Permutation City

"Just . . . hold it. A few hours' teaching? Then why do you have to go there in person?"

"They want me, physically. It's a prestige thing. Every Mickey Mouse university can plug into the networks and bring in a dozen lecturers from around the world --"

"That's not Mickey Mouse, it's efficient."

"Cheap and efficient. This place doesn't want to be cheap. They want a piece of exotic cultural decoration. Stop laughing. Australia is flavor of the month in Seoul; it only happens once every twenty years, so we'd better take advantage of it. And they want a composer-in-residence. In residence."

Maria sat back and digested it.

Aden said, "I don't know about you, but I have a lot of trouble imagining us ever being able to afford to spend a year in Korea, any other way."

"And you've said yes?"

"I said maybe. I said probably."

"Accommodation for two. What am I supposed to do while you're being exotic and decorative?"

"Whatever you like. Anything you do here, you could do just as easily there. You're the one who keeps telling me how you're plugged into the world, you're a node in a logical data space, your physical location is entirely irrelevant . . . "

"Yes, and the whole point of that is not having to move. I like it where I am."

"That shoebox."

"A campus apartment in Seoul won't be much bigger."

"We'll go out! It's an exciting city -- there's a whole cultural renaissance going on there, it's not just the music scene. And who knows? You might find some exciting project to work on. Not everything gets broadcast over the nets."

That was true enough. Korea had full membership of ASEAN, as opposed to Australia's probationary status; if she'd been living in Seoul at the right time, if she'd had the right contacts, she might have ended up part of Operation Butterfly. And even if that was wishful thinking -- the right contacts probably took a decade to make -- she could hardly do worse than she'd been doing in Sydney.

Maria fell silent. It was good news, a rare opportunity for both of them, but she still couldn't understand why he was unloading it on her out of the blue. He should have told her everything when he'd applied, however poorly he'd rated his chances.

She glanced at the stage, at the twelve sweating musicians playing their hearts out, then looked away. There was something disconcertingly voyeuristic about watching them without tuning in: not just the sight of them emoting in silence, but also the realization that none of the bands could see each other, despite the fact that she could see them all.

Aden said, "There's no rush to make up your mind. The academic year starts on January ninth. Two months away."

"Won't they need to know, long before then?"

"They'll need to know by Monday if I've accepted the job -- but I don't think the accommodation will be a big deal. I mean, if I end up alone in an apartment for two, it'll hardly be the end of the world." He looked at her i

Maria said, "No, of course not. How stupid of me."

Home, Maria couldn't resist logging on to the QIPS Exchange, just to find out what was going on. Operation Butterfly had vanished from the market. Omniaveritas, her knowledge miner, had picked up no news reports of a typhoon in the region; perhaps the predicted one had failed to eventuate -- or perhaps it was yet to appear, but the simulations had already given their verdict. It was strange to think that it could all be over before the storm was a reality . . . but then, by the time anything newsworthy happened, the actual meteorological data would -- hopefully -- bear no relationship at all to what would have happened if the weather control rigs had been in use. The only real-world data needed for the simulations was the common starting point, a snapshot of the planet's weather the moment before intervention would have begun.

The QIPS rate was still about fifty percent higher than normal, as ordinary users jostled to get their delayed work done. Maria hesitated; she felt like she needed cheering up, but ru

She logged on to the JSN, slipped on her gloves, activated the workspace. An icon of a man tripping on a banana skin, frozen in mid-fall, represented the snapshot of her interrupted task. She prodded it, and the Petri dishes reappeared in front of her instantly, the A. lamberti feeding, dividing and dying, as if the past fifteen hours had never happened.

She could have asked Aden to his face: Do you want to go to Seoul alone? Do you want a year away from me? If that's it, why don't you just say so? But he would have denied it, whether or not it was the truth. And she wouldn't have believed him, whether or not he was lying. Why ask the question, if the answer told you nothing?

And it hardly seemed to matter, now: Seoul or Sydney, welcome or not. She could reach this place from anywhere -- geographically or emotionally. She stared into the workspace, ran a gloved finger around the rim of one of the Petri dishes, and declaimed mockingly, "My name is Maria, and I am an Autoverse addict."

As she watched, the culture in the dish she'd touched faded from muddy blue to pure brown, and then began to turn transparent, as the viewing software ceased classifying dead A. lamberti as anything more than chance arrangements of organic molecules.

As the brown mass dissolved, though, Maria noticed something she'd missed.

A tiny speck of electric blue.

She zoomed in on it, refusing to leap to conclusions. The speck was a small cluster of surviving bacteria, growing slowly -- but that didn't prove anything. Some strains always lasted longer than others; in the most pedantic sense, there was always a degree of "natural selection" taking place -- but the honor of being the last of the dinosaurs wasn't the kind of evolutionary triumph she was looking for.

She summoned up a histogram showing the prevalence of different forms of the epimerase enzymes, the tools she'd been pi

So why was it doing so well?

Maria "tagged" a portion of the mutose molecules in the culture medium, assigning multiple clones of Maxwell's Demon to track their movements and render them visible . . . the Autoverse equivalent of the real-world biochemist's technique of radioactive labeling -- along with something like nuclear magnetic resonance, since the demons would signal any chemical changes, as well as indicating position. She zoomed in on one surviving A. lamberti, rendered neutral gray now, and watched a swarm of phosphorescent green pin-pricks pass through the cell wall and jostle around the protoplasm in the sway of Brownian motion.

One by one, a fraction of the tags changed from green to red, marking passage through the first stage of the metabolic pathway: the attachment of an energy-rich cluster of atoms -- more or less the Autoverse equivalent of a phosphate group. But there was nothing new in that; for the first three stages of the process, the enzymes which worked with nutrose would squander energy on the impostor as if it were the real thing.

Strictly speaking, these red specks weren't mutose any more, but Maria had instructed the demons to turn an unmistakable violet, not only in the presence of nutrose itself, but also if the molecules under scrutiny were rehabilitated at a later stage -- salvaged in mid-digestion. With the epimerase enzymes unchanged, she doubted that this was happening . . . but the bacteria were thriving, somehow.