by Vernor Vinge
“Ah, Brierson! What are you doing out here, man? You should be playing. I watched you earlier today. You’re good.”
Wil turned to the voice. It was Philippe Genet and two Peacer women friends. The women wore open jackets and bikini bottoms. Genet wore only shorts. The high-tech walked between the women, his hands inside their jackets, at their waists.
Wil laughed. “I’d need lots of practice to be good with something that wild. I imagine you could do pretty well, though.”
The other shrugged and drew the women closer. Genet was Brierson’s height but perhaps fifteen kilos less massive, verging on gauntness. He was a black, though several shades paler than Wil. “Do you have any idea where that glowball came from, Brierson?”
“No. One of the high-techs.”
“That’s certain. I don’t know if you realize what a clever gadget that is. Oh, I’ll bet you twenty-first-century types had something like it: put a HI light and a navigation processor in a ball and you could play a simple game of night volley. But look at that thing, Brierson.” He nodded at the glowball, caroming back and forth off invisible barriers. “It has its own agrav unit. Together with the navigation processor, it’s simulating the existence of reflecting walls. I was in the game earlier. That ball’s a Collegiate Mark 3, a whole athletic department. If one team is short a player, just tell the ball—and in addition to boundary walls, it’ll simulate the extra player. You can even play solitaire with it, specify whatever skill level and strategy you want for the other players.”
Interesting. Wil found his attention divided between the description and the high-tech himself. This was the first time he’d talked to Genet. From a distance, the man had seemed sullen and closemouthed, quite in keeping with the business profile GreenInc had on him. Now he was talkative, almost jovial…and even less likable. The man had the arrogance of someone who was both very foolish and very rich. As he talked, Genet’s hands roamed across the women’s torsos. In the shifting of light and shadow, it was like watching a stop-action striptease. The performance was both repellent and strange. In Brierson’s time, many people were easygoing about sex, whether for pleasure or pay. This was different; Genet treated the two like…property. They were fine furniture, to be fondled while he talked to Brierson. And they made no objection. These two were a far cry from the group with Gail Parker.
Genet glanced sidelong at Wil and smiled slowly. “Yes, Brierson, the glowball is high-tech. Collegiate didn’t market the M.3 till…” He paused, consulting some database. “Till 2195. So it’s strange, don’t you think, that the New Mexicans are the people who brought it to the party?”
“Obviously some high-tech gave it to them earlier.” Wil spoke a bit sharply, distracted by the other’s hands.
“Obviously. But consider the implications, Brierson. The NMs are one of the two largest groups here. They are absolutely necessary to the success of the Korolev plan. From history—my history, your personal experience—we know they’re used to running things. The only thing that keeps them from bulldozing the rest of you low-techs is their technical incompetence…Now, just suppose some high-tech wanted to take over from Korolev. The easiest way to destroy her plan might be to back the NMs and feed them some autons and agravs and advanced bobblers. Korolev and the rest of us high-techs could not afford to put the NMs down; we need them if we are to reestablish civilization. We might just have to capitulate to whoever was behind the scheme.”
Tioulang was trying to tell me something similar. The evening cool was suddenly chill. Strange that a thing as innocent as the glowball should be the first evidence since Marta’s murder that someone was trying to take over. What did this do to his suspect list? Tammy Robinson might use such a bribe to recruit. Or maybe Chanson was right, and the force that ended civilization in the twenty-third was still at work. Or maybe the enemy simply desired to own, and was willing to risk the destruction of them all to achieve that end. He looked at Genet. Earlier in the day, Brierson had been upset to think they might slide back to governments and majority rule. Now he remembered that more evil and primitive institutions were possible. Genet oozed confidence, megalomania. Wil was suddenly sure the other was capable of planting such a clue, pointing it out, and then enjoying Wil’s consternation and suspicion.
Some of that suspicion must have shown on his face. Genet’s smile broadened. His hand brushed aside one girl’s jacket, flaunting his “property.” Wil relaxed fractionally; over the years, he had dealt with some pretty unpleasant people. Maybe this high-tech was an enemy and maybe not, but he wasn’t going to get under Wil’s skin.
“You know I’m working for Yelén on Marta’s murder, Mr. Genet. What you tell me, I’ll pass on to her. What do you suggest we do?”
Genet chuckled. “You’ll ‘pass it on,’ will you? My dear Brierson, I don’t doubt that every word we say is going directly to her…But you’re right. It’s easier to pretend. And you low-techs are a good deal more congenial. Less back talk, anyway.
“As for what we should do: nothing overt just yet. We can’t tell whether the glowball was a slip, or a subtle announcement of victory. I suggest we put the NMs under intense surveillance. If this was a slip, then it will be easy to prevent a takeover. Personally, I don’t think the NMs have received much help yet; we’d see other evidence if they had.” He watched the game for a few moments, then turned back to Wil. “You especially should be pleased by this turn of events, Brierson.”
“I suppose so.” Wil resented admitting anything to Genet. “If this is connected to Marta’s murder, it may break the case.”
“That’s not what I meant. You were shanghaied, right?”
Wil gave a brief nod.
“Ever wonder what became of the fellow who bushwhacked you?” He paused, but Brierson couldn’t even nod to that. “I’m sure dear Yelén would like this kept from you, but I think you deserve to know. They caught him; I’ve got records of the trial. I don’t know how the skunk ever thought he could evade conviction. The court handed down the usual sentence: He was bobbled, timed to come out about a month after you. Personally, I think he deserved whatever you might do to him. But Marta and Yelén didn’t work that way. They rescued everyone they could. They figured every warm body increases the colony’s chances.
“Marta and Yelén made him promise to stay out of your way. Then they gave him a shallow disguise and turned him over to the NMs. They figured he could fade into the crowd there.” Genet laughed. “So you see why I say this is an enjoyable twist of fate for you, Brierson. Putting pressure on the NMs gives you a chance to step on the insect who put you here.” He saw the blank expression on Wil’s face. “You think I’m putting you on? You can check it out easily enough. The NM Director, President—whatever they call him—has taken a real shine to your friend. The twerp is on Fraley’s staff now. I saw them a few minutes ago, on the other side of this game.”
Genet’s gaunt face parted in a final smile. He gathered his “property” close and walked into the darkness. “Check it out, Brierson. You’ll get your jollies yet.”
Wil stood quietly for several minutes after the other left. He was looking at the game, but his eyes did not track the glowball anymore. Finally, he turned and walked along the outskirts of the crowd. The way was lit whenever the ball rose above the fans. That light flickered white and green and yellow, depending on whether the ball was live, striking a “wall,” or out of play. Wil didn’t notice the colors anymore.
Steve Fraley and his friends were sitting on the far side of the court. Somehow they had persuaded the other spectators to stand clear of the sidelines, so they had a good view even sitting down. Wil stayed in the crowd. From here he could observe with little chance that Fraley would notice.
There were fifteen in the group. Most looked like staff people, though Wil recognized a few ungovs. Fraley sat near the middle, with a couple of his top aides. They spent more time talking to the ungovs than watching the game. For a government type, ol’ Steve had plenty of experience with
the soft sell. Twice back in the 2090s he’d been elected President of the Republic.
It was an impressive achievement—and an empty one: By the end of the twenty-first, the New Mexico government was like a beach house when the dunes shift. War and territorial expansion were not feasible—the failure of the Kansas Incursion had shown that. And the Republic couldn’t compete economically with the ungoverned lands. The grass was truly greener on the other side of the fence, and with unrestricted emigration, the situation only got worse. As a matter of frank competition, the government repealed regulation after regulation. Unlike Aztlán, the Republic never formally disgoverned. But in 2097, the NM Congress amended the constitution—over Fraley’s veto—to renounce all mandatory taxing authority. Steve Fraley objected that what was left was not a government. He was obviously correct, but it didn’t do him much good. What was left was a viable business. The Republic’s police and court system didn’t last; it simply wasn’t competitive with existing companies. But the NM Congress did. Tourists from all over the world visited Albuquerque to pay “taxes,” to vote, to see a real government in action. The ghost of the Republic lived for many years, a source of pride and profit to its citizens.
It was not enough for Steve Fraley. He used what was left of presidential authority to assemble the remnants of the NM military machine. With a hundred fellow right-thinkers he bobbled forward five hundred years—to a future where, it was hoped, sanity had returned.
Wil grimaced to himself. So, like all the cranks and crooks and victims who overshot the Singularity, Fraley and his friends ended up on the shore of a lake that had once been open ocean—fifty million years after Man.
Wil’s eyes slid from Fraley to the aides beside him. Like many self-important types, these two kept their apparent age in the middle forties. Sleek and gray, they were the NM ideal of leadership. Wil remembered both from twenty-first-century news stories. Neither could be the…creature…he sought. He pushed through the crowd, closer to the open space around the NMs.
Several of those listening to Fraley’s sales pitch were strangers. Wil stared at them, applying all the tests he had invented during the day.
Scarcely conscious of the movement, Wil edged out of the crowd. Now he could see all the NMs in Fraley’s group. A few were paying attention to the discussions around Fraley; the rest were watching the game. Wil studied each one, matching what he saw with the Kid, the Exec, and the Janitor. There were several vague resemblances, but nothing certain…He stopped, eyes caught on a middle-aged Asian. The fellow didn’t resemble any of the three, yet there was something strange about him. He was as old as Fraley’s top advisers, yet the game had all his attention. And this guy didn’t have the others’ air of assurance. He was balding, faintly pudgy. Wil stared at him, trying to imagine the man with a head of hair, and without eyefolds or facial flab.
Make those changes, and take thirty years off his apparent age…and you’d have…the Kid. The nephew of the guy who was robbed. This was the thing that had taken Virginia from him, that had taken Billy and Anne. This was the thing that had destroyed Brierson’s whole world…and done it just to avoid a couple of years of reparation surcharge.
And what can I do if I find the bastard? Something cold and awful took over then, and thought ceased.
Wil found himself in the open area between the volleyball court and the NMs. He must have shouted; everyone was looking at him. Fraley stared openmouthed. For an instant, he looked afraid. Then he saw where Wil was headed, and he laughed.
There was no humor in the Kid’s response. His head snapped up, instant recognition on his face. He sprang to his feet, his hands held awkwardly before him—whether an inept defense or a plea for mercy was not clear. It didn’t matter. Wil’s deliberate walk had become a lumbering run. Someone with his own voice was screaming. The NMs in his way scattered. Wil was barely conscious of body-blocking one who was insufficiently agile; the fellow simply bounced off him.
The Kid’s face held sheer terror. He backpedaled frantically, tripped; this was one bind he would not escape.
13
Something flashed in the air above Wil, and his legs went numb. He went down, just short of where the Kid had been standing. Even as the breath smashed out of him, he was trying to get back to his knees. It was no good. He snorted blood, and rational thought resumed. Someone had stungunned him.
Around him there was shouting and people were still backing away, unsure if his berserker charge might continue. The game had broken off; the glowball’s light was steady and unmoving. Wil touched his nose; bloodied but unbroken.
When he twisted back onto his elbows, the babble quieted.
Steve Fraley walked toward him, a wide grin on his face. “My, my, Inspector. Getting a little carried away, aren’t you? I thought you were cooler than that. You, of all people, should know that we can’t support the old grudges.” As he got closer, Wil had to strain to look up at his face. Wil gave up and lowered his head. Beyond the NM President, at the limit of the glowball’s illumination, he saw the Kid puking on the grass.
Fraley stepped close to the fallen Brierson, his sport shoes filling most of the near view. Wil wondered what it would be like to get one of those shoes in the face—and somehow he was sure that Steve was wondering the same thing.
“President Fraley.” Yelén’s voice spoke from somewhere above. “I certainly agree with you about grudges.”
“Um, yes.” Fraley retreated a couple of steps. When he spoke, it sounded as if he were looking upwards. “Thanks for stunning him, Ms. Korolev. Perhaps it’s for the best that this happened. I think it’s time you realized who you can trust to behave responsibly—and who you cannot.”
Yelén did not reply. Several seconds passed. There was quiet conversation around him. He heard footsteps approach, then Tunç Blumenthal’s voice. “We just want to move him away from the crowd, Yelén, give him a chance to get his legs back. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Blumenthal helped Wil roll onto his back, then picked him up under the shoulders. Looking around, Wil saw that Rohan Dasgupta had grabbed his legs. But all Wil could feel was Blumenthal’s hands; his legs were still dead meat. The two lugged him away from the light and the crowd. It was a struggle for the slender Rohan. Every few steps, Wil’s rear dragged on the ground, a noise without sensation.
Finally, it was dark all around. They set him down, his back against a large boulder. The courts and bonfires were pools of light clustered below them. Blumenthal sat on his heels beside Wil. “Soon as you feel a tingling in those legs, I suggest you try walking, Wil Brierson. You’ll have less an ache that way.”
Wil nodded. It was the usual advice to stungun victims, at least when the heart wasn’t involved.
“My God, Wil, what happened?” Curiosity struggled with embarrassment in Rohan’s voice.
Brierson took a deep breath; the embers of his rage still glowed. “You’ve never seen me blow my stack, is that it, Rohan?” The world was so empty. Everybody he’d cared about was gone…and in their place was an anger he had never known. Wil shook his head. He’d never realized what an uncomfortable thing continuing anger could be.
They sat in silence a minute more. Pins-and-needles prickling started up Wil’s feet. He’d never known a stun to wear off so quickly; another high-tech improvement, no doubt. He rolled onto his knees. “Let’s see if I can walk.” He climbed to his feet, using Dasgupta and Blumenthal as crutches.
“There’s a path over here,” said Blumenthal. “Just keep walking and it’ll get easier.”
They tottered off. The path turned downwards, leaving the picnic grounds behind the crest of a hill. The shouts and laughter faded, and soon the loudest sounds were the insects. There was a sweetish smell—flowers?—that he’d never noticed around Town Korolev. The air was cool, downright cold on those parts of his legs that had regained sensation.
At first, Wil had to put all his weight on Blumenthal and Dasgupta. His legs seemed scarcely more than stumps, his
knees now locking, now bending loose with no effective coordination. After fifty meters his feet could feel the pebbles in the path and he was doing at least part of the navigating.
The night was clear and moonless. Somehow the stars alone were enough to see by—or maybe it was the Milky Way? Wil looked into the sky ahead of them. The pale light was strangely bright. It climbed out of the east, a broad band that narrowed and faded halfway up the sky. East? Could the megayears change even that? Wil almost stumbled, felt the others’ grasp tighten. He looked higher, saw the real Milky Way slicing down from another direction.
Blumenthal chuckled. “There wasn’t much going on at the Lagrange zones in your time, was there?”
“There were habitats at L4 and L5. They were easy to see, like bright stars,” nothing like this stardust haze.
“Put enough stuff in Luna’s orbit and you’ll see more than just a few new stars. In my time, millions lived there. All Earth’s heavy industry was there. Things were getting crowded. There’s only so much thermal and chemical pollution you can dump before your factories begin to poison themselves.”
Now Wil remembered things Marta and Yelén had said. “But it’s mainly bobbles there now.”
“Yes. This light isn’t caused by factories and civilization. Third-body perturbations have long since flushed the original artifacts. Now it’s a handy place for short-term storage, or to park observing equipment.”
Wil stared at the pale glow. He wondered how many thousands of bobbles it took to make such a light. He knew Yelén still had much of her equipment off Earth. How many millions of tonnes were in “short-term storage” out there? For that matter, how many travelers were still in stasis, ignoring all the messages the Korolevs had laid down across the megayears? The light was ghostly in more ways than one.
They went another couple of hundred meters eastwards. Gradually Wil’s coordination returned, till he was walking without help and only an occasional wobble. His eyes were fully dark-adapted now. Light-colored flowers floated in the bushes to the side of the path, and when they nodded close the sweetish smell came stronger. He wondered if the path was natural or a piece of Korolev landscaping. He risked his balance by looking straight up. Sure enough, there was something dark against the stars. Yelén’s auton—and probably Della’s, too—was still with them.
