Geosynchron (51 page)

"Because Len Borda might not be so merciful."

33

Politicians never die, went the old Islander aphorism. They just curdle.

Representative Triggendala had been serving the south side of
Manila for nearly as long as Len Borda had been heading the Defense
and Wellness Council. Unverified rumor said that the two of them had
actually been lovers in some bygone era, and the high executive's
spurning had sparked the unyielding hatred she had borne for him ever
since. Such was her hatred of the Council in all its forms that she had
refused to vote on the resolution authorizing Magan Kai Lee to establish a military base in the Islands, preferring to abstain.

But when Josiah Surina and Bali Chandler called for the forces of
the Free Republic to march alongside those of Magan Kai Lee,
Triggendala would not be satisfied with a vote of "present."

She took to the floor of the Islander parliament the next day with
General Cheronna at her side and began a lengthy excoriation of Josiah
and his manifesto. She proclaimed Lieutenant Executive Lee to be little
more than a puppet of Len Borda, and called his rebellion "bad theater." "This fight is between the Free Republic and the high executive," she proclaimed, adding that if the high executive wanted bloodshed, "he knows where to find us."

General Rosz watched the hearing on the Data Sea along with the
rest of Borda's senior commanders in the barracks north of Melbourne.
Triggendala's speech-and Josiah Surina's sour-faced reaction-made
for pretty good theater itself. Within two hours of mounting the rostrum, the xenophobic group known as the insulars had mounted a
rebellion of their own. Arguments broke out on the floor. General
Cheronna could be seen yelling his anger at a visibly livid Bali Chandler until the two almost came to blows. When Surina and Chandler's
resolution failed by a resounding 28-20 vote, the drudges focused their cameras on Margaret Surina's son, slumped in his chair looking
dour and defeated.

"How can the Islanders press for `Grand Reunification,"' said Commander Cheng across the table from Rosz, putting a tangible sneer on
the catchphrase, "when they can't even unify themselves?"

Rosz nodded. A forty-year veteran in Borda's military, he had a son
in his midtwenties; Josiah Surina reminded him a lot of his son. "I
almost feel sorry for Surina," he said. "Seemed to have such a promising
career ahead of him. Now he's just another backwater representative."

Cheng was younger, less hardened by time and career. "Shame." He
shrugged.

Rosz and the other commanders sat around the table deep into the
night discussing what this would mean to the impending battle with
Magan Kai Lee. Consensus was that this would draw the lieutenant
executive onto the battlefield sooner rather than later. The longer he
stayed in Manila amidst the poisonous atmosphere Triggendala had
stirred up, the greater the risk of him losing his military base, and
therefore his main advantage over Borda's forces. As for the loss of the
sizable unconnectible army led by General Cheronna-

"Not as big a loss for Lee as it seems," stated Rosz.

Cheng shook his head. "I disagree. The Islanders are good warriors.
They would have been a good asset."

"No doubt they're good warriors. A fierce people. But there's no
precedent for a joint connectible-unconnectible force. You'd have all
kinds of logistical issues to consider that would make it a nightmare.
How do you communicate with them through battle language? Will
all your weapons work with an unconnectible force?" The general
downed the remainder of his wine. "Give me the simplicity of an allCouncil army any day over a joint force twice the size."

"Suppose you've got a point," replied Cheng with a shrug of
indifference.

"You're still monitoring Cheronna?"

"Of course. They were camped just east of the warehouse district next
to Magan's army, but after the vote in parliament they moved off south."

"Think we should tell the old man?" asked Rosz, stroking a trim
beard of stark white.

Cheng gave an ironic glance over his shoulder, up in the sky
towards where he imagined DWCR to lie. "And interrupt the Battle
of Waterloo?" he scowled. The high executive's propensity for playing
his virtual games of ancient warfare was well known, among the higher
echelons at least.

General Rosz retreated to his quarters soon afterward. He had no
sooner taken off the golden smock of his office when he had a sudden
premonition: Magan's attack would come soon. Very soon. And it was
likely to come here, to Melbourne, to his base in fact. Rosz called for
his aide-de-camp and had her put the perimeter guard on high alert.

Which turned out to be a prescient move.

Rosz was awakened at three a.m. by a priority signal blasting
through his brain, along with a stimulating release of adrenaline.
Within a minute's time, he was up and dressed and striding through
the hallways to his command center. All around, he could see men and
women scrambling from their bunks to don uniforms and load
weapons. Crisp, orderly, efficient.

Rosz was pleased to note that he reached the command center a
good ten seconds before Commander Cheng. It was an austere room,
the command center, buried deep underneath the base proper; one
could almost describe it as a bunker, except bunkers usually didn't
have such luxurious armchairs. General Rosz had never been one for
excessive instrumentation. To him, war was an intellectual exercise
that required little more than viewscreens, encrypted communications,
and the occasional glass of port. The two men took their seats and
secured the door behind them.

"Get me eyes on the ground," barked Cheng to one of the tactical
systems experts two dozen meters up.

Seconds later, the wall of viewscreens across from them was filled
with a wide array of vantage points on the battlefield. Grunt's-eye
views of the grassy plains between Melbourne and Shepperton; aerial
surveillance from hoverbirds; terrain maps and schematics.

"They're coming up fast," muttered Rosz. "For process' preservation, does Lee really think a full-scale ground assault is going to work
against Melbourne?"

Rosz squinted at the bank of viewscreens. There was an enormous
white mass there of troops in the white robe and yellow star, not far
south of Shepperton. And they weren't marching-they were running.

Towards Melbourne, city of the centralized government.

Jorge Monck looks him in the eye from a distance of no more than a
meter. He says, "An interesting culmination of fast facts can be attributed to a certain malady of disproportionate usage." Natch can see his
lips forming the words; he can sense the corresponding vibrations
escaping from his larynx.

But what he hears is, If you're decrypting battle language correctly, raise
your right hand.

Natch does so. He opens his mouth to ask Monck how he activates
the voice encryption on his end-is there some sort of mental activation node? But what escapes his mouth is, "Do you find that birds
often contribute to population density, or is that a delusion of scale?"

Now tell Jara to raise her left hand, instructs Monck.

"Alphabetical sorting in a traditional medium!" says Natch.

He feels his communication channel with the fiefcorp master
opening up. "Vertical and horizontal, that's a definite obstacle."

Monck claps Natch on the shoulder and offers him a humorless
smile. We're good. Then he heads back to his seat.

Natch knows that he should be strategizing with Monck during their long hoverbird flight from Manila to the Kordez Thassel Complex, but his mind feels like it's caught in a funnel spiraling downward. The world around him seems to be dwindling, becoming more
difficult to focus on, less comprehensible by the second. The mission is
all there is. All there is is the mission. Monck and his four fellow
Council spooks either understand Natch's reticence or simply don't
care; they leave him to his solitude.

It's a longer flight than Natch anticipated. Monck and the others
sleep. Natch remains rigid and awake from takeoff to landing.

And before he realizes it, the hoverbird is making its final approach
to a crooked and many-legged building on the outskirts of the Twin
Cities. He sees bogs, sulking trees, and as they get close to the ground,
fireflies. Natch feels like he should have more questions for Monck
about what he should do, how he should react, what their contingencies are. But he can't seem to formulate the words.

The hoverbird comes to a stop. Ready? says Jorge Monck laconically.

The four Council officers reply in the affirmative, as does Natch.

Then they're off the hoverbird and walking down the pathway
from the hoverbird pad to the Kordez Thassel Complex.

Monck's four companions have already split off before they even
make it through the front door. Other nearby hoverbird pads have also
disgorged their passengers, and the Council officers have now camouflaged themselves in the crowd. It's a typical sparse late-night business
center crowd: mostly fiefcorpers on their way to meetings with superiors in a different time zone, but with a smattering of artists and
tourists and idlers as well. Natch and Jorge Monck are dressed in
tight-fitting, cream-colored robes over their battle suits, the stock
outfit of the memecorp sales representative. They approach the front
double doors, over which stretches a wide viewscreen filled with
dancing animated bottles of ChaiQuoke.

"Holistic approaches make the most sense," snaps Jara through the
secure communications channel. Freeze. Don't look up.

Not two seconds later, someone jostles Jorge Monck's elbow,
causing him to spill the container of promotional buttons Natch didn't
realize he was carrying. The plastic trinkets go clanking noisily on the
concrete. Natch and Monck kneel down and take their time picking
them up.

A song. Dangly electric guitars, a sinuous line of cello.

Go! Now. To your right. Around the woman in green.

Natch and Jorge scurry quickly around a rather large woman in a
forest green caftan and into the doors-but not before they catch a
glimpse of a muscular figure in a black robe, his attention momentarily
snagged by an advertisement for Yarn Trip's third reunion tour. Natch
recognizes one of the Thasselians from Old Chicago. And come to
think it, someone was always playing Yarn Trip at eardrum-crushing
levels in that hotel.

They are in the door, the first guard passed. Natch gazes around at
the impossibly long corridors and the slanted walls. He can already see
three more figures in black robes with red trim down the next hallway.

He thinks, This is going to be a long evening.