JК
Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
Страница: 139 из 156The deactivated silicrobes, apparently still remaining in suspension, now no longer contributed any motion to the flow and in fact hindered the water molecules from resuming even their old basal speed. The downstream waterway, until so recently an efficient Riverroad upon which millions relied, was now a turbid slurry.
Dos Santos looked to the left, downstream, but focused his gaze on the nearer third of the River, the upstream channel.
This portion of River Seven was still functioning. Being composed of pure silicrobes, it was matte black in color and stood out sharply, its border still cohesive, from the downstream mess. But this normal appearance was misleading, and Dos Santos knew-
With a sharp intake of breath, the River Master spotted it.
The failure wavefront.
He watched helplessly as the killer disinformation propagated swiftly upriver, soon reaching his position and passing unstoppably on.
Behind it, silicrobes went offline by the hundreds of trillions. The black stripe instantly began to extend irregular fingers of darkness into the downstream portion of the River, silicrobes flowing "backwards," and from greater concentration to lesser as the now-unthinking River-formerly considered an actual entity of Turing Level One-attempted to homogenize itself according to dumb physics.
"Damn. Damn, damn, damn!"
Momentary hopelessness washed over Dos Santos. He had dedicated his life to Riparian Admin, out of a love for
these great semiliquid, semi-intelligent transport machines. For the past fifty years, he had worked self-sacrificingly on the Rivers of the world, the large and the small. River Eight (the old Volga), River Three (the old Mississippi), River One-Oh-Four (the old Ganges), River Twenty-Nine (the old Nile), even River One (the old Amazon)-First as apprentice, then as journeyman, finally as Master, he had lovingly tended these sinuous creations of humanity that snaked across the domesticated globe, carrying mankind's freight and travelers, hosting its recreations, bathing its pilgrims. And never in that time had he experienced such a thing as this horror: the death of one of his charges.
It felt like he imagined the death of the never-met pairbond proxy and hypothetical zygotes he had never permitted himself to indulge in would have felt. There was a hole in his soul.
Anger and a determination for revenge replaced the hopelessness. Dos Santos would make someone pay.
And River Seven, he vowed, would live again.
He advanced to the edge of the banking, which sloped away steeply to the River, a forty-five degree stretch of crumbly red clay, and scrambled down.
Dos Santos looked to the left, downstream, but focused his gaze on the nearer third of the River, the upstream channel.
This portion of River Seven was still functioning. Being composed of pure silicrobes, it was matte black in color and stood out sharply, its border still cohesive, from the downstream mess. But this normal appearance was misleading, and Dos Santos knew-
With a sharp intake of breath, the River Master spotted it.
The failure wavefront.
He watched helplessly as the killer disinformation propagated swiftly upriver, soon reaching his position and passing unstoppably on.
Behind it, silicrobes went offline by the hundreds of trillions. The black stripe instantly began to extend irregular fingers of darkness into the downstream portion of the River, silicrobes flowing "backwards," and from greater concentration to lesser as the now-unthinking River-formerly considered an actual entity of Turing Level One-attempted to homogenize itself according to dumb physics.
"Damn. Damn, damn, damn!"
Momentary hopelessness washed over Dos Santos. He had dedicated his life to Riparian Admin, out of a love for
these great semiliquid, semi-intelligent transport machines. For the past fifty years, he had worked self-sacrificingly on the Rivers of the world, the large and the small. River Eight (the old Volga), River Three (the old Mississippi), River One-Oh-Four (the old Ganges), River Twenty-Nine (the old Nile), even River One (the old Amazon)-First as apprentice, then as journeyman, finally as Master, he had lovingly tended these sinuous creations of humanity that snaked across the domesticated globe, carrying mankind's freight and travelers, hosting its recreations, bathing its pilgrims. And never in that time had he experienced such a thing as this horror: the death of one of his charges.
It felt like he imagined the death of the never-met pairbond proxy and hypothetical zygotes he had never permitted himself to indulge in would have felt. There was a hole in his soul.
Anger and a determination for revenge replaced the hopelessness. Dos Santos would make someone pay.
And River Seven, he vowed, would live again.
He advanced to the edge of the banking, which sloped away steeply to the River, a forty-five degree stretch of crumbly red clay, and scrambled down.