Chu was oddly unconcerned with the apocalypse. He was busy, busy, busy studying Ond's pages of code. He'd become obsessed with the challenge of learning every single code block.
By suppertime, the red zone had begun eating into the neighborhood where Ond and Nektar lived. Ond lent their next door neighbors—Willy's parents—an extra wireless network antenna to drive off the nants, and let them run an extension cord to Ond's generator. President Doakes's face gloated and leered from the sky.
“02A1B59F, 9812D007, 70FFDEF6,” said Chu when Nektar went to tuck him in that night. He had Ond's sheaf of pages with a flashlight under his blanket.
“Give me that,” said Nektar, trying to take the pages away from him.
“Daddy!” screamed Chu, a word he'd never used before. “Stop her! I'm not done!"
Ond came in and made Nektar leave the boy alone. “It's good if he learns the code,” said Ond, smoothing Chu's chestnut cap of hair. “That way there's a chance that—never mind."
When Nektar and Ond awoke the next morning, the house next door was gone.
“Maybe he set up the antenna wrong,” said Ond.
“Their lawn's been eaten, too,” said Nektar, standing by the window. “Everyone's lawn. And the trees. Look out there. It's a wasteland. Oh God, Ond, we're going to die."
Indeed, as far as the eye could see, the once-fair village had been reduced to bare dirt. The air was glittering with hordes of freshly made nants, a seething fog of omnivorous, pullulating, death-in-life. For now the nants were staying away from Ond and Nektar's house. But the gasoline for the generator wouldn't last forever. And, for that matter, at some point the nants would undermine the house's foundation.
Chu was in the video room watching a screen showing his friend Willy. Chu had thought to plug the video into an extension cord leading to the generator. Ond's dog-eared pages of code lay discarded on the floor.
“It's radical in here, Chu,” Willy was saying. “It feels real, but you know you're inside a game. It's like being a toon. I didn't even notice when the nants ported me. I guess I was asleep. Jam on up to V-Earth as soon as you can."
“Turn that off !” cried Nektar, darting across the room to unplug the video.
“I'm done with Daddy's code blocks,” said Chu. “I know them all. Now I want to be a nant toon."
“Don't say that!” said Nektar.
“It might be for the best, Nektar,” said Ond. “You'll see.” He began tearing his closely written sheets into tiny pieces.
“What is wrong with you?” yelled Nektar. “You'd sacrifice your son?"
Nektar kept a close eye on Chu that day. She didn't trust Ond with him anymore. The constant roar of the generator motor was nerve-wracking. And then Nektar's worst fear came true. She stepped into the bathroom for just a minute, and when she came out, Chu was running across what was left of their yard and into the devastated zone where the nants swarmed thick in the air. And Ond—Ond was watching Chu from the kitchen door.
The nants converged on Chu. He never cried out. His body puffed up, the skin seeming to seethe. And then he—popped. There was a puff of nant-fog where Chu had been, and that was all.
“Don't you ever talk to me again,” Nektar told Ond. “I hate you, hate you, hate you."
She lay down on her bed with her pillow over her head. Soon the nants would come for her and she'd be in their nasty fake heaven with moronic Joe Doakes installed as God. The generator roared on and on. Nektar thought about Chu's death over and over and over until her mind blanked out.
At some point she got back up. Ond was sitting on the back stoop, staring up at the sky. He looked unutterably sad.
“What are you doing?” Nektar asked him.
“Thinking about going to be with Chu,” said Ond.
“You're the one who let the nants eat him. Heartless bastard."
“I thought—I thought he'd pass my code on to them. But it's been almost an hour now and nothing is—wait! Did you see that?"
“What?” said Nektar drearily. Her son was dead, her husband was crazy, and soulless machines were eating her beloved Gaia.
“The Trojan fleas just hatched!” shouted Ond. “Yes. I saw a glitch. The nants are running backward. Reversible computation. Look up at the sky. The scrolls are spiraling inward now instead of out. I knew it would work.” Ond was whooping and laughing as he talked. “Each of the nants preserves a memory trace of every single thing it's done. And my Trojan fleas are making them run it all backward."
“Chu's coming back?"
“Yes. Trust me. Wait an hour."
It was the longest hour of Nektar's life. When it was nearly up, Ond's generator ran out of gas, sputtering to a stop.
“So the nants get us now,” said Nektar, too wrung out to care.
“I'm telling you, Nektar, all the nants are doing from now on is running in reverse. They'll all turn back into ordinary matter and be gone."
Out past the end of the yard there was a dense spot in the swarm of nants. The patch mashed itself together and became—
“Chu!” shouted Nektar, running out toward him, Ond close behind. “Oh, Chu!"
“Don't squeeze me,” said Chu, shrugging his parents away. Same old Chu. “I want to see Willy. Why don't the nants eat me?"
“They did,” exulted Ond. “And then they spit you back the same as before. That's why you don't remember. Willy will be back. Willy and his parents and their house and all the other houses and people too, and all the plants, and eventually even Mars. You did good, Chu. 70FFDEF6, huh?"
For once Chu smiled. “I did good."
* * * *
* * * *
Copyright © 2006 Rudy Rucker
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
A Flight of Numbers Fantastique Strange
by Beth Bernobich
Beth Bernobich lives in the wilds of Connecticut, in a town where the cows outnumber the people, and the view from her office includes wild turkeys, woods, and the neighbor's horse paddock. Her short fiction has appeared in various venues including Strange Horizons,The Nine Muses, and Sex in the System, and she is currently working on a fantasy novel about magic and pirates. In her first story for Asimov's SF, she takes us to an alternate time and place where we can embark on...
Like every other visitation room in Aonach Sanitarium—and Simon knew them all—this one was painfully bare, with narrow windows set high in the walls. In spite of the brilliant September sunlight, the air felt chilled, as though the thick glass had leached away the sun's vitality, and a faint astringent smell lingered, a hospital smell that Simon associated with having his tonsils removed when he was twelve. He shivered and wished he had kept his frock coat with him.
Across the room, his sister sat cross-legged on the floor, her white gown billowing around her thin body.
“141955329. Times two. Exponent 25267. Add one."
Gwyn spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with painful care. Even so, her voice sounded furry—a side effect of the drugs, Simon knew.
“1031980281. Times two. Exponent 25625. Subtract one."
When Gwyn first began these litanies, Simon had immediately recognized the numbers for simple primes. As the months and years passed, however, the numbers swelled to fantastical lengths, surpassing all the known tables. Simon could only assume these were primes as well.
Tara Gwyn Madoc. Twenty-three. Her age too was a prime number, as was his. Twins who had once been so close...
The faint bleating of a horn filtered through the windows—most likely from a motorcar as it pressed through Awveline City's crowded avenues. Simon rubbed his forehead, trying to massage away an incipient headache.
Sit quietly with her, the doctors had advised. Your presence serves to heal.
He saw no sign of it, however. When had their lives changed from velvet curtains and silk-knotted carpets to this whitewashed room? Even the walls had been stripped bare, the carpets removed, and the floors sanded to eliminate splinters. For
merly, they had allowed him a stool, but one day Gwyn seized the stool and flung it at Simon's head.
“1031980281. Times two exponent 25625 add one, Simon. Add one."
Simon snapped up his head. Had she really said his name?
“353665707. Times two. 25814. Minus 1. 353665707*225814+1. 1958349*231415-1. 1958349*231415+1."
The numbers poured out so fast that Simon could barely distinguish between them.
“1958349 times two exponent—"
Gwyn broke off, her face stricken as she groped for the next number. A moment's hush followed, so profound Simon could almost hear the sunlight beating against the windows.
“Gwyn?” he whispered, hoping she might hear him today.
His sister's eyes went blank, and she began to rock back and forth, keening. That too fit the pattern of their visits—numbers, confusion, silence, grief, then anger.
Still keening, Gwyn lifted her hands toward the barred windows, which cast faint blue shadows over the floor. In the brilliant sunlight, the silvery scars on her wrists and palms stood out against her pale skin. There was a theory associating particular numbers with certain colors. So far there were no practical applications, but several recent papers from Lîvod University in Eastern Europe claimed to support the theory—
Without warning, Gwyn launched herself at Simon. They crashed against the wall and rolled over, he grappling for her wrists while she tore at his face with her fingernails, shrieking, “Simon Simon Simon Simon Simon Simon."
The door banged open, and five attendants burst into the room. Four of them dragged Gwyn away. The fifth helped Simon to his feet.
“You've taken a cut, sir.” The young man dabbed Simon's forehead with a handkerchief.
Simon pushed away the attendant's hand. “Thank you. It's nothing. Do not trouble yourself."
“No trouble at all, sir."
Meanwhile, Gwyn shrieked and cursed and sobbed as the other attendants wrestled her into submission. Her pale blonde hair fell in snarls over her face, ugly red blotches stained her cheeks, and her mouth looked swollen. Simon could not tell if one of the attendants had struck her, or if she had injured herself in the struggle.
I was right here. I should have heard a slap.
Before Simon could say anything, the four attendants bundled Gwyn out the door. The remaining man gave one last dab to Simon's forehead before he too departed. Simon drew a long breath. He flexed his hands, which ached as though he'd been clenching them.
“Mr. Madoc."
Doctor Lusk came into the room. His placid gaze took in Simon's bleeding forehead and rumpled clothes. “A difficult session,” he said. “But not unexpected."
“We were too optimistic,” Simon said.
“Hardly, sir. Say, rather, that we were hopeful. Despite today's setback, I still believe your visits comfort your sister. Minz and Gerhardt speak of the soothing effect of familiar faces, and their latest research shows great promise."
Simon murmured, “Of course,” his thoughts still on Gwyn. Had she sounded more desperate today? And, yet, she had remembered his name. That had to be a positive sign.
Still distracted by that possibility, Simon only half-listened as Lusk escorted him to the sanitarium's foyer, speaking in general terms about Gwyn's condition. It was a familiar topic, this discourse on madness and obsession, and how a brilliant mind often shattered under unbearable pressure, only to seek refuge in that which had driven it mad.
For Gwyn was mad from too many numbers, and the damage appeared irreversible. However, they were trying kindness, as far as that went, and with Simon's permission, they employed some of the more exotic cures—combinations of music and drugs, the newest electrical therapy, and other techniques Simon didn't want to examine too closely. Lusk spoke of finding the root cause, as though Gwyn were a complex number whose illness they could calculate.
They came at last to the sanitarium's foyer, a vast room filled with the sweet scent of roses, and decorated with opulent rugs and rich hangings. Several women dressed in promenade gowns sat in plush chairs by the windows. A lone man occupied a couch by the empty fireplace, apparently absorbed in a book. As Doctor Lusk took his leave from Simon, the man stood and approached.
“Pardon me. I'm told you might be Mr. Simon Madoc."
He was a tall man, with a lean tanned face that certain women might call handsome. His eyes were warm and brown, his gaze direct. He wore a well-cut black frock coat and silk vest. Obviously an educated man, though his accent was hard to place.
Simon held out his hand. “I am Simon Madoc. But you have the advantage of me, sir."
They shook hands, and the man smiled briefly. “Perhaps I should start again. Commander Adrian Dee is my name. I'd like a few words with you, if I may."
He spoke politely enough, but something in his manner told Simon that the question was a perfunctory one. “What about?"
Another one of those business-like smiles. “I'd rather talk outside, Mr. Madoc. There's a park nearby. I thought we might walk along the Blackwater."
All the clues shifted—Dee's manner, the way his gaze absorbed every detail—and Simon knew why Dee had sought him out. He's come about the murders.
He studied Dee with greater wariness. “I'm happy to assist you in whatever way possible, Commander, but if you've come with questions about the cases from last spring, I've remembered nothing new."
“I didn't say you had, Mr. Madoc. Please. Come with me."
They exited the foyer and set off along the sanitarium's graveled pathways. Simon expected Dee to begin his questions at once, but Dee remained silent, gazing from side to side as they passed along a winding path bordered by late-blooming lilies, their rich scent hanging heavy in the warm air. Though it was still early afternoon, the grounds were nearly empty, and, from certain angles, Simon could almost imagine himself at home on his estates. It was for that reason, as well as its reputable doctors, that he had chosen Aonach Sanitarium for Gwyn's confinement.
“You are a man of impressive wealth,” Dee said.
Recalled abruptly from his reverie, Simon nearly stumbled. “And you a man of abrupt turns, Mr. Dee. Or should I call you Commander?"
“As you wish,” Dee said with a faint smile. “And I merely observed the fact in passing. Forgive me if I trespassed into your private concerns."
“Of course,” Simon said automatically. “Besides, curiosity and questions are part of your trade, are they not, Commander?"
“They are, Mr. Madoc. And for you as well, am I right?"
Simon shrugged. “As the poet once said, ‘The tools of mathematics are a curious set—the eye, the hand, the pen, the brain. It is with these instruments, we cast our net. And bring to earth a flight of numbers fantastique strange.’”
Dee smiled with recognition of the lines. “Henry Donne. Obscure Anglian poet of the late sixteenth century."
“Obscure for many reasons,” Simon replied. “His meter falters more often than not, but I find his sentiments true."
They had come to the outer gates, which opened onto a pleasant boulevard, filled with carriages and the occasional motorcar. With Dee leading, they crossed into the park, where a series of well-tended footpaths soon brought them to the Blackwater, a dark and sluggish river that wound through Awveline City's heart. It was a sunny day and other pedestrians strolled the walkways—women in silk-lined pelisses, their faces hidden beneath sweeping hats; men in stiff-collared shirts and bowlers.
“As you've guessed, I've come about the murders last spring."
Dee's voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Simon's skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the police gave up their investigation for lack of evidence."
“The department merely suspended their inquiries; they did not close the case."
“And now?"
“And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has."
Simon stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?"
“We've had another death, Mr. Madoc. A youn
g woman named Maeve Kiley."
The news struck Simon like a physical blow. He'd talked to Maeve just yesterday afternoon.
“When?” he whispered. “How?"
“Last night,” Dee said. “We haven't definite word yet, but we think sometime after midnight. A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons."
Simon stared at Dee, still unable to take in the news properly. All around them, the autumn day continued, serene and lovely. A half-dozen balloons drifted across the skies, their motors silent at this distance—blue messenger craft heading across Éireann's Sea to neighboring Albion or the Anglian Dependencies. Grand air-yachts in silver and emerald. A single red balloon floated above them all.
“We've notified Lord Kiley about his daughter,” Dee continued in that soft strange tone. “And we are talking to certain people who might have useful information. However, I would appreciate your silence until we make our formal announcement of the crime."
With an effort, Simon recovered himself. “How do you know it's the same murderer?"
“The evidence so far supports our theory."
He could be speaking of mathematical theorems and their proofs, not of a young woman slaughtered by a madman. Dislike sparked inside Simon, and he had to consciously keep that reaction from his voice. “And you want it kept a secret. Why?"
“Let me say only that your Provost pleaded strongly for discretion. He plans on making a general announcement tomorrow. You knew the girl, did you not?"
“Of course I knew her!"
The words burst out of him, loud enough to startle a passerby. Simon wiped his forehead and tried to calm himself. “Of course I knew her,” he repeated quietly.
A pretty girl with delicate features and creamy skin, all the more fair against her coal-dark eyes and hair. Simon remembered how her cheeks flushed when she argued a theory in lectures. It was hard to take in that she was dead.
A breeze ruffled the Blackwater's surface, drawing silvery lines over the dark waters—waters that had cradled the murderer's first victim. The season had been early spring, the soft twilight air filled with newly blooming flowers.
Asimov's SF, June 2006 Page 15