by David Brin
Slawek passed an ottodog, sniffing for contraband, then hurried past the Big Placard of Rules painted in no-overlay red—the hue that specs were never supposed to cover or conceal. Though it only took some dime hackerware to change the spectral pattern of your goggles. Slawek knew a dozen u-levels where this sign had been defaced with crude mockings. Resentment toward authority was rising, among the Silverdome’s rowdier ethnics.
Please don’t let them assign me to enforcement today, he prayed. Subdural nerve impulses almost lifted his right hand to trace a cross on his chest. But Catholicism was nekulturny among a lot of other kidz. So instead, the neural pattern went to Slawek’s soul-avatar, telling it to genuflect in a private corner of virspace, adding a pater noster on his behalf.
Aleksei “Danny” Hutnicki was in charge at Duty Station, where a banner-chart of work parties kept changing as laborers reported for assignments, got excused for sick call, or else came back from one of the homestead zones of Old Detroit. Aleksei glanced up and grimaced.
“You’re late. You never used to be, when you slept here.”
“Yeah, well.” That was before Slawek packed off to one of the Silverdome’s satellite projects, two dozen homes—a couple of city blocks—that were being reclaimed as a commune—complete with dairy, greenhouse, school, and some glass-covered ex-basements converted into algae farms. Still, you had to put in time here, at the main center, if you wanted to advance.
“The jitney bus broke down. Had to use my skutr.”
“Hm.” Aleksei looked dubious. Scanning the Duty Board. “Let’s see what I can find that’s right for you.…” He seemed to be looking for a shit job to give Slawek.
But it wasn’t hard to in-spec the fellow’s facials, using cheapware to correlate flush tones and iris dilation. What a faker! He already knows what I’ve been assigned.
Sure enough, Aleksei waggled a couple of fingers and the big board flickered. Slawek’s specs automatically zoomed on his name and the adamant word next to it.
ENFORCEMENT.
His face stayed impassive—he had been practicing with a feedback program. But Slawek’s soulvatar, responding to involuntary nerve twitches, expressed his disappointment by cursing and stomping in its private little capsule of subreality—a slightly sinful e-tantrum that the little homunculus thereupon commenced to pray-off, kneeling and offering fervent Hail Marys, observable only by Porfirio and God.
Meanwhile, placid on the surface, Slawek turned and headed toward the nearest ramp leading upward, into the higher galleries of the ancient domed stadium.
* * *
Slawek was less upset about getting enforcement duty when he learned he would be doing rounds with Dr. Betsby. It offered a chance to ask questions. Though first the doc had a few of his own, as they visited family encampments on the mezzanine level.
“Have you been keeping up with your studies, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Slawek answered a bit nervously. This man had the power to yank him off aixperience tutorials, and send him back into an old-timey classroom, alongside petulant teens who made life miserable for their flesh-’n’-blood teachers.
“I’m also reading paper books,” he told the physician, who oversaw health and welfare in the Silverdome. Betsby’s gray-streaked, sandy hair had grown out during the last few months, along with a new beard and a faraway look in his eyes. Right now, the man’s core attention was focused on a handheld instrument scanning the blemished arm of an elderly woman from drowned Bangladesh. Slawek’s job was to hand over tools, but also keep wary for trouble. People from some cultures didn’t appreciate being poked at by authority figures, adding to the simmering tensions of a melting-pot refugee camp. Slawek was big, streetwise, and had trained in some defense arts. Yet, he still looked like enough of a kid to seem unthreatening, especially when he offered a deliberately goofy grin.
Right now that seemed especially wise. Several males—probably the old woman’s sons—watched protectively nearby. Slawek gave them his best happy face … and got back a grudging nod.
“Come to sick call tomorrow,” Betsby told the woman. “A female nurse will finish your examination. If you don’t come, your family will lose privileges. If you do, I’m sure we can whip up a gene-match and make this nasty crud go away. Do you understand?”
She tilted her head, listening to an old-fashioned translation-plug, then stood to take his hand, thanking the doctor in rapid Bengali. At this, her sons rose and also bowed. It was often like this during rounds. A cycle of tension and release that Slawek found more exhausting than any other duty.
Still, the doc trusts me. That’s worth plenty.
As they left, moving down aisle LL4, Dr. Betsby stopped to face Slawek.
“What books?”
“Sir?” Eye contact with the boss always discomfited.
“The paper books you just mentioned. Where did you get them?”
“Um … there’s a pretty good library in the old Owner’s Box above the fifty-yard line. Old Professor Miller asks us to bring any texts we find in reclam houses. I just hold on to some, to look over first.”
“And so? What are you reading, Slawek?”
“Well, sir … my history curriculum is covering the First American Civil War. Mostly, I walk a full-immersion spectour with a Shelby Foote golem-guide. It’s called Road to Apomatics.”
“That’s Appomattox. I know that one. You can really feel the minié balls whiz by your head at Shiloh. You’re supplementing that with a book?”
“Climate and History, by Professor David Greene. It’s dry, but kind of interesting. He claims the North won the Civil War because it got more immigrants from Europe. People used to think that happened ’cause of Southern slavery. But Greene says it’s on account of that farming was easier in places where snow fell on the ground each year.”
“Why is that, Slawek?” Betsby seemed to be only half listening as he exchanged salutations with several elders at the next shelter. The occupants pulled back their curtains, letting his scanners have full play across their cots and belongings. This family—from the Paraguayan Hot Zone—got special scrutiny and were asked for weekly blood samples. Toxoplasma gondii tended to reestablish itself, even after disinfection. Till they were certified clean, the rules forbade them from keeping cats.
“I think it had to do with how winter cold kind of zeroes everything out. Makes insects and grasses go dormant. So in spring, farmers could plow and fight the weeds and pests from an even start. Also, summers were pleasant, not muggy. All of that was worth some snow.”
Betsby grunted, briefly satisfied, and focused narrowly on his scan. Of course, Slawek would rather be discussing something else, right now—Betsby’s opinion of the Havana Artifact, with its creepy message of pessimism and gloom.
The aliens say nobody survives. Not species or cultures. Just individuals who manage to get copied into crystal chain letters and get fired across space. By Saint Karel, no wonder there have been riots!
The news seemed to strike hardest people with more education, or leisure time to ponder abstractions. Here in Off-Detroit, the dispossessed had nearer horizons—like their next meal. Still, he wondered. How would someone like me win a place aboard a space message bottle? Assuming humanity decides to build them?
Slawek leaned toward a theory—fast becoming consensus on some religion sites and wirlds—that the emissary entities were in fact demons, sent to demoralize mankind! They had the hallmarks. Bizarre physical traits, reminiscent of the Book of Revelation. A professed ignorance of, or indifference to God. And an inability to affect the physical world, except by influencing human minds and hands.
That feature especially struck Catholic theologians—even Father Pracharitkul, who explained it to Slawek just yesterday, at the little church in loge box 42.
“The issue was settled long ago during the Manichean Heresy.” Slawek had to b’goog it, while the Thai priest rambled on. “At the time, it was determined that Satan and his minions have no actual, creative power
. They can do nothing physical. Their potency lay solely in the persuasive magic of lies.”
Even the Jesuits, long friendly to notions of extraterrestrial life, now leaned toward this explanation, though the Vatican still reserved judgment. Slawek, too, held back.
I bet Dr. Betsby can shed some light, when I get a chance to ask.
Inspection finished, the Paraguayans brought their drapery-screens back down. Pixelated cloth began shimmering to visually magnify their hovel into something more expansive—perhaps with vistas of the pampas back home, before it dried up and turned to sand.
Though the material also deadened sound waves in both directions, Slawek thought he heard the distinct meow of a feline. A simulation? Or one the family kept hidden? Among other parasitically-induced obsessions, some types of Toxoplasma gave infected people a weirdly desperate craving for kitties.
“All right,” Betsby said, hoisting his bag while Slawek toted heavier devices. “Then if winter was so useful to nineteenth century immigrants, why did a later mass migration of people move south, to the American sun belt, in the second half of the twentieth century, depopulating cities like Detroit?”
He’s doing an evaluation, Slawek realized. They don’t normally let kids my age join one of the outer communes, as an indie. What if I’m ordered to move back under the dome? Will I lose my shares?
“Um.” He blink-ordered a search based on Betsby’s question. Relevant blips crowded in from all sides, but … Betsby hadn’t asked him to remove the goggles … and surely that meant something.
Calm down. It’s not facts and stats he wants. Interpret.
“Well … air-conditioning made southern cities more bearable.… and … and for a while jobs moved south, following cheap labor, before heading to the Far East, then Africa. First clothing an’ then cars and such, then computers, fones, fabs, services.…”
“Okay, so then why did the migration turn around, sloshing back north again?”
“You mean, reasons other than the kudzu?… Or the flooded coast? Or when the Mississippi changed course, leaving river cities without a river? Or the breakup of Texas? Or the Big Soggy Decade? Or…”
Slawek might have continued listing more bad-luck reasons for the steady depopulation of the American Southeast—only right then he realized it might be unwise. The encampment that stood in front of them now was a tent-canopy wide enough to hold five families, stretching between two whole aisles of the Silverdome mezzanine and cantilevered over the balcony edge by a good five meters or so. The pixelcloth motif of a banner, with an X-shaped, starry cross, waved in a simulated breeze above the entrance.
Half a dozen men lounged along the platform’s forward edge, perched overlooking the old gridiron pitch. Several of them sat cross-legged and very still, wearing completely blank expressions, but the nearest pair—(Slawek sniffed that they were smoking barely legal cannaweed)—glared at the doctor and his assistant. They had specs on, so it would have been no problem to overhear Slawek’s most recent words.
He cursed himself for being inattentive of his surroundings. These redders were the toughest bunch under the dome.
While he smiled at them with his best friendly idiot grin, Slawek did a quick-scan, then subvocalized a message to Dr. Betsby. “Two men are on sick list. But three others”—he marked them—“haven’t showed up for work assignment in several days.”
If the physician got Slawek’s overlay message, he showed no overt sign. Instead, Betsby asked the nearest big fellow to get up and lift the fabric barrier for inspection. It was high on the List of Rules and everyone complied, if they wanted to qualify for the big prize—a reclam settlement in Detroit or Pontiac. Still, some groups resented the weekly intrusion.
This time the response was especially sullen. As the eastern fabric-barrier rolled upward, no one moved to damp down the noise and garish images pouring from two of the opposite tent walls. Dr. Betsby shrugged and commenced scanning for health and hygiene concerns.
Lacking anything better to do, Slawek took a closer look at the vivid scenario that was unfolding, across the pixelated-cloth screens. Clearly it was a game—one that called for extensive teamwork and exertion. He saw a dozen or so people in gray senso-suits, ducking and waving realistic looking guns in the cramped area between the vid walls. Of course the weapons weren’t real—alarms would go off. But the simulated “rifles” barked and flashed realistically as blue-coated soldiers toppled onscreen, with satisfying howls and graphic grue. Slawek stared, amazed by a coincidence. The battle scene came straight from the 1860s war he was studying in school! Only this simulation was more gruesome and graphic than The Road to Appomattox.
A Rebel in Time, identified his scrolling spec-caption. Story Premise: The player-character steals an experimental time machine from a U.S. research lab and goes back to 1860 with plans to manufacture simple “sten” submachine guns for the Confederacy and assist General Nathan Bedford Forest in destroying …
Slawek blinked away the caption. The figures ducking and shooting in the foreground weren’t just slacking off and avoiding work. A lot of refugees do game-mining to earn cash—playing to earn points and virtual possessions, like armor and magic swords that could then be sold for real money to rich players in the Orient. One could argue it was income-generating labor.
Still, this particular fantasy offended Slawek. He loved America, and disliked the trends that were breaking it apart.
Sensing aural curiosity, his specs resumed commentary. Identifying background music—“Bad Attitude” by Steinman and Meatloaf.…
I’ve got to take my specs in for a tune-up, Slawek thought, wiping the commentary again and down-cranking sensitivity.
Of course, battle games were registered addictions. But there were so many different ways to excite the craving centers in a human brain, who could track them all? Take the “dazers” who sat, cross-legged, on the nearby plywood platform, using biofeedback spectacles to enter a state of druglike bliss.
That was where Dr. Betsby turned next, when he finished his interior scan, stepping onto the platform. Slawek followed, though the sheer drop-off made him nervous. Betsby bent over in front of one of the men, who stared vacantly with a thin trail of drool hanging from a corner of his mouth.
“Jonathan?” Betsby snapped his fingers. The fellow’s bare shoulders bore bioluminescent tattoos—pixie-skin displays that throbbed with ever-changing patterns, like an octopus or cuttlefish.
But Jonathan didn’t answer. Not while his specs flashed brainwave-tuned images, guiding him to a plateau that used to be achievable only after years of prayer and training … or with illegal substances. Buddhists and transcendentalists called this “cheating” and old-time narcotics cartels pushed to make dazing illegal, as they lost market share to programs like Cogito or LightLord.
“Leave him be,” said a fellow with reddish hair and muttonchop sideburns. His high-of-choice was simpler, a bubble-bottle of frothy Motor City Lager. “Jonathan don’t react well to interruptions.”
“All the more reason to intervene, Henry James Lee,” Betsby said, leaning closer to the dazer. “Jonathan Cain! You know the rules. No meditation during daylight hours. How long since you took care of bodily needs? What you’re doing is both irresponsible and dangerous.”
The doctor reached for Jonathan’s pair of Mesh spectacles, moving to break the trance.
“I tole you to leave off him, you gaijin-lovin’, egghead bastard!” The second man snarled, moving closer …
… and now, suddenly, Slawek caught a glint in Henry James Lee’s other hand, the one not holding a beer bottle. His specs zoomed—
“Knife!” Slawek started forward and things happened fast. As he dived between Jonathan and the doc, aiming to throw a block against the blade, he brushed Jonathan’s knee—and the dazer suddenly yelled. Spasming, arms, and legs lashed out. One foot struck Slawek’s thigh hard, slamming him into Betsby, who windmilled, struggling for balance.
“Doc!”
Slawek
shouted, spinning and reaching for Betsby. He managed to catch a sleeve as the physician teetered. No help was coming from Henry James Lee, but if Slawek could just manage to hold on to the strip of fabric …
… only then Jonathan let out another thrashing, reflex kick, catching Slawek behind the knee, toppling him farther.
The physician teetered, feet scrambling at the brink, as Betsby’s weight hauled Slawek after him. In seconds, the doctor’s expression shifted from panic to realization. With sudden strength that surprised Slawek, he tore the boy’s hand off his sleeve and gave it a hard shove, throwing Slawek back just enough to halt on his knees, wavering right at the ledge. Even so, his momentum carried forward … more … more …
Now Henry James Lee acted—a strong, callused hand clamped Slawek’s collar, yanking him back.
“Let go!” he screamed, swatting at the hand. Heart pounding, clenching the plywood with white-hard strength that made the boards crack, Slawek prayed rapidly, both in the virtual world and this one, as he made himself lean over again, to look down toward seating section 116.
It’s not so high. A person who landed right could get off with a broken leg—
Flowing tears might have blurred the full impact of what lay down there. But the specs detected impaired vision and compensated, magnifying, clarifying, till he sobbed and closed both eyelids tightly shut.
TORALYZER
Normally, I don’t follow leaks from a blind otter.
Off the record is bad enough. But when an OTR demands that I not even look for a trackspoor … well … it smacks of a disinfobot, or even reffer stuff. Please.
But we’ve done pretty well, following hints from Birdwoman303. Take the way she cued our super-posse smart-mob onto a dozen big-time international fugitives—much to the annoyance of the feds and inter-feds, who spent futile years searching in vain for those bad guys! Breaking that wind won us super-high cred ratings and put me in the running for this year’s Nosie Award! Not bad, for a reporter who is still confined to a gel-cocoon, who must interact with the world via Mesh surrogates and this crazy possai. But back to the topic at hand.
