A short train journey later, Manfred checks into a hotel in Milton Keynes. He watches the sun set from his bedroom window, an occlusion of concrete cows blocking the horizon. The room is functional in an overly naturalistic kind of way, rattan and force-grown hardwood and hemp rugs concealing the support systems and concrete walls behind. He sits in a chair, gin and tonic at hand, absorbing the latest market news and grazing his multichannel feeds in parallel. His reputation is up two percent for no obvious reason today, he notices: Odd, that.
When he pokes at it he discovers that
Maybe there's a global honesty bubble forming.
Manfred frowns, then snaps his fingers. The suitcase rolls toward him. 'Who do you belong to?' he asks.
'Manfred Macx,' it replies, slightly bashfully.
'No, before me.'
'I don't understand that question.'
He sighs. 'Open up.'
Latches whir and retract: The hard-shell lid rises toward him, and he looks inside to confirm the contents.
The suitcase is full of noise.
* * *
Welcome to the early twenty-first century, human.
It's night in Milton Keynes, sunrise in Hong Kong. Moore's Law rolls
inexorably on, dragging humanity toward the uncertain future. The planets
of the solar system have a combined mass of approximately 2 x 1027
kilograms. Around the world, laboring women produce forty-five thousand
babies a day, representing 1023 MIPS of processing power. Also around
the world, fab lines casually churn out thirty million microprocessors a
day, representing 1023 MIPS. In another ten months, most of the MIPS
being added to the solar system will be machine-hosted for the first time.
About ten years after that, the solar system's installed processing power
will nudge the critical 1 MIPS per gram threshold – one million
instructions per second per gram of matter. After that, singularity – a
vanishing point beyond which extrapolating progress becomes
meaningless. The time remaining before the intelligence spike is down to
single-digit years…
* * *
Aineko curls on the pillow beside Manfred's head, purring softly as his owner dreams uneasily. The night outside is dark: Vehicles operate on autopilot, running lights dipped to let the Milky Way shine down upon the sleeping city. Their quiet, fuel-cell-powered engines do not trouble Manfred's sleep. The robot cat keeps sleepless watch, alert for intruders, but there are none, save the whispering ghosts of Manfred's metacortex, feeding his dreams with their state vectors.
The metacortex – a distributed cloud of software agents that surrounds him in netspace, borrowing CPU
cycles from convenient processors (such as his robot pet) – is as much a part of Manfred as the society of mind that occupies his skull; his thoughts migrate into it, spawning new agents to research new experiences, and at night, they return to roost and share their knowledge.
While Manfred sleeps, he dreams of an alchemical marriage. She waits for him at the altar in a strapless black gown, the surgical instruments gleaming in her gloved hands. 'This won't hurt a bit,' she explains as she adjusts the straps. 'I only want your genome – the extended phenotype can wait until… later.' Blood-red lips, licked: a kiss of steel, then she presents the income tax bill.
There's nothing accidental about this dream. As he experiences it, microelectrodes in his hypothalamus trigger sensitive neurons. Revulsion and shame flood him at the sight of her face, the sense of his vulnerability.
Manfred's metacortex, in order to facilitate his divorce, is trying to decondition his strange love. It has been working on him for weeks, but still he craves her whiplash touch, the humiliation of his wife's control, the sense of helpless rage at her unpayable taxes, demanded with interest.
Aineko watches him from the pillow, purring continuously. Retractable claws knead the bedding, first one paw, then the next. Aineko is full of ancient feline wisdom that Pamela installed back when mistress and master were exchanging data and bodily fluids rather than legal documents. Aineko is more cat than robot, these days, thanks in part to her hobbyist's interest in feline neuroanatomy. Aineko knows that Manfred is experiencing nameless neurasthenic agonies, but really doesn't give a shit about that as long as the power supply is clean and there are no intruders.
Aineko curls up and joins Manfred in sleep, dreaming of laser-guided mice.
* * *
Manfred is jolted awake by the hotel room phone shrilling for attention.
'Hello?' he asks, fuzzily.
'Manfred Macx?' It's a human voice, with a gravelly east coast accent.
'Yeah?' Manfred struggles to sit up. His mouth feels like the inside of a tomb, and his eyes don't want to open.
'My name is Alan Glashwiecz, of Smoot, Sedgwick Associates. Am I correct in thinking that you are the Manfred Macx who is a director of a company called, uh, agalmic dot holdings dot root dot one-eight-four dot ninety-seven dot A-for-able dot B-for-baker dot five, incorporated?'
'Uh.' Manfred blinks and rubs his eyes. 'Hold on a moment.' When the retinal patterns fade, he pulls on his glasses and powers them up. 'Just a second now.' Browsers and menus ricochet through his sleep-laden eyes. 'Can you repeat the company name?'
'Sure.' Glashwiecz repeats himself patiently. He sounds as tired as Manfred feels.
'Um.' Manfred finds it, floating three tiers down an elaborate object hierarchy. It's flashing for attention.
There's a priority interrupt, an incoming lawsuit that hasn't propagated up the inheritance tree yet. He prods at the object with a property browser. 'I'm afraid I'm not a director of that company, Mr. Glashwiecz. I appear to be retained by it as a technical contractor with non-executive power, reporting to the president, but frankly, this is the first time I've ever heard of the company. However, I can tell you who's in charge if you want.'
'Yes?' The attorney sounds almost interested. Manfred figures it out; the guy's in New Jersey, it must be about three in the morning over there.
Malice – revenge for waking him up – sharpens Manfred's voice. 'The president of
agalmic.holdings.root.184.97.AB5 is agalmic.holdings.root.184.97.201. The secretary is
agalmic.holdings.root.184.D5, and the chair is agalmic.holdings.root.184.E8.FF. All the shares are owned by those companies in equal measure, and I can tell you that their regulations are written in Python. Have a nice day, now!'
He thumps the bedside phone control and sits up, yawning, then pushes the do-not-disturb button before it can interrupt again. After a moment he stands up and stretches, then heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth, comb his hair, and figure out where the lawsuit originated and how a human being managed to get far enough through his web of robot companies to bug him.
