“They thereupon planned to swoop into the Naval Research Center with a swarm attack by hyperlight flyers. Like the O’Hare Incident but with some nasty twists. We don’t have details yet. Some of them are still under wraps. But it looks pretty awful, at first sight.
“Anyway, as events turned out, our ad hoc efforts aboard the Spirit managed to expel almost half of the stockpiled gases early and in an uncoordinated fashion. Several of the biggest cells got emptied, creating gaps. So there was never a single, unified detonation when the enemy finally pulled their trigger. Just a sporadic fire. That kept the dirigible frame intact, enabling the tug to reel it down to less than a hundred meters.
“Where the escape chutes mostly worked. Nearly all passengers got away without injury, Tor. And the zep port was untouched.”
Trying to picture it in her mind’s eye-perhaps the only eye she had left-took some effort. She was used to so many modern visualization aides that mere words and imagination seemed rather crude. A cartoony image of the Spirit, her vast upper bulge aflame, slanted steeply groundward as the doughty Umberto Nobile desperately pulled the airship toward relative safety. And then, slender tubes of active plastic snaking down, offering slide-paths for the tourist families and other civilians.
The real event must have been quite a sight.
Her mind roiled with questions. What about the rest of the passengers?
What fraction were injured, or died?
How about people down below, on the nearby highway?
Was there an attack on the Artifact Conference, after all?
So many questions. But till doctors installed a shunt, there would be no way to send anything more sophisticated than these awful yes-no clicks. And some punctuation marks. Normally, equipped with a tru-vu, a pair of touch-tooth implants would let her scroll rapidly through menu choices, or type on a virtual screen. Now, she could neither see nor subvocalize.
So, she thought about the problem. Information could in-load at the rate of spoken speech. Outloading was a matter of clicking two teeth together.
Perhaps it was the effect of drugs, injected by the paramedics, but Tor found herself thinking with increasing detachment, as if viewing her situation through a distant lens. Abstract appraisal suggested a solution, reverting to a much older tradition of communication.
She clicked the inside of her lower left canine three times quickly. Then the outer surface three times, more slowly. And finally the inner side three more times.
“What’s that, Tor? Are you trying to say something?”
She waited a decent interval, then repeated exactly the same series of taps. Three rapid clicks inside, three slow ones on the outside, and again three quickly inside. It took several repetitions before the Voice hazarded a guess.
“Tor, a few members and ais suggest that you’re trying to send a message in old-fashioned Morse code.
“Three dots, three dashes, then three dots. ‘SOS.’
“The old international distress call. Is that it, Tor?”
She quickly assented with a yes tap. Thank heavens for the diversity of a group mind. Get one large enough, and you were sure to include some oldtech freak.
“But we already know you are in pain. Rescuers have found you. There’s nothing else to accomplish by calling for help… except…”
The Voice paused again.
“Wait a minute.
“There is a minority theory floating up. A guess-hypothesis.
“Very few modern people bother to learn Morse code anymore. But most of us have heard of it. Especially that one message you were using. SOS. Three dots, three dashes, three dots. It’s famous from old-time movies.
“Is that what you’re telling us, Tor?
“Would you like us to teach you Morse code?”
Although she could sense nothing external, not even the rocking of her life-support canister as it was being hauled by evacuation workers out of the smoldering Spirit of Chula Vista, Tor did feel a wash of relief.
Yes, she tapped.
Most definitely yes.
“Very well.
“Now listen carefully.
“We’ll start with the letter ‘A’…”
It helped to distract her from worry, at least, concentrating to learn something without all the tech-crutches relied upon by today’s tenners and twenners. Struggling to absorb a simple alphabet code that every smart kid used to memorize, way back in that first era of zeppelins and telegraphs and crystal radios, when the uncrowded sky had seemed so wide open and filled with innocent possibilities. When the smartest mob around was a rigidly marching army. When a journalist would chase stories with notepad, flashbulbs, and intuition. When the main concern of a citizen was earning enough to put bread on the table. When the Professional Protective Caste consisted of a few cops on the beat.
Way back, one human life span ago, when heroes were tall and square-jawed, in both fiction and real life.
Times had changed. Now, destiny could tap anybody on the shoulder, even the shy or unassuming. You, me, the next guy. Suddenly, everybody depends on just one. And that one relies on everybody.
Tor concentrated on her lesson, only dimly aware of the vibrations conveyed by a throbbing helicopter, carrying her (presumably) to a place where modern miracle workers would strive to save-or rebuild-what they could.
Professionals still had their uses, even in the rising Age of Amateurs. Bless their skill. Perhaps-with luck and technology-they might even give Tor back her life.
Right now, though, one concern was paramount. It took a while to ask the question that burned foremost in her mind, since she needed a letter near the end of the alphabet. But as soon as they reached it, she tapped out a Morse code message that consisted of one word.
‹WARREN›
She expected the answer that her fellow citizens gave.
Even with the hydrogen cell contracting at full force to expel most of its contents skyward, there would have been more than enough right there, at the oxygen-rich interface, to incinerate one little man. One volunteer. A hero, leaving nothing to bury, but scattering microscopic ashes all the way across his nation’s capital.
Lucky guy, she thought, feeling a little envy for his rapid exit and inevitable, uncomplicated fame.
Tor recognized what the envy meant, of course. She was ready to enter the inevitable phase of self-pity. A necessary stage.
But not for long. Only till they installed the shunt.
After that, it would be back to work. Lying immersed in sustainer-jelly and breathing through a tube? That wouldn’t stop a real journalist. The web was a beat rich with stories, and Tor had a feeling-she would get to know the neighborhood a whole lot better.
“And we’ll be here,” assured the smart-mob. “If not us, then others like us.
“You can count on it Tor.
“Count on us.
“We all do.”
PART FIVE
A CONSUMMATION DEVOUTLY WISHED…
Is it a fact-or have I dreamt it-that, by means of electricity, the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time? Rather, the round globe is a vast head, a brain, instinct with intelligence!