•
To Logan Eng, the chaos in the Net felt like having one of life’s underpinnings knocked out. What had been a well-ordered, if undisciplined, ruckus of zines, holochannels, SIGs, and forums had become a rowdy babel, a torrent of confusion and comment, made worse because in order to be noticed each user now sent out countless copies of his messages toward any node that might conceivably listen. A million hackers unleashed carefully hoarded “grabber” subroutines, designed to seize memory space and public attention. Even “official” channels were jammed half the time with interlopers claiming their right to comment on the crisis facing the world.
“… it is a plot by resurgent Stalinist elements and pamyat mystics…” claimed a ham operator who had been listening to one mysterious site in Siberia.
“… No, it’s schemes by money-grubbing polluters…”
“… eco-freaks…”
“… little green men…”
Normally, the weirdest scenarios would have stayed ghettoed in special interest forums. But that unspoken consensus broke down as bizarre fantasies suddenly seemed no less reasonable than the finest science punditry.
Then, adding to the overload, worried governments suddenly began pouring forth reams — whole libraries — of information they’d been hoarding, stumbling over themselves to prove they weren’t responsible for the sudden outbreak of gravitational war. Each denial met fresh suspicions, though. Accusations flew in the halls of diplomacy and on ten thousand channels of comment and opinion.
The largest chunk of raw disclosure came from NATO-ANZAC-ASEAN — a spasm of data that stunned already dizzy Net traffic handlers. Suspicious voices accused Washington and its allies of masking culpability under a tidal wave of bits and bytes. But Logan was shocked by the extent of this sudden candor. To demonstrate their innocence, Spivey’s bosses had spilled everything, even his own first conversation with the colonel, in the big limousine! This tsunami of forthrightness swamped normal channels and flooded into unusual places. Classified studies of knot singularity physics got dumped into a channel normally reserved for cooking hobbyists and recipe exchanges. The secrets of gazerdynamic launching systems filled corridors meant for light opera, situation comedies, and golfing.
The cat’s out of the bag now. Even if the present crisis waned, the world would never be the same.
Despite disclosure, however, despite scurrying arms inspectors and tribunes, events sped ahead of all governance. Paranoia notched up with each strange tremor, each awful disappearance. Caroming rumors spoke of national deterrence weapons being wheeled out of storage — of peace locks being hammered off ancient but still deadly bombs. Sneezes were heard in Budapest — and someone decried bioplagues. Hailstones struck Alberta — and someone else proclaimed the wrath of God.
A winking light dragged Logan from the latest report, in which one of the brighter pundits cited new evidence pointing away from the bad old nation states, toward some new, unknown power… Logan blinked at the intruding lines of text crossing his portable holo — a priority override using his personal emergency code. Not even Glenn Spivey knew that one.
The words manifested with shocking, glacial slowness. One by one, they seemed to pry their way through the panicky crush. He read the message and then brought up his hand to cover his eyes.
daddy… can’t get mother to budge. locked in her room. acting crazy… come quick. we need you!
It is a fairly typical refugee camp, one of thirty allocated Great Britain under the Migration Accords. Along the trim lanes of Bowerchalke Village, the poor continue their day in, day out labors. Great drums of grain and fishmeal arrive and are disbursed by elected block committees. Blackwater must go to the septic ponds, graywater to the pulp gardens; every bit of cardboard or plastic or metal has value, so the streets are spotless. As long as order is kept and every baby accounted for, a few luxuries are included in each week’s aid shipment — sugar-cane cuttings for the children, from plantations in Kent… toilet paper instead of dried kudzu leaves, to make life a little softer for the old ones… and some real work for those in between, those not already lost in ennui, staring all day at cheap holo sets like disembodied souls.
Yet, some of the brighter ones cruise that data sea, associating with others far away who don’t even know their status as poor refugees. Some do brisk, software-based business from the camp. Some get rich and leave. Some get rich and stay.
For most, the sudden chaos on the net means a delay in their favorite shows. But to others, It threatens the only world that ever offered them hope.
• EXOSPHERE
Teresa wished she could help Alex. But all her skills were useless in this battle, a conflict as intricate as a Nō play, fought with the deadly delicacy of weaving, bobbing Siamese fish.
At least she could help watch the prisoner, freeing some security boys to stand guard against saboteurs. And she’d see to keeping Pedro out of Alex’s hair. Fortunately, those two jobs coincided as the big Aztlan reporter eagerly questioned June Morgan. He forced her to look toward the holo display, where each thrust and parry translated into more deaths, more local catastrophes. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” the blonde traitor answered miserably. “They never intended all-out war.”
“They hardly ever do,” Manella commented. “Big, destructive hostilities nearly always used to come about when one side thought it knew just how the other would react to a show of force, and miscalculated their opponents’ resolve.”
Teresa watched June wince as roiling changes lit up the many-layered Earth. Nearby, Alex Lustig tapped rapid commands with a keypad-glove, adding muttered amendments quicker than speech with his subvocal device. Others hurried about their tasks with similar crisp efficiency… the only trait that might help the last Tangoparu team in its desperate, one-sided struggle to survive.
“It’s all my fault,” June said with a despairing sigh. “If I’d only done my job, they wouldn’t have had their bluff called. Not yet, at least. Now, though, all their plans are messed up. They’re in a panic. Far more dangerous than if they’d won.”
The patent rationalization made Teresa want to spit. “You still haven’t said who they are!”
Earlier June had refused to answer, as if the direct question terrified her. Now she seemed to decide it didn’t matter anymore.
“It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Try us,” Manella urged.
With a sigh, June regarded them both. “Pedro, Teresa, haven’t either of you ever wondered? I mean, why do people assume the Helvetian War put an end to the world’s oldest profession?”
Teresa blinked. “Are you being snide?”
June laughed without mirth. “I don’t mean prostitution, Terry. I’m talking about parasites, manipulators who thrive on secrecy. There have always been schemers and plotters — since before Gilgamesh and the pyramids.
“Come on, you two. Who do you think poisoned Roosevelt and had the Kennedys shot? Or arranged for Simyonev’s plane to crash? What about Lamberton and Tsushima? Are you sure those were accidents? Didn’t they work out rather conveniently for those profiting in the aftermath?
“Teresa and I are too young, but Pedro, you remember how things were during the weeks before the Brazzaville Declaration, don’t you? Back when delegations started flying in spontaneously from all over the world to declare the an-tisecrecy alliance? How many people died of mysterious accidents before the delegates overcame all the obstacles and ideological distractions and at last built a momentum that was unstoppable? Then how many world leaders had to be deposed before the masses had their way and the Alps were finally put under siege?”