Ken MacLeod - Engine of Light 3 - Engine City

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Engine City

Ken MacLeod

To Carol, with love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Carol, Sharon, and Michael, as always; to Andrew Greig for listening about

light-years; and to Farah Mendlesohn for reading and commenting on the first draft.

There is no middle path between these two, for a man must either be a free and true

commonwealth’s man, or a monarchical tyrannical royalist.

Kingly government governs the earth by that cheating art of buying and selling, and

thereby becomes a man of contention, his hand is against every man, and every man’s

hand is against him; and take this government at the best, it is a diseased government, and

the very city Babylon, full of confusion.

—Gerard Winstanley, The Law of Freedom in a Platform (1651)

Contents

• prologue: states of mind

• part one: the very city babylon

• 1 the advancement of learning

• 2 hardy man

• 3 rtfm

• 4 the modern prince

• 5 tidal race

• 6 bright star cultures

• 7 the modern regime

• part two: the human as alien

• 8 new earth (political)

• 9 the hanging libraries

• 10 high strangeness incidents

• 11 lithomancer

• 12 rocket science

• 13 blood of spiders

• 14 the new moon’s arms

• coda: state of play

Prologue: States of Mind

the god who later became known as the asteroid 10049 Lora, and shortly afterwards as

the ESA mining station Marshal Titov, was not unusual of its kind. Around the Sun, as

with most stars, gods swarm like flies around a sacrifice. Life arises from states of matter.

From some of these states of matter arise states of mind.

In the asteroids and cometary bodies the units of life were extremophile nanobacteria.

Regulating their ultra-cold molecular processes, the vanishingly tiny temperature

differentials, detecting the quantum signature of usable energy—over millions of years,

these and other selective advantages drove the development of delicate networks adapted

to processing information. Random variations in the effects of their activities on the

asteroid’s outgassings and on the glacially slow transport of mass within it were selected

for whenever they resulted in more stable orbits and fewer collisions. Increasingly

complex networks formed. Subjectivity flickered into being on trillions of separate sites

within each life-bearing asteroid or cometary mass.

Those within 10049 Lora found themselves in a society of other such minds, exchanging

information across light-hours. They had much to learn, and many to learn from. Billions

of years of evolutionary fine-tuning had given the cometary and asteroid minds an

exquisite sensitivity to the electromagnetic output of each other’s internal chemical and

physical processes.

Communication, exchange of information and material between cometary clouds, became

rumor that ran around the galaxy’s outer reaches, which ring like residential suburbs its

industrial core where the heavy elements are forged.

Just as minds are built from smaller information exchangers—neurons or bacteria or

switches—so from the vast assembly of intercommunicating minds within the asteroid

emerged a greater phenomenon, a sum of those minds: a god. It was aware of the smaller

minds, of their vast civilizations and long histories. It was also aware of itself and others

like itself. Its component minds, in moments of introspection or exaltation, were aware of

it. In moments of enlightened contemplation, which could last millennia, the god was

aware of a power of which it was a part: the sum of all the gods within the Solar System.

That solar god, too, had its peers, but whether they in their turn were part of some greater

entity was a subject on which lesser minds could only speculate.

On Earth, evolution worked out differently. On its surface, the multicellular trick took

off. Beneath the surface, the extremophile microorganisms that riddled the lithosphere

and made up the bulk of the planet’s life formed extensive interacting networks which

became attuned to the electromagnetic fields of the planet and its atmosphere. Constantly

disrupted by processes far more violent than those of the smaller celestial bodies, they

attained the level of symbolic thought, but never quite intelligence. Earth’s mind—

Gaia—was like that of a pre-verbal child or an animal. Its thoughts were dreams,

afterimages, abstractions that floated free and illuminated like sheet lightning.

The large squid of the genus Architeuthys, which men later called krakens, were the first

real intelligences on Earth, and the ones whose outlook on life was closest to that of the

gods. They communicated by varying the colored patterns of the chromatophores on their

skins. The minute electrical currents thus generated interacted with the electromagnetic

flux of the planet and were amplified by it to come to the cometary minds’ acutely

sensitive attention. Responses tickled back from the sky. As the gods began to make

sense of the squids’ sensoria—a research project which kept the equivalent of a billion

civilizations’ worth of scientists happily occupied for several centuries—they modified

their own internal models accordingly. The visible spectrum and the visual field burst

upon astonished inner eyes. Sight dawned for the gods, and enlightenment for the squid.

Mega-years of happy and fertile intellectual intercourse followed.

Towards the end of the Cretaceous period, alien ships emerged from nowhere. Their

occupants were warm-blooded, eight-limbed, eight-eyed, and furry. Celestial minds were

already familiar phenomena to them. They swarmed across the Solar System, cracking

memetic and genetic codes as they went. They talked to the gods with their noisy radio

systems, gibber, jabber, boasting in technical detail of the lightspeed drive and the

antigravity engine. Their discoid skiffs scooted through the skies of all the planets. They

flashed banks of lights at the kraken schools. They listened to the collective voice of the

Martian biosphere, which in all its long dying never rose above a sad, rusty croak.

They made friends. They found a promising species of small, bipedal, tailless dinosaurs

and fiddled with their genes. The new saurs were intelligent and long-lived. The octopods

taught the saurs how to fly skiffs. (Gaia took the saurs and skiffs into her dreams, and

spun shining images of them in plasma and ball lightning, but nobody noticed back then.)

They dangled the prospect of space travel before the kraken. Many of the squids pounced

at the chance. The octopods designed ships and skiffs; the saurs built them and flew the

skiffs; the krakens embraced the algorithms of interstellar navigation. Long ships, whose

pilots swam in huge aquaria, blinked away.

By this time, one thought in the baffled minds of the gods resonated from one side of the

Oort cloud to the other: KEEP THE NOISE DOWN! The radiation noise and the endless

blether of information were not the worst irritations. Despite all appeals, the octopods

persisted in digging on the surfaces of asteroids and comets. They itched like nits. Some

saurs and kraken began to see the gods’ point of view, but they were unable to convince

the octopods. The cometary minds made small, cumulative changes in their orbits,

nudging a metallic asteroid onto a trajectory that ended on the octopods’ single city and

brought the Cretaceous epoch to a cataclysmic close.

The destruction appalled even the gods. The octopods and their allies fled, while the saurs

and krakens who remained behind labored to repair the damage done. They still had

skiffs and ships. Laden with rescued specimens and genetic material, light-speed ships

traveled to the other side of the galaxy. The saurs selected a volume about two hundred

light-years across and seeded scores of terrestrial planets—some hastily and blatantly

terraformed—with the makings of new biospheres. Saurs and kraken settled the new

planets, originally as ecological engineering teams, later as colonists. Others returned to

the Solar System, to bring more species. The traffic was to continue for the next sixty-

five million years.

Echoes and rumors of other conflicts circulated around the galaxy. The kraken picked

them up from the gods in the newly settled systems and passed them on to the saurs. In

those multiple translations, subtleties were lost. Knowledge of the past became tradition,

then religion. Gradually, the saurs, in what they came to call the Second Sphere, diverged

from those in the Solar System. Meetings between the two branches of the species

became mute, and matings sterile.

In the Second Sphere, a quiet and contented civilization was held together by the kraken-

navigated starships that plied between its suns. It assimilated new arrivals at intervals of

centuries. Some fast, bright mammals increasingly reminded the saurs of the octopods.

Lemurs and lorises, apes and monkeys, successive species of hominid; bewildered,

furious bands of hunters, tribes of farmers, villages of artisans, caravans of missing

merchants, legions of the lost. The saurs’ patient answers to their frequently asked

questions became the catechism of a rational but zealous creed. Yes, the gods live in the

sky. No, they do not listen to prayers. No, they do not tell us what to do. Their first and

last commandment is: Do not disturb us.

Slowly, with the help of the saurs and the two other surviving species of hominid, the

transplanted humans built a civilization of their own, whose center was a city that never

fell.

For the gods in the Solar System, the human civilization of the Second Sphere was a

history too recent for them to have heard of. They knew only that the saurs’ snatch-

squads continued their work with ever-increasing caution as the human population grew.

The clutter of images generated by Gaia’s excitable response to the saurs’ presence

provided the perfect cover for their activities. The gods had real aliens to worry about.

The starships might bring back news from the Second Sphere a hundred thousand years

out of date, but they collected much more recent news in their occasional stops on the

way back. From these the gods learned that the octopods were a few tens of light-years

away, and heading toward the Solar System.

The god in 10049 Lora had already lived a long life when it and its peers noticed the

rising electronic racket from Earth. It volunteered to swing by for a closer look. It

absorbed the contents of the Internet in seconds, and then found, microseconds later, that

it was already out of date. It was still struggling with the exponential growth when the

European Union’s cosmonauts arrived. To them, it was a convenient Near-Earth Object,

and a possible source of raw materials for further expansion.

The humans had plans for the Solar System, the god discovered—plans that made the

past octopod incursion seem like a happy memory. But the coming octopod incursion

might be still worse. If the humans could expand into space without the devastatingly

profligate use of resources that their crude rocket technology required, an elegant solution

could be expected to the presence of both species of vermin.

Bypassing the local saurs, who were quite incapable of dealing with the problem, the god

scattered information about the interstellar drive and the gravity skiff across the Earth’s

data-sphere. Several top-secret military projects were already apparently inspired by

glimpses of skiff technology, but their sponsors unaccountably failed to take the hint. (In

their mutual mental transparency, the celestial minds found the concepts of lies, fiction,

and disinformation difficult to grasp.) The minds within 10049 Lora opened

communication with the cosmonauts on its surface, where the ESA mining station

Marshal Titov was giving the god a severe headache.

Having their computers hacked into by a carbonaceous chondrite came as a surprise to

the cosmonauts. In the sudden glut of information, they failed to notice the instructions

for a radical new technology of space travel until it was almost too late. Politics dictated

first that the contact should be secret, then that it should be public. Political and military

conflicts resulted in a mutiny on the station. Before the space marines of the European

People’s Army could arrive to suppress it, the cosmonauts built a lightspeed drive that

took the entire station away. They thought they had understood how to navigate it. They

had not. It returned to its default setting, and arrived at the Second Sphere.

Before their departure, one of the cosmonauts made sure that the instructions distributed

by the god would not be ignored, and could not be hidden. The gods approved. Soon the

noisy humans would be somebody else’s problem.

The Advancement of Learning

the jump is instantaneous. To a photon, the whole history of the universe may be like this:

over in a flash, before it’s had time to blink. To a human, it’s disorienting. One moment,

you’re an hour out from the last planet you visited—then, without transition, you’re an

hour away from the next.

Volkov spent the first of these hours preparing for his arrival, conscious that he would

have no time to do so in the second.

My name is Grigory Andreievich Volkov. I am two hundred and forty years old, I was

born about a hundred thousand years ago, and as many light-years away: Kharkov,

Russian Federation, Earth, in the year 2018. As a young conscript, I fought in the Ural

Caspian Oil War. I was with the first troops to enter Marseilles and to bathe their sore

feet in the waters of the Mediterranean. In 2040, I became a cosmonaut of the European

Union, and three years later made the first human landing on the surface of Venus. In

2046 I volunteered for work on the space station Marshal Titov, which in 2049 was

renamed the Bright Star. It became the first human-controlled starship. In it I traveled to

the Second Sphere. For the past two centuries I have lived on Mingulay and Croatan.

This is my first visit to Nova Terra. I hope to bring you . . .

What? The secret of immortality?

Yes. The secret of immortality. That would do.

Strictly speaking, what he hoped to bring was the secret of longevity. But he had formed

an impression of the way science was conducted on Nova Terra: secular priestcraft,

enlightened obscurantism; alchemy, philosophy, scholia. A trickle of inquiry after

immortality had exhausted hedge-magic, expanded herbalism, lengthened little but grey

beards and the index of the Pharmacopia, and remained respectable. Volkov expected to

be introduced to the Academy as a prodigy. Before the shaving-mirror, he polished his

speech and rehearsed his Trade Latin.

The suds and stubble swirled away. He slapped a stinging cologne on his cheeks, gave

himself an encouraging smile, and stepped out of the cramped washroom. The ship’s

human quarters were sparse and provisional. In an emergency, or at the owners’

convenience, they could be flooded. In normal operation, it was usual to travel in one or

other of the skiffs, which at this moment were racked on the vast curving sides of the

forward chamber like giant silver platters. The air smelled of paint and seawater; open

channels and pools divided the floor, and on the walls enormous transparent pipes

contained columns of water that rose or fell, functioning as lifts for the ship’s crew. Few

humans, and fewer saurs, were about in the chamber. Volkov strolled along a walkway.

At its end, a low rail enclosed the pool of the navigator. Eyes the size of beach balls

reflected racing bands of color from the navigator’s chromatophores and the surrounding

instrumentation. Wavelets from the rippling mantle perturbed the water. Lashing

tentacles broke the surface as they played over the controls.

Volkov was halfway up the ladder to the skiff in which he had spent most, and intended

to spend the rest, of the brief journey, when the lightspeed jump took place. The sensation

was so swift and subtle that it did not endanger his step or grasp. He was aware that it had

happened, that was all. In a moment of idle curiosity—for he’d never been within sight of

a ship’s controller at such a moment—he glanced sideways and down, to the watery

cockpit twenty-odd meters below.

The navigator floated in the middle of the pool. His body had turned an almost

translucent white. Volkov was perturbed, but could think of nothing better to do than

scramble faster up the ladder to the skiff.

The door opened and he stepped inside, rejoining his hosts. Esias de Tenebre stood

staring at the display panel, as though he could read the racing glyphs that to Volkov

meant nothing. Feet well apart, hands in his trouser pockets, his stout and muscular frame

bulked further by his heavy sweater, his shock of hair spilling from under his seaman’s

cap. Though in the rough-duty clothes that merchants traditionally wore on board ship, he

had all the stocky and cocky dignity of Holbein’s Henry—one who did not kill his wives,

all three of whom stood beside him. Lydia, the daughter of Esias and Faustina, lounged

on the circular seat around the central engine fairing behind her parents, returning

Volkov’s appeasing look with sullen lack of interest. Black hair you could swim in,

brown eyes you could drown in, golden skin you could bask in. Her oversized sweater

and baggy canvas trousers only added to her charm. The other occupant of the vehicle

was its pilot, Voronar, who sat leaning forward past Esias.

“What’s going on?”

The saur’s elliptical eyes spared Volkov a glance, then returned to the display.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Voronar. His large head, which lent his slender

reptilian body an almost infantile proportion, tipped forward, then nodded. “We are an

hour away from Nova Terra.”

“Could you possibly show us the view?” said Esias.

“Your pardon,” said Voronar.

He palmed the controls, and the entire surrounding wall of the skiff became

pseudotransparent, patching data from the ship’s external sensors and automatically

adjusting brightness and contrast: Nova Sol’s glare was turned down, the crescent of

Nova Terra muted to a cool blue, its night side enhanced. Scattered clusters of crowded

lights pricked the dark like pleiads.

“That’s a lot of cities,” Volkov said.

Compared with anywhere else he’d seen in the Second Sphere, if not with the Earth he

remembered, it was.

“There’s only one that matters,” said Esias. He did not need to point it out.

Nova Babylonia was the jewel of the Second Sphere. Its millennia-old culture, and its

younger but still ancient republican institutions, made it peacefully hegemonic on Nova

Terra, and beyond. The temperate zones of Nova Terra’s continents were placid parks,

where even wildernesses were carefully planned landscape features. All classes of its

people were content. Academicians and artists assimilated the latest ideas and styles that

trickled in over the millennia from Earth; patricians and politicians debated cordially and

congratulated themselves on their fortune in knowing, and avoiding, the home world’s

terrible mistakes. Merchants traded the rare goods of many worlds. Artisans and laborers

enjoyed the advantages of a division of labor far wider than any the human species could

have sustained on its own. Emigration was free, but the proportion of emigrants

insignificant. The hominidae cheerfully tended and harvested the sources of raw

materials, and the saurs and krakens exchanged their advanced products and services for

those of human industry and craft. As an older and wiser species, the saurs were

consulted to settle disputes, and as a more powerful species, they intervened to prevent

any from getting out of hand.

The lights of Nova Babylonia shone just short of the terminator, and somewhat to the

north of the halfway point between the pole and the equator. Genea, the continent on

whose eastern shore the city stood, sprawled diagonally across the present night side of

the planet and southward into the day and the southern hemisphere. Its ragged coastline

counterpointed that of the other major continent, Sauna, a couple of thousand kilometers

west: the two looked as though they had been pulled apart and displaced, one northward,

the other south. Much of the southern and western part of Sauria was wrapped out of

sight around the other side of the planet, at this moment; in the visible part, even at this

distance, the rectangular regularity of some of its green patches distinguished

manufacturing plant from jungle and plain.

“Do any humans live in Sauria?” Volkov asked.

Esias shrugged. “A few thousand, maybe, at any one time. Short-term contract

employees, traders, people involved in travel infrastructure and big-game hunting.

Likewise with saurs in Genea—lots of individuals, no real communities, except around

the hospitals and health services.”

Hospitals and health services, yes, Volkov thought, that could be a problem.

“What about the other hominidae?”

“Ah, that’s a more usual distribution, except that they have entire cities of their own.”

Esias pointed; it wasn’t much help. “Gigants here, pithkies there. Forests and mines, even

some farming. More of a surprise than the cities, that; it’s only developed in the last few

centuries. They’ve always been herding, of course.”

As the ship’s approach zoomed the view, the city and its surroundings expanded and

sharpened. The immediate vicinity and hinterland of the city was a long, triangular

promontory, about a thousand kilometers from northwest to southeast and five hundred

across at its widest extent. It looked like a smaller and narrower India: an island that had

rammed the continent at an angle. Very likely it was—the ice of a spectacular and recent

mountain range glittered white across the join. The west coast of this mini subcontinent

was separated from the mainland of Genea by a semicircular sea, three hundred

kilometers across at its widest, its shore curving to almost meet the end of the promontory

just south of the metropolis. From the mountains sprang a dozen or so rivers whose

confluence channeled about halfway down to one major river, which flowed into the sea

near the tapered tip. The central, and oldest, part of Nova Babylonia was on an island

about ten kilometers long that looked wedged in that river’s mouth.

The city drifted off center in the view, then swung out of sight entirely as the ship leveled

up for its run into the atmosphere. Why the great starships approached on what resembled

a long, shallow glide path was unknown, and certainly unnecessary, but it was what they

always did. The air reddened around the ship’s field and, following another unnecessary

and invariable habit, its human passengers returned to their seats.

Volkov leaned on the rail of the open sea-level deck of the star-ship and gasped morning-

cool fresh air. The starship had, to the best of his knowledge, no air-recycling or air-

circulating mechanisms whatsoever, and after a couple of hours even its vast volume of

air grew slightly but noticeably stale. Around him, unregarded, the ship’s unlading went

on, bales into boats and sometimes into skiffs. The machinery that he had imported from

Mingulay and Croatan—marine engines and diving equipment, mostly—would be a

small fraction of the de Tenebres’ cargo, and that itself insignificant beside the wares of

the ship’s real owners and major traders, the krakens. Beneath him, the ship’s field

pressed down like an invisible, flexible sheet on the waves, flattening them to a waterbed

wobble. Under that rippling glassy surface, the krakens from the ship and from the local

sea flashed greetings to each other. Off to Volkov’s right, behind the bulk of the ship, the

sun was just up, its low full beam picking out the city, about a mile away across the

water, in rectangles of white glare and long triangles of black shade. Ten thousand years

of heaping one stone upon another had stacked the architectures of antiquity to the

heights of modernity. A marble Manhattan, massive yet soaring, it looked like something

from the mind of a Speer with humanity, or a Stalin with taste. The avenues that slotted

the island metropolis from east to west were so broad that Volkov could see the sky on

the far side through the one directly opposite him. Bridges, sturdy as ribs, joined both

shores to districts that stood, less grand only by contrast, on either bank.

Starships by the score dotted the broad estuary. Skiffs flitted back and forth between the

sound and the city like Frisbees in a park. Long-limbed mammals like flying squirrels—

this world’s equivalent of birds—skimmed the waves and dived for fish and haunted the

wakes of fishing boats in raucous flocks. Above the city, airships and gliders drifted,

outpaced and dodged by the flashing skiffs. Between the starships, tall junks and clippers

tacked in or out of the harbor and both branches of the river, and among them feluccas

darted, their sails like the fins of a shoal of sharks. At this distance, the city’s dawn din of

millions of wheels and feet rose in a discernible and gradually increasing hum.

For a moment the immensity and solidity of the place made Volkov’s heart sink. The

stone crescendo that rose before his face was like some gigantic ship against whose bow

history itself cleaved and fell back to slip along its flanks and leave a wake of churned

millennia. And yet ultimately it was only an idea that kept it afloat and forging forward, a

thought in millions of all-too-fragile skulls. Let them lose that thought, and in a year, the

place would sink. Volkov had set himself the harder task of raising it, and at that, he felt

weak.

He heard and smelt Lydia behind him, and turned as she stepped up to the rail. She gazed

hungrily at the city, transfixed.

“Gods above,” she said, “it’s good to see it again.” She smiled at him wryly. “And good

to see it hasn’t changed much.” Another, more considering, look at the city. “Except it’s

higher.”

“It’s impressive,” Volkov allowed.

“And you want to change it.”

Volkov jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the work being done behind them. “You’re

the revolutionaries,” he said. “Bring in enough books and ideas, and the city will change

itself. All I want to do is make sure it’s still there the next time you come back.”

He grinned at her, controlling his features. His heart was making him shake inside. “If I

believed in your people’s ideas of courtship, I would offer it for your hand. I would tell

Esias that I could take this city and lay it at your feet.”

Lydia, to his surprise, blushed and blinked. “That’s what Esias is afraid of,” she said.

She stared away, as though weighing the city, and the suggestion.

“Gregor offered more,” she added, “and he delivered it, too, but he didn’t want me after

all. No, I’m not open to that kind of offer. Not after that.”

“I see,” said Volkov. “I’ll just have to fall back on my fine physique and engaging

personality.”

Lydia laughed. “I can never tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Neither can I,” said Volkov in a gloomy tone.

She punched him lightly. “There you go again.”

He turned to her, with a smile to cover his confusion, and even more to cover his

calculation. He did not know how he felt, or what if anything his feelings meant. A few

weeks earlier, his affair with Lydia’s mother, Faustina, had come to a mutually agreeable

end. He got on best with women of his own apparent age, or older; preferably married, or

otherwise unlikely to form a permanent—and from his point of view, all too temporary—

attachment. He wasn’t in love with Lydia, or even infatuated with her. He didn’t think

about her all the time. But whenever he saw her, he felt an electric jolt inside him, and he

found it difficult to look away from her. It was embarrassing to find himself stealing

glances like some besotted youth, but there it was.

At the other end of the scale, almost balancing that, there was the knowledge that in terms

of Nova Babylonian—and Trader—custom, they were potentially good partners.

Marriage was a business, affairs an avowed diversion; issue, inheritance, and fortune the

only serious matters, over which geneticists and astrologers and matchmakers kept

themselves profitably occupied.

In between, at the balance point, he and Lydia had developed a sort of tempestuous

friendship, which every so often blew up in clashes in which his values and ideas

appeared to her as a jaded cynicism, and her passionately held ethics to him seemed

ancient prejudices, immaturely held. At the moment, their relationship was going through

one of its calmer patches. He didn’t know whether a squall would have been better. More

bracing, certainly; but there was no need to bring it on. It would come of itself soon

enough.

“Can we at least be friendly, for the moment?” She smiled back. “You may be sly,

Grigory Andreievich, but I do like you. Sometimes.”

The first skiff slid out of its slot in the rack and skimmed across the navigation pool and

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