with too many implicit reminders of the nature of things to be faced with the same equanimity. Thomas valued that. He didn’t want to grow complacent—or worse. Visitors helped him to retain a clear sense of what he’d become.
Durham said, “Of course I’m aware of your situation—you have one of the most secure arrangements I’ve seen. I’ve read the incorporation documents of the Soliton Foundation, and they’re close to watertight. Under present legislation.”
Thomas laughed heartily. “But you think you can do better? Soliton pays its most senior lawyers almost a million a year; you should have got yourself some forged qualifications and asked me to employ you.
Durham’s puppet inclined its head in a gesture of polite assent; Thomas had a sudden vision of a second puppet—one Durham truly felt himself to be inhabiting—hunched over a control panel, hitting a button on an etiquette sub-menu.
The visible puppet said, “Why spend a fortune upgrading, for the sake of effectively slowing down progress? And I agree with you about the outlook for reform—in the short term. Of course people begrudge Copies their longevity, but the PR has been handled remarkably well. A few carefully chosen terminally ill children are scanned and resurrected every year: better than a trip to Disney World. There’s discreet sponsorship of a sitcom about working-class Copies, which makes the whole idea less threatening. The legal status of Copies is being framed as a human rights issue, especially in Europe: Copies are disabled people, no more, no less—really just a kind of radical amputee—and anyone who talks about
“So you might well achieve citizenship in a decade. And if you’re lucky, the situation could be stable for another twenty or thirty years after that. But… what’s twenty or thirty years to you? Do you honestly think that the status quo will be tolerated for ever?’”
Thomas said, “Of course not—but I’ll tell you what would be “tolerated”: scanning facilities, and computing power, so cheap that everyone on the planet could be resurrected. Everyone who wanted it. And when I say
“That’s a long, long way in the future.”
“Certainly. But don’t accuse me of thinking in the short term.”
“And in the meantime? The privileged class of Copies will grow larger, more powerful—and more threatening to the vast majority of people, who still won’t be able to join them. The costs will come down, but not drastically— just enough to meet some of the explosion in demand from the executive class, once they throw off their qualms,
Thomas had heard it all before. “We may be unpopular for a while. I can live with that. But you know, even now we’re vilified far less than people who strive for
Durham smiled. The puppet. “Sure—and it could lead to some nice ironies if it ever came true. But even low environmental impact might not seem so saintly, when the same computing power could be used to save tens of thousands of lives through weather control.”
“Operation Butterfly has inconvenienced some of my fellow Copies very slightly. And myself not at all.”
“Operation Butterfly is only the beginning. Crisis management, for a tiny part of the planet. Imagine how much computing power it would take to render sub-Saharan Africa free from drought.”
“Why should I imagine that, when the most modest schemes are still unproven? And even if weather control turns out to be viable, more supercomputers can always be built. It doesn’t have to be a matter of Copies versus flood victims.”
“There’s a limited supply of computing power right now, isn’t there? Of course it will grow—but the demand, from Copies, and for weather control, is almost certain to grow faster. Long before we get to your deathless Utopia, we’ll hit a bottle-neck—and I believe that will bring on a time when Copies are declared
Thomas said mildly, “If you’re fishing for a job as a futurology consultant, I’m afraid I already employ several—highly qualified—people who do nothing but investigate these trends. Right now, everything they tell me gives me reason to be optimistic—and even if they’re wrong, Soliton is ready for a very wide range of contingencies.”
“If your whole foundation is eviscerated, do you honestly believe it will be able to ensure that a snapshot of you is hidden away safely—and then resurrected after a hundred years or more of social upheaval? A vault full of ROM chips at the bottom of a mine shaft could end up taking a one-way trip into geological time.”
Thomas laughed. “And a meteor could hit the planet tomorrow, wiping out this computer, all of my backups,
“But Copies have so much more to lose.”
Thomas was emphatic; this was part of his personal litany. “I’ve never mistaken what I have—a very good chance of a prolonged existence—for a
Durham said flatly, “Quite right. You have no such thing. Which is why I’m here offering it to you.”
Thomas regarded him uneasily. Although he’d had all the ravages of surgery edited out of his final scan file, he’d kept a scar on his right forearm, a small memento of a youthful misadventure. He stroked it, not quite absentmindedly; conscious of the habit, conscious of the memories that the scar encoded—but practiced at refusing to allow those memories to hold his gaze.
Finally, he said, “Offering it how? What can you possibly do—for two million ecus—that Soliton can’t do a thousand times better?”
“I can run a second version of you, entirely out of harm’s way. I can give you a kind of insurance—against an anti-Copy backlash… or a meteor strike… or whatever else might go wrong.”
Thomas was momentarily speechless. The subject wasn’t entirely taboo, but he couldn’t recall anyone raising it quite so bluntly before. He recovered swiftly. “I have no wish to run a