The Fourth Rome (10 page)

Then Roebeck took her arm out of his. “Tim, just throttle back, will you? You’re way too torqued.”

Chun snorted her approval.

“Look,” Grainger said, “we’re going into a venue where all indoor conversations must be assumed to be monitored. Sort of like
inside the TC.” Grainger kept walking, head down. They’d come if they wanted. “So let’s talk while we’re out here and moving.
This isn’t a milk run. We’ve been sent chasing putative Russians who can travel temporally using some kind of nonstandard
apparatus—I’m unwilling to credit ‘psychic’ force—which is sensitive to our TC’s bow wave. That sensitivity obviates all of
our standard working assumptions and methodologies. We can’t catch these revisionists the easy way. Maybe we can’t catch them
the normal way. The folks Up The Line who sent us on this mission understand what’s going on here. We don’t. We don’t even
really know who sent us—
who
we work for. Don’t forget that. Barthuli didn’t bring it up for nothing.”

“Where are you going with this, Tim?” Chun stepped toward him to avoid a hunched grandmother offering tins of caviar to passersby.

“I’m not going anywhere, Chun. I already am somewhere: ’92 Russia. Let’s say the Wise Ones Up The Line know what they’re doing.
Let’s say Russians are using indigenous technology to defeat technology six centuries in advance of theirs. I guess it’s possible.”

“Tim,” Roebeck cautioned, “if I wanted paranoid speculation on the motives of those Up The Line, I’d have brought Barthuli
and left you slogging in the Roman mud with Carnes and Weigand.”

“Okay, point taken. Look, these Russians were brilliant theoreticians. Don’t let the dilapidated streets fool you. They didn’t
care
about cosmetics. They didn’t care about creature comfort. They cared about state supremacy, about military and ideological
primacy. They gave up
everything
for scientific and technological excellence because they were told that such primacy was their only guarantee of security—and
they believed they had it.”

“That’s a fallacy, Tim. Look around you,” Chun objected. “This culture is falling apart. It’s poor and getting poorer. According
to Central, their military superiority was a sham. I can’t—”

“Despite what Central says about this time horizon, the Soviet Union was not simply a Third World country that happened to
have nukes. That’s propaganda put out by the winners—my side. I ought to know. The Soviet Union was without peer educationally
where technical subjects were concerned. For decades, they were twice as literate and twice as committed to intellectual superiority
as any culture of their time. Their need to compete head-to-head with the West was what destroyed them. You couldn’t win the
technology race while protecting your people from corrupting influences. You had to learn about the other side’s capabilities.
As they learned about life in the West, the Russian people stopped believing that the price they were paying societally was
worth it. Keep in mind that the West outspent them; it didn’t outfight them. Russians may not make great-looking civilian
trinkets yet, but their high-end space and military technology was kick-ass. Not sleek and pretty, but tough and effective.
Their understanding of physics in many areas surpassed ours—may still, centuries later, surpass ours because so much was lost
in the breakup.”

“You think that’s what we encountered in 9
AD
?” Roebeck probed. “Forgotten Russian breakthrough technology?”

Grainger shrugged. It was exactly what he did think. There was no other answer that made sense. Much of Russia’s more metaphysical
or unconventional scientific explorations had been rejected as funding candidates by the West because of the “not invented
here” syndrome and institutionalized hatreds.

To Roebeck, he said, “They had better metalurgical skills than the West. They had better algorithmists. When the US had a
problem with a technology area, we added another supercomputer. If that didn’t work, we dropped the problem and went on to
something easier. These guys hunkered down and solved problems we’d discarded as insolvable. Often they picked up discarded
US patent work and improved it. In a dozen key technology areas, they were well ahead of the West.”

“Then how do you explain the societal failures? This city’s infrastructure is in terrible shape,” Chun demanded, her brow
furrowed. “Everything’s old, dirty, patched together. That guy pumping up his tires before he drove away …”

“They just never understood how to capitalize on what they had, that was all,” Grainger replied. “To win in a capitalist world,
they needed marketeers and couldn’t produce them for ideological reasons. Once they lost the Cold War, the Western powers,
led by US Deputy Secretary of Defense Donald At-wood, tried real hard to starve them back to the 18th century, so they’d never
be a threat again. Meanwhile, the West, the Asians, and the Arabs were stealing them blind through both governmental and private
initiatives. The entire technology curve—not just weapons proliferation—of the early 21st century was accelerated by Russian
theoretical work exploited by unscrupulous commercializers.”

He paused to rub the back of his neck and squint through the lowering haze at the city around him. Neither woman commented.
Maybe he was getting through to them.

He hoped he was. “My era was a direct result of that epoch. My whole division was formed to protect the US from competition
based on the proliferation of Russian technology to the Pacific Rim nations and the Muslim world. Don’t think there’s nothing
here that’s a threat to us just because we’re from their future. And start asking what we’re going to do about it when we
find the technology center that’s produced these revisionists. Whatever one group of Russians did, three more groups were
also doing. That may hold true for revising the timeline, as well as for titanium alloys or directional acoustics or production
of unobtanium.”

“Unobtanium?” Chun asked archly.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t getting through to Chun. Yet. He still had to try. “Sorry. Idiomatic. Russians had so many exotic
alloys and materials that certain myths got started about materials and technologies the Russians were with-holding. At their
poorest, they still funded twenty percent of their tech base. ‘Unobtanium’ meant literally substances which were so sensitive
they couldn’t be obtained by outsiders. Coming into the turn of the century, Western governments were near hysterical at the
classified level about what the Russians had, who was getting it, and what it could do. Osmium 187, subatomic explosives,
and red mercury were part of a category called unobtanium, along with cold fusion generators, offensive beam weapons, zero
cavitation electrical coatings for submarines, psychotronic devices, and scalar wave projectors.”

“Scalar wave projectors? You mean Tesla coils and all that silliness?” Chun was as deep as Grainger into this turf battle
over whose knowledge base was relevant.

“I’ve seen ball lightning running around laboratory floors in my own time. I’ve seen some nasty magnetic weapons prototypes
that came from Russian work. Don’t laugh. Whatever this ’psychic’ temporal generator is, it’s more than somebody’s grandmother
moving frogs through time. It’s real. It’s hardware based. And it’s a significant threat to us and what we do, if our failed
attempt to stop these revisionists in 9 AD is any sample. If you asked me for an overview of this mission, Nan, which you
carefully haven’t done anywhere where we’re on the record, I’d have to tell you …” Grainger stopped. Overviews were strictly
Chun’s job, not his. He’d gained a lot of ground with Roebeck today. Best not to push too far and lose it all.

“Okay, Tim,” Roebeck said. “Let’s have it. I’m asking for your overview.”

Chun glared at him but said nothing. Russians passing on the sidewalk stared covertly at the Oriental in American clothes.

“This is our you-bet-your-job mission. If we can’t stop these revisionists, we’re out of business.”

Nan was still walking, but not looking at the Moscow streets any longer. A truck went by billowing raw blue exhaust that smelled
as if it contained all the pollutants of hell.

When the roar had passed, Chun said, “You know, Tim, I’m glad you’re offering to do my job for me. But if you bothered to
read my daily log, you’d see I have already covered the salient parts of that long speech you just gave us. As for the rest
of it … Well, you’re not objective, are you?” Chun Quo smiled sweetly. “This looks like the Métropole Hotel. Isn’t that what
it says?” she asked innocently. A fleet of small white hotel-owned Mercedes were parked outside, the first decently maintained
vehicles they’d seen.

“Yep. Into the breach, troops.” Roebeck, the ARC Riders’ team leader, squared her shoulders. She took the broad steps in long
strides, leading the way into a lobby full of polished brass and dark wood and carpet.

Up to the long registration desk they went, fake passports, plastic credit card ID, Central-processed visas, and counterfeit
currency in hand.

Sure enough, their passports and visas were taken from them by one of the most beautiful blond girls that Tim Grainger had
ever seen. She wore no makeup. Her skin was peaches and cream. Her hair was clean and shining. Lounging behind her was a huge
security type with no neck and the build of a bull, watching them closely as they registered.

The girl dutifully told them in passable English, “Passporta and visa will be returned to you in couple hours. Please call
later.” She slid three small booklets across the desk toward them, plus three keys. “This is rooms,
and passporta
for hotel. You wish porter?”

Roebeck looked at Grainger. Grainger and the guard were busy recognizing each other as operators. Roebeck touched his arm.

“Huh? Oh, no. The airport will send our baggage later—if they find it.”

“Ah,” said the girl with a real but brief smile. “Often they do find these lost baggages. Do not worry. We will inform you
if they arrive. Have a nice day.”

In the lobby there was a giant arrangement of dried flowers, almost as tall as Chun. A live cellist was playing a Bach solo
somewhere above their heads. At the elevators they piled into a narrow car whose buttons depressed with a loud snap when one
pushed them to choose a floor.

The elevator stopped at the third floor and its door opened, revealing the cellist and the rest of a string quartet performing
in an atrium.

No one got in, and the elevator closed.

“This isn’t so bad,” Chun said. “In fact, it’s beautiful.”

“Thank God,” Roebeck muttered.

“That’s because we’re rich
Amerikanskis,“
Grainger reminded them.

The hallway of their floor had a reception area of its own, with several couches, tables with ashtrays, chairs. The acrid
smell of Russian tobacco permeated the huge open space. Wood and glass double doors separated the hallways from the meeting
space.

Walking through the halls, Grainger was struck by the sheer size of the place, a calculated opulence of scale. Maybe the hotel
had been built by claustrophobies. Or giants.

His room was huge by any standard, and Russian enough to bring back more of his grandfather’s tales of diplomatic derring-do.
Beautiful brocade curtains were nailed carelessly to a board over a tall window. Twin platform beds were low, their mattresses
thin. On each bed, blankets nearly as thick as the mattresses were covered with linen cases. The cases were pierced by large
diamond-shaped holes revealing colored wool blankets inside. The decor was Diplomatic Conservative, to match the curtains.
Vaguely 18th-century brocade chairs were arranged under a grand crystal chandelier that Grainger’s security scan revealed
to be loaded with rudimentary surveillance equipment. His room was completely bathed in radio frequencies.

The house phone had a dial, not push buttons. After a few moments of study, he called Roebeck’s room with it. “I’m sitting
in an RF bath. How about you?”

“Do we want to discuss it?” said Nan’s voice, tiny and so full of static it sounded light-years away.

“Maybe it’s standard and they’ll quit it if they know we know,” he suggested.

“Maybe. Let’s get something to eat where there’s music or general background noise.”

They met downstairs in one of the most amazing rooms Grainger had seen anytime, anyplace. Rococo gold columns rose two stories
to a backlit stained-glass ceiling of great beauty and complexity. A harpist played here. Businessmen were drinking Russian
chai,
a strong tea, and eating cakes. Various vodkas had already been ordered on several tables. Here, too, the waitresses were
extraordinarily beautiful, and the waiters equally handsome in their white shirts and black ties and slacks.

“This country’s not all bad,” Chun said. “Do you think they all look like that—all the girls?” She touched her black, straight
hair.

“They all look like the people you saw outside. The lucky, the prettiest, the handsomest, the most connected, get these jobs.
There’s relatively big money for these kids. Look at the prices on this menu.”

Their menu was in English. The prices were fabulous—tea and cakes could cost them a hundred of their dollars.

“Tim was right about needing money,” Roebeck muttered. You didn’t want to have to go back to TC 779 for a reason as trivial
as printing more counterfeit.

They ordered, ate, and tipped in cash, leaving dollar bills under their plates. As they left, the waitress who served them
scurried over, lifted the plate, and made the dollars disappear. She saw Grainger watching and cast him a grateful, sunny
smile.

Roebeck noticed. “Do you think we overtipped? She can probably live for a week on the economy on those dollars.”

“Yeah, I think we did. Let’s keep doing it,” Chun said before Tim could answer. Her counterfeit US currency would be as good
as gold here, undetectable by any current means. Only the most unlikely of circumstances—two bills with identical serial numbers
falling into the hands of a single party—would reveal that one was counterfeit. Even in that case, determining which bill
was fake would be impossible in the 20th century. For all intents and purposes, the currency they were passing was good. And
the ARC Riders were putting too small a sum into circulation to damage the US economy. So it was a win/win situation, unless
you were the US Treasury, in which case the duplicate currency would be an embarrassing mystery best hushed up.