Diaspora

Paolo laughed bitterly. "The best way to break the news that first alien consciousness is hidden deep inside a biological computer? That everything the Diaspora was meant to prove to the rest of the Coalition has been turned on its head? The best way to explain to the citizens of Carter-Zimmerman that after a three-hundred-year journey, they might as well have stayed on Earth running simulations with as little resemblance to the physical universe as possible?"

Karpal took the outburst in good humor. "I was thinking more along the lines of the best way to point out that if we hadn't traveled to Orpheus and studied Wang's Carpets, we'd never have had the chance to tell the solipsists of Ashton-Laval that all their elaborate invented lifeforms and exotic imaginary universes pale into insignificance compared to what's really out here—and which only the Carter-Zimmerman Diaspora could have found."

Paolo and Elena stood together on the edge of Satellite Pinatubo, watching one of the scout probes aim its maser at a distant point in space. Paolo thought he saw a faint scatter of microwaves from the beam as it made its way out through Vegas halo of iron-rich dust. Elena's mind being diffracted all over the cosmos? Best not to think about that.

He said, "When you meet the other versions of me who haven't experienced Orpheus, I hope you'll offer them mind grafts so they won't be jealous."

She frowned. "Ah. Will I or won't I? You should have asked me before I cloned myself. No need for your clones to be jealous, though. There'll be worlds far stranger than Orpheus."

"I doubt it. You really think so?"

"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't believe that." Elena had no power to change the fate of the frozen clones of her previous self. But everyone had the right to emigrate.

Paolo took her hand. The beam had been aimed almost at Regulus, UV-hot and bright, but as he looked away, the cool yellow light of the sun caught his eye.

Vega C-Z was taking the news of the squid surprisingly well, so far. Karpal's way of putting it had cushioned the blow: it was only by traveling all this distance across the real, physical universe that they could have made such a discovery—and it was amazing how pragmatic even the most doctrinaire citizens had turned out to be. Before the launch, "alien solipsists" would have been the most unpalatable idea imaginable, the most abhorrent thing the Diaspora could have stumbled upon—but now that they were here, and stuck with the fact of it, people were finding ways to view it in a better light. Orlando had even proclaimed, "This will be the perfect hook for the marginal polises. 'Travel through real space to witness a truly alien virtual reality.' We can sell it as a synthesis of the two world views."

Paolo still feared for Earth, though, where his Earth-self and others were waiting in hope of guidance. Would they take the message of Wang's Carpets to heart, and retreat into their own hermetic worlds, oblivious to physical reality? Lacerta could he survived, anything could be survived: all you had to do was bury yourself deep enough.

He said plaintively, "Where are the aliens, Elena? The ones we can meet? The ones we can talk to? The ones we can learn from?"

"I don't know." She laughed suddenly.

"What?"

"It just occurred to me. Maybe the squid are asking themselves exactly the same question."

Part Five

Yatima said, "Swift they've seen firsthand. Though they might be surprised by some of the changes since they left."

Paolo added wryly, "And how long we took to see past the distractions."

"No one's perfect." Yatima hesitated. "I was in on the technical side more than you, but I'll still need you to help piece things together."

"Why?" Paolo swung restlessly around the girder he was holding.

"Are we going to tell them what happened on Poincare?"

"Of course."

"Then they'll need to know more about Orlando."

12

HEAVY

Carter-Zimmerman polis, interstellar space

85 274 532 121 904 CST

4 July 4936, 1:15:19.058 UT

Orlando Venetti woke for the twelfth time in nine centuries, clear-headed and hopeful, fully expecting to find that Voltaire C-Z had reached its destination. The previous wake-up calls had all been triggered by bulletins from other clones of the polis, but this time he'd fallen asleep knowing that no more arrivals were due before their own. It was Voltaire's turn to make news—even if that simply meant adding one more set of barren worlds to the catalogue of post-Orphean anticlimaxes.

He rolled over and checked the bedside clock, its glowing symbols disembodied in the blackness of the cabin. It was seventeen years before arrival. Someone on another C-Z must have made a belated discovery, important enough for his exoself to wake him. Orlando felt cheated; he'd run out of enthusiasm for the revelations of the other polises, light years away and decades ago.