Нил Стивенсон - Termination Shock

So that kind of extremism was less of a concern these days. It was just common sense really. Laks could remember a conversation with Uncle Dharmender in a gas station back office outside of Kamloops, where the geopolitics of it all had been summed up for Laks’s edification using cans of oil and a chessboard. “Us,” Uncle Dharmender had said, pulling a chess piece—it was a white rook—out of the box and setting it down in the middle of the board. Then, next to it, he had slammed down a quart can of 10W-40. “India. Second-largest country in the world. Nuclear bombs and space rockets.” He had then slammed down a gallon of antifreeze. “China. Biggest country. H-bombs.” Then another oil can, bracketing the forlorn rook in an equilateral triangle. “You know who. Fifth largest. Plutonium and crazy men.” He had looked up at Laks. “What do you think the future of this”—he had plucked out the rook and held it up—“looks like as a so-called independent nation?”

So being a separatist insurgent couldn’t have been further from Laks’s mind. But Ranjit was within his rights to be worried about it. For all he knew Laks might be one such. Maybe a forerunner of some new wackazoid splinter group that no one here had ever heard of. Or, perhaps worse, and more plausibly, some kind of undercover agent trolling through the community trying to gull people into admitting that they would support such activities. So Laks had to explain himself in a hurry. And it caused him to blurt something out that he’d barely realized was on his mind until now: “In all honesty, Ranjit, my future is most likely to join the military, and there to use my abilities in service of my nation.” Then, for the avoidance of doubt, he specified, “Canada.”

Ranjit nodded. “They allow you to have the Five Ks.” He was referring to the bracelet, turban, and other religious emblems carried on the person by observant Sikhs.

“Yes. I had looked into applying for Indian citizenship, but—”

Ranjit was already shaking his head. As they both knew, dual citizenship was not allowed by India. He’d have to turn in the Canadian passport. Ranjit said, “If your goal is to serve with honor as a saint-soldier defending a country that has a lot of our brothers and sisters within its borders, do it in Canada.”

He was styling this as a savvy choice for Laks, which it undoubtedly was. But once again Laks was getting that signal—polite but firm—that he should move on. And when he nodded in agreement, Ranjit’s misgivings about him seemed to melt away. “I admire your choice and I think you will serve with honor and do us proud,” he said. “Now, in what way may I help you realize this noble goal?”

They talked it through. If Laks actually wanted to get any better at stick fighting than he already was, the only way to do it was to actually participate in stick fights and test and hone his skills in something like real combat, where the penalty for putting your hand in harm’s way was not a reprimand from the teacher, or a light rap on the knuckles, but a broken finger. To a degree you could get that in the sportified version of gatka, where contestants in modern protective gear competed on polished gymnasium floors under the eye of whistle-blowing referees. There was nothing wrong in doing that. A few victories, a trophy maybe, could burnish his credentials.

But he didn’t need credentials. And it bore the same relation to the actual combat art as Olympic foil fencing did to medieval longsword combat.

And here was where Laks was waiting for the other shoe to drop: the moment when Ranjit would lean in close and, in a low voice, clue him in to the existence of a secret underground network of hard-core gatka fighters doing it for real, with real sticks and real consequences. But that was just Laks having spent too many lonely hours watching cheesy martial arts videos.

Instead Ranjit said, “Virtually no one does real full-contact gatka, and the ones that do—or that boast of it anyway—wouldn’t likely do it with you, because they would be afraid for their lives. Look, it’s just not ethical. If I knew people who did it, I would tell you to avoid them. I wouldn’t send you to them.” Ranjit seemed a bit exasperated. “You’re not going to find that in the Punjab. At least, I hope not! The only people within a thousand miles doing that sort of thing are those lunatics.”

He said the last two words in English. And then he nodded. The presence of a big orange turban on his head conferred additional gravity and vehemence to this slight gesture.

Laks turned in the direction indicated and saw—what?

• An artificial turf field where some boys were playing cricket. Almost certainly these were not the lunatics to which Ranjit was alluding.

• Beyond that, a busy street, lots of traffic in the customary slapstick Indian style, but nothing in particular happening—certainly no knock-down, drag-out stick fights.

• On the other side of the road, the typical Indian cityscape of five-story buildings. A higher modern skyline in the distance. This eventually faded into a low brown haze layer, which was there all the time.

But on this day the smog wasn’t as bad as usual and so his gaze was suddenly captured by an impossibly high rampart of perfectly white mountains in the great distance, erupting out of the haze like clean teeth from tobacco-stained gums. Making the best the Canadian Rockies had to offer look miserable and tiny by comparison.

“Are you talking about the Himalayan fucking Mountains?” Laks asked. The profanity was unusual. They were amazing mountains. But very definitely not the Punjab.

Ranjit seemed surprised that Laks didn’t know. “You need to educate yourself,” he said, “about what goes on up at the Line of Actual Control.” He seemed almost to bite his tongue. “Please don’t tell any of your loved ones that I suggested it.”

WEST TEXAS

Alastair and Rufus had staked out tables on opposite sides of the Money Car’s center aisle and were just taking it easy, gazing out the windows. Of the two, Alastair was drinking and seemed in a more sociable mood. Saskia sat down across from him.

“This might sound odd,” Alastair said, gazing quizzically into his Laphroaig, “but what is striking to me about all this is how cheap it is.”

“Yes,” Saskia answered, “that is a very odd thing for you to say, Alastair.”

“Did you see the sulfur pile?”

“Saw it, touched it, watched T.R. set fire to it. Well, part of it anyway. How did you know about it?”

Alastair peered at her. “You can see it from space.”

Saskia laughed. “That doesn’t impress me; you can read license plates from space!”

“Well, boat tours on Trinity Bay pass by it so that tourists can take selfies.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Can you guess how much it’s worth?”

“Some number that is surprisingly large or small. Please don’t make me guess.”

“Fifteen million dollars.”

“That’s all !?”

“That’s all.”

“You can buy that much sulfur for fifteen million dollars!?” Saskia was suddenly having to restrain an irrational urge to run out and buy a sulfur pile of her own.

“Not only that, but the price of sulfur on commodities markets has been going up during the last couple of years. So T.R. has probably made more, simply by owning that pile , than he could have made by investing fifteen million in an index fund.”

“It cost him nothing , you’re saying.”

“Less than nothing, in a manner of speaking. The pile sits on a property he inherited. Its value too appreciates over time. Last night he rented out a luxury hotel, of which he happens to be part owner. Today we ate barbecue at a truck stop he owns. Now we are in this beautiful railway carriage that he borrowed from a friend, being pulled across Texas by the cheapest form of long-range transportation that exists: a bloody freight train.”