Accelerando by Charles Stross, indisputably.
>_> I'll just copy a review I posted on another forum. Effort sucks!
I'm a teen yet I find "teen" fiction so childish and vapid. :/ The only books that really get my attention have to present radical new ideas, be written amazingly, or both. Which is why I'm completely in love with this unnamed series Charles Stross is writing, that begins with what I believe is his best book, and the greatest science fiction book ever written: Accelerando.(He has released it online with a creative commons license or something here: http://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-st ... rando.html
LANGUAGE AND ADULT CONTENT WARNING. And uh. I'm 15 BUT I CAN HANDLE EXPLICIT CONTENT WITH MATURITY)
But holy crap is it good. Accelerando is a dizzying ride through a technological singularity that tells the story of three generations of the Macx family: Manfred, his ex-wife Pamela, and his wife Annette; Manfred and Pamela's daughter Amber; and Amber's eigenself and an imam named Sadeq's son Sirhan. I suppose it covers four generations; Sirhan and his wife Rita's son Manny is briefly seen at the tail end of the book. With huge claws for arms. God I love Charles Stross. XD
It begins in the 2010s with a group of virtualized lobsters asking Manfred for help with defecting from the Novy-SSR, continues with Amber's journey as queen of the Ring Imperium, a monarchy located in Jupiter's orbit, to an alien wireless router in orbit around a star half a parsec away, and ends with Manny killing the family's robot cat Aineko, which in its 300 or so years of existence has allowed it to transcend to a state of strongly godlike intelligence. And never in those 415 or so pages was I bored or disappointed. Stross manages to cram more wacky and genius ideas into a single chapter than most SF writers can fit into an entire book. And the writing. Oh god. It's the kind of thing that I can only imagine was written on a binge of some kind of heavy stimulant.
Manfred walks down a hall of mirrors. At the far end, he emerges in a public space modeled on a Menger sponge – a cube diced subtractively into ever-smaller cubic volumes until its surface area tends toward infinity. This being meatspace, or a reasonable simulation thereof, it isn't a real Menger sponge; but it looks good at a distance, going down at least four levels.
He pauses behind a waist-high diamond barrier and looks down into the almost-tesseract-shaped depths of the cube's interior, at a verdant garden landscape with charming footbridges that cross streams laid out with careful attention to the requirements of feng shui. He looks up: Some of the cube-shaped subtractive openings within the pseudofractal structure are occupied by windows belonging to dwellings or shared buildings that overlook the public space. High above, butterfly-shaped beings with exotic colored wings circle in the ventilation currents. It's hard to tell from down here, but the central cuboid opening looks to be at least half a kilometer on a side, and they might very well be posthumans with low-gee wings – angels.
Angels, or rats in the walls? he asks himself, and sighs. Half his extensions are off-line, so hopelessly obsolete that the temple's assembler systems didn't bother replicating them, or even creating emulation environments for them to run in. The rest ... well, at least he's still physically orthohuman, he realizes. Fully functional, fully male. Not everything has changed – only the important stuff. It's a scary-funny thought, laden with irony. Here he is, naked as the day he was born – newly re-created, in fact, released from the wake-experience-reset cycle of the temple of history – standing on the threshold of a posthuman civilization so outrageously rich and powerful that they can build mammal-friendly habitats that resemble works of art in the cryogenic depths of space. Only he's poor, this whole polity is poor, and it can't ever be anything else, in fact, because it's a dumping ground for merely posthuman also-rans, the singularitarian equivalent of australopithecines. In the brave new world of the Vile Offspring, they can't get ahead any more than a protohominid could hack it as a rocket scientist in Werner von Braun's day. They're born to be primitive, wallowing happily in the mud-bath of their own limited cognitive bandwidth. So they fled into the darkness and built a civilization so bright it can put anything earthbound that came before the singularity into the shade ... and it's still a shanty town inhabited by the mentally handicapped.
The asteroid is running Barney: it sings of love on the high frontier, of the passion of matter for replicators, and its friendship for the needy billions of the Pacific Rim. "I love you," it croons in Amber's ears as she seeks a precise fix on it: "Let me give you a big hug ..."
A fraction of a light-second away, Amber locks a cluster of cursors together on the signal, trains them to track its Doppler shift, and reads off the orbital elements. "Locked and loaded," she mutters. The animated purple dinosaur pirouettes and prances in the middle of her viewport, throwing a diamond-tipped swizzle stick overhead. Sarcastically: "Big hug time! I got asteroid!" Cold gas thrusters bang somewhere behind her in the interstage docking ring, prodding the cumbersome farm ship round to orient on the Barney rock. She damps her enthusiasm self-consciously, her implants hungrily sequestrating surplus neurotransmitter molecules floating around her synapses before reuptake sets in. It doesn't do to get too excited in free flight. But the impulse to spin handstands, jump and sing is still there: It's her rock, and it loves her, and she's going to bring it to life.
The workspace of Amber's room is a mass of stuff that probably doesn't belong on a spaceship. Posters of the latest Lebanese boy band bump and grind through their glam routines: Tentacular restraining straps wave from the corners of her sleeping bag, somehow accumulating a crust of dirty clothing from the air like a giant inanimate hydra. (Cleaning robots seldom dare to venture inside the teenager's bedroom.) One wall is repeatedly cycling through a simulation of the projected construction cycle of Habitat One, a big fuzzy sphere with a glowing core (that Amber is doing her bit to help create). Three or four small pastel-colored plastic kawaii dolls stalk each other across its circumference with million-kilometer strides. And her father's cat is curled up between the aircon duct and her costume locker, snoring in a high-pitched tone.
Amber yanks open the faded velour curtain that shuts her room off from the rest of the hive: "I've got it!" she shouts. "It's all mine! I rule!" It's the sixteenth rock tagged by the orphanage so far, but it's the first that she's tagged by herself, and that makes it special. She bounces off the other side of the commons, surprising one of Oscar's cane toads – which should be locked down in the farm, it's not clear how it got here – and the audio repeaters copy the incoming signal, noise-fuzzed echoes of a thousand fossilized infants' video shows.