Singularity Sky (4 page)
The concierge nodded, stony-faced. “On behalf of the hotel, I wish you a fruitful journey,” he intoned. “Marcus, see to this gentleman.” And off he stalked.
The clerk cracked open the first of the ledgers and glanced at Martin cautiously. “Which class, sir?”
“First.” If there was one thing that Martin had learned early, it was that the New Republic had some very strange ideas about class. He made up his mind. “I need to arrive before six o’clock tonight. I will be back here in five minutes. If you would be so good as to have my itinerary ready by then …”
“Yes, sir.” He left the clerk sweating over map and gazetteer, and climbed the four flights of stairs to his floor.
When he returned to the front desk, trailed by a footman with a bag in each hand, the clerk ushered him outside. “Your carnet, sir.” He pocketed the ornate travel document, itself as intricate as any passport. A steam coach was waiting. He climbed in, acknowledged the clerk’s bow with a nod, and the coach huffed away toward the railway station.
It was a damp and foggy morning, and Martin could barely see the ornate stone facade of the ministerial buildings from the windows of his carriage as they rolled past beside him.
The hotel rooms might lack telephones, there might be a political ban on networking and smart matter and a host of other conveniences, and there might be a class system out of the eighteenth century on Earth; but the New Republic had one thing going for it—its trains ran on time. PS 1347, the primary around which New Muscovy orbited, was a young third-generation G2 dwarf; it had formed less than two billion years ago (to Sol’s five), and consequently, the planetary crust of New Muscovy contained uranium ore active enough to sustain criticality without enrichment.
Martin’s coach drew up on the platform alongside the Trans-Peninsular Express. He climbed down from the cabin stiffly and glanced both ways: they’d drawn up a quarter of a kilometer down the marble tongue from the hulking engines, but still the best part of a kilometer away from the dismal tailings of fourth-class accommodation and mail. A majordomo, resplendent in bottle-green frock coat and gold braid, inspected his carnet before ushering him into a private compartment on the upper deck. The room was decorated in blue-dyed leather and old oak, trimmed in brass and gold leaf, and equipped with a marble-topped table and a bell-pull to summon service; it more closely resembled a smoking room back in the hotel than anything Martin associated with public transport.
As soon as the majordomo had left, Martin settled back in one of the deeply padded seats, drew the curtains aside to reveal the arching buttresses and curved roof of the station, and opened his PA in book mode. Shortly thereafter, the train shuddered slightly and began to move: as the train slid out of the station, he glanced out of the window, unable to look away.
The city of New Prague was built just upstream from the tidal estuary of the River Vis; only the Basilisk, brooding atop a plug of eroded volcanic granite, rose much above the level of the plain. Indeed, the train would cruise through the lowlands using just one of its engines. The second reactor would only be brought to criticality when the train reached the foothills of the Apennines, the mountain range that separated the coastal peninsula from the continental interior of New Austria. Then the train would surge in a knife-straight line across nine hundred kilometers of desert before stopping, six hours later, at the foot of the Klamovka beanstalk.
The scene was quite extraordinary. Martin gazed at it in barely controlled awe. Though he didn’t like to admit it, he was something of a tourist, permanently searching for a sense of fresh beauty that he could secretly revel in. There wasn’t anything like this left on Earth; the wild ride of the twentieth century and the events that had followed the Singularity in the twenty-first had distorted the landscape of every industrialized nation. Even in the wake of the population crash, you couldn’t find open countryside, farms, hedges, and neatly planned villages—at least, not without also finding monorails, arcologies, fall-out hot spots, and the weird hillocks of the Final Structure. The lowland landscape through which the Trans-Peninsular Express ran resembled a vision of pre-postindustrial England, a bucolic dreamscape where the trains ran on time and the sun never set on the empire.
But railway journeys pale rapidly, and after half an hour, the train was racing through the valleys in a blur of steel and brass. Martin went back to his book, and was so engrossed in it that he barely noticed the door open and close—until a woman he had never seen before sat down opposite him and cleared her throat.
“Excuse me,” he said, looking up. “Are you sure you have the right compartment?”
She nodded. “Quite sure, thank you. I didn’t request an individual one. Did you?”
“I thought—” He fumbled in his jacket for his carnet. “Ah. I see.” He cursed the concierge silently, thumbed the PA off, then looked at her. “I thought I had a compartment to myself; I see I was wrong. Please accept my apologies.”
The woman nodded graciously. She had long black hair coiled in a bun, high cheekbones and brown eyes; her dark blue gown seemed expensively plain by this society’s standards. Probably a middle-class housewife, he guessed, but his ability to judge social status within the New Republic was still somewhat erratic. He couldn’t even make a stab at her age: heavy makeup, and the tight bodice, billowing skirts and puffed sleeves of capital fashion made an effective disguise.
“Are you going far?” she asked brightly.
“All the way to Klamovka, and thence up the naval beanstalk,” he said, somewhat surprised at this frank interrogation.
“What a coincidence; that’s where I’m going, too. You will excuse me for asking, but am I right in thinking you are not native to this area?”
She looked interested, to a degree that Martin found irritatingly intrusive.
He shrugged. “No, I’m not.” He reopened his PA and attempted to bury his nose in it, but his unwanted traveling companion had other ideas.
“I take it from your accent that you are not native to this planet, either. And you’re going to the Admiralty yards. Would you mind me asking your business there?”
“Yes,” he said curtly, and stared pointedly at his PA. He hadn’t initially registered how forward she was being, at least for a woman of her social class, but it was beginning to set his nerves on edge, ringing alarms.
Something about her didn’t feel quite right. Agent provocateur? he wondered. He had no intention of giving the secret police any further excuses to haul him in; he wanted them to think he’d learned the error of his ways and determined to reform.
“Hmm. But when I came in you were reading a treatise on relativistic clock-skew correction algorithms as applied to the architecture of modern starship drive compensators. So you’re an engineer of some sort, retained by the Admiralty to do maintenance work on fleet vessels.” She grinned, and her expression unnerved Martin: white teeth, red lips, and something about her manner that reminded him of home, where women weren’t just well-bred ornaments for the family tree. “Am I right?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Martin shut his PA again and glared at her.
“Who are you, and what the hell do you want?” The social programming he’d absorbed on his journey out to the New Republic forbade such crudity in the presence of a lady, but she was obviously no more a lady than he was a Republican yeoman. The social program could go play with itself.
“My name is Rachel Mansour, and I’m on my way to the naval dockyards on business which may well intersect with your own. Unless I’m mistaken, in which case you have my most humble apologies, you are Martin Springfield, personally incorporated and retained by contract to the New Republican Admiralty to perform installation upgrades on the drive control circuitry of the Svejk-class battlecruiser Lord Vanek. After Lord Ernst Vanek, founder of the New Republic’s Navy. Correct?”
Martin returned the PA to his jacket pocket and glanced out of the window, trying to still a sudden wave of cold fear. “Yes. What business of yours is it?”
“You may be interested to learn that four hours ago, consensus absolute time, the New Model Air Force—whose underwriting service you subscribe to—invoked the Eschaton clause in all strategic guarantees bearing on the Republic. At the same time, someone tipped off the UN Standing Committee on Multilateral Interstellar Disarmament that the New Republic is gearing up for war, in defense of a colony outpost that’s under siege. You aren’t paying the extra premium for insurance against divine retribution, are you? So right now you’re not covered for anything other than medical and theft.”
Martin turned back to look at her. “Are you accusing me of being a spy?”
He met her eyes. They were dark, intelligent, and reserved—absolutely unreadable. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
She shook a card out of her sleeve and opened it toward him. A head—recognizably her own, but with close-cropped hair—floated above it in holographic miniature, wreathed against a familiar backdrop. The sheer unexpectedness of it electrified him: shivers chased up and down his spine as his implants tried to damp down an instinctive panic reaction rising from his adrenal glands. “UN diplomatic intelligence, special operations group.
I’m here to find out what the current situation is, and that includes finding out just what last-minute modifications the Admiralty is making to the ships comprising the expeditionary force. You are going to cooperate, aren’t you?”
She smiled again, even more unnervingly, with an expression that reminded Martin of a hungry ferret.
“Um.” What the hell are the CMID doing here? This isn’t in the mission plan!
“This is going to be one of those trips, isn’t it?” He rubbed his forehead and glanced at her again: she was still waiting for his response. Shit, improvise, dammit, before she suspects something! “Look, do you know what they do to spies here?”
She nodded, no longer smiling. “I do. But I’ve also got my eyes on the bottom line, which is that this is an impending war situation. It’s my job to keep track of it—we can’t afford to let them run riot this close to Earth.
Being garrotted would certainly spoil anyone’s day, but starting an interstellar war or attracting the attention of the Eschaton is even worse, at least for the several planets full of mostly innocent bystanders who are likely to be included in the collateral damage. Which is my overriding concern.”
She stared at him with frightening intensity, and the card disappeared between two lace-gloved fingers. “We need to get together and talk, Martin.
Once you’re up at the dockyard and settled in, I’ll contact you. I don’t care what else you agree to or disagree with, but we are going to have a talk tomorrow. And I’m going to pick your brains, and confirm that you’re just a bystander, and tell your insurers you’re a safe bet. Do you understand?”
“Uh, yes.” He stared at her and tried to look as if he’d just realized that she was, in fact, a devil, and he had signed away his soul. He hoped she’d believe him—naive engineer, sucked in out of his depths, confronted with an agent of Higher Authority—but had a cold sense that if she didn’t fall for it, he might be in real trouble. Herman and the CMID weren’t exactly on speaking terms …
“Excellent.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a battered-looking, gunmetal-colored PA. “Speaking. Send: Rabbit green. Ack.”
The PA spoke back: “Ack. Message sent.” It took Martin a moment or two to recognize the voice as his own.
She slipped the case away and stood to leave the compartment. “You see,”
she said from the doorway, a quirky smile tugging at her lips, “life here isn’t necessarily as dull as you thought! See you later …”
Preparations for Departure
His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Ivan Hasek III, by grace of God the protector of the people of the New Republic, growled exasperatedly. “Get the Admiral out of bed and make him presentable—I have a cabinet meeting at noon, and I need to talk to him now.”
“Yes, sir! I most humbly beg your pardon, and beg leave to be excused to do as Your Majesty commands.” The butler virtually bowed and scraped his way off the telephone.
“What’s the implied ‘or else’?” Duke Michael, the Emperor’s brother, inquired drily. “You’d have him clapped in irons?”
“Hardly.” The Emperor snorted, showing as much amusement as his dignity permitted. “He’s over eighty; I suppose he’s entitled to stay in bed once in a while. But if he’s so ill he can’t even rise for his Emperor in time of war, I’d have to force him to retire. And then there’d be an uproar in the Admiralty.
You can’t imagine the waves it would make if we started forcing admirals to retire.” He sniffed. “We might even have to think about giving them all pensions! That’d go down as well as suggesting to Father that he abdicate.”
Duke Michael coughed, delicately. “Perhaps somebody should have. After the second stroke—”
“Yes, yes.”
“I still think offering him the fleet is unreasonable.”
“If you think that is unreasonable, I don’t suppose you’d care to discuss the likely response of their naval lordships if I didn’t give him first refusal?” The priority telephone rang again before his brother had a chance to answer the pointed question; a liveried servant offered the ivory-and-platinum handset to His Majesty. The Duke picked up a second earpiece, to listen in on the call.
“Sire? My Lord Admiral Kurtz is ready to talk to you. He extends his deepest apologies, and—”
“Enough. Just put him on, there’s a good fellow.” Ivan tapped his fingers irritably on the arm of his chair, a Gothic wooden monstrosity only one step removed from an instrument of torture. “Ah, Admiral. Just the man! Capital, how splendid to talk to you. And how are we today?”
‘Today-ay?“ A reedy, quavering voice echoed uncertainly over the copper wires. ”Ah-hum, yes, today. Indeed, yes. I’m very well, thank you, milady, I don’t suppose you’ve seen any chameleons?“
“No, Admiral, there are no chameleons in the palace,” the Emperor stated with firm, but resigned, persistence. “You know who you are speaking to?”
In the momentary silence he could almost hear the elderly admiral blinking in confusion. “Ah-hum. Your Majesty? Ah, Ivan, lad? Emperor already?
