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Termination Shock [calibre 4.99.4]
- Автор: Стивенсон Нил Таун
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: HarperCollinsPublishers
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Termination Shock [calibre 4.99.4]». Краткое содержание книги:
“More than good enough for a truck stop” was the verdict of Fenna. “I was worried. That glass bubble—the sun—” She was hitting Saskia with some powder, knocking down the glare on the shiny bits. Men around them politely averted their gaze. “Lipstick or—”
“Pointless, I’m about to guzzle wine and eat something called brisket.”
Fenna crinkled her nose and nodded agreement. “Can you guess what the vegetarian option is?”
“Let me think . . . fake brisket?”
“Yeah, two kinds! Grown in a vat, or simulated from plants.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, if we could get started!” T.R. hollered as he dinged a wineglass.
“Later?” Fenna asked.
Saskia nodded. “When I go to the toilet—before dessert probably.”
Fenna nodded and turned to go. Then she turned back. “Can Jules come with me?”
“To West Texas?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s talk about it later.”
“Before we get to the main course I just wanted to get the papershoveling out of the way,” T.R. hollered. He was standing up, directly across the table from Saskia, who like all the other guests was seated. A team of energetic, well-groomed minions were pushing a cart piled with many copies of a bound document about an inch thick. These they passed out to people like Alastair and Willem, who tended to leaf through them curiously before slipping them into briefcases. “It’s the boring necessary shit, also available electronically of course. Due diligence and all that.”
Last night in the hotel bar, Rufus had made an observation that had left the other members of the party nonplussed. On the television an American football game had been playing. For this was September and apparently it was the season for that. Accustomed to the more fluid rhythm of what Americans called soccer, Saskia was struck by the amount of high-value, on-camera time claimed by the officials, who seemed to stop the game every ten seconds to litigate what had just happened and to mete out punishments with arcane gesticulations. Gazing at one especially stern official, Rufus glanced over at T.R.—who was holding forth at the bar with Sylvester Lin—and remarked, “If you put a zebra shirt and a black cap on him, gave him a whistle, man, he’d fit right in.” Whereupon he nodded back at the television. It was, like many of Rufus’s offhand comments, a very peculiar thing to say. And yet now sitting five feet away from T.R. and watching him address the room, Saskia could absolutely not get out of her head the image of this man in a black-and-white-striped shirt blandly but firmly twanging out judgment on a sweltering gridiron.
“I’m sure everyone wants to dig in, and no one’s asking him- or herself ‘I wonder when T.R.’s gonna stand up and give a great big long boring speech?’ and so I will just say welcome to our honored guests from the Netherlands”—he glanced at Saskia—“the Square Mile” (Robert Watts, its lord mayor); “Singapore” (Sylvester Lin, to Saskia’s left); “and Venice” (Michiel, next to T.R.). “You are not all, but you—along with me and my friends in Houston—are enough. I’ll explain later. Let’s eat.” And he sat down to light, uncertain applause.
“My Lord Mayor,” Saskia said to the man on her right. “You’ll have to forgive me, I didn’t recognize you without the huge ridiculous hat!”
“Not wearing it is a most effective form of disguise, Your Majesty. Please address me as Bob.”
“I have been going by Saskia lately.”
He made the closest approximation of a courtly bow that was possible while sitting on the bench of a picnic table.
“I, like you, am trying to do this discreetly, and so I left the huge ridiculous hat at home with the golden mace and the other bits.”
“Should have guessed it was you from all the SAS types hanging around.”
“Are they that obvious?”
“It’s the hair. Or lack thereof.” She looked across the room to see Fenna closely evaluating a very fit young Englishman, every one of whose hairs was exactly three millimeters long. Fenna quickly arrived at the conclusion that, while not lacking in potential, he was no Jules.
“Not like your chap with the dreadlock-Mohawk. Not conspicuous at all, that one.”
“Well, I hope word doesn’t leak out.”
“About the biggest gun in the world? That will be hard to keep secret.”
“No, that you are dining with a royal.”
“Oh, the aldermen will forgive me. You’re not one of those lot from Westminster.”
“What the hell,” T.R. said, “are the two of you talking about?”
Bob stifled a smile and collected himself. “As you know, T.R., I am the 699th lord mayor of the City of London.”
“The Square Mile. The financial district. Limey Wall Street.”
“Just think of it as O.G. London—the bit that was enclosed by the Roman wall,” Bob said. “We have always run the place as suits our purposes.”
“Business, shipping, finance.”
Bob nodded. “Now, some centuries after the Romans cleared out, grubby hillbillies with lots of sheep and sheep-based money—”
T.R. liked that. “Ha! Like our cattlemen.”
“Yes, they caused a lot of trouble for us, and to make a long story short people got tired of it and drew up the Magna Carta. Which among other things says ‘hands off the bit of England that’s circumscribed by the Roman wall, we know how to run that, stay out!’ The King of England may not even set foot in the Square Mile unless I invite him to do so.”
“Good for you!” T.R. exclaimed, but then threw a nervous glance at Saskia. She smiled to indicate she was not offended.
“So this banter between me and Her Majesty is a joke that goes back at least to 1215.”
“You and the British royals are natural adversaries,” T.R. said.
“There is a cultural divide between us and the, er—”
“I believe ‘grubby hillbillies’ was your characterization of my cousins at Buckingham Palace,” Queen Frederika put in.
“With sheep and swords,” T.R. added.
“Yes,” Bob said. “The divide is probably invisible to foreigners, who see us all as English people with similar accents, but it is real.”
Conversation went on as brisket, ribs, and red wine were brought out. Saskia stole a glance at Michiel, who was bemused by the ribs. Was one expected to pick these up with one’s bare hands and bite the meat off the bones like a savage? Fifteen hundred years after the first Venetians had fled into the Lagoon to found a new city, had it really come to this? He wisely postponed committing to any one course of action, picked up knife and fork, and went after a slice of brisket.
“Not a fascist, as far as we can tell” had been Amelia’s verdict at breakfast. The security crew at home had pulled an all-nighter trying to figure out Michiel. “I mean, we can’t read his mind. But if he has fringe political opinions, he has kept them to himself. Hasn’t associated with such people.”
“Who does he associate with?”