Fourteen

Tarbos, the Main Conference Center

“Son, I’m going to take a walk around the building during the break,” Mike announced.  “I imagine I’ll have one or two of those guards for company, but I need some air.”

“OK, Dad.  Maria and I are going to duck back to that snack bar they set up, get a drink.”

“All right.”  Mike adjusted the hang of his jacket and walked ostentatiously out of the building and, as he’d expected, an OWME Security troop tagged along.  Mike wasn’t surprised to see Sergeant Gerry Stiles’ face behind the polymer helmet face-shield. 

He paused for a moment just outside the Conference Center’s main doors to drink in the cool, humid evening air. 

“Sounds like everything’s moving along in there pretty well, Mike,” the Sergeant observed, stepping ahead of Mike to make a show of scanning the surroundings.

“Yeah, I suppose.  Did you get a chance to scout around the area?”

“You bet I did.”  Stiles took a step back.  “There’s only four buildings within a kilometer that are ever empty at any time of day or night, and one of those is a bank – it’s got computer-run security cameras and stun panels on all the doors and windows.  There are two big warehouses that are empty at night, one just north of here about a block, and another about half a klick to the east.  Last one’s a power station, it’s got one night operator for about a square kilometer of station – that’s as good as empty.”

“I don’t see how they could be pulling off something like this without someone on the inside,” Mike said.  “And they’ve got to be meeting somewhere around here, don’t you think?”  Stiles nodded agreement.  Mike stood a moment, rubbing his chin with one hand.

“Let’s think about this for a minute.  They already tried to bomb the Convention, and it almost worked, didn’t it?  They killed two delegates.  Now, the Convention is starting up again, and Bob Pritchard’s tech people have cooked up explosives sniffers to cover every way in and out.  Now, these people, if they’ve got someone on the inside, they’ll know that.  So, they’ll try something else.”  Mike looked up at the Conference Center building.  “Could a rifle bullet get through those windows?”

“Not likely, Mike.  That polymer will deflect an artillery shell.”

Mike examined the area with the trained eye of a hunter.  “You know, though, if I had a good rifle, and I wanted to nail someone walking out these main doors, I think I’d set up right over there, just up that alley – see those trash bins?  You’ve got a clear shot right at the doors, and the alley hooks off to the left.  Good place to get away if things go wrong.”

“You’ve thought about this some,” Stiles observed.

“You don’t hunt rocs twenty years without learning how to set up a stalk and a shot, and also how to get away in a hurry if you miss,” Mike said.  “I’d be roc-food by now if I didn’t have an instinct for this sort of thing.”

“Well, I can put a sensor in that alley, sure enough, and that’ll tell us if anyone slips in there.”

“Let’s do that but keep it quiet.  Nobody but you and me should know about it.  If someone goes in there and hides, just come and tell me.  OK?”

Stiles nodded.  “If you say so.”

Inside the Convention Center

“Where’d your Dad go?”

“Outside, I guess,” Mike Junior answered.  He smiled broadly at Maria Gomez.  “He can’t stand being indoors too long.  Back home on Forest, the biggest problem we have around the place is getting Dad to stay indoors for more than five minutes.”

“You’re not too good about that yourself, you know.”  Maria giggled as Mike Junior drew her into his arms, kissed her. 

“I know.  It’s hard to get used to all the people here.”  

“You’re doing better than your Dad.”

“Yeah, Dad’s hardcore.  I didn’t think he’d ever make it through that month down the coast.”

Marie put her arms around the younger Crider’s neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him back.  “You’re hardcore yourself, you know.  Just in a different way.”

“They’re coming back in.  Guess the break’s over.”

Maria frowned prettily.  “That was too short.  Take me dancing again tonight?”

“Try to stop me.”

The Cachalot, in Tarbos orbit

“Captain, last shuttle to the Skyhook is leaving in ten minutes.”

Captain Jan Benton of the Cachalot picked up the handset on the desk in her stateroom.  “Very well.  Please ask our guest to meet me in the hangar bay.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The Convention Center

Free of speeches for the moment, the Convention Center was a buzz of conversation; knots of people stood discussing minutia of the forming government, sub-committees held caucuses around tables, and social plans for the evening were finalized with laughs and back-slapping.  Amazingly, the Russian Vice President Tarakanov and the Chinese President Kee Chow An had struck up a fond friendship, despite centuries of tension between their Earthside nations that still lingered today.  They and their wives spent most of their evenings together, touring Mountain View’s shops and restaurants.  How fast things change in a new perspective, Mike Crider told himself.

“Mike?”  Mike looked up from his notes to see the American Vice President.

“Hector.  What can I do for you?”

“We’re about to wrap up for the evening.  Will you come over to the Mountain View Skyhook with me?  There’s someone coming in from Earth to provide technical advice.  I’d like you to go with me to meet him.”

“All right.  Who is it we’re meeting?”

“Let’s just say he’s someone with a unique perspective.”

Mike stood up, stretching out muscles unaccustomed to spending the days in a chair.  One issue had been weighing on his mind most of the day, and he said so:  “A lot of the delegates don’t like the article about a right to bear arms in the Bill of Basic Rights.”

“I know.  I was hoping you’d speak to the Convention about that.”

“Better you do it, Heck.  You’re a Libertarian politician, you know all the arguments.”

“Yeah, Mike, but you’ve been there.  If it wasn’t for armed citizens, Forest would be a Grugell colony now.”

Mike nodded.  “And I’d be dead.  Yeah, nothing like first-hand witnesses, is there?  OK, I’ll make some notes, and talk to Bob Pritchard about getting on the clock for a few minutes during opening remarks in a day or so.”

“Thanks, Mike.  I’ve got to go talk to Kee Chow An for a few minutes, then I’ll be ready to go.”

“OK, I’ll go find Junior, tell him where I’m going.  We’re going to have a situation with these kids of ours, Heck.”

The Vice President rolled his eyes and chuckled.  “Don’t I know it?  All Maria talks about is ‘Mike this, Mike that.’  I suppose your son is the same.”

“Pretty much.”  Mike looked doubtful.  “I’ll meet you at the main entrance in what, ten minutes?” 

“Sounds good.”

One hour later, the Mountain View Skyhook

“Here’s the bus,” Hector Gutierrez pointed up at the yellow indicator light above the bus walkway doors, which had just flashed on.  He and Mike stood in the waiting area in front of the big disembarkation doors, which slid open a moment after the bus slid to a stop.  Mike goggled at the tall figure that stepped out.

“You!”

Clomonastik III, once and former Group Commander in the Grugell Navy, now a Maryland restaurateur, strode forward, a wide grin on his narrow face.  “Michael!  What an honor it is to stand before you again, my respected friend!”

Mike couldn’t quite forget that this tall, imposing alien had tried very hard to kill him and his Jenny at one point, but that had been a long time ago.  He took the Grugell’s proffered hand and shook it, carefully, allowing for the alien’s delicate bone structure.

“You are well, my friend?  You look fit!”  Clomonastik looked exactly as he had twenty-two years earlier, but an obviously expensive tailored three-piece suit in dark gray silk had replaced the issue Grugell uniform and cloak.  A narrow black silk necktie on a sparkling white shirt completed the outfit.  While Clomonastik had adopted the dress of a successful Earthly entrepreneur, his fastidiousness had survived the years unchanged.

“I’m fine.  You look like you’re doing well on Earth.”

“Very well indeed.  I’ve grown quite fond of your home world, Michael.  You must be Vice President Gutierrez,” Clomonastik noted, extending his hand again.  “It is my honor to meet you at last.  Your President speaks very highly of you.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.  Tony and I go way back.  He told you what we’re dealing with here?”

“Indeed, he did.  I do hope my insights may be of some small assistance.”

“I don’t understand this,” Mike said. “I know it’s been a long time, but you’re one of them!  How do we know you’re going to steer us straight?” 

Clomonastik just smiled.  “This must indeed seem very odd to you, my old friend.  But the President understands my motivations for helping, and he finds me adequately trustworthy.  You are so right to be cautious, Michael, but we have not the time for excesses of prejudgment just now.”

“Let’s head back to the hotel,” Hector Gutierrez answered.  “We’ll fill you in on the way.”

The Truffle, a restaurant in Mountain View

While the service and the cuisine were impeccable in the Truffle, one of Tarbos’ most exclusive – and expensive – restaurants, Corinthia’s King Harold was less than happy with one aspect of the proposed Constitution and didn’t hesitate to let his kin from Earth know about it. 

“So, I’m to understand that I’m to put this to a vote of my subjects on Corinthia?  A vote?”  He slapped his wine glass down on the table, sloshing a bit of rich Tarbosian red on the sparking white tablecloth.  The red stain widened, faded, disappeared into the polarized polymer thread woven into the cloth.

Prince Harry of the United Kingdom, Earth, paused with a forkful of steak halfway to his mouth.  He laid the fork down, frowning.  “A vote, cousin.  You know, it’s not such a bad thing, having a Parliament.  Blighty’s managed very well with one these last few hundred years, you know, and the Royal Family carries on.”  Prince Harry smiled at his cousin.  “Would it really be so bad?  You can’t expect to hold onto a true monarchy for more than a generation, not in this day and age.”

“I’ll be forced to form a Parliament, the way this thing is worded.”  Harold held up a draft of the Constitution in one hand, slapping it with the fingertips of the other.  “I didn’t take my subjects a hundred and eighty light years from Earth to form just another rule-by-rabble!”

The British Prince scowled.  “You know, Harold, you were an arrogant sod when you were a lad, and I’m afraid you haven’t changed much.  We’ve done very well on Earth, you know, with ‘rule by rabble’ across the globe now.  We’ve fought very hard to make it that way.  It’s not realistic of you to think you can keep your world otherwise.”

“And if we choose to go it alone?  What need have I for this Confederacy?  And the right to bear arms, what’s the purpose of that?  They may as well say the rabble has a right to overthrow their rulers!”

“Given the way you’re carrying on, you’re right to think that, you know.  As for the first, you can bloody well answer that for yourself, cousin.  There’s a hostile race out there, in case you’ve forgotten, and part of this Confederacy involves forming a Navy to defend us all from attack.”

“Well, I don’t care for it, you know.”

“Perhaps you don’t,” Harry chided his relative, “But you’d better accept it.  Unless you want your precious Corinthia to be facing an alien occupation army with nothing to protect you but a couple of local cargo haulers and an orbital shuttle.”

“I’ve half a mind to form my own Navy,” Harold sniffed.

“Billions of dollars of your own money, cousin,” the British Prince reminded him.

King Harold I of Corinthia lacked an answer for that.  His own personal fortune, while unparalleled in human history, still wasn’t up to forming a Navy.  And he had three daughters to think of, three little girls whom he didn’t want seeing an armed Grugell Occupation force landing on Corinthia.  Still…  “Well, I don’t like that last bit.  I’ll vote against it.”

“You must do as your conscience dictates, of course.” Prince Harry said, smiling wryly at the intended irony.

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.