Despite her violent aversion to museums, Rachel had an overdeveloped sense of historical contingency. Thanks to the arrival of cheap life-prolongation mods, her generation was one of the first to have lived through enough history to have a bellyful of it. She’d grown up in a throwback religious community that didn’t accept any social development postdating the midtwentieth century, and spent her first few adult decades as a troubled but outwardly dutiful surrendered wife. Then she’d hit middle age and jumped the hedge to see the world, the flesh, and the devil for herself. Along the way she’d acquired a powerful conviction that history was a series of accidents — God was either absent or playing a very elaborate practical joke (the Eschaton didn’t count, having explicitly denied that it was a deity) — and that the seeds of evil usually germinated in the footprints of people who knew how everybody else ought to behave and felt the need to tell them so. When she’d been born, there had still been people alive who remembered the Cold War, the gray behemoth of ideology slouching toward a nuclear destination. And the ReMastered rang some uneasy bells in the echoing library of her memory. She’d heard of things like this before. Why hasn’t anybody stepped on them yet? she wondered.
As she considered the question there was a chime. The elevator car slowed, and, for a stomach-churning moment, spun upside down. Acceleration resumed, pressing down on her like a lead-weighted net. “We will arrive in reception bay three in approximately nineteen minutes,” announced the cabin attendant. “Slowing to one gee two minutes before arrival, if you need to use the en suite facilities.”
Tranh caught her eye. “You ready?” He grunted.
“Yes.” Rachel didn’t elaborate. Tranh was nervous, and he’d let her know. “Done reading.” She tapped her secure notepad to demonstrate, and he attempted to nod — unwise and uncomfortable, judging from his grimace. Earlier, Rachel had tried holding the pad up, two-handed, and found it workable, except that her arms tried to go to sleep if she held the position for more than a couple of minutes. For a gadget that could fit in her wallet it felt remarkably like a lead brick. But there was something unhealthily compulsive about reading about the ReMastered. It was like scratching a fleabite until it bled: she didn’t want to do it but found herself unable to stop.
Scum, she thought as she read the in-depth report on Newpeace. How did they get away with it? It’s the most brilliant, horrible, thing I’ve seen in years. It made the imperial megalomania and straitlaced frigidity of the New Republic seem cozy and forgivable by comparison. Seminars on history’s most onerous tyrannies — so they know which errors of leniency to avoid?
The planet arrayed above her head was showing a visible disc, gibbous and misty, with a thin rind of atmosphere. Are they out to conquer this world, too? she wondered. The ReMastered showed every sign of being aggressively expansionist, convinced their ideology was the one true way. But logistical nightmares and the presence of STL bombers around almost every target world made interstellar power grabs unfeasibly risky. It was as if, during Earth’s nineteenth century, every imperialist set on colonizing another land had been forced to resupply by wooden sailing ship across the breadth of the Pacific Ocean, while facing defenders armed with nuclear-tipped missiles.
“So they came from Tonto and executed a classic Maoist-Fischerite insurgency campaign, mediated by zombies with brain implants driven by causal channel from a nest in the same solar system,” she noted beneath a harrowing account of the Peace Enforcement Agency’s subversion. Arranging a terrorist insurgency to justify a state clampdown, then providing the tools and trained personnel for the panicking incumbents to deploy, before decapitating them in a coup and consolidating power. “Hmm.” And if they grab the levers of power cleanly, before anyone realizes that half their politicians are brain-scooped moppets, they can decommission the STL bombers before they become a threat. Which in turn means … Hey, have they actually invented a repeatable strategy for interstellar conquest? And if so, did they come from somewhere else, before Tonto? In which case …
The whole ReMastered project, to destroy the Eschaton and replace it with another god, one with access to the uploaded memories of every human being who’d ever lived — and then to re-create humanity in the image of the new god they intended to serve — sounded so ridiculous on the face of it that it pleaded to be written off as a crackpot religion from the darkness beyond the terrestrial light cone. But something about it made Rachel’s skin crawl. I’ve heard of something like this before, somewhere else. But where?
She was still trying to answer the question when there was a succession of chimes, the elevator capsule spun around once more, and the view was replaced with smooth metal walls inching past at a snail’s pace. She had her safety harness unbuckled before the attendant managed to say, “Welcome to orbital transfer station three.” By the time the doors were open, she was on her feet with her pad stowed in a pocket, ready to collect her luggage from the hold.
The station blurred past her, unnoticed: departure gates, an outgoing customs desk she cleared with an imperious wave of her diplomatic tags, bowing and scraping from functionaries, a luggage trolley to carry her heavy case. Then she reached a docking tunnel that was more like a shopping mall, all carpet and glassed-in side bays exhibiting the blandishments of a hundred luxury stores and hotels. The white-gloved officer from the purser’s team at the desk took one look at her passport and priority pass, and tried to usher her through into a VIP lift. She had to make him wait until Tranh caught up.
“Where are we berthed?” she asked.
“Ah, if I can see your — ah, I see.” The Junior Lieutenant blinked through the manifest. “Ma’am, sir, if you’d like to follow me, you’re to be accommodated on Bravo deck, that’s executive territory. I show a Queen-class suite reserved for each of you. If you’d just care to wait a moment while I find out if they’re ready — this was a very-short-notice booking, I’m terribly sorry — ah, yes. This way. Please?”
“Is Martin Springfield about?” she asked anxiously.
“Springfield? I know of no — oh, him. Yes he is. He’s in a meeting with Flying Officer Fromm. Do you want me to page him for you?”
“No, that’s fine. We’re traveling together. If you could message him my room details when he comes out of his meeting?”
More corridors, more lifts. Exquisite wood paneling, carved on distant worlds and imported at vast expense for the fitting-out of the liner. Gilded statuary in niches, hand-woven rugs on the floors of the first-class quarters. So this is what Martin works on for a living? she wondered. A door gaped wide and two white-uniformed stewards bowed as Rachel tiredly led her luggage inside. “That will be all for now, thanks,” she said, dismissing them. As the door closed, she looked around. “Well, that’s an improvement over the last time…”
Last time Rachel had traveled on a diplomatic passport she’d had a cramped berth in officer territory on a battlecruiser. This time she probably had more space to herself than the Admiral’s suite. She locked the door, bent to unfasten her shoes, and stretched her feet in the thick pile carpet. “I ought to do this more often,” she told the ceiling. Her eyes were threatening to close from exhaustion — she’d been on her feet and alert for danger most of the time since the debacle at the embassy, and it was four in the morning, by Sarajevo local time — but business came first. From her shoulder bag she removed a compact receiver and busied herself quartering the room until she was satisfied that the only wireless traffic she could pick up consisted of legitimate emanations from room service. She sighed and put the machine down, then raised her phone. “Voice mail for Martin, copy to Tranh,” she said. “I’m going to crash out for four hours, then I’m going back on duty. Call me if there are any developments. If not, we’ll meet up to discuss our strategy tomorrow after I have time to talk to the Captain. Martin, feel free to come round whenever you get out of your meeting. Over.”