Postsingular | Page 3

and
then switched to an officious tone. "I recommend that you secure the
integrity of the launch vehicle, Mr. Luty."
"I'm not wiping off dog piss! I can smell it from here. See it dripping
down? We'll cleanse the planet and send it into the sky."
"Resume countdown, Mr. Luty." Carlos took another pull from the
champagne bottle. "This tickles my nose." He threw back his head and
gave a sudden cracked whoop. "Happy New Year! Hey, maybe I
should piss on the rocket too!" He handed Jeff the bottle, and made as
if to stand up, but Jeff threw his arm over his friend.
"Batten down for Lu-Tuc Space Tech!" said Jeff, enjoying Carlos's
closeness. He looked up and down the long empty beach. The woman
was a small dab in the distance. And now she deviated into a side path.
"T minus sixty seconds," said Jeff, snugging the bottle into its hole.
"Battle stations, Carlos."
The boys backed down below the crest and lay side by side staring at
Jeff 's little screen. The last ten seconds ticked off. And nothing
happened.
"Shit," said Carlos, raising his head to peer over the dune's crest. "Do
you think the dog--"
The blast was something Jeff felt more than heard. A hideous pressure
on his ears. Shrapnel whizzed overhead; he could feel the violent
rippling of the air. Carlos was lying face down, very still. Blood stained
the sand, outlining Carlos's head. For a second Jeff could think he was
only seeing a shadow. But no.
Not sure if he should roll his friend over, Jeff looked distractedly at the
screen of his cell phone. How strange. The chaotic explosion must have

sent a jet of nanomachines into Carlos's face, for Jeff could see a
ghostly form of his friend's features on the little screen, a stippling of
red dots. Carlos looked all right except for his--eye?
Jeff could hear sirens, still very far. Carlos didn't seem to be breathing.
Jeff went ahead and rolled Carlos over so he could give him
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Maybe the shock wave had knocked his
breath out. Maybe that was all. Maybe everything was still retrievable.
But no, the five-inch metal tube that served as launch lug had speared
through Carlos's right eye. Stuff was oozing from the barely protruding
tip. Carlos had definitely stopped breathing.
Jeff leaned over his beloved friend, pressing his mouth to Carlos's
blood-foamed lips, trying to breathe in life. He was still at it when his
mother and sisters found him. The medics had to sedate him to make
him stop.
CHAPTER 2
Nant Day
Little Chu was Nektar Lundquist's joy, and her sorrow. The
six-year-old boy was winsome, with a chestnut cap of shiny brown hair,
long dark eyelashes, and a tidy mouth. Chu allowed Nektar and her
husband to cuddle him, he'd smile now and then, and he understood
what they said--if it suited his moods. But he wouldn't talk.
The doctors had pinpointed the problem as an empathy deficit, a type
of autism resulting from flawed connections among the so-called
mirror neurons in Chu's cingulate cortex. This wetware flaw prevented
Chu from being able to see other people as having minds and emotions
separate from his own.
"I wonder if Chu thinks we're cartoons," said Nektar's husband, Ond
Lutter, an angular man with thinning blond hair. "Just here to entertain
him. Why talk to the screen?" Ond was an engineer working for Nantel,
Inc., of San Francisco. Among strangers he could seem kind of autistic
himself. But he was warm and friendly within the circle of his friends

and immediate family. He and Nektar were walking to the car after
another visit to the doctor, big Ond holding little Chu's hand.
"Maybe Chu feels like we're all one," said Nektar. She was a
self-possessed woman, tall and erect, glamorous with high cheekbones,
full lips, and clear, thoughtful eyes. "Maybe Chu imagines that we
automatically know what he's thinking." She reached back to adjust her
heavy blond ponytail. She'd been dying her hair since she was twelve.
"How about it, Chu?" said Ond, lifting up the boy and giving him a kiss.
"Is Mommy the same as you? Or is she a machine?"
"Ma chine ma chine ma chine," said Chu, probably not meaning
anything by it. He often parroted phrases he heard, sometimes chanting
a single word for a whole day.
"What about the experimental treatment the doctor mentioned?" said
Nektar, looking down at her son, a little frown in her smooth brow.
"The nants," she continued. "Why wouldn't you let me tell the doctor
that you work for Nantel, Ond? I think you bruised my shin." The
doctor had suggested that a swarm of properly programmed nants
might eventually be injected into Chu to find their way