Existence (75 page)

Adding pressure, no amount of openness will convince everyone the Americans aren’t hiding something. Somehow gaining more from the Havana Artifact than they’ve shared. Maybe even blocking others from getting artifacts of their own?

Meanwhile, intellectuals keep pondering galactic “contact” puzzles, politicians argue on as if clichés of “left-right” matter anymore, powerful connivers scheme for a kind of “stability” that only ensures death …

… and now
war in space
?

What will it take to wake people up?

56.

EDEN

Peng Xiang Bin let out a low moan and a stream of bubbles. He backed into a corner as the figure in the dormer-opening bent to twist through, while battle-booms and gunfire detonations rocked the sunken, royal ruins.

He’s wearing some kind of military uniform … and one of those helmets with emergency pop-out gills …

Oxygen-absorbing fronds were still unfolding out of headgear recesses while the newcomer sucked greedily at a small tube. Evidently a refugee from the renewed combat raging overhead, he wore goggles that were flooded and clearly not meant for underwater use. Bin watched as the soldier floundered.
He better calm down, or he’ll overwhelm those little gills.

Also, Bin realized—
I’m darkness adapted and my eye covers work. I can see him. He hasn’t seen me.

And he’s not as big as I first thought.

Those huge-looking shoulders had been inflated by air pockets, caught when the soldier jumped to sea. That false bulk was collapsing now. Bin now realized, the fellow was quite slender.

So … should I try to fight him?

The tide of battle may have turned outside. Still, Bin knew he was no warrior. Anyway, his duty was to tend the worldstone, not to risk his life for Newer Newport. Bin started edging toward the opening, lugging the satchel in short, shuffling steps, careful to avoid both broken timbers and the newcomer’s feet.

Whoever he was, the soldier must have had good training. Bin could tell he was adapting, gathering himself, concentrating on solving problems. As the rollicking explosions diminished a little, the fellow stopped thrashing and his rapid gasps ebbed into more regular breathing. When he started to experiment, exhaling a vertical stream of bubbles to clear and fill his goggles, Bin knew there was little time left to make a clean getaway. He picked up the pace, fumbling to find the opening. Only it took some effort while hauling the heavy …

He stopped, as sharp illumination erupted from an object in the soldier’s hand, engulfing Bin and the dormer window.

Aided by the implant, Bin’s right eye adapted, even as the left was dazzled. Because the implant laid a disc of blackness over the bright torchlight, he could tell it was part of a weapon—a small sidearm the soldier aimed at Bin’s chest.

For several seconds, Bin stood and exchanged a long look with the soldier, who drifted almost within arm’s reach. Slowly, without jerky motions, Bin pointed at the torch … then at the dormer entrance … then jabbed his thumb upward several times.

Whoever is chasing you may see that light, streaming out of the ruins … and drop something unpleasant on us.

The soldier apparently grasped his meaning and slid a control or sent a subvocal command. The light source dimmed considerably and become all-directional, dimly illuminating the whole chamber so they could see each other …

… and Bin realized, he had been mistaken. The interloper was a woman.

Several more seconds passed, while the soldier looked Bin over. Then she laid the weapon down nearby—and used her right forefinger to draw several quick characters on the palm of her left hand.

You are Peng Xiang Bin.

Palm-writing was never a very good form of communication, all by itself. Normally, folks used it only to settle ambiguity between two spoken words that sounded the same. But down here, it was the best they could manage. Anyway, the flurry of movements sufficed for Bin to recognize his own name. And to grasp the import—these invaders had come across the ocean well prepared.

Only now things seemed to be going badly for them.

But it would be rude to point out the obvious. So he finally responded with a brief nod. Anyway, she had expressed it as a statement, not a question. The soldier finger-wrote three more ideograms.

Is that the thing?

She finished by pointing to the satchel Bin clutched tightly, holding the worldstone. There was little use denying it. A simple shrug of the shoulders, then, to save air.

She spent the next few seconds sucking on the tube from the barely adequate emergency gill, then exhaled another stream of bubbles to refill her goggles. Her eyes were red from salt water and rimmed with creases that must have come from a life engaged in scrutiny. Perhaps a technical expert, rather than a front-line warrior—but still part of an elite team. The kind who would never give up.

As combat sounds drifted farther away, she wrote another series of ideograms on her left palm. This time, however, he could not follow the finger movements well enough to understand. Not her fault, of course—probably his own, deficient education—and this time the aimplant in his eye offered no help.

He indicated confusion with a shake of his head.

Frustrated, she looked around, then shuffled half a meter closer to the nearest slanted attic wall. There, she used the same finger to disturb a layer of algae-scum, leaving distinct trails wherever she wrote.

Are you a loyal citizen?

She then turned, patting a badge on her left shoulder. And Bin noticed, for the first time, the emblem of the armed forces of the People’s Republic of China.

Taken aback, he had to blink. Of course he was a loyal Chinese! But
citizen
? As a shoresteader, he had some rights … but no legal residency in either Shanghai or any of the great national cooperatives. Nor would he, till his reclamation contract was fulfilled.
All citizenship is local,
went the saying … and thus, two hundred million transients were cast adrift. Still, what did citizenship mean, anyway? Who ever got to vote above the province level? Nationwide, “democracy” tended to blur into something else. Not tyranny—clearly the national government
listened
to the People—in much the same way that Heaven could be counted on to hear the prayers of mortals. The Reforms of 2029 had not been for nothing. There were constituent assemblies, trade congresses, party conclaves dominated by half a billion little emperors … it all had a loose, deliberately traditionally and proudly non-Western flavor. And none of it ever included Peng Xiang Bin.

Still, am I proud to be Chinese? Sure
.
Why wouldn’t I be? We lead the world.

Yet, that wasn’t what loomed foremost in his mind.

What mattered was that he had been noticed by illustrious ones, somewhere high up the pyramid of power, obligation, and privilege. By people who were mighty enough to order government special forces on a dangerous and politically risky mission, far from home.

They know my name. They sent elite raiders across the sea to fetch me. Or, at least the worldstone.

Not that it was certain they’d prevail. Even grand national powers like China had been outmaneuvered, time and again, by the planetary New Elites. After all, the woman soldier was hiding down here, with him.

No. One consideration mattered, more than citizenship or national loyalty. Even as the rich escaped to handmade sovereignties like New Pulupau, old-fashioned governments still controlled the territories where
billions of ordinary people
lived—the festering poor and struggling middle classes. Which meant one thing to Bin.

The high masters of China have Mei Ling and Xiao En in their hands. Or they could, at any time. I truly have no choice.

In fact, why did I ever believe I had one?

Bin shifted his weight in order to lean over and bring his own finger toward the slanted, algae-covered boards. Even as he drew a first character, the ai in his eye remonstrated.

Don’t do this, Bin.

There are other options.

But he shook his head and grunted the code word they had taught him for clearing the irritation away. The artificial presence vanished from his right field of vision, allowing him to see clearly the figures that he drew through filmy scum. Fortunately, by now the explosions had faded again, letting him trace the strokes carefully.

I’m just here to buy soy sauce.

The soldier stared. From her befuddled look, Bin knew she must not be from China’s central coast, where that old joke still tugged reflex guffaws, even from coolies working on the New Great Wall. Well, humor had never been his thing. Bin moved his finger again and wrote:

I will aid my nation.

What must I do?

An expression of satisfaction spread across the soldier’s face. Clearly, this was better fortune than she had figured on, only moments ago, when she jumped from a balcony of Newer Newport into the uncertain refuge of ocean-covered ruins. Perhaps, this little royal attic still had powerful
qi.

She started to write again, across the scummy, pitched ceiling.

Very good. We have little time.…

Bin agreed. Less than five minutes of highly compressed gas remained in his tiny air tank. That is, if he could trust the tiny clock in his goggle lens.

Nearby … a submerged emergency shelter … where we’ll wait …

The soldier stopped suddenly, as if her body froze, eyes masked in shadow. Then, as she turned like a marionette tugged by swirling currents, he saw them glint with fear.

Bin swiveled quickly …

… to see something very large, looming in the dormer opening. A slithering, snakelike shape—wider than a man—that wriggled upward, its head almost filling the slanted entrance. Robotic eyes began to glow, illuminating every crevice of the cavity. Evidently a powerful fighting machine, it seemed to examine both of them—not only with light, but also pulses of sonar that frisked their bodies like ungentle fingers of sound.

A sharp spotlight swerved suddenly downward, at the soldier’s pistol sidearm, lying on a broken chunk of wood. Abruptly, a whiplike tendril emerged from its mouth and snatched up the weapon, swallowing it before either human could move. Then a booming voice filled the little hiding place, made only slightly murky by the watery echo chamber.

“Come, Peng Xiang Bin,”
the mechanical creature commanded, as it began to open its jaw wide.
“Now. And bring the artifact.”

Bin realized, with some horror, that the serpent-android wanted him to crawl inside, through that gaping mouth. He cringed back.

Perhaps sensing his terrified reluctance, the robot spoke again.

“It is safe to do this … and unsafe to refuse.”

A threat, then. Bin had plenty of experience with those. Familiarity actually calmed his nerves a little, allowing him to examine the odds.

Cornered, in a rickety sunken attic, with just a few minutes of air left, facing some sort of ai superbot … um do I have any choice?

Yet, he could not move forward. So the serpaint made things clear. From one eye, it fired a narrow, brilliant beam of light that left steam bubbles along its path. By the time Bin turned to look, it had finished burning a pair of characters into one of the old roof beams of the Pulupauan royal palace.

CHOOSE LIFE.

He thought furiously. No doubt the machine could simply take the worldstone away from him, with one of those tendril things. So … it must realize … or its owners must … that the worldstone required Bin’s touch in order to come alight. Still, he extended a finger and palm-wrote for the creature to see.

I am needed. It speaks only to me.

The serpent-machine had no trouble parsing Bin’s handwriting. It nodded.

“Agreed. Cooperation will be rewarded. But if I must take only the artifact, we will find a way.”

A way. Bin could well imagine: Offer the stone new candidates for the role of chosen one. As many as it took. With Bin no longer alive.

“Come now. There is little time.”

Bin almost dug in his heels, right then. He was sick of people and things saying that to him. Only, after a moment’s stubborn fury, he managed to quash both irritation and fear. Lugging the heavy satchel, he shuffled a step closer, and another.

Then he glanced back at the Chinese special forces soldier, who was still staring, wide-eyed. There was something in her expression, a pleading look.

Bin stood in front of the sea monster. He put the satchel down in the muck and raised both hands to write on his palm again.

What about her?

The robot considered for a moment, then answered.

“She knows nothing of my mission, owners, or destination. She may live.”

Quiet thanks filled the woman’s eyes, fortifying Bin and putting firmness in his step, as he drew close. Though he could not keep from trembling, as he lifted the satchel containing the worldstone and laid it inside that gaping maw. Then, without its weight holding him down, he rotated horizontal and turned his body to start worming inside.

It was the second strangest act he ever performed.

The very strangest—and it puzzled him for the next hour—was what he did
while
crawling inside … when he slipped one hand under his belt, drawing out something filmy and almost translucent, tossing it backward to flutter out of the sea serpent’s jaw, drifting below where its eyes could see … but where the soldier could not help but notice.

Yang Shenxiu gave it to me to protect from the attackers, and now I’m giving it to one of them. Does that even make sense?

Yet, somehow, it felt right.

TORALYZER

The doctors want me to exercise. To inhabit my new body and get used to its senses. But I’m reluctant.