Memesis

It happened innocuously enough. I didn’t even realize it at the time. I’d just gone in for a routine physical check-up. The doctor put me to sleep while they prepared the nanomachines, and the next thing I remembered was being told I was in good health after a cancer removal. I went home and thought nothing of it.

That’s how the Cabal works. Members aren’t chosen for their intelligence or their ability or anything else. While they might co-opt exceptional people for leadership positions, by and large the criterion for membership is that nobody would suspect you.

They implant a sub-personality, skills, triggered memories, everything. They rewire the mind, making you into a sleeper agent. No gadgets, no secret Spaces, nothing. Just encrypted messages passed between members and the occasional mission briefing when a few such people meet at a transit station or something similar.

Dust isn’t exactly special. We just use it for long-range encryption, like everyone else. We use it to feed our financial records through to the state, and to our backup servers. We could grit the path to the shop with the stuff and not really lose anything – we’d just get more in a shipment from our encryption partners.

It’s the principle of the thing, really. You don’t give your Dust out. You don’t mix clean and dirty Dust. It’s bad business.

I don’t know what the Chaotician got in response from other businesses. For that matter I’m not sure if he even visited other businesses. Maybe he just came to pester me.

One day he shows up, though, and I just give up. Business is slow. We can ask for a little extra Dust, so I crack open the hourglass and sift some out. He spreads it out on the counter, tracing finger-marks through it. I guess this is the point where curiosity got the best of me, because I always did wonder just what he was going to do with the stuff.

“Dust is the gateway to the Wyld,” the Chaotician explains. “It is the densest form of randomness made by man. Now, normal quantum phenomena are created by the underlying substrate of Wyld that’s bit-bonded to the Akashic Mandala. Think of it as a sort of holographic lens that overlays the Wyld. The net effect is that all this randomness has been filtered through a sort of universal statistical flattening algorithm that yields the observable world according to the Edenite-Gaian template…”

He’d completely lost me at this point, but I didn’t mind. If he was just making up what he was saying, it had the virtue of being interesting to hear.

“Dust is different. It’s quantum state drawn through the lens and transcribed in Edenite-Gaian fashion, onto classical objects. Those objects are still small enough that the quantum boundary is only a few orders of magnitude beneath them. What’s more, that randomness has been entangled with the currents of Destiny that pervade the Akashic Mandala. It’s randomness, preserved by intent.”

The Dust is forming weird patterns on the counter top. The Chaotician looks down at it. “You know, Chaotic prediction techniques pass the ISO Randi standards with a 5% statistical significance. .... Your shop will be attacked. You should close it tomorrow and stay home.”

I still don’t know how he knew. But if you rescue guys hadn’t shown up in time, I would have died when the shop blew up. I guess I’m glad it wasn’t arson. I’d really hate to think that he made his prediction come true.

The warrior chuckles. “Red Herring Only,” he explains. Meanwhile, his sister is tugging at the card. It stretches itself out, showing RHO’s home page in higher resolution. She starts clicking through some of his videos. “So you did a lot of crazy stuff, huh?”

RHO nods. “Learned sword-fighting, evasion, combat programming, lots of things. Did a stint in the Magistracy. They put me through some pretty elite stuff after they found what Mom and Dad had put into my genes. Well, that lasted until the Free Zone stopped being a nation. Their political servers crashed. There was an insider who destroyed the backups. It was pretty chaotic after that.”

His sister reaches out and takes one of his hands in hers. “You should have told me,” she says, a hint of reproach and a world of warmth in her voice. “So that’s where those blueprints came from, huh?”

RHO nods. “The Free Zone evolved some pretty advanced neuroprogramming techniques. They were talking about things like rewriting enemy mecha pilots with modulated laser beams aimed at their sensors. Really scary stuff. I think that’s why they got attacked. Even if they weren’t going to do something like that, just the idea that they might would send people off.”

RHO knows the spheres must have a master. He knows there are probably others. He could run for a cathedral, try to get into a high-security zone. He could unplug entirely, but then he couldn’t defend himself or counterattack while moving through security barriers, and the city’s own security systems would scrutinize him more closely than he cared for. No, he’s immersed and he’ll stay immersed.

RHO puts his sword away. He begins to jog down the Boulevard. People are moving out of his way. He withdraws a card from his deck, watching the rectangular shape flash into existence. He tosses it at the ground as he moves. The card lands, spreading Mandelbrot spirals of multicolored light across the street surface. The nearby security monitors stay green as he jogs past. Good. I’ve got at least 30 seconds.

He hears the sound of more spheres approaching. He draws another card, holds it above his head. Three azure beams lash out. At the last moment, they change course, arcing to the card instead of his head. RHO throws the card away as it explodes in a shower of orange sparkles.

The space port is ahead. RHO crosses the threshold. He feels a ripple through his cyberself, silently giving thanks for the delicate work that’s been done to his AR rig that makes him so sensitive. Behind him, the spheres jerk to an abrupt stop. They’re negotiating clearance with the space port’s security authority.

RHO darts up the steps. He feels a tingling; the security system is analyzing him. The warrior grins for the camera. Up the stairs and into the wide-open concourse. RHO glances around. The spheres haven’t come yet, and the port security programs haven’t come for him either. If they knew what I carried…

He’s still got a few minutes before the ship arrives. He decides to head for the high-security section of the space port. Some people call it the bathroom, but RHO knows better. Human taboos have kept anything but the most low-resolution sensors from invading rooms with toilets, and RHO runs an encode as he approaches. The security system loses track of him for long enough. He darts into the bathroom.

He stops inside and surveys himself in the mirror. Good looks, unruly black hair, Spyder jacket, open-frame pilot’s body armor. Lookin’ badass. I wonder if she’ll recognize me.

RHO leaves the bathroom. The security picks him up immediately. If the spheres are coming, they’ll be coming now. Sure enough, RHO sees them. They’re coming from two floors above him, straight down. RHO’s sword shines as it is drawn. All I have to do is hold them off, he thinks. The first sphere fires. RHO brings his weapon to bear, intercepting the beam. He hears the distinctive chime of space port security. Their green pyramids rez in the air around the sphere and begin self-replicating. The sphere tries to evade, but the pyramids match it. Why didn’t they grab all three RHO asks himself. The system should know who owns them..

There are two possibilities. First, multiple attackers working in concert, with no direct informational links between them. Tricky and bureaucratic, but possible. Definitely preferable to the second option, which is that whoever owns the spheres is either an excellent hacker or has some of the security keys for the space port.

Two more beams fire. RHO can’t parry them both, but he’ll try for at least one more. Aggravated electronic assault is more serious than mere vandalism. If he’s noticed blocking, he’ll be the victim. More green pyramids obediently appear as his blade edge catches the beam, but he isn’t quite as fast as he’d hoped. He feels a tingling in his shoulder. Instinctively he glances down; his shoulder is shimmering and writhing, but the damage isn’t serious.

He activates a reconstruction encode and the effect begins to wear off. Above him, the pyramids have almost completely wrapped up their spheres. A timer appears in the lower right corner of his vision. This is the estimated time of arrival for human security. He has a few seconds. He activates another copy of his invisibility encode, and the security system loses him completely. This will put him on a bad footing with the security personnel if they catch up with him.

The people around him saw him, but if their AR rigs are as low-quality as most peoples’, they’ll lose track of him. He’s drawing attention to himself. He starts the protocol for his clothing, activating the mutation function. His garb changes its fit and color as he moves. By the time the human security units are on the scene, he’s three blocks away and wearing the gray and brown of an itinerant priest. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing glasses. Oh well. The badass biker look was so great.. Still, maybe she’ll like me this way…

RHO passes through the gate’s examination zone and sees the dock he wants. He strides forward, smiling. His contact is waiting for him. She smiles in recognition as he approaches. He presents her with a card – the vital data he’s been carrying. “Welcome to Earth,” he says. She takes it, pockets it, and smiles. And then she throws herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Thanks, big brother.”

Command Crew:

• Jernian Sullus Treebee (Commander)
• Alfus Mohagenson (Pilot)
• Xian Ofrut Treebee (Flight Engineer)

Mission Timeline:

• June 3 – AML Aquablue and OTA Sunsider undergo flight readiness check. Sunsider attaches its mating clamps to Aquablue. Flight Engineer signs off on stress simulations. The combination craft undergoes a final flight readiness check.
• June 4 (Flight day 1) – The combination craft launches and achieves Low Earth Orbit. Sunsider detaches and vectors for its re-entry. Aquablue observes Sunsider’s touchdown. Aquablue calculates and executes its burn for Vareid Habitat #5.
• June 5 (Flight day 2) – Aquablue transfers cargo and personnel to and from Habitat #5.
• June 6 (Flight day 3) – Aquablue calculates and executes its burn for Habitat #6. Aquablue transfers cargo and personnel to and from Habitat #6.
• June 7 (Flight day 4) – Orbital mass will be approaching. Aquablue detaches from Habitat #6. Mission control gives final approval to launch rockets. Rockets are launched. Opportunity to fire a second time.
• June 8 (Flight day 5) – Aquablue concludes observation of remnants. Opportunity to fire a third and fourth time.
• June 9 (Flight day 6) – Aquablue calculates and executes its burn for Habitat #7. Aquablue transfers cargo and personnel to and from Habitat #7.
• June 10 (Flight day 7) – Aquablue vectors for re-entry. Mission concludes.

Contingency Mission: AML Dagon has been designated the primary rescue vehicle for AML Aquablue and OTA Sunsider during launch. Following the launch, AML Star Ocean, VAR-12 and VAR-16 have been designated primary and contingency rescue vehicles for AML Aquablue.

The Yellow Man, it turned out, never went on hunts. He took no part in the killing of game. This, the tribe knew, meant weakness. He was clearly as fit as anyone among them, and probably even more so. Soon they noticed that he ate nothing and took nothing of their kills. What’s more, they discovered that there was one time when he would fight. He fought when game returned and the hunters and warriors started to make their play for the choicest pieces. At those times he would throw men away like a child throwing rocks. Reason hadn’t yet suggested the idea that they try together; instinct sufficed here, and simply hurling themselves at him was as much as they managed to attempt.

The Yellow Man subdued many hunters the first night. Then he did something strange. He divided the kill up, calmly picking it apart, casually distributing shares to everyone. Young and old, weak and strong, child and adult, everyone had something to eat. He did the same with the water supply.

This, of course, meant that the hunters had to find a way to kill him. They stayed awake after nightfall, feigning sleep under their furs. When the moon was high in the sky, they came for the Yellow Man, and discovered also that he did not sleep. He fought them off effortlessly, showing no signs of fatigue despite the hour. And when dawn came, they found him still awake. For three days the hunters would keep themselves up and watch him, stabbing their arms with sharpened tusks and using the pain as a stimulant. But still he stayed relentlessly conscious, watching them.

He took nothing at all. He gave nothing back, except food to the weak. Gradually the hunters realized that they couldn’t keep him away. He wanted no part of the tribe’s food and had no interest in its women. He was simply determined that all should have an equal share. It was madness, but he was unstoppable by any force at the tribe’s command. They could do nothing but honor it.

Time passed. The world became cold and hot and cold again, and the children grew. They knew the Yellow Man well. They knew his ways, and they learned from them. They watched his face as they grew older and he stayed unchanging and eternal. And their children, too, knew the Yellow Man.

The hunters of the third generation shared with their tribe. They knew no other way. To them, the Yellow Man was a strange figure who simply watched them. They knew nothing of his strength or power. They knew nothing of his unnatural invulnerability. He simply watched, and smiled. And one day, he was gone.

Mayu finishes reading her e-mail. Sometimes the raven appears, and sometimes Mayu reads it. Sometimes she lets it go.

Most of this e-mail is from friends. She doesn’t usually worldblog about that stuff. But sometimes she wishes she got more interesting email, so she could worldblog about it. And then someone else would take what she wrote and forward it, or revise it. Her ideas about something could become popular. Mayu knows that if she wanted to, she could go back to her aunt’s email and trace the original idea all the way back to the original poster.

Mayu decides she’s bored. She uses the keypad to thumb the word at the raven: B O R E D. The raven flaps its wings briefly. Then it starts cawing excitedly, and angles itself on her screen. Mayu decides she likes surprises. She could mouse over it and find out what it was pointing at, but not today. The raven knows who she is.

She hops out of bed and puts on her shoes. As she moves, the raven swivels about on her screen. She follows it out of the house. It shows her a map of where to go next, and a bus schedule. She waits a few minutes and boards the bus as it arrives.

The bus stop is near the movie theater, and she sees what the phone is leading her to. She had been reading Web pages about Jet Li, and “The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor” is still in theaters. The raven asks if she wants to buy tickets; smiling, she thumbs in the affirmative. The phone shows her the number to punch into the electronic ticket machine at the box office.

Mayu still has some time. The raven tells her that a few people she might know are going to see the movie too. If she announces that she’s here, everyone else she knows who came here (and announced it too) will know. Mayu decides she’d rather see the movie alone, and the raven obliges.

She sits outside a Starbuck’s and has some cake. While there, she worldblogs about the coffee and food. She doesn’t like it so much, but it’s all that is nearby. She watches the responses, past and present: “Yeah.” “No way, it’s good.” “There are too many Starbucks around here.”

Mayu pockets her phone. It’s rude for her to have it on during a movie; even the raven said so, and it offered to turn the phone off while she went in.

Five hundred years ago, the Atlanteans took to the skies and defended our system from intruders. They were the backbone of the alliance that formed around the Homeworld. Solar Flame, and later the Home System Charter, may have had their differences but they accepted Atlantis as the stewards of the Planet. And so they were, for as long as they were needed.

The revitalization of the Planet brought with it a degree of decadence that the self-reliant, heroic Atlanteans were unprepared to recognize, acknowledge, or manage. Soon they had no tides of barbarism to hold back, no hopes and dreams to inspire. Their political existence continued long after their most vital purpose had been made moot. This decadence had affected empires from Rome to America, and Atlantis was to be no exception.

Accustomed to leadership, the Atlanteans were taken by surprise at the Venus disaster. When their vaunted biotechnology left millions to go hungry and brought disease to thousands more, their confidence was badly shaken. You have only to watch the speeches and orations of Advocate Dagert and the rest of his Four and Seven cronies to realize the magnitude of their crisis of leadership.

Four and Seven popularized the independence movement that led to provisional independence and the gradual relegation of the Home System Charter to space-only duties. The lessons of Solar Flame were not lost on the HSC military leadership – they knew that as a culture, they would eventually need planetary space to call their own. But Atlantis overplayed their hand by pushing the HSC off of the Planet. Venus, which Dagert had privately referred to as “our finest colony,” also gained its independence, and the HSC gained a potential ally.

The elections of 2912 exemplified the creeping conservatism that was taking hold of Atlantis. The unwitting empire was feeling its periphery states slipping through its fingers, and it took action the only way it knew how – through bluster and stubbornness. It took almost no effort to get Atlantis into the Canadian War. They were ready to pay the HSC back for its “betrayal”, and they were more than ready to make the Pacific Rim microstates regret their “flirtation with banditry,” as Mau Lau so famously phrased it.

Atlantis had set itself up for failure by picking a fight with essentially the rest of the world. They had all but forgotten how to conduct surface and aerial warfare; their prime considerations had been submarine conflicts and the use of imported orbital automation. Their info-warfare against the Pacific Rim had caused the coastal micronations to radically reappraise their aquatic neighbor. The ‘60s saw a dramatic transformation of the port cities and docks that Atlantis had visited. Favorable trading pacts were quickly replaced with hard-edged business deals as corporate-backed insurgents replaced missing or shaky Pacific Rim governments. Those that didn’t fall during the war now found it economically necessary (and culturally convenient) to follow the same sharp-eyed, profit-minded transition. Atlantis found itself surrounded in its own waters by some very hungry sharks.

While the HSC all but ignored postwar reparation demands from Atlantis, Venus had been far more successful than any of the conservatives had thought possible. They had wisely avoided the conflict, citing their independence movement and lack of a formal treaty with Atlantis proper. This oversight was the product of arrogant and short-sighted thinking among the Atlantean leadership who assumed to a man that the Venusians would obediently fall into line like programmed golems. More than anything else, Venus’ neutrality saved it in the short term, only to spark the Civil War a generation later.

Venus had been accused of peddling mind control drugs, causing health risks, and secretly trading in flawed biological products and rogue genetic engineering ever since their biotech base had stabilized. This was due in no small part to Atlantis itself, who promoted such stories to peddle its own biotech on the Pacific Rim. Some of these allegations were demonstrated to be true, but none of them were ever proven to be endemic to Venusian biotech culture. Most were simply the result of poor quality control from overly aggressive corporations, and some were thought to be caused by Atlantean sabotage – again, an unproven assertion. But such stories formed the basis for the trade embargo that would lead to the Civil War. Throughout the embargo and later, Atlantis’ greatest mistake was to continue to treat Venus as an unruly dog that had to be brought to heel.

The Canadian War had economically damaged Atlantis and polarized its politics. However, with the internal upheavals being reported today, I can say without fear of contradiction that the Civil War, while bloody and terrible beyond human comprehension, has had one positive effect: it broke Atlantis free of the grip of empire. They would be forced to reevaluate their attitudes toward Venus, to learn to treat it as a fellow sovereign and cultural cousin. I don’t go as far as some liberal wags who have referred to it as the “Venusian Revolution.” I’m satisfied that the pressure, at long last, is off. For Venus, and for Atlantis.