Terry Pratchett - The Long War

So Jacques sat on the carpeted floor with Roberta, and they snuggled up to the warmth of the big creatures’ furry bellies. Immersed in the trolls’ strong musk, they might have been at home in Happy Landings, if not for the strange skyscapes that swept past the windows.

“This is no consolation,” Roberta murmured, hiding her face. “Just mindless animal warmth.”

“I know,” Jacques said. “But it’s all we have. Try to sleep now.”

Captain Maggie Kauffman’s requested meeting with George Abrahams came to pass only a few days after her request of the cat, not particularly to her surprise. They arranged to rendezvous at a community further West, in a stepwise Texas, a town called Redemption—a location conveniently on the Franklin ’s route to Valhalla, where all the Operation Prodigal Son dirigibles were now being summoned for the showdown with the Declaration-of-Independence “rebels’.

Redemption turned out to be quite a large settlement, and one of the more grown-up ones—the kind with a sawmill boasting a zero-fatality record on a billboard. Maggie was sure the locals would already have registered their township’s existence with the appropriate bureaux, and certainly would never have troubled the likes of the Benjamin Franklin . She happily ordered an R&R break for the crew, but made sure Nathan Boss had the MPs on the watch for trouble.

And then she waited. She even interrogated the cat: “OK, where’s Abrahams?”

The cat said softly, “You don’t find George Abrahams. Dr. Abrahams finds you.”

After a couple of hours there came a ping from the duty officer. A car was waiting for her by the access ramp.

It looked like a British Rolls-Royce, though curls of steam seemed to be seeping from under the hood. A man in black was standing beside an open door, with the air of a driver to the wealthy classes.

And in the car, when she climbed in, was George Abrahams. Somehow he looked bigger than she remembered, more imposing—no, younger , she thought.

He smiled as the car pulled away. “The car’s operated by the restaurant.”

“What restaurant?”

“You’ll see. Nice sense of style, don’t you think? Even if it is a steampunk limousine… Are you all right, Captain?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you seem… younger.”

Abrahams smiled, and whispered, “Well, it is all a façade, as we both know very well.”

Maggie found that faintly sinister, and it triggered something of the paranoia she seemed to be developing. Before disembarking, she’d slipped a locator into her uniform pocket, and now she was glad of it. “I can’t believe that you intend anything like a kidnap. I must tell you that my ship—”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Captain. Look, we’re nearly there. It really isn’t a very big town, is it? Well, most Long Earth communities aren’t, yet. Sometimes we forget how new all this is—that Step Day was just a generation ago.”

She was relieved to find they were indeed pulling up at a restaurant. Inside, she was impressed by the decor: heavy on stone and massive timbers in the usual colony-world style, but still elegant. Obviously some budding entrepreneur had realized that even in the reaches of the Long Earth people sometimes wanted a touch of class.

And the Chardonnay was excellent.

As they sat together in a booth for two, she raised a glass, ironically. “So who should I be drinking to? Who are you, Mr. Abrahams? Am I having dinner with the Black Corporation?”

“Actually, Captain Kauffman, the answer to your question is no —essentially. Though I do work with them and through them, I suppose—well, I told you that. I like to think of myself as working on behalf of humanity. And indeed on behalf of the troll nation, two fine species kept apart by stupidity. And that is why, Captain Kauffman, you have come to my attention, mine and that of a few others.”

She felt angry, exposed. “What others? Douglas Black?”

“Certainly Douglas Black. Captain, you must think of yourself as a valued long-term investment. One of several, in fact.”

Fuming, she didn’t reply.

Abrahams said now, “You’ve certainly fulfilled the promise I saw in you.”

“What promise? When?”

“When they gave you command of the snazzy new Benjamin Franklin —despite a rather patchy official career record up to that point. Now, please don’t be offended when I tell you that I had a hidden hand in that. I can tell you now that one of the selection panel disliked your outspokenness over your family’s atheism, another even today has an antiquated view about women in senior positions…”

“I can’t believe you had any influence over Admiral Davidson.”

“Not at all. But he needed support from the panel. Well. All I can say is that, even in the depths of the Pentagon, levers can be pulled. Would you like another drink?”

“So I’ve been manipulated.”

“As for your handling of the trolls—did you know that you are actually featured in the long call now? ‘The woman who let trolls fly’. . .”

“Manipulated,” she repeated. “My whole life, my whole career, it sounds like. How am I supposed to feel about that? Grateful?”

“Oh, not manipulated. Just—moved into the right position. It is up to you to take the opportunity offered, or not. After all, even within the parameters of your military mission, as a twain Captain you have had a great deal of autonomy. Your decisions are your own; your character is your own. You are who you are. Black, and I, and indeed Admiral Davidson, believe in giving the brightest and the best full freedom to operate. Anything else would be a betrayal.

“Of course you are watched . We are all watched, in this technology-soaked age. What of that? But as to perceived ‘manipulation’—we, all of us, all of mankind, face enormous challenges, an unknown and unknowable future. Isn’t it better that we of good heart should work together, than not? Look, Captain Kauffman, all of this need make no difference to how you approach your work, when you go back to the ship after our conversation is over. Indeed, I would not expect it to.”

“I can’t quit, can I?”

“Would you, if you could?”

She left that hanging. “And are you going to tell me who you are?”

He seemed to think that over. “The question has no real meaning, my dear. Now—shall we order?”

When the limo returned her, dropping her a short distance from the Benjamin Franklin , she saw the reassuring outline of Carl, standing by the access ramp. As she approached he actually saluted—quite professionally, too. She was careful to acknowledge.

It was late, and there was no alarm in evidence, so after a brief diversion to the bridge she made for her cabin. The cat was curled up beside the bunk. She was actually purring in her sleep—if indeed she was sleeping at all.

George Abrahams —not that Maggie remotely imagined that was his authentic identity. Douglas Black . Levers being pulled. No, strings being jerked, and Maggie Kauffman was the puppet. Well, there was little to do but accept it. That, she thought, or find a way to leverage her new “partnerships” to her own advantage.

She got into bed without disturbing the cat.

Lobsang loved to talk—and indeed, to listen too, if you could keep up with him. In the weeks they spent crossing stepwise copies of the Pacific Ocean together, en route to New Zealand, Nelson came to understand fully that Lobsang was in a position to know everything that was worth knowing. He tried to imagine how the periodic synching of Lobsang’s various iterations must feel—as if, metaphorically, they all met up in some big hall somewhere, all talking at once, communicating their disparate experiences with frantic urgency.