Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (42 page)

The wizard spoke quickly. “By the Guidestars? Absolutely
certain. Will they care, of themselves? I don’t know. But they’ll make records.
I can erase the records. But not instantly. Do you want to go on?”

“How fast is ‘not instantly’?”

“I can’t stop the Guidestars from seeing you. But I can get
into short-term storage, feed it a worm. The worm will eat the record. One
minute left. Do you want to go on?”

“But if someone is watching, themselves, through the Guidestars,
in real time—”

“They’ll see you. If they look in R-F. Which they probably
won’t. But there’s no way to tell. I can’t risk being connected with this,
Willam. If you do this, you can’t come home. Do you want to go on?”

“But there’s
something
there, in these files—”

“Do you want me to make this decision for you?”

The pause seemed far longer than the mere five seconds that
passed. Will was motionless.

Then: “I don’t need an entire file.” And Willam again became
a creature of speed.

“The updates are completing … now.”

“I’m having Farside look at one file and pick out a
section—”

“Guidestars are accepting normal traffic … Plenty to cover
me …”

^“
—some part that isn’t just null symbols—”

“I’m in. Western Guidestar. Will, you look like a bonfire!”

“—and it should send me that—”

“Feeding it the worm … It took it. Shifting to Gee-Two
…”

“—Commands accepted. Searching. Here it comes—”

New symbols began to accumulate: numbers, letters, in pairs.
Willam watched, flexing and bending his fingers as if they pained him, as if
even this brief pause in movement were unbearable. “I don’t recognize this …”

“Gee-Two took the worm.” Audible even above the unending
hiss: two harsh huffs, as if the wizard were breathing heavily after some great
exertion. “That was not easy …” The hiss rose, as if the invisible wave were
attempting to finally crest and break.

Will raised his voice against the noise. “I’m losing you,
sir!”

The small green star at the end of the short rod by the
paper cone flickered colors, settled on red. Only the hiss continued.

Wiliam remained disturbed, but turned back to the blue symbols,
transporting themselves from the other side of the world. He watched, his copper
gaze narrow, shaking his head slightly in disbelief at each new line.

Something occurred to him. He caused a new page to appear,
half tucked behind the blue symbols from Farside; and another, and another. On
their faces, letters and numbers flickered wildly, continuously. Will made a
sound between his teeth, of frustration, but continued to watch.

Abruptly, a leather-bound book appeared, materializing from
nothing on the surface of the desk.

Will startled back hugely. Of itself, the book opened in the
middle; the pages riffled themselves, rapidly, moving toward the end, but never
reaching it.

Wiliam recovered, cautiously leaned forward, put out one
hand, and stopped the pages. He read what was written; apprehension turned to
relief.

The red star turned green; the voice of the paper cone
became human again. “Wiliam!”

“Here, sir. I lost you for a moment.”

“Yes. Atmospheric conditions.”

“The house just linked to Gee-Two. But it’s only receiving,
not sending.”

“Mm. Everyone’s system is doing the same … Just reestablishing.
All automatic.” The wizard sounded distracted, as if some other action were
taking most of his attention. “There’s … I can’t … I can’t tell if anyone
is trying to see you in real time. Too much traffic … I’m trying to watch
your back, Will.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Mm. I may not be able to …”

The book vanished, replaced by a live, miniature dragon.

Will showed only utter confusion. He worked his lap board,
created a fresh page of insubstantial light, puzzled over what he read there.
“It looks like Jannik is running a detailed diagnostic on the dragons …” The
creature vanished, replaced immediately by another, then another. Will ignored
them. “And he’s relaying through the Eastern Guidestar to do it.”

“He needs the bandwidth. Stand by.”

Silence again, but for the hiss; the sound of night, the
sound of emptiness.

“Will, access Gee-Two yourself. Something simple, low priority.”

Willam moved his hands across the lap board; on his right,
the world’s image turned black, but for a few pale blue smears: starlight on
water, on high clouds.

“Good. I can’t tell what you did, but I’ve identified the
routing code for Jannik’s house—Wait.” The sequence of tiny dragons ceased.
“Will, did something else just come through?”

Willam looked, nodded. “He’s reestablishing the dragon controller.”

“All right. Has your link with Farside held?”

“Yes … but …” Will gazed, shook his head helplessly.
“But I don’t know what this is.”

“What do you have?” Willam began reading off the symbols.
Corvus interrupted him. “Will, I don’t have your head for hex.”

“Sorry, sir.” Agitated now, Will cast about, could not find
what he sought. Muttering annoyance, he recreated the white-outlined
translator square. He plied it, shook his head, tossed the square aside. It
floated, spinning slowly. “It’s not words or commands.”

“Can it have been encrypted?”

“I’ve been trying some decryptions. I’m not getting anything
so far.”

“Stand by.” A pause, and some vague sounds from the wizard.
“The traffic is easing. It’s a little harder to … keep a low profile …
Will, the files you checked before showed repeating pairs? But Farside pulled
out some sections of difference?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are the differences scattered throughout the file?”

“Yes ..”

“Will, you’ve gone too far behind the interface. It’s an
image.”

Will’s jaw dropped. He shut it with an audible snap. His
hands moved, fast.

A heavy, ornate gilt picture frame appeared in the air
before him. Will fairly spat in derision, but allowed it to stand.

Within the gilt frame, filling the upper quarter of the
area: whiteness, and two small spots of black.

“What?” Willam seemed to address the frame. “That’s it?” The
frame continued to fill.

Will stared, utterly dumbfounded, then threw out both hands,
brought them in as to tear at his hair, stopped himself. “I don’t understand!”
he said. “I don’t even know what I’m looking at!”

“Describe it.” Willam did so, as the image in the frame
grew:

Black spots, of various sizes, from small to tiny to mere
flecks, seeming randomly distributed against the white. Some blots were
sharp-edged, others fuzzy, as if seen with blurred vision. A few vague shapes
in shades of gray: streamers, irregular blobs, hazy areas—

Corvus said: “Can it be a graph of some sort? A
distribution?”

“I don’t know … It would have to be a very complex
function. And it doesn’t have any axes marked.” The gilt frame emptied, began
again. “I’ve got enough of a second one to try it …” Willam watched; then his
face twisted in distress. “The
same.”

—As much the same as two depictions of randomness could be.
But however they differed from each other, they were of a type, that much was
clear. And there seemed, too, a sort of grace to the arrangement, something calming
and satisfying. A visual harmony, perhaps, almost comprehensible, odd and innocent,
like a simple song in some half-familiar language.

Apparently, this was not lost on Willam. “Can they … can
they be some sort of art? Because, they’re beautiful, but—no. No, because
Kieran—” He tapped, checked the list presented to him in thin air—“Kieran made
more than
fifty
of these, on this one night alone, and, and that’s when
it all changed! And later—” Willam grasped at the air as if grasping for some
answer—“Later, he showed Slado, or told him about it, and Slado
killed
him,
and brought down Gee-Three—”

“Will, I just saw something routed to the house.”

Will glanced about, found the relevant page of light. “Um
… Jannik asked for the house status.”

“Let’s hope your fix fooled him.”

“I’ve got enough for another image …” The frame emptied,
filled again. Willam watched, uncomprehending, fascinated. A faint sound,
distant but clear:

A two-toned whistle.

Will sat up straight. “Sir—”

“Something else … A moment …”

“Sir—” The whistle came again.

“—Will, stand by!” Willam froze. Corvus said, “I captured
something, a command string sent to the house, starting with—” He began reading
out numbers and letters.

Will was on his feet. “That’s an override!” He reached
right, pulled something from under the desk edge: papers, white, with blotches

“I’ve diverted it, I’m holding it. But not for long, I’ll be
noticed—”

Willam had his sack open; shoved the paper in, swept objects
from the desk: the cards, the box, the thong-tied book. “How much time do you
need to get out?”

Will thrust the handwritten sheet into his shirt. “Sixty
seconds.” He touched the board once; from above, a hum, a rattle.

“I can do that. Sixty seconds from your mark; say when. And
good luck, Willam.”

But Will stopped short, hesitated a fraction of an instant; reached
back down to the lap board, tapped a furiously rapid sequence, glanced up at
the dark image of the world.

Across its face, scattered widely in the night: red symbols.
In a voice of near-panic: “Will, did you just ping my link?”

“I pinged everyone’s link, sir.”

“That was massively stupid!”

“It couldn’t make things any worse.”

“Get out. Get out now. You have sixty seconds. Good-bye.”

Will tore the speaking cone and rod from their attachments,
threw them in the sack, slid himself straight across the face of the desk,
through the light-letters, through the gilt-framed image, thumped to the floor,
grabbed Rowan’s arm, and yanked her to her feet.

She staggered; the sudden touch of solid flesh was
startling. He pulled her upright; he gripped her shoulder; he said, close to
her face: “Run.”

They were out of the study, into the hall, to the stairs and
then down them, with the house, ever helpful, lighting their path. At the
bottom of the last flight, they stumbled through darkness, their eyesight still
dazzled. In the foyer, they knocked over Jannik’s umbrella stand, left it lying
on the floor.

At the portico, Bel’s hands found them. “No, not out in the
street.” She pulled them aside. “It’s too open, he’s high up, he’ll see you.”
There were dim shadows of roof edges, black against the street cobbles,
shifting slowly, weirdly, as if the entire world were one great ship changing
its course.

Bel pushed Rowan and Willam against the wall. They stood
gasping as the light above brightened, then lowered itself behind the house.

Bel peered around the corner of the building. Then she
punched Rowan’s arm. “Go.”

They dashed in the shield of the house’s huge shadow, across
to the ruins in the next lot. They reached the half wall they had hidden behind
earlier, and crouched against the bricks in the dry weeds.

The place Rowan had flattened before was still there. She
looked at it; it seemed unreal, inexplicable. “We forgot the lantern,” she said
stupidly.

Willam said in a small voice, “It doesn’t matter. I can’t
believe we’re alive.” He slid down the wall to sit on the ground. Rowan did the
same. She blinked about. The streets were too bright, the shadows too dark. The
grass felt strange under her hands, sensation distant and disconnected from
sight. Everything around her, persons and objects, seemed mere colored light,
empty, insubstantial: interface constructs.

Rowan lay her cheek against the bricks, focused on their
roughness, their scent.
Real. Solid.
The fact seemed abstract. She found
she had turned her face to press her lips against the bricks; a moment later,
obeying some instinct she could not name, she tasted them.

“I’ve seen Christers kissing the ground when they get off a
ship.”

She turned; Willam was regarding her, weakly amused. But
when she did not reply immediately he became disturbed. “Rowan?” He reached out
to her, but something, perhaps something in her eyes, made him stop. He remained,
one hand half reaching, eyes wide. His white hair and pale skin seemed almost
to glow in the heavy black shadows.

He had been working for Corvus. All this time, all along, he
had been working for Corvus.

The steerswoman said, “I don’t think I know what’s real anymore.”
She turned away from him. “Bel?”

The Outskirter was prone, spying past the tumbled edge of
the wall. “That thing, that flying cart”—she raised her voice over a rising
wind that rattled the branches of the trees and bushes—“it’s coming down in the
garden.” Dust hissed into the street, the houses now lit from a freakishly low
angle, as if a small white sun were sinking to earth. Noise thrummed in Rowan’s
stomach, whined in her ears. The sound deepened, faded, but did not cease.

Rowan shifted forward awkwardly, trying to see what Bel saw.
The Outskirter used one foot to shove her back. “Don’t let him spot you,” Bel
hissed, “he killed you in the Dolphin.”

“Can he see
you?”
Will asked.

“Probably not. But I don’t think it matters. I’m not the
only one looking.” Across the street, shutters were open a crack, showing
candlelight, quickly snuffed; at another house, the street door opened slightly,
with a pale face half glimpsed beyond.

“He’s doing something with that cart, I can’t tell what,”
Bel said. “He seems calm enough. It looks like you got away with it.
II

“No, he knows something was up. He sent a spell,” Willam
said. “He must think it worked. He thinks he’s killed the intruder.”