Singularity Sky (9 page)

“Sorry,” he said, taken aback; “I’m not an actor. Is that what we’re supposed to look like we’re doing?”

She raised her wineglass: it was empty. “Fill me up. Please.” She looked at him peculiarly; he twitched upright then reached out, took the wine bottle, and poured some of its contents into her glass. “I didn’t want to put you off your appetite. Besides, you’re the only civilized company for a couple of thousand miles.”

“I’m a drive engineer,” he said, wracking his brain for something else to say.

What am I getting myself into? he wondered desperately. A couple of hours ago he’d been going crazy from boredom and loneliness: now an intelligent and attractive woman—who just happened to be a spy—had dragged him out to dinner. Something was bound to go wrong, wasn’t it?

“I like working with machines. I like starships. I—” He cleared his throat.

“I’m not so good with people.”

“And this is a problem?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, then looked at her appraisingly. Her expression was sympathetic. “I keep misreading the locals. Not good. So I holed up in my room and tried to stay out of the way.”

“And now, let me guess, you’re going stir-crazy?”

“After four months of it, that’s one way of putting it.” He took a mouthful of wine. “How about you?”

She breathed deeply. “Not quite the same, but nearly. I’ve got a job to do.

I’m supposed to avoid getting into trouble. Part of the job is blending in, but it drives you nuts after a bit. Really, doing this face-to-face isn’t recommended in the rule book, you know? It’d be safer just to drop an earbug off to relay you a message.”

“And you were.” He smiled faintly. “Stir-crazy.”

“Yes.” She grinned. “You too?”

“Anyone waiting for you back home?” he asked. “Sorry. I mean, is there anyone you’re waiting to get back to? Or anyone you can off-load onto?

Write letters, or something?”

“Pah.” She frowned, then looked at him. “This isn’t a profession for someone who’s married to anything other than their job, Martin. Any more than yours is. If you were married, would you bring your family out to somewhere like the New Republic?”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I know you didn’t.” Her frown dissolved into a thoughtful expression. “Just once in a while, though, it’s good to be able to talk freely.”

Martin toyed with his wineglass. “Agreed,” he said with feeling. “I got bitten by that last week.” He stopped. She was looking at him oddly, her face stretched into something that might be taken for a smile if he couldn’t see her eyes. Which looked worried.

“Smile at me. Yes, that’s fine: now hold on to it. Don’t stop smiling. We’re under surveillance right now. Don’t worry about the microphone—that’s taken care of—but there’s a human operative watching us from the other side of the restaurant. Try to look like you want to take me home and fuck me. Otherwise, he’s going to wonder what we’re doing here.” She simpered at him, smiling broadly. “Do you think I’m pretty?” Her idiot grin was a mask: she inspected him from behind it.

“Yes—” He stared at her, hoping he looked adequately besotted. “I think you’re very pretty.” In the way that only a good diet and high-end medical care could deliver. He tried to smile wider. “Uh. Actually. Handsome and determined is more like it.” Her smile acquired a slightly glassy edge.

Somewhere in the middle of the duel of the smiles, the waiter arrived and removed their bowls, replacing them with a main course.

“Oh, that looks good.” She relaxed slightly as she picked up her knife and fork. “Hmm. Don’t look around, but our shadow is looking away. You know something? You’re too much of a gentleman for your own good. Most of the men in this joint would have tried to grope me by now. It goes with the territory.”

“After about fifty or sixty years, most men learn to stop worrying that it’ll go away if they don’t grab for it with both hands. Trouble is, with no antiaging treatments here—” He looked uncomfortable.

“Yeah, and I appreciate it.” She smiled back. “Anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you grin? I’ve spent so long in this dump that I’ve forgotten what an honest smile looks like, let alone how it feels to be able to talk like a mature adult. Anyway …” he started. Her toe had just stroked the inside of his left leg. “I think I like you,” she said quietly.

Martin paused a moment, then nodded soberly. “Consider me charmed.”

“Really?” She grinned and slid her toe higher.

His breath caught. “Don’t! You’ll cause a scandal!” He glanced around in mock horror. “I hope nobody’s watching.”

“No chance, that’s what the tablecloth is meant to cover up.” She laughed quietly, and after a moment, he joined her. She continued quietly, ‘To get the business over with so we can enjoy the meal, tomorrow you’re going to go back aboard the Lord Vanek and they’re probably going to ask you if you want to earn some more money in return for an extension on your contract. If you want to line your pocket and maybe help save several million lives you’ll say yes. I happen to know that the admiral’s staff is gping to be using the Lord Vanek as flagship, and I’m going to be along too—“

“You’re what? How are you going to do that?”

“As a diplomatic observer. My job is to make sure the Festival—and I wish I knew a bit more about who they are—don’t violate six different treaties.

Unofficially, I want to keep an eye on the New Republic, too. There’s a bit more going on than anyone’s willing to admit; no, make that a lot. But we don’t want to let it get in the way of this meal, do we? If you agree, come home with me to a safe house, and I’ll fill you in on the rest, while the local Stasi will just think you’re making out like any other bachelor engineering contractor. So you’re going to go home with a nice fat paycheck, plus a big bonus paid by DeflntelSIG. Everything’s going to be just fine. Now, how about we forget business and eat our dinner before it gets cold?”

“Sounds okay to me.” Martin leaned forward. “About the cover story for the local Stasi.”

“Yes.” She picked up her fork.

“Does it extend to grabbing a bottle of wine on our way home? And chilling out together afterward?”

“Well I suppose—” She stared at him. He noticed that her pupils were dilated.

“You need someone to talk to,” he said slowly.

“Don’t I just.” She put the fork down. Under the table, out of sight, she rubbed his ankle again. Martin felt his pulse, felt his face flushing. She was focused on him, intent.

“How long has it been for you?” he asked quietly.

“Longer than four months.” Suddenly her foot was removed.

“Better eat up,” he said. “If you want our cover story to be any good.”

“Clear channel to Herman, PA.”

“Clear channel pending … connected. Hello, Martin. What can I do for you?”

“Got a problem.”

“A big one?”

“Female human-sized. Actually she’s from Earth, she’s gorgeous, and, uh, she does undercover work for the UN defense intelligence SIG.

Specializing in causality-violation weapons, disarmament treaty infractions, that sort of thing.”

“That is interesting. Say more.”

“Name’s Rachel Mansour. Has what looks like genuine ID as a UN

weapons inspector, and there’s no way in hell she’s a native or an agent provocateur—not unless they’re sending their female agents off planet for education. She says that New Prague is planning some kind of naval expedition to relieve this colony that’s under siege, and that she expects they’ll try to recruit me tomorrow to do wartime crisis work on the ships.

What she wanted me to do—well, basically keep my eyes open for anything fishy or illegal. Strategic weapons violations, I guess. That’s an opening position. The question—”

“No forward-leaning analysis, please. Are you aware of any other UN

inspectors in the vicinity?”

“Not directly, but she mentioned she has some kind of local backup and diplomatic credentials. She says she’ll be along on the expedition. I expect there’s a full-scale UN black ops team behind her, probably looking to do some low-key destabilization: it’s not as if the New Republic hasn’t been asking for it since they began the current naval buildup. I’m pretty sure she was telling me the truth about her mission goals, but only part of it.”

“Correct. On what basis did you leave her?”

“I agreed to do what she wanted.” Martin paused, unconsciously censoring his testimony, then continued, “If you think it’s advisable, I’ll accept any offer of wartime work at hazard pay. Then I’ll do what she wants: keep my eyes open for illegal activities. Any objection? How bad do you think the situation is?”

“It is much worse than you think.”

Martin did a double take. “What?”

“I know of Rachel Mansour. Please wait.” His PA fell silent for almost a minute, while he sat in the dark of his rented room and waited anxiously.

Herman never fell silent; like a machine running smoothly, his emollient debriefings made Martin feel as if he were talking to himself. Answers there might or might not be, but never silence …

“Martin. Please listen. I have independent confirmation that there is indeed a UN covert mission in the New Republic. Lead special agent is Rachel Mansour, which means they expect serious trouble. She is a heavyweight, and she’s been out of sight for almost a year, which implies she’s been in the New Republic for most of that time. Meanwhile, the agency representatives on Luna have bought out your personnel files and have been talking to MiG management about contracting you. Furthermore, they are substantially correct in their analysis. The New Republic is preparing to send the entire home fleet to Rochard’s World, going the long way around, where they intend to attack the Festival. This is a very bad idea—they obviously do not understand the Festival—but preparations appear to be too advanced to divert at this time.

“It is also quite possible that you will endanger yourself if you appear to be panicking. Given the current level of surveillance you are under, an attempt to cut and run to a civil liner will be seen as treason and punished immediately by the Curator’s security apparat; and Mansour is unlikely to be able to protect you even if she wants to. I emphasize, the New Republic is already on a low-key war footing, and attempting to leave now will be difficult.”

“Oh shit.”

“The situation is not irretrievable. I want you to cooperate fully with Mansour. Do your job and get out quietly. I will attempt to arrange for you to disembark safely once the fleet arrives. Remember, you are in more danger if you run than if you withdraw quietly.”

Martin felt a tension he’d barely been conscious of leaving him. “Okay. Do you have any backstop options for me if the UN screws up? Any ideas for how I can get out with my skin intact? Any information about this Festival, whatever it is?”

Herman was silent for a moment. “Be aware that this is now definitely a direct-action situation.” Martin gasped and sat bolt upright. “I want you on hand in case things, to use your own terminology, go pear-shaped. Millions of lives are at stake. Larger-scale political issues are also becoming clear; if the New Republic meets the Festival, it is possible that the resulting instabilities will catalyze a domestic revolution. The UN subscribing bodies, both governmental and quasi-governmental, have a vested interest in this for obvious reasons. I cannot tell you more about the Festival at this point, because you would incriminate yourself if you betrayed any knowledge of it; but it is accurate to say that the Republic is more of a danger to itself than to the Festival. However, in view of the nature of the situation, I am prepared to pay a bonus double the size of that promised by the UN

inspectorate if you remain in place after completing their assignment and do as I request.”

Martin’s throat was dry. “Alright. But if it’s that likely to go critical, I want three times the bonus. In event of my death, payable to my next of kin.”

Silence. Then: “Accepted. Herman out.”

Rachel lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried to pick apart her feelings.

It was early morning: Martin had left sometime ago. She had a bad feeling about the business, even though it was clearly going well; something gnawed at her below the level of conscious awareness. Presently, she rolled sideways, laid her sleepless head back on the overstuffed pillow beside her, and drew her knees up.

It should have been a simple recruitment meeting: put the arm on a useful contact and brief him for a single task. Nice and objective. Instead, she’d found herself sharing a dinner table with a quiet but fundamentally decent man who hadn’t tried to grope her, didn’t treat her like a piece of furniture, listened with a serious expression, and made interesting conversation: the kind of man who in ordinary circumstances she’d have considered a pleasant date. She’d gone a little bit crazy, walking along a knife edge of irresponsibility: and he’d been stir-crazy too. And now she was worried about him—which wasn’t in the plan.

It had come to a head across the kitchen table as they finished discussing business. He had looked up at her with a curious expectancy in his eyes.

She crossed her legs, let a foot peep out beneath her skirts. He studied her intently.

“Is that everything?” he asked. “You want me to keep my eyes open for clock-skew rollback instructions, carry the plug-in, notify you if I see anything that looks like a CVD—that’s all?”

“Yes,” she said, staring at him. “That’s essentially everything.”

“It’s ah—” He looked at her askance, sharply. “I thought there was something more to it.”

“Maybe there is.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But only if you want.”

“Oh, well,” he said, absorbing the information. “What else is part of the job?”

“Nothing.” She tilted her head, meeting his angled gaze, steeling herself.

“We’ve finished with business. Do you remember what I said earlier, back in the restaurant?”

“About—” He nodded. Then looked away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing.” He sighed quietly.

“Bullshit.” She stood up. “Come on. Let’s talk.” She reached for his hand and gave him a little tug.

“What?” He shook his head. “I’m just—”