Earthweb

by Marc Stiegler

  Vinogrado couldn't believe his fortune. The EDS South Hampton was one of the newest ships in the fleet. With its boron-hydride fusion engines it could maintain a continuous half-gee acceleration, leaving the old ion drive ships far behind in its alpha-particle wake. The new engines were the only reason the ship was here, reloading its missile bays— the ion drive ships couldn't keep up with Shiva, and so the few survivors that had participated in the missile attack for the Angel One Assault had been left behind. The missile attack that would now presage the Angel Two Assault had to be conducted solely by the ion-drive ships of Moon Fleet, plus the handful of boron-hydride ships that had survived the first assault.

  And he, Anatoly Vinogrado, was back in action again.

  Actually, Vinogrado knew that luck had played little part in his getting this choice assignment. After all, he was one of only a dozen people who had ever gotten a missile past Shiva's defenses. Whether he had been lucky on that or not made little difference. Any skipper would've given an arm and a leg up to the knee to have such a powerful totem aboard his ship. Maybe lightning didn't strike twice, but perhaps a missile commander could.

  The hatches whirred open, and the cargo started to pour through. As Vinogrado helped with the loading process, he couldn't help examining the sleek jet-black missiles with a critical eye. There was something different about these missiles from his last batch of HellBender Mark VIIs. Something wrong.

  Finally a missile came through with its labeling facing up. A huge smile swept Vinogrado's face. These weren't Mark VIIs, these were Mark VIIIs! What had they changed in the enhancement package? He couldn't wait to get back to his station to hook in and read about the new weapon. He had no idea at all what might have caused the bosses at home to rush a model change through during the Month of Shiva, but he was pretty sure it had to be something devious.

  He licked his lips in anticipation.

  Chapter Seven

  T minus Eleven

  Paolo tapped on his desk idly. He watched the clock. He ran some links on the Web without really reading the pages. He did his best to avoid thinking about what he would do in . . . two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

  He would turn his back on a friend. Tough love at its finest.

  It was probably the price of being a successful boss. But it still didn't seem fair, somehow. It seemed as if every day he woke up just to knock down somebody's world.

  Just three days ago he'd clobbered the tailriders looking for him in the 'castpoints. He'd tried to follow the trails of some of the losers, to see if anyone had really been ruined, to see if he could prop them up for a short while, just enough to get back on their feet. But his search had been unsuccessful—after all, tailriders wanted to keep their anonymity, too.

  Today would be worse. Jeff would not be destroyed outright by the outcome. But Jeff had been a personal project of Paolo's, a whiz kid from a broken background. Sometimes Paolo treated Jeff more like his son than Fernando. Though that wasn't entirely Paolo's fault. At least when Paolo sent Jeff email, Jeff replied.

  Paolo considered pouring himself a short tequila. It would help with his task, he knew. But he was sure Jeff would have already taken enough short drinks for both of them. Better if one of them kept a clear head.

  Paolo considered handling the situation with a simple email. But it would be unethical, somehow, to deliver this news so impersonally. Even if he could not make the trip to Detroit to confront Jeff in person, Jeff at least deserved a face-to-face conversation.

  Luis spoke, "I am connecting now," the calm computerized voice asserted.

  A moment later the screen brightened. Paolo spoke softly, "Jeff."

  Jeff wiped his hand across his eyes, then smiled wide. "Paolo!"

  Staring at Jeff, Paolo found himself unable to go on with his prepared speech. Jeff looked a wreck. His eyes bulged feverishly from a face too drawn, too gaunt to be healthy. It took several moments for Paolo to figure out the most disturbing thing about Jeff's eyes: they didn't blink.

  Jeff had become a marathon runner after joining Paolo's forecasting team, a largely successful effort to fight a weight problem he'd had since childhood. But things had changed. Now, Jeff was actually worryingly thin . . . and also soft. Paolo suddenly recognized the symptoms. Jeff didn't have an alcohol problem, Jeff was tripping on Golden Euphoria.

  Paolo heard a giggle in the background, and for just a moment a lithe, naked teenage girl darted across the edge of the screen. Jeff still didn't blink. "Paolo, what can I do for you?"

  Paolo shook his head. Somehow, it was easier now. "You haven't submitted your analysis of the docking bay photos from Copernicus."

  Jeff nodded. "Oh, yeah, I knew I forgot something; I'll get right on it." More giggling came from behind him. "Anything else?"

  "You're also bankrupt." Paolo didn't mean it literally. Between stock options and bonuses, Jeff had earned over five million Masterbucks with Paolo's team. Paolo had no idea what had become of that considerable wealth, though if Jeff were on Golden Euphoria he could assume the worst. Nonetheless, that was not the bankruptcy issued at hand.

  Paolo was referring to the token economy he'd set up inside his team, for their private 'castpoint. Every forecast Jeff had made lately had gone wrong. Jeff had backed every forecast with huge stakes. His account had nose-dived into the ground.

  Jeff nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I've been meaning to give you a buzz about that. It's been a really remarkable run of bad luck."

  Paolo just grunted. A monkey tossing a coin would, on average, have done better than Jeff had done in the last forty-five days. Reliable forecasting might rely heavily on statistics, but luck did not enter the equation.

  "I was wondering if you could, uh, give me a grub stake, like when I started." He shrugged. "Basically let me start over again."

  Paolo lowered his eyes. In the silence that followed he could feel Jeff's growing awareness–it wouldn't be that easy. The taste of Jeff's first thoughts of fear upset him.

  Despite everything Paolo had seen and heard and learned today, he could feel compassion driving him into a bad mistake. But Paolo had had a similar experience years before. Jeff's best chance of recovery came from the world of harsh reality, not the world of simplistic compassion. "Oh, I'm letting you start over again, all right." He took a deep breath. "You're fired, Jeff." Paolo looked at his computer's vidcam. "Luis, please record the event."

  "Of course."

  Jeff was still smiling in disbelief. "But you can't do that. I'm the only ceramic laminate expert you've got."

  "An expert who is consistently wrong is a liability, not an asset. You've hurt our forecasts too long, too much. And right in the middle of the time when our best is barely good enough."

  Jeff stared at him open-mouthed.

  Paolo felt himself losing control. "Shiva's coming, goddammit! How could you do this to me, to say nothing of yourself, now of all times!" Paolo looked away and focused on breathing. Finally he felt enough control to continue. "Ditch the drugs, Jeff. Get yourself together. And call me in a year. You promise to call, right?" Paolo was still looking away from the screen.

  The moments passed. Paolo turned to look at his ex-employee, ex-protegé, ex-friend once more. An ugly expression now darkened Jeff's face. He leaped up; the camera wobbled a bit as it tracked him. "I'll take you to court, damn you!"

  Paolo felt himself turn to stone. "Even in your country, Jeff, the courts would hand this straight back to the arbiters. The Sowell rulebook specified in our contract is quite clear. Check out the Personal Responsibility clause. You can leave me any time . . . and I and my team can leave you. We are leaving." He looked away. "Close this connection, please." The window folded on a face now red with rage.

  Paolo noticed with a sense of distance that his own hands were shaking. It had gone as badly as his worst fears. Jeff's response was to lash out.

  Fortunately, Paolo had already taken the appropriate precautions—Jeff's capabilities to use the team brand had already been
revoked. He could no longer access the private 'castpoint. Paolo had learned the importance of defensive preparations from a similar, bitter experience a few years earlier. Another young team member had begun to wallow in his sudden success. The kid had gotten to the point where he couldn't forecast the current time, much less a Shivan countermissile. Paolo had tried compassion that time; the kid hadn't pulled out of it until Paolo dropped him cold.

  Paolo realized there was one last way Jeff could cause him grief. "Luis?" he called out.

  "Yes?"

  "Put the courtesy filters on Jeff's brands, would you?"

  "Filters activated."

  "Thanks." He had this feeling he was still forgetting something. But it was time to get on with business. Many difficult problems awaited him, though they would be a joy in comparison with the task he had just performed.

  * * *

  The Dealer stood straight and proud, staring out the glass wall of Cafe Deco, down upon the city of Hong Kong. Off to the right, he could see the Peak Tram glide away from the Galleria beneath the restaurant. The tram was a curiosity now—most people came to the Peak Galleria by air—but for a handful of people like himself the tram still had practical application. Fortunately, dressed in a black double-breasted suit, he had looked like just another tourist taking the tram, journeying through history for the sake of the amusement.

  Now, claiming his reservation at the cafe, he stepped into his proper element. Soon he would be the tourist he seemed to be, someone who took tram rides only for their historical flavor. Soon he would take his chance in the big leagues.

  The future seemed so clear now that he had won the contract for the custom skytruck.

  It seemed only proper that he celebrate in the proper style. So he had bought the suit, and he had come to this exotic place, in this most impressive of cities, for dinner. For just a moment he regretted the missing element of this evening of success—the beautiful, charming woman he should have on his arm—but that was for another day. After he'd made the bucks he could pick and choose, and find the woman of his dreams. Yes, next time the right woman would accompany him as well.

  Tomorrow he would have a great deal of work to do. He would have to order all the components for the skytruck. And he would have to start the laborious job of putting it all together. It would not be a difficult assembly project—he'd selected components that, for the most part, fit together with standard connections—but there could be no doubt but that this was serious work. It was also careful, meticulous work, a kind of work that he was good at but did not enjoy, at least when it was part of a job.

  His eyes widened as he realized the correct solution. How embarrassing not to have thought of it sooner! He was, after all, the Dealer.

  He would put up a contract on the Web for an integrator, someone who, for peanuts, would put the truck together for him! It would be best if he got someone in Nepal, to reduce costs of transport once it was built . . . on second thought, it should be someone here in Guangdong, someone he could supervise, so he could do his own quality control. He didn't know anyone offhand—let's face it, almost everyone he knew was a crook, he wouldn't trust them as far as he could throw them with something like this, with his reputation at stake—but he was sure he could get a half dozen offers from the right kind of craftsmen once he posted the contract in Wan Feng Emarket. The Dealer would do almost no work at all and skim the bulk of the profits. At last, he'd turned his design insight into a Deal.

  His right hand reached unconsciously for his palmtop, to browse the Emarket to find the best place for his posting. He closed his hand and forced himself to relax. Tonight was for celebration, not work.

  The piano in the darkened background of the restaurant produced a mellow, soothing rhythm. He heard the swish of a long dress to his right, and he turned. The hostess smiled at him. She was wearing a metallic blue cheong-sam as long as it was tight, with a slit running to her thigh that alternately displayed and concealed the curves of her left leg. She was dressed as elegantly as he. When he looked into her eyes, he could see that she recognized him for what he was—a man on the move, someone who was making his own way, but making it with speed, and sure confidence. Her eyes looked into his so warmly, his own temperature rose. "Your table is ready," she said in a lilting voice that broke his heart.

  "Thank you," he replied, and followed her to a table that had a view almost as excellent as the one he'd commanded standing by the glass.

  He ordered champagne, a ridiculous homily to his success, particularly with the outrageous prices charged here. He didn't even like champagne. But by now he'd risen beyond mere happiness. He'd been happy when he entered the restaurant. When he'd figured out the last piece of the skytruck contract, how to turn it into a real Deal, his feelings had expanded into a glowing sense of elation.

  He sat back in his chair, savoring this time. He was back at the top of his game. He'd never run a better scam.

  * * *

  "I'd like a chocolate malt, please," CJ said to the cashier behind the counter of Centuries Restaurant. The cashier no longer stared in astonishment at the request. CJ had been getting a chocolate malt for her breakfast meeting with the team since the beginning of the Month of Shiva.

  CJ heard Axel's voice grow loud with anger in the corner booth where everyone was assembled. She accepted her malt from the cashier and turned to the voice.

  The tall back of the booth gave the table privacy, which now meant that the Angels couldn't see her as she approached, quietly, as if she were sneaking up on a minitank.

  "It sure took you long enough to get me the duodec," Axel was saying, presumably to Lars since he carried the bulk of the explosives along with everything else.

  "It sure took you long enough to plant it," Lars retorted. "And being perfectly honest, you were sloppy."

  "What?! Me, sloppy?" CJ watched Axel rise to his feet; his back was to her, however, so he still didn't know she was there.

  "That is correct, Axel. You. Sloppy. One word." Lars rose to his feet as well, to stand at the opposite end of the table. CJ froze as Lars' eyes fell upon her. Then she moved smoothly into a smile, and skipped to the edge of the table so everyone could see her.

  Her eyes danced as she said, "You guys leaving already? I just got here." She pointed at the clock. "And I'm on time, too!"

  She looked around the table. Lars and Axel struggled to mask their anger, but their clenched fists gave them away. Roni was calmly eating his rye toast slathered with strawberries. In Israel, he'd told her, everyone is blunt all the time. It must have sounded like home to him.

  Akira, motionless except for his eyes, was rapidly shifting his glance back and forth between the combatants. CJ suspected he was deciding just which one to cripple if a fight started, and exactly how to cripple them to minimize the damage while assuring order was restored. He could do it, too—no one doubted that of all of them, Akira was the best at hand-to-hand fighting. If he decided to stop the fight, someone would find himself in spectacular pain for five minutes. After the five minutes passed, however, the world's finest doctors would find no indication that any harm had ever been done. Rubber hoses could learn from Akira.

  Axel gave her the lopsided grin that CJ always thought was a leer. "We, ah, were just having a disagreement. Nothing serious." He sat awkwardly back down, though he was still too angry, CJ observed, to begin eating right away.

  Lars cleared his throat. "Yes, a minor disagreement. Which I shall shove down his throat in due course." He sat down with a glare that faded quickly into a twinkle of laughter.

  CJ rolled her lips. "I see. Well, I'm so glad everyone's having a good time." She hooked her foot around the leg of a chair at an empty table and twirled it into place by the big Swede. She sat down and took a slurp of her malt. "Lars, you weren't ragging on Axel about the problem we had getting through the missile bay door in yesterday's sim, were you?"

  Lars' blue eyes were all innocence. "Only after Axel sought out the compliment."

 
; CJ raised an eyebrow. "Axel, you wouldn't criticize your teammate, would you?" She looked at Axel with a face that mirrored Lars' innocence.

  A tough kid from the south side of Chicago glared back at her. For the most part, Axel had buried his past, but in moments of stress, the kid was still there. CJ wondered if the assault on Shiva would bring the kid out again. Perhaps not; perhaps it was the training and the waiting, and the training and the waiting, that stripped him of his armor.

  CJ changed the topic. "I spotted a twitch yesterday," she said.

  Axel laughed, not pleasantly. "One of Morgan's, right? I'd've thought you'd have found out everything about Morgan by now."

  Roni put down his toast and stared at Axel like he was a loathsome but interesting insect. Apparently, that kind of innuendo didn't fit his sense of forthrightness. "Listen to the Boss Lady and learn, Axel." It didn't quite sound like a threat.