Making the Scene
"Let's get together and talk about the modern age..."
--Rilo Kiley
"It's getting worse. Last time they pushed us back to the foot of the Maze."
Alice and Bob say nothing. Saying nothing is pretty much their job in this situations.
"They come every month, on the first Friday. We're not really sure why. The eggheads say it has something to do with building up a critical mass. The point is, they get more dangerous every month. Sooner or later...we're not going to be able to stop them."
Alice and Bob remain silent. The Old Man -- who is really only forty-one, but it's a tradition in intelligence organizations -- throws himself into his chair and broods at them.
"The President called me. I called you. Somebody's going to have to go in there and find out what's going on. And how we can stop it."
The Old Man sighs. "I chose you two because Alice grew up there. And because Bob's always been aces at deep infiltration. And because the two of you are the best agents we've got. Air Force One is leaving here in two hours, and you'll be on it.
"Be careful. Don't be heroes. Try to come back alive."
Alice and Bob nod, once each.
***
The colonel is harried, and has perhaps the worst post in the country, but he is affable enough once they flash their commissions. He commandeers a jeep himself, and takes them up the 580, towards the bridge. The engineers have been cleaning up the battlefield as best they can, but they still occasionally pass a remnant of war; here a few gears and a chain, there a dead private, rifle unused. Every so often a soldier stands, arms lax, still dumbstruck with awe and sorrow at what they have faced. They will die soon, or try to cross the bridge, and be shot by their compatriots.
The colonel waits until they have passed the fortification where the tollbooth plaza once stood to attempt conversation. "So, you folks work for the NSA, huh?"
"Mm-hmm," Bob replies.
"Are your names really Alice and Bob?"
"We used to work in cryptology," Alice says.
There is a short pause.
"So...what exactly happened here, if you don't mind my asking? I've always wondered, and nobody ever seems to be able to give me a straight answer," the colonel says.
"Have you ever heard of Vernor Vinge?" Bob says.
"No," the colonel says. "Is he some kind of supervillain or something?"
"Uh, kind of," Bob says. "Vinge came up the idea of the Singularity, where a combination of technological progress and societal change would lead to extremely rapid evolution into something us pre-Singularity humans basically can't imagine. And, well, it happened, here in San Francisco, in 2010. Around when Google was hooking the whole city up with wireless."
The jeep speeds across the empty bridge, coming to a halt in the tunnel. "This is as far as I go," says the colonel.
"But this is the Treasure Island exit," Alice protests. "We're only halfway across."
The colonel just stares at her. "I've been fighting these things for five years now. This is as far as I go."
The agents disembark, and begin to walk down the bridge, when the colonel yells after them. Bob turns.
"If they're...evolved," the colonel says, haltingly. "Does that mean they're better than us?"
Bob just looks at him, and turns back to continue walking. After a few moments, they hear the rumble of the jeep as it turns around.
***
It's a bit of a hike, but the agents are in shape. It only takes them a couple of hours to get to the end of the bridge. As they begin to walk down the 9th Street offramp, Alice peers over the edge and gasps, staring.
"What?" Bob rushes to her side and is dumbstruck in his turn.
"I didn't know they'd be so...beautiful," Alice breathes.
The streets of San Francisco are filled with bicycles. Pale, slim creatures tear through the turns and negotiate the intersections, while others travel down the sidewalks in packs of two or three, smiling and conversing in strange words the agents do not understand. Their clothes are of simple fabrics, in bright primary colors or bold striped patterns; they wear small metal rings or pins, in their lips, their eyebrows, their noses and ears. This straightforward attire only serves to compliment their ethereal beauty; their delicate faces, anxious smiles, earnest eyes, and immaculately unkempt hair strike to the heart of the agents looking down on them. They are not human. They are something...else. Almost all of them seem to be carrying some sort of musical instrument.
Bob grabs Alice's arm. With a great effort, the two of them tear their eyes away from the creatures below, and look at each other.
"Maybe," Alice says, "we should try not to look directly at them." Bob nods.
"How do you tell the boys from the girls?" Bob wonders as they watch their feet, continuing to walk.
"I'm not sure those concepts really mean anything to them any more," Alice says. "Maybe they're beyond that kind of gender dualism."
Before they can get all the way down the offramp, they are accosted by one of the creatures, who smiles benevolently at them, greeting them with a flow of liquid syllables that they cannot comprehend.
"I don't...I can't speak your language," Alice says, raising her hands to indicate confusion, and carefully studying the ground. "I'm sorry..."
The creature nods, thoughtfully playing with its lip ring, and walks away. Before the agents can get their bearings, it has returned, walking two fixed-speed bikes, and carrying a shopping bag. It hands these gifts to the agents and utters a few more kindly-sounding words, patting Bob lightly on the shoulder (he recoils).
"What's in there?" Bob asks.
Alice opens the bag and peers inside. "Some clothes, pink cotton shirts and leather pants...a couple of cans of something called Red Stripe...and...is that a bag of cocaine?"
Another creature stops his bike nearby and barks a few accusatory words at the creature who originally greeted them. This one has some funny markings on his wrists, like two large black Xs. The first creature reacts poorly, whirling and snapping in return, and before long the two are embroiled in what appears to be a heated argument.
"What's going on?" Bob whispers.
"Let's just walk away," Alice says, and they do, heading around the corner with their new bicycles in tow. "I thought they'd be united. But I guess there are factions even here."
"Well, at least we got clothes and transportation out of the deal," Bob shrugs. That'll make it easier for us to fit in."
"I dunno," Alice says. "Somehow I think even with the clothes, they'll be able to take one look at us and know we don't fit in. I wish that thing had brought us something to eat. I'm hungry after all that walking."
Bob grabs her arm. "Didn't you hear the briefing tapes?" he hisses. "You can't eat the food here!"
Alice stares at him. "Why not?"
Bob shrugs. "It's vegan."
***
As the agents ride clumsily down the streets, they come upon a park, near a great church. The park is filled with a teeming mass of creatures, milling around a makeshift stage, on which a few of them stand, fiddling with instruments and occasionally making peremptory sounds into the mic.
"What's this place?" Bob slows.
"It's Dolores Park," Alice says. I used to live near here."
"What are they doing?" Bob says.
"I dunno," Alice shrugs. "Looks like some sort of religious thing. Maybe we should check it out. It might help us figure out what's going on here."
They lock up their bikes and head into the park, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. They have just gotten settled in when the music starts.
The singer's voice isn't all that great -- it's more whiny and nasal than anything else, really. But the angelic noises of the synthesizer are like no instrument that could exist, backed by the calm purr of the bass, the loving muted ring of the guitar, the steady backbeat of the drum...and the words the singer sings, while unintelligible to the agents, are wrapped with such earnestness, such dedication, that his unselfconscious belief shines through even the language barrier to touch their souls.
Alice feels a wrench at her heart, but shrugs it off with an effort, grasping at her consciousness with the last lingering shreds of duty she has left. "Come on, Bob. We've got to get out of here. We'll look somewhere else.
"...Bob?"
Bob is watching the band, staring directly at the singer, not even blinking. His hands clench slightly, and his head almost imperceptibly nods to the beat. He turns to Alice, and his eyes are shining with tears.
"They're pretty good," he whispers. "But I liked them better before they sold out."
And Alice realizes with horror that she is alone.
--Rilo Kiley
"It's getting worse. Last time they pushed us back to the foot of the Maze."
Alice and Bob say nothing. Saying nothing is pretty much their job in this situations.
"They come every month, on the first Friday. We're not really sure why. The eggheads say it has something to do with building up a critical mass. The point is, they get more dangerous every month. Sooner or later...we're not going to be able to stop them."
Alice and Bob remain silent. The Old Man -- who is really only forty-one, but it's a tradition in intelligence organizations -- throws himself into his chair and broods at them.
"The President called me. I called you. Somebody's going to have to go in there and find out what's going on. And how we can stop it."
The Old Man sighs. "I chose you two because Alice grew up there. And because Bob's always been aces at deep infiltration. And because the two of you are the best agents we've got. Air Force One is leaving here in two hours, and you'll be on it.
"Be careful. Don't be heroes. Try to come back alive."
Alice and Bob nod, once each.
***
The colonel is harried, and has perhaps the worst post in the country, but he is affable enough once they flash their commissions. He commandeers a jeep himself, and takes them up the 580, towards the bridge. The engineers have been cleaning up the battlefield as best they can, but they still occasionally pass a remnant of war; here a few gears and a chain, there a dead private, rifle unused. Every so often a soldier stands, arms lax, still dumbstruck with awe and sorrow at what they have faced. They will die soon, or try to cross the bridge, and be shot by their compatriots.
The colonel waits until they have passed the fortification where the tollbooth plaza once stood to attempt conversation. "So, you folks work for the NSA, huh?"
"Mm-hmm," Bob replies.
"Are your names really Alice and Bob?"
"We used to work in cryptology," Alice says.
There is a short pause.
"So...what exactly happened here, if you don't mind my asking? I've always wondered, and nobody ever seems to be able to give me a straight answer," the colonel says.
"Have you ever heard of Vernor Vinge?" Bob says.
"No," the colonel says. "Is he some kind of supervillain or something?"
"Uh, kind of," Bob says. "Vinge came up the idea of the Singularity, where a combination of technological progress and societal change would lead to extremely rapid evolution into something us pre-Singularity humans basically can't imagine. And, well, it happened, here in San Francisco, in 2010. Around when Google was hooking the whole city up with wireless."
The jeep speeds across the empty bridge, coming to a halt in the tunnel. "This is as far as I go," says the colonel.
"But this is the Treasure Island exit," Alice protests. "We're only halfway across."
The colonel just stares at her. "I've been fighting these things for five years now. This is as far as I go."
The agents disembark, and begin to walk down the bridge, when the colonel yells after them. Bob turns.
"If they're...evolved," the colonel says, haltingly. "Does that mean they're better than us?"
Bob just looks at him, and turns back to continue walking. After a few moments, they hear the rumble of the jeep as it turns around.
***
It's a bit of a hike, but the agents are in shape. It only takes them a couple of hours to get to the end of the bridge. As they begin to walk down the 9th Street offramp, Alice peers over the edge and gasps, staring.
"What?" Bob rushes to her side and is dumbstruck in his turn.
"I didn't know they'd be so...beautiful," Alice breathes.
The streets of San Francisco are filled with bicycles. Pale, slim creatures tear through the turns and negotiate the intersections, while others travel down the sidewalks in packs of two or three, smiling and conversing in strange words the agents do not understand. Their clothes are of simple fabrics, in bright primary colors or bold striped patterns; they wear small metal rings or pins, in their lips, their eyebrows, their noses and ears. This straightforward attire only serves to compliment their ethereal beauty; their delicate faces, anxious smiles, earnest eyes, and immaculately unkempt hair strike to the heart of the agents looking down on them. They are not human. They are something...else. Almost all of them seem to be carrying some sort of musical instrument.
Bob grabs Alice's arm. With a great effort, the two of them tear their eyes away from the creatures below, and look at each other.
"Maybe," Alice says, "we should try not to look directly at them." Bob nods.
"How do you tell the boys from the girls?" Bob wonders as they watch their feet, continuing to walk.
"I'm not sure those concepts really mean anything to them any more," Alice says. "Maybe they're beyond that kind of gender dualism."
Before they can get all the way down the offramp, they are accosted by one of the creatures, who smiles benevolently at them, greeting them with a flow of liquid syllables that they cannot comprehend.
"I don't...I can't speak your language," Alice says, raising her hands to indicate confusion, and carefully studying the ground. "I'm sorry..."
The creature nods, thoughtfully playing with its lip ring, and walks away. Before the agents can get their bearings, it has returned, walking two fixed-speed bikes, and carrying a shopping bag. It hands these gifts to the agents and utters a few more kindly-sounding words, patting Bob lightly on the shoulder (he recoils).
"What's in there?" Bob asks.
Alice opens the bag and peers inside. "Some clothes, pink cotton shirts and leather pants...a couple of cans of something called Red Stripe...and...is that a bag of cocaine?"
Another creature stops his bike nearby and barks a few accusatory words at the creature who originally greeted them. This one has some funny markings on his wrists, like two large black Xs. The first creature reacts poorly, whirling and snapping in return, and before long the two are embroiled in what appears to be a heated argument.
"What's going on?" Bob whispers.
"Let's just walk away," Alice says, and they do, heading around the corner with their new bicycles in tow. "I thought they'd be united. But I guess there are factions even here."
"Well, at least we got clothes and transportation out of the deal," Bob shrugs. That'll make it easier for us to fit in."
"I dunno," Alice says. "Somehow I think even with the clothes, they'll be able to take one look at us and know we don't fit in. I wish that thing had brought us something to eat. I'm hungry after all that walking."
Bob grabs her arm. "Didn't you hear the briefing tapes?" he hisses. "You can't eat the food here!"
Alice stares at him. "Why not?"
Bob shrugs. "It's vegan."
***
As the agents ride clumsily down the streets, they come upon a park, near a great church. The park is filled with a teeming mass of creatures, milling around a makeshift stage, on which a few of them stand, fiddling with instruments and occasionally making peremptory sounds into the mic.
"What's this place?" Bob slows.
"It's Dolores Park," Alice says. I used to live near here."
"What are they doing?" Bob says.
"I dunno," Alice shrugs. "Looks like some sort of religious thing. Maybe we should check it out. It might help us figure out what's going on here."
They lock up their bikes and head into the park, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. They have just gotten settled in when the music starts.
The singer's voice isn't all that great -- it's more whiny and nasal than anything else, really. But the angelic noises of the synthesizer are like no instrument that could exist, backed by the calm purr of the bass, the loving muted ring of the guitar, the steady backbeat of the drum...and the words the singer sings, while unintelligible to the agents, are wrapped with such earnestness, such dedication, that his unselfconscious belief shines through even the language barrier to touch their souls.
Alice feels a wrench at her heart, but shrugs it off with an effort, grasping at her consciousness with the last lingering shreds of duty she has left. "Come on, Bob. We've got to get out of here. We'll look somewhere else.
"...Bob?"
Bob is watching the band, staring directly at the singer, not even blinking. His hands clench slightly, and his head almost imperceptibly nods to the beat. He turns to Alice, and his eyes are shining with tears.
"They're pretty good," he whispers. "But I liked them better before they sold out."
And Alice realizes with horror that she is alone.