Fractions

THE STAR FRACTION

THE STONE CANAL

For Carol

INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION

Acknowledgements

The Star Fraction
is the first of the Fall Revolution books and my first novel. I started writing it with no idea of where it would end up, let alone of making it the start of a series. It still isn't: The four books can be read in any order, and the last two of them present alternative possible futures emerging from that midtwenty-first-century world I imagined at the beginning.

In this scenario, a brief Third World War—or War of European Integration, as its instigators call it—in the 2020s is followed by a
US/UN
hegemony over a balkanized world. The Fall Revolution in the late 2040s is an attempt to throw off this new world order and to reunify fragmented nations. But, as one of the characters says, ‘What we thought was the revolution was only a moment in the fall.' His remark has a theory of history behind it.

History is the trade secret of science fiction, and theories of history are its invisible engine. One such theory is that society evolves because people's relationship with nature tends to change more radically and rapidly than their relationships with each other. Technology outpaces law and custom. From this mismatch, upheavals ensue. Society either moves up to a new stage with more scope for the new technology, or the technology is crushed to fit the confines of the old society. As the technology falls back, so does the society, perhaps to an earlier configuration. In the mainstream of history, however, society has moved forward through a succession of stages, each of which is a stable configuration between the technology people have to work with and their characteristic ways of working together. But this stability contains the seeds of new instabilities. Proponents of this theory argue that the succession of booms and slumps, wars, revolutions, and counterrevolutions, which began in August 1914 and which shows no prospect of an end, indicates that we live in just such an age of upheaval.

This theory is, of course, the Materialist Conception of History, formulated by the pioneering American anthropologist Lewis Henry Morgan and (a little earlier) by the German philosopher Karl Heinrich Marx. These men looked with optimism to a future society and with stern criticism on the present. Property, wrote one of them, ‘has become, on the part of the people, an unmanageable power. The human mind stands bewildered in the presence of its own creation. The time will come, nevertheless, when human intelligence will rise to the mastery over property…. Democracy in government, brotherhood in society, equality in rights and privileges, and universal education, foreshadow the next higher plane of society….'

Beam me up. But before stepping onto the transporter to Morgan's ‘higher plane,' it might be wise to check the specifications. One constraint on the possible arrangements of a future society was indicated by the Austrian economist Ludwig von Mises. He argued that private property was essential to industrial civilization: without property, no exchange; no exchange, no prices; no prices, no way of telling whether any given project is worthwhile or a dead loss. Given that every attempt to abolish the market on a large scale has led to the collapse of industry, his Economic Calculation Argument seems vindicated. Unfortunately, there's no reason why the Economic Calculation Argument and the Materialist Conception of History couldn't both be true. What if capitalism is unstable, and socialism is impossible?

The Star Fraction
is haunted by this uncomfortable question. For me, it was acutely felt when I was writing the book in the late 1980s and early 1990s. As a socialist, I had become interested in the libertarian critique of socialism. The fall of the bureaucratic regimes of the East found me neither surprised nor sorry.

No, what was—and remains—dreadful to contemplate was not the collapse of ‘actually existing socialism,' but the catastrophic consequences of the attempt to introduce actually existing capitalism and the apparent inability of the millions who had brought down the bureaucratic dictatorships to assert and defend their own interests in the aftermath.

In this novel, these issues are seen through the eyes of characters who are flawed and often mistaken but sometimes heroic. The ideologies through which they try to make sense of it all range from British-style ‘industrial-grade Trotskyism' to American-style ‘black helicopter' libertarianism. The big questions about history and economics fuel the adventures of angry white guys (and angry black women) with guns, whose actions tip scales bigger than they know. Their world is one where the New World Order is coming to get you, with black helicopters and Men in Black and orbital gun-control lasers.

And then there's all the stuff I made up, which begins on the next page.

It was hot on the roof. Above, the sky was fast-forward: zeppelin fleets of cloud alternating with ragged anarchic flags of black. Bright stars, miland comsats, meteors, junk. Moh Kohn crouched behind the parapet and scanned the band of trees half a klick beyond the campus perimeter. Glades down, the dark was a different shade of day. He held the gun loose, swung it smoothly, moved around to keep cool. The building's thermals gave him all the cover he could expect, enough to baffle glades or
IR
-eyes that far away.

‘Gaia, it's hot,' he muttered.

‘Thirty-one Celsius,' said the gun.

He liked hearing the gun. It gave him a wired feeling. Only a screensight read-out, but he heard it with his eyes like Sign.

‘What'll it be tonight? Cranks or creeps?'

‘Beginning search.'

‘Stop.' He didn't want it racking its memory for an educated guess; he wanted it
looking.
As he was, all the time, for the two major threats to his clients: those who considered anything smarter than a pocket calculator a threat to the human race, and those who considered anything with a central nervous system an honorary member of it.

He'd been scanning the concrete apron, the perimeter wall, the trees for three hours, since 21.00. Relief was due in two. And then he wouldn't just be off-shift, he'd be off-
active
, with a whole week to recover. After seven nights of staring into the darkness, edgy with rumours, jumpy with hoaxes and false alarms, he needed it.

Music and laughter and noise eddied between the buildings behind him, sometimes loud when the speeding air above sent a blast down to ground-level, sometimes – as now, in the hot stillness – faint. He wanted to be
at
that party. If no attack came this watch…dammit, even if there
did.
All he had to do was not take incoming fire. Shelling it out was something else, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd dissolved the grey-ghostly nightfight memories and the false colours of cooling blood in drinking and dancing and especially in sex – the great specific, the antithesis and antidote for violence – to the same night's end.

Something moved. Kohn chilled instantly, focusing on a point to his left, where he'd seen…There it was again, where the bushes fingered out from the trees. Advance cover. He keyed the weapon's inertial memory and made a quick sweep, stepping the nightsight up ×3. Nothing else visible. Perhaps this was the main push. He turned back and the gun checked his hand at the place it had marked.

And there they were. Two, three –
zoom, key to track
– four, crouching and scurrying. Two with rifles, the others lugging a pack. The best-straight-line of their zigzag rush arrowed the Alexsander Institute. The
AI
block.

Cranks, then. No compunction.

‘Do it for Big Blue,' he told the gun. He made himself as small as possible behind the parapet, holding the gun awkwardly above it, and aimed by the screensight image patched to his glades. His trigger finger pressed Enter. The weapon took over; it aimed
him.
In a second the head-up image showed four bodies, sprawled, stapled down like X- and Y-chromosomes.

‘Targets stunned.'

What was it on about? Kohn checked the scrolling read-out. The gun had fired five high-velocity slugs of
SLIP
– skin-contact liquid pentothal. It had put the cranks to sleep. He could have sworn he'd switched to metal rounds.

‘
HED
detected. Timer functioning. Reads: 8.05…8.04…8.03…'

‘Call Security!'

‘Already copied.'

Kohn looked over the parapet. Two figures in hard-suits were running across the grass towards the unconscious raiders. He thumbed the Security channel.

‘Lookout Five to Ready One, do you copy?'

(‘7.51.')

(‘Yes, yes.')

‘Ready One to Lookout. Receiving.'

‘They've got a time-bomb with them. Could be booby-trapped.'

They stopped so fast he lost sight of them for a moment. Then an unsteady voice said, ‘Hostiles are alive, repeat alive. Our standing instructions—'

‘Fuck
them
!' Kohn screamed. He calmed himself. ‘Sorry, Ready One. My contract says I override. Get yourselves clear. No dead heroes on my call-out. Shit, it could be dangerous even from there, if it's a daisy-cutter…Hey, can you give me a downlink to the
UXB
system?'

‘What hardware you
got
up there, Moh?'

‘Enough,' Moh said, grinning. The guard took a small apparatus from his backpack and set it on the grass. Kohn adjusted the gun's receiver dish-let, hearing the
ping
of the laser interface. The screensight reformatted.

‘OK, you got line-of-sight tight beam, user access.' The guards sprinted for cover.

Normally Kohn couldn't have entered this system in a million years, but there's never been any way around the old
quis custodiet
(et cetera) questions. Especially when the
custodes
are in the union.

Fumbling, he keyed numbers into the stock. The gun was picking up electronic spillover from the bomb's circuitry (no great feat;
AI
-abolitionists didn't really
go
for high tech) and bouncing it via the security guard's commset to British Telecom's on-line bomb-disposal expert system.

‘2.20.' Then: ‘No interactive countermeasures possible. Recommend mechanical force.'

‘What?'

In a distant tower, something like this:

‘SHOOT THE CLOCK OFF
!' relayed the gun, in big green letters.

‘Oh. All right.'

The gun lined itself up. Kohn fired. The screen cleared and reverted to normal. The gun was on its own now.

‘Status?'

‘No activity.'

He could see that for himself. The pack containing the bomb had jerked as the bullet passed through it. So had one of the bodies.

Kohn felt sick. Ten minutes earlier he'd been annoyed that these people weren't dead. No one, not even his true conscience, would blame him, but the twisted code of combatant ethics revolted at pre-stunned slaughter. He stood, and looked down at the prone figures, tiny now. The one he'd hit had an arm wound; at the limits of resolution he could see blood oozing rhythmically…

Therefore, not dead. Relief flooded his brain. He talked into the chin mike, requesting medicals for the injured hostile. What about the others? Campus Security wanted to know.

‘Put them in the bank,' Kohn said. ‘Credit our account.'

‘Lookout One? What's the name of your account?'

Disarmed, waking from their shots, the attackers were being handled gently. They'd gone from hostile to hostage, and they knew it. An ambulance whined up.

‘Oh, yeah,' Kohn said. ‘The Felix Dzerzhinsky Workers' Defence collective. Nat-Mid-West account 0372 87944.'

‘Uh-
huh
,' muttered the guard's voice. ‘The Cats.'

‘Hey!' another voice broke in, ignoring all comm discipline. ‘We got one of your exes!'

‘Lookout One to unidentified,' Kohn said firmly. ‘Clarify message.'

‘Red Crescent truck to Lookout, repeat. Patient Catherin Duvalier has employment history of work on your team.'

Catherin Duvalier.
Gee Suss
! ‘One of your exes', indeed.

‘She was freelancing,' Kohn lied. ‘Where are you taking her?'

‘Hillingdon Hospital. You want her released on recovery?'

‘Like hell,' Kohn choked. ‘Don't even put her in the bank. We're
keeping
her this time.'

‘Secure ward, got you.' The medics slammed the rear door and leapt into the ambulance, which screamed off round the perimeter road like they had a brain to save. Fucking cowboys. Subcontractors for the Muslim Welfare Association in Ruislip. Probably trained by veterans of Cairo. Always assume incoming…

Behind him he heard a heavy, dull
crump
and the song of falling glass. ‘You missed the backup fuse,' he snarled at the gun and himself as he flattened to the roof. But then, in the sudden babble in his phones, he realized it was not his bomb.

The crank raid had been a diversion after all.

 

Janis Taine lay in bed for a few minutes after the diary woke her. Her mouth was dry, thick with the aftertaste of ideas that had coloured her dreams. Just outside her awareness floated the thought that she had an important day ahead. She kept it there and tried to tease the ideas back. They might be relevant.

No. Gone.

She swallowed. Perhaps, despite all precautions, minute traces of the hallucinogens at the lab infiltrated her bloodstream, just enough to give her vivid, elusive but seemingly significant dreams? More worryingly, she thought as she swung her legs out of bed with a swish of silk pyjamas and felt around for her slippers, maybe the drugs gave her what seemed perfectly reasonable notions, sending her off down dead ends as convoluted as the molecules themselves…Par for the course. Bloody typical. Everything got everywhere. These days you couldn't keep things separate even in your mind. If we could
only disconnect
–

She heard the most pleasant mechanical sound in the world, the whirr of a coffee-grinder. ‘Pour one for me,' she called as she padded to the bathroom. Sonya's reply was inarticulate but sounded positive.

It was an important day so she brushed her teeth. Not exactly necessary – she'd had her anti-caries shots at school like everybody else, and some people went around with filthy but perfect mouths – but a little effort didn't hurt. She looked at herself critically as she smoothed a couple of layers of suncream over her face and hands. Bouncy auburn hair, green eyes (nature had had a little encouragement there), skin almost perfectly pale. Janis brushed a touch of pallor over the slight ruddiness of her cheeks and decided she looked great.

Sonya, her flatmate, was moving around in the kitchen like a doll with its power running down, an impression heightened by her blond curls and short blue nightdress.

‘Wanna taab?'

Janis shuddered. ‘No thanks.'

‘Zhey're great. Wakesh you up jusht like zhat.' She was making scrambled eggs on toast for three.

‘Gaia bless you,' said Janis, sipping coffee. ‘How much sleep
have
you had?'

Sonya looked at the clock on the cooker and fell into a five-second trance of mental arithmetic.

‘Two hours. I was at one of your campus discos. It was phenomenome…fucking great. Got off with this guy.'

‘I was kind of wondering about the third portion,' Janis said, and immediately regretted it because another glacial calculation ensued, while the toast burned. The guy in question appeared shortly afterwards: tall, black and handsome. He seemed wide awake without benefit of a tab, unobtrusively helpful to Sonya. His name was Jerome and he was from Ghana.

After breakfast Janis went into her bedroom and started throwing clothes from her wardrobe on to the bed. She selected a pleated white blouse, then hesitated with a long skirt in one hand and a pair of slate calf-length culottes in the other.

‘Sonya,' she called, interrupting the others' murmuring chat, ‘you using the car today?'

Sonya was. On your bike, Janis. So, culottes. She eyed the outfit. Dress to impress and all that, but it still wasn't quite
sharp
enough. She sighed.

‘Sorry to bother you, Sonya,' she said wearily. ‘Can you help me into my stays?'

 

‘You can breathe in now,' Sonya said. She fastened the cord. ‘You'll knock them out.'

‘If I don't expire myself…Hey, what's the matter?'

Sonya's hand went to her mouth, came away again.

‘Oh, Janis, you'll kill me. I totally forgot. You're seeing some committee today, yeah?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I just remembered. Last night, at the disco. There was some fighting.'

‘At the disco?'

‘No, I mean there was an
attack.
On a lab somewhere. We heard shots, an explosion—'

‘Oh
shit
!' Janis tightened her belt viciously, stepped into her shoes. ‘Do you know what one it—?'

Sonya shook her head. ‘I just overheard some guy later. Sitting at a table by himself, drinking and talking – about, uh, bloody cranks, I think.'

‘Oh.' Some of Janis's tension eased. She smiled quizzically. ‘This guy was talking to himself?'

‘Oh, no!' Sonya sounded put out at the suggestion that she'd been eavesdropping on a loony. ‘He was talking to his
gun.
'

 

The night's muggy heat had given way to a sharp, clear autumn morning. Janis pedalled through the streets of Uxbridge, slowly so as not to break sweat. An
AWACS
plane climbed low from Northolt, banked and headed west, towards Wales. The High Street looked untouched by the troubles, a cosy familiarity of supermarkets and wine bars and drug dens and viveo shops, vast mirrored frontages of office blocks behind. Around the roundabout and along the main road past the
RAF
barracks (
DANGER: MINES
), swing right into Kingston Lane. Usual early-morning traffic – a dozen buses, all different companies, milk-floats, water-floats,
APC
s flying the Hanoverian pennant from their aerials…

In through the security gates, scanned and frisked by sensors. The sign above the games announced:

 

BRUNEL UNIVERSITY AND SCIENCE PARK PLC

WARNING

FREE SPEECH ZONE