Only Superhuman (16 page)

7

She Never Metahuman She Didn’t Like

September 2107
Vanguard habitat

Vanguard was currently clear across the Belt from Ceres, six AUs away, so Emry took the Sundiver route. After a sunward push from the Ceres drive beam,
Zephyr
let Sol’s gravity accelerate him over the next few days, then scraped by inside Mercury’s orbit, radiators extended to full, and used just enough plasma drive to compensate for the gravity that now tried to slow him. He flipped over and decelerated hard on the penultimate leg, slowing him enough for a regional Bolasat to divert him toward their destination.

Vanguard orbited in the outermost Kirkwood gap, off the beaten track even by Outers standards. It was easy to see, though, since at three-point-seven AUs it needed a large solar mirror to focus sufficient sunlight. That bright, solitary beacon had attracted curiosity from afar for decades. The original Vanguard had been a small Bernal sphere, but on relocating they’d constructed a second, larger sphere, counterrotating on the same axis. Telescopic scans suggested that Vanguard’s population had grown to nearly fifteen thousand, substantial for a habitat that had had little immigration for three decades. They must have been breeding like crazy over the past generation or so—but with what goal?

Despite its age and isolation, Vanguard’s docking and reception facilities were state-of-the-art. Emry and several other delegates were met by a pair of young Vanguardians, both quite fit and pleasant-looking, their faces reflecting complex mixtures of ethnic types, their wardrobe designed to show off their superb physiques. Emry took full advantage of that in the dark-haired man’s case until he introduced himself as Babur Kincaid. “Ms. Blair … Emerald? This is a privilege. I’ve always wanted to meet you.” He studied her. “I can see the resemblance.”

“I take after my mother,” she replied coolly.

“Oh, but still, there’s some of mine in you too.”

“You’re … Rachel Kincaid-Shannon is your mother?”

He nodded. “Which makes me your half uncle, I’m afraid.”

“So I guess it’s not a coincidence that you’re here.” She reminded herself not to be hostile. Her assignment dictated that she act interested in her Vanguardian family ties. She gave Babur a tentative smile.

“Well, there are plenty of us around. Mom’s still churning us out even today. You’ve got quite a few uncles, aunts, and cousins living here. Probably hundreds.”

“Great!” she forced herself to say. “I can’t wait to meet more of ’em.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Babur said amiably. “Now shall we get on with the tour?”

She nodded, and he went on his way.

Zephyr suggested.

Their subvocal exchanges were quantum-encrypted and unbreakable, but they could still be detected, and too much private radio traffic might seem suspicious.

The group descended from the microgee docking level in a cylindrical tram that took them down the curve of the large sphere, pivoting sideways in response to Cori force so its passengers could remain upright within it while perceiving the landscape as tilting to the left. That was normal to Emry, but the landscape was unusual for a Bernal sphere, terraced into more distinct gravity levels than most. Its equatorial gravity was a full 1.25 gees, unlike most habitats, which topped out at point-nine or less due to the health and cosmetic advantages of moderately low gravity and the desire to minimize rotation sickness. It looked to Emry as though the most densely populated rings were in the point-nine to one gee range, with a wilderness area in the equatorial ring. Most habitats put their faux mountains toward their poles or end caps, but here there were sheer crags thrusting from the equator. Apparently the Vanguardians enjoyed a challenge.

And it showed. Emry had never seen a healthier, more attractive and diverse group of people, even in TSC headquarters. There were few groundcars or slidewalks in evidence; most people were walking or cycling, if not playing or exercising in the extensive parkland around the central district. And they clearly enjoyed showing off their fitness. Bare chests were common among both sexes, and a number of parkgoers were nude. What clothing there was tended to be formfitting, cut in creatively skimpy ways, or both.
I always figured my lack of modesty came from Mom’s influence,
Emry thought, even as she unzipped her uniform top the rest of the way. Not only was it nice and warm here, but she figured she should look like she was making herself at home.

The main city district was full of buildings as gorgeous as their occupants, evoking the forward-thrusting power of Art Deco and the introspective naturalism of Neo-Organicism at the same time. Through their windows, Emry saw labs, classrooms, and studios filled with energetic people engaged in lively discussion and activity. Yet it all seemed very disciplined. This was a well-maintained, orderly environment; she saw no litter, graffiti, or decay, though admittedly this was a carefully controlled tour.

Emry was surprised that the center of power was in the new sphere instead of the original, and she said as much to Babur. “The old sphere’s our industrial district now,” he said. “It was cramped, basic, not a great place to live.”

“Yeah, but it’s where you began.”

Her half uncle smiled. “We’re far more interested in where we’re going.”

Soon they reached the government complex, before which was a row of larger-than-life bronze statues, heroically nude in the Grecian tradition, representing the champions of the first generation of Vanguardians, those who’d fought for justice on Earth a generation ago: Zhao Liwei, Liesl Warner, Krishna Ramchandra, Soaring Hawk Darrow, Lydie Clement, Michael Jerusalmi, Thuy Dinh … and of course Liam Shannon, her famously martyred grandfather. In the center, towering above them even though he stood on the same level, was Eliot Thorne. Emry smiled as she studied the detail and accuracy with which the sculptor had limned his powerful physique, though the statue barely did justice to his commanding African features. She flushed at the realization that she would probably meet the man himself. Despite her discomfort at being here, she felt a remembered thrill of childhood hero-worship toward Eliot Thorne, and some more adult responses as well.

Kincaid pointed out that many of these statues’ subjects now served as leading members of Vanguard’s legislature, judiciary, and scientific and artistic communities. “Along with many you don’t see,” he added. “Those whose contributions were less public but equally vital to making us who and what we are. Such as my own birth mother, Rachel Kincaid-Shannon, who is perhaps Vanguard’s top geneticist—aside from Eliot Thorne himself, of course.”

Emry looked up at that. she asked Zephyr.

Emry whistled softly. Eliot Thorne had not only been one of the first children born with mods to enhance survival in space, but had been one of the first volunteers when the Vanguardians had begun experimenting with more advanced mods, offering himself as a test subject as soon as he’d come of age. Strong, robust, and intelligent to begin with, he’d argued successfully that he was one of the best test subjects they were likely to find, and one of the best potential breeders for a future transhuman species. When the global turmoil had peaked in his early thirties, he had helped convince the project leaders to send their augmented children and volunteers out to fight the chaos. But Emry hadn’t known he’d actually participated in the science.
Could he have worked on my dad’s genes?
she wondered, not sharing the thought with Zephyr.
Could I owe my existence to this man?

*   *   *

The delegates at the reception that night were the largest collection of mods that Emry had ever seen in one place. Emry chose to station herself by the buffet table, assuming everyone would come by there sooner or later—but mainly because Vanguardian cuisine was extraordinary. Clearly they didn’t limit their gengineering to people. Most of the spread was vegetarian by spacer tradition, but there was an assortment of bioprinted or vat-grown meats as well. Emry only sampled those out of curiosity, but they were surprisingly good.

As it happened, most of the delegates, particularly the males, made a point of seeking her out. She figured it was due about equally to her Troubleshooter status and her dress. She’d chosen one appropriate for the Green Blaze: a close-fitting, high-slit gown with wide, low décolletage, its fabric animated with gently flowing “plasma clouds” of varying shades of green and degrees of translucency. Underneath, she wore only an emerald-encrusted g-clip (the Vanguardians might not mind the occasional glimpse of bush, but other delegates might), which matched her gold-and-emerald necklace and the dress selfone she wore as an ear clip. A pair of scintillating green open-toed shoes, low-heeled for freedom of movement, completed the ensemble. Her hairstyle was simple and loose, though it had taken some time to make her unruly hair look more or less like she hadn’t just been in a fight, a windstorm, or both.

Staying polite through all the introductions and questions was a challenge. There were people in this room she’d feel more comfortable arresting than mingling with. A few of the “transhumanist nations” represented here were just ordinary states that embraced modifications beyond the ubiquitous adaptations to space, longevity treatments, and the like. States like Niihama, where bionics and neural interfaces were trendy, or Vestalia, where bright, primary skin colors and cosmetic add-ons like tails and extra breasts were all the rage among the celebrity elite. But most were Outer-Belt fringe states whose core philosophies revolved around remaking humanity in ways that mainstream society might not approve of. Wellspring was just one example, and Emry couldn’t ditch its emissary soon enough. Unfortunately, the woman was a typical Wellspringer, her hormones regulated to preclude “unbalanced emotional extremes,” and thus remained placidly oblivious to Emry’s discomfort and immune to her attempts to subtly irritate the woman into leaving.

The man who finally rescued her wasn’t much of an improvement. Jorge Santiago’s people were researching human immortality, and he seemed content to lecture her about it for eternity. Or at least until she took him to bed; he seemed to think that the promise of eternal life made a great pickup line. As he went on about the impracticality of copying the brain into a computer, what with the near-insurmountable challenge of monitoring the chemical activity of billions of neurons in a squishy, moving mass, she began to wonder if she should find some closet to take him to just to shut him up. “And even if it
were
feasible to make an exact copy of the mind, it would still be just a copy. Your own awareness would still reside in your brain, and once you died, that would be that for
you,
regardless of whether you have a cyber that
thinks
it’s you living on forever.

“So what’s required is continuity. The transition from organic to cybernetic brain must take place seamlessly, so that the consciousness remains uninterrupted.” He went on to explain about the nanofibers he had growing in his own brain, running parallel with his neural pathways so as to replace them in the neural network upon cell death, and thus gradually transforming the network from a cellular substrate to a synthetic one that would embody the same continuous consciousness. True, the nanofibers were as yet only able to track larger-scale patterns of brain activity, and test animals subjected to the full procedure still demonstrated a consistent and disappointing tendency to drop dead. But Santiago expressed confidence that the bugs would be worked out in his lifetime, and that his occasional neurological tics and memory problems would be tackled “quite soon, Amethyst.”

A rude noise came from behind Emerald. “Pfft. Immortality—it’s a fool’s pursuit.” She turned and found herself facing what seemed to be a large, white-furred monkey. “Only nature is immortal,” the monkey said in an urbane, polished tenor. “And individual death is what sustains its cycles, feeds the birth of new life. Try to place your will above Nature’s, and Nature will inevitably find a way to render you extinct.”

The philosophy would have pegged him as Neogaian even if it hadn’t been obvious from his appearance. The diminutive, middle-aged man had been modded with simian features, including a prehensile tail that was picking up a mango from the buffet table. Behind him stood a scantily clad woman with brown, seal-like skin, elongated and webbed digits, no outer ears, and a tight layer of fur covering her head. Her full figure suggested a layer of insulating blubber, but she was very attractively contoured. Her breasts were compact and firm, presumably to reduce drag, but that was compensated for by an enlarged rib cage (for greater lung capacity, Emry realized, remembering Javon).

The simian man reached out a hand to Emry. “Hanuman Kwan, Ms. Blair, at your service.” Emry offered a hand, which he kissed with his slightly protruding muzzle. “And my
zaftig
companion here is Selkie. As you can no doubt tell, we represent the Union of Neogaia. And I am glad for the opportunity to personally offer my most abject apologies for the assault which certain … misguided fellow nationals of mine recently inflicted upon the Earth, and for the tragic cost to yourself and your corps. Let me assure you, the regime responsible for that atrocity has been cast down entirely from power, and all its members subjected to the fullest punishment of the law. Well, those who allowed themselves to be taken alive,” he added mournfully.