Ayla knew that she would have probably never left her home on the southern tip of Greenland permanently. As unhappy and as hurt as she was—and as determined as she was to get her father’s attention—she’d always envisioned herself returning. But now, while she would do or give anything to have her family back, she realized that even if it were possible, she could never live in Nanortalik again. Even during times throughout human history when generations upon generations were born and died on the very same land—when migration happened at the protracted pace of soil or groundwater depletion, drought, or the redistribution of wild game rather than at the speed of magnetically levitated trains and supersonic passenger jets—there were probably always those few who made their living by wandering, and now that Ayla had become one of them, she didn’t think there was any going back.
Over the last six years, Ayla had seen things that she could never have even imagined before leaving Nanortalik: ports and pod systems cobbled together out of dry-docked vessels and shipping containers connected by poorly welded corrugated tubes; rust-streaked supercarriers permanently moored after their decaying nuclear reactors were hastily ejected; enclaves of former ballistic missile submarines, berthed and interconnected by complex matrices of enclosed catwalks; bunkers blasted into the bases of mountains once used as data centers, fallout shelters for dignitaries, and as vaults for secret church records; at least a dozen different abandoned and repopulated coal mines, some of which had collapsed and been re-excavated as many as four or five times; former private spaceports carved out of coral and hardened magma from extinct volcanoes; a network of titanium capsules and glass tubes that once formed an exotic and sprawling undersea luxury resort; supermax prisons surrounded by fenced yards still littered with the corroded remains of thousands of long-dead inmates; voluminous sports stadiums, hermetically sealed with patched composite-weave air domes; entire vertical cities built out of tiers of old twine-bound bamboo scaffolding and decking inside disused nuclear reactor cooling towers; pod systems that used sophisticated atmospheric distribution systems to ration the oxygen their genetically enhanced geodesic greenhouses struggled to exhale beneath an anemic trickle of sunlight; and now, a floating mining rig as big as four square city blocks with the near-magical ability to produce just about anything out of seemingly nothing. Each harbor, marketplace, pod system, and metropolis required its own unique combination of environmental and personal protection before it could be safely approached and negotiated—a process determined through research, rumor, and through the harshest and least forgiving teacher of all: experience.
Ayla had seen a lot of innovative and resourceful communities in her life, but probably the most unique, interesting, and just plain unexpected was the port known as Triple Seven. Triple Seven was located on Bouvet Island, which, at more than 1,700 kilometers north of Antarctica’s Princess Astrid Coast, enjoyed the distinction of being among the most remote natural land masses on the planet. Ayla had originally assumed that Triple Seven’s location would have ensured that it remained one of the more obscure and underdeveloped destinations along the Hawk’s normal circuit, but she was both surprised and delighted to discover that the islanders had learned to use their desolation to their advantage.
Triple Seven, it turned out, was one of the best places in the world to buy and sell electronics. It was roughly equidistant from the coasts of South America, South Africa, and Antarctica, and it was reachable by most decent-size vessels in the South Atlantic and Southern Oceans. Since the overwhelming majority of the world’s population relied on technology to sustain itself, the trading of hardware, systems components, assembly schematics, and even collections of algorithms was just as reliable an enterprise as protein, supplements, water, oxygen, and weaponry. Not only was Triple Seven right at the heart of at least 25 percent of the world’s technology demand, but due to the island’s strict regulations and well-trained peacekeeping force, it was also considered one of the most secure marketplaces in the world.
The name of the system was derived from its principle composition: dozens of old Boeing 777 wide-body jet fuselages that had somehow been loaded into a massive hexagonally tessellated rack and connected to one another via steel and silicone bulkheads. As one approached the island from the southwest, the tableau was truly otherworldly: a monstrous honeycomb of pointed metallic larva suggesting swarms of vast and grotesque robotic insects; a perfectly symmetrical block of what should have been impossibly heavy and unwieldy aircraft neatly shelved like children’s toys. Rather than appearing colossal, the structure had the curious effect of making anyone who stood anywhere near its base feel minuscule and existentially insignificant.
How so many old planes had been assembled in one location—and how anyone had managed the logistical feat of stacking and so meticulously connecting them—Ayla had absolutely no idea. The system was far too elegant and intricate to be mistaken for a renovated airplane graveyard. Whoever had done this—especially in such a fantastically remote location—must have had the determination and resources of a modern-day pharaoh. The first time Ayla had ever seen Triple Seven, Costa recalled the rumor that the structure had once been the final refuge of an eccentric British airline and private space tourism mogul who commandeered his company’s entire fleet before abruptly changing his mind and deciding to take his chances up in the thermosphere instead. It was said that the remains of his ancestors still languished inside one of the many long-expired, private single-stage-to-orbit spacecraft that, until their orbits sufficiently decayed over the coming centuries, would continue to whisper secrets of a foregone era into the infinite emptiness of space.
Ayla passed this oral history along to Omicron as the Anura transitioned from water to land, lowering its open-sided polymer mesh wheels and starting up the flattened path that served as the main approach to Triple Seven.
“It’s possible,” Omicron conceded, leaning forward so he could see the structure at the top of the rise before them. “Unfortunately, all the paint has dissolved so there’s no way to know if they bore common insignias.”
“The other theory is that it was done by aliens from another dimension with gravity guns.”
“That,” Omicron said as he checked the air quality on the panel in front of him, “sounds somewhat less plausible.”
The Accipiter Hawk had broken away from the San Francisco for the purposes of obtaining fresh components to build more drone prototypes. Omicron and Cam had cannibalized just about every auxiliary vehicle on the Hawk other than the Anura, but they still hadn’t finalized a design capable of supporting a global terraforming effort.
“Radiation levels are remarkably low out here,” Omicron observed.
“What about contaminants?”
“About as good as it gets.”
Ayla was looking out the window rather than at the environmental metrics being reported through the Anura’s dash. “We used to get away with just respirators.”
“I think we still can,” Omicron said. “What about self-defense?”
“No weapons of any kind,” Ayla said. “Not even shocksuits.”
They slowed as they approached the wall that divided the shore from the vertically stacked city behind it. The partition was assembled out of alternating 777 wings welded together into a single, extremely formidable structure that was held upright by a framework of pillars anchored deep into the rock. Although they couldn’t see the ground level of fuselages from where they were, Ayla knew that they had the points of their noses clipped off, and just inside were airlocks, decontamination chambers, and security checkpoints.
“Wait a second,” Ayla said.
“What?”
“Something isn’t right.”
Omicron stopped the Anura before they’d reached the gate. “What’s wrong?”
“It isn’t busy enough,” she said. “We shouldn’t be the only ones here.”
Omicron touched the dash and superimposed an infrared overlay. The honeycomb structure on the other side of the wal
l lit up in reds, yellows, and greens—even a few concentrated regions of white.
“There’s plenty of life up there,” Omicron said.
“Up there, maybe,” Ayla said. “But what about down here?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Before Omicron could continue forward, an incoming communication notification appeared on the panel before them. Omicron used his fingers to expand it so he could peek at the underlying metadata.
“It’s a high-priority, spectrum-wide hail,” he said. “Someone really wants to talk to us.”
“Good,” Ayla said. “Let’s find out what the hell’s going on.”
Omicron opened the channel and a heavily bearded face resolved on the polymeth dash. The man’s whiskers were dark, as were his eyes, but his long and disheveled hair was blond. There was a moment of silence while the man studied the two occupants on his own display.
“What do you want?” he finally asked.
There was overt suspicion in the man’s tone and menace in his eyes. Omicron looked at Ayla.
“We were hoping to do some shopping,” Ayla said. “Is Triple Seven still open for business?”
The man squinted at them. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here, hasn’t it?” he said. Something about the Afrikaans inflection in his speech was familiar to Ayla.
“A little while,” Ayla admitted. “Why?”
“How long?”
Ayla took a moment to add up the time in her head. “Probably close to twenty circuits.”
Circuits were the preferred unit of time for those who either spent the majority of their lives at sea, or for those who often did business with them. one circuit was the amount of time it took to circumnavigate the globe on a straight path at an average of twenty knots—about 61.75 days.
“I thought so,” the man said. “The exchanges have moved.”
“Moved where?”
“The middle of the island,” the man said. “The approach is from the north now.”
“Oh,” Ayla replied. “Well, shit.”
“Didn’t you hear the beacon?” The man looked away briefly while he checked something on a panel to his left. “It’s broadcasting.”
“I thought I knew what I was doing,” Ayla said. “My mistake. We’ll go back.”
“It’s all right,” the man said. “You can get there from here. Just follow the road up ahead to your right.”
Ayla and Omicron both checked the external view and verified the turnoff.
“Thank you,” Ayla said. She looked up from the dash at the massive rack of fuselages on the other side of the wall. “So what do you use this place for now?”
The man leaned forward and watched her for another moment. “You’re Costa’s girl, aren’t you?” he asked.
Ayla’s surprise—both at being recognized, and at hearing Costa’s name—was such that she was fully conscious of not being able to conceal it.
“Yes,” she said. “I mean I was.”
“He was a good trader,” the man said. “A good man, as well. I was sorry to hear about what happened to him and his crew.”
Ayla could see that there was sincerity in the man’s dark eyes, and perhaps even genuine empathy. “He was,” she agreed.
“We’re keeping an eye out for the Resurrection,” the man told her. “We have a pretty good cross-section signature. If we find it, we’ll sink her.”
Ayla was silent for a moment and found that she was suddenly blinking back tears. “Thank you,” she finally got out. “Really.”
“You know there’s always a place for you here, don’t you?” the man said. His eyes flicked over to Omicron, then back. “For both of you. Any friends of Costa’s are friends of mine.”
Ayla could not respond beyond nodding. Her hand went up over her mouth and then the tears finally spilled, pooling up momentarily against her fingers and then continuing down.
“That’s a very generous offer,” Omicron said on Ayla’s behalf. “Thank you.”
The man gave a single, curt nod. “Be safe,” he said, and then he was gone.
Omicron pulled the Anura forward, then turned right along the wall. He followed the turns in the road cautiously, and for a time, maneuvered in silence. Eventually, Ayla was aware of him glancing over to check on her.
“I wish I could have known him,” he said.
Ayla sniffed. She was wearing a liquid-cooled polymer suit with thumb loops in the sleeves, and she used the back of her hand to wipe her cheeks. “It’s not that,” she said.
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know,” Ayla said. She turned and looked out of the window beside her and saw the ocean dash itself spectacularly against the black cliffs below. “I guess it just surprises me sometimes how beautiful the world still is.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FRICTION COEFFICIENT
BOUVET ISLAND WAS AN EXTINCT volcano with a yawning, low-lying crater at its heart. The Anura had been climbing its rocky crags by assiduously following a narrow and serpentine path for close to an hour. When he needed maximum traction, Omicron put all six of the amphibian’s nonpneumatic polymer tires in contact with the terrain, and when he needed to maximize maneuverability, he retracted the two center wheels, leaving four independently powered pivot points. The vehicle was finally nearing the ridge when Omicron looked down at his wrist and swore.
“Damnit,” he said.
The device he wore on his arm was neither subtle nor particularly elegant. Ayla had been calling it his wrist station, though it extended several centimeters past his wrist and up his forearm, constituting more of a high-tech cuff. The polymeth display was curved to approximate the contour of his arm and concealed most of the bulky internals that were built into a thickly padded sleeve and secured with two polymer straps. Had Ayla slipped her own arm through it—even all the way up to her bicep—the device would have made her look like a child playing with her father’s watch, though on Omicron, the device was well proportioned.
He’d started wearing it back on the Hawk in order to keep in constant contact with Cam, and to have easy access to reference material while also keeping both his hands free. When Ayla first noticed it on his arm, she thought Omicron was controlling it with a BCI, but she couldn’t see any kind of electrode netting over his scalp. When she asked him how it worked, he showed her the sensor array he wore high up around his neck like a collar. He called the technology ST, or Synthetic Telepathy, and explained how the nanometer circuitry detected subvocalizations and speech impulses, then transmitted them to the device on his wrist. The technique was inherently less powerful and flexible than a brain-computer interface since input was necessarily serial as opposed to being highly parallel as it was with a BCI, but the trade-off was that it was much easier to configure, calibrate, and maintain. And it required far fewer hours of conditioning to master.
“What’s wrong?” Ayla asked.
“We lost another prototype,” Omicron said.
He’d stopped the Anura so he could focus on the crisis. Ayla saw the map on his arm transition into a table of numerical data that he simultaneously studied and scrolled.
“How?”
“Same as the others,” Omicron said. “My best guess is an electromagnetic pulse weapon.”
“The Coronians defending their airspace?” Ayla suggested.
“Probably. Their sentinels don’t seem to like anything they can’t control.”
“Can you fly above them?”
“We can’t go much higher,” Omicron said. He was selecting data points for a 3D scatter plot using his finger in order to leave his voice free for talking. “We need enough atmosphere to generate lift, and we’re already cutting back on shielding to reduce weight, which means we have to start worrying about exposing payloads to radiation.”
“What about flying lower?”
Omicron shook his head. “Then we have the opposite problem. Too much atmosphere. And weather. We wouldn’t have sufficient power to cover
the required distances unless we completely redesigned the capacitors, and even then, I don’t know if it would work.”
Ayla never knew what the right thing was to do or say in situations like these, when she felt she had nothing to contribute but emotional support. She was happy to continue making suggestions as long as she thought they were useful, but she knew she wasn’t likely to come up with anything that Omicron and Cam hadn’t already considered and dismissed. This kind of thing had always been easy with Costa. She’d listen as long as he needed to vent, and when it was clear that he was winding down, she would hug him, pull back and kiss his cheek, then his neck, and then gradually move to his lips. He sometimes resisted, but she always felt his opposition eventually melt away into desire, and when he was ready, she would pull him down to the floor, or into the nearest isolated compartment big enough to accommodate two bodies, and then regardless of how vexing the problem was, his mood was always better when they were done, and a solution was usually not far behind.
After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, the Anura began moving forward again, and the mood remained somber for the remainder of the ascent. But when they crested the final ridge, the despondency of setbacks and seemingly insurmountable obstacles unexpectedly lifted as they were both drawn in by what revealed itself below. The crater in the center of the island was an incredibly intricate patchwork of nautical splendor. The entire northern barrier of the island had been blasted away to accommodate the new approach and replaced with a series of locks designed to permit safe passage for just about any sized ship, and probably also control the depth of the entire marina. On either side of the canal were walkways that, just inside the basin, transitioned into floating docks that ran in opposite directions, following the general contour of the inner wall, and eventually meeting to form a complete loop. The circular pier served as anchorage for multiple offshoots and spokes around which were moored almost every type of small-to-medium-size ship, boat, and yacht Ayla had ever seen, and probably at least a dozen she hadn’t. There was only enough slip space for maybe a quarter of the vessels that occupied the cove with the remainder being accessible mainly by networks of gangplanks, or via a long stride between hulls. The cumulative effect was an almost uninterrupted surface of independently undulating ship deck supporting swarms of humanity constantly rebalancing the delicate social and economic equilibrium of Triple Seven.
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