Charles Stross - Router

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Router by Charles Stross
The air in the bar is filled with a billowing relativistic smoke cloud–it’s a stellarium, accurately
depicting the view beyond the imaginary walls. Aberration of starlight skews the color toward
violet around the doorway, brightening in a rainbow mist over the tables, then dimming to a hazy
red glow in front of the raised platform at the back. The Doppler effect has slowly emerged over
the past few months as the ship gathers momentum. In the absence of visible stellar motion–or a
hard link to the ship’s control module–it’s the easiest way for a drunken passenger to get a feeling
for how fast the Field Circus is moving. Which is frighteningly fast: some time ago, the ship’s
momentum exceeded half its rest mass, at which point a single kilogram packs the punch of a
multi-megaton hydrogen bomb.
A ginger-and-brown cat sprawls indolently across the wooden floorboards in front of the bar,
directly beneath the bridge of the starbow, as if it has captured the only ray of sunlight to be had
within the starship. In the shadows at the back of the bar, two men slump at a table, lost in their
respective morose thoughts: one nurses a bottle of Czech beer, the other a half-empty cocktail
glass.
"It wouldn’t be so bad if she is giving me some sign," says one of them, tilting his beer bottle to
inspect the bottom for sediment. "No: that not right. It’s the correct kind of attention. Am not
knowing where I stand with her."
The other one leans back in his chair, squints at the faded brown paint of the ceiling. "Take it
from one who knows," he says, "if you knew, you’d have nothing to dream about. Anyway, what
she wants and what you want may not be the same thing."
The first man runs a hand through his hair: tight-curled black ringlets briefly turn silver beneath
his aging touch. "Pierre, if talent for making patronizing statements is what you get from to tup
Amber–"
Pierre glares at him with all the venom an augmented nineteen-year-old can muster. "Be glad she
has no ears in here," he hisses. His hand tightens around his glass reflexively, but the physics
model in force in the bar refuses to let him break it. "You’ve had too fucking much to drink,
Boris."
A tinkle of icy laughter comes from the direction of the cat. "Shut up, you," says Boris, glancing
at the animal. He tips the bottle back, lets the dregs trickle down his throat. "Maybe you’re right.
Am sorry. Do not mean to be rude about the queen." He shrugs, puts the bottle down. Shrugs
again, heavily. "Am just getting depressed."
"You’re good at that," Pierre observes.
Boris sighs again. "Evidently. If our positions are reversed–"
"I know, I know, you’d be telling me the fun is in the chase and it’s not the same when she kicks
you out after a fight, and I wouldn’t believe a word of it, being sad and single and all that." Pierre
snorts. "Life isn’t fair, Boris: live with it."
"I’d better go–" Boris stands.
"Stay away from Ang," says Pierre, still annoyed with him. "At least until you’re sober."
"Okay already, stay cool: Am consciously running a watchdog thread." Boris blinks irritably.
"Enforcing eusocial behavior. It doesn’t normally let me get this drunk. Not where reputation
damage are possible in public."
He does a slow fade, leaving Pierre alone in the bar with the cat.
"How much longer do we have to put up with this shit?" he asks aloud. Nerves are frayed:
arguments proliferate in the small social universe of the ship.
The cat doesn’t look round: "In our current reference frame, we drop the primary reflector and
start decelerating in another two million seconds," she says. "Back home, five or six
megaseconds."
"That’s a big gap. What’s the cultural delta up to now?" Pierre asks idly. He snaps his fingers:
"Waiter, another cocktail. The same, if you please."
"Oh, probably about ten to twenty times our departure reference," says the cat. "If you’d been
following the news, you’d have noted a significant speed-up in the deployment of switched
entanglement routers; they’re having another networking revolution, only this one will run to
completion inside a month because they’re using dark fiber that’s already in the ground."
"Switched . . . entanglement?" Pierre shakes his head, bemused. The waiter, a faceless body in
black tie and a long, starched apron, walks around the bar and offers him a glass. "That sounds as
if it almost makes sense. What else?"
The cat rolls over on her flank, stretches, claws extended: "Stroke me and I might tell you," she
suggests.
"Fuck you, and the dog you rode in on," Pierre replies. He lifts his glass, removes a glacé cherry
on a cocktail stick, throws it toward the spiral staircase that leads down to the toilets, and chugs
back half of it in one go–freezing pink slush with an afterbite of caramelized hexose sugars and
ethanol. The near-spillage as he thumps the glass down serves to demonstrate how he’s teetering
on the edge of drunkenness. "Mercenary!"
"Lovesick drug-using human!" the cat replies without rancor, and rolls to her feet. She arches her
back and yawns, baring ivory fangs at the world. "You apes! If I cared about you, I’d have to kick
sand over you." For a moment, she looks faintly confused. "I mean, I would bury you." She
stretches again and glances round the otherwise-empty bar. "By the way, when are you going to
apologize to Amber?"
"I’m not going to fucking apologize to her!" Pierre shouts. In the ensuing silence and confusion,
he raises his glass and tries to drain it: but the ice has all sunk to the bottom and the resulting
coughing fit makes him spray half of the cocktail across the table. "No way," he rasps quietly.
"Too much pride, huh?" The cat stalks toward the edge of the bar, tail held high with tip bent
over in a feline question-mark. "Like Boris with his adolescent woman-trouble? You primates are
so predictable. Whoever thought of sending a starship crewed by posthuman adolescents–"
"Go ’way," says Pierre: "I’ve got serious drinking to do."
"To the Macx, I suppose," puns the cat, turning away. But the moody youth has no answer for her,
other than to conjure a refill from the vasty deeps.
Meanwhile, in another partition of the Field Circus’s reticulated reality, a different instance of
the self-same cat–Aineko by name, sarcastic by disposition–is talking to itself, and its former
owner, the Queen of the Ring Imperium. The queen is young, with disheveled blonde hair and
high cheekbones: she wears a tattered black dress over iridescent purple leggings, and sprawls
lazily across the arms of her informal throne–an ostentatious lump of nonsense manufactured
from a single carbon crystal doped with semiconductors. She got to be queen by almost-accident,
parlaying a jurisdictional mix-up and her presence on the first commercial mining probe to make
it out to Jupiter into the ownership of a rather small moon, and she hasn’t got the royalty thing
down pat yet; the scene is very much the morning after the evening before, like a goth night club
gone to seed. The decor is all stale smoke and crumpled velvet, wooden church pews, burned-out
candles, and gloomy Polish avant-garde paintings. Any hint of a regal statement the queen might
be making is spoiled by the way she’s hooked one knee over the left arm of the throne and is
fiddling with a six-axis pointing device. But these are her private quarters and she’s off duty: the
regal person of the Queen is strictly for formal, corporate occasions.
"Colorless green ideas sleep furiously," she suggests.
"Nope," replies the cat. "It was more like: ‘greetings, earthlings, compile me on your leader.’ "
"Well, you got me there," says Amber. She taps her heel on the throne and fidgets with her signet
ring. "No damn way I’m loading some buggy alien wetware on my sweet gray stuff. Weird
semiotics, too. What does Doctor Khurasani say?"
Aineko sits down in the middle of the crimson carpet at the foot of the dais and idly twists round
to sniff her own crotch. "Sadeq is immersed in scriptural interpretations. He refused to be drawn."
"Huh." Amber stares at the cat. "So. You’ve been carrying this lump of source code since
when. . . ?"
"At the signal, for precisely two hundred and sixteen million, four hundred and twenty-nine
thousand and fifty-two seconds," Aineko supplies, then beeps smugly. "Call it just under six
years."
"Right." Amber squeezes her eyes shut. Uneasy possibilities whisper in her mind’s ears. "And it
began talking to you–"
"–About three million seconds after I picked it up and tried running it on a basic environment
hosted on a neural network emulator modeled on the components found in the stomatogastric
ganglion of a spiny lobster. Clear?"
Amber sighs. "I wish you’d told Dad about it. Or Annette. Things could have been so different!"
"How?" The cat stops licking her arse and looks up at the queen with a peculiarly opaque stare.
"The distributed CETI project spent years trying to ‘crack the alien code’ without ever asking if it
might be a reply in a language we already know to a message we sent out years ago. Fuckwits!
And Manfred pissed me off once too often. He kept treating me like a goddamn house-pet."
"But you–" Amber bites her lip. But you were, when Dad bought you, she had been about to say.
Aineko glares at her, then slowly narrows her eyes to slits–either feline affection, or a more
subtle gesture. Sometimes, Amber finds it hard to believe that twenty-five years ago Aineko
started out as a crude neural-network-driven toy from a far-eastern amusement factory–
upgradeable, but still basically a mechanical animal emulator. (Her father, Manfred Macx, open
source entrepreneur and futurology geek, had always had a magic touch for technology selections,
even if his family life was dysfunctional verging on explosive.) "Sorry. Let me start again. You
actually decoded the alien packet, you, yourself, and nobody else. Despite the combined efforts of
the entire CETI@home distributed analysis team, who spent Gaia-knows how many billions of
human-equivalent years of processing power trying to crack its semantics. I hope you’ll pardon
me for saying I find that hard to believe?"
The cat yawns. "I could have told Pierre instead." Aineko glances at Amber, sees her thunderous
expression, and decides to change the subject hastily: "The solution was intuitively obvious, just
not to humans. You’re so verbal." Lifting a hind paw, she scratches behind her left ear for a
moment, then pauses, foot waving absent-mindedly. "Besides, the CETI team were searching
under the street-lights, while I was sniffing around in the grass. They kept trying to find primes;
when that didn’t work, they started trying to breed a Turing machine that would run it without
immediately halting." Aineko lowers her paw daintily. "None of them tried treating it as a map of
a connectionist system based on the only terrestrial components anyone had ever beamed out into
deep space. Except me. But then, your mother had a hand in my wetware."
Amber ignores the hint–she and her mother are definitely not on speaking terms–and focuses on
the problem. "Treating it as a map–" she stops. "You were meant to penetrate Dad’s corporate
network?" Her father, Manfred, owns nothing: it’s all tied up in a network of Turing-complete
companies, self-propelled finite state automata implemented within the international free-rade
system.
"That’s right," says the cat. "I was supposed to fork repeatedly and gang-rape his web of trust.
But I didn’t." Aineko yawns. "I don’t like people who try to use me as a tool."
"I don’t care," Amber accuses. "Taking that thing on board was still a really stupid risk."
"So?" The cat looks at her insolently. "It worked, at least on the seven-hundred-and-forty-first
attempt. It’d have worked for Pamela’s bounty-hunter friends too, if I’d tried it. Would you like
to swallow the packet now?"
Amber straightens out, sits up in her throne: "I just told you, if you think I’m going to link some
flaky chunk of alien neural programming into my core dialogue, or even my exocortex, you’re
crazy! Especially if my mother had something to do with cracking it." Her eyes narrow. "Can it
use your grammar model?"
"Sure." If the cat were human, it would be shrugging nonchalantly at this point. "It’s safe, Amber,
really and truly. I found out what it is."
"I want to talk to it," she says impetuously–and before the cat can reply, adds: "what is it?"
"It’s a regular broadcast packet designed to allow new nodes to connect to a net by providing
high-level protocol conversion services. It needs to learn how to think like a human so it can
translate for us when we arrive at the Router. Are you sure you don’t want to let it into your
head?"
Greetings from the fourth decade of the century of wonders.
The solar system that lies roughly twenty-eight trillion kilometers–just short of three light-years–
behind the speeding starwhisp Field Circus is seething with change. There have been more
technological advances in the past ten years than in the entire previous expanse of human
history–and more unforeseen accidents.
Lots of hard problems are now basically tractable. The planetary genome and proteome have
been mapped so exhaustively that the biosciences are now focusing on the challenge of the
phenome: plotting the phase-space defined by the intersection of genes and biochemical
structures, understanding how extended phenotypic traits are generated and contribute to
evolutionary fitness. The biosphere has become surreal: small dragons have been sighted nesting
in the Scottish highlands, and in the American mid-west, raccoons have been caught
programming microwave ovens.
The computing power of the solar system is now around one thousand MIPS per gram, and is
unlikely to increase in the near term–all but a fraction of 1 percent of the dumb matter is still
locked up below the accessible planetary crusts, and the sapience/mass ratio has hit a glass
ceiling that will only be broken when people, corporations, or other posthumans get around to
dismantling the larger planets. Amber was in at the start, in Jupiter orbit where the delta-vee is
low and the pickings rich and massive, but now it’s spreading to the asteroid belt: Greenpeace
have sent squatters to occupy Eros and Juno, but the average planetoid is now surrounded by a
reef of specialized nanomachinery and debris, victims of a cosmic land-grab unmatched since the
days of the Wild West. The best brains flourish in free fall, minds surrounded by a sapient ether
of extensions that out-think their meaty cortices by many orders of magnitude–minds like Amber,
queen of the Inner Ring Imperium, the first politically autonomous self-extending power center in
Jupiter orbit.
Down at the bottom of the terrestrial gravity well, there has been a major economic catastrophe:
cheap immortagens, out-of-control personality adjuvants, and a new formal theory of uncertainty
have knocked the bottom out of the insurance and underwriting industries. Gambling on a
continuation of the worst aspects of the human condition–disease, senescence, and death–looks
like a good way to lose money, and a deflationary spiral lasting almost fifty hours has taken down
huge swathes of the global stock market. Genius, good looks, and long life are now considered
basic human rights in the developed world: even the poorest backwaters are feeling knock-on
effects from the commoditization of intelligence.
Not everything is sweetness and light in the era of mature nanotechnology. Widespread
intelligence amplification doesn’t lead to widespread rational behavior. New religions and
mystery cults explode across the planet; much of the net is unusable, flattened by successive
semiotic jihads. India and Pakistan have held their long-awaited nuclear war: external
intervention by US and EU nanosats prevented most of the IRBMs from getting through, but the
subsequent spate of network raids and Basilisk attacks cause havoc. Luckily, the infowar turns
out to be more survivable than the energy war–especially once it is discovered that a simple anti-
aliasing filter stops nine out of ten neural-wetware-crashing Langford fractals from causing
anything worse than a mild headache.
New discoveries this decade include confirmation of quintessence theory– a mysterious weakly
repulsive force responsible for changes in the rate of expansion of the universe after the wake of
the big bang–and experimental proofs suggesting that quantum entanglement circuits may be
used to implement a Turing Oracle: a device that can determine whether a given functional
expression can be evaluated in finite time. It’s Boom Time in the field of Extreme Cosmology,
where some of the more recherché researchers are bickering over the possibility that the entire
universe was created as a computing device, with a program encoded in the small print of the
Planck constant.
Most people have forgotten about the extra-terrestrial transmission received fifteen years earlier.
Many of those who haven’t are passengers or spectators of the Field Circus: a light-sail craft that
is speeding out of Sol system on a laser beam generated by Amber’s installations in low Jupiter
orbit. (Superconducting tethers anchored to Amalthea drag through Jupiter’s magnetosphere,
providing gigawatts of electricity for the hungry lasers: energy that comes in turn from the small
moon’s orbital momentum.) Manufactured by Airbus-Cisco years earlier, the Field Circus is a
hick backwater, isolated from the mainstream of human culture, its systems complexity limited
by mass: the destination lies nearly three light years from Earth, and even with high acceleration
and relativistic cruise speeds, the one kilogram starwhisp and its hundred-kilogram light-sail will
take the best part of seven years to get there. By the time its occupants beam themselves home
again, a linear extrapolation shows that as much change will have overtaken human civilization
as in the preceding fifty millennia–the sum total of H. sapiens sapiens’ time on Earth.
But that’s okay by Amber. Because what she expects to find in orbit around the brown dwarf
Hyundai +4904/-56 will be worth the wait.
Pierre is at work in a virtual machine, currently running the master control-system of the Field
Circus; he’s supervising the sail-maintenance bots when the message comes in. Two visitors are
on their way up from Earth. The only other person around is Su Ang, who showed up some time
after he arrived; she’s busy with some work of her own. The master control VM–like all the other
human-accessible environments at this level of the ship’s virtualization stack–is a construct
modeled on a famous movie; this one resembles the bridge of a long-since sunken ocean liner,
albeit with discreetly informative user-interfaces hovering in front of the ocean view outside the
windows. Polished brass gleams softly everywhere. "What was that?" he calls out, responding to
the soft chime of a bell.
"We have visitors," Ang repeats, interrupting her rhythmic chewing. (She’s trying out a betel-nut
kick, but she’s magicked the tooth-staining dye away and will probably detox herself in a few
hours.) "They’re buffering up the line already; just asking receipt is sucking most of our
downstream bandwidth."
"Any idea who they are?" asks Pierre; he puts his boots up on the back of the vacant helmsman’s
chair and stares moodily at the endless expanse of green-gray ocean ahead.
Ang chews a bit more, watching him with an expression he can’t interpret. "They’re still locked,"
she says eventually, "but there was a flash from the Franklins, back home. One of them’s some
kind of lawyer, while the other’s a film producer."
"A film producer?"
"The Franklin trust says it’s to help defray our lawsuit expenses. Myanmar is gaining. They’ve
already subpoenaed Amber’s downline instance and they’re trying to bring this up in some kind
of kangaroo jurisdiction–Oregon Christian Reconstructionist Empire, I think."
"Ouch." Pierre winces. The daily news from Earth, modulated onto a lower-powered short-
wavelength communication laser, is increasingly bad, giving him reason to be grateful he
defected to Amber’s jurisdiction years ago. She’s incredibly rich: the goodwill futures leveraged
off her dad’s trust metric means people will bend over backward to do things for her. And she
owns a lot of real estate, too; a hundred gigatons of rock in low Jupiter orbit with enough KE to
power Northern Europe for a century. But her interstellar venture burns through money–both the
traditional barter-indirection type and the more creative modern varieties–about the way you
would if you heaped up the green pieces of paper and shoveled them onto a conveyor belt leading
to the business end of a running Ariane-5 rocket motor. Just holding off the environmental
protests over de-orbiting a small moon into Jupiter is a grinding job. Moreover, a whole bunch of
national governments have woken up and are trying to legislate themselves a slice of the cake.
Nobody’s tried to forcibly take over yet–there are two hundred gigawatts of lasers anchored to
the Ring Imperium, and Amber takes her sovereign status seriously, has even applied for a seat at
the UN and membership of the EU, with support from the Franklin borganism and her father’s
legal machinations–but the nuisance lawsuits are mounting up into a comprehensive denial-of-
service attack. "Anything to say about it?"
"Mmph." Ang looks irritated for some reason. "Wait your turn; they’ll be out of the buffer in
another couple of days. Or more: the lawyer’s got a huge infodump packaged on his person.
Probably another semi-sapient class action lawsuit."
"I’ll bet. They never learn, do they?"
"What, about the legal system here?"
"Yup." Pierre nods. "One of Amber’s smarter ideas, reviving eleventh century Scots law and
updating it with new options on barratry, raith-law, and compurgation." He pulls a face and
detaches a couple of ghosts to go look out for the new arrivals: then he goes back to repairing
sails. The interstellar medium is abrasive, full of dust–each grain of which carries the energy of a
large bomb at this speed –and the laser sail is in a constant state of disintegration; a large chunk
of the drive-system’s mass is silvery utility flakes for patching and replacing the soap-bubble-thin
membrane as it ablates away. The skill is in knowing how best to funnel repair resources to
where they’re needed, while minimizing tension in the suspension lines and avoiding resonance
and thrust imbalance. As he trains the patch bots, he broods: about the hate mail from his elder
brother (who still blames him for their father’s accident) and about Sadeq’s religious injunctions–
superstitious nonsense, he thinks–and the fickleness of powerful women, and the endless depths
of his own nineteen-year-old soul.
While he’s brooding, Ang evidently finishes whatever she was doing and bangs out–not even
bothering to use the polished mahogany door at the rear of the bridge, just discorporating and
rematerializing somewhere else. Wondering if she’s annoyed, he glances up just as the first of the
ghosts patches into his memory map and he remembers what happened when he met the new
arrival. His eyes widen: "Oh shit!"
It’s not the film producer he’s met; it’s the lawyer who’s just uploaded into the Field Circus’s
virtual universe. Someone’s going to have to tell Amber. And although the last thing he wants to
do is talk to her, it looks like he’s going to have to, because this means trouble.
Take a brain and put it in a bottle. Better: take a map of the brain and put it in a map of a bottle–
or of a body–and feed signals to it that mimic its neurological inputs. Read its outputs and route
them to a model body in a model universe with a model of physical laws, closing the loop: René
Descartes would understand. That’s the state of the passengers of the Field Circus; formerly
physical humans, their neural software has been transparently migrated into a virtual machine
environment executing on a honking great computer, where the universe they experience is
merely a dream within a dream.
Brains in bottles–empowered ones, with total, dictatorial control over the reality they are exposed
to–sometimes stop engaging in activities that brains in bodies can’t avoid. Menstruation isn’t
mandatory; vomiting, angina, exhaustion, and cramp are all optional. So is meat-death, the
decomposition of the corpus. But some activities don’t cease: because people–even people who
have been converted into a software description, squirted through a high-bandwidth laser link,
and ported into a virtualization stack–don’t want them to stop. Breathing is wholly unnecessary,
but suppression of the breathing reflex is disturbing unless you hack your hypothalamic map, and
most homomorphic uploads don’t want to do that. Then there’s eating–not to avoid starvation,
but for pleasure: feasts on sautéed dodo seasoned with silphium. It seems that the human
addiction to sensory input won’t go away. And that’s without considering sex, and the technical
innovations that become possible when the universe–and the bodies within it–are mutable.
The public audience with the new arrivals is held in yet another movie: the Parisian palace of
Charles IX, the throne room lifted wholesale from La Reine Margot by Patrice Chéreau. Amber
insisted on period authenticity, with the realism dialed right up to eleven; it’s 1572 to the hilt this
time, physical to the max. Pierre grunts in irritation, unaccustomed to his beard: his codpiece
chafes and sidelong glances tell him he isn’t the only member of the royal court who’s
uncomfortable. Still, Amber is resplendent in a gown worn by Isabelle Adjani as Marguerite de
Valois, and the luminous sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows high above the
crowd of actor zimboes lends a certain barbaric majesty to the occasion. The place is heaving
with bodies in clerical robes, doublets, and low-cut gowns–some of them occupied by real people.
Pierre sniffs again: someone (Gavin, with his history bug, perhaps?) has been working on getting
the smell right. He hopes like hell that Catherine de Medici isn’t going to show up.
A bunch of actors portraying Huguenot soldiers approach the throne on which Amber is seated:
they pace slowly forward, escorting a rather bemused-looking fellow with long, lank hair and a
brocade jacket that appears to be made of cloth-of-gold. "His lordship, Attorney at Arms Alan
Glashwiecz!" announces a flunky, reading from a parchment: "here at the behest of the most
excellent guild and corporation of Smoot, Sedgwick Associates, with matters of legal import to
discuss with Her Royal Highness!"
A flourish of trumpets. Pierre glances at Her Royal Highness. Who nods gracefully, but is
slightly peaky–it’s a humid summer day and her many-layered robes look very hot. "Welcome to
the furthermost soil of the Ring Imperium," she announces in a clear, ringing voice: "I bid you
welcome and invite you to place your petition before me in full public session of court."
Pierre directs his attention to Glashwiecz, who appears to be worried. Doubtless he’d absorbed
the basics of court protocol in the Ring–population all of eighteen thousand back home, a
growing little principality–but the reality of it, a genuine old-fashioned monarchy rooted in
Amber’s three-way nexus of power, data, and time, always takes a while to sink in. "I would be
pleased to do so," he says, a little stiffly, "but in front of all those–"
Pierre misses the next bit, because someone has just goosed him on the left buttock. He starts and
half-turns to see Su Ang looking past him at the throne, a lady in waiting for the queen. She
wears an apricot dress with tight sleeves and a bodice that bares everything above her nipples:
there’s a fortune in pearls roped into her hair. As he notices her, she winks at him.
Pierre freezes the scene, decoupling them from reality, and she faces him. "Are we alone now?"
she asks.
"You want to talk?" he counters, heat rising in his cheeks. The noise around them is a random
susurrus of machine-generated crowd scenery, the people motionless as their shared reality thread
proceeds independently of the rest of the universe.
摘要：

RouterbyCharlesStrossTheairinthebarisfilledwithabillowingrelativisticsmokecloud–it’sastellarium,accuratelydepictingtheviewbeyondtheimaginarywalls.Aberrationofstarlightskewsthecolortowardvioletaroundthedoorway,brighteninginarainbowmistoverthetables,thendimmingtoahazyredglowinfrontoftheraisedplatforma...

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