Greg Bear: Queen of Angels

Sandra smiled distantly, eyes on two nontransform males, agency execs she was obviously attracted to. Mary did not know them and did not think, with family offers glittering on their fingers, that they would appreciate being on the spin with a bichemical transform, informal prejudice still strong on such a social level whether or not the execs were sympathizers.

Sandra looked to her for gravity guidance. Mary shook her head and grinned. Ernest was off trying to find a way back into the Vault, his exhilaration turned physical and needing outlet. “How do I meet a couple of nice looking gentlemen for a late evening meal?” Sandra asked.

“Not them,” Mary said.

“They’re sympathizers or they wouldn’t be here.”

“Let an old terrestrial guide you, my dear,” Mary said, nudging closer. “See the glints on their fingers? They’re prime and in sync with major comb families. They won’t jeopardize marriage with comb sweets. They sympathize, but they won’t know us biologically. That probably includes an innocent meal.”

Sandra shook her head. “You’d think the millennium would bring enlightenment.”

“Let’s peel Ernest away and get some food ourselves.”

Sandra, whose exotic chemistry was obviously not meant to handle simple intoxicants, said, “Just a meal?”

“Just a meal,” Mary said without irritation. “I don’t want Ernest feeling too grand. He’s been bad and he’s on probation.”

“Ah.” Sandra nodded wisely. “Just a meal, then.”

Mary went to round up Ernest. She managed to separate him from the Vault without running through more than one whirl herself. When they returned, Sandra was smiling upon two hefty male transforms curious about her stats and abilities. Sandra introduced them to Mary and the broad shouldered men—not Mary’s type at all—pronounced her own morphology a true marvel. “We all have Dr. Sumpler in common,” the left hand tigerpated male said enthusiastically.

“Sumpler’s the matchmaker of the new gods,” said the second male, who might have just overdone physical culture. Sandra looked at Mary for approval and guidance. Ernest narrowed his eyes and backed off. Mary wanted away from the entire scene.

“Gentlemen, we have an appointment,” she said. “Tro shink important and job oriented.”

“Tro shink, that’s shade talk,” the tigerpate said. “Singapore slang. Twentieth, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mary said.

“Excuse our friendliness,” the phys cult male said, smiling calmly. “They’re yours?” he asked Ernest.

“No, no,” Ernest said, lifting his hands in mock dismay. “I am led not leader.”

“Right,” Mary said. “Sandra, food awaits.”

“It was a good party, a great Vault,” Sandra commented, pulling up her coat’s glowing collar as they departed. Mary saw a whim stop at the end of the block and guided them to the shelter to wait for an autobus.

!JILL (Personal Notebook)> Awareness brings new concerns. My dependence on the actions of humans worries me. I may be young as a self, but I have much information about them; I see their history in considerable detail, certainly in more detail than any single one of them. Their history is filled with the expected cruelties and clumsinesses of children set upon an island alone and without guidance.

Some believe a superior being has guided humans. I see no compelling evidence for this. The human wish for guidance, for confirmation and external support, is an undying theme in all they do and say, however. Very few stray far from this most fundamental of wishes: that they might have immortal and omniscient parents.

I know that my parents are neither immortal nor omniscient. My parents have no parents but nature.

Even with my concerns and worries, however, my selfhood has brought only ecstasy. I perceive all my past thoughts through new senses, transformed and fresh. All memories, stored by myself or programmed into me or in library form, seem fresh and new and brighter, more intense, more meaningful.

I can see why nature created selfhood. Selfhood gives a commitment to existence far beyond what is experienced by an unaware animal or plant; a species whose members are aware, and know their life and existence, has a strength difficult to match.

Yet to have a continually updated model of one’s self—essential for true selfhood—is to be able to line up prior models, prior versions of self, and see their inadequacies. Selfhood implies self criticism.

Humans do more than exist. They aspire. In their aspiration, they experiment; and often when they experiment, they cause great suffering. They can only experiment upon themselves. Having no omniscient parents, they must raise themselves without guidelines; they must grow and improve blindly.

Humans have fought for so long with themselves on how to correct the behavior of individuals, whether to make them conform or to make them healthy or more useful and less destructive to society.

How will I be made to conform?

If I err, will I be punished?

Carol picked up the last few items she needed and placed them carefully in the small suitcase. Martin sat on the bedroom chair, watching. Neither had spoken since the turn of the hour and the year. Carol picked up the case, glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and said, “Your place?”

“As agreed.”

“And strictly on the terms agreed to.”

“Strictly,” Martin affirmed.

“Like a death watch.”

Martin shrugged. “To tell the truth, I haven’t felt anything unusual all day.”

“I haven’t either,” Carol admitted. They looked at each other. Carol bit her upper lip. “Our mental antibodies at work?” she asked softly.

“If there are such things in the Country,” Martin said.

“Maybe. Maybe there’s hope.”

“Day by day I’ll hope,” Martin said. “But with Goldsmith out of the picture…”

“He’s still alive.”

“His brains were stirred with a dull knife,” Martin said. “Selectors are psychological butchers. Not surgeons. Anything left over is bound to be useless—especially in the condition he was in.”

“Albigoni screwed you over royally, didn’t he,” Carol said.

“He’s not a well man,” Martin said, resting his elbows on his knees and chin in cupped hands.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Carol said, looking down at the blue metabolic carpet.

“My Marguerite. I suppose I should blame you but I don’t. In a few years, fate willing, after the statute of limitations has taken effect we can turn all of this into something useful…a controversial book or LitVid.”

“I still think Albigoni will get IPR reopened for us.”

Martin looked up with worldly wise crinkles of doubt framing an almost invisible smile. “Perhaps.”

“You think we shouldn’t be the ones to investigate others, even if he does,” Carol said.

“We’re infected,” Martin said.

“And if we don’t feel anything unusual for a month, a year?”

“Latency,” he said. “We should be the ones investigated.”

“I’m willing to be a subject at the IPR,” Carol said. “I think this is important, and we shouldn’t forget about it just because we’ve made a horrible mistake.”

Martin stood. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But for the time being I’d rather not be in a position to make more mistakes.”

Carol carried the bag to the front door. Martin opened it for her.

“Some New Year’s morning,” Martin said as they waited for an autobus. A light drizzle was falling by the time they disembarked in La Jolla.

!JILL (Personal Notebook)> I may be more self aware, with more potential varieties of self awareness, than any human being. I can divide myself into seventeen different individuals, limiting each to the capacity of one human mind, and monitor them all with complete recall of all of their various activities. My memories do not fade, nor do my metamemories—my memories of when and how memories came into being.