by Lee Correy
I gave it to him. In America, it was classified. But this wasn’t America.
“That’s twice in one day,” Ali said.
“Put it on the tab,” I told him. “It would have killed me, too.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us,” Ali said with finality. He went to the kitchen, put the black box away in a cabinet, and brought back a bottle and two glasses. “Supaku,” he said and poured a glass of the clear liquid. “Recycled rocket propellant. Free choice!”
He raised his glass in a toast and downed it in one gulp in the same manner as Russians drink vodka.
It had high ethanol content and indeed could have been used for propellant. It burned all the way down, hit bottom, then spread its warmth outward from my belly. I began to feel better.
“I want to see what telenews is saying about Santa Fe. I’ve been out of touch for about twelve hours. Got any particular choice of telenews nets?” Ali asked.
I wanted to find out, too. “No. They’re all biased.”
“Which one do you think is the least biased?”
“Try Weltfenster.”
“Why?”
“It’s Swiss.”
“Oh? Are they non-biased on world affairs?”
Ali might be testing me, so I told him, “They’ve been a neutral porcupine for centuries.”
“Ah, yes! The North American mammal covered with spiny quills! Well, so’s the Commonwealth. But what makes you believe their reportage is any less biased?”
“With Hong Kong and Bahrain, they’re bankers to the world. They’ve everything to gain and nothing to lose because everybody does business with them. Most politicians are either in hock to them or stash their loot with them. They don’t have to toady to anybody,” I observed.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Sandy!”
“You know something different?”
“Let’s see what the unbiased ‘World Window’ telenews people have to say.”
Alichin instructed the receiver to interrogate the Weltfenster net, search for all news records of the International Space Commerce Conference for the last 12-hour period, record the subsequent data dump, and present the menu on the screen. There was a lot. Ali found a video report of interest and punched it up.
The segment opened with a long shot of the Santa Fe conference center. Ali suppressed the subtitle ribbon when the receiver queried language preference. It was the usual talking head opener. “Good evening from Santa Fe,” the reporter’s image began. “The agenda of the International Space Commerce Conference here was altered today by the walk-out of the delegate from the United Mitanni Commonwealth, Alichin Vamori.” The screen cut to tape showing Ali striding out of the meeting. “Vamori, a leading member of one of the ruling families of the Commonwealth who control the Vamori Free Space Port, lashed out at the Conference, claiming the proposed space commerce levy was nothing more than, in his words, ‘a twenty-first century version of the old protection racket.’ According to the Conference organizers, the purpose of the space import-export levy is not only to reduce the citizen tax burden in those nations who’ve subsidized space utilization for the past fifty years, but also to aid the world’s non-space nations who don’t benefit yet from space industry and power.” The scene cut to a view of the chairman of the Conference making a speech, but the reporter continued voice-over, “The reaction of other Conference delegates was swift. Not only did Vamori’s walk-out precipitate an early acceptance vote of the proposal, thereby short-cutting what might have been prolonged debate over minor points of difference, but also resulted in the acceptance of an amendment which imposes a boycott against non-signatory parties. Thus, Vamori’s own actions have backfired on the United Mitanni Commonwealth and the profitable Vamori Free Space Port. The success of the boycott remains to be seen. It cannot help but reduce the activity at Vamori Free Space Port which now handles more than forty percent of the world’s space commerce. Gran Bahia, the world’s other free space port, obviously stands to gain, but Bahian spokesmen had no comment when Weltfenster queried…”
Ali switched it off and sat there. He said nothing.
I broke the silence. “They set you up.”
“We knew that was going to happen,” Ali replied with apparent calm.
“I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.”
“We think we are.”
“Militarily?”
“That, too.”
“Is that why you wanted a military pilot?”
“No. Landlimo Corporation placed the advert before the Santa Fe Conference. We’ve always needed all the help we can get.”
“How do you know you won’t get into another Chase situation?” I asked.
“One Colonel Joseph T. Chase is enough for any country,” Ali remarked, referring to the man who’d been defeated by Ali’s grandfather that Christmas Day fifty years ago. Ali looked directly at me, his piercing dark eyes almost boring right through me. “We’ve never turned down help, but we’re careful these days to see to it that history doesn’t repeat itself. We can use your help, Sandy. But it will require your total commitment.”
“I want to know a lot more about the job,” I told him flatly, looking back at him with equal intensity.
“You’ll get what you want.” Ali got up, stretched both arms out to his sides, and flexed his fingers as though he were releasing great tension within him. When he looked at me again, he was the pleasant, controlled Alichin Vamori I’d gotten to know on the train. “Until dinnertime, why fret? I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same. We’ve got a very intense evening ahead of us. Do you want to use subliminal programs for circadian readjustment?”
I didn’t need them.
When Ali shook me awake, the light of day was fading.
“What’s the dress for dinner?” I wondered aloud.
Ali was attired informally in khaki shirt, shorts, and knee socks. His dagger hung at his side; he shrugged. “Clothing used to be a badge of rank to signify relative position in a group. But today we have other, more subtle badges. We don’t dress special except for diplomatic meetings or business conferences where we dress in the manner of those we’re conferring with to make them feel more secure and more pliable in negotiations. Wear what you want; everyone else in Karederu does.”
I wore another blue shirt and blue slacks out of my single bag. I shaved because the 24-hour stubble on my face wasn’t enough to qualify as a beard and because I noted that this culture favored clean-shaven men except in the case of Omer Astrabadi who was following his outland custom.
We walked together through the open compound in the evening light. “You’ve got what amounts to a private park in the Commonwealth’s biggest city,” I observed and wanted to know, “Is this typical of the life style, or just of the ruling families?”
“The former. And forget the shibboleths of the telenews. ‘Ruling families’ is a semantically-loaded term. ‘Rule’ is a null-word. Ergo, so is the word ‘ruling.’ You’ve obviously seen the wealthy and powerful in America. Notice anything different about the way we behave?”
“Yes. Why do you use public transportation? You can surely afford better if for no other reason than security. I can’t figure out why someone as important and wealthy as you doesn’t have his own aerospaceplane and limousine.”
Ali replied quietly in matter-of-fact tones, “We were ordinary people once and still are. All we wanted was to eat regularly, raise a family, run our own lives, and make and trade things. When we saw that the world wasn’t going to pieces and when we got access to the comm/info satellite networks, there were enough people like The General who’d had enough of bemedalled, strutting tyrant leaders and corrupt politicians. Why don’t I have my own aerospace plane and limousine? Why don’t I live in a great castle? Why aren’t there a lot of servants around? Sandy, even in your culture the ostentatious display of those things isn’t necessary in order to live well and do business successfully. And they create envy and covetous desires
among those who’d rather take them away instead of make them by their own efforts. Why should I alienate my own people and my customers? Most successful businessmen found this out. This is a world of plenty if people would only realize it.”
“You mean, all Commonwealth families live like this?” My initial contact with the Commonwealth was causing culture shock.
“No, some families are bigger and have more land. Some prefer urban living in blocks of condos. Many Vamoris are either out of the country or in space enough that we savor the feeling of Earth when we’re here.” Alichin Vamori paused, then added, “Besides, The General likes it. Most of his generation worked hard to gain this security.”
I missed the implied meaning and noted, “I didn’t see any security fences or gates whenwe came in. Look, you were the target of terrorism twice this afternoon. Seems to me you need a compound with very tight security.”
Ali grinned and said, “It’s secure.”
“Without fences and guards?”
“Does the U.S. Aerospace Force still use physical barriers and human guards around its sensitive military installations?”
“I can’t talk about that, Ali.”
Ali walked along briskly. “Don’t try to get into Karederu except through the gates where the security screen will recognize you and not make a fuss.”
“Then how did the Killer ERG get into your cottage?” I wanted to know.
Ali looked puzzled. “I don’t know. My twin sister Vaivan is the security expert. The only way it could have gotten in is if someone familiar to the security computer brought it in.”
Karederu Center was a large building with a gently sloping roof and overhangs coupled with open-wall construction that let the tropical breeze through. It had kitchens and other rooms, but I only saw the big hall full of people.
There were more than two dozen people there. I still don’t recall everyone I met. For some reason, some of the most important people in my life don’t start out being important; I can only vaguely remember meeting them, yet I come to know them better and better as time goes by. People grow on me.
Alichin first introduced me to the most important man there, the patriarch of the Vamori family and the near-legendary founder of the United Mitanni Commonwealth.
General Anegam Dati Vamori had to be over 70 years old, but he didn’t look his age. I wouldn’t have been surprised at this in any hi-tech country where apparent age is a consequence of biotechnology and biocosmetics. General Vamori, Victor of Oidak and First President of the Commonwealth, was older than the country he’d helped found, yet he was still strong and mentally sharp. He took my hand in both of his and told me, “Welcome, and thank you.”
I thought he was referring to the railway station incident; aides must have told him. “I did what was necessary, General.”
General Vamori smiled and shook my hand gently. “A properly trained warrior always does—within the proscribed bounds of his culture. I’m sure the Black Bear pilot was doing the same. In any event, thank you for bringing your audacity into our camp. It’s not often appreciated in high-tech, but we’ll always welcome new infusions of it.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were referring to the incident this afternoon,” I said.
“That, too. It would have been a disaster if you hadn’t been as honorably motivated as you are.”
“Your perception is interesting,” I told him. “I’m a military man, but I don’t like to brawl.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But it’s impossible to perceive of you as other than an honorable,duty-bound person in the way you look, act, move, and speak.”
“Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware of it.”
“Perhaps I can make you understand by a negative example,” General Vamori said. “If one acts like a slave, one will be treated like a slave.”
I suddenly understood why this mixed bag of people hadn’t gone the way of former colonials in other low-tech nations, but had instead pulled themselves up in fifty years of bootstrapping in a way most people in high-tech couldn’t understand.
“But the obverse is also true, sir.”
“And that is…?”
“If you act like you have something of value, somebody will try to take it away from you.”
“We can prevent that if we’ve done our planning correctly.”
“Pardon me, but what can a business corporation do that your military forces cannot?”
“Wage energy warfare.”
Chapter 3
With No Recourse
“We haven’t briefed Sandy yet,” Ali told The General.
“It’s time you did,” I said.
“Patience,” The General replied smoothly. “You’ll learn more tonight, Sandy.”
“And if I don’t like it?”
“You’ll like it. It involves a fight, and you’re a fighter.” The General wasn’t totally correct.
“Ali, make Sandy feel at home. And tell Vaivan I applaud her selection.”
This old man may have had extraordinary insight, but I doubted it. Or he may have gotten a thorough background investigation made—which I also doubted because there hadn’t been time since the Black Bear incident.
But I did admire him for his openness. He was an old tiger, but far from a toothless one.
I knew why everybody addressed him as though his rank was capitalized.
I liked The General.
But I wasn’t quite ready yet to fully trust him or any of his family.
The first reaction of anyone to a new place—even if one only relocates to a new city—is feeling like an outsider and therefore not trusted or trusting.
Maybe I was getting the wrong signals. Maybe this was the way these people operated.
I was surprised to discover that all Commonwealth women were attractive. Even Alichin’s mother, Canela Nogalu Vamori, who was old enough to be my mother, exuded an exotic attraction that I was unable to put my finger on. The younger women—cousins Sila Tatri Vamori, Komel Tatri Vamori, and Emika Nogal Kokat—seemed deeply involved in the Vamori enterprises, yet they didn’t let business matters interfere with the obvious fact that they were women.
The only one who seemed vaguely and strangely uninterested in me was Tsaya Vamoru Stoak who wasn’t in the least unattractive. She seemed cool and detached. I couldn’t figure her out. As a result, she fascinated me.
I began to wonder how these armed women made love. Fearlessly, I suspected, and on their own terms. Women who go about armed are not second-class citizens capable of being coerced against their will.
Would I be offered the guest privilege here? Would I be allowed to choose, or would one choose me instead? It could be an interesting evening.
I recalled The General’s admonition about acting like a slave. These people didn’t act like slaves. They were in control of their lives. Male or female, they were no people to fool around with.
The children present reflected this, too. If the Commonwealth had second-class citizens, they were the children. I didn’t really understand children because my life had been one of cloistered living in dorms and BOQ’s. These children were far from the service brats who were the only children I’d had even remote contact with. They were obviously under the control of their parents with no nonsense being tolerated, yet they didn’t seem to be suppressed or traumatized. They knew their place and appeared to be proud to occupy it.
They seemed to know that someday they’d join the ranks of the adults, and they looked forward to that.
These were proud people, and they inculcated it in their young at an early age.
Until I learned more about this culture and its people, I decided I’d act as politely and inoffensively as I could. I wasn’t precisely certain of all the niceties of Commonwealth custom, but I rather suspected from my brief encounter with it on the railway platform that it was a matter of “well deserved” if someone got it while carrying out an act of perfidy or violence. Maybe it wasn’t justice in the Anglo-American style, but it
apparently worked here.
What would happen if they let me in on their secrets and I decided not to join them?
Could I get out of the country alive?
On the other hand, they’d taken me into their trust, and I had to reciprocate.
Not everyone I met had a Commonwealth name. A short, stocky, bald-headed man walked up and introduced himself as Heinrich von Undine. His grasp was small but firm, and he bowed slightly from the waist as we shook hands. He wore a business suit whose white shirt collar looked like it was two sizes too small for his thick neck and little round metal-framed eyeglasses, even in this day of advanced biotechnology. He explained he was with the Chiawuli International Exchange and Factoring Company and handled most of the outland financial transactions of the Vamori enterprises. “Haven’t I seen something recently on the telenews about an American named Baldwin? Would you be related to him?” von Undine asked. I’d fully expected a thick Teutonic accent, but he had none. His speech was Commonwealth English with its musical inflections and altered vowel sounds.
“I shot down the Black Bear.”
“Then your presence makes sense,” von Undine said.
Ali and Vaivan came over to us and steered me away from von Undine. Ali asked his sister. “Vaivan, why is von Undine here tonight? Who invited him? This is strictly internal Commonwealth business!”
“Kariander Dok and Tonol Kokat were very insistent,” Vaivan explained quietly. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. Heinrich’s our agent with Frankfurt and Basel.”
“I don’t like him,” Ali said, “but I don’t know why.”
“We’ve been dealing with him for a long time,” Vaivan reminded him.
“I don’t mind if The General trusts him as long as we have strong controls on him.” Ali turned to me. “Sandy, sorry to burden you with these internal problems.”