“That channel—does it handle communications? Maybe we can hijack the uplink and—”
“I am glad you are ambitious, Jon, but the channel is not for communications. The BTC abandoned radio communications decades ago in favor of extradimensional signal processing—or EDSP. We Resistors use our carbon thread wires only because we have no other means. But BTC communications do not traverse four-dimensional space-time. They are quite impenetrable.”
Grady remembered a conversation with Alexa—or at least her telepresence robot—some time ago. Funny what memories survived in his mind. “They seriously use extra dimensions to communicate?”
“Specifically a fifth dimension—one where gravity is forty-two orders of magnitude more powerful than in our perceived space-time.”
“So, a gravity brane—which is why gravity is such a weak force in our four dimensions.” Grady snapped his fingers. “Damn! I knew it.”
“Yes. This compactified fifth dimension is curled up from our perspective, less than a thousandth of a millimeter in size, but present everywhere in lower dimensional space. Thus, it can always be accessed.”
Grady considered the implications. “How do they interact with it?”
“Their transmitters are nanotech—diamond lattice structures they call a ‘q-link’—a tiny mass that they vibrate at high frequency to send gravitational waves through higher-dimensional space.”
Grady nodded to himself. “Where they would be strong enough to be detected. And gravity permeates all dimensions. I get it: a gravity radio.”
“I suppose of all people, you would understand.”
“So we really live in a five-dimensional universe?”
“Actually a ten-dimensional universe—but let’s leave that for another day. The point is that the BTC can transmit and receive information undetected.”
“Which is why no one’s noticed them.”
“Undoubtedly. But they also use q-links to track things.”
“Things like us.”
“You learn quickly. Yes, there is a small q-link diamond inserted deep into your S1 sacral vertebra. With this device, their AIs can track you no matter where you go in lower-dimensional space. And they have positioned weapon satellites in the L4 and L5 Lagrange points in the Earth-moon system—or as Homer’s Iliad might describe it: the ‘Greek’ camp and the ‘Trojan’ camp. From this distance, they can direct powerful lasers at spinning mirrors positioned in low-Earth orbit. From there, it is a small matter to instantly kill an escaped prisoner anywhere on the Earth’s surface.”
Grady sighed. “So even if we escape—which is nearly impossible—we won’t live long.”
“There are numerous obstacles to such an endeavor. But none of them insurmountable. We must pool our intellects and tackle these problems one by one. For example, your cell’s medical systems can be reprogrammed to remove the q-link diamond from your spine. Several of us have already done so. It doesn’t help us escape, but it would be a prerequisite of escape.”
“We need to get a message out, Archie. We need people to know that we’re here. That we’re alive.”
“We have been pondering this very idea for decades now. I fear it will require some time yet.”
“I don’t give up easily. Not even gravity eluded me.”
Grady heard a gentle laugh over the line. “Oh, I think our membership will be very pleased to make your acquaintance, my friend.”
THREE YEARS LATER
CHAPTER 10
Tear in the Sky
Benigno Cruz shouted down from the bridge of the San Miguel through an open hatchway. “Arius, lubricate that damn winch! What did I tell you?”
The three-ton lift on deck smoked and squealed ominously. His fifteen-year-old nephew, Arius, waved to him noncommittally. The boy was a good deal younger than most of the equipment down there. And seemed half as smart.
Cruz moved to the railing and leaned over. “Damnit, now!”
Down on deck a half-dozen Filipino crewmen scurried about, two of them guiding a basket net bulging with yellowfin tuna as it lifted up from a purse seine net drawn along the starboard side of the aging trawler. Blisters and tears of rust were visible all about the boat, but Cruz was confident his vessel was strong where it mattered. It had to be. Or at least he prayed it was. They were a thousand miles from the nearest landfall—and that was intentional. Away from all prying eyes except the Lord who watched over them all.
And today the Lord had delivered his bounty. Jesus and the Saints had smiled upon them. Cruz kissed the gold crucifix from around his neck as he looked down on the school of tuna thrashing within the purse seine net. Not bigeyes but yellowfin. “Thank you, my Lord.” Just like the old days.
He’d be able to repay some debts. Maybe service the boat. Maybe pay some people. Bribe some people. It was a long list.
Things had been hell since the WCPF Commission had closed high seas pockets one, two, and three near the Philippines, Indonesia, and Papua New Guinea. Overfishing or not, the Nauru Agreement had well and truly screwed him. He had bills to pay, and his bills were the type that came looking for him with a knife when he was late.
Cruz stared down into the net, trying to calculate his end. The “net of the nets,” as Lolo used to call it. The San Miguel’s hold was only a quarter filled, and this catch might bring it up to thirty or thirty-five percent. He started roughing out capacity figures for his family’s ancient trawler—mentally removing a portion to account for leaks and pump problems. No good filling her to the gunwales if they went to the bottom in rough seas on the way back. Then there was the extra cost of fuel and food from the length of this journey—the repairs they had to make at Fiji. The bribes to make sure no one reported them.
And then transshipment of the catch to an Indonesian trawler in midocean to hide the catch’s origin. The Indonesian’s cut, too.
Cruz shook his head in worry. What sort of world was this where even good fortune was stressful? But he shouldn’t be ungrateful. The good Lord had provided because the Lord helped those who helped themselves.
He would never have gone out this far, but with all the aircraft and fast boats looking for “illegal” fishing trawlers like his own—and what did that mean exactly, “illegal”? As if fishing God’s ocean could ever be illegal! The eastern high seas pocket was the only way to get away with it, and the risks and expenses just kept piling high. He’d had a recurring nightmare of drowning, and his sister told him it was debt he was drowning in, not water. That sounded about right.
But looking down into the purse seine as another load of tuna came up from it, he nodded to himself. The risk was paying off. He could keep the business going another season. He must. He had to. If the engines didn’t have a major problem. If Greenpeace stayed the hell away from him. If he didn’t get any major fines. If he greased the right palms. So many ifs. A thousand generations had fished the sea, and he was damned if anyone would drive him to poverty on the land.