Spin 01 - Spin State

by Chris Moriarty

“I know,” she said in response to the look he gave her. “I should have logged it in. But it’s in her own handwriting, for God’s sake. It’s probably got trace DNA all over it. It’s not like there’s any doubt who wrote it.” And she’d wanted to keep it to herself until she’d vetted it with Nguyen, of course.

  “No,” McCuen said. “You don’t understand. It’s Haas. He’s been calling all day. He wanted to retrieve something from Sharifi’s effects. Something I told him we didn’t have. Because it wasn’t on the effects inventory.”

  “Shit.” Li turned a chair around, straddled it, crossed her arms over the backrest. She started to connect through to Haas’s office line, then stopped.

  “Call Haas,” she told McCuen. “Tell him we found it, but we have to refer it to TechComm before we can clear it for release to him. Tell him we’re doing our best to hurry things along. If he has any problem with that, send him back to me.”

  “How long will it take TechComm to clear it?” McCuen asked.

  “These things are complicated.” Li grinned. “Official channels are slow.”

  McCuen grinned back at her, but his grin faded quickly. “So how the hell did he know you had that journal?”

  “Funny,” Li said. “That’s just what I was wondering.”

  * * *

  By the time she left the field office it was long past closing time and the shops along the arcades were dark and silent. She walked back to her quarters, too tired to hunt down a place to eat and cravenly thankful for the station’s low rotational gravity. As she reached her door, though, she saw that the security field had been disturbed in her absence.

  She backed off a step and scanned the floor and doorframe. She’d just begun to tell herself she was being paranoid when she saw the slip of fiche poking out from under the closed door.

  She slid it out into the open with the toe of her boot and saw it wasn’t fiche at all, but a thick slip of butter yellow paper, bisected by a single horizontal fold.

  A letter, addressed to Major Catherine Li, Room 4820 spoke 12, Compson’s Station in quick fluid script. She picked it up and opened it.

  For a fraction of a second the paper remained blank. Then a blocky engraved monogram appeared above the fold with the words 130 Avenida Bosch Zona Angel. Words took shape below it, written in the same flowing script:

  Dearest C. Stop being stubborn and come to tea instead. Usual place and time. Tomorrow. C

  As she read the words, they scattered, broke into syllables and letters, rose from the page and turned into bright flocking birds that wheeled and swooped down the empty corridor like swallows.

  HIDDEN VARIABLES

  At this point the reader still should not feel altogether happy about building this house of cards. Although we have introduced corrective measures, what if they themselves are faulty, as they must be in any real system?

  … the “realistic” quantum computer looks very different from the idealized noise-free one. The latter is a silent shadowy beast at which we must never look until it has finished its computations, whereas the former is a bulky thing at which we “stare” all the time, via our error-detecting devices, yet in such a way as to leave unshackled the shadowy logical machine lurking within it.

  —Michele Mosca, Richard Jozsa, Andrew Steane, and Artur Ekert

  Zona Libre, Arc 17: 15.10.48.

  She dialed into the Calle Mexico just off the Zócalo. Mile-high needle buildings glittered in refracted sunlight, pointing the eye up toward the carefully calibrated atmospheric field—and far, far above it, to the blue seas and white ice fields of Earth.

  This was the heart of the Ring, point zero of UN space, the richest few square miles of real estate in the universe. Its interface was the best money could build: a realspace-interactive multiuser quantum simulation that was, for almost any imaginable purpose, indistinguishable from the real thing. Originally coterminous with the central banking zone, the interface now extended the length and breadth of the Ring. Anyone with credit for the sky-high access fees could register a corporation, eat a three-star meal, rent a whore, run a skip trace, or shop for anything from Prada handbags to black-market psychware.

  The crowd broke over her like surf, with all the stylish, hard-edged excitement of 18 billion people scoring and scheming and consuming at the absolute center of everything. She looked around, getting her bearings. A day trader leaned against an interactive Public Arts Commission sculpture, scanning virtual ticker tape, making quick bidders’ and sellers’ gestures on a trading floor that only he could see. Tourists and corporate concubines hurried by clutching designer shopping bags and talking into the elegant earbuds of external VR rigs.

  Just for fun Li dropped into the numbers so she could see who was real and who wasn’t. Half the people around her faded into compressed code packets. Digital ghosts. Simulacra. She dipped idly into some of the codes as she walked—and as always was amazed at the number of people running cosmetic programs. Her own interface was about as stripped-down as they came. It scanned her, packaged and compressed the scan data, and relayed a running simulacrum into streamspace. She couldn’t imagine caring enough about how she looked to bother with anything more. And if she did care, she certainly couldn’t imagine admitting it. Obviously, people in the Zone felt differently.

  She crossed the Zócalo, passing the war memorial and threading through the ever-present clumps of schoolchildren gathered around the EarthWatch Monument.

  “And here,” a holo-docent was explaining as she passed, “we see a time-lapse image of the seeding and spread of the artificial glaciers. Notice how the weather patterns change over the course of the recording. In the first frames the Sub-Saharan and Great North American Deserts have almost no precipitation, while in the later frames, the precipitation moves north from the Amazonian snowfields and disperses on the jet stream. This produces a macroclimatic change that we anticipate will break the cycle of postindustrial desertification and eventually allow us to reseed the reconstructed genomes stored in the EarthWatch databases. Just think, in less than two thousand years, humans—not all of us, of course, but a lucky, adventurous few—will actually be able to live on Earth again.” She paused and smiled serenely at the children. “Have your teachers taught you about Earth?”

  Why bother, Li wondered. It wasn’t their planet. These children had been born in space, like their parents and their parents’ parents. They hadn’t killed Earth, or seeded the glaciers, or negotiated the Evacuation and Embargo Treaties. Earth was just another moon to them: a pretty light in the night sky, an exotic travel destination. But when she looked around she saw them watching, rapt, as the glittering ice swirled across the equator. Except for a few boys in the back, of course, who were imitating the bow hunters in the aboriginal lifestyles hologram, aiming imaginary arrows at the scurrying pigeons, gleefully pondering mayhem. Li, who had been a back-of-the-class kind of kid herself, couldn’t help grinning at them.

  When the docent started in on the standard-issue spiel about the brave new era of peace and international cooperation, she walked. She could look down even from this height and pick out all the still-bubbling hot spots on the dead planet. Ireland. Israel. The icebound fortress of the Northern Rockies. The ice might have swallowed their borders, but the old wars were still on, though the UN had spent fortunes trying to squash them. And the old combatants were still keeping the home fires burning so they could start right up where they’d left off whenever the UN finally managed to make the planet habitable again. Li herself had watched a generation of angry young men and women disappear from Shantytown’s Irish quarter and come back a few years later—if they came back at all—with stories of the street fighting in Dublin and Ulster, deals cut between the UN and the English, the Embargo Enforcement Division’s smart neuroweapons. Thank God Li hadn’t been assigned to the EED when the war ended; there were some things even she couldn’t swallow.

  She threaded her way through the children and dodged the midafternoon traffic to reach one of the Zó
calo’s many outdoor cafés. She took a table in the back. A good table, by her standards: one with a solid wall behind it and a clear view of the approaches.

  Three chicas buenas turned away from their foamed matés de coca to look at her. Their long hair was gold-leafed and twisted into elaborate fronded topknots in the style of the season. With their black Mayan eyes and brightly painted faces they looked like chimeras from a cyberartist’s menagerie. Li considered them briefly and decided the tall-hair thing was even sillier than most fashions. The chicas buenas gave Li’s buzz cut and UN-issue ripstop a cool once-over, frowned at her construct’s features, and turned back to their conversation. This was the Zone. Not even a construct in a Peacekeeper’s uniform could surprise people here.

  Li drank her coffee in the refracted sunlight, looked up at Earth’s blue-and-white belly, and thought about what the hell she was going to say to Cohen.

  Metz stank, no matter how you looked at it. And instead of pride at having pulled it up short of total disaster, Li felt only cold fury at Soza, at the Security Council brass, and most of all at Cohen. Four Peacekeepers had been shot. Li had had to kill a civilian, something that still gave her cold sweats after all these years, no matter that the civilian in question had been armed and aiming at her. And it had all happened because she trusted Cohen—and he failed her.

  The trouble with friends was that you couldn’t get rid of them. There was no way to take back a friendship in the wake of betrayal or disappointment. The friendship, and everything that went with it, stayed. It just became unreliable, like an abandoned house; you still knew where all the rooms were, and which stairs creaked underfoot, but you had to check every floorboard for rot before trusting your weight to it.

  And Cohen had become a friend more or less without her noticing it. Only now, in the aftermath of Metz, had she seen just how important it was not to have him disappoint her.

  She paid her bill on-line and nodded to the waiter, whose glazed expression suggested he was checking his tip. She crossed the Zócalo and caught the crosstown to Avenida Cinco de Mayo.

  She stepped off it into a huge, pressing, gawking crowd.

  Tourists, mostly, she realized. And they were staring at a two-meter-tall woman with full-body tattoos and cat’s teeth.

  Li didn’t know the model’s name, but she recognized her from the fashion spins. A street celeb, the heartbeat of Ring-side hip. Flash today, gone by simulated sunset.

  She sprawled across a blood-colored neodeco sofa, six and a half feet of sinuous flesh, vamping to the camera as single-mindedly as if there were no crowd gaping at her from behind the lights and lenses. But Li barely noticed. All she saw was the man standing over her.

  Taller than the model, he hovered just out of the camera’s viewfield. One hundred plus kilos of genesculpted muscle rippled under his expensive suit—as well as the discreet, angular bulk of a MoenPfizer vest. A commline sprouted from his cranial jack and ran down beneath his collar. The sunglasses were purely cosmetic: camouflage for the implanted optics that were scanning the crowd in a preprogrammed surveillance pattern.

  Hired muscle. The expensive kind. And an ex-Peacekeeper too, most likely. Plenty of washed-up line soldiers ended up turning their skills and wire jobs to profit in private security.

  The scanning eyes snagged on Li and stopped, breaking pattern. Viruflex lenses depolarized, revealing flat pupils within a gunmetal gray ring of military-application optical implants. The guard flicked back his jacket with one hand, giving Li a momentary glimpse of the nickel-plated pulse pistol tucked into his belt. A pretty thing, it caught the sunlight and sparkled, dazzling her.

  * * *

  Cohen lived in the Zona Angel, an immaculately tended neighborhood of immense town houses overlooking the quietest streets money could buy. The houses here had names, not numbers, and the streets didn’t appear on any public-access database. Li usually dialed in; on foot she had to backtrack twice before she found it.

  There was no one on the street to ask for directions; the Zona Angel was a machine enclave, a tax haven where AIs and the few commercially active transhumans kept homes to establish Ring-side residence.

  The wide white sidewalks were quiet between tidy flower beds, and half the houses were probably empty behind their brightly painted shutters.

  She started, heart pounding, when a pair of schoolchildren appeared around a corner with their harriedlooking nanny in tow. “Excuse me,” she said, but the woman hurried past, eyes on the ground, pulse beating nervously at the base of her neck.

  Li lifted her hand to look at the faint tracery of ceramsteel under the flesh. It wasn’t the wire job that had scared the woman, though; it was Li herself. Even her uniform couldn’t dispel the suspicion that a construct in this kind of neighborhood meant trouble. She thought back to her last Ring-side posting. Had things gotten worse since then? Or had her skin just gotten thinner?

  She recognized Cohen’s house as soon as she turned the corner. It covered a full city block. Every stone had been magboosted through the Charles de Gaulle Spaceport just before the Embargo. The front doors were twice Li’s height, and as she set her foot on the top step they opened noiselessly, letting out a draft of cool fragrant shadowy air.

  She stepped into a long marble-paved hall hung with oil paintings that even she recognized. A guard stopped her, and she held her arms above her head to be frisked.

  He searched her professionally, impersonally. And he found everything—which was in itself impressive. Her Corps-issue Viper. Her Beretta. A ceramic-alloy butterfly knife she’d picked up off a Syndicate soldier during the war. And finally the blue box she’d brought with her just in case she ran into the hijacker again.

  He handed back the guns and the knife. They only showed up in streamspace because they happened to be on Li’s inert body back on AMC station; the health and safety protocols, and Cohen’s own private security, made them useless. He kept the blue box, though. That kind of weapon never got anywhere near an Emergent who could afford to hire competent bodyguards.

  He had searched her without any visible expression crossing his face, except for a momentary flicker of admiration at the butterfly knife. When he finished, he relaxed slightly and grinned. “Hey, Major. Good to see ya.”

  “You too, Momo.” Li held out her hand, and they executed an intricate mock-secret infantryman’s handshake. “Where’s Jimmy?”

  “Vacation.” Momo shrugged. “Lazy bum.” “Yeah, well. Tell him I asked. Is Cohen in back?” “You know the way.”

  Cohen was waiting in his study, a bright sunlit room decorated with elegantly framed portraits of somebody else’s ancestors. Glass-paned doors opened onto a walled garden. Antiques scented the air with the smell of old hardwood and beeswax furniture polish.

  The whole room lived, breathed. It gave off a fine aromatic dust: wool from the Persian carpets; veneer from the old paintings; goose feathers and horsehair from the furniture. And the building itself shed wood particles, plaster, cool dry limestone dust. It threw off trace like a live thing. It got inside you, like Cohen himself, charming, intoxicating, until you couldn’t tell where it began and you ended.

  He sat on a low couch near one of the open doors. He had a book in his hand, an old hardcover, the gilt letters flaking from its cracked spine. He was shunting through Roland today, wearing a summer suit the color of the new-mown hay in the Stubbs portrait of Eclipse that hung behind him. The afternoon sun flashed on swirling dust motes, caught the gold of Roland’s eyes, brushed the whole scene with rich earthy color.

  “Catherine,” he said. He jumped up, kissed her on the cheek, took her hand, and sat her down on the sofa next to him. “Back on Compson’s, are we? How bad is it?”

  She made a face. He hadn’t let go of her hand, and it was too late now to pull it away without looking like she was trying to make a point. His fingers felt hot and dry and clean against her skin—or maybe her own hand was just clammy.

  “I confess I was surprised you accepted th
e assignment.” “Didn’t have much choice.”

  “Yes.” He smiled more broadly. “Helen has a real genius for that sort of thing. I can just imagine how she presented it. How graciously she must have thrown you a life preserver after she finished torpedoing your career.”

  Li’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know Nguyen was involved?”

  “Oh, you know nosy little me. Grapes?” He offered a shallow bowl with several dusty green bunches.

  She extricated her hand from his and pulled a grape off the stem. She put it in her mouth and chewed cautiously.

  It turned out that grapes didn’t taste much like grape at all. They had tough, acrid skin. And they popped between her teeth, sending out a startling burst of juicy pulp with sharp woody-tasting things embedded in it.

  “Watch out for the seeds,” Cohen said, as she choked on one. He eyed her intently, evidently expecting some sort of comment.

  “They’re, um, good,” she said, nodding.

  “You’re an abysmal liar.”

  “You’re right. They’re terrible. Not to mention dangerous. Why would anyone eat this shit?”

  And just like that they were back on the safe ground of old habit. Metz was wrapped up and put away. They would simply carry on as if it had never happened. That was as close to an apology as anyone was ever going to get out of Cohen. Or out of Li herself, for that matter.

  They talked through the afternoon as long panels of refracted sunlight wheeled across the study, picking out the clear blues and yellows of the Uzbek carpet. The grapes were followed by real tea, real scones, real crème fraiche, and little green-and-white slips of watercress sandwiches. There was nothing more outrageously luxurious than tea with Cohen—streamspace or realspace.

  When they’d worked their way through a full tea’s worth of personal news, gossip, and political chitchat, Cohen set his cup down and looked at her. “Are you aware that you nearly got yourself killed the other day?”