Vernor Vinge - Rainbows End

Robert pretended to watch the game, but the voice continued, "I know what's eating you up inside. I know how much it bothers you that you can't make poetry anymore."

Robert couldn't suppress a start of surprise. The invisible stranger gave a little chuckle; somehow he had distinguished the movement from Robert's natural twitchiness. "No need to be coy. You can't disguise your reactions here. The medical sensing on school grounds is so good that you might as well be hooked up to a lie detector."

I should just walk away . Instead he watched the "soccer" match for a few moments. When he was sure he had proper control of his voice, he said, "You are admitting to a crime, then."

Another chuckle. "Of sorts, though it's the crime of superior network skills. You can think of me as something of a higher being, empowered by all the tools with which mortal men have chosen to smarten the landscape."

This must be a kid . Or maybe not. Maybe the visitor was invisible because even his virtual presence on school grounds was a violation of law. Robert shrugged. "I'd be happy to report your 'superior network skills' to interested parties."

"You won't do that. Primus, because the police could never identify me. Secundus, because I can return to you what you have lost. I can give you back your poetical voice."

This time, Robert was in control and managed a creditable chuckle of his own.

"Ah," said the other, "such suspicion. But also the beginning of belief! You should read the news, or just loosen up your ad filters. In olden times, you had athletes on steroids and students on amphetamines. Those drugs were largely false promises. Nowadays, we have things that really work."

A drug dealer, by God ! Robert almost laughed for real. But then he considered himself, his smooth skin, his ability to run and jump and scarcely feel out of breath. What's already happened would be magic by the standards of my past life . Yes, this might be a drug dealer, but so what? "Where's the profit in drugs for recovering world-class poesy?" Robert spoke the words with proper flippancy, then realized how much he was revealing. Maybe that didn't matter.

"You are so old-fashioned, Professor." The stranger paused. "See those hills to the south of you?" Hills covered with endless housing. "A few miles beyond them is one of the few places on Earth where physical location is still important."

"UCSD?"

"Close. I mean the biotech labs that surround the campus. What goes on in those labs is nothing like twentieth-century medical research. Modern cures are awesome things, but often they are unique to the individual patient."

"You can't finance research that way."

"Don't get me wrong. Broad-spectrum cures are still the big moneymakers. But even those use custom analysis to guard against side effects. Yes, you are a singleton case. The Alzheimer cures are sometimes incomplete, but the failures are idiosyncratic. There is no other great poet who's had your problem. As of today , there is no cure." This clown knew how to mix the brutal putdowns with flattery. "But we live in an age of enhancement drugs, Professor, and many of them are singleton hits. There is a chance, a very good chance, that the labs can be caused to find you a cure."

Magic. But what if he can do it? This is The Future. And I am alive again, and maybe — Robert felt the hope growing within him. He couldn't help it. This SOB has me. I know it's manipulation, but that doesn't matter .

"So who am I dealing with, O Mysterious Stranger?" It was a losing question, but it just slipped out.

"Mysterious Stranger? Um — " There was a pause, no doubt as this para-literate looked up the reference. "Why yes, you got my name on the very first try! Mysterious Stranger. That is good."

Robert gritted his teeth. "And I take it that getting your help involves something dangerous or illegal."

"Definitely illegal, Professor. And somewhat dangerous — for you, that is. Whatever might cure you would be pushing into unknown medical territory. But at the same time, very much worth it, don't you think?"

Yes ! "Maybe." Robert kept the tension out of his voice, and glanced mildly at the empty space beside him. "What's the price? What do you want from me?"

The stranger laughed. "Oh, don't worry. I simply want cooperation with a project you're already involved in. Keep seeing your pals at the UCSD library. Go along with their plans."

"And keep you up-to-date on them?"

"Ah, no need for that, my man. I am an all-encompassing cloud of knowingness. No, what I need is your hands. Think of yourself as a droid who was once a poet. So, Professor, do we have a deal?"

"I'll think about it."

"Once you do, I'm sure you'll sign."

"In blood, I suppose?"

"Oh, you're so old-fashioned, Professor. No blood. Not yet."

Lieutenant Colonel Robert Gu, Jr., had brought work home from the office. That's how he thought of it anyway, when he worked in the time that both he and Alice thought should be theirs and Miri's. But Miri had her own studying to do tonight, and Alice… well, her latest assignment was the worst yet. She wandered about, stony-faced and terse. Anyone else in her position would be dead by now, or a raving lunatic. Somehow she hung on, often simulating something like her natural self, and successfully managing the prep for her latest assignment. That's why the Corps keeps driving her harder and harder .

Bob pushed the thought away. There was a reason for such sacrifice. Chicago was more than a decade past. There hadn't been a successful nuclear attack on the U.S. or any of the treaty organization countries in more than five years. But the threat was always there. He still had nightmares about the launchers at that orphanage in Asuncion, and what he had almost done to shut them down. And as always, the web oozed with rumors of new technologies that would make the classical weapons obsolete. Despite ubiquitous security, despite the efforts of America, China, and the Indo-Europeans, the risks kept growing. There would still be places that would come to glow in the dark.

Bob sifted through the latest threat assessments. Something was in the wind, and it might be closer than Paraguay. The really bad news was two paragraphs further on: An analyst pool at CIA thought the Indo-Europeans might be somehow collaborating with bad guys. Christ! If the Great Powers can't stand together, how can humanity make it through this century ?

There was motion behind him. It was his father, standing in the doorway.

"Dad," he acknowledged politely.

His old man stared for a second. Bob made the general form of his paperwork visible.

"Oops. Sorry, Son. You're working?" He squinted at Bob's desk.

"Yeah, some stuff from the office. Don't worry if it looks blurry; it's not on the house menu."

"Ah. I, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions."

Bob hoped he didn't look too surprised; this diffident approach was a first. He waved for his father to take a seat. "Sure."

"At school today, I was talking to someone. Voice only. The caller could have been on the other side of the world, right?"

"Yes," said Bob. "If it was from far away, you might notice."

"Right. Jitter and latency."

Is he just parroting jargon ? Before he lost his mind, Dad had been a technical ignoramus. Bob remembered once in the days of very-dumb-phones when Dad insisted that his new cordless handset was a cheap substitute for a cellphone. Mother had proven him wrong by having Bob take the cordless down the street and try to call her home-business number.

She'd rarely made mistakes like that; the old man had been hell on her for weeks afterward.

Dad was nodding to himself. "I suppose timing analysis could reveal a lot."