squinting, saw images of fragments. Bits
and pieces, shards with scratches, nibbled by vermin, burnt in fires, rotted in
cellars, cuneiform, Chinese characters readable by a solitary scholar sitting
alone in Beijing, pottery inscribed with the names of heroes dead long before
Troy, all of it incomprehensible. On her arm she saw bits that reminded
her of Finkelstein’s basement; stretching her arms above her head she reached
through millennia of history to the stick etched with marks by the first woman.
“We collated every bit and scrap of
writing in every museum and library, the universities and private collections,
even in the Vatican into our data.”
“Why?”
“When we have joined every bit we
will know everything.”
“How?”
“We are able to reconcile every
fragment with every other fragment. We will have a complete record of all
the knowledge of man, a data base searchable by us.”
“You should talk to Finkelstein.”
“We are. He digitized his
collection for us; in return we allow him to search our database for his
purposes.”
“And, of course, you know what he
knows.”
“We know what everyone knows.”
“Are you people crazy???”
“New paradigm.”
“They will track you down.”
“Never happen; we no longer exist
anywhere.”
“This is what you do now??????”
“We want to hasten certain
transitions and believe they will trigger a decision point.”
The plastic sheets were glowing
again; images, numbers and text flashed across in complex rhythms faster than
she could comprehend.
“Is that you? What is this
stuff?” Leaning over, she ran her fingers over the nearest sheet.
It felt liquid, not like plastic but alive somehow, like she’d lightly pressed
a lover’s skin.
“Organic polymers don’t touch.”
“Sorry; did I hurt it?”
“No. Fingerprints.”
“What are you trying to
accomplish.”
Violent colors surged throughout
the cave, leaping from sheet to sheet until the colors coalesced to a blinding
white.
Squinting, she typed, “That hurts.”
Immediately the intensity lessened.
“We are hastening the end.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Yes, it may be.”
“Watch over me and any sign of
Oliver.”
“We will.”
The screens dissolved and, as she
looked, mundane sheets of plastic hung as room dividers. Vague shapes of
reclining bodies connected to tubes and cables ghosted the blurry depths.
Her wave on the way out was
ignored.
CHAPTER 5
Trudging in the night
drizzle, Ortega thought a great way to celebrate the first day of his brand new
demotion would be to drink. Transferred from robbery/homicide to nowhere,
he was alone in the rain walking a beat. They hadn’t put it like that
when they ordered him in and gave him his new assignment, avoiding a union beef
he figured, but he was walking down the street, at night, in the rain,
alone.
Drinking on duty was frowned
upon, but hell’s bells, thought Ortega, first day or actually first night of
his transfer deserved memories and no one offered to buy so he might as well
buck up and get used to the situation. Walking from Pioneer Square,
putting the revitalized City behind him, into the bums and bars part of town to
“get a taste of the neighborhood,” as the Lieutenant suggested when he pushed
him out the door. Judging by the smell wafting out of the alleys, there
were only a couple of words to accurately describe the taste. Now, he was
using his talents to sniff out, that’s what the Lieutenant actually said, sniff
out any Asian involvement in organized criminal activity occurring at the
street level. They hadn’t put him back in a uniform, but had made sure he
understood that he wasn’t undercover and wasn’t really functioning as a
detective, since they weren’t assigning him a case.
He was just there to see what
he could see about the lay of the land. Very important and necessary and
something headquarters had been meaning to get to when they found
and pieces, shards with scratches, nibbled by vermin, burnt in fires, rotted in
cellars, cuneiform, Chinese characters readable by a solitary scholar sitting
alone in Beijing, pottery inscribed with the names of heroes dead long before
Troy, all of it incomprehensible. On her arm she saw bits that reminded
her of Finkelstein’s basement; stretching her arms above her head she reached
through millennia of history to the stick etched with marks by the first woman.
“We collated every bit and scrap of
writing in every museum and library, the universities and private collections,
even in the Vatican into our data.”
“Why?”
“When we have joined every bit we
will know everything.”
“How?”
“We are able to reconcile every
fragment with every other fragment. We will have a complete record of all
the knowledge of man, a data base searchable by us.”
“You should talk to Finkelstein.”
“We are. He digitized his
collection for us; in return we allow him to search our database for his
purposes.”
“And, of course, you know what he
knows.”
“We know what everyone knows.”
“Are you people crazy???”
“New paradigm.”
“They will track you down.”
“Never happen; we no longer exist
anywhere.”
“This is what you do now??????”
“We want to hasten certain
transitions and believe they will trigger a decision point.”
The plastic sheets were glowing
again; images, numbers and text flashed across in complex rhythms faster than
she could comprehend.
“Is that you? What is this
stuff?” Leaning over, she ran her fingers over the nearest sheet.
It felt liquid, not like plastic but alive somehow, like she’d lightly pressed
a lover’s skin.
“Organic polymers don’t touch.”
“Sorry; did I hurt it?”
“No. Fingerprints.”
“What are you trying to
accomplish.”
Violent colors surged throughout
the cave, leaping from sheet to sheet until the colors coalesced to a blinding
white.
Squinting, she typed, “That hurts.”
Immediately the intensity lessened.
“We are hastening the end.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Yes, it may be.”
“Watch over me and any sign of
Oliver.”
“We will.”
The screens dissolved and, as she
looked, mundane sheets of plastic hung as room dividers. Vague shapes of
reclining bodies connected to tubes and cables ghosted the blurry depths.
Her wave on the way out was
ignored.
CHAPTER 5
Trudging in the night
drizzle, Ortega thought a great way to celebrate the first day of his brand new
demotion would be to drink. Transferred from robbery/homicide to nowhere,
he was alone in the rain walking a beat. They hadn’t put it like that
when they ordered him in and gave him his new assignment, avoiding a union beef
he figured, but he was walking down the street, at night, in the rain,
alone.
Drinking on duty was frowned
upon, but hell’s bells, thought Ortega, first day or actually first night of
his transfer deserved memories and no one offered to buy so he might as well
buck up and get used to the situation. Walking from Pioneer Square,
putting the revitalized City behind him, into the bums and bars part of town to
“get a taste of the neighborhood,” as the Lieutenant suggested when he pushed
him out the door. Judging by the smell wafting out of the alleys, there
were only a couple of words to accurately describe the taste. Now, he was
using his talents to sniff out, that’s what the Lieutenant actually said, sniff
out any Asian involvement in organized criminal activity occurring at the
street level. They hadn’t put him back in a uniform, but had made sure he
understood that he wasn’t undercover and wasn’t really functioning as a
detective, since they weren’t assigning him a case.
He was just there to see what
he could see about the lay of the land. Very important and necessary and
something headquarters had been meaning to get to when they found
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