David Brin - Earth

There was only one entrance to the deep cave complex. When armed men in blue helmets rained from the sky on jet-assisted parafoils, they had to hunt and thrash through the jungle for a time before they found that hidden opening. Then, silently, they began repelling down the shadowy chimney.

Sepak Takraw awakened to the sound of blaring alarms and at first thought it was only another Gazer run… whatever those were. The Kiwis working for George Hutton had remained closemouthed about the essential purpose of the gravity scans, though clearly they had to do with the Earth’s deepest interior. Whatever the Tangoparu techs were doing here in New Guinea, they sure took their work godawfully seriously — as if the world would end if they made one bleeding mistake!

Sepak had finally moved his sleeping roll up to a cleft in a narrow, extinct watercourse, because of the noise they made each time their big resonator thing fired up, sending bells and whoops echoing through the deep galleries. This time, however, when he stumbled toward the lighted chamber rubbing his eyes, he suddenly stopped and stared down at a scene of utter chaos. Had the New Zealanders finally done it this time, with all their noise? Invoked Tu, the Maori god of war?

They were dashing about like addled bowerbirds, and the bright cylindrical resonator swung wildly within its gimbaled cage as armed men swarmed into the hall. Sepak slipped into the shadows and kept very still. George bloody Hutton. What’ve you got me into! The government can’t be this upset over us keeping a few caves secret for a while !

Anyway, these weren’t regular police. Half the soldiers clearly weren’t even native Papuans! Sepak mouthed a silent whistle as commandos rushed past the dazed technicians to secure the area. No, these weren’t locals, nor even U.N. peacekeepers. By damn, they were real troops… ASEAN Marines!

Anyone who did the necessary ferreting knew Earth still bristled with sovereign military might. Perhaps even several percent of what used to exist in the bad old days. And even more weaponry lay “in reserve,” in treaty-sealed warehouses. Alliances still trained, still maintained a balance of power that was very real, for all its generations of stability. Only, on a planet aswarm with real-time cameras and volatile public opinion, those states and blocs generally took pains to use their martial forces gingerly.

So Sepak knew this wasn’t just a raid over some infraction of the secrecy laws. As the marines briskly rounded up the kiwi engineers, he searched in vain for emblems of the U.N. or other international agencies. He peered for the de rigueur Net-zine reporters.

Nothing. No reporters. No U.N. observers.

It really is national, then , he realized. Which meant more was involved here than just the government of Papua-New Guinea. A whole lot more.

And these guys don’t want leaks any more than George Hutton did.

Sepak melted even farther back into the darkness.

By all the holy cargo of John Broom… George, what have you got me into?

□ Archaic or obsolete activities or occupations :

… flint knapping, entrail reading, arrow fletching… smithing, barrel making, art appraising… clock making, reindeer herding, dentistry, handwriting… game-show host, channeler, UFOlogist… drug smuggler, golf course manager, confidential banker… sunbathing, drinking tapwater…

New service professions:

… household toxin inspector, prenuptial genetic counselor, meme adjustment specialist… indoor microecologist, biotect, prenatal tutor, cerebrochemical balance advisor… Net-SIG consultant, voxpop arbitrageur, ferret designer, insurance lifestyle adjuster…

World human population figures :

1982: 4.3 billion

1988: 5.1 billion

2030: 10.3 billion

Teresa began her journey home as she had arrived, in the company of Pedro Manella. For probably the last time, she stepped into a little boat to be conveyed through the Cave of Glowing Worms — their living constellations still shimmering in a subterranean mimicry of night. Then she and Pedro took advantage of the darkness to slip behind a flock of whispering tourists, treading well-worn guide paths past phosphorescent signs lettered in a dozen languages. Finally, they emerged on the flanks of a forested mountain, in New Zealand.

It’s like we only first entered for the first time an hour ago , Teresa thought, coaxing an illusion. Nothing in the intervening weeks has been real. I made it all up — Beta, the trip to Greenland, the gravity laser …

As Pedro stepped ahead of her down the tree-lined path, his shadow moved aside at one point to let glaring afternoon brightness fall upon her face. Teresa fumbled for her sunglasses.

Just a fantasy, that’s all it’s been , she continued wishing, including all that stuff about interstellar enemies sending monsters to devour our world .

It was a good effort, but Teresa had to sigh. She lacked enough talent at self-deception to make it work.

While you’re at it, might as well go whole hog and pretend you’re nineteen again, with all life’s adventures still ahead of you — first flight, first love, that illusion of immortality .

Southern autumn was ebbing fast, chilling toward winter. A breeze riffled her hair — now again her own shade of brown, but longer than at any time since she’d been a teenager. It felt at once sensuous, feminine, and startling each time it brushed against her neck.

Distracted, she suddenly collided with Manella’s massive back. “Hey!” Teresa complained, rubbing her nose.

Pedro turned, glancing at his watch, an agitated expression on his face. “You go on to the car,” he said. “I forgot something. See you in a nano.”

“Sure. Just remember I have a plane to catch at fourteen hundred. We—” Her voice trailed off as he hurried uphill, disappearing round a right-hand fork in the path. Strange , she thought. Didn’t we come down the left branch ?

Maybe Pedro had to visit the gents’ before the long drive. Teresa resumed walking downhill again, one hand lightly on the guide rail overlooking steep forest slopes. Rain-damp ferns brushed in the wind. The tourist group had gone ahead and were probably spilling into the parking lot to seek their buses or rented runabouts. Perhaps the traffic jam would have cleared by the time Pedro caught up.

Teresa’s bags were already in the car. In them lay a packet of doctored photos, depicting her at an Australian hermitage-resort for the past month. They should get by any cursory inspection. And she’d gone over her cover story umpteen times. Soon, at the Auckland airport transit lounge, she would change places with the woman who’d been taking that holiday in her name. After the switch, at last, she’d be Teresa Tikhana once again. No reason for NASA ever to think she hadn’t done what they’d asked — taken that long-delayed recuperative holiday.

A new swarm of tourists loomed ahead, a big, intimidating group of determined sightseers climbing rapidly, staring about with their total-record goggles, holding tightly onto their shoulder bags. The tour guide shouted, describing the wonders of these mountains — their hidden rivers and secret byways. Teresa stepped aside to let the throng by. Several of the men looked her up and down as they passed, the sort of cursory, appreciative regard she was used to. Still, though the odds of being recognized were infinitesimal, Teresa turned away. Why take chances?