Implied Spaces by Walter Jon Williams

Author:Walter Jon Williams [Williams, Walter Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy, Fiction, General, High Tech, Suspense, Short Stories, Time travel, C429, Extratorrents, Kat
ISBN: 9781597801515
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2009-04-15T01:26:09+00:00

11

The sound of nearby shots shook him out of his contemplation of eternities. Aristide took his shower, and dressed in another set of his new clothing, items that had remained in their delivery bags while Daljit was on her rampage, and which hadn’t been touched.

Images of Antonia and Carlito and Daljit rose in Aristide’s mind, then bled crimson into one another.

“Pablo?” Endora’s voice echoed suddenly in Aristide’s implant. Her delivery was faster than normal and sounded strangely like panic.

“Yes?” Aristide replied. “Where have you been?”

Endora chose not to answer the question. Her voice returned to its normal fussy precision.

“You’re in Daljit’s bedroom. Good.”

“Not really,” he said. “She got the bug and—well, she’s dead.”

He spoke aloud, rather than mentally dictating into his implant. The latter would have taken far too much of his scattered concentration.

Endora’s voice was suddenly all business.

“Did you get any blood on you?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m sharing the air that she’s breathed.”

“It’s unlikely you’ll catch it that way. You should want to wash your hands and possibly take a shower.”

“Already done.” Aristide heard running in the corridor outside the apartment, and a thump on the door, followed shortly thereafter by a greater thumping in his chest. He made certain Tecmessa was within arm’s reach.

The running footsteps receded.

“What’s the situation?” he asked.

“It’s difficult to tell. We’re having a bandwidth crisis, and that’s keeping me from getting a clear picture.”

“Bandwidth? Your bandwidth is immense.”

“But not infinite. Not only am I receiving millions of distress calls from victims, I’m being swamped by messages from every wrecked car, every broken window, every damaged bit of plaster. None of us ever anticipated how many inanimate objects would call for help during a major crisis. On top of all that the zombies have sabotaged a lot of the communications grid—apparently they don’t like voices in their head telling them they’re ill.”

The scent of ghee and fried onions floated into the room from the kitchen. Aristide closed the door.

“Is the government responding?” Aristide said.

“It’s beginning to. But a lot of police and emergency workers have been infected, and they’ve got access to weapons. And a great many of the infected are blaming the government for their problems, and are launching attacks against government installations.”

“Well.” Aristide lifted Tecmessa, the little ineffective wand mounted in the businesslike hilt. “I should offer help.”

“I would advise remaining where you are, in relative safety.”

Aristide considered the prospect of being locked in a small room with his memories, and decided against it.

“I was backed up only this afternoon,” he said. “If I become a casualty, I’ll lose only a few hours—and,” he added, “there’s nothing in those hours I wish to remember.”

“As you wish.” Endora knew him well enough not to dispute his decision.

“Where will I be most useful?” he asked. He began going through Daljit’s drawers, and found a scarf he could wrap around his mouth and nose, and a floppy hat he could pull down over his forehead to minimize his exposure to flying blood and spittle.

“Police and police stations are being attacked,” Endora said.

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