“Part of it. When there is no work to be done, why should a man eat at all?” he asked. “Once you’ve finished your work you put the tools away.”
“It is easily countered,” replied Helena. “You put tools away, not dismantle them.”
“Semantics. We’ll solve the problem as economics dictates.” He casually closed the book with a dusty clap. The air shimmered as a billion machines, ravenous for the extra power, raced to devour the ancient motes of paper and ink.
“A nice noise, don’t you think?” he asked softly and returned the book to the shelf. She shrugged, aware that he could not see her gesture.
“The sound of silent history,” he said, smirking.
“What about us?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her, but letting her hips remain relaxed, protective but not antagonistic.
He raised his eyebrows. She waited.
“I should imagine that this will all be over in a couple of years.” He cupped empty space in front of him as if he was trying to hold the coming conflict in his hands.
“Probably,” said Helena. “But until then?”
He shoved out a heavy breath.
“After leaving here today, I doubt Indexiv will be entertaining visas for the other corporations until we’re done. I can’t really imagine Euros giving you one either. War makes visits like this ever so unpopular.”
She already knew the answer, but hearing it come from Schmerl somehow made it more real.
“Besides,” said Schmerl playfully. “You’ll probably be working for me before too long.”
“I’m not sure I can take much more diplomacy,” said Helena.
There was not a lot more for her to say. The Corporations they represented would be itching for them to leave the room, impatient for the negotiations to be over, unofficially as well as officially. Then, the real business would begin, the conclusion of what they had thrashed out there. What annoyed Helena most was that everyone already knew their positions long before she and Schmerl were asked to host. Their discussions, watched by the Oligarchies of both Indexiv and Euros, consisted in outlining the final positions of each party. It was a news call, not a debate. Politely letting the markets know that conflict was far from avoidable.
Nostalgia was not a trait Helena nurtured; she knew she’d see Schmerl again when she saw him. However, the next couple of years unfolded between the Oligarchies, it would not touch them personally. Nevertheless, she might use the time to resolve not to grab his cock at the next opportunity.
“Do you have to leave right away?” said Schmerl. She was amazed, but then Schmerl’s incorrigibility was one of his most attractive features. She came close, as if to kiss him. Schmerl leant forward in expectation.
Stopping an inch from his softened features, she could feel the change in the air around his body as his capillaries opened and blood flowed through him in preparation. It was almost unconscious, like the opening of a flower when the sun shines.
“Yes, I do.” Her warm words were welcomed by his open mouth. He closed his eyes expectantly. She leaned back, flattening her feet to the floor, Schmerl shut his mouth as if to capture her words. Helena allowed herself a small smile and felt the room growing ever so slightly warmer before Schmerl sighed, opened his eyes and said, “Of course.”
The hopper left the ground ten minutes after the negotiations were formally concluded. The coral atoll that Helena left behind was a landing point for maintenance teams who worked on the solar arrays covering this part of the pacific. In the fading afternoon a thin and tender line of clouds could be seen banking on the horizon out to sea. A cold front was sweeping towards them and Helena wanted to be away; on the destroyer Amazon Fell before nightfall, in Brisbane by the same time tomorrow.
As the hopper, a small short-range personnel carrier, gained altitude she leant her head against a window, watching the sun power the world. For more than a dozen kilometres in every direction, like giant foil tentacles feeling their way into the surrounding ocean from the island, were solar cells. The cells were a fraction away from Carnot engines. Their design was as elegant as it was complex; increasing in size the farther they were from the island, appearing like a giant snowflake on the surface of the ocean. Helena briefly considered opening her memories on physics but stopped; even though she had the facts at her fingertips, trying to understand the subject always gave her a headache.
The weather seemed to reflect her fears for the coming months: the sea was calm now, but the incoming clouds warned that the flattened waves would soon be tempestuous. She allowed herself to savour the metaphor for a moment before returning to what Indexiv wanted to achieve and to the war that was now inevitable. Helena pictured Schmerl’s smile. She was troubled that he would collude with his new employer, couldn’t understand his motivations. He was a better man than that.
Despite herself, she was revolted. They were both late-second-generation Oligarchy. Neither of them was into their third century of life, but they knew the history of the nation states as well as any. They knew what they had done to each other in following the same reasoning that Indexiv was promulgating now. There was a certain implacable logic to it, a single structured way of seeing the world. She found she could only struggle against its constraints, that she had no substantial arguments against it. The economic case for reducing surplus consumption was achingly simple; even if Ockham’s razor had been misapplied in its defence more than once.
“Sorry, Lady Helena, what did you say?”
She looked around to see that her pilot was waiting for an answer.
“Nothing,” said Helena, realising she had been muttering to herself.
The pilot accepted her statement in silence. She looked at him long and hard. He had three fingers on each hand, slightly larger than natural charcoal eyes and a flattened, cartilage-free nose, all excellent adaptations for controlling a hopper, but still human. He would have chosen the changes, thought Helena. Succumbing to temptation, she let her Tertiary AI tune into the Amazon Fell’s frequency: nothing but static meant the pilot wasn’t talking to the destroyer.
She thought back to the diplomacy of the day. Schmerl must have left by now. The room they had used would already be on its way to so much sand, sea and air. The nanomachines maintaining the island’s capacitor would be supercharged for the next couple of hours as they burnt off the excess energy accrued from dismantling the meeting place.
What worried her was that, from Schmerl’s point of view, even the pilot could be seen as surplus to requirements. A pilot’s role was nothing she could not perform herself; she had the relevant skills database as well as the sensory acceleration required to pilot a hopper. Whatever she lacked, her Primary AI, her very own butler-cum-boot-boy, would provide. Like every other high level AI, its development stopped short of full sentience or consciousness, but it was readily capable of learning skills.
Helena turned her head back to the window and watched the last of the solar cells pass behind them. Their dark silver flashing in the waning sunlight, standing out from the pristine aquamarine of the shallow seas in which they floated. It’s inevitable that Indexiv would eventually conclude that only Oligarchs deserved to live and enjoy the planet beneath me, thought Helena.
The Amazon Fell appeared on the horizon about half an hour later, a hundred kilometres from the island, appropriately outside the established perimeter of neutral water.
The destroyer had hauled itself out of the sea and hung in the air, its flattened sloping keel fifty metres above the ocean like a bloated date held sideways. The Amazon Fell was capable of flight, but during engagements or when at rest it would displace its mass into the ocean to reduce energy consumption with the Secondary advantage that this also offered a reduced targeting profile. It was clear that Euros intended for her to return to Brisbane as soon as possible. War is coming, thought Helena sadly, and it is no real surprise. Protocol had been followed and the relevant parties had been informed. Even if no explicit declaration of war had been ma
de, all concerned understood that Indexiv and Euros were now weapons free.
Both corporations had ensured that the European Parliament was invited to observe the negotiations. It was essential to keep the market calm, to ensure that investors weren’t spooked by something that had the potential to touch enterprises across the solar system. Although the parliament had sided with Euros, it was a political statement which would not be backed up with men on the ground or materiel. Euros was on its own.
Neither side will engage in anything more than marginal low-intensity skirmishes, but the wrong functionary in the wrong place might create some uncomfortable volatility in their share price, thought Helena. The war would not be won or lost in the physical theatre, but in the equity markets. Lives lost would be seen as a necessary investment in order to build positive sentiment. Credibility was the territory at stake.
Despite this, Helena was troubled by a persistent feeling that watching the negotiations through someone else’s eyes meant their substance was lost in the translation. Helena’s optical implants were the latest. The images the members of the Oligarchy and the Parliament would have seen were lagless, perfect, but the subtle core of the debate would have passed them by. The implications of Indexiv’s policy position remained unrecognised by parliament and analyst alike.
The hopper hovered near the ship, waiting for a berthing window. At a little over two hundred metres long, the Fell was one of the largest destroyers belonging to Euros. She was currently assigned to the Pan-European Navy, along with the entire 2nd Fleet. The bulk of the fleet was travelling at quarter-speed towards Australasia; the Amazon would catch them in less than four hours.
The outline of the keel was pulled up towards the bow, giving the impression of a snub-nosed face. The uncovered decks, those that would remain above water when the ship set down, dominated the upper part of the design. Casting her eye over the decks, Helena could see no one. There were no telltale signs of white shirts and glinting sunglasses. Flicking her gaze from prow to stern, Helena idly noted that the guns and rocket-launchers were stowed under tarpaulins, protecting them from the salt as much as indicating that the Amazon feared no present danger.
The ship’s keel was covered in an organic compound that dried smooth when out of water. Right now, having only recently lifted out of the sea, flukes and wrinkles gave the lower half of the ship a raisin-like appearance. When the Amazon Fell got underway, the surface would smooth its appearance, becoming a sleek bullet of a craft.
As the hopper tethered, the sides of the ship stretched away above and below, like a single honeybee buzzing outside the hive. Water was still shear to the Amazon’s sides, cascading from her hull with the excess washing over the hopper; the destroyer could have pulled out of the ocean only minutes before they first saw it. Helena could hear the soft groaning of superconductors holding the ship aloft and, beneath that, cutting through the noise of the hopper, the deeper resonance of liquid hydrogen engines warming up, sending shockwaves slowly rumbling through the cabin.
The ship was ready to leave as soon as they were aboard. The pilot set down smoothly and Helena left him to shut the hopper down. There was no one to meet her as she stepped into the bay; people were running this way and that, the nearest of them immediately moving to secure the hopper. A slight shudder rattled the small hangar as the Amazon got underway.
They are in a hurry, she thought.
As if to make a point, a soft voice spoke in her ears. “Lady Woolf, your presence is requested at the helm.”
Helena was met at the hangar lift by the Amazon’s third Lieutenant, James Ngasi. Ngasi was a tall, lean, black man. Upon first meeting him Helena had guessed his ancestry was M’bundu, but he had, as curtly as he dared, informed her that his family was from the east coast of the African continent – Chaga to be exact. They had been brought to Europe centuries ago and he considered himself profoundly, if archaically, British.
“Ah, Lady Woolf, welcome aboard,” he said warmly when the lift’s cage doors opened.
“Going to the bridge?” she asked. He nodded politely and she stepped in. Ngasi was not one of the Oligarchs, but his family had been closely tied with Euros for more than one hundred years. Like hers, his implants were hidden, but even with his military-grade nanotech combined with the personal additions he had scraped together on his own, he inhabited another social class entirely. From Helena’s perspective, the gap between Ngasi and those he might have reasonably considered his inferiors was the difference between an eight and a nine-year-old. Helena heard anxiety in the irregularity of his breathing, realised he was crowded full of worry.
“Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?” she asked.
Ngasi looked relieved that she had initiated a conversation with him. She was momentarily impressed that he knew her well enough to work the situation, including her capacity to spot his discomfort, to his advantage.
“No, ma’am,” he said firmly, then as no more than an afterthought added, “Since the Lady asks, I would admit that I worry about how long this war will last.” He gathered his hands behind his back.
“Some months,” said Helena indifferently.
He said nothing more until they stepped from the lift amidships. The docking lifts only rose as far as crew’s quarters. While they proceeded to the bridge lift, he remained quiet; there were too many people about for them to be seen talking so casually. Everyone they passed saluted, Helena first then Ngasi. Although ostensibly walking alongside her, Ngasi remained half a step behind at all times.
The bridge lift was smaller and smarter but no less functional for it. Ngasi used his clearance to activate the elevator and they began to climb the last three decks to the helm.
“Ma’am?” said the lieutenant hesitantly.
“Yes, James?” said Helena, wondering at the risk he was taking in starting a conversation without her invitation. She glanced at him, saw that his pupils were dilated.
“Do you think that they’ll try to kill us all?”
Ngasi was a military officer; the euphemisms she and Schmerl necessarily bandied about during their dialogue had no place in his lexicon. She did not know how to respond. Ngasi was clearly identifying himself with those that Indexiv wanted to destroy. He had no need to express any form of solidarity. From her point of view, he had a productive function, so should have felt safe.
“You are quite safe. It is the Normals they want,” she said dismissively.
“Ma’am, my parents are Normal,” said Ngasi. Helena frowned slightly, the implications in his thoughts travelling far farther than she was comfortable with.
The lift came to a halt on the bridge just as her discomfort peaked. The doors sighed open. Ngasi did not move. He was both rebuked by and deferring to Helena’s silence.
Helena stepped out onto the deck, expecting to find the captain waiting for her. Instead, she found herself unattended. She looked around as, cowed, Ngasi scuttled around her towards his destination. As she scanned the room looking for the captain, she tasted something metallic in the air, traces of ammonia. Sweat. Nerves. Something was wrong. If something was taking their attention from her it was important.
One of the corporals standing to attention caught her eye and, at her questioning look, threw his gaze in the direction of the captain.
The captain was bent over a screen, alongside his second, Commander Hodges. No one interrupted the atmosphere of concentration. There was a crackle in the air as the rest of the crew waited to hear their orders.
Helena approached, “Captain Jensen.”
The captain looked up over his shoulder. His eyes widened as he realised who it was. Both he and the commander whipped to attention. She thought she could make out the Queensland coast on the monitor as they sidled together to obscure it.
“Lady Woolf,” said the captain.
“Captain.”
“Lady, is it convenient that you see me in my ready room?”
“You requested my presence; here I am,” said Helena. On
another day having an Oligarch on board would have been an inconvenience and a cause for momentary glances. The crew were watching for something, but it had nothing to do with her.
Almost like they’re waiting for a sign, she thought. The captain was playing formalities and Helena itched to hear his explanation. He did not flicker when she reminded him that she had come at his request, but instead moved past her to the rear of the bridge through the hatch to his ready room. Commander Hayes did not follow. He turned back to what he had been intent on studying. The captain waited beside his door as she entered then swiftly closed it behind them.
“What is it, Captain?” she asked almost as soon as he was in front of her again. He did not sit, even as
She made herself comfortable on the synthetic calfskin sofa on the starboard side of his room. The mahogany desk was pushed up against the wall opposite the door, leaving just enough space for him to squeeze in behind. There were no pictures on the walls, just a model of the Amazon on his desk. Apart from that, and a bureau, the room was barren.
He doesn’t care to make himself known to the crew, thought Helena. There was a small porthole in the ceiling, admitting a dim light.
Helena noticed a manila envelope on the table. Something for me?
“Don’t touch it,” she said, as he reached forward. He withdrew his arm without comment, letting it fall to his side. In one smooth movement she collected it from the desk. His gaze followed her around the room. She had brilliant blue eyes, hair that virtually shone like the sun with skin the colour of china. She allowed herself to fold back into the leather, tucking her long legs up under her as she got comfortable.
“That will be all,” she said without looking up. She did not notice him leave.
The envelope was keyed to her genetic makeup and the flaps came unstuck at her touch. She looked inside to find paper. How unusual, she thought.
Helena tipped the contents onto the chair, there was another sealed package along with a letter. Briefly glancing at the letter, she picked up the package, sniffing at it for clues. There was nothing untoward about it, but nothing familiar either.
A Family War: The Oligarchy - Book 1 Page 2