Worldwired (41 page)

“That's just it,” Riel begins, and Min-xue says at the same time. “Did anybody see the minister of war before the shooting?”

General silence, which Riel takes for general agreement. Typical. Bitch. “He came in with Xiong and the PanChinese. He got up and left when Janet took the stand.”

“I believe Premier Xiong is intended to be a casualty as well,” Min-xue murmurs, still shuddering like a racehorse in the gate although his tone is level—as if his brain were utterly divorced from the demands of his body. He brushes a strand of hair out of Patty's eyes with the back of one white-gloved hand.

Yeah, I think I'm a fucking tough girl. Balls of sterling plated brass. Bullshit, baby: look at
that
kid. “A casualty?”

“Or a . . . how do you say—”

“Scapegoat.”

“Thank you, Patricia.” He shakes his head. “We must rescue Premier Xiong as well, if we can. If he is not already dead.”

“Not possible—”

“Casey.” Riel's breath cools my cheek. “It's got to happen.”

“Bien sûr.” I sigh. “I won't leave you unprotected, ma'am.”

“Miss Valens and I will make a run for it while you and Pilot Xie distract the Chinese assassins and attempt to rescue Premier Xiong. Much as I hate to suggest it, if you get a chance, check Janet for a pulse as well.”

The sorely tried resignation in her voice makes me chuckle, despite the clotting iron reek of blood filling my sinuses. All right then. I catch Patty's eye, and Patty nods. I nod back and turn to Valens. “Fred, if Patty and Constance break for the door and get lost in the mob while Min-xue and I go for Xiong—”

“That leaves me bleeding under a table. Follow orders, Jen.”

Patty doesn't make a sound. She nods, and so does Min-xue.

Damn Fred Valens. Damn him to hell.

“There's one more thing,” said Riel, and how I've come to hate her calm, level voice in just a few short moments.

“What's that?”

“The Chinese assassins? If my intelligence is good, they're probably wired as fast as Min-xue.”

Fuck me raw. I'm impressed with myself that I don't say it out loud. I glance at Min-xue again; we can hear the footsteps coming closer, over the panicked-cattle noise of the mob by the doors. Patty and Connie might get trampled instead of shot.

I reach out and squeeze Fred's hand. The hand he doesn't have fisted into his leaking belly, the squeeze delivered with my metal one. “You know what they say . . .”

Blood stains his mouth. I wish I hadn't seen that. “Yeah. When in doubt, empty the magazine.”

“That might be comforting if I had a fucking
weapon,
sir.” I lift my weight off Connie; she reaches up to assist with two hands on my shoulders. “When Min and I go over the top, you ladies run like bunnies. Hop hop hop.”

“Don't worry, Casey. You don't need to tell me twice.”

Dammit, Dick,
I think, fretfully, and get ready to run.

Once Dr. Fitzpatrick had been raised and the XO had reported, Wainwright ordered the klaxon killed on the bridge. She still heard it echoing through the hatchcover, however, as she settled herself in her chair. The nanonetwork might be down and her ship uncontrolled, drifting in orbit without the access to propulsion or attitude jets, but she was far from isolated.

The problem was, there was nothing to do but sit tight. Nothing to do right now, except think. She stared at the screen array on the far wall. The
Montreal,
the shiptree, and Piper Orbital Platform, currently, but she could have any view in the solar system, subject to light-speed lag.

How quickly she'd gotten used to immediate communication, instantaneous advice. She's started relying on Richard far more than she should have. And not just Richard; Richard's ability to poll a handful of others and give her a quick consensus view.

Well, she didn't have that now. And she didn't have a 3-D starship captain's gadget of the week with the sponsor's logo prominently displayed on the barrel, ready to be deployed in time to save the world by the commercial break. What she
had
was a disabled ship drifting in an orbit that would begin to decay uncomfortably soon if she didn't regain control—although they could use shuttlecraft as tugs if it came down to it, or send an EVA team out to angle the solar sails manually. Her crew on the shiptree was probably safer there than here, even if Fitzpatrick couldn't raise Charlie on the suit radio. Unless something had happened to Charlie, of course. Unless something had happened to Dr. Tjakamarra and Casey and Patricia Valens, as well, the crew members who were on the worldwire, when the worldwire went down. Genie Castaign had been fine—dazed, a little confused. But Genie's nanosurgery had been corrective only. And it was complete, unlike the pilots, who were being reconstructed as fast as their amped-up bodies could damage themselves.

Oh. A chill settled between Wainwright's shoulder blades; she raised her eyes to the monitors again. The worldwire going down might not hurt Genie. It wouldn't even hurt the
Montreal,
in the long run, once the vast ship could be rewired and the fiberoptic and carbon cables that Richard had disassembled replaced. It might not even do any damage to the Feynman AI, she told herself, as she called up a thermal image of the
Calgary
crash site to assure that the reactors were still live.

But anybody who had been undergoing nanosurgery when the crash came was as dead as if somebody had pulled the plug on his respirator. And she was staring right at the biggest, sickest patient of them all. She stood. “Give me an earth view. Full earth, whichever orbital platform has most of the Sun side.”

It was Clarke. She should have known that. The view was North and South America, cloud-swirled oceans and mouse-tinged atmosphere, the landmasses gray-white with unseasonal snowfall, the grasping outline of North America indistinguishable from clouds and ice. The oceans were steel-gray and cadet-blue. Even the clouds had a jaundiced cast, through the shroud of dust.

It was ridiculous, of course, to think that any change would be visible yet. Even if the worldwire failed catastrophically, even if Richard's intervention in the planetary ecosystem had just come to a crashing halt, it would be months, maybe years before the damage showed. Planets were great ponderous things, changing on scales barely noticeable in the span of a human life.

Months, at the inside estimate. Years.

“Captain,” her XO said, very calmly. “I realize this probably isn't the time for this, but we've got a communiqué from ground control in Calgary. They want to know if we can get some telescopic shots of the northeastern seaboard; a research trawler off Newfoundland just blundered into the middle of a shoal of dead fish, and Clarke doesn't have an angle on it due to cloud cover. They're wondering if we can tell them how widespread it is. Shall I tell them we won't be able to, ma'am? Nobody seems to have told them there's a crisis underway.”

Months
. She forced her hands to uncurl, unknot from the fists they'd somehow tightened into.
It could be nothing. It could be completely unrelated.

For a moment, she was tempted to tell him yes, go ahead, tell them they have to wait. Turn off the cameras. Don't go looking for everything else that's probably going wrong. As if, if she didn't look, it wouldn't be real.

“No,” she said. “Let's have a look at those fish. And get the ship's entomologist and botanist up here, shall we? And Dr. Perry, too. He's an ecologist; he can earn his keep for a change. And tell ground control they need to get in touch with the cabinet, if they can't reach the prime minister in New York, and they're going to want a couple of climatologists with security clearances, and get me a thermal map of the oceans and water vapor shots of the atmosphere, and anything else you can think of that might be useful.”

She felt as if she stood over her own left shoulder, watching, soothed by her own voice of command, as her bridge crew also seemed to be. Exactly as if what she was ordering would make any difference. Exactly as if they could do anything at all, except stand there and watch as the planet thrashed and died.

I wonder if the condemned man has enough time to regret refusing the blindfold?
she thought, before she squared her shoulders under the navy-blue uniform and went to do her job.

Now, finally, space was terribly quiet, and Leslie was terribly alone. There was a half an hour's power left in his batteries and he was weak, shivering cold, clear-headed with hunger although the Benefactors had managed to provide him with oxygen and water. They'd given him back his body, he realized, in time for him to let him
know
that he was going to die. He wondered if the aliens had a concept akin to making one's peace with God. He wondered if they had the concept of
death,
when they were all of the same creature, one intimately connected mind.

He wondered if they understood that they had killed him.

No. He couldn't think like that. He had his hands back, and his eyes, and his space suit checked out fully functional except the radio and the redlined energy levels, and—

—and he hadn't lost one fragment of the peculiar kinesis he'd inherited from the birdcages, the sense of the whole solar system spinning around him like a clockwork model, like a timepiece assembled by Einstein's watchmaker god. He could still feel it in his gut, rooted in his body as concrete and as invisible as an angel's wings rooted in the angel's shoulders.

He also wondered if the birdcages could see through his eyes, now, could hear through his ears, as he felt through their nameless organs of sense. He hoped so. He hoped they could see the way the sunlight refracted through the bars and the veils of their ship, casting rainbows over the entire interior. He hoped they could see how lovely they were, their bodies merging and separating again like drops of mercury shaken on a plate.

His wondering was answered when the shimmering veils between the struts of the birdcage vanished like popped soap bubbles, revealing the
Montreal,
the shiptree, and the brown-gray marbled sphere of the Earth behind them, all limned from behind with sunrise. Leslie caught his breath as slanted rays dusted his faceplate with gold and refracted in sprays of color through the prismed latticework that was all that stood between him and naked space, and he felt as if all the voices within him caught their breaths as well—not that they had voices, in particular, or breaths.
Yes,
he thought.
This is my world. This is what
light
looks like, my friends.

The shiptree was right there, so close he could see the whorls of light along its plume-shaped length. He could
feel
it out there, feel it press against the curve of space, as if he could reach out and touch it.
Oh, if Richard could see this—

Leslie started smiling inside his helmet almost before the idea finished unraveling. Maybe he couldn't tell the Benefactors what he needed. But maybe he could
show
them.

He wasn't finished yet. He shaped the map for them, let them feel it in his mind. Showed them the way the mass of his body would move, from the birdcage to the shiptree, and asked them for their help in getting there.

And they sang in his head, the answer, the throb and cadence of their voices that were not voices, but a sensation like the press and lift of the surf.
(go)
they would have said, if what they said was words.
(Go)
and
(go)
and
(heal)
and
(go)
and
(rejoin your mind)
and
(go)
and
(heal)
and
(go)
and
(come and sing to us again)
. . .

(Come and sing to us again) . . .

“I will,” Leslie answered. And so they pushed him forward, into night.

When Min-xue lifted himself off her back, Patty was ready for it. She got her toes under her and her hand on the prime minister's wrist and tugged while Min-xue and Jenny crouched scuttling toward the end of the long line of curved tables, and hauled Riel into a squat with an ease that surprised them both. They froze, eye to eye, and Riel licked her lips, her bloodied business suit rising and falling with measured breaths. Riel ducked at a popping, scattered sound. Patty didn't realize it was gunfire until Riel's palm flattened her head against Riel's shoulder, holding her under the level of the tabletop.
It won't stop bullets. Will it stop bullets? Alan?

They leaned together hard, but the flat shattering impacts arced away from them, in pursuit of Min-xue and Jenny. The bullets weren't anywhere close; Patty leaned out for a quick glance as the other two pilots clambered over floor-hugging diplomats, leapfrogging each other like 3-D cops.
Alan?

Alan still wasn't there.

“Where the hell is security?” Riel asked. “They can't have bought
everybody
.”

Which was right, wasn't it? The General Assembly hall should be full of men and women with guns. Men and women on
their
side, security who worked for the UN. “I don't know. I don't know where Alan is either. I don't know—”