“To the Primes, however, I say this: whatever your aspirations for malevolence, however much you covet our beautiful worlds, You Will Not Prevail. We, all of us poor flawed humans, have a heart that has been tested in the heat and pain of battle; we know we have the will, we know we have the right, and we know we have the determination to throw down any force for evil and tyranny. To that end I pledge myself and my presidency.”
She bowed to the senators, and stepped sharply off the rostrum, her Beefeaters falling in behind to follow her down the stairs. The applause and cheering that chased after her was awesome, both in its unanimity and enthusiasm.
Patricia Kantil was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, clapping passionately, a huge smile on her face. “Perfect,” she said, falling in beside Doi as they left the Hall. “You pitched it just right. Confident without any smugness, and what you said made people feel secure.”
Doi flashed a worried smile. “Glad they are.”
As soon as they were through the door, the Beefeaters handed over security to agents dressed in ordinary suits. Staff members and aides took up their usual position, following their chief down the broad corridor like a small comet’s tail. All of them looked indecently cheerful, still applauding her speech. After eleven months of what she herself charitably described as a lackluster term, her presidency had finally taken focus out there on the rostrum.
By the time they got back up to her offices on the Senate Hall’s third floor the good news was arriving thick and fast. Messages of congratulations and approval were flooding in off the unisphere. Aides returned to their own desks to handle them.
“Nice speech, thank you,” Doi said to David Kerte as she passed his desk. The young man looked up and smiled his gratitude. Until the election he’d been Patricia’s principal assistant, now he was turning into one of their staff team’s best speechwriters.
“My pleasure, ma’am. I cribbed some of Kennedy’s moon speech for you, I thought the parallel was appropriate.”
“It was.” Doi walked on into the glass lounge. It was a bubble sticking out from the side of the Senate Hall, completely transparent from within, glossy black to anyone outside trying to look in, and protected by force fields should any sniper want to test their ability. She flopped down on one of the broad sofas, and let out a long breath of relief.
“You want something?” Patricia asked, walking over to an antique teak cocktail cabinet.
“Want, yes. Having, no. Give me a fruit juice. It’s going to be a long day.”
Patricia opened the door and took a can of orange and triffenberry from the shelf. The web of thin silver lines around her eyes were pulsing as her virtual vision clogged up with polling data. There were certain indicators she could always rely on, which she scanned with her usual efficiency. “The Hill-Collins unisphere poll gives you a seventy-two percent personal approval rating,” she said as the results streamed in. The can frosted over as she pulled the tab. “Fifty-three percent are still worried about the Primes—that’s down four from yesterday. Eighty-eight percent approve of you forming the navy. Stock market is up; analysts are predicting sharp increase in government spending to build the navy, which is correct. The finance sector is jittery about taxes to pay for it all. On balance, it’s favorable. Second term’s in the bag.”
“Not a chance,” Elaine said, taking the can from Patricia. “There’s a long way to go. And what happens if the Primes do invade?”
Patricia snorted. “Give me a break. I’ve been researching this. Populations flock to support their leadership in times of war. Historical fact. It’s after the war you’ve got to worry about. Churchill, Bush, Dolven, they all got dumped right after their victories.”
“I was always nervous about backing the Starflight Agency so publicly even if it was the price of getting Sheldon’s support. But by God it paid off today.” She drank some of the juice.
“Don’t bring God into this,” Patricia said quickly. “Too many voters are atheists these days.”
The President gave her a disapproving look. “You were always in favor of the Agency and its progression. Do you think there’s going to be a war?”
“I was in favor of the Agency for the options it gave us.”
“Do you think there’s going to be a war?”
“Honestly? I don’t know, Elaine. I can handle the Senate and the media for you. But this… it’s way out of my field. All I know is that finding the Primes are building a giant wormhole has frightened the bejesus out of half our tactical analysts. Did you see Leopoldovich’s report? There’s no logical reason for them to build something on that kind of scale; therefore their motives are unknown. That’s not good news, because all we know about them is what Bose told us. We have to assume the worst. Whoever put that barrier up, it’s starting to look like they had good reason.”
Elaine Doi let herself relax into the deep cushioning. “That never made sense right from the start. Every expert we have claims the effort which went into building the barrier was colossal; yet it gets switched off the minute we go sniffing around.”
“I told you, if you’re asking me, you’re asking the wrong person. Nobody has come up with a reason; all we’ve got is a bunch of half-assed theories and crank conspiracies like Johansson’s; even the SI is at a loss, or claims it is.”
“Claims?”
“You know I never trust it.”
“You’re a xenophobe.”
Patricia shrugged. “Somebody has to be.”
“All right,” Elaine said. “We don’t know why, but we do know we’re in a possible war situation—”
“That’s another word I’d like you not to use, please. War has too much historical baggage attached. Conflict, or the Prime situation, are preferable.”
“You’re developing a nasty habit yourself, there. People like some natural traits.”
“Traits I can manage, prohibited words I can’t.”
Elaine ran a hand through her hair, a gesture she always reverted to when she was irritated—as Patricia always pointed out. “All right, I’ll mind my language.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s something that Leopoldovich and everyone else seems to be avoiding.”
“What’s that?”
“The High Angel. I know siting Base One there was part of the Agency start-up deal, but if there is a possibility of conflict, is it going to hang around?”
“Actually, someone on Leopoldovich’s team did analyze that, it’s in one of the appendices. It has always assured us it will give notice before it leaves, so transferring Base One construction personnel to Kerensk won’t be a problem. They can still get to the assembly platforms through the wormhole; using High Angel as a dormitory was a political move to bring Chairwoman Gall on our side, and through her the African caucus. Physically, it’s nonessential. There’s also a proposal from Columbia’s staff on using it as our species’ lifeboat.”
“What?”
Patricia shrugged. “Basically, if it looks like we’re losing, we put as much of our culture and genetic template as possible on board, as well as a few million living humans, and ask the High Angel to take the survivors to a less hostile part of the universe. We’re pretty sure it has a transgalactic flight capability.”
“My God, you’re serious.”
“Columbia’s security office was, yes. The President would be classed as an essential component of the emergency evacuation. You’d be going.”
“No, I goddamn wouldn’t; and I want you personally to make very certain that this lunatic idea is never leaked to the media. They’d crucify us if they knew we were planning to escape.”
“Very well, I’ll see to it.”
Elaine let out a long breath. “You really do read all the appendices, don’t you?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Okay, then. What’s next?”
“Meeting with Thompson Burnelli and Crispin Goldreich. You’ve got to thrash out the navy’s first budgetary presentati
on for the Senate. Did you see the request from Kime?”
“Yes. I thought fantasy had gone out of style! Five more scoutships, twenty new ships with full attack capability, a Commonwealth-wide wormhole detection system, bringing that Natasha Kersley’s Directorate up to full active status, incorporating a dozen more government science departments. We’re looking at a percentage point increase on taxes. I can just see how the planetary governments will respond to that.”
“It might have had Kime’s name on it, but the request was drafted by the Sheldons and Halgarths. They’re already working on steering it through the Senate. With the Intersolar Dynasties and the Grand Families cooperating, it’ll sail through. The level of fallout dropping on you will be minimal.”
“I suppose so. Is the meeting here?”
“Yes. But we’re due home for lunch.”
“Good.” Elaine looked out through the lounge’s clear curving wall at Washington’s old Capitol building. The Commonwealth Senate Hall had been built here, and paid for out of UFN taxes by commissioners keen to keep Earth at the center of Commonwealth politics; but the Presidential Palace was on New Rio, as a gesture to the new worlds, along with a host of Directorates and departments that were spread out among phase one space in accordance with the Commonwealth policy of inclusion. She always felt more secure in the New Rio Palace, like any animal in its home territory.
As she looked out at the rain sweeping across the old city her virtual vision was displaying a simple star map. New Rio was on the other side of Earth from the Dyson Pair, over a thousand light-years away from the Primes. That also was a comfort.
…
Hoshe parked out on Fairfax, and walked a block back down Achaia. It was midday, and the heat had just about cleared every other pedestrian off the sidewalk. Hoshe took his jacket off as he walked, dabbing at the perspiration on his brow. Achaia was one of those narrow streets in the city grid that looked like it ran on forever, with the cracked concrete’s heat shimmer obscuring the far end as it slipped into the commercial district. The housing on both sides was mainly three-story apartment blocks, fronted by small yards that were filled with overgrown ornamental bushes and trees that had nearly reached roof level. Air-conditioning units hummed constantly above all the narrow balconies where their fins radiated away the excess heat. Cars came and went in front of him, turning out of ramps that led down to underground garages.
When he reached the first alleyway, he stopped and scanned around. High fences guarded both sides, with flowering shrubs and creepers tumbling over them in colorful shaggy mats. Beneath his feet, enzyme-bonded concrete gave way to a hard-packed surface of stone chippings and dirt. Several dogs barked as he passed gates. He even heard the distinctive metallic gabbling of a catrak and hoped to heaven it was securely chained.
He was about a hundred meters along the alley when he came to the backyard of 3573. A low double gate opened onto a short section of concrete that led to a big double garage made from prefab stonesteel sections that were bolted together. A wooden bungalow stood behind it, its windows dark and closed, yellow paint peeling from the planks. Vines with droopy sapphire flowers had engulfed every pillar that supported the overhanging roof, looking like thick elongated bushes the strands were wrapped so densely.
Hoshe went through the gate. One of the garage doors was open. Someone was moving around inside.
“Hello?”
A young man jumped at the sound, and hurried to the door. “Man, who the fuck are you, man?” he blurted. His black jeans had been washed again and again until they were a pale gray, above them he wore a purple T-shirt that was equally overused. He had gold frame sunglasses perched on his nose, their rose-pink lenses displaying moving graphs and columns of text—Hoshe hadn’t seen anything like them since early in his first life, when they’d briefly been in fashion. But they did complete the geek image, it was hard to imagine him as anything other than a software writer.
“I’m Hoshe, I’m looking for Kareem.”
“Never heard of him, man. Now, I’m kinda busy.”
“Giscard sent me. Giscard Lex. He told me Kareem lived here. I’ve gotta see him, it’s urgent.” He took a thick fold of Oaktier dollar bills from his pocket. “Really urgent.”
The young man licked his lips, eyeing the money greedily. Paula had been right about that, there was always a weak link. It hadn’t even taken Hoshe much effort to find it. He’d run a simple search against every registered partner in the Shansorel Partnership. When none of them had a criminal record, cross-referencing had produced old friends and colleagues who had. Namely Giscard Lex, who’d been Kareem’s classmate at college, where his academic career had been cut short by illegal experimentation in narcoware. A couple of weeks’ casual observation confirmed that the two still saw each other.
Hoshe dropped by on Giscard Lex one evening and was offered everything from dimension-shifting sensory morphware to a couple of girls who’d be sweet on him. At which point Hoshe returned the favor by offering to introduce him to the precinct desk sergeant. Giscard Lex was almost relieved that all he had to do was provide an introduction to Kareem.
“Okay, man,” Kareem said, he looked back down the alley, little OCtattoo lines turned emerald on his ears as he checked for anyone lurking. “Come inside.”
The garage was filled with crates. A bench running along the back was lined with tools that were being cleaned. They were very old-fashioned ones; Hoshe couldn’t see a single power tool among them. He picked up a screwdriver and gave it a close examination while Kareem activated the garage door. The plyplastic closed up with a quiet slurping sound. “Are you an antiques collector? I didn’t even know they still made manual screwdrivers.”
“No, man.” Kareem gave a shifty grin. “This is my survival gear. Ain’t no electricity where I’m going.”
“Where’s that, exactly?”
“Silvergalde, man. I’m gonna live with the elves, me and my girl. They’ll protect their own planet from the Primes. This fucking government won’t, we haven’t even got a force field to cover Darklake City.”
“Right.” People like Kareem were getting wider coverage in the media recently. It was hyped as the Exodus by excitable reporters, though the actual numbers were so small governments didn’t even register them, no more than a few thousand from each planet, and most of them first-lifers. But together there were enough for CST to have to triple the number of trains running to Silvergalde. “What about the navy?”
“Ha! What, like both ships? Fat lot of fucking use they’re gonna be when Hell’s Gateway blows open above Earth, and ten thousand flying saucers carry the demons down to massacre us. They don’t call the giant wormhole that for no reason, you know. Johansson’s Guardians are right, we’re in deep shit, and our corrupt politicians don’t help.”
Coincidence, Hoshe told himself sternly, though it was an unsettling one. “Okay, so are you leaving tonight, or can you help me out?”
Kareem waved a hand at the crates. “I haven’t got everything yet. There’s a lot of medicine and shit I need. Books, too. The paper ones are hard to get hold of these days, and expensive. Did you know Ozzie’s got a library of all human knowledge printed out and stashed away somewhere on his own planet? That’s one guy who’s ready for the apocalypse.”
“So you can help, then?”
“Depends what you want, man.”
“Giscard told me you’re the man to come to for software fixes.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I know some moves. Place I work at, we got us some private teams for solving private problems, you catch?”
“Caught. I’m paying too much tax.”
“Ho, brother, we all do.”
“I own a company that imports spare parts for the auto trade, and the government is killing me for it. I’m just trying to earn a living, feed my family, but those bastards…”
“Yeah, right!”
“What I need is a fix that covers over some of my trading. If I could just shift ten or fifteen percent
of my stock without them penalizing me for it I can keep afloat. What I need is some safe encryption that can resist the Revenue Department’s audit engines so I can run the money through offworld accounts.”
“Sure, I can do that. Hell, I don’t even need to bring the guys in. What accountancy software are you using?”
Hoshe held up a memory crystal disk. “System and network is all in here.”
“Excellent. A man who is prepared, I respect that.” Kareem took the memory crystal and smiled. “That’ll be a grand for a full fix, payable in advance.”
“Two hundred now.” Hoshe slapped the notes into his hand on top of the crystal. “The rest when the installed fix is running.”
“Okay, man, I’m cool with that.” The notes were shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. “Must be my lucky week. This is the second private contract I’ve had.”
“Oh, really?”
…
To the Commonwealth’s general public, it was as if their new navy appeared by magic. One day President Doi announced its formation, and within a week it had become a physical reality. Ships were already being put together over at High Angel; planetary security teams started assembling wormhole detectors on the worlds closest to the Prime threat. Things were safely under control. Even Alessandra Baron was moderately complimentary on her show, though possible tax raises received a detailed analysis.
Admiral Kime was surprised by how smoothly the transition went. Of course, it helped that the personnel and equipment from Anshun had all been transferred to High Angel while he was flying the scouting mission to the Dyson Pair. That left him free to concentrate his staff on the huge expansion of capacity and capability that turning the Agency into the navy entailed. In fact, precisely the kind of large-scale managerial role that had taken up ninety percent of his adult life.
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