David Brin - Existence

Of course, the people in this room weren’t “top.” The greatest members of the Fifth Estate kept their distance from the superrich, and especially from Tenskwatawa’s movement. Still, the very idea of technocracy always offended Hamish. And it would surely never happen now. Ironically thanks to methods that these experts were concocting, for their employers in the First Estate.

Hamish listened and took mental notes-half for the sake of the Movement but also as grist for future stories-two goals that pulled, deliciously, in opposite directions. For, while he approved of these proposals in real life-(they might save the world)-he couldn’t help also coming up with great ways to set them in tales of villainy! “Ambient persuasion” and “personality tomography” were euphemisms for mind-control-a dark vein that he had mined in novels, films, and games like Triumph of the Force .

So? Some of this stuff was just too cool not to portray in his next tech-bashing tale. Used by some enemy conspiracy-a government agency, or cabal of eco-nuts-instead of allies of the Prophet. Such was the art of fiction. Pick an authority figure as the nearly omnipotent bad guy-the choice depended on your grudges-but anti-authority had been the ongoing theme ever since the invention of Hollywood.

His hand ached from scribbling ideas on the permitted pad of old-fashioned paper. If only I had access to some vidrec or gisting tools.

Alas, even Wriggles, the mini-ai in his earring, was shut down by some kind of high-tech jamming system. Well, these are dangerous topics. Mere hearsay or rumors were harmless. It didn’t matter if millions believed terrible things about the Movement or the clade, even some that were true! But they must never be verified .

Around eleven, during a ten-minute break, Hamish was returning from the profligately perfumed men’s room when a conference manager announced the next talk: “Eugenic Refinement of Bloodlines and the Enhancement of Nobility.”

The title struck Hamish as creepy and-if truth be told-sort-of quasi-Nazi. Others in the audience seemed to agree, as dozens drifted away to get coffee or converse in antechambers. The speaker stepped toward the podium, but Hamish was watching Tenskwatawa, along with two key aides, join Rupert Glaucus-Worthington at a side exit, along with Yevgeny Bogolomov, Helena duPont-Vonessen, and other top moguls. Rupert, in particular, had a distracted, worried demeanor. Something weighed heavily on the old man.

Hamish took a swift scan of the auditorium and saw that all the top people in both factions were leaving, or had already left. This must be it. The real gathering, he thought, and started forward…

… only to stop as the Prophet, sharp-eyed, glanced his way. With a simple head shake and apologetic smile, Tenskwatawa told Hamish- No. This is not for you. Then, the Movement’s leader seemed to dismiss all thought of Hamish and turned away, following their host to some other meeting place. One presumably even more private and secure, where deals could be struck and humanity’s future decided.

Hamish sat down heavily as the eugenics talk was delivered-appropriately, it seemed-by a frumpy little man with an Austrian accent. But Hamish felt too stunned and hurt to pay much heed.

Well, what did you expect? Especially after the way Rupert treated you yesterday. For thousands of years, actors, storytellers, and enchanters knew their place… generally little higher than acrobats and courtesans. Even when famous or beloved, they did not hobnob or discuss policy with kings. Only our recent, adolescent culture exalted entertainers or men of ideas, and that’s sure to change when things settle back to the human norm.

Ah well. I always knew there were some things I’d miss about the Enlightenment.

So, here he belonged, among the other boffins. Not just any entertainer, but a master of mass communications, he should find the topics fascinating and have much to contribute. Yet, Hamish found it hard to focus as the speaker droned on.

“… so we see from these data that one consistent failure mode, leading to the downfall of noble houses in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, across all recorded millennia, was adherence to foolish patterns of marriage and reproduction!

“Of course, arranged marriages often helped seal family alliances-useful in the short term. But it led to calamitous narrowing of aristocratic gene pools! How often were the accomplishments of brilliant rulers frittered by their dullard sons?

“Observe, the effects of inbreeding on just three royal houses, the Hohenzollerns, Hapsburgs, and Romanovs. Monarchs who were certifiably inferior in both intelligence and temperament ignited half a century of agony! Hundreds of millions dead, the ruin of all three houses, and aristocracy discredited for several wasted generations, till memory of that horror faded at last.”

Hamish scanned some of the technical graphics, bobbing over both speaker and audience like blimps filled with charts and animated data. Apparently, the little scholar’s point was similar to the Hindi sociologist-only his notion of “meritocracy” extended to the noble bloodlines themselves.

“Then there is the problem of brain drain -that many of the brightest children of aristocracy abandon it! While maintaining some level of comfort, they choose instead the company of techies, applying their minds to expertise in some branch of science or art or other…”

Hamish twitched as a soft tingle stroked his ear. He quashed an impulse to suddenly sit up. Keeping still, he subvocalized a question in the confines of his throat, with closed mouth.

“WRIGGLES? IS THAT YOU?”

The tingling went away… then returned, stronger. Yet, the voice of his aissistant remained silent. Perhaps the suppressor field that jammed mesh-communications in the Glaucus-Worthington mansion had sputtered, allowing personal devices to wake a little-enough to be irritating.

Hamish reached up to remove the earring-

– when the tingle became a low, grating sound… that swelled into a mutter… then gathered into words.

“Hamish Brookeman, if you hear this, touch the seat in front of you.”

Um.

That wasn’t Wriggles.

Hamish barely hesitated. He was already leaning forward. One lazy sweep of a hand was enough to comply.

“Good. Please go to the empty seat directly across the aisle. Feel along the left side, under the padding. Stay casual.”

Hamish thought about how someone might surreptitiously overcome the jamming. Perhaps with a directional maser, aimed line-of-sight at his earring? But detectors in the auditorium should spot scattered reflections. Unless… they were using some kind of off-band, induced-resonance effect, causing the earring to vibrate… Or else, might it be a recording, inserted earlier?

He shook his head. Technological speculations weren’t important. What mattered was-could this be some sort of loyalty test?

If so, is it just me, or are they testing everyone?

The speaker meanwhile kept talking about aristocratic breeding. “… All these problems could be solved by choosing mates from among the most brilliant and accomplished commoners. By combining this with scientifically planned recombination and reinforcement, the top caste can benefit by producing dynamic and talented offspring! Let me emphasize, for our new friends the renunciation movement, this can be done without genetic meddling! Though, of course there would still have to be prenatal…”

Thinking backward, Hamish didn’t recall seeing any boffins acting suspiciously, changing seats or feeling cushions-or dashing off to report illicit messages to security. Sure, some might react with subtlety, betraying nothing overtly. But most of these nervous intellectuals wouldn’t know how.