Myra stood, fondling the mare’s neck, quieting it, as the Japanese mathematician picked his way towards her. She tried to search her memory of what he’d been sent down for: misuse of company resources or some such pretext—he’d run refinements of Otoh’s neo-Marxian capital-reproduction schemata, primed with empirical data, on the university’s computers. The real reason was his results, which he’d indiscreetly spread-sheeted around: the sinister algebra of the Otoh equations added up to complete breakdown in two more business-cycles.
That had been one boom and one slump ago.
“Hello, Myra,” he said. He put the case down. Probably contained all he owned, he was that sort of guy. Frightening, in his way.
“Hi, Se-Ha. Nok-Yung tells me you’re going—” she nodded forward “—East.”
“I am. Sorry if you do not approve.”
Very direct! The sun shone in her face like an interrogation-lamp and the wind made a constant white noise. It was a time for telling the truth or facing worse ordeals.
“Whether I approve or not is not the point,” she said. “You’re free, and I have no say in what you do. But I should warn you that the Kazakhstani Republic will resist the Sheenisov, and so will I. We will not be rolled over. I would be sorry to be on the opposite side to you in a battle, but—”
She shrugged.
“I would be sorry too,” said Shin. “But ‘so it goes’, ah-so!”
“Ah-so indeed,” she smiled, and suddenly realised how Reid had been able to keep up his no-hard-feelings enmities for so long. “Meanwhile, I have something for you.” She waved a hand at the truck. “This, and everything in it.” She tossed him the truck’s control-panel, which he deftly caught. “Go on, have a look.”
Doors clicked open, banged shut. He came back. He caught her hand; he bowed over it, as though about to kiss her knuckles, and stepped back.
T am in your debt,” he said, stiffly. Then he spread his hands, looking Western and abashed rather than Eastern and indebted. “What can I say, Myra? You’re very kind.”
“Ah, don’t be silly, my friend,” she said. “You and Nok-Yung and the others made my work here a lot more rewarding than it would otherwise have been. I owe you it, if anything.” She shared with him a conspiratorial chuckle. “And a library of revolutionary theory might just come in handy where you’re going, eh?”
Tes. I don’t know if I can take the responsibility.” He shook his head, thinking about it. “There are books and documents in that van which have never been scanned in.”
Myra patted a pocket. “Not even in the 2045 Library of Congress?”
“Not even that!” He seemed to find the thought awesome, a violation of the order of nature. It gave pause even to Myra’s resolution, as half a lifetime’s easy assumption that everything was archived, that every jot and tittle lived unchanged in silicon heaven, was suddenly confronted with the reality that some thoughts might only face eternity in the frail ark of woodpulp, and that she was responsible for them. Her commitment rallied.
“Oh, well. I should have read them by now, and if not, it’s too late for me.”
The bustle around them was increasing. Vehicles were whining, horses and camels were whinnying and spitting. Some children, even some adults, were in tears at leaving this place, which for all its duress had not imposed any too severe privation, and which was familiar. Some folk were assiduously picking up the glassy stones, whether as talismans or as trade-trinkets Myra couldn’t tell. The thousands of former prisoners were dispersing to all the round horizon.
Half a dozen other men were converging on where she stood, gathering around, talking in Korean or Japanese, smiling at her and climbing into the back of the truck. Nok-Yung came up and shook hands.
“We’ll keep in touch.”
There was so much to say, so much that could not be said.
“We’ll meet again.” Myra said. “All the best, guys. Good luck with the commies.”
“Hah!” Nok-Yung raised a clenched fist and grinned at her. “You’ll be with us some day, Myra, you’ll see. Goodbye, and thanks!”
He threw his bag in the truck and sprang into the driving-seat, then laughed as Shin Se-Ha climbed through the opposite door and flourished the control-panel under his nose. Still shouting and waving, the men drove off, bumping across the steppe, resolutely north-east.
Myra watched them out of sight and then mounted her horse and rode back to the town. Only once did she look behind, and saw that there was nothing left to see.
The airport of the capital of the International Scientific and Technical Workers’ Republic had only one terminal building. It was a big, open-plan space, dotted with franchises. They’d never bothered with Customs, or Immigration Control. Between the floor-to-ceiling windows—with their charming views of steppe, runway, apartment-blocks, gantries and more steppe—hung equally gigantic posters of Trotsky, Korolev, Kapitsa, Gagarin and Guevara. The idea, many years ago, had been to make the concourse look Communist: a bit of macho swagger. Right now it had the look of a place about to fall to the commies, rather to Myra’s disgust. Crowded with people sitting on too much luggage, their expressions flickering between impatience and resignation with every change on the departure screens. For heaven’s sake, thought Myra—Semipalatinsk was a hundred miles away, they were over-reacting.
Her own flight’s departure-time was not for another hour. She confirmed her booking at the check-in, made sure her luggage was on board, and declined the offer of waiting in the first-class lounge. Instead she made her way to the old Nkafe franchise, and sat down with a coffee and a cigarette, to rest her feet and indulge in a little nostalgia.
In the good old days before the Third World War she’d sipped many a coffee here, with many a man on the other side of the table. Always a different man, and almost never one that she’d liked: ugly, jowly military men for the most part, jet-lagged and stubbled, in creased dress uniforms heavily medal-lioned; or diplomats or biznesmen, sleek and shaven and cologned in silk suits. And always, hanging around a few metres away, outside the glowering ring of bodyguards, would be the photographers and reporters, there to record the closing of the deal. The ISTWR had never gone for secret diplomacy—openness was the whole point of tradable nuclear deterrence.
It had worked fine, until the nuclear war.
The Germans had launched the War of European Integration without a nuke to call their own. This hadn’t been an oversight—it had been essential to the element of surprise. Once their first wave of tanks was safely over the Polish border they’d made Myra a very generous offer for some of her tradable nuclear deterrence. Myra’s frantic ringing around her clients had found no one willing to deaclass="underline" not for any amount of money, on the entirely rational basis that the Third World War was not a good time to sell. Myra had considered cutting them out and selling the Germans the option anyway, but her business loyalty had got the better of her. It had also got the better of the German occupiers of Kiev, and the German civilians of Frankfurt and Berlin. She still felt guilty about that.
For want of company, she flipped down her eye-band and summoned Parvus. For a laugh, she sat his virtual image in the seat across the table from her. The construct triangulated his apparent position, saw the joke and smiled.