Charles Stross - Singularity Sky

Now, lying awake in bed after he’d left, her head was spinning. She tried to rationalize it: isolation and nerves are enough to make anyone do something wild once in a while. Still, she felt nervous: Martin wasn’t a casual pickup, and this wasn’t a quick fuck. Just the thought of seeing him again made her feel an edgy hopeful excitement, tempered by the bitter self-disgust of realizing that mixing business with pleasure this way was a really stupid move.

She rolled over, and blinked: the clock on the inside of her left eyelid said it was just past 0700. In another two hours, it would be time to get confirmation of her diplomatic status, dress, and go kick some New Republican ass. Two hours after that, Martin would be aboard the Lord Vanek; it would all be over by 2200. Rachel sighed and tried to catch another hour’s shut-eye; but sleep was evading her.

She found herself wandering, seeking out pleasant memories. There was not a lot else to be done, in point of fact: there was a high probability that she would die if her guess about the New Republic’s intentions was wrong. And wouldn’t that be a grand way to end 150 years? Physically as young as a twentysomething, kept that way by the advanced medical treatments of the mother planet, she rarely felt the weight of her decades; the angst only cut in when she thought about how few of the people she had known or loved were still alive. Now she recalled her daughter, as a child, the smell of her — and what brought that back? Not her daughter, the political matriarch and leader of a dynasty. Not the octogenarian’s funeral, either, in the wake of the sky sail accident. And she couldn’t even remember Johan’s face, even though they’d been married for fifteen years. Martin, so much more recent, seemed to overlay him in her mind’s eye. She blinked, angrily, and sat up.

Stupid girl , she told herself, ironically. Anyone would think you were still in your first century, falling in love with a tight pair of buttocks . Still, she found herself looking forward to seeing Martin again tomorrow night. The edgy hopeful excitement was winning over age and cynicism, even though she was old enough to know what it meant. Complications …

The interorbit shuttle unlatched from the naval docking bay and edged outward from the beanstalk, its cold-gas thrusters bumping it clear of the other vehicles that swarmed in the region. Ten minutes after it maneuvered free, the pilot got permission from traffic control to light off his main drive; a bright orange plume of glowing mercury ions speared out from three large rectangular panels hinged around the rear cargo bay doors, and the craft began to accelerate. Ion drives were notoriously slow, but they were also efficient. After a thousand seconds the shuttle was moving out from the station at nearly two hundred kilometers per hour, and it was time to begin decelerating again to meet the ship that now lay at rest almost sixty kilometers from the station.

In orbital terms, sixty kilometers was nothing; the Lord Vanek was right on the beanstalk’s doorstep. But there was one significant advantage to the position. The ship was ready to move, and move fast. As soon as the dockyard engineer finished his upgrade to the driver kernel’s baseline compensators, she’d be ready for action.

Captain Mirsky watched the shuttle nose up to Lord Vanek’s forward docking bays on one of the video windows at his workstation. He sat alone in his quarters, plowing relentlessly through the memoranda and directives associated with the current situation; things had become quite chaotic since the orders came down, and he was acutely aware of how much more preparation was required.

Middle-aged, barrel-chested, and sporting a neat salt-and-pepper beard to match his graying hair, Captain Mirsky was the very model of a New Republican Navy captain. Behind the mask of confidence, however, there was a much less certain man: he had seen things building up for a week now, and however he tried to rationalize the situation, he couldn’t escape the feeling that something had gone off the rails between the foreign office and the Imperial residence.

He peered morosely at the latest directive to cross his desk. Security was being stepped up, and he was to go onto a wartime footing as soon as the last shipyard workers and engineers were off his deck and the hull was sealed. Meanwhile, full cooperation was required with Procurator Muller of the Curator’s Office, on board to pursue positive security monitoring of foreign engineering contractors employed in making running repairs to Lord Vanek’s main propulsion system. He glared at the offending memo in irritation, then picked up his annunciator. “Get me Ilya.”

“Commander Murametz, sir? Right away, sir.”

A muffled knock on the door: Mirsky shouted “open!” and it opened. Commander Murametz, his executive officer, saluted. “Come in, Ilya, come in.”

“Thank you, sir. What I can do for you?”

“This—” Mirsky pointed wordlessly at his screen. “Some pompous Citizen Curator wants his minion to run riot over my ship. Know anything about it?”

Murametz bent closer. “Humbly report, sir, I do.” His moustache twitched; Mirsky couldn’t tell what emotion it signified.

“Hah. Pray explain.”

“Some fuss over the engineering contractor from Earth who’s installing our Block B drive upgrade. He’s irreplaceable, at least without waiting three months, but he’s a bit of a loudmouth and somehow caught the attention of one of the professional paranoids in the Basilisk. So they’ve stuck a secret policeman on us to take care of him. I gave him to Lieutenant Sauer, with orders to keep him out of our hair.”

“What does Sauer say about it?”

Murametz snorted. “The cop’s as wet behind the ears as one of the new ratings. No problem.” The Captain sighed. “See that there isn’t.”

“Aye aye, sir. Anything else?”

Mirsky waved at a chair. “Sit down, sit down. Noticed anything out of the ordinary about what’s going on?”

Murametz glanced at the doorway. “Rumors are flying like bullets, skipper. I’m doing what I can to sit on them, but until there’s an official line—”

“There won’t be. Not for another sixteen hours.”

“If I may be so bold, what then?”

“Then …” The Captain paused. “I … am informed that I will be told, and that subsequently you, and all the other officers, will learn what’s going on. In the meantime, I think it would be sensible to keep everybody busy. So busy that they don’t have time to worry and spread rumors, anyway. Oh, and make damned sure the flag cabin’s shipshape and we’re ready to take on board a full staff team.”

“ Ah .” Murametz nodded. “Very well, sir. Operationally, hmm. Upgrade security, schedule some more inspections, heightened readiness on all stations? That sort of thing? Floggings to improve morale? A few simulation exercises for the tactical teams?”

Captain Mirsky nodded. “By all means. But get the flag cabin ready first . Ready for a formal inspection tomorrow. That’s all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Murametz left, and Mirsky was alone with his morose thoughts once more. Alone to brood over the orders he was forbidden to reveal to anyone for another sixteen hours.

Alone with the sure, cold knowledge of impending war.

His Majesty's battlecruiser Lord Vanek lay at rest, sixty kilometers from the Klamovka naval beanstalk.

Running lights blinked red and blue along its flanks; the double-headed eagle ensign of the admiral’s flag winked in green outline just above the main missile launch platform. Kurtz had been piped aboard two hours earlier; soon the ship would be ready to fly.