The Fourth Rome by David Drake, Janet Morris Read Free Book Online Page B

They’d phase-locked the TC at a 30-millisecond offset for safety’s sake in an urban,
     post-industrial venue. The capsule was not only invisible from the river or its banks but also from above or below.
    In its current state, TC 779 provided no resistance to local matter, making it sensor-proof in every domain Russians could
     monitor. All sensors from this period, active or passive, utilized a surface from which to generate a return, a measurable
     perturbation, or a change in state.
    Grainger pursued his earlier point from where he’d broken off when the TC’s whine stopped unrelated conversation cold. “My
     grandpa’s friends used to tell stories about this period—March of ’92,” he reminded the others. He was talking to hide his
     jitters. Or to forget them. “Russia was the Wild West and the Klondike all rolled into one. And the dollar was king. With
     dollars, you could buy anything: fissionable materials, weapons systems, scientific patents, whole government departments.
     The rouble’s in a hyper-inflationary spiral. The average Russian barely had enough food to get through the winter. That food
     went to people with dollars. Factions of the fledgling government here are fighting internally for control. Those factions
     want dollars like everybody else. And Russians want new-looking dollars. They don’t like shabby-looking money.”
    “Okay, Tim, you’ve made your point,” Roebeck decided. “If plastic is virtually useless except as ID and the local currency
     isn’t worth anything, then we’ll take dollars onto the local economy—if Chun thinks making some is doable.” Roebeck looked
     at Chun for a feasibility estimate.
    “Counterfeit money that
looks new
in ’92? At least
old
-looking counterfeit is easy. That means fabricating high-quality currency on the fly.” Chun’s almond eyes narrowed. Heavy
     black hair shimmered as she bent her head to study her desktop display. Her control wands tapped again.
    The capsule’s wraparound bow screen split. One half showed a US ten-dollar bill circa 1992 as Chun analyzed its constituents.
     The other half began detailing the fall of a great totalitarian empire and the stumble from its wreckage of an uncertain,
     defiant democracy.
    Chun’s bowed head raised. “Okay. We can do it. If dollars are what you want, Nan, dollars are what you’ll get. Plan to hover
     out of phase a few hours longer while we make up reasonable facsimiles of this fancy currency.”
    “Oh, great,” Grainger groaned and glowered at Chun. A 21st-century primitive, Tim Grainger was both claustrophobic and leery
     of temporal travel. The weird whine that TC 779 had made coming out of displacement hadn’t helped.
    “By the way, how many dollars are we talking about, exactly, Nan?” Chun wanted to know.
    “So how much money
do
we take, Tim?” Right now, Roe-beck was willing to capitalize on the tension between her team members. Some of that tension
     was an echo of their last mission. Last time out, the ARC Riders’ targets had been Oriental revisionists. Grainger’s own primitive
     cultural prejudices had transmuted Chun’s lineage into a reason to question her allegiance to the team and the mission at
     hand. But then, killers were always racists, and Grainger was a shooter, a killer from one of the most murderous times in
     Earth’s history: the 21st century. One hundred sixty million souls had been killed in conflict during the 20th century. The
     21st doubled that number before it was done—all in the name of freedom, democracy, humanitarian relief, and peacekeeping.
    “How much money do we need?” Tim Grainger pursed thin lips and scratched his stubbled, angular jaw. “Maybe thirty thousand
     dollars. We’ve got places to go and people to bribe.”
    It was Chun’s turn to groan. Grainger swiveled in his seat. He looked long at her, then at Roebeck. “Just make sure the bills
     are new-looking and none are higher than hundred-dollar denominations. In