by Peter Watts
Now some of CinciGen’s alarms were staggering through Maelstrom with their guts hanging out. Naturally the local wildlife had picked up the scent. Desjardins whistled through his teeth.
“You getting this, Alice?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sometime in the dim and distant past—maybe five, ten minutes ago—something had taken a swipe at one of the alarms. It had tried to steal code, or hitch a ride, or just grab the memory the alarm was using. Whatever. It had probably screwed up an attempt to fake a shutdown code, leaving its target blind to all signals, legit or otherwise. Probably damaged it in other ways, too.
So this poor victimized alarm—wounded, alone, cut off from any hope of recall—had blundered off through Maelstrom, still looking for its destination. Apparently that part of the program still worked: it had bred itself, wounds and all, at the next node. Primary contacts, to secondary, to tertiary—each node a juncture for geometric replication.
By now there were thousands of the little beggars in the neighborhood. Not alarms anymore: bait. Every time they passed through a node they rang dinner bells for all and sundry, corrupted! defenseless! File fodder! They’d be waking up every dormant parasite and predator in copy range, luring them in, concentrating the killers …
Not that the alarms themselves mattered. They’d been a mistake from the outset, called into existence by a glorified typo. But there were millions of other files in those nodes, healthy, useful files, and although they all had the usual built-in defenses—nothing got sent through Maelstrom these days without some kind of armor—how many of them could withstand a billion different attacks from a billion hungry predators, lured together by the scent of fresh blood?
“Alice, I think I’m going to have to shut down some of those nodes.”
“Already on it,” she told him. “I’ve sent the alerts. Assuming those get through without getting torn to shreds, they should be arcing inside seventy seconds.”
On the schematic a conic section swarmed with sharks, worming their way back toward the core.
Even best case, there was bound to be damage—hell, some bugs specialized in infecting files during the archive process—but hopefully most of the vital stuff would be encysted by the time he hit the kill switch. Which didn’t mean, of course, that thousands of users wouldn’t still be heaping curses on him when their sessions went dark.
“Oh, shit,” Jovellanos whispered invisibly. “Killjoy, pull back.”
Desjardins zoomed back to a low-resolution overview. He could see almost a sixth of Maelstrom now, a riot of incandescent logic rotated down into three dimensions.
There was a cyclone on the horizon. It whirled across the display at over sixty-eight nodes per second. The Cincinnati bubble was directly in its path.
A storm convected from ice and air. A storm constructed of pure information. Beyond the superficial details, is there any significant difference between the two?
There’s at least one. In Maelstrom, a weather system can sweep the globe in fourteen minutes flat.
They start out pretty much the same way inside as out: high-pressure zones, low-pressure zones, conflict. Several million people log onto a node that’s too busy to support them all; or a swarm of file packets, sniffing step-by-step to myriad destinations, happen to converge on too few servers at once. A piece of the universe stops dead; the nodes around it screech to a crawl.
The word goes out: fellow packet, Node 5213 is an absolute zoo. Route through 5611 instead, it’s so much faster. Meanwhile an angry horde of gridlocked users logs off in disgust. 5213 clears like Lake Vostok
5611, on the other hand, is suddenly jam-packed. Gridlock epicenter leaps 488 nodes to the left, and the storm is up and moving.
This particular blizzard was about to shut down the links between Achilles Desjardins and the Cincinnati bubble. It was going to do so, according to tactical, in less than ten seconds.
His throat went tight. “Alice.”
“Fifty seconds,” she reported. “Eighty percent arced in fifty—”
Kill the nodes. Feed the swarm. Either. Or.
“Forty-eight … forty-seven …”
Isolate. Contaminate. Either. Or.
An obvious call. He didn’t even need Guilt Trip to tell him.
“I can’t wait,” he said.
Desjardins laid his hands on a control pad. He tapped commands with his fingers, drew boundaries with eye movement. Machines assessed his desires, raised obligatory protests—you’re kidding, right? You’re sure about this?—and relayed his commands to the machinery under them.
A fragment of Maelstrom went black, a tiny blot of darkness hemorrhaging into the collective consciousness. Desjardins caught a glimpse of implosion before the storm snowed out his display.
He closed his eyes. Not that it made any difference, of course; his inlays projected the same images onto line of sight whether or not his eyelids were in the way.
A few more years. A few more years and they’ll have smart gels at every node and the sharks and anemones and trojans will all just be a bad memory. A few years. They keep promising.
It hadn’t happened yet. It wasn’t even happening as fast as it had been. Desjardins didn’t know why. He only knew, with statistical certainty, that he had killed people today. The victims were still walking around, of course—no planes had fallen from the sky, no hearts had stopped just because Achilles Desjardins had squashed a few terabytes of data. Nothing that vital relied upon Maelstrom anymore.
But even old-fashioned economics had its impacts. Data had been lost, vital transactions voided. Industrial secrets had been corrupted or destroyed. There would be consequences: bankruptcies, lost contracts, people staggering home in sudden destitution. Domestic violence and suicide rates would spike a month or two down the road in a hundred different communities, geographically unconnected but all within forty or fifty nodes of the CinciGen pathfinder. Desjardins knew all about cascade effects; he tripped over them every day of the job. It’d be enough to drive anyone over the edge after a while.
Fortunately there were chemicals for that too.
Backflash
She woke to the sight of an airborne behemoth with wreckage in its jaws. It covered half the sky.
Cranes. Armatures. Grasping tearing mouth parts sufficient to dismember a city. An arsenal of deconstruction, hanging from a monstrous bladder of hard vacuum; the skin between its ribs sucked inward like the flesh of something starved.
It passed, majestic, unmindful of the insect screaming in its shadow.
“It is nothing, Ms. Clarke,” someone said. “It does not care about us.”
English, with a Hindian accent. And behind it, a soft murmur of other words in other tongues. A quiet electrical hum. The steady drip-drip-drip of a field desalinator.
A gaunt brown face, somewhere between middle-aged and Methuselan, leaned into her field of view. Clarke turned her head. Other refugees, better fed, stood about her in a ragged circle. Vaguely mechanical shapes teased the corner of her eye.
Daylight. She must have passed out. She remembered gorging herself at the cycler, late at night. She remembered some tenuous cease-fire breaking down in her belly. She remembered hitting the ground and vomiting an acid stew onto fresh sand.
And now there was daylight, and she was surrounded. They hadn’t killed her. Someone had even brought her fins; they lay on the cobble at her side.
“ … tupu jicho …” someone whispered.
“Right—” her voice rusty with disuse “—my eyes. Don’t let them throw you, they’re just …”
The Hindian reached toward her face. She rolled weakly away and fell into a fit of coughing. A squeeze bulb appeared at her side. She waved it off “Not thirsty.”
“You came from the sea. You cannot drink the sea.”
“I can. Got—” She struggled up on her elbows, turned her head; the desalinator came into view. “I’ve got one of those, in my chest. An implant. You know?”
The skinny ref
ugee nodded. “Like your eyes. Mechanical.”
Close enough. She was too weak to explain.
She looked out to sea. Distance had bled the lifter of detail, reduced it to a vague gibbous silhouette. As she watched, wreckage dropped from its belly, raising a silent gray plume on the horizon.
“They clean house as they always have,” the Hindian remarked. “We are lucky they don’t drop their garbage on us, yes?”
Clarke weathered another cough. “How did you know my name?”
“GA Clarke.” He tapped the patch on her shoulder. “I am Amitav, by the way.”
His hand, his face: both were nearly skeletal. And yet Calvin cyclers were tireless. There should be enough for all, here on the Strip. The faces surrounding them were only lean, not starving. Not like this Amitav.
A distant sound tugged at her concentration, a soft whine from overhead. Clarke sat up. A shadow of motion flickered through the clouds.
“Those watch us, of course,” Amitav said.
“Who?”
“Your people, yes? They make sure the machines are working, and they watch us. More since the wave, of course.”
The shadow tracked south, fading.
Amitav squatted back on bony haunches and stared inland. “There is little need, of course. We are not what you would call activists here. But they watch us just the same.” He stood up, brushed wet sand from his knees. “And of course you will wish to return to them. Are your people looking for you?”
Clarke took a breath. “I—”
And stopped.
She followed his gaze through a tangle of brown bodies, caught glimpses of tent and shanty in the spaces between. How many thousands—millions—had made their way here over the years, driven from their homes by rising seas and spreading deserts? How many, starving, seasick, had cheered at the sight of N’Am on the horizon, only to find themselves pushed back against the ocean by walls and guards and the endless multitudes who’d gotten there first?
And who would they blame? What do a million have-nots do, when one of the haves falls into their hands?
Are your people looking for you?
She lay back on the sand, not daring to speak.
“Ah,” said Amitav distantly, as though she had.
For days she’d been an automaton, a single-minded machine created for the sole purpose of getting back on dry land. Now that she’d made it, she didn’t dare stay.
She retreated to the ocean floor. Not the clear black purity of the deep sea; there weren’t any living chandeliers or flashlight predators to set the ocean glowing. What life there was squirmed and wriggled and scavenged through the murky green light of the conshelf. Even below the surge, viz was only a few meters.
It was better than nothing.
She’d long since learned to sleep with a diveskin pinning her eyes open. In the abyss it had been simple—just swim into the distance and leave Beebe’s floodlights behind, so far that even eyecaps failed. You’d drift off wrapped in a darkness more absolute than any dryback could even imagine.
Here, though, it wasn’t so easy. Here there was always light in the water; nighttime only bled the color out of it. And when Clarke did fall into some restless, foggy dreamworld, she found herself surrounded by sullen, vengeful throngs assembling just out of sight. They picked up whatever was at hand—rocks, gnarled clubs of driftwood, garrotes of wire and monofilament—and they closed in, smoldering and homicidal. She thrashed awake and found herself back on the ocean floor—and the mob melted into fragments of swirling shadow, fading overhead. Most were too vague to make out; once or twice she glimpsed the leading edge of something curved.
She went ashore at night to feed, when the refugees had retreated from the perpetual glare of the feeding stations. At first she’d kept her billy in hand, to ward off anyone who got in her way. No one did. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising, all thing considered. She could only imagine what the refugees saw when they looked in her eyes. A miracle of photoamplification technology, perhaps? A logical prerequisite for life on the ocean floor?
More likely they saw a monster, a woman whose eyes had been scooped from their sockets and replaced with spheres of solid ice. For whatever reason, they kept their distance.
By the second day she was keeping down most of what she ate. On the third she realized she wasn’t hungry anymore. She lay on the bottom and stared up into diffuse green brightness, feeling new strength trickling into her limbs.
That night she rose from the ocean before the sun had fully set. She left the gas billy sheathed on her leg, but nobody challenged her as she ascended the shore. If anything, they gave her an even wider berth than they had before; the babel of Cantonese and Punjabi seemed more tightly strung.
Amitav was waiting for her at the cycler. “They said you would return,” he said. “They did not mention an escort.”
Escort? He was looking past her shoulder, down the beach. Clarke followed his gaze; the setting sun was a diffuse fiery smear bleeding into the—
Oh Jesus.
Crescent dorsal fins sliced through the near-shore surf A gray snout poked briefly into view, like a minisub with teeth.
“They were almost extinct once, did you know?” Amitav said. “But they have come back. Here at least.”
She took a shaky breath; adrenaline shocked the body, too late for anything but weak-kneed hindsight. How close did they come? How many times have I—
“Such friends you have,” the refugee remarked.
“I didn’t—” but of course Amitav knew that she hadn’t known. She turned to the cycler, putting her back to him.
“I had heard you were still here,” Amitav said behind her. “I did not believe it.”
She slapped a tab on the top of the cycler. A protein brick dropped into the dispensing trough. She started to reach for it, clenched her hand to stop it from shaking.
“Is it the food? Many here like the food. More than they should, considering.”
Her hand steadied. She took the brick.
“You are afraid,” Amitav said.
Clarke looked down at the ocean. The sharks had vanished.
“Not of them,” Amitav said. “Of us.”
She stared back at him. “Really.”
A smile flickered across his face. “You are safe, Ms. Clarke. They will not hurt you.” He swept his skeletal arm in a gesture that took in his fellows. “If they wanted to, would they have not done so when you were unconscious? Would they not at least have taken that weapon from your leg?”
She touched the sheath on her calf “It’s not a weapon.”
He didn’t argue the point. He looked around with a gaunt smile. “Are they starving? Do you think they will rip you apart for the meat on your bones?”
Clarke chewed, swallowed, looked around. All those faces. Some curious, some almost—awed. Behold, the zombie woman who swims with sharks.
No visible hatred.
It doesn’t make sense. They have nothing. How can they not hate?
“You see,” Amitav said. “They are not like you. They are contented. Docile.” He spat
She studied his bony face, his sunken eyes. Noticed the embers that smoldered there, deep in the sockets, almost hidden. She saw the. sneer behind the smile.
This was the face her dreams had multiplied a thousand times over.
“They’re not like you either,” she said at last.
Amitav conceded the point with a slight bow. “More’s the pity.”
And a bright hole opened in his face.
Clarke stepped back, startled.
The hole grew across the shoreline, bleeding light. She turned her head; it moved with her, fixed to the exact center of her visual field.
“Ms. Clarke—”
She turned to his voice; Amitav’s disembodied arm was just visible in the halo of her dementia. She grabbed, caught it, dragged him close.
“What is it?” she hissed “What’s—”
“Ms. Clarke, are you—”
&n
bsp; Light, coalescing. Images. A backyard. A bedroom.
A field trip of some kind. To a museum, huge and cavernous, seen from child height.
I don’t remember this, she thought.
She released Amitav’s hand, staggered backward a step.
The Hindian’s hand waved through the hole in her vision. His fingers snapped just under her nose. “Ms. Clarke …”
The lights winked out. She stood there, frozen, her breath fast and shallow.
“I think—no,” she said at last, relaxing fractionally.
Amitav. The Strip. The sky. No visions.
“I’m okay. I’m okay now.”
A half-eaten nutrient brick lay coated in wet sand at her feet. Numbly, she picked it up. Something in the food?
On all sides, a silent watching throng.
Amitav leaned forward. “Ms. Clarke—”
“Nothing,” she said. “I just … saw some things. From childhood.”
“Childhood,” Amitav echoed. He shook his head.
“Yeah,” Clarke said.
Someone else’s.
Maps and Legends
Perreault didn’t know why it should be so important to her. It was almost as important not to think about it too much.
There was no language barrier to speak of. A hundred tongues were in common use on the Strip, maybe ten times as many dialects. Translation algorithms bridged most of them. Botflies were usually seen and not heard, but the locals seemed only slightly surprised when the machines accosted them in Sou-Hon Perreault’s voice. Giant metal bugs were just a part of the background to anyone who’d been on the Strip for more than a day or two.
Most of the refs knew nothing of what she asked: a strange woman in black, who came from the sea? A striking image, yes—almost mythical. Surely we would remember such an apparition if we had seen it. Apologies. No.
One teenage girl with middle-aged eyes spoke in an arcane variant of Assamese that the system had not been adequately programmed for. She mentioned someone called Ganga, who had followed the refugees across the ocean. She had heard that this Ganga had recently come ashore. No more than this. There were possible ambiguities in translation.
