“Not today, and not in here,” President Doi said.
It was said in such a decisive and firm manner that she drew surprised glances from several people around the table. Ramon actually opened his mouth in astonishment.
“This is the War Cabinet, Senator Ramon,” she said. “In here we decide military strategy, that’s all. The displaced are an item for the general civil cabinet, if not a full debate in the Senate.”
“But they do impinge on military matters,” Ramon said. “They will affect the whole economy.”
“No,” Elaine said quickly. “The numbers are huge, admittedly. But in overall percentage terms they barely register. I will not let this cabinet get bogged down by the minutia of problems which are not in its direct remit. You are out of order, Senator. Please give the floor to someone else.”
Alan was making little attempt to hide his smile; one or two of the others looked mildly bemused. A positive and decisive Doi was not something they encountered very often. Realizing her sudden authority, she asked, “Admiral Columbia, do you envisage any policy change to our current planetary defenses?”
“No changes, ma’am. The force fields were extremely successful, even on the Lost23. We have plans to upgrade all city and civil area force fields, anticipating the Primes will launch a second attack. Arms manufacturers are also increasing production of combat aerobots for us, which proved invaluable during the preliminary bombardment. Electronic warfare systems are also a priority. But those are all purely defensive systems; all they can do is minimize damage in the event of an attack. To stop the attack we need that fleet.”
“Point taken, Admiral. I think we can move to a vote on the overall strategy.”
“I would also like to mention stage four,” Columbia said.
“Stage four?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Seattle Project. The kind of weapon we can use to take the fight directly to Dyson Alpha.”
“I wasn’t aware we’d even reached prototype stage yet.”
“Hopefully, it will arrive within a few months,” Wilson said. “You know physicists, they don’t like deadlines. Not that they ever meet them anyway.”
“So it’s not something we have to consider immediately?” the President asked.
“No,” Wilson agreed cautiously. “But Admiral Columbia is right. Ultimately we may have to make the decision to use it.”
“We can fight them with warships,” Columbia said. “We can slow them down, we can possibly even force them back, though any prolonged war will be extremely costly to us, and not just in monetary terms. But if ultimately they prove implacably hostile to us, for whatever reason, then it will have to be used.”
“Genocide,” Elaine whispered. “Dear God.”
“It would be a collective decision,” Hans told her. “We would take it together, and share it with you.”
“The Seattle Project should continue to receive top priority,” Columbia said.
“Yes,” the President said, charily. “Very well, if no one else has any issues, I’d like to proceed to a vote on Admiral Kime’s proposal for a three-stage approach to engaging the Prime threat.”
“Proposed,” Heather said.
“Seconded,” Alan said.
“Very well,” the President said. “Those in favor?” She counted the raised hands. “Unanimous.”
Outside the cabinet room, little groups of aides were hanging around in the long corridor gossiping with each other. When the doors opened, they all quietened down and waited for their respective chief to walk past, before attaching themselves like so many iron filings. Justine had almost reached Sue Piken and Ross Gant-Wainright, the two senior staffers she’d inherited with Thompson’s office, when Ramon DB caught up with her.
“That was unlike you,” he said softly.
Justine stopped and gave him a impatient look, all ready to give him a snappy answer. The bright overhead lighting glinted off small droplets of sweat on his brow. His midnight-black OCtattoos were now quite visible across his cheeks and hands, a result of his previously ebony skin acquiring a grayish pallor. When she glanced down, she could see how tight his generous robe was. Her annoyance drained away. “You look tired,” she said, and put a hand on his arm. “I don’t suppose you’ve been taking it easy?”
He smiled fondly. “Have you?”
“My body is in its early twenties again. I can do the late nights and stress. You can’t.”
“Please, don’t go reminding me about your body at that age.” He put one hand playfully over his chest. “My heart can only take so much. By the way, you look tremendous in black.”
“Rammy! Look at those rings; you’ll never get them off, your fingers have swollen so much.” She took his hand and held on to it, examining the jewelry that was almost buried by pulpy flesh.
He squirmed like a guilty child. “Don’t nag, woman.”
“I’m not nagging. I’m telling you this straight: either you start looking after yourself or I personally will cart you off to the clinic for rejuvenation.”
“As if either of us can take time off for that right now.” He paused, uncertain of himself. “I heard about LA Galactic. Talk in the Senate dining room is that you knew the boy who was killed.”
“Yeah, I knew him. I was the one who put navy intelligence on him.”
Ramon gave her black dress a suspicious stare. “I hope you’re not blaming yourself for his death.”
“No.”
“You forget, my dear, I really do know you.”
“Did the Senate dining room know that the boy was killed by the same person who killed Thompson?”
“Yes. We’re quietly but firmly pressing Senate Security for some results.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Confidence in both branches of the navy is not terribly high right now.”
“It’ll improve.” For a moment Justine considered telling him about the Starflyer; Ramon would make a superb ally in the Senate, but he really wasn’t in good shape, and that would just add to his burden. Not yet, she told herself. “I’m sorry Doi cut you off in there,” she said. “I believe we do need to consider the refugee problem.”
“Actually, she was right to say that,” he said, and smiled broadly. “I’m just not used to our dear President being quite so forceful. It could well be we have waved good-bye to a politician and got a stateswoman in return. Now, that would be a first.”
“We’ll see. I’m not sure I believe in an age of miracles just yet. But I’ll be happy to back you up in the Senate on some kind of aid package for the refugees.” She caught sight of Wilson Kime talking to Crispin, and leaned forward to give Ramon a quick kiss. “I have to go. I’ll see you in the dining room, yes?”
“Of course.”
Justine hurried over to Wilson as he and Crispin shook hands. Several aides were waiting to pounce, and she could see Columbia coming out of the cabinet room. She wasn’t quite up to another direct confrontation with him right now.
“Admiral, could we talk for a moment, please?”
Wilson nodded amicably. “Certainly, Senator.”
“In private; there’s a conference room just down here.”
Wilson’s hesitation was hardly noticeable. “Very well.”
Justine’s e-butler gave the door an open code; her aides had reserved the room as soon as they all knew where the War Cabinet meeting was to be held. Wilson followed her in, his face registering polite curiosity. Then he saw Paula Myo sitting at the table inside, and frowned. “What is this?” he asked.
“Sorry to put you on the spot, Wilson,” Justine said. “But you probably know Admiral Columbia and I have had a disagreement on certain security matters. And he fired Investigator Myo from navy intelligence.”
Wilson held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Senator, but Rafael has my complete confidence. I don’t do office politics, not at this level. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war on, and we could well lose.” He turned back to the door.
“The Guardians have been running an op
eration on Mars for twenty years,” Paula said.
Wilson froze, his hand already extended to open the door. After a moment he said, “There’s nothing on Mars. Believe me, I know.”
“You were there for ten hours, over three hundred years ago,” Justine said.
“I was watching the live television broadcast. I remember seeing Lewis, Orchiston, and you stepping out onto the surface. It was the first time in a great many years I was proud of our country again. You were putting up the stars and stripes when Nigel butted in.”
Wilson turned around, anger flushing his cheeks. “So?”
“The Guardians were using the Arabia Terra station to relay their information back to Earth.”
“What sort of information?”
“We’re not sure. Navy intelligence made one attempt to run diagnostic routines through the equipment up there. It appeared to be standard environmental sensors.”
“I don’t get it.” Wilson shook his head, clearly irritated. “The Guardians are terrorists. What do they want with Martian environment data?”
“We don’t know,” Paula said. “But the Paris office is winding down their investigation.”
“Ah. That’s it.” Wilson gave Justine a disdainful glance. “You want me to pressure Rafael into keeping the investigation open.”
“You have been on the receiving end of a Guardian operation,” Paula said. “More than most, you know how serious and effective they can be. They nearly destroyed the Second Chance. A twenty-year operation is not something they would undertake lightly. It would have to be exceptionally important to them. We have got to find out what it is.”
Wilson let out a hiss of air between his teeth. “Maybe. But if it is truly this important, I don’t believe Rafael would ignore it. He’s many things, aggressive, ambitious, intense, unforgiving, yes; but never stupid.”
“Everyone has blind spots, Wilson,” Justine said. “Paula was fired for political reasons, for not being quick enough to produce results.”
“A hundred and thirty years on a case with no result is very reasonable grounds for dismissal in my book,” Wilson said. “No offense.”
“You heard about the LA Galactic incident?” Justine asked. “An assassin killed the Guardians’ courier who was bringing their Martian data back for them. It was the same assassin who destroyed the black market arms dealer on Venice Coast. He also murdered my brother. So he’s not working for the government, and he can’t be working for the Guardians.”
“Who then?” Wilson asked.
“Good question. The Paris office might be able to find the answer. If they keep hunting.”
Wilson looked from Justine to Paula. “What are you asking for?” “Ask Rafael to keep navy intelligence on the Martian inquiry, not to let up.” “Maybe,” Wilson said. “I’ll have to think about all this.”
***
After an investment of twenty-five years, most of the planets in phase one space were now linked by maglev express lines, providing a fast, efficient service; and based on that success CST was busy expanding the network out across the planets of phase two space. But for all its imagined importance as the link world to Far Away, Boongate still hadn’t got a maglev track. CST was vague about the timetable for installation.
It had taken the standard express from Paris forty minutes to reach Boongate’s CST station, sliding smoothly up alongside platform 2 at twenty-two hundred hours local time. There were only five platforms in the main terminal building, but each of them were bustling with waiting passengers when Renne and Tarlo stepped out from the first-class double-decker carriage. It was raining outside, and the train was dripping onto the track. A chilly night wind blew in under the big arching glass roof, making people stamp their feet and button up their coats. The overhead polyphoto strips threw a bright blue-tinged light across the scene, illuminating the raindrops that lashed in past the edge of the roof like gray sparks.
“Late to be traveling, isn’t it?” Tarlo said as they walked toward the end of the platform. He ignored the curious glances their navy uniforms drew.
Renne pulled her jacket collar up against the cold, and eyed the people lining the platform. They all seemed to be gathered in family clumps, with subdued, yawning children sitting on piles of luggage. Several CST security guards were patrolling.
“Depends how keen you are to leave,” she replied. It was the first time she’d seen any evidence of the displacement that the unisphere news shows featured so heavily these days. But then if it was going to happen anywhere, she realized, it would be here. Most of Boongate’s neighbors were numbered among the Lost23.
They pushed their way through the equally crowded concourse and found the CST security office. Their liaison was Edmund Li, a local police technical officer who’d been seconded to the navy, then appointed to the newly formed Far Away freight inspectorate division. He didn’t bother wearing a navy uniform, just a simple dove-gray office suit. Renne was rather envious of that; her dark tunic always seemed to itch. It reminded her of the time when Paula was still in charge of the Paris office.
Li had a car waiting, which drove them the eight kilometers over to the Far Away section of the yard. As he was briefing them on the latest interceptions, Renne looked out through the rain-smeared glass. Hundreds of lights shone from tall poles across the extensive station yard, revealing the broad empty regions between the rails and distant industrial buildings, a legacy of lost ambition left over from the days when Boongate thought it would become the junction for the adjoining sector of phase three space. Some of the cargo depots were open, big rectangular doors showing trains drawn up inside, their wagons steaming and dripping as cranes and autolifters unloaded their consignments. She saw a long rank of Ables RP5 shunting engines lined up outside a giant engineering shop; unused since the Prime attack sent the Commonwealth economy floundering, they awaited the return of normal commercial operations.
A weak maroon light shimmered on the other side of the Far Away cargo warehouse, glinting on the rails that snaked around outside.
“Is that the Half Way gateway?” Renne asked. The semicircle of bland luminescence was coming into view from behind the long dark building as the car drew near. It resembled a tired moon sinking below the horizon.
“Yeah,” Edmund Li said. “There’s not been much outgoing traffic since the Prime attack. Most of it is cargo to companies and big landowners, and the Institute, of course. Not much personal stuff, either; anyone who was planning on emigrating has put it on hold, and their tourist trade has packed up completely.”
“What about traffic coming this way?” Tarlo asked.
“Sure. Plenty of people want to get the hell out of there. Who wouldn’t? They’re damn close to Dyson Alpha, but it costs a lot to travel between Boongate and Far Away. Most don’t have that kind of money. And I don’t know how long the Commonwealth Civil Council will keep the gateway open.”
The car pulled up outside the warehouse, and they hurried through the rain to the small office attached to the side of the main building like a brick wart. Inside, the office was a simple open-plan rectangle, with nine desks down the middle. The console arrays on seven of them were covered with plastic dust jackets.
Tarlo gave them a curious look as they walked past. “How many staff does the division employ?”
“There are twenty-five of us on the payroll,” Edmund Li said in a deadpan voice.
“Right. And how many show up?”
“It was four of us yesterday. Tomorrow, who knows?”
Tarlo and Renne gave each other a knowing glance.
“I think that’s called being absent without leave,” Tarlo said. “The Admiral will probably have them shot.”
“He’ll have to find them first,” Edmund Li told them. “I doubt they’ll be on this world. They had families.”
“So why are you still here?” Renne asked. “It’s not like this is the most vital job in the Commonwealth right now.”
“I was born on Boongate. I guess that
makes it easier for me to stay than the others. And I haven’t started a family this life around.” He pushed through the door that led into the warehouse.
It was chilly inside the cavernous space. A single row of polyphoto strips was alight along the apex, casting a desultory light on the bare metal racks that ran the entire length of the enzyme-bonded concrete floor. Rain hitting the solar panel roof produced a loud drumming noise that reverberated around the nearly empty building.
“It gets kind of unnerving working here,” Edmund Li said. He stepped over a set of rail tracks that ran down the middle of the floor to a huge door at the end of the warehouse. “We are physically the closest people to the Half Way gateway. If the Primes did come through, we’d be the first to know about it. You feel really exposed. I don’t really blame the others for quitting.”
They came to a pair of ordinary flatbed train wagons that were sitting on the track, both of them loaded with big gray composite crates. A deep-scan sensor hoop spanned the track twenty meters away; several desks had been set up around its base. Their screens and arrays were all silent and dark. A broad workbench beside them was equipped with several robotic machine tools. Three of the crates sat on top of it; they’d been broken open.
“Urien found these yesterday.” Edmund Li gestured. The packing crates contained bulky sections of machinery that the power tools had split apart. Almost all of the electrical circuitry had been removed and laid out on the bench in a jumble of coiled cable and black box modules.
“All right, so what are we looking at?” Tarlo asked.
“The machinery in this consignment is all agricultural; combine harvesters, tractors, drillers, irrigation systems. It’s shipped in sections like this to be reassembled on Far Away. Makes life quite easy for us to scan it all. We were lucky Urien was on duty when this lot went through; his family are landowners on Dunedin. The man knows his farming tools. He thought there was something odd about the wiring, especially as these are all diesel fueled. Turns out he was right.” Edmund held up some of the cabling, which was as thick as his wrist. “Heavy-duty superconductor. And these current modulators have a massive power rating.”
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