Michael Swanwick - Trojan Horse

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TROJAN HORSE

Michael Swanwick

Science fiction is for the most part a literature of rationalism, but this has never prevented its

writers from speculating about matters that go beyond scientific knowledge. The subject of God

turns up in a large number of thoughtful stories, from Arthur C. Clarke's "The Star" to Walter M.

Miller's A Canticle for Leibowitz… and now in this intense novelette about human-computer

interfacing on a future space station.

Michael Swanwick's short fiction has often been nominated for awards, and his first novel. In the

Drift, was published early this year.

"It's all inside my head," Elin said wonderingly. It was true. A chimney swift flew overhead, and she

could feel its passage through her mind. A firefly landed on her knee. It pulsed cold fire, then spread its

wings and was go^, and that was a part of her, too.

"Please try not to talk too much." The wetware tech tightened a cinch on the table* adjusted a bone

inductor. His red and green facepaint loomed over her, then receded. "This will go much faster if you

cooperate."

Elin's head felt light and airy. It was huge. It contained all of Magritte, from the uppermost terrace down

through the office levels to the trellis farms that circled the inner lake. Even the blue and white Earth that

hovered just over one rock wall. They were all within her. They were all, she realized, only a model, the

picture her mind assembled from sensory input. The exterior universe-the real universe-lay beyond.

"I feel giddy."

"Contrast high." The tech's voice was neutral. "This is a different mode of perception from what you're

used to-you're stoned on the novelty."

A catwalk leading into the nearest farm rattled within Elin's mind as a woman in agricultural blues strode

by, burlap gourd-collecting bag swinging from her hip. It was night outside the crater but biological day

within, and the agtechs had activated tiers of arc lights at the cores of the farms. Filtered by greenery, the

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light was soft and watery.

"I could live like this forever."

"Believe me, you'd get bored." A rose petal fell softly on her cheek, and the tech brushed it off. He

turned to face the two lawyers who stood silently nearby, waiting. "Are the legal preliminaries finished

now?"

The lawyer in orangeface nodded. The one in purple said, "Can't her original personality be restored at

all?'"

Drawing a briefcase from his pocket, the wet ware tech threw up a holographic diagram between himself

and the witnesses. The air filled with intricate three-dimensional trac-ery, red and green lines interweaving

and meshing.

"We've mapped the subject's current personality." He reached out to touch several junctions. "You will

note that here, here, and here we have what are laughingly referred to as impossible emotional syllogisms.

Any one of these renders the subject incapable of survival."

A thin waterfall dropped from the dome condensers to a misty pool at the topmost terrace, a bright

razor slash through reality. It meandered to the edge of the next terrace and fell again.

"A straight yes or no will suffice."

The tech frowned. "In theory., yes. In practical terms, it's hopeless. Remember, her personality was

never recorded. The accident almost completely randomized her emotional structure-technically she's not

even human. Given a decade or two of extremely delicate memory probing, we could maybe construct a

facsimile. But it would only resemble the original; it could never be the primary Elin Donnelly."

Elin could dimly make out the equipment for five more waterfalls, but they were not in operation at the

moment. She wondered why.

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The attorney made a rude noise. "Well then, go ahead and do it. I wash my hands of this whole mess."

The tech bent over Elin to reposition a bone inductor. "This won't hurt a bit," he promised. "Just pretend

that you're at the dentist's, having your teeth replaced."

She ceased to exist.

The new Elin Donnelly gawked at everything-desk work-ers in their open-air offices, a blacksnake

sunning itself by the path, the stone stairs cut into the terrace walls. Her lawyer led her through a stand of

saplings no higher than she and into a meadow.

Butterflies scattered at their approach. Her gaze went from them to a small cave in the cliffs ahead, then

up to the stars, as jumpy and random as the butterflies' flight.

"-So you'll be stuck on the moon for a full lunation- almost a month-if you want to collect your

settlement. I. G. Feuchtwaren will carry your expenses until then, drawing against their final liability. Got

that?"

And then-suddenly, jarringly-Elin could focus again. She took a deep breath. "Yes," she said. "Yes,

I-okay."

"Good." The attorney canceled her judicial-advisory wetware, yanking the skull plugs and briskly

wrapping them around her briefcase. "Then let's have a drink-it's been a long day."

They had arrived at the cave. "Hey, Hans!" the lawyer shouted. "Give us some service here, will you?"

A small man with the roguish face of a comic-opera troll popped into the open, work terminal in hand.

"One minute," he said. "I'm on direct flex time-got to wrap up what I'm working on first."

"Okay." The lawyer sat down on the grass. Elin watched, fascinated, as the woman toweled the paint

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from her face, and a new pattern of fine red and black lines, permanently tattooed into her skin, emerged.

"Hey!" Elin said. "You're a Jesuit."

"You expected IGF to ship you a lawyer from Earth orbit?" She stuck out a hand. "Donna Landis, S.J.

I'm the client overseer for the Star Maker project, but I'm also avail-able for spiritual guidance. Mass is

at nine, Sunday mornings."

Elin leaned back against the cliff. Grapevines rustled under her weight. Already she missed the

blissed-out feeling of a few minutes before. "Actually, I'm an agnostic."

"You were. Things may have changed." Landis folded the towel into one pocket, unfolded a mirror from

another. "Speak-ing of which, how do you like your new look?"

Elin studied her reflection. Blue paint surrounded her eyes, narrowing to a point at the bridge of her

nose, swooping down in a long curve to the outside. It was as if she were peering through a large, blue

moth or a pair of hawk wings.

There was something magical about it, something glamorous, something very unlike her.

"I feel like a raccoon. This idiot mask."

"Get used to it. You'll be wearing it a lot."

"But what's the point?" Elin was surprised by her own irritation. "So I've got a new personality; it's still

me in here. I don't feel any weird compulsion to run amok with a knife or walk out an airlock without a

suit. Nothing to warn the citizenry about, certainly."

"Listen," Landis said. "Right now you're like a puppy tripping over its own paws because they're too big

for it. You're a stranger to yourself-you're going to feel angry when you don't expect to, get sentimental

over surprising things. You can't control your emotions until you learn what they are. And until then, the

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rest of us deserve-"

"What'll you have?" Hans was back, his forehead smudged black where he had incompletely wiped off

his facepaint.

"-a little warning. Oh, I don't know, Hans. Whatever you have on tap."

"That'll be Chanty. You?" he asked Elin.

"What's good?"

He laughed. "There's no such thing as a good lunar wine. The air's too moist. And even if it weren't, it

takes a good century to develop an adequate vineyard. But the Chanty is your basic, drinkable glug."

"I'll take that, then."

"Good. I'll bring a mug for your friend, too."

"My friend?" She turned and saw a giant striding through the trees, towering over them, pushing them

apart with two enormous hands. For a dizzy instant, she goggled in disbe-lief, and then the man shrank to

human stature as she remem-bered the size of the saplings.

He grinned. "Hi. Remember me?"

He was a tall man, but like a spacejack, lean and angular. An untidy mass of black curls framed a face

that was not quite handsome but carried an intense freight of will.

"I'm afraid…"

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"Tory Shostakovich. I reprogrammed you."

She studied his face carefully. Those eyes. They were fierce almost to the point of mania, but there was

sadness there, too, and-she thought she might be making this up-a hint of pleading, like a little boy who

wants something so desperately he dare not ask for it. She could lose herself in analyzing the nuances of

those eyes. "Yes," she said at last, "I remember you now."

"I'm pleased." He nodded to the Jesuit. "Father Landis."

She eyed him skeptically. "You don't seem your usual morose self, Shostokovich. Is anything wrong?"

"No, it's just a special kind of morning." He smiled at some private joke, returned his attention to Elin. "I

thought I'd drop by and get acquainted with my former patient." He glanced down at the ground,

fleetingly shy, and then his eyes were bright and audacious again.

How charming, Elin thought. She hoped that he wasn't too shy. And then she had to glance away herself,

the thought was so unlike her. "So you're a wetware surgeon," she said inanely.

Hans reappeared to distribute mugs of wine, then retreated to the cave's mouth. He sat down,

workboard in lap, and patched in the skull-plugs. His face went stiff as the wetware took hold.

"Actually," Tory said, "I very rarely work as a wetsurgeon. An accident like yours is rare, you

know-maybe once, twice a year. Mostly I work in wetware development. Currently I'm on the Star

Maker project.''

"I've heard that name before. Just what is it anyway?"

Tory didn't answer immediately. He stared down into the lake, a cool breeze from above ruffling his

curls. Elin caught her breath. / hardly know this man, she thought wildly. He pointed to the island in the

center of the lake, a thin, stony finger that was originally the crater's thrust cone.

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"God lives on that island," he said.

Elin laughed. "Think how different history would be if He'd only had a sense of direction!" She wanted to

bite her tongue when she realized that he was not joking.

"You're being cute, Shostokovich," Landis warned. She swigged down a mouthful of wine. "Jeez, that's

vile stuff."

Tory rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "Mea culpa. Well, let me give you a little background. Most

people think of wetware as being software for people. But that's too simplistic, because with machines

you start out blank-with a clean slate-and with people, there's some ten million years of mental

programming already crammed into their heads.

"So to date we've been working with the natural wetware.

We counterfeit surface traits-patience, alertness, creativity- and package them like so many boxes of

bonemeal. But the human mind is vast and unmapped, and it's time to move into the interior, for some

basic research.

"That's the Star Maker project. It's an exploration of the basic substructural programming of the mind.

We've rede-fined the overstructure programs into an integrated system we believe will be capable of

essence-programming, in one-to-one congruence with the inherent substructure of the universe.''

"What jargonistic rot!" Landis gestured at Elin's stone-ware mug. "Drink up. The Star Maker is a piece

of experi-mental theology that IGF dreamed up. As Tory said, it's basic research into the nature of the

mind. The Vatican Synod is providing funding so we can keep an eye on it."

"Nipping heresy in the bud," Tory said sourly.

"That's a good part of it. This set of wetware will suppos-edly reshape a human mind into God. Bad

theology, but there it is. They want to computer-model the infinite. Anyway, the specs were drawn up,

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and it was tried out on-what was the name of the test subject?"

"Doesn't matter," Tory said quickly.

"Coral something-or-other."

Only half-listening by now, Elin unobtrusively studied Tory. He sat, legs wide, staring into his mug of

Chanty. There were hard lines on his face, etched by who knew what experiences. / don't believe in love

at first sight, Elin thought. Then again, who knew what she might believe in anymore? It was a chilling

thought, and she retreated from it.

"So did this Coral become God?"

"Patience. Anyway, the volunteer was plugged in, wiped, reprogrammed, and interviewed. Nothing

useful."

"In one hour," Tory said, "we learned more about the structure and composition of the universe than in

all of history to date."

"It was deranged gibberish." Landis tapped Elin's knee. "We interviewed her and then canceled the

wetware. And what do you think happened?"

"I've never been big on rhetorical questions." Elin didn't take her eyes off Tory.

"She didn't come down. She was stuck."

"Stuck?"

Tory plucked a blade of grass, let it fall. "What happened was that we had rewired her to absolute

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consciousness. She was not only aware of all her mental functions but in control of them-right down to

the involuntary reflexes, which also put her in charge of her own metaprogrammer."

"Metaprogrammer is just a buzzword for a bundle of reflexes the brain uses to make changes in itself,"

Landis threw in.

"Yeah. What we didn't take into account, though, was that she'd like being God. When we tried

deprogramming her, she simply overrode our instructions and reprogrammed herself back up."

"The poor woman," Elin said. And yet-what a glorious experience to be God! Something within her

thrilled to it. It would almost be worth the price.

"Which leaves us with a woman who thinks she's God," Landis said. "I'm just glad we were able to hush

it up. If word got out to some of those religious illiterates back on Earth-"

"Listen," Tory said. "I didn't really come here to talk shop. I wanted to invite my former patient on a

grand tour of the Steam Grommet Works."

Elin looked at him blankly. "Steam…"

He swept an arm to take in all of Margritte, the green pillars and gray cliffs alike. There was something

proprietary in his gesture.

Landis eyed him suspiciously. "You two might need a chaperone," she said. "I think I'll tag along to keep

you out of trouble."

Elin smiled sweetly. "Fuck off," she said.

Ivy covered Tory's geodesic trellis hut. He led the way in, stooping to touch a keyout by the doorway.

"Something classical?"

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TROJANHORSEMichaelSwanwick Sciencefictionisforthemostpartaliteratureofrationalism,butthishasneverpreventeditswritersfromspeculatingaboutmattersthatgobeyondscientificknowledge.ThesubjectofGodturnsupinalargenumberofthoughtfulstories,fromArthurC.Clarke's"TheStar"toWalterM.Miller'sACanticleforLeibowitz…...

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Michael Swanwick - Trojan Horse

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