Gateways (12 page)

He slipped inside, and found the expected cavelike hollow. There was even a small air pocket at the ceiling vertex, probably stale, left here by those earlier diver-sightseers. Lacking a torch, Wer chose to settle in next to the opening, clutching the satchel and waiting. Either until the bad guys went away, or his breather ran empty, whichever came first. The goggle part included a crude timer display. With luck and a very slow use rate, there might be a bit more than half an hour of air left.

Before it runs out, and I have to surface, I’ll hide the worldstone. And I’ll never tell.

Something occurred to him: was that the very same vow made by the
last
owner of the alien relic, Lee Fang Lu? The man who kept a collection of strange minerals underneath his seaside mansion? Did that man resist every pressure to hand over the ancient interstellar messenger-stone, even unto death?

Wer wished he could be so certain of his own courage. But, above all, he yearned to know more about what was going on! Who were the parties fighting over these things? Dr. Nguyen seemed reluctant to talk about history, but there were hints . . . had factions really been wrangling secretly, in search of “magical stones” for thousands of years? Perhaps going farther back in time than reading and writing?

Only now, centuries of cryptic struggle seemed headed for some desperate climax, all because that American astronaut chose to let the whole world in on it. Or was all this frenzy for another reason? Because Earthling
technology was at last ready—or nearly ready—to take up the tempting deal offered by those entities living inside the Havana Artifact?

A proposition, from a message in a bottle . . .

. . . to teach humanity
how to make more bottles
.

Wer blinked. He wanted to rub his eyes, in part because of irritation from the dazzle-curtain, along with all the debris and salt deposited on his lids and lashes. And waves of fatigue. His head hurt, in part from trying to think so hard, while the water shivered and boomed around, pummeling him with the din of fighting.

Of course he knew that explosions were far more dangerous underwater. If one occurred nearby, concussion alone could be lethal, even if the roof didn’t collapse. Then there was the nagging worry over how long his air would last.

At least no big sharks could follow him inside this place. Perhaps his cuts would stop oozing before he had to leave.

To Wer’s relief, the clamor of combat eased at last, diminishing toward relative silence. Only soon, he felt the drone of an engine drawing closer. His tension level spiked when a cone of sharp illumination speared through the murky water, just outside the dormer, panning and probing across the royal compound. His gut remained knotted until the rumble and the searchlight moved onward, following the line of ruins toward the old Parliament House and the soggy remnants of the town beyond.

Wer closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing, slowing his pulse and metabolism. As the seconds passed, he felt gradually more able to remove himself from worry and fear. At least partly.

Serenity is good.

That pair of characters floated into the corner of his ai. Then three more, composed of elegant, brushlike strokes—

Contemplate the beauty of being.

For an instant, he felt irritated by the presumption of a machine program, telling hm to relax and meditate, under these conditions! But the ideograms
were
quite lovely, capturing wise advice in graceful calligraphy. And the ai had been a gift of Dr. Nguyen, after all. So . . . Wer decided to give in, allowing a sense of detachment to settle over him.

Of course sleep was out of the question. But to think of distant things . . . of little Xie Xie smiling . . . or of Ling in better days, when they had shared a dream . . . or the beauty he had glimpsed so briefly in the worldstone—those glowing planets and brittle-clear stars . . . the hypnotic veer and swing and swerve of that cosmic, gravity ballet, with eons compressed into moments and moments into ages . . .

Peng Xiao Wer, wake up!

Pay attention.

He startled out of a fetal curl and clutched reflexively at the heavy satchel—as the universe around him seemed to boom like the inside of a drum. The little attic cave rocked and shuddered from explosions that now pounded closer than ever. Wer fought to hold on to the windowsill, preparing to dive outside, if the shelter-hole started to collapse. Desperately, he tried to focus on the telltale indicator of the breather unit—
how long did I drift off?
But the tiny analog clock was a dancing blur before his eye.

Just when he felt he could take no more, as he was about to throw himself through the dormer to risk survival outside, no matter what—a
shape
suddenly loomed in the opening. A hulking form with huge shoulders and a bulletlike head, silhouetted against the brighter water outside.

Wer let out a low moan and a stream of bubbles, backing into a corner as the figure bent and twisted to squeeze inside, fleeing the watery maelstrom. The interloper squirmed about awkwardly, giving Wer a few moments to take measure.

It’s a man . . . wearing some kind of military uniform . . . and one of those helmets that are equipped with emergency pop-out gills . . .

Oxygen-absorbing fronds had deployed out of recesses in the other fellow’s headgear. Wer saw that he had a small tube in his mouth and was sucking at it desperately. Evidently a refugee from the renewed combat raging overhead, he wore goggles that were flooded and clearly
not
meant for underwater use. Wer watched as the soldier floundered, trying to stay upright while struggling for enough air.

He had better calm down, or he’ll overwhelm those little gills.
Also, Wer realized—
I’m darkness-adapted and my eye covers work. I can see him, but maybe he hasn’t seen me.

Evidently, the fellow wasn’t as big as he had thought. Those hulking shoulders . . . had been inflated by air pockets inside the uniform, collapsing now as bubbles gradually escaped. The soldier—quite slim, he now realized—must have jumped into the sea in a hurry, much as Wer did earlier. Such haste suggested that—maybe—the tide of battle might have turned, outside.

Wer started edging toward the opening, lugging the worldstone satchel in short, careful shuffling steps, careful to avoid both broken timbers and the newcomer’s feet.

Whoever he was, the soldier must have had good training. Wer could tell he was adapting, gathering himself, concentrating on solving problems. As
the rollicking explosions diminished a little, the man stopped thrashing and his rapid gasps ebbed into more regular breathing. When he started to experiment with exhaling a vertical stream of bubbles, aimed at clearing and filling his goggles, Wer knew there was little time left to make a clean getaway. He picked up the pace, fumbling around behind himself to find the opening. Only it took a bit of effort while hauling the heavy . . .

He stopped, as sharp illumination erupted from an object in the soldier’s hand, engulfing Wer and the dormer window.

Aided by the implant, Wer’s right eye adapted, even as the left one was dazzled into uselessness. For several seconds, Wer stood and exchanged a long look with the soldier, who drifted almost within arm’s reach. Because the implant laid a disk of blackness over the bright torchlight, he was able to tell that it was part of a weapon—a small sidearm—that the fellow aimed at Wer’s chest.

Slowly, without jerky motions, Wer pointed at the torch . . . then at the dormer entrance . . . then jabbed his thumb upward several times.

Whoever is chasing you may see that light, streaming out of the ruins . . . and drop something unpleasant on us.

The soldier apparently grasped his meaning and slid a control or sent a subvocal command. The light source dimmed considerably and become all-directional, dimly illuminating the whole chamber so they could see each other . . .

. . . and Wer realized, he had been mistaken. The interloper was a woman.

Several more seconds passed, while the soldier looked Wer over. Then she laid the weapon down nearby—and used her right forefinger to draw several quick characters on the palm of her left hand.

You are Peng Wer.

Palm-writing was never a very good form of communication, all by itself. Normally, folks used it only to settle ambiguity between two spoken Chinese words that sounded the same. But down here, it was the best they could manage. Anyway, the flurry of movements sufficed for Wer to recognize his own name. And for him to realize—the invaders had come, all this way across the ocean, both knowledgeable and well prepared.

Only now, things seemed to be going rather badly for them.

But it would be rude to point out the obvious. So he finally responded with a brief nod. Anyway, she had expressed it as a statement, not a question.

The soldier finger-wrote three more ideograms.

Is that the thing?

She finished by pointing to the satchel holding the worldstone, that Wer clutched tightly. And he knew there was little use denying it. A simple shrug of the shoulders, then, to save air.

She spent the next few seconds concentrating on sucking air from the barely adequate emergency gill, then exhaled another stream of bubbles to fill her goggles. Her eyes were red from salt water and rimmed with creases that must have come from a life engaged in scrutiny. Perhaps a technical expert, then, rather than a frontline warrior—but still a member of an elite team. The kind who would never give up.

As combat sounds drifted farther away, she wrote another series of ideograms on her left palm. This time, however, he could not follow the finger movements well enough to understand. Not her fault, of course—probably his own, deficient education—and this time the aimplant in his eye offered no help.

He indicated confusion with a shake of his head.

Frustrated, she looked around, then shuffled half a meter closer to the nearest slanted attic wall. There, she used the same finger to disturb a layer of algae scum, leaving distinct trails wherever she wrote.

Are you a loyal citizen?

She then turned and patted a badge on her left shoulder. And Wer noticed, for the first time, the emblem of the armed forces of the People’s Republic of China.

Taken aback, he had to blink.

Of course he was a loyal Chinese! But
citizen
? As a shoresteader, he had some rights . . . but no legal residency in either Shanghai or any of the great national cooperatives. Nor would he, till his reclamation contract was fulfilled.
All citizenship is local,
went the saying . . . and thus, two hundred million transients were cast adrift. Still, what did citizenship mean, anyway? Who ever got to vote above the province level? Nationwide, all “democracy” tended to blur into something else. Not tyranny—clearly the national government
listened
to the People—in much the same way that Heaven could be counted on to hear the prayers of mortals. There were constituent assemblies, trade congresses, party conclaves, dominated by half a billion little emperors . . . and it all had a loose, deliberately traditionally and proudly nonwestern flavor.

Still, am I proud to be Chinese? Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? We lead the world.

Yet, that wasn’t really what loomed foremost in his mind.

What mattered was that he had been noticed by great ones, somewhere high up the pyramid of power, obligation, and privilege. By people who were
high enough to order government special forces on a dangerous and politically risky mission, far from home.

They know my name. They sent elite raiders across the sea, to fetch me. Or, at least the worldstone.

Not that it was certain they’d prevail. Even great powers like China had been outmaneuvered, time and again, by the planetary New Elites. After all, the woman soldier was hiding down here with him.

No. One consideration mattered, more than citizenship or national loyalty.

Even as the rich escaped to handmade sovereignties like New Pulupau, old-fashioned governments still controlled the territories where
billions of ordinary people
lived—the festering poor and middle classes. Which meant one thing to Wer.

The high masters of China have Ling and Xie Xie in their hands.

I truly have no choice.

In fact, why did I ever believe I had one?

Wer shifted his weight in order to lean over and bring his own finger toward the slanted, algae-covered boards. Even as he drew a first character, the ai in his eye remonstrated.

Don’t do this, Wer.

There are other options.

But he shook his head and grunted the code word they had taught him for clearing the irritation away. The artificial presence vanished from his right field of vision, allowing him to see clearly the figures that he drew through filmy scum. Fortunately, by now the explosions had faded away almost completely, allowing him to trace his strokes carefully.

I will cooperate.

What must I do?

A look of satisfaction spread across the soldier’s face. Clearly, this was better fortune than she had figured on, only moments ago, when she jumped from the balcony of Newer Newport into the uncertain refuge of ocean-covered ruins. Perhaps, this little royal attic had unusually powerful chi.

She started to write again, across the scummy, steeply pitched ceiling.

Very good. We have little time . . .

Wer agreed. Less than five minutes of highly compressed gas remained in the tiny air tank. That is, if he could even trust the tiny clock in his goggle lens.

She continued to write.

Nearby, we have a submerged emergency shelter where we can . . .

The soldier stopped suddenly, as if her body had gone frozen, her eyes
masked in shadow. Then, he saw them glint with fear as she turned, like a marionette tugged by swirling currents.

He swiveled quickly . . . to see something very large, looming in the dormer opening. A slithering, snakelike shape—wider than a man—that wriggled upward, almost filling the slanted entrance. Robotic eyes began to glow, illuminating every crevice of the cavity within. Evidently a powerful fighting machine, it seemed to examine both of them—not only with light, but also pulses of sonar that frisked their bodies like ungentle fingers of sound.