Geoff Ryman - Air (or Have Not Have)

'I want to know about this "Juh-ee" stuff. And what these Gates are. And what will really happen inside people's heads. What the great powers are using Air for, what they are going to get out of it.'

Mr Tunch smiled. 'Is that all?' he said, his irony losing its airy touch.

'One other thing. What is your full name?'

She almost saw his tongue flick. 'Surely a modern woman such as yourself does not believe in the Wisdom of Names?'

You do, Mae realized. That's why you don't want to give it to me.

'I am just a peasant,' she said. 'It is not good to do business without knowing your client's name.'

He shook his head slightly. 'I am your client, am I? In your professional hands?' He relented. 'My full name is Mr Hikmet Tunch.'

Mr Wisdom Bronze. A wise criminal has no need to soil his hands and so stays shiny. People mistake the polished bronze for gold. A wise criminal can sometimes even help his people, but always for a price.

Mae, you are flying with hawks. Watch out for their talons.

'So. Okay. The deal is this. I stay here one week. Not one day longer. We spend three hours a day finding out what you want, and three hours a day finding out what I want. Okay?'

'Agreed,' he said after a moment.

'I have the mornings,' she said.

Doors bleeped and blew and said hello to Mr Tunch.

'Sorry about all this, but we try to get rid of all the dust,' he said.

His office walls were covered in wood, and it was cool, without windows, and the electric lights were phony, made of bronze to look old-fashioned.

The surface of his desk was covered in glass. Mr Tunch touched it and spoke to it and it came alive with the familiar Interface.

'In order,' he said. ' "Intro background briefing on genetics, cosmology, and Air history." "Resistance to GM and its relevance to the development of Air." "The nature of the UN Format and background history." "The nature of the Gates Format and background history.""Speculative futures." ' He paused. 'Is that what you want to know?

'I will check my list.'

'Good. I will be back here at lunchtime.' He caught her scowl. I did not agree to teach you myself. That machine is far more used to teaching than I am. And much more patient. But please let me know if there is anything it cannot tell you.'

'I don't know how it works.'

'No. But it knows how you work. Good morning, Mrs Chung-ma'am.'

And he was gone, through another jet of air.

The machine began to speak and show pictures.

They had, apparently, unthreaded humanity like a carpet.

Inside the beautiful white semen, nestled inside the warm home of the womb, were threads, one from the male, one from the female. They now knew what made the threads, and the meaning of each stitch, as if it were Eloi embroidery.

They could place each stitch. Or replace it with better ones.

This was miraculous stuff to learn. Mae could imagine the souls of the unborn blossoming in new forms like flowers bred for new colours or perfumes.

They could make people prettier, stronger, and smarter. Mr Tunch's desk repeated the arguments against doing this. Favourable modifications would be available only for the rich. An even greater gap would open up between Haves and Have-nots.

Air, however, would make everyone a Have. So they said.

These Everyone-Haves would have their memory, their knowledge, and their skills increased. Their ability to calculate figures and link previously unrelated information would all be enhanced by using Info through Air.

It all sounded so calm and clear and reasonable, a briefing for the Disney people of Yeshiboz Sistemlar.

Mae knew when she was being sold something. You are trying to scare me with all this talk of rich people buying smarter babies. You want me to buy Air instead.

She sat forward. Already the bland neutral voice was slipping in warnings. Like old village gossips trying to get their way. Unplugged security problems that might mean the UN Format may not be controllable.

Like her Kru. They put him in Air and they can't turn him off, and all that knowledge goes away for free.

No money to be made. What you need me for, Mr Tunch, is to learn how to turn off Mrs Tung and turn off my Kru.

There was a tickle somewhere. The tickle was a way of looking at the world, a narrative. It was impatient.

'The benefits of Air for social inclusion are evident,' said Mr Tunch's desk. 'But questions of safety for users must be paramount. And intellectual property must be protected.'

The tickling grew as insistent as a headache. It was fear. It was hopelessness. It was a dread of the world beyond Kizuldah.

The desk said, 'Liberal economists wanted to open up Air to the competitive marketplace. Others argued that there could only be one Air, and that it would be wrong to grant a monopoly to any purely business interest. With two competing Formats, users could choose.'

They want to own our souls.

You see! You see?

Her. She's here.

The desk said, An international consortium of software houses agreed to set standards. The anti-monopolists soon claimed that the consortium was in fact controlled by the Company.'

It's always the same with these people.

Showdown, thought Mae. It's you or me.

'Tension increased when the Director of the International Air Consortium resigned, charging the Company with bad faith.' The Desk still spoke.

Before there was time for conscious thought to signal what she was doing, Mae said, 'It is so sad about your daughter-in-law's death.'

What? The old one did not like surprises.

'It was then that the director-general of the UN founded a new consortium to continue development of Air.'

'Tui. She died. The same day you did.'

Someone answered Mae aloud: 'What? That's a horrible thing to say!'

Mae replied, 'She threw herself down a well, don't you remember? I know you're dead, but you have been told about it many times. The day of the Air Test – it was months ago. She died. By the way, who are you speaking to?'

The desk said, 'But the new consortium struggled for lack of funds.'

'This is a terrible thing to do, to try to scare an old lady this way!'

'Scare? All I asked was, who are you talking to?'

'I…I… Well, Mae, of course!'

Mae remembered Aunt Wang Cro. She would pretend and pretend that everything was fine. There were no mirrors in the room. 'Mae? Where is Mae? Can you see her in this room?'

Mae leaned back in case the old one could see her reflection in the desk.

The desk stopped teaching. 'Excuse me, was that an instruction? I do not understand.'

Mae pushed again. 'Okay. Who are you?'

'I am…' The thing stopped. For a moment, it had no identity. 'I am… I am Madam Tung Ai-ling!'

'Then who are you talking to?' Mae thrust words like a knife.

'Excuse me, was that an instruction?'

'I don't know! I can't see! I'm blind. This is terrible to do to an old blind lady – make fun of her! Why are you doing this?'

The thing tried to stand up. It tried to look about. Mae could feel a twitching in the nerves of her legs and neck and eyes. She needs my body to live, Mae thought. She wants it.

'So,' Mae asked airily. 'Do you like being in Yeshiboz Sistemlar?'

'Excuse me, was that an instruction?'

'No!' Mae told the desk. 'Please continue lesson.'

'Who are you talking to?' Mrs Tung demanded in triumph.

'An intelligent desk. They make them these days. It's giving me a lesson in the UN Format.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Of course you don't; you can't remember anything from one minute to the next. You are here in Karzistan's most important medical-computer complex. Where did you think you were?'