“That was because we intervened in your civil war.”
“Yes, I know, and we will be eternally grateful to you and your Marines for doing that, ma’am.”
“So sometimes interventions in local affairs are justified?” Chang-Sturdevant smiled.
“Yes.” The next several minutes passed in silence. Grabentao switched to using her elbow, a technique for deep tissue massage. She finished working on the President’s right leg and moved to her left. The silence continued. The music—ancient flute music performed by an ensemble called Los Calchakis— played on. Chang-Sturdevant began to drift off. Normally she’d have given in but not today. “Karla, what do
you
think? What do
you
think about this war?”
Karla Grabentao did not answer immediately. “Ma’am, we really shouldn’t talk war and politics during these sessions. That only upsets you and defeats the whole purpose of my visits here.”
“Oblige me, please.”
Karla sighed. “Ma’am, I am a member of your party. I voted for you and I will vote for you again. I know what it’s like to live in a world run by greedy, dishonest politicians, and I thank God for the Confederation of Human Worlds and its president.” She spoke with feeling. “But Madam President, my advice to you is don’t declare war on the seceding worlds! Call off your armies! Let those people go.” She paused. “Now,” Dr. Karla Grabentao was back in her role as therapist again, “roll over on to your stomach so I can work your back. And drink more water! You are getting dehydrated.”
The Congressional Club at Fargo was a favorite hangout for legislators. For some it offered amenities not available to them on their home worlds, such as a complete athletic facility and interstellar-class gourmet dining, and for all its members it was a home away from home where they could relax and enjoy themselves after a hard day of politicking. In fact, more agreements and coalitions were formed in the private salons at the Congressional Club than in the offices and cloakrooms of the Congress Hall. That was due at least in part to the fact that stimulants flowed more freely at the Club than in the Hall.
Haggl Kutmoi sat in the sauna, a thick towel across his knees, reviewing reports on a portable vid reader. Occasionally he wiped at a rivulet of perspiration from his cheek. Dimly visible through the thick clouds of steam, several other representatives perched in the facility, reading, relaxing, conversing in low voices. Kutmoi had only a nodding acquaintance with the others, but true to the cardinal rule of the Congressional Club sauna, none would engage in conversation with him unless invited to. The image on the vid was a bill he was sponsoring that would give certain benefits to reservists called up for the pending war with the secessionist coalition.
Someone sat down next to him. “Great speech you gave today, Kutie,” he said.
Haggl felt a sudden flash of irritation; it was Ubsa Nor. It wasn’t enough they were members of opposite parties, but Nor’s stubborn opposition to military action against the secessionists had deepened their differences to a chasm. Nor’s breach of sauna etiquette was annoying, but another rule of the Congressional Club was that political and personal animosities were left at the door. Haggl quickly switched off his vid. “Ubbie,” he nodded casually at Nor.
Ubsa Nor stretched his legs and rearranged his towel. “Going for a swim afterward?” he asked politely.
“Yeah.”
“Mmm.” Nor wiggled his toes. He was a heavyset man, thick in the chest, as one would expect of a former miner. Compared to Ubbie’s life back on his home world, Novo Kongor, life at the Congressional Club was pure luxury, and during his years in the legislature and at the Club’s tables, the good living had added kilos to his frame. But Kutmoi couldn’t help speculating how he’d fare if they ever came to blows over their politics, which seemed more and more likely as tempers frayed over the war.
“We have to get together,” Nor said.
“Over what?”
“This war, Kutie.”
“That is just not possible, Ubbie,” Haggl said with finality, putting his vid back into its case. He wiped his head with his towel, preparatory to leaving. He couldn’t relax with Nor chatting him up.
“Just a moment,” Nor laid a hand on Kutmoi’s forearm. “We need to have a dialogue, Congressman. Throwing speeches at each other is no way to settle this conflict. We need to join forces and prevail on the president to find a peaceful solution to the secessionist movement. We are about to get a lot of people killed—”
“And lose a lot of money if the embargoes remain in effect. Isn’t that what you’re really saying?”
Nor shook his head in annoyance. “That is a canard, Kutie, to think all we’re interested in is money. We’re talking human lives here!”
“We are talking the basic unity of our Confederation, Ubbie! If the Coalition worlds are allowed to break their compact with the Confederation, which I think is illegal under our Constitution—”
“Now hang on there! Don’t quote propaganda at me. You know perfectly well that if the Coalition worlds secede that will have absolutely no effect whatever on either the economic or political freedoms of the other members of this Confederation! Those dozen worlds are free agents, Kutie, and when they voluntarily joined our Confederation, the implication was that the union would serve their interests. But now that they believe it no longer does, they have not only a right to dissolve the union, they are obligated as free worlds to withdraw from it.”
“Are you Novo Kongorians thinking of joining the rebellion, man? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that their forces attacked and are besieging our troops at Fort Seymour? It’s they who don’t want a peaceful settlement, Ubbie, not us! And you know goddamned well that worlds are voted into the Confederation by a two-thirds majority and they can’t opt out unless it’s put to a vote; and I guarantee you, it never will be!”
“Well, what do you expect, Kutie? We reinforce the garrison there for no discernible reason except to compel Ravenette by force to remain in the Confederation, and then our troops slaughter dozens of unarmed civilians? Goddamnit, man, how would you react to something like that?”
The two had raised their voices to a level where the other patrons had taken notice. “Gentlemen,” one of them cautioned.
“Look, this conversation is not getting anywhere, Ubbie,” Kutmoi said in a lower tone of voice. “Let’s just drop it, all right?”
“Would you just listen for a moment? I have a compromise I wish to propose. If we can sell the president and your party on this we can share Nobels! Just listen, will ya?”
“So that’s it, huh? All this talk about the Constitution and human life is bullshit, Nor! Share a Nobel Prize with you, you bastard? You’re a goddamned traitor and you can just go and fuck yourself!” Kutmoi grabbed his vid case and stood up. Although he tried not to show it, standing up so quickly made him dizzy, but Nor was so angry he didn’t notice the other man fighting to keep his balance.
“Traitor? You call me a traitor, you goddamned useless flabby-assed piece of shit?” Nor yelled, getting to his own feet. “If you ever had to work for a living instead of sucking off the Confederation teat on your big fat ass all your life, you’d know that it’s real people, not fakes like you, who pay the price for your ‘Constitutional sanctity’ bullshit arguments, you goddamned murdering Nazi swine!”
That was too much. Kutmoi swung his vid case hard against Nor’s head. It struck with a sharp
thwack,
flew out of Kutmoi’s hand, and skittered into a corner. Nor staggered backward, a hand to the side of his head, eyes wide in astonishment. Horrified at what he’d just done, Kutmoi could only stand there gaping helplessly at the tendril of blood seeping from between Nor’s fingers. Nor recovered quickly and delivered a powerful roundhouse blow to the side of Kutmoi’s head. Kutmoi went down and Nor pounced on him, screaming inarticulately. Pounding, grasping, panting, and screaming curses, the two, divested of their fragile dignities as congresspersons, rolled naked off the bench and onto the floor. Because of their own perspiration and the condensation in the sauna the other patrons had great difficulty prying the two men apart.
“Well, Suelee, the ‘Billie Club’ has landed at last,” Marcus Berentus sighed, using his pet name for Madam Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant, closing the door to Chang-Sturdevant’s private apartment behind him.
“Marcus!” she chided Berentus. She kicked off her shoes, unfastened her tunic and flopped exhaustedly on the couch. “General Billie was our best choice to lead the army to Ravenette, so stop making those remarks,” she laughed. “Mix us a stiff one, would you?”
Chuckling, Berentus fiddled with the digital bar. “I don’t quite share your confidence in our General Jason Billie, Suelee,” he replied. He never used her middle name in public, that privilege was reserved only for her family and most intimate friends, and then only in private. “Old Porter wanted to send the Marine commandant, Aguinaldo, which probably would have been the best choice, but I couldn’t have permitted that. This is an army operation. Well, Billie and his boys will muddle through.” He handed Chang-Sturdevant a bourbon and soda with ice. He’d made himself a scotch on the rocks. “Scotch is an officer’s drink, Suelee,” he had once explained, “and I hate it, but I was an officer so I’ve got to keep up the tradition.” They toasted each other and sipped their drinks. Chang-Sturdevant stretched her legs out on the sofa and Berentus took a nearby chair.
“Stay here tonight, Marcus.”
Berentus raised his eyebrows. “Well, I dunno, ma’am, I have some books back at my apartment begging to be read, some vids I’d like to watch, a cold dinner waiting, and a cold shower before bed.” He shrugged. “You know, the things an old bachelor loves to do in the frigid solitude of his monastic cell—”
“Marcus!”
“Well, all right, the couch will do for me.”
“Marcus!” They chuckled and sipped their drinks silently. Chang-Sturdevant suddenly laughed outright. “Wasn’t that a scene at the Congressional Club this afternoon?”
“What?” Berentus leaned forward, and laughing harder, Chang-Sturdevant described the incident between Haggl Kutmoi and Ubsa Nor. As she talked Berentus began laughing too, and before she was done they were both in tears.
“But Marcus, it really isn’t funny,” Chang-Sturdevant said after she’d caught her breath, “I mean, with those two at each other’s throats like that, how can I expect consensus on how to deal with this rebellion? I mean, even with our slim majority, the crossovers can defeat every legislative move we make to put an end to this business. I’m willing to compromise on the secessionists’ demands, but I can’t even get the Congress to agree on those measures!”
“Suelee, we tried to compromise with those people. We bent over backward, were willing to give in to just about everything they wanted. But Summers and his party do not want compromise, they’ll only settle for full secession. I’m telling you again, as your Minister of War, the only way we can settle this crisis is by force of arms, and the secessionist coalition will fight us to the bitter end.”
“Mmm,” Chang-Sturdevant replied.
Berentus put his drink aside, wiped his hands on his trousers, and gently ran his fingers through her hair. “I think I see a few more strands of gray in there, Suelee.”
“You rascal,” she murmured.
“Ummm, your hair smells funky tonight—but good, but good! I like it that way. You’ve got the hair of a working woman.”
“I give you one hour to stop these insults.” They lapsed into silence. “Marcus,” Suelee said at last, “you’re pretty good, but no substitute for Dr. Grabentao.”
“I really am jealous of that woman. But,” he chuckled, “I am not without my own therapies.”
They were silent again for several minutes. “Marcus,” Suelee said, sitting up straight suddenly, shaking her hair out and reaching for her drink, “I am afraid we are in for a long, hard war.” Her Minister of War remained silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Bud, if you don’t shut yer trap, when this is over I’ll kill ya meself ’n I guarantee you’ll die real hard,” Timor Caloon shouted at last and finally Clabber lapsed into sulking silence. They had been on the road to Bibbsville only thirty minutes and Clabber had been complaining bitterly and threatening the whole time. Since Timor needed him unscathed to carry out his plan, physical abuse was out of the question. Timor had not yet told his companions what that plan was.
The road to Bibbsville was unpaved, dusty when dry, impassable when wet, and traveling its fifty kilometers an all-day ordeal even in good weather. If the residents of Cuylerville could wait, often it was more convenient for them to order the things they needed shipped on the
Figaro.
The thule buyers came out from the county seat in aircraft. They could afford to do that and although Bibbsville did not have a spaceport, it did have an airfield that could accommodate large atmospheric fliers, permitting connections with other regions of the planet. But for the residents of Cuylerville, travel abroad was far cheaper and more convenient on the
Figaro
because they could afford the time.
For his trip, Timor Caloon arranged to take the only ground-effect vehicle in Cuylerville. With it he could negotiate the potholes and detours and it was big enough to carry himself and eight other people. But the ride was extremely slow and rough. For privacy, Donnie and Charlette climbed into the back of the vehicle at the price of absorbing the full effect of every bump in the road.
“Bibbsville was the biggest city I ever seen before I come to Ashburtonville, Charlette. When I left here, about two years ago, they musta been forty-five thousand people in Bibbsville. It’s the biggest town in all of Loudon County. I only been up there a few times, but we all know where we’re goin’, ’n that’s to Lugs’s place.”
“And this Lugs is?”
“Well, he’s the man who owns the curing barns and the processing plant for the thule he buys from us, and he has the distribution system for the finished products. And because of that he is probably the richest man in all of Loudon County. It was him, you can be sure of that, who sent those men down here to kill Miz Pickens and put the fear of God into the rest of us.” Donnie snorted. “Well, we’re gonna put the fear into his ass, I goddamn guarantee. Daddy’s got a plan, you can bet on it.”
“It’d be kinda nice of Daddy to share that plan with us, don’t you think?” Charlette wiped the dust off the barrel of the rifle between her knees. Already she could taste the grit in her mouth, but nobody wanted to close the windows because the car didn’t have climate control and it’d be stifling inside the cab.
“He’ll tell us when the time is right.” Donnie wiped the perspiration from his forehead. His hand came away smeared with a fine coating of mud. “Damn, I sure miss that apartment of ours, back in Ashburtonville.” Donnie laughed. “Guess there’s a city boy inside every country boy.” He was silent for a moment. “See, because of the climate in this part of the world lotsa folks grew tobacco, still do, but it’s the thule that gives the cigarettes and cigars their kick, and if you really want to get high you kin smoke uncut thule, which Lugs also processes. And thule is where the money is. Anyways, Lugs has all these curing barns on the outskirts of town where he flue cures the thule and the tobacco in bulk, which he hangs up inside these barns, which is heated by wood fires, and the heat is circulated by flues, which is why it’s called ‘flue curing.’ All kinds of chemical changes takes place during curing which I don’t unnerstand. They’s other ways to cure the stuff besides flue curing, which maybe old Lugs uses too, I dunno. Then he has plants that turn all that stuff into cigarettes, cigars, chewin’ tobacco, all that stuff, even crap you stuff up yer nose,” he wrinkled his nose at the thought of taking snuff.
“So we’re going to kill this Lugs?” Charlette asked.
“I suppose that’s part of the plan.”
Charlette wondered silently what it would be like to pull a trigger on someone, even a despicable murderer like this Lugs person. In her training she had been taught many different methods of killing people but she had never had to use any of them. “What’s he like, this Lugs?”
Donnie shrugged. “Big, nasty bastard. Last time I seen him was four, five years ago.”
“So what do we do, just walk in and start shooting?”
“I guess so. That’s why he’s got Bud along.” At the mention of his name Clabber turned and glared at the pair. “He’ll fill us in before we git there.”
At noon they stopped to rest.
“Charlette,” Timor Caloon said, “you take your rifle and walk Bud down the road a ways. I want to talk to the boys a bit ’n I’ll tell you later what I’m plannin’, but I don’ want Bud to know until it’s time. Don’t worry about how long it’s gonna take us to get to Bibbsville. We’re not goin’ in there ’til tomorrow anyways. Now take him off down there ’n if he gives you any trouble, shoot ’im.”
Charlette flicked the safety on her rifle to off and then checked the loading indicator, to make sure there was a round in the chamber. There was. She put her finger lightly inside the trigger guard. “Hands on top of your head and move,” she ordered Clabber.
Shaking his head and smirking, he trudged off back down the road. As soon as Charlette judged they were out of hearing, she ordered him to sit down.