21st Century Science Fiction (94 page)

If you’re black you’re invisible, even in the soup line. The others are shrinking away from me, I can’t deny it. They wouldn’t give us guns to fight even when the Japanese were shelling the beaches up and down the California coast. I left there then and came East, much good it did me. If I’d known how invisible I’d be here, I’d have stayed right there in Los Angeles. Nobody there ever chased after me and made me run, nobody there threatened to string me up, and I had a job that made a little money. I never thought I’d be standing in this line, because when I get to the head of it I know they’ll separate me out. Nobody knows what happens to us then, they take us off somewhere and we don’t come back, but I’m desperate, and what I say is, wherever it is they got to feed us, don’t they? Well, don’t they?

ANOTHER FACTORY CLOSING

• • • •

PEACE TALKS IN LONDON AS JAPAN AND THE REICH DIVIDE UP RUSSIA

Will there be a buffer state of “Scythia” to divide the two great powers?

• • • •

BATTLE IN THE APPALACHIANS: NATIONAL GUARD REINFORCEMENTS SENT IN

President says it is necessary to keep the country together

• • • •

OWNERS GUN DOWN STRIKERS IN ALABAMA

Sixty people were hospitalized in Birmingham today after

• • • •

ESCAPE TO OTHER WORLDS WITH SCIENCE FICTION

New titles by Frederik Pohl and Alice Davey

C
ORY
D
OCTOROW
Born in Toronto and now resident in London, Cory Doctorow is equally famous as an SF writer and as a political activist focused on issues—copyright overreach, freedom in one’s computing devices, the innovation-quashing tendencies of economic incumbents—that are, for many people, still in the realm of SF. It is perhaps fitting that he is the only person, thus far, to have won
both
of the genre’s awards that happen to be named after the brilliant, irascible editor John W. Campbell, because all of Doctorow’s several careers have been powered by doing exactly as Campbell always urged his authors to do: “ask the next question.”

Doctorow’s early short fiction won him the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 2000; not long after that, he published his first novel, the Locus Award—winning
Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom.
With his publisher’s acquiescence, he released his own free-of-charge Creative Commons—licensed e-text of the novel simultaneously with its commercial release, and he has continued to do this for all of his novels and other books since. In 2008, he published his first YA novel, the
New York Times
bestselling
Little Brother,
a story of tech-savvy teenagers fighting back against an overweening “homeland security” regime in an American future that could be next Tuesday. It won widespread acclaim, including the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. Since then he has published more fiction for young readers and for adults, including 2013’s
Homeland,
a sequel to
Little Brother.
In addition to writing SF, he is a coeditor of the megapopular site Boing Boing and a columnist for
The Guardian, Publishers Weekly,
and
Locus.
He also travels nearly constantly as a speaker and organizer.

Written for a
festschrift
in honor of Frederik Pohl, “Chicken Little” contains jet-packs, a likable protagonist, and an immortal zillionaire brain-in-a-vat. It also asks a number of “next questions”—about the nature of happiness, about whether imposed happiness is really worse than free will, and about the possibility that the super-rich are slowly speciating away from the rest of us, retiring into heaven and pulling the ladder up as they go.

T
he first lesson Leon learned at the ad agency was: nobody is your friend at the ad agency.

Take today: Brautigan was going to see an actual vat, at an actual clinic, which housed an actual target consumer, and he wasn’t taking Leon.

“Don’t sulk, it’s unbecoming,” Brautigan said, giving him one of those tight-lipped smiles where he barely got his mouth over those big, horsey, comical teeth of his. They were disarming, those pearly whites. “It’s out of the question. Getting clearance to visit a vat in person, that’s a one-month, two-month process. Background checks. Biometrics. Interviews with their psych staff. The physicals: they have to take a census of your microbial nation. It takes time, Leon. You might be a mayfly in a mayfly hurry, but the man in the vat, he’s got a lot of time on his hands. No skin off his dick if you get held up for a month or two.”

“Bullshit,” Leon said. “It’s all a show. They’ve got a brick wall a hundred miles high around the front, and a sliding door around the back. There’s always an exception in these protocols. There has to be.”

“When you’re 180 years old and confined to a vat, you don’t make exceptions. Not if you want to go on to 181.”

“You’re telling me that if the old monster suddenly developed a rare, fast-moving liver cancer and there was only one oncologist in the whole goddamned world who could make it better, you’re telling me that guy would be sent home to France or whatever, ‘No thanks, we’re OK, you don’t have clearance to see the patient’?”

“I’m telling you the monster
doesn’t have a liver.
What that man has, he has
machines
and
nutrients
and
systems.”

“And if a machine breaks down?”

“The man who invented that machine works for the monster. He lives on the monster’s private estate, with his family.
Their
microbial nations are identical to the monster’s. He is not only the emperor of their lives, he is the emperor of the lives of their intestinal flora. If the machine that man invented stopped working, he would be standing by the vat in less than two minutes, with his staff, all in disposable, sterile bunny suits, murmuring reassuring noises as he calmly, expertly fitted one of the ten replacements he has standing by, the ten replacements he checks,
personally,
every single day, to make sure that they are working.”

Leon opened his mouth, closed it. He couldn’t help himself, he snorted a laugh. “Really?”

Brautigan nodded.

“And what if none of the machines worked?”

“If that man couldn’t do it, then his rival, who
also
lives on the monster’s estate, who has developed the second-most-exciting liver replacement technology in the history of the world, who burns to try it on the man in the vat—
that
man would be there in ten minutes, and the first man, and his family—”

“Executed?”

Brautigan made a disappointed noise. “Come on, he’s a quadrillionaire, not a Bond villain. No, that man would be demoted to nearly nothing, but given one tiny chance to redeem himself: invent a technology better than the one that’s currently running in place of the vat-man’s liver, and you will be restored to your fine place with your fine clothes and your wealth and your privilege.”

“And if he fails?”

Brautigan shrugged. “Then the man in the vat is out an unmeasurably minuscule fraction of his personal fortune. He takes the loss, applies for a research tax credit for it, and deducts it from the pittance he deigns to send to the IRS every year.”

“Shit.”

Brautigan slapped his hands together. “It’s wicked, isn’t it? All that money and power and money and money?”

Leon tried to remember that Brautigan wasn’t his friend. It was those teeth, they were so
disarming.
Who could be suspicious of a man who was so horsey you wanted to feed him sugar cubes? “It’s something else.”

“You now know about ten thousand times more about the people in the vats than your average cit. But you haven’t got even the shadow of the picture yet, buddy. It took
decades
of relationship-building for Ate to sell its first product to a vat-person.”

*And we haven’t sold anything else since,* Leon thought, but he didn’t say it. No one would say it at Ate. The agency pitched itself as a powerhouse, a success in a field full of successes. It was
the
go-to agency for servicing the “ultra-high-net-worth individual,” and yet . . .

One sale.

“And we haven’t sold anything since.” Brautigan said it without a hint of shame. “And yet, this entire building, this entire agency, the salaries and the designers and the consultants: all of it paid for by clipping the toenails of that fortune. Which means that one
more
sale—”

He gestured around. The offices were sumptuous, designed to impress the functionaries of the fortunes in the vats. A trick of light and scent and wind made you feel as though you were in an ancient forest glade as soon as you came through the door, though no forest was in evidence. The reception desktop was a sheet of pitted tombstone granite, the unreadable smooth epitaph peeking around the edges of the old-fashioned typewriter that had been cunningly reworked to serve as a slightly less old-fashioned keyboard. The receptionist—presently ignoring them with professional verisimilitude—conveyed beauty, intelligence, and motherly concern, all by means of dress, bearing, and makeup. Ate employed a small team of stylists that worked on all public-facing employees; Leon had endured a just-so rumpling of his sandy hair and some carefully applied fraying at the cuffs and elbows of his jacket that morning.

“So no, Leon, buddy, I am
not
taking you down to meet my vat-person. But I
will
get you started on a path that may take you there, someday, if you’re very good and prove yourself out here. Once you’ve paid your dues.”

Leon had paid plenty of dues—more than this blow-dried turd ever did. But he smiled and snuffled it up like a good little worm, hating himself. “Hit me.”

“Look, we’ve been pitching vat-products for six years now without a single hit. Plenty of people have come through that door and stepped into the job you’ve got now, and they’ve all thrown a million ideas in the air, and every one came smashing to earth. We’ve never systematically cataloged those ideas, never got them in any kind of grid that will let us see what kind of territory we’ve already explored, where the holes are . . .” He looked meaningfully at Leon.

“You want me to catalog every failed pitch in the agency’s history.” Leon didn’t hide his disappointment. That was the kind of job you gave to an intern, not a junior account exec.

Brautigan clicked his horsey teeth together, gave a laugh like a whinny, and left Ate’s offices, admitting a breath of the boring air that circulated out there in the real world. The receptionist radiated matronly care in Leon’s direction. He leaned her way and her fingers thunked on the mechanical keys of her converted Underwood Noiseless, a machine-gun rattle. He waited until she was done, then she turned that caring, loving smile back on him.

“It’s all in your work space, Leon—good luck with it.”

• • • •

It seemed to Leon that the problems faced by immortal quadrillionaires in vats wouldn’t be that different from those facing mere mortals. Once practically anything could be made for practically nothing, everything was practically worthless. No one needed to discover anymore—just
combine,
just
invent.
Then you could either hit a button and print it out on your desktop fab or down at the local depot for bigger jobs, or if you needed the kind of fabrication a printer couldn’t handle, there were plenty of on-demand jobbers who’d have some worker in a distant country knock it out overnight and you’d have it in hermetic FedEx packaging on your desktop by the morning.

Looking through the Ate files, he could see that he wasn’t the last one to follow this line of reasoning. Every account exec had come up with pitches that involved things that
couldn’t
be fabbed—precious gewgaws that needed a trained master to produce—or things that
hadn’t
been fabbed—antiques, one-of-a-kinds, fetish objects from history. And all of it had met with crashing indifference from the vat-people, who could hire any master they wanted, who could buy entire warehouses full of antiques.

The normal megarich got offered experiences: a ticket to space, a chance to hunt the last member of an endangered species, the opportunity to kill a man and get away with it, a deep-ocean sub to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. The people in the vat had done plenty of those things before they’d ended up in the vats. Now they were metastatic, these hyperrich, lumps of curdling meat in the pickling solution of a hundred vast machines that laboriously kept them alive amid their cancer blooms and myriad failures. Somewhere in that tangle of hoses and wires was something that was technically a person, and also technically a corporation, and, in many cases, technically a sovereign state.

Each concentration of wealth was an efficient machine, meshed in a million ways with the mortal economy. You interacted with the vats when you bought hamburgers, Internet connections, movies, music, books, electronics, games, transportation—the money left your hands and was sieved through their hoses and tubes, flushed back out into the world where other mortals would touch it.

But there was no easy way to touch the money at its most concentrated, purest form. It was like a theoretical superdense element from the first instant of the universe’s creation, money so dense it stopped acting like money; money so dense it changed state when you chipped a piece of it off.

Leon’s predecessors had been shrewd and clever. They had walked the length and breadth of the problem space of providing services and products to a person who was money who was a state who was a vat. Many of the nicer grace notes in the office came from those failed pitches—the business with the lights and the air, for example.

Leon had a good education, the kind that came with the mathematics of multidimensional space. He kept throwing axes at his chart of the failed inventions of Ate, Inc., mapping out the many ways in which they were similar and dissimilar. The pattern that emerged was easy to understand.