The Long War

Mac nudged Santorini. ‘Keep an eye on that damn flea bucket.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Maggie invited them to sit, courteously enough, and Mac, evidently acting out of a kind of reflexive politeness, even poured them coffee.

Then Maggie said more sternly, ‘Tell me how you found us, Dr. Abrahams. This is after all a military vessel. And what do you want of me?’

How he had been following her seemed innocent enough: through outernet accounts posted by civilians, of the Franklin’s various interventions. All of this was public. As to the what, that concerned the troll-call.

Maggie snapped her fingers. ‘Of course. Yours is the name on the instruction sheet.’

‘I am its designer,’ he said, not particularly modestly, and his wife rolled her eyes. ‘From all accounts you got the measure of it very quickly – amazingly so, if you don’t mind my saying it. Well, I come bearing gifts. I have fifteen more translators for you and your crew. Of course, they are still only prototypes, though refined versions. As we develop them further both parties are learning to use the gadgets – trolls and humans, I mean. As I’m sure you’ve found out, trolls are patient and they learn just as fast as humans, oh my goodness how they learn, and of course they remember; they remember everything.’

‘Well – thank you,’ Maggie said, nonplussed. ‘We’ll happily take possession of the troll-calls, after security checks . . . You know Sally Linsay, I take it. And – I have to ask – are you associated with the Black Corporation?’

‘Oh my dear lady, two interrogations in one sentence! Of course I know Sally – a remarkable judge of people. And as harsh as a hanging judge when she’s in the mood! As for the Black Corporation—’ He sighed. ‘Yes, of course they are involved. Captain, I am independent, I have my own workshop – yes, I am in partnership with the Black Corporation, but they don’t own me. They did fund my work, and arranged delivery of the prototype to you.’

‘Once again Douglas Black is giving away technological treasures for free?’

‘My impression is that Douglas Black believes that to release such a technology should in the long term have a beneficial effect on humanity’s career in the Long Earth. And in the short term it may heal our fractured relationship with the trolls. I of course have worked closely with the trolls in the course of my studies. What wonderful beasts they are! Don’t you think? And so soulful! Anybody who has ever owned pets knows that animals have something which equates to a soul . . .’

The wife nudged him. ‘You’re preaching, George. And what’s more, to the converted. We’ve done what we came to do. Now it’s time to wave goodbye and let these good people get about their duties.’

That seemed to be that. Slightly bewildered, Maggie and her officers arranged to collect the troll-calls, and rose to wish the couple goodbye. The wife, who seemed oddly elderly compared with the husband, fussed as they retreated to their ship: ‘Do get on, dear. Remember your prostate!’

‘Don’t ham it up too much, Agnes . . .’

It was only after they had gone that Mac looked around and said, ‘What happened to that damn cat?’

Their next assignment was in a stepwise Nebraska, on the way back to the Corn Belt, where the hunter-gatherer-type wandering inhabitants of nearby parallel Americas periodically got together for what they described as a ‘hootenanny’. A mixture of marriage market, farmers’ auction, rock concert and Hell’s Angels gathering, these events were magnets for trouble. But for the Franklin the assignment was routine, the ship’s very presence a deterrent to disorder.

Maggie took the opportunity to have her chief engineer, Harry Ryan, run a comprehensive overhaul of the ship’s systems; it had been a while since the last maintenance break. Among other small issues, he quickly reported problems with the Franklin’s two remaining winged aircraft, microlites capable of air launches for fast response; they had already cannibalized a third craft for spares . . .

As she was scanning Harry’s report in her sea cabin, Maggie became aware of a steady gaze.

It was a cat. The cat, George Abrahams’s cat, standing patiently on the carpet, gazing at her. Slim, white, healthy-looking, she was a breed indeterminate to Maggie, who was no cat person. Her eyes were eerie green sparks. Sparks like LED displays, Maggie saw, looking closer.

And the cat spoke, a liquid string of syllables in a female human voice, quite incomprehensible.

‘What? What?’

‘I apologize,’ the cat said. ‘George and Agnes Abrahams used me to practise their Swahili; it became my default setting. I am aware that you are running a systems check . . .’

Maggie, floundering, found a memory floating to the surface of her mind. ‘Joshua Valienté. He had a talking cat, didn’t he? So the story goes.’ Then she realized that not only was the cat talking, she was engaging the cat in conversation.