Still, it was new data.
‘That’s probabilities based on our expanded search profile,’ said Rhianna. ‘Which is purely physicaclass="underline" gait, DNA, so forth. If I filter that through tactical analysis, we might get a narrower– There.’
Five locations remained.
‘Using what criteria?’ asked Roger.
‘Destructive potential,’ said Rhianna, ‘based on current physical position within Conjunction or on normal cultural influence. Think highly connected networks: there’s a small number of cities which, if they undergo some catastrophe, would affect a large number of others.’
‘What kind of catastrophe?’
‘Any kind. Disease, you name it.’
But of course she must be thinking of the Fulgor Anomaly, and the possibility that Helsen could create another such abomination here, through some mechanism neither of them had thought of.
‘So how do we narrow it down?’
Information sprang up all around him. History and news related to the likely locations.
‘Read everything,’ she said. ‘Run any inference engines you can construct, and remember to use the one that’s right behind your eyes.’
From the table, daistral and sandwiches rose up.
‘Expect it to take time,’ she added.
Which was tough advice, given the incoming tide of urgency and fear, and the possibility that another world might die.
Afterwards, it was difficult to work out which of them had spotted it. For sure it was Roger’s unconscious flinch that formed the immediate trigger; but if Rhianna had not noticed his reaction then he might not have followed up the topic of FULGOR SURVIVORS’ REUNION, and seen what they did.
Capturing a real time view, they swung in on a holo banner over rows of banquet-laden tables:
<– Survivors of Fulgor: WELCOME –>
Rhianna shook her head as they moved the viewpoint, while a dozen more holovolumes showed results from scanning constructs coursing through the quickglass systems: constructs locally injected by one of her agents. Reading Roger’s body language before he could speak, she directed a zoom-in to see a young woman greeting other survivors, looking shell-shocked rather than weeping. All sorts of reactions were on display.
‘That’s Alisha,’ said Roger.
‘All right.’ Rhianna directed the viewpoint to spin away. ‘Let’s see if we can find—’
They did not see the first one: the phenomenon had already begun to manifest when they spotted it.
‘Oh, shit.’ Roger tried to point. ‘It’s—’
‘I’ve got it.’ Everything swung then sharpened. ‘Son of a bitch.’
Blue glows were extending from one pair of eyes to another, and another and another: a network, expanding person by person as others stumbled back, beginning to notice. Soon there would be a stampede.
‘Anomaly,’ he said.
Alisha was there. Alisha who no longer knew him. He had rescued her once but this time it was impossible.
‘Dubrovnik,’ said Rhianna. ‘Right in the fucking centre, and wouldn’t you know it.’
Deltaville was six layers out. There was no way to get there in the next few seconds; and nothing that could be done to fight a second Anomaly, any more than they had the first: victory had consisted in getting clear.
‘We have to sound an evacuation,’ said Roger. ‘There’s no other way. Break up the Conjunction and spread the cities out.’
If Rhianna could subvert urban systems, perhaps she could broadcast an official-looking—
‘That’s not an Anomaly,’ said Rhianna.
‘What?’
‘The body language is all wrong. Listen to me.’ She pointed, hand inside the image. ‘I’ve seen the footage from Fulgor: real time external views from the ships, and surveillance data they remotely captured. I’ve pored over the victims’ behaviour and this isn’t it.’
Those unaffected were beginning their panicked escape: knots of people banging into each other, here and there a head disappearing as someone fell beneath rushing feet.
Rhianna shut the holos down.
‘These victims look,’ she said, ‘as if they’re in a trance.’
‘Helsen.’
‘Yes.’
It rushed past him on every side, the quickglass. His arms were clamped against his ribs, fingers down as if at attention, legs squeezed together and toes pointed, and from someone else’s viewpoint he must have looked like a torpedo speeding through a fluid medium; but for him it was a hellride, his body banged and shaken, tearing through city-stuff – floor/ceiling/wall, it made no difference; and perhaps conjoining spars – he thought he had left Deltaville behind but there was no way to tell.
He could not see Rhianna, keeping pace alongside; could not have said how he knew she was there.
We have to go faster.
As if Rhianna knew his thought, the vibration intensified, acceleration heightening as the world roared past in torrential flow.
Torpedo, heading for the fight.
Once inside the apartment, Jed looked around, liking the place – liking the woman too, though she was older than him, therefore older again compared to Roger.
‘He’s not been here for a few days,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry. They gave me this as Roger’s official address. Known address, I mean.’
It had taken six days of bureaucratic negotiation to get this far; and he reckoned he was lucky it had only taken that long, given the privacy-obsessed culture. Although, on a world the size of Molsin, you would have thought there would be a Pilots’ Sanctuary to provide assistance – or if not, at least undercover spooks in place, people that Max Gould could have given him the means to get in touch with. Perhaps it had just slipped everyone’s mind – that weird memory flake, popping into existence above the conference table, had stirred everything up.
Or it might be that there were spooks on Molsin, but they worked for Schenck and his mob: the ones that had been defeated in Labyrinth, but what about the realspace worlds? For all Jed knew, every Pilot spook in realspace might be acting for the enemy, knowingly or not.
Best to keep things low-key and solo, then.
‘—daistral?’ she was saying.
‘Er, no thanks, Ms Rigelle. I don’t suppose you know where Roger is now, or even better, how to contact him?’
His comms code did not function, possibly because Conjunction changed everything, nearly a thousand cities merging their comms systems while shutting out the rest. Either that, or Roger was deliberately out of contact.
‘He was on Deltaville, even before Conjunction, because he—’
Soft redness flickered through walls, floor and ceiling, then again.
‘What’s that?’ said Jed.
A deep moan began to sound: everything vibrating all around.
‘General alarm. We’re taught about it school, but I’ve never—’ She gestured a holo into being. It showed an image of people in a crowd, their eyes joined by a criss-crossed web of glowing blue light. ‘Oh, no.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Jed grabbed her. ‘With me, now. Leave everything.’
Her eyes sparkled with tears and fright.
‘All right.’
‘Fucking, fucking shit,’ said Jed.
SIXTY-SIX
LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)
It glowed above Max’s flowmetal desk – newly extruded in his new office – watched by Pavel, Clayton, Clara with a rebuild-cast large and clunky around her shoulder, and an addition to their inner circle: white-haired Kelvin Stanier, Head of Records and older than the cosmos, who not only remembered more than the combined memories of everyone else present, but assumed the right to criticize Max Gould as though he were a schoolboy. Right now, riding high on a wave of triumph – although the countercoup’s nature and extent were unknown to most of Labyrinth: political circles being rife with waves of disinformation planted by Max’s senior officers, while Pilots at large knew nothing – Max needed someone like Kelvin to keep him on track. Some of the service’s officers, especially the younger ones, looked at Max with new-minted awe. Kelvin would have none of that, which meant if Max made a mistake, there would be at least one adviser to tell him so.