by Larry Niven
“Ali,” he said. “Here is someone I want you to meet. He will travel with you on this lunar adventure.”
“The bodyguard,” Ali said, mocking. “The Moon is an assassin’s paradise, I am sure.”
King Kikaya shook his head. “How will you control this nation?” he asked. “You have sworn to me that you will be ready to accept the mantle of leader, but I do not see it, Ali.”
Ali looked up, earlier irritation giving way to a far more conciliatory tone. “Father. I swear to you that I will fulfill my duties. Until then, I don’t understand why you criticize my little entertainments.”
“And your past follies?
Scotty had an odd feeling, almost as if he, as a commoner, was too unimportant for these two to edit themselves.
“Like England’s Henry,” Ali smiled. When his father did not reply, Ali turned again to Scotty. “Do you know your Shakespeare?”
“Henry set a trap for his father’s enemies by pretending dissipation.” He paused. “Just call me Falstaff. We’ll get along fine.”
Ali raised a royal eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Kikaya wagged his leonine head. “My son, the time for kings is past in this world. Our people want democracy.”
With a last regretful look at the screens before him, Kikaya III slipped off his mesh cap and goggles, and stood to face his father. The boy was slender, whipcord strong and straight. It seemed to Scotty that the monarch was struggling to maintain a stern demeanor.
Did Kikaya remind his father of his own youthful dreams, his own efforts to measure up to paternal demands?
Scotty had read up. Kikaya II’s life had been filled with war and intense political action. His son, in comparison, had been given the world. There had been rumors of tension between father and son … and now he understood. Nineteen-year-old Ali was a spoiled brat, and Daddy was afraid that, when his time came to take power, the boy would be eaten alive.
Every father wants his son to have the advantages he himself was denied. But then, if you provide those advantages, you risk producing a weakling. The core parental paradox.
Ali was speaking to his father, but in another way, he seemed to be talking to himself. “Father … all my life I have awaited the moment when you felt I was ready to serve my people. I hope you live to be two hundred, but I know that when the time comes, I will be a good king. The last king of Kikaya.”
“And what of your own firstborn?”
“He will be raised to wealth, power and privilege … but not a throne. Our family has vast holdings. That will have to be enough.”
It was the right answer, but felt rehearsed. So the grandson wouldn’t be king. Scotty silently bet himself that the kid would go for “President for Life.” What the hell—every other dictator did.
Kikaya II sighed. “You see what concerns me, Mr. Griffin. My son does not appreciate the truth of power. It is all a game to him. I hope that this trip will be the end of one phase of his life, and the beginning of another.”
“Sir,” Scotty said. “I’m sure the Prince will be everything you wish, and more.” He tried to detect a change in expression on Ali’s part. Any hint of his attitudes and emotions. Not much: The kid was a cipher.
Kikaya spoke first. “You need to get to know this man,” he said. “He has agreed to accompany you during your training, transportation and during the game itself.”
Finally, that caught Ali’s intention. “So? You would use your influence to put an anchor around my neck? You bring this American thug here, ram him down the—” Ali lapsed into Congolese again, and his father did the same.
Scotty held up his hand. “Pardon? May the American thug interject a few words?”
Ali whipped his head around, squinting with anger. “By all means.”
“Well, where I come from, ‘American thug’ is a compliment, and I’ll take it as such.” There, that should confuse him. “The truth is that I grew up at Dream Park. My father was head of security, my mother chief of guest relations.”
“Really?” Ali seemed intrigued in spite of himself.
“Have you been to California Dream Park?”
“Of course. In disguise, four times.”
“And did you go to the Santa’s Workshop Adventure?”
“Yes, a minor game, but entertaining.”
“Well, I was the third elf, the one who says: ‘Who kidnapped Santa?’ I was only eight years old at the time, and the kid who was supposed to play the role got the flu. Mom got me in.”
Ali stared at Scotty, and then laughed uproariously. “You are an elf! And a bodyguard as well?”
“Yes, and a Luny. I’ve been around.”
Ali’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to the Moon? And you know gaming?” Scotty watched the kid’s gears spin. “Perhaps … perhaps you are not an anchor after all. Father,” he said, “I would like to have breakfast with this man. Will you leave us together to talk?”
Kikaya smiled approval at Scotty. I think you will do fine, that expression said. He shook Scotty’s hand, and said in a low voice, “Please. He is my only son. Convince him. Protect him. Please.”
They locked eyes for a moment, not monarch and commoner, but two men with a common interest: the health and safety of a boy. “If I take the job,” Scotty said, “he’s safe. I promise.”
“Take the job, Mr. Griffin,” Kikaya said. Then nodded to his son, and left the room
Ali and Scotty faced each other without speaking for a moment, then the boy said: “Have you ever had an ostrich omelet?”
“Never.”
“Our chef makes them with little fish from Lake Victoria, garnished with a local onion found nowhere else in the world, and forbidden to export. Will you join me, Mr. Griffin?”
Scotty smiled. “Only if you’ll call me Scotty.”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Scotty. And you may call me … Prince Ali.”
A pause, and then Ali broke into laughter, and Scotty followed. And at that moment, he decided he liked the kid, and would take the job.
8
Neutral Moresnot
October 10, 2085
In any modern society, privacy is one of the most prized commodities. This was as true on Luna as anywhere else. More so, perhaps, as every spoonful of water or breath of air was produced or managed by a central processor, and every human being was tracked at all times.
As a result, the ability to promise secure communications between Earth and Moon was a lucrative business, birthing a half-dozen communication streams boasting high-level encryption and guarantees of hack-free voice- and facemail.
Doug Frost sat in his cubical, enjoying the fruits of such privacy. But even with guarantees, the current communication was conducted with coded language and careful tones.
The face on the screen was a man’s. Then it shifted and became a woman’s. The skin tone shifted to black, and then Asian. As it did, the vocal tones shifted as well. There was simply no telling who or what a “Shotz” actually was. Frost’s sources speculated that he was a man, but there was no way to be certain. All they knew beyond question was that a person known as “Shotz” was Shotz, leader of a group called Neutral Moresnot, the most successful practitioners of a very specialized criminal profession. Kidnapping had been big business for hundreds of years, and the Moresnot group was reliable, conducting twenty high-profile extractions a year, usually leaving little trace, and always demanding high fees.
“You have received all data?” Doug said.
The Chinese woman on screen smiled. Was that a real interpretation of Shotz’s mood? He had no idea at all. “Yes.”
“And were there any last-minute concerns? I’m not certain why you requested this unscheduled conversation.”
“It has to do with a passenger list,” Shotz said. “Of course, we would be interested in anyone traveling with our … person of interest.”
“Of course.”
“And we see that he is traveling with a man named Scott Griffin. Are you familiar with this person?
”
“No,” Doug said. “Should I be?”
“Our records show that he was married to the current Chief of Operations, Kendra Griffin.” The Asian woman was morphing, melting into a dark-skinned Latina.
“Was? She still wears his name?” Many western women could not wait to shed their former husband’s names, once the divorce was concluded. “Is that a problem?”
“It is a matter of some interest. His path crossed ours several months ago. He interfered in an operation of substantial value. He harmed a valued associate.”
“Will that cause a problem? I was assured that you were professional. Surely revenge—”
Shotz cut him off. “Not at all. But he is competent. And therefore dangerous. On the other hand, a personal connection between this man Griffin and his ex-wife might help us to maintain control. She has kept his name. Perhaps there are still feelings.”
The voice was certainly synthesized, as was the visual image, but something about the conversation was chilling. “We want no unneccessary violence,” Doug said. “Everything is in place, and the situation will be volatile enough as things stand. We need no complications.”
“There will be none,” Shotz said. “In fact, I think that this man Griffin’s presence might actually work to our advantage. To tell you truthfully, my … associates and I would enjoy the chance to deal with this man.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Everything is on track. The remainder of the monies are to be paid into our accounts by the end of the month. You have arranged for our equipment?”
“Yes.” Fabrication of gear that could not be brought through lunar customs. Acquisition of funds through expatriot groups on Earth. Identification of an effective organization capable of carrying out a bizarre and demanding plan. Contact with revolutionary forces within the Republic of Kikaya itself …
Yes, they had accomplished miracles over the last months. Exactly what was required if they were to have any chance of achieving the miracle to come.
Freedom for his people.
A thin mist of perspiration blossomed on the back of Doug’s neck as the reality of their situation finally descended upon him.
“Is there … something wrong?” Shotz asked. “Her” face was shifting again. Morphing into a more masculine form.
Doug felt it: He had paused too long. “Everything is fine. I am just eager for it to begin.”
The screen image smiled. “Soon, my friend. All that is required is for both of us to perform as agreed. If we do this thing, then in a few short weeks, we change the world.”
The image faded away, the connection broken. Yes, indeed. In a few short weeks, the world would be changed.
Now, it was either succeed, or …
Or what? Death? Dishonor? Incarceration? He was not even certain of the laws they would be violating.
Well, if they did not proceed, he was certain that there would be hard, serious men and women from around the world and across the solar system who would be more than happy to inform him. At painful length.
The thing, then, was not to fail.
9
Kendra
October 25, 2085
The former Kendra Tuinukuafe, now Kendra Griffin, opened her eyes. She nestled naked in the midst of a wide, wide hammock, peering up through her wavering water shield to the half-Earth visible above. The walls were more than four meters high, decorated from floor to ceiling with little ledges and picture frames. Her home looked a bit like a hobbit house, crammed with books and mementos, some shipped up from Earth, others fabricated or acquired in the intervening years. It was, of course, a hole in the ground. Radiation was a problem on the Moon.
Her alarm trilled again, pulling her to full wakefulness just as the wake-up lights began to rise.
“Right on time.” She yawned heartily and rolled out of the hammock, landing lightly. Now the hammock cleared her head by nearly a meter. Her broad shoulders and upper back, webbed with flyer’s muscle, flared almost like wings, narrowing her waist.
She tocked her tongue, and spoke.
“Audio live,” she said.
Her assistant’s hologram appeared. Chris Foxworthy was tall, prematurely balding, muscularly self-assured, and carried himself with an air most interpreted as “distant.” He was staring right through her, understandable since she hadn’t engaged the live feed. People were always a little stiff when speaking to avatars.
“Boss,” Chris said.
“Chris. I have time for coffee?” Gram for gram, her Colombian was Luna’s most expensive legal luxury.
“Always,” Chris said.
Kendra yawned wider as she approached the coffeemaker. Judging by the control lights and fragrant cloud of steam, it was already preparing a cup.
She sniffed deeply; even the smell of the coffee cleared cobwebs from her mind. “Mmmm. Yummy.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a cruel streak?”
“On the hour.” Steaming dark fluid poured sluggishly into the cup. Even at lowest pressure, some still slopped up over the edge. She waited for it to stop, then lifted the cup and sipped. Heaven. “So … how are the polls runnning?”
“You’re up ten points on McCauley, but that still makes me nervous with a month ’til the election.”
“Me, too. What’s on the dock today?”
“Tons. We’ve got a load of oranges and finger bananas in from Clavius.”
“We’re trading…?”
“Spare gigawatts from the Bullwinkle array and the Tsiolkovsky power plant. Fifty gigs over the next month. Falling Angels is dropping a load of foamed steel to complete the dorms,” Chris said.
Kendra frowned. “Isn’t that cutting it a little close?”
Chris shook his head. “Temporary shelters—steel skeleton, spray-foam skin, webbed furniture … We’ll make our dates. Might be a little spare, but short-timers only log sleep and shower time in their rooms. Too busy seeing the sights.” Chris waited patiently for his boss as she threw some clothes on, prepping as she went. She bounced through each step.
Kendra looked in the mirror. “Suitable,” she said, then tocked her tongue again and raised her voice. “Video live.”
“Ah, there you are,” Chris said. “Nice slacks.”
Tck. “Call the car,” she said, summoning a shuttle. “Stack my calls, Chris. I’ll have to fit them in around my duties.”
“No problem.”
The living room’s front door opened into a sealed tunnel. Neither Kendra nor anyone else at Heinlein owned a private vehicle. She wasn’t certain such a thing really existed on all of Luna.
The tunnel was actually the connecting node for the base shuttle system. As she watched, one of the golden tube-cars flashed to the rail outside her house, then decelerated toward the branch line. Her outer door slid open, the car entered, the door shut. The pressure coupling sealed itself to the pod, and her inner door opened.
Kendra seated herself, strapped in, and waited for the door to seal. Once all three safety lights went green, she murmured “Landing pad,” and the pod rolled out of her garage. Accelerated by magnetic pulses, it circled her home twice. After reaching full speed, it joined the traffic flow on the main line.
Her thoughts ranged to plant management, and political connections to other colonies. She looked up at the Earth’s misty blue disk. There was one very particular Earthling heading her way. Soon. And what will that do to your life, Kendra?
Why didn’t you change your name? Because nobody can pronounce Tuinukuafe?
“So … what’s on the docket today?”
“Talos asteroid. We’re bartering hybrid seeds for ore. Then we have a bottleneck at Fabrication.”
That was Toby McCauley’s work. On the surface, it was just a disagreement about apportionment of the floating labor pool. In reality, it was an attempt to make Kendra look bad. And it could work.
“I want you to look into their energy usage. Someone’s been getting a load of overtime there
. We should be able to make the point that just because McCauley has trade rights with anyone willing to negotiate, that hardly guarantees priority access to manpower.”
If McCauley could make her the bad guy, make it look as if she was stifling free trade and entrepreneurship, even if he never raised the subject in open debate, conversation in the blue-collar lounges would be ugly, and affect voting. On the other hand, if she allowed him to dominate the labor pool, it would seem she was siding with him against Heinlein’s major investors, who wanted a tighter rein on all financial activity.
A nice bind. Well done, Toby.
“Look,” Kendra said. “There’s nothing we can do about that. Everyone’s fighting over the same resources. Nothing special here…”
Her phone began to beep. “I have to take this,” she said.
The view bubble above her flickered into a screen. Scenery whizzed past at a kilometer per second. Any faster and the little pods would rise into orbit.
“Mom! Dad!” she said.
Millicent was a tall black woman just past sixty. Smiling hollowed her cheekbones. Despite the separation, Kendra still called her “Mom.”
“Sweetie. Glad we could get you. Alex, is Scotty online?”
The image divided. One at a time, the faces of her former family: Millicent, Alex and Scotty. Kendra had little blood family. It was one of the reasons living on the Moon didn’t sting. Meeting Scotty, and marrying into his clan, had been wonderful. Even after the divorce his folks had made it clear they still loved her. That was part of the reason the next month was going to be stressful.
No matter what anyone said, they had to be hoping.
Was she?
“Have him right here,” Alex Griffin said. His hair was gray, his face long, edging toward jowls.
“Hey, Kendra.” Scotty seemed a little stressed. None of their conversations since the split had been easy, but this was something different.
“So,” Kendra said. “How’s the training going?” She raised her voice. “Tck. Audio out.”
The hologram went mute. Chris canted his head sideways, pretended to pout.
