“That girl was always mischief,” Ebony said fondly. She and Coral had been like foster parents to Hopie, and loved her little independent ways.
Spirit shook her head. Hopie had certainly reformed the first-grade reader! Her daughter, who had once been so shocked at Hope’s relationship with Amber. Surely Thorley had not been responsible for this suggestion; she must have gotten it from Roulette, who was also mischievously motherly to her. “How did Robertico like it?” Robertico was now four, and learning to read.
“He thought it was great!” Shelia said. “He couldn’t even handle all the words on the one page, but he wanted to get to the part where Dick showed his. ‘See it grow. Big, big, big!’ He can hardly wait to be a man!”
Coral and Ebony almost rolled on the floor laughing. “I can’t wait for the college edition,” Coral said.
Spirit shook her head. If only all the problems of the Tyrancy were like this. But Hopie was a novice at making mischief, compared to Hope.
Jose was Hope’s anonymity, but the competence and personal skills of the man could not be denied, and Jose became known in his own right. When a riot developed in Cago Bubble, and the mob elected a spokesman, lo, it was Jose. Spirit was not completely surprised. Now a mob had taken over the mayor’s office and was holding him and his staff hostage for city reforms, starting with the Pop-Null program. That was the population control program, necessary because bubble space was limited, as were air, water, food, and the other essential aspects of life support. But the ordinary people wanted the right to breed as freely as they chose.
The Cago administration appealed to the Tyrant, and Spirit took the necessary action. Because the mob had threatened to murder the mayor and his staff if any attempt were made to rescue him, and because it had the power and evident incentive to do it, she acted indirectly. A valve was opened in the hull of the city-bubble, and the Jupiter atmosphere started leaking in. It would take some time for the pressure to rise significantly, but there was horror the moment this was announced. The pressure of the external atmosphere was a terror, and any break in the integrity of the hull was alarming. The valve was filtered, so that no actual poisons entered, but still, the threat was potent.
“The valve will be closed when the mayor of Cago and his staff are released unharmed and the offices vacated without vandalism,” the Navy officer in charge of this proceeding announced on the city address system. “By order of the Tyrant, via the Iron Maiden.”
That demonstrated the tough-mindedness of the Tyrancy, as was necessary; no one respected an easy authority. But the mob would not readily relent; it had broad public backing. This was when Jose came to the fore. This was not really his choice, Spirit knew; he was simply the natural choice of those who knew him, so he had been unable to decline. People trusted him.
Contact was made. The White Bubble connected to the screen in the Mayor of Cago’s office. The mayor was shown bound in his chair, and looked somewhat the worse for wear.
“I am Jose Garcia, of Jupiter Bubble,” Hope said. “May I speak to the Tyrant, please?”
The clerk at Spirit’s end kept a straight face. Of course the average citizen could not call in and be put right through to the Tyrant! “One moment, sir; I will put his secretary on.”
Shelia appeared. She, too, kept a straight face, but of course she recognized Hope. “I am Jose Garcia,” he repeated. “I have been selected to negotiate for the City of Cago, and if I could perhaps talk to the Tyrant—”
“The Tyrant is not available at the moment,” Shelia said smoothly. “However, the Iron Maiden may–”
“Not her!” he said quickly. Everyone knew why: the Tyrant was known to be by far the softer touch. Spirit smiled, unseen.
“Then if you will describe your business further, Mr. Garcia, I will try to determine whether a direct interview is warranted.”
“Señora, this is important. Twenty people have died, the mayor is held hostage, and the city is under siege by order of the Tyrant. I must talk to him directly!”
One of the mob leaders whispered to him, evidently urging caution. That was a good sign.
“We are aware of the situation in Cago, Mr. Garcia,” Shelia said. What a pleasure to see her poise! “I can relay your statement to the Tyrant.”
Jose became visibly excited. “More will be killed if something is not done. If the Tyrant cares at all for the common man, as I do ...”
Shelia didn’t respond immediately, taking stock. “Let me check,” she said, glancing down at her console. Then: “The Tyrant is tied up in a meeting he cannot leave at the moment, but he is cognizant of the situation in Cago and will negotiate privately through me, if it can be kept brief. Will your party accede to that, Mr. Garcia?”
Jose turned to the mob leaders. “This is the Tyrant’s personal secretary,” he said. “Is it satisfactory to deal through her?”
The mob leaders exchanged glances. “We care only about results,” one said. “If she can deliver—”
“I repeat,” Shelia said, “the Iron Maiden is available, and has authority to–”
“The secretary’s okay!” a mob leader said. Spirit smiled again. Shelia had such a nice touch.
“The trouble started because of the Pop-Null program,” Jose said to Shelia. “The women here want their babies.”
“If they get their babies,” she replied, “then every other woman on the planet will want hers, and all the ills of overpopulation will return. The Tyrant will not relent on that.”
But Jose had to win a point. “Can the schedule for return be established, so that at least our women know with what they are dealing? The women supported the Tyrant when he sought power, and some reciprocal gesture now—”
Shelia made a show of consulting with her other party. The schedule for the return of babies had already been set but not publicized, pending the appropriate time to announce it.
“The Tyrant agrees that in one year, pending good behavior, permits matching the death rate will be issued in Cago. In two years that will be extended to the nation as a whole.”
There was an intake of breath. Surely the women of Cago would eagerly accept that. But Jose pushed for more. “Those errant police must be put on trial and restoration made.” Behind him the mob members tensed; he had already gotten them much of what they wanted, and they were concerned that he was pushing too far. They were pawns in his expert manipulation.
“The Tyrant will grant permits for births to match the number of deaths resulting from this crisis,” Shelia replied. “An investigation will be made and appropriate action taken.”
“But how can we be sure the Tyrant will keep his word?” he demanded. The implied question about the Tyrant’s integrity was not good protocol.
“We accept!” a mob leader cried, shouldering Jose aside.
“But no action to be taken against the people in this room!” Jose exclaimed. “Amnesty—”
Shelia smiled grimly. “Amnesty,” she agreed. “But I think that if you open your mouth again, Mr. Garcia, the Tyrant may reconsider.” Even the mob leaders laughed ruefully.
That ended the occupation of the mayor’s office. The mob dispersed peacefully, and the valve was closed, with the other reforms following in due course.
Spirit had been ready to intervene if necessary, exactly as threatened. When the contact broke, she walked to Shelia, bent down, and kissed her. “That’s from my brother—and me.”
“It’s fun being Tyrant for fifteen minutes,” Shelia confessed.
But not everything ended well. There was a scandal involving Faith Hubris; she had a lover, and he had used her to obtain illicit appointments. Thorley blew the whistle on it, and they had to act. Hope, distracted by his other business, made the decision to go public before he knew the possible complications, though Shelia had tried to caution him. Faith committed suicide. That was a brutal shock to both Hope and Spirit, but they had to suffer their grief in private. In retrospect, it seemed to have been the first wedge in what was to be
come known as the Tyrant’s Madness.
Spirit did manage to be with Thorley thereafter. “I wish I could assuage your grief,” he said. “And to expunge my part in it. I assumed the matter would be handled privately.”
“It should have been,” she agreed. “But we have so many things going on, we didn’t give it proper thought. It’s not your fault.”
“Still, if I had it to do over, I would choose another avenue. She was a good woman, guilty only of naïveté.”
“As were we all!” she agreed emphatically. “All this time, it was my brother’s death I feared. It never occurred to me that my sister would be the first to go.”
“All this time, it has been your demise I feared. I have survived living apart from you; I do not think I could exist without you.”
“Spoken like a true married man,” she said bitterly. Then, immediately regretting the wound she was inflicting, she reversed. “I didn’t mean that!”
“It is nevertheless true. I am a hypocrite. I do love my wife, but–”
She covered his mouth with her fingers. “I know you do. We are caught up in what we should never have started and now can’t end. If I could go back—”
“You would unmake your daughter?”
And there went that. “No, of course not. Can we escape in mindless passion for a moment?”
They did that, but it was effective for only that moment before the grief returned.
Then came the hostage situation. A radical fringe group abducted a Jupiter ambassador and held him hostage, demanding release of what it called political prisoners.
“What’s the word on those prisoners?” Spirit asked Shelia.
In moments Shelia had the information. “They are common criminals, guilty of assorted crimes including attempted murder. They are slated for terms in deep space. It would not be fair to release them.”
“It would not be expedient in any event,” Spirit said grimly. “The Tyrancy will not capitulate to terrorist threats.”
Shelia sent the Tyrant’s response, via the Iron Maiden: no releases. Set the ambassador free unhurt, or there would be repercussions.
The terrorists were not fazed. They sent a holo: A hooded man cutting off one ear of the bound ambassador as he screamed in agony. “Release the prisoners.”
Spirit knew this called for stern measures—a demonstration of the Iron Maiden’s implacable will. An example had to be made. What would be most effective? She put in a call to QVY: “How do we handle this?”
Reba Ward responded with tough advice. Spirit nodded. It would not be fun, but the alternative would be anarchy.
Within hours close relatives of the terrorists had been quietly taken into custody. Then, under Spirit’s direction, the left hands of two of them were cut off. That holo was sent back to the terrorists, together with the hands. Two for one: the Iron Maiden’s ratio. Next round, anyone?
It was amazing how quickly the terrorists capitulated. And though that action was not directly publicized, news did leak out. “The Iron Maiden has struck again,” Thorley wrote disapprovingly. “Nevertheless, the sympathy of this pundit is limited for fools. What did they expect? The Iron Maiden is notorious. She had a well-earned reputation in the Navy for ruthless nerve, providing the backbone that her more flamboyant brother lacked. But perhaps the operative example was one of the earliest: when she was but a girl of twelve, a pirate raped her sister and cut off the Maiden’s own finger to make her brother cooperate. She got a laser pistol and castrated him, then set him adrift alone in a lifecraft. Woe betide he who crosses the Iron Maiden.” In the guise of blowing the whistle on another atrocity of the Tyrancy, Thorley was doing the Tyrancy’s work, spreading the fear of its enforcer.
And across the planet, and indeed the System, the grim reputation of the Iron Maiden increased. Thorley was one of the few who understood that though Spirit did indeed have the nerve to do what she had to do, she hated the necessity. She cultivated the reputation while privately suffering. Only with Thorley himself could she revel in softness, and that only rarely, because they were both public figures.
It was more than five years before the worst tragedy occurred, but in a way it seemed like an instant to Spirit. It started with what was known as Big Iron. The iron companies had grown rich and powerful in fair times and foul, because they controlled the single most vital substance in the System: the magnetic-power metal, iron. It was the only matter that could be handled magnetically. Without it the mechanized civilization would grind to a halt. The metal was intrinsically inexpensive, but somehow its value magnified by the time it reached the black-hole labs for conversion to contra-terrene iron. The same magnets could handle CT iron, moving it without physical contact with any terrene matter, until the time came for its merging with normal iron and total conversion to energy. Iron furnaces provided the energy for every city bubble to function, including its null-gee shielding. Iron engines propelled the Navy space ships. So far, all things considered, nothing better had been found than iron.
Mars had gotten rich by raising the price of its iron as high as the market would bear, with seeming indifference to the hardships worked on poor planets sorely in need of energy. But it was not the only culprit. The Jupiter iron companies also profited considerably by their handling of Martian iron, because they simply raised their prices to accommodate the higher Mars prices and added a generous margin for profit. More billionaires had been made from iron in the past century than from any other trade.
But the Tyrancy nationalized one of the iron processors, the Planetary Iron Company, or Planico. With that lever, it was forcing Big Iron to moderate its predatory practices, and making a formidable enemy. Soon Big Iron struck back.
The iron companies approached the Tyrant forthrightly: they believed he misunderstood their position, and they wanted to clarify it. Hope did not trust this, but it behooved him to listen, so he agreed to a meeting. This was not a physical meeting, of course; he had learned his lesson with the senators. It was set up with holo: an image of each iron exec was to be projected to the White Bubble, while the actual execs remained in New Wash, close enough so that transmission of the images was virtually instantaneous. This was really just about as good for such meetings as physical presence was, and far safer for Hope.
Thus he was physically present in the Oval Office, along with Shelia and Coral, who confined themselves to the background. Spirit was watching from another chamber, as usual, ready to act if anything went awry. There were seats around the table for six iron execs, and another for Gerald Phist, who also projected in for the occasion. He was the one in charge of industry, including the iron industry, and Hope wanted Gerald to backstop him. He knew the iron magnates would be hurling statistics at him, and he wanted competent refutation at hand.
This setup had the incidental benefit of putting Gerald and Spirit together via a closed circuit. They had been in love when married, and retained considerable feeling for each other. She had long since told him of her relationship with Thorley, knowing that neither he nor Roulette would betray that secret. They had of course caught on that Spirit was the mother, rather than Hope the father, so it was only half a secret for them. So Gerald and Spirit found quiet pleasure in each other’s virtual company, while conducting the business of the Tyrancy.
The Iron magnates appeared on schedule. Abruptly the seats were filled, and it looked exactly like a physical meeting. The leaders of Energiron, Spacirco, Rediron, Jupico, Standard Iron, and Abyss Metals. Of course, they sat at similar tables in their own offices, so that when their hands touched the surface, they did not hover above it or penetrate it; they were precisely zeroed in.
“What, gentlemen, is your concern?” Hope inquired evenly.
“We feel that you have underestimated the importance of the profit system,” the exec from Standard Iron said. “By forcing us to cut down our margins, you reduce our competitive viability on the System scale. We can no longer expend the same resources for iron exploration that Mars can, and
that is not only bad for us, it is bad for Jupiter.”
“What’s good for Standard Iron is good for Jupiter,” Phist murmured sardonically. He was old now and getting crusty, but his mind remained sharp.
The exec grimaced. “Laugh if you will, but there is some truth in that.”
“You forget that we nationalized Planico,” Hope cut in. “We finally got to the bottom of the iron industry finances. You have been defrauding the public for centuries.”
The executive reddened. “That is purely a matter of interpretation! If you insist on defining a reasonable return on investment as—-”
The Iron Maiden Page 31
