The Wellstone by Wil McCarthy Read Free Book Online Page A

stinking like rotten cheese.
    Ho, racing out in front of Bascal once more, leaned over the benches and treated both men to a bloodcurdling shriek. They startled awake immediately, their eyes wide. They didn’t make a single noise of their own, and the look on their faces was one of frank fear, even when they realized the scream was just some kid having fun. They expected, what, to be beaten? Murdered? Dragged forcibly through a fax gate until their drunken heads were clear? Now
there
was a bit of teenage thuggery you could probably get away with. But Ho just laughed, and then Bascal was laughing too, and the boys were on their way again.
    And then, without any warning at all, they crested a low hill or ridge and found themselves at the edge of the fax perimeter. You didn’t need a map to see it; there was just this big park: grassy meadows and big stone staircases, and again with the little trees. Wellstone paths snaked through it, glowing faintly and tastefully in the moonlight, and just beyond these stood a row of brightly lit buildings, lining a depression that must be the Platte River.
    Indeed, as they drew closer there was an unmistakable smell of “waterway” that Conrad had never realized he could sense. Interesting. That smell had once meant the difference between life and death for his primitive ancestors, so maybe it was coded in his genes. Probably was, yeah.
Too much tinkering,
he thought,
and we could lose
these little details. Stop being animals and start being some
other kind of thing. Self-designed, with all the foolishness
that that implies. Evolution is at least impartial.
But Conrad was young, and thoughts like that were a fleeting snow that melted rather than sticking.
    Bascal clapped him on the shoulder, dragging him forward. “Conrad my man, you stop to brood every time we round a corner. You’re thinking too much, and it’s getting to be a problem.”
    “I’ve got impulsiveness issues,” Conrad answered with a laugh. “You should be glad I’m thinking at all.”
    That seemed to make Bascal angry. “Your parents are what, a hundred years old? Two hundred? Fucking
experts
on the subject of impulsiveness.”
    “Actually, it was my school—”
    “Well, to hell with your school. I doubt you committed a single age-inappropriate act. This is exactly why there are cities like Denver, where they at least make concessions to our youthful vigor, where they at least acknowledge that we have our own needs. Parents ought to be forced to live here. It ought to be fucking
mandatory
.”
    A thought occurred: “Maybe
you
should be in charge of the Children’s Cities, O Prince of Sol.”
    But Bascal just grunted derisively. “Bring that bill before the Senate, hmm? I’ll be fifty before they’re finished debating. And still a child in their eyes.”
    “But your parents—”
    This time, it was Bascal’s fist on his shoulder, slugging. “Will you shut up? Please? You are wrecking my mood. It’s tiresome.”
    Ho Ng sidled up, showing fists of his own. “No pissing off the prince, bloodfuck. I’m going to pound somebody, and it might be you.”
    “Steady,” Bascal said, holding up a hand. “We have a common purpose here.”
    “What purpose?” Feck wanted to know. “We appear to be at the limits of the known universe.”
    “Why, revolution,” Bascal answered casually, pointing at one of the buildings. “Starting right there.”

chapter four
    the wellwood deception
    Revolution. Wow. Fuck. Was that a metaphor? Because tempting as the idea might seem, a gaggle of teenage refugees from summer camp couldn’t do much against a whole Queendom, with its police and truant officers, its infinite supply of infinitely patient robots, and of course its billions of satisfied citizens in their tens of billions of instantiations. Even if the boys commandeered a fax machine and printed up an army of themselves, the Constabulary would simply shut down the entire area, round the boys up, and reconverge their