Greg Egan - Zendegi

Behrouz said, ‘The moderate clerics have won some kind of deal. There’s going to be a referendum on the Guardian Council veto powers within three months, followed by new elections for the President and the Majlis before the end of the year.’

That was it, that was the saving move. If the deal held, there would be no civil war, but no turning back to the status quo either.

Omar was sitting on the floor, the office phone in his hand, weeping with joy. Behind him was a huge grey filing cabinet that someone had tipped on its side, spilling VEVAK’s meticulous accounts of their interrogations all over the floor. Maybe there hadn’t been enough time to put everything through the shredders. Or maybe the fuckers had thought they’d be coming back.

Martin turned to Behrouz and held out his hand. ‘Mubaarak.’ Behrouz shook it, but even as his expression of disbelief slowly melted into a kind of stunned acceptance, he wasn’t ready to claim victory.

‘Nothing’s certain yet,’ he insisted.

‘No,’ Martin conceded.

Behrouz smiled. ‘But it starts today. It might take us another ten years to be free – but it starts today.’

Nasim stared glumly across the sea of dinner jackets and evening gowns, trying to think of a way to escape to her hotel room before someone made yet another hypocritical speech in praise of Kourosh Ansari, President-elect of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

She turned to her mother. ‘I can’t believe I let you drag me down here. Half these people spent the last thirty years trying to get America to bomb their own country, just so they could go back and turn it into their own cosy little kleptocracy.’

‘That’s unfair!’ her mother replied. ‘A quarter of them at most. Anyway, that’s just the old men; you should be thinking about their sons.’

Nasim grimaced. ‘My idea of a romantic evening does not include a speech by Donald Rumsfeld at the Heritage Foundation.’

‘How many people have you actually spoken to tonight?’

‘Am I allowed to count waiters?’

‘Go and mingle.’ Her mother made a shooing gesture. ‘I didn’t buy you that dress so you could spend the night whining in my ear.’

Nasim left her and headed for the canapés. Amazingly enough, there’d been a vegetarian option, but it had been a quarter of the size of the other main courses and she was still famished.

As she stood at the buffet table trying to determine whether there was anything left that she could eat – other than garnishes – a voice beside her said, ‘Congratulations on your new President.’

‘Thank you.’ Nasim resisted the urge to add acerbically, ‘I do hope you’ll let us keep this one.’ She turned to face the speaker; the painfully thin young man looked familiar, but it took her a few seconds to place him. ‘Are you stalking me?’ she demanded. ‘Did you follow me to Washington?’

Caplan looked affronted. ‘Would you like to see my invitation? I’m a major donor to the Iranian-American Friendship Council.’

‘Since when? Three days ago?’

‘Six, actually.’

‘Six? A real futurologist.’ Nasim looked around for hotel security, but there was no honest complaint she could make that wouldn’t sound deranged and paranoid. ‘What exactly is it that you think I can do for you? Haven’t you heard the news about the HCP?’

‘Congress decided not to fund it.’ Caplan was stoical. ‘That’s sad, but it’s not unexpected. So there’ll be no big, coordinated federal project, but I’m sure you’ll still find grants here and there. I’ll be setting up my own foundation to help with that, though of course I can’t replace someone like Churchland.’

Zachary Churchland had died three weeks before and descended into the frosty limbo of an Alcor cryonic vault. He had left the bulk of his estate to the Benign Superintelligence Bootstrap Project, having finally concluded that he couldn’t trust his immortal soul to human hands.

‘I heard someone’s contesting his will,’ Nasim recalled. ‘Not just his widow; his first wife, too-’

‘Third wife. Actually I’m helping her fund the case,’ Caplan explained smoothly.

Nasim stared at him. ‘How does someone get to marry Zachary Churchland, then end up needing help to fund anything?’

‘A party in Las Vegas, a truckload of cocaine, and several professional athletes.’

‘I’m sorry I asked. But if she got nothing in the divorce, why would she be any luckier at the graveside? Or freezer-side.’

Caplan smiled. ‘She won’t be. But I found a lawyer who’s convinced her otherwise, based in part on the Leona Helmsley case – you know, the woman who was ruled mentally unfit after leaving twelve million to her dog. The ongoing litigation should help keep the bequest out of the Superintelligence Project’s hands for quite a while.’

Pet dog, pet god; maybe the precedent would actually fly for a dyslexic judge. Still, Nasim was baffled. ‘Why should you care who gets Churchland’s money? It’s either Bullshit Squared, or the wives. It’s lost to the HCP.’

‘No doubt it is,’ Caplan conceded, ‘but I don’t want the superintelligence to come into existence before I’m uploaded. It’s very important to me that I’m the first transcendent being in this stellar system. I can’t risk having to compete with another resource-hungry entity; I have personal plans that require at least one Jovian mass of computronium.’

‘Really? I have “personal plans” that require Naveen Andrews and a bottle of coconut oil, but I don’t expect they’re going to happen either.’

Caplan was bemused. ‘Why are you so hostile?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nasim confessed. ‘Maybe it’s because I’ve had enough experience of deluded fundamentalists to last a lifetime.’

‘Well, you’re wasting your energy,’ Caplan replied loftily. ‘One way or another, everything I speak of will come to pass. You can either join us, or be left behind.’

Nasim said, ‘Don’t go crazy with those mushroom-stuffed vol-auvents; I heard they can slash three per cent off the lifespan of nematode worms.’

Back in their hotel room, Nasim’s mother said, ‘I received an interesting job offer tonight.’

‘Someone wants to poach you?’ Nasim was excited; it would have to be a big step up the ladder if they expected to lure her away from Harvard. ‘Who? Georgetown?’

‘Kourosh Ansari.’ Her mother smiled at Nasim’s expression. ‘He’s looking for advisers to help plan the restructuring of the economy. In fact, his representative told me that he’d read After Oil as soon as it came out.’

‘Congratulations.’ Nasim was stunned. She’d certainly expected that parts of the diaspora would start trickling back to Iran, but even in those abstract terms she’d been thinking of a much longer time frame. ‘Have you decided what you’ll do?’

‘I think I’m going to accept the offer,’ her mother said. ‘There are no guarantees that they’ll really follow through on my advice, but if I missed this chance to have some input into the reconstruction process I’d never forgive myself.’

Nasim sat down on her bed; she picked up a pillow and held it against her chest.

She said, ‘I want to go with you.’

‘You mean come for a holiday? Of course!’ Her mother beamed. ‘That would be wonderful!’

Nasim shook her head. ‘Not just a holiday. I want to go home. I want to live in Iran again.’

Her mother sat beside her. ‘What about your work?’

‘I don’t know. That’s all so uncertain now.’ The fact was, for a long time she’d been tacitly assuming that the HCP would go ahead. That would have meant a mountain of paperwork at the start, but the payoff would have been at least four or five years to focus on the science without further interruptions. Now it would be back to business as usual: begging for one small grant after another, never really being able to make plans that stretched beyond the next six months. ‘Maybe there’s something just as challenging that I can do in Iran. Everything will be changing; there’ll be a thousand opportunities.’