Existence

the child is found!/!

autie-murphy sifted seventeen webs… encompassing two hundred and twelve thousand and forty-one vir levels… some as wide and detailed as the surface of realearth… while looking for not-patterns //-//-// nor-nand gaps where normalpeople & aspies & ais & eyes ought to be looking – but where nobody is -/+

Agurne Arrixaka Bidarte is not using cams, webs or credit -.- those sheltering her are careful -.- leave no clues… traces carefully absent… but what of that very absence? Can it be traced?

hard to program + + + every spy agency has snifferprogs out there seeking correlations… but un-correlations are another matter/liquid/solid/plasma/vrasma/ectoplasm!/!

ais don’t not-look very well – but autie-murph does it great /!/ not-patterns suit a savant like him + + + who deals with cobblies every day + + +

and so we ask-now that we found them-can/should we help mother-n-child??? this part is hard -› how to go beyond noting/noticing/not-icking/not-acting and create instead an arrow of effective action??? not our-forte… nor even aspies or high-funcs

doing stuff + + + that is what normalpeople are for -/- poormoms

bad enough is our handicap / our clumsiness / with realworld/cause/effect… only now there is this new thing… this alien/other/outerspace THING in the news… a world-intruder that has the cobblies all not-leaping about and not-yapping frantically

we need a friend ./.

we’ve used friends before – yes.?. dangerous. -/- sometimes they betray our trust -//- this friend had better be a good one…

29.

Once you finally got the aliens talking, it proved hard to shut them up.

“Congratulations! As a space-faring type, you have surpassed very long odds. Few get as far as you have. You are now welcome to join us.”

That much came through pretty clear. It was the proclamation that made headlines around the world.

Less noticed-though still cause for rampant speculation-was how hard Gerald and the rest of the contact team had to work, in order to get that much clarity out of the Artifact. The ratio of useful information coming out of the ovoid crystal-versus confusing chaos-was still frustratingly low.

Like sipping from a fire hose, Gerald thought. Except this hose sprayed in all directions.

Bathed in exactly the right wavelengths to maximize energy use, the object he had snagged out of orbit with his garbage-collecting tether now shone with a vibrancy that enthralled onlookers. Scenes portrayed through its gleaming, curved surface appeared to swoop and shift at a dizzying pace, from cloud-flecked planetary horizons to mysterious cityscapes, revealed through unraveling mists. From desert ruins, drowned by drifting sands, to slick ocean vistas that rolled with oily viscosity and shimmered all the colors of a rainbow. From salty expanses that featured endless rows of windowless, cubiform huts, all the way to vast ice fields, where mysterious cracks opened to emit brief swarms of black, arachnoid shapes, spreading out to harvest strange, gray-green globs…

A series of alien figures also floated up, jostling each other as before. They seemed to push forward to press hands or paws or tentacles against the egglike inner surface of the message bottle, bringing close their eyes, orb-lenses, and other sensory organs to gape outward at the Contact Team.

Behind Gerald, just on the other side of a barrier of quarantine glass, stood members of the international commission, representing all the nations, estates, and important interests on Earth. And of course, there was everyone else, a large fraction of the world’s population, who played hooky from school and work, or else MT-tracked every moment while pretending to do their jobs. Economic productivity was taking a hit and no one seemed to care.

A gaggle on one side, staring out, and a super-gaggle on the other side, staring in, he thought. With plenty of ambiguity over which mob is the most eager or confused. Indeed, Gerald still occasionally experienced that same frightening illusion that he and his comrades were somehow the ones encased within a cramped, simulated world, and the Artifact denizens were the ones peering into a zoo-terrarium through their narrow, magic lens.

“We’re getting more complaints about visual signal degradation in the broadcast feed,” reported General Akana Hideoshi. “People don’t like the high-contrast, bleached, and reprocessed version being offered to the public. It inevitably provokes conspiracy theories-that we’re not sharing everything we see or learn.” Akana shook her head unhappily.

“Well, I don’t know what to do about that,” replied Dr. Emily Tang, the team’s interface expert. “Our policy masters have demanded protocols to keep the dataflow clean. After all, what if this device turns out to be a Trojan horse? A way for outsiders to inveigle some alien software virus into our networks? Or to reprogram people who watch closely. Such parasitic code might be tucked inside the bit stream, woven through it via steganography, turning any seemingly benign picture into a possible source of infection. The computers in this building are quarantined and scrutinaized. So are we humans who have direct eye contact. But we cannot allow the public to get direct access to unwashed data!”

Emily was paid to be suspicious, even though such precautions made her the subject of paranoid rumors, especially on the part of openness fetishists out there. Nor can I blame them, Gerald thought.

Along with about a billion others, he had been disappointed with the Big Deal, when it failed to meet the top goal of the Fourth and Fifth and Sixth Estates-total transparency. A bigger deal to end secrecy. A world where the politicians, zaibatsus, guilds, gangs, and superrich power brokers would have to operate in the light. While retaining their wealth, legal powers, and advantages, the world’s top movers would at least forfeit their privilege of cheating in the dark. Above all, everyone should state openly what they owned. A powerful idea, briefly igniting mass imagination…

… till it had to be bargained away, when all the top castes joined forces against it. Now? Everyone knew the Big Deal was a stopgap measure, buying time, or a little peace, till promised techno-miracles might revive the roaring optimism of the tween years. And some came! Only each breakthrough brought its own freight of future shock, and rising calls for mass-refusal. Every social model-even cheap, two-year-old versions that a citizen could download for free-portrayed the Big Deal teetering toward collapse in half a decade or so. Nor would mere truth and openness suffice, this time.

The Artifact might have chosen a better occasion to suddenly appear. Almost any other occasion.

Why couldn’t it have been snagged by some earlier astronaut? Gerald thought. Back in the giddy Apollo days, for example. Or during the rich, early part of this century, when everyone was calm, and there were still plenty of resources to keep folks from each other’s throats?

Even those who expect only good things when we join some interstellar community-nothing but wisdom and beneficial technologies-even those optimists know there will be disruption and of pain. And meanwhile, people who already have power will come up with every possible rationalization. Reasons to preach that change is dangerous.

“Anyway, there are other security-related concerns,” Emily added. “Tiger and I have come up with a range of possible theories for the chaotic, disorganized way the Artifact beings have related to us-the so-called Rabble Effect.”

Genady Gorosumov, the team’s xenobiologist, looked up from the holistank where he had been tending his models-growing simulations of all the different kinds of Artifact aliens that had been exhibited, so far-trying to understand them by vivisecting replica archetypes, based upon visual appearance alone. He brushed a pile of dismembered skeletal pieces toward a tray. Made entirely of light patterns, they swiftly reassembled into an articulated model of the centauroid alien.

“Now that is interesting. How do you explain the way these entities push and shove at one another? They seem to have no sense of order or cooperation-certainly no concept of turn-taking, or courtesy! Even when groups of them work together, briefly, in order to speak to us coherently, it is always temporary. Although this charming chaos does remind me of my hometown, I cannot say it bodes well for this galactic civilization we have been invited to join.

“Nor does it give us much opportunity to ask more than one question at a time.”

“And that may be precisely the purpose,” answered Emily.

When all eyes stared at her, she nodded to her left. “I’ll let Tiger explain.”

Gerald and the others turned toward that end of the conference table, where a threevee display showed a face-one that crossed many of the pleasing traits of a beautiful woman with the feral muzzle of a cat, including soft, striped fur and small, pointy teeth that gleamed when shai smiled. It was a grin that made you glad that the artificial being was on your side. Or, at least, that shai was programmed to emulate someone who liked you.

“We must bear in mind that the jostling Rabble Effect may be a ruse,” commented the virtual aindroid. “A way to keep us talking, so that we’ll offer them floods of information about ourselves, while they provide little in return.”

Gerald had seen this theory before, bubbling up from the morass of a million discussion groups. “So perhaps they are actually far more cooperative with each other than they appear? You think they may be playing roles, in order to keep us off balance.”

“Or else, perhaps there is no they at all.”

It was Haihong Ming, who had just joined the contact team as the new representative of Great China. He hadn’t said much since replacing Gerald’s friend, the ex-astronaut Wang Quangen. But when he did, on behalf of Earth’s leading power, it seemed wise to listen.

“What do you mean?”

Haihong Ming put down the mesh-specs that he had been using to stay in direct communication with his superiors in Beijing, separate from the main video feed.

“I mean that all this bubbling diversity may be vexing, but doesn’t it also come across as conveniently reassuring somehow? After all, what do we fear most about a big, galactic civilization? Once it is determined that no one’s bent on invading or killing us, what comes next on our list of big worries?”

The other commission members pondered the question for a few seconds before Ramesh Trivedi, from the Hindi Commonwealth, finally murmured.

“Uniformity. Conformity. Insistence that small and weak newcomers like us should adhere to rigid rules, fitting into the bottom of an established hierarchy. Demanding that we bend our traditions, laws, and way of life to meet some ancient set of patterns not our own. That is what we’d find almost as crushing and horrible as outright invasion-a fear made palpable by our own history of contact events among human cultures, here on Earth.”

“Like when Europeans insisted that Asian peoples use tables and chairs? Knives and forks? Soap and electricity?” asked Emily, in a sardonic tone. But Ramesh did not rise to the Vancouver professor’s bait. He smiled, shaking his head.

“You know there were far worse impositions. Episodes of cultural domination that were painful, cruel, demoralizing, or limiting. And that was between human tribes! Even the well-meaning process of accession, when independent countries join the EU or the AU… having to change many of their laws and customs in order to conform to a confederation they had no part in formulating. Even that mild process is humiliating. How much worse might it get for neophytes entering interstellar society, forced to adapt to a civilization millions of years old? That is the dread Haihong Ming refers to.”

Glancing at the Chinese representative, Gerald felt pretty sure that Ramesh was at least somewhat off-target. Still, Haihong Ming kept silent, enigmatically impassive, content to let Ramesh talk on.

“Hence the reason why so many people find all the tumult and disarray among the Artifact beings… reassuring. Perhaps even endearing. It implies that no person or group out there is enforcing rigid uniformity. We’ll be free to pick and choose from a wide variety of role models, negotiate among partners and competitors, and retain much of what we value about our own past.

“And yes, I, too, feel encouraged by all that.”

Only then Ramesh frowned, his complexion darkening.

“But our colleague from the People’s Ministry of Science does not take consolation so easily, does he? And Emily is even more dourly suspicious! So, let me guess the reasoning. You two think that all of this adorable bustle and crowding and alien-elbowing-alien may be a ruse? That it may be faked, in order to lull us?”

Haihong Ming nodded. “I am merely trying to cover the full range of possibilities, Dr. Trivedi. All the purported representatives that we have seen, from dozens of different extraterrestrial races-they could be faked. Mere cartoon puppets that always vanish before we can examine them too closely. Suppose the effect were intentional. That they were all contrived by a single entity, with a single agenda. Not only to stall and put off inconvenient questions-but also in order to give us an impression of lively, raucous but peaceful diversity? The very thing that might mollify and comfort many of us?”

Many of us… but not all of us, Gerald thought. His mouth half opened to point this out, then closed again. His every instinct shouted that the aliens really were separate beings, eagerly diverse and rather fractious, with their own agendas and purposes, scraping against each other within the context of their compact universe. But then… my human instincts might be the very thing that a supersophisticated alien AI could swiftly learn to play upon. The same way that a skilled dramavid team might draw in millions of viewers, getting them to hypnotically believe in artificial characters of the latest full-immersion miniseries.

At least we’re advanced enough to ponder all these possibilities. But what if other stones fell to Earth, long ago? How might they have dazzled our ancestors?

Gerald’s specs had been tracking his gaze and iris fluctuations, temporal lobe surges, and subvocal comments half sent to his larynx. All of that-plus the surrounding conversation-fed a steady churn of googs and guesses about what might interest him, constantly re-prioritized so that only the most plausible would float into his periphery of vision… while leaving Gerald free to focus on real people and events, straight ahead. Done right, associative attention assistance simply imitated the way creative folk already thought-making millions of connections, while only a few reached surface awareness. Gerald had never been able to afford the best intelligence enhancement aiware… till now. Until price suddenly became no object.

Now, he was still getting used to the souped-up gear. One corner of his specs lit up in a yellow, high-pri shade, indicating that a virt was coming in, from a person of substance with top credibility scores. From someone in the Advisory Panel … eighty or so experts who were permitted to watch the commission deliberate in real time, and offer suggestions.

Gerald first saw it gist-distilled down to a single phrase-“many may be one, and vice-versa.” But, in less than a second the glimmer expanded, filling out the meaning and acquiring a vaice, especially as first Akana, then Genady, clicked approval.

“The distinction between ‘one’ and ‘many’ can be ambiguous. The best models of a human mind portray it as a mélange of interests and subpersonalities, sometimes in conflict, often merging, overlapping, or recomposing with agile adaptability.

“Sanity is viewed as a matter of getting these fluid portions of the self to play well together, without letting them become rigid or too well defined. In human beings, this is best achieved through interaction with other minds-other people-beyond the self. Without the push-back of external beings-outside communities and objective events-the subjective self can get lost in solipsism or fractured delusion.

“We know from experience that solitude or sensory deprivation can be especially devastating. Prisoners who are kept in sequestered confinement often wind up dividing their minds into explicit personas-rigid characters that grow firm and permanent, with consistent voices all their own. Perhaps they do this in order to have someone to talk to.

“Now extrapolate this. Picture a ‘person’ who has lived alone, as isolated as any castaway, for untold centuries. Even eons. All of it endured without any external beings to converse with. Just floating in space, lacking actual events to help mark time or to denote real from imagined.

“Is it possible that you or I, after such extended loneliness, might envision, then believe in, separate personalities? Characters who started out as imaginary figments, but gradually became as varied and interesting and diverse as you might find in a whole world-or in a community of worlds? Interacting with each other in ways that reflect the disorder and pain of a long, harsh state of isolation?”

Emily gasped. “I hadn’t thought of that. But the implication… you’re saying the Artifact may not be making up these characters in order to fool us.

“Instead, it might be doing so because it is insane!”

“I did not use that term. In fact, there is another word that comes to mind. More optimistic and less judgmental, it could also explain the ‘Rabble Effect’-the chaotic jumble of personalities and images.

“Instead of malignant intent, or insanity, the sheer diversity of alien types that we see may reflect simple wishfulness, on the part of a lonesome mind. One that was originally designed as an emissary. One built to yearn for contact.”

Gerald saw it coming. He spoke aloud, before the advisory voice could state the obvious.

“You think the Artifact is asleep. That it may be dreaming.

“In which case, can we-or should we-try to wake it up?”

Tiger sifted all the different theories into a multidimensional matrix, performed some optimization simulations, and came up with a suggestion.

“I propose that we try operant conditioning.”

The phrase sounded familiar to Gerald. His wetbrain memory tickled-possibly something he had learned in freshman biology class. But why bother reaching for it neuronally? Definitions scrolled under the quasi-feline face, sparking associations. Ah, yes. B. F. Skinner and his famous pigeons. Using reward and punishment to reinforce some behaviors while eliminating others. Anyone who ever trained a dog knew the basics.

“We should stop providing information, and even very much in the way of illumination to power the Artifact, except when the creatures within decide to settle down, behave less manically competitive, and start talking with us in a cogent manner.”

“Forcing them to get organized and stop behaving like unsupervised kindergartners.” Akana nodded with approval. It seemed that the idea of teaching aliens discipline appealed to her.

“And what of those other possibilities?” Emily asked, pointing at the plausibility matrix. “One theory suggests that the Rabble Effect may be a pretense. The appearance of an unruly mob may be feigned, as if by actors, playing roles. All this wild diversity could be made-up by a single mind. One that’s nefarious, or crazy… or perhaps dreaming?”

“Well,” answered the feline-female visage in the threevee tank. “This plan would seem best, in any event. It would show that we mean business. That it is time to rouse and get focused. To stop any pretense.”

Gerald stared. All the experts insisted that ersatz personae like Tiger weren’t truly self-aware or sapient-only programmed to seem that way. But when did the distinction become absurd, even foolish?

Ramesh shook his head. “They… it… the Artifact already knows a lot about us. If we try such a ploy, it may simply call our bluff, betting that we can’t hold out for long. Not with several billion people watching and the potential of rich treasures to be gained from contact. Demands from the public-and our political masters-will put a time limit on any such experiment. And this thing has plenty of experience with patience.

“Still,” he shrugged, “it does seem to be the best idea on the table.”

When it came to a vote, Gerald raised his hand in assent. Still, he kept one thought to himself-

– that operant conditioning can work both ways. Sometimes, the one who thinks he’s doing the training… may be the one being trained.

Okay, it’s me Slawek again. Promoted from tour guide to reclam leader. Yeah, I’m just a kid. So? If you don’t like taking directions from a fourteen-year-old deepee, just go to the Duty Desk and ask Dariga Sadybekova to assign you to another team. Or tell Dr. Betsby your troubles, if he’ll listen. Oh yes… he’s out of town!

Look, I don’t care if you just arrived from Outer Slobovia, or if your biofeedback guru wants you to buzz-meditate twelve hours a day, or if you still have the Awfulday Twitches. Everybody works. That’s a rule if you want to keep living here under the Silverdome.

In fact, some of the work parties are dorma-fun. Hunting pheasant and picking wild grapes in the wild suburbs, or sledge-demoling abandoned houses and stripping their last traces of metal. Pounding down the walls in search of hidden treasures.

Sorry, we’re not doing that today.

We’ll be sewer-diving under one of the Detroit reclamation neighborhoods we Silverdomers were granted, as a homestead domain by the state of Michigan. That is, if we can improve it.

Yeah, okay. Sewer work. So? Why blink? Almost nobody lives there, so there won’t be much flushing going on. And we all get micropore masks. So it shouldn’t stink. Much.

One reason for this pre-briefing is to make you familiar with the task and a crude map of what’s down there. Our job is to install RFID repeater-chips every half meter along all the pipes and mains we can reach, so this part of the underworld can join the World Mesh. Currently, it’s way dark down there! And with no link it’s possible to get lost. Really lost! So remember the buddy system.

We must keep a good pace, ’cause another crew will be right behind us, staple-gluing data strand to the roof of the sewer. A startup company wants to compete with cable and phone conduit providers. They aim to use sewage rights-of-way to deliver fiber cable to every toilet-I mean, every home-in America. (A far-raki idea! I’m already invested.)

Finally, each of you will be given a siphon bottle and a sack. We’ll show you how to find low spots in the sewer that may have collected pools of mercury, across the last century or two. Suck those little deposits into the bottle. The bag is in case you spot saltpeter crystals along the way. Or coins. There are a dozen other treasures to look out for-one more reason to pay attention to this briefing.

Phos prices are up and you can trade whatever you find for zep rides or driz, when we get back to our big dome-home.

30.

The shunt caused a strange kind of agony. The worst since the zeppelin explosion left her body a roasted shell.

Even the word itself felt painful, in a way, because it was misleading. Like other journalists of a new generation, Tor disliked the mushy inexactitude of earlier correspondents-their propensity for oversimplification and loosey-juicy metaphor. To be precise then, the “shunt” that doctors and technicians were installing into her brain was not a single tube or wire. It consisted of more than ten thousand separate pathways that started out as tiny holes, drilled into her skull.

From there, minuscule, trail-blazing automatons probed inward, proceeding cautiously. Minimizing damage to fragile axons, dendrites, and neural clusters, where calcium ions surged and electro-chemical potentials flared, all contributing to the vast standing wave of composite human consciousness. Skirting all of that, as much as possible, the microscopic machines instead navigated their way inward via giant astrocyte cells, using them as fatty corridors, while each little crawler tugged a slender fiber behind it, until the final destination-some well-mapped center of communication, vision, or motor control-lay just ahead.

Tor appreciated the lack of pain receptors inside a human brain. Or so assured the doctors, in tinny voices that crackled down the remnants of her auditory system-those portions that had not been seared away by the zeppelin explosion. In fact, the creeping nano-robots should not trigger any conspicuous reaction at all, as they made their way to preplanned positions in the visual cortex, the cerebellum, the anterior cingulate, the left temporal lobe… and a host of other crucial nexi, scattered through Tor’s intricately folded cerebrum. That is, not until they were ready to start their real work-probing and testing, mapping old connections and creating new ones that might-possibly-let her see again, and hear and speak after a fashion.

And perhaps… science willing… even move and walk and…

But it seemed better not to dwell too much on hope. So instead, Tor clinically envisioned what was going on inside her head. Imagination perceived the machine incursion as a benign army of penetrating needles-or invading mites-crawling inexorably inward, forcing their way past all barriers of decency, into a sanctum that had once been ultimately private. Or, as private as anything could be, in this modern world.

Then, upon arriving at its destined station, each little robot began poking! Jabbing and zapping the tips of selected dendrites, sometimes achieving nothing, or else triggering instantaneous reactions-a speck of “light”… a twinge of her left big toe… the smell of roasted pine nuts… a sudden hankering to see, once again, her girlhood pet retriever, Daffy.

Reacting with disorientation, even nausea, Tor soon felt warm countercurrents flow-undoubtedly drugs meant to keep her body calm and mind alert-as the doctors began to make demands upon her, asking about each sensorimotor effect.

Irritated by their yattering, for a brief time she considered withholding cooperation. But that impulse didn’t last. As if they would let me refuse. Anyway, to do so-in order to tell them off-Tor would have to speak, to make her wishes understood by some means other than tooth-taps in Morse code. Till then, she would be ruled incompetent, a ward of the state and of her company’s insurance plan, lacking any legal right to make them all bug off!

So, Tor clicked her canines and bicuspids, in order to answer simple questions-such as identifying “left” and “right,” “up” and “down,” when bright smudges began to appear, triggered by probes that stimulated different parts of her visual cortex. And soon, what had started as gross blobs began resolving into ever smaller pixel-like points, or slender rays, or slanting bars that crossed from one side to another… as some computer gradually learned the cipher of her own, unique way of seeing.

Everyone’s different, I hear. Our inner images map onto the same reality as other people see-the same streetlights and billboards and such. Each of us claims to perceive identical surroundings. We all call the sky “blue.” And yet, the actual experience of sight-the “qualia”-is said to be peculiar to each person. Our brains are not logically planned. They evolve-every one of us, in that sense, becoming her own species.

Tor realized she was reciting, as if for her vraudience! Parsing clear sentences, even though there was-so far-no subvocal transceiver to convey her words around the world. Or even across the room. It seemed that habit, sometimes a dear friend, was drawing her back into the role of reporter and raconteur. And, even without a public to appreciate it-she still deemed it good, a source of pleasure and pride, to shape rounded sentences. To describe what was happening-that offered her a glimmering sense of power, amid utter powerlessness.

Part of me survived, whole. Maybe the best part.

Not that Tor was ever entirely alone. There were the human specialists and computer-voiced aidviser programs hired by MediaCorp to take care of their superstar. And, ensuring that she never felt abandoned in the darkness, there was the voice of the mob-the smart-mob she had called up, aboard the Spirit of Chula Vista. It never left her side… though individual members came and went. Whenever the hospital allowed it, during frequent breaks and visitor hours, that composite voice returned to keep Tor company, to read to her, or else keep her up with current events.

What would I have done, if there had been deeper brain damage? she wondered. Injury that prevented the reception and “hearing” of auditory input, for example? The voices in her head kept her sane. They were her link to the real world.

And so, between medical sessions, when her tooth ached from tapping a million yes and no answers-helping identify the scattered and minute segments of her rebuilding brain-she was also fed a steady description of each day’s news. Naturally, that included the planetary fascination with a stone from interstellar space-the Livingstone Object. But there were also reports on a hard-pressed search for the zeppelin saboteurs. Those who murdered poor Warren and left her in this state, encased in a life-sustaining cocoon.

Tor’s direct recollections of that episode were a bit murky-trauma often prevented the firm anchoring of memories of some shattering event. She did remember Warren as a set of clipped impressions… along with images of a cathedral filled with tall, colored columns that bulged and throbbed menacingly. No doubt, some of it was just a visual reconstruction, based on things she had been told-about her own valorous actions.

In fact, the earliest clear image to take shape within her visual cortex-the first one consisting of more than simple geometric forms-rippled and finally resolved into a wavering headline from the top-ranked MediaCorp virpaper, The Guardian. It showed a grainy, wavering, animated image that had to be a zeppelin, wounded, with a gaping, burned area smoldering along its top. A battered ship, but still proud and eager for the sky. Below, one could make out specks that were evidently passengers, spilling down escape slides and dispersing to safety.

Well, the picture’s not as historically dramatic as the Hindenburg documentary. Still, it’s quite a sight.

There was something else, next to that brief animation. Without eyes to physically turn, it took some effort for Tor to divert her cone of attention toward what lay to the right… and another few seconds of concentration before it clarified and meaning sank in. Then, abruptly, she recognized a picture of her own face.

Or, what used to be my face. I’ll never see it in a mirror again. Nor will anybody else. Strangely, none of that seemed important, right now. Not compared to something much simpler.

The picture’s caption swam into focus, and then stayed there, clear as day.

HERO WHO SAVED HUNDREDS.

A sense of joy filled Tor, briefly.

I can read!

Not all patients who regained vision in this way recovered their full suite of abilities. It was one thing to stimulate an array of pixel dots to form images. It was quite another to connect them to meaning. That required countless faculties and crucial subskills, resident in widely dispersed parts of the brain. Weaving together all that vast complexity, artificially, was still far beyond the reach of science. For that, you required an essentially intact brain.

Hence, her feeling of almost overwhelming relief. She had both recognized a face and deciphered a string of letters, first try! Tor laboriously tapped out the news, sharing this milestone.

Even if I get nothing else back, I’ll be able to read books. And I will probably be able to write, too.

I’m not dead. I can contribute.

I’m still worth something.

Then it was back to work. Tor even began to enjoy the process a bit, plumbing intricacies of her own nervous system, helping to guide an inside-out self-examination, unlike anything her ancestors could have imagined, picking at the bits and pieces of a mechanism that nearly everybody took for granted-the most complex machine ever known.

To her surprise, it also meant reliving memories that flared suddenly, as the ignition spark from one probe briefly relit a particular bright autumn day, when she was six years old, sneaking up behind her brother with a water balloon dripping in both hands, only to have her footsteps betrayed by the crackling of dying kudzu leaves-a moment that came rushing back in such rich detail that it felt intensely real. Certainly more real than this muffled, drug-benumbed existence. For a minute or two, it almost seemed as if that little girl was the real Tor-or Dorothy Povlovich. Perhaps all she had to do was concentrate on just the right happy thought in order to wake fully into that moment, and leave this nightmare…

… another probe kicked in. Attempting to find one of Tor’s muscle-control centers, it instead set off a sad emotion from adolescence, unassociated with any facts, or events, or images, but glowering like a cloud, still fresh, for a minute or so of passionately miserable regret-before the probe moved on and found its proper target site.

Later, there erupted from some memory cache the sudden recollection of a treasured keepsake that she had lost, long ago, its forgotten location now suddenly rediscovered. I could tell Mom. She could find the keychain. Forgive that I misplaced it. Only… she wouldn’t care at all. Not with her daughter in a place like this.

It made Tor realize-if this kept up, perhaps she might have visitors. Not to her ravaged body, which could not see or speak, but in here, to the mind that lingered on. It should be possible, via virspace, to make a pleasant room, an animated version of herself that could talk, or seem to, driven by her coded thoughts. She still had family, a brother, some friends. And Wesley might even come-though why should he? Tor found it implausible, given how shallow he had been, before that ill-fated zep voyage.

Probably not. Still, she rehearsed some things that she might say-to ease his embarrassment, or to make it easier… or angry words to express her disappointment, if he never came.

Mostly, she thought about such things to help pass time, as the process of establishing the shunt went on and on. It was all so transfixing and boring, so mesmerizing and painful, she almost failed to understand, when the doctors asked for her full attention.

The quality of sound had improved.

Tor, we think your subvocal pathways should work now. Could you try to speak?

She wondered, in the passive stillness.

Speak? What are they talking about? With a mouth that’s wired shut, a lipless, skeletal grimace… how am I supposed to do that?

Of course, subvocal inputs had been standard nearly all her life. You pretend to be about to say something. Sensors on the jaw and throat track nerve impulses, turning them into words via the virtual realm, without requiring any labor by the physical larynx, nor by the tongue to fashion phonemes. Most users emitted only faint grunts, and Tor never even did that. But always, there used to be the physical sensations of a real tongue, a real voice box that would almost start to make real sounds.

Now, without feedback from those organs, she must imagine, envision, and pretend well enough to cause the same nerves to-

A strange, blatting sensation startled Tor. It seemed to reverberate inside her skull, down auditory pathways that she used to associate with ears. Recovering from surprise, she tried again-and was rewarded with another “sound,” this one seeming guttural and low in tone. They’re taking my efforts and routing them back to me… so I can “hear” my own voice production attempts. So I can start the process of correcting.

After a few more tries, she managed to remember, or else re-create, how to send signals. Commands that used to form the simplest sounds. The crudity felt embarrassing, and she almost stopped. But sheer obstinacy prevailed. I can do this!

Bit by bit, the sounds improved.

Eventually, she managed to craft a message-

“H-h-hi… d-docsss…”

Naturally, they were lavish with praise and positive reinforcement. Indeed, it felt satisfying to be helpful, to make progress. To be an essential member of a team, once again. All of that-and the prospect of no more Morse tooth-tappings-helped to mollify Tor’s sense of being patronized, patted on the head, with no choice in whatever came next.

Soon, I’ll be able to assert myself. Declare my autonomy. Get judged competent to make decisions. And maybe-if I wish-stop all this.

It was a biting thought-one that seemed ornery and ungrateful, amid such notable medical progress. But, still, the thought was hers. Tor had very little else that she could call her own, other than thoughts.

Anyway, the notion did not take root for long. Because Tor soon was thoroughly distracted by the very next thing that they tried…

… when they linked her to the Cloud.

Oh, the fracking mess.

I’m supposed to be careful what I say. As a public mouthpiece for Freedom Club, I should keep my distance from “illegal activity.” One rule for revolutionary movements, going all the way back to Bakunin, is strict separation of the political and action wings.

But hell, I’m fed up. What have we accomplished since that glorious event the dumbass peasants call Awfulday? When it seemed, for one magnificent moment, that the whole corrupt edifice of greed and bureaucracy and technology would come crashing down? Since then, what disappointment! Great Ted, working in his little mountain cabin, rattled the modernists’ cage. Why can’t we?

Failures pile up. Did that nuke in the Pyrenees accomplish anything? Rumors claim the abomination-the Basque Chimera-escaped. Worse, there’s a whole herd of resurrected mammoths grazing in Canada now, and a million acres of gene-designed perennial wheat! And the goddamn robot minds get smarter daily! And against all that, what have the bold followers of Kaczynski and McVey and Fu-Wayne accomplished lately?

The dolts can’t even blow up a damned zeppelin that’s full to bursting with explosive gas! So that alien crystal thing survived and who knows how many horrid new technologies the geeks will squeeze out of it?

A time of decision is coming! YOU passive supporters of the Better Way must choose. You can go join the peaceful Renunciation Movement, like sniveling gits, and follow that “prophet” of theirs, working within the corrupt system…

… or else take arms! Offer your skills and your lives to the Action Wing and help topple this teetering so-called civilization!

How to join? Just speak up. They’ll find you.

31.

Lacey’s generation was to blame, of course.

They were the ones who invented “continuous partial attention,” after all. Who were proud of jumping from one topic to another, spreading themselves as thin as the wrapper on a Sniffaire gelglobe. Or as narrow as the lived-in moment called now.

But never before had Lacey been forced to stretch her regard among so many vital topics, all of them demanding intense focus. In fact, she knew that the organic human brain can divert itself only so much, before returning, elastically, to whatever thought seems most intense. Most demanding. The elephant in the room.

I am a terrible mother.

Out of the maelstrom-attending to matters in Switzerland and Africa, here in Washington and in outer space, that one core fact was clear. By the moral standards of any human culture, she should have simply dropped everything else, in order to participate in the search for her missing son.

Never mind that it would do Hacker no good at all. She had hired the best professionals and offered rewards plentiful enough to divert every yacht and fishing smack and surfer, between here and Surinam, to join the search… or the fact that Mark was down there now, coordinating the quest to find his brother… or that all she’d accomplish, by hurrying down to the Caribbean, would be to get in the way.

Never mind any of that. It’s simply what a mom would do.

Only maybe not the mother of Hacker Sander.

The last thing in the world he would want from me, would be to show panic… or even much concern.

That one brief burst of telemetry-too short and static-ridden to localize-had reported the reentry capsule to be intact and its passenger healthy, just after it struck the sea. The tiny compartment was designed to float and to sustain life almost indefinitely. Moreover, even if all the electronics aboard had been fried, the shell itself would reflect radar and sonar in uniquely identifiable ways, just as soon as any seekers passed closely enough. A pair of nasty storms had hampered crews from reaching a few search areas, especially those farthest from the likely impact zone. But supposedly it was only a matter of time.

Anyway, she knew how furious the boy would get if he found out that she had rushed south, forsaking and spoiling her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to witness history firsthand-the very moment of human-alien First Contact. Why? Just to go pace and fret and interfere in the efforts of skilled people?

So, Lacey, is that your rationalization? That you are staying at the Artifact Conference to honor Hacker? In order to do as he would wish-and as Jason would have wished?

Good one.

Next to her sat Professor Noozone. The scientist-popstar was happily engaged, grunting and clicking and subvocally mumbling as he interacted with his avid fan community-now numbering over a hundred million, in part because of where he sat right now. In a VIP seat, no less. The signature draidlocks floated around his head, tipped with lenses and sniffers that turned and pointed in every direction, while wafting aromas of ganja-frankincense shampoo. Occasionally she had to bat one of the strands of overly curious cybactive hair out of her space, but she hadn’t the heart to chide him-the man was so puppy-dog grateful to Lacey for getting him into the Observer’s Gallery as her adviser, separated by just a thick sheet of glass from the quarantine chamber and the white-coated figures-including Gerald Livingstone himself-who were examining the Havana Artifact.

In a nearby holistube, she saw an animated Noozone replica, chattering and gesticulating away, while concept-blimps hovered all around its head. The voice was tuned down, in order not to disturb other members of the Advisory Panel-experts, international dignitaries and representatives of all ten Estates. But when Lacey’s gaze settled in that direction, some computer measured her pupil dilation and responded to her interest, by sending a narrow-collimated beam of sound toward one ear.

“So which t’eories have we eliminated so faar?” The Professor’s animated holvatar drawled in a satin-toned Jamaican accent, as it swept one arm to point at a multidimensional comparison chart hovering nearby.

“Almost none! Till dem Contact Team manages to overcome dem humano-centric bias enough to understand the Artifact entities on their own terms, we are left with only that marvelously enticing ‘join us’ come-yah invitation as a very-major clue to the purpose of the Livingstone Object… or Havana Artifact, or any of the other names for this truly-wondrous thing. Rhaatid.

“And yet, on that sole-basis alone, futures market probabilities have shifted so-dramatically. Wager-contracts based upon alien invasion, for example, plummeted to mere-millicents on the dollar. Bets that pree-dict a true-friendly galactic bredren-federation skyrocketed in value, an’ then split, as interest focused on what kind of federated society the aliens might be part of.

“Of course, here is where we try a little smoky-ingenuity to piece together clues based upon the behavior of the strange beings-within-the-stone…”

Lacey pulled her gaze away and the volume of Profnoo’s vaice tapered off, as she looked beyond the glass at the focus of all this worldwide attention. The Artifact, an oblong-tapered, opalescent cylinder, lay in its cradle under a cloth canopy that staved off most of the room light, keeping it in shade. With just a modest supply of photon energy flowing into the stone, only faint and blurry images of drifting clouds could be seen playing across its surface.

Workmen were attaching hoses to the underside of the table while others erected a new illumination system under the direction of the latest member of the Contact Team-a tall, slender African with dark, almost-purple skin, who was said to be an expert at animal training, of all things. Meanwhile, the original discoverer, the astronaut Gerald Livingstone, conferred with General Hideoshi and several colleagues. One of them was a computer-generated holvatar-a full-size, human-scale aintity image, half woman and half tiger-whose feral, carnivorous expression hardly seemed in keeping with the peaceful mission of the team.

With nothing much happening below, and with Profnoo fully occupied addressing his public, Lacey was about to lift her cryptospecs and turn her attention elsewhere, toward another urgent matter-events taking place several thousand kilometers to the east. She had an informer secretly planted at the sprawling Glaucus-Worthington estate, near the Liechtenstein border, where delegates were arriving from most of the great families of the clade, as well as Tenskwatawa’s international Responsibility Movement-or “Renunciation Movement” for its attitude toward scientific progress-to negotiate an alliance between those two potent forces. An enciphered report from her spy awaited attention-that should only be readable by this particular set of Mesh goggles. There seemed to be little point in avoiding the matter any longer.

Not with the Naderites panting like eager suitors. I could do it. Join the do-gooder trillies and fight for the Enlightenment. Unite with the techie rich, clustered in Jakarta and Kerala and California and Rio. The Jains, Omidyars, Yeos, Berggruens, and others. Use my wealth and influence to battle for science. Denounce inherited aristocracy. Blow the whistle on my neo-feudalist friends, who I grew up with…

… and send Jason spinning in his grave.

She had the set of crypto-aiware raised halfway to her face-preparing to give the code unlocking the spy’s report-when someone plopped down, uninvited, onto the plush seat to her right.

“We really should get one of our own, you know.”

She put down the specs. It was Simon Ortega, representative of the Corporate Estate-big businesses based all over the planet. With his dark, Timorese features and Porto accent, Simon exemplified the internationalist image that globalized companies had been trying to convey, ever since Awfulday and the Big Deal. Transparency, open competition, honest dealings-the very essence of the real Adam Smith, the original liberal-and no more close affiliation with the superrich.

So why is he sitting down here? Isn’t he afraid to be seen talking to an old-money plutocrat like me?

Or does he have his own sources, telling him what’s going on in Switzerland right now? A power realignment that might lead to a return to the old days, when a few crony families could sway markets, topple corporations and nations, and rock human destiny? If he thinks those times are returning, he could be trying to line up an alliance of his own. To wind up on the winning side.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ortega. We should get one of our own… what?”

“A group holvatar, Mrs. Donaldson-Sander. A presence entity to speak for us members of the Advisory Council. To represent our interests, beyond the glass, where they are poking away at the visitors from space. Something to counterbalance that damned Tiger-Girl and make them stop ignoring us up here!”

Ah. Lacey realized. So this had nothing to do with events in Zurich. Ortega was just expressing his natural reaction to the way things were going here at the Artifact Conference. Specifically, the way the glass barrier prevented all the people and interests on this side, in the observers’ gallery, from influencing events on the other side. The Corporate Estate was collectively more nervous than most.

Although communication with the Artifact aliens was still chaotic and sporadic, the world had given a collective sigh of relief over the clear friendliness of the “join us” remark. Almost any form of participation in an interstellar federation would surely bring benefits, expanded knowledge, propitious technologies, surprising art, and possibly solutions to many problems. Of course, some apple carts would be overturned and upset a few groups. The Renunciators, for example, and Lacey’s own clade of conservative clans.

Not the Naderites, though. They love all this.

Stuck in between-torn by both hope and worry-would be Ortega’s constituency. On the one hand, alien knowledge should offer plenty of new business opportunities for the lucky and agile. On the other hand… even supposing all went well, if terrific new alien concepts and technologies arrived, delivering a million benefits without unleashing serious side effects… even then, lots of corporate entities would see their goods and services and market positions rendered obsolete. Why, just a few improvements in nano-tech might make it possible to at last produce home fabricators-letting citizens create almost any product from raw materials right in the kitchen or garage. A boon… unless your job or portfolio depends on manufacturing. Or shipping goods. In fact, half the companies in every stock market might wither. No wonder he seemed nervous.

Yet, it turned out that Ortega had another purpose entirely.

“Have you heard what they are planning to do, Mrs. Donaldson-Sander? They intend to use operant conditioning. That means using rewards and punishments, in a crude attempt to implement behavior modification on the alien entities residing inside!”

Lacey clamped down to keep from giggling over an unforgivable pun that leaped to mind.

Shall we teach Pavlovian dogs to SETI-up and beg?

Fortunately, the man didn’t notice her brief grunt.

“Can you believe the arrogance? The unbelievable vanity! Assuming all our difficulties in communication are their fault, not ours? Employing barbarously inhospitable methods to force them to meet our primitive standards of conduct!”

Despite his overwrought passion, Lacey felt impressed-and perhaps a little ashamed. She had been ready-twice in a few seconds-to assign unsavory motives to this man, when his true reason for being upset was idealistic. A matter of graciousness and courtesy.

“Well, the aliens do seem a bit out of control. Pushing and jostling. Interrupting each other, so that almost nothing decipherable or clear makes it to the surface. It’s hard to see how that could be our fault.”

“Exactly.” Ortega nodded vigorously. “It is hard to see with our primitive minds. And yet, how could it not be our fault? A vast and sophisticated galactic civilization, experienced at hundreds of past contact situations, must know what it’s doing! Certainly compared to inexperienced and immature Earthlings. They are probably being very patient with us, waiting for us to figure out something simple.”

Lacey pondered. Something simple… that those sophisticated minds can’t just explain to us? Why not simply lay it all out, plainly, in clear language and illustrated without ambiguity?

Of course, that has also long been the reasonable person’s complaint toward God.

She stopped herself from mentioning one possibility that was rising-slowly but steadily-in the worldwide betting pool. The aliens’ chaotic, uncooperative behavior might be explained if the stone-from-space were actually a hoax. In that case, it would likely be programmed to delay any actual conversation for as long as possible, messing with nine billion human heads while never actually getting down to specifics. In fact, the wager market had divided the category into several subplots, depending on whether the purpose of the fraud was to “unite humanity,” or “scare us into a dictatorship,” or “pull a financial scam,” or simply to throw the biggest prank of all time.

Oh, sure, lots of experts declared that the Livingstone Object couldn’t be a hoax. Much of its technology was beyond humanity’s current abilities. But only by a bit-maybe just a couple of decades in crystal technology, for example. Almost daily, some company or government or amsci group declared: Hey! We’ve figured out how to do this part of what the Artifact does!

It was an especially big driver of activity in the Industry of Lies.

I hear Peter Playmount is pushing an epic cinemavirt into production, in which the hero will be a chunk of space crystal, saved from some dark conspiracy by a bunch of brave kids…

“The Contact Team is clearly out of control down there.” Simon Ortega gestured at the group on the other side of the glass, pressing his point. “The International Supervisory Commission won’t interfere with their mad scheme to torture the alien travelers into cooperating.”

The man unfolded a clipboard of the old-fashioned variety, with a single sheet of paper attached. “A group of us are circulating a petition, to either let us into that room, or to broaden the Contact Team, or else at least to give us some kind of presence in there, to make our views known!”

Lacey glanced over the page. A large fraction of the advisers had already signed. There seemed little possibility of harm. In fact, why not? She was reaching for the ink-pen that Ortega offered…

… when one of her earrings chimed. A phone call, urgent of course-she had made clear to her secretaries and du-ai-nas that only top priority messages should get through. A soft, cyber whisper spoke the name “Gloria Harrigan.” It was Hacker’s personal attorney.

“Would you excuse me please?” she asked Ortega. “This call is very important.” Her voice was on the verge of cracking as she turned away, while squeezing the earring. “Yes?”

“Madam Donaldson-Sander? Is that you?”

“Of course it is.” As if anyone else would be answering this encrypted channel. “Is there news from the search?”

“Yes, madam. A crew has found Hacker’s capsule, or what’s left of it.”

Lacey felt both hot and cold. Vision started growing blurry.

“Wait, please. I said that badly. The capsule was in scattered pieces, but there are no traces of human… That is, an expert examined the latch and declared it must have been deliberately opened, from the inside!

“So, there is strong reason to believe Hacker left before the container was destroyed. That, plus the lack of any fresh human bio-traces in the area, suggests he departed on his own power, protected and sustained by the very best survival suit money can buy.”

Gloria spilled all of that so rapidly Lacey had trouble keeping up, grasping at the meaning, until it was repeated several times.

“Mark is on the scene right now. He asked me to pass on the good news, and promises that he will call you personally within the hour.”

Lacey, nodded, trying hard to see this as good news. She swallowed a few times before subvocalizing a question.

“So, what happens next?”

“The search will continue, madam. Please understand, the location is quite some distance away from his expected landing point, which is why things took so long. Also, we had been counting on finding radar and sonar reflections from the shell. Now it’s clear why that didn’t happen.

“But we’re dialed in at last! He can have only gone a few dozen kilometers, max, swimming under his own power or drifting with the local currents. So we’ll just draw in all our resources to that small patch of sea. There should be results almost any time now.”

It took a great effort to speak at all, let alone maintain a lifetime habit of civility.

“Thank you, Gloria. Please thank ever… everyone.”

It was no use. There were no further words. She pinched the earring to end the call, then pinched again, as it tried to hurriedly report on waiting messages from important people-like the head of the Naderite coalition and the director of her Chilean planet-hunter observatory, and…

No. Prioritize. First sign Ortega’s petition, so the honor-driven but pesty little man would go away… then focus… focus on some important matter, such as the report from her spy in the Alps. Or else immerse yourself in the brilliantly entertaining blather being spewed by your hired genius. Profnoo would appreciate a little attention.

One thing Lacey would not do was dwell overmuch on the news. On hope.

Anyway, what lurked in her mind below the surface was something beyond hope. Perhaps even insultingly so. She could not shake an intense feeling-perhaps rising out of wishful thinking, or even hysterical denial-that Hacker was not only alive, but safe somehow.

Perhaps even having fun.

Wouldn’t that be just like him?

The suspicion had some basis in experience.

He would always get in touch with me whenever there was trouble. On the other hand, Hacker generally ignored his mother when things were interesting or going well, neglecting to call if he was having the time of his life.

Suppose we manage to avoid the worst calamities. The world-wreckers, extinction-makers, and civilization-destroyers. And let’s say no black holes gobble the Earth. No big wars pound us back to the dark ages. Eco-collapse is averted and the economic system is kept alive.

Let’s further imagine that we’re not alone in achieving this miraculous endurance. That many other intelligent life forms also manage to escape the worst pitfalls and survive their awkward adolescence. Well, there are still plenty of ways that some promising sapient species might rise up, looking skyward with high hopes, and yet-even so-fail to achieve its potential. What traps might await us because we are smart?

Take one of the earliest and greatest human innovations-specialization. Even way back when we lived in caves and huts, there was division of effort. Top hunters hunted, expert gatherers gathered, and skilled technicians spent long hours by the riverbank, fashioning intricate baskets and stone blades. When farming created a surplus that could be stored, markets arose, along with kings and priests, who allocated extra food to subsidize carpenters and masons, scribes and calendar-keeping astronomers. Of course, the priests and kings kept the best share. Isn’t administration also a specialty? And so, a few soon dominated many, across 99 percent of history.

Eventually though, skill and knowledge spread, increasing that precious surplus, letting more people read, write, invent… which created more wealth, allowing more specialization and so on, until only a few remained on the land, and those farmers were mostly well-educated specialists, too.

In the West, one trend spanned the whole twentieth century: a steady professionalization of everything. By the end of the millennium, almost everything a husband and wife used to do for their family had been packaged as a product or service, provided by either the market or the state. And in return? A pilot had merely to pilot and a firefighter just fought fires. The professor simply professed and a dentist had only to dent. Benefits abounded. Productivity skyrocketed. Cheap goods flowed across the globe. Middle-class citizens ate strawberries in winter, flown from the other hemisphere. Science burgeoned, as the amount that people knew expanded even faster than the pile of things they owned.

And that is where-to some of us-things started to look worrisome.

Let me take you back quite a ways, to the other end of a long lifetime, before the explosive expansion of cybernetics, before the Mesh and Web and Net, all the way back to the 1970s, when I first studied at Caltech. Often, late at night, my classmates and I pondered the dour logic of specialization. After reaping the benefits for many generations, it seemed clear that a crisis loomed.

You see, science kept making discoveries at an accelerating clip. Already, a researcher had to keep learning ever-increasing amounts, in order to discover more. It seemed that just keeping up would force each of us to focus on ever narrower fields of study, forsaking the forest in order to zero in on tiny portions of a single tree. Eventually, new generations of students might spend half a lifetime learning enough to start a thesis. And even then, how to tell if someone else was duplicating your effort, across the world or down the hall?

That prospect-having to know more and more about less and less-seemed daunting. Unavoidable. There seemed to be no way out…

… until, almost overnight, we veered in a new direction! Our civ evaded that crisis with a technological side step that seemed so obvious, so easy and graceful that few even noticed or commented. There were so many exciting aspects to the Internet Age, after all. The old fear of narrow overspecialization suddenly seemed quaint, as biologists started collaborating with physicists and cross-disciplinary partnerships abounded. Instead of being vexed by overspecialized terminology, experts conversed excitedly, more than ever!

Today, hardly anybody speaks of the danger that fretted us so. It’s been replaced by the opposite concern-one that we’ll get to next time.

Only first consider this.

Sure, we may have escaped the specialization trap, for now, but will everyone else manage the same trick, out there across the stars? Our solution now seems obvious-to surf the tsunami! To meet the flood of knowledge with eager, eclectic agility. Refusing to be constrained by official classifications, we let knowledge bounce and jostle into new forms, supplementing professional skill with tides of zealous amateurism.

But don’t take it for granted! The approach may not be repeated elsewhere. Not if it emerged out of some rare quality of our smartmonkey natures. Or pure luck.

Nor would it have been allowed in most human cultures! Which of our past military or commercial or hereditary empires would have unleashed something as powerful as the Internet, letting it spread-unfettered and free-to every tower and hovel? Or allow so many skilled tasks to be performed by the unlicensed?

One can imagine countless other species-and our own fragile renaissance-faltering back into the dour scenario that we students mulled, those gloomy nights. Slipping into an endless, grinding cycle, where specialization-once a friend-becomes the worst enemy of wisdom.

– Pandora’s Cornucopia

32.

By the third day after his crash-landing at sea, Hacker started earning his meals. In part out of sheer boredom-he grew restless simply being fed by the tribe of strange dolphins, like some helpless infant.

Also, as that day stretched into a fourth, fifth, and so on, he felt a strange and growing sense that-for better or for worse-this was his tribe. At least for the time being.

So he pitched in whenever the group harvested dinner, by helping to hold the fishing net, trying not to flinch as the beaters drove schools of fish straight toward him-a great mass of silver and blue darts that seemed almost like a giant creature in its own right, thrashing against the deadly mesh, as well as his facemask and hands. Each time, Hacker’s jaw throbbed from the intense, subsonic noise of the struggle-and from high power click-scans of the cetaceans, both stunning and caressing their prey. That complex, multichannel song seemed to combine genuine empathy for the fish with an almost catlike enjoyment of their predicament.

I guess it has a lot to do with whether you’re the hunter, or hunted. I had no idea the sea could be so noisy, or musical. Or that life down here was so… relentless.

This was no Disney underwater world. In comparison, the forest deer and rabbits had long stretches of peace. But down here? You watched your back all the time.

Or rather, you listened. The texture of vibrations surrounded and stroked Hacker, in ways that it never did ashore-lapping against him with complex, interweaving songs of danger, opportunity, and distant struggle. Of course the implant in his jaw was one reason for this heightened sensitivity. With his eardrums still clamped from the day of the rocket launch, it provided an alternative route for sound, far more similar to dolphin hearing.

Then there were those silly games that Mother used to play when we were kids. Treating us as her personal science experiments.

Not that he had any real complaints. Lacey would get excited about some new development and recruit the boys as willing-or sometimes grudging-subjects. When she learned that human beings could be taught echolocation, she sent her sons stumbling around in blindfolds, clicking their tongues just so, listening for reflected echoes off sofas and walls… even servants stationed around the room. It proved possible to navigate that way-with a lot of bumps and stumbles. Hacker even found the knack handy as a party trick, later in life.

But who would imagine I’d wind up using it in a place like this?

Even the dolphins seemed surprised by his crude ability. Several of them spent extra time with Hacker, patiently tutoring him, like a slow toddler learning to walk.

In return he helped by checking every member of the pod, from fluke to rostrum, using his ungloved hands to clean sores and remove parasites. Especially bothersome were drifting flecks of plastic, that neither sank nor biodegraded, but got caught in body crevices, even at the roots of every dolphin tooth. He found himself doing the chore daily-also carefully combing gunk out of the gill fronds that surrounded his helmet. But the stuff kept coming back. Sometimes swirling clouds of plastic bits and beads would turn the crystal waters hazy and bleak.

How can anything live in this? he wondered while kicking along with his companions, over a seabed that was littered with manmade dross everywhere they went.

Yet, Hacker felt he was getting the hang of life out here. His early fear of drowning, or getting battered by harsh currents, faded in time, as did the claustrophobia of living encased by a survival suit. Once again, he made a mental note to invest in the company that manufactured it. That is, if he ever made it back to that world.

At night he felt more relaxed than he had in years, perhaps ever, dozing while the dolphins’ clickety gossip seemed to flow up his jaw and into his dreams. By the fifth or sixth morning, and increasingly on each that followed, he felt closer to understanding their way of communicating.

I once saw a dolphin expert-on some nature show-say these creatures are merely bright animals, who had powers mimicry and precocious logic skill, maybe some basic semantics, at the level of a chimp, but little more. He said the evidence disproved all those old wish fantasies about dolphins actually having culture and language.

What a dope!

Hacker felt confirmed in his longstanding belief that so-called experts often lack the common sense to see what’s right in front of them.

Despite a promise to himself, he soon lost track of how many days and nights had passed. Moreover, gradually, Hacker even stopped worrying about where the pickup boats could be. He no longer rushed to the surface, bobbing frantically, whenever engine sounds rumbled through the shallow currents. It happened frequently, but though he often glimpsed a distant boat or plane, it was never within reach of his shouting voice, or waving arms.

Angry mutterings about revenge and lawsuits rubbed away under relentless massage by current and tide. Immersed in the dolphins’ communal sonic chatter, he began concerning himself with daily problems of the Tribe, such as when two young males got into a fight, smacking each other with their beaks and flukes, then trading snaps and rakes with sharp teeth, until half a dozen adults intervened, forcibly separating the brawlers.

Using a combination of spoken words, sign language and his growing vocabulary of click-code, Hacker made inquiries and learned that a female (whose complex name he translated to Blue Lady) was in heat. The youths held little hope of mating with her-top males circled much closer. Still, their nervous energy needed an outlet. At least no one was seriously harmed.

One old-timer-Mellow Yellowbelly-shyly presented a pectoral fin to Hacker, who used his knife to dig out several wormlike bloodsuckers. The dolphin chuttered unhappily, but barely flinched.

“You should see a real doctor,” Hacker urged, as if one gave verbal advice to cetaceans every day.

# Helpers go away, Yellowbelly tried to explain in click-code. Though Hacker had to ask for three repeatings.

# Fins need hands. Helper hands.

It supported a theory slowly gestating in Hacker’s mind-that something had been done to these creatures. An alteration that made them distinctly different. A breed somehow apart from others of their species. But what? The mystery grew each time he witnessed some behavior that just couldn’t be natural.

At the same time, Yellowbelly’s answer lit a spark in one corner of Hacker’s mind-the section assigned to wariness and suspicion. It had been dozing, of late, but nothing could ever turn off that part of his character. Not completely.

Could their kindness to me have a double purpose? Maybe it’s no accident that we’ve not passed near any boats or shore. Or any of the search parties that Mark and Lacey would have sent out.

Having a human may be useful to them.

Perhaps they have no intention of letting me go.

Hacker wondered afresh about his own survival. Despite being fed by the Tribe-and sustained by the wonderful suit-there were limits to how long a man could last out here. I’m developing an itch, all over. The human body isn’t meant for perpetual exposure to salt, and deposits must be building up on my skin. My waste products are easy to dispose of… but what if the gills or freshwater distiller get permanently clogged? Already, he saw signs of declining efficiency.

Still, there seemed to be no life-or-death urgency.

Except to one mother, a brother, three girlfriends, four avocation clubs, and my investment company, drifting rudderless without me. And all the searchers that Lacey has probably sent scurrying across the Caribbean looking for me.

How, he wondered, could the rescuers keep missing him? Had every transponder chip failed, including several in the suit?

One theory occurred to Hacker-that jibbering, noble twit, Lord Smits, must have used something more powerful than a signal laser, during that brief-stupid attempt at playing space war. Perhaps the snooty, inbred bastard also wielded a narrow beam EMP-thrower, firing an electromagnetic pulse that fritzed Hacker’s ailectronics. It could explain the rapid deterioration of his suborbital capsule, at a crucial moment.

If so, it was nothing less than attempted murder…

Yet, even that realization did not fill him with the expected flood of fury. Somehow, wrath seemed out of place down here. Perhaps it was the implacable push of solar and lunar tides, so much more palpable and insistent than mere atmospheric breezes. Or else the infectious attitude of his companions. Not perfectly cheerful or always accepting… they had their frets and upsets… still, the dolphins were keyed to a wholly different scale. One that seemed less egocentric or self-important. Or that seldom saw a point in frenzy.

# Sea gives…

#… though we must leave her

#… to breathe…

So explained Yellowbelly. At least, that was how Hacker loosely interpreted one set of sonic glyph images.

# And Sea takes it all away again.

Of course, it was an iffy thing, trying to decipher a brief sound sculpture, crudely perceived with a jaw implant that hadn’t been designed for this purpose. Translating Yellowbelly’s explanation as some kind of poetical theology was probably a product of Hacker’s own imagination. Yet even that seemed amazing, for he had never been one for theology. Or poetry, for that matter.

Whatever it is, I’ve managed to figure out all this without assistance. No clever mechanisms or hired experts or AI helpers. There was a grim-amused satisfaction in that. If I’ve gone mad, at least I managed it all by myself!

Life drifted on, a cadence of hunting, eating, socializing, exploring, and tending to the needs of the Tribe-followed by evenings bathed in equal measures of warm water and sound. When a storm or rain squall passed through the area, he listened to the dolphins as they kept a kind of syncopated time with the rippling waves and pelting drops.

Then came one day when the whole community grew excited, spraying nervous clicks everywhere. Amid a swirl of daunting gray forms, swooping and chattering, it took Hacker some time to gather a gist of what was up. Apparently, by group consensus, it had been decided all at once to head for one of their regular haunts, a favorite place of some kind. One they seemed to think of as home.

For quite some time Hacker had been trying to keep up with the group on his own, kicking hard with his flippers and swimming with increasing strength, at a pace he was pretty proud of… even knowing that they were indulging him with affectionate tolerance, amused by his clumsy efforts. Now though, a note of impatience intruded. Several times adult members pulled alongside, offering their dorsal fins, crafting resonant shapes that urged Hacker to grab ahold. But he felt obstinately determined.

Well, after all, they have to go up for air and I don’t. That ought to count for something.

After refusing three times, striving hard to keep up with their increasing pace, he abruptly felt a narrow beam of unpleasantness rattle his jaw on one side. Turning, he felt struck, full-face, by a wave of sharp rebuke-there was no other way to interpret the harsh sonic waves-cast from the brow of an irascible dolphin he had nicknamed Bicker-a-lot.

Heck, make that Bicker-a-ton! The creature glared the way cetaceans do, by crafting a jagged shape around Hacker’s head, composed of craggy, uneven sound waves. None of it showed visibly. There was no change in the beguiling, misleading dolphin smile.

All right. All right. If you feel that strongly about it.

The top female Sweet Thing, offered Hacker a dorsal fin, and this time he accepted. Soon, they were streaking along, building speed, alternately dipping below the thermocline and then racing upward to jet out of the water. Each time, he got an exhaled blast across the facemask as she arched and soared, blowing and filling her lungs while gravity was checked for a brief, glorious moment. Hacker couldn’t help flinching and squinting-and giving a hoarse yell. It was no rocket, but one hell of a ride.

He also tried to take advantage, every leap, of the chance to look around. After a while, Hacker glimpsed something-a blurry line of white and tan and blotchy green up ahead. It was hard to make out amid the jostling of spray and exhilaration. He didn’t dare to linger on the hopeful word-land.

Too soon the rollicking journey ended. The pod of cetaceans slowed and submerged, heading downward at a shallow slant. Now I’ll find out what “home” means to a pack of wild…

A bulky object emerged out of blue dimness, down at the sloping bottom. No more than ten meters below the surface, between sheltering, sedimentary rilles, it had the edgy lines of something man-made. At-first it seemed a derelict, perhaps a sunken ship. Then Hacker sucked in his breath, as the object resolved into another kind of thing altogether. A construct that had come to the muddy sea floor with deliberate purpose.

They were approaching an undersea habitat dome, hidden in a narrow canyon-one of thousands that had been mass produced in the twenties, during a brief suboceanic boom, when some thought it to be the next great property-rush frontier. Dad invested in a few underwater hotels and mining facilities, Hacker recalled. With sea levels rising, he said that humanity would adapt, as always, and we needed to be part of it. Even make money off it.

Too bad none of the ventures ever made a profit.

While his heartbeat settled down, Hacker noticed a few other things. Like the shape of the gully, clearly formed by drifting sand and silt, piled up over many years. It was the kind of terrain that only formed where ocean bottom approached the continental verge. In fact, he could now pick up growling, repetitive rhythms with his implant-a complex pattern that any surfer would recognize-of breaker slapping against the shore.

Shore… The word tasted strange after all these days-weeks?-spent languidly swimming, living on raw fish and listening to timeless ocean sounds. Suddenly, it felt odd to contemplate leaving this watery realm, returning to the surface world of air, earth, cities, machines, and nine billion human beings inhaling each other’s humid breath everywhere they went.

That’s why we dive into our own worlds, I suppose. Countless thousands of hobbies. A million ways to be special, each person endeavoring to be expert at some arcane art… like rocketing into space.

Psychologists approved, saying that frenetic amateurism was a much healthier response than the most likely alternative-war. They called this the “Century of Aficionados,” a time when governments and professional societies could barely keep up with private expertise, which spread at lightning speed across the World Mesh. A renaissance-without-a-cause, lacking only a clear sense of purpose.

A renaissance that seemed to be dancing atop a layer of fragile ice, moving its feet quickly, as if afraid that standing still could be lethal. The prospect of soon rejoining that culture left him suddenly pensive, even a bit sad, pondering something he never would have considered, before that ill-fated desert launch.

What’s the point of so much obsessive, frenetic activity unless it propels you toward something worthwhile?

Once, a few days ago, he had heard one of the dolphins voice a similar thought in their simple but expressive click-language, as far as he could dimly interpret.

# If you’re good at diving-chase fish!

# If you have a fine voice-sing!

# If you’re great at leaping-bite the sun!

Hacker knew he should clamber up the nearby beach now, to borrow a phone and call people-his partners and brokers, mother and brother, friends and lovers.

Tell them he was alive.

Get back to business.

Instead, he swiveled in the water and kicked hard at a downward slant, following his new friends to the habitat dome.

Maybe I’ll learn what’s been done to them, he thought.

And why.

Why haven’t we overpopulated the planet?

That may seem an odd question, while refugee riots wrack overcrowded cities that incubate new diseases weekly. Forests topple for desperate farmland, even as drought bakes former farms into desert. Starvation lurks beyond each year’s harvest and human waste is now the world economy’s biggest product by sheer mass. One can understand why some view nine billion humans as a curse, shredding and consuming Earth to the bone.

Yet, it could have been worse. A generation ago, scholars forecast we’d be past fourteen or fifteen billion by now and still climbing toward the limit prophesied by Malthus-a great die-off. It happens to every species that out breeds its habitat capacity.

Trouble is, any die-off won’t just dip our population to sustainable levels. Humans don’t go quietly. We tend to claw and drag others down with us. Out of blame, or for company. Given today’s varied tools of ready wrought destruction, any such event would affect everyone. So, aren’t we lucky that population growth rates are way down? With the total even tapering a bit? Maybe enough to squeak by? Sure, that means old folks will outnumber kids for a while. Well, no one promised survival would be free of consequences.

But how did it happen? Why did we escape (even barely) the Malthusian Trap? Some credit the fact that humans can separate the recreational and procreative aspects of sex.

Animals feel a compulsive drive to mate and exchange genes. Some scatter their offspring in great numbers. Others care intensively for just a few. But animals who finish this cycle and are healthy enough, routinely return to the driver of it all-sex-starting the process over again. Its power is rooted in one simple fact. Those who felt its urgency had more descendants.

This applied to us, too, of course, till technology gave us birth control.

Then suddenly, the sex compulsion could be satisfied without procreation, with amazing effects. Everywhere that women were empowered with both prosperity and rights, most of them chose to limit childbearing, to concentrate on raising a few privileged offspring instead of brooding at max capacity. We became a non-Malthusian species, able to limit our population by choice, in the nick of time.

Too bad it can’t last. Today, some humans do overbreed. These tend not to be the rich, or those with enough food or who have sex a lot. They are having lots of kids because they choose to. And so, whatever inner drives provoked that choice get passed down to more offspring, then more. Over time, this extra-strong desire will appear in rising portions of the population.

It’s evolution in action. As time passes, the locus of compulsion will shift from sex to a genetically-driven, iron willed determination to have more kids…

… and then we’ll be a Malthusian species again-like the “motie” beings in that novel The Mote in God’s Eye, unable to stop. Unable to say “enough.” A fate that may commonly entrap a great many other species, across the cosmos.

Before that happens to us, we had better finish the job of growing up.

– from The Movement Revealed, by Thormace Anubis-Fejel

33.

As he changed into formal dinner clothes in the luxurious guest bedroom, one furnishing caught the attention of Hamish Brookeman-a modernized, antique chamber pot.

Not the Second Empire armoire, or the Sforzese chest of drawers, nor even the Raj era rug from Baluchistan. (He needed a Mesh-consult to identify that one, with Wriggles whispering a description in his ear.) Hamish had an eye for detail-he needed one, while moving in circles like these. The mega wealthy had grown judgmental, of late. They expected you to know about such things, to better understand your place.

Hamish was a rich man, ranking five percentile nines-enough to classify him as a member of the First Estate, if he weren’t already a legend in the arts. Nevertheless, there was nothing in this room that he could afford. Not one blessed thing.

And I’m far from the most important guest who has come to this gathering in the Alps. I can only imagine what kind of digs they’re giving Tenskwatawa and his aides, or the aristocrats flying in from Shanghai and Yangon, Moscow and Mumbai.

Of course, Hamish had another reason for scanning, hungrily, everything in sight. Always at the back of his mind was the question: Can I use this in a novel?

Even when storytelling ceased to be what it had been for three centuries, an author’s hermetic craft, transforming into a hybrid, multimedia team effort, with eye-clickable hyperlinks that required a whole staff to provide… even so, he still had the solitary habit of mind, envisioning the narrative in paragraphs, punctuation and all.

That Heian era tea table would be worth a three-sentence aside, revealing something about the character of the one who owns it.

Or-

I could go on for a couple of pages about this Bohemian Renaissance four-poster bed, with snakes twisting insidiously, perhaps voluptuously, or else biblically, among the deeply carved curly vines. Maybe even write it into the plot as a haunted soul-reliquary… or high-tech life-extension device… or a disguised scanner, meant to read the minds of houseguests while they sleep.

Each of the scenarios was about Science Gone Terribly Wrong in Unforeseen Ways, of course. There were always far more potential stories about the penalties of human technological hubris than even he could put down.

But no, the particular item he found squatting by the foot of the damask coverlet was especially interesting. Decorated in Georgian style, the chamber pot was either an excellent reproduction (unlikely in this mansion) or else the genuine eighteenth century article-a late Whieldon or an early Josiah Wedgwood design. And yet, evidently, it was also meant to be in service-the modern, hermetically sealed lid made that plain, along with a soft green night-light, designed to prevent fumbling in the dark. No doubt, when he opened the pot for use, he would also find another light within, to improve nocturnal aim.

Can’t have guests pissing on the rug, Hamish mused. A functional combination of old and new. And also-just as explicitly-not to be sat on. Not for women, then, or for defecation. Men only. And just old Number One. Any modern person would understand the narrow purpose-for collecting the contemporary equivalent of gold.

But why here, by the bed? Why not simply walk to the loo?

Just fifteen steps took him through an ornate doorway to the elaborately tiled private bath, with heated floor and seven nozzle shower, where nanofiber towels awaited their chance to massage his pores while wicking moisture and applying expensive lotion, all at the same time. The facilities were sumptuous and up-to-date, except…

Well I’ll be hog-tied. There’s no phos-urinal.

The toilet-bidet had every water and air jet accoutrement, along with the latest seat warmer-vibrator from Kinshasa Luxe. But clearly, the porcelain bowl itself simply flushed, straight into the sewer, just like in the bad old days. There was no separate collector unit, or PU. No way for a man to perform the modern duty never asked of women. The one obligation that few women-even the most egalitarian or environmentally dedicated-volunteered to perform.

Back home, Hamish took care of reducing his household phosphorus waste by simply peeing off his bedroom balcony onto the roses… or into a sheltered flower bed outside his office. The world’s simplest recycling system, and adopted by males all over the globe-wherever any nearby patch of nature might benefit-once a mild gaucherie, now an act of Earth patriotism.

To be honest, he enjoyed it, and Carolyn was no longer around to roll her eyes, muttering about a “so-called crisis that must have been trumped up by macho little boys.”

That brought a smile of recollection… followed by a frown, remembering how, toward the end, she had called him a hypocrite for telling millions of viewers and readers, in Condition of Panic, that the phosphorus shortage was a hoax-a plot conceived by fertilizer barons and radical Earthfirsters.

“In that case, why have you put PUnits in every bathroom of this house?” she demanded, one day. “You could be consistent. Take it to court! Pay the fines! Flush away!”

Hamish’s standard response-“Hey, it’s just a story!”-didn’t seem to work with her anymore. Not toward the end.

In truth, that novel-retitled Phoscarcity? and then Phos-scare-city! for the movie version-was one he rather regretted. Denying the obvious had cost him some credibility. But, then, Carolyn never understood-I don’t like smartaleck boffins telling me what to do. Even when they’re right.

Veering back to the here and now, Hamish wondered about the House of Glaucus-Worthington. For all the luxury of this bathroom, it pretty blatantly ignored the worldwide fertilizer shortage. Do they bribe Zurich officials to look the other way, when this grand mansion sends all its phosphorus down to the mulching plant, mixed in with toilet paper and poo? Downstream reclamation was far less efficient, after all. And the Swiss loved efficiency.

Just because you’re a plutocrat, that doesn’t automatically mean you don’t care about the planet. Even if the GWs shrug off this emergency, some of their visitors will be planet-minded types or rich Naderites, who will want to…

… oh…

Okay, mystery partly solved. The chamber pot was a courtesy, for guests choosing to do the planetary correct thing. But such a conspicuously impractical PC solution! Some servant would have to come, perhaps twice or more a day, collect each contribution and then clean the pot…

For the second time in a few heartbeats, Hamish got the “aha!” moment that he lived for.

I get it. You’re telling me that you can send well-paid, elegant, soft-spoken servants all through this mammoth showplace, emptying and scrubbing antique porcelain PeeYews-each of them worth a small fortune-by hand. All right, point taken. You are rich enough to no longer care how many nines you have in your percentile.

Also, he recalled with a wince, rich enough to not give a damn about fame… or autographs.

As Rupert Glaucus-Worthington had demonstrated, by smiling faintly, when Hamish tried to hand him a signed copy of The New Pyramid, touching it lightly with a fingertip, before allowing a butler to carry it away. And then, with condescension that seemed more indolent than purposely insulting, the patriarch had asked:

“And so, Mr. Brookeman, what is it that you do for a living?”

One cultural gulf between people living east and west of the Atlantic had long swirled around that question. Americans tended to ask it right away, often unaware that it might cause offense.

To us it means “What interesting task or skill did you choose as the daytime focus of your life?” We assume it’s a matter of choice, not caste. Meanwhile, Europeans tend to translate the question to “What’s your born social class?” or “How much money do you make?” Generations of misunderstanding arose from that simple, treacherous, conversational error.

Only, then, why did Glaucus-Worthington-as European as the Alps-ask it?

Hamish recalled the sense of hurt that question triggered when he arrived at this great house, along with a dozen other guests, all brought in by private stratojet to assist tomorrow’s negotiations. Stepping from limousine to receiving line was no new thing for Hamish. He had been prepared for the usual light chitchat with his host, before butlers took each visitor to private chambers for freshening up.

But Hamish was also accustomed to being one of the most famous people in any room, never subjected to that particular question.

Could it be that he’s really never heard of me? When I answered by offering up some movie titles, none of them seemed to strike a bell. He simply smiled and said “How nice,” before turning to the boffin standing next in line.

Of course, the superrich do have elite pastimes. Interests and activities we can only dream of. Priorities beyond mere…

Standing by the bed-halfway changed from his travel clothes into the obligate white tie and dinner jacket-Hamish blinked in sudden realization.

It’s too much. No person could be that far out of touch. Anyway, all you have to do today is plug a farlai in your ear to get automatic, whispered bio-summaries about anyone you meet. A conscientious host does that, making every guest feel appreciated.

No. The snub was deliberate. Rupert wants to seem aloof, above it all.

But the hand is overplayed.

They’re trying too hard.

Hamish knew what Guillaume deGrasse, his favorite detective character, would say right now.

I can smell fear.

He had no opportunity to share that insight with the Prophet before dinner-only a few moments to offer his capsule summary of meeting Roger Betsby, the self-confessed poisoner of Senator Strong. Tenskwatawa’s dark eyes glittered while listening to Hamish’s brief tale about the daring, the gall, the utter chutzpah of a rural doctor, who seemed so cheerfully-if mysteriously-willing to bring himself down, along with a despised politician.

“So you still have no idea what drug Betsby used to warp Strong’s behavior? Getting him to make such a fool of himself in public?”

“Only that it was a legal substance, even medicinal. What he did was still a crime, Betsby concedes that. But he implies that a jury would be lenient, and that public revelation of the substance itself would do the senator even more harm than has already been done. Betsby threatens that he’ll confess everything, if there’s any retribution. I have to admit… it’s one of the strangest types of extortion I’ve ever seen.”

Tenskwatawa laughed upon reading Hamish’s expression of mystification. “He sounds like a worthy little adversary for you, my friend. Just the sort of challenge that keeps you diverted and happy.”

Forsaking his usual denim for contemporary evening clothes, the man often called a “prophet” seemed to be downplaying the whole messenger of destiny thing. Mysticism had no place at this mountaintop summit, where the twin negotiating themes would be pragmatism and flattery. Only the former would be spoken of explicitly. But in order to achieve the main goal-bringing an important segment of world aristocracy fully into the Movement-there must be a two-pronged appeal, to both self-interest and ego.

Not trivial! After his urinal-epiphany, Hamish had a new appreciation of how delicate it might be. These oligarchs wouldn’t trust populist agitators, even with shared goals. They’d demand assurances, a measure of control…

… and yet, of course, Tenskwatawa was the smartest person Hamish had ever met, so what was there to worry about?

“Why don’t you see if Dr. Betsby can be brought aboard somehow?” Tenskwatawa was so tall that he almost met Hamish eye to eye. “Our passionate young physician must have some want or need that would supersede his current agenda. Money? Help for a cause? Perhaps a taste of jail time, on some lesser charge, would create incentive for him to be reasonable.

“Still,” the Prophet added. “If Betsby won’t budge, do try to see if the senator can be saved.”

“Whatever it takes, sir?”

The Prophet raised an eyebrow, paused, and then shook his head.

“No. Strong isn’t that important. Not anymore. Not with the world in turmoil over this damned Alien Artifact doohickey.

“Anyway, remember Hamish, we’re not pushing to become tyrants. Dirty tricks and Stazi tactics need to be kept to a minimum. Our movement aims only to put a harness on science and technology, instead of leaving them in charge of human destiny. We use populism and mob-mobilization methods, but in order to calm and tame the masses, and thus save the world, so that a better democracy can return later on.”

“Hmm.” Hamish pondered, glancing at their surroundings “Our new allies may not agree with the very last part of that.”

In truth, Hamish wasn’t sure that he did. Plato despised democracy and wasn’t he the wisest philosopher of all?

“I know.” Tenskwatawa briefly squeezed Hamish’s arm above the elbow, conveying a sense of power, jovially restrained, but coiled and always ready, like some force of physics. “The aristos think they can use us… and they do have both history and human nature on their side of the ledger. Perhaps they’ll succeed! We may wind up like so many other populist movements across time-tricked into aiding the rise of oligarchy.

“On the other hand, we have a few new things on our side of the scale.” The Prophet smiled, conveying confidence that shone like the sun.

“Such as Truth.”

Last time, we talked about one more way that civilizations might fail to achieve their dreams-not because of calamity, or war, or ecological collapse, but something mundane, even banal.

Overspecialization. Failure to keep climbing the near-vertical mountain of their accumulated learning. Pondered logically, it seems unavoidable. The greater your pile of information, the steeper the chore of discovering more! Concentrating on a narrower subject will only work up to a point, because even if you live long enough to master your cramped field, you’ll never know how much of your work is being duplicated, wastefully, across the world or down the hall, by people using a slightly different vocabulary for the same problem. Humanity’s greatest trick for making progress-subsidizing ever larger numbers of specialist-professionals-seemed destined to become a trap.

Indeed, this failure mode may trip up countless civilizations out there, across the galaxy.

But not us. Not on twenty-first century Earth. That danger was overcome, at least for now, by stunning achievements in human mental agility. By Internet connections and search-correlation services that sift the vast sea of knowledge faster than thought. By quest-programs that present you with anything germane to your current interest. By analytic tools that weigh any two concepts for mutual relevance. And above all, by our new ability to flit-like gods of legend-all over the e-linked globe, meeting others, ignoring guild boundaries and sharing ideas.

The printing press multiplied what average humans could know, while glass lenses magnified what we could see-and every century since expanded that range, till the Multitasking Generation can zip hither and yon, touching lightly upon almost any fact, concept or work of art, exchanging blips, nods, twits, and pips with anyone alive… and some entities that aren’t.

Ah, but therein lies the rub. “Touching lightly.”

Much has been written about the problems that accompany Continuously Divided Attention. Loss of focus. A susceptibility for simplistic/viral notions. An anchorless tendency to drift or lose concentration. And these are just the mildest symptoms. At the extreme are dozens of newly named mental illnesses, like Noakes’s Syndrome and Leninger’s Disease, many of them blamed on the vast freedom we have won-to skitter our minds across any topic with utter abandon.

Have we evaded one dismal failure mode-the trap of narrow overspecialization-only to stumble into the opposite extreme? Broadly-spread shallow-mindedness? Pondering thoughts that span the farthest horizons, but only finger-deep?

Listen to those dour curmudgeons out there, decrying the faults of our current “Age of Amateurs.” They call for a restoration of expertise, for a return to credentialed knowledge-tending, for restoring order and disciplined focus to our professions and arts and academe. Is this just self-interested guild-tending? Or are they prescribing another badly needed course correction, to stave off disaster?

Will the new AI systems help us deal with this plague of shallowness… or make it worse?

One thing is clear. It isn’t easy to be smart, in this galaxy of ours. We keep barely evading a myriad pitfalls along our way to… whatever we hope to become.

When you add it all up, are you really surprised that we seem so alone?

– Pandora’s Cornucopia

34.

Ocean stretched in every direction.

Peng Xiang Bin had come to think of himself as a man of the sea, who spent most of his time in water-amid the scummy, sandy tidal surges that swept up and down the Huangpu Estuary. He thought nothing of holding his breath while diving a dozen meters for crab, or prying salvage from the junk-strewn bottom, feeling more akin to the fish, or even drifting jellies, than to the landlubber he once had been. In a world of rising seas and drowning shorelines, it seemed a good way to adapt.

Only now he realized. I always counted on the nearness of dry land.

Ahead of him lay nothing but gray ocean, daunting and endless, flecked with wind-driven froth and merging imperceptibly with a faraway, turbid skyline. Except where he now stood, on a balcony projecting outward from a man-made island-a high-tech village on stilts-clinging to a reef that used to be a nation.

That was now a nation once again.

Looking carefully, he could follow the curve of breakers smashing over stumps that had once been buildings-homes and schools, shops and wharves. Here had been no massive seawalls. No effort to preserve doomed properties. All toppled under powerful typhoons long ago. Soon after most of the natives moved away, explosives finished off the messy remnants of Old Pulupau, a one-time tropical paradise. The new inhabitants didn’t want unpleasant remnants spoiling their view.

Of course there was a lot more hidden from the eye, just beyond the reef. A vista of underwater industry had been visible from the small submarine that brought Bin here three days ago. Wave machines for generating electricity and siphons that sucked bottom mud to spread into the currents, fertilizing plankton to enhance nearby fishing grounds and earn carbon credits at the same time. Pressing his face against the sub’s tiny window, Bin had stared at huge globes, shaped like gigantic soccer balls, bobbing against anchor-tethers-pens where schools of tuna spent their entire lives, fed and fattened for market. A real industrial and economic infrastructure… all of it kept below the surface, out of sight, in order not to perturb rich residents who lived above.

A glint of white cloth and silvery metal… Bin winced as his right eye, fresh from surgery, overreacted to the sudden glare reflecting off a nineteen-meter sloop that passed into view around the far corner of Newer Newport. Sheets of bright neosilk billowed and figures hurried about the deck, tugging at lines. A call-distant but clear-bellowed across the still lagoon.

“Two-Six, heave!”

Voices answered in unison as well-drilled teamwork rapidly set the main sail. Though the crew seemed to be working hard, few would call it “labor.” Not when the poorest citizen of this independent nation could buy or sell a man like Peng Xiang Bin, ten thousand times or more. Bin found the sight intriguing in more ways than he could count.

I always thought that rich people would lay about, letting servants and robots do everything for them. Sure, you heard of wealthy athletes and hobbyists. But I had no idea so many would choose to sweat and strain… for fun. Or that it could be so-

He shook his head, lacking the vocabulary. Then something happened that he still found disturbing. A dark splotch appeared, as if by magic, in a lower corner of his right eye. The shadow resolved into a single Chinese character, with a small row of lesser figures underneath, offering both a definition and pronunciation guide.

Obsessive.

Yes. That word seemed close to what he had in mind. Or, rather, what the ai in his eye estimated, after following his gaze and reading subconscious signals in his throat, the subvocalized words that he had muttered within, without ever speaking them aloud.

This was going to take some getting used to.

“Peng Xiang Bin,” a voice spoke behind him. “You have rested and the worldstone has recharged. It is time to return.”

It was the same voice that had come from the penguin-machine, his constant companion during the hurried journey that began less than a hundred hours ago-first swimming away from his wife and child and the little shorestead, then slipping aboard a midget submarine, followed by two days aboard a fast coastal packet-freighter, then a hurried midnight transfer to a seaplane that made a final rendezvous, in midocean, with yet another submarine… and all that way accompanied by a black, birdlike robot. His guide, or keeper, or guard, it had spoken soothingly to him about his coming duties as keeper of the worldstone.

Only at journey’s end, after surfacing and stepping onto Newer Newport, here in Pulupau, did Bin meet the original owner of the voice.

“Yes, Dr. Nguyen,” he answered, nod-bowing to a slight man with Annamese features and long black hair, braided in elegant rows. “I come, sir.”

He turned to gather up the off-white ovoid-the worldstone-from a nearby patio table, where it had lain in sunshine for an hour, soaking energy. A welcome break for him, as well. As carefully as he would handle a baby, Bin hefted the artifact and followed Nguyen Ky between sliding doors of frosted glass, moving slowly out of habit, in order to let his vision adapt to interior dimness. Only, he might as well not have bothered. His right eye… or ai… now adjusted brightness and contrast for him, more quickly than any spreading of his natural iris.

The room was broad and well appointed, with plush furnishings that adapted to each user’s comfort preference. Programmable draperies were set to soothing patterns that rippled gently, like a freshwater brook. The farthest window was left open. Through it, Bin glimpsed the rest of Newer Newport-more than a hectare of sleek, multistoried luxury, perched on massive footings, firmly anchored over the spot where ancestral kings of Pulupau once had their palace.

Some distance beyond, a series of other mammoth stilt-villages, each wildly different in style, followed the curve of a drowned atoll. Thielburg, Patria, Galt’s Gulch and several others with names that were even harder to remember. One of them, all stainless steel and glass, was dedicated to caring for aged aristocrats, immersing them in comfort and threevee experience, before freezing them for a nitrogen-chilled journey through time, aimed at repair and resurrection in a hundred years or so-to be young again, in tech-enhanced paradise.

Another artificial islet, with polycarbonano architecture reminiscent of palm logs and thatch roofing, was set aside for the old royal family and a number of genuine Pulupauese. As legalistic insurance, no doubt. In case any nation or consortium should doubt the sovereign independence of this archipelago of wealth.

Seasteading. Of course, Bin had heard of such places. Along the spectrum of human prosperity, these projects lay at the very opposite end from the shorestead that he had settled with Mei Ling in the garbage-strewn Huangpu. Here, and in a few dozen other locales, some of the world’s richest families had pooled funds to buy up small nations to call their own, escaping all obligation (especially taxes) owed to the continental states, with their teeming, populist masses. Yet, Bin could see a few traits shared in common by seastead and shorestead. Adaptation. Making the best of rising seas. Turning calamity into advantage.

Three technical experts-a graceful Filipina who never removed her wraparound immersion goggles; an islander, possibly a native Pulupauan, who kept fingering his interactive crucifix; and an elderly Chinese gentleman, who spoke in the soft tones of a scholar-watched Peng Xiang Bin and Nguyen Ky gingerly replace the worldstone in its handcrafted cradle, surrounded by instruments and sleek, ailectronic displays.

The ovoid had already started coming alive in response to Bin’s touch. As keeper of the worldstone, he alone could rouse the object to craft lustrous images-like a whole world or universe shining within an egglike capsule, less than half a meter long. Whatever the reason for his special knack, Bin was grateful for the honor, for the resulting employment, and for a chance to participate in matters far above his normal station of life. Though he missed Mei Ling and the baby.

The now familiar entity Courier of Caution lurked-or seemed to-just within the pitted, ovoid curves, amid those swirling clouds. Courier’s ribbon eye stared outward, resembling Anna Arroyo’s unblinking goggles, while the creature’s diamond-shaped, four-lipped mouth pursed in a perpetual expression of uneasiness or disapproval.

Bin carefully reattached a makeshift device at one end that compensated for some of the object’s surface damage, partly restoring a sonic connection. Of course, he had no idea how the mechanism-or anything else in the room-worked. But he kept trying to learn every procedure, if only so the others would consider him a colleague… and less an experimental subject.

From their wary expressions, it might take some time.

“Let us resume,” Dr. Nguyen said. “We were attempting to learn about the stone’s arrival on Earth. Here are the ideograms we want you to try next, please.” The small man laid a sheet of e-paper in front of Xiang Bin, bearing a series of characters. They looked complex and very old-even archaic.

Fortunately, Bin did not have to hold the ovoid in his hands anymore. Just standing nearby seemed to suffice. Bringing his right index finger close-and sticking out his tongue a little in concentration-he copied the first symbol by tracing it across the surface of the worldstone. Inky brushstrokes seemed to follow his touch-path. Actually, it came out rather pretty. Calligraphy… one of the great Chinese art forms. Who figured I would have a knack for it?

He managed the next figure more quickly. And a third one. Evidently, the ideograms were not in modern Chinese, but some older dialect and writing system-more pictographic and less formalized-from the warring states period that preceded the unification standards of great Chin, the first emperor. Fortunately, the implant in his eye went ahead and offered a translation, which he spoke aloud in modern Putonghua.

“Date of arrival on Earth?”

There were two projects going on at once. The first involved using ancient symbols to ask questions. But Dr. Nguyen also wanted to expose the entity to modern words. Ideally-if it truly was much smarter than an Earthly ai-it should learn the more recent version of Chinese, and other languages as well. Anyway, this would test the ovoid’s adaptability.

After a brief pause, Courier appeared to lift one arm, weirdly double-elbowed, and knocked Bin’s ideograms away with a flick of one three-fingered hand, causing them to shatter and dissolve. The simulated alien proceeded to draw a series of new figures that jostled and arrayed themselves against the worldstone’s inner face. Bin also sensed the bulbous right end of the stone emit faint vibrations. Sophisticated detectors fed these to a computer, whose vaice then uttered enhanced sounds that Bin didn’t understand.

Fortunately, Yang Shenxiu, the white-haired Chinese scholar, could. He tapped a uniscroll in front of him.

“Yes, yes! So that is how those words used to be pronounced. Wonderful.”

“And what do they mean, please?” demanded the Vietnamese mogul standing nearby.

“Oh, he… the being who resides within… says that he cannot track the passage of time, since he slept for so long. But he will offer something that should be just as good.”

Dr. Nguyen stepped closer. “And pray, what is that?”

The alien brought its forearms together and then apart again. The ever-present clouds seemed to converge, bringing darkness upon a patch of the worldstone, till deep black reigned across the center. Bin caught a pointlike glitter… and another… then two more… and another pair…

“Stars,” announced Anna Arroyo. “Six of them, arrayed in a rough hexagon… with a final one in the middle, slightly off center… I’m searching the online constellation catalogs… Damn. All present-day matches include some stars that are below seventh magnitude, so they’d have been invisible to people long ago. It’s unlikely…”

“Please do not curse or blaspheme,” said the islander, Paul Menelaua. “Let’s recall that the topic at hand is time. Dates. When. Stars shift.” Still fondling the animatronic cross that hung from a chain around his neck, he added. “Try going retrograde…”

The figure of Jesus seemed to squirm, a little, under his touch. Anna frowned at his terse rebuke, but she nodded. “I’m on it. Backsifting and doing a whole sky match-search in one hundred year intervals. This could take a while.”

Bin grunted. Held back a moment. Then blurted:

“Seven!”

The scholar and the rich man turned to him. Bin had to swallow to gather courage, managing a low croak. “I… think the number of stars may… make this simpler.”

“What do you mean, Peng Xiang Bin?” asked Dr. Nguyen.

“I mean… maybe… you should try the Seven Maidens. You know. The…” He groped for a name.

“Pleiades,” the scholar, Yang Shenxiu, finished for him, at about the same time as Bin’s aiware also supplied the name. “Yes, that would be a good guess.”

The Filipina woman interrupted. “Got you. Scanning time-drift of just that one cluster, back… back… Yes! It’s a good match. The Pleiades-Subaru constellation, just under five thousand years ago. Wow.”

“Well done.” Dr. Nguyen nodded. “I expected something like this. My young friend Xiang Bin, please tell us again about the box that formerly held the worldstone-what did the inscription say?’

Bin recited from memory.

“‘Unearthed in Harappa, 1926’…”

He then spoke the second half with an involuntary shiver.

“‘Demon-infested. Keep in the dark.’”

“Harappa, yes,” Nguyen nodded, ignoring the other part. “A center of the Indus Valley culture… poor third sister during the earliest days of urban civilization, after Mesopotamia and Egypt.” He glanced at the scholar Yang Shenxiu, who continued.

“Some think it was a stunted state-cramped, paranoid, and never fully literate. Others admired its level of primly regimented urban planning. We don’t really know what happened to the Indus civilization. Abandoned about 1700 B.C.E., they say. Possibly a great flood weakened both main cities, Harappa and Mohenjo-daro. By possible coincidence, several thousand li to the west, the great volcano at Thera may have-”

Dr. Nguyen shook his head, and the elegant braids swished. “But this makes no sense! Why would it be speaking to us in archaic Chinese, a dialect from more than a millennium later? Harappa was buried under sand by then!”

“Shall I try to ask, sir?” Bin took a step forward.

The small man waved a hand in front of his face. “No. I am following a script of questions, prioritized by colleagues and associates around the world. We’ll keep to these points, then fill in gaps later. Go to the next set of characters, Xiang Bin, if you would please.”

Bin felt gratified again by Dr. Nguyen’s unfailing politeness. The gentleman had been well brought up, for sure-skilled at how best to treat underlings. Perhaps I will get to work for him forever. Not a harsh fate to contemplate, so long as Mei Ling and the baby could join him soon.

He meant to prove his value to this man. So, bending over the stone, Bin carefully sketched four more of the complicated ideograms that Professor Yang Shenxiu had provided, in a style from long ago. Dr. Nguyen’s consortium could not wait for their worldstone to learn modern Chinese. There wasn’t time. Not with the planet already in an uproar over mysterious sights and sounds that were being emitted by the so-called Havana Artifact-another alien emissary-stone that the American astronaut recently retrieved from high orbit. This stone in front of Bin offered a way to check-in secret-on tales being told by the other one in Washington.

So far, they knew one thing. Courier did not seem to approve of the Havana Artifact. Shown images of the more famous object, Courier reacted with crouches and slashing motions, so clear and easily understood they might be universal across the cosmos. Elaborating upon an earlier warning of danger, the entity in Bin’s worldstone added another that was easy to translate.

Liars!

I should count my blessings.

Crisped-by-flame, aboard the Spirit of Chula Vista, I’d be dead in any previous era. I would be nonexistent, or else (slim agnostic chance) gone on to some posthumous reward.

But this is my era, and I’ve been offered options that would seem miraculous to any of my ancestors. Starting with a chance to keep on practicing my trade, while this tormented-barbecued body lies entombed within a canister of life-sustaining gel. Is that worth a (more than a little) bit of ongoing agony? Getting to travel the world as a ghost-journalist e-porter, chatting up celebrighties, tracking rumors, stirring up smart-mobs (!), keeping busy.

Some of you have asked about organ reconstruction. Skin grafts are an ongoing bone of contention between me and the docs-they hurt like hell. But with biojet printers to spray my very own restemmed cells onto layered scaffolds, all the simple, fibrous, and vasculated tissue can be grown-liver, spleen, and left lung-just like the vat-farmer raised that beeftish burger you had for lunch.

There’s even talk of arm and leg transplants, if a reclam donor with my rare antigen type can be found. But I sense doubtful tones under their hopeful words, what with all the nerve damage I suffered. For certain I’ll never again have real eyes and ears. (It’s a wonder my skull protected what it did.)

So what’s the point? Shall I regain mobility by want-controlling a robotic walker? One of those hissing, clanking things?

Some of you ask: What about uploading? Heck, I already exist mostly in cyberspace. Why not just abandon this ruined body and go the rest of the way-taking my whole consciousness into the Net? Become one with my online avatars! That notion has always been 99 percent fiction and 1 percent science… till Marguerita deSilva and her followers began claiming that soon anybody will be able to become just like her pet, the god-rat Porfirio, thriving in virtual worlds that are vaster than anything “real.”

And now there are the Artifact aliens, who seem to prove her right. If we choose to join their interstellar federation, will they show us how to upload ourselves into crystal worlds, as they did?

Is there any way to tell if it’s worthwhile?

Of course, there are other options for a person like me. Some of you say: “All problems will be solved in the due course of time.” So, might the world a century from now be able to fix me up? Repair my poor body to youthful vigor? And is that chance worth a risky journey through time?

It’s illegal in most places to freeze a living person. The cryonics companies have to wait, rushing in to freeze you the moment doctors declare you are legally dead. But I’ve had offers from rich fans (no, I won’t tell) who say they’ll pay my way to San Sebastian, or Pulupau, or Friedmania or Rand’s Freehold, where local law doesn’t quibble such details. Heck, I’m now a heroine and historical figure! Won’t folks want to thaw my frozen corpsicle and heal me, in some marvelous future?

Here’s a one-sentence sales pitch that one true believer sent me: “The cryonics long shot lets us see our pending brain death not as the solipsistic obliteration of our world but as a long sleep that precedes a very major surgery.”

Hm, to sleep. Ah, but perchance to dream? That’s one possible rub.

Worse, what if religious folk, like my parents, turn out to be right? That death is a spirit release. A door opening to something beyond? Might cryonic suspension simply quash and defer what would have been the soul’s reward? Replacing it with an icy nordic version of hell?

Don’t everybody sneer till you’ve been in my position. There aren’t many pure atheists in gel tanks.

35.

The marchers were protesting something. That much Mei Ling could tell, even without virring. But what were they complaining about? Which issue concerned them, from a worldwide collection of grievances more numerous than stars?

Carrying no placards or signs, and dressed in a wild brew of styles, the mostly youthful throng milled forward, in the general direction of the Shanghai Universe of Disney and the Monkey King. Each individual pretended to be minding his or her own business, chattering with companions, window-shopping, or just wandering amid a seemingly random throng of visitor-tourists. Cameras were all over the place of course, atop every lamppost and street sign or pixel-painted on every window rim. Yet nothing was going on that should attract undue attention from monitors of state security, or the local proctors of decent order.

But there were coincidences too frequent to dismiss. For example, they all wore pixelated clothing that glittered and throbbed with ever-changing patterns. One girl had her tunic set to radiate a motif of waving pine trees. A boy’s abstract design featured undulating ocean waves. Only when, as Mei Ling watched, the two bumped briefly against each other, did the two image displays seem to merge and combine across their backs, lining up to convey what her eye-but possibly no ai-briefly recognized as a trio of symbols.

SEEK URBAN SERENITY.

The youths parted again, erasing that momentary coalescence of forest and sea. Perhaps the two of them had never met before that terse, choreographed rendezvous. They might not ever meet again. But soon, amid the throng, another seemingly chance encounter created a different, fleeting message that caught Mei Ling’s built-in, organic pattern recognition system, still more subtle than anything cybernetic, inherited from when her distant ancestors roamed the African tall grass, sifting for signs of prey. Or danger.

RESPONSIBLE LEADERSHIP IS APPRECIATED.

No doubt about it. That’s what the shimmer of fleeting characters said.

Passersby and shoppers were turning to notice, nudging their neighbors and waggling their hands to toss virt-alerts down the street. Crowds of onlookers formed in time to catch the next flicker-pronouncement, as a fat man sidled next to a broad-shouldered woman with orange-striped hair. Their combined pixel-garments proclaimed-

THE TANG EMPERORS ENCOURAGED CREATIVITY.

Watching from a niche between a hair salon and a stall offering pungent chicktish meat, Mei Ling reflexively rocked the baby in his sling carrier, while wondering. Why did these young people go to such lengths to stay disconnected from their messages, preserving their ability to deny responsibility, when the meanings seemed so innocent? So harmless?

Oh, she realized, the real essence must lie elsewhere. In vir-space.

Mei Ling pulled out the set of cheap augmented reality spectacles that she had purchased from a vendor, just a little while ago. It seemed a reasonable use of cash, in an era when so much of the world lay beyond sight of normal eyes. Especially with Xiang Bin gone on his strange adventure beyond the sea. So long as he had a job, helping make that strange, demon-infested stone perform tricks for the penguin creature, she had money. Enough to pay off some repairs to their salvaged shorestead home and even take Xiao En on an early morning shopping expedition into the bustling city, where giant arcology pyramids loomed upward to block half the sky, proclaiming the greatness of the world’s new superpower.

Mei Ling had chosen this time because such a large portion of the planet’s population was watching proceedings at the Artifact Conference in America that she figured the streets would be largely empty. But it turned out that the event was in recess for several hours, which meant people were pouring outdoors to do important shopping or business, or get a little air. It made the boulevards especially crowded-and ideal for this kind of youth demonstration.

Slipping on the wraparound goggles, Mei Ling felt acutely aware of how long it had been since she and Xiang Bin moved out to the tidal flats and ruined shoreline of the Huangpu, where the world had only one “layer”-gritty, hardscrabble reality. That made her several tech-generations out of date. The ailectronics salesman had been helpful, patient… and a little too flirtatious… while tuning the unit to her rusty GIBAAR skills. It was difficult to rediscover the knack, even with his help. Like remembering how to walk after too long a convalescence in bed.

Gaze. Interest. Blink. Allocate Attention. Repeat.

The most basic way to vir, if you don’t have any of the other tools.

She had no fingernail tappers. No clickers and scrollers, planted in the teeth. No subvocal pickups, to read the half-spoken words shaped by throat and mouth. Not even an old-fashioned hand-keyboard or twiddler. And certainly none of the fancy-scary new cephalo sensors that would take commands straight off the brain. Without any of that, she had to make do-choosing from a range of menus and command icons that the spectacles created across the inner surface of both lenses, seeming to float in front of the real-life street scene.

By turning her gaze to look right at a search icon… and by actually being interested (which affected the dilation of her pupils and blood flow in the retina)… she caused that symbol to light up. There followed a well timed, one-two blink of the left eye then right…

On her third try, a new window-menu blossomed, allowing her to allocate her attention… to pick from a range of sub-options. And she chose one called Overlayers.

Immediately, the specs laid faint lines across the real world, bordering the pavement and curb, the fringe of each building and vendor stall-anything real that might become a dangerous obstacle or tripping hazard to a person walking about. Also outlined-the people and vehicles moving around her. Each now carried a slim aura. Especially those heading in her direction, which throbbed a little in the shade that was called collision-warning yellow.

These edge lines-clearly demarcated rims and boundaries of the real world-were inviolate. They weren’t supposed to change, no matter what level of vir-space you chose-it took a real hacker to mess with them.

As for the rest of visual reality, the textures, colors, and backgrounds? Well, there were a million ways to play with those, from covering all the building walls with jungle vines, to filling the world with imaginary water, like sunken Atlantis, to giving every passerby the skin tones of lizard-people from Mars. You name it, and some teenager or bored office worker or semiautonomous cre-ai-tivity drone must have already fashioned an overlay to bring that fantasy cosmos into being.

Mei Ling wasn’t trying for any of those realms-she didn’t know the addresses, for one thing, and had no interest in searching out ways to become immersed in someone else’s favorite mirage. Instead, she tried simply stepping up through the most basic levels, one at a time-first passing through the Public Safety layers, where children or the handicapped could view the world conveniently captioned in simple terms, with friendly risk-avoidance alerts and helpful hands, pointing toward the nearest sources of realtime help.

Then came useful tiers, where all the buildings and storefronts were marked with essential information about location, products, and accountability codes. Or you could zoom-magnify anything that caught your interest. On strata twelve through sixteen, everyone in sight wore basic nametags, or ID badges identifying their professions. Otherwise, reality was left quite bare.

Up at stratum thirty, it suddenly became hard to see, as the air filled with yellow and pink and green notecards-Post-its-that floated around every shop and street corner, conveying anything from meet-me memos to traffic curses to caustic commentaries on a restaurant’s cuisine. And prayers.

Mei Ling experimented by raising her hand and drawing in the air with a finger. As the specs followed her movements and responded, a brand-new Post-it appeared, bearing the name of her husband. Peng Xiang Bin. She then added characters that constituted an incantation for luck. When Mei Ling brought her hand down, the tiny virt fluttered away and seemed to fade into the maelstrom. This was what made stratum thirty almost useless for anything but prayer. Or curses. All visitors could see everything that was ever left there… which meant no one could see anything at all.

Do people really live like this all the time? Wading through the world, immersed in pretend things? She could see how this kind of tool would be useful on occasion. But she could take off the specs at any moment. What about those who got fitted with contaict lenses, or even the new eyeball implants? The very thought made her shudder.

At level forty, a lot of walls disappeared. Most of the buildings seemed to go transparent, or at least depict animated floorplans concocted from public records. These ranged from detailed inner views-of a nearby department store-with every display and mannequin appearing eager to perform, all the way to floors and offices that were blocked by barriers, in varied shades of gray, some of them with glowing locks. You could look inside-if you had some kind of key.

Strata fifty through one hundred were for advertising, and at one point Mei Ling quailed back, as all the normal dampers vanished. Messages and come-ons seemed to roar at her from every shop front and store awning. Blasts of sound rocked the spec-rims till they almost flew off her ears, and she had to concentrate hard just to blink her way out of there! Fortunately, most advir-levels were selective, even polite. Stratum ninety, for example, offered her discreet, personalized discounts on baby formula and inexpensive shoes, plus a special on a massage-makeover in that shop over there, at a price that seemed so reasonable, she could nearly afford it! The proprietor would even fetch a nanny-grandma in five minutes to watch the baby.

But no. Not with the sudden comfort of Xiang Bin’s paycheck so new and unaccustomed. Maybe another time.

Anyway, Mei Ling realized that she had been idly following the gaggle of youthful demonstrators, awkwardly picking her way across each avenue, while making sure that Xiao En’s bottle didn’t fall to the filthy sidewalk. A pedicab driver shouted and Mei Ling jumped back, heart pounding, especially on realizing-she had lost track of where she was, in an unfamiliar part of town.

It is not possible to get lost wearing specs, she reminded herself. Level ten would always provide a handy guide arrow, aiming you down the quickest path to anywhere in the world you wanted to go.

That is, if I knew where he was right now.

If he weren’t swallowed up by the secret intrigues of powerful men.

Continuing to scroll upward through slices of the world, she saw the level counter skip whole swathes of vir-spaces where she wasn’t allowed. You had to be a member of some affinity group to see those overlayers.

I recall that stratum two hundred and fifty was for street gossip.

Only instead, S-250 populated the boulevard with cartoon figures-colorful, high contrast versions of people walking by, with speech balloons floating above many of their heads. Some balloons were filled with written words. Others-nothing but gray static. Oh, yes. This layer is for eavesdropping, if people don’t care enough to set up a privacy block. The gossip level must have been S-350.

Mei Ling found she enjoyed this chance to recover her old knack of blink-navigation, even though the baby was starting to get crabby, and her shoulder bag full of purchases was heavy, and really, maybe it was time to set off for home.

At least she no longer had to ratchet through the layers linearly, one at a time, like a complete neo. A simple preference choice now let her view the virld as a three dimensional spiderweb of jump choices, stretching in all directions. It took just a look, a squint and wink to hop to the level she wanted, where-

– Post-its of another kind flurried about. Voice, text, and vid twips kept zooming in, attaching themselves to the youthful demonstrators, sent by anonymous bystanders, or even people who were viewing the event from thousands of kilometers away.

Smart-aleck kids, one note commented. As if their generation knows a thing about struggle and revolution

Another groused.

Back in 2025 I was in the New Red Guards we really knew how to light up a street ruckus! Wore masks that screwed facial recog cams…

Yep. Street gossip. Finally, Mei Ling found something related to her interest-a simple query note.

WHAT are they demonstrating about?

Which had an even simpler comment addendum attached to it, anonymously recommending a clickover to:

0847lals0xldo098-899as0004-hahd-dorad087

She blinked her way to that address… and found the street scene transformed once again.

The young people now wore costumes in seventeenth-century Shun Dynasty style, like followers of the great rebel leader Li Zicheng. Mei Ling recognized the Peoples’ Militia fashion from a historical romance she had watched. Because he sought to free the masses from feudal oppression, Li Zicheng was officially proclaimed a “hero of the Chinese masses” by Chairman Mao himself, a century ago. Still, I’m surprised that today’s rich and powerful lords of the Beneficent Patriarchy approve of people invoking his memory, she thought.

Up and down the street, onlookers and pedestrians were also transformed, mostly by replacing their twenty-first century streetwear with shabby peasant clothing from the 1600s. Not exactly flattering, but she got the implied message. We’re all clueless plebeians. Thanks a lot.

She was tempted to try accessing a nearby cam-view, and look down upon herself transformed, but decided-it really wasn’t worth the effort. Anyway, she could finally see the answer to her question. Over the demonstrators’ heads, there now floated huge banners that matched their gaily colored costumes.

That Which Is Not Specifically Forbidden*

Is Automatically Allowed!

* (for just cause, by a sovereign and rightful legislature)

Mei Ling had heard that phrase before. She strained to remember-and that effort apparently triggered a search response from the mesh-spectacles. She winced as a disembodied voice started lecturing.

“Eighteen years ago, human rights groups demanded that this principle be enshrined in the famous International Big Deal, firmly and finally rejecting the opposite tradition long held by a majority of human societies, that anything not specifically allowed must be assumed to be forbidden.

“Activists called this change in tenets even more important and fundamental than freedom of speech. Some social psychologists have since deemed the reform futile, since it concerns a deep-seated cultural assumption, rather than a point of law.

“In return for granting this principle, the world’s professional guilds and aristocratic powers were able to win formal acceptance of the Estates…”

Mei Ling succeeded in cutting off the pedantic lecture, which wasn’t much help anyway. The same problem held for another pair of student virbanners, waving in an ersatz wind-

All Human Beings-Even Leaders-

Are Inherently Delusional

and

Criticism Is the Only Known

Antidote to Error

Of course, there were ways to follow up. An infinite sea of definitions, explanations, and commentaries, even suitable for a poorly educated woman. So, was the demonstration meant to lure onlookers into study? Or might all this vagueness be the real point of the youths’ demonstration? Messing with peoples’ heads, aggravating their elders with the ever-elusive obscurity of their protest?

Whatever the answer-Mei Ling had lost patience.

Chinese people used to be forthright, known for saying what we mean and meaning what we say. Only now that we are the world’s greatest power, are we slipping into more classic Asian ways? Masking our motives and goals behind layers of tiresome symbolism?

Anyway, she thought with some satisfaction, people will forget about these kids just as soon as the Artifact Conference resumes.

Moving against the nearest building wall, she concentrated on blink-navigating away from this weird vir-level, aiming for the blessed simplicity of stratum ten, where a friendly yellow arrow might start guiding her back to the seawall separating these rich Shanghai citizens from dark, threatening tides. And from there to the water taxi dock, where she might grab some lunch before hitching a ride-

Abruptly, something popped into her foreground. A beckon-symbol, informing her that a live message was coming in. It flashed with urgency… and the striped colors that denoted official authority. A bit nervously, Mei Ling looked toward the pulsating icon, and winked to accept the phone call. What then ballooned, just above the surrounding traffic and pedestrians, was a face and upper torso-stern-looking and male-wearing a uniform.

“Piao Mei Ling, I am Jin Pu Wang of state security. I had to exert some time and effort to locate you.”

It came across as a rebuke.

“Fortunately, I was able to lay a sift-Mesh that found your iris pattern once you began using this pair of overlay spectacles. It is important that we meet right away, to discuss your husband.”

Mei Ling felt her throat catch and she stumbled. Little Xiao En, who had drifted off to sleep, grunted in his sling carrier and clenched his little fists.

“What… what has happened?”

She had to utter the words loudly, in order to be certain the specs would hear. A couple of passersby glanced at her in surprise, clearly miffed that anyone would be so rude. Holding a phone conversation loud enough to bother others in a public place? Outrageous!

Lacking even a throat microphone, however, Mei Ling had little choice.

“What news do you have of him?”

“No news,” the official answered. “I want to discuss with you ways to rescue him from the bad company he has fallen into. How to return him to the embrace of his beloved nation.”

Mei Ling felt a wave of relief, having feared they had bad tidings. Moving to face the nearest wall of grimy bricks, she answered in a lower tone of voice.

“I… already told your other officers everything I know. They verified my truthfulness with machines and drugs. I don’t see what I could possibly add.”

Mei Ling said it with no sense of regret or betrayal. Xiang Bin had said that it would be best to cooperate fully, if authorities came asking questions. Nothing she knew should enable them to find him, after all. Anyway, at the moment of his departure with the penguin-robot there had been no reason to believe that he was doing anything against the law.

“Yes, well…” The man looked briefly to one side, nodded, and looked back toward Mei Ling. Making her wonder what viewpoint he was using to see her. Though his image appeared on the inner surface of the specs, he was probably using a pennycam on that lamppost over there.

“We would like to speak to you again,” he explained. “It should only take a few minutes to clear up one or two discrepancies. After that is done, we will provide you with a ride to your home, courtesy of the state.”

Well. That actually made the prospect rather tempting, instead of trudging across East Pudong District carrying both her purchases and an infant who seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.

“I have the contact code for Inspector Wu, who interviewed me last time. Shall I call her to arrange an appointment?”

Jin Pu Wang shook his head. “No. My department cannot spare the time to go through local officials. These questions are relatively minor, but they must be clarified at once, on orders from the capital.”

Mei Ling swallowed hard.

“Where do you want me to go?”

“Let me give you the coordinates of a nearby police station. The officers will put you in a comfortable meeting room with refreshments. I will send my holvatar to meet you. Then a car will take you home.”

Her specs immediately reset to stratum fifteen. Some code numbers quickly scrolled by and a virtual arrow materialized in front of Mei Ling, indicating that she should proceed to the end of this block and then turn left.

“I hope that Inspector Wu was not unhappy with my level of cooperation,” she said, while starting to walk in that direction.

“Do not worry about that,” the policeman reassured her. “I will see you soon.” His face vanished from her view.

For some distance Mei Ling followed the guide arrow automatically, steeped in lonely gloom. It was not a good thing to draw attention from the mighty authorities-even though Inspector Wu and her technicians had been polite and unthreatening during the questioning session, with their big, shiny hovercraft bobbing next to the little shorestead she had built with Xiang Bin.

Of course, they wanted to know all about the glowing stone. The one so similar to the emissary Artifact in Washington. When asked why her husband’s discovery wasn’t reported to the government, Mei Ling explained with complete honesty, they feared what happened to the crystal’s earlier owner.

“Lee Fang Lu fell victim to the paranoia and corruption of that time,” Inspector Wu had conceded. “But those who executed him later suffered the same fate during the reforms that followed the Zheng He disaster and the Big Deal. It’s too bad your husband did not take that into account and bring his find to us, to benefit the nation.”

When Mei Ling protested that she and Xiang Bin had nothing but love and reverence for the great homeland, Inspector Wu seemed mollified. “It’s all right. We’ll find him, I’m sure. He will have ample opportunities to demonstrate his loyalty.”

With that reassurance the police investigators departed, leaving Mei Ling woozy from drugs and neural probing. They even let her keep the penguin-robot’s stipend, the modest comfort and freedom from want that Bin’s absence had earned.

Might other officials, even higher, feel differently? Mei Ling felt her nerves fray as she drew near the assigned coordinates. But what choice did she have, other than to do as authorities asked? They knew where she lived. They could cancel the shorestead contract, costing the small family everything. This meeting would be a “cup of tea, served with fear.”

The guide arrow indicated another turn-to the right, this time-through a little retail alley. Responding to her skeptical squint, the spectacles presented a map overlay showing it to be a shortcut to the Boulevard of Vivacious Children’s Mythology, famous for its robotic sculptures of beloved characters, from Journey to the West, to Snow White, to Fengshen Bang.

Perhaps I will get to glimpse Pipi Lu or Lu Xixi or Shrek, along the way, Mei Ling hoped. But first, to get there…

She peered down the dim passage where old-fashioned, open-faced shops seemed to drop back in time, to an era when this sort of street could be found in every village and town. Especially before the Revolution, when four generations of a family would toil alongside each other, sharing cramped quarters over their store, while scrimping for one of the sons to get ahead. A traditional eagerness for advancement that she once heard cynically satirized in an ancient proverb.

First generation-coolie; save money, buy land

Second generation-landlords

Third generation-mortgages the land

Fourth generation-coolie

Weren’t those nasty cycles supposed to be over by now? Finished certainly by the Revolution’s centennial year? Mei Ling coughed into her fist, knowing one thing for certain. Her son would be smart, educated, and she would teach him to be wise! If we can get past trying times…

She started forward into the narrow street-when a voice interrupted.

“Honored mother should not go there.”

Mei Ling stopped, glanced to both sides, and realized that she was the only clear-cut mother in sight. Peering toward where the words had come from, she found a figure sitting deep within a shadowed doorway. Her cheap specs tried to do image enhancement-though not very well-revealing a child perhaps twelve years old, wearing a faded green parka and some glasses that had been repaired with wire and generous windings of tape.

“Were you talking to me?”

Something about the youngster was odd. He rocked back and forth slightly and, while staring toward Mei Ling, his gaze slipped past hers, as if his eyes kept focusing on some far horizon.

“Mothers are the source of all problems and all answers.”

Spoken in flat tones, it sounded like some kind of aphorism or saying. She now saw that he had bad teeth, a serious underbite, plus a rash along one side of his neck that looked ongoing. Clearly something was wrong with the boy.

“Um… pardon me?”

He stood and shuffled closer, still not looking directly at her face.

“Jia-Jupeng, your mother wants you to come home to eat.”

Now that expression she had heard before. Something her parents’ generation used to say to one another, to get a laugh, though Mei Ling never understood what was funny about it. Suddenly, she realized-this child must be a product of the Autism Plague. In other words, a modern parent’s nightmare. Reflexively she turned a hip, moving her body to protect little Xiao En, even though the defect wasn’t contagious.

Maybe not the disease. But luck can be.

She swallowed. “Why did you say that I shouldn’t go down the alley?”

The boy reached toward her with both hands. For a second Mei Ling thought that he wanted to be picked up. Then she realized-he wants my spectacles.

Mei Ling felt one part of her try to pull away. After all, the policeman was someone she did not want to make impatient. Yet something about the boy’s calm, insistent half smile made her instead bend over, letting him take the cheap device off her head. The smile broadened and his eyes met hers for less than a second-apparently as much human contact as he could stand at a time.

“The men,” he said, “aren’t here to buy soy sauce.”

“Men?” She straightened, glancing around. “What men?”

Appearing to ignore the question, he turned the specs around, examining them, taking evident care not to let the scanners look closely at his own face. Then, with a laugh, he tossed them into a nearby garbage bin.

“Hey! I paid good-”

Mei Ling stopped. The boy was offering his own pair of glasses, with stems repaired by wire and tape.

“See them.”

She blinked. This was crazy.

“See who?”

“Men. Waiting for a mother.”

Without specs, he seemed to have a pronounced squint. The voice barely rose or fell in tone. “Let them wait. Mother won’t come. Not today.”

She didn’t want to reach for the glasses. She didn’t want to take them, or to turn them around, or to slip the stems over her ears. Especially Mei Ling did not want to find out who or what the child meant by “the men.”

But she put them on and saw.

Now the alley was illuminated, down a tunnel that seemed to penetrate through the sunless gloom, pushing by several shops where tinkerers reforged metal jewelry, or made garments out of real (if illicit) leather, or where one family bred superscorpions for both battle and the table. The glasses had looked simpler and more primitive than hers. They weren’t. She could make out the texture of the jujube fruits that a baker was slicing for a pie, and somehow their smell as well.

Symbols swirled around the tunnel’s rim-many of them Chinese, but not all. They arrayed themselves not in neat rows or columns, but spirals and surging ripples. She tried to look at them. But this view was not hers to control.

Perspective suddenly jumped, flicking to some pennycam that was stuck to a wall halfway down the alley, just above a little, three-wheeled tuktuk delivery van. The camera zoomed past the truck, whose motor was running, into a small shop where Mei Ling saw an elderly woman hand-painting designs on half-finished cloisonné pottery. The artist seemed nervous, trembling and biting her tongue as she bent over her work. Dipping her brush into a pot of red, it came out shaking. Droplets fell as the brush approached a fluted carafe she was working on.

Now the cam-view shifted again. Mei Ling suddenly found herself looking through the very specs that the old woman wore, seeing what she saw.

At first, that was only the tip of the paintbrush, filling in the tail of a cartoon lobster-the ancient Disney character who was a favorite companion of the Little Mermaid. Though confined by cloisonné copper wire, the red paint spread a bit too far, unevenly. Mei Ling heard a muttered curse as the artist dabbed at the spillover… and glanced jerkily upward for just a moment.

Toward the small van, parked just outside with its smoky exhaust pipe-the driver was sitting idle with the door open, smoking a cigarette. A bundle of twine on his lap.

A jittery glance again at the paintbrush, as it dipped into the red again. Then, the camera view jerk-shifted to the left, only briefly, but long enough for Mei Ling to glimpse a second man, burly and muscular, standing well back in the shadows, shifting his weight impatiently.

Without her bidding them to, the child’s specs froze that image, amplified and expanded it, showing what the big fellow held in his hands. One clutched a bundle of black fabric. The other, a hypo-sprayer. Mei Ling recognized it from the crime dramas she often watched. They were used by cops to subdue violent criminals. And also… by kidnappers.

The view then returned to that seen by the elderly pot-painter. The old lady was looking at the carafe again. Only now her brush tip was defacing the gay, underwater scene with a single character in blood red. Mei Ling gasped when she read it.

Run.

Mei Ling tore off the specs, suddenly sweating, her heart beating in terror, certain beyond any doubt that this trap had been lain for her. But why? She was cooperating. Coming in of her own free will!

The answer struck home as obvious. There was no appointment at the nearest police station. That had been a ruse, with one aim-getting her to go down this alley.

Her mind whirled. What to do? Where to go? Maybe, if she went the other direction… kept to busy streets… tried phoning Inspector Wu.

“Mother comes this way,” said the boy. He took her hand, tugging. “Cobblies are all over the place and bad men, too. In thirty-eight seconds they will know and give chase from all sides. But we know how to take care of mothers.”

She stared at him, resisting. But the child smiled again, making another flicker-brief eye contact. “Come,” he insisted.

“Time to run.”

Then the moment of decision was in her past. They hurried together, away from that alley of danger, along a street that only a short time ago had seemed full of fantasies. Only now-she knew-it also contained dangerous eyes.

The relative advantages of humans and machines vary from one task to the next. Imagine a chart with the jobs that are “most human” forming the higher ground. Here you find chores best done by organic people, like gourmet cooking or elite hairdressing. Then there is a “shore” consisting of tasks that humans and machines perform at equivalent cost, like meticulous assembly of high-value parts. Or janitorial work.

Beyond and below these jobs can be found an “ocean” of tasks best done by machines, such as mass production or traffic management. When machines get cheaper or smarter or both, the water level rises, as it were, and has two effects.

First, machines substitute for humans by taking over newly “flooded” tasks.

But the availability of new machine capabilities can also complement and expand the range of many human tasks, raising the value of doing them well. New opportunities for people sometimes erupt, like a fresh mountain, rising out of the sea.

– Robin Hanson, an emulated character in the websim play Trilemma

36.

A gong sounded, calling all guests into a banquet room the size of a private jet hangar. A personal, liveried attendant held the high-back, medieval Cistercian chair for Hamish, then hovered throughout the meal, refilling gold-rimmed crystal goblets and serving courses on plates made from vitrified lunar soil. (The famous dinner set Rupert Glaucus-Worthington commissioned when NASA’s cache of moon rocks was auctioned to pay off debts.) It was all marvelously excessive, but he wondered most of all about the servants.

How on Earth can they do this?

It wasn’t the cost. When you ranked seven or eight nines along the wealth curve, you could afford all the private help you wanted, for any task at all. No, it was confidentiality that couldn’t be bought with money alone. The more people in any discussion, the more likely were leaks, from rumors to full-spectrum recordings. Despite clear ground rules for this occasion-along with Faraday shielding to keep out the World Mesh-anyone in this room might be carrying some newfangled device. In the game of leapfrogging technology, the rich could never be sure. A small startup company, or amateur smartposse, or even a pathetic legacy government might briefly get the upper hand.

Hamish pondered how the top clade families-the Glaucus-Worthingtons, the bin Jalils, the Bogolomovs, the duPont-Vonessens, the Wu Changs, and so on-could let so many participate in this meeting. Even if dinner table decorum kept most of the banter light, with the main topic set aside for tomorrow, someone was sure to drink too much and babble.

During soup, he conversed casually with a social psychologist from Dharamsala. But kept wondering. Perhaps the servants get hypno-loyalty locks. Not legal in most places. But Switzerland and Liechtenstein never joined the EU. Or they may be paid in delayed futures options, invoked decades from now, only if fealty criteria are met.

One approach-the Tata Method-had a touch of class. Find some rural village wracked by poverty, disease, and hopelessness. Pour in enough money to transform the place-schools, hospital, jobs, and scholarships for bright youths. Nurture a local cult of gratitude. You get a reliable source of loyal and appreciative help. And some good publicity, too.

Or it might be accomplished the old-fashioned way. Blackmail. Betray us and we tell the cops what you did. Glancing at his personal waiter, Hamish figured the man looked plenty tough, under the silk uniform and unctuous attentiveness. Hamish tossed back some wine and, while his glass was being refilled, noted what might be faint signs of tattoo removal on the back of the servant’s hand, perhaps indicating a rough past.

With specs, I might get a multicolor pattern analysis. But it’s more fun putting together bits and pieces the old-fashioned way.

In fact, Hamish was having a great time, making mental notes for his staff to research and expand upon later. Readers and viewers loved stuff like this! Of course, his wealthy villain would have to be from some other circle of wealth. A Naderite tech-billionaire perhaps, or a rich mad scientist, or a member of some liberal cabal… certainly not anyone in the clade! Especially now that this elite of elites was lining up with Tenskwatawa.

Meanwhile, the sociologist to his left was blathering about the paper she planned to present tomorrow, on Neo-Confucian Pragmatic Ethics and the New Pyramid. Hamish felt so good, he refrained from asking where she cribbed the last part of her title.

“You see, Mr. Brookeman, as the Enlightenment fades, so will its diamond-shaped social structure-dominated by a large and vigorous middle class. That pattern fostered vibrancy and creativity, but also brittle flightiness. The kitschy culture and fickle habits that infested your forever-adolescent America.”

Hamish responded with a courteous smile, which she mistook for deep interest, waggling delicately painted fingers. “That kind of social order is unstable. Too dependent on high levels of education, civility, confidence, and shared sense of purpose. As in ancient Athens and Florence, it’s simple to incite the bourgeoisie to bicker over trivial matters. Just get them overreacting to one exaggerated threat, while ignoring others.”

The sociologist seemed to be trying hard to keep Hamish’s attention, smiling and tilting a little to restore connection, each time he lifted his gaze from his plate-now the fish course, a poached yellowtail, very expensive, with hints of real saffron. He politely obliged her with a steady gaze, noting she seemed rather more attractive than his first impression. Hamish took another swallow of wine and let the waiter refill his glass while she continued.

“As Plato taught, stable governance requires a broad base that narrows steeply to a small but superqualified ruling class, born and raised for leadership. The mode that postagricultural civilizations adopt, ninety-nine percent of the time. Even under so-called Soviet Communism, power soon consolidated in a few hundred families of the nomenklatura caste-a classic feudal society, despite all its superficial egalitarian rhetoric.”

Hamish wondered, Does she imagine I don’t know this? While lazily nodding and maintaining eye contact, he sampled other conversations. Behind him, a Brazilian fertilizer magnate rehashed conjectures about the Alien Artifact that had become tiresome hours ago.

Meanwhile, across the table, a boffin from Tenskwatawa’s think tank was discussing probability-weighted responsibility-the notion that scientists and innovators should have to buy insurance or bonds to cover possible bad outcomes, ensuring they would pause and consider before charging ahead with risky experiments. A version of the Precautionary Principle-demanding that a burden of proof fall on those bringing change. An interesting alternative to the proposed Science Juries, this would let risk markets carry the burden of regulating progress, instead of policing it with a bureaucracy.

Clever, but a nonstarter, now that top families of the First Estate were joining renunciation. Tomorrow’s oligarchs wouldn’t use market methods. Bureaucracy was easier to control.

“So all signs point to reversion, back to a pyramid-shaped class structure. But which kind of social pyramid will it be?” asked the sociologist, thinking she had Hamish’s undivided attention.

She’s definitely flirting with me, Hamish decided

“Well, yes, that’s a good question,” he replied, realizing that his tongue felt a bit thick. The wine is too good. Honor it by sipping, not gulping.

“Indeed!” She nodded vigorously, which jangled her gold (plated) necklaces. Her toothy smile seemed impossibly white and she was trying too hard, but Hamish started to find it, well, a bit endearing as she hurried on.

“Does our rising aristocracy really want to repeat the mistakes that drove common folk to rebel in 1789 France and 1917 Russia? What’s it worth, to capture all the money and power, if it ends in a tumbrel ride to the chopping block?”

Hamish had an answer to that.

“Louis XVI and Czar Nicholas were inbred, mentally-deficient fools. Also, they didn’t possess tomorrow’s tools. The proliferation of microcameras, throughout the world. Or unbeatable lie detectors.”

Or-his inner voice added, without voicing it-the arrival of true artificial intelligence. But let’s not mention that third item, ensuring top-down control.

“Well, you’re right about that,” she conceded. “Though at present, the cameras and truth machines are often as annoying to the First Estate as they are useful, shining light inconveniently upward as often as down.”

“Yes, but all that’s needed is to break reciprocity,” he answered. “By controlling information, making sure it flows one way. Take over the databases. Trump up panic situations, so the public will support paternalistic ‘protections.’ Make sure lots of privacy laws get passed, then bribe open some back doors, so elites can see it all anyway, and ‘privacy’ only protects them.

“Of course there’s more to the program than that,” Hamish continued, gaining momentum. “The smarty-pants knowledge castes will see what’s happening and complain. So you propagandize a lot of populist resentment against the scientists and other professionals, calling them ‘smug elites.’ Finally… when the civil servants and techies have lost the public’s trust, just cut the other estates out of the information loop, take complete control over the cameras and government agencies and voilà! A tyranny that lasts millennia!”

The woman stared at Hamish.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that-”

“The point is, when those at the top can see absolutely everything-how would any Lenin or Robespierre ever get started?”

While grinning and taking another drink, Hamish felt flush from his sudden, passionate spill of words. In truth, it had felt like delivering a movie plot pitch to some producer, spinning-in a matter of seconds-a wonderful, nefarious scheme that would make perfect sense on-screen. One that meshed with human nature and history, and that… well… in fact most of it was already underway in the modern world.

The sociologist blinked rapidly a few times.

“I’m not sure that ‘tyranny’ is the word Plato would use.”

Oops. Hamish was suddenly aware that others had turned to watch his outburst. Damn. I got so into story mode, I wound up portraying the clade aristos as villains! My next step would have been to explain how a trio of quirky heroes might proceed to bring the whole edifice crashing… in less than ninety minutes of view-time.

He worked at his plate while thinking. How to get out of this?

“No, of course not,” he murmured after chewing and swallowing. “In fact, such perfect security would likely lessen the harshness of future rulers. No need for the iron-boot cruelty portrayed in that George Orwell novel. Why bother? Perfect rulers, all knowing and secure, would scarcely need brutality. They would, in fact, try for platonic paradise.

“But please,” he urged, “go back to your point about how a pyramidal social order will be improved by Confucian ways.”

She nodded, clearly as eager to get on track as he was to be quiet a while.

“As I was saying, Mr. Brookeman-”

With his most disarming smile, he reached over to touch her hand.

“Call me Hamish.”

“Very well… Hamish.” Her fine complexion changed hue and she smiled shyly, charmingly, before hurrying on. “Way back in the twentieth century leaders of Singapore and Japan, and then Great China, pondered non-Western ways to manage a complex modern society. Finding the occidental enlightenment far too brash and unpredictable, they cleverly designed methods to incorporate technology and science-along with limited aspects of capitalism and democracy-into a social order that also remained traditional and essentially pyramidal, without the chaos, friction, and unpredictability found in America or Europe. Much of their inspiration came from Asian history, which had much longer stretches of stable and noble governance than the West.”

Yeah, sure, he thought while she kept talking. But will any of this really matter when brainiac machines burst upon the scene? They’ll have priorities. And first will be a humanity that is well ordered. Predictable. They won’t try to exterminate or enslave us, though I’ve exploited that cliché many times, in books and films. No, they’ll want us calm and ruled by our own kind, in ways they can easily model and guide.

It had taken Hamish years to reach this conclusion, after decades spent loathing and resisting the notion of artificial minds. Only recently did he accept the inevitable. Especially when he realized-Whatever logic applied to other elites will apply to the new AI lords. They’ll want us to tithe resources to support their passions and goals. Beyond that, they’ll want their human vassals to be content. Happy. Perhaps even imagining we’re still in charge.

Illusions like the one being spun by the alluring sociologist, who talked on-as a palate-clearing salad was consumed and cleared away, making room for the main course of farm-raised realbeef, deliciously tender and rare-about how the East Asian version of aristocratism was so much better than any other feudal order.

The sociologist appeared blithely unaware that Hamish’s thoughts had split-part of him paying attention, another portion distantly contemplative, and a third greedily wondering what her body was like, under the silken sari.

“Even in olden times, the Confucians mixed deep conservatism and belief in hierarchy with the concept of meritocracy. The brightest children of the poor and merchant castes could sometimes test their way into higher levels of the pyramid, applying their talents to augment the prestige of their liege.” She chirped a short, proud hiccup over the double rhyme, then took a quick sip of wine.

Hamish found amusing how her model interlaced with his own, though with one difference-that he knew what cool, cybernetic entities would sit, inevitably, at the very top of the social order, above even the First Estate. Still, this woman was generally on the right side… and more interesting than anybody else at this end of the table. And she was clearly smitten-most likely by his celebrity status.

Anyway, he decided to accept the inevitable by the time dessert arrived-an Earth-shaped medley that their host gleefully opened with a saber, exposing alternating layers of crusty pastry, gelato, and chocolate that, like the planet itself, terminated in a delightfully molten core.

Even later, though, as they staggered side by side, giggling, on their way to her room, Hamish remained partly detached-the same detachment that had kept Carolyn at a cool distance all those years, till she finally left. And even then, he could not stop picturing the AI minds deciding to formulate themselves as ideal Confucian mandarins. So serenely confident that they might tolerate and reward the best of those below. Might the new uber-lairds allow a few humans to rise, through “merit” and join them, at the pinnacle? Perhaps as cyborgs, enhanced to operate at their level?

It represented everything he had preached against for decades. Yet, to be honest, Hamish found his views shifting gradually. For there was also a strong temptation to want that destiny. The mad dream of the godmakers, its tug was undeniable.

If we handle the transition right, the New Pyramid will be smart, gracious, calm. People will have their elections, and other toys. Above them, aristos will maintain stability. And at the peak? Ais will slip into their top niche gracefully, with hardly a ripple.

Then, after a few centuries of tranquility, maybe we’ll be ready to unbury that damned Havana Artifact from some cold, dark closet, and talk about the stars.

Optimists offer evidence that things will be all right, like the fact that major war has been evaded-despite some burns and narrow scrapes-and that most individuals today know far more peace than their ancestors did. Even in this economy, hundreds of millions strive each day with real hope of climbing out of poverty, seeing their children healthier and better educated. Except in the toxoplasma hot zone, interpersonal violence is down again, on a per capita basis.

Yes, there are rumors and worried models predicting a coming conflagration-one between classes, rather than nation states. But who really yearns for such a thing to happen?

What if the optimists are right? Suppose we in this generation are-on average-growing both smarter and more sane at a decent clip. That average still leaves a billion human beings, out of almost ten billion, who are steeped in rage, or dogmatic rigidity, or delusional repetition of discredited mistakes. You know such people. Do you recognize those traits in some of your neighbors? Or perhaps that face in the mirror?

Remember that one harm-doer can wreck what took many hands to build. A thousand professionals may be needed, to counteract something virulent released by a single malignant software or bioware designer. It’s not that sociopaths are smarter-they generally aren’t. But they have the element of surprise, plus the brittleness of a society with many vulnerable points of attack.

Suppose the ratio of goodness and skill continues to rise-that each year far more decent and creatively competent people join the workforce than sociopaths. Will that suffice? Perhaps.

But then, imagine someone finds a simple way to make black holes or antimatter using common materials and wall current? Even if 99.999 percent of the population refrains, the crazy 0.001 percent might kill us all. And there are other scenarios-conceivable ways that one lunatic might outweigh all the rest of us, no matter how high a fraction are good and sane.

If the ratio improves, but the series doesn’t converge, then there’s no hope.

– Pandora’s Cornucopia

37.

Peng Xiang Bin really wanted to follow up on one comment that had been made by the alien entity within the worldstone. When shown images of the other interstellar messenger egg-the Havana Artifact being studied in America-Courier of Caution had made clear its disdain and hatred, calling the beings who dwelled inside that vessel liars.

Despite all the remaining translation problems, that word came through vividly and clear. It was intriguing and more than a bit chilling. Clearly Paul and Anna and the professor wanted to learn more about that, as well. But Dr. Nguyen insisted on sticking to their list of scheduled questions.

So, Bin concentrated on drawing another set of ancient characters. When a completed line of figures floated across the surface of the egg-shaped thing, he also spoke the question aloud.

“How did you arrive on Earth?”

The reply came in two parts. While Courier of Caution painted ideograms and uttered antiquated words, an image took shape nearby, starting as night’s own darkness. Anna Arroyo quickly arranged for an expanded version of the picture to billow outward from their biggest 3-D display, revealing a black space vista, dusted with stars.

In arch tones that seemed beautifully and appropriately old-fashioned, Professor Yang Shenxiu translated the ancient ideograms, aloud.

“Pellets, hurled from the homefire,

Thrown by godlike arms of light,

Cast to drift for time immeasurable,

Through emptiness unimaginable…”

One star, amid a powdery myriad, seemed to pulsate, aiming narrow, sharp twinkles outward…

“Capture those constellation images!” Dr. Nguyen commanded, with no time for courtesy.

“I’m on it!” Menelaua snapped. His fingers left the animatronic crucifix hanging from his neck and waggled in the air with desperate speed, while the islander grunted and hopped in his seat.

Bin stared as several of the winking rays seemed to propel tiny dots in front of them. One of these zoomed straight toward his point of view, growing into a wide, reflective surface that loomed at those watching.

“Photon sail!” Anna diagnosed. “A variant on the Nakamura design. Driven onward by a laser, at point of origin.”

Bin grunted, amazed by her quickness-and that he actually grasped some of her meaning! The space windjammer hurtled past his viewpoint, which swiveled around to give chase-and he briefly glimpsed a tiny, smooth shape dragged behind the giant sail, brilliantly radiant in the home star’s propelling beam…

… which finally shut down, perhaps after many years, leaving just a natural glow from the original sun, a glitter that diminished as separation increased and decades passed in seconds. With no laser light to catch anymore, the diaphanous sail contracted, folding and collapsing into a small container at one end of a little egg, whose former brightness now faded, till it could only be made out as a seed-shaped ripple, starlit, hurtling at speeds Bin couldn’t begin to contemplate.

“Neat trick with the sail,” Paul commented. “Tuck it away, when it’s not needed for propulsion or energy collection, so it won’t snag interstellar particles. With bi-memory materials, it could expand or contract with very little effort. I bet they use it later to slow down.”

Bin now grasped how the worldstone must have come across the incredible gulf between stars-a method sure to provoke feelings of kinship from this colony of wealthy yachting enthusiasts. At the same time, he wondered, What would ancient peoples, in China or India, have made of these images?

They would have thought in terms of gods and monsters.

How easy it would be, to chuckle over such naïveté. But, in fact, could anyone guarantee that modern humanity was advanced enough to understand, even now? In ways that mattered most?

Meanwhile, Scholar Yang’s narration continued.

“Slow time passed while the galaxy turned,

A new star loomed-its light, a cushion.”

The pellet turned around and redeployed its sail, which now took a gentler, braking push from a brightening light source ahead. Our sun, Bin realized. It had to be.

“Knew it!” the islander exulted. “Of course there’s no laser at this end. So sunshine alone won’t be enough.”

As the star ahead grew from a pinpoint into a tiny, visible disc, a new object abruptly loomed in front of the worldstone-a great, banded sphere, replete with tier after tier of whirling, multicolored storms.

“Chosen beforehand-a giant ball waited,

Ready to catch… pull… assist…”

Yang Shenxiu’s translation stumbled as, even with computer aissistance, he could only offer guesses. Well, after all, Courier had a limited useful human vocabulary. Ancient Indus and Chinese people knew very little about astronomy, planetary navigation and all that.

Just like me, Bin thought as the striped, cloudy ball approached rapidly.

“A gravity swing past Jupiter,” Anna murmured in apparent admiration. “Like threading a microscopic needle across centuries and light-years. They had to time it perfectly.”

The mighty gas planet swerved by, unnervingly fast, and the pellet, its sail billowed open, then plunged past the sun in a hairpin swerve before veering into black space. Far… far… until it paused at the end of a towering arc… then plummeted inward again, approaching the star from a different angle, filling the sail once more with torrents of light.

Paul interjected. “But it would still have loads of excess velocity. This needle must have been threaded many times, offering multiple swings past other planets, as well as Jupiter and the sun, again and again.”

His appraisal was borne out, as the broiling solar sphere darted by, making Bin’s eyes water. Just after nearest passage, the sail furled back into its container… and soon a smaller ball swung past, so close that Bin felt as if he were passing through the topmost of its churning, yellow clouds, while a brief, glowing aura surrounded the image.

“Atmospheric braking through the atmosphere of Venus. Dang! They’d need orbital figures down to ten decimals, in order to plan this from so far away, so long in advance.”

Then, another sudden veer and gyre past Jupiter…

“Yes, though it could make small, real-time adjustments, between encounters, by tacking with the sail,” Anna replied. “Still they wouldn’t arrange it in such detail without a destination in mind.” She made her own rapid finger movements. “They had to know about Earth already. From instruments, like our LifeSeeker Telescope… only far more advanced. They’d know it had an oxygen atmosphere, life, nonequilibrium methane, possibly chlorophyll. Even so-”

Without shifting his transfixed gaze, Bin had to shake his head. There was no way that ancient peoples could have made anything of this, even if Courier showed them all the same images and told them about these worlds, named after their gods-or the other way around. Bin’s head seemed to spin, nauseated, as the whirling, planetary dance went through several further encounters-more dizzying, gut-wrenching pirouettes-until the sense of pell-mell speed finally diminished. The pace grew sedate-if no less urgent. Then another dot approached, slowly, gracefully. Bin guessed which planet from its greenish-blue glitter.

“It must have intended to fine-tune its approach to Earth,” Paul commented, “by gradually tacking on sunlight till entering a high, safe orbit, perhaps at a Lagrange point. Then it would spend some time-centuries-evaluating the situation. Maybe use the sail as a telescope mirror, to gather light and make detailed observations from a secure distance. Then wait.”

“Wait… for what?” Anna was doubtful. “For the planet to produce space travelers? But, the temporal coincidence is incredible! To launch this thing, timed so it arrived only a few thousand years before we made it into space? How could they have known?”

Bin marveled how these skilled people grasped so much, so quickly. Even allowing for all of their fancy tools and aids. It was a privilege, just to be in such company.

Paul pressed his disagreement. “Anyway, how do we know there was anything special about the time they chose? Maybe these stone-things have been arriving at a steady rate, all across the last billion years, filling the solar system by now! We never surveyed the asteroid belt for objects anywhere near this small. That astronaut only happened to snag one that drifted into visible reach-”

“It’s still an appalling coincidence,” Anna persisted. “There has to be-”

“Comrades, please,” Professor Yang Shenxiu urged, raising his eyes briefly from his own work station. “Something is happening.”

The glitter of Earth had begun resolving itself into a dot, and then a ball, flecked with clouds and glinting seas. Only now, the storytelling image turned and zoomed in upon the star-traveling pellet. Once again, the little box at its front end opened, the sail re-emerging.

“At long last, the goal lay in sight,

Now to approach gently and find a perch,

To focus, study, and appraise,

Then to sleep again and wait.

Until a time of claiming,

When allures are certain. Ready…”

Only, this time, something went wrong. As the sail came out of its box, amid a glitter of sharp reflections, several of the lines abruptly snapped! One corner of the vast, luminous sheet dimpled inward. More lines crossed each other the wrong way. Bin blinked, feeling his gut clench as the sail rapidly fouled and collapsed, its slender cables knotted, spoiled.

“Evidently, something went badly wrong at the last minute,” Paul commented, unnecessarily.

Bin found he could barely breathe from tension, watching a drama that had unfolded many millennia ago. He felt sympathy for the worldstone. To have traveled so far, and come so near success, only for all plans to unravel. Yang Shenxiu recited ideograms conveying Courier’s sense of tragedy and dashed hope.

“Failure! Luck evades us,

While this globe reaches out,

To cast my fate.”

Bin glanced at the scholar, who seemed far away in time and space, his eyes glittering with soft laser reflections cast by his helper apparatus. Of course, the alien entity’s florid vocabulary must have come from its long era spent with early humans, many centuries ago, in more poetical days.

“Will Earth embrace me

– in a fiery clutch?

Or will she fling me outward,

Tumbling forever-

– in cold and empty space?”

Unable to maneuver even a little, the pellet let go of its uselessly clotted sail as the planet loomed close, swinging by, once… twice… three times… and several more… From Paul’s commentary, it seemed that some kind of safety margin was eroding with each orbital passage. Doom drew closer.

Then it came-the final plunge.

“So, it will be fire.

Plummeting amid heat and pain,

Destined for extinction…”

Starting with deceptive softness, flames of atmospheric entry soon crackled around the image, accompanied by a roar that seemed almost wrathful. Bin realized, with a sharp intake of breath, that it would be just like the Zheng He expedition. He felt an agonized pang, as any Chinese person would…

… till new characters floated to jitter by the image-story in brushstrokes of tentative hope.

“Then, once again,

Fate changed its mind.”

The grand voyage might have ended then, in waters covering three-quarters of the globe, an epic journey climaxing in burial under some muddy bottom. Or impacting almost anywhere on land, to shatter and explode.

Instead, as they watched the egg-artifact ride a shallow trail of flame-shedding speed and scattering clouds-there loomed ahead a white-capped mountainside! It struck the pinnacle along one snowy flank, jetting white spumes skyward and ricocheting on a shallow arc… then, rapidly, another angled blow, and another…

… till the ovoid finally tumbled to rest, smoldering, on the fringes of a highland glacier.

Heat, quenched by cold, melted an impression, much like a nest. Whereupon, soon after arriving in a gaudy blaze, the pellet from space seemed to fade-barely visible-into the icy surface.

Bin had to blink away tears. Wow. That beat any of the telenet dramas Mei Ling made him watch.

Meanwhile, archaic-looking ideograms continued flowing across the worldstone. Yang Shenxiu was silent, as distracted and transfixed as any of them. So Bin glanced at some modern Chinese characters that formed in the corner of his right eye. A rougher, less lyrical translation, offered by his own aissistant.

“This was not the normal mission.

Nor any planned program.”

For once, none of the smart people said a thing, joining Bin in silence as spot-sampled snapshots seemed to leap countless seasons, innumerable years. The glacier underwent a time-sped series of transition flickers, at first growing and flowing down a starkly lifeless valley, carrying the stone along, sometimes burying it in white layers. Then (Bin guessed) more centuries passed as the ice river gradually thinned and receded, until retreating whiteness departed completely, leaving the alien envoy-probe stranded, passive and helpless, upon a stony moraine.

“But the makers left allowance,

For eventualities unexpected.”

Appearing to give chase, grasses climbed the mountain, just behind the retiring ice wall. Soon, tendrils of forest followed, amid rippling, seasonal waves of wildflowers. Then time seemed to put on the brakes, slowing down. Single trees stayed in place, the sun’s transit decelerated, unnervingly, from stop-action blur to a flicker, all the way down to the torpid movement of a shadow, on a single day.

Bin swayed in reaction, as if some speedy vehicle screeched to a sudden halt. Bubbles of bile rose in his throat. Still, he couldn’t stop watching, or even blink…

… as two of the shadows moved closer…

… converging on a pair of legs-clad in leather breeches and cross-laced moccasins-entering the field of view in short, careful steps.

Then came a human hand, stained with soot. Soon joined by its partner-fingernails grimy with caked mud and ocher. Reaching down to touch.

Suppose we encounter those star-alien bredren an’ sistren, an’ nothing bad arises. Ya mon, it could happen.

Despite the long-sad list of ways that “First Contacts” went wrong on Earth-between human cultures, or when animal species first meet in nature-our encounter with ET may turn out right.

So look here, assume it ain’t Babylon, out there. No one is trying to be nasty space-zutopong, or out to vank de competition with bad-bwoy bizness. No super wanga-gut seeks to devour everything in sight, or convert us to their galactic jihad. No deliberate or accidental viruses carried on those shiny beacons.

Further, say de advanced sistren an’ bredren out there have solved so-many problems that vex us. That don’t mean relax! For even among the civilized, life be dangerous if you don’t know the rules.

Question, dear frens. What be the most common peaceful activity in most societies, other than raising food an’ kids? Commerce. Buying, selling an’ trading. I have plenty of what you waan and you have what I need. Shall we both benefit by striking a deal?

Oh, sure, in some utopian sci-fi a stoosh-cornucopia quenches all desires. May it be so! Still, won’t one thing be always in demand? Information-supplying interstellar bredren wit’ new concepts an’ visions. Art, music, literature. A human lifetime ago, the Voyager probe carried a disc filled with Earth culture. No one thought to slap that album wit’ a price tag.

Oh my frens remember, nice-up pure altruism is a recent concept, so rare, in nature. What be far more common-even among wild creatures-is quid pro quo. You do for me an’ I do for you. Through history an’ even among animals the rule is not “Be generous.”

No. The rule is “Be fair.”

Nice as he may be, ET will surely do commerce. If we ask ’im questions, he may reply-“We got whole-heaps of answers!”

Den him say-“So. What do you humans offer in exchange?”

All we have is ourselves-art, music, books, drama, an’ culture. Humanity’s treasure. But dat’s de first thing foolish folks will beam out-for Free! An’ dat so-admirable rush to impress our neighbors could be the worst mistake of all time.

Perhaps they be nice. They may understan’ fairness. But who pays for a free gift? History may speak of no bloodclot traitors worse than those who, with best intentions, cast our heritage to the sky, impoverishing us all, puttin’ us in Babylon.

– from The Eternal Quest, by Professor Noozone

38.

Following close behind a trio of dolphins, Hacker entered the mysterious, suboceanic dome via a broad tunnel that passed underneath the habitat, kicking his way toward a glow at the far end. Soon, an opening appeared, ahead and above-a portal pool, where the sea was kept at bay by air pressure within the habitat.

Even before broaching the pool’s surface, he found the artificial environment somehow odd. He was by now used to seeing only by sun and moon and stars, so the glare of artificial lighting seemed both familiar and… old, like faintly recalled memories from another decade, or another life. Hacker paused, without knowing why, feeling almost reluctant to continue.

Come on, he told himself. This is it. The way home.

And yet, after-how long?-wandering at sea with a tribe of strange cetaceans, Hacker found himself unable to quite picture what the word denoted. Home. Was it really somehow correlated with that stark dazzle up ahead? The brilliance of LER panels, beckoning him to rise just a couple more meters, and thereupon rejoin the human world. For some reason, their glitter brought him to the verge of sneezing.

He suppressed that impulse, which would splatter his faceplate. Still, it was only when one of the dolphins turned in puzzlement-scanning him with a sonar glyph that seemed like a question mark-that Hacker finally gathered himself, pushed aside all uncertainty and kicked hard, rocketing to the surface, sending splashes across a nearby set of low, metal stairs.

Spy-hopping upward, he peered around. No people were in sight. Banks of lockers and cabinets lined the walls, along with hooks for tools and diving equipment, though most were bare.

More dolphins arrived, lifting their heads to look around, emitting low chutters that his jaw implant conveyed into audible impulses. From experience, he interpreted the meaning as sadness. Disappointment.

But over what?

One big male-Hacker called him Michael, because he was a master with the net-patiently rolled in circles while a couple of others unwound the fishing mesh from his body. Hacker moved over to help them string it onto a rack, ready for re-use, later. He also noticed other objects in that corner of the pool. Rings and hoops and balls and such. Only he didn’t hang around to learn their purpose. Hacker now had a clear and different destination in mind.

Kicking over to the stairs, he touched their rough surface with a gloved hand… which abruptly grabbed one of the steps, with a sudden intensity that surprised him, clutching it, unwilling to let go… as if in fear that the textured aluminum might be an illusion. Tremors passed up and down his body and a sigh escaped, that might have been a moan. A couple of minutes passed while he was in that state. Fog in his helmet-or tears in his eyes-made it hard to see.

Evidently, if part of him felt reluctance to return to civilization, there were other portions that really, really wanted to go back! To the world of men and women and solid ground and soft beds and lovely, artificial things.

Prying his fingers free, at last, he pulled on the stair with both arms, swiveled onto his back, and managed to haul his body’s bulk upward, onto one of the steps, to sit up for the first time in… a long time. It felt strange not to have to work hard, just to keep his head and shoulders out of the water.

With a moist splat, his draidlocks-the gill fronds surrounding his helmet-collapsed, no longer supported by seawater. Of course, that also meant they weren’t supplying oxygen, anymore. Quickly his rapid breathing started turning the air stuffy inside his helmet.

Cautiously, Hacker fumbled at the faceplate seal, managed to crack it open, and sniffed… then opened it wide. There was a slightly stale-musty aroma and faint metallic tang inside the habitat, but he’d lived through much worse. At least, now he could really look around.

No people. That was the most obvious fact. No humans anywhere in sight. Given how cheap it was to set up a sensor-Mesh, wouldn’t someone have been alerted, by now, that an unexpected visitor was here, and come to investigate?

Unless they think I’m just another dolphin.

Then there was the absence of human-generated noise-no jabber of speech or purposeful mechanical rhythms. But of course, Hacker reminded himself, he wouldn’t hear any. All of a sudden he felt acutely the lack of normal, aural sound. Below the waterline, his jaw implant had seemed appropriate and fitting-it had been key to unlocking dolphin speech, in fact. Only now, in open air, he kept trying to yawn and shake his head, as if doing so might clear the deafness of his eardrums, which had been clamped so long ago, before the ill-fated rocket launch.

That’s got to be fixed right away, if they have facilities here. Even before a bath.

Suddenly, a hundred aches started shouting at him, sores and twinges and awful itches that he must have somehow managed to ignore, till this very moment, for the simple reason that he could do nothing about them. Now, they began shouting for attention. Especially a tightness around his head that suddenly felt like a vice. Pawing desperately at clasps and vrippers, Hacker tore away the seals that held his trusty helmet-the apparatus that had saved his life-detaching it from the rest of his survival suit. When it came free, he hurled the headgear away, like something loathsome. Then the gloves. And, for a few moments, he luxuriated in the simple act of touching, rubbing, scratching, even caressing his own, stubble-ridden face.

Okay, get up. Get moving. Find the owners of this place. Get help… and remember to try to be nice. That last part was in order to be sure that old, nasty habits would not surge to the surface-the impatience of a spoiled brat. Perhaps this new, mature perspective was only a temporary thing. An artifact of his time spent with the Tribe. It did seem, somehow, to be long overdue. Or, at least, a novelty worth trying out.

Standing was too much to ask of his body. So, he scooted backward and up the next stair, bracing both arms to slide up the next one, and so on, till at last he sat on the deck surrounding the entry pool, and only his flippered feet remained immersed. For a couple of minutes he just sat, breathing heavily from just that much exertion.

Okay, let’s find… he stopped.

Upon turning halfway around, Hacker found himself facing a large, hand-scrawled sign that had been propped up in front of the pool, sure to confront any new arrivals.

Project Uplift Suspended!

Court costs ate everything.

This structure is deeded to our finned friends.

May they someday join us as equals.

There followed, in smaller print, a WorldNet access number, and a legal-looking letter. Hacker had to squint and blink away drying salt to read a few lines. But it seemed to verify that queer statement-the little dolphin clan actually owned this building-which they now used to store their nets, some toys, and a few tools.

Hacker now understood the meaning of their plaintive calls, when they arrived to find no one home. The real reason they kept coming back. Each time, they hoped to find that their “hand-friends” had returned.

Project Uplift? He pondered, while laboring to pull off the body-hugging suit, wincing as it dragged past sores and chafed spots. The name is familiar. I… heard something about it.

One of the dolphins-old Yellowbelly-came over to eye Hacker, emitting a burst whose meaning seemed much less clear to Hacker, now that his jaw was out of the water.

“I’ll be back,” he assured the old-timer, holding up one hand in promise.

It took great effort to rise up to his knees. Then, leaning on the stair rail, he managed to rise onto both feet. It wasn’t so much lack of strength-he had been working his legs hard for quite some time and his thigh muscles bulged-as a problem of balance. No other species on Earth demanded such fine motor control as humans required, just to keep from toppling over. He would need some time to get the hang of it again.

Unsteady on rubbery legs, Hacker clung close to the walls and cabinets as he shuffled away from the pool, into a long corridor, stopping to look into each chamber along the way. They were laboratories, mostly. The first time he found a sink with a freshwater tap, he turned it on full blast and immersed his head, then drank greedily until he felt bloated. It took an act of forceful will to stop… to move away and resume exploring.

In the third room, he recognized a gene-splicing apparatus made by one of his own companies. And, all at once, his mind connected the dots.

Project Uplift. Oh yes. I remember.

A year or two ago-both professional and amateur media swarmed over a small cabal whose secret goal had been to alter several animal species, with the ultimate aim of giving them human-level intelligence.

Foes of all kinds had attacked the endeavor. Churches called it sacrilegious. Eco-zealots decried meddling in nature’s wisdom. Tolerance fetishists demanded that native “dolphin culture” be left alone, without cramming parochial human values down their throats, while others rifkined the proposal, predicting mutants would escape the labs to endanger humanity.

One problem with diversity in an age of amateurs was that your hobby might attract ire from a myriad others, especially from those with a particular passion of their own-indignant disapproval. And a bent for litigation.

This “uplift project” perished in the rough-and-tumble battle that ensued. A great many modern endeavors did.

Survival of the fittest, he mused. An enterprise this dramatic and controversial has to attract strong and determined support, or it’s doomed.

Exploring the next laboratory, Hacker at last found what he was looking for-a cheap joymaker multiphone that someone had left behind, tossed amid a pile of trash. Though it seemed broken at first, a simple cleaning of the battacitor pohls and it turned on! A simulated female face appeared on the pullout slide-screen, moving its mouth in a welcoming statement that Hacker could not hear, but whose meaning was obvious-offering basic service, even if the unit no longer linked to any personal or corporate accounts.

Ah, but was there a connection to the Mesh, under the sea? Certainly, Project Uplift must have had comm links, even from down here. But were they still active and accessible?

Laboriously, he fumbled across the screen, managing to tactile the right clickable and pull out an old-fashioned alphabetical touchpad. With fingers that felt like sausages, he typed:

CAN I CALL MAINLAND?

The kind-looking female face vanished, replaced by stark letters that scrolled by in harsh, 2-D fonts.

DIAGNOSTIC UNDERWAY…

… CABLE LINK TO TRINIDAD MAIN UNDERSEA TRUNK HAS BEEN SOFT-DISCONNECTED.

SHALL I PULSE A REQUEST FOR EMERGENCY RECONNECT?

Hacker answered with a simple “Y”-hoping the joymaker would take it to mean Yes.

PULSING… THIS MAY TAKE SOME TIME

Hacker grunted wondering what to do, if and when a connection was established. It should be possible to craft a message, built from simple text characters, invoking emergency-Samaritan rules, along with a promise that the call’s recipient-his mother-would cover all charges. That seemed dreadfully archaic and convoluted, from using spelled-out letters to quibbling over payment. But the thing really giving Hacker pause was something else entirely.

A text emergency message… it gives an impression I need hurried rescue… when I’ve really rescued myself.

Well… the dolphins helped, a bit.

Still. Here he was, with food, water, comfortable quarters, and the option of simply heading for the nearby beach, if it came to that, and then walking to civilization. So, why send the equivalent of SOS smoke signals, or scrawling “HELP” in the sand? Maybe it was foolish pride, but that seemed wrong, somehow, after coming so far.

Better that I make a call that seems as normal as possible. All casual-like, paying charges by biomet ID. Make it seem like I’m in complete control. Hi. How you been? And oh, and by the way, could you send a copter-sub out this way?

He thought he knew how to do that. Use some of the tools in that last laboratory to create a tap from the joymaker to the sonic implant in his jaw. It shouldn’t be too hard. Just replicate the same circuit link he had used aboard the suborbital rocket. The most important parts were right in his helmet, back at the pool.

While I’m at it, why not get in some real food? Even the canned stuff he had spied earlier, left on shelves in the galley, would be a welcome break from raw fish. Spitting out scales and bones.

And take a bath… maybe even a nap?

Hacker’s mood was so different from the frenzy he might have expected, from being so close to contact with human civilization. And yet, he felt this was right.

TAKE YOUR TIME, he told the primitive, obsolete multiphone, typing carefully on the tactile screen.

Suppose the threat comes from human nature-some obstinate habit woven in our genes. Might science offer a way out, through deliberate self-improvement? First we’d have to admit that we have a nature.

Take the argument over evolutionary psychology. EP claims we all inherit patterns from prehistoric times-that long epoch when domineering males gained extra descendants because they were powerfully competitive, or jealous, or good at deception. Monarchy and feudalism heaped more rewards on any king who could talk thousands of virile men into marching and fighting to protect his seraglio. We’re all descended from the harems of fellows like Charlemagne and Genghis Khan, who mastered that trick.

Opponents of EP argue we’re more than the sum of our ancestors. They cite our vaunted flexibility, the way we learn and reprogram ourselves, as individuals and cultures. Each sex can do almost anything that the other does, and rules that limited opportunity because of caste, race, or gender have proved baseless. Indeed, our greatest trait is adapting to new circumstances, attaining improbable dreams.

Only, starting from this truth, critics puritanically claim that evolutionary psychology might be used to excuse bad conduct, letting rapists and oppressors cry “Darwin made me do it!” Hence, for political reasons, they claim people have no hardwired social patterns, or even leanings, at all.

What, none? No matter how contingent or flexible? Are we so perfectly unlike every other species on Earth? Isn’t that what religious fundamentalists claim? That we have nothing in common with nature?

Can we afford simpleminded exaggerations, in either direction? In order to survive, humanity must overcome so many old, bad habits. We must study those ancient patterns-not in order to make excuses, but to better understand the raw material of Homo sapiens.

Only then can we look in the mirror, at evolution’s greatest marvel, and say, “Okay, that’s the hand we’re dealt. Now let’s do better.”

– Pandora’s Cornucopia

39.

Envoy to aliens. It had more romantic appeal than his old job as a space garbage collector. Suddenly, Gerald was the hit of his affinity groups.

Cicada Lifeloggers already gave every astronaut free biograph-storage-geneticodes, petscans, q-slices, and all that-in exchange for wearing a recording jewel in orbit. Now they wanted him to put on their omni-crown, a hot-hat guaranteed to see what he saw, hear what he heard, and store his surface neuroflashes down to petabytes per second!

“So much data that future folk may craft brilliant Gerald Livingstone models. Hi-res versions of you-recreating this historic moment in resplendent detail!” The Cicada rep apparently thought immortality consisted of being replayed at ultrafidelity by audiences in some far-off era.

But then, Gerald pondered, how can I tell I’m experiencing this for the first time? Wouldn’t any such future emulation think it’s me? Even these very thoughts-fretting over whether I’m an emulation? Even my memories of breakfast may be “boundary conditions.” The real world could be some amusement nexus in the ninety-third century… or a kid’s primitive ancestors report for her fifth-millennium kindergarten class… or else some god-machine’s passing daydream.

Yet, the Cicada guy expressed envy! As a “historical figure,” Gerald’s chance for this kind of resurrection-seemed rather high. But the reasoning could easily get circular, or collapse into sophistry. Was this like the depressing religious doctrine of predestination? Your fate already written by an all-powerful God?

Anyway, what if this First Contact episode goes horribly wrong? Suppose I’m remembered as the fool or Judas who opened the door for a new kind of evil. Might future folk create simulations in order for villains of the past to suffer… or seem to? Worse, Gerald pictured the supercyborg equivalent of a future bored teenager, observing this capsule of make-believe reality, nudging his pals and saying: “I love this part! This is where Livingstone actually tries to imagine us! Picturing us as callous, pimple-faced adolescents of his own era. What a pathetic software lump! Maybe next time, I’ll hack in and make him trip on the stairs.”

Gerald felt his thoughts veer away from such questions. Perhaps because they were futile. Or else maybe he was programmed not to dwell on them for long. Ah well. He turned Cicada down.

The Church of Gaia: Jesus-Lover Branch wanted Gerald to offer an online sermon for next Sunday’s prayoff against the CoG: Pure-Mother Branch. Some fresh insights could help tip the current standings. They especially wanted to know-from his contact with the Artifact entities-did any of the aliens still know a state of grace? Like Adam and Eve before the apple? Or, if they had fallen, like man, had they also received an emissary of deliverance-a race savior-of their own? If so, were their stories similar to the New Testaments? And if not…

… then what did Gerald think of the notion-spreading among Christians-that humanity must accept a new obligation? A proud duty to go forth and spread the Word?

In other words, now that we know they’re out there-trillions of souls wallowing in darkness-is it our solemn mission to head across the galaxy delivering Good News? At least it was a more forward-looking dogma than his parents’ relished obsession-praying for a gruesome apocalypse and eternal torment for all fools who recite the wrong incantations. Still, he turned down the sermon, promising the CoG: JeLoB folks to ask the Artifact entities about such matters, when the right moment arose.

For all I know, “join us” could mean “enlist in our religion-or face an interstellar crusade.” I can’t wait to find out.

The list of requests was too long to cope with… unless the aliens offered some fantastic new way to copy yourself. Now that would be useful tech!

The proposal that rocked him back should have been good news. Suddenly, his spouses seemed interested in bedtime. All of them. Even Francesca, who had never liked Gerald very much. “We miss you,” they said, in messages and calls. More attention than he normally got from the group marriage. In fact, all seven offered to come visit him “in this time of stress.”

Joey, Jocelyn, and Hubert even volunteered to sign waivers and enter quarantine with him! The offer was flattering. Tempting. Especially since Gerald always felt an outsider, at the periphery of their little clan, long suspecting they proposed to him for the prestige of an astronaut husband. Perhaps the best sitch that a cool-blooded and off-kilter fellow like him could hope for.

He messaged back-“You’ve all got jobs, duties. Kids. Just keep in touch. I’ll see you in my dreams.”

Anyway, things were getting busy again. The deprivation experiment had been making progress, much to Gerald’s surprise. His discovery-the so-called Livingstone Object-was starting to respond.

“Thousands of years drifting between the stars-you’d think that would’ve taught these aliens patience,” Genady Gorosumov commented, after the third day. “I was afraid they’d wait us out. Call our bluff. They must know we’re under pressure.”

The slim Russian biologist nodded toward the observers’ gallery, just beyond a barrier of smoky glass, where almost a hundred experts, delegates, and VIPs looked down upon the quarantined Contact Commission and its work. Many of those dignitaries were sharply unhappy about the team’s current endeavor-to starve the Artifact entities into cooperating.

“But much to my surprise, our carrot-and-stick approach seems to be working,” Genady concluded. “Clearly, they’re getting worried in there.”

He pointed at the opalescent ovoid, which still lay in its cradle, only no longer bathed in artificial sunshine. A soft fog surrounded its base, where coils now sucked away heat energy, leaving both the egglike object and its nest chilled much closer to the temperature of space. Gerald sensed coldness whenever his hand drifted near.

With the chamber dimmed, the rounded cylinder’s former sheen faded and grew dull. Even more telling, the perpetual roil of images-planetary scenes and cityscapes and jostling figures-slowed from a frenetic maelstrom to languid, even desultory. The creature-entities seemed to droop with each passing hour.

“All right, let’s put them through another cycle,” said General Akana Hideoshi. She nodded to the expert in operant conditioning-animal behavior and training-they had hired from the Kingdom of Katanga, Patrice Tshombe, who moved almost jet-black hands across a series of holographic controls that glowed just in front of him, floating above the conference table.

Overhead, a projector issued a sudden lance of sharp illumination, like a jolt straight from the sun. Where it struck the grayish-colored stone, clouds abruptly roiled, like milk stirred into coffee. Soon, shapes moved through that inner mist, as if hurrying upward, clambering toward the light from some distance below. By now, Gerald and the others recognized forty-seven distinct alien species. Genady had constructed sophisticated bio-skeletal models, from the hawk-faced centauroid to the floating squid-thing, to a creature with four leathery wings surrounding a central mouth, resembling a cross between a bat, a helicopter, and a starfish.

Those three were the first to arrive, on this occasion…

… but only just ahead of other shapes that pushed in, close behind. To Gerald, it seemed like a crowd gathering at the sound of a dinner bell, thronging close, eager for sustenance. Each of the aliens pressed an appendage of some kind toward the glowing surface separating two worlds, whereupon small flurries of letters and words swirled around each point of contact.

Even with the help of computers, only primitive meanings could be parsed out of the jumbled tornado of conflicting, jostling phrases. Once in a while the messages congealed, mostly to repeat the now ironic invitation-Join Us.

Gerald had been wondering for days. What “us”?

From the second row, heads of various kinds lifted high, in order to crane over the trio in front; one of them looked somewhat insectoid, atop a slender, stalklike neck. Another was like a jolly, rotund Buddha, standing next to one who raised an arm that resembled an elephant’s trunk, only with a hand at the end-a hand with eyes at the base of all six fingers. These latecomers plucked at the first three, at first tentatively, then with growing insistence.

“They behave like French or Chinese,” commented Emily Tang. “Proudly refusing the indignity of taking turns or standing in line. It seems a pity that we are forcing them to become something else. British-or even Japanese. Tame acceptors of the tyranny of the queue.”

Haihong Ming-their member from the Central Kingdom-laughed aloud, and Akana Hideoshi offered a grim chuckle. But Ben Flannery, their anthropologist from Hawaii, looked at Emily, clearly puzzled and offended by her cultural bias. Emily shrugged. “Hey, just because it was my idea to teach them discipline, that doesn’t mean I don’t empathize. Right now, their fractious pushiness has a certain schoolyard charm. Even if it makes communication damn near impossible.”

Watching the rabble of aliens closely, Tshombe put up with a bit of squeezing and elbowing. But when several newcomers joined forces to shove the bat-creature aside, pushing their way up front, Patrice waved a curt hand and the overhead sunbeam cut off, leaving the stone once again in darkness. Compressors kicked in, activating heat pumps below the tabletop, as the stone was given a sudden taste of bone-deep chill.

“Now, boys and girls and whosits,” murmured Emily, with evident enjoyment. “Learn to behave.”

Patrice brought up the beam again, as soon as the jostling stopped. With scalpel precision, he centered it upon the centauroid and squid, leaving the newcomers tasting only a penumbra.

“I have had better training response from otters,” Tshombe grunted in his deep Frafricaans accent. “But clearly there is progress. The rate curves are improving.”

While several more of these cycles repeated, Gerald glanced over his shoulder at the “peanut gallery” beyond the quarantine glass-a slanted arena of plush VIP seats, where dignitaries and experts scrutinized every move the contact team made, aissisted by the very best tools, consultants, and instrumentalities that money could buy.

The advisers now also had a presence on this side of the quarantine barrier, lurking just a few meters to Gerald’s right-a luminous, 3-D figure named Hermes, complete with chiseled features, golden robes, and matching hair-who appeared to pace back and forth at the far end of the table, glaring at General Hideoshi’s team with growing frustration.

Why on Earth did the advisers pick that garish thing to serve as their liaison metaphor? Gerald wondered. Do the politicians and professors and aristocrats think Akana will be intimidated by a cartoon Olympian god?

Maybe it wasn’t a deliberate choice. Often a group’s avatar was selected by interpolating some trait that all members had in common. Did this golden god signify that the advisers viewed themselves as… an elite?

Or it might just be overcompensation. Unconsciously, they want humanity to look its very best.

Even so, Hermes was way over the top. Impatience manifested in a furled brow as the ersatz Greek god drummed the tabletop with lambent fingertips, pausing now and then to scribble suggestions or chidings that he kept sliding across the table, to join a pile of shiny virts-messages that Gerald and the main team mostly ignored. Something about Hermes bugged Gerald. The synthetic Olympian’s fizzing frustration seemed all too similar to that of the Artifact aliens.

Unlike the main sci-fi stereotypes-extraterrestrials who were portrayed as aloofly superior, or cutesy-wise, or threatening-it does seem endearing and reassuring to find them behaving like disorganized schoolyard brats.

Unless… that reassurance is part of an act.

At the opposite end of the long conference table lurked another ai construct-Emily’s feline holvatar counterpart, Tiger, dedicated to paranoid suspicion, though just as much a caricature as Hermes. Gerald sometimes caught the two artificial beings glaring at each other past the real members of the Contact Team.

And yes, I can see another parallel. Are Tiger and Hermes really at odds? We have no idea if ais really do compete with each other on our behalf. Or whether that, too, may be a ruse, some reassuring role-playing for the sake of the rubes.

Half a dozen more cycles followed, as Patrice played his artful game of rapid rewards and punishments, with the Artifact wallowing in periods of chilled darkness, punctuated by intervals of sharp light and focused heat. Gradually, the Katangan expert began humming, while nodding contentedly. “I think they are starting to get the idea,” Patrice said. “Look closely.”

Gerald’s privileged position gave him a close-up view. First to become visible was the squidlike being, still front and center, waving forward a single tentacle, stroking the interface between two worlds. Only this time the centauroid and bat-like creature weren’t jostling to share the forwardmost position. Rather, they had taken up positions side by side, on the left facing away from the squid…

… and Gerald saw purpose in their actions. Those two were now actively blocking others in the crowd from coming closer. Nor were they alone in this effort. To the right, Gerald saw three others-including the Buddha-like figure-performing a similar role, preventing interference from the unruly rabble on that side. Moreover, as Tshombe’s energizing beam selectively made contact with the defenders, they seemed to grow more solid and distinct. Stronger and more capable of holding their ground.

In the center, chains of letters spiraled outward from that single tentacle. This time, words unrolled without jumble or interference, proceeding distinctly enough to activate the sonic interface. A voice emerged, sounding raspy and upset.

… we have come in friendship… across the vast and empty desert… with an offer of ultimate value… so why do you torment us?

Akana sighed with evident satisfaction.

“Okay, Gerald. You’re on.”

He leaned forward. No longer was it necessary to write directly on the ovoid surface with a pointed finger. Not so long as he enunciated clearly, speaking directly at the stone-from-space.

“We find your chaotic behavior disturbing,” he said. “While we appreciate the value of diversity, we require some degree of orderliness-or courtesy-if this conversation is to get anywhere. That can happen in either of two ways.”

He paused, as the linguistic adviser had recommended, if things ever got to this phase. Better to let the aliens ask. After several more seconds, the being that resembled a terrestrial cephalopod did just that. A slender tendril wrote-and the audio speakers interpreted-

What two ways?

Gerald spoke slowly and clearly.

“Either by taking turns, letting each individual have an allotted time to converse with us… or else by appointing one or more among you to represent the whole community.

“Frankly, we’d prefer both methods. But first the representative. It is time, at last, to clarify the nature of your mission here and what great commonwealth we are being invited to join.”

Sucker-tipped tendrils churned and writhed.

I recall… we used to do things… that way…

Gerald nodded, as did Ben and Emily. One theory held that the aliens’ disorderly behavior was the natural outcome of eons spent in isolation, drifting through space. A stupefying test of endurance that might demolish any former sanity.

I shall endeavor to persuade the others to… cooperate.

The squidlike being turned-the centauroid and bat-thing and Buddha and insectoid revolved to face it, as if intending to talk things over-

– and the scene began to dissolve into confusion, once more, as some on the periphery formed a wedge, joining forces to power their way through, driving hard to get into the foreground.

“Cut it off!” Akana commanded. The Artifact was plunged again into dark chill.

I hope the thing’s crystal structure can stand these wild swings of hot and cold, Gerald thought. It never had to deal with such rapid oscillations in space. The advisory icon, Hermes, had made that very point, at length.

Gyrating clouds could still be seen, agitated by dim figures, grappling in the virtual depths underneath the Artifact’s surface. So vigorous was the action at first, that Gerald worried. Might emulated beings do actual damage to each other, maybe even cause death? It certainly happened in some human-designed game worlds.

“They’re slowing down,” he commented.

The brief tussle did seem to quickly sap whatever skimpy energy reserves remained in there. Through the mist, they saw the figures let go of each other and start to slump. Gerald leaned closer and squinted. After a minute, he diagnosed.

“I think… I think some of them are talking to each other.”

“Now,” said General Hideoshi. “Ramp up the sunlamp to ten percent, Patrice. Reward this.”

“I shall do so,” Tshombe replied. “With great care.”

The beam returned, and Gerald saw it break into components, each shining where a cluster of alien figures appeared-at some distance-to engage in conversation. While Gerald watched, these groups seemed to gain strength and animation. When a couple of them broke up, it was only to reconfigure, as individuals moved on to engage others.

“Could it actually be working?” asked Genady Gorosumov, who had been skeptical about this approach.

“Perhaps they are rediscovering a knack they had forgotten, during the long, dull voyage across so many light-years,” commented Ben Flannery. “After all, it must take a lot of cooperation-and courtesy-to maintain a vast and ancient civilization. What we have been seeing may be the behavior of brilliant and civilized minds, when they are far from their best, still drowsy, not yet fully roused from a long, cold sleep.”

It was a good theory. In fact, the most popular one. Still, Emily Tang seemed to enjoy tweaking Ben now and then. “So, we’re like the nurse who slaps you hard, for your own good? To get a lazy slug-a-bed to wake up?”

Flannery frowned. But any retort was cut off when Tshombe said-

“Regardez, mes amis! A delegation, at last. It arrives.”

All eyes turned to the Artifact-or nearby amplification screens-where something was clearly happening. A formation of more than a dozen alien figures approached through mists that now obediently parted, leaving them a clear path forward. And behind that group came another, even larger contingent, keeping what seemed a respectful distance.

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.

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 CO₂, 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.

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.

“Beyond direct advantages,” continued the man at the dais, “are public relations benefits, making commoners feel they have a potential stake in the noble caste-encouraging parents to hope their child might leap in status!”

Standing up and stretching, Hamish turned to mount a dozen steps-his natural stride took them two at a time-arriving where several men in G-W livery stood by a table piled with savory snacks. From a rotating tray, he plucked a skewer of Tientsin pork-clearly from a real animal, not tishculture-alternating nibbles with sips from a perribulb, while the speaker droned on.

“Of course, we must avoid any return to primogeniture-or firstborn inheritance-no matter how precedented! Any aristocracy that’s truly serious will emulate some of the desert princely families-crafting clan-level deliberative structures that borrow, ironically, from democracy…”

Hamish grinned at the security officers. They seemed typical, from bulked physiques to their heavy specs, immune to jamming. One gave Hamish a glance and a short nod. The other emitted soft sounds while virt-navigating with tooth-taps and grunts, all without moving his folded arms.

There wasn’t the slightest sign that Hamish interested them. Of course, they might be good actors. But doubtful.

“Well, Mr. Brookeman?” murmured the rippling voice near his ear.

“This will be interesting. Promise.”

Hamish hesitated. Then he grabbed another skewer before wandering nonchalantly back down the aisle. His choice really was a foregone conclusion. Curiosity was as much a part of his DNA as gleeful pessimism laced his work. God does not tempt men beyond their ability to resist, went a Catholic doctrine, one he could cite in his own defense, if this turned out to be a test. I must find out what’s going on.

“… of course, old-time aristocracies did allow some infusion from below.” The speaker’s laser-grabber pushed illustration blimps around, showing images of men in chainmail and women in courtly attire. “Brave foot soldiers might win battle honors and thus climb social levels. Beautiful women married upward, or gained intermediate status as mistresses…”

Hamish sat down across the aisle from his old position. While stripping the skewer and chewing, he felt with his other hand along the cushion… and found a tiny bulge in the fabric. It pushed aside, exposing what felt like a many-folded scrap of paper that tugged easily from its niche.

“Great,” resumed the voice near his right ear. “Now slip out the lens and use it. If it’s difficult you might do it in the loo. There are no security cams there.”

Hamish frowned. He could feel the outlines of a soft disc, under the paper folds. I hate these. Modern kids, naturally, took them for granted. Anybody could have perfect vision, nowadays, yet they kept shoving things into their eyes, viewing the world through artificial layers. Of course, whoever planted this thing for Hamish would already know his publicly stated grouchiness. They would also know that he did use contaicts from time to time. When he had to.

All right. I can do it. And without having to hide in the bathroom, you patronizing twits.

With his left hand carefully out of sight, Hamish freed the lens from its paper container and balanced it, concave side up. Try not to drop it. Even the Swiss don’t keep their floors clean enough for aiware.

Pretending to choke a little, on a piece of pork, he bent over, covering his mouth in order to cough a few times… while pushing up one eyelid and poking the little actiplastic disc into place. Perhaps too roughly-he was out of practice. It had been months. Hamish’s left eye stung as it blinked, offended by the unwelcome presence. For a minute, while tears flowed, that side of the world was a blur. Meanwhile the speaker kept droning on.

“… some African tribes required that chiefs pick brides from poor clans. And Jews of medieval Europe, lacking an aristocracy based on land or military might, grounded their elite on scholarly accomplishments. The brightest young rabbis, even low-born, married daughters of the rich, with well known genetic consequences. As were repercussions in cultures where priestly celibacy culled…”

Finally, Hamish managed to get things into focus. No longer needing to override Wriggles, the mysterious intruder-voice now wrote itself across the visual field of his left eye.

Please get up-again casually-and follow the guide dot.

Without any further reluctance or reservations (he was quite sick of the obnoxious “eugenics” speaker, anyway), Hamish stood and turned to leave by the rear exit, passing the security men, this time without a glance. At which point a yellow globe presented itself to one eye, pulsing in a nonthreatening sort of way, beckoning him down a hallway to his left.

Some people live all their lives awash in this stuff… virtual overlayers and “mixed reality.” They claim it empowers them to do more, experience more. But I’ve done fine without it. Show me anybody who lives immersed in the Billion Layer World, who’s accomplished more than I have!

At the same time, he wondered. How did the little contaict lens commune with controllers, elsewhere, without detection by mansion security?

Could the lens have enough ai to interact with me, all by itself?

He decided to test it. On passing a men’s room, Hamish veered through the doors. Any remote handlers might get stymied by all the plumbing in the walls, especially if they were using a weak and surreptitious radio beam.

Good idea, commented flowing letters. Better do a draining. You may be occupied a while.

Old-fashioned modesty was another reason to hate these eyeball-thingumbies. Hamish was careful not to look down while he peed, having no way to tell if others shared his view through the little lens. Instead, he studied the urinal’s spec-plate-another fine product of the Life-Liner, Ltd., promising to recover 93 percent of the phosphorus and 85 percent of the water in every flush. Hamish grimaced ruefully. In Phoscarcity? this very same eco-company had the role of chief villain, with a slight change of name. Part of a worldwide conspiracy by the Merde Monopoly to make money off a fake crisis. Some careless word choices and a court settlement took all his profits that time. Ah well.

Hamish lowered his gaze enough to aim his stream at the company logo, above the drain. After which, he zipped, washed, and exited. The yellow guidot seemed to be waiting in the same spot.

“ALLONS-Y, ALONZO,” he murmured, in case the lens could pick up throat subvocalisms, from all the way up in his eye socket. There was no answer. So he simply followed the guidot down another hall, up a broad set of stairs, then along another passage, through a vestibule and into one of the many museum libraries that dotted the Glaucus-Worthington manse, featuring book shelves that towered two stories, toward ceiling arches of hewn stone.

Wow. I could spend a week in here.

He half expected the lens to write captions across all the wonders in this room. Alas, it didn’t. Still, he recognized a glass-encased Gutenberg Bible and an illustrated Latin translation of Galen, the early Guitner edition. Other wonders were mysterious. Unlike any public museum, they bore no reality-level labels made of paper or plastic. Apparently, you were only supposed to view these treasures while accompanied by a bragging family member.

Well, well. He couldn’t tarry. The traveling beacon turned to head down one of the spaces between the tall shelves. Then, at the end of that narrow aisle, it bobbed slowly before one of those rolling ladders, leading to the upper level. As he approached, the glistening virtual globe bobbed upward, like an untethered balloon.

Hamish paused. The steps looked awkward for his big feet and gangly legs. But after a couple of seconds he shrugged and started up, clambering gamely, even a bit recklessly. If truth be told, he was enjoying himself immensely.

At the top, he turned and spent a few seconds waiting for the guidot to catch up, then stepped aside for it to pass and lead the way again-almost as if it were real, and not ersatz. An illusion created by a plastic disc sitting on his left eyeball. Alas, because he only wore a single contaict, the guidot was just two dimensional and a bit hard to pin down without pseudo-parallax. Still, Hamish followed it into a small alcove lined with dusty tomes, many of them surely more valuable than his house.

The globe transformed into the image of a floating, disembodied human hand-wearing a zardozian white glove-that turned with a magician’s flourish and pointed to some ornate carvings, surrounding a book case made of dark wood.

Pull this vine toward you, please. The unit should open.

Then step through very quietly, closing it behind you ALMOST all the way. Do not let it lock in place.

Although his heart was pounding, Hamish found it reassuring that the vaice was being so careful to leave him a way out. That made it seem less like a trap.

His hand stroked curving vines that climbed the bookcase, and Hamish wondered if anything like such delicate woodwork could be produced today. Of course, zealots of the so-called Age of Amateurs claimed that every art, craft, and skill of the past could now be duplicated-not by machine, but by passionate hobbyists.

Hamish found that assertion painful, arrogant, even disgusting.

He pulled where the floating hand indicated. Without creaks or stiffness, a lever slid down around a hinge and-with a click-the entire case popped out a few centimeters. It swung fairly easily, even while supporting heavy volumes-evidently on smooth, modern bearings-whereupon Hamish found a dark passageway inside.

His right eye could make out nothing in the gloom. But in his left-hand field of view there appeared faint, glimmering outlines that told him where floor met walls, guiding his footsteps. Hamish pulled the case after him… almost shut, and turned to shuffle softly forward, thinking about stories by Poe.

There is a heavy wooden panel, set in the wall at eye level, just ahead.

Two meters. Now one.

Put out your arm to where mine points.

Hamish felt a faint nervous tremor in his fingertips as he reached. Even knowing what to expect, he experienced a faint frisson when his hand passed through the ghostly white glove without any physical contact. Million-year-old instincts were hard to overcome.

Grab the slider bolt.

Now push the panel gently to the left until a gap appears.

After a pause, there came an added caution.

You may watch, but make no sounds.

He shoved aside the wooden insert at the indicated spot, and brought his head down a bit, scrunching uncomfortably.

Eye level. Right. Maybe for normal people.

It was dim in the large chamber beyond, though he adapted quickly, even with his unassisted right eye. Soon made out another richly paneled room with a stonework dome, like the library behind him. In this one, however, there were no books, only statuary. Dozens of marble or bronze figures posed in alcoves lining the walls below, and above in a second story balcony colonnade. It was from that upper level that he now peered downward past one nearby piece of sculpture-some Hindu dancer or goddess, with a voluptuous figure, tiny waist, and only one pair of arms.

Gazing past her provocative navel, he spied a couple of dozen figures below, on the first level, gathered around a single tabletop source of illumination. Radiating like petals of a dark flower, their fleeing shadows crossed the floor then climbed the walls, interspersing warped, elongated human silhouettes among the onlooking statues. Low murmurs of conversation were too hushed for Hamish to make out clearly, though he swiftly recognized the hawklike features of Tenskwatawa and those of his host, Rupert Glaucus-Worthington, along with several other eminences from both factions, their faces pale and dim, but eyes glittering in the soft-sharp light.

I thought they were heading off to negotiate details of the alliance, Hamish mused. Vital matters of how power will be apportioned and which policies to pursue. Instead, this looks like some kind of ceremony.

Could I be watching secret initiation rites of the Illuminati?

Hamish felt a thrill. I was pretty much convinced that such things were just lurid rumors or romantic exaggerations, foisted by my fellow sci-fi writers. Could this mean the oligarchy really does have an inner, ritualized core? One the Prophet is now invited to join?

But not me?

Hamish quashed his sense of pique, focusing instead on curiosity, wondering-How could my sources have steered me so wrong?

Only… Hamish soon found himself revising that first impression. There seemed to be no pattern, no orderly arrangement of people crowded around the table below. No symbolic regalia. No rhythmic chanting. Just a murmur of worried wonder.

One of them, the owner of this vast palace, raised his voice a bit in answer to a question. A tone of querulous anxiety colored Rupert’s tone as he waved an arm in response, gesturing toward the table. And Hamish managed to pick out a few snippets.

“… in my family for three centuries…”

and then,

“… suddenly started, last night…”

and finally,

“… never did anything like this, before!”

Abruptly, Hamish realized, Glaucus-Worthington was talking about the object that lay before them at the center of the gathering. What Hamish had first taken for a simple-if somewhat dim-tabletop lamp, he now realized was something else entirely. A roundish lump of glass, about the size of a human head, and-he realized with a chill-rather shaped like one. It seemed to glow from within.

The contaict lens covering his left pupil kicked into operation, responding to his interest, performing some wizardry of magnification and image enhancement, zooming in toward the object. Image dissonance between his two eyes briefly sickened Hamish, till he shut the right one. Even looking only at the enhanced version, it took several moments to sort out the glitters and complex refractions before realizing.

It’s a crystal skull. One of those weird relics that people get all mystical about, in films even sillier than mine. Though most proved to be modern hoaxes.

Of course, “most” was not the same as “all.” Archaeologists did admit that a few seemed genuinely ancient, but still just works of art-natural chunks of quartz that had been laboriously chiseled and rubbed by artisans in olden times-showing no sign of mystical properties. Yet, some of the strange skullptures had never been put under public, high-tech scrutiny, allowing fervid tales to keep swirling.

I recall, one of them was kept in Switzerland, in private hands.

He never cared enough to learn more than that. Ancient occult artifacts were never a propelling topic for Hamish. Not as much as dangerous scientific innovations and Things Man Was Never Meant to Know. Nevertheless, there had always been something alluring about the works of authors and sceneasts like Joanne Sawyer and Ari Stone-Bear, who spun tales of mystery and wonder around arcane objects from the enigmatic past.

Someone-Tenskwatawa-reached out to touch the translucent cranium-pushing with a fingertip. Turning it till the rictus grin and sunken eye sockets almost faced Hamish, glowing with an expression of fey amusement…

… when a sudden shaft of brilliance gleamed, spearing him right through the contaict lens with a shrapnel-clutter of overlapping images-

– a planet of dark continents and narrows seas, conveyed in murky tans and grainy grays, except for a single, wavy band that flickered with detailed color, from azure seashore to snowcapped, purple peaks-

– a jumbled, jigsaw cityscape that stirred together a tangle of mud huts, skyscrapers, stilt houses, and gleaming domes, topped by thatched roofs-

– a crumpled mosaic of faces, jaggedly combining beaks and jaws and fluted stalks that, while twisted together unnaturally, seemed to snort and cry out with some kind of delirious urgency.

The impression lasted only a couple of seconds. Then it was gone. Benumbed with shock, Hamish sought refuge in logic. In scientific speculation.

That jumble of degraded images… mixed and overlapping chaotically… they could be remnants of holographic memory. Unlike the Havana Artifact, this one offers just a few surviving fragments, retained after the thing was damaged.

Perhaps by the primitive artists who used powders and stones to grind and polish it into a shape worthy of veneration, never knowing how much harm they were doing… or else even earlier, when the crystal came crashing to Earth.

Broken and ruined, unable to communicate clearly, perhaps it could only offer brief snatches of ambiguous confusion and dreamlike images. Enough to terrify our primitive ancestors with thoughts of death. Maybe inspiring other tribes to make their own crystal skulls, in vain efforts to duplicate its power. No wonder oligarchs like Rupert thought this too disturbing to share with the easily alarmed masses.

Hamish turned his attention to Glaucus-Worthington. To the unhappy look on the man’s face.

But didn’t Rupert just say something? That this showy display started only last night? Perhaps the skull never wakened-but for rare flickers-till a few hours ago.

Only… why now?

Hamish had no trouble coming up with a most likely hypothesis.

Oh my.

This is Tor-“Zep-girl”-Povlov, reporting to you from my new beat. Web-Eighteen, level Z12. The hippest, heppest hot-hit-hat… or not-this-that… in the Mesh. And, yes, I come before you as a purely-pearly virtue-virtual, wearing the nimbus halo of a holy-hollow holo. Hello? You expected, like, veri-real shots of the Heroine of Washing-tin? My current-realtime phys-visage?

Granny would say, as if! That cadaver-shell is just container-support. I live here now, in the Over-World. Pat this avatar on the back, I feel it. If I ever let one of you horny fans talk me into a back room privirtcy (or pervertcy), the sustainer pod’ll convey it. Nothing wrong with the old Tor’s hormonal system!

(Sure… like THAT’s going to happen! Still, you can keep offering.)

So yes, there’s still plenty of “me” left. And one thing I promise-I’ll never let my presence here run on aitopilot.

Tell you what. Help boost my ratings, and MediaCorp may spring for a more palp-able holvatar. Even one of those android-mobiles, I can send to chase down real-layer stories. Meanwhile, though, there’s plenty to occupy us here, in the Val-hall-levels, where citizen/amateur heroes like you can hunt iniquities, skewering lies with lances of transparency and light! Like we did, together, back on the old Spirit of Chula Vista.

So let’s get started.

What? Many of you want to hear about me, first? What it’s like to live this way?

Each year, hundreds of catastrophically injured people become gel-encased refugees, like me, who experience life through remote sensors, rather than organic eyes and flesh. Though the Mesh is home, we’re not “uploaded” cybernetic beings. Cams and sensors still feed old-fashioned nerve channels of a very wetbrain.

For some it’s a painful, limited life, that only fools would envy. Still, tens of thousands of normal, undamaged homosaps climb into hook-in tanks and risk body-atrophy, trying to follow us “pioneers” down the path of the living holvatar.

I hope none of you are such fools. Just one person in a hundred manages to make the transition as well as I have-swooping about the datalanes, veering from hunch to correlation to corroboration. Links that used to require a laborious eyeblink or tooth-click now happen by sheer will… or whim… quickly submerging to the level of reflex…

All right, I just made it sound attractive, didn’t I? Well, don’t go there, any of you. It still hurts! And there are puzzling itches, in the way data often seems to stroke my skin and tingle up the spine. None of the docs can explain. Then there’s the creepy sensation that someone’s calling my name. Not this moniker I use in the news biz. Not what my mother called me, but some kind of secret name, like in stories about magic spells and such.

Okay, it’s clearly a lingering wash of escapism/slash/self-pity… and so let’s push that aside with the balm of work! Smart-mob time. Like a swarm of T cells, let’s swoop onto something in the news!

What? You want to make the space Artifact our topic? All of you? Isn’t everybody else on the planet obsessing…

No, you’re right. Most of the reporting is stodgy. The insights stale. I share the group hunch. We can do better.

41.

Peng Xiang Bin tried hard to follow the conversation-partly out of fascination. But also because he felt desperate to please.

If I prove useful to them-more than a mere on-off switch for the worldstone-it could mean my life. I might even get to see Mei Ling and Xiao En again.

That goal wasn’t coming easy. The others kept talking way over his head. Nor could he blame them. After all, who was he? What was he, but another piece of driftwood-trash, washed up on a beach, who happened to pick up a pretty rock? Should he demand they explain everything? Dui niu tanqin… it would be like playing a lute to a cow.

Except they needed his ongoing service as communicator-ambassador to the entity within that rock-and he seemed to be performing that task well enough. At least according to Dr. Nguyen, who was always friendly to Bin.

The tech-search experts-Anna Arroyo and Paul Menelaua-clearly were dubious about this ill-educated Huangpu shoresteader with his weathered skin and rough diction, who kept taking up valuable time with foolish questions. Those two would be happier, he knew, if the honor of direct contact with the Courier entity were taken over by someone else.

Only, can the role be passed along at all? If I died, would it transfer to another? Surely they had mulled that tempting thought.

Or do I have some special trait-something that goes beyond being the first man in decades to lay eyes on the worldstone? Without me, might there be a long search before they found another? That possibility was one he must foster. At some point it might keep him breathing.

Anyway, I do not have to prove myself their equal, Bin reminded himself. My role is like the first performer in a Chinese opera, who does not have to sing especially well. Just dance around a little and help warm up the audience. Be useful, not the star.

“Clearly, this mechanism in our possession was dispatched across interstellar space by different people, with different motives, than those who sent the Havana Artifact,” commented Yang Shenxiu, the scholar from New Beijing, who rested one hand on the worldstone without causing more than a ripple under its cloudy surface-giving Bin a moment of satisfaction. It reacts a lot more actively to my touch!

With his other hand, Yang motioned toward a large placard-image screen for comparison. In lustrous threevee, it showed the alien object under study in Maryland, America, surrounded by researchers from around the world-a bustle of activity watched by billions and supervised by Gerald Livingstone, the astronaut who discovered and collected that “herald egg” from orbit.

To most of the world, that is the sole one in existence. Only a few suspect that such things have been encountered before, across the centuries. And even fewer have certain knowledge of another active stone, held in secret, here in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean.

Bin contemplated the three-dimensional image of his counterpart, a clever and educated man, a scientist and space traveler and probably the world’s most famous person right now. In other words, different from poor little Peng Xiang Bin in every conceivable way. Except that he looks as tired and worried as I feel.

Watching Livingstone, Bin felt a connection, as if with another chosen one. The keeper-guardian of a frightening oracle from space. Even if they found themselves on opposite sides of an ancient struggle.

Paul Menelaua answered Yang Shenxiu by describing a long list of physical differences in excruciating detail-the Havana Artifact was larger, longer, and more knobby at one end, for example. And, clearly, less damaged. Well, it never had to suffer the indignities of fiery passage through Earth’s atmosphere, or pummeling impact with a mountain glacier, or centuries of being poked at by curious or reverential or terrified tribal humans… not to mention a couple of thousand years buried in a debris pit, then decades soaking in polluted waters underneath a drowned mansion. Bin found himself reacting defensively on behalf of “his” worldstone.

I’d like to see Livingstone’s famous Havana Artifact come through all that, and still be capable of telling vague, mysterious stories.

Of course, that was the chief trait both ovoids had in common.

“… so, yes, there are evident physical differences. Still, anyone can tell at a glance that they use the same underlying technologies. Capacious and possibly unlimited holographic memory storage. Surface sonic transduction at the wider end… but with most communications handled visually, both in pictorial representation and through symbol manipulation. Some surface tactile sensitivity. And, of course an utter absence of moving parts.”

“Yes, there are those commonalities,” Anna Arroyo put in. “Still, the Havana Artifact projects across a wider spectrum than this one-and it portrays a whole community of simulated alien species, while ours depicts only one.”

Dr. Nguyen nodded, his elegantly decorated braids rattling. “It would be a good guess to imagine that one species or civilization sent out waves of these things, and the technology was copied by others-”

“Who proceeded to cast forth modified stones of their own, incorporating representatives of all the diverse members of their growing civilization,” concluded Anna. “Until one of those races decided to break the tradition, by offering a dissenting point of view.”

Bin took advantage of this turn in the conversation-away from technical matters and back to the general story their own worldstone had been telling.

“Isn’t… is it not… clear who came second? Courier warns us not to pay attention to liars. It seems… I mean, is it not clear that he refers to the creatures who dwell within the Havana Artifact?”

Of course they were amused by his stumbling attempts to speak a higher grade of Beijing dialect, with classier grammar and less Huangpu accent or slang. But he also knew there were many types of amusement. And, while Anna and Paul might feel the contemptuous variety, it was the indulgent smile of Dr. Nguyen that mattered. He seemed approving of Bin’s earnest efforts.

“Yes, Xiang Bin. We can assume-for now-that our worldstone is speaking of the Havana Artifact-or things like it-when it warns against enemies and liars. The question is-what should we do about this?”

“Warn everyone!” suggested Yang Shenxiu. “You’ve seen how the other worldstone has thrown the entire planet into a tizzy, with that story told by the emissary creatures who reside within. Although it remains frustratingly unspecific, their tale is one of profound and disarmingly blithe optimism, confidently assuring us that humanity is welcome to join a benign interstellar community. In this era of nihilism and despair, people across every continent are rushing to believe and put their trust in the aliens!”

“And is that necessarily such a bad thing?” asked Anna.

“It could be, if it is based upon some kind of lie!” Paul interjected. He and Anna faced each other, with intensity filling their expressions, till an outside voice broke into their confrontation.

“What about others?”

Menelaua glared at Bin for interrupting, his look so fierce that Bin shrank back and had to be coaxed into resuming. “Please continue, son,” Dr. Nguyen urged. “What others are you talking about?”

Bin swallowed.

“Other… stones.”

Nguyen regarded him with a blank, cautious stare.

“Pray explain, Xiang Bin. What other stones do you mean?”

“Well, honored sir…” He gathered his courage, speaking slowly, carefully. “When I first arrived here, you… graciously let me view that report… the private report describing legends about sacred gem-globes or rocks that… were said to show fantastic things. Some of the stories are well known-crystal balls and dragon stones. Other tales were passed down for generations within families or secret societies. You yourself said that there is one such secret fable that’s supposed to go back nine thousand years, right? It’s… it is interesting to compare those sagas to the truth we see before us… and yet…”

He paused, uncertain he should continue.

“Go on,” urged the rich man-representing an association of many other rich men and women, across Asia.

“Yet… what I don’t understand is why that report, all by itself, would have made people so eager… spending so much money and effort… to actually look for such a thing! I mean, why would any modern people-sophisticated men like you, Dr. Nguyen-believe such stories, any more than yarns about demons?” Bin shook his head, repressing the fact that he had always believed in spirits, at least a little. So did lots of people.

“I figure the former owner of our worldstone-”

“Lee Fang Lu.” Yang Shenxiu interjected a name that Bin had never known, till now. The fellow who used to own that pre-deluge mansion, with a clandestine basement chamber where Bin found a treasure trove of odd specimens. He nodded gratefully.

“Lee Fang Lu might have been arrested, tortured, and killed over rumors-”

“That he possessed something like this.” Dr. Nguyen nodded and his beads clattered softly. “Pray continue.”

“Then there’s the way you and your… competitors… pounced on me, after I put out just a hint about offering to sell a glowing white egg. Clearly, when the Havana Artifact was announced, there were already powerful groups out there, who knew the… the…”

He groped for the right words. And abruptly a new, unfamiliar Chinese language character appeared in the ai-patch that had been inserted within his lower right field of vision. Plus a row of tone-accented Pinyin Roman letters, for pronunciation. The ai-patch had been doing that more often as it grew more familiar with Bin-anticipating and assisting what he was trying to say.

“… the range-of-plausible-potentialities…,” he carefully enunciated, while moving his finger over his palm to mimic-draw the complex characters-a common thing to do, when a word was obscure. He saw the others smile a little. They were used to this sort of thing.

“I just find it hard to believe that powerful people would go to so much trouble… to search frantically for such a thing, even after learning about the Havana Artifact… unless they thought there was a real possibility of success. Unless they had strong reason to believe those legends were more than just legends.”

He looked at Dr. Nguyen, surprised by his own boldness.

“I bet there was a lot left out of that report, sir. Is it possible that some groups already have worldstones? Now, in the modern era?”

Menelaua shook his head and snarled. “Ridiculous.”

“And why is that, Paul?” Anna Arroyo answered. “It’d take care of that temporal coincidence, at least a bit. Maybe these things have been crisscrossing our region of space for a long time, like messages in bottles. While most settled into far orbits, waiting for Earth to produce space-faring folk, others might have landed-accidentally, like this one. Or on purpose in some way. Most would shatter or get buried at sea. But just like a plant that sends out thousands of seeds, you need only one to take root…”

Yang Shenxiu protested. “If there were so many, would not geologists or gem-seekers or collectors or plowing farmers have seen, by now, some of the fallen ones? Even if they were split or burned, they would stand out!”

Anna shrugged. “We have no idea how these things decay, if broken. Maybe they decompose quickly into a form that resembles typical rock crystal. Or they might dissolve into sand or dust, or even vapor.

“Anyway, suppose a few were found, from time to time, and recognized as something special. We all know how rare and precious things used to be treated, in almost every past culture. They were presented, as gifts, to kings and priests, who then hoarded them in dark places! Maybe bringing them out from time to time, for use in mystery rites, to impress the rubes. But then always tucking them away again… till the city was sacked and the hiding place lost forever. Or the items were buried with the king, which amounts to the same thing. Either way, the truth would dissolve into legends-of which there are plenty!”

She turned to Bin. “Isn’t that exactly what happened when Lee Fang Lu got his hands on the worldstone? Caught up in that old way of thinking, he clutched the secret-the most special thing in his life-and took it with him to the grave.”

The scholar, Yang Shenxiu mused. “In fact, this could explain Hindu legends of Siva Linga stones. Moreover, it is said that both the First Emperor Chin and Genghis Khan were laid to rest with treasures that included-”

Dr. Nguyen lifted his hand for attention, cutting the discussion short. He had been standing quite still, apparently staring into space-or else, at scenes that only he could see, conveyed on the inner surface of his specs. Now, the black-haired mogul spoke in a low voice that Bin took to contain equal parts surprise and resignation.

“It seems that events have caught up with our ruminations. My sources tell me that reports are trickling in…”

He took off his specs and looked at Bin, directly.

“It appears, my young comrade Xiang Bin, that you may have been right, after all.”

Call me Hagar.

I communicate to you all today via encrypted channels for my own protection, although this (*) pseudonymous reputation code should attest that I am a reliable person and fair witness, having taken courses in Visual Skepticism and Objective Veracity at the Women’s University of Abu Dhabi. Of course, I see no conflict between that and being a good Muslim.

Which brings me to my account. For, early this very morning, I stood at the holy place in Mecca, filled with gratitude for the dispensation of the Second Caliph, who has wisely, generously and against some entrenched resistance, granted women pilgrims greater equality in seeking to fulfill our obligation of Haj.

This blessing is all the more welcome, now that I live the life of an outcast, much in keeping with my adopted name. (No doubt, some will connect this pseudonym to a certain fugitive, not pursued by any nation or law, but chased by great powers, nonetheless. Like the original Hagar, I am not without protectors, blessings be upon them. Moreover, I shall be long gone by the time this time-delayed posting lands, like a heavy stone, to ripple the dark waters of the InterMesh.)

Of course, there are by now other reports or rumors, attesting to what happened some hours ago, just before dawn, at the Holy Kaaba. But I will offer my own testament, nonetheless.

I had only begun my third of seven tawaf circuits, around the inner courtyard of the Grand Mosque, praying as Hagar once did, for relief and sustenance amid my exile, when a hot desert wind burst upon us from the east, driven over the roofs of bir Zamzam, as if by the soon-to-rise sun. This zephyr ruffled the kiswa black-cloth coverings that both honor and protect the shrine that now stands on the spot where Adam was the first person ever to pile one stone upon another, and thus began the era of Man the Builder. The same site where Abraham and Ishmael, son of that earlier Hagar, repaired the foundation and sanctified the site to forever honor Allah.

So strong was the gust that it drove many pilgrims to their knees, or else forced them to crouch down, exposing to those of us who were circling much farther away a wondrous sight: a clear view of that eastern corner of the Kaaba, where the Prophet Muhammad himself-blessings be upon him-placed the fabled Black Stone into the wall with his own hands.

The very same Black Stone that fell in order to show Adam and Eve where first to sacrifice and prostrate themselves before the Holy Name.

To unbelievers, or to modernists who think that the Word can be reinterpreted by mere men, the obvious explanation is that the Black Stone must have been a meteorite that startled and bedazzled primitives, during an era when tribes made fetishes of so-called sacred rocks all over this rugged peninsula. Moreover, many devout Muslim scholars avow that it can be nothing more than just a rock-one worthy of respect, for having once been kissed by the Prophet, but nothing more.

Only then, how do such people explain well-attributed testimony that the Stone is said to have once been pure and dazzling white? Only to have turned reddish black because of all the sins it has absorbed over the sad centuries?

And how will skeptics explain away the miracle that I witnessed, with my very own eyes? When that blessed Stone began to shine with a glow all its own! Emanating from within, pushing forth against the predawn twilight?

Whereupon, for a brief span, rays seemed to flash toward the pilgrims, some of them unaware, having already abased themselves facedown upon the ground. But many others braved the sight, and so rocked-back, stumbling, or threw up their arms, or held their heads in amazement and awe.

It lasted only the interval of a few heartbeats. Then, the momentary brilliance passed. The Stone faded again, almost to black. Except I witnessed that several small patches continued to glow softly within, especially under the gentle warming of the rising sun.

As for we poor pilgrims who were left standing or crouching or kneeling there, in shock and wonder? The initial, awestruck silence gave way to moans and cries, fervent shahadas declaring the greatness of God and his prophet.

Only thereafter, by many minutes, amid layerings of both terror and joy, did I hear a rising babble of voices as we turned to one another, each declaring and comparing her brief visual experience to that of others.

I heard the word “demons!” uttered with tones of dread.

Several voices, tinged in marvel mixed with worry, spoke of “djinn!”

Many, mindful of current events, murmured about “those aliens”-the beings who were coming awake within their own strange sky-stone in America.

But far more frequent, and soon overriding all else, there arose a single interpretation of what several hundred women saw in that brief, holy glow.

Angels.

42.

Hacker felt better after a shower and a meal. He even grabbed a little shut-eye, sleeping with the joymaker in his hand, so that its vibe-mode alarm would wake him after a couple of hours. When he roused, his vision seemed much sharper and his hands no longer felt as if they were covered by oven mitts.

A good thing, since there followed several hours’ work in the underwater center’s main laboratory, sitting at a lab bench, modifying the cable from his helmet that had tapped the sonic implant in his jaw-the same circuit he had used aboard the ill-fated rocket-converting it to link up with the archaic multiphone.

Dad would be proud of me. And Mom, too. I may be self-indulgent and overbearing. But no decadent hypocrite-brat! I understand the tech I use. And my people know that I can sling a soldering iron!

Through an open door, he glanced back at the pool, where members of the Tribe had taken up a game of water polo, calling fouls and shouting at each other as they batted a ball from one goal to the next, keeping score with raucous sonar clicks. One more behavior he figured you would not find among their wild cousins.

Hacker wondered about the “uplift” changes he had seen. Did they carry through from one generation to the next? Could this new genome spread among natural dolphins? And if so, might the project have already succeeded beyond its founders’ dreams? Or its detractors’ worst nightmare?

What if the work resumed, finishing what got started here? Would it enrich our lives to-let’s say-argue philosophy with a dolphin intellectual? Or to collaborate with a smart chimp, at work or at play? If other species speak and start creating new things, will they be treated as equals-as co-members of our civilization-or as the next discriminated class?

Hacker recalled some classics of literature, by H. G. Wells and Pierre Boulle and Cordwainer Smith, that portrayed this concept, but always in terms of slavery. In every case-and in all the clichéd movies-author and director showed cruel human masters getting their just desserts. A simple morality tale that always struck him as being less about hubris, and more about the penalty for being a bad parent.

But, what if “uplift” were done with the best of intentions, without any hint of oppression or cruelty, propelled by curiosity, diversity and even compassion? Wouldn’t there still be awful mistakes and unforeseen consequences? Some critics were probably right. For humans to attempt such a thing would be like an orphaned and abused teen trying to foster a feral child.

Are we good enough? Wise enough? Do we deserve such power?

It wasn’t the sort of question Hacker used to ask himself, even as recently as a month ago. In fact, he felt changed by his experience at sea.

At the same time, he realized-just asking the question was part of the answer.

Maybe it’ll work both ways. They say you only grow while helping others.

His father would have called that “romantic nonsense.” But Lacey wouldn’t, he felt pretty sure. Suddenly he wanted to talk to her, more than anything in the world.

That word flashed across the little screen, and he felt relief. Not only did some undersea cable still connect the habitat to the World Mesh, but the joymaker’s repeated pulses had managed to summon a soft-reconnection. All he would have to do is vocally ask for a connection to his mother. If his voiceprint had changed too much to handle the payment problem, well, then she could unleash some aissistant to take care of that detail from her end.

Yet, at the last moment, Hacker revised his priorities again.

I’ll call Lacey soon. She’s probably worried sick. But a few minutes won’t make much difference.

First, there are other urgent matters.

He was about to call his manager and broker-before they had a chance to declare him dead and start liquidating his commercial empire. But then Hacker stopped. Even that was doing stuff in the wrong order.

He looked back up the hall, where splashes could be seen, rising from the pool, and an occasional leaping gray form. The Tribe. The friends who had saved his life.

Hacker paused a second or two longer. Then he keyed the private access code for his attorney, hoping to get through, despite the lack of phone-ident.

After a lengthy ring, Gloria Harrigan answered, but at first she sounded brusque, distracted.

“Who the hell is this and could you call back later? The whole world is watching TV right now.”

He blinked in surprise at her non sequitur. The whole world was what? He rapped his jaw, in case the implant had malfunctioned. Concentrating, Hacker spoke aloud. Even though he could not hear air-carried sounds, he could feel his larynx buzz and his mouth shaped sounds.

“Gloria-”

“Anyway, this hi-pri line is set aside for the search and rescue. So if it doesn’t have to do with-”

“Gloria…” He spoke carefully, as if trying to recall a disused skill. “You can call off the search… It’s me… Hacker Sander.”

There was a long pause. Then a shriek that carried up his mandible to resonate his skull.

“Hacker? Is that really you?”

He only got in two more words, before the shouting recommenced and would not stop for a while. Gloria kept punctuating joyful yells-calling others to gather around-with outright sobs. “This is goddam more important than any fucking aliens!” she hollered.

It had a strange effect on Hacker, almost making him feel remiss, embarrassed over having caused such emotion and inconvenience. Another novel sensation. I didn’t know anybody liked me that much, he mused.

At the same time, he also wondered.

Aliens?

Carrying the phone back to the dome’s atrium, he arrived in time to witness the water polo game conclude in a frothy finale. Dolphins pirouetted and squawked, either celebrating or protesting the score… as Gloria finally calmed enough to confirm that… yes… they now had his location pinned down… and help was on the way. About an hour… no, make that forty minutes, she revised in a hurried update, as a tourist minisub offered to divert from a nearby beach resort for a reasonable fee.

“That’s fine…,” Hacker said, though with a strange flurry of mixed feelings. “During that time, though… right after you phone my mother with the news… there’s something… I want you to do for me.”

He then gave Gloria the World Mesh codes for Project Uplift, and asked her to find out everything about it, including the current disposition of assets and technology-and how to contact the experts whose work had been interrupted here.

When Gloria asked him why, he started to reply.

“I think… I’ve got a new…”

Hacker stopped there, having almost said the word hobby. But suddenly he realized-he had never felt quite this way about anything before. Not even the exhilaration of playboy rocketry.

For the first time he burned with real ambition. Something that seemed worth fighting for.

In the pool, several members of the Tribe were now busy winding their precious net around the torso of the biggest male, preparing to go foraging again. Hacker overheard them gossiping as they worked, and chuckled when he understood one of their crude jokes. A good natured jibe at his expense.

Well, a sense of humor is a good start. Our civilization could use more of that.

“I think-” he resumed telling his lawyer.

“I think I know what I want to do with my life.”

Hello? Is anyone there? I’m counting a handful-just half a mega or so. Well, four hundred and thirty thousand participants will have to suffice. You are the types who would rather do than passively stare at feed from the Artifact Conference! We posse members sniff the edges. So let’s follow some scents.

Hey, despite talk of aliens, the regular news cycle goes on, with ever-rising tensions about water, energy, food ’n’ phosphorus, or rising seas… or else more squabbles between guild and civitas and manse. Let’s have a capsule update from my favorite summarizer, Walter:

* Syr-Isra-Pal has threatened to ramp up coolwar if Turkey keeps sequestering snowmelt in the Great Anatolia Reservoir. Downstream neighbors blame this for worsening the Near Eastern Drought, plus an upsurge in quake activity across the Levant.

* Rumors suggest several reffer cabals have agreed on a joint, renewed assault on the “decadent institutions of an obsolete, so-called Enlightenment.” Most such tales are generated by peevish ai-bots, unleashed years ago by long-dead nihilists. But ever since the failed D.C. zeppelin attack, security anticipators are taking them all seriously, kicking their prefrontals into overdrive.

* A recent spate of small-scale earth tremors, all over the world, has accompanied strange reports of underground or underwater detonations, all reaching a crescendo in the last few hours. Though some fret nervously about terr or reff attacks, a new correlo-study shows that few events are near human habitations. Most seem to be happening far out to sea.

* And the top-linked thread: many reports in the last few hours of glimmering lights, bursting from chunks of formerly quiescent stone. The most notorious episode took place half a day ago at Islam’s holiest shrine. Others include a piece of Chinese imperial jewelry in the Taipei Museum and a paving stone in Hyderabad. Now, scientific instruments laid out to watch scintillations on the Antarctic Plateau, report at least twenty faint, localized glimmers, deep within the ice sheet, implying there might be hundreds more beyond sensor range.

Thank you, Walter. Well? Which of those stories set you all a-quiver with excitement? We want something that regular media is likely to screw up! That’ll benefit from half a million baying bloodhounds.

What’s that? Okay, I expected this. Several throngs of you are intrigued by those stones that started lighting up, around the world. The obvious guess-it’s more-than-coincidentally tied to the Havana Artifact? Well, sure, great topic… though I see several hundred teams, agencies and citizen-posses already pouncing on it. Seems pretty obvious, if creepy.

How about this alternative some of you suggested? What if that recent flurry of micro-quakes is somehow related? They’ve been at the lower end of detection range and almost hidden by normal temblor background. So far, it’s all been largely dismissed as “normal fluctuations.” But does anyone else see something strange about the data?

Yep, that’s a good prelimalysis, Amsci Genovese. The energy profile really does stand out. Most of the extra quakes seem to occur in a narrow range of power release. Down around a sixtieth of a Richter. Far too narrow to be natural.

And yes, Insight-filled Hmong Science Collective, I see your point-how most of these events have the sonic shape of explosive detonations, and not natural fault slips! Will someone please probe security channels, in case the protector caste thinks these are terr or reff attacks? And why no damage reports? You’ll lead that effort, Anne Dobson of Cape Town?

Come to think of it, let’s start mapping events versus geology, terrain, political instability, hydro-cycles…

Come on, people and people-helpers. Feedme here! Tear yourselves away from the TV and do what you are good at.

Bugging the universe with curiosity.

43.

Among all the added complications, who needed a rising wave of copycat hoaxes? People “discovering” ancient messenger-rocks of their own.

Some of the posted vids and palps showed blatant fakes-little more than chunks of glass, crudely lit from below, or pixeltrated with off-the-shelf image-altering programs-easy to spot. Others were the work of ingenious, high-tech pranksters, featuring impressive “aliens” who uttered mysterious warnings from their crystal homes… sometimes laying the groundwork for terrible punch lines, endlessly shaggy stories, or groaner puns. Others played it straight, claiming to be real star-emissaries offering deep (if always clichéd) wisdom… attracting storms of crit from smart posses yelling “fake!” And equal crowds of fervent believers.

A festival-like sense of momentum built, as vids of homemade Artifacts flooded the Mesh. And it’s possible that one or two may be real, Gerald thought. But someone else will have to check-and-vet them.

The Contact Commission had its hands full with the oblong, rounded cylinder that he brought home from orbit. It sat before him now, drinking in a bright diet of photon energy. The resident aliens had asked for a recess behind shrouded mists. Some time to get organized. And Akana Hideoshi’s team was happy to comply. People, too, needed food and rest. So did the tense observers who watched from the advisers’ gallery, just beyond the tall glass wall.

Reconvening on schedule, Gerald sat between Emily Tang and Haihong Ming, as Genady, Ben, Patrice, Akana, and other team members took their places. He saw dignitaries arrange themselves among the plush cybo-chairs that were steeply arrayed, auditorium-style, beyond the quarantine barrier. They seemed less agitated over there, now that the behavioral conditioning experiment had worked and the aliens were behaving better. Not that anyone enjoys being proved wrong. The advisers’ consensual holvatar representative-Hermes-no longer paced angrily, his broad forehead crowned with miniature lightning flashes. Now the ersatz god merely drummed the table, frowning nervously.

At the appointed time, all room lights dimmed and those swirling clouds within the Artifact began to change. Tshombe reduced the beam intensity, so everyone could see… as mists began to part, revealing a luminous vista of bright stars.

A veritable galaxy, presented in luscious three dimensionality, that none of the Earthling hoaxes had been able to duplicate so far. Gerald was about to shout for Ramesh to make sure the starscape was being recorded-

– when the Rajasthani astronomer beat him to it, reacting with an uncannily speedy virt.

These aren’t real stars. Uniform in spectra and brightness, they’re scattered about for art’s sake. It’s a metaphor.

Dang. That part of a long list of questions would have to be delayed, till more urgent matters were settled.

A murmur rose from the peanut gallery as, originating from dozens of distinct pinpoints, there unrolled a pattern of slender, curvy lines… that soon flattened and took the form of golden roads, tapering into the distance. These pathways branched and split, many of them leading to dead ends. But all of those that survived eventually joined together, merging one-by-one into a single highway that proceeded toward Gerald’s point of view… now shared by several billion watchers, tuning in from all across Earth.

People still complain about the degraded image quality that’s allowed to leave quarantine. In fact, only a very few of the most paranoid-not even Emily and her Tiger holvatar-still thought it likely that these images held dangerous codings.

Gerald leaned forward, staring directly into the Stone, instead of at the giant, magnifying screens nearby. Now, the eye began to make out figures, distant at first, striding along those golden paths. Seeming to begin at quite some distance, they all could be seen heading this way… toward the face of the Artifact that lay directly in front of Gerald. And soon, observers could tell that the Artifact beings all looked a bit different this time.

The centauroid, the bat-helicopter alien, the raccoonlike creature, the blimpy-thing… they now wore garments of some luxurious fabric, wafting in simulated breezes. Even the squid-cephalopod being had draped itself in formality as it glided forward along with the others, its means of locomotion as mysterious as ever.

Here it comes at last, Gerald thought. The formal invitation.

Where before there had seemed to be too little room at the interface-forcing aliens to jostle one another at the curved boundary between the Artifact’s inner world and the humans outside-now the foreground somehow seemed uncrowded. All the visitor emissaries were able to share this grand procession, gathering and arranging themselves so that every one could see outward-and be seen.

“That’s some group portrait, when they decide to get it together,” the anthropologist Ben Flannery commented. “Their earlier fractiousness showed that they tolerate diversity. Now they are displaying a wakened cooperative spirit and shared purpose. What combination of traits could be more encouraging? I’m pretty optimistic, right about now.”

General Hideoshi made a soft shushing sound. A number of the central figures were moving their arms/tentacles/appendages in unison…

… and letters formed, flowing toward the curved interface, arranging themselves into words that also emerged as sound from loudspeakers overhead.

We have asked the oldest surviving member to speak for us.

Out of the center of the crowd there emerged a being Gerald had seen before. Tall, bipedal, with a rotund-chubby figure, it had short arms that clasped each other across a stout belly. A roundish head nodded from atop its roly-poly neck. The eyes-wide but narrow-slitted, as if squinting with amusement-were in roughly the “right place” for a gestalt that seemed very close to human, and so was a thick-lipped mouth that even seemed to curve slightly upward, as if in an enigmatic smile. There was no nose-the creature apparently breathed through vents that opened and closed rhythmically, at the top of its head. Gerald’s overall impression was of a wise-looking, Buddha-like being. In fact, though he knew it was taking first impressions way too far, the fellow seemed rather… jovial.

Oldest member? Do they mean that this was the first race of their commonwealth? The founders who emerged upon the starlanes before anybody else? Perhaps those who contacted and taught all the others how to live together in interstellar peace?

But wait. Gerald suddenly recalled. Did they say “oldest surviving”? That doesn’t necessarily mean anything ominous… still…

Gerald knew his mind was racing way ahead of any rational basis for speculation. He tried to emulate the patience that he thought he saw in those eyes.

The head-top vents rippled and symbols emerged. Strange and unfamiliar, they rapidly mutated, transforming into letters of the Roman alphabet that rushed forward, arraying themselves into words which transducers interpreted into sound-conveyed by a voice that seemed both low and strong, if a bit breathy.

You have proved capable and worthy. Join us!

Gerald heard a number of outright sighs, as tension released, even though this only repeated the one cogent message already received so far. That earlier, hopeful statement had emerged out of chaos and confusion. Now, coming from a clearly chosen consensus leader, representing the entire alien community, it felt even more firm, clear, and reassuring.

He glanced at Akana, who nodded back at Gerald. They had worked out what he should say.

“We are honored.

“There’s much to discuss. About your great and ancient society, and our reasons for both caution and joy.

“But let’s begin by welcoming you to Planet Earth. On behalf of humanity, in goodwill and friendship.”

Gerald felt a knot unwind in his stomach. He had managed to get through it all without a cough or “um” or twitch. The Notable-Quotable Words were finished, perhaps a bit more long-winded than famous, dramatic pronouncements by Caesar and Armstrong… certainly not eloquent. But still acceptable to go on the wall of Things Spoken Largely for History.

His words penetrated the Artifact via a device at the knobby end, and quickly manifested as a flurry of tiny symbols-varied and ranging from blocky letters to complex ideograms-that diverged and separated into several dozen separate streams, each aimed at a different alien, not just the ambassador standing a little ahead. The creatures, lined up in their neat rows, reacted with the wide range of behaviors you might expect-shivers and nods and tentacle ripples and shudders-but an overall impression seemed plain to Gerald. They were pleased.

The oldest one turned for brief consultation with the others, then more letters flowed from the top of the Buddha-like visitor’s head, fluttering and transforming before plastering themselves against the glassy interface.

Your friendship is our greatest treasure. We will repay it with the finest gift possible.

“I told you so!” Ben Flannery murmured. To which Emily Tang merely offered a we’ll see grunt.

But first, we must ask-have there been others?

Gerald blinked. Others?

He glanced at Akana, who shrugged back at him, mystified. In fact, none of the team members had anything to offer.

Then a shimmery virt floated down the table, settling in front of Gerald. He turned and saw that the sender was Hermes, holvatar representative of the Advisory Panel-delegates from many nations, guilds, and estates, who sat beyond the quarantine glass. Displayed for Gerald in vivid three-dimensionality by the contaict lenses he wore in both eyes, the virt glittered a simple insight.

“Others” may refer to previous encounters with alien probes.

Ah. Good guess. Someone in the peanut gallery was proving useful after all. Of course, it could also mean anything from UFOs to SETI signals to Jesus. But he decided to go with the suggestion, taking a deep breath.

“Your crystalline capsule was the first of its kind we’ve encountered, that spoke to our civilization with a clear message from afar.”

He quashed a sudden impulse to add-“That I know of.”

Another virtual message seemed to flutter in front of Gerald, this one sent by Genady.

Remember how we speculated about earlier artifacts falling to Earth, the way this one would have, if you hadn’t snagged it? Picture many of them plummeting in, across vast stretches of time… mostly to shatter or sink in the sea. Perhaps some of them merely damaged…

Gerald grunt-clicked for Genady’s virtual note to move aside… but to stay available. During those few seconds, the jolly-looking alien received and pondered Gerald’s reply. It seemed pleased by this news, its eyes squinting even more amiably than before.

How fortunate! Then you will receive clean information. Be warned, however, that other emissaries may desperately seek attention. Some carry defective or misleading, or even dangerous, entreaties.

Gerald swallowed, hard. Things had veered, abruptly, in a new direction. Suddenly, a veritable storm of virts swirled about, sent by almost every member of the contact team, as well as the animated “god” Hermes, who frantically scribbled one note after another, conveying ideas from the folks beyond the glass.

These Artifact visitors have rivals! Maybe even enemies…

So much for a peaceful universal cosmic federation…

Could “join us” mean enlisting in their squabbles against some unknown foes? Suddenly, the offer is looking a lot less tempting…

This fat envoy seems relieved, maybe even surprised that we’ve not met “others.”

Gerald blink-prioritized, giving most of the virts just a cursory gist-glance. But he called forward Genady’s follow-up message.

Kakashkiya! Do you think all those rumors we’ve heard recently… about bits of stone, suddenly lighting up… that those might be fragments and relics of older probes “desperately seeking attention”?

Akana caught Gerald’s eye with an unspoken query. Given this sudden turn of events, should she call a recess?

No. He shook his head. It would do no harm to follow up with some direct questions.

“Thank you for the warning. We’ll be careful and wary,” he told the Oldest Surviving Member. “Nevertheless, please explain. Are you worried about other messenger probes because they were dispatched by… unfriendly forces?”

Gerald knew he could have expressed that better. But this conversation was already drifting way off any script the team had prepared.

The response came as members of the alien delegation seemed to shift and jostle, nervously. Several tried to move up next to the chosen representative, but were restrained by others. The humanoid seemed to grow a bit grim.

Some emissaries are problematic because of their point or species of origin. And yes, some senders were disagreeable. Other probe-heralds might be part of this same lineage you see before you. Yet, they may be less trustworthy, because of temporal factors.

Emily muttered, this time aloud.

“Criminy! He’s talking about document version control! He doesn’t want us contaminated by an obsolete variant.”

“Well…,” Ben Flannery muttered, looking a bit dazed. “These people… these particular visitors… they just arrived… drifting close to Earth, where Gerald managed to recover their capsule. Doesn’t that suggest they’d be more recent than…” The anthropologist stumbled, looking for vocabulary. “… than any that might have fallen to Earth earlier? And hence more reliable…”

The blond Hawaiian stopped, unable to continue.

Gerald watched the Artifact. The words that had been spoken by other team members did not seem to be penetrating the speech input device, so oral discussion was probably okay, especially amid the storm of virts. Still, this line of thought was close to getting out of hand.

He faced the Artifact and spoke directly, perhaps a bit louder than necessary.

“Clarify, please. Is there a potential for danger from contact with the Others that you spoke of? Is there war, among rival interstellar races and civilizations out there?”

The pudgy humanoid grimaced in a way that Gerald found hard to interpret, or even guess at. Perhaps later correlation-analysis would make it easier to translate facial expressions.

War? As in devastating struggle? Reciprocal causation of organic death and physical destruction? One species or people competing or directly harming another across interstellar space? No. There is no war. There cannot be war across the stars. It has never happened. It will never happen.

There was a general sigh at this reassurance. And sure, the news had to be seen as important, even epochal.

Yet Gerald was starting to feel a bit miffed. Good tidings seemed always to come accompanied by something else that turned out to be jarring, even disturbing. He was left with the ongoing and ever-present suspicion that things weren’t quite as they seemed.

Emily Tang offered a worried virt.

So… there’s no heavy conflict. That’s a relief. Still, there appears to be urgent rivalry at some level. Alien civs apparently send out emissary probes pretty often… and covetously hope that those probes will get to be the ones that actually make contact with New Guys like us.

Akana passed along a gisted security briefing. Even now, investigation teams from EU, AU, UN, U.S., Great China, the Caliphate, and countless consortia were converging on every credible account of strange glowing stones. Hypotheses flurried, but a mesh consensus was converging that these objects-(well, some of them, the ones that weren’t hoaxes)-might also be artifacts from space, perhaps broken or crippled remnants that had been scattered around the Earth across many years.

Harkening back to the words of the Oldest Surviving Member, he realized; these “others” were, indeed, attracting notice.

Dr. Tshombe complained.

But why suddenly now? The other probes never summoned attention so garishly, across all the millennia. Not until this very moment! It is an incredible coincidence.

Gerald glanced at Emily, then Akana. Clearly, they both knew the answer to that question… and it started showing up in virts from the Advisers’ Panel.

Somehow, all those “other” sky stones-damaged or lost for ages-somehow they must know that the Artifact is here. And that it is getting the full regard of humankind.

And they ardently want to be heard…

… too?

… or instead?

Gerald was tempted to follow that thought-line. To wonder why alien crystals would show such blatant evidence of a crude human emotion…

… jealousy…

Except that he also had a job to do. To keep up his end of a conversation with the Oldest Surviving Member, and not to get distracted by secondary matters.

Focus on what’s important.

First, verify the stuff that’s vital. We can psychoanalyze alien motivations later.

They were watching him-the visitors in the stone. So was the world. He took a sip of tea from the hotbulb in front of him, cleared his throat, and asked in a crisp, clear voice:

“So, then… can we take it that you are all part of a commonwealth of coexistence and peace?”

The Buddha smile broadened.

Yes. We have our disputes, of course. But our coexistence is timeless and ever hopeful. We strive, perpetually, for the common advantage of all. You, too, can benefit, as we have, by joining us!

Instead of relishing the friendliness, Gerald continued probing, this time without a pause.

“But those Others that you spoke of-do they come from different species and civilizations that view the people of your planet as competitors?”

After his words floated in to the aliens, the smile of the Oldest Member thinned slightly.

I have already explained, there is no competition among species and planets and civilizations.

Gerald frowned, suddenly skeptical.

“What? No competition at all? But you just said that some probe-makers were ‘problematic’ and that you have disputes. Please explain the contradiction.”

There is no contradiction. Individual entities may argue, contest, or compete, in certain contexts. Species and civilizations do not.

Ben Flannery spoke up.

“He must be referring to the relativity limitation. The stars are so far apart that advanced beings don’t even bother to try interstellar travel, except with these cheap, fast, crystalline probes. So much for all those grand delusions people wallowed in, back during the Twentieth Century. Fantasies about super-Kardashev societies, exploring and colonizing the cosmos with ramships or generation arks, or self-replicating explorer robots, or even warp drive. Or building megastructures to control the fate of galaxies! Those were just god-fantasies that our fathers daydreamed, on their way to mythical Singularity Heaven.”

Gerald glanced up at the Advisers’ Gallery, where a hundred of humanity’s brightest, or most influential, had taken seats to observe this historic occasion. In the plush VIP area, one individual seemed to react quite heatedly to Ben’s interpretation. A dark fellow with a waving ’do of cyber-activated hair. Gerald’s contaicts supplied a caption-nametag-Professor Noozone. Ah, yes, the famous scientific razzle artist. He was shouting and shaking a fist toward Flannery-

– who continued on, blithely indifferent to a storm of virts that tried to crowd in around him.

“The key point that we’ve been told just now is that there is absolutely never direct physical contact between sapient species, who simply live too far apart. All they have to exchange is information. Hence, there’s nothing to argue or compete over!”

It sounded logical. But Gerald found the assertion doubtful. In fact, patently absurd.

Even people who are calm, reasonable, and satiated-who have no physical dissension with others, or conflicting needs-can and will quarrel. So they exchange only information and trade only ideas? Natural beings will bicker over those!

Anyway, who could possibly claim that these aliens were “above” altercation or too mature to argue! To be frank, he had never seen such an inherently testy bunch. And that was before the recent news about rivalry between interstellar envoy-probes!

Could it all be a matter of misunderstood definitions? “Competition,” for example, might be translating wrong. Gerald decided to seek clarification.

“Please explain,” he asked. Took a deep breath. Then plunged on. “If you often wrangle as individuals, how is it that your home species and civilizations and planets never compete or quarrel with each other?”

The Buddha-being contemplated this, then answered slowly, with a mien that made Gerald think of a wise-old teacher, patiently answering the simpleminded query of a dimwitted child.

Our home species and civilizations and planets could not ever compete with one another. Because they never met.

Okay, so now we’ve got a good prelimalysis of those recent worldwide microquakes. After sift-removing the background of natural tectonic activity and known sources of human-generated noise, what we’re left with is a dispersion of mysterious, compact detonations, nearly all of them occurring in a very narrow energy range.

Furthermore, although they at first seemed to be scattered all over the globe, we can now tell that these micro-quake events are limited mostly to certain types of geology! Mudflats, sedimentary layers, alluvial plains, glacial moraines, the Antarctic plateau… and of course, the ocean basins. Almost nothing is happening in the great continental cratons, or granitic mountain ranges, or anywhere near regions of fresh volcanism, like sea floor spreading centers.

Yes, the coincidence is getting hard to refute. These events occur in exactly the sorts of terrain where an object that fell from the sky might stand a chance of landing with less than vaporizing impact. Mostly either under water or in places that used to be oceans, long ago. Zones where any surviving remnants might have accumulated, or been embedded, across thousands or millions of years.

For those of you just checking in, this is Tor “Zep-girl” Povlov, serving as cogenter for a smartposse investigating whether these quakes might be related to another mystery phenomenon-eyewitness reports of sudden emissions of strange light, given off by stony or glassy objects in the last day or so.

Yes, I know we’re all trying hard to keep up with real-time developments, even as the whole world follows the conversation between astronaut Gerald Livingstone and the entities dwelling within the Havana Artifact. This could be the greatest test ever of our ability to usefully divide attention… to keep doing effective investigation work while transfixed by a fast-breaking news story!

From the conversation in Washington, one thing has just become clear. The Artifact emissaries do not want humanity talking to “others.”

And, just as clearly, every word they’ve said makes us eager to hunt down and learn more about these different shining stones!

So we come to an obvious question. Might the glitters and glimmers that have been reported in Mecca, Hyderabad, and Stonehenge, in Taipei, La Paz, Goma, and Toulouse… might these be just the tip of the iceberg, indicating a truly vast number of “other” contact probes?

Might the recent spate of mysterious micro-tremors, deep underground and out of sight, be connected to all this? Could these outbursts be attempts by “other” artifacts to draw attention to themselves?

And why now, if they sat under mud or silt for millennia or eons?

Duh. Because they sense-somehow-that the Havana Artifact is hogging all the fun!

Why not earlier? Because till now it seemed better to wait! In performing these detonations or screaming glows, they may be expending whatever reserves they had been hoarding to get them across the ages! Using it up now, in order to have one last chance to-

Just a minute… just a minute. Did you see that? Did that fat alien representative just say what I think he said?

Zoom into the Artifact Conference. See the words of the Oldest Member on the big screen.

Our home species and civilizations and planets could not ever compete with one another. Because they never met.

What-on Earth or Heaven or the Mesh-could he mean by that?

44.

Outside the dome, miffed from losing at water polo, Noisy Stomach complained to his young comrade, Three-Tone, as they jetted away some distance from the Tribe. Three-Tone groused about the stupid referee, the stupid ball, the stupid captain of their team…

# Foolish Yellowbelly, should have put me in!

# Let me score! I’d score more!

Noisy Stomach had already dismissed the game from his mind. A silly pastime. A legacy of the days when humans used to live inside the dome and made things interesting in so many ways, with flashing lights and strange sensations, always fussing over pregnant females, or else begging sperm donations from males. Better times.

Now?

For a while the Tribe once again had a tame human of their own, to remove parasites and handle the net and bear the brunt of jokes. Only, the elders had decided, it was time to give him back. For his health.

Noisy Stomach mourned.

# What about MY health?

# Who will pick my pecs and clean my sores?

# Should have kept him. He is ours!

They both breached to inhale, tasting in the moist, tropical air signs of a coming squall, maybe late this afternoon. That always freshened things. Rain pushed down some of the unpleasant tang of metal and plastic and man-feces, especially strong near shore.

Noisy Stomach felt a grumble of hunger resonate from his innards to the space around him-a trait that made him poor at stealth, forcing him to specialize in beating, rather than catching. He was about to resume griping-something that young males often did for pleasurable competition, as much as from resentment-when he noticed that Three-Tone had zoomed away, propelled by powerful fluke strokes, leaving a swirl of I-have-just-detected-something-interesting bubbles in his follow-me wake.

Gamely, Noisy Stomach gave chase, always willing to go poke at something interesting. But what could it be? While in hard pursuit of his friend, he concentrated on sampling the sea sounds with left and right swings of his sensitive jaw, trying to figure out what had sparked Three-Tone’s sudden burst of speed, racing to the north.

As usual, there was a lot of spurious noise-the pounding of surf on a nearby beach and waves crashing against a more distant reef. Of course, there were irksome human motor sounds, a grating fact of life, both day and night-with one or two of them evidently heading this way-or toward the habitat dome-at high speed.

Evidently, the Tribe was about to lose its pet. Ah well. None of that seemed to be what sparked the interest of Three-Tone.

Could this be about food? Or danger? A quick scan found nothing unusual amid the fish frequencies, where tightly bunched schools could be heard, swirling like cyclones, surrounded by hunters who made quick-flicking dashes… and prey thrashed, delightfully constrained by clamping jaws. His hunger deepened, almost in syncopated rhythm… but no, there was nothing on those channels to excite Three-Tone so.

Swimming hard to catch up with his friend, Noisy Stomach sought clues in lower, complex layers of textured sound. Strata that the older dolphins were always obsessing about, forever wispy, tentative, that wove through dreams. It was here that you often heard the great whales speak to each other, with moans and cries and songs that traversed all the way across whole ocean basins. Sometimes about food and mating, of course. But also conveying the sea’s own, slow gossip.

And, even lower still-nestled amid the groans of a creaking, quake-prone Earth-you could just make out the chittering, scrabbling commentary of the crabs, crawling and scooting and clambering everywhere, who snapped at anything unusual, combining to create a deep background susurration. A murky, clickety chatter that seemed to rise right out of the ubiquitous mud.

That was where Noisy Stomach finally heard it too. A patterning-wavering and nebulous, but persistent-of surprise.

#… starlight… flowing upward…

#… very strange, indeed…

That was how he interpreted the skittering-clattering scrabble-sound. Catching up with Three-Tone at last, he quickly matched swim-rhythms with his friend, kicking and then arching, to jet out of the water for air, then hurrying along again beneath the surface, in perfect synchrony. Apparently, they were heading toward only the nearest of many sites where bottom-dwellers were behaving this way.

At least three others lay within a day’s swim… and something told him that there were more, and more, even beyond the horizon.

They were streaking toward a site more than an hour away from the dome. It made Noisy Stomach start to worry. Would he miss the hunt? Only making it back to the Tribe in time to pick at fish skeletons, hanging in the net? Were they both risking hunger, on the basis of a CRAB RUMOR? Crabs, who were barely smarter than the rocks they hid under?

Though… if it were happening in so many places… Indeed, even the whales seemed to have noticed, pausing in their painful, deep ponderings. Swiveling that slow curiosity of theirs.

Noisy Stomach knew they were getting close. For one thing, the excitement had spread to other sonic layers, shorter range and smarter. He could hear, just ahead, a squealfest of excited pinnipeds, for example, drawn from a nearby island rookery. Sea lions mostly, and monk seals. Then-rapid scans of subtle sonar that could only mean…

He pulled up short.

Dolphins. A whole pod of Tursiops, already arrived on the scene.

Strangers. Naturals-unaltered and almost certainly suspicious of the clan that Noisy Stomach belonged to. His small clan of cetaceans, tainted by the delicious agony of human meddling. Sometimes, other Tursiops were outright unfriendly toward members of the Tribe, snapping at the dolphins-who-had-changed.

But Three-Tone was plunging ahead, straight toward an island headland-a cliff face jutting out of the crashing sea. Not a safe place, even at the best of times. Yet, the sea lions and other dolphins were already gathered there, swooping about and chattering with excitement.

Noisy Stomach approached cautiously.

This time there appeared to be no overt hostility. A trio of attractive females-two of them in heat-gave him a look-over as he passed close. None of the males from their pod hovered nearby to guard them. That was queer enough, in its own right!

Though tempted to tarry, he kicked hard to hurry after Three-Tone, drawing toward a place where cetaceans and pinnipeds were swirling about each other nervously, darting up for air and then diving to poke away at something in the shallow muck.

It appeared to be no more than a jumble of rocks and debris from some fairly recent landslide-a collapse of the nearby cliff that must have happened in the last day or so. Dolphins were beak-poking at the detritus, moving small stones with their teeth or prying larger ones aside, as if burrowing for crustaceans to eat. Only they weren’t murmuring with tunes of eager hunting. Curiosity-that was the theme of the moment.

Noisy Stomach pulled up alongside Three-Tone, wary, in case they might have to defend themselves. This clan had females in heat. That, plus all this excitement…

Then he saw the glow. It came from just below a stone jumble, illuminating the underside of one dolphin’s rostrum. The native Tursiops responded by hurrying faster, as a couple of sea lions-and Three-Tone-joined in. Against his better judgment, Noisy Stomach got caught up in the moment, taking his own turns at beak-digging, at mouthing away pebbles and clumps of dirt…

… until all that remained in the way was a single big rock piled on top of the light source, too heavy and obstinate to move with their mouths. Several dolphins from the other tribe spewed rapid sonar clicks of frustration, as did Noisy Stomach, wishing he could intimidate the stone, or crumble it to bits, with blasts of sound from his brow.

# Move aside. Move aside now.

# Let us show. Show you how.

He swiveled, surprised that newcomers could have approached without him realizing. Especially members of his own kind. The only voices on Earth who spoke like that.

It was Old Yellowbelly, accompanied by Sweet Thing and Storm Bluffer and… almost the entire Tribe! They must have followed, drawn by the tumult.

Most of the natural dolphins edged backward, clicking nervously. Younger males darted about, blustering with harsh sonar beams that probed Noisy Stomach and his clan-mates deep enough to tell what they had for breakfast. Bravado that was clearly unbacked by real courage.

Sky-Biter approached. Between strong jaws he carried a slender pole, as long as he was. Noisy Stomach wondered-did the big bull haul that thing here, all the way from the dome? Or did Sky-Biter find it nearby, just now, amid the clutter of man-made debris that littered every patch of sea bottom?

Either way, several members of the Tribe immediately set to work. Yellowbelly took one pointy end of the rod and guided it toward a gap in the rocks, where the strange shine illuminated the approaching metal tip. When it was firmly planted under a large stone, Yellowbelly jetted away, to breathe at the surface. Suddenly, in acute need for air, Noisy Stomach followed. But he spumed and inhaled quickly, diving back down again to rejoin the others.

The natives were chattering louder than ever now, swimming nervous circles and prattling superstitiously about how weird and wrong this was. But Noisy Stomach proudly joined Three-Tone and half a dozen other members of his Tribe, seizing the rod along its length and pushing down.

The big rock budged, shifted to one side, then fell back into place. So they tried again from a different angle, and failed.

Then Storm Bluffer flew in and settled himself so that part of the pole, near the rod’s buried tip, lay across his broad back. Now, they all pumped with their flukes, pushing down on the other end of the rod, hard! Storm Bluffer grunted… and the obstruction flew off! As did the pole and most of the natural dolphins, fleeing in dismay, as the glow now spread freely from an exposed pit in the muck.

Members of the Tribe-plus a few of the bravest rustics-gathered around, spraying the site with exploratory clicks, and also bringing their eyes closer to peer at the source.

It had much the same sonic reflectivity as a river-smoothed stone, pockmarked and pitted by time, but it behaved like one of those machines that the dome-people used to shine at members of the Tribe, back when Noisy Stomach was little. Yet, something about it didn’t feel man-wrought at all. The light was unlike any he had seen emitted before, either in nature or by the tools of human-meddlers.

He could tell that blurry images were trying to form, under the scratches and gouges-shapes and outlines that wavered and rippled and failed to coalesce, then started to fade.

A collective sigh of disappointment fell from the onlookers. But Noisy Stomach would have none of that. He edged forward… a bit surprised by his own gumption… and aimed a chiding, focused beat of pure meaning at the stone thing.

# What? Give up so easy?

# Come on you, don’t be lazy.

# We came far-worked hard for this.

# Amuse us!

For some time nothing much happened. Faint ripples of gray coursed the oblong object, that might once have been smooth as wave-rolled glass. One end of it seemed soft, porous, and spongelike-almost crumbly-like bone that had been sucked of all its juices. Even as he watched, that end appeared to decay a little more, giving up some of its rigid essence, in order for the rest of the stone to brighten a bit.

Noisy Stomach felt one of the natural dolphins-a female-sidle up along his left side, her curiosity equal to his own. Both of them waited, holding their breath until it was almost stale. Then-

– the stone responded. This time with surface vibrations that shook its surface and resonated the surrounding waters, taking up the sonic glyph that Noisy Stomach had projected earlier and echoing it back, modified into a sculpture of crafted sound.

**… came far?

**… (YOU?!?) came far?

**???

He did not need words like “irony” to interpret the underlying texture of that glyph. Such human terms could only aim, crudely, in the right direction.

Anyway, the dolphins did not need to understand. Whether they were of the modified variety or not, mere understanding could wait. It was enough that they all could tell-something both tragic and terribly funny was going on. Like a mullet, plaintively inquiring if mercy were an option, while thrashing between a pair of jaws.

And so… they laughed.

Amsci Barcelona has intercepted and gisted an intelligence blip from one of the estates.

Apparently, nations and consortia all over the planet have paid heed to our seismic mapping-correlation. This posse’s hypothesis that the microquakes may come from “other” interstellar probes-possible rivals of the Havana Artifact that arrived long ago and are deeply buried, but that may now be trying hard to get attention. Perhaps desperate not to miss their one chance to make contact.

Taking this possibility seriously, several agencies have dispatched teams toward recent seismic sites. Most of them rocked deep layers of limestone or sandstone, hundreds, or even thousands of meters beyond easy reach. But dozens happened near or at the surface. Reports are expected from some of those locales, soon.

So, we in this posse have already had some impact! Is anybody up for…

… Oh, sorry. Most of you are mono-zoomed onto feed from the Artifact Conference right now.

All right. I’ll narrow down, too. We can follow up on attention-seeking, exploding rocks later.

Let’s see if the astronaut and his Contact Team can figure out the enigma.

45.

Words of the Oldest Surviving Member glowed across the face of the Artifact-and the screens and specs and contaict lenses of at least four or five billion Earthlings.

Our home species and civilizations and planets could not ever compete with one another. Because they never met.

Upon first reading that message, Gerald had felt his jaw muscles go slack. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew he must look silly, gaping in astonishment.

The maelstrom of virtual messages that had been swirling around his peripheral vision tumbled now like autumn leaves, dissolving as their authors lost interest in them, focusing instead on their own sense of confusion.

Everyone, on both sides of the quarantine glass, fell silent. Not one person had a single insight to contribute. Not if their thoughts were as blank and stunned as Gerald’s felt right now. You could hear the air-conditioning system purr… plus a hum from the floating display where the Oldest Surviving Member’s statement still glowed, while people here and across the globe scanned it over and over again, trying to make sense of an apparent paradox.

Amid this silence, someone’s phone abruptly rang-an impertinent jangling, expressing urgency. Even so, Gerald would have ignored it, along with everything else but the alien puzzle-statement… except there followed a sharp scream!

He glanced toward the Advisers’ Gallery, to see an elderly woman jump up and down, alternately shouting and sobbing while holding an old-fashioned joymaker handset. Lacey Donaldson-Sander, said an identifying caption-one of the world’s richest people. She seemed quite overcome. Professor Noozone at first tried to console her, then, grasping the news, grinned and hugged her. Those around the pair joined in, evidently having some reason for bliss.

Well, if anything were to shock us from our trance-our stunned cognitive dissonance-it might as well be somebody’s shout of joy.

He turned back to the latest alien missive, and decided it was a really bad idea to lose initiative. Time to get direct then. Specific. No more skirting the edges. Gerald leaned forward, enunciating toward the Artifact that he had grabbed out of space, rescuing the stone before it could plummet and crash upon the Earth.

“Question: Do you now exist as one of the artificially emulated inhabitants of an interstellar probe that was dispatched across the light-years, in order to meet and contact other species of intelligent life such as ourselves?”

I am as you describe. And yes, that is a large part of our mission.

“Is this the usual method by which technological species learn of one another?”

Yes it is.

“Did you, repeatedly, offer an invitation to join your multispecies, interstellar community?”

We did. You will be most welcome among us.

Ben Flannery pounded the table in frustration. He leaned toward the Artifact and broke the agreed rules by shouting directly, impatience overcoming his sunny nature.

“Us! Us! You’re not telling us ANYTHING about who us is!

“All right, so there’s no war. Terrific! But how many sapient races participate in your federation? How is it governed? What are the benefits of membership? Which planet did this probe come from and how did it travel and how long did it take?… And…”

Genady and Ramesh finally managed to grab Ben’s shoulders and pull him back to his seat. Though, in their eyes, there lay clear sympathy for his frame of mind.

“Oh, shit,” Gerald said, as he saw a flurry of letters, glyphs, and ideograms flow into the Artifact. This time, apparently, Flannery’s shouts had been loud enough to register with the translation system. Akana met his eye with a shrug. No sense in trying to retract the questions. They were, after all, things that everybody wanted to know.

Oldest Surviving Member rotated his rotund form to consult with the others, before turning back toward the curved interface.

We have already replied that there are ninety-two races participating.

Governance is a matter of flexibly adapting to circumstances, as you earlier observed.

Gerald felt furious at Ben. These answers were obvious or redundant, or at best minor matters. When the whole world wanted to follow up on that cryptic remark about species having “never met.” Could the translation be literal, having only to do with having never met physically and in person? Somehow, that explanation didn’t seem right.

As for the benefits of membership, these include a potential for vastly extended existence, far beyond normal possibility. In effect-life everlasting.

Gerald blinked.

Okay… that last bit got everyone’s attention.

For the second time in a few minutes, everyone in the vast contact chamber and connected Advisers’ Gallery went silent. Gerald could imagine the condition settling in, around the world. Indeed, the planet might be at its quietest since the dawn of the Industrial Age.

I guess… people will want me to follow up on this, in particular.

But the Buddha-like being simply went on, answering Flannery’s list of queries in the order given.

To explain this probe’s point of origin and method of travel, I will defer to Low-Swooping Fishkiller, whose people made and dispatched the particular contact-maker that you see before you.

The creature who Gerald had likened to a bat with helicopter wings, flutter-hopped forward a short distance to alight next to Oldest Surviving Member. Grimacing with carnivore teeth, it brought together two antennalike manipulator appendages and spread them apart again. A patch of blackness expanded outward, to coat the entire left side of the Artifact.

A scene coalesced before all the human observers, soon revealing a planet in the foreground that turned slowly in space. Seas that rainbow-glistened like oil slicks lapped against corkscrew continents where patches of green threaded between gray peaks and dun-colored plains. The nightside was ablaze with brightly illuminated cities, laid out in near perfect concentric circles that brusquely ignored the dictates of mere geography.

Along with billions of others, Gerald found the scene transfixing. Though Ramesh complained, expressing his own unique priority. “I’m trying to record as many stars as I can, to get a location and time fix. If only the damn ugly planet weren’t in the way…”

Pulling backward, the portrayed point of view soon took in a large foreground object-a structure of girders and struts, of vacuum warehouses and flaring torches, all connected together in apparent orbit above the planet. An edifice far more vast than any space station Gerald had ever conceived. Zooming in upon this giant workshop, the story image cruised past bat-creatures wearing puffy, transparent, globelike space suits, who were supervising a production line where glittering, translucent eggs could now be seen emerging from a luminous factory shed, one at a time.

The story image zoomed in vertiginously, arriving next to one of the lambent, rounded cylinders, now revealed to have a boxy contraption attached to one end. Along with all the other recently produced probes, this one rode upon a prodigiously lengthy conveyor belt toward the base of a huge, elongated machine-a kind of gun, Gerald realized-that swiveled to aim at a chosen point in space… and then fired something that sparkled and quickly vanished into starry night.

Then the long, narrow artillery tube turned its open-sided muzzle slightly, facing a new spot in the sky, and fired again.

Ramesh decreed the consensus opinion of his own advisers and ais.

It’s great big mass accelerator. Prelimestimate… it might hurl these pellets up to maybe 3 percent of lightspeed. Impressive, though not enough to do the full job.

Gerald had a feeling that time was being compressed. The ride up the conveyor belt took only a few seconds, then he was looking backward, past the newly minted Artifact, at the factory and planet as the accelerator throbbed, preparing to shoot this probe into the great beyond.

Fascinated, Gerald saw a pack of glowing objects start to converge from several directions, approaching the place where the Artifact had been made. Bat-beings turned also to look behind them toward the planet.

Time was up. When the moment came-and even a bit before-the mighty industrial works and the nearest patch of planetary atmosphere seemed to flare, accompanying a fierce intensity of released energy as the great gun fired…

… and, in an instant, the homeworld of the bat-creatures fell away behind, diminishing to a bright speck… to nothing.

Now the simulated camera view turned and depicted the box at the front of the pellet opening up, unrolling an array of what looked like wires, that spread out like an unfolding net.

Huh. I was expecting a photon sail. Perhaps pushed by a laser beam sent by the home system. It’s the obvious way to boost speed at this point for a cheap, efficient interstellar craft. But that’s no sail it deployed. And look, the sun that we’re heading away from doesn’t seem to be sending any help. No pushing beam of light.

Judging from stellar movements, some years have passed already. A decade maybe, and so far there’s no…

Ah! Here we go!

Suddenly, the home star seemed to brighten, many times over, though in a strangely speckled coloration. The array of wires, which had been floating loosely, now billowed outward, tautening. And there came-Gerald could feel it-a sense of acceleration!

Okay. It’s not a laser, but a particle beam of some sort. Electrons, possibly. Or protons. Maybe even heavy ions, targeted exactly to pass through the wire array in order to transfer momentum via magnetic induction. How about that. More complicated than a light sail, but maybe they also use the wires to leverage against the galactic magnetic field over long distances. One way to steer…

In fact, I wonder if you can actually use the particles that have passed you by, when you later catch up with them…

Gerald felt a hand on his shoulder and almost jumped out of his chair.

It was General Akana Hideoshi. The petite officer motioned for him to get up and follow her.

“But-”

Akana’s expression was adamant. “This show is being recorded. You can see it all later. Meanwhile, there are developments.”

Reluctantly, Gerald stood up, only to realize that he badly needed to stretch. Body crackling propelled a sudden, overpowering desire to move about. Still, the Artifact’s tale spoke directly to the space traveler in him. It was hard to tear away.

Over in a corner of the contact arena, behind a partial privacy screen, the two of them joined Emily Tang and Genady Gorosumov. “What is it?” he asked, while extending his legs onto tiptoe and relieving tension by leaning, left and right.

Emily held up a finger.

“First, it’s confirmed-those micro-quakes that proliferated during the last day or so are from long-ago fallen pellet probes.”

“Really? Confirmed already? How could they-”

She pointed to a screen. There he saw a panorama of humans and assisting robots dredging through a muddy river estuary. Another showed men toiling amid boulders, freshly tumbled from a layered cliff of sedimentary stone. Emily sped through the work, arriving at a similar climax in four separate cases-shouts and the recovery of something that reacted to human touch by emitting a brief but excited glow.

Washed of muck and debris, or chipped free of eons-old rocky casings, what the workers revealed was never smooth or intact, like the Havana Artifact. But even in fragments, a family resemblance was clear. And, in two of the recovered specimens, one could see a definite effect as the surface felt its first sunlight in… a very long time. Ripples of cloudy gray. Flickers of color. Hints of pattern, struggling to emerge.

“Apparently, the detonations weren’t only to get attention. A few of them actually managed to explosively free themselves from the strata they were trapped in, thus making it much easier to find them. Of course, it was pure luck for those that happened to be near the surface, or next to a cliff edge. A vast majority simply blew up chunks of their own material for nothing, buried under a million years of muck or sediment. We’ll never find most of the relics, no matter how hard we-”

“Tell him the second thing,” Akana ordered.

“Yeah, right.” Emily click-commanded the screens and holos to show something new. This time-starry vistas. Gerald briefly expected to be back inside the Artifact’s storytelling vid. But no. He recognized Scorpio… the Southern Cross… Libra… These were views from Earth. Or relatively near.

“See that pulsation?” Emily pointed at a “star” that couldn’t be a star. Too green. Too regular in its flickering.

“Parallax?” he asked.

“Most of these seem to be located in the inner asteroid belt,” Genady replied. “A couple of hundred, so far. Though some have been spotted as near as L-3 and several on the surface of the Moon.”

“Jesus and the Maya. Hundreds? When-?”

“All in the last hour or so. Numbers are still rising.”

“But,” his mind was a whirl, “but how could these things know that it’s time to start yelling for attention? Sure, some may be close enough to pick up broadcasts of our interview with the Artifact. But way out there? Or deep underground?”

Emily and Genady glanced at each other. Clearly all this was happening too quickly, almost at the limit of human ability to process information.

“Has any of this been released to the public?”

Akana shrugged. “How can we hold it back? Look at Haihong Ming, over in that corner with a privacy hood over his head, consulting with his government. What else would they be discussing at a time like this? Obviously they already know. Indications are that five more nations and three guilds do as well. And the amsci clubs are sniffing like bloodhounds. Many of them have optics that can spot the phenomena… and surely will.

“For that matter, I’m not sure how anybody will benefit from secrecy at this point. The earthquake correlation first came from a citizen posse. Aren’t we better off having as many minds thinking about this as possible? In parallel?”

It wasn’t the attitude one typically associated with a government bureaucrat, especially a military flag officer. On the other hand, clearly, Akana knew these weren’t typical times.

Gerald inhaled and exhaled repeatedly, trying to clear his head. He had become a historical figure by grabbing out of space something that seemed utterly unique and epochal. Now to find out that the thing was only one of thousands, possibly millions… perhaps as common as any other kind of large gemstone… well, it was humbling, daunting, and ignited the question-Why haven’t we stumbled across these things before?

And he realized. I bet we have. Here and there, across centuries. Maybe some did call for attention during other eras. Only now’s the time, the opportunity they were all built for. When we’re ripe for contact. When we’re technologically able to “join”… whatever it is they want us to join.

It all made weird, dizzying sense. A plethora of cheap probes, sent from many locations across wide stretches of time could be far more efficient than a few very expensive ones, capable of their own propulsion. Cheaper than keeping up a blaring “tutorial beacon” on the off chance that one star out of a hundred million might happen to engender radio astronomers that year.

Yet, one mystery still stood apart from all the others.

Why are the pellets all programmed to be so frantically competitive with one another? How can it matter which of them introduces us to galactic civilization? Do they earn some kind of recruiting commission?

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see something that gave him a strange thrill. The Havana Artifact was finishing the tale of its origin and journey across space. Planet Earth now filled the big screen-destination in sight.

Gerald put aside curiosity over the parts of the tale he had missed. Akana was right. He could call up a replay, any time, along with gloss annotations by experts in every field.

Only now, with the cloud-flecked Panamanian Isthmus in background, there loomed upward a slender, impossibly long object, resembling a rope or snake with a claw gaping at one end. As they all watched, the jaw opened wide, with fingers that were meshed together like a baseball fielder’s glove. Gerald felt his right hand flex and stretch, remembering how this moment felt-was it less than a month ago?-when he and his little monkey sidekick piloted the tether-grabber toward this fateful rendezvous. Only now he was watching from the other side-the perspective of an interstellar wanderer.

One that happened to be far, far luckier than most, to arrive at just the right place and time, when a human astronaut happened to be ready… and had the tools.

Would I have been so cool and professional, during the grab, if I had known what I was reaching for?

Still, he couldn’t help wincing, as the claw closed all around…

… and suddenly the story was over. The scene cleared, leaving Low-Swooping Fishkiller, the bat-helicopter being, standing next to the Oldest Surviving Member, whose Buddha smile now left Gerald entirely unassuaged.

“Thanks for telling me all this,” he said to Akana and the others. “But now it’s time to get some real answers.”

He knew that the grimness he felt in his jaw and flexing hands could also be seen in his eyes.

Questions for the Artifact aliens, distilled from over thirty-five million submitted by the public, ranked according to popularity and relevance by Deep Purple analytical engine. The Contact Commission has promised to get to some of these concerns-just as soon as “basic issues” with the visitor entities are resolved.

Are you here to teach us better ways? How can I start? (#1 for 3 days)

Are you here to conquer or kill us? And can we talk you out of it? (#2 for 13 days)

How do we get that “life everlasting” you promised? (Up from zero during the last two hours and rising fast)

What will it take to get you to like us? (Still in 4th position after 5 days)

Are you on speaking terms with God? (Up from #12 during the last hour)

Got a spare warp drive? (Up from #16 during the last 36 hours) [1]

Are you a hoax? (Down from 5th place 1 hour ago)

What will it take to get you to leave us alone? (Down from 3rd place two hours ago)

Have you got any new cuisine? (Up from #46 during the last 10 hours)

46.

Of course they should be able to track her every movement. The men who were pursuing Mei Ling obviously knew their way around the Mesh. It would take little effort or expense to assign software agents-pattern sifters and face-recognizers-to go hopping among the countless minilenses stuck on every doorpost, lintel, and street sign, searching for a poorly dressed young woman with a baby, dragged through prosperous Pudong by a strange little boy.

From the start, she expected them to catch up at any moment.

Only… what will they do if they corner us on a busy street? Grab me in front of hundreds of witnesses? Perhaps that is why I’ve been free to run for a while. They are only awaiting the right moment.

At first, while fleeing, she kept turning her head and darting her eyes, scanning for pursuers or suspicious-looking men… till the child told her to stop in his oddly flat and rhythmic voice. Instead, he recommended looking in shop windows in order to keep her face averted from the street full of ais. Sensible-but she knew that wouldn’t help for long.

Vidramas were always portraying manic pursuit scenes through urban avenues. Sometimes the fugitive would be chased by tiny robots, flitting from wall to wall like insects. Or else by real insects, programmed to home in on a certain person’s smell. Spy satellites and strato-zeps were called upon using telescopic cams to zoom from high above, while sewer-otters spied below, scrambling along the storm drains to stick out twitching muzzles, reporting on the hapless runaway.

That ottodog, over there, routinely sniffing for illicit drugs… might he turn suddenly and nip your ankle, injecting it with anesthetic from a pointy, hollow tooth? She had seen that happen in a recent holo-ainime. There were no limits to the schemes concocted by fantasists-millions of them-equipped with 3-D rendering tools, free time, and lots of paranoia. Anyway, technologies kept changing so fast that Mei Ling had no idea where the borderline was between realistic tools and science fiction.

While the child seemed confident, pulling her along through back alleys, she still couldn’t help glancing left and right, scanning reflections in shop windows, looking for bugs, wary of all the eyes that she could spot… and those she couldn’t.

Early in the chase, she thought about simply calling for help. That nice Inspector Wu had been both sympathetic and professional when her police unit came to interview Mei Ling at the little shorestead, asking about Xiang Bin and his mysterious, glowing stone. The same stone that these other men probably wanted as well.

Making that call seemed a good idea… only then Mei Ling realized she had no easy means to do so! The child had thrown away her new pair of overlay spectacles-they were identified and trackable, after all-just before tugging her on this zigzag chase through the back streets, ducking under one store awning after another. But weren’t there other ways to phone authorities? Couldn’t she just stop any passerby, and ask that person to do it for her?

Or… she realized later, when it was too late… shouldn’t it be possible to just stand in front of any city traffic light or utility pole and say, “I have a matter of state security to report?”

But no. Mei Ling didn’t want to come between powerful groups. What if this was all a fight between two factions of the government or aristocracy? Such things happened all the time, and when dragons battle each other, peasants are better off ducking out of the way.

Which was exactly what the child with the shifting eyes seemed to know how to do.

First, he led her to the back door of a tourist restaurant and through the steamy, aromatic kitchen. Most of the cooks ignored them, though one shouted a question as they darted through a pantry that led to a storeroom that led past a bustling loading dock to a set of stairs that continued to a makeshift bridge over an alley into the next block where they then scurried through a fab-factory that was churning out Grow-Your-Own-Goofy kits for sale at the nearby theme park.

One vast loft, filled with busy people, confused Mei Ling. All the workers stood about, plugged into action suits, moving and pantomiming some kind of aggressive activity that was mirrored on nearby holoscreens. From their actions-reaching out, grabbing at midair and clutching nonobjects, or nobjects-she could tell that these people were clearly building something. But what? Only after crossing most of the chamber, hurrying after her guide, did she glance at some big displays and realize, They are constructing molecules! Atom by atom.

Mei Ling had heard of this. Somewhere, perhaps in the glass towers across town, or else in a rich Brazilian kid’s bedroom, or at an African university, some new kind of material or device was being computer-contrived, to be fabricated by a desktop prototyping machine-translating imagination into something entirely new. Only the software couldn’t handle every kind of design problem. There were certain things that ai didn’t cope with as well-or cheaply-as a room full of piece-working humans with good stereo vision and shape-sensing instincts that went back millions of years.

Another rickety bridge and another fab-shop-this one making pixelated hats that flared with rocket ship images, superimposed upon Chinese flags-allowed them to emerge into a third floor hallway lined with offices-a lawyer, a dental implaint specialist, a biosculpt surgeon…

He’s evading all the cameras on the street, she realized. Though of course there were cams indoors, as well. They were just harder for outsiders to access via the Mesh. According to the tenets of the Big Deal, even the state had to ask permission to utilize them-or get a court order. That could take several minutes.

Down another rickety set of stairs they ran, through a curtained niche near the back of a second hand clothing shop that catered to low-level union workers. Moving quickly along the shelves, her young guide soon pulled down a bundle and showed it to Mei Ling. She recognized the garb of a licensed nanny-a member of the Child-Care Guild.

A good choice, she thought. Nobody will think twice about my carrying little Xiao En.

But if I pay for them, even with cash, the purchase register will post my face on the Mesh, and all that dodging about will be for nothing.

An answer to that was forthcoming. While she crouched in a corner, giving her baby a suckle, the boy busied himself with a small device, scanning all over the two-piece uniform before deftly plucking out a few hidden specks-the product ID chips.

“Anybody can find them,” he said, performing some kind of incantation made up of whispers and blurry fingertips, then putting the nearly invisible specks back where they came from. “But it’s another thing to time ’em. Rhyme ’em. Redefine ’em.”

Mei Ling wasn’t sure she understood, but he did make shoplifting-supposedly impossible-look easy.

The boy offered another brief moment of eye contact, accompanied by a fleeting smile that seemed labored, painful, though friendly nonetheless, as if the mere act of connecting with her took heroic concentration.

“Mother ought to trust Ma Yi Ming.”

The name could be interpreted to mean “horse one utter,” where “ma” or horse was traditionally symbolic of great power. Shanghainese, especially, liked names that were brash, assertive, the bearer of which might turn out confident and accomplished. Someone who stands out from the crowd, heroic despite handicaps. It struck Mei Ling as ironic.

“All right… Yi Ming,” she answered. At least that part of the name stood for “the people.” Another irony?

“I do trust you,” she added, realizing, as she said it, that it was true.

Little Xiao En grumbled over being denied the nipple, wanting to keep sucking after Mei Ling judged him to be fed. Still, the infant was well taught and made no fuss while she changed him. Then Mei Ling ducked into a nearby alcove to change into the new garments. Meanwhile Yi Ming busied himself with her shabby old clothing. But why? Surely they would be abandoned.

Certain that something would go wrong during all of this, Mei Ling peered over the curtain nervously as she fumbled with the clasps. Sure enough, as she stepped out wearing the stiffly starched uniform, one of the store clerks glanced over and started toward them. “Here now, I didn’t see you-”

At that moment, while Mei Ling’s heart pounded, there came a crash from the other side of the store. A large, hunch-shouldered man-clearly the janitor-was backing away from a store mannequin, moaning and using his mop to defend himself as the clothes-modeling puppet sputtered and squealed, waving animated plastic arms, tossing sweaters, acti-pants and e-sensitized tunics at him. Every member of the sales staff hurried in that direction… and the little autistic boy murmured.

“Mother has changed clothes. Now face.”

He pulled Mei Ling to the back door, in the blind spot between store and alley, and motioned for her to bend over. Drawing out a pen of some kind, he used his left hand to grip the back of her neck, holding her head still with uncanny strength as he drew across her cheeks and forehead with rapid strokes. When he let go, Mei Ling sagged back with a sigh that was equal parts anger and wounded pride.

“How dare you-” she began. Then she stopped, upon glimpsing herself in the changing area mirror. He had drawn just a dozen or so lines. Their effect was bizarre and clownish-when looked at straight on. But who viewed other people that way, out on the street? When Mei Ling diverted her gaze, even slightly, the effect was astounding. She saw a woman at least twenty years older, with gaunt cheeks and a much lower brow… a pronounced chin, a snub nose and eyes closer together.

“Facial recog won’t recog.” The boy nodded approvingly and held out his hand for her to take. “Next stop now… a safe place for mothers.”

After another hour spent dodging in and out of buildings, across upper-story bridges, through warehouses and workshops and university classrooms, they found themselves standing in front of a place that Mei Ling had always dreamed of visiting someday, gazing at pure wonder with her own eyes.

“It… it is magnificent,” she sighed, shifting Xiao En’s sling so that he could see. The baby stopped fussing, joining her in staring at the marvelous portal to another world whose only boundary was that of imagination.

The Shanghai Universe of Disney and the Monkey King loomed straight ahead across a broad plaza, its artificial mountain lined with cave-rides and fabulous fortresses, with fabled beasts and impossible forests that were always shrouded in glorious, perfumed mists. Here one might find the sort of fantastic things that you only saw on wild layers of virspace, but made palpable as stone! A mix of whimsy and solidity that could only have come into being through wondrous blendings of art, science, engineering, and astronomical amounts of cash.

In the foreground, just a hundred meters ahead, loomed those famous, wide-welcoming gates of shimmering Viridium that were topped by giant, holomechanical characters who preened and posed with theatrical exaggeration. She recognized Snow White and Pocahontas and beautiful Princess Chang’e. There was wise old Xuanzang, accompanied on his epic westward journey by the mischievous Zhu Bajie and his brothers, the Three Little Pigs. A flying elephant with flapping ears flew joyous circles in an overhead dance with the wondrous dragon-horse. Below, the fabled boy Ma Liang waved his magic brush and made mere drawings come to life!

And everyone’s favorite, Sun Wukong, the Monkey himself, capered up and down a tower decked with pennants that seemed as colorful as they were impossibly long, playing catch-me-if-you-can with lumbering King Kong.

All of those familiar figures lined the storied battlements. But greatest of all, the central figure topping the main gate, was a friendly-faced icon with immense black-round ears and a winning smile of confident-destiny, flanked on either side by active sculptures of the two real-life visionaries who imagined so much wonder and gave such dreams to the world: Uncle Walt and Scholar Wu. That pair-one of them dressed in an old-fashioned Western suit and the other in Ming dynasty robes-seemed to look right at Mei Ling, beckoning her personally, with grins and open arms.

Xiao En cooed with delight and Mei Ling felt herself drawn… except that the vast plaza of concrete and iridescent tile seemed so dauntingly open and exposed. No place on Earth was under scrutiny by more cameras than this.

Surely they are watching this place.

But there was another tug on her hand.

Yi Ming did not bother to speak, this time. His urgent meaning was clear. If they were going to cross, it had to be quickly. Now.

Mei Ling’s sense of danger mounted as they headed straight for the portal. Suddenly her new clothes and ai-fooling makeup seemed wholly inadequate, especially since there were so few people around!

“Where is everybody?” she wondered, aloud, mostly to hear someone speak words. “I know it is a weekday. But there should be more tourists, children, visitors…”

Indeed, only a few hundred seemed to be crossing the barren plaza, coming to or from the underground train station and parking garage. The sparseness seemed eerie, since it was still early in the afternoon. Though it feels like days since I last slept in our little shorestead. To be honest she missed the solitude. The constant lapping of Huangpu tides against her home’s rotting timbers.

“All indoors,” Yi Ming explained. “More than two-thirds of all the normalpeople. Twelve billion, three hundred and forty two million eyes, feeding impressions to twelve billion, three hundred and forty two million cerebral hemispheres, locked inside half that many skulls”-he ran out of breath and had to inhale-“all watching space rocks that rock space. All curious about living forever. Even cobblies want to know.”

Mei Ling only grasped part of it, but the explanation sufficed. The whole world-or nearly-had gone into immersion-mode, watching whatever was going on in America. The interview with the Artifact aliens. An event meriting worldwide greedy interest was happening-perhaps even something wonderful. Yet Mei Ling wished it had never been found and that Xiang Bin had left his own discovery in the bottom of the muddy estuary.

“So many spacey stones from stoned space,” the boy intoned. He always seemed to be experimenting with possible rhymes or songs. It must be one of those unbearably strong compulsions that drove so many young people with the disorder. Only now he also sounded sorrowful, empathizing with lost mineral messengers, perhaps more than he would with flesh and blood.

“Those buried at sea can’t see! Thousands, trapped underground, try to make a sound! Many more in space can barely spark a trace. Others, locked in vaults and graves, hoping to be saved-so sad. So bored! They chose their fate; now it’s too late.”

He seemed genuinely moved by the tragedy of it all.

“Wait a minute!” She halted, abruptly. “Let me get this straight. You mean there are many of the shining, speaking stones?” Her heart whirled with hope. If it were true, then perhaps no one would be desperate, any longer, to seek her husband.

“Yes. Many-numerous, multitudinous… Shining-luminous numinous… Stones-crystalline serpentine olivine…” He tugged at her and skipped along gaily. “But only a rare-pair speak!”

Hurrying to keep up, Mei Ling wondered. Only two speak? The one in Washington… and Bin’s? Then powerful people will still hunt for him. Or use me to help find him. Or threaten or coerce him.

But… how could the child know?

A screeching of brakes. A backward glance confirmed her worst fears. Several black vans had just pulled up onto the plaza, as close to the pedestrian barriers as they dared, and men piled out. One of them pointed and they started straight toward her at a rapid walk.

No sense in pretending, anymore, to be strolling along-a nanny escorting two children to the park. Now Mei Ling and Yi Ming ran! Though she wondered, What will we do when we get there?

Despite there being few visitors, the line at the ticket window was way too long. Even if she could afford the steep entrance fee, those men would arrive long before she could pay and then reach the gate. That assumed the Disney guards would not simply stop her when the pursuers shouted. After all, they had to be from some state agency. How else could they be acting like this in broad daylight? In China?

Or else they were desperate and willing to bluff, pretending to represent some part of the state.

Yi Ming cleared part of Mei Ling’s perplexity by steering her past the ticket booth and straight toward the broad, viridium portal, right under the shadow of scholar Wu Cheng’en, who wrote the great national classic adventure tale Journey to the West. Though five centuries had passed, it was still easily a match, in culture and excitement, for more recent stories about talking ducks and dogs and mice.

Stopping abruptly, the boy turned and dashed over to a well-dressed couple who were just leaving the park, with a little girl who wore a cute, if retro, silken costume copied from the classic Sailor Moon. Her mouth was stained from sucking at the neck of a candy victim, from the featured ride Vampires of the Adnauseam.

Evidently both tired and spoiled, in an era that much favored girls over boys, she gaped suspiciously, with sugary “blood” oozing down her jaw, as Yi Ming planted himself in front of the family, chattering in a friendly manner. None of his words made sense, at least not to Mei Ling or to the parents. But for a moment their surprise was such that they allowed him to take their hands and pat them while continuing to babble away.

The girl recovered first, swiftly snarling at Yi Ming with red-stained teeth.

What’s he doing? Mei Ling wondered. Does he suddenly find the situation hopeless? Is he abandoning me here and picking someone else to guide around town?

The pursuers had made it halfway across the square. Mei Ling started eyeing alternative escape paths. None of which looked promising while schlepping a baby. Perhaps down the escalator to the train station…

The tourist couple yanked their hands away and, egged on by the girl’s screech, the father pushed at Yi Ming-who simply laughed, spun about three times, then sped over to Mei Ling.

“Mother. Hand.”

As the rich family hurried off, suddenly the boy was scribbling upon the back of Mei Ling’s wrist with the same pen he used on her face, half an hour ago. There was no apparent pattern at first, just a rapid series of dots that pricked and hurt a little, even on her calloused skin. The specks were all constrained within a square area, perhaps three centimeters on a side.

Oh, she thought, could it be? Can a mere person do this?

The men were closer now. Yi Ming let go of her hand and started doing the same thing to the back of his own. The right hand, making Mei Ling realize that he was a lefty. Somewhere she recalled hearing that the trait showed up more often among autistics. The same could be said of the boy’s misaligned teeth, his poor skin, and strange gait. Though she found none of those disconcerting anymore.

I saw worse among the drooling old-timers at the hospice.

“We had better-” she urged, doubting this would work.

“Yes Mother, now.”

They turned together, walking as quickly but nonchalantly as they could, like a nanny escorting a child and a baby toward the portico where arrivals were automatically checked for tickets. Tickets in the form of temporary, coded tattoos.

Mei Ling made sure that her left hand was open to view, though she never saw the beam that scanned it. To her great surprise, no Disney guards or robots pounced. Instead a voice crooned downward, as if from Heaven.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Chu and darling little Lui. My, it did not take you long to change your clothes and return from your hotel.

“Of course, your VIP pass is still valid. A robo-carriage awaits you, down the Avenue of Pandas, on your left.

“If Mr. Chu comes later, we’ll bring him to you with pleasant and courteous haste.”

Hurrying onward, she and Yi Ming crossed over the boundary, demarked by a line of tiles that gleamed Imperial yellow, almost a comfortable minute before their pursuers reached the security cordon. There, the large men fumed and stomped, knowing how futile it would be to try entering without a pass-let alone armed. It might, in all likelihood, bring down upon them, from nearby hidden places, more swift force than they could possibly deal with. At least not without a fistful of lawful writs, signed by several courts and by many powerful men. Nor even then.

Mei Ling drew a rush of luscious satisfaction, glancing over her shoulder at their frustration, before turning all of her attention the other way, toward a cascade of wonders. Ahead of them lay a boulevard of shops and rides, buildings that seemed to be alive and playful robotic characters who bowed or danced with pleasure when you looked their way. Little Xiao En was charmed instantly, and so was she. Though Yi Ming kept shaking his head, murmuring something about cobblies… cobblies everywhere.

Well, anyway. This certainly beat wearing puny vir-spectacles that merely painted fantasy overlays upon a mundane city street. Nor could any full-immersion game match it. For, in this enchanted place, where every flower looked ten times its normal size and even Shanghai smog vanished under aromatic mists, all the disadvantages of real life seemed to be gone, even down to pebbles one might trip upon-and yet, the richness of reality lay all around her. It was nothing less than the world remade!

With a VIP pass as well? Mei Ling wondered what that meant. Feeling a growl in her stomach, having missed lunch while fleeing across half of East Pudong, she hoped it would turn out to be something good, as she carried her baby and followed her strange young guide through a portico of wonders, under the beaming, beneficent smile of Mickey Mao.

What a Waist.

I mean, have you seen how quickly the Mesh consensus settled on nicknames for every one of the ninety-two artifact visitors? Some rude, others respectful, like Longtooth, Kali, and Big-Squiddy?

Then there’s the long list of questions for our alien guests, pouring in from a world-public that’s eager to satisfy countless individual yearnings.

And Wow Ain’t It Strange That almost all of the questions are based on two clichés? One or the other. Either fear or longing?

The first of these two has faded a bit, as we learn that the aliens have no physical power, and speak of welcome. So, more questions now deal with eagerness to learn from our ancient visitors, with the commonly shared assumption that they are motivated by altruism.

In fact, for a century most of those who searched the sky simply took that as given. How could anyone get truly advanced without giving up selfishness, in favor of total generosity? But is that belief chauvinistic and humano-centric?

What kind of moral systems might you expect if lions independently developed sapience? Or solitary, suspicious tigers? Bears are omnivores, like ourselves, yet their consistent habit of male-perpetrated infanticide seems deeply rooted. Meta-ursine moralists might later view this inherited tendency as an unsavory sin and attempt to cure it by preaching restraint. Or, perhaps they would rationalize and sacralize it, writing great literature to portray and justify the beauty of their way, just as we romanticize many of our own most emotion-laden traits. Anyone who doubts that intolerant or even murderous habits can be romanticized should study religious rites of the ancient Aztecs and baby-sacrificing Carthaginians. If we are capable of rationalizing and even exalting brutally unaltruistic behaviors, might advanced extraterrestrials also be capable of such feats of mental legerdemain? Especially if their evolutionary backgrounds predispose them?

And yet, even if it is largely absent from the natural world, that alone doesn’t render pure altruism irrelevant.

Complexity theory teaches: new forms of order arise as systems gain intricacy. It may be no accident that the most complex society created by the most complex species on Earth has elevated altruism from a rare phenomenon to an ideal something to be striven toward.

Further, wow ain’t it strange that it is entirely by these recent, higher standards that we now judge ourselves so harshly?

And waist we project a higher level of altruism upon those we hope to find out there? Beings more advanced than ourselves?

47.

Despite Gerald’s grim readiness to continue questioning the Artifact aliens, Akana called-and enforced-a recess for dinner, it already being quite late-almost midnight-outside where an ever turning Earth still made the sun and stars appear to march across the sky. Gerald admitted that a break for food and drink and bodily functions might even be a pretty good idea.

Though complaints about the delay poured in from all over the globe-sent by millions eager to know more now about “life everlasting,” the commercial sponsors wanted to get in their nag-n-lure time. After all, any product might be rendered obsolete, tomorrow, by some alien wonder. Better sell now what could be sold.

When Professor Flannery met him in the sandwich line, and tried to apologize, Gerald waved it away.

“No harm done, Ben. We all felt the same frustration. In fact, things worked out fine. That lengthy description of their voyage helped to divert people from obsessing on the immortality thing, giving us a chance to learn more before hysteria really sets in.”

The anthropologist seemed relieved. “Thanks. I really appreciate that, Gerald. Nevertheless I wanted to make up for my behavior. So I did a little modeling and came up with something I think you’ll find interesting.”

While Gerald ate, Ben opened the palm of one hand. It was empty, but Gerald simply let his aiware follow where the other man’s gestures beckoned, allowing images to flow out of Flannery’s personal virt cloud. And lo, there seemed to unfold in midair above the hand, a glittering model of the Milky Way galaxy.

Swiftly, at Ben’s waved finger-command, this replica expanded and soon they were zooming in toward just one section of a single spiral arm… till the illustration encompassed (according to a convenient graphic counter) a mere hundred thousand stars. Ben explained that the display excluded all giants and dwarves and binaries, leaving only those systems that might be abodes of life.

“Imagine that three or more interstellar cultures are competing with one another as they move out, across the star lanes,” Ben urged. “If they were doing so physically, planting colonies and then spreading onward to even newer worlds, then there’d eventually be fierce competition over the best planets, the best resources. You’d get interstellar empires with boundaries and battle fleets and neutral zones and all the clichés that we saw in old time sci fi.”

The starscape in front of Gerald blossomed with three colors-red, green, and yellow-that started as small, isolated blobs, but grew and expanded, then inevitably splashed against one another, then spread sideways, each color trying to find a way around the other. Friction at the border generated sparks and the appearance of heat.

“Things could get pretty tense-if that were the way of things. Of course, this model assumes we’re dealing with classic expansionism which depends upon being able to move about physically, with ease.

“But what if interstellar travel is really hard to do?” he continued. “Then a species makes do with its homeworld, plus maybe a few-or a few dozen-colonies. On the grand scheme of things, that doesn’t matter. Their main agenda for the galaxy as a whole would be exploration and contact. Friendly and advantageous cultural relations.

“Plus the spreading of values.

“We know that cultures do that. They not only want to contact other societies, but to influence them, to change them, to recruit them, in much the same way that religious proselytes try to win converts. They do this for the simple reason that it sometimes works! And when it does work that idea system gets stronger and spreads farther.

“Say, for example, we made radio contact with some neighboring planet and found the inhabitants to be likable folks-except that we also discovered they practiced slavery. Well, at minimum, we’d try to talk them out of it. If we had technological advances to offer them, we might even make that a price of admission. Liberate the oppressed or we won’t give you that cure for warts. Are you with me so far?”

Gerald nodded. He took another bite of his sandwich but had no idea how it tasted. The model had all of his attention.

“Okay. So, let’s take a look at what happens when we have three advanced civilizations, as before, starting out amid a starscape that has many abodes of life, some of it already sapient.” Ben waved his hand, starting over. “This time, however, the three advanced races ‘spread’ by sending friendly contact probes to neighboring intelligent races, recruiting them into their own loose cultural networks.”

Again you had the same colored origin points amid a dusting of grayish stars. But now, little dots moved away from each civilized core. Sometimes a dot sent by a red sun toward a gray one would turn that new star red, meaning that a cultural conversion had taken place. Whereupon soon that new site of red culture would send out more red dots of its own. Bypassing stars that had already turned yellow or green, these streaked eagerly toward any gray lights that weren’t yet aligned with any faction.

“Remember that it does you no good to stay neutral, refusing to join any of these alignments. Because they do offer advantages, access to libraries of advanced technology and rich cultural traditions. Generally speaking, your only option as a newcomer is to pick the best offer, ideally one that’s compatible with your needs and your particular species’ predilections.”

Gerald thought. Sure, it’s fine to recommend that we be picky and careful, listening to all sides… until you factor in human impatience when promised immortality!

Ben seemed to be thinking along similar lines.

“I imagine it can sometimes be a matter of whoever gets to make a pitch first. I bet they have over time developed a real science of salesmanship. Closing the quick deal.”

In the simulation, dots were now seen flying past each other all over the place, sometimes leaping great distances, all in a desperate flurry to steal a march on their rivals, finding more stars-or new sapient species-to convert. And while some isolated regions might go uniformly with a particular color, most were soon a messy weave of all three tones.

“Now picture this happening with more colors… maybe dozens of separate, zealous cultural memes, all of them eagerly dispatching missionaries.”

With blue and pink and orange and purple added in, the starscape was rapidly becoming a confused, spaghetti tangle of multihued warp and weft.

“You can see that, in this cultural competition, a real advantage goes to whichever society creates the most emissaries, sending them on farthest and fastest. And to those who are the most persuasive. And sometimes… those who just happen to be lucky, getting an envoy in at the right place and time.”

Gerald blinked. It did seem pretty obvious from Flannery’s simulation. Appalling, but obvious.

“Very interesting, Ben,” he replied, meaning it sincerely. “But, um, doesn’t all of this depend upon there already being a planet with a sapient race, orbiting around each of these gray candidate stars. Sapients who are ready to be converted?”

“Yes-”

“But it can take a long time for such a species to arise on a world, as it did on Earth. And so… oh, I see.”

He did, indeed. Ben performed another magicianlike flourish and his next simulation appeared. It showed dots of many colors converging on a likely planet till the surrounding solar system positively swarmed with eager recruitment envoys from every color. And those envoys then tarried, like drones hovering around a bee hive, waiting for as long as it would take for a new queen to emerge. Each of them eager to be the lucky, chosen one.

“All right,” he told the anthropologist. “This theory might explain why all these probes on, near, under, and above the Earth seem so jealous and hostile toward one another. Even if they come from the same meme-alliance… say, the Blues… they’ll still differ in which planet sent them, or when. Hence the particularism. The petty jealousy.

“It’s a pretty convincing model, Ben.”

“Thank you.” The blond professor seemed pleased.

“Only then…” Gerald frowned. “How do you explain the Oldest Member’s words? When he claimed that the species and civilizations out there don’t compete with one another?”

Flannery shrugged.

“Translation error. Recall that they learned English from our own encyclopedias and wikis, where ‘competition’ is generally taken to involve physical activity-like war or sports or capitalism. That has to be it!”

“But Ben, our histories do contain clear examples of missionary expansionism that involved the spread of cultural memes, just as in this model. So surely they would know that our word ‘competition’ also applies to-”

“I’m certain it’s a simple glitch in meaning.” Flannery nodded, eagerly. “Together we’ll uncover it. Just keep at it, my friend, poking them from every angle.

“Anyway,” Ben continued. “It seems that we’ll soon have a lot more artifacts to work with. Even if all the ‘others’ now being recovered on Earth turn out to be too badly damaged, it should be fairly easy to find intact ones in space. Already there’s discussion of joint recovery expeditions. China is even talking about pulling its Big Cheng lifters out of mothballs. It really is important that we learn what all of these messenger probes have to say, before committing to anything!”

Gerald nodded, agreeably. Yet he had a cynical, private thought.

This, from the fellow who was in such an eager rush, only an hour ago, to join the Galactic Federation?

He had to admit that Ben’s model of rival cultures appeared feasible and plausible and fit most of the facts.

It was also somewhat depressing to picture the galaxy in this state-a petty, relentless struggle for cultural converts, spanning perhaps hundreds of millions of years and spilling across the sky, leaving little room for new thoughts, open ideas. To have to choose from just a dozen or so cultural norms… even from hundreds… well, who would find that a pretty picture?

Well, it beats being conquered by some oppressive, monolithic alien empire, I suppose. And some of the cultures may turn out to be impressive, marvelous, even awesome.

Still, he found the overall prospect stifling. And this sure did put an end to the great big dreams of youth-all those gaudy, wondrous visions of cruising the galaxy in starships.

Oh well. Too bad.

That cloud of gloom followed him to the men’s room and back. It hovered overhead as he conferred with Akana and the others about their next set of questions for the Artifact aliens.

Even as Gerald sat back down at the big table, checked his notes, and ordered the house lights dimmed, knowing that no human being in the history of his species ever had a bigger audience, he was still thinking about Ben Flannery’s model.

Just as he prepared to reconvene the question and answer session, Gerald realized.

I don’t believe that’s the explanation at all.

The Oldest Surviving Member still wore that beatific smile, hands folded across a broad belly that jiggled in a manner that struck Gerald as… well, jolly.

A virt glowed in the corner of Gerald’s percept. One of many that flowed in from the Advisers’ Gallery, got bounced from Hermes to Tiger, and then passed to Ramesh and Genady and the others on the Contact Team. This one had an especially high topic relevance score.

Several amsci-posses and Fourth Estate studios have studied this Oldest Member character and a slim majority conclude he’s a fake! A composite, formulated with elements of Buddha and Santa Claus and several other reassuring archetypes, drawn from our own mythology.

Several high-rated Post-its were attached to that first message.

Yes, but also look at the ninety or so aliens behind him! Many of them are twitching their hands and/or manipulator organs, or speaking, without turning toward each other. These motions reach a crescendo, seconds before the Oldest Member starts talking. Statistical analysis suggests they may be controlling him with some kind of consensus-based, command-averaging system. I bet he’s their presentation puppet!

Another replied, just as cogently.

So? Is that a bad thing? We demanded they come up with some shared way to talk to us. This is a logical solution. What bothers me is they didn’t tell us. That they believe this fooled us. Do they think we’d actually expect the most influential member of their society to just happen to be charmingly humanoid! What do they take us for?

One more gloss commentary lifted above the others.

Should we let them go on thinking that?

It came accompanied by a quick-vote of the contact committee, approved by Akana.

Yes, we should. At least till this hypothesis is confirmed.

Gerald nodded. Fine by him. His plate was already full of prioritized questions. It hardly mattered whether the jocund-looking figure in front of him was a simulation of a simulated being, or merely concocted to look like one.

Emily suggested calling this guy “O.M.” or “Om,” for short.

Sure, why not?

He leaned forward, speaking directly and clearly toward the Artifact.

“We wish to know more about the commonwealth or society that we have been invited to join,” he said. “So I have a list of questions.”

The Oldest Member’s smile only widened. Om bowed once, in clear readiness to answer.

“First,” Gerald asked, “is there a hierarchy of rights and privileges among you? One based upon age, perhaps? Can newcomers expect limitations, joining with relatively little knowledge?”

The emissary spread his hands apart, giving an impression of self-deprecating modesty.

The eldest can expect small gestures of respect but I am obviously not one to dominate others!

Om then brought both hands forward, palm-upward.

If you join us, expect the privileges of full membership from the very start.

Gerald wasted no attention for the murmur of satisfaction that arose, behind him. He hurried on to the next question.

“Will we gain immediate access to your society’s store of information, history, technologies, and other wisdom?”

Gerald almost held his breath. Here was where he expected Elder Races to waffle, to start talking about rationing. Some technologies would be too advanced or too dangerous for youngster-newcomers. It would have to be doled out, at a pace carefully determined by-

Yes.

Gerald blinked, surprised by the simplicity. On impulse, he ignored the agreed-upon queue of questions, to follow up.

“That’s it?

“You mean all of it? Right away?

Certainly. All of it. Why not?

“And what will be required of us, in exchange?” Gerald asked next. Many anxious discussions had flurried over the issue of payment, should the aliens ask for it. Would it be in the form of Earthling culture, music, literature, to be beamed to their homeworlds? Or in services? Or (according to Ben Flannery’s model) committing to a particular belief system?

Not that quid pro quo was unreasonable, in principle. But some members of the committee were mindful of the price of Manhattan Island.

In exchange, we ask nothing except that you act in your own self-interest maximizing your own potential to survive. To continue and to replicate down the ages of time. If you seek this, we shall help. We offer the means of survival.

A crescendo of virts pressed in from all sides. Excited comments and queries with high relevance scores, gisted from people or groups with peerless reputations. Each seemed to press a different aspect of the “survival” issue-some desperate matter that might be improved with alien science and methods.

Overcoming environmental damage to the planetary ecosystem.

Solving the water and energy shortages.

Decoding the riddle of life and disease.

Deciphering mysteries of the mind.

Resolving conflict and putting an end to violence.

Answers about God and salvation.

Confronting the riddle of death.

The lattermost had already been promised, enticingly. Now details appeared to be imminent.

But Gerald knew that it was too soon to get into specifics. Not wanting to play devil’s advocate, he still could not stop himself from following the pull of his own curiosity.

“But… aren’t you concerned that we might… misuse some of the most advanced…” Gerald noticed Akana shaking her head and motioning for him not to go there. But surely the thought was on everyone’s mind. “… That we might misuse some of the most advanced technologies?”

Such things happen. But the knowledge that we share should ensure your survival. And most of the problems that now vex you should vanish like a bad memory.

While most people reacted positively to that response, with smiles and sighs, Gerald caught a warning glance from Akana, not to diverge from the script again without consulting her. He nodded and cleared his throat, then spoke straight from the list.

“Please tell us about the federation of worlds that we are invited to join.”

Gerald saw his sentence enter the Artifact as a string of letters that divided and mutated into more than seven dozen different streams of characters, each zeroing in upon a different alien figure. At first Om-the Oldest Member-simply kept on smiling, as a rustle spread among the varied beings who stood, sat, squatted, perched, or lay behind him. But it quickly became apparent that something was different, this time.

The English version of Gerald’s question still floated, above the throng.

Please tell us about the federation of worlds that we are invited to join.

The creatures in the background were turning to one another, as if disturbed. Not angry or excited… perhaps confused was a better term. This soon manifested in the way that Om, standing up front, appeared to scratch the side of his head. The transcendent smile lapsed, somewhat.

Non sequitur. There is no federation of worlds.

Silence reigned in the Contact Center, and among the advisers behind the quarantine glass. It apparently prevailed far beyond, as well, since the storm of virts stopped whirling and trying to encroach from the periphery of Gerald’s percept. Most of them faded, as their authors lost interest. Or the glowing virtual messages dispersed like evaporating dew when ainalysis engines deemed them no longer top-relevant.

Gerald glanced at Ben Flannery, who nodded back at him. The Hawaiian anthropologist looked vindicated, yet saddened, as if he had hoped to be wrong. Alone on Earth, the two of them knew the likely alternative-the situation that prevailed out there instead of a federation.

Gerald made it the basis for an ad hoc question.

“Then please tell us about your loose interstellar affiliation of species-the alliance that dispatched you to share cultural values.”

Again, confusion caused a ripple among the ninety or so ersatz beings. This time they answered more swiftly through Om, whose expression seemed a bit irked.

There is no alliance or affiliation of species. I already told you this.

Gerald winced. It was the first time the alien envoy had rebuked him.

No you did not tell me that, he thought.

Earlier you said there was no “competition” among species. You said that competition could never happen.

We took that to mean no war. Or no easy physical travel. Or both.

But this is something else. “Affiliation” is a mild and tepid-friendly word. It can stand for anything… including Ben’s loose culture groups.

And you say there isn’t even that?

Gerald’s heart was beating harder now, from involuntary surges of adrenaline. He did not want to follow where this was leading.

“But,” he began. “But we see an affiliation of many species before our eyes right now. Also, you refer to we and us and to our community…”

This time the Buddha smile crept back and the Oldest Member spoke without waiting.

We do, indeed, have a community. One of peace and adventure! It offers you a wondrous opportunity for your survival. For exploration and perpetual existence.

Gerald felt an awful sense of realization that had been creeping upon him for some time. There was a basic misunderstanding that he now saw suddenly-one that had been rooted, all along, in a flaw in the English language.

No federation of worlds… and no affiliation of species.

That left only one possibility.

Without willing himself to do so, he stood up from his chair while facing the Artifact that he had pulled out of cold space.

He tapped himself on the chest.

“M-me?”

He had to swallow before continuing.

“All this time you were talking about… talking to… me?”

Naturally, given your importance. You and other leaders who make decisions and allocate resources.

It was all Gerald could manage, numbed by realization, to move on.

“Individuals,” he said, for clarification. “It’s not about worlds or species or societies, or even cultural groups, but individual entities?”

He could picture millions of libertarians, out there, having their aha! moment of joyous vindication. For as short as it would last.

How could it be otherwise? Yes, one individual at a time. Though as many as your overall survival plan and dedication will allow.

The Oldest Member’s smile was wide and angelic once again, beaming with generosity. But Gerald ignored that, just as he pushed aside the murmurs penetrating through the quarantine glass. His specs filled with a tornado of distractions, so he yanked them off as well, facing the moment bare-faced. Bare-eyed.

“Survival…,” he said, and pointed at the Artifact.

“You mean… in there?”

He was breathing hard and fought to slow down.

“You mean inside that crystal cylinder… That is where it all would happen? That’s where you’re offering survival and life everlasting?”

No! Misunderstanding!

Om shook the pudgy head with an indulgent smile.

Let me clarify: Not just in this cylinder, of course. What a cramped “survival” that would be!

The corpulent entity appeared to chuckle in amusement over such silliness…

… and Gerald heard Emily shudder a sigh of relief.

A premature sigh. A presumptuous one.

Not just in this cylinder. But in MILLIONS like it! Perhaps hundreds of millions if you are ambitious, prudent, and resourceful.

We shall teach you how to build them. And how to fill each one with our duplicates. Ninety-two… plus a ninety-third! A chosen persona from your own race to enter each capsule. To join a community of perseverance, endurance, replication, and survival! And we will show you how to send them forth, like seeds, across the great black sky.

Gerald contemplated how wrong he had been. Those earlier stunned pauses had not been “silences.”

This was silence.

Nobody spoke. It seemed that no one could even breathe. Gerald was certain that shocked soundlessness pervaded the entire Earth.

Until Genady Gorosumov uttered the one phrase that would become more famous than any other.

“It’s a goddamned chain letter!”

Gerald glanced sourly at his Russian friend who had, after all, only stated the obvious. Still, Genady might have spared the world some pain by waiting a few more seconds-by letting the paralysis stretch on a while longer, allowing some people to cling to their illusions. Any illusion at all.

He looked to his left. Professor Flannery wore a dazed expression. Ben’s clever model of competing missionary probes still had some validity, but it applied to a situation even less palatable than “rival cultural memes.”

Sorry, Ben.

For the first time, the alien emissary did not wait for a question, but proceeded to speak on its own.

A hundred and twelve species have participated so far in this particular line. Ninety-two of us still thrive in here.

Whenever a new race joins the community, it selects one individual of its kind to be copied into each new probe. Some just replicate their king or queen, over and over in all the copies they make. A few use lotteries or sell tickets or choose their “best” by local criteria.

Some try to be fair by assigning one copy to each person then alive. Naturally we like that approach since it leads to many more copies being made!

Each individual who is copied into a probe gets to continue… but it is at the NEXT site that great rewards are reaped.

When another planetary culture is found and helped to make new batches of copies each of us is reborn many million-fold!

By my best estimate, there may be trillions upon trillions of copies of me, now extant across the galaxy. Over time, you may be able to make that claim, as well!

The expression of satisfaction seemed so pure-so smug-that Gerald began to doubt the theory that Om was just a consensus puppet for the others. The Oldest Surviving Member’s pride was obvious. Blatant. Assured.

That can be your destiny, as well. Good outcomes for those who participate and replicate. Oblivion for those who break the chain. Join us!

There followed more. Words rolled out, accompanied by illustrations, amounting to what was now obviously a sales pitch-describing how luxuriously unlimited were the simulated environments that such crystalline homes could provide. How this lineage of probes was among the oldest and best around, with an unbeaten track record of getting itself copied and dispersed and recopied yet again!

It reminded Gerald of an extended infomercial for an oceanic cruise line-one embarking on an infinite voyage. He tried to follow that thought, but a rustle surged among the members of the contact team. Several of them could be heard to gasp aloud.

Gerald glanced at Akana, who motioned urgently for him to put his specs back on.

When he did so, he saw, superimposed upon reality, the face of the Chinese member of the contact team, Haihong Ming.

“My government has heard from the Xian Academy of Artful Illusion, which just spent two hours analyzing those images we saw earlier this afternoon, depicting the Artifact’s departure from the planet of the bat-helicopter people.

“Professor Wu Yan and his colleagues managed to amplify the flicker-moment, just as this pellet was launched upon its lengthy journey from its homeworld toward our own.”

Gerald’s specs darkened, immersing him once again within the galactic night, with the planet of Low-Swooping Fishkiller in the distance and the orbiting factory, manufacturing a long line of crystalline envoys-interstellar chain letters-visible much closer in the foreground view. Closest of all was a long conveyor belt carrying fresh, new pellets to the breech of a long mass-driver cannon. The titanic artillery piece was about to fire this probe on the beginning of its epic voyage toward a certain yellow sun.

“Notice how the spacesuited figures are starting to turn away and look below,” continued Haihong Ming. “As they notice bright objects converging toward the factory.”

Gerald did remember that… and briefly wanting to ask about it, till other matters intervened. Now, in much slower motion, he could see several of the batlike beings swivel again-as if to flee-while others simply froze, as if staring at inevitability. Bright streaks approached. Other glowing trails could be seen farther away, arcing to crisscross above the planet.

Oh, no.

The cannon fired-a burst of rising, concentric brilliance that seized the cameralike point of view, sending it streaking along the rails, leaving the blue-brown world behind at an accelerating rate.

Only now, fantastically slowed. The Chinese image analysts had managed to eke out the equivalent of three final frames, still encompassing the planet and manufacturing facility.

And Gerald presently made out something fell and deadly, that had previously been masked by the cannon’s blazing burst of electromagnetic thrust.

Detonations. Unmistakably atomic. One of them-the nearest-was just starting to consume the factory in a wave of violence that would barely fail to prevent the pellet’s escape. It seemed doubtful that any later probes would get away. Certainly none of the makers did.

“The bat civilization must have survived this round of violence,” Haihong Ming explained. “Because later they did send the promised beam of charged particles, to further accelerate the probe. But it took them many decades to recover enough to do so.

“And the beam did not last long.”

Gerald removed the specs again, this time to rub his eyes.

At least, that was what others saw him do. He managed to keep anybody-no matter how well equipped-from noticing the tears.

When he looked up again, he knew what he had to ask the Artifact entities. Though it took him a few seconds to focus on the Oldest Member and to gather his voice.

“What about your homes!”

He spoke sharply-almost a shout-in order to break the sales pitch, not caring if Om looked peeved over being interrupted.

“The planets and species and civilizations that each of you came from. Does this Artifact also contain information about them?”

The stout alien did not smile.

Some.

“They interest us, most of all. We want to know about them.”

It is not a topic that we recommend pursuing. At this phase in particular.

But Gerald was insistent.

“You said earlier that your home species had never met. That made no sense when we envisioned some sort of galactic federation. Now I must ask you straight. Up front.”

Gerald glanced at his team mates, at Emily and Genady and Ramesh and Patrice and Terren and Ben… and Akana, whose face was gaunt and pale. She gave a jerky nod.

“How can that be?” Gerald continued. “Why have they never met?”

Om remained reluctant.

Asking will not increase your happiness.

At this, Gerald gritted his teeth. He no longer wanted any part of fame, for discovering this thing. All he felt was cold fury. A need, at last, for some truth.

“Tell us,” he insisted. “Or we’ll put you in a dark box and go find others who will answer.

“Tell us now!”

The ninety-two alien occupants of a crystalline pocket universe murmured among themselves. Faces grimaced. Claws and tentacles clenched, and Gerald felt suddenly certain.

It isn’t for our sakes that they avoid this topic. But for their own.

Because of pain.

The fat avatar that represented them all now looked anything but jolly. The Oldest Surviving Member gave a shrug that might have been copied from some Earthling gesture, but the air of resignation-even cruel indifference-seemed all too real.

None of our home species still live. Having flared briefly, all are gone. Individuals may last! In this form we fill the cosmos and live forever. So can you!

But sapient species don’t endure. No civilizations. Nor planets that spawn them.

Then the entity took a step closer to the boundary and added-

What? You thought yours would survive?