Existence

by David Brin

  “But every other human civilization knew about this danger, Lacey, and dealt with it in the same way. Awk. By trusting those who were born to lead!

  “It’s time to accept that all those other tribes and nations—our ancestors—had it awr awr awr right.”

  The parrot was starting to look bleak. Its brain, used as an organic coding device, made this conversation safe from eavesdroppers who might tap the satellite relay. But at a cost. Even the beautiful plumage—that bright Norwegian blue—seemed to grow duller by the second.

  Lacey met the creature’s baleful eye. A stunning, blond princess stood at the other end of this linkup, gazing outward through that eye, no doubt wondering why a fellow multi-trillionaire would take eccentricity so far, choosing to build an epic-scale ego monument amid frigid peaks, where no one but specialists would ever see it.

  “All right,” Lacey sighed. “I’ll attend.”

  “Good!” the bird murmured, after the usual pause, this time without any strange words.

  “We’ll be in touch with pickup instructions. Carolina rendezvous point, in two days.

  “By the way, wasn’t Hacker supposed to be launching about now? My aissistant tells me he’s scheduled a landing celebration at a Havana casino. Please tell that handsome lout—”

  Lacey cursed. “Oh, crud! I promised I’d tune in and watch! Sorry, Helena. I’ve got to go.”

  A few seconds later, delayed by lightspeed and bioelectronics, the bird replied with the voice of a woman standing on another mountaintop, halfway around the world.

  “That’s all right, dear. We’ll be in touch.”

  The bird followed Lacey with its tired gaze as she hurried up the steps of a shiny new observatory dome, the size of Saint Peter’s, still festooned with dedication ribbons, containing the Lacey Donaldson-Sander Farseeker Telescope.

  Her cathedral.

  Then, with a soft croak of surprise and despair, the parrot keeled over, smoke curling from both nostrils.

  PIONEERS

  Hello and welcome to your new-temporary home beneath the great roof of the Detroit-Pontiac Silverdome! I’m Slawek Kisiel. I am fourteen years old and a deepee—displaced person—just like you. I’ll be your virt-guide today.

  Under the Michigan Resettlement Act, you and your family may live here for up to six months while you homestead and restore an abandoned house in one of the renewal neighborhoods. Whether you come from the EuroFreezone, or you’re fleeing the Big Kudzu, or you just need some more time to get over Awfulday, we’re happy to help.

  As I said, I’m just another deepee trying to learn better Midwest Amer-English. So when we meet in person, for the reality part of our tour, don’t expect me to talk like this avatar does, in your native tongue! Speak slow, so my earwair can keep up. And come with your own listenplugs turned on.

  Oh, while we’re on the subject of wair, we can only provide one free pair of Vuzix spectacles per family, and just five square meters of pixelated cloth to make teevees and touchvees out of. Budgets are tight. So share.

  There are raki things to do here at Silverdome! From sports and gamersim and skill classes to outsource jobbery and behavmod. From dome-diving to our famous indoor zeppelin league! We’ll get to all that in a min.

  But first some boring-needful stuff. Rules. Starting with BigOnes.

  NO WEAPONS, QUASI-WEAPONS OR CHEM-TECH

  Molecumacs or venterfabs must be inspected

  NO UNAPPROVED DRUGS OR MOD-SUBSTANCES

  have ’em checked out at the clinic; (we have good sniffers!)

  USE PROPER SANITATION

  no balcony dumping! (that means YOU mezzanine-dwellers)

  PRIVACY IS AN EARNED PRIVILEGE

  CHILDREN ATTEND SCHOOL

  ESSORS MUST GET HELP

  EVERYONE WORKS

  NO “MEDITATION” BETWEEN 0900 AND 1800 HOURS

  There are many more and you better study them. Like banned organizations. Yeh, I know there’s free speech. But we might lose our grant from the Glaucus Worthington Foundation if there’s any sign here of the Sons of Adam Smith, or Friends of Privacy, or Blue Militias, or Patmosians … glance here for the full list. Several have their own resettlement communes, on the south side, so if you have an essor habit, go join them. This dome is neutral territory.

  Okay? Then enjoy the rest of the virtual tour. There’s a comedy version on simlayer 312, a rhyming translation on 313, and a monster-fantasy rendering on 314. Then hop to layer 376 and take the required (but fun!) quiz.

  Finally, join me for the best part—the live-reality-walking portion. It begins at 1500 hours, in front of Didja-Jamaica’s Ganja Bar.

  7.

  GETTING EVEN

  “Thanks for coming on short notice, Mr. Brookeman.”

  Crandall Strong’s clasp seemed calm and assured, with fingers almost as long as Hamish had. The impression was a far cry from Tuesday’s infamous rant, when the senator’s body seemed wracked with nervous tremors, veins throbbing as he babbled about dark conspiracies before several hundred luncheon guests, float-cameras, and aiwitnesses.

  Here in the senator’s outer office, loyal staffers bustled like a normal day. Though any acute observer—like Hamish—could sense undercurrents. Instead of lobbyists and constituents, there were mostly media stringers, banished to a far corner, gangly youths who muttered and twiddled their fingers, roaming virtual worlds but still on the job, staking out this office, ready to hop up and record if the senator went newsworthy again. Because a living, breathing citizen had rights and … hey, it was employment.

  “Happy to oblige,” Hamish replied, taking in the senator’s distinctive gray locks, tied back in a proud ponytail, framing craggy features and a complexion that seemed permanently tanned by years spent under the Central American sun. He was a tall man, almost matching Hamish in height. Fine clothes and expensive manicure contrasted with callused rancher’s hands that were both muscular and clearly accustomed to rigorous—if happy—toil.

  “You’ve been a leader in our Movement, Senator. I figure you’re entitled some benefit of the doubt.”

  “That’s a minority opinion.” Strong tilted his head ruefully. “This town quickly turns on its own. Right now, a lot of folks wish I’d just go back to pushing pills and the gospel in Guatemala.”

  Hamish winced. Those were his own words, expressed yesterday on a semiprivate fanbuzz—just before he got the call to fly down here and see Strong. Fanbuzz statements were “unofficial,” protected by pseudonyms. The senator was pointing out that he still held tools of power.

  “We all say things, now and then, that we’d rather not see made public. Sir.”

  “True enough. Which makes what I did last Tuesday…” Strong paused. “But let’s go to my inner office. I have a small favor to ask, before business.”

  He motioned for Hamish to enter past a trio of spectacularly well-dressed secretaries—one male, one female, and one deliberately androgynous, all three of them clearly recipients of high-end face sculpting—into a sanctum that was adorned by art and souvenirs of the American West. With a practiced eye for fine things, Hamish scanned the room, comparing it to a web-guided tour he had taken on the private jet coming here. He dropped into a narrative inner voice. Wriggles—his digaissistant—would tap Hamish’s laryngeal nerves and transcribe it all.

  “An original Remington bronze—an express rider, shooting over his shoulder … and another casting—made to the exact same scale, decades later, by the Black Hills Art Co-op—showing a Cheyenne dog soldier in hot pursuit …

  “… a big swivel chair upholstered in bison hide … a desk made of teak, force-grown by a Louisiana tree-vat company that Strong co-owns, I recall … some whalebone scrimshaw, mostly nineteenth century originals, though one at the end is recent—presented by the Point Barrow Inuit clan, in gratitude for Strong’s help with humpback-hunting rights …

  “… plus a big photo of the senator, posing with Lakotan dignitaries in front of the Ziolkowski monument, with sho
vels and brushes, helping wipe the giant Crazy Horse statue free of Yellowstone ash. That picture’s been moved front and center since Tuesday’s embarrassment …

  “… and an abstract mobile, in the back-left corner of the room—made of twenty slender metal rods, each with a colored ivory ball at one end, polished smooth by countless sweaty hands—all of the rods cleverly articulated to turn and plunge in sequence, following a rhythm as semirandom as Lady Luck. The artist originally called it ‘Many-Armed Bandit’ since the rods were once attached to gambling machines. But the tribe that commissioned the piece chose another name.

  “‘Coup Sticks of Retribution.’ The right weapon, at long last, for getting even.”

  Hamish was accustomed to visiting chambers of the high and mighty. Fame took him through many doors. But not even the Oval Office boasted as much symbolism that South Dakota’s senior senator poured into this room. Even thick, columnar bulges at four corners—vertical rails that might drop the whole office to an armored basement—were decorated like Native American rain sticks.

  Wow. It’d be a pity to have to move all this. To make room for a Democrat.

  Senator Strong returned from a bookshelf bearing several hardcovers. “If you’d indulge an old fan?” he asked, opening one to its title page—Paper Trail.

  The usual mixed feelings. Hamish found autographs tiresome. Yet, it was an equalizing moment. Politicians could be as celebrity-crazed as anybody, eager to gush about some old bestseller, or asking Hamish about actors he had met on movie sets. Hamish pondered a dedication. Something original, flattering and personal … yet, not too friendly to a man fast becoming a national pariah. No sense giving him cause to claim that Hamish Brookeman was a “dear friend.”

  He scribbled: To Crandall S—Hang tight and stay Strong!—following that weak quip with his usual scrawl. Hamish quickly inscribed the other volumes. An interesting assortment—all of them novels written for the Movement.

  Tusk!

  Cult of Science.

  Sousveillance Blood.

  The last was one of his least favorite titles. Maybe this time, he’d insist the movie studio change it.

  “I’m in your debt.” The senator collected his books. “And now—” He paused.

  “And now—” Hamish repeated, a habit going back to childhood. Prompting people to get on with it. Life is way too short.

  “Yes. Well. As you’ve guessed, I asked you here because of what happened last Tuesday.” Strong frowned, causing masculine creases to furrow even deeper. “But I forget my manners. Please sit. Can I offer coffee? Chocolates? Both are made from beans grown on the banks of the Big Horn.”

  Hamish alighted onto the guest chair, folding his long legs, refusing refreshment with a simple head shake. Now that the main topic was broached, Strong showed signs. A bead of sweat. Flicks of tongue. The jittery touching of one hand on the other. Hamish noted these subvocally.

  “No?” The senator turned toward the wet bar. “Then something stronger? How about some switchgrass firewater? Prairie Avenger is distilled—”

  “You were talking about recent events … if they can be discussed discreetly?”

  “My office is swept by Darktide Services. Anyway, what have I to hide?”

  Hamish blinked. He personally knew of several things that the senator would not want made public, and those were old news. The man sure had style. Even chutzpah.

  “Well, sir … on Thursday, in front of the world, you tried to explain Tuesday’s initial … behavior by claiming, rather forcefully, that you had been poisoned.”

  A memorable scene. Flanked on one side by his wife and on the other by his mistress, with both sets of children, the senator had tried for the image of a wounded family man, the victim of dark conspiracies. It wasn’t pretty, or effective.

  Strong winced. “Yeah, that made me look pretty foolish. Trawling for excuses. Squirming to get off the hook for things I said. Of course, what’s frustrating is—it’s true.”

  Hamish sat up. “You mean you really were—”

  “Poisoned? Oh, yes. I have very solid basis for saying that my aberrant behavior was triggered by a mind-altering substance someone slipped into my food, just before that first outburst.”

  “Poisoned.” Hamish took a moment to absorb this. “Your health … were you harmed in other—”

  “No. I’m still Strong-as-a-Bull-Standing.” The legislator laughed harshly. “It was all psychotropic and temporary, I’m told.”

  Hamish nodded eagerly. “This is great news. It makes you a victim. Of course, some of those things you said … well, they cannot be un-said. You’ll never win back the Aztlan or Medi vote, for example. But there’s an Algebra of Forgiveness, Senator. The biggest part of your base, especially the First Nations … they’ll come back, if you can prove it all happened because you were drugged.”

  Crandall Strong frowned. “I know that. Alas, it’s not so simple.”

  No kidding, Hamish thought. That’s when someone calls me, instead of the cops or security companies.

  “Go on, sir. Tell me what you know.”

  “It’s plenty. For example, backtracking vid images of last Tuesday, I can be pretty sure when the substance was slipped to me, before a luncheon speech about urban congestion and mass transit in Rapid City.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” Hamish nodded. “If you don’t want the feds involved, or Darktide, I know some investigators without apparent political ties and who never joined the Cop Guild. They’ll discreetly analyze every viewtrack and find out who—”

  The senator shook his head. “My own infoweb aide already did that, using top-notch surveillance aiware. We know who it was and how he did it.”

  “Wow. Then why—”

  “In fact, not only is the perpetrator right there, on the vid tracks, but he got in touch with my office, later, to boast and make threats.”

  This made Hamish straighten, his back stiff. He blinked a couple of times. “Of course the fellow could just be a braggart, taking credit after the fact. You have to supplement that with means, motive, opportunity…”

  “All of which he supplied! I’ll give you a copy. Hell, it’s a g-damn confession!”

  “But … but then, why don’t you act on all this? File charges! Clear your name.”

  Strong plopped into the bison-hide chair. His brow furrowed. “We plan to do that in a week, maybe two…”

  “Why wait?” Then Hamish answered himself. “Because of the threats.”

  “Exactly. My poisoner is blackmailing me.”

  “Hm. Those two crimes seldom come together. You don’t have to tell me what he’s holding over you—”

  “I’d tell you if I knew! It’s about the missing piece of information.”

  “The missing— Ah. You mean what the poison was. How it made you behave that way.”

  “Right! That’s what the perp is using to blackmail me!”

  “I don’t follow—”

  “If I prosecute, or take any reprisal, the poisoner will publicly reveal the substance he used against me.”

  Hamish stared. “I don’t get it.”

  “My reaction too! How could that matter? You mentioned the Algebra of Forgiveness, Mr. Brookeman. There are circumstances that mitigate almost any life mistake, and being a victim stands near the top. Yes, some damage will linger. As you put it, words can’t be unsaid. But much will be forgiven if folks know a mind-altering substance triggered my tirade. And this fellow—Roger Betsby—will suffer massive legal—or private—retribution. Yet he’s smugly sure he holds a winning hand!”

  “Because he might reveal what drug he used? That alone?”

  “Just that.” The senator leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Can you see why I turned to you?”

  Because imagination is my strong suit, Hamish thought. That, plus a fierce dedication to the Cause. For the first time, he felt some enthusiasm. Unlike his latest book-to-movie project, this problem looked like a worthy challenge.

  “I
can make some calls. Investigators and technical people who have a knack for the unusual…,” he murmured, ruminating.

  “Discreetly.”

  “With utter discretion, Senator.”

  “Good.” Strong stood up and began to pace. “Then I’ll hold back for a week. More, if you need time.”

  “It won’t be me doing the legwork, you understand?” Hamish cautioned. “I have many commitments. But I’ll set a team in motion and I’ll supervise, making sure they’re thorough.”

  “Fine, fine,” the senator said curtly. His ebullient mood seemed to slip away. “Of course there are layers. Betsby must be the tip of a bigger spear aimed at the heart of our Movement! There are so many forces hoping to disrupt our fragile civilization! We offer hope, but they’ll do anything to block us!”

  It was time to leave. Strong had a reputation for indignant rants, poison or no poison. “Naturally, we hope for an age of—”

  “Just look at the last hundred years! From exhilaration, after the defeat of Hitler, then the end of the Cold War … to the Japan and China shocks … through the Great Heist, then Awfulday and the Big Deal … has there been a single moment when we could pause and take stock? Evil keeps changing its face! But the aim remains—”

  Hamish stood up. “I’ll keep in mind the possibility of something organized. Conspiratorial.” But the words were automatic. An investigation team was taking shape in his mind … along with a provisional cost estimate. Of course, when it came to matters of political power, price seldom mattered.

  Suddenly affable again, Strong came around the desk and took his elbow. “Then, I can be at peace.” Only then, at the door to his office, the senator stopped Hamish.

  “There was a time, in living memory, when this nation bestrode the planet like a titan. Sure, it committed crimes—humans do that, when immature people get pumped with ego and power. Most of the nine hundred tribes, ethnicities, and nations who now make up America suffered at its hands, at one time or another. My own ancestors, especially! Yet, faced with such temptations, what mighty power racked up a better ratio of good to bad deeds? Rome? Britain? Any other ‘pax’ power? Or the Chinese today, as they stomp across the globe, throwing their weight around and talking about their solar system, polluting virginal planets with robot probes and claiming everything in sight? If that manned expedition of theirs succeeded.…”