Day of the Dragonstar (11 page)

Kemp shook his head, “It sounds a bit shaky to me, but I don’t suppose we have much choice. There may be some level of panic among the general population if they think there’s any chance of their colony being perturbed by a gigantic piece of rock.”

“We will try to downplay the dangerous aspects of the possibility, saying that as long as we act quickly, there will be little cause for alarm. That should cover the need for triple-shift-preparation on the launch.”

“All right, Oscar, I suppose I should not try to tell you how to handle that end of things.” Kemp laughed shortly. “I’m going to have enough problems, I think.”

There followed a lengthy discussion of how the mission should be coordinated and what responsibilities for launch preparations would be handled by whom. Kemp was frequently asked for his advice, and gradually a well-formed, concise plan was hammered out. The selection of specific crew members was held off until the other items had been dealt with, but finally the subject was reached. Phineas had several people in mind, and it was agreed that if Copernicus and Tsiolkovskii did not have the right specialist for the right job, then they would be summoned from Earth on the next shuttle.

“There is only one more thing,” said Phineas, “that I have not discussed with you.” He looked at the small group of Joint Directors, waiting for the right dramatic moment.

“And what is that?” asked Chris Alvarez.

“I thought you would have expected it, or perhaps even asked me about the possibility,” said Phineas. “But since the subject has not come up, I think I should clarify my position on the matter.”

“And what is that, Colonel?” Nelson Pohl tapped his briar pipe into a large glass ashtray.

“It has been agreed that I should be responsible for the selection of the officer to be placed in charge of the second mission . . . and I have been thinking about who would be the right person for the job.” Phineas paused and cleared his throat. “And I think that the best person for the job is Colonel Phineas Kemp.”

THE MAN WAITED.

Though it was the quietest time of the evening in this part of the large lunar colony, the man could hear the occasional clatter of footsteps. So far, one of his fellow colonists had actually used the stairs by which he waited. But there was nothing unusual about finding a man in a stairwell, having a smoke. Smoking was not permitted in the corridors. The stairwells, however, had drafts and therefore, though still legally off-limits to lit cigarettes, it was general knowledge that if you didn’t have a private compartment to poison your lungs in right on hand, you could use the nearest stairwell.

The man let the cigarette burn in his hand. He despised cigarettes. Smoking them, however, was a good reason to loiter here like this, waiting for his contact.

The cigarette burned down to the filter. The man stubbed it out in a tiny portable box, which also held the ashes.

He took out another, sighed, and lit it.

“Bring one for me?”

Startled, the man spun around. The Quartermaster was regarding him from just above. He gave the man a smirk, and joined him.

Feeling guilt as heavy as ever, the man handed over the documents in his briefcase. The Quartermaster began to thumb through them after accepting a cigarette.

Another secret meeting, thought the man, only hours after the Joint Directors meeting. Out in the depths of space, the alien vessel hurtled on down the gravity well towards the sun, while the
Heinlein
and its abruptly depleted crew hung nearby, watching and waiting. At Copernicus Base, all necessary personnel had been put on triple-shift status as preparation for the launch of the
Goddard
got into full swing.

The man wished he did not know what he knew.

But then . . . well, there was Jimmy to think of, wasn’t there? He was quite high in the command hierarchy of Copernicus Base. With more than thirty years of service in the IASA, he was beyond reproach and suspicion. Yet he was the most highly valued espionage agent for the Third World Confederation.

More than ten years ago he’d been approached by the TWC with an offer that was difficult to refuse. The agent’s son was employed as a Reclamation Engineer in East Africa; he would be assassinated if the agent did not comply with TWC demands. All very simple. Direct and straightforward—two attributes which were
not
hallmarks of the Third World confederation—and yet it worked perfectly in this particular instance. For ten years, the lASA official had served as a leak-proof pipeline to the Intelligence Division of Ramadas Khan Base.

The second member of the meeting was, on the surface, a Quartermaster for Ramadas Khan Base. Each month the TWC Quartermaster checked through Security at Copernicus to receive vital supplies carried to the moon in lASA shuttles. It had been more than a decade since the TWC technology had been outstripped by the, Copernicus and Tsiolkovskii Space Programs. Without logistical and economic support from the IASA, Ramadas Khan would be as empty as a ghost town.

Each month the Quartermaster met with an lASA official concerned with him, under the auspices of the Lunar Free Trade Treaty. Later however, he would meet with his more important contact, from whom he received other vital supplies. It was a simple fact of life that governments did not live by bread alone.

“What do you have to tell me?” the Quartermaster asked. The man was of a dark complexion. He wore a self-satisfied smile on his handsome features.

“There have been few developments since the Snipe was destroyed by the alien ship,” the lASA official said quickly.

“Have you heard from your son lately? I understand he is doing well . . . for now.”

Dammit. The guy
knew
something was up. Perhaps he had another informant, only on a lower level. “All right, there has been something new.” Reluctantly, the IASA official explained the disastrous voyage and discovery of the
Heinlein,
and the resultant plans of the Joint Directors to launch a larger Ship to intercept Artifact One.

“Do you feel they can do it?”

“Definitely.”

“When do they plan to launch?”

“Within fifty-six hours.”

“Of course, you must understand that my government will want one of our people on board that ship.” It was not a question. The TWC Quartermaster grinned unctuously.

“Yes. I understand.”

“Can you arrange that?”

“l don’t know. Security clearance will be very tough.”

“But you
can
arrange it,
can’t
you?” Again, there was no suggestion of a question.

“I . . . think so.”

“That is good. Good for you. Good for us. And of course good for your son, who is doing such a nice job in the Republic of East Africa.”

The lASA official did not speak for a moment. “You know, I’ve always hated this. You people have never made it easy for me to be sympathetic to your causes. I don’t mean the threats and the reprisals. That’s part of being adults in an adult world. It’s just that you all seem to be such a bunch of humorless, cold-hearted bastards.”

“You do not seem to object to our humorless, cold-hearted money,” said the Quartermaster, frowning . “You look at us through the distortions of your own culture, and therefore you do not understand the motivations that fuel us. That is the way it has always been. You should know better than most that we have suffered greatly within the last two decades. Our ancestors who fought and schemed so hard to bring our people to greatness would be very displeased with us now. Do you know how terrible a feeling it is to achieve the pinnacle of global power—only to have it snatched away by forces beyond your control? My people are accustomed to suffering. It is a part of a long, bloody heritage. But we will not tolerate humiliation.”

“Since when is oil depletion viewed as a humiliating tactic? Even back in the eighties, your leaders knew that their stranglehold on the world economy would be short-lived. It is now time to pay the piper.”

The Quartermaster flung his half-smoked cigarette down and stepped on it angrily. “Don’t get wise with me! I am not here to argue political and economic ideologies. I am here because the survival of the Confederation depends on people like
me.”

“And me, unfortunately. If you didn’t have a flock of
scared stool pigeons puking their guts out every time you rang the bell, your wonderful Confederation would be back in their mud-huts and desert tents where you belong.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. My people are quite proud of the simple beginnings from which we have come. The fact you and your governments fail to accept is that things will never be so simple again.”

“I see . . . Once you’ve had a taste of the good life, there is no returning to the Garden of Eden.”

“You could phrase it like that. You with your penchant for simplistic Western fables. Nevertheless, my people have learned quickly the ways of the world. This latest discovery will be the key to our own renaissance. The governments that control the power of the ship coming toward us can control their own future. My people are destined for that power. We mean to have it by any means.”

“Whatever you say. Just make sure my son stays healthy. If anything happens to him, you can bet I’ll turn myself in and blow the whistle on you.”

“We keep our bargains. I must go now. The supply vans will be loaded. Just remember that my people will want one of our agents on board that second mission. I don’t think I should have to remind you what the consequences would be if you do not comply.”

“You will kill my son . . . go ahead and
say
it. You’ve said it so many times before, why be gentle at this point of the game?”

“Very well. We will kill your son. Satisfied?”

The IASA official looked away. “We’d better break this up now.”

“We will meet again at the next shipment?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. Goodbye.”

The Quartermaster departed quickly and quietly, leaving the troubled TWC agent to ponder what must now be done. It would not be difficult to place a Third World operative on board the
Goddard.
There were several men and women in Deep-Space Operations who qualified for the assignments, and who would be beyond suspicion since they had never been asked by their government to engage in any covert activities. TWC Intelligence, seeing the growing need for an extensive espionage network almost twenty years before, had been placing operatives within the IASA with regularity. Some of these operatives had never been utilized, but they were always available if needed.

Somewhere beyond the orbit of Mars, Artifact One spun in toward the sun. The IASA official considered the implications of what he had been asked to do, and wondered if the life of his son was worth the trade.

Sleep would not come easily tonight, he knew.

* * *

It was business as usual for Marcus Abdul Jashad. His orders had taken him to Paris, the famed City of Light, and he regretted that he would be having such a short stay in what—even
he
was forced to admit—remained one of the most beautiful and fascinating cities on the planet. Yes, his stay would be unfortunately brief, but such was the nature of his business.

He sat by the chair at the window of the Hotel Internationale, a soaring glass tower which overlooked the promenade to Versailles, the age-old site of meetings, treaties, and summit conferences. Later that morning, delegates from the European Economic Alliance would be conferring with the leaders of the Third World Confederation in a mini-summit enclave. The white men of Europe would be sitting down with the darkly-complected ministers of the TWC to discuss issues of the day, said
Le Monde. Issues of the day!
thought Jashad.
How quaint a phrase!

These Europeans were so smug, now that they were no longer under the thumb of the petroleum cartel, of the TWC. Our day in the sun has been too swift, sweet but fleeting, thought Jashad. And now the old men of his alliance were knuckling under to the fierce economic pressure being brought to bear by the rich, influential nations of the West and the East. There was an ugly attitude brewing in the camps hostile to the TWC that now it was growing time to pay the piper. In the last quarter of the twentieth century, the Arab and African states had called the tune, and the whole world had danced. But now, the oil was practically gone, and what was left was not wanted. Their base of power obliterated, the TWC was filling on hard times, and was beginning to kowtow to the whims of the other nations of the world.

It was an unthinkable position to Jashad, and the hatred for the white man and his technology burned deep in him. He sucked deeply on an Egyptian cigarette, exhaled, and then broke into a coughing spasm. A large clot of phlegm became dislodged in his chest, rocketing up his throat. Jashad caught it on the end of his tongue and wiped it away with the tip of his index finger.. He stared at the dark, sticky mass for a moment, considering that he should again try to quit smoking, and then flicked it away contemptuously. It struck the filigreed wallpaper of the suite and clung to it like a living thing. Jashad smiled at his minor gesture of defiance, and look another deep drag from his cigarette.

Checking his watch, he saw that it was almost time. He moved to the bed, where his suitcase lay open. First, he removed a case of what appeared to be Cuban cigars, each wrapped in a thin aluminum tube. He opened the case and began opening the cigar tubes, shaking out of each a false top which contained a cut-off panatella tip. Then he began to screw together eight of the tubes, fitting their micromachined threads into one another until he had the barrel and chamber of a weapon. From his camera bag, he removed the handgrip from his Nikon system and fitted it to the barrel. A trigger-assembly was concealed as part of a bartender’s kit, and a high-powered scope masqueraded as a telephoto lens. Even the shrewdest customs agent would never see a weapon among such ordinary objects. Jashad’s ammunition was always supplied by local agents—inevitably more than enough for his assignment—and he especially enjoyed the kind presently provided. It was a caliber hollowpoint explosive shell which left no doubt of any impact outcome. Even a shot to an extremity such as the arm or leg caused such massive shock to the body that the victim’s heart and nervous system was instantly jellied. It was a shell which the American CIA listed as “very high on the ‘lethality index.’”

Jashad grinned as he thought of the typically Western governmentese while loading the clip into his weapon. They were such fools! Did they really think that the younger factions of the TWC would let the old men roll over and play dead? There comes a time when all things must admit their age and decrepitness, a time to move over for the young jackals . . . or be devoured by them.

Again, he returned to the window, where he had cut a small hole in the thermal glass, large enough to admit the barrel of his weapon. He sat down in a chair and watched the promenade where already the French gendarmes were lining the streets and barricades, where the motorcycle patrols were forming an advance guard for the limousine column now advancing upon the old palace. Through his scope, it was as though the steps to Versailles were twenty paces distant, and Jashad smiled at the absurd simplicity of this assignment. In all the years of paranoia and high technology, nothing had been effectively done to prevent the efficiency of one man with a gun.