Dave Duncan - Strings_玖贝云文库

By Dave Duncan Published by Ballantine Books:

A ROSE-RED CITY

SHADOW

The Seventh Sword THE RELUCTANT SWORDSMAN THE COMING OF WISDOM THE DESTINY OF

THE SWORD

WEST OF JANUARY

STRINGS

I room,, 0"m I STRIN

Dave Duncan

A Del Rey Back

BALLANTINE BOOKS a NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright Oc 1989 by D.J. Duncan

Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a

division of Random House. Inc., New York. and simultaneously in Canada by

Random House of Canada Limited. Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-91890

ISBN 0-345-36191 -

Printed in Canpdi

First Edition: February 1990

Cover Art by Neal McPhecters

File name:

WINDOWS

28 March to 12 April, 2050

(Life-bearing worlds only)

Nile Orinoco Po Quinto Rhine Sask. Tiber Usk

March 28 * ? March 29 March 30 March 31 April I

* April 2 April 3 April 4 April 5 * April 6 April 7 April

8 April 9 * t April 10 April 11 April 12

i No, further investigation at ffiese coirimate

ACKNOWLEOGMENT

I am grateful to Shelagh Hislop for reading the manuscript and vetting my

biology. Any tangles in that particular string, though, are my fault and not

hers.

Cainsville, April 6

T@HERE SEEmED To be a window in the wall opposite the door, looking out at the

landscape beyond the dome. From time to time Wilkins would pause in his

restless pacing to stare at that view and shudder. There was no life out

there, only gaunt gray granite, forged by ancient fires, clawed into hills by

old ice sheets, and cauterized by deadly radiation. Even the misty rain

blowing out there was poison. If the Institute's planetologists stumbled on a

terrain like that anywhere else in the universe, they would slap a Class Four

label on it without a second's hesitation and go off to find a more

interesting world.

It was not a Class Four world, though, and had not always been quite so

barren. The poison rain was a soup of industrial by-products, still falling

from their long sojourn in the upper atmosphere. It was so murderously potent

on those siliceous hills that even the little gunmetal lakes held no life

anymore. The radiation was merely the normal ultraviolet of sunlight, because

in these northerly latitudes the ozone layer was too thin to filter it out.

And the window was not a window. In fact, Wilkins's cramped quarters were

buried deep in the innards of Burton Dome, a long way from that starK

exterior.

He was not quite sure why he had called up that view-possibly because it

suited his evil mood, or possibly as a reminder that them

2 Dave Duncan

was no escape overland from Cainsville. There would be no pursuit, and no

rescue. A fugitive could safely be left alone to wander among those tangled

crags until he froze, or starved. Certainly he would not live long enough to

die of the carcinogenic sunlight.

There was no airport, either, only the lev station, which Security watched

always, as a matter of course. If anything went wrong, he would be hopelessly

trapped.

There were other ways out of Cainsville, but they led to places far, far worse

than even that accursed rocky desert outside.

He had been pacing for a long time, much too long for a man who took no

exercise. Wilkins J. S.-short and swarthy, born in

2027 and already going bald. Dr. Wilkins, employed by the Institute as a

camera-repair technician. Wilkins Jules Smuts, potential traitor.

Without warning his legs began to tremble. He slumped into his chair and

scowled at the seeming window. Well-why not? In truth, he had known for some

time what his decision was going to be. "Com mode!"

The comset became a sheet of blank plastic and said, "Proceed." Damp-fingered,

Wilkins pulled from his pocket a tiny scrap of paper, a secret he had been

hoarding for almost two years. It had been slipped into his hand at a party,

with a nod and a wink and a chunk of credit to establish goodwill, plus

promises of much greater joy if he ever used it in a good cause. He cleared

his throat and began to read. "Code Caesar Columbus Dimanche Einfeuchten .

Thirtytwo words in all. His voice quavered by the end, for even to

possess an illicit override code was a felony in Cainsville. To use one was

worse than a ciime-it was a blatant challenge to the deadliest security system

on earth. "Code acknowledged. Confirm activation."

It worked! Some small part of him had perhaps been hoping that it would not

... For a moment yet he hesitated, savoring a strange tingling seeping through

him, a blend of fear and excitement. It reminded him of the real reason he was

taking this risk-Wilkins Jules had a plugin habit, which was be-coming very

expensive. It had reached the point where his weekly pay transfer would barely

cover both food and plugin. Soon he would nave to choose between them, and his

choice could never be food. "Confirm activation," System repeated, impatient

of human indecision. "Activate." There-he had done it!

STRINGS

3

"Please wait." System began to play music at him, which he hated, and the gray

plastic again became a window, now overlooking a somber view of water lilies

floating on a tree-shadowed pool. To Wilkins Jules such a scene was

irrelevant at best, and unattractive anyway. He fretted.

There was no reason why he should not make a call to the outside world-except

that he almost never did. Everyone else did, often, but not him. Security

called that "pattern breaking," and System watched for it. And if the override

code itself had triggered alarms, then the call would certainly be either

blocked or monitored. The illicit code and the record coin in his other

pocket-either would make him a dead man. Nowhere in the world could a body be

disposed of as easily as in Cainsville. Nowhere in the world.

One tune ended and another began. Why so long? He might very well have fallen

into a trap. If this was all a fake, a loyalty test that he had now most

certainly failed, then the goons were lining up outside the door already. The

tingling had faded into an unpleasant full-bladder sensation. He always tended

to sweat too much, and at the moment was dribbling like a marathon runner.

Dead man-or rich man' He had never known a call to take this long. He must be

getting through to someone very high up ... high up in something.

Then he blinked at sudden brightness, seeing through the comset into a sunlit

office. The desk was shiny and empty. If that were real wood, it had cost more

money than he would earn in two years. The woman across from him was being

masked. She wore an outfit of hard metallic blue, but that was all he could

tell. Her face was an anonymous blur, although the rest of the room

was as sharp as though he were sitting in it. Whoever her employers were, they

could afford a first-class System. "Report!" Probably her voice was disguised

also.

He squirmed like a hooked worm. One-sided! He should have put a bag over his

head or something. "You don't need to know my name.. . ."

The woman drummed a hard fog of fingers on the wood. "I already know your

name. I even know you have less than forty hectos left in the bank.

Thirty-eight to he exact."

Wilkins's heart lurched. He had not expected the bargaining to start so soon.

"Now report," she repeated. "It had better be good."

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the coin. "I have evidence."

Dave Duncan

was no escape overland from Cainsville. There would be no pursuit, and no

rescue. A fugitive could safely be left alone to wander among those tangled

crags until he froze, or starved. Certainly he would not live long enou.-h to

die of the carcinogenic sunlight.

There was no airport, either, only the lev station, which Security watched

always, as a matter of course. If anything went wrong, he would be hopelessly

trapped.

There were other ways out of Cainsville, but they led to places far, far worse

than even that accursed rocky desert outside.

He had been pacing for a long time, much too long for a man who took no

exercise. Wilkins J. S.-short and swarthy, bom in

2027 and already going bald. Dr. Wilkins, employed by the Institute as a

camera-repair technician. Wilkins Jules Smuts, potential traitor.

Without warning his legs began to tremble. He slumped into his chair and

scowled at the seeming window. Well-why not? In truth, he had known for some

time what his decision was going to be. "Com mode!"

The cornset became a sheet of blank plastic and said, "Proceed. Damp-fingered,

Wilkins pulled from his pocket a tiny scrap of paper, a secret he had been

hoarding for almost two years. It had been slipped into his hand at a party,

with a nod and a wink and a chunk of credit to establish goodwill, plus

promises of much greater joy if he ever used it in a good cause. He cleared

his throat and began to read. "Code Caesar Columbus Dimanche Einfeuchten..."

Thirtytwo words in all. His voice quavered by the end, for even to possess an

illicit override code was a felony in Cainsville. To use one was worse than a

crime-it was a blatant challenge to the deadliest security system on earth.

"Code acknowledged, Confirm activation."

It worked! Some small part of him had perhaps been hoping that it would not

... For a moment yet he hesitated, savoring a strange tingling seeping through

him, a blend of fear and excitement. It reminded him of the real reason he was

taking this risk-Wilkins Jules had a plugin habit, which was becoming very

expensive. It had reached the point where his weekly pay transfer would barely

cover both food and plugin. Soon he would have to choose between them, and his

choice could never be food. "Confirm activation," System repeated, impatient

of human indecision. "Activate." There-he had done it!

STRINGS

"Please wait." System began to play music at him, which he hated, and the gray

plastic again became a window, now overlooking a somber view of water lilies

floating on a tree-shadowed pool. To Wilkins Jules such a scene was irrelevant

at best, and unattractive anyway. He fretted.