sake.”
Kyra shuddered.
“If the Synod knew my double was hidden in our HQ, it could invent a pretext and seize the building,” Guthrie proceeded. “Then the government would stall, make a fuss, claim it wanted to compromise, but drag matters out, while it—” the machine voice barely stumbled—“reprogrammed its prize. Now it has me on its side, knowing most of what I know.”
“Surely not!” Kyra cried.
“Not everything, but enough,” said remorselessness. “Everything that was in his personal memory, which means more or less everything a human would retain, including the locations of my old-established hideaways. News of the last two decades, easily downloaded into him. Ample information about the company, from the discs they’ve seized—nothing top secret, of course, but Fireball doesn’t have many top secrets.
“Mainly, he knows how I think. He knows I’ve entered the country, because he’d’ve done the same, because he is me. He’ll make some almighty shrewd estimates of what I’ll do next.”
Kyra kicked out against the nightmare, like Lee. “Are you sure of this? It sounds awfully far-fetched.”
“If you can suggest a hypothesis that fits the facts better, I’d be delighted to hear it.”
“But could they really … change him … and not destroy him, make him useless? How?”
“They could,” Lee told her. “The theory of it touches my field, so I can imagine the methods.” Briefly, his hand touched hers. “I would rather not describe them.”
3
Database
T HE CONTROL PROVIDED by the World Federation Meteorological Service was limited, and over weather, not climate. Northwest Integrate would always have more rain and clouds than clear skies, until Earth as a whole had profoundly changed. However, the previous week a lengthy wet spell had yielded for a while to dazzling sunshine. On the first day of this, Enrique Sayre took a moment to admire it.
The local Security Police building was broad and deep rather than high, a fortress. Still, the view from the roof bore comparison with what he saw from his flitter before he landed; and after he stepped out, a boisterous cool wind laved his face and yodeled in his ears. It smelled of salt water, with the slight tang of chemicals and ozone that bespoke energies at work. Traffic sounds rose through it, an oceanic murmur, up toward soaring gulls and glinting aircraft. The city climbed likewise, from streets, bridgeways, monorails, dymaxions and other lesser edifices, to prideful tower heights. Biospaces glowed intensely green; although they were negligently maintained of late, nature was moving in, grass, weeds, saplings. Some distance off, Elliott Bay shone argent, less troubled than formerly by shipping and sailboats. Beyond the structures on the farther side, Cascade snowpeaks raised white against blue.
Sayre could understand why Anson Guthrie located his North American headquarters here. The man had been born and raised in Port Angeles, on the Strait and not farfrom the Olympic Peninsula’s mountains and forests. The disembodied program must have yearned back. Sayre threw a glance at the Fireball building. It reared on Queen Anne Hill, its lines suggestive of a spacecraft at launch, arrogantly higher than his. But now the infinity flag flew on its pole too.
Guards saluted as Sayre walked from his flitter. He returned the gestures. The men were mainly ceremonial, an adjunct to robotic monitors and guns, but ceremony was important. Xuan himself had admitted that human-kind remained largely a creature of instinct and emotion. Taming the brain stem and limbic system to the service of the cerebrum would be the work of lifetimes.
Sayre had progressed sufficiently in the disciplines to recognize, and not to care, that he was physically unimpressive—a short, slight man, sharp-featured but with a receding chin and blond hair plastered in thin strands to a round head. He had refrained from getting any makeover except correction of myopia
Kyra shuddered.
“If the Synod knew my double was hidden in our HQ, it could invent a pretext and seize the building,” Guthrie proceeded. “Then the government would stall, make a fuss, claim it wanted to compromise, but drag matters out, while it—” the machine voice barely stumbled—“reprogrammed its prize. Now it has me on its side, knowing most of what I know.”
“Surely not!” Kyra cried.
“Not everything, but enough,” said remorselessness. “Everything that was in his personal memory, which means more or less everything a human would retain, including the locations of my old-established hideaways. News of the last two decades, easily downloaded into him. Ample information about the company, from the discs they’ve seized—nothing top secret, of course, but Fireball doesn’t have many top secrets.
“Mainly, he knows how I think. He knows I’ve entered the country, because he’d’ve done the same, because he is me. He’ll make some almighty shrewd estimates of what I’ll do next.”
Kyra kicked out against the nightmare, like Lee. “Are you sure of this? It sounds awfully far-fetched.”
“If you can suggest a hypothesis that fits the facts better, I’d be delighted to hear it.”
“But could they really … change him … and not destroy him, make him useless? How?”
“They could,” Lee told her. “The theory of it touches my field, so I can imagine the methods.” Briefly, his hand touched hers. “I would rather not describe them.”
3
Database
T HE CONTROL PROVIDED by the World Federation Meteorological Service was limited, and over weather, not climate. Northwest Integrate would always have more rain and clouds than clear skies, until Earth as a whole had profoundly changed. However, the previous week a lengthy wet spell had yielded for a while to dazzling sunshine. On the first day of this, Enrique Sayre took a moment to admire it.
The local Security Police building was broad and deep rather than high, a fortress. Still, the view from the roof bore comparison with what he saw from his flitter before he landed; and after he stepped out, a boisterous cool wind laved his face and yodeled in his ears. It smelled of salt water, with the slight tang of chemicals and ozone that bespoke energies at work. Traffic sounds rose through it, an oceanic murmur, up toward soaring gulls and glinting aircraft. The city climbed likewise, from streets, bridgeways, monorails, dymaxions and other lesser edifices, to prideful tower heights. Biospaces glowed intensely green; although they were negligently maintained of late, nature was moving in, grass, weeds, saplings. Some distance off, Elliott Bay shone argent, less troubled than formerly by shipping and sailboats. Beyond the structures on the farther side, Cascade snowpeaks raised white against blue.
Sayre could understand why Anson Guthrie located his North American headquarters here. The man had been born and raised in Port Angeles, on the Strait and not farfrom the Olympic Peninsula’s mountains and forests. The disembodied program must have yearned back. Sayre threw a glance at the Fireball building. It reared on Queen Anne Hill, its lines suggestive of a spacecraft at launch, arrogantly higher than his. But now the infinity flag flew on its pole too.
Guards saluted as Sayre walked from his flitter. He returned the gestures. The men were mainly ceremonial, an adjunct to robotic monitors and guns, but ceremony was important. Xuan himself had admitted that human-kind remained largely a creature of instinct and emotion. Taming the brain stem and limbic system to the service of the cerebrum would be the work of lifetimes.
Sayre had progressed sufficiently in the disciplines to recognize, and not to care, that he was physically unimpressive—a short, slight man, sharp-featured but with a receding chin and blond hair plastered in thin strands to a round head. He had refrained from getting any makeover except correction of myopia
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