The Rhine Page 8

  Mat loosened his restraints and took a moment to breathe. He flipped through the Sadie's internal cameras until Medical appeared on his screen. The woman— Misaki— was awake and trying to undo her restraints. During the burn he watched her off and on, until it felt odd. She had lain there, taking the hard acceleration like any spacer, but now she obviously wanted out of the medbed.

  Maybe she needed to pee, or something. He released his straps and pushed off.

  "Haydon, make sure Engineering and Cargo is still tight. I'll be in Medical."

  Haydon followed him down the access tube and continued on when he floated through the Crew deck hatch. By the time he reached the Medical hatch he realized he was going to need more painkillers. The escape out of Saturn's gravity well and upcoming maneuvers the Sadie still needed to perform were going to keep his chest throbbing. His ribs wouldn't start actually healing until they lined out for a string of days of slow acceleration on the ion drive. In another forty-eight hours or so.

  When the hatch opened it took Mat a moment to realize what he was seeing. Misaki was floating in her medical gown. That odd, compliant smile was on her face and she was staring at the light on the ceiling. The cabinet was open and a case of the medical pens he took from the tug was open and floating in front of it. One of the pens was floating beside Misaki's hand, the little syringe was empty. He must have forgotten to lock the cabinet.

  Mat rubbed his face. He felt haggard beyond what heavy g did to him.

  10 - Alexandria

  A commercial flight to Paris took about four hours. By way of a corporate shuttle Alexandria could make the trip in just under two. The shuttle left Gardiners Bay, shooting toward space and then falling back down in a giant, upside down U over the Atlantic to land at Charles de Gaulle Spaceport. When her heels hit the jetway leading off the shuttle she was met by a concierge from the hotel. She never came to Paris for pleasure, never brought staff, and only on rare occasions did she bring Greg with her. Thus, the reason for the concierge. The petite woman in her striped pencil skirt and snow-white blouse without creases or buttons walked with her to the terminal, double checking Alexandria's last minute requests and making arrangements for her luggage. Would she require a butler or maid, no— the fewer people surrounding her the better. Did she want a masseuse ... no, no, no. She did want wine— lots of it— for after the meeting with Saddler.

  At the terminal exit a car was waiting for her, and the chauffeur was a man she recognized but didn't know by name. "UN Complex, East Gate," she told him. He tipped his hat as she sat in the backseat and pulled her legs inside. Twenty minutes later the car left the main highway and turned onto Perimeter Road.

  The current incarnation of the UN Complex was a little over fifty years old. Comprised of whitewashed buildings with blue trim and roofs, its offices, conference rooms, visiting dignitary suites, commissaries, and dozens of other Halls and Rooms sprawled over thirty hectares. Inside it reminded Alexandria of Oxford, or some stuffy English university. Outside it was reminiscent of a mental institute. There was even a park with a duck pond and benches. In a way she supposed the Complex accurately reflected its occupants. Everyone was highly educated and strange.

  At the gate a UNSEC soldier with an assault rifle used a retinal scanner to check her ID, then made a call, and then they were waved on through. It was a good walk from the guest parking lot to the small side office where Saddler chose to meet her. She was escorted by a woman in plain clothes, but carrying a heavy pistol on her hip.

  UN Deputy Secretary-General Richard Saddler was from Chicago. He was a plain man with brown hair, brown eyes, and a shaven face that always held a half-smile. When Alexandria was waved in by a secretary standing next to the door holding a handcomm, he was behind the desk leaning back in an oversized leather chair the color of cherrywood. His hands were tucked behind his head, and the half-smile turned to a halfhearted full smile. He leaned forward but didn't get up.

  "Alexandria," he said and pointed his hand at the two chairs in front of the desk.

  She smiled in return, picked a chair and sat. They met so often in these same circumstances that they no longer bothered with pleasantries beyond the exchange of false smiles. He wouldn't offer her a drink, she wouldn't be there long enough for the bother.

  He sighed, then said, "I'm afraid I don't understand why you want to be in on this particular Council meeting. Other than some odds and ends, we're just meeting to officially decline Shultz's request for another water processing plant. Modi already had me call and tell him."

  Saddler actually made little quotes with his fingers when he said 'water processing plant'.

  "Care to explain?" He finished.

  Secretary-General Modi's resolve to interpret the Martian Colonial Lease in the strictest terms was ... ridiculous ... but a strategy Alexandria understood perfectly. If the colony didn't— couldn't, wasn't allowed to— start focusing on self-sufficiency soon then it would no longer be viable by the end of the lease ... without UN assistance. And of course, UN intervention meant a continuation of taxes and tariffs well beyond Modi's tenure as head of the UN Council and his own lifetime. Big business would forever be in debt to Modi, and by association, his family, friends, constituents, and so forth.

  Yes, Alexandria understood. However, Modi was becoming a thorn in her side. A thorn she had tried to pull out with money ... and failed. She just didn't have enough of it to buy Modi and she had nothing to offer him that would compare to all those favors Earth businesses would give him with a mere gesture of his finger. All that would end if Mars was allowed to buy raw ore and process it in plants they owned and operated.

  "Well someone has to keep an eye on you boys," she replied, her smile big enough to show teeth.

  Saddler made a sound somewhere between a huff and a chuckle, and then nodded. "Alright. I can get you in as an observer. Same as before." He tapped his desk and a comm channel opened.

  "Yes, Mister Saddler?"

  "Monica, send an invitation to the Council meeting tomorrow to Misses Reinhardt. Observer status. And have a badge ready for her."

  "Yes, sir."

  When Saddler sat back again she pulled her handcomm from her purse and stood. "Same account?" She asked.

  "That'll be fine," he replied, putting his hands behind his head.

  As she left, Alexandria keyed in a large bank transfer to a travel agency in Thailand. If anyone checked it would look like she just booked a one month vacation to Phuket.

  She spent the rest of the day reviewing reports and frowning at the oh-so-few haulers that were coming in from ore drop-off stations throughout the system. Pirate attacks were on the rise and a growing number of hauler crews— company employees and contractors alike— were either refusing to leave until UN patrols showed up to police the specific routes they would be traveling, or demanding that Apex pay for the cost of fuel and time plotting a new route back to the Moon would take.

  They were legitimately afraid.

  That night she stood on the balcony of her room and leaned against the rail drinking the last of the wine and looking out across the Paris night. Her mind eventually left behind the machinations of plotting the course of empire and she thought of Adam and Jason. She could call, but Adam was likely at his drafting table, and Jason would still be in class. She swallowed the rest of her glass and looked up at a trio of stars shining in a rare clear sky above the city.

  "Look mom, Orion," Rachael's twelve year old voice said from a ghost of memory. It trailed off in a whisper and Alexandria took a deep breath and then turned her head to look down twenty stories to a lighted pavilion on the concourse where small figures mingled below. Her heart began to beat faster, she swallowed and tried to control her breathing.

  Best I go to bed now, she thought. The wine glass slipped from her fingers— or maybe she simply let go of it— and fell out of sight into the night.

  * * *

  The same driver met her at the front of the hotel. While the car wound its way thr
ough city streets to the highway Alexandria tried to review the AM departmental recaps. Not really necessary, but it sometimes gave her insights that formal board meetings and conferences didn't. Greg had forwarded a copy of an independent newsfeed that reported the explosion of a dome on Mars and UNSEC was keeping its thumb on the flow of information. Then for the second time that morning she watched messages from Adam and Jason, left a few hours after she went to sleep last night. When the car leveled out on the highway she began sending mail, most of it regarding the issue with the haulers.

  Maybe that's the answer, she thought. Let Earth starve for raw ores and noble gases. That might force the UN to ... what? No, stick with the plan. Don't second guess yourself. Besides, for all the bureaucracy, Modi would get the UNSEC patrols where they were needed and then there would be no reason for the haulers to not make their deliveries on time. Prices would go up temporarily, then level out again, and Earth would keep building cities and roads.

  As soon as the soldier at the gate verified her identity he directed the driver to parking that was closer than the day before. A woman was standing on the curb waiting for her with a lanyard and badge.

  "Good morning, Misses Reinhardt," the woman said as soon as the driver opened the door for Alexandria.

  She stepped out and accepted the badge, the woman waving her on toward the doors that would take her to a foyer with elevators and a long, glass case of pictures of important UN people from history and medals and mementos that belonged to them. Her business relationship with Saddler had taken her this way several times. Modi's Nobel Prize in Economics would end up in that case one day. There was a rumor that he would be nominated for the Peace Prize as well, for his work in bringing East India and Bangladesh to the table. Never mind that his dealings with Mars was likely contributing to the piracy out-system and might very well lead to worse.

  The elevators took them up to the second floor where her purse and handcomm were confiscated at a checkpoint, then she was scanned, and her ID verified again. From there her escort ushered her into another foyer shaped like a hall with intricate tapestries depicting knights on horses and Carolingian vases sitting on varnished tables.

  Her escort led her down the hall. It curved gently, the decorations changing from English mainland European before they stopped at one of the lacquered doors spaced along the wall. Her escort smiled and opened it for her.

  The council room reminded her of an amphitheater. A dome roof covered a half-moon of rows of cushioned seats with small desks and screens attached. All eyes would naturally be on the bema against the back wall. Modi, Saddler, and various UN commissioners were seated there now. Of the two hundred seats, half were full.

  Saddler was running through the agenda and Alexandria's escort took her to the closest vacant seat and then stepped back to stand by the door. When she sat the screen came to life, showing a list of bullet points and highlighting the one Saddler was discussing now.

  "... to form a committee to investigate and interpret the legalities surrounding privacy laws related to transponder and course data on space vehicles. Specifically what circumstances allow UN Security forces to invasively access such data. Can it be done without informing the captain or owner? What is the impact of private property laws on a space vehicle's physical data storage devices? What legislation affects a citizen's rights to digital privacy ..."

  Saddler went on in great detail. Alexandria shifted her attention to Modi. The Secretary-General was in his late sixties. His skin was a dark caramel, and his wrinkled face was dominated by a bulbous nose and busy white eyebrows. For a moment she wondered if his head of white hair was natural or if he was genetically predisposed to baldness and took treatments to correct it ... perhaps to make himself appear kind and wise. Like an ethnic Santa Claus.

  "Are we ready to cast our votes?" Saddler asked and then looked at Modi, who gave a small nod without turning his eyes from his screen.

  Alexandria's screen showed her the lots being cast and tallied electronically. The proposition passed with ninety-eight percent of the one-hundred twenty-six members of the Council present.

  "Alright," Saddler continued but stopped as Modi leaned over to him and said something that the mics didn't pick up. Saddler nodded then said, "Commissioners from all seven departments will convene informally to discuss nominees for the committee. We'll address the schedule later in the year."

  It would have been comical if it didn't remind Alexandria of any one of a dozen board meetings she attended. We will discuss what to discuss, later.

  "I propose we move to the next item," Saddler said. "If there are no objections ..." There were none. "Okay then. Next item ..." The highlight moved to the next bullet point on her screen, Governor Shultz's petition for another water processing plant.

  "Colonial Governor Shultz is requesting permission to construct a new water processing plant in the northern polar region of Mars. As you can see in your brief the governor has outlined a number of reasons why this is necessary, along with the projected construction and operational costs. Please take a moment to review."

  Alexandria didn't have access to the brief, but she could apply common sense and make her own list as to why the plant was necessary. Water. The burrows were self-contained habitats within a hostile environment, just like moon domes. In addition to greenery oxygen plants used electrolysis to simulate photosynthesis and create needed oxygen. Around her, the national block representatives were split between those that flipped lazily through their screen and those that sat back in their seats with their arms folded.

  After a few moments Saddler looked up from his screen and said, "I want to bring to your attention to the fact that in the past an automated water processing plant was discovered to have been illegally converted into a gas refinery and the refined product sold on the Martian black-market."

  Of course, that had happened. The UN Council approved the new plant, only to discover during an inspection that it had been converted into a refinery for noble gases. The ensuing investigation found the culprits to be engineering students at the college in Capital Burrow, and sympathizers with the Free Mars Now movement. If they were an actual terrorist cell they were a poor one. The Martian oversight committee that was administratively responsible for the plant claimed not to know anything about what had happened, as the plant was still producing water and pumping it through pipes a thousand kilometers north to the burrows.

  Whether the criminals in that case were a part of the FMN or not, the movement's cells were often independently formed by two or three people wanting to take up the banner and make a difference, they have no information about other cells. Even so, there was obvious coordination among them ... shared information. It was easy to see that there was a single head to that serpent. The hands and feet of the FMN didn't know one another, but the head knew them all. And after months of observation and digging she and Greg had sussed it out. They knew the head, and neither of them would ever tell another soul.

  The first vote came in— negative. As Secretary-General Modi could not vote on anything brought before the Council, except as a tie-breaker, Saddler's little speech told the Council what direction he wanted to go. The rest of the votes came in following suit and the petition was denied by one-hundred percent.

  Ridiculous, Alexandria thought. Barbarian politics that will set everything back for a hundred years. I don't have that kind of time. If she was lucky she had another forty years in good health. At some point she would have to pass the leadership of the company on to someone younger, stronger, and aligned with her purpose. Her son matched two of those qualifications.

  She stood.

  "I would like to make a suggestion," she said, her voice carrying throughout room but not loud enough to be understood.

  Heads turned in her direction and Modi and Saddler looked up from their screens at her. The expression on Saddler's face said she had just burned a bridge. Modi stared for moment, then nodded to Saddler who glanced down and tapped his screen.<
br />
  "Go ahead, Misses Reinhardt," Saddler said. "Your mic is on."

  She leaned down toward the screen and said, "Why not grant the colony limited mining rights with consortium oversight?"

  Modi suddenly smiled. "And I suppose Apex's own consortium would head this oversight?" His voice turned fatherly, chiding. "You already have a charter for Ganymede, Miss Reinhardt." He picked up a little silver gavel from his desk next to a block and brought it down once. "We are adjourned."

  "We have fifty years of experience ... four times that counting our partners ..." she continued, but Modi stood and turned away. The rest took their cue from him and began filing out of their seats. Her escort, still standing behind her, opened the door. Right. Well, her suggestion was plan B anyway, and she knew it wasn't going to work before she made the trip to Paris. Apex was not going to get its foot in the door on Mars by appealing to the UN, no matter how much she had hoped. She resisted the urge to slam her fists down on the little desk attached to the seat. Plan A was just going to have to be a success.

  Alexandria made it out the building and almost to the parking lot before her escort's handcomm chimed. She looked at it, stopped and said, "Misses Reinhardt, Deputy Secretary Saddler would like to see you."

  Well, she supposed this was her cussing out. Saddler might be a plain man but he wasn't soft. You didn't get to be what amounted to as the second most powerful man in the world without some steel in your spine.

  As soon as her escort took her back inside and she entered his office she immediately said, "Tell him if we were allowed to sell raw ores to Mars the piracy would stop."

  He was standing at the small bar against one wall, pouring golden liquid in to a tumbler ... a cheap tumbler. Alexandria recognized the design, it was manufactured here in Paris less than a hundred years ago.

  Taking his drink to his desk he sat down. "So you think that the pirates are Martian privateers, working for Shultz?"

  Careful, she told herself. She needed Shultz.