by Holly Lisle
He put the pen down and looked up at her again. "If it's so easy, Ms. Samuels, why aren't McDonnell-Douglas and Boeing building spaceships?"
Rhea smiled. "I said we don't need to invent ten new things everyday. We did have to invent one new thing—our MULE drive. They don't have that because they don't have me."
"You know what our physicists tell me about your MULE? They say it's fundamentally impossible for it to work." Roberts reached into his pocket again. "I have a signed statement here from one of them, promising to pay me one million dollars if it ever lifts so much as a feather."
"Hold on to that," Rhea told him.
"Oh, I intend to," Roberts said, "but the fact remains that the keystone of your whole structure seems a little loose."
Rhea shrugged, "What can I tell you? The MULE is a trade secret and I'm not going to explain it. I will say that we've seen a lot of things here in North Carolina over the past two years that are 'fundamentally impossible,' and that once you know something can be done, duplicating it gets a lot easier. You can check my publication record. Anyone without an ax to grind will tell you I do brilliant physics."
"I have, and they did. That's the only reason I'm here today—the quality of you and your people." He put down his pen. "Okay, let's take success as a given. What's the business case? You aren't offering stock—how is TRITEL going to make money by flying around in a spaceship?"
Rhea sighed. He'd watched the presentation, and she knew full well he'd been paying attention. Now he wanted to hear her sell, to know that she could pull in other investors. She couldn't blame him, but that didn't make the thousandth sales pitch any more fun.
"Let's start with satellites," she said. "With the communications and Net explosions, there are whole continents severely underserved with comsats."
"You can cover the world with four birds in Clarke orbits," Roberts said.
Rhea sat forward. He was feeding her lines. Was he already sold? "And two plus two equals five, for large instances of two. Just being able to see the birds doesn't say anything about capacity. Clarke orbits are too damned high. It's absolutely critical for voice traffic and even for lots of data traffic to keep transit delay to a minimum. The phone company that can offer satellite shots where you don't talk on top of each other is going to clean up. We need little birds in low orbits, and we need lots of them."
"Well, why don't I just contract with NASA, the French, or the Russians to place them for me?"
"How much does a satellite cost?"
"Well—"
"Too much. Too much because you have to build in quadruple redundancy, and you know you can't fix anything. We will go up there with a screwdriver if that's what it takes. Invest in us and you get cheap satellites and free launches."
He held up a hand to stop her. "Okay. Satellites. What else?"
"Crystals, semiconductors, superconductors, drugs, raw materials from the asteroids, tourism..."
"Pretty blue-sky stuff," he said.
Rhea dropped her guard a fraction. She was nearly sure he wanted to be convinced. "We sell the facilities, the rest will follow. We will make money on it, and—" She paused.
"And?"
"And it will save the world," she said quietly.
He studied her, his expression, for just a fleeting instant, open and quizzical and startled. "Have you ever sold the moon, Ms. Samuels?"
"What?"
"Never mind."
He made one more note on his penscreen, full of herself... justified?, then closed it with a snap. "Why don't you show me around your facility."
Chapter 8
Memo:
From: Lucifer, Lord of the Damned, Grand Inquisitor, Father of Lies, Originator of Sin, etc., etc.
To: Putrid Pustule—Division of Law and Disorder
Putrid,
I want LOOPHOLES, damn you, and I want them now! Tear this document apart if you have to, but find me every possible way that we can cheat this.
Lucifer
encl.: Rules governing Operation Tarheel
From:honorial@data_proc.chrstn.hvn.aftrlif.net (Honorial, Chief of Data Processing, HeavenNet)
Received:fromhellex.hellwire.info.netby x1.hellwire.info.netfor
Received from HEAVEN.aftrlif.net by x1.hellwire.info.net; Fri, 8, Oct 14:17:41 -0500
Returnpath:[email protected]
To:[email protected]
Subject: Operation Tarheel
Message-ID:<9605181666.ZZ131313HEAVEN.aftrlif.net>
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Command from On High
By order of the God of Heaven and Earth, Creator of All Things, Eternal Parent of the Infinities, Bringer of Joy and Hope, Master of all the Realms—
O fallen angel who is anathema to me, you whose name shall not pass my lips until you have humbled yourself before me—
By my order and on my express command and through the intercession of my daughter, Dayne Teresa Kuttner, you shall send forth out of Hell, under my parole, exactly fifty-eight thousand eight hundred fifty-one fallen angels, devils, demons, and assorted members of the lower orders of Hell's crawling vermin into the state of North Carolina—this number being exactly one one-hundredth of the human population in that state at the instant of my reckoning.
Unchained denizens of Hell must obey the following rules:
—They will neither inflict, nor pay to have inflicted, any physical harm on any human.
—They will not parent a child with a human, either with or without the human's consent.
—They will not steal by supernatural means.
—They will not cause any disease or plague, nor will they act as the agents through which any disease or plague is transmitted.
—They will not impersonate a minister, God, or angel of God, or any divine messenger of God.
—They will not cause any virgin births.
—They will not leave the State of North Carolina.
The Unchained denizens of Hell may:
—Lie, tempt, deceive, mislead, and otherwise carry out the usual agenda of Hell.
—Impersonate human beings if that is within their nature and capacity.
—Own property, become citizens, hold offices, own and operate legal businesses, marry humans—if the humans are apprised of their true nature beforehand and no intimidation is used—and in all other legal ways approved by the State of North Carolina attempt to achieve a normal life on Earth.
—Enter into binding contracts with human beings—with one of the two following stipulations:
1-The human must be fully apprised of the nature of the contract and the nature of all parties involved in the contract; or,
2-The human must sign the contract with his own blood. (Percentage of blood to inert materials not specified; blood must be less than twenty-four hours old in Earth-sequential time only, as per previous agreements between Heaven and Hell; human must know that blood has been drawn; no blood from blood donorship or other merciful blood collection agencies, or from accidents and injuries may be used.)
—Repent.
Unchained denizens of Hell must:
—Eat and drink mortal food, or their Earthly bodies will wither and fail, and they will have to pay Heaven for new ones. Heaven will charge a cost-per-body fee plus punitive wastage tax for any Earthly bodies above and beyond the one that will be issued free from Heaven per Hell-soul at the time of exit from Hell—this will be collected by the usual revenue methods. These Heaven-issued Earth-bodies will be indistinguishable from the individual Hellspawn's normal form and will have all the Hellspawn's usual abilities excluding those which would run counter to the above decrees.
—Obtain their sustenance in the normal mortal way—that is, by growing food or paying for it with cash or barter.
* * *
Jack was bent over the fried modulator board with a jeweler's loupe in his eye, obli
vious to the world, when someone tapped him on the back. He jumped, almost falling off his lab stool. "Don't do that!" he said, and then, "Oh, hi, Rhea."
His boss was standing there with a man Jack had never seen before. He was wearing a suit, but he looked intelligent. Rhea was wearing shoes, so it must be important. Jack stood up and brushed himself off, bits of wire and insulation falling to the floor.
"Jack, this is Al Roberts from TRITEL," Rhea said. "Al, meet Jack Halloran."
Roberts held out his hand and Jack took it. "Pleased to meet you," he said.
"Likewise," said Roberts. His grip was firm. "So you're Jack Halloran."
"Um, yes."
"I've followed your career," Roberts continued. "That was some dynamite work you and your team did for NCR on the SART project. Too bad about what happened."
"Yeah," Jack said. "It was the worst management and marketing screw-up since Xerox PARC, but we all got published and some of the technology is finally catching on. I think your company even puts out some of the SART stuff in your high-end line."
"The Ultinea, yes. So how do you feel about management here at Celestial?"
He laughed. "What do you expect me to say? She's standing right behind you. I'll put it this way, I've been here almost two years, and I'm not planning to leave."
Roberts nodded. "And what are you working on now?" Jack looked at Rhea, who nodded. He pointed to the trolley, which was still hooked to its guidewire, although he had ripped most of the electronics from the platform. "That's our MULE prototype."
"And does it move?"
"Only when I give it a good shove." Oops, Rhea was shaking her head violently. "But, ah, I've nearly got that worked out."
Chapter 9
Glibspet didn't have a secretary, and he didn't want one. Not again. The women up here got upset about the simplest little things, like his grabbing a handful when they were bent over the copier, or when they noticed that peephole in the john. Sometimes they reported him. He could deal with the law—that wasn't the problem. The problem was having all his mail misfiled, having his calls rerouted, and handing out business cards that read Glibfink Infestations for weeks before taking the time to read one. Truly, Hell's office had no fury like a secretary scorned. Still, if he'd had a secretary, he might have gotten some warning before stepping into his office and coming face to face with three of the Fallen.
One was seated at his desk, while the other two flanked him like bookends. That book would never be a bestseller. "Sit down, Glippet," the one behind the desk said, and Glibspet felt an invisible hand grip him and press down hard. His knees bent and he sank into that damned visitor's chair. He dropped the bag of Twinkies he'd been carrying and the Twinkies jumped from the torn top in a high-fat stampede. The invisible hand let him go then, but he knew better than to get up. A prudent devil didn't mess with the Fallen.
Glibspet studied the three, trying to place them in the Hierarchy. All of them were in human form, and radiantly beautiful. Two of them were manifesting as males; those he pegged after a moment as Venifar, who was standing, and Kellubrae, who had taken over his desk. The third had chosen a female persona, and looked like Grace Jones, but as far as he knew, Grace Jones was still alive—though maybe he'd been out of touch too long. He couldn't place her... but he could think of where he'd like to place her.
"What do you want?" Glibspet asked finally, when it became apparent that none of them were going to say anything.
"We've got a job for you, Glippet," Kellubrae said.
Glibspet squirmed on the chair. "That's Glibspet," he said.
"Whatever," Kellubrae shrugged. "You're supposed to be a detective—we need you to find somebody."
"Well, find him yourself," Glibspet snapped. "I've got all the work I need." Even as he said it, though, his mind started spinning furiously. Devils didn't mess with the Fallen... back in Hell, anyway. But they needed him for some reason. And if they needed him, that meant that in some way he didn't yet understand, he already held the upper hand. All he had to do was figure out why.
The Grace Jones lookalike spoke for the first time. "Glubsput, dear... Lucifer is personally interested in this matter." Her voice was honey golden, and her smile drew his eyes irresistibly to her form, which was ripe and suddenly seemed to promise so much. She sauntered towards him, and he smelled roses. "Trust me, little devil. You want to help us. The rewards for success will be—considerable."
Glibspet's trousers grew tight, and as quick as that, he was furious. He'd done enough manipulating to figure out when he was on the other end of a well-played line. He stood up and faced the Fallen. "I can get my own women now, thank you. I may have to pay most of the time, but it's not like at home where you and the leccubi get all the action and down in the trenches we don't even get the smell of a piece of ass for thousands of years. I work for money, and lots of it. If you've got it, I'll find this guy for you. If you think you're going to get a freebie, though, bugger off—I've got paying clients."
"Have a care, Glibspet," Venifar said. "The terms of the Unchaining may limit the Hierarchy's power here, but you will rotate back down someday."
"Yeah, and maybe the Hierarchy will have changed by then." Glibspet held his ground. "It's not like the upper levels are known for stability. Take my offer or leave it—you can pay me lots of money, or you can sniff your victim out alone." The invisible hand clutched Glibspet again, but it did not crush him, and he stared Venifar straight in the eyes.
There was some kind of communication between the Fallen then, and the invisible hand loosened. "All right," Kellubrae said. "Your terms—for now. What you have to do..."
"Wait a second," Glibspet said. "My terms are, I sit in my chair, with you on the other side of my desk. Move it." He walked over to his chair and shook it. Kellubrae gave him a look that promised many things, all of them unpleasant, but the fallen angel moved. Glibspet sat down and put his feet up on the desk. "Hey, sweet tits," he said, "toss me a Twinkie."
Chapter 10
Rhea was starting to feel like the Parisian who had never been to the Eiffel Tower. She had never seen her company in quite the way she was seeing it today. She thought she had taken Roberts to every room in the Celestial building with the exception of the women's restrooms, and she wouldn't have been too surprised if he had asked to see those. She was aware of her toes now, too; ten individual little beacons of unhappiness, hemmed in by her shoes. Rhea was of the firm opinion that toes should stay incommunicado unless they were immersed in lush green grass, or were being sucked on by a thoughtful friend. This was definitely neither case, and she wondered briefly if she could come up with some logical reason to ban shoes from the building without seeming too strange to trust with other people's money.
To prevent static buildup maybe, or as a requirement from some Japanese investors.
No, probably not.
Roberts was still going strong. He insisted on sticking his head into every office, and asking questions of whomever he found there. Some of those questions were amazingly perceptive, and showed a detailed knowledge of the person's career or field. Others struck Rhea as asinine: he asked Jan how she felt about WordPerfect, and asked Marketing's opinion about the president's new budget. She soon realized, though, that he was learning an awful lot. Maybe more than she really wanted him to. As the afternoon wore on, she tried several times to guide him up to her office, but he always wanted to make just one more stop. The man was indefatigable—Rhea was too, but she wanted out of those shoes and she did have paperwork that had to be done. Of course, she reminded herself, if Roberts didn't like what he saw, there wouldn't be any need to finish the paperwork.
Finally he let her lead him back upstairs.
"Make yourself comfortable," Rhea said. "The couch isn't bad."
Roberts seated himself, and looked out over Burden Creek. "Nice view," he said.
It was, but Rhea was still in no mood to appreciate it. "So, Mr. Roberts," she asked, "what do you think about my company?"
"That's a fair question." Roberts crossed left ankle over right knee and leaned back. He laced his fingers together and tucked them behind his head. It was the classic male-spreading-out-and-claiming-territory gesture. He wanted to convince her that she needed to listen to him. Subconsciously, he was trying to establish dominance. She kept her smile to herself. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it. He said, "All right then. Here's my answer. You've got a company of top-notch, dedicated people, all of whom want very much for your enterprise to succeed. Most of them are very worried that it won't. I think, Ms. Samuels, that your company is worth investing in, and that you need that investment a lot more today than when you set up this appointment."
"That's true," Rhea admitted, "I won't pretend it isn't, but by the same token, the return to TRITEL goes up with your investment."
"If you succeed."
"When we succeed," Rhea said fiercely. She stood up and walked to the window.
"I think there's a good possibility," Roberts conceded. "Anything that can keep people like Halloran interested for two years is a good bet—or at least an intriguing bet. How much do you need?"
"Three hundred million," Rhea said immediately. Roberts got up and joined her. He stared out the window silently for several minutes, and Rhea thought she'd overplayed her hand. Maybe they could have scraped by on two hundred. But that would take longer, and time was the most precious thing in the world. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "Well, Mr. Roberts?" she said, "It'll be the best bargain your company ever got. Do we have a deal?"
Roberts turned and looked her in the eyes. "I like impatient people," he said. "They get things done."
Chapter 11