Into the Light

by David Weber

  Doctor MacMurdo, he had concluded yet again, should have been a used car salesman. But he’d been right—yet again—and by now Dave Dvorak took the astounding capabilities of his vision completely for granted … until something startled him into remembering what it had been like for his first forty-odd years.

  The thought flowed somewhere under the surface of his concentration on the report’s far from amusing content. Sometimes it was difficult to remind himself how much better off the world was these days. Or how much they’d actually accomplished.

  He paused the current file and leaned forward to slide his cup into the dispenser slot. His nostrils flared appreciatively as the fragrance of the elixir of life came to him in a tendril of steam. Thank God Brazil had survived! And Fernando Garçāo, who’d resigned as President of Brazil to become Senator Garçāo on the day the first countries outside the Americas joined the Continental Union and transformed it into the Planetary Union, had done a lot to educate Dave Dvorak’s palate where coffee was concerned. He’d introduced Dvorak to a Brazilian’s idea of what coffee ought to be, and Dvorak had become a devotee of a Bourbon Santos 2 blend from Garçāo’s cousin Mateo’s fazenda which had survived the Shongairi intact.

  The cup finished filling with the tiny hint of cream he preferred, and he leaned back again, cradling the cup—it was an outsized mug, really—in both hands while he inhaled the rich, strong aroma. Then he sipped slowly and sighed in contentment.

  All right, he told himself as the temptation to luxuriate in the moment rolled through him. You haven’t earned an all-up coffee break yet, Mister Secretary of State. You’ve got the better part of a meg of reports, analyses, and proposals to review before Tuesday, and you’re leaving early tonight, so get cracking. You can take your cup with you.

  He snorted and un-paused the current report, and his brief spurt of humor disappeared as the grim analysis and even grimmer projections rolled across his corneas. Despite every effort to understand and appreciate other worldviews, he still couldn’t wrap his mind around how—

  A musical chime sounded, and he looked up in surprise.

  “Yes, Calamity?” Like most humans he tended to anthropomorphize his personal AI. It was, perhaps, fortunate that AIs didn’t recognize or care about the implications of the names some humans—especially ones named Dvorak—hung on them.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” the AI told him in his daughter Maighread’s voice, and he blinked as Maighread’s face at age twelve appeared on his suddenly cleared corneas. He’d programmed Calamity’s avatar to rotate randomly between all three of the kids, and he smiled as “Maighread” wrinkled her nose at him in her patented mannerism.

  “Who? There’s no one on the calendar until my oh-nine hundred tomorrow with Patrick and Kasey.”

  And there’d damned well better not be anybody trying to change that, he added silently. He’d worked hard to clear the time to go home this evening, and—

  “It’s Uncle Rob,” the AI said, and Dvorak laughed as the avatar rolled its eyes. His daughter Morgana had decided to opt for a career in psychology, but she also had a far better hand at cybernetics than her dear old dad ever would. She was the one who’d worked out the avatars’ facial expressions and other mannerisms for him, and “Maighread’s” current expression reminded him of just how well Morgana knew her twin.

  “How’d he get clear to my office without anybody warning me he was coming?”

  “Don’t know. Should I find out?” Calamity offered.

  “No.” Dvorak shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll tell me—probably with great gusto. Tell him to come on in.”

  “Yes, Papi,” Calamity said—this time in Morgana’s voice, accompanied by a wink—and Dvorak snorted as it disappeared from his corneas. Damianos Karahalios could continue to call their existing cyber systems “expert programs” rather than “artificial intelligence,” and Dvorak believed him. They sure did give a much better impersonation of intelligence than any other software he’d worked with, though.

  “Rob,” he said, leaning even farther back in his chair and waving negligently at the matching chair on the far side of his desk. “How nice to see you. Did I miss the email telling me you were coming?”

  “Must have,” his brother-in-law replied, strolling across the spacious compartment to the indicated chair. He paused halfway there to examine the family portrait which dominated one paneled bulkhead. In an age of electronic media, it stood out as a hand-painted oil of Dvorak, Sharon, and their children, and the artist had captured their personalities perfectly in their expressions.

  “This is new,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Dvorak. “Nene?”

  “Yeah.” Dvorak nodded. “Steven dropped it off as a surprise gift for Sharon’s birthday. I’ve been keeping it stashed up here to keep old Eagle Eye from spotting it.” He shook his head. “It is nice, though, isn’t it? I’m just glad they weren’t in Oklahoma City when the KEW dropped.”

  “Agreed.”

  Wilson continued to his chair and flopped inelegantly into it. Dvorak regarded him for a moment or two, then shook his head mournfully.

  “What?” Wilson challenged.

  “Oh, I’m just thinking back to those treasured days of yore and your many pithy, pointed, one might even say pungent, comments on the difference between people who worked for a living and officers.”

  “And exactly whose fault is it that I’m not still a respectable noncom?” Wilson demanded. “Who was it who kept beating on me to ‘accept the offer’? Who twisted my arm into a pretzel? Who enlisted my baby sister—even my nieces and nephew!—to make my life a living hell until I did? Who—”

  “Lord, you’re melodramatic!” Dvorak shook his head, eyes sad. “Poor, pitiful little baby. Was da big mean bwother-in-law mean to you, bugga cake?”

  “I salute you,” Wilson said. “Here.”

  He raised one hand, second finger extended, and Dvorak chuckled.

  “Actually, you look pretty good, Colonel Wilson.”

  “I am a courageous and valiant Space Marine, which means I no longer shudder in horror whenever someone calls me that,” Wilson replied. “And I miss my dress blues, dammit! I mean, this monkey suit isn’t bad, but—”

  He rolled his eyes, and Dvorak chuckled again. The uniform of the Continental Union Armed Forces had been adopted by the Planetary Armed Forces, although the Space Marines had adopted the scarlet “blood stripe” trouser seams of Wilson’s beloved USMC. And the truth was that the black jacket and dark green trousers looked good on him, especially with the three stylized golden planets on each shoulder. Both of them had received the antigerone treatments which had become available as Hegemony medical tech was progressively adapted to humans. As a result, they were physically at least five years younger than they’d been before the Shongair attack, and the lost mobility which had forced Wilson’s original retirement from the Marine Corps had been as completely repaired as Dvorak’s shoulder.

  And despite his lingering, honor-of-the-flag, pro forma bitching, Dvorak knew his brother-in-law was proud of the new service he was helping to build, and the fact that he was “only” a colonel didn’t mean as much as it once might have, since the Planetary Armed Forces remained absurdly small, from a manpower perspective, compared to any pre-invasion military. The Space Marines remained the smallest of the services unified under the PAF command structure, although they were slated to begin growing as soon as the first of the human-built starships under construction completed its trials. For the moment, the Marines didn’t have anyone to take stuff away from because humanity remained limited to a single star system.

  That was due to change sometime in the next decade or so. The PUNS James Robinson, lead starship of the Planetary Union Navy—he tended to doubt that the implications of that service’s acronym had occurred to its non-native English speakers until it was too late—was slated to enter service within seven or eight years, and Dvorak looked forward to her formal commissioning ceremony. He was also looking
forward to Wilson’s reaction when he found out that Colonel Wilson was about to become Brigadier Wilson.

  “About that email I didn’t get about your arrival?” he said out loud. “Would it happen I didn’t get it because you never sent it?”

  “Oh, I suppose that’s possible,” Wilson conceded. He waved one hand in an airy gesture. “Those highfalutin procedures and protocols are beyond the grasp of a mere Marine.”

  “Yeah. Sure!” Dvorak shook his head and crossed his arms. “Would that happen to be why you haven’t talked to your sister for—what? Three months now?”

  “Has it been that long?” Wilson quirked an eyebrow. “Funny how time flies when it passes in restful silence.”

  “You are so going to regret that when I tell Herself about it,” Dvorak said. “And don’t think for a moment that I won’t!”

  “Throwing me under the bus again to save yourself?” Wilson shook his head. “Sad. So sad to see someone so terrified of a mere female.”

  “Dead man walking,” Dvorak said, trying to picture Sharon Dvorak in the role of “mere female.” His imagination wasn’t up to it, but he discovered that he could picture her dancing on her beloved brother’s head for five or ten minutes.

  “Only if you tell her, and I know you have a tender heart. You wouldn’t want me on your conscience.”

  “Oh, my ‘tender heart’ can take quite a lot where some people are concerned.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m a Space Marine, and we’re fearless! Says so right in the Manual. So there.”

  Dvorak laughed and shook his head.

  “Seriously, it’s good to see you, Rob. Should I assume that the fact you’re sitting in my office means you’re back from those maneuvers?”

  “You should.”

  “How’d they go?”

  “Let’s just say they went a hell of a lot better than the first ones did,” Wilson said fervently, and Dvorak grunted in sour understanding.

  “So, if you’re back from Mars, could we possibly expect you to grace us with your presence for supper at the cabin tonight?”

  “Only if you’re cooking.” Wilson shuddered. “I’ve had Sharon’s boiled water, you know.”

  “You’ve already given me enough ammunition to get you shot twice. You really want to give me enough to get you shot three times?”

  “Just your word against mine, and I’ll lie,” Wilson assured him.

  “Yeah, you would.” Dvorak shook his head, then cocked it to one side. “Should I go ahead and pencil you in for supper?”

  “I expect I can find room for it on my crowded social calendar. Besides, unless my memory is in worse shape than usual, tomorrow’s Crazy’s birthday.”

  “Well, there’s the ammo for the third shot,” Dvorak said dryly, and it was Wilson’s turn to laugh.

  “If I didn’t give her a hard time she’d think I didn’t love her anymore,” he said.

  “True,” Dvorak conceded. Then he let his chair come upright. “Should I assume you’re here for more than just Sharon’s birthday?”

  “Sort of.” Wilson shrugged. “I’m scheduled to head up the evaluation of our most recent exercises. I’m pretty sure my people and I have that nailed down, but General Cartwright wants us to include a section on ways in which the capabilities we’ve been perfecting might have short-term applications right here on Earth. So, since I always like to use real-world examples whenever I can, I thought I’d just drop by and pick my favorite brother-in-law’s brain on the current situation dirtside.”

  “Favorite brother-in-law, is it? Thanks a whole heap!”

  “Even if I had another one, I’m sure I’d like you better,” Wilson assured him soothingly. “So, what can you tell me?”

  “Well, overall we’re in pretty good shape,” Dvorak said in a considerably more serious tone. “Not perfect, you understand, and Afghanistan and Pakistan are looking ugly.”

  “Quelle surprise,” Wilson said sourly, and Dvorak’s snort was harsh.

  The Continental Union of the Americas had officially become the Planetary Union five years after its creation, with the admission of Australia, New Zealand, the United Kingdom, Spain, Italy (both Italys, actually; the various separatists had successfully split the pre-invasion Repubblica Italiana into the Repubblica di Padania in the north and the Repubblica Siciliana in the south as part of the process of reconstruction), Portugal, and Romania. A lot of other nations had joined since, including a reorganized India and South Africa, although it looked like there were going to be a few holdouts. Switzerland, for example, was still talking about “associated status,” although President Howell wasn’t going to give them that. As far as he was concerned there were only two statuses: “IN” and “OUT.”

  And then there was Southwest Asia, the subject of the very report he’d been reading when Wilson arrived.

  “You know, I actually thought Ormakhel might turn that around,” Wilson continued after a moment, and Dvorak shrugged.

  “He might have, although he wasn’t exactly a poster child for religious tolerance himself. Of course, that was before Ghilzai’s coup.”

  “Shame on you, Dave! You know you shouldn’t call that orderly transfer of government a coup! Are you seriously questioning the impartiality of the Supreme Jirga? How parochial of you!”

  “What kind of self-respecting Space Marine even knows what words like ‘parochial’ mean?” Dvorak asked suspiciously.

  “Stop changing the subject.” Wilson smiled briefly, but his blue eyes were intent. “So, are the stories I’ve heard about Ghilzai—both Ghilzais, really—accurate?”

  “Only if they’re pessimistic.”

  Dvorak sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  India might have pulled itself out of the wasteland of sectarian and tribal violence and become a member in good standing of the steadily growing Planetary Union. The Islamic Republic of Pakistan had not, and the main sticking point was the Pakistani refusal to accept the fundamental human rights clauses of the Planetary Constitution. There were other issues, but that was the one that really mattered, and Prime Minister Ghilzai wasn’t about to yield an inch.

  Imam Sheikh Abbas Ghilzai, a Pashtun from the rugged mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan, was the founder and head of Altreg al-Jadid elly Alamam, the New Way Forward Party, although “new way” and “Abbas Ghilzai” really didn’t belong together in the same sentence.

  He was six feet tall, which made him enormously tall for a Pashtun, with dark hair, a fiercely hooked nose, a commanding presence, and the full beard and fiery eyes of a genuine zealot. A supporter of the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (the Taliban Movement of Pakistan) before the Shongair invasion, Ghilzai had risen to senior military command during the tribal and religious warfare which had wracked Afghanistan, Pakistan, and northwestern India in the wake of the Shongairi’s devastating response to the nuclear attacks on Amritsar and Ludhiana. His title of Imam was self-awarded, although it had come to be accepted by his followers—and used even by those who weren’t his followers, if they knew what was good for them—and his party, the AJA, had arisen out of his vision of Islam. A lot of the AJA’s platform made ISIS look moderate, and no one who’d ever read one of Ghilzai’s manifestoes could doubt that he meant it.

  Unfortunately, according to the Supreme Jirga of Pakistan—the council of tribal elders which had emerged as the new national government following the destruction of most of the country’s “Westernized” aspects—Imam Sheikh Abbas was also the “democratically elected” prime minister. What he was, in fact, was a totalitarian dictator who’d returned Islam to a Dark Ages mentality and converted Pakistan into his version of an Islamic Republic.

  His cousin, Ghayyur Ghilzai, was the commanding officer of the rebuilt Pakistan Army and the Sheikh’s right hand man. He carried the official rank of field marshal, but was more commonly known as Ghayyur Kahn. He was also at least as intolerant and probably even more brutal than Abbas, and he’d spent the last couple of years systematicall
y purging the military of any potential opponents or rivals.

  The previous prime minister, Tariq Ormakhel, was another Pashtun. The Spīn Ghar Mountains which formed the natural frontier between Afghanistan and Pakistan had offered their protection to their tough-as-nails inhabitants against the Shongairi, just as they had against every other invader. As a consequence, Pashtuns had gone from representing around fifteen percent of Pakistan’s pre-invasion population to representing over seventy percent of its current population, which meant any non-Pashtun prime minister was … unlikely to succeed.

  Ormakhel was no sweetheart in his own right, in Dvorak’s opinion. He, too, hewed to a very repressive and fundamentalist interpretation of the Quran, but he’d been at least a little more open to what passed for pluralism. Non-Muslims were nonpersons in his eyes, but he’d been prepared to allow an actual discussion within Islam—to a certain extent and inside tightly proscribed limits—about its ultimate character. More to the point, he truly had been as democratically elected as anyone could have been in Pakistan following the carnage wreaked upon it by both the Shongairi and the Pakistanis themselves, and he’d recognized that whether he liked it or not, the Planetary Union was there to stay and Pakistan must accommodate itself to that reality.

  That had been the kiss of death, of course. Ghilzai’s supporters had accused him of “Western corruption” and of being soft on blasphemy, and the Supreme Jirga had removed him, ostensibly on its own initiative. Actually, as Patrick O’Sullivan’s analysts at the Planetary Intelligence Agency had realized at the time, the Jirga had acted in obedience to Ghilzai as part of his move to reshape Pakistan. At the moment, Ormakhel was living in exile in Morocco—the hardliners in Iran had fared … poorly in the wake of the invasion, and he’d been as unwelcome in Afghanistan as in Pakistan—while the Ghilzais governed Pakistan from the rebuilt capital of Naya Islamabad.