by Peter Watts
"And these—these lesions don't have anything to do with that?"
"They do not."
"How do you know?"
"Most of the lesions are not located within the visual pathways. The others act to block the transmission of images, not generate them."
"Where are the lesions located?"
"The lesions lie along pathways connecting the limbic system and the neocortex."
"What are those pathways used for?"
"Those pathways are inactive. They have been interrupted by the surgical—"
"What would they be used for if they were active?"
"The activation of long-term memories," said the booth.
Oh God. Oh God.
"Is there any other way we can be of service?" the booth asked after a while.
Clarke swallowed. "How—how long ago were the lesions induced?"
"Between ten and thirty-six months, depending on your mean metabolic rate since the procedure. This is an approximation based upon subsequent scarring and capillary growth."
"Could such an operation take place without the patient's knowledge?"
A pause. "I don't know how to answer that question."
"Could it take place without anesthetic?"
"Yes."
"Could it take place while the patient was asleep?"
"Yes."
"Would the patient feel the lesions forming?"
"No."
"Could the equipment for such a procedure be housed within, say, an NMR helmet?"
"I don't know," the booth admitted.
Beebe's medical cubby had had an NMR. She'd used it occasionally, when she'd cracked her head during combat with Channer's wildlife. No lesions had appeared on her printout then. Maybe they didn't show up on the default settings she'd used, maybe you had to dial up a specific test or something first.
Maybe someone had programmed Beebe's scanner to lie.
When did it happen? What happened? What can't I remember?
She was dimly aware of muffled sounds, distant and angry, rising from somewhere outside. They were irrelevant, they made no sense. Nothing made any sense. Her mind, luminous and transparent, rotated before her. Purple stars erupted from the medulla like a freeze-framed fountain, bright perfect droplets thrown high into the cortex and frozen at apogee. Bright thoughts. Memories, amputated and cauterized. They almost looked like some kind of free-form sculpture.
Lies could be so beautiful in the telling.
Decoys
The way Aviva Lu saw it, whoever died last was the winner.
It didn't matter what you actually did with your life. Da Vinci and Plasmid and Ian Anderson had all done mags more than Vive or any of her friends ever would. She'd never explore Mars or write a symphony or even build an animal, at least not from scratch. But the thing was, all those people were dead already. Fame hadn't kept Olivia M'Benga's faceplate from shattering. Andrew Simon's charge against Hydro-Q hadn't added one rotting day to his lifespan. Passion Play might have been immortal, but its composer had been dust for decades.
Aviva Lu knew more about the story so far than all of those guys had.
It was all just one big, sprawling interactive storybook. It had a beginning and a middle and an end. If you came in halfway through, you could always pick up the stuff you'd missed—that's what tutorials and encyclopedias and Maelstrom itself were for. You could get a thumbnail History of Life right back to the time Martian Mike dropped out of the sky and started the whole thing off. Once you were dead, though, that was it. You'd never know what came next. The real winners, Vive figured, were the ones who saw how the story finally ended.
That said, it kind of pissed her off to realize that she'd probably made it to the finals.
That much had been obvious even before this firewitch thing had started burning its way across the continent. There'd been a time, she'd heard, you could just pick up and go places; none of these whackamole barriers going up and down all the time, like you had to shoot some kind of lottery every time you wanted to cross the street. There'd been a time when you could fight off plagues and parasites yourself, just using your own body systems, without having to buy a fix from some pharm who'd probably tweaked the disease in the first place so you had to buy their crummy genes. According to Vive's pater, there'd even been a time when the police themselves had been under control.
Of course, parents weren't exactly paragons of reliability. That whole generation was too busy shooting itself up with crocodilian and plant organelles to worry about getting their facts right. Not that Vive had any objections to good health—she'd been taking croc supplements herself for years. She even took proglottids and Ascaris eggs every now and then—she hated the idea of all those worms hatching out in her gut, but these days your immune system needed every workout it could get.
And besides, that was a long way from polluting your genotype with lizard DNA, even if Pfizer did have a discount this month and wouldn't it be great to not be so dependent on outside drugs all the time, sweetie?
Sometimes Vive wondered if her parents even really knew what a species was any more. In fact, that was the whole problem: rather than clean the shit out of the world, people just turned themselves into coprovores. In a couple of years the human race was going to be half cockroach. If everything hadn't already melted down by then.
Meltdown, actually, was preferable. Better to tear everything down and just start over. Put everyone on the same footing for a change.
That's why Aviva Lu was here now, waiting for Lenie Clarke to show up.
Lenie Clarke was the Meltdown Madonna.
* * *
Actually, Aviva Lu wasn't exactly sure what Lenie Clarke was. She seemed to be an army of one. She had died, and risen again. She'd kick-started the Big One out of sheer impatience, tired of waiting for some long-overdue apocalypse that had always threatened and never delivered. She'd single-handedly broken open the Strip, led a refugee revolt whose existence N'AmPac still wouldn't admit to. Fire followed in her wake; anyone who opposed her was ash inside a week.
What Lenie Clarke really was, Vive had always figured, was bullshit.
There were a lot of people who thought otherwise, of course. People who swore up and down that Lenie Clarke was a real person, not just some marketing icon trying to electroshock rifter chic back off the slab. They said that the Meltdown Madonna actually was a rifter, one of N'AmPac's trained deep-seals— but that something had happened on the bottom of the ocean, something mythic. The Big One had only been a symptom, they said, of what had changed her. Now Lenie Clarke was a sorceress, able to transmute organic matter into lead or something. Now she wandered the world spreading apocalypse in her wake, and the masters she'd once served would stop at nothing to bring her down.
It made a good story—hey, any apocalypse that threatened the corpses was long overdue as far as Vive was concerned—but she'd heard too many others. Lenie Clarke was the Next Big Sensorium Personality. Lenie Clarke was a quantum AI, built in defiance of the Carnegie Protocols. Lenie Clarke was an invention of the corpses themselves, a bogeyman to scare restless civilians into obedience. For a couple of days Lenie Clarke had even been some kind of escaped microbe from Lake Vostok.
These days the stories were a lot more consistent; Lenie Clarke hadn't been anything but the Meltdown Madonna for weeks now, as far as Vive could tell. Probably the test marketers had settled on the line that would sell the most faux diveskins, or something. And why not? The look was in, the eyes were killer, and Vive was a much a fashion hound as anyone.
At least, that was what she'd thought until all of bloody Maelstrom started talking in one voice.
Now that had been wild. Half of Maelstrom might have been wildlife, but the other half was spam filters; there was just no way that anyone could have pulled that off, even the corpses. But she'd seen it herself, on her own (only slightly illegal) wristwatch: everyone she knew had seen it on theirs, or heard it from some matchmaker, or even seen it printed across person
al visors that should have been hawking drugs or Levi's: Lenie Clarke is closing on Yankton. Lenie Clarke is in trouble. Lenie Clarke needs your help.
Now. Cedar and West Second.
Whatever Lenie Clarke was, she had very powerful friends to pull off something like that. All of a sudden Vive found herself taking rifter chic very seriously indeed. Lindsey'd said they were all being used—someone with really long arms must be building a bandwagon as cover for something else, Carnegie knew what exactly—and Lindsey was probably right. So what? They were decoys for something, but that something was headed here, and whatever it was, Vive was going to be part of it.
It was gonna be a great ride.
* * *
Les beus knew it, too.
There were two kinds of uniforms swarming across the concourse: police and rifters. Les beus bristled with shockprods and botflies and armored exoskels. The rifters had their fake diveskins and their cheap white contacts. Everything else, Vive knew, was bravado. Maelstrom had called out, and they'd come on faith and adrenaline. By now it was pretty obvious that faith wasn't all that necessary; the enforcer presence was more than enough evidence that something big was in town.
So far, nothing had exploded. Both sides were still jockeying for position, maybe pretending—to those scattered pedestrians who still hadn't grabbed the bone and vanished—that there was really nothing to worry about. The police had cordoned off whole sections of the concourse, not herding yet but well into corral mode. For their part, the rifters were testing the perimeter; milling along halls and slidewalks, dodging back and forth across the exoskel lines, always stopping just short of anything the antibodies could cite afterward as provocation. Botflies swarmed overhead like big black eggs, taking pre-game footage of everything.
Both sides were behaving really well, all things considered. Which made sense, kind of, since neither side was mainly there for the other. Vive figured things would heat up pretty quick once the star attraction showed up.
Her watch beeped. That was a surprise: the opposition always jammed the local frequencies way in advance, before anything even broke out. It kept people from organizing on the fly.
"Yeah?"
"Hey, we got through!" Lindsey's voice.
"Yeah," Vive said. "Forces of darkness slow on the draw today."
"I forgot to say I want mustard. Oh, and Jen wants a samosa."
"As well as a dog, or instead?"
"Instead."
"'Kay." Lindsey and Jen were at the perimeter, keeping an eye on enemy movements while Vive went for supplies. They were all veterans now, pros with two or three actions under their belts. All of them had been gassed or shocked at least once. Jen had even spent a night in a pacifier, from which they'd all learned a timely lesson in the importance of pre-game nourishment: POWs didn't get fed for at least the first twelve hours—bad enough in any case, but worse when you'd gotten yourself all 'dorphed up for the party. Cranking your BMR really brought on the munchies.
There was a row of vending machines lined up on the far wall of the concourse: medbooths, fashion dispensers, arrays of prepackaged foods. Vive shouldered her way through the crowd, homing in on a holographic Donair turning in space like some edible Holy Grail.
Someone grabbed her from behind.
Before she could react she was inside one of the medbooths, pushed up against the sensor panel. A woman with shoulder-length blond hair pinned her there, one hand splayed against Vive's sternum. She wasn't on the team; she had a visor across her eyes, and a backpack, and the rest of her wasn't rifter either. A pissed-off pedestrian maybe, caught in the swarm.
The medbooth door hissed shut behind her, blocking the deciblage from outside. The woman leaned back, opening a bit of a space in the crowded enclosure.
"What is this?" the woman said.
"This is really rude," Vive snapped back. "Also kidnapping or something probably. Not that those—"
"Why are you—" The woman paused. "Why the costume? What's going on?"
"It's a street party. I guess you never got invit—"
The woman leaned fractionally closer. Vive shut up. There was something about this situation that was starting to give her serious pause.
"Answer me," the crazy woman said.
"We're—we're rifters," Vive told her.
"Right."
"Lenie Clarke's in town. Haven't you heard?"
"Lenie Clarke." The crazy woman took her hand off Vive's chest. "No shit."
"None at all."
A sudden dim sound, like distant surf, filtered in from outside. The crazy woman didn't seem to notice.
"This is insane." She shook her head. "What are you going to do, exactly, when Lenie Clarke shows up?"
"Look, we're just here to see what happens. I don't make up the threads, all right?"
"Get an autograph, maybe. Get a gram of flesh or two, if there's enough to go around."
Suddenly, that voice had turned very flat and very scary.
She could kill me, Vive thought.
She kept her own voice sweet and reasonable. Meek, even: "We're not hurting you. We're not hurting anyone."
"Really." The crazy woman leaned in close. "You sure about that? Do you have the slightest clue who this Lenie Clarke even is?"
Vive broke.
It wasn't a plan. At least it wasn't a very good one. The medbooth barely held both of them, and the door was behind the crazy woman: there was no room around. Vive just sprang forward like a cornered dog, tried desperately to squirm past. Both fell back into the door; the door, obligingly, slid open.
Even in that split-second, Vive took it in: a botfly nearby, spewing canned warnings about orderly dispersal. The movement of the crowd, no longer vague and diffuse but concentrated, pushed together like a school of krill in a purse seine. Conversation fading; shouts starting up.
The herding was underway.
Vive's momentum carried the crazy woman less than a meter before the edge of the crowd pushed back. The rebound put both of them inside the booth again. Vive launched herself low, under the other woman's arm—sudden, tearing pain over one eye—
"Ow!"
—and a hand closed around her throat, pushed her back, her legs shooting out from under her, her feet briefly trampled by some nameless crowd-particle until she pulled them back with a cry and the door slid shut again, cutting the outside world down to a faint roar.
Oh, felch…
Aviva Lu sat on the floor of the medbooth, her legs pulled up in front of her, and forced her eyes to track upward. Crazy Woman's legs. Crazy Woman's crotch. It seemed like it would take forever to get to the eyes, and Vive was terrified of what she'd find when she got—
Wait a second—
There, just to the left of Crazy Woman's sternum—a tear in her clothing, a hard crescent glint of metal.
That's what cut me. Something metal on her chest. Sticking out of her chest…
Crazy woman's hand. Holding her visor, broken in the scuffle, one earpiece gone. Crazy woman's throat; a turtleneck sweatshirt covering any disfigurement there.
Crazy woman's eyes.
What had she said? That's right: Do you have the slightest clue who this Lenie Clarke even is?
"Oh, wow," said Aviva Lu.
* * *
"You're kidding," said Lenie Clarke. They stood facing each other, breathing each other's air in the medbooth.
"One thread said you were infected with nanobots that could reproduce outside your body and start fires when they had a big enough population. They said you were fucking your way across the world to infect everyone else, so we'd all have the power someday."
"It's bullshit," Clarke said. "It's all bullshit. I don't know how it got started."
"All of it?" Vive didn't know what to make of all this. For the Meltdown Madonna, Lenie Clarke didn't seem to have a clue. "You're not on some kind of crusade, you're not—"
"Oh, I'm on a crusade all right." Lenie flashed a smile that Vive couldn't decompile. "I just do
n't think any of you want to see it succeed."
"Well, you were down in the ocean," Vive said. "For the Big One. What happened down there?" It couldn't all be detritus, could it? "And on the Strip? And—"
"What's happening right here?" Lenie said.
Vive gulped. "Right."
"How did they even know about me? How did you know?"
"Well, like I said, someone spread the word."
Lenie shook her head. "I guess I'd be caught right now if it wasn't for…" – faint crowd sounds filtered through from outside—"that…"
"Well, they'll never tag you on visual," Vive said. "There's like a few sagan Lenie Clarkes out there, and you don't look like any of 'em."
"Yeah. And how many of them have a chestful of machinery to go with the eyecaps?"
Vive shrugged. "Probably none. But—oh. The botflies."
"The botflies." The Meltdown Madonna took a deep breath. "If they haven't tagged me already, I'm going to be a big bright EM rainbow the second I step outside."
"I wondered why they weren't jamming our watches," Vive said. "They don't want to scramble your sig."
"What if I just wait in here until everybody goes away?"
"Won't work. I've run this before; half-hour, tops, before they gas the whole place and just walk in."
"Shit. Shit." Lenie looked around the booth like some kind of caged alien.
"Wait a sec," Vive said. "Are they looking for your exact signature, or just any old EM?"
"How should I know?"
"Well, how do your implants shine?"
"A lot of myoelectrics. Boosted source for the electrolysis assembly and the reservoir dumps, of course. And the vocoder." The rifter smiled, a tiny challenge. "That mean anything to you?"
"Like a prosthetic heart, only stronger."
"Got any friends with a fake heart? Maybe I could use them as a decoy."
"Les beus might just round up everyone with implants and sort 'em out later." Vive thought. "You don't need a decoy, though. You just need to jam your own signal. You shouldn't be putting out more than two milligausse, tops. Standard wall line would mask that, but then you wouldn't be able to move away from the wall. And watches and visors don't have the field strength."