By Charles Stross
The Singularity. it's the period of the posthuman. synthetic intelligences have exceeded the bounds of human mind. Biotechnological beings have rendered humans all yet extinct. Molecular nanotechnology runs rampant, replicating and reprogramming at will. touch with extraterrestrial lifestyles grows extra coming near near with each one new day.
Struggling to outlive and thrive during this sped up international are 3 generations of the Macx extended family: Manfred, an entrepreneur dealing in intelligence amplification know-how whose brain is split among his actual atmosphere and the net; his daughter, Amber, at the run from her domineering mom, looking her fortune within the outer approach as an indentured astronaut; and Sirhan, Amber’s son, who reveals his future associated with the destiny of all of humanity.
For whatever is systematically dismantling the 9 planets of the sun procedure. anything past human comprehension. anything that has little need for organic existence in any form...
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Back into the depths, row after row. Heaped and stacked and piled on each other. He got up and examined the spider jars arranged in even, precise rows on the overhead shelves. The insides of the jars were thick with webs, tangled heaps like the hair of old women. He could see the spiders moving sluggishly, dulled by the heat. Fat globes that reflected the beam of the flashlight. He dipped into the moth-box and got out a handful of little dead bodies. Expertly, he fed each jar, careful that none escaped.
Seems to me I recall something. ‘26? I probably brought him into this world. I was practicing then. Of course, I was a lot younger in those days. ” “The boy died,” Barton said slowly. “He died in 1935. From scarlet fever. ” The florid face twisted. “By God. I remember that. Why, I had that closed; it was my idea. I forced them to close it. Those were relatives of yours? ” He puffed on his cigar angrily. “I remember that. Three or four kids died by the time it was over. The kid’s name was Barton?
They walked through the walls. Through the furniture. ” “Of course,” Miss James said primly. “That’s why they’re called Wanderers. They can go anywhere. Through anything. ” Barton demanded. The answer didn’t really surprise him. But the calmness of it did. “Always,” Miss James said. ” “Seems to me there’ve always been Wanderers,” Doctor Meade agreed, puffing on his cigar. “But it’s perfectly natural. ” Five The morning was warm and sunny. The dew hadn’t been baked off the weeds yet. The sky was a mild, hazy blue, not yet heated up to blazing incandescence.
Accelerando by Charles Stross