by Dani Kollin
“No shit, really?”
“That bottle was one of the few things I managed to get off Earth before the two sides stopped trading with each other. Kirk wouldn’t let it out of quarantine for a month. It may very well have been the last bottle of Springbank in the entire Alliance. How could you just drink it?”
“Ah well, you see, I have this policy,” answered Omad, lips curled churlishly. “I only drink from the bottles that are mostly empty. I figure the full ones may or may not be crap, but the ones that are mostly empty, well, that’s got to be good. Hey, man, if I’d known—”
“—you probably would’ve done it anyway.”
Omad shrugged his shoulders half-apologetically. Justin went to the bar and grabbed the fullest, most generic bottle he could find: a synthetic vodka. He poured two shots. “Here’s to Sergeant Holke. May the three of us drink together before this bottle of crap is finished.” They then downed the shots. The quality of the alcohol was reflected in the facial gymnastics they both displayed as the coarse rotgut made its way down their throats. Wiping his mouth, Justin slid the bottle over to Omad. “Actually, since you drank my best you can take the worst with you.”
Omad laughed. “That is undoubtedly some of the worst crap I’ve ever had the dis plea sure to drink. But I don’t need to take it,” he said, sliding the bottle back across the desk. “I’ve got plenty … most of it decent.”
Justin smiled and slid the bottle back once again toward Omad. “Tell you what, you take it and I promise not to ask too many questions about your relationship with Christina.”
Omad hesitated for just a second too long. “What relationship?”
Justin said nothing, but his smile continued to grow.
“How the hell did you find out anyway?”
“Actually, it was you who gave yourself away. Your conquests had at one time been on both the battlefront and the sexual one. The operative word is had.”
Omad didn’t answer but scrunched his face a bit and considered the facts. When the war started he’d been having as many as four simultaneous affairs going on at once; when he was in port, that is. He never fooled around with subordinates, and since he was usually the highest-ranking officer around, with the exception of J. D. Black, who fleet gospel stated never even thought about sex, he was always limited to port o’ call. But early in the war his excesses had been, well, excessive. At times it was difficult to tell whether he was being criticized or admired by the press, but his spacers had grown to love their debaucherous commander. Finally, even he had to admit the jig was up.
“That obvious?” was all he managed.
Justin nodded. “When a major officer of the fleet behaves in that unpredictable a manner it can only be one of two things, treachery or love.”
“Hey,” said Omad, offended, “who said anything about love?”
“C’mon, Omad. You stopped fooling around with your adoring and willing groupies.”
“Groupies?”
“Slang from my time, ‘partners,’ if you will. Then you volunteer your task force for every resupply run to the 180, as well as shooting the core on more raids than any other two squadron commanders combined.”
“Damsah’s balls, man,” he protested, “that’s just because it’s what I do best.”
“I’m not inclined to argue your skill. But somehow every single time you shoot the core you end up at Altamont. Not always directly, but inevitably.”
“Maybe,” answered Omad with a raised eyebrow and mischievous look, “I like hearing the monks chanting.”
“Finally,” said Justin, ignoring the lame excuse, “you and Christina manage to find hours either alone or when you’re supposedly separate but both are out of contact with your chains of command. A circumstance that only happens to either of you when you’re both in Altamont at the same time.”
Omad sprang from the presidential seat. “You were spying on us!” he said incredulously.
“Of course we were. I’d be stupid not to.”
Omad sat back down, shaking his head in disbelief. “Aren’t you supposed to be like Mr. Morals and Honor Boy?”
“It doesn’t destroy the soul of a civilization to check up on its leaders during war time. And like I said, behavior like that is either treachery or love. So,” asked Justin, once again leaning over his desk, “which is it?”
“You’re gonna make me say the words, aren’t you? You right bastard!”
Justin didn’t move an inch, relishing the moment. “Yup.”
“It’s love,” grumbled Omad as if he’d just admitted to a crime.
“Well, congratulations!” Justin beamed. “Is it the whole deal?”
Omad nodded with a smile full of pride. “After the war we’re gonna get married.”
“Holy crap! I take it back. The UHF has replaced our Omad with a completely different one.”
“Very fucking funny. If I’m taking this kinda of crap from Moral Boy over here, imagine what I’ll have to put up with from the rank and file.”
“A world of hurt, baby,” laughed Justin.
“Yeah. And that’s why we’re trying to keep it quiet for now.”
“Alright, you have my word, and between you and me, friend, you’ve finally got yourself a real good woman.”
“Yeah, Justin, there’s something about her. I mean marriage scares the hell out of me, but the thought of not having Christina in my life scares me a helluva lot more. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I’ve actually found myself going into combat outnumbered three to one literally with a smile on my face.”
“It’s not so crazy,” Justin said, keeping the sudden stab of painful memories out of his voice and eyes. “No fights or problems at all?”
Omad guffawed. “Are you shitting me? This is Admiral Christina ‘Hold the Line’ Sadma. We spend half our time fighting.”
“And the other half making up?”
Omad laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Anyways, she’s insisting that we live on Eris when the war’s over.”
“That seems a little bit out-of-the-way.”
“That’s what I said. Who wants to live on the edge of nowhere?”
“I take it she’s insistent.”
“Damsah, yes! She thinks living in the belt is like building your house in the middle of a G-way. I’ve been refusing to live on the edge of oblivion. So it looks like were going to have to compromise.”
Justin shot Omad a wry smile. “Tell ya what, friend. I’ll try to get out to Eris and visit you from time to time.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Hey, you’re the one who drank my Springbank. I offer up my original deal. You take this crappy vodka,” Justin said, pointing to the bottle on the desk, “and I’ll stop making fun of your love life.”
Omad had a sour expression on his face as he snapped up the bottle. “You’re the President.”
“You couldn’t have remembered that when you were stealing my scotch?”
“Well yeah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to drink it, now would I?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like you, Justin, but you’re not Christina and I’m not sure I’d even let her stand in the way of good liquor.”
“Especially someone else’s.”
“Now you understand me.”
The President has inaugurated the Via Neptunia. This revolutionary method of clearing space has made travel in the Alliance possible at unheralded speeds and has therefore allowed for travel of much shortened durations. The President arrived safely at Neptune’s largest settlement, the moon Triton, after a record four days. The advantage this new technology offers the Alliance in our continuing war against the hordes of the faithless core is still being calculated, but Grand Admiral Sinclair was quoted as saying, “Since the war has begun, the damned UHF has had the advantage of interior lines. This should even it up a bit.”
The President’s arrival in Alliance One coincided with Mar
di Gras. For the first time in four years the outer planets are celebrating Mardi Gras in something approaching prewar style. Some called on the President to speak out against celebrations while the war continues, calling it “a waste of time and resources needed to fight the enemy.” President Cord’s information secretary, Padamir Singh, issued a statement declaring that it would be improper for the President to tell independently operated settlements how to run their affairs. When asked on his arrival on Triton, the President said, “Damsah, if ever a people have earned the right to a party, it’s our citizens. It’s crazy to think celebrating could bring harm to the Alliance. If anything, this is just what we all need. Let’s rock!”
For those of you who have not looked it up yet, “let’s rock” is one of the President’s phrases from the ancient past, meaning “let enjoyment begin.” He will attend various events, including tours of hydrogen-processing centers, governing councils, celebrations, prayer ser vices, and a gala ball, which is being billed as the greatest social event in Neptunian history. It will be concluded with a departure speech and then the President will be off to Saturn, followed by Uranus and, finally, what promises to be the grandest reception of all at the Jovian system.
Kirk Olmstead received a report. It was pretty standard, covering security details for the presidential visit to the outer planets. He put it aside with all the rest coming from the Neptune region and continued his regular routine. It was vital that he did nothing that seemed out of character or even out of order. Any investigation of his actions at this time would have to show that he was simply acting as always. It was only when he’d finished meeting his various section heads and had consulted about his ongoing projects that Kirk retreated to the quiet of his inner office and dimmed the lights. But he didn’t spend the next few hours in total darkness, as was his wont. After fifteen minutes he activated a portable light cell. To the outside world or anyone bothering to ask he was still cloaked in darkness, and he would be for the requisite amount of time. It was important that none of his actions appear suspect. If two hours of darkness was what he got, then today would be no different, whether he needed it or not. By the dim light Kirk reviewed the reports on his DijAssist. But it was the one from an inconsequential officer that he needed most. On the surface it appeared to be nothing but the pedantic ramblings of a minor government bureaucrat preparing a church for a presidential visit, and if that report was dissected and viewed molecule by molecule that was all it would show. But Kirk and this operative had word arrangements that would appear totally normal but would signify vastly different things. When Kirk saw the sentence “The pastor has assured the security detail that the wine was safe,” it told him that the facility orbiting Nereid had been checked out and the necessary steps had been taken. If he’d read “the wine was screened” or “was not tampered with,” it would have meant something entirely different. It was in many respects a perfect code because it was only useful to the ones who made it. As Kirk had heard many times during his years in Special Operations, “you cannot crack what is not there.”
Kirk sighed as he realized that this was it. Up until now he’d had the option of backing out. All he had to do was ignore the report and go about his usual routine and nothing would happen. He was actually surprised at how difficult this was. The truth was, he didn’t like Justin Cord. The Unincorporated Man was an arrogant ass whose delusions of grandeur had caused untold misery to the human race and helped topple Kirk from his vaunted position on the board of GCI. He’d never really forgiven Cord for that, not even when Kirk’s skills and effort had brought him to a position of near-equal power and, he had to finally admit to himself, greater prestige.
But of all of Justin’s official family Kirk was always the outsider, and he knew it. He usually entered meetings alone and left alone. When Justin had him stay behind it was always about some bit of business and never just to socialize. Mosh and his slavish wife, Eleanor, spent so much time at the Gray House they may as well have moved in. Eleanor McKenzie had even been elected to Congress, in no small part due to her connections with Mosh and Justin.
Kirk didn’t mind the power positioning; in fact, he applauded it. Having a loyal subordinate’s wife in Congress was not a bad ploy for Justin. Kirk just wished he’d had a part of the respect that Mosh had, or the deep friendship that Omad brought. Even the new girl, Hildegard Rhunsfeld, seemed to have grown closer to Justin in the few short months she’d been working than Kirk had in his nearly four and a half years at the job.
Still, despite all of his ambivalence toward Justin Cord, Kirk had to admit that he admired him and would’ve liked to feel that Justin felt the same about him.
But after Kirk examined those feelings and even acknowledged them, in the end he knew they made no difference. Kirk could lie to many people, but he tried not to lie to himself. The truth was, Justin could be his own brother and best friend combined and Kirk would still do what he had to do. Justin, however, would not do the “necessary” things a real leader had to do in order to win, and that in turn was going to destroy Kirk’s life. The President had to die. All that was left was laying out the bait.
Even that would not link directly to Kirk. Ever since Hildegard had become the new secretary of technology she’d been looking over all the old files from the research stations of the corporations in the Alliance. Some of them were in actual hard copy—from a time before hard copy signified the highest level of security. Most of those files were deemed of little value. They mainly documented the storing of old prototypes that had failed or experimental findings that were possibly copyrightable but of no real use. But now a report about an old base orbiting the Neptunian moon of Nereid was about to be moved to the top of Hildegard’s stack. Kirk knew that the diligent technology secretary reviewed at least two or three of the top-secret, if dated, reports each morning before she began her day. He also knew that she’d do it more out of curiosity than any actual hope of finding something useful. According to her profile, it gave her a wonderfully sanctimonious reason to peruse the stuff she’d never been allowed to look at when she was just a lowly assistant director.
Kirk spent the rest of his dark meditation forgetting, to the best of his ability, all that he’d done. He put all of the effort of the past weeks into a compartment of his brain. He then filled that time with other activities, activities not involving the confirmation of others. He reviewed the created memories, doing his best to live them over and over again, until all his plotting was in a part of his brain that he’d never access directly. When his time in the dark was up Kirk began his normal routine, including sending off his many directives. He went home and enjoyed an eve ning playing chess with his avatar, and when Kirk came into work the next morning he actually found himself wondering what Hildegard wanted to talk to him about that was so important she’d insisted on coming to see him personally. So complete were his mental preparations that the outer part of his mind was quite surprised by what she’d revealed. That she would swear to when asked about it during the investigation.
They say that it’s a great honor for the President to come to you and an even greater privilege for Neptune to act as my host. Well, I’m the President and let me tell you: Once again they’re wrong. I’ve been invited into your homes and made welcome in your places of relaxation. I’ve been restored and made confident by your places of industry and I’ve been comforted by your places of worship. You may think you’re a small way station in the middle of a vast Alliance. Some may point out that your numbers are insignificant and your contribution to our righteous struggle minimal. But they’d be wrong. What I’ve seen in this station is everything the Alliance stands for, everything the Alliance is, and, in the fullness of time, everything she will become.
I see children born and raised in a freedom that will never know the incorporated collar or hold an incorporated leash.
I grew up learning a mantra of freedom. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all the people are created equal. They are en
dowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights. Amongst these rights are Life, Liberty, and Property.”
What’s been remembered in our great struggle is that people have the right, fundamental and vital, to own property. And it’s a right that must be protected by governments instituted by the people. But what we must never allow ourselves to forget is that people are not, cannot, and now will not be property. That is what this struggle is about. Never again shall we accept whispered promises of ease and security for the liberty that is the birthright of every man, woman, and child in the human race.
We have much to do still. But now we’re asking the right questions. With your help and the help of everyone in the Alliance I promise you we’ll find the answers, together.
May God bless Neptune and all who orbit her.
—President Cord’s last speech
given on the Triton moon of Neptune,
fourth day of Mardi Gras,
fifth year of the war
Justin sighed as he prepared to take the t.o.p. from the surface of Triton to Alliance One circling in high orbit around the moon. He was leaving a little early, but he needed to relax before he went into suspension. The joy of the vias was that you got there quick; the inconvenience was that you needed to be in suspension while you did it. It wasn’t that Justin couldn’t remain active during the constant high-g acceleration and deceleration involved in the Alliance’s rapid-movement system. Modern techniques of cushioning and nano-prepared physiology made it possible, but nothing could make it pleasant. In fact, technicians and pilots who by necessity had to stay aware during the process were becoming acknowledged as having the worst jobs in the Alliance. Fortunately, it had been decided that Justin didn’t need to remain “up” during the trip. If for some reason there was something critical he’d need to attend to, the pilots could always decelerate and bring the President back to awareness—all within an hour’s time.
