Command Decision

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Your father—”

  “Apparently accepted Enforcement’s view of our military might.”

  “Were you…uh…in another military while you were…uh…gone? Is that how you know so much?”

  Rafe laughed. “No, I’m not soldier material. But despite folk mythology that you have to do it to understand it, even the sterile can understand how babies get made, and even a pacifist can understand supply, tactics, and the chain of command.” Emil looked shocked this time; Rafe sighed and excised the irony from his tone. “I had a friend who was a soldier,” he said instead. “I learned a lot by listening.”

  “Oh. All right. But if ISC is so vulnerable, what are you going to do about it?”

  That was the sticker. “I’m not sure,” Rafe said. “It will probably involve, like most things military, a lot of misdirection and the expenditure of enough money to make Accounting blench. Hopefully no one will find out how feeble our resources are until we’ve had time to strengthen them, but we can’t count on that. Parmina may have taken the reports at face value, like my father, or he may have known how weak we are—and if he knew, he might have told his pirate allies, or he might have kept it to himself, something he could use later on. We have to assume, worst case, that the pirates do know. At the moment, I’m sending you down to Enforcement to hand-carry a note to Squires that she’s to come up here. You will not—repeat after me, not—tell her what I’ve been telling you.”

  Emil nodded and left. Rafe felt like sneaking out and disappearing into the snow, which had now thickened to blizzard proportions. The task was too big, the difficulties too many and too complex. He was fit for the little jobs, not this one.

  But here he was, mired in an expensive suit in a vast office where most people seemed to think the purpose of their job was to feed him comfortable lies. He looked at the notes Emil had put on his schedule. Meetings with a cabinet official at 1100, with another government department head at 1300, with the senior representative of Crown & Spears at 1500. They all wanted to meet him, get to know him, tell him how much they respected his father and how sorry they were and if they had only known…or so yesterday’s meetings had gone.

  And all because of ISC’s reputation as a powerful, necessary monopoly, which was now—though they didn’t know it yet—shattered and gone: that incredible wealth, that reputation for toughness and strength. When they found out how hollow the gold statue really was, he knew who would get the blame. The old man’s son, the bad boy who wasn’t, after all, up to the job.

  He knew what to do—unpopular as it would be with the Board, the bankers, the government. If he called Stella himself, he could probably get her to deal with him, maybe even put out the shipboard ansibles under ISC’s label, which would give them an immediate market advantage. But—could he do it? Would the Board back him? Would his father?

  Cascadia Station

  Stella Vatta listened to the lawyer’s recitation of ISC’s delaying tactics with mounting anger. “I thought it was illegal now to register patents in obscure jurisdictions—”

  “It’s supposed to be, certainly, though it was common practice before the Commercial Code was approved. And Nexus is a signatory to the code, so it should apply to ISC for all patents issued within the past hundred-and-seventy-odd years. I’ve searched all the relevant databases; no patents relating to shipboard ansibles are in any of the five systems where patents are supposed to be registered. But ISC’s legal department claims that some of the technology could have been patented before adoption of the code, or could have been registered remotely, as their research labs are widely scattered—but they won’t tell me where, for reasons of security, they say.”

  “I’ll bet they don’t even have patents,” Stella said.

  “I find that hard to credit,” the lawyer said. Like all Cascadian attorneys, he was studiously courteous.

  “If they had patents, they’d be eagerly telling us what they were,” Stella said. “I don’t think they’ve lost them; I think they never had them. Rafe said they were practically paranoid about secrecy, and were convinced that the technology involved would endanger their monopoly. They’d know about patent searches; they’d be worried someone could figure out how to pirate the tech, produce it remotely somewhere—”

  “Then, if you’re convinced of that, let’s go on and apply for patents here,” the lawyer said. “From the little you’ve told me, this is revolutionary stuff.”

  “It will blow the top off communications,” Stella said. “And it’s time you knew all about it.” She took a data cube out of the pocket of her suit. “Here. Look at this on my machine, right here.” She handed it to him, then sat back and watched as he read from the screen.

  “Oh…my…trees and leaves and roots and branches,” he said. “This really works?”

  “The pirates have the old form,” Stella said. “The stuff that someone stole from ISC’s research lab—don’t know who, or when, or how. We’ve improved it considerably, as you see.”

  “It makes system ansibles obsolete,” the lawyer said. “Or almost.”

  “Not really,” Stella said. “All regular communications nets tie into them—planetary and station communications, for instance. What this does is give ships the ability to go ship-to-ship even when a system ansible doesn’t exist, and ship-to-ansible at distances where lightspeed communication to and from a system ansible is slow and difficult. System ansibles will still carry most traffic.”

  “But if they can be mounted on ships, they can be mounted anywhere—on stations, even in offices and homes.”

  “True. But I still think the existing communications networks will keep system ansibles in business.”

  “You need to apply for patents right away,” the attorney said. “Today. Is this the only complete dataset?”

  “No. But it’s the only one that’s out of secure storage.”

  “I assume you’d rather I didn’t take it with me?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then I’ll contact my office, download the appropriate forms, and—may I see one of these in operation?”

  “Yes, of course. We do in fact have one here.” Stella took back the data cube and led him into the back office, which now connected to the “research lab” where Toby worked. She had finally gotten all the parts out of their apartment living room. Toby looked up from his workbench; Rascal, at his feet, looked up, then lay his nose back on Toby’s foot.

  “Toby, we need a demonstration. What’s the time in Aunt Grace’s office?”

  “I’ll look it up,” Toby said.

  “Conventionally, I’d use a regular long-distance service, call the system ansible, and set up a call to Slotter Key’s ansible. That ansible would route my call through local call centers to the code number I specified. There would be delay at both ends, attenuated by something ISC refers to as a ‘system booster’ to near-natural conversational pauses. From the effect, we’re guessing these are smaller, less powerful ansibles placed in orbiting satellites, but we don’t actually know.”

  “Nine in the morning,” Toby said. “We’re back in sync for the next few days.”

  “Slotter Key’s rotation isn’t the same as the standard day length here,” Stella explained. “But we’re lucky, because I can call Aunt Grace right now. In fact, we’ll place two calls—one by conventional, and one using our own ansible—and you can observe the difference. Toby, you start the connection on my mark. I’ll be calling on the ordinary one.”

  Stella picked up the desk phone, said “Now” to Toby, and entered the origination codes for an ansible call to Slotter Key. She handed the headset to the attorney so he could hear for himself the familiar clicks and buzzes that went with an ansible call. The status lights went from red to green, and there was a brief display of Slotter Key’s logo.

  “She says what do you want, she’s busy,” Toby reported, from his side of the room.

  “I’ll take that,” Stella said as she heard a voice on the attorney’s headset.
>
  To that one, she said, “I’m Stella Vatta, calling for Grace Vatta. I know she’s on another line, but ask her to confirm that the other line is an ansible call from Vatta Transport headquarters.”

  The attorney listened in as a male voice came back on. “Yes, she is on such a call. What’s going on?”

  “Just a test of our equipment,” Stella said. “Tell her Stella sends her love and things are looking up.”

  She walked across the room and gestured Toby aside; he was pink to the ears. Aunt Grace, who had turned on her video pickup, glared out of the screen.

  “Stella! What are you playing at? Why two calls on two lines from your office?”

  “Good news,” Stella said. “But I can’t give you details yet.”

  “Young lady—”

  “There are a few legal threads to tie down,” Stella said. “And that’s all I can say.”

  “You were born a tease,” Grace said, still scowling. “So—how’s the business?”

  “Growing,” Stella said. “No more ships lost, and the ones we have are moving at ninety-seven percent capacity. And how are things on Slotter Key?”

  “Calm,” Grace said. “Except of course where I’ve been stirring the pot. Your mother and Jo’s children are fine—growing like weeds and showing every sign of being Vattas to the core. Anything else? I do have a full day, and I’m already running behind.”

  “No, that’s it. Thanks, Aunt Grace.” Stella cut the connection and looked at her attorney.

  “Most impressive. I’ll certainly be able to attest to the efficacy of the device. So if you’ll let me have a terminal, I’ll get busy. We should be able to file for patents today, as organized as your data are.” In his eagerness, he spoke almost as directly as a non-Cascadian.

  “Good.” Stella led him back to the main offices, installed him at a terminal in her own, and left him to it. A few hours later, he called her in and presented a sheaf of hardcopy for her to sign.

  “And what name did you want those patents in? Vatta Transport?”

  “No. Toby did the work; he should get the credit.”

  He shook his head. “He didn’t do all the work; you said he started with the pirated design. I’d recommend Vatta Transport for the rest, with Toby—if you insist; he’s still a minor in law, and you as his guardian could be named instead—listed only for those things he actually designed himself.”

  Stella agreed. Even if he held only those patents, he would be secure for life, assuming the pirates didn’t blow them all away.

  By the close of business, the patent applications were filed: “Patents Relating to the Design of a Working Prototype of a Small Ansible-Based Communications Device Mountable on a Ship and Interfacing with Existing System-Ansible-Based Communications Networks.” The Moscoe Confederation, as one of the five systems in which patents were registered for recognition under the Uniform Commercial Code, had a reputation for speedy processing, but Stella was surprised at how fast that could be. Shortly before mid-first-shift the next day, her assistant told her she had an incoming call from planetside.

  “Stella Vatta?” The man on the screen wore a Patents Office shield clipped to his lapel.

  “Yes,” Stella said.

  “We have examined your…remarkable patent application. I see you took the advice of Brinkles, Patrick, and Stansted as intellectual property attorneys…”

  “Yes,” Stella said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Not at all. They have an excellent reputation; I’m sure that if they say a search for prior patents was made, they did in fact make it. And I see that your attorney attests that he personally observed the…er…device in operation and is satisfied that it does in fact work as claimed. I did have a few questions for you. Were you planning to manufacture the device in this jurisdiction?”

  “Yes,” Stella said.

  “And were you planning to manufacture and sell the device without ISC knowledge?”

  “Without their knowledge? Not at all. We had asked them, when we couldn’t find any record of patents they might have held…so they know what we’re doing.”

  “I see. And were you planning to manufacture and sell the device under the name of Vatta Transport?”

  “No; I planned to designate a separate entity for that.”

  “Very well. I am pleased to tell you that we were all impressed by the…device, and its likely scope for manufacture and sale. We would expect a reaction from ISC, of course, but the device could benefit many, which…is another reason to approve the application. I will forward the relevant numbers and papers at once, and proceed with registration. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Stella said. She could hardly catch her breath. It had worked. It had worked, and so fast. It wasn’t, she reminded herself, anything but a start—but it was a strong start.

  She found Toby glowering at a monitor. “Aunt Stella, I only made eighty-seven on my history exam. And I think I was right.”

  “On what?”

  “First Expansion was from Old Earth to its system satellites, right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “And Second Expansion was from Old Solar to Central Sector only?”

  Stella shrugged. “I don’t know, Toby. I don’t remember. And anyway, we have something to celebrate.”

  “If I don’t get a higher grade in history, Zori Louarri will beat me out for class honors,” Toby said.

  Stella paused. Toby had been topping his class easily until now, and he’d shown no interest in class honors. She’d urged him to find friends, go places with other kids—which he sometimes did—but mostly he stayed in the lab, working.

  “Who’s Zori Louarri?” she asked.

  “She’s…just a girl,” Toby said, going pink.

  Even geniuses had hormones. And he was still a teenager. Stella sighed to herself; being Toby’s guardian might turn out to be more of a challenge than she’d thought.

  “Why don’t we go out to lunch, and you can tell me more about her?” she said.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Toby said, sliding off the stool. “She was top of the class before I got here; everybody likes her except the doormops—”

  “Doormops?”

  “You know. Kids that don’t like anybody but each other.”

  “What does she look like?” Stella asked, leading the way out of the offices, and tapping her wrist to indicate lunchtime to the receptionist.

  Toby turned pinker. “She’s…kind of…well, she’s a girl, you know. She has soft hair. And…and things…”

  He was sunk. He was completely sunk. Stella remembered, all too well, her own first crush. It had been the boy’s jawline, just that angular, bony shape, which made her knees weak. And Toby was old enough for it to be more than a simple crush.

  Phrase by broken phrase, on the way to the restaurant where she’d made reservations, Toby told her more than enough to make Stella both sympathetic and amused. Zori was smart, she had a laugh that made everybody laugh, the “soft hair” was thick and black and shiny, she had eyes as black as her hair, she played on the wally team—wally, Toby explained when Stella asked, was a ball game where you bounced two balls off the walls of a small room and scored by a complicated system that made no sense to Stella, even after explanation.

  “And her family’s been here since forever, and they don’t like newcomers that much, but Zori’s nice to them anyway—”

  “I’ll have the mock duck à l’orange,” Stella said to the woman in the black smock. “Toby?”

  “Oh. Anything—” He looked at the menu finally. “Can I have that lamb thing, Aunt Stella?”

  “Of course, dear. I said this was a celebration.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Rack of lamb,” she said to the waitress. “And we’ll want dessert later,” she added, grinning at Toby.

  When the waitress had gone, she leaned closer to him. “We have the patents,” she said.

  His face lit
up. “All of them? Already?”

  “Yes. And the ones you invented are in your name; the rest are in Vatta Enterprises.”

  “Is it going to make us rich?”

  “Toby, we are rich. Compared with most people, anyway. But yes, it will make us a lot richer. If I don’t do something stupid.”

  “You won’t do anything stupid, Aunt Stella,” Toby said. “You’re much smarter than you think.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Toby,” Stella said, her mind racing ahead to all the things she had to do to get the ansibles into production, through sales, before the profits she hoped for would roll in.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Nexus II,

  ISC Headquarters

  Rafe glanced at the windows of his office. A lowering gray sky, the warm, almost brownish, tone that meant more snow was on the way. Winter in Nexus City…not a favorite time of year at all. But he had vanquished Parmina and many of his stooges; he had the board’s acquiescence, if not their approval, for the licensing negotiations with Vatta Enterprises.

  “Emil?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Check with Enforcement and make sure they’ve sent that message rescinding threats to…whatever that place is where…Space Defense Force is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And get their chief up here. We need to have a serious talk.” Rafe looked at the sealed message from Termanian and turned it over and over. He could anticipate what it said, and reading it would only reinforce his own bias about the man. He didn’t need biases; he needed clear thinking. Had the man said anything, done anything, that had value he should recognize? He looked at the window again and saw the first flakes drifting past.

  “Sir? They said they sent the message, but they couldn’t stop the ships…”