The Water Bear

by Groucho Jones

  The cops, she decided.

  Better the devil you know, eh?

  They ducked into a smaller alleyway, then down a rickety letterbox of stairs. The goons clattered past overhead.

  A door slid open in a wall.

  “In,” said Ray.

  They were in a freight elevator.

  With a surge of conventional power, the car ascended.

  “You can come out of character now.”

  Box giggled with nervous energy. She hadn’t outrun the gendarmerie like that since Marseilles, a decade before.

  “How did you know to do all that?” she asked.

  “The Orbiter helped me.”

  “Where now?”

  “To Core.”

  Core was a ragged sphere of cargo nets, strung inside an iron-nickel cube. Between the nets and the walls of the cube were rows of stadium seats. There were a dozen people there, scattered in the seats. Box watched a man light powdery drugs in a pipe, and suck on it greedily, before passing it on.

  “What is this place?”

  “The belly of the beast, where the Praxis asteroid was first hollowed out, fifteen thousand years ago. Each face of the arena has its own version of down. Inside the netting is zero-gravity, curving towards gravity at the edges.”

  “Is that where your death sport is played?”

  “Yes. When they play Black Bolo here, the net is removed. It isn’t just the players who die. Tonight, there’s what you’d call an illegal rave.”

  “Oh, are we going to that?”

  “No, we’re waiting for someone to come and take my bet.”

  “Shame,” she said.

  “Get back in character, please.”

  She was Pris again.

  The man who came for Ray’s money looked like any Trappist-1 accountant, a slicked-back cunt in an expensive suit. Pris hated him instantly. She figured the suit’s suit was worth twice what she was. Bodies like hers were what paid for it.

  Ray got in line and waited. Pris was surprised by his meekness, his subservience in the face of a higher criminal authority. No trash talk was exchanged. He simply handed over a package. Hard Praxic rubles, and with it a business proposal.

  Offering her.

  The street accountant moved on to his next easy mark. Ray grabbed her, not unkindly by the arm, and led her down a broad stairway, and out of the arena, into the street, and into a bar, called the Arse, as far as she could tell. As a non-citizen, her rudimentary wetware was comically poor at translation.

  She didn’t give a fuck. It was a bar.

  Ray wasn’t so bad, she decided. She was starting to miss him already. Her new owner could be anyone.

  It was only for six months.

  If she lived that long.

  She was on her third drink, a fiery local rocket fuel called unpronounceable, and just starting to feel sexy, when the boss man arrived, all gold teeth and a practiced, piratical grin.

  She knew him.

  No, not as Pris. As Box.

  This was a man from her real past, on Earth.

  [In character,] warned Pax in her head.

  The man was in a cocaine-colored limousine, the biggest car Pris had ever seen, although that wasn’t saying much, with her just a pleasure model from the boondocks.

  The car rose into the night.

  “Ant de Large,” she said.

  Ophelia Box had first met Anthony de Largentaye in Brixton, in 2069, six years ago. He was a clubbing impresario, a well-known fixer, a man famous for being famous. She was a girl about town, just over from Paris.

  She’d been his posh totty; except she was never posh.

  Except it wasn’t six years ago.

  It was in his future.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “Oh, fuck,” she said.

  “Do know this man?” asked Pax.

  “Not here,” warned Ant. “The walls really do have ears.”

  The limousine surged down narrow streets, descending through a labyrinth of diagonal subways, until they stopped outside a nightclub. It was uncannily like Brixton, 2069. There was even a queue of bright-eyed partygoers, craning their necks to see who emerged from the car.

  The neon sign said Leopardskin Moon.

  Ant’s office was suspended over a crowded dancefloor: a transparent cube, with a transparent desk, powdery with party drugs. Praxis-does-London, down to the lasers strobing over the writhing bodies of the dancers below. Pounding dance music – it could’ve been churn – made it impossible to talk in the room.

  Ant waved his hand, and the music faded away.

  “Do you two know each other?” said Pax.

  “Never seen her before,” said Ant.

  “Yeah, I know him,” said Box.

  “Then,” said Pax, “you’re from his future.”

  “What d’you mean,” said Ant, “from my future?”

  Pax transferred the details of their mission, using de Largentaye’s public key, just received from the Water Bear, so only the real Ant de Large could read it.

  The first shimmy in a cryptography twostep.

  “Can your ship send me a signed and encrypted message, confirming all that?” said Ant.

  Pax nodded. Then, Ant said, “Okay, I’ll get whatever you need.”

  “Easy as that?” asked Box.

  “You want hard?”

  “My part in this is done,” said Pax. “Ant, you know how to reach me. I’ll rejoin my crew.”

  “What about me?” asked Box.

  “My backstory requires that you stay here a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A few hours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Brin will come and act as your buyer.”

  “Yeah, I’ll look forward to it.”

  Pax exchanged a brief look with the other man.

  “Pax, did you know about this?” she asked.

  “Emphatically not.”

  “Why ‘Anthony de Largentaye’?” she asked, after Pax had left the building.

  “It’s an alias I use.”

  “On Earth?”

  He shrugged, an uncomfortable gesture. She could sense the cogs of their story meshing in his head.

  “You’re really a Po spy?” she asked.

  “Lo, actually.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “You really don’t know me?”

  He shook his head, no less uncomfortably.

  She crossed to a wall of his office. Through the glass the dancefloor heaved. She pressed a hand against the wall, and felt the syncopated beat. Yes, it was churn. She wished she was down there.

  “I slept with you, Ant.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out.”

  “So now you go and fuck me in London? Is that how it works?”

  “I honestly don’t know how it works.”

  She pressed her head against the glass. Now, more than for years, she really wanted some ecstasy.

  “What would you do with a real Ray and Pris?”

  “Pris would be quietly saved, if we can possibly swing it that way. She might have some adventures, but she’d get through them okay.”

  “And Ray?”

  “If Ray brings his business to me, we might bankroll him. Let him rise through the ranks. It depends.”

  “Where’s the payback in that?”

  Ant shrugged. “In the wild world, babe, it’s never about payback. There’s just less-bad choices. My job is to help people.”

  Less bad choices. Maybe this mission wasn’t as straightforward as she’d thought it’d be.

  It was bright night in the scintillating avenues of the city. The rain had departed, leaving the skyways like glass. The car hummed as it swooped through the traffic. Box and Brin were wearing business suits. Kitou was dressed in casual streetwear. They were here to play victims. The Water Bear had infected their wetware with a plausibly virulent virus.

  “Military grade malwa
re,” said the ship. “Enough to absolutely terrify them.”

  The ship’s remote was back in command of her androform self. Pax and the ship were dressed in exaggerated military finery. Pax’s uniform was Po black, festooned with medals and braids. On Earth, apart from his Lo ethnicity, he might’ve passed for a comic-book Nazi. On his lapels were his carbon-black starbursts. The ship’s uniform was pristine white.

  The ship admitted the uniforms were overwrought.

  “Sometimes it pays to exaggerate,” she said. “Although some Po might like them,” she said. With her cropped blonde hair and her cyborg’s physique, she looked imperious.

  “They’re going to think the Water Bear is the battleship Potemkin,” said Box.

  The ship laughed. “Should I have a dueling scar?” she asked.

  Box said, “Don’t overdo it.”

  She could barely believe she was riding into action with her friends, in this astonishing place. For a moment, as she watched the lights and mist flash by the car windows, she was overcome with emotion.

  She started to cry.

  It wasn’t for sorrow. She didn’t know what it was. A perverse kind of melancholy. Maybe it was for joy. Where has this been, all my life?

  Kitou, sensing her mood, leaned up close. Brin took her hand.

  Mission specialist Box.

  This was fantastic.

  The plan was straightforward. They’d go into the bank and ask for the money. Since a basic information check would instantly reveal that Pax didn’t exist, they would take the city offline, by declaring a malware infection.

  Po ships had the power to do this.

  Po ships were considered incorruptible.

  The Civics would then have to choose. They might’ve already chosen. This plan hinged on their tacit acceptance. A saddle point. Without it, they had better be fast. They estimated they had a window of about five minutes, from when the infection was first reported, until an intervening authority could override the local law enforcement systems and launch a pursuit.

  Five minutes was two sigmas, which included about 95 percent of the data.

  So, they might have to be faster.

  The bank at Praxis was the bank, Pax said. “We only have one bank in our society, and this is its office.”

  The half-mile-high atrium was clearly meant to impress. What wasn’t made of polished stone, was made of unobtanium. Box took up her assigned position, in the exact geometric center of the public space.

  This was a clue for the Civics.

  Trust us, it said. We’re nerdlingers.

  [Remember,] said the Water Bear actual, now just fifty kilometers away. [Just fall down. I’ll take care of the rest.]

  Pax and the androform ship approached a human assistant.

  “I want to make a withdrawal,” said the ship.

  The woman smiled.

  “How much will you need today?”

  Information was exchanged. The assistant smiled again.

  “My, that’s a large amount. The largest I’ve seen. Can I please take a moment?”

  “Of course,” said the ship.

  The assistant looked in her internal cinema. Her eyes widened.

  “You’re a Po warship,” she said.

  “Yes. What’s your name?”

  “Gemma Geminorum.”

  “A pretty name.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Gemma, whatever happens, you’ll be taken care of. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Now, the money.”

  “How would you like it transferred?”

  “By ejection.”

  The woman frowned.

  “You mean, like actual gold into space?”

  Ship nodded.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pick it up.”

  “I’ll... I’ll need a counter-authority.”

  Ship motioned at Pax.

  “My Navigator.”

  The woman’s eyes widened.

  “A Lo Navigator. Wow.”

  Then she said, “Oh, we have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Oh, a cyberattack.”

  Kitou, Box and Brin fell to the floor, writhing.

  “Is it happening now?” asked Pax.

  “That’s what it says in my sensorium.”

  [Initiating security lockdown,] said the Water Bear actual. [We are now the ranking civil authority.]

  “We’re taking command,” said the ship.

  “Oh,” said the assistant.

  “Please eject our gold now.”

  The woman hesitated for a moment, frowning.

  Then, “Ejecting.”

  Pax and the ship turned on their heels. Security staff surrounded the three writhing women.

  “We’ll take care of this,” said Pax.

  In the taxi, four minutes later, Pax said, “That was neatly done.”

  Box said, “That was fucking terrific.”

  “You may all whoop,” said Pax.

  They laughed uproariously.

  The Water Bear said, “Does Earth idiom include, don’t count your chickens?”

  “My wetware translated it,” said Box.

  “Tick, tock,” said the ship.

  High above the city streets, balanced on a windowsill, the Watcher watched. Behind him, a family enjoyed their evening meal.

  They weren’t aware of him. He wasn’t watching them.

  He had no physical manifestation, although that partly depended on what spatial dimensions you were listening in. He existed as transient noise in the processors of countless individual computers.

  What to make of these bold imposters?

  He sprang lightly to the roof of their car, as it passed a half-kilometer below, his trajectory a passing physics problem.

  He listened.

  The Po warship was real. Both the android remote, and the real ship in space. Unlikely, but real. Perfect originals of a real Po warship and its remote. The Lo Navigator was in his physics class in the Academy on Polota, a hundred light-years away. The Lo woman was recently born.

  The wild-haired child was a Pursang.

  Military lore:

  What do you get if you cross a Po with a Pursang?

  The redhaired woman was an Earth native.

  The Earth native.

  He initiated a network transaction. For a moment, the entire system veered dangerously close to hyper-intelligence. After a few picoseconds, or enough processor time to control a large industrial city for a day, he had a solution.

  He knew before he asked, what the answer would be.

  He assigned it a truth function.

  He decided.

  The city of Praxis was less susceptible to gaming than they’d hoped for. Certainly, it could be deceived, but once deceived, its responses were reflexive.

  Its autonomic defenses included three deep-space Interdictors. These were what the Water Bear would call psychotic machines, designed to patrol the big empty, far from vulnerable humans. Cuckoo attacks were in their decision matrix. They launched at upwards of a million gravities.

  This was how conflict was handled in the wild, outside the boundaries of civil society.

  By psychopaths.

  “Is this car space rated?” asked Pax.

  “No,” said the ship. She’d attached an optical cable from her waist to the taxi’s control panel, and the car was now fully under her control.

  “No matter,” said Pax: they would only be minutes.

  The car wound through the city’s intricate under-spaces, pressing its passengers into their seats as it made short radius turns, heading towards the exterior. Box saw the spaceport flash by. She felt a pang of memory.

  The bowels of the city were full of machines. Capacitors, the size of mountains. Strange energies arced between monumental coils. These were the engines that powered the city now: the great, great grandchildren of the DRZ turbines.

  There were cities within cities. Inexplicably, they passed by h
ousing complexes. Who would live down here, in the interstices?

  The more Box saw, the more interesting it became.

  She saw a street market, in the slipway of a dam. The dam was the size of the Three Gorges Dam, and the market was like a car boot sale, except with gargantuan lorries.

  What kind of strange, black market deal was going down there?

  Worlds, without end.

  Then, they were in the interplanetary vacuum.

  The car held its atmosphere passably well. Box felt the air sucked out of her ears as its bodyshell expanded, then settled. Outside the Orbiter’s induction grid, the car lacked drive. They were ballistic. Momentum carried them free.

  Then the Water Bear actual spoke in their sensoria.

  [I have you, Praxis taxi.]

  The bank vault came next, tumbling through space, already in the grip of the ship’s gravity drive. One tonne of gold is a cube of about 37.23 cm. 25 tonnes is the size of a domestic refrigerator. The ship reeled it in, a miniscule mass. A second later, two Interdictors appeared. They had some difficulty locating the Water Bear, but the car and the vault were instantly acquired. There was a brief tug-of-war, then the vault accelerated towards the Orbiter, as though on the end of a ten-kilometer bungee.

  Box watched these events unfold from the car, unable to make any sense of them.

  The Water Bear jinked several times, at a rate that made her crewmembers wince. The Interdictors followed, unable to be shaken. They were ugly machines, all spikes and knives bunched in a fist.

  They powered up beam weapons.

  The Water Bear responded with a suppressor field.

  [STOP,] was broadcast on every channel.

  [I can escape,] said the ship actual.

  [Go,] said Pax.

  It was a brutal calculus. With or without the gold, with or without her crew, the ship could still finish the mission.

  Her humans were expendable. They’d either be killed, or arrested. Either outcome was acceptable.

  The ship disappeared, in a ripple of warp.