Singularity: Star Carrier: Book Three (34 page)

And there was more. Through virtual links, it was even possible for a human partner to teleoperate Ginnie from a distance. Koenig and Karyn had used a Ginnie several times when he’d been stationed on Mars, she’d been up at Mars Synchorbit, and their schedules had precluded their getting together physically. There were male analogues available as well.

Koenig had never much cared for the surrogate, even when he knew that Karyn was looking at him through those lifelike gynoid eyes and her face, that when he touched the thing’s body Karyn felt the touch within her virtual simulation tens of thousands of kilometers overhead. Even though his brain couldn’t tell the difference,
he knew the thing wasn’t real
.

Within a world culture that valued sexual creativity, pleasure, and enhancement, devices like the Ginnie surrogates were common, fully accepted, and reasonably affordable. Koenig, though, had felt an attraction to one woman, Karyn Mendelson, that was almost monogie in its focus and intensity. Karyn had teased him once about his being as bad as a Prim.

As lifelike as Ginnie was, it could not replace the woman he loved. Without her, sex was just . . .
sex
, a physical release that did nothing for the ache in his soul.

“Karyn?” he said.

“I’m here,” her voice replied.

But the PA was as much a surrogate, he knew, as the lifelike doll in the storage compartment. And he was still unhappy about the emotional outburst earlier, when he’d angrily cut off Karyn’s voice. It was possible that he was allowing the simulation to affect the way he thought, the way he acted, even the way he made decisions . . . and that was not good, not when the lives of fifty thousand people depended on him and his clear thinking.

“Karyn . . . I’d like to have you revert to your base programming.”

“You want me to delete the Mendelson persona?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Your command has been executed.” The voice was not exactly flat, now, but it was neutral in tone, androgynous, and nothing at all like Karyn.

Perhaps now, Koenig thought, he could get to sleep. . . .

Trevor Gray

Omega Centauri

0254 hours, TFT

Trevor Gray was back in the Manhattan Ruins.

Clearly, whoever or whatever was running this simulation was doing so by tapping into his personal memories, using both his ship’s AI and his own personal in-head hardware.

He was riding his old broom, the Mitsubishi-Rockwell gravcycle he’d found years before, overlooked in a burned-out shop in Old Harlem. Three meters long, with fore- and aft grav-impeller blocks, they were scarce in the Periphery, but not unknown. The locals called them “gimps,” for “grav-impellers,” or “pogo sticks” or “brooms,” and they operated in a fashion much like his Starhawk, projecting tiny knots of fiercely twisted spacetime that levitated the vehicle in a gentle hover or whipped it ahead at a couple of hundred kph. Too small to mount a quantum power tap, it relied on micro-fusion cells for power, and required periodic rechargings from a generator or a power grid, both a bit hard to come by in the Periphery. Gray had often snuck up to Haworth or west across the Jersey Bay to Newark Shore to tap into the power grid. It was illegal, of course, but there’d been citizens willing to exchange some of their grid juice for a string of fresh fish or a box of antique relics scavenged from the ruins of Old New York.

At the moment, within his mind’s eye, he was hovering at a slow drift above the waters of the lower Hudson. The ancient Statue of Liberty rose from her submerged island below, one armed and vigilant; the top six meters of her right arm long ago broken off and fallen into the dark waters of the bay below. Gray often, before he’d joined the Navy, had come here, parked his broom on the Lady’s head, and stared across the water at the Manhattan Ruins, vine-covered cliffs rising from the waters that had submerged the original island to a depth of more than fifteen meters.

Gray no longer felt like this was home. He’d come to grips a long time ago with the fact that everyone he’d known here was gone. Including Angela, living now in Haworth with someone named Fred and his extended family.

Damn them all, damn them all
. . . .

“You feel some extremely strong emotions concerning your culture,” a voice said behind him.

Gray twisted on his broom, looking back. Thedreh’schul was there, standing on what looked like a dull silver circular platter hovering in midair. “Okay, Agletsch!” he said, angry. “What the hell is going on?”

“As I told you at our last encounter, the Sh’daar are curious about you, and the fact that you appear to have been abandoned by the technological facet of your culture. The Sh’daar have been investigating your personal store of memories. There is much, however, that they do not understand. And they do not know how to ask.”

“So what’s
their
hang-up with technology?” Gray demanded.

“We see within your memories reference to something you call the Vinge Singularity, yes-no?”

Every man and woman in the fleet knew the term. When the Sh’daar, through their Agletsch clients, had demanded that Humankind cease development of certain key technologies in 2367, the assumption had been that they feared a runaway growth in human technological development.

“Okay,” Gray said. “Some human philosophers have been expecting us to hit the Singularity any day now for the past four centuries. But we haven’t hit it yet.”

“The Sh’daar fear the same.”

“They’re about to hit the Singularity?”

“They fear you are about to do so.”

“Okay . . . why? That has nothing to do with them.”

“It has everything to do with them. The Sh’daar . . . the precursors of the Sh’daar, I should say, reached their equivalent of the Vinge Singularity some time ago.”

Gray nodded. Months ago, in Sarnelli’s, a restaurant in Earth’s synchorbital complex near the Quito space elevator, Gray and some fellow pilots had shared drinks with Gru’mulkisch and Dra’ethde, the two Agletsch who’d later come along with the carrier battlegroup as alien liaisons. Both had imbibed just a little too much acetic acid that evening, and one had confided that the Sh’daar had
transcended
.

“We knew that,” Gray said. “But I don’t think we understand it, even yet. I was told once that the Sh’daar had transcended. But why would they want to keep anyone else from doing the same?”

“The ones you know as the Sh’daar,” Thedreh’schul said with grave deliberation, “are not the
original
Sh’daar. They are the ones who were left behind when the original Sh’daar . . . transcended. Transformed. Went away. Yes-no?”

The revelation struck Gray like a solid blow to the gut. “Wait! You’re saying the Sh’daar, the ones who started this damned war, they were left behind by the ones who went through the Singularity?”

Thedreh’schul gestured with two of her forelegs, taking in the sweep of the Manhat Ruins across the bay. “I believe this is what brought you to the Masters’ attention,” she said. “You, personally, I mean, yes-no? You are a member of a space-faring, technologically advanced species, and yet you lived for a time under primitive conditions, without access to that technology. And you seem to have resented this.”

“I guess you could say that, sure.” Gray pointed north, off to the left, where the gleaming, clean towers of Haworth and the Palisades Eudaimonium rose above the horizon, tiny at this distance, but imposing in the realization that they were over forty kilometers away. “Up there, those were the tech-haves. Down here, we were the have-nots.”

“But why? Surely it is the responsibility of any technic culture to care for, to
provide
for all of its members, yes-no?”

“Maybe. But there’s not a whole lot they can do if some of those members want nothing to do with them, is there?”

The Agletsch hesitated, her eye stalks twitching in a manner that suggested agitation, or perhaps confusion. “Are you saying that you and those with you did not want to partake of that culture? That you isolated yourselves deliberately?”

Gray took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He wasn’t entirely sure of his own reasoning here. The circumstances had been . . . difficult.

“Look, I don’t know all of the details,” he said. “I know that the global ocean levels were rising all the way back in the twenty-first century . . . uh, about four hundred years ago. You know what a ‘year’ is?”

“Of course. One revolution of your homeworld around your star. We would call it—” The Agletsch gave an unpleasant and unpronounceable burp from the mouth located at its stomach. “One of our years is the same as roughly eleven-twelfths of one of yours.”

Gray was startled when Thedreh’schul volunteered this. He’d not known how long an Agletsch year was, wasn’t sure that
anything
was known about the Agletsch homeworld. The spiders were galactic traders in information, and some information they’d simply kept out of reach by putting too high a price on it.

Interesting that Thedreh’schul wasn’t dickering on prices or exchange rates here.

“Okay, so four hundred years ago, ocean levels were rising. They built a wall across this stretch of water, over there.” He pointed south, to the ruin of the Verrazano Dam. “There was another dam over there, too, at a place called Throg’s Neck, on the East River. You can’t see it from here.

“It was an incredible feat of engineering . . . but I guess the technology wasn’t quite there yet, because there was still a lot of flooding. Lots of people began leaving the city and rebuilding to the north. Morningside Heights. Yonkers. The Palisades. Haworth. But things
really
got bad a little less than a century later, when the Chinese dropped an asteroid into the ocean.”

“Excuse me. The ‘Chinese’? Ah. Another branch of your species. You seem oddly . . . fragmented. Yes-no?”

“Fragmented. That’s us.” Gray wondered if he should be admitting this to the Agletsch . . . and to the Sh’daar who must be listening in somewhere behind her. He had no idea what they knew—or understood—about Humankind. Fractious, argumentative, divided, inconsistent, bigoted, jealous, covetous, warring.

How to show the
good
side of humanity?

For that matter,
was
there a good side, at least as the aliens would understand the term?

And that was just the problem. What was ‘good’ or ‘bad’ if you were a Sh’daar?

“The tidal wave,” he continued, “smashed through the dam and wrecked the city. Most of what was left of the population moved then. That was in the 2130s, a little less than two hundred years before we met you.”

“Your histories indicate that you entered a technological revolution at about that time.”

Gray nodded. “Nanotechnology—building extremely tiny machines, computers, robots—we’d been working on that since the twentieth century, I guess, but with the wars and the population problems and the sea levels rising and everything, things didn’t really start to take off until late in the twenty-second century. And that caused all sorts of other problems, like a global economic crash.”

“I do not understand? ‘Crash’?”

“Our economic system fell apart. With nanotechnology, you could feed a handful of dirt into a machine and extract a full-course meal . . . or a suit of clothes . . . or put in enough dirt and you could grow a house. That revolution completely changed the way we put a value on things.”

“I am not sure what you mean by ‘value.’ ”

“The Agletsch put a value on information when you trade, right? I give you information in exchange for other information that has the same value? But we have to agree on what that value is, how important it is to both you and to me.”

“That I understand. I am accessing your files . . . ah. I believe I now understand fully, though the reference to ‘money’ is unclear.”

“An agreed-upon medium of exchange. After the crash, we did things differently.”

Gray hoped the Agletsch didn’t ask any questions about that. In the Ruins, he’d grown up with barter, a system that had worked well enough in the low-tech milieu. Once he’d become a part of civilized society, transactions involved invisible electronic exchanges between his in-head circuitry and the local Net, and were rarely visible. He knew about
money
as a historical concept, a kind of marker for trade-item value, but he had no idea as to how it had worked.

“Anyway,” he continued, “not everyone moved to the mainland. Some people stayed behind in the Ruins.”

“Why? That seems . . . counterproductive.”

“I guess you could say so. But humans are stubborn . . . and what works for one doesn’t work for someone else. On the mainland, people were starting to get cerebral implants—nanotech computers grown inside their brains and central nervous systems. Some people didn’t like that idea.”

“But . . . why?” Thedreh’schul seemed genuinely puzzled. “It was clearly in the best interests of all members of your species to enjoy the benefits of this . . . this technological revolution, as you call it.”