Rhapsody For The Tempest (The Braintrust Book 3)

by Marc Stiegler

  Marta brought a bowl of fruit to the table. “Would you like an orange? We’ve started growing them here on the reef. It’s about the only thing we have except for the shrimp and the sardines that grow along the edge of the reef.”

  Matt demurred, but Gina took one and stripped the skin. “Very fresh,” she observed.

  Matt looked out the windows at the endless horizon. “You know, there are days when I would find it very attractive to live here.”

  Gina shuddered. “But you’d live here without me.”

  Matt wrapped an arm around her. “And that’s why it’ll never happen.”

  Pedro smiled. “I know that it seems terribly isolated. But we’re not, you know. We still have the Internet.”

  Matt, still looking out the windows, watched as dark clouds rolled in. “I’m looking at the storm heading this way, and I can’t help worrying about how exposed you are out here. How much danger are you really in? Should we be evacuating you during these storms?”

  Pedro shook his head. “When it gets really bad, we can pull our house away from the reef and submerge this level so that only the living room is at sea level. It’s quite safe.”

  Marta felt obligated to defend their situation. “It’s certainly safer than his old job.”

  Matt looked at him in surprise. “What was your old job?”

  Marta answered. “He was a fisherman. We grew up in a small Peruvian fishing village.”

  Gina leaned forward. “So how did you get here?”

  Pedro explained, “My brother and his family brought us in for an interview and gave us a recommendation. His family maintains the reef two hundred miles off the coast of San Francisco when the BrainTrust is anchored in the fifty-mile reef. And when the BrainTrust moves out to two hundred miles, he moves in to take care of the fifty-mile reef.”

  Matt realized this answered another question. “So, when all your children go to college, if you need help you can probably call in a cousin or two.”

  Marta nodded. “They would all jump at the chance to live in this isolated place. Just for the water, if nothing else.”

  Gina blinked. “The water?”

  Marta continued. “We have all the fresh water we can drink. We don’t have to worry about diseases and trash in the water. It’s a godsend.”

  Such a simple thing that Matt and Gina had taken for granted their entire lives rendered them speechless.

  Pedro glanced out the window and a worried look crossed his face. “The storm is approaching very fast. You two should go now.”

  Marta threw in an invitation. “You’re welcome to stay, of course.”

  Pedro continued. “But you might find it a little bit too cozy.”

  On the way home, Matt found himself muttering. “Shrimp. Sardines.”

  Gina added, “Oranges.”

  Matt had a thought. “I’d never get this for anyone else for a present since it’s so mundane, but I know just the thing to get them for Christmas.”

  Gina nodded. In chorus, they sang. “Fruit baskets. Lots of fruit baskets.”

  As usual, it was close to midnight when Dash got together with Chance to go over the day’s results in the small conference room by Dash's office. They worked silently side-by-side, marking anomalies in the readouts from the patients’ blood work and sensors for deeper analysis. Eventually, Chance remarked casually, "So, just out of curiosity, have you looked at the data on the President for Life to see if he would survive the therapy? I mean, they were all so hot to get you to work on him."

  Dash continued making notations. "I did look. It was a mistake." She peered at the screen intensely for a moment before continuing. "The information is useless."

  Chance pushed. "So, would he live or die?"

  Dash glowered oppressively. "You don't want to know."

  "Of course I do." Chance opened a new window and sought out the President for Life's medical charts.

  Dash issued one last warning. "You really don't want to know."

  Chance continued to study the charts. Finally, she drew a conclusion. "Aha. Well, isn't that interesting."

  "So now that you know, Chance, what are you going to do?"

  Chance frowned. "I see what you mean. Should we tell Colin?" She grinned mischievously. "Should we tell the Chief Advisor?"

  Dash snorted. "If Colin wanted to know, if there were anything he could do with the information, he would've asked when I updated him on our ability to predict which patients would survive. And as for the Chief Advisor…" She sighed. "Why would he believe us? After all, we have a vested interest. The fact that we are scientists dedicated to truth would have no impact. As Colin pointed out to me, any person who invents his facts as he goes along loses the ability to distinguish actual facts, no matter who is speaking."

  Chances nostrils flared, then subsided. "So it really is useless to know."

  Dash nodded. "I wish I had not looked."

  "Argh." Chance reflected for a moment. "Me neither."

  Dash sat back in her chair. "I think we have just about finished here." She raised an eyebrow at Chance. "Is this where I say, 'I told you so'? I am trying to improve my use of English idioms."

  Chance just rolled her eyes and started closing windows on the display screen.

  There were no jobs in California. None. Nada. So Dennis Gordon, the once proud independent trucker whose truck had been seized for carrying controller chips for SpaceR, had walked from Needles along I-40 to the Arizona border. He still had his Oklahoma driver’s license though he had no truck, no home, no money, and no hope.

  When he reached the border, he expected a huge hassle from Arizona’s not-officially-customs officers. But without his truck, there was no risk he was harboring Mexicans. And since he was obviously a pasty white Caucasian, the Arizona border patrol quickly let him into the state, and even gave him a bottle of water, for which he thanked them.

  He had tried hitching a ride, but the cars were all driven by computers even though the trucks still legally required a driver and a steering wheel. Anyway, the computers never stopped for hitchhikers.

  So he walked. His water bottle was empty. The sun beat down relentlessly. The austere beauty he had appreciated zooming west with his last truckload of chips now looked desolate and deadly walking east.

  He had had the choice of starving to death in California while being berated for having voted Red all these years or dying of thirst in the quiet solitude of the desert. He still thought he’d made the better choice, but it was hard. His mind drifted.

  A semi much like his own rolled past, blowing him halfway off the shoulder. Then a classic Corvette, so old it actually needed a human driver, barreled past even faster but started screeching as the driver slammed the brakes. The car pulled onto the shoulder and backed slowly toward him.

  For a moment Dennis reconnected with reality, long enough to wonder if this were reality any longer. He’d always dreamed of owning a Vette like this one, a 2003 Fiftieth Anniversary convertible. The sunlight shimmered joyfully off the glossily-waxed maroon curves of the machine, built of raw speed and pure power.

  The driver’s door opened, and a woman in a crisp gold-trimmed white pantsuit stepped out. Why would she stop here?

  Dennis finally realized the truth; he had been wrong all along. There was in fact an afterlife, and this angel had been sent to take him there. It was fitting, he supposed, that the Corvette he’d once dreamed of should now be the vehicle to carry him into the light.

  The angel marched up to him, walking smoothly on the gravel despite her high heels, thus proving her divine provenance. She held a tablet in her hand, which seemed a little less divine, and looked back and forth between the tablet and himself. Was she checking the rolls of the dying to make sure she had the right person?

  Having satisfied herself, she addressed him. “Mr. Gordon? My name is Lindsey Postrel. I’m the editor for Cogent News. Liberated not Regulated. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.” She offered to shake his hand.

  St
ill mesmerized by her Vette and her person, he only caught one word in three. No matter. He placed his hand in hers so she could lead him. “Thank you for coming for me.”

  She stepped closer and peered into his face. “You’re dehydrated,” she pronounced crisply. “Let’s get you into the car and get you some water.”

  As she opened the passenger door for him, she tried to explain why she had sought him out. “I understand the Great State of California confiscated your truck. I think you have an important and interesting story to tell.”

  “Really?” He smiled. “Are they interested in stories about Earth where you’re taking me? I hadn’t realized.”

  Jun supervised as the cargo bot lifted Jacques and carried him down the gangway of the Taixue onto the artificial beach built between the isle ships. He was so fixated on the proper handling of his bot, he didn’t become aware of his audience until he was on the beach.

  He was surprised to see how many people were waiting for him.

  Professor Thornhill, her arms crossed over her chest, tilted her head ever so slightly in acknowledgment of a job well done. “Bravo, Jun. It looks great.” She put her hands on her hips. “You do understand, I hope, that your first test is going to be a disaster. First tests always are.”

  Ciara, of whom Jun had become quite fond, nudged her mother. “Don’t be such a sourpuss. I think this is going to go just… swimmingly.” Her smile made Jun walk taller.

  Jun’s parents stood to the side watching anxiously. “Is there anything we can help you with?” his father asked.

  “No, Dad. I’ve got this.” He said proudly.

  Chen Ying frowned with impatience. “Okay, okay, let’s get it into the water.”

  And so the cargo bot dropped Jacques off the beach and into the little patch of partially protected ocean. Jun clamped Jacques’ goggles over his face, pulled on the gloves, and started to drive.

  Ciara threw a glowing orange tube into the water; it began to sink. “Oh no! I’ve lost my…stick! Would you get it for me?”

  Jun swiveled his head, looking with the eyes of his bot. The orange stick was sinking rapidly out of sight. He accelerated and soon grasped the object. He brought it back to the surface and with a mighty heave threw it back onto the beach. It flew over everyone’s heads and hit the side of the Taixue. “Oops,” Jun said. “Jacques is stronger than I expected”

  Chen asked the inevitable question. “So how deep can you go, anyway?”

  Jun Laquan did not answer. He simply twisted Jacques so his head pointed down and churned the impellers to full speed. “One hundred meters,” he said proudly. “Two hundred meters.” He paused. “Three hundred… Oh no.”

  Ciara clapped. “Almost nine hundred feet! Awesome!” She nudged her mother again and whispered too loudly, “Don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’”

  Professor Thornhill had her hand over her eyes, shaking her head. “That was marvelous, Jun. I never would have expected it to go that deep —“ she glared at Chen, “— before some idiot urged you to send it so far that we couldn’t recover it.”

  Jun couldn’t say anything because he was being hugged too vigorously by his mother. “We are so proud of you,” she said glowingly.

  Chen Ying threw his hands wide for the professor. “Don’t worry, Professor Thornhill. I had him build in automatic buoyancy control. If something breaks, it just comes floating right back to the top of the water.” He pointed dramatically at the sea.

  He was still pointing dramatically at the sea much later when Jun offered an observation. “We never really tested the automatic recovery system. I’m very sorry.” He winced. “We may have actually lost it.”

  Professor Thornhill put her hand over her eyes again, and just shook her head.

  4

  Journeying

  In the Age of gossip-powered media, it is less important to know a lot of facts than to reliably distinguish actual facts from alternative facts.

  -Accel. Topic: Fake News Creation and Identification. Module: Introduction.

  Major Zhang of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army had to work not to let his shoulders sag. He was a leader of men, so he must look confident and commanding, even when alone, lest some enlisted soldier accidentally walk through the wrong door and see him in a state of imperfect forcefulness.

  He sat at his crude metal desk in his immaculately clean but shabby office and looked out his window at the barracks. Well, the troops could use a change of scenery and some brisk marching in unfamiliar territory, no matter how ridiculous the mission.

  The governor of the province where he was normally stationed had a first cousin who ran a rehabilitation center for web addicts in the neighboring Shaanxi province. The cousin, unable to get any satisfaction from the governor of his own province, had called his cousin to complain. So now Major Zhang was expected to Do Something.

  The major might have laughed about the request, except leaders of men did not laugh, especially about orders given by the governors and the Politburo. He had to take it seriously.

  Some Muslim woman, certainly descended from the races west of China, possibly from the BrainTrust, had managed to embarrass the rehab headmaster and run off with one of the inmates—uh, students—of his facility. The loss of the student was no big deal, the headmaster conceded when the major talked to him directly, but ever since then a steady trickle of parents had been streaming in, demanding their children be allowed to take a test on a cell phone app.

  The headmaster tried to refuse these demands, but most of the parents were adamant, insisting on the same opportunity to engage their children that Tai’s father had demanded. The headmaster could see that if he refused the most determined of them, word would get around and sources of new students would dry up. So he relented, which quickly turned out to be almost as bad: a disturbing number of the parents, upon looking at their children’s test results, immediately ripped those children from the disciplined yet nurturing care of the headmaster. They left behind a large and growing number of vacancies with a concomitant loss of profits.

  Despite all this, the major had the feeling that the departing students and lost revenues weighed less heavily on the headmaster than whatever the woman had done to him personally. The man practically spluttered as he vented his rage at this unseemly and uncivilized person.

  It made no difference. The major was ordered to investigate, and to make a show of force in the process, to discourage others. Fine. A show of force he would give them. After lunch, he packed two trucks with troops and headed out into the backwaters to investigate all the commotion.

  The klaxon sounded throughout the Mount Parnassus. Ping leaped from her bed with a whoop of delight. “Condition Red!” she announced to no one in particular. She hopped up and down as she pulled on her pants. “Pirates! At last!”

  The manufacturing ship for the Fuxing fleet had finally gone operational. Ping’s Prometheus fleet had moved to the west, to the eastern coast of Africa on its way around the continent to reach Nigeria on the far side. They’d been using some sort of experimental tech to give the ships a semblance of real speed, but Ping hadn’t paid much attention. The tech had mostly worked, breaking down only twice, so they had gotten to Africa in just a couple weeks. They’d just started passing Somalia the night before, and the tech had chosen this moment to break down a third time.

  Ping paused as she struggled with the zipper. She continued to talk to herself. “But let’s not get too excited just yet. It might be some actual serious problem. But odds are, it’s pirates.” Her eyes glowed. “Gonna need my Big Gun!” She yanked the door to the cabin open and departed before she’d even finished buttoning her shirt.

  Ten minutes later she stood on the top deck of the ship, staring in disgust at the two dinky black Zodiac boats battering themselves against the waves as they bounced to the attack. “That’s it? That’s all there is?” Ping demanded of the unfair universe. Holding her Big Gun straight in the air, she pressed the unlock button and shook it
until it collapsed into its backpack shape.

  Putu Arnawa watched her disassemble her beloved weapon in surprise. “Ma’am, aren’t we going to shoot them?”

  Ping glared, then softened her expression lest he think she was mad at him. “Of course we’re going to shoot ‘em. But we hardly need the Big Gun. Would you use dynamite to go fishing?”

  Suparman Herianto, universally known as Soup, shrugged. “My grandfather always used dynamite. No reason to give the fish a chance, he always said.” Soup came from a fishing family in Sumatra. He had grown up on the BrainTrust after his father had moved to become a reef manager.

  Marcos, the last member of her peacekeeping team, made a point. “I suppose we should give them a chance to surrender.”

  Ping nodded. “Very good.” She snapped her phone from her belt. “Captain, please head directly for our attackers.”

  The captain squawked. “Are you kidding me?”

  Ping laughed gaily. “Were you thinking of outrunning them? At our max speed of four knots? Let’s close the distance as quickly as possible. Rescue operations, you know.”

  A moment’s silence held on the phone. “Of course. Anything else?”

  “Not right now, Captain.” Ping turned to her team. “Putu, get the Fast Cat into the water. Soup, I see you brought up our McMillan Tac 50. Good thinking.” Ping sighed. “Might as well get in some target practice with the Big Mac.” The Big Mac, a .50 caliber sniper rifle known for hitting targets well over a mile away, was also known for its ability to kill engine blocks as well as softer targets. “Soup, set her up, see if you can take out the engine on the lead boat.”

  Soup objected, “But Ma’am, he’s bouncing all over the ocean.”

  Marcos pointed out, “That’s why it’s called practice.”

  Soup popped off five rounds. He missed the engine block entirely, though with the last shot he did blow one of the pirates overboard. “Crap,” he muttered, “Sorry.”