Chapter 23
President Martin appeared on prime-time TV a week after the lunar battle, his address preceded by wild speculation—speculation fueled by rumors of clandestine military operations along the New England coast. Rumors that President MacDonald and CIA Director Tuckman hadn’t been killed when Air Force One crashed into the Atlantic. Rumors of a military alert suddenly called at a time of international calm. And rumors of strange radar reports, leaking through the suddenly tightened security nets of a dozen nations.
Martin’s delivery of the facts about POCSYM, the Kronarins and the Biofab War was made in his usual crisp, dry Iowan tones—he might have been speaking on monetary reform.
The jaded Washington press corps, already inconvenienced by the President’s choice of the Capitol’s West Portico for his news conference, were further miffed by the difficulty in getting there—the Mall and all adjacent streets had been closed without explanation, creating an unmoving Friday evening gridlock. Many of the reporters had to trot, walk or waddle from their gridlocked cars.
Tired, sweaty and miffed, and unhappy to be outside on a windy day, at first they weren’t sure of what they were hearing. By the time Martin had finished, though, everyone knew he’d cracked, latest victim to the pressures of high office.
“Poor SOB,” whispered The New York Times to Reuters in the embarrassed silence. “Nixon was content to chat with his predecessors’ portraits.”
Reuters said nothing, instead turning The New York Times around with a hand to her shoulder, pointing at the great bulk of Vigilant as she silently came in over the Tidal Basin, blotting out the night sky, US fighter jets escorting her. Hovering over the Mall, she filled it from Monument to Capitol, instrument pods, weapons blisters and observation bubbles a blaze of light, red, green and white navigation lights flashing down her length.
It was, after the shock subsided, the biggest party Earth had ever seen. Wherever the Kronarins landed—and they landed only by invitation—the formal reception quickly became a street festival lasting days. When it finally ended and the exhausted guests had returned to their ships and found their beds, life went on much as before. But with the expectation that things would soon be changing.
The hundreds of Treaty signators pledged their nations’ help against the presumptive AI invasion and concluding the Biofab War. The Kronarins, in return, promised technical aid, colonization rights throughout the galaxy and the option of Terran application for Confederation membership. This last would bring with it the star drive, the caveat being that application had to be a unanimous one from all sovereign Earth states. And there was still one holdout.
The fat old man stood at his window, watching an angry red sunrise fire the gold capping Ivan the Great’s bell towers. The East is Red. He snorted, turning back to his desk with its heap of reports summarizing the huge demonstrations demanding Russia ratify the Treaty.
Sighing, he poured himself another shot of vodka, tossing it down with practiced ease. Leaning back in the creaky old armchair, big feet on the desk, he unbuttoned his shirt collar. Heavy with medals and ribbons, his uniform jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the ancient horsehair sofa. Lacing his fingers over his impressive gut, the old man looked the high white ceiling, ignoring the polite knock on his door. At the second, less tentative knock, he grunted, “Come.”
“Ah, Bakunin.” He sat up, taking in the other’s battledress and holstered pistol, and poured himself another shot. “Care for a drink, Andréyev Ivanovich? Or should I call you André as your Western friends do?”
Bakunin shook his head. “Sir, I have the unpleasant duty of placing you . . .” he began.
The old man waved the bottle at him. “Please, André, why the haste? You New Decembrists have always been a slow and careful group. Why not savor your victory, even though it came from above?” He cast his eyes heavenward.
Bakunin couldn’t hide his surprise. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew.” He took another shot, finishing the bottle. “I played this game a long time. So, I’m under arrest for obstructing the Treaty?” he asked with a wisp of a smile.
“You’re under arrest for corruption, sir.”
He shrugged. “A few weeks ago, it was called business. I’d be interested in your analysis of how we came to this moment, and the part your most recent assignment played in it. Did the Biofab War do this to us?” His hand swept over the reports.
Bakunin shifted his weight uneasily. “It served as a catalyst for much that would eventually have happened. Our refusal to ratify the Treaty would have denied Earth Kronarin technical aid. It was intolerable to all but those of you with a well-financed interest in keeping the status quo. Our neighbors were growing belligerent, ready to force your hand. But instead it forced the Kronarins’ hand. They hinted they’d let the Treaty proceed without Russia as long as the rest of the world ensured we never benefit from it. We’d be embargoed.”
“We’ve been embargoed before,” said the President dismissively.
“Not by everyone, backed by the resources of an interstellar civilization. We’d have lost three hundred years, again the primitives of Europe—of the world this time. Russia would’ve ceased to exist as a state, swept under a tsunami on the floodplain of history. We’d be remembered as a very stupid people.”
“That would be wounding,” sighed the President. “Someday they’ll thank me, you know.”
“How so, sir?”
“By not ratifying that treaty, I forced fifty years of social evolution upon us in but a few weeks.”
“A very self-serving perception, Mr. President.”
“Isn’t it though?” he chuckled. “Remember the technique when you own time comes. Shall we go?”
“I don’t believe it.” With exaggerated care, John dazedly set the phone on the patio table.
Zahava looked up from her coffee, concerned.
“That was our agent,” he said slowly. “The book . . .”
“Not more changes!” she cried.
Returning from Vigilant, John, Zahava and Bob had worked day and night for on their book, First Contact. It was all there, from their first meeting with Bill to the final battle. John had air-expressed it to New York last Friday and never been far from the phone since.
Before he could reply, McShane, Bill Sutherland and a third man came onto the patio.
“Look who dropped in!” boomed McShane.
“André!” They rose to greet the Russian.
“In the flesh.” Bakunin grinned, sinking into a chair. But for the close-cropped hair he might have been an assistant professor, with his corduroy jacket, leather-patched at the elbows, casual summer pants and penny loafers.
“You have a lovely home,” he said. “The older I am, the more I like fine old things.”
Climbing above the brick wall, the hot August sun had coaxed open the last of the morning glories. A pair of cardinals flirted in the big oak overhanging the wall, red and gray plumages soaring high into the greenery.
“So what brings you back to the States?” asked John. “A well-earned rest?”
“Kronarin liaison.” The Russian sipped a cup of coffee. “And I wanted to see the world’s greatest tourist attraction.”
“So you’re going out to Andrews to tour Vigilant?” Bob asked. Bakunin nodded, crossing his legs. “I’d think you’d have seen enough of her.”
“I wanted to see her here, crowds lined up outside her, kids running between the landing struts and people gawking at the fusion cannon. Then maybe I can accept this all really happened. Call it a pilgrimage for my psyche’s sake.” He unconsciously rubbed his healed calf muscle.
“Then?” asked John.
“Then off to New York. I’m empowered by my government to sign the Terran-Kronarin Treaty.”
“Thank God.” McShane sighed, standing to shake the surprised Colonel’s hand. “And thank you, André. This hand I’m holding will free us from our small pocket of the universe.”
“You ex
aggerated, sir,” he flushed, pleased.
“And how’s the CIA’s new Director?” asked Zahava, lighting a cigarette.
“You mean ‘the dedicated intelligence officer whose brilliance and daring saved not only his country but his planet’?” quoted John, smirking maliciously.
“Enough,” pleaded Bill, holding up his hands. “The President was too effusive—you’ve no idea how horrible it is to be anointed a demigod. People at work vying for the honor of bringing me coffee. And I get swamped when we go out—my face is too well-known.” He shook his head. “No wonder you three wouldn’t let the President or me mention your contributions.”
“And otherwise?”
“Otherwise, Zahava, I’m busy, keeping track of changes in Russia, liaison with Laguan and Ambassador Zasha’s people helping organize the Expedition.”
Bob buttered another croissant. “When does that leave?”
“As soon as Fleet mops up the Scotar in our system. Maybe two months.” Adding a generous glob of boysenberry jam to the roll, he took a heroic bite.
“Detrelna’s going to lead it,” said Sutherland. “He’s been promoted commodore. And Lawrona’s now captain of Implacable.”
Reaching under the table, John brought the cold bottle of Dom Perignon and some champagne flutes from their hiding place. “I have two announcements.” The loud pop of the cork scattered the cardinals.
“One.” He began pouring. “Our book has been sold to a publishing consortium for an advance of twenty-five million dollars. Sadly, they wouldn’t let us retain the digital book rights.”
Zahava’s jaw dropped.
“Venal swine,” said McShane. “Congratulations!” he toasted.
“You get a third, Bob,” said John.
McShane drained his glass as Sutherland and Bakunin pounded backs and pumped hands, congratulating the trio.
When the tumult died, John continued. “Two. Miss Tal and I are getting married next weekend by a compliant rabbi. You’re all invited.” Zahava’s anguished “I don’t have a dress!” was drowned by boisterous best wishes.
“And I also have an announcement,” she said as Harrison refilled the glasses. “Admiral Laguan’s accepted John’s and my request to join the Trel Expedition.”
“What request?” he asked.
“The one I submitted last week through Bill.”
John put down his glass. “Mindslaves. Biofabs. Machiavellian cyborgs. AIs—whatever those turn out to be. And most dangerous, gallant allies.” He tossed down the wine. “I can hardly wait.”
“Want to come along, Bob?” asked Zahava.
“Thank you, no,” he said firmly. “I’m going to spend my dotage with my family. Besides,” he added cheerfully, “one of us should stay and see to the spending of the royalties.”
“My friends,” said John, slightly tipsy, “a great writer once said mankind would always prevail, so long as we remember that the basest of all things is to be afraid. A final toast,” he offered, golden glass held high. “To humanity and its future, bright and unafraid!”
“To the future!”
The End
About the Author
Stephen Ames Berry is the author of four science fiction novels first published by Ace and Tor, and of a technothriller, The Eldridge Conspiracy, a tale spun from his time at the Pentagon and the myth of the U.S. Navy’s World War II ship invisibility project, the Philadelphia Experiment. A graduate of Boston University, Berry has a master’s in information systems and was a systems analyst and data architect for the Navy Department and Harvard University. He lives in Florida, where he’s a teacher of wayward youth and the slave of entitled cats.
The saga of Implacable continues on the next page with the first two chapters of The Battle for Terra Two.
The Battle for Terra Two
The Biofab War (Biofab 1) Page 23
