* * *
"They aren't going to do anything about it," Chen said. "I mean, the two organizations are not going to attack us. That's not to say some zealot might not act on his own. Nobody can predict that."
Jeff perked up and paid attention. It was completely out of character for Chen to speak in short absolute statements. He hedged and considered alternatives for everything. Jeff sometimes wondered how Chen could distrust any constant so thoroughly, and yet seem content and not consumed with anxiety. So he gave his bare statement a very high probability of accuracy. But he was still curious about why he thought that.
"That's good," Jeff said quickly, to show he wasn't doubting the man. "I'm most interested. How did you come to that conclusion?"
"Things are a mess again in North America. One faction has influence in one city, another faction has control in a different city. God's Warriors have much more of a base in the west and rural areas. They even have control of some urban areas in the south. The Sons of Liberty have a hold on the north, the east, and a few urban areas in the west. It doesn't matter where you go however. All the local media is ignoring Pensacola, just like the national news services. If they intended to make trouble for us there would be a huge propaganda program rolled out to paint us monsters where they have local control and can push a partisan message, but it's quiet everywhere. There would be lots of video of crying children with dirty faces, shots of damage, and sad stories of orphaned kids who by a miracle of chance were off at the zoo or something when their parents were blown up by the spacers. The Europeans are wringing their hands over it much worse than the USNA."
"All the economic disruption hasn't hurt local broadcasting?" Jeff asked.
"Far from it," Chen assured him. "They're selling really cheap radios and small broadcast TVs like crazy. People want something cheap to keep their kids occupied in the camps. All the camps have wireless access, but it's slow because the agency running the camp typically only has money to buy a pipe like a hotel would use for a hundred guests, and they have five thousand people trying to connect. There's no money to upgrade actual fiber trunks into new areas as the population moves. The adults all want access and there is no way to ration wireless. You can run out of food or water and it takes hours for them to get ugly, but let the crappy slow wireless go down and a camp becomes a mob in minutes.
The local schools can't run classes online serving thousands of new kids, each with his own device, like they've been accustomed to doing, and they are obligated to provide schooling. The FEMA people and the local schools both want to put the expense off on the other. So rather than pay for a decent pipe into the camp, the schools buy cheap air time and show the class on local TV. It isn't perfect. They broadcast off hours and expect people to record. Some do, some don't bother, but it meets their legal requirements. The cheap TVs don't have the memory to hold that many classes if people have say three kids, each in a different grade. So the people who care still end up making informal little grade classes around one TV in the camp. The kids text their work in and use a lot less bandwidth.
"But a lot of the refugees aren't in organized camps. They're in places they can't get decent net access for a phone, but they are close enough to a city to get broadcast. There are stations in areas where the migrants fled to in the south that had gone all online, and now they've rushed to bring their transmitters out of mothballs or buy from abroad. People want local news to help them with the unfamiliar area they're in now. If they are in Baton Rouge they want Baton Rouge news not New York.
"Local advertising is making the small stations profitable again. They may be in dire straits as a group, but the migrants are still a huge economic force, and local markets are aware of that. Some places the migrants make up half the population already. Lawyers are big advertisers and stores near camps run specials just for migrants. There are all kinds of services to represent them to local agencies for benefits, and permanent housing, private job agencies and services like searches to find missing children or relatives who left the family during their trip from up north. I'm figuring a lot of them are some kind of scam, but they're all paid advertising. Even the agency ads."
"Maybe this chaos will damage the Patriots so badly we'll have little trouble from them in the future," Jeff speculated. He seemed hopeful.
Chen looked at him concerned. "Jeff, sometimes you are...detached from social things. The Patriot Party pretty much destroyed themselves as an organization. They aren't coming back. At least not under that name. Most of them ended up Sons of Liberty. Right now there is kind of a reverse action in progress. Sons of Liberty are becoming smaller local parties, either city or county organization mostly. It's too dangerous a lot of places to be SOL with God's Warriors in the ascendancy.
"Now you have to ask yourself...Why don't they just bow to the inevitable and go over to God's Warriors? Wouldn't you?" Chen asked Jeff.
"Oh. It's really hard for me to think like that. I have a hard time imagining myself as either, so it's hard for me to put myself in their shoes and try to know what they would do," Jeff admitted.
"Yes, that's the point. They are so different they can't imagine switching over. They may look more alike than different to you. They both are strongly nationalist for North America, but aside from that they have very different core values. They don't agree at all what they want North America to be and to do. If they were sharply divided geographically maybe they'd break up into two countries. But they are diffused into each other's areas too deeply."
"What's going to happen then?" Jeff asked.
"That huge mass of people is going to keep right on feeling the same way they always have. They may be suppressed in expressing it. If they try to take on a new name and form a national party they may even be outlawed and kept from doing so legally. They can call themselves anything they want, and fracture into small local groups, but most of them are still going to hate spacers.
"After the War Between the States you couldn't legally be a Confederate, but that didn't mean they thought differently. They still had their own customs and hated Yankees for a hundred years. It takes generations to moderate, and that's even with a lot of easy movement between areas that came later.
"If it isn't actively suppressed there will be a new national party that embraces all the same ideas of the Patriot Party or the Sons of Liberty within a few years, a decade at the most I'd guess," Chen said. "The party, by whatever name, will form because there's a mass of people who all think that way."
"OK, I'm understanding it a little better," Jeff said. "They aren't going to suddenly like us no matter what happens internally. And at most we just have a few years before they may be able to reorganize again and express it more effectively."
"That's about the size of it," Chen agreed.
"Then we shall have to use the time wisely," Jeff decided, "to make sure it just doesn't matter if they hate us."
* * *
Captain Sass finished updating his file about the special equipment and personnel being accumulated at Armstrong. He was generating his twice a week report to his new superior, Colonel Norman, who was not the first among the Council of Colonels. Norman was the new replacement after the unfortunate assassination of Colonel Allister. Sass was just as glad to not work for the executive head. He'd come within a half minute of walking back in the room when Allister was shot.
He didn't take it as a demotion or miss being pinned on the bull's eye at all. His belated increase in service rank was also welcome. It put him on a par with the other Colonel's assistants. Allister had been a bit too believing of his own ideology about the unimportance of public rank versus party authority. As a captain he had to flip his collar and pull party rank a lot less. Unlike Allister, he had a life and a family to support. The increase in pay made a real difference to him.
Sass frowned. There was a list of freight and three new enlisted assigned, as well as a report on two civilians returned and their risk status, but nothing on any intelligence. They had two a
gents inserted and one was tasked with producing immediate assets within Central. He should have heard something about that by now. This document was produced by Corporal Schaefer. He would be an intelligence clerk, a glorified secretary, and he would just deal with logistics, not spooks, but this should be attached to a primary report about human intel from his superior. He looked at the chart and found the fellow over Schaefer, a Lieutenant Carlisle and got him on the screen. Once again his new rank saved him time and effort, not needing to prove party ranking. Things went so much smoother when everybody stayed in the same grade in both party and service.
"Carlisle, Sass here. I have your man's report on the build-up schedule at Armstrong. But nothing on your source development in Central. It was my understanding you had a man and two targets. We need some information on their internal structure and any awareness of our Armstrong activities. What is happening on that front?" Sass demanded.
"I haven't gotten my expected report from our agent. He was supposed to make his first recruitment a couple days ago. He makes a weekly report in code phrases to a handler who is his supposed sister, and that never happened. He has an alternative means of making an emergency report using a radio, either outside or from any port with a clear view of Earth. That hasn't happened either. He has never received a call from his purported sister, so we do not want to break routine this early if he's having some minor problem. He may have had his shift or work assignment changed, or even been required to travel. It's always something. I planned to allow him some more time to report before doing anything that might call attention to him."
"Well if he hasn't made his customary weekly call to this fictitious sister...wouldn't it be normal for a family member to wonder if he was OK? It seems to me you could have the agent with the correct com code and voice call and try to connect. No need to contact anyone else if he doesn't answer his own com." Sass suggested. He wasn't ready to order it quite yet. Intelligence had their own methods and held their resources jealously.
"Yes sir, I believe that can be done once with minimal risk," Carlisle agreed.
"Good, I'll be in the office late today. Com me if you get any information," Sass said.
"Yes sir, I'll check and have the handler call if it's not deep in his usual sleep period," Carlisle agreed. "That would be out of character. I'll report back either way," he agreed.
It was less than an hour before Lieutenant Carlisle called back. Sass knew it wasn't going to be good before the man spoke from the furrow between his eyebrows.
"When our agent's Central com code was called we got a recording that the number was out of service permanently and would be reassigned after a thirty day fallow period," Carlisle said.
"He's dead," Sass said, bluntly.
"Perhaps," Carlisle said, visibly dubious. "He might turn up in time," he held out.
"Ha! About as likely as him walking in your door to report. If he does make contact again, you should assume he is compromised. He would be feeding us information under duress after they arrested and broke him," Sass said.
When the lieutenant didn't agree or acknowledge it as an order, Sass was explicit. "Mark the man's file and any related documents that he's not to be trusted after being out of contact for so long."
"Yes sir. I'll attend to that immediately," Carlisle said, but he looked unhappy.
Why did he have to tell the man such a basic, obvious thing? Sass wondered when he disconnected. The man was a fool, and Sass marked him mentally to be eased into something safer where he couldn't do near as much harm. He was party, so it would be a sideways move, they needed every warm body they could keep occupying positions in the military.
* * *
"Brett Holland just dropped a text on me asking if you were still going to call him," Chen said. "Or have you given up on the idea?"
"The reporter? No, I'm still curious. I've just been busy," Jeff protested.
"You're always busy. Here's his number" – it appeared in a box on Jeff's screen – "that's a throw away and he said when he leaves his present location tonight it gets lost."
"Mr. Holland doesn't want to be seen speaking to me?" Jeff asked surprised.
"Apparently not. You might ask him why if it bothers you," Chen suggested. "I can think of a lot of reasons, perhaps less so in Australia than elsewhere, but still..."
"That's OK," Jeff allowed. "I know I'm an evil spacer. I'm sort of getting used to it. I used to think I needed a shower when shunned, but lately I've come to revel in my villainy."
"That's the spirit. Just tell him that and he'll have some good copy for a story," Chen advised.
"Yeah. I'll call him right now while I'm in full form," Jeff promised.
Chen just nodded before disconnecting. Jeff wasn't sure what was sarcasm and not.
Brett Holland appeared to be in a restaurant. At least Jeff had never seen a private home with deeply fluted red leather upholstery running shoulder high around a banquette. It was a bit gaudy unless they were trying to create a retro look. Retro like sometime last century in a Las Vegas casino...
Holland fiddled with his pad or phone after answering, until he was framed just so before he withdrew his hand. He then cupped his hands one on top of the other on the table before him. It was a very controlled pose. That and the fussing with the camera made Jeff tag him as a bit fastidious, maybe even obsessive compulsive.
"I was surprised to get a call asking if I'd care to speak with you. I couldn't imagine anything I did would catch your interest. I didn't put a question to you," he said, turning it into a question.
"You didn't, but your face displayed interest," Jeff said. "At least in contrast to most of the others, who looked like they'd rather be covering something like the opening of a new shoe store or an elementary school field trip."
"You have...little affection for the press," Holland noted.
"I loathe them," Jeff said, unembarrassed. "Nothing against you personally, in fact my dear friend and associate April Lewis pointed out to me that your crowd aren't as bad as the paparazzi, but I haven't had the joy of meeting them, to help moderate my views."
"And Ms. Lewis has had the joy of their attention?" Holland asked. It seemed to amuse him.
"Yes, landing in Hawaii once, she found her way blocked and flash cameras thrust in her face. It was a terribly rude experience," Jeff said, looking disgusted.
"And frightening I'd imagine," Holland allowed. "They jostle and elbow each other for space as they all press in on you. I've seen video of them harassing entertainers. It's horrible."
"April doesn't frighten easily," Jeff assured him. "She shot a few of the closest in the foot, and they quickly scattered like a broken company under heavy fire. They had no heart for it at all..."
"The girl who wears black!" Holland remembered suddenly.
"Sometimes," Jeff agreed. "I've had occasion to take her to dinner in public where she wore a beautiful crème gown with seed pearls, and yellow diamonds for jewels. But that isn't the radical, militant image the press was interested in promoting."
Holland grimaced at another jab at the press, but it was true and he couldn't object.
"I won't try to defend my profession at large. A lot of them are shills and asses. I could be making a lot more money if I went that route instead of writing fluff pieces and human interest stories. But I have some personal standards. Have you read any of my work?"
"No, I asked one of my agents to look into seeing if you would speak to me," Jeff said. "It didn't occur to me to ask for a sample or a synopsis of your work. If you do fluff, which I take to mean light subjects instead of serious editorial work, then why did your net have you cover my news conference?"
"This may offend you, but the editorial staff here looks at most space news as very narrow interest material. It's an exotic location and the business side of it doesn't touch enough of our readers. People who are interested in space seem to be hobbyists more often than investors or tourists. If we do a destination piece in Fiji more of our followe
rs may actually go there. I was assigned to follow your release because none of the heavy hitters wanted to waste their time."
After a silent pause Holland said, "Well, I see it did offend. I can't blame you. Nobody wants to hear they aren't important in the public imagination."
"Offend is not the precise word. Amazed is more like it. The things we make in orbit are irreplaceable. Drugs and electronics you can't make below. We matter."
"Yes, but not one person in ten can tell you where or how anything is made," Holland told him. "Even if they knew their phone was made in Hong Kong they'd still have no clue where the critical chip in it was manufactured."
"The story too," Jeff persisted. "It was about a thermonuclear device being detonated. A city was heavily damaged. Believe it or not, it weighs heavily on me that innocent people were harmed, even though I offered to stop it. You can damn well assume the people deciding to do this were far away from any danger themselves. Surely it doesn't lack interest for not being in Australia?"
"You seem sincere...and idealistic," Holland allowed. "A couple generations back Australians connected with North Americans more. We're both English speaking...more or less. But we've drawn apart culturally. Very few Australians travel to North America now. We're not all that welcome, any more than Europeans. Business travelers yeah, but business is down, and a lot of that is bulk goods, and commodities. Australians expect bad news and horror stories out of North America now, so they've grown weary of it. I suppose if you had a war with us like you did North America there would be more interest," he said wryly.
After Jeff was silent a moment he added, "That wasn't a suggestion."
"Don't worry. I didn't intend to bombard Australia to generate interest," Jeff said, waving the idea away. "Actually we're negotiating landing rights. We'd like to land shuttles and move goods through Australia if it can be done reasonably. It's been tough getting a yes or a no. They keep wanting to talk to officials instead of business people. We don't have any officials in charge of trade deals. We have maybe a half dozen people you could reasonably label officials of any sort and they don't concern themselves with trade. Trade is the province of businessmen," Jeff insisted.
April 8: It's Always Something Page 14