John nodded. "We get it. Show us."
Rex clicked and typed and images appeared on the wallscreen. They were grainy and parts of the satellites were in shadow.. but there was no missing the key detail.
Each of the satellites was blackened and scarred, solar panels and antennae burned off.
Rex was the first to speak. "It's not a software problem in the birds. That's physical damage. The Earth governments burned the satellites."
Blue nodded. "And we're really cut off from Aristillus."
Duncan whimpered a bit. "Will the cargo dropoff with the air scrubbers still happen?"
Max raised his chin. "Who knows? For that matter, who knows if Aristillus still even exists? For all we know, they nuked it too."
Duncan began panting anxiously. No one spoke.
John broke the long silence. "Well, guys, we're living in interesting times."
Chapter 18
2064: White House, Washington DC, Earth
President Johnson leaned back in her chair and listened to General Bonner's presentation. Parts of it didn't make sense - it seemed that he was saying something about satellites around the moon, which clearly wasn't right - but she decided to let the mistake go.
Bonner pointed at the wallscreen, causing it to advance to the next slide. "In answer to the question, no, the BuSuR cap on laser power density doesn't apply to DoD. And even if it did, this program is classified Plato-three, so all reporting requirements except sexual harassment and environmental impact statements are waived. Next question?"
Catherine raised one finger. "Do we have confirmation that the lasers hit the lunar satellites?" Bonner nodded. "We do."
He gestured at the wallscreen and a video started playing: a grainy image of a satellite, gull-winged with solar panels and sprouting dishes and comm lasers, snapped into focus. A moment later the sat grew stunningly bright. Smaller pieces flared before disappearing. Larger sections buckled and blackened. The brightness dimmed. Bonner raised his chin. "We've got video of all fourteen of their satellites burning. Next?"
After a pause Senator Linda Haig spoke. "General, nicely done." She turned her head. "Madam President, I think you've really sent a message to the expats. Thank you."
President Johnson smiled. Linda was gracious - she gave people credit when it was deserved, and Johnson liked that. That was a lesson that a lot of people in Washington could learn.
The American people were great: in the studio audience, out on the street, in the airport, on the campaign trail - they rushed to introduce themselves to her, and their love and their energy were infectious.
This city was a different story. People here thought she was a joke because she hadn't gone to the right fancy boarding school, because she didn't have an Ivy League degree, because she'd made her name in entertainment instead of in internships, think tanks, and NGOs. They were all so smugly superior. Sure, they respected the office, but they didn't respect her. The difference was subtle, but it was there. They even thought that because she didn't have their education she wouldn't notice their veiled contempt. What they didn't understand was that her skill - her true skill - wasn't entertainment. It was understanding people. And she understood these uptight blue-blood assholes as well as she understood the American public.
She knew what they thought of her: not only wasn't she from the right schools and families, but she hadn't even been the right kind of entertainer. Not a movie star, not a musician, not a even a credentialed journalist on an A-list webchannel. Just a talk show host watched by divorced women and unemployed men.
She knew their thoughts, and she knew the result: their envy coupled with their contempt made them bitter and vindictive. And that, in turn, lead them to try to sabotage everything she did.
She hated this city.
Linda Haig, though? Despite being in the opposing sub-party, the senator was OK. Better than OK, really, given her stuck up WASPy nature, her pedigree, her family money. She wasn't a true fan, but she was respectful. The working relationship the two of them were building was further proof that her detractors just didn't understand her, didn't know how to work with her.
She looked at Linda Haig. The Senator understood her. No snide looks, no condescension. The Senator realized that all she had to do was give a little respect, a little deference and she could have a friend.
And Themba was more than capable of keeping track of who was her friend and who wasn't. She looked around the Situation Room. Most of these people weren't her friends. Bonner, for example. He at least took the effort to pretend. And if the respect was skin deep? He could get a job done, so she tolerated him - and even let him think that he had her approval.
Bonner called up the final frame of his presentation. "And that's where we are - one hundred percent degradation of enemy assets." Bonner turned and looked at her. As did the rest of the room.
All eyes were on her.
Perfect.
She scanned them, basking in the attention, and then inclined her head a touch toward Bonner and spoke. "General, thank you. I'm sure we'll all rest easier now that those expat spy satellites orbiting over our heads have been shot down."
* * *
Bonner smiled at the president's compliment and didn't allow even the smallest trace of the contempt he felt touch his face. Hadn't he explained to her just four minutes ago that they were com-sats and not spy-sats, that they were orbiting the Moon and not the Earth, and that they'd been burned and not shot down? But he kept his mouth shut. The president was an idiot, but she was a powerful idiot. His career had stalled at brigadier years ago, but then President Johnson - fresh from her talk show springboard into the Senate - had been elected. He'd read her autobiography, like everyone else in Washington, but he did more - he watched videos of her old show and read rumor rags from Hollywood. And he'd learned. He'd learned that Themba didn't want to be contradicted. He'd learned his lessons well, and he'd found his career reinvigorated. Speak when the time was right and shut up when it wasn't. Themba loved an audience, and if you could make her look good in front of one, she was your best friend.
General Restivo, two seats to his left, spoke up. "With all due respect for the job that the Air Force did -"
"Aerospace Force," Bonner corrected him.
"Right, sorry - with all due respect, Madam President, I have to ask - how did this push us closer to our goals?"
The president turned to Restivo, her smile colder and carrying a note of warning. "What?"
Restivo cleared his throat. "What are we trying to accomplish with this?"
Bonner stifled the urge to shake his head. Jesus. Asking the president an embarrassing question like that? If Restivo was one of his direct reports, he'd take the two-star behind the woodshed.
The President's smile disappeared. "I think I've already made that clear. The expats have been stealing from our economy for a decade now - looting our factories, our workers. They haven't been paying their taxes! The country is in trouble, and we need that money."
"Yes, but -"
"I'm not done, general! These people need to pay their taxes. And that's not a new law, either - Simons tells me that expats have had to pay income taxes for over a century. These people think they can take advantage of the schools and roads and everything that our society provides, then just leave without paying their fair share? That, general, is the point of all of this."
* * *
General Restivo knew he wasn't good at politics, but even he could tell that this wasn't the time to offer his opinion on the value of the government schools, or say that expats trading hard gold for factory equipment idled by the Long Depression wasn't a real problem.
No. He'd limit himself to his core point.
"I entirely agree, ma'am. These folks are unquestionably acting contrary to national policy." He checked her expression. Had that worked? Yes, the president looked mollified. At least a bit. He hoped.
"My question is whether there's an articulable goal for our actions, and if so, how our
use of force advances that goal?"
If the president's attitude had been softened by his first two sentences, the effect didn't last long. After the final sentence she looked like she'd just bitten into a lemon.
"I don't have time for this." She turned to Bonner. "General, explain this to the Colonel."
Colonel, eh? The President could see the two stars on his uniform as clearly as she could see the four on Bonner's. Scuttlebutt around the Pentagon and the National Coordination Center said that she'd been doing her trick of intentionally misstating ranks since she'd been a senator.
Restivo pretended not to notice. He'd already put his foot in it; no need to quibble over a minor insult.
Bonner started the inevitable lecture: "General Restivo, the President has spoken with me at great length, and in great clarity. Her 'clearly articulable goal', as you put it, is that the expats need to be punished, with an eye toward keeping our options open for further policy developments."
Restivo noted that the president liked Bonner's "great clarity" line; her smile was back. He nodded - he'd really hoped that his question could have an impact on this idiocy, but it hadn't worked, and he was smart enough to know when he was beaten. Yes, it'd be satisfying to explain that things like "deterrence" or "disrupting war fighting capability" were actual goals and "punishment" was both vague and unmeasurable. It'd also be satisfying to tell Bonner that his phrase "keeping our options open for further policy developments" was FDA grade-A bullshit.
Satisfaction, though, wasn't something you could take to the bank. Satisfaction didn't come with a pension plan.
No, he'd tried to push the policy debate in a useful direction with a pointed question, and he'd failed. Now came his penance for failure: eating crow. A big nasty bowl of it. He nodded to Bonner. "Thank you, General - I understand now." He tipped his head toward Themba. "Madam President, I apologize for my confusion earlier."
The president's face drifted back toward neutral. Well. Better than nothing.
"A follow-up question, ma'am: I've briefed you on our building EVA infantry capabilities, so that we can carry the fight to the moon if we need to. Our staffing and training is going well, but I haven't heard anything more about our capabilities of getting troops deployed to that theater of operations."
"General, that's well in hand. OK, people, I think that concludes this meeting. General Bonner, please stay - I've got a few more questions."
General Restivo got to his feet, took his slate and left the room.
Chapter 19
2064: Benjamin and Associates Office, Aristillus, Lunar Nearside
Mike pushed through the glass front door of the law office while talking on his phone. "Sounds good, babe. You'll be back when? OK, say hi for me. Yeah, I'm at Lowell's now; gotta go."
He pocketed the phone and looked around. The office had expanded since the last time he was here; business must be good. The young receptionist behind the desk saw him and smiled. "Mr. Martin."
Mike nodded and walked toward her desk; then Lowell stepped out of a conference room with a client. Mike stopped and waited for him to finish. A moment later Lowell shook the client's hand and turned to Mike.
Lowell looked Mike up and down and cracked a slight smile. "I know you're not much for formality, Mike, and that's why it really touches me when you do choose to dress up for the occasion."
Mike looked down and realized he was wearing an old jumpsuit. "Fuck you, Lowell. One of the TBM's had a hydraulics issue -"
"The oil stains are nice, but I particularly like the rip on the elbow. Most clients don't take the time any more - but you? You care."
"I can't believe I pay you to abuse me."
"You don't; you just pay me for legal advice. But, you know, you should pay me for the abuse. A slave holding laurels is cheap, but one who can do that and whisper advice -"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Lowell grinned. "Nothing. Shall we head in?" He pointed a thumb to the conference room. Mike followed him in.
They had just sat at the conference room table when the receptionist leaned in the door. "Mr. Martin, can I get you a coffee?"
Mike smiled at her. "Sure, that'd be great. Sugar, no cream."
She turned away, then turned back. "Lowell?"
"Oh, me? I'm allowed coffee too?" He put on a wounded look. "Yes, the usual."
As soon as she left Lowell turned to Mike. "For the last time, stop flirting with my receptionists."
Mike raised his hands. "What the hell did I do?"
"What you always do." He sighed to himself, and then mimicked "Would you like a coffee, Mr. Martin?" in a high feminine voice. "Anyway, screw it. Let's get down to business. So tell me: what's the latest problem you've created that I'm going to save your ass from?"
Mike sighed. "It's a bit of a cluster fuck."
"They all are."
Mike crossed his arms. "Come on; that's not fair -"
Lowell held up his hands placatingly. "No, no - that wasn't intended as an insult. My point is that people only show up here if they've got a problem. So tell me your problem."
Mike leaned forward. "You know Red Stripe?"
"Space suit rental firm?"
Mike nodded. "It turns out that we're carrying them on our insurance, and -"
"Why?"
Mike waved away the question. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, Red Stripe had some tourist die in one of their suits -"
"Whose fault?"
"The kid's. We've got video showing that the clerk warned him against mountain climbing -"
Lowell exploded, "Mountain climbing!?"
"Yeah. The clerk told him not to do it, and told him that if he was going to do it anyway he should get an armored suit. Long story short, the kid didn't listen and killed himself."
"Who's representing the kid, and what are they asking for?"
"An earth-based law firm."
Lowell raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah. It's all cloak-and-dagger, because they can't officially talk to us, and they're guilty of money laundering if they actually accept the money they're demanding, but -"
"OK, I get it. And how much are they asking for?"
"Ten million.”
Lowell whistled. "That's steep." He thought a moment. "So start the negotiation with 'we don't owe you anything,’ and then offer a mill -"
Mike held up a hand. "There's a complication."
"Isn't there always?" Lowell sighed. "OK, hit me."
"The dead guy's best friend - who's also here in Aristillus - is another kid named Hugh Haig. And Hugh Haig's mother is Linda Haig. Senator Linda Haig."
Lowell said nothing.
"Did you hear me? I said the kid's -"
Lowell looked up. "Yeah, I heard you."
"So what do you think?"
Lowell rubbed his nose. "Jesus. This is a big deal." He paused. "A big deal. You know that, Mike?"
"Of course I know that. I don't ask your advice for the little stuff."
"Did you already talk to your pal Javier about this?"
Mike shook his head. "Javier's my best friend, but I need your advice on this."
Lowell grimaced. "Great."
"So what do you think I should do?"
Lowell looked up at Mike incredulously. "What do you mean ‘What should you do?' You pay. In full. Immediately."
"Fuck that, Lowell! You can't -"
The receptionist walked through the door, carrying two coffees. She placed Mike's carefully in front of him and smiled, and then placed the other in the middle of the table. Mike smiled back at her.
"Thanks."
She nodded. "Jeanine."
"Excuse me?"
"My name's Jeanine."
Mike smiled again. "Got it. Thanks, Jeanine."
She slipped out of the room. Lowell waited a moment and then grumbled, "She all but curtsies for you, and I can't even get my coffee put in front of me. In my own office."
"It's tough, old man, it really is. But let's g
et back to the issue. Specifically, your crazy idea that I pay the full ten million."
"Crazy? What the hell is crazy about it?"
"Look, I'm not stupid. I realize the political issue here. But ten million? The kid basically killed himself -"
"You recognize the political issue here? Do you? Really?"
"Well, of course -"
"Tell me."
Mike sighed. "Senator Haig can raise a stink, rile up the UN, pull strings at FinCEN, maybe even the Navy. All of which can make it harder for us to move money, get freighters in and out, transfer -"
"Mike, you're missing it. This could trigger the war."
"What? No - the war is five years away."
"Says who? You?"
"Not just me. Ponzie says it will take them that long to figure out the physics behind the AG drive, even if they start today. He keeps up with the literature, and they're not even -"
"Mike, don't underestimate the Earth governments. They could get here sooner than you think."
"Lowell, most people don't even think there's going to be a war. I'm the extremist here. I'm the only one who thinks that it might happen as soon as five years."
"I don't give a crap what 'most people' think. I'm not a lawyer to 'most people' - I'm your lawyer. And you're asking me for advice. So listen to it. We have no idea what the various players in DC want, what their capabilities are - and yes, before you even start, shut up about the Long Depression and their incompetence. All of your opinions here are based on speculation. Which is another word for bullshit. You're falling prey to the Overton window here: you think that if everyone else says ten years and you say five years, that five years is as soon as it can be. Says who?" He wiped his forehead. "Let me ask you - is Aristillus ready for a war now?"
"No. Of course not. I've told you a million times that if we hustle we can maybe be ready in five years."
"OK, great. From your own mouth. Aristillus isn't ready. Period. End of story. So don't give DC - don't give ANYONE in DC - any more excuses than they already have. I know you don't like to hear it, but there are times to kiss ass in life, and this is one of them. If the kid's lawyer is asking for ten million, make sure Red Stripe pays it. With a smile. Reach into your own pocket if you have to. That's a cheap price to kick the can down the road a few years. We want to get out of this without a war."
The Powers of the Earth (Aristillus Book 1) Page 8