“I see.” Tjakamarra turned his back to the port and leaned against the bulkhead, his wiry, black-jacketed frame blurring into the darkness outside. The Montreal's running lights cast blue and green reflections through his hair. “Given what's happening on Earth, Dr. Forster, you'll forgive me if I find your precautions a little laughable.”
“Please, call me Charlie. And trust me, we're not naive,” Charlie said, gesturing the other two to follow him as he turned toward the instruments at the far end of the lab. “We're doing whatever damage control we can. Come on, I'll show you the critters up close and personal.”
Vancouver, Offices of the Provisional Capital
British Columbia, Canada
Saturday 29 September 2063
0730 hours PDT
Valens folded his right leg over his left leg and focused past the glossy tip of his loafer to Constance Riel silhouetted against the pale mauve sheers that softened her office window. The office itself still held the air of hasty improvisation. The interface plate was a few centimeters too small for the desk in both directions, and the faded patches on the carpet did not match the furniture. The office hadn't been intended for an office; in its earlier life, it had been a conference room.
But Riel needed the space. Space in which to pace back and forth, as she had been before she paused by the window, and space in which to host the impromptu councils of undeclared war that were more or less her existence these days.
Her existence, and Fred's. “You shouldn't frame yourself in the window, Connie.”
She let the translucent curtain fall back into place, but didn't turn. “If I hadn't lost my husband in Toronto, he'd have divorced me for neglect by now. The glass is bulletproof, Fred.”
“There's no such thing as bulletproof.”
“Bullet-resistant.”
“And useless against an RPG. It's not armor plate.”
“I'm as protected here as I can be, Fred. The building's as secure as my residence in Toronto was.”
“No,” he said, and got to his feet. The carpet pad needed replacing; it felt almost tacky under his feet. Priorities, however, lay elsewhere. “It's not as safe, and you're not safe standing in the window.”
“Who died and made you Mountie?” But she stepped away from the window. “Who would have thought a year ago, Fred, that you'd have appointed yourself my own personal watchdog?”
He didn't answer. The question was the answer. Needs must when the devil drives. And China was turning out to be a very particular devil.
She shook her head, searching the office for her coffee cup. “It had to be Saturday morning. It's always Saturday morning. Just in time for the weekend news lull, dammit. I don't know why I should be so annoyed that even the UN understands that.”
“United Nations hearings aren't the end of the world—”
“I don't want hearings, Fred. I want a full World Court genocide proceeding, and I want China made party to it, over their refusal, dammit.”
He sighed heavily. “Do you?”
“What are you asking? Of course I do.”
“Do you want to open the door for the Chinese to come back with war crimes charges against us, for the Calgary crash and the nanotech infection?”
Riel paused. “Well, hell, that's why we're having the hearings. Charges and countercharges. Maybe we can wrangle it into a crimes-against-humanity case. Are you still willing to take a fall for the program if it comes to it, Fred?”
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She looked up, met his gaze, and nodded, satisfied. “There are days when I wish the opposition would put enough of a coalition together to boost my ass out of this chair.”
“And have one of their own responsible for this train wreck? No, they'll wait until you go down in flames, and nod knowingly while they pick up the pieces.” He took her elbow, feeling her brittleness as if it were a physical as well as spiritual thing.
She glanced sideways, caught the outline of his smile, and laughed as if through blood. “You think it's too late to requisition a train wreck instead? Christ, I have to deal with the cabinet today—”
Her desk chimed, a three-note ascending scale that made both their heads turn in recognition. “Richard,” Riel said.
“Prime Minister,” the AI answered, resolving into one-third-sized visibility, a wee man standing atop the desk.
“Is this about the UN?”
“If only it were so simple. We have bigger problems, Prime Minister, General Valens. I'm going to conference in Dr. Forster. He's just made an unsettling discovery. It's a secure line; I'm handling the transmission myself. Dr. Forster?”
Another familiar voice. “Fred? Prime Minister?”
Valens found himself exchanging a glance of anticipation with Riel, and not a happy one. He swallowed the lead weight that seemed lodged in his throat and folded his hands behind him. “We hear you very well, Charlie. What seems to be the problem?”
There was no light-speed lag when Richard handled the transmission; Charlie's rueful flinch was immediate. Valens felt his gut clench, abdominal muscles tightening in anticipation of a blow, setting himself to take it and come back swinging. Consciously, carefully, he smoothed his breath and forced himself to look steadily at the hologram, waiting with every appearance of patience and strength.
He wondered sometimes, in bleaker moments, if the cracks showed, and if his staff was humoring him by pretending not to notice. But he also knew, between wondering, that that wasn't the case. He'd just mastered the art of maintaining a facade, and there wasn't anybody that the facade needed to come down for now.
Pity he wasn't having any luck turning the mask into reality. Charlie still hadn't spoken, though, and Valens cleared his throat. “Charlie. We're on tenterhooks, old friend.”
It was eerie, the way Richard juggled the algorithm so when Charlie cocked his head and passed a palm across his scalp, it looked as if he frowned at Valens's shoes and then stared dead into his eyes. “We've come a long way from Mars, Fred.”
“Light-minutes,” Valens answered, just to get the grin.
Charlie essayed one bravely, but it crumbled. “Let me cut to the chase. Some of my nanosurgeons are… dying. And neither Richard nor I have a damned idea why.”
“Dr. Forster,” Riel interjected. Both Valens and Charlie swung to look at her, her suddenly upright posture commanding the room. She smoothed her palms down over her forest-green suit, the discreet diamond on her ring finger flashing refracted light. “I'm going to need a written report. How long have you known?”
He glanced down, checking his contacts. “Half an hour.”
“I will ask you to keep it confidential—”
“Prime Minister—”
Charlie's tone tied another rock to the sinking sensation in Valens's gut. “Who knows about this?”
“Doctors Tjakamarra and Kirkpatrick were with me.”
Riel's shoulders dropped from around her ears, and Valens recognized it for relief. “Swear them to secrecy, too. And I mean secret; I'll do something drastic if I have to. And I need that written report — please — via Richard. As soon as possible.”
“Ma'am. Anything else?”
“Yes,” she said. “Find out what the hell is causing it, and if it's going to completely derail our attempts to buffer Earth's ecosystem, would you?”
“We're on it.” And that was Richard's voice, Richard's image stepping in as Charlie pixilated and vanished. “Prime Minister—”