Glasshouse by Charles Stross Read Free Book Online

“It’s historical. Premorphic, too. Sorry but I don’t do ortho anymore, two lifetimes were enough for me.”
    â€œOh, Vhora.” Linn sighs, sounding exasperated. She does something with one fingertip near the base of the horn that makes the mecha tense for a moment. “Won’t you . . . ?”
    â€œI’m not clear on the historical period in question,” I say carefully. To be perfectly truthful, I’d deliberately ignored the detailed pitch Piccolo-47 mailed me until Kay pointed out the advantages of disappearing into a closed polity for a few years, because I was totally uninterested in going to live in a cave and hunt mammoths with a spear, or whatever Yourdon and his coinvestigators have in mind. I don’t like being taken for a soft touch, and Piccolo-47’s attitude is patronizing at best. Mind you, Piccolo-47 is the sort of self-congratulatory, introspectively obsessed psych professional who’d take any suggestion that their behavior displayed contempt for the clients as projection, rather than treating it as an attempt to work around real social deficiencies. In my experience, the best way to deal with such people is to politely agree with everything they say, then ignore them. Hence my lack of information about the exact nature of the project.
    â€œWell, they’re not telling us everything,” Linn apologizes. “But I did some digging. Historian Professor Yourdon has a particular interest in a field I know something about, the first postindustrial dark age—that would be from the mid-twentieth to mid-twenty-first centuries, if you’re familiar with Urth chronology. He’s working with Colonel-Doctor Boateng, who is really a military psychologist specializing in the study of polymorphic societies—caste systems, gender systems, stratification along lines dictated by heredity, astrology, or other characteristics outside the individual’s control. He’s published a number of reports lately asserting that people in most societies prior to the IntervalMonarchies couldn’t act as autonomous agents because of social constraints imposed on them without consent, and I suspect the reason the Scholastium funds his research is because it has diplomatic implications.”
    I feel Kay shiver slightly through my left arm, which is wrapped around her uppermost shoulders. She leans against me more closely, and I lean against the tree trunk behind me in turn. “Like ice ghoul societies,” she murmurs.
    â€œIce ghouls?” asks Vhora.
    â€œThey aren’t tech—no, what I mean is that they are still developing technologies. They haven’t reached the Acceleration yet. No emotional machines, no virtual or self-replicating toolsets. No Exultants, no gates, no ability to restructure their bodies without ingesting poisonous plant extracts or cutting themselves with metal knives.” She shudders slightly. “They’re prisoners of their own bodies, they grow old and fall apart, and if one of them loses a limb, they can’t replace it.” She’s very unhappy about something, and for a moment I wonder what the ice ghouls she lived with meant to her, that she has to come here to forget.
    â€œSounds icky,” says Linn. “Anyway, that’s what Colonel-Doctor Boateng is interested in. Polities where people have no control over who they are.”
    â€œHow’s the experiment meant to work, then?” I ask, puzzling over it.
    â€œWell, I don’t know all the details,” Linn temporizes. “But what happens . . . well, if you volunteer, they put you through a battery of tests. You’re not supposed to go in if you’ve got close family attachments and friends, by the way; it’s strictly for singletons.” Kay’s grasp tightens around me for a moment. “Anyway, they back you up and your copy wakes up inside.
    â€œWhat they’ve prepared for the