The Peace War (15 page)

Wili tried to ignore the look and the crowd around the table. He had to win now!

He stared and stared at the board. Done right, he was sure those pawns could march
through the enemy's fire. But his time was running out and he couldn't recapture his
previous mental state.

His enemy was making no mistakes;
his
play was as infernally deep as ever.

Three more moves. Wili's pawns were going to die. All of them. The spectators might
not see it yet, but Wili did, and so did Richardson.

Wili swallowed, fighting nausea. He reached for his king, to turn it on its side and so
resign. Unwillingly, his eyes slid across the board and met Richardson's. "You played a
good game, son. The best I've ever seen from an unaided player."

There was no overt mockery in the other's voice, but by now Wili knew better. He
lunged across the table, grabbing for Richardson's throat. The guards were fast. Wili
found himself suspended above the table, held by a half-dozen not-too-gentle hands. He
screamed at Richardson, the Spañolnegro curses expert and obscene.

The Jonque stepped back from the table and motioned his guards to lower Wili to the
floor. He caught Rosas' eye and said mildly, "Why don't you take your little Alekhine
outside to cool off?"

Rosas nodded. He and Jeremy frog-marched the still struggling loser toward the door.
Behind them, Wili heard Richardson trying to convince the tournament directors with all
apparent sincerity — to let Wili continue in the tournament.

Moments later, they were outside and shed of gawkers. Wili's feet settled back on the
turf and he walked more or less willingly between Rosas and Jeremy.

For the first time in years, for the first time since he lost Uncle Sly, Wili found himself
crying. He covered his face with his hands, trying to separate himself from the outside
world. There could be no keener humiliation than this.

"Let's take him down past the buses, Jeremy. A little walk will do him good."

"It really was a good game, Wili," said Jeremy. "I told you Richardson's rated Expert.
You came close to beating him."

Wili barely heard. "I had that Jonque bastard.
I had him!
When he lit that cigar, I lost
all my concentration. I tell you, if he did not cheat, I would have killed him."

They walked thirty meters, and Wili gradually quieted. Then he realized there had been
no encouraging reply. He dropped his hands and glared at Jeremy. "Well, don't you think
so?"

Jeremy was stricken, honesty fighting with friendship. "Richardson is a Mouth, you're
right. He goes after everyone like that; he seems to think it's part of the game. You notice
how it hardly affected his concentration? He just checkpoints his program when he gets
talking, so he can dump back into his original mental set any time. He never loses a
beat."

"And so I should have won." Wili was not going let the other wriggle out of the
question.

"Well, uh, Wili, look. You're the best unaided player I've ever seen. You lasted more
rounds than any other purely human. But be honest: Didn't you feel something different
when you played him? I mean apart from his lip? Wasn't he a little more tricky than the
earlier players... a little more deadly?"

Wili thought back to the image of John Henry and the steam drill. And he suddenly
remembered that Expert was the low end of champion class. He began to see Jeremy's
point. "So you really think the machines and the scalp connects make a difference?"

Jeremy nodded. It was no more than bookkeeping and memory enhancement, but if it
could turn Roberto Richardson into a genius, what would it do for... ? Wili remembered
Paul's faint smile at Wili's disdain of mechanical aids. He remembered the hours Paul
himself spent in processor connect. "Can you show me how to use such things, Jeremy?
Not just for chess?"

"Sure. It will take a while. We have to tailor the program to the user, and it takes time
to learn to interpret a scalp connect. But come next year, you'll beat anything — animal,
vegetable, or mineral." He laughed.

"Okay," Rosas said suddenly. "We can talk now."

Wili looked up. They had walked far past the parking lots. They were moving down a
dusty road that went north around the bay, to the vineyards. The hotel was lost to sight. It
was like waking from a dream suddenly to realize that the game and argument were mere
camouflage.

"You did a real good job, Wili. That was exactly the incident we needed, and it
happened at just the right time." The sun was about twenty minutes above the horizon, its
light already misted. Orange twilight was growing. A puffy fog gathered along the beach
like some silent army, preparing for its assault inland.

Wili wiped his face with the back of his arm. "No act."

"Nevertheless, it couldn't have worked out better. I don't think anybody will be
surprised if you don't show till morning."

"Great."

The road descended. The only vegetation was aromatic brush bearing tiny purple
flowers; it grew, scraggly, around the foundations and the ruined walls.

The fog moved over the coast, scruffy clots of haze, quite different from an inland fog;
these were more like real clouds brought close to earth. The sun shone through the mists.
The cliffsides were still visible, turning steadily more gold — a dry color that contrasted
with the damp of the air.

As they reached beach level, the sun went behind the dense cloud deck at the horizon and
spread into an orange band. The colors faded and the fog became more substantial. Only
a single star, almost overhead, could penetrate the murk.

The road narrowed. The ocean side was lined with eucalyptus, their branches rattling in
the breeze. They passed a large sign that proclaimed that the State's Highway — this dirt
road — was now passing through Vinas Scripps. Beyond the trees, Wili could see regular
rows of vertical stakes. The vines were dim gargoyles on the stakes. They walked
steadily higher, but the invading fog kept pace, became even thicker. The surf was loud,
even sixty meters above the beach.

"I think we're all alone up here," Jeremy said in a low voice.

"Of course, without this fog, we'd be clear as Vandenberg to anyone at the hotel."

"That's one reason for doing it tonight."

They passed an occasional wagon, no doubt used to carry grapes up the grade to the
winery. The way widened to the left and split into a separate road. They followed the
turnoff and saw an orange glow floating in the darkness. It was an oil lamp hung at the
entrance to a wide adobe building. A sign — probably grand and colorful in the day —
announced in Spanish and English that this was the central winery of Virus Scripps and
that tours for gentlemen and their ladies could be scheduled for the daylight hours. Only
empty winery carts were parked in the lot fronting the building.

The three walked almost shyly to the entrance. Rosas tapped on the door. It was opened
by a thirty-ish Anglo woman. They stepped inside, but she said immediately, "Tours
during daylight hours only, gentlemen." The last word had a downward inflection; it was
clear they were not even minor aristocrats. Wili wondered that she opened the door at all.

Mike replied that they had left the tournament at Fonda la Jolla while it was still day
and hadn't realized the walk was so long. "We've come all the way from Santa Ynez, in
part to see your famous winery and its equipment..."

"From Santa Ynez," the woman repeated and appeared to commiserate. She seemed
younger in the light, but not nearly as pretty as Della Lu. Wili's attention wandered to the
posters that covered the foyer walls. They illustrated the various stages of the grape-growing and wine-making processes. "Let me check with my supervisor. He may still be
up; in which case, perhaps." She shrugged.

She left them alone. Rosas nodded to Jeremy and Wili. So this was the secret
laboratory Paul had discovered. Wili had suspected from the moment the buses pulled
into La Jolla. This part of the country was so empty that there hadn't been many
possibilities.

Finally a man (the supervisor?) appeared at the door. "Mr. Rosas?" he said in English.
"Please come this way." Jeremy and Wili looked at each other.
Mr. Rosas
. Apparently
they had passed inspection.

Beyond the door was a wide stairway. By the light of their guide's electric flash, Wili
saw that the walls were of natural rock. This was the cave system the winery signs
boasted of. They reached the floor and walked across a room filled with enormous
wooden casks. An overpowering but not unpleasant yeasty smell filled the cavern. Three
young workers nodded to them but did not speak. The supervisor walked behind one of
the casks. The back of the wooden cylinder came silently open, revealing a spiral stair.
There was barely enough room on it for Jeremy to stand sideways.

"Sorry about the tight fit," the supervisor said. "We can actually pull the stairs
downward, out of the cask, so even a thorough search won't find the entrance." He
pushed a button on the wall, and a green glow spread down the shaft. Jeremy gave a start
of surprise. "Tailored biolight," the man explained. "The stuff uses the carbon dioxide we
exhale. Can you imagine what it would do to indoor lighting if we were allowed to
market it?" He continued in this vein as they descended, talking about the harmless
bioscience inventions that could make so much difference to today's world if only they
weren't Banned.

At the bottom, there was another cavern. This one's ceiling was covered with glowing
green. It was bright enough to read by, at least where it clumped up over tables and
instrument boards. Everyone looked five weeks dead in the fungal glow. It was very
quiet; not even surfsound penetrated the rock. There was no one else in the room.

He led them to a table covered with worn linen sheeting. He patted the table and
glanced at Wili. "You're the fellow we've been, uh, hired to help?"

"That's right," said Rosas when Wili gave only a shrug.

"Well, sit up here and I'll take a look at you."

Wili did so, cautiously. There was no antiseptic smell, no needles. He expected the man
to tell him to strip, but no such command was given. The supervisor had neither the
arrogant indifference of a slave gang vet, nor the solicitous manner of the doctor Paul had
called during the winter.

"First off, I want to know if there are any structural problems... Let me see, I've got
my scope around here somewhere." He rummaged in an ancient metal cabinet.

Rosas scowled. "You don't have any assistants?"

"Oh, dear me, no." The other did not look up from his search. "There are only five of us
here at a time. Before the War, there were dozens of bioscientists in La Jolla. But when
we went underground, things changed. For a while, we planned to start a pharmaceutical
house as a cover. The Authority hasn't Banned those, you know. But it was just too risky.
They would naturally suspect anyone in the drug business.

"So we set up Scripps Vineyards. It's nearly ideal. We can openly ship and receive
biologically active materials. And some of our development activities can take place right
in our own fields. The location is good, too. We're only five kilometers from Old Five.
The beach caves were used for smuggling even before the War, even before the United
States... Aha, here it is." He pulled a plastic cylinder into the light. He walked to another
cabinet and returned with a metal hoop nearly 150 centimeters across. There was a click
as he slid it into the base of the cylinder. It looked a little foolish, like a butterfly hoop
without a net.

"Anyway," he continued as he approached Wili, "the disadvantage is that we can only
support a very few `vineyard technicians' at a time. It's a shame. There's so much to learn.
There's so much good we could do for the world." He passed the loop around the table
and Wili's body. At the same time he watched the display at the foot of the table.

Rosas said, "I'm sure. Just like the good you did with the plag — " He broke of as the
screen came to life. The colors were vivid, glowing with their own light. They seemed
more alive than anything else in the green-tinted lab. For a moment it looked like the sort
of abstract design that's so easy to generate. Then Wili noticed movement and
asymmetries. As the supervisor slid the hoop back over Wili's chest, the elliptical shape
shrank dramatically, then grew again as the hoop moved by his head. Wili rose to his
elbows in surprise, and the image broadened.

"Lie back down. You don't have to be motionless, but let me choose the view angle."

Wili lay back and felt almost violated. They were seeing a cross section of his own
guts, taken in the plane of the hoop! The supervisor brought it back to Wili's chest. They
watched his heart squeezing,
thuddub thuddub.
The bioscientist made an adjustment, and
the view swelled until the heart filled the display. They could see the blood surge in and
out of each chamber. A second display blinked on beside the first, this new one filled
with numbers of unknown meaning.

The supervisor continued for ten or fifteen minutes, examining all of Wili's torso.
Finally, he removed the hoop and studied the summary data on the displays. "So much
for the floor show.

"I won't even have to do a genopsy on you, my boy. It's clear that your problem is one
we've cured before." He looked at Rosas, finally responding to the other's hostility. "You
object to our price, Mr. Rosas?"

The undersheriff started to answer, but the supervisor waved him quiet. "The price is
high. We always need the latest electronic equipment. During the last fifty years, the
Authority has allowed you Tinkers to flourish. I daresay, you're far ahead of the
Authority's own technology. On the other hand, we few poor people in bioresearch have
lived in fear, have had to hide in caves to continue our work. And since the Authority has
convinced you that we're monsters, most of you won't even sell to us.