by Ben Bova
“Mr Faure!” yelled several dozen news reporters. “Mrs Brudnoy!”
Faure raised both his hands, as if in surrender. But he said, “I regret that we will have no time for your questions. My schedule is much too pressing.” He started to get up from his chair.
With a smile, Joanna said, “I’ve got lots of time. Ask away.”
“What’s happening at Moonbase?”
“When do you expect the World Court to take up your case?”
“Why can’t Moonbase agree to shut down its nanotech operations?”
“How does it feel to be in rebellion against the whole world?”
“One at a time!” Joanna pleaded. “One at a time, please.”
His face darkening, Faure plopped back onto his chair.
“How long can Moonbase hold out against the Peacekeepers?”
Joanna glanced sideways at Faure, then turned her attention back to the reporters. “Moonbase is physically self-sufficient. They grow enough food to feed themselves, and generate all the electrical power they need from solar cells built out of elements from the lunar regolith—”
“By nanomachines?”
“Yes. Nanomachines are essential to Moonbase. They produce the air we breathe and purify the water we drink. We use them to expand and maintain our solar-energy farms, and—of course—nanomachines build the Clipperships that we sell to the world’s commercial aerospace lines.”
“Are you saying that Moonbase can hold out indefinitely?”
“Yes, of course. Unless the base is attacked by overwhelming military force, which would probably kill most of the people in the base.”
“Mr Faure, will the U.N. attack Moonbase with overwhelming military force?”
Obviously struggling to maintain his self-control, Faure replied, “The United Nations has a responsibility to see that international law is enforced. The nanotechnology treaty forbids all work in nanomachines, yet as you have just heard from the mouth of Mrs Brudnoy, Moonbase insists on continuing its insidious use of nanotechnology.”
“There’s nothing insidious about it,” Joanna said to him. “We’ve been quite open about it.”
“The nanotechnology treaty is quite clear!” Faure snapped. “And it applies to all the nations of the world!”
Coolly, Joanna pointed out, “Moonbase is not on Earth, and the nanomachines we use there never leave the Moon. They are no threat whatsoever to anyone on Earth.”
“The law is the law!” Faure insisted, his moustache twitching slightly.
“And the law states that any nation that does not sign the nanotech treaty is not bound by its restrictions.”
“But Kiribati has signed the treaty.”
“And Moonbase has declared its political independence.”
One of the reporters jumped in with, “Could Moonbase survive without using nanomachines?”
“No,” said Joanna flatly.
“You see?” Faure made a dismissive gesture. “They refuse to abide by the law.”
“We are no threat to anyone on Earth,” Joanna repeated.
“How do we know that for certain?” Faure demanded. “How do we know what your scientists are doing, four hundred thousand kilometers away?”
“Send inspectors to Moonbase,” said Joanna. “We’ve offered to show U.N. inspection teams everything and anything they want to see. The offer still stands.”
A reporter called out from the rear, “You mean you’d allow U.N. inspectors to look over your nanotech operations?”
“Of course,” Joanna replied. “We made that offer at the very beginning. It still stands, if Mr Faure is willing to take us up on it.”
“What about it, sir?”
Faure brushed a fingertip across his moustache before answering. “Of course we have planned to send inspectors to Moonbase. Several of them will fly there on the mercy mission we have just agreed upon. But that does not change the fundamental situation. Moonbase must accede to the law!”
Joanna quickly added, “But if—or, rather, when—the World Court agrees that Moonbase is an independent nation, then the law allows Moonbase to continue using nanotechnology.”
The reporters weren’t interested in the legal fine points anymore. They had something new to deal with.
“You’re sending inspectors to Moonbase?”
“Does this mean some sort of compromise can be worked out?”
“Who will the inspectors be?”
“What are their names? What nations do they come from?”
Faure raised his hands to silence their questions. With a little smile of satisfaction that their attention was once more focused on him, he said, “Please! Please! I cannot divulge all the details at this moment.”
Joanna said to herself, Of course you can’t divulge all the details, you lying little fart. You just made up your mind to send inspectors on the evacuation flight, right here on the spur of the moment.
But she decided not to embarrass him further. Inspectors could be a step toward gaining Moonbase’s independence and she did not want to do anything that would interfere with that.
You’ve won a small victory, Joanna told herself. Be content with that. For now.
“That’s good news,” Jinny Anson said. “Isn’t it?”
Doug had asked Anson and Kris Cardenas to meet him in The Cave to discuss the latest news from Earthside over dinner. Edith sat at Doug’s side, the two other women across the table from them.
Leaning over his dinner tray, Doug said, “It’s good from the political aspect, I suppose.”
“It’s the first break in the deadlock,” said Edith, as she spooned up some chicken soup. It was almost a stew, it was so thick. But it tasted flat and bland to her. She longed for just one little jalapeno.
“I’ll be happy to show the U.N. inspectors our entire nanotech operation,” Cardenas said eagerly. “Of course, if they want to get into Willi’s lab they’ll be on their own.”
Doug almost grinned at the thought of strangers trying to talk Zimmerman into allowing them to inspect his laboratory. Then he thought, On the other hand, Zimmerman might be pleased to have other scientists see what he’s accomplished here.
“But will they be scientists?” he wondered aloud.
“What?” Cardenas asked.
“Will the U.N. inspectors really be scientists, or will they be spies for Faure?” he said.
“Both,” Edith replied immediately.
“Then how much do we really want to show them?”
Anson said, “Everything—except whatever you guys are doing to help defend the base.”
With a rueful smile, Cardenas admitted, “We can show them everything, then. We haven’t come up with anything that’s specifically military in nature.”
“Okay,” said Doug,’then the inspectors will be no trouble.”
“Not unless they rub Willi the wrong way.”
“Does he have a right way?” Anson jabbed.
Doug looked past his table companions. The Cave was almost filled with diners selecting meals at the dispensers, carrying trays to tables, meeting friends. The big rock chamber buzzed with dozens of conversations.
He forced his attention back to the problems at hand. “Jinny, how are you deciding who goes back Earthside on the evac flight?”
Anson shifted mental gears smoothly. “The ballet troupe, of course.”
“Their manager told me he’s going to sue the U.N. for all the dates they’ve missed,” Edith said.
“Lotsa luck,” said Anson.
“That leaves thirty seats on the evacuation ship,” Doug said.
Nodding, Anson replied, “We’re going by contract dates. People whose employment contracts ended the longest time ago get first priority on the evac.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Doug.
“Plus, we’ve got one pregnant woman,” Anson said.
“Really?” Edith’s interest was immediate. “Who is she? How far along?”
“A couple of months, from what
the medical report says.”
“I’d like to interview her before she leaves.”
I’ll set it up,” Anson said.
“What about the father?” Doug asked.
Anson shook her head. “His contract’s up, but there are too many people ahead of him. He’ll have to stay here.”
“Won’t somebody give up his seat so he can go with his wife?” Edith asked.
“They’re not married. Not yet, anyway. And if somebody gave up a seat I’d have to put the next guy in line in it, not the daddy.”
“How far down on the list is he?” Doug asked.
“Eighteenth.”
“You think they’ll get married Earthside?” Cardenas asked.
“They want to get married right here and now,” Anson said, “but there’s nobody here to perform a legal ceremony.”
Doug leaned back in his chair and stared at the rough rock ceiling for a few moments. “I don’t see why we can’t get a man of the cloth from Earthside to marry them by video.”
“They’re both Catholic,” Anson said.
“How about the Pope?” Edith quipped. “Or at least a cardinal. Make a great news feature.”
Doug grinned at her. “Let’s see what we can do. At least they’ll be married, even if they have to separate for a while.”
Suddenly Anson looked uncomfortable, and Doug realized that her husband was still on Tarawa. They had separated several years earlier; Jinny was at home in Moonbase, her husband had not been. Not at all.
To get off the subject, Doug said, “I wonder just who Faure’s going to send here to check out our nanotech work.”
Anson snorted. “At least one of ’em’ll be Japanese, from Yamagata Industries, I betcha.”
DAY THIRTY-SIX
“It’s too bad you missed the cherry blossoms,” Rashid said to Tamara Bonai. “They were magnificent this year.”
The city of Washington was in bloom: Bonai saw the roses and magnolias that flowered brightly on the White House’s lawn as their limousine glided past the heavily guarded gate and out onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
Her five minutes with the President had not gone well. True to her word, Tamara had urged the President to support Moonbase’s bid for independence. True to her expectations, the President had politely but firmly answered that she could not do that as long as Moonbase used nanotechnology.
“But without nanotechnology, Moonbase will have to shut down,” Bonai had said.
The President shrugged it off. “My record is quite clear,” she said. “The potential threat from nanotechnology is so severe that it’s worth the loss of Moonbase to be safe from it.”
For a long moment the two women sat facing each other in plush armchairs set before the Oval Office’s dark and empty fireplace. Bonai wore a sleeveless sheath of pink, with pearls at her throat, ear lobes and wrist. The President was in a navy blue suit with a modest mid-calf skirt and jewelry of silver and turquoise from her native Arizona.
“Are you aware,” Bonai asked slowly,’that the United Nations intends to turn over the operation of Moonbase to Yamagata Industries, once they have taken the base?”
The President glanced at her aide, sitting quietly across the room behind Bonai’s back with a cyberbook-sized computer in the palm of one hand. The young man had a miniaturized microphone clipped to the inside of his shirt collar, so he could subvocalize information to the all-but-invisible receiver in the President’s left ear.
“Yamagata Industries?” she said, stalling for time. They already have a base on the Moon, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said Bonai. “And they intend to take over Moonbase and continue using nanomachines for many purposes—including manufacturing Clipperships.”
“Are you certain?” The President was now glaring at her aide, who had given up all pretense of secrecy and was scrolling madly through his computer files.
“That would give Yamagata—Japan, really—the world leadership in aerospace transportation,” Bonai said.
The aide shook his head and whispered. The President put on a smile and parroted, “I have had no indication from Mr Faure that the U.N. intends to turn Moonbase over to Yamagata.”
“Then may I suggest,” Bonai said, “with all respect, that you ask Mr Faure directly if he plans to do this?”
The President’s brows knit slightly. “May I ask what your interest is in all of this? After all, Moonbase is trying to break away from Kiribati’s ownership, aren’t they?”
“Kiribati supports Moonbase’s independence. It will have no effect on our business relationship with Moonbase. We intend to formally recognize Moonbase’s independence.”
“Is that so?” The President leaned slightly toward Bonai and made a motherly smile. “Let me give you a bit of friendly advice, young lady. Kiribati’s recognition of Moonbase won’t affect the political situation one iota. So don’t stick your neck out; you might regret it later on.”
Bonai smiled back, thinly. “I appreciate your frankness, Madam President. But I do think that America’s recognition of Moonbase’s independence would be in keeping with the finest traditions of your nation.”
The President sighed, her signal to her aide to end the meeting. He immediately got to his feet and walked across the Oval Office to bend over her and say:
“I’m afraid the ambassador from Uganda has been kept waiting for more than three minutes now.”
Bonai took the hint, got to her feet, and left the Oval Office.
Now she leaned back on the limousine’s fine leather seat, resting her head on the backrest as the car inched through the traffic on its way to her hotel.
Rashid was either too polite or too crafty to ask her how the meeting had gone.
“I’ve arranged for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s quite a lovely place, very quiet and private. The food is excellent.”
Bonai said, “That’s fine.” And she realized that Rashid hadn’t expected anything of significance to come out of her five minutes in the Oval Office. His whole attention was focused on their evening together.
Jack Killifer had just enough time to down a premixed martini on the commercial flight between Washington and Boston. He had followed Bonai to Washington and immediately given up any hope of killing her there. Too many guards, too many police, too many people on the streets and in the hotels.
I’m no professional hit man, he grumbled to himself on the brief flight home. Why’d O’Conner pick me for the job?
He knew perfectly well. Killifer had brought Bonai’s intransigence to General O’Conner’s attention. And O’Conner had always been a firm believer in the idea that the man with the problem should be the man to produce the solution.
But murder? Maybe when she’s all alone out on that little island of hers. Or even in the town on Tarawa atoll; the only real security those islanders have is guards for the casino.
As the plane lowered its landing gear and lined up for landing at Boston’s ancient Logan Aerospace Port, Killifer toyed with the idea of calling O’Conner in Atlanta and asking for a professional to do the work. Or even one of the faithful Urban Corps fanatics.
But it’d be a waste of breath, he knew. O’Conner had made it clear: he wanted Killifer to do this job personally. “The fewer people know about this,” the general had said,’the better off we are.”
Yeah, Killifer told himself as the plane’s tires screeched on the runway. And knocking off Bonai’ll give him an absolute grip on me.
Yet he was almost smiling as he got out of his seat and followed the other passengers to the plane’s exit hatch. Okay, he told himself. When Bonai goes back to Tarawa I go back too. I’ll hit her there. Now that I know the layout of the islands, it oughtta be fairly easy.
And he began to lay his plans.
DAY THIRTY-EIGHT
They watched the Clippership settle down gracefully on landing pad one from the snug confines of her quarters.
“Well,” said Nick
O’Malley,’there she is.”
Claire Rossi nodded.
“Aren’t you excited?” he asked, forcing a grin.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Claire said, “About the wedding, yes. About leaving, no.”
“Well, you’ve got to go,” Nick said. “It’s for your own good. And the baby’s.”
Claire nodded again. But she said, “It’s not an illness, you know. Pregnancy is just as normal as breathing, really.”
“The rules are the rules,” Nick insisted. “Besides, you’ll get better medical care back Earthside. And your mother’ll be there with you.”
“But you won’t.”
“I’ll come down on the next flight.”
“Nick, there might not be a next flight!”
“Now look—”
The phone chimed and Claire immediately called out, “Answer.”
Jinny Anson’s chipper face appeared on the wall. “Okay, you two, we’re down to two hours and counting.”
Claire said, “We’ll be there.”
“With bells on,” Nick added.
They forgot their argument and began dressing for the wedding. Claire had borrowed liberally from her friends and put together a beige long-skirted dress (the closest she could find at Moonbase to a wedding gown) and various accessories that almost looked right. Nick could find nothing that fit his big frame except a fresh pair of white coveralls from the medical stores.
The wedding was held in Jinny Anson’s office, with half a dozen of their friends in attendance and Claire’s arms filled with a bouquet of flowers freshly plucked from Lev Brudnoy’s little garden.
The archbishop of Kiribati, brown skin and flashing white teeth, looked out at them from the wall screen. Dressed in the full regalia of purple stole and skullcap, he appeared to be in a chapel made of stuccoed walls and a timbered roof.
Anson, Doug, and Harry Clemens stood off to one side while Edith, camera glued to one eye, panned across the office. Joanna and Lev Brudnoy watched from the wall screen on the other side of the room.
The ceremony was brief, a little awkward with the transmission delay, yet somehow touching. Doug heard Anson sniffle slightly, beside him. Looking over to the far wall, he thought that his mother looked just a bit teary-eyed, too. Why do women cry at weddings? he wondered.