Ken Macleod - The Sky Road

“Looks pretty dangerous,” said Jason.

She gave him an appreciative nod. “Yeah, that’s a mass demo if ever I saw one. Not to mention a big fraction of the remaining population. Shit.”

The kids back in Glasgow had been right: her small state was having a big political revolution. The two mujahedin glowered uncomprehendingly at the mingled banners of Kazakhstan, the ISTWR, the old Soviet Union, the International, the red flags and the black.

She ducked and placed a hand on Nurup’s shoulder.

“Stand up,” she ordered. “Look cheerful. Wave your rifle high above your head. Mustafa, for heaven’s sake smile, man, wave your arms and keep your hands off the LMG. No matter what, you got that?”

To the driver, “Around the inside edge of the crowd, towards the entrance. Slow and careful.”

She lifted herself up, swung her ass around and perched on the rollbar, feet on the back of Nurup’s seat. The driver engaged first gear, then second. The jeep rolled towards the corner of the front of the building. It had about fifty metres to go, then another fifty when it would have to turn right and inch along to the entrance. They went unremarked for about half a minute. Then the people stepping out of their way started calling and pointing. A moment later the pursuing reporters caught up and all chance of discretion was gone.

She could see the news of her arrival spread through the crowd like a gust of wind on a field. The camcopters circled at a safe distance, zooming in on her and on reaction shots of the people looking at her. Their only chance, she’d decided, was to look confident and triumphant She grinned and waved, meanwhile blinking up a call to Valentina.

“You can see us?”

Yeah, we’ve got you covered. We’ll open the door for you when you reach it.”

Cheers and jeers echoed off the government office’s glass and concrete walls. No organised chanting or coherent mood as yet—people were still unsure what to make of her return. She smiled desperately at every individual face that came into focus, and quite a few smiled back. The hovering camcopters had their directional mikes aimed at her, but she didn’t speak to, or for, them.

“It’s all right, folks, comrades, we’re getting it all sorted out, we’ve got a strong alliance with Kazakhstan, we’re negotiating with the UN and we’ll hold off the Sheenisov, I’ll be talking to you all soon, once I’ve had a chance to consult—”

The jeep came to a gentle halt outside the main door. Myra glanced sideways, saw a couple of militiamen holding it, ready to open, their rifles in their other hands.

“Go in, guys, all of you, I’ll keep talking.”

They hesitated.

“Go go go!”

One by one they ran up the steps and disappeared inside. Myra stepped from the seat-back to the dash, over the windshield and on to the engine hood, then hopped backwards on to a step, keeping in view all the time. She backed up the steps, smiling and waving, and through the doors.

Jason’s arms wrapped around her from behind.

“Well done.”

She leaned against him for a moment, tilting her head back on his shoulder, then straightened up and stepped away, turning to smile.

“That was scary.” She laughed. “It’s weird being the target of a demonstration—I feel I should be out there helping to organise it.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “That,” he said, “might become an option.”

“Ah, fuck off, you Machiavellian spook!” She caught his hand, swept an encircling arm at Nurup and Mustafa. “Come on, guys, let’s sort out this mess.”

They held the emergency meeting in Myra’s office whose broad window overlooked the square. Denis Gubanov had suggested using the Sovnarkom room, but Myra had dismissed the security man’s idea. No way did she want to be in a windowless room.

Everybody was sitting on or lounging against inappropriate furniture—desks and filing cabinets and comms junctions. Myra perched herself on the highest convenient surface, the top of a book-case full of unread yellowing hardcopy. She cradled her Glock in her lap. Somehow sitting in a chair seemed frivolous. Two militia guards stood watchfully at the sides of the windows, using their eyebands to sample camcopter views from the news services. Andrei Mukhartov, Valentina Kozlova and Denis Gubanov all looked sleepless and unkempt: the men unshaven, Val’s collar and tie loosened, her uniform rumpled.

Myra introduced the two mujahedin and Jason. Denis raised his eyebrows, but made no comment. Myra unobtrusively made sure that her three men were in a position to protect her—she wasn’t at all sure who, if any, of those present were leaving the room alive, whether or not the room was stormed by an angry mob. She’d once interviewed an unrepentant old Stalinist who’d been in the Budapest Party offices in October 1956…

“OK, comrades,” she began. “First things first. You know the Western powers have refused our offers. I’ve just today been on the shortest diplomatic mission ever, and I can tell you the Sheenisov aren’t interested in a deal either. So it’s only a question of time before they’re rolling down the road from Semey. But that’s just background. We have some urgent matters to discuss.

“I’m going to start with something that may not seem like the first item on the agenda, but bear with me.” She waved a hand at the window. “These people can wait. It’s about Georgi’s death. Jason Nikolaides here has told me the results of a CIA investigation—murder, using a spacer nanotech weapon. Hard to detect traces, but Jason says they’ve done it, and I believe him. What I don’t believe is that the spacist bastards did it. Whoever did it wanted two things—one, that Georgi’s offer didn’t get through to the Kazakhstanis before the coup. Two, that we wouldn’t co-operate with the space movement in the coup. Now, seeing as nobody except Georgi knew he was planning to make that offer, our range of suspects is a bit narrow. Basically, it has to be someone that Georgi would run the idea past, someone outside the government information loop—maybe in the Sovnarkom, maybe not.”

She looked down, playing with the Glock’s slide for a moment, then looked up. She’d been thinking aloud, she hadn’t had time yet to go through all the possibilities.

“Val!” she shouted. Everybody jumped. “If I thought it was you, I’d slam you against the wall till your teeth rattled to get the truth out of you. You and Georgi were both in the Party, unlike anyone else here.”

She smiled, pleased to see her colleagues off balance. “But as it happens, I trust you. Same with Andrei, who’s never been into that sort of shit anyway. Denis, now—”

The secret policeman looked up and moistened his lips.

T swear, Myra—”

Tt’s all right,” Jason interrupted. “The Company checked him out. He’s clear.” He glanced at Myra, then grinned at Denis Gubanov. “Bit of a commie son-of-a-bitch, but he’s on your side.”

“Good,” said Myra, winging it. “I’m going through this to confirm that nobody here is a suspect. That leaves only one possibility. Georgi must have shared his idea with somebody, and it can only have been the FI Mil Org. The General.”

She let them think about that while she explained to Jason, Nurup and Mustafa about the nukes and the AI.

“It has its own agenda,” she concluded, addressing everyone again. “And it’s working through the Sheenisov. It wants those nukes, very badly. So do the spacers. Whether they used each other—the information on one side, the weapon from the other—knowingly or not, Georgi’s murder was a move in that rivalry. Whoever controls these weapons has a gun at the head of everyone and everything in Earth orbit and at Lagrange—which adds up to about ninety-five percent of the human space presence. And I would remind you that, thanks to the coup and counter-coup, the General controls most of the Space Defense battlesats. Now, this has a bearing on what we do about the UN ultimatum. Which is—” she grinned ferally “—the second item on the agenda.”