Nightside City

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Now, I don't know that Nakada's one big charge would do that, would trigger a meltdown, but I sure as hell didn't want to find out by experiment. Quakes and volcanoes were the least we could expect.

  And that idiot didn't seem to see any of this.

  I wasn't sure what to make of that. Sure, she'd grown up on Prometheus, where the crust is thicker and more stable and there aren't any peculiarities to the planetary rotation, but hadn't she studied up on Epimetheus before she bought into the scheme? Even if she was too lazy to jack the data in on the conscious level, she could afford the best and fastest imprinting on the planet.

  Was it just that she wanted the scheme to work, the way her ventures in genens and psychobugs hadn't? I knew she was good at ignoring unpleasant details, but could she really ignore all the dangers?

  Maybe, subconsciously, she wasn't ignoring them at all. Maybe she intended to watch from orbit, so she'd live through it, and she didn't really care if it failed. She'd shown enough of a self-destructive streak before to make that believable. Maybe she wanted to gamble, and wanted to watch all the fireworks when she lost.

  After all, she probably had a grudge against the entire planet. Epimetheus wasn't her home, it was her exile. Wrecking an entire planet would certainly be a grandiose enough way of expressing her annoyance at being exiled.

  I mean, I'm sure she wasn't thinking that consciously, or at least I hope she wasn't, but in her subconscious she must still have been the spoiled kid she'd been twenty years earlier on Prometheus. So after some thought I could maybe see how Nakada could be going ahead with this idiot scheme.

  But that didn't explain what the people at the Ipsy thought they were doing.

  Maybe there was more to this than I knew, I thought. Maybe I'd misunderstood the whole thing, or Nakada had misunderstood the whole thing and passed it on to me. Maybe what the Ipsy really had in mind was using a fusion charge to plow Nightside City's continental plate back onto the nightside, like an icebreaker in one of those old vids from Ember-but that could be pretty rough, too.

  Maybe they had safety precautions. Maybe they had some way of dissipating the heat, or holding the crust together. Maybe they were going to get a charge down into the core somehow and do something there.

  Because there was one thing more that Sayuri Nakada didn't seem to realize. If you could somehow stop Epimetheus right where it was-without breaking anything, without so much as spilling anyone's tea-you still wouldn't have saved Nightside City for good. There's a reason that the planet's rotation is screwed up. That core is still off-center, and sooner or later it's going to pull around so that the thin side of the mantle is facing directly toward Eta Cass A. If you stopped the planetary rotation where it is now, eventually it would start up again-not so much a rotation as a wobble.

  Wouldn't it?

  I realized that I didn't know, and that I had no way to find out while I was walking the streets of the eastern burbs.

  Even if the planet did start to swing around again, how long would it take? Planets have one hell of a lot of inertia. They're slow. It might be millennia before the city started moving again. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more likely that seemed, so that renewed rotation wouldn't really be a problem after all.

  Would it?

  This was all too complicated for me. I wasn't a planetologist. I wasn't a physicist. I didn't even know enough to go back and try to argue with Nakada. I had to learn more.

  Well, I was a detective. I was supposed to be good at learning things and putting them together.

  I had two choices, as I saw it. I could go back home and plug myself in and study up on planetology and try to figure out what the hell Nakada and the Ipsy were really up to, then maybe go back and argue about it. Or I could go to the Ipsy and ask someone.

  Judging by the reception my earlier call got, I'd have to go in person if I wanted answers out of the Ipsy. They didn't want to talk to me.

  Well, on the com, you don't have to talk to anyone you don't want to, but it's harder to ignore someone who's actually physically there, right in front of you. It's harder to lie, too-holos and sims take advance preparation if they're going to be convincing seen directly, but they're pretty easy to improvise over a com line.

  And it's hardest of all to ignore someone when she's standing there with a gun in your face. I hoped I wouldn't have to resort to that. It had worked so far, but sooner or later somebody might call my bluff-or call the cops.

  And it was a bluff, all right; I wasn't ready to shoot an unarmed human. I'd have second thoughts even about software, usually-that would depend how advanced it was, how sentient, how strong its survival urge, and so forth. I'd shot the eye, but spy-eyes aren't really sentient, aren't really alive.

  At least, most of them aren't, and I sure hoped the one I shot hadn't been. It had handled my threats calmly enough.

  Maybe I could shoot a machine, but shooting a human -that was a bluff.

  But the people at the Ipsy wouldn't need to know I was bluffing, and a gun's a lot more intimidating in person than over a com line.

  The Ipsy was located near the Gate, of course, where they could send their people and machines out of the crater easily, and where incoming miners could drop off samples or news or anything else they thought the Ipsy might be interested enough in to pay a finder's fee on. I hadn't been there in years, and I'd seen plenty of my office lately; dropping by the Institute would make for a pleasant change of scene.

  Besides, it's always quicker to ask someone who knows the answer than to figure something out for yourself.

  That is, it's quicker if he's willing to tell you. I just had to make the people at the Ipsy willing.

  That was where bluffing with the Sony-Remington came in.

  I called a cab, and when it arrived I told it to take me to the Ipsy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A PINK-STRIPED MATATU JAMMED WITH DRUNKEN miners was heading out toward the Gate, back toward the mines, with people and machines hanging precariously onto the sides. Somebody clinging one-handed to the back rail waved at me with her free hand as I stepped out of the cab, and I waved back, but I didn't recognize her. I don't know a lot of miners. Maybe I'd met her at Lui's, or in the Trap back in happier times, but I didn't recall her face and I didn't worry about it.

  I glanced up, looking for the spy-eye above the scattered pedestrians, and then remembered that I'd blasted it. I still felt bad about that, but I could live with it. I figured two, maybe three more unconscious glances and I'd be over it.

  The cab gave my card back after only a brief pause hinting that it thought it deserved a tip. I figured it hadn't checked my balance, or it would know why I wasn't tipping. I was into negative numbers, running on credit that I had no way to pay for; I had about three days, I figured, before my bank caught on and cut me off-less, if I bought anything expensive enough to attract attention. I pocketed the card and looked at the Ipsy.

  The place had seen better days. It might have seen worse, but it didn't look like it. Not that I'd ever seen it looking any different. It hadn't changed at all since my first trip there as a kid, when my parents had hopes that I'd get interested in science and maybe earn some money for them.

  That thing must have been about the oldest building in the city; it was probably there before there was a city. It was all built of dark laser-cut native stone, the sort of work done by nonsentient robots working from a standard plan without intelligent direction. The windows were afterthoughts, determined by the interior plan; from the outside they looked random in size and placement.

  There was no attempt whatsoever at symmetry or grace; it was big and ugly and squat, and the entire place was layered with dirt.

  The main entrance was under a blackened overhang more or less in the middle of the side facing me-the building didn't really have a front or back. No one was going in or out. I walked up to it.

  The Institute's logo hung, glowing dimly, above the door. Scanners glittered from shadowy corners. As
I approached, that synthetic voice that I'd heard on the com said, "We're sorry, but the Institute for Planetological Studies is closed to the public until further notice."

  "Why?" I demanded.

  "Due to the present financial condition of our supporting foundation, it has been necessary to cut back on administrative, maintenance, and public relations staff and equipment. We hope that these conditions will improve shortly."

  "I'm not a damn tourist," I said. "Paulie Orchid sent me; I've got a message from Sayuri Nakada I'm supposed to deliver."

  The voice changed tone, from mechanically polite to downright snotty. "May I ask who you wished to see?"

  "I didn't get the name," I said, feigning exasperation. "Paulie just told me to bring it to the Institute, and here I am."

  "Just a minute, please," it said. "I will consult with my superiors."

  I knew that I was talking to some really simple gate-keeping software, probably hardwired into a cultured fungus grown somewhere in those shadowy comers, or maybe just resident in the building's internal com net. A goddamn rat was probably its superior, as far as intelligence or decision-making capability went. I waited.

  A new voice spoke, one that could pass for human. "What's this message?"

  "It's on a bug, and Paulie told me to bring it here and see that somebody got it. This stupid software you've got out here isn't my idea of somebody."

  "Just a minute," the new voice said.

  I unsealed my jacket and waited.

  "All right," he said. "I'll send someone down for it. Come on in, and she'll meet you in the central lounge. It's straight ahead."

  "Right," I said. I knew where it was.

  The door opened, lights and music came on, and I marched in, my right hand a centimeter or two from the grip of my gun.

  I walked down a corridor with bare stone walls and with plastic conduits webbing the ceiling, past a few doors, across another corridor, and into the lounge, which had full-depth holos of smoky green seascapes for walls, and a soft blue carpet underneath. Music kept time with the holographic surf. A golden haze hid the ceiling; blue bubbles of variable furniture drifted lazily by.

  I snared a small one and leaned on it, waiting; it formed into a comfortable grip and hovered right where I wanted it, without a single dip or bob. The Ipsy wasn't too badly off, I decided, if they kept the furniture so nicely tuned. The music and the holos weren't the latest styles, but they weren't bad, either.

  A woman who was either older than hell or didn't believe in cosmetic restoration stepped out of one of the holos; her hair was white, her skin wrinkled, her hands withered and clawlike.

  "What's this message?" she asked. "Why didn't Orchid come himself, if it's important?"

  "I lied about that," I said, taking my elbow off the floater and standing up straight. "I don't have a message. I just need to talk to some of you people about this work you're doing for Sayuri Nakada."

  She stopped and stared at me through narrowed eyes. Then she said, in a tone suitable for talking to a particularly dumb machine, "The IPSE is a private, nonprofit organization, and we aren't affiliated with Nakada Enterprises. If you want to know anything about work done for Sayuri Nakada, ask Mis' Nakada. We can't tell you anything."

  So they still weren't talking.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "But I did talk to Mis' Nakada, and I wasn't happy with what she told me. I know what you people are doing, roughly, but I have some questions that I need answers to. If I don't get those answers, I may have to go elsewhere with my questions, and I don't think you or Mis' Nakada would like that. Now, could we discuss this a little?"

  "No," she said. "We couldn't. Get out." She started to turn away.

  I wasn't happy about my next move, but I didn't see what else I could do. They wouldn't even talk to me enough for me to make convincing threats, and I desperately needed to know what was going on, and when. For all I knew, they were getting reluctant to talk because the big day was coming soon. For all I knew it might be just hours away.

  I hoped, as I pulled the HG-2 from its holster and flicked it on, that they weren't paranoid enough to have heavy security or to go armed in their own building. They'd never had any need for security until now, after all; as far as I knew, they'd never had any secrets before this deal with Nakada.

  "Mis'," I said, "you're going to have to talk to me."

  She saw the gun and stopped, turned back, and looked at me.

  "Are you crazy?" she asked. "This is private property! You can't bring that thing in here!"

  I smiled. "I already did," I said. "It's loaded with heat-seeking, armor-piercing high explosive, with added boost during trajectory, so that it can track you even if you're cyborged to the eyeballs and trying to dodge. You talk to me, or I blow off a leg, at the very least." I pointed the gun at her crotch and tapped a switch with my thumb-which didn't do anything; the gun was fully self-regulated, but I thought it looked like a convincing gesture.

  "This is insane," she said, but I saw her eyes focused down tight on the barrel of the gun, and she didn't move anything but her mouth when she spoke. The green seascapes rolled smoothly behind her, and her stiff immobility made quite a contrast.

  "I never said it wasn't insane," I said, keeping my tone light. "I just said it was happening. I might be a complete wacko, loose from wherever they keep us nowadays. I might be a sim or a genen or a construct. What I am doesn't matter a damned bit. What matters is that I'm here with a loaded gun pointed more or less at your belly. Now, can we talk about this little job you're doing for Sayuri Nakada, or do I pull the trigger?"

  "What do you want to know?" she asked, and I could see a drop of sweat at her hairline.

  I love the HG-2. It looks intimidating as hell. And with good reason, too.

  "First off," I said, "are you people really planning to stop the entire planet's rotation with a single fusion charge?"

  Her throat worked. "I don't know," she said. "That's not my department. I'm in charge of estimating the environmental impact of halted rotation, not figuring out how to make it happen."

  "Environmental impact?" That sounded interesting. "So just what will the environmental impact be?"

  "I don't know yet," she said. "We're still working on it."

  "What's the added heat going to do to the planetary core?" I asked.

  "I don't know," she said again. "I do surface environment-possible disruption of weather patterns, water supply, oxygen production by pseudoplankton, that sort of thing." The drop of sweat rolled slowly down her forehead.

  "What's going to happen with those, then?" I asked.

  "I told you," she said. "We're still working on it."

  "I heard you," I said. "But you must have some idea."

  She swallowed. "So far, it doesn't look like there will be any serious disruption. After all, the atmosphere's already moving much faster than the surface."

  The bead of sweat broke against an eyebrow, but another one had formed above it, back at the hairline. It's amazing how you notice things like that.

  "But you're working on the basis of a sudden stop in rotation?" I asked. "Not a gradual one, or anything localized?"

  "Yes," she said. She didn't nod.

  I figured that she was giving me a pretty fair readout. "All right," I said. "I need to talk to whoever's in charge of the actual stop. Who is it?"

  "That… that would be Doc Lee." She pointed vaguely to her left, moving her hand as little as possible.

  I nodded. "Is this room private, or on open com?"

  "I don't know," she said. It occurred to me that there was a hell of a lot she didn't know.

  "Well, if it's on open com," I announced, "I want this Doc Lee to get down here and talk to me."

  "I'm already here," a man's voice said, and a whole section of seascape vanished.

  He was standing against the gray stone wall, tall and plump, with a scraggly black beard and, more importantly, with a gun in his hand. They did go armed in their own building, or at least they
had weapons on hand. It wasn't an HG-2, just a little home security job, local manufacture; I knew the make, sold under three or four different names. It was not bright at all, even for a gun, and it usually carried tranks instead of anything fatal. I couldn't count on that, of course; it could use several kinds of ammunition. And it was a gun, pointed at me-other details weren't that important.

  "You're Carlisle Hsing, aren't you?" he asked.

  I was beginning to think that altogether too many people knew who I was. I decided not to answer.

  "You must be," he said. "Paulie said you were poking around."

  I still didn't answer, but I could see how he knew, anyway. There aren't that many people my size in the city.

  Doc Lee, if that's who he was, shifted his grip on the gun and cleared his throat.

  "Hsing," he said, "I think you'd better get out of here. You're trespassing, and I'm sure you're committing some sort of crime by pointing that thing of yours at this woman."

  "I'm also getting some answers," I said.

  "Not anymore. You fire that, and I'll drop you. You point it at me, and I'll drop you. I'll be acting in defense of myself and the Institute's property if I shoot you; if you fire, you're committing murder. Now, you get out of here peacefully and leave the Institute alone, and we'll forget all about this."

  "I'm not forgetting about anything," I said. I put on my sincere approach. "Look, I need some answers from you people, and the gun's just the fastest way I could think of to pry them loose. Could we put away the hardware and just talk?"

  "We've got nothing to talk about," he said, and he said it contemptuously. I didn't like that.

  "I think we do," I said harshly. "Unless you want everything I know about the plans you and Nakada have for stopping the planet's rotation to be slapped onto every net in the city."

  His gun wavered slightly, and I didn't think it was a software check.

  "Want to put away the armament?" I asked again.

  "No," he said, tightening up again. "If you put this on the nets, we'll ruin you."

  "So what?" I said. "What the hell have I got to lose? If you know who I am, check out where and how I live, and how I got there, and what the hell, break into my financial records and take a look at those. You can't do anything to me that I can't do one hell of a lot worse to you. Now, are we going to talk?"