David Brin - Existence

“We’ve lit a wik. Can you help us check out one of these rumors? One that might possibly be a whistle-blow?”

The conjoined mob voice sounded strong, authoritative. Tor’s personal interface found good credibility scores as it coalesced. An index-marker in her left peripheral showed 230 members and climbing-generally sufficient to wash out individual ego.

“First tell me,” she answered, subvocalizing. Sensors in her shirt collar picked up tiny flexings in her throat, tongue, and larynx, without any need to make actual sound. “Tell me, has anyone sniffed something unusual about the Spirit ? I don’t see or hear anything strange. But some of you out there may be in a better position to snoop company status reports or shipboard operational parameters.”

There was a pause. Followed by an apologetic tone.

“Nothing seems abnormal at the public level. Company web-traffic has gone up sixfold in the last ten minutes… but the same is true all over, from government agencies to networks of amateur scientists.

“As for the zeppelin you happen to be aboard, we’re naturally interested because of its present course, scheduled shortly to moor in Washington, about the same time that a new wave of high-level delegates are arriving for the Artifact Conference.”

Tor nodded grimly, a nuance that her interface conveyed to the group mind.

“And those operational readouts?”

“ We can try for access by applying for a Freedom of Information writ. That will take some minutes, though. So we may have to supplement the FOIA with a little hacking and bribery. The usual. We’ll also try for some ground views of the zep.

“Leave all that to us.

“Meanwhile, there’s a little on-site checking you can do.

“Be our hands and eyes, will you, Tor?”

She was already on her feet.

“Tell me where to go…”

“Head aft, past the unisex toilet.”

“… but let’s have a consensus agreement, okay?” she added while moving. “I get an exclusive on any interviews that follow. In case this turns out to be more than…”

“There is a security hatch, next to the crew closet,” the voice interrupted. “Adjust your specs for full mob access please.”

“Done,” she said, feeling a little sheepish over the request for a group exclusive. But after all, she was supposed to be a pro. MediaCorp might be tuning in soon, examining transcripts. They would expect a professional’s attention to the niceties.

“That’s better. Now zoom close on the control pad. We’ve been joined by an off-duty zep mechanic who worked on this ship last week.”

“Look, maybe I can just call a crew member. Invoke FOIA and open it legally-”

“No time. We’ve filed for immunity as an ad hoc citizen posse. Under PA crisis rules.”

PA… for Post-Awfulday.

“Oh sure. With me standing here to take the physical rap if it’s refused…”

“Your choice, Tor. If you’re game for it, press the keypad buttons in this order.”

A virtual image of the keypad appeared in front of Tor, overlaying the real one.

“No cause for alarm,” she muttered.

“What was that?”

“Never mind.”

Feeling somewhat detached, as if under remote control, her hand reached out to tap the proposed sequence.

Nothing happened.

“No good. They must’ve rotated the progression since our zepspert worked on that ship.”

The wikivoice mutated, sounding just a tad less cool. More individualized. A telltale indicator in her tru-vu showed that some high-credibility member of the mob was stepping up with an assertive suggestion.

“But you can tell it isn’t randomized. I bet it’s still a company-standard maintenance code. Here, try this instead.”

Coalescence levels seemed to waver only a little, so the mob trusted this component member. Tor went along, punching the pad again with the new pattern.

“Any luck getting that FOIA writ?” she asked, meanwhile. “You said it would take just a few minutes. Maybe we’d better wait…”

Procrastination met its rebuttal with a simple a click, as the access panel slid aside, revealing a slim, tubelike ladder.

Up.

No hesitation in the mob voice. Five hundred and twelve of her fellow citizens wanted her to do this. Five hundred and sixteen…

Tor swallowed. Then complied.

The ladderway exposed a truth that was hidden from most passengers, cruising in cushioned comfort within the neatly paneled main compartment. Physics-especially gravity-had not changed appreciably in the century that separated the first great zeppelin era from this one. Designers still had to strive for lightness, everywhere they could.

Stepping from spindly rungs onto the cargo deck, Tor found herself amid a maze of spiderlike webbery, instead of walls and partitions. Her feet made gingerly impressions in foamy mesh that seemed to be mostly air. Stacks of luggage-all strictly weighed back in Nashville-formed bundles that resembled monstrous eggs, bound together by air-gel foam. Hardly any metal could be seen. Not even aluminum or titanium struts.

“Shall I look at the bags?” she asked while reaching into her purse. “I have an omnisniffer.”

“What model?” inquired the voice in her ear, before it changed tone by abrupt consensus. More authoritatively, it said- “Never mind. The bags were all scanned before loading. We doubt anything could be smuggled aboard. Anyway, a crew member may be checking those soon, as the alert level rises.

“But something else has come up. A rumor-tattle points to possible danger higher up. We’re betting on that one.”

“Higher?” She frowned. “There’s nothing up there except…”

Tor’s voice trailed off as a schematic played within her tru-vus, pointing aft to another ladder, this one made of ropey fibers.

Arrows shimmered in VR yellow, for emphasis.

“We finally succeeded in getting a partial feed from the Spirit ’s operational parameters. And yes, there’s something odd going on.

“They are using onboard water to make lift gas, at an unusual rate.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“It shouldn’t be.

“But we may be able to find out more, if you hurry.”

She sighed, stepping warily across the spongy surface. Tor hadn’t yet spotted a crew member. They were probably also busy chasing rumors, different ones, chosen by the company’s prioritization subroutines. Anyway, a modern towed-zep was mostly automatic, requiring no pilot, engineer, or navigator. A century ago, the Hindenburg carried forty officers, stewards, and burly riggers, just to keep the ornate apparatus running and deliver the same number of paying customers from Europe to the U.S.

At twice the length, Spirit carried five times as many people, served by only a dozen human attendants.

Below her feet, passengers would be jostling for a better view of the Langley Crater, or maybe Arlington Cemetery, while peering ahead for the enduring spire of the rebuilt Washington Monument, with its tip of lunar stone. Or did some of those people already sniff an alert coming on, through their own liaison networks? Were families starting to cluster near the emergency chutes? Tor wondered if she should be doing the same.

This new ladder was something else. It felt almost alive and responded to her footstep by contracting… carrying her upward in a smooth-but-sudden jerk. Smart elastics, she realized. Fine for professionals. But most people never took a liking to ladders that twitch. The good news: It would take just a few actual footsteps at this rate, concentrating to slip her soles carefully onto one rung after the next, and worrying about what would happen when she reached the unpleasant-looking “hatch” that lay just overhead.