His Majesty's Starship (19 page)

- 15 -

21 May 2149

It was Day Four on the Roving, the second day of deliberation allowed to the human delegates before the Convocation met. The delegates did most of the deliberating in small groups in the Dome’s spacious gardens, making the most of the good weather.

Prince James sat alone at a table, working at his speech on his aide. A shadow fell over him and he looked up at Michael Gilmore. James suppressed the inward groan he felt at the sight. The other delegates he could handle: they were all politicians; they all expected the cut and thrust and give and take that were part of normal life, and they knew what to expect from each other. Gilmore was so simplistic in his worldview that James often didn’t know how to cope.

“May I speak to you alone, sir?” Gilmore said.

James decided to let his annoyance show, just a little. He still remembered the incident in the transporter’s washroom when Gilmore had prevented him from giving Kirton the lashing the man deserved, and James hadn’t quite forgiven that yet. “Later, cap-”

“Now, sir,” Gilmore said.

Prince James braced himself. After all, it might actually be important. “Very well. What is it, and make it quick.”

Was there a tiny smile on Gilmore’s face? James began to feel uneasy.

“Mr Kirton,” Gilmore said, “has firmly established that your AI, Plantagenet-” Did he emphasise the your, just a little? James pricked up his ears “-has interfered with an autonomous program that he had constructed. I have therefore invoked the Software Act and instructed him to neutralise Plantagenet.”

The world seemed to fall away from under James’s feet. “You can’t!”

“I have, sir.”

“You ... you ...” James forced himself to collect his thoughts. “What is the program in question?”

“Polyglot.”

“Polyglot?”

“Mr Kirton felt the program’s output was too perfect, he investigated, he found signs of tampering.”

“Polyglot,” James said again while he marshalled his thoughts. His first reaction was,
well, of course Plantagenet interfered, you cretin – do you think you’d have a Polyglot if he hadn’t?
But he couldn’t – yet – say as much. “Captain, think of this ... think of this logically. You say – you claim that Plantagenet has interfered with another program.” Once more, yet again, with his consummate ease, Gilmore was getting under his skin. James cursed himself that he could handle other people so coolly and yet, the moment Gilmore opened his mouth, all his smooth, polished sentences went to hell. Again he made himself calm down. “And what’s Plantagenet supposed to have done? His tampering created a perfect Rustie translator. Now, is that possible? Where would Plantagenet have got that information from, eh? I will concede your lieutenant’s expertise and accept that circumstantial evidence may point to my AI, but ...”

“Mr Kirton is aware of all that,” Gilmore said. “It may be that Plantagenet just poked around in his program and had a look. Maybe he tweaked it a bit out of generosity, making it more efficient. The fact is, he did so without authorisation and I will not have an AI that can behave in such a manner on my ship.”

“You and your ship,” James said. The man really was a monomaniac, but now James felt he had the situation under control. Surely Gilmore had to cede the logic of the situation; not knowing what Plantagenet knew, there was no way he could conclusively blame Polyglot’s remarkable performance on the AI. He reached for his aide. “This is absurd, Gilmore. I’m calling Plantagenet-”

He stopped and looked down at his wrist. Gilmore’s hand was clasped about it, preventing him from unclipping the aide from his belt. The anger that Gilmore always seemed to be kindling in him blazed into a white fury and then surpassed even that. It was so intense that, paradoxically, it came out as a mild, conversational sincerity.

“Captain, you are interfering,” he said. This, this was a thousand times worse than the washroom incident.

“Plantagenet has already been neutralised, sir,” Gilmore said.

James felt the blood roar in his ears. “You’re finished, Gilmore,” he said. “You had no right and I’ll-”

“If you wish to protest, I suggest we call in the fleet commodore,” Gilmore said, letting go. “We can each present our sides of the story and she can arbitrate.”

Whomp. James knew he had walked straight into Gilmore’s hands.

“Don’t be a fool,” he said, while he tried to think of something else to say. How like the man – never one to bother with talk, with discussion and moderation, he goes straight for the biggest guns he has.

“The first fact to come out,” Gilmore continued, “will be that you are interfering with my command of my ship, prince, and for that reason you won’t find a single sympathetic ear.”

And James had to admit that the biggest guns outweighed anything he had on his side. For the moment. He held Gilmore’s gaze only for a moment more, but it felt much longer. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

Gilmore didn’t change his expression. “That’s all, sir,” he said.

James turned and walked away. After ten feet he stopped and looked back. He couldn’t resist the parting shot.

“Enjoy your command while you still have it, Captain,” he said.

*

Peter was on the flight deck when the call came so he took it. The comms display in front of him showed the captain’s features.

“Ah, Mr Kirton,” said Gilmore. “Let the others know I’m coming up, will you? It’s about time I did my bit like everyone else.”

“You’re definitely coming up, sir?” Peter said.

“Oh, yes.” A flash of understanding passed between them. Peter knew that the prince’s insistence on having Gilmore by his side had prevented Gilmore from standing his watch on previous occasions, but now the captain was cruising on his victory and the world was a sunnier place.

Gilmore must have been in a good mood because he made a joke. “You don’t have to look delighted at the news, Lieutenant.”

“Oh. Sorry, sir.” Peter shook himself out of it and wondered where the darkness within him was coming from.

Gilmore’s eyes were shrewd but his tone was kind as he diagnosed the situation. “You had to hurt Plantagenet to make him comply. It was the first time you’ve ever had to be ruthless and it’s shaken you up. You never knew you had it in you and you haven’t come to terms with it yet.”

Peter looked at him, amazed. “Um, yes, sir. That’s exactly it.”

“It comes to us all. My advice is to come downstairs. See the world. Most important, get away from the ship and Plantagenet for a while. God knows there’s not much to see here in the Dome but you can still get out and about.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that,” Peter said, as a plan he had half-formed a while ago finally turned into resolve. “I’ll definitely do that.”

*

“Your Royal Highness?”

Will I never get any peace?
James thought. This time he looked up from the draft of his speech into a round, beaming face. He carefully did not shudder because he knew what lay behind that smile – a luxury not afforded to the many people who had badly underestimated R.V. Krishnamurthy in the early stages of his career. It was the same feeling James had when watching old footage of monsters like Hitler or Stalin or Ben Gael. Friendly, smiling, avuncular; patting children and plotting genocide.

Krishnamurthy sat down opposite him without invitation and James casually blanked the display of his aide. “May I help you?” he said.

The delegate for the Confederation kept his smile going. He rarely showed his teeth when smiling but again, James knew they were there. “I may help you, your Royal Highness.”

“You really don’t have to call me that.”

“Old habits, old habits.” Krishnamurthy shrugged. “Your Royal Highness, it is no secret that we here on the Roving fall broadly into two camps. Put colloquially, your lot and my lot. While you just belong to your lot, I lead my lot.” The smile, impossibly, widened. “I would like to invite the UK to join my lot.”

James smiled, coldly, back. “The UK is very happy with my lot.”

“Let us be blunt. In your lot the UK is ... small beer.”

“Very small beer,” James agreed. “I really don’t think we have anything to add to your lot.”

Krishnamurthy leaned forward and for a moment his intensity slipped through the smile. “Wrong, Windsor. You have Polyglot.”

James sighed. He didn’t believe in coincidences. “You must be psychic, Mr Krishnamurthy. Do you know, I was discussing this matter with my colleagues earlier and I could have sworn we’d taken all reasonable anti-bugging precautions.” This would be worth bearing in mind in future and he idly tapped a reminder into his aide.

“And you displayed, if I may say so, a very dog in the manger attitude, Prince James.” James had resolutely refused to hand Polyglot over to anyone, and that was that. Polyglot gave independence. Whoever owned it could deal with the Rusties without going through whoever won the bid; they could even deal with different factions of Rusties, if such proved to exist. James had no intention of giving that to anyone else.

“Since you’re so familiar with my reasoning, I don’t intend to repeat myself,” he said.

“Listen.” Krishnamurthy leaned forward again. “Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that one of your consortium wins the bid. Then what happens? Favours are distributed amongst yourselves, naturally. Europe, the Russians and the Americans will probably be in charge of ground-based affairs. They are used to handling large populations and territories and resources. Starward will without a doubt be put in charge of the space lanes between here and Earth. Very lucrative. The UK ... well, I suppose they could handle intra-orbital affairs, if they put their minds to it. Scheduling re-entry windows, cleaning up space junk, that sort of thing. The others will probably allow you that much. Nothing for any of the others here on the Roving, of course, and certainly not for poor little us.”

“Little?” said James, thinking of the empire in all but name that spread from Afghanistan down to Burma, which Krishnamurthy had helped to unite.

“A figure of speech. The fact is, I can offer better than that.”

“Such as?”

“What Starward is after. Complete control of the space lanes. A monopoly on transit between our solar systems. Full responsibility for space research, for combining our space fleets, for mounting expeditions to other stars. All that, Windsor, if you let me have Polyglot.”

James remembered a passage of scripture from childhood lessons. The Devil offering Jesus the whole world – if he would just fall down and worship.

He shrugged. “Sadly, I no longer have it. I’ve erased my copy and the original is on
Ark Royal
. You’d need Kirton to unlock it for you.”

“And Kirton is on
Ark Royal
and
Ark Royal
is surrounded by your allies in a very efficient blockade.”

“Do you know, I believe you’re right.” James threw his hands into the air. “Well, that takes care of that, then.”

“Don’t be a fool! I’ll try one more time, Windsor. What exactly is it that you think you’d be inheriting if you or your friends won the bid? You don’t know half of what I know about the Rusties.”

James raised his eyebrows. This should be interesting. “Go on,” he said.

“Their society is moribund. A dead end. It was so obvious on the tour but I doubt you noticed it because you were too busy showing off to Iron Run with Polyglot. But I had observers with me, Windsor. Watching, observing.”

“As observers do.”

“And I’ve gone over the information they’ve provided very, very closely, and I have concluded – the Rusties are stagnant, Windsor! They are a society going through the motions because that’s how it’s always been done.”

“This world invented step-through before we did,” James said.

“Something has gone wrong since then.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Krishnamurthy gestured angrily. “Cultural decline. Spiritual malaise. Lack of foresight. But they are producing nothing fresh, nothing original. Since they invented step-through there hasn’t been a single new invention on this world! It’s all there, if you know where to look; they haven’t been hiding anything. Do you know what they want, Windsor? One word: leadership. I believe that they are stuck in a rut. They require a strong hand to motivate them, to guide them. A strong hand such that we can provide. Your lot run companies or are representatives of nations that were once superpowers but now ... declining, failing. Has-beens. But look at us. Since your country left us alone we have gone from strength to strength. We are the future and we deserve the Rusties just as much as the Rusties deserve us. And you can be a part of this too, if you will just - let - me - have - Polyglot.”

Inside, James was laughing. Poor Krishnamurthy – so near and yet so far. But now he had had as much of the man’s proximity as he could take and he decided to end the conversation.

“Mr Krishnamurthy, who authorised the use of tactical nuclear force against Rangoon?” he said.

The Indian’s expression froze. “Rangoon was an interesting case,” he said, after a few seconds. “You see, it was part of Greater India and even though it was obvious we could no longer hold it, we could not possibly allow it to fall into enemy hands.”

“You displayed, if I may say so, a very dog in the manger attitude,” James said.

Krishnamurthy pushed his chair back and stood up.

“What we cannot have, Windsor, we do not let others have. Think about my offer,” he said. He walked off and James, as instructed, thought about it, for perhaps two seconds. He then went back to his speech, chuckling to himself with good humour restored.

*

“You?” Julia said, surprised. She hadn’t expected any Martian to be a lover of the arts and certainly not this one, who had come straight to see her after getting back to the Dome. “You want to come on this visit with me?”

“If it’s okay with the Rusties, is there a problem?” Peter said.

Julia bristled. “No, but-”

She knew there wasn’t much she could reasonably “but’ about: it was just that, in her mind, Julia Coyne was already well over halfway towards being humanity’s cultural ambassador to the First Breed: the idea of being just one in a crowd of rubbernecking humans was appalling. Leaf Ruby’s invitation, conveyed through Arm Wild, had been to her. She hadn’t told anyone outside
Ark Royal
about it.