2
SPEAR
The second time I woke was in an amniotic tank, breathing through a tube and with the unmistakable feel of things attached to and penetrating my skull. I opened my eyes to a blur as I felt a metal grid slide up beneath me, hoisting me up and out of the liquid under harsh bright lights. It swung me to one side of the tank, then lowered me down again. Cold metal clamps took hold of my head, but this evoked a recently returned memory which I hadn’t yet examined closely, so I struggled.
“Remain still,” said a calm and slightly prissy voice.
I obeyed but felt the skin crawling on my back, as those cold fingers removed what had to be the modern version of upload optics and neuro-chemical conversion nodes stuck into my skull. My vision cleared in time to see the metal hand of a Golem android retract out of sight. The clamps opened and I immediately sat up, then just as immediately felt sick and dizzy.
“Take it slowly,” said the Golem, turning back to me.
During the war the Golem had been the standard android manufactured in the Polity, and perhaps it still was now. Its ceramal motorized chassis, or skeleton, was usually concealed under syntheflesh and syntheskin—and it ran an AI mind in crystal. This one also looked like Vera from the virtuality where I’d experienced my first waking from … death. She was clad in a monofilament overall and, while I watched, she pulled a syntheskin glove back over her metal hand. She sealed it around her wrist, joining it invisibly to the skin of her arm, then pressed it home in various places, doubtless to reconnect its nerve network. I noted humanizing imperfections I had not seen in the virtuality: a slight asymmetry, an ersatz scar and messy tied-back hair that looked as if it needed a wash. The Golem of my time had always looked utterly perfect and had never quite blended in.
I rolled off the metal grid and stood up, aching from head to foot and feeling very weak. We were in a room that I later learned was the delivery end of mechanized resurrection. I looked around, a strong feeling of déjà vu arising as I watched the grid rise up again on its telescopic poles.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“Chamber R12 in the Krong Tower, London, Earth.”
The name “Krong” nibbled at memory but almost in panic I decided not to pursue it. However, despite the familiarity of this chamber, I just knew I had never been here before, or in any place remotely like it.
“What now?” I asked.
She stabbed a thumb towards a door at the other end of the room. “You can clean up through there, where clothes are provided, along with a wristcom linked to an Earth Central submind. It will tell you everything you need to know. Thereafter … She shrugged. “What you do next is entirely up to you, since you’re a free citizen of the Polity.”
“Really?” I wondered if the AIs had finally understood the workings of a mind like mine, in the past century, and I was to be left alone. It then occurred to me that even if they hadn’t, they’d probably made a copy to examine at their leisure.
“Really,” Vera affirmed.
“Thank you,” I said, but she was already turning towards another tank. It was sliding into place with another of the resurrected moving sluggishly inside.
I trudged out of the room, trying to accept all I’d been told, but deliberately avoiding my most recently returned memories. They felt wrong, disjointed, like the recollection of some nightmarish pub crawl and exhibited a similar cringe factor. I didn’t want to touch them yet because they hurt. Instead, I concentrated on the simply amazing facts of the now. The memplant Sylac had developed had allowed me to circumvent death. I was now in a clone body, whereas, for over a century, I had resided in a chunk of ruby netted with quantum computing. Maybe my corpse had rotted away completely somewhere, or my memplant had been separated from it by whatever incident had killed me—perhaps I’d been shot in the head. Perhaps the implant had been deliberately removed at the point of death. I just didn’t know. Then it had found its way to someone who decided to turn it into jewellery, and I was thankful that person had not decided to cut the jewel. Finally, recently, it had been found and returned to Earth.
Over a century …
How much had changed? I wondered, as I surveyed the room Vera had indicated. Set in one wall were eight tall cupboards, each with a stick-on LCD label showing a name. I stared at it, that familiarity impinging again. But I felt out of kilter because my name on one cabinet, which was completely right, felt absolutely wrong. As I opened it, I tried to dismiss the feeling that I was interfering with someone else’s property. These odd reactions had to be some sort of hangover from the drastic process I had just undergone. Glancing along the cabinets on either side, I also surmised I was just part of the batch being resurrected today, though perhaps the only one from such a distant time.
Inside hung clothing much like the kind I had worn so long ago. I suspected this had been made specifically for me, for I doubted fashions would be the same now. I turned away from this to wander through a door in the other wall, finding the washing facilities while briefly wondering how I had been sure they were there. I took a shower and scrubbed myself until the tank’s clamminess had left my skin, returned to dress, and took up the wristcom.
“Thorvald Spear,” it said as I strapped it on.
“I haven’t noticed any vast changes in technology,” I said, to test the intelligence of the submind speaking through it.
“The development curve flatlined before the war,” it replied indifferently, “rose during the war—mainly for weapons, medical and spaceship tech—and settled to a steady but slow climb afterwards.”
“One would suppose someone is keeping things slow,” I suggested.
“One would suppose that necessary to allow slow organic creatures to keep up.”
I decided I liked this particular submind. “What’s your name?”
“You can call me Bob.”
“So where now, Bob?”
“Outside, to where an aircab is waiting for you. It’ll take you to a hotel where I have booked you a room. I’ll stay with you while you adjust, but thereafter it’s up to you. Left out of the door, through the door at the end then right to the dropshaft. Next go down, then out through the lobby.”
“How do I pay?” I asked.
“Earth Central’s paying, but you’ve no worries about funds.”
“How so?”
“You receive backpay up to the moment of your resurrection—that’s been standard for all soldiers whose memplants were discovered late. In your case it means you’re filthy rich.”
The dropshaft was my first encounter with change. For, though they were introduced aboard spaceships during the war, Earth buildings had still used stairs and elevators. I hesitated at the yawning gap then, following Bob’s instructions, pressed the touch screen to select lobby and stepped in. I doubted they had resurrected me only to watch me plummet to a mangled death. The irised gravity field took hold of me and I descended gently, stepping out into an area decorated with large planetary scenes. The street outside was wide, with miles-tall buildings all around me, the sky a narrow blue river directly above. The driver was my next encounter with the future. There had been nothing but autocabs here last time, so was a need for drivers a step back? He wore a skin-tight blue bodysuit, his skin scaly and his eyes those of a snake. He grinned at me, exposing a viper’s fangs. “Where to?”
“The Auton,” Bob replied.
The aircab was decidedly retro—looked like a groundcar from centuries before I was born and even had wheels. As he took us into the air, whisking me through canyons of buildings, the driver tried some conversational gambits that left me confused. I had no idea what a “hooper match” or a “gabbleduck” might be, let alone “Jain tech” or “haiman” and yet felt further confusion at a sense of familiarity with such terms. I wondered when this feeling would go, for I had felt this déjà vu a few times now. However, I certainly understood what a Dyson Sphere was and knew, despite Bob’s talk of flatlines, that I was probably due for some shocks. Th
e driver subsided in obvious frustration. I later learned that people drove cabs for social interaction and interest, rather than financial gain. I probably wasn’t his best fare that day.
London had changed: I recognized some buildings, but they were dwarfed by new structures that must have been close to two miles high. I spotted Elizabeth Tower and Westminster in a semicircle of parkland by the river. But there was no sign of the shimmershields, the “soft” force-fields that had protected these buildings from the depredations of tourism in my time. I subsequently learned that every part of them had been nano-coated with chain glass, so tourists had been allowed back. Finally the cab brought me down onto a high airpark platform extending, amidst many of the same, on a stalk from the side of a building resembling a mile-high scalpel blade. From there a dropshaft conveyed me into the plush interior of a lounge-bar.
A wide panoramic window ran along one side, facing a long bar, behind which stood a silver-skinned humanoid who might have been Golem or human. Mockwood lattices separated seating areas around the walls, while in the middle rested comfortable sofas and low tables. The place was crowded with both human forms and figures that weren’t so familiar.
“Your room is 1034,” said Bob. “If you have any enquiries, just ask, or you can use the console there. It will take me three seconds to respond from now on because I’m off to deal with some other matters.”
“What other matters?” I asked, suspecting that Bob had already guessed my intention to make use of the bar.
“Personal,” the submind replied briefly.
“Okay—you said everything is paid for?”
“Yes, until you find your feet. We done for now?”
“We’re done.”
I walked over to the bar and as I passed one of the low sofas a black-haired woman stood up. I glanced at her curiously, noting her pointy ears, sharp teeth and feline shape to her face. She was wearing very little: a skin-hugging lizardskin top that might as well have been sprayed on and khaki knee-shorts of a loose meta-material. This shifted transparent diamond-shaped areas over its surface, and the ensemble was coupled with slightly antediluvian red high-heeled shoes. I later learned her kind were called catadapts and as such, she had only altered herself so far—she hadn’t, for example, opted for body hair. Everything she had done to herself emphasized her sexuality. I found her appearance grabbing at my gut and my groin and just wasn’t ready for the intensity of the effect. She glanced at me and smiled knowingly. I nodded an acknowledgement and continued to the bar, blushing like a teenager. That the feeling of déjà vu was kicking in strongly didn’t ameliorate my embarrassment.
“I’ll have a large brandy,” I said to the silver-skinned humanoid, expecting him to ask me what kind. Instead he turned back to the long rack, selecting a bottle of Hennessy and poured me a healthy measure into a cognac balloon. He held it in his hand for a moment then placed it on the bar, the glass warmed. Noting his lack of obvious augmentation, I guessed that he must be a Golem. And presumably one who had downloaded data on me. Second thoughts then occurred, because it had been a hundred years and I just didn’t know enough.
“Thanks.” I breathed in the fumes then sipped—the taste and sensation more intense than I remembered. I took another sip, contemplating the effect of the catadapt woman, then wondered about the body I now occupied. Like many soldiers during the war, I’d made many alterations to how I functioned. I’d numbed my ability to feel pain, sped up my reaction times and strength and altered my tolerance to certain performance-enhancing compounds, though I’d drawn the line at physical augmentation, or boosting. Also, because it wasn’t that helpful during combat or bio-espionage operations, I’d tuned down my libido. Did this body have a suite of nano-machines or whatever other methods of adjustment they used now? Almost certainly, but they must be back at their base setting. I heaved myself up onto a stool.
“I have a question,” I asked to my bracelet. After a short delay Bob was back: “What?”
“Does this body contain a nanosuite?”
“Yes, though somewhat more advanced than you were used to.”
“Where can I get it returned?”
“Things have changed in that respect—Duckam has something for you.”
A moment later the silver barman was back in front of me.
“Duckam?”
He dipped his head in acknowledgement and placed a transparent bracelet on the bar before me. The thing was paper thin and about an inch wide. I picked it up and studied it closely.
“What is this?”
“A nascuff,” Duckam replied, then shot away again to serve someone at the other end of the bar.
Miniature controls were visible all the way around it, and when I hovered a finger over one it expanded to displace the others. Testing each control in turn, I found all the functional adjustments to the nanosuite I had known, along with a few others that left me puzzled. I put it on my right wrist, whereupon it closed up, seemingly bonding to my skin, and turned red. I quickly found the control, with sliding scales governing all aspects of the human sex drive, and stared at them.
“Now that would be a shame,” purred a voice at my shoulder.
I turned to watch her as she slid onto a stool beside me. Duckam was there opposite her in an instant, placing some green concoction in a tall glass before her. She sipped, licked her lips, rattled little jewelled claws on the bar. Déjà vu returned hard, reflecting encounters like this seemingly to infinity. I shook my head to try and dispel it, focusing on her.
“You’re just out of Krong Tower?” she queried.
“I am,” I replied, “and finding my responses a little unnerving with my nanosuite at its base setting.”
“Best place for it to be,” she replied, holding up a wrist enclosed with another nascuff. Its colour was red too.
Glancing at other patrons of the bar I asked, “What does blue mean?”
“It means boring.” She downed her drink. “I take it you have a room here?”
“Shouldn’t we at least have a short period of ‘getting to know you’?” It annoyed me that my voice was unsteady and that it seemed incendiaries were going off in my body. My instinct was to force utter self-control because deep inside I felt an urgency I could not define and knew there was something I had to do …
“We could,” the catadapt replied. “You could talk about a war that ended twenty years before I was born and I could talk about runcible culture, lost art and the Klein patterns of Tirple Glasser.”
The war, I thought, something about the war …
I had to let it go. My mind wasn’t working properly and I was without vital information.
“I was always fascinated by Tirple Glasser,” I said, and drained my glass. The war could wait. It had, after all, waited a hundred years.
She slid off her stool. “And I always found the war so interesting.”
I pushed through the door into room 1034 with her tongue in my mouth and one of her legs wrapped round me. By the time I’d located the bed she’d kicked off her shoes and had both her legs round me. I staggered over and dropped her on the bed and began pulling off my clothes. Her clothing was much easier. A touch at her waist, and her top sucked into a nodule there, which she detached and tossed on the floor. Her breasts relaxed and shifted invitingly. Another touch and her shorts rolled up into a tube around her waist which she also whipped away and tossed on the floor. She flung herself back and began wriggling against the bed, rubbing her fingers between her legs, licking her lips like a porn star. My inner sophisticate and cynic stifled a bark of laughter, but the rest of me wasn’t paying attention.
“I have to get my apology in now,” I said tightly.
She grinned at me, exposing long canines, rolled over onto her knees and stuck her arse out. I climbed on the bed behind, knocked her knees out wider apart to bring her down to the right level, grabbed her hips and pulled her onto me while shoving as deep inside as I could get. I guess she had time to emit a couple of porn star m
oans but not much more than that.
Her name was Sheil Glasser—daughter of the famous Tirple Glasser I’d never heard of. We talked for a bit and had another drink from the autobar in my room. I then tuned some things down on my nascuff and the ensuing hour was very enjoyable, though tempered by that urgency deep within me, still undefined, and some guilt on her part. I found out why a little later: she was one of five women who had learned through the AI net of my resurrection and had competed to be the first to nail me. So this was how some entertained themselves in peacetime human society. She just got lucky by putting herself in the right hotel. I should have realized she knew more about me than she should have when she mentioned the war. I didn’t mind. Hell, why should I? She screwed without guilt thereafter and suggested inviting her friends over. I drew the line there, because despite other adjustments to my cuff I was getting tired—perhaps some after-effect of resurrection—and anyway, I was kind of old-fashioned about stuff like that. She kissed me on the forehead at some point while I was dozing—an act I found curiously disturbing.
I woke to daylight and was briefly reminded of my preresurrection interlude in the virtual hospital. Then I sat upright, wondering what time of the day it might be. After getting off the bed I eyed the wrinkled and stained sheets with something approaching shame, then bundled them up and tossed them on the floor. Silly really, since they would probably be dealt with by a robot. While I showered, things began to slot into place in my mind and I really started to think beyond the immediate. And that undefined urgency I had felt had gained a name.
“You there, Bob?” I asked my com bracelet.
“Always,” he replied after a short delay.
I moved to sit at the room console, the mirror above it immediately switching to screen mode, with holographic controls springing into being on the surface below. I paused then, not sure how to pursue my enquiries, but decided to be direct.