Existence (73 page)

Finally, buried among the merely urgent messages, Lacey stumbled onto the one she had been waiting for. From Riyadh.

The Quantum Eye had taken up her question, at last.

It might even have a preliminary answer soon!

Lacey sat up with rising enthusiasm. Only, before she could read more—

—commotion broke out, beyond the thick glass! Gerald Livingstone and his colleagues were tapping on immersion goggles or clustering around holoscreens. She heard muffled shouts. No one paid any heed to the egg-shaped Artifact, still methodically dumping technical schematics.

“What’s going on?” Lacey asked, while other advisers clicked into the Mesh. Hermes appeared to roll his eyes upward, going deathlike for a moment, before speaking in flattish, machinelike tones.

“There are reports of
activity
in the asteroid belt and several Lagrangian points. Observatories and monitoring satellites report intense light beams, followed by flashes and detonations.”

Henri sucked through his teeth. “So? We’re pretty sure those are come-and-get-me signals from other emissary probes, desperate to make their own sales pitches. The Chinese, Brazilians, and Americans are preparing missions. Those space twinkles perfectly disprove the ridiculous hoax claim—”

“You aren’t following me,” Hermes interrupted. “These are
intense coherent beams,
seven or eight orders of magnitude more energetic than earlier flashes. Powerful enough to vaporize solid rock.”

Silence reigned for several seconds. Then—

“Jeepers,” Lacey said. “You mean laser weapons?”

“Not just that,” Ram commented. The Afro-Hindi alienist waggled fingers, causing holos to appear above the table, portraying black space dusted by a torus of glittery motes. Some specks brightened abruptly, accompanied by rows of numbers. “Most targets appear to be where we saw come-get-me flickers, days ago.

“Somebody is
destroying
those competing probes.”

Bright, narrow spears crisscrossed the zone between Mars and Jupiter. Lacey stared, letting it sink in.

War had erupted in the solar system.

Who was shooting? At whom? Without data, only one thing was clear.

Competition
had a new and stronger meaning.

THE PRIVATE WRITE-ONLY DIARY OF TOR POVLOV

Events are breaking so fast. I can barely keep up with the demands on me.

Hardly what you’d expect for a woman who was fried nearly to a cinder. Any prior era, I would’ve died in mercifully brief agony, or lingered under intravenous drip till I went mad from sensory deprivation. Now my problem? Overstimulation!

First, the docs won’t leave me be. They send nanocrawlers creeping from brain to spine, unreeling trellis fibers, secreting growth cocktails that lure neurons to follow. I’m repeatedly yanked out of my thoughts, or sent thrashing in my gel-capsule, by some impertinent flash of false color, taste, or smell.

I should be attentive and grateful. But seriously, there’s way too much on my plate. Like coordinating the now highly-rated
Povlov-Possai,
in its ongoing, semipro search for truth. Didn’t we help spread the alarm over those laser beams that amscis detected in space, a full seven minutes before Secur-Net announced anything?

And played a role in debunking that Hamish Brookeman character, till his be-
fox’d
followers are winnowed down to just half a billion or so—the gullible and desperate.

Still, perplexities linger …
like who is helping him?
Somebody furnished the “evidence” he offered, for a conspiracy that supposedly built the Artifact out of bits of this and that, then left it for Gerald Livingstone to find. Nonsense, but who would
want
to muddy the waters, using Brookeman as their shill?

Just as curious—who’s helping
us
? Certain pseudonymous members of our smart-mob—Like Birdwoman303—clearly know more than they let on.

And now, we seem to’ve been slipped a skeleton key … a set of
pass codes
letting us through some very well-protected doors!

This could be dangerous. But I downloaded some late-recent skulk-ware, to create shell personas and protect our members. That won’t keep out any of the Big Five governments … or Porfirio. But if they want us to stop, they should speak plainly. Or get out of our way.

What? Some of you want to follow the world’s attention outward, where beams of energy suddenly crisscross space with savage violence? Aw people, what are we, sci-fi fans? That’s where
everyone else
is looking! And by our own smart-mob covenant, we don’t hunt where others do. Come. Leave such garish stuff to major media, bureaucrats, the public. Let’s stay targeted.

We’re hot on the trail of those who
knew what the Artifact was, even before Livingstone did.
Who may have known about such things for centuries, or longer. Whatever their ancient rationalizations for secrecy …

… they have not been our friends.

54.

DISMEMBERMENT

Concussion slammed Peng Xiang Bin’s backside, when the window behind him exploded into a million shards.

It felt like a fist striking his body from behind, studded with millions of jagged slivers. Someone screamed—it might have been him—as the storm of brittle flecks jetted past to collide with a scintillating fog … the discretion screen that masked the worldstone. Dazzling sparkles flared as glass splinters met ionized nitrogen, framing his shadow in a blazing aura. It might have even been beautiful, if his mind had room for anything but shock and pain … plus a single, stunned word.

What?

Crashing into the table edge, Bin glimpsed Dr. Nguyen shouting—his left cheek bloody from a dozen cuts. Only a low hum penetrated. Nguyen pointed at Bin, then
into
the blinding haze above the tabletop—and finally jutted his thumb toward the exit farthest from the explosion. The ai-patch in Bin’s lower right vision cone started offering helpful interpretations, but he already understood.

Take the stone and get out of here!

This all took the barest moment. Another passed while Bin hesitated. Loyalty to his employer called for him to stay and fight. What would the others … Paul, Anna, and Yang Shenxiu … think if they saw him run away?

But Nguyen jutted his thumb again—emphatically—before turning to face something new, entering the room behind Bin. And Bin knew—even turning to see what it was might be the worst mistake of his life—

—so, instead, he dived into the drapery of fizzing sparks.

Naturally, it hurt like blazes. The discretion screen was designed to. With eyes closed, Bin scooped up the worldstone by recall alone, along with its nearby container satchel. A shoresteader needed good tactile memory.

Tumbling out the other side of the dazzle-curtain, he rolled across carpet onto his left knee. By touch alone, Bin slid the ovoid into its case while he blinked, praying for vision to return—

—then regretted, when he saw what had been the beautiful face of Anna Arroyo. She lay nearby, torn from forehead to ribs, the ever-present goggles now shattered into bits that helped ravage her.

Paul Menelaua, his own visage a mass of dribbling cuts, held his dying comrade, offering Anna his crucifix. The animatronic Jesus moved its mouth, perhaps reciting some final prayer or death rite, while its hands, still pinned to the silver cross, opened in welcome.

Hearing flooded back. Murky shouts erupted beyond the shrouded table where he had just fled, seconds ago. Dr. Nguyen’s protesting voice, arguing. Others that were harsh, demanding. The floor vibrated with heavy footsteps. Grating rumbles carried through the shattered window—from war engines that had somehow crossed the broad Pacific undetected, all the way to this rich, isolated atoll. So much for the mercenary protection that wealth supposedly provided.

Bin gathered his strength to go … then spotted the New Beijing professor, Yang Shenxiu, cowering nearby, clutching a table leg. The scholar babbled and offered Bin something—a memory sheet, no thicker than a piece of paper and about the same size. Yang Shenxiu’s fingernails clawed involuntarily at the fragile-looking polymer, leaving no tracks as Bin yanked it from the scholar’s hand and crammed it under his belt. Then, with a parting nod to Yang, he sprang away at a crouching run, dashing for a sliding door that gave way to a balcony, then the sheltering sea.

*   *   *

Bless the frugal habits of a shoresteader. Waste nothing. Reuse everything. On arriving at Newer Newport, Bin had kept sly possession of the little disposable underwater breathing apparatus the penguin-robot gave him, back in the murky Huangpu. Was it his fault they never asked for it back? In the well-equipped arcology kitchen, using a smuggler’s trick, he had managed to refill the tiny reserve tank, while rehearsing speeches of forgetful innocence, should anyone find it in his pocket.

Now, splashing into a storm of saltwater bubbles and engine noise, Bin fumbled at the compact breather with one hand, struggling to unfold the nosepiece and eye-shields, while the worldstone dragged him downward by the other. For a scary moment the survival gadget almost slipped from his grasp. Only after it was snugly in place did Bin kick off his sandals, grabbing a stanchion along one of the massive foundation pillars.

Okay. It’s good,
he noted as air flowed smoothly.
But ease up. Breathe slow and steady. Move slow and steady. Think slow and steady.

The normally clear waters roiled with turbid muck, a fog of churned gases, chopped seaweed, and fragments of shattered coral, along with a cloudy phosphorescence of stirred diatoms. Something foreign—perhaps leakage from those engines—filled his mouth with an oily tang. Still, Bin felt grateful for the obscuration.

Noises reverberated all around—more explosions and the rattattat of weapons being discharged somewhere, while bits and pieces of debris fell from Newer Newport, tumbling to disturb the muddy bottom. Or else landing atop the drowned Royal Palace of Pulupau. His shoresteader’s eye noted—if the two-story structure hadn’t collapsed, the roofline would extend well above where he was, even past the surface.

Bin clung to his perch, trying to both control his racing heart and seem very small. Especially when—after searching and peering about—he made out several vessels bobbing just beyond the reef, blocked from entering the lagoon by shoreline ruins. Evidently subs of some kind.
Sneakers,
built to bring commandos close to shore. Though Bin squinted, they were hard to make out. The nearest seemed a tubular bulge of ghostly ripples amid churning shoal currents …

… till the aiware in his right-hand field of view intervened, applying some imaging magic to overcome blur camouflage. At once, an augmented version—truer than reality—traced the nearest warship, a sleek, croclike shape whose mouth still gaped after spewing raiders, minutes ago.

Dr. Nguyen said this implant was a simple one, to help me with translations. But it seems a whole lot more. Perhaps smart, too?

That thought must have gone to nerves controlling speech, because Bin’s unvoiced question provoked an answer—one that floated briefly in the right eye’s field of view. A single, simple character.

YES

Bin shivered, realizing. He now had a companion—an ai—
inside
him. By one way of viewing things, it felt as much a violation as the painful cuts across his back. Which oozed blood in soft clouds, causing several sand sharks to start nosing up current. Not deadly in their own right. But more dangerous predators might soon converge, if the bleeding didn’t stop.

He tried to bear down and think.
Shall I try to reach one of the other arcologies?
Even if Newer Newport was taken, the rest of the resort colony might hold out. They must be, from the booming reverberations of ongoing combat. His loyalty had been personal, to Dr. Nguyen, not to any consortium of rich folks. Still, the stipend they were paying into an account, for Mei Ling and the child, that was reason enough to try.

If it seemed possible, that is. The worldstone was too heavy a burden to haul through a long underwater slog, with limited air, while dodging both sharks and raiders. Anyway—

The enemy … they’ll soon realize the stone isn’t up top, anymore. There’ll be searchers in the water, any second now.

He decided. It must be down.

Bin had already spotted several parts of the collapsed palace where the roof looked relatively intact, likely to host cavities and hiding places. Spots that only a shoresteader might notice. If he hid well, resting to minimize oxygen consumption, the invaders might give up after a quick scan, assuming the worldstone was already elsewhere—taken to another arcology.

Releasing the stanchion, he let the stone drag him down till bottom mud met his feet, four or five meters below the surface … and he felt antediluvian pavement underneath. The Pulupauan king’s ceremonial driveway, perhaps. Bin shuffled along, grateful none of the spiky new coral had taken root here. Hurrying, while trying not to exert himself, he slogged past several rusting hulks of automobiles—perhaps beloved, once upon a time, but not enough to take when the princely family fled rising seas.

There. That old window. The gable looks in good shape. Perfect.

Perhaps too perfect … but he had no time to be choosy. A series of hop-glides took him over the worst debris jumbles, arriving finally at the opening. Bin took a moment to shake the sill and frame, checking for stability. But wealthy scuba divers would already have come exploring by now. It must be safe.

He slipped inside, finding the expected cavelike hollow. There was even a small air pocket at the ceiling vertex, probably stale, left by those earlier sightseers. Lacking a torch, Bin chose to settle in next to the opening, clutching the satchel and waiting. Either till the bad guys went away, or his breather ran empty. The goggle part included a crude timer display. With luck and a very slow use-rate, there might be almost an hour of air.

Before it runs out, and I have to surface, I’ll hide the worldstone. And never tell.