Precursor (29 page)

“Kaplan,” Bren said, “tomorrow morning, you’ll take me to see the Mospheiran delegation.”

“I have to get clearance, sir.”

“Do that, will you?”

“I’ll ask, sir.”

The doorway shut, sealing off Kaplan.

Bren turned to face his staff. “It went very well,” he said. “We have agreement.”

He made the staff happy. There were respectful bows from Narani’s staff, very quiet happiness from his security.

The first order of business was to detour into his own quarters, write a small message to Tabini, set up his computer, and apply himself to the wall unit communications… a direct test of what Ramirez and Ogun had said.

Not unexpectedly Banichi and Algini turned up very shortly after he’d pushed a button… knowing something, at least, was activated.

Cl, the man had said, and Bren pressed the requisite keys on the panel while his security took mental notes.

Static sputtered. “
Yes, sir
,” the answer came back. “This is
Phoenixcomm
.”

“This is Bren Cameron. Establish a link to Mogari-nai, Bren Cameron to Tabini-aiji, Capt. Ramirez’ clearance.”

“
Verification required
,” the answer came back, and Bren waited. And waited, hoping there was no deception, no glitch. He had, for a view, shadowing the light from the overhead fixture, Banichi, Algini, and now Jago. Tano presumably was at the security station. “They’re seeking authorization,” he said, and in the next instant another button lit on the panel,

“You’re cleared with the captain’s compliments, Mr. Cameron. Stand by.”

It was going through. He didn’t expect to talk to Tabini, only to relay his message, and did not intend, in his message, to relay the heart of what was going on. Dropping major news into the court except through personal courier had its sure hazards, in the less stable members of the Association, and they had held suspicions of the Messengers’ Guild, which ran Mogari-nai, where the big dish drew down messages from the heavens. The aiji could be extremely efficient, since the aiji had gathered power enough to pay the bills himself and keep detailed design authorizations out of the hands of the hasdrawad and the tash-rid. But damned right there was debate on the issue, that the aiji didn’t submit designs, but presented the bills after the fact… and he asked himself, pending time to think, just how what he dared transmit might hit the mainland if there were a leak.

Emergency reimbursements were Tabini’s primary budgetary tactic of the last several years, when the hasdrawad
had
tamely voted the funds to reimburse the household accounts to build two space shuttles—granted one had whispered in the ears of the lords of the Association that the Association was in a race for time and survival.

Thus far the economy had never lurched, not with the industrial shifts, not with the new materials… it had only grown at a frightening rate. And there had been far less debate about the reimbursements than might have been. The Association was seeing benefits from Tabini’s expenditures. In some cases there was a
rush
to approve the new expenses, because innovation was pouring back into the economy, and thus far the sumptuary laws held. Conspicuous consumption could only be of art, no other luxury goods.

And
art
, as the law provided, could not be mass-produced. Even with the introduction of fast food, meat, traditionally, philosophically, had to be seasonal. Populations could not intrude onto green space and transport could not involve highways. A hundred and more years of developing mechanisms to assure the smooth fit of technological advances arriving on the mainland had worked this far.

Equilibrium. Prosperity.

Tabini’s enlightenment, shining down from the heavens, where he at the moment stood, hand on switch.

He heard, in a reasonably brief time, the operators at Mo-gari-nai, bidding
Phoenix
go ahead.

And
Phoenix
relayed the message.

“This is Bren Cameron reporting to the aiji:
Aiji-ma, favorable. We have substantiative agreements. I’ll courier down many specifics when I return, likely on schedule
. End transmission. Mogari-nai?”

“Yes, nand’paidhi.”

“Message to the office of the paidhiin, Shejidan: Work is
going well; maintain full staff
. End transmission. Mogari-nai, Nadiin: you may be getting long files. Have you received any yet?”

“No, nandi.”

A disappointment. “Have I messages?”

“Under seal, nandi. Will you receive now?”

“Send and receive, both.”

A blast of sound followed, rapid, unpleasant, protracted; his computer squealed and squalled back. A second blast came from the speaker, and that was that. The computer storage light went on, went off.

Stored.

“Thank you, Mogari-nai,” Bren said, figuring that burst should trigger alarms in
Phoenixcomm
, that computers in any security installation would probably be very busy for a bit, that anyone with his ear pressed to a receiver was going to be damned unhappy, and that he would shortly hear a human voice.

“Mr. Cameron, this is Phoenixcomm. Was that intended?”

“Completely,” he said. He was truly vexed about the files. “Thank you. I’m expecting a lengthy download.”

“I’ve heard there’s supposed to be a long ’un, sir. I’m supposed to set up for it when the terminator’s past the island, to minimize traffic conflict.”

Encouraging. Very encouraging.

“You mean after dark.”

“Local 2400 hours, sir. It’ll have been dark a while there.”

“
Thank
you, Cl. That’s good to hear. Excellent. Can you put me through to the Mospheiran delegation on this station?”

“
Clearance required
,” the voice said, and the unit went quiet for a moment. Bren cast a look at his audience, lifted brows, unconcerned by what was fairly routine mail pick-up, these days, and keyed up the mail display. Excited, however. Delighted.

He had a report to write to Tabini, to send by the next call. Now they knew they could do it. And the archive was going. God, the archive was going down. One day up here and they’d collectively worked what three years hadn’t done. What they’d feared was lost was found.

There was only one message from Mospheira, from Toby. It said:
Delayed flight, weather at Bretano. Got your message and mom’s; she’s on painkillers. Very upset. I called her doctor; he’s on holiday at Bretano, sending records. Flying back tonight
.

So how bad is Mother, Toby?

Toby had written in haste, gotten it through the system… probably hadn’t triggered his mail until he’d gotten home, not expecting a problem: Toby had been on one long flight and somehow had gotten another, back again. It was Independence Day weekend, their mother’s doctor was out of town, but they were getting another doctor? Was their mother having difficulties, or was it more than a scrape she’d suffered on the curb?

What about Barb?
he wanted to know—What about Barb?— but there nothing on that score. Toby likely didn’t know the answer, forgot to mention it, or thought he wouldn’t want to know.

He couldn’t distract himself with family problems. At a certain point he had to pretend his family was like any other that didn’t have a son on the mainland, and Toby and their mother

had worked out something within their means. He had the aiji’s agenda. He couldn’t think about the island, couldn’t do what Toby could do, wasn’t responsible for it, dammit all to hell.

Calm, he said to himself.

He punched Cl again. “
Phoenixcomm
, give me the other delegation, Ms. Ginny Kroger or Mr. Tom Lund.”

“Mr. Cameron, this is Phoenixcomm. Standby.”

It was going through.

“
Hello?
” he heard, “
Ginny Kroger
.”

“Ginny,” he said cheerfully. “Are you up to a visitor?”

“
Cameron?”
Not cheerfully. “
Where are you?”

“At our apartment. I’d like to drop by tomorrow morning. Mind? I have something to discuss.”

“
Can you get here?”
Incredulously.

“I can get there, I’m pretty sure. See you at ten.” He punched that off.
Phoenixcomm?
”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll need an escort for the morning, ten o’clock, Ramirez’ orders. Can you send Kaplan?”

«
^
»

It was a very curious seal-door they reached under Kaplan’s guidance, a gray metal door that looked as if it belonged in a boiler room, very heavy, where the hall was beige and much like the rest of the station; it had an untidy seal around the edges of the frame.

“Temporary seal, sir,” Kaplan said when questioned. “Seals off the area, safety concern, sir.”

Safety concern, hell. Security concern, Bren thought as Kaplan opened it with a keypad.

“They have the Mospheirans safely contained,” he muttered to Banichi and Jago behind them, and smiled at Kaplan as the door opened.

He walked through into a cubbyhole of a hall section, with four open doors facing one another, before the hall ended in a more ordinary security door.

They’d kept the room assignments equivalent, at least, a little diplomatic evenhandedness, Bren said to himself. The numbers involved could set atevi teeth on edge; but the Mospheirans would be quite happy in them, two and two, he supposed, like the fabled ark.

Feldman came out to meet them with a mild gesture toward the farther right hand door. “Mr. Cameron. If you please.”

“Thank you,” Bren said.

“Shall I wait, sir?” Kaplan asked.

“If you would, Kaplan, please. —Would you mind giving this very obliging gentleman a cup of tea, Mr. Feldman?”

“We don’t have any tea, sir,” Feldman said.

“Then, Kaplan, would you walk back to our quarters and ask my chief of staff if he’d provide a generous packet of tea for the Mospheiran delegation?”

Kaplan began to obey that order, then looked taken aback. “He doesn’t understand me, sir.”

“Feldman, go with Kaplan. Translate. For that matter, take Shugart with you. Get some exercise.”

“I don’t know if we—” Feldman began, looked at Kaplan, looked at Lund, who’d just come out the door. “Mr. Lund, he wants me to take Shugart and get a packet of tea from their quarters.”

Bren folded hands behind his back, looked down, looked up, and gave Lund a direct look; translators from the Foreign Office were not need-to-know on the proposals he had to make.

Lund caught the notion that something was up, apparently. “Tea would be welcome,” Lund said. “Go, do that. Both. —Mr. Cameron. Come in.”

Bren walked back with Lund toward that rear room, while Feldman turned out Shugart and explained the mission; and in the remote recess of his hearing as he walked into the room with Kroger, Feldman and Shugart were explaining tea to Mr. Kaplan.

“Mr. Cameron.” Kroger was seated at the table. They had not moved tables for the conference. They still had a bed in this room, but had moved in an additional chair, or had moved one out. There were four floor braces, three with chairs, and Bren found himself moderately curious whether the four ate together and interacted in this room, or whether it was routinely two and two. He rather suspected the latter.

“We’re attempting to secure tea,” Bren said lightly as he slid into the third chair. “Good day, Ms. Kroger. Ginny.”

“You’re up to something, Mr. Cameron.”

Lund swiveled a chair and sat down, the three of them at indecently close range at the little table, if they should lean forward. Bren did exactly that, arms on the table, and watched Kroger lean back.

“I’ve just sent to Mospheira and to the mainland, and I think things are going very well. Talks went very well yesterday, frighteningly well, in fact; and I have a proposal for you.”

“The nature of
which
, Mr. Cameron, if you please.”

“The nature of which is very commercial. The Pilots’ Guild wants a functioning station. Commerce of an atevi pattern is very dubiously suited to a human ship’s needs; they hardly want artworks or tea services. It does strike me, instead, that if we’re to set up this station to function as it might, according to the historical capacity of large commercial stations—”

“We’re talking about a war, Mr. Cameron, their war with these damned aliens.”

“Eventually. Perhaps even sooner than we wish.”

“We don’t
wish
, Mr. Cameron. We don’t ever
wish!
”

“Nor do we. But the commercial potential of this station…”

“We’re talking about invasion and murder and a damnable atevi tendency to settle their disputes by assassinating the opposition!”

He blinked several times, considering that forceful declaration of Kroger’s position. He did not retreat, rather leaned where he was.

And smiled. “Very precisely. War. Stupid, mistaken war. We don’t
want
that sort of thing, either, I assure you. Atevi have absolutely no interest in dockside concessions, entertainment, or other things that one human community can very readily provide another… do you know Mr. Kaplan out there had not a clue what a tea service is?” Jase had come down to the planet relatively ignorant of varieties of food, having experienced very little in the way of fresh produce. “The potential market, fellow humans, the extension of island companies to the station—do you know there’s not a single teashop, no paid entertainment, no
pay
for anyone on the ship, and no clothes that aren’t simply drawn from ship’s stores?” He had had the picture from Jase, and reckoned that Yolanda had likely explained that matter on the island fairly thoroughly. “Think of these yellow hallways endlessly extended, no commercial zone, no such thing, not even a soft drink dispenser? We could well do with a SunDrink stand.”