Permutation City (11 page)

All memory is theft,
Daniel Lebesgue had written. Peer felt a sudden pang of post-coital guilt. But what was he guilty of? Perfect recollection, nothing more.

Kate said, "I can't afford Durham's price -- but I can afford Carter's."

Peer was caught off guard for a second, but then he grinned at her admiringly. "You're serious, aren't you?"

She nodded soberly. "Yes. I've been thinking about it for some time, but after being flatlined for ten hours --"

"Are you sure
Carter
is serious? How do you know he really has something to sell?"

She hesitated. "I hired him myself, when I was outside. I used to spend a lot of time in VR, as a visitor, and he made some of my favorite places: the winter beach; that cottage I took you to. And others. He was one of the people I talked it over with, before I made up my mind to come in for good." Peer regarded her uneasily -- she rarely talked about the past, which suited him fine -- and mercifully, she returned to the point. "With slowdown, filters, masks, it's hard to judge anyone . . . but I don't think he's changed that much. I still trust him."

Peer nodded slowly, absentmindedly sliding his intestine back and forth across his shoulders. "But how much does Durham trust him? How thoroughly will he check the city for stowaways?"

"Carter's sure he can hide me. He has software that can break up my model and bury it deep in the city's algorithms -- as a few billion trivial redundancies and inefficiencies."

"Inefficiencies
can get optimized out. If Durham -- "

Kate cut him off impatiently. "Carter's not stupid. He knows how optimizers work -- and he knows how to keep them from touching his stuff."

"Okay. But . . . once you're in there, what sort of communications will you have?"

"Not much. Only limited powers to eavesdrop on what the legitimate inhabitants choose to access -- and if the whole point of this place is secrecy, that may not be much. I get the impression from Carter that they're planning to drag in everything they need, then pull up the drawbridge."

Peer let that sink in, but chose not to ask the obvious question, or to show that he'd even thought of it. "So what do you get to take with you?"

"All the software and all the environments I've been using here -- which doesn't amount to all that much data, compared to me. And once I'm in, I'll have read-only access to all of the city's public facilities: all the information, all the entertainment, all the shared environments. I'll be able to walk down the main street -- invisible and intangible -- staring at the trillionaires. But my presence won't
affect
anything -- except to slow it all down by a negligible amount -- so even the most rigorous verification should pass the total package as contamination-free."

"What rate will you run at?"

Kate snorted. "I should refuse to answer that. You're the champion of
one computation per year."

"I'm just curious."

"It depends how many QIPS are allocated to the city." She hesitated. "Carter has no real evidence for this -- but he thinks there's a good chance that Durham's employers have got their hands on some kind of new high-powered hardware --"

Peer groaned. "Please, this whole deal is already suspect enough -- don't start invoking the mythical
breakthrough.
What makes people think that anyone could keep that a secret? Or that anyone would even want to?"

"They might not want to, in the long run. But the best way to exploit the technology might be to sell the first of the new generation of processors to the richest Copies -- before they hit the open market and the QIPS rate crashes."

Peer laughed. "Then why stow away at all? If that happens, there'll be nothing to fear from weather control."

"Because there might not have been any breakthrough. The only thing that's certain is that some of the wealthiest -- and best-informed -- Copies have decided that it's worth going into this . . . sanctuary. And I've got the chance to go with them."

Peer was silent for a while. Finally, he asked, "So are you moving -- or cloning yourself?"

"Cloning."

He could have concealed his relief, easily -- but he didn't. He said, "I'm glad. I would have missed you."

"And I'd have missed you. I want you to come with me."

"You want -- ?"

Kate leaned toward him. "Carter has said he'll include you -- and your baggage -- for another fifty percent.
Clone yourself and come with me.
I don't want to lose you -- either of me."

Peer felt a rush of excitement -- and fear. He took a snap-shot of the emotion, then said, "I don't know. I've never --"

"A second version, running on the most secure hardware on the planet. That's
not
surrendering to outside -- it's just finally gaining some true independence."

"Independence?
What if these Copies get bored with Carter's city and decide to trash it -- trade it in for something new?"

Kate was unfazed. "That's not impossible. But there are no guarantees on the public networks, either. This way, at least you have a greater chance that one version will survive."

Peer tried to imagine it. "Stowaways. No communications. Just us, and whatever software we bring."

"You're Solipsist Nation, aren't you?"

"You know I am. But . . . I've never run a second version before. I don't know how I'll feel about that, after the split."

How
who
will feel about it?

Kate bent over and picked up his heart. "Having a second version won't bother you." She fixed her new gray eyes on him. "We're running at a slowdown of sixty-seven. Carter will be delivering his city to Durham, six real-time months from now. But who knows when Operation Butterfly will flat-line us again? So you don't have long to decide."

Peer continued to show Kate his body sitting in the chair, thinking it over, while in truth he rose to his feet and walked across the room, escaping her formidable gaze.

Who am I? Is this what I want?

He couldn't concentrate. He manually invoked a menu on one of the control screens, an array of a dozen identical images: a nineteenth-century anatomical drawing of the brain, with the surface divided into regions labeled with various emotions and skills. Each icon represented a package of mental parameters: snapshots of previous states of mind, or purely synthetic combinations.

Peer hit the icon named
clarity.

In twelve short real-time years as a Copy, he'd tried to explore every possibility, map out every consequence of what he'd become. He'd transformed his surroundings, his body, his personality, his perceptions
--
but he'd always owned the experience himself. The tricks he'd played on his memory had added, never erased -- and whatever changes he'd been through, there was always only one person, in the end, taking responsibility, picking up the pieces. One witness, unifying it all.

The truth was, the thought of finally surrendering that unity made him dizzy with fear. It was the last vestige of his delusion of humanity. The last big lie.

And as Daniel Lebesgue, founder of Solipsist Nation, had written: "My goal is to take everything which might be revered as quintessentially human . . . and grind it into dust."

He returned to his seated body, and said, "I'll do it."

Kate smiled, raised his beating heart to her lips, and gave it a long, lingering kiss.

6

(Rip, tie, cut toy man)

JUNE 2045

Paul woke without any confusion. He dressed and ate, trying to feel optimistic. He'd demonstrated his willingness to cooperate; now it was time to ask for something in return. He walked into the study, switched on the terminal, and called his own number. The
djinn
answered at once.

Paul said, "I'd like to talk to Elizabeth."

Squeak.
"That's not possible."

"Not possible? Why don't you just ask her?"

Squeak.
"I can't do that. She doesn't even know you exist."

Paul stared at him coldly. "Don't lie to me, it's a waste of time. As soon as I had a Copy who survived, I was going to explain everything --"

Squeak.
The
djinn
said drily, "Or so we thought."

Paul's certainty wavered. "You're telling me that your great ambition is finally being fulfilled -- and you haven't even mentioned it to the one woman . . . ?"

Squeak.
Durham's face turned to stone. "I really don't wish to discuss it. Can we get on with the experiment, please?"

Paul opened his mouth to protest -- and then found he had nothing to say. All his anger and jealousy suddenly dissipated into . . . embarrassment. It was as if he'd just come to his senses from a daydream, an elaborate fantasy of a relationship with someone else's lover.
Paul and Elizabeth. Elizabeth and Paul.
What happened between them was none of his business. Whatever his memories suggested, that life wasn't his to live anymore.

He said, "Sure, let's get on with the experiment. Time is just rushing by. You must have turned forty-five . . . what, a day ago? Many happy returns."

Squeak.
"Thanks -- but you're wrong. I took some shortcuts while you were asleep: I shut down part of the model -- and cheated on most of the rest. It's only the fourth of June; you got six hours' sleep in ten hours' real time. Not a bad job, I thought."

Paul was outraged. "You had no right to do that!"

Squeak.
Durham sighed. "Be practical. Ask yourself what you'd have done in my place."

"It's not a
joke!
"

Squeak.
"So you slept without a whole body. I cleaned a few toxins out of your blood at a non-physiological rate." The
djinn
seemed genuinely puzzled. "Compared to the experiments, that's nothing. Why should it bother you? You've woken up in exactly the same condition as you'd be in if you'd slept in the normal way."

Paul caught himself. He didn't want to explain how vulnerable it made him feel to have someone reach through the cracks in the universe and relieve him of unnecessary organs while he slept. And the less the bastard knew about his Copy's insecurities, the better -- he'd only exploit them.

He said, "It
bothers me
because the experiments are worthless if you're going to intervene at random. Precise, controlled changes -- that's the whole point. You have to promise me you won't do it again."

Squeak.
"You're the one who was complaining about waste. Someone has to think about conserving our dwindling resources."

"Do you want me to keep on cooperating? Or do you want to start everything again from scratch?"

Squeak.
The
djinn
said mildly, "All right, you don't have to threaten me. You have my word: no more
ad hoc
intervention."

"Thank you."

Conserving our dwindling resources?
Paul had been trying hard not to think about money. What would the
djinn
do when he could no longer afford to keep him running -- if Paul chose not to bale out once the experiments were over? Store a snapshot of the model, of course, until he could raise the cash flow to start it up again. In the long term, set up a trust fund; it would only have to earn enough to run him part-time, at first: keep him in touch with the world, stave off excessive culture shock . . . until the technology became cheap enough to let him live continuously.

Of course, all these reassuring plans had been made by a man with two futures.
Would he really want to keep an old Copy running, when he could save his money for a deathbed scan, and "his own" immortality?

Squeak.
"Can we get to work, now?"

"That's what I'm here for."

This time, the model would be described at the standard time resolution of one millisecond, throughout -- but the order in which the states were computed would be varied.

Squeak.
"Experiment two, trial number one. Reverse order."

Paul counted. "One. Two. Three."
Reverse order.
After an initial leap into the future, he was now traveling backward through real time. It would have been a nice touch if he'd been able to view an external event on the terminal -- some entropic cliche like a vase being smashed -- knowing that it was
himself,
and not the scene, that was being "rewound" . . . but he knew that it couldn't be done (quite apart from the fact that it would have ruined the experiment, betraying the difference between subject and control). In real time, the first thing to be computed would be his model-time-final brain state, complete with memories of everything that "had happened" in the "preceding" ten seconds. Those memories couldn't include having seen a real broken vase assemble itself from fragments, if the vase hadn't even been smashed yet. The trick could have been done with a simulation, or a video recording of the real thing -- but that wouldn't have been the same.