The Peace War

place than here? He had left his usual retinue on the greensward which edged the Square Mile. He and a single aide walked down the aged concrete sidewalk toward the gray building with the high narrow windows that had once held central offices.

Away from the carefully irrigated lawns and ornamental forests, the air was hot, more like the natural summer weather of the Livermore Valley. Already Avery's plain white shirt was sticking to his back.

Inside, the air-conditioning was loud and old-fashioned, but effective enough. He walked down ancient linoleum flooring his footsteps echoing in the past. His aide opened the conference room's doors before him and Hamilton Avery stepped forward to meet-or confront-his peers.

'Gentlemen.' He reached across the conference table to shake first Kim Tioulang's hand, then Christian Gerrault's. The two were not happy; Avery had kept them waiting. And the hell of it is, I didn't mean to. Crisis had piled on top of crisis these last few hours, to the point that even a lifetime of political and diplomatic savvy was doing him no good.

Christian Gerrault, on the other hand, never had had much time for diplomacy. His piggish eyes were even more recessed in his fat face than they seemed on the video. Or perhaps it was simply that he was angry: 'You have a very great deal of explaining to do, monsieur. We are not your servants, to be summoned from halfway around the world.'

Then why are you here, you fat fool? But out loud he said, 'Christian — Monsieur le Directeur — it is precisely because we are the men who count that we must meet here today.'

Gerrault threw up a meaty arm. 'Pah! The television was always good enough before.'

'The `television,' monsieur, no longer works.' The Central African looked disbelieving, but Avery knew Gerrault's people in Paris were clever enough to verify that the Atlantic comsat had been out of action for more than twenty-four hours. It had not been a gradual or partial failure, but an abrupt, total cessation of relayed communication.

But Gerrault simply shrugged, and his three bodyguards moved uneasily behind him. Avery shifted his gaze to Tioulang. The elderly Cambodian, Director for Asia, was not nearly so upset. K.T was one of the originals: He had been a graduate student at Livermore before the War. He and Hamilton and some hundred others picked by Avery's father had been the founders of the new world. There were very few of them left now. Every year they must select a few more successors. Gerrault was the first director from outside the original group. Is this the future? He saw the same question in Tioulang's eyes. Christian was much more capable than he acted, but every year his jewels, his harems, his... excesses, became harder to ignore. After the old ones were gone, would he proclaim himself an emperor — or simply a god?

'K.T, Christian, you've been getting my reports. You know we have what amounts to an insurrection here. Even so, I haven't told you everything. Things have happened that you simply won't believe.'

'That is entirely possible,' said Gerrault.

Avery ignored the interruption. 'Gentlemen, our enemy has spaceflight.'

For a long moment there was only the sighing of the airconditioning. Gerrault's sarcasm had evaporated, and it was Tioulang who raised protest. 'But Hamilton, the industrial base that requires! The Peace itself has only a small, unmanned program. We saw to it that all the big launch complexes were lost during the War.' He realized he was rattling on with the obvious and waited for Avery to continue.

Avery motioned his aide to lay the pictures on the table. 'I know, K.T. This should be impossible. But look: A fully functional sortie craft — the type the old USAF was flying just before the War — has crashed near the California-Aztlan border. This isn't a model or a mockup. It was totally destroyed in a fire subsequent to its landing, but my people assure me that it had just returned from orbit.'

The two directors leaned forward to look at the holos. Tioulang said, 'I take your word for this, Hamilton, but it could still be a hoax. I thought all those vehicles were accounted for, but perhaps there has been one in storage all these years. Granted, it is intimidating even as a hoax, but...'

'As you say. But there is no evidence of the vehicle's being dragged into the area — and that's heavy forest around the crash site. We are bringing as much of the wreck as we can back here for a close look. We should be able to discover if it was made since the War or if it is a refurbished model from before. We are also putting pressure on Albuquerque to search the old archives for evidence of a secret US launch site.'

Gerrault tipped his massive form back to look at his bodyguards. Avery could imagine his suspicion. Finally the African seemed to reach a decision. He leaned forward and said quietly, 'Survivors. Did you find anyone to question?'

Avery shook his head. 'There were at least two aboard. One was killed on impact. The other was killed by... one of our investigating teams. An accident.' The other's face twisted, and Avery imagined the slow death Christian would have given those responsible for any such accident. Avery had dealt quickly and harshly with the incompetents involved, but he had gotten no pleasure from it. 'There was no identification on the crewman, beyond an embroidered name tag. His flightsuit was old US Air Force issue.'

Tioulang steepled his fingers. 'Granting the impossible, what were they up to?'

'It looks like a reconnaissance mission. We've brought the wreck back to the labs, but there is still equipment we can't identify.'

Tioulang studied one of the aerial photos. 'It probably came in from the north, maybe even overflew Livermore.

He gave a wan smile. 'History repeats. Remember that Air Force orbiter we bobbled? If they had reported what we were up to right at that critical moment... what a different