With Saunders in the officer’s mess when Trent arrived were two other Captains: Rickie Gorabel and Jocko Singer. Captain Singer was the late Belinda Singer’s son, and hated Trent.
Between them they held three of the four Executive Directorships.
Trent had the fourth. It was the principal reason Jocko Singer hated Trent. Singer was a rail-thin man in his early seventies, with a long, thick black beard and a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of stone. Trent had difficulty picturing him cramming that beard into a pressure suit of any sort. He did not look much like his mother.
Singer had never been in a good mood in Trent’s company, not once in the near decade since Trent had first met him; but he hadn’t always hated Trent. Before her death, Belinda Singer had been the second largest shareholder in the SpaceFarer’s Collective. Nobody had been more surprised than Trent, when she died, to find out that she had left him voting control of virtually everything she had ever owned, along with outright ownership of the Vatsayama; only ship owners could sit on the Board of Directors.
“I hate Mars,” Trent stressed, “with a passion. It may be the first thing in my entire life I’ve ever felt passionately about.”
Captain Saunders simply looked at him. She was an older woman, and Trent knew that he baffled her.
Rickie Gorabel smiled at him.
“Okay, that’s a lie,” Trent conceded. “But almost. I’m just – I don’t know how to say this exactly – very very tired of the place. Four different times while I was living here, people tried to kill me.”
“I understand,” said Captain Saunders.
“It’s not even just that it’s boring. Though it is.”
“People trying to kill you is boring?”
Trent blinked. “No. No. No, Mars,” he stressed. “Mars is boring. The Mormons, actually. Nice people, but boring. I stayed at the Mormon colony north of here for almost a year back in ’74, you know.”
“Oh.”
“Back before Belinda left me a ship and a bunch of stock and I got rich. People trying to kill me was all that livened things up around here. If it wasn’t for the assassins I’d probably have killed myself.”
“Of boredom?” said Captain Saunders slowly.
“You’re really trying very hard to understand this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Trent smiled at the woman. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m not sure it’s helping.”
“Don’t sweat the small stuff, okay? It’s okay. It ended. Eventually. It just seemed like forever.”
“Could we possibly,” said Singer in a plainly hostile tone, staring at Trent, “talk about something other than ’Sieur Castanaveras’ neuroses?”
Hera Saunders appeared to be struggling with what to say next. “I understand,” she said finally, “that you did not really enjoy Mars. Was there more to it than that?”
“In the morning,” said Trent cheerfully, “I got up and went to church with the Mormons who lived down the way. Then, for a break, I had lunch and then we would go pray some more. Then we had dinner and then I would go run simulations, which was boring but not as boring as praying. Then, in the evenings, I audited books, the news from Earth, whatever. Once,” he said, “there was supposed to be a big dance. A party. I went. Do you know what they were doing?” he demanded. “Do you know? They were square dancing. I went down to the hydroponics farm, turned on the sunpaint and watched the wheat grow all night.”
Rickie Gorabel, skipper of the SpaceFarer Ship Adzel, owner of some two hundred Collective ships, was a dark-skinned, excessively muscular, verging-on-plump woman who reminded Trent a lot of Belinda Singer, except that Gorabel was a lot meaner and not as sly. She smiled at Trent and Trent smiled back at her; her sense of humor was a lot like his, and he liked her a great deal.
She said, “Have you been auditing the news, Trent?”
“Once,” Trent continued, “I slept with a girl. Once in, by Harry, it must have been six or seven months. I was going crazy, let me tell you. And she was a nice girl, don’t get me wrong, I liked her quite a bit, but still. You know what happened next, don’t you? Of course you do. Her parents wanted me to marry her.” He glared at them briefly, saving most of it for Gorabel, who he knew would appreciate it most. “None of you,” he said evenly, “mentioned this detail, this trivial fact that everybody on Mars is crazy, when you marooned me here.”
“Six years ago,” said Hera Saunders.
Trent nodded. “Well, I’ve been meaning to mention it for a while.”
Silence descended.
Trent waited to see who was going to talk next.
They all looked at him.
“I’m done,” he said finally. “That was all. I just wanted to get it off my chest. It’s unhealthy to carry stuff like that around.”
More silence.
“If you want,” said Trent, “I can tell you about the Belt now. I spent two years –”
Captain Singer opened his mouth and, clearly hating to do it, said, “We’d like you to go to Halfway.”
IN 2080 THERE ARE over three hundred small city-factories in orbit about Earth.
There is only one Halfway.
It was the first space city, and in 2080 is still by far the largest: with a population of just over two million, it is the second largest city off Earth, after only Luna City at Copernicus. Two thirds of all the people who live in orbit about Earth call Halfway home. It is ruled by the Unification of Earth, the greatest power in human history. The vast bulk of humanity is ruled by the Unification: Earth itself, its seven-and-a-half billion inhabitants; the three million people who live in orbit about Earth; and Unification Luna, with its thirty-two million inhabitants.
Only Free Luna, with its four million people, Mars and Mercury and the Asteroid Belt, are free of the Unification. Though allied against the Unification, there is no central government among them: Free Luna runs its affairs; Mars is an independent protectorate of the Collective; the Belt CityStates govern themselves; and the SpaceFarers’ Collective, bound to neither planet nor asteroid, links them all together. There are even a few colonists at Jupiter and Saturn, pushing the boundaries of human occupation of the System.
By the time Trent the Uncatchable had come to the Belt, in 2070, this political situation had been stable for almost forty years.
In 2072, the United Nations Space Force began building the Unity ... at Halfway.
The Unity is seven kilometers long. It is not merely the largest spacecraft that has ever been built, more than ten times as long as the uncrewed mining ferries that, in calmer times, sent ore from the Belt to Halfway; it is nearly the largest artifact humans have ever built. There are cylindrical Cities in the Belt that are larger, blown up out of asteroids that were melted down with giant mirrors, and then inflated, while still molten metal, to the desired shape ... but in 2080 there are only a few, and even those few are not much larger than the Unity.
The Unity is mounted with more laser cannon than can be found in orbit around Earth itself, is reputedly armored against direct nuclear blasts. It carries six torch-driven troop carriers, fifty chemical rocket troop carriers, and over two hundred slipships; and is designed to carry a crew of thirty-five hundred, and up to fifteen thousand PKF and Space Force troops.
It is rumored, though not even the SpaceFarers’ Collective knows it for a fact, that the Unity carries high yield thermonuclear weapons ... the very weapons the Unification had been created to get rid of, the very weapons the Unity’s hull has been hardened against.
She has been designed for one purpose, and though the Unification has never said so publicly, that purpose is the clearest thing in the System:
Sixty years after the end of the Unification War, the Unification of Earth intends to become the Unification of Sol.
TRENT STARED OFF to one side, gazing blankly at the coffee machines that lined the wall of the officer’s mess. “You know ... I sure wish I was appalled by this. Or outraged. Or so
mething.”
With Belinda Singer dead, Hera Saunders was perhaps Trent’s closest friend among the SpaceFarers. It wasn’t saying much. “Trent ... do you have any idea how many people have died trying to keep that ship from reaching completion?”
“Nope.” He shook his head, still not looking at them, thoughts apparently elsewhere. “I’ve been working on other projects, you know,” he said absently.
“I know.” Saunders sighed almost inaudibly, and seemed in that moment as old as her years. “We’ve lost eighty-three SpaceFarers – so far – and I don’t even know how many people the Rebs and Claw have sent in. PKF are providing security at Halfway these days and they catch most of our people before they ever get close enough to do any damage. We’ve had some success, a few agents placed inside the ship; we even picked up three agents inside Space Force, two Rebs and an Erisian agent who were left stranded after the TriCentennial Rebellion failed.”
“And?”
Rickie Gorabel shook her head. “If anything useful has happened, we don’t know about it. Our people keep vanishing, one after the other. That ship is huge, son. The one bomb we managed to plant inside the ship blew out some of their comm and control, and it put them back maybe six months –”
“I heard about that. Kill anyone?”
She ignored the interruption. “But the structural damage to the ship was negligible.”
Trent leaned back in his chair, facing them, hands clasped loosely over his stomach. He said abruptly, “Nuke it. Get a good-sized nuke inside it and set it off.”
Silence. The three Captains looked at each other, and then at Trent.
Trent smiled at them. “Tried that already, did you?”
Singer said, “They executed the team we sent in. That was four days ago. It was a desperation move, but we are desperate.” He muttered, “Or we wouldn’t be asking you for help.”
Trent’s smile stayed fixed in place. “The population of Halfway is over two million. And you stupid, wicked fucks were going to set off a nuke in the middle of the city.”
“It was a pinched explosive,” said Gorabel.
“Meaning? How many people were you prepared to kill?”
Hera Saunders said reluctantly, “We ran simulations. They were –” She stopped speaking and simply shook her head.
Trent fixed his eyes upon her. He said, “How many?”
Her lips worked. Finally she said, “About a quarter million. Everyone within about a six kilometer radius of the Unity.”
Trent sat in the silence, thinking. He was distantly aware of the sound of the ventilators, the gentle movement of the air against his face.
Finally he looked up at them. “It’s things like this,” he said, “that make me appreciate my enemies. Their finer qualities. The PKF would never have tried to nuke a city full of innocent people. You do know that, don’t you?” He was unaware of the smile that had remained fixed on his features throughout. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. But I don’t have to like it, or you.” He stood up from the table. “And I don’t.”
REVEREND ANDY AND Jimmy were waiting for him at the Vatsayama.
Jimmy said, “Well?”
Trent shrugged. “Business as usual.”
“You’re going to Halfway,” said Reverend Andy.
Trent said, “I told you I was.”
7
THE MARTIAN TOWN of Sulci Gordii is mostly underground. But just mostly: the location, south and east of Mons Olympus, gave superb views of the great mountain. So some structures were above ground, and hard to heat, and expensive: and one of those was the Valentine Dome where the SpaceFarer’s Collective’s Board of Directors met.
Over two hundred persons attended, though at most forty of those had the right to cast votes, either directly or by proxy. The others were staff, security, lovers, children, and other members of the retinues of the powerful.
Trent was pretty sure he was the only voting member who was there by himself. Not by choice, either – Jimmy had refused to come and Reverend Andy had just laughed at him.
The Dome seated over three hundred, the seating arranged around small tables set in concentric and rising circles. Trent took a table four rows up from the floor, facing Olympus Mons, and ordered two pints of Guinness Foreign Extra Stout – from Earth, imported – and a bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich: the bacon had never seen the inside of a pig and the bread, lettuce, tomatoes and mayonnaise were all from the Mormon colony to Sulci Gordii’s north. The waiter was short, for a Martian – a young Mormon Trent knew slightly, Ryan Larsen – and Trent had an awkward moment trying to remember whether Ryan was a member of one of the families that were mad at him. If Trent had ever known that, the information had not made it into Trent’s inskin, where it would have been secure for as long as he cared to remember it.
Ryan confirmed that he was. “But it’s OK,” he assured Trent, “we got her married anyway, and pretty much everyone else has let it go.” He paused. “Well, not cousin Aaron. If you ever see Aaron, you should be careful.” He smiled reassuringly at Trent. “But he’s not here, so no need to worry, right?”
“I have a ten million Credit bounty on me,” Trent told him. “You tell cousin Aaron he’s not allowed to kill me for trivial reasons.”
Ryan looked hurt. “It’s not like that. Aaron’s as patriotic as anyone. He wouldn’t even want the bounty.”
“You bring me my sandwich and stout,” Trent instructed the boy. “And no more talk of killing me, it ruins the digestion.”
“Right,” said Ryan, smiling uncertainly. “I’ll be right back with your order.” He hurried away.
Captain Saunders arrived a moment later with one of her crew, and paused by Trent’s table. Before she could even speak, Trent eyed her and said flatly, “I hate Mars.”
She paused. Trent glanced past her, saw the tall man standing beside her was Sidney Zinth – Trent had once slugged Zinth and stolen his uniform. Trent still had unexpected moments when the color of the man’s underwear would pop up in his memory and offer itself for inspection.
Zinth stiffened at Trent’s glance.
“People still making fun of you over your undergarments, are they?” Trent asked politely.
“A few of the women,” Zinth said evenly enough. “I’ve whipped all the men.”
“You’ll need to take a number if you want to whip me,” Trent said. “Behind cousin Aaron and about a thousand Peaceforcers.” He considered it. “And a whole bunch of gypsy Macoute, but I don’t expect to run into any of those bastards on Mars, so you should sneak in ahead of them.”
Saunders said, “The Executive Directors normally sit at the inner row.” She pointed at a table that would seat a dozen. “That’s Belinda’s old table.”
Trent smiled. “More space than I need. I’m good here.”
She nodded and moved on.
Zinth held back a step, and said in a quieter voice, “If you want to meet me any time, I’ll make myself available.”
Trent smiled at him, too. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you once, eleven years ago. I mean that most sincerely.”
“I know you’re important, that you’re doing important things,” Zinth said. “So I won’t kill you.”
“There’s worse things in life than wearing pretty underpants,” Trent said mildly. “You can tell people I said so. But no, I’m not going to fight you, not now, not ever.”
“You’re a coward,” Zinth said in a low voice.
Trent kept smiling. “ ‘You keep carrying that anger,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘it’ll eat you up inside.’ You move along, I’ve got a sandwich coming.” With a last glare, Zinth continued on after Captain Saunders.
Ryan put the plate down, and the two pint bulbs of Guinness.
Trent’s smile faded.
“Man,” Trent said gloomily, “I fucking hate Mars.”
MOST OF THE business bored Trent. He spent the evening watching the other members of the Board of Directors, tagging the few new faces and looking them up via his inski
n – he identified most of them. There were a few young people he was unable to place, children or new employees, but only one person of any obvious significance escaped him. Jocko Singer appeared with a man who was not on the cleared list of attendees – as one of the Executive Directors Singer had certain prerogatives. Trent watched the unidentified man carefully – Caucasian, hard to guess his age, though his hair appeared to have been silvered by age rather than by makeup key. Plainly a downsider, both by build and by the awkwardness with which he carried himself in Martian gravity. Blue eyes, possibly, though Trent didn’t get close to enough to him that evening to be certain. He stored several high resolution copies of the image crossing his optic nerve, watching the man closely for several consecutive seconds while his inskin built up an interpolated image.
He was only required to vote twice before the measure that he was interested in came up – voting once to subsidize immigration from Earth to Mars, in a measure that failed – war fever, Trent thought sourly – and the second time to increase aid to Free Luna, which passed – war fever again, Trent imagined.
Several more matters passed without Trent bothering to cast a vote. Then Rickie Gorabel announced, “Trade sanctions in the matter of Iwatsu Electric, a subsidiary of the Sanwa keiretsu.”
Trent said, “Hold.”
It caused a stir. Gorabel didn’t appear surprised, but she waited until the noise had died back down again.
“The facts in this case,” she said carefully, “are well established. You read the briefing documents.”
Trent nodded. “Yep. Mind you, I didn’t receive the addendum on Iwatsu Electric until this morning. Did anyone else? No? Anyone?” He looked over the room. “No. Thought not. I’d like a hold placed on this matter until it can be addressed in a less … rushed … manner.”
“The Sanwa keireitsu,” said Jocko Singer, “is no friend of the Collective.”
The A.I. War, Book One: The Big Boost (Tales of the Continuing Time) Page 7
