Echopraxia by Peter Watts

churned. After a while, some dull sullen pain behind his eyes brought him back to the here-and-now; he took more conscious note of his surroundings and decided to revisit Moore’s basement watchtower, as much for its relative familiarity as for any tactical insights he might glean.
    He couldn’t find it. He remembered Lianna leading him through a hole in the wall; he remembered emerging from it after the armistice. It had to be off the main corridor, had to lie behind one of these identical oaken doors that lined the hall, but no perspective along that length seemed familiar. It was as though he was in some off-kilter mock-up of the place he’d been just an hour before, as though the layout of the monastery had changed subtly when he wasn’t looking. He started trying doors at random.
    The third was ajar. Low voices murmured behind it. It swung inward easily; flat panels of vat-cloned hardwood lined the space beyond, a kind of library or map room that looked out onto a grassy compound (half sunlit, half in shadow). Past sliding glass doorways, arcane objects rose haphazardly from that immaculate lawn. Brüks couldn’t tell whether they were machines or sculptures or some half-assed hybrid of the two. The only thing that looked at all familiar out there was a shallow washbasin set atop a boxy waist-high pedestal.
    There was one of those inside, too, just past a conference table that dominated the center of the room itself. Two mismatched Bicamerals stood at the table’s edge, gazing at a collection of dice-size objects scattered across some kind of hard-copy map or antique game board. The Japanese monk was gaunt as a scarecrow; the Caucasian could have passed for Santa Claus at the departmental Christmas party, given the right threads and a pillow stuffed down his front.
    â€œFrom Queensland, maybe,” Santa remarked. “That place always bred the best neurotoxins.”
    The scarecrow scooped up a handful of objects (not dice, Brüks saw now; a collection of multifaceted lumps that made him think of mahogany macramé) and arranged them in a rough crescent across the board.
    Santa considered. “Still not enough. Even if we could sift the Van Allens dry on short notice.” He absently scratched the side of his neck, seemed to notice Brüks at last. “You’re the refugee.”
    â€œBiologist.”
    â€œWelcome anyway.” Santa smacked his lips. “I’m Luckett.”
    â€œDan Brüks.” He took the other man’s nod for an invitation and stepped closer to the table. The pattern decorating the game board—a multicolored spiral of interlocking Penrose tiles—was far more complex than any he remembered from his grandfather’s attic. It seemed to move at the corner of his eye, to crawl just so when he wasn’t quite looking.
    The scarecrow clicked his tongue, eyes never leaving the table.
    â€œDon’t mind Masashi,” Luckett remarked. “He’s not much for what you’d call normal conversation.”
    â€œDoes everyone around here speak in tongues?”
    â€œSpeak—oh, I see what you mean.” Luckett laughed softly. “No, with Masashi here it’s more like a kind of aphasia. When he’s not linked in, anyway.”
    The scarecrow spilled a few more mahogany knuckles with chaotic precision. Luckett laughed again, shook his head.
    â€œHe talks through board games,” Brüks surmised.
    â€œClose enough. Who knows? I might be doing the same thing by the time I graduate.”
    â€œYou’re not—?” Of course he wasn’t. His eyes didn’t sparkle.
    â€œNot yet. Acolyte.”
    It was enough that he spoke English. “I’m trying to find the room I was in last night. Basement, spiral stairs, kind of a war room bunker feel to it?”
    â€œAh. The Colonel’s lair. North hall, first right, second door on the left.”
    â€œOkay. Thanks.”
    â€œNot at