“Kicking that pump really put you in a good mood, didn’t it?” he said. “Yes, it’s a statistical forecast, and you’re not going to like what it says.”
She turned away from the screen, took hold of the arm of his chair, and spun him to face her. “And what does it say?”
He glanced back at the screen. “I believe what it says—”
She gave him a warning look.
He nodded. “Okay. Okay. I know what it says is that we’re not going to meet Theodorus’s timeline for construction of this base. Or for the subsequent bases.”
Mathilde was confused. “This was all worked out. There’s plenty of time built into the schedule. We just need to have everything in place when the first ice asteroids hit, and that’s seven years from now. Hell, we could build everything twice in that time, according to our estimates.”
Oliver said, “I know what the estimates say. I helped prepare them. But since we’ve been up here, I’ve been noticing things. Time slippages. Performance shortfalls.”
She knew him very well. “And once you noticed a few of those things, you went looking for more. Then you developed a theory on what was happening and why, and tested it against our forecasts and probably against two or three other models you wrote up during my naps. And finally, you built a big old statistical forecasting program that proves … what?”
“It proves we overlooked something.”
“Tell me.”
“We overlooked the Moon.”
“Put that in a haiku and send it to Malachi. Tell me what you mean.”
“Okay, at bottom, it’s the same problem you were addressing out there with the pump. The problem you didn’t have the tools to fix, which is also germane, actually. That pump was designed, manufactured, and tested in a terrestrial environment.”
“Designed with lunar deployment in mind, manufactured to the most exacting standards, and tested, to be precise, in vacuum and in microgravity on one of our orbital stations.”
“Yes, but all of that was still done from a terrestrial perspective. Setting aside the fact that microgravity isn’t the same thing as one-sixth gravity—which is, by the way, the problem with that pump and with all the fluidics up here—all of these small delivery delays and unforeseen deployment problems can be explained by the fact that we underestimated the hostility of this environment. We also overestimated our ability to be agile in addressing problems and we are vastly underperforming against the timelines we set up for ourselves. I don’t know why I’m the first person to notice this. I don’t even know how I can be the first person to notice this.”
What Mathilde had noticed was that he hadn’t said that he’d thought the problem with the pump was the gravity difference. He’d stated it outright. He’d known.
“Okay,” she said. “I guess I know what we have to do.”
“What?” he asked.
“We have to set up a goddamned meeting,” she said.
“No,” said Clifford Bell. “Not her, absolutely not.”
“I find that I’m in agreement,” said Malachi. His copy of the dossier, of course, provided by his ever-present secretary, the elfin-eared Virginia, was a physical folder consisting of dozens of top-bound pages that he was flipping through like a detective on a procedural show. He even had an eight-by-ten glossy photograph sitting to one side. It showed a plump young white woman with curling red hair, dark brown eyes, and a spray of freckles across her nose.
“She’s exactly what we’ve been looking for these past three years,” Theodorus insisted, scrolling through the same data on his tablet. “She is not a teleport per se, but the portals she opens are effectively the same thing, allowing near instantaneous passage through folds in space. If there’s a limit to the distance she can reach, they have not found it yet. Assuming she can open a portal on the Moon, our delivery times of personnel and material to the lunar bases will be reduced by an order of magnitude.”
“Sir,” said Cliff, “did you read all of this? The first time she worked for anybody we know about she betrayed them and tried to steal from them. And that was before she got involved in an underground joker fight ring in Kazakhstan. And tried to eat someone’s eyebrow.”
“And of course she’s in federal custody,” added Malachi. “Being an international criminal and all.”
Theodorus said, “Says the man who once hired a helicopter pilot without a pilot’s license who was wanted in six countries.”
“She got her license eventually,” said Malachi.
“After we pulled some strings. And we can pull strings to get Mollie Steunenberg released as well. We haven’t burned all our bridges with the government.”
“Not yet,” said Malachi. “But why do you want to waste what little capital we have with the van Renssaeler administration on this? There are Stormwings boosting tons of supplies to the Moon every day now. A few delays—”
“A few delays doesn’t begin to describe the situation,” Theodorus said sharply. “I thought the problems Oliver Taylor identified three years ago were temporary when I noticed them myself earlier, that’s why I didn’t say anything. But we have a systemic array of difficulties we must overcome if we’re going to have the bases in place in time.”
Mathilde had not said anything up to this point. She didn’t really know why she was in the meeting. She didn’t really know why she felt a slight frisson of surprise when Theodorus admitted he’d been covering up the delays Oliver had exposed in his memo from the Moon back in ’13. A cover-up, after all, was just Theodorus’s style.
She tabbed over to the dossier the others were all studying. It was labeled TESSERACT, which she supposed was this Steunenberg woman’s ace name. She ran her eyes over the lines of data, paying scant attention. She paused briefly when she saw that the woman, the international criminal, the potential hire, was from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. She and Oliver had vacationed there once, years before. She remembered all those lakes. She remembered seeing an osprey strike a fish from the water. She set the tablet down.
“What can she do for us?” Mathilde interrupted.
Theodorus set his tablet down. “It’s all in there. If you’ll just review the analysis in the appendix describing her power suite—”
“You said an order of magnitude,” Mathilde interrupted again. “Were you being literal?”
Theodorus worked his gray-green lips back and forth. “Quite,” he said.
“Then never mind,” said Mathilde. “I know what she can do for us.”
“Then please,” said Malachi, “do share.”
Mathilde stood up and headed for the conference room door. “She can save us,” she said over her shoulder.
Dreamers of the Day
by Melinda M. Snodgrass
“DAMN IT! I LOOK like a fucking ass!”
My wife of nearly twenty years said, “No, Bradley dear. You have the body of a horse, so ass is not a correct comparison.”
I abandoned my attempts to straighten the bow tie and carefully turned to look at Clara. Even with the furniture in the hotel room pushed to the side I still managed to brush an end table with my big horse ass. My tail whipped in agitation and swept a lamp onto the floor.
Fortunately, the Mayflower Hotel had deep carpet. “Clara, I love you, but god damn you are the most pedantic person I know.”
“I am not,” she said, offended.
Our eldest son (by two minutes) put an arm around his mother’s waist and kissed her cheek. “Yeah, Mom, you kinda are,” Bryce said.
“In fact you could be the poster child for Asperger’s syndrome,” Brook, his younger twin brother, added, kissing her other cheek.
“You are both awful,” my princess, Caitlyn, declared, shoving both her brothers aside so she could lean against her mother’s side.
I smiled fondly at my sixteen-year-old daughter. Caitlyn had inherited my fair hair, though mine was more silver than gold now. The boys took after Clara—tall, dark, and not at all mysterious. In personality they were a lot l
ike me—gregarious, cheerful, popular at school. They were eighteen, in their first year at Harvard, and neither of them was following in Clara’s or my footsteps. In fact, I had no Earthly idea what path they were following, but I was willing to give them time to find a direction. Their lack of focus made Clara crazy, but so far she was managing to hide her dismay.
I had known from the first moment I saw Doogie Howser that I wanted to be a doctor. My dad, who was still an active Hollywood director, had been grateful I hadn’t wanted the film industry; he made it easy for me to get an education, though he had been a bit disappointed when I went for general practice with a focus on joker physiology rather than a more sexy specialty.
Clara was primarily a researcher. The fact her research had almost resulted in my death and the death of every other wild card in the world was something of which we never spoke. Clara had spent twenty-five years trying to atone for what she viewed as her unforgivable sin. I let her; it had been a terrible sin.
That was one of the reasons we hadn’t attended her cousin Pauline van Renssaeler’s first inauguration back in 2013. Clara’s father, Brandon, hadn’t attended that one, either; he lived in exile in a country carefully selected because it didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. It didn’t matter. Being around any of her family gave Clara hives, which led to ugly marital spats, so I had let it drop.
But I wasn’t going to back down this time, and I had the support of our kids. They had pointed out to their mother that they were unlikely to ever get to attend a presidential inauguration ever again. She was denying them this incredible experience, and hadn’t she already gotten her vengeance on her father by marrying a disgusting joker? That had pulled a murmur of protest from me, since I was the disgusting joker to whom they were referring (and truthfully my palomino pony body seemed to be holding up better than my human torso, which was showing a distressing tendency to develop a paunch).
The upshot was that Clara had reluctantly agreed, which was how we now found ourselves in a suite at the Mayflower getting ready to attend an inaugural ball being held in the main hall of the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.
Clara set her daughter gently aside. “All right, dear. I know I’m humor impaired. Let me fix that.” She tied my bow tie. “Now we’d best go or we’ll be late.”
As we emerged from the elevator into the lobby we got more than a few looks. Two handsome young men in tuxedos, and my girls looking beautiful in their evening gowns. Caitlyn wore a gauzy lemon-yellow confection—I was sure she was going to freeze in the January weather—and Clara wore a deep emerald gown that brought out her striking green eyes. And then there’s me, I thought as I gave the gawkers a little wave, the joker turd in the punch bowl. I saw a few cell phone cameras being unlimbered and gave them the jaunty grin I’d perfected back when I had been earning money as an extra in Hollywood.
The bellman held the door and we emerged onto the sidewalk. The cold air was like a slap and I felt a few snowflakes hit my cheeks. Their touch set my skin to quivering. The horse part of my body was incredibly sensitive, which made pain worse and sex all the better.
I had wanted to drive my modified van to the site of the ball, but Clara had put her foot down. We would get a limo, one with enough space between the seats to accommodate all four hundred pounds of me. The driver, looking like an undertaker in his cheap black suit, was holding open the back door and was looking dubious. “Don’t worry. I’m housebroken,” I said, stuffing a C-note in the guy’s breast pocket.
“Are you guys going to dance?” Brook asked.
“It is a ball,” Caitlyn said with a sniff.
“And I’ll have you know that your mom and I have been known to get down,” I said.
“Oh, that’s going to have the Republicans’ eyes popping,” Bryce said, his voice catching on a laugh.
“Now, Bryce, Aunt Pauline belongs to the Liberty Party,” Clara said.
“As in Republican with twice the crazy,” Brook said.
The glass, concrete, and steel didn’t do much to absorb the noise of hundreds of people yammering, or the footfalls on the hard floor as they pretended they knew how to ballroom dance. Like most of the van Renssaelers, Pauline was uptight, conservative … in short, stuffy … so it was a truncated version of the Boston Pops Orchestra providing the music. My kids were appropriately disgusted; they had been hoping for one of the hot new rockabilly bands. I was relieved that their hearing would be preserved for a few more years.
I drained my champagne and was immediately sorry. Apparently “Renewing America” didn’t extend to supporting good vineyards. I’d had better champagne at an agency party, and those guys are cheap. Still, that didn’t keep me from grabbing another glass from a passing waiter.
The scent of clashing perfumes and the food on the long buffet tables mingled with a faint undertone of male sweat made both of my stomachs a bit queasy. I decided to wait to eat until we got back to the Mayflower to order room service rather than face Swedish meatballs, the ubiquitous veggie platter, chilled salmon to make it seem classy, and various kinds of cheese. Judging from the quality of the champagne, it had all likely been bought at Costco.
Long silken banners screened with pictures of beautiful American landscapes and overlaid with Pauline’s campaign slogan—“Renewing America”—hung from the exposed steel girders and brushed the sides of the airplanes and missiles on display. I was using one for cover since I appeared to be the only joker in the joint.
Not that there weren’t other wild cards … of the ace variety. Mistral was out of her signature bodysuit and wearing a long gown. Cameras were trained on her. Apparently she’d learned from her late father how to be a publicity hound. The Reverend Thaddeus Wintergreen was present, in his massive powered wheelchair. In addition to being a preacher of some fundie Protestant flavor, he had also been a contestant on American Hero and a fringe presidential candidate. It looked like he’d thrown in his lot with the Liberty Party. At least he wasn’t rolling up in a ball and demonstrating his ace power.
The boys weren’t wrong about the Republicans. The attorney general, a former senator from Texas, was oiling his way around the room with that thin pasted-on smile and calculating eyes that had made him (along with his obnoxious personality) the most hated man in the world’s most deliberative body. When he spotted me, the smile slipped into an expression of disgust. I gave him a broad smile and held up my glass in a salute. Cruz hurried to the other side of the room.
I scanned the room for Tribe Finn. The boys had already snagged partners, pretty girls in expensive evening gowns, and were dancing. Caitlyn, looking like a nodding daisy, stood in the middle of a circle of admiring young men. I fought off the urge to rush over and make protective daddy noises. Sixteen. She’s sixteen. Not a little girl. Don’t embarrass her. The fact that she has a joker for a dad is mortification enough.
I searched for Clara so she could reinforce my good intentions, but saw her disappearing toward the restroom. That suddenly seemed like a good idea. I finished off the glass and trotted off toward the johns. I really, really hoped there were urinals; stalls are not my friend. I found myself chuckling at my own joke and decided maybe I should slow down on the bubbly. Being the only joker in a room full of rich, predominately white people had certainly raised my anxiety level. Not so much for me, but for the sake of my kids. They had grown up in Jokertown with occasional visits to that liberal bastion, Hollywood. I didn’t want them to hear the crap. With luck, though, this crowd was too well bred to indulge in slurs. And I did have the white, privileged male thing going for me … along with my horse’s ass.
I pushed into the bathroom. There were a couple of older men at the sinks washing their hands. They gave me a dubious look and hurried to the towel dispensers. As they started to rush out I called, “Don’t worry. It’s not catching.”
There was a long urinal against one wall. I got myself lined up and carefully raised myself so my front hooves were braced against the
wall. I struggled to relax and allow my dick to drop but it was hard when I knew that at any moment a nat could walk in and react. It finally dropped and with a groan I released a stream of hot pee.
And right on cue a nat walked in. He took up a position next to me, unzipped, and pulled himself free. When he glanced over at me and couldn’t keep his eyes from diving down to my exposed penis, I smiled and said, “Really, don’t compare. You’ll just feel inadequate.”
He surprised me by laughing. “Yes, that is pretty impressive.”
I bounced a bit to shake off the final drops, sheathed my penis, then dropped back to the floor and turned to face the man. He was dressed in the expected tux, but I noted the physique beneath the material. The man clearly worked out—a lot—and he held himself like a soldier.
“If this is a proposition, thanks for the compliment but I’m not into boys.” I maneuvered around and headed to the sinks.
“You’re welcome, and neither am I. I work for General Jack Campbell. He’d like to talk with you tomorrow at nine a.m. West Wing of the White House. Use the Seventeenth Street entrance. A pass will be waiting at the gate.”
It took me a second to place the name. Once I did, I blinked a couple of times. “The national security adviser wants to talk to … me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“That’s above my pay grade. I’m just the messenger. Enjoy the ball.”
“Fat chance now,” I muttered at the man’s departing back.
I returned to the main hall just as the crowd began applauding and cheering as President Pauline van Renssaeler made her entrance, escorted by her longtime business partner turned campaign manager, Steve Wilson. Secret Service agents fanned out, cold eyes flicking across the well-dressed attendees.
She had aces in her security detail as well. I knew one of them. Lady Black and I had crossed paths a few times when she was just an agent. She was now the director of SCARE. She was accompanied by two other aces. Alan Spencer was another American Hero alum with rather mediocre cold powers; the show’s producers had tried to bolster his badassery by dubbing him Colonel Centigrade. I didn’t know the woman flanking him, but I assumed she was also an ace.
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