‘Are we ready, Singh?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. We’ll approve the visit once you release Kalmadi. Cabinet approved it this morning.’
‘Excellent. Please pass on my best to Harendra. I’ll ask Yeung to arrange the details.’
Huazhong pressed the button again and switched to another incoming call.
‘Yes?’ he asked, switching back to Mandarin
On this side of the wormhole, Orbatan instructed the operator to cut the link.
‘That must have been quite recent, Orbatan,’ Sunderland said. ‘How did you get your camera installed? And how did you get it transmitted up here so quickly?’
‘We didn’t install a camera, Keith. Watch the monitor again. Who do you want to eavesdrop on this time?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Who do you want to see next? In real-time.’
‘In real-time? I have a choice?’
‘Yes. Who?’
‘Um, OK, show me the Council. They’re meeting to discuss the rebel disappearance in a short while.’
Petroff glazed over. The wormhole operator nodded, plugged in a fresh set of coordinates and adjusted some settings. He then launched the hole again. This time the view was of an empty room on an upper floor, its windows looking out across the East River.
Orbatan shook his head in mock disappointment.
‘They’re not yet ready for us Keith. Do you want to go somewhere else instead?’
‘Maybe we don’t need to, sir,’ Petroff said. ‘There’s a news programme flowing across the far wall. Let’s zoom in.’
Ignoring the neuralnet, Petroff nudged the operator who adjusted the wormhole’s angle of view and increased the magnification and resolution of the camera. The news programme expanded. A date appeared in the bottom right-hand corner, along with the local time, weather, and a stream of business data.
‘My goodness,’ Sunderland exclaimed, confirming New York time with his graf. ‘That’s now!’
‘It is,’ replied Orbatan. ‘And if you can make the leases happen, we’ll let you play with this whenever you want to.’
‘How do you do it? They’re over one hundred light years away.’
‘We’re not telling you, and you shouldn’t ask. It’s a deal-breaker, I’m afraid.’
‘Show me my apartment!’ Sunderland said, this time speaking directly to Petroff, challenging him, trying to see just how spontaneous this thing could be.
‘On Trevon or Earth? Inside or out?’ Petroff asked, as if it didn’t matter.
‘Trevon. Inside the kitchen. A view of the stove.’
Petroff used the neuralnet to pull up the schematics of the building in Go Down City where Earth maintained accommodation for its visiting dignitaries. In seconds, he had narrowed the apartment down to one of three to which power was still flowing. The wormhole launched again.
‘Is this the one, sir?’ the operator asked.
Again the monitor flickered, this time presenting a stove on top of which was a half-eaten plate of egg and beans, hurriedly placed there when Sunderland’s c-pod announced its arrival in the park below. Housekeeping had yet to arrive. The kitchen was just as he had left it.
In an instant, Sunderland saw the benefits this device had to offer: it was a game-changer. It granted considerable power to its possessor. It represented a giant leap forward, rendering almost every other intelligence-gathering device or process redundant. He had to have it. The Western Bloc just had to have it.
Or, maybe, they just needed everything it had to offer. If he were to keep this mode of intelligence out of the public eye, politically-prying eyes, he could also use it to tighten his grip on his Security Committee, steal a march on the ruddy Brits, pre-empt the pesky French ... His imagination ran wild. He could do all of these things—and more—without anyone, not even his own staff, suspecting a thing.
He was deep in thought when he let slip:
‘I’m impressed.’
120
The meeting with ISRA wasn’t a difficult one; Orbatan had leaked much of what he wanted to say to the press in the weeks prior. As he spoke, he focused on the benefits to humanity were Earth to issue another Liz Henri Space Challenge. Only this time, it wasn’t just about the resources. It was about “lebensraum”: finding genuinely hospitable planets onto which man could settle without making so many adjustments. If it were possible to find such planets, then more people could leave Earth. Indeed many more people would be better suited to leave Earth.
His surprise proposal came at the end. Orbatan let it be known that if the Authority and the UN granted 250-year leases beyond the 1000 light year limit, then his company was prepared to transfer its current New World leases to the local Houses, over time.
Cohen hadn’t been consulted prior to the presentation. When he had first learned of it, through the press, he had become cautious, even objected. But the Director of Programmes told him to back-off: he would be able to vote if there were a stalemate at bloc level, just like all the other ambassadors. In the meantime, he was to keep his reservations to himself.
Then it dawned on him: they had him cut out of the preparations so as to prevent him from making his representations to the other ambassadors ahead of time. It was clear the Head of Development was aiming for a trouble-free meeting. Cohen surmised a deal was in the bag already. He just couldn’t be sure.
What Lynthax was suggesting was outlandish.
250-year leases? Without reviews? On planets that we don’t yet know exist? A new class of emigrant visa?
What was going on?
Lynthax concerned for the common man?
Then the standout:
Lynthax was prepared to give up its current leases?
The audience clapped. Cohen fumed.
The Western Bloc representative stood, beamed a smile, and gave the proposals his bloc’s full blessing. He praised the vision. He then talked about free enterprise, innovation, personal freedoms and cultural progress as being cut from the same cloth. The Western Bloc then voted in favour.
The Southern Bloc voted in favour, without comment. That was no more and no less than Cohen had expected. The Western Bloc had called in a marker. It had been bailing the South out since the OR insurgency began.
The Asian Bloc objected.
Cohen sighed. As the Bloc vote wasn’t unanimous, ISRA would now need to vote in favour of the resolution for it to pass. And he knew the numbers: the Authority voted against a majority Bloc vote less than 18% of the time. Perhaps if he could persuade enough of the Ambassadors to abstain, it would at least delay acceptance for a short while.
As the meeting moved on to other matters, Orbatan left the room. Cohen checked his graf to see when the ISRA Ambassador Council vote could take place. There was a gap in the calendar for Thursday that week and then on Wednesday the following week. He had, maybe, a few days in which to throw a spanner into the works.
As he was leaving to return to his office, the Programme Director drew him to one side of the corridor.
‘I hear you’re retiring, Samuel. At long last, eh?’
Cohen looked at him, not quite sure what to make of his comment.
‘I’ve been retiring for years, Rabbi. But not yet.’
‘So it’s not true, then, about your leaving on Friday?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean. Really Rabbi, rumours aren’t your thing.’
‘No, Samuel, they aren’t. You’re retiring this Friday. The Head of Development asked me to add your retirement party to the official programme. I guess you weren't told because it's meant to be a surprise. Perhaps the confirmation of your retirement is still following you around the OR?’
‘Don’t be silly, Rabbi. I’ve been here for days. When were you told?’
‘This morning.’
Cohen’s heart fell through the floor. If it were a mistake, then it was a well-timed mistake. But he suspected otherwise: they were pushing him out.
‘When is the Council vote due on this
Lynthax lease proposal?’
Rabbi looked down at his graf, made an adjustment, and then looked up.
‘It’s just been set for next Wednesday.’
121
In the wormhole control cabin on Runnymede, Petroff observed the Authority’s meeting as a fly on the wall.
As requested by Orbatan, he paid particular attention to the Asian Bloc’s reaction. In reality that meant the Greater Chinese Enterprise’s observer. Using instant translation software, Petroff picked up several comments from the Asian support staff who sat closer to the wormhole: comments that warned him to pay attention to their next moves.
Downstairs in the pressure chamber, a team of Pathfinders waited, patiently, already 20 minutes late for a First Entry. He ignored them and threw another miniature wormhole back out into the Asian Quarters at ISRA.
At first, he saw the anger on the lead delegate’s face. Then he heard him complain about the Western Bloc’s attempts to undermine his people’s well-established harmony. As the ranting developed, Petroff sat back, amused at the total loss of control.
The GCE observer calmed the delegate down, before querying what Lynthax’s motives might be. The conversation grew more urgent as they speculated over what Lynthax had up its sleeve. Imaginations ran riot.
The Chinese observer urged the Asian Bloc to use its diplomatic resources to find out what Lynthax was up to. They needed to know. Did they already have a more efficient fuel source or flux-drive, or something altogether more advanced?
Someone in the delegation turned the question around. He suggested the Greater Chinese Enterprise could afford to be somewhat more aggressive than it was. Perhaps it could turn someone at Lynthax, or establish satellite monitoring of Lynthax production sites, perhaps break into the fortress that Lynthax had established for itself on Trevon. After all, the GCE was hardly short of the resources required to do the job. Nor was it hobbled by political or diplomatic considerations.
The conversation continued in the same vein for a while. None of the threats appeared to Petroff to be overly troubling—at least Lynthax could counter them with ease and at low cost. Mostly, the Asians were venting steam. Soon their testosterone levels would subside.
Then the conversation took an altogether more ugly turn. Petroff eased closer to the monitor. Everything they were suggesting was all well and good, the GCE observer agreed, but it was probably time they ditched the idea of space being a neutral and non-military playground.
That turned everyone’s heads. It focused Petroff’s attention. He wished he had a second hole through which he could send a message directly to Orbatan and Sunderland. As he listened to the tail end of the conversation, he sensed that traditional restraints were being cast aside.
Petroff stroked his jaw. He wondered if Orbatan and Sunderland could stay one-step ahead of a determined GCE reaction. He doubted it. And neither the Western nor the Southern Bloc was as well prepared industrially, or as well organised socially, for a conflict in the Outer-Rim as the Asians. They simply didn’t have the same level of control over their resources—or their people.
No, Lynthax couldn’t be everywhere and do everything at the same time, not with just the one wormhole. If the company were to protect its own interests, it would need to bulk-up—independent of whatever the Western Bloc did.
He may even need to cast aside a few constraints of his own.
122
2219
It was the day before the “Big Day”, the day of the press release. Orbatan had the stage. Out front, there sat hundreds of employees, all of them waiting for him to speak.
For the previous two days, Lynthax executives had been arriving from Earth and from across the Outer-Rim. 58 planetary CEOs, CFOs, Directors of Communications, Science Officers and Chiefs of Resources had made the trip. Several hundred of their corporate hangers-on had followed them.
On arrival, their transports drove them to the Palace of Prosperity, a hotel that now stood closed to the public. In the closeted, secure, and heavily patrolled environment of the hotel’s restaurants, saunas and gym, they had chatted quietly among themselves, mostly to speculate about what the meeting was about. Now they sat in the New Lynthax Centre conference room, unable to use their grafs. The overlarge hall was a dead-zone, shielded against all forms of electronic surveillance.
The New Lynthax Centre was now a shining example of Corporate Empire architecture. Its Trevon Early Pioneer styling was gone, stripped away during its three-year refurbishment. The original tenants were also gone, turfed out when their leases expired. Many of its higher floors were set aside for secure, long-term company accommodation. Middle management and Last Horizon planning teams filled the lower floors.
But beneath the six year-old shiny blue cladding and interior wall coatings, the scars of the rebel’s assault still lingered; its concrete and wiring conduits scorched and covered in soot deposits. It also lingered in the minds of the Lynthax executives who were revisiting the place for the first time since the assault; the newness of the building being a reminder of the rebel’s early successes.
Still, to many of the executives assembled there, the high level of security in Go Down was a surprise. After all, there hadn’t been a rebel attack since 2215. Yet the frigate was on standby in Trevon orbit; the satellite system was on full alert, and newly commissioned and heavily armed starflyers patrolled the edge of Trevon space. On the ground, Lynthax had closed off the overhead walkways between the Lynthax Centre and the adjoining buildings. Security teams manned desks and maintained foot patrols on all the lower floors.
Nor was it overkill. It was the centre of Lynthax’s covert efforts to turn itself into a galactic powerhouse.
‘Ladies, Gentlemen, welcome to Trevon.’
Orbatan held the lectern with both hands, standing slightly back, leaning forward. This gathering was one of the biggest he had addressed. Not even the Earth-based shareholder meetings could compare. He was naturally nervous, but plainly happy. This was his big day.
Behind him and lining a long table, sat John Petroff, Raja Makindra, Carlo Ratti, Joshua N’Bomal, Dobbie Lombardi, Todd Bradbury, and Elias Bridges, all of them “recently” appointed to manage Last Horizon. Off to the side were various media techs and Lynthax security, ready to step in if anything should go wrong.
‘Let me begin today’s briefing with a huge thank you to you all for finding the time to come to Trevon.’
That caused a laugh. The trip had been mandatory. Holidays had been cancelled, and births brought forward or delayed.
‘And a reminder that what’s said on Trevon stays on Trevon!’
Again, there was a ripple of nervous laughter, though almost inaudible to those on the speaking platform. The delegates had read their briefs.
‘As you are aware, we have started the process of handing over the leases of our smaller New Worlds to the Representative Houses. This we are pleased to do. It has been of benefit to us. It means our competitors are now under pressure to do the same, but without the benefit of our preparations and our growing advantage in the development of certain technologies. This will make it harder for them to retain control of their New Worlds and more difficult for them to compete with us.
‘Elias has organised a public relations campaign to highlight this. It will be rolled out after this conference. ...’
As the presentation wound on, Petroff lost interest. There wasn’t much Orbatan could divulge to this audience today that would reflect the truth of Lynthax’s progress towards alternative space travel: to do so would blow the project wide open before they were ready to exploit it.
This meeting was for show. The CEOs would get their “for purpose” briefing later tonight when Orbatan took them on a surprise ftl flight to Runnymede. Petroff had made all the arrangements, and he was ready to give them a much more sensational briefing than they would receive here today.
And what a surprise it would be. Ever since Lynthax had established the closer-than-expected 1000 light
year limit, back in 2216, the company, at least an element of it, had been extremely busy pushing outwards into ever deeper space, building its universal empire one Earth replica at a time.
Lynthax was already worming corn from two of the Outer Worlds and sending them to Constitution to add to its stockpiles there. They were already fitting out Concord with the infrastructure it needed to receive its first emigrants.
Of course, there had been problems—the Asian Bloc’s persistent attempts to break into the Trevon head office being one of them. Another, their reliance on the one wormhole.
Both problems he had fixed by breaking open the Thing’s box, despite Ratti’s irrational predictions of universal chaos.
It had been a desperate half-day on Prebos. Petroff's security had stood toe to toe with Jollo’s men in a long and heated standoff, the tension fuelled by Ratti ranting on like a lunatic. The Thing’s box had taken on a mystical status among Jollo’s men, and Ratti hadn’t helped.
But Petroff prevailed. He cut short Ratti’s ravings by calling in one of his Hoover file markers. When Lombardi then made it clear he approved, Rollo stepped aside. Then his men. After that, it was then just a case of finding the right key for the box.
Inside it, they found another 42,000 globelike, light-emitting spheres. There were so many, and the light was so intense, the air seemed to burn; no one could look directly at them. Individually they emitted a less intense light, but, still, the science crews handled them with care. Once separated, Petroff had them boxed up and shipped from Prebos by wormhole, a few hundred at a time.
Since then, Last Horizon had transformed into a mega-operation of immense complexity. It had also substantially improved Sunderland’s ability to stay one-step ahead of the Asians.
Then there was the interrelated problem of staff and secrecy—of keeping the whole thing under wraps while they ramped up the Pathfinder operations. Lynthax now had so many wormholes working, and was dealing with much information, requests for ever more support workers were increasing by the day. That meant Petroff couldn’t be so choosy about who he hired. He eventually expanded the candidate pool to include non-company personnel. Loyalty and a willingness to keep a secret were no longer the prime security considerations: keeping them quiet was. And Petroff’s answer to that was real simple. They just didn’t go home. Whenever the No Automatic Right of Return visa-holding scientists refused to extend their contracts, they were dumped onto one or other of the planets that hadn’t met Lynthax’s early-day metrics. Perhaps they could bring them back when the company went public with the wormholes—if they were still alive, that is. But Petroff seriously doubted they would be. They didn’t have the survival skills.