Brin, David - Stones of Significance

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Stones of Significance

David Brin, 2000

No one ever said it was easy to be a god, responsible for billions of sapient lives, having

to listen to their dreams, anguished cries, and carping criticism.

Try it for a while.

It can get to be a drag, just like any other job.

My new client wore the trim, effortlessly athletic figure of a neo-traditionalist human.

Beneath a youthful-looking brow, minimal cranial implants made barely noticeable bulges,

resembling the modest horns of some urbane Mephistopheles. Other features were stylishly

androgynous, though broad shoulders and a swaggering stride made the male pronoun

seem apropos.

House cross-checked our guest's credentials before ushering him along a glowing guide

beam, past the Reality Lab to my private study.

I've always been proud of my inner sanctum; the sand garden, raked to fractal perfection

by a robot programmed with my own aesthetic migrams; the shimmering mist fountain; a

grove of hybrid peach-almond trees, forever in bloom and fruiting.

My visitor gazed perfunctorily across the harmonious scene. Alas, it clearly did not stir his

human heart.

Well, I thought, charitably. Each modern soul has many homes. Perhaps his true spirit

resides outside the skull, in parts of him that are not protoplasm.

"We suspect that repugnant schemes are being planned by certain opponents of good

order."

These were the dour fellow's first words, as he folded long legs to sit where I indicated,

by a low wooden table, hand-crafted from a design of the Japanese Meiji Era.

Single-minded, I diagnosed from my cerebral cortex.

And tactless, added one of my higher brain layers -- the one called seer.

Our shared hypothalamus mutely agreed, contributing eloquently wordless feelings of

visceral dislike for this caller. Our guest might easily have interpolated from these environs

what sort of host I am -- the kind who prefers a little polite ritual before plunging into

business. It would have cost him little to indulge me.

Ah, rudeness is a privilege too many members of my generation relish. A symptom of the

post-deification age, I suppose.

"Can you be more specific?" I asked, pouring tea into porcelain cups.

A light beam flashed as the shoji window screen picted a reminder straight to my left eye.

It being Wednesday, a thunder shower was regularly scheduled for 3:14 p.m., slanting over

the city from the northwest.

query: shall i close?

I wink-countermanded, ordering the paper screen to stay open. Rain drops make lovely

random patterns on the Koi pond. I also wanted to see how my visitor reacted to the breeze.

The 3:14 squall features chill, swirling gusts that are always so chaotic, so charmingly

varied. They serve to remind me that godhood has limitations.

Chaos has only been tamed, not banished. Not everything in this world is predictable.

"I am referring to certain adversarial groups," the client said, answering my question, yet

remaining obscure. "Factions that are inimical to the lawfully coalesced consensus."

"Mm. Consensus." A lovely, misleading word. "Consensus concerning what?"

"Concerning the nature of reality."

I nodded. "Of course."

Both seer and cortex had already foreseen that the visitor had this subject in mind. These

days, in the vast peaceful realm of Heaven-on-Earth, only a few issues can drive citizens to

passion and acrimony. "Reality" is foremost among them.

I proffered a hand-wrought basin filled with brown granules.

"Sugar?"

"No thank you. I will add milk, however."

I began reaching for the pitcher, but stopped when my guest drew a fabrico cube from a

vest pocket and held it over his cup. The cube exchanged picts with his left eye, briefly

limning the blue-circled pupil, learning his wishes. A soft white spray fell into his tea.

"Milk" is a euphemism, pondered cortex.

House sent a chemical appraisal of the spray, but I closed my left lid against the datablip,

politely refusing interest in whatever petty habit or addiction made this creature behave

boorishly in my home. I raised my own cup, savoring the bitter-sweetness of gencrafted

leptospermum, before resuming our conversation.

"I assume you are referring to the pro-reifers?"

As relayed by the news-spectra, public demonstrations and acts of conscience-

provocation had intensified lately, catching the interest of my extrapolation nodes. Both seer

and oracle had concluded that event-perturbation ripples would soon affect Heaven's

equilibrium. My client's concern was unsurprising.

He frowned.

"Pro-reif is an unfortunate slang term. The front organization calls itself Friends of the

Unreal."

For the first time, he made personal eye-contact, offering direct picting. House and

prudence gave permission, so I accepted input -- a flurry of infodense images sent directly

between our hybrid retinas. News reports, public statements and private innuendoes. Faces

talking at sixty-times speed. Event-ripple extrapolation charts showing a social trend aimed

toward confrontation and crisis.

Of course most of the data went directly to seer, the external portion of my brain best

suited to handle such a wealth of detail. Gray matter doesn't think or evaluate as well as

crystal. Still, there are other tasks for antique cortex. Impressions poured through the old

brain, as well as the new.

"Your opponents are passionate," I commented, not without admiration for the people

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Brin, David - Stones of Significance

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