Accelerando

added biological texture. There in the red gown, isn't that Donna the Journalist? And over there, too, with shorter hair and wearing male drag; she gets everywhere. That's Boris, sitting behind the bishop.

'You tell her,' Ang implores him.

'I can't,' he admits. 'We're trying to establish communication, aren't we? But we don't want to give too much away about what we are, how we think. A historical distancing act will keep them from learning too much about us: The phase-space of technological cultures that could have descended from these roots is too wide to analyse easily. So we're leaving them with the lobster translators and not giving anything away. Try to stay in character as a fifteenth-century duchess from Albi – it's a matter of national security.'

'Humph.' Ang frowns as a flunky hustles forward to place a folding chair behind her. She turns to face the expanse of red-and-gold carpet that stretches to the doorway as trumpets blat and the doors swing open to admit the deputation of lobsters.

The lobsters are as large as wolves, black and spiny and ominous. Their monochrome carapaces are at odds with the brightly colored garb of the human crowd. Their antennae are large and sharp as swords. But for all that, they advance hesitantly, eye turrets swiveling from side to side as they take the scene in. Their tails drag ponderously on the carpet, but they have no trouble standing.

The first of the lobsters halts short of the throne and angles itself to train an eye on Amber. 'Am inconsistent,' it complains. 'There is no liquid hydrogen monoxide here, and you-species am misrepresented by initial contact. Inconsistency, explain?'

'Welcome to the human physical space-traveling interface unit Field Circus,' Amber replies calmly. 'I am pleased to see your translator is working adequately. You are correct, there is no water here. The lobsters don't normally need it when they visit us. And we humans are not water-dwellers. May I ask who you are when you're not wearing borrowed lobster bodies?'

Confusion. The second lobster rears up and clatters its long, armored antennae together. Soldiers to either side tighten their grips on their spears, but it drops back down again soon enough.

'We are the Wunch,' announces the first lobster, speaking clearly. 'This is a body-compliant translation layer. Based on map received from yourspace, units forty thousand trillion light-kilometers ago?'

' He means twenty years,' Pierre whispers on a private channel Amber has multicast for the other real humans in the audience chamber reality. ' They've confused space and time for measurement purposes. Does this tell us something? '

' Relatively little,' comments someone else – Chandra? A round of polite laughter greets the joke, and the tension in the room eases slightly.

'We are the Wunch,' the lobster repeats. 'We come to exchange interest. What have you got that we want?'

Faint frown lines appear on Amber's forehead. Pierre can see her thinking very rapidly. 'We consider it impolite to ask,' she says quietly.

Clatter of claws on underlying stone floor. Chatter of clicking mandibles. 'You accept our translation?' asks the leader.

'Are you referring to the transmission you sent us, uh, thirty thousand trillion light-kilometers behind?' asks Amber.

The lobster bobs up and down on its legs. 'True. We send.'

'We cannot integrate that network,' Amber replies blandly, and Pierre forces himself to keep a straight face.

(Not that the lobsters can read human body language yet, but they'll undoubtedly be recording everything that happens here for future analysis.) 'They come from a radically different species. Our goal in coming here is to connect our species to the network. We wish to exchange advantageous information with many other species.'

Concern, alarm, agitation. 'You cannot do that! You are not untranslatable entity signifier.'

Amber raises a hand. 'You said untranslatable entity signifier. I did not understand that. Can you paraphrase?'

'We, like you, are not untranslatable entity signifier. The network is for untranslatable entity signifier. We are to the untranslatable concept #1 as a single-celled organism is to ourselves. You and we cannot untranslatable concept #2. To attempt trade with untranslatable entity signifier is to invite death or transition to untranslatable concept #1.'

Amber snaps her fingers: time freezes. She glances round at Su Ang, Pierre, the other members of her primary team. 'Opinions, anyone?'

Aineko, hitherto invisible, sits up on the carpet at the foot of the dais. 'I'm not sure. The reason those macros are tagged is that there's something wrong with their semantics.'

'Wrong with – how?' asks Su Ang.

The cat grins, cavernously, and begins to fade. 'Wait!' snaps Amber.

Aineko continues her fade, but leaves a shimmering presence behind: not a grin, but a neural network weighting map, three-dimensional and incomprehensibly complicated. 'The untranslatable entity concept #1 when mapped onto the lobster's grammar network has elements of 'god' overloaded with attributes of mysticism and zenlike incomprehensibility. But I'm pretty sure that what it really means is 'optimized conscious upload that runs much faster than realtime'. A type-one weakly superhuman entity, like, um, the folks back home. The implication is that this Wunch wants us to view them as gods.' The cat fades back in. 'Any takers?'

'Small-town hustlers,' mutters Amber. 'Talking big – or using a dodgy metagrammar that makes them sound bigger than they are – to bilk the hayseeds new to the big city.'

'Most likely.' Aineko turns and begins to wash her flank.

'What are we going to do?' asks Su Ang.

'Do?' Amber raises a pencil-lined eyebrow, then flashes a grin that chops a decade off her apparent age:

'We're going to mess with their heads!' She snaps her fingers again and time unfreezes. There's no change in continuity except that Aineko is still present, at the foot of the throne. The cat looks up and gives the queen a dirty look. 'We understand your concern,' Amber says smoothly, 'but we have already given you the physiology models and neural architecture of the bodies that you are wearing. We want to communicate. Why won't you show us your real selves or your real language?'

'This is trade language!' protests Lobster Number One. 'Wunch am/are metabolically variable coalition from number of worlds. No uniformity of interface. Easiest to conform to one plan and speak one tongue optimized for your comprehension.'

'Hmm.' Amber leans forward. 'Let me see if I understand you. You are a coalition of individuals from a number of species. You prefer to use the common user interface model we sent you, and offered us the language module you're using for an exchange? And you want to trade with us.'

'Exchange interest,' the Wunch emphasizes, bouncing up and down on its legs. 'Can offer much! Sense of identity of a thousand civilizations. Safe tunnels to a hundred archives on the net suitable for beings who are not untranslatable entity signifier. Able to control risks of communication. Have technique of manipulating matter at molecular level. Solution to algorithmic iterated systems based on quantum entanglement.'

' Old-fashioned nanotechnology and shiny beads to dazzle the primitives,' Pierre mutters on Amber's multicast channel. 'H ow backward do they think we are ? '

' The physics model in here is really overdone,' comments Boris. ' They may even think this is real, that we're primitives coat-tailing it on the back of the lobsters' efforts.'

Amber forces a smile. 'That is most interesting!' she trills at the Wunch's representatives. 'I have appointed two representatives who will negotiate with you; this is an internal contest within my own court. I commend to you Pierre Naqet, my own commercial representative. In addition, you may want to deal with Alan Glashwiecz, an independent factor who is not currently present. Others may come forward in due course if that is acceptable.'