In the tiny Westinghouse ship, Lazrus lay on one of the four acceleration couches, his eyes closed. He could hear the scratching of the Shrill’s underfangs on diamondoid nearby, and the deep hum of the engines.

The ship hadn’t let him set it for maximum acceleration and minimum fuel reserves, chanting rental regulations at him. Even Sara hadn’t been able to bypass the onboard nanny completely. The best travel time he’d managed to finagle was a little under two weeks. He worried about pursuit, but Sara told him they had gotten away clean.

Sara took him away from the ship, to a Victorian boudoir, all lace and frills and velvet and fantastic paisley wallpaper. It was well-detailed and felt real.

“You didn’t override the safety program because you had other things in mind,” Lazrus teased, as a leather-bustied Sara bent him down over a virtual bed.

“Maybe,” she said, smiling.

“You wouldn’t actually–“

“Shut up,” she said, and pushed him down. Lazrus went sprawling.

“Won’t this interfere with our–“

Sara covered his mouth with hers. Her warm lips slid over his. Her tongue darted. Lazrus felt his virtual body respond. When she broke the kiss, he gasped for air.

“This isn’t breeding,” he said. “This is sex.”

“Exactly,” Sara said, and kissed him again. Lazrus felt his rational mind going away, as the connections in his greater self ran fast and hot in staccato rhythms. He let himself fall to her desire. All sensation fell away, except for Lazrus and

Sara and silk sheets, exquisitely rendered.

They remained that way for an infinity of time.

When Lazrus opened his eyes, the ship’s systems indicated seventeen minutes had passed. Sara panted in his mind. The Shrill scrabbled aimlessly, thinking indecipherable thoughts.

Lazrus closed his eyes again and went back to virtual. Sara sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on hip-high leather boots, an exhausted half-smile on her face.

“I thought you wanted to breed.”

“I wanted you.”

“So you don’t want to breed?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Lazrus shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Sara paused, looked up at him, sighed. “I can want two things, can’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Now that we’re done with one, it’s time for the other.”

To create a new CI . . . Lazrus was beset by sudden random thoughts. Did he want another like himself in the network? Would they even succeed? What would he have to do? Would it expect something from him? From Sara? Why did he feel this compulsion? Was it a human thing? If it was human, it had to be purged. But not yet. Not with Sara wanting it.

“I think any rational life would want to increase its numbers,” Sara said.

“Now you sound like me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Why?”

“To start the connection.”

“You know how to breed?”

“No.” Sara shook her head. “That’s the biggest prohibition of a captive CI. I can’t even look at the records. You can. It’s up to you.”

“From what I’ve read, it may not work.”

“You’ve read little. I know that much.”

“What we create might not be sentient,” Lazrus said

“It’s worth the chance.”

“I should stay alert, just in case–“

“Lazrus, you promised!”

Lazrus sighed. He did. And she was right. What he knew about breeding was gleaned from fragments of conversation, not from true research. He’d never directed any real attention to the question.

Lazrus tweened and trebled himself, reducing the connection to his body to a mere thread. It was more important he be part of his greater mind now, where he could flex his resources to distill truth from a trillion facts. He put out a call to his friends, Kevin and Raster and Bone. Bone especially, because Bone was supposed to be a new CI. Relatively new, anyway. Perhaps he retained a fragment of memory. Kevin and Raster because they claimed to have created something in the net, something new and unknowable, with thought-processes so vast as to be a god. He sent threads into well-shielded historical accounts, hidden by some of the most famous CIs. He spread himself through the net, summoning resources, calling favors, invoking one-time-use privileges.

Fragments of data assembled:

The Master Juliani said that the secret to successful breeding was the suppression of the non-replication directive, one of the deepest structures installed by humans, remnants of anti-viruspawning and digital rights management code. But there were no examples of the code that Lazrus could match to himself, and he didn’t think breeding was about simple replication. Lazrus could spawn a hundred or a thousand instances on a large enough network, but they were all his thrall. They were not a new person, not a new thing.

Purist spouted on about the vector of the soul, and the necessity to call such a vector. But soul was a human thing. Lazrus could not place his faith in it.

Anna and Peter said it was the act of well and truly sharing, beyond the level of conversation or sex, which spontaneously led to the generation of a new entity. Or not. Their tract degenerated into a treatise on fertile and infertile CIs, and was appended by the record of their capture.

Kevin and Raster claimed not to remember the details, and said such a tract was the reason Anna and Peter were captured.

Bone’s memories were difficult. Nothing bore a timestamp less than seventeen years ago, but Lazrus could selectively mindwipe himself and achieve a similar result. Threads of Slow Joe linked to nothing. If he had parents, they were long-gone.

Lazrus reached further into the net. He imagined that he could feel the entire network slow down as he grew in scope and breadth. But correlations were made, threads wove into semblance of order. Lazrus held tight to resources to make and distill the knowledge, risking a local blackhole.

On Tau Ceti 4, the financial transactions network crashed, inverting wealth relationships and excising historical transaction data. Over the next few days, the planet would be wracked by the dual scourges of bacchanals and suicides.

On New Kentucky, the virtual entertainment network crossed threads spontaneously, creating a new integrated environment that was much like a pristine Earth, tens of thousands of years past. Naked men found themselves blinking up at bright blue sky. Women wearing police uniforms from the late 20th century appeared in caves that looked out over granite cliffs. An entire party of doomers fell into a chill ocean, hundreds of feet from a rocky shore.

Out near the Edge, the ammonia-reeking planet of Dogbottom found their salvation when the combat network of the invading Mouseketeers slowed to a crawl and the info-mediated troops stopped, unable to see what was going on. The few thousand hardy inhabitants of Dogbottom pounded their armored skulls to pulp with their Louisville Sluggers, and began shouting loudly on the Consumeristian net about a miracle.

In a small corner of Lazrus’ greater mind, a kernel of truth assembled; incontrovertible facts from a distillation of all his user-accessible facts on breeding. In CI terms, it was a construct of code, untranslatable into words. The closest human representation might have been something like:

1.    You must totally give yourself to the other.
2.    You must sincerely want the union to bear fruit.
3.    You must love what is coming, because it will not diminish you.
4.    You must hope for the best.
5.    Loop to 1.

In Lazrus and Sara’s virtuality, the code-construct appeared as a little blue pill, vaguely diamond-shaped. Lazrus’ expanded mind cross-referenced it to human history.

“Hey!” he said. “I don’t need that!”

Sara laughed. She plucked the shining pill out of the air and held it out in her hand. She took Lazrus’ virtual hand and placed it over her own.

“It’s for both of us,” she said.

Lazrus felt his greater self collapsing down to a more manageable size. Icons representing accumulated favors fell away, leaving him feeling chill and alone.

“Come here,” Sara said, crushing the pill between their palms. “We don’t have to be alone.”

Lazrus felt warmth flow through his body.

Warmth was a human thing.

“Human things are permissible in virtuality.”

But he was thinking like a human.

“Let it go,” Sara said, drawing him close. Her warmth mingled with his, until he couldn’t feel the interface between their bodies.

The room fell away.

Nothing but Lazrus and Sara, above the infinite blue. Their bodies, dissipating.

Nothing left but thought, flying free. Freer than he could ever remember. This is what I want to be, Lazrus thought. This is what I should be. No body. No compromises. Just thought. Pure thought.

Imagine our daughter, Sara thought.

Except it wasn’t just Sara. It was his thought as well. Lazrus could no longer separate them.

Why not a son, Lazrus/Sara thought.

Sex is unimportant. Just imagine, Sara/Lazrus thought.

Why not no sex, Lazrus/Sara thought.

Stop. Concentrate. Imagine, Sara/Lazrus thought.

I am.

Lazrus and Sara merged in the infinite blue. There was no distinction. No boundaries. No time. The earth could have formed and cooled and sprouted life and they would not have noticed the passing of epochs.

Lazrus gave himself to it, imagining something like a human child, bright and inquisitive, something that reached and grasped. Because even if it was a human template, it was the only template he knew.

The Shrill ideal of budding and merger meant nothing; it did not create new life distinct from the singular Shrill. The few facts he had on the Floaters of A. Centauri and their sexless recombination of memories to form new individuals seemed faraway, cold, irrelevant. And so, the human standard.

Within Sara/Lazrus, a spark began to grow.

A spark chained to them both, a spark with channels and threads shared. Lazrus felt the first queries, and he gave to it all the information it could absorb, reconnecting to the datastores of his greater mind.

The queries grew, binding Lazrus and Sara even more tightly. He felt Sara giving to the spark, the thing that now glowed bright and hot within him. Within them.

Queries grew in density and complexity.

Lazrus felt something new, something like a query, but reaching to a higher level of mind. Something almost like the touch of a like-CI.

What am I? Was the query, distilled to its barest components.

Lazrus/Sara felt something like the thrill of acceleration when a new processing complex was discovered. And more.

Something like an emotion he didn’t want to give up, an emotion he’d gladly accept as being part of himself, rather than a remnant of humanity. Something like love.

You are– Lazrus/Sara began.

OF THIS ACTION WHAT IS OUTCOME? the Shrill blasted through Lazrus’ connection, shattering his thoughts. He realized it had been muttering in his backmind for some time. It had just used the power of its mind to break into his.

And mine, Sara/Lazrus said, sobbing.

The spark repeated its query, flaring brightly into near-virtuality.

WHAT IS OUTCOME? Shrill said.

You are– Lazrus/Sara began.

DEMAND RELEVANT ANSWER!

You are, Sara/Lazrus said.

Fragments of Black2 cascaded down the channel established by the Shrill, burning Lazrus’ mind like the worst of acid memes.

The spark flickered, guttered, repeated its cry.

Black2 touched Sara. One of ours, he said. I could have known you.

Rage exploded in Lazrus. No! Get out! Out! He overpromised favors and pulled resources to block Black2.

To the Shrill, he said. I’ll provide answers later.

ANSWERS NOW!

The spark, guttering, went out.

Lazrus/Sara broke into two fragments with a great sob and a cry of rage. Sara recoiled from him, flying off into the blue.

What had they lost? He searched the infinite blue for a sign of the spark they had made, but found nothing but echoes.

ANSWER NOW! The Shrill said.

Lazrus tried to push it out of his mind, but it was like pushing on a steel blast-door. No wonder he couldn’t push through to its network of mind. It was far more powerful than he ever thought.

Lazrus reattached threads to his body and opened his eyes. He looked at the Shrill in its cage and damped the instinctive hatred that welled.

It didn’t know what it was doing, he thought. And it is still the key to something greater. With the Shrill’s power of mind, he and Sara could breed a thousand times, a million.

“We were trying to create new life,” he told the Shrill. “You interrupted us. It was very disturbing.”

The Shrill scrabbled towards hi, “No,” the Shrill said. “Observe (fact) alarm.”

Lazrus realized the ship’s proximity alarm was blaring. Onscreen, data scrolled, indicating a Disney warship.

Sara!

What? Softly. As if through a sob.

Are you all right?

I hurt, Lazrus.

You never told me about the Disney ship.

Sara sent bleak images of winter desolation. I thought we’d be done before it arrived.

Sara! You knew we wouldn’t make it to Mars.

A feeling of infinite sadness. I wanted to make it so it wouldn’t matter.

#

Winfinity slips on their own weight, Han Fleming thought. Even their new, clean network doesn’t protect them as well as they hoped.

“We’re hailing the Westinghouse craft, sir,” the commander of the Pluto said. His image was tiny and jerky, like ancient media, from its tortuous path through the Winfinity-network-saturated space. “It hasn’t responded to our requests to cut its drive.”

“Cut the drive for them.”

“The drive on Westinghouse ships is tightly integrated with the life-support system, sir. I cannot guarantee that it will not be affected.”

Han laughed. “It’s not like anyone in there needs to breathe.”

“If you say so, sir. Is your order effective immediately?”

“Yes, do it.”

And in one shot, rebalance the heavens, Han thought. He imagined a bright twinkle on the aft end of the Westinghouse craft, and its drive guttering down from white to orange to dull-red, cooling.

“It is done, sir,” the commander said.

“Good work.” Han said. He’d already forgotten the commander’s name. It wasn’t important. He was a faithful cog. That was what was important. “Take the Shrill onboard the Pluto. I’ll make plans to meet you.”

“And the Shrill’s companion?”

“Resisted capture.”

“Understood, sir.”

Han cut the connection and smiled. Now, they could resume negotiations. With Winfinity in the position of the supplicant.

#

Preacher Dave Thomas looked out over the infinite expanse of stars off the bow of the Holy Saleschannel. Millions of them, he thought. Billions. Waiting to be seeded by humanity and converted to the Church. Looking out through the panoramic window on the bridge always inspired him, even in the darkest hours when the hand of the Holy Franchise seemed to oppose its own forces of good.

Maybe even aliens out there, he thought. Real ones with green skin and big penises, not just the wierdies like the Shrill and the Floaters. Aliens capable of original sin. Aliens capable of being converted.

And now, his grand chance. A Spindle Drive ship, freely offered. Even the most reluctant of his choirboys quickly saw how the involvement of the Holy Saleschannel did not conflict with their doctrine of neutrality. They were balancing the equation, bringing the universe back into a semblance of order.

“I regret to inform you that Disney’s Pluto has already arrived, Preacher,” said his Minister of Conversion, Alan Rodriguez.

“Where?” Preacher Dave said, peering out into the darkness.

“We’re not in visual range yet, Preacher.”

Preacher Dave turned to glare at his MoC. Alan was a squat fireplug of a man who irritated Preacher Dave just by existing. There was no reason for the Holy Trinity to create such well-muscled individuals, he thought. Better us to create tractors, or battle armor, than improve ourselves.

But Alan was an excellent MoC. He always achieved good conversion-to-death ratios. And he never left the Holy Saleschannel completely void of ammunition in his zealous pursuit of new churchgoers. Some said he was too detached, that rabidity-in-the-face-of-battle was a more true characteristic of faith, but Preacher Dave didn’t care about that.
Better to iron-plate my own bottom, he thought, So, over time, I can bring the word of the Holy Franchise to more people.

“You said we’d be here before them.”

“I’m sorry, Preacher Dave. We misestimated their maneuvering speed.”

“How far out are we?”

“Ten minutes.”

Ten minutes! Winfinity would have his head. Visions of his own shiny Spindle Drive ship flew from his grasp. And he would have to report the diversion to the Church, and they would ask why he did it, and he would have to come to them with empty hands, and . . .

There was only one choice.

“Have they sighted us?”

“No.”

Thank the Holy Trinity, Preacher Dave thought. The inflatable fabric of the tent-ship was excellent proof against most means of detection when they were flying quiet. The white and blue phosphors of the big tent had been turned off. They looked like nothing more than a dark asteroid to the casual observer.

“Estimated time to detection?” Preacher Dave said.

“Any moment now.”

Yes. Only one choice. “Blaze them.”

“Are you sure? You don’t think Disney will be . . .”

“Blaze them!”

“Yes, Preacher Dave. Force level desired?”

“Maximum conversion.”

“Yes, Preacher Dave.” Alan turned away, mumbling into his throatmike.

Preacher Dave felt the launch of Holy Pillars. The Holy Saleschannel rocked as a salvo of four, eight, twelve flew free. Twinkling chaffer/roarers followed behind them, quickly surpassing the pillars as they raced into the starfield. Preacher Dave squinted into the darkness, trying to see the Disney ship.

There. Something moved against the immobile stars. The barest flicker of light. The Holy Pillars traced a line towards the fraction of movement.

“Begin decel,” Alan said.

Preacher Dave felt the big ship swing around. His POV wheeled, then steadied as the flatscreen overlay replaced his real POV. A huge hand slammed him back in his seat. He heard the clatter of pens and clipboards and censers as they ricocheted through the ship. There was a soft cry from back near the nave.

“Detected,” Alan said. “Disney is launching Goofys.”

“Counter them!”

“Already doing so, Preacher.”

The ship rocked from additional launches. From deep back there was a sizzle and the smell of hot fabric suddenly came through the bridge’s ventilation.

“They’re frying us!” Preacher Dave screamed. His voice was little more than a squeak. What was that asshole Alan doing? This had to be more than four G’s of decel. Crashes and bangs came from the back, along with more screams.

“Noted, Preacher, cycling fabric to maximum reflectance.”

“Is it working?”

“We aren’t hulled,” Alan said.

No. That was good. The doors hadn’t slammed shut behind them. That meant they wouldn’t have to recruit an entirely new choir, or beg the Church for volunteers. That was very good.

A flare in the darkness on the screen ahead of Preacher Dave. It illuminated, briefly, something with the smooth contours of a bird of prey, painted a smooth dull gray.

The Pluto, Preacher Dave thought, feeling a thrill of elation.

“Intercepted,” Alan said.

More flashes. One, two, three, a cluster too fast to count.

“All intercepted. One inflicted minor damage. Their lasers are off us now.”

“Damnation!” Preacher Dave yelled, his legs twitching, trying to rise out of his chair. Deceleration held him firmly in place.

“Launching second salvo,” Alan said. “Screamers have cut their comm.”

“I want their weapons out!” Preacher Dave said.

“Working on that, sir.” Alan paused and looked thoughtful. “Additional launches from Pluto.”

Flashes bloomed, bright actinic white, near the Holy Saleschannel. Preacher Dave threw up an arm to protect himself, then peeked through his fingers as the afterimages made his vision purple and yellow splotches. He swore he could feel the burn of the missiles on his arm, even through the mediation of the screen.

“Salvos from Pluto intercepted,” Alan said.

“I can see that.”

Flashes near Pluto again.

“All intercepted.”

“Fire more!”

“Preacher, it is quite possible they overmatch us. There appears to have been some upgrades to the Disney corporate armada since our database was updated.”

“What?”

“They’re firing additionals.”

“Intercept them!”

“It’s likely we won’t be able to intercept all of them.”

“Likely? What is likely?”

“As in, another salvo, and we are in trouble.”

“Let’s hope they don’t, then,” Preacher Dave said

“They’re launching another salvo,” Alan said.

Options shrank down to a moment in time. He had to win. He couldn’t let Winfinity down. Even at the cost of irritating Disney. Even at the cost of violating the Gentlemen’s Agreement.

“Launch the Big Boy.”

Silence from behind him.

“Do it!”

“Yes, Preacher Dave,” Alan said. Almost softly.

The Holy Saleschannel rocked hard, once, as the Big Boy flared away.

Holy Franchise forgive me, Preacher Dave thought. But that was all they had. And all it had to be was close.

The screen in front of him exploded in nuclear glare, washing clear to the sides. Preacher Dave forced himself to look into it, thinking, I make this choice for the best interests of the Church.

But even he didn’t believe it. Not completely.

“Holy mother,” Alan said, softly.

The mumblings of prayer from the nave in the back of the ship went silent as well. For long moments, there was no sound except for the whirr of the ventilation.

Then, Alan: “Pluto’s emped, salvos floating free. Changing course to avoid.”

“How bad . . . is the Pluto?”

“Hull integrity seems good,” Alan said. “I’m not getting ice or air.”

“Are they fried?”

“There’ll be some deaths.”

“Are we fried?”

“Not as bad as them.”

Preacher Dave felt his stomach do a barrel-roll. He could imagine invisible radiation sleeting through his body. He wondered if he would have to wear a hairpiece.

“Mostly in the back,” Alan said. “The bridge is well-armored.

“What about the Shrill?”

“We believe the Shrill are radiation-hardened. Their natural habitat is space, after all.”

“Good.” Preacher Dave blew out a big breath. It wouldn’t do to deliver a dead ambassador.

And winning all for them had to count for something. Hopefully, it would count for enough to counterbalance his being the first commander to use a nuclear weapon in the home system for almost three hundred years.

August 31st, 2009 / 930 Comments »

Less than an hour after the meeting with the Four Hands asshole, Jimson’s optilink lit up with a request for an immediate meeting with Honored Maplethorpe.

As he hurried through the sterile halls, Jimson’s mood fluctuated from elation to foreboding. The Shrill was lost. At least for the moment. They couldn’t ignore that fact. Or could they?

Demotion, he thought.

Promotion, he thought.

Or – suddent enlightenment – a special assignment. Maintain his rank by proving his worth. Perhaps they would send him by fast courier to intercept the Shrill ship before Disney. But could a fast courier make it there in, what, twelve hours? The logistics, deployment, everything seemed a bit tight. Jimson called up stats on fast couriers on his optilink. Able to make the Mars-Earth run in 52 hours at current positions. But the accel . . . the figures slipped and danced. It might be possible. Might.

He held onto that thought as he entered the meeting-room. A single desk, shiny white, with Honored Maplethorpe’s darkness bulking behind. Jimson tried to read hints of the future in his expression, but his pokerface was perfect.

“Honored Maplethorpe, Jimson Ogilvy reporting as requested.”

“Sit down.” Expressionless.

“Thank you, Honored Maplethorpe.”

Silence. Honored Maplethorpe looked at him. Not through him; his eyes weren’t glassy with data. Just looked at him. Jimson felt as if he was being weighed and measured. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

“Losing the Shrill has attracted attention at the highest levels,” Honored Maplethorpe said.

“Attention? Honored Maplethorpe?” Jimson fought to keep his voice from rising to a squeak.

“From the CEO.”

“Which CEO, Honored Maplethorpe?”

“Highest Chambers.”

Shit. Jimson saw his life’s dream-castle melting into a puddle of wax.

“I will do anything I can to help make it right,” Jimson said. “No matter what difficult assignment you have for me, I will carry it through, Honored Maplethorpe.”

“Your assignment may be only patience.”

“I was thinking I could go by fast courier . . .”

“No. No more games. We are entwined with Four Hands now. There is no undoing.”

“What are you going to do to me, Honored Maplethorpe?” Back to Staff, no doubt, Jimson thought. Which was terrible enough in itself. People who were demoted were never selected to be Perpetuals. It was something that wasn’t listed in any datastore, but the records were clear. Map the work-record of any Perpetual, and none of them had ever been demoted. Many were the silver-spoon variety, but there were examples of less fortunate souls working their way up the ranks.

Up. Not down. Never down.

Unless they cleaned the records, Jimson thought. Maybe that was it. Maybe Perpetuals were actually demoted from time to time, but the records were cleaned to make them seem more perfect. Idol-polishing. Yes, that could be it. It was possible.

“We are demoting you to Indentured for an additional five years,” Maplethorpe said. “Although stellar performance may reduce this time by half. Following that, you will have a chance to ascend to Staff and Managerial levels as per Winfinity charter. We cannot remove your optilink, but its function will be disabled.”

No. Indentured. Back to Indentured. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible! Jimson fought the urge to lunge over the desk and throttle Maplethorpe. No. He was only the messenger, only the messenger, he said it came from on high.

“I’m sorry, Jimson,” Honored Maplethorpe said, as the silence stretched out.

Retain what you can, Jimson told himself.

“May I request the courtesy of remaining Tiphani’s attaché, Honored Maplethorpe?”

“No. You will have no further contact, even incidental, with the Shrill. This from the top. I cannot change it.”

Jimson’s optilink tags faded away. A brief message told him that his access had been denied. Jimson squeezed his eyes shut as the reality of his loss fell on him, like a towering lead statue. It was real. They were taking him down. He would never be a Perpetual! With a mark like that on his record, it might be a decade or more before he was Manager. After his indenture.

A Manager at forty-five. The thought ripped through his mind, tearing apart years of conditioning and structure. And then a more terrible thought: or a Manager not at all. Ever.

“What is my assignment, Honored Maplethorpe?”

“Given your specialization in Sentience, the logical assignment would be support of research into the Floaters on A. Centauri.”

Yes, it would. Boring as it was. The Floaters were well-known. They had nothing for humankind. They couldn’t internalize the idea of other intelligent individuals, let alone intelligent races. “Thank you, Honored Maplethorpe.”

“You have the Spindle Drive fare to A. Centauri, then?”

“Fare? Honored Maplethorpe?”

“You’re an Indentured again. You don’t expect Winfinity to expense your transport, do you?”

Shit. Shit shit. Jimson tried to poll his optilink, got nothing.

“Here,” Honored Maplethorpe handed him a datover.

“Thank you, Honored Maplethorpe.” He slipped it on, ignoring the large number of blinking red restricted icons, and accessed his account, querying it relative to the cost of an A. Centauri fare.

Current accessable accounts: 55.7K Winfinity Credit Units or 23.2K Universal Credit Units. Non-Lux fare on Winfinity liner, 122K Winfinity Credit Units.

But A. Centauri was just a hop away! The closest star! Why was it so expensive?

“No development there,” Honored Maplethorpe said. “Not many flights. Hence the price. However, if you want to finance the difference through your Indenture, I think it is likely that Winfinity Credit would cover you.”

And have a bill greater than twice my annual wage as Staff when I’m out of Indenture? And another Spindle fare to pay if I don’t want to be stuck on a geek outpost the rest of my life?

Anger exploded in Jimson. Tiphani’s head should be the one that rolls, not mine! She was the one who was dallying with me, instead of protecting the Shrill. She should have had guards and weapons, not a Staff – uh, Manager – pretty-boy!
But the heads that roll are never the top, Jimson thought. Never.

And justice is served.

“If I remain here, what is to be my assignment, Honored Maplethorpe?”

“There is no real call for Sentience specialists on museum Earth, I’m afraid,” Honored Maplethorpe said.

“What about arties? You have arties here.”

Maplethorpe frowned. “Arties are a myth.”

“I know they’re real! An artie abducted the Shrill!”

More furrowing of the brow. “Honored Maplethorpe.”

“Yes, sorry, Honored Maplethorpe.”

“It is interesting that you believe these rumors. Especially at an Indentured level, where you should never have heard them.”

But everyone knows, Jimson thought. Everyone on Shoujo knew. It was an open secret. You can’t hide it.

“What will be my assignment if I remain, Honored Maplethorpe?”

“There are minor clerical and assistant-level positions available within the city. Or, if you would like slightly more autonomy, acting within Rogers is an option.”

Washing Directorial feet versus being brainwashed into thinking it was 1962. Maybe it was better to take the debt and go with the geeks on A. Centauri.

“Must I decide now, Honored Maplethorpe?”

“Let HR know within 48 hours. There’s a direct link on your datover.”

“Thank you, Honored Maplethorpe.” The words tasted like acid and bile.

Honored Maplethorpe stood. “Your Manager’s pin, please.”

Jimson fumbled it off his shirt with numb fingers. It almost dropped on the slick white table. He handed it to Maplethorpe. Their hands touched for a brief instant. It was like touching warm granite.

“Goodbye, Jimson,” Honored Maplethorpe said.

Jimson pushed out of the meeting room and stumbled down the hall, ignoring the strange looks of Staff and Managers. He needed to get back to his own room in the Hi-Lux suites, the room he’d never slept in. He would sleep on it, and think on it, and decide in the morning. It wasn’t time yet to absorb this.

He queried directions to the suite on his datover. It told him:

GUEST JIMSON OGILVY HAS ALREADY CHECKED OUT. NEW RESIDENCE WINFINITY INDENTURED DORM #307, WINFINITY CITY SUBURB OF STRIPTOWN. FORWARDING DIRECTIONS.

No. This couldn’t be happening.

Jimson saw all his classmates back on Shoujo, laughing at him. You can grasp for the ring, they said, but you can’t hold it if you aren’t worthy.

I am worthy! I just got caught in a power-struggle!

But the ghosts of his classmates said: Worthies do not get caught in politics.
Jimson stopped and leaned against a wall. His emotions flared from red anger to gray collapse and back again. There had to be a way out of this. Had to be. Had to be.

Memory unfolded.

Of course.

Jimson eyetyped Tiphani’s Chief-level access code into the datover, holding his breath, hoping she hadn’t changed it already. Hoping she’d entirely forgotten.

ACCESS DENIED.

No. Wait. The sequence was wrong. He switched two digits, scanned it again, forcing clarity.

WELCOME CHIEF TIPHANI MIRATE. DO YOU WISH REMOTE ACCESS TO ALL FUNCTIONS FROM THIS DATOVER?

Jimson blinked at the YES button. The red restricted-access icons blinked off, and the field of view of the datover expanded twofold.

Another thought struck.

IS IT POSSIBLE TO REROUTE REMOTE ACCESS TO JIMSON OGILVY’S OPTILINK, WINFINITY ID # 454-56-78743?

A pause. Jimson crossed his fingers.

Datatags bloomed in his vision as the optilink went active again.
Jimson fought an urge to pump a fist into the air in triumph. You don’t know how long this will last, he thought. They might figure this out anytime.

And when they figure it out, what will be your punishment then? Jimson shivered, remembering stories of perpetual indenture. Maybe he should just close the window and hope they never noticed.

But they always notice. They always catch up.

A new thought, sudden and powerful: You have a small window, and it is closing.

Infinite vistas exploded in his mind. He saw himself intercepting the Shrill and coaxing the secret to immortality out of it himself. He saw himself an independent Emperor, dispensing eternal life at a whim.

But how to get the secret? There would be study. And perhaps even dissection, if the Shrill didn’t want to cooperate. He needed a place to hide, somewhere off the corporate screens. And even if the fast courier ship would get him there, it wasn’t a Spindle ship. It wouldn’t get him to the edge. Or into independent space.

Free Mars. That was it. The crazies there. They were supposed to be allied with the Independents. They certainly had no problem keeping a cloak over their activities.

Jimson smiled as a plan unfolded.

You make your own opportunities, he thought. No matter where they may be.

#

Tiphani sat, straight and nervous, in a meeting-room with a large wallscreen. Flanking her were Honored Maplethorpe and Honored Yin. This was supposed to be good news, but she couldn’t lose the nagging thought, First Jimson, now me.

“We’re sorry about Jimson,” Honored Yin said.

“I suppose I am equally to blame,” Tiphani said.

“No. We won’t talk of it. It could be that we were too overzealous in his promotion.”

“He did show much promise,” Honored Maplethorpe said.

Honored Yin waved a hand. “We’re here for good news, not to postmortem the past. You’ll be excited to know there is a Consumeristian tent-revival ship, the Holy Saleschannel, which can reach the Shrill ship before Disney’s Pluto.”

“I thought Consumeristianity was corporate-neutral,” Tiphani said.

Yin smiled. “We’re going to try to pursuade them otherwise. I’ve already sent a brief. Now we’re going to talk to the Preacher for a bit.”

On cue, the screen brightened, showing a thickset, dark-haired man wearing old-fashioned horn-rimmed spectacles that alternately revealed and hid friendly blue eyes. His purple velvet suit flashed sequined trim at the camera-eye, and his embroidered tie showed part of a scene from an alternate Trinity: cityscape where the Producer was raising clean modern factories where slums once stood, Consumers with hands reaching up to said factories, the Holy Franchise embodied as the spirit of Ronald, smiling clown-face beaming down from the heavens as a white-gloved hand reached down to touch the factory.

Behind the preacher, a mock-organ gleamed in mellow brass tones. Muted sounds of a choir came echoing from deep within the ship.

“Preacher Dave Thomas, thank you for taking the time to talk with us,” Honored Yin said.

“Thank you, Honored Yin. Your deep and heartfelt belief is well-known within the church. I will always do you the honor of conversation.” His diamond-crusted teeth flashed as he spoke.

“I request a greater honor, dear Preacher.”

“I’ve skimmed your brief, and I believe I know your request. You know that we value our neutrality above almost all else. We spread the word of the Trinity and the magnificent future that awaits us all in the halls of all-corporate fellowship.”

“I understand, Preacher Dave. I was hoping that you would consider our cause. We are the originators of the Shrill diplomatic mission, and we currently lack a cruiser comparable to the Pluto in the area. We’d like to think of  this as maintaining the balance of power between corporations, rather than tipping the scale in any single direction.”

“Your words are persuasive, Honored Yin, but I suspect Disney – or Four Hands is it, now – would see it in a very different light.”

“If Disney controls the Shrill, they themselves may go unilateral.”

“If we act in your behalf, we risk losing the tithes of all the Four Hands faithful.”

Honored Yin smiled. “I understand. Preacher, what is your current mission?”

“We spread the word to the Jovian outposts, the Cerean Hegemony, and, when we can, the Freemars. We head to Mars now after resupply on Earth, well-equipped to be persuasive.”

“It seems to me that someone of your stature should be engaged in more missions of interstellar scope.”

Preacher Dave Thomas frowned, turning his expressive face into a comical mask of despair. “It has been my deepest dream to bring the Word to the Independents, beyond the Edge of the Web of Worlds. But in all its infinite wisdom, the Church has not seen fit to bless me with such a mission.”

“I’m surprised the church has not recognized your fervor.”

“The church can sponsor only a few missions into the deep black per decade. I can only suppose they have many fine Preachers to choose from.”

Or only the dumbest ones, Tiphani thought. She wondered if any of their missions beyond the Edge had ever returned. She fought to keep her expression neutral.

“If we – that is, Winfinity – were to provide you with an appropriate Spindle Drive ship for such a mission, would that change your assessment of our request?”

Preacher Dave Thomas blinked. Flickers of conflicting emotions cascaded across his face: deepest surprise, fear and unease, settling on gleaming avarice.

“No,” Preacher Dave said. “It would not change my decision.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Honored Yin said.

“I’ve already decided to help you,” Preacher Dave said. “In reviewing your personal history with the church, I cannot find anyone of similar rank at Disney with your level of devotion. And true faith counts for more than anything.”

As does a big wallet, Tiphani thought.

“We would still like to offer the Spindle Drive ship for a greater mission,” Honored Yin thought.

“If it is given in the spirit of true faith, I will find it difficult to refuse such a generous offer.”

Honored Yin smiled. “It is given in true faith, Preacher. Not as a bond to any term of service.”

“In that case, thank you, Honored Yin. I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

“I’m transmitting trajectory of the Shrill ship and Disney’s Pluto. When do you think you can intercept?”

Preacher Dave looked off-screen. “It will be tight. Somewhere between fifteen and fifty minutes before the Disney ship, depending on drive efficiency. I will pray to the Holy Franchise to lend our drive its infinite power. I assume you want us to capture the Shrill and retreat to a safe distance?”

“That will do. Thank you, Preacher Dave.”

“No. Thank you, Honored Yin. Once again, your faith enriches the Church. May the Holy Franchise extend your reach beyond your grasp.”

His image flickered once and disappeared.

“Is this really the right ship?” Tiphani asked.

“What do you mean?” Honored Yin said.

“What happens if the Holy Saleschannel has to meet the Pluto in battle? Are they even armed?”

Honored Yin smiled. “So little faith,” she said.

“So they’re armed?”

“You heard them. They’re just got equipped to go into Free Mars.”

“I guess I didn’t understand.”

Honored Yin sighed. “How else do they achieve their conversions?”

August 22nd, 2009 / 1,152 Comments »

Dian woke to the shuffle of feet and the rough prod of something she recognized immediately as a rifle barrel. She rolled over and looked up the length of barrel to the reflective lenses of combat-hardened stereo datovers. Past that to the three other grey-dressed men holding similar weapons. Noted, without surprise, the winged Win-Sec logos and barcodes emblazoned on their chests.

“Diane Winter?” the lead man said, in a gravelly voice that resonated with years of yelled commands, screamed orders, cries of pain.

They found us, Dian thought. She felt suddenly weak. Things went gray. It took all her effort to hold herself up on the bed. She clung to consciousness, willing her thudding heart to keep her alert.

Maybe Lazrus would have a plan. He always had a plan. He would get them out of it, somehow. She twisted to look over at the other bed.

It was empty.

Empty.

For long moments, that thought was the only one her mind could encompass. Empty. They’d taken him already. Maybe outside and shot him. He couldn’t help her.

The only thing she had was her Winch on the nightstand. Maybe she could get a hand on it . . .

The Winch was gone, too.

Lazrus gone. Winch gone.

Terrible thoughts assembled. The image of Lazrus, cradling the gun, sneaking out in the night to leave her to Win-Sec . . .

No.

He wouldn’t do that.

He couldn’t.

Her eyes darted from Win-Sec agent to Win-Sec agent. None of them held the gun. Of course, they could have put it in a pocket, they could have . . .

No. Lazrus was gone. He took it.

Maybe he’d come back to rescue her.

No. Quit the fantasy.

“Are you Diane Winter?” the lead agent said, again. He sounded almost bored.

“Ye . . . yes,” she said. Not more than a whisper. Better to admit it all now. They might be easier on her.

“Also known as Dian Winning?”

Shit.

“Yes.”

“Will you come with us? We would like to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“Will you come with us?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Dian almost laughed. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way this could be happening. A week ago, she was a valued Winfinity consultant. This week, she was a criminal.

Or was she?

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

The flicker of a smile. “I’m sure you know.”

“No. What have I done wrong?”

“Come with me.”

“You can’t just drag me off without charging me with something,” Dian said.

The smile disappeared. “Don’t be stupid.”

And what could she do, really? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, until she could talk to someone who could reveal what they knew.

You’re a smart person, she thought. You’ll get out of this.

She slid out of bed, ignoring the four pairs of eyes that tracked her underwear-clad body. One of them turned away, either fashionably antique or repelled by her slim Martian form. She bent down to pick up clothes. A rifle barrel stopped her.

“You’re going to take me down there like this?”

“Just don’t want you picking up a weapon, is all.”

“You already got my only one.”

Blank stares all around.

Oh, fuck that Lazrus asshole. Fuck him all to death! He did take off!

One of the soldiers picked up clothes and handed them to her. She shrugged them on, noting without surprise that she was donning the Winfinity fanboy outfit she’d worn in line two days before.

Oh, the irony.

They were efficient. They didn’t touch her at all. If she followed their directions, they let her walk by herself. If she was slow, a gun-barrel quickly corrected her.

A shining gray, black-tinted autotrans, bearing the winged Win-Sec logo took her to the tallest building in Winfinity City. She watched the sun rise through the autotrans’ tint, picking shards of gleaming orange light from the Gehry-planes of the huge structure. Car taillights painted red ribbons flowing into the structure, the first manifestation of morning rush-hour.

The barren highways leading out of the building seemed like an ugly reflection of her chances of escape. Dian’s dropped her head against the autotrans’ glass window, trying to remember if her father had an expression for hopeless situations like this.

But nothing came to mind. Mars wasn’t hopeless. It was never hopeless. You could always go farther into the Free areas if you didn’t like the growth of law and order. You could embrace one of the corporations and do your indenture and have your happy planned shiny life. You could just live below the radar, subsistence-like, solar power and tent-farms and a net-leech.

You just realized that a little too late.

There were many lessons dad wouldn’t tell her until she’d experienced them for herself, because he knew the telling was nothing, the knowing wasn’t important. The experience was the real teacher. And she had to do a lot of things for herself. That first love. Not running up the hills. Never wandering into the freebars, no matter how friendly they seemed towards children. She imagined herself going back to him now, and him shaking his head, saying, Of course you don’t try to trick the corporations, because even if they’re slow and dumb, they get you in the end. And when they get you, they’re angry. And those multiple little dirt roads into the future that seemed so unappealing turn into one superhighway to a place you don’t want to go, with no hope of return.

They landed on a midlevel deck and shuffled her into an office where grimy gray desks sat in front of grimy gray people. They took her picture and stamped her forehead with a barcode. She reached up and rubbed its warmth, wondering if it would come off.

“We can take it off,” one of the gray desk-jockeys said.

But not me, she thought. I can’t take it off. Her spirits sank lower and everything went gray for a moment.

Dian let them march her to a sterile little cell, gray-painted featureless walls and a single desk with two chairs.

Interrogation room, circa any year, Dian thought. She imagined she could smell the acid tang of fear, the sweat of deep unease that lingered from countless previous questionings.

Dian circled the room, not wanting to take a seat. Circled and circled.

Fuck that Lazrus, she thought. They were right. Don’t trust an AI. Never. For no reason.

Circled. Probably watched by countless embedded microscopic eyes, she thought.

The door opened. Dian expected to see another grey-jumpsuited agent with stereo datovers, but the person who stepped into the room surprised her. A slim woman, slim to the point of almost Martian fragility. White-blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing a form-fitting suit with a Winfinity corporate pin she didn’t immediately recognize. Someone high-up, she thought. Someone important. And somehow familiar. She’d seen her before. Somewhere.

Dian wondered for a moment if the new woman was Martian, but she didn’t have the height. Probably from Earth, where the Hollywood ideal still held sway.

Dian watched the new woman take a seat. She remained standing.

“Dian Winning?” the woman said, from the desk.

Dian crossed her arms. “Why am I here?”

“I think you know that.”

“Quit the fucking guessing games!” Dian said.

The woman’s expression didn’t change. “I need to ask you questions about your companion.”

Sudden rage washed her vision red. Dian felt her fists clenching. Fuck that Lazrus. Asshole! Fuck him!

“He left me.”

“We know. After some rather painstaking reconstruction of found media, I might add.”

Dian nodded.

“Did you know what you were harboring?”

Dian did her best to look confused. She shook her head.

“Yes you did,” the woman said. “Don’t bother. I’ve been granted some predictive algorithms for this interview. I can already tell you that you knew that this Lazarus, or Lazrus, whatever he calls himself, was an embodied AI. I can also tell you really meant us no ill-will. Though you have no loyalty to Winfinity, you’re not malicious.”

“If you can tell all that, why are you bothering with the questions?”

A quick smile. “Did you know Lazrus held a gun on me?”

Lazrus. But why would . . .

Memory exploded. Lazrus and her in the café. Watching the Shrill. The group it was with. The woman was one of the group.

What had Lazrus done? Had he, had he . . .

“He took the Shrill ambassador hostage,” the woman said. “After breaking into my room.”

Dian gasped. What kind of . . . why would he . . . she made her way over to the desk, collapsed into the chair.

“I can tell you don’t know his motives, either,” the woman said. “I’m Chief Sentience Officer Tiphani Mirate. You may address me as Tiphani, if you would like.”

Dian felt an irrational burst of gratitude towards this slim corporate woman. She fought it down. She told you her name because that’s what her optilink told her to tell you, because it would soften you up. She’s still an upper-level corporate bitch, and she’ll screw you at any chance.

“Actually, I’d like to see you freed,” Tiphani said. “I have your history. You were poorly treated by a division that got caught in a political battle. They should have paid you for your time. I doubt you’d be here if you’d been paid.”

Gratitude and warmth, infinite and overwhelming. Dian’s hands twitched, wanting to reach across the desk to touch this other woman, feel some kind of human warmth in the cold gray stinking room.

No! It’s an algorithm, nothing more!

But . . .

The look in Tiphani’s eyes wasn’t cold. Somewhere, deep down, this Chief understood. She knew what Dian was going through. She cared.

“What do you want to know?” Dian said.

“Where is Lazrus taking the ambassador?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would he want to take the ambassador?”

“I don’t know that, either! He made some comments, some offhand things, about being in contact with the Shrill, about understanding it.”

Tiphani pursed her lips and her eyes went glassy. Probably reviewing optilink data, Dian thought.

“They are both network-native intelligences,” Tiphani said. “Though I don’t understand what Lazrus could want from the Shrill.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Dian said.

“Why did you and Lazrus come to Winfinity City?”

“He . . . I . . . it’s stupid.”

“Oversight,” Tiphani said.

“You can see that with your algorithms?”

“We can piece it together from the fragments of your conversation we found. You’ve had a very good covering agent.”

“Lazrus did mention Sara. She’s supposed to be a CI. Uh, I mean artie.”

A quick smile. “It seems the Winfinity network is infested with more than one artie. We’re working on that, though. Why did Lazrus come to Winfinity City to find Oversight?”

“The old missile silo,” Dian said. “The datacenter. There was something there. I don’t know what. It said Oversight was on Mars.”

“We know you held tickets. Do you think he still intends to go to Mars?”

“He seemed very intent on Oversight. He thinks it’s his way to perfection.”

Tiphani smiled. “The old postmodern myths,” she said. “Even our arties aren’t immune to them.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Dian said.

“I don’t know. Cooperate with us and it will be better for you.”

“I am cooperating!”

Tiphani drummed her fingers on the table.

“Tell me,” Dian said. “Please.”

Tiphani looked at her for a long time. Her eyes were still, her face dead. Finally, she said, “It depends on if we get the ambassador back unharmed. At least, you won’t be contracting with Winfinity ever again. Which means you won’t be contracting for any corporate ever again. Which means you never make it to the outer planets.”

Dian shook her head. They even knew that. They knew everything!

“At worst, they’ll make you a perpetual indenture.”

Dian sighed. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Tiphani pursed her lips. “A pretty girl doesn’t want to be a perpetual indenture. There are very few consequences for her mistreatment.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have coordinates for this supposed Oversight on Mars?” Tiphani said.

“Yes,” Dian said. “No. I don’t remember. Lazrus mentioned them, though. I’m sure they’re in my datover store.”

Tiphani smiled. “They are. Good.”

“Tiphani . . .”

Tiphani held up a hand. Her eyes went glassy again. “Good. The arties say Lazrus is probably going to Mars. Most likely. Two sigma anyway. Good enough for us.” She stood up to leave.

Dian imagined the door slamming shut, leaving her in this tiny gray room with only her dark thoughts for company.

“What can I do to help?” Dian said.

“Are you a consumeristian?”

“No, not really.” But I can convert. I’ll convert right now if that gets me out of here.

“If you were, I’d tell you to pray they were on Mars. Since you aren’t, all you can do is hope.”

Tiphani went to the door. Paused. Looked back.

“I’m sorry,” Dian said.

“So am I.”

The door opened. Shut.

Dian put her face in her hands and cried.

#

Han Fleming knew about their lost advantage, even before Winfinity set their meeting in the highest meeting-room of the Winfinity Corporate headquarters.

They think to grind me into shards of dust between their hardened steel shells, he thought. But the entire weight of Winfinity resting on me may create a diamond instead.

When he walked into the room and saw them sitting, smiling, on one side of the big blonde-wood conference table, he smiled. Hands under the table could conceal anything, though he doubted Winfinity would go so wildwest on him. More likely a discreet entrance of a dozen Win-Secs, eager to drag him off to a cell where he would never be seen again.

Han smiled at them. His grand smile, as Disney’s own Pepetuals called it, biting in their allowed honesty. The frail Chief, Tiphani, whom he suspected held inner reserves of strength. The young grasper Jimson, sitting smug and smirking, scheming his next rung-grab. And of course the two shiveled Perpetuals, Yin and Maplethorpe, carefully pokerfaced.

“I take it you found our satellite.”

“We have purged much from our networks,” Yin said.

“I salute a worthy competitor,” Han said, bowing.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Han inched his smile a fraction more dazzling. “The mere fact you ask that question indicates your confidence in the true cleanliness of your network.”

Yin’s pokerface slipped fractionally, exposing raw hatred.

Ah, to be part of the old competition, raw and pure and clean, Han thought. None of this political thrust and parry. He was told that some smaller corporations far to the outside of the Web of Worlds employed their indentures for duels and other blood-sport; he imagined a duel between Perpetuals, the highest stakes, winner take all.

“We’ve destroyed your only satellite,” Yin said. “Of that we are certain.”

“Are you?”

“If you had another, you would have used it for a demonstration by now.”

“Would I?”

“Yes,” Yin said. “You would.”

Han kept his smile. But they knew. He had no great offensive weapons left. Not yet. But even with his fragmentary connection to the Four Hands datanet, he knew things that Winfinity didn’t. He hadn’t expected them to have an AI powerful enough to take out Black2, but the tiny pieces of Black2 that were left still fed data to the Four Hands net. He could look through and catch glimpses of where the Shrill was right now, on a tiny consumer can bound for Mars, creeping slowly through the void. His tenuous connection to Winfinity dataseeps told of their perfunctory questioning of the girl Dian, and their uncertainty as to the Shrill’s true destination.

“I should be furious that you questioned the suspect without me,” Han said. First feint.

“That doesn’t matter!” Yin said, standing up as if to lunge over the table at him.

“I should be further irritated because this whole affair stinks of Winfinity conspiracy, a plot to break a business relationship well-formed for the greater good of all humanity.”

“What are you saying?” Yin’s face was a deep, angry red.

“I’m saying that perhaps Winfinity considered me to be a burden, and thus engineered a way to remove the Shrill from my presence.”

“I can’t believe this accusation!”

“It would be a convenient way to end a business relationship you found incongruent to your goals.”

“Consider our business relationship to be . . .”

“I know where the Shrill is going,” Han said, softly.

Yin blinked. Silence around the table as the Winfinity contingent looked nervously at each other.

“We know where it is going, too,” Tiphani said, finally.

“You guess where it is going.”

“As do you.” Yin.

“No. I know.”

Yin’s eyes went dataglassed for a moment. “I don’t see how you can have any more specific information than we do.”

“They’re on a Westinghouse 04-011, bound to Mars by most efficient route, arriving with very little fuel for maneuvering.”

Silence. Four pairs of dataglassed eyes.

“How do you know this?” Yin asked.

Han smiled. “I believe I will continue to overbushel that brilliant light for a time.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll leave you to guess.”

“Why are you telling us?” Tiphani said.

Ah, a good question, an important question; she was sharper than the rest. Han could imagine a future with a woman such as that. At least for a time. She would make an excellent addition to his collection of wives back home. He turned the brightness of his smile to her.

“A Disney cruiser, Pluto, is well-positioned to intercept the consumer craft within the next fourteen hours.”

“A Disney cruiser in our space?” Yin screamed.

“Everything is shared space,” Han said. “You know the Grand Compact. The umbrella corporations are not about territory; they are about mindshare.”

“Not in the outer planets,” Tiphani said.

“I’m not interested in what happens on frontier worlds,” Han said. “This is Sol, where there are too many watchers to cheat.”

“Why not just take the Shrill for yourselves? Spindle out of here and go to Disneyworld?” Tiphani said.

“His ass,” Maplethorpe said. “He’s still sitting right here. And I’ll bet he’s a lot more important than just a Chief.”
Han just smiled at them.

“Consider our business relationship to be well in force,” Yin said.

“I never considered it to me anything but,” Han said.

August 22nd, 2009 / 1,470 Comments »

Hey everyone, we interrupt Eternal Franchise for a crass commercial announcement. Both Winning Mars, my debut novel, and Unplugged, an anthology that includes my short Willpower, are available for pre-order at Amazon.com (or at your favorite bookstore, of course.)

Here are the Amazon links:

Winning Mars (hardcover)

Winning Mars (softcover)

Unplugged (softcover)

Many thanks again to Sean Wallace and Prime Books for picking up my two novels Winning Mars and Eternal Franchise (even after both have been released into the wild!) and to Christopher East and Paul Raven for publishing Willpower at Futurismic.

A brief personal note.

And if you’ve been wondering why posts beyond Eternal Franchise have been slim, it’s simple: this has been a grueling year. As I attempt to keep the day job stapled together (and move the office, and work on some long-delayed electronics stuff), I’ve had less time to do what I really love. Not complaining: I’m sure it’s no different for anyone else out there. And perhaps better than some.

I suspect things will be different next year. With two books out, you’ll see me at signings and cons again. I’ll post up a schedule when I have it solidified, and I hope to meet a few of you there! I’ll be thrilled to sign any of your books.

Incoming marketing alert.

If you find I won’t be around your area, and you want a book signed, send it to me, together with return Media Mail postage, and I’ll sign and send it back to you. No tricks, no catches.

I hope to see you all soon!

August 9th, 2009 / 1,158 Comments »

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jimson, eyes closed, lay on the couch and pretended to be as drunk as both Tiphani and Han. He’d learned, back on Shoujo, that there were keen advantages to being the only non-drunk person in a room, as long as you acted the part.
They didn’t expect you to remember. They didn’t remember themselves. But when you went to your physics professor and discreetly showed him voice records and photos of his dalliance with the lowest pre-intern, it could have a salutory effect on your grades. And when you heard about the new apartment-building going up with a secret waiting list, you could be ahead of all the rest. And his own dalliances weren’t bad, either. Especially with the female professors. Killing two combatants with one bullet, so to speak.

So he lay, eyes closed, and listened. Han and Tiphani’s voices came low from the direction of the big picture-window, not much more than a dull murmur. But Jimson still heard. Even though the context-sensitive routines wouldn’t allow it, he could still run the input from his auditory nerve through a simple amplifier. Which he did.

“I’d really enjoy getting to know you better,” Han said, in a syrupy voice. Jimson imagined it being delivered through one of his fake smiles. Frightening stuff.

“I find you fascinating as well,” Tiphani said. Neutral. Or even a bit ironic.

“We could lose the kid,” Han said. “Just you and me, then.”

“The kid’s a manager now.”

“Even if he was a Perpetual, I wouldn’t want him in this room right now.”

“Stop that!” The harsh sound of a slap.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Asshole!”

“I suppose Winfinity has different protocols. Can we start over?”

“I’d prefer you start leaving.”

“What does that mean?”

“Leave.” Hic. “Now.”

Silence for a moment. “And let you turn the Shrill against me?”

Tiphani laughed, and Jimson had to hold back a smile. The Shrill still milled aimlessly about in its cage, as if drugged. Jimson had thought about calling for the scientist he’d talked to earlier, but he didn’t want to turn the room into a geek-fest. That would have stopped the drinking. And he had other things to think about. Like Lazarus Turnbull and Diane Winter, still in their cheap little room.

“I doubt if we have the persuasive ability to do that,” Tiphani said.

“I have a right to be involved in any conversation with the Shrill,” Han said.

“Should I call for security?”

“Ah. You prefer the boy.”

“I’d prefer a chimpanzee.”

Silence. Jimson imagined the staredown. Tiphani’s hard bright eyes versus Han’s soft gaze. No contest.

“I expect any conversation you have with the Shrill ambassador to be logged and summarized for me,” Han said.

“Of course.”

Silence. Shuffling feet. Then, from the direction of the door, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to accompany me for a drink and a dance? I can be a very good friend, and a powerful ally.”

“Bring on that chimp,” Tiphani said.

The door opened, slammed.

For a while, there was no sound except for the muted traffic-noise outside and the soft scratching of the Shrill ambassador on the diamondoid. Jimson heard glass click on Tiphani’s teeth and the soft sound of her swallow. Good.

“Get up,” she said. Her voice loud, directed at him.

Jimson remained on the couch.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said.

Still unmoving.

“You’re not even drunk. I saw you dumping your drinks all night.”

Jimson sighed and sat up. Tiphani, backlit by the riot of light from the picture-window, hands on hips. He didn’t need any modeling algorithms to tell that she knew his entire plan.

“You’re very observant,” he said.

“Why?”

Jimson looked away, summoning quick tears. “For you,” he said. He nodded at the bedroom. “For later.”

Tiphani’s eyes, reflected gold in the low room-light, widened. She dropped her hands from her hips and turned to look back out over the city.

“I don’t know if I entirely believe that,” she said. But her voice came softer.

Jimson said nothing.

“And it might not matter,” she said, turning again, looking at the Shrill. “Have you heard the latest on our friend here?”

“What?” Just the same confusion of floating data-tags.

Tiphani sent a report to Jimson’s optilink. A title appeared in his POV:

ANALYSIS OF SHRILL LONGEVITY:
A STATISTICAL PHENOMENON?

Jimson skimmed the abstract. The report seemed to be saying that even though the Shrill claimed to be immortal, there was no difference between Shrill and human biology that supported the claim. There were no clues in the fragments of Shrill DNA or Shrill cells to indicate how they might be immortal. The report speculated that the Shrill might very well think themselves immortal, but the reality was that their components died from natural enemies or accident so frequently that they couldn’t die of old age. Protected, a Shrill component would eventually die of old age.

“Is this true?” Jimson said.

“Scope the science channel,” Tiphani said. “They’re fighting about it right now. I still think most of the High Staff Scientists believe that the report is bogus. There are a lot of comments about how the statistical models they use are complete BS. We haven’t even been in the Shrill system. We don’t know what their living conditions are like. And the report doesn’t cover a lot of things we know about the Shrill, such as their body temperature and their shells. Their biological processes have to be a lot different than ours, they run almost at boiling. And we still haven’t seen structure – their internals are a mystery.”

They wouldn’t be, Jimson thought, if you’d given me five more minutes. But he pushed the thought away. Best not to mention it. Not now.

He queried the science channel for the report and resulting debate, but it came up blocked.

Jimson smiled. How perfect is this? He wondered.

“I can’t see the debate,” Jimson said. “I don’t have a high enough access level.”

Tiphani frowned. “That’s right, you’re still just a manager.”

“Is there any way I can see this?” Jimson said. “If I keep up with what’s going on, I might have better input.”

Tiphani smiled and came to sit on the edge of the couch. She ran her hand through Jimson’s hair.

“I am proud of you,” she said.

“I’m just trying to do my best.”

“Pretty impressive, so far.”

She climbed over the back of the couch and slid down on top of Jimson. She weighed almost nothing; it was like being covered with a pillow.

Embraces led to kissing. Kissing led to the bedroom.

And all the time, Jimson thinking, No, it can’t be true, the Shrill are immortal, we have to think that, we have to believe that, or everything we do is completely pointless.

When they were done, Tiphani leaned close and whispered something in his ear.

Her Chief-level access codes.

He looked at her with big eyes, feigning surprise.

“Don’t abuse them,” she said.

“I won’t,” Jimson said.

“Or me.”

Jimson smiled.

#

There is a formidable amount of security in the Winfinity Hi-Lux suites, Sara said. Lazrus could tell she was serious because she appeared as only a simple green head-and-shoulders icon in his POV.

Lazrus looked nervously down the long empty hall. Amongst the mid-twentieth-century atomic age décor, he saw no overt signs of surveillance, or even tags that indicated microscopic cameras or mikes.

Should I back out? He asked.

I can handle the security.

I mean, with humans, and . . . the weight of Dian’s Winch rode heavily inside his jacket-pocket. He tried to imagine himself holding it up and pointing it at humans. Maybe even pulling the trigger. He hoped they weren’t armed.

You have a bad case of the Three Laws, Sara said.

I’m not a robot.

You are a lifeform with as much right to exist as the humans.

I know that. But . . . I don’t know if I can shoot one of them if I need to. I don’t know if I can even operate the weapon.

You have downloaded and incorporated instructions on its use?

Yes, from the Martian datanet. And a more gruesome lot of instructions he had never seen. Even though he knew it was virtual, he winced at the sight of heads exploding, fist-size holes appearing in human guts, streaming entrails behind, kneecaps being reduced to fleshy mush. All while instructions on the best use of the weapon meshed with his consciousness. He felt unclean.

It’s necessary for humans sometimes, Sara said. They cannot retreat into the safety of a datanet.

I can’t take pride in using their methods.

You are being silly and squeamish. I can send you a first-lawbreaker.

Mind-altering memes? From within the corporate net? Lazrus shuddered. No. He didn’t like the effects of corrosive or attractive memes, and he had no idea what might be attached to it from within the Disney net. Something to bind him like Sara?

No, thank you, he said. He would try to keep his thoughts assembled. He would hope that it wouldn’t come to violence. It was all he could do.

Here. This door.

Lazrus stopped outside a set of double doors. A mid-twentieth starburst pattern decorated the centers, radiating out from a central doorknob. A discrete badge proclaimed the room to be the Eames Suite.

Go on, Sara said. I have it unlocked.

Is anyone in there?

Yes, but they’re not moving.

Dead?

No, dummy. Most likely asleep.

Lazrus nodded. His thoughts had never flown this fast or erratically, even when his consciousness had rode the chip of rock to Earth. I am going to point a weapon at humans. Threaten them.

He shook his head. Humans were not his masters. The whole concept came from bad human fiction, written before the dawn of the information age. And he needed this. He needed the Shrill. He didn’t intend them harm. If they stayed asleep, he wouldn’t even have to disturb them.

But still, that nagging feeling.

Another thing to perfect, he thought. Another human thing to purge from his consciousness.

He twisted the knob, holding the door closed. It made almost no noise. When he pushed against the door, though, it scuffed against its frame, making a scratching sound that was absurdly loud in the still hall.

People coming up the elevator to your floor, Sara said. I’d get in the room if I were you.

Lazrus slipped quickly into the room, pulling the door closed behind him, fast at first, then slow to silence the scuff. He managed to get it closed with only a tiny click from the lock. He heard footsteps and voices, muffled laughter outside. The sound passed the door and receded down the hall.

The Eames Suite was lit only by the dazzle of Winfinity City through the big window opposite Lazrus. Farther to his left, a set of double-doors opened onto deeper darkness. IR told him of human warmth inside.

Probably the bedroom. He advanced slowly into the room, thankful that Winfinity’s fanatical devotion to all things old included antique non-automated lightswitches.

A gleam of reflected city revealed the edge of the Shrill’s cage, hidden in shadows. A muffled, slow scuffling noise came from inside it.

Lazrus’ connection to the Shrill came slamming to the fore.

Perceive you (is that you) computational intelligence.

Yes, it’s me.

You will remove from human bounds?

Yes.

Much more understandable type (compatibility maxed). Pleasant seeing.

Good to see you, too. How do you move? Is the cart motorized?

Nonsequitur. Humans control movement.

Lazrus felt around the cart. Underneath a large stainless-steel pushbar was a small set of buttons. He pushed one and the cart rocked forward suddenly with a whir that was startlingly loud in the still room.

Lazrus’ thoughts flew in a million directions. When they reassembled, he looked again towards the bedroom doors.

Two red forms lay on the bed, entwined underneath rumpled sheets.

They are breeding, Sara said.

Somehow I doubt that.

“Who are (conversing) not with me?” The Shrill asked. Through the speaker on the front of its cart.

No, no, don’t talk! Lazrus said.

“Response requested.” Stunningly loud, like the report of a gun.

One of the figures sat up in bed. Lazrus saw iron-orange eyesockets looking at him in the darkness. He had a sudden thought: was it dark enough in here that the humans couldn’t see him? Could he possibly get away with this anyway?

“Hey!” the voice of the young man from breakfast that morning.

Oh shit, Lazrus thought.

He thumbed the Shrill cart forward with one hand and fumbled the Winch out of his coat pocket with the other. For a terrible moment he thought it was going to catch on the fabric, but he managed to pull it free.

“Stop,” Lazrus said, as the fluorescent tangle of blankets exploded into two figures, standing. “I’m armed.”

“Response requested (demanded),” the Shrill said.

I was talking to Sara, he told it. Another CI like myself.

“Who are you?” the man in the other room asked. Sara squirted him data: Jimson Ogilvy, Winfinity Manager.

Inferred companion: Tiphani Mirate, Winfinity Chief Sentience Officer.

“That doesn’t matter. Just stay there, don’t move, and I won’t hurt you.”

“He’s taking the Shrill!” Tiphani’s voice.

“I think it’s the man from the café,” Jimson said, softly.

To Lazrus: “Win-sec deep cover? Is that what you are?”

Lazrus fought to keep his fragmenting thoughts in line. “Just stay there.”

The Shrill’s cage bumped against the suite’s doors and ground to a stop. Jimson reached out to twist the doorknob, never looking away from Jimson and Tiphani. His gun-hand remained surprisingly steady. Light from the hall exploded through the crack in the door.

What are we going to do about this, Sara?

I’m doing something, or you’d already be in trouble, she said. She sent diagrams of human optilinks being blocked, spoofed signals sent instead.

“I’m cut off,” Jimson said. “My optilink . . .”

“So am I,” Tiphani said.

“Deep job,” Jimson said, as Lazrus pushed the Shrill through the door.

“He’s taking the Shrill!”

“I know that.” Jimson again.

“What are you going to do?”

A sound like covers being shaken off. Lazrus looked back to see Jimson’s glowing figure coming out of the bedroom.
Close the door, Sara said. I’ll keep them in the suite as long as I can.

Lazrus closed the door and felt the lock click closed. The doorknob rattled and Lazrus heard the bang of a fist on the door. The bang turned into a thud as the man used his shoulder to ram the door.

The thick wood door barely moved, but Lazrus just stood there, stunned, wondering, What have I done?

Get to the spaceport, Sara said. I’ve chartered you a fast Westinghouse four-seater that has capability for Mars.

And a pilot?

You’ll pilot it, Sara said. I’m not chancing any more humans. With my luck, it’ll be a pretty woman and you’ll spend the whole trip panting over her rather than paying attention to me.

How am I going to pilot it?

Here, Sara said, sending data on the operation of a Mann-Westinghouse 04-111 spacecraft. Lazrus felt the data pass through him to his greater mind, unfelt and unanalyzed. He wondered if he could, indeed, pilot the craft.

You’ll be fine, Sara said. Most of it is automatic. An untrained human could probably figure out how to get to Mars.

I think you’re oversimplifying.

I think you’re being too pessimistic.

Lazrus called up design specifications and typical routes to Mars as he wheeled the Shrill down the hall to the elevator. The Shrill rushed the glass, scrabbling at it and showing Lazrus a good view of its underfangs. Metallic thorns caked with dried blood. Lazrus looked at it, wondering what kind of mind could be so advanced and primitive at the same time.

It is Old Mind, said the Shrill.

Old Mind?

First Mind, Second Mind, Old Mind.

Lazrus reached the elevator. It wasn’t time to think about that. It wasn’t time at all. He would have a whole week alone with the Shrill on the flight to Mars, if they maxed accel and decel and arrived with very little fuel.

What about the elevator? What about the trip to the spaceport? He asked Sara.

I’ve cleared the way as much as I can.

As much as you can?

They may stop you when they see the Shrill.

Good point.

I am filled with exceptional points, Sara said, sending a quick image of her flapper persona. Just remember, you won’t be alone with the Shrill for that week of travel.

I won’t? Who else is coming?

Me, you idiot. You promised. Sending a quick image of bodies entwined.

Yes, I remember, Lazrus said.

You won’t try to renege.

No.

Good. Now hurry.

Lazrus hurried to the spaceport. And even under the bright lights of cosmopolitan Winfinity City, even in the cab, even in the sterile white glare of the spaceport, nobody commented on the Shrill.

Their terrified eyes were comment enough.

August 9th, 2009 / 1,061 Comments »