Ghosts of Engines Past (30 page)

“And before
our
Vaudville show. Expect a world tour by supersonic jet, starting the hour that we land. Quarantine in-flight, medals presented on the run.”

“We win, yet they do it better,” said Ilya as they floated, shivering. “We bring back thirty kilos of samples, they bring back a hundred. They land two astronauts, then bring them back first.”

“But our samples are better scientifically.”

“Tell that to any journalist. Now the Americans are touring the world, handing out so many moonrocks that they are giving away more than we bring back. We got there first, but they win. The world wants a show, and Americans are the greatest showmen of all. Soon they will demonstrate that they can go to the moon over and over again, and it will be said that Svyatagor’s success was an accident that we dare not try to duplicate. There is no question of it: we lost.”

“True... but who knows? Moscow and Washington have been pissing on each others parades ever since they beat us to the atomic bomb. They beat us back from the moon, so we shall think of something.”

“But what?”

“Why ask me? Somewhere back home there is a propaganda expert with a KGB man pressing a gun against his head and demanding ideas. Ask him.”

Thirty hours later they had their answer. Two spacecraft were launched within hours of each other from Baikonyur. The manned craft manoevered to the other, then docked. Hours later, a third manned vessel docked with the complex. Finally Radio Moscow announced the establishment of the world’s first space station. It was to be crewed permenantly, and experiments would be conducted into long-term weightlessness.

“Systems will be tested for use in long duration flights, with a view to sending a crew to Mars,” the radio announced as the two Svyatagor cosmonauts prepared for re-entry.

“Mars!” they exclaimed together.

“Technology for the Mars expedition was tested successfully on the Svyatagor mission, which is about to re-enter the atmosphere,” the radio continued.

“We barely survived!” Ilya shouted at the speaker, but there was nobody to hear but Nikolai.

Re-entry was as uneventful as a re-entry could be expected to be, and a bump announced that they were on the ground. It was over, and because they were alive, they had triumphed. It was not a glorious triumph, but a triumph nonetheless.

“Mars,” muttered Nikolai as they sat waiting for the quarantine unit to arrive. “It will take twenty years, perhaps. Even that assumes a lot more roubles spent on some truly enormous boosters.”

“Hopefully they will be reliable boosters,” added Ilya. “And while they are at it, they can buy an American air conditioning unit for the command module.”

“It’s just propaganda. The Americans will declare that they are going to Mars as well, and they will do it bigger, better and faster. Our humiliation will be all the greater. The cosmonauts in our tin-can space station will break records and prove we can live in space long enough to reach Mars, but we will not be able to do the real thing.”

“Who could have guessed we would win the race to the moon but lose the race back?”

There was a scrabbling outside the descent module, and the sound of air hissing as the seal of the hatch was broken. The two cosmonauts were helped out into the warm air of the steppes without even a pretense of quarantine procedures. They were walked about until they could cope with the return of gravity, then taken aside by a sharp-faced official in an overcoat who identified himself as Malyshev.

“There will be no quarantine or decontamination,” he explained. “The Americans brought no germs back, and that is good enough for us. You have of course heard about the Mars expedition preparations?”

“The space station, yes,” replied Ilya. “I take it you want us to confirm that we tested Mars expedition systems?”

“Just in general, no specifics.”

“We very nearly tested hibernation, what with the air conditioning failure,” added Nikolai. “Surely Moscow can’t be serious. The Americans are—”

“Moscow is looking at a launch in the mid-Seventies.”

“What?” exclaimed Nikolai. “We barely survived the moon trip! The N1 booster is a disaster trying to happen, and—”

“The N1 will not be used. All components will be lifted into orbit by conventional boosters, where they will be joined together. A separate, solid fuel, two man ascent stage will be sent to Mars in advance, as will an orbital return stage. It will all be done in pieces. Even as I speak, plans are being drawn up and money is being allocated.”

“Too much can go wrong, it is suicide,” was Nikolai’s immediate reaction.

“Announcing this in advance will only spur the Americans on all the more,” said Ilya.

“Besides, you can’t even get propaganda out of it for years,” added Nikolai. “The Americans will say this is all pipe dreams until you announce
how
you are going to get there. Then they will do it too, but better, bigger and faster.”

“You are right, we are indeed going to have to test and assemble the Mars ships in secret, disguised as parts of our little space station. All the while we shall be firing our remaining N1 boosters, and the American spy satellites will probably be reporting that they are less than successful.”

“Change probably to definitely,” said Ilya.

“But the Americans will win the propaganda war for the next five or six years,” said Nikolai. “Moscow will not like that. They will be landing men on the moon all the while, and parading their astronauts and moon rocks before the world. You have only us, and enough lunar soil and rocks to fill a small bucket.”

“We were first by only an hour, and we were not better by
any
measure,” added Ilya.

“But if you are announced as the two crewmen for the Mars mission, it will be very different,” said Malyshev.

“Us?” they chorused, their eyes bulging.

“You will be announced as the two Mars cosmonauts, testing basic systems on an easy jaunt to the moon. You were first to the moon, and now you are going to Mars. The Americans will have nothing to match that, and the world will be at your feet. It will also be a triumph for socialism, of course. You have two minutes to make your decision, comrades, and may I remind you of the importance of that decision? I shall be waiting at the helicopter.”

They were left alone, standing in full view of the recovery team but out of earshot. They said nothing for the first thirty seconds of their allocated time.

“Mars,” said Ilya.

“Suicide,” sighed Nikolai quietly.

“We don’t really have a choice, do we?”

“They can hardly shoot us if we refuse.”

“But
could
you refuse? I could not. Remember, this time
you
would land as well. We could let you make the first footprint.”

Nikolai stared had at the ground that he had returned to by little more than sheer luck.

“Comrade Ilya, how long can we go on, expanding into the universe on bluff, lies and untested, unreliable equipment? Hanging on by our fingernails?”

“I am willing to find out,” said Ilya firmly. “What is your decision?

Nikolai looked at his bare hands for a moment, then sighed and shrugged.

“You will need someone with strong fingernails,” he said slowly, as if forcing the words out, “and my fingernails have already been tested.”

Even as they stood smiling and shaking hands, Malyshev was on the radio to Moscow, confirming that they had agreed to the scheme. Nearby, the descent module was being lifted into the air by a helicopter.

“Svyatagor’s last journey will be but a short one,” said Ilya as the cosmonauts stood watching.

“Lucky Svyatagor,” muttered Nikolai.

It is the Year of Greatwinter 1696, which is about two thousand years in a very retro future Australia. The young Dragon Librarian Zarvora has an idea for a 2 Kilo-Slave computer. She is willing to shoot her way to the top to get funding for it.

Librarians around the world loved SOULS IN THE GREAT MACHINE because in this novel they run the country, dress in really stylish uniforms, and settle disputes by duels with flintlock pistols. It probably also reminded them of the problems with their library computer systems and staff. In SOULS IN THE GREAT MACHINE, I introduced a large, human-powered computer
called the Calculor. The Calculor is largely complete and almost operational at the beginning of the novel, but how was it developed? More to the point, how did the head of the huge library, Libris, get the resources and authority to build it? No dream becomes real without hard work, and some dreams also require blood on the floor.

It was the year of Greatwinter 1696, and for those who worked in the huge and rambling library, Libris, the universe had changed. Highliber Chartos was dead at the age of a hundred and six, after forty one years in charge of the largest library in the known world. His successor was a mere twenty-six years of age. That was unusual, because Charltos had been a mere Dragon Orange at the age of twenty-six. His successor was female, but that was not unusual. Throughout the centuries slightly under a third of all highlibers had been female, even allowing for five women masquerading as men, three men masquerading as women, and Highliber Bertrould who took to wearing women's clothing after a freakish accident in the duelling gallery in 1473 GW. True, there was no precedent for a Dragon Silver librarian being appointed Highliber over those with the rank of Dragon Gold, but this did not breach any rules. Indeed, there was only a single objection to the fact that a Dragon Silver was to be promoted to Dragon Black, and would this very day attempt to be enrobed. Zarvora Francelle Cybeline was to be appointed on merit alone.

Two elderly attendants were sweeping the floor of the library's duelling gallery, even though it was quite clean. At either end of the gallery were teams of attendants hanging banners in front of the sandbags that were meant to catch any balls that did not strike those who were duelling. The slabs of bluestone paving extended one hundred yards to either side of a thin strip of white marble inlay that marked the centre. The bluestone had been touched by the blood of many thousands of librarians who had fought there throughout many centuries.

“That new Highliber's to fight again,” said Closter as he swept dust that did not exist into a grating pan.

“She's killed five since she was appointed last week,” replied Lermai.

“This will be different. It's rapiers. She's a deadly shot, but rapiers is different. You need skill, but also endurance, strength, reflexes and experience.”

“Why are so many senior dragons challenging her? She's nice enough, she even gave day's compliments to
me
yesterday. Like, I'm a Library Attendant, Class Orange, Subdivision 5. Old Charltos never even noticed we existed.”

“Old Charltos never noticed
anyone
existed for his last fifteen years. He had dotard's disease.”

Somewhere nearby a handbell was rung, and the Moderator of Librarians appeared. He asked the rangemaster to declare the gallery ready, and Rangemaster Mallin quickly ordered everyone clear of the blackstone flooring. Closter and Lermai stood ready beside a trolley, then there was a fanfare that echoed through the stone gallery for a disconcertingly long time. The judges paraded in, then came the seconds, each carrying a duelling rapier in a scabbard. Next came twelve tiger dragons, the constables of the corridors of Libris. They were armed with half-long muskets, the type used when accurate shooting was required indoors.

“That dragon blue leadin' the muskets, she's Vardel Griss,” hissed Closter.

“Nice set o' tankards on her,” observed Lermai.

“No, no, I mean she's a Tiger Dragon what's been made a dragon blue! They're only ever Dragon Red. It's this new Highliber, no respect for tradition.”

The duellists now appeared, approaching from opposite ends of the long gallery. Cassin was tall, lean, fit and generally athletic, but had a certain edge about him that came from killing people for a living. Zarvora had long, black unbound hair, and was almost as tall as Cassin. While also fit and lean, there was something different about the beautiful librarian's bearing: she already had the relaxed swagger of a victor. They stopped a yard apart, separated by the thin line of marble in the floor.

“Dragon Red Cassin, champion of Dragon Gold Landarker of Acquisitions, and Dragon Silver, Highliber Cybleine, for yourself, you are here because all attempts at conciliation have failed,” declared the moderator, with a foot on either side of the white marble line. “In accordance with the letter of law, I declare you to be under the command of the Rangermaster.”

The moderator stepped back, turned, and walked from the duelling chambers. Because he had failed to avert the conflict, he was required to leave for the actual fighting. The rangemaster stepped forward to straddle the white marble line.

“Medicars, check for armour!” he ordered.

Two medicars felt the torsos of the duellists, then declared that neither was wearing any more than cloth.

“Disputants, take your weapons and make ready,” he ordered, his voice clear, steady, and devoid of emotion.

The duellists turned to their seconds, who presented them with their rapiers. The Tiger Dragons cocked their muskets and took up positions to cover both of them, ensuring that neither would live long if they attempted to cheat. The five judges now took up their positions.

“Disputants, salute the Overjudge!” the rangemaster ordered, and the two duellists brought the hilts of their rapiers up to their faces, then swept the blades down in the direction of the overjudge, acknowledging his authority. “Disputants, salute the hand that opposes you.” The duellists saluted each other. “Make ready your guard.”

Closter leaned over to Lermai as they two duellists brought their blades up to the guard position.