“Do you have any interest in attending an Enlisted Man’s summit?” I asked Freeman.
He shook his head. He looked down on politicians and general officers every bit as much as they looked down on him. “I have a plane waiting on that cruiser,” he said.
“What are you going to do next?” I asked.
“Same as you, I’m getting ready for Terraneau,” he said.
I laughed, and said, “It sounds like you’re out to save humanity.”
He did not answer.
I went to the little stateroom at the back of the shuttle and changed out of my armor before meeting with Warshaw. I showered, shaved, and put on a fresh uniform. By the time I came out, Freeman was long gone.
No one came to greet me as I came off the shuttle. I left the landing bay and found my way to the fleet deck; only with Warshaw in charge, it was more than a fleet deck—it was the seat of an empire.
One of Warshaw’s lieutenants interrupted the summit to let him know that I had arrived. About thirty minutes later, having called a brief recess, Warshaw and his entourage came out to greet me.
“General Harris, the man of the hour,” Warshaw said, giving me a rare salute. “A lot of people are still alive because of you.”
He looked tired. His eyes were red, and dark blotches showed on his cheeks. His broad shoulders were tight and as straight across as a board.
I tried to despise Warshaw for the genocide of the Double Y clones, but in my heart I doubted myself. I had mixed feelings. He had disposed of them in a way that was heartless, logical, and efficient. I would not have disposed of them that way; and the Enlisted Man’s Empire would have paid the price for my inability to act. In this instance, Warshaw was not my moral inferior; he was simply more courageous than me.
He guided me into the meeting room. Admirals came and shook my hand. The greetings were cordial, but the smiles did not last long.
“We need to get back to the negotiations,” Warshaw said.
“What negotiations?” I asked.
“I would have thought that was obvious,” he said, a frigid edge in his voice. “You saw what happened down there.”
The tiny drops of sweat on his shaved head reflected light like a coat of wax. He tried to wipe them away, but the perspiration was too fine. He wore his dress whites, with all of its stars and medals and epaulets. Even tired and frustrated, he cut an impressive figure, his bodybuilder’s physique stressing every inch of his stiff white uniform.
“Life as we know it just ended,” he said. “The Unifieds are talking about resurrecting the old Cousteau undersea cities programs. They think we might be able to survive this storm if we go underwater.”
I vaguely remembered learning about the Cousteau program. When the United States and its allies began colonizing space, the old French government turned its eyes toward deep-sea exploration. The program lasted a couple of years before the French gave up and signed on with the Americans.
“Rebuilding those cities could take years, maybe decades,” I said.
“You got any better ideas?” Warshaw asked.
I wasn’t challenging him, but he crushed me just the same. I felt rage spreading through me, then I realized it was embarrassment. I did not have any better ideas. I stood there wishing I could fade away.
“Looks like we’re rejoining the Unified Authority. Earth is the only planet that never got invaded. The aliens will go there last; hopefully, we can get everyone underwater by then.
“Welcome to the future, Harris; it’s just like the goddamned past.”
I stood there, silent and frustrated.
Warshaw studied my expression, and finally said, “This is a negotiation, not a war council. I can’t bring you in, I just wanted to thank you for what you did on Olympus Kri. You gave us a fighting chance, but it’s over now.”
The words stung because I knew he was right.
“I need to get to Terraneau,” I said.
“You’re going to warn them?” Warshaw asked.
“They’re next,” I said.
“I hear you had a girl on that rock,” Warshaw said. “Hollingsworth says you hooked up with Ava Gardner.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said, already anxious to leave.
“How are you going to get there?” he asked. “I can’t give you the
He was right, of course. None of the reactivated broadcast stations were programmed to send me out to Terraneau. I would need a self-broadcasting ship. “I’ll find a way,” I said.
Warshaw smiled and shook his head. “You’re on your own with Terraneau. It’s not part of our empire.” Then he signaled for an aide to join our conversation. “McGraw, the general needs a broadcast key.”
The aide was an old man. He gave me a surprised glance, then said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
“A broadcast key?” I asked.
“You’re going to need a key if you’re going to get that shuttle you’re flying to Terraneau,” Warshaw said. He started to leave, then turned back, and added, “You be careful with that key, Harris. I only issue them to fleet commanders …and now to you. God knows you’ve earned it.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. The man was a prick. The man was a bastard. The man was a savior.
Warshaw gave me a weak salute, and said, “Good luck.” With that, I seemed to dematerialize before him. He turned away as if I weren’t there and began speaking with the officers in his entourage.
“General, perhaps we should get going, sir,” the petty officer said. He was an older man, a veteran sailor with white hair to show for decades of service.
I nodded.
We took a lift down into Engineering. From there, we wound our way into the arcane maze of high-tech specialists, where sailors who worked on weapons systems, communications, and life-support systems maintained their offices. The door to Broadcast Engineering stood out; that was the door with armed guards on either side of it. Warshaw’s aide showed the guards his badge, and they let us through.
We entered, and the petty officer went to a computer and filled out the requisition protocol. It took twenty minutes.
Broadcast Engineering looked like a mediaLink repair shop. A workbench littered with parts and tools ran along one of the walls. The lights were so bright they dried my eyes. A half dozen men worked here, all of them sitting on tall stools and gazing through magnifying lenses as they tinkered with circuit boards. Everyone in the room, of course, was a clone.
When McGraw finished typing out the request, he hit the SEND button, then called across the room, “Baxter, I just sent you a high-priority requisition.”
“Got it,” Baxter yelled back.
They were joking around. They were sitting less than thirty feet apart and could have whispered to each other. Once Baxter saw the requisition, however, he became serious. He climbed from his stool and walked over to McGraw. “Why in the world would Warshaw issue a broadcast key to a Marine? Does this guy even have clearance to be up here?”
“All I can say is that Magilla gave me the order,” the petty officer said.
“Shit. You’re kidding.”
The old petty officer shook his head.
I don’t know what I expected a broadcast key to look like, maybe a torpedo or some other projectile that I would fire into the broadcast zone. When the sailor returned, he handed me a palm-sized box no bigger than a candy bar.
“And a book,” McGraw told Baxter.
The sailor sighed and went to fetch the book.
The key was a tiny touch screen, an unimpressive trinket that would fit in your pocket without making a bulge. The book was three inches thick and lined in black leather. The petty officer took the book, handed it to me, and said, “General, sir, you now hold the key to the empire.”
