Will knew he was slowly but surely burning the Oracle’s credibility—but he wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing. The Sitewas using that same credibility to sow chaos. Maybe it was better to try to do something good with it. If the real predictionswere destroying the world, maybe a few false ones could fix it.
The spinal cord thing was designed to spur research in that area—he’d been reading about it in Wired, and it seemed like something that should be getting more money. Likewise, a prediction about large, easily accessible mineraldeposits in near-Earth asteroids, and a few others.
So far, it had been a lot of effort, some extra colors for the notebook, and not much else. His new predictions generatedtheir own streams of aftereffects but never really connected with the Site’s existing web; just dead flies on a windowsill.
He only had one untraceable phone left, and he was saving it for one last Site update—a Hail Mary pass he’d only use if heabsolutely had to.
Will leaned back, looking out at the mountains through the windshield, letting his mind drift, listening to the radio editof “Alphabet Street,” which lacked the five-minute instrumental coda. He thought about the Site, free-associating. It wasstrange. The web wasn’t growing the way it originally had. The nexus points that had combined early on to create what Willthought of as the “big” effects—the problems with the global economy, the Niger invasion, and so on—had stopped interacting.
The first, second, and third rounds of connection had all been relatively quick. Quick, that was, for events happening ona worldwide scale. Like dominoes falling. Now, though, it was as if everything was in slow motion, as if the gears of theSite’s great machine had pulled apart and were no longer churning the world along to some unknown destination. It felt likethe Site was holding its breath, waiting.
Will sighed. He closed the notebook and reached down between his legs to the floor, where a small stack of unread newspapersand magazines awaited. The top item was that week’s copy of The Economist, on stands that morning. The cover story was about Qandustan.
He opened the magazine, looked at the article, and frowned. He was exhausted, it looked long, and The Economist used tiny type. Most importantly, he still wasn’t sure the Site had anything to do with Qandustan at all.
Virtually every event he was certain was part of the Site’s web had several Oracle-related triggers—more than one string connectingit to other sections of the web. But Qandustan only had one—the warlord Törökul’s decision to attack the city of Uth becausethe United States was too busy stepping on the forces of the Prophet in Niger to intervene. And even that was speculation—noone knew for sure if it had played a factor.
Will forced himself to dig into The Economist article. Not much new, really. The elder biys in the council were still sequestered up in the mountains above Uth, as they had been for the past several weeks. AnthonyLeuchten was on the ground, talking to both sides, trying to find a diplomatic solution to an increasingly tense situation,which conjured up a nice image of Leuchten sweating in some desert hellhole surrounded by men who might kill him at any moment.
The magazine had sent a reporter to the other side of the world to obtain an interview with Törökul. He had proven elusive,but the reporter had managed to track down one of his subordinates, a Colonel Bishtuk.
He repeated most of the facts Will knew from his own research: his ancestors had built the mosque; his people still had everyright to the mosque; their heritage had been stolen; his leader, the great Törökul, would lead them to victory . . . but thenthere was something else. Something new. Will’s eyes widened.
“Holy shit,” he said.
Will grabbed a green pencil from the passenger-side door. He flipped through the notebook on his lap until he found the pagesrelated to Qandustan. All the entries were written in blue. Will drew big, green, dramatic circles around the edges of thepage, designating it as firmly Site related.
“I knew it,” he said to himself.
According to Colonel Bishtuk, Törökul had decided to attack Uth when he saw the city’s lights go out during the worldwideblackouts that spring. He called it a sign from Allah, and at that very moment Törökul had vaulted onto his horse and riddento gather the tribes.
The invasion in Niger had given Törökul the opportunity, the blackouts had given him the inspiration—and the Site had causedthem both.
Will reached up, pulling off his headphones.
“Leigh!” he said. “Check this out. Qandustan’s definitely a big part of the picture.”
He looked up to see Leigh staring straight ahead, her face slack.
“Qandustan,” she said in a dazed voice. “Yeah? Qandustan. How about that?”
“What’s the matter?” Will asked.
“Listen to the radio, Will,” Leigh said.
He hadn’t even realized it was on. He focused his attention on the words, a deep voice speaking in a language Will didn’tunderstand, emphatic and angular.
“What is this?” Will asked. “I can’t understand it.”
“It’s audio from a clip that a local TV station in Qandustan broadcast last night our time—that’s their morning. The translationwill come through in a minute. They’ve already run it a few times,” Leigh answered.
“Can you just summarize?” Will said.
“Yup,” she said. “Törökul’s got a nuke.”
“What?” Will said. Leigh glanced at him. She looked ill.
“The anchor said it’s an old missile from the USSR, an SS-24. They used to mount them on trains and trucks, I guess, and drivethem around. They were completely self-contained, and they kept them moving all the time so a U.S. strike couldn’t take themout.”
Leigh reached down and turned off the radio.
“They aren’t even sure if it works, and he’s not saying how he got it, or where it is. But Törökul’s calling it the Swordof God, and he’s saying that the council in the mountains is taking too long to come back with their vote. He thinks they’rescrewing with him—stalling until his enemies can regroup.”
Will hunched forward, gripping the notebook in both hands, his mind deep in
