Chapter 5

Clanks, hisses, roars, the arm-hair-raising murmur of ten thousand grav systems, the sound of water and atmosphere through pipes—every noise that doesn’t occur in the silent corridors of Watertower has been packed into the black gloom of the utility areas. Sarya doesn’t move until her Network unit begins work mapping the area, spreading glowing lines over every invisible surface and assigning icons to passing drones. Already she is relaxing; this is so much better than the darkness she remembers, back when she first discovered these passages. It’s also, she is quickly realizing, so much bigger. The farther the lines spread and the more symbols appear, the more obvious it becomes that she has never had the faintest idea of the scale involved back here. The air is absolutely thick with Network registrations. There are thousands of them, tens of thousands, a virtual river of intelligence roaring by above her with each individual droplet marked by a glowing icon.

She walks slowly, one hand on the invisible wall, staring at the torrent of virtual light above her. So many intelligences, and every one of them sub-Legal. Walking around the silent corridors of an orbital station, it’s easy to forget that a Legal Tier is a rarity. Most of the intelligences on Watertower—in the Network as a whole—are too low-Tier to receive legal rights. For every citizen above the threshold, there are dozens or hundreds of utility intelligences like her own Sarya’s Little Helper. Not all of them are bodiless, either. Here behind the walls of the station, in the darkened utility corridors, in the crawlways and catwalks, Watertower Station teems with helpers, so to speak. Every one of these tens of thousands of drones contains a low-Tier intelligence, a One-point-something whose primary motivation lines up perfectly with its assigned job. They are simple minds, but they are thrilled with their lot and they just can’t wait to tell you about it.

[Recycling is just going to love these] says a three-meter flying transport, raising the hairs on Sarya’s arms as it rushes by above her on low-grade gravs.

[Personal record, here I come!] says another, whipping past in the opposite direction and missing the first by centimeters.

[Hello again, Sarya the Daughter], say a half dozen messages from all directions. These particular drones have probably never seen her before, but they know she has come through here. They have friends—if that’s the right word—who have met her. They’re probably talking about her right now, in simple little messages floating out between these simple little minds, little requests and responses regarding a certain Sarya the Daughter. This continual communication is handy—and it’s surely the reason she’s never seen a collision in her life—but it certainly makes things more complicated for the occasional higher-Tier mind who might visit. It’s not like talking to Helper. You can’t just lie to one and then tell the next one something completely different. No, you’ll talk yourself into a corner doing that. Instead, you have to treat the whole thing as one giant organism. Even if a single member is a bit of an imbecile, taken together they’re smarter than you think.

She watches the icons multiply as her Network unit finishes its analysis of the space. Now the image is complete, a skeletal three-dimensional map that stretches upward level after level, each one filled with thousands of drone registrations that spiral through Watertower’s circulatory and nervous systems in a vast dance of beauty and perfect order and—

Sarya unfolds her arms, pushes herself off the wall, and walks directly into traffic.

A wheeled cart whirrs to a halt out of the darkness, its front bumper nearly touching her knees. Behind it, icons shift and colors change as other drones stop and redirect in a wave that spreads steadily upstream. Still, there are no collisions. Each one responds to its environment and sends information to its fellows. Routes are changed. Timelines are updated. It all takes place near-instantly, and without any kind of central oversight. That, as the teacher once told Sarya, is the magic of collective intelligence.

[It would make my job so much easier], says the infinitesimal part of the station’s circulatory system that is parked in front of her, [if you weren’t standing there.]

“What are you carrying?” Sarya asks the cart, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise.

[Medical waste], it answers. [I’m vital to a clean Watertower!]

Sarya moves out to let it pass. It moves on with mingled messages of [Relief] and [Joy] while she steps into the path of the next one. “What are you carrying?”

[Miscellaneous nutritional supplements!] it replies. [Class F44. I’m told they’re delicious.]

She allows this one to pass as well—Class F44 is lethal to her, after all—and repeats.

[Laundered utility suits], says the next cart. [Radial body styles. Very stylish.]

Here we go. “Wait a minute,” she says, reading the cart’s registration via her new Network overlay. “Are you Unit W-66861?”

[How did you know that?], gasps the cart.

“The Unit W-66861?”

[I’m… pretty sure?]

“No way!” says Sarya, stepping back. “I’ve heard of you.”

[You have?] says the cart. An innocent [Wonder] floats up through the tangle of icons and grid lines.

“Of course I have!” Sarya says. “I’ve heard you’re the fastest cart on this side of the station.”

If a utility cart can look confused, this one does. But Sarya knows that it has instantly warmed to the higher-Tier mind currently gracing it with conversation. It’s really not difficult to gain a low-Tier’s trust. [Really?] it says. [Who told you that?]

“Oh everyone knows it,” Sarya says. “We, um, high-Tiers talk about you guys all the time. We’re super interested in… utility carts.”

[You are?]

“Definitely. And you know what?”

[What?]

She leans in, playing it up. “I’ve made a bet with… a friend. I say you can get to Dock A in under twelve minutes, and my friend says you can’t.”

[Who says I can’t get to Dock A in under twelve minutes?], asks the cart, incensed.

“Well I don’t want to name names,” says Sarya. “But I’ll tell you what. You take me to Dock A and I’ll time you. Then I can tell my friend if you really are as fast as, um, we’ve all heard.”

[I’m ready!] says Unit W-66861, nearly vibrating with exhilaration. [Get in, get in, get in!]

It’s all about motivation. Everybody wins.

Sarya tumbles into the cart, landing in a pile of neutral-smelling garments. It’s a little quieter in here, thanks to their dampening effect, which means now she can place her hands behind her head and relax a bit as the cart accelerates through the darkness. She takes a deep breath of industrial scents, gazes up through a vast flood of intelligence, and wonders what it’s like to be a part of something. Just look at this: tens of thousands of drones, working together as a single organism, accomplishing things that no one drone could hope to achieve in its wildest tiny dreams. And here she is in the center, carried through their midst and yet… separate.

Alone.

But that won’t always be true. It can’t be. She is a part of something, she just hasn’t found it yet. The galaxy is a big place; it could be full of Humans, each of them hidden away or concealed in plain sight like her. There could be hundreds of thousands, millions, billions of them. Parents and children, friends and mates, lovers and enemies, each one part of something bigger.

I know where you came from.

And soon, so will she.