Johnny Winger and the Great Rift Zone, Page 2

CHAPTER 1

  Mount Kipwezi, Kenya

  May 5, 2110

  1930 hours

  The village of Kipwezi wasn’t on anybody’s tourist map, even though it was only a short thirty-kilometer ride from Kilimanjaro and the northern veldt countryside of the Serengeti. And that suited the villagers just fine. Mount Kipwezi, which hovered over the village like a protective mother was sometimes called Kidogo Ndugu, Little Brother, a tacit admission of the greater stature and fame of its taller neighbor Kilimanjaro. Nobody seemed to mind that at all.

  Saturday was market day in Kipwezi and the bazaars were jammed with villagers, farmers, horses and cattle, goats and sheep, and wagons filled with produce from the farms that surrounded the village and cultivated every square inch of the hilly land of Induku ward. In the very center of the village, makeshift stages were often erected around the fringes of the bazaar, stages hosting dances, contests, magic shows, political speeches, where anybody with something to sell or an opinion to express could hold forth.

  The bazaar was slammed with people, loud and chaotic, filled with smoke and pungent smells—the high-octane odor of masala tobacco was especially strong at the main entrance—and the air was thick with loose nano, clouds of bots mingling with incense, opium and scores of cooking oil fires. Vendors hawked grapes and mangoes, bananas and fabricator shells of every type, vials of rogue DNA called twist hung from clothes lines strung up between light poles and dilapidated tents. Women in sarongs with black teeth from chewing betel nuts zipped and weaved through the labyrinth balancing huge baskets on their heads, baskets filled with everything from buffalo patties to rebuilt matter compilers for the fabs that were on sale everywhere.

  A large tent surrounded on three sides with tables and benches dominated the center of the bazaar. Flat screen displays hanging from poles flickered down on the crowd, with images of Bollywood action pics counterpointed by plaintive plucking from a mandolin player nearby. In the center of a knot of yelling, shoving, jeering customers, a swarthy man in a turban and dark green kaftan pecked at a keyboard. All around the park, throbbing globs of nanobotic swarms swelled and gyrated to the music. Masala smoke was thick and acrid in the air.

  There was one stage in the back that lately seemed to attract more audience than all the others. The performer was a handsome, slightly swarthy young man, a strange sort of magician doing seemingly magical things for an audience of shoppers, visitors and tourists. It was clear he was an angel, a nanobotic swarm in the likeness of a human, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. Children pressed in to get a peek, as the magician conjured up all sorts of toys and doodads.

  His name was Symborg.

  From the stage, the magician ran a demo in front of the crowd. He was a small man, with fierce, unblinking eyes, as his fingers flew over the table of tricks and props. Presently, he stopped and noticed a very young child, a small girl, standing shyly a few meters away from the stage, playing hide and seek in the folds of her mother’s loose sarong.

  The magician, who sported a thick black moustache, beckoned repeatedly to the young girl. After a few minutes, her mother relented and let her child go. The girl inched her way into the clearing and stood in front of the magician’s table, to applause and approving shouts and chants from the crowd.

  Symborg reached into a canvas bag and pulled out a trinket for the young girl. He handed it to her and she took it, shyly, turning the small cylinder over and over in her hand.

  “You have a djinn in that cylinder, little one,” Symborg announced, loudly enough for all to hear. “A very powerful spirit. He can grant you any wish you want. Make a wish, child, and the djinn will bring it to you, right here—“

  The girl’s name was Menaka and she had huge brown eyes. Sad eyes, thought Symborg.

  Menaka twirled the cylinder as the magician had shown her and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. When she stopped twirling the cylinder, she felt it vibrate and was so startled, she dropped the cylinder to the dirt.

  Instantly, the device was enveloped in a fine mist, a sparkling mist that billowed out and upward, swirling about the clearing in front of Symborg and his tables like a miniature cyclone. Gasps and shouts erupted from the crowd, and the spectators shoved back against each other, to give this growing apparition greater distance. On the stage, the angel gave a showman’s flourish to the spectacle.

  “Now see what the young child has conjured for us—“

  The mist gradually materialized into the faint outline of a man’s upper body, with a recognizable face, shoulders and arms crossed in front.

  The ‘djinn’ then spoke out loud. “Little one, I have come from the clouds above to grant you a great wish. Make your wish now—“ The djinn’s voice was a deep bass profundo, so deep it rattled the beaded curtains that covered Symborg’s merchant tent behind them.

  Menaka stared wide-eyed, mouth open, at the apparition. She was speechless.

  “Go ahead, child,” urged Symborg. “The djinn wishes you to make a wish.”

  Shouts of encouragement and support came from the crowd. Gradually, Menaka worked up enough nerve. Shy, haltingly, she asked for a new matatu for her father.

  “His bus is broken down, Great One,” she murmured. “It’s the tires. They are bad. The bus is our livelihood. Father needs a new matatu to carry the tourists.”

  The deep voice rumbled again, a little reverberation adding to the sense of barely contained powers.

  “As you have spoken, child…so shall it be—“

  At that moment, the swirling, twinkling apparition of the djinn dissolved into a maelstrom of churning, roiling clouds, streaked with flashes of light. It was like watching a thunderstorm in miniature, from the inside.

  The crowd murmured and moved back uneasily.

  When the storm began to subside, the barest outlines of a structure could be seen enveloped in the thick fog. The fog dissolved, slowly at first, then with speed, to reveal the front hood and doors of a new minibus. Its wheels dripped with moisture and sunlight shone from the supple leather seats inside.

  The crowd was silent for a moment, then erupted into cheers and gasps. Menaka stared wide-eyed at the new matatu, inching her way forward to tentatively put a finger along the fender, tracing the smooth curve of the metal.

  For fun, Symborg reached inside the driver’s side window and honked the horn a few times, startling everyone. The crowd laughed.

  “You see what a gift the great djinn has brought you, little one. The djinn I have in my possession can do the same for every one of you.” Symborg pointedly stared at each face in the front row of the circle of onlookers. “Such a powerful djinn, such a powerful servant is available to you, today, right now, for a very special price. You will not believe the deal I can make for you. My friends, you cannot leave this bazaar without experiencing what this amazing servant can do for you—the Assimilationists have brought this wonder to the bazaar just for today--“

  The crowd surged forward, feeling the doors, the hood and side panels of the new matatu, pressing in on all sides of the stage. Symborg the magician basked in the admiration and proudly pointed out details on the newly conjured vehicle. Murmurs and laughter erupted. The audience was appreciative, adoring the magician. More shoppers came from the street to see what was going on.

  A lone man in dark slacks and jacket, with an open-neck white shirt, at the very back of the crowd appraised Symborg with a critical eye, even as he was jostled and shoved about by the force of the crowd. His name was Cesar Seko.

  Seko was a long-time friend and advisor to a former President of Kenya, one Julius Akamba. Seko was intrigued by this performer, the way he held the audience in his hand, his grasp of showmanship, his sense of timing. Even though he was an angel, he might be useful. There was an election coming up soon and Akamba was running again, hoping to regain his old office. A fellow like Symborg could turn out to be quite useful in the campaign.

  And, as an a
ngel, Seko figured Symborg would be a natural follower of the Assimilationists. How could he be otherwise?

  As the show was winding down, Seko worked his way through the crowd and approached the stage. The magician was stowing gear, piling props and equipment into trunks and battered suitcases. Seko introduced himself.

  The angel was good, Seko could see that. Very few edge effects…often, angels fuzzed out at their extremities, where the swarm didn’t have good config control. This one was tight and dense over its entire surface…only an occasional pop or flash in the torso area, one or two in the face, gave away the fact that the angel was a para-human, a swarm of nanobots configged to look human.

  Symborg introduced himself in return. Seko was impressed with the magician’s ‘voice,’ deep, commanding, well-modulated. No question: this angel had stage presence. Something in the face…what was it? A bemused, almost knowing look…we both know what I am but let’s pretend anyway….

  “You have quite a way with the audience,” Seko said. “Especially the children. Most of the bazaar came over to see you. That was quite a trick with the matatu.”

  Symborg smiled a radiant, symmetrical smile. “The other vendors don’t like it. I take their business.”

  Seko glanced around. Crowds were filtering away from the stage, back toward the shops and stalls. “Symborg…” he tried out the name, twisted it around his tongue for a moment. “Unusual name…is that Ndinka? Or maybe Kikuyu?”

  Symborg’s smile faded. He closed and locked the last trunk, then swung it easily down to a liftpad, hovering nearby. “It’s an acronym, actually. Stands for Symbiotic Organism. I’m an angel.”

  Seko smiled back. “That much I could figure out for myself. And a very good one. I’m impressed. Who did the configs?”

  Symborg didn’t answer immediately. “Would you like some tea? I’ve got Old Grey in the tent.”

  Seko accepted. “Surely…actually, there is something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Symborg manipulated the liftpad out of the way behind some stacks of paneling and pulled the tent flap aside. Inside, the furnishings were sparse…some loose floor pillows, a table and chair. More trunks and cases, stacked in a corner, arranged to form a makeshift desk. Caftans hanging from a line stretched across the tent. Lamps and incense burners completed the interior.

  Symborg went to the tea kettle and poured a small cup for Seko, who sipped gratefully. It wasn’t Old Grey, he was sure of that. The tea had a gritty, almost brassy taste. Moments later, Seko had a mild headache. He smiled weakly and nodded thanks.

  “Please…sit,” Symborg commanded. Seko was momentarily dizzy and complied, plopping himself down on one of the fat pillows. The magician poured himself something else, from an unmarked bottle. Seko observed that it wasn’t tea. “You had something you wanted to discuss?”

  “Indeed,” Seko found his mouth slurred and his eyes weren’t focusing. Something in the drink. He concentrated hard, found his senses were finally returning. “Yes…I just wanted to ask something. Mr. Symborg…”

  “Just… Symborg.”

  I’m sitting here trying to be polite to a swarm of bugs, Seko told himself. “Yes…you know, you have great talents, great rapport with the audience.”

  “You know I am programmed with configurations that are pleasing to many people.”

  “Indeed, but your talents are wasted here in Kipwezi.”

  Symborg’s face tightened. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean this: Come with me to Nairobi. I want you to meet my friend Julius Akamba. There are bigger audiences to capture, bigger prizes…for all of us.”

  Even as he conversed with Cesar Seko, Symborg was receiving feeds from the bots that Seko had already ingested, in his ‘tea.’ Processor module MAKE CONVERSATION continued to carry on a dialogue with Seko, responding as designed, initiating dialogue according to configured protocols long ago programmed in. Processor module ANALYZE GLUTAMATE PATTERN MATCHING received results from the nanobotic sleuths even now burrowing into Seko’s brain, sniffing along highways of equal glutamate concentration, rebuilding memories from their chemical residues.

  Algorithms ran and massaged the data from the bots. Seko was being truthful. Patterns matched with high confidence. There were snatches of memory, fragments of images…large crowds, banners and dancers, a train creeping into a station, belching smoke, brakes squealing. Some kind of rally.

  All this Seko gave up to the bots in his brain, and to Symborg, who smiled back pleasantly as he studied the data.

  “There’s a rally coming up,” Symborg offered.

  “Yes…in Nairobi…come with me and you can meet Julius Akamba. You have a great future with us…there’s important work for you in this election.” Seko seemed to be a little more clear-headed. The bots had dropped into quiet mode now, Symborg realized. Seko went on.

  “It’s vital that Julius Akamba be re-elected. Vital to Kenya…vital to our future…our future is with the Assimilationists.”

  Symborg was already intrigued with the possibilities. Seko’s offer was timely. More importantly, Seko’s offer was compatible with the Prime Key. Correlation analysis had now proved that.

  “Then it’s agreed,” Symborg decided. “I would like to meet this Julius Akamba.”

  Less than ten kilometers away from the central bazaar of Kipwezi, along the snow-fringed heights of Mount Kipwezi, in a cavern buried deeply inside, Config Zero was awakening again, after nearly a decade of quiescence.

  New command sequences had come from the Central Entity. Relayed through the Keeper unit at Europa, which had been damaged by Quantum Corps operations a decade ago, but not disabled, the command sequences awakened Config Zero from sleep mode and activated all systems.

  The commands instructed Config Zero to perform several actions:

  Execute Instruction Set 438991

  Execute Instruction Set 605526

  The first command sequence instructed Config Zero to create the swarm entity known to Humans as Symborg. That instruction had been performed. The entity was operating as designed, living among the Humans in a nearby village. No adjustments or updates were needed to its programming.

  The second command sequence instructed Config Zero to plan and execute a coordinated assault on multiple tectonic plate boundaries around the Earth. Specially configured swarms would be used. The commands downloaded these configurations. This Instruction was consistent with the Prime Key, specifically Module 2: Alter the geology and meteorology of the Earth so as to create a more congenial environment for autonomous assembler swarms. This was also known as the Re-configuration module.

  New config designs were relayed from the Central Entity via the Keeper. An early test of

  these designs had already been performed along the boundary of the Eurasian and Arabian plates, focused on an epicenter near the Iranian city of Tabriz. To analyze the results, Config Zero scanned global newsvids and geophysical data from the tremors around Tabriz. It concluded from analysis that 72.2% of test objectives had been achieved. This result was returned to the Central Entity.

  Now equipped with new commands and configs, the great master swarm decided that another operation would be needed. Config Zero coordinated the design and execution of a new configuration for a follow-on assault on the same tectonic plate boundaries. In addition, the next test would insert and activate swarms at seven other tectonic plate boundaries around the planet. The result would be a massive coordinated assault…and massive destruction, consistent with the Prime Key.

  Config Zero began assembling nanobotic swarms from feedstock within the mountain innards of Kipwezi. Local geologists assumed from the rumblings and tremors and temperature spikes that a plume of magma had been displaced and was working its way up to the summit of the mountain. Warnings were issued that the long-dormant volcano that was Kipwezi might blow at any time. Villages and farms were evacuated. Travel was
restricted. Survey drones were launched to keep an eye on Kipwezi.

  All of this was noted by the great master swarm but largely ignored. Config Zero checked and re-checked the configs of its new tectonic swarms, then loaded the configs into newly built bot swarms, hordes of bots externally designed to resemble dust motes. These swarms were launched on a vector north by northwest, toward the Sahara desert.

  Survey drones reported the launch. Scientists concluded that the volcano was releasing steam. Local villagers weren’t so sure.

  A third signal was also received by Config Zero. It was a proximity signal, relayed through the Keeper at Europa. The proximity signal indicated that Subunit 99, Elements 10899773 through 4983376, had arrived in the vicinity of its target coordinates, after a long voyage from deep space. Subunit 99 established itself in heliocentric orbit about the Sun, nearly fourteen billion kilometers from Mount Kipwezi. A small, reddish planetisimal, Object 222876, orbited nearby.

  A few kilometers away from the village of Kipwezi, in the veldt countryside around the mountain, a pair of cattle herders had managed to avoid the Army troops who had come by that morning with loudspeakers, ordering the evacuation. The herds needed to water and forage. If the herds didn’t get forage, there wouldn’t be any money or meat for the winter.

  The herders found a campsite at a sharp bend in a narrow, nearly dry streambed, not far from a mound of rocks, known as kopjes in the local Masai dialect. After pitching camp, one of the herders noticed a strange glowing fog swirling around the summit of Kipwezi. The glow was a reddish orange, backlighting low-hanging clouds, like an aerial inferno enveloping the mountain top.

  Both herders watched carefully, noting how the dust was caught by the wind and streamed off northward across the border.

  The cattlemen concluded that Kipwezi and the gods were angry that night. They picked at the campfire and chewed on betel nut, speculating on what it all might mean.