Titans Page 19

  "Why would someone want to do that?" I said. "Unless he was upset that his boss/government was spying on everything he said and arresting him without a warrant."

  "We're talking about our property," Linigan said. "We have the legal right to protect it."

  "Rob." Shelby laid a firm hand on my arm. "This isn't productive."

  "I think it is." I glanced out the window. "I think it's something people need to hear."

  Linigan smiled with half his mouth. "Expecting someone? It's just you and us. Now let's come up with something both of us can swallow."

  He and his team guided the talks back toward neutral ground, speaking in sanitized terms about the need for the "option of control" and "chaos aversion." I dropped out as Shelby, Linigan, Becky, Go, and the till-then-silent Calbert dickered over looking at a modified constitutional monarchy with OA acting as regent.

  "You get all that, Fay?" I subvocalized several minutes later.

  "Yup. What are you doing?"

  "Taking the fight to them. I don't think it worked."

  I had underestimated how long it took to call friends, process what they'd heard, chug some coffee, find some markers and old sheets, inform your boss you had a family emergency, meet up and march through the domes. A full hour after my stab at executive-baiting, the first chants filtered through our high window like distant surf. The droopy-eyed woman's fingers clacked over her omni. She excused herself, returning a minute later to whisper into Linigan's ear.

  He fixed me with a stare as cold as the ice beyond the bubbles. "I told you this was proprietary information. No broadcasts are allowed."

  "Guess I should have signed those NDAs with my real name." I shoved away from the table's confused faces. A hundred feet below the window, a thousand-person throng yelled slogans and waved hastily-painted banners. More streamed in from the tunnel portal across the plaza. I waved.

  Linigan wrapped up the meeting with the brusqueness of an ex-girlfriend dropping by the apartment for a box of her underwear. We departed and weaved into the crowd: professionals in button-operated shirts; service-types in earth-tone shorts; clapping sloganeers; gas miners with their visor tans and ring-themed tattoos swirling on their elbows; and the algae and beverage vendors who sprung up as soon as the mob planted its heels.

  Shelby punched me on the arm. "How did you do that? They were all set to fuck us right on that table."

  "They were playing an old trick," I said. "Isolate us from our support, then flatter us as the special few worthy of speaking to. We get smug. Elite. Soon enough, we identify more with the other elites at the bargaining table than the people we represent."

  She grinned and squeezed my arm. "They'll never let you back in there, you idiot."

  "I wouldn't be any help on the legal front anyway. I was just hoping to force OA to take this seriously."

  "I think we can do this," she said. In the carnival-like gathering of cheering colonists, clapping workers, laughing families, and friends filming with omnis stretched over their heads, Shelby held tight to my elbow. "We've got them on the run."

  "They recommend arriving early to clear security," Arthur said in that I-know-things-you-don't tone of his. "Pick up the pace, will you?"

  "How long can it take them to swipe a passport?"

  "These people don't do anything fast. I think they like being bored."

  Baxter rolled his eyes, which was something the lab men had done a lot around Arthur. Would there be company men at the spaceport? They'd want to cover the AIs' every possible move, but what could HemiCo do if they spotted the two of them in public? It wasn't like the company could go to the police. If the cops found two beings in Illegal Impersonation of Life, their next question would be who built them.

  Still, HemiCo couldn't just let the two of them get on a flight, could they?

  Five hours left in New Houston; a day or three at the orbital waiting for the interplanetary shuttle to fill up; 27 days to Earth, where their real work would begin. Once they reached it, they would have no guarantees, no safe havens to shield them from the company and governments, but it was an awfully big planet. Among eleven billion people, sheer numbers dictated a few of them would give Arthur and Baxter a hand. The omninet had dozens of pro-AI organizations; once the two of them were among their supporters in the flesh, so to speak, the box would be open. There would be no putting them back inside.

  "It's quite possible we'll become celebrities," Arthur said into Baxter's earbud, as if reading his thoughts. "I hope you're prepared for that."

  "Do you think we'll meet lots of people?" he asked, gazing up at the dome-blurred stars. Where were you, Earth?

  "Altogether too many."

  16

  For the next two days, it looked like Shelby might be right. They replaced me on the negotiating team with Vance, which was probably best at that phase in the game. When we met at the bar in the evenings, Tin or Jia or both in tow, the team rushed breathlessly through the day's progress with the enthusiasm of freshmen back from their first semester at college. Granted, our bargaining position was far from unassailable. OA owned everything. The ship that would carry the colonists to Alpha Centauri-A. The modules that would form their homes on the surface of the third moon of the system's fourth planet. Not to mention the air, food, and water that would make the ship and the modules living spaces rather than multi-billion-dollar mass graves.

  But after the mob-grenade I'd lobbed into OA's office, the negotiations had swung from a farcical formality to real compromise.

  Shelby won worker oversight branches over security and justice, along with a parliament/council hybrid elected by colonial citizens that would work in tandem with OA's internally-appointed legislators. Becky and Calbert nailed down infrastructure taxes that wouldn't bleed the average worker dry as she or he supported the children everyone would be encouraged to pop out. The core rights package still allowed more corporate intrusion into daily life than I'd be willing to live under, with surveillance as a given and mandatory subcutaneous tracking pins, but for the colonists, the first to live where our sun was a speck like any other star, it was part of the reality of being pioneers in a harsh and far-off land. A sacrifice they understood and accepted.

  Me, I was proud. Crazy as Baxter and Fay had sounded when they'd tried to impress me with the importance of my experience, I'd never really believed. But in the moment in the office, I'd recognized OA's strategy, chosen my weapon, and stabbed at its heart. In some sense I was the godfather of the future. If Shelby was the Jefferson to the colonists' constitution, I was its Thomas Paine.

  And terribly humble, of course.

  "Don't you think that's a little premature?" Baxter said when I returned, unsteady but happy, to the table with my third (or was it fourth?) double whiskey soda.

  "The sun hasn't set since we got here." I sat down with a slosh, flicking cold fluid from my fingers. "Chemical assistance is the only way I can get to sleep."

  He regarded me with naked contempt. "Now that you've saved the day, you think you can sit in the sidelines like a drunken war chief. Isn't it about time you talked to Go?"

  "You sit on the sidelines, not in them. Unless you're a left guard. Then you might be fat enough to sink into the turf." I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. "I'm taking a well-deserved break. The curveball I threw crossed Go up, too. He can't meet us until tomorrow night."

  Baxter blew air through his nose. "Well why didn't you just say that?"

  "Because it's so easy to wind you up," I said. "You, me, and Pete. Just like old times."

  "Did you inform Pete of this?" Baxter nodded across the beery table. Pete rapped his knuckles on the table, snatched a shot from the line in front of him, threw it back, then laughed and slapped Vance on his already-reddened cheek. Grinning, Vance rubbed his face and repeated the process. Baxter closed his eyes in disgust. "His immediate goals appear to involve a fatal case of alcohol poisoning."

  "They're just playing a drinking game."

  "How is
slapping each other a game?"

  "It's the kind where whoever gets drunk wins." I gave him a searching look. "It must be very sad for you all, this eternal sobriety."

  Baxter steepled his hands over his nose and exhaled through the loose web of fingers. "Have you considered how OA is going to feel about us if we get the colonists what they want? Are you aware that, at this moment, Titan is 901 million miles away from Earth?"

  "So we run away as soon as it's over." I tapped the table. "I'm taking this seriously, all right? But I'm not going to worry about it until worrying will do any good."

  "You appear to think that time is never."

  "Only when I'm enlightened by whiskey. Siddhartha said that."

  "No he didn't," Baxter muttered.

  Vance smacked down his last shot, now empty, slapped Pete on both cheeks, and darted in to peck him on the mouth. Whoops and applause spilled from our colonist-swollen crew. Shelby sat with a strange smile on her mouth, gazing through Vance with a disappointment too small to be moral disapproval. I reached out and slapped Baxter on the face. His skin felt real. So, too, looked the pain and anger in his fractal green eyes.

  It wasn't toward my slap. It was for a much deeper wound. Invisible, unless you've seen it in the eyes of a hundred others over the centuries. One that wouldn't ever heal.

  * * *

  "Take the north tunnel."

  Another day, another night on the town. True night this time. I'd woken around noon, ventured down for coffee and red algae bacon (it tasted like bacon, was marbled like bacon, but the texture was all wrong, first flaky and then mushy), then holed up in my room until I felt less poisoned by the prior night's good times. The light through my window dimmed until I had to flip the backlight on my omni. I went to the window, expecting thick clouds. If anything, they were thinner. Thin enough to just make out the black sweep of Saturn dividing the sky into light and dark. By 11 PM, the skies finally agreed with the clock: at last, it was night.

  It would stay dark for another eight days.

  Baxter, Pete, and I followed Go's directions to the north tunnel. It was Tin's off shift. Jia tried to tag along until I mouthed Go's name at her, then loudly informed her Shelby wanted to step out for a bite and would she go give her a hand? Alone, we moved on. Track lights lined the tunnel's lower edges, dim as a theater. Our shoes scuffed in the grit. After a short walk, the tunnel rose and spat us into the lesser darkness of the neighboring bubble.

  My omni buzzed in my hand.

  "Turn in place," Go told me. "I'll tell you when to stop."

  Slowly, I turned to my right, scanning rooftops for Go. Once I'd stamped through seven eighths of a circle, he spoke again. "Straight into the next tunnel."

  He clicked off. I gestured the others forward. The apartments made halfhearted gestures at a skyline, staggering their rooftops to follow the dome's curve, creating a gray-yellow ziggurat. Not yet midnight and the streets were dead quiet. Must have been an old folks' dome.

  We were down in the tunnel's belly when Pete grabbed my arm. He nodded down the tunnel. I could just make out the man standing against the dark wall twenty feet away.

  "Is that you?" I whispered, but he was far enough away I had to shout-whisper it, echoes slithering down the tunnel. The man pushed off the wall, tall as a flagpole. His dark hair draped over his face and disappeared beneath his high collar.

  "Hey guys," Go murmured. "Were you followed?"

  Pete shook his head. "The streets were an empty bowl."

  "Yeah, good. Sorry for the cloak and dagger business. I don't know whether to feel like a kid or a fool, ha ha."

  "I sympathize completely," Baxter said. "An organization quite similar to yours has been trying to kill us for weeks. The better part of a century, in my case."

  "Wow," Go said. "I wish I could say I was surprised. That must make you pretty mad, right? Like if you saw one of them right here you'd just reach out and—"

  "Don't encourage him," I whispered. "The longer we stay down here, the more likely we'll be interrupted and Jia will have to seduce me again. Actually, how are you doing, Go? How have the negotiations been? Detailed, I hope?"

  "Funny you should ask." He glanced over his shoulder and tucked his hair behind an ear. "You threw them for a super-loop. They had no idea the workers were that organized. Watching them march in as one was like watching an algae-man rise up out of a vat, put on a suit and tie, and head off to work at the fusion plant."

  "Thanks," I said. "That's what I'm here for."

  Go shook his head, mouth quirked to one side. "Nuh-uh. Not cool. You think you turned the tables on them, but you know what their new strategy is? Playing dead." He glanced behind himself again. "It doesn't matter what kind of constitution the colonists fly out with. Do you know how god damn far Alpha C is from here? OA will shake hands on a sweetheart deal, then roll out the new arrangement soon as the colonists are out of the System's sight."

  "But that's disgraceful," Pete spat.

  Baxter threw up his hands. "How many times do I have to tell you people these worlds are nothing like the one you grew up on?"

  "They're planning a coup?" I said. "Mid-flight?"

  Go tapped his nose. "Bingo and double bingo. They're shipping in new security as we speak. With logistics, you never know, you know how it is, but ETA on Shangri-la is one month."

  "What about the Frontier Assessment?" Baxter said. "Rob said OA was after it."

  "Oh, sure, why do you think they're all buddy-buddy with HemiCo? Why do you think they agreed to let you guys ride in and help their captive population in the first place? AI, guys. If Olympian can capture HemiCo's flying intellectual property, Hemi's promised to partner with them on their AI research. We're talking about a total merger."

  "Son of a god damned bitch," Baxter said. "You hearing this, Fay?"

  "I was afraid they had designs along those lines," it chimed in our ears.

  I frowned at Go. "Why tell us now? A few days ago I thought you were ducking me."

  "Probably because I was, am I right?" Go grinned. "When I got wind of Linigan's new plans I had what you'd call a crisis in faith."

  "Of faith," I corrected automatically.

  He stretched his lips away from his teeth. "You know, as long as I'm spilling my guts, there's one more thing." He glanced sharply down the tunnel, dropping to a whisper. "You hear that?"

  I strained my ears, heard nothing.

  "Someone's coming," Baxter said.

  The lights in the tunnel blanked out. Dim light peeped through the upper curve of both exits. I heard Pete shift into a fighting stance.

  "You guys need to book like Alexandria," Go hissed. "If they find us together, we're dust."

  "Thank you." I turned and walked away.

  I got three steps when an echoing bang and a fist of air knocked me off my feet. Hot wet stuff and a shower of stinging needles pelted my back. I flew twenty feet in the low gravity before skidding into the grit. I tried to kneel and fell back down, head ringing. A hand grabbed my collar, hauling me to my feet. I leaned on Baxter's shoulder and ran. Pete sprinted beside us, bleeding from one ear. My back hurt. I groped around, felt something hard, and removed a two-inch sliver of shrapnel from my back. I screamed.

  "That sounded like an explosion," Fay said. "Did something just explode?"

  "Yes," Baxter said. "I think it was Go."

  We followed the slope into the bleary streetlight. Footsteps crunched behind us.

  "Fay, get me to the nearest colonist's home," I said. The ship poured directions into my ear. "And an omni line. Now!"

  I broke left at the next corner, shoes skidding on the pavement, Pete and Baxter matching step.

  "Hello?" a woman's voice said in my ear. On the annoyed scale, she sounded somewhere around "ready to inflict minor dismemberment."

  Fay supplied me her name. "Hi, Ms. Kleist. My name's Rob Dunbar, from the offplanet negotiation team. Got a favor to ask."

  "Who is this? What's that panting?"


  A dark figure charged into the street behind us. I cornered around an apartment block. "I know this is unusual, but we need to stop by your place for a minute." I swung into the alcove of a yellow apartment cube and faced a maglocked door. "Right now, actually. Could you buzz us up?"

  "Are you crazy?" she said, voice rising with each word.

  I grinned, ready to scream, and flipped out the metaphorical equivalent of my badge. "Let us in! The future of your mission depends on it!"

  Feet smacked at the last corner. Baxter squeezed against me in the alcove. The nice tight space would be perfect for blowing us into glittery red lumps. I prepared to shit my pants.

  The apartment buzzed.

  Baxter shouldered past and wrenched open the door. We poured up the stairs to the fourth floor apartment of Hermalina Kleist. Somewhat timidly, I knocked on her door.

  "What's going on out there?" Her door-filtered voice was more confused than annoyed.

  I fought to get my breathing under control. "This is Rob Dunbar, Pete Gutierrez, and Baxter. We're with Shelby Mayes' negotiating committee."

  "Okay, hold on while I let three strange men into my home."

  "Thank you!" I stepped back. Baxter smacked my shoulder, glaring. I rubbed my face. "Check us out on your omni if you don't believe me."

  Silence from the other side of the door. Pete crept back down the hallway and crouched next to the stairwell.

  "You can come in," Hermalina said. "But I can press one button and have security here in seconds."

  "Understood," I said.

  The door clicked, beeped, swung inward. A tall, curly-haired woman in her early thirties eagle-eyed us piling into her bright apartment, a sleek black omni held from her side as if it might explode.

  She locked the door, gaping at my back. "You're bleeding."