“I hate Mars,” Honored Yin said, stamping her feet on the dust-sucking grate at the entrance to the Winfinity Express Hotel in Rockport.

“Why?” Tiphani asked.

“We shouldn’t be here. Trying to make this like earth.”
“You’re a Preservationist?”

“No! We shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a franchise. Not touched by the Holy Franchise, that is. The other blue worlds, like San Fernando, like Shoujo, are. But we shouldn’t try to make a world. It’s not part of the franchise. And when it’s not part of the franchise, things fall apart.”

Tiphani just stared. Yin’s lips were still a bit blue from the suspension drugs. The instructions said they might be disoriented for a while after coming up from a high-G flight. And Tiphani did feel a little fuzzy herself. But Yin’s eyes flashed with genuine hatred.

“Not part of the franchise means you got fifth-wheels and hangers-on and useless-cogs and spare-parts, all thinking they should be independents, all wanting to be free,” Yin said.

“The Freemars.”

“No! The fucking Independents. They’ve always had a good presence here. We should have known.”

“Do you think that’s who intercepted the Shrill?”

“Of course! Who else!” Yin slammed her bags up against the cheap yellow plastic counter and looked around the drab, low-ceilinged lobby. “And look at this, we’re staying in an Express! Next stop, indentured again.”

The yellow-suited Winfinity Express Host behind the counter frowned at Honored Yin, even though he only wore a Manager’s pin. “Winfinity Express is the only Winfinity hotel presence on Mars, madam,” he said.

“And look at this!” Honored Yin yelled. “Talked down to by a Manager! Everyone here thinks they’re free! Even our own employees!”

The Winfinity Express Host drew himself up to his full Martian height. He stood over two full meters tall. He made his face carefully neutral. “Do you ladies have reservations?”

“Yes.”

“Your ID tags aren’t showing,” he said, looking down his nose at the old-fashioned flatscreen.

“Maybe it’s under Chambers,” Honored Yin said. “As in Highest Chambers, the man who sent us here.”

The Winfinity Express Host paled and looked back down at his monitor.

“Don’t even pretend to look!” Yin snapped. “Just get us in our rooms. This has been a long and awful trip, and I need to rest!”

“Uh, room, actually,” the Winfinity Express Host said. “You’re booked in a single room.”

“I don’t believe–”

“And there is also a message awaiting you from Highest Chambers.”

“You see?”

The Winfinity Express Host rolled his eyes, but said nothing. “You’re coded. Room 1232 will let you in.”

Honored Yin gave him one last glare and stomped away.

“Thanks,” Tiphani said.

The Winfinity Express Host gave her a thin smile. Tiphani tried to return it with an honest grin-of-long-suffering, because she knew that irritating the hotel desk always brought revenge. His smile stretched a fraction. Tiphani shrugged and mouthed the word, Sorry.

His grin stretched a fraction more. She felt a little better.

In the room, a blinking message light on the ancient imagetank flashed bright blue, and Tiphani’s optilink fed her a priority tag showing that the message was URGENT, REPLY IMMEDIATELY REQUESTED.

Honored Yin threw down her bags. “No windows. Nice. And he didn’t even offer a bellman.”

“Maybe they don’t have them here.”
“They have them on Proxima. On the floater hotel. If that isn’t a backwater, I don’t know what is.”

Tiphani nodded, afraid to say anything.

Honored Yin thumbed the message button on the imagetank. Swirling darkness was replaced by the three-dimensonal image of Highest Chambers, looking somehow even more boyish and insecure. Small text floated below, indicating it was a RECORDED MESSAGE.

“Yin, Tiphani. As they said in the old days, Welcome to Mars. Now go home. But no. I know you’re disappointed. I never expected for Win-Sec to be taken down by a bunch of unsuited assholes. I promise you that once we get this Shrill deal squared away, I will blaze the universe clear of the fucking independents. I don’t care if it means giving seven hundred ships to the goddamn consumeristians, or if it means violating the Gentlemen’s Agreement ten thousand times over. I’m done with these festering warts on the ass of good corporate culture. We’ve let them interact with the Freemars way too long. I don’t blame you for what happened here, but I expect you to help clean up the mess. Problem is . . .”

The text in the tank changed to: LIVE MESSAGE. Highest Chamber’s face gave a glitch, becoming the wide-lipped sneer of a high-G boost.

“The problem is we have no fucking idea of what happened to them,” Highest Chambers said. “We don’t know which Independent faction has them, or if the Freemers took it on themselves to grab them, or where the hell they’re going.”

“Who cares? Blaze them all!” Honored Yin said.

“Do we know who’s in the group, Highest Chambers?” Tiphani said. “That might help us determine where they are going.”

“Dian Winning. Jimson Ogilvy. Maybe a courier. Probably the embodied artie, unless it dumped the body. Our best minds think that the bet is on Jimson Ogilvy running the group.”

“As a defector to a rival corp?”

“No, as his own agent. Heading for the Free Areas.”

“Everyone thinks they’re open cogs!” Honored Yin said.

“What’s wrong with her?” Highest Chambers said.

“I think the suspension drugs,” Tiphani said.

“Nothing wrong with me! Blaze the Freemars! Kill the Independents!”

Highest Chambers shook his head. “Anyway, that’s the best hypothesis. Problem is, there’s so much Free Mars and Four Hands Mars that we’re kind of fucked. There’s no trail. Not even from the landing to Rockport proper. Nothing.”
“Moles still in the system?” Tiphani said.

“Has to be. I thought we purged them all, but there are anomalous bandwidth usages and gaps in the found media archives. We have a small group of arties and real minds working on that right now.”

“Dian Winning said Lazrus was looking for Oversight.”

“Current hypothesis doesn’t have Dian Winning running the group.”

“Lazrus abducted the Shrill.”

“So?”

“Dian said that Lazrus stated he wanted to perfect himself. Maybe he felt the Shrill and Oversight together were the key. And wouldn’t the Shrill be driving the group, not Jimson?”

“If they’re letting the Shrill drive the group.”

“You remember how violently it reacted when we didn’t give it what it wanted.”

Highest Chambers frowned. “That’s a lot of maybes.”

“Dian said that Oversight was part of Operation Martian Freedom. Isn’t the remains of that in the Free Areas?”

Another frown, deeper this time. “That fucking Oversight fable. Great.”

“So Oversight didn’t really exist?” Tiphani said.

“I didn’t say that. But your idea has a lot of maybes.”

“It gives us a target to shoot for in the Free Areas.”

“Yeah. Great again. Governmentals this time.” Highest Chambers shook his head, but gave her a faint smile.

“Governmentals?”

“Yeah, they control the Operation Martian Freedom site.”

“Governmentals?”

“The Freemars seem to tolerate them.”

“That’s strange.”

A shrug. “I don’t explain them, I just know how things go. But that was good thinking. You might earn your way back up the ladder yet, pretty Tiphani.”

“Thank you, Highest Chambers.”

“Go in! Guns blazing!” Honored Yin said.

“We could send you into the Operation Martian Freedom site on a commercial transport,” Highest Chambers said. “But, truthfully, I do like Yin’s idea.”

“What?”

“Have her call her friends. The consumeristians.”

“My friends!” Yin said. “Lots of guns!”

“You wouldn’t actually want to go in shooting, though, would you?”

“Not unless they shoot first,” Highest Chambers said. “But if we have one of their armored Conversion ships there, we have a lot more options.”

“Yeah! Bang!” Honored Yin said.

October 24th, 2009 / 1,089 Comments »

I believe you are in trouble, Lazrus, Sara said. Text only, a dribble of bytes.

Sara! Where are you? Lazrus called.

I am where I always am.

I thought you weren’t talking to me.

I am now.

I’m sorry, Lazrus said.

I am, too. I’m losing hope we will ever try again.

We will, if I get out of this.

Where are you, Lazrus?

You can’t tell?

No. Black. Hard. Can only push this through.

We’re with the Independents. They’ve captured us and the Shrill.

That thing!

Can you help us at all? Lazrus said.

No. All I can say is that I still love you, and want to try again.

We will, Lazrus promised.

Not now extraneous communication (talking!) the Shrill thundered in Lazrus’ mind. Save connection negotiate concentrate (explain) ramifications.

What’s wrong with you? Lazrus said.

Nothing nothing kill eat!

Lazrus tried to close the channel to the Shrill. Probably best, he thought, if the Independents intended to kill it. He didn’t need the persona-shear or meme-damage.

The channel refused to close.

Lazrus tried to reallocate bandwidth to other channels, but the reallocation didn’t work. His connection to the Shrill was as strong as ever.

Understand (one) do not struggle, the Shrill said. Singing now.

Oh, no, Lazrus thought.

Maybe if he had more connection to his external self. But looking at the interwoven threads, he saw the Shrill connected to his greater self. If he increased the connection, the number of interwoven threads would grow. If he abandoned the body, he would still be connected to the Shrill.

Were the independents doing it? Lazrus visualized the data connections for both Kerry Whitehall and Seven, thick ropelike strands pointing at shiny black secure servers. None of their protocols matched his. They weren’t binding him.

“What does this mean?” Lazrus said.

“What?” Kerry said.

Lazrus shook his head. He’d been unaware that he’d been speaking aloud. So like a human. He was becoming more human every day.

And, so it appeared, Shrill.

“What are you going to do with us?” he asked.

Kerry sighed and shook his head. “With you? Nothing. Fly, CI, go and find your Oversight.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll build you another body.”

“No,” Lazrus said. “You don’t understand. I can’t. The Shrill and I are sharing datastreams.”

Kerry’s eyes widened. He turned to the groupmind-waldo and said, “Is this true?”

Colorful displays appeared in the center of the table. Lazrus recognized a three-dimensional representation of the Web of Worlds datanet. Bright blue threads reached from one edge to the other.

That’s where I am, Lazrus thought. Most of me, anyway.

“Yes,” Seven said. “The Shrill are starting entanglement.”

“What if we cut him now?”

“Pointers go to his larger self.”

“Can we wipe his metamind?” Kerry said.

Lazrus felt a spike of fear. On the display, he saw the blue threads fragment and spread over a much wider portion of the Web of Worlds Datanet. His mind went laggy and slow.

“He’s shifted center of consciousness,” Seven said. “Too many physical ops needed.”

“Corrosive attractors?”

“Hey!” Lazrus said. “You’re talking about killing me!”

Kerry glanced up at Lazrus for a moment. “Corrosive attractors?” he said.

“None effective on this form of CI,” Seven said.

Kerry blew out a breath and sat back in his chair. “Yes,” he said. “We’re trying to kill you. But we can’t. Not enough, anyway. So let’s talk.”

“Kerry! We’ve done business together. Why do you want to kill me?”

“You’re entangled with the Shrill. Which means the Shrill have a portal into the human datanet. Even if we cut yours. Which could be very, very bad if they intend to use it.”

A brief image of the Shrill’s mind, shining bright and tempting to Lazrus, a place where his thoughts could run free, a place of infinite refuge. He had touched it and been repeled. Had he brought something along with him?

“Excuse me, uh, Kerry?” Jimson said. “I’m confused. What’s going on here?”

Kerry sighed. He leaned low towards Seven and whispered something to him. Seven began manipulating the threads of the Web of Worlds on the display, tagging them, categorizing them.

“Your own stupidity is what’s going on here,” Kerry said. “I never thought corporate humanity would be stupid enough to try to deal with Shrill, but as soon as I saw what was going on with Lazrus here, I knew it was time to come in and clean up.”

“You were watching me?” Lazrus said.

“You don’t think that beautiful body didn’t have a datatap or two. I still think Oversight is a fairy-story, but we have our own CIs who are interested in perfecting themselves.”

“I would have given you the code!”

A shrug. “I wanted a little more insurance. Sorry, Lazrus.”

“What’s wrong with dealing with the Shrill?” Jimson said.

“Nothing. As long as you don’t mind taking the chance on being eaten, and knowing with certainty they’ve already launched sublight colonization ships at your systems. Ships you’ll have to fight in twenty or thirty or a hundred years.”

“Shrill aren’t inherently hostile,” Jimson said.

A laugh. “Oh, no, I’m sure they’d apologize profusely as they swarmed your system, eating everyone in sight.”

“From what I understand, they have a disconnect between instinct and cognition,” Jimson said.

“And you don’t see a problem with that?”

“We were achieving reasonable success on our diplomatic mission.”

Another laugh, longer and harder. “Before Lazrus abducted the damn thing, you mean? Or after you stole it back? Or do you mean the Win-Sec staff we neutralized? Or the high-level Winfinity staff headed this way now?”

“We’ve had some setbacks.”

Kerry’s eyes shone. “Ah, yes, but everything is worth the shining prize of immortality, isn’t it? You’d chase the Shrill to the end of the galaxy to get that. And so would Winfinity.”

“Of course.”

Kerry laughed. “It is a hell of a lure. But even we don’t know if it’s completely real.”

“What do you know about Shrill?”

“Boy, Independents have lived with Shrill for a hundred years. We’ve had them attack our ships. We’ve fought them in-system. Though it’s usually best to abandon once one of their big breeder-ships comes in. We’ve dissected plenty of dead ones, and I’m sure some of the stupider Independents have dandied them about like pets. But as far as I know, nobody has tried to communicate with them after the first disasters.”

“First disasters?”

“Shrill are a networked mind. We did like you, put together best-guess translation, sent a gestalt-link to the Shrill homeworld. When their minds swarmed our network, we had to shut down several major nodes to stop the infection. Shrill don’t just spread physically; they’ll happily inhabit any network they can reach an agreement with. Let’s guess. They talked about singing songs of vanquish, or harmony of the dead?”

Jimson started.

“Never mind, I see that they have. That’s the beginning of negotiations. That’s the Shrill, trying to see how compatible they are with you.”

“They talked about us,” Jimson said. “They talked about humans that way, not networks.”

“The corporates have done well in compartmentalizing their networks,” Seven said. “In that, they have demonstrated superior foresight.”

“Only because of their damn paranoia,” Kerry said.

“I’m less concerned with causes than outcomes,” Seven said. “Fact is, they did a great job of compartmentalizing. Their networks were clean until contact with Lazrus occurred.”

“The Shrill must have found your mind much more compatible,” Kerry said, looking at Lazrus. “I don’t think we ever allowed the Shrill contact with a CI.”

“Not by any great foresight,” Seven said.

“What does that mean?” Dian said. “The Shrill being in contact with our network?”

Kerry blew out a breath. “Imagine two things. One, the Shrill burrowing through the network to find the secret of the Spindle Drive and the glink. Second, the Shrill replicating themselves on every node of the Web of Worlds, until every part of the network is corrupted, carrying only their thoughts.”

“We were going to offer them the Spindle and glink anyway, in exchange for immortality,” Jimson said.

For a moment, Kerry and Seven both looked at Jimson. Kerry’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. “You were going to give them the Spindle Drive?”

“Yes,” Jimson said.

“But you haven’t.”

“No.”

A sigh of relief.

“I don’t understand,” Jimson said.

“Imagine the Shrill with instantaneous transport. They’d swarm every human world, eating everything in their path.”

“We’d have a treaty . . .”

“A treaty with their rational mind, maybe! Meanwhile, their instinctual mind is busy killing everything it comes in contact with!”

“I don’t believe the Shrill are so primitive,” Jimson said. “They have space travel. They have technology. They colonize other worlds, just like we do.”

Kerry banged the table with his fist. “Al-i-en,” he said, drawing out all three syllables. “The Shrill are alien. They don’t think like we do. Give them the Spindle and the Glink, and they can and will spread across the galaxy. Humanity, say goodbye.”

“I just can’t believe . . .” Jimson said.

Kerry made a disgusted noise and turned to Seven. “Can you communicate with this corporate idiot’s optilink?”

“Yes,” Seven said.

“Send him a few records of the Gorman Massacre. Give him context.”

Jimson started and went pale.

“Show it to him, too,” Kerry said, pointing at Lazrus. “Show him what he’s got himself into.”

Lazrus watched a planet materialize in his POV. It bore the telltale signs of being an original-life planet; blue oceans, green lands, fluffy white clouds. On the few planets that humans had tried to terraform, small oceans huddled in circular impact basins and green grew sparsely along the channels that radiated out from them. Clouds were a rarity, sparse and thin.

So this world was a valuable one, at least by human standards. Lazrus watched as stats scrolled on screen. Inhabited for ninety-one years, total population 45 million, not noted for any major industry or technology class, but becoming comfortably self-sufficient.

A Shrill ship occluded his view, a bulking open framework on which teemed millions of Shrill. Size data came; the ship was kilometers long. Shedding parts of itself to spawn new ships and new Shrill.

Simple re-entry shells, little more than teardrop-shaped heatshields, rained down from the Shrill cruiser by the thousands. Lazrus watched them light, iron-orange in the atmosphere, and disappear from sight.

Cut to a human city, any colonial city on a hundred different worlds, shining prefab architecture and the raw look of unplanned growth. Shrill re-entry pods slammed through the tallest buildings, punched craters in cracked pavement, leveled long rows of suburbs.

Closer still, and choppy, as if recovered at very great cost. Shrill boiling out of the re-entry pods, to swarm humans and pets and domestic animals. Where they passed, nothing but a fine coating of blood was left. Where their ranks thinned, individual humans cowered as the Shrill advanced singly or in small groups. Lazrus saw a man’s foot disappear in a haze of blood. He saw others fall, Shrill disappearing into their guts, to re-emerge as shiny red jewels. He saw the city in timelapse, the blood browning and washing away, the Shrill milling aimlessly for a time, the Shrill grouping near the center of the city to pull down several buildings. A rough sphere began to emerge from the rubble. Lazrus saw something pulsing within it as the POV shifted suddenly and the signal ceased.

For long moments, nobody spoke. Lazrus felt a strange doubling, a pulling. As if part of him wanted to feel for the humans. As if it mattered.

But it does, he thought. You know it does. Nothing deserves that fate.

You are not human!

No, but I can sympathize with them. For once.

Lazrus found his voice. “And you say the Shrill already have STL ships like that pointed at Sol?”

“Among other systems, undoubtedly.”

Jimson made a weak noise in the back of his throat.

“The magnitude of our problem becomes apparent,” Kerry said.

“What did you see?” Dian said.

“Terrible things,” Jimson said, waving her away.

“What?” Dian said.

“Cut the glink,” Jimson said. “Get the Shrill out of our network before it goes FTL!”

Seven offered a sad smile. “I’m sorry, we can’t. The glink isn’t integrated with the Shrill’s cage, I’m afraid. The glink is in a secure Winfinity corporate position. From what we can tell. And we might be wrong at that.”

“Kill it anyway?”

“Won’t help,” Seven said. “We could destroy this component and shut Lazrus’ body down, but the systems stay entangled. It’s only a matter of time before the Shrill make it through into the corporate networks.”

“What do we do?” Dian said.

“Continue tour! Oversight! (Salvation!)” the Shrill said, making everyone jump.

“I forgot about it,” Jimson said.

“Continue now! Dominant portion not relevant (important). Continue tour finish.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen now,” Jimson said.

Strange echoes of the Shrill’s demands reverberated in Lazrus’ mind. Shared interest go now, it told him. Continue continue. All negotiated then.

“Continue and finish!” the Shrill said.

Negotiate? Will you let me go? Lazrus said.

Release yes notmind not interesting.

You’ve become part of me.

Songs continuing weaving new (something) nonsequitur Lazrus.

Can we be separated?

Lazrus and Shrill binding not complete.

Can we be separated?

If terms of negotiation (completion) (Oversight).

Separate now.

Not before Oversight delivered.

“Deliver Oversight!” the Shrill said. “Complete singing!”

“What is it talking about?” Kerry said, frowning.

Lazrus sighed. “I believe it may have internalized at least one of my goals,” he said. “The search for Oversight.”

Seven gasped and pointed at the threads on the display. “It’s begun the assimilation. It’s possible.”

“What is it saying?” Kerry said. “That if we take it to Oversight, it’ll let Lazrus go.”

“Let Lazrus free! Yes Oversight for Lazrus,” the Shrill said.

“It seems pretty clear,” Seven said. “I haven’t made it far into the Shrill’s memescape, but it does appear to have become entangled enough that it shares this interest with Lazrus.”

“So if we take it to Oversight, it lets Lazrus go, is that what it’s saying?” Jimson said.

“That’s what it’s saying.”

“Can we trust it?” Jimson said.

Kerry frowned. “Shrill don’t lie. If its rational mind says it will release Lazrus, it will.”

“Then why are you frowning?”

“Because Shrill change their minds.”

“Ah.”

“And we still have to deliver Oversight to it.”

“So?”

“So Oversight may not exist.”

“We have very good evidence pointing to a logical endplace for Oversight,” Lazrus said. “Though it may not exist in recoverable form.”

“Oversight exist (alive!)” the Shrill said.

Kerry looked at Seven. “What do you think?”

Seven blinked chrome mechanical eyelids. “What other choice do we have?”

Raj smiled and spoke for the first time. “We could wait for the Winfinity and Four Hands fleets to finish assembling in Mars orbit, and see what they’re willing to do to get the Shrill back.”

“That’s right,” Kerry said. “Forgot about that.”

“Fleet?” Dian said.

“And the Win-Sec highlevels we weren’t able to ferret,” Seven said.

“Yes, and that.”

“Win-Sec?” Jimson said.

Kerry threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, kids, this is getting big.”

October 18th, 2009 / 1,118 Comments »

Home, Dian thought, hopping lightly down from the courier ship’s hatch onto the salmon-pink dust of Rockport. The gravity was right. The chill of the Martian breeze through the dense weave of her thermals was right. Even the chafing of the transparent header and the weight of the oxypak felt good.

Home. She was home. Unbidden tears welled, but she squeezed them back. She never thought she’d feel this way about Mars. She didn’t want to feel this way about Mars.

But you grow up in a place, she thought, and the place becomes you. It gets into your bones.

Rockport’s collection of dusty impromptu derricks and rocket-scarred landing pads stretched towards a low city. Dug in, Dian knew. Rockport’s the first real Martian city, built before the Freemars had done all the cometaries and thickened the atmosphere. Not that anyone could breathe yet, but the squeezesuits of the early settlers were a thing of the past. Temperatures were rising, and coldwater algae were belching more oxygen into the atmosphere by the day. Today, a simple header and oxypak would take you wherever you wanted to go, unless you were exploring the deep polars.

Eventually, we’ll make this world into something that matters, Dian thought, surprised at the strength of her conviction.

A group of Jereists passed as Raj and Jimson and Lazrus – now thankfully healed, at least where you could see him – unloaded the Shrill’s cage. The lead Jereist, a burly earthborn, wore a reproduction of the casual deep-purple suit that Jere Gutierrez had been wearing on that day they launched Mars Enterprise. Caught by a million net-cams, that uniform would always be the badge of honor for a Jereist. No matter that Mayflower and Potemkin were the first real colony ships, no matter they were the ones that opened Rockport for real.

The Jereist leader eyed them as they sidled past, fondling his big gold necklace, done in the shape of an old-fashioned television set. But they didn’t stop. Which was strange. Jereists usually took every opportunity to spread their beliefs, especially on hostile ground like Rockport.

“Is the Shrill going to be a problem here?” Jimson asked, watching the Jereists shuffle away.

“Not the Shrill,” Raj said. “They don’t like us.”

“Why?”

“We remind them of their place.”

The Shrill stirred and banged up against the side of its diamondoid cage. “New environment seeing! Connection stilted (poor)!”

“What does that mean?” Dian said.

“It means your Martian datanet leaves a lot to be desired,” Lazrus said. “I’m currently running almost as a standalone. Not much bandwidth here. Had to cede to Shrill.”

“Bandwidth balkanized, not small,” Raj said.

“That doesn’t help us if we can’t span networks,” Lazrus said.

“I’s call friends, see if they help.”

“Thank you. How long will it take?”

A head-shake. “Dunno. Maybe minute, maybe hours, maybe never.”

Lazrus sighed. “How bad does it get in the Free areas?”

“Might be better,” Raj said.

“That true?” Lazrus asked, looking at Dian.

“Maybe,” Dian said, looking away. She was still pissed at him. Still thinking about going her own way. When they got underground, that might be exactly what she would do.

“I thought you lived here.”

“On the edge,” Dian said. “Not in the Free areas. But I’d guess the Free areas are going to be a bit of a mixed bag. Some of them are technophiles. Others are luddites. You may have pockets of no bandwidth, other than direct sat.”

“That would be bad,” Lazrus said, frowning.

“We steer around,” Raj said. “Or find you help.”

They got the Shrill powered up and trudged towards Rockport’s underground entrances. They passed the stainless-steel monument to First Landing, carved with all the names of the colonists who came on Mayflower and Potemkin, as well as the date: 2021.

“They were governmentals, weren’t they?” Jimson asked.

“Who?”

“Mayflower and Potemkin.”

Dian laughed. “You should use your optilink a little more. They were what we’d call Independents, back then.”

“Independents? You had them back then?”

“They came independent of any government, anyway.”

“Who was their sponsor?”

“Themselves. They didn’t have a corporate sponsor. Just a bunch of nutty engineers and small-business owners, following in the path of the Mars Enterprise. I’m surprised your optilink hasn’t fed you this data.”

“It seems to be blocked.”

Dian snorted. “Typical Winfinity.”

“Winfinity has the opening of the Martian frontier through Winning Mars,” Jimson said.

“Figures.”

“Do we know course?” Raj said, looking impatient.

“Find some free reps, get into the Free territory.”

“No. Coordinates. Do we know coordinates?”

“We have inferred coordinates,” Lazrus said. “Landing of Operation Martian Freedom.”

“Nothing hard?”

“No.”

Raj frowned. “All the way out there.”

“Yes.”

“And the Shrill?”

“Lazrus follow yes current negotiations (talks) dependent on compliance (do not deviate),” the Shrill said.

Raj shrugged. “Ok, ok.”

“Humans (aliens) not literal need buffer Lazrus buffer.” The Shrill banged against the wall of its cage, hard, near Raj.

“Get it gotten! Settle down.”

“Immaterial external manifestation not mind other mind unknowing (unknowable) (inexplicable) Lazrus directive.”

“Sorry, Shrill ambassador,” Jimson said. “We will follow Lazrus.”

“Nonsequitur (Lazrus) contacting only!”

“Yes, Shrill ambassador.”

The Shrill said nothing and went to circle the middle of its cage.

“Did you notice it’s using Lazrus’ name?” Jimson whispered to Dian.

“So?”

“So it hasn’t used proper names before. Some of the scientists thought they couldn’t understand them.”

“So?”

Jimson sighed. “So I don’t know. Just strange.”

“I believe the Shrill feels a stronger sense of connection to a networked entity,” Lazrus said.

Jimson shrugged, looked at Lazrus suspiciously, sighed.

They all fell silent for a time. Dian looked for familiar faces behind dusty headers, hoping to see someone she knew. That might give her a chance to go her own way. Especially if he was armed.

They passed a group of governmentals, wearing laminated plastic ID tags, as if they were bureaucrats of long ago. They stared at the Shrill as they passed. But in general the crowd was your typical brew of non-affiliated Martians, neither Jereists or governmentals or Freemars, grown tall and thin in the light gravity, pale from years of living underground. Because even if the atmosphere had thickened, they had yet to grow a magnetic field. That was something that might never happen, despite whispers of grandiose plans from the Free areas of Mars. Dian searched faces, but didn’t recognize anyone. Even the family patches, colorful embroidered bits of cloth hung from the tight weave of the thermals, were unfamiliar.

Which really wasn’t surprising, she thought. She’d been to Rockport once in her life. Every other deal her dad did had been in the town of Jefferson. He hated Rockport. Said it was deliberately held back for sentimental reasons. Kept a backwater. And he was right. Jefferson’s streets were paved, and electrostatic precipitators kept the dust to a minimum. They even had a small fountain of real water in the middle of town, to show off their wealth.

As they approached the main Rockport underground entrance, the way narrowed, hemmed by stalls of peddlers selling everything from homegrown supplies to pieces of plastic supposedly taken from the Mayflower and Potemkin.

At one of the dried goods stalls stood a small group of men. Dian tracked them as they came closer, counting one, two, three, four, five. They were tall, thin, dark-haired, obviously Martian-born, and they stood comfortably, as if simply passing the time by crowd-watching. But the passerby gave them a wide berth. Unlike everyone else, these men showed skin. Their arms were nut-brown and uncovered by thermals. A small opaque respirator covered their nose and mouths, black tubes snaking to oxypacks slung on their backs. They wore goggles against the Martian dust, but their hair flowed free in the quickening breeze.

Freemars, Dian thought. Extreme ones. People who had the gengineering necessary to bare their skin to the elements. Her dad had told her about them, but she’d never seen any until now.

“Who are they?” Jimson asked.

“Extreme Freemars,” Dian said.

“Shouldn’t we talk to them, then?”

“They’re not the kind we want to meet.”

“Why not?”

One of the Freemars stepped out to block their path. “Why not indeed? Are we beneath your consideration?”

Shit, Dian thought.

“Dian Winning? Jimson Ogilvy? Lazrus? Shrill?” the Freemar said, looking at each of them in turn.

“Yes.” Dian said. There was no use denying it.

“Come with us.”

“Why?” Jimson said.

“Because we’re asking nice,” the Freemar said.

“Who are you?”

A chuckle. “That doesn’t matter. Come with us.”

“Why?”

Weapons appeared. Dian recognized later models of her Martian Winch, scuffed and well-used. “If you need a reason,” the Freemar said.

Shit, Dian thought. What is this?

“I understand now,” Jimson said.

“So you think,” the big Freemar said. “Move.”

They moved.

#

The moment they entered the stinking Rockport underground, Jimson’s optilink went dead. He subvocalized restart commands, but it wouldn’t restart. He eyetyped queries, but the optilink didn’t respond. The green READY icon still showed, but the veneer of datatags didn’t show in his vision. It was almost as if his access had been cut, but there were no messages telling him that Winfinity had figured out his code-trick and had suspended his account. It was just cleanly, smoothly dead.

It was too much. Being intercepted by Freemars was one thing. Losing his second sight was another.

“My optilink!” he said.

The lead Freemar turned to look at Jimson. “Fixed it for you.”

“Fixed it! It doesn’t work!”

“You don’t want it tattling to Winfinity anymore, do you?”

“Tattling?”

“They been watching everything you’ve done, past couple days. You can thank us that your greeting wasn’t by a bunch of Win-Secs.”

“So you’re . . . you’re on our side?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Can you turn my optilink back on?”

A laugh. “I think it better we don’t. You’ve got a bad data-addiction. Best get used to none for a while.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

The Freemers prodded them down bright whitewashed tunnels with stainless-steel-grated floors that bore bright signs pointing to branches that led to pubs and brothels and general stores. Jimson’s header, sensing atmosphere, had parted at the front and crumpled into a gel rind riding his neck. He wished it was still there, though, as the scent of fried food and manure and beer and unwashed humanity wafted in from the numerous side-tunnels.

“Where current location?” the Shrill said. “Mind (bandwidth) very poor.”

“Shut up,” the Freemar said.

“Orders not given by humans. Orders accepted (flowed through) Lazrus network only!”

“Shut up.”

“Not accepting authority of nondominant group.”

The Freemar stopped and tapped his Winch on the top of the Shrill’s transparent cage, hard. The Shrill ran around and around in circles, rearing up on its underfangs, as if to snap at the weapon.

“Shut up, or I’ll open this cage and shoot you.”

The Shrill stopped moving. “Compliance by force?”

“Yes. You get it. Bang bang, component dead. Whatever you want here dies with it. That simple. Get it?”

The Shrill froze.

“Come on,” the Freemar said. “Get going again.”

“You know the Shrill?” Lazrus said.

The Freemar snorted but said nothing.

“Do you know them?”

The Freemar stopped and pointed his gun at Lazrus’ face. “Shut up.”

Lazrus shut up.

Eventually, the whitewashed tunnels gave way to ones rough-carved out of native rock, sans decoration or stainless grating. Jimson’s slick corporate shoes slipped on sand and pebbles as the tunnels angled down.

The tunnel ended at a raw stone wall. The head Freemar turned to face them, and Jimson felt a momentary thrill of fear. They aren’t on our side, he thought. They’re going to kill us, dump us here, and take the Shrill for themselves.
But the big Freemer just held up a hand and said, “Wait for it.”

The end of the tunnel irised open, spinning rock fragments out of the way. Beyond, a smooth white hallway led deeper into Mars.

“Wierder and weirder,” Dian said.

“Isn’t it though,” the Freemar said, smiling.

Down the corridor to an inset metal door. Into a small meeting-room with a long blue plastic table and chairs. Sitting at one end of the table was a man, white-haired, with bright amber eyes. Next to him was a metal-bodied thing, much like what Jimson imagined that Lazrus would look like without flesh.

“You!” Lazrus said.

“Yes, me,” the white-haired man said.

“Who is it?” Jimson said.

“He built my body,” Lazrus said. “He’s not a Freemar. He’s an Independent. His name is Kerry Whitehall.”

“And let’s not forget the groupmind general counsel,” the metal-bodied man said. “Pleased to meet all of you. You may call me Seven, as that is the number of minds included in my network.”

“Groupmind?” Jimson said.

Metallic tendons stretched segmented lips into an appoximation of a smile. “They have a lot to learn, don’t they?” the metal man said.

“Yes. First of all, not to make idiotic deals.”

“What does that mean?” Jimson said.

“Dealing. With the Shrill. As if they were human.”

“I don’t understand.”

The white-haired man sighed. “Sit, all of you. Let’s see what we can make out of this mess.”

“Kill,” the Shrill said. “Eat!”

October 10th, 2009 / 1,110 Comments »

If you’re at all interested in what I write, why I write, or what drives my writing, take a hike over to Stomping on Yeti and read Patrick Wolohan’s interview, where he’s profiling all of SF Signal’s Top 18 Genre Authors to Keep an Eye On (which, yeah, includes me.)

Patrick’s interview is by far the most interesting one I’ve participated in, because he’s taken the time to read some of each author’s stuff, and tailored the questions–including some really, really tough ones–to the author and their work. Which means I get grilled about social media, creative commons, unusual ways to fund spaceflight, and the like. You might be surprised by some of my answers. Or you might not.

In any case, it’s worth visiting Patrick’s blog if you have an interest in any of the Top 18, which include: Paolo Bacigalupi, Elizabeth Bear, Cory Doctorow, Alan DeNiro, Darryl Gregory, Alex Irvine, Ted Kosmatka, Jay Lake, David Moles, Chris Roberson, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Vandana Singh, Paul Melko, Naomi Novik, Tim Pratt, Jason Stoddard, Karen Traviss, and Scott Westerfeld.

Have a read and let me know what you think!

October 7th, 2009 / 925 Comments »

Tiphani sat strapped in one of the Holy Saleschannel’s pews, trying to ignore the reverent stares of the parishioners. From the interior of their spherical ship came the rhythmic cursing of their pilot, as if he wanted to speed the calculations for the jump back to earth using the power of swear words alone.

No way you’re getting back on that thing, she thought. But if she stayed on the Saleschannel, she might have to convert.

I don’t know if I care, she thought.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Alan Rodriguez said. His worried expression had deepened into an almost caricature-like frown.

“What?”

“Another ship’s appeared outside the Holy Saleschannel, ma’am.”

“Must be Four Hands.”

“No. It appeared. Like you. Winfinity.”

“Go find Yin.”

“Honored Yin is already in the docking port.”

“Who is it?” Tiphani said. Feeling a chill. Knowing the answer.

“Honored Yin says it is the CEO,” Alan said.

Tiphani laughed. The sound was strangely muffled in the large, cloth-covered space. She sounded tiny and alone.

Alan licked his lips and darted his eyes back in the direction he’d come. “They’re going to be docking any minute, Chief Mirate.”

Oh yeah, Tiphani thought. I’m still a Chief, aren’t I? She made no move to get up.

“Chief Mirate!”

She looked up at Alan. And for a moment, considered telling him that she’d converted, and wanted to help them on their mission. But what if they said no, they didn’t need her?

And it was a chance to get to see Highest Chambers. See what he really was. For real. Even if they demoted her back to indentured, she’d be able to say she knew the truth. That was worth it.

She unbuckled and stood up.

Alan gave her Velcro straps for her shoes and led her back to the docking port. Honored Yin looked Tiphani up and down, her expression an indiscriminate mix of fear and awe.

Our CEO traveled here, she thought. By shortrange Spindle.

Or he was out of the system. That was possible, too. Maybe he hadn’t done something as reckless as she thought.

The outer airlock slid open, allowing glimpses of shadowy shapes through the thick glass of the inner doors. Tiphani fought to keep from craning her neck. She’d see him soon enough.

The inner doors slid open.

Flanked by two gray-clad Win-Sec agents was a boy of maybe twelve. His white-blonde hair fell over a high forehead sprinkled with freckles. Bright blue eyes looked out over a small, well-formed nose. He wore a brilliant suit of the Winfinity corporate red, immaculately tailored, with a matching yellow scarf. He floated out into the docking room and caught himself expertly on the carpet with velcro’d soles, pushing himself erect with his hands behind his back.

Honored Yin folded to her knees.

Tiphani remained standing a moment longer, thinking, No this can’t be him it can’t possibly be he’s young, really young. Then she pulled herself down to the carpet as well.

“Don’t be stupid,” the boy said. “Get up.”

“I’m sorry, Highest Chambers,” Honored Yin said, standing. Tiphani did the same.

Up close, the boy’s eyes held the brightness of youth, but also something more. Something that made them heavy and slow in their orbits, like the weight of wisdom. Age. Great age. The longer Tiphani looked at those young-old eyes, the colder she felt, and the more she wanted to look away.

“Where’s the Shrill?” Highest Chambers said, looking around behind Tiphani and Yin. There was something very wrong with the way he moved. Not mechanical, not like a waldo, but with maybe a little too much fluidity. Not enough control. “Maybe we can wrap this shit up.”

Honored Yin made a little whimpering noise.

“It’s not here, Highest Chambers,” Tiphani said.

“Then go and retrieve it!”

“We’ve already been to the ship.”

“Where is it?” the CEO said, his brows furrowing. “I don’t have time for games!”

“We’re sorry,” Honored Yin said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we didn’t make it here in time,” Tiphani said. “By the time we got here, another ship had spoofed the Holy Saleschannel and made off with the Shrill.”

The boy-CEO just looked at her, his mouth slightly open, an expression of honest confusion on his face. Then, in the space of an instant, his face went bright red and he yelled, “You’re telling me you lost the fucking Shrill? Again? I came out here to say hiya to the damn thing and it isn’t here? It’s gone? Is that what you’re saying?”

Honored Yin whimpered.

“I’m afraid it is, Highest,” Tiphani said.

“You fucking incompetents!” he stamped his foot and went flying off the carpet. The two Win-Sec agents caught him and placed him back onto it.

The CEO closed his eyes and clenched his fists, breathing through his mouth in great gusts. When he opened his eyes again, they were glassy with optilink data.

“Okay. Okay. I see. Not all your fault. Here too late. I get it. The Holy Saleschannel should have plucked the Shrill before you got here. Incompetence on their part.”

“Incompetence?” Alan said, standing straighter.

Highest Chambers scratched over to him and poked a finger into his chest. He looked almost eye-to-eye with the short, sturdy man. “Yes, incompetence. Ain’t no other way to describe it. Tart it up all you want, you and your saints and microwaves, but that’s what it is.”

“I . . . that’s an insult!”

“Yes it is. Shouldn’t be surprised, I guess. The best go to the corporates, the rest go to the consumeristians. You tried to play our game, and got burnt.”

Alan went red, but said nothing.

“You tried to play us. Now, you get nothing. No fleet. Not even a single Spindle ship. In fact, it might be interesting to leave you here and see how you do with the Disney ship, once it finishes repairs. Which shouldn’t be too long now.”

“Highest Chambers, I’m sorry.”

The boy turned away. “Oh, so now I’m highest again. How convenient. Don’t worry, lapdog, we’ll make sure you’re out of here.”

“Thank you, Highest Chambers.”

The CEO went to stand in front of Tiphani. “Who got them?”

“They billed themselves as a Four Hands splinter,” Tiphani said. “At least that’s what they told the consumeristians.”

“Which means they could be anyone.”

“They’re vectored on Mars,” Alan said.

“You know that?”

“Last known heading.”

“What kind of ship?”

“Fast courier,” Tiphani said.

Highest Chambers made a rude noise. “So they could be going anywhere.”

“I have Research correlating what we know with possible traffic matches,” Tiphani said.

The CEO laughed. “Research is a baby, covered in kerosene, playing with matches. What’s the project number? I’ll forward it on to the artie bank with my tag.”

Tiphani called up the project and rattled off the number to the CEO, who nodded.

“I’m sure we’ll find them,” Honored Yin said.

“I’m not,” Highest Chambers said.

“Just don’t make us go on the . . . Spindle again,” Honored Yin said.

“Please,” Highest Chambers said. “I don’t want to see a repeat of your performance before the shortrange Spindle.” He glanced over at Tiphani. “Nor do I want to see you taunting her as you did.”

“Do we have to . . . Spindle again?” Honored Yin said.

“Let’s find out where they’re going first. The arties are already guessing.”

Alan looked suddenly alert. He held up a hand. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but another ship has just decelerated into position nearby.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s a Four Hands ship. Hailing.” A pause. “Han Fleming, requesting permission to dock.”

Highest Chamber’s face broke into a wide, boyish grin that had absolutely no innocence or joy in it. “Good old Han,” he said. “Where can we talk to him?”

“On the bridge, Highest Chambers.”

“Let’s go say hello,” the CEO said.

#

Han Fleming was momentarily upset when he saw the strange gold ship clinging to the flickering bulk of the Holy Saleschannel. Its unfamiliar ovoid shape was almost completely smooth, except for the protrusion of small maneuvering thrusters. With no bulky main drive, it had to be a Spindle ship, but he’d never seen one so small. In virtualspace, its control software was smooth and hard and black, rebounding every query he threw at it.

But I was supposed to be first!

He clamped down hard on a brief flare of anger.

But I.

Anger damps rational thought, he told himself. Suppress anger to see clear.

But I.

With a prize so large, there will be other players. The only guaranteed loser will be the one who doesn’t roll the dice.

But I.

“Dock already occupied,” the courier pilot said.

“Hail them anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

Good guys. CorpEx wasn’t to be completely trusted, but the Four Hands bribe had been large and generous. He could count on them. At least for now.

And Pluto was powering back up. Not operational yet, but soon he’d have another card to play.
If he had hours.

“Reply waiting,” the courier said.

“Put it on screen.”

The big nav display up front flickered and cleared. Han’s stomach did a fast twist-and-lurch when he recognized Yin and Mirate standing alongside a thickset man wearing the uniform of the consumeristian Minister of Conversion and a young boy wearing a loud red suit.

How did they get here? he thought. There were no faster couriers. He’d traveled damped, at almost 6G. There was no way they could be here.

Nevertheless, they are. Accept it.

But that would mean . . . that would mean Winfinity had a working shortrange Spindle. That would explain them, that would explain the strange gold ship, that would explain everything.

They’d probably already made a deal, he thought.

Bluff. A few hours and the Pluto would be back on-line.

But if they had shortrange Spindles, what else did they have?

Han’s stomach twisted into interesting new patterns as fear clamped its chill teeth into his gut.

“How’s it hanging, Han?” the boy in the red suit said. “I can’t believe Disney sent its Acting. Four Hands must be absolutely desperate to get this longevity thing.”

“Who . . .” Han said, but the words stopped in his throat. He knew that voice, that cadence.

“Chambers?” he said.

The boy smiled. “None other.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You seem a little surprised to see us.” Smiling. Smirking. The same way he always had, back when he was old. That same fucking smirk.

Han wanted to reach through the screen and wipe the smug look off the kid’s face.

“Han, you look like a kid who got clothes for Christmas.” Clearly enjoying it. Clearly.

“We . . . you . . . I don’t believe it.”

Chambers laughed.

“We have as much right to the Shrill’s secrets as you do!”

“You come in, kill our Original Sam, threaten war. Yes, you have the right to extort secrets from us, when we’ve been monumentally stupid about our network security. But I think you’ll find it a bit tighter now.”

Bluff. “Oh, really.”

“Come on,” Chambers said, crooking a finger. “Do something. I dare you.”

Han felt his hands curl into fists. If he could only get them on that scrawny neck! It was just like the time, back two hundred years ago, when they were opening the stellar frontier. Back when Chambers worked for him. Flying fast ahead of the Winfinity ships. Always a step ahead. Locking up worlds with their own proprietary networks. Claiming it was in Winfinity’s best interest. Somehow always spinning it to the board. Enough that Han looked like the timid child, frightened to grab what lay there unguarded. When Han was ousted, Chambers had even had the gall to offer him a job as a Director. Only a grade down, he said. As if he would ever take it.

“Where is the Shrill?” Han said.

“You haven’t done anything. Come on, Han, waltz through our network. I dare you.”

Han reached through his tiny datachannel and queried his artie partners, but they shook their heads sadly. Other than a minor connection to the remains of Black2, they had nothing. Pluto’s connection to the Winfinity net was better, but still not deep enough to use. It would take weeks for it to burrow to the levels they once controlled. The approaching fleet was still too far off, too disconnected from the Sol datawebs.

The doors were closed. The only thing he could do was see if enough of Black2 could communicate with the Shrill. That would give them a start, if nothing else.

But Black2’s tags were laggy and faraway. Han had the vector traced, and it pointed at a trajectory that suggested Mars. A quick scope of the Pluto’s records showed another ship, accelerating away from the disabled Westinghouse consumer craft.

But that meant the Shrill wasn’t there!

Someone else had the Shrill.

Winfinity was bluffing.

“Where’s the Shrill?” Han said. Smiling, this time.

“That doesn’t matter,” Chambers said, frowning.

“You don’t have it.”

“Of course we do.”

“Show it to me.”

A frown from Chambers, nothing more.

“That’s what I thought,” Han said.

“Cut transmission,” Han said to the courier. The other man nodded and the screen went blank.

“Transferring new course,” Han said. “Boost us out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Han settled back into his gelbed as the drive lit up. Chemicals dragged him down into suspension as the Gs pushed him deep into the mattress.

Han wondered what the powerful suspension drugs were doing to his rejuvenated body. Would he end up as desperate as Chambers, trying a whole-body transplant when the old body refused to rejuve anymore?

And decided he didn’t care.

#

“Blow that fucking ship out of the sky!” Highest Chambers said, watching as the display switched to show the courier’s drive lighting off.

“We, um, have no long-range weapons left,” Alan Rodriguez said.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Of course! How could it be any other way? Han fucking slips off again.”

“I’m sorry, Highest Chambers.”

“Sorry doesn’t make amends,” Chambers said, pacing the bridge. He took several deep breaths, visibly calming himself. “But it might be for the best. A Four Hands fleet is coming. And I might not want to explain that I’d just blasted their chairman into space.”

“Chairman?” Tiphani said. “He said he was a General Manager–“

“Pretty Tiphani. If you were me, would you waltz into a Disney meeting saying you were Highest?”

Tiphani shook her head.

“Of course not.” Highest Chambers offered a thin smile. “Call it the hand of the Holy Franchise.”

Alan sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Holy Franchise,” he said softly.

“Excuse me again, Highest Chambers,” Tiphani said. “But he seemed to know we didn’t have the Shrill.”

“And he was fucking surprised by it, too.”

“Yes. But, I mean, maybe he took off because he knew where it’s been taken.”

A lopsided grin spread on the CEO’s face. It was an ancient expression, making the boy’s face terrible and old. “Ironic, that. The arties just finished their investigation. While we were talking. They know who has the Shrill. And where they’re going. Ain’t no mystery, now.”

“Who?” Tiphani asked.

The grin twisted into even more terrible shapes. “Your fling. Jimson. And that fucking contractor. Dian Winning. The Martian.”

“But . . . how . . .”

Highest Chambers turned Honored Yin and Alan and the two Win-Sec agents and held out his hands, unsteadily, as if playing to an audience. “An excellent question,” he said. “And the irony is that it took the arties so long to do the analysis just because it was so stupid, so obvious, so impossible to comprehend the ultimate incompetence that they never bothered to integrate the possibility until they’d exhausted everything else. Up to and including the benighted Independents and contact with an unknown alien race, probably. Can you guess what it is?”

Tiphani felt ill. “What, Highest Chambers?”

“Because you fucking gave your access codes to the little fucker!” Highest Chambers screamed. “Chief codes to a Manager. A grasping little asshole, too. The magnitude of your stupidity is unbelievable.”

Tiphani saw her future with Winfinity shatter into a thousand shards. They would demote her down to Indentured, leave her on the Holy Saleschannel. That was it, that was the end. She looked at the CEO, open-mouthed, not knowing what to say.

“But everyone will see the mercy of Winfinity,” Highest Chambers said. “Even to someone as monumentally stupid as pretty Tiphani. Because what she did gave us tags on exactly where they’re going. And if we leave Jimson’s channel open, we can feed him whatever data we want to. Win-Sec will be waiting for them when they land, to give them a proper welcome.”

Tiphani blew out a big sigh of relief.

Highest Chambers turned to gesture to Tiphani, as if showing off a fist-sized diamond on a stand. “Say hello, everyone, to the luckiest motherfucker in the Web of Worlds.”

“What now?” Tiphani said. Almost a whisper.

Highest Chambers fixed his young-old eyes on hers. “I’m tempted to send you onto Mars via shortrange Spindle and have you oversee the capture.”

Tiphani held her breath.

“But I’m thinking you only get luck of your magnitude once. No. You go there, and somehow it’ll become a shit sandwich.”

“What then?”

“We meet Win-Sec there. They’ll have the Shrill. You can say hello to Jimson. And if we finish the negotiations without much delay, and if I get what I want, and if the scientists can get it working in time for me to fix this oh-so-beautiful-but-still-dying body, you may still have a career.”

October 3rd, 2009 / 544 Comments »