aimed line-of-sight at his earring? But detectors in the auditorium should spot scattered reflections. Unless … they were using some kind of off-band, induced-resonance effect, causing the earring to vibrate.… Or else, might it be a recording, inserted earlier?

He shook his head. Technological speculations weren’t important. What mattered was—could this be some sort of loyalty test?

If so, is it just me, or are they testing everyone?

The speaker meanwhile kept talking about aristocratic breeding. “… All these problems could be solved by choosing mates from among the most brilliant and accomplished commoners. By combining this with scientifically planned recombination and reinforcement, the top caste can benefit by producing dynamic and talented offspring! Let me emphasize, for our new friends the renunciation movement, this can be done without genetic meddling! Though, of course there would still have to be prenatal…”

Thinking backward, Hamish didn’t recall seeing any boffins acting suspiciously, changing seats or feeling cushions—or dashing off to report illicit messages to security. Sure, some might react with subtlety, betraying nothing overtly. But most of these nervous intellectuals wouldn’t know how.