The Human Division #10: This Must Be the Place (2 page)

“Last Harvest Day,” Hart volunteered.

“You can’t genuinely expect him to keep up with the relatively trivial politics of Phoenix when he’s grappling with Colonial Union–wide crises,” Catherine said to Brandt, and then swiveled her head to Hart. “What was your most recent interstellar diplomatic triumph, Hart?”

“I helped electrocute a dog in order to save a peace negotiation,” Hart said.

“What?” Catherine asked, momentarily flummoxed.

Wes cracked open an eye to look at Hart. “Is this like sacrificing a chicken to the gods?” he asked.

“It’s more complicated than it sounds,” Hart said. “And I would note that the dog survived.”

“Well, thank goodness for
that,
” Brandt said, and turned to his sister. “I stand corrected, fair Catherine. Hart’s clearly got more important things on his mind than mere
politics
.”

Before Catherine could retort, Isabel Schmidt descended and embraced her youngest son. “Oh, Hart,” she said. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “So good to see you, son. I can’t believe it’s been another whole year.” She stepped back. “You look almost exactly the same.”

“He
is
almost exactly the same,” Brandt said. “He’s not old enough yet to age poorly.”

“Oh, Brandt, do shut up,” Isabel said, not unkindly. “He’s thirty. That’s plenty old to start aging badly. You started at twenty-seven.”

“Ouch, Mother,” Brandt said.

“You brought it up, honey,” Isabel said, and then turned her attention back to Hart. “You still enjoying the Colonial Union diplomatic service?” she asked. “Not getting bored with it?”

“It’s not boring,” Hart admitted.

“You still working with, oh, what’s her name,” Isabel said. “Ottumwa?”

“Abumwe,” Hart said.

“That’s the one,” Isabel said. “Sorry. You know I’m terrible with names.”

“It’s all right,” Hart said. “And yes, I’m still working with her.”

“Is she still an asshole?” Catherine asked. “The last time you were home, the stories you told about her made her sound like a real piece of work.”

“What stories do your assistants tell about you?” Brandt asked his sister.

“If they tell stories, they don’t stay my assistants,” Catherine said.

“She’s gotten better,” Hart said. “Or at the very least, I think I understand her better.”

“That’s good to hear,” Isabel said.

“Ask him about the dog,” Wes drawled from his lounge.

“The dog?” Isabel said, looking over to Wes and then back to Hart. “What about a dog?”

“You know what, I think I’ll tell you that one later, Mom,” Hart said. “Maybe after dinner.”

“Does it end badly for the dog?” Isabel asked.

“End? No,” Hart said. “It ends fine for the dog. It
middles
poorly for him, though.”

“Diplomacy is awesome,” Wes said.

“We thought you were coming in yesterday,” Isabel said, changing the subject.

“I got hung up at the hub,” Hart said, remembering his hotel room. “It was easier to head out first thing in the morning.”

“Well, but you’re staying for the week, right?” Isabel said.

“Five days, yes,” Hart said. He had another night at the Campbell reserved before he headed back to the
Clarke
. He intended to use it.

“Okay, good,” Isabel said. “If you have time, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Oh, Mom,” Catherine said. “Are you really going to try this again?”

“There’s nothing wrong with introducing Hart to some options,” Isabel said.

“Does this option have a name?” Hart asked.

“Lizzie Chao,” Isabel said.

“This is the same Lizzie Chao who I went to high school with,” Hart said.

“I believe so,” Isabel said.

“She’s married,” Hart said.

“She’s separated,” Isabel said.

“Which means she’s married with an option to trade up,” Catherine said.

“Mom, I remember Lizzie,” Hart said. “She’s really not my type.”

“She has a brother,” Wes said, from his lounge.

“He’s not my type, either,” Hart said.

“Who
is
your type these days, Hart?” Isabel asked.

“I don’t have a type these days,” Hart said. “Mom, I work out of a spaceship all year around. I share quarters that are smaller than our kitchen pantry. I spend my days trying to convince aliens we don’t want to blow them up anymore. That’s an all-day job. Given my circumstances, it would be foolish to attempt any sort of relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to the other person, or to me, for that matter.”

“Hart, you know I hate sounding like the stereotypical mother,” Isabel said. “But you’re the only one of my children who isn’t in a relationship and having children. Even Wes managed it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Wes said, lifting his hand in a lazy wave.

“I don’t want you to end up feeling the good things in life are passing you by,” Isabel said, to Hart.

“I don’t feel that way,” Hart said.

“Not now,” Isabel said. “But honey, you’re thirty and you’re still at deputy level. If it doesn’t happen for you in the next year or two, it’s not going to happen. And then where are you going to be? I love you and want you to be happy. But it’s time you start thinking realistically about these things and whether the CU diplomatic service is really the best use of your talents and your life.”

Hart leaned over and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go up and unpack, and then I’m going to check in on Dad,” he said. He swallowed the rest of his drink and walked into the house.

“Subtlety still counts for something, Mom,” Hart heard Catherine say as he entered the house. If his mother responded, however, it was lost to Hart.

Hart found his father, Alastair Schmidt, in his home office, situated in his parents’ wing of the third floor, which included their bedroom, its master bath suite, attached and separate wardrobes, individual offices, library and drawing room. The children’s wing of the house was no less appointed but arranged differently.

Alastair Schmidt was standing behind his desk, listening to one of his political underlings give him a report through a speaker. The underling was no doubt in a Phoenix Home Party cubicle in Phoenix City, trying desperately to get out of the office in order to celebrate Harvest Day with his family but pinned to his desk by the baleful attention of Schmidt, one of the grand old men of the party and of Phoenix global politics generally.

Hart poked his head around the open door and waved to let his father know he was home; his father waved him into the room brusquely and then turned his attention back to his unfortunate apparatchik. “I wasn’t asking why the data was difficult to locate, Klaus,” he said. “I was asking why we don’t seem to have it at all. ‘Difficult to locate’ and ‘not in our possession’ are two entirely separate things.”

“I understand that, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus the apparatchik was saying. “What I’m saying is that we’re hampered by the holiday. Most people are out. The requests we filed are in and will be honored, but they have to wait until people get back.”

“Well, you’re in, aren’t you?” Alastair said.

“Yes,” Klaus said, and Hart caught the slight edge of misery in his voice at the fact. “But—”

“And the entire government doesn’t in fact shut all the way down even on major global holidays,” Alastair said, cutting off Klaus before he could offer another objection. “So your job right now is to find the people who are still working today, just like you are, get that data and those projections, and have them on my desk in an encrypted file before I go to bed tonight. And I have to tell you, Klaus, that I tend to go to bed early on Harvest Day. It’s all that pie.”

“Yes, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus said, unhappily.

“Good,” Alastair said. “Happy Harvest, Klaus.”

“Happ—” Klaus was cut off as Alastair severed the connection.

“His Harvest isn’t going to be happy because you’re making him work on Harvest Day,” Hart observed.

“If he’d gotten me that data yesterday like I asked and like he’d promised, he’d be at home, chewing on a drumstick,” Alastair said. “But he didn’t, so he’s not, and that’s on him.”

“I noticed he still called you ‘minister,’” Hart said.

“Ah, so you know about the election,” Alastair said. “Brandt gloating, is he?”

“I heard it from other sources,” Hart said.

“Officially, the Green-Union government is extending an olive branch to the PHP by asking me to stay on as minister for trade and transport,” Alastair said. “Unofficially, the point was made to the coalition that they have no one near competent to run the ministry, and that if they are going to screw up any one ministry, the one they don’t want to screw up is the one that makes sure food arrives where it’s supposed to and that people are able to get to work.”

“It’s a legitimate point,” Hart said.

“Personally, the sooner this Green-Union coalition collapses, the happier I’ll be, and I gave some thought to turning it down, just to watch the ensuing train wreck,” Alastair said. “But then I realized that there would probably be actual train wrecks, and that’s the sort of thing that will get everyone’s head on a spike, not just the heads of those in the coalition.”

Hart smiled. “That famous Alastair Schmidt compassion,” he said.

“Don’t you start,” Alastair said. “I get enough of that from Brandt. It’s not that I don’t care. I do. But I’m also still pissed about the election results.” He motioned at the chair in front of the desk, offering Hart the seat; Hart took it. Alastair sat in his own seat, regarding his son.

“How is life in the Colonial Union diplomatic corps?” Alastair asked. “I imagine it must be exciting, what with the collapse of relations between the Earth and the Colonial Union.”

“We live in interesting times, yes,” Hart said.

“And your Ambassador Abumwe seems to be in the thick of things lately,” Alastair said. “Dashing between assignments all across known space.”

“They have been keeping her busy,” Hart said.

“And you’ve been busy as well?” Alastair asked.

“Mostly,” Hart said. “I’m doing a lot of work with Lieutenant Harry Wilson, who is a CDF technician who handles various tasks for us.”

“I know,” Alastair said. “I have a friend who works for the Department of State. Keeps me up-to-date on the diplomatic reports from the
Clarke
.”

“Is that so,” Hart said.

“Not a whole lot of future in electrocuting dogs, Hart,” Alastair said.

“
There
we go,” Hart said.

“Am I wrong?” Alastair asked.

“Do you actually read the reports you get, Dad?” Hart said. “If you read the report about the dog, then you know what happened was that we ended up saving the peace negotiations and helped secure an alliance for the Colonial Union with a race that had been leaning toward aligning with the Conclave.”

“Sure, after you carelessly allowed the dog to be eaten by a carnivorous plant, revealing the death site of a king whose disappearance started the race’s civil war, the discovery of which threatened a peace process that by all indications wasn’t threatened before,” Alastair said. “You don’t get credit for putting out fires you set yourself, Hart.”

“The official report reads differently than your interpretation, Dad,” Hart said.

“Of course it does,” Alastair said. “If I were your bosses, I would write it that way, too. But I’m not your boss, and I can read between the lines better than most.”

“Are you going somewhere with this, Dad?” Hart said.

“I think it’s time you came back to Phoenix,” Alastair said. “You gave the Colonial Union your best shot, and they’ve misused your talent. They stuck you with a diplomatic team that’s been catching lost-cause missions for years, and assigned you to a CDF grunt who uses you for menial tasks. You’re too accommodating to complain, and maybe you’re even having fun, but you’re not going anywhere, Hart. And maybe that’s fine early in your career, but you’re not early in your career anymore. You’ve dead-ended. It’s over.”

“Not that I agree with you,” Hart said, “but why do you care, Dad? You’ve always told us that we have to make our own path, and you told us that we would have to sink or swim on our own. You’re a veritable raft of tough-love metaphors on the subject. If you think I’m sinking, you should be willing to let me sink.”

“Because it’s not just about
you,
Hart,” Alastair said. He pointed at the speaker through which he had been yelling at Klaus. “I’m seventy-two years old, for Christ’s sake. Do you think I want to be spending my time keeping some poor bastard from enjoying his Harvest Day? No, what I want to do is tell the PHP to get along without me and spend more time with those grandkids of mine.”

Hart stared at his father blankly. At no point in the past had his father ever evinced more than the most cursory interest in his grandchildren.
Maybe that’s because they’re not interesting yet,
a part of Hart’s brain said, and he could see the point. His father had become more engaged with his own children the older they got. And he could have his softer side; Hart’s eyes flickered to the medal case on the wall, holding Brous’s Nova Acadia award.

“I can’t do that because I don’t have the right people following me,” Alastair continued. “Brandt’s gloating because the Unionists have their share of power, but the thing is the reason it happened is because the PHP hasn’t cultivated new talent, and now it’s biting us in the ass.”