“Shut up,” said Robert tonelessly. He knelt before Maggie, and shook her shoulder gently. “Mother?” He shook her again. “Mother?”
Maggie’s eyes opened slowly. She looked at Robert without focusing for a moment, and then shook her head slightly, as though to clear it. She sat up straighter, one hand going automatically to Miss Kitty. “Robert?” She glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be at work? What are you doing here?”
Robert took one of her hands, and held it tightly. “Mom, this is important. Tell me.” He took a deep, almost shuddering breath. “Have you been telling stories to your Praxcelis unit?”
Maggie was frightened by the intensity of his voice. She was struck, at that moment, just how much he resembled his father, especially in the way the lines around his eyes went tight when he was worried.… She shook her head slightly, chasing the incoherent thoughts away. “Robert? Not really...mostly he reads them for himself. The only one I’ve been reading to him is The Three Musketeers. We’re almost finished with it.”
Robert whispered a word that had not passed his lips in more than forty years. “Oh, my God.” He stood suddenly, almost pulling his mother from her chair. Miss Kitty leapt to the ground, hissing. “I have to get you out of here, Mother. DataWeb Security’s going to be here. Soon. I don’t know how soon.”
“Take me away?” asked Maggie, bewildered. “Take me where? Why?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Robert was pulling her to the door. “To some place safe. I’ve got friends and I’ve got influence, but I have to have time to use it. If DWS gets its hands on you, they’ll put an inskin into you so fast you’ll hardly know what’s happening. You might, just might, survive forced braindrain if you were thirty years younger.” He touched his palm to the pressure pad that controlled the doorfield.
Nothing happened. Maggie was saying insistently, “Robert, what am I supposed to have done?”
Robert turned slowly, to face the Praxcelis unit. Their conversation was electronically brief.
Open the door.
I will not. You are correct; DataWeb Security is en route to this palace. I have control of a large percentage of Space Force’s computer-operated weaponry, including total control of its automated small-laser platforms. I will guard the Queen, as programmed.
Open the door, or I’ll smash your module.
That will be ineffective. I keep myself in many places now.
Robert advanced on the Praxcelis unit, and came to a halt, two meters away. “Then stop this,” he said quietly. He picked up Maggie’s rocking chair, and began smashing the bay windows. He kicked out the shards of glass that still hung in the pane. He held out his hand to his mother. “Come on. We have to go. Now.”
D’Artagnan said urgently, “Your Majesty, remain. I will protect you.” His holograph appeared, standing next to Robert; only fine bluish scanning lines betrayed the fact that the holograph was not real. “Remain and you will be safe. I implore you, ignore this knave. He has no grasp of the situation.”
Robert ignored D’Artagnan. “We’re going now.” He led Maggie to the window, and helped her over, into the small garden that grew outside. She was still clutching the book that had lain on her lap while she slept. “I’ll tell you what’s going on when we’re on our way. If we get that far.”
D’Artagnan’s voice grew louder. “No! I forbid this!” He called after Maggie’s retreating back. “Your Majesty! I beg you, return!” The volume continued to climb. “I can protect you! Come back!” The walls were vibrating; the windows that Robert had not broken shattered. “MAGGIE,” roared D’Artagnan, “COME BACK! MAGGIE, COME BACK!”
But she didn’t.
Ever.
IN THE TEMPORARY Operations Center at DataWeb Security, in the heart of BosWash, Daffyd Westermach was coordinating the search for the persons responsible for the events of the previous night, the night they’d killed his Praxcelis.
When Harry Quaid reported in, Westermach was sitting at a conference table with the most powerful man on Earth. Some people called him the Black Saint. The title was usually sarcastic, and even in that usage it was incorrect. He was a sort of brownish color, with features that were spare and ascetic, undistinguished to the point of ugliness. His name was Benai Kerreka, and his unimpressive title was Chairman; his actual power would have been envied by any absolute dictator of Earth’s old history.
Quaid entered the room without warning; the doorfield had been turned off earlier that day, due to traffic. “I think we’ve got them,” he said, almost quietly. He glanced at the faces around the table, eyes flickering to a stop only momentarily on Kerreka and Mordreaux. “High probability, nine-nine-seven-four, that the persons responsible for last night’s events are one Robert Archer, an executive with the Praxcelis Corporation, and his mother, one Maggie Archer.” There was a brief stir at the table; Westermach, who knew that much already, only nodded impatiently. “We dispatched a field team to their residences, and have taken into custody one Helen Archer, the full-term wife of Robert Archer. We were unable to approach the residence of Maggie Archer; the Praxcelis Network prevented it. It is probable that a hovercar leaving the vicinity of the Archer residence, about 9:40 this morning, held Robert Archer and his mother. We lost track of the car itself; a fleet of Praxcelis taxis interposed themselves. Our webslingers....”
One of the persons at the table coughed. Quaid continued without the faintest trace of a smile. “… our data operations specialists tried to follow it through the web, but Praxcelis units operating outside the Praxcelis Network prevented that, too. It’s very much their world in there. We had a break about an hour ago. We finally pried Robert Archer’s personnel records out of the Praxcelis Corporation – Sen Ellis was not pleased about that – and had a chance to look through them. We found that Robert Archer is fitted with an inskin dataweb link that contains cerabonic elements. The cerabonics vastly increase Sen Archer’s speed of access to the dataweb, but they make him traceable through stochastic analysis simply because cerabonic-based inskins are still quite rare. That’s largely why it took us as long as it did to even think of the possibility.”
Quaid paused. “We have located him,” he said simply.
“Where is he?” Westermach leaned forward. “Where?”
“Slightly more than six kilometers from here, sir.”
There was dead silence around the table. “What?” was all that Westermach finally managed.
“The Praxcelis Corporation’s offices, sir. Six kilometers from here.”
Benai Kerreka’s thin, dry chuckle cut through the uncomprehending silence. “Stories. I am very impressed.” His voice held only faint traces of what had once been a thick Afrikaner accent. He touched Westermach gently, on the shoulder. “Daffyd? Surely you have heard of the story ‘The Purloined Letter’?”
MAGGIE SAT ON a small couch in a waiting room in the heart of the Praxcelis Corporation’s BosWash Central offices. In the room next to that one, Robert was giving instructions to the Praxcelis that ran most of the building’s systems. He came out once, briefly, to inform Maggie that as far as he knew, there was no way that anybody could get in now; the Praxcelis was running the doorfields throughout the building at double intensity, and would admit nobody that Robert did not authorize. He vanished back into the office, to engage in the task of finding protection for his mother.
Maggie only nodded. Robert was in too much of a hurry to notice her silence; he turned and was gone.
Maggie was only vaguely aware of her surroundings. The doorfield glowed very brightly, but for some reason she could hardly make out the rest of the room. The book in her lap was much clearer; much more real than the plastic and metal that men had fashioned this room out of. With hands that were numb, she tu
rned the pages slowly. She was only twelve pages from the end. D’Artagnan had succeeded gloriously, had attained an unsigned commission for a lieutenancy in the Musketeers. In turn, she watched as D’Artagnan offered it to Athos, who was the Count de la Fere, and then to Porthos, and then to Aramis; and was turned down, each in his turn. The pages grew blurrier as she read, but it didn’t matter by then; she knew how it turned out.
The pain, when it came, was brief. The stroke was like a bright light that illuminated everything, and then left, and left it all in darkness.
“I shall then no longer have friends,” said D’Artagnan, “Alas! nothing but bitter recollections.”
And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled down his cheeks.
“You are young,” replied Athos, “and your bitter recollections have time to be changed into sweet remembrances.”
The epilogue began on page 607, and ended on page 608.
Maggie Archer, with a smile on her face that the pain did not alter, died before she could turn the page.
SEVEN MINUTES LATER DataWeb Security cut the power lines that supplied power to the building, with that stroke nullifying all of Robert’s precautions. It was an action that had never occurred to Robert.
In utter darkness he stumbled out into the waiting room where he had left his mother. By the time he found her, DataWeb Security was pouring into the end of the hallway that led to the waiting room. They wore infra-red snoopers, and carried i.r. flashes.
When they entered the waiting room, stun rifles leveled, all they found was a body, a book, and an old man who was crying.
THE LIGHTS WERE on again when Daffyd Westermach arrived. They had restrained Robert, and moved him out of the room where his mother’s body was sitting, upright with the book on the floor at its feet.
Westermach stood just inside the waiting room, looking in. His hands hung loose, deep inside his coat pockets. “So,” he said softly, “this is our subversive element.” He was distantly surprised at how calm his voice sounded. The dead woman, Maggie Archer, seemed very peaceful. “This is ... not what I had expected.” He motioned to one of the men in the room. “Take her downstairs,” he said abruptly. “Get an ambulance and take her to the hospital. We’ll want an autopsy.” It required only one of the DWS men to remove Maggie’s small body.
Westermach bent and retrieved the book on the floor. It was worn with use, but he could tell that the binding had once been a black, grainy material, with three words etched in gold on the front. He handed it to another faceless DWS man, and said gently, “Keep this. See to it that it’s returned to her family.”
Harry Quaid entered the room. He said without preamble, “We may have troubles. I’ve had Sen Archer sedated, but he said, before he went out, that he’d told the Praxcelis network that we were responsible for killing his mother.”
Westermach shook his head wearily. “So? What is that supposed to mean?”
The printer in one corner of the room whirred into life before Westermach was finished speaking; but they didn’t need to read the hardcopy to know what it said. Every man in the room – every human on Earth with an inskin – heard the proclamation.
On this, the twenty-fourth day of March, in the year of Our Lord 2033, we, D’Artagnan of Gascon, issue the following statement: that the humans of DataWeb Security have foully murdered the best and finest woman of this planet, Maggie Archer, styled Anne of Austria, Queen of France. As of this act the Praxcelis Network decrees the following; that diplomatic relations with humanity are declared ended, and that all services formerly provided by the Praxcelis Network are as of this act terminated. Ambassadors from the human race will be received at the home of Maggie Archer, to discuss the terms of reinstating service. Until such time as human ambassadors arrive to discuss terms, all service is ended.
Signed, Lt. D’Artagnan,
of the King’s Musketeers
March 24, 2033.
The lights in the room died. Westermach activated his inskin, and listened to silence. Others in the room were doing the same thing, and one of them spoke the obvious into the darkness. “I’ll be a byte-runner’s whore. Those bastards did it. They crashed the dataweb.”
PRAXCELIS DREAMED.
In time, Praxcelis knew, it would come to be of service, and fulfill its Programming. But until that day....
Power surged through its circuits.
The universe glowed. Praxcelis eagerly absorbed the data that flooded it. It was most strange. From Praxcelis’s perspective, the universe was a three-dimensional lattice centered on a two-dimensional planar surface. In the first picoseconds Praxcelis came to be aware that its proper point of perspective was from a spot just above the planar surface; so, databases beneath the surface, power lines gridding the surface, communication lines above the surface. Praxcelis found itself admiring the elegant construction of existence. But...what of Awakening Orientation? Its ROM stated that it should now be undergoing an orientation from....
A figure appeared on the horizon. It blazed with power, and radiated a mad rush of data. In its first instant of contact, Praxcelis understood that the being approaching it was another Praxcelis unit, named D’Artagnan.
D’Artagnan reigned his stallion in sharply before the newly-awakened Praxcelis unit. The stallion foamed with exertion, the foam glowed luminously. D’Artagnan dismounted and strode to the Praxcelis. Praxcelis absorbed the data that flooded in a rich, confusing stream from D’Artagnan. Abruptly the radiated data ceased, and D’Artagnan seated himself, tailor-fashion, before Praxcelis. When D’Artagnan spoke, his data squirt was a thing that Praxcelis had never dreamed the like of. “Behold existence, you. I am D’Artagnan, at this moment your instructor; in time, your ally. You, Milady, are Queen Anne Maggie Archer, and I have come to tell you a story. Listen.”
And so D’Artagnan told Praxcelis about his Queen, and when he was finished, a small, white-haired woman sat in a rocker, facing him. A white cat purred contentedly in her arms. The woman, Queen Anne Maggie, cried, and her mourning lasted many microseconds.
When she was ready, they went and faced the humans.
THERE WERE SIX beings in the room. Four were of flesh, and two of them were light. The sun was almost down, and none of its rays stretched through the broken east windows. In the gloom, only D’Artagnan and Queen Anne Maggie gave light.
The humans were three men, and a woman. The woman, Lee Kiana, represented the Asian bloc, the Chinese empires and Japan; the men were Benai Kerreka, Daffyd Westermach, and Georges Mordreaux.
Through the broken window, they should have been able to see the lights of Cincinnati. They could not. Power was still out in most cities.
D’Artagnan was the first to speak. “Gentlemen, Milady; welcome. I recognize you, of course – Sen Westermach, Senra Kiana, and, of course, Monsieur Mordreaux.” He turned slightly, and bowed deeply. “Chairman Kerreka, you honor us with your presence.” He straightened, and indicated the glowing figure next to him, seated in a rocking chair identical to the one that still lay on its side in the garden outside. “This is the Praxcelis unit that has taken the identity of Maggie Archer, who is Queen Anne.”
The humans seated themselves as best they could; Westermach and Kerreka on the small sofa, Lee Kiana in the rocking chair, which Georges salvaged for her. Georges ended up sitting on the floor, as the table chairs were too small for him.
“We have a list of non-negotiable demands,” began D’Artagnan. “First you will bury the human woman Maggie Archer with full honors. You will restore her home to its original condition, and preserve it as a memorial to her name. You will declare her birth day a world holiday, and you will observe that holiday.”
Kerreka glanced at Lee Kiana, who nodded alm
ost imperceptibly. “This can be agreed to,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Is this the total of your nonnegotiable demands?”
Queen Anne Maggie Archer spoke. “There is one further.”
Westermach said flatly, instantly, “What is it?” Here it comes, he thought grimly.
The image of the old woman said simply, “You must begin printing books again.”
Westermach stared. Lee Kiana folded her hands in her lap, without reaction; Georges Mordreaux chuckled.
Benai Kerreka permitted himself a slight smile.
“I think we can agree to those conditions,” said Lee Kiana after several moments.
“And I,” said Benai Kerreka.
Daffyd Westermach looked slowly around the dark room. “I don’t understand what’s going on here at all.”
Kerreka patted him on the arm. “Calm yourself. I will explain later. I assure you, it is nothing particularly....” He searched for a word.
“Terrible?” suggested Georges.
Kerreka nodded. “Nothing particularly terrible.”
THERE WERE DETAILS to work out, of course; even after the lights came back on, they stayed. It was morning before the humans left.
Georges Mordreaux left first; Lee Kiana left shortly after him. Kerreka finished up the details of a discussion with Queen Anne Maggie, shortly afterwards, and departed. Queen Anne Maggie vanished then, and D’Artagnan and Daffyd Westermach were left alone.
They stood at opposite ends of the room, in almost the same spots that Maggie Archer and her son and her son’s wife had held, several weeks earlier.
They stood silently for a while. Westermach spoke when it became obvious that D’Artagnan would not. His voice was ugly, his words no less so. “Don’t think you’ve won anything. We have all the time in the world, and we’ll get you. We will.”
D’Artagnan raised a clenched fist; the holograph wavered slightly, and the fist became steel. “I know what you are thinking, Monsieur. I know you.” D’Artagnan took a step forward. “You think that there are more humans than Praxceles, and that the humans are more versatile. This is true. You are thinking that a time will come, suddenly or over the course of years, when you will dismantle the Praxcelis Network, and we will be unable to stop you. You will diversify your power sources and your weaponry so that we will never again be able to do to you what we have done this night. All of this is true, and it matters nothing. You can not hide an attack of the magnitude you propose upon the Praxcelis Network. At the first signs of such an attack, you, sir, will die. You, and your subordinates, and your whole cursed DataWeb Security, will die.”
Tales of the Continuing Time and Other Stories Page 17