Fire with Fire, Second Edition

by Charles E Gannon

  “Me?”

  “Yes; where are you from?”

  Caine felt a sudden disorientation: where do I say I’m from, now? An unlisted refrigerator? He gargled out an awkward laugh. “The stars. I’m from the stars.”

  He could feel her looking at him. She laughed along, a second too late. Have to change the topic: I’m weak here. “Bad joke. D.C. area, most recently. Lots of places before that. Sounds a bit like you.”

  “Yes—we have that gypsy background in common, then.” Consuela’s voice made him think of her fingers working their way between his: wiggling in, sliding and writhing around index and middle fingers, the occasional graze of a well-sharpened nail reminding that half of the excitement was in the peril.

  And she was indeed peril. Caine couldn’t be sure whether Helger had sent her as a spy, a distraction, or a peace—or should that be “piece”?—offering, but it was plain that she had been hand-picked for the job of escorting him. She was too striking to be a spy, so she was either intended as baffling bait or as a bribe. Or both. Yes. That was the way Helger would work. She was a gift that was meant to divert not merely his senses, but his attention—and she was too clever to be an ignorant cat’s-paw: she had to be a knowing accomplice. Good: now I’m thinking straight again.

  He looked up, seeing the foliage for the first time. They were speeding under a canopy of—well, not exactly trees: more like oversized ferns and sponge-sheathed goldenrod of gargantuan proportions. Oddly angular vines wound around and hung between them, speckling the shadows with impulsive constellations of small fuchsia and indigo flowers. Amazing that any world could be so habitable and look so different. Amazing that anything could be so biologically compatible with species that evolved 19.9 light-years away.

  “Beautiful, no?”

  Caine wondered if Consuela were talking about the flowers or herself—and thought: that’s exactly the way she wants me to think. She doesn’t want me to like her: she wants me to be mystified, intrigued, aroused, maybe even a little resentful of the titillation—anything to keep my mind off my job.

  “The flowers are unlike anything I’ve seen before. All of it is. How long have you been here?”

  “About a year. It’s been—”

  “And what do you do? What is your job?”

  She almost stuttered. You’d decided I was a gentleman—wouldn’t interrupt, sure to be susceptible to a slow seductive dance, out of good manners, if nothing else. But here’s where the game changes.

  “I’m assistant director for new product marketing.”

  “What new products?”

  “Well,”—sweeping around a corner and out from under the foliage, they came to a dusty stop in front of a lightly-built oil rig—“petroleum.”

  The action of the sudden halt sent the inevitable reactive shock waves undulating through the upper part of Consuela’s torso. Caine did his best not to notice. Instead, he smiled: “Venezuela, Corpus Christi, Amsterdam: Exxon?”

  She smiled: it was a predatory leer, but honest, and—he intuited—a species of grudging congratulations on his deduction. “So you must be an investigative reporter, then. Yes, Exxon. Daddy, his dad before him, now me: crude runs in the family.”

  And in your veins, I’ll bet. “So, that’s the part of CoDevCo that you hail from.”

  “Guilty as charged. I am one of the she-wolves of energy corporation notoriety. The despised of the earth.”

  Because you create the wretched of the earth, you supercilious bitch. You’ll be telling them to eat cake, next. It was becoming rapidly easier to find her less captivating. But I can’t show that. This is my opportunity.

  He swung his legs over the side of the Rover, shaded his eyes, looked to either side: dozens of light-framed derricks in both directions. A thin, steady stream of black-smeared workers—most silent, a few muttering in Farsi, others in what might have been Uzbek—straggled toward the access road. Caine noted a profusion of unmended tears in their clothing, and the dull-eyed stares of the perpetually exhausted. “I suppose you’re aware that I flew over this area yesterday?”

  “Did you? I didn’t know.”

  Liar. “Yep—but I didn’t spot these as oil rigs. They looked—well, too flimsy. I thought they were construction frames for towers of some kind.”

  “It’s a new derrick design made possible by lighter, stronger materials.” Consuela had come to stand alongside him—very close. That was either her arm brushing his elbow, or—

  “And so this is why Site One became off-limits? You wanted to establish exclusive production?”

  She nodded. “That’s what I guess: the Board doesn’t consult with little fish such as me.”

  Caine stared up along the black-gray girders: Too easy. They’re showing me this without effort, so they’re hiding something else. But for now, play it out. If you jump topic too fast, she’ll sense that you know there’s more. Play the part of the triumphant—and successfully decoyed—investigator.

  He had to wait before speaking; a high speed VTOL approached, transitioned into level flight just about directly overhead, and arrowed up and over the steep green slope of the nearest mountain. “Why show me?”

  She shrugged. “Louis didn’t tell me much—”

  So, Consuela: Helger is “Louis,” despite being four tiers above you on the chain of command? What is he: a friend you made back home, or a friend you made on your back?

  “—but I gather he didn’t have much choice left, in your case. So here it is: our deep, dark secret.”

  “It’ll be dark enough when the Commonwealth and the Union learn about it.”

  She shrugged. “Possession is nine-tenths, Mr. Riordan. And what are they going to do: impound the site? It will be months before they can get new work crews out here. Besides, no one’s going to stop us, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled, not entirely suppressing the condescension.

  Go ahead, Consuela, believe I’m not quick enough to see it all for myself. If you decide I’m a little dim now, you’ll let your guard down later—

  “Mr. Riordan, surely you know the value of oil.”

  “Of course. Even after it was phased out as a fuel, it remains essential.”

  “That’s right: plastics, lubricants, fertilizers, chemicals. It is priceless.”

  Caine shrugged. “But at six shifts from Earth, the transport cost of oil from Dee Pee Three will eat the profits to nothing. Oil futures are still no more than one hundred c-dollars a barrel, and since we stopped burning it, the remaining supply is deemed sufficient for any foreseeable future.”

  She nodded patiently. “Yes, it is. That is the state of the petroleum market on Earth. But there’s something you’re overlooking.”

  No, there isn’t—but I’m glad you think so. “And what’s that?”

  “New worlds, Mr. Riordan. CoDevCo has moved beyond terracentric marketing assumptions. We are thinking in interstellar terms: our new oil industry on Delta Pavonis Three is a prime example of that.”

  “How?”

  “Well, let’s do the math, Mr. Riordan. How much does it cost to move a one-liter volume of cargo from one solar system to another? Not freight charges: break-even cost, only.”

  “Uh—about three c-dollars a liter, per shift.”

  She seemed surprised that he knew. “Right. And how many shifts from Earth to Delta Pavonis?”

  “Six.”

  “Correct. So, in terms of interstellar transportation alone, it costs eighteen dollars to ship a liter of petroleum from Earth, the only known source of substantial fossil fuel deposits. Now, at one hundred dollars a barrel, that means that the market price for oil on Earth is about two dollars a gallon, or fifty cents a liter. Add in one c-dollar per liter for surcharges and transportation fees, and it costs the distributor about a dollar and fifty cents just to purchase every liter. You see now?”

  “If Delta Pavonis wanted oil from Earth, the cost would be immense: a base price of a dollar-fifty per liter, plus
eighteen dollars more for six interstellar shifts. Add another six dollars for initial lift to orbit at fully subsidized bulk costs. That’s twenty-five dollars and fifty cents of cost to the provider, which will be passed along to the user, plus markup. At that rate, no one out here could afford to buy oil. But, if you can pump your own oil on Dee Pee Three, you’ll be able to sell it here for about the same as Earth rates: that means a higher profit margin, and plenty of ready consumers.”

  “Yes, but that’s only part of it. Right now, all the products that require fossil fuels must be made on Earth. That means that all those products also entail immense shipping costs: the further out they must go, the worse it gets. So—”

  “So you plan on building all those industries here on Dee Pee Three.”

  “Exactly. Plastics manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, lubricant refineries—”

  Over her shoulder, Caine saw a collage of the fuchsia and indigo blooms. She’s foretelling your extinction. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” commented the robber-baroness as she burned the flowers to ashes and soot . . .

  “Now do you see?”

  “Sure: Dee Pee Three becomes a new industrial hub. Perfectly placed, too: most of our colonies would be within three shifts of your products.”

  “Precisely. Call it corporate greed if you like, Mr. Riordan, but the more quickly we can develop the oil reserves here, the faster and further humanity can expand into interstellar space.”

  Oh, so this is your selfless contribution to the glorious future of homo sapiens? I mustn’t laugh . . . so change topic: “Look, I also need to ask about these reports of a possibly intelligent species. Navy thermal imaging detected nocturnal activity, which is highly suggestive of coherent group movement. Significantly, the movement suggests bipedal physiology. There are also reports that dressed stone has been found.”

  “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “There are those who feel that CoDevCo replaced the Navy survey with one of their own in an attempt to cover up possible environmental obstacles to just this kind of resource exploitation.”

  “Oh, so even on other planets, the energy companies are still suspected of ruining habitats, exterminating indigenous species—even intelligent ones?”

  “Well, why else would you ignore the Navy survey? That was pretty much a slap in the face to both the Commonwealth and the original EU policy-makers, who assessed the thoroughness of the survey, and voted to accept it. Personally, I’m guessing that the stakes here on Dee Pee Three must be pretty high if CoDevCo is willing to risk that kind of political friction and insult.”

  “Well, the stakes certainly are high. However, our operations here haven’t involved any environmental abuse—but you won’t believe me until you’ve seen the evidence with your own eyes.” She crooked a finger. “Follow me.”

  And watching her from behind, Caine locked his teeth gently, acknowledging that, despite whom and what she was, a large and libidinal part of him was quite willing to follow her anywhere.

  She stopped where the valley floor began its transition into a steep-sided mountain. As Caine approached, she pointed along the leeward base of a granite outcropping. A five-meter line of regular stones—almost invisible in the mossy ground—paralleled the stony tendril of the mountain at a distance of one meter. She smiled. “There’s what we were hiding.”

  He looked. “That?”

  She smiled more widely. “That, and about three or four others we’ve found like it. Is it an artifact of intelligent life? Unquestionably. But that’s all we’ve got. We haven’t seen any current evidence of a sapient species that could build this. In fact, these are the only such signs we’ve found whatsoever.”

  “Have you dated the stones?”

  “Not exactly the kind of equipment we carry, and if we had asked for it, there was always the chance that someone would ask why we wanted it. I understand it’s a find of some significance—”

  Some significance? Could balance sheets really blind her—or anyone—to the immense implications of it?

  “—but we’re being careful not to disturb the sites, and it’s not as though they’re going to disappear. I realize the research they will stimulate is important, but how urgent can it be?” She smiled. “Judging from ruins I saw when I was growing up, I’d say we’re at least ten thousand years too late for the matter to be ‘urgent’ in any practical sense.”

  He knew she was watching him carefully behind her vaguely coquettish stare. So Caine made sure that he appeared to be trying to keep his face expressionless—as if he were attempting to suppress disappointment. After a moment, she looked away, evidently satisfied with what she thought she had seen. “Ready to go?”

  He nodded, turned without a word, heard her fall in behind him.

  As they got near the Rover, he swayed forward slightly, stretched out an arm, caught and steadied himself against the hood.

  She was at his side—surprisingly swift—and did not miss the opportunity to put a solicitous hand on his left bicep. “Are you quite well?”

  “Yeah. I just feel—a bit faint. The heat—I think.”

  “Well, we can always do this another time.”

  “No—no, I’ll be okay.”

  She looked at him closely. “Very well, but I think we should end early today. Finish up with a visit to the executive pool. It’s wonderfully cool. Soothing.”

  Caine looked at her. “That sounds—appealing.”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes constantly on his. “It’s a great way to relax, to release the stress.”

  “I suppose it is.” He straightened up. “But that’s for later: what’s next on our agenda?”

  “Our own downport—and thanks for reminding me.” She reached into the Rover for the radio, sharply informed whoever answered that she’d be there with the V.I.P. in about twenty minutes, and signed off without a goodbye. She turned a sweeter-than-candy smile on Caine and resumed her review of their schedule: “After the downport, we’ll see the workers’ compound, including the fee-free clinic; our survey command center; and one of our weather-monitoring stations. And then, a quick dip. Before drinks and dinner.”

  Caine smiled, nodded, thought: That agenda is one item short of what Helger promised—and one item short of what I really want to see. “Great, but what happened to my visit with the EU’s Deputy Administrator, Ms. Fireau?” Who might not be very happy with the current state of affairs here. Fireau had been in charge before Helger—and the consequent deluge of CoDevCo money, personnel, and influence.

  Consuela leaned her arms on the Rover’s hood, adopting a posture that provided a half-obstructed view of her cleavage. She pouted and smiled at the same time: “I’m sorry, I thought Louis sent you word: Ms. Fireau had to fly back to Little Leyden today. Business emergency, I’m afraid.”

  Naturally. “When did she leave?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. That must have been her vertibird that went over us earlier: we don’t send out a lot of VTOL traffic.”

  Okay, so there it was: Helger’s ploy of using Consuela as a subtly salacious species of flypaper had already impeded him and his investigation. It was a shame to miss Fireau, but Caine hadn’t expected Helger to permit a meeting with her. He elected to look surprised, then sound annoyed: “When will Ms. Fireau return?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Riordan. I don’t know.”

  Shall I tell you? Just as soon as I’m airborne back for Downport, Ms. Fireau will be on a plane back here. That way, I can’t interview her back in Little Leyden, either.

  “And that’s it? That’s our day-trip?”

  “That’s it. Why? Was there something else you wanted to see?”

  He didn’t hear a probe, but he was sure it was there. She called ahead right before we came here, and she just called ahead to our next stop. She’s calling ahead with a warning everyplace we go. I’ll never get an honest look at anything, particularly what I want to see the most: that big dig to the north. That doesn’t look like oil wells to m
e. But I can’t let her take me there, can’t even let her know I’m interested in it, or that I noticed. So here’s a bone for you to chase later on, Consuela: “I was hoping to see the river, further downstream: I hear you’ve got some aquaculture experiments going on there?”

  “Why, yes, we do. Sure: we can fit that in.”

  Caine smiled—then staggered during his attempt to get into the Rover. He half sat down, half fell down, into the front passenger seat.

  She came around quickly. “Mr. Riordan, are you quite sure you’re—?”

  “I’m okay. But I think—I think I need some water. Do we have some?”

  “No—”

  I know that.

  “—but I can go to the break shed and get you a bottle. Will you be all right here?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Sorry about—this.”

  She smiled, turned to assume her newest role as his loyal Gunga Dinette—and, from the corner of his eye, he saw that, as she turned, her reassuring smile became tight and contemptuous.

  He watched her stride away: this was a woman who didn’t like weakness. Except, of course, when she stood to benefit by it. Right now, she was probably thinking: Outstanding. I get to control him without having to get laid by him.

  Caine smiled as she disappeared around the corner: So you don’t like weakness. I hope you like surprises. He swung his legs up into the Rover, scooted over to the driver’s seat, turned the key, and upshifted, turning the vehicle in a slow, dustless arc back onto the road that plunged into the shadows of the not-trees.

  Chapter Six

  ODYSSEUS

  The low buildings of the open quarry—or whatever it was—barely rose above the ferns and clusters of helical, bone-white tubers that seemed frozen in the midst of a delicate, upward-spiraling dance. Caine drove past thickets of them, wondered what they were called, reflected on the utter lack of poetry in the meretricious souls that had come to command the fate of this valley. They probably hadn’t even bothered to name any of the plants they had seen. To them, it would all simply be categorized as “obstructive vegetation—removal pending.”