Existence

“What’s going on?” Lacey asked, while other advisers clicked into the Mesh. Hermes appeared to roll his eyes upward, going deathlike for a moment, before speaking in flattish, machinelike tones.

“There are reports of activity in the asteroid belt and several Lagrangian points. Observatories and monitoring satellites report intense light beams, followed by flashes and detonations.”

Henri sucked through his teeth. “So? We’re pretty sure those are come-and-get-me signals from other emissary probes, desperate to make their own sales pitches. The Chinese, Brazilians, and Americans are preparing missions. Those space twinkles perfectly disprove the ridiculous hoax claim-”

“You aren’t following me,” Hermes interrupted. “These are intense coherent beams, seven or eight orders of magnitude more energetic than earlier flashes. Powerful enough to vaporize solid rock.”

Silence reigned for several seconds. Then-

“Jeepers,” Lacey said. “You mean laser weapons?”

“Not just that,” Ram commented. The Afro-Hindi alienist waggled fingers, causing holos to appear above the table, portraying black space dusted by a torus of glittery motes. Some specks brightened abruptly, accompanied by rows of numbers. “Most targets appear to be where we saw come-get-me flickers, days ago.

“Somebody is destroying those competing probes.”

Bright, narrow spears crisscrossed the zone between Mars and Jupiter. Lacey stared, letting it sink in.

War had erupted in the solar system.

Who was shooting? At whom? Without data, only one thing was clear.

Competition had a new and stronger meaning.

THE PRIVATE WRITE-ONLY DIARY OF TOR POVLOV

Events are breaking so fast. I can barely keep up with the demands on me.

Hardly what you’d expect for a woman who was fried nearly to a cinder. Any prior era, I would’ve died in mercifully brief agony, or lingered under intravenous drip till I went mad from sensory deprivation. Now my problem? Overstimulation!

First, the docs won’t leave me be. They send nanocrawlers creeping from brain to spine, unreeling trellis fibers, secreting growth cocktails that lure neurons to follow. I’m repeatedly yanked out of my thoughts, or sent thrashing in my gel-capsule, by some impertinent flash of false color, taste, or smell.

I should be attentive and grateful. But seriously, there’s way too much on my plate. Like coordinating the now highly-rated Povlov-Possai, in its ongoing, semipro search for truth. Didn’t we help spread the alarm over those laser beams that amscis detected in space, a full seven minutes before Secur-Net announced anything?

And played a role in debunking that Hamish Brookeman character, till his be- fox’d followers are winnowed down to just half a billion or so-the gullible and desperate.

Still, perplexities linger… like who is helping him? Somebody furnished the “evidence” he offered, for a conspiracy that supposedly built the Artifact out of bits of this and that, then left it for Gerald Livingstone to find. Nonsense, but who would want to muddy the waters, using Brookeman as their shill?

Just as curious-who’s helping us? Certain pseudonymous members of our smart- mob-Like Birdwoman303-clearly know more than they let on.

And now, we seem to’ve been slipped a skeleton key… a set of pass codes letting us through some very well-protected doors!

This could be dangerous. But I downloaded some late-recent skulk-ware, to create shell personas and protect our members. That won’t keep out any of the Big Five governments… or Porfirio. But if they want us to stop, they should speak plainly. Or get out of our way.

What? Some of you want to follow the world’s attention outward, where beams of energy suddenly crisscross space with savage violence? Aw people, what are we, sci-fi fans? That’s where everyone else is looking! And by our own smart-mob covenant, we don’t hunt where others do. Come. Leave such garish stuff to major media, bureaucrats, the public. Let’s stay targeted.

We’re hot on the trail of those who knew what the Artifact was, even before Livingstone did. Who may have known about such things for centuries, or longer. Whatever their ancient rationalizations for secrecy…

… they have not been our friends.

54.

DISMEMBERMENT

Concussion slammed Peng Xiang Bin’s backside, when the window behind him exploded into a million shards.

It felt like a fist striking his body from behind, studded with millions of jagged slivers. Someone screamed-it might have been him-as the storm of brittle flecks jetted past to collide with a scintillating fog… the discretion screen that masked the worldstone. Dazzling sparkles flared as glass splinters met ionized nitrogen, framing his shadow in a blazing aura. It might have even been beautiful, if his mind had room for anything but shock and pain… plus a single, stunned word.

What?

Crashing into the table edge, Bin glimpsed Dr. Nguyen shouting-his left cheek bloody from a dozen cuts. Only a low hum penetrated. Nguyen pointed at Bin, then into the blinding haze above the tabletop-and finally jutted his thumb toward the exit farthest from the explosion. The ai-patch in Bin’s lower right vision cone started offering helpful interpretations, but he already understood.

Take the stone and get out of here!

This all took the barest moment. Another passed while Bin hesitated. Loyalty to his employer called for him to stay and fight. What would the others… Paul, Anna, and Yang Shenxiu… think if they saw him run away?

But Nguyen jutted his thumb again-emphatically-before turning to face something new, entering the room behind Bin. And Bin knew-even turning to see what it was might be the worst mistake of his life-

– so, instead, he dived into the drapery of fizzing sparks.

Naturally, it hurt like blazes. The discretion screen was designed to. With eyes closed, Bin scooped up the worldstone by recall alone, along with its nearby container satchel. A shoresteader needed good tactile memory.

Tumbling out the other side of the dazzle-curtain, he rolled across carpet onto his left knee. By touch alone, Bin slid the ovoid into its case while he blinked, praying for vision to return-

– then regretted, when he saw what had been the beautiful face of Anna Arroyo. She lay nearby, torn from forehead to ribs, the ever-present goggles now shattered into bits that helped ravage her.

Paul Menelaua, his own visage a mass of dribbling cuts, held his dying comrade, offering Anna his crucifix. The animatronic Jesus moved its mouth, perhaps reciting some final prayer or death rite, while its hands, still pinned to the silver cross, opened in welcome.

Hearing flooded back. Murky shouts erupted beyond the shrouded table where he had just fled, seconds ago. Dr. Nguyen’s protesting voice, arguing. Others that were harsh, demanding. The floor vibrated with heavy footsteps. Grating rumbles carried through the shattered window-from war engines that had somehow crossed the broad Pacific undetected, all the way to this rich, isolated atoll. So much for the mercenary protection that wealth supposedly provided.

Bin gathered his strength to go… then spotted the New Beijing professor, Yang Shenxiu, cowering nearby, clutching a table leg. The scholar babbled and offered Bin something-a memory sheet, no thicker than a piece of paper and about the same size. Yang Shenxiu’s fingernails clawed involuntarily at the fragile-looking polymer, leaving no tracks as Bin yanked it from the scholar’s hand and crammed it under his belt. Then, with a parting nod to Yang, he sprang away at a crouching run, dashing for a sliding door that gave way to a balcony, then the