Eater (20 page)

There seemed to be no loading crew nearby and no sign that anyone had seen. On the other hand, Kingsley could not see the ground floor of the terminal, tucked back below the parapet. Herb did not move.

He trotted back to his briefcase, picked it up, and started walking in a perfectly ordinary fashion. Airplane roars matched his hammering heart. He succumbed to the temptation to look over the parapet again. Still no movement from Herb.

But now a woman in overalls was running toward the body from the right. She called out something that an airplane takeoff drowned out. In the bright light, she looked up at Kingsley and he jerked his head back, probably too late to avoid being identified.
Damn
. Stupid, of course, once one was committed, to look back.

He walked quickly back inside and past the gate where his airplane would soon begin boarding. This part of it he had not fully thought out, but he knew it was a good idea to get out of the government-controlled part of the terminal. This proved simple, as all the security measures were directed to screening out the opposite flow. He walked through some guards and down an escalator.

At the American Airlines counter, he saw a flight for
Hawaii leaving within the hour. To Oahu, not the Big Island, but that was a small inconvenience. He did not dally at the counter, where anyone could see him, and instead found his way to the Admirals’ Club, where he had a lifetime membership.

He had often enjoyed the perks of this club, but never so much as now. Here he had no difficulty booking onto the flight, so long as he was willing to go first-class.
If sailing on the
Titanic,
why not
? he thought a bit wildly.

He knew the airlines kept their own bookings of first-class. There was a fair chance that even the U Agency, should it be searching soon, would not find access to those files right away. A chance, at least.

He went straight along to the private telephone rooms they kept down a deeply carpeted corridor and dialed. He found himself holding his breath, This would all prove to be a ludicrous, dangerous waste unless—

“Hello?” A fuzzy voice. “Hope you’ve got a good reason to—”

“I do. Listen quickly.” He had to rely on her recognizing his voice. His name might touch off one of those listening programs governments used to target calls. “You’re to pack a bag, enough for a week, and leave the house immediately.”

“What? Why would I—”

“Because you are in danger. Some people are going to try to round you up. I’d suggest going to a friend’s, someone they cannot easily trace.”

“But what’s this about? Why would they—”

“To use you as hostage. Once they have you, I’d do what they want.”

“Who is this ‘they’?”

“That’s the dicey part. I don’t know, not precisely.”

“Then why should I—”

“There are forces at work here I do not fully understand.”

She was fully awake now. “It’s pretty damned arrogant—”

“No doubt, but pointless to debate now. Just move. Go to a hotel to get your bearings if you want.”

“Whozzat?” a male voice came from the background.

“Quiet,” she said quickly. Then, to let the speaker know, she added, “Kingsley, I don’t follow your orders any longer.”

“I hope that you’ve kept matters reasonably discreet?”

“What? Oh, what the hell, I don’t care if you know. Yes, I’ve been quiet about him, if you must—”

“And your newfound friend has a place?”

“Well, of course, he’s not a street person—oh, I see.”

“Yes. Hole up there for tonight, probably safer than being in a nearby hotel registry.”

“I haven’t said that I would—”

“There isn’t time to have a pleasant little debate about this. I just injured a man, perhaps killed him, all to make this telephone call.”

“What?” The newfound friend was saying something in the background again.

“I can’t talk much longer. Be out of the house inside half an hour.”

“But I don’t know…I…What’s this about—”

“You might actually be safer in a shelter, old girl, but I can’t have them using you against me.”

“My God, do you think things are going to get—”

“I don’t know how badly we might fare, but others with more power are covering a lot of different bets. You and I are very minor figures in all this, but we may share the fate of a church mouse who sleeps with a restless elephant. Best to be elsewhere.”

“I still don’t—”

“Go to the boyfriend’s. Don’t tell me where it is. They might have had the foresight to tap this phone.”

“He’s not a ‘boyfriend,’ he’s much more—”

“No time for that. Go. I’d advise a nice trip to someplace in the country. Then get a secure lodging for the week to come.”

“Damn it, I—”

“Got to ring off now. I still love you, you know.”

He hung up and let out a long, rattling sigh.

Now a brisk walk to the auto-cab stand. He used his credit card, got in, and punched for a hotel in D.C. As the car paused, he got out, secured the door, and watched the humpbacked car dutifully trundle down the ramp and into the controlled section of the highway. An easy trace for anyone to follow.

He went around the terminal on the outside. The yellow glow from D.C. filled the eastern sky. He saw an ambulance pulling away, lights flashing. It seemed unlikely that Herb had died of the fall.

Kingsley had seen no other way to gain the time and get free of the U Agency. A moment’s reflection had shown that the only safe haven for him now was back on the Big Island, but interception while on a government flight was surely certain. And he most certainly did not want to fall into the hands of the lot at Langley.

Most probably they had people in the terminal by now. He surveyed the impossibly crowded waiting bays. Far too easy for them to pick him up while in that crowd, and quite possibly they had thought of the Admirals’ Club by now. The jam of vexed people had an air of fevered impatience, something beyond the usual expected from delayed flights.

This was the first time he had seen firsthand how the ordinary world was dealing with the Eater’s approach, the fever of anxiety that somehow permeated the air of every ordinary moment. Even in this air-conditioned terminal, he caught the sour smell of something elemental and unsettled.

He wondered what England was like now. He had to guard against the mixture of envy and contempt Europeans often felt while in the United States. Americans had their blemishes, particularly a curious kind of practical self-righteousness, but at least they did not brim with the world-weariness Europeans often equated with cultural maturity. Europe was a comfy land going nowhere now, and the Eater must strike many of his countrymen as an affront to their assumed eminence in the world. All humanity was all truly in
the same trap now, stuck at the bottom of a frail atmosphere beneath a being that cared nothing for human assumptions.

A small band of musicians was performing for the throng. Public entertainment was so common now he never gave it a thought. In the leisure-rich 2020s, more and more people were pop musicians, filmmakers, actors, or “alternative” comedians, artists all—except that they had no audience. Bands performed for free at parties, jokesters eagerly launched into their routines at dinner parties. Thankfully, there were a few artistic areas where lack of aptitude did inhibit performance; there were few struggling trapeze artists. But in his experience that did not stop a contralto from bursting into song in the living room at house parties, provoking a quick exodus to the far reaches of the house.

This lot was halfway decent, their Latin rhythms rolling over the edgy crowds, quite possibly lightening the mood. Faces relaxed near the swaying music. Some looked for an upturned hat to toss change into, but there was none; these were
gratis
performers.

For the third time, he saw a woman in a severe suit watching him.
Stupid to be out here like this
, he admonished himself and took advantage of a passing clump of Chinese tourists to slip away. She followed him onto a concourse and he used the usual elevator ploy to go up one, then back down, exiting as the doors to the next elevator closed upon her startled face.

He spent the remainder of his wait in the men’s room, popping out to get boarding information. This apparently worked, for on his third excursion, they were ushering first-class onboard. He badly needed the proffered drink by the time he settled in.

It took him a while to work out why this flight was worse than usual. He had been on many torturous red-eyes, even one in which a screeching cat escaped its cage and spent hours in the dim netherworld of coach-class, eluding pursuers. But this flight had a restless anger. Abrupt insults exchanged over stowed carry-ons. Seat kickers behind.
Quarrels over meal selections running out. The attendants were frayed.

Kingsley adopted his standard maneuver to avoid conversation, pulling out a sheaf of work and at the first question telling the chap to his left that he was in insurance. That did not deter the woman to his right, so he leaned toward the window and said expectantly, “Think we’ll see any UFOs?” For insurance, he took from his briefcase some working papers and placed atop them insignia from the Internal Revenue Service that he had downloaded from their Web site long before. A sure conversation killer.

Au revoir, États-Unis
! he toasted with an agreeable California claret as they cleared American air space. Hawaii was a state, of course, but never felt like the rest of the United States. He made himself concentrate upon the wine to slow his still thudding heart. Adrenaline zest had gotten him through the airport, but now he needed to be calm. There was surely more to come.

He had received by classified e-mail a selection of recent Eater messages. Scanning them, he wondered at the sort of mind that slithered from one subject to another, unaware of the impact upon the swarms of minds that would receive its words.

All this, apparently, as cheerleading for people to relish uploading into the Eater’s “library.” Or so a naïve human mind could read it.

He supposed one should expect a being unique and isolated to become something of an egomaniac. What choice did it have? Every other intelligence it had encountered vanished into the abyss of astronomical time, devoured by its own terminal brevity.

Apparently the biologists had caught its attention. The Eater was notorious by now for abruptly swerving among subjects and ignoring entreaties. This fit the developing model for its own mental organization: a compilation of many magnetic knots storing separate agents of mental structure.

Each agent could come forward as a governing principle and shine the spotlight of consciousness upon itself. In this sense, the Eater had access to its own unconscious—unlike humans. It could watch itself thinking, and so felt no need to
dress itself in the clothing of a smoothly operating over-mind, to be one “person.”

He wondered how they could deal with this. The fear he had seen in the President’s eyes was global. Would the volunteered uploads from the dictatorial nations be enough? Or did it have further amusements in store for itself, at humanity’s expense?

Well, only a few days to go until they all found out. The cabin was dark, the plane on its long night arc over the Pacific. He looked out a window and with practiced eye could find the blue-white blotch that was the Eater’s decelerating jet. Brighter, nearer, hanging like a strange eye in the blackness.

He allowed himself to think of Channing a bit. Her upload had apparently gone reasonably well and now “she” cruised in orbit. Apparently the specialists were engaged in “linearizing” her onboard consciousness from afar, an unparalleled technical feat. Fuel pods were being attached to give her multiple booster capability. Her whole remaining self was a mere speck perched atop masses of refrigerated hydrogen.

Then, without noticing the transition, he was awakening as they banked over Honolulu. Time to get back into the game.

No one intercepted him as he disembarked. The terminal
reeked of festering anxiety. Once aloft he had phoned Arno and asked for an escort, giving enough detail to convince him that there were factions at war now within the U Agency. “Something about China,” Kingsley added.

“Don’t repeat that word,” Arno said hastily.

“It’s a fairly well-known nation.” Kingsley could not resist the jab. Arno should never have allowed Kingsley to go into a situation inadequately forearmed. Put it down to haste and the press of events, but still…