Empire Builders

by Ben Bova

  SIX

  DAN WAS ABOUT to leave his office on the way to the launch facility when his desk phone buzzed. The screen spelled out: URGENT. Grumbling slightly, he pulled his personal phone from the breast pocket of his coveralls and flipped it open. As he dashed through his outer office, past his lone human secretary and out to the electric cart waiting to whisk him through the tunnel out to the launch site, he told the phone to pick up Yamagata ’s call. Nobuhiko Yamagata’s angular, high-cheeked face appeared in the phone’s tiny screen. He looked solemn, very unlike his usual cheerful smiling self. “Nobo, what’s wrong?” Dan asked as he clambered aboard the little cart. His single travel bag was already sitting next to the driver, a tong-legged mestizo with raven-black hair, beautiful enough to be a video starlet back on Earth. She had been raised on the Moon because her parents had suffered terribly from allergies in the smog and grime of their native Caracas . “My father,” said Nobuhiko gravely. “He is dying.” “What! Sai?” With a barely perceptible nod, Nobo said, “The cancer has returned. It is spreading through his body. There is no longer any hope.’ “Oh for god’s sake,” Dan muttered. All the medical advances that they’ve made, he said to himself, and still cancer cuts us down. It’s been getting worse, seems like. More people die of it every year. He asked aloud, “How long..?” “My father has decided to end it himself. He “Nobuhiko faltered, swallowed, then went on, “He asks that you assist him.” “Me?” Nobo nodded, eyes closed. Saito Yamagata had been Dan’s boss, back in those early days on the Moon. Dan had battled for respect from the Japanese, and Sai had rewarded his toughness and drive by protecting him from the chauvinists and sadists who looked on an American as fair game for bullying—and worse. They had become friends, and together built the first of the giant solar power satellites that eventually made Japan independent of Middle Eastern oil. When Dan had gone into business for himself, Sai had backed him with investment capital. Eventually they became more than friends: associates, equals, even business partners on more than one venture. Dan had known Nobo from the day of his birth in the orbital infirmary attached to their construction center. Nobo with his father’s power behind him—had rescued Dan from certain death at the hands of Vasily Malik, ten years earlier. Saito’s political connections and economic strength had helped Dan to break the Russian stranglehold on space industries. “How soon?” Dan asked the tiny image on the hand-held phone. “Tomorrow, just after sunset,” Nobo replied. “Where?” “At the family home in Kyoto .” “I’ll be there,” Dan said. There was no need to change his flight to Sydney . Maxwell E. Rutherford would ride the high-boost rocket from Alphonsus to the transfer station in low Earth orbit. There Rutherford would clear customs and immigration, and hop aboard the shuttle to Sydney . Once in Australia he would take a commercial hypersonic transport to Tokyo , where a security team from Yamagata Industries would take him to Saito’s estate. And then Dan Randolph would help his old friend to die. Hell, thought Dan. Sai’s not that much older than I am. He’s too young to die. Jane Scanwell hosted a party that evening. Although her home was still in Texas , as the head of the American delegation to the Global Economic Council she spent so much time in Paris that she had leased an apartment in the embassy district, out past l’Etoile and the Arc de Triomphe, within walking distance of the Bois de Boulogne for a long-stridingTexas woman. This evening, though, she felt a far distance from Texas . Almost all her life had been spent in politics, and she knew that more could be accomplished at a social gathering than in a committee meeting. But she felt weary of it all: the posturing, the jockeying for position, the constant competition to get your point across, your program adopted, your pork barrel filled. What have we accomplished? she asked herself as she looked across the roomful of guests. The women wore knee-length frocks decked with jewelry, the men Western business suits no matter what their native tradition. They stood and chatted and laughed, sipped drinks and nibbled canapes. But what have we accomplished? Jane asked silently once again. I’ve been to a thousand parties such as this, ten thousand. I’ve spent my life in politics. So has almost everyone here. Is the world any better off? Are the people happier, healthier, richer? She shook her head slightly. There are certainly more people than ever before. Twelve billion of them. Maybe we’ve stabilized population growth. That would be a major accomplishment. Stabilized it at a level where half the world is constantly hungry and the other half resists helping them with every ounce of their strength. At least we’ve stopped the wars. I suppose that’s something to be proud of. We have famines and droughts and floods and millions killed by storms each year—but at least we’re not killing each other anymore. “You seem troubled.” Startled out of her reverie, Jane saw that it was Rafaelo Gaetano who had spoken to her. Young, tall and slim as a cypress tree, darkly handsome, Gaetano was the chief of the Italian delegation to the GEC. The youngest member of the GEC board. And the most ambitious. He was rumored to be strongly linked to the international crime syndicate, especially since his first official act upon joining the GEC board had been to propose that the organization move its headquarters from Paris to Palermo , in Sicily . Since that day, almost everyone in the GEC sniggered that Gaetano was “the Mafia representative.” Whether it was true or not, whether he heard the whispers or not, Gaetano remained a smiling, hardworking, thoroughly charming member of the GEC board. “A lady as lovely as you, my dear Jane, should never have to frown,” he said, handing her a tulip glass of bubbling champagne. His voice was a deep baritone, melodious. “Tell me what dragon is annoying you and I will go forth and slay it.” Despite her cares, Jane Scanwell smiled back at him. “I wish it were that simple, Rafe. I really do.” Gaetano gently took her arm and led her toward the ceiling-high windows of her own living room. “Look,” he said softly. Yet his voice penetrated the background babble of the crowd. “All of Paris is out there. You should be enjoying yourself. This is the city of romance, you know.” She arched a brow slightly. “I’m getting a bit too old for romance, Rafe.” “Nonsense! You are in the prime of your life.” “I wish that were so.” “Let me prove it to you,” he said, running a finger across his pencil-thin moustache. She looked at him. Is he serious? she asked herself. He gazed back at her, smiling a smile that might have been amorous, or just friendly. Or perhaps it was the self-confident smile of a healthy young male with a sensitivity for lonely older women. “There are plenty of younger women here,” Jane said at last. “Yes, that is true,” he admitted, somewhat ruefully. Then his grin returned. “But it took you several moments to arrive at that conclusion. I consider that a good sign.” Then he moved away, without another word. Jane stared after him. What’s he after? she heard a voice in her mind ask. And she replied to herself silently, Jane Scanwell, you’ve been in politics too damned long if you’re automatically suspicious of some good-looking young Italian making a pass at you! Trying to force Gaetano’s suggestion to the back of her mind, Jane busied herself attending to her guests. Malik had showed up without his wife, as usual. And, as usual, he was the center of a cluster of admiring women of all ages. Jane made polite conversation, saw that the robots weaving through the crowd with trays of drinks were functioning properly, and tried to avoid whichever part of the big, high-ceilinged room Gaetano happened to be in. Eventually, inevitably, she slipped out of the crowded living room and strode swiftly down the hall to her cubbyhole of an office. Closing the door firmly behind her, she leaned across her desk and swiveled the phone screen around. She touched a couple of keys and her messages scrolled silently across the screen. There! Dan’s reply to her invitation: ON MY WAY. YOU-KNOW-WHO. Jane crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at the screen. Damn you, Dan Randolph. Just like him. “On my way.” Doesn’t say when he’ll arrive. Doesn’t even say where he’s going, although it’s bound to be Tetiaroa. The big oaf wouldn’t even sign his name. What’s he afraid of? But then she realized that Dan Randolph had much to be afraid of. She was luring him into a trap, not a romantic rendezvous. She was going to defeat him, crush him, once
and for all. She fought back the tears that were welling in her eyes. An earthquake shook the Tokyo airport just as Dan was being greeted by the head of the Yamagata security team, a bone-thin man of about fifty, dressed in a severe suit of dead black, who bowed to him and asked: “Mr. Rutherford-san?” Dan started to return the bow when the floor beneath him rippled. The crowd streaming past, coming off the plane from Sydney , seemed to freeze and draw in its breath as if preparing to scream. A deep rumble filled the air, like the drawn-out thunder of a dragon lurking beneath the ground. The long decorative streamers hanging from the ceiling high overhead swayed back and forth. Beyond the heads of the people facing him, Dan could see through the big windows on the other side of the terminal that the planes out there seemed to bob up and down, like ships on a choppy sea. Then it was over. The rumble died away. Before anyone could scream. Before Dan had fully registered that an earthquake was happening. It was over. The floor became solid again. The planes outside were still, as if they had never moved at all. The streamers fluttered only slightly, as if a passing breeze had briefly disturbed them. The crowd flowed back into motion, babbling and chattering. “Mr. Rutherford-san,” the security man repeated, his immobile face showing neither anxiety nor relief, “your transportation is waiting for you.” “Dorno arigato,” Dan replied. He had not spoken Japanese in years, but he had spent his time on the spacecraft and hypersonic transport from Sydney listening to newscasts from Tokyo to revive his ear for the language. “You have luggage, sir?” the man asked, switching to Japanese. “Only this.” Dan hefted his soft-sided travel bag. Originally dead black, it looked gray and threadbare from much use. “This way, please.” The security man did not offer to take Dan’s bag. He’s not a porter and he wants to have both his hands free at all times, Dan told himself. Glad that he had kept up his daily regimen of exercises while on the Moon, Dan followed after the security man on legs that felt only slightly rubbery in the heavy gravity of Earth. He looked around for the rest of the team. The terminal was crowded, abuzz with hundreds of conversations in a score of different languages. People scurrying everywhere: mothers dragging crying children, red-faced businessmen rushing to their heart attacks, tourists looking sweaty and lost. Half a dozen younger men and women hurrying along the terminal corridor looked as if they might be security types, but it was impossible to single them out from the rest of the crowd. So far so good, Dan told himself. Nobody but Sai’s people knows I’m in Japan . I’ll have my Caracas office contact Jane and tell her I’ll be a day or two late for Tetiaroa. Give them a bit of time to check out the island, too. Abruptly the security man opened an unmarked door along the corridor and brusquely gestured Dan to step through. The door snapped shut behind him and four husky young men in coral pink coveralls bearing the flying-heron symbol of Yamagata Industries snapped to spine-popping attention. Escorted by this new team, Dan followed the black-suited man through another door to the concrete apron outside the terminal. A palpable wall of noise slammed his ears. An executive-style helicopter stood waiting some twenty meters away, its turbine engine whining, its twin rotors already spinning blurrily. Jet airliners screamed and thundered, making the very air quiver as they swooped in for landings or roared up in takeoffs every few seconds. Planes taxied along the concrete guideways, giant, busy, purposeful aluminum ants directed by the traffic controllers at the hub of this vast nest of humans and machines. The noise actually made Dan tremble. I’ve been away from all this crap too long, he thought as he clambered up the metal stairs of the copter. It’s so peaceful on the Moon, I’d forgotten how “. raucous things are down here. He turned as he stepped through the hatch and shouted, “Thank you for your help,” to the security man. The man bowed and said something in return, but it was lost in the uproar of the airport. At least the interior of the chopper was quiet, once the hatch was closed. Good acoustical insulation muffled the helicopter’s engines to a soft purr. Dan sank gratefully into a thickly padded seat and automatically buckled his safety belt as the copter lifted quickly into the busy afternoon air. He was alone inside the luxuriously appointed passenger compartment. The two pilots sat up front, separated by a thick slab of clear plastic. Like a New York taxicab, Dan said to himself. But cabs all over the world now isolated their passengers from their drivers. Violence and crime were no longer confined to one city alone. Even in London the streets were no longer safe after dark. He took a deep breath, then remembered that he was rushing to the side of his dearest and most trusted friend in order to help him commit suicide. Dan shook his head angrily. “The hell I will,” he muttered.

  SEVEN

  “THE MAN IS a menace,” said Vasily Malik. “He must be brought under control.” Rafaelo Gaetano smiled lazily at the Russian through a haze of cigarette smoke. “Yes, perhaps. But how?” The two men were sitting on a park bench on the right bank of the Seine , having walked leisurely from the GEC headquarters up the river until they were almost opposite Notre Dame. Without a word of discussion between them, they sat on the bench, overlooked by the towers and flying buttresses and stone gargoyles of the massive cathedral. Gaetano had immediately pulled a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket and offered one to Malik. The Russian had refused with a shake of his head. “Noncarcinogenic,’.’ Gaetano had said. “Guaranteed.” “No, thanks,” Malik replied. “I broke that habit once. I have no intention of starting it again.” It was slightly past noon . The sun felt warm, boats slid by on the ancient river carrying luncheon customers, men and women were picnicking here and there on other benches. The hum of automobile traffic behind them was muted by the thick walls containing the sunken highway, but the stench of petrol fumes fouled the pretty afternoon. “I have a plan in mind,” Malik said. “About what?” “Randolph. What else?” Gaetano had spread his arms along the back of the bench and stretched his legs out so that people walking along the paved path had to detour around his gleaming leather oxfords. He smiled from behind his cigarette at the women who passed by. Suppressing his annoyance, Malik said, “This is extremely important, you know.” “I know,” Gaetano said without taking his eyes off the passing parade. “You hate this man Randolph.” “This is far more important than a personal matter,” Malik snapped. To himself he added, I am not some petty Sicilian chieftain pursuing a vendetta. “Destroying Randolph is of great importance to you,” Gaetano said mildly. “Stopping Randolph is of great importance.” “Whichever.” “It should be important to you, too!” “And why?” Malik leaned forward, elbows on knees, and forced himself into the Italian’s field of vision. “You are the representative of United Europe on the GEC board of directors. What is the most important problem United Europe faces?” Gaetano turned his head slightly to look at the Russian. “The most important problem? That’s easy. We need to lower the taxes the GEC imposes on us.” “Very well.” It was not quite the answer Malik had expected, but it was close enough to work with. “How can you expect lower taxes when the Africans and Latin Americans are starving? Even in India there is renewed threat of famine. To say nothing of Bangladesh .” Gaetano took a deep puff on his cigarette. “Raising taxes on us will only spread the poverty to Europe .” “But we need more money for the poor sections of the world,” Malik said. “The southern hemisphere regions are desperate.” Blowing smoke into the air, Gaetano said, “Obviously you have a solution in mind.” “Yes. Increase the taxes paid by the space industrialists.” “Good idea—if you can get away with it.” “They make enormous profits,” Malik pointed out eagerly. “Their tax rates are much lower than comparable industries’ on Earth.” “The reason they always give is that they take much greater risks, up there on the Moon and in their orbiting factories. And they claim that they plow most of their profits back into expanding their operations.” “Randolph and his ilk live like bloated plutocrats! They think they can hide themselves away from the public eye, living on the Moon or on their enormous private estates, as Yamagata does.” Gaetano flipped his half-smoked cigarette into the river, smiling. “I know you have tried v
ery hard to expose Randolph in the media. Wasn’t it you who sent that investigative reporter to the Moon?” Malik frowned. “The bitch jumped into his bed the instant Randolph crooked his finger at her.” “Now she’s a vice-president or something for the Lunar News Corporation, isn’t she?” He’s baiting me, Malik realized. This oily Sicilian puppy dog is making jokes at my expense. The Russian forced himself to an icy calm. “Whatever Randolph has done in the past is of no consequence now. He may have managed to elude justice, but this time I have him where I want him.” “Really?” “Really. His own greed has tripped him up. He bought out a smaller competitor when the other man was facing bankruptcy over a fine imposed by our lunar tribunal.” Gaetano’s eyes narrowed. “That new set of regulations you pushed through last winter...” “Precisely.” Malik’s appreciation of the Italian went up a notch. Hardly anyone on the board had bothered to read all the fine print in what was supposed to be a dry revision of technical safety specifications. “How could a man so smart fall prey to such a trick?” Gaetano wondered aloud. “Surely he has lawyers who would protect him.” “Greed,” Malik answered. Then, unable to hide his delight, he smiled and added, “And lust.” “Lust?” Gaetano’s heavy dark brows rose. “Ah—the lawyer he used was a woman.” “A very clever woman,” said Malik, “who will soon be employed by the GEC in San Francisco , which is her hometown, I believe.” Gaetano considered this for a few moments, absently brushing his thin moustache, then said, “So you can confiscate Randolph ’s entire empire, then. Congratulations, I suppose.” “Not only Randolph ’s company,” Malik said. “Any corporation that is linked to Randolph by partnership agreements is also subject to confiscation.” “Really?” “The regulations provide so.” “That means that you can start proceedings against Yamagata or anyone else that Randolph has links with.” “Precisely so.” Gaetano gave a low whistle. “I am impressed.” Malik inclined his head in a brief nod of acceptance. “What more do you need?” Gaetano asked. He is no fool, Malik conceded. Aloud, he replied, “I intend to-ah, sequester—Mr. Randolph while we move through the legal procedures of confiscation. Everything will go much more smoothly and quickly if he is not available to interfere.” The Italian said nothing, but his expressive features showed that he was paying full attention. “It is possible, however, that Randolph ’s lawyers-” “His other lawyers’?” “Yes.” Malik grinned. “His other lawyers may appeal directly to the GEC board on this matter, whether Randolph is available to direct them or not.” “If they make such an appeal, you will need a simple majority of the board to reject them, no?” “Yes. A simple majority. Five members.” “Who do you have with you already?” Malik gazed up at the bright blue sky. “Oh, I think I can safely count on India and Black Africa.” “And the Russian Federation , of course.” “Of course.Latin America ’ is doubtful; much of Randolph ’s operations on Earth are still headquartered in Caracas .” “Greater East Asia ” “Yamagata still controls them?” “I see. What about the Islamic League.” “That old fool Sibuti will jump in whichever direction he thinks will be the winner. He won’t cast his vote until he sees what the others do.” “That leaves North America —and Europe .” “North America will vote in favor of confiscation.” Gaetano looked impressed. “You are certain? I thought that Jane Scanwell was—well, you know.” “She will vote my way.” “That gives you four assured votes.” “You could be the final nail in Randolph ’s coffin.” With a smile, Gaetano asked, “What’s in it for United Europe?” Malik noticed that the Italian was delicate enough to refrain from asking for a personal reward, although both men knew what his words actually meant. And, the Russian also noted, Gaetano was no longer watching the women strolling past. His eyes were locked on Malik’s, hot with ambition.