His board upped the lumens on the icon, a visual voice-raising: Alice Jovellanos still wants to talk. Please respond.
Forget it, Alice. Your face is the last thing I want to see right now.You're lucky I haven't turned you in already.
If Guilt Trip had been doing his—its job, he would have turned her in. God only knew how badly he could screw up now, thanks to that little saboteur's handiwork. God only knew how many other 'lawbreakers she was putting at risk the same way, how many catastrophes would result from sheer glandular indecision at a critical moment. Alice Jovellanos had potentially put millions of lives in jeopardy.
Not that that amounted to a fart in a hurricane next to what ßehemoth was gearing up for, of course. N'AmWire had just made it public: a big chunk of the west coast was now officially under quarantine. Even the official death toll had left the starting gate at four digits.
The splice fed into a new panel that crowded him on the right. It was stand-alone and self-contained, unconnected and unconnectable to any CSIRA sockets. Vast walled spaces waited within—spaces that could swallow the contents of a node and walls that could mimic its architecture at a moment's notice. A habitat replicator, in effect. A terrarium.
The icon began beeping. He muted it.
Take a hint, Alice.
She'd really fucked him up the ass. The problem—and the fact that it was a problem only emphasized how thoroughly she'd messed things up—was that she obviously didn't see it that way. She thought of herself as some sort of liberator. She'd acted out of some kind of twisted concern for his welfare. She'd actually put his interests above the Greater Good.
Desjardins booted the terrarium. Start-up diagnostics momentarily cluttered the display. He wouldn't be using his inlays this time around; they were part of the CSIRA network, after all. It was going to be raw visual and touchpads all the way.
The Greater Good. Right.
That had always been a faceless, abstract thing to human sensibilities. It was easier to feel for the one person you knew than for the far-off suffering millions you didn't. When the Big One had hit the Left Coast, Desjardins had watched the threads and spun his filters and breathed a silent sigh of relief that it hadn't been him under all that rubble—but on the day that Mandelbrot died, he knew, his heart would break.
It was that illogical fact that made Guilt Trip necessary in the first place. It was that illogical fact that kept him from betraying Alice Jovellanos. He sure as shit wasn't ready to sit down and have a friendly chat with her, but he couldn't bring himself to sell her out either.
Besides. If he really had figured out this whole Anemone thing, it was Alice who'd given him the idea.
He tapped the board. A window opened. Maelstrom howled on the other side.
Either way, he'd know within the hour.
It was everywhere.
Even where it wasn't, it was. Where it wasn't talking, it was being talked about. Where it wasn't being talked about it was being sown, tales and myths of Lenie Clarke left inert until some unsuspecting vector opened a mailbox to hatch a whole new generation.
"She's everywhere. That's why they can't catch her."
"You're shitting static. How can she be everywhere?"
"Imposters. Clones. Who says there's only one Lenie Clarke?"
"She can, you know, beam herself. Quantum teleportation. It's the blood nanos she's carrying."
"That's impossible."
"Remember the Strip?"
"What about it?"
"Lenie started it, haploid. She just strolled onto the beach and everyone she touched just threw off the drugs and woke up. Just like that. Sounds nano to me."
"That wasn't nano. That's just, you know, that firewitch bug from NoCal, the one that makes your joints fall apart? It got into the cyclers and fucked up some molecule in the valium. You want to know what Lenie started,she started that fucking plague …"
It had gotten smarter, too. Subtler. Hundreds of 'lawbreakers were on the watch now, prowling civilian channels for the inexplicable clarity that had alerted Desjardins the day before. That slip hadn't been repeated, as far as anyone could tell.
And when Desjardins finally did acquire a target, it wasn't baud rate or drop-out that clued him in, but content:
"I know where Lenie Clarke is." It spoke with the sexless, neutral voice of inflated ascii set to default; its handle was Tesseract. "Les-beus are on her ass, but they've lost the trail for now."
"How do you know?" asked someone claiming to be Poseidon-23.
"I'm Anemone," Tesseract said.
"Sure. And I'm Ken Lubin."
"Then your days are numbered, litcrit-o'-mine. Ken Lubin's been turned. He's working for the corpses now."
A lot smarter, to have known that. Not so smart to admit it in mixed company. Desjardins began sketching lines on his board.
"We need to back her up," Tesseract was saying. "Any of you in central N'Am, say around the Great Lakes?"
No queries to the local traffic log, no surreptitious trawl for Turing apps, no trace on the channel. No moves on anything that Tesseract might be keeping an eye on. Achilles Desjardins had gotten smarter, too.
"Piss off, Tessie." Some skeptic going by Hiigara. "You expect us to sub to Lenie Clarke's personal manager just showing up to chat?"
Nothing in the local node. Desjardins started snooping adjacent servers.
"I sense skepticism," Tesseract remarked. "Special effects is what you want. A demonstration."
"Yowsers," said Poseidon-23, and drowned in the roar of an ocean.
Desjardins blinked. An instant before, there'd been six people on the channel listing. Now there were four thousand eight hundred sixty two, all speaking at once. No one voice was comprehensible, but even the collective blare was impossibly clear: a digital babble with no distortion, no static, no arrhythmic stutter of bytes delayed or lost in transit.
Silence returned. The channel listing imploded back down to the six it had started with.
"There you go," said Tesseract.
Shit, Desjardins thought.Shaken, he studied the results on his board.It's talking to all of them.At once.
"How'd you do that?" Hiigara asked.
"I'd rather not," Tesseract whispered. "It attracts attention. Are any of you in central N'Am, say around the Great Lakes?"
He muted the chatter; he didn't need it, now that he had the scent. There seemed to be a fair bit of wildlife in a hospital server across town. He stepped inside, looked out through its portals.
Even more wildlife over there. Desjardins stepped sideways, and found himself in Oslo National's account records. And even more wildlife flowing out to…
Step.
Timor. Real heavy infestation. Of course, those little subsidiaries were still back in the twentieth century when it came to pest control, but still…
This is it, he thought.
Don't touch anything. Go straight to the root.
He did. He whispered sweet nothings to gatekeepers and system clocks, flashed his ID to ease their concerns. A very large number of users are about to get very pissed off, he reflected.
He tapped his board. On the other side of the world, every portal on the edge of the Timor node slammed shut.