A SINGLE SPIKE OF YELLOW LIGHT

1562 4D

Out at 788 Signo, Arlen drew several deep breaths, his system still adapting to the mountain air pressure a quarter of that in the City. The nodules of precious ore they had found over the years were played out; the continued experiments had yielded little more.

“Where’s the detector now?” Arlen asked the mine superintendent.

“Inside, at the end of the lateral tunnel right there,” the man answered, squinting up at Arlen. “Your people dragged the thing in there yesterday. Brought our whole operation to a stop.”

“Forget it. This is more important. You’ve tapped out the ore we’ve found, anyway.” Arlen and his two guards put on helms with respirators, and strode toward the tunnel mouth.

“Here, Arlen.” At the inner end of the tunnel, the physicist Carchesme greeted them, her voice hollow from the respirator mask. Yellow lamps lit the haze of perennial mine dust. The enlarged detector, a fifteen-foot light-metal cylinder lying on its side and filled with fluid, hulked before them on its sagging hyperplasm tires, the tank almost touching the high-arched ceiling. Fiberwires wrapped it as if a giant spider had imprisoned it for a later meal; the fiber lines formed tributaries and rivers into a large box at the side of the tank, tucked under its roundness. “It’s ready to go. We’ve spent the last shift getting it calibrated.”

“Good. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Carchesme gestured to another woman on a ladder high on the side of the tank. A high hum cut the air. “We have to reduce tank pressure to get the needed sensitivity,” Carchesme shouted. “It’ll take a few minutes.”

Arlen fidgeted, looked around. Without respirators, a team of blue-coveralled andros worked over a dilapidated stoneshaper, their hands flying, their voices chittering in the high-frequency anjive they used. These were his own, grown in his bio farms in the City; their near-white skin had the violet tinge that gave away their maker: ArCorp, Arlen‘s own vast hyper-corporation.

One of the andros screeched a curse and hurled a long wrench at another; the others grabbed him, whispering in his ear. He shook them loose and seized his own head in both hands, rocking back and forth in agony.

Arlen motioned to his guards to follow him over. “What’s the problem?”

A one-eyed female andro said, “The change went wrong. Bad viral upgrade for him.”

This was the fourth in eighteen days — the incidence was increasing. Arlen turned to look for the supervisor. “Where’s your boss?”

“He’s down below working on another one.”

“All right, we’ll take care of it. Farrel?” The guard on Arlen‘s left stepped forward, pulled a ballistic gun from his coverall, and shot the afflicted andro‘s brains out through the back of his head. The other andros recoiled, then froze, staring at Arlen.

He smiled at them. “Replacements will be on their way up tonight. In the meantime, get this thing working.” He patted the stoneshaper‘s rusted side panel. The superintendent would deal with the remains.

“Arlen, we’re ready,” called Carchesme. The detector hummed; Carchesme showed Arlen a datapanel mounted hastily on the rear of the tank. “This should show us when the resonance peak is reached, and an approximate direction for the source of the resonance.”

“Approximate?”

“Within a thirty-degree cone.”

“No better than that?”

“We’re working on it. Maybe half that by tomorrow.” She turned to the datapanel. “Initiate power-on sequence.”

A deep hum rose through the audio spectrum, jarring the whole chamber for a moment as it reached and then passed the chamber’s primary vibrational resonance frequency. With a loud click, a second hum began, higher.

Two more of the andros screamed, staggered, and fell to the tunnel floor. The others clutched their heads. “Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s killing us!”

“Get them out of here,” Arlen called to the mine superintendent. He wheeled to Carchesme, who had reached for the panel. “No! Don’t cut it off!”

“But–” She wavered.

“Can you hold it for a few seconds?” If the andros were hurt, he might get resistance from the mine staff for further work. Too bad there wasn’t time for a controlled experiment.

“Yes.” She hesitated. The superintendent and two miners dragged and herded the stumbling andros out to the tunnel’s end, and got them into a lift.

“Now. Continue.”

She started the sequence going again.

“What’s that blip?” Arlen pointed; the screen showed a green field, flat except for a single spike of yellow light that fuzzed out into a low hill, then spiked again.

“Hmm. That shouldn’t be there.” Carchesme called to the woman up on the tank to make some adjustments. The screen stayed in the spike pattern, occasionally dropping the spike to a broad rise and then snapping back up.

The superintendent reappeared. “Arlen, we’ve got some farmer here. He’s been complaining about the runoff into his feedwater, says it’s killing his stock.”

Arlen turned on him. “Get clear of me. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He gestured to his other guard, who stepped in front of the superintendent with one hand up, an inch from his chest. “Tell this superintendent to get his own security people, whom I am paying, to do their job.” A memory surfaced. “Wait. What’s this farmer’s name?”

The superintendent looked relieved. “Luce, he says. Andrew Luce.”