by John Lumpkin
She chuckled. “Fair enough. Having a military prevents a lot of wars, but that doesn’t mean every other potential war is inevitable. Wars happen because the two sides don’t trust each other enough to strike a deal and stick with it. And trust is a thing you build between people by talking, and talking, and talking some more. I believe that. And it galls me we didn’t reach out to the Chinese before the war. We just signed up with the Japanese and started shooting.”
“Hey, now, they attacked us,” Andy Bonaventura put in. “Remember the Sapphire and the San Jacinto, right, Mercer?”
“We were aiding the Japanese and maneuvered the Hans into attacking us,” Lindsay fired back. “Even after the attacks, we still could have talked, maybe bought a wormhole chain from them. But the trust wasn’t there. After the war is over, my job will be to try to build it again.”
“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” Neil said, without confidence. Both sides still think they can win.
Lindsay and Andy carried on a polite argument, and Neil stepped away to answer a call of nature. He entered the house through a sliding glass door but found no clue where a bathroom might be. Immediately inside was an empty den, with an entertainment console showing a day-old sports show transmitted from Earth. One hallway led to the front entryway, another to a series of locked doors. Finally, down a third hall and half-flight of stairs, he found a bathroom.
He got lost looking for the way back outside. Maybe that way … no, that’s a closet. He found a curving hall he didn’t recognize and a closed door to his right. Let’s give it a try …
… and the door smacked someone’s backside. A metal tray clattered to the floor, spilling some pink-and-orange hors d’oeuvres across the white tile.
“I’m sorry!” Neil said. He stepped in the room, instinctively going to the ground to pick up the mess. Cantaloupe slices and some kind of soft white cheese wrapped in prosciutto. Damn. Those look good.
“No, it was my fault,” the man said. “I should not be standing next to doors, even ones that I thought were locked.”
Neil stood up, and the man took from him the tray of recovered food and dumped it in a waste bin. Neil looked him over: He was tall with a moderate belly, olive skinned, with black hair and a black mustache, probably in his thirties or forties. He wore a white chef’s jacket, black pants, and a small plastic badge that said “X. Griego, Director of Catering Services.”
“I was looking for the way back outside,” Neil said.
“Back in the hall, two doors down on the right,” the man said. “Say, you’re an American, no?”
“I’m afraid so,” Neil said, smiling. It was a reasonable question – Neil’s dress mess uniform didn’t actually have a U.S. flag on display.
“Good to meet you! I emigrated from the States when I was a kid. I’m Tippy Griego.”
They shook hands. “Neil Mercer. I’m attached to the American consulate here. I grew up in Oregon.”
“A fellow West Coaster!” Tippy grinned broadly. “I was born in San Diego before we left. Don’t meet too many countrymen on this little island.”
“I sure haven’t,” Neil agreed. “How did you land here?” He almost said “end up here,” but he didn’t want it to sound like an insult.
“My family was on Commonwealth until things went south, and we could only afford passage here. I came to Tecolote four years ago, for the job. It’s treated me pretty well, got a casa on the north side, and I’m making my boat payments.”
“A boat? Do you fish?” Entente’s terraformers had stocked the oceans with Earth species, some of which were thriving.
“You bet I do. My grandfather taught me from the back of his little cabin cruiser off the coast. We’d just reel in little bay fish, but those are some good memories. You?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity in a few years, but my uncle used to take me fly fishing for steelhead on the North Umpqua.”
Tippy Griego snorted. “Ah, one of those. Well, if you can stoop to do some blue-water fishing, you’ll have to come out with me sometime.”
“I’d like that. I’m spending too much time indoors,” Neil said, wondering if this was just polite conversation or a serious invitation. They traded contact information, and Tippy was about to say something more when Neil’s handheld buzzed. He glanced at it and activated the microphone-speaker in his ear.
“Neil, it’s Katherine Naima. President Conrad has a moment and would like to meet you. An aide will meet you at the back door.”
Neil excused himself and found a giant and terse Korean man with a bulge in his jacket waiting for him in the empty den. He led Neil to a small, dark study with shuttered windows, stepped outside and closed the door.
Only Conrad and Naima were in the room; Naima was seated in a chair facing the president, who was behind an ornate wooden desk.
Something about Lawson Conrad’s facial bone structure reminded Neil of grainy images of people from prior centuries. He was in his late forties, and he had a light, northern European complexion, black wavy hair, heavy eyebrows, a strong jaw and a cleft chin. His lips were set tight together, and his eyes were at once both shiny and furtive, like he was concentrating on too many things at once. He wore a brown, collared shirt with every button fastened. Neil, who had never before met a national executive, thought there was something smaller-than-expected about him.
Naima introduced Neil.
“Welcome to Tecolote, Lieutenant Mercer,” Conrad said in a countertenor that sounded vaguely British. Neil started to say, “Thank you, sir,” but Conrad kept speaking, causing Neil to stumble at the “th” and silence himself. “Katherine tells me you are willing to assist us against the rebels.”
“Yes, Mister President,” Neil said. “I’m happy to report my chain of command has approved military aid to your government. The submarine buoys General Naima has requested we have on-planet and can deliver within the week. In addition, we have located a supply of forty-five Fukiya-Seven artillery rockets on Entente, and we can have those here within two weeks or so. We’ve also arranged for a larger stock of four hundred rockets to be delivered, but those will come from Earth, and they will take several months to get here.”
“That’s great news,” Naima said. “Nearly four hundred and fifty rockets. That will satisfy even Antonio Vargas, I think.”
Conrad drummed his fingers on his desk. Neil noticed he was wearing a wedding band.
“We’ll certainly accept the buoys,” he said. “But I think we’ll have to decline the offer of artillery rockets, as generous as it is.”
Major General Naima stiffened, ever so slightly.
Neil was confused. After a moment’s silence, he said, “Mister President, I want to make clear these weapons transfers are classified as aid to a friendly power, not a weapons sale. They won’t cost you anything.”
“Oh, I understand that, Lieutenant Mercer,” Conrad said, leaning forward. “I’m declining the aid of the rockets, presuming you aren’t insisting they are a package deal with the buoys.”
“No, my orders say nothing about that,” Neil said. “Might I convey to my superiors your reason for not accepting the rockets? A number of people did a good deal of work arranging for their delivery.” Commander Raleigh in particular. He’s going to be angry.
“I’m not sure I owe them, or you, an explanation,” he said. “But I’ll provide one anyway. We’re a small country with many problems and many enemies. Earth’s great powers have decided to intrigue among us. Allowing one to arm us will be regarded by the others as casting our lot with that one, and that is not something I am prepared to do at this time. Given the great war that is underway, it is our desire to avoid the wholesale violence that such alliances may entail.
So you can focus on retail violence? Neil thought darkly, remembering the beating at the airport.
“I understand, Mister President,” he said, not meaning it.
Lawson Conrad, president of the Republic of Tecolote, sat silent for a moment, then sa
id, “You know, we’ve been here a decade now, haven’t we, Katherine?”
Naima’s voice was tight. “Yes, Mister President.”
“We were such adventurers when we got here. Rough-and-ready, eh? I insisted being first off that cruise liner. The dock hands didn’t know what to make of us, charging off the gangway in our battle armor like that. We had the government buildings before they knew what hit them. We only lost one man; what was his name?”
“Sree. Sree Melkote.”
“Yes! The little scout from Sindh. He ran too far ahead of his unit and was accidently killed by someone in Vargas’ company who mistook him for one of the palace guard. Other than that, probably the most successful amphibious invasion in history. But not so much glory since. Much work, trying to keep a country above water. Much work. In any event, Lieutenant, thank you again for the assistance. Enjoy the festivities.”
Neil rose. “Thank you, Mister President.” What just happened here?
He left Conrad and Naima alone. The big Korean was not waiting for him, so Neil returned to the back porch and found the other Americans from the consulate. They probed him on where he had gone, and he demurred, saying he had checked out the kitchen and run into an acquaintance. He was getting better at that, lying without telling an actual lie.
Sycamore, Sequoia continent, Kuan Yin
Major Shen Liang’s eyes kept darting to the image of his wife and two daughters, and he chided himself for getting distracted. The captain’s reports on his screen begged to be addressed; they were simply terrible, tiny bits of real information dressed up with poetic declarations of imminent victory and various references to auspicious numbers.
What has happened to our training? Shen groused to himself. This sort of superstitious prattle may work on country folk and the common soldiery, but officers should know better. Intelligence updates needed to be in straightforward language. He read further, grimacing internally. This captain would make a good press officer.
He opened a word processor to compose a reprimand to his subordinate – I shall show you how to speak directly – but before he could type a word, an incoming message filled his screen. The general who sent it was in an office not six meters away, but apparently calling out or coming to fetch him would have been undignified.
Major General Xie Quanyou was not a man who could keep his agitation hidden as well as some, but he generally did not take it out on his staff. Instead, one could gauge his unhappiness by the temperature in his office: The more stressed he was, the hotter he felt, and the more frigid he made his workspace.
Xie’s room was merely cool today, close to twenty degrees Celsius. Perhaps we have some good news for a change.
“Good news!” the general said agreeably. “I just received a report from one of our Flying Dragons strike teams. Using information provided by your interrogators, they intercepted a group of American guerrillas traveling from Cypress to this area. There was a brief firefight, but we captured more than a dozen without losing a soldier.”
“Was Reg Foster among them?”
“Who?”
Shen sighed inwardly. They never listen. “Colonel Regina Foster is the highest-ranking U.S. military officer on Kuan Yin who is both alive and not in our custody. She was a staff officer for Major General LeDoux, the senior U.S. military officer on the planet, who was killed during our assault on this territory in late 2139. Foster is a former armored battalion commander, and we believe she is the nominal leader of the American insurgency on the planet.”
“Ah, yes, her! Of course. I have such trouble with their ugly names,” Xie said. He scanned his handheld. “One of the prisoners confirmed she was traveling with the group, but she wasn’t among the captured, and we haven’t verified her death. We did use some explosives and orbital laser strikes, so there are some remains we will need to study.”
Foster survived, Shen’s gut told him. Damn, she would have been a major catch. But if we killed and captured some of the people around her, it is still a significant blow. Every little victory like this was a step closer to going home, Shen told himself.
“This success on your team’s information settles something else,” Xie said.
“Sir?”
Xie reached into his desk and pulled out a small felt-covered box, which he opened and placed in front of Shen. A small golden metal bear was within. “My congratulations, again, Zhong Xiao. You are promoted.”
“I am honored, sir,” Shen said. He bowed his head. This was not entirely unexpected, given his service time, although the debacle at the prison in the community of Cottonwood had left it in question. Perhaps this means I will at last be recalled to a position on Earth.
“You will continue in your present assignment as my intelligence chief,” Xie said. “We need you too much here. In fact, I believe it is time to include you in on the details of the current operation.”
Although he had long learned to remain impassive in front of superiors, Shen’s face must have betrayed a fraction of surprise, for Xie chuckled and said, “Yes, the divisional chiefs have been left out of this one so far, but you have already witnessed some results.”
Shen said, “The raid today. Does it relate to our reports about the insurgents leaving the region around Cypress?”
Xie smiled. “Indeed. We have been encouraging them to gather near here. Their strength has been in their dispersion. They have been operating in small groups, killing us with a thousand cuts, while our superiors on Earth continue to demand we divert more of our resources elsewhere.”
“So we are giving them reasons to move here, where our force is concentrated,” Shen said.
“Through inaction, yes. We have turned a blind eye to their connections with the civilians living in the camp. We’re feigning weakness and inattention. We’re letting them think they have a chance to win, and that’s drawing them together. Your assignment, Zhong Xiao Shen, is to find the holes they are hiding in.”
“And once we’ve done that, we’ll smash them?”
“Only if we must,” the general said. “We intend to provide them with another option, if they are wise enough to take it.”
Chapter 6
CANBERRA – Colonial Minister Peter Ainsley announced the first solely Australian colony world will be named “Uluru” following Tuesday’s national election. The moon, orbiting a large planet in the 36 Ursae Majoris system, is said to be marginally habitable, and terraforming efforts are already underway to allow humans to walk on the surface without breathing assistance. The system is near the suspected boundaries of the stellar dead zone, but scientists say the microbial oxygen-producing lifeforms in the moon’s oceans are apparently hardy enough to have survived the primordial interstellar disaster that created the dead zone in the first place.
While’s Australia’s acquisition of the colony has been widely celebrated, it has also renewed calls for the country to seek a separate peace in the interstellar war, with proponents saying Australia has achieved its goals of acquiring a world of its own. But polls show almost two-thirds of Australian citizens support remaining in the conflict, with many expressing a desire to honor alliances and others expressing fear that forgoing cooperation with the United States and Japan would leave their new world at risk to some other power seeking potential colonies.
The name “Uluru” garnered 42 percent of the vote. Other contenders included “Outback,” “Matilda,” “Billabong,” and “New Oz.” International favorite “Botany Bay” received less than one percent of the vote.
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
“Mercer,” Irene Gomez barked. “Come with me.”
Her manner was so brusque Neil considered simply refusing. It was the morning after the party, and Neil had just walked through the security door into the consulate’s office. He hadn’t slept well; he had lain awake, trying to parse his exchange with Conrad, wondering whether he had screwed it up somehow.
But he couldn’t think of any particular reason to match Gomez’s h
ostility, so, as she passed by him, he wordlessly spun on one foot, a mildly silly and deliberately sarcastic move that both Lindsay Trujillo and Martina Bandi witnessed and chuckled at.
In silence, Gomez drove Neil to their destination. She turned into a parking lot outside a nondescript two-story building and stopped the car.
“I know you met with President Conrad last night. I’m not sure what exactly happened, but I want you to tell the people we are going to meet with about it.”
“Who are we going to meet with?”
“The Japanese intelligence operative on the island. His name is Akita Tadeshi – Akita is his family name. You should just address him as Akita-sama, and he’s happy. I think he’s the only Saki intel officer in Tecolote, and he’s a Koancho, not a Jetro.”
Then he must be Kitsune, Neil thought. Koancho was what English-speakers called the Japanese foreign intelligence agency with duties most similar to that of the NSS. Jetro was the commercial intelligence service, which ostensibly protected Japanese copyrights and trade secrets, although its powers stretched well beyond that.
“Do you want me to tell you about the meeting first?” Neil asked.
Gomez sighed. “I’m trying to build some trust with this guy, so I’ve told him he is getting the first report. He’ll be scanning me to see if I’m lying. He’ll be scanning you, too.” She paused. “Don’t respond to this, but I am going to assume there isn’t anything that would damage U.S. national security in regards to Japan.”
Neil didn’t respond.
Gomez didn’t nod or otherwise acknowledge his silence. She said, “So go ahead and tell him what you know. You might be able to be evasive and fool his software by not lying directly, but these guys are our allies, so don’t bother.”
“What do you know about Kit … about Akita?” Neil said.
“He’s supposed to be one of their heavy hitters. I’m not entirely sure why he’s here in Tecolote, though.”
They went inside the building. It was a nightclub called “Dietrich’s” in morning-after mode, with bright sunlight streaming in to illuminate dirty corners meant to be lit only by momentary strobes. Along one wall, rods that would glow in electric purples and greens as music thrashed in darkness now looked artificial and sallow.