The Sky Road

“To negotiate US military aid,” said Ibrayev.

“Yeah, well. East American, anyway.” They laughed. “I’ve already been given to understand that not much will be forthcoming. What the person who told me that didn’t know, what you probably don’t know, is what we have to offer them.” She paused. Their faces showed nothing. “The ISTWR still has some functioning nukes.”

“Nuclear weapons?” Khamadi asked. Ibrayev smirked, as though he’d always suspected that the little state he served still sheathed this hidden sting.

“Weapons,” Myra nodded. “City busters, mostly, but a reasonably comprehensive suite—all the way down to battlefield tactical nukes, which—” she shrugged “—aren’t that hard to come by. But still.”

“We knew nothing of this,” said Khamadi. Ibrayev nodded emphatic concurrence.

“Chingiz Suleimanyov didn’t tell you?”

“Nyet.”

“Good,” Myra said briskly. “Well, that’s what I’m here to tell you. Kazakhstan is now a de facto superpower, for what that’s worth.”

Ivan Ibrayev steepled his fingers. “How do we use them, that’s the question. They’re not much direct use against the Sheenisov—no point in nuking steppe, eh?”

Khamadi’s eyes brightened, his mouth shaped a shining snarl. “We could point out that they need not be aimed Eastward…”

“Huh!” Myra snorted. “Citizens, comrades.… I am an American, and I can tell you one thing the Americans—East, West or Middle—won’t stand for is nuclear blackmail. This is a people whose nuclear strategy involved megadeath write-offs on their side. They may have come down in the world a bit, but they’re not too demoralised to take us out before we know what hit us if we even try that. No. What the President wants me to do is almost the opposite: offer them—under our control of course, but a public, unbreakable deal—to the US, or the UN, in exchange for a military alliance that can stop the Sheenisov in their tracks.”

The two men pondered this proposal with poker-faced calm. Ivan opened a pack of Marlboros and offered one to Myra. She lit up gratefully.

“It’s worth trying,” said Khamadi. “I must say, between ourselves, I think we may regret giving up the new power which the nukes would place in our hands.”

“It’s not much of a power,” Myra said. “In a sense we are proposing to blackmail the Americans, not with possible use against them but with possible use against someone else without their permission.”

Khamadi refilled the cups, frowning. “The UN still has some nukes itself, as we’ve just seen. I suspect their stock has been significantly depleted by their use. So they might just be keen to replenish it.”

Ivan gestured at his wall posters. “It has occurred to me,” he said, “that we could go all the way back into the old business: selling deterrence to everyone who wants it!”

Myra laughed. “Deterrence against whom? The UN? I don’t see that working for long.”

Khamadi grimaced, as though the coffee were more bitter than he’d expected. “Yes, I take your point. Perhaps it is for the best. So what can we do to facilitate this?”

Myra drew hard on her cigarette. “Apart from verifying my authority?” She smiled at them. “You can arrange—I hope—somebody to represent the other side. I’ve given this a lot of thought on the way over, and checked through the US personnel here, and I have a suggestion for the right person to approach.”

“Sadie Rutelli,” Ibrayev said.

“That’s it! How did you know?”

Ibrayev tapped his eyeband. “Great expert systems think alike.”

“Oh, well,” Myra said, feeling a bit deflated. “I guess she’s the obvious choice. What are the chances of meeting her?”

Ibrayev rolled his eyes and blinked a couple of times. “According to her public diary… pretty good. She has a blank space between 10 p.m. and midnight, which is when she intends to go home. Would you like me to set up a paging program to arrange a meeting?”

“I sure would,” Myra said.

“It’s late,” Khamadi said. “She’ll be tired.”

“Make it the offer of a dinner date,” Myra suggested. “She can choose, I’ll pay. Just the two of us—I hope you don’t mind, guys?”

The diplomats dismissed the very idea that they might even have the slightest thought of such a deeply unworthy emotion. Myra and Ivan matched fetches, and their electronic secretaries got busy trying to reach Rutelli’s.

“It may take some time to get through to her,” said Ibrayev. “She’s busy.”

Myra stood up. “Then I’ll get a shower and some sleep at the hotel. If somebody says they want me urgently, call my fetch. If Rutelli comes through, call me straight away, direct. Otherwise—call me in the morning!”

“I hope you’re not still enough of an ex-commie to be embarrassed about all this,” said Sadie Rutelli. She passed Myra a flute of chilled champagne from the minibar of the limo that had picked her up at the Waldorf.

“Indeed not.” Myra toasted her ironically. She was leaning back in the leather seat and enjoying every second of it. “I know all about the expenses of representation. It’s all in Marx. We ex-commies are all hardened cynics on these matters.”

“It’s great to see you again, Myra. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, what? Thirty-four years. Jesus. And you look like 2025 is when you were born.”

Sadie, sitting in the seat opposite, looked quite stunning with her long black hair, sable bolero and indigo evening-dress. Myra remembered her as having been just as stunning in blue fatigues. She’d been one of the UN Disarmament Commission agents who’d stripped the ISTWR of its nukes after the war. She had done it with tact and determination, and despite the strained circumstances, Myra had warmed to her.

“Oh, you flatter me,” Sadie said. “I must say you look younger yourself than I remember.”

“Ah, I’m still working on that. Or the little machines are.” Myra stroked the backs of her hands, relishing their now smoother and softer feel, the kind of thing that cosmetic creams promised and nanotech machines delivered.

She felt vigorous, as well—she wasn’t experiencing jet-lag (ekranoplan-lag…) and her snatched two hours’ sleep had refreshed her more than seemed proportionate.

“Still,” said Sadie, “you can’t beat back-ups, if you really want to be sure of living… a long time.”

“Oh, really?” Myra tried not to scoff. “You believe that thing works?”

“To the extent that I’ve had a back-up taken, yes.”

“Has anyone ever come back from a back-up?”

Sadie frowned. “Not as such, no. Nobody’s ever been cloned and had their backed-up memories imprinted on the clone brain. Though there are rumours, about some tests Reid’s men did, way back…”

“With apes. Yeah, I know about that. How do you tell if a fucking chimp’s personality has survived?”

Sadie smiled. “Ah, Myra. You’re still a goddamn dialectical materialist. I was going to say, there have been cases where people have got the backed-up copy to run, in VR environments. It’s expensive, mind. Latest nanotech optical computers, those things that look like crystal balls. Takes one hell of a lot of processing-power, but there are some people who can afford it: rock-stars, film-stars and such.”

“Don’t they worry about the competition?”

“No, no!” Sadie stared at her. “That’s the point. The copies do the performances—the originals just retire!”

“Sounds like a raw deal,” Myra said. “Imagine waking up and finding you’re living in a silicon chip, and you have to work for the benefit of your selfish original. Jesus. I’d go on strike.” She struck a guitar-holding pose, sang nasally, “Ain’t gonna play Sim City…”

Sadie laughed. “Until your management reboots you.”

Myra was laughing too, but it chilled her to think of this new way for the rich to desert the Earth, not to space but to cyberspace, with their bank accounts; to live for ever on television, where their faces had always been. And what a laugh it would be if, in their silicon heaven, they were to meet the General…

Ah, shit. Back to business.