Ian McDonald: Cyberabad Days

‘It’s a completely new way of reproducing,’ Salim said. ‘It’s a new species!’ Kyle knew what that meant. By the rules of Alterre, played out on eleven million computers around the globe, whoever found a new species gave it his or her name. ‘They’re not kronkaeurs any more. I went and registered them; they’re mansooris!’

Gunfire on Monday Tuesday Wednesday. They were working up to something; that was the pattern of it. ( Dad Dad who are they this time, is it the Hindus? but his father had eyes and ears and arms only for Mom, full of thanks and praise to have him safe home from that fearsome city.) The Cantonment went to orange alert but security was still unprepared for the ferocity of the attack. Bombers simultaneously attacked twelve Western-owned targets across Old and New Varanasi. The twelfth and final device was a car-bomb driven at full speed across the Green Zone, impervious to automatic fire, its driver dead or ecstatic to die. Close-defence robots uncoiled from their silos and leaped, nanodiamond blades unsheathed, but the bombers had recced Cantonment’s weaknesses well. Slashed, gashed, leaking oil and fuel, engine dead but still rolling under a heaving cancer of robots trying to cocoon it in impact-foam, the car rammed the inner gate and blew up.

On the soccer pitch the referee had heard the general alert siren, judged the distance to the changing room and ordered everyone to lie flat in the goal. Kyle had just wrapped his arms around his head – Day One Lesson One – when the boom lifted him off the ground by the belly and punched every breath of wind out of him. For a moment he thought he had gone deaf, then the sounds of sirens and RAV airdrones pushed through the numb until he was sitting on the grass beside Salim seemingly at the centre of a vast spiral of roar. It was much bigger than the exploding cat. A column of smoke leaned over toward the south. Hummers were rushing past, security men on foot dodging between them. The football net was full of chunks of blast-foam and scraps of wire and fragments of shattered plastic robot shell and warning signs in three languages that this was a restricted area with security authorised in the use of deadly force. A shard of nanodiamond anti-personnel blade was embedded in the left upright. The referee stood up, took off his shirt and wrapped it around the shard wedged under the crossbar.

‘Would you look at that?’ Kyle said.

There was a long green smear down the front of his fresh-laundered soccer shirt.

‘Salim’s always welcome here,’ Mom called from the kitchen where she was blitzing smoothies. ‘Just make sure he calls home to let them know he’s all right the moment the network comes back up. Now promise you’ll do that.’

Of course they did and of course they didn’t and the smoothies stood there forgotten and warming on the worktop while Mom edged about folding underwear and pillowcases but really keeping an eye on the rolling news. She was worried. Kyle knew that. Cantonment was locked down and would be until Coalition and Bharati forces had re-secured the Green Zone: that was the way it was, Kyle had learned that. Locked-down was locked-out for Dad, and the SKYIndia hovercams were still showing towers of black plastic-smoke and ambulances being walked through the crowds of lost people and burned-out cars by Bharati policemen. The reporters were saying there were casualties but they were also saying that the network wasn’t fully restored and that was why he couldn’t call; if there had been Western casualties they would have said straight away because dead Bharatis didn’t count and anyway, it was inconceivable that anything could happen to Kyle’s dad. No, in situations like this you kept your head down and got on with things while you waited for the call, so he didn’t trouble Mom and fetched the smoothies himself from the kitchen and took them to join Salim in his world.

On the house smartsilk screen you couldn’t get that full-sensory drop from orbit or the sense of walking like God over the water but in the house, even with Mom in her distracted fold-laundry state, it wasn’t smart to use the buddy-lead. Anyway, Kyle didn’t want to give her more to worry about. Three days in Alterre was more like three million years: still water water water whichever way he turned the point of view, but the Mansooris had evolved. High above the blue Atlantic, fleets of airships battled.

‘Whoa,’ said Kyle Rubin and Salim Mansoori.

In three days the jelly-fish balloons had become vast sky-going gasbags, blimp-creatures, translucent airships the size of the Boeing troop transports that brought supplies and workers in to the secure end of Varanasi airport. Their bodies were ridged like the condom Kyle had been shown at the back of the bike rack behind the school; light rippled over them and broke into rainbows as the air-jellies manoeuvred. For this was battle, no doubt about it. This was hot war. The sky-jellyfish trailed long clusters of tentacles beneath them, many hanging in the water, their last connection with their old world. But some ended in purple stingers, some in long stabbing spines, some in barbs, and these the airships wielded as weapons. The air-medusas raised or lowered sail-flaps to tack and manoeuvre into striking positions. Kyle saw one blimp, body blotched with black sting-weals, vent gas from nose and tail and drop out of combat. In a tangle of slashing and parrying tentacles Kyle watched a fighting blimp tear a gash the length of an army hummer down an opponent’s flank with its scimitar-hook. The mortally wounded blimp vented glittering dust, crumpled, folded in half in the middle and plunged into the sea where it split like a thrown water-balloon. The sea instantly boiled with almkvists, spear-fast scavengers all jaw and speed.

‘Cool,’ both boys said together.

‘Hey now, didn’t you promise you’d let your folks know as soon as the network was up?’ said Mom, standing behind them. ‘And Kyle, you know your dad doesn’t like you playing that game.’

But she wasn’t mad. She couldn’t be mad. Dad was safe, Dad had called in, Dad would be home soon. It was all in the little tremble in her voice, the way she leaned over between them to look at the screen, the smell of perfume just dabbed on. You know these things.

It had been close. Kyle’s Dad called Kyle in to show him the rolling news and point out where his company car had been when the bombers hit the escort hummers.

‘There’s next to no protection in those things,’ he said over jerky, swooping flash-cut images of black smoke boiling out of yellow flames and people standing and shouting and not knowing what to do; pictures taken from a passer-by’s palmer. ‘They used a drone RAV; I saw something go past the window just before it hit. They were aiming for the soldiers, not for us.’

‘It was a suicide attack here,’ Kyle said.

‘Some karsevak group claimed responsibility; some group no one’s ever heard of before. Fired everything off in one shooting match.’

‘Don’t they go straight into a state of moksha if they blow themselves up in Varanasi?’

‘That’s what they believe, son. Your soul is released from the wheel of reincarnation. But I still can’t help feeling that this was the final throw. Things are getting better. The Ranas are taking control. People can see the difference we’re making. I do feel we’ve turned the corner on this.’

Kyle loved it when his dad talked military, though he was really a structural engineer.

‘So Salim got home safe.’

Kyle nodded.

‘That’s good.’ Kyle heard his father sigh in the way that men do when they’re supposed to talk about things they don’t want to. ‘Salim’s a good kid, a good friend.’ Another intake of breath. Kyle waited for it to shape into a but .