Martin took a deep breath. “Do you want to get rid of me?” She shook her head.
Martin gently pulled her toward him, until she leaned against him. “Me neither,” he murmured in her ear.
“Two of us stand a better chance than one, anyway,” she rationalized. “We can watch each other’s backs, it’s going to be hairy for a while. Plus, we may be stuck here for some time. Years, even.”
“Rachel. Stop making excuses.”
She sighed. “Am I that transparent?”
“You’ve got a worse sense of duty than—” She pulled back a little, and he stopped, seeing the warning glint in her eyes. Then she began to laugh quietly, and after a moment he joined her.
“I can think of much worse people to be stranded with in the middle of a backwater recovering from a revolution, Martin, believe me—”
“Okay, I believe you, I believe you!” She leaned forward and kissed him, hard, then let go with a smile.
The luggage was rolling smoothly now, and the slope of the ground was flattening out. The boulder above them glowed yellow in the afternoon light; and the man who’d been leaning against it was deep in animated arm-waving conversation with the huge Critic. As they approached, he turned to face them: a wiry, short man with bushy hair, a goatee, and the antique affectation of pince-nez. Judging by the state of his clothing he’d been on the road for some time. “Who are you?” he demanded aggressively.
“Burya Rubenstein?” Rachel asked tiredly.
“Yes?” He glared at her suspiciously. “You have countermeasures!”
“Parcel for Burya Rubenstein, care of the Democratic Revolutionary Party, Rochard’s World. You wouldn’t believe how far it’s come or how many hoops I’ve had to jump through to get it to you.”
“Ah—” He stared at the trunk, then back at Rachel. “Who did you say you were?”
“Friends from Old Earth,” Martin grunted. “Also hungry, dirty, shipwrecked survivors.”
“Well, you won’t find any decent hospitality here.” Rubenstein swept a hand around the clearing. “Old Earth, did you say? Now that is a long way to come with a parcel! Just what exactly is it?”
“It’s a cornucopia machine. Self-replicating factory, fully programmable, and it’s yours. A gift from Earth.
The means of production in one handy self-propelled package. We hoped you might feel like starting an industrial revolution. At least we did before we found out about the Festival.” Rachel blinked as Rubenstein threw back his head and laughed wildly.
“Just what exactly is that meant to mean?” she demanded irritably. “I’ve come forty light-years, at not inconsiderable risk, to deliver a message you’d have murdered for six months ago. Don’t you think you could explain yourself?”
“Oh, madam, please accept my apologies. I do you a disservice. If you’d delivered this even four weeks ago, you’d have changed the course of history — of that I have no doubt! But you see”—he straightened up and his expression grew sober—“we have had such devices since the first day of the Festival. And for all the good they’ve done us, I’d just as soon never have set eyes on one.” She looked back at Rubenstein. “Well, that confirms it. I suppose you’ve got time to fill me in on what’s been going on here while I’ve been engaged in this fool’s errand?” she demanded.
“We held the revolution about, ah, three weeks ago.” Burya circled the steamer trunk, inspecting it.
“Things did not go according to plan, as I’m sure our friend the Critic here will explain.” He sat down on the chest. “Eschaton only knows what the Critics are doing here in the first place, or indeed the Festival.
We — nobody — was ready for what happened. My dreams are co-opted by committee meetings, did you know that? The revolution ran its course in two weeks: that’s how long it took for us to realize nobody needed us. Emergent criticality. The Sister here has been showing me the consequences — bad consequences.” He hung his head. “Survivors of the fleet have landed at the capital, they tell me. People are flocking to them. They want security, and who can blame them?”
“So let me get this straight.” Rachel leaned against the huge amber boulder. “You changed your mind about wanting to change the system?”
“Oh no!” Burya stood up agitatedly. “But the system no longer exists. It wasn’t destroyed by committees or Soviets or worker’s cadres; it was destroyed by people’s wishes coming true. But come, now. You look as if you’ve been through a battle! There are refugees everywhere, you know. Once I sort out my business here, I will return to Plotsk and see what I can do to ensure stability. Perhaps you’d like to come along?”
“Stability,” Martin echoed. “Um, what business? I mean, why are you here? We seem to be quite a way from civilization.” That was a huge understatement, as far as Rachel could see. She leaned back and looked down at the forest dispiritedly. To come all this distance, only to find that she was three weeks too late to change history for the better: that the Festival had dropped an entire planetary society, such as it was, into an informational blender and dialed the blades to FAST; it was all a bit too much to appreciate. That, and she was tired, mortally tired. She’d done her best, like Martin. Three weeks. If Martin had failed …
“There’s someone inside that boulder,” said Rubenstein.
“What?” A complex three-dimensional model of the hillside spread out before Rachel’s distributed spy-eyes. There was Vassily, working his way up the far side of the slope. Here was Martin. And the boulder—
“The occupant.” Burya nodded. “He’s still alive. Actually, he wants to join the Festival as a passenger. I can see why; from his point of view, it makes sense. But I think the emergency committee might disagree — they’d rather see him dead.
“The reactionary forces in the capital would disagree for other reasons: they’d want him back. He used to be the planetary governor, you see, until too many of his private, personal wishes came true.
Dereliction of duty.” Rubenstein blinked. “I wouldn’t have believed it, but.”
“Ah. So what’s the real problem with him joining the Festival?”
“Getting their attention. The Festival trades information for services. He’s told it everything he knows. So have I. What are we to do?”
“That’s preposterous,” said Martin. “You mean, the Festival will only accept fare-paying passengers?”
“Strange as this may seem, it’s how the Fringe and the Critics first came aboard. The Critics still pay their way by providing higher-level commentary on whatever they find.” Burya sat down again.
Martin yelled. “Hey! Critic!”
On the lower slopes of the hill, Sister Seventh sat up. “Question?” she boomed.
“How are you going home?” Martin shouted at her.
“Finish Critique! Exchange liftwise.”
“Can you take a passenger?”
“Ho!” Sister Seventh ambled up the slope of the hill. “Identity interrogative?”
“Whoever’s in this vitrification cell. Used to be the planetary governor, I’m told.” The Critic shambled closer. Rachel tried not to recoil from her clammy vegetable-breathy presence. “Can take cargo,” Sister Seventh rumbled. “Give reason.”
“Um.” Martin glanced at Rachel. “The Festival assimilates information, no? We came from the fleet. I have an interesting story to tell.”
Sister Seventh nodded. “Information. Useful, yes, low entropy. Is passenger—”
“Vitrified,” Burya interrupted. “By the Festival, apparently. Please be discreet. Some of my colleagues would disapprove, and as for the reactionaries—”
Some sixth sense made Rachel turn around. It was Vassily: he’d circled around the far side of the hill for some reason, and now she saw that he was clutching a seemingly bladeless handle. His expression was wild. “Burya Rubenstein?” he gasped.