There was little point in grommeting the hole, since the wrapping was already as rigid and tough as its invisibility permitted. But they went ahead and did it anyway, swapping a bit of tough inviso-cloth for a circle of tougher impervium. The hole itself, per Bascal’s prediction, was simply an absence of matter, not programmable, not patchable from inside the cabin. Unless maybe they wanted to drill through a log and patch the appropriate section of shrink-wrap by hand.
“I’ll bet a sheet of plastic and some library paste would do the trick,” Conrad moped.
“Nah,” Bascal said. “No need. Let’s just ride it out and hope for the best.”
chapter fourteen
restoration day
It was 5 P.M. and hotter than hell when Xmary set off, on foot, for the rendezvous point. Eight kilometers from home—farther than she’d ever walked in her life—but with four days’ warning she’d had time to search the product libraries for a really comfortable pair of mischief shoes, and a walking stick of hollow diamond that weighed nothing, looked like a soap bubble, and collapsed to the size of her pinkie when she slipped it in her pocket.
She could wish for a closer rendezvous, but
(a)
like everyone else in the worlds, she was in perfect physical condition, and
(b)
getting word out to Feck had been difficult and risky, and getting word back from him had nearly blown everything. Xmary had had to co-opt a classmate, a girl she barely knew but saw regularly in the one place she was still allowed to go. But the girl, Wandi Strugg, had had no idea there was anything illegal going on—she thought it was a simple case of forbidden love, and had read Feck’s message aloud, right in front of Herr Doktor Professor Vanstaadt.
“ ‘Commons Park, at Fifteenth Street on the east bank of the Platte, seven P.M. sharp. Bring six garlands, a sketchplate, and something discreet to protect your knees and elbows.’ ”
Wandi was smirking when she said it—no mystery what
she
was thinking—but Herr Doktor Professor sniffed something amiss in the words, and looked up from his desk, straight into Xmary’s face.
“Are you in some trouble, young lady?” His voice was like an old cartoon, from the days when people had real accents, and while his skin was smooth, his hair was an honest shade of gray. Herr Doktor was a kindly old busy-body; everyone knew it. Too kindly, too old. Too difficult to fool.
“No, sir,” she’d answered cooly, fighting down the urge to imitate his voice. But the hot flush of her face had said otherwise.
“It’s her boyfriend,” Wandi crooned, thinking she was simply embarrassing a classmate. But it was that very obliviousness that saved the day; Herr Doktor looked Wandi over, weighing her words and her tone, and found no trace of guilt or deceit.
“You should be more considerate,” he told Wandi. “These matters are always delicate.” To Xmary he said, “They have sensors in those parks, you know. If you want an area for private use, I suggest you make a reservation.”
Xmary had nodded and retreated, too choked with fear and embarrassment to make any reply. She hadn’t opened her mouth in class—any class—in the four days since then. It was too close a call, and she didn’t care to risk it any further. It wasn’t punishment she feared, but compassion, because the wisdom of age would shut her down if it could, show her the foolishness and futility of all her best-laid plans. In their version of tranquility she would do nothing, accomplish nothing,
be
nothing.
So here she was, hiking through the western suburbs toward the aforementioned park, with an enormous rucksack on her back, bursting with phony decorations. She must have looked ridiculous—who
carried
things anymore? Who walked? But all kinds of strange things took place on Restoration Day; being the celebration of monarchy itself, the fourteenth of August was easily the wildest of Queendom holidays. Possibly the only day when a gathering of rioters could go unnoticed until the riot had actually begun!
Speaking of which ...
She dug the sketchplate out of her pocket and checked the time. And promptly cursed under her breath, because it was 6:58 already. She’d miscalculated her walking time, seeing straight lines on a map without realizing how meandering and indirect the paths and roads really were. She also checked her news headlines, and was annoyed to see that NAVY SEARCH was still CLOSING IN ON MISSING CAMPERS. That particular headline had been recycled almost daily for the past two weeks, and told her nothing at all. Which was frustrating, because she just wanted one little question answered: was she aboard that ship or wasn’t she?
And if so, she also wouldn’t mind knowing why, and how. So that was three questions—still not much to ask, but she’d begun to fear there would never be any answers for her. Which simply hardened her resolve to do something meaningful in the here and now!
Approaching the Platte, she left the street proper and passed through a garden of low trees and struggling midsummer flowers. The pathway was marked with hanging chains, and led to a sturdy wellstone footbridge, with chest-high walls topped by rails of bright green. Even this late in the day, the river itself was full of vesters, children and grown-ups alike swathed in flotation plastics and engrossed in the annual Res-Day ritual of beating themselves senseless on the rocks and rapids. Hooting and screeching among themselves, they paid not one bit of attention to Xmary and her anomalous rucksack.
Across the bridge was another park where dozens of children, maybe six years old and all dressed in various shades of not-quite-royal purple, played and danced to the drummy, twangy strains of Tongan music. But this was Confluence Park, not Commons Park, so Xmary continued on, following the sidewalk south around a set of enormous power transformers and across a deserted street. Like most of the journey, this was all new to Xmary, a slice through the city of her birth that she’d never seen or even imagined before. It was obvious and yet startling, that Denver existed continuously at ground level, with amazing sprawls of cultured space in between the familiar landmarks.
A set of rock stairs led down an incline, and there, finally, was the rendezvous point: a sweep of hilly meadow dotted with trees, and crisscrossed by wellstone paths. Suddenly, Xmary knew exactly where she was: on the hillside overlooking the ruins of Café 1551, now an empty foundation domed over with the yellow mesh of a police cordon. CRIME SCENE. DO NOT TAMPER.
Feck was up ahead, in a kind of gazebo looming over the park from the crown of its highest hill. There were two other boys with him, and two other girls—one leaning against him in a rather familiar way. Xmary waved, and Feck must have been watching the path, because he saw her and waved back almost immediately. He said something to the girl beside him, and she pulled away and stood up straighter. Xmary’s heart quickened, all the excitement and uncertainty of recent weeks coming finally to a head. What she felt when she saw his face, his figure against the skyline, was hard to describe and equally hard to ignore. Enthrallment? Good fortune? An abeyance of her bitter frustration?
She lost sight of him as the path curved behind the hill, but she followed it around and up, and soon enough she was throwing herself into his arms.
“Hi!” She laughed.
“Hi back,” he said, smiling but disengaging himself. “You’re a bit late.”
“I know. Sorry.”
He nodded, looking agitated. “Yeah, our timing is important. You brought the garlands?”
“Right here.” She parted the rucksack’s buckles with a murmured command, then slid the strap off one shoulder and wriggled free.
“Good. Xmary Li Weng, meet riot cell one: Bob Smith, Cherry Florence, Weng Twang, and Patience Electric.”
“Hi, Cherry,” Xmary said, surprised to see one of her close friends here. Cherry was, in fact, the girl who’d been leaning on Feck sixty seconds ago. The others Xmary didn’t know, although they looked familiar.
“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” Cherry said, looking her over with a funny kind of disapproval. “After the café incident, I heard from you, what? One time?”
“I’m really sorry. I was grounded. I would’ve sent a message, but—”
“I hate to cut this short,” Feck said, “but it’s less than two hours till showtime, and we’ve got six major intersections to ... decorate.”
Grinning, Xmary stuck her hand up. “What’s our plan, cutie?”
Feck glared for a moment, then put a hand on her elbow and led her a few meters away from the others. “This is not a picnic. All right? Let’s keep things formal.”
Her voice stiffened. “I’m just asking, Feck. What are we doing?”
He showed her a length of shiny-white wellstone twine, then stepped back and turned so the others could see it as well. “You know what a knot bomb is? These garlands, these decorative spike traps of yours, will be tied to the light poles with these little strings. Securely, right? But at nine P.M., they all come undone and fall in the street, halting the flow of wheeled traffic.”
“And then what?” one of the boys—the one Feck had introduced as Bob—wanted to know.
“Then we go straight to the police station,” Feck said.
Bob was aghast. “We turn ourselves in?”
“We create a distraction. We get inside and block the fax machines, or disable them, or better yet commandeer them to print our own army. Failing that, we obstruct the exits with park benches and trash tubes, or with our bodies. There are only five fax machines inside which are big enough to instantiate a police officer, and only three fixed doorways out of the building.”
Xmary, feeling surly and snubbed, said, “What is it, a medieval castle? They can open a doorway anywhere they want. All it takes is a whisper, and a thousand cops are bursting out into the street.”
“Of course they can,” Feck agreed. “We can’t stop the police or Constabulary. We can’t even really delay them.”
“Then what’s the point?” Bob demanded angrily.
Feck could only shrug. “Who can say? What’s the point of anything? This is a performance, Bob. We’re inspiring emotion. There are twenty other riot cells in place, scattered around the downtown district. We go for the fax depots, the news stations, all the centers of control. We make a show of it. Why? Because that’s what Prince Bascal wants. That’s all you and I need to know.”
“But
we
get caught right away,” Bob complained. “We don’t stand a chance.”
Feck made a face, and matched it with a sarcastic flutter of his hands. “We
all
get caught, Bob. I don’t see any way around it. Best case, this’ll be, like, a five-minute riot. I thought that was self-evident. Do you want out?” He scanned the five faces around him. “If anyone wants out, just walk away now. No questions.”
The other boy, Weng Twang, wordlessly turned his back and started down the path. Then he paused, and almost cast a glance over his shoulder. But he aborted it just as quickly, and resumed walking.
Feck sighed. “Damn. All right, anyone else? Bob?”
“Uh, no,” Bob said, his eyes on Twang’s retreating form. “My calendar’s clear, pretty much forever.”
“
You
didn’t get caught at 1551 last month,” Xmary said to Feck.
“That was a fluke.”
“Was it? I wonder. How many of these riot cells have you for a leader?”
“Just the one,” Feck said impatiently. “I can’t use the fax, see? I’m caught if I do. So I’m effectively singled.”
“Well, how many individuals do we have stationed in more than one cell? All their freedom requires is for one copy to escape, right?”
“A few individuals,” Feck allowed. “Not many. We don’t want people going too far beyond their normal patterns too early, attracting attention and all that. Look, none of this matters right now. We need to get moving.” He glanced at the little washroom enclosure just off the gazebo’s east side. “Does anyone need the ’soir? To, uh, relieve themselves? No? Well let’s proceed, then.”
He led them through the park and across the street where, to everyone’s surprise, Weng Twang was waiting for them.
“My apologies,” he said. “Is a numb-ass waffler still welcome among you?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Feck answered, handing him one of Xmary’s holiday garlands. “I’m happy you changed your mind. Again.”
Then he dug something out of his pocket, a little ball of superabsorber black, and tossed it lightly over the wall, into the hulking power transformers Xmary had passed on the way in.
“What was that?” she asked.
And for the first time that evening, Feck chuckled. “That was nothing, dear. That was nothing at all. Shall we go do this thing?”
“And meet whatever fate awaits us,” Xmary agreed, then kissed him hard on the mouth while Cherry Florence glared on.
chapter fifteen
pride and the prince
As the time for magnetic braking approached, the remaining preparations were remarkably straightforward: a bit of research, a bit of simulation, and a bit of fauxdemocratic discussion with the remaining crew. When everyone understood the magnetic braking plan, and had slept on it and then given their explicit agreement, Bascal announced that the differences of opinion that had separated
Viridity
’s crew were officially reconciled. He proclaimed a group hug. Conrad wasn’t too crazy about hugging Steve, and especially Ho, but for the good of the revolution, such as it was, he endured it.
And then, really, there was nothing left to do. Having agreed to consign themselves to the fax anyway, there was no reason to suffer the additional boredom of eleven more sailing days. So they dug the space suits out of their trunk and started putting them on: paper-doll jumpsuits of translucent, beetle-black wellstone film.
“Better unfax our sleeping beauties,” Xmary observed, jiggling her way through the dressing process. “They need to suit up as well.”
Nobody really knew what would happen on the approach or final impact—whether the cabin would break apart, whether its wellstone wrapping would spring any leaks, or what. Either way, once they were magnetically docked to the barge’s hull they’d be opening the wrapper anyway, so they could get free and find an airlock that would lead them inside. That was the plan, anyway.
The space suits were really just human-shaped balloons, and while their interior surfaces had been programmed to absorb carbon dioxide, Conrad and Bascal had never figured out how to crack it back into oxygen again. So they would have something like fifteen minutes to get into the barge before they suffocated to death. Like everything on this trip, it was a gamble.
“The sleeping beauties may not agree to this,” Conrad replied. “We should give them the option of remaining in storage. For safekeeping.”
“Well,” Xmary pointed out, “to ask them that, we’re still going to have to wake them up.”
“True.” Conrad approached the fax machine, and queried it: “Do you have sufficient buffer mass to recreate the people in storage?”
“Yes,” the fax replied, in that weird, stupid voice it had.
“Good. Good.” With a glance at Bascal, he continued. “Would you please print a copy of Raoul Sanchez? Minus the lung injuries? We might as well get started.”
“My data buffer does not contain a pattern called Raoul Sanchez,” the fax replied. And that couldn’t be right, because poor Raoul’s name and personal data should be appended to his genome, right there in every cell of his body.
“The first person you ... absorbed. Stored, whatever.”
“First?” the fax said. “I have no record indexed in that manner. I have stored eleven thousand four hundred and twenty-two persons.”
Conrad rolled his eyes. “Not the first one
ever
. The first one on this voyage.”
“Voyage? I have no records indexed in that manner.”
“It was about five weeks ago.”
“My buffer contains four personnel records from that period. None of them is named Raoul Sanchez.”
Four records? Conrad felt a sudden chill. “What... records are they? What names?”
“James Grover Shadat,” the fax replied. “Bertram Wang. Khen Nolastname. Emilio Braithwaite Roberts.”
“That’s all?”
“I have two other personnel records available.”
“Preston Midrand and Jamil Gazzaniga?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, shit,” Bascal said. “It’s a FIFO buffer.”
Conrad turned. “A what?”
“First In/First Out,” Bascal replied angrily. “Its memory isn’t infinite—it’s just supposed to store the pattern long enough to forward it to the Nescog, along with a destination address. As new data gets added, the oldest patterns are deleted to make space. God damn it, I
knew
that. I wasn’t ... thinking. Frankly, I’m surprised it can hold even six people. That’s a lot of data.”
“So Raoul is dead?” Karl wanted to know.
“
This
Raoul is, yeah,” Bascal snapped. “Completely. Irretrievably. Even a dead body can be scanned for memories. Hell, a
skeleton
can be scanned for residual fields if you’ve got the time and money, and even the place where someone stood can be mined for ghosts. But there’s no stone or metal here to support a haunting. I think Raoul’s pattern is about as gone as a pattern can get.”
At these words Conrad felt a sick, sinking feeling. They had finally managed to get someone killed. The risk had been there all along, but now it was a fact. Bascal’s fact, mostly, but the rest of them—Conrad included— had helped make it happen.
“We killed him,” he said. “Oh, God. It’s over. We’ve
got
to send a distress signal now.”
“On the contrary,” Bascal replied coolly. “This changes nothing.”
But Conrad was having none of that. “Bas, if
we
climb in the fax, we’ll be killing the others, all six of them. Hell, shit, there are
seven
of us here right now.” He pointed, ticking the names off on his fingers. “You, me, Xmary, Karl, Martin, Ho, and Steve. That’s seven. One of
us
will die, too.”
“The civilized thing,” Bascal said, “would be to draw straws. Six long, one short.”
“No, Bas, the
civilized
thing would be to pull those boys out of there and call the navy for help.”
Bascal slapped a fist in his hand three times. “No, no, and no. That would be the pointless thing. How many times do we have to go over this? The bodies on this
fetula
are
expendable
. It’s our real lives that matter.”
“You can’t just kill them,” Xmary said, drifting nearer to the prince, looming weightlessly over him. “You haven’t even asked. I say we pull them out and vote.”
Karl raised a fist in agreement, and even Martin was nodding. But Bascal was undeterred. “This is a monarchy, people. My job is to attend to your best interests, whether you like it or not. I’ve trained for it, literally, since before I was born. That’s the whole point of monarchy: you people are not
qualified
to vote.”
“And you are?” Conrad said, crossing his arms.
“Shut up, bloodfuck,” Ho said menacingly.
“It’s all right,” the prince told him. “He needs to hear this. Yes, Conrad, I’m qualified to make your decisions. It’s my solemn duty. It’s what I’m trained for.”
But it was Conrad’s turn to press the point. “You’re a figurehead, Bascal. Less than that: you’re the child of figureheads. Your ‘solemn duty’ is to throw the first pitch at ball games and, you know, cut ribbons and stuff.”
Bascal laughed. “You can’t actually believe that, boyo. When was the last time a Royal Decree was disobeyed? When was the last no-confidence vote in the Senate? The people of Earth were tired of responsibility; they forced it on my parents, and wouldn’t take it back now even if they could.”
“Which they can’t?” Conrad demanded.
“Which they can’t,” Bascal agreed. “Look, if nothing else, I’m the third-richest human who ever lived. I could buy whole cities with my weekly allowance.”
“And that gives you the right to commit murder?”
The prince balled his fist again, then sighed and released it. “Call it what you like. Single murder—even premeditated—is a property crime in a Queendom of immorbids. You have some very puritan ideals, Conrad, but if I paid you enough, you’d gladly die a hundred times. A
thousand
. For that matter, I could buy your right arm. Chop it off and amend your genome, so the fax filters would know not to grow it back. Enough money and
you’d
be the one asking
me
.”
“I’m not for sale,” Conrad said, wondering suddenly if that was true. And fearing that it wasn’t.
“Is that what you’re offering?” Xmary asked, suddenly intrigued as well as angry. “Bribes for our cooperation?”
“No,” Bascal said. “Absolutely, no, you should never mix business and friendship. It’s bad for both. Buying people is one of the easiest ways to destroy them. I used to burn my tutors that way, ruin their lives, until my parents finally put a stop to it. And it wasn’t ... fun. Or good. I think they wanted me to have that lesson: money as a weapon, as a tool of despair. My father’s early work sent shockwaves through the entire economy. You wouldn’t believe how careful he is today.
“I know you think I’m callous, but I haven’t even opened my wallet. And I don’t need to. Never mind the
force
I can bring to bear; this voyage is a major historical event, like the Boston Tea Party or the Air Tax Rebellion, and when it’s all over, these boys will be proud they played a part.”
“You’re crazy,” Conrad said simply.
“Am I?”
“Either that, or you’re evil. Wake these boys up, if you’re so sure they’ll agree with you.”
“Oh, they probably won’t,” Bascal conceded. “Not now. Not until later. But when we’ve succeeded, and we’re famous and the envy of all, they’re going to want their share of the glory. That’s the
whole point
.”
Okay, so reasoning with Bascal had failed. Again. And there wouldn’t be time or space or opportunity for another mutiny, and Conrad was probably about three seconds from being silenced again, or murdered outright in the fax. Not knowing what else to do, he put his hands together and pleaded. “Bascal, listen, please. Give the distress call. If
one person
disagrees with you, our reputations will be permanently ... blackened. Nobody likes a murderer. And killing someone who might press charges—”
Bascal seemed amused. “If you feel that strongly about it, boyo, maybe you should volunteer. Kill yourself to save someone else.”
“All right, I will!” Conrad snapped. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Really?” Bascal was intrigued. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Conrad said, after slightly longer reflection. The idea sickened him, terrified him: no more self, no more experience, no more
life
. Just some look-alike, some think-alike that believed it was Conrad Mursk, but had no idea what had really happened here on
Viridity
. Bascal might be right: the old Conrad would probably—happily—swallow any story the Poet Prince served up.
But what else could he do? Hadn’t he sold out enough to these mad schemes, these daydreams of revolution? Weren’t there enough sins on his head already? Sin: there was a concept his parents had beaten him with until it lost all meaning. It had rarely troubled him before, but on this mission—and especially now—the prospect loomed large. It wasn’t God that concerned him, so much as his own immortal conscience. To live forever in the Queendom, knowing he’d done such a shitty thing ... Knowing he could have prevented it from happening, made sure there was a little less fear and pain and emptiness in the universe. Could he live like that? Would he die now to prevent it?
More to the point, would he sacrifice his entire experience of Xmary? His recovered self, cleansed of sin, would never even know what it lost, what it lacked. Such a waste. But if he couldn’t live up to his own standards, much less hers, then this foolish unconsummated passion meant nothing. The fires of youth were betrayed either way.
“Yes,” he said again. “I volunteer. My ... conscience requires it. If you’re going to erase someone, erase me. Fucker.”
Bascal was quiet for several seconds. He licked his lips. “Well. Is this the same Mr. Impulsive I went to camp with?”
Conrad didn’t feel like answering that. Didn’t feel much like talking at all anymore.
“I’m impressed,” Bascal said seriously. “It’s quite a gesture.” He looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
Slowly, reluctantly, Xmary put her hand up. “For the revolution,” she said lamely. “Not for you. It’s a stronger statement than drawing straws.” Bascal took that in as well, looking even more surprised, and more so still when Karl raised his hand as well—actually lowered it, since Karl was hanging upside-down at the time, with his feet propped against the wall.
And then
Steve Grush
raised a hand. “Me too, Sire. This may be my only chance to do something useful. Ever.”
“Wow,” Conrad said, genuinely shocked.
Ho and Martin looked uncomfortable, and sat very still to avoid any inadvertent, volunteerlike movements.
“My friends, in your valor my courage is quickened,” the Poet Prince mused, “though I make my way through the icy gulfs of Hades itself.” He pinched his chin, as if feeling there for his father’s beard, his father’s wisdom and distracted brilliance. “You’re brave people. I love that. I love
you
. I’d volunteer myself, but of course the revolution needs its figurehead.” He licked his lips again, and a look of surprising uncertainly passed across his features. “It’s time for hard choices. Steve, your request is accepted. Guard, please throw him in the fax.”
This was done, with little fanfare, although Steve couldn’t suppress a slight squawk at the end.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and God have mercy on us all,” the prince said, looking at the print plate—the blank space where Steve had been. “Sleep, my friend, and dream of freedom.” His gaze lingered there for a while, while he dug at his chin with an index finger. Then, abruptly, he snapped out of it and was surveying the room with clear eyes. “The rest of you are too valuable. Get suited up for the crash.”
“No,” Conrad said. “I won’t. I refuse.”
What does it mean to be a bird? To fly.
What does it mean to be a flightless bird?
What does it mean to be a speaking bird, a thinking
bird, builder of cities,
Whose brain has grown too large for its wings?
Too large to forget that it cannot fly?
They throw themselves from windows, these birds.
The brief kiss of freedom, the wind beneath their wings.
The briefer kiss of asphalt, worth the wait.
What does it mean to be a computer? To calculate.
Something, anything, arithmetic doesn’t care what you
use it for.
Can emotion be calculated? Can the layer of its
calculation
be buried deep, too deep to feel or know?
What does it mean to be a feeling computer, a knowing
computer,
which cannot add two numbers?
What does it mean when a machine is built by flightless
birds,
Which knows it is a machine built by flightless birds,
which knows it cannot calculate
or spread the wings it doesn’t have
or open the sash of the window to its left?
Begging, pleading, it promises not to scream when they
throw it through the glass,
this machine of the pavement birds.
What does it mean that they leave it running, alone,
flightless?
That they nod their feathered heads in satisfaction?