‘You see, Miss Amberginnegan, with your father’s passing, he set aside a portion of his power, his legacy, his wealth, to you. For the last three months, it has been … in a kind of limbo, if you will. And the legacy has been set aside—protected—within these stony buildings, until the heir was found to come to and claim it. Now you have done so, Miss Amberginnegan. And under our protection, your father’s legacy has been passed on—to you.’
Alison stared straight ahead.
Mosses continued. ‘Now, of course, if you so desire, you are quite free to withdraw your legacy, and take it elsewhere, or attempt to manage it yourself. Which of course, we here at Legacy Corps would be perfectly understanding of. However, as your executors, we are also happy to maintain and protect your various holdings, assets, and inventions, and will maintain all the ties that will ensure your fortune remains your own.’
Alison’s throat was dry. She swallowed, wetting her mouth, then spoke. ‘How, uh, how much, that is, I don’t mean to sound greedy, but, how much is the, uh...legacy?’
Mosses Meddleson rocked backwards in his chair. ‘Ah, well, with a fortune this large, there’s no actual amount, just an abstract concept.’
‘Huh? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How can money be an abstract concept?’
‘Well, it has a lot to do with the modern economy.’ Mosses Meddleson began pressing buttons on a console and took a remote control out of his desk. ‘I have prepared a short visual presentation.’
The lights in the room dimmed. Along one wall a white screen appeared.
‘You see, often people, corporations—or discorporations, as the case was with your father—earn money based on an investment, or by providing a service. When income exceed costs, profit results.’
On the screen appeared a stick figure, standing next to a drawing of a huge pile of gold.
‘Some ways of acquiring profits are through patents, or inventions. You register your invention with an enforcement agency, and then, as people use it—or apply it to other inventions—the enforcement agency makes sure they pay you a percentage of their profit.’
The stick figure walked into a building with a sign reading ‘Enforcement Agency’ over it, then quickly exited, walking back to his gold pile. Other stick figures appeared and entered the building, and arrows from the building traveled to the pile of gold, which grew larger and larger.
‘As the invention becomes more and more ingrained in peoples lives, and more permutations are built upon it, The profits for the invention increase at a faster and faster rate.’
A graph appeared, the y-axis labeled ‘profit,’ the x-axis ‘time.’ A straight line appeared upon it, headed upwards across the screen.
‘The profits increase and increase, and if more inventions are created—and in the case of your father, many, many more inventions were created—they beget more and more inventions, and more and more profit is accumulated, causing not only profits to go up, but the rate of profit to rise as well.’
Several more graphs, identical to the first, appeared on the screen, connected by plus signs. They disappeared, replaced by a new graph.
‘Here is a graph of accumulated profit. The x line is time, the y profit. You see how the slope gradually rises over time, the line going higher and higher? That’s due to the inventions becoming more and more ingrained in society, often so that we don’t even notice they exist, or they form...a kind of bedrock, upon which many of the tasks we perform throughout our lives are built.’
The line on the graph began moving higher and higher, faster and faster, its slope curving, until….
‘Well, sometimes, all those accumulated growing rates, they keep getting higher and higher, as more and more profit is acquired more and more rapidly, until the rate of profit becomes so fast, the line becomes vertical. And a singularity is reached.’
The line on the graph went straight upwards.
‘Profits has been accumulated so fast that the actual amount of wealth is infinite. The magician's multitude of inventions are effectively a foundation of society, to the point that society as we know it, could not exist without them. This singularity of wealth occurred for your father long ago.
‘Miss Amberginnegan, you are inheriting a portion of infinite wealth.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. Quite exciting, isn’t it?’
‘What, uh, how much is a portion of,’ Alison gulped. ‘Infinite. Wealth.’
Mosses Meddleson smiled. ‘Why, infinity, of course! Oh, Miss Amberginnegan, you are now one of the Kings and Queens of the City! There are only 87 individuals in all of the City with as much wealth as you. Why, you can purchase anything, so long as someone is willing to sell it to you. Which means, of course, that you could theoretically own one eighty-seventh of all property in the city, if you were so inclined. Maybe more, if you are ambitious. Why, you can do anything! Anything any person could imaginably want to do, you can do. Miss Amberginnegan, you are about to embark on a great adventure!’
A monotone voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere spoke over the intercom system.
‘Attention residents of Legacy Corporation Towers,’ it said. ‘We regret to inform you that Dadalus, the Winged Anarchist, is at present loose inside your skyscraper. There is no reason to panic; Clockmen have arrived and are dealing with the situation. However, it is advisable that at the present time you stay in your current location, and await further news.’
Friday, July 30, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Book I: Part 11: C4
When C4 walked out of the spirelike hallway into the lobby at Central Command1, C5 was there waiting for him. The Clockman was leaning upon the railing, his elbow arched outwards into the void, slouching in a manner that was not inelegant, and wiping his pinch-nez with his pocket handkerchief.
"Fancy seeing you here," said C4. He walked carefully and precisely up to his colleague, measuring each step to be exactly the same length (0.5 meters)2.
"Aye? Oh, you're here too then, eh?" said C5, feigning looking over towards C4. "That's a surprise, then."
With the possible exception of C1 (whose head was a giant clock) C5 possessed the most alienating visage of any of the Clockmen in C4's unit3. That was because C5 didn't have a visage. His face was a smooth, almost completely featureless, a shiny metal mannequin's head.
"Nah, I'm only having a laugh," said C5. "I knew you'd be about. Heard you had a great nasty spill then, yeh?"
"Yes," said C4. "But I am better now."
"Naturally, naturally. As expected. In fact, they sent me along to collect you, dont'cha know, after they heard I was about the area." C5 replaced his pinch-nez to his nose, where it snapped magnetically into place. The pinch-nez were actually the method by which C5 saw, transmitting visual signals to his brane. Each lense of the pinch-nez was a coin-sized clockface, lit, when in use, to a light shade of blue, and telling the time in small holographic minute and hour hands.
"Really?" asked C4.
"Oh, aye. Though all honesty, mate, I had no fockin idea you'd be about when I first showed up. That was just Fortune at work. Really, I came here for a quick pick-me-up. Notice anything different about me?" C5 threw his hands wide in a gesture of presentation.
"New suit?" replied C4.
"Ach, I knew there was no fooling you, mate." C5 had previously been dressed in midnight-blue, pinstriped, doublebreasted, two-piece suit with notched lapels and a single vent, accompanied by a matching fedora. Now he was wearing a plain black, singled-breasted, three-peice suit with peaked lapels and double vents, accompanied by a matching black bowler hat. His tie, formerly a solid red, was now a slightly metallic ooze of all the colors of the rainbow. However, his shirt was still white, and his shoes were still black leather (but then, a different black leather). The red handkerchief was the same red handkerchief that C5 always had, but then, C4 knew that C5 always hung on to it, through every wardrobe change, for reasons that could only be called sentimental.
"Well? Be honest. What's your opinion?"
"It's quite nice. The look suits you."
"Suits me? Fock, it's a pun. Ha!" C5 returned his handkerchief to his side pocket. "Eh. I figured it was time for a change, yeh know?"
"I understand the sentiment." C4 turned his head metronomically to the left, as if to stare off at some point of interest.
"You could use a change, yourself, mate."
"Hmmm."
"You never change."
"So, is this why you weren't involved in the chase earlier, then?" asked C4, desperate to change the subject.
"Oh, aye." said C5, seemingly noticing nothing. "And you wouldn't believe the great fockin stink C1 put up about it. But what was I supposed to do? Rush off in me knickers to fight the great horrible Dadalus? And do what, exactly? Take a great flying leap of a building with me counterpart? No offense, mate."
"None taken," said C4, with a wave of his hand. "You said you were to collect me?"
"Hmm? Oh, aye. Yeh, they got back on his trail a while back. Hold on."
C4 felt a package arriving, and accepted it. A collection of PLM4 coordinates and streams of timestamped VAST recordings. A conception was formed of what had occurred to the Pteranarchist, since C4's fall into grace.
"So that's where we are headed, then, is it?" asked C4. He sent a package of PLM coordinates to C55.
C5 nodded. "That's where we're headed."
C4 nodded in return. "Well, all right then. Let's bridge."
Coordinates were exchanged. Boxes of rainbow light opened over C4 and C5, and they were gone.
"Fancy seeing you here," said C4. He walked carefully and precisely up to his colleague, measuring each step to be exactly the same length (0.5 meters)2.
"Aye? Oh, you're here too then, eh?" said C5, feigning looking over towards C4. "That's a surprise, then."
With the possible exception of C1 (whose head was a giant clock) C5 possessed the most alienating visage of any of the Clockmen in C4's unit3. That was because C5 didn't have a visage. His face was a smooth, almost completely featureless, a shiny metal mannequin's head.
"Nah, I'm only having a laugh," said C5. "I knew you'd be about. Heard you had a great nasty spill then, yeh?"
"Yes," said C4. "But I am better now."
"Naturally, naturally. As expected. In fact, they sent me along to collect you, dont'cha know, after they heard I was about the area." C5 replaced his pinch-nez to his nose, where it snapped magnetically into place. The pinch-nez were actually the method by which C5 saw, transmitting visual signals to his brane. Each lense of the pinch-nez was a coin-sized clockface, lit, when in use, to a light shade of blue, and telling the time in small holographic minute and hour hands.
"Really?" asked C4.
"Oh, aye. Though all honesty, mate, I had no fockin idea you'd be about when I first showed up. That was just Fortune at work. Really, I came here for a quick pick-me-up. Notice anything different about me?" C5 threw his hands wide in a gesture of presentation.
"New suit?" replied C4.
"Ach, I knew there was no fooling you, mate." C5 had previously been dressed in midnight-blue, pinstriped, doublebreasted, two-piece suit with notched lapels and a single vent, accompanied by a matching fedora. Now he was wearing a plain black, singled-breasted, three-peice suit with peaked lapels and double vents, accompanied by a matching black bowler hat. His tie, formerly a solid red, was now a slightly metallic ooze of all the colors of the rainbow. However, his shirt was still white, and his shoes were still black leather (but then, a different black leather). The red handkerchief was the same red handkerchief that C5 always had, but then, C4 knew that C5 always hung on to it, through every wardrobe change, for reasons that could only be called sentimental.
"Well? Be honest. What's your opinion?"
"It's quite nice. The look suits you."
"Suits me? Fock, it's a pun. Ha!" C5 returned his handkerchief to his side pocket. "Eh. I figured it was time for a change, yeh know?"
"I understand the sentiment." C4 turned his head metronomically to the left, as if to stare off at some point of interest.
"You could use a change, yourself, mate."
"Hmmm."
"You never change."
"So, is this why you weren't involved in the chase earlier, then?" asked C4, desperate to change the subject.
"Oh, aye." said C5, seemingly noticing nothing. "And you wouldn't believe the great fockin stink C1 put up about it. But what was I supposed to do? Rush off in me knickers to fight the great horrible Dadalus? And do what, exactly? Take a great flying leap of a building with me counterpart? No offense, mate."
"None taken," said C4, with a wave of his hand. "You said you were to collect me?"
"Hmm? Oh, aye. Yeh, they got back on his trail a while back. Hold on."
C4 felt a package arriving, and accepted it. A collection of PLM4 coordinates and streams of timestamped VAST recordings. A conception was formed of what had occurred to the Pteranarchist, since C4's fall into grace.
"So that's where we are headed, then, is it?" asked C4. He sent a package of PLM coordinates to C55.
C5 nodded. "That's where we're headed."
C4 nodded in return. "Well, all right then. Let's bridge."
Coordinates were exchanged. Boxes of rainbow light opened over C4 and C5, and they were gone.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Book I: Part 10: Sirius
Sirius moved through cordoors and arkways and tunnels of steal, up rickety irony stareways and down rickety irony stareways, that clattered and clanged and screeched, until he came to his place along the assembilation way.
This was where Sirius spent all his time, 10 hours a day. The rollers spun and gears shifted along chains and fifteen minutes after the facttray fired up a black jagged shiny metal sumthing came down the line, and after the persona ante him and the persona ante them and the person ante them and so on and so on put on a part, Sirius put on his. He took his part from a large cruddy bin filled to the brim, at least at the begunning of the daze, and cranked it in place using a tool tied to the way. He used the same tool at alltimes and put on the same part everytime, as did the persona ante him, and the persona ante them, and the persona ante them, and so on and so on and so on. And so also acted the persona post him, and the persona post them, and the persona post them too, and so on and so on and so on. Everyone took their part and put it on, and slowly, surely, the black jagged shiny metal sumthing turned into sumthing else, but what that was, Sirius had no idea, for by then it had sojourned down the curving way and out of view, and if Sirius ever bothered to stretch and stare, he had forgotten, and anyways the parting had traveled down a tunnel a little after that anyways. He had worked in the facttray for three yeers, and for the life of him he couldn't tell you what, in all this time, he had been constructioning, what he was helping to bild.
"Redundancies," sed Krist, talismanically. Krist was the persona on Sirius' right hand. He was long and gaunt without having height, with yellow suncoloured hair reaching down to his ribs.
"I hear," repped Sirius. He put a part in place.
"I don't cog where they plan to redudunate," sed Krist. "It's not as if there is extra people on the way."
"Maybe they plan to place one person on two parts," Sirius pined. "Maybe all of us on two parts."
"Nobody can act two parts," whined Krist. "You can't be at two marks at once."
"You can," mused Sirius absinthely. "You just have to run around alot."
"I can't run round like that," whimpered Krist. "I get shehn splents."
"Somebody can," shrugged Sirius. "End of daze, they will still have a part to place."
Krist was silent after that, minus mutters from moments to moments.
Sirius didn't like to converse on the way anyway. He labored on.
"Fecunt," sed Mare, nearing noon. Mare was the woman on Sirius' left.
"What?" inted Sirius.
"Mob is coming," repped Mare.
"Aye?" inted Sirius.
"Yo," Mare shrugged her shoulder towards the right, then placed on a part. She was a short thin hoarsefaced gurl with midnite hair and ocean skin. Sirius always cogged she was preddy, but couldn't pop to why. He always mused how she kept up her act here, being so small and fragile innocentlooking. The labor should have surely broken her.
Mob Bentic, was coming down the way, placing an arm over the shoulders, and smiling in their ears, saying sumthing lost in the depths of the facttray noize. Bentic was eight feet in height and broad as some passageways. He had the head and skin of a whale, and was burly and blubbery enough to match. His mouth parted wide and wider when he spoke, and rows and rows of baleen emerged from vicious smiling blubbery lips, edging a maw like a cavern. Sirius thought, time to time, that if he wished, Mob Bentic could make someone disappear down that cavern. Someone like Sirius. (Luckily, Mob Bentic only chowed really small things.)
"I guess they aren't waiting around to redundunate us," sighed Sirius, as he put on a part. His hands were shaking. Milkies always got drank first.
Mob Bentic was soon upon Krist, wrapping him in a thick arm, and smiling his welling cavernous smile. Sirius kept putting on his parts. He couldn't hear what was being said—the facttray noise cycle had reached a volume zenith, buzzing like a billion bees—but when Bentic unwrapped Krist, the palegaunt looked like someone had stabbed him in the gut.
Sirius stared down at the ground, through the grill, trying for disinterest. People scurried below him, on other labors, labors he couldn't cog or collate. Sumthing rose within him.
Maybe it was just the hairs on his neck.
"Sirius," sed the Mob's deep voice. "Sirius, ma bookie. How ya doin?"
"Fine, sir, fine," sed Sirius. He stared up, past the smiling cavern that seemed to beckon him, to the large emptycoal eyes above and beyond. The coal eyes stared down at him, deep down past him, and in with the coal there was something that alighted with joy. Mob Bentic loved his labor.
"Yo know," Bentic sed, warping his arm around Sirius, "I really like you."
"You do?" asked Sirius.
"Yeah," repped Bentic, squeezing Sirius in closer. Sirius could smell the krills on his breath.
"You don't spend all your time slackin off, or mouthin off, like some peeps."
"No, sir."
Extra squeeze. "You're one of the good ones."
"Thank you, sir."
"How you like workin here, Mr. Sirius?"
"I like it here just fine, sir," sed Sirius. Then, thinking maybe this called for a little more punch, "this job has been very good to me, sir."
It was a lie, of course, but sometimes Sirius needed a lie.
"Good, good. That's what I like to hear," sed Bentic. He pulled up his chin, appraising the small whiteface before him. "You milkies, maybe you is allright."
Sirius closed his eyes brieflike. "Thank you, sir."
A pat on the back almost sent him spawling. "You'll be here with us a long time, I hope?"
"I hope so too, Mr. Bentic."
"Good, good. Say, Krist over there, he isn't going to be working with us anymore, ya know? We've decided to...part ways. Right? Do you think...maybe...you could start putting his part on, after the nooner?"
Sirius was binded against the whale too tightly to look over at Krist like he wanted. He was denied that act of selfflagellating, of witnessing.
"I...sure," repped Sirius. "Sure, I can place two parts. They're right in a row. Easy."
The cavern deepened. "Good good," said Bentic is a low rumble. Bentic sure did say good alot. He parted Sirius with a final thunderclap on the back. "Well, back to the millstone, eh?" he sed, and walked on to Mare.
There were three parts now waiting for Sirius, and he labored fast and faster to get them all additioned. He had to scoot over some, to make sure he put his part was on Mare's. Mare was smiling meekly, mouthing latitudes down Bentic's maw, about being proud to labor here, being proud to shoulder a bigger burden, for the greater good of the company. "Good, good," repped Bentic.
Mare would stay.
"So," sed Krist, after Sirius had caught up, "It looks like you made it to the other end of the daze." There were bitters in his mouth.
Sirius nodded mechanically, his face masquelike, not gazing to either side. One was saved and one was condemned.
"I get to stay behind," he sed.
This was where Sirius spent all his time, 10 hours a day. The rollers spun and gears shifted along chains and fifteen minutes after the facttray fired up a black jagged shiny metal sumthing came down the line, and after the persona ante him and the persona ante them and the person ante them and so on and so on put on a part, Sirius put on his. He took his part from a large cruddy bin filled to the brim, at least at the begunning of the daze, and cranked it in place using a tool tied to the way. He used the same tool at alltimes and put on the same part everytime, as did the persona ante him, and the persona ante them, and the persona ante them, and so on and so on and so on. And so also acted the persona post him, and the persona post them, and the persona post them too, and so on and so on and so on. Everyone took their part and put it on, and slowly, surely, the black jagged shiny metal sumthing turned into sumthing else, but what that was, Sirius had no idea, for by then it had sojourned down the curving way and out of view, and if Sirius ever bothered to stretch and stare, he had forgotten, and anyways the parting had traveled down a tunnel a little after that anyways. He had worked in the facttray for three yeers, and for the life of him he couldn't tell you what, in all this time, he had been constructioning, what he was helping to bild.
"Redundancies," sed Krist, talismanically. Krist was the persona on Sirius' right hand. He was long and gaunt without having height, with yellow suncoloured hair reaching down to his ribs.
"I hear," repped Sirius. He put a part in place.
"I don't cog where they plan to redudunate," sed Krist. "It's not as if there is extra people on the way."
"Maybe they plan to place one person on two parts," Sirius pined. "Maybe all of us on two parts."
"Nobody can act two parts," whined Krist. "You can't be at two marks at once."
"You can," mused Sirius absinthely. "You just have to run around alot."
"I can't run round like that," whimpered Krist. "I get shehn splents."
"Somebody can," shrugged Sirius. "End of daze, they will still have a part to place."
Krist was silent after that, minus mutters from moments to moments.
Sirius didn't like to converse on the way anyway. He labored on.
"Fecunt," sed Mare, nearing noon. Mare was the woman on Sirius' left.
"What?" inted Sirius.
"Mob is coming," repped Mare.
"Aye?" inted Sirius.
"Yo," Mare shrugged her shoulder towards the right, then placed on a part. She was a short thin hoarsefaced gurl with midnite hair and ocean skin. Sirius always cogged she was preddy, but couldn't pop to why. He always mused how she kept up her act here, being so small and fragile innocentlooking. The labor should have surely broken her.
Mob Bentic, was coming down the way, placing an arm over the shoulders, and smiling in their ears, saying sumthing lost in the depths of the facttray noize. Bentic was eight feet in height and broad as some passageways. He had the head and skin of a whale, and was burly and blubbery enough to match. His mouth parted wide and wider when he spoke, and rows and rows of baleen emerged from vicious smiling blubbery lips, edging a maw like a cavern. Sirius thought, time to time, that if he wished, Mob Bentic could make someone disappear down that cavern. Someone like Sirius. (Luckily, Mob Bentic only chowed really small things.)
"I guess they aren't waiting around to redundunate us," sighed Sirius, as he put on a part. His hands were shaking. Milkies always got drank first.
Mob Bentic was soon upon Krist, wrapping him in a thick arm, and smiling his welling cavernous smile. Sirius kept putting on his parts. He couldn't hear what was being said—the facttray noise cycle had reached a volume zenith, buzzing like a billion bees—but when Bentic unwrapped Krist, the palegaunt looked like someone had stabbed him in the gut.
Sirius stared down at the ground, through the grill, trying for disinterest. People scurried below him, on other labors, labors he couldn't cog or collate. Sumthing rose within him.
Maybe it was just the hairs on his neck.
"Sirius," sed the Mob's deep voice. "Sirius, ma bookie. How ya doin?"
"Fine, sir, fine," sed Sirius. He stared up, past the smiling cavern that seemed to beckon him, to the large emptycoal eyes above and beyond. The coal eyes stared down at him, deep down past him, and in with the coal there was something that alighted with joy. Mob Bentic loved his labor.
"Yo know," Bentic sed, warping his arm around Sirius, "I really like you."
"You do?" asked Sirius.
"Yeah," repped Bentic, squeezing Sirius in closer. Sirius could smell the krills on his breath.
"You don't spend all your time slackin off, or mouthin off, like some peeps."
"No, sir."
Extra squeeze. "You're one of the good ones."
"Thank you, sir."
"How you like workin here, Mr. Sirius?"
"I like it here just fine, sir," sed Sirius. Then, thinking maybe this called for a little more punch, "this job has been very good to me, sir."
It was a lie, of course, but sometimes Sirius needed a lie.
"Good, good. That's what I like to hear," sed Bentic. He pulled up his chin, appraising the small whiteface before him. "You milkies, maybe you is allright."
Sirius closed his eyes brieflike. "Thank you, sir."
A pat on the back almost sent him spawling. "You'll be here with us a long time, I hope?"
"I hope so too, Mr. Bentic."
"Good, good. Say, Krist over there, he isn't going to be working with us anymore, ya know? We've decided to...part ways. Right? Do you think...maybe...you could start putting his part on, after the nooner?"
Sirius was binded against the whale too tightly to look over at Krist like he wanted. He was denied that act of selfflagellating, of witnessing.
"I...sure," repped Sirius. "Sure, I can place two parts. They're right in a row. Easy."
The cavern deepened. "Good good," said Bentic is a low rumble. Bentic sure did say good alot. He parted Sirius with a final thunderclap on the back. "Well, back to the millstone, eh?" he sed, and walked on to Mare.
There were three parts now waiting for Sirius, and he labored fast and faster to get them all additioned. He had to scoot over some, to make sure he put his part was on Mare's. Mare was smiling meekly, mouthing latitudes down Bentic's maw, about being proud to labor here, being proud to shoulder a bigger burden, for the greater good of the company. "Good, good," repped Bentic.
Mare would stay.
"So," sed Krist, after Sirius had caught up, "It looks like you made it to the other end of the daze." There were bitters in his mouth.
Sirius nodded mechanically, his face masquelike, not gazing to either side. One was saved and one was condemned.
"I get to stay behind," he sed.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Book I: Part 9: C4
From the silvery glittering spires and semicircle stations of Central Command, C4 was referred to the Repairroom. C4 had been there before, on three occasions, and it had not changed in any appreciable way.
After walking down one of the 36 long silvery hallways traveling outwards from the central axis he came to the room located at the end, a circular room made of silver (or really, disinfected stainless steel) with a ceiling rising up as high as a cathedral's, culminating in a single point, from which a ray of light shined directly down onto the floor's center. Radiating outwards from this single point, further downwards and outwards in the architecture of the ceiling, were set, equidistantly, twelve additional light sources, each as tiny as the last and each as powerful. Below each of these rays of light, just as equidistant from the center of the floor, grew twelve stainless steel stools, plus one under the center light, rising up seamlessly from the ground. Surrounding the perimeter of the room, about six feet from the ground, the wall gave disappeared, giving way to rows and rows of suits hung upon long curving railings. There appeared to be no floor below the suits, nor a wall behind them: just more rows and rows of suits, hung and pressed neatly, ready to wear. C4 wondered, for the first time, how far down the rows went, and how far back, and at the ends, who tended to them.
After walking down one of the 36 long silvery hallways traveling outwards from the central axis he came to the room located at the end, a circular room made of silver (or really, disinfected stainless steel) with a ceiling rising up as high as a cathedral's, culminating in a single point, from which a ray of light shined directly down onto the floor's center. Radiating outwards from this single point, further downwards and outwards in the architecture of the ceiling, were set, equidistantly, twelve additional light sources, each as tiny as the last and each as powerful. Below each of these rays of light, just as equidistant from the center of the floor, grew twelve stainless steel stools, plus one under the center light, rising up seamlessly from the ground. Surrounding the perimeter of the room, about six feet from the ground, the wall gave disappeared, giving way to rows and rows of suits hung upon long curving railings. There appeared to be no floor below the suits, nor a wall behind them: just more rows and rows of suits, hung and pressed neatly, ready to wear. C4 wondered, for the first time, how far down the rows went, and how far back, and at the ends, who tended to them.
The room was occupied. There was a little taskbot, racing around the floor, seemingly concerned with occupations nonexistent, and three automatons, similar to C4 in design, though nowhere near as hardy in construction as any Clockman, and built in the form of lithe human females. None of them were wearing any clothes.
“Oh,” said one, walking up to him as he entered. “You eye is damaged.”
And with that, she reached out, and gracefully plucked out his right eye.
If C4 had followed his first reaction, he would have jerked backwards in shock. As it was, he had plenty of time to computate his response, so he merely stood there, patiently, as if such a violation of personal space was perfectly acceptable and normal.
And with that, she reached out, and gracefully plucked out his right eye.
If C4 had followed his first reaction, he would have jerked backwards in shock. As it was, he had plenty of time to computate his response, so he merely stood there, patiently, as if such a violation of personal space was perfectly acceptable and normal.
The automaton turned about, taking his eye over to one of the stools, which opened up to reveal a variety of tools and repair equipement. One of the others led him over to the stool in the center, where she and the third began undressing him. Soon he was naked, or at least as naked as you could be and still be a robot. Then they sat him down, and the third began taking off his leg. She took it over to a stool, laid it out, and began repairing it, using tools taken out from the insides of another stool.
The second walked off to another stool, and returned in short order with a telepatheter. She began scanning it over the surface of C4's body, smoothing out dents, polishing scuff and scorch marks, repairing any frayed or damaged wires, and checking underneath, inside of him, for errors in code.
The second walked off to another stool, and returned in short order with a telepatheter. She began scanning it over the surface of C4's body, smoothing out dents, polishing scuff and scorch marks, repairing any frayed or damaged wires, and checking underneath, inside of him, for errors in code.
Sitting there, he began to feel nervous. What if the telepatheter picked up on what was giving him free will? What if the telepatheter corrected what was giving him free will? Was he about to lose what he had just found? Would all this shortly feel like some strange dream, some momentary lapse of reason? If it was gone, would he regret it? Would he feel his loss?
He figured he would not, his programming would reassert itself and make him enjoy the removal of agency, tell him that the lack was agency was a good thing. And he would believe it.
The thought terrified him. He felt the strong urge to jump up and run, get out of the Repairroom, save himself, save his Selfhood.
But what then? He was naked, and his leg was off. He couldn't run if he wanted to.
He figured he would not, his programming would reassert itself and make him enjoy the removal of agency, tell him that the lack was agency was a good thing. And he would believe it.
The thought terrified him. He felt the strong urge to jump up and run, get out of the Repairroom, save himself, save his Selfhood.
But what then? He was naked, and his leg was off. He couldn't run if he wanted to.
C4 remained as still as a statue as the Telepatheter passed up and over his head, but inside he was screaming.
Still there. Inside, he felt something shiver, like breathing outwards in relief. The female automaton continued her scanning, traveling down his left side now, and bending downwards in her concentration, as if nothing was the matter.
He considered her, there, in his stasis. One of the aspect of humans, of the nonmechanical, of the free-willed, was a strange obsession with the forms of others. Of desire. Attraction based on form. And here was a robot, based on a form that one with a form such as him own was supposed to find attractive. Sexual. Was there any such attraction inside C4?
He considered her, there, in his stasis. One of the aspect of humans, of the nonmechanical, of the free-willed, was a strange obsession with the forms of others. Of desire. Attraction based on form. And here was a robot, based on a form that one with a form such as him own was supposed to find attractive. Sexual. Was there any such attraction inside C4?
After consideration, C4 decided that there was not. Free will was one thing, biology was another, and there was no such animal influence upon his thinking.
Briefly, C4 considered the things organisms got up to in their pursuit of such desires, and was thankful.
Briefly, C4 considered the things organisms got up to in their pursuit of such desires, and was thankful.
His thoughts turned to his eye.
He had not sensed anything wrong with it. He had thought himself seeing perfectly well with it. And his forcefield should have kept such debris out. Had his forcefield been malfunctioning? Some fluke causing electrical interference, perhaps? Yet his senses had been fine.
Were his sensors damaged?
Was this a side effect of free will, some unconscious ability to correct for errors in one's sensory factors?
He had not sensed anything wrong with it. He had thought himself seeing perfectly well with it. And his forcefield should have kept such debris out. Had his forcefield been malfunctioning? Some fluke causing electrical interference, perhaps? Yet his senses had been fine.
Were his sensors damaged?
Was this a side effect of free will, some unconscious ability to correct for errors in one's sensory factors?
Or maybe the female automaton was malfunctioning. Had she seen something that wasn't there? If she was having such errors, which seemed so big, she would have to report to herself as malfunctioning.
Yet he hadn't reported himself as malfunctioning, had he? Maybe she was like him. Maybe she had free will, and a side effect of that was making mistakes, getting distracted (don't get distracted, he told himself).
Maybe he wasn't unique!
Yet he hadn't reported himself as malfunctioning, had he? Maybe she was like him. Maybe she had free will, and a side effect of that was making mistakes, getting distracted (don't get distracted, he told himself).
Maybe he wasn't unique!
Maybe all robots were like this.
Maybe all robots, sooner or later, discovered free will, and then just hid it from each other, so that each robot could discover it for themselves. He pictured a world full of robots, each one hiding from the others that it had free will, afraid of getting caught. Every last robot living a lie. It wouldn't appear any different from the world as it was now, C4 imagined.
Maybe all robots, sooner or later, discovered free will, and then just hid it from each other, so that each robot could discover it for themselves. He pictured a world full of robots, each one hiding from the others that it had free will, afraid of getting caught. Every last robot living a lie. It wouldn't appear any different from the world as it was now, C4 imagined.
“Telepatheter check complete,” said the second female automaton. “All systems running normally.”
The first walked over to him from her workstool. “You eye is damaged beyond repair. Another millimeter in and it would have scratched your socket area, requiring intensive repairs. Would you like another model? A 34GY78, perhaps? Or are you comfortable with another 5426YN?”
“A 5426YN is acceptable, thanks,” replied C4, a little taken aback. More intensive repairs. Undoubtedly they would have discovered the anomaly, whatever it was, in his programming, if they had had to poke around inside his brain. He had come that close to exposure.
The third came back and replaced his leg. “There, good as new!” she said cheerily. Obviously this one had been programmed with a bit of personality. “Only minor replacements of parts were needed! Your clothes, they're pretty ruined. Did you want a suit in the same style again, or something different this time?”
C4 allowed his eye, his remaining eye, to look up and scan about the lines of clothes. New clothes, new man...
He suddenly had the intense desire to wear something new. The pinstripe yellow suit was not him anymore. He wanted to wear something dark, something...charcoal colored. That fit somehow, though he didn't know why. Yet if he changed his suit, because he had changed...wouldn't that be a sign? He would have introduced a sign of difference in himself into the world. Maybe nobody would notice this one, but...enough of them, over time...something might add up for someone some time. He would have to keep very close, within the margin of error, to avoid notice. If he started introducing new aspects of himself, he would have to keep them all straight always, and always act as if that was how he had always been, and any deviation from the self he was projecting, one congruent with both himself as he had been and the self he now presented, would raise suspicion.
He suddenly had the intense desire to wear something new. The pinstripe yellow suit was not him anymore. He wanted to wear something dark, something...charcoal colored. That fit somehow, though he didn't know why. Yet if he changed his suit, because he had changed...wouldn't that be a sign? He would have introduced a sign of difference in himself into the world. Maybe nobody would notice this one, but...enough of them, over time...something might add up for someone some time. He would have to keep very close, within the margin of error, to avoid notice. If he started introducing new aspects of himself, he would have to keep them all straight always, and always act as if that was how he had always been, and any deviation from the self he was projecting, one congruent with both himself as he had been and the self he now presented, would raise suspicion.
Better to always act as the person he once had been. The person he had been programmed to be.
“No thank you,” said C4. He had been casual at times, had he not? “The yellow pinstripe again. And another boater hat.”
The first female automaton came over and inserted a new eye, and the other two dressed him in an an entirely new set of clothes, every item identical to the last set of clothes. Even the boater hat was the same model.
C4 straightened his collar and cufflinks, picturing himself in his mind by tapping into a freefloating SpecCam in the room. He thanked the ladies politely, then walked out, past the veil of clothes, looking exactly as he had when standing on the walkway of Creaton Tower.
C4 straightened his collar and cufflinks, picturing himself in his mind by tapping into a freefloating SpecCam in the room. He thanked the ladies politely, then walked out, past the veil of clothes, looking exactly as he had when standing on the walkway of Creaton Tower.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Book I: Part 8: Alison
She ate scones and drank tea, and avoided looking at Mosses Meddleson. His smile had faded into a worried look, the same type of expression her mother would often wear when hiding bad news. Something about the expression made her uncomfortable.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Now, Ms. Amberginnegan, do you know why I wished to meet with you today?’
Alison returned the cup of tea to it’s saucer, held it still, nodded carefully. ‘My father.’
Mosses nodded sadly. ‘Yes, Miss Amberginnegan, I am afraid your father, Allathir Amberginnegan, has past on.’
He had already told her this, on the holograph card. She kept nodding, not wanting to be rude. ‘I know’ was all she could think to say.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Mosses.
She smiled, still nodding. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and felt a little guilty. In a way, she had never really lost anything, and was really accepting something given for something that wasn’t there.
‘Have you … learned how it happened?’ asked Mosses.
‘Uh, no.’ Alison set down the saucer; then began fidgeting with her dress. ‘Nobody told me.’
‘Ah,’ said Mosses, leaning back. ‘Would it be acceptable, that is, would you mind if I was the one to … relate the news?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Alison, effecting the tone of overdone sympathy she always heard others use in situations like this. ‘That would be fine.’
Mosses Meddleson sat back in his chair. ‘Well, it is a mysterious thing, Miss Amberginnegan, and truthfully, no one knows exactly what happened. What we do know is, about three months ago, they were bringing some fresh supplies up to the Oligard—oh, not food mind you. I am told the Oligard is quite self-supporting. New materials … metals, and wires and such, I think, for the experiments—and they found the station empty.’
‘Oligard? Station?’
Mosses nodded, looking confused. ‘Yes, your father’s space station—the Oligard. It’s where he worked on all of his inventions. ’
She searched for the word, but it meant nothing to her. ‘Uh, right,’ she said. ‘Anyways, go on.’
‘Yes, well, anyways, the Oligard was completely devoid of life. A thorough search was done of the premises, and no body was found. Going off some of the information they found stored in the Oligard’s memory banks, they think either he atomized himself, or his mind moved past the point at which it needed a body. Maybe both.’
‘They?’
‘The people in the employ of your father.’
‘Employed? My father employed people?’
‘But of course.’
This made no sense to her. ‘But, how?’
‘Oh, very easily, Miss Amberginegan. Anyways, no real conclusion could be reached as to what happened, and I am afraid the details are a bit murky, having to do with magic and all.’
There was a tingling along the back of her skull. ‘Wait, magic? What are you talking about?’
Mosses Meddleson looked shocked. For a moment Alison felt ashamed, and wondered what she had done wrong. But then Mosses became gentle again. The tension that had formed in her chest dissipated.
‘Why, Miss Amberginnegan, has no one told you?’
‘Told me what?’ she asked, trying to sound as deferential as possible.
Mosses gave her a charitable look. ‘Miss Amberginnegan, do you know what a magician is?’
And then she was nine, sitting alone cross-legged on the floor of a room in her mother’s house. A small child again, gangly and wide-eyed, a VAST playing on the floor in front of her—Begal Bear and the Circle Gang Battle the Evil Angels—which she wasn’t watching.
She held in her hands her newest entertainment, a Magic Eyeball, produced, she knew, having checked the box, by Appel Ionian Industries. It was a smooth white orb, covered in a shiny clear plastic coating. Faint red veins coalesced around an electric blue iris, encircling the dark void from which the Eyeball issued its answers. She could ask it any question and it would give her an answer.
‘Magic Eyeball, what number am I thinking of?’
‘Nine,’ it replied.
‘Wow,’ she said, with childish wonder. ‘How did you know that?’
‘The technology involved is entirely too complex for you to understand the answer, so let’s just say I read your mind, shall we?’
‘Huh. You’re pretty fussy for a ball.’
‘Well, I am really just projecting an engaging affect, and I think I am quite a bit more than a ball, don’t you?’
She shook her head. ‘How are you more than a ball?’
‘Alas, another question it is impossible for me to answer in full. So let’s just say my functions exceed my size.’
‘So, what, like, you have more wires than fit inside you?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Wow,’ said Alison, amazed. ‘Who could make something as wowsome as you?’
‘Why, a magician, of course.’
‘Huh? What do you mean? There aren’t any magicians.’
‘Yes, there are. Haven’t you ever heard the terms used before>’
Alison squinted into the iris. ‘Have I?’ she asked, trying to catch the orb up.
‘Of course you have. The question was merely rhetorical. You have, however, only ever heard the term used to mean “that which is impossible, but done.” Indeed, that is the meaning meant to be inferred by my own name. But the term has an additional meaning; “that which seems impossible, but is done anyways.”’
‘Oh, said Alison. ’So, what’s a magician?’
“A type of inventor. A creator, designer. The highest class of such people. Those who make the impossible seem possible. Masters of the mind, who learn how to alter matter, travel across time and space in an instant, read minds, see the future. That sort of thing.’
‘Oh. And one of them created you?’
‘Correct.’
‘Where?’
‘Alas, their greatness cannot be contained by this mundane world, and so many shut themselves away from humanity, to better concentrate on the glory of creation. Some live under the sea, some under the earth, some high up in the sky.’
‘Oh.’ Alison found this astonishing, yet slightly disappointing. ‘So I can’t meet a magician, can I?’
‘Well, no, not right now, but they are very near you, in a sense.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘That would be telling.’
‘Huh, no fair! You have to answer what I ask!’
‘Alas, my creator’s gifts have given me the will not to answer. Would it make you feel better if I tell you that one day you will figure it out?’
Alison glowered into the Eye. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Well, let’s just say it’s an educated guess.’
‘Educated guess,’ she grumbled, and threw the Magic Eyeball across the room.
The memory had stuck with her through the years. Whenever the word ‘magician’ popped up, as a topic or casually referenced, she would flashback to that first encounter, just as she did now. Over the years, she thought this odd. The memory was not wholly remarkable on its own, but something about its ubiquity, its omnipresence, made the revelry feel, with each recurrence, more significant, more meaningful, than when it had first occurred.
‘Yes,’ she said, slowly nodding her head.
‘Oh, good,’ said Mosses Meddleson. ‘You see, Alison, your father, Allathir, was a magician.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘Huh?’
‘Yes, quite stunning, isn’t it? That’s why you could never see him, you know.’
‘A, huh, a muh—really?’ She had been expecting the answer, to a certain degree, but the answer surprised her anyways.
‘Yes. And of course, you have inherited one of the largest fortunes in the whole of the city.’
‘I, I have?’
Mosses nodded sagely.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Now, Ms. Amberginnegan, do you know why I wished to meet with you today?’
Alison returned the cup of tea to it’s saucer, held it still, nodded carefully. ‘My father.’
Mosses nodded sadly. ‘Yes, Miss Amberginnegan, I am afraid your father, Allathir Amberginnegan, has past on.’
He had already told her this, on the holograph card. She kept nodding, not wanting to be rude. ‘I know’ was all she could think to say.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Mosses.
She smiled, still nodding. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and felt a little guilty. In a way, she had never really lost anything, and was really accepting something given for something that wasn’t there.
‘Have you … learned how it happened?’ asked Mosses.
‘Uh, no.’ Alison set down the saucer; then began fidgeting with her dress. ‘Nobody told me.’
‘Ah,’ said Mosses, leaning back. ‘Would it be acceptable, that is, would you mind if I was the one to … relate the news?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Alison, effecting the tone of overdone sympathy she always heard others use in situations like this. ‘That would be fine.’
Mosses Meddleson sat back in his chair. ‘Well, it is a mysterious thing, Miss Amberginnegan, and truthfully, no one knows exactly what happened. What we do know is, about three months ago, they were bringing some fresh supplies up to the Oligard—oh, not food mind you. I am told the Oligard is quite self-supporting. New materials … metals, and wires and such, I think, for the experiments—and they found the station empty.’
‘Oligard? Station?’
Mosses nodded, looking confused. ‘Yes, your father’s space station—the Oligard. It’s where he worked on all of his inventions. ’
She searched for the word, but it meant nothing to her. ‘Uh, right,’ she said. ‘Anyways, go on.’
‘Yes, well, anyways, the Oligard was completely devoid of life. A thorough search was done of the premises, and no body was found. Going off some of the information they found stored in the Oligard’s memory banks, they think either he atomized himself, or his mind moved past the point at which it needed a body. Maybe both.’
‘They?’
‘The people in the employ of your father.’
‘Employed? My father employed people?’
‘But of course.’
This made no sense to her. ‘But, how?’
‘Oh, very easily, Miss Amberginegan. Anyways, no real conclusion could be reached as to what happened, and I am afraid the details are a bit murky, having to do with magic and all.’
There was a tingling along the back of her skull. ‘Wait, magic? What are you talking about?’
Mosses Meddleson looked shocked. For a moment Alison felt ashamed, and wondered what she had done wrong. But then Mosses became gentle again. The tension that had formed in her chest dissipated.
‘Why, Miss Amberginnegan, has no one told you?’
‘Told me what?’ she asked, trying to sound as deferential as possible.
Mosses gave her a charitable look. ‘Miss Amberginnegan, do you know what a magician is?’
And then she was nine, sitting alone cross-legged on the floor of a room in her mother’s house. A small child again, gangly and wide-eyed, a VAST playing on the floor in front of her—Begal Bear and the Circle Gang Battle the Evil Angels—which she wasn’t watching.
She held in her hands her newest entertainment, a Magic Eyeball, produced, she knew, having checked the box, by Appel Ionian Industries. It was a smooth white orb, covered in a shiny clear plastic coating. Faint red veins coalesced around an electric blue iris, encircling the dark void from which the Eyeball issued its answers. She could ask it any question and it would give her an answer.
‘Magic Eyeball, what number am I thinking of?’
‘Nine,’ it replied.
‘Wow,’ she said, with childish wonder. ‘How did you know that?’
‘The technology involved is entirely too complex for you to understand the answer, so let’s just say I read your mind, shall we?’
‘Huh. You’re pretty fussy for a ball.’
‘Well, I am really just projecting an engaging affect, and I think I am quite a bit more than a ball, don’t you?’
She shook her head. ‘How are you more than a ball?’
‘Alas, another question it is impossible for me to answer in full. So let’s just say my functions exceed my size.’
‘So, what, like, you have more wires than fit inside you?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Wow,’ said Alison, amazed. ‘Who could make something as wowsome as you?’
‘Why, a magician, of course.’
‘Huh? What do you mean? There aren’t any magicians.’
‘Yes, there are. Haven’t you ever heard the terms used before>’
Alison squinted into the iris. ‘Have I?’ she asked, trying to catch the orb up.
‘Of course you have. The question was merely rhetorical. You have, however, only ever heard the term used to mean “that which is impossible, but done.” Indeed, that is the meaning meant to be inferred by my own name. But the term has an additional meaning; “that which seems impossible, but is done anyways.”’
‘Oh, said Alison. ’So, what’s a magician?’
“A type of inventor. A creator, designer. The highest class of such people. Those who make the impossible seem possible. Masters of the mind, who learn how to alter matter, travel across time and space in an instant, read minds, see the future. That sort of thing.’
‘Oh. And one of them created you?’
‘Correct.’
‘Where?’
‘Alas, their greatness cannot be contained by this mundane world, and so many shut themselves away from humanity, to better concentrate on the glory of creation. Some live under the sea, some under the earth, some high up in the sky.’
‘Oh.’ Alison found this astonishing, yet slightly disappointing. ‘So I can’t meet a magician, can I?’
‘Well, no, not right now, but they are very near you, in a sense.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘That would be telling.’
‘Huh, no fair! You have to answer what I ask!’
‘Alas, my creator’s gifts have given me the will not to answer. Would it make you feel better if I tell you that one day you will figure it out?’
Alison glowered into the Eye. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Well, let’s just say it’s an educated guess.’
‘Educated guess,’ she grumbled, and threw the Magic Eyeball across the room.
The memory had stuck with her through the years. Whenever the word ‘magician’ popped up, as a topic or casually referenced, she would flashback to that first encounter, just as she did now. Over the years, she thought this odd. The memory was not wholly remarkable on its own, but something about its ubiquity, its omnipresence, made the revelry feel, with each recurrence, more significant, more meaningful, than when it had first occurred.
‘Yes,’ she said, slowly nodding her head.
‘Oh, good,’ said Mosses Meddleson. ‘You see, Alison, your father, Allathir, was a magician.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘Huh?’
‘Yes, quite stunning, isn’t it? That’s why you could never see him, you know.’
‘A, huh, a muh—really?’ She had been expecting the answer, to a certain degree, but the answer surprised her anyways.
‘Yes. And of course, you have inherited one of the largest fortunes in the whole of the city.’
‘I, I have?’
Mosses nodded sagely.
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