Nature Futures 2 (36 page)

“I have,” said Sandra. “But putting their ideas into practice would take a massive amount of equipment, and we don't have the funding.”

“Not yet,” said Wesley, opening
Spiritual Physics
at a double-page advertisement and holding it to his chest for us to read.

“The Trumpington Foundation?” squeaked Pete.

“Call for proposals,” Wesley said. “Historical Reconstruction Project.”

“Oh, come on, Wesley. They're not interested in genuine history. What they want is so-called ‘scientific proof' of biblical events.”

“Agreed. But they're offering a grant of $30 million.”

“How do you propose to divert funding for historical evidence of supernatural events into quantum computation?” I asked.

“I thought that instead of digging up the past, we could simulate it.”

“You want to compute the Crucifixion?”

“Of course not.” I relaxed. “We need to think bigger.” I tensed. “I don't believe you can cherry-pick historical incidents. History is a single system.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Wes, it's been done. Isaac Asimov. Psychohistory. The great Hari Seldon forecast the entire history of the Galactic Empire as it plunged into anarchy. But that was fiction, and even Asimov had to write some extra books to patch the holes. Chaos, for starters.”

“Godwit and Pond explain in rigorous detail why chaotic effects do not, in fact, change the course of history.”

“Yeah,” Sandra chipped in. “It's not a matter of one stupid butterfly flapping its wing and causing a tornado. There's zillions of butterflies, flapping like crazy all the time. What one flap creates, the next destroys. It all averages out.”

“Yes, and it averages out to one thing. Quantum simulations of history always give a unique result, provided they're really big simulations.”

“So … we get hundreds of quantum computers, and simulate the whole of human history, right?”

“Wrong. We spend this grant on a feasibility study, and simulate the twentieth century. When that works, we hit Trumpington for a really big grant.”

“But Wes, where would the simulation start?” I asked. “There's no way to get accurate initial conditions.”

Wesley's face fell. “Hadn't thought of that.”

But Pete's eyes were shining. “Not a problem. We start from the present and work backwards.”

To cut a long story short, we got the grant. We bought 10,000 QQorp MR2s, with Extel ParacoreMulto QPUs. We hooked the lot into the Gnet, and imported every present-day fact available. Then we ran Schrödinger's equation in reverse time, to work out what history had been.

The feasibility study checked out in every detail, right down to who really assassinated Kennedy. Trumpington was impressed; we bought another half a million MR2s, and calculated our way back towards the Middle Ages.

The Domesday Book reconstruction was word-perfect, and we celebrated. But somewhere around 990 the simulation went off the rails.

It was Pete who spotted it. “Hang on … shouldn't Vladimir of Kiev be a Christian by now?”

Sandra pulled up a data-window. “He should have converted in 988.”

“So why is he building a Temple of Mithras?”

“What?”

“Maybe he converted back,” I said, but somehow I doubted that. “Let's call Wesley.”

But when Wesley arrived, none of us could work out why we'd called him. The simulation was spot on. Vladimir's temple bore a striking resemblance to the famous building in Kiev that currently attracted pilgrims from all over Europe. With Wesley as our Heliodromus, we chanted a
Yasht
in praise of Mithras, to celebrate the accuracy of our simulation.

But later that evening, we once more became concerned. The Aztec invasion of Australia didn't seem to be following the expected pattern, and the Chinese Empire was totally out of whack, except along the Icelandic coast. Sandra ran a few tests, and called a Holy Conclave.

“Fellow initiates,” she said. “I have bad news. I have looked up some obscure files, and we are in the wrong universe.”

“Don't be stupid, Sandra.”

“To be precise, we are in a superposition of our original universe with the simulated one. Practical quantum computation requires entanglement on the level of bulk matter. Unfortunately, our simulation was so massive that it became entangled with the real world.”

“You mean…?”

“The world has in effect become our simulation — which turns out to be hopelessly inaccurate. Or would be, except that the world is changing to match it. Aside from a few vestiges of the original, such as the anomalous files I just showed you. Which are slowly fading, even as I speak.”

We all thought about this. Eventually I broke the silence.

“Which anomalous files, Sandra?”

“Files? I didn't mention any files!”

“Then why did you invoke this conclave?”

“To report that the simulation has now reached regnal year 12 of Queen Nefershepsut of Jerusalem, and it remains perfect in every detail.”

“Praise be to Napoleon of Lancaster!” we cried in unison. I looked out of the window. Herds of camelopard grazed the nearby plains, and huge galleys laden with electrum from the mines of Atlantis were moored in the harbour. A procession of domesticated mammoths made its way through the city, as the Lemurian virgins gave thanks for the Rebirth of the Sun in a ceremony as old as time itself.

I sighed.

All was exactly as it should be.

Ian Stewart, emeritus professor at the University of Warwick, writes popular science books and science fiction. His
Science of Discworld
series with Terry Pratchett and Jack Cohen lies somewhere in between.

The Greatest Science-Fiction Story Ever Written

Eric James Stone

I tore open the self-addressed, stamped envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. The letter was signed by the editor of
Analog Science Fiction
and was addressed to me, personally, which still gave me a warm feeling after all those years of form rejections. But what I craved now was an acceptance.

And … this wasn't it.
Good luck placing this elsewhere
, the letter read.

I shoved the rejection in my overstuffed file with the rest of them. Eyeing the four-inch-thick wad of paper, I felt a wave of despair. Maybe I didn't have what it took to be a science-fiction writer. Maybe I should just give it up — after all, I worked for a quantum-computing start-up. That was almost science fiction, even if all I did was manage the website. Maybe that was as close as I'd ever get.

The next day, while having a mint Oreo shake at a restaurant near my office, I told Caleb, one of the quantum-circuit experts I worked with, that I doubted I'd ever see my name in print.

“Don't quit,” he said. “You're a great writer.” He'd read a few of my stories to give me feedback on where I'd got the science wrong.

I shrugged. “Doesn't matter, if I'm not writing what editors want to buy.”

“Why don't you?”

“Why don't I? It's not that easy,” I said. “There's no way of knowing what an editor will like. I write the best story I can, but apparently that's just not good enough.”

“So it's subjective.” Caleb took a bite of his burger and chewed thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” I said, playing with the last spoonful of shake in my cup. “What one editor thinks isn't worth publishing, another might think is the greatest science-fiction story ever written. It's just my luck that the editor who would love my stuff isn't actually an editor anywhere.”

“No, no,” Caleb said. “You're looking at it all wrong. What you need is a story that adapts itself perfectly to the editor.”

I dabbed my lips with a paper napkin. “I just told you I don't know how to write what they're looking for.”

“Right.” Caleb grabbed the napkin from my hand, flattened it out, took a pen from his pocket and sketched a curve. “It's a probability function. The right combination of words makes them buy the story, the wrong combination means they don't.”

“I suppose,” I said dubiously.

“And if it's a probability function, then our quantum computer can handle it.” He scribbled an equation, crossed part of it out, then added something. “Oh, boy. This will revolutionize publishing.”

I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

He stopped scribbling. “Imagine you open a book, and from the very first word, it's exactly what you want to read. Every word is perfect, the characters fascinate you, the plot thrills you…”

“That'd be cool,” I said.

“And someone else opens their copy of the same book, and it's perfect for them. Only if you compare the two books, the words aren't the same. The story and characters aren't even the same. The book has adapted itself to be the perfect book for whoever first opened it.”

I frowned. “You mean, it's like an e-book that changes based on personal preferences?”

“No, this would be printed on paper. But the text itself would have been composed using a quantum computer, like the one we have at the office, using a program to create a quantum probability wave function that doesn't collapse until someone actually observes what was printed.” Caleb sat back with a satisfied grin.

“And when the wave collapses…” I said, not quite sure that I understood the implications.

“The book becomes the best book ever written for whoever collapses the wave. It's brilliant.” Caleb leaned forward. “And we can use it to make sure you get your name in print. How would you like to be the author of the greatest science-fiction story ever written?”

*   *   *

I stared at the sheets of paper lying facedown on the printer. “You're certain I can't take just a peek?”

“If you do,” Caleb said, “the wave function will collapse and the story will become the best story for you, not for the editor of
Analog
. He needs to be the one to see it first.”

“Can I at least know the title?” I felt kind of awkward submitting a story that I knew nothing about, even though Caleb assured me that I could still be considered the author, as the computer could not have been programmed to create a probability wave function for science-fiction stories without my help.

“Nope,” he said. “I've hard-coded your name and contact information into the printout, but the rest remains undecided until the editor reads it.”

With a sigh, I slid the manuscript into the manila envelope and sealed it.

*   *   *

Sixty days later, my SASE returned. I took it unopened to the office the next day — I wanted to open it with Caleb.

“Could be an acceptance or a rejection,” I said.

“Open it,” Caleb said, looking at the envelope. “You have to collapse the wave function. But I'm sure it's an acceptance.”

I opened it.

“Read it out loud,” Caleb said.

I looked past my name and began reading. “In my opinion, this is the greatest science-fiction story ever written.” My heart leapt within me, and I continued. “It is undoubtedly the best story you have ever submitted to me. But what on Earth made you think you could get away with submitting a verbatim copy of ‘Nightfall' by Isaac Asimov?”

Nebula Award winner and Hugo nominee Eric James Stone's stories have appeared in
Year's Best SF
and
Analog
, among other venues. His website is
www.ericjamesstone.com
.

1-9-4-Blue-3-7-2-6-Gamma-Tetrahedron

Ian Randal Strock

I always knew I was destined for great things, even as a child. It was only when I started growing up that I learned how the world worked, and realized that great wealth would make those great things much easier to attain. Unfortunately, attaining great wealth wasn't quite so easy.

I didn't find my fortune on Wall Street. My writing career looked to be pleasant, but not blockbuster. Lottery wins were hard to come by. And I didn't even have a big enough stake to take the poker world by storm.

Then, one day, I hit upon the solution. It was so simple I almost laughed with joy at it.

I didn't have to find my fortune all by myself.

As long as the Universe would allow time travel, my future self already knew how I'd made my fortune. With time travel, of course, he'd come back to tell me how to do it, ensuring that he would have that fortune when the time came.

So all I had to do was be prepared for my visit from my future self. Chance favours the prepared mind, and I was going to be prepared. I needed a foolproof way of recognizing my future self, because he might have only a moment to give me what I needed. He might not look like me any more. I needed something. A recognition code. Something I would know, he would remember, and no one else would ever even think of.

1-9-4-blue-3-7-2-6-gamma-tetrahedron.

A code. A code I repeated to myself nearly constantly at first, until it became ingrained in my brain. And then only regularly, to keep it fresh, so I would recognize it instantly. Who knew? My contact with my future self might be only a few seconds. I would need to be able to hear (or see) that code and know it immediately, so as not to waste whatever brief time interval we might have together.

1-9-4-blue-3-7-2-6-gamma-tetrahedron.

I kept plugging away, trying to write that best-selling novel (no luck yet); on Wall Street, everyone seemed to be making money but me; I hadn't yet hit a winning lottery combination. But I knew my destiny was assured. Somewhere out there was the future me who had the answers; who knew how I would make my fortune. And he'd be back to tell me. After all, he needed to tell me how to do it, so that he would have that fortune.

1-9-4-blue-3-7-2-6-gamma-tetrahedron.

I went to work for an Internet start-up company, but it didn't make it out of the gate. I tried my hand at poker, but was only a fair player, and without a large enough bankroll, the big-money tournaments were well out of my reach. I even started several businesses, on my own and with friends, but they all came to nought.