Crystal Express Read online

  CYBERPUNK AND BEYOND…

  The literature of science fiction is, to employ the customary buzz word, the literature of “extrapolation,” but science-fiction writers vary enormously, in their ability to “extrapolate,” to envision a futuristic milieu of ceaseless change in which the metamorphosis of humanity becomes an inevitable concomitant. This relative rarity of genuine visionary inspiration makes all the more remarkable the appearance in 1982 of Bruce Sterling’s “Swarm,” the first of five stories set within the author’s richly imagined Shaper/Mechanist universe. In this series the entire solar system has become the setting for unremitting conflict between the genetically altered Shapers and the cybernetically augmented Mechanists, with the factional struggles, space-age technologies, even a dialectical metaphysics, all brilliantly developed by Sterling. “Technology has unleashed tremendous forces that are ripping society apart,” explains a character in “Swarm”; through the Shaper/Mechanist sequence one witnesses the evolution of mankind from human to posthuman to god.

  The remaining stories in Crystal Express display the dazzling range of Bruce Sterling’s talents: in the near-future “Green Days in Brunei,” the moribund nation-state has been superseded by a global communications network controlled by multinational corporations, while “The Beautiful and the Sublime” is the author’s smiles-of-a-summer-night divertissement, told with inimitable wit and panache. In “Flowers of Edo” an ex-samurai must do battle with the demons of progress, while “Dinner in Audoghast” presents a chilling prophecy out of medieval Africa. From hard-core cyberpunk technologies to global Greenpeace polemics to haunting historical fantasies, Bruce Sterling has emerged as both a serious and insightful futurist and a towering figure in American imaginative fiction.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “The Beautiful and the Sublime,” copyright © 1986 by Davis Publications, Inc., for Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, June 1986.

  “Cicada Queen,” copyright © 1983 by Terry Carr for Universe 13, edited by Terry Carr.

  “Dinner in Audoghast,” copyright © 1985 by Davis Publications, Inc., for Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, May 1985.

  “Flowers of Edo,” copyright © 1987 by Davis Publications, Inc., for Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, May 1987; first published in Hayakawa’s Science Fiction Magazine.

  “Green Days in Brunei,” copyright © 1985 by Davis Publications, Inc., for Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, October 1985.

  “The Little Magic Shop,” copyright © 1987 by Davis Publications, Inc., for Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, October 1987.

  “Spider Rose,” copyright © 1982 by Mercury Press, Inc., for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1982.

  “Spook,” copyright © 1983 by Mercury Press, Inc., for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1983.

  “Sunken Gardens,” copyright © 1984 by Omni Publications International, Ltd., for Omni, June 1984.

  “Swarm,” copyright © 1982 by Mercury Press, Inc., for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1982.

  “Telliamed,” copyright © 1984 by Mercury Press, Inc., for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1984.

  “Twenty Evocations,” copyright © 1984 by Bruce Sterling for Interzone, Spring 1984; first published as “Life in the Mechanist/Shaper Era: Twenty Evocations.”

  Copyright © 1989 by Bruce Sterling

  Illustrations copyright © 1989 by Rick Lieder

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Arkham House Publishers, Inc., Sauk City, Wisconsin.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sterling, Bruce.

  Crystal express.

  1. Fantastic fiction, American. I. Title.

  PS3569.T3876C79 1989 813'.0876 89-31079

  ISBN 0-87054-158-7 (alk. paper)

  Typographic modifications by Dan X. Solo

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  We cannot separate the historic accidents of the society in which we were born from the axiomatic bases of the universe.

  —J. D. BERNAL, 1925

  The deadliest bullshit is odorless and transparent.

  —WM. GIBSON, 1988

  CONTENTS

  SHAPER/MECHANIST

  SWARM

  SPIDER ROSE

  CICADA QUEEN

  SUNKEN GARDENS

  TWENTY EVOCATIONS

  SCIENCE FICTION

  GREEN DAYS IN BRUNEI

  SPOOK

  THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE SUBLIME

  FANTASY STORIES

  TELLIAMED

  THE LITTLE MAGIC SHOP

  FLOWERS OF EDO

  DINNER IN AUDOGHAST

  SWARM

  I WILL MISS your conversation during the rest of the voyage,” the alien said.

  Captain-Doctor Simon Afriel folded his jeweled hands over his gold-embroidered waistcoat. “I regret it also, ensign,” he said in the alien’s own hissing language. “Our talks together have been very useful to me. I would have paid to learn so much, but you gave it freely.”

  “But that was only information,” the alien said. He shrouded his bead-bright eyes behind thick nictitating membranes. “We Investors deal in energy, and precious metals. To prize and pursue mere knowledge is an immature racial trait.” The alien lifted the long ribbed frill behind his pinhole-sized ears.

  “No doubt you are right,” Afriel said, despising him. “We humans are as children to other races, however; so a certain immaturity seems natural to us.” Afriel pulled off his sunglasses to rub the bridge of his nose. The starship cabin was drenched in searing blue light, heavily ultraviolet. It was the light the Investors preferred, and they were not about to change it for one human passenger.

  “You have not done badly,” the alien said magnanimously. “You are the kind of race we like to do business with: young, eager, plastic, ready for a wide variety of goods and experiences. We would have contacted you much earlier, but your technology was still too feeble to afford us a profit.”

  “Things are different now,” Afriel said. “We’ll make you rich.”

  “Indeed,” the Investor said. The frill behind his scaly head flickered rapidly, a sign of amusement. “Within two hundred years you will be wealthy enough to buy from us the secret of our starflight. Or perhaps your Mechanist faction will discover the secret through research.”

  Afriel was annoyed. As a member of the Reshaped faction, he did not appreciate the reference to the rival Mechanists. “Don’t put too much stock in mere technical expertise,” he said. “Consider the aptitude for languages we Shapers have. It makes our faction a much better trading partner. To a Mechanist, all Investors look alike.”

  The alien hesitated. Afriel smiled. He had appealed to the alien’s personal ambition with his last statement, and the hint had been taken. That was where the Mechanists always erred. They tried to treat all Investors consistently, using the same programmed routines each time. They lacked imagination.

  Something would have to be done about the Mechanists, Afriel thought. Something more permanent than the small but deadly confrontations between isolated ships in the Asteroid Belt and the ice-rich Rings of Saturn. Both factions maneuvered constantly, looking for a decisive stroke, bribing away each other’s best talent, practicing ambush, assassination, and industrial espionage.

  Captain-Doctor Simon Afriel was a past master of these pursuits. That was why the Reshaped faction had paid the millions of kilowatts necessary to buy his passage. Afriel held doctorates in biochemistry and alien linguistics, and a master’s degree in magnetic weapons engineering. He was thirty-eight years old and had been Reshaped a
ccording to the state of the art at the time of his conception. His hormonal balance had been altered slightly to compensate for long periods spent in free-fall. He had no appendix. The structure of his heart had been redesigned for greater efficiency, and his large intestine had been altered to produce the vitamins normally made by intestinal bacteria. Genetic engineering and rigorous training in childhood had given him an intelligence quotient of one hundred and eighty. He was not the brightest of the agents of the Ring Council, but he was one of the most mentally stable and the best trusted.

  “It seems a shame,” the alien said, “that a human of your accomplishments should have to rot for two years in this miserable, profitless outpost.”

  “The years won’t be wasted,” Afriel said.

  “But why have you chosen to study the Swarm? They can teach you nothing, since they cannot speak. They have no wish to trade, having no tools or technology. They are the only spacefaring race that is essentially without intelligence.”

  “That alone should make them worthy of study.”

  “Do you seek to imitate them, then? You would make monsters of yourselves.” Again the ensign hesitated. “Perhaps you could do it. It would be bad for business, however.”

  There came a fluting burst of alien music over the ship’s speakers, then a screeching fragment of Investor language. Most of it was too high-pitched for Afriel’s ears to follow.

  The alien stood, his jeweled skirt brushing the tips of his clawed birdlike feet. “The Swarm’s symbiote has arrived,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Afriel said. When the ensign opened the cabin door, Afriel could smell the Swarm’s representative; the creature’s warm yeasty scent had spread rapidly through the starship’s recycled air.

  Afriel quickly checked his appearance in a pocket mirror. He touched powder to his face and straightened the round velvet hat on his shoulder-length reddish-blond hair. His earlobes glittered with red impact-rubies, thick as his thumbs’ ends, mined from the Asteroid Belt. His knee-length coat and waistcoat were of gold brocade; the shirt beneath was of dazzling fineness, woven with red-gold thread. He had dressed to impress the Investors, who expected and appreciated a prosperous look from their customers. How could he impress this new alien? Smell, perhaps. He freshened his perfume.

  Beside the starship’s secondary airlock, the Swarm’s symbiote was chittering rapidly at the ship’s commander. The commander was an old and sleepy Investor, twice the size of most of her crewmen. Her massive head was encrusted in a jeweled helmet. From within the helmet her clouded eyes glittered like cameras.

  The symbiote lifted on its six posterior legs and gestured feebly with its four clawed forelimbs. The ship’s artificial gravity, a third again as strong as Earth’s, seemed to bother it. Its rudimentary eyes, dangling on stalks, were shut tight against the glare. It must be used to darkness, Afriel thought.

  The commander answered the creature in its own language. Afriel grimaced, for he had hoped that the creature spoke Investor. Now he would have to learn another language, a language designed for a being without a tongue.

  After another brief interchange the commander turned to Afriel. “The symbiote is not pleased with your arrival,” she told Afriel in the Investor language. “There has apparently been some disturbance here involving humans, in the recent past. However, I have prevailed upon it to admit you to the Nest. The episode has been recorded. Payment for my diplomatic services will be arranged with your faction when I return to your native star system.”

  “I thank Your Authority,” Afriel said. “Please convey to the symbiote my best personal wishes, and the harmlessness and humility of my intentions…” He broke off short as the symbiote lunged toward him, biting him savagely in the calf of his left leg. Afriel jerked free and leapt backward in the heavy artificial gravity, going into a defensive position. The symbiote had ripped away a long shred of his pants leg; it now crouched quietly, eating it.

  “It will convey your scent and composition to its nestmates,” said the commander. “This is necessary. Otherwise you would be classed as an invader, and the Swarm’s warrior caste would kill you at once.”

  Afriel relaxed quickly and pressed his hand against the puncture wound to stop the bleeding. He hoped that none of the Investors had noticed his reflexive action. It would not mesh well with his story of being a harmless researcher.

  “We will reopen the airlock soon,” the commander said phlegmatically, leaning back on her thick reptilian tail. The symbiote continued to munch the shred of cloth. Afriel studied the creature’s neckless segmented head. It had a mouth and nostrils; it had bulbous atrophied eyes on stalks; there were hinged slats that might be radio receivers, and two parallel ridges of clumped wriggling antennae, sprouting among three chitinous plates. Their function was unknown to him.

  The airlock door opened. A rush of dense, smoky aroma entered the departure cabin. It seemed to bother the half-dozen Investors, who left rapidly. “We will return in six hundred and twelve of your days, as by our agreement,” the commander said.

  “I thank Your Authority,” Afriel said.

  “Good luck,” the commander said in English. Afriel smiled.

  The symbiote, with a sinuous wriggle of its segmented body, crept into the airlock. Afriel followed it. The airlock door shut behind them. The creature said nothing to him but continued munching loudly. The second door opened, and the symbiote sprang through it, into a wide, round stone tunnel. It disappeared at once into the gloom.

  Afriel put his sunglasses into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of infrared goggles. He strapped them to his head and stepped out of the airlock. The artificial gravity vanished, replaced by the almost imperceptible gravity of the Swarm’s asteroid nest. Afriel smiled, comfortable for the first time in weeks. Most of his adult life had been spent in free-fall, in the Shapers’ colonies in the Rings of Saturn.

  Squatting in a dark cavity in the side of the tunnel was a disk-headed furred animal the size of an elephant. It was clearly visible in the infrared of its own body heat. Afriel could hear it breathing. It waited patiently until Afriel had launched himself past it, deeper into the tunnel. Then it took its place in the end of the tunnel, puffing itself up with air until its swollen head securely plugged the exit into space. Its multiple legs sank firmly into sockets in the walls.

  The Investors’ ship had left. Afriel remained here, inside one of the millions of planetoids that circled the giant star Betelgeuse in a girdling ring with almost five times the mass of Jupiter. As a source of potential wealth it dwarfed the entire solar system, and it belonged, more or less, to the Swarm. At least, no other race had challenged them for it within the memory of the Investors.

  Afriel peered up the corridor. It seemed deserted, and without other bodies to cast infrared heat, he could not see very far. Kicking against the wall, he floated hesitantly down the corridor.

  He heard a human voice. “Dr. Afriel!”

  “Dr. Mirny!” he called out. “This way!”

  He first saw a pair of young symbiotes scuttling toward him, the tips of their clawed feet barely touching the walls. Behind them came a woman wearing goggles like his own. She was young, and attractive in the trim, anonymous way of the genetically reshaped.

  She screeched something at the symbiotes in their own language, and they halted, waiting. She coasted forward, and Afriel caught her arm, expertly stopping their momentum.

  “You didn’t bring any luggage?” she said anxiously.

  He shook his head. “We got your warning before I was sent out. I have only the clothes I’m wearing and a few items in my pockets.”

  She looked at him critically. “Is that what people are wearing in the Rings these days? Things have changed more than I thought.”

  Afriel glanced at his brocaded coat and laughed. “It’s a matter of policy. The Investors are always readier to talk to a human who looks ready to do business on a large scale. All the Shapers’ representatives dress like this these days. We’ve
stolen a jump on the Mechanists; they still dress in those coveralls.”

  He hesitated, not wanting to offend her. Galina Mirny’s intelligence was rated at almost two hundred. Men and women that bright were sometimes flighty and unstable, likely to retreat into private fantasy worlds or become enmeshed in strange and impenetrable webs of plotting and rationalization. High intelligence was the strategy the Shapers had chosen in the struggle for cultural dominance, and they were obliged to stick to it, despite its occasional disadvantages. They had tried breeding the Superbright—those with quotients over two hundred—but so many had defected from the Shapers’ colonies that the faction had stopped producing them.

  “You wonder about my own clothing,” Mirny said.

  “It certainly has the appeal of novelty,” Afriel said with a smile.

  “It was woven from the fibers of a pupa’s cocoon,” she said. “My original wardrobe was eaten by a scavenger symbiote during the troubles last year. I usually go nude, but I didn’t want to offend you by too great a show of intimacy.”

  Afriel shrugged. “I often go nude myself, I never had much use for clothes except for pockets. I have a few tools on my person, but most are of little importance. We’re Shapers, our tools are here.” He tapped his head. “If you can show me a safe place to put my clothes…”

  She shook her head. It was impossible to see her eyes for the goggles, which made her expression hard to read. “You’ve made your first mistake, Doctor. There are no places of our own here. It was the same mistake the Mechanist agents made, the same one that almost killed me as well. There is no concept of privacy or property here. This is the Nest. If you seize any part of it for yourself—to store equipment, to sleep in, whatever—then you become an intruder, an enemy. The two Mechanists—a man and a woman—tried to secure an empty chamber for their computer lab. Warriors broke down their door and devoured them. Scavengers ate their equipment, glass, metal, and all.”

  Afriel smiled coldly. “It must have cost them a fortune to ship all that material here.”