by Tony Daniel
He could do that.
He could see his mother and dad.
He could visit Isabella one last time.
What would be the use? Just cause them all a lot of needless pain. They all knew how he felt about them.
Instead, he was going to have a look at Neptune. Methane, hydrogen, and helium. Fastest winds in the solar system. That was how come the Mill was in the Eye.
He would be in those winds soon. He imagined himself being buffeted around. It would be like one of those tornado simulators on the merci, only more so. Fifteen hundred fucking miles per hour. And now that he was in the goddamn metric-crazy army: twenty-three hundred kilometers an hour. Either way, it was going to be a hell of a ride.
Could you really get torn apart just by the wind?
Or would the heat get you as you fell?
He was going to find out.
But still, there it was. Him. Old Father Blue.
He had to admit, it was the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. Except for Isabella’s eyes.
What the hell was that! A ghost? Was he dead already?
No, just the wisps of the outer atmosphere.
I’m really close now, Alessandro thought. Nobody’s going to save me.
He felt his heart begin to race and fought back the urge to close his eyes.
He was falling.
He could feel himself falling now.
He held his eyes open.
I want to see everything there is to see, Alessandro thought. I’m finally visiting a real, honest-to-God planet.
Thirty-two
NEPTUNE SYSTEM
E-STANDARD, 19:30, THURSDAY, APRIL 17, 3017
FEDERAL THEATER COMMAND
The DIED attack had become a siege. That had been one of the possibilities all along, of course. It wasn’t an acceptable outcome, and Colonel Theory didn’t like it one bit. But, as Sherman had said to him before he left, a siege was a hell of a lot better than going out in an idiotic blaze of glory.
But it isn’t as good as winning, Theory thought. He wanted to win—to protect the territory and those he loved, certainly. But also not to let Sherman down. No military commander, either in the Federal Army or in the DIED forces, had ever given a free convert such as Theory so much responsibility before. Doing just all right wasn’t acceptable to Theory. It never had been.
Captain Residence had checked in moments before. The DIED paratroop attack had been blocked. The latest big wave, once again dropped in camouflaged by a nail rain, had been held to the outskirts of New Miranda. Those who had dropped directly into the city proper had been isolated and—after heavy fighting—taken prisoner or killed.
After three e-weeks, the DIED force still had not penetrated the city with troops, and most of their forces had been steadily swept from the moon with heavy casualties.
Theory was chagrined that there were any troops at all on the ground of Triton. But New Miranda and the outlying settlements were still firmly in Federal hands.
In space, the situation changed moment to moment. The cloudships, with the help of space-deployed Marines, were holding their own. Even old Carlyle out at Nereid was proving to be a resourceful defender. He had dropped his troops on the small moon, then teamed up with the local minefield commander to create a unique defense. He’d spread himself out thin and engulfed some of the more powerful orbital mines into his structure. Carlyle now surrounded two-thirds of the moon like an enveloping film. This obscured the mines to any known detection techniques. A DIED invader would have no chance to get through except by dumb luck.
On the other hand, even one or two antimatter mine explosions would blow Carlyle to smithereens. He was taking a big chance, and gambling with his life. Theory couldn’t help but admire the cloudship’s bravery. He might be grumpy, but he was a good soldier when it came down to it.
The other cloudships were fighting an ongoing slugfest with the DIED fleet. Cloudship Austen had rushed to join the other three “Kuiper Group” ships locked in battle near Triton. With Austen there, Theory had in place gross firepower equal to the DIED armada. So long as he or his ships didn’t make a tactical mistake—always a possibility, of course—he had a standoff on his hands.
Cloudship Mark Twain remained behind to guard the Mill in case of a breakthrough or a sudden foray by the Met navy.
The Mill—this was another thorn in Theory’s side. His forces had defeated the invaders, but not before crippling damage had been done to the energy-generating apparatus. It was presently operating at one-third output, and Theory’s engineers were giving pessimistic assessments as to how long repairs would take—or if they could be completed at all given the present situation.
In the virtual command center, Theory turned to Major Hidaka, who head up the newly formed Third Sky and Light Military Police Corps.
“It looks like we’re going to have to put that enforced power rationing plan in place,” Theory said.
“Yes, sir,” said Hidaka. “Stage one?”
Theory reviewed the entire plan in a matter of milliseconds. Stage one, which affected only industrial and commercial operations, was not going to be enough. New Miranda would need to introduce immediate consumer rationing. A lack of adequate energy on Triton was not merely inconvenient. It might be a death sentence.
“Go straight to stage two,” Theory said. “And I want you to make an example out of the first person who violates the provisions.”
“Will do, sir,” Hidaka said, then left the command center to issue the new order to her forces. Hidaka’s convert portion (she was a biological human) used the door to exit rather than simply disappearing from the room. Sherman had demanded this sense of decorum among his command staff, and Theory saw great sense in maintaining it.
So—the situation was dire, but stabilized. It was a dynamic equilibrium, of course. From the way the Met forces were fighting, Theory was beginning to suspect that they’d been assigned a new commander. Theory had never met General Haysay, but he’d studied every biographical fact known about the man and carefully reviewed all his war game records. Theory now believed he was facing a more daring and intelligent opponent. There were several possibilities among the DIED’s pool of upand-comers, but Theory didn’t waste time speculating. Whoever it was was good. Theory knew that if he grew complacent for even a moment, this new opponent would capitalize on it.
Nevertheless, it was time for a breather. “I’m stepping out for a moment,” he told Monitor, passing along to the major his contact coordinates in the basic machine language of the grist.
For once, Monitor didn’t make some ranking comment about Theory’s new heroic and muscular appearance, or his thickening facial hair. The joke had grown a bit stale. But everyone relieved tension however they could, and Monitor had always been a good friend to Theory. Theory didn’t take the comments personally. Well, he did , of course. He just didn’t take them badly.
Theory, too, exited through the war room’s door. He walked down a short, self-created corridor, then knocked on, and opened, the door to his own apartment. A great wave of relief came over him as he beheld his son sitting on the floor and playing with a complex puzzle box. On the nearby sofa was Jennifer Fieldguide. She looked up from the magazine she was reading and smiled at Theory.
“How’s it going?” Jennifer asked him.
“It’s going all right,” Theory said, stepping farther inside. “How are you?”
“ We’re doing fine,” Jennifer replied. “We had dinner over at my parents’ again yesterday. They can be a pain, but I think our boy here had a good time overall.”
“This is true,” said the boy. Theory’s son spoke so infrequently that it was always a surprise to hear his voice.
Theory sat down in the living room’s armchair. This was the only furniture in the room. He’d always run a very spare algorithm to represent his apartment’s interior.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I just wanted to check on everything here.”
“My apartment
is pretty much a disaster area from the nails,” Jennifer said. “So I’ve been hanging out in the building’s basement and spending my mental time here—except to eat and go to work.”
Theory nodded. “I’m very grateful,” he said.
“Hey, it’s good for me, too,” Jennifer said. “The bakery’s running half-time, and all my friends are holed up in basements and shelters. I’d feel bored and useless without your son.” She gestured to the boy. “He’s kind of fascinating to watch, too. He says a lot with his gestures and stuff like that, once you know how to read him.”
If the boy noticed he was being talked about, he didn’t show it as far as Theory could tell. He continued playing with his complicated toy.
“Still, I thank you,” Theory said.
“You’re welcome,” Jennifer replied. “Can I get you anything? How about some coffee? I actually researched some representations and found some good stuff for your pantry.”
“That would be nice,” Theory said.
Jennifer got up and went to the kitchen. Theory bent over and watched his son’s play. The puzzle box displayed a complicated three-dimensional fractal on one side. On the other, this fractal was broken into many mixed-up pieces. The object was to make the front and back look the same by sliding the pieces about according to fixed rules.
“Try the A4 to the A5,” Theory said, after a moment’s thought.
“That won’t work,” the boy immediately replied. “See how it would ruin this diagonal run?”
Theory considered the box again.
“You’re right,” he said. “I guess I’m a little tired and didn’t see the problem there.”
Jennifer came back into the room with a steaming mug of coffee. Theory took in the aroma. It was delicious. He took a sip. There was something…a very clever programmer, indeed, had come up with this coffee. It contained a semisentient coprocessor in the grind. After another swallow, the coprocessor kicked in and Theory definitely felt perked up and more alert.
“That’s good coffee,” he told Jennifer. “I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
Jennifer smiled in her soft way, and Theory felt his heart once again swelling at the sight. She was so unlike him—she was a creature of feelings, urges, instincts—but he couldn’t stop himself from being taken with her. She was somehow incomprehensible in a completely alluring manner.
He finished his coffee and stood to leave.
“I’ve got to get back to work.”
Jennifer took his coffee cup. “We’ll be here,” she said.
“That’s…that’s very reassuring to me,” Theory replied. “It makes me happy to know you’re both here.”
Jennifer smiled again. His son looked up in acknowledgment, though the boy’s expression remained the same.
On the way back to his command center, Theory lengthened the virtual connecting corridor by a good twenty feet. He spent the extra milliseconds of walking time reflecting on his son’s seeming contentment—and considering Jennifer Fieldguide’s lovely smile.
Then he opened the command center door and stepped back into the waiting war.
PART FIVE
EPILOGUE
Year 3017, E-standard
One
The lights of the laboratory compound were bright, and the entire area around the main complex was swarming with grist. The Jeep had no trouble finding the place; concealing his movements from the outrider security grist- mil proved to be a bit more difficult, but not impossible. The laboratory was in the wilderness, and the security algorithms had to compensate for stray animals and vegetation, or it would spend its energy and computing power responding to every leaf fall or squirrel scamper. The Jeep was nine hundred years a creature of the wild. Over the centuries, he had seen many a black bear and spent days following one or another of them to find new pathways and territories. Upstate New York bears roamed almost as widely as the Jeep, and they knew the landscape. You could learn a lot from following bears. The Hudson Valley was full of them now.
And so the Jeep camouflaged himself as a bear. It was a straightforward decision. There were more complicated ruses he might have used, but they required too much algorithmic upkeep. The Jeep knew he had nowhere near the juggling ability of a free convert. Simple was best, and simple was a bear.
The compound was in the shallow valley of a stream that fed into the Hudson. It had, ages ago, been the village of Rhinebeck, inhabited by well-to-do city dwellers as a weekend getaway, and ringed by the lower class of service people who took care of things during the week. Rich and poor alike had left for the Met centuries before. The compound had been cut out of a climax Northeastern forest less than a decade ago. There was grist that would shape out a construction site, leaving trees and underbrush intact where possible, and doing minimal damage to the future building’s surroundings. This sort of green-friendly construction grist was mandatory when building outside the city limits on Earth. The truck hunters employed it to build their hunting lodges, for instance.
When the Science Directorate had set up the lab complex, they had used grist-mil instead—potent military grist that stripped the land bare and even converted the soil to a dirty sand laced with reduced organic specks. There was a very sharp delineation where the periphery fences and security systems of the compound gave way to the compound proper. It was the line where the speckled sand started, and nothing living grew.
At that line, the Jeep had to make a decision. The security grist on the other side was too powerful. Curiously, it was not inhabited by a free convert. He could not imagine why. It was complex enough to contain one. But the half-sentient algorithm that patrolled it was complex enough that the Jeep would have a difficult time fooling it. The Jeep began to circle the compound, searching for a weakness. The laboratory buildings within, squat, flat structures made from a seamless compound, were tantalizingly close. There was no fence or wall—only the rich humus soil on one side and the dirty sand on the other—and signs.
Another odd thing. The signs were not directed outward, but were facing inward.
The Jeep couldn’t see what was written or drawn on the signs. He only knew they were signs because they approximated the size and shapes on the Taconic Parkway and elsewhere. Maybe they were blank on the other side. But signs usually told you what to do, or somebody’s idea of what you ought to do. Or else they were warnings. Or both.
The Jeep was about to dismiss the whole matter as unknowable, but there was something important about the signs; he felt it. And so, he thought about it, in his way, by waiting and letting the information surface. Surviving for nine hundred years had reworked the Jeep programming. Random variations had been incorporated. Connections had been made with the land, the weather, the entire grist pellicle of Planet Earth. In many ways, the Jeep was no longer a creature of algorithm but was organic. Alive.
And then he had it. No wonder the bear disguise had worked so easily.
The signs were a warning to keep people in. The security convert attached to the lab was a jailer, not a soldier.
Here was a way.
Without another thought, the Jeep signaled to the compound’s exterior guard routine that he was here.
[What? Who’s that? Who are you?]
The Jeep remained silent. Best to play a dumb quartersent. He rolled slowly forward and crossed the line in the sand.
[Say now—that’s far enough!]
The Jeep came to a stop.
[What the hell are you doing here? Let me check my records.]
The Jeep slowly revved his engine, gathering energy into his grist. He had gotten some very nasty defense algorithms stored away over the years. He also had some offensive code capabilities, including a nasty virus he’d encountered in the wilds of Nova Scotia, rampantly breeding within the grist substrate of a peculiar variety of lichen. He’d almost succumbed to the virus, which called herself BigCanada, before his own robust antihack algorithms had isolated and dealt with the invader.
He’d picked up som
e information while fighting the little program. The virus was a recent arrival on Earth, having come from a region on the Met known as the Carbuncle. Apparently all the semisentient code scraps were being rounded up in the Met and eradicated in some gruesome manner. This concerned the Jeep only insofar as BigCanada had escaped the sweeps—and now he must deal with her virulence.
After he’d defeated her, he’d kept a copy archived in quarantine. She might prove useful. At the time, he’d imagined one day releasing BigCanada in the convert portion of a truck hunter who got too close. He wasn’t exactly sure how the virus did what she did, but he knew its effects weren’t good. She was particularly good at reformatting her victim’s pellicle.
Well, now he would use her in more spectacular fashion. He called up his expansion routine, loaded his Big-Canada archive into the program’s “hopper”—
But then didn’t get the chance to use it, at least not yet.
[Okay, then. Here you are in the deliveries column. White Jeep Wrangler—I guess that’s your color and make—VIN number 2J4FY29T3KJ126916. Can you verify that?]
It was so. That was his vehicle identification number! How had the guard known? No one could know without being very close. Looking through the driver-side window at the metal tag on the dash.
Or you could be inside and see it.
And then he knew. Ping Li. It had to be. No one else had been inside him for nine hundred years. She’d noted the VIN. She was a numbers person. She might have amused herself by seeing the VIN upside down, transposing it, memorizing it. And somehow she’d gotten him on the laboratory compound’s delivery schedule.
The Jeep allowed a tiny outrider of grist, a simple recognizance spider a few microns across, to crawl up his chassis and read the VIN number. After the information had been transferred, he eliminated it quickly. [Well, you don’t have to be so touchy!] said the compound guard. [I wasn’t going to leave the spider there.]
