Many thanks to Morbane for helping me look this over.
Nobody boarded a People's Stellar Federation spacesuit without having been exhaustively prescreened. There were bureaucrats to weed out anyone who might be physically unable to adapt to the gravitational changes, or at the wonders of the dwarf planet. A bit of nausea, or admiration, that was fine. Alexander Molokov was able to smile politely, and the debugger he'd been forced to haul along seemed genuinely starstruck.
The Interplanetary Delegation, Molokov knew, was nearly as stringent. Their delegates had had just as many physical degrees of freedom to adjust to in space-even if the freedom of the outpost was less of a culture shock.
But Walter de Courcey, well, there was an enigma. Was the Federation so indolent it could afford to bring humans across the planets just to report on the news? His broadcasts would be delayed by lightspeed just like the robots' moves themselves, and surely there were better commentators planetside.
No, the man was no more a mere broadcaster than Molokov himself was technical support. Perhaps he was representing the Federation's vulgar capitalist interests to the hardy dwarf planet colonists. After all, lightspeed-delayed video chats were no match for the personal touch. But there seemed to be more than enough shillbots to cover that angle. As if a deterministic game from ancient Earth settlements could hold multiple planets' interest.
Well, maybe it could. Any chance to test peacefully their scientists' computational power was welcomed. And civilians were easily distracted by null-gravity fistfights and time-delayed soundbites, cosmographical disputes over who claimed asteroids with barely enough resources to justify the fuel expense of staking a flag on them. Molokov had been enmeshed in the inner workings of the People's Stellar Democracy for so long, he couldn't remember what it was like to be a naïve spectator. If watching bots duke it out in real time was thrilling…well, it beat some of the alternatives.
"How was the flight?" Molokov asked. The auditorium where they'd been forced to mingle was cold, even with the dwarf planet's out-of-date heating system, and the thermostat monitor hissed above the crackling of the intercoms as another decadent capitalist made a spiel.
"Long," said de Courcey.
"It beats time-dilation nonsense."
From across the stage, Florence Vassy raised her eyebrows, and Molokov remembered just who he was dealing with; the woman was several years younger than her birth date would indicate, having been evacuated under an emergency protocol from the Nyx sector during the short-lived Great Charon Uprising. He had never met her, but at a glance she looked too intelligent to be playing techie for the Federation.
"I trust," said de Courcey, "that your transit was equally uneventful."
"There's a lot to do to stay fit," he noted. "As individuals and as a collective."
"If you say so."
The Federation's ships were surely no better than the PSD's, but they had enough fuel to let civilians fly on them! Molokov suppressed a twinge of-not jealousy for the dangerous government, but awareness that the cosmopolitical tensions were more nuanced than the average citizen of either could fathom. Rockets and robots drew the public eye, particularly when they congregated on one tiny outpost, but the real work got done behind the scenes, as ever.
"I'm sure I'll see you around," said de Courcey pleasantly. "Some of the natural rock formations here are exquisite. I can't wait to film it for the viewers back home!"
"I'm sure it'll be almost as fascinating as the chess," Molokov said wryly.
The man wasn't stupid enough to let anything slip. Even Vassy and the advertisers knew better than to get too close to a PSD agent. But despite the bots' impressive processing times and lack of need for sleep, there would be plenty of time to discover more.
The dwarf planet's fusion system, Molokov had been briefed, excelled at maintaining a small, stable population month in and month out. He quickly learned firsthand that it was less excellent at providing emergency backup for spaceships designed on different power supply standards, for putting up with frigid tourists and diplomats, or for recharging bots from standby. For all their resources, the Federation's TR-13 was an unreliable program, and it crashed in the middle of the second game due to what their delegates claimed was an accidental power surge from the supply. Molokov had to take Viigand's word that Vassy wasn't doing anything untoward during her manual reboot.
So, yes, there was plenty of time for off-board maneuvers.
"I have news," said Molokov, "that might be of interest."
"Oh?" de Courcey didn't yield a centimeter. "Lunar Broadcasting does appreciate news."
"This information is of a somewhat classified nature."
"Is that so?" de Courcey smiled thinly. "I didn't know the PSD trusted their-delegates-to receive news on neutrally-secured networks."
"There's more than one way to receive transmissions." Let the man wonder whether all of his so-called allies could be trusted.
"I think we can reach an understanding," said de Courcey. "Perhaps over dinner?"
Perhaps, my ass, Molokov silently rebutted. He wasn't about to go frolic at the rock formations with the Federation broadcasting crew, and the restaurants were about the only temperature-controlled neutral ground to meet. Having varied food options was supposedly good for the colonists' mental health, but the outpost was not famous for its homeworld cuisine, or really, any kind of cuisine at all. After weeks of space rations, the first few meals in real gravity had been pleasant surprises, but the most one could say for the diner where he met de Courcey was that its fare was edible.
"Gregor Vassy," he said, "is alive."
"Who?"
Were all the Federation spies that uninformed? "Your technician's father."
"You wouldn't release him. By the time he could travel from the prison moon..." He trailed off, as if uncertain how the time dilation calculations would screw everything up.
"Why, de Courcey, I'd expected more of you. Surely you know better than to propagate myths like hostile prison moons?"
"It's the most up-to-date information we have," de Courcey protested. "Now, if we were to know more about your technical capacities-your spaceflight designs, say-"
"Wherever Vassy is, a top-of-the-line transit ship is not it."
"Oh, Molokov," de Courcey said-was he teasing?-"I'd expected more of you. Surely you know how to put up with outdated transports? You're a mere chess second, after all."
"It's prestigious work," said Molokov, which was not the most bald-faced lie he'd told in his line of work, but was up there. "The PSD prides itself on our unsurpassed machine learning algorithms. The technical advances that pave the way for success on the board are easily adapted into other fields." He could only hope the scientists were making breakthroughs in a domain that didn't lend itself to repetitive draws as the competition advanced.
"Like spaceflight."
"Something like that, yes."
"Hmm," said de Courcey. "I wonder..."
"Yes?"
"If it might be possible to arrange an exchange of prisoners."
"You want to bargain with some of our defectors? We don't-need them back." The PSD didn't even want them back to spread tales of Federation wealth and so-called freedom; the emigration protocols were in place for a reason.
"I had a different idea in mind for our gesture of goodwill," said de Courcey, choosing his words just as carefully, "if you could arrange for the release of Vassy and some of our other-detainees."
"Oh?"
"We have our own ways of obtaining news. I'm sure you'll hear soon." The man really was teasing! And of all the places...
Molokov harrumphed as he rose. "I can't promise anything, of course. But it's important to keep our lines of communication open."
"I wholeheartedly agree," said de Courcey, and that time his smile seemed genuine.
When Molokov returned to his quarters, Viigand was in a tizzy; it was perhaps the first time he'd displayed emotion. "There's a virus!"
"Where?" Molokov snapped. Surely not even the Federation was crude enough to resort to biological warfare?
"In the computer," said Viigand. "Some malware code duplicated SE-09! The Federation programmers could be looking it over right now!"
Molokov exhaled, his mind parsing de Courcey's initiative while he tried not to let on too much to the technician. "They could be, but they won't. Imagine if they showed up tomorrow knowing every heuristic in SE-09's game tree? It'd be obvious that they were cheating." Even if his supervisors didn't watch much of the chess, there were enough programmers and spectators from both factions who would be following the match at lightspeed delay.
"So what do we do?"
"We do nothing. You make sure nothing's been altered or deleted."
"I know that." Viigand stared up at him petulantly, as if craving approval. "The access logs would show if we'd needed an automatic rollback."
"Excellent. Then I'll deal with the Federation."
Which would be an easier task, he reflected, if he didn't have so many competing ideas for how to handle Walter de Courcey.
The "greenhouse" was mostly colorless. Heat-controlled bacteria grew in insulated test tubes, and bioengineered plants were closely packed in reusable containers. The ferns along the back wall were the closest thing here to a fully-terraformed species, but even they had several generations to go before they could take root beyond the walls.
As rendezvous points went, it was at least somewhat warm.
"Bastard," said Molokov, without prelude.
De Courcey grinned. "I've been called worse."
"I've put the engines in motion with my people. How do I know you'll have the duplicate program contained?"
"You don't," said de Courcey plainly. "No more than I know that our people will do their job correctly. Suns know we both have enough responsibilities without actually knowing how to debug chess bots."
"That's the most truth you've told all week."
"Please don't tell Lunar Broadcasting that, or I'll be out of a job."
"I have absolutely no intention of ingratiating myself with your so-called bosses any more than is necessary."
"Are you sure?" de Courcey said. "They're sponsoring a lovely tour of the rock formations later today."
"I'll pass."
"You wouldn't rather keep an eye on me? Make sure I'm playing my part?"
"What exactly did you decadent capitalists have in mind?"
"Mostly just admiring the view. But we pride ourselves on our ability to improvise. I'm sure we could make room for a bit of-intercultural appreciation if the opportunity arises."
Molokov allowed him a half-smile. "I would be remiss as a communist if I passed up the chance for cooperation."
Maybe it was just the greenhouse heating, but de Courcey's handshake seemed full of warmth.