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“But the minute they examine the report data,” Lambert stated, “they’ll know how empty our hand is. That data is obviously skewed in our favor, and I’d bet their scientist, Rios, can concoct a report that skews it right back.”

“But ours went to Geneva first,” Harley had pointed out. “That counts a lot in our favor… it puts Verdant on the defensive, and any data they send to Geneva will be colored by that perception.”

“That won’t be enough for Geneva,” Lambert had lamented. “We’ll need more.”

Now, back at the compound, Thompson disappeared into his office, while Lambert went to his own office and settled in at his desk.

A few minutes after he’d arrived, there was a knock at the door. The door opened, and Shay Vaughn poked her head in. A quick glance confirmed that she was welcome to enter, and she pushed the door open the rest of the way. Unlike the revealing dress she’d had on the day before, Shay now wore a tailored pinstriped business suit that still managed to highlight the best aspects of her sumptuous figure. She strode in on scandalously high heels and took a seat at a chair adjacent to the desk… from there, the desk did not block Lambert’s view of her, and she crossed her legs casually as he took her in.

“I take it,” she said, “that your meeting didn’t go as well as you’d hoped.”

“It’s that obvious, isn’t it?” Lambert grimaced and leaned far back in his chair. “Verdant doesn’t seem too impressed by our sole bargaining chip, we don’t have enough to get Geneva to put pressure on them, and things are not looking promising.”

Shay nodded sympathetically. Lambert had been so out-of-sorts from their rushed evacuation the day before that he had not wanted to talk about the situation last night, though he had been more forthcoming in the morning. Now, though the situation sounded no better, at least he seemed to be himself again.

“I can’t imagine,” Shay commented, “how Verdant, or any of the satellites, could survive without regular supplies from the ground. If they refuse to believe that now, they’re bound to come to the realization after deliveries stop.”

“They can’t survive,” Lambert assured her. “They’re not designed to survive independently. Sooner or later, they need infusions from Earth.”

“Well then, maybe making it sooner…” Lambert looked at Shay, who eyed him expectantly. “After all, you run the country,” she continued after a moment. “You have some influence on the manufacturers and freight companies. You must be able to force the issue, at least long enough to make the satellites feel it.”

“Not the way I’d prefer to do that,” Lambert commented.

“But it’s a national emergency.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Perhaps,” Shay said slowly, measuring her words, “if the freight companies were more directly involved in the negotiations.” Lambert looked at her. “After all, they’re the ones who are being asked to risk their vehicles, their pilots and freight, to get here and go back. Maybe they won’t be willing to take such risks on their own. But with U.S. government support, maybe they’ll accept more of the risk. And if Verdant will accept the U.S.’s conditions… maybe you’d be glad to extend that help…”

Lambert considered her suggestion silently, idly watching her as he did so, his lips characteristically pursed in thought. Shay waited patiently, smiling helpfully and shifting back in the chair to put a bit more tension on the fabric across her breasts.

Finally, he reached one hand out and tapped the intercom to Thompson’s office. “Enu, where are we?”

“I just finished talking to one of our diplomats. She’s going to see what kind of inside information she can get out of the CnC on our behalf.”

“Good,” Lambert said. “Come to my office. Something we should try.”

“I have a contact at thirty-two by dash-niner-two, orbit-bound.” Lieutenant Henry “Hunter” Reilly nudged the stick and brought his stocky orbital fighter about a few degrees, to bring his more powerful forward sensors to bear on the target. After a moment, the readout next to his sensor screen began filling with numbers. “Broadcasting in the green, freight ballistic, homing on Verdant Interpoint B.” About two seconds passed when he was done speaking, which prompted him to key his mike again. “Goldie, you awake there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Lieutenant Goldie Maina brought her gaze back from the wide red stain spreading over the planet below, and back to her screens. “Confirmed freight ballistic homing on Verdant Interpoint B—”

“Bad enough everything’s going to hell down below,” Hunter interrupted her over the open com. “Then we pull busy-work, babysitting freight deliveries. And all you want to do is sight-see.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Goldie replied, “maybe you’d rather have a scintillating conversation on the last Orbits game?” She heard a rude noise over her com. “Then eat it. Come on, Hunter, look down there! You can’t tell me that doesn’t do something to you. It’s a disaster! It makes me ill just looking at it.”

“Then don’t look,” Hunter told her. “Yeah, I know what’s going on down there. But I’m more concerned about my job up here, and I suggest you be the same.”

The two pilots were about a mile apart, in stationary position between Verdant and the ground. They were flying Wasp-class fighters, the standard offensive-slash-defensive craft used by three of the four satellites (Qing pilots flew Chinese-made “Battle of San Kwai”-class fighters, but they were essentially the same in design). The Wasp’s class-name fit the craft’s bulky, non-aerodynamic lines and extended maneuvering jet pods… they were designed to be orbital craft. They could fly atmospheric, but only by virtue of their brute-force Hammerhead rocket engines, which allowed even their ungainly shapes to successfully navigate in air and, theoretically, even in water; there was nothing even vaguely aerodynamic about them. Nonetheless, they were excellent orbital fighters that no atmospheric craft could match in their home element, open space.

Under normal conditions, the Wasps would be more active, tracking and on-the-fly checking of incoming and outgoing freighters, and monitoring for any signs of local debris or other objects to be de-orbited or vaporized. But with the flight lockdown over North America, the only thing they were expecting to see were the only things that could reliably get through the ash layer—ballistic rockets. The ballistics were stupid, pilot-less and barely-automated… not much different than their predecessors from the beginning of the space age… but they were rugged enough to take a beating in bad atmo and still make deliveries. They were launched from the few facilities that still catered to ballistic systems, essentially thrown into orbit, to be caught by one of the Interception Point nets that maintained station beside Verdant.

Not often, but occasionally, a ballistic came in off-course, or came in too hot, making them a danger to the nets, and to the satellites. That was why the satellite escorts had to monitor all incoming ballistics, and to be prepared to act in the event that one posed a hazard. It had been four years since the last such incident (an errant ballistic that had missed every mark due to an engine malfunction, and had ended up plowing into the Sun’s corona a year later), and the replacement of ballistics with crewed freighters over the last century seriously lessened the likelihood of another accident. But regulations were regulations, rotations were rotations, and Hunter and Goldie had pulled that morning’s short straw.

Goldie was a good officer and pilot… as good a pilot as Hunter, and certainly less hard-nosed. Not that Hunter was a bad officer, or a bad person, but he was scrupulously by-the-book, he didn’t fool around with his job. Goldie could easily picture him right at home in the middle of an old-style war, flying jets over Europe or Asia or Venezuela, spewing orders while coolly locking onto his opponents and sending a brace of heat-seeking missiles up their asses. Then coming home, filling out his reports, and stopping on the way home to have a beer at the PX and give crap to the non-coms who still thought war was fun.

Goldie, by contrast, was much more easy-going, and plenty satisfied with the more security-like aspects of the job, standing by to keep people safe. She had no desire to ever be in a war, and the sights below her unnerved her. Any minute now, she expected to see fleets of transports and passenger ships, carrying desperate refugees intent on getting aboard the satellites… and she didn’t want to be the person between them and their expected salvation.

“Wasps three and four, this is CnC,”
came a voice over their coms.
“We’re getting reports from GAA that weather patterns are opening up a few small gaps in the ash cover. A few freighters have clearance to slip through, if they can hit the window. Hold onto your seats, and you may have some standard traffic to track soon.”

“That’s nice to hear, CnC,” Goldie responded. “Keep us posted.” She keyed back to her partner. “That sounds like good news. If Earth can at least get through an occasional pocket in the atmo, our supplies situation up here might not get too bad.”

“Yeah… maybe we’ll be set at ‘critical,’ instead of ‘desperate’,” Hunter commented, but his voice was not mocking or rancorous. He was merely stating what everyone knew as fact: Verdant’s situation would not be good if regular freight deliveries could not be maintained. Even regular ballistic flights could only manage a bare subsistence-level rate of resupply. And on day three of the continued eruption of the caldera, it did not look like it was going to let up anytime soon.

He glanced back at his panel. “Ballistic is on a positive track,” he reported. As it passed their vicinity, Hunter brought his Wasp around to track it. A flash of light caught Hunter’s eye, and he glanced starboard, beyond the ballistic and the interception nets. In the distance, barely distinguishable in the glare of the Moon, was the small round pod used by the science department. Hunter knew it was being used for some kind of experiments, but in their current situation, he couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t been shut down until the crisis was over. “Now, what the hell could they be doing in that pod that’s more important than saving resources right now?”

“They have their own power plant,” Goldie commented, once she realized what he was referring to. “They’re probably not using that much power.”

Hunter just eyed the pod in irritation. “Can’t be anything useful.”

~

“Let’s see the hole,” Reya requested. The CnC staffer held up a datapad that displayed the real-time weather data, and Reya took it and held it up for Julian to see.

“Not much of one,” Julian commented drily.

Reya nodded. “Hopefully someone will be able to hit it, before it’s gone.” She turned to the rest of the staff, in the section of the room that monitored ground traffic. “Does anyone have a launch confirmation?”

“Just one so far,” a staffer reported. “A Lusterne freighter from Colorado, just got off, they’re swinging southwest to catch the window now.”

“Which one?” Julian asked.

The staffer checked his board before replying: “The
El Capitan
.”

“Oy,” Julian grimaced.

Reya, seeing his reaction, grinned, and nudged Julian lightly. “They’ll be fine. Just be glad they’re coming.”

“I’ll be glad when they’re here,” Julian told her, handing the datapad back to her.

“Relax,” Reya admonished him. “I understand their pilot is pretty good.” Julian flashed her a wry smile, but said nothing. “Anyway, GAA wouldn’t give them clearance if it wasn’t safe enough. And if it closes before they get there, they’ll be told to land. You know Martin, he’s not going to do anything stupid.”

Julian eventually nodded and said, “Keep an eye on them.”

“Jules.” Julian turned to see Aaron Hardy and Calvin Rios entering the room. Aaron looked confident and purposeful. Calvin just looked tired, as if he’d gotten little sleep. As Aaron approached, he held up a pad. “Dr. Rios’ report. I’ve given it a once-over, and it looks like it counters the U.S. arguments pretty nicely.”

“Thank you,” Julian said, taking the pad and thumbing through its contents. Aaron and Calvin stood by silently as he gave the report a cursory examination, nodding at an occasional point. Calvin at times seemed to be imminently ready to nod off, and Reya considered pointing him to a chair. “Very good. Nicely laid out, Doctor,” Julian said. “And all the hard data is backed up by the GLIS?”

“Yes, sir, all of it,” Calvin replied, the opportunity to speak seemingly re-energizing him, at least for the moment.

“Well, it looks like just what we wanted,” Julian nodded, handing it to Reya. “Prepare that for transmission to Geneva. I’ll add some comments to it first.” He turned back to Calvin. “You’ve earned some rest, Doctor. But before you go...”

Calvin was so tired, that he didn’t immediately notice Julian’s voice trail off. When he picked up on it, a moment later, he also realized that the tone of the room had suddenly changed. He looked at Julian, and realized he was looking past him. So was Aaron… and every other person in the CnC. Calvin turned to follow their gazes, and found himself looking at a woman who stood at the entrance to CnC, a security guard at her side.

The guard identified Ceo Lenz, and pointed him out to the woman. The woman smiled to the guard and brushed a hand across his arm, the gesture clear. Then she clasped her hands in front of her and walked across the room, with a stride that was smooth and subtle, but still eye-catching. The woman was eye-catching herself, with a light-tropical skin tone and the fine-boned, part-African, part-Mid-East features that suggested an Egyptian background, and impeccably-styled sable hair that terminated just before her shoulders. Her tailored suit accentuated a tall, lithe figure and attractive-but-not-too-generous curves.

As she approached, Reya swept the room with her eyes, silently coaxing everyone back to work. The woman extended a hand to Julian as she came near… in her heels, she was almost as tall as Julian and Aaron, and maybe a few centimeters taller than Calvin. “Ceo Lenz,” she announced, “I’m Kristine Fawkes, from the U.S. diplomatic corps.”

Julian studied her face quickly, his face impassive, before finally taking her hand. “Miss Fawkes. What can I do for you?”