The Year's Best Science Fiction, Vol. 20

I go to Jazza’s machine. And look for the files. I won’t be able to open any of them, of course, but of course there is a whole directory. Anything encrypted is enough to get you. The directory is called Aphrodite. What we called our spaceship to Mars. Everything in it’s encrypted and the file sizes are huge. That ain’t no banking hack.

“That’s it,” I say. “That’s the masterplan.”

I look back at Jazza. He looks like a little boy in a bus station waiting for his Mom to show up before the bus goes.

I open up the e-mail package and start keying in. I shop Jazza. It’s painless. Just an e-mail to Curtis, to the Armament. Over in two minutes. And all the while I’m doing it, I feel proud. Proud of him.

“Sorry, Jazza.” I tell him. I take hold of his hands. That makes me feel better. “They’ll wipe the program. That’s all. No more trips to Maryland.”

He looks back at me like a baby. He’s not sure who I am, but he trusts me.

Five minutes later, the Kid slips in.

“Sorry Mr. Brewster,” he says quietly. “Sorry it was your friend.”

The Kid comes from a country where people are still human. The sorrow is upfront in his eyes.

I ask him. “What’s Curtis doing?”

“Damage limitation.” It’s the kind of jargon you learn early in our part of the world. It eats your soul. “He worry about the Home.”

“His own ass,” corrects Mandy.

The Kid can’t help but smile. But he sticks to the point. “You do right thing, Mr. Brewster.”

Isn’t it great how people can still care about each other? Isn’t it some kind of miracle sometimes?

This time the cops show up in a plain car, and this time it’s IT specialists not Armament. They start going through Jazza’s station. Jazza starts to sing to himself, some dumb old toon about everybody being free, it’s all love, let’s just party down. Did we really think that was all it took?

He lets them take away his machine, and he just curls up on the bed, back to us all. I say something corny like “Sleep well, old friend.”

And the Kid says, “I watch him for you, Mr. Brewster.”

Mandy and I slump off to the bar and the Neurobics are all there before but before we can say anything Gus jumps us and says, “you guys gotta see this!”

Mandy says. “Do we?”

The whole crew are leaning over the newspaper. “I’ll rerun it,” says Gus.

“Fasten your seat belt,” says Mandy, and she gives me a long look like: I’m tired of these bozos.

On the newspaper is a wall of people and the label says:

Latest VAO attack SHU TZE STADIUM 8.35 pm last night.

The whole thing looks like diamonds, huge overhead lights, flashing cameras, halfway through a night game. Gus has plugged in his speakers, so we get the TV announcer too, and the sound of the crowd. The camera moves to a big guy on the mound chewing gum, thumping the ball into his mitt, and looking pissed off.

Over the stands a kind of rectangle just hangs in midair. It looks like it should be there, just part of the stadium, you have to blink to realize its hovering. It’s a rescue platform, designed for getting people out of tall buildings in midair. It looks as small as a postage stamp, only it’s crowded with exoskeletons.

On all the tall cathedral lights, red lights start flashing and sirens rouse themselves.

One announcer says, “That’s the fire alarm, John.”

“Yup and those are firemen. Though I have to say right now, I can’t see any sign of a fire.”

“If there is, John, official figures estimate that it takes 15-20 minutes to clear the stands here at Shu Tze Stadium.”

On the field the players stand morose and still, hands on hips. Their show is over.

Firemen stumble off the platform. It bobs. Close up, the platform is more unstable than a rowboat. The suits hop down, straighten up and start to jog up the steps through the stands. You can see it now that there’s a lot of them in unison: the suits move in unison.

On the field one of the fat little umpires is running as fast as he can.

A police car comes driving straight onto the diamond.

“Certainly something is happening here at She Tze, Marie, but it may not be a fire. That’s Lee van Hook, manager of the Cincinnati Reds getting out of the police vehicle. And he’s waving his hands, yes, he’s waving the players off the field!”

You hear a crunching. It’s a nasty goose-stepping sound, and the camera blurs back to the stands. All the suits have raised automatic weapons at once. And they’re jammed straight at the crowd.

Speakers crackle and a feedback whine shoots round the stadium.

And a voice like Neptune bubbling out of the sea says, “This is a public service announcement.”

Announcer cuts in. “John, reports are saying this is a VAO attack.”

“You are going to help the aged. You will pass all valuables, watches, wallets, jewellery to the men and women with the guns.

“Just to repeat that, we are witnessing a VAO attack here live at She Tze Stadium.”

The digital gurgle goes on. “For your own safety please remember, that some of the people with the guns will die soon and have nothing to lose. Many of them cannot think for themselves and so will shoot anyone who resists.”