By Charles Stross
Whilst Robin wakes up in a sanatorium with such a lot of his stories lacking, it doesn’t take him lengthy to find that somebody is making an attempt to kill him. It’s the twenty-seventh century, whilst interstellar trip is through teleport gate and conflicts are fought by means of community worms that censor refugees’ personalities and aim historians. The civil struggle is over and Robin has been demobilized, yet a person wishes him out of the image due to anything his previous self knew.
On the run from a ruthless pursuer and looking out for a spot to conceal, he volunteers to take part in a special experimental polity, the Glasshouse, developed to simulate a pre-accelerated tradition. members are assigned anonymized identities: It seems like definitely the right hiding position for a posthuman at the run. yet during this escape-proof surroundings, Robin will endure a good extra radical switch, putting him on the mercy of the experimenters—and on the mercy of his personal unbalanced psyche...
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Additional resources for Glasshouse
She asked the cousin nearest. "Last I heard," the woman said. " She threw an involuntary glance at the desk clock and walked on through, burdenless, putting her dog tags to rights again, dodging past cousins with last-minute business in cargo, mostly maintenance who were taking wastage to the chute, and now and again someone with a personal bit of debris to jettison, a nuisance that should have been run through comp before now, but there was always someone trying to break through the line of incomers with something outgoing.
And once, just once to see what others had, what life was like outside that terror, with the fancy bars and the fancy sleepovers and a woman with something other than larceny in mind— He had never had a place to go before, never had a destination. He had lived in this narrow compartment most of his life and only planned what he would do to avoid the traps behind him. Pell, Allison Reilly said; and deals; and it agreed with the rumors, that there were routes opening, hope— hope for marginers like him.
No one sane would head into jump alone, with a comp that had no backup, with trank and food and water taped to the board: he told himself so, making his prep, darting glances back to comp and scan, listening to the buoy beeping steadily, watching them track right down the line. He put the trank into his arm. It was time for that… to dull the senses which were about to be abused. Not one jump to face… but three; and if he missed on one of them, he reckoned, he would never know it. There was speculation as to what it was to be strung out in the between, and speculation about what the human mind might start doing once the drugs wore off and there was no way back.