Read Online Further: Beyond the Threshold by Chris Roberson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Roberson
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a chair and sat at the table, welcoming the chance to finally get off my feet. “Anything’s fine,” I answered, “so long as it’s meatless.”
The escort hopped from one foot to another and wagged its silver head from side to side. “As with all products of a fabricant, sir, any foodstuffs will be synthesized from raw matter. The flesh of previously live organisms is eaten exceedingly rarely, typically only in ceremonial observances in anachronistic culture groups.”
“It’s as much a matter of taste as principle,” I said. “But this fabricant…It’s some sort of…synthesizer?”
“I suppose you could call it that, sir. A fabricant is a cornucopia machine, containing billions of assemblers. With sufficient energy and raw matter, it can construct anything for which it has a pattern. More complicated objects require greater processing and assembly time, but simple objects—regular structures based on carbon or silicon—can be fabricated on demand. Creating biologics capable of vivification is possible, but is time consuming, incurring an attendant high energy cost.”
“So…wait. You’re saying it’s possible to create a living being on one of these machines? Could you clone something as complicated as a person?”
“Certainly,” the escort answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But to create a duplicate of an existing object—biologic or otherwise—the original must be destroyed. The resultant pattern, however, can be stored indefinitely.”
“And if a…fabricant had the pattern for a live chicken, and I asked for it to make for me a live chicken…?”
“It would require a nontrivial expenditure of power, and would take some time, but yes, it could produce a live chicken.” The escort paused and tilted its head while looking at me with an expression that I’d come to regard as confusion. “Would you like for me to request a live chicken for your repast, sir?”
“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head and waving my hands, as though warding away the thought of consuming still-living poultry. “That was just a hypothetical. Um…Well, I suppose if it can produce anything, if it could whip up some flat bread, lentils, and greens, it would make for a nice start.”
“Just a moment, sir,” the escort answered, nodding.
The cube on the counter chimed as soon as the escort had finished speaking. The escort stepped aside as one side of the cube rose open and a tray slid out. It was piled high with stacks of flat bread, beans, and leafy greens.
“Would you care for anything to drink with that, sir?”
I scratched my chin, thoughtfully.
“I don’t suppose that thing can brew a cup of buna, can it?”
The meal was fine, the buna better. I’d developed a taste for Ethiopian coffee while at Addis Ababa University, and drank it several times a day whenever I could (though even before boarding Wayfarer One it had been years since I observed the full Ethiopian coffee ceremony). It could have simply been a function of the fact that I’d not had a cup in more than twelve thousand years, but I found it difficult to remember when I’d had better. As for the greens and lentils and bread, if I’d not watched them extrude from a metal cube a few hand spans on a side, I’d never have guessed they weren’t farm fresh.
When I expressed surprise that the box would have carried the pattern for something as ancient and, I supposed, obscure as Ethiopian coffee, the escort quickly explained.
“This fabricant, like most of those in operation throughout the Human Entelechy, is tied into the infostructure and is capable of producing anything that anyone in the Entelechy knows how to produce.”
“I take it that this ‘infostructure’ is a data network of some sort?”
“Yes.” The escort flapped its wings for a brief moment, launching across empty space and alighting on the surface of the dining table, where it arranged itself directly in front of me.
The escort hopped from one foot to another and wagged its silver head from side to side. “As with all products of a fabricant, sir, any foodstuffs will be synthesized from raw matter. The flesh of previously live organisms is eaten exceedingly rarely, typically only in ceremonial observances in anachronistic culture groups.”
“It’s as much a matter of taste as principle,” I said. “But this fabricant…It’s some sort of…synthesizer?”
“I suppose you could call it that, sir. A fabricant is a cornucopia machine, containing billions of assemblers. With sufficient energy and raw matter, it can construct anything for which it has a pattern. More complicated objects require greater processing and assembly time, but simple objects—regular structures based on carbon or silicon—can be fabricated on demand. Creating biologics capable of vivification is possible, but is time consuming, incurring an attendant high energy cost.”
“So…wait. You’re saying it’s possible to create a living being on one of these machines? Could you clone something as complicated as a person?”
“Certainly,” the escort answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But to create a duplicate of an existing object—biologic or otherwise—the original must be destroyed. The resultant pattern, however, can be stored indefinitely.”
“And if a…fabricant had the pattern for a live chicken, and I asked for it to make for me a live chicken…?”
“It would require a nontrivial expenditure of power, and would take some time, but yes, it could produce a live chicken.” The escort paused and tilted its head while looking at me with an expression that I’d come to regard as confusion. “Would you like for me to request a live chicken for your repast, sir?”
“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head and waving my hands, as though warding away the thought of consuming still-living poultry. “That was just a hypothetical. Um…Well, I suppose if it can produce anything, if it could whip up some flat bread, lentils, and greens, it would make for a nice start.”
“Just a moment, sir,” the escort answered, nodding.
The cube on the counter chimed as soon as the escort had finished speaking. The escort stepped aside as one side of the cube rose open and a tray slid out. It was piled high with stacks of flat bread, beans, and leafy greens.
“Would you care for anything to drink with that, sir?”
I scratched my chin, thoughtfully.
“I don’t suppose that thing can brew a cup of buna, can it?”
The meal was fine, the buna better. I’d developed a taste for Ethiopian coffee while at Addis Ababa University, and drank it several times a day whenever I could (though even before boarding Wayfarer One it had been years since I observed the full Ethiopian coffee ceremony). It could have simply been a function of the fact that I’d not had a cup in more than twelve thousand years, but I found it difficult to remember when I’d had better. As for the greens and lentils and bread, if I’d not watched them extrude from a metal cube a few hand spans on a side, I’d never have guessed they weren’t farm fresh.
When I expressed surprise that the box would have carried the pattern for something as ancient and, I supposed, obscure as Ethiopian coffee, the escort quickly explained.
“This fabricant, like most of those in operation throughout the Human Entelechy, is tied into the infostructure and is capable of producing anything that anyone in the Entelechy knows how to produce.”
“I take it that this ‘infostructure’ is a data network of some sort?”
“Yes.” The escort flapped its wings for a brief moment, launching across empty space and alighting on the surface of the dining table, where it arranged itself directly in front of me.
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