Waiting

With every tool man is perfecting his own organs, whether motor or sensor, or is removing the limits to their functioning…Man has, as it were, become a kind of prosthetic God. When he puts on all his auxiliary organs, he is truly magnificent; but these organs have not grown on to him, and they still give him trouble at times…Future ages will bring with them new and probably unimaginable great advances in this field of civilization and will increase man’s likeness to God still more. But in the interests of our investigations, we will not forget that present-day man does not feel happy in his Godlike character. —Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents

Aligning to the safe spot required the Retriever to orient itself almost directly toward the local star, so near it seemed that a jump would take it right through the corona. A K5, main sequence. Bright orange. A beautiful star when seen only by reflection and atmospheric diffusion. The beaches on the temperate planet in a nearby orbit would be fantastic. In space, the star had a harsher beauty. The viewshield polarized itself almost to opacity. Too bad, thought the miner. He liked looking at the starfields with his own eyes, even going so far as to occasionally disable his perception implant. Now was not the time for that, of course. Almost everything in space happens too quickly for the naked eye now. Once, he’d taken a quick look at a pirate Dominix, checking it’s loadout. The old battleship had seen better days, dark scars from pulse lasers and pitting from a hail of autocannon and railgun shells had given it the same sad honor he remembered from visiting the ancient battlefields on Luminaire VI, Gallente Prime, as a boy. Industrial-age war machines lying pristinely destroyed on the manicured lawns. He had wondered briefly, sadly, if the pirate battleship had seen action in the Caldari secession. If it still carried the souls of Gallentean sailors and marines. Time matters. In that instant the drones were on him, swarming. Did I lose a body that day? Now he always instructed the computer to turn down the settings, filter out the beauty. Convert it and compress it, take the eigenvector and ram it into his implant. Numbers only, please. Angular velocity, tactical overlay, squad comms, drone bay. He’d fight with his wallet open if had an excuse. Cover the whole screen to stop the beauty from leaking through, if that’s what it took.

Hence the implants. The cloned brains didn’t come with warning labels anymore: ne pas utiliser un adaptateur, le non-respect de ces instructions peut causer un deces, the ancients would have said on Tau Ceti. So much for the ancients. Modernity demanded beauty and grief yield to efficiency, but maybe less so while jet-canning.

The visual feed began, information from the ship’s sensors pouring into his occipital lobe interface like sand through an hourglass. The Retriever poised in the asteroid belt around the seventh planet, an ice world. Nice quiet system. Good choice for the meet-up, he thought. A point-six security status system on the border of the Federation with only a few low-sec systems to the anti-coreward, then the wilds of open space. No stations out here. No Iterons and Obelisks thundering around, punching holes in the fabric of space time with their enormous warp bubbles that rippled around him, upsetting his little raft on the star ocean. It was the sort of system the miner preferred. Nowhere near any trade route, pilot school, and not enough lowsec space nearby to make it worthwhile for pirates to lurk on the gates. Not even enough decent ore to attract miners and their parasites, the can-flippers and suicide-gankers. Not like I’m in a hurry, anyway. Nobody in local except Vladimir, his partner, just arrived in system. ISK per hour, return on investment, all those financial metrics over which the corporate management sweated their clone blood out. Even the ex-capsuleers who went on to corporate work and never got back into a pod because they spent all day on the Neocom, they still had clones, immortality. What’s the limit of ISK per hour as the hours approach infinity?

The miner’s leg began to itch. Faster-than-light communications, he thought, and they can’t build a pod that can scratch an itch. He could instruct his brain to disregard the nerve signals from the affected area, of course, but that was almost as much work as bearing the itch. Which was the same thing. Nothing to be done.

“Hey Altair, together again at last! Where were you last night? Flippers get you?”

“Yeah.”

“Same gang as before?”

“Maybe. Could have been alts.”

You’d think being immortal was enough, but no, everybody needs alts, too. Hey vat tender, make my next one a double. Many bodies, one mind. His leg continued to itch. There’s too much for one clone, there will be too much for the next million years and thinking about it now will just make you lose heart.

“You alright?”

“Leg itches.”

“Oh. When was the last time you changed your capsule fluid? Never neglect the little things in life.”

“Can’t remember.”

The miner surveyed the belt with his mind’s eye.

“What do you want to do today, Vlad? Omber?”

Vlad had been an interceptor pilot. An original Taranis. Hand controls, holographic screens, the works. A real throwback. He seemed to need more than just his mind to fly, and with the memory in his muscles and the tension in his sinews and the strength in his bones he had nearly squared corners at microwarp velocities in his ‘ceptor. He had been assured by the scientists that his feelings were all in his imagination, there was no such a complex, all relevant skills had been accounted for and would be replicated in his clones. But nevertheless he couldn’t get used to the idea unless they could grow the same old, thick calluses on his new, soft hands. He’d become afraid of losing his body, even as it imperceptibly aged. He had grown into it, made it his own. He’d even, the miner knew from the few times he’d spotted him walking in the station, gotten a little portly. Capsuleers tend to suffer from a finely-tuned and highly pitched sense of vanity regarding their bodies which renders this state of affairs unthinkable to most, but not to Vlad.

The megacorps say your clones are nearly perfect matches of you, identical to the smallest detail, the capsuleer thought. To the atomic level. Cromaux advertised 99.99% memory retention. Maybe. Probably. They wouldn’t lie about that, not after all they’d gone through to get them to market, spent all that money. At first the clone corps had difficulty convincing people of the technique’s safety, especially in the Federation. Poteque Pharma couldn’t get away with a simple cost-benefit study like Zainou and Lai Dai. They’d had to bring in Impetus, buying advertising and public relations expertise to get the general public comfortable with the idea, but they still had no end of trouble from the retros who bombed the research centers and kidnapped the scientists. Can’t really blame them, he supposed; back then cloning was associated with the Jovians and the Caldari. To the man in the tube it had smelled like another fascist attempt by the Caldari to change their humanity to better suit their corporation’s needs. The man in the grey reinforced rolled flannel pod. The urbanites and scholars of Caille excepted, you’ll still get some looks walking down the street in Genolution or Zainou meat.

But even in the Federation the golden rule holds. Who has the gold, makes the rules. Pretty soon people were drinking it up like Quafe. Illegal back-alley cloning centers sending thugs down to skid row for cadavers and near-cadavers, removing the brains, slapping on some off-brand Matari cutaneoplastic fascia, now you’re ready to go. No finger, no leg, no head? Grab something off the compost pile. It doesn’t matter, it’s just matter.

“I don’t know, what do you think? Let me pull the market real quick. I heard there’s war in zero-zero again, veld ought to be good. What do you think? What did we do yesterday?”

“Omber, still.”

Every little detail filed away in brain, eidetic memory assisted by the implant. Accumulating. How long could the bits pile up before they overwhelmed him? Perhaps in the moment of extremity when the wirecap sent the needle, hanging over him even at this moment like Damocles’ sword, sliding through the thin wall of his great cerebral vein and injecting the nanotoxin to destroy his body while the brain scanner destroyed his mind and sent him through the light-years of space to his clone, the memories were inventoried, filed, culled, compressed. How would he know? He could remember the little things, but never the big ones. He never remembered dying.

“OK, omber. If I smell another molecule of veldspar I’ll self-destruct my pod, anyway.”

The two men contemplated the asteroid.

“This is the place, right?” The miner said. Charming spot, thought the miner as he quickly converted the sensor feed to a visual representation. The blaze of the star softened algorithmically, the asteroid was lit by reflection from the ice world that cast the irregularities on its surface into alto-relievo. Distant points of light shone serenely in the firmament. How long had the light traveled to reach this place?

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go.”

“OK.”

He felt the strip miners cycle, the capacitor drain. The co-processor raised its voice, as it’s conversation with the MLU became an argument, racing to find the most efficient rate through the hard shell of the asteroid into the omber beneath. The Highwall refereed; typical Amarr implant thinks it’s in charge. An HX Co-Extractor model, HCE. Each a gossamer tingle at the back of the miner’s mind, the feeling that he was remembering something he had never known. The Retriever’s computer was in a state of meditative concentration, uninterested. Those two argued all the time. The miner’s mind flashed an image, an atavistic reaction, of the ship’s computer supine in a bluegrass meadow as a warm breeze shook the leaves of a nearby tree, gazing into the blue sky at the passing clouds and imagining them to be rich asteroids, perfectly blissful to be engaged in the activity for which it had been designed. He felt envious of the machine.

Need to wipe the ship’s computer the next time in station, it’s getting too comfortable, he thought. Or maybe not, just let it go. At least it wasn’t bothering him with the formalities of pilot-ship protocol any longer. And it seemed so content, happy, even.

Right-click.

Select all.

Transfer to can.

“This is the place, right? You’re sure it was here?” Said the miner.

“What?”

“Where do we wait?”

“He said near the forest world; he’ll scan us down when he gets here for the pickup. You see any other forest worlds?”

“What if he doesn’t come?”

“He said we were to wait. Anyway, the can dies in an hour.” Luxurious.

The lasers cycled. The miner felt tired. I wonder if my original body is still in some stasis unit, somewhere. The one that had grown in his mother’s womb, left arm a fraction of a millimeter longer than the right. Had he lost it in battle? Or had he jumped out of it and left it in that Wiyrkomi station in Lonetrek. What would his grandfather say if he knew he’d left the body his ancestors had loaned to him in a Caldari vat somewhere? I think gramps was uploaded before he passed, he recalled. I should ask him. Or, to be more specific, his emulation. He hadn’t even given it his best implants, not that he felt it hadn’t deserved them, but he’d had to make choices and optimize himself across his bodies.

Could I go back? They wouldn’t have destroyed his old brain yet; the Caldari didn’t hate him enough for that, did they? A few State cruisers in a slightly more entropic state than when he had found them; bygones, certainly. Maybe he could convince somebody at Wyirkomi to let him jump back without a memory transfer, with a little sticky on his cortex: Go farm seaweed on Pozirblant, kid. There’s nothing but life out here. Behind the dutiful façade and the silly sneers they always seemed to have on their faces like they came out of the vat wearing them, the Caldari salarymen could always be persuaded that what’s good for the corporation (and by extension, themselves) was good for the State. Meaning, they could be bribed. Accidents could be arranged. Coincidences. Make everything new again. Go back home and eat carrots from the garden. Cheat time once more, but this time from the other side of the trade. But it had been too long already. How long had it been? Nothing to be done.

The capsuleer, through the deflector fields and armor plates and the shell of his egg, looked to all the universe as if deep in a dream.

“Al. Hey, Al. AL!” Vlad, insistently, over the com.

The miner woke.

“You fell asleep.”

“I was just thinking.”

“I got lonely. Tell me a story.”

Exasperation.

“Oh, fine. Have you heard the one about Cleobis and Biton?”

“Tell me again.”

The miner began.

“It’s an old story from Gallente Prime during the Warring Cities period. Cleobis and Biton were the sons of Cydippe, who was a priestess of some local goddess. They were famous in their city for their feats of athletics. They were all taking their oxcart to the temple for a feast, but were running late. Cleobis and Biton unharnessed the beast and drew the cart themselves at a faster pace for many miles. When they arrived, the townsmen stood around the young men and marveled at their strength and endurance, while the women congratulated the mother on her fine sons. Cydippe was so filled with joy and pride that she went into the temple and prayed to her goddess that her sons should be given whatever in the world was best for men to win. Then the mother and her sons sacrificed to the goddess and enjoyed the feast. Afterward, being tired, Cleobis and Biton laid down to sleep at the foot of the statue of the goddess, and they never woke again.”

The two men contemplated the asteroid.

“Was that before the infomorph revolution?” Vlad asked.

“Well before.”

“Poor fellows.”

“You get used to it, I imagine.”

“One can get used to anything.”

“Best of all possible worlds.”

“They all are.”

If we spent every day of our lives getting hit in the head with a hammer, soon we’d come up with reasons why getting hit in the head with a hammer wasn’t so bad; why it was necessary, even.

The lasers cycled.

Right-click.

Select all.

Transfer to can.

Vlad broke the silence. “Just got a hit on the scanner, near the lowsec gate.”

The miner checked the local channel.

“A Harbinger and a Bestower. They’re a long way from home, aren’t they.”

“Maybe it’s him, our hauler? Maybe with an escort through lowsec?”

The miner keyed up in local. One neuron hovering over the synapse that would initiate an emergency warp. The miner didn’t think anyone would let CONCORD melt down a Harby just to pop a Retriever, but he’d seen stranger things happen. The Harbinger was still on the other side of the system, but if scanned them down and warped into the belt…

“Are you called Godeau?” The miner broadcast.

The Harbinger pilot’s response was automatically correlated by the Retriever’s computer to include his CONCORD biographical information. He was an Amarrian from one of the industrial corps, name given as Ardurrabi. Pull up the Bestower, run the pilot. The miner was shocked to see the face of an old Minmatar man. A slave, maybe? He didn’t have the Ammatar look, but that didn’t settle anything. Seems a little downtrodden, in fact. Likely not Ammatar, then, probably just an old Minny slave who didn’t see the point of trying to get out. Never seen an Amarr who cloned his slave before.

“No,” Ardurrabi responded. “That name means nothing to me, I’m sorry to say. However, I do have some excellent BPC’s for sale that I’m positive would be worthwhile investments for professional miners, such as your honorable selves…show them what we’ve got, Neville.”

“No thanks,” Vlad replied in local before the slave could start. “I’ve had it with manufacturing. Second run’s never as sweet as the first.”

One run only for me, please, thought the miner.

“Who’s Godeau?” The Ammar inquired amiably.

“An acquaintance. Doesn’t matter, forget it.”

“You took me for him.”

“We’ve been staring at rocks for awhile.”

“You don’t say? Yes, it seems as if your hauler is behind schedule. Have you considered alternatives? I’d be happy to have Neville take some of your ore off your hands at market prices.”

A pause in which the miner considered the offer.

“You could scan us down and loot our cans if you wanted, but if you’re dealing in blueprints you couldn’t possibly steal enough ore to make it worth your time. What are you up to?”

“I’m not working any angles here, friend, just passing the time. Aren’t we all men of the same species, each made in the image of God? I myself have been made in the image of God many times! But if we have no business I will leave you both to your work.”

“Yeah, OK. It’s a free Federation.”

The miner wondered if the Federation would confiscate the slave if the Amarrian brought him near the homeworlds.

“Well, then, I’ll be going. I must attend to my affairs. God be with you.”

A shuffle in local as the pair disappeared.

The two men contemplated the asteroid.

Asteroids aren’t always a dull brown. To the naked eye, silhouetted against a lava world, or lit by the flash of a dying Hulk, the belt shimmers like a rainbow, an arcing ion trail of a planetary bombardment missile. Only to the naked eye. Through an implant they look like spreadsheets.

The lasers cycled.

Right-click.

Select all.

Transfer to can.

Vlad broke the silent, empty space.

“Funny thing about the Amarr, There are four empires and they’re the only ones who think they’re saved. One out of four. Of the other three, the Federation and the Caldari State don’t really have an opinion at all, and the Minmatar say the Amarr abused them.”

“What are you talking about now? Saved from what?”

“From death; from death, or hell.”

“Cloning saves us from death.” From dying, anyway.

“Hell, then.”

“Hrmph.”

“I’ve met that Amarr trader before. He was here yesterday. I pretended not to recognize him.”

“What? Why didn’t you ask him what happened yesterday?”

“He never knows. I think his faith prevents it.”

“Still, why pretend not to know him? He must realize it.”

“I always do. Just to pass the time.”

“You have odd ideas.”

“It’s GO-doe, by the way. Stress the first syllable; he’s from Bourynes III. Mangling their names really annoys them. They’re quite proud of their language, goes back to their belle epoque as a superpower in Nexus, before the Federation. You didn’t study it in school?”

“Must have been sick the day they handed out that skillbook.” There aren’t any skillbooks for the important things.

“Hmm.”

“When can we expect him?”

“He didn’t say. He never does.”

“Let’s go do something, anything.” Nothing to be done.

“He said we were supposed to wait.”

“He said wait by the forest world.” Vladimir’s voice in his mind again.

“He should be here by now.”

“What, are you saying it’s the wrong place?” Vlad said with a tinge of annoyance .

“We were here yesterday, though.”

“Did he come yesterday?”

“What day was yesterday?”

“It was Saturday. I’m sure of it; I made a note. Yesterday will have been Saturday.”

“I’m sure he was here. He must have been.”

“Today’s no different, then.”

“It must be.”

The lasers’ indicator completed its circular circuit and disengaged; one less asteroid in the belt. To be replaced at a later date. The miner directed the lasers to another one. A key change, a rhythm change, around in the circle they go, by fourths and fifths continually.

Anthropology.

After graduating on Caille, the miner had spent some time getting his bearings, jet-canning in a Navitas near Scolluzer. A real one man operation, doing his own hauling and refining. Scraping together a couple million ISK to buy learning books, planning for the long term. Great things were coming to him, he felt them on the solar wind. Getting into his first cruiser made him feel like he could take on the world. That’s how young men are. He’d felt like he could make a difference, what’s the word, efficacy. Capability, capacity. Cruiser, battleship, go out to nullsec, test himself against the world. Soon, very soon, he’d found that no man is an island unto himself, and everyone had to find a place or be cast away. Find a place in the machine the new gods had made for themselves, of themselves. The clock of godworks.

“Hey. Are you napping again?” Vlad.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell. How long has it been?“

“I don’t know.”

The belt was almost empty.

“Altair?”

“Yes.”

“It must have been awhile by now.”

“Surely.”

“I can’t go on like this.”

“Shall we go?”

“Let’s.”

“It would be better.”

“What if he comes?”

“We won’t have to wait anymore, at least.”

“We’ll be saved.”

“The belt is all gone now.”

“We’ve broken it.”

“We’ll get another one tomorrow.”

“He can’t expect us to wait so long.”

“Yes, and it’s getting late.”

“Very late.”

The miner had been waiting for the feeling to return, gone back to the source, the work of creation. His mind was still.

“Shall we part, then?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

Neither of them moved. Altair began to sleep again, and Vlad wondered if he might be sleeping also. What should he say of today?

What had he said?

The Retrievers stared at the stars.