The Desert of Stars (The Human Reach) (7 page)

Neil remained silent.

She went on, “I really don’t care for working with Tecolote’s
military, so it’s a relief you’re here. We’ve got a meeting set up tomorrow to
introduce you to General Vargas, the chairman of their general staff. We might get
you an audience with Conrad, as well.”

“What do I do?”

“Appear to be sympathetic to their problems and take down
their requests. Bring requests of a civilian nature or for money to me, ones
for military support to Commander Raleigh. Now, your rank is the second-lowest
for officers, correct?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I worry that will insult our hosts. Do you think you could
wear the uniform of someone a little more senior … a commander or major or
something like that?”

“That’s not the way we do business, ma’am,” Neil said. For
some reason, it felt good to tell her so.

Lindsay Trujillo led Neil to a one-room apartment in the
same building; she apologized for its small size, but in truth Neil hadn’t had
so much space to himself since leaving his parents’ home in Oregon. She departed;
the permanent staff all lived in a walled compound a few miles away, but they
didn’t have room for Neil. He messaged Jessica to see if she could take his
call, but her computer responded that she was asleep.
It’s after midnight,
ship’s time, and her watch starts in a few hours,
Neil remembered.

So he manually unfolded the beat-up sofa-sleeper – no smart
furniture here – and lay down, uncomfortable in humid gravity of subtropical
Entente. The hum of the city quieted, but that made things worse: Shouts,
barking dogs, the occasional truck trundling by became interruptions of
silence, instead of receding into a background urban melody. After half an
hour, sleep wouldn’t come, and Neil looked for a knockout pill in his things,
only to find he had left them on
Apache.

Might as well take a walk.

Like many off-Earth cities, San José was built with wide
boulevards to accommodate ground vehicles. A few patches of dirt in the
sidewalks offered up only thin gray stumps, markers of a failed attempt to add
some life to the place. The low buildings were boxy and sterile, ordered up by
investors who viewed design as nothing but an expense … but the structures were
not uniform, Neil noticed after a time. Some of the newer, cleaner buildings
had doorways that stood twenty centimeters higher than those in the original
buildings, which were built to Earth standards.
It’s the gravity,
Neil
realized. Entente’s gravity was about 89 percent of Earth’s, and children born
here were taller, on average, than Earth-born humans once they grew up.

As he set out, he set his handheld to display any
socialcasts people on the streets were offering. On Earth, his ocular would be
bombarded with links to business cards, personal data screens, and the like;
here, he picked up almost nothing, finding only a few commercial sites –
restaurant menus, primarily – when he dialed down the filters that usually kept
them out. People here either didn’t have much to say, or they were scared to
say it. Only when he shut the filters off entirely did the traffic pick up at
all, and the messages were uniformly from prostitutes.

He wandered into a nearly empty restaurant, one of the few places
he could find that was still open. As he grabbed his sandwich and drink from
the bar and turned to find a table, he collided with a small man emerging from
the bathroom. Pale yellow beer sloshed onto the man’s tan linen pants.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Neil said in Spanish, the language of the
street here.

The man raised his hands in front of his chest, palms toward
Neil, and waved them back and worth. “No, no, it is my fault,” he said in
English, not accented by Spanish but something South Asian. “I’m very sorry.”

The bartender scurried over and apologized to Neil, offering
to replace the beer and send this street dog away. The small man cast fearful
eyes toward the floor.

But Neil, normally eager to avoid confrontation, saw opportunity.
Need to learn this place.

“
No hay problema
,” he told the bartender. “
Esta
conmigo
.” He’s with me.

Both men looked at him oddly. Neil ordered a second sandwich
and bade the thin man to sit down with him.

“Thank you for your kindness,” the man said. “But I’m not
selling anything you might want to buy.”

“You misunderstand me. I’m new here. I’m simply trying to
meet some of the natives.”

The man appeared to relax a little. “Native? Not me. I’m an
Earther, like you.”

“How could you tell?”

“You walk a little hunched over, like you spend a lot of
time in space, so it’s likely you are from somewhere else. And given most
people are from Earth, it’s not a difficult guess.”

Neil had to laugh at that. “Yep, I’m from the States. My
name’s Neil.”

“Kneel? You spend a lot of time on your knees? I told you,
I’m not selling my services.” He gave Neil a toothy grin to show he was kidding
this time, and Neil laughed again. “My name is too silly and too long to
remember, so I go by ‘Das.’”

“Das, to tell the truth, I just got here. How long have you been
on Entente?”

“I arrived in Tecolote two years ago, courtesy of the state
government of Punjab back on Earth. My crime was grave; I was second cousin to
a mullah who spoke against the Indian occupation of eastern Pakistan. He was
too publicly known to be moved off-planet, so he was put under house arrest,
but much of his extended family was rounded up and transported here. I am the
only one who ended up in Tecolote. And I’m not even Muslim.”

Neil shook his head. Rather than imprison people, some
governments paid head money to colonies in need of cash to accept undesirables.
Journalists occasionally tracked the fates of these “involuntary immigrants,”
and they usually ended up working in criminal enterprises or dangerous
industries. “What did you do on Earth?”

“I worked in a school as a technician and assistant coach to
its cricket team.”

“And here?”

“Sanitation. And you?”

“I work for the United States government. I’m attached to
the diplomatic mission.”

“So you are a G-Man? Maybe we can do business, then. I have
many secrets. I’d sell you the owner’s manual to my ’32 Kingfisher, but it got
left on Earth, with the car.”

Neil laughed again, hoping he didn’t sound nervous in doing
so.
Either a lucky guess, or this guy is really sharp.
They talked
further, taking turns diverting questions about their jobs. But Das showed
himself to be knowledgeable about the capitol complex in San José – or, at
least, about the activities around it. When they finished the meal, Das nodded
confidently, almost conspiratorially. “I’ll see you again, G-Man. Especially if
you keep buying dinner.”

Neil’s audience the next day was
with neither President Conrad nor General Vargas, but with his interior
secretary, Major General Katherine Naima, whom Neil’s briefing had described as
one of Conrad’s longtime associates, a fellow adventurer who had accompanied
him when he conquered Tecolote. He was led into her office on the fifth floor
of the executive building, which had a stunning view of the city, the port and
the hills to the north. The picture was marred only by a yellowish tint on all
her windows, which Neil assumed to be part of security system, either to stop
bullets or prevent a listening laser from decoding her speech from the
vibrations it caused on the panes.

Naima was fit and thin, though middle age was broadening
hips never burdened by pregnancy. Her rectangular face carried several wrinkles
from a life in the rugged outdoors under various suns. Her gray-blond hair was
curly on top, close-cropped on the back and sides. She gazed at Neil with a passive
expression, apparently unimpressed by everything: the youth, the doughy face,
the single silver j.g. bar on his collar, even the blue and gold ribbon marking
the Aerospace Medal he had received for his service on the
San Jacinto
.

He tried not to be nervous. He wanted to succeed in the
mission, to build up a good relationship with the Tecolote government, to get
them to agree to allow the allies to base forces here. He kept telling himself
he represented a far greater power than this petty island, and she should be
currying favor with him, not the other way around. But their disparities in age
and rank, and Neil feeling so very distant from anything familiar, inclined him
toward a subordinate pose.
Who has the upper hand here?

Naima’s accent was American. “I suppose I should welcome you
to Tecolote, Lieutenant Mercer, but the attention of Earth powers is not
something a small state like ours typically enjoys. But you are here, so, tell
me, what may we do for you?”

Neil had at least prepared for this. “My purpose here is to
facilitate an improvement in the relationship between our two nations,
particularly between our armed forces.” Internally, he grimaced.
That didn’t
sound as stilted when I thought it up this morning.

She cocked her head and regarded him for a long moment, as
if she was making up her mind about him.

“Where are you from, Lieutenant?”

“I grew up in Oregon,” he said, stopping himself before
adding a “sir.”

“I’ve got some American blood in my ancestry, but I, like
Lawson, was born on Reunion.”

First-name basis with the president,
Neil noted.

“You’ll have to meet him,” Naima went on. “He’s quite an interesting
man – I’m sure your files describe him as some sort of warlord or adventurer
and nothing more.” She shook her head. “They don’t make many like him. He carved
this little country out of the worthless territory that was here before, but
he’s genuinely concerned with the well-being of the people, despite what the
insurgency’s propaganda says. More now than ever.”

“What’s the insurgency’s complaint, then?” Neil knew what
the U.S. believed was the answer, but he wanted to hear how Naima fielded the
question.

Her face hardened to a scowl. “The rank-and-file have
convinced themselves we’re enriching ourselves with the country’s wealth, and we
should be sharing it with them. They’re wrong. That wealth just isn’t there,
not without a lot more infrastructure and investment. Their leadership is
largely old guard, the folks we kicked out when we arrived. They were running
this place into the ground; it was ripe for new management. They can’t let go of
what they lost. We had them under control until the war on Earth kicked off.
Since then, the Chinese have been providing weapons to them. We’re not sure
how: We certainly haven’t seen any orbital drops. We’ve searched for smugglers
through the port and cities, but we aren’t finding anything at all.”

“That leaves supply submarines from Huashan.”

She smiled at him like he was a bright pupil. “Our thought
as well. But our navy is only equipped with sonar, lidar and magnetic anomaly
detectors, while the Chinese boats have acoustic cloaks built into their hulls.
We’re interested in acquiring some of the same sensor buoys you have deployed
around New Albion, the ones with the wake and water chemistry monitors.”

Neil had to think fast. He didn’t want to make a promise he
couldn’t keep, but this request didn’t sound unreasonable.
A better sensor
net here would protect our ships if we use this as a jumping-off point.
Still,
it’s one for Commander Raleigh.

“I’ll send that up the line, with my recommendation we
accept,” he said, truthfully.

“I’m happy to hear it. Those aren’t available on any market
we have access to,” Naima said. “As long as you’re in a giving mood, General
Vargas has asked I request you try to obtain a supply of Fukiya-Seven artillery
rockets. We’ve found them quite effective against rebel positions, but Japan
has stopped selling them, and they have been in exceedingly short supply on
secondary markets since the war began. Our stocks are down to fourteen rockets,
only half of which we think will actually work.”

“I’ll send that up the line as well,” Neil said.

Naima leaned back in her chair and regarded Neil for a long
moment.

She said, “Lieutenant, we’re having a reception for the new
ambassador from Nuevo Santiago in a few days. I’d like you to attend. With any
luck, we can introduce you to Lawson there.”

“Of course,” Neil said, trying to conceal his surprise. “Thank
you for the invitation.”
I guess I just passed a test.

BUENOS AIRES – Wearing everything from colorful feathers
and strands of wire to nothing at all, hundreds of protestors with the Campaign
Against an Artless World marched in front of the national offices of
Dorhauer-McBride Pharmaceuticals on Saturday, calling for increased awareness of
consequences they allege result from genetic treatments to prevent various
mental illnesses. “In blithely paving over gene complexes marginally associated
with schizophrenia, depression, and even moderate anxiety, we’re preventing the
slightly mad geniuses who have produced so much of our great art from ever
being born,” said Enrique Schurrer, an organizer of the rally. “So much art
today is hyperrealistic, commercial, and cowardly. We cannot paint, or sing, or
tell stories as we once did. We want more research, and want more people to
wonder what if we’re editing all the future Mozarts out of our genetic code?”

Paris, Europa, Earth

Senator Gregory was in a bad mood. He had known the Europeans
would not react favorably to his private entreaty for assistance in the war,
but for the minister to call him out publicly in a joint press conference was
beyond the pale.

The senator acknowledged to himself that he bore some
responsibility for this. Last year, he had learned through a back channel that Japan
and America had elected to make war on China with the aim of acquiring wormhole
chains and colony worlds, all because their axes of colonization had run up
against a vast desert of stars whose planets were rendered uninhabitable by
some primordial disaster.

Britain, Russia and India were in the same boat, as were some
smaller states hoping to build colonies off the International Ring. Meanwhile, Europa’s
axes of colonization, into Eridani, Cetus and Pisces, would continue to bear
fruit, although it ran along the edge of the desert. So European leaders could
afford to be publicly horrified when Gregory had told the world the object of
the war.

In some ways, Gregory had surprised himself by making the
announcement, but when he had learned the Delgado administration had kept it
not only from the NSS but also senior members of Congress, he was angry. In his
mind, too, he had taken a classic liberal stance, one he believed his heroes
John Stuart Mill and Thomas Jefferson would have approved of: The public, and
thus America, would make better decisions with accurate information. It was a
strike against the “what they don’t know won’t hurt them” attitude that he felt
had become pervasive in government in the last decade.

Oh, but there had been costs, to his reputation, as well as
to public support for the war effort. Delgado had still won re-election last
November, largely thanks to the victory at Kennedy Station, but the margin was far
narrower than the president would have liked. His “fairness in colonization”
foreign policy platform had won him some support, but he had been forced to
drum up more by firing up the reactionaries, and they were gaining ground in
his administration. Meanwhile, Delgado’s people had come after Gregory from a
number of directions, sometimes with the carrot and sometimes with the stick.
He kept his chairmanship of the Intelligence committee, but his protégé, a
bright and honest representative from Camden, had lost his seat in the election
after Delgado’s party had thrown significant resources into defeating him.

The senator going public with the information also explained
his presence here. Because Gregory challenged the Delgado administration, Europa
held him in high esteem, and the State Department wasn’t above using that to
garner its assistance in the war effort. Gregory didn’t protest; after all, he
wanted the U.S. to win as much as anyone.

But that doesn’t mean it’s worth it.
Deep down, he
was undecided on that point, but he would never let that uncertainty show, even
to his staff. Only the outcome would really determine if all the lives and
treasure lost had been spent wisely.

The senator, entourage in tow, made his way to a private
room in the conference center, where Donovan was waiting.

Once the door was closed, Gregory’s chief of staff, Trip
Bell, said, “The Chinese must have loved that. What was Delvaux thinking,
calling us out for ‘imperial behavior’?”

“He was scoring points off of us for an audience, that’s for
certain,” Gregory said. “Whether it was with his domestic constituency, or the
Chinese, or the neutrals, I’m not sure.”

Donovan said, “It’s likely all three. Claude Delvaux has
designs on being prime minister of Europa. He’s firing up his antiwar base,
placating the Chinese, and signaling to the smaller powers to throw in with
them.”

Bell nodded. “The hell of it is, Europa could end this war by
joining us. The Chinese would be outgunned and would have to negotiate.
Instead, they are happy prolonging the fighting.”

Donovan’s handheld buzzed, interrupting what the senator was
about to say next. With an apology, Donovan looked at the message.

GENERAL SINGH SAYS WE CAN’T HELP YOU RIGHT NOW. NOT TAKING THE
HANS’ OFFER YET, EITHER. SORRY. RAMESH

“Tell me you got some good news,” Senator Gregory said.

Donovan shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente

The reception was at a large and beautiful estate that
stood on the edge of the Apollonian Ocean. The house had been built from marble
and granite imported from Earth at massive expense and despite easy supplies of
almost identical rock available on the planet; someone had decided Earth
materials carried a degree of prestige that domestic ones did not. Initially, it
had been a home for a corporate executive, until the government seized the company’s
assets. Now it served as a temporary residence for visitors that Tecolote’s
administration had determined were of the highest esteem.

Most of the reception guests were in the back, on a large
and multi-tiered series of patios that wound through gardens full of Earth
plants. Neil was wearing a dark blue mess dress uniform, which he had just had
manufactured at a local fabricator earlier that day. He stood under a pergola
next to the pool, looking out at the ocean and swishing his drink. A gunboat idled
about a kilometer out, and several drones hovered high overhead. No one seemed
to pay them any mind; indeed, the party was rolling.

President Conrad had not yet appeared. General Naima was entangled
in a knot of diplomats that included the Chinese ambassador, so Neil did not
approach her, instead remaining with the other Americans – Paul Layton, the consulate’s
head of mission, his deputy Andy Bonaventura, their husbands, and Lindsay
Trujillo, who had agreed to come as Neil’s date. Irene Gomez was apparently
here, too, but she had arrived separately and had not spoken to any of her
colleagues.

Neil had the sense Lindsay was a little bored in Tecolote. She
had done herself up: She wore a medium-length black cocktail dress that left
much of her shoulders and back bare; her long black hair was collected in a
wavy mass that flowed over her left shoulder to the top of her breast. She had
her tattoos set to display abstract floral patterns that seemed to wrap themselves
around her wrists. Neil watched for several seconds before noticing they were
slowly moving.

“You look stunning,” he told her, truthfully, and she
dimpled, an act so fetching that it triggered an internal reminder within Neil
that he was involved with someone else. He reluctantly declined her offer of a
second beer; he was here to work, so she glided away to procure herself another
margarita and him a ginger ale.

He observed the crowd for a moment, and it struck him how
life in the Space Force had significantly narrowed the sort of people he encountered.
On a warship, everyone was reasonably fit, save for the paunch many had to
fight as a consequence of spending so much time in zero-g. Most of the
astronauts were in the 20s or 30s, with only a few senior chiefs or officers
older than that. And everyone had been through similar training and experience,
and this led to a sort of forced conformity in conduct and appearance, some of
which was dictated by the regs and some by tradition. But here at the reception
was such variety: outfits and adornments of every color, people fat and thin, old
and young, and hair not sliced away with zero gravity in mind. Neil couldn’t
help but admit to himself that he enjoyed seeing all the long hair on the
women.

Then he remembered his encounter with Das.
That’s who
isn’t here … people like him, or even like Jessica. These are the wealthy and
powerful from Tecolote, and representatives of the wealthy and powerful from
the rest of Entente as well as Earth.

A waiter rushed by him.
Except for the catering staff, I guess.

Lindsay returned and clinked his glass with her own. “Always
observing, Neil? I guess that’s what they look for in spies.”

“The funny thing is, I signed up to dropship pilot, not an
intel guy, but the war happened,” Neil said. “How did you end up at State, Lindsay?
Free trips to the stars?”

Her face turned serious. “No. I’m here to try to keep you
military guys in the barn. I’m not disparaging what you do, Neil, when I say
that something’s gone wrong when you are called out to do it.”

“Well, usually no one gets killed when we pull honor guard
duty before a ballgame,” Neil said.

She chuckled. “Fair enough. Having a military prevents a lot
of wars, but that doesn’t mean every other potential war is inevitable. Wars
happen because the two sides don’t trust each other enough to strike a deal and
stick with it. And trust is a thing you build between people by talking, and
talking, and talking some more. I believe that. And it galls me we didn’t reach
out to the Chinese before the war. We just signed up with the Japanese and
started shooting.”

“Hey, now, they attacked us,” Andy Bonaventura put in.
“Remember the
Sapphire
and the
San Jacinto,
right, Mercer?”

“We were aiding the Japanese and maneuvered the Hans into
attacking us,” Lindsay fired back. “Even after the attacks, we still could have
talked, maybe bought a wormhole chain from them. But the trust wasn’t there.
After the war is over, my job will be to try to build it again.”

“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” Neil said, without
confidence.
Both sides still think they can win.

Lindsay and Andy carried on a polite argument, and Neil stepped
away to answer a call of nature. He entered the house through a sliding glass
door but found no clue where a bathroom might be. Immediately inside was an
empty den, with an entertainment console showing a day-old sports show
transmitted from Earth. One hallway led to the front entryway, another to a
series of locked doors. Finally, down a third hall and half-flight of stairs,
he found a bathroom.

He got lost looking for the way back outside.
Maybe that
way … no, that’s a closet.
He found a curving hall he didn’t recognize and
a closed door to his right.
Let’s give it a try
…

… and the door smacked someone’s backside. A metal tray
clattered to the floor, spilling some pink-and-orange hors d’oeuvres across the
white tile.

“I’m sorry!” Neil said. He stepped in the room,
instinctively going to the ground to pick up the mess. Cantaloupe slices and
some kind of soft white cheese wrapped in prosciutto.
Damn. Those look good.

“No, it was my fault,” the man said. “I should not be standing
next to doors, even ones that I thought were locked.”

Neil stood up, and the man took from him the tray of recovered
food and dumped it in a waste bin. Neil looked him over: He was tall with a
moderate belly, olive skinned, with black hair and a black mustache, probably
in his thirties or forties. He wore a white chef’s jacket, black pants, and a
small plastic badge that said “X. Griego, Director of Catering Services.”

“I was looking for the way back outside,” Neil said.

“Back in the hall, two doors down on the right,” the man
said. “Say, you’re an American, no?”

“I’m afraid so,” Neil said, smiling. It was a reasonable
question – Neil’s dress mess uniform didn’t actually have a U.S. flag on
display.

“Good to meet you! I emigrated from the States when I was a
kid. I’m Tippy Griego.”

They shook hands. “Neil Mercer. I’m attached to the American
consulate here. I grew up in Oregon.”

“A fellow West Coaster!” Tippy grinned broadly. “I was born
in San Diego before we left. Don’t meet too many countrymen on this little
island.”

“I sure haven’t,” Neil agreed. “How did you land here?” He
almost said “end up here,” but he didn’t want it to sound like an insult.

“My family was on Commonwealth until things went south, and
we could only afford passage here. I came to Tecolote four years ago, for the
job. It’s treated me pretty well, got a casa on the north side, and I’m making
my boat payments.”

“A boat? Do you fish?” Entente’s terraformers had stocked
the oceans with Earth species, some of which were thriving.

“You bet I do. My grandfather taught me from the back of his
little cabin cruiser off the coast. We’d just reel in little bay fish, but
those are some good memories. You?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity in a few years, but my uncle
used to take me fly fishing for steelhead on the North Umpqua.”

Tippy Griego snorted. “Ah, one of those. Well, if you can
stoop to do some blue-water fishing, you’ll have to come out with me sometime.”

“I’d like that. I’m spending too much time indoors,” Neil
said, wondering if this was just polite conversation or a serious invitation.
They traded contact information, and Tippy was about to say something more when
Neil’s handheld buzzed. He glanced at it and activated the microphone-speaker in
his ear.

“Neil, it’s Katherine Naima. President Conrad has a moment
and would like to meet you. An aide will meet you at the back door.”