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336 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 12, 2022
Halyard went back to browsing the latest fallout from the biobank attacks. Global stock markets, rattled by the hacking of the unhackable, were down about a third of a percent, comparable to a rogue state testing a nuclear bomb or a major economy electing a mildly left-wing government. Several of the companies involved in scanning human brains after death had released statements insisting that their own data centres were still absolutely secure, but a meme of Saudi origin was now circulating in which the architects of the Egyptian pyramids used the exact same language with the pharaohs.
‘But the universe is bloody huge – stuff like that must happen every minute. You can’t go on strike over it. Honestly it sounds to me to like your real enemy isn’t climate change or habitat loss, it’s entropy. You don’t like the idea that everything eventually crumbles. Well, it does. If you’re this worried about species extinction, wait until you hear about the heat death of the universe.’
The actual hors d'oeuvre, which was served an hour later because of all the commotion, was veal brain carpaccio. And Halyard was famished by then, which made it all the more frustrating that the carpaccio was almost impossible to eat. The meat, which had been cut to a width of 100 micrometres, shrivelled away to nothing the instant you touched it with your fork. It was like trying to eat the surface tension off a glass of water.
And he'd heard that these days the people you met inside were not fondly disposed towards environmental crimes, not the guards and not the prisoners either. It was never good to be the culpable human face of an ongoing mega-tragedy affecting every living being. All it would take was one guy on your wing who'd lost his village to a flood or his grandma to a heatwave back in his home country and you really would be on the shit-list next to that child murderer. And they wouldn't care about the details. "It was just a bet on the price of a financial asset!" he imagined himself screaming in terror. "Please - surely you can understand - I'm not a bad person, I just saw an opportunity in the markets!"
"The extinction industry has never saved a single species. It's just a performance, a fiction. It's about extracting subsidies and kickbacks, year after year. That's all. The price of credits goes up, you make money. The price of credits goes down, you make money. The suits always win and the animals always lose. A hundred thousand extinctions a year and you're just making it easier for them."
The problem was that Halyard couldn't dispute the guy's overall analysis, which was quite astute, so he would sound pedantic trying to dispute the guy's factual premises, which were deluded. Still, at least now he had a sense of who they might be dealing with.
Like making a bargain with a witch or a goblin, signing a smart contract was not just agreeing to be bound by it, it was becoming bound by it, instantly and inescapably. The reality in which you lived changed from the moment you signed it, because in essence a smart contract added a few lines to the code of every computer system around you, constraining those systems to operate within its terms.
Now she imagined herself bringing her foot down and crushing the eggs into daub, looking the turnstone right in the eye as she did so. It would be the closest she had ever come to the experience of that Siberian hunter when he wounded the tiger. The murder of animals was an enormous collaborative project, perhaps the fundamental human project, like a charity drive or war effort to which everyone made their little contribution. But because most of those contributions were so fragmentary and indirect, there was almost never an opportunity to impress upon yourself upon the consciousness of your victim the way Markov did. If she bereaved the turnstone right in front of its face, if she committed such an intimate and demonstrative act of violence, maybe it would understand just for a moment what she was, what they all were. She would be measured and acknowledged. [...]
But of course the understanding itself was not enough. What she wanted was not to stamp on the turnstone's eggs. What she wanted was the turnstone to stamp on her, to grind her shell into the earth.
❝Evolution was a monstrous maker, a blind heedless thing inching along in no particular direction, the whole disaster fueled by spilled blood and wasted effort, Amazon rivers of both.❞
❝The endangered and the extinct, the remnants and the endlings. The only living things that really mattered to her. She would lie there, uncomplaining, as they ate her flesh.❞
❝Probably some little drone was already on its way to check what had happened. These days you were always under surveillance wherever you went — what a heavenly time to be alive.❞