The Long Mars by Terry Pratchett, Stephen Baxter Page B
Authors: Terry Pratchett, Stephen Baxter
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place on the platform.
Surrounding the party was the usual apparatus of presidential security, including drone aircraft buzzing overhead, and marines stationed around the podium, heavily armed, watchful, some of them sporadically stepping into neighbouring worlds to keep a check on any threat coming from that invisible direction. Further out, a perimeter of police, military and civilian security kept the crowds at a respectable distance from the action. But these crowds were nothing like the numbers you’d once have got in Datum Washington, DC, Maggie thought, on such a day. They were mostly dressed in clothes befitting a still-young colonial city, coveralls and practical overcoats rather than suits, home-made moccasins and boots rather than patent leather shoes. And there were many, many little kids in their number. Since Yellowstone, indeed long before that great dividing line in history, the populations of the stepwise Americas had been booming, and now Cowley’s own policies with handouts and tax breaks were encouraging bigger families yet.
And beyond that the scattered sprawl of this new Madison spread away. The wide avenues and open development allowed Maggie a view all the way to the lakes that defined the geography of Madison on all the stepwise worlds, calm, ice white rimmed by blue, glittering in the low January sun. Within the framework of the sparse, elegant, very modern city planning bequeathed by this stepwise community’s original founders, smart new establishments that catered for the recent influx of politicos and staffers sat side by side with more practical enterprises, such as stables for your horse , not a hundred yards from the Capitol itself. It was nothing like the clutter of the Datum original before the nuke. But it was a beguiling mix of American traditions old and new.
Nobody begrudged Brian Cowley a Constitution-bending FDR-style third term. The consensus seemed to be that whatever the murky processes that had first propelled Brian Cowley to office back in 2036 – at the head of his destructive, divisive, ‘Humanity First’ anti-stepper movement – he’d stepped up to the plate when the supervolcano had gone up during his innings. Continuity in what was still an ongoing crisis had to be a good strategy, there was no alternative candidate right now who would obviously do a better job – and everybody could see how much the burden was taking out of Cowley himself, who was ageing before everybody’s eyes, live on TV. In fact his unofficial election slogan had been ‘It’s hurting me more than it’s hurting you.’
But with his background as a bar-room barnstormer, he did like to put on a performance.
Joe Mackenzie grumbled to Maggie now, as they waited in the gathering crowd, ‘What’s the man going to do, wait until we all pass out?’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Mac. The whole thing is a show. This expedition of the Armstrong and the Cernan , I mean. And damned expensive. We’ve had to wait for years to do this, while we all worked on the Yellowstone recovery. You can’t blame Cowley for milking the moment, that’s the whole point of it for him.’
‘Hmm,’ Mac grunted sceptically. He glanced around at the crews of the two craft in Maggie’s small squadron, his expression sour. ‘Some expedition.’
Maggie saw her people through his eyes: the Navy crew, the squads of marines adding some muscle. In there was Captain Ed Cutler, whom every man and woman in Maggie’s old command had once seen run nutso in Valhalla. There was the small Chinese contingent in their oddly ill-fitting uniforms, a non-negotiable offering of friendship, cooperation and so forth that had been part of the deal that had delivered the advanced Chinese stepper technologies for the US Navy’s newest ships.
And there were the trolls, three of them, a small family, wearing the armband stripes that designated them as co-opted members of Maggie’s crew. They were visibly unhappy to be stuck in a Low Earth, a
Surrounding the party was the usual apparatus of presidential security, including drone aircraft buzzing overhead, and marines stationed around the podium, heavily armed, watchful, some of them sporadically stepping into neighbouring worlds to keep a check on any threat coming from that invisible direction. Further out, a perimeter of police, military and civilian security kept the crowds at a respectable distance from the action. But these crowds were nothing like the numbers you’d once have got in Datum Washington, DC, Maggie thought, on such a day. They were mostly dressed in clothes befitting a still-young colonial city, coveralls and practical overcoats rather than suits, home-made moccasins and boots rather than patent leather shoes. And there were many, many little kids in their number. Since Yellowstone, indeed long before that great dividing line in history, the populations of the stepwise Americas had been booming, and now Cowley’s own policies with handouts and tax breaks were encouraging bigger families yet.
And beyond that the scattered sprawl of this new Madison spread away. The wide avenues and open development allowed Maggie a view all the way to the lakes that defined the geography of Madison on all the stepwise worlds, calm, ice white rimmed by blue, glittering in the low January sun. Within the framework of the sparse, elegant, very modern city planning bequeathed by this stepwise community’s original founders, smart new establishments that catered for the recent influx of politicos and staffers sat side by side with more practical enterprises, such as stables for your horse , not a hundred yards from the Capitol itself. It was nothing like the clutter of the Datum original before the nuke. But it was a beguiling mix of American traditions old and new.
Nobody begrudged Brian Cowley a Constitution-bending FDR-style third term. The consensus seemed to be that whatever the murky processes that had first propelled Brian Cowley to office back in 2036 – at the head of his destructive, divisive, ‘Humanity First’ anti-stepper movement – he’d stepped up to the plate when the supervolcano had gone up during his innings. Continuity in what was still an ongoing crisis had to be a good strategy, there was no alternative candidate right now who would obviously do a better job – and everybody could see how much the burden was taking out of Cowley himself, who was ageing before everybody’s eyes, live on TV. In fact his unofficial election slogan had been ‘It’s hurting me more than it’s hurting you.’
But with his background as a bar-room barnstormer, he did like to put on a performance.
Joe Mackenzie grumbled to Maggie now, as they waited in the gathering crowd, ‘What’s the man going to do, wait until we all pass out?’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Mac. The whole thing is a show. This expedition of the Armstrong and the Cernan , I mean. And damned expensive. We’ve had to wait for years to do this, while we all worked on the Yellowstone recovery. You can’t blame Cowley for milking the moment, that’s the whole point of it for him.’
‘Hmm,’ Mac grunted sceptically. He glanced around at the crews of the two craft in Maggie’s small squadron, his expression sour. ‘Some expedition.’
Maggie saw her people through his eyes: the Navy crew, the squads of marines adding some muscle. In there was Captain Ed Cutler, whom every man and woman in Maggie’s old command had once seen run nutso in Valhalla. There was the small Chinese contingent in their oddly ill-fitting uniforms, a non-negotiable offering of friendship, cooperation and so forth that had been part of the deal that had delivered the advanced Chinese stepper technologies for the US Navy’s newest ships.
And there were the trolls, three of them, a small family, wearing the armband stripes that designated them as co-opted members of Maggie’s crew. They were visibly unhappy to be stuck in a Low Earth, a
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