CHAPTER FOUR
I have never managed to lose my old conviction that travel narrows the mind.
—Gilbert Keith Chesterton,
What I saw in America
Admiral’s Barge, over the Mar Furioso, Terra Nova
The UEPF Spirit of Peace was a bright, sunlit spark behind her. Ahead was Wallenstein’s destination, Xing Zhong Guo, or New Middle Kingdom. This was the last significant state on the planet to officially adhere to a variant of Tsarist-Marxism. Of course, in true Han fashion they didn’t call it that. Instead, they called it Enlightened Path to Perpetual Peace and Prosperity. Never mind that, as bloody-handed as Volga’s Red Tsar had been, he was a piker compared to the Zhong’s Huangdi, in terms of sheer volume of premature deaths by starvation or judicial murder. Never mind that, as far as prosperity went, the Zhong as individuals were among the poorest people on the planet.
Whatever “enlightened” means, thought the high admiral, I don’t think it means what the Zhong think it means.
Fortunately, Marguerite would not be meeting the reigning Huangdi. The Han Chinese had lost none of their sense of aggrieved cultural superiority in coming to the new world. Thus, for those meeting the emperor—largely a figurehead now but a much revered figurehead—kowtowing was a minimum requirement. Since, as a practical matter, the UEPF had outranked the Zhong since the planet was founded, and since some of its past high admirals had insisted on proskynesis from the barbarians below . . .
Well . . . better to just go along with what the diplomats worked out centuries ago, to just avoid the issue by keeping the two of us apart. Besides, if the SecGen of the Consensus, himself, rated neither proskynesis nor a blowjob from me, the local potentate sure as hell will not.
Wallenstein had to be discreet whenever she travelled to the surface for anything that might trip the weapons grade paranoia of the Federated States. No matter the government in power, progressive or federalist, on one matter the massively overwhelming bulk of the Federales were united; they detested utterly the Peace Fleet that had nuked two of their cities to ash. This might not have been so bad, except that the Federated States had the ability to nuke the UEPF and its base on the island of Atlantis, both, to ash. And all that kept them from doing so was the belief, wrong, in fact, that the UEPF could visit like destruction on the Federated States.
The only other state down below that hated the Peace Fleet as much, and for approximately the same reason, was Yamato which, after suffering through the loss of two cities, and being on the verge of surrender, had been bucked up by the reprisal visited on the Federated States, and thought better of surrender. Had they actually been able to achieve a satisfactory peace with the FSC, they might have felt differently. As it was, the Federated States Army and Navy had imposed a blockade of the Yamatan Islands, engaging and destroying anyone trying to flee, letting no food in, and destroying every vestige of food transportation network and storage they could find.
In the end, over twenty-million Yamatan civilians, mostly the very old and very young, had died of starvation and starvation-related causes. And then they’d surrendered, cursing to the depths of hell the Old Earthers whose actions had given them such deadly false hope.
Fortunately thought the high admiral, the Yamatans can’t hurt my fleet, so they can be safely ignored. Not so the FSC.
The high admiral’s travel plans were to visit the Zhong and entice their real government—to a man and woman selfish industrial feudalists masquerading as enlightened Tsarist-Marxists—to support the Tauran Union. Among those masqueraders, the alleged chief was the Zhong empress, herself. About her, beyond a name and a date of birth, which may have been falsified, there was amazingly little information available. Wallenstein wished desperately that she had more.
I don’t think it will be that hard, really. The high cadres probably don’t care a fig for the loss of a few thousand children to a Balboan submarine, but they’re quite annoyed at the loss of a major warship . . . an expensive major warship.
We’ll see what we’ll see though.
On the other side of the passenger compartment, the high admiral’s cabin girl, Esmeralda, slept with her head propped on a pillow set against the inside of the hull. In her one free hand was clasped a paperback Terra Novan novel she’d picked up back in Hotel Edward’s Palace, on the Island of Teixeira, Lusitania, in the Tauran Union. Wallenstein smiled indulgently at her brown and, it had to be admitted, beautiful assistant.
She used to turn so pale when she had to fly. Now it’s no big thing. How she’s grown since I was able to liberate her from the slavers at Razona Market. And if I hadn’t? That doesn’t bear thinking about. She jokes about becoming a big bowl of chili for Count Castro-Nyere’s dinner . . . but it’s not a joke. It could have happened. Imagine; my own system could have done that to the girl who is my child in everything but genetics. I could just . . .
Marguerite pushed the thought away before she did, indeed, throw up. Even so, her rising gorge threatened to spill over.
And wouldn’t that story make the rounds? How the high admiral got space sick? No, that would never do. That . . .
The shuttle began to shudder a bit as its extendable wings first bit into the thinly scattered hydrogen, helium, carbon dioxide, and atomic oxygen of the exosphere. The shuddering became somewhat more pronounced as it entered the thermosphere. Here the temperature of the atoms was on the order of forty-five hundred degrees, Fahrenheit. Despite this, and despite the speed of the barge, the external temperature remained quite cool. There simply weren’t enough atoms and molecules to transfer much heat or generate much friction.
Through the mesosphere the barge plunged, then into the stratosphere. Here the pilot fought to get his command into a normal cruising altitude of about twelve thousand meters. At that height the barge would stay until it had approached rather close to the Zhong capital of Choukoutien.
Choukoutien, Xing Zhong Guo, Terra Nova
Here, where secrecy was not so much needed, the admiral’s barge could come to rest right in the middle of the capital’s government complex. This was perhaps stylistically redolent of some of the Asian, and especially Chinese, architecture of Old Earth. Still, it was not much more than half the size of, for example, Beijing’s Forbidden City, and not so well walled or moated.
Secrecy’s not critical, thought Wallenstein, but that’s not to say it’s pointless. The Zhong, so says Khan the wife, are quite cozy with the Federated States, so I have to assume my presence here will be reported. That’s not too important. What is important is that my words and intentions not be reported. And the only way I can think of to do that is by circumlocution and misdirection. On that, the Zhong are old hands. Elder gods, however many or few you be, I ask your help in this.
With a scream of landing jets, the barge settled down onto the walled, cobblestoned courtyard that had been set aside since ages past for visits by the chief of the Old Earthers. This was the first time it had been used in over fifty years.
With a soft whine, Wallenstein’s barge let down its side ramp and hatch. The barge shifted almost imperceptibly as the coming to rest of the loading ramp relieved the off-center weight on that side.
Li An Ming, whose name could arguably have been translated as, “Strong Proud Bright,” met Wallenstein at the ramp to her barge. He wore xuanduan, or formal dress, consisting primarily of a dark blue, knee length robe, over a red overlong kilt, with various ties, a white belt, a sash, and other accoutrements. The Zhong courtier was on his way into full kowtow when she stopped him, or tried to.
“There is no time for that,” Marguerite, “and it doesn’t do a thing for me, anyway.”
The Zhong, though she knew he spoke English, ignored her completely, dropping to his knees and then bending over to tap his head three times on the cobblestones of the ad hoc landing pad. Li An Ming arose from his kowtow smoothly, as from long practice.He offered neither apology nor explanation, though the lack was an explanation of sorts: I am Han. We have our ways. They suit us. We will not change.
Mentally sighing, Marguerite thought, Not my job to try to change a culture that hasn’t changed all that much in about four or five thousand years.
“The emperor is indisposed,” said Li An Ming, “so you will be meeting with the empress.”
Wallenstein nodded. This was a fiction of long standing. The emperor was most likely just fine, but it was possible for the Empress to kowtow to the chief of the UEPF, male or female, without it meaning subordination of the country.
“Lead on,” she said.
Turning, Li An Ming began walking slowly toward a stone wall pierced by a red painted door, flanked by two life-sized stone statues, one bearing a battle axe and the other a mace. A bowing servant waited until Li An Ming had subtly maneuvered Wallenstein and the accompanying Esmeralda into their proper positions, then opened the door. After they had passed, the servant closed it behind them with exquisite delicacy.
The position Wallenstein was supposed to take, under current court etiquette, was well ahead of her escort. Since she didn’t know the way this was impossible. Thus, the only position both practical and at least minimally polite was for her to be a mere few inches ahead, where Li An Ming could guide her by subtle gestures.
Past the door, a long corridor opened up, with each side bearing nine weapons mounted in or hanging from racks. Some of these Wallenstein didn’t recognize. Most, however, were not so different from their Old Earth, European counterparts. She recognized, for example, along the left wall, a saber, a straight sword, a battle-ax, a halberd, a trident, and a mace, but found three others more or less incomprehensible. The other wall was slightly stranger, with five weapons that had no obvious Old Earth, Euro equivalents.
This was, I imagine, to impress my predecessors in command that the Zhong were perfectly willing to fight, with little more than their bare hands, if necessary, to prevent domination by the Class Ones of Old Earth.
At the far end of the corridor, another servant opened another door, revealing only a stone wall on the far side. Li An Ming was there, however, to indicate by a sweep of his arm a piece of art that he wanted her to see, and which also indicated the proper direction.
“And over here, High Admiral, is a painting alleged to have been done by Ma Lin thirteen hundred years ago, and which my Divine Emperor’s servant was able to acquire from your predecessor in command—how saddened we all were to hear of his death at the hands of the barbarians of Balboa!—at auction . . .”
Marguerite barely contained her smile at the memory of avenging herself on ex-High Admiral Robinson.
Xingzhen, empress of the Zhong had borne the emperor a son. This had not been the first child of the emperor, not nearly. Some discreet sabotage, an occasional poisoning, the odd duel; these had made her child eldest, and the future emperor.
And, my child, thought Xingzhen, I shall certainly ensure that, when you wed, you do not get even one woman even remotely like me. I have ensured my lineage through you, but you must ensure my lineage through spreading your seed widely.
Mentally, the empress reviewed the little she knew about the soon arriving high admiral of the Old Earth fleet. It wasn’t much. Tall and blond . . . I like tall and blond. Pretty, say those who’ve seen or met her. That’s good, too. Reasonably large breasted, as my playmates here never are. I like that, too.
Hmmm . . . I wonder if I would be so attracted to women if I hadn’t been so much more of a man than the emperor proved to be?
Li An Ming opened the final door himself, standing back then to allow Marguerite to enter. She took a step in, then almost gasped; the empress was that beautiful, from her not quite boyish coif to her perfect eyebrows to her eyes which seemed about three times the size of a normal Zhong’s, to her pert nose to . . .
Even her feet are beautiful. Marguerite, who preferred boys to girls, if only slightly, practically swooned; the empress was that stunning.
The only thing that ruined it was the fact that the empress knelt and tapped her head on the polished wooden floor. Even there, though, Wallenstein could sense, in fact she could practically smell, It’s a show. This one is stronger than any man she knows. She is steel. She can make me . . . crap, how I need a break from being in charge.
And when the empress arose from her kowtow, turning those three times too large to resist eyes on the high admiral?
It’s not only her eyes that are three times bigger . . .
“Esma, honey, could you wait outside with our escort? I really need to talk to the Empress alone.”
No doubt Wallenstein thought, at the moment, that she was being discreet. Esmeralda, however, thought, She sounds just like Richard when I open my quarters door for him or go to his, while Li An Ming thought, simply, Perfect, before gently closing the door.
“Would you care for something to eat, Miss?” Li An Ming asked, all smiles—they seemed genuine to the girl now, as they had not before—and politeness.“I think the empress and the high admiral will be deep in conversation for quite some time.”
At that, Esma almost laughed. That the courtier did laugh suggested that the double entendre was not unwitting.
“We have a concept,” said Li An Ming, “that is very difficult to translate into your tongue. This is guanxi, which is often translated to mean something like, ‘relationship.’ It is more than that, though, and is well illustrated by a saying, which I would translate as, ‘Relationships are more important than rules.’ Everyone in this part of our world understands this. Almost no one in certain other parts of the world does.”
“We don’t have the saying, as far as I know,” said Esmeralda, “but my society back on old Earth certainly understands the principle.” She had to work to keep out of her words her hatred of the society whereof she spoke.
“As do all civilized folk,” said the Zhong. “And right now, the high admiral and empress are cementing a relationship to the betterment of us all. Now, as I asked, would you care for something to eat?”
Esmeralda opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, then opened it again to say, “Please.”
Admiral’s Barge, over the Mar Furioso, Terra Nova
As it turned out, the Zhong empress, whose cheek rested against Wallenstein’s shoulder and whose hand the high admiral held in her own, was not just the emperor’s wife, nor even his chief wife. She ran the country, she and the hundred important families. He was a figurehead, nothing more.
Nor was the empress quite as young as she appeared. Though much younger than Wallenstein, she was of a certain age and looked a certain half of that.
And if ever I needed more evidence that people want in bed what they’re denied in real life, thought Marguerite, what more than she and I could I ask for? I, who have to be so cold and commanding in public, wanting to be dominated in bed and made to perform; her, having to be so demure in public, needing to dominate in bed and make me perform . . . well, me for now, anyway. Though I would not mind making it long term.
Unconsciously, Marguerite squeezed Xingzhen’s hand, then twisted her own head to kiss the top of the empress’s. Xingzhen, quite asleep, still managed to cuddle in closer.
Not entirely idly, Wallenstein wondered if she were in love. Lust? Yes, clearly I’m in lust. And after so long without so much as a hint of sex I was more than ready. But love? In love? At my age? Why . . . it’s been . . . let me think . . . ummm . . . a hundred and sixty-two years? About that. Surely I can’t be in love. Surely . . .
Even so, she reached up with her free hand to stroke the Zhong empress’s silky-smooth, midnight black hair.
Shit. Yes . . . maybe . . . in love. Shit. Oh, nonononono. It was bad enough the last time . . . and I have no reason whatsoever to think she feels anything like the same way. Oh, elder gods, that’s slavery. A subbie I may be—at least in private—but I am not a slave. Shit.
“Passing over the coast of Santa Josefina, High Admiral,” announced the pilot of her barge, over a speaker in the passenger cabin. “Arrival in Aserri in about seventeen minutes.”
Esmeralda sat on the opposite side of the cabin from Wallenstein, where she usually did. She sat alone, though Li An Ming was behind her, as were nine very competent looking Zhong guards. She had reason to suspect that four of the oldest guards were much higher ranking than they pretended to be.
It had apparently been the empress’s idea, to call a peace conference in Aserri to which Santa Josefina, Balboa, the Federated States, the Tauran Union, and the Peace Fleet would be invited. Some Zhong diplomats were already en route, as were various functionaries for the FSC and TU. Wallenstein had tasked the Consensus’s ambassador to Santa Josefina to set it up and run it.
The Balboans hadn’t yet answered, a lack which had raised quite a broad grin on Xingzhen’s angelic face.
“They can’t come,” she’d told the high admiral, before it became obvious that they would not come. “Or at least not without a lot of soul searching. They’re just a regime of soldiers, comfortable and competent on a battlefield, yes, but quite uncomfortable off of one, or on one that doesn’t involve direct violence. And if they don’t come, they can’t make their case before the world. They’ll be ‘Warmongers who prefer fighting to talking peace.’ Trust me, this is going to hurt them.”
The high admiral had seen the truth of that. She’d also seen that the same logic applied in part to the Federated States. Hate the Peace Fleet as they might, they could not go on record as objecting to a conference that might lead to peace. Hence the open flight rather than the usual series of cutaways and deceptions.
Esmeralda closed her book and put it away in her bag. Of the five given to her by the Balboan agent, Khalid, she’d brought two with her. She was reading it not for the story, which she found deadly dull, and not for the illustrations, but to familiarize herself to places where she was more likely to find certain key words she would need to make the simple code Khalid had given her work.
But I can contact them, thought Esmeralda. And it’s just possible they might send someone to contact me.
Hotel Cielo Dorado, Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Things like major conferences for international peace or the end to specific national wars rarely happen instantly. This is especially true when those calling the conference don’t really have an interest in working for peace nearly so great as they do in coordinating a war. Thus, while the Balboans were engaged in figuring out how to avoid the conference while maintaining the patina of aggrieved victim of Tauran imperialism, and while sundry TU diplomats and bureaucrats made their travel arrangements, for themselves, their wives, and their lovers . . . and sometimes all three . . . or four . . . while General Marciano arranged for a couple of companies of infantry and a company of military police for security, and while the Earthers’ ambassador arranged contracts, the people who mattered, the de facto ruler of Xing Zhong Guo, the high admiral of the Peace Fleet, and—to his considerable surprise—the chief military officer of the Tauran Union Defense Agency, General Janier, met early.
“I really don’t understand why they haven’t removed me,” said Janier, to Wallenstein, over dinner one night. “Did you . . . ?”
“No,” Wallenstein admitted. “Oh, I would have put in a word if I’d thought of it, but I was in a blue funk until well after it became obvious that you weren’t going anywhere.”
“Then why? How? I don’t—”
“They can’t admit a mistake,” said Xingzhen, more politically astute than either of her co-diners. “They can’t allow anything but the appearance of perfection. If you are relieved they have to admit something bad happened. Oh, it obviously did happen, but as long as the reality is denied with a straight face then it didn’t. Admit the truth? That would mean their perfect world, their perfect illusion of a perfect world, was a lie.”
“Oh,” said Marguerite.
“Makes sense, I suppose,” admitted Janier. “At least as much as anything else in the fantasy of the Tauran Union makes sense.”
Clever bitch, this slant-eyed bit of perfection, thought the Gaul.
“It’s a fantasy world now,” Marguerite agreed. “That’s why you always needed, and still need, a successful war. There’s no other way, pious platitudes aside, to make a real, rather than a fantasy, country.”
Esmeralda hadn’t been invited to dinner. She didn’t want to be there anyway. Instead, she had first checked the e-mail address and password for the account Khalid had given her, then encoded a brief message using one of the books she’d brought. The hotel had had a business center, but it was too open and she was afraid she’d be seen. She asked the front desk for some help and, given whose party she was in company with, they’d found her a free computer at an empty desk in a small office. From there she’d logged in to the e-mail, opened the draft coded message from the Balboans, then typed in her own message, and signed out of the account.
Legionary Recruiting Station, Cedral Multiplex Shopping Mall, Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Sergeant Morales, recruiter and transportation coordinator for the legion for the foreign city of Aserri, didn’t quite know what to make of them, the five key members of the Tsarist-Marxist Party of Santa Josefina who had entered the recruiting station uninvited and without an appointment. On the other hand, he didn’t, for the nonce, have anything better to do so, why not? Just because we’re opposed doesn’t mean we can’t speak together.
Opposed? Yes. It wasn’t that the Timocratic Republic of Balboa was without serious streaks of socialism; indeed, it was in some ways quite heavily socialized. But the socialism of Balboa was, at core, in opposition to the man-as-malleable ethos of socialism, all forms of leftism, really, as they’d developed on two planets. Balboa and the legion didn’t try to change anybody, though they certainly fertilized some soil for people to change themselves if they wished, and to self-select if they wished.
Conversely, the five people standing in front of Morales’ desk were convinced that, given enough training and education, enough propagandization and relentless bloody nagging, along with the power to remove the inequities and inequalities of all the rotten societies of the planet, they could, nearly anyone could, make of man exactly what they wished.
“May I help you gentlemen?” asked Sergeant Morales, though they struck him as young and scruffy. University weasels, I imagine. “Did you come to join up?”
“No,” said the central and senior one of the five. He introduced himself as, “Ernesto Gonzalo,” and his companions as, “The steering committee for the “Popular Front for the Liberation of Santa Josefina.”
First I’ve heard of this crew, thought Morales.
“And we won’t be part of some perversion of socialism,” Gonzalo announced. “We demand the real thing. But first we demand that the Taurans get the fuck out.”
“And?” Morales queried, with an eyebrow raised. “What? Do you want us to invade?”
“No,” said Gonzalo, obviously appalled at the thought. “But we could use some money and some ability to do some printing. And maybe a little advice.”
“I’ll get back with you,” said the sergeant. After all, how often does one find a band of scruffy, bearded, university student who are willing to ask for, and maybe even take, advice?