‘But that—’

‘Pilots,’ said Clara. ‘Firing on their own kind.’

‘Exactly,’ said Clayton.

‘And that’s why you want me to keep this from Colonel Garber.’

‘Yes.’

‘Holy fuck.’

Earlier, Roger had thought she looked capable; now, he could not tell whether she was worried or scared witless. Either way, things were bad.

I don’t want to leave.

Not least because she was in Ascension Annexe. But if something happened to him, what would be the effect on her? He had to keep himself safe.

‘Get me on a ship to Molsin,’ he said.

Golden space, and flying fast.

Someday, it will be me and her, alone.

But for now, Roger rode as Jed’s passenger, sitting diagonally behind him in the near-featureless control cabin. The glow and gentle distortions of fractal space told him which universe this was. A widespread holorama replicated an outside view suitable for Pilot eyes; while in front of Roger, a smaller display listed the cargo hold’s contents along with status updates for their comatose inhabitants: three hundred stacked med-drones, Alisha’s among them.

I was falling in love with her.

There was no getting around that. And she, the Luculenta-to-be, had feelings for him, or so it seemed. But with her mind shattered from Rafaella Stargonier’s attack and the depredations of the brothel—

Maybe it’s not just her who’s traumatized.

Fat wobbling belly, dripping penis, and the panicked voice of the middle-aged punter backing away from Alisha’s naked body …

Stop it.

‘Transition soon,’ said Jed.

‘Got it.’

Their voices rippled in pale-amber air.

Concentrate.

Roger waved the status holo out of existence. The forward holorama was more interesting, as a flaring virtual ribbon denoted the geodesic they were following. Some day, he would be doing this himself: plotting the insertion angle just right to avoid disaster during—

Transition.

Black space shivering into existence in every direction: stars and pinpoint galaxies appearing silver-white at first, before the eyes could adjust to the true richness of colour.

Realspace.

‘There’s the place.’ Jed nodded towards the gas giant filling the holorama. ‘Big old bastard, isn’t it?’

‘Molsin.’

‘One of the top worlds,’ said Jed. ‘Influential.’

Just as Fulgor had been.

Stop it.

Her skies were yellowish from here, but once inside the atmosphere, all would be orange, swirling in endless turbulent patterns. There, among the layers and currents, drifted the quickglass sky-cities that Molsin was famed for: peculiar and spectacular, different from Roger’s home, wherever that was. While deep below, under killing pressure, oceans of hydrofluoric acid waited to eat flesh and bones alike, to devour any morsels that might fall to the lower realm.

SIX

EARTH, 1941 AD

Booming explosions and the deck tipping beneath his feet: Dmitri might have been back on board the ship that took him from Vladivostok across the Sea of Japan; but there had been no gunfire then, and the transfer to the Panamanian-registered freighter had been without incident, he and Sergei smuggled aboard to a private cabin where they assumed German identities. Sergei was convincing because his mother had been from Sudetenland; Dmitri because he had a gift for languages, and a compulsion to prove himself.

But this was his kitchen, in his Tokyo flat; and any thunder came from inside his head, born of last night’s vodka marathon – no, saké, much the same thing – which meant he knew how to cope: drink water and get on with it.

Pearl Harbor, then.

If Lieutenant Kanazawa had not been delusional, then it would be something to find out about. Outside, it was a muggy June day, two months since Japan had signed a pact with the Soviet Union (going undercover and resurfacing as the Russians they really were formed one of his and Sergei’s backup plans) while Roosevelt had, two days later, announced that the US would supply materials, under the Lease-Lend Act, to Japan’s major enemy, main target of their plans for aggressive expansion: China.

Think it out.

It was hard, with Kremlin bells ringing in his head, but this was what he thought: that China’s ‘magnetic warfare’ strategy seemed like frustrating magic to the Japanese. The Chinese simply withdrew from the area surrounding every city that fell to the invaders. They had never even declared war: not ten years ago during the Mukden Incident in Manchuria, nine years ago when the Nihon Imperial Army moved on Shanghai, or eight years ago when they took Chengteh’s capital Jehol, so close to the Great Wall.

The Chinese did not fight the invasion: they absorbed it.

So what will America do if Admiral Yamashita attacks?

The United States were something of a mystery to Dmitri. Their Great Depression had failed to convince the proletariat of the madness of free-market thinking; that, or they were too cowed by their imperialist masters to rise up in revolt. But those were explanations that anyone might trot out in a Moscow bar after some vodkas, whereas when it came to Western Europe – especially Germany – Dmitri could always see through simple explanations and ideology.

Pose the question in a different way, and different answers rise up.

No, what will China do?

If attacking Pearl Harbor caused China to declare open war on Japan – in accord with its treaties, now it depended on American supplies – then Japan would take the gloves off and attack any ships delivering aid to China, even if the flag they flew was the Stars and Stripes.

So maybe Kanazawa was right: this insane plan was real.

‘Morning, boss.’ Sergei looked fresh. ‘Have you started on breakfast?’

‘Have you seen Torginov recently?’

Torginov, a long-term Kyoto resident and naval intelligence specialist, was only nominally a part of their network.

‘I would have told you if I had.’

‘He’ll have picked up word of this Pearl Harbor thing,’ said Dmitri. ‘If it’s real, I mean.’

‘Ah.’ Sergei’s smile was cynical. ‘You don’t want him getting the credit.’

The man had access to a separate courier route, distinct from the one Dmitri and Sergei used, his affiliation looser than that of other agents. He could report to Moscow via the well-placed Sorge, another agent working under German cover. Had Dmitri been less senior, he would not have known of Torginov’s existence.

‘I’ve no idea what you mean. I was thinking of cold rice and fish.’

‘For breakfast?’ said Sergei. ‘So long as there’s plenty of tea, I can handle it. And I’ll keep quiet about the other thing.’

Meaning Torginov, but Dmitri’s concerns were not what Sergei thought.

I am my own man.

Right now, to the best of his informed knowledge, Wehrmacht tanks were beginning a three-pronged westward invasion: von Leeb’s force to the Baltic states, Rundstedt’s further south, while in between was Bolk’s army that included both Guderian’s and Hoth’s panzer divisions.

There were intelligence officers like Sergei who operated best with a small-field detailed picture, while others like Dmitri made decisions based on strategic background concerns. The Nazi forces were superbly equipped in comparison to Mother Russia, for all Stalin’s rhetoric; but if manpower could hold them back throughout the summer – or at least slow them down – then the secret Soviet weapon could be brought to bear.

Winter-time in Russia.

I do not belong to the darkness.

In his dreams, he thought that the occurrence of warfare mattered more to that pseudo-imaginary power than any particular victory; still, he felt that it preferred the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to suffer defeat, meaning he had a choice: which of his masters to betray.