“Don’t be an idiot. I told them it was a stupid idea. Are you suggesting that this explosion was anything but Reinhart’s folly?”

Jim interrupted. “Wait. Something’s happening at Rockford. Look.”

The video feed resumed as new vidbots came online. People staggered drunkenly, their skin turning cyanotic. Those who had been untouched by the fireball had counted their blessings too quickly. They had breathed a sigh of relief—and inhaled ZVI. Most of the particles had oxidized on contact with air and posed no health risk. Just enough ZVI, however, stayed reactive and entered the onlookers’ respiratory systems. The nanodots bonded with the oxygen in the bloodstreams of those rushing to the site of the blast. The iron rusted; the townspeople asphyxiated.

Eva looked at the video feed and shook her head. “Bad science,” was all she said.

22

DIAMONDS AND DUST

FROM THE MEMORIES

OF DANA ECCO

Nothing is more compelling than a disaster that’s viewed from a comfortable armchair or a barstool, or from miles away in a sixth-floor boardroom. The explosion held the public’s attention as securely as an inchworm on hot tar. It was news, entertainment, and a cautionary tale. A cloud of dragonflies—video cameras the size of an insect—caught the explosion’s aftermath. Datastream providers quickly packaged a four-minute story arc that began with Dr. Reinhart’s polished remarks, highlighted the fireball, and concluded with the grisly asphyxiation of the thirty or so observers who rushed forward after the explosion and inhaled active ZVI particles.

While emergency crews mobilized and rushed to Rockford, my mother slumped in a smartchair, her head in her arms, resting on the polished cherry wood conference table. Dust motes caught my eye as they twinkled in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pattern in the drapes was still, as if in respect for the tragedy 700 miles south.

My mother pushed herself up from her chair and embraced me.

My father stared at Eva’s retreating form.

She stopped in the doorway, turned and gave a shrug. She ignored my mother and grinned at my father. “Time to dust off our proposal,” she said.

“What did you do, Eva?” my mother asked. Her voice was sad.

“What did I do? I warned them that this could happen. That’s what I did. I built a better plan than CleanAct, that’s what I did.”

“I mean the explosion. Did NMech have anything to do with that?”

Eva’s voice took on a flat, affectless quality, the studied neutrality of anger. “Marta, you asked me that three times and I’ll answer you just once more: I had nothing to do with it. I warned them this could happen. You’re upset. Okay—it’s upsetting. But you accuse me? Better take a mood block before you say anything you’ll regret.”

“Eva, there’s going to be inquiries, people will look at NMech—”

“Disregard that. NMech is clean. And Marta? We’ve been friends for a long time. We might still be friends—I don’t know, since you contrive to keep Dana away from me. My only advise to you is this: don’t push me.” She stalked out of the boardroom.

My mother looked at me involuntarily. Her face told me all I needed to know about Eva’s accusation. But now wasn’t the time to discuss my mother’s interference with my relationship with Eva. Besides, I’d figured it out months ago.

I decided to investigate. Maybe I could show that Eva was innocent. Maybe we could act like friends again. I scanned Eva’s datapillars. There was no trace of a databurst transmission that might have triggered the explosion. But NMech was one of the largest companies in the world, and I couldn’t scan every pillar Eva might have used. Besides, I just didn’t want to believe that she’d have murdered dozens of innocent people just to get Reinhart or the bid committee. On the other hand, she’d been acting strangely in the days leading up to the bid submission, and her behavior had never returned to what is normal for her. I wondered, would she have sabotaged CleanAct’s plant?

“Eva’s a good scientist and she’s been a friend to us,” my mother said to no one in particular. She was starting to sob, gulping in big draughts of air, shoulders shaking. “But she’s been under such a strain. I shouldn’t have questioned her. I have no proof, no evidence other than her reaction, and that’s not evidence at all.”

My father spoke sharply. “Are you saying she gets a break because she’s been under a strain? If she did this, that is?” I think he had already made up his mind. He’d been cool to Eva since NMech submitted its bid and he seemed disinclined to give her the benefit of any doubt.

“I’m not saying that,” my mother replied, struggling for composure. “But I’m a doctor, not a judge. Doctors heal sinners and saints. If there’s a chance for Eva, we have to help her.”

“She gets a pass if she’s nuts?” I watched his anger grow. His body stiffened as his muscles tensed. I wondered if this was how it was before he learned to control his temper.

“Jim, would you please listen to me? All I mean is that I’m a bohique. I heal, not punish. If Eva broke the law, then Eva pays the price. But that’s up to law enforcement, not me. If there’s some way to make sense of this, I’d sure like to know.”

My mother and father turned away from each other and lapsed into stony silence. Everything was upside- down. Normally, my father would be defending Eva, not my mother.

I retreated into my own thoughts. Nothing moved in the boardroom except the dust motes. I watched them, drifting lazily about the room. Something about them held my attention more than the moment-by-moment vid coverage at Rockford. The way they twinkled reminded me of tiny diamonds. The way they moved reminded me of an avian flock. They seemed to move with purpose.

They were Eva’s eyes—surveillance motes—tinier cousins of the miniature video cameras that the datastreams used. Each of the motes was a half-micron in size—about 300 times smaller than a human hair. Individually, each possessed the ability to process only a minute piece of information. Collectively, they captured our every word, gesture, and expression.

Eva was studying us from her office, deciding what she would do.

PART THREE

THE GREAT WASHOUT

NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT

‘TOUCH ME NOT WITHOUT HURT’ OR

‘NO ONE PROVOKES ME WITH IMPUNITY’

—Motto of the Order of the Thistle —See also, “A Cask of Amontillado” Edgar Allen Poe

PROLOGUE

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