Mercury (20 page)

He snorted. “Not at the prices Selene charges for the stuff.”

Molina glided back toward the open hatch. “This door is an airtight seal, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Bracknell answered. “If the outside wall of this compartment is punctured and there’s a loss of air pressure, that hatch automatically closes and seals off the leak.”

“And traps anybody in this compartment,” Molina said.

“That’s right,” Bracknell replied gravely.

Lara said, “But you have spacesuits in here so they can save themselves. Don’t you?”

Bracknell shook his head. “It would take too long to get into the suits. Even the new nanofiber soft suits would take too long.”

“What you’re telling us,” Molina said, “is that we’re in danger in here.”

“Only if the outer shell is penetrated.”

“How likely is that?” said Lara.

Smiling tightly, Bracknell said, “The tower’s been dinged by micrometeorites thousands of times. Mostly up at higher altitudes. No penetrations, though.”

“Wasn’t there a satellite collision?” Molina asked.

“Every satellite launch is planned so that the bird’s orbit doesn’t come closer than a hundred kilometers of the tower. The IAA’s been very strict about that.”

“But a satellite actually hit the tower?” Lara looked more curious than afraid.

With a nod, Bracknell replied, “Some damnfool paramilitary outfit launched a spy satellite without clearing it with the IAA. It smacked into the tower on its second orbit.”

“And?”

“Hardly scratched the buckyball cables, but it wrecked the spysat completely. Most of the junk fell down and burned up in the atmosphere. We had to send a team outside to clean off the remaining debris and inspect the area where it hit. The damage was very superficial.”

“When you stop to think about it,” Lara said, “the impact of even a big satellite hitting this tower would be like a mosquito ramming an elephant.”

Bracknell laughed as he turned back toward the open hatch.

“The only way to hurt this beanstalk,” said Molina, “would be to somehow disconnect it up at the geostationary level.”

Bracknell looked over his shoulder at the biologist. “That’s right, Victor. Do that, and the lower half of the tower collapses to the ground, while the upper half goes spinning off into deep space.”

“The tower would collapse?” Lara asked. “It would fall down to the ground?”

Bracknell nodded. “Only if it’s disconnected from the geostationary platform.”

“That would destroy everything?” Lara asked.

“Quite completely,” said Bracknell. “But don’t worry, we’ve built that section with a two-hundred-percent overload capacity. It can’t happen.”

Nobuhiko Yamagata’s knees ached as he sat on the tatami mat facing this, this … fanatic. There was no other way to describe the leader of the Flower Dragon movement. Like a ninja of old, he thought, this man is a fanatic.

Yoshijiro Umetzu was named after a shamed ancestor, a general who had surrendered his army rather than fight to the death. From earliest childhood his stern father and uncles had drilled into him their expectation that he would grow up to erase this century-old stain on the family’s honor. While upstarts like Saito Yamagata made vast fortunes in business and Japanese scientists earned world recognition for their research work, Umetzu knew that only blood could bring true respect. Respect is based on fear, he was told endlessly. Nothing less.

By the time he was a teenager, the world was racked with terrorism. The poor peoples of the world struck almost blindly against the rich, attempting to destroy the wealth that they themselves could never attain. Japan was the target of many terrorist attacks: poison gas killed thousands in Tokyo; biological weapons slaughtered tens of thousands in Osaka. The nanomachine plague that nearly destroyed the entire island of Kyushu, killing millions, led directly to the international treaty banning nanotechnology everywhere on Earth.

When the greenhouse cliff toppled the world’s climate, coastal cities everywhere were drowned by the suddenly rising seas. But an even worse fate befell Japan: in addition to the devastating floods, earthquakes demolished the home islands.

Out of the ashes, though, rose a new Japan. The century-long experiment in democracy was swept aside and a new government, strong and unyielding, came to power. The true strength of that government was the Flower Dragon movement, a strange mix of religion and zeal, of Buddhist acceptance and disciplined political action. Like other fundamentalist movements elsewhere in the world, the Flower Dragon movement spread beyond its place of origin: Korea, China, Thailand, Indochina. On the vast and miserable Indian subcontinent, decimated by biowar and decades-long droughts brought on by the collapse of the monsoons, followers of the Flower Dragon clashed bloodily with the Sword of Islam.

Now the leader of the Flower Dragon movement sat on the other side of the exquisite tea set from Nobuhiko. Umetzu wore a modern business suit, as did Yamagata. The leader of the Flower Dragon movement had the lean, parched face of an ascetic, his head shaved bald, a thin dark moustache drooping down the corners of his mouth almost to his jawline. The expression on his face was severe, disapproving. Nobuhiko felt distinctly uneasy in his presence, almost ashamed of his well-fed girth.

Yet Nobu understood that Umetzu had come to him. I called and he came, Yamagata told himself. I’m not without power here. The fact that Umetzu was apparently a few years younger than he should have made Nobu feel even more in command of this meeting. But it didn’t.

Umetzu had arrived at the Yamagata family estate in an unmarked helicopter, accompanied by four younger men. Nobu had chosen his family’s home for this meeting so that they would be safe from the prying eyes and news media snoops that were unavoidable in the corporate offices in New Kyoto. Here, on his spacious estate up in the hills, surrounded by servants who had been with the family for generations, he could have airtight security.

They sat in a small room paneled in polished oak, the tea set between them. The wall to Nobu’s right was a sliding shoji screen; to his left a window looked out on a small, enclosed courtyard and raked stone garden. The kimono-clad women who had served the tea had left the room. Umetzu’s aides were being fed in another room, far enough away so that they could not overhear their master’s discussion with Yamagata, close enough so that they could reach him quickly if they had to. Nobu understood without being told that those young men were bodyguards.

“What do you want of me?” Umetzu asked, dropping all pretense of polite conversation. He had not touched the lacquered cup before him.

Nobu took a sip of the hot, soothing tea before answering. “There is a task that must be done in complete secrecy.”

Umetzu said nothing.

“I had thought of negotiating with one of the Islamic groups,” Nobu went on. “They are accustomed to the concept of martyrdom.”

“Yet you have asked to speak with me. In private.”

“It is a very delicate matter.”

Umetzu took in a long, slow breath. “A matter that involves death.”

“Many deaths, most likely.”

“The followers of the Flower Dragon’s way do not fear death. Many of them believe in reincarnation.”

“You do not?” Nobuhiko asked.

“My beliefs are not the subject of this meeting.”

Nobu bowed his head a centimeter or so.

“Just what is it that you require?” asked Umetzu.

Now Nobuhiko hesitated, trying to fathom what lay behind his guest’s hooded eyes. Can I trust him? Is this the best way for me to go? He wished he had his father here to advise him, but the elder Yamagata was still locked away in the Himalayas, playing at being a lama.

“What I require,” Nobu said at last, “must never be traced back to me or to Yamagata Corporation. Is that clear? Never.”

Umetzu almost smiled. “It must be truly horrible, for you to be so afraid.”

“Horrible enough,” said Nobu. “Horrible enough.”

“Then what is it?”

“The skytower. It must be destroyed.”

Umetzu drew in a breath. “I have been informed that the skytower is being built by nanomachines.”

Surprised, Nobuhiko blurted, “Where did you hear that?”

Allowing himself a thin smile, Umetzu replied, “Flower Dragon has contacts in many places, including the New Morality.”

“I did not realize that they are using nanomachines.”

“Of a sort. They are within the law, apparently, but just barely.”

“Perhaps we could stop them legally, through the international courts.”

Umetzu shook his head the barest fraction of a centimeter. “Do not put your faith in the courts. Direct action is better.”

“Then you are willing to help me?” Nobuhiko asked.

“Of course. The skytower must be destroyed.”

“Yes. And it must be destroyed in a manner that will discredit the very idea of building such towers. It must be brought down in a disaster so stunning that no one will ever dare to bring up the idea of building another.”

Nobuhiko felt his cheeks flushing and realized that he was squeezing his miniature teacup so hard its edge was cutting into the flesh of his palm.

Umetzu seemed unmoved. “How do you intend to accomplish this tremendous feat?”

Regaining his self-control, Nobuhiko put the lacquered cup back on its tray as he answered, “My technical people know how to bring it down. They have all the information we require. What I need is men who will do the task.”

“Men who will become martyrs.”

Nobuhiko bowed his head once again.

“That is not terribly difficult,” said Umetzu. “There are those who welcome death, especially if they believe they will accomplish something of worth in their dying.”

“But it must be kept absolutely secret,” Nobuhiko repeated in an urgent hiss. “It must never be traced back to Yamagata Corporation.”

Umetzu closed his eyes briefly. “We can recruit martyrs from elsewhere: even the fat Americans have fanatics among their New Morality groups.”

“Truly?” Nobuhiko asked.

“But what of your own technicians? Will they be martyred also?”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Yet they will have the knowledge that you wish kept secret. Once the tower falls, they will know that you have done it.”

“They will be far from Earth when that happens,” Nobuhiko said. “I have already had them transferred to Yamagata operations in the Asteroid Belt.”

Umetzu considered this for a moment. “I have heard that the Asteroid Belt is a very dangerous place.”

“It can be.”

“Wars have been fought there. Many were killed.”

“I have heard that the Flower Dragon has followers even in the Belt. Loyal followers.”

Umetzu understood Nobu’s unspoken request. This time he did smile thinly. “So your people will not be martyrs. Instead they will fall victims to accidents.”

“As you said,” Nobu replied, “the Belt is a very dangerous place.”

Elliott Danvers was lonely after Molina left for Australia. He missed their meals together, their adversarial chats, the verbal cut and parry that kept his mind stimulated.

Over the weeks that followed Molina’s departure, Danvers tried to forget his own needs and buried himself in his work. No, he reminded himself time and again. Not my work. God’s work. He felt puzzled that Atlanta had shown no visible reaction to his report that nanotechnology was being used to build the skytower. He had expected some action, or at least an acknowledgement of his intelligence. Nothing. Not a word of thanks or congratulations on a job well done. Well, he told himself, a good conscience is our only sure reward. And he plunged himself deeper into his work. Still, he felt nettled, disappointed, ignored.

He went to Bracknell and asked permission to convert one of the warehouse buildings into a nondenominational chapel. As the sky-tower neared completion, some of the buildings fell into disuse, some of the workers departed for their homes. Danvers noted that there seemed to be fewer Yankee and Latino construction workers in the streets, and more Asian computer and electronics technicians.

“A chapel?” Bracknell looked surprised when Danvers raised the question.

Standing in front of Bracknell’s desk, Danvers nodded. “You have several empty buildings available. I won’t need much in way of—”

“You mean you’ve been working here all this time without a church building?” Bracknell looked genuinely surprised. “Where do you hold your services?”

“Outdoors, mostly. Sometimes in my quarters, for smaller groups.”

Bracknell’s office was far from imposing. Nothing more than a corner room in the corrugated-metal operations building. He sat at a scuffed and dented steel desk. One wall held a smart screen that nearly reached the low ceiling. Another had photos of the tower at various stages of its construction pasted to it. Two windows looked out on the streets and, beyond one of them, the dark trunk of the tower, rising above the distant green hills and into the heavens.

Gesturing to the plain plastic chair in front of his desk, Bracknell said, “I thought we already had a church here, someplace.”

Danvers smiled bitterly as he settled his bulk in the creaking little chair. “You’re not a churchgoer.”

With an almost sheepish grin, Bracknell admitted, “You’ve got me there.”

“Are you a Believer?”

Bracknell thought it over for a moment, his head cocked slightly. “Yes, I think I can truthfully say that I am. Not in any organized religion, understand. But—well, the universe is so blasted
orderly.
I guess I do believe there’s some kind of presence overseeing everything. Childhood upbringing, I suppose. It’s hard to overcome.”

“You don’t have to apologize about it,” Danvers said, a little testily. He was thinking, Not in any organized religion, the man says. He’s one of those intellectual esthetes who rationalizes everything and thinks that that’s religion. Nothing more than a damnable Deist, at best.