Diamond Age

The advent of the Common Economic Protocol had settled things down and, in the eyes of the old-timers, begun to soften and ruin the place. There was nothing like getting up at three in the morning and riding the defensive perimeter in subzero cold, with a loaded rifle, to build up one's sense of responsibility and community. Carl Hollywood's clearest and best memories were of going on such rides with his father. But as they squatted on packed snow boiling coffee over a fire, they would listen to the radio and hear stories about the jihad raging across Xinjiang, driving the Han back into the east, and about the first incidents of nanotech terrorism in Eastern Europe. Carl's father didn't have to tell him that their community was rapidly acquiring the character of a historical theme park, and that before long they would have to give up the mounted patrols for more modern defensive systems.

Even after those i

He merely touched base at his hotel, where he stuffed the pockets of his coat with a sheaf of foolscap, a fountain pen, a silver box loaded with cigars like rounds in an ammo clip, and some tiny containers of nanosnuff that he could use to adjust the functioning of his brain and body. He also hefted a heavy walking-stick, a real wizard's staff loaded with security aerostats that would shepherd him back to the hotel in the event of a riot. Then he returned once more to the streets, shouldering for a mile through the crowd until he reached a teahouse where he had passed many long nights during his tenure at the Parnasse. Old Mrs. Kwan welcomed him warmly, bowing many times and showing him to his favorite corner table where he could look out on the intersection of Nanjing Road and a narrow side street jammed with tiny market stalls. All he could see now were the backs and buttocks of people in the street, jammed up against the glass by the pressure of the crowd. He ordered a big pot of his favorite green tea, the most expensive kind, picked in April when the leaves were tender and young, and spread out his sheets of foolscap across the table. This teahouse was fully integrated into the worldwide media network, and so the pages automatically jacked themselves in. Under Carl Hollywood's murmured commands they began to fill themselves with columns of animated text and windows bearing images and cine feeds. He took his first sip of tea-always the best one— withdrew his big fountain pen from his pocket, removed the lid, and touched it to the paper. He began to inscribe commands onto the page, in words and drawings. As he finished the words, they were enacted before him, and as he drew the lines between the boxes and circles, links were made and information flowed.

At the bottom of the page he wrote the word MIRANDA and drew a circle around it. It was not co

The Chinese people outside, separated from him by half an inch of crosslinked diamond, watched with their noses making white ellipses against the pane, their faces glowing in the candlelight like ripe peaches hanging in dark lush foliage.

The Hackworths in transit, and in London;

the East End;

a remarkable boatride;

Dramatis Personae;

a night at the theatre.

Smooth, fine-grained arctic clouds undulated slowly like snow drifts into the distance, a thousand miles looking like the width of a front yard, lit but not warmed by a low apricot sun that never quite went down. Fiona lay on her stomach on the top bunk, looking out the window, watching her breath condense on the pane and then evaporate in the parched air.

"Father?" she said, very softly, to see if he was awake.

He wasn't, but he woke up quickly, as if he'd been in one of those dreams that just skims beneath the surface of consciousness, like an airship clipping a few cloud-tops. "Yes?"

"Who is the Alchemist? Why are you looking for him?"

"I would rather not explain why I'm looking for him. Let us say that I have incurred obligations that want settling." Her father seemed more preoccupied with the second part of the question than she'd expected, and his voice was steeped in regret.

"Who is he?" she insisted gently.

"Oh. Well, my darling, if I knew that, I'd have found him."

"Father!"

"What sort of a person is he? I haven't been afforded many clues, unfortunately. I've tried to draw some deductions from the sorts of people who are looking for him, and the sort of person I am."

"Pardon me, Father, but what bearing does your own nature have on that of the Alchemist?"

"More than one knowledgeable sort has arrived at the conclusion that I'm just the right man to find this fellow, even though I know nothing of criminals and espionage and so forth. I'm just a nanotechnological engineer."

"That's not true, Father! You're ever so much more than that. You know so many stories-you told me so many, when you were gone, remember?"

"I suppose so," he allowed, strangely diffident.

"And I read it every night. And though the stories were about faeries and pirates and dji

"Well . . . that's a point I had not considered," her father said, his voice suddenly emotional. She fought the temptation to peer over the edge of the bed and look at his face, which would have embarrassed him. Instead she curled up in her bed and closed her eyes.

"Whatever you may think of me, Fiona— and I must say I am pleasantly surprised that you think of me so favourably— to those who despatched me on this errand, I am an engineer. Without being arrogant, I might add that I have advanced rapidly in that field and attained a position of not inconsiderable responsibility. As this is the only characteristic that distinguishes me from other men, it can be the only reason I was chosen to find the Alchemist. From this I infer that the Alchemist is himself a nanotechnological researcher of some sophistication, and that he is thought to be developing a product that is of interest to more than one of the Powers."

"Are you talking about the Seed, Father?"

He was silent for a few moments. When he spoke again, his voice was high and tight. "The Seed. How did you know about the Seed?"

"You told me about it, Father. You told me it was a dangerous thing, and that Protocol Enforcement mustn't allow it to be created. And besides . . .

"Besides what?"

She was on the verge of reminding him that her dreams had been filled with seeds for the last several years, and that every story she had seen in her Primer had been replete with them: seeds that grew up into castles; dragon's teeth that grew up into soldiers; seeds that sprouted into giant beanstalks leading to alternate universes in the clouds; and seeds, given to hospitable, barren couples by itinerant crones, that grew up into plants with bulging pods that contained happy, kicking babies.

But she sensed that if she mentioned this directly, he would slam the steel door in her face— a door that was tantalizingly cracked open at the moment.

"Why do you think that Seeds are so interesting?" she essayed.

"They are interesting inasmuch as a beaker of nitroglycerin is interesting," he said. "They are subversive technology. You are not to speak of Seeds again, Fiona— CryptNet agents could be anywhere, listening to our conversation."

Fiona sighed. When her father spoke freely, she could sense the man who had told her the stories. When certain subjects were broached, he drew down his veil and became just another Victorian gentleman. It was irksome. But she could sense how the same characteristic, in a man who was not her father, could be provocative. It was such an obvious weakness that neither she nor any woman could resist the temptation to exploit it-a mischievous and hence tantalizing notion that was to occupy much of Fiona's thinking for the next few days, as they encountered other members of their tribe in London.

After a simple di