terrified about what she’s going to do. She said, I
“What kinds of projects, Mom?”
“Ah, a lot. Let me make a list.”
Marta touched her sleeve and subvocalized. She frowned, and tried again.
“Guys. We’ve got trouble. I can’t access any of the public projects, the subsidized patients, the donated nanomeds—none of it. I can’t tell if she’s terminated those programs or just locked me out. She could wash out every charitable activity we’ve built.”
“How do we stop her?” asked Jim.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what she’s doing. I don’t know how she terminated the accounts that Denise Warren told us about. I don’t know how to stop her.”
“Can the public health projects be restarted?” asked Jim.
“I don’t know that either. I don’t even know if NMech still exists. Oh God, I feel helpless.”
“Dana, link to the newsfeeds. See if there’s anything,” said Jim.
Dana subvocalized and a series of images projected before them.
“Look. There. And there,” Dana pointed.
One feed showed a panorama of hospital entrances, flooded with ambulances. There were desperate fathers and screaming mothers carrying their children. Old men and women with labored breathing, their faces pale or jaundiced. Another series of feeds showed the chaos and violence of street riots or worse—running battles between military or police agencies on one side and pirate armies on another.
Dana stood, speechless. Marta sat down heavily, her legs unable to support her. Jim watched the feeds. Dana moved to comfort his mother.
“How is she doing this?” Marta cried.
Dana asked, “Can she be controlling this from her office?”
“I don’t think so. Eva would have hidden everything. I had the technical staff search for anything that looked suspicious right after the explosion. Eva’s pillar had been dormant. She must have another one somewhere.”
“I bet that’s where she’s got my grandfather,” said Dana. “I think I saw a clue in the vid. I’m going to play it again to be sure.”
Morning broke on March 4. The usual chitters, howls, and grunts of Waza National Park’s wildlife were joined by a new sound. Cries of dismay and alarm echoed among Sergeant Mike Imfeld’s squad. Their uniforms were dead. It was as if a master switch turned every uniform to dumb cloth. The medical sensors were muted; the protective liquid armor puddled uselessly; shirtsleeve bandages for cuts or scrapes morphed from medical marvels to blood- mottled fabric. Even the command, control, and communications applications were dead. In the event of an attack, they would be reduced to blind firing.
Imfeld’s problems were compounded by his foe’s skill. Aluwa’s scouts had come of age in the forest. A small company followed Imfeld’s squad’s every move. Seventy-five child-soldiers circled north above Waza and then south to reach the park’s eastern border and set up an enfilade with a company on the western border with Imfeld’s squad in the middle. Aluwa knew he would have the element of surprise. What the teenaged general did not know was that the EcoForce’s defenses had been disabled by instructions from Cerberus.
When Aluwa’s attack began at 0700 hours, local time, the Eco-Force squad’s defense was unfocused. The battle for Waza National Park was over in less than thirty minutes. Aluwa suffered nine casualties. None of Imfeld’s troops survived. The Great Washout claimed its first military casualties.
Dana Ecco subvocalized and the dumb pillar projected Eva Rozen’s vid feed. There was Rafael Cruz. Behind him were the plain walls, the small bed and the edge of a window.
“There,” said Dana. “The window.”
Jim said, “So what? We can’t see what’s outside of the window.”
Dana said, “Look at the window itself. That’s not smart glass. It’s an old-fashioned window. Look at the glass. See the little ripples in the window?” He subvocalized and magnified the image which showed a moire pattern in the glass.
“You’re right,” said Marta. She stared at the vid. “Nobody uses plain glass anymore. Building codes require smart glass.”
Dana said, “So where does Eva go that would have this kind of a window?”
“I bet it’s her home,” said Marta. “I remember, back at Harvard. One of the few times she ever talked about her childhood, she described the apartment where she grew up. She swore that if she ever was successful—no, make that
“So what do we do now?” asked Dana.
“We’re going to pay her a visit,” said Marta.
“Not yet,” said Jim. “First you and Dana go to her office and see if you can find anything that will restart the public health programs. I’m going to get your father.”
Marta said, “I think she’s taken on some enhancements. If I’m right you can’t face her without being prepared. I’m expecting a delivery, something for you that Eva won’t expect. And I need a little time in the lab to confirm my suspicions about her.”
When the Cerro Rojo plant failed, Nancy Kiley made an inventory of the region’s available water, took stock of her own situation, and made an executive decision: she fled.
The region’s principal water reserve was the eight million gallons remaining in the pipeline that carried Cerro Rojo’s output to its customers. Kiley did a quick calculation to estimate how much time she had. Eight million gallons of water for thirty million thirsty people. Fifteen quarts each. Survival ration for a healthy human at rest is a bit over three quarts daily. If they used the water in the pipelines only for drinking, the region’s population could survive for a few days—if it rested in the shade. Factor in sanitation and hygiene, the need rises to fifty quarts a day or more. But agriculture and industry also lay claim to the liquid treasure.
She had little time. Within hours, the populations of six Caribbean islands and the northeast coast of South America would be parched. And Nancy Kiley wanted to be anywhere in the world other than in the middle of a water riot.
“What are you doing, Dr. Kiley?” her administrator asked as he watched Kiley leave.
“You can’t leave now. What are we going to do here? The whole system is down. What do we try now?”
“You’ve got a whole team to figure it out. Stop complaining and get to work.” Startled, the admin turned and left.
Kiley went back to her escape plan. Canada had been spared the worst of the drought and its climate harbored none of the fire ants, scorpions, and the other creatures that had bedeviled her here in Paraguana. She could walk on pavement, not gravel, and enjoy seasons with temperatures less than 90 degrees. If she could make it to Toronto, then she might be safe.
Kiley subvocalized and checked airline schedules. Bad news. No flights to the northern United States or Canada until the next day. By then riots would overtake the airport. She started to weep.
