It was no illusion! Four of the massive sculptures wrenched free of their platform. Soot blew away as they vibrated free of centuries’ accumulated dross. Gleaming now, they rotated toward her.
Teresa shivered, remembering Alex’s description of his own fey insight under a lightning storm, when he first realized that other hands than human might have crafted Beta’s malign intricacy. Could that be it? she wondered. Could June be working for our alien enemies? If they’re here in person, what chance did we ever have?
In the bizarre pulse-bunching that characterized some gazer beams, the giant statues seemed to pause, circling round a common center. But even as they did a languid dance, she sensed another, more powerful beat gathering below. Teresa tried to move her arms and legs to flee, but suddenly she was pressed to the ground as if by a giant’s hand. Tides coursed her innards, pressing her liver against her pounding heart. A cry escaped her open mouth like a soul prying its way out.
That force passed just before she thought she might burst. Teresa blinked through nausea and saw that the statues had disappeared. Into their hasty absence, a cyclone of angry air blew, just as the gravitational pulse tail left her abruptly with no weight at all.
The familiar sensation might have felt pleasantly like spaceflight, but she quickly saw where the wind was tossing her … toward a deep cavity where the stony gods had formerly stood! She clawed at the dirt and grass, grabbing at any purchase as a midget hurricane dragged her toward the pit—deep and gleamingly oval. Her feet passed over empty space, then her legs, her hips. Desperately she cried out as her fingers lost contact …
Suddenly she flapped like a flag in the gale—but did not fall. At the last moment, one outstretched arm had caught on something.
Or something had caught her! Twisting, she saw a beefy hand clamped round her wrist. The hand led to an arm and massive shoulders … merging with the head and face of Pedro Manella.
The storm ended as quickly as it had started. Aerodynamic lift vanished like a bed dropping out from under her, releasing her to fall in a horrible arc. The glass-smooth wall struck her a blow, setting off dazzling waves of pain.
Consciousness wavered, but the insults didn’t end there. Her arm was yanked again and again, in rhythmic heaves that hurt like hell as she felt herself drawn upward, slowly upward, to the precipice, over the glazed, cutting edge, and then finally onto the rough basalt-gravel surface of Rapa Nui.
At last, somehow, she and Pedro lay next to each other, gasping in exhaustion.
“I … saw Lustig succeed … diverting their beam,” Manella explained. “He couldn’t push it all the way to sea … so I came outside to watch.
“Then I saw you falling …”
Teresa touched the big reporter’s arm. He didn’t have to explain further. “So—” She inhaled deeply a few more times, blinking away blurriness. “So Alex did it.”
Then, with more enthusiasm, she rolled over onto her stomach and laughed, hitting the ground. “He did it!”
Pedro commented. “Yeah. I’m sure sorry—”
Teresa sat up. “Sorry! What are you sorry about?”
Manella stared at the pit he’d just pulled her from. “That wind tore off my True-Vu. I wonder how far down this thing …” He shook his head and turned to face her. “But no. What I meant was that I’m sorry for the other guys. They’re in for a rough time, I bet, now that it’s Lustig’s turn to fight back.”
Teresa glanced toward the resonator building where Alex labored on all alone. Just uphill though, she saw a cascade of Tangoparu engineers, running to rejoin their tohunga, looking mortified at having left his side during a battle. Teresa doubted it would ever happen again.
In the rear, security guards escorted June Morgan, who stared about in mute surprise, much to Teresa’s satisfaction. “Come on, Pedro,” she told the big reporter, offering her hand. “You can search for your recorder later. First let’s see if we can be of any use.”
In Yellowstone Park, tourists pose near steaming geysers. All around them stretch cinder cones and other testaments to the land’s violent past. And yet, they don’t see any of it really relating to them. After all, those things happened a long, long time ago.
Today, however, the Old Faithful geyser surprises them. Instead of steam, wet and clear, what comes out at the appointed time glows white hot and molten.
It is quite a show, indeed. More, perhaps, than the visitors ever bargained for.
• HOLOSPHERE
As time passed, it was only the outline—the warp and weft—that remained hers alone. As for the rest, it became a collage, a synthesis of many contributions. Though Jen’s daring model of the essential processes of thought grew more complicated with each added element, most of its newest pieces now came bobbing out of the capacious well of the Net itself.
Some bits were brought home by her ferrets. But lately, the little software emissaries kept getting lost in the worried maelstrom surging through the world’s data hubs. The help she got now came mostly in real time, from real men and women—co-workers and colleagues who knew her access codes and had begun by merely eavesdropping on her work, but soon, intrigued, started offering suggestions as well.
Li Xieng of Shanghai had been first to speak up—after watching her model build for hours before making his presence known. Apologetically, he pointed out a flaw that would have stymied her if left uncorrected. Fortunately, he had a convenient solution ready at hand.
Old Russum of the University of Prague logged in next with a recommendation, and then Pauline Cockerel in London. After that, rumors spread with the eager pace of electrons, drawing attention from specialists across the globe. Helpful suggestions began arriving faster than Jen could scan them, so she deputized to surrogates—both living and simulated—the job of culling wheat from chaff.
Of course this was no more than a ripple in the tide of anxious comment right now sweeping the Net. Jen knew she and the others were being self-indulgent. Perhaps they oughtn’t to be concentrating so single-mindedly on an abstract model while all channels crackled with angst over matters of planetary survival. They should pay attention to the pronouncements of presidents and general secretaries and all the multichanneled pundits.
And yet, moments like this came so seldom in science. Mostly, a researcher’s work was a daily grind no less than the toil of a baker or grocer. Now and then though, something glorious happened—a paradigm shift, or theoretical revolution. Jen and the others were caught in the momentum of creative breakthrough. No one knew how long the burst of synthesis would last, but for now the whole was far greater than the sum of its parts.
… PRECONSCIOUS CULLING OF SEMI-RANDOM MEMORY ASSOCIATIONS CANNOT BE TOO STRICT, Li Xieng commented in a line of bright letters to her upper left. AFTER ALL, WHAT WOULD CONSCIOUSNESS BE WITHOUT THOSE SUDDEN LITTLE MEMORIES AND IMPULSES, APPARENTLY SO RANDOM, BUT …
Li’s comment wasn’t particularly important in itself. But the software bundle accompanying them was. A quick simulation test showed it wouldn’t hurt the big model, and just might add to its overall flexibility. So she spliced it to the growing whole and moved on.
A contribution from one of the Bell Labs arrived, bearing Pauline Cockerel’s chop of approval. Jen was about to evaluate it for herself when a sudden swirl of garish color drew her attention to the screen on the far left.
It was that bloody tiger again! Jen couldn’t figure out what the thing represented or why it persisted so. Or why it looked more battle worn each time she saw it. A while ago she had assigned the symbol to serve as an icon for her protection-sieve program, guarding this computer nexus from any outsiders trying to interfere without permission. But by now her data domain was so much larger, it seemed in retrospect a trivial precaution.
The tiger really was looking rather the worse for wear. It’s fur even smoked along one flank, as if seared by some terrible flame. Bleeding wounds seemed to trace the recent work of raking talons. And yet it rumbled defiantly, turning now and then to gla
re at something lurking just off screen.
The metaphorical meaning struck Jen even in her distracted state. Somewhere, out in the pseudoreality of the Net, something or someone was trying to get in, and it wasn’t one of her colleagues.
Who, then? Or what?
As if answering her query, the tiger raised a paw. Impaled on one claw shimmered what looked like a glistening lizard’s scale …
Jen shook her head. She hadn’t time for trivialities. Her model kept growing, building impetus. It took all her attention now just to ride along, guiding here, adjusting there.…
“—have to ask you to return the memory and processors you’ve borrowed. Dr. Wolling. Do you read me? This is a crisis! We’ve heard from Alex that—”
The new voice was Kenda, yammering by intercom. Irritably, she wiped the circuit. Of all times for that bloody man to interrupt! Jen had far too little computer memory as it was! She’d even taken advantage of the Ndebele and appropriated space in Kuwenezi Canton’s city computers. Thank heavens it was nighttime outside. By morning it might all be finished, before she had to deal with swarms of irate administrators.
Somewhere in the real world, she vaguely heard Renda and his crew shouting at each other, struggling to bring their big resonator on line with abrupt speed. But Jen was barely of the real world anymore. Through her subvocal and with delicate finger controls, she created hungry little programs—surrogates designed on the spur of the moment to go forth and get more memory, wherever it could be found, commandeering it on any pretext and hang the ultimate expense! Any storage and computing charges would be recouped a million times over if this worked!
This was no job for mere ferrets or hounds. She needed something tenacious that wouldn’t take no for an answer. So the new surrogates she pictured as tiny versions of herself, and laughed at the image her computer drew from memory—an old book-jacket photo depicting her in an earth-colored sari at some Gaian ritual, wearing a smile of maternally patient, absolute determination.
The self-icons were intimidating, all right. A crowd of unstoppable old ladies gathered in the central holo near the main cluster, ready to go forth and find more room for the growing model.
Then, just as she was about to unleash them, the bottom fell out.
If there really had been such a thing as direct mind-to-machine linkage, Jen might have died at that moment. Even connected by mere holo screens and subvocal, she felt it as a physical blow. In the span of three heartbeats, everything in her console was sucked out and sent streaming along high-rate data lines toward … heaven only knew where!
Her breath caught as she watched in utter dismay. Her surrogates, her subroutines, her colleagues’ comments—the whole damned model poured away like bath water down a thirsty drain! The intricate, interlaced patterns that only moments ago had surrounded her now whirled and vanished into an awful hole.
Nearly last to go was her tiger. Yowling in complaint, it dug in its claws, laying phosphor trails across one screen after another as it was dragged toward the abyss.
From the far left, another simulated creature entered into view as the tiger left—this one larger and even more stunningly formidable. In an instant’s numb understanding Jen knew this to be the software entity her cat had been fighting—a thing that had gotten in at last, only to be swept along with everything else into the void. The fearsome dragon hissed and roared at her, waving a glittering scorpion’s tail as that bizarre suction hauled it, too, into oblivion.
Jen blinked. In a half moment it was over. She punched reset keys, and instantly her displays came alight again, but not a shred of her own work remained. Instead there shone great glowing swathes of the Earth’s interior—the cutaway view used by the resonator team.
So this was no power failure. It hadn’t struck the Tangoparu group’s programs, only hers!
“Kenda!” she screamed. “What have you done!”
Memory. She vaguely recalled Kenda demanding back the computer caches she’d borrowed. Why, the awful man must have taken it on himself to seize it, sending her model straight to Hades in the process!
“You bastard, Kenda. When I get my hands on you …”
For the first time in hours she drew her eyes away from the screens and peered around the console toward where the others kept watch over mere magma and mantle, crust and core. The big resonator glistened, suspended in its frictionless bearings. Lights shone at all the other stations.
But there was no one in sight. No living human being.
“Kenda? … Jimmy? … Anybody?” She swept off the subvocal and was suddenly immersed in real sound again. Foremost came a loud whoop-whoop she recalled hearing once before, back when she and the Kiwis had first set up in these abandoned mines, when Kenda had insisted on running all those bloody drills.
The evacuation alarm.
She found it hard to think, having been ripped so untimely out of a deep and glorious meditative state. Jen mourned her beautiful model. So it was only with passing seconds that she managed to concentrate on more immediate concerns … like why Kenda and the others had departed so abruptly.
Everything looked peaceful enough. She smelled no smoke.…
Jen’s gaze roved the empty chamber, stopping at last on the holo in front of her—now depicting Earth’s innards rife with glowing traceries and arcane symbols. In another moment she understood why the others had run away.
A gazer pulse packet … heading this way. Seconds ticked down inevitability with four nines’ probability.
Even in her distracted state, Jen had had enough experience watching Kenda’s operation to perceive how three previously unknown resonators had banded together, taking the Kiwis by surprise, overcoming their belated resistance. It didn’t take many blowups to see where the gargantuan output would strike once whoever-it-was found just the right resonance.
In fact, gravity waves were coursing through this space even as she sat here! They weren’t coupling with ordinary surface matter yet—only a few frequencies and impedances did that. But soon a matching would be found. No wonder Kenda and the others had departed!
Jen watched loops and spires flicker three thousand kilometers below, where minerals and metals mixed and separated at the planet’s most violent interface. In the holo tank, great molten-electric prominences took on gauzy textures. Threads of ephemeral superconductivity throbbed and Beta’s brittle gleam waxed and waned in tempo to this arrogant human meddling.
Jen grunted at the irony. That’s where all my work went … Kenda must have taken everything in the computer and just poured it down the resonator all at once, in a vain attempt to stop them.
When that failed, he ordered everyone out.
She chuckled suddenly. Even a near miss by those unknown enemies should collapse these tottering mine shafts. Kenda and the others might escape in time, but it was clearly too late for her now.
I guess in all the panic, no one bothered with that irritating old woman in the corner, the one always making a nuisance of herself. See, Wolling? I told you bad habits can be fatal!
The resonator hummed, apparently still linked to all the furious activity below.
Well, I might as well get the best seat in the house, she thought, and picked up her subvocal again. Let’s see just what kind of a finish Mother has in store for me.
Hey, wait a nano! Any of you catch that? I thought all this gorsucking inside the Earth was supposed to stop!
Yeah, I know.… But one of my ferrets just squirt-faxed news of a raft of new boggles! Here blokes, copy this … Yeah, from some new spots, too. It’s spreading like cancer-IV!
… Good idea. Let’s split and scurt-recomb at this nexus in ten min. Lensman, you check the online seismic databases. Yamato-Girl, see what your eavesdrop-prog at the U.N. is picking up. Boris can quick-scan open media while Diamond taps the NorA ChuGa Rumor Center. I’ll find out what the other hack groups have picked up.… Right. Maybe the greeners know something too.
Agreed? Then squirt it!
&nb
sp; • BIOSPHERE
Nelson worried about the termites.
Specifically, for several days the hives inside the ark had been acting strangely. Instead of sending forth twisty files of workers in search of decaying organic matter, the insects scurried near their tapered mounds, frantically reinforcing them with fresh mud from countless tiny mandibles. It was the same on all levels of ark four.
Nelson had reported first signs on Thursday, then had to wait for Dr. B’Keli’s scientists to analyze his samples. Finally, as he came on shift today, one of the departing day workers told him. “Termites, like fire ants, are very sensitive to electric fields,” the young woman entomologist told him. “They can feel variations you or I would never notice without instruments.
“Tomorrow we’ll go looking for a short circuit,” she added with a smile. “Want to come early and join us? I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.”
Interesting might be one word for it. She was young, pretty, and Nelson felt suddenly awkward. “Uh, maybe,” he answered, imaginatively.
During his nightly rounds with Shig and Nell, he kept wondering about that look in her eyes. Looks can deceive, of course, even when interpreted truly. Still, he decided he would come in early tomorrow.
One thing he knew the lady entomologist was wrong about though—humans could detect whatever was affecting the insects. He felt it in his soles and in prickled hairs at the back of his neck. And Shig walked across the savannah enclosure as if each crackling grass stem gave off sparks. Finally, Nelson had to carry the youngster so Nell could get some rest.
There was a dusty odor in the air, even after they entered the rain forest biosphere. A glance through the windows showed desert hazes carried by the dry north wind. “Close all external air ducts,” he commanded the ever-listening computers, and his ears popped as the system went over to full recirculation. That was what an enclosed ecosystem was all about anyway. Nelson thought it almost cheating to let ark four purge some of its wastes outside and take in occasional doses of water and air.