down like a house of cards. We'll have a devil of a time putting it back together."
Do as I say, not as I do.
His half sister's number was firmly in his head. He called that first, though she was not the reason for his awful feeling of urgency. The attempted connection to her California number produced a series of strange clicks that ended in the odd, open silence of a lost line.
He was not much worried. Carol was superwoman. Her competence at everything she touched made Art feel inferior during their once-a-year visits. Carol would manage to land on her feet. She always did.
The group's numbers were much more guesswork. He had written down seven that he was sure of, and half a dozen more where he was within a digit or two of the full eighteen (though a miss was as good as a mile when it came to percom numbers). He had given up on the rest. If he could get through to just one, they would start to network.
By the sixth dead end he was starting to sweat. Some of it might be a delayed effect of Ed's lethal white lightning, best followed by a walk to let your brain clear and your kidneys recover from the insult. But mostly it was the conviction of problems on the way. That feeling had started the second he realized that his DNA analysis box was out of action.
He kept trying. Joe, who had finished feeding and cursing the dogs, came into the room and watched him in silence.
"Bad news?" he said at last.
"No damn news at all. I think we only have a local piece of the network up. That explains why you could reach Anne-Marie's old handset, and I can reach fuck all."
He was stabbing at the soft screen as he spoke, convinced that he was wasting his time. It was a shock when, after another eternity of clicks and snaps and whistles, a voice said, "ID, please."
It was the standard reply of a screener, verifying the caller's acceptability before the machine would take a message. But if Art's ideas were right, everything using microchips had failed when that blue flash filled the sky—and smart screeners were on the list.
"Dana?" he said. "This is Art Ferrand. It's you, isn't it, not the screener?"
There was a moment of background crackle and hiss. Then, "Art. God, I'm glad to hear from you. The line came back, but I haven't been able to reach anyone with it. The screener doesn't work, nor does the API controller."
"I think the national grid is down. We're patching in to each other through old equipment—you can practically hear electrical relays opening and closing. Where are you?"
He did not recall where she lived. Their contacts had been electronic, plus the quarterly meetings at the Institute for Probatory Therapies.
"Not where I usually am. Arlington was looking bad, mobs and looting and fires. I got scared."
Art knew that without being told. The old Dana Berlitz was sassy and sexy and full of life. The woman on the line was all nerves.
"I left two days ago," she went on. "I'm out with my sister Sarah in Warrenton. Where are you?"
"Up north, beyond Frederick. I ran for it early, over a month ago. You drove?"
"Drove?" Her voice was steadying. "You really are out of it. The cars stopped working a week back. There was this funny sort of blue flash, up in the sky—"
"I know. We had it here, too. I think it was everywhere. All the equipment with microchips in it is useless now. Trouble is, that's just about everything in the world. How did you get to Warrenton?"
"The hard way. On my bike, fifty-seven miles door-to-door with that lousy saddle I always swore I was going to replace, not a car on the roads and it rained all the way. I won't try to tell you what my ass felt like when I got here." She laughed—a good sign. "Sarah took one look at it and slapped on a big skin patch. You ever had one?"
"Never needed one."
"I don't recommend it. The first few hours while it was bonding, it wriggled whenever I sat down on it. Cheap thrill." She laughed again, but in her next words the worried tone was back. "Art, do you have
Do as I say, not as I do.
His half sister's number was firmly in his head. He called that first, though she was not the reason for his awful feeling of urgency. The attempted connection to her California number produced a series of strange clicks that ended in the odd, open silence of a lost line.
He was not much worried. Carol was superwoman. Her competence at everything she touched made Art feel inferior during their once-a-year visits. Carol would manage to land on her feet. She always did.
The group's numbers were much more guesswork. He had written down seven that he was sure of, and half a dozen more where he was within a digit or two of the full eighteen (though a miss was as good as a mile when it came to percom numbers). He had given up on the rest. If he could get through to just one, they would start to network.
By the sixth dead end he was starting to sweat. Some of it might be a delayed effect of Ed's lethal white lightning, best followed by a walk to let your brain clear and your kidneys recover from the insult. But mostly it was the conviction of problems on the way. That feeling had started the second he realized that his DNA analysis box was out of action.
He kept trying. Joe, who had finished feeding and cursing the dogs, came into the room and watched him in silence.
"Bad news?" he said at last.
"No damn news at all. I think we only have a local piece of the network up. That explains why you could reach Anne-Marie's old handset, and I can reach fuck all."
He was stabbing at the soft screen as he spoke, convinced that he was wasting his time. It was a shock when, after another eternity of clicks and snaps and whistles, a voice said, "ID, please."
It was the standard reply of a screener, verifying the caller's acceptability before the machine would take a message. But if Art's ideas were right, everything using microchips had failed when that blue flash filled the sky—and smart screeners were on the list.
"Dana?" he said. "This is Art Ferrand. It's you, isn't it, not the screener?"
There was a moment of background crackle and hiss. Then, "Art. God, I'm glad to hear from you. The line came back, but I haven't been able to reach anyone with it. The screener doesn't work, nor does the API controller."
"I think the national grid is down. We're patching in to each other through old equipment—you can practically hear electrical relays opening and closing. Where are you?"
He did not recall where she lived. Their contacts had been electronic, plus the quarterly meetings at the Institute for Probatory Therapies.
"Not where I usually am. Arlington was looking bad, mobs and looting and fires. I got scared."
Art knew that without being told. The old Dana Berlitz was sassy and sexy and full of life. The woman on the line was all nerves.
"I left two days ago," she went on. "I'm out with my sister Sarah in Warrenton. Where are you?"
"Up north, beyond Frederick. I ran for it early, over a month ago. You drove?"
"Drove?" Her voice was steadying. "You really are out of it. The cars stopped working a week back. There was this funny sort of blue flash, up in the sky—"
"I know. We had it here, too. I think it was everywhere. All the equipment with microchips in it is useless now. Trouble is, that's just about everything in the world. How did you get to Warrenton?"
"The hard way. On my bike, fifty-seven miles door-to-door with that lousy saddle I always swore I was going to replace, not a car on the roads and it rained all the way. I won't try to tell you what my ass felt like when I got here." She laughed—a good sign. "Sarah took one look at it and slapped on a big skin patch. You ever had one?"
"Never needed one."
"I don't recommend it. The first few hours while it was bonding, it wriggled whenever I sat down on it. Cheap thrill." She laughed again, but in her next words the worried tone was back. "Art, do you have
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