As the post-operative confusion lifted, Falcon concluded that he felt no better or worse than he had done before the procedure. That was to be expected, he supposed. Tem had serviced him, taken care of the worst defects, but a more thorough overhaul would have to wait—if he ever got one at all.
After twenty-four hours, he was summoned for a briefing.
The Springer-Soames waited for him in the same treatment room where he had been brought to meet the Surgeon-Commander. Falcon was wheeled in, leaning slightly back, propped up in a support chassis. Other than his face and arms he was immobile, clamped to the chassis like a maximum-security prisoner.
Brother and sister faced him in fold-down chairs. Between them was a low table. Off to Falcon’s right, the Surgeon-Commander was examining a scroll.
Jupiter was still framed in the wall screen.
“So,” Falcon asked, “who brought the grapes?”
The Springer-Soames just stared. “Are you delirious, Falcon?” asked Valentina, taking a sparing sip from a beaker on the table between her and her brother.
“He’s no less sane than he ever was,” the Surgeon-Commander said. “I’m scanning his frontal and temporal lobes as we speak. Normal neural traffic across all nodes. He’s entirely compos mentis. Aren’t you, Commander Falcon?”
“If you say so, Surgeon-Commander Tem.”
“You did well to complete the work in the agreed time,” Valentina Atlanta said. “These days have been taxing for us all. Surgeon-Commander, we thank you for your loyalty and commitment.”
“I did what needed to be done. Falcon is yours now. Wind him up like a clockwork mouse and send him into Jupiter—”
“Leave us now,” Bodan said.
Surgeon-Commander Tem snapped shut the scroll. She gave a curt, oddly disrespectful bow, and exited the room.
Falcon said, “I like her. The bedside manner could use a little work, but other than that . . .”
“War will harden the best of us,” Valentina said. “With your help, though, it will soon be behind us.”
“If this super-weapon of yours actually works.”
“Oh, it works,” Bodan said. “In fact, you’ll have all the proof you need of that very shortly.” He lifted a wrist to study an elaborate, multi-dialled watch. “As it turns out, the timing couldn’t be better. The engine has just been brought to full power. We should experience the effects within a few seconds . . .”
Falcon felt it. A rising tectonic rumble, a shift in the local gravitational field, a tiny but detectable tilt in the acceleration vector . . . Even fresh out of surgery, his old orientation skills had not left him.
And on the table, the water in the two glasses trembled, their surfaces beginning to shift from the horizontal. It was a small effect, but it was enough to make the point. The moon really was moving.
Valentina said. “The test is scheduled for thirty seconds. It should be ending about . . .”
“Now,” Bodan said triumphantly, as the tremors died and the water returned to its former equilibrium.
“You moved Io,” Falcon said, awed despite himself.
Valentina seemed unmoved. “Of course we did. But you need to understand how we moved Io. From understanding, belief follows. Did you ever study economics?”
Falcon shrugged. “There wasn’t a lot of call for it in the middle ranks of the World Navy.”
“I only mention it by way of analogy. You saw the engine in the core of Io. Have you any idea how it operates?”
“Breakthrough physics? Don’t brag. Just tell me.”
“Breakthrough physics . . . I suppose so. Our engine is a reactionless drive,” Bodan said. “I’m certain you’re familiar with the broad concept?”
“A magic box that produces acceleration without thrust?”
“Something like that,” the brother replied.
“So much for Newton’s third law.”
“The reason my brother asked about economics,” Valentina said with strained patience, “is that we use a kind of accounting trick to make our engine function. Or so the physicists explain it to us, by analogy.
“The engine—the Momentum Pump—‘swindles’ a negligible amount of surplus momentum from every other particle in the universe. Some kind of quantum effect, they tell me. The engine accumulates all that momentum as if from nowhere. And in doing so it imparts a push to Io—a reactionless impulse! But there is no violation of Newton’s laws. The rest of the universe twitches just enough to preserve the sanctity of the conservation of momentum, and Sir Isaac rests peaceful in his grave. But we move!”
“You’ve still gained kinetic energy from somewhere,” Falcon said.
The brother said, “Yes, the MP still requires energy to function—vast amounts of it. We bleed the core of Io for that. It’s the momentum we . . . well, steal. Again, the books are balanced—locally and globally.”
“Local and global causes.” Memory stirred, belatedly, for Falcon.
“What?” Valentina asked.
“Never mind the economics crap. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? The behaviour of each particle is bound up with the large-scale structure of the universe. Local depends on global . . . Is this some kind of quantum Mach principle in action?”
The Springer-Soames exchanged a glance. “Why do you ask?”
“There was a Machine, working on the KBO flingers back in the twenty-second century. He came up with a new formulation of physics, out in the dark, that his supervisors dutifully reported to the controlling authority. Never got a reply, as I recall. And is this the result? Is your silver bullet based on Machine science?” He laughed. “What an irony, if it is.”
Bodan was dismissive. “No Machine can be a physicist. A Machine is an abacus, its thoughts no more than the click-clack of beads on a wire. What it produces is ours, by definition: because we made it.”
“His name was 90,” Falcon said sternly. “And his life was thrown away needlessly.”
Bodan received this with a look of utter contempt.
The sister said, “I presume you don’t doubt the veracity of what you experienced. Even in this brief demonstration we have already altered Io’s orbit. Nothing now stands between us and—”
“If you have altered the orbit of a moon, the Machines will have noticed.”
“Let them,” the brother said, with a flick of his hand. “Let them speculate. Let them fear our capabilities. You may tell them as much or as little as you wish. It will only add credence to your ultimatum, Falcon.”
“An ultimatum? I thought this was to be a peace proposal.”
“Whatever you choose to call it,” Valentina said. “The treaty is going through last-minute revisions. You’ll take it with you.”
Alarm bells rang for Falcon. “You want me to take something with me, physically? Can’t you just squirt the text to them?”
“No,” she answered. “The Machines would be distrustful of any complex electronic transmission. They would assume that we had embedded logic bombs into its structure—recursive loops, destruct codes. A physical document actually affords greater trust and transparency.”
“And the chance to sneak some nasty nanotech into their midst, with me as the carrier pigeon?”
Bodan gave a look of distaste. “Such cynicism, Falcon.”
“Again, it wouldn’t work,” Valentina said coolly. “Over the years, we have engaged in many levels of warfare. Always the Machines have devised countermeasures—and, indeed, vice versa. No, we are beyond such gambits. Our overture is sincere. The document is a physical object, a solid core of tungsten, engraved with our terms.”
“And am I allowed a look at this hallowed item before I deliver it?”
“You couldn’t begin to skim the tiniest fraction of its contents,” she said. “It is rather lengthy. You don’t negotiate for control of the solar system without making sure the terms of surrender you demand are absolutely watertight, down to the last detail.”
“Sounds a thrilling read. But the terms don’t really matter, do they? You’re putting a loaded gun to their heads, whatever the details of the offer.”
Bodan smiled. “They are free to accept or reject our terms. If they accept, they will be subjugated and controlled. If they reject, they will be annihilated. At least that’s clear—don’t you think?”
Even if the Machines might have some kind of choice, Falcon realised, he himself had none. “When do I leave?”
Valentina smiled. “Two days.”