“A Deepness in the Sky more than justifies the old tag 'eagerly anticipated.' It's a space opera dealing with the age-old themes of exploration, first contact, different cultures, exploitation and, inevitably, conflict. An intriguing and mind-stretching epic. Highly recommended.” ―SFX
“When I was young and had to write my address in a school notebook, I would begin with my street and apartment number and then go on through city, county, state, country and continent in a litany of ever more grandiose place names that did not end until I reached ‘Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy, The Universe.' In those days, it thrilled me that my small corner of the Bronx was just a one part of the vastness I could see in the sky at night. This is the feeling I got from reading A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge.” ―Gerald Jonas, New York Times Book Review
“Marooned in Realtime is a cracking good story that leaves the reader with plenty to think about. Vernor Vinge draws fine characters and writes a compelling plot. In the end, almost all the mysteries are solved―the only loose ends are those which will leave you pondering the future of Mankind and of the earth for weeks after you finish the book.” ―The Baltimore Sun on Marooned in Realtime
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
Rainbows End
By Vinge, VernorTor Science Fiction
Copyright ©2007 Vinge, Vernor
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780812536362
Chapter One
MR. RABBIT VISITS BARCELONA
Within the intelligence services of the Indo-European Alliance, there were a handful of bureaucratic superstars, people such as Günberk Braun of the EUIB. Hopefully, their identities were unknown—or a mass of contradictions—to the general public. The superstars had their own heroes. In particular, when people like Günberk Braun were confronted with the most desperate problems, there was a place to get help. There was a certain department in India’s External Intelligence Agency. It didn’t show up in EIA organization charts, and its purpose was happily undefined. Basically, it was whatever its boss thought it should be. That boss was an Indian national known (to those very few who knew of him at all) as Alfred Vaz.
Braun took his terrifying discovery to Vaz. At first, the older man was as taken aback as Braun himself had been. But Vaz was a fixer. “With the proper human resources, you can solve almost any problem,” he said. “Give me a few days. Let’s see what I can dig up.”
In downtown Barcelona, three days later:
The rabbit hopped onto the unoccupied wicker chair and thence to the middle of the table, between the teacups and the condiments. It tipped its top hat first at Alfred Vaz and then at Günberk Braun and Keiko Mitsuri. “Have I got a deal for you!” it said. Altogether, it was an unremarkable example of its type.
Alfred reached out and swiped his hand through the image, just to emphasize his own substance. “We’re the ones with the deal.”
“Hmph.” The rabbit plunked its ass down on the table and pulled a tiny tea service out from behind the salt and pepper. It poured itself a drop or two—enough to fill its cup—and took a sip. “I’m all ears.” It wiggled two long ones to emphasize the point.
From the other side of the table, Günberk Braun gave the creature a long stare. Braun was as ephemeral as the rabbit, but he projected a dour earnestness that was quite consistent with his real personality. Alfred thought he detected a certain surprised disappointment in the younger man’s expression. In fact, after a moment, Günberk sent him a silent message.
Braun --> Mitsuri, Vaz: This is the best you could recruit, Alfred?
Alfred didn’t reply directly. Instead, he turned to the creature sitting on the table. “Welcome to Barcelona, Mr. Rabbit,” he said. He waved at the towers of the Sagrada Familia, which soared up and up from just across the street. The cathedral was best seen without virtual elaboration; after all, the reality of Gaudí architecture was gaudy beyond the imagination of modern revisionists. “Do you have any idea why we selected this location for our meeting?”
The rabbit sipped its tea. Its gaze slid in a very un-rabbity way to take in the noisy crowds that swept past the tables, to scan the costumes and body-plans of tourists and locals. “Ah, is it that Barcelona is a place for the beautiful and the bizarre, one of the few great cities of the twentieth century whose charm survives in the modern world? Could it be that on the side, you and your families are taking touchy-feely tours through Parc Güell and writing it all off on your expense accounts?” He stared at Braun and at Keiko Mitsuri. Mitsuri was frankly masked. She looked a bit like Marcel Duchamp’s nude, built from a shifting complex of crystal planes. The rabbit shrugged. “But then again, maybe you two are thousands of kilometers away.”
Keiko laughed. “Oh, don’t be so indecisive,” she said, speaking with a completely synthetic accent and syntax. “I’m quite happy to be in Parc Güell right now, feeling reality with my very own real hands.”
Mitsuri --> Braun, Vaz: In fact, I’m in my office, admiring the moonlight on Tokyo Bay.
The rabbit continued, ignorant of the silent-messaging byplay: “Whatever. In any case, the real reasons for meeting here: Barcelona has very direct connections to wherever you’re really from, and modern security to disguise what we say. Best of all, it has laws banning popular and police snooping . . . unless of course you are the EU Intelligence Board.”
Mitsuri --> Braun, Vaz: Well, that’s one-third of a correct guess.
Braun --> Mitsuri, Vaz: Mr. Rabbit himself is calling from some distance. An EU real-time estimate hung in the air above the little creature’s head: seventy-five percent probability that the mind behind the rabbit image was in North America.
Alfred leaned toward the rabbit and smiled. As the agent with physical presence, Vaz had limitations—but some advantages, too. “No, we’re not the secret police. And yes, we wanted some secure communication that was a bit more personal than text messaging.” He tapped his chest. “In particular, you see me physically here. It builds trust.” And should give you all sorts of invalid clues. Vaz waved to a waiter, ordered a glass of Rioja. Then, turning back to the creature on the tablecloth: “In recent months, you have bragged many things, Mr. Rabbit. Others brag similarly nowadays, but you have certificates that are difficult to come by. Various people with notable reputations have endorsed your abilities.”
The rabbit preened. This was a rabbit with many implausible mannerisms. Physical realism did not rank high in its priorities. “Of course I am highly recommended. For any problem, political, military, scientific, artistic, or amorous—meet my terms, and I will deliver.”
Mitsuri --> Braun, Vaz: Go ahead, Alfred.
Braun --> Mitsuri, Vaz: Yes, the minimal version of course. Nothing more till we see some results that we couldn’t make for ourselves.
Alfred nodded as if to himself. “Our problem has nothing to do with politics or war, Mr. Rabbit. We have only some scientific interests.”
The rabbit ears waggled. “So? Post your needs to the answer boards. That may get you results almost as good as mine, almost as fast. And for certain, a thousand times cheaper.”
Wine arrived. Vaz made a thing of sniffing the bouquet. He glanced across the street. The bidding on physical tour slots to the Sagrada Familia was closed for the day, but there was still a queue of people near the cathedral entrance, people hoping for no-shows. It proved once again that the most important things were those you could touch. He looked back at the gray rabbit. “We have needs that are more basic than picking the brains of a few thousand analysts. Our questions require serious, um, experimentation. Some of that has already been done. Much remains. All together, our project is the size you might imagine for a government crash research program.”
The rabbit grinned, revealing ivory incisors. “Heh. A government crash program? That’s twentieth-century foolishness. Market demands are always more effective. You just have to fool the market into cooperating.”
“Maybe. But what we want to do is . . .” The hell of it was, even... 
