‘OK, comrades,’ I said. ‘Anyone who’s paying full attention to this meeting had better switch their telly on right now, because we need to keep at least half an eye on it. No doubt the wider space movement’s going to be all over the place on the war, and that’s as it should be, but we in FreeSpace have a responsibility to take a stand – in the name of freedom if not of space. I have every sympathy with the Germans – they couldn’t be expected to take refugees, fallout and terrorism forever. It’s rather gratifying to see the Poles get a bloody nose, especially after the way they’ve been treating their minorities. Nevertheless. I say it’s an imperialist war, we oppose all sides and we do our damnedest to keep Britain out of it.’
The seriousness of my statement was somewhat undermined by Tanya’s eye-rolling observation of it. I went on peace marches for the likes of you, I felt like telling her. (And with Eleanor, a cry from inside me added.) Annette’s grip on my hand was tight, as if she might slip away. I stroked her shoulders, below the virtual image, and glared at the comrades.
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree with comrade Wilde,’ said Mike Davies, a black Liverpudlian in his twenties whose views I occasionally respected. ‘What he’s just said is exactly what the government’s saying, like, and if you ask me it’s the kind of TwenCen liberal pacifism that has got us into this mess in the first place. If Britain hadn’t ditched its responsibilities on the Continent, the Germans wouldn’t have had to take them on. As it is, the best we can hope for is that the Americans will bail us out again.’
‘What is this shit?’ Julie said. ‘Responsibilities? Well, thank you comrade, but I’ll take no responsibility for the bloody British state. Liberal pacifism – when did that become a dirty word? I’m a libertarian internationalist and proud of it. War is the state’s killer app. I’ll take a liberal pacifist over a libertarian militarist any day. Neutrality, non-intervention, and preparation for self-defence – that’s what we should be pushing, not trying to work out whether we should back the Germans or call for the bloody Yanks to come charging in. Which you –’ she added, turning to stab a phantom finger at Davies, ‘have evidently not even made up your own mind about!’
In another corner of the screen a light flickered urgently. Eleanor had got through!
‘If that was a motion,’ I said drily, ‘I’ll second it. Meanwhile, comrades, I beg your leave for a few minutes.’ I nodded to them solemnly, turned the sound down and flipped to the phone channel.
Eleanor’s face appeared and I patched it to the main television. A joyful babble filled the room and then fell silent as Eleanor spoke.
‘Hi folks,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have got you all so worried. I couldn’t get through on my handset, and there’s a queue of about fifty behind me for the hotel phone. Can’t stay long. Are you all OK?’
‘We’re all fine,’ Annette said. Eleanor’s partner leaned briefly into view, smiled and waved. ‘Oh, hello Colin,’ Annette went on. ‘When are you coming back?’
Eleanor frowned. Colin, behind her, was restraining the impatience of the next in line. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The airport’s closed for now. They say flights’ll resume tomorrow, but there’ll be chaos out there. We might as well sit it out until the operation’s over.’
‘The operation?’ I squawked. ‘I don’t know what they’re telling you over there, but from here it looks like the beginning of the big one. The Yanks are very cross indeed, the Russians are sounding nervous, and some of the little republics the Europawehr’s bearing down on are fingering their nukes. Get the hell out as soon as you can. Get to the airport right now. If people around you are complacent, that’s their problem, and your opportunity.’
Eleanor was about to reply when the picture dissolved and a was replaced by an apologetic-looking man in a suit that said ‘Hotel Manager’ as plainly as a name-badge. ‘I’m sorry sir, we can’t permit this conversation to continue.’ The connection broke, to yells of indignation at our end.
Tanya turned on me. ‘Why did you have to shoot your mouth off? We didn’t even get to speak to her!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. But I don’t think anybody over there realises how serious it is. Maybe finding that their phone-calls are being monitored will –’
‘It won’t,’ said Annette. ‘You should know that. All that Eleanor will have seen is the screen going fuzzy.’
After some more recriminations, eventually calmed by Annette, I stalked out with my comms rig and sat down on a bed. Through the open window I could hear doleful singing from one of the many fundamentalist and charismatic churches that had in recent years congregated in the area. I wondered if my own activities were any less futile. Then the strength of my scepticism returned to me. I punched through.
At the meeting there was only a debate going between those who wanted to push for: British involvement; American involvement; neutrality; and – coming up on the outside – using the war as an opportune moment to launch a libertarian insurrection.
I could handle that.
The phone was ringing. I woke up and waved the light on. The clock said 03.38 and the little red bulb on the phone winked: an encrypted call. I picked it up and thumbed the switch. Myra’s face appeared on the display, black-and-white in a military cap and uniform. She looked as if she’d been up all night.
‘Oh,’ I said, ungraciously, stupid and irritable with sleep and disappointment. ‘It’s you.’ I’d hoped it was Eleanor.
‘Hello, Jon,’ Myra said. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but it’s –’
‘Who’s that?’ Annette struggled awake.
‘It’s Myra,’ I said. ‘Business.’
Annette glanced at the screen, grunted and pulled the covers over her head. I half-heard something like ‘nuclear whore’, and hoped Myra hadn’t.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the Germans,’ Myra said. ‘They’re shopping around for nuclear cover, and they’re making us a very good offer.’
‘You’d better take it,’ I said, ‘before they arrive.’
‘That’s what I think,’ Myra said. ‘Problem: we’re over-booked, as you can imagine. The Germans are offering to buy out enough of our existing clients to reverse that. Will you sell?’
‘For what?’
‘Five million Deutschmarks, in gold, at pre-war – that is, day before yesterday’s – prices, no questions asked. I have the German negotiator on the line right now, and the Swiss bank account is verified.’
‘Christ! Give me a moment to think, OK?’
I hit the blank/silent button to hide my confusion and tried to think fast. It seemed odd that the Germans hadn’t set up some such deal before they actually launched Operation Restore Order, but perhaps the risk of exposing their intentions had prevented them. Now they were improvising a nuclear defence policy at blitzkrieg speed.
The offer was tempting, even apart from the money. With Eleanor in Berlin…
But we were here. The British nuclear deterrent was currently tied up in a dispute with the US, so ours – and other private-sector arrangements – was all we had to rely on. Who knew if we might need the option, perhaps after Eleanor was safely home?
And there was another consideration. If we sold our share of the Kazakh nukes to the Germans, the FreeSpace company would be undeniably involved in the war, on the German side. The repercussions of that were incalculable, and unlikely to be pleasant.