When he first detected the signal, he did not react but merely noted it. The aircraft—one of the new-model fa kuang feng che, the “crazy pinwheels,” whose wings were rotors but were not helicopters—was descending and moving toward the compound. It had come on a short flight only, from the tiny airport in Hayward, where the vehicle was normally hangared and serviced. From this, Deng postulated that the machine was on call, which meant it was empty.
So he watched the black hull with the crazy, buzzing wing motion descend behind the high wall two miles away. And then he waited. He had been fishing among the reeds for three days now, and he knew that such machines never stayed long on the ground. But during those three days, this was the first time he had seen the correct signature.
His phone told him instantly when the machine’s transponder lit up again. A second or two later, the dark hull appeared above the top of the wall and began climbing for altitude.
Deng laid the phone on the bench beside his hip and lifted out of the bilge the one piece of equipment that he could not explain to anyone who saw it. The main feature was a long tube of dull-black composite. Grafted onto one end were a shoulder block, optical sight, electronics package, and trigger mechanism. For the moment, as he slung the tube up to his shoulder, it was quite heavy.
He thumbed the controls quickly, obtained the necessary tone, and squeezed the trigger. The tube chuffed loudly, and the sight’s clear view of the Praxis ariflect was obscured by a burst of flame and smoke. Only when the smoke had drifted away on the breeze did Deng see the result of his efforts.
The small rocket embedded itself in the aircraft’s starboard nacelle, exploded, and ripped the wing rotor to pieces. The hull lurched, tumbled, and disappeared somewhere beyond the compound, just short of the East Bay hills.
Deng dropped the tube over the side, pushed it under water, and turned to start his boat’s motor. His job was done.
* * *
When she heard about the disaster, Antigone Wells went immediately to the Praxis family compound. The guard at the gate recognized her and passed her through. She asked directions to the hospital, and the young woman gave them to Wells’s automated cab in terms of so many left and right turns. The guard must also have called ahead, because John Praxis himself met her at the hospital entrance.
“Antigone, I am so sorry,” he said, his face grave.
She lifted her veil, the better to study him. “I want to see my niece.”
His lips compressed. His eyes lowered. “That’s … not a good idea.”
“I don’t care,” she said and pushed past him.
Reluctantly, he took her down an open, brightly lit corridor to a stairwell, then down the stairs to another, cooler corridor, and finally through a pair of closed double doors marked “Morgue.” It was colder still and dark inside, lit only by the telltales of various instruments, none of which took vital signs from the living. After they entered, the overhead ballasts blinked and flooded the room with light.
On the two metal tables farthest from the door lay bodies draped in white sheets. From their relative lengths and bulks, she picked the more slender one and approached it. That would be Angela; the other had to be the boy.
“The ship …” John said slowly, “crashed and burned. What you’ll see—”
“I know what I’ll see.” She lifted the sheet from what she presumed was the head end, only because the shapes there had the most solid form.
Her beautiful girl, the graceful and delicate Angela, was a blackened husk, shiny with glazed fats and fluids. The skull had no real features, just a dark crust. A few wisps of yellow hair had been smoothed across its dome. They were the only thing she recognized.
Wells laid a fold of the sheet across the hollow chest and studied the corpse. It took her a moment to determine where the paper-thin layers of charred fabric gave way to the blackened and dried skin. She tried not to breathe in, because the body smelled like barbecue and kerosene.
Around the neck, what was left of it, she traced the links of the silver chain. Up by what had been Angela’s ear, the heart-shaped pendant lay on the table. She wondered if its contents had survived the heat, because the surface was blackened with tarnish and soot.
Antigone Wells lifted the chain away from the body, ran its length through her fingers to find the clasp, and unhooked it. She piled chain and heart in her cupped hand, then slipped them into her pocket. She pulled up the sheet once more and draped it over the head. She turned away toward the door, not sparing a glance for the other body.
“Is that all you came for?” John asked.
“It’s all I have left,” she replied.
* * *
Armed with evidence gleaned from the crash site, Vernier sent a Little Brother to visit Quan Hui Yan, the All Seeing, in his secure core, which was buried in the basement of the Chinese consulate in San Francisco. Before the larger intelligence could rebuff his approach, the Little Brother issued a standard Tallyman stun code, freezing Quan Hui Yan’s higher cognitive functions. Then the invader software could pick through the master intelligence’s memory locations without interference.
What Little Brother was looking for was a matching anomaly. He had the approximate time and date, accurate enough for events in the human-scale world, and a possible scenario of what must have occurred over the Coyote Creek compound. Now the Little Brother needed to find a complementary set of circumstances. He had to work fast, however, because the stun was not critical, not a system reset, and Quan Hui Yan would overcome it in less than three seconds of elapsed time.
Little Brother started with the obvious files, assuming a human operative who must have had access to military hardware: a soldier, and not one lowly placed or acting out of random initiative. The search employed an old-fashioned sieving function to compare individuals above a certain military rank, with a certain resume or record of experience, and with movements overlapping a list of probable locations at the specified time. His search turned up two names.
One was for a Chief Sergeant in the People’s Liberation Army unit attached to the consulate who had signed himself out to a family barbecue at Lake Chabot in the East Bay Hills on the date in question. The timing was right, but when Little Brother summoned a map of the Bay Area, he could see that the location was wrong for the calculated trajectory. The other name corresponded to a Colonel who had taken a vacation day for the intended purpose of “going fishing.” The contact number he had entered on the duty roster was that of a public marina in San Leandro. Little Brother referred to the map, made a quick calculation of travel time by water, and matched potential launch sites with the trajectory in the time allotted.
Little Brother stored that name, Deng Honghui, and silently withdrew from the consulate’s core.
When Quan Hui Yan, the All Seeing, returned to his senses, he possessed a memory trace indicating a voltage spike in his power supply. He immediately sent an angry message to his handlers, attached to a request for better hardware and more diligent maintenance as befitted an intelligence of his substance and standing.
* * *
John Praxis and his daughter made an appointment with the Consul General of Greater China, Wu Donghai, for ten o’clock the following morning. A human receptionist in a black silk jacket showed them into the consul’s public office. At their heels came Paul Praxis, wearing civilian clothes and carrying a sealed cardboard tube, similar to those once used for mailing rolled engineering drawings.
The consul rose to greet them with western-style handshakes. “Mr. Praxis! It is a pleasure to finally meet with your revered self,” he said. “And your lovely daughter, of course.” Then he turned bland eyes on Paul. “And this gentleman would be …?”
“My grandson Paul. Who assists me from time to time.”
“Ah? Yes.” Wu clearly knew of Paul’s rank in the family organization, but he smiled anyway. He indicated the seats facing his desk. “May I offer you tea?”
“Of course,” Praxis replied as the three of
them settled into the chairs.
At a hand gesture from the consul, a serving ’bot in the corner became active. Its padded claws arranged three small, handleless, porcelain cups on a tray, shuffling them around like a carnival huckster hiding a pea. The machine then poured black tea from a pot that was already simmering on the sideboard, arranged each cup with a square napkin made of red cloth, and passed the tray in front of each guest. In eastern fashion, neither cream and sugar nor lemon were on offer.
Behind Wu’s desk, the window opened onto a small patch of garden. As he sipped the steaming tea, Praxis listened and detected the soft hum of cutter blades. A gardening ’bot was at work somewhere nearby on the consulate grounds. He could hear nothing of the traffic that must be flowing heavily on Geary Boulevard, out in front of the building.
Folding his hands benevolently on his desk blotter, Wu smiled at them. “Now, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?”
“We experienced a great tragedy the day before yesterday,” Praxis began. “My great-grandson and his new bride were killed on their wedding day, in the airspace above my home.”
“How very unfortunate!” Wu exclaimed. “A terrible accident.”
“No accident—it was assassination,” Praxis said.
“I beg your pardon.” Wu tried to smile.
Praxis nodded to his grandson.
Paul rose from his chair, cracked the seals on the tube he had brought, and dumped two long, jagged slivers of blackened metal onto the consul’s desk. Paul flipped them over to show the traces of Chinese characters in charred red and white paint on the outer curve of each piece.
“What is this?” Wu asked.
“Fragments of a missile,” Praxis said. “To be precise, a QianWei 2 shoulder-launched, infrared-guided, surface-to-air missile. One of yours, I believe. We found these pieces mixed in the debris where members of my family died!”
“You may consider this a formal protest,” Callie said coldly. “A grievance.”
“I don’t understand,” the consul said. “It is true, my country has made such weapons from time to time. We export them all over the world, under the Vanguard 2 trademark. If you believe Greater China had any interest in killing your great-grandson and your daughter—”
Praxis had never mentioned anything about a daughter. So, by this slip, the consul showed himself to be unusually well informed.
“They were not the targets,” he interrupted. “Callista and I were—as I’m sure you are aware.”
“I must promise you,” Wu said, “I know nothing about assassination attempts.”
“Let me speak plainly,” Praxis said. “This foolish war ends now. A suitable price will be exacted, of course, as you must expect. But there will be no escalation. You will undertake no retaliation. The matter will be closed.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But the gleam in Wu’s eyes denied that assertion.
John Praxis touched his left breast, as if experiencing a momentary palpitation. In fact, he was activating his smartphone, sending a signal which he and Callie had prearranged with Jacquie Wildmon.
The serving ’bot in the corner leapt forward to the consul’s side. It had no weapon except a steel tablespoon, but it thrust the sharp edge of the bowl in and up under Wu’s jawline, lifting his head. A fraction of a second later, the gardening ’bot surged through the window. It positioned itself on the consul’s other side and held the cutting head of its grass clippers within an inch of his left eye.
“Stop!” Wu commanded the two machines. “Stand down! Freeze! Tingzhi!”
“We make those, you know,” Praxis said conversationally. “Many models, with many functions. We export them all over the world, too. Your party chairman in Beijing is probably served by a number of our automata.”
“What do you want?” Wu said between gritted teeth.
“We want you to understand the true nature of power.” Praxis locked gazes with the man for one long moment. Then he spoke the release command, “Tingzhi!”
The two ’bots dropped back into relaxed stances. Then the server returned to its corner, while the gardener climbed out through the window.
“You don’t want to make us angry,” Callie said.
But her eyes were already sparkling.
* * *
In the tearoom of the New World Community Association, Zhang Fuhua, Dong Geming, and Li Guiren met for their usual morning discussion. They waited passively while the serving robot arranged cups before each man’s place and poured out the fragrant black tea. Zhang did not like to proceed until the machine had moved at least five meters away from their table. He knew that, because such automata were equipped with microphones in order to respond to spoken commands, they might also be wired for eavesdropping.
When the machine was safely back in its niche, he was ready to begin the meeting. But first he took a sip of tea, and his companions followed his lead.
Li Guiren made a face. “Bitter,” he said.
“It has steeped too long,” Dong Geming agreed.
Zhang took a second sip. It tasted faintly metallic, but this he attributed to the aged steel teapots the association provided. Over time, they built up a glaze of rust and tannins that sometimes left a bitter taste. “The tea is fine,” he ruled.
They proceeded to the important points of business: commodities to be bought and sold, families to be rewarded or sanctioned, financial transactions and marriages to be arranged. It was hard work, running half a city.
As they moved through their agenda, they sipped their tea. When the cups were empty, Zhang gestured to the serving robot, and business was suspended while the machine refilled them. It occurred to Zhang that the robot had seemed a bit too attentive, its video eye focused too closely on their table, and he wondered if the brain inside its birdlike headpiece could read their lips. But then he reasoned that the tearoom was nearly empty, and the three association leaders were its only customers. That would explain the unusual attention.
Their business had to be suspended again when Li Guiren clutched his stomach, turned aside, and vomited on the floor. He excused himself profusely and departed in the direction of the restroom. Dong Geming confessed to a headache and also left the table.
Zhang himself was feeling nauseous and sensed a headache coming on, and his hands were shaking. He recalled that the three of them had participated in a dinner the night before at a local seafood restaurant. It was well known that oysters and certain crustaceans were treacherous out of season. He decided to go to his office and lie down for a few minutes.
As he left the tearoom, he noticed the serving robot standing at the sink in the corner, washing out their cups and the battered teapot.
* * *
Colonel Deng Honghui waited in the consulate motor pool while two human technicians scratched their heads over a glitch in his self-driving command car. The machine had suddenly taken to avoiding all left turns. And so, wherever Deng went, the car kept making three right turns instead. Neither would it turn around in the street but made two right turns and traveled down a side street. It was silly to be seen corkscrewing around whole city blocks like that. But the computer diagnostics had revealed nothing, and the motor pool’s technicians could not find the problem.
While they discussed it, Deng leaned against the polished rear fender, scowling. He did not relax until he saw the maintenance robot approaching his car. Of course, one machine would be able to understand another better than any human and could resolve the issue quickly. It even held out a logic probe, ready to delve into the car’s brainbox.
“At last,” he growled. “Now we’ll get someplace.”
But instead of moving to the car’s open hood, the robot headed for Deng himself, as if it intended to ask him a question. As it got nearer, Deng noticed that it was not a logic probe it held out but a welding tip.
When the machine was half a meter away from him, it did a little two-step, appeared to fall forward, but actually lunged like a fencer,
leading with the metal spike. It punched Deng in the stomach, right below the breastbone. At first, because of the shock, he only felt the impact. Then the pain came rushing up as he realized the tip had pierced him to the core.
He never felt the amped voltage—far in excess of what was required to weld metal—that surged through his body and stopped his heart.
* * *
Long after Susannah Praxis had begun her search for nuclear weapons—the discreet queries and the abortive expedition to Palo Alto that should never have taken place—and then months after she had even forgotten about the search, a shipment arrived for her at the loading dock in Fremont. “I think you’d better come down here,” was all the warehouse manager, Brian Hanson, would say about it.
Before she went, Susannah noticed a small paper parcel in her mailbox. The return address was in spidery script that looked more Japanese than Chinese—the word “kanji” floated up in her memory. The only parts that she could make out, in English, were “Osaka Prefecture” and “Japan” as the state and country of origin. She tore open the package and found a computer chip configured for easy access—what her Aunt Jacquie in her younger days would have called a “memory card.”
Curious, Susannah slipped it into her phone and watched the screen. The menu came up with several chapters, and the chapters showed page after page of instructions and diagrams in English. Within about thirty seconds she had caught their gist, and it scared her. She hurried down to the dock.
There she found a resin pallet that Hanson had moved to one side and surrounded with safety cones and streamers of yellow tape. Strapped to the pallet with steel bands were four heavy casks made of thick metal with roughly welded seams. They each had lids held down with massive nuts on the stub ends of wide bolts, and the nuts were cottered with bits of wire to which were attached metal seals with more Japanese writing. The casks were painted off-white, and each bore a red stencil with the international trefoil symbol for radiation.
Coming of Age: Volume 2: Endless Conflict Page 34
