"Ken Macleod - Fall Revolution 3 - The Cassini Division" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacLeod Ken)

The Cassini Division ... In astronomy, the Cassini Division is a dark band in the rings of Saturn.
In the astronautics of the Heliocene Epoch, the Cassini Division was the proud name originally
given in jest of a dark band indeed, a military force in the ring of Jupiter. You know about the ring
of Jupiter but to us it was more than a remarkable product of planetary engineering, it was a
standing reminder of the power of our enemies. It was our Guantanamo, our Berlin Wall. (Look
them up. Earth history. There are files.) The Cassini Division was the Solar Union’s front-line
force, our collective fist in the enemy’s face. In our classless society it was the closest thing to an
elite; in our anarchy, the nearest we came to a state; in our commonwealth, it held the greatest share
of riches. Its recruits chose themselves, and not many could meet a standard of that rigour. In
terms of sheer fire power the Division could have flattened all the states Earth ever knew, and still
had enough left over for a bit of target practice to occupy the afternoon. The resources it controlled
could have bought everything on Earth, in the age when that world was owned and it still stood
ready for the exchange, to give as good as it got, to pit our human might against the puny wrath of
gods.
In other words ... the Division was there to kick post-human ass. And we did.
(And yes. I’m still proud of it.) The South African woman might have had unsound views about
Vladimir Ilyich, but she turned out to be one of the “old comrades”. Although the International had
long since dissolved into the Union, its former members maintained their contacts, their veterans”
freemasonry. I’d never really approved of this, but it-helped me here. She introduced me to one of
her friends, who introduced me to another, and so on. By an unspoken agreement they passed me
along their chain of acquaintance, moving me through the crowd a lot faster than I’d managed on
my own. Only half-an-hour after I’d finished my coffee, I found myself among a small cluster of
people, at the focus of which were the party’s special guests: the artificial woman, and the man who
had come back from the stars, and from the dead. Even five years after their arrival, they could still
pull a crowd all the more so because they seldom did, preferring to wander around and talk to
people they happened to meet.
The artificial woman was called Meg. She didn’t look artificial right now, and indeed her body
cloned from that of some long dead Malaysian-American porn actress, I understand was in some
respects more natural than mine. Only her personality was artificial.
It was a human personality in every way we’d ever been able to observe, but it was she’d always
insisted running on top of a genuine artificial intelligence.
In which case the small, pretty woman standing a couple of yards away from me, elegantly
smoking a tobacco cigarette, with her black hair hanging to her waist, and wearing a long black
silk-satin shift and (unless my eyes deceived me) absolutely nothing else, was the only autonomous
Al on Earth. A troubling thought, and it had troubled me ever since I’d met her.
The autonomous AI hadn’t noticed me yet. She was looking at her companion, Jonathan Wilde,
the man who had come back. Wilde, as usual, was holding forth; as usual, waving his hands; as
usual, smoking tobacco, a vile habit that seemed hardwired into him and Meg both. He was a tall
man, sharp-featured, hook-nosed, loud-voiced. His accent had changed, but still rang strangely in
my ears.
“never actually met him,” he was saying, “but I did see him on television, and read some of what
he put out during the Fall Revolution. I must say it’s a surprise to find him still remembered.” He
paused, flashing a quick, rueful smile. “Especially since I’m forgotten!”
People around him laughed. It was one of Wilde’s standing jokes that the ideas he or rather, the
human being of which he was a copy had espoused back in the twenty-first century were now of
interest only to antiquarians, and that his name was only a footnote in the history of the Space
Movement. In some odd way, this very obscurity flattered his vanity.
As he stood there grinning he saw me. He stared at me, as if momentarily confused. Meg
turned and saw me and gave me a welcoming smile. Wilde nodded slightly, and returned to his
discourse. I didn’t know whether to feel slighted or relieved. As the first person he’d seen on his