Diaspora

Orlando said, "We're trying to plug the gaps."

Liana gestured at the tree diagram, and a second set of branches began to grow behind and between the first. The new tree was much more finely differentiated, with more branches, more closely spaced.

"Taking the ancestral neural structures as a starting point, we've been introducing small changes with every generation. But instead of modifying everyone in the same direction, our children are not only different from their parents, they're increasingly different from each other. Each generation is more diverse than the one before."

Inoshiro said, "But… isn't that the very thing you were lamenting? People drifting apart?"

"Not quite. Instead of whole populations jumping en masse to opposite ends of the spectrum for some neural trait giving rise to two distinct groups with no common ground—we're always scattered evenly across the whole range. That way, no one is cut off, no one is alienated, because any given person's 'circle'—the group of people with whom they can easily communicate—always overlaps with someone else's, someone outside the first circle… whose own circle also overlaps with that of someone else again… until one way or another, everyone is covered.

"You could easily find two people here who can barely understand each other—because they're as different as exuberants from two wildly divergent lines—but here, there'll always be a chain of living relatives who can bridge the gap. With a few intermediaries—right now, four at the most—any bridger can communicate with any other."

Orlando added, "And once there are people among us who can interact with all of the scattered exuberant communities, on their own terms…"

"Then every flesher on the planet will be co

Inoshiro asked eagerly, "So you could set up a chain of people who'd let us talk to someone at the edge of the process? Someone heading toward the most remote group of exuberants?"

Orlando and Liana exchanged glances, then Orlando said, "If you can wait a few days, that might be possible. It takes a certain amount of diplomacy; it's not a party trick we can turn on at a moment's notice."

"We're going back tomorrow morning." Yatima didn't dare look at Inoshiro; there'd be no end of excuses to extend their stay, but they'd agreed hours.

After a moment's awkward silence, Inoshiro said calmly, "That's right. Maybe next time."

Orlando showed them around the gene foundry where he worked, assembling DNA sequences and testing their effects. As well as their main goal, the bridgers were working on a number of non-neural enhancements involving disease resistance and improved tissue-repair mechanisms, which could be tried out with relative ease on brainless vegetative assemblies of mammalian organs which Orlando jokingly referred to as "offal trees." "You really can't smell them? You don't know how lucky you are."

The bridgers, he explained, had tailored themselves to the point where any individual could rewrite parts of vis own genome by injecting the new sequence into the bloodstream, bracketed by suitable primers for substitution enzymes, wrapped in a lipid capsule with surface proteins keyed to the appropriate cell types. If the precursors of gametes were targeted, the modification was made heritable. Female bridgers no longer generated all their ova while still fetuses, like statics did, but grew each one as required, and sperm and ova production—let alone the preparation of the womb for implantation of a fertilized egg—only occurred if the right hormones, available from specially-tailored plants, were ingested. About two-thirds of the bridgers were single-gendered; the rest were hermaphroditic or parthenogenetic—asexual, in the ma

After a tour of the facilities, Orlando declared that it was lunchtime, and they sat in a courtyard watching him eat. The other foundry workers gathered round; a few spoke to them directly, while the rest used intermediaries to translate. Their questions often came out sounding odd, even after some lengthy exchanges between translator and questioner—"How do you know which parts of the world are you, in the polises?" "Are there citizens in Konishi who eat music?" "Is not having a body like falling all the time, without moving?" and from the laughter their answers produced it was clear that the inverse process was just as imperfect. A certain amount of genuine communication did take place—but it depended heavily on trial and error, and a great deal of patience.

Orlando had promised to show them factories and silos, galleries and archives… but other people started dropping by to talk to them—or just to stare—and as the afternoon wore on, their original plans receded into fantasy. Perhaps they could have forced the pace, reminding their hosts how precious their time was, but after a few hours it began to seem absurd to have imagined that they could have done anything more, in a day. Nothing could be rushed, here; a whirlwind tour would have seemed like an act of violence. As the megatau evaporated, Yatima struggled not to think about the progress ve could have been making, back in the Truth Mines. Ve wasn't racing anyone—and the Mines would still be there when ve returned.

Eventually the courtyard behind the foundry became so crowded that Orlando dragged everyone off to an outdoor restaurant. By dusk, when Liana joined them, the questions were finally begi

So the four of them sat and talked beneath the stars—which were dulled and heavily filtered by the narrow spectral window of the atmosphere. "Of course we've seen them from space," Inoshiro boasted. "In the polises, the orbital probes are just another address."

Orlando said, "I keep wanting to insist: 'Ah, but you haven't seen them with your own eyes!' Except… you have. In exactly the same way that you've seen anything at all."

Liana leaned on his shoulder and added teasingly, "Which is the same way anyone sees anything. Just because our own minds are being run a few centimeters away from our own cameras, that doesn't make our experiences magically superior."

Orlando conceded, "No. This does, though."

They kissed. Yatima wondered if Blanca and Gabriel ever did that if Blanca had modified verself to make it possible, and pleasant. No wonder Blanca's parents disapproved. Gabriel being gendered wasn't such a big deal, as an abstract question of self-definition—but almost everyone in Carter-Zimmerman also pretended to have a tangible body. In Konishi, the whole idea of solidity, of atavistic delusions of corporeality, was generally equated with obstruction and coercion. Once your icon could so much as block another's path in a public scape, autonomy was violated. Re-co

Liana asked, "What are the gleisners up to? Do you know? Last we heard, they were doing something in the asteroid belt—but that was almost a hundred years ago. Have any of them left the solar system?"

Inoshiro said, "Not in person. They've sent probes to a few nearby stars, but nothing sentient yet—and when they do, it will be them-in-their-whole-bodies, all the way." Ve laughed. "They're obsessed with not becoming polis citizens. They think if they dare take their heads off their shoulders to save a bit of mass, next thing they'll he abandoning reality entirely."

Orlando said contemptuously, "Give them another thousand years, and they'll he pissing up and down the Milky Way, marking their territory like dogs."

Yatima protested, "That's not fair! They might have bizarre priorities… but they're still civilized. More or less."

Liana said, "Better gleisners out there than fleshers. Can you imagine statics in space? They'd probably have terraformed Mars by now. The gleisners have barely touched the planet; mostly they've just surveyed it from orbit. They're not vandals. They're not colonists."