What Price the Stars? Part 4

Madam Shigueva’s tea room was starkly patriotic, resembling a museum more than a restaurant. In lieu of decoration, the walls played out holographic scenes of the colonization of New Earth. Great rockets landed, heroic men emerged, and bright flags were planted in eerie silence. The teacups were in the shape of bulbous space helmets, each labeled with the name of a founding cosmonaut. Roerich grinned. His cup bore the legend ‘Bylock.’

“I can’t shake the bastard,” he joked.

Michael laughed as politely as his itching hands would allow. Beneath a protective layer of bright pink nanoplasm his tattered skin was healing fast. He could hardly wait to peel it off.

Across the table, Alexi sipped her tea at Jørgen’s right hand. She’d received no medical care, but her injuries had vanished. On a hunch, Michael deliberately dropped his napkin. When he retrieved it from the floor, he confirmed that Alexi’s shredded boots were again as good as new. It was clear that she’d found favor with their extraordinary host.

Jørgen was well-known to the locals, too. The young waitresses in bubble-helmeted cosmonaut costumes fawned over him like a celebrity. But the older staff, male and female alike, kept their distance and watched with wary eyes. Madam Shigueva–as polite as she could be when she welcomed Jørgen–furtively crossed herself when she thought no one was watching.

It was a shocking sight. The Neosoviets had been as militantly atheistic as their namesake, and lasted ten times longer. No religion had survived them. Before today, Michael had never thought that anything of value had been lost. Now, with strange miracles on every hand, he wondered.

Oblivious to the myriad eyes watching his every move, their host uncovered a dish to reveal a plate of scones. “I cannot recommend these highly enough. They pair very well with the infused tea,” Jørgen said, offering one to Alexi.

Tuan Li had yet to touch a bite of his food. He chose that moment to cut in. “How does it work?” he asked.

“You put it in your mouth and swallow it, of course.”

“Not the tea! Your Spooky engine. How does it work?”

Jørgen replaced the basket and leaned back, tenting his fingers behind his head. “That’s a good question. I can’t say for sure.”

“Do you mean that we travelled here in a ship that moves by an entirely unknown principle?”

“The principle is quite well known. It is possible for two objects to undergo a simultaneous, linked state change, even if they are light–years apart. Einstein called this phenomenon ‘spooky action at a distance.’ My engine leverages it to cause a spaceship to exist in two places at once. Neither is a duplicate. Both are instances of the exact same vessel. Because the universe must conserve mass, one of the instances immediately vanishes in a puff of luxons. Travel is instantaneous, and perfectly safe.”

“Fascinating. Preposterous, but fascinating,” declared Rosencrantz.

“How is the engine made?” asked Li.

“The details are a trade secret, but we can visit the foundry, if you want to,” Jørgen replied.

“I do,” Li replied.

“I do, too,” Alexi seconded. Michael nodded, to be polite.

Rosencrantz polished off the crumbs of his fifth or sixth cucumber sandwich and gestured broadly with his tiny petit–four fork. “Assuming your engine works as you say–which I don’t, mind you–and that you can reproduce it–which I also doubt, it is incumbent on you share it with humanity.”

“I am doing just that,” Jørgen replied.

Rosencrantz laughed, a squelchy bark like a seal. “You must be joking. If one of these paragons of avarice wins, they will use the technology to gain power over all humankind. It would be far better to give it to an unimpeachable custodian who will ensure that it is distributed freely and equitably.”

Jørgen smirked. “That would be you, of course.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to. But if the free and equitable distribution of this technology is so important to you, I suggest that you make every effort to win it.”

“You still haven’t described the game. When does it start, and what are the rules?”

“It began the moment all of you entered my presence,” Jørgen replied. “The rules are entirely up to you. I am only the judge.”

It was no surprise to Michael, nor judging by Li’s stony brow and Alexi’s smug grin, to either of them. But Rosencrantz was taken aback.

“It’s a sham, then!” he protested. “You’ll do whatever you please, mankind’s future be damned.”

“I have always done so, and there is none to stop me. But the game is real. What intrigues me is that none of you has inquired about my conditions.”

“There are more, besides enslavement?” Alexi said.

“Indeed,” Jørgen replied. With understated grace, he set aside his utensils and plate, and dusted nonexistent crumbs from the breast of his jacket. “My terms are threefold. First, the winner may not alter the foundry where the engines are made. Second, the winner must use the provided laborers. No one from outside may enter the foundry. Third–this clause you already know, of course, but I include it for completeness–the winner shall be my servant in perpetuity, to direct as I see fit.”

“What do you mean by ‘in perpetuity?’” Li interrupted.

“Forever, or until the end of time, or world without end, or however you wish to formulate it.”

“Forever is a long time, Jørgen. Are you claiming to be immortal?” Alexi jibed. Her pretty eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was no levity in Jørgen’s answer.

“As men measure life, I am.”

A giggle cut off in Alexi’s throat, and someone coughed. Despite the warmth of the room, Michael shivered. “What would happen if one of your conditions was broken?” he asked.

Jørgen leaned forward, his brilliant eyes full of living fire. “I would be very, very angry.”

There were no more questions. Jørgen arose. “Our next destination is the foundry where the engines are made. I am sure all of you will be keenly interested to see it. Shall we go?”

Everyone stood except for Roerich.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Mister Roerich?” Jørgen prompted.

The old developer nodded. “Mister Pangloss, I’d like to stay here. Riches and power may tempt the young, but I’d rather spend my few remaining days in the home I never imagined I’d see again.”

A gusher of indignation erupted from Rosencrantz. “You accepted his invitation just to return to New Earth?! How childish! How credulous! You are no man of letters. You’re no better than a religionist!”

A hush descended on the room. Roerich hung his head.

Jørgen came to him. “Perhaps the professor is right, but faith such as yours deserves a reward. You may dwell again on New Earth, with my compliments and good will. Long may you dwell in your childhood home.” He laid a hand on the seated man’s head. It may have been a trick of the light, but it seemed to Michael that the deepest lines in Roerich’s face fled away from Jørgen’s touch, and did not return. Alexi let out a tiny gasp. She’d seen it, too.

Jørgen gave good gifts. Michael no longer doubted that he could deliver on his promises. But for the first time in his life, he contemplated the price of souls.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8