Existence (22 page)

“They all survived to reproduce and to see their successors safely on their way. That’s what the word ‘ancestor’ means! Across centuries and millennia, they passed on their torch to new generations, who carried life and human culture forward to more generations, still. They died knowing at least the story would go on. It sounds like a simple a task. But it never was, for any of them. A gritty, essential challenge, it absorbed nearly all their lives. The core objective of any sane individual or civilization … or species, for that matter. A goal that you would-be godmakers and meddlers seem to forget, in your pell-mell rush for individual satisfaction, personal immortality and so-called progress.

“Indeed, it may be the one thing most endangered, as we journey together, into a perilous tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Audience applause, when it came, was mixed. Hamish saw equal numbers clapping or else sitting with folded hands, glowering back at him. Among the latter group was Roger Betsby, who watched from the second row with little expression.

Ripples of discussion coursed through the hall, some of it neighbor-to-neighbor, but also at the augmented-reality levels. People turned and pointed at others in the crowd, while mouthing silently, trusting their specs to route the words through vir-space. Some even stood up, motioning for others to join them in clusters, at the side or back of the room.

Dang, I really got ’em riled up!

Hamish felt good. Each time he delivered this message, it was a little better tuned. Ready to be tweaked, improved, and refined at the Movement’s think tank. And the prospect of influencing the world’s future almost made up for the pang he felt, whenever he thought about the time this took away from creative work.

As expected, the questions that followed were a mix—some consisting of polite challenges while others displayed outright hostility. Hamish didn’t mind a bit. He egged on a couple of the most fervent, so that they shouted, voices cracking, and conference organizers had to pull them away. Just the sort of images that Tenskwatana’s people could edit and emphasize, strengthening a valuable stereotype. That of goggle-eyed fanatics. Demonstrating that these people shouldn’t to be trusted with a burnt match, let alone high-tech power over human destiny.

More people stood up to leave—only to be expected, since the talk was formally over. But, an increasing number were tapping their specs, waggling fingers in the air, muttering while pointing at each other, passing e-notes.

They’re excited, all right. I may have to slip out the back way.

All the while, Hamish kept trying
not
to glance at the bearded man in the second row. Some of the people out there, those with top-grade specs, could track wherever his eye-gaze went. Too much attention in one direction—on one person—might be noticed.

This is what I get for trying to kill several birds with one cliché. Betsby wanted a public meeting place. I was coming here anyway, so it seemed natural to arrange a rendezvous. But honestly, who expected him to come?

Nothing about this case—the poisoning of Senator Strong—seemed typical. A perpetrator who was perfectly willing to admit it? A blackmailer who refused to explain to his victim
what
secret he kept, or what tincture he had used, to send the senator into an embarrassing public tizzy?

A solitary nut, perhaps, who didn’t seem to care if he made powerful enemies.

A True Believer, then? But he doesn’t have the look. And our investigators found no background consistent with a lone maniac. A medical doctor, working in urban free clinics. A modern Schweitzer? Sure, that could make him despise Senator Strong. And he’d have the tools, the know-how, to concoct a psychotropic poison.

But the whole thing just doesn’t hold together. Betsby has to be more than he seems. The tip of an arrow. The point of a spear. Part of a deeper plot. Is that why he wanted to meet me here, in the heart of technogeek-land?

A woman stood up from the audience, chosen to be the next questioner—rather stocky and heavy for someone of her generation. Perhaps she was allergic to biosculpting, or philosophically opposed to it. A halo of light converged, illuminating her round face from several directions. The live-acoustic walls amplified her words, without echo or any need for a microphone.

“Mr. Brookeman, I’d like to shift topics, if you don’t mind. Because it seems that the future is rushing upon us, even while you stand there, pontificating about the importance of slowing down.”

“Well, now,” he answered. “There are always crises. A never-ending tide of human-generated mistakes. Which one has you worried, this time?”

“One that may not qualify as
human-generated
at all, sir. I’m sure you’re aware of the gossip that’s been tsunaming around for the last week—that space station astronauts
found something
in orbit. Something highly unusual. Perhaps even non-Earthly in origin?”

Hamish blinked. The leak was spreading fast. His own last update, before going to bed last night, had told of vigorous government efforts to keep the rumors corked, or at least discredited. The Prophet had even called some Movement resources into play, in order to help distract public attention from the story.

This might have been a good time to wear specs, after all,
he thought, wishing he might call up a late summary, while mulling his answer. Multitasking did have advantages.…

“Well,” he chuckled, covering any hint of discomfort, “by definition, anything you find outside Earth would be
non-Earthly
—”

But no. That feeble thread wasn’t worth pursuing. So he nodded, instead.

“Yes, I’ve heard some tall tales and seen blurry images. Who hasn’t? So far, they’ve seemed pretty far-fetched. Like the amphibious Tidal Sasquatch of a few years ago. Or, remember the
quantum creatures
that people claimed to see, when they pressed their eyes against the holographic bigscreens made by Fabrique Zaire? Till it was shown that folks were simply scratching their own corneas!”

That drew a few weak chuckles. Not many.

“So what is the latest, fevered fantasy to sweep the globe?” Hamish lapsed into a heavily sardonic drawl. “Well, now, ain’t it excitin’? A bona fide, surefire, rootin’-tootin’ alien artifact! Showin’ up right in middle orbit,
just
where an astronaut could snag it with a lasso while trawlin’ for garbage. How convenient!

“Of course,” he added, in a less sarcastic tone, “there’s no explanation of
how
such a thing could have got there. A glowing lump, like an opal or crystal, not much bigger than your head—that’s the thing you’re talking about, right? But has anybody thought to ask—how could something like that navigate Earth’s gravity well, without engines? Let alone change course, matching orbits—”

“Maybe somebody dropped it off!” a voice in the audience shouted. The dampers in a lecture hall could be tuned to squelch hecklers. But these extropians liked to keep things loose.

“Ah, the old UFO gambit.” Hamish smiled. “Oh, I admit, I’ve had fun with flying saucers, in my time. The mythology is just so rich! Meddlers from just beyond our firelight sweep in mysteriously to make cryptic pronouncements, or issue threats, or give lonely farmers free colonoscopies.”

This time, audience laughter was a bit fuller, tasting like bread and drink. Here was a topic where most people in the room agreed. Hamish even felt a touch of gratitude to the woman, for diverting onto this subject. Now the event could end on a lighter note.

“Of course it’s funny how UFO aliens always seem to be portrayed the same way. Looking and acting just like pixies, or nasty elves, straight out of ancient tales! Making it pretty obvious where they
really
come from.”

He tapped the side of his head, eliciting a few more laughs.

The response was still anemic, though. He was barely holding a majority … while many others kept waggling or beaming or whatever-it-was at each other. Clearly, there would be a lot of noise in the hall, right now, if not for the dampers. Hamish forged on.

“Then there’s the fact that our planet is filling with more and more
cameras,
doubling in number every year or two. Heck, at last survey, four-fifths of the land surface of Earth is under round-the-clock observation. But has that helped us to pin down these pesky flying saucers, or get a better view of ’em? Ha!
Coincidentally,
the sightings keep happening farther and farther away!
Just
far enough, every year, to stay blurry, despite improving cameras!

“Used to be, we’d get lots of fuzzy glimpses on spotty film, a few hundred meters from a road or town. Today, encounters only seem to happen in the deep desert, or midocean. Or it’s amateur astronomers, reporting strange lights near the Moon and Mars. Wherever the panopticon still has gaps, allowing tantalizing…”

Hamish meant to go on, milking a riff that he hadn’t used in a while. But the stocky woman interrupted.

“Mr. Brookeman, do you mind? Most of us know your views on UFOs, from
The Elf.
One of your sillier movies, by the way. But can we please stay on topic? You seem to be an hour or two out of touch!

“In fact…,” she continued, while slowing down, tapping the edges of her specs and waggling the fingers of her other hand in open space. “As a matter … of fact … even as we speak…”

She slowed to a stop, going slack-jawed, staring at images projected on the inner surface of her web-spectacles, and finally breathed a single word.

“Wow!”

The islands of distraction now became a babbling archipelago, as individuals hurried to follow her attention trail. Clusters of people flashed tags to each other. Some of them gasped in their own turn, pointing and commenting to each other with low whispers. Facing a sea of flickering lenses and waving hands, Hamish cleared his throat.

“Um, did something just happen? Will someone please explain—”

Another audience member stood up, this time from the very front row. She was svelte and tall, wearing clear specs that carried plenty of gear—like a floating gel-lens—while also revealing her sharp, pale-brown eyes.

“Tor Povlov, of MediaCorp’s show,
The Povlovian Response
.”
Wriggles identified the woman.
“Call her Miss Tor.”

Hamish cursed his slow thought process. He could have subvocalized a command to Wriggles and got a summary of whatever news everyone was tizzying about. Too late now. He nodded toward the newcomer. “Yes, Miss Tor?”

The conference center’s live acoustic walls responded by shifting priority to the reporter, bathing her in light and amplifying her voice.

“Since you aren’t linked-in, Mr. Brookeman, let me explain what’s going on, then ask your reaction. Apparently, someone—moments ago—issued more than a terab of purloined data from the NASA Marti Space Center. Images showing highlights of their effort to communicate and translate with the Object.”

No one could mistake the capitalization of that final word.

“Really?” Hamish raised his voice to be heard over a rising murmur from the crowd. Even the dampers were getting strained. “Well, I shouldn’t have to tell you that leaks can’t be trusted. Almost anything can be faked and viral-released, even through an official site. I wouldn’t go molten over uncredentialed vids.”

By now, a clear majority had dived into full-immersion. It irked Hamish to have so few actually looking his way. Of those left in the
here-and-now
, most seemed more interested in the reporter than him. Except for Roger Betsby, that is. The bearded poisoner kept his gaze firmly on Hamish.

Tor Povlov shook her head.

“Then I guess you haven’t heard the rest, Mr. Brookeman. NASA and the Department of Foresight have already issued a nondenial. No more calm-downs or distractions. Nor any outright disavowals of the leak. Only a promise to find the persons responsible and hit them with a
prematurity fine.
”

The phrase provoked chuckles and derisive smirks. That slap on the wrist never stopped anybody. At least, no one who had Guild protection and a plausible claim of public interest.

Hamish blinked, abruptly wishing he could be somewhere else. In contact with his own people. Or the Prophet’s.

While I stood here, blathering to extropians about their silly fantasies, the real-world situation has spun out of control.

Tor Povlov continued in a friendly tone. “All morning, MediaCorp has been tracking a sharp spike in diplomatic encrypt traffic, between various national alliances, cartels, and WCNs. Clearly, they were being given advance warning and consultation about something big. But a wave of perplexes and distracts kept us from zeroing in on
which
rumored event it was all about.”

That would have been the Prophet’s doing. At least it worked for a few hours.

“Only now…” She paused for a moment of artfully divided attention, then gracefully resumed. “… it appears the White House has scheduled a plenum press conference for three o’clock eastern time. Just under an hour from now. And MediaCorp’s forcaister gives a ninety-two percent confidence projection that it will be a public confirmation of the Havana leak, followed by full disclosure.”

In what must be a dramatic concession, for someone of her generation, Tor Povlov reached up and flipped the lenses of her vir-spectacles, in order to give Hamish the courtesy of her full attention, here-and-now. Of course that tiny gel-lens kept transmitting to her point-of-view audience, around the world.

“Hence, my question for you, Mr. Brookeman. You’ve just spent an hour scolding these would-be godmakers,” she said the word with a lilt that conveyed her own level of skepticism. “Hectoring them with a stark litany of worries about a dangerously disrupted future.

“And lo, the future has arrived! This disruption—or
disturber,
to use your own term—is likely to be a doozy. Perhaps even like in your stories.

“Only, human foolishness seems to have had little to do with it, this time. And, unlike what always happens in your novels, this cat isn’t likely to get hushed and stuffed back in the bag, before the denouement.