“Stalker?” His lips thin. I don't look much like I used to, before the scars were polished away.
“Maybe.” I speak in low tones, trusting the traffic noise to help confuse anyone trying to eavesdrop, hiding the shape of my lips behind his collar. It's a good excuse, right? “She looked like . . . Gabe, remember Bernard Xu?”
Of course he does. Rhetorical question. “Daughter? He didn't have any kids, did he?”
“I—”—never bothered to find out. “He had a brother, at least.”
“You think she's a threat?”
“I think she tripped over me by accident. She didn't expect to see me there. Recognized my voice, not my face. Probably from old news files.” Bitterly level. “A lot of my testimony was aired. I imagine if she's related, she's seen the footage.”
“I know.” He stops walking; I look around before I realize we're at the coffee shop. We get our drinks and go to walk around campus under the bare trees, on the dying lawn. A pale winter sun warms skin through my jacket. “She just happened to be there?”
“Sitting in a chair drinking cocoa, as if she were waiting for somebody. And she was shocked to see me. Recognize me. Bolted like a deer.”
“Huh. So what was she doing there?”
“Good question, huh?”
12:00 PM
Tuesday 5 December, 2062
Wellesley Street East
Toronto, Ontario
Indigo paced. She'd been pacing for hours. The rhythm of her boots squeaking on cheap carpet soothed her enough to think.
Master Warrant Officer Genevieve Casey had sent Bernard Xu, the freedom fighter Indigo had modeled her life after, to jail for treason. He was the closet thing Indigo had known to a male parent; Indigo's father, Benson, had been killed in the South African conflict and she barely remembered him.
And Uncle Bernie had died behind bars.
Casey was a dangerous woman. And probably still a loyal patsy of the oppressive government regime Indigo lived to do battle with. Which meant that if Razorface was visiting her furtively in middle of the night, he had things to say to her that he didn't trust to electronic media. Which meant a closer connection than Indigo had assumed. He wasn't looking for Casey; he was working with her. And the things he had to pass along were most likely about Indigo. Indigo, who paced in the rat-gnawed confines of another water-stained safe house, eyes blind to grime and peeling wallpaper, and waited for word on where to go and what to do.
She'd wanted Razorface because he might lead her to Casey. And he had. Something pressed thumbs into her throat when she stopped pacing. She refused to recognize it as grief.
At last, a coded tapping roused her, and a key turned in the old-fashioned lock a moment later. Indigo breathed a sigh of relief when Farley pushed the door ajar and came in. “Any word?”
He nodded, put a pouch of milk and a pouch of cereal on the counter. “We're going to have to cut the American loose.”
“I figured as much. What do we know? Do they want more than that?” Do they want him dealt with? She hoped not. The idea tasted—off.
He shrugged. A square of wan sunshine illuminated the light tattoo on his cheek as he found bowls and fixed breakfast. “No, just walk away and stay hid. I think they want to watch him.”
“Speaking of which. We're not walking away from the Unitek issue.”
“If we take out Riel, we damage Unitek.”
“Riel? I want Holmes, Farley. Before she kills any more kids. You were the one who told me one of their test subjects is going to spend his life on a ventilator.”
Milk dripped from his lower lip. He swallowed. “My sources did, yeah. But they've got an idea now that Casey might give us the shot at Riel, so we're to keep an eye on her. I guess the PM is getting more personally interested in what her underlings are up to. My sources tell me Riel's opposition to the starflight program is public only. Her party's in Unitek's pocket—hurt one, hurt both.”
“Really.” The beginnings of a grin tingled her cheeks. “Not that I would jeopardize a mission for personal reasons. But assuming it works, do they have any objection to Casey meeting an unkind fate as well?”
5:00 PM
Tuesday 5 December, 2062
Richmond Hill, Ontario
Dexter spread burgundy tail feathers against the nap of a dark terry towel draped over the sofa back and clucked tenderly, turning her head to coax Georges a little closer. Slate-gray feathers ruffled at the back of her neck.
Valens leaned back in his armchair and chuckled. “She's just sweet-talking you in so she can steal your glasses.”
Georges tucked a chile pepper between his lips and bent toward the African gray. She eyed his spectacles, but after some consideration appeared to decide that snacks were better than tormenting Papa, and very neatly extracted the dried fruit from his mouth. “Pretty, pretty!” she said contentedly, nibbling leathery red bits off the treat.
“We got the names backward,” Georges commented. Sinister—another African gray—slept on a rough-barked perch near the holo stand, making a strange hunchbacked shape with his head tucked under his wing.
“We did. Is that good, birdy-bird?”
Dexter put the fruit down on her towel and clucked. “Red fruit!” She was a mature African gray, with a vocabulary better than many three-year-olds Valens had known.
“Pepper,” Georges replied, clearly. The birds were his babies, and he was convinced they understood most of what he told them.
“Pretty!”
Valens laughed again, and then closed both broad hands on the arms of the overstuffed chair and pulled himself out of its embrace. He headed for the antique oak liquor cabinet in the corner and knelt to look for a bottle of Scotch. “Patricia's doing really well in the program, by the way. Kahlúa? Who do we know who drinks that?”
“That's good to hear. And I think we got the bottle for my birthday three years ba— Ow!”
Valens glanced back over his shoulder, distracted from the rustle and clink of half-full bottles. Dexter had hopped to Georges's shoulder and was gnawing on his ear. “Do you need a rescue?”
“No, I got it. She's just jealous.” Georges got the bird redirected to preening the gray fringe of hair that was all that remained to him, sitting forward so he wouldn't pin her tail against the couch. “How long do you think it's going to be?”
“Georges, I don't know.” Valens closed the cabinet, losing his interest in a drink. “Time's getting short, and Riel is getting awfully close to figuring out what's going on. And if she does, I honestly don't know which way she'll jump. And Holmes . . . she's a piece of work.”
“She is. You're not going to save the world all by yourself.”
“The hell you say.” He bit back on the rest of the sentence, shook his head, and pressed one hand flat to the soft cream-patterned wool of the rug as he stood. “Okay, you're right. I'm not going to save the world. But I am going to save Patty, at least.”
“And Casey.”
“What?”
Georges was standing when Valens turned back around, standing and smiling in that tolerant, amused, slightly condescending way that made Valens wonder why he had put up with long absences and an all-consuming career for thirty years. And made him infinitely grateful that Georges had. “I know how you feel about her, Fred.”
“Are you insinuating that I'm inappropriately attached to one of my patients?” Arch amusement. “A woman, at that?”
“No, I'm saying it's like you to look out for one of your kids, even when they don't understand what you're doing for them.” The bird shifted on Georges's shoulder, spread wings he never remembered to keep clipped, and sailed across the room to Valens. Valens reflexively put a hand up and let her land on his fist. Just a few ounces of feathers and bone, but he felt the impact solidly.
“She hates me.”
“You trust her.”
“I do.” Valens shook his head, and Dexter squawked her disapproval of the sudden movement. “Hush, birdy-bird. I'll use he
r any way I have to, Georges. Especially if it comes down to her or Patty. But I think she turned out okay. She's a patriot, in one of the better senses of the word.” He might have said more, but he didn't think he needed to.
“It's that bad?”
“Well.” The bird nibbled his finger, clucking. “Go to Papa Georges, birdy-bird.”
She clucked again, as if to her eggs, or a mate, and regarded him out of eyes like black gemstones set in fragile lids with the texture of crumpled rice paper. “Pretty!” she said—her all-purpose term of approval—and bit his nose.
He shook his hand gently. “Papa Georges.”
The bird clucked in annoyance and took wing again, landing on her towel on the sofa.
“Well?”
“Latest reports indicate that there are massive algae
die-offs in the Atlantic, spreading to the Indian Ocean. Nobody knows why, but there's some theorization that it's linked to the failure of the Gulf Stream and deep-ocean water turnover. An El Niño event is under way in the Pacific, and coral reef survivability is down to 35 percent. We're looking at an ecosystem collapse in 150 years, tops. That's all proprietary Unitek information, of course. Holmes hasn't informed Riel yet, although we presume her own scientific adviser, Paul Perry, must be aware of the issues. Charlie tells me that Paul has been in touch.”
“It sounds like a doomsday scenario. Hysteria.”
Valens rolled his head back and looked up at the ceiling. Suddenly, he decided he wanted that drink after all. “It does, doesn't it? It doesn't mean the planet will be uninhabitable, of course. Just that it will take greater and greater interventions to sustain human life. We're looking at a lot of hunger, misery, and sickness. A lot of poverty.”
“A lot more war.”
“A whole hell of a lot more war.”
1830 Hours
Thursday 7 December, 2062
Clarke Orbital Platform
Charlie had intended to meet Paul Perry when he disembarked from the beanstalk on Clarke, but somehow one thing led to another, and Charlie was still hunched over one of his microenvironments when his contact flashed a message. He blinked for a time display and cursed under his breath, standing up from his stool the same instant a knock sounded on the hatch. “Paul, I'm sorry—”
Perry stood framed in the doorway a moment: a small-boned man, slightly built and of average height, dark hair still tousled from his trip in the space elevator. “It's nothing,” he said, his quick sideways glance an unassuming request to come in out of the corridor. Charlie stepped back and let him. “I assume something good kept you?”
Charlie shrugged, and tapped the door-panel shut behind Paul. “Something interesting,” he said. “I'm up to my neck in nanites—”
“Literally?” Pale eyes flashed slyly. Charlie made a little show of dusting off his shirt front, and then led Paul over to the benches while the science adviser kept talking. “You know I'm not here as a colleague, Charles—”
“You're here as Riel's investigator. I know she's not pleased with Unitek, but—”
“Yes? What are these, Charlie? Terrariums?”
“Microenvironments. But we've discovered some remarkable secondary abilities in our nanotech that I wanted to share with you anyway.”
“These all look extremely healthy. Are they closed systems?”
Charlie nodded, picking up one of the sealed glass spheres and handing it to Paul. Paul took it, cupped it in both his narrow hands. “Completely. Water, shrimp, snails, some algae—one of the classic model ecosystems.”
Paul coughed. It was a laugh hidden behind a hand, and Charlie grinned. “Which, as an ecologist, you were no doubt aware.”
“Indubitably. Nothing remarkable there, then?”
Charlie shook his head. “On the contrary. They're all quite remarkable. The one you're holding is a control. There are five natural controls, five controls that are infected with a nanotech population—”
“Not sure I like that word infected.” Paul turned toward the light, and held the sphere carefully up to it. His motions disturbed the crystalline water, and a pale smear of sediment rose from the base of the globe, describing a spiral.
“Got a better one?”
Paul answered him only with silence. Charlie propped one hip on a steel lab bench and waited until Paul finally caved and jerked his chin at the racks of labeled spheres under grow-lights. “And the others?”
“Contaminated.”
“With nanites? What, various”—he sought a word and failed—“cultivars?”
“Ooo,” Charlie answered. “Cultivars. Consider that terminology stolen, Paul. No, all one—cultivar. Differing concentrations of industrial chemicals, heavy metals, bleach—”
“Bleach?” Paul set the sphere in his hands down carefully on its rack, affixed the clips, and strode to the wall to look at the others. He bobbed up and down a little when he walked, his hands fisted and shoved into his jacket pockets. “They all look very healthy. That's . . . very exciting.”
“That,” Charlie answered, “is the remarkable thing—” and grinned when Paul turned back over his own shoulder and made a wry mouth. “We're on the same side of this fight, Paul.”
“The prime minister isn't so sure about that, Charlie.”
“I am.” Charlie shrugged. “Fred Valens is. Holmes, she's a different matter. But that's not what I need to talk to you about. How much do you know—really know—about what's going on planet-side?”
“Politically?” Paul turned to face Charlie, his back to the racks of microenvironments.
“Climatologically.”
Paul laughed bitterly and drew his hands out of his pockets. Charlie was surprised to find himself twisting his own fingers together and forced himself to stand up straight and stop. “Do you need a more definite answer than, we're fucked?” He said it mildly, calm as a request for coffee. “I know. Riel knows. I'm postulating that we're on the verge of a snowball Earth scenario, actually.”
“Snowball—” Charlie felt himself blink. It was a vivid mental picture, and certainly it couldn't be what it sounded like. But Paul's slow, considered nod twisted a chilly knot in his gut nonetheless.
“Snowball Earth,” Paul said. “A complication of a global warming scenario. The short form is that a big glup of cold water—like a caving ice shelf, say—hits the ocean, and the water temperature plummets, precipitating a glaciation. Except if the glaciation gets severe enough, the planet's albedo rises to extreme levels—”
“Reflecting solar energy into space. Charming.” Charlie realized he'd wrapped his arms tight around himself, but didn't drop them. “Snowball Earth.”
“Quite the vivid poetic image, isn't it?”
“Quite.” Paul didn't say anything else as Charlie turned around and began fussing with instrument calibrations. Charlie knew going in he was going to lose his nerve first, and didn't bother putting up much of a fight, truth to tell. “Do you think it's likely?”
“I think we can fight it if it starts to happen. Carbon dust on the ice pack, anything to increase heat absorption. But it's one hell of an ugly long shot. If anything happened to spike atmospheric dust, say a volcano or two, we'd be in really rough shape.”
“What would it take, Paul?” Charlie's nails were bitten, but his hands were expert as he made his adjustments, and they didn't shake. “To trigger that?”
Paul came up beside him, leaning his elbows on the bench. “It's already triggered, in my opinion. We're also due—overdue—for a magnetic polar swap and a normal, everyday sort of a glaciation and a bunch of other ecological trauma. The short form is that things are going to get very, very ugly. Possibly in our lifetimes. Definitely within our grandchildren's. People are going to be hungry and they're going to be cold.” He sighed.
“And yet Riel wants to shut down the space program.”
“The prime minister thinks we're better off spending the money at home. Different priorities. And I have to say I agree with her.”
Charlie nodded. “You know what amazes me, Paul?”
“Human stupidity?” Dry tone, but a guess hazarded with a smile. The two men shared a long, tangled look, and Charlie blew air across his face and shrugged.
“No,” he said. “Our damned human conviction that there's going to be a way to weasel out of this one, too.”
0315 Hours
Friday 8 December, 2062
Bloor Street
Toronto, Ontario
I wake early, and for a moment—before Gabe's darkened apartment swims into focus—I can't remember where I am. The clock reads a little after 0300. I trained myself to go without sleep—besides catnaps—for so long that now that I can sleep through the night, I don't need it anymore. Boris came to dinner in the cat carrier; he purrs on my chest. The damn cat drools, and the quilt is wet. Gabe still snores quietly beside me, but I can tell I'm done sleeping.
Some light filters in from the street below, so I annoy the cat by turning on my side. I stretch out and lie there for a little while watching Gabe's breath flow slowly in and out. Richard?
“Up late, Jenny.”
News?
“Min-xue is developing a taste for Dylan Thomas and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'm teaching him English. Poetry is a good motivator. He loves it.”
It's hard to think of the Chinese as enemies when Richard gives me regular progress reports on his new project, a seventeen-year-old half-Taiwanese pilot who composes traditional poetry on the stars. I wonder how they feel about that in St. Petersburg, now. Corrupting the innocents, son?
“Who you calling sonny, Grandma?” Richard chuckles. “How's everything going down there?”
Scared. Trying to keep body and soul together. The usual. Elspeth sends her love and wants a nanite load of her own so she can talk to you.
“I'm working on that. The problem is the damned control chips—”
What if we reprogrammed the nanites to act independently?
“There are horror movies about that. We still don't know what these things are for, Jenny.”
Have you hacked their O/S yet?
“It'd help to have Castaign for that.”
Oh, come on. You're saying Gabe can do things you can't?
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