I WAS AFRAID OFTHIS, you tell Machine Front. HOW ARETHEY MASSING SO QUICKLY?
Machine Front doesn't bother to answer. It isn't accountable for your emotional condition; no one is. MF takes your images and sends back a little army of calculations led by a general conclusion. It has pinpointed the center of the golems’ attention, the point on which all their movement converges.
Gossamer goes there like lightning and, sure enough, it's Serge. She's only a quarter-mile from Arla's last position, but there are hundreds of golems in the space between, and more are emerging from the well all the time.
You know that Serge's backup convoy is plowing its way up from the main road, but it moves with agonizing slowness.
CAN I GET TO GONZALEZ FROM HERE? Serge wants to know.
I GET THE FEELING GONZALEZ IS BAIT. FORGET IT.
TELL ME WHERE THE GOLEMS ARE WEAKEST AND LEAVE IT AT THAT, GOSS.
Right. Well, it is your job. You have picked up Gonzalez's signal. But you don't like the look of this. From the air it seems to you that Serge is being led into the dead area of the Grid.
GOSS, I DONT GOT ANOTHER 20 YEARS TO HANG OUT HERE.
Ok, then. Have it your way at Burger King.
GONZALEZ IN SIGHT. FOLLOW MY BEACON.
And you throw her a light, down through layers of Grid pollen and bright and shadowy branches, a light to guide her towards Arla Gonzalez.
The team gets panicky when Serge orders them onward. They keep jumping and looking over their shoulders at the golems who hem them in, watching them from above and below and between arms of the Grid, who rise from the well to stare at them. The golems have not attacked yet, but Klaski is already hyperventilating and you read Lewis's lips as she says, ’f%&k rescuing Gonzalez, let's worry about ourselves!’
But when Serge goes bounding off through the Grid with the energy of a rabid squirrel, they follow her. Golems close in behind, cutting off any chance of retreat.
Klaski switches goggle settings repetitively, toggling her options so fast that her helmet chirps like a tree-frog chorus, until with a definitive snap the manual fitting breaks. She makes a violent move as if to throw it in the well, checks herself, and instead sinks to the foundation in a faint.
Hendricks is all over it. She drags Klaski up and makes her follow. Serge looks up, locates you,and signals you to proceed.
There are so many golems surrounding Serge that it seems pointless to carry on. Lucky for the team, most of the golems are hidden in the Grid; but they're all too apparent to you from the air.
It's all you can do to hang on to the nex. You don't want to be here; there's nothing you can do, why do you have to see it, this is all a form of torture . . . but you keep lighting the way to Gonzalez.
It all happens too quickly. One minute, Serge's rescue party looks like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band being swarmed by fans, with golems converging from all sides, rising out of the well, dropping out of branches overhead in obscene numbers. There is a swollen moment of held breath while you hang, weightless, an unwilling witness to imminent atrocity; and then you notice a little red light flashing from amongst the golems.
Gonzalez is coming this way.
Serge doesn't see her — there are too many golems in between them. The team doesn't see her. But you do. Only you. You consider recording what's happening, but a sense that this would be a perverse, voyeuristic act holds you back.
The golems seem to part around Gonzalez. Then they begin to draw back from Serge and the team, slowly at first, and then with more and more momentum, tumbling over one another like pebbles and shells being sucked into the base of a gathering wave of immense proportions. But this is a wave that never strikes. The golems simply dissolve into the riotous bloom of data that is the Grid, leaving Serge and company turning in amazed circles, their faces pale with disbelief at their luck.
You fly over Gonzalez and try to pick up more information about her, but she's changed directon again. Now she's moving rapidly through the Grid in the rough direction of the mines. You start to follow.
Serge suddenly looks up and sees you. Her hand goes into one of her thigh pouches and out comes a scent beckon. She brandishes it like a doggy treat. You try to resist, but Gossamer is susceptible to the aroma.
GONZALEZ. HAVE SIGHTED GONZALEZ, LET ME FOLLOW.
‘Come on. Gossamer,’ Serge says her best dog-wheedling tone. You have no choice but to let Gossamer go to her. And you lose Gonzalez.
Serge catches you out of the air.
‘Just work with me, butterfly,’ she croons to Goss. Her breath smells of canned mackerel. Her eyes are alight with adrenaline and triumph.’This is a friggin’ miracle. We'll get Gonzalez, but we need backup.’
She hands you to Lewis for a quick once-over, then checks in with Dante.
‘Where's the metal at? The sooner we get Gonzo and get the frig outta here, the better.’
You already know that there's a big chunk of dead Grid between here and the convoy's position, but Serge needs to get filled in.
‘What do you mean, dead?’she asks Dante, and then frowns at the images you took earlier as they are played across the air above her Swatch'd arm. Eventually she shrugs.
‘OK, but what's stopping you from driving through the so-called dead zone?’
‘We don't think that's advisable, until we know more about it,’ Dante tells her. ’We can't afford to risk the machines.’
‘So what, then? Mountain's gotta go to Muhammad?’
‘You'll have to make your way back and cut your own path.’
Serge rolls her eyes. ’How long's that gonna take? And in the meanwhile Gonzalez disappears?’
It's Dante's turn to shrug.
‘You could rough it for a few more days.’
Serge snorts. ’Yeah, except Klaski will be speaking in tongues if she don't get to a Jacuzzi and a Shop-Rite in the next ten minutes.’
‘Lieutenant Klaski was a very bright pupil at MIT.’
‘She should of stayed there, then, ‘cuz she's a ditz and a half.’
Serge gets rid of Dante and yells at the others to get a move on.
She marches them straight toward the dead zone, but doesn't actually enter it. The altered structure of the Grid adjacent to the dead area seems to give Serge pause.
‘I ain't never seen none of this before,’ she mutters, waving at you to come in closer.
It's easy enough to fly at low altitudes, because there is less visual noise in this part of the Grid. The interconnecting arms and lattices don't strobe as much, and the pathways are much clearer.There are implicit walls and floors, windows.
‘It's a structure for sure,’ says Lewis, scanning it with her sensor gun.
‘Who built it? Golems?’
‘Don't be stupid, Klaski, golems don't build things,’ Serge snaps.
‘It certainly hasn't been built by anyone,’ Lewis says thoughtfully.’ But it could be an example of paradigm adaptation. The Grid might be absorbing the principles of human architecture through studying our machines, and applying those principles to its own structure.’
‘But why?’ Serge was climbing upside down like a kid on the monkey bars. ’Human architecture is for humans. The Grid doesn't need shelter and all that.’
‘Experiment?’
‘Maybe. I don't trust it, though. Gives me a creepy feeling. Like it's mocking us.’ She dropped to the ground and clapped her hands, dispersing a cloud of pollen.
‘They told us in basic that it's a first-grade error to attribute human foibles to the Grid.’
‘You are asking for a slap upside the head, Klaski.’
‘Sorry, ma'am.’
‘Strange back there, the way the golems just scattered,’ Lewis says. ’Why didn't they stay and fight?’
‘Who cares?’ Hendricks puts in. ’Long as they're gone, I'm happy.’
But you're thinking about Arla Gonzalez, and how the golems gave way before her.
YOU ARE CLOSE TO DEAD ZONE, you send to
Serge. ADVISE STAY BACK.
‘The problem with the Grid,’ replies Serge, acknowledging you with a wave, ’well, one of the problems, is that proximity don't mean doodle. Just because this part is next to that part don't mean they got nothing to do with one another. You could tweak this branch here and get a reaction like fifteen miles away, and you'd never even know.’
‘Ooh, that sounds like referred pain,’ Hendricks says. ’My chiropractor told me about that.’
Serge ignores her. ‘OK. We got a big structure that looks human-like, and then not too far away we got a dead section, and then we're practically on top of N-Ridge where the mines are— Klaski! Quit looking panicky. This is what it's all about, right here, right now.’
‘Ma'am, I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Klaski, I ain't gonna tell you again to get your act together. I am not your fourth-grade teacher.’
Serge makes a jerking motion of her head and Klaski leaps up and stumbles off behind a chunk of the Grid, snatching a prof-ferred wad of toilet paper from Hendricks's hand as she goes.
‘I'm sorry, I just can't go in front of people, OK?’ she hisses at Hendricks, who is laughing.
‘As I was saying?’ Serge glares at the others.
‘Proximity,’ Lewis volunteers.
‘Proximity. And beyond that, what I call generalized weirdness. It's not our cells that the Grid wants. You can pee in it, brush your hair, even bleed in it. That won't come back to haunt you. It would rather have the label off a jar of spaghetti sauce, or your New Balance sneakers. It would rather have the stuff that's in your head, when you die, to make golems from. That's what's dangerous about it. That's what's f@*ked. It eats thought.’
Hendricks is hanging on to a loose cable of Grid and swinging slightly, looking at her feet. She looks like a bored preschooler.
Serge takes Lewis aside and tells her to get to work gathering survey information on the structure. ’We're not in a good rendezvous position for the convoy. I don't want to stay exposed too long, but I can't see going back and walking away from this thing without knowing what it is.’
She doesn't mention Gonzalez but it's pretty obvious that she's thinking about her. You know Serge. If she really wants something bad, she never says anything about it. She never tells you what she intends to do. Seems to be some kind of superstition with her. Like she has to sneak up on her quarry and grab it from behind; she never gives herself away. You can see something in Lewis's face, too, that says she knows this about Serge.
‘Right,’ Lewis says briskly. ’Let's get down to work, then. I'll just take a look at our perimeter and then we can figure out where to start.’
Serge says nothing — she's distracted by the readings on her Swatch again — and Lewis takes silence for assent, hustling the others into action. You know that Serge is brewing something, but Klaski and Lewis seem to think they're on a coffee break. They wander around the structure, stretching, peering, acting relaxed and happy for once which is a real change from the grim faces you're used to seeing when they're on the move in the Grid.
‘I like it here,’ Hendricks announces. ’lt's almost like a house.We could hang some curtains over there, the TV could go in the corner. . .’
Above them, Klaski is clowning around on the same monkey-bar-like configuration that Serge climbed. ‘Dibs on the top bunk,’ she calls.
‘OK, cut it out,’ Lewis growls, trying to sound like Serge. ’This ain't the Swiss Family Robinson. Let's start recording.’
You're busy then, helping the group take readings and make measurements; but you can't help but notice the way Serge stays out of it. She keeps wandering off to the north, or glancing that way. You know that she's looking in the direction of Arla's last position, which she can presumably locate with her Swatch. The others are too busy with their work to observe the change in her disposition. Everybody seems relieved not to be slipping and climbing and looking out for golems in all directions. There's a Friday-afternoon feeling among them.
After a while Serge says, 'I'm going walkabout. You guys stay put. Goss, get a quick charge while you can. You're with me.’
orchids
I was tired and depressed when I came off the nex. I didn't actually feel hungry, but stepping out of my assignment room my first impulse was to get a candy bar, and I found my feet had taken me to the machine automatically. I stood there staring at the bile-provoking chocolate bars before I finally picked some sugar-free Dentine, hoping to kill the nasty taste in my mouth.
Wendy came along as I was unwrapping my gum. We were only the barest of acquaintances, and I hadn't seen her recently, probably because we'd both been putting in such long hours in our respective assignment rooms. She was a middle-aged bleach-blonde Flier who was always in a hurry; always manic. Today was no exception. She hustled down the corridor in her pumps and started slamming quarters into the vending machine. She was wearing a peach silk ensemble and her hair was perfect. I could never see the point of dressing this way when you work in a little booth in an obscure corridor behind Accounting and no one ever sees you all day except Gunther and, maybe, Gloria. But Wendy is always the consummate professional – whatever that means. In this case, it seemed to mean being so rude as to ignore the fact that I was standing two feet away.
‘How are things in your world?’ I heard myself drawl, more for my own amusement in seeing her jump out of her skin than because I cared.
She glanced at me, gave an off-balance smile, and banged on the machine to dislodge some M&Ms.
‘The stress is killing me,’ she said. ‘Dog Walks Fence never mentioned the vision quest could give you heartburn. I wish I had some peyote, I mean I'm only human and that Gunther is impossible to please. Now he's going to replace me with a computer if I don't do better.’
We weren't supposed to talk shop, so I was surprised by her answer. We Fliers know better than to allude to events of the war outside the sanctity of a debriefing.
‘I mean, I just bought a condo in Seaside Heights. I have responsibilities, you know?’
I nodded, bemused.
‘It's hard to imagine being replaced by a machine. But, you know, maybe we'll all be better off when the Third Wave comes,’ I said. ‘I'd rather be reassigned somewhere more peaceful.’
‘Third Wave? He's not that warrior with the rifle, is he, because—’
She clapped her mouth shut. Priscilla was coming down the corridor.
‘I got them on sale at Marty's,’ I said, doing a little jog in place in my sneakers. ‘You should really try them, those heels are no good for your back.’
‘Ladies . . .’ said Priscilla. ‘Everything all right?’
‘No,’ snarled Wendy, winking at me. ‘The machine ate my quarters.’
She hit it again. I wondered if all Fliers were full of violence; maybe it was part of the job qualifications to have hidden reservoirs of rage. I left Wendy and Priscilla bitching at each other and started towards Gunther's office.
‘He's not there,' Priscilla called after me sharply. ‘He's out at a meeting.’
‘I have to do my debriefing,' I said.
‘I'll show you what to do,' Wendy said, breaking away from Priscilla. She ripped open the M&Ms and offered some to me; I shook my head. At Gloria's desk Wendy pointed out a tape recorder and a stack of cassettes.
‘Just put it on the tape for him and label it. Gloria will file it after lunch. Is she a bitch or what?’
‘Gloria?’
‘No, catwoman over there.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Hey, what was that about a rifle?’
Wendy's eyes widened. She put her finger over her lips and rolled her eyes. Then she leaned over and whispered very faintly in my ear.
‘Bugged. Never, never talk here.’
Then she raised her voice and said clearly, ‘Yeah, that Priscilla is a total c*%tface. I wonder if she was a Nazi in her past life.’
Wendy grinned at me and walked out of Gloria's work area, pointing significantly at the overhead sprinkl
er system as she did so.
And they call me crazy.
After I'd recorded my debriefing, I dragged myself home. I still hadn't eaten. It was freakish.
I called Miles and told him about the taste in my mouth and he said a lot of stuff about ketones and Gandhi and then told me not to worry about it but to try to drink water.
There was no training that night, and I decided I was going to eat, no matter what it took. It took me several hours to work myself up to it. I had some cold shrimp in the refrigerator. I made dip with ketchup and mayonnaise and shared the shrimp with Nebula. It took all my concentration to make myself eat the shrimp. Getting it in my mouth was like threading a needle in a hurricane. It was like my hand just didn't want to obey me.
I ate six jumbo shrimp and two pieces of Arnold's Country White bread. Normally this would have been just a light snack, but I couldn't squeeze in another bite. I managed to drink some caffeine-free Pepsi. Afterwards I listened to the Dr. Ruth show on the radio – this was the closest I have ever gotten to sex other than being groped by Jim Szabo in the movies when I was 22.
Then I crawled into bed. The orchid/corpse taste was still there.
I woke up at 1:47 a.m. with shooting pains in my stomach. I had curled into a fetal position on my left side while in my sleep, but it wasn't enough to relieve the pain. My insides felt like they had hot lava in them. My stomach was bloated, distended with gas, and I felt so nauseous that I barely had lime to take in the readout on my clock radio before I was on my feet and racing for the bathroom.
I almost didn't make it. I lifted the toilet seat with so much force that it banged straight down again, hitting me on the back of the head as I brought up the remains of the shrimp and bread. I heaved a few more times, but nothing else came up. Then my bowels kicked into gear, and I had to quickly turn around and sit down while the lava shot out of my rear end. The smell was so horrible that I flushed, turned around, and retched again. Nothing came up but bile.
Double Vision Page 7
