EIGHTEEN

 

 

BEING PRÉSIDENTE DE l’Assemblée coloniale was usually a thankless job. Doctor Angéline Gaschel had led the tiny Venusian nation for ten years. She had four thousand souls to care for, a predatory Bank as an ally, and equipment that wore down far more quickly than in any other place in the solar system. Any chance of becoming self-sufficient depended entirely on risky investments with overwhelming price tags. She’d mapped out a vision for the next forty years of Venus, ending in a home they could joyfully give their grandchildren. But that depended on how well she could shepherd the nation through the next years.

The présidente, along with a number of other key government personnel, lived on the Baie-Comeau, a huge floating habitat owned jointly by la colonie and the Bank. Art by schoolchildren and plans for new habitats and industries decorated the clean lines of the hallways. Today, she was fully suited and sealed as she stepped onto the busy roof port, where small drone dirigibles constantly carried supplies to and from the Baie-Comeau. The human traffic was almost as busy. One of the port workers helped her into her wing-pack, careful not to knock the bottle of brandy she carried.

She checked that no one was beneath the plank, double-checked her engine status, then leapt into the space above the clouds. The gee-forces gripped her as she swooped up and attained level flight. The Venusian branch of the Bank of Pallas was four kilometers astern, in the center of the main flotilla. It was a smaller habitat, housing some thirty off-worlders who staffed the branch office, along with offices for an additional ten to fifteen local Venusian staff for periods of heavier work.

Along with the Bank of Ceres, the Lunar Bank, and the Bank of Enceladus, the Bank of Pallas was a major economic power in the solar system, around which political, legal and even police powers had accreted. Without the Bank of Pallas, La République du Québec would never have been able to afford to become a space-faring nation. Without the Bank of Pallas, Venus would never have been able to declare independence. Partnerships with Banks were complex. Venus needed the Bank of Pallas, and with its investment already made, the Bank of Pallas wanted Venus to succeed. Few people understood the nature of debt and the two-way obligations and incentive structures that they created. Much of Gaschel’s job was managing that relationship.

She landed on the roof and was buzzed down. Below the airlock in the stairwell, she shed her helmet and wings with one of the Bank security people. The stairwell led down to another pressure door and into a hallway with glass doors to the main lobby. The Bank employed a dozen Venusian citizens in good economic development jobs. From one of the offices, her niece waved to her and returned to her work. Cultivating the right relationships early was another key to stability. One day, perhaps one day soon, her niece would become a delegate in l’Assemblée, and maybe in her time would become présidente, ensuring stability of policies and a skilled hand in managing the relationship with the Bank. The next set of doors swung open on their own and Gaschel walked through to the offices of Leah Woodward.

Woodward was a black-haired woman with a confident smile and a PhD in Economics. She’d been one of the youngest supervisors in the Branch Office on the asteroid Hygeia. At thirty-four, she was among the youngest Branch Managers in the solar system, although Gaschel wondered how much profit or business Woodward could squeeze from Venus to propel her career forward.

“Madame la Présidente,” Woodward said, moving around her desk to shake Gaschel’s hand.

Although Woodward had been here eighteen months, and had implants that gave her an extensive linguistic range, hearing her speak French was not pretty. Gaschel answered in the accented English she’d learned in Montréal during medical school.

“Good afternoon, Miss Woodward. Thank you for the invitation,” she said, holding out the bottle. “I brought you an experimental variety of brandy. Our biochemists have been trying to see if blastulae can be turned into food or even soil. In one of their experiments, they made brandy by accident.”

Woodward took the bottle formally, smiling.

“We’ll have to try it over supper,” she said, and waved Gaschel through to her suites.

In the small dining room, a cook had just placed a steaming pot in the middle of the table. A window gave a distorted view, fish-eying the clouds through hydroponic gardens and the curved plastic-and-teflon skin of the branch office. At the base of the wall, though, water had pooled a meter deep; in the brown murk, small shrimp and crab scavenged.

Woodward uncorked the bottle and sniffed experimentally.

“What are you going to call it?” she asked in English.

Gaschel pulled her eyes away from the bright green of the leaves outside the window.

“I don’t even know if it’s worth calling it anything,” Gaschel said. “Some people seem to love it. Some call it vile.”

Woodward filled two shot glasses.

“You could say that about Venus,” she quipped.

“I’ve come to love it,” Gaschel said.

“Me, too.”

They toasted and sipped warily. Neither spoke. It was potent and bitter.

“You still love it?” Gaschel asked.

Woodward nodded. “It’s an interesting flavor,” she said, smacking her lips and smelling again. “On Hygeia, they produce a rough aguardiente a bit like this.”

Gaschel tried hers again, then set down the glass. “They may need to keep working on the recipe.”

“Still, for pure novelty, it might sell in some markets,” Woodward said. “Who has ever tasted Venusian food or drink? The delta-V isn’t prohibitive, especially if you have steady imports. Outbound traffic could carry something to sell.”

“Let’s look into it.”

“You may like this better,” Woodward said, lifting the lid on the pot. Garlic and seafood smells mixed in the room. “This is our first Venusian shrimp harvest, with our own vegetables and herbs.”

Gaschel’s mouth watered and she sat, accepting a bowl. She hadn’t smelled anything so good in months. Years. She hadn’t eaten shrimp in thirty years. The taste bloomed a tiny longing in her for the Montréal of her youth. They each silently, almost reverently, took a second helping, and there was no small talk. Only when they sat back over empty bowls, with water in their glasses, did the conversation resume.

“I listened to the session of l’Assemblée,” Woodward said.

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Gaschel guardedly.

“It’s a tough situation. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t expect Marthe D’Aquillon to roll over, but the policy rationale is sound. We’ll have the metal to reduce our imports so that we can cover our other credit.”

“The asteroid will pay for itself after a few years, and then generate income for Venus,” Woodward said. She played a slow finger along the edge of her glass. “But maybe you don’t need the asteroid that much?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Or perhaps not in partnership with the Bank of Pallas?” Woodward looked at her meaningfully.

“I don’t take your meaning, Miss Woodward.”

“I’m wondering if you might have been looking for credit and supplies from another source,” the branch manager said. “My directors wouldn’t be happy if they found out you were working with one of the other Banks.”

“What other Banks?” Gaschel said, her stomach going suddenly cold and heavy. “We’re not working with anyone else. Just the Bank of Pallas.”

“You don’t have a lot of fissionables,” Woodward said.

“I know.”

“We detected radiation coming from Venus.”

“If it’s new, it might have been spit out of a volcano recently. We can see about sending something down there to try to recover it.”

“A little bit of radioactivity in a magma flow wouldn’t penetrate the clouds. This was hard enough to set off the radiation detectors on the branch office. We didn’t have the detectors oriented to look downward. By the time we reoriented, the signal was gone. It had been moving.”

Gaschel’s mind spun. “On the surface?”

“In the clouds.”

“What?” Gaschel demanded. Both her hands gripped the table of their own volition.

Woodward hadn’t noticed. She rose, hot eyes on Gaschel. “Let me tell you what my directors will think,” she said, walking around the table in a wide, predatory circle. “Either the Government of Venus is playing dumb with us while playing footsie with one of the other Banks, or one of your coureurs is working behind both our backs.”

Gaschel had to turn her chair to keep facing the branch manager. A coureur des vents going to one of the Banks without her knowing? How? What would they trade to the Bank? Political power? Regime change? Resources on the surface that needed huge engineering investments to reach? Venus had little of value. That was their problem. The maybes and perhapses could spin for days. She didn’t deal in maybes.

“Neither narrative makes you look good,” Woodward said.

“You think a coureur des vents bought radioactives from your competitors?” Gaschel said, trying to keep the heat from her voice.

“Or you did.”

“The Bank of Pallas is my only partner!” Gaschel stood angrily.

They faced each other across the office. Woodward wasn’t tall, but she wasn’t relying on height for menace.

“If it turns out I believe you, my directors will be gratified to hear that we can continue to count on this friendship. But the questions remain: why would your people be acquiring radioactives, and are you able to handle it?”

“If it turns out I believe you,” Gaschel retorted, “I can only guess that they’re starting their own industries.”

“Or you’re naive and they’re making some messy weapons.”

Gaschel’s hands went cold.

“If that’s the case, is the Government of Venus interested in buying weapons or police supplies?” Woodward asked neutrally.

“That won’t be necessary,” Gaschel said. “Send me copies of your observations right away.”

Woodward moved to a side table and picked up a small pad. She handed it to Gaschel. “Uncertainty makes business environments expensive,” she said. “For both our sakes, I expect this uncertainty to be clarified very shortly.”