Peter Watts - Maelstrom

Okay. Now you know. Where does that get you?

He leaned back in Jovellanos's seat, ran his fingers along his scalp. No obvious correlation between rifter sightings and ßehemoth outbreaks, as far as he could tell. Unless—

His feet hit the floor with a thump. That's it.

His hands danced across the panel, almost autonomously. Axes rose from the swampy baseline, stretched to credible limits, sank back into the mud. Variables clustered together, fell apart like swarms of starlings. Desjardins grabbed them, shook them out, stretched them along a single thread called time .

That's it. The sightings cluster in time.

Now, take the first sighting from each cluster and throw away the rest. GPS them on a map.

"Will you look at that," he murmured.

A rough zigzag, trending east to west across temperate North America, then veering south. ßehemoth bloomed along the same trajectory.

Someone was watching Maelstrom for sightings of Lenie Clarke. And whenever they found one, they dropped a whole cluster of fake sightings into the system to muddy the waters. Someone was trying to hide her tracks and make her famous at the same time.

Why, for God's sake?

In the back of his head, synapses fired.

Something else lurked in that data, something that coalesced along the same axis. The homegrown parts of Achilles Desjardins glimpsed that shape and recoiled, refusing the insight. The optimized parts couldn't look away.

Maybe a coincidence , he thought, inanely. Maybe—

Someone knocked on the door. Desjardins froze.

It's him .

He didn't why he was so certain. Could've been anyone, really.

It's him. He knows where I am. Of course he knows, he's probably got me radiotagged, I bet he's got me pegged to the centimeter—

— And he knows I lied to him.

Lubin had to know. Lenie Clarke was all over Maelstrom; there was no way on Earth Desjardins could have run a check and found nothing at all since the quake.

Knock. Knock.

The door wouldn't unlock for anyone who didn't have CSIRA clearance. The door wasn't unlocking.

Oh yeah. It's him all right.

He didn't speak. God knew what kind of snoops Lubin might have pressed up against the door. He opened an outside line and began tapping. It only took a few seconds.

Send.

Someone grunted softly on the other side of the door. Footsteps faded down the hall.

Desjardins checked his watch: he'd been away from his office for almost six minutes. Much longer and it would start to look suspicious.

Look suspicious? He knows , you idiot! That's why he was at the door, just to—let you know. You didn't fool him for a second.

And yet…if Lubin had known, he hadn't said anything. He'd played along. For whatever cold-blooded fucked-in-the-head rifter reason, he'd maintained the pretense.

Maybe—oh please God—he'd continue to do so.

Desjardins waited another thirty seconds on the chance that his message might net an immediate reply. It didn't. He crept back into an empty corridor.

Patricia Rowan must have been otherwise engaged.

The door to Desjardins's cubby was closed.

Hey there, Ken—er, Colin—

Yeah, I used the upstairs john, the stalls play better ads up there for some reason—

Alice's office? She asked me to check her mail, they don't let us link in from outside—

He took a breath. No point in getting ahead of himself. Lubin might not even bring it up. That might not even have been Lubin.

Yeah, right.

He opened the door. The cubby was empty.

Desjardins didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. He closed the door behind himself and locked it.

Unlocked it again.

What was the point, anyway? Lubin would come back or he wouldn't. He'd raise a challenge or he wouldn't. But whoever Lubin was, he already had Achilles Desjardins by the balls; breaking the routine now would only make things uglier.

And it wasn't as though he was really alone anyway. There was another kind of monster in the cubby with him. He'd already glimpsed it lurking behind Jovellanos's panel. He'd briefly been able to deny it then; that knock on the door had almost been a relief.

But it was here, too. He could hear it snuffling in the data like a monster in the closet. He could see that closet doorknob turn slowly back and forth, taunting him. He'd seen frightening outlines, at least; he'd looked away before any details had registered. But now, waiting for Lubin's return, there was nothing else to do.

He opened the closet door and looked it in the face.

The thousand faces of Lenie Clarke.

It seemed innocent enough at first; a cloud of points congealing in a roughly Euclidean volume. Time ran through its center like a spinal cord. Where the cloud was thickest, rumors of Lenie Clarke grew in a wild profusion of hearsay and contradiction. Where it narrowed, the tales were less diverse, more consistent.

But Achilles Desjardins had built a career out of seeing shapes in the clouds. The thing he saw now was beyond his experience.

Rumors had their own classic epidemiology. Each started with a single germinating event. Information spread from that point, mutating and interbreeding— a conical mass of threads, expanding into the future from the apex of their common birthplace. Eventually, of course, they'd wither and die; the cone would simply dissipate at its wide end, its permutations senescent and exhausted.

There were exceptions, of course. Every now and then a single thread persisted, grew thick and gnarled and unkillable: conspiracy theories and urban legends, the hooks embedded in popular songs, the comforting Easter-bunny lies of religious doctrine. These were the memes: viral concepts, infections of conscious thought. Some flared and died like mayflies. Others lasted a thousand years or more, tricked billions into the endless propagation of parasitic half-truths.

Lenie Clarke was a meme, but a meme unlike any other. She had not extruded slowly from a birth point, as far as Desjardins could tell; she'd simply appeared , all over the datascape, wearing a thousand faces. There'd been no smooth divergence, no monotonic branching of informational variants. The variation had exploded too quickly to trace back to any single point.

And ever since its appearance, all that variance had been— focusing…

Two months ago Lenie Clarke had been an AI and a refugee terrorist and a prostitute messiah and other impossible things too numerous to count. Now, she was one thing and one thing only: the Mermaid of the Apocalypse. Oh, there was still variation; was she infested with incendiary nanotech, did she carry a bioengineered plague, had she brought back some apocalyptic microbe from the deep sea? Differences in detail, nothing more. The essential truth beneath it all had converged : the textbook conic had somehow flipped one-hundred-eighty impossible degrees, and Lenie Clarke had gone from a thousand faces to one. Now, she was only the end of the world.

It was as though someone or something had offered the world a myriad styles, and the world had chosen the one it liked best. Veracity didn't enter into such things; only resonance did.

And the meme that defined Lenie Clarke as an angel of apocalypse wasn't prospering because it was true; it was prospering because, insanely, people wanted it to be.

I do not accept this, Achilles Desjardins shouted to himself.

But only part of him was listening. Another part, even if it hadn't read Chomsky or Jung or Sheldrake—who had time for dead guys anyway? — at least had a basic understanding of what those guys had gone on about. Quantum nonlocality, quantum consciousness—Desjardins had seen too many cases of mass coincidence to dismiss the idea that nine billion human minds could be imperceptibly interconnected somehow. He’d never really thought about it much, but on some level he’d believed in the Collective Unconscious for years.