River Of Gods

by Ian McDonald

  ‘Jean-Yves and Anjali Trudeau were formerly researchers at the University of the Strasbourg in the Artificial Life laboratory of the Computer Science Department. For the past four years they have been research fellows at the Varanasi campus of the University of Bharat in the Faculty of Computer Science under Professor Chandra specialising in the application of Darwinian paradigms to protein-matrix circuitry,’ Saraswati says. Her voice is derived from Kalpana Dhupia on Town and Country.

  The Trudeaus tear off from their quadrant of the sphere and hover in stationary orbit. A video window fills with the low-resolution grain of an apartment interior. Foreground of shot, a naked eighteen-year-old male, half-hard erection in right-handed grip. Attitude, leaning back, aiming it into the centre of shot. Goofy grin on face. Mid-ground Shanti Rana apartments; mid-level, window open. Balcony, some washing. Across the canyon of street, apartment windows and the rusty boxes of air-conditioners. A dart of white across the square of outside. Then the window frame fills with a peal of flame. Mr Grippo spins round, shrieks something overloaded by the digital compression on the camera mike. Freeze-frame, skinny ass against exploding glass and flame, left hand reaching for a silk wrap.

  ‘The Krishna system ran a traceback through all net traffic out of the area network for an hour before and after the offence,’ Saraswati says sweetly. ‘This fortunate webcam footage was obtained from an apartment immediately opposite the crime scene.’ The image reels back to the darting sliver of white, freezes, frames and enlarges, frames and enlarges. What it ends up with is a pile of pixels but the image manipulation packages sharpen and smear and turn the array of greyscale boxes into a flying machine, a white bird with upturned winglets and a sponson tail and a bulbous ducted fan in its belly. Graphics packs outline it, isolate it, render it in and morph it into catalogue-spec war-porn pin-ups of an Ayappa aerial defence drone, Bharati licence version, infrared laser armed.

  Data-panes pop up filled with fluttering manifests demonstrating the inexplicable hole in the military records filled by Aerial Defence Drone 7132’s attack on the Badrinath sundarban. Mr Nandha watches the fine display but his thoughts are on Professor Naresh Chandra, profoundly shocked to learn how his research colleagues had died. Most of his staff held outside consultancies - it was the nature of research funding - but a sundarban. He had meekly opened up their office. Mr Nandha had already called in the search unit. He had sniffed at their many jars of coffee - a different blend for each occasion, it seemed - while the Krishna Cops went through the files. Mr Nandha very much wished he could drink coffee without it making him feel as if his stomach was dissolving. Within minutes they had found the link.

  Graphics can dazzle and seduce but every successful excommunication order reaches a point where machines fail and the prosecution rests on human drama. Mr Nandha takes a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his Nehru jacket, unfolds it. He holds up the charred disc-image of a rearing white horse.

  ‘Kalki,’ he says. ‘The tenth avatar of Vishnu, ender of the Age of Kali. An appropriate name, as we shall see, for an unholy contract between a private company - Odeco - the university and the Badrinath sundarban. Even Ray Power receives research funding from Odeco. But what is Odeco?’

  Behind him the virtual globe unpeels into a Mercator projection of Planet Earth. Cities, nations, islands rise out of the surface as if torn free from gravity: blue lines arrow between them, arcing high up into the virtual stratosphere. It is the money trail, the nested shell companies, the storefront offices, the holding groups and the trusts. The web of light wraps the map, the projection folds back into a sphere as a ray of light arcs up from the Seychelles and plunges ballistically towards Varanasi: a Jyotirlinga reversed, the creative light of Siva that burst from the earth of Kashi, returning after its trip around the curvature of the universe.

  ‘Odeco is a venture capital fund domiciled in tax havens,’ Mr Nandha continues. Its methods are . . . unorthodox. It has a small shop-window office in Kashi but its preferred mode of operation is through a network of distributed aeai trading systems. The Tikka-Pasta excommunication involved just such a system, unwittingly sold on to Jashwant. It had been hybridised in Badrinath to run an illegal betting system but its operating core was always for Odeco, trading away in the background.’

  ‘To what end?’ asks Arora.

  ‘I believe to fund the creation of Kalki, a Generation Three artificial intelligence.’

  Murmurs from the Ministry seniors. Mr Nandha raises a hand and the orb of information collapses in on itself. The Ministry men blink in the bright sun.

  ‘An impressive presentation as ever, Nandha,’ Arora says slipping off his ’hoek.

  ‘A stimulating but clear presentation is the most effective means of establishing the case.’ Mr Nandha sets the ivory disc on the desktop.

  ‘The Badrinath sundarban was destroyed,’ Sudarshan says.

  ‘Yes, I believe by the Kalki aeai to cover its tracks.’

  ‘You hinted that Odeco also fund Ray Power. How far does this thing go? Are you suggesting that we go after Ranjit Ray? The man is a virtually a Mahatma now.’

  ‘I suggest a close investigation of his youngest son, Vishram Ray, who has taken over the Research and Development Division. ’

  ‘Before you go against any Ray, you had better have a damned tight case.’

  ‘Sir, this is a Generation Three aeai investigation. All avenues should be pursued. Odeco has also funded an extraterritorial medical facility in the Free Trade Zone at Patna through an American mid-western fund management corporation. This too is a subject of investigation. At present I rule nothing out.’

  ‘Odeco is your immediate target,’ Arora says. Behind him against the panoramic windows the storm front breaks like a black wave.

  ‘I believe it is now the sole link to the Generation Three. I require a full airborne tactical support unit with police backup, with an immediate embargo on all information traffic in and out of Odeco. I also require . . .’

  ‘Mr Nandha, this country is on a war footing.’

  ‘I am aware of that, sir.’

  ‘Our military resources are fully occupied defending threats to our nation.’

  ‘Sir, this is a Generation Three aeai. It is an entity ten thousand times more intelligent than any of us. That, I believe, is a threat to our nation.’

  ‘I have to sell this to the Ministry of Defence,’ Arora says. ‘And there is the karsevak problem - they could flare up again at any time.’ His face looks as if he has swallowed a snake. ‘Nandha, when did we last request a full tactical support unit?’

  ‘As you are aware, sir . . .’

  ‘My colleague Sudarshan may not be aware.’

  ‘The recapture and secure incarceration of J.P. Anreddy.’

  ‘For the benefit of my colleague Sudarshan.’

  ‘Mr Anreddy was a notorious dataraja, eight of spades on the FBI’s most-wanted deck of cards. He had twice escaped from lawful custody using micro-scale robots to infiltrate his prison. I requested a full military support unit to recapture him and incarcerate him in specially designed maximum-surveillance panopticon unit.’

  ‘That will have come cheap,’ Sudarshan mutters.

  ‘Mr Nandha, maybe you are not yet aware, but J.P. Anreddy has filed harassment charges against you.’

  Mr Nandha blinks.

  ‘I was not aware of that, sir.’

  ‘He claims that you interrogated him without recourse to legal representation, that you used psychological torture and that you exposed him to the threat of physical emperilment to his life.’

  ‘Might I say sir, that at the moment Mr Anreddy’s allegations are of small concern to me. What is . . .’

  ‘Nandha, I need to ask this. Is everything all right at home?’

  ‘Sir, is my professionalism under question?’

  But it is as if a single steel-jacketed slug has ripped out half his spine and it is the sheer shock of being dead that holds him upright.

  ‘Your coll
eagues have noticed that you’ve been absorbed in your work - too much absorbed. Intense, I think, is their word.’

  ‘Is it not good that a man treats serious work seriously?’

  ‘Yes, but not at the expense of other things.’

  ‘Sir, my wife is the treasure of my life. She is my dove, my bulbul, my shining light. When I go home she delights me . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Nandha,’ Sudarshan hastens. ‘We all have much to occupy our attention these days.’

  ‘If I seem absorbed, distracted even, it is only because I believe this Generation Three to be the most serious threat this department has faced since its inception. If I may offer an opinion?’

  ‘Your opinions are always valued here, Nandha,’ Arora says.

  ‘This department was established out of our government’s desire to be seen to comply with the international agreement of artificial intelligence licensing. Failing to act against a Generation Three aeai could give the Americans reason to push their Awadhi allies into invasion on the grounds that Bharat is a haven for cyber-terror.’

  Arora studies the grain in the desktop. Sudarshan sits back in his leather chair, fingertips bouncing off each other as he considers Mr Nandha’s submission. Finally he says, ‘Excuse us one moment.’ Sudarshan raises a hand and the air goes flat around Mr Nandha. The Superintendent has summoned a mute field. The two men swivel in their chairs, turning leather backs to him. Mr Nandha presses his hands together in an unconscious namaste and looks out at the flickers of lightning pressing the edge of the monsoon. It must break. Tonight. It will break.

  My shining light. My dove, my bulbul. Treasure of my life. She delights me, when I go home. When I go home. Mr Nandha closes his eyes at the sudden clench of panic inside him. When he goes home, he does not know what he will find.

  The flat air unfolds into space and sound. The conference is done.

  ‘There is merit in your argument, Nandha. What exactly would you require?’

  ‘I have a military briefing prepared, it can be sent at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘You have this all worked out,’ Sudarshan says.

  ‘It must happen, sir.’

  ‘There is no doubt of that. I will authorise your action against Odeco.’

  PARVATI, MR NANDHA

  This morning Bharti on the Breakfast Banquette wears her Serious News Face. Thanks to Raj for that analysis of what the Khan Scandal might mean for Sajida Rana and here’s a message from us at Breakfast with Bharti to the brave jawans at Kunda Khadar: keep it up boys, you’re doing a great job, we’re all right behind you. But now here’s the latest gupshup from Town and Country and all the talk is Aparna and Ajay’s upcoming wedding, the event of the season and here’s a real Bharti Breakfast Breakthrough: an exclusive peek at Aparna’s dress.

  Cheered, Parvati Nandha sails into the kitchen to find her mother at the stove stirring a pot of dal.

  ‘Mother, what are you doing?’

  ‘Making you a proper breakfast. You don’t look after yourself.’

  ‘Where is Ashu?’

  ‘Oh, that idle lump. I dismissed her. I’m certain she was stealing from you.’

  The early morning joy from the Town and Country exclusive evaporates.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I told her to go. I gave her a week’s wages in lieu of notice. It was fifteen hundred rupees, I gave it to her out of my own purse.’

  ‘Mother, that was not your decision.’

  ‘Somebody had to make it. She was robbing you blind, never mind her cooking.’

  ‘Mr Nandha requires a special diet. Have you any idea how hard it is to get a decent cook these days? By the way, have you seen my husband?’

  ‘He left early. He is working on a most important and trying case, he says. He would not take any breakfast. You need to take him in hand and tell him that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. The brain cannot function if the stomach is not well-lined. It never ceases to amaze me how stupid supposedly educated people can be. If he had some of my dal and roti . . .’

  ‘Mr husband has conditions, he cannot eat this stuff.’

  ‘Nonsense. It is good, nutritious food. This bland, pale city diet is no good for him. He is withering away. You only have to look at him, pale and tired all the time, and no energy for anything, you know what I mean. He needs strong, honest country food. This morning he came in, I thought I was looking at one of those hijra/nute things on the television news this morning.’

  ‘Mother!’ Parvati bangs her hands on the table. ‘This is my husband.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t act like it,’ Mrs Sadurbhai declares. ‘I’m sorry, but it has to be said. A year you have been man and wife, and am I hearing ayas singing and little laughter? Parvati, I have to ask, is he working properly? You can get this checked, there are doctors specially for men. I have seen the advertisements in the Sunday papers.’

  Parvati stands up, shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘Mother . . . No. I am going up to my garden. I intend to spend the morning there.’

  ‘I have messages to run myself. I have things I need to get for the evening meal. By the way, where do you keep the cook’s grocery money? Parvati?’ She has already left the kitchen. ‘Parvati? You really should have some dal and roti.’

  That morning Krishan works staking up the young plants and binding the climbers and covering seedlings against the coming storm. In a single night the wall of cloud has leapt closer, to Parvati Nandha it seems to about to topple over on her, crush her and her gardens and the whole government apartment building beneath its blackness. The heat and humidity appal her but she cannot go down stairs, not yet.

  ‘You came to see me yesterday,’ she says. Krishan is shutting down the irrigation system.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘When I saw you get up and run out, I wondered . . .’

  ‘What did you wonder?’

  ‘If it was something I had said, or done, or maybe the cricket . . .’

  ‘I loved the cricket. I would love to go back . . .’

  ‘The team has gone home. Their government recalled them, it was not safe for them to stay, with the war.’

  ‘With the war, yes.’

  ‘Why did you leave like that?’

  Parvati spreads a dhuri on the ground in the scented arbour. She arranges the cushions and bolsters and settles among them.

  ‘Come and lie beside me.’

  ‘Mrs Nandha . . .’

  ‘No one is looking. Even if they were no one would care. Come and lie down beside me.’

  She pats the ground. Krishan kicks off his work boots and settles beside her, lying on his side, propped up on an elbow. Parvati lies on her back, hands folded across her breasts. The sky is creamy, close, a dome of heat. She feels she just needs to reach her hand out and plunge it into it. It would feel milky and thick.

  ‘What do you think of this garden?’

  ‘Think? It’s not really for me to think, I’m just building it, that’s all.’

  ‘As the man who is building it then, what do you think?’

  He rolls on to his back. Parvati feels a touch of warm wind on her face.

  ‘Of all my projects, this is the most ambitious and I think it is the one of which I am most proud. I think if people could see it, it would help me greatly in my career.’

  ‘My mother thinks it is not worthy of me,’ Parvati says. The thunder is closer today, intimate. ‘She thinks I should have trees, for privacy; rows of ashok trees like the gardens out in the Cantonment. But I would say we have privacy here, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would say so, yes.’

  ‘It’s strange; it is like we can only have so much privacy. Out in the Cantonment you have your walled gardens and your ashok trees and your charbagh but everyone knows your business every hour of every day.’

  ‘Did something happen at the cricket?’

  ‘I was stupid, that’s all. Very stupid. I imagined caste was the same as class.’

  ‘W
hat happened?’

  ‘I showed myself to have no class. Or rather, not the right class. Krishan, my mother wants me to go with her to Kotkhai. She says she is worried about the war. She fears Varanasi may be attacked. Varanasi has never been attacked in three thousand years; she just wants to hold me ransom so Mr Nandha will promise me a million things, the house in the Cantonment, the chauffeured car, the Brahmin baby.’

  She feels his muscles tighten beside her.