Fire with Fire, Second Edition

by Charles E Gannon

  Astor-Smath did not appear to have an answer at the ready. No one spoke: the silence dragged on until it became sharply uncomfortable. Nolan rose. “It appears that we are done. Oh, and Mr. Ruap—”

  Ruap, halfway to his feet, paused.

  “It’s possible that if you pull the plug on the mass driver partnership, Congress and American industry might be tempted to reexamine other deals they have with you.” Nolan opened the door to leave, smiled; it could have been a wolf displaying his teeth. “Just a thought.”

  Caine had planned on remaining quiet until they reached their vehicles, but halfway there, Nolan took his arm. “I thought you already had breakfast.”

  “Huh? I did.”

  “Then I guess you were still hungry enough to eat Astor-Smath alive.”

  “Hope I didn’t make any trouble.”

  “I doubt it. He didn’t get any policy surprises here—although I suspect you caught him off guard when you put him on the spot personally.”

  “Which was not wise,” added Downing at Caine’s other elbow. “Astor-Smath seems unflappable, but he’s got an ego—and the memory of an elephant.”

  “Okay, Rich,” Nolan scolded, “stop scaring the new guy.”

  “I’m scared enough as it is.” Caine sighed.

  “Why?”

  “Because CoDevCo must have foreseen this outcome.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Corcoran.

  “Then what was their real purpose in coming here? What are they up to?”

  Nolan shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. But right now, we don’t have any way to find out. So we wait, watch, and—above all—remain completely focused on today’s business.”

  CIRCE

  The Sun, almost exactly overhead, duplicated itself in the man’s wraparound sunglasses, which were aimed skyward as if he were scrutinizing the details of the stellar disk. He returned his attention to the small earthenware bowl that had three small black olives left in it; a white dish beyond it sprouted a modest heap of well-chewed pits at its approximate center. Their brine still glistened on his index finger; he licked it tentatively. He smiled, stretched, sighed, checked his watch.

  “More black olives, sir?”

  If the man was startled by the young waiter approaching quickly from behind, he gave no sign of it. He shook his head, pointed to a jar of green olives: each was larger than the top half of his thumb. He paused. “Today, I may also have some wine. Red wine.”

  The waiter smiled: the man tipped well and was not like most foreigners, who were constantly inquiring about different dishes, Greek food in general, the local sights. This man was quiet and very still, unusually so. And always alone. “I will get your order,” the waiter said with a nod, and was gone.

  The man kept looking through the space the waiter had just vacated, kept looking up at the end of the Sounion headland.

  ODYSSEUS

  Once they were in the waiting car, Caine asked, “What I don’t get is how Indonesia rounded up enough countries willing to abandon their current blocs. Given that some of the poorest and undeveloped nations haven’t even been tendered a membership offer anywhere, I rather expected that the weakest bloc members would be especially careful about trying to show they were loyal and eager team-players.”

  Nolan shrugged. “A lot of the more populous and impoverished nations are still outraged by the shift in power. To the extent that their voice in the General Assembly becomes less important, they lose a lot of the modest prestige and influence that they had. So with this move, and others like it, they’re trying to highlight their contention that the blocs do not have the authority to make decisions for the globe and that, therefore, our gathering violates the spirit and founding documents of the UN.”

  Caine looked up at him. “Does it?”

  “Would it matter? Realpolitik is the game we’re playing here, Caine, and the rules of that game are determined by those with the power. If, in the mind of those power-holders, the UN is already in the dustbin of history, then no amount of casuistry and posturing is going to save it. Actually, I was expecting this kind of last-minute attempt at throwing a spanner in the works, and Indonesia was high on the list of likely sources, particularly after China relented on the ‘big P’ yesterday.” Seeing Caine’s stare, he explicated. “The Big P is shorthand for ‘population,’ which we knew would be a major point of contention when it came to setting some standards for fair national representation within the blocs. We knew ahead of time that the division of political power among the nations within each bloc would ultimately be derived from three benchmarks, or the ‘three P’s’: polity, population, productivity.”

  Caine decided to play devil’s advocate as the car started down the dusty lane back to the villa. “Okay, but how is it the business of any bloc to tell another bloc how to run its internal politics?”

  Nolan smiled as Downing—who had evidently missed Caine’s lack of earnestness—took the bait. “Acting in accordance with that common-sense objection would actually produce fatally unstable bloc politics. Consider: you’re a nation that doesn’t like the way things are working out for you inside your bloc. So you let it be known that you’re shopping around for membership in a different bloc, trying to get concessions from your home bloc, but ready to shift if you get a better deal elsewhere. The resulting churn of relationships within and between the different blocs would have resulted in crippling budgetary and industrial uncertainties. Now, why are you smiling at me?”

  “Because you took me seriously, Richard.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry,” Caine apologized. “Look, it was actually a pretty helpful synopsis.”

  “How kind of you to say so.”

  “So, to return to the main point,” interjected Nolan, “China, or the Developing World Coalition, had originally wanted a Confederation in which each bloc had a centralized autonomous super-government within each bloc. When they realized that none of the other blocs would agree to that at all, Beijing suggested population ratios as the sole criterion for determining shares of each nation’s representation within a bloc.”

  “Ruthlessly logical. That would still have given Beijing absolute control of their own bloc.”

  “Right. But once again, it was a bad fit for almost everyone else. Imagine how Canada would feel about its partnership with the US if population was the only criterion for representation. Or Luxenbourg in the EU. But in order to move China away from this position, we needed yet another unanimous rejection of their motion, and TOCIO was dragging its heels.”

  “Why?”

  “They have some particularly strong internal sensitivities to issues concerning the relationship between population and political power. Japan’s two main and very populous partners would politically rule the TOCIO bloc if it was based solely on population ratios. Navigating that variable required some particularly sensitive haggling when they were putting together their bloc. Selling Brazil and India on the advantages of membership without ceding primary political control to them was a pretty neat hat trick, but left some bruised feelings.”

  “So having already had this rumble in their own backyard, the Japanese just wanted to keep their heads down and stay out of this fight. But you couldn’t let them.”

  Downing nodded at Caine’s comment “So the other three blocs—Commonwealth, EU, Russlavic—let Tokyo understand that if their recognition as a bloc was not to come under question, there had to be a little quid pro quo. Which, in this case, meant weighing in against population as the sole criterion for determining political representation.”

  Nolan shrugged. “It was the hardest fought battle of the day. Beijing gave in: probably knew at the outset that it couldn’t win. But they fought hard, right down to the line. Probably so they can use their grudging acquiescence as a poker chip to buy concessions on other issues, later on.”

  “And what was the final outcome?” asked Caine.

  “About what we expected. They accepted the principle of bicameral repres
entation: one house in which national representation is proportional to population, the other in which all nations have equal representation—the one polity, one vote system. In American terms, the House versus the Senate. But once China lost the ‘population only’ argument, they swung around and wanted the population metric to include a productivity index.”

  Caine wasn’t sure he understood. “Huh?”

  Downing—gratified, maybe even smug, in being able to provide a needed explanation—spoke slowly. “Think of it this way: nations with lower per capita productivity have their population total ‘discounted.’”

  Caine felt his eyes widen. “Which will delight them, I’m sure. But it gives the movers and the shakers—the developed nations of each bloc—proportionally greater power within the ‘House.’ Or whatever you’re calling it.”

  Downing shrugged. “I’m sure there will be long debates over every aspect of every single deliberative body and advisory board that comprises this new Confederation. But the core disputes will remain centered on the details of representation, voting, and accounting protocols—particularly when the Parthenon Dialogs are made public.”

  Caine didn’t say anything, but had to admit the truth of that assertion. The UN might be a sham, but it had been a safe, familiar sham. It was an innocuous international fixture that pretended to have real authority, because its constituent nations and peoples pretended to believe that it did. Now, pretend-time was over, and not everyone was going to like the new and very practical political realities of the post-UN world.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ODYSSEUS

  The sun climbed up behind the peak of Caine’s balcony roof as two security guards waited for him to finish rebuttoning his collar. He hadn’t thought to ask if there was a dress protocol for semiclandestine meetings like the Parthenon Dialogs, and so he had split the difference between casual and formal: a light sports coat over a white dress shirt with a tabless collar. He had noticed that tabbed collars were going out of style—or rather, judging from Astor-Smath and other commercial types, were becoming a style province of the megacorporations. Probably because it allowed them to wear the heraldic neckties that were all emblazoned with highly stylized (almost unrecognizable) company logos. I wonder if they’re rewriting loyalty oaths, too. “King and country” replaced by “CEO and company.” Or is it more contentious than that, a prelude to something more like the English Civil War? “Parliament or Crown” back then; “pluralism or privilege” now.

  Caine pulled his shirt cuffs straight. You’re always looking for the next fight, the next war. Give it a rest; we’re not always teetering at the edge of some confrontational precipice. But as Caine emerged from his room, immediately flanked by his bodyguards (or were they his warders?), he couldn’t shake the nagging instinct that CoDevCo’s challenges to the preeminence of nation-states was not an isolated or capricious act. It was part of a longer strategy. And a war is still a war, by any other name.

  Once in the car, they waited. And waited. Caine read through his palmtop notes and the few graphics he’d included, checked his watch, then the distant ruins, then read his notes again.

  It was just before two o’clock when the car’s fuel cell finally whined into life and they swung out of the driveway in the direction of Sounion.

  * * *

  Upon reentering the meeting hall several hours later, Caine expected to find it a hive of activity. What he found, when the security guard on his left opened the door and the one on his right ushered him in with outstretched hand, was an utterly still tableau made up of concentric rings of expectant humanity.

  The innermost ring of ten persons was incomplete: seated about a round table, their circle was broken by two empty chairs. The next ring was that of the advisors, aides, assistants, and chroniclers who were seated behind their delegates. The outermost ring—as numerous as the other two put together—were (mostly) men whose eyes could not be seen: square-jawed and sunglassed, the security personnel projected the aura of waiting automatons, creatures who had long ago ceased to move in accordance with their own will. Caine could see the eyes of the other two rings, however—and they were all on him.

  Nolan had been waiting beside the door, smiled when Caine noticed him, accompanied him to the two empty chairs at the round table, indicated the one on the right. Nolan stood behind the other, cleared this throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you have all heard about Mr. Riordan, and what he found and experienced during his three weeks on Delta Pavonis. Please remember that Mr. Riordan is not here in a political or official capacity. His credentials today are those of a well-regarded researcher and writer who, on the advice of Senator Arvid Tarasenko, was sent to assess conflicting reports regarding advanced life forms and structures found on Delta Pavonis Three. You already have his report—except for one footnote that he will now present to you himself.

  “Mr. Riordan, allow me to introduce the bloc representatives gathered here today. Starting on your right: Ms. Hollingsworth of the UK and Mr. MacGregor of Australia; Mr. Sukhinin of Russia and Ms. Durniak of the Ukraine; Mr. Ching of China and Mr. Demirel of Turkey; Mr. Karagawa of Japan, and Mr. Medina of Brazil; and Ms. Visser of Germany and Mr. Gaspard of France.”

  Caine noted which delegates offered a nod or some other sign of recognition: both of the Commonwealth delegates, Sukhinin of Russia, Visser of Germany, Medina of Brazil. The last he dismissed: at this point, it was impossible to distinguish warm but impersonal Brazilian cordiality from a sign of personal receptivity. He was similarly undecided about Durniak’s lack of response: she was somewhat young and very intent, probably too focused to even think of personal interaction, at this point. No surprise in Ching’s silence: he was the Great Sphinx of international relations. China’s Foreign Minister for almost eighteen years now, one journalist had quipped that Ching could go days without speaking—even if he was China’s sole representative at a two-nation summit. An exaggeration, but not by much: according to Nolan, Ching had not spoken a word during the first day at Parthenon.

  All five blocs. Two representatives from each. The US was conspicuously absent, probably because the mediator—Nolan—was a fairly famous American, and also in deference to providing a seat at the table for the Commonwealth’s newest (and still probative) member state: the UK. Was this the shape of things to come? The first de facto sitting of the Confederation Council, meeting to will itself into existence, to midwife its own birth? Ex nihilo—a new world order. For a moment, Caine felt himself as the watcher, not the watched, immersed in the surreal quality of being present for the unfolding of a historical moment, and sharply aware that the neat beginnings and endings of history as reported had nothing to do with history as made.

  Nolan’s voice was gentle. “Mr. Riordan, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Uh, yes—sorry.” Wonderful beginning. Ass. He glanced down at his palmtop, at the notes he knew by heart, and calmly decided to ignore them. “Ladies and gentlemen, one hour before departing from Delta Pavonis on July 10, 2118, I returned briefly to the main ruins at Site One—”

  —and he was there. His own voice became distant; he fell out of the council chamber and emerged into—

  * * *

  —The glare of Delta Pavonis, low on the horizon, glinted off the semi-rigid body armor of the Marines who, face shields down and weapons in an assault carry, preceded him out of the landing craft. Caine could hear the second fire team milling eagerly behind him, ready to follow him down the ramp. Overhead, a transatmospheric fighter orbited lazily. Caine wasted no time, moving through the swirling dust even as the whine of the landing thrusters was still dying away. Every second counted, now—and would until he got back to Earth. He walked past the right-angled dig pits, clambered over the berm, the first group of Marines hustling to keep in front of him.

  He popped over the rise, side-footed down to the base—where the head archeologist was waiting, pudgy hands on pudgy hips, rounder, dustier, more gnomelike than Caine remembered. “I
’m here,” said the Gnome.

  Caine couldn’t decide whether he was more struck by the superfluity or petulance of the utterance. “Thanks for coming.”

  Gnome snorted: Caine’s “request” to meet had been, in reality, merely a polite ultimatum. “What do you want?”

  Caine debated whether he should try to apologize for the ruse he had used to get information out of the Gnome when they first met, but pushed that aside: there was no time. Gnome was never going to like him, so this had to be all business, pure and simple. So he went straight to the heart of the matter: “I have something you want.”

  “Oh? Maybe a time machine, so I can undo the past and not ruin my career by talking to you?”

  “No, better than that.”

  Gnome’s truculence gave way to interest. “How much better? What kind of ‘better’?”

  “The kind you really want: a ticket out of this place. Here’s the offer—and you’ve got one minute to consider it.

  “Someone has to write up a full report on the collective archeological findings from this dig site. That report will be presented at a global summit, sometime next year. That summit will remain a secret until after it has occurred, but I’m offering you the chance to write the report—and be the first to publish on what’s been found here, and its archeological implications. That means a free trip back to Earth, and—I should imagine—the endowed chair you’ve been craving.” Actually, it meant a lot more than that, but Caine hardly needed to explicate: Gnome’s eyes seemed to grow as large as the round glasses that were in front of them. His lower lip flopped about a little.

  “Does that mean you accept?”

  Gnome sputtered and nodded. “Yes, yes—what do you want? How can I help?”

  “When we met last time, you were about to explain something more about this ruin, about to show me something else, and then you stopped yourself.”