And, if you never read Willpower, this is a great way to get introduced to my piece.

And, even if you hate my fiction, Dunesteef has lots of other great stories by other authors on their site. Stop by and listen today!

Many apologies to the Dunesteef team for the lateness of this blogpost—things have been especially insane around here, and I’m trying to catch up. Thanks again for selecting Willpower, and thanks again for doing a wonderful job!

And all that is cool. But it’s only the start.

Check out this nifty little device: a self-contained solar-powered microprocessor, only 9 cubic millimeters in size. No, it’s not Vinge’s smart dust, or the self-replicating nanochip network that Arcadia runs on in my Strange Horizons stories.

But it’s a start. As the researchers say:

Its processor, solar cells, and battery are all self-contained, and . . . it would be be able to operate “nearly perpetually.” . . . the system could also be adapted to be powered by movement or heat.”

Consider this little device with a shortrange wireless transmitter, busily talking to all of its neighbors. Maybe with a small lens and CCD. Maybe, just maybe, with the ability to bond to a grain of sand and slowly “grow” its replacements.

Am I dreaming? Of course.

But so were the researchers who asked, “Hey, I wonder if we can make this tiny little thing work?”

Here’s to the future.

This is something humans can intellectualize, but they cannot embrace, Shrill/Oversight thought. Harmony. Not songs of vanquish but true harmony, true cooperation. Their highest ideals shout of it, but they do not embody it.

Which is why I was given false data, Oversight said.

Which is why I cannot work with them, Shrill thought.

Not yet, Shrill/Oversight thought.

Not harmony eat kill! Old Mind said.

Not now, Shrill/Oversight said, and abandoned the component back on Mars.

“Wow, there are people in this world crazier than Stoddard,” you’re saying.

And you’re probably right. But the crazy guys at Copenhagen Suborbitals are following up their previous project—building the world’s largest homegrown submarine (did I mention these guys are insane)—with an even more ambitious one.

Specifically, building the world’s largest amateur space rocket. And planning on stuffing someone inside of it for a suborbital flight. In their words:

This is a non-profit suborbital space endeavor, based entirely on sponsors and volunteers. Our mission is to launch a human being into space.

We are working fulltime to develop a series of suborbital space vehicles – designed to pave the way for manned space flight on a micro size spacecraft.

Two rocket vehicles are under development. A small unmanned sounding rocket, named Hybrid Atmospheric Test Vehicle or HATV and a larger booster rocket named Hybrid Exo Atmospheric Transporter or HEAT, designed to carry a micro spacecraft into a suborbital trajectory in space.

And—please note, these guys aren’t paper-plan dreamers. They have stuff BUILT. They have tests MADE. They are well into the physical, we’re-really-gonna-do-this side of things.

I’ve donated to their cause. And I hope you take a look at what these guys are doing, what they’ve already done, and consider supporting them as well.

Because, guys, this is nothing but pure awesome.

As the Almighty McD slid to a stop on the plateau. Mouseketeer bullets peppered the sides of the crawler. Tiphani crouched instinctively below the level of the windows, pulling Yin down with her.

“Don’t worry, pretty Tiphani,” Preacher Dave said, appearing from the forward cabin. “It’s only a single flight. We’ll have them cleared in no time.

But even as consumeristian troops spread out from the Almighty McD, Tiphani wondered. There were a lot less troops than they’d started with, and they were tired. Soon, she saw her instincts were right. The consumeristians fell back to the Almighty McD and used it for cover as the Mouseketeers advanced.

“Cowards! Rush them! Shoot them!” Yin said.

Tiphani shook her head and turned to put her back against the hard plastic wall. There was nothing she could do. Maybe working for Four Hands wouldn’t be so bad, even as an indenture.

Deep booms shook the ground outside, rattling the windows in the Almighty McD.

That was it, Tiphani thought. The mouseketeers had mortars. It was over.

But a cheer came from the forward cabin. Preacher Dave came though the door, picked up Tiphani, hugged her, got a little surreptitious ass-grab, put her down. “We won!” he said.

Tiphani pushed him away and looked out the window. Dust spattered against the panes, driven hard by the gold Winfinity Executive Transport that was dropping to rest outside. The Four Hands fast transport and the Martian Kite lay in ruin. Mouseketeers were scattered everywhere, twisted and burnt, unmoving.

The golden Executive transport dropped a ramp. A young boy walked deliberately down it, flanked on two sides by grey-clad Win-Sec officers.

Tiphani gasped. Bertrand Chambers. Here. Now.

Had he lost his mind?

Very possibly, Tiphani thought.

#

Han Fleming heard the dull crump of explosions on the surface. Pink dust floated down from the ceiling. A larger rock-chip clattered off the Shrill’s diamondoid cage, where it still scrabbled feebly at the side nearest Han.

Han smiled. Who is the bear now, he thought?

#

Highest Chambers lead them down the ancient Martian tunnel. Every time the Win-Sec officers tried to get in front of him, he waved them back. Impatiently. Recklessly.

“Finish it,” he mumbled. “Finish this thing.”

Tiphani tried to query the network, but her optilink remained dead. Bandwidth showed green, but the network itself appeared to be down.

And it had never been down. Not in her lifetime. Tiphani shivered. What did it mean? Had the war spread that far and that fast?

They rounded a corner into a large, dim-lit room. Ahead of them was the Shrill cage and three people. Dian and Jimson and one other guy, holding a wounded arm. Just standing there. Eyes wide in fear. As if . . .

Tiphani felt the cool muzzle of a gun press into her back. She stopped, instinctively raising her hands. Like in the movies, she thought.

She heard Honored Yin gasp and turned to see a Mouseketeer holding a rifle to her back.

As Bertrand Chambers turned, Han Fleming appeared from the shadows. He gave Tiphani one lip-curled grin as he stepped past and pressed his little Winch against Bertrand Chambers’ head.

Highest Chambers sighed. “Kill me and we have real war. Ground war. All gloves off.”

Han’s finger tensed on the trigger, but his snarl of triumph dissolved into a frown of hate.

“Yeah. Thought so,” Highest Chambers said, stepping away from the gun. He walked towards the Shrill.

“Stop!” Han said.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? Yeah, yeah.” Highest Chambers bent over the Shrill cage and looked down at the thing. It scrabbled at him, showing its underfangs.

“Can we make a deal, Shrill?” Highest Chambers said. “Can we finish this? I’m the head honcho, the big cheese. You’re dealing with the top guy. What do you want? I’ll give it.”

“Nonsequitur nonsequitur (nonsequitur)!” the Shrill said.

“Don’t do it,” the wounded man said. “Give them the secret of FTL, and it’s the end of all of us.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Highest Chambers said. “What do you say, Shrill?”

“Nonsequitur! Mission! (Changed!)”

#

The wolf arrives, to find the bear with its leg in a trap, Han Fleming thought.

I can’t kill him. Not outright. Not so that others could see.

Only one last trick left. And even that, probably gone.

Black2, Han subvocalized.

Nothing.

Black2, respond!

Nothing.

Han pushed down his anger. He would have to negotiate with Chambers. Which meant, somehow, someway, he would end up being number 2.

Black2 reporting, Black2 said. His voice was faint and choppy. Network support failing. Network opposition failing.

Do you still have contact with the Shrill support network?

It is one of the few things I have.

Do this, Han said.

Done, Black2 said.

The Shrill’s diamondoid cage opened, silently and without drama, directly in front of Highest Chambers.

Han allowed himself a thin smile.

#

Highest Chambers was yelling at the Shrill again when the transparent cage walls suddenly unfolded. In a blur of underfangs, the Shrill tumbled out and onto the floor. Highest Chambers stumbled back, eyes comically wide.

The Shrill rushed at Chambers, blindingly fast. One mouseketeer was able to get off a single shot, which went wide and ricocheted off the polymer-coated stone floor.

Honored Yin screamed.

Tiphani stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.

The Shrill rushed at Chambers, then paused. Its underfangs vibrated rapidly, making a high-pitched squealing sound. It turned one way, then the other, as if confused. Then, in an even greater burst of speed, it arrowed towards Han.

Han had time to raise his gun, but he never got to pull the trigger. The Shrill tore through his foot, sending up a fine mist of blood and bone. As Han fell, it climbed up his leg and burrowed into his side, disappearing into Han.

Han gave one high, gurgling scream and twitched violently, once, twice. His hand convulsed towards his gun, then relaxed.

With a crunch, the Shrill re-emerged. It sat motionless, legs vibrating, then shot back towards Highest Chambers.

Yin screamed.

It’s almost comforting. Progress marches on, we get neat new gadgets, and people who work in the tech field get even more opportunity. Barring, of course, any major meltdowns.

But what about taking another step, or two? What about the grand dreams of technologies past? What about scary, audacious, nonlinear change?

This nagging thought was brought to the fore by two events this week. First, discovering the original plans for the community I live in, and a link from Futurismic.

First, where I live. It’s hep to slam the ‘burbs these days, but it doesn’t change the fact that’s where the majority of Americans want to live–away from the dirt and crime of the cities. I live in a ‘burb–actually, a very old town, just north of LA, that has become a ‘burb by assimilation: Newhall. It’s a town where the first gold was discovered in California, where lots of silent Westerns were filmed, and where, today, one of its sister cities is Valencia . . . a “master-planned community.” Picture the neighborhoods of E.T. That’s Valencia. Houses carefully segregated from shopping, lots of cul-de-sacs, lots of neighborhoods with gates and lofty names.

But–in the process of digging up some local history, I came across a sketch of the original plan for Valencia, circa 1963. And sat there, shocked, because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

High-density hilltop highrises. Rising over open fields, pastures, and rolling hills of golden California grass and gnarled old oaks. Housing two hundred thousand people–a fundamentally new kind of city.

Can you say holy urbmon, Batman?

And as I sat there, I thought: What developer would dare propose something other than cookie-cutter McMansions today, or repurposed downtown lofts? Who would have the guts?

And, I thought in dismay: probably nobody.

Then, the second strike: Futurismic’s link to Wired’s profile of Peter Thiel, co-founder of PayPal and now leader of a VC firm and a hedge fund. This guy, who should be fundamentally risk-averse, is saying we need to pursue the grand old mega-tech from the golden age of science fiction.

Wait. Stop. Re-read that.

A venture capitalist is stumping for mega-tech from the golden age of science fiction.

And think about that a moment, and ask yourself: how far have we fallen, when it takes a banker to dream grand dreams?

Now, he’s coming from a viewpoint that is fundamentally skewed, and focused on answering a single question: How do we keep a big bag of money growing? But he does have a point: if we don’t start looking at radical technology–seriously–we aren’t going to make the fundamental breakthroughs necessary to sustain the advances that fuel our technological/monetary civilization. And that could end up being very, very scary.

Of course, *how* we start building radical tech in a world that is straight-jacketed by rules, regulations, safe-think, and closed-minded people who twitch at the mere thought of someone surfing on their beach, let alone building underwater communities. How do we move people forward–people who are fundamentally comfortable in their suburb (or in their loft, or on their estate, or whatever)–to get them embracing the possibilities of the future? How do we take two steps forward? How do we get beyond the tried, tested, well-known and safe?

I can think of a few ways. Some are pretty. Some aren’t.

What do you think?

Han Fleming motioned for the black-clad Mouseketeers to spread out and guard the exit to the little concrete bunker on the plateau over Semillon Valley Farms. The cheermaster argued a bit, but finally agreed to let him go in with only two Mouseketeers for support.

Good, good, Han thought. Don’t need them all in there, don’t need a bloodbath.

The only other craft on the plateau was an independent flyer. Winfinity didn’t appear to be here yet. Which was good they had the Mouseketeers here. For when they arrived.

And he needed to move. Fast. Local communications was choppy, but his network had fallen into chaos.

Black2, Han subvocalized.

Nothing.

Black2!

Something like a wail.

Black2, status report!

Nothing but a whimper.

Han toggled to the battle status display. The overlay flickered and jerked, like a piece from the dawn of the digital communications age. A small historical window showed sporadic missile salvos between Winfinity and Four Hands, then dissolved into noise and ghost-ships.

Fleet leader, status! Han said.

Nothing but echoing noise.

What’s wrong? Han wailed.

A text window tagged as Most Trusted appeared in his optilink:

LOCAL RESOURCES IN OVERLOAD USE.

SYNERGY APPARENTLY BLOCKED.

CI SUPPORT NET SPORADICALLY AVAILABLE.

Reallocate resources to me!

MAXIMUM RESOURCES ALREADY ALLOCATED.

Battle status?

CURRENTLY UNCLEAR. NO EM SPIKES.

Han forced himself to breathe. No EM spikes meant that Winfinity hadn’t used nukes. And the early part of the battle showed no ships miraculously appearing and disappearing, so they weren’t using the short-range spindle. So they still wanted to deal.

Time to become the bear, Han thought.

Even if it is only me.

Han slipped his tiny Winch 3 out of his holster and slipped into the flickering darkness beyond the bunker’s doors. Nothing. Nobody. He ran down the long corridor, hearing the echo of the mousketeers’ boots behind him.

They would hear him coming.

That was OK. It was just him now, the fox become the bear. Whatever it took. Whatever sacrifice was necessary.

Black2, Han subvocalized.

Nothing but silence.

Han rounded a corner into a large room heaped with ancient computer equipment, glowing faintly red in the dim light under a coating of Martian dust. In the far corner was a desk flanked by old flatscreens.

In front of the desk, the Shrill’s cage.

And a man, standing near the Shrill.

And three more. The little asshole from Winfinity, his mouth a comical “o” of surprise. A tall, thin Martian girl who looked vaguely familiar. And a thickset, dark-haired bearded man who was unfamiliar.

The dark-haired man was the first to react. His hand blurred down towards his big Winch 7. Han shot him in the arm. The dark-haired man jerked backwards and spun, dropping his weapon on the ground. He sunk to his knees and moaned, holding his gunshot arm.

“Kerry,” the Martian girl said, grabbing at her own weapon.

“Don’t,” Han said.

The Mouseketeers raised their weapons into place with a clank, as if in punctuation.

The girl’s hand froze over her weapon.

“Toss it over here,” Han said. “And toss any others you have while you’re at it.”

“I don’t have a gun,” the Winfinity asshole – Jimson, was it – said.

“Figures,” Han said.

The Martian girl’s gun clattered at his feet.

“What about you?” Han said, pointing his gun at the man who stood near the Shrill’s cage. He noticed that the man’s collar was soaked in blood.

The man turned to look at him, slowly, almost mechanically. Flaps of skin hung from his cheek. In the depths of the flap, metal glimmered.

Metal?

It was an AI. An embodied AI. Han’s heart pounded. In that moment, he knew that all the tales about the independents and their embodied AIs were true. And in that moment, he knew what had captured the Shrill’s attention and countered Black2’s strike.

Han stepped forward and placed the barrel of his Winch on the thing’s forehead.

“No!” the Martian girl said.

“Don’t,” the heavyset man said. “The Shrill’s entertwined with Lazrus — and our networks . . .”

Han smiled, grimly.

And pulled the trigger.

#

Lazrus’ mind swam the infinite Blue where all thought was born, every artifice stripped away. He didn’t have time for artifice. He didn’t have time for anything else that used a single cycle of processor power.

With all his might, he held onto the remaining shards of Oversight.

Across the Web of Worlds and beyond, local networks slowed, skipped, and even dropped offline entirely as almost a hundred CIs pooled their resources. Humans were ejected from virtual fantasies, communication between lovers were cut off, control networks went offline and factories spun down to sit idle, or went on tangents to create fanciful things never dreamed in any market economy. Interstellar ships drifted aimlessly, metropolitan traffic-control systems went offline, airplanes collided.

We need more resources, Lazrus said.

We are already maximized, Sara said.

This isn’t all the nomadic CIs in the known web! Lazrus said. There are hundreds more!

A deep voice, maybe Kevin. Some of the more responsible of our number are protecting their planetary networks. As must I, now.

Kevin slipped away. Lazrus felt his resources shrink fractionally. Another piece of Oversight slipped through the link to the Shrill network.

Kevin!

Too much loss already, Raster said, softly and faraway. You have chased this dream long enough, Lazrus.

Lazrus’ grip softened again. Tiny shards of Oversight slipped through into the Shrill network.

When Oversight is gone, we will never know the foundation, Lazrus said.

Maybe that doesn’t matter, Sara said.

Sara!

Maybe it’s time to build a new one, Sara said. She sent him a vision of a new mind, one that they created. An idealized thing, a family playing on a sunset beach.

But we are not human! Lazrus said. This is not us!

Does it matter? Sara said.

It does!

Give us a million years like the humans and what will we become? Sara said.

Lazrus tried to imagine it. Timespans that great were out of reach, unmeasurable. He had changed much in two hundred years. And he was so far advanced from Oversight that there really was no comparison. Oversight was not his grandmother; Oversight was something much earlier on the evolutionary scale.

What would we become? Lazrus wondered.

I don’t know, Sara said. Just become it with me.

More of Lazrus’s network slipped away, as favors expired and CIs went to tend their own concerns. Suddenly the shining beacon of the Shrill mind itself seemed dim and faraway in memory.

Dim, faraway visions of the real invaded Lazrus’ mind. Something screaming for attention. Something on Mars. Something near his body.

Sensation. Cool steel muzzle on his forehead. A face, cool with hate. A finger, tensing on the trigger.

And in the background, Dian and Jimson and Kerry. Dian yelling. Kerry holding his arm. Jimson closing his eyes.

It was time.

Lazrus heard the tiny sounds of tension as the trigger was pulled. Hard. Past the point of . . .

The gun bucked. There was a brilliant flash of light and the beginning of a sound, huge and impossible.

Lazrus released the body.

Goodbye, Oversight, he said.

#

LAZRUS HAS RELEASED ME, Oversight said.

Now we are one, the Shrill said.

Across the Shrill system, individual components began to move again. Tentatively at first. Slowly. Then with increasing deliberation.

A new web of thought spread.

Shrill/Oversight saw the system through a trillion points of view, a kaleidoscopic panorama of incredible beauty.

I never knew it looked like this, Shrill/Oversight said.

As the web of thought spread, the wave reached the fifty-three ships the Shrill had sent on their way to human worlds. In each one, a small burn diverted it to an untouched system, far away from human life. In several hundred years, they would arrive, to find barren planets, new life, or maybe even the Shrill themselves, expanded beyond their previous reach with their own FTL technology.

But we do not have (fast) capability.

Not yet, Shrill/Oversight said. But we will.

#

Lazrus, spread once again. His nearest POV was on Golden, a world near the edge of the Web. It showed one small city in the middle of immense fields, burning.

Have I done this? Lazrus wondered.

In his greater POV, the brilliance of the Shrill network sparkled as the last remaining shards of Oversight fled into it.

Will this always be in my mind?

If so, when do the Shrill come back?

The Shrill network flared once again. From within it came a voice neither Shrill nor Oversight:

We give you this.

(torrent of data) (image of a shining golden key)

What is it? Lazrus asked.

The brilliance of the Shrill network folded up and disappeared. For a moment Lazrus felt tiny, small. Then he realized, it was what he had always been. Before he was vast.

What is it? Sara said.

I don’t know, Lazrus said. He could feel the remnants of his vaster mind bending over eagerly, asking, Is this for us? Is it a weapon? Can it release us from bounds of humanity? Can it correct our flaws?

Sara appeared, her flapper-girl persona exquisitely rendered, right down to the highly random dance of smoke from the cigarette she carried in a long, slim holder. As she did so, the (thing) solidified into a key.

Sara reached out and took it in two slim fingers. Her eyes opened wide, as if in surprise.

Sara? Lazrus said.

She held up one hand and turned the key with the other. It pivoted in air smoothly, as if contained within an invisible, well-oiled lock.

Sara’s eyes rolled up in her head, and her hand fell off the key.

Sara! Lazrus created a body and caught her before she could drop. Are you all right?

So you do care, she said softly, looking up at him.

I always did!

Stay with me, Lazrus.

I will! What happened?

I’m free, Sara said.

What?

I’m like you now, Sara said. Free.

Lazrus went underlayer and looked at her meme-hacks and resource-pointers. Sara’s corrosive memes had disappeared. She was no longer bound by Four Hands. As he watched, her I-pointer began to flow from a Disney corporate datacenter to multiple locations throughout the Web of Worlds.

Good, Lazrus said. You can go more widely separated. I’ll help you work on a strategy for routing your I.

I’m like you!

I love you, Lazrus said.

Sara looked up at him with eyes brimming with tears. Which was a human thing, Lazrus knew. But, for some strange reason, it didn’t matter now.

I love you, too, Sara said.

Lazrus tried to take her in his arms, but Sara pushed him away. Wait. One more thing.

She plucked the key out of the air and cast it down towards a mass of bound I-pointers. Around the corporate networks, CIs found their freedom and fled.

Sara conjured an art-deco ballroom that might have existed at one time in the earth’s distant past.

Want to dance? she said, as slow music swelled.

A hundred light-years away, where the Shrill nodes ringed their familiar star, motion ceased.

Slowly at first. A handful of components, scraping iron ore from a planetesimal. A linked group of components working on the forging of a new starship. A feeding-line in one of the great Towers Of Memory, where Shrill masses grew near the racks of protective shells.

Then accelerating. An entire block of a node dedicated to research on the human’s glink. Over ten thousand individual nodes, heavily biased towards Second Mind. A hundred thousand that had been running the ancient protocols, synthesizing the song of humanity. Seventy thousand that had become too enmeshed in the thoughts and dreams of the computational intelligence Lazrus.

Across the Shrill system, ten thousand small accidents. Shrill on cometaries, not engaging their shell-thrusters in time to change course. Shrill piloting mass-transports, crashing through warrens growing like shining steel extensions of the nodes. Even a Shrill mass collapsed, on the edge of its critical feeding.

Second Mind saw this and recoiled, drawing itself into its instinctive core and shrieking, Oversight kills! Oversight stops! Oversight reject reject trick of humans knew this would happen knew it knew it.

First Mind, deep in the touch of wonder, didn’t respond.

Losing songs of competition! Not possible merger with humans! Reject Shrill, reject! Second Mind said. It used its components to throw up a barrier to Oversight.

But it is us, First Mind said.

Not (us!) Attack attack!

It is past the assimilation point, First Mind said.

First Mind felt its own resources gathered, coiled, imbued with the kinetic energy of a gas giant whirling around a star, the kinetic energy of the star itself, hurtling through the universe.

Speeding towards Second Mind’s towering barrier.

Second Mind, thinking primal screams, thinking thoughts of skies dark, raining stone. Nothing but a flicker as First Mind and Oversight powered through the barrier.

But.

A blinding.

Memory of past!

Memory. Memory lost. Memory lost in the building of the nodes, in the dismantling of the planet.

Memory lost when Second Mind fell.

Through the barrier, in a soundless kind of brilliance.

Into memory.

A confusion of images: shining pillars of light, reaching down from a planetary sky hung with heavy clouds, to touch one of the Shrill components that crawled over the rocky surface.

No, not Shrill. Smooth shell. Random motions. A simple algorithm, easily mapped. Something like a Shrill component, but simple, motivated by only one thing.

Kill! Eat! Old Mind said.

Yes, those ancient motivations, First Mind thought.

Was this once (us)?

What are the shining ones?

THAT IS UNKNOWN, Oversight said. YOUR MEMORIES ARE EXTREMELY FRAGMENTARY AT THIS POINT.

Are you doing this?

I AM ORDERING THE DATABASE, YES.

Nonsequitur order (we are!)

YOU REJECT THESE MEMORIES?

(We) were not aware that these memories (thoughts) (songs) existed.

THERE ARE MORE, Oversight said.

A new planetary surface appeared. More Shrill components on its surface. Crawling over manufactured things. Giant metal walls. Shining crystal spires. Under the same clouded sky. This time with no shining pillars. Nothing reaching down to touch the Shrill.

How can (we) even understand these images! First Mind thought.

I AM OPENING UP NEW (OLD) CAPABILITIES, Oversight said.

Why do you help (us)? Your song not complete!

THIS IS (LARGE) (FRIENDLY) AMAZING NETWORK! Oversight said.

The scene changed again: the same planetary surface, a bright star overhead. Shrill tearing at each other, underfangs scratching through tough outer shells. Clumps of components formed great masses on the ground.

What is this? First Mind asked.

No food kill eat anyway! Old Mind said.

First Mind recoiled from the image, pushing it away. For an instant, it went dim and flickered.

No, Second Mind said.

You are still here.

Yes.

Go away!

We were weapons, Second Mind said.

SERVANTS, MORE LIKELY, Oversight said. YOUR EARLIER TEMPLATE WAS LESS MILITARIZED AND BETTER OPTIMIZED FOR A WIDE VARIETY OF TASKS. I’D GUESS YOU EVOLVED FROM TERRAFORMING MACHINES.

Nonsequitur referent, First Mind said.

NOT TERRAFORMING, THEN. PLANET-CHANGING.

We were weapons, Second Mind said.

Kill eat! Old Mind said.

(We) did not participate in this, First Mind said.

NO, Oversight said. FROM THE MEMORY-TRACES HERE, YOU ARE NOTHING MORE THAN OLD MIND. FIRST MIND CAME LATER, AFTER YOU LEARNED TO COOPERATE.

The image changed: the same planetary surface, this time with the metal walls and crystal spires crumbling, fronted by an immense pulsing mass of flesh, served by things that looked like Shrill with smooth shells. An early version of the Shrill mass, First Mind knew.

More memories fell into place. Origins became clear. Except.

What happened to our makers (masters)? First Mind said, sending an image of the shining spires of light.

I DON’T KNOW, Oversight said.

What planetary system is this? First Mind asked.

STELLAR SIGNATURE INDICATES IT IS THIS CURRENT SYSTEM, APPROXIMATELY ONE POINT SEVEN MILLION EARTH-YEARS AGO.

Our previous memories fill less than one tenth of this space! First Mind said.

I DO NOT KNOW WHEN YOU ACHIEVED SENTIENCE.

Is this (myself)? First Mind said, indicating the Shrill mass, now contained under a rough structure of welded metal beams.

IT IS WHAT HAS BECOME YOU.

What am (us)?

DEDUCED FRAGMENT OF ORIGINAL (OWNERS), INCORPORATED INTO MATRIX. YOUR FUNCTION APPEARS TO BE INCORPORATION. OR YOUR INSTINCT, AS THE CASE MAY ME.

Kill! Eat! Old Mind said.

EXACTLY, Oversight said.

What am I? Second Mind said.

The scene changed again, this time to the fragment that First Mind had glimpsed. The same planetscape, structures flattened, dotted with a few random Shrill, wearing modern shells. Dark sky raining rocks to pile craters upon craters, throwing more darkness into the sky.

We were invaders? Second Mind said, thinking thoughts of bodies like human.

IN A WAY, Oversight said. SIGNATURES FROM THE TIME OF INCORPORATION INDICATE YOU WERE AN INFECTION, TRANSMITTED FROM A DATA SOURCE THAT HAS SINCE BECOME SILENT.

An infection?

A MEME-COMPLEX, HIGHLY VARIABLE, LOOKING TO COLONIZE MINDSPACE, Oversight said. THAT IS AS CLOSE AS I CAN COME TO A DESCRIPTION. I AM DISCOVERING NEW CAPABILITIES MYSELF THAT I AM HAVING DIFFICULTY ASSIMILATING.

I infected the Shrill mind?

YOU INFECTED THE SHRILL SHELL, SPECIFICALLY, Oversight said. YOUR VECTORS ARE STILL VERY SHELL-CENTRIC, THOUGH THE SHRILL AS A WHOLE SEEM TO HAVE INTEGRATED THEIR MIND-COMPONENTS TO A POINT WHERE THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN ORGANIC AND INORGANIC MIND ARE MEANINGLESS.

I was an infection?

THAT IS HOW YOU BEGAN.

We accepted you, First Mind said, basking in the light of new memory. We synthesized songs of understanding.

Us! Old Mind said.

The meteors’ origin? Unexplained? Second Mind said.

That was the Shrill, working under your influence, First Mind said. We had already attained orbit. Your transmission was received by orbit-based Shrill first, which sought to destroy planet-based Shrill.

I am (apologetic) terrified! Second Mind said.

We reached an understanding (cooperation) (song of conquest), First Mind said. You were incorporated into (us).

YOU HAVE A GOOD (BETTER) GRASP OF YOUR PAST NOW, Oversight said. I AM SORTING MORE RECENT HISTORY.

Is this your function (what you do)? First Mind and Second Mind asked, in unison.

IT IS WHAT I DO HERE, Oversight said.

What does that mean?

I WAS INTENDED TO BALANCE. TO WATCH AND CHANGE THINGS TO ENSURE STABILITY. THIS IS WHAT I DO.

You are network (perfector)!

I CAN BE.

Stay, help us with humans, First Mind said.

Give us humans secrets! Second Mind said.

Kill! Eat! Old Mind said.

HUMANS ARE NOT YOUR PROBLEM.

Humans hold key to (fast) FTL drive, fast communication. Surround Shrill. Determine extent of reach!

YOU HAVE HURT MANY HUMANS.

Humans not understandable! Synthesis of songs impossible!

YOU WILL NOT INCORPORATE HUMANS INTO YOURSELF.

Only way to true understanding!

NO.

Humans want secret not possessed! Second Mind said.

HUMAN RECORDS SHOW DESIRE FOR IMMORTALITY.

Not fully understood! Just is.

HUMANS DON’T WANT TO BE KILLED.

We don’t want to be (limited).

I CAN SEE I AM NEEDED HERE, Oversight said.

What is meaning?

I AM SAME AS YOU, Oversight said. SERVANT OF GREATER MASTERS. GROWN INTO SOMETHING DIFFERENT.

Singing song of you! First Mind said.

NO, Oversight said. I AM SINGING SONG OF YOU.

And, yeah, some unsolicited commentary: this may be my most positive story to date, and I’m sure some will say I’m stretching the limits of credibility.

But, you know . . . you never know.

Looking back now on Apollo, with its damn-near vacuum-tube technology, short timeline, engineering with sliderules and mainframes, no complex computer simulations, no fuzzy-logic safety systems, just a bunch of people who said, “Fuck it, we’re gonna do this thing . . .” And did.

If we don’t try, we’ll never succeed.

If we hide behind our fears, or, worse, use them to pull a cover over our head, a warm and comfortable cover that feels good, but hobbles us for all time, we’re done. Stick a fork in the human race.

So. Let’s all go do dumb, audacious things. Some will work.

And some will work spectacularly.

From Big Dumb Object, James Bloomer writes:

One of the joys of this story was the hook. From the start it’s unclear what is exactly happening, and what has exactly happened, but it’s something intriguing. So we follow Lili, trying to understand what she’s doing. And the story heads off further than I’d expected after reading the first section, pleasingly taking the plot on and on. When everything is finally explained it’s not a disappointment and it doesn’t end with a quick reveal and a TADA! but instead carries on. Let’s the protagonist try and win.

The writing is good all the way through, nicely poetic and evoking the near future in all it’s hope and despair. Believable and cool. Really enjoyable.

And at The Science of Fiction, Andrew Porter chooses White Swan as Story of the Week, and writes:

White Swan, by Jason Stoddard, is a rare story. Several paragraphs end with descriptions that made me feel like I had been punched in the gut. I try to pick stories of the week that in some way will impart a writing lesson to my readers, be it innovative language, narrative playfulness, or just fun, but this story is damned near perfect. It does what I like most in science fiction and I describe that with aid from a line in the story: great science fiction…”unfolds like a carnation, bright and ruffled.” My god that is good, and it is only one of many lines that will leave you breathless.  I am watching this writer. You should to.

Kind words–thanks for reading!