Precursor

by C. J. Cherryh

  “You don’t want Kroger’s name on them.”

  “I damned sure don’t want to give them to Kroger.”

  “Personal animosity runs that deep.”

  “No.” It did, potentially, but he wasn’t that mean-spirited, not against Kroger. But against those who might feel she was their representative, or who might turn her into that, definitely he held grudges, and suspicions. “Give the files to the world, gentlemen. Say it’s your gift. You’ll win good feeling on both sides, and if there should be an informational bomb in those files, you’ll have defused it by being the one to release it, and Kroger and I will be completely safe. From that position, you can argue that you’ve been entirely open. That you’ve withheld them for three years becomes irrelevant. And if the Heritage Party on Mospheira discovers something it doesn’t like, that’s too bad.”

  “Kroger doesn’t like you.”

  “It’s her job to suspect the worst of me. Someone needs to question what I do. Too damned many people take my figures without checking them.”

  Ramirez gave a slow, quiet smile. “Dealing with you over three years, Mr. Cameron, I’ve acquired an understanding of your ability to maneuver, to answer, and to calculate. You came up here prepared to agree; you have agreed. I’ll tell you I’m still astonished.”

  “As I’ve dealt with you, I have considered you an ally. A sensible man. So is the President of Mospheira, so is the Secretary of State, and so is Tabini-aiji. The world is fortunate. The human race and the atevi are fortunate. We have reason to believe what you say and take you seriously. After all, the world’s been invaded from space once. Twice and three times would not be an astonishment.“

  Ramirez’ brows lifted, then contracted in thought as he examined that concept, and perhaps realized he was the alien invader in question. “All right, Mr. Cameron, we’ll transmit the archive. Your channels will be open to it henceforth, in your quarters. Examine the files as you will. I do caution you that the designs you’re going to be working with are part of that download, however buried in detail. If there’s anyone on the planet you don’t want to have that technology, they will have it.”

  That was worth a small, wry laugh. “Furtive construction of a starship?”

  “Of weapons you don’t have, perhaps.”

  “Mospheira’s manufacturing is good, but no better than the mainland, and falling behind by the hour. We’ve reached parity. Some few might want to misuse the files; but we’ve already come to mutual destruction and declined. We’ve learned to get along, Captain; in some part you’ve watched it happen.”

  “Are you planning to go back at shuttle turnaround? Is that our time limit? I’ll tell you, we consider you too valuable to be running up and down in a gravity well in a relatively untested landing craft.”

  “I can stay longer, but if you want my office to undertake a major new project, I’d rather be there to deal with my staff. And I intend to come and go. I’m worthless if I’m not where I can settle things. We have a limited time to set the details. If we’re to get workers up here, we have to arrange quarters and intensive, rapid training. We need room for five hundred, by our designs. Can I tour a similar, refitted area?”

  “I can arrange that,” Ramirez said. “Whenever you ask, you’ll have a guide.”

  “And a point we must agree to in principle. As you wouldn’t house the Mospheirans within totally black walls, you’ll expect certain aesthetic accommodations where atevi reside.”

  “Aesthetic accommodations.”

  “They are important, Captain. You want workers to work, there will be aesthetic changes, changes in the way the rooms connect…”

  “We have no time to spend on aesthetics.”

  He was very, very glad to hear that word time, a corrobora-tion of every single point of negotiation over the last three years.

  “So there are aliens.”

  “Can you still ask that?”

  “Damned right I can. And the walls won’t be this particularly objectionable yellow and the doors will be differently arranged… while we build your starship. I must warn you that the time will be a little longer than the three years we’ve already taken on the shuttle.”

  “You’ve worked a damned miracle,” Ramirez said. “I need another one.”

  “Another point. Potted plants will be very popular on the station, but these have to be removed to some other facility; we can’t have yours going down to the planet, no matter how innocuous the intent. We will observe a quarantine zone.”

  “Understood. That becomes your problem.”

  “It will be.” He drew a heavy breath. When he engaged with Ramirez, common sense arrangements tended to happen at a breakneck pace, and he wanted a space to consider the details. “I’m very content, gentlemen; the only other request I have is for radio contact with the planet, my schedule, my initiation.” Amid all the rest of the preparations, the designs on a vast, space-spanning scale, anguished small realization dawned on him, that he couldn’t honestly use personal privilege and call Mospheira on the phone. The best he could do was ask his office to mediate, or send off a letter or two he greatly feared wouldn’t pass Mospheiran security unexamined.

  “Any communications of that nature,” Ramirez said, “can be patched through to your residential communications center. I’ll give those orders.”

  “Thank you, captain.”

  “Any other requests, requirements, observations?”

  “I’m very glad we have time, gentlemen. We officially believe you. We’ll use that time as efficiently as possible.”

  “Very welcome news,” Ogun said, and Ramirez rose; Ogun did, and Bren did, too.

  In parting, there were handshakes, far happier faces, even Ogun looking relieved as they made their polite adjournment.

  “I’d like contact with Jase. Can he get in touch with me, or how do I contact individuals?”

  “Cl is the communications center,” Ramirez said. “They’ll put you through to whatever you need.”

  “Very kind, sir, thank you. Captain Ogun. Thank you.”

  “Glad to reach agreement,” Ogun said. “Kaplan will guide you back.”

  “Good, sir, thank you.” They were offered no further formalities. Bren cast a look at Banichi and Jago, walked toward the door, and Kaplan was outside, waiting, likely all through the meeting.

  They’d gotten down to discussing, God save them, potted plants and ecological concerns. They’d agreed to build a second starship.

  It was time to talk to the home office.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  It went well,” Bren said to Banichi and Jago, while Kaplan gave them the guided tour back past the various potted plants. There was some chance Kaplan, twice specifically chosen to guide them, understood whatever words of Ragi existed in the dictionary the mainland had sent aloft, and he hesitated to speak with Banichi and Jago too freely, but then, what he knew would go out over radio with even more likelihood of someone listening… even Yolanda, even Jase, so he simply abandoned pretense. “We’re building them another ship, Nadiin-ji, pending the aiji’s approval; we’re going to run the station for them. And no one’s told the Mospheirans yet, but we’ve freed the library archive they’ve been trying for three years to get out of the ship’s records. It should come through the wall units in the rooms, but it will be on its way to Mogari-nai by tonight and disseminated to the aiji and to the island at the same time.”

  “One is amazed,” Banichi said.

  “Indeed,” Jago agreed.

  “And Jase-paidhi may be part of this agreement,” Bren added, “seeing we need his help with the arrangements we’re making with the captains.”

  “A very fine negotiation,” Banichi said. Banichi remained conservative on what he did say, clearly conscious of exactly the same possibility some of the crew knew a handful of words in Ragi.

  Spy on one another? They surely would. He would, as far as he could.

  And what was he to d
o about the Mospheirans, and about the President, and the State Department, and a delegation representing, essentially, distressed business interests behind the

  Department of Science and Technology, which had historically had ties to the National Security Administration, and likewise behind the Department of Commerce… which had ties to some of the richest, most powerful interests on Mospheira?

  “Mr. Kaplan.”

  Their guide, stopped at a door, looked at him, half through the eyepiece. “Mr. Cameron, sir. I’m not mister. I’m just Kaplan.”

  “There used to be a business level on the station. Know anything about that?”

  “No, sir. Never heard about it.”

  There was an answer. “Interesting,” he said. “So that wasn’t restored.”

  “No, sir.”

  He thought about that as Kaplan took them back to their own territory, a considerable trek.

  He thought and he thought about that.

  Narani met him, the servants ready to take his coat in this linear, human-made place. Tano and Algini waited in the doorway of the security station, likewise observing.

  “Kaplan,” Bren said, “tomorrow morning, you’ll take me to see the Mospheiran delegation.”

  “I have to get clearance, sir.”

  “Do that, will you?”

  “I’ll ask, sir.”

  The doorway shut, sealing off Kaplan.

  Bren turned to face his staff. “It went very well,” he said. “We have agreement.”

  He made the staff happy. There were respectful bows from Narani’s staff, very quiet happiness from his security.

  The first order of business was to detour into his own quarters, write a small message to Tabini, set up his computer, and apply himself to the wall unit communications… a direct test of what Ramirez and Ogun had said.

  Not unexpectedly Banichi and Algini turned up very shortly after he’d pushed a button… knowing something, at least, was activated.

  Cl, the man had said, and Bren pressed the requisite keys on the panel while his security took mental notes.

  Static sputtered. “Yes, sir,” the answer came back. “This is Phoenixcomm.”

  “This is Bren Cameron. Establish a link to Mogari-nai, Bren Cameron to Tabini-aiji, Capt. Ramirez’ clearance.”

  “Verification required,” the answer came back, and Bren waited. And waited, hoping there was no deception, no glitch. He had, for a view, shadowing the light from the overhead fixture, Banichi, Algini, and now Jago. Tano presumably was at the security station. “They’re seeking authorization,” he said, and in the next instant another button lit on the panel,

  “You’re cleared with the captain’s compliments, Mr. Cameron. Stand by.”

  It was going through. He didn’t expect to talk to Tabini, only to relay his message, and did not intend, in his message, to relay the heart of what was going on. Dropping major news into the court except through personal courier had its sure hazards, in the less stable members of the Association, and they had held suspicions of the Messengers’ Guild, which ran Mogari-nai, where the big dish drew down messages from the heavens. The aiji could be extremely efficient, since the aiji had gathered power enough to pay the bills himself and keep detailed design authorizations out of the hands of the hasdrawad and the tash-rid. But damned right there was debate on the issue, that the aiji didn’t submit designs, but presented the bills after the fact… and he asked himself, pending time to think, just how what he dared transmit might hit the mainland if there were a leak.

  Emergency reimbursements were Tabini’s primary budgetary tactic of the last several years, when the hasdrawad had tamely voted the funds to reimburse the household accounts to build two space shuttles—granted one had whispered in the ears of the lords of the Association that the Association was in a race for time and survival.

  Thus far the economy had never lurched, not with the industrial shifts, not with the new materials… it had only grown at a frightening rate. And there had been far less debate about the reimbursements than might have been. The Association was seeing benefits from Tabini’s expenditures. In some cases there was a rush to approve the new expenses, because innovation was pouring back into the economy, and thus far the sumptuary laws held. Conspicuous consumption could only be of art, no other luxury goods.

  And art, as the law provided, could not be mass-produced. Even with the introduction of fast food, meat, traditionally, philosophically, had to be seasonal. Populations could not intrude onto green space and transport could not involve highways. A hundred and more years of developing mechanisms to assure the smooth fit of technological advances arriving on the mainland had worked this far.

  Equilibrium. Prosperity.

  Tabini’s enlightenment, shining down from the heavens, where he at the moment stood, hand on switch.

  He heard, in a reasonably brief time, the operators at Mo-gari-nai, bidding Phoenix go ahead.

  And Phoenix relayed the message.

  “This is Bren Cameron reporting to the aiji: Aiji-ma, favorable. We have substantiative agreements. I’ll courier down many specifics when I return, likely on schedule. End transmission. Mogari-nai?”

  “Yes, nand’paidhi.”

  “Message to the office of the paidhiin, Shejidan: Work is going well; maintain full staff. End transmission. Mogari-nai, Nadiin: you may be getting long files. Have you received any yet?”

  “No, nandi.”

  A disappointment. “Have I messages?”

  “Under seal, nandi. Will you receive now?”

  “Send and receive, both.”

  A blast of sound followed, rapid, unpleasant, protracted; his computer squealed and squalled back. A second blast came from the speaker, and that was that. The computer storage light went on, went off.

  Stored.

  “Thank you, Mogari-nai,” Bren said, figuring that burst should trigger alarms in Phoenixcomm, that computers in any security installation would probably be very busy for a bit, that anyone with his ear pressed to a receiver was going to be damned unhappy, and that he would shortly hear a human voice.

  “Mr. Cameron, this is Phoenixcomm. Was that intended?”

  “Completely,” he said. He was truly vexed about the files. “Thank you. I’m expecting a lengthy download.”

  “I’ve heard there’s supposed to be a long ’un, sir. I’m supposed to set up for it when the terminator’s past the island, to minimize traffic conflict.”

  Encouraging. Very encouraging.

  “You mean after dark.”

  “Local 2400 hours, sir. It’ll have been dark a while there.”

  “Thank you, Cl. That’s good to hear. Excellent. Can you put me through to the Mospheiran delegation on this station?”

  “Clearance required,” the voice said, and the unit went quiet for a moment. Bren cast a look at his audience, lifted brows, unconcerned by what was fairly routine mail pick-up, these days, and keyed up the mail display. Excited, however. Delighted.

  He had a report to write to Tabini, to send by the next call. Now they knew they could do it. And the archive was going. God, the archive was going down. One day up here and they’d collectively worked what three years hadn’t done. What they’d feared was lost was found.

  There was only one message from Mospheira, from Toby. It said: Delayed flight, weather at Bretano. Got your message and mom’s; she’s on painkillers. Very upset. I called her doctor; he’s on holiday at Bretano, sending records. Flying back tonight.

  So how bad is Mother, Toby?

  Toby had written in haste, gotten it through the system… probably hadn’t triggered his mail until he’d gotten home, not expecting a problem: Toby had been on one long flight and somehow had gotten another, back again. It was Independence Day weekend, their mother’s doctor was out of town, but they were getting another doctor? Was their mother having difficulties, or was it more than a scrape she’d suffered on the curb?

  What about Barb? he wanted to know—What about Barb?— but t
here nothing on that score. Toby likely didn’t know the answer, forgot to mention it, or thought he wouldn’t want to know.

  He couldn’t distract himself with family problems. At a certain point he had to pretend his family was like any other that didn’t have a son on the mainland, and Toby and their mother

  had worked out something within their means. He had the aiji’s agenda. He couldn’t think about the island, couldn’t do what Toby could do, wasn’t responsible for it, dammit all to hell.

  Calm, he said to himself.

  He punched Cl again. “Phoenixcomm, give me the other delegation, Ms. Ginny Kroger or Mr. Tom Lund.”

  “Mr. Cameron, this is Phoenixcomm. Standby.”

  It was going through.

  “Hello?” he heard, “Ginny Kroger.”

  “Ginny,” he said cheerfully. “Are you up to a visitor?”

  “Cameron?” Not cheerfully. “Where are you?”

  “At our apartment. I’d like to drop by tomorrow morning. Mind? I have something to discuss.”

  “Can you get here?” Incredulously.

  “I can get there, I’m pretty sure. See you at ten.” He punched that off. Phoenixcomm?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll need an escort for the morning, ten o’clock, Ramirez’ orders. Can you send Kaplan?”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  It was a very curious seal-door they reached under Kaplan’s guidance, a gray metal door that looked as if it belonged in a boiler room, very heavy, where the hall was beige and much like the rest of the station; it had an untidy seal around the edges of the frame.

  “Temporary seal, sir,” Kaplan said when questioned. “Seals off the area, safety concern, sir.”

  Safety concern, hell. Security concern, Bren thought as Kaplan opened it with a keypad.

  “They have the Mospheirans safely contained,” he muttered to Banichi and Jago behind them, and smiled at Kaplan as the door opened.