No one knew who the fat man was, or what he knew, much less what his intentions might be. His presence had been a complete surprise, and what he had done with those militia members, pulling them back as he did as well as the rest of it, had left the refugees more startled than grateful, and more scared than any time since leaving the Nest.
Julian had gone to that store with the intent of suffering a clumsy, even violent interrogation. A militia encounter was meant to give them authenticity. And more importantly, to give Julian experience—precious and sobering firsthand experience with the much-changed world around them.
A world that he hadn’t visited for more than a millennium, Nesttime.
Since he last looked, nothing of substance had changed at that ugly store. And probably nothing would change for a long while. One lesson that no refugee needed, much less craved, was that when dealing with that other realm, nothing helped as much as patience.
Taking a long, slow sip of their drink, he looked back at the woman—twenty days old; a virtual child—and without a shred of patience, she said, “You were sick, weren’t you? I heard someone saying that’s why you agreed to be Transmutated . . . five hundred and twelve days ago . . .”
“No.” He offered a shy smile. “And it wasn’t because I wanted to live this way, either. To be honest, I’ve always been conservative. In that world, and this one, too.”
She nodded amiably, waiting.
“It was my daughter,” he explained. “She was sick. An incurable leukemia.” Again he offered the shy smile, adding, “She was nine years old, and terrified. I could save her life by agreeing to her Transmutation, but I couldn’t just abandon her to life in the Nest . . . making her into an orphan, basically . . . ”
“I see,” his lover whispered.
Then after a respectful silence, she asked, “Where’s your daughter now?”
“Dead.”
“Of course . . .” Not many people were lucky enough to live five hundred days in a Nest; despite shields, a single heavy nucleus could still find you, ravaging your mind, extinguishing your very delicate soul. “How long ago . . . did it happen . . . ?”
“This morning,” he replied. “In the attack.”
“Oh . . . I’m very sorry . . .”
With the illusion of shoulders, Julian shrugged. Then with his bittersweet voice, he admitted, “It already seems long ago.”
###
Winemaster headed north into Iowa, then did the unexpected, making the sudden turn east when he reached the new Tollway.
Blaine shadowed him. He liked to keep two minutes between the Buick and his little Tokamak, using the FBI’s recon network to help monitor the situation. But the network had been compromised in the past, probably more often than anyone knew, which meant that he had to occasionally pay the Tollway a little extra to boost his speed, the gap closing to less than fifteen seconds. Then with the optics in his windshield, he would get a good look at what might or might not be Julian Winemaster—a stiffly erect gentleman who kept one hand on the wheel, even when the Al-managed road was controlling every vehicle’s speed and direction, and doing a better job of driving than any human could do.
Iowa was half-beautiful, half-bleak. Some fields looked tended, genetically tailored crops planted in fractal patterns and the occasional robot working carefully, pulling weeds and killing pests as it spider-walked back and forth.
But there were long stretches where the farms had been abandoned, wild grasses and the spawn of last year’s crops coming up in ragged green masses. Entire neighborhoods had pulled up and gone elsewhere. How many farmers had accepted the Transmutation, in other countries or illegally? Probably only a fraction of them, Blaine knew. Habit-bound and suspicious by nature, they’d never agree to the dismantlement of their bodies, the transplantation of their crusty souls. No, what happened was that farms were simply falling out of production, particularly where the soil was marginal. Yields were still improving in a world where the old-style population was tumbling. If patterns held, most of the arable land would soon return to prairie and forest. And eventually, the entire human species wouldn’t fill so much as one of these abandoned farms . . . leaving the old world entirely empty . . . if those patterns were allowed to hold, naturally . . .
Unlike Winemaster, Blaine kept neither hand on the wheel, trusting the AIs to look after him. He spent most of his time watching the news networks, keeping tabs on moods more than facts. What had happened in Kansas was still the big story. By noon, more than twenty groups and individuals had claimed responsibility for the attack. Officially, the Emergency Federal Council deplored any senseless violence—a cliché which implied that sensible violence was an entirely different question. When asked about the government’s response, the President’s press secretary looked at the world with a stony face, saying, “We’re investigating the regrettable incident. But the fact remains, it happened outside our borders. We are observers here. The Shawnee Nest was responsible for its own security, just as every other Nest is responsible . . .”
Questions came in a flurry. The press secretary pointed to a small, severe-looking man in the front row—a reporter for the Christian Promise organization. “Are we taking any precautions against counterattacks?” the reporter inquired.
Then, not waiting for an answer, he added, “There have been reports of activity in the other Nests, inside the United States and elsewhere.”
A tense smile was the first reply.
Then the stony face told everyone, “The President and the Council have taken every appropriate precaution. As for any activity in any Nest, I can only say: We have everything perfectly well in hand.”
“Is anything left of the Shawnee Nest?” asked a second reporter.
“No.” The press secretary was neither sad nor pleased. “Initial evidence is that the entire facility has been sterilized.”
A tenacious gray-haired woman—the perpetual symbol of the Canadian Newsweb—called out, “Mr. Secretary . . . Lennie—!”
“Yes, Cora . . .”
“How many were killed?”
“I wouldn’t know how to answer that question, Cora . . .”
“Your government estimates an excess of one hundred million. If the entire Nest was sterilized, as you say, then we’re talking about more than two-thirds of the current U.S. population.”
“Legally,” he replied, “we are talking about machines.”
“Some of those machines were once your citizens,” she mentioned.
The reporter from Christian Promise was standing nearby. He grimaced, then muttered bits of relevant Scripture.
“I don’t think this is the time or place to debate what life is or isn’t,” said the press secretary, juggling things badly.
Cora persisted. “Are you aware of the Canadian position on this tragedy?”
“Like us, they’re saddened.”
“They’ve offered sanctuary to any survivors of the blast—”
“Except there are none,” he replied, his face pink as granite.
“But if there were? Would you let them move to another Nest in the United States, or perhaps to Canada . . . ?”
There was a pause, brief and electric.
Then with a flat, cool voice, the press secretary reported, “The McGrugger Bill is very specific. Nests may exist only in sealed containment facilities, monitored at all times. And should any of the microchines escape, they will be treated as what they are . . . grave hazards to normal life . . . and this government will not let them roam at will . . . !”
###
Set inside an abandoned salt mine near Kansas City, the Shawnee Nest had been one of the most secure facilities of its kind ever built. Its power came from clean geothermal sources. Lead plates and intricate defense systems stood against natural hazards as well as more human threats. Thousands of government-loyal AIs, positioned in the surrounding salt, did nothing but watch its borders, making certain that none of the microchines could escape. That was why the thought that l
ocal terrorists could launch any attack was so ludicrous. To have that attack succeed was simply preposterous. Whoever was responsible for the bomb, it was done with the abeyance of the highest authorities. No sensible soul doubted it. That dirty little nuke had Federal fingerprints on it, and the attack was planned carefully, and its goals were instantly apparent to people large and small.
Julian had no doubts. He had enemies, vast and malicious, and nobody was more entitled to his paranoias.
Just short of Illinois, the Buick made a long-scheduled stop.
Julian took possession of his clone at the last moment. The process was supposed to be routine—a simple matter of slowing his thoughts a thousandfold, then integrating them with his body—but there were always phantom pains and a sick falling sensation. Becoming a bloated watery bag wasn’t the strangest part of it. After all, the Nest was designed to mimic this kind of existence. What gnawed at Julian was the gargantuan sense of Time: Half an hour in this realm was nearly a month in his realm. No matter how brief the stop, Julian would feel a little lost when he returned, a step behind the others, and far more emotionally drained than he would ever admit.
By the time the car had stopped, Julian was in full control of the body. His body, he reminded himself. Climbing out into the heat and brilliant sunshine, he felt a purposeful stiffness in his back and the familiar ache running down his right leg. In his past life, he was plagued by sciatica pains. It was one of many ailments that he hadn’t missed after his Transmutation. And it was just another detail that someone had thought to include, forcing him to wince and stretch, showing the watching world that he was their flavor of mortal.
Suddenly another old pain began to call to Julian.
Hunger.
His duty was to fill the tank, then do everything expected of a road-weary driver. The rest area was surrounded by the Tollway, gas pumps surrounding a fast food/playground complex. Built to handle tens of thousands of people daily, the facility had suffered with the civil chaos, the militias and the plummeting populations. A few dozen travelers went about their business in near-solitude, and presumably a team of state or Federal agents were lurking nearby, using sensors to scan for those who weren’t what they seemed to be.
Without incident, Julian managed the first part of his mission. Then he drove a tiny distance and parked, repeating his stiff climb out of the car, entering the restaurant and steering straight for the rest room.
He was alone, thankfully.
The diagnostic urinal gently warned him to drink more fluids, then wished him a lovely day.
Taking the advice to heart, Julian ordered a bucket-sized iced tea along with a cultured guinea hen sandwich.
“For here or to go?” asked the automated clerk.
“I’m staying,” he replied, believing it would look best.
“Thank you, sir. Have a lovely day.”
Julian sat in the back booth, eating slowly and mannerly, scanning the pages of someone’s forgotten e-paper. He made a point of lingering over the trite and trivial, concentrating on the comics with their humanized cats and cartoonish people, everyone playing out the same jokes that must have amused him in the very remote past.
“How’s it going?”
The voice was slow and wet. Julian blanked the page, looking over his shoulder, betraying nothing as his eyes settled on the familiar wide face. “Fine,” he replied, his own voice polite but distant. “Thank you.”
“Is it me? Or is it just too damned hot to live out there . . . ?”
“It is hot,” Julian conceded.
“Particularly for the likes of me.” The man settled onto a plastic chair bolted into the floor with clown heads. His lunch buried his little table: three sandwiches, a greasy sack of fried cucumbers, and a tall chocolate shake. “It’s murder when you’re fat. Let me tell you . . . I’ve got to be careful in this weather. I don’t move fast. I talk softly. I even have to ration my thinking. I mean it! Too many thoughts, and I break out in a killing sweat!”
Julian had prepared for this moment. Yet nothing was happening quite like he or anyone else had expected.
Saying nothing, Julian took a shy bite out of his sandwich.
“You look like a smart guy,” said his companion. “Tell me. If the world’s getting emptier, like everyone says, why am I still getting poorer?”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the way it feels, at least.” The man was truly fat, his face smooth and youthful, every feature pressed outward by the remnants of countless lunches. “You’d think that with all the smart ones leaving for the Nests . . . you’d think guys like you and me would do pretty well for ourselves. You know?”
Using every resource, the refugees had found three identities for this man: He was a salesman from St. Joseph, Missouri. Or he was a Federal agent working for the Department of Technology, in its Enforcement division, and his salesman identity was a cover. Or he was a charter member of the Christian Promise organization, using that group’s political connections to accomplish its murderous goals.
What does he want? Julian asked himself.
He took another shy bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then offered his own question. “Why do you say that . . . that it’s the smart people who are leaving . . . ?”
“That’s what studies show,” said a booming, unashamed voice. “Half our people are gone, but we’ve lost ninety percent of our scientists. Eighty percent of our doctors. And almost every last member of Mensa . . . which between you and me is a good thing, I think . . . !”
Another bite, and wipe. Then with a genuine firmness, Julian told him, “I don’t think we should be talking. We don’t know each other.”
A huge cackling laugh ended with an abrupt statement:
“That’s why we should talk. We’re strangers, so where’s the harm?”
Suddenly the guinea hen sandwich appeared huge and inedible. Julian set it down and took a gulp of tea.
His companion watched him, apparently captivated.
Julian swallowed, then asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“What I’m good at.” He unwrapped a hamburger, then took an enormous bite, leaving a crescent-shaped sandwich and a fine glistening stain around his smile. “Put it this way, Mr. Winemaster. I’m like anyone. I do what I hope is best.”
“How do you—?”
“Your name? The same way I know your address, and your social registration number, and your bank balance, too.” He took a moment to consume half of the remaining crescent, then while chewing, he choked out the words, “Blaine. My name is. If you’d like to use it.”
Each of the man’s possible identities used Blaine, either as a first or last name.
Julian wrapped the rest of his sandwich in its insulated paper, watching his hands begin to tremble. He had a pianist’s hands in his first life but absolutely no talent for music. When he went through the Transmutation, he’d asked for a better ear and more coordination—both of which were given to him with minimal fuss. Yet he’d never learned how to play, not even after five hundred days. It suddenly seemed like a tragic waste of talent, and with a secret voice, he promised himself to take lessons, starting immediately.
“So, Mr. Winemaster . . . where are you heading . . . ?”
Julian managed another sip of tea, grimacing at the bitter taste.
“Someplace east, judging by what I can see . . .”
“Yes,” he allowed. Then he added, “Which is none of your business.”
Blaine gave a hearty laugh, shoving the last of the burger deep into his gaping mouth. Then he spoke, showing off the masticated meat and tomatoes, telling his new friend, “Maybe you’ll need help somewhere up ahead. Just maybe. And if that happens, I want you to think of me.”
“You’ll help me, will you?”
The food-stuffed grin was practically radiant. “Think of me,” he repeated happily. “That’s all I’m saying.”
###
For a long while, the refugees spoke and dreamed of
nothing but the mysterious Blaine. Which side did he represent? Should they trust him? Or move against him? And if they tried to stop the man, which way was best? Sabotage his car? Drug his next meal? Or would they have to do something genuinely horrible?
But there were no answers, much less a consensus. Blaine continued shadowing them, at a respectful distance; nothing substantial was learned about him; and despite the enormous stakes, the refugees found themselves gradually drifting back into the moment-by-moment business of ordinary life.
Couples and amalgamations of couples were beginning to make babies.
There was a logic: Refugees were dying every few minutes, usually from radiation exposure. The losses weren’t critical, but when they reached their new home—the deep cold rock of the Canadian Shield—they would need numbers, a real demographic momentum. And logic always dances with emotion. Babies served as a tonic to the adults. They didn’t demand too many resources, and they forced their parents to focus on more manageable problems, like building tiny bodies and caring for needy souls.
Even Julian was swayed by fashion.
With one of his oldest women friends, he found himself hovering over a crystalline womb, watching nanochines sculpt their son out of single atoms and tiny electric breaths.
It was only Julian’s second child.
As long as his daughter had been alive, he hadn’t seen the point in having another. The truth was that it had always disgusted him to know that the children in the Nest were manufactured—there was no other word for it—and he didn’t relish being reminded that he was nothing, more or less, than a fancy machine among millions of similar machines.
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