by Tom Maddox
speaking wealth and taste.
They climbed up marble stairs and passed into the house and
under a looming interior dome that soared high above the central
rotunda where the house's three wings joined. They walked down a
hallway of dark wainscoting below cream walls and ceiling.
Gonzales caught glimpses of side rooms through open doorways
as they passed. One room appeared to front upon a night filled
with swirling nebulae and a million stars, the next on sunshine
and dazzling snows. Still another contained nothing but white
walls, floors of polished marble and a five-meter hand centered
motionless in mid-airindex finger extended, other three fingers
curled against the palm, thumb erect on top like the hammer of a
make-believe gun.
Mahogany doors parted in front of the two men, and they
passed into the library. Its dark-paneled walls gave away
nothing: even close up, the books might have been holo-fronts,
might have been real. Flat data entry modules were laid into
mahogany side tables that stood next to red leather easy chairs
and maroon velour couches.
"Sit down, Mikhail," Traynor said.
Gonzales could feel the silence heavy and somber among the
dark invocations of another time, leather and furnishings
conjuring up men's clubs, smoking rooms, the somber whispers of
deals going down.
Traynor's eyes lost focus as he went rapt, listening to his
voice within. Even if he hadn't been aware of Traynor's
dependence on his Advisor, Gonzales would have known what was
happening. Traynor, higher up in the executive food chain than
anyone else of Gonzales's acquaintance, needed permanent real-time
access to the information, advice, and general emotional support
his Advisor supplied, so Traynor was wired with a bone-set
transceiver just under his left ear. Wherever he went, his
Advisor's voice went with him, through cellular networks and
satellite links.
Traynor finally looked up and said, "Look, I want you to get
focused on a job you're going to do for me. Can you do that?"
Gonzales shrugged. Traynor said, "You're upset and angryyou
were attacked, almost killedI know that. But look: you work
for Internal Affairs, it's an occupational hazard. You and your
machine poked hard at this man's operation, and you spooked him,
so he did something stupid."
"And I want to make him pay for it."
"You play along with me on this one, and maybe you'll be able
to. But laternow I've got other work for you."
"Okay, I'll do it." Gonzales knew he had to play along: it
was his only chance to even things up with Grossback. Play now,
pay back later.
"Good," Traynor said. "How much do you know about Halo City
and Aleph?"
"The city was put together by a multi-national consortium.
SenTrax has a data monopoly, employs a large-scale m-i to
administer the city. That's about all I know."
The wallscreen at one end lit up with a glyph in hard black:
_0
The voice of Traynor's Advisor spoke through a ceiling
speaker; it said, "The sign you are looking at is the original
emblem of the Aleph system when it was built by SenTrax. In
Cantor's notation, it represents the first of the transfinite
numbersdenoting the infinite set of integers and fractions, or
natural numbers. Aleph is also the first letter of the Hebrew
alphabet and the name of a story"
"Get on with it," Traynor said.
"The system was constructed at Athena Station, in
geosynchronous orbit, where it supervised the construction of the
Orbital Energy Grid, and later was transported to Halo City, at
L5, where it serves as the primary agent of data interpretation,
logistical planning, and administration."
Gonzales said, "Seems odd to have a project the size and
importance of Halo administered by an obsolete m-i."
"It would be so if Aleph were obsolete," answered the
Advisor. "However, this is not the case. The machine we refer to
as Aleph, has capabilities superior to any existing m-i."
Gonzales looked at Traynor, who held up a hand, indicating
have patience, and said, "Next series."
On the screen came a pan shot across a weightless space where
a man floated, encased in a transparent plastic bubble. He was
naked, and his limbs were shrunken and twisted. He had tubes in
his nose, mouth, ears, penis, and anus, metal cups over his eyes.
Two thick cables connected to junctions at the back of his neck.
The Advisor said, "This man's name is Jerry Chapman. He
suffers from severe neural damage, the results of a toxin
transmitted through seafood contaminated with toxic waste. Though
most motor and sensory functions are disabled, he is not comatose.
In fact, he appears to retain all intellectual function. Note the
neural interface sockets: they are the key to what follows."
"He's at Halo?" Gonzales asked.
"Yes," the Advisor said. "He was taken there from Earth."
"Very special treatment," Gonzales said.
"The group at Halo has been looking for such an opportunity,"
the Advisor said. "To explore long-term Aleph-interface."
Traynor said, "In fact, Chapman's relations with Aleph go
back to the machine's early days."
The Advisor said, "When he and Aleph worked with Doctor Diana
Heywood, who at the time was employed by SenTrax at Athena
Station. She was blind at that time."
"Even in this deck, Doctor Heywood's the joker," Traynor
said. "She was involved with Aleph at the time, and later she and
lived with Chapman, on Earth. She was released by SenTrax for
unauthorized use of the Aleph system, but we've brought her back
into our employ. She's going to Halo, where she will assist Aleph
in an attempt to keep this man alive."
"Alive?" Gonzales asked, gesturing toward the hulk on the
screen. "There doesn't seem much point." As he understood these
things, given the man's condition, withdrawal processing should
have started, SenTrax as medical guardians making application to
the Federal Medical Courts for permission to cease support.
The Advisor said, "Aleph believes it can keep him alive in
machine-space. There are special problems, as you can imagine,
among them the need to have love, friendship I do not understand
these matters well, but Aleph has communicated to me that the next
weeks are critical for the patient."
Traynor said, "However, using Doctor Heywood presents its own
problems."
"She left SenTrax years ago," the Advisor said. "In somewhat
strained circumstances."
Traynor said, "So she has no reason to be loyal to the
company." He paused. "And we have no reason to trust her."
Gonzales said, "I presume this is where I enter in?"
"Yes," Traynor said. "I want you to accompany her. You will
represent me and, indirectly, SenTrax Board." Gonzales raised his
eyebrows, and Traynor laughed. "Yes, I am representing the board
on this one, unofficiallythey see this treatment as
being of
enormous interest but wish to have a certain insulation between
them and these matters, given that certain tricky legal issues
will have to be skirted."
"Or trampled on," said Gonzales.
"As you wish," said Traynor. "The important point is this:
from the board's point-of-view, Doctor Heywood cannot be trusted.
Gonzales said, "So you need a spy, and I'm it."
Traynor shrugged.
The Advisor said, "You represent properly vested interests in
a situation where they would not otherwise be adequately
represented."
Gonzales said, "That's a good one, 'represent properly vested
interests.' I'll try to remember it. Okay, I'll do my best." He
turned to face Traynor and said, "To get you on the board."
Traynor laughed. Gonzales asked, "How long will this thing take?"
"Not too long," Traynor said.
The Advisor said, "Once Chapman's state has been stabilized
"
"Or he dies," Traynor said.
"Highly probable," said the Advisor. "Once he is stable
alive or deadyour job will be finished."
Traynor said, "But until then, your job is to let me know
what's happening. You'll be in machine-space along with them, and
you'll see what they're doing."
"Fine," Gonzales said. "So what do I do now?"
"You fly to Berkeley and talk to Doctor Heywood," Traynor
said. "Introduce yourself. Make a friend."
5. So Come to Me, Then
Gonzales arrived at Berkeley Aeroport, a collection of
cracked cement pads at the edge of the water, by mid-afternoon.
He stepped out of the swing-wing into blazing sunshine. Across
the bay, the Golden Gate and Alcatraz Island danced in the glare;
the water glittered so intensely his sunglasses went nearly black.
A Truesdale rental waited for him in the parking lot. He
stuck a SenTrax i.d./credit chip into its door slot, and the door
retracted into its frame with a muted hiss. The Truesdale's
windows had opaqued against the dazzle, and its passive a/c had
been working, so the dark brown velvet seat was cool to the touch
when Gonzales slid across it.
"Do you wish to drive, Mister Gonzales?" the car asked.
Gonzales said, "Not really. You know where we're going?"
"Yes, I have that address."
"Then you take it."
Diana Heywood lived in the Berkeley hills, in a Maybeck house
more than a century old. The car drove Gonzales through streets
that wound their way up the hillside, then stopped in front of a
house whose redwood-shingled bulk loomed over Gonzales's head as
he stood on the sidewalk. Sun glinted off the lozenged panes of
its bay window.
Her door answered his knock by saying she was a few blocks
away, at the Rose Gardens. The door said, "It is a civic project:
volunteers are rebuilding the garden, which has fallen into
disuse. Many of the local"
"Thank you," Gonzales said.
He told the Truesdale where he was going and set off on foot
in the direction the memex had indicated. To his left hand,
streets and homes sloped down toward the bay; to his right, they
climbed up the steep hillside.
Gonzales came to a hand-lettered sign in green poster paint
on white board that read:
BERKELEY ROSE GARDENS RECLAMATION PROJECT
He looked down to where broken redwood lattices fanned out along
terraced pathways threaded with a clumsy patchwork of green pvc
irrigation pipes. Halfway down stood a cracked and peeling
trellis of white-painted wood with bushes dangling from its gaps.
Next to the trellis, a small gardener robot, a green plastic-
coated block on miniature tractor wheels, extended a delicate arm
of shining coiled steel ending in a ten-fingered fibroid hand.
The hand closed, and a dark red rose came away from its bush.
Clutching the blossom, the little robot wheeled away.
Gonzales walked down the inclined pathway, his feet crunching
on gravel, past the bushes and their labels stating often
improbable names: Dortmunds with red, papery petals, large Garden
Parties flamboyant in white and yellow, Montezumas, Martin
Frobishers, and Mighty Mouses. He stopped and inhaled the strong
perfume of purple Intrigue. In the recombinant section, Halos,
blossoms in careful rainbow stripes, had grown immense. Giant
psychedelic grids, only vaguely rose-shaped, they pushed
everything else aside. Gonzales put his nose above a pink blossom
on a nameless bush; the rose smelled like peppermint candy.
He recognized the woman at the bottom of the path from
dossier pictures Traynor had shown him. Diana Heywood wore a
culotte dress of white cotton that exposed her shoulders, wrapped
tightly about her waist, split to cover her thighs. Small and
slender, she had close-cut dark hair, streaked with grey. No age
in her skin; fine, sculpted features. She wore glasses as opaque
as Gonzales's own.
She held out the thorny stem of a dark-red rose. "Would you
like a flower?" she asked. Sun across her face erased her
features.
"Thanks," he said as he took the flower gingerly, aware of
its thorns.
She said, "Who are you, and what do you want?"
"My name is Mikhail Gonzales, and I want to talk to you.
I'll be working with you at Halo."
She said, "Will you?" Her back to him, she knelt and snipped
away a greenish tangle of vine and thorn. The clippers choked on
a clump of grass. She freed them, then threw them to the ground,
where they stuck point-first, buzzed for a moment, then stopped.
She looked over her shoulder at him and said, "I've been waiting
for someone like you to show upthe company's lad, the one who
keeps watch on me and poor old Jerry, to make sure we don't do
anything unauthorized."
She stood and strode away from him, up the hill, her angry
steps kicking dirt off the stones. She stopped and turned to face
him. "Come on, Mister Gonzales," she said.
Cautiously holding the thorny stem, he followed her up the
path.
#
Diana Heywood and Gonzales sat drinking tea. He said, "I'm
the outside observer, yesthe spy, if you wantbut I don't think
we're at odds. They're asking you to do one job, me to do
another, but I don't see where our jobs conflict." She turned to
look at him; one eye was blue, the other green.
She said, "When Sentrax called me last week, that was the
first time I'd heard from them since they got rid of me years ago.
Not that they treated me badly, not by their standards. When they
fired me, years ago, they didn't just turn me loose, they paid me
well they're so prudentit was like oiling and wrapping a tool
before you put it away, because you might need it again. Now
they've found a use for me and unwrapped me and put me to work,
but I know they don't trust me. And of course I don't trust
them." She stood up. She said, "Come on, I'll show you what this
all means to me."
She led Gonzales into the next room, where their entry
t
riggered the lighting systems. Silk walls the color of pale
champagne were broken with floor-to-ceiling rosewood bookcases;
teak-framed sling chairs and matching tables stood together under
a multi-armed chrome lamp stand.
She stopped in front of a 1:6 scale hologram of a thin-
featured man, apparently ill at ease at being holoed; hands in
pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes not centered on the lens.
"That's Jerry," she said, pointing to the hologram. "He's
what this is all about, so far as I'm concerned. He's been
terribly injured, and Aleph thinks something can be done for him,
and as unlikely as that seems, given the extent of his injuries, I
will help as best I can." She looked at him, her face giving
nothing away, and said, "Are we leaving tomorrow morning?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I'd better get ready, hadn't I? Where are you
staying?"
"I thought I'd get a hotel room."
"No need. You can sleep here. I'll finish packing, and
we'll go out to eat."
#
Diana Heywood and Gonzales sat high in the Berkeley Hills,
looking onto the vast conurbations spread out beneath them. To
their right, the carpet of lights stretched away as far as they
could see, to Vallejo and beyond. In front of them lay Berkeley,
the dark mass of the bay, then the clustered lights of Sausalito
and Tiburon against the hills. Oakland was to their left,
reaching out to the Bay Bridge; and beyond the bridge, San
Francisco and the peninsula. Connecting all, streams of
automobiles moved in the symmetry of autodrive.
Gonzales's mouth still tingled from the hot chilies in the
Thai food, and he had a buzz from the wine. They had eaten at a
restaurant on the North Side, and afterward Diana Heywood guided
the Truesdale up the winding road to an overlook near Tilden Park.
As minutes passed, the streets and highways and
municipalities disappeared into semiotic abstraction these
millions of human beings all gathered here for purposes one could
only guess atsome conscious, most not, no more than a beaver's
assembly of its structures of mud and wood.
A robot blimp passed across their line of sight. Beneath it,
a sailboat hung upside down. It swayed from lines that connected
its inverted keel to the blimp's featureless gondola. Lights on
the side of the blimp read EAST BAY YACHT OUTFITTERS.
Diana Heywood said, "I know you people have your own agendas,