Manna

by Lee Correy

  “Makes sense,” I had to admit, “but how are you going to fight an energy war?”

  “By supplying powersat electricity to countries the Tripartite cuts off their powersat system for ignoring the Santa Fe boycott,” Wahak said.

  “We’re energy-independent, Sandy,” Ali pointed out.

  “That’s obvious. But if things go toes-up, are we food-independent?”

  “Yes,” Vaivan replied. “The irrigation systems on the Toak Plains give us three growing seasons a year. We won’t starve.”

  “And we’ll make it insofar as international trade and foreign exchange go, too,” Wahak Teaq added to his wife’s statement, anticipating what would have been my next question.

  But he admitted, “It might hurt us a little if the Tripartite had a tight land, sea, and air embargo, but I don’t think it would last very long. We export grain to brokers in Madras and Hong Kong, and they deal with the Indian subcontinent, southeast Asia, and China as drop-shippers. When those people got hungry, an embargo would be expensive to maintain. The Yellow Peril would certainly ignore it. A space commerce boycott won’t hold, either, because Vamori Free Space Port is a true free port. We don’t collect taxes or duties on any input or throughput because they create secondary spending. Space commerce may drop thirty-eight percent, but our tourist trade won’t suffer even if the Tripartite countries invalidate passports.”

  “Your lack of passport control was one of the first surprises I had in the Commonwealth,” I said. “But I didn’t know the tourist trade was that big.”

  “The world needs places to play. We’re an open society of working people anxious togive value received. We offer outstanding service and a variety of excellent resorts to people who want them. You never had the chance to get over to the Sun Coasts, Sandy. Pity. Later perhaps. Beautiful places. Same for the Dilkon resorts.” If that was an invitation from Vaivan, I was tempted to accept even though her husband was on the net.

  “Look, I’m sorry this telecon degenerated into a school because of my ignorance,” I apologized. “There’s time for me to do my homework now…”

  “It’s no imposition. Sometimes such educational sessions help us get our own thinking straight. And you can’t understand what we’re doing unless you understand how the Commonwealth functions,” Vaivan said.

  “How long does it usually take for an outlander to figure it out?”

  “Sandy,” Vaivan said, “you’re not an outlander any more. I tendered your citizenship papers in Topawa today. Since the United States has some quaint policies regarding dual citizenship, I’ll notify the embassy for you. Or do you have second thoughts?”

  “No, no.” I waved both hands. “I don’t understand you yet. But you don’t waffle and you’re ready to fight for what you’ve got. I won’t back out.” The U.S. government was different. Once I was no longer trusted to follow their policies, what the hell had the U.S. government done for me and to me?

  Vaivan went on, “Sandy, energy war isn’t difficult to understand. Most low-tech countries will continue to do business with us in spite of any embargo or boycott. We provide value received and take very little off the top. The Tripartite may try to invoke sanctions against our customers by pulling their powersat plugs, but we’ll be there with another plug. And we have a space port, space lift capability, primary metals and plastics industries, and the lunar mine and smelter at Criswell Center. You haven’t see that yet, but it’s just a lunar mine and smelter. Commonwealth Glaser’s capable of supplying powersat electricity to anyone the Tripartite cuts off because they’re now building powersats with lunar materials at a much faster rate than the Tripartite companies.”

  “They’ll react,” I warned.

  “How?”

  “They’ll go after your powersats.”

  “In the face of international law and the Resident Inspection Organization? The insurance trusts won’t stand for it,” Wahak maintained. “Those trusts are controlled by the Tripartite, but not even a consortium of all the Tripartite banks could possibly cover the insurance losses. And there won’t be any because the insurance trusts will place a rather strong damper on any military powersat takeovers. Then RIO will drive in the bung.”

  “RIO teams are unarmed,” I reminded him.

  “We’ll see what happens when everybody shows their cards. RIO will have to become the first Space Patrol whether they want to or not because circumstances will force it…and so will we.”

  Chapter 7

  Tiger on a Leash

  To me, a machine was something to be mistrusted, checked before use, operated within the limits set forth in an operating manual, and coddled. Omer Astrabadi, the Mad Russian Space Jockey, lived up to his sobriquet. He approached machinery differently. I never saw him run a pre-flight inspection; he strapped into the seat, powered up, and went. I never saw him consult an operating manual; but he knew the limits of the machine. There was no question whatsoever that he was the master of it. He wasn’t gentle with it, either. If it didn’t do what he wanted, he wasn’t afraid to coerce it with violence.

  Coming home on a flight with him to Dianaport to familiarize me with the Bacobi class deep space couriers, an APU power processor quit. Another APU assumed the load, so we didn’t lose platform alignment or real-time course line computer tracking.

  “I show you how to fix bad processors,” Omer told me and took me to the equipment bay. There he grabbed two protrusions on the bulkhead, braced himself, and directed a solid kick at a panel bearing the label, “CAUTION! Only qualified personnel can repair this unit!”

  “When it stops, kick it,” Omer told me. “This model stops regularly. I told Ali not to buy from the lowest bidder…”

  “Omer, you might have busted something!” I complained. “We’d play hell getting back without a computer and autopilot!”

  He pointed to the read-outs. The unit had picked up its load. “I must train you for commercial operations, Sandy. For years you believe what the Aerospace Force told you.”

  “I’m still alive because of it.”

  “In spite of it,” Omer corrected me. “I was in Frontovaia Aviatsiya before becoming cosmonaut. We kept aircraft flying under conditions you would not believe. I was taught to make a machine do what I wanted; if it couldn’t, it would tell me.”

  “And kill you in the process.”

  “Only if I let it.” Omer indicated the now-working APU processor. “What would you do?”

  “Shut it down and go back to Ell-Five on the other. Maintenance would fix it after I got back.”

  Omer shook his head. “We’re short of maintenance people. Sandy, some day your life may depend on fixing something. Now, tell me what would happen if we lost all APU power.”

  “We’d lose the computer and autopilot.”

  “Consequences?”

  “We might not get back to Ell-Five.”

  “Aerospace Force thinking.” Omer pointed to his eyes. “You have two eyes, good guidance system.” He tapped his ear. “You have two ears. And you have optical instruments and a working comm unit. Three tracking stations follow us. ‘Mayday’ call would bring help, but we don’t need it. We can astrogate by reference to Earth, Moon, and Sun. Do it.” Hereached out and shut down both APUs.

  I’d been spoiled by high technology. But I made it back to L-5 without having to yell Mayday.

  Space flight is mostly waiting. The old aviator’s saying is also true for space: “Hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.” As Omer showed me the ins and outs of commercial space operations and got me current in Commonwealth space vehicles, it began to dawn on me exactly what had happened to me in the past few months. My life had been vented to vacuum. The more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became.

  I’d always thought of myself as a tiger. I’d been one ever since Don Carlson, the class bully, beat me up in Second Grade. That led my pacifist father to proclaim from his ivory tower that fighting was a sign of barbarism and didn’t settle anything. I
was told that if I fought back the matter would only escalate to greater violence. After the second time Carlson beat me, I began to doubt my father’s wisdom. The third time, I fought back and lost, but I became a less attractive sissy and Carlson began to harass easier targets. By the time Carlson got bored beating up everybody else and jumped me again, I’d learned enough to beat hell out of him. I was punished by my father, but no school bully picked on me after that. I became a bully in my own right until little Jamie Tagfield stood up to me. After that, I gave up brawling and got along fine with everyone except my father.

  Over the years, society put more restraints on me. But when my life was threatened, they vanished. Maybe I was one mean sonofabitch underneath but that still didn’t eliminate the doubts that had welled up in my mind following the Black Bear incident. Was I really a military man capable of measured violence in service to a non-military boss? Had my tiger leash been tightened so thoroughly that I wasn’t really any good as a military person any longer?

  Or was it the other way around? Was I now so committed to the commission of physical violence that I was no longer worthwhile as an educated military person?

  Coming out of Vamori Free Space Port in the Tybo, sister ship to the Tonolia, I broached the subject with Omer after main engine shutdown occurred and STC confirmed our track to clearance tolerances.

  “No, Sandy. You are slipping your leash.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a leashed tiger,” he said. “When the leash comes off, you’re as crazy as you think I am.”

  “Oh, really, Russkie?”

  “Da, Yankee dog. That Black Bear pilot was trained as I was. Yet you slipped your leash and got him first. But your service did not want tigers who slip their leashes.”

  “I can drive aerospace ships okay, but that’s not what I meant. I came to the Commonwealth in response to an ad for a military aerospace pilot. I expected to learn new things in converting to commercial operations. But I didn’t expect I’d be asked to be a military advisor. You’re more qualified for it than I am.”

  “No, Sandy, you have something I do not,” Omer told me. “You have a military education. I will be happy to lead any attack squadron, air or space. That I can do. But I havenot been educated in strategic doctrine, logistics, and tactical operations.” I knew what he meant. Although we’d both served in our respective national military forces, I’d been taught the art of war whereas he’d been trained as an empirical astronautical engineer-pilot with little knowledge of how or why people fought. “You would be a good staff officer if you had stayed on the tiger leash.” Omer added.

  “No, I’d be dead now.”

  “Probably. Black Bears have very accurate tracking and targeting equipment. You are one hot jock, Yankee. And you will also be a good aide de camp to The General.”

  It made me feel better that someone had confidence in my abilities.

  I’d willingly follow Omer into battle. He was a tiger-type who let it hang way out to see if he could get away with it. He was crazy with machinery, but he wouldn’t waste the people who followed him.

  When we docked at L-5, there was a message waiting for me. Tsaya wanted me to call her. I wasted no time once I got back to the Commonwealth module. Tsaya fascinated me; I wanted to learn what was under that shy facade.

  But she was strictly business. “The General is doing well,” she told me in her professional manner. “He’s wants to see you. It’ll do him good to talk to someone other than me and the people in the Clinic.”

  I didn’t want to visit The General in the hospital because I don’t like hospitals. Even the antiseptic smell bothers me. I don’t like to be around people suffering pain and illness. I especially don’t like the appearance of badly-burned people. I saw enough of that in the Aerospace Force. My wingman had become a ball of fire in his T-99 at Sierra Vista when its landing gear collapsed. My academy classmate couldn’t get out of his Space Hawk when it blew its tail off on liftoff ignition. Those two were enough.

  Tsaya must have sensed my reluctance because she told me she’d come along.

  The Haeberle Clinic was in the Canadian L-5 module. I was pleasantly surprised to find it had no antiseptic smell. And I was even more surprised at The General’s appearance. His face and hands were apparently untouched by the Karederu fire. Between pseudoflesh dressings covering areas where cloned skin grafts were healing, areas of skin of slightly different color showed where first degree burns were already healing. The septic membrane that surrounded his floating body separated us but didn’t prevent us from talking.

  And it didn’t keep The General from reaching out with both hands to the membrane. We touched with the septic barrier between us. The General was smiling.

  “Thank you for coming, Sandy.” The General’s voice was as strong as it had been in Topawa and his eyes were bright and sharp. “How are you getting on with our people?”

  “Very well, sir,” I told him, “but the real question is: How are you getting on?”

  “As well as can be expected, according to Tsaya, but much slower than I like. However, my doctor’s beauty refreshes my day when she makes her rounds. I suspect you’ve noticed as well?”

  “She brightens up the day for many people, including me,” I admitted.

  I thought Tsaya would blush, but she didn’t. She smiled instead. When she was in herprofessional element, her shyness disappeared. “Sandy, The General’s well known throughout the Commonwealth for his flattery,” she said. “You’ll grow used to it.”

  “Tsaya, you’ve never grown used to it. Neither has any other woman I’ve known,” The General remarked. “And, Sandy, I’m not a baby-kissing politician.”

  “Not many generals are.”

  “Sometimes I wish my military title hadn’t become my symbol. But I chanced to be in the right place at the right time to take military command and do something worthwhile with it.”

  “That’s the story of most successful military leaders,” I pointed out. “What would you rather be, General?”

  “My father wanted me to be a trader like my ancestors for generations before me,” The General admitted. “I wanted to be an anthropologist and learn the history of human beings and their social institutions. But I am what I have become, and if people would rather look to me in a leadership position as The General, there’s little I can do about it. I must be what I am publicly; I can be whom I want privately.” He paused for a moment, rearranged a kaftan-like robe around him, and went on, “Sandy, I’m extremely pleased you accepted the position as my deputy for military affairs in Landlimo Corporation.”

  “I haven’t accepted, General. I’m not certain I can do the job.”

  “I am. You should be, too.”

  “General, I know little about the Commonwealth and what you’ve already decided to do.”

  “With your background, you can learn easily and quickly from Alichin, Omer, Vaivan…”

  “But that will take time we don’t have.”

  “I have lots of time in my present situation. And I’ll enjoy teaching you, Sandy. It’s boring to watch TV or read all day. I’m glad to have a deputy to talk to. Samuel Clemens said it better.”

  “Mark Twain? I don’t follow you, General.”

  “ ‘War talk by men who have been in a war is always interesting; whereas moon talk by a poet who has not been in the moon is likely to be dull.’ We can talk of both. Sandy, I’ve seen and learned a lot in over a century…”

  “General, you can’t be more than seventy,” I objected.

  “The General is one hundred and fifteen years old,” Tsaya broke in.

  That brought me up short. “I didn’t think high-tech gerontology had…”

  “Had reached a low-tech place like the Commonwealth?” The General finished for me.

  “Don’t underestimate us, Sandy. We’ve taken what we’ve needed from your high-tech world—and paid for it, I might add, because we’re not looters and never have been.”

&n
bsp; “This is what I mean about my ignorance of your ways,” I told him. “I had no idea Commonwealth doctors possessed expertise in biotechnology.”

  “It’s not the sort of high-tech biotechnology you know,” Tsaya put in. “We’ve combined it with our own, although American biotechnologists have yet to accept what we’ve known andused for generations. They will eventually, but by that time we’re likely to be far ahead of them. Right now, they call it witchcraft. It will be integrated into medicine in this century just as acupuncture and other low-tech medicine were in the last century.”

  “You used acupuncture on Ali at Karederu Center.”

  Tsaya shook her head. “That’s Chinese. I used something else. We have a great legacy of folk medicine.” She paused, then asked, “Sandy, what do you think about magic and witchcraft?”

  “Hard to say,” I had to admit. “The universe is full of strange things. I certainly don’t know everything there is to know. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to learn what you think about things unexplained by science.”

  I shrugged. “I’m neutral. Magic may be a meaningless word when all the data are in. If something works even though we don’t understand it, we’ll manage to understand it some day. If it doesn’t work, why worry about it?”

  Tsaya looked relieved. “Sandy, in high-tech they’d either ridicule or destroy me because I’m a witch, a respected profession in our culture; so I stand back from high-tech people until I learn their prejudices and if they understand I’m really a healer. But then, who isn’t? Anybody can do it. I can teach even you, Sandy.” There wasn’t a bit of recalcitrance in her attitude now. She hadn’t been shy after all, just frightened. Doctor Tsaya Stoak became fathomable.

  “Some day, Tsaya, after we manage to keep the jackals at bay,” I promised.