Prisoners of Tomorrow

by James P. Hogan

  “But . . . everything? We’d have to reveal the channel. You’d lose your communications to Ivan. Ivan would be exposed.”

  “I know. I’ve already thought of all that. What do things like that matter now? If there’s a war it will all be lost anyway.”

  Paula swallowed hard. “That’s . . . that’s some decision you’re asking.”

  “Is it? What is the alternative?”

  A good point, Paula conceded. For when she thought about it, the only alternative to trying was to live the rest of her life, irrespective of the outcome, with the knowledge that she hadn’t tried. Put that way, it didn’t really leave much of a choice.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Major General Protbornov stared back across the desk in his office at the Internal Security Headquarters in Turgenev. For several seconds his rugged, heavy-jowled face was completely blank, as if it had just been solidly punched. Then he blinked and raised a hand to rub the corner of his eye. “Communications?” The heavy, rumbling voice assembled the word slowly, a syllable at a time, as if they were steps he was having to mount to overcome his disbelief. “Communications into American intelligence, from inside Zamork? How could this be possible?” Beneath their puffy lids, his eyes had taken on a bleak expression that already seemed to be looking into the face of demotion, arrest, and possibly even a firing squad.

  Uskayev—the same blond, gray-eyed major whom Paula had last seen with Protbornov in the infirmary—drew a notepad closer across the top of his desk, which stood by the window to one side of the office. “Describe the mechanism of this communications method,” he said. “What form does it take?”

  Olga sighed in the chair beside Paula. “We possess an electronic chip that is programmed to insert encoded text into the random-number-group fillers in the regular message stream to Earth,” she replied, speaking in a tired voice. “The chip is substituted for the standard one in the outgoing encryption processor located in the Communications Center.”

  “How do you gain access to the Communications Center?”

  “I don’t. I have an associate.”

  “The name?”

  Olga hesitated. Uskayev looked up sharply. Clearly if she’d come here asking for favors, she couldn’t expect to hold anything back. “Andrei Ogovoy, an engineer at the Communications Center,” she said. Uskayev wrote rapidly on his pad.

  “Go on,” Protbornov said.

  Olga described her channel down to the groundstation at Sokhotsk and the technique of disguising encoded replies as statistical data. She said that the channel had been extended to connect into the US military and intelligence communications system, but insisted, correctly, that she didn’t know how the link from Sokhotsk to the US operated.

  “You say this person at Sokhotsk was communicating with you privately before there was any contact with the Americans,” Protbornov said when she had finished.

  “Yes.”

  “So this person must have set up the link to the Americans, and managed the transfer of messages after it was established. Who was this person who commanded such extraordinary opportunities?”

  “The name?” Uskayev said, pen poised.

  Paula stared woodenly ahead and heard Olga take in a long breath beside her. “Professor Igor Dyashkin,” Olga said. “Director of the operational facility at Sokhotsk.” Despite herself, Paula raised her eyebrows. Protbornov and Uskayev exchanged ominous glances.

  Protbornov stared down at his hands in a way that said the sky might as well fall now, for all the surprises life had left to offer. He looked up. “So, you have your channel to the professor. And how did you progress from there to initiating contact with the Americans?”

  “We didn’t,” Olga said. “They initiated contact with us.” Protbornov stared at her incredulously.

  That had been expected. Paula explained, “I’m not a journalist with Pacific News Services. My companion and I came here on a mission for US military intelligence. It was our people. A message came over the channel from them, to us.” She looked at Uskayev and nodded resignedly before he could say it. “Bryce, Paula M., second lieutenant, United States Air Force, serial number AO 20188813, temporarily attached to the Unified Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “And your colleague?” Protbornov clearly wasn’t going to quit while he was on a roll.

  “I only know him as Lewis Earnshaw. He’s with the UDIA. That’s all I know.”

  Protbornov nodded, having disposed of those preliminaries, and clasped his hands. “So, you say the UDIA contacted you here, using the link through Professor Dyashkin. But how could they possibly have known about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Paula replied.

  “You can’t expect us to believe that,” Protbornov scoffed.

  “She’s telling the truth,” Olga said. “We are both scientists. We don’t know what kinds of intrigues go on among you people. But that’s all immaterial now, compared to the reason why we’ve decided to come here and reveal everything.” She paused to let the point sink in. Protbornov waited. Olga went on, “To us, the messages we have been receiving indicate that the West believes the Soviet Union is about to launch a first strike. We think there’s a strong possibility that the West will decide to attack preemptively. Preventing such a catastrophe must take priority over other considerations—that is why we have been frank. We think there is a way it can be prevented, but we will need your help.”

  Protbornov was looking astounded. “A first strike . . . by us? Preemptive attack? But this is ludicrous. Our whole leadership is up here, practically on vacation. Tomorrow we will be declaring Valentina Tereshkova open to international visitors. The ship bringing the first representatives from all nations, including the United States, is on its way here at this very moment. There will be celebrations, games, amnesties . . . Why would anyone be worrying about a strike at this of all times? Have they all gone mad down there?”

  Olga was nodding. “I know, I know. It sounds insane. The irony is that those very things are what has caused the concern. It’s all a misunderstanding, and it mustn’t be allowed to lead to a calamity. But since the problem is one that stems from misinformation, it can be rectified by correct information. That is what we need you to help us do.”

  Uskayev had put his pen down and was listening with a dazed look on his face. Protbornov moistened his lips and nodded curtly without change of expression. “Explain what it is you wish us to do,” he said.

  Olga told him about the reconnaissance expeditions by Zamork prisoners to investigate alleged weapons installations around the colony. The muscles in Protbornov’s throat convulsed in spasms as one revelation followed another, but he heard her through without interrupting. “But from the tone of their responses, the Americans didn’t seem satisfied by the negative findings,” Olga concluded. “We think they suspect that false information concerning the locations was planted to mislead them.” She described the Americans’ latest request for confirmation that Soviet leaders were in fact at Tereshkova, and interpreted it as indicating Western suspicions that the Soviet broadcasts might be prerecordings made months ago. If the West so concluded, then the only motivation they’d be able to deduce would be that the Soviets were about to launch a strike. Olga ended, “The only way to eliminate that risk is to convince them of their mistake. Paula has agreed to talk to her own people over a live connection into the US communications network is one can be set up. If she’s seen here, alongside the arriving leaders and conducting a responsive dialogue with Washington, all doubts would be dispelled. Can you do it?”

  Protbornov’s bushy eyebrows knotted. “What you’re asking, and in so little time . . . It would require the highest authority. And with all of them so preoccupied at this time . . .”

  “This is a state emergency,” Olga said. “I know the procedures exist. We have volunteered everything. Will you try?”

  The general sat immobile for almost a minute, staring at the desk, his expression unchanging. Finally he spread his hands wide alo
ng the edge of the desk and stood up. “Wait here,” he instructed, and left the room.

  Major Uskayev busied himself with completing his notes and then entering them into a terminal by his desk. Paula and Olga waited without speaking. There was a tap on the door, and a woman in uniform entered to deposit some papers in a basket by the door. She took more papers from another basket and left. Paula thought of all the effort, ingenuity, perseverance, and courage that had gone into setting up Olga’s channel to Ivan—now revealed as Dyashkin—the link to Foleda, the secret workshop below Zamork, and Earnshaw’s private espionage operation. Now that she had a moment to reflect, she was horrified at how much would be lost because of what she and Olga were saying here today. But if they were right, all that and infinitely more would otherwise have been lost anyway. She tried not to dwell on what it meant if they were wrong. . . . No, that wasn’t possible. They had to be right. She convinced herself with the certainty that comes only with the knowledge that being wrong would be to lose everything.

  Protbornov returned twenty minutes later with a captain and four armed guards. The entire party, including Uskayev, took an elevator down inside Security Headquarters and followed a series of passages that took them underneath the Government Building. Here they ascended again and came to a corridor, where the escort conducted them to one of the doors and took up positions outside. Inside was a conference room, where two men were waiting. One was in his early forties, short, with thick black hair and bushy brows. Protbornov introduced him as Comrade Kirilikhov from the Party’s Central Committee. The other was older, with thinning hair and a sallow, tired complexion; his name was Sepelyan, and he was from the Soviet Ministry of Defense. An orderly brought in tea. Protbornov said that Turgenev was keeping a channel open to Moscow, where the appropriate people to take the matter higher were being sought.

  Step by step and in greater detail, the two women went through the whole story again. Kirilikhov expressed amusement at the suggestion of Western doubts about Soviet leaders really coming to Tereshkova, since he himself had arrived from Earth a mere twelve hours previously. Protbornov listened glumly while Olga described once more how prisoners inside Zamork had talked with American military intelligence in Washington, and Paula told how they had been burrowing around the whole colony like rabbits. She listed the locations that they had checked, and summarized the findings she had communicated to Washington. “It was hardly something that could be called espionage,” Olga pointed out. “She simply confirmed what the Soviet government itself had been saying publicly for years.”

  “Yes, that point has not been missed,” Kirilikhov said, nodding. He shifted his gaze to Paula. “But you say you have reason to believe that the credibility of your reports was not rated highly in Washington?”

  “From the tone of the responses, yes,” Paula said. “Probably because of my position.”

  “As a support specialist, not a trained agent,” Olga explained.

  “Ah.” Kirilikhov nodded.

  Sepelyan studied his fingers while he weighed up the things that had been said. “So why should they believe you any the more if we put you on a line to Earth? You could have been turned—brainwashed. They still think we do things like that, don’t they? Or maybe we have somebody standing off-camera, pointing a gun at your head. After what you’ve told us, would it be enough to convince them?”

  There was a short silence. Protbornov shrugged. “What else can we do?”

  “It’s something, at least,” Kirilikhov said.

  Sepelyan sat forward to the table. “I was thinking about this other agent that came with you, this . . .”

  “Lewis Earnshaw,” Uskayev supplied.

  “This Mr. Earnshaw. He is the professional, you say, yes? Experienced. Believable. If we could get him to appear on the line also and confirm the story, might that do the trick? Those who know him, his own boss, maybe . . . Would they believe their own man?”

  “I’ve interrogated him many times,” Protbornov said. “Yes, professional. Impossible to intimidate or persuade. You get nothing from him, nothing. If he were my man, I would believe him. Unquestionably, I would believe him.”

  “He couldn’t have been brainwashed?” Kirilikhov inquired.

  Protbornov shook his head emphatically. “Him? Never.”

  “Why couldn’t he have a gun pointing at him too, then?”

  “He’d tell you to pull the trigger and be damned. He wouldn’t compromise.”

  The Russians began warming to the idea, but then noticed that Paula had sat back and was shaking her head. “What is wrong?” Protbornov asked her.

  Paula sighed hopelessly. “I just can’t see him agreeing to it. . . . You have to understand what he’s like: stubborn, antagonistic, indoctrinated with fixed views. He won’t even consider the possibility that there might be alternatives to the way he thinks.” She raised her opened hands. “He abhors everything about the Soviet system. The general said it—he wouldn’t compromise. As a matter of principle, he’d never be seen going on television, public or private, and voluntarily cooperating with Russians. That’s the way he is. It won’t work. Forget it.”

  Protbornov pulled a face. “On reflection, I have to admit that she’s probably right,” he said. “That does sound like him.”

  “It was just an idea,” Sepelyan said.

  “A pity,” Kirilikhov murmured.

  Silence fell. Then Olga, who had been sitting and thinking to herself in silence, said, “I don’t know . . . perhaps there is a way in which we could get him to do it.” She glanced at Paula. “Or maybe you could.”

  “How?” Paula asked.

  “The laser that they’ve got,” Olga said. “Wasn’t that the idea of it in the first place? And you said it’s working now. Well, maybe he won’t go on a live TV transmission with Russians—but he might say the same thing privately, over his own personal link. Might he be persuaded to do that?”

  Protbornov was looking bewildered. “Laser? What laser? What are you two women talking about now?”

  They told him about Earnshaw’s laser and its intended use for communicating with Earth. Protbornov sat looking stunned. The two men from Moscow glanced at him from time to time like officials from the head office of a bank with a branch manager whose staff had been giving away notes on the street. If Earnshaw believed he was acting independently, possibly he could be induced to send a personal confirmation from Tereshkova of what his own eyes were seeing there, Olga said. All Protbornov would need to do was make sure the guards stayed out of the way.

  Paula thought it was worth a try, but she pointed out a problem that still remained. Communications only work when the person on the receiving end is listening. For a signal from the laser to get through, somebody down on Earth would have to be expecting it, and know what frequency and code to look for. Furthermore, in view of the minuscule amount of energy that would actually reach Earth, they would need to be using more than just any equipment for the looking.

  Olga was aware of that. “But I understand that you helped them build the electronics,” she said to Paula. “Could you provide the operating frequency and whatever else somebody would need to know to set a receiver up?”

  “Sure—actually there isn’t that much,” Paula said. “What have you got in mind?”

  “We use the existing channel through Sokhotsk to give that information to the Americans,” Olga replied. “We’re here now, in Turgenev. We can send it off right away. You can tell Earnshaw it was your idea—that you did it in anticipation, hoping he would agree. We will have to hope that the Americans can arrange a suitable method for reception in time. It might take, what . . . a day, maybe?”

  “A lot less is they use emergency procedures,” Paula replied. “But that only applies to relaying a signal through the communications net. I don’t know how they’d pick it up in the first place.”

  “We can only leave that side to them,” Olga said. “Once they’re set up, then all Earnshaw would need to do is get himsel
f to a place where he can witness what’s happening here, and point the laser at the roof. That shouldn’t be too difficult if the guards stay away from him—but nobody tells him that, of course.”

  “Will he know if he’s getting through?” Sepelyan asked. “Does this device receive also?”

  “Yes,” Paula said. “A reply signal comes back along the same path in the opposite direction.”

  “Along with the sunshine? Wouldn’t the signal get lost in it?”

  “It shouldn’t. We picked the operating frequency to coincide with one of the dark absorption lines in the solar spectrum. And at the Earth end, they’ll be able to use a powerful transmitter, don’t forget.”

  Sepelyan nodded in a way which said that was all right with him, whatever it meant. Everyone looked at everyone else. Evidently there was nothing more to be said.

  “Then, we seem to be agreed to give this suggestion a try,” Protbornov announced. “We have little time. Therefore I propose that Lieutenant Bryce be taken back to Zamork at once to contact Mr. Earnshaw and explain the situation. Comrade Oshkadov goes downstairs to the Communications Center to send the message to the Americans via the Sokhotsk channel, advising the laser frequency and other details. Lieutenant Bryce can write them down before she leaves.”

  “Very well,” Olga agreed.

  Protbornov looked inquiringly at Kirilikhov and Sepelyan. They returned nods that said they were satisfied. “I’d better go and check on what’s happening in Moscow,” Kirilikhov said. He gave Protbornov a withering look as he rose from his chair. “After the present situation is resolved, we can discuss Zamork and the effectiveness of its security measures. Out of curiosity, have you ever been down a salt mine in Siberia, General?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Inquisitive visitors waiting to board the spoke elevators after their arrival at Valentina Tereshkova had always been told that behind the bulkhead facing the boarding area at the hub were storage tanks for water and liquid chemicals, as the official plans showed. In fact there were no storage tanks there. The small amount of agriculture and industrial processing that had been staged purely for show had never required much in the way of chemicals. And neither were there any manufacturing facilities worth speaking of next to the hub nuclear reactors behind the docking ports. The dummy bulkhead with its pipes, and the rest of the facade, had been dismantled now. What the reactors actually powered were capacitor banks feeding a battery of electromagnetic coil guns capable of imparting an acceleration of hundreds of g’s into their drum-shaped projectiles to hurl them miles clear of the platform in seconds. Each projectile consisted of a fission bomb contained in an ellipsoidal cavity shaped to feed a configuration of lasing material that would transform a large proportion of the detonation energy into fifty independently aimable beams of high-density X-rays.