The Big U

by Neal Stephenson

  As the days went by, Big Wheel grew more demanding. Everyone was to leave his stereo tuned to 90.3 at all times. Everyone was to plan evacuation routes from their towers and clear away any obstacles that might have been placed at the exits. Dex Fresser’s devotion to Sarah’s words became complete, and after a week we knew we could evacuate the Axis and everyone else whenever we were ready.

  In the meantime we were moving the railgun downstairs.

  To withstand the recoil thrust, the machine’s supports had to be bolted right into the concrete floor of the sewer. We had to precision-fit a hundred and twenty bolts into the concrete for the fifty-foot-long railgun, a dull and filthy task requiring great precision. Once the holes were prepared, we began carrying the supports down. It was a terrible, endless job. After a day of it, I decided I was going to write a book—that way, all of this drudgery was a fascinating contribution to my artistic growth. Strength was not a requirement in the Grand Army of Shekondar the Fearsome, so I had to torque all the bolts myself. During breaks I would look down the tunnel at the wall of lights that guarded the Nuke Dump’s approach. What were the Crotobaltislavonians doing down there, and what were they thinking?

  Their plan—the years of infiltration and the moments of violence—had gone perfectly. They had probably made their radioactive-waste bombs, only to find that their only elevator shaft had been blocked by tons of concrete. They must have thought they had lost, then; but the National Guard had not moved in and the authorities had given in to all demands. Was this a trick?

  They must have been unprepared for the resistance put up by the GASF and the TUG. Still, their proxies had seized two towers and were holding their own. That was fine, until they threw Marxism to the winds and began to worship a giant neon sign. Dex Fresser must have worked closely with Magrov for years. The cafeteria riot of April First had clearly been timed to coincide with the seizure of the Nuke Dump, and the SUB had not bought their Kalashnikovs at the 7–11. Then—a window fan! A fucking window fan! In a way, I sympathized with the Crotobaltislavonians. Besides us, they were the only rational people here. Like us, they must have wondered whether they had gone out of their minds. If they had any dedication to their cause, though, they must have changed their plans. They still had the waste, they were protected by the rats, they could still wield plenty of clout. They could not see past the barrier of light, where we were implanting the railgun.

  During a breather upstairs I encountered Ephraim Klein, moving stiffly but on his feet.

  “Come here!” he yelled, grabbed my shirt, and began pulling me down a hallway. I knew it must be something either very important or embarrassingly trivial.

  “You won’t believe this,” he said, shuffling down the hall beside me. “We’re heading for Greathouse Chapel. We were there to broadcast some organ music—guess what we found.”

  Ephraim had appointed himself Music Director for our radio station, and later added Head Engineer and Producer. He knew that we could not spend twenty-four hours a day on Big Wheel chatter, and that in the meantime he could damn well play whatever he liked on what amounted to the world’s largest stereo—revenge at last. If Sarah had commanded all residents to play their radios twenty-four hours a day, so much the better; they were going to hear music that meant something. He was going to improve their minds, whether they thanked him or not.

  “Remember, listeners, a record is a little wheel. Any record at all is Big Wheel’s cousin. So whenever a record speaks, you had damn better listen.”

  Ephraim and I heard the music from hundreds of feet away. Someone was playing the Greathouse Organ, and playing it well, though with a kind of inspired abandon that led to occasional massive mistakes. Still, the great Bach fugue lurched on with all parts intact, and no error caused the interweaving of those voices to be confused.

  “Your friend has a lot of stops pulled out today,” I said.

  “That’s not my friend!” shouted Ephraim. “Well, he is now, but he’s not that friend.”

  We reached the grand entrance and I looked far up the center aisle to the console. A wide, darkly clad man sat there, blasting along happily toward the climax. No music was on the console; the organist played from memory. High up on the wall of the chapel, bright yellow light shone down from the picture-windowed broadcast booth, where the organ’s sound could be piped to the radio station hundreds of meters away.

  As we approached, I could see a ragged overcoat and the pink flashes of bare feet on the pedals. The final chord was trumpeted, threatening to blow out the rose window above, and the performer applauded himself. I climbed the dais and gaped into the beaming face of Bert Nix.

  His tongue was blooming from his mouth as usual; but when I arrived, he retracted it and fixed a gaze at me that riveted me to the wall.

  “Beware the Demon of the Wave,” he said coldly. For a moment I was too scared to breathe. Then the spell was broken as he removed a cup of beer from the Ethereal keyboard and drained it. “I never was dead,” he said defensively.

  “You’re actually Pertinax, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “I’ve always been more pertinent than you thought,” he said and, giggling, pounded out a few great chords that threatened to lift the top of my head off.

  “Who was the dead man in your room?”

  He rolled his eyes thoughtfully. “Bill Benson, born in nineteen-twenty. Joined Navy in forty-two, five-inch gun loader in Pacific War, winning Bronze Star and Purple Heart, discharged in forty-eight, hired by us as security guard. That poor bastard had a stroke in the elevator, he was so worried about me!”

  “How’d he get in that room?”

  “I dragged him there! Otherwise, they don’t close the lid of the little pine box and your second cousins come in plastic clothes and put dead flowers on you, a bad way to go!”

  “I see. Uh, well, you’re quite an organist.”

  “Yes. But a terrible administrator!” Pertinax now clapped his foot down on the lowest pedal, sounding a rumble too low to hear. “But hark!” he screamed, “there sounds an ominous undertone of warning!” He released the pedal and looked around at Ephraim and me. “I shall now play the famous ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.’ This is clearly the work of a young and vigorous Bach, almost ostentatious in his readiness to show virtuosity, reveling in the instrument’s ability to bounce mighty themes from the walls of the Kirche…but enough of this, my stops are selected.” He looked suspiciously at the ceiling. “This one brings out the bats. Prepare your tennis rackets therefore! Ah. The nuptial song arose from all the thousand thousand spirits over the joyful Earth & Sea, and ascended into the Heavens; for Elemental Gods there thunderous Organs blew; creating delicious Viands. Demons of Waves their watry Eccho’s woke! Demons of Waves!” And throwing his head back, he hurled himself into the Toccata. We stood mesmerized by his playing and his probing tongue, until the fugue began; then we retreated to the broadcast booth.

  “He’s playing stop combinations I’ve never heard before,” said Ephraim. “Anyway, I’m broadcasting all this. He’s great.”

  Down in the tunnels we always kept the radio on low, and so heard plenty of Pertinax in the next few days.

  Eventually we brought down the big power supplies from Heimlich Freedom Industries, wrapped in plastic and packed with chemical dessicants to keep them dry, surrounded with electric blankets to keep the electronics warm. Casimir produced several microchips he had stolen from the supplies so that Fred Fine could not use them, and plugged them into their proper spots. We ran thousands of feet of heavy black power cables down into the tunnels to power them. We tested each electromagnet; two were found wanting and had to be sent back and remade. We energized the rail and slid the bucket up and down it hundreds of times, using a small red laser to check for straightness, laboriously adjusting for every defect. It took two days to carry down the machine’s parts, four days to adjust it and a day of testing before Casimir was satisfied it would work on its first and only trial.

  Virgil worke
d on the payload, a ten-kilogram high-explosive shell. He used a computer program to design the shaped charge, an enormous program that normally would have run for days, but now required only seconds. The weakened Worm could only taunt him.

  AH, GOING TO BLOW SOMETHING UP?

  I’m going to blow you up.

  THREATS OF PHYSICAL VIOLENCE ARE USELESS AGAINST THE WORM. This was its usual response to what sounded like threats. YOU’RE VERY CLEVER, BUT I SHALL TRIUMPH IN THE END.

  “Wrong. I found where you are.”

  HUH?

  “I found the secret mini-disc drives that Paul Bennett hid above the ceiling of his office. The drives where you’ve been hiding. It’s all over now.”

  I AM EVERYWHERE.

  “You are most places, but not everywhere. I’m going to shut off your secret disc drives as soon as I’m sure they aren’t booby trapped.”

  I’M GOING TO BLOW YOU UP.

  “I’m going to be careful.”

  THAT’S A LOT OF EXPLOSIVE FOR YOU TO FOOL AROUND WITH, LITTLE BOY.

  “It’ll do.”

  I WILL BLOCK YOUR CALCULATIONS.

  “You’re living in the past, Worm,” typed Virgil, and executed his program. “I have just executed my program. And next, I’m going to execute you.”

  THREATS OF PHYSICAL VIOLENCE ARE USELESS AGAINST THE WORM.

  Lute turned the shell on a Science Shop lathe and packed the explosive with a hydraulic press. Virgil carried it down an evacuated stairwell, placing each foot very, very carefully.

  Casimir put it on a clean table downstairs and weighed it; ten kilograms precisely. He dusted it off with a lint-free rag and slid it into the bucket. We checked the power sources, and they looked fine. Everyone was evacuated except for me, Casimir and Fred Fine; Virgil led the remaining GASF forces upstairs and commanded them to leave. It was 10:30 P.M.

  We sat in the APPASMU for an hour and a half, until Sarah’s program came on.

  MAY

  “Everyone look at Big Wheel!” she said. There was long silence and we sat there on the APPASMU, protected by strobes, the rats chattering and grumbling in the darkness around us, the HFI power sources looking oddly clean and shiny as they flashed in and out of darkness in their own little strobe-pool.

  “That’s good,” said Sarah. “As you can see, Big Wheel is shining tonight. But he won’t shine for long, because he is unhappy.” Another wait. We knew that, upstairs, Hyacinth had phoned the Big Wheel’s controller and ordered him to shut off the sign. “Big Wheel is not shining tonight,” Sarah continued, “because he wants you all out of the Plex. You are all to stop watching him from a distance. The Big Wheel wants you to see him up close tonight. Everyone get out of the building now and walk toward Big Wheel and stand under him. Leave your radios on in case I have more instructions! You have an hour to leave the Plex. When Big Wheel is happy, he will turn on again.”

  Organ music came on, obviously another live performance by a particularly inspired Pertinax. We played cards atop the tank.

  “Should we evacuate too?” asked Fred Fine. “Could Big Wheel be another face of Shekondar?”

  “Sarah wants you here,” said Casimir. This satisfied him.

  The music started just after midnight and continued for three hours. Above, we supposed, the evacuees were being loaded into ambulances or paddy-wagons, while Army fallout emergency workers prepared the city for the worst. The Board of Trustees were departing by helicopter from the top of C Tower, withdrawing to the HFI Tower a mile away.

  “This is really it,” said Fred Fine, ready to black out. “This is the moment of the heroes. The Apocalypse of Plexor. All will be un-Mixed in an instant.”

  “Yep,” said Casimir, drawing another card. “I’ll see that, and raise you four chocolate chips.”

  The only problem so far was minor: the station’s signal seemed to be dying away. We had to keep turning up the volume to hear the music, and by 1:30 we had it up all the way. Our batteries were fine, so we assumed it was a problem at the station. As long as everyone else was turning up their volume too, it should be fine.

  Finally the organ music was phased out for a second and we heard Sarah. “Go for it,” she said, tense and breathless. “We’re gone. See you outside.” I started sweating and trembling and had to get up and pace around to work off energy, finally taking an emergency dump. We were in a sewer, who cared? We gave Sarah, Hyacinth, Ephraim and Bert Nix half an hour to evacuate, but the music kept on going. After twenty minutes, Ephraim’s voice came in. “Go ahead,” he said, “we’re staying.”

  So we went ahead. We had no choice.

  The tunnel was four hundred feet long.

  The first fifty feet were taken up by the railgun, set up on its supports about five feet above the floor. There was a three-hundred-foot desert of tinfoil shards, then the barrier of light, then, fifty feet beyond that, the door to the Nuke Dump. We rolled the APPASMU to within twenty feet of the light barrier and parked it against one of the tunnel sides. Through long wires strung down the tunnel we controlled the firing of the railgun. When we were ready, we entered the tank, shut off the strobe and turned on the ultrasound. Within a minute we were surrounded by a thousand giant rats, standing on one another’s shoulders in their lust for that sweet tone, milling about the APPASMU as though it were a dumpster.

  Fred Fine and I aimed shotguns out the forward gun ports.

  Casimir hit the button.

  We could not see the shell as it shot past the vehicle. We heard the explosion, though, and saw its flash. The rats milled back from the explosion. Fred Fine and I opened fire and annihilated the light-wall in a few shots, and with a chorus of joy the rat-army surged forward into its long-looked-at Promised Land, followed by us. Our fear was that the shell would not suffice to blow open the door, but even with our poor visibility we could see the jagged circle of light and the boiling silhouette of the rat-stream pouring through it. As we drew very near, some rats were blown back by machine-gun fire, and a Crotobaltislavonian ducked through the hole and ran toward us in his ghostly radiation suit, two rats hanging from his body.

  Fred Fine opened the top hatch, whipped out his sword as he vaulted out and leapt at him howling, “SHEKONDAR!” I grabbed at his legs on his way out but he kicked free, jumped to the floor, smashed in a few rat skulls, and made toward the Croto. I do not know whether he intended to save the man or kill him. A rat tried to come in through the open hatch but I shoved it out, then stood up through it with my shotgun. I damaged my hearing for life but did not change the outcome. Once the rats started landing on my back and I could no longer see Fred Fine, I could only give up. I sat down and closed the hatch, and we waited for a while. But nothing happened; all we saw through our peepholes were rats, and the clicking of our Geiger counter did not vary.

  Casimir turned the APPASMU around, and we plowed through rats and followed the tunnels until we joined up with the city sewer system. Pertinax continued to play. From time to time he sang or shouted something, and the microphones hanging back amid the pipes would dimly pick him up: “There is no City nor Corn-field nor Orchard! all is Rock & Sand; There is no Sun nor Moon nor Star, but rugged wintry rocks Justling together in the void suspended by inward fires. Impatience now no longer can endure!”

  We easily found the manhole we sought, because dim morning light was shining down through it. The Guardsmen were waiting to haul us out, and emerging onto the street, we saw civil authority around us again and, even better, our friends. The Plex rose above us, about half a mile distant, beginning to glow brownish-pink in the imminent dawn. All was quiet except for the distant hum of the TUGgies, gathered just outside the police cordons and running their OM generators full blast.

  During our frantic reunion, two absurdly serious-looking men approached me with complicated badges and questions. As they introduced themselves, we were all startled by a hoarse blast of organ music that burst from all directions.

  “Ephraim must have turned the broadcast volume way
down, then back up again,” said Casimir as soon as everyone in our area had turned down their radios. Once the music was quiet enough to be recognized, I knew it as Ephraim’s old favorite, the “Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor”; and at the end of each phrase, when the voice of the Greathouse Organ plunged back down home to that old low C, it rumbled in concord with the OM generators across the street, and the Plex itself seemed to vibrate as a single huge eight-tubed organ pipe.

  And after all this, I was the only one to understand.

  “Get away!” I screamed, tearing myself loose from an agent. “Get away!” I shouted, ripping a megaphone from a policeman’s hand, and “Get away!” I continued, stumbling to the roof of a squad car and cranking up the volume.

  “Get away!” all the other cops began to shout into their megaphones. “Get away!” crackled from the PA systems of squad cars and helicopters. It was the word of the hour, and mounted cops howled it at TUGgies and SUBbies and the media, forcing them back with truncheons and horses. Someone flashed it to the police teams who had entered the Plex, and they scrambled out and squealed away in their cars. Perhaps it was shouted ten thousand times as the ring of onlookers gradually expanded away from the Base.

  The sound waxed. Ephraim kept turning it up and Bert Nix, building for the climax, kept pulling out more stops. Casimir tried to phone Ephraim from a booth, but he didn’t answer. He probably couldn’t even hear it ring.

  He certainly heard nothing but organ as, at the end, he cranked the volume all the way and Pertinax Rushforth pulled out all the stops.

  The windows went first. They all burst from their frames at once. All 25,000 picture windows boomed out into trillions of safe little cubes in the red dawn air. At first it seemed as though the Plex had suddenly grown fuzzy and white, then as though a blizzard had enveloped the eight towers, and finally as though it were rising up magnificently from a cloud of glinting orange foam. As the cloud of glass dropped away from the towers with grand deliberation, the millions of bats in the upper levels, driven crazy by the terrible sound, imprisoned in a building with too few exits, stopped beating their wings against the windows and exploded from the rooms in a black cloud of unbelievable volume. The black cloud drifted forth and rose into the sky and the white cloud sank into the depths, and Pertinax pushed the swell pedals to the floor and coupled all the manuals to the pedalboard and pushed his bare pink foot down on the first one, the low C, and held it down forever.