The doors closed behind Robinson with a whoosh. He walked the few carpeted steps to his chair and buckled himself in. Even more than the ships, the shuttles needed replacing. Roughly a third were unfit for flight for lack of parts. Moreover, though the skins were the best product of Earth at the height of its technological achievements, the composite of which they were constructed was no longer produced. Terra Nova, specifically the FSC, produced something similar (in fact, the nose cones of the missiles it had aimed at the Peace Fleet were made of it), but that was unacceptable for any number of reasons.
It was becoming a logistic burden as well. The shuttles that were still working had to be used overtime. This cut into their maintenance and led to even more failures. Moreover, though logistic effort had been saved with the skeletonization of the crews of the two cannibalized ships, and more by reducing the crews of others by a variable percentage, this put in danger the entire fleet.
And I haven't a clue as to what to do about it, Robinson fumed. One problem's solution just creates another problem. If I'd known then what I know now, I doubt I'd ever have accepted this assignment.
Instead of worrying about it, uselessly, the High Admiral stretched out in his chair and slept. He dreamt of the skiing, which he missed, north of the town of Atlanta, by the huge and growing Dahlonega Glacier.
It was going to be one of those cocktail receptions, Robinson decided.
'The FSC has become a rogue state,' insisted the slender, well coiffed blonde. This was the intense-and, so Robinson thought, even more intensely vapid-commissioner for culture from the Tauran Union, one of the new supra-nationals coming to prominence on the planet. The commissioner was on Atlantis with special permission to bid for objets d'art for a consortium of TU museums. 'Unni Wiglan,' she had introduced herself as.
Robinson considered her for what she was likely to be worth. As high admiral he could have his pick of the Novan women at the reception, of course. On the other hand, although he had a taste for blonde women (that hair color having become rather rare on Earth), she really seemed so earnestly dull that he wasn't quite sure that the no-doubt enjoyable use of her body could quite make up for the torment of having to listen to her talk afterwards. With mixed feelings, he decided, No, it really wouldn't be worth it.
Robinson simply asked, 'And what do you think we can do about it?'
Which question ended that discussion, as well as short-circuited any discussions in the immediate future that might have been of a more pleasant nature.
It was a good question, actually, the high admiral later reflected in his ashore quarters. What can I do about it? Options? Hmmm.
A. I nuke the planet. It'll cost me the fleet and Atlantis Base-no big deal since I don't have a family here, and I could make sure I was safe and away before we struck-but at least I can still nuke them. Set them back… oh… maybe four or five hundred years. Then they come looking for Earth.
B. Get the Novans to nuke each other. Not hard but they'll probably nuke my fleet, too, on general principle. The FSC would, for a certainty; bastards can hold a grudge. So they nuke each other and us. Sets them back also four or five hundred years. Then they build a fleet and come looking for Earth.
C. Leave things alone. Within one hundred years my fleet is a worn- out ruin. Within one hundred years the Novans are more than capable of launching their own ships. Then they come looking for Earth.
D. Change Earth. Not going to happen. Half the reason they sent me here, instead of leaving me home, was that I was even capable of thinking about changing Earth. History ended there and the Consensus doesn't want it to start up again. Besides, what would we do with half a billion educated, industrialized, militarized proles? Ugly thought, that is. And if the wretches started to actually think?
E. Change Terra Nova. But how…
The auction went well, a beneficiary of Terra Nova's cosmopolitan upper class's newfound fetish for the luxuries of Old Earth. With what the serfs on Atlantis could grow, Robinson had enough to feed his fleet for another few decades, and even to buy-under the table- most or even all of the parts and fuel he needed. It put him into rather a good mood, actually, an especially good mood when he considered the portion, twenty percent of the auction's proceeds, that was his by right as the high admiral of the fleet.
So good was Robinson's mood that he was even willing to listen to Unni Wiglan, the commissioner for culture from the Tauran Union.
'I was thinking about your question, High Admiral,' the leggy blonde said between sips of champagne. 'I admit, I was a little shocked at it. I am, all we cosmopolitan progressives are, so used to thinking of Earth-its advanced social development, technology and culture-as being so superior to what we have that it sometimes comes as a surprise that you are not omnipotent.'
Robinson shrugged. 'Earth is very far down the road,' he said, without mention of whether that road was the right one or not. From his point of view things were pretty good; worth upholding and defending, in any case. Would he have felt the same if he'd been born a prole, forced to eke out a living from the soil or burrow in its depths for ore or freeze on the fishing boats that dotted Earth's oceans? Would he still think so if, instead of his own potential five hundred or more year lifespan, he knew he would have been extraordinarily lucky to reach even an eighth of that? Would he think so if, instead of being able to bed lissome blondes like this one, he had to share his bed with some toothless prole crone? Somehow he doubted it.
'Yes,' Unni agreed. 'That's precisely it. Earth is far down the road that Terra Nova should be on, but isn't. The reason we aren't is the damned Federated States. By looting the world, by taking a totally unfair share of its resources, by exploiting the poor, the Federated States are able to make a more proper system, one like Earth has, seem inefficient. So, other nations here-doesn't that word make you ill, High Admiral? 'Nations?' As if there could be any nation but the nation of Humanity-follow the FSC's lead. And we can't make any progress here on Terra Nova at all while the FSC stands in the way.'
'I am not sure what I can do about it though, my dear Unni.' Sure. Why not make the slight effort to remember the bimbo's name? Costs nothing and might pay, as long as she doesn't insist on talking afterwards.
'I can do something about it,' interrupted a dark man who had slid up unnoticed.
Robinson looked over at the newcomer. Then he looked up… and up.
The man was tall, nearly two meters in height. In front was a long, untrimmed beard, half gone to gray, that hung to his waist. His head was covered with a checked cloth, held in place by a retaining band made of cylindrical beads interspersed with spherical ones of gold. Robinson thought the cylindrical beads might be of some precious stone, though he could not immediately identify it.
'I can do something about it,' the dark man repeated. 'I am Mustafa ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana, emir of the Ikhwan.'
'Oh, Mustafa, piss off, won't you?' said Unni. 'You've tried that trick with the FSC so many times and nothing has come of it.'
'Silence, infidel houri,' Mustafa commanded. 'I lacked the means. The high admiral can give me those means.'
Wiglan stiffened under the insult. Robinson made a moue. He asked, 'What 'means?' And what is this Ikhwan of which you are… the leader?'
'The Ikhwan is the Brotherhood, the Brotherhood of true believers,' Mustafa answered. 'What we need are nuclear weapons. Give me a dozen such and I will break the FSC.'
'That, I am afraid,' Robinson answered, 'will never happen. Our weapons are identifiable as ours. And, while we could-and did-use them on the FSC in past days, those days are long past.'
'Then help me in other ways.'
Interlude
21 January, 2037, 51.716 AUs Out From Sol
The trickiest part had been the sail. It had to resist tearing, or be self-repairing, or be otherwise repairable, while also avoiding becoming overly charged, electrically. It had also to be very lightweight and highly reflective; the amount of propulsion provided by photons from the Sun and other sources striking the sail being very low except in the aggregate.
In the end, and after frightful expenditures, it was decided that self-repairing was too hard. The nanites that did effect repairs on the sail were not, strictly speaking, a part of it. They worked though, even in the vacuum of space and even while under bombardment by the sun's unfiltered rays. The sail was quite porous, the diameter of the pores being less than the wavelength of the light that forced the sails forward.
The mechanism for setting the sail was simplicity itself. Instead of a complex mechanical operation to raise
