He looked around again, more confident now. “This is endgame. Not just for us, but for them. One side or the other—the West-stroke-spacers-stroke-Outwarders, or the East-stroke-the-General-strokeSheenisov—is going to grab these weapons and use them, sooner rather than later.”
“But—” shouted Val, shocked. “The ablation cascade!”
“Not a problem for either of them, at the level we’re talking about. The Sheenisov’s horizons are strictly Earthbound, for the next few centuries. And their computers are invulnerable to EMP hits-they’re mechanical, not electronic. As to the spacists and the Mil Org, neither of them is dependent on going back to Earth, or on anything else getting off. And each unit of these forces probably calculates that they can cut and run for a higher orbit, or La-grange. Of course, they’d rather avoid it, but if they have to they’ll take it on the chin.
“So my advice to you all,” he concluded, “and to those people out there, is get the hell out And warn everybody that at the first sign of any messing with you, or Kazakhstan, or the nukes—you’ll blow them all to hell. Use the nukes against battlesats or detonate in place—either way you’ll set off the ablation cascade.”
“Christ,” said Myra, shaken. “That means the end of satellite guidance, global positioning, comsats, the nets, everything! It’ll be like the world going blind!”
“Yeah,” said Jason grimly. “And every army in the world, too. They’re so dependent on space-based comms and sims that they’ll be fucked. Except for the marginals, the Greens, the barbarians and the Sheenisov.” He laughed. “If that doesn’t scare them, nothing will.”
The guards at the window were moving from the sides to the centre, gazing out with complete lack of concern for cover. One of them turned around.
“The cavalry has arrived,” he said.
For a moment Myra thought he meant the Sheenisov. Then she realised that Chingiz had come through on his promise, and that the cavalry was their own.
The steppe at nightfall was a moving mass of vehicles and horses. As far as Myra knew, every last person in Kapitsa was moving out. She rode somewhere near the front; she tried to ride at the front, but she kept being overtaken by people in vehicles faster than her black mare. The Sovnarkom rump, and Jason and her mujahedin, rode in jeeps beside her. With her eyeband image-intensifiers at full power she could see the Kazakhstani cavalry—horse and motorised—outriding either flank of the evacuation, or migration. The scene was biblical, exodus and apocalypse in one. Banners and flags from the Revolution Square demonstration floated above the crowd, used as rallying points and mobile landmarks. The news remotes and reporters were following the process in a sort of stunned awe, not sure whether the angle was Road People (refugees, pathetic) or Kazakh Rouge (menaces, fanatic).
Something similar, though not as yet so drastic, was happening in Almaty and other towns across the greater Republic. Chingiz Suleimanyov had pitched the appeal to evacuate as the ultimate protest march, against the West’s threats and its refusal of aid against the Sheenisov. If they were to be abandoned to the communists, they had nothing to lose by fleeing in advance to a place that claimed it would be defended. The threat of this avalanching into an unstoppable migration was already spreading panic in Western Europe. Northward, in the Former Union, regional and local chiefs were conferring on their own fragmentary networks, bruiting inflammatory talk of joining in.
“Come in, come in, ya bastard,” Myra muttered. She was riding in a hallucinatory ambience of virtual images, some of them pulled down from CNN and other services, others patched up from the command-centre, whose hardware they’d stripped from the offices and jury-rigged in the back of the Sovnarkom jeep. She could see a satellite image of herself from above—she could wave, and with a second’s delay see one of the dots on the ground wave back. (The reassuring thing was that it was the wrong dot, a hologram fetch of herself and her surroundings seamlessly merged with the images from several kilometres distant.) She could see her own face, projected to visual displays around the world by the camcopter hovering a few metres in front of her.
Right now she was trying to raise Logan. A residual loyalty to her former comrades in space impelled her to warn them of the probable imminent disaster. The scanning search of the Lagrange cluster wasn’t picking up New View. At length, frustrated, she switched to a broader sweep, and to her surprise connected almost immediately.
“Jesus fuck, Myra,” Logan said, without preliminary pleasantry. “This is your biggest fuck-up since the Third World War.” He didn’t make it sound like an accusation.
“Thanks for the reminder, comrade,” Myra snarled. “I’m going against my better judgement telling you this, but I’ve fallen out with your General. That little electric fucker has had the bright idea of making his own bid for world revolution, and I don’t intend to wait around to see how it all works out in practice, thank you very much.”
Tes, I had heard,” Logan said heavily. The delay seemed longer than usual; Myra guessed because she was strung out, running on stretched time. “You called to say that?” He sounded distracted. A very pretty black girl who looked about ten years old stuck her face past his, grimacing at the camera, filling its field with her microgravity sunburst of frizzy hair. Logan shoved at her.
“Oh, push off, Ellen May,” he said, not unkindly. “Go and pester your mum, OK? Or Janis. She’ll have something for you to do, you bet.”
The girl stuck out her tongue, then flicked away like a fish.
“Kids,” Logan grinned, indulgent despite himself.
“Yeah, they’re great,” Myra said, with a pang. “What I called you for is about that, actually. If that kid’s gonna have a future, you guys better get your ass out of Lagrange.”
“We have,” said Logan, five seconds later. “We raced through our preparations after the coup. We haven’t got as much gear as we’d like, but the asteroid miners are going to swing in and join us there. We finished the burn twelve hours ago.” He looked about. “Made a real mess of stuff I didn’t have time to lash down,” he added sadly.
^You’re on your way to Mars?”
“Yes, at last.” His grin filled the screen. “Free at last!”
“What does the General think about this?”
“Ah,” said Logan. “When I found it was bidding to use your orbital nukes in the coup, I figured the same as you did. Not safe to stick around. You remember I said we’d have to leave a few hundred tons behind? Well, it’s among them, still in the clutter at Lagrange. We ditched the bugger.” His triumphant smile faded to a bleak inward gaze. “I hope.”
Ts it still in control of the Mil Org?”
“I guess so. We couldn’t do anything to it, beyond discarding the section the hardware was in. Its software is a different matter, it gets everywhere, but, hell—”
“What do you mean ‘it gets everywhere’? I’ve got a suspicion it’s downloaded to the Sheenisov’s weird Babbage engines, but—”