Degrees of Freedom

2

Petrovitch shook their hands: solid, Germanic greetings that went on for slightly longer than strictly necessary. The elder Krenz was a bullet-headed Bavarian with a clear liking for potato dumplings. The younger had sandy hair and an athletic build, but it was going to be a bruising fight with his genetic inheritance if he wanted to keep them.

“Guten tag, Herren.” Petrovitch looked at their suits, and decided that they were as uncomfortable with them as he was. “Welcome to the Freezone.”

“Thank you,” said the younger man. He looked around the empty dockside—empty but for the one container that had just been lifted off a ship and onto the quay. “This is ours?”

“Yeah. Sorry for having to drag you all the way over here, but my immigration status is a bit up in the air at the moment.”

“Yes. So I understand.” He hesitated. “What do I call you?”

“Petrovitch will do fine, Herr Krenz. No matter what you’ve heard to the contrary.”

“Doctor Petrovitch, then.” He looked at his father. “We can demonstrate the system for you, mostly wherever you like. We have included the formers for the five- and fifteen-meter structures, which is the largest we can go without prepared foundations.”

“How about here?” Petrovitch shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any.”

There followed a moment of confusion, while the two Germans conversed in their native tongue.

“We thought that we were going to have a, a larger audience. Sonja Oshicora perhaps. Someone else from the Freezone Authority.”

“Gentlemen. The Freezone Authority’s mandate runs out in a couple of weeks’ time. If this was a demonstration for them, they’d be here. It’s not: it’s a demonstration for me.” He rubbed at his nose. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“I… nein. No, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. I have a massive online dictionary and grammar checker open, and I can translate pretty much everything you say, whether it’s in Hochdeutsch, Mandarin or Navaho.” Petrovitch put his hand on the container’s long-levered handle. “Shall we get on with it?”

Inside the container—very much the size of his old domik—were crates and bundles and, at the back, barrels of solvent and bulging black bales of granulated polymer. The two Germans started to unroll a large plastic sheet out on the gritty surface of the quay, while Petrovitch poked around.

He’d seen the company’s videos. He’d seen the pictures of the finished product. What he wanted, almost more than anything, was to see one for himself.

He dragged the generator out on its sledge, and plugged the industrial fan in. Krenz the elder watched him.

“You have the knowledge, yes?”

“I know pretty much what to do. I could have probably done all this myself, got all the makings for it, but I would have ended up making the mistakes that you’ve already fixed. I don’t have time to make mistakes, Herr Krenz.”

“You have fear?” He snorted like a bull. “You?”

“I know my reputation precedes me. But I’m not like that, really.” He looked up at Krenz. “I just have a lot on my plate at the moment.”

“It is not for me to give you the questions.” Krenz checked the fuel gauge on the genny and thumbed the starter button. “I have one only.”

The motor puttered into life, and he checked its performance by cocking his ear and listening to the quality of the sound it made.

“The question is this: how will you pay? No Freezone, no EU, no UN. No Oshicora.” Krenz wiped at his bald head. “I meet Samuil Petrovitch. That is enough for today, but I am not a…” He struggled for the word.

“Charity.” Petrovitch saw that the younger Krenz was attaching tubes to the top of the plastic sheet. Almost ready to inflate. “Don’t worry, Herr Krenz. If you want money, I’ve got an extensive overdraft.”

“A wass?”

“Credit. Two and a half billion euros’ worth. Should be enough.”

Krenz carried on working, fastening the plastic former to the fan by way of a flexible hose. Then he stopped. “Billion?”

“Yeah. I won’t tell you the bank’s name in case you mention it to them and a human manager takes exception. But their computer is fine with it.” Petrovitch reached past Krenz and flicked the fan’s switch. The blades cut the air with an audible chop, then it speeded up, sending a draft down the thick hose and causing the plastic sheet to ripple. The structure started to swell.

“They must find out. Tomorrow. Next week.”

“The line of credit’s only temporary, to be paid back in full tomorrow. In the meantime, if they kick up a fuss, I have a list of their other customers.” Petrovitch smiled. “It includes some really very unpleasant people, and I’m guessing that unless they want half of Africa camped out on their doorstep demanding their stolen money back, they won’t want it made public.”

After twenty minutes, a shiny gray hemisphere quivered tautly on the dockside. In the meantime, the Krenzes had cooked up a batch of filler, and now started to pump it down the tubing.

“How long?” asked Petrovitch over the noise.

Young Krenz answered him. “Half an hour to fill. Five minutes to cure with the ultraviolet light.”

“If I wanted one, I don’t know, a hundred meters across? How would you do that?”

“We do not, we cannot…”

Petrovitch brushed his excuses aside. “The science is sound. It’s just an engineering problem.”

“Why would you want one that big? The domes are connectable. You just build more.”

“I really want one bigger than that. Two hundred, maybe two fifty across. The solution for one hundred will be the same as for two hundred.”

“But, Doctor. The air former would collapse under the weight of the uncured polymer.”

“Yeah. But you don’t cure as you go, do you? You fill completely, then set it solid with the UV. What if you fixed the bottom part of it even as you were pumping more on top? That’s how Brunelleschi built his domes. Six hundred years ago.”

“Yes, I understand that. I can only say we have never been asked to build one as big before now.” Young Krenz frowned. “Why would you want to?”

“Because,” said Petrovitch, “I saw it in a dream. Then when I had the time to look into it, I found your company. They’re exactly the same. Just smaller.”

“But a two-hundred-meter dome? You could put a village under it.”

“Yeah. Something like that. Along with heat exchangers, a water reclamation system, hydroponics, air scrubbers. You do a passive photochromic coating for when it gets sunny, but there’s no reason why you couldn’t do a translucent photovoltaic one instead. It’s pretty much free off-grid power. Use it to make hydrogen and store it for a fuel-cell power plant.”

Older Krenz interrupted. “Herr Doktor. Why do you need us at all?”

“I could steal your tech. I could buy your company. Or I can behave like a decent human being for once and trade with you rather than ripping you off or taking over. Why don’t we wait until we’re ready before we talk terms?”

The pump finished filling the space between the two skins of the former, and the UV tubes already underneath flashed darkly into life. Petrovitch rested his hand on the gray outside and felt the warmth of the uncured resin. He pulled his hand away, only to see the slight impression remain. It had gone hard already, and had preserved his palm-print for posterity.

He turned around. Older Krenz had an old-fashioned stopwatch which he turned face out toward him.

“You must wait. Three minutes.”

He reluctantly backed away and, at the end of three minutes, the Krenzes set to work on the former, disconnecting the pipes and cutting through the thick plastic sheeting with short, curved knives. Petrovitch made a mental note that the formers he was going to use ought to be reusable.

They disconnected the fan and turned off the generator. After the constant noise, the silence was profound. There were sounds in the distance—the heavy, rhythmic thud of a pile-driver, the light chatter of a road-drill, and from across the river, traffic and sirens—but nothing to distract him from the imminent unveiling.

Young Krenz took one side, his father the other, and together they peeled the outer covering off the dome. The internal former had fallen away. All that was left was a trick of the light, an optical illusion.

The material was crystal clear: only the lensing effect made its presence visible. Petrovitch walked forward, the fingers of one hand stretched out in front of him, stepping slowly until his fingertips brushed against a smooth, oily surface. He left smears that seemed to hang in mid-air.

“Yobany stos.”

He paced around it, watching the way the images of the Krenzes warped and shifted through the plastic shell, until he arrived back at the start.

“Is it what you wanted?” asked Young Krenz.

Petrovitch hesitated before answering. In a moment, he was old again, looking down on a shoreline that was pocked with domes, while above him in the blue sky, flecks of light were rising out of sight. He was dying, and he didn’t care.

“Yeah.” He didn’t need to imagine what it would look like scaled up. He’d already seen it. “Let’s deal.”

He offered them straight cash, in return for a licensing deal, access to their plans and their suppliers. He offered them enough that Young Krenz assumed that his father was going to take it, but Older Krenz had other ideas.

“I would make you a hundred-meter dome. I would that you show me the way to make it. I believe that, yes, we make playhouses and greenhouses and swimming pool covers, but we can make them bigger? You show me how. You show me these coatings. We are family business: small and reliable, but not…”

“Imaginative,” interrupted Young Krenz. He looked rueful, as if he’d had this conversation a hundred times before.

“Yes, yes, that. You tell us how to build bigger, and we will do it for you.”

“I won’t be asking for just one dome. I’ll want several to start with, then more. I want to be able to do this myself. With help, sure, but something that a few people can put up in a day or so. Are you worried that I’m going to set up in competition against you?”

Krenz nodded.

“Herr Krenz, in two weeks’ time, I’m going to need somewhere else to live. When the Metrozone Authority takes over, it’ll be a matter of hours before I’m dragged in front of a judge on one extradition warrant or another. I’m not interested in Petrovitch Industries, I’m interested in my own survival. So, how about this? I will give you everything I can think of. Every last technical detail of every innovation I can come up with. In return, you do the same for me. Everything. No hiding anything to get a commercial advantage, because there won’t be any. You’ll be the only one selling Krenz domes. Think you can do that?”

“A… what is the word?”

“Partnership. I think.”

The Krenzes looked at each other across the quayside, and at the smaller figure standing between them.

“Okay. Where do you want the first one built?”

Petrovitch started to laugh, and he laughed so hard that his lungs ached. “That, gentlemen, I can’t tell you.”

“But…”

“Because I don’t exactly know.”

“You do not know?”

“Not yet.”

“How can we then go forward?”

Petrovitch dug his hands in his pockets. “Go home. Order formers for a hundred-meter dome. A dozen of them. Get all the stuff together that you’ll need—I’ll send instructions for the extra kit. Then you wait for my call. If it clicks past two weeks and I’m all over the news chained up in an orange jumpsuit, you’ll have to assume the deal’s off.”

“We will be rich, or bankrupt.” Young Krenz digested the news, and Older Krenz scratched at his head. “This is not a choice I wanted to have.”

“That’s fine. I’ll give you two million up front.” Petrovitch blinked. “Done. Don’t spend it all at once.”

He started to walk back toward where the new skyscrapers were taking shape, where the cranes were tallest and the sounds of construction the loudest, when Young Krenz called after him.

“Do you want nothing in writing? A signed agreement? Something? Anything?”

Petrovitch twisted around and walked backward, unerringly navigating any of the obstacles in his path. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean he wasn’t looking. He considered telling the Krenzes that he’d recorded everything that had gone on: every word, every gesture, every detail of the equipment and the chemicals they’d used. He decided that would weird them out completely, and he needed them.

“I have your word. Do I need anything more?”

“I suppose not. This is most irregular, though.”

“CNN called me an international criminal mastermind this morning. The Jyllands-Posten only has me down as the most dangerous man alive, which is slightly better, but not much. Yeah, of course I’ll sign something if you want. Or we can keep this below the radar for as long as we can. Your call.”

“We will do as you say, then. Two weeks? That does not give us much time.”

“You and me both, Herr Krenz.” Petrovitch took one last look at the dome, glittering in the low winter sun. The surface was cooling, and attracting moisture. If that was the case, he could have dew traps all around the base…

Then he turned again. He went back on the ’net, searching for anything of significance, while he let client software take over his walking.

It seemed like the whole world was intent on tearing itself apart, and he was setting himself up as the only one who could mend it again. Stupid, stupid, hubristic delusions. And yet he’d contacted a couple of obscure German engineers in their quiet Bavarian town, and they’d come of their own free will. No one had put a gun to their heads: a tactic Petrovitch was so used to, he’d grown sick of it.

His phone—the virtual one in his head—rang. He absently picked up the call before he’d checked the number, before he’d run it though a search program to tell him where the dialer was and who they were. He was distracted. A mistake, and he didn’t often make that sort of error.

“Yeah?”

“Is that Samuil Petrovitch?”

The voice was American. The face attached to the voice tickled a memory buried deep inside his mind: it was clean-cut, well-fed, healthy. That was now, but back then he’d been bruised, ragged, terrified and desperate.

“Just to get this straight: your name didn’t used to be Petrovitch when you lived in St. Petersburg four, five years ago. You worked for a man called Boris. He kidnapped me…”

“Chyort. Dalton.”