The Sirens of Space (10 page)

Zatar turned his eyes to the fire. Silently,
he watched the flames dance playfully along the heat-resistant
plastic that the Terrans had fashioned to look like a piece of a
dead tree. He searched his mind for a response to the Crutchtan but
the words wouldn’t come. None could tell whether G’Rishela was
right or wrong, and Zatar could not bring himself to disagree.

Chapter 8

On Lexington Boulevard,
across from the Senate Commons, a gracefully-aging two-story
building rose on the edge of downtown Covington’s Old Center area.
Bright flowers sprouting in large, white boxes beneath the upper
windows lent a splash of color to its gray exterior. On the
cornerstone, barely legible from the passage of time, the Old
English lettering fashionable in the era of its birth was still
decipherable: “O.E. 2397,” it read; “Burstein & Cohen
Building.” For the past thirty years, the structure had been home
to
Ricardo’s
, the most
exclusive and expensive restaurant in the city. It was the eating
place of presidents and admirals, businessmen and diplomats,
hosting leaders from every corner of Terra. The exquisite menu was
prepared by Roberto, the finest chef in all of Central Terra. All
came to see and be seen by their peers, and to enjoy the personal
attention of Ricardo himself, who took it as a personal duty to
make everyone welcome. Welcome, at least, in direct proportion to
the guest’s influence in Covington society.

For his trouble, Ricardo was one of the
wealthiest, most influential men in Covington. He knew most of
Terra’s moves and shakers by their first name. All of them
appreciated the aging restaurateur’s discretion, as well as the
many services available to the powerful that were not apparent from
the stately exterior or gracefully decorated dining rooms.

The ubiquitous host and owner was usually
the very model of unctuous charm, laughing urbanely at the jokes of
the mighty and overseeing the smooth functioning of his staff with
a discreetly iron hand. Today, he was near panic. Alarm paled his
dark features, and gone was the fierce, patronizing tone with which
he disciplined his staff. In its place was the echo of a small,
bewildered mind, terrified at the prospect of encountering
something it could not control.

“
It can’t be him. He always calls
first, to make sure we have everything ready by the time he
arrives. You must be mistaken—yes, yes, you must be
mistaken.”

“
No mistake, Boss,” said the manager.
He led Ricardo to the window overlooking the park, where the poor
man almost fainted from disbelief.

“
No,” Ricardo said haltingly, as if
altering reality were as simple as denying his senses. He could
feel his stomach rising as he spoke. “He wouldn’t just come. He
never comes for breakfast—he likes Frederick’s deserts—he likes
the—specialties—we prepare when he comes to dine. And he’s
never—come without giving us time—to prepare something special.
Something truly memorable. Something— ”

“
Well, whether he would or not, he’s
here.”

“
But his box is occupied! And he’s
coming up the steps!” exclaimed Ricardo. The office quickly erupted
in an undirected flurry of activity.

“
Quickly now—hurry! Tell Frederick to
drop whatever he’s doing. And tell Pierre to move the couple from
Booth Twenty-six.”

“
But— ”

“
Never mind. Tell them anything—tell
them their meal will be on the house. But we need their booth and
we need it right away.”

“
But— ”

“
Hurry!”

“Sally, you
light a
hundred hearts and spark a thousand smiles just by blinking your
eyes.” The rich baritone voice made the young woman blush, as the
speaker’s blue eyes twinkled coldly. The woman cast her eyes down
toward the plush, velvet carpeting. Her reply was almost drowned by
the background murmur of the patrons. Even at eight o’clock in the
morning,
Ricardo’s
was filled
to capacity.

“
Oh, Senator,” she giggled, her face
flushing until her skin almost matched her blouse. She blushed
easily; it was one of the reasons the Senate’s most powerful
committee chairman always flirted with her—that and the fact that
she was the prettiest of Ricardo’s waitresses.

Like his father and brothers, E. Emerson
Hollenbach was a big man. In most gatherings he towered a full head
above the rest of the crowd. He wore his massive bulk like a mantle
of command, with the easy assurance of one with no self-doubts.
Over the years he’d learned to take full advantage of the
psychological edge his physical size gave him. In politics as in
life strength prevailed over weakness, and Hollenbach learned early
in his career that there were ways of intimidation subtler than
brute force. Force was too messy, too easy to trace to be much use
in modern politics; even worse, it often gave its victims an
incentive to fight back. If Old Earth history taught anything, he
often reflected, it was that resentments caused by overt force took
forever to fade, and were rarely worth the trouble. And Hollenbach,
like most Earthers, was an expert in the field of resentment. It
wasn’t so much the overt snobbery that offended him. It was the
condescension toward the “unfortunates” that stiffened his back,
and gave him such pleasure in displaying every ounce of power at
his command. His delight in psychological dominance gave him an
edge in the primitive power struggles that Covington’s stately
corridors concealed from public view. Ironically, he found among
the chief pleasures of being one of the Senate’s most powerful
politicians was the chance to watch sycophants like Ricardo squirm
whenever he did something unexpected.

“
Senator Hollenbach,” gushed Ricardo,
emerging from behind the wooden door to his office and wearing his
warmest smile. “How good of you to join us this morning. My, but
you look hungry! Might I suggest an appetizer of Eggs Ricardo in
white wine sauce while we prepare something more memorable? Or one
of Roberto’s omelets, perhaps? Or maybe you would
like....”

Hollenbach smirked as Ricardo fawned
over him. In all the years he’d patronized the restaurant, what
amused him most was Ricardo’s desperate longing to be noticed. The
man hungered for respect, and Hollenbach half-suspected that his
host would kill for the chance to be part of something important.
Now, the senator himself would be using
Ricardo’s
to accomplish the most daring coup in
Terran history, and its owner—who loved intrigue more than a miser
loved money—would never even know.

“
I’d like my usual stall, Ricardo. The
one overlooking the river. Have Sally bring me some coffee, and
I’ll leave breakfast to your discretion.”

“
Yes, Senator Hollenbach. At once,
Senator Hollenbach.”

Ricardo clapped his hands, sending a
half-dozen employees scurrying in a dozen different directions. He
tried not to notice the man and woman being escorted from Number
Twenty-six by one of the waiters, an uncomfortable-looking man with
a thin moustache who smiled sympathetically at the outraged
sputterings of the displaced couple.

“
Oh,” Hollenbach added, almost as an
afterthought. “I’m expecting some friends to join me. One I expect
shortly, the other may be detained. Please show them to my table
directly.”

“
Of course, Senator Hollenbach. And
may I say....”

* * *

North of Covington
, near a
bend in the Mendenhall River, was a large parabolic dish carved
into bare rock. Through a collection of communications satellites
in orbit over the planet, the device linked New Babylon to the rest
of Terra, and served as Terra’s window into the capital. Through a
planet-wide network of relay stations, radio towers and cable
links, every bit of news that enterprising journalists from Ishtar
to Isis could uncover found its way into the mammoth computers
buried deep inside the rock. From there, it was beamed skyward for
instant dissemination to the planets and colonies that comprised
the Terran League. But with the Senate in Winter recess, the
Crutchtan border quiet, and nothing but continuing prosperity on
the economic front, there was little news to liven a cold January
day in the Earth Year 2551. Aside from routine government
announcements about trade balances and space traffic, and the
typical human interest filler that dominated the subspace channels
from time to time, the only item of note was the monthly brunch
hosted by the Greater Terran Media Society in the Old Center area
of downtown Covington. There, the banquet room of the Broadcaster’s
Club was filled to capacity and buzzing with excitement. Duncan
Heathcoate, Demeter’s senior senator, was about to address the
gathering.

Unlike most of his Senate colleagues,
Heathcoate enjoyed press banquets. He frequently spoke at these
monthly gatherings, though he’d never before accepted an invitation
that conflicted with a vacation. Gregarious and good-natured, as
handsome at age seventy as he was controversial, the Society found
his oratorical skills useful in preserving the importance of their
brunch on Covington’s social circuit. Relaxed and calmer than in
days past, he was still given to the occasional reprise of his
youthful tirades about the threat posed by alien powers to the
east. He had, in recent years, also taken upon himself the role of
elder statesman for the Tory movement, becoming as committed to
promoting the traditional Tory concepts of free trade and planetary
sovereignty as he was to venting his customary outrage over the
inadequacy of Terran security. And though some saw in him the same
fool they’d always seen, others heard his pronouncements as the
words of a sage entering the twilight of a distinguished
career.

As the chairman of the Greater Terran Media
Society finished his introduction, a smiling Duncan Heathcoate, his
silver hair neatly in place, rose and walked to the dais, nodding
his head and acknowledging the applause.

“
Mr. McSweeny, members of the Press,
fellow guests,” Heathcoate said at last, in the velvet voice that
knew no equal. “I remember the first time I addressed this group,
as a wet-behind-the-ears freshman Senator some time ago. It was
summer—one of those hot days Covington gets from time to time where
the sun seems to bake the air itself. Everyone had left for the
beach and I had to address a room where the busboys and waiters
outnumbered the guests in much the same ratio as the press
outnumbers the senators during our all-night debates at the end of
each session. It was then I learned that the press values a good
vacation almost as much as a good story, and I’ve been putting that
lesson into practice myself ever since.”

The audience laughed and applauded;
Heathcoate smiled good-naturedly and continued.

“
If you will excuse the pun, the
burning issues back then were fear and security—that is, Terra’s
security against possible invasion by forces we could not
understand, and whose intentions and capabilities we could not know
with any degree of certainty; the fear felt by men and women
everywhere for the future of their children in a Universe filled
with the unknown; and the fear felt by all of us that contact with
alien races and alien cultures would change us in ways we cannot
predict, and from which we may never return.

“
Well, aside from the weather, not
much has changed in thirty-seven years....”

* * *

“That wasn’t
the
agreement!”

“
Those are the terms.”

“
I’m warning you,
Emerson....”

“
Three committee chairmanships, and my
personal control over all CosGuard procurements, now and in the
future. That is our final word on the subject. Take it or leave
it.”

Nicholas Schiller was furious. He’d come to
this meeting in good faith, expecting to resolve a few loose ends.
Now he found a whole new list of demands, including a crucial one
rejected long ago. Placing anything as sensitive as military
procurement in the hands of a cutthroat like Emerson Hollenbach was
simply out of the question. Schiller’s people all agreed on
that—but that was a long time ago, before the lure of possibilities
began to tug at them, and they realized what it would mean to hold
the reins of power again. It had, after all, been twenty years
since the Tories last occupied the Executive Mansion. They’d
forgotten how intoxicating power could be, and how desperate they
were to taste it again.

His eyes darted to Hollenbach’s silent
companion, only to see a bland smile and no sympathy at all. Then
Schiller stared into Hollenbach’s unforgiving face to find wry
amusement. Earth’s senior senator had a reputation for
ruthlessness; Schiller had known that from the start. The corridors
of power were littered with the ruined careers of those who stood
in Hollenbach’s way. And through all of it, Hollenbach kept
increasing his influence, rewarding his friends and tormenting his
adversaries, accumulating so much power and so many debts that
nothing could be done in the Senate without his cooperation—or his
passive complicity. When the first feelers went out, and Tory
operatives relayed the word that Hollenbach was sympathetic,
Schiller hadn’t believed it, not for an instant. He even tried to
warn them: Hollenbach would never make common cause with political
enemies he’d fought all his life. There had to be something in it
for Emerson Hollenbach. Now, he knew what it was; but now, it was
too late to do anything about it.