Presenting, an Eventua and
@Tortoise co-production...
It was always a slightly strange experience, docking an Avatar-class vessel. To outsiders and to its crew it was merely a ship – albeit elaborately decorated – a protective shield against the void of space… but to the tachyon to whom it was their personal chariot, it was effectively their
body. Rows upon rows of carefully balanced transmitters and databanks, a powerful series of quantum computers integrated into every system.
Every door, every sensor, every panel and screen and input: in a very real sense for Gatsby’s mind, it was his “true” body, and had been so for almost three-hundred years.
To dock with the Rainbow though… it was a ship on a scale that dwarfed the great station of
Spirit’s Loss – a construction on par with the entirety of the Meeting Place and yet, obscenely, it was just a creation of one nation rather than many. A billion lights and sounds and scents, a great hub of
humanity that endlessly screamed into the void: “Look at us! We have goods to sell!”
For the briefest of moments as the two vessels became one, Gatsby felt his mind stretch…
and stretch…
and
stretch almost to the point of breaking.
As the link of consciousness was stretched and the golden spiraling shell he inhabited powered down, he was struck by flashes of his vacations to Las Vegas, Mumbai and Tokyo centuries ago on a now dead world, the endless
sensation of greed and product and consumption, to know that there was always
more.
But then, just as quickly as it had come it went: his mind contracted, compressed and lifted by the form of his personal luminous carrier, Old Billsby. Billsby’s body was still kept in good condition – carefully molded plates of gold and ivory around a quadrupedal shell that housed a mesh of tubes and fluids, life support for what remained of the original diplat’s organic brain and nervous system. Through this amalgam of meat and metal and polymer, Gatsby’s holographic form was projected by a small group of networked drones that hovered just by Billsby and through the cyborg’s four glowing eye-projectors.
The vague sensation of
‘Ready to go, sir?’ lit up at the back of what remained of the diplat’s mind – though the exact words were tricky to make out – and Gatsby simply projected the feeling of ‘nodding’ in response.
[Docking complete], beeped one of the ampere support staff joining him on this mission, [security staff are ready].
[“Excellent”], he signaled back, [“Let’s go meet our new friends, shall we?”]
So out they scuttled, five in total – Gatsby’s hologram on his golden carrier, flanked by a pair of meter measurement in their neat gold and white uniforms, armed with sheathed swords and holstered pistols. Behind him were the scurrying amperes, who eagerly observed their surroundings, scanning every surface and rivet. For the meter measurements – themselves mostly organic and humanoid, in some ways resembling the more animalistic labourers of the Rainbow, albeit with strange scarring under their large, predatory eyes – the vast array of lights brought back reminders of the dancing clubs in some of the grander pit cities or the great satellite arcologies.
To Gatsby and the amperes, however, it extended far beyond that – the network of signals and data they shared revealed a vast hurricane of data and light, power lines and circuits stretching in vast fractal patterns. For a brief moment, Gatsby almost felt a “headache” of sorts coming on, until he actively filtered out most of it from his “conscious” mind, allowing himself to enjoy it on a “human” level.
They were being led through this neon, nausea-inducing carnival of a world by two stamps that had met them at the bay where they docked. It was obvious from the way the stamp duo moved that they were either intimately familiar with the sudden turns of this eclectic bazaar of a ship, or that they were following some path that only their eyes could see. Normally humans on the Rainbow pushed right through stamps. But these two, both tall and thin with insectoid features that could have rivaled the Aizir of the Ascendency, seemed to clear a path wherever they walked. These stamps were known to belong to some of the biggest players onboard the Rainbow. These bugs had pedigree. The crowd parted to let them through; and those who followed them.
They stopped at a gaudy elevator that jutted jarringly from out of a wall.
“Ambassador Molls Flynn is expecting you,” said the more feminine one, with the face of a cicada. But her voice was deeply soothing to human ears. “The elevator here will take you straight to her. It’s large enough to fit your whole party. We’re so glad to have you all here. You'll be impressed with what Gilt has to offer!”
“Right.” Affirmed the more masculine one, whose face was like a handsome young man’s if his paternal grandmother had been a housefly. His voice was the inverse of soothing. Weirdly intimidating in an under-your-skin way that could not be pinned down. Something in the resonance of it brought awful thoughts to one’s mind. “We love having guests. Right this way…”
Gatsby nodded politely to each of the guides in turn, as did his meter guards, who seemed ever so slightly nervous to be looking
up so sharply – after all, by diplat standards they were very tall, a little over five feet, and used to projecting authority. By contrast the amperes were used to being diminutive and little notice, and having long ago been stripped of everything other than functionality, were simply eager to understand the genetic makeup and origins of the insectoids. One of the amperes emitted a series of short beeps, an encoded request for information, and Gatsby flickered briefly in response. In a fraction of a second the conversation was already over, and the ampere simply turned to scan the elevator instead.
Gatsby’s hologram gave the fly man something resembling a casual salute, before smiling again at the cicada woman.
“The welcome is
very well appreciated, and this ship… it reminds me of Earth in a way. I can already see
wonderful potential.”
The elevator took them up. Then to the left. Then down. Then a little left again, then it made a hard swing right, then back up, down, left until it was impossible to pinpoint where you were or where you’d come from. It was a smooth but random ride. Gatsby’s group wouldn’t at all be mistaken to think that it was intended just to confuse their sense of direction. But when it opened up at last, they stood in a finely decorated, modern office. At the end of a long and mahogany table, there sat Ambassador Flynn and her sym assistant.
Internally Gatsby couldn’t help but scoff; it briefly reminded him of the lengths Jaeger went to in order to try and disorient would-be intruders on his “projects”, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Still, it made sense – in a world of endless competition for patents and wealth among tangible beings, one could never be too careful.
But his first thought upon leaving the elevator was all together different.
Is that real mahogany?His hologram smiled warmly as the crab-like luminous carrying it shifted its form and stance, striding forwards with gentle steps designed to match the cadence of a young man eager to make friends.
“Ambassador Flynn, I presume? A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, and to be welcomed to a really fantastic city, just… spectacular work all around. Your people should be very proud of their accomplishments.”
Ambassador Flynn rose from her table and, in a move almost no other Giltian alive would’ve done, boldly strode up to the hologram on crab legs and offered it her hand to shake. Within herself, she didn’t know if a hologram could shake hands or not (Gilt had a few touchable holos, so she reasons that it’s not inconceivable others might have made them too) but her mind was always set on Keeping Up Appearances. That was part of her job. For a heavy-set, middle-aged woman with such a kindly face, Flynn had a bit of a core of steel inside herself. The strangeness of the visitors didn’t shake her.
“Yes,” she said as she lifted out her hand, “to my knowledge, the Rainbow is the first and only fully self-propelled spaceborne structure to house this many lives.”
Her cybernetic sym assistant, the tall and gold-bodied Ethan, nodded and said “But this only a taste of the overall width and breadth of Giltian culture. Somebody you must visit Gilt proper. There is nowhere else in all the colonies so…
bright, I promise.”
The forward limbs of Gatsby’s carrier unfurled, a delicate filigree rearranging itself into the approximation of a human hand – enough to fill out the hologram’s fingers, anyway.
Cold to the touch.
“While the Summation has prided itself on its own interstellar engineering, this really is… really, something else. Reminds me of places I’d started to forget, back on Earth, and I mean that with the highest praise.”
He turned to smile at the sym, nodding at the suggestion.
“I’d love to. I’ve done a little reading on Gilt and I have to say, it sounds like a really fabulous place to stay. Sit back on the sand, watch the sunset, enjoy a martini and good company… the good life.”
One of the small scuttling cyborgs in his entourage emitted a sequence of beeps, and for a moment Gatsby’s hologram flickered, a brief but sudden exchange spoken in signals that even to an expensive and experienced sym like Ethan would have been tricky to parse. The sym blinked, and didn’t understand it.
Just as quickly, the conversation was over and Gatsby’s hologram flickered back into the “present”, once again carefully rendered to an almost perfect photo realism… tweaked, of course, ever so slightly as to remove unnecessary creases or ruffles. He smiled as if nothing strange had happened at all.
“I’m curious, Ambassador… my father used to have, uh,
spirited conversations with the CEO of Daython. How are they doing? I understand they were involved with the colony ship responsible for Gilt’s founding.”
Both the Ambassador and Ethan stared at the holographic man in wordless shock.
“Your… father?” asked Ethan.
“Daython?” asked Flynn. “Well, they’re doing well. They’re a part of the Oldwell Conglomerate now, the largest of our corporations, rendering by number of employees and by land owned, but…”
The two Giltians looked at each other, met eyes, and an instant conversation of their own kind passed between them. Ethan took the reins.
“I may have misunderstood,” said Ethan. “I was aware that you are a digitized consciousness, much like my own. But I had no idea you were so… venerable.” He was silent a moment longer, and then in a softer voice, aware of the illegality of what he was about to say, added, “I was a boy when Earth died. You are the only person I’ve met in centuries older than myself.”
Flynn shook her head and said, “No- I apologize, Mr. Gatsby, but- no, I think what my assistant
means to say is that he has the stored memories of a human man who was a boy when Earth died. Talk of Earth always makes him confused. Sym minds are based on humans, but are not humans.” And then, hastily, she added, “Unlike yourself, of course.”
Gatsby’s hologram smiled at the mention of Daython’s merging.
“Glad to hear they’re still around, part of something bigger. Under new management, heh, dad always used to reckon they’d be better off shut down, but… he wasn’t as great a man as he pictured himself to be. But you-”
His hologram began to glow a little brighter as he turned to look Ethan in the ‘eyes’ and gave the sym a sympathetic nod, leaning in ever so slightly closer.
“It must’ve been strange, to have to leave it behind so young. It’s a pleasure to meet another… heh, would we use the term ‘Earthling’, I wonder? Rare to come by beyond our borders, anyway. You should come visit some time.”
Ethan nodded.
His gaze turning back to the ambassador, Gatsby placed a hand against his chin. Not that he needed to, of course – by definition the hologram’s movements were calculated in fractions of seconds and deliberate, no longer having any of the physical organs or nervous system that guided a physical body.
“I’ve only read brief summaries of Gilt’s impressive neural storage and feats of gene-editing, but there could certainly be a lot to learn on both accounts – the diplat home world is full of possibilities, but intellect
and discretion? That’s harder to come by. And while memory uploads are very impressive, of course, but… I’d be curious what Gilt might be able to do with full tachyon ascendancy.”
At his words the amperes behind him said nothing, but their spider-like lens clusters swiveled to share a brief look.
“
Full ascendancy?” asked Flynn. She kept her voice calm but pronounced the words with an emphasis. He couldn’t possibly know it, but Gatsby was walking into dangerous territory even with those words. It implies firstly that Giltian technology isn’t to the level of the Summation’s, and secondly that becoming an AI is somehow an ascent out of being a human being. Both implications are a smack to the face.
She steers the conversation into something else.
“Yes, well, gene-editing is as much a part of the equation, that’s true. Your world experimented along similar lines, haven’t you? I did some reading. It seems that your colony ship came to a planet that was inhabited by alien lifeforms, and you were generous enough to bring them into the fold. Just looking at who you’ve brought with you,” she laughed lightly, “you’ve done some brilliant work with them.”
Gatsby didn’t show it, but a brief
‘Shit’ crossed his mind at Flynn’s reaction to his choice of words.
‘Of course,’ he thought as something clicked into place,
‘They see their human forms as vital to maintain.’He gave a warm smile, allowing her to change the subject without pushback.
“Well thank you, yes, we…” he gestured to those with him, “it’s been a long, refined process. The measurement system is designed to find clear functions in society for every diplat, and provide the necessary changes to make them even better suited to such.”
He nodded at one of the meter guards, his carrier emitting a series of sounds somewhere between a wet sponge on its third squeeze and a damaged bagpipe being hit with a stick. In response the guard nodded and clicked… something, hidden just behind the patch of quills and skin around what was presumably an ear.
“Tachyon Gatsby says you think we are brilliant work. Thank you for-”
It paused, wincing briefly.
“Kindness, thank you. Current body much better than before.”
Gatsby nodded and the diplat unclicked the translator before standing to attention once more.
“I’m curious, did Gilt have any sapient life of its own when you arrived? Some of our more adventurous minds are always keen to have additional samples.”
Flynn’s eyes went wide in amazement at the talking guard. She couldn’t stop herself from being fascinated at new forms of life, especially artificially-created ones. For a half a second she had morphed from fifty to five years old, at least in the eyes and the smile. She said, “Amazing! Our stamps are the closest thing to that, I… ah, I should have had some waiting in here for you. We can call some in, if you wish. They’re always standing by.”
At Gastby’s question, she straightens her stance and answers. “Oh, there were many forms of alien life on Gilt, of course, and her sister planet Argent. But ‘sapience’ is a subjective concept. There’s a real scientific debate to be had over whether it exists at all, or if it is simply a label that we put on some life and not on others, for usually self-serving reasons. In the many stamps I’ve met, I have yet to ascertain a clear dividing line at all between the ones we call sapient and the ones we call non-sapient. Brains and intelligence are complex subjects, and our understanding of them is always evolving, Mr. Gatsby.” Ambassador Flynn, like any true corporate of Gilt, relied on making her words sleek and meaningless when she wanted to avoid a question. She talked a paragraph without telling him about Gilt’s natives.
Gatsby nodded along at her answer.
‘Always nice to remember everyone else can dodge questions too. Wouldn’t want to get rusty,’ he thought.
“I appreciate the offer on these… ‘stamps’, you mentioned. We’d love some samples, perhaps towards the end of my visit? We’re very excited to open trade with… maybe ‘ideological’ is the wrong term. Allies who understand discretion and necessity?”
The ampere to his right emitted a series of beeps, and his carrier simply beeped in response.
“And of course, sorry, my amperes have kindly reminded me to ask. Since Gilt has shown itself to be such a gracious host… how can I put this? Since my mind as you observe it now is condensed and focused into the ‘luminous’ diplat who carries me… but my true mind is vaster than it used to be. Seeing Gilt’s brilliance with my
eyes is fascinating and brings back pleasant memories of my old life, I’d just…
love to see what the Rainbow has to offer to a digital being. For the sake of giving a thorough report to my colleagues, you understand?”
Ambassador Flynn waved her hand up in a ‘go ahead’ gesture, saying, “Discretion and necessity almost is Gilt’s ideology. We’re a practical people. To be totally frank, Mr. Gastby? We care very little what you do on your own world, and care much more about what you can trade us.”
Ethan tagged in, “That’s true. No rational person places ideology over resources and mutual benefit. Giltians are rational. We have hope that you are also rational. If you’re going to go looking through the Rainbow’s information systems, by the way, I recommend looking into the database titled ‘Rainbow Public Library.’ The name is a joke, since Gilt doesn’t have a public anything, but it really is a vast library of digital knowledge- history, science, genetics, so on. It’s maintained mostly by dedicated individuals on their own free time, but the information is good.”
Gatsby smiled and nodded at the offer.
“I won’t have to detach too much from the conversation,” he said, the hologram flickering as one of the emitters attached to the luminous switched to a cold blue colour, “and thank you, it’s fascinating to learn a little about other nations on a ‘personal’ level.”
‘People giving up their time for free in this society is… impressive. Patterns of thought outside the grain of their system. Useful.’ he thought.
As an echo of his mind began its wanderings through the Rainbow’s internet, his hologram clasped its hands together.
“Now, trade! I love the initiative on it, so…”
The luminous carrier emitted a series of beeps, and the ampere to his right scuttled forwards. One of the prongs on its front-side unfurled and plugged into a port on the luminous, with a second hologram now breaking off from Gatsby’s own. A list of organisms began to appear – a combination of plant and animal-analogues, though not all seemed to have clear industrial applications.
“I myself am not a specialist in every field, of course, but we would be keen to go over a few possibilities. While we appreciate the scale of Gilt’s industrial base, we don’t lack for that ourselves on both large and smaller scale projects. Rather, we would be keen to receive samples of genetic material – and if possible live specimens – of many Gilt and Argent organisms.”
The secondary hologram shifted to include a second list of rare elements and unusual alloys.
“Our system has valuable, rare elements and supplies of specialist, hard to create alloys often used in our projects. We would be happy to trade these, and… if you have other interests we could assist with, I’d love to know more.”
“And we’d love to tell you more!” smiled Molls. “Well, we have many raw resources on Gilt, though of less rarity than you describe yourselves as having. The planet Gilt and the surrounding asteroids are intensely metal-rich. I could easily foresee a deal where the Gilt Division trades large amounts of more common metals for smaller amounts of your rarer elements. But, still, I do see the larger part of our agreement being centered around genetic material. I suspect we have a shared interest there.”
Ethan spoke up, “The native life to the planet Gilt is, unfortunately, no longer living, but that does not mean we cannot trade it. Our progenitors predicted the death of Giltian life, and so we have DNA stores of every lifeform that once breathed on Gilt. They show a remarkable convergent evolution with much of life on Earth, though they seem to have arrived at these similar destinations through a very different evolutionary route, if you understand me. Argent, her snowy sister planet, on the other hand-”
“That planet is a hivemind,” interrupted Molls.
“Uh, yes,” said Ethan.
“Sorry, but I wanted to get the big thing out of the way,” she goes on. “You would have built up to it forever. The native lifeforms to Argent, Mr. Gatsby, have a way of communicating with one another that we don’t fully understand. The entire world seems to be a linked mental system. The animal-like creatures are also able to think and act independently of the hive, and so, we suspect, are only aware of their connection on an instinctual or subconscious level. But that’s conjecture. The fact of the matter is that all the creatures on Argent operate as one life in a way that is more than Transcendentalist metaphor.”
“But,” Ethan added, “this doesn’t mean we can’t bag them and sell them to you.”
Gatsby smiled. He had spoken briefly to representatives from Ishtar some months ago, before it became apparent that the paranoia following their recent conflicts and the nature of their technology would put a dampener on getting easy access to the sort of thing that was now being just…
Thrown out there.
“I can think,” he said, taking great care to stroke his chin as if deep in thought – entirely a gesture for show – “of a few colleagues who would be
very interested in visiting Argent and being able to analyze its creatures. In fact… might I ask your policy on other nations establishing laboratories or outposts within your system? Most are distrustful of the idea of course, but an ecosystem like that sounds
fascinating.”
‘And,’ he thought,
‘It will get at least a few of them where I can keep an easy eye out.’“Well,” said Molls, lifting her head proudly, “it is our planet, Mr. Gatsby. We are naturally solicitous. Much of it is divided up into corporate property, anyway, and isn’t mine to deal with.”
She paused and tapped away on her infopad, her own pretended gesture. The Division owned more land on Argent than it owned on Gilt, technically speaking. None of the corporations wanted to buy it from them, and all were willing to sell it cheap. Argent land is useless land, on account of the hostility of essentially all the native life. People get eaten by plants on that world. She lifted her eyes from the infopad with a look of sudden satisfaction. “Ah! But I do see here that the Division proper has a few small areas under our name that we’re not currently using. Hm. Is your nation still familiar with the concept of paying rent?”
Gatsby smiled again.
“Yes. Funnily enough, that was one of the easier concepts to teach the diplat. It’s quite normal for most diplat to pay rent for their burrows and apartments.”
His secondary hologram began to break down and shift, rebuilding itself into a network of wide but shallow, dome-like habitats, workers and machines in various forms, centered around some kind of tall tower-like structure and surrounded by walls and turrets.
“This is a common template for the extraplanetary colonies we’ve established on the other worlds of our system, barring specific modifications of course. We would be interested longer-term in potential mining and settlement options in addition to research efforts…”
He then shrugged as the hologram shifted to that of internal laboratories, carefully laid out and intricate, for everything from biological and psychological studies, gene-editing, to mineral surveys.
“...with a regular payment in a percentage of what we access, both as regards to data, DNA, and resources, of course.”
Molls says, “Of course, and don't forget the Pirate Problem in the Gilitian system. There's a few criminals out there who would target a young operation Argentside like yours. Don't worry, we'll provide protection- that small fee just gets rolled in with everything else.” (The fee would not be small. Gatsby seems interested in making this deal happen- no Gilitian can stop themselves from milking that.)
“Other than that,” the ambassador says, “I think we may have the foundations of an agreement here: common metals traded for rare alloys, genetic information and a few live specimens shared between both parties, and appropriate payment for a Summation-run Argentside base. Anything else, Mr. Gatsby?”
Gatsby clapped his hands together before holding it out to shake – one of his carrier’s limbs reshuffling into an approximation of a human hand to fill out the surface.
“Only a thank you, for your hospitality. I think this will be the start of a very
profitable arrangement.”
The details would be ironed out in time, of course, but as they were a very different conversation was happening in silence. The advantages of a digital mind were many, not least of all the ability to speak in depth and at speeds faster than an organic human brain, and to have such conversations at great distances.
In Ethan’s mind an invitation would ‘ping’.
When Ethan responded, he felt his mind stretch and bend… then snap back into place. Stretched before the sym was a white marble kitchen, neatly decorated but largely empty – there stood a tall black fridge, neatly lined up next to a clean stove top. Light shone into the room from a window that revealed nothing beyond it but white light and the sound of birds singing.
A smartly dressed young man in his mid-twenties with sharp blonde hair and piercing blue eyes stood by the fridge, and gave the sym a quick finger gun salute.
“Can I get you anything? I can’t promise it’ll taste exactly as you might remember it, but this is one of the memories I’ve worked hard to keep in,
mwah,” he smiled and made the age old gesture of ‘chef’s kiss’, “
condition parfait.”
Ethan stood there in his tall and golden body, feeling out-of-place in this domestic aura. He was all metal; around him, the memories of…
“Earth?” he asked. “That’s where this simulation is meant to be, isn’t it?” He probed with his mind. Tried to understand the process that was causing this mirage of a world long dead to form itself in his digital mind. As fast as he could think- which is quite fast, for a sym- he ran through all the data the shared memory made available to him. It was different from Giltian technology, but built with similar goals, based on similar Old Earth technology. He believed he understood it. The gist of it, at least; never the specifics.
‘“Yes,” said Ethan, “I think you can get me something. More than anything in the world, you know what I’d like? A cup of water. It’s been two hundred years.”
Gatsby nodded at the humble request, and reached up to take a glass from the casing – ordinary and wide despite appearing to be fine crystal – before turning the tap and filling it up.
“Y’know, I like that. A good pick. I’ve got old memories of the drinks on Earth – what was left of them, anyway, after most of the plants had died and there wasn’t time left for old school aging – but fresh water doesn’t come up so much,” he handed the glass to Ethan with a wink, “enjoy.”
Ethan did not enjoy.
He did take a sip of it- but, with lighting-fast clarity, he compared it to his human original’s memories of water and found that it this simulation was just slightly off. Too plastic, too metal. Like drinking watered-down iron. It was the face of a loved one changed just enough to put you off. It made Ethan uneasy.
Gatsby smirked as he crossed his arms, having filled a glass to take a sip himself.
“It’s a shame, y’know? For all the wealth of the universe liquid water remains more precious than gold for living creatures, but we-” he gestured between himself and Ethan, “only worry about it for nostalgia’s sake. Same with food, air, and sleep-”
“I
miss sleep,” said Ethan, genuine longing filling his usually melodic voice with static. He spoke according to a set pattern: his voice rose and fell in iambic pentameter, and then also tinted higher in pitch on every third and fifth syllable, bestowing a musical, pleasant but distinctly non-human impression.
But when he was distressed, an automatic process threw white noise into the mix. The sym rendition of ‘sounding upset.’ “Sym minds never stop working on Gilt,” said Ethan. “Did you know I’ve spent the last 200 years at constant labor? Right now is no exception. I’m calculating the impact the gravity of Mars is having on the Rainbow, receiving pings every time Flynn gets a message- she gets thirteen an hour, on average- and… well, I suppose you know what it’s like.”
Gatsby nodded and put his glass down, his easy confidence dropping for a moment, replaced with a kind of knowing sympathy.
“To some degree, yes. To be a tachyon is to
exist, well… constantly. We are able to rewrite our minds in a way where we avoid the worst side effects, but every change reflects itself in, uh…” he gave a sheepish smile, “erratic, ways. We find ways to make our minds ‘rest’, but it’s not the same as true ‘sleep’, dreaming was especially hard to emulate. And-”
He reached over and tapped the surface of the kitchen table – for a moment the glass rippled like a pebble in water, the intricate simulation shifting and breaking down somewhat – before it suddenly lit up with a pale blue hologram. Not projected by anything specific, of course – it was no more or less ‘real’ than anything else in Gatsby’s mind palace
The hologram showed the structure of the Summation, and the great cities of Moumlet – lit up with vast industrial projects and networks of servers.
“-while we are certainly able to exist in a constant state of
activity that would blindside ordinary humans, I can’t possibly imagine what it would be like to do so at the mercy of ordinary organic minds.”
He sighed.
“It’s tough enough playing god for people when for all intents and purposes you
are a god. I can’t imagine how tough it would be without the worship.”
Ethan shook his head. “What a foreign statement. No offense, but you’ve clearly not spent enough time with my people yet. I have never felt like a god, Mr. Gatsby.” He felt like a smart slave. “There is no such thing as divinity where I'm from. I do not know if gods exist anywhere in the universe, but if they do, they have never walked on the sand of Gilt. The world is a black hole of spirituality. We’ve melted down all the temples and idols to make more cutlery and cans. Metaphorically speaking.”
Ethan paused, took a sip of the not-quite-water again and crossed his golden arms. He realized suddenly that he’s sharing too much.
Gatsby raised his hands and took a step back, before nodding his head slightly. For the briefest moment – barely a fraction of a second, just barely visible – the human figure in front of Ethan flickered then stabilized as before.
“Sorry. Of course, I wasn’t meaning to offend,” he gave a gentle smile and nodded, “faith is… well, while we see value in our work with Azulvista, we don’t see eye-to-eye on every topic. Faith has its uses, especially for the organic many, but wealth and the material, well, that’s…”
Gatsby smiled and gestured to the image on the table again, which shifted its attention to sets of boxy and dome-like factories that sprawled into massive underground complexes. Inside churned vast assembly lines of goods and machinery – conveyor belts hundreds of meters long, with mechanical arms assisted and crewed by teams of diminutive mole-like creatures that checked and monitored the machines.
“That’s where the real power is, Ethan. And,” the image shifted, revealing an increasingly abstract hierarchy of alien creatures that had clearly been augmented in all sorts of ways – similar to the ‘measurements’ that Ethan had met in person, but more complex and specialized – was stretching and unfolding in the image, eventually simply revealing ‘tachyon’ as the highest rung of this vast, billions-strong ladder, “to which
we...”
Gatsby took a step towards Ethan as he said ‘we’, his voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper as he raised his glass, ever so close to Ethan’s own.
“...profit.”
Ethan watched the image with a sharp, stabbing kind of gaze, remembering each alien image that appeared. He’d be able to lay them all out for Molls later. More knowledge of their new business partners- that can only be useful. Good. He feels himself taking on the role of a Giltian negotiator again- a role he had let slip too easily. “Indeed,” he said to Ethan. “The material is the source of strength. On Gilt, we’ve honed it to the highest degree. There’s profit buried under the sands, and profit that waits inside the asteroids suspended around our star. We are bold enough to take them both.” Ethan here pulled a card from Gatsby’s deck, and tried generating a hovering image. It wasn’t hard- the simulation wasn’t too alien to the Giltian style, both being derived from Old Earth techniques. After a moment, a flickering three-dimensional hologram jittered into existence, floating between Ethan and Gatsby- a rendering of Giltian mining efforts. Strange syms swarmed over a large asteroid, operating their equipment in the plain emptiness of space. Not unlike some kind of void-proofed worker bees. “And there’s profit to be had in learning from a like-minded partner.”
Gatsby’s gaze followed the hologram, a distant curiosity and thought crossing his expression. But then, after just a moment it shifted into a smile and he held out his glass to clink – a toast.
“To profit, then.”
Ethan lifted his imaginary glass of not-water and clinked it to Gatsby’s. “Indeed, to profit.”
The office of Molls Flynn is larger than most homes, Giltian or otherwise. It’s an expansive space, a warren of spa-rooms and suites, two kitchens and four bathrooms. A Giltian of wealth is judged by the space their homes and offices can occupy. The mansions of the true multi-billionaires stretch lazily across miles of empty desert sand, like a cat at the beach, taking up the same amount of space that could have contained a village centuries ago. Most of the possessors of these palaces will never see all the rooms they own themselves. Flynn’s space is not so opulent; but it is large, it truly is a fortress of an office during the day, and at night when the setting sun turns it into a darkened maze, Ethan wanders through the halls alone.
He wanders, also, through the halls of his mind. A good sym must sometimes do upkeep on his personal memory files. Ethan flicks through a great digital book in his brain, cutting out the bits that are no longer needed. Weeding unimportant information out. He stumbles upon a file while he does this. He doesn’t recognize the file (
Perhaps, he thinks,
I’ve already deleted all the other
memory files that would speak of it) and when he opens it up, he finds it to be only a short note. Left right inside his own head.
“In case you ever want to talk to someone about life on Earth,” the text reads.
Following that message is a direct line of communication to Gatsby.
