To fill gaps in the data, Cotton employed sophisticated probability modelling, game theory, and optimisation techniques.
Still nothing. In each case, the rebels were there, and then they weren’t.
‘It doesn’t make sense, Ronald,’ Cohen muttered, stepping away from the projection bench. ‘It just doesn’t. Why would they go to ground? And how?’
Cotton looked up from the file he was reading. He closed it. There was nothing of note in it, anyway.
‘I can’t say. But I’m certain they're no longer on G-eo. It’s been six months. We should have scored something on video by now, but the GP hasn’t thrown anything up, and I’ve left it running.’
‘And the politicos are saying nothing, still?’
‘Nothing, and we can’t force them too, either: I’ve tried. We’ve even used intermediaries to try bribing them, but it doesn’t work. It’s almost as if we’re the enemy now, and not the companies.’
‘Well, Ronald, this is causing serious problems for us at ISRA. We can’t very well push the beggars into ceding their leases if there’s no upward pressure from the rebels, and if they don’t need to cede their leases then we won’t weaken them. That’s had ramifications all over.’
Cotton nodded. Everything depended on the rebels either bleeding the Corporates to death or submitting to ISRA’s plan for semi-autonomy.
‘What’s the truth in the story that Trevon’s about to table another motion for independence?’ he asked. ‘When I ran the God Programme there, I picked up lots of online gossip about Lynthax being supportive. How could that be?’
Cohen was visibly agitated. His carefully constructed and painfully executed strategy for democracy on Earth’s terms was a train wreck in motion.
‘I have no idea—none. Nor is Nettles being co-operative. They’re being very tight-fisted with their plans right now, and the Corporate Constituency Reps have gone remarkably quiet now they’ve gotten back to their mining and shipping. I haven’t been able to work my way back into that vipers nest since the politicos re-emerged.’
‘What does the Authority think?’
Cohen stepped back to the bench and looked down, examining the cityscape as if something would eventually leap out at him. Nothing did. He pushed his long, grey hair back over his head and rubbed the back of a tense neck.
‘It thinks things are afoot, Ronald, but it’s as blind as you and me. We don’t like it. Something’s obviously up and I doubt Downward Stare or your God Programme will predict what it is from what we know right now.’
118
In the six-month period after his first entry, Scat stepped out onto 54 new worlds. He followed the same procedure every time. Early in the day, he conducted a “First Entry” on his lonesome, and then returned to Runnymede for an intensive medical check up. Later that morning, if all went well, he re-entered with a team of scientists, the Trevon Chapter and their close protection equipment.
On occasion, they would spend the night, and on others, they would stay for a few hours only. Each time they would bring specimens back for analysis.
When a planet warranted a more detailed study, they would move onto the “establishment” phase, where they would set up a longer-term camp, maintaining a presence that might last for anything between a few days and several weeks. On such occasions, the hope always was that the establishment phase would lead to full-scale development.
True to project Last Horizon’s original predictions, as the project support teams became more proficient at selecting their targets, and in interpreting the resulting data, fewer planets were discarded. More and more planets met the criterion for settlement. An increasing number of planets warranted longer-term investigation and exploration. The Pathfinder teams stayed out longer, rarely returning to Runnymede for more than a day or so between expeditions.
As the pace increased, Petroff permitted the Pathfinders to take their personal bugbots along with them; so long as the software checked out, they weren’t armed, and they were fitted with safety routines so as to render them useless on Runnymede: just as it was for their PIKLs.
But despite the technical aids, the precautions and the quality of their equipment, they couldn’t avoid the odd medical emergency. Or they might stumble on something they deemed too dangerous to approach. If they did, they evacuated to Runnymede and the support team re-evaluated the mission. And there were some hairy moments. As often as not, they occurred when the wormhole was closed, leaving the pathfinders to fend for themselves. But the most frightening of all were the unknown viruses. On that score, Scat considered himself lucky; a couple of pathfinder teams had been laid low by some seriously persistent viral infections. They then spent weeks in isolation. Scat’s team had nothing more to show for their troubles than a rash on a scientist’s legs.
But he was tired. In addition to the constant treadmill, the energy source was unnerving him. It made him edgy. Each time he entered the pressure chamber he could feel the glowing marble reaching out, trying to drill deep into his consciousness. In the early days, the effect lasted only for the short time he waited for the wormhole to open, or for his scientific team to get its act together. That was bad enough. But once the thrill of a First Entry had worn off, he could feel the mental disturbance following him onto the surface. It only went away when the wormhole closed, and Petroff switched it across to another team.
Although Last Horizon was already on track to prove 200 planets, it could have gone faster if there had been more than one energy source. It would have been safer as well: the wormhole could have followed a team throughout its expedition, instead of closing and switching to some other distant planet.
But there was only the one, and Scat thought that to be a critical flaw in the overall plan. He mentioned this to Ratti, but he told him not to worry about it.
Scat thought that was rich—especially coming from someone who never, ever, joined them on any of the planets. But Ratti did let something slip: despite the improved research, the company was still discarding several “marginal” worlds at a fair clip. If there had been more energy sources, they wouldn’t have needed to. Instead, they could have spent a little longer proving a place. He blamed the “remfs”, the rear echelon mother-farkers at the Lynthax School of Management, who taught that it was best to kill a project early and not to waste resources on something that didn’t meet early-day metrics.
Petroff was more sympathetic. He often joined teams on the surface of planets and could feel the isolation effect of the wormhole closing behind him. It was on such a trip that Petroff made another pitch for him to be neuralnetted. Scat had lost control of a drone while he was operating a bugbot; he simply couldn’t juggle the two assets as smoothly as the neuralnetted scientists who followed them in. Again, Scat refused, but Petroff had been insistent, again trying to dominate him.
‘Scat, it’ll improve your handling of the bugbot and drones,’ he said, ‘and the management of information. Right now, you’re juggling, and you can’t cope. If you were neuralnetted, you’d be doing it instinctively. It’d leave you free to do a lot more forward thinking, and you’d handle emergencies more effectively.’
Scat replied in a civil a tone as he could manage, but he couldn’t disguise his natural mistrust of the procedure.
‘No, thanks, Mr Petroff. I like to dream in my down time.’
But Petroff wasn’t listening.
‘You’d be impressed with the Variable Outcome Prediction Models, Scat—both of them,’ he said, referring to the environmental and behavioural programmes. ‘And you’ll be able to converse more intelligently with your science teams, and that power source won’t distract you so much—none of the scientists have been complaining about it. Jeeze, I would have thought it to be a no-brainer!’
Scat thought about that. There was something ironic in the “no-brainer” comment, but he couldn’t find a funny line. He had just declined again, and watched the man climb the slope ahead of him, feeling the hate.
It’s a pi
ty they only set these PIKLs on stun while he’s around, he thought to himself, raising the barrel and lining up the sights. But once he’s down, I can put my hands round his farking neck. It would take but a few seconds …
He felt the barrel being pushed down. He looked up. It was Goosen, wagging a finger, which he then tapped it against his temple. Think!
Perhaps Goosen was right. Perhaps there would be a better time. Maybe the next time the bastard mentions the neuralnet. Scat dropped the PIKL to his side.
But Paul was listening, and the very next day he queued up to be neuralnetted. Several of the other Pathfinders followed his lead. Of the Trevon Chapter, only Goosen decided not to: not out of fear of the procedure itself, but so he could stay close to Scat. He was concerned that if he got himself hooked up, Scat would stop confiding in him. Scat appreciated the gesture.
From that point onwards, Petroff ran a daily competition, awarding points to the teams who could establish themselves on the surface of a planet in the shortest time.
It used to take Scat an hour or so to secure a campsite, but after several insertions, he had improved that to just less than 50 minutes. It wasn’t good enough, though. Other teams, the other neuralnetted teams, were now establishing in less than 30. Scat could see Petroff was making a point, but he preferred to ignore it.
But he paid for his stubbornness. He was tired, and the energy source was a bitch, which didn’t make life any easier. He was beginning to have nightmares. Maybe it was the stress. Or he was getting old. He was fairly certain he was 34 already. He couldn’t remember what Earth month it was, and was too tired to work it out.
Perhaps if he wore tin foil on his head before entering the pressure chamber it might make a difference.
119
‘….so that’s the proposal, Keith. In a nutshell, you support our application for extended leases on planets we’ve yet to find and settle beyond, say, 1000 light years, and we pay for the entire enterprise, including any terraforming, geo-engineering, flora-augmentation and so on. We even pay for emigrant passage if they’re using our proposed new visa system. It’s a terrific deal.’
Orbatan hadn’t spent much time on the details. He had broad-brushed the whole thing, and then repeated the highlights as a summary without the slide show. He and Petroff had Sunderland for 10 minutes. There was no time for waffle.
Keith Sunderland, the Western Bloc Head of Intelligence, sat on a sofa in front of Petroff’s desk, looking at the blank screen. He had arrived on Trevon the night before to receive, first-hand, a briefing from the local Outer Rim Force commander on the continuing improvement in the local security environment, and to meet with Nettles, and other influential House Representatives, to assess for himself the strength of this newly forged co-operation between the secessionists and their erstwhile foes, the Corporations.
It was also an opportunity to reinforce his long-established network, and to update his Rolodex, so when Orbatan had suggested they meet privately, and away from his entourage, he had accepted. As he sat in Petroff’s office, his security detail waited outside in the large semi-circular lobby, minding the elevators and checking the IDs of everyone who came and went, Lynthax’s own security pushed aside. Petroff didn’t mind. He was no longer Director of Security. That had gone to Xin when Project Last Horizon was agreed and given a budget.
What Orbatan was proposing was from out of left field. It was also inappropriate and had nothing to do with his office. It was obvious Lynthax was angling to use his influence at the UN, to call in yet more markers and to ask for favours on their behalf, just the sort backroom deal-making that could drain the goodwill from a network—unless there was a substantial profit in it for everyone.
‘I’m sorry, Nicholas,’ Sunderland replied. ‘We can’t sanction that. It’d start another bush fire. You corporations aren’t exactly flavour of the month at ISRA. And I doubt they’ll agree to anything that’s exclusive. It’ll have to be opened out to the other two blocs as well.’
‘Fine. That’s OK.’ Orbatan said, shrugging.
‘So you’re not looking for a “Lynthax Advantage” then?’
‘No,’ Orbatan replied, as if gaining such an advantage would be most unjust. He sat up from a slouch to show how earnest he was. ‘Just extended leases. A return on our investment.’
Sunderland gave Orbatan a disbelieving stare, tilting his head in question. Orbatan didn’t take offence. Sunderland eventually shook his head.
‘Still, I don’t think we could push the Council to promote this idea at ISRA. Why would we? It’s not as though it gives our bloc an advantage. In any case, you’ll need the Southern Bloc as well, and then somehow you’ve got to convince ISRA to vote your way when the Asian Bloc votes it down. Then there’s this proposed No Automatic Right of Return visa you’re proposing: the NARR. Unless all three blocs vote for it, which I doubt they will, ISRA will have discretion. And they’ll not like it. Cohen won’t, that’s for sure. No, it’s a non-starter. Sorry.’
Orbatan tried to hide his disappointment by smiling at Petroff and then reaching back over his shoulder to pick up his graf from atop of his attaché case that lay on Petroff’s desk. As he weighed up whether this was the right time to take the conversation along a different course, he pretended to check an incoming message. The leases and the No Automatic Right of Return visas were intertwined. Petroff needed to recruit thousands of scientists who could keep a secret, or who could be forced to keep a secret. The NARR visas took them off the Authority’s watch list, meaning they could disappear once their contracts expired—unless, of course, they decided to continue—without attracting ISRA’s interest. UN approval was essential to their plans.
Orbatan dropped the graf onto the coffee table in front of him and then put his hands together, as if he had an announcement to make.
‘Keith, how much do you value real, live, local intelligence?’ he asked.
‘What’s that got to do with this?’ Sunderland asked.
‘Intelligence at Bloc level.’
‘Again, what’s it got to do with your request?’
‘A lot. Would you like us to show you?’ Orbatan asked.
Sunderland glanced at his watch. Orbatan’s explanation would have to be a short one. His schedule was tight, and both Orbatan and Petroff knew it. He could leave in a few minutes without upsetting either one of them, but he had nothing to lose by hearing them out in the time they had left.
‘If it’ll not take long, Nicholas. I’m due at the House in 20 minutes.’
‘Not long at all,’ Orbatan confirmed, turning to Petroff. ‘Let’s get to it, shall we?’
Petroff checked over the neuralnet that the wormhole was still in place, and then issued a silent order for the lift to take place. From a hole in the false ceiling, no bigger than a hole punched by a pencil, a wormhole opened out to swallow Orbatan, Sunderland, himself and their easy chairs.
Sunderland didn’t have time to yell out before he was sitting in the centre of what looked like a large diving chamber, perhaps a submersible. The wormhole vanished, leaving the three of them sitting in their easy chairs around the coffee table, his feet resting on solid ground inside a flowing, metal-like ring laid on the floor. He stiffened instinctively, jaw open. With his limbs frozen in shock, his head snapped to his left and then to his right. Unable to make sense of his new surroundings, he looked for Petroff and Orbatan who had already crossed the floor to a large metal door. Orbatan stood to one side of it, waiting.
‘If you’ll follow us, Keith, we’ll show you why you should give our proposal serious consideration.’
Sunderland got up sharply, standing uncertainly on a surface that had once been the ground of Petroff’s office deep inside Go Down City and was now, well, somewhere else. Holding his arms out, as if walking a tightrope, he stepped over the ring and made his way cautiously towards the door. He was certain he was hallucinating.
Orbatan hid a smile. The Western Bloc’s Head of Intelligence, a man some held to
be both graceful and dignified, even if he were cold and calculating, was reduced to little more than a cartoon character; a Bambi on roller blades, only with smaller, less trusting eyes. At first he could barely walk. He tripped over the metal lip in the chamber doorway and had to grip the doorframe for support. He continued onwards, at a crouch, looking up at the high hangar ceiling as though it was closing in on him. As Sunderland slowly adjusted to his new reality, they led him, carefully, up the metal steps and into the hangar’s cabin. When he finally made it inside the cabin, Orbatan made to offer an apology.
‘Sorry about that, Keith, but you said we didn’t have much time, so we thought we should just get on with it.’
Petroff smiled at the operator who had brought them to Trevon, nodding his approval to throw out another wormhole. He then reached past a dazed, white-faced Sunderland and flicked on two screens: one showing the wormhole returning to the vertical, the other a blank screen. Orbatan waved Sunderland to a seat.
‘Please sit down, Keith, and watch the right-hand monitor. I’ll explain as we watch the show.’
For the first time since finding himself in this place, wherever it was, Sunderland found his voice. It was a little weak, but it was controlled.
‘What just happened?’ he asked.
Orbatan ignored the question and settled in for the show.
A picture formed on the second monitor. In it, a man of Chinese ethnicity sat at a desk, occasionally signing pages in a file, before moving onto other dossiers. Every so often, he would refer to his desktop monitor. Sunderland could see a news programme flowing through the paint on the wall between two windows. The view outside was of The People’s Square, Beijing. Slowly it dawned on him. The man was of Solid Huazhong, or rather Wang Huazhong, the Asian Bloc Head of Intelligence.
Someone entered the room, off-screen, spoke in Mandarin, and then left. Huazhong hadn’t even looked up. He had just nodded. He then pressed a button on his desktop graf and started speaking in English.