by John Lumpkin
He wandered into a nearly empty restaurant, one of the few places he could find that was still open. As he grabbed his sandwich and drink from the bar and turned to find a table, he collided with a small man emerging from the bathroom. Pale yellow beer sloshed onto the man’s tan linen pants.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Neil said in Spanish, the language of the street here.
The man raised his hands in front of his chest, palms toward Neil, and waved them back and worth. “No, no, it is my fault,” he said in English, not accented by Spanish but something South Asian. “I’m very sorry.”
The bartender scurried over and apologized to Neil, offering to replace the beer and send this street dog away. The small man cast fearful eyes toward the floor.
But Neil, normally eager to avoid confrontation, saw opportunity. Need to learn this place.
“No hay problema,” he told the bartender. “Esta conmigo.” He’s with me.
Both men looked at him oddly. Neil ordered a second sandwich and bade the thin man to sit down with him.
“Thank you for your kindness,” the man said. “But I’m not selling anything you might want to buy.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m new here. I’m simply trying to meet some of the natives.”
The man appeared to relax a little. “Native? Not me. I’m an Earther, like you.”
“How could you tell?”
“You walk a little hunched over, like you spend a lot of time in space, so it’s likely you are from somewhere else. And given most people are from Earth, it’s not a difficult guess.”
Neil had to laugh at that. “Yep, I’m from the States. My name’s Neil.”
“Kneel? You spend a lot of time on your knees? I told you, I’m not selling my services.” He gave Neil a toothy grin to show he was kidding this time, and Neil laughed again. “My name is too silly and too long to remember, so I go by ‘Das.’”
“Das, to tell the truth, I just got here. How long have you been on Entente?”
“I arrived in Tecolote two years ago, courtesy of the state government of Punjab back on Earth. My crime was grave; I was second cousin to a mullah who spoke against the Indian occupation of eastern Pakistan. He was too publicly known to be moved off-planet, so he was put under house arrest, but much of his extended family was rounded up and transported here. I am the only one who ended up in Tecolote. And I’m not even Muslim.”
Neil shook his head. Rather than imprison people, some governments paid head money to colonies in need of cash to accept undesirables. Journalists occasionally tracked the fates of these “involuntary immigrants,” and they usually ended up working in criminal enterprises or dangerous industries. “What did you do on Earth?”
“I worked in a school as a technician and assistant coach to its cricket team.”
“And here?”
“Sanitation. And you?”
“I work for the United States government. I’m attached to the diplomatic mission.”
“So you are a G-Man? Maybe we can do business, then. I have many secrets. I’d sell you the owner’s manual to my ’32 Kingfisher, but it got left on Earth, with the car.”
Neil laughed again, hoping he didn’t sound nervous in doing so. Either a lucky guess, or this guy is really sharp. They talked further, taking turns diverting questions about their jobs. But Das showed himself to be knowledgeable about the capitol complex in San José – or, at least, about the activities around it. When they finished the meal, Das nodded confidently, almost conspiratorially. “I’ll see you again, G-Man. Especially if you keep buying dinner.”
Neil’s audience the next day was with neither President Conrad nor General Vargas, but with his interior secretary, Major General Katherine Naima, whom Neil’s briefing had described as one of Conrad’s longtime associates, a fellow adventurer who had accompanied him when he conquered Tecolote. He was led into her office on the fifth floor of the executive building, which had a stunning view of the city, the port and the hills to the north. The picture was marred only by a yellowish tint on all her windows, which Neil assumed to be part of security system, either to stop bullets or prevent a listening laser from decoding her speech from the vibrations it caused on the panes.
Naima was fit and thin, though middle age was broadening hips never burdened by pregnancy. Her rectangular face carried several wrinkles from a life in the rugged outdoors under various suns. Her gray-blond hair was curly on top, close-cropped on the back and sides. She gazed at Neil with a passive expression, apparently unimpressed by everything: the youth, the doughy face, the single silver j.g. bar on his collar, even the blue and gold ribbon marking the Aerospace Medal he had received for his service on the San Jacinto.
He tried not to be nervous. He wanted to succeed in the mission, to build up a good relationship with the Tecolote government, to get them to agree to allow the allies to base forces here. He kept telling himself he represented a far greater power than this petty island, and she should be currying favor with him, not the other way around. But their disparities in age and rank, and Neil feeling so very distant from anything familiar, inclined him toward a subordinate pose. Who has the upper hand here?
Naima’s accent was American. “I suppose I should welcome you to Tecolote, Lieutenant Mercer, but the attention of Earth powers is not something a small state like ours typically enjoys. But you are here, so, tell me, what may we do for you?”
Neil had at least prepared for this. “My purpose here is to facilitate an improvement in the relationship between our two nations, particularly between our armed forces.” Internally, he grimaced. That didn’t sound as stilted when I thought it up this morning.
She cocked her head and regarded him for a long moment, as if she was making up her mind about him.
“Where are you from, Lieutenant?”
“I grew up in Oregon,” he said, stopping himself before adding a “sir.”
“I’ve got some American blood in my ancestry, but I, like Lawson, was born on Reunion.”
First-name basis with the president, Neil noted.
“You’ll have to meet him,” Naima went on. “He’s quite an interesting man – I’m sure your files describe him as some sort of warlord or adventurer and nothing more.” She shook her head. “They don’t make many like him. He carved this little country out of the worthless territory that was here before, but he’s genuinely concerned with the well-being of the people, despite what the insurgency’s propaganda says. More now than ever.”
“What’s the insurgency’s complaint, then?” Neil knew what the U.S. believed was the answer, but he wanted to hear how Naima fielded the question.
Her face hardened to a scowl. “The rank-and-file have convinced themselves we’re enriching ourselves with the country’s wealth, and we should be sharing it with them. They’re wrong. That wealth just isn’t there, not without a lot more infrastructure and investment. Their leadership is largely old guard, the folks we kicked out when we arrived. They were running this place into the ground; it was ripe for new management. They can’t let go of what they lost. We had them under control until the war on Earth kicked off. Since then, the Chinese have been providing weapons to them. We’re not sure how: We certainly haven’t seen any orbital drops. We’ve searched for smugglers through the port and cities, but we aren’t finding anything at all.”
“That leaves supply submarines from Huashan.”
She smiled at him like he was a bright pupil. “Our thought as well. But our navy is only equipped with sonar, lidar and magnetic anomaly detectors, while the Chinese boats have acoustic cloaks built into their hulls. We’re interested in acquiring some of the same sensor buoys you have deployed around New Albion, the ones with the wake and water chemistry monitors.”
Neil had to think fast. He didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep, but this request didn’t sound unreasonable. A better sensor net here would protect our ships if we use this as a jumping-off point. Still, it’s one for Commander Raleigh.
“I’ll send that up the line, with my recommendation we accept,” he said, truthfully.
“I’m happy to hear it. Those aren’t available on any market we have access to,” Naima said. “As long as you’re in a giving mood, General Vargas has asked I request you try to obtain a supply of Fukiya-Seven artillery rockets. We’ve found them quite effective against rebel positions, but Japan has stopped selling them, and they have been in exceedingly short supply on secondary markets since the war began. Our stocks are down to fourteen rockets, only half of which we think will actually work.”
“I’ll send that up the line as well,” Neil said.
Naima leaned back in her chair and regarded Neil for a long moment.
She said, “Lieutenant, we’re having a reception for the new ambassador from Nuevo Santiago in a few days. I’d like you to attend. With any luck, we can introduce you to Lawson there.”
“Of course,” Neil said, trying to conceal his surprise. “Thank you for the invitation.” I guess I just passed a test.
Chapter 5
BUENOS AIRES – Wearing everything from colorful feathers and strands of wire to nothing at all, hundreds of protestors with the Campaign Against an Artless World marched in front of the national offices of Dorhauer-McBride Pharmaceuticals on Saturday, calling for increased awareness of consequences they allege result from genetic treatments to prevent various mental illnesses. “In blithely paving over gene complexes marginally associated with schizophrenia, depression, and even moderate anxiety, we’re preventing the slightly mad geniuses who have produced so much of our great art from ever being born,” said Enrique Schurrer, an organizer of the rally. “So much art today is hyperrealistic, commercial, and cowardly. We cannot paint, or sing, or tell stories as we once did. We want more research, and want more people to wonder what if we’re editing all the future Mozarts out of our genetic code?”
Paris, Europa, Earth
Senator Gregory was in a bad mood. He had known the Europeans would not react favorably to his private entreaty for assistance in the war, but for the minister to call him out publicly in a joint press conference was beyond the pale.
The senator acknowledged to himself that he bore some responsibility for this. Last year, he had learned through a back channel that Japan and America had elected to make war on China with the aim of acquiring wormhole chains and colony worlds, all because their axes of colonization had run up against a vast desert of stars whose planets were rendered uninhabitable by some primordial disaster.
Britain, Russia and India were in the same boat, as were some smaller states hoping to build colonies off the International Ring. Meanwhile, Europa’s axes of colonization, into Eridani, Cetus and Pisces, would continue to bear fruit, although it ran along the edge of the desert. So European leaders could afford to be publicly horrified when Gregory had told the world the object of the war.
In some ways, Gregory had surprised himself by making the announcement, but when he had learned the Delgado administration had kept it not only from the NSS but also senior members of Congress, he was angry. In his mind, too, he had taken a classic liberal stance, one he believed his heroes John Stuart Mill and Thomas Jefferson would have approved of: The public, and thus America, would make better decisions with accurate information. It was a strike against the “what they don’t know won’t hurt them” attitude that he felt had become pervasive in government in the last decade.
Oh, but there had been costs, to his reputation, as well as to public support for the war effort. Delgado had still won re-election last November, largely thanks to the victory at Kennedy Station, but the margin was far narrower than the president would have liked. His “fairness in colonization” foreign policy platform had won him some support, but he had been forced to drum up more by firing up the reactionaries, and they were gaining ground in his administration. Meanwhile, Delgado’s people had come after Gregory from a number of directions, sometimes with the carrot and sometimes with the stick. He kept his chairmanship of the Intelligence committee, but his protégé, a bright and honest representative from Camden, had lost his seat in the election after Delgado’s party had thrown significant resources into defeating him.
The senator going public with the information also explained his presence here. Because Gregory challenged the Delgado administration, Europa held him in high esteem, and the State Department wasn’t above using that to garner its assistance in the war effort. Gregory didn’t protest; after all, he wanted the U.S. to win as much as anyone.
But that doesn’t mean it’s worth it. Deep down, he was undecided on that point, but he would never let that uncertainty show, even to his staff. Only the outcome would really determine if all the lives and treasure lost had been spent wisely.
The senator, entourage in tow, made his way to a private room in the conference center, where Donovan was waiting.
Once the door was closed, Gregory’s chief of staff, Trip Bell, said, “The Chinese must have loved that. What was Delvaux thinking, calling us out for ‘imperial behavior’?”
“He was scoring points off of us for an audience, that’s for certain,” Gregory said. “Whether it was with his domestic constituency, or the Chinese, or the neutrals, I’m not sure.”
Donovan said, “It’s likely all three. Claude Delvaux has designs on being prime minister of Europa. He’s firing up his antiwar base, placating the Chinese, and signaling to the smaller powers to throw in with them.”
Bell nodded. “The hell of it is, Europa could end this war by joining us. The Chinese would be outgunned and would have to negotiate. Instead, they are happy prolonging the fighting.”
Donovan’s handheld buzzed, interrupting what the senator was about to say next. With an apology, Donovan looked at the message.
GENERAL SINGH SAYS WE CAN’T HELP YOU RIGHT NOW. NOT TAKING THE HANS’ OFFER YET, EITHER. SORRY. RAMESH
“Tell me you got some good news,” Senator Gregory said.
Donovan shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
The reception was at a large and beautiful estate that stood on the edge of the Apollonian Ocean. The house had been built from marble and granite imported from Earth at massive expense and despite easy supplies of almost identical rock available on the planet; someone had decided Earth materials carried a degree of prestige that domestic ones did not. Initially, it had been a home for a corporate executive, until the government seized the company’s assets. Now it served as a temporary residence for visitors that Tecolote’s administration had determined were of the highest esteem.
Most of the reception guests were in the back, on a large and multi-tiered series of patios that wound through gardens full of Earth plants. Neil was wearing a dark blue mess dress uniform, which he had just had manufactured at a local fabricator earlier that day. He stood under a pergola next to the pool, looking out at the ocean and swishing his drink. A gunboat idled about a kilometer out, and several drones hovered high overhead. No one seemed to pay them any mind; indeed, the party was rolling.
President Conrad had not yet appeared. General Naima was entangled in a knot of diplomats that included the Chinese ambassador, so Neil did not approach her, instead remaining with the other Americans – Paul Layton, the consulate’s head of mission, his deputy Andy Bonaventura, their husbands, and Lindsay Trujillo, who had agreed to come as Neil’s date. Irene Gomez was apparently here, too, but she had arrived separately and had not spoken to any of her colleagues.
Neil had the sense Lindsay was a little bored in Tecolote. She had done herself up: She wore a medium-length black cocktail dress that left much of her shoulders and back bare; her long black hair was collected in a wavy mass that flowed over her left shoulder to the top of her breast. She had her tattoos set to display abstract floral patterns that seemed to wrap themselves around her wrists. Neil watched for several seconds before noticing they were slowly moving.
“You look stunning,” he told
her, truthfully, and she dimpled, an act so fetching that it triggered an internal reminder within Neil that he was involved with someone else. He reluctantly declined her offer of a second beer; he was here to work, so she glided away to procure herself another margarita and him a ginger ale.
He observed the crowd for a moment, and it struck him how life in the Space Force had significantly narrowed the sort of people he encountered. On a warship, everyone was reasonably fit, save for the paunch many had to fight as a consequence of spending so much time in zero-g. Most of the astronauts were in the 20s or 30s, with only a few senior chiefs or officers older than that. And everyone had been through similar training and experience, and this led to a sort of forced conformity in conduct and appearance, some of which was dictated by the regs and some by tradition. But here at the reception was such variety: outfits and adornments of every color, people fat and thin, old and young, and hair not sliced away with zero gravity in mind. Neil couldn’t help but admit to himself that he enjoyed seeing all the long hair on the women.
Then he remembered his encounter with Das. That’s who isn’t here … people like him, or even like Jessica. These are the wealthy and powerful from Tecolote, and representatives of the wealthy and powerful from the rest of Entente as well as Earth.
A waiter rushed by him. Except for the catering staff, I guess.
Lindsay returned and clinked his glass with her own. “Always observing, Neil? I guess that’s what they look for in spies.”
“The funny thing is, I signed up to dropship pilot, not an intel guy, but the war happened,” Neil said. “How did you end up at State, Lindsay? Free trips to the stars?”
Her face turned serious. “No. I’m here to try to keep you military guys in the barn. I’m not disparaging what you do, Neil, when I say that something’s gone wrong when you are called out to do it.”
“Well, usually no one gets killed when we pull honor guard duty before a ballgame,” Neil said.
