Lucas had a memory flake in his pocket, an accessory that came with his new holoterminal, useful for setup and working offline, given that holoterminals were still rare, therefore not fully supported. As a child, he remembered Dad taking backups of his work, but these days everyone relied on redundancy in the Cloud, with offline copies a rarity.
He worked the flake, unnoticed by the others, copying several seconds’ worth of the LongWatch data. Then he thumbed it off and put it back in his pocket, alongside the old photograph.
Why did I do that?
A second later, the LongWatch image began to shiver and fall apart.
‘What the fuck is that?’ said Arne.
Fatima shook her head at the language, but she was already bringing up a subsidiary image, while Jim was working on his wristpad.
‘Worm attack,’ he said. ‘The whole LongWatch system is going down.’
‘Bastard shitting—’ Arne looked at Fatima. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Jim’s right, it’s a worm attack. I know how you feel.’
They stared at the visual noise in the holovolume, rippling colours signifying nothing. Then the student spoke up, the young woman who had interrupted the meeting with the news and had since remained silent.
‘Er … I’m just talking to my friend in Palo Alto.’ She waved her wrist. ‘Their system’s been hit by the same thing, looks like.’
Such worm attacks rarely got through these days, which was one of the reasons everyone relied on the Cloud. But hundreds of scientists at least would have seen the images before the data was corrupted to oblivion.
‘Maybe the triangle was the start of the attack.’ Jim had never sounded so glum. ‘Corrupt a portion of data cleverly, get everyone worked up, then take down the lot. Bastards.’
Lucas put his hands in his pockets.
I could tell them I’ve a copy.
Perhaps he was not the only one in the world. What if anyone who might possess a copy was in danger?
It’s a paranoid fantasy.
But the photograph and note were real. From the creators of the worm? That seemed far more likely than a message from his grandmother, long deceased.
‘—OK there, Lucas?’
‘Uh, yeah. Just hacked off at all that.’ He nodded at the terminal. ‘If this was April Fool’s, you might just about understand it, you know?’
‘Malicious fuckers,’ said Arne. ‘Begging your pardon, Fatima.’
‘All right.’
Another memory of Dad surfaced – Dad, who had never (to Lucas’s knowledge) been in a fight, telling him: ‘Trust your instincts always, as my old Mum used to say. Four billion years of evolution are responsible for gut feelings, so go with them.’
Call it another message from Grandma.
So what do I do?
Think about it alone, was the best answer he had for now.
And Maria?
No. Alone meant alone.
‘I know it’s friggin’ early,’ said Arne, ‘but … Union Bar, anyone?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jim.
Even Fatima nodded.
‘Can’t do it,’ said Lucas. ‘Sorry. Got my students to look after.’
He watched as they all left.
Scared scared scared.
Even alone, he did not dare take the memory flake out of his pocket to look at.
FORTY-FIVE
MOLSIN, 2603 AD
Jed-and-ship burst into realspace, then decelerated, beginning a spiral trajectory around the yellow-orange gas giant. As Jed disengaged from ship-rapport, he opened up comms. In a moment, he was linked to City Customs in the sky-city of Barbour; and the face that appeared in the holo was familiar.
‘Bodkin Travers,’ Jed said. ‘Bod, it’s Jed Goran here.’
‘I remember you, of course, sir. But I’m a little surprised. There’s been no notification of– Well, you know. Still’ – with a nose-tapping gesture – ‘there’s no problem here if someone needs to slide in and out under the old QT.’
‘The embargo’s not revoked. Sorry. But I’m not breaking it, either. Special dispensation from the powers that be.’
‘Er, right.’
The political powers that Bodkin Travers recognized had nothing to with an Admiralty or mu-space city-world that he had never heard of.
‘Look,’ said Jed. ‘The embargo … It’s for your own good.’ With a grin: ‘I always hated it when my mum said that.’
‘Mine, too,’ said Bod. ‘So look, have you got another shit-load – er, shipload – of refugees? I’ll have to warn the—’
‘Just me, coming to visit.’
‘Right. I’ll warm you up a daistral, shall I?’
‘We’ll drink one together. Give me an hour.’
‘Looking forward to that, Pilot.’
‘Me too, Bod.’
Roger woke up in Rhianna Chiang’s bed. Alone, in a sumptuous room that was part of an extended, luxurious suite, still on Deltaville. Guest quarters, not her home. And he had slept alone, he was sure of it.
So how do I know it’s her place?
Maybe it was the scent, that exotic fragrance she wore. Lately, he had been so much more attuned to smells; whether that was due to Molsin’s atmosphere or some chemical effect of the sky-city quickglass all around, he could not be sure. Yesterday he had, he had—
He looked at his hands, but there was no blood.
Shaking, he rolled naked from the bed, accustomed to the easy movement – complex physical exercise had always been part of his life: the whole-body yoga/dance/martial art routines that brought suppleness and coordination to the forefront – but today there was something more: the prowling of a fighter scanning his surroundings, alert and ready to kick off.
I don’t remember killing him.
His memory was stroboscopic, gestalt flashes of struggle against a backdrop of chaotic movement; but in the aftermath, no longer berserk, he had looked down on the bloody, shattered corpse of Greg Ranulph, along with the Deltaville law officers he had knocked down, and that was clear in his mind’s eye. Blood-rage had descended on him, and then it was gone.
‘They won’t be pressing charges.’ Rhianna’s voice, but he had sensed her a half-second before the quickglass melted open. ‘If that’s what was making you frown.’
‘Right.’
He felt lean and predatory, and his nakedness was no worry.
Get a grip.
Ignoring Rhianna, he found his jumpsuit and pulled it on. As the clothing reconfigured, an all-over rippling sensation indicated it was cleaning him as well itself. A pine scent that he normally would not have noticed, rose from his collar.
‘While you slept,’ Rhianna said, ‘I tried using hypnotic techniques to relax you more deeply, and work on the trauma and guilt.’
‘I do feel OK about Ranulph.’
‘But that’s not my doing, that’s the point. There was nothing much to work on.’
‘Oh.’
The man’s face had been a reddened mess.
‘I’m a little surprised by the shift in your behaviour patterns, Roger. But it made for one hell of an adaptation to the circumstances.’
Roger blinked, then felt his eyes narrow, aggression beginning to rise.
‘He killed millions by creating the Anomaly.’
‘In which case,’ said Rhianna, ‘he got off lightly. I’d have gone for elongated torture. Preferably after interrogation, but that’s not a criticism of you. He was trying to kill us, and you used deadly force in response. Totally appropriate, also legal.’
‘Yes.’
He had become a killer but not a criminal. There was no joy in it, but nor was there guilt. Because he had a strong, integrated personality that accepted necessity? It would be nice to think so. He was still Roger Blackstone, but everything was different, and he felt strong enough to deal with it.
‘On Fulgor,’ he said, ‘Rafaella Stargonier – look you know the details of what happened there, right?’
‘I don’t know about details, but I know she was the seed. Merged with other minds through the virtual environment there. Skein, is it? Formed a group mind, a gestalt, obviously inhuman.’