Schismatrix plus - Bruce Sterling [39]
"It's a decoy," the Rep said.
"You think so?"
"Yeah, I've seen 'em. Shaper work. Just a polymer skin, a balloon. Airtight, though. There might be someone in it."
"I've never seen one," Lindsay said.
"There's thousands." It was true. Shaper claim-jumpers in the Belt had been manufacturing the decoys for years. The polymer skins were large enough to house a small outpost of data spies, drone hijackers, or defectors. Would-be Mech sundogs could hide from police agencies there, or Shaper cypher experts could lurk within them, tapping inter-cartel broadcasts. The strategy was to overload Mech tracking systems with a swarm of potential hideouts. The Shapers had made a strong early showing in the struggle for the Belt, and there were still isolated groups of Shaper agents moving from cell to cell behind Mech lines while the Ring Council was under siege. Many decoys were outfitted with propaganda broadcasting systems or with solar wind-tracking devices that could distort their orbits; some could shrink and expand repeatedly, disappearing from Mech radar. It was cheaper to manufacture them than it was to track down and destroy them, giving the Shapers a financial edge.
The outpost the Red Consensus had been hired to hit was one of those manufacturing centers.
"When there's peace," the Rep told him, "you get a dozen of these, link
'em up with tubeways, and you got a good cheap nation-station."
"Will there ever be peace?" Lindsay said.
The walls hummed as the Red Consensus reeled in line. "When the aliens come," the Rep said.
ABOARD THE RED CONSENSUS: 30-11-'16
They were training in the gym. "That's enough for today," the President said. "You're all looking good. Even State has the fundamentals down." The three Reps laughed, lifting off their helmets. Lindsay popped the seal and pulled the suit helmet over his head. The combat session had lasted longer than he'd expected. He had hidden the wad from an inhaler inside the suit; he'd soaked it in vasopressin. He knew what was coming next, and he knew he would need his training at its finest pitch. But the fumes had been stronger than he'd realized; he felt dizzy, and his bladder ached.
"You're flushed, State," the President said. "Feel winded?"
"It's the air inside the suit, sir," Lindsay lied, the words ringing loudly in his own ears. "The oxygen, sir." The vasopressin had dilated the blood vessels beneath his skin.
Rep 1 laughed and made a face. "State's a feeb."
"At ease, the rest of you citizens. State and I have business." The suits were entered through a long horseshoe-shaped inseam along the crotch and thighs. The others, except for Rep 3, were out of their suits in seconds. Lindsay unzipped his seam and kicked his legs out of the heavy magnetic boots.
The others left, leaving Lindsay and the President. Lindsay shrugged the suit over his head, and as he did so he squeezed his right hand shut within the suit's bulky arm, driving a hypo needle deep into the base of his palm. He plucked the needle loose and let it float down into the glove fingers. He left the suit open to air it out and tucked it under one arm. No one would bother it; it was Lindsay's now, with the diplomatic seal of the FMD on both shoulders. He followed the President up a deck and stowed the suit on its rack.
The two of them were alone in the "broom closet." The President's face was anxious. "You're ready, soldier? You feel okay? Ideologically, I mean?"
"Yes, sir," Lindsay said. "My mind's made up, sir."
"Then follow me." They went up two more decks to the control room. The President hauled himself head first through the narrow armory room and into the gun compartment.
Lindsay followed. His head throbbed, dilated blood vessels pounding rhythmically. He felt sharper than broken glass. He took a deep breath and pulled himself feet first into the gunroom. He plunged at once into an underworld of paranoia.
"You're ready?"
"Yes, sir," Lindsay said. Slowly, he strapped himself into the skeletal control chair. The