Accelerando - Charles Stross (classic books for 10 year olds .txt) 📗

one, human-equivalent, intelligences. But

that’s just the short-term business model. Long-term, I want to

acquire a total lock on the history futures market by having a

complete archive of human experiences, from the dawn of the fifth

singularity on up. No more unknown extinct species. That should give

us something to trade with the next-generation intelligences - the

ones who aren’t our mind children and barely remember us. At the very

least, it gives us a chance to live again, a long way out in deep

time. Alternatively, it can be turned into a lifeboat. If we can’t

compete with our creations, at least we’ve got somewhere to flee,

those of us who want to. I’ve got agents working on a comet, out in

the Oort cloud - we could move the archive to it, turn it into a

generation ship with room for billions of evacuees running much slower

than realtime in archive space until we find a new world to settle.”

 

“Is not sounding good to me,” Boris comments. He spares a worried

glance for an oriental-looking woman who is watching their debate

silently from the fringe.

 

“Has it really gone that far?” asks Amber.

 

“There are bailiffs hunting you in the inner system,” Pamela says

bluntly. “After your bankruptcy proceedings, various corporates got

the idea that you might be concealing something. The theory was that

you were insane to take such a huge gamble on the mere possibility of

there being an alien artifact within a few light-years of home, so you

had to have information above and beyond what you disclosed. Theories

include your cat - hardware tokens were in vogue in the fifties -

being the key to a suite of deposit accounts; the fuss mainly died

down after Economics 2.0 took over, but some fairly sleazy conspiracy

freaks refuse to let go.”

 

She grins, frighteningly. “Which is why I suggested to your son that

he make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

 

“What’s that?” asks a voice from below knee level.

 

Pamela looks down, an expression of deep distaste on her face. “Why

should I tell you?” she asks, leaning on her cane: “After the

disgraceful way you repaid my hospitality! All you’ve got coming from

me is a good kicking. If only my knee was up to the job.”

 

The cat arches its back: Its tail fluffs out with fear as its hair

stands on end, and it takes Amber a moment to realize that it isn’t

responding to Pamela, but to something behind the old woman. “Through

the domain wall. Outside this biome. So cold. What’s that?”

 

Amber turns to follow the cat’s gaze, and her jaw drops. “Were you

expecting visitors?” she asks Sirhan, shakily.

 

“Visit -” He looks round to see what everybody’s gaping at and

freezes. The horizon is brightening with a false dawn: the fusion

spark of a deorbiting spacecraft.

 

“It’s bailiffs,” says Pamela, head cocked to one side as if listening

to an antique bone-conduction earpiece. “They’ve come for your

memories, dear,” she explains, frowning. “They say we’ve got five

kiloseconds to surrender everything. Otherwise, they’re going to blow

us apart …”

 

*

 

“You’re all in big trouble,” says the orangutan, sliding gracefully

down one enormous rib to land in an ungainly heap in front of Sirhan.

 

Sirhan recoils in disgust. “You again! What do you want from me this

time?”

 

“Nothing.” The ape ignores him: “Amber, it is time for you to call

your father.”

 

“Yeah, but will he come when I call?” Amber stares at the ape. Her

pupils expand: “Hey, you’re not my -”

 

“You.” Sirhan glares at the ape. “Go away! I didn’t invite you here!”

 

“More unwelcome visitors?” asks Pamela, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, you did.” The ape grins at Amber, then crouches down, hoots

quietly and beckons tothe cat, who is hiding behind one of the

graceful silver servitors.

 

“Manfred isn’t welcome here. And neither is that woman,” Sirhan

swears. He catches Pamela’s eye: “Did you know anything about this? Or

about the bailiffs?” He gestures at the window, beyond which the drive

flare casts jagged shadows. It’s dropping toward the horizon as it

deorbits - next time it comes into view, it’ll be at the leading edge

of a hypersonic shock wave, streaking toward them at cloud top height

in order to consummate the robbery.

 

“Me?” Pamela snorts. “Grow up.” She eyes the ape warily. “I don’t have

that much control over things. And as for bailiffs, I wouldn’t set

them on my worst enemies. I’ve seen what those things can do.” For a

moment her eyes flash anger: “Grow up, why don’t you!” she repeats.

 

“Yes, please do,” says another voice from behind Sirhan. The new

speaker is a woman, slightly husky, accented - he turns to see her:

tall, black-haired, wearing a dark man’s suit of archaic cut and

mirrored glasses. “Ah, Pamela, ma ch�rie! Long time no cat fight.” She

grins frighteningly and holds out a hand.

 

Sirhan is already off-balance. Now, seeing his honorary aunt in human

skin for a change, he looks at the ape in confusion. Behind him Pamela

advances on Annette and takes her hand in her own fragile fingers.

“You look just the same,” she says gravely. “I can see why I was

afraid of you.”

 

“You.” Amber backs away until she bumps into Sirhan, at whom she

glares. “What the fuck did you invite both of them for? Are you trying

to start a thermonuclear war?”

 

“Don’t ask me,” he says helplessly, “I don’t know why they came!

What’s this about -” He focuses on the orangutan, who is now letting

the cat lick one hairy palm. “Your cat?”

 

“I don’t think the orange hair suits Aineko,” Amber says slowly. “Did

I tell you about our hitchhiker?”

 

Sirhan shakes his head, trying to dispel the confusion. “I don’t think

we’ve got time. In under two hours the bailiffs up there will be back.

They’re armed and dangerous, and if they turn their drive flame on the

roof and set fire to the atmosphere in here, we’ll be in trouble - it

would rupture our lift cells, and even computronium doesn’t work too

well under a couple of million atmospheres of pressurized metallic

hydrogen.”

 

“Well, you’d better make time.” Amber takes his elbow in an iron grip

and turns him toward the footpath back to the museum. “Crazy,” she

mutters. “Tante Annette and Pamela Macx on the same planet! And

they’re being friendly! This can’t be a good sign.” She glances round,

sees the ape: “You. Come here. Bring the cat.”

 

“The cat’s -” Sirhan trails off. “I’ve heard about your cat,” he says,

lamely. “You took him with you in the Field Circus.”

 

“Really?” She glances behind them. The ape blows a kiss at her; it’s

cradling the cat on one shoulder and tickling it under the chin. “Has

it occurred to you that Aineko isn’t just a robot cat?”

 

“Ah,” Sirhan says faintly. “Then the bailiffs -”

 

“No, that’s all bullshit. What I mean is, Aineko is a

human-equivalent, or better, artificial intelligence. Why do you think

he keeps a cat’s body?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“Because humans always underestimate anything that’s small, furry, and

cute,” says the orangutan.

 

“Thanks, Aineko,” says Amber. She nods at the ape. “How are you

finding it?”

 

Aineko shambles along, with a purring cat draped over one shoulder,

and gives the question due consideration. “Different,” she says, after

a bit. “Not better.”

 

“Oh.” Amber sounds slightly disappointed to Sirhan’s confused ears.

They pass under the fronds of a weeping willow, round the side of a

pond, beside an overgrown hibiscus bush, then up to the main entrance

of the museum.

 

“Annette was right about one thing,” she says quietly. “Trust no one.

I think it’s time to raise Dad’s ghost.” She relaxes her grip on

Sirhan’s elbow, and he pulls it away and glares at her. “Do you know

who the bailiffs are?” she asks.

 

“The usual.” He gestures at the hallway inside the front doors.

“Replay the ultimatum, if you please, City.”

 

The air shimmers with an archaic holographic field, spooling the

output from a compressed visual presentation tailored for human

eyesight. A piratical-looking human male wearing a tattered and

much-patched space suit leers at the recording viewpoint from the

pilot’s seat of an ancient Soyuz capsule. One of his eyes is

completely black, the sign of a high-bandwidth implant. A weedy

moustache crawls across his upper lip. “Greetins an’ salutations,” he

drawls. “We is da’ Californi-uhn nashnul gaard an’ we-are got lett-uhz

o’ marque an’ reprise from da’ ledgish-fuckn’ congress o’ da excited

snakes of uhhmerica.”

 

“He sounds drunk!” Amber’s eyes are wide. “What’s this -”

 

“Not drunk. CJD is a common side effect of dodgy Economics 2.0 neural

adjuvant therapy. Unlike the old saying, you do have to be mad to work

there. Listen.”

 

City, which paused the replay for Amber’s outburst, permits it to

continue. “Youse harbbring da’ fugitive Amber Macx an’ her magic cat.

We wan’ da cat. Da puta’s yours. Gotser uno orbit: You ready give us

ther cat an’ we no’ zap you.”

 

The screen goes dead. “That was a fake, of course,” Sirhan adds,

looking inward where a ghost is merging memories from the city’s

orbital mechanics subsystem: “They aerobraked on the way in, hit

ninety gees for nearly half a minute. While that was sent afterward.

It’s just a machinima avatar, a human body that had been through that

kind of deceleration would be pulped.”

 

“So the bailiffs are -” Amber is visibly struggling to wrap her head

around the situation.

 

“They’re not human,” Sirhan says, feeling a sudden pang of - no, not

affection, but the absence of malice will do for the moment - toward

this young woman who isn’t the mother he loves to resent, but who

might have become her in another world. “They’ve absorbed a lot of

what it is to be human, but their corporate roots show. Even though

they run on an hourly accounting loop, rather than one timed for the

production cycles of dirt-poor Sumerian peasant farmers, and even

though they’ve got various ethics and business practice patches, at

root they’re not human: They’re limited liability companies.”

 

“So what do they want?” asks Pierre, making Sirhan jump, guiltily. He

hadn’t realized Pierre could move that quietly.

 

“They want money. Money in Economy 2.0 is quantized originality - that

which allows one sentient entity to outmaneuver another. They think

your cat has got something, and they want it. They probably wouldn’t

mind eating your brains, too, but -” He shrugs. “Obsolete food is

stale food.”

 

“Hah.” Amber looks pointedly at Pierre, who nods at her.

 

“What?” asks Sirhan.

 

“Where’s the - uh, cat?” asks Pierre.

 

“I think Aineko’s got it.” She looks thoughtful. “Are you thinking

what I’m thinking?”

 

“Time to drop off the hitcher.” Pierre nods. “Assuming it agrees …”

 

“Do you mind explaining yourselves?” Sirhan asks, barely able to

contain himself.

 

Amber grins, looking up at the Mercury capsule suspended high

overhead. “The conspiracy theorists were half right. Way back in the

Dark Ages, Aineko cracked the second alien transmission. We had a very

good idea we were going to find something out there, we just weren’t

totally sure exactly what. Anyway, the creature incarnated in that cat

body right now isn’t Aineko - it’s our mystery hitchhiker. A parasitic

organism that infects, well, we ran across something not too

dissimilar to Economics 2.0 out at the router and beyond, and it’s got

parasites. Our hitcher is one such creature - it’s nearest

human-comprehensible analogy would be the Economics