by Ted Cross
Kostya shook his head. “I don’t believe it can hurt us. It’s the military chips that worry me. It doesn’t matter who took them. Once someone tries one of those, the general will learn about it eventually. We’ve got to get those cards back.”
It was hard to think straight with all the noise in the room. Tyoma tried to imagine what would happen if the general found out they had completed the project years ago, but had been lying about it ever since in order to keep the funding going for their side project. “Kostya, why don’t we just take what we have and leave? We’re so close now. We could—”
“How? It takes billions for the equipment alone. The crèches are far too big to take with us. There’s no starting over.”
Tyoma sank his head into his hands. “What do we do? We’re all old men. We’re not fit to go after this guard, even if we use the chips. And can we even trust the other guards?”
Kostya sighed. “I don’t know. But what choice do we have?”
“Quiet, please!” said Big Dima, raising his hands. Tyoma had noticed him seeming lost in thought for the past few minutes. “I just got a call from General Andreykin. He’ll be here shortly.”
Everyone began talking at once again, but Volodya’s voice cut through the noise. “Of course he was bound to hear what happened. We could turn this in our favor, perhaps.” He turned to Tyoma. “Did you ever complete that code?”
Tyoma nodded. “I’ve been adding new features at times, but it’s essentially been ready for over a month. It all depends on getting him to bite.”
Volodya grinned like a wolf, and for once Tyoma didn’t feel it was aimed at him. “I think we should let the general meet with Tyoma alone. The rest of us can figure out which cards are missing and come up with a plan for what to do next.”
Kostya clapped a hand to Tyoma’s shoulder and smiled. “I hope this works. Use a spell if you must, my good wizard!”
“I need you to join me next time,” Tyoma said, referring to their favorite sim. “I just got my ass kicked in a basilisk lair, and the AI henchmen can’t make up for your absence.”
Kostya looked rueful. “Sorry, I’ve been helping my son with something. Maybe next week.”
Tyoma thought he saw a hint of embarrassment in his friend’s face. “Vasiliy? Isn’t he close to completing his PhD?” he asked, referring to Kostya’s grandson, who had been studying neurology in order to follow in Kostya’s footsteps.
Kostya scratched his eyebrow and looked at the floor. “I thought so,” he whispered, then met Tyoma’s gaze. “He’s fallen into Meshing. I don’t even know for how long, but he’s even bought one of those damned bed’s that feeds and cleans him so he doesn’t need to snap out of it.”
Tyoma placed a hand on Kostya’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m so sorry, my friend. If I can help in any way…”
Kostya nodded and dropped his eyes back to the floor.
Salt Lake City, Utah
Sunday, June 8, 2138
12:19 a.m. MDT
Marcus had tossed fitfully on the faux-leather seat during the shuttle ride from Phoenix, wireless disconnected to give him some peace from his father, but he could not sleep despite his exhaustion. He was the only passenger. It must have cost his father a ton of money to book the sleek air bus. Not that it mattered given the fortune Javier had made a quarter century ago, when he had perfected the code that finally beat the plague of viruses that had all but paralyzed the Web.
The autobus announced its arrival at the international departures terminal in Salt Lake City. As the shuttle coasted to a stop, Marcus groaned and sat up to look out the window. A row of streetlights along the edge of the parking lot provided enough light to see a thick border of ash trees. A faint glow limned their tops, the only sign of the huge capital city beyond.
Marcus rubbed his eyes, yawned, and turned on his wireless.
«About time!» Javier said. «You cut me off before I had a chance—»
«I wasn’t in the mood,» Marcus said. «I needed some time to myself.»
«Okay, I understand. But we need some time for planning before you land in Moscow.»
«I turned you on again, didn’t I?» Marcus scowled, stood, and swung his father’s battered traveling case off of the overhead shelf.
«I ordered a chip for you. You can pick it up at the check-in desk.»
«Chip?» Marcus said. «What do I need a chip for? The Web has—»
«I’d have to filter everything to you. The interface is smoother, which is what you need for translations.»
«Russian?»
«Da.»
Marcus stepped off the shuttle and handed the bag off to the roboattendant standing to the right of the door.
“Mr. Saenz, the suborbital will depart as soon as you are ready.” The robot had a soothing female voice. “Please follow me to the departure lounge.”
The stumpy machine whirled around and rolled across the concrete sidewalk toward the brightly lit entrance.
«No people. Tell me you didn’t arrange this just for me. The shuttle was one thing, but this must have cost millions.»
«I needed to get you there as quickly as possible. Money isn’t a problem.»
«Using your own, or are you skimming from other people?»
«If I ever get to the point where I need to procure more money, I can get as much as I need without hurting anybody who doesn’t deserve it.»
«I see dying doesn’t bring higher morals with it.»
Javier chuckled. «I don’t see anything immoral about taking from bad people.»
Marcus realized it was the exhaustion making him feel argumentative, so he concentrated his sleep-blurred eyes on the stainless steel counter where the robot deposited his bag. A blue flashing light indicated where he should place his palm. As he waited for the system to check him in, Marcus looked around the small lounge. It was devoid of any sign of life other than a few potted cacti.
“Your order, Mr. Saenz.”
Marcus turned back to the counter and saw a card sitting in a sliding tray. He snatched it up and looked at the tiny lettering on one side—Russia: Language, history, laws, culture. He used the edge of the chip to scratch an itch on the back of his neck before sliding it home in his slot interface.
“Check-in complete. Mr. Saenz, you may proceed to the ship out the door to your right. Thank you for flying Amazon Air.”
The robot whisked the bag away and headed for the tarmac. Marcus followed at a leisurely pace. As he stepped into the cool darkness outside, he saw two floodlights illuminating a tall rocket half a kilometer away. A queasy feeling gripped his stomach as he thought of blasting off in that tin can and speeding halfway around the globe in less than two hours. He’d never ridden in a rocket, but he had viewed enough launches on the Web—and even simulated one once—to know that he wouldn’t enjoy this experience.
He looked at the small car waiting to take him to the rocket and decided to walk instead. Maybe the cool air will settle my stomach.
«Come to the capital for the first time and I don’t even get to see it,» he muttered to his father.
«You can see it on the way home.»
Marcus scowled. «If I get to come home.»
«How did I ever raise such a pessimist?»
«By being smarter and more famous than I could ever hope to be, and then dying just as I was beginning to think I could live with that.»
«Son, I’m sorry I left you. I really never meant to. Look at you. You haven’t set foot outside in ages. Stop a moment and look at the stars.»
«How do you know what I see?»
«You have any idea how many cameras there are in this city? I can extrapolate a lot from the views I get. I can’t get a good look at the sky, but I can tell the stars are out.»
Marcus stopped and examined the sky. It really was beautiful. Other than the slight glow of the city to the north, the sky was clear, aglow with millions of diamond pinpricks.
«You see the big one?»
«Can’t miss it.» A point of light bigger than any of the stars glowed at the very apex of the night sky. «The Plymouth?»
«Yep. They put it in orbit directly above the city so they could always see their future.»
Marcus had seen the generation ships a few times, sometimes from the window of his apartment and others using the Web. A dozen years ago, the Chinese had started the first one after the Hubble-Yi VII telescope had given a 97.8% certainty that a planet twenty-three light-years from Earth was habitable. The President of America West, Mormon trillionaire Trev Johnson, was the primary stakeholder of the second. Though construction began less than eight years ago, it was rumored that it might be ready to go before the Chinese ship. Marcus shuddered at the very thought of spending a lifetime trapped on a ship in the vague hope that one’s descendants might find a literal New World on the other end. And even if one ship did manage to colonize New Eden, as the Mormons were calling the planet, what would happen if the Chinese ship also survived the trip?
«Amazing how something so pretty can also be frightening,» Marcus said, and began walking toward the rocket again.
«Frightening? I’m excited to see the new world. I hope it will be suitable for humans.»
«You going to sneak aboard somehow?»
«I keep trying. They don’t leave connections open long enough for me to get all my data through, so I’ve taken to slipping myself through in modules.»
«Whatever makes you happy, as long as you don’t try to take me along with you.»
«You’re not Mormon, Marcus.»
«I’m not a diplomat either, Papa.»
Moscow
Sunday, June 8, 2138
11:25 a.m. MSK
Zoya rolled when she hit the ground, but her right elbow hit too hard, sending pain lancing through her arm. The exercise sims she used nearly every day kept her in pretty decent shape, but she wasn’t prepared for something like this. Adrenaline pounded in her head as she regained her feet and took off running toward the parking lot exit. She cradled her elbow with her left hand, hoping it wasn’t badly injured.
She heard a shout, and over her shoulder she saw one of the cops run out of the entrance door of her apartment block. Zoya fixed her eyes on the old Prospekt Andropova ahead and ran as fast as she could. Hardly anyone used ground cars anymore, so she easily avoided the few big supply haulers and buses as she crossed the street. When she reached the other side, she risked a look back again. The cop was chasing her, though he was slower than she was, but she saw the other cop and the short mobster jumping into their vehicles behind him. Damn! You won’t have much time now. Which way?
To the right was the refugee camp at Kolomenskoe, and left was the old metro station. The metro offered the best chance to get away from the vehicles, so she ran that way.
She focused on the entrance to the metro, steadfastly refusing to look back over her shoulder as she ran. There was a tingling in her spine, and she imagined one of the sky cycles or the police cruiser swooping by to cut her off at any moment.
A whimper escaped her lips as she slowed and slammed her hands into the hard plastic of the first swinging door. She had been into the station a few times as a young girl, invited by a girl her own age, whom she’d met while playing in the courtyard of her apartment building. The Trogs were a suspicious lot and guarded their underworld fiercely from outsiders. The first time she had entered the dimness of the metro entrance, Zoya’s friend was questioned by two elderly male guards before they consented to let Zoya proceed down the unmoving escalators into the station.
Now Zoya fully expected to be stopped by Trog guards, and she welcomed the thought. Whatever they might think of her, they would think far worse about allowing the mobsters or cops to invade their sanctuary. She was surprised to find no guards, only three ragged drunks huddled together against the near wall.
Zoya whipped around just in time to see a sky cycle skim to a halt a few meters away. She cried out and ran for the nearest escalator. Her instincts saved her at the last moment, sensing the utter darkness where the silvery steps should be. Her feet teetered on the brink, and she desperately grabbed the rubber rails to avoid plunging into the chasm. She had read about ancient escalators collapsing, often plunging dozens of Trogs to their death. Her injured elbow protested as she yanked herself back from the abyss. Zoya spun to the next lane and found the stairs still there. She raced as fast as she dared down into the darkness, the only light coming from lamps on the platform far below.
An elderly woman in a threadbare shawl was climbing slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail and breathing hard. She didn’t look up as Zoya tore by her.
“Zoya!” came a shout from above, echoing from the curved ceiling. “Give us the package and your mother lives!”
Zoya slowed her frantic plunge and tried to think. Could she deal with these criminals? Was Georgy being honest when he spoke about Tavik’s ruthlessness, or was it one of his typical exaggerations?
She halted and looked back up to see a shadowy figure standing at the top of the escalator. Gripping the rail as if to draw strength from it, she took one step back up and shouted, “Send my mama down to me and I’ll give them to you.”
“Done!”
Really? Just like that? It took a few moments to process what the man had said.
“Stay right there. We’ll bring her to you. A few minutes.”
Hope welled up in Zoya’s chest, but she fought it down. Maybe this is a trick to let them catch me easier. She rubbed her elbow and thought about continuing down the steps, but an image of her mother formed in her mind and she couldn’t move. She had to find out if the offer was real.
The old woman she had passed a few seconds ago had turned about, apparently frightened by the shouting man above. She drew close to Zoya and wagged a finger in her face. “You don’t belong here. You bring trouble to us.” The woman continued her painful descent without waiting for a response.
Zoya watched the top of the escalator, where the figure still stood, probably communicating wirelessly with Tavik. It felt like it was taking too long. Another figure joined the first, and Zoya caught a glint of light off metal in the man’s hand. A gun? She whirled around and started taking the steps two at a time, not caring about the dangers of a misstep in darkness.
“Stop! We’re bringing her right now!”
Zoya had expected to hear the blast of gunfire. When it didn’t come, she halted again. She could barely make out the figures at the top. “Send her down!”
“We will, but you must send the package up.”
“You’ll grab me if I come up.”
“We don’t need you or your mother. We just want our stuff. Have that old lady bring the package up to us.”
“Only if you send my mama down.”
“Same time. Send it up and we’ll send her down at the same time.”
Zoya turned and looked at the old woman, still trundling slowly down the steps. “Grandmother,” she said. “Will you please help me?”
The woman’s eyes glittered as she turned them on Zoya. “Go away. You bring trouble on our heads.”
“Please!” Zoya stretched a hand out toward the woman. “They have my mother. They’ll release her if you just take this package up to them.” She reached into her pocket to get the cards. Her hand found one, kept searching the pocket…nothing. Paralysis gripped her throat. One of them is gone! She tried to recall whether she had other chips in her pockets. She nearly always carried one on old Russian literature. Could she substitute it for the missing chip?
“Leave me be,” said the old woman, turning back to her descent.
“Zoya!” It was Tavik’s voice this time. “Your mother is here. She’s afraid and wants to come down to you. Please, stop playing games.”
A creaking sound to her left made Zoya turn, but the two remaining escalators were empty. Then she saw a slight movement and heard t
he creaking again. They’re trying to get around me!
“Here! You!” she cried to whomever was sneaking down the far escalator. “Take the package. Send my mother down to me.” She held out a hand holding the remaining card.
The short mobster in the black leather coat popped up from his hiding place and glared at her.
“It’s right here,” Zoya said, waving her fist. “Send me my mother and you can have it.”
Shorty smiled, showing gold-capped teeth, then turned and ran down the steps.
Zoya cried out and plunged downwards. The man had a head start and she despaired of overtaking him. As Zoya passed the old woman again, the man yelped as he missed a step and grabbed the rubber rail to avoid falling. Shouts came from above, but Zoya ignored them, instead focusing on the nearest lamp on the platform below. She had passed Shorty before he regained his footing, but the steps were treacherous in the dark and she dared not run too fast.
Her mother, would they kill her now? She pushed the thought away and concentrated on the lamplight. As she drew close to the bottom of the long escalator, she could see more details of the platform. Two rows of thin square columns ran off into the darkness, with a wide lane between them. It was hard to pick out details in the dark, but every meter of free space seemed to be occupied by bedding, belongings, and people.
“Help!” Zoya cried, as she slowed over the final few steps to avoid slamming into the huddle of figures at the bottom. “Help me, please!”
The figures leapt to their feet as Zoya slid to a stop and pointed toward the far escalator. “Over there! He’s chasing me!”
The people she could see were women, except for one ancient-looking man in a worn fur hat. The closest woman shoved Zoya’s shoulder and said, “You’re not one of us. Go away.”
Zoya looked back to see Shorty halted a few meters up on his escalator. Though she couldn’t see his face, she could sense his nervousness. Everyone knew the stories of what Trogs could do to outsiders who invaded their lairs.
“Send the girl up and we’ll leave,” Shorty said.