by Vernor Vinge
“Yes, but that’s Banned. Are you telling me—”
“Moving-parts machines aren’t Banned. Not directly. It’s high-energy, high-speed stuff the Authority is death on. They don’t want anyone making bombs or bobbles and starting another War.” The building looked like the one they had left up the road, but with fewer windows.
An ancient metal pylon stuck out of the ground near the entrance. Wili looked at it curiously, and Jeremy said, “It doesn’t have anything to do with my project. When I was little, you could still see numbers painted on it. It’s off the wing of a pre-Authority airplane. The Colonel thinks it must have been taking off from Vandenberg Air Force Base at the instant they were bobbled: Half of it fell out here, and the rest crashed inside the Dome.”
He followed Jeremy into the building. It was much dimmer than inside the software house. Something moved; something made high-pitched humming noises. It took Wili a second to realize that he and Jeremy were the only living things present. Jeremy led him down an aisle toward the sounds. A small conveyer belt stretched into the darkness. Five tiny arms that ended in mechanical hands were making a . . . what? It was barely two meters long and one high. It had wheels, though smaller than those on a cart. There was no room for passengers or cargo. Beyond this machine aborning, Wili saw at least four completed copies.
“This is my fabricator.” Jeremy touched one of the mechanical arms. The machine immediately stopped its precise movements, as though in respect to a master. “It can’t do the whole job, only the motor windings and the wiring. But I’m going to improve it.”
Wili was more interested in what was being fabricated. “What . . . are they?” He pointed to the vehicles.
“Farm tractors, of course! They’re not big. They can’t carry passengers; you have to walk behind them. But they can draw a plow, and do planting. They can be charged off the roof batteries. It’s a dangerous first project, I know. But I wanted to make something nice. The tractors aren’t really vehicles; I don’t think the Authority will even notice. If they do, we’ll just make something else. My fabricators are flexible.”
They’ll Ban your fabricators, too. Not surprisingly, Wili had absorbed Paul’s opinion of the Peace Authority. They had Banned the research that could cure his own problems. They were like all the other tyrannies, only more powerful.
But Wili said none of this aloud. He walked to the nearest completed “tractor” and put his hand on the motor shell, half expecting to feel some electric power. This was, after all, a machine that could move under its own power. How many times had he dreamed of driving an automobile. He knew it was the fondest wish of some minor Jonque aristocrats that one of their sons might be accepted as an Authority truck driver.
“You know, Jeremy, this thing can carry a passenger. I bet I could sit here on its back and still reach the controls.”
A grin slowly spread across Jeremy’s face. “By golly, I see what you mean. If only I weren’t so big, I could, too. Why, you could be an automobilist! C’mon, let’s move this one outside. There’s smooth ground behind the building where we can—”
A faint beep came from the phone at Jeremy’s waist. He frowned and raised the device to his ear. “Okay. Sorry.
“Wili, the Colonel and Dr. Naismith want to see us—and they mean right now. I guess we were expected to hang around the main house and wait on their pleasure.” It was closest Wili ever heard Jeremy come to disrespect for his elders. They started toward the door. “We’ll come back before the afternoon rain and try to ride.”
But there was sadness in his voice, and Wili looked back into the shadowed room. Somehow he doubted he would return any time soon.
12
It might have been a council of war. Colonel Kaladze certainly looked the part. In some ways Kaladze reminded Wili of the bosses in the Ndelante Ali: He was almost eighty, yet ramrod straight. His hair was cut as theirs, about five millimeters long everywhere, even on the face. The silvery stubble was stark against his tan. His gray-green work clothes were unremarkable except for their starched and shiny neatness. His blue eyes were capable of great good humor—Wili remembered from the welcoming dinner—but this morning they were set and hard. Next to him Miguel Rosas—even armed and wearing his sheriff’s brassard—looked like a loose civilian.
Paul looked the same as always, but he avoided Wili’s eyes. And that was the most ominous sign of all.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” the old Russian spoke to the boys. All his sons—except Jeremy’s father, who was on a sales expedition to Corvallis—were present. “Wili, Jeremy, you’ll be leaving for San Diego earlier than we had planned. The Authority desires to sponsor the North American Chess Tourney, much as they’ve sponsored the Olympics these last few years: They are providing special transportation, and have moved up the semifinals correspondingly.”
This was like a burglar who finds his victim passing out engraved invitations, thought Wili.
Even Jeremy seemed a little worried by it: “What will this do to Wili’s plan to, uh, get some help down there? Can he do this right under their noses?”
“I think so. Mike thinks so.” He glanced at Miguel Rosas, who gave a brief nod. “At worst, the Authority is suspicious of us Tinkers as a group. They don’t have any special reason to be watching Wili. In any case, if we are to participate, our group must be ready for their truck convoy. It will pass the farm in less than fifteen hours.”
Truck convoy. The boys stared at each other. For an instant, any danger seemed small. The Authority was going to let them ride like kings down the coast of California all the way to La Jolla! “All who go must leave the farm in two or three hours to reach Highway One-oh-one before the convoy passes through.” He grinned at Ivan, his eldest son. “Even if the Authority is watching, even if Wili didn’t need help, Kaladzes would still be going. You boys can’t fool me. I know you’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. I know all the time you’ve wasted on programs you think are unbeatable.”
Ivan Nikolayevich seemed startled, then smiled back. “Besides, there are people there we’ve known for years and never met in person. It would be even more suspicious if we pulled out now.”
Wili looked across the table at Naismith. “Is it okay, Paul?”
Suddenly Naismith seemed much older even than the Colonel. He lowered his head and spoke softly. “Yes, Wili. It’s our best chance to get you some help. . . . But we’ve hired Mike to go instead of me. I can’t come along. You see—”
Paul’s voice continued, but Wili heard no more. Paul will not come. This one chance to find a cure and Paul will not come. For a moment that lasted long inside his head, the room whirled down to a tiny point and was replaced by Wili’s earliest memories:
Claremont Street, seen through an unglazed window, seen from a small bed. The first five years of his life, he had spent most of every day in that bed, staring out into the empty street. Even in that he had been lucky. At that time Glendora had been an outland, beyond the reach of the Jonque lords and the milder tyranny of the Ndelante Ali. Wili, those first few years, was so weak he could scarcely eat even when food was right at hand. Survival had depended on his Uncle Sly. If he still lived, Sylvester would be older than Naismith himself. When Wili’s parents wanted to give their sickly newborn to the coyotes and the hawks, it had been Uncle Sly who argued and pleaded and finally persuaded them to abandon Wili’s worthless body to him instead. Wili would never forget the old man’s face—so black and gnarled, fringed with silver hair. Outside he was so different from Naismith, inside so like him.
For Sylvester Washington (he insisted on the Anglo pronunciation of his last name) had been over thirty when the War came. He had been a schoolteacher, and he would not give up his last child easily. He made a bed for Wili, and made sure it faced on to the street so that the invalid boy could see and hear as much as possible. Sylvester Washington talked to him hours every day. Where similar children wasted and starved, Wili slowly grew. His earliest memories, after the view of Cl
aremont Street through the window hole, were of Uncle Sly playing number games with him, forcing him to work with his mind when he could do nothing with his body.
Later the old man helped the boy exercise his body, too. But that was after dark, in the dusty yard behind the ruin he called their “ranch house.” Night after night, Wili crawled across the warm earth, till finally his legs were strong enough to stand on. Sly would not let him stop till he could walk.
But he never took him out during the day, saying that it was too dangerous. The boy didn’t see why. The street beyond his window was always quiet and empty.
Wili was almost six years old when he found the answer to that mystery, and his world ended. Sylvester had already left for work at the secret pond his friends had build above of the Ndelante irrigation project. He had promised to come home early with something special, a reward for all the walking.
Wili was tired of the terrible daytime heat within the hovel. He peered through the crooked doorway and then walked slowly out onto the street, reveling in his freedom. He walked down the empty street and suddenly realized that a few more steps would take him to the intersection of Claremont and Catalina—and beyond the furthest reach of his previous explorations. He wandered down Catalina for fifteen or twenty minutes. What a wonderland: vacant ruins desiccating in the sun. They were all sizes, and of subtly different colors depending on the original paint. Rusted metal hulks sat like giant insects along one side of the street.
More than one house in twenty was occupied. The area had been looted and relooted. But—as Wili learned in later adventures—parts of the Basin were still untouched. Even fifty years after the War there were treasure hoards in the farthest suburbs. Aztlán did not claim a recovery tax for nothing.
Wili was not yet six, but he did not lose his way; he avoided houses that might be occupied and kept to the shadows. After a time he tired and started back. He stopped now and then to watch some lizard scurry from one hole to another. Gaining confidence, he cut across a grocery store parking lot, walked under a sign proclaiming bargains fifty years dead, and turned back onto Claremont. Then everything seemed to happen at once.
There was Uncle Sly, home early from the pond, struggling to carry a bag slung over his back. He saw Wili and his jaw fell. He dropped the bag and started running toward the boy. At the same time the sound of hooves came from a side alley. Five young Jonques burst into the sunlight—labor raiders. One swept the boy up while the rest held off old Sly with their whips. Lying on his belly across the saddle, Wili twisted about and got one last look. There was Sylvester Washington, already far down the street. He was ringing his hands, making no sound, making no effort to save him from the strange men who were taking Wili away.
Wili survived. Five years later he was sold to the Ndelante Ali. Two more years and he had some reputation for his burgling. Eventually, Wili returned to that intersection on Claremont Street. The house was still there; things don’t change suddenly in the Basin. But the house was empty. Uncle Sly was gone.
And now he would lose Paul Naismith, too.
The boy’s walleyed stare must have been taken for attentiveness. Naismith was talking, still not looking directly at Wili. “You are really to be thanked for the discovery, Wili. What we’ve seen is . . . well, it’s strange and wonderful and maybe ominous. I have to stay. Do you understand?”
Wili didn’t really mean the words, but they came anyway. “I understand you won’t come along. I understand some silly piece of math is more important.”
Worse, the words didn’t anger Paul. His head bowed slightly. “Yes. There are some things more important to me than any person. Let me tell you what we saw—”
“Paul, if Mike and Jeremy and Wili are to be in the mouth of the lion, there is no sense in their knowing more right now.”
“As you say, ‘Kolya.” Naismith rose and walked slowly to the door. “Please excuse me.”
There was a short silence, broken by the Colonel. “We’ll have to work fast to get you three on the way in time. Ivan, show me just what your chess fans want to send with Jeremy. If the Authority is providing transport, maybe Mike and the boys can take a more elaborate processor.” He departed with his sons and Jeremy.
That left Wili and Mike. The boy stood and turned to the door.
“Just a minute, you.” Mike’s voice had the hard edge Wili remembered from their first encounter months before. The under-sheriff came around the table and pushed Wili back into his chair. “You think Paul has deserted you. Maybe he has, but from what I can tell, they’ve discovered something more important than the lot of us. I don’t know exactly what it is, or I couldn’t go with you and Jeremy either. Get it? We can’t afford to let Naismith fall into Authority hands.
“Consider yourself damn lucky we’re going through with Paul’s harebrained scheme to get you cured. He’s the only man on Earth who could’ve convinced Kaladze to deal even indirectly with the bioscience swine.” He glared down at Wili, as if expecting some counterattack. The boy was silent and avoided his eyes.
“Okay. I’ll be waiting for you in the dining house.” Rosas stalked out of the room.
Wili was motionless for a long time. There were no tears; there had been none since that afternoon very long ago on Claremont Street. He didn’t blame Sylvester Washington and he didn’t blame Paul Naismith. They had done as much as one man can do for another. But ultimately there is only one person who can’t run away from your problems.
13
Still five meters up, the twin-rotor chopper sent a shower of grit across the Tradetower helipad. From her place in the main cabin, Delia Lu watched the bystanders grab their hats and squint into the wash. Old Hamilton Avery was the only fellow who kept his aplomb.
As the chopper touched down, one of her crew slid open the front hatch and waved at the standing VIPs. Through her silvered window, she saw Director Avery nod and turn to shake hands with Smythe, the LA franchise owner. Then Avery walked alone toward the crewman, who had not stepped down from the doorway.
Smythe was probably the most powerful Peacer in Southern California. She wondered what he thought when his boss submitted to such a cavalier pickup. She smiled lopsidedly. Hell, she was in charge of the operation, and she didn’t know what was coming off either.
The rotors spun up even has she heard the hatch slam. Her crew had their orders: The helipad dropped away as the chopper rose like some magic elevator from the top of the Tradetower. They slid out from the roof and she looked down eighty stories at the street.
______
As the helicopter turned toward LAX and Santa Monica, Delia came to her feet. An instant later Avery entered her cabin. He looked completely relaxed yet completely formal, his dress both casual and expensive. In theory, the Board of Directors of the Peace Authority was a committee of equals. In fact, Hamilton Avery had been the driving force behind it for as long as Delia Lu had been following inner politics. Though not a famous man, he was the most powerful one in the world.
“My dear! So good to see you.” Avery walked quickly to her, shook her hand as if she were an equal and not an officer three levels below him. She let the silver-haired Director take her elbow and lead her to a seat. One might think she was his guest.
They sat down, and the director looked quickly about the cabin. It was a solid, mobile command room. There was no bar, no carpets. With her priority, she could have had such, but Delia had not gotten to her present job by sucking up to her bosses.
The aircraft hummed steadily westward, the chop of the blades muted by the office’s heavy insulation. Below, Delia could see Peace Authority housing. The Enclave was really a corridor that extended from Santa Monica and LAX on the coast, inland to what had once been the center of Los Angeles. It was the largest Enclave in the world. More than fifty thousand people lived down there, mostly near the News Service studios. And they lived well. She saw swimming pools and tennis courts on the three-acre suburban lots that passed below.
In the north glow
ered the castles and fortified roads of the Aztlán aristocrats. They had governmental responsibility for the region, but without Banned technology their “palaces” were medieval dumps. Like the Republic of New Mexico, Aztlán watched the Authority with impotent jealousy and dreamed of the good old days.
Avery looked up from the view. “I noticed you had the Beijing insignia painted over.”
“Yes, sir. It was clear from your message that you didn’t want people to guess you were using people from off North America.” That was one of the few things that was crystal clear. Three days before she had been at the Beijing Enclave, just returned from her final survey of the Central Asian situation. Then a megabyte of detailed instructions came over the satellite from Livermore—and not to the Beijing franchise owner, but to one Delia Lu, third-level counter-guerrilla cop and general hatchetman. She was assigned a cargo jet—its freight being this chopper—and told to fly across the Pacific to LAX. No one was to emerge at any intermediate stop. At LAX, the freighter crew was to disgorge the chopper with her people, and return immediately.
Avery nodded approvingly. “Good. I need someone who doesn’t need everything spelled out. Have you had a chance to read the New Mexico report?”
“Yes, sir.” She had spent the flight studying the report and boning up on North American politics. She had been gone three years; there’d have been a lot of catching up to do—even without the Tucson crisis.
“Do you think the Republic bought our story?”
She thought back on the meeting tape and the dossiers. “Yes. Ironically, the most suspicious of them were also the most ignorant. Schelling bought it hook, line, and sinker. He knows enough theory to see that it’s reasonable.”