“Get out! Get out of C-K. You have forty-eight hours. After that I’ll have you arrested and sold to the highest bidder.” He threw me contemptuously backward. I collapsed at once in the heavy gravity, my head thudding against the carpet.
The tiger pulled me to my feet as the Coordinator clambered back into his oversized chair. He looked into his Market screen as I climbed trembling onto the tiger’s back.
“Oh, no,” he said softly. “Treason.” The tiger took me away.
I found Wellspring, at last, in Dogtown. Dogtown was a chaotic subcluster, pinwheeling slowly to itself above the rotational axis of C-K. It was a port and customhouse, a tangle of shipyards, storage drogues, quarantines, and social houses, catering to the vices of the footloose, the isolated, and the estranged.
Dogtown was the place to come when no one else would have you. It swarmed with transients: prospectors, privateers, criminals, derelicts from sects whose innovations had collapsed, bankrupts, defectors, purveyors of hazardous pleasures. Accordingly the entire area swarmed with dogs, and with subtler monitors. Dogtown was a genuinely dangerous place, thrumming with a deranged and predatory vitality. Constant surveillance had destroyed all sense of shame.
I found Wellspring in the swollen bubble of a tubeway bar, discussing a convoluted business deal with a man he introduced as “the Modem.” The Modem was a member of a small but vigorous Mechanist sect known in C-K slang as Lobsters. These Lobsters lived exclusively within skin-tight life-support systems, flanged here and there with engines and input-output jacks. The suits were faceless and dull black. The Lobsters looked like chunks of shadow.
I shook the Modem’s rough room-temperature gauntlet and strapped myself to the table.
I peeled a squeezebulb from the table’s adhesive surface and had a drink. “I’m in trouble,” I said. “Can we speak before this man?”
Wellspring laughed. “Are you joking? This is Dogtown! Everything we say goes onto more tapes than you have teeth, young Landau. Besides, the Modem is an old friend. His skewed vision should be of some use.”
“Very well.” I began explaining. Wellspring pressed for details. I omitted nothing.
“Oh, dear,” Wellspring said when I had finished. “Well, hold on to your monitors, Modem, for you are about to see rumor break the speed of light. Odd that this obscure little bistro should launch the news that is certain to destroy C-K.” He said this quite loudly, and I looked quickly around the bar. The jaws of the clientele hung open with shock. Little blobs of saliva oscillated in their mouths.
“The Queen is gone, then,” Wellspring said. “She’s probably been gone for weeks. Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped. Even an Investor’s greed has limits. The Advisers couldn’t lead her by the nose forever. Perhaps she’ll show up somewhere else, some habitat more suited to her emotional needs. I suppose I had best get to my monitors and cut my losses while the Market still has some meaning.”
Wellspring parted the ribbons of his slashed sleeve and looked casually at his forearm computer. The bar emptied itself, suddenly and catastrophically, the customers trailed by their personal dogs. Near the exit, a vicious hand-to-hand fight broke out between two Shaper renegades. They spun with piercing cries through the crunching grip-and-tumble of free-fall jujitsu. Their dogs watched impassively.
Soon the three of us were alone with the bar servos and half a dozen fascinated dogs. “I could tell from my last audience that the Queen would leave,” Wellspring said calmly. “C-K had outlived its usefulness, anyway. It was important only as the motivational catalyst for the elevation of Mars to the Third Prigoginic Level of Complexity. It was fossilizing under the weight of the Advisers’ programs. Typical Mech shortsightedness. Pseudopragmatic materialism. They had it coming.”
Wellspring showed an inch of embroidered undercuff as he signaled a servo for another round. “The Councilman you mentioned has retired to a discreet. He won’t be the last one they haul out by the heels.”
“What will I do?” I said. “I’m losing everything. What will become of the Clique?”
Wellspring frowned. “Come on, Landau! Show some Posthuman fluidity. The first thing to do, of course, is to get you into exile before you’re arrested and sold. I imagine our friend the Modem here can help with that.”
“To be sure,” the Modem enunciated. He had a vocoder unit strapped to his throat, and it projected an inhumanly beautiful synthesized voice. “Our ship, the Crowned Pawn, is hauling a cargo of iceteroid mass drivers to the Ring Council. It’s for the Terraforming Project. Any friend of Wellspring’s is welcome to join us.”
I laughed incredulously. “For me, that’s suicide. Go back to the Council? I might as well open my throat.”
“Be at ease,” the Modem soothed. “I’ll have the medi-mechs work you over and graft on one of our shells. One Lobster is very much like another. You’ll be perfectly safe, under the skin.”
I was shocked. “Become a Mech?”
“You don’t have to stay one,” Wellspring said. “It’s a simple procedure. A few nerve grafts, some anal surgery, a tracheotomy…You lose on taste and touch, but the other senses are vastly expanded.”
“Yes,” said the Modem. “And you can step alone into naked space, and laugh.”
“Right!” said Wellspring. “More Shapers should wear Mech technics. It’s like your lichens, Hans. Become a symbiosis for a while. It’ll broaden your horizons.”
I said, “You don’t do…anything cranial, do you?”
“No,” said the Modem offhandedly. “Or, at least, we don’t have to. Your brain’s your own.”
I thought. “Can you do it in”—I looked at Wellspring’s forearm—“thirty-eight hours?”
“If we hurry,” the Modem said. He detached himself from the table.
I followed him.
The Crowned Pawn was under way. My skin clung magnetically to a ship’s girder as we accelerated. I had my vision set for normal wavelengths as I watched Czarina-Kluster receding.
Tears stung the fresh tracks of hair-thin wires along my deadened eyeballs. C-K wheeled slowly, like a galaxy in a jeweled web. Here and there along the network, flares pulsed as suburbs began the tedious and tragic work of cutting themselves loose. C-K was in the grip of terror.
I longed for the warm vitality of my Clique. I was no Lobster. They were alien. They were solipsistic pinpoints in the galactic night, their humanity a forgotten pulp behind black armor.
The Crowned Pawn was like a ship turned inside out. It centered around a core of massive magnetic engines, fed by drones from a chunk of reaction mass. Outside these engines was a skeletal metal framework where Lobsters clung like cysts or skimmed along on induced magnetic fields. There were cupolas here and there on the skeleton where the Lobsters hooked into fluidic computers or sheltered themselves from solar storms and ring-system electrofluxes.
They never ate. They never drank. Sex involved a clever cyber-stimulation through cranial plugs. Every five years or so they “molted” and had their skins scraped clean of the stinking accumulation of mutated bacteria that scummed them over in the stagnant warmth.
They knew no fear. Agoraphobia was a condition easily crushed with drugs. They were self-contained and anarchical. Their greatest pleasure was to sit along a girder and open their amplified senses to the depths of space, watching stars past the limits of ultraviolet and infrared, or staring into the flocculate crawling plaque of the surface of the sun, or just sitting and soaking in watts of solar energy through their skins while they listened with wired ears to the warbling of Van Allen belts and the musical tick of pulsars.
There was nothing evil about them, but they were not human. As distant and icy as cornets, they were creatures of the vacuum, bored with the outmoded paradigms of blood and bone. I saw within them the first stirrings of the Fifth Prigoginic Leap—that postulated Fifth Level of Complexity as far beyond intelligence as intelligence is from amoebic life, or life from inert matter.
They frightened me. Their bla
nd indifference to human limitations gave them the sinister charisma of saints.
The Modem came skimming along a girder and latched himself soundlessly beside me. I turned my ears on and heard his voice above the radio hiss of the engines. “You have a call, Landau. From C-K. Follow me.”
I flexed my feet and skimmed along the rail behind him. We entered the radiation lock of an iron cupola, leaving it open, since the Lobsters disliked closed spaces.
Before me, on a screen, was the tear-streaked face of Valery Korstad. “Valery!” I said.
“Is that you, Hans?”
“Yes. Yes, darling. It’s good to see you.”
“Can’t you take that mask off, Hans? I want to see your face.”
“It’s not a mask, darling. And my face is, well, not a pretty sight. All those wires…”
“You sound different, Hans. Your voice sounds different.”
“That’s because this voice is a radio analogue. It’s synthesized.”
“How do I know it’s really you, then? God, Hans…I’m so afraid. Everything…it’s just evaporating. The Froth is…there’s a biohazard scare, something smashed the gel frames in your domicile, I guess it was the dogs, and now the lichen, the damned lichen is sprouting everywhere. It grows so fast!”
“I designed it to grow fast, Valery, that was the whole point. Tell them to use a metal aerosol or sulfide particulates; either one will kill it in a few hours. There’s no need for panic.”
“No need! Hans, the discreets are suicide factories. C-K is through! We’ve lost the Queen!”
“There’s still the Project,” I said. “The Queen was just an excuse, a catalyst. The Project can draw as much respect as the damned Queen. The groundwork’s been laid for years. This is the moment. Tell the Clique to liquidate all they have. The Froth must move to Martian orbit.”
Valery began to drift sideways. “That’s all you cared about all along, wasn’t it? The Project! I degraded myself, and you, with your cold, that Shaper distance, you left me in despair!”
“Valery!” I shouted, stricken. “I called you a dozen times, it was you who closed yourself off, it was me who needed warmth after those years under the dogs—”
“You could have done it!” she screamed, her face white with passion. “If you cared you would have broken in to prove it! You expected me to come crawling in humiliation? Black armor or dog’s eyeglass, Hans, what’s the difference? You’re still not with me!”
I felt the heat of raw fury touching my numbed skin. “Blame me, then! How was I to know your rituals, your sick little secrets? I thought you’d thrown me over while you sneered and whored with Wellspring! Did you think I’d compete with the man who showed me my salvation? I would have slashed my wrists to see you smile, and you gave me nothing, nothing but disaster!”
A look of cold shock spread across her painted face. Her mouth opened, but no words came forth. Finally, with a small smile of total despair, she broke the connection. The screen went black.
I turned to the Modem. “I want to go back,” I said.
“Sorry,” he said. “First, you’d be killed. And second, we don’t have the wattage to turn back. We’re carrying a massive cargo.” He shrugged. “Besides, C-K is in dissolution. We’ve known it was coming for a long time. In fact, some colleagues of ours are arriving there within the week with a second cargo of mass drivers. They’ll fetch top prices as the Kluster dissolves.”
“You knew?”
“We have our sources.”
“Wellspring?”
“Who, him? He’s leaving, too. He wants to be in Martian orbit when that hits.” The Modem glided outside the cupola and pointed along the plane of the ecliptic. I followed his gaze, shifting clumsily along the visual wavelengths.
I saw the etched and ghostly flare of the Martian asteroid’s mighty engines. “The iceteroid,” I said.
“Yes, of course. The comet of your disaster, so to speak. A useful symbol for C-K’s decay.”
“Yes,” I said. I thought I recognized the hand of Wellspring in this. As the ice payload skimmed past C-K the panicked eyes of its inhabitants would follow it. Suddenly I felt a soaring sense of hope.
“How about that?” I said. “Could you land me there?”
“On the asteroid?”
“Yes! They’re going to detach the engines, aren’t they? In orbit! I can join my fellows there, and I won’t miss the Prigoginic catalyst!”
“I’ll check.” The Modem fed a series of parameters into one of the fluidics. “Yes…I could sell you a parasite engine that you could strap on. With enough wattage and a cybersystem to guide you, you could match trajectory within, say, seventy-two hours.”
“Good! Good! Let’s do that then.”
“Very well,” he said. “There remains only the question of price.”
I had time to think about the price as I burned along through the piercing emptiness. I thought I had done well. With C-K’s Market in collapse I would need new commercial agents for the Eisho jewels. Despite their eeriness, I felt I could trust the Lobsters.
The cybersystem led me to a gentle groundfall on the sunside of the asteroid. It was ablating slowly in the heat of the distant sun, and infrared wisps of volatiles puffed here and there from cracks in the bluish ice.
The iceteroid was a broken spar calved from the breakup of one of Saturn’s ancient glacial moons. It was a mountainous splintered crag with the fossilized scars of primordial violence showing themselves in wrenched and jagged cliffs and buttresses. It was roughly egg-shaped, five kilometers by three. Its surface had the bluish pitted look of ice exposed for thousands of years to powerful electric fields.
I roughened the gripping surfaces of my gauntlets and pulled myself and the parasite engine hand over hand into shadow. The engine’s wattage was exhausted, but I didn’t want it drifting off in the ablation.
I unfolded the radio dish the Modem had sold me and anchored it to a crag, aligning it with C-K. Then I plugged in.
The scope of the disaster was total. C-K had always prided itself on its open broadcasts, part of the whole atmosphere of freedom that had vitalized it. Now open panic was dwindling into veiled threats, and then, worst of all, into treacherous bursts of code. From all over the system, pressures long held back poured in.
The offers and threats mounted steadily, until the wretched cliques of C-K were pressed to the brink of civil war. Hijacked dogs prowled the tubes and corridors, tools of power elites made cruel by fear. Vicious kangaroo courts stripped dissidents of their status and property. Many chose the discreets.
Crèche cooperatives broke up. Stone-faced children wandered aimlessly through suburban halls, dazed on mood suppressants. Precious few dared to care any longer. Sweating Marketeers collapsed across their keyboards, sinuses bleeding from inhalants. Women stepped naked out of commandeered airlocks and died in sparkling gushes of frozen air. Cicadas struggled to weep through altered eyes, or floated in darkened bistros, numbed with disaster and drugs.
Centuries of commercial struggle had only sharpened the teeth of the cartels. They slammed in with the cybernetic precision of the Mechanists, with the slick unsettling brilliance of the Reshaped. With the collapse of the Market, C-K’s industries were up for grabs. Commercial agents and arrogant diplomats annexed whole complexes. Groups of their new employees stumbled through the Queen’s deserted Palace, vandalizing anything they couldn’t steal outright.
The frightened subfactions of C-K were caught in the classic double bind that had alternately shaped and splintered the destinies of humanity in Space. On the one hand their technically altered modes of life and states of mind drove them irresistibly to distrust and fragmentation; on the other, isolation made them the prey of united cartels. They might even be savaged by the pirates and privateers that the cartels openly condemned and covertly supported.
And instead of helping my Clique, I was a black dot clinging like a spore to the icy flank of a frozen mountain.
It was during those
sad days that I began to appreciate my skin. If Wellspring’s plans had worked, then there would come a flowering. I would survive this ice in my sporangial casing, as a windblown speck of lichen will last out decades to spread at last into devouring life. Wellspring had been wise to put me here. I trusted him. I would not fail him.
As boredom gnawed at me I sank gently into a contemplative stupor. I opened my eyes and ears past the point of overload. Consciousness swallowed itself and vanished into the roaring half existence of an event horizon. Space-time, the Second Level of Complexity, proclaimed its noumenon in the whine of stars, the rumble of planets, the transcendent crackle and gush of the uncoiling sun.
There came a time when I was roused at last by the sad and empty symphonies of Mars.
I shut down the suit’s amplifiers. I no longer needed them. The catalyst, after all, is always buried by the process.
I moved south along the asteroid’s axis, where I was sure to be discovered by the team sent to recover the mass driver. The driver’s cybersystem had reoriented the asteroid for partial deceleration, and the south end had the best view of the planet.
Only moments after the final burn, the ice mass was matched by a pirate. It was a slim and beautiful Shaper craft, with long ribbed sun wings of iridescent fabric as thin as oil on water. Its shining organo-metallic hull hid eighth-generation magnetic engines with marvelous speed and power. The blunt nodes of weapons systems knobbed its sleekness.
I went into hiding, burrowing deep into a crevasse to avoid radar. I waited until curiosity and fear got the better of me. Then I crawled out and crept to a lookout point along a fractured ice ridge.
The ship had docked and sat poised on its cocked manipulator arms, their mantislike tips anchored into the ice. A crew of Mechanist mining drones had decamped and were boring into the ice of a clean-sheared plateau.
No Shaper pirate would have mining drones on board. The ship itself had undergone systems deactivation and sat inert and beautiful as an insect in amber, its vast sun wings folded. There was no sign of any crew.
Schismatrix Plus Page 44
