Rogue Powers (56 page)

And
Starsight's
hull was clawed open by the heat of a sun's core. The tongues of starflame sliced through to the hydrogen tanks, bursting their pressure seals—the escaping hydrogen flaring into fusion itself. A tenth of a second later, what was left of the Nihilist ship exploded.

Reunion
shook from stem to stern as she dove through the cloud of debris. Tiny fragments of the enemy ship bounced off her hull with terrifying reports, and suddenly
Reunion
was in the midst of atmospheric entry, pointed in the wrong attitude, moving at far too high a speed.

Joslyn held the engines to eight-gees, and felt their speed begin to die. Slowly, painfully,
Reunion
clawed its way back up into the dark of space, and scrabbled into a stable orbit. Joslyn cut the engines and started breathing again, staring at a status board with more red lights than green on it.

That was as close to ramming another ship as she ever wanted to get.

It was a week later when Pete Gesseti set off down the corridors of
Eagle's
officer country, intent on barging into Admiral Thomas's stateroom. And it had been a
hell
of a week. Peace so far had been anything but peaceful. At least the trip back from Capital had been less nerve-racking than the trip out. The impromptu cease-fire that Thomas had ordered was holding, but negotiations were just about under way. Another three days and they'd settle on the shape of the table.

The Guards still had their defense screens around Outpost and Capital, but the League had the only intact fleet around and a decisive victory in its pocket. Conditions were right for cutting a deal. Pete had a hunch the Settlers, whoever exactly they were, were delaying things until this Jules Jacquet could be neatly deposed with the rest of the Central Guardians and they could move in.

Lucy Calder was champing at the bit to fly the rescue ship that would pick up the Survey Service CIs from
Ariadne,
and just incidentally reunite her with Johnson Gustav, once the anti-ship defense screens were down.

Pete was hoping and betting and expecting that Mac and Joslyn would call it quits from the military and settle back to have some kids and name one of them Peter. But knowing the two of them, they'd probably outfit their own ship and have their kids out in space on the flip-side of nowhere.

George Prigot was probably going to end up as hero and villain to boot, for history books written by both sides. No one ever
had
known what to do with him. Another loose end. At the moment, it seemed that he was drawing pay from the Britannic Navy and the Guard Army at the same time. It would get worked out. That was what diplomats were used for after a war—to come in and tidy up the mess, somehow.

The Guards still held stocks of bioweapons. Pete had a feeling that they wouldn't last long. Pete had made it very clear to the officials on
Zeus
that the League would have two absolutely nonnegotiable demands: repatriation of all Conscripted Immigrants (and any of their descendents who choose to leave), and the verified destruction of the bios. After what the
Starsight
had nearly done, the Guards didn't seem likely to argue.

When Thomas allowed an unarmed Guard lander (with a New Finn officer aboard to keep everyone honest) to make the transit from Capital to Outpost, they found every human soul at the Guardian Contact Camp was dead and rotting, massacred. The Nihilists themselves were nowhere to be found. They were out there on the planet somewhere, with their Guard-provided combat weapons.
They
would have to be dealt with.

And no one knew exactly what to do with the Outposters— no, the Z'ensam—in general. Pete was doing his best to learn the one known Outposter language quickly. Someone would have to negotiate with them. He hadn't made much progress there on his first trip to the planet, but the second time round he expected a more dignified journey than a crashlanding, a forced march, plus getting a chunk of his arm taken off and artificial blood put in. Pete, however, didn't want to be in
charge
of deals with the natives. Too much paperwork. No, he'd need a boss to take the flack and do all the dull ceremonial work.

And Pete knew himself well enough to know he'd need a boss of wisdom and experience, someone who might be able to understand the Z ensam.

Which brought him to the point of his present visit. He arrived at Thomas's cabin.

Pete had gotten a key from somewhere and used it to walk in uninvited and unannounced. As expected, he found Thomas quietly pouring a good strong spine stiffener. As planned, Pete calmly walked up and knocked bottle and glass out of the admiral's hands and onto the deck.

"You not only just went on the wagon, you just decided to retire," Pete announced cheerfully.

"Mr. Gesseti! How dare you barge in li—"

"How do I dare? Easy." Pete took the visitor's chair and settled back comfortably. "Work it out, admiral. It's time you hung up your gold braid. Oh, if you harrumph loud and long enough, they'd let you stay on. But to do what?"

"I hadn't quite had time to think about—"

"But I have. I'll tell you what I think. / think you're going to be the first League diplomatic representative to the Z'ensam. No one knows what the legal ramifications of diplomacy with aliens are. No one has had any time to make any up. But you and I are on the scene, so
we
get to make them up."

"Diplomatic representative?"

"Sort of an over-ambassador, is how I see the post. It'd be damn sloppy to have God knows how many League signatories each with their own ambassador, each following an uncoordinated policy. And on the other side, Lucy Calder estimates there are at least one hundred twenty major Groups to deal with. We'll need some centralized organization. And I like you for top man."

Thomas was trying hard to be angry at this cheeky upstart, but it was hard. "I see. And why should I fill this post?"

For the first time, Pete hesitated a moment. "I could
say because your grand victory here puts you in the public eye, would give you the prestige to do what has to be done. I could say you deserve it for the way you've fought this war. But though that would be true, it's only part of the reason. With all due respect, admiral, you should have this job because this job
demands
a tired, cynical, embittered old man."

Sir George almost lunged across the desk to bash Pete's face in, but Pete raised his hand, very gently, very slightly, and gestured for Sir George to sit down. There was something in Pete's tone and manner that forced the admiral to listen. Pete started to speak again, in a far more gentle voice. "By virtue of your unhappy life, you're the best qualified to understand the Z'ensam, admiral. Your until-recently undistinguished career, your rather advanced age, your fear of failure, your obvious search after oblivion in your heavy drinking. And think of what you've seen—the bioweapons, ships wrecked, an entire small world literally destroyed. You know what power, their land and ours, can do when it goes rogue. You know we can avoid destroying ourselves and each other only if we make a conscious decision not to destroy. Both humans and Z'ensam must control
themselves,
for so much that we both do can escape our control.

"You've seen all that. And you see grand victories through eyes that have seen a lifetime of defeat and humiliation.

"And you've seen death. You understand how final death is, far better than any sleek young career diplomat could.

"Perhaps most importantly, admiral, only someone who has chased oblivion so hard and so long through the bottle could understand the Z'ensam's fear of losing themselves in Division.

"All that tempers your great successes here, gives you a sense of proportion. But here's a frightening feet: Failure is impossible now, admiral, because you've already won. I'd bet my life you've dreamed for generations about what you could do, given half the chance. Now you have the chance. Grab at it with both hands.

"Admiral, it's time to climb out of the bottle fall time and take hold of the long hard work that your victories have won for you."

Thomas spluttered and felt himself ready to explode in anger, when the smell of the spilled liquor wafted its way to his nose. Suddenly he wanted, no, ne
needed,
a little something. A soother, just a drop that would calm him and help him avoid this argument—

And at that moment, in that instant, for the first time, he really caught himself. For the first time, he didn't wave off his problem, or ignore it—he admitted it. Everything this snide young fellow was saying was true. Damn him. He ought to chase the little sod out, slam the door and get some peace and quiet, so he could—

—So he could what? Sir George looked at the broken bottle on the floor and knew how he had intended to complete that thought.

Damn the fellow for being right! The truth hurt. But—if Gesseti actually thought he could maneuver Thomas into that super-ambassadorship. ... A post like that, with real work, a hundred lifetimes' work to keep him busy, keep him occupied, a ^job with endless challenges. . . . Thomas decided he didn't t want that drink after all. Oh, of course Gesseti's schemes were all pie in the sky, one-in-a-thousand shots of coming off, but Sir George knew he'd gain more in trying and failing than he ever would in not trying at all.

"Mr. Gesseti," he said at last. "You are a very rude person, and I look forward to working with you. I am forced to admit I see your point. I must further admit that the job sounds a lot better than collecting dust in a corner office until I keel over stone dead from boredom. You will have my most energetic—and sober—cooperation.

"But you are taking a grave chance, Mr. Gesseti. You and I both know that. You just got through saying I'm a drunken old fool, who might just have finished his streak of luck. Granted, you might have read me right—there might just still be enough marbles clattering around up-

0stairs for me to do the job. But you can't know that. No matter how much my background qualifies me, it also damns me as a likely flop. Why are you taking that risk with such important work?"

Pete grinned. Mission accomplished. The last of the war's tension went away, and he gladly said goodbye to the endless worrying and fear that had started when the
Venera
had vanished. Things were in six kinds of a mess around here, but that was the normal human condition. It was all going to be all right. " 'Why,' admiral? Because I have a real gut feeling you're the man for it. I really believe that. And there s another thing.

"When
Reunion
docked with
Zeus
Station and we were getting the first cease-fire worked out, I asked George Prigot why the
hell
he had trusted Mac with the rate of George's whole planet."

Pete stood up and got ready to go. The admiral rose from behind his desk. Pete offered his hand. The admiral took it, and asked "But what
did
Mr. Prigot say?"

Pete laughed out loud, shook the admiral's hand again, and opened the door to the corridor. "He said, if I might quote him, that 'You've got to have a little faith in people.' I wonder where he heard that?"

As a second-generation novelist, I learned the great traditions of the publishing business at my father's knee. I watched as manuscript pages vanished, checks failed to materialize, and editors came and went faster than the seasons.

I saw editors extend to writers the same courtesy one might expect prison-camp guards to offer the inmates. I found that publishers had as great a willingness to provide information as the KGB. I saw decisions made and actions taken at a pace so leisurely that it could not be dignified with the term "glacial", for that word at least implies movement.

It is clear that Baen Books has no respect for tradition. This unknown writer has been treated with great kindness and patience; all my business dealing with Baen have been handled efficiently and promptly; and all schedules (except the ones that call for me to deliver manuscripts on time) have been kept. This is not only notable in publishing—it is almost scandalous: When my father heard that Baen refused to be bumbling, incompetent, and late, he muttered, "They'll never make it in this business." I am pleased to report that they are doing just fine.

There is another great publishing tradition that needs to be broken: the one that says fiction editors aren't credited.

Despite all the work a good editor puts into her writers' novels, her name is never seen inside the books she brings into creation.
My
editor deserves more credit than I can give her—for giving an unknown writer a chance, for being patient with an endless stream of letters that probably toted up to be longer than my books; for making exactly the right suggestions at exactly the right times; for the aforementioned promptness and courtesy; for decoding my typos; for generally giving me the pokes and the prods and the encouragement that make it possible to write. And, most importantly, for starting out as a business associate and ending up a friend.