by John Lumpkin
A young woman with short spiky black hair sat behind the largest of the many bars in the place, reading her handheld. She looked up at Neil and Irene Gomez and pointed to a door on the far side of the dance floor.
Beyond was some kind of VIP lounge, with another bar and some plush red couches. Sitting on one of them was Akita Tadeshi.
He was approaching middle age, handsome, a picture-perfect gentleman spy in a shiny maroon suit, cut in the severe style popular in Tokyo and, lately, New York. He smiled warmly and motioned for Gomez and Neil to sit.
They did so, with Gomez taking a high-backed leather chair, leaving Neil to sink into a love seat placed at a right angle to Akita’s couch. It was far too comfortable for such a meeting, and Neil struggled to maintain a rigid, formal posture.
“This place is owned by President Conrad’s daughter,” Akita said in a lyric baritone. “Smartest club in town for a couple of years, but there’s a new place down in the docks district that’s surpassed it.”
Irene Gomez said, “That hasn’t been my sort of fun for twenty years. I imagine young Lieutenant Mercer here knows far more than I do about that sort of thing.”
“I’m sure,” Akita said, glancing at Neil. Neil tried to remain impassive. Gomez is establishing herself above me by calling me “young,” he thought.
“Given its ties to the executive, can we be sure we can speak freely here?” he asked, trying to establish a little of his own position in the room. He wasn’t going to let Gomez define his relationship with Kitsune.
“Actually, because of the Conrad family connection, this is one of the few places Katherine Naima does not dare listen to. But the room has been scanned for listening devices, and you have nothing to worry about. Can I offer either of you anything to drink? Coffee, juice, something stronger?”
Neil nodded. “Orange juice.”
“Irish coffee,” Gomez said.
At some invisible signal, a woman entered the room and went to the bar. She was Japanese, wearing an indigo yukuta, tied off with a summery golden bow knotted at her back.
She said nothing, and Neil felt uncomfortable at the deference she showed him as she served him his glass. She was, by any human standard, beautiful. Thin but not dainty, with dark, straight hair, partially tied off in back, and a silk-smooth face. She was utterly precise in her movements.
Akita caught Neil looking at her and smirked slightly.
Strange, Neil thought. While a great many Japanese employed personal servants, very, very few were other Japanese. Most were Filipino, Vietnamese, or from one of the other states in Japan’s sphere of influence. Possibly Akita’s job required a native-born aide, although Neil had seen other high-ranking government officials with foreign-born temporary workers at their side, even in the security services.
At Gomez’s prompting, Neil related his encounter with President Conrad, leaving nothing out.
When he finished, Gomez spoke first. “I can’t understand why he would refuse the rockets.”
“I agree,” Akita said. “It is odd behavior. The rebellion is growing stronger. Our information says that fully one-third of the last batch of convicts arriving from Earth left the city to seek out the guerrillas, who are offering food and shelter for anyone who will join them.”
“Supplied by the Hans, no doubt,” Gomez said.
Neil piped in, “And those buoys alone won’t stop their supply cows. They may detect the submarines, but Tecolote’s military doesn’t have enough air or sea assets to ensure they can investigate a contact before the sub can escape back out to the open sea. There is just too much coastline.”
“Did you get the sense that Conrad is under any pressure from his advisors?” Gomez asked him.
“I’m not sure,” Neil said. “Possibly. Naima – she didn’t exactly back up Conrad when he refused the artillery rockets, but she didn’t argue with him, either.” Both Gomez and Akita looked at him in a way that prompted him to say more, but he remained silent. Don’t bullshit your way through a briefing, his mentor had said. Points of ignorance are useful information in and of themselves.
Akita leaned back and smiled confidently. Neil sensed the man’s charisma filling the room, but he wondered how much substance was beneath those eyes. Something didn’t quite impress him as he had expected to be impressed. Or is underestimating him part of his power?
The Japanese spy said, “Well, that’s all useful information. I suppose we owe you something in return.” He looked over his shoulder at his aide. “Go ahead, Misaki.”
Her eyes briefly took on a vague, unfocused look. She’s reading information on her ocular, Neil realized – and a small green line of text appeared inside his own eye, asking him if he wanted to receive some data. Ocular-yes, he thought.
Akita said, “This is our data on the rebel leaders, strength and logistics train. I guarantee it has some information that Naima and Conrad do not possess.”
Despite his efforts to remain passive, Neil felt his eyes narrow, a slight gesture Akita did not fail to observe.
“You are wondering why we would pass this to you, and you wouldn’t accept the too-simple explanation that we support our allies, of course,” he said. He held a hand up before Neil could protest. “Self-interest, of course. We are hoping to manipulate you into helping the government here, even if Conrad doesn’t seem to want any useful assistance. But we’d prefer our help not be so overt.”
“Why is that?” Gomez asked.
“A number of reasons. One is that the Chinese would be far more worried about Tecolote if it learned Japan had also turned its attention here. If the allies are planning to use Tecolote as a staging area for its forces, it is best that China not take matters here too seriously, until the defenses are in place.”
Neil and Gomez departed not long after. Gomez asked Neil to drive so she could scan Akita’s file, but he hadn’t traveled half a kilometer before she tapped her handheld and turned to look at him.
“You handled yourself well in there, Mercer,” she said. “I guess we earned our reward. Although you’ve seen firsthand how the Sakis have no compunction about playing us to advance their own interests.”
What does that mean? Neil wondered. He drove the car, a fifteen-year-old Honda owned by the consulate, through a roundabout. No other cars were on the road.
He glanced at the NSS officer. “Ma’am? Firsthand?”
Gomez smirked. “I know more about you than you think. You were on the San Jacinto with our operatives James Donovan and Rafael Sato when the war started. The Sakis picked you out as a young and naïve intel officer and passed you that fake report about Han nanological weapons. You set down here on Entente, and later on Commonwealth. Do I have that right?”
“San Jacinto’s activities were in the news,” Neil said evenly.
Gomez recognized the evasive answer and sighed. “Neil, I know the military and NSS don’t always get along, but I need you to trust me. Here in Tecolote, it’s just you and I who can do anything to advance American interests. Our colleagues from State are too hidebound by diplomatic protocols to get any real work done. If we’re going to succeed in making an ally out of Conrad’s government, we need to be able to work together. We must get a better feel for this country and what’s going on here. It’s time to stop meeting with them and start working with them. You should be out with their troops. I need to spend more time in the government house.”
Neil was silent for a moment. She’s right. She’s not exactly easy to work with, but we’re on the same team.
“Okay,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.
“Now, where on Entente did you go?”
So Gomez doesn’t know everything about the San Jacinto’s mission. No harm in telling her, he supposed.
“Graypen.”
“Other side of the planet. What happened there?”
Neil turned the car onto a broad boulevard. Blocky gray industrial structures lined the road. “We … we were meeting with some contacts with the Taiwa
n Liberation Congress. The Chinese found out about it somehow, and there was a shootout.”
“Did you lose anyone?” Neil was watching the road but could feel her eyes on him.
“One of the rebels was killed. I never learned his name.” The man died a meter away from me. Why is she asking this?
“He died for a good cause. I hadn’t realized you were part of that operation. That was nicely done, Lieutenant.” The mission had ended with the death of the leader of Taiwan’s independence movement, when he was murdered during an attempt to rescue him on Kuan Yin. Video of his execution had been leaked to the public in Taiwan, and a brief insurrection had followed. China had sent three infantry divisions from the mainland to pacify the island, and now all three were stuck there, cut off by a Japanese blockade.
“Well, thanks.”
“And then you went to Commonwealth?” she asked.
“I’m really not supposed to talk about all this. Say, why – ”
An echelon of police drones buzzed the car, red and blue lights spinning. They were small ones, four-fan surveillance drones. They spread out, some disappearing over the tops of the buildings along the boulevard. Two bigger drones came next, passing into view ahead of the car. They emitted a deep, menacing thrum; one trailed a thin gray mist behind it. Neil recognized them as thirty-year-old Japanese military gunships, painted navy blue and white, Tecolote police livery.
At a cross-street about fifty meters ahead, a bloodied man in an olive jacket appeared, running at a full sprint, crossing from right to left in front of them. Others in similar uniforms followed, scattering as they went. One turned and threw his baton in the direction he came from, then ran on.
A mob followed: hundreds of people, in the moment of frenzied transition from a demonstration into a riot. Signs dropped to the ground, and a march became a charge. Rocks flew at the fleeing paramilitaries.
Gunshots marked the riposte: Thumping from the heavy gunships, and a staccato chatter from police semi-automatics. A cluster of people in view fell, and the mob screamed and wavered. Runners broke from the main body, and the mass spread out onto the broad avenue, trying to get away from the shooters, moving toward Neil and Gomez’s car.
“Go back! Go back!” Gomez shouted. Neil pulled into a U-turn, but the Honda turned wide and ended up pointing at a parked van. He hit reverse, finished the two-point turn, but the mob was on them, engulfing the car, sweeping around it like a school of fish fleeing from a predator.
Frustrated and tasting a little fear, Neil saw himself in negotiation with the mob. He pressed the accelerator, a declaration of his power, and the car surged forward. Let us go, and I won’t run over you.
But the pressing crowd took no notice. Bodies bumped into the car. He gunned the engine again, hitting someone in the hip. I’m not making progress. A woman knocked against the passenger side door, shouting.
Gomez, disgusted, produced a handgun, lowered the window halfway, and shot her in the shoulder. The pistol’s retort echoed through the car, and the woman screamed, falling backward onto the street.
Gomez reached out of the window, pointed the gun at the sky and fired three times. Somehow the crowd took notice, and gave the car some space.
“What the hell?” Neil said, more out of shock at her audacity than anything else. He revved the engine again. The crowd parted, and they were free.
“She’ll live,” Gomez muttered.
One street away, they raced by some paramilitaries jogging behind a pair of wheeled armored vehicles. Another block, and they reached some civilian police placing their cars nose-to-nose to close the street.
A white-gloved, white-belted officer flagged down their car. Neil lowered his window, and the cop leaned in.
“Diplomáticos estadounidenses,” Neil said. He hit a series of buttons on his handheld to transmit his credentials.
The cop nodded, stepped back, and another policeman pointed his handheld at their car.
It made an unhappy noise.
Every cop in view turned their way. The first cop put his hand on his white holster, but he did not draw his weapon.
The gray cloud from the drone, Neil remembered. Nanotransmitter tags. They were used to mark people who participated in unsanctioned public assemblies; police could later scan them to determine if they had taken part. They stuck tight to clothes and hair, often tighter than normal bathing could wash away, and they broadcasted until their power supplies failed.
Gomez tensed. Is she going to shoot our way out of here, too? Neil wondered. Is she that crazy?
The first cop leaned in again, his eyes alert.
“Were you taking part in the demonstration?” he said in Spanish.
“No,” Neil said. “We were caught in it. We were lucky to get away.”
The cop retreated again. His hand went to his ear; an officer was calling him. More nods, now at the unseen commander, punctuated by one-word responses Neil could not hear. Then a white-gloved wave, and the police cars parted, and they were on their way back to the consulate.
Near Poznan, Europa, en route to Moscow, Russia, Earth
They had taken the train from Paris so Senator Gregory could stop and meet with local ministers along the way. Warsaw was the next destination; the Polish government was about as pro-U.S. as anyone within the European continental commonwealth, but it didn’t have nearly the heft to change foreign policy. After that, Moscow.
The train car was exclusively for the American delegation; at the moment, everyone was reclined and asleep, and dawn was a few hours away. Donovan’s dreams were a gray-green mesh of images of civilians killed by the war, punctuated by sounds of kinetic bombardment that were, in reality, reinterpretations of Trip Bell’s erratic snoring.
His brain further tried to incorporate the ring chime in his ear, emanating from a tiny speaker that received transmissions from his handheld, but another part of his brain recognized the sound as something important from the real world, a call from Langley. Donovan awoke.
“Yes?” He replied, muffling his voice with his hand to avoid waking the others.
“Jim, it’s Sonya. New orders.”
“Go ahead.”
“Our people in Moscow have told us the Russians are going to turn you down, as we expected. So we’re going to break you off from the senator’s delegation before you cross the border and their security folks get a good look at you. Get off at Warsaw, and fly to Astana. Your contacts will meet you there.”
Kazakhstan? “What’s the mission?”
“We’re going to try to convince the Russians what their best interests are,” she said cryptically.
Donovan grunted. “Sonya, you just woke me up to tell me something you could have messaged me instead. Please don’t play games with me like I’m one of your rookies. This is a secure channel; if you can say what you’ve said already, you can tell me the mission.” It was a harsh way to speak to his nominal boss, but Sonya needed Donovan more than he needed her – at least, if she was going to continue to be promoted.
Sonya relented. “All right. Astana is just a waystation where you can meet your contact and pick up your travel passes. You’re headed to Siberia, fully undercover. The Chinese guest workers there are getting restive again, demanding crazy things like heat and steady paychecks. The more noise they make, the more Russia and China are forced to deal with it, and each other.”
Donovan thought it over. “That’s not a bad idea. We’ll assist the miners in an uprising, and the Russians will send in the troops. The Chinese will react to protect their citizens, making the Russians come running to us. But how does a bakgwei like me fit in?”
“Given the Hans know who you are, and we don’t have time for facial reconstruction, we’re going to have you run some of the kids and keep an eye on the Russian reaction.”
“All right, but this is my last one, Sonya. You agreed that there would be no more fieldwork for me, and now you’re throwing me back out there. No more, understand? If Senator Gregory wants to kee
p playing globetrotting diplomat, he can do it without me.”
Sonya sighed. “Yes, Jim. There are very few who are better at this sort of thing than you, and most of them aren’t on Earth right now, but I promise this is it.”
As good as I’ll get, Donovan thought. “Now, who’s my contact in Astana?”
“Fairchild. He requested you for this one.”
Gardiner’s back on Earth? They had last parted months ago, not on bad terms, but with a promise to steer clear of one another.
We don’t want to arouse suspicion.
Chapter 7
CIUDAD EL TRIUNFO, GUADALUPE – Dancing beneath the light of two suns and three moons, colonists celebrated the settlement’s first year with a raucous festival that drew three quarters of the planet’s population – amounting to roughly 900 people. At a distance of more than 54 light-years from Earth, Guadalupe is humanity’s most far-flung colony; its settlement by a coalition of Latin American and Caribbean nations is being hailed as a model of international cooperation. Pressure is mounting from a number of governments, however, for the colony to begin rapid expansion; opponents say the colony needs more time to establish itself before accepting an influx of new immigrants.
Near Sycamore, Sequoia Continent, Kuan Yin
Vincennes was far too distant to help Rand and the others locate the guerrilla base, which was several days walk from Sycamore. Instead, they communicated with the other Americans via nervous bursts of transmissions, not on the planetary internet, but directly between their radios. The distrust was necessary – neither side could be certain the other wasn’t the Chinese playing games. Markers were left and located, and eventually a sergeant, a corporal and a private met them in plain sight.
“You Lieutenant Castillo?” the sergeant said in a less-than-deferential tone.
