front of the ocean views outside the windows. Polished brass gleams softly everywhere. 'What was that?' he calls out, responding to the soft chime of a bell.
'We have visitors,' Ang repeats, interrupting her rhythmic chewing. (She's trying out a betel-nut kick, but she's magicked the tooth-staining dye away and will probably detox herself in a few hours.) 'They're buffering up the line already; just acknowledging receipt is sucking most of our downstream bandwidth.'
'Any idea who they are?' asks Pierre; he puts his boots up on the back of the vacant helmsman's chair and stares moodily at the endless expanse of green-gray ocean ahead.
Ang chews a bit more, watching him with an expression he can't interpret. 'They're still locked,' she says. A pause: 'But there was a flash from the Franklins, back home. One of them's some kind of lawyer, while the other's a film producer.'
'A film producer?'
'The Franklin Trust says it's to help defray our lawsuit expenses. Myanmar is gaining. They've already subpoenaed Amber's downline instance, and they're trying to bring this up in some kind of kangaroo jurisdiction -
Oregon Christian Reconstructionist Empire, I think.'
'Ouch.' Pierre winces. The daily news from Earth, modulated onto a lower-powered communication laser, is increasingly bad. On the plus side, Amber is incredibly rich: The goodwill futures leveraged off her dad's trust metric means people will bend over backward to do things for her. And she owns a lot of real estate too, a hundred gigatonnes of rock in low-Jupiter orbit with enough KE to power Northern Europe for a century. But her interstellar venture burns through money – both the traditional barter-indirection type and the more creative modern varieties
– about the way you would if you heaped up the green pieces of paper and shoveled them onto a conveyor belt leading to the business end of a running rocket motor. Just holding off the environmental protests over deorbiting a small Jovian moon is a grinding job. Moreover, a whole bunch of national governments have woken up and are trying to legislate themselves a slice of the cake. Nobody's tried to forcibly take over yet (there are two hundred gigawatts of lasers anchored to the Ring Imperium, and Amber takes her sovereign status seriously, has even applied for a seat at the UN and membership in the EC), but the nuisance lawsuits are mounting up into a comprehensive denial of service attack, or maybe economic sanctions. And Uncle Gianni's retirement hasn't helped any, either. 'Anything to say about it?'
'Mmph.' Ang looks irritated for some reason. 'Wait your turn, they'll be out of the buffer in another couple of days. Maybe a bit longer in the case of the lawyer, he's got a huge infodump packaged on his person. Probably another semisapient class-action lawsuit.'
'I'll bet. They never learn, do they?'
'What, about the legal system here?'
'Yup.' Pierre nods. 'One of Amber's smarter ideas, reviving eleventh-century Scots law and updating it with new options on barratry, trial by combat, and compurgation.' He pulls a face and detaches a couple of ghosts to go look out for the new arrivals; then he goes back to repairing sails. The interstellar medium is abrasive, full of dust
– each grain of which carries the energy of an artillery shell at this speed – and the laser sail is in a constant state of disintegration. A large chunk of the drive system's mass is silvery utility flakes for patching and replacing the soap-bubble-thin membrane as it ablates away. The skill is in knowing how best to funnel repair resources to where they're needed, while minimizing tension in the suspension lines and avoiding resonance and thrust imbalance. As he trains the patch 'bots, he broods about the hate mail from his elder brother (who still blames him for their father's accident), and about Sadeq's religious injunctions – Superstitious nonsense, he thinks – and the fickleness of powerful women, and the endless depths of his own nineteen-year-old soul.
While he's brooding, Ang evidently finishes whatever she was doing and bangs out – not even bothering to use the polished mahogany door at the rear of the bridge, just discorporating and rematerializing somewhere else.
Wondering if she's annoyed, he glances up just as the first of his ghosts patches into his memory map, and he remembers what happened when it met the new arrival. His eyes widen: 'Oh shit! '
It's not the film producer but the lawyer who's just uploaded into the Field Circus's virtual universe.
Someone's going to have to tell Amber. And although the last thing he wants to do is talk to her, it looks like he's going to have to call her, because this isn't just a routine visit. The lawyer means trouble.
* * *
Take a brain and put it in a bottle. Better: take a map of the brain and put
it in a map of a bottle – or of a body – and feed signals to it that mimic
its neurological inputs. Read its outputs and route them to a model body
in a model universe with a model of physical laws, closing the loop. Rene
Descartes would understand. That's the state of the passengers of the
software (and a map of the intracranial wetware it runs on) has been
transferred into a virtual machine environment executing on a honking
great computer, where the universe they experience is merely a dream
within a dream.
Brains in bottles – empowered ones, with total, dictatorial, control over
the reality they are exposed to – sometimes stop engaging in activities
that brains in bodies can't avoid. Menstruation isn't mandatory. Vomiting,
angina, exhaustion, and cramp are all optional. So is meatdeath, the
decomposition of the corpus. But some activities don't cease, because
people (even people who have been converted into a software
description, squirted through a high-bandwidth laser link, and ported into
a virtualization stack) don't
unnecessary, but suppression of the breathing reflex is disturbing unless
you hack your hypothalamic map, and most homomorphic uploads don't
want to do that. Then there's eating – not to avoid starvation, but for
pleasure: Feasts on sauteed dodo seasoned with silphium are readily
available here, and indeed, why not? It seems the human addiction to
sensory input won't go away. And that's without considering sex, and the
technical innovations that become possible when the universe – and the
bodies within it – are mutable.
* * *
The public audience with the new arrivals is held in yet another movie: the Parisian palace of Charles IX, the throne room lifted wholesale from La Reine Margot by Patrice Chereau. Amber insisted on period authenticity, with the realism dialed right up to eleven. It's 1572 to the hilt this time, physical to the max. Pierre grunts in irritation, unaccustomed to his beard. His codpiece chafes, and sidelong glances tell him he isn't the only member of the royal court who's uncomfortable. Still, Amber is resplendent in a gown worn by Isabelle Adjani as Marguerite de Valois, and the luminous sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows high above the crowd of actor zimboes lends a certain barbaric majesty to the occasion. The place is heaving with bodies in clerical robes, doublets, and low-cut gowns – some of them occupied by real people. Pierre sniffs again: Someone (Gavin, with his history bug, perhaps?) has been working on getting the smells right. He hopes like hell that nobody throws up.
At least nobody seems to have come as Catherine de Medicis…
A bunch of actors portraying Huguenot soldiers approach the throne on which Amber is seated: They pace slowly forward, escorting a rather bemused-looking fellow with long, lank hair and a brocade jacket that appears to be made of cloth-of-gold. 'His lordship, Attorney at Arms Alan Glashwiecz!' announces a flunky, reading from a parchment, 'here at the behest of the most excellent guild and corporation of Smoot, Sedgwick Associates, with
