by Webb, Nick
He flipped to a private comm channel, and called Schroeder.
“Yes? Are you here?”
Nhean nodded to the empty room. “I am. You have urgent news for me? Does it have to do with—”
“Not now. You need to come to this meeting. Now.”
Nhean sighed. Another meeting. Meeting after meeting after meeting. His life was an endless series of meetings, occasionally interrupted by something of note. Like, say, a Telestine invasion of Mercury, or a bomb destroying Io. Sometimes it seemed the only events that could interrupt his meetings were catastrophes.
“I’ll be right there. Afterwards, let’s talk.”
“Agreed. That is, if you still have a fleet afterwards. If not, I may have to just go to the Admiral herself with this information.”
Schroeder cut the line.
Strange. That he would think of going to her with any information was itself surprising. Walker and the Exile Fleet weren’t exactly popular with the Venetian oligarchs. Hence the creation of his own private fleet. That he would go to her directly with important information only heightened Nhean’s own anticipation of what it could be.
What had he missed?
The Funder’s Circle was meeting right there at Constantine, it being the crown jewel of the Venetian floating cities. The lavish marbled conference room was packed to the brim, each tier of seating full of representatives from the richest, most influential groups on Venus and beyond. How he’d managed to keep his fleet’s construction a secret for as long as he did was nothing short of a miracle, given how many oligarchs and religious leaders knew about it, and paid out the nose for it.
A harsh yellow storm raged overhead on the other side of the glass ceiling, mirroring the mood of those at the center of the room, seated around a central table.
The Pope. The Mormon Prophet. The President of the Solar Baptist Convention. The President of the Rothschild Banking Company. The Dalai Lama. Grand Imam Mohammed Ibn Al-Abadi. And Herbert Schroeder, who alone had to be the third or fourth richest person in the solar system, depending on his various companies’ stock prices.
“My apologies for keeping you all waiting.” Nhean stood behind the empty seat at the central dais, but did not sit. “As the guardian of the Funder’s Circle’s fleet, I assure you, my tardiness was only because of my duties in the service of—”
“Please,” interrupted Ted Ricketts, a member of the baptist cohort. “Spare us the excuses, Tang. And just to be clear, you’re no longer the guardian of the fleet.”
Nhean raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Has the vote taken place?”
The Grand Imam raised a finger. “Not yet. But the Circle is … not pleased with your progress. I doubt your guardianship will survive the day, Mr. Tang.”
“We feel you’ve mismanaged your stewardship,” said Worthlin, the Mormon Prophet. “To whom much is given, Mr. Tang, much is required. To you, our dear brother, an exceedingly vast sum of money has been given. And we feel your performance thus far has been … underwhelming.”
Pope Celestine, nodded, but raised a hand. “Underwhelming, yes. But by God’s grace I’m sure he will not fail us.” He turned to Nhean. “Will you, Mr. Tang?”
It was showtime. He needed to do some serious convincing. Play them off each other. Maneuver them into competing coalitions and positions, and leverage their infighting to his benefit.
Humanity’s future depended on it.
“I will not fail. All my models show that success across all of your various interests is nearly … guaranteed.”
A general murmur of disbelief and disapproval washed through the room. Over three dozen men and women sat around the various tiers of the seating looking down at them. A woman near the back shouted out, “Your models say we have guaranteed success? What did your fucking models say about Io exploding?”
The room erupted in jeers and shouts and cheers. Several of the leaders at the center held up quieting hands, pleading for silence.
“Please. Bridle your profanity,” said President Worthlin.
“Fuck you!” The woman shouted back. Nhean recognized her as the Vice President of the Cargo Guild. A firebrand if there ever was one.
Pope Celestine stood up, hands raised. “Please, please. We must have order, or we will accomplish nothing here.” He turned to Nhean. “We hear that you’ve given the fleet over to Walker’s command. Is this true?”
“It is. Mostly. Allow me to explain—”
“That’s all the explanation I need,” said Ricketts. “I vote no confidence. If you can’t even spare a detachment to guard the colonies at Neptune—”
“I as well,” said the Grand Imam. “No confidence. Walker and her antics are why we agreed to fund the creation of the new fleet in the first place. To have given it over to her without consulting us is … a betrayal. I vote no confidence.”
Schroeder thumped the table with a palm. “Now wait, wait, wait. We haven’t agreed to vote yet. We haven’t even heard Mr. Tang’s explanation.”
Ricketts rolled his eyes. “What else is there to explain? What reason could he possibly give that would justify this?” He turned to the Dalai Lama. “Have you made up your mind yet?”
All eyes turned to the Dalai Lama. He heaved a reluctant sigh. “I vote … no confidence.”
Cheers went up throughout the room, met by a few scattered protests. Pope Celestine raised his hands again. “Please!”
It took the room nearly half a minute to come to order again, before Celestine turned to the other side of the table. “Mr. Rothschild?”
The old, shriveled white-haired man shrugged. “I see no reason to change course now. Too much has been invested to switch horses. I vote for Mr. Tang. He has not failed us before, and I do not believe he will in the future.”
A roar through the crowd. Another silencing hand from Celestine.
“Imam Al-Abadi?”
The cleric shrugged. “I vote yes. Mr. Tang has my full confidence. He’s protected Mars and the Jupiter colonies, where most of my people are.”
Nhean smiled inwardly at himself. He was absolutely sure the Imam’s full confidence was encouraged by the steep discount on personal computers through Schroeder’s company that the two had arranged. But whatever he needed to do….
“Bullshit,” said Ricketts. “Just last week you were a no. What changed, Mohammed?”
“My mind,” replied the cleric, with a smile. “And the fact that the Telestines seem able to destroy entire moons on a whim means we need to step up our efforts, and changing leadership now will only set us back.”
“We don’t know that was Tel’rabim.” Ricketts scoffed. “The terrorist, Sam Thorne, claimed he was acting alone. Against Walker and her secret weapons program, I might add. Against her reckless behavior. Behavior that he,” Rickett’s swung an arm and a finger towards Nhean, “is enabling and encouraging. And now empowering, with his insane decision to entrust that woman with a state-of-the-art war fleet.”
Nhean shook his head. “No. It was Tel’rabim. Of that I am sure.”
“How can you be sure? He spent decades protecting our interests. Arguing for us in their parliament. He even helped me start up our first colony at Neptune ten years ago. A colony which you still refuse to protect with the fleet we’ve provided you with—”
“Who the hell cares about the Netties? They charge my people triple docking fees and don’t provide shit for food or resupply.” The Cargo Guild would be heard at this meeting, she was ensuring that.
Ricketts didn’t back down. “The good folks at Triton City paid for all our scrubbers and catalysts, Vice President Mora. It’s how officers manning the fleet even breathe.”
More arguing and murmuring through the crowd, before Celestine again managed to silence the room. He turned to President Worthlin. “Parley?”
For a moment, from the frown on his face, Nhean could have sworn the man would say no. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He looked around the room at the dozens of people hanging on his decision. He was t
he deciding vote, since Pope Celestine had long been one of Nhean’s greatest champions, and the count was now three to three. “I need to speak with Mr. Tang in private.”
A jeer went up from the room. Some people stood up and waved their arms, shouting profanities.
“What, so you can cut another ass-wiping backroom deal? Cut us out of the loop and steal the fleet for yourself? No thanks!” yelled Mora.
“Nothing of the sort,” said Worthlin, when the din had died down. “I just feel that Mr. Tang might be more…” he glanced at Nhean with a searching eye, “forthcoming, more frank, if we were to briefly chat in private, without every single interest on the Circle listening in.” He turned to Celestine. “Your Holiness?”
Pope Celestine shrugged. “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind, President Worthlin. And perhaps if we bring a representative of the no vote. Oliver?” He glanced at the Dalai Lama. “Would it please the body if Mr. Pemba accompanied us?”
A murmur of approval rustled through the crowd. The Dalai Lama didn’t so much bring cash to the table as he brought moral authority, and the ears of some of the richest men and women on Venus. Having him along would go far to placate the rest, Nhean thought. In spite of his no vote….
President Worthlin stood up and motioned them towards the door. Nhean fell into step behind him, followed by Celestine, and Oliver Pemba, the nineteenth Dalai Lama. The Mormon prophet, making small talk, led them through a maze of marble hallways, most of which branched off to the front entrances to the estates of the richest of the rich in Constantine Gardens, and finally keyed a door open that led into a section of the Constantine Gardens where even Nhean had never set foot.
A vast, manicured formal garden, under reinforced glass overhead and nearly half the circumference of the room, lent the lush garden a commanding view of the yellow acidic storm raging outside, and of Constantine city proper, which hovered just a few kilometers away, floating like a bulky, awkward inverted teardrop—like a cheap bastardization of the sleek Telestine cities floating over Earth.
“Welcome to the garden of New Adam-ondi-Ahman, Brother Tang,” he said, switching to a less formal, or more formal, title—Nhean wasn’t sure. “Aside from the temples on Mars, and here on Venus, this is the holiest site in Mormondom. It is where many of us believe that Jesus himself will visit before he comes in glory to rid the Earth of our enemies and usher in the fullness of times.”
Nhean, ignoring the crazy-talk, bent down and smelled a rose bush in full bloom, its red petals still glistening with the drops from that morning’s watering. A rose bush—even he felt sick at the expense. Garden space was at a premium, and even the most extravagant oligarchs only used their extra space for luxuries like strawberries and blueberries. To use it on a rose bush was almost an affront against humanity, given its current plight.
He continued, “You’re probably wondering what the heck we’re doing using precious space on things like roses and azaleas and rhododendrons and all the beautiful flowers you see around you,” he swept his hand around the expansive gardens, which could have rivaled the most extravagant on Earth before the Exodus. “It’s the same reason we build our temples with the most precious materials, even as half of our people are a shipment away from starvation or a faulty CO2 scrubber from asphyxiation. It’s a dedication to the Lord. To his holiness. To remind ourselves that it is through his grace that we are even alive at all.”
Celestine nodded. “A worthy expression of faith. Our Lady of Valles Marineris Basilica on Mars serves the same purpose for us.”
The Dalai Lama said nothing.
Nhean glanced at his watch. Was he about to get a sermon? Jesus.
Worthlin must have caught the glance. “Don’t worry. I won’t keep you. You’re a busy, busy man, and carry the hopes of us all.”
The meaning was not lost on Nhean. “Are you saying…?”
Worthlin shook his head. “My vote? No. At least, not automatically. I want to hear it from you first. Why? Why Laura Walker? Why did you entrust the hopes and dreams and, possibly more importantly, the investment of us all in the Circle in such a … reckless woman?”
Right out of Essa’s mouth. He wondered how many on the general assembly were influenced by the three men in front of him.
“On the contrary, I find Admiral Walker to be very, very careful, President Worthlin. Far more careful than our new Secretary General, for example.”
Worthlin swiped a hand as if batting the argument aside. “But how can you be sure about her motives, Brother Tang? Are her goals aligned with ours? With yours? With His Holiness’s? With Mr. Pemba’s?”
Honestly, I have no idea. But he couldn’t actually say that. And in fact, Walker had inadvertently dropped enough hints lately that he wasn’t entirely sure what her endgame was, beyond the complete destruction of the Telestine race. “They align … enough. She’s intelligent. She’s daring. She’s … honestly, quite brilliant. And her people love her and trust her. Frankly, I trust her officers to run our ships more than my own people, at least in terms of their capabilities and instincts for battle. Trust in Walker is another issue, but with regards to capabilities, well, I assure you, the fleet is in good hands.”
“And what about trust, Brother Tang?”
I wish he’d stop calling me that.
Nhean shrugged. “When it comes to trust, I trust that the backdoors I’ve built into the Venus Sovereign Fleet ships’ systems will come in handy should the time ever come when that trust is broken.”
“And you trust Walker?”
“Enough.”
“And if political winds shift and Essa manages to sideline her like she sidelined him years ago, where will that leave our fleet?”
“I’m confident that will not happen. I’ve buffered our political fortunes with a healthy portion of information and intelligence.”
Worthlin chuckled. “Fortunes change, Brother Nhean. Consider us Mormons. We used to be called a cult, and arguably for good reason. Now, thanks to the Telestines and the Exodus, we’re the third largest religion. Funny how life works.”
Pemba broke his silence and stood up from where he was squatting next to a hydrangea bush. “I think you’re conflating religion with denomination.”
Celestine rolled his eyes and nodded. “He does that a lot.”
But the mention of the word cult stirred something in Nhean that he couldn’t place. Something just out of reach. It felt important.
But it was gone. “I trust her,” he repeated. “She won’t fail us.”
Worthlin stooped to pick a lily from a nearby garden bed. “Trust, Brother Tang, is a valuable commodity. In short supply these days, it seems. I commend you for having it.” He considered the lily. “Brother Tang, you by any chance don’t know the origins of the word Telestine, do you?”
Nhean was caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. His eyes glancing to his watch again, he replied. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
A disapproving look from Worthlin suggested the other man thought that a dealer in information would know something so basic about their enemy. “My people coined it. It’s a Mormon word. We call the highest heaven the Celestial. Below that is the Terrestrial heaven. And below them both, the Telestial. The place where murderers and people of malice go after they’ve … paid the price. We compare them to the brightness of the sun, the moon, and the stars, to give a sense of comparative glory for each. One of my flock, sixty some odd years ago during the Exodus, made the connection between stars and beings of malice and coined the term for our new alien overlords.”
Nhean’s eyes strayed to his watch yet again. Schroeder had supposedly critical information, and here he was being forced to listen to a lecture on post-apocalyptic religious etymology.
Celestine noticed. “Parley, can we get to the point, please? Apurate, por favor,” he added in his native Spanish. “Please hurry. Mr. Tang has urgent business, I’m sure.”
Worthlin nodded. “Getting there, your Holiness, getting the
re. Just a bit more history for you, Brother Tang, before I make my point, and decide my vote. Here’s the thing. Telestial. It’s not a biblical word. It doesn’t appear until the eighteen hundreds. Some think it’s a neologism—a new word coined from two existing words. Some scholars think it comes from the Greek word telos, and therefore implies the end. Assuming that origin, the Telestines can be thought of as our end. The end of humanity, embodied in the Telestines themselves.”
Nhean stroked his chin. “That’s … frightening, to be sure.”
“Others believe that it comes from the Latin word tellus, or ground, which, in the context of certain scriptures, would imply under the ground. Or rather, hell. In this sense, the Telestines can be thought of as literal demons. Beings from the underworld, sent to bring us down to hell with them for eternity.”
“Also frightening,” said Nhean. “President Worthlin, may I cut to the chase here? Do I have your vote of confidence? Can I get back to saving humanity as we know it?”
The prophet continued as if Nhean had said nothing. “A third possibility brings us back to Greek. Tele. Far away. Distant. Like telescope. In this context, the Telestines are simply … far from us. Not human, and so far removed from our daily experience that we can’t understand them. They are other. And that brings me back to trust, Brother Nhean.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. “Interesting, President Worthlin. Are you suggesting that I … trust the Telestines?”
“Good heavens, no. At least, not as a people. You know the old saying, Brother Tang. You don’t make peace with your friends. And there’s never a need to consciously trust that which is already trustworthy by nature. But to trust the other, to trust an enemy, especially when our interests align … now that takes real faith.”