Permutation City

Kate hit the button.

Slowdown one hundred. The puppets using the walkway accelerated into invisible streaks. Slowdown ten thousand. Night and day chugged by, then flashed, then flickered -- slowdown one million -- then merged. Peer glanced up to watch the arc of the sun's path slide up and down the sky with the City's mock seasons, ever faster, until it smeared into a dull glowing band. Slowdown one billion. The view was perfectly static, now. There were no long-term fake astronomical cycles programmed into the virtual sky. No buildings rose, or crumbled. The empty, invulnerable City had nothing to do but repeat itself: to exist, and exist, and exist. Slowdown one trillion.

Peer turned to Kate. She sat in an attentive pose, head up, eyes averted, as if she was listening for something. The voice of an Elysian hyperintelligence, the endpoint of a billion years of self-directed mutation, reaching out to encompass the whole TVC grid? Discovering their fate? Judging them, forgiving them, and setting them free?

Peer said, "I think you've won the bet. They're not coming back." He glanced at the control panel, and felt a stab of vertigo; more than a hundred trillion years of Standard Time had elapsed. But if the Elysians had cut all ties with them, Standard Time was meaningless. Peer reached out to halt their acceleration, but Kate grabbed him by the wrist.

She said quietly, "Why bother? Let it climb forever. It's only a number, now."

"Yes." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

"One instruction per century. One instruction per millennium. And it makes no difference. You've finally got your way."

He cradled Kate in his arms, while Elysian aeons slipped away. He stroked her hair, and watched the control panel carefully. Only one number was rising; everything but the strange fiction of Elapsed Standard Time stayed exactly the same.

No longer tied to the growth of the Elysians, the City remained unchanged, at every level. And that meant, in turn, that the infrastructure which Carter had woven into the software for them had also ceased to expand. The simulated "computer" which ran them, composed of the City's scattered redundancies, was now a finite "machine," with a finite number of possible states.

They were mortal again.

It was a strange feeling. Peer looked around the empty walkway, looked down at the woman in his arms, feeling like he'd woken from a long dream -- but when he searched himself for some hint of a waking life to frame it, there was nothing. David Hawthorne was a dead stranger. The Copy who'd toured the Slow Clubs with Kate was as distant as the carpenter, the mathematician, the librettist.

Who am I?

Without disturbing Kate, he created a private screen covered with hundreds of identical anatomical drawings of the brain; his menu of mental parameters. He hit the icon named CLARITY.

He'd generated a thousand arbitrary reasons to live. He'd pushed his philosophy almost as far as it would go. But there was one last step to take.

He said, "We'll leave this place. Launch a universe of our own. It's what we should have done long ago."

Kate made a sound of distress. "How will I live, without the Elysians? I can't survive the way you do: rewiring myself, imposing happiness. I can't do it."

"You won't have to."

"It's been seven thousand years. I want to live among people again."

"Then you'll live among people."

She looked at him hopefully. "We'll create them? Run the ontogenesis software? Adam-and-Eve a new world of our own?"

Peer said, "No. I'll become them. A thousand, a million. Whatever you want. I'll become the Solipsist Nation."

Kate pulled away from him. "Become? What does that mean? You don't have to become a nation. You can build it with me -- then sit back and watch it grow."

Peer shook his head. "What have I become, already? An endless series of people -- all happy for their own private reasons. Linked together by the faintest thread of memory. Why keep them spread out in time? Why go on pretending that there's one 'real' person, enduring through all those arbitrary changes?"

"You remember yourself. You believe you're one person. Why call it a pretence? It's the truth."

"But I don't believe it, anymore. Each person I create is stamped with the illusion of still being this imaginary thing called 'me' -- but that's no real part of their identity. It's a distraction, a source of confusion. There's no reason to keep on doing it -- or to make these separate people follow each other in time. Let them all live together, meet each other, keep you company."