F Wilson: Fatal Error

Speech seemed a war, each word a victory.

"Well, your enemies succeeded in bringing down the Net, but I guess the noosphere is stronger and more resilient than anyone imagined."

"No… not."

"But your continued survival is proof that it is."

"No… not."

"Not what?"

The Lady closed her eyes again. Weezy wanted to shake her-gently, of course-and ask her to explain, but she seemed to have slipped back into her sleep mode. The Lady had said she didn't sleep, but she was doing a convincing imitation. Except for the not-breathing part. Weezy couldn't get used to that.

She leaned back. No… not. What did she mean? That the noosphere was not sustaining her? How could that be? She was a creation of the noosphere, a projection of humanity's neuromass. Weezy had come to conceptualize her as a sort of hologram. But if the hologram's projector suffered a power failure, or its light source fizzled to a point where it could no longer sustain the projection, the hologram vanished.

The noosphere had suffered two crushing blows in less than a year. The nuclear strike from the Fhinntmanchca should have been a knockout punch. And would have been if not for the Internet. The Net had been swelling the noosphere with a massive, ongoing infusion of sentient interactions that had cushioned the blow, allowing it to continue supporting the Lady's existence. The Fhinntmanchca had knocked it down, but not out. It was regrouping but still had a long way to go before it regained its former depth and breadth. It needed the Internet input for recovery. Loss of that would put it on the critical list. It could never die-so long as humans existed and interacted, there would always be a noosphere-but what had happened last night should have reduced it to a shell of its former self, to Stone Age level, unable to maintain its avatar, its beacon, the Lady.

The Lady should have vanished. Yet she persisted.

And her persistence meant that this corner of reality was still perceived as sentient, and valuable-a worthy marble in the Ally's collection, and thus still under its protection.

Somehow, against all odds, Rasalom and the Order had succeeded in bringing down the Internet yet failed to bring down the Lady.

Weezy wandered out to the front room. She wished Jack were here. Even more, she wished Mr. Veilleur were. He might be able to explain. But he hadn't returned from wherever he'd gone off to. She'd checked upstairs but the nurse he'd hired to watch over his wife said she hadn't heard from him.

She went to the window and looked out at the bright winter day.

"What's going on!"

Hank Thompson couldn't sit still, so he left his office in the Lodge and strode down the hall toward Drexler's. Along the way he passed the grinning faces of his Kickers. They assumed their leader had been behind the fall of the Internet and they were digging it.

"Nice work, boss!" someone called.

"I didn't do anything. It was those crazy Muslims."

"Sure thing, boss." Then a laugh.

He stepped into Drexler's office without knocking because he knew it drove the uptight prick crazy.

"Well?" he said. "When does it start?"

Drexler sat behind his desk, hands steepled, tips of his index fingers against his lips. His tie was loose, and he looked uncharacteristically disheveled, as if he hadn't slept all night. Hank had slept like the proverbial baby.

As Drexler, seemingly lost in thought, looked up, his eyes focused. "What?"

He didn't even seem annoyed at Hank's intrusion. What was on his mind?

"The Change." Hank stepped to the window and gazed at the jammed traffic below. "Look at it out there. Chaos! We've brought the whole damn city to a halt. We did our part, now your pal's got to do his."

Drexler gave him a long look. " 'Got to'? You're going to tell the One what he's 'got' to do?"

"Well, not to his face. But the Net is down, and that means he's got a clear field to bring the Others back."

"Not unless the Lady is down as well."

"The Lady? Who's the Lady?"

Drexler looked like a kid who'd blurted something he shouldn't have.

"Nothing. Just a figure of speech."

"Yeah? Why don't I believe you?"

"What you believe is not my concern."

"You said all that was standing between the One and the Change was the Internet. Now you're talking about some lady. I think I got a right to know what gives."

"A figure of speech. Like the expression, 'It's not over until the fat lady sings.' There is no fat lady. It's just an expression."

"Like hell."

"Mister Thompson, I find you especially vexing today. Please leave. Now."

Hank was tempted to tell him to shove it, but he reminded himself, once again, that this building he and the Kickers occupied belonged to the Order, and Drexler was the Order's guy. Yeah, he'd leave, but not without a parting shot.

"Sure. I was leaving anyway. But you know what, I don't particularly care whether your fat lady sings or not. We killed the Internet. If that's all that happens, if it doesn't lead to the Change, fine. That's enough for me and Kickerdom." He'd come up with that word recently and loved it. "Because it pushes people one step closer to dissimilation. It forces them to realize that too much interconnectedness is a trap."

"Leave," Drexler said.

Hank left. He had things to do. Hadn't made any plans for cashing in on the Internet crash. The Change was supposed to follow close on its heels, but maybe it wouldn't. If not, he had to mobilize Kickerdom to get out and about and start securing converts.

Change or no Change, both presented opportunities, and Hank wasn't going to let them pass him by.

We killed the Internet.

What an idiot, Ernst thought as he watched the door swing closed behind Thompson.

Even though everything had gone according to plan, the Internet was not dead. He knew better than to think they could ever kill it. That would mean damaging it beyond repair, and that was not possible. It would be up and running in some limited form within a week or two, and soon after that would be back to near-normal activity.

Damaged and knocked unconscious, but not dead.

Questions swirled through his brain as he swiveled his chair to face the window. He put his feet up on the sill and leaned back. He was exhausted. He hadn't slept at all last night and he wasn't getting any younger.

How long must the Internet stay down to have the desired effect? How much time did the One require to begin the Change? How long would it take to restore the Lady after an inevitably revived Internet began pumping life again into the noosphere? And would it matter then? Would it be too late?

Only the One knew. Or did he? This was all terra incognita to him as well. Never before had the Change been so imminent. Perhaps he was as much in the dark as Ernst.

The Change…

Uncertainty, a novel emotion in his life, had plagued him since giving the word to unleash the virus. His life had been focused toward this moment. And now that it was here, he felt no triumph, only unease. He had to admit that he liked this life. He had power, position, privilege. He was privy to the forces that shaped history. And he was going to trade all that for… what?

The Change? Supposedly he would become one of the forces that would change the course of history-end history, in fact.

But what did that mean? Did anyone-even the One-know? The suspense was killing him. If only "You have failed me."

Ernst vaulted from his chair with a yelp of shock. He whirled to find the One standing on the far side of his desk, his expression grim, his eyes ebon eternities of fury. Fear deeper than Ernst had ever known glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

When he finally tore it free he managed a weak, "Failed?"