"Michael Swanwick - Ancient Engines" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

forces is the one that's best adapted to its environmental niche. The environmental niche people
live in is man-made. The single most useful trait a survivor can have is probably the ability to
get along easily with other men. Or, if you'd rather, women."
"Oh," said the granddaughter, "he doesn't like women. I can tell by his body language."
The young man flushed.
"Don't be offended," said the old man. "You should never be offended by the truth. As for you-
-" he turned to face his granddaughter--" if you don't learn to treat people better, I won't take
you places anymore."
She dipped her head. "Sorry."
"Apology accepted. Let's get back to task, shall we? Our hypothetical immortal would be a lot
like flesh women, in many ways. Self-regenerating. Able to grow her own replacement parts. She
could take in pretty much anything as fuel. A little carbon, a little water . . ."
"Alcohol would be an excellent fuel," his granddaughter said.
"She'd have the ability to mimic the superficial effects of aging," the mech said. "Also,
biological life evolves incrementally across generations. I'd want her to be able to evolve across
upgrades."
"Fair enough. Only I'd do away with upgrades entirely, and give her total conscious control
over her body. So she could change and evolve at will. She'll need that ability, if she's going to
survive the collapse of civilization."
"The collapse of civilization? Do you think it likely?"
"In the long run? Of course. When you take the long view it seems inevitable. Everything
seems inevitable. Forever is a long time, remember. Time enough for absolutely everything to
happen."
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then the old man slapped his hands together. "Well, we've created our New Eve. Now let's wind
her up and let her go. She can expect to live-- how long?"
"Forever," said the mech.
"Forever's a long time. Let's break it down into smaller units. In the year 2500, she'll be
doing what?"
"Holding down a job," the granddaughter said. "Designing art molecules, maybe, or scripting
recreational hallucinations. She'll be deeply involved in the culture. She'll have lots of friends
she cares about passionately, and maybe a husband or wife or two."
"Who will grow old," the mech said, "or wear out. Who will die."
 "She'll mourn them, and move on."
"The year 3500. The collapse of civilization," the old man said with gusto. "What will she do
then?"
"She'll have made preparations, of course. If there are radiation or toxins in the
environment, she'll have made her systems immune from their effects. And she'll make herself
useful to the survivors. In the seeming of an old woman she'll teach the healing arts. Now and
then she might drop a hint about this and that. She'll have a data base squirreled away somewhere
containing everything they'll have lost. Slowly, she'll guide them back to civilization. But a
gentler one, this time. One less likely to tear itself apart."
"The year one million. Humanity evolves beyond anything we can currently imagine. How does
she respond?"
"She mimics their evolution. No-- she's been shaping their evolution. She wants a risk-free
method of going to the stars, so she's been encouraging a type of being that would strongly desire
such a thing. She isn't among the first to use it, though.
She waits a few hundred generations for it to prove itself."
The mech, who had been listening in fascinated silence, now said, "Suppose that never
happens? What if starflight will always remain difficult and perilous? What then?"