Mercury Page 17

  “Wedding?” Even in the shadows he could see her eyes go wide with surprise.

  Bracknell said, “With the tower almost finished and all this publicity the corporation’s going to generate, I figure I ought to make an honest woman of you.”

  “You chauvinist pig!”

  “Besides,” he went on, “it’ll make Danvers feel better.”

  “You’re serious?” Lara asked. “This isn’t a joke?”

  He kissed her lightly. “Dead serious, darling. Will you marry me?”

  “In Paris?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Lara flung her arms around his neck and kissed him as hard as she could.

  Geostationary Platform

  “Look on my works, ye mighty,” quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson, the chief engineer, “and despair.”

  In a moment of whimsy brought on by their joy at his birth, his parents had named him after the poet. Emerson suspected their euphoria was helped along by the recreational drugs they used; certainly he saw enough evidence of that while he was growing up in the caravan city that trundled through the drought-dessicated former wheat belt of Midwestern America.

  His father was a mechanic, his mother a nurse: both highly prized skills in the nomadic community. And both of them loved poetry. Hence his name.

  Everybody called him Waldo. He learned to love things mechanical from his father and studied mechanical engineering through the computer webs and satellite links that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. Once he grew into manhood Emerson left the caravan and entered a real, bricks-and-mortar engineering college. All he wanted was a genuine degree so that he would have real credentials to show prospective employers. No caravan life for Waldo. He wanted to settle down, get rich (or at least moderately prosperous), be respectable, and build new things for people.

  His life didn’t quite work out that way. There was plenty of work for a bright young engineer, rebuilding the shattered electrical power grid, erecting whole new cities to house the refugees driven from their homes by the greenhouse floods, designing solar power farms in the clear desert skies of the Southwest. But the various jobs took him from one place to another. He was still a nomad; he just stayed in one place a bit longer than his gypsying parents did.

  He never got rich, or even very prosperous. Much of the work he did was commissioned by the federal or state government at minimum wage. Often enough he was conscripted by local chapters of the New Morality and he was paid nothing more than room, board, and a pious sermon or two about doing God’s work. He married twice, divorced twice, and then gave up the idea of marriage.

  Until a guy named Bracknell came to him with a wild idea and a gleam in his eye. Ralph Waldo Emerson fell in love with the skytower project.

  Now that it was nearly finished he almost felt sad. He had spent more years in Ecuador than anywhere else in his whole life. He was becoming fond of Spanish poetry. He no longer got nauseous in zero gravity. He gloried in this monumental piece of architecture, this tower stretching toward heaven. He had even emblazoned his name into one of the outside panels that sheathed the tower up here at the geostationary level, insulating the tower from the tremendous electrical flux of the Van Allen belt. Working in an armored spacesuit and using an electron gun, he laboriously wrote his full name on one of the buckyball panels.

  He laughed at his private joke. Someday some maintenance dweeb is going to see it, he thought, and wonder who the hell wrote the name of a poet on this tower’s insulation skin.

  Now he stood at the control board in the compact oval chamber that would soon be the geosynch level’s operations center. His feet were ensconced in plastic floor loops so that he wouldn’t float off weightlessly in the zero gravity of the station. Surrounding him were display screens that lined the walls like the multifaceted eyes of some giant insect. Technicians in gray coveralls bobbed in midair as they labored to connect the screens and get them running. One by one, the colored lights on the control board winked on and a new screen lit up. Emerson could see a dozen different sections of the mammoth geostationary structure. There was still a considerable amount of work to do, of course, but it was mostly just a matter of bringing in equipment and setting it up. Furnishing the hotel built into the platform’s upper level. Checking out the radiation shielding and the electrical insulation and the airlocks. Making certain the zero-g toilets worked. Monkey work. Not creative. Not challenging.

  There was talk of starting a new skytower in Borneo or central Africa.

  “ ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world,” he muttered to himself. “To sail beyond the sunset.”

  “Hey, Waldo,” the voice of one of his assistants grated annoyingly in the communication plug in his right ear, “the supply ship is coming in.”

  “It’s early,” Emerson said, without needing to look at the digital clock set into the control board.

  “Early or late, they’re here and they want a docking port.”

  Emerson glanced up at the working screens, then played his fingers across the keyboard on the panel. One of the screens flicked from an interior view of the bare and empty hotel level upstairs to an outside camera view of a conical Masterson Clippership hovering in co-orbit a few hundred meters from the platform. He frowned at the image.

  “We were expecting an uncrewed supply module,” he said into his lip mike.

  “And we got a nice shiny Clippership,” his assistant replied. “They got our cargo and they want to offload it and go home.”

  Shaking his head slightly, Emerson checked the manifest that the Clippership automatically relayed to the platform’s logistics program. It matched what they were expecting.

  “Why’d they use a Clipper?” he wondered aloud.

  “They said the freight booster had a malf and they swapped out the supply module with the Clippership’s passenger module.”

  It didn’t make sense to Emerson, but there was the Clippership waiting to dock and offload its cargo, and the manifest was exactly what they expected.

  “Ours not to reason why,” Emerson misquoted. “Hook ’em to docking port three; it’s closest to them.”

  “Will do.”

  Franklin Zachariah hummed a cheerful tune to himself as he sat shoe-homed into the cramped cockpit of the Clippership. The pilot, a Japanese or Vietnamese or some kind of Asian gook, shot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. Hard to tell his nationality, Zach thought, with those black shades he’s wearing. Like a mask or some macho android out of a banned terminator flick.

  Zachariah stopped his humming but continued to play the tune in his head. It helped to pass the boring time. He had expected to get spacesick when the rocket went into orbit, but the medication they’d given him was working fine. Zero gravity didn’t bother him at all. No upchucks, not even dizziness.

  Zachariah was an American. He did not belong to the New Morality or the Flower Dragon or any other fundamentalist movement. He did not even follow the religion of his forefathers. He found that he couldn’t believe in a god who made so many mistakes. He himself was a very clever young man—everyone who had ever met him said so. What they didn’t know was that he was also a very destructive fellow.

  Although he’d been born in Brooklyn, when he was six years old and the rising sea level caused by the greenhouse warming finally overwhelmed the city’s flood control dams, Zachariah’s family fled to distant cousins in the mountains near Charleston, West Virginia. There young Zach, as everyone called him, learned what it meant to be a Jew. At school, the other young boys alternately beat him up and demanded help with their classwork from him. His father, a professor in New York, had to settle for a job as a bookkeeper for his younger cousin, a jeweler in downtown Charleston who was ultimately shot to death in a holdup.

  Zach learned how to avoid beatings by hiring the toughest thugs in school to be his bodyguards. He paid them with money he made from selling illicit drugs that he cooked up in the moldy basement of the house they shared with four other families.
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br />   By the time Zach was a teenager he had become a very accomplished computer hacker. Unlike his acne-ridden friends, who delved into illegal pornographic sites or shut down the entire public school system with a computer virus, Zach used his computer finesse in more secretive and lucrative ways. He pilfered bank accounts. He jiggered police records. He even got the oafish schoolmate who’d been his worst tormentor years earlier arrested by the state police for abetting an abortion. The kid went to jail protesting his innocence, but his own computer files proved his guilt. Cool, Zach said to himself as the bewildered lout was hauled off to a New Morality work camp.

  Zach disdained college. He was having too much fun tweaking the rest of the world. He was the lone genius behind the smallpox scare that forced the head of the Center for Disease Control to resign. He even reached into the files of a careless White House speechwriter and leaked the contents of a whole sheaf of confidential memos, causing mad panic among the president’s closest advisors. Way cool.

  Then he discovered the thrill of true destruction. It happened while he was watching a pirated video of the as-yet-unreleased Hollywood re-re-remake of Phantom of the Opera. Zach sat in open-mouthed awe as the Phantom sawed through the chain supporting the opera house’s massive chandelier. Cooler than cool! he thought as the ornate collection of crystal crashed into the audience, splattering fat old ladies in their gowns and jewels and fatter old men in black tuxes.

  Franklin Zachariah learned the sheer beauty, the sexual rush, of real destruction. Using acid to weaken a highway bridge so that it collapsed when the morning’s traffic of overloaded semis rolled over it. Shorting out an airport’s electrical power supply—and its backup emergency generator—in the midst of the evening’s busiest hour. Quietly disconnecting the motors that moved the floodgates along a stretch of the lower Potomac so that the storm surge from the approaching hurricane flooded the capital’s streets and sent those self-important politicians screaming to pin the blame on someone. Coolissimo.

  Most of the time he worked alone, living off bank accounts here and there that he nibbled at, electronically. For some of the bigger jobs, like the Potomac floodgates, he needed accomplices, of course. But he always kept his identity a secret, meeting his accomplices only through carefully buffered computer links that could not, he was sure, be traced back to him.

  It was a shock, then, when a representative of the Flower Dragon movement contacted him about the skytower. But Zach got over his shock when they described to him the coolest project of them all. He quickly asked for the detailed schematics of the skytower and began to study hard.

  The Approach

  Lara and Bracknell were driving one of the project’s electric-powered minivans to the Quito airport. Bracknell planned to attend Skytower Corporation’s board meeting and the news conference at which they would make the announcement that the tower was ready for operations. Then they would stay for a weekend of interviews and publicity events and return to Quito the following Monday.

  “You sure you don’t want to get married in Paris?” he asked her, grinning happily as he drove the quiet minivan down the steep, gravel-surfaced road. “We could have the ceremony at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Be kind of symbolic.”

  Trucks and buses ground by in the opposite direction, raising clouds of gritty gray dust as they headed uphill toward Sky City.

  Lara shook her head. “I tried to get through all the red tape on the computer link, Mance, but it’s hopeless. We’d have to stay two weeks, at least.”

  “The French want our tourist dollars.”

  “And they want to do their own blood tests, their own searches of our citizenship data. I think they even check Interpol for criminal records.”

  “So we’ll get married when we come back,” he said easily.

  “And we can invite our families and friends.”

  “I’ll ask Victor if he can come back for the occasion and be my best man.”

  Lara made no reply.

  “Hey! Why don’t we ask Rev. Danvers to perform the ceremony?”

  “At his new chapel?”

  “Unless you’d rather do it in the cathedral in Quito.”

  “No,” Lara said. “Let’s do it at the base of the tower. Rev. Danvers will be fine.”

  He wanted to kiss her; he even considered pulling off on the shoulder of the road to do it. Instead, he drove in silence for a while, grinning happily. The road became paved as they neared Quito’s airport.

  Traffic built up. Lara turned in her seat and looked out the rear window.

  “It’s going to feel strange not seeing the tower in the sky,” she said.

  “It’ll be there when we get back,” Bracknell said easily. “For the next few days you’ll just have to settle for the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Docking confirmed,” said the Clippership’s copilot. He was wearing dark glasses, too, like the pilot. Zach thought he looked kind of like an Asian, but his accent sounded California or some other part of the States.

  “Tell the tower crew they can begin unloading,” the pilot replied.

  Zach knew what that meant. The Clipper was attached to the sky-tower now by a docking adaptor, a short piece of insulated tunnel that linked the tower’s airlock to the Clipper’s cargo hatch. A team of technicians from the skytower would come through the adaptor and begin unloading the Clipper’s cargo bay. Zach thought of them as chimps doing stupid monkey tasks.

  Unseen by the tower personnel, a dozen men and women recruited from god knows where would exit one of the Clippership’s other airlocks, in spacesuits, of course, carrying the Clipper’s real cargo: fifty tiny capsules of nanomachines, gobblers programmed to tear apart carbon molecules such as buckyballs. Zach had spent months studying the schematics of the skytower that the Flower Dragon people had supplied him, calculating just how to bring the tower down. They had balked at first when he suggested gobblers; nanotechnology was anathema to them. But someone higher up in the organization had overridden their objections and provided the highly dangerous gobblers for Zach’s project of destruction.

  Now twelve religious fanatics were out there playing with nanomachines that could kill them if they weren’t careful. Each of the EVA team bore a minicam attached to his or her helmet, so Zach could direct their actions from the safety of the cockpit, securely linked to the outside crew by hair-thin optical fibers that carried his radio commands with no chance that they’d be overheard by the guys in the tower.

  Now comes the fun part, Zach thought as he powered up the laptop he would use for communicating with the EVA team.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson was also remotely watching the unloading, still wondering why the supply contractor had gone to the expense of hiring a shiny new Clippership instead of sending up another automated freighter.

  “In faith, ’twas strange,” he murmured as he stood in the control center, “ ’twas passing strange.”

  “You spouting poetry again?” his assistant asked.

  Emerson considered yanking the comm plug out of his ear, but knew that would be the wrong thing to do. Instead he asked, “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. Riley and his guys are pushin’ the packages through the hatch and I’m checkin’ ’em off as they come in. Nothing much to it. Just a lot of muscle work. Trained chimps could do this.”

  Emerson could see the bored team on one of the working screens, gliding the weightless big crates along through the adaptor tunnel.

  “Well just be careful in there,” he said. “Just because we’re in zero-g doesn’t mean those packages don’t have mass. Get caught between a crate and a wall and you’ll get your ribs caved in, just like on Earth.”

  “I know that.” His assistant sounded impatient, waspish.

  “Just make sure your chimpanzees know it.”

  “What? No poetry for the occasion?”

  Emerson immediately snapped, “A fool and his ribcage are soon parted.”

  Zach was humming tunelessly to himself as he called up the schema
tics and matched them with the camera views from his EVA team. The connection between the geostationary platform and the tower’s main cables was the crucial point. Sever that link and some thirty-five thousand kilometers of skytower go crashing down to Earth. And the other thirty-five thou, on the other side of the platform, goes spinning off into space, carrying the platform with it.

  He suppressed the urge to giggle, knowing it would annoy the sour-faced pilots sitting as immobile as statues an arm’s reach in front of him. I’m going to wipe out the biggest structure anybody’s ever built! Wham! And down it goes.

  It’ll probably fall onto Quito, Zach reasoned. Kill a million people, maybe. Like the hammer of god slamming them flat. Like a big boot squishing bugs.

  The culmination of my career, Zach thought. But nobody will know that I did it. Nobody really knows who I am. Not anybody who counts. But they will after this. I’m going to stand up and tell the world that I did this. Me. Franklin Zachariah. The terror of terrors. Dr. Destruction.

  Lara was wearing open-weave huaraches instead of regular shoes, Bracknell realized as they inched along the line at the airport’s security site. He frowned as he thought that they’d probably want him to take off his boots before going through the metal detector.

  Damned foolishness, he said to himself. There hasn’t been a terrorist threat at an airport in more than twenty years but they still go through this goddamned nonsense.

  Sure enough, the stocky, stern-faced security guard pointed silently to Bracknell’s boots as Lara sailed unbothered through the metal detector’s arch. Grumbling, Bracknell tugged the boots off and thumped them down on the conveyor belt that ran through the X-ray machine.

  He set off the metal detector’s alarm anyway and had to be searched by a pair of grim-looking guards. He had forgotten the handheld computer/phone he was carrying in his shirt pocket.

  “No, no,” Zach said sharply into his laptop’s microphone. “Just open the capsule and wedge it into the cable. That’s all you have to do, the nanobugs’ll do the rest.”