“All right,” Casey said. “All right, Leslie. It's what we're here for”—and he could hear her knobby shoulders rolling in a shrug—“although I don't like you boys taking point.”
“Somebody's got to,” Charlie said, while Leslie was still looking for the words. “And it's stupid to risk all of us. Just let us have control of the attitude jets unless it looks like we're getting into trouble. All right?”
“Yeah,” Casey said, and Peterson said “Roger.” And Charlie turned his entire suit to look at Jeremy, as Corporal Letourneau drifted up beside him and started working the carabiners loose. “Jer? Dr. Kirkpatrick?”
“You're goddamned welcome to it, old son,” Jeremy answered from a spot two meters behind Casey. “I'll be pleased to admit yours is bigger than mine. I'll float here and take pictures.”
“Beauty,” Leslie answered, and unclipped the lines from his belt. The gloves made him fumble, but they hid the fact that his hands were shaking, and they kept him from having to look up, away from the spinning earth, in the direction that they were going. “Bob's your uncle. Here we go. Oh, bloody lovely, Jer; look at that.” The line still in his gauntlet, he pointed.
“Les?” Jeremy slid past Jen Casey in an eddy of vapor and leaned on Leslie's shoulder. Miscalculated inertia set them spinning slowly, but Leslie grabbed Jeremy's gauntlet left-handed and got them both stable before Peterson had to intervene.
He looked up at the astronauts and grinned, and this time he was sure they saw it, even through the helmet. “See? No worries. Piece of cake.”
“Les, what did you see?”
He pointed down again. “The Great Wall of China. Look.”
The others looked, and exclaimed. “That used to be the only man-made object you could see from space, supposedly,” Jen said. “Before electric lights. Before the beanstalks.”
“Pretty story,” Les answered.
Charlie's chuckle cut him off. “Pity it's happy horse shit.”
“Charles.” Leslie loaded his voice with teasing disapproval. He used his attitude jets to tilt himself forward, peering through the sunlit thin spot in the pall of dust to see if he could pick out that spider-fine thread again. He could, just barely. “It's not horse shit. It's a beginner story, is all.”
“A beginner story?” Casey, the apt pupil. Of course.
“A story that's part of the truth, but only the uncomplicated part,” Leslie explained. Which was a beginner story in itself, and the circularity pleased him almost as much as the tricksterish unfairness of it all.
“Oh.” She paused, and he could almost feel her thinking. “So what else is man-made that you can see from space, then? That's not lights? Or beanstalks?”
“The Sahara Desert,” Charlie answered. And before anybody could comment further, he moved forward, and Leslie stuck by his side as if they had planned it like that.
Leslie already had that half-assed comparison of the birdcage to some sort of sacred site stuck in his mind when he and Charlie soared through the bars, leaving the rest of the EVA team behind. His cliché generator was ready with images of cathedrals and wild, holy places he'd seen, temples and ziggurats and the hush of mysticism, some animal part of his mind ready to be awed by the angle of sunlight through the bars of the cage.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
The interior of the birdcage hummed with energy, a feeling like a racetrack on Stakes day or a ship's bridge anticipating the order to fire. Electricity prickled the hairs on his arms, and for a moment he thought it was an actual static charge. He turned to see if Charlie's suit glowed blue with Saint Elmo's fire.
Charlie had half-rotated toward Leslie, a fat white doll with a golden face, and their eyes met through the tint as if through mist. “You feel that.”
“I feel something,” Leslie answered. “Like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”
“Dr. Tjakamarra?” Lieutenant Peterson's voice over the suit radio, and Leslie lifted his hand to show he was all right, waved, and continued forward.
“Something's happening,” Charlie said. “Jen, Jeremy? Do you detect any changes out there?”
“Nothing to speak of,” Jeremy answered. “What sort of change am I looking for?”
“It feels like we've entered some sort of an energy field,” Charlie said. Leslie tuned him out, listening to the conversation with only half an ear. “Check for anything in the electromagnetic spectrum. Any kind of leakage.”
A silence. Leslie drifted incrementally forward, edging into the interior of the birdcage the same way he'd edge into a strange horse's paddock—slowly, calmly, but as if he had every right in the world, or out of it, to be there. The teardrop-shaped Benefactors glided soundlessly from bar to bar, some of them passing within tens of meters, and still seemed to take no notice. The prickling on his skin intensified. He glanced about, at the cage, the obliviously moving aliens, at the slick sheen of mercury-like substance that covered the armature of the birdcage. It was visually identical to the substance of the enormous droplet-shaped aliens, and, in fact, when they touched down on one of the beams, they became indistinguishable from it. They slid along the structure like droplets of water along the wires of a wet birdcage, and passed over and through each other like waves, whether they met moving about the armature or sailing through the space inside.
“Nothing's leaking out this way,” Jeremy said. “I can't answer for what's going on inside the birdcage, though. The whole thing could be a sort of—”
“Massive Faraday cage?”
“Or something, yes.”
“Leslie? Charlie?” Jen Casey's voice. She sounded worried; Leslie wondered if someone might be waving at Charlie and himself from their entrance point, but he wasn't about to turn around and look. Leslie craned his head back, trying to get a look directly “up,” toward the top of the armature.
“I hear you, Jen.” Charlie sounded a little odd, too, which wasn't surprising, if his skin was responding to the same storm-prickle Leslie felt. “What's wrong?”
“Richard says the nanite chatter is increasing. I think maybe you should come back.”
They turned to each other again, Leslie and Charlie, and Leslie saw the question in Charlie's eyes. Leslie's hands spread reflexively inside his gauntlets as another shiver slithered up his back.
“We've already made history,” Charlie said.
“And so what if we have? We haven't learned anything yet.”
The flash of Charlie's teeth showed through the tint in his faceplate. “Jen,” he said, “we're going to head out to the middle of this thing at least—”
“Charlie, that's another klick. Maybe a klick and a half.”
“Nothing ventured,” Leslie said, and gave Charlie a thumbs-up before he kicked his maneuvering jets on. “Jen, remind me on the way back out—”
“If you get back out,” she interrupted, but he heard grudging approval in her tone.
“Hey, this is your harebrained scheme, sweetheart.”
She laughed. “All right, Les. Remind you what?”
“Remind me to get a sample of the fluid on the birdcage when we pass by it again, would you? Maybe have Corporal Letourneau run back to the Buffy Sainte-Marie and pick up some sort of sterile containment vessel?” He turned, watching another raindrop slide along another wire. He had to remind himself that the scale was skyscraper beams and elephants at a kilometer or better, and not spiderwebs wet with dew that he could reach out and brush away with his gauntleted hand.
“We had a probe try that, remember? Hydrogen and nanites.”
“Oh, right.” He rolled his eyes at his own obtuseness.
A pause, as if Jenny discussed the problem of samples with Letourneau over local channels, and then the crackle of her voice. “We'll try a magnetic bottle this time; maybe it'll make a difference. Hey guys, are you noticing a lot of static on this channel all of a sudden?”
“I'm noticing more lightning-storm skin prickles, too,” Charlie said. “I wonder if it's true that you c
an feel lightning ionizing a path before it hits you.”
“Doctors.” The lieutenant again. “I really think the Benefactor activity is picking up. I would feel much better if you two came back—”
And then Jenny's voice, sharp with fear, urgent and clipped. “Putain! Charlie, move. That thing's coming right at you!”
Leslie's head snapped up, not that it helped him in the slightest. He turned in the suit, faster than the gyros could handle, and reached for Charlie's arm. His grab failed; instead, he sent himself tumbling, and slapped hard at the autostabilize button on his chest, hoping the suit's gyroscopes would suffice to level him out. Spread out. Make yourself broad and flat. Don't scrunch up; it will just make you spin faster—
It was working. He tried to catch a glimpse of Charlie and could only see rippling silver, one of the teardrop aliens, close enough that its fluid side towered like a battleship overhead. Whatever Casey shouted dissolved into the deafening crackle of static. Ionization prickled over his skin, sharp enough to sting.
He closed his eyes so he wouldn't struggle against the suit in panic or by reflex, spread-eagled himself against the void, and allowed his inertial systems to bring him safely to rest. He couldn't hear anything but static over the radio, and then even the static cut off, leaving him in silence. But at least he hadn't bounced off the birdcage's superstructure. Yet. And he thought he had stopped tumbling.
Cautiously, Leslie opened his eyes.
And a bloody good thing, too, because there was Charlie, not too far off, spread-eagled just as Leslie was and coming toward him much too fast and on a direct collision course. Leslie raised his hand, reached for the other emergency switch—the get-me-the-hell-out-of-here one—and froze as the other space-suited figure echoed the gesture precisely.
Oh, bloody hell.
His own reflection, in the side of a bubble of liquid silver, broke over him with the force of a ten-foot wave.
Tobias Hardy probably had two hundred different fifteen-thousand-dollar suits, and Constance Riel hated every single goddamned one of them. She hated the way he had them tailored to make his shoulders look broader, and she hated the complicated manner in which somebody was paid to fold the handkerchief that always matched his tie.
If he had an image consultant, the man should be fired.
Unfortunately, unlike Riel's ability to keep her job, Hardy's ability to keep his wasn't dictated by any arcane metric of approachability multiplied by sober respectability and personal charisma. Which was a pity; the world might be a nicer place if “corporate raider” were a popularity contest.
Still, Riel had to credit Hardy with a certain piranha-like honesty. He was exactly what he seemed to be, shiny scales and teeth and a voracious appetite, with the power to stuff just about anything that he chose into his maw.
General Janet Frye was a more complicated matter. And one far more likely to make Riel's lip curl. Because Frye should have been an ally and instead she'd placed herself firmly on the other side of the equation.
No matter how Frye justified herself, if she even bothered with justifications anymore. Riel hung considerable pride on her ability to read people, to understand what their prices were, what they thought their prices were, and what their pride demanded they pretend while they were selling themselves. And right now, eyeing Frye levelly over her own folded hands, leaning both elbows on her salvaged desk, Constance Riel was 70 percent certain that Frye had already sold her self-respect. She just wished she knew for what.
Riel contemplated her for several seconds, waiting to see if Frye would glance down or blush. Hardy shifted from one foot to the other, the gesture of a man who is not accustomed to being kept waiting, and so Riel gave him another fifteen seconds before she let her gaze flick to meet his. She leaned back in her chair and offered him her most professional, most soulless smile. “Mr. Hardy. You seem determined to force me to utter words I never in my wildest imagination supposed that I would say.”
The little suppressed twitch of his lips showed her that he thought he'd won a concession, even if he didn't know which one yet, and she let him coast on the assumption. “Does that mean you'll consider my offer to buy Canada out of the Vancouver?”
Riel gripped the edge of her desk and stood. “Calisse de chrisse. No, Toby. It means dealing with you makes me miss Alberta fucking Holmes. I'm not giving you the Vancouver. I'm certainly not giving you any pilots that aren't under government oversight, even when we do get some more trained.”
She came around her desk, daring Frye not to give ground before her. Frye stepped out of the way, the hunch of her shoulders ruining the line of her coat.
“The simple fact of the matter, Mr. Hardy, is that Unitek needs Canada more than Canada needs Unitek.” And thank you for that small mercy, Richard. Thank you very much.
Frye cleared her throat. “You can't run Canada like a dictatorship, Prime Minister. Parliament has a say in our course of actions. Especially when your ill-conceived meddling in international affairs has left us on the brink of war.”
“Just because we're not shooting, General, doesn't mean we're not over the brink already. I'd think that was a mistake you would be unlikely to make.” It was too early for Scotch, unfortunately, because the dusty crystal decanter on the sideboard had never looked so good. Resolutely, Riel turned her back on it. “You're right about one thing—”
Frye's head tilted, light catching on her hair.
“—I'm not a dictator. In fact, I'm not even a president. So why don't you see if you can't get with a coalition and arrange to get my ass kicked downstairs, and you can warm that chair over there yourself. And then if you want to hand PanChina the keys to the castle, you can do it on your own watch.”
Frye paused, settled back on her heels, and Riel propped her ass against the desk, crossed her ankles and her arms, and gave the opposition that smooth-faced smile one more goddamned time, thinking careful, Connie, or your face might freeze that way.
“Ma'am. You know I can't do that.”
“Yes. I know that very well.” Riel didn't look down, and neither did the general.
Hardy stood beside them, his brow furrowed at being balked. He shot Frye a glance that spoke volumes. She never flickered. Unitek—Tobias Hardy—could buy and sell Canada. Hell, could buy and sell most of the commonwealth, when it came right down to it. But, goddamn it, it was still Canada that made the laws.
“Janet.” Riel softened her voice, created a framework that brought Frye in and pushed Hardy out, even as he came forward as if to shoulder between the two women. The stare that locked them was too much for him to break, however, and he fell back.
“Prime Minister?”
“I'm going to declare war on China if they cannot be made to pay restitution and admit wrongdoing. I will give the process a chance, you understand, and I pray to God that we figure out how to talk to the Benefactors first. But I want you to understand.”
“I think I know where you're going with this, ma'am.”
Riel smiled. “Appeasement never works, Janet. And ignoring the problem isn't going to make it go away. Especially when it's come hundreds of light-years to introduce itself.”
“And?”
“And if I find out that anybody—coalition or opposition—is working with PanChina to undermine Canada, there won't be a hole deep enough for him to hide in. And by ‘undermine,' I do mean anything from sharing information to passing notes under the desk. Comprenez-vous?”
Frye nodded. “Je comprends.”
Riel reached out and patted Frye's arm. “One crisis at a time,” she said. And don't think I'm ever going to trust you one inch farther than I can toss you, General. But if I can use you to distract Unitek while they're trying to play Canada and China off against each other, then you're a pawn I'm going to keep on the board until I have to sacrifice you. “One crisis at a time.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the critical-alert light on the corner of her interface plate began to blink.
&
nbsp; I don't see what sets the teardrops off. It always seems to happen that way, doesn't it? You're cruising along, minding your own business, and suddenly things are blowing up to the left and to the right of you, and no matter how hard you were looking you never see where the goddamned rockets came from. And you just grab the wheel and floor it, and hope you don't wind up upside down in a crater. Richard. Richard! What the hell is going on?
“I don't know, Jenny. Something. Hell—”
Or, in this case, you're standing on the sidelines adjusting your cuff links, and the next thing you notice, everybody's shooting at each other. And you're too goddamned far away to make any difference at all, even if you tried.
So, suddenly, Charlie and Leslie are shouting over the suit radios, phrases broken by static, frantic scurrying, and I'm half a second from trying to get to them even though they're a klick away across the diameter of the birdcage and I'd just get my own fool self killed, except I remember a second before I hit my maneuvering jets that I'm hooked in to Jeremy by ten feet of carbon filament and by the time I get myself unhooked, it's over and everything's calm as a millbrook downstream of the paddles.
“Casey? Dammit, Casey!” But Captain Wainwright's voice-of-command over my suit radio isn't even enough to snap me out of it, and neither is Lieutenant Peterson tugging on my spacesuit, trying to drag me away from the birdcage, back to the shuttle.
You know those pearl necklaces, the ones where the jewel rolls around free inside a silver wire cage that hangs off a chain? Leah used to have one; she wore it to Mass sometimes. The pearl in hers was pink.
When things stop twisting in front of my eyes, all the mercury in the birdcage has gathered in an enormous blob at the center of the ship. It floats there, a spherical mirror, flawless and shivering, and Charlie and Leslie are gone.
Goddamn it, I am sick of watching people I like get killed. I am even sicker of getting people I like killed. It's not an acquired taste, let me tell you; every drink is bitter as the last. And they never get any easier to swallow.
Worldwired Page 11
