Victim of Circumstance (The Time Stone Trilogy Book 3)

by Robert F Hays

  “Problems with Celia?”

  “No, no, my sister and brother-in-law are visiting from Regis. They’re driving me crazy.”

  “So, what’re they doing, not cleaning up their breakfast dishes?”

  “My sister, Lisa, is one of the biggest know nothing know it alls I know. The two of them are the top galactic experts on every subject in the universe. The current coaching we have to endure is on the subject of raising children. With my two kids, according to them, we’re doing everything wrong. Our days are a constant barrage of criticism and advice. I had to get a break before I killed both of them.”

  “They’re experts on child raising, eh?” Jim said.

  “The ultimate authority.”

  “Let me guess,” Jim chuckled. “They don’t have children.”

  “You got it.”

  “Drop by any time,” Jim said. “Just give me the code message ‘there are problems with the water purification unit on Midway Island’. That’s so my blood pressure doesn’t go up thinking there’s a real problem.”

  “Will do,” Chris said. “Oh yes, when they knew where I was going, they gave me a list of the things you’re doing wrong to pass on to you.”

  “They know more than my PhD advisors?”

  “Yes, they’re also the ultimate experts on planetary governments and especially military operation in the war against the Alliance.”

  “Ok, just write them down on paper and put them in my office inbox. It’s the plastic one on the floor next to my computer desk.”

  “Write on paper? I’ve only done that once in my life. It was a cultural anthropology class. According to the lecturer, we had to experience how our ancestors did it before the computer. It took me three hours to write a grocery shopping list.”

  Jim smiled and chuckled to himself. “When I first arrived at this time I had a box of pens in my rental truck. Amy sold them to collectors and museums. Two thousand G for the ones that didn’t work and four thousand for the ones that did. The collectors who bought the working pens now have them in sealed cases so the ink doesn’t dry out. Three quarters of a million dollars for a box of pens.”

  “And the colony ship that arrived here didn’t have any either,” Chris said. “They only brought pencils. Pens don’t last long in storage. I remember the news broadcasts when you sold off your old stuff. One thing puzzles me; you had nine empty containers of whiskey, rum and vodka. I thought you were a beer drinker.”

  “The soldiers in my platoon used to come over to my place to visit and party. They left the empties behind. It was just luck I didn’t have the time to dump the lot at the recyclers. I threw it all in the back of the rental truck.”

  “And they each sold for three hundred thousand G.”

  “Yep, one and a half million dollars each, except for one vodka bottle, it was missing the cap. It went at auction for half the price of the rest.”

  “I read about that,” Chris chuckled. “The buyer had a replica cap made.”

  “All my old garbage and books now sit on display in either museums or rich people’s collections rooms.”

  “And the Vatican,” Chris said.

  “Yep. Seven of my books are now in nitrogen filled, UV filtering glass cases.”

  “How much did the Vatican pay you for those?”

  “A little over twenty million dollars,” Jim said.

  “And you said you got those for free?”

  “Yep. Books on religion are not exactly things I’d buy for myself. They were dumped on my doorstep by someone I knew who was moving house.”

  “That was nice of him,” Chris chuckled.

  “The one thing that concerned me about the colony ship that came here was that it’d contain many of the things I sold. Imagine paying big money for a rare antique, the only one of its kind, and having half a dozen more show up.”

  “That didn’t happen,” Chris said. “The stuff on that ship was specifically made for a planetary colony.”

  “I liked what happened to one of my unopened cans of beer,” Jim chuckled. “The one the billionaire on Beijing bought. On his hundred and fiftieth birthday, with great fanfare, he drank it, a very expensive refreshment.”

  “Did you see the interview with that guy that bought your bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey?’

  Jim shook his head.

  “It was fortunate there was a little whiskey left in it. At parties he carefully takes it out if its glass case, removes the cap and lets his guests take a sniff.”

  Jim laughed then turned to Chris. “Are you coming to the Liberation Day ball tomorrow night?”

  “Will it be the same as the last one, seven consulates, their wives and all our old drinking buddies?”

  “Well, Matt’s mayor of Carlisle and Dan’s a member of the council; they are part of the government.”

  “I prefer them to the consulates, especially Monsieur Gestard. We get all the bozos. One man and a secretary is hardly what I’d call a consular service.”

  “With a population the size of Casia it’s only courtesy that they send a consulate at all. They also act as de facto ambassadors.”

  “Oh yes, do you know who keeps bugging me to see if I can get them an invitation?”

  “Your sister?”

  “Good heavens,” Chris said. “You must be clairvoyant.”

  Jim turned. “It’s a hot day. Let’s go for a swim in the pool.”

  Chris nodded and they turned and walked with Ralph dutifully following.

  “Back on Earth that’s one thing I swore I’d never have, a swimming pool. The stink of chlorine. These modern ones with the antibacterial and anti-algae zappers are so much better.”

  “What does chlorine smell like?” Chris said.

  * * *

  “United flight seven four nine, you are clear to land on runway six three. Visibility half a mile and a five knot crosswind.”

  “Babbling to yourself again?” Carol said as she joined Jim outside the ornate doors of his house complex ballroom next to a fountain with its lavish marble statuary.

  “Just watching the stratos arrive and having Old Earth flashbacks.”

  Both looked up and saw the navigation lights of a strato as it turned and lined up for a landing in front of the doors and fountain.

  “Who’s this coming?” Carol said.

  “Computer said it’s Mr. Wang, the Chinese consulate. He’s also bringing a group from their roving trade legation. They’re coming in a separate strato. I think they’re going to try to negotiate a reduction in the price of our magnesium. There’s a shortage in their federation.”

  “There’s no shortage here,” Carol said. “Why not lower the price.”

  “I’m an Army Sergeant, not an interplanetary commodities dealer. I have to go by what my experts say.”

  The strato buzzed and hummed as it glided to a halt in front of them.

  “Control yourself darling. Please don’t be as sarcastic with the consulates as you were the last time.”

  Jim grunted. The door of the strato opened and a man and woman got out.

  “Jim,” the man said. “It is so nice to be back at your house again. My wife and I so much enjoyed the last celebration.”

  “Consul Wang, good to see you again.”

  Wang turned and looked at the marble fountain. “This is new,” he said. “Where did you acquire such a beautiful sculpture?”

  “I got it from Nova Roma, the sculptors name was Martino Russo.”

  Wang’s eyes opened wide. “The great Russo, the master sculptor?” he said. “You have an original?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Jim said.

  “Jim!” Carol snapped under her breath then turned to Wang. “Mr. Wang, you and your wife come inside, just about everyone’s already here.”

  “Yes,” Wang said. “Such a beautiful ballroom and you always put on such an elegant buffet.”

  “When it’s not a ballroom we use it as a basketball court. Next week the kitchen staff play the housekeepers, th
e winner goes to the finals with the grounds keepers. I can get you tickets if you like.”

  “Jim!” Carol snapped under her breath.

  “You have that many human servants?” Wang said.

  “No,” Carol said. “My husband’s making a joke. We only have six. The whole house is completely automated.”

  “Shall we go in?” Jim said.

  * * *

  Jim casually wandered over to the table where his friends Matt, Dan and Harry sat. “Happy Liberation Day,” he announced as he sat with a glass of beer in hand. “What’s doing?”

  The others raised their glasses in a return salute.

  “Talking old times,” Matt said.

  Jim looked across the table at Matt, a Chicago native who braved the hazardous route to a colony ship during the evacuation of Earth. After two thousand years cryogenic sleep he woke to find himself a slave of a wealthy family.

  “What old times?” Jim said. “Back on Earth or the revolution?”

  “No one talks about bloody Old Earth, mate,” Dan said. He was also a refugee from Earth, an Australian.

  Chris joined them at the table.

  “How’s your sister and brother-in-law enjoying the ball?” Jim said.

  “Eating it up,” Chris said. “My sister is currently explaining to the wife of the Russian consulate how to make borsht. She knows better than the Russians.”

  Matt laughed. “Yeah, she told me that on Old Earth, Chicago was the capitol of California. I lived there for twenty nine years and I didn’t know that. I must have been sleeping through that class at school.”

  “There you all are,” Carol said as she appeared next to Jim. “The heroes of the revolution drinking team in training again.”

  “Hey,” Dan said. “You’re a hero of the revolution too. You were our communications expert. Come join us.”

  “No, I’ve got to say goodbye to our guests.”

  Jim started to stand. “Yeah, yeah, that’s my job too.”

  “No, just sit and drink beer” Carol said firmly. “You’ve had a rough night. The Chinese trade delegation brow beating you for two hours over magnesium and the fact that Casian soy sauce is dominating the markets of the Asian Federation.”

  “Hey,” Matt said. “It’s not our fault that the Chinese forgot how to make soy sauce.”

  The others chuckled.

  “Not their fault either,” Jim said. “The soy bean was extinct on their planets for about six hundred years.”

  “What was that argument you were having with Monsieur Gestard?” Carol said.

  “It wasn’t an argument,” Jim said. “It was a discussion.”

  “A heated discussion,” Carol said.

  “It was about the war games next month,” Jim said. “Every time we go on an exercise with the other Home Guards they always stick our troops in reserve or on escort duties.”

  “This time we’re teamed up with the French against the Japanese,” Harry said.

  Carol looked up. “Speaking of the Japanese,” she said, “Mr. Hashimoto is leaving, I’ve got to go.”

  “So, how did the heated discussion go?” Harry said.

  Jim looked across the table at Harry, the ex British SAS and special operations expert who had commanded the Casian ground forces since the revolution. “Same old thing. Casian ground troops have no experience at modern ground warfare.”

  “Neither have they,” Harry said. “The last decent land battle in the galaxy happened over four hundred years ago. Even the Bund conquest of those planets involved them landing and our side evacuating. No one actually shot at anyone.”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “On Earth, with all the riots, revolutions and fighting our way to a colony ships, at least three quarters of our troops have actually been in a firefight.”

  “And a third have actually killed someone,” Harry added. “On the other planets they don’t realize that, as you Yanks say, we are mean mothers.”

  “How’re they with the modern weapons?” Jim said.

  “Taken to them like the proverbial ducks to water. Last year when we had that battle with the Bachoff Home Guard we attacked so aggressively and professionally those cream puffs from Bachoff nearly shit their pants. But it’s always the same old thing, our troops are citizen soldiers, part time, weekend warriors and theirs are professionals. I’d bet on our worst against their best any time.”

  “Yes,” Dan said. “And Bachoff is supposed to be the ruggedest of all the settled planets in the Commonwealth. Them cream puffs ran like hell, and the prisoners we took kept complaining about the cold and having to sleep on thin mats like we did. Their delicate backs couldn’t take it.”

  Jim nodded. “When I asked Monsieur Gestard about approaching his military and asking that the Casian guard be given a more challenging role, he gave me one of his condescending smiles, looked down his nose at me and said that units were assigned according to their capabilities.”

  “One thing we need is a faster troop transport,” Harry said. “That freighter of yours can hardly keep up with the fleet.”

  “Hey,” Jim said. “I never got into bulk interstellar shipping. I’ve always used the Montoya freighters. I bought that one for short interplanetary shipping.”

  “Will it be back in time for the war games?” Harry asked.

  “Yes, it’s taking a shipment of turnips and soy sauce to New Hope right now but it’ll be back in time for it to be converted again and you can use it.”

  “As long as it doesn’t smell of garlic like it did last time.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” Jim chuckled then turned to Dan. “You’re the council treasurer, when can the Casian government buy one instead of borrowing mine? Haven’t had a chance to talk to you about the treasury since I got back from Earth. This must be the only planet in the Commonwealth where the head of government is a part time job.”

  “You know our bloody finances,” Dan said. “Still trying to work up the money to buy newer model troop carriers and scouts.”

  “We still have those old surplus ones,” Harry said. “The newest is fifty years old.”

  “What’s the talkin’ ‘bout,” Sam said as he sat down.

  “War,” Matt said.

  “Just my kind of talk,” Chock said and also took a seat.

  “We were about to get to scalping,” Dan said. “Can you give us a demonstration? Monsieur Gestard, the French consulate, is just over there.”

  “Oh hell,” Chock said. “You all should know by now that my bloodthirsty ravings are just an act. I have to promote the image of the ferocious red man. I doubt that I could scalp anyone, even Monsieur Gestard.”

  “You’d be ostracized by your tribe,” Matt said.

  “You’re thinking of the Comanche. I’m Hopi, we have a more peaceable attitude to life.”

  “Watch the talk,” Matt said. “Gestard is headed this way.”

  “Jim,” Gestard said as he neared. “I hope you didn’t take me the wrong way in our discussion. I wasn’t trying to be insulting.”

  “Not insulting?” Jim said. “You told me Casians were too primitive to handle modern weapons and equipment.”

  “Not primitive, just not educated. Your people have been here eight years; half that time you were using the ancient equipment from the colony ships. Modern man was brought up with modern equipment.”

  “Warfare isn’t a bloody reflection of the technology of the times,” Harry said. “Warfare is a solid step backward. You don’t hand some flamin’ robotics device your weapon and tell it to fix it, you fix it yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Matt chuckled. “In the last war games we were attached to a Dutch unit. Twenty six of them ended up in hospital because they couldn’t handle a manually driven vehicle. They’re too used to the city computer grid doing the driving for them.”

  “They have training in manually driven vehicles,” Gestard said. “Modern training.”

  “But not the practice,” Harry said. “All military ground vehicles are manually
controlled.”

  “They are still modern vehicles,” Gestard said. “Modern vehicles require modern trained drivers.”

  “Hey,” Harry chuckled, “remember in the maneuvers when the opposition hit us with that electro magnetic pulse weapon and wiped out half our computers.”

  “Yeah,” Matt laughed. “There’re still nuts and bolts on vehicles. The repair robots were dead. I had to show one of the Dutch mechanics that to tighten a bolt you turned it clockwise. He didn’t even know which direction clockwise was.”

  “Ah had ta show a bunch of ‘em how ta use a pick and shovel,” Sam said. “Thair excavator wasn’t workin’. Had ta do it bafore they hurt thairselves.”

  “This discussion is pointless,” Gestard said. “Your people are still not used to modern ways and technology. They will not be given roles in the war games beyond their capabilities.”

  Harry leaned forward and looked Gestard in the eyes. “As I said, warfare is a bloody solid step backward in technology. Our people would be better at it than yours. When all the fancy gadgets suddenly die, our people do it themselves.”

  “Ugh,” Gestard grunted. “How do I explain to a primitive people who refuse understand?” He turned and walked away.

  “Primitive people?” Sam said. “Y’all can go shove ya head up a dead buffalo’s ass.”

  “Well put,” Harry said in his proper British tone.

  “Yep,” Chock said. “I might just put aside my mild Hopi ways and scalp him anyway.”

  “Ah’ll holds him down fer ya,” Sam said.

  * * *

  The last of the foreign guests exited the ballroom door. Sam and Chock stood shaking hands. Jim still remained seated with the rest of his friends. Two cleaning Autoserves dashed around the room picking up crumbs and mopping the occasional spilled drink. The group went silent watching the robotic devices do their job.

  “We must be primitive,” Jim said. “In modern society only a two year old would sit and watch an autoserve in action. An adult would just ignore them.”

  “Yes,” Harry said. “Us Old Earth primates are fascinated by little shiny objects.”

  “Jim,” Matt said. “You’re the most traveled of all of us. Do the rest of modern people look on us as country cousins just out of the woods?”