by Rick Partlow
The chairs were empty, and he was about to ask their nameless guide how long they’d have to wait, but she was already heading out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her without as much as a by-your-leave.
“She really knows how to make you feel welcome, doesn’t she?” Sam murmured aside to Priscilla.
He’d been so caught up in the romance of actually seeing Earth, it had only just now begun to sink in that these people could concoct any excuse they wanted to keep the two of them there indefinitely.
They could say we were infecting the place and use the medical nanites in our blood as “evidence,” he mused darkly. Or they could detect Priscilla’s biotech augmentation and say she was carrying illicit biological weapons.
“Easy,” Priscilla said softly in his ear, seemingly sensing his mood. Neither of them dared use their neurolinks. Even if they weren’t being jammed, the Earthers would detect the signal.
He nodded to her, wishing he could touch her, just a brush of her hand on his like back on Luna. But they’d be watching for that, too, and he had to assume they’d be looking for weaknesses to exploit.
He hadn’t noticed the second door; it blended into the shadows of the alcove behind the platform, and it barely made a sound when it swung open. The first person through the door was Deputy Minister Tejado and Sam nearly choked at the sight of the man. He was dressed in a robe of solid grey, as was the woman who followed him, much shorter and less perfect-looking but just as severe and hard-eyed. The two of them walked with a matching, purposeful stride across the platform and took the chairs at the far left.
The next pair through the door also wore matching robes, theirs a forest green, the male of the two much shorter than Tejado and a bit jowly, with a receding hairline of grey-shot blond. Sam felt a sense of shock at how old the man looked, though he’d known the Earthers didn’t use the sort of biotechnology the Resolution took for granted. Sam was young, not even forty yet, but there were men and women in his chain of command well over a hundred who looked no older than him. The idea of people growing old and dying as their bodies wore out was as unimaginable to him as much else of the Consensus society.
The Prime Minister did not look old. He would have known who she was even had he not seen her picture in a Consensus news report while on Luna; she had the air of command about her, a straight-backed stance, an alertness to the set of her eyes showing someone used to being scrutinized. Her face was lean but not drawn, her jaw squared off and strong, her brown hair an orderly, shoulder-length arrangement; her robe was a harsh crimson, a splash of blood.
The old man and the younger woman with him in green had taken the two seats on the far right, but the woman in red took the largest and grandest chair, stationed between the two extremes, a stylized dragon’s head carved into the seat.
“State your name and purpose for the record,” the blood-red woman said, her voice as clear and piercing as a clarion.
“Deputy Prime Minister Jaime Tejado, Naturalist Party,” the man they’d met with on Luna spoke up quickly, as closely as he dared to stepping on the end of her statement. “I am present to speak against the foolishness and danger of allowing these blasphemers to operate in our home system.”
“Minister of Defense Lila Shang,” the short woman beside him intoned as if it were a magic spell, “Naturalist Party. I am present to give warning of the threat from the Resolutionist enemy.”
“I am Avery Cassell,” the woman who’d come in with the old man announced, “Minister of Energy, Reformist Party. I come to this august body to hear of the possibilities for salvation from the threat to the very existence of the Consensus.”
The old man paused just half a beat, and Sam had the sense there was a purpose and a structure to that, something to do with his seniority.
“My name is John Gage,” he said, finally, gravelly and rough, the voice of a man who’d seen the hard knocks of life before he’d taken his place in governance. “I’m the Minister for Foreign Relations and the Chair of the Reformist Party, and I’m here to make sure we don’t throw away the one chance we have to save this world from destruction.”
Nice of them to go ahead and announce who’s on our side right up front, Sam thought with a bit of amusement at the ritual.
Another pause, this one longer, more significant. And then the woman in the center made her own proclamation, still ritualistic and formulaic, but also more directed to them, he judged.
“I am Prime Minister Carlotta Brecht, the chosen voice of the Human Consensus, the one fated and condemned to decide our direction as a people. I am allowed no party, no affiliation beyond my allegiance to this world and to humanity. I come to this gathering to hear the wisdom of others, to see ideas do battle before me until one emerges the victor. My decisions may not always be correct, but they are the law until I am replaced by the will of the people of our world.” Her eyes bored straight into Sam, or so it felt to him, their gaze dark and magnetic, holding his own in place as if he were helpless before her.
“Do both of you understand?”
“We do, your Excellency,” Priscilla answered for them, respect and deference in her tone Sam hadn’t heard before.
“State your names and purpose for our record.”
Sam nearly tripped over his tongue and rasped his words out through a dry mouth, wishing there were water available.
“We are aware of the facts,” Brecht declared. “We know what you propose, so do not waste our time with restatements of the obvious. What we wish to know before we make our decision is whether there is anything we have not considered.”
“There is, your Excellency,” Priscilla’s answer was firm and definitive. Sam’s eyes flickered over to her, curious. “You may be aware,” she went on, “of how much raw material the Teller-Fox gate we’ve proposed will require. We’re going to have to bring in shipments from the Belters, shipments that will take months to set in motion, perhaps years.” She tilted her head to the side just slightly, as if she were giving the other woman a chance to consider what she’d said.
“I have come to understand the Belters are reluctant to do a steady business with the Consensus because their profit margins are larger selling to the Jovian Confederation…and to us, as well. This mostly has to do with logistics questions, diversion of shipping assets from more profitable runs. This project will require the construction of new automated barges, very large ones, and arrangement for their constant refueling. Afterward, unless they acquire new cargo runs and a new customer, those barges and fueling stations will be wasted.”
“They would likely be willing to offer us a substantial discount in order to avoid the costs of repurposing those assets,” Gage interjected, following her line of reasoning, interest sparkling in his eyes. “If we survive,” he amended.
“Are we taking bribes from the blasphemers now?” Tejado demanded, flushing with what seemed to be genuine rage. “Have we come so low as to compromise our principles for a few million tons of ore?”
The man was, Sam decided, a true believer, not just a posturing politician, which made him terrifying rather than just annoying.
“Ask those who live near the pit mines how important that ore would be,” Avery Cassell replied, cocking an eyebrow at the Deputy Minister. “Or ask your Generals, Defense Minister,” she directed that to the other Naturalist Party leader, the woman. “Cheaper and more easily accessible mineral resources could transform our economy in just a few years.”
“The Resolution would not offer us any of this if there were not a self-serving motive to benefit them,” Lila Shang said, regarding the Energy Minister with cold disdain. “I would very much like to know what it is.”
“That is a fair question,” Prime Minister Brecht agreed, turning her attention from her Council back to Sam and Priscilla. “One I would very much like to hear answered. The Resolution is spending a not-inconsiderable percentage of their vast wealth on this project. Do you expect us to believe you’re doing this simply out of the g
oodness of your hearts? To quote an old saying, I was born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.”
Sam blinked. A sense of humor was the last thing he’d expected from the imperious Prime Minister, much less a pawky one. He thought it surprised Priscilla as well, but she was a good enough poker player not to show it on her face.
“To some extent,” she began slowly, “it is because we believe this is the right thing to do, and that we have no wish to see the homeworld of our species destroyed, nor any living world. Just that, by itself, would be enough reason for us to make the offer. But I won’t lie to you, your Excellency, we do have something to gain from this if you accept our help.”
Tejado’s eyes narrowed at the admission and Sam thought the man leaned forward expectantly. Gage’s lip twitched, though Sam didn’t know if it was from a suppressed frown or an equally suppressed smile. The Prime Minister’s expression changed not at all.
“I don’t know how familiar any of you are with hyper-dimensional physics,” she went on, “but I assume you know that the Transition Lines we all use for interstellar travel are like fault lines in spacetime, the gravito-inertial lines of force between stars?”
“I have a general knowledge of how the Transition Drive works,” Brecht assured her, just a touch of the same dry sarcasm in her tone.
“If the ramship strikes Earth at a significant fraction of the speed of light, it’s going to shatter the planet into fragments. This will have gravitational effects on the rest of the Solar System, and even on the Sun itself…” She grimaced just slightly. “No one is sure of the time frame, mostly because of the difficulty of synchronizing events in T-space with local events, but somewhere between immediately and decades from the impact, the Transition hubs running through the Solar System are going to be redirected.”
“Redirected where?” That was Gage, who’d shifted abruptly from cool interest to focused alarm.
“Nowhere with a habitable world. Nowhere any of us have any particular wish to travel…and nowhere near the seven Resolution colonies they Transit to currently. They’ll be stranded without any contact to the outside universe other than lightspeed communication.”
Sam’s head snapped around, his eyes going wide, and it took him nearly a second to force himself to look back to the front, schooling his face back under control and cursing himself silently. Priscilla hadn’t even glanced sideways at him, her eyes locked with Brecht’s.
The Prime Minister was nodding to herself, not trying to hide the satisfaction in the set of her mouth. Priscilla had given her what she wanted, and Sam suddenly wondered if that hadn’t been the point. Was there actually any danger of the Transition Lines shifting, or had she simply invented the whole thing because it provided a plausible explanation for the supposed altruism? He realized he couldn’t even begin to guess, and he knew her as well as anyone within a dozen light years.
“Very well,” Brecht said, her tone carrying the weight of judgement. “I am aware of the objections the Naturalist Party has to the presence of the Resolution in our system, and I understand the risks. However, we can’t argue against physics with idealism. If the ramship is not stopped, it will destroy our planet.” She turned to Tejado, meeting his scowl of discontent. “I agree they will have to be watched carefully,” she allowed, “but lacking any method of building the gate on our own, we have no choice but to let them try. Particularly since it might be argued that the existence of the weapon and the reason for its direction could be laid at the feet of those who were the spiritual forebears of the Resolution.” Sam saw the argument register on Shang’s face, but Tejado’s expression didn’t change.
“There will be conditions for this arrangement,” Brecht said, turning back to Priscilla, her voice stern and commanding. “No armed vessels will be permitted in the Solar System, and no Resolution ships will come closer than Lunar orbit without the express permission of this office. You will provide weekly progress reports and I expect you,” she indicated Priscilla with a raised finger, “to meet with myself or those I delegate to the matter in person on a monthly basis, right here in Capital City.”
She switched her attention to the old man, her voice still as imperious but the look on her face somewhat softer. Sam had the impression she knew the Minister of Foreign Relations well, and trusted him.
“Minister Gage,” Brecht declared, “you will be our liaison to the Resolution, responsible for seeing to it that they meet the conditions of this agreement. You will also provide whatever security they feel necessary for their operations.”
“Your Excellency,” Tejado broke in, and from the looks on the faces of the others, even his ally, Sam could tell the interruption was irregular. “If I might just impress upon you…”
The look Brecht gave him could have frozen hydrogen.
“My decision has been made,” she said. “And as always, it is final. If you wish to contest it, you may, of course, ask for a vote of confidence from the Parliament, or for a public referendum.”
The Deputy Minister made a face like he’d swallowed a bug, but he said nothing.
“In that event,” Brecht said, standing abruptly and dragging the others to their feet with her, “this audience is concluded. Minister Gage will stay her to coordinate with you anything you may need and arrange for your transportation back to the Lunar City.”
She led the group back through the door without another word, though Tejado gave them a look of utter hatred before his dour visage disappeared into the shadows, leaving the old man as their only company.
Gage waited until the door had closed before he raised a gate in the railing of the platform and stepped down the short set of stairs to stand before them, leaning heavily on their table. He was taller up close, looming with a mass to him beneath the loose robes.
“Well, now,” he drawled in an accent Sam couldn’t place, “it seems as if the three of us will be spending some quality time together.” Gage cocked his head to the side, regarding them. “You couldn’t tell it up there, because we do most of our politicking in private, but I stuck my damn neck out for you two. You’d best not let me down.”
Chapter Ten
Watching Peterman go at it with Mestrovic should have been fascinating. Sam had always loved watching masters of their field compete, and these two were truly at the top of their game.
“Look, Goran,” Vance Peterman gestured so broadly it nearly lifted him off the ground in the fifteen percent gravity of Ganymede’s surface. “I know we’re talking some serious start-up costs here, but you’ll have the benefit of the new run to Earth to consider, and you know they need mineral resources. We’re doing you a damned favor here!”
Peterman was a little guy, perhaps the shortest Resolutionist Sam had ever met, skinny and tough as a piece of old leather, and it seemed he dressed in reaction to the lack of size. Sam couldn’t recall seeing a larger set of shoulder pads or a more brightly-colored jacket, and the checkered trousers Peterman wore with it could have been considered a war crime in some jurisdictions.
If either the little man’s clothes or his bombast impressed Goran Mestrovic, the Belter negotiator didn’t let it show. Motionless and laconic, the space-born was taller than Peterman even seated on the padded stool in the conference room under the main habitation dome of Nanjin, the largest of the Jovian Confederacy settlements on Jupiter’s moon, Ganymede. When Mestrovic spoke, it was with the spare, controlled stillness of one used to living and working in microgravity, where the slightest motion could send you floating off in random directions.
“The contract with the Consensus is wonderful in theory, Mr. Peterman, but our investment is immediate and practical, not theoretical. We are going to have to pay the Jovians to build the ore barges, pay them for fuel. We’re going to have to pay the subsidiaries who own the rocks we’re going to mine, pay the subsidiaries who own the smelters, pay the subsidiaries who own the processing plants …” He cocked an eyebrow, the closest a Belter would come to a shrug. “You get the idea. It�
�s a shitload of money and it’s not coming out of our accounts.”
“So you expect us to pay for your startup,” Peterman squawked, slapping the back of one hand against the palm of another, “pay for the cargo, and then you get the benefits of a new contract and we get left holding our swinging cods? Are you freaking serious?”
Yes, Sam should have been absorbed with the byplay, should have just been happy the mission had been a success and the Earthers had agreed to allow them to build the gate. He should have been grateful he and the crew had been allowed to ferry Priscilla and Danabri to Ganymede for the negotiations with the Belters; it had been something of a well-deserved vacation for them all after a stressful mission.
He should have been wondering at the incredible sights and sounds and smells of the Ganymede settlements, at the domed cities dug into ancient impact craters, protected now by energy shields they’d purchased from the Resolution less than a century ago. Outsiders had begun to take up residence here and on the other Galilean moons since then, and they were easily picked out from natives, who still bore the genetic manipulation designed to protect them from the gas giant’s radiation fields. They were tall and statuesque, their skin seal-black and just as thick and rubbery, their faces broad and their eyes sunken deep beneath protective ridges, a different species of human.
It was meaningless, vanity, paling into nothing. All he could do was stare at Priscilla and think how soon he’d have to leave her here while he and the Raven went back on patrol. Or perhaps they’d return her to Aphrodite for one last report to the political officers before some other ship ran her back to the Solar System to work as the go-between with the Consensus. And he’d likely never see her again.
“Stop moping around like a love-sick puppy,” Mawae Danabri hissed in his ear from the other side.
Sam cast a baleful eye at the Sensitive, catching the pungent odor of alcohol coming off the man. Danabri’s hair was out of place, his clothes were disheveled and he’d reported to the negotiation session five minutes late despite a half a dozen calls to his neurolink. He also had the unmistakable look of post-coital satisfaction, which for some reason, made Sam even more annoyed at the man than usual.
