The Human Division

by John Scalzi

  “I understand,” Wilson said. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  He looked up in the sky and watched bits of Earth Station fall like glitter.

  X.

  “I told you it was a bad idea,” Rigney said, to Egan.

  “Your continued lack of enthusiasm is noted,” Egan replied. “Not that it does us any good at this point.”

  The two of them sat on a bench at Avery Park, a small neighborhood park in an outer borough of Phoenix City, feeding ducks.

  “This is nice,” Rigney said, tossing bread to the ducks.

  “Yes,” Egan said.

  “Peaceful,” Rigney said.

  “It is,” Egan said, tossing her own bread at the quacking birds.

  “If I had to do this more than once a year, I might stab something,” Rigney said.

  “There is that,” Egan said. “But you said you wanted to catch up. I assumed you meant actually catch up, not just talk sports scores. And right now is not the time to be catching up on anything in Phoenix Station itself.”

  “I knew that much already,” Rigney said.

  “So what do you want to know?” Egan asked.

  “I want to know how bad it is,” Rigney said. “From your end, I mean. I know how bad it is on my end.”

  “How bad is it on your end?” Egan asked.

  “Full-bore panic,” Rigney said. “I could go into details, but you might run screaming. You?”

  Egan was quiet for a moment while she tossed more bread at the birds. “Do you remember when you came to my presentation for those midlevel bureaucrats and you heard me tell them that the Colonial Union is thirty years out from total collapse?” she said.

  “Yes, I do,” Rigney said.

  “Well, we were wrong about that,” Egan said. “It’s closer to twenty.”

  “That can’t all be because of what happened at Earth Station,” Rigney said.

  “Why couldn’t it?” Egan said. “They think we did it, Abel. They think we lured several hundred of their best diplomatic and political minds into a shooting gallery and then had a fake group of terrorists blow the place apart. They didn’t shoot to destroy the space station outright. They went after the elevator car and they waited until people went for the escape pods to put holes in the shuttle bays. They went for the Earthlings.”

  “They also shot at the Clarke and its shuttle,” Rigney pointed out.

  “The shuttle got away,” Egan pointed out. “As did the single escape pod to make it off Earth Station. As for the Clarke, how hard is it to make the argument that it was a decoy to throw the scent off their trail, especially since everyone but their captain survived? And especially since fourteen of the ships that attacked Earth Station seem to have disappeared back into the same black hole from which they came. Seems a fine conspiracy.”

  “That’s a little much,” Rigney said.

  “It would be if we were dealing with rational events,” Egan said. “But look at it from the Earth’s point of view. Now they have no serious egress into space, their political castes are decimated and paranoid, and they’re reminded that at this moment, their fate is not their own. The easiest, best scapegoat they have is us. They will never forget this. They will never forgive it. And no matter what evidence comes to light about it, exonerating us, they will simply never believe it.”

  “So Earth is off the table,” Rigney said.

  “It’s so far off the table the table is underneath the curve of the planet,” Egan said. “We’ve lost the Earth. For real this time. Now the only thing we can hope for is that it stays neutral and unaffiliated. That might mean that seventy years down the road we might have a shot at them again. If they join the Conclave, it’s all over.”

  “And what does State think the chances of that are?” Rigney said. “Of them joining the Conclave?”

  “At this moment? Better than them coming back to us,” Egan said.

  “The consensus at CDF is that the Conclave is behind all of this, you know,” Rigney said. “Everything since Danavar. They have the means to plant spies in the CDF and in the Department of State. They have the resources to pluck our ships out of the sky, turn them back into warships and drop them next to Earth Station. All sixteen of the ships that disappeared showed up there. And there’s something else we haven’t told State yet.”

  “What is that?” Egan said.

  “The ship Captain Coloma smashed the Clarke into. The Erie Morningstar. It had no crew. It was run by a brain in a box.”

  “Like the one in the Urse Damay,” Egan said. “Of course, the Conclave maintains the Urse Damay was taken from them as well. Along with several other ships.”

  “Our intelligence hasn’t confirmed those stories,” Rigney said. “They could be running that across the trail to keep us confused.”

  “Then there’s the matter of someone out there actively sabotaging our relationship with Earth,” Egan said. “And the fact there’s a growing segment of the colony population who wants to replace the Colonial Union with an entirely new union with the Earth at the center. That certainly seemed to spring up overnight.”

  “Another thing the Conclave has resources for,” Rigney pointed out.

  “Perhaps,” Egan said. “Or perhaps there’s a third party who is playing us, Earth and the Conclave for fools for purposes we haven’t figured out yet.”

  Rigney shook his head. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one,” he said.

  “I agree,” Egan said. “Where I disagree is whether making the Conclave the bad guy is the simplest explanation. I think it’s clear that someone wants the Colonial Union dead and destroyed, and Earth is the lever to do that. I also think it’s possible the same someone has been poking at the Conclave, trying to find the lever that destroys them, too. We almost found one, once.”

  “I don’t think the CDF is comfortable with that level of shadowy conspiracy, Liz,” Rigney said. “They prefer something they can hit with a stick.”

  “Find it first, Abel,” Egan said. “Then you can hit it all you like.”

  The two sat there, silent, chucking bread at ducks.

  “At least you’ve gotten one thing right,” Egan said.

  “What’s that,” Rigney said.

  “Your fire team,” Egan said. “Ambassador Abumwe and her people. We keep setting her up with impossible missions and she always gets something out of them. Sometimes not the things we want. But always something.”

  “She blew the Bula negotiations,” Rigney said.

  “We blew the Bula negotiations,” Egan reminded him. “We told her to lie, and she did exactly what we told her to do, and we were caught red-handed when she did it.”

  “Fair enough,” Rigney said. “What are you going to do with Abumwe now?”

  “You mean, now that she and her team are the only group to survive the Earth Station attack intact, and her captain has become a posthumous hero both for saving her entire diplomatic team and for taking down two of the attacking ships, and the sole bright spot for the Colonial Union in this whole sorry mess was Lieutenant Wilson saving the daughter of the United States secretary of state by leaping off an exploding space station with her in tow?” Egan said.

  “Yes, that,” Rigney said.

  “We start with a promotion, I think,” Egan said. “She and her people are no longer the B-team, and we don’t have any more time to waste. Things are never going back to what they were, Abel. We need to build the future as fast as we can. Before it collapses in on us. Abumwe’s going to help get us there. Her and her team. All of them. All of them that are left, anyway.”

  * * *

  Wilson and Lowen stood on the grounds of what remained of the Nairobi beanstalk and Earth Station, waiting for his ride, the shuttle that was slowly coming in for a landing.

  “So, what’s it like?” Lowen wanted to know.

  “What’s what like?” Wilson asked.

  “Leaving Earth a second time,” Lowen said.

  “It’s the same in a
lot of ways,” Wilson said. “I’m excited to go, to see what’s out there in the universe. But I also know it’s not likely that I’m ever coming back. And once again, I’m leaving behind people I care about.”

  Lowen smiled at that and gave Wilson a peck on the cheek. “You don’t have to leave,” she said. “You can always defect.”

  “Tempting,” he said. “But as much as I love the Earth, I have to admit something.”

  “And what’s that,” Lowen said.

  “I’m just not from around here anymore,” Wilson said

  The shuttle landed.

  “Well,” Lowen said, “if you ever change your mind, you know where we are.”

  “I do,” Wilson said. “You know where I am, too. Come up and see me.”

  “That’s going to be a little more difficult now, all things considered,” Lowen said.

  “I know,” Wilson said. “The offer still stands.”

  “One day I’ll take you up on that,” Lowen said.

  “Good,” Wilson said. “Life’s always interesting with you around.”

  The shuttle door opened. Wilson picked up his bag to go.

  “Hey, Harry,” Lowen said.

  “Yes?” Wilson said.

  “Thanks for saving my life,” she said.

  Wilson smiled and waved good-bye.

  Hart Schmidt and Ambassador Ode Abumwe were waiting inside.

  Wilson smiled and shook the ambassador’s hand warmly. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you again, ma’am,” he said to her.

  Abumwe smiled equally warmly. “Likewise, Lieutenant.”

  Wilson turned to Schmidt. “As for you,” he said. “Don’t you do that again. That whole almost dying thing.”

  “I promise nothing,” Schmidt said.

  Wilson hugged his friend, then sat down and buckled in.

  “Did you have a good time back on Earth?” Schmidt asked.

  “I did,” Wilson said. “Now let’s go home.”

  Abumwe nodded to the shuttle pilot. They put the Earth below them and headed into the sky above.

  EXTRAS

  After the Coup

  Author’s Note: “After the Coup” is an original story featuring three of the main characters of The Human Division, written for the debut of Tor.com in 2008. The events of the story take place several months before the events of The Human Division. Enjoy.

  —JS

  “How well can you take a punch?” asked Deputy Ambassador Schmidt.

  Lieutenant Harry Wilson blinked and set down his drink. “You know, there are a number of places a conversation can go after a question like that,” he said. “None of them end well.”

  “I don’t mean it like that,” Schmidt said. He drummed the glass of his own drink with his fingers. Harry noted the drumming, which was a favorite nervous tell of Hart Schmidt’s. It made poker games with him fun. “I have a very specific reason to ask you.”

  “I would hope so,” Harry said. “Because as conversational icebreakers go, it’s not in the top ten.”

  Schmidt looked around the Clarke’s officers lounge. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it,” he said.

  Harry glanced around the lounge. It was singularly unappealing; a bunch of magnetized folding chairs and equally magnetized card tables, and a single porthole from which the yellowish green limb of Korba-Aty was glowing, dully. The drinks they were having came from the rack of vending machines built into the wall. The only other person in the lounge was Lieutenant Grant, the Clarke’s quartermaster; she was looking at her PDA and wearing headphones.

  “It’s fine, Hart,” Harry said. “Enough with the melodrama. Spit it out already.”

  “Fine,” Schmidt said, and then drummed on his drink some more. Harry waited. “Look, this mission isn’t going well,” he finally said.

  “Really,” Harry said, dryly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Schmidt said.

  “Don’t get defensive, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m not blaming you.”

  “I just want to know how you came to that conclusion,” Schmidt said.

  “You mean, how did I come to that conclusion despite the fact I’m this mission’s mushroom,” Harry said.

  Schmidt frowned. “I don’t know what that means,” he said.

  “It means that you keep me in the dark and feed me shit,” Harry said.

  “Ah,” Schmidt said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Harry said. “This is a Colonial Union diplomatic mission, and I’m Colonial Defense Forces, and you don’t want me seen by the Korba because you don’t want my presence to be interpreted as provocation. So while the rest of you head down to the planet, and get to breathe real air and see actual sunlight, I stay up here in this latrine of a spaceship, training your technicians to use the field generator and catching up on my reading. Which is going well, incidentally. I just finished Anna Karenina.”

  “How was it?” Schmidt said.

  “Not bad,” Harry said. “The moral is to stay away from trains. The point is, I know why I’m kept in the dark. Fine. Fair enough. But I’m not stupid, Hart. Even if none of you tell me anything about the mission, I can tell it’s not going well. All of you deputies and assistants come back to the Clarke looking like you’ve had the crap beat out of you all day long. It’s a subtle hint.” He picked up his drink and slugged some back.

  “Hmm. Anyway, yes,” Schmidt said. “The mission isn’t going well. The Korba haven’t been nearly as receptive to our negotiations as we thought they might be. We want to try something new. A new direction. A new diplomatic tack.”

  “A new tack that is somehow focused on me getting punched,” Harry said, setting his drink back down.

  “Maybe,” Schmidt said.

  “Once or repeatedly?” Harry asked.

  “I think that would depend on your definition,” Schmidt said.

  “Of ‘once’?” Harry asked.

  “Of ‘punched,’ actually,” Schmidt said.

  “I already have very deep reservations about this plan,” Harry said.

  “Well, let me give you some context,” Schmidt said.

  “Please do,” Harry said.

  Schmidt produced his PDA and began to slide it over to Harry, then stopped midway through the motion. “You know that everything I’m about to tell you is classified.”

  “Good lord, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m the only person on the Clarke who doesn’t know what’s going on.” Harry reached over and took the PDA. On its screen was the image of a battle cruiser of some sort, floating near a skyscraper. Or more accurately, what was left of a skyscraper; it had been substantially destroyed, likely by the battle cruiser. In the foreground of the picture, small, vaguely-humanoid blotches seemed to be running from the ruined skyscraper. “Nice picture,” Harry said.

  “What do you think you’re seeing there?” Schmidt said.

  “A strong case for not letting trainees drive a battle cruiser,” Harry said.

  “It’s an image taken during the recent Korban coup,” Schmidt said. “There was a disagreement between the head of the military and the Korban civilian leadership. That skyscraper is—well, was—the Korban administrative headquarters.”

  “So the civilians lost that particular argument,” Harry said.

  “Pretty much,” Schmidt said.

  “Where do we come in?” Harry asked, handing back the PDA. “Are we trying to restore the civilian government? Because, to be honest about it, that doesn’t really sound like something the CU would care about.”

  “We don’t,” Schmidt said, taking back the PDA. “Before the coup, the Korba were barely on our radar at all. They had a non-expansionist policy. They had their few worlds and they’d stood pat on them for centuries. We had no conflict with them, so we didn’t care about them. After the coup, the Korba are very interested in expanding again.”

  “This worries us,” Harry said.

  “Not if we can point them toward expanding in the direction of som
e of our enemies,” Schmidt said. “There are some races in this area who are pushing in on us. If they had to worry about someone else, they’d have fewer resources to hit us with.”

  “See, that’s the Colonial Union I know,” Harry said. “Always happy to stick a knife in someone else’s face. But none of this has anything to do with me getting punched in the face.”

  “Actually, it does,” Schmidt said. “We made a tactical error. This mission is a diplomatic one, but the new leaders of Korba are military. They’re curious about our military, and they’re especially curious about our CDF soldiers, whom they’ve never encountered because our races have never fought. We’re civilians; we don’t have any of our military on hand, and very little in terms of military capability to show them. We brought them that field generator you’ve been training our technicians on, but that’s defensive technology. They’re much more interested in our offensive capabilities. And they’re especially interested in seeing our soldiers in action. Negotiations up to this point have been going poorly because we’re not equipped to give them what they want. But then we let it slip that we have a CDF member on the Clarke.”

  “We let it slip,” Harry said.

  “Well, I let it slip, actually,” Schmidt said. “Come on, Harry, don’t look at me like that. This mission is failing. Some of us need this mission to succeed. My career’s not exactly on fire, you know. If this mission goes into the crapper, I’m going to get reassigned to an archive basement.”

  “I’d be more sympathetic if saving your career didn’t require blunt force trauma for me,” Harry said.

  Schmidt nodded, and then ducked his head a little, which Harry took as something akin to an apology. “When we told them about you, they got very excited, and we were asked by the Korbans’ new leader—a direct request from the head of state, Harry—if we would be willing to pit you against one of their soldiers in a contest of skills,” Schmidt said. “It was strongly implied it would make a real difference in the tenor of the negotiations.”

  “So of course you said yes,” Harry said.

  “Let me remind you of the part where I said the mission is going into the crapper,” Schmidt said.