“So what was your exit strategy?” Martin asked, walking along behind her.
“Exit strategy? We don’t need no stinking exit strategy! Just—deliver this. Then melt into the chaos. Find somewhere to live. Settle down till trade resumes. Ship out. You?”
“About the same. Herman has a way of catching up after a while. Uh, did you have anywhere in mind to—”
“Small town called Plotsk.” She jerked her head sharply. “First things first. I need to deliver the package. Then we need to ditch laughing boy somewhere safe where he can’t follow us, hmm? Aside from that, I was wondering if—well. About us.”
Martin reached out and took her free hand. “Wondering if you were going to get rid of me?”
She stared at him. “Mm. Why—am I going to have to?”
Martin took a deep breath. “Do you want to get rid of me?”
She shook her head.
Martin gently pulled her toward him, until she leaned against him. “Me neither,” he murmured in her ear.
“Two of us stand a better chance than one, anyway,” she rationalized. “We can watch each other’s backs, it’s going to be hairy for a while. Plus, we may be stuck here for some time. Years, even.”
“Rachel. Stop making excuses.”
She sighed. “Am I that transparent?”
“You’ve got a worse sense of duty than—” She pulled back a little, and he stopped, seeing the warning glint in her eyes. Then she began to laugh quietly, and after a moment he joined her.
“I can think of much worse people to be stranded with in the middle of a backwater recovering from a revolution, Martin, believe me—”
“Okay, I believe you, I believe you!” She leaned forward and kissed him, hard, then let go with a smile.
The luggage was rolling smoothly now, and the slope of the ground was flattening out. The boulder above them glowed yellow in the afternoon light; and the man who’d been leaning against it was deep in animated arm-waving conversation with the huge Critic. As they approached, he turned to face them: a wiry, short man with bushy hair, a goatee,, and the antique affectation of pince-nez. Judging by the state of his clothing he’d been on the road for some time. “Who are you?” he demanded aggressively.
“Burya Rubenstein?” Rachel asked tiredly.
“Yes?” He glared at her suspiciously. “You have countermeasures!”
“Parcel for Burya Rubenstein, care of the Democratic Revolutionary Party, Rochard’s World. You wouldn’t believe how far it’s come or how many hoops I’ve had to jump through to get it to you.”
“Ah—” He stared at the trunk, then back at Rachel. “Who did you say you were?”
“Friends from Old Earth,” Martin grunted. “Also hungry, dirty, shipwrecked survivors.”
“Well, you won’t find any decent hospitality here.” Rubenstein swept a hand around the clearing. “Old Earth, did you say? Now that is a long way to come with a parcel! Just what exactly is it?”
“It’s a cornucopia machine. Self-replicating factory, fully programmable, and it’s yours. A gift from Earth. The means of production in one handy self-propelled package. We hoped you might feel like starting an industrial revolution. At least we did before we found out about the Festival.” Rachel blinked as Rubenstein threw back his head and laughed wildly.
“Just what exactly is that meant to mean?” she demanded irritably. “I’ve come forty light-years, at not inconsiderable risk, to deliver a message you’d have murdered for six months ago. Don’t you think you could explain yourself?”
“Oh, madam, please accept my apologies. I do you a disservice. If you’d delivered this even four weeks ago, you’d have changed the course of history—of that I have no doubt! But you see”—he straightened up and his expression grew sober—“we have had such devices since the first day of the Festival. And for all the good they’ve done us, I’d just as soon never have set eyes on one.”
She looked back at Rubenstein. “Well, that confirms it. I suppose you’ve got time to fill me in on what’s been going on here while I’ve been engaged in this fool’s errand?” she demanded.
“We held the revolution about, ah, three weeks ago.” Burya circled the steamer trunk, inspecting it. “Things did not go according to plan, as I’m sure our friend the Critic here will explain.” He sat down on the chest. “Eschaton only knows what the Critics are doing here in the first place, or indeed the Festival. We—nobody—was ready for what happened. My dreams are co-opted by committee meetings, did you know that? The revolution ran its course in two weeks: that’s how long it took for us to realize nobody needed us. Emergent criticality. The Sister here has been showing me the consequences—bad consequences.” He hung his head. “Survivors of the fleet have landed at the capital, they tell me. People are flocking to them. They want security, and who can blame them?”
“So let me get this straight.” Rachel leaned against the huge amber boulder. “You changed your mind about wanting to change the system?”
“Oh no!” Burya stood up agitatedly. “But the system no longer exists. It wasn’t destroyed by committees or Soviets or worker’s cadres; it was destroyed by people’s wishes coming true. But come, now. You look as if you’ve been through a battle! There are refugees everywhere, you know. Once I sort out my business here, I will return to Plotsk and see what I can do to ensure stability. Perhaps you’d like to come along?”
“Stability,” Martin echoed. “Um, what business? I mean, why are you here? We seem to be quite a way from civilization.” That was a huge understatement, as far as Rachel could see. She leaned back and looked down at the forest dispiritedly. To come all this distance, only to find that she was three weeks too late to change history for the better: that the Festival had dropped an entire planetary society, such as it was, into an informational blender and dialed the blades to FAST; it was all a bit too much to appreciate. That, and she was tired, mortally tired. She’d done her best, like Martin. Three weeks. If Martin had failed…
“There’s someone inside that boulder,” said Rubenstein.
“What?” A complex three-dimensional model of the hillside spread out before Rachel’s distributed spy-eyes. There was Vassily, working his way up the far side of the slope. Here was Martin. And the boulder—
“The occupant.” Burya nodded. “He’s still alive. Actually, he wants to join the Festival as a passenger. I can see why; from his point of view, it makes sense. But I think the emergency committee might disagree—they’d rather see him dead.
The reactionary forces in the capital would disagree for other reasons: they’d want him back. He used to be the planetary governor, you see, until too many of his private, personal wishes came true. Dereliction of duty.” Rubenstein blinked. “I wouldn’t have believed it, but.”
“Ah. So what’s the real problem with him joining the Festival?”
“Getting their attention. The Festival trades information for services. He’s told it everything he knows. So have I. What are we to do?”
“That’s preposterous,” said Martin. “You mean, the Festival will only accept fare-paying passengers?”
“Strange as this may seem, it’s how the Fringe and the Critics first came aboard. The Critics still pay their way by providing higher-level commentary on whatever they find.” Burya sat down again.
Martin yelled. “Hey! Critic!”
On the lower slopes of the hill, Sister Seventh sat up. “Question?” she boomed.
“How are you going home?” Martin shouted at her.
“Finish Critique! Exchange liftwise.”
“Can you take a passenger?”
“Ho!” Sister Seventh ambled up the slope of the hill. “Identity interrogative?”
“Whoever’s in this vitrification cell. Used to be the planetary governor, I’m told.”
The Critic shambled closer. Rachel tried not to recoil from her clammy vegetable-breathy presence. “Can take cargo,” Sister Seventh rumbled. “Give reason.”
“
Um.” Martin glanced at Rachel. “The Festival assimilates information, no? We came from the fleet. I have an interesting story to tell.”
Sister Seventh nodded. “Information. Useful, yes, low entropy. Is passenger—”
“Vitrified,” Burya interrupted. “By the Festival, apparently. Please be discreet. Some of my colleagues would disapprove, and as for the reactionaries—”
Some sixth sense made Rachel turn around. It was Vassily: he’d circled around the far side of the hill for some reason, and now she saw that he was clutching a seemingly bladeless handle. His expression was wild. “Burya Rubenstein?” he gasped.
“That’s me. Who are you?” Rubenstein turned to face the new arrival.
Vassily took two steps forward, half-staggering, like a marionette manipulated by a drunk. “I’m your son, you bastard! Remember my mother yet?” He raised his power knife.
“Oh shit.” Rachel suddenly noticed the fuzz of static that was even now plucking at her implants, trying to tell them this wasn’t happening, that there was nobody there. Things became clearer, much clearer. She wasn’t the only person with high-level implants hereabouts.
“My son?” Rubenstein looked puzzled for a moment, then his expression cleared. ‘“Milla was allowed to keep you after I was exiled?” He stood up. “My son—”
Vassily swung at Rubenstein, artlessly but with all the force he could muster. But Burya wasn’t there when the knife came down; Martin had tackled him from behind, ramming him headfirst into the ground.
With a shrill screech, the power knife cut into the lid of the cornucopia, slicing through millions of delicate circuits. A numinous flickering light and a smell of fresh yeast rose up as Vassily struggled to pull the blade out. A superconducting monofilament, held rigid by a viciously powerful magnetic field, the knife could cut through just about anything. Martin rolled over on his back and looked up just as Vassily, his face a slack mask, stepped toward him and raised the knife. There was a brief buzzing sound, and his eyes rolled up: then Vassily collapsed across the chest.
Arms and chest burning, Rachel lowered the stun gun and dropped back into real-world speed. Panting, heart racing. Do this too often and die. “Bloody hell, wasn’t there anybody aboard the fleet without a covert agenda?” she complained.
“Doesn’t look like it.” Martin struggled to sit up.
“What happened?” Burya looked around, dazed.
“I think—” Rachel looked at the trunk. It was outgassing ominously: the power knife had cut through a lot of synthesis cells, and evidently some of the fuel tanks were leaking faster than the repair programs could fix them. “It could be a bad idea to stay here. Talk about it on the road to Plotsk?”
“Yes.” Burya rolled Vassily off the trunk and dragged him a few paces. “Is he really my son?”
“Probably.” Rachel paused to yawn for air. “I wondered a bit. Why he was along. Couldn’t have been a mistake. And then, the way he went for you—programmed, I think. Curator’s Office must have figured, if revolution, you’d be central. Bastard child, disgraced mother, easily recruited. Credible?”
Sister Seventh had ambled up and was sniffing at the vitrification cell occupied by the nearly late Duke Felix Politovsky. “I told Festival passenger upload now-soon,” she rumbled. “You tell story? Honor credit?”
“Later,” said Martin.
“Okay.” Sister Seventh gnashed at the air. “You got overdraft at the mythology bank. I fix. Go Plotsk, now-soonish?”
“Before the luggage goes bang,” Martin agreed. He stood up a trifle drunkenly, winced as he transferred his weight onto one knee. “Rachel?”
“Coming.” The dark spots had almost vacated her visual field. “Okay. Um, if we can tie him up and put him in that walking hut of yours, we can work on his brainwashing later. See if there’s anything more to him than a programmed assassin.”
“I agree.” Burya paused. “I didn’t expect this.”
“Neither did we,” she said shortly. “Come on. Let’s get away before this thing blows.”
Together they stumbled away from the fizzing revolutionary bomb and the last unchanging relic of the ancien regime, back down the hillside that led toward the road to Plotsk.
EPILOGUE
Once news of Admiral Kurtz’s miraculous appearance in the Ducal palace spread into the city, a tenuous curtain of normality began to assert itself. The revolutionary committees centered on the Corn Exchange watched the situation with alarm, but the common people were less unenthusiastic. Most of them were bewildered, disoriented, and deeply upset by the strangeness of the times. Those who weren’t had for the most part already left the city; the survivors huddled together for comfort amidst the ruins of their certainties, eating manna from the Festival’s machines and praying.
Kurtz’s mysterious burst of good health continued; as Robard had noticed earlier, diseases of senescence were extremely rare among the survivors of the Festival, and for good reason. Acting on the Curator’s advice, the Admiral magnanimously announced an amnesty for all progressive elements and a period of reconstruction and collective introspection. Many of the remaining revolutionaries took the opportunity to melt into the crowded camps or leave the city, in some cases taking cornucopia seeds with them. Rochard’s World was thinly colonized, an almost unknown wilderness starting just three hundred kilometers beyond the city. Those who could not stand to watch a return to the old status quo took to the roads.
Also at the behest of the Curator’s Office, the Admiral made no attempt to send militia forces after them. There would be time for dealing with miscreants later, Robard pointed out. Time enough after they’d starved through the coming winter.
A few more lifeboats made it down intact, cluttering the landing field behind the palace. Regular light shows lit up the sky with blue streaks of light; departing spawn of the Festival. Babushkas in the street looked up, made the sign of the evil eye, and spat in the gutter as the evil time passed. Some of the passing wisps bore the encoded essence of the old Duke; but few people knew and fewer cared. Gradually, the Festival’s orbiting factories reached the end of their design life and shut down: slowly, the telephones stopped ringing. Now, people used them to call each other up. It was good to talk, and scattered families and friends rediscovered one another through the directionless medium of the phone network. The Curator fretted, and finally concluded that there was nothing to be done about it. Not until contact with the father planet resumed, in any event.
Things happened differently in Plotsk. The outlying township lay cut off from the capital by landslides and bizarre, dangerous structures that had rendered the roads impassable. Here, the revolutionary committee wound down until it was now a local provisional council, now a town governance. Peasants began to squat in the many abandoned farms around the town, second and third sons gifted by a sudden superfluity of soil. Strangers drifted in, fleeing chaos in smaller settlements, and there was space for everybody. Comrade Rubenstein of the Central Committee announced his intention to settle; after a heated row with the governance, he agreed to stick to publishing a newsletter and leave matters of ideology to less mercurial souls. He moved into Havlicek the Pawnbroker’s apartment above the gutted shop on Main Street, along with a young man who said little and was not seen in public for the first week, providing much fertile material for wagging tongues. Strange structures burbled and steamed in the small courtyard behind the shop, and rumor had it that Rubenstein dabbled in the strange arts of technological miracle-working that had so upset the state sometime ago—but nobody disturbed him, for the local constabulary were in the pay of the governance, who had more sense than to mess with a dangerous wizard and revolutionary ideologue.
Another strange couple took over a tenement above Markus Wolff’s old hardware store. They didn’t talk much, but the bearded man demonstrated a remarkable aptitude with tools. Together they rebuilt the store, then opened for business. They kept a small stock of locks and clocks and rebuilt telephones and more exotic gadge
ts, racked in the age-blackened oak cabinets within the shop. These they traded for food and clothing and coal, and tongues wagged about the source of the miraculous toys that they sold so cheap—items that would have cost a fortune in the capital of the father world, never mind a backwoods colonial town. The supply seemed never-ending, and the sign they hung from the shop front was daringly close to subversive: access to tools and ideas. But this didn’t provoke as much comment as the conduct of his partner; a tall, thin woman with dark hair cut short, who sometimes went about bareheaded and unaccompanied, and frequently ran the shop when her husband was absent, even serving strangers on her own.
Back before the Festival, their conduct would have been sure to arouse comment, perhaps even a visit by the police and a summons to the Curator’s Office. But in these strange times, nobody seemed to care: and the radical Rubenstein was a not-infrequent visitor to their shop, procuring interesting components for his printing mechanism. They evidently had dangerous friends, and this was enough to deter the neighbors from snooping too much—except for the widow Lorenz, who seemed to feel it was her duty to pick a quarrel with the woman (who she suspected of being a Jewess, or unwed, or something equally sinister).
Over the nine months following the Festival, summer slid into the cold, rainy depths of autumn: the sun hid its face, and winter settled its icy grip into the ground. Martin spent many evenings rooting through the supply of metal bar stock he’d collected during the summer, feeding pieces to the small fabricator in the cellar, trying his hand at toolmaking with the primitive mechanical equipment to hand. Diamond molds, electric arc furnace, numerically controlled milling machine—these, his tools, he spun from the fabricator, using them in turn to make artifacts that the farmers and shopkeepers around him could understand.
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