Ben’s message-head recommenced talking, as if no time had passed.
“-a new alliance between the People’s Planet movement and the ConservaTEDS, pushing to expand the Temporary Science Courts to forestall ‘dangerous experiments.’ Renunciation, under a new name.”
A pair of colored amoeba shapes brightened in the back-lower-left corner of the display. Each represented an interest or passion shared by several hundred million voters. As Ben spoke of these two movements, their colors merged, pulsing with ambition, as if eager to spread.
“Guess who brokered this deal! Remember that ‘prophet’ from the fifties? Tensquatoway, I think. Now he’s using his old name-Joseph Pine-offering freshly repainted arguments. Wants all the space-crystals collected-by force-and tossed into the sun! Of course that’d leave dozens in secret or private hands…”
Gerald perused Ben’s latest version of the Satsuma Political Interest Chart. In this version, down meant going retro. Seek a bucolic, peaceful lifestyle for humanity. Clamp down on ambition and excess. Do it for conservative reasons. Or do it for Earth and nature and a return to “wise native ways.” There were plenty of excuses, even before space fomites offered the biggest. The scandals a generation ago-when a cabal of the superrich were caught using Renunciation to justify a coup-had no long term impact.
It would always return. And science was ironically responsible.
Instruments like Donaldson-Chang Array-designed to check the varied lies and truths told by different artilens-were prodigious feats of human craft. Yet renunciators found encouragement with every negative result, each echoing silence at a distant star that once hosted sapient civilization. Whether the aliens burned out, self- destructed, retreated inward, or advanced to some exalted state, none of the systems that launched emissary artifacts were still “on the air.”
Those who simmered along the bottom zone of the Satsuma Chart concluded that “moving forward” meant death… so don’t move forward.
Of course we know nothing about those who refuse to launch probes of their own. Is their silence good news, while the other silence is bad? I never understood that reasoning.
Anyway, for me it always comes down to one question. If you have no ambitions-no unattainable dreams that your heirs might achieve-then what’s the point of intelligence?
As for the chart’s other axes, east and west represented how willing people were to trust some kind of authority, whether it be elected officials, or scientists, or priest-gurus, or inherited aristocracy. Tenskwatawa was once an ally of the New Lords. Now he forged links among antiwealth populists. Well, talented individuals can always remake themselves.
The in-out direction… oh yeah… was about fear and cynicism about human nature. Other factors were denoted by shape, color, and threaded connections. Better than lobotomizing cliches like the old “left-right axis.” But by how much?
At last, Flannery got to the point.
“Several of the most recent dogma-memes have been traced to crystal sources! Tracking them back, we find they were released by clever fomites in order to infect and sway public opinion. They’re getting more subtle, Gerald.”
Yes, that had been Ben’s suspicion, before Gerald set out on this voyage. Now it seemed confirmed.
“We found one set using subliminal optical cues, buried in children’s percept programs. Tracked the memes to a Bollywood special effects company that owned a fragment-artifact someone dug up and never registered. They thought they were just mining the crystal for a few simulation tricks. So they never bothered cleansing the messages! Idiots.”
It wasn’t the first time. Last year, some fools were caught using an unregistered space artifact as an investment seer. Alien methods helped them hack into competing networks. It never occurred to the connivers that skullduggery went both ways. That the fomite could use financial rewards to subtly condition its “owners,” gradually reversing the relationship of master and servant, making them both powerful and devoted-with the ultimate aim of taking over human civilization.
“Now that we’re alerted, we find it’s been happening almost monthly! We’re in hurried catch-up mode. These meme-infections are insidious and so well tuned to human psychology it’s scary!”
Accompanying Ben’s words, tiny shapes appeared, resembling hungry parasites. Glimmering danger-red, they swooped toward some blobby interest groups nibbling and prodding them, trying to worm their way inside.
No wonder these things infest the galaxy. You can see why millions want to ban them outright. Which would just empower the few that remain, tucked away by some elite. Our best defense has been transparency and competition. Forcing crystals to debate and cancel each other’s tricks.
Blue antibody shapes converged on invaders-purifying agents made of light. Most invading memes then faded. But some endured, transforming, continuing to infect minds…
Gerald rubbed his eyes and grunted a command to pause Ben’s report. Anyway, this chart was obsolete. News of the FACR battle would shift attitudes. Tor Povlov’s well-earned hero status was a new factor. Also, the breakout of space war could shift sentiment toward a pulsing cloud in the far-upper-right, representing millions who wanted to build space weapons. Lots of them, to face a deadly universe.
Only, if humanity goes ahead-deploying immense lasers for defense-won’t that also advance the goal shared by every space virus? Even Courier? Such lasers are also needed in order to launch-or “sneeze”-new crystals into space.
Each of them with human crew members aboard.
Gerald had dreamed about that almost every day since the Havana Artifact made its big sales pitch. Among all members of the race, he was guaranteed a slot aboard such vessels… or hundreds, even thousands of the things.
And so-
Each time I wake from slumber, before opening my eyes, I wonder. Will I see the familiar, drab reality of the original Gerald Livingstone? Or else, this time, will I discover that I’m one of those simulated Geralds, encased within a tiny egg, but with vast inner landscapes to explore and share with fascinating beings, while speeding across the cosmos toward unknown adventure?
Might even this reality that he experienced, right now, be simulated? Perhaps a memory from the original Gerald Livingstone, complete with all the creaks and pangs of age, being replayed in high fidelity? Most artifact passengers did it to help pass the long light-years.
“Are you tempted Gerald?” Ben Flannery asked. “Suppose we build emissaries that are modified-like Courier’s people did-to be open and honest with any race they fall upon. Would that make them less like viruses and more ambassadors of friendship?
“Especially if we pack them full of good stuff? Not just probe and laser schematics and clever sales pitches aimed at self-replication, but all the art and culture and learning humans take pride in. Gifts that might speak well of us, long after we’ve burned out, or burrowed inward like frightened mice?
“In that case, would the adventure become worthwhile, even ethical and attractive to you?”
Gerald wondered, idly, how his friend was doing this-asking questions that seemed aimed straight at the heart. As if Ben read his thoughts from several light hours away.
“Suppose you awoke to find yourself aboard that kind of crystal ship. Knowing the original Gerald lived a full life, and now his copies get to have the great exploit and mission of helping others across the stars. Would you have regrets? Could you then endure the slow passage of eons, the low-odds of success, the knowledge that ‘reality’ is a tiny, cramped ovoid-and decide to survive the only way possible… by enjoying the ride?”
A sense of expanding possibilities seemed to surround Gerald. Not unlike when he first became an astronaut and used to stare out through the cupola module of the old station, feeling surrounded by immensity. The impression wasn’t visual, but visceral, almost cosmic…
That was when Gerald realized.
His eyes had been closed for minutes, maybe much longer. Exhaustion took him gently, as he half-floated in the hammock. And his world was-for the time being-no more and no less than a dream.
