Equinox Read online

  “Charlie,” Luka said with exasperation, “can you please just say what you came here to say?”

  “I want to hear you say it. Start at the beginning. Why would an RMD be divided up into almost eighty crates of equal size and equal weight?”

  “Again,” Luka said, “to make them easier to put into orbit.”

  “OK. And who in orbit would want an RMD?”

  “Absolutely nobody.”

  “Well, who are the only ones up there to receive it?”

  “The Coronians.”

  “And what would the Coronians do with terrestrial mining equipment? Simplest answer. Throw away all your assumptions for a second, and just give me the simplest possible answer to that one question.”

  “I guess they’d want it to mine.”

  “Exactly,” Charlie said. “To mine. Now what’s up there to mine?”

  “I have no idea,” Luka said. “The moon?”

  “What else?”

  “Asteroids, I guess.”

  “There you go. The moon and asteroids. Now why would the Coronians want to start doing their own mining when they have us to do it for them?”

  There was now more revelation in Luka’s tone than resistance. “So that they’re not dependent on us anymore.”

  “Right. And why wouldn’t they want to be dependent on us? The relationship has worked out pretty well so far. What do you think is about to change?”

  Luka turned his head and looked at Charlie. “We’re about to run out of resources.”

  “And what happens when we run out of resources?”

  “We become worthless.”

  “And then what?”

  “No more power.”

  Charlie nodded. “No more power,” she confirmed. “And we already know what happens to everyone when the power goes out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OMICRON

  AS SOON AS AYLA HAD adjusted to being alone on the Hawk, she had to get used to sharing it again. But this was a very different kind of sharing than what she was used to with her former crew since she still frequently felt like she was alone. Omicron’s cabin was the farthest one from the captain’s quarters, and he had a tendency to move about the ship like a tremendous, hulking ghost. Ayla couldn’t even recall hearing him so much as pass by her door, which—considering how thin the ship’s inner walls were and how massive her new Neanderthal shipmate was—struck her as somewhat remarkable.

  It also turned out that Omicron was as self-sufficient as he was unobtrusive. He did all his own cooking and was meticulous in his self-care. Although his clothing appeared chosen primarily for function and utility—mostly one-piece suits composed of breathable, resilient, and tiny elastic hexagonal patches that fit well beneath environment suits—it was always fresh and clean, and the odor Ayla smelled in the breeze when he moved deferentially past her was nothing like she expected to be left in the wake of a Neanderthal. In fact, although there wasn’t much superficial resemblance between Omicron and Theta, they shared the same rugged handsomeness, and both gave the impression not of an entirely different species, but of an uncommonly fine specimen of her own.

  Ayla gave Omicron access to all the weapons aboard the ship. Since his life was tethered to hers via an encrypted high-frequency radio signal—and since the reality was that there wasn’t much Ayla could do anyway should Omicron decide he’d rather kill them both than remain in Ayla’s service—she concluded she might as well provide him with a quick and painless way of doing it. But so far, the giant Neo never presented himself as even the slightest bit threatening—not even intentionally imposing—and the weapon he wore strapped to the outside of his thigh only made Ayla feel even safer with him around. Omicron had chosen a lithe pistol that, to Ayla, looked a lot like an adhesive gun for patching breached hulls, but rather than being loaded with a tube of silica gel and a magazine of vulcanized rubber plugs, it accepted high-pressure cartridges of hydrogen disassociated from seawater, and could fire any type of caseless projectile of the correct caliber from scored and frangible rounds designed to deform and fragment rather than pierce bulkheads, to a heavy chunk of depleted uranium capable of sending entire ships to the bottom of the ocean.

  Omicron spent most of his time on the bridge, and in the ten days it took them to cover the seven thousand kilometers between the Maldive Islands Spaceport and the coast of Antarctica, he became more of an expert on light cargo vessels—and specifically the Accipiter Hawk—than Ayla would probably ever be. Not only did he run the entire ship, but he also made several repairs and optimizations, many of which hadn’t even been identified by the onboard diagnostic subsystems yet. He even took apart Ayla’s mechanical monarch butterfly one morning and reassembled it, somehow entirely reversing the lethargy that had gradually accumulated over the years, and then positioned several brightly colored perches about the bridge to keep the insectoid stimulated and engaged.

  The Accipiter Hawk had become as much Omicron’s home now as it was Ayla’s.

  Although the concept of ownership in the context of another human being—irrespective of species—still did not sit right with her (and almost certainly never would, she believed), Omicron was technically only on loan to her. After Ayla sent Jumanne Nsonowa a summary of the Accipiter Hawk’s capabilities, it only took him about ninety minutes to get back to her with a proposal that she was surprised to find more than fair. In exchange for one of his most recent generation Neos (and the life-monitoring “vitaline” she now wore on her left wrist that was calibrated to Omicron’s autonomic implant), Ayla agreed to attempt to locate at least one uncharted pod system and transmit its coordinates to Nsonowa. Once the pod system’s location was verified, Nsonowa would forward the coordinates to the Coronians, then permanently delete his copy of the encryption keys that still gave him access to Omicron’s implant, empowering Ayla to do with Omicron whatever she saw fit. Of course, there was nothing really compelling Nsonowa to uphold his end of the bargain, but assuming both he and the Coronians wanted to continue to extend their influence to corners of the globe they otherwise could not, it was in both of their best interests to not only avoid a bad reputation, but to actively cultivate a positive one.

  This was the highest up on the energy chain Ayla had ever done business, and she was very much looking forward to getting back down into the more familiar and comfortable territories of transportation and trading. She’d always found pretty much everything about the Coronians to be eerie, and generally preferred not to give them much thought at all; however, she couldn’t help but find their interest in rogue pod systems curious. There were dozens of registered pod systems all over the globe participating in what was usually referred to as the capacitor economy—markets based, in one way or another, on the universal currency of power—but there were also an unknown number of pod systems that were either self-sufficient, or that collaborated with one another, forming partially or even entirely independent networks. Since most of them generated their own power through various nuclear technologies, it was generally assumed that, in order to mask their radiological signatures from raiders, they were located deep inside global radiation bands like the almost three-thousand-kilometer-wide stream that engulfed both the South Pole and most of the continent of Antarctica.

  Nsonowa said he would leave it up to Ayla and her new partner to devise their own methods of unveiling these hidden populations, though he did offer them some advice: They should keep in mind that the vast majority of these systems were doing everything in their power to remain undiscovered, and that obscuring themselves in clouds of radiation was just the beginning. He had heard stories of entire pod systems living under totalitarian regimes—dystopias enforced through violence, intimidation, and punishment, or kept stable through complete technological dominance. He had heard of bounty hunters in these regions capturing runaways, who they then sold back to the pod systems from which they escaped, and of human sacrifices to groups known as subterraneans and the homeless, who subsisted primarily on unc
ooked human flesh. But perhaps the most disturbing conditions he was aware of were not related to physical oppression, but rather a form of psychological tyranny. According to Nsonowa, there were entire generations who grew up with no idea of who and what they were—or even where they were—their realities meticulously constructed to make them prisoners of their own minds, beliefs, and, perhaps worst of all, their own pride. The most effective prisons, Nsonowa explained to Ayla, were those we could not even see, and therefore did not even realize existed.

  Since all it took was for one of these captives to learn the truth about his or her existence to endanger the well-established power structures designed to contain them, such communities would not easily reveal themselves. Attempting to locate or communicate with those in control would be futile, and in some cases, might even prove fatal. Their best bet was to try to reach out to the desperate or the dispossessed—those willing to tear down everything they had ever known in order to expose what had been done to them. If they could somehow be reached—and according to Nsonowa, it was inevitable that these people existed—they would likely need medical attention, and would almost certainly be looking for safe passage for themselves and for their loved ones on a ship exactly like the Accipiter Hawk.

  The message that Ayla and Omicron broadcasted as far into the Antarctic radiation band as their transmitters permitted promised both. It was delivered in an articulate, synthesized female voice with an elegant and melodious British accent.

  If you can hear this broadcast, you are inside the southern Antarctic radiation band. Radiation exposure is extremely dangerous and must be treated as quickly as possible. If you believe you have been exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, you can expect the following symptoms . . .

  Less than fifty rems: minor symptoms including a temporary decrease in red blood cell count. Fifty to one hundred rems: decreased immunity, temporary sterility in males, and mild to severe headaches. one hundred to two hundred rems: nausea and vomiting for a twenty-four-hour period followed by ten to fourteen days of fatigue. Women experience spontaneously terminated pregnancies or stillbirths. Fatality rate of ten percent if untreated. Two hundred to three hundred rems: seven- to twenty-eight-day latency period followed by bleeding of the gums and nose, hair loss, fatigue, nausea, and the breakdown of intestinal tissue. Untreated, death is imminent.

  Most levels of chronic and acute radiation sickness can be treated, and many genetic mutations can be reversed. We have an onboard hospital, food, clean water, and a nineteen-percent oxygen atmosphere. We can provide safe and free passage to Sakha, South Station Nord, New Elizabeth, and the Hammerfest pod systems. If you register one thousand rems or less, please hail us immediately on the following frequency: two-five-nine-point-seven megahertz. If you can hear this broadcast, we can reach you. This message will repeat.

  It was on the second day of continuous broadcasting that Ayla finally expressed to Omicron her surprise that the Coronians took such an interest in rogue pod systems. Her impression of those who lived in orbit had always been that they were cold and calculating, and that their only interest in what they referred to as “Earthbound” was exploitation in order to obtain the medium they needed to run their assemblers. She wondered why they were suddenly so interested in the wellbeing of the subjugated and the oppressed. Omicron lowered his prominent brow in evident confusion. The Coronians’ interest in unregistered pod systems was not altruistic, he assured her. Pockets of self-sufficient communities were a threat to their power and dominance. If humanity no longer needed the power supplied by Equinox, the shipments of raw materials would stop, and the Coronians would almost certainly eventually perish. This was a lesson that all Coronians knew well, and in fact was the very essence of their creation myth. Whatever pod systems the Accipiter Hawk happened to discover would not be liberated, Omicron explained. Whether it was now, or at some point in the future when the Coronians judged them too much of a threat, they would almost certainly be eliminated.

  The situation in which Ayla had gotten herself embroiled, and the types of people she was now indebted to, suddenly became appallingly apparent. She felt incredibly ignorant and embarrassed for not having seen this from the beginning—for not realizing what she was openly and willingly agreeing to. Costa would have never let her do something like this—never permitted a meeting between her and a man like Nsonowa, and certainly never agreed to his terms. But as naive and vulnerable and victimized as she felt, there was something much worse just under the surface. It was not Costa or her crew that she lamented right now, or the realization that she had joined the lowest ranks of humanity as a slave owner, or that she was possibly about to become a willing participant in what was effectively genocide. Instead, what came into unexpected and terrifyingly sharp focus right at that moment was the truth about what had happened to her home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FERROFLUID

  LUKA’S TRANSPARTMENT WAS OPTIMIZED FOR sleeping—or, more specifically, for being gently awakened. The polymeth walls gradually brightened, blending billions of subpixels into serene sunrise hues, and the filament-infused silicone tiles were warmed with forced electrical resistance so as to ensure Luka’s bleary-eyed shuffle from the coziness of his bed all the way to the bathroom was as homeostatic as possible.

  Before Luka was married, he slept on a standard-size futon that, during the day, folded up flush into a perfectly sized recess in the wall by the window. Shortly after Val moved in, she conducted a thorough spatial appraisal and declared that far too much precious volume was being devoted to the act of sleeping and not nearly enough to closets. The next time Luka worked a double, Valencia had the futon replaced with shelving, multiple levels of clothing rods, a second shoe rack, and two adjacent floor-level twin-size drawers that, when activated, extended into telescoping platforms on top of which interconnected silicone tubes unfurled and filled with your choice of air, water, or a firm but comfortable soluble gel. In the morning, when deactivated, the mattresses were bled, drained, or flushed, the platforms retracted, and the entire system neatly compressed and stowed in well under sixty seconds.

  Initially, Luka felt compelled to disavow such opulence, and frequently waxed nostalgic for the simplicity and austerity of his bachelorhood. However, it wasn’t long before he was honing his own personal sleep profile—making microadjustments to hydrodynamic pressure, temperature, and even pulsation frequency—and feeling better rested than he could ever remember feeling before. And try as he might to validate his assertion that the material could not possibly hold up to the rigors of their intimacy, not a single leak was sprung. In the end, he attributed both the robustness and the general effectiveness of the technology to its masterful assembly.

  The floor was warm beneath Luka’s feet as he stood and touched the panel that initiated the collapse of his half of the sleep system. Since he was alone, he did not bother to close the soundproof pocket door before pivoting the plastic commode down from the wall, dispelling a night’s worth of curiously yellow urine into the hydrophobic receptacle that repelled the fluid toward and down the drain, and then kicking the fixture back up with the ball of a bare foot. He washed and sanitized his hands in the basin and, while brushing his teeth, used the polymeth surface above the mirror to begin breakfast preparation. His toothbrush—well aware of the time—was in morning mode, so there were fewer ultrasonic emissions attempting to dislodge food particles and stubborn plaque deposits, and more antibacterial additives to combat pasty morning breath. His shorts went directly into the waterless ultraviolet sanitizing machine (no sorting), which would automatically start once it reached capacity, and since he was the only one who used his shower, the heads were already adjusted for his preferred temperature, pressure, and dispersion pattern. Personal care products were automatically introduced into the soft, mineral-free stream at just the right moments, and as soon as the water stopped, the cyclonic body driers started, the air from which was lightly infused with delicately fragrant atomized moisturizer
(another indulgence Luka owed to Valencia’s discriminating predilections). Infrared sensors in the corners informed the heating elements of precisely how to adjust to Luka’s body’s logarithmic response to the evaporative cooling process in order to ensure that he remained warm, but did not perspire.

  Today, Luka did not dress for work. Rather than the cargo scrubs that went well beneath an anti-electrostatic microfiber coverall, he put on a pair of loose nano-fabric slacks, a V-neck T-shirt, and a dark synthetic cardigan. A warm cup of sweetened and caffeinated soy porridge awaited him in the kitchen that he absently spooned into his mouth while reviewing the talking points spread out on the polymeth surface before him: the ridiculous number of crates the roverized mining drill was divided across; the obvious attempt to keep the weight of each crate almost exactly equal; the basic principles of rocket stability, which Luka only understood well enough to cite the importance of being able to establish a precise center of gravity. And, perhaps most alarming, all the additional similar orders he and Charlie recently uncovered.

  Luka’s commute to work typically took him along the west side of the Yerba Buena Gardens on Mariposa, then across Mission Street to the foundry. But today, he followed a more elusive route. He exited from the back of Millennium Tower onto Alemany, turned left on Pacifica, and continued to hug the perimeter of the rig all the way to the other side of the San Francisco until he reached the opulent and bulbous structure of City Hall.

  Even though the air barely so much as stirred beneath the vast dome, City Hall appeared to have been designed principally for aerodynamics. It reminded Luka of a high-speed hydrofoil helmet. Such conventions as straight lines and right angles must have been considered personal affronts to the architects—or, more likely, to whatever sets of parameterized engineering algorithms the architects ultimately took credit for. It was eleven generously spaced tiers of swooping silica over a dramatically bowed microlattice frame intended to convey bravado, but—to Luka’s personal aesthetic—came across as much more of a pathetic attempt at some form of compensation. As if the general anatomy of the structure weren’t conspicuous enough, it was recently crowned by an especially garish rendition of the city’s official insignia: an abstract polygonal phoenix, its wings fully outstretched, its noble elongated head turned to profile, each polished facet reflecting a different pattern and texture and color from the enclosure over which it symbolically kept watch.