Shelley handled most of it, though we had to flag some issues to resolve later. Most of the problems Vander and Gea raised came from the fact that the design was still at a conceptual level, and Shelley just didn’t have the depth of detail yet. I couldn’t see that any showstoppers emerged, however.
Vander, as he spoke, had a strange way of sitting, alternately lounging then coming bolt upright, startling you. It was the way you might behave if you were alone, not in company. And that shock of blue hair made him hard to take seriously, despite the sharpness of his mind.
I suspected that Vander’s problem came from that ill-advised genetic engineering, performed long before he was born. Changing the color of his hair was one thing, but I was pretty sure Mr. and Mrs. Guthrie had taken the opportunity to upgrade little Vander’s IQ as well. The problem with that was what the neuro-anatomists and behavioral geneticists called pleiotropy: most genes perform more than one function, and that’s certainly true of the complexes of genes that seem to control levels of intelligence. So you could boost IQ, but we still weren’t smart enough to avert unwelcome side effects. It was an irony that only parents not smart enough to be able to grasp this in the first place would inflict such risky genetic meddling on their unborn children. Poor Vander.
Tom seemed fascinated by Vander, his peculiar, twitchy manner, his uncertain voice. I thought he ought to be grateful Morag and I hadn’t been so dumb as to do this to him.
When the technical questions ran down, Sonia leaned forward. “You said these moles will be smart enough to make their own choices.
How
smart?”
Shelley checked a softscreen. “Each mole will be three times as smart as a human. But in a narrow way. Specialized.”
Sonia said, “But smart machines have a way of thinking for themselves, don’t they? Military systems are generally kept dumb, you know. Everybody jokes that they are even dumber than the brass. But you can see why they have to be that way. You don’t want a weapon system or a piece of armor to be thinking about what it should do; you want it to do what you tell it, the instant you tell it. And now we’re going to let loose a swarm of these super-smart moles into the crust of the planet? How do you
know
they will do what they’re supposed to do?”
Shelley said evenly, “Because it will be in their own best interests. A mole is designed for burrowing, for laying tunnels, for talking to its fellows. It will be as natural as walking, talking, hugging a child is for you. The mole won’t
want
to do anything else. And as for the greater goal, each mole will be smart enough to understand the greater mission, the impelling problem. We’ll put each one through an education program to make sure.”
Sonia said, “OK, but they can still make choices, can’t they?”
“Sonia, I understand your concerns, but I wouldn’t worry about it,” Shelley said. “To us this is a detail. Motivation engineering is a well-established discipline—in fact a subset of animism, Vander’s speciality.”
Sonia couldn’t have looked less reassured. But I knew Shelley was right. There were actually philosophical arguments that endowing our machines with all this sentience and self-awareness was morally wrong, especially since their choice was usually limited, their freedom illusory. And I remembered my own helpless suspicions when first confronted with Gea. But there was nothing to fear from our artificial sentiences: despite our innate worries, the ghost of Frankenstein was laid long ago.
Makaay called a bio break. We pushed our seats back from the table and dispersed.
Tom and Sonia approached me. Tom had a mug of coffee; the vapor curled up convincingly from his virtual mug, and it struck me as odd that I couldn’t smell the cinnamon.
Tom said, “Dad, these are seriously scary people you’re dealing with here.”
“You mean EI?”
“Have you never
heard
of Cephalonia?”
I repressed the urge to snap back. “Of course I have. But they’re on our side here, Tom. Potentially anyhow.”
“Oh, sure.”
Actually I understood his suspicion of EI, even if it struck me as naÏve. Now that the old oil companies had been defanged and the nuclear power industry had cleaned up its act, the geoengineers had taken the place of those traditional mad-scientist bad guys in the popular imagination. How could their huge projects be made accountable? Couldn’t the accumulation of such power be an end in itself for the unscrupulous? And so on. I sympathized. Maybe at heart I was still a twentysomething rebel myself. The trouble was, I couldn’t see any other way to save the world than to deal with the devil.
“We live in complicated times, Tom.”
“Yeah, right.”
Ruud Makaay touched my arm. “Michael, I’m sorry to take you away from your son. But there’s somebody here who wants to meet you . . .”
It was another VR presence, of a bulky, business-suited man, sweating heavily. “Hey, Mike. I bet you don’t recognize me.”
I did, but he was such an incongruous presence I took a moment to place the name. “Jack Joy. The Swimmer.”
He made a shooting-the-gun gesture at me with one fat hand. “We shared a plane journey together.”
“How could I forget?”
“Listen, you’re surprised to see me here, right?”
I shrugged. “Of course I am.”
“After our talk on the plane, you never used that card I gave you.” I tried to apologize, but he waved it away. “No matter. I’m a curious guy,” Jack said. “And you interested me. You told me about your kid in Siberia, remember. After that I looked up about those gas deposits, and the danger, and all of that. And then I heard from a friend of a friend that you were involved in some kind of scheme to stabilize them. I was intrigued. So I found you.”
“How?”
“Through your brother John.” He grinned. “I never met him before, but he’s a Swimmer, too. Did you know that?”
Lethe.
“I suppose I suspected.”
“Anyhow, through him, to you, and here I am. And I’ve been watching the show. Very interesting.”
“I hope you don’t mind me inviting Mr. Joy,” Makaay said, but he had nothing to apologize for. He had warned us in advance that we would be monitored by others in his organization, and by representatives of potential supporters and sponsors and the like.
I said, “It’s fine. But I don’t see what interest the Swimmers have in a project like this.”
Jack shook his head. “Oh ye of little faith. You really should look us up, Mike. I’m here to see if we can help, we Swimmers.”
“
You?
You want to support the stabilization project?”
He shrugged, as if graciously accepting my gratitude. “Any way we can, if we think it’s the right thing to do. We have deep pockets, actually. You might be surprised.”
“But why would you want to?”
“Because it’s serious, if you’re right about these damn gas deposits blowing their stack. We’re pragmatists, OK? We don’t believe in denial. Your brother is a pragmatist, too. And also we may be able to act long before our various governments and intergovernmental bodies and all the rest of the bureaucratic mound on top of us get their thumbs out of each other’s asses. You may need us, Mike,” he said with a kind of overweight persuasiveness.
“Michael,” I said. “Call me Michael.”
“Actually Mr. Joy may be right,” Ruud Makaay said smoothly. “We are critically short of funding. We need money to develop the concept to the point where the governments will give us money to develop the concept. . . .” He shook his head. “It’s a vicious circle, an old story, I’m afraid.”
VR Jack said, “We want to be your friends, we really do. I’ll be waiting.” And with a nod to both of us he disappeared.
Tom approached me. “More complications, Dad? How long a spoon do you need to sup with the likes of
him
?”
Makaay called us back to order. Confused by Jack’s intervention I took my seat again.
Shelley presented the next logical level of our tentative design.
She showed how moles, inserted into the earth and dispersing from some central point, would fan out, spreading their narrow tunnels behind them as they did so. Some of the moles would move around circumferential arcs as well as radially, so that a multiply connected network, rather like a three-dimensional spiderweb, would develop within the hydrate beds.
“The network will grow incrementally,” Shelley said. “We have to follow a phased approach, simply because it’s going to take time to ramp up the industrial capacity to churn out all those moles, all those condensers and collectors. And besides, nobody has ever run a pipe network on anything like this scale before. The moles will take some time to figure out the best way to do it.”
This was the modern approach to engineering. You let your machines, loaded with as much smartness as possible, figure things out for themselves, and then learn from the way they did it. That way, not only was there a good chance you’d end up with an optimal design at the finish, but you could expect that at every stage you would move from one optimum configuration to another. It was like climbing a hill, Shelley said, in such a way that you didn’t just aim for the peak but at every stage took the best path available.
“So in the end,” Tom said, “it will all merge together into a single vast cap of silicon brain embedded in the floor of the polar ocean. Talk about hubris!”
Ruud Makaay said ruefully, “Believe me, that word is already carved on my tombstone. All I can say is that we geoengineers would never take on a project like this if there was any choice.”
“But there is no choice,” Gea said in her small, absurd voice.
Tom said, “There’s still something I don’t get. I’m no engineer, but I do recall some high-school thermodynamics. You’re keeping those hydrate deposits cool; you’re pumping all the heat out with your liquid nitrogen. But where is all that heat going
to
? It can’t just disappear, can it?”
“It certainly can’t,” said Shelley.
Shelley patiently explained that our mechanism would end up dumping its heat into the ocean, and the air.
“This will be the hardest part of the sell, I fear,” Makaay said. “Because it is going to be very hard for our paymasters to understand.”
“Well, there’s no magic involved,” Shelley said. “All that heat has to go somewhere.” But the net injection of heat into the environment would be trivial compared to the catastrophic rise in temperature that would result if the hydrates’ vast store of greenhouse gases were released to do their worst. And anyhow we could always mitigate the effects of any heat injection with albedo control. . . . It was a necessary evil, Shelley said.
Sonia said, “I don’t think I understand.”
Tom laughed. “They’re going to pump all that heat out of the hydrate layers and into the air. The whole point is to stop the world from heating up. But to do that we’re going to have to make the problem
worse.
What a joke.”
The Gea robot said, “There are many aspects of the present predicament of mankind that are ironic. It is indeed all a vast joke. Ha ha.” And she rolled back and forth, friction sparks cascading.
Chapter 33
Alia, seeking a way forward, sought the Transcendence.
When she called, the strange constellation of minds gathered around her. To rejoin the Transcendence was easy, even here, on the hive-world. Once you had been a part of the Transcendence, you never really left it; it was always in the background of your life, always waiting to take you in once more.
It was exactly like an addiction, Alia thought uneasily.
But now she sensed a kind of restlessness. The Transcendence, aware of its own imperfections and incompleteness, struggled to be born—and laced through it all was that nagging guilt over the bloodiness of the past from which it was emerging.
She looked back at herself, Alia, her own nuggetlike awareness embedded in the greater whole. To be part of the Transcendence was to be overwhelmed by perspectives, human and superhuman, that overlapped and clashed. On one level she struggled to maintain her sense of identity and purpose, and to unravel her doubts about the Redemption—but at the same time she was faintly ashamed of herself. Who was
she
to question the mass mind around her, which had been gracious enough to accept her, and which was in turn founded on the wisdom of others far older and wiser than she was? Even now, unready as she felt, she could simply give herself up to the greater whole. She could put aside Alia, like a memory of childhood; she could immerse herself in the Transcendence, and never surface again. . . .
Which was what it wanted, she realized. For her nagging questions, lodged deep within its own consciousness, made the Transcendence uncomfortable. She couldn’t take credit for causing this conflict within the Transcendence, but her questions were opening wounds, sharpening a conflict that already existed.
But she clung to herself, like a defiant child who wouldn’t say sorry. This was a genuine dilemma for the Transcendence, and she had a duty to keep asking her questions:
What is the true purpose of the Redemption? What is its ultimate goal? What does it cost? And—how far will you take it?
The constellations of pinpoint minds seemed to swim around her—and then they came together with a shocking rush. She saw a human face, a small, round, worn face, with eyes like bits of diamond.
And she heard a voice, resounding inside her head. “You won’t give up, will you, child?”
“I only want—”
“What you want doesn’t matter. What the Transcendence wants is for your doubts to be replaced by certainty. For, you see, it seeks certainty itself. You know that the impulse for Redemption comes from the communities of the undying. And so you must meet the undying, the oldest of all. You must meet
me.
My name is Leropa. Find me.”
“Where?”
Suddenly Alia surfaced from the Transcendence.
She was back in her own body, back on Reath’s shuttle. She lay on a couch. Reath and Drea hovered over her, concerned. But the three Campocs had backed against a partition, huddled together like frightened children. It struck her that joining the Transcendence was like being ill.