Jim Baens Universe-Vol 2 Num 5 Read online

  But you can tell it isn't randomized. I bet it's still a company-standard maintenance code. Here, try this instead.

  Coalescence levels seemed to waver only a little, so the mob trusted this component member. Tor went along, punching the pad again with the new pattern.

  "Any luck getting that FOIA writ?" she asked, meanwhile. "You said it would take just few minutes. Maybe we'd better wait . . ."

  Procrastination met its rebuttal with a simple a click, as the access panel slid aside, revealing a slim, tubelike ladder.

  Up.

  No hesitation in the mob voice. Five hundred and twelve fellow citizens wanted her to do this. Five hundred and sixteen . . . .

  Tor swallowed. Then complied.

  * * *

  The ladderway exposed a truth that was hidden from most passengers, cruising in cushioned comfort within the neatly paneled main compartment. Physics—especially gravity—had not changed appreciably in the century that separated the first great zeppelin era from this one. Designers still had to strive for lightness, everywhere they could.

  Stepping from spindly rungs onto the cargo deck, Tor found herself amid a maze of spiderlike webbery, instead of walls and partitions. Her feet made gingerly impressions in foamy mesh that seemed to be mostly air. Stacks of luggage—all strictly weighed back in Diegotown—formed bundles that resembled monstrous eggs, bound together by air-gel foam. Hardly any metal could be seen. Not even aluminum or titanium struts.

  "Shall I look at the bags?" she asked while reaching into her purse. "I have an omnisniffer."

  What model? inquired the voice in her jaw, before it changed tone by abrupt consensus. More authoritatively, it said—Never mind. The bags were all scanned in Diego. We doubt anything could be smuggled aboard.

  But a rumor-tattle points to possible danger higher up. We're betting on that one.

  "Higher?" She frowned. "There's nothing up there except . . ."

  Tor's voice trailed off as a schematic played within her TruVus, pointing aft to another ladder, this one made of ropey fibers.

  Arrows shimmered in VR yellow, for emphasis.

  We finally succeeded in getting a partial feed from the Spirit's operational parameters. And yes, there's something odd going on.

  They are using onboard water to make lift gas, at an unusual rate.

  "Is that dangerous?"

  It shouldn't be.

  But we may be able to find out more, if you hurry.

  She sighed, stepping warily across the spongey surface. Tor hadn't yet spotted a crew member. They were probably also busy chasing rumors, different ones, chosen by the company's prioritization subroutines. Anyway, a modern towed-zep was mostly automatic, requiring no pilot, engineer or navigator. A century ago, the Hindenberg carried forty officers, stewards and burly riggers, just to keep the ornate apparatus running and deliver the same number of passengers from Europe to the U.S. At twice the length, Spirit carried five times as many people, served by half a dozen attendants.

  Below her feet, passengers would be jostling for a better view of the Langley Crater, or maybe Arlington Cemetery, while peering ahead for the enduring spire of the Washington Monument. Or did some of those people already sniff an alert coming on, through their own liaison networks? Were families starting to cluster near the emergency chutes? Tor wondered if she should be doing the same.

  This new ladder was something else. It felt almost alive and responded to her footstep by contracting . . . carrying her upward in a smooth-but-sudden jerk. Smart elastics, she realized. Fine for professionals. But the public had never taken a liking to ladders that twitch. The good news: it would take just a few actual footsteps at this rate, concentrating to slip her soles carefully onto one rung after the next . . . and worrying about what would happen when she reached the unpleasant-looking "hatch" that lay just overhead.

  Meanwhile, the voice in her jaw took on a strange, lilting quality. The next contribution must have come from an individual member. Someone generally appreciated.

  Come with me, higher than high,

  Dropping burdensome things.

  Lighter than clouds, we can fly,

  Thoughts spread wider than wings.

  Be like the whale, behemoth,

  Enormous, yet weightless beings,

  Soundlessly floating, the sky

  Beckons a mammal that sings.

  Tor liked the offering. You almost wanted to earn it, by coming up with a tune . . . .

  . . . only the "hatch" was now just ahead, or above, almost pressing against her face. A throbbing iris of polyorganic membranes, much like the quasi-living external skin of the Spirit. Coming this close, inhaling the exudate aromas, made Tor feel queasy.

  Relax. The voice was back to business. Probably led by the zep mechanic.

  You'll need a command word. Touch that nub in the middle to get attention and say Cinnamon.

  "Cinnamon?"

  It was only a query, but the barrier reacted instantly. With a faintly squishy sound, the door dilated. The stringy stepladder resumed its programmed journey, carrying her upward.

  Aboard old-time zeps like Hindenberg, the underslung gondola had been devoted mainly to engines and crew, while paying passengers occupied two broad decks at the base of the giant dirigible's main body. The Spirit of Chula Vista had a similar layout, except that the gondola was mainly for show. Having climbed above all the sections designed for people and cargo, Tor now rode the throbbing ladder into a cathedral of lifter cells, each of them a vast chamber filled with gas that was much lighter than air.

  Hundreds of transparent, filmy balloons—cylindrical and tall like Sequoia trunks—crowded and pressed together, stretching from the web-floor where she stood all the way up to the arching ceiling of the Spirit's rounded skin. Tor could only move among these towering columns along four narrow paths leading port or starboard . . . fore or aft. The arrow in her TruVu suggested port, without pulsing insistence. Most members of the smart mob had never been in a place like this. Curiosity—the strongest modern craving—formed more of these ad hoc groups than any other passion.

  Heading in the suggested direction, Tor could not resist reaching out, touching some of the tall cells, their polymer surfaces quivering like the giant bubbles that she used to create with toy wands at birthday parties. They appeared so light, so delicate . . . .

  Half of the cells contain helium, explained the voice, now so individualized that it had to be a specific person—perhaps the zep mechanic or a dirigible aficionado. See how those membranes are made with a faintly greenish tint? They surround the larger hydrogen cells.

  Tor blinked.

  "Hydrogen. Isn't that dangerous?"

  She pictured the Hindenberg—or LZ 129—that greatest and most ill-fated ancient zeppelin, whose fiery end at Lakehurst, New Jersey, marked the sudden end of the First Zep Era, in May of 1937. Once ignited—( how remained a topic of fierce debate)—flames had engulfed the mighty airship from mooring-tip to gondola, to its swastika-emblazoned rudder in little more than a minute. To this day, journalists envied the news crew that had been on-hand that day with primitive movie cameras, capturing onto acetate some of the most stunning footage and memorable imagery that ever accompanied a technological disaster.

  Nowadays, what reff or terror group wouldn't just love to claim credit for an event so vivid? So attention-grabbing?

  As if reading her mind, the voice lectured.

  Hydrogen is much lighter and more buoyant than helium. Hydrogen is also cheap and readily available. Using it improves the economics of zep travel. Though of course, care must be taken . . . .

  Tor was approaching the end of her narrow corridor. For the first time, she encountered the trusswork that kept Spirit rigid—a dirigible—instead of a floppy, balloonlike blimp. A girder made of carbon tubes, woven into an open latticework of triangles, stretched and curved both forward and aft. Nearby, it joined another tensegrity girder at right angles. That one would form a girdle, encircling the Spirit's w
idest girth.

  Tracking Tor's interest, her TruVu spun out statistics and schematics. At 800 feet in length, the Hindenberg had been just ten percent shorter than the Titanic. In contrast, the Spirit of Chula Vista stretched more than twice that length. And yet, its shell and trussworks weighed less than half as much.

  Naturally, there are precautions, the voice continued. Take the shape of the gas cells. They are vertical columns. Any failure in a hydrogen cell triggers a pulse, bursting open the top, pushing the contents up and out of the ship, skyward, away from passengers, cargo or people below. It's been extensively tested.

  Also, the surrounding helium cells provide a buffer, keeping oxygen-rich air away from those containing hydrogen. Passenger ships like this one carry double the ratio of helium to hydrogen that you'll find on cargo zeps.

  "They can replenish hydrogen en route if they have to, right? By cracking water from onboard stores?"

  Or even from humidity in the air, using solar power.

  And yes, the readouts show unusual levels of hydrogen production, in order to keep several cells filled aboard the Spirit. That's why we asked you to come up here. There must be some leakage. One scenario suggested that it might be accumulating in here, between the cells.

  She pulled the omni-sniffer from her purse and began scanning. Chemical sensors were all over the place, nowadays, getting cheaper and more acute all the time—just when the public seemed to need them. For reassurance, if nothing else.

  "I'm not detecting very much," she said. Tor wasn't sure how to feel—relieved or disappointed—upon reading that hydrogen levels were only slightly elevated in the companionway.

  That confirms what the onboard monitors have already shown. Hardly any hydrogen buildup in the cabins or walkways. It must be leaking into the sky—

  "Even so—" Tor began, envisioning gouts of flame erupting toward the heavens from atop the great airship.

  —at rates that offer no danger of ignition. The stuff dissipates very fast, Tor, and the Spirit is moving, on a windy day. Anyway, hydrogen isn't dangerous—or even toxic—unless it's held within a confined space.

  Tor kept scanning while moving along the spongey path. But hydrogen readings never spiked enough to cause concern, let alone alarm. The smart mob had wanted her to come up here for this purpose—to verify that the onboard detectors hadn't been tampered with by clever saboteurs. Now that her independent readings confirmed the company's, some people were already starting to lose interest. Ad hoc membership totals began to fall.

  Any leakage must be into the air, continued the voice of the group mind, still authoritative. We've put out a notice for amateur scientists, asking for volunteers to aim spectranalysis equipment along the Spirit's route. They'll measure parts-per-million, so we can get a handle on leakage rates. But it's mathematically impossible for the amounts to be dangerous. Humidity may go up a percent or two in neighborhoods that lie directly below Spirit's shadow. That's about it.

  Tor had reached the end of the walkway. Her hand pressed against the outer envelope—the quasi-living skin that enclosed everything, from gas cells and trusses to the passenger cabin below. Up close, it was nearly transparent, offering a breathtaking view outside.

  "We passed the Beltway," she murmured, a little surprised that the diligent guardians of Washington's defensive grid would have allowed the Spirit to pass through that wall of sensors and rays without delay or scrutiny. Below and ahead, she could make out the Umberto Nobile, tugging hard at the tow cable, puffing along the Glebe Road Bypass. Fort Meyers stood to the left. The zeppelin's shadow rippled over a vast garden of gravestones—Arlington National Cemetery.

  The powers-that-be have downgraded our rumor, said the voice in her jaw. The nation's professional protectors are chasing down other, more plausible threats . . . none of which have been deemed likely enough to merit an alert. Malevolent zeps don't even make it onto the Threat Chart.

  Tor clicked and flicked the attention-gaze of her TruVu, glancing through the journalist feeds at MediaCorp, which were now—belatedly—accessible to a reporter of her level. Seven minutes after the rise in tension caused by that spam flood of rumors, a consensus was already forming. The spam flood had not been intended to distract attention from a terror attack, concluded mass-wisdom. It was the attack. And not a very effective one, at that. National productivity had dropped by a brief diversion factor of one part in twenty-three thousands. Hardly enough damage to be worth risking prosecution or retaliation. But then, hackers seldom cared about consequences.

  Speaking of consequences; they were already pouring in from her little snooping expedition. The mavens of propriety at MediaCorp, for example, must be catching up on recent events. A work-related memorandum flashed in Tor's agenda box, revising tomorrow's schedule for her first day of employment at the Washington Bureau. During lunch—right after basic orientation—she was now required to attend counseling on the Exercising Good Judgement In Impromptu Field Situations.

  "Oh great," she muttered, noticing also that the zeppelin company had applied a five hundred dollar fine against her account for Unjustified Entry Into Restricted Areas.

  PLEASE REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE, MS. PLEIADES, said an override message. AN ATTENDANT WILL ARRIVE AT YOUR POSITION SHORTLY IN ORDER TO HELP YOU RETURN TO YOUR SEAT FOR LANDING.

  "Double great."

  Ahead, beyond the curve of the dirigible's skin, she spotted the massive, squat bulk of the Pentagon, bristling with missiles, antennae and other security measures . . . still a highly-protected enclave, even ten years after the Department of Defense moved its headquarters to "an undisclosed location in Texas."

  Soon, the mooring towers and docking ports of Reagan-Clinton National Skydrome would appear, signalling the end of her cross-continental voyage. And of any chance for a blemish-free start to her new career in Big Time Media.

  "I don't suppose any of you have bright ideas?" She addressed the group mind.

  But it had already started to unravel. Membership numbers were falling fast, like rats deserting a sinking ship, Or—more accurately—monkeys. Moving on to the next shiny thing.

  Sorry, Tor. People are distracted. They've been dropping out to watch the opening of the Artifact Conference. You may even glimpse some limos arriving at the Naval Research Center , just across the Potomac . Take a look as the Spirit starts turning for final approach . . .

  Blasted fickle amateurs! Tor had made good use of smart mobs on several occasions. But this time was likely to prove an embarrassment. None of them would have to pay fines or face disapproval in a new job.

  Still, a few of us remain worried, the voice continued.

  That rumor had something about it.

  I can't put my finger on it.

  The "voice" was starting to sound individualized and had even used the first person "I". And yet, Tor drew some strength from the support. Before an attendant arrived to escort her below, there was still time for a little last minute tenacity.

  "Can I assume we still have some zep aficionados in attendance?"

  Hardly anyone else, Tor.

  Some us are fanatics.

  "Good, then let's apply fanatical expertise. Think about that leakage we discussed a while ago. We've been assuming that this zeppelin is making hydrogen to make up for a major seep. Have any of those amateur scientists studied the air near Spirit's flight path?"

  A pause.

  Yes, several have reported. They found no dangerous levels of hydrogen in the vicinity of the ship, or in its wake. The seep is probably dissipating so fast . . . .

  "Please clarify. No dangerous levels? Is it possible they found no sign of a hydrogen leak at all?"

  The pause extended several seconds longer, this time. Suddenly the number of participants in the group stopped falling. In the corner of Tor's TruVu, she saw membership levels start to rise again.

  Now that's interesting, throbbed the voice in her jaw.

  Several of those Am ateur Scientists have joined us now.


  They report seeing no appreciable leakage. Zero extra hydrogen along the flight path. How did you know?

  "I didn't. Call it a hunch."

  But at the rate that Spirit has been replacing hydrogen . . .

  "There has to be some kind of leak. Right. It must be going somewhere."

  Tor frowned. She could see a shadow moving beyond the grove of tall, cylindrical gas-cells. A figure approaching. A crewman or attendant, coming to take her, firmly, gently, insistently, back to her seat. The shape wavered and warped as seen through the mostly transparent polymer tubes—slightly pinkish for hydrogen and then greenish-tinted for helium.

  Tor blinked. Suddenly feeling so dry-mouthed that she could not speak aloud, only sub-vocalize.

  "Ask the AmScis to take more spectral scans along the path of this zeppelin. Only this time look for helium."

  The inner surfaces of her TruVus showed a flurry of indicators. Amateur scientific instruments, computer-controlled from private backyards or rooftops, could zoom quickly toward any patch of sky. There were thousands of such pocket observatories, in and around any urban center—hobbyists with access to better instrumentation than the previous generation could imagine. Dotted lines appeared. Each showed the viewing angle of some home-taught astronomer, ecologist or meteorologist, turning a hand- or kit-made instrument toward the majestic cigar shape of the Spirit of Chula Vista . . .

  . . . which had passed Arlington and Pentagon City, following its faithful tug into a final tracked loop, approaching the dedicated zeppelin port that served Washington DC.

  Yes, Tor. There is helium.

  Quite a lot of it, in fact.

  A plume that stretches at least a hundred klicks behind the Spirit. Nobody notice before this, because helium is inert and utterly safe, so no environmental monitors were tuned to look for it.

  The voice was grim. Much less individualized. With ad hoc membership levels suddenly skyrocketing, summaries and updates must be spewing at incredible pace.