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The Stalinesque clang of sliding doors echoed down the halls of Moscow’s infamous Lefortovo Prison, causing a sweat to break out again on the face of Winthrop Jenkins, for a few months the absolute ruler of Russia. He’d been in custody for almost forty-eight hours, and in that time no one had come to speak with him. He’d been fed twice, a metal tray shoved through the slot in the bottom of his door, and occasionally he saw the flicker of movement that told him an eye pressed to the spy-hole.
He knew how long it had been because no one bothered stealing his expensive watch. That in itself frightened him deeply, because when the usually corrupt Russian bureaucracy turned righteous, it meant death waited in the wings, and he should expect no better than a bullet in the back of the head, the traditional mercy for the purged. It meant he could not buy his way out. Someone would undoubtedly take the bauble from his corpse, but for now, its smooth functioning gave him cold comfort, merely ticking off the seconds to his inevitable end.
A quick check of that watch told him it was three in the morning as the tramp of goose-stepping feet proceeded down the corridor toward his door. This is it, he thought. Composing himself, he put on the resolute face he had always shown to the world, determined he would go out with dignity.
That resolve cracked slightly as he saw Sharion Prandra already handcuffed and waiting in the passageway, two muscular female wardens at her elbows. She nodded to him, but kept silent as the prison guards snapped shackles on his wrists and ankles, and marched them both to a surprisingly benign-looking interrogation room.
That such was its function was obvious by the plate of one-way glass on one wall. Even so, he saw no bloodstains or instruments of torture, and there was none of that faint smell of corruption that signified an abattoir no matter how deeply it was cleaned. The guards marched the two prisoners to separate chairs on the same side of the table, and then left them there alone for a moment.
“Winthrop,” Prandra hissed.
“Shut up,” the other responded. “They are watching. Just wait and see what they want.”
A moment later an unfamiliar man entered, smoking a foreign cigarette, a mark of prosperity in this dysfunctional nation. He set down an ashtray he carried and then sat down across from them. With narrowed eyes he sucked in a lungful of smoke, then blew it out into the space between them, causing them both to blink.
“So,” the man began in fluent English. “What is the State to do with you? I am not sure we even have names for some of your crimes.”
“And you are?” Winthrop asked.
“Trosikian. FSB.”
“Might as well call it by its right name: KGB,” Winthrop retorted.
Trosikian reached across to casually press the burning ember of his cigarette against the back of Winthrop’s manacled hand. The motion was so smooth that it took him a moment to really notice he was being burned, and then he yelped and jerked back. “Bastard!”
“You really do not understand your position, Mister Jenkins. I am here because I am the highest ranking member of my agency not addicted to this.” He fished in his pocket and took out a very familiar item: a nanocrack injector. “Oh, look. I just happen to have another.” He placed one more alongside it, so that they stood like two salt shakers in the center of the heavy steel table between them.
“What’s your game?” Winthrop blustered.
“No game. I just wanted to experience this moment for my own satisfaction. Do you know I watched from surveillance devices as you briefed the Cabinet with a bowl of these prominently displayed in front of them? As you ground the proud leaders of the Russian State under your filthy American feet?” Trosikian raised a hand, and four guards trooped in.
Two held heavy leather uniform belts, and two others carried Makarov automatics in their gloved hands. Without warning, the belt-wielders looped the leather around the prisoners’ necks from behind and drew them tight, leaving them just enough slack to breathe. Each of the other two placed the muzzle of his pistol against the base of each captive’s neck.
“As I am a fair and reasonable man, I will give you much the same choice you gave our leaders. Take an injector and use it...or take a bullet. You have ten seconds to decide.”
Before two had passed, Prandra reached for the metal cylinder in front of her and pressed it convulsively to her neck. A moment later it dropped from her nerveless fingers to clatter onto the floor, and she relaxed in her seat, head lolling, only kept upright by the pressure of the belt around her neck.
Winthrop thought about it for five or six seconds before fixing his eyes on the secret policeman and deliberately picking up the injector. Instead of aiming it at his neck, he sneered and poked its tip directly into the cigarette burn on his hand, then placed it upright back on the table before he could feel the effects. Closing his eyes, he smiled faintly, looking for all the world as if he had won instead of lost.
Trosikian ground out his cigarette and frowned, then jerked his head peremptorily. “Take them back to their cells. The new Cabinet will decide what to do with them.” Somehow he felt as if the American had cheated him of his satisfaction, but then he brightened as another thought crossed his mind.
Perhaps there was some consolation to be had. The other one, the South Asian woman, was not bad looking, and for the next hour or so was unlikely to complain if he paid her a friendly visit in her cell.
A very, very friendly visit.
* * *
For the first time in the collective political memory, the Russian delegation to the Neutral States Assembly seemed cowed and cooperative. Obviously this had everything to do with the events of the past two days. They all knew that what had really happened was ten times worse than what got into the media or past the firewalls and censors, and it had been made plain to them – by the Free Communities delegation if not explicitly by the Neutral States – that all of their wiggle room was gone.
In short, the word was: cooperate or be crushed. Or more politely: clean up your own mess, or we’ll clean it up for you.
Even the normally slow-moving Europeans had agreed to the meeting and general strategy, led by a rare British-French accord. No longer would Russia be allowed to lumber along like some bullish Frankenstein’s Monster, helping and harming the world defense effort in equal measure. The only choice they had now was who would oversee the transition: the Neutral States or the Free Communities.
A triangular table big enough to seat five on a side had been assembled from the fine Swedish furniture of the Assembly Council’s halls and facilities in Geneva. However, despite the attempt to create a meeting of equals, it felt like what it really was: two powerful blocs facing one weak one.
Or perhaps it resembled a job interview with two employers who held all the cards.
Plus one. A Chinese observer. That nation had found out about the negotiations and requested a representative to be present. While not strictly required, the two other alliances had thought it wise to grant the request.
Minister-Representative Horton of the British delegation cleared his throat in that pompous fashion only an Englishman ever really manages. He glanced left and right at his French, German, Polish and Bulgarian counterparts, and then across at the Free Communities delegation. “I suppose we can begin, now.”
“I concur.” Special Envoy Travis Tyler led the Free Communities’ team, a not-so-subtle reminder that the United States was rapidly regaining a place of eminence, if not preeminence, in world affairs. His co-consuls represented South Africa, Australia, Argentina and Brazil, arguably the four most influential members of that power bloc.
“I would like –” the Russian lead began tentatively.
“Shut the hell up,” Tyler cut him off. The others in the room stared at him in shock as he plowed on in a voice of steel. “With all due respect to our hosts, the Free Communities are not here to listen to the usual blather. Every day, every hour, every minute is precious. I am here to deliver a message to Russia, and our esteemed allies in the Neutral States, in the name of and with the full support of the FC Council.”
“And that is?” Horton asked, his stiff upper lip frozen beneath his voluminous mustache.
“Simply this: by midnight, Russia will announce that it has joined either the FC, or the Neutral States. If not, the FC will consider that nation a rogue and will do everything in its power short of nuclear war to dismantle it. And that decision will not be rescinded by future capitulation, short of an unconditional surrender of sovereignty. One chance, and one only.”
“China concurs, in this case,” a voice from the rear spoke up. All eyes turned to the urbane young man with the perfect suit and haircut who sat idly looking at his nails. He flicked his eyes upward for a moment, then looked back down as if he did not care much, despite the bombshell of his simple declaration.
“Now see here,” Horton blustered, turning to crane his head at the Chinese. “Is this some kind of, of coordinated effort to seize Russia for yourselves?”
“Quite the opposite, Mister Minister-Representative. Moscow can choose for itself. I am merely insisting they do so, in a timely fashion.” Tyler stood up, as did the rest of the FC team and the dozen functionaries and aides behind them. “Now we will bid you good day.”
“Now see here,” Horton said again, “now see here!” That seemed to be the extent of his commentary as he and the rest watched the Free Communities representatives file out, leaving the Neutral States group and the unnamed Chinese man alone with the Russians.
The Russian representative, an older woman only identifiable as such by her ample breasts sagging inside her generously cut pantsuit, turned her bulldog-jowled face to the others on her side and spoke with them in Russian for several minutes while the others waited. Eventually she turned back to Horton.
“Subject to ratification by the Central Cabinet, I would like to make a tentative application for Russia to join the Neutral States Assembly.”
A smile broke out on Horton’s face, mirrored on the visages of those around him. Even the Chinese man’s mien seemed to lighten slightly, as if pleased. “I say, then, fine show, jolly good,” the Brit burbled. He stood to walk around and shake hands with the Russian team. “Then we can leave it to our respective staffs to draw up the details for signature. Bloody good!” He turned around toward the Europeans. “Does anyone have any champagne handy?”
The French delegate turned to her staff and made the arrangements.
* * *
Behind the secured and bug-swept doors of the nearby Free Communities Delegation enclave, Tyler poured Jack Daniels for his team and staff with his own hand. Even the teetotalers picked up tumblers and saluted politely, touching rims to lips. Others drank deeply as he polished off his three fingers and lifted his empty glass. “Now that’s how a Texan negotiates,” he laughed.
“It certainly seemed effective,” the Brazilian delegate, a strikingly handsome woman, responded with a purr.
“Effective at what?” one of the bolder staff spoke up, a genuinely young black man with a South African flag pin. “There’s no way they’ll join the Free Communities now,” he stated sourly.
The Brazilian woman stepped over to him with sinuous grace and tapped his face gently with her open palm. “Exatamente, meu lindo amigo. But they will run screaming into the arms of the Neutral States, and thus will become their problem, as it naturally should be.”
Had the young man’s skin color been able to show a blush, he would have. As it was, the sweat that broke out on his forehead and the way he dropped his eyes said it all.
“Marta, leave the poor fellow alone,” Tyler said gently.
The statuesque woman shrugged and turned back to Tyler. “Then pour me another drink, Senhor Travis, and I shall find someone else to bother. Let us celebrate victory!”
The score of people in the room laughed, and others began talking among themselves. Tyler leaned closer to Marta. “If you want to go robbing cradles, at least don’t do it in public, my dear.”
“Actually I’d rather you robbed my cradle, Travis,” she breathed.
“Oh, you already know the answer to that. I’m a happily married man. Now, go give that boy the night of his life – discreetly, that’s all I ask.”
Marta pouted. “All right. You are just a fish on my line, Senhor Travis. I have many years to reel you in.” She ran her tongue across too-red lips and turned with a flounce back toward her latest target.
* * *
Scott Stone found himself ushered into the august presence of General Spooky Nguyen himself. General, he sneered to himself. A highly effective assassin and commando, he’d heard, but still, just a jumped-up little man in a big uniform.
The Professor had no doubt he would be able to sell his services to this dwarf and eventually regain a position of power and influence, biding his time, having his fun. He’d backed the wrong horse before, but it had got him these lovely cybernetics and now, with his deceptively powerful mind and obviously powerful body, all he had to do was play it cool and the world would be his oyster.
“So you are the one they call Professor,” Nguyen said, remaining across the large, featureless, faintly humming steel room where they met. Obviously he was afraid, and he should be, though in reality Stone had no intention of doing him any harm yet. Not while he was still manacled and suspect. Not until he had proven himself loyal and useful, and knew the lay of the land.
“Yes sir, and you are the one they call Spooky, though I wouldn’t presume.” There, a nice combination of cockiness and sucking up, calculated to demonstrate he was smart but not cowed.
“Perhaps someday you can earn that privilege,” Nguyen replied. “So I understand you claim to have the full records of the Septagon Shadow program. You will understand my skepticism, as no data was found on you.” His tone seemed to imply he knew something, but wanted Stone to explain it.
“Of course. The data is within me.” He tapped his head with his shackled hands; another misdirection, as he’d made sure no one came closer to his brain than his optic nerve with any cybernetics. Actually, his storage module was well protected, inside his torso, accessible using a port hidden under the skin of his wrist.
“As I suspected. What keeps us from merely cutting it out of you?”
Stone shrugged his massive shoulders. “I can wipe the whole drive with a thought, and it’s also programmed to zero out if my organic functions cease – if I die. It’s also not heavily shielded, so any high-voltage shock or EMP burst will also scramble it. Bottom line, it only gets out if I say it does. No offense.”
“None taken. So what kind of arrangement were you thinking of?”
“I hear you have no problem with Psychos.”
“We like to call them ‘Outliers’ here, but yes, you are correct. They have their uses.”
Stone lifted his eyebrows. “We have our uses, don’t you mean?”
Nguyen tilted his head, acceding.
“I’ll parcel out the data over time. Half now, as a good faith gesture on my part. In return, you free me and put me to work. No deadman charge, no chips in my head. That’s your good faith gesture. I’ll start at the bottom and follow your orders like any other of your operatives. Eventually I’ll run out of worthwhile information, but by then I hope I’ll have proven my value.” Stone shuffled his manacled ankles with their chain run through a heavy ring in the floor, his feet embarrassingly bare. He might be able to break it, but no doubt Nguyen had reaction forces standing by with guns big enough to take him down.
Nguyen nodded. “I agree to all that, in principle, subject to your behavior. You will be closely monitored.”
“Of course.” Stone put on his most winning smile, the one that had made him a lot of money and gotten him a lot of ass as a professional entertainment wrestler back in the day. Who knows? He has a hot girl, I heard, but maybe this Nguyen swings both ways. He’d done more for less, and the little twerp wasn’t half bad looking, for a gook.
Nguyen smiled faintly, as if he could read Stone’s thoughts. “So tell me about your time in Russia,” he prompted.
“You mind at least giving me a chair, and a drink of something?” Always negotiate, Stone thought, and try to gain some kind of leverage, even just a little.
“Of course. Someone bring Mr. Stone a chair and some beer.”
A moment later two separate black-clad, armored but unarmed commandos entered from the door nearest him with a steel chair and six-pack of Australia’s best-known lager. Stone sat down and then opened the first can of brew with evident relish, sucking down half of it before he began. “All right. First, I escaped from Federal custody and made my way to Maryland...”
For the next hour or more he recounted everything he had done with straightforward honesty. There was no point in trying to deceive these people, and some of it they were bound to already know, which meant they would compare notes and any discrepancies would weigh against him. Finally, he ended with, “I entered the Australian Embassy in Moscow four days ago, and the rest you know.”
The whole time Nguyen had stayed standing, pacing absently well out of reach and smoking the cigarillos he favored, eyes cast down and listening. Once the narration had finished he nodded, as if satisfied. Turning to look directly at Stone, he said, “All right, Professor. I appreciate your candor, and I have a counter-offer, a one-time good deal, as you Americans say.”
“I’m listening,” Stone said suspiciously.
Holding up one finger, Nguyen began, “First, we wire you with a triple-redundant deadman charge.”
“What –”
“Second,” the general held up a second finger and raised his voice to override the other man, “you will do whatever I say, whenever I say it, instantly and without question. That’s the sum total of the deal.”
Stone coughed, as if amused. “Ah...I can see that you think you have more over some kind of a barrel, but before I agree to that, do you mind convincing me why I should?”
“Because we already have all the data.”
Stone smoothed his face. No point in getting angry. This must be a bullshit bluff. “As I said, convince me. I don’t think the Americans got it all, and even if they did, they aren’t going to just turn it over to you right away. Okay, maybe you’ll get some of it eventually, but if you want it now, when it’s most useful, I’ll have to give it to you.”
“Oh, but Professor, you already have.” Nguyen smiled a sickening evil smile, an expression that told Stone that the little man really believed what he was saying. “You’ve been sitting within a specially constructed induction field that has copied every bit of code out of all the chips in your body.”
“That’s impossible. A field like that would be slow, and cracking my encryption, even with a supercomputer, would take months if not more.”
Nguyen responded, “Remember Richard Johnstone, the man you sold to the Septagon Shadow program when you were the Little Hitler of Fredericksburg?”
“Vaguely...”
“What you didn’t realize is that he is one of our leading cyber-warfare experts. Do you know what they had him doing as a tech slave when he was there?” Nguyen’s face broke open into a broad, gloating smile. “They had him writing code for the cyborg systems, like the ones in your body. So we didn’t need to break your encryption. We just used the backdoors he planted to access the programming that runs your enhancements. Like this.”
Horrified, Stone watched as his right hand deserted his service like the appendage of some modern Doctor Strangelove, reaching across to his immobilized left. In fact, he found himself unable to move at all, even though he could feel his merely human muscles straining.
Closing on his left pinky finger, his right hand bent it backward until it popped from its reinforced metallic socket and it lay against the back of his hand at a completely unnatural angle. Anguish hit him a moment later as his pain-suppression systems failed to kick in. “Stop it,” he ground out. “I’ll do what you want.”
“Oh yes you will; but Mister Stone,” Nguyen said, drifting slowly closer, “I’m a Psycho, remember? I enjoy things like this, as do we all.”
“Okay, you win, just stop it! I agree to your terms, just don’t do this anymore.” Stone began to shudder in his chair, his limbs now slack and his head locked rigidly into place.
“Mister Stone, I believe I will continue. Oh, not the indulgent part, the torture, though I do like a good long satisfying scream of agony now and again. No, I mean the part where I kill you like the snake that you are. I didn’t make it to the top by allowing backstabbers into my service. What in the world made you think I would make an exception with you?”
“You...said...” Stone gasped.
“I lied.”
An inarticulate guttural noise began then, a sound hardly human though made by Stone’s throat as electrical current began coursing through his body from the metal ring in the floor, through his metal manacles into his body and thence to enter his systems and finally his laminated bones, cooking his flesh until there was no question in anyone’s mind that all life had fled.
Turning his back on the mess, Spooky Nguyen called to those listening, “Take the body to the lab, and make certain that there are no miracles. I don’t want his chips reused either. Burn them, and cremate his flesh. And pass the word for Brigadier Alkina to find me as soon as it is convenient.”
He rolled his shoulders. Such things always did make him tense, and in need of release.
* * *
Rear Admiral Henrich J. Absen looked at the blizzard of virtual paper scattered across his new desktop. The refit of Orion as an orbital space station had brought with it billions in budget dollars, but some restrictions. Old-fashioned hardcopy was one thing in short supply, at least until some kind of orbital factory could produce a recyclable product.
Instead, he had a so-called smart screen covering the upper surface of his workspace, running the aptly named Windows 13, which never quite worked right. When the thing chimed at him, he had to sort out what the tone meant and then find the right gadget, in this case a headset, from the pile off to the side.
“Absen,” he said as soon as he had it on.
“Sir, hold on for General Nguyen.” The line went silent for a moment.
General, huh? And by the fact that protocol dictated the senior officer got on the line last – that is, the junior had to wait – he figured it wasn’t just a title of courtesy. Somehow the sneaky little shit had jumped two ranks – or was it one? Absen couldn’t precisely recall the Commonwealth structure; did they have three flag grades, or four?
No matter; rank was just a tool, something he dealt with while he got on with the job, and he was certain Spooky felt the same.
“Good afternoon, Henrich. Tran Nguyen here,” Absen heard. Interesting, that he jumped straight to personal names. He either wanted something, or wanted to smooth over any issues they had...or both.
“Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?” Retreating into formality was always a safe bet among military personnel.
“Please, call me Tran, or even Spooky if it suits you.” Nguyen’s accent seemed to have adjusted itself slightly – a little less plummy, a bit more Aussie, if Absen was any judge – which he was, having done his fair share of multinational staff time.
“Tran, then. How can I help you?”
“Is this line secure?”
Absen glanced at the window on his desktop that tracked the call. “As secure as we can make it. I have level three encryption showing.” That meant 1024-bit scrambling. At current supercomputer speeds, it would take centuries to crack. Figuring in Moore’s Law, decades, at least for human technology. He had to hope any Meme listening were not too much better at it. Factoring in the light speed delay...well, he had to take it on faith that they weren’t all screwed anyway.
“Good enough. So, how is the space effort coming along?”
“Twenty-eight hours of work in every day, eight days a week. Is that just a pleasantry question or are you asking for some kind of report?”
“Call it the former, and a setup. Do you have video capability?”
“I believe so. Sucks up a lot of bandwidth, though.”
“Orion is just coming over the Australian horizon and will be above us for a bit more than twenty minutes, so if you can confirm the link?”
Absen saw an icon flashing and tapped it to open, then allowed the synch. A moment later Nguyen’s face appeared in the little box, and he dragged it up to his vertical display and engaged full screen mode. For once the system did what he wanted it to.
“Much better.” The display widened to show the general, dressed in his uniform, seated next to a slim, dapper man with clear Aboriginal blood dressed in the power suit of a senior civilian. “Henrich, please meet James Ekara, Australia’s Senior Under-Minister for Production.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Absen said, putting on his best dealing-with-important-civilians air.
Nguyen went on, “I presume you understand the current Australian political system?”
Absen hazarded an educated guess. “If you mean that the top ministers are figureheads and people like you two actually run things, I’ve heard. Nothing much more specific.” Actually he knew quite a bit more, but there was no need to let that on.
Nguyen pressed his lips together as if in slight displeasure. “Close enough for government work, as the saying goes. Because we are secure, and just we three are sitting in – I presume you are alone at your end?” When Absen nodded, he went on, “I will dispense with the political bullshit. I am the most powerful man in Australia. That makes me one of a handful of the most powerful people in the world. Australia is the center of the world’s military space program. While every large nation has at least one hybrid fusion-powered shuttle now, we have a dozen and are pouring resources into the effort.”
“So you're the spigot on my supplies, is that what you’re saying?” Absen replied with a grimace. “I thought you were going to dispense with the politics.”
Nguyen lifted a hand. “Hear me out, and try to put aside your notions of me as a special operator. Yes, we are the spigot, and we intend that spigot to be opened wide and expanded as fast as possible. Far from threatening your programs, I now have the power to arrange for you to get everything Earth can give. You expected billions? I’ll be handling trillions. Or rather, James will.”
Absen sat back, flabbergasted but trying to hide it. “That’s great news, but truthfully, we’re at capacity already. The bottleneck is not money, or even materiel. It’s lift, specifically fusion engines. Finished goods, people, supplies, everything that I can’t get off the comet or the asteroid has to be brought up from the gravity well.” He meant the first two of the small bodies that had recently been parked in Earth orbit, as sources of raw materials.
“I understand.” Nguyen nodded at James Ekara, who smoothly took up the discussion.
“Admiral, we have a short-term solution for you. You remember Artemis?”
“Of course. Orion’s sister ship. I hear it’s sitting on the ground, waiting on fusion engines too. Probably take at least a hundred to lift it.”
“More, actually, but it was designed to lift just as Orion did, with our more primitive nuclear bomb propulsion. While we changed the production lines for the future craft, it made sense to complete Artemis and launch her in exactly the same way. We were also able to remove most of her armor and weapons, as we have no intention of employing her as a warship. This leaves over six million tons of lift capacity within her hull.”
Absen’s professional mind whirled. “Six million tons? That’s...” he did a rough mental calculation. “That’s almost a year’s worth of material at current rates of lift.”
Ekara waved a hand negligently in the air, a catlike smile on his face. “More or less. But we need two things from you. First, we need Orion’s remaining drive bombs, or as many as you can let us have. They can be sent down on the shuttles that usually come back empty. We need about eight hundred to get her into orbit.”
“Agreed, in principle,” Absen immediately responded. “I think we can spare most of them.” All except a couple of hundred, as insurance, he thought. “And the other thing?”
Ekara folded his hands in mock modesty. “I need you to get out of the way, Admiral.”
Nguyen put a hand on Ekara’s arm and leaned forward, interrupting Absen’s retort. “What James means is that, with all due respect to your command abilities, he needs to be able to work with your J4 or whatever you call him, and that person needs to be not just a logistics officer but a true senior manager. This man,” he patted the Under Minister’s arm, “is gifted, and he will get you what you must have, but we need you to find someone also gifted in this department to run the space side of things. As you say, this will more than double your resources overnight. Do you really think you have the capacity and time to manage all that properly? Do you want to be a CEO, or shall you retain your proper role as a flag commander?”
“All right. Point taken. I suppose you have a suggestion?” Absen failed to keep the skepticism off his face. They held out the big carrot, now comes the stick – or rather, the shaft. One of their cronies, no doubt.
“Actually, yes, I do. Her name is Adelia Jenkins.”
Absen’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Jenkins? That name is mud right now.”
“Only Nixon could go to China. Who better than a dyed-in-the-wool American capitalist who is already so rich she can’t be bribed, so experienced that running the spaceborne portion of the world’s economy will be a simple task, and so incorruptible that she stayed clean throughout the Unionist era even as part of that sick family?”
“If it’s so easy for her, why would she do it?”
“Easy at the moment, until it increases. When those trend lines cross, we will need someone highly capable and, dare I say, highly motivated, to manage it. James has informed me that the only way we can defeat what’s coming is to expand our abilities in space by several orders of magnitude – a hundredfold, a thousandfold. Do you see what that means?”
Absen replied, “I’m beginning to. Okay, industry is not my forte, so I do what every good commander does: delegate. I can delegate to her, assuming I have the statutory authority to do so. Frankly, though, I’m just operating by the seat of my pants. By virtue of gratitude and the raw power I have here with this nuclear arsenal hanging above everyone’s heads, I have been getting what I want and feel I need, but no one has addressed what my position actually is. I’m an American officer with a multinational ship and crew and, God bless them, everyone seems to just be taking my orders and doing the best they can, but at some point someone has to make a treaty or an SOP or something or eventually there will be a disagreement that I can’t settle.”
Nguyen said, “I’m working on getting you that political cover. I suggest you start thinking about what an independent space service would look like, that is beholden to no specific nation, nor even to one of the two large alliances. Get back to me when you have some ideas.”
“Independent?” Absen thought for a moment, deciding to shelve that discussion. “All right. But what about Jenkins?”
“The request for your own chief of production needs to come from you,” Nguyen replied. “I’ll do my best to arrange for our choice, but even if it turns out to be someone else, the principle is the same.”
“Use the right tools for the right job,” Absen replied as if it were a mantra, which it was. “All right. I’ll put in the request.”
“No, Admiral,” Nguyen snapped, a bit harshly. “You need to stop thinking like a Navy captain in charge of a ship. You need to start imagining yourself an old-time admiral in the days of sail, like a god to your fleet, whose word is law, and who is fully empowered to make policy, including diplomatic arrangements, and dictate to kings. You need to start thinking like a sovereign.”
“That’s...” he was going to say “ridiculous,” but he chose a less inflammatory word. “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
“It will grow on you, Henrich. Perhaps a better metaphor would be that of your George Washington, who led a war for independence, became a new nation’s first elected leader, and then turned down a throne to establish a more modern form of government. I’m sure the British thought him and his lot traitors, but history is written by the winners.”
“What’s that supposed to mean – that I revolt, set up my own little kingdom and dictate terms to my own civilian leaders and those of other nations?”
“No...or at least, not yet, unless absolutely necessary. Merely that you recognize that while nominally subordinate, in reality you can use some of that hard-earned gratitude and political capital to get what you know you need. In other words...negotiate. Play hardball. That’s what politicians understand. Play their game, and win.” Nguyen held up his hand to forestall further discussion. “I see we’re losing our line of sight. Please just think about it.”
“I will do that,” Absen responded. What else could he say? After all, he wasn’t about to piss off the man who would soon send him a dream list of what he needed to get his job done. “Absen out.”
“Until later, Admiral,” Nguyen said as the connection fuzzed, and then terminated.
As was his policy, Absen slept on his ruminations, but in the morning he told his aide to request a videoconference with the President of the United States, and then one later in the day for Chairman Markis.
It would do for a start: to see just how much political capital he really had.
