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  “That won’t be necessary. You’ll be staying at Karederu,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The Vamori family compound,” Vaivan explained. “We have an obligation to you. And I’ll have two days to interview you and explain your job. As our advert said, we need a skilled pilot with military background…”

  “You presume I’ve accepted,” I observed cautiously, inwardly excited that I’d have the opportunity to be a guest in her home for the next two days. I really wanted to see a lot more of Vaivan Vamoru Teaq.

  “If you want to dicker, I’ll turn you over to my dickering brother, Alichin.”

  “I’m sorry. It just seems you’re being a bit presumptuous,” I admitted.

  She sighed. “I keep forgetting about Americans. You could be offered the best job in the world, one you’ve always dreamed about, and yet you’d want to investigate and discuss all the perks and fringes. The old employment game.”

  “You seem to have us all figured out,” I remarked.

  The Topawa-bound train was rolling smoothly and swiftly past irrigated farmlands that came right up to the right-of-way, and the coach was rocking just slightly at speed. Alichin Vamori hunched over and put his elbows on his knees, folding his hands before him.

  “Sandy, I know your ways, but I keep forgetting you don’t know ours. What do you know about our Commonwealth corporations?”

  “I hear Commonwealth firms are somewhat paternalistic. Seems you learned a few things from the Japanese.”

  “Some. We don’t own our companies outright any more than President Nogal owns the Commonwealth’s government corporation. We’re part-owners along with everyone else who works for the companies. We believe in a participative meritocracy. I like my position as Ell-Five manager for Comspat and Landlimo. It’s to my advantage to do my work well. If I don’t, I’m hurting only myself because I’m working for myself as well as for the company. This goes all the way up the line. Vaivan’s husband Wahak Teaq will remain Landlimo CEO only as long as he does his job. Otherwise, the stockholders will replace him,” Alichin Vamori explained over the quiet sounds of the speeding train.

  That’s why Vaivan had the Vamori family name plus the additional “Teaq.” I was decimated. Vaivan Vamoru Teaq was already married to the man who’d be my boss if I came to work for them.

  Alichin Vamori continued, “The world goes around only because people turn the crank on the industrial machine that makes it a place of plenty. Fifty years ago, we decided we’d do some cranking ourselves because it was the only way to make things better for everybody in this part of the world.”

  “Too bad the Ilkans and the Emirate don’t think so, too,” Omer Astrabadi pointed out.

  “When they get tired trying to take it from us,” Vaivan said, “they’ll discover it’s easier to trade than raid.”

  “Most of the rest of the world still has to learn that one!” Alichin put in savagely. “I found it out the hard way in Santa Fe!”

  “So I hear,” I said.

  “What do you know about the International Space Commerce Conference?”

  “Only what I saw on the telenews.”

  “That was distorted. The telenews networks are run by members of the Tripartite Coalition.”

  “Whoever runs them, they slant the news to suit their purposes. I learned always to look behind the headlines to find out who’s doing what to who and who’s getting paid for it,” I observed. “And if I’ve figured Santa Fe correctly, you’re going to need my military background more than my skill as a pilot.”

  “We don’t need any more military pilots,” Omer observed. “The Outland Brigade is at fullmanned strength—land, sea, air, and space.”

  “And we’re not at war,” Vaivan added.

  “You will be,” I told them flatly.

  Chapter 2

  The Killer at Karederu

  “I agree with you,” Vaivan Teaq replied, “and we may not have much time left to prepare for it, either.”

  Alichin Vamori looked quizzically at his sister. “Vaivan, who’d want to fight us except our neighbors? We can handle them.”

  Vaivan motioned to her twin brother to be silent, arose, and began to inspect the inside of the railway carriage compartment with a small plastic box.

  “Vaivan, you’re getting paranoid,” Alichin told her. “How could anyone bug this compartment? We selected it at random when we boarded.”

  “Ali, people get into trouble when they believe something’s impossible.” Vaivan completed her check, resumed her seat, then asked me pointedly, “All right, Sandy, what do you know about what’s going on?”

  I was riding in a private compartment with two armed people, both of whom I knew from recent experience were not loathe to use their weapons. I decided I’d better play it straight arrow if I wanted to leave the compartment alive. “I only know what I see and hear on the telenews. It seemed to me somebody was setting you up for a simple looting by economic pressure. Such measures often lead to armed conflict.”

  “I agree it’s the sort of stage they seem to be setting,” Alichin observed. “But that’s a long way from war.”

  “Armed conflict is among the consequences of failure of economic conflict. I can give you several historical examples where failed economic pressures resulted in armed conflict fought on the adversary’s terms by their puppets.”

  Vaivan inclined her exquisite head, crowned as it was by her mass of dark hair kept up off her neck and shoulders in the dry heat by jeweled clips of local design and motif. “It’s unusual for a warrior to have the sort of historical depth you seem to possess.”

  I sat back and folded my arms. “I’m United States Aerospace Force Academy Class of Forty-one.”

  “So? You’re an educated professional warrior.”

  “And something a bit more,” I tried to explain. It was obvious that the different culture of the Commonwealth would consider a soldier differently as well, so I wanted to clarify what Imeant. “The primary purpose of a military education in the United States isn’t the production of officers who can fight, although we’re taught to do that, too. It’s an education in the art of armed conflict—what causes one, how it starts, how to spot one that’s about to start, how to win it in a decisive manner if that’s the political goal, or how to prevail in a stand-off, Korean-type truce. From my education, I know that economic pressure is a classic precursor to armed conflict.”

  “Not always. Our Founders’ War didn’t start that way,” Alichin said. He paused, then went on, “We know what war is.”

  “Pardon me, I don’t think you do. You still call it ‘war.’ ”

  “What else is it?” Omer Astrabadi wanted to know.

  “There hasn’t been a war since the last one stopped in 1945 and everyone decided they weren’t going to fight wars any more. Since then it’s been called ‘armed conflict,’ ” I said.

  “You Americans play with words like Russians,” Omer observed distastefully.

  “I think we’ve considered all the consequences,” Alichin Vamori said. “I knew what I was doing when I walked out of the Space Commerce Conference. You’ll get the full story when I report tonight. Sandy, I’ll be interested in learning whether the facts cause you revise your conclusions.”

  I hadn’t accepted a position in any of the corporations run by these people, and yet they appeared willing to let me sit in on an internal briefing. “I don’t believe I’m working formally with you yet, and I haven’t taken a security oath.”

  “I did some checking before we invited you to the Commonwealth,” Vaivan said. “Most people are aware of military intelligence activities, but few know of the commercial intelligence networks. It would be impossible to do business without them. But whether you accept a position with Landlimo or not, you’re our personal guest at Karederu.”

  “You don’t have to accept our hospitality,” Alichin explained. “If you decide this isn’t for you, you can be on your way home this evening.”

&nb
sp; In spite of the fact that I was getting all the wrong signals because of a cultural gap, I was growing to like these people. They had audacity. They were certain to get into trouble with the rest of the world. I tried to apologize. “Please pardon me. I’m still an American in my world view.”

  “I know that,” Alichin Vamori said.

  “You seem insecure and defensive,” Vaivan remarked in an offhanded manner and then asked politely, “Perhaps you might like to tell me about the situation leading to your retirement from the United States Aerospace Force.”

  I shrugged. “The official documents say one thing, but what happened was something else. I was there; the investigating officers weren’t. And they never told me it was classified. So what have I got to lose? I was on routine proficiency flight in a Space Hawk, flight plan and beacon code all tickety-boo with both Cheyenne Mountain and Wichita Space Traffic Control Center. Nothing for anyone to get suspicious about, but the Soviets probably had some bad intelligence. A Black Bear space cruiser began tailing me. When he stopped tracking and pinned targeting lidar on me, my gut reaction told me I’d better do unto him what he was about to do unto me. I zanged and shot…and watched him burn-in over Kergulen Island.”

  “Good for you, Sandy! The Black Bear was provoking you! Standard procedure in the Kosmonautika,” Omer said with a grin, his white teeth showing under his mustache that stood straight out on both sides of his face.

  “No, it wasn’t good for me. It made the State Department unhappy, and they made the Aerospace Force very unhappy. Seems I’d violated Standing Order Romeo prohibiting aggressive action without provocation. The current U.S. foreign policy is conciliatory towards the Soviet Empire. Live and let live…if you don’t get shot first. So to placate the Soviets, I was permitted to resign/retire.”

  “Bojemoi!” Omer muttered in disgust.

  Alichin Vamori put in after a moment of silence, “Sounds like a flimsy excuse for dismissing an officer they’d spent a lot of time and money educating and training.”

  “The United States is extremely sensitive about military space activities,” I explained.

  “Both nations have enough stuff stashed in Earth orbit to wipe out the other’s space facilities. If that happened, the door would be open for the earth-launched thermonuclear strikes that are prevented by space laser facilities. And everyone’s worried about the Chinese who’ve elected to retain their inscrutability. Look at it this way: What’s cheaper, one man, or an armed conflict? Or haven’t you been aware of American foreign policy for most of this century?”

  “I’m aware of it,” Alichin said. “But why didn’t you fight in defense of what you did? The Aerospace Force might have backed off because of the publicity.”

  “My career was finished anyway. I won’t fly a keypad at Boondock Aerospace Force Base, Alaska…or be a ‘professor of military science and tactics’ at Alcatraz Military Academy for young hellions. The Aerospace Force doesn’t really want tigers. They allowed me to ‘voluntarily resign with honor.’ You can’t fight Headquarters.”

  Except for the well-muffled sounds of the wheels rolling on the rails, there was silence in the compartment for a moment before Alichin Vamori said, “You’ll be working for us Monday morning.”

  The quiet, swaying coach ride changed. The train began to slow as it pulled into the Topawa yards. “He’s already on the payroll,” Vaivan remarked. “If he doesn’t want the position, he’ll be paid for today in any event.”

  “But I haven’t done any work!” I objected.

  “I recall a recent incident on a railway platform,” Ali said.

  “Debts are always paid,” Vaivan added.

  I liked the dry heat of the Commonwealth, but I was wearing the blue slacks and blue shirt of my old uniform along with an ancient blazer that was too heavy for this weather. Having just returned from a colder part of the world, Ali wore American business garb. Vaivan, on the other hand, was attired in an open-weave loose cotton tunic in light colors. I’d have to buy suitable clothes, but I didn’t yet know what kind because the Commonwealth’s climate was so varied.

  The intertropical convergence zone kept the storm tracks north in January, leading to a warm and dry winter season in Topawa and the coastal plains. But it was quite different in the Dilkon Range whose resorts offered some of the best all-year skiing to be found anywhere. Many people carried skis in the hot Topawa railway station.

  A large alky van met us, driven by a man whom I envied greatly: Vaivan’s husband Wahak Vaya Teaq. He gave an initial impression of being a nice guy, but he seemed introverted. Maybe he was just a quiet person. Certainly he must have something on the ball to snare a prize like Vaivan. He wore a Commonwealth pig-sticker at his waist, but he didn’t look like he’d use it.

  I wasn’t eager to find out. These people’s apparent acceptance of personal combat wasn’t my cup of tea. I preferred technological fighting: man and machine against man and machine at a distance, and may the best systems manager win.

  There was only family small talk among them as we drove through the streets of Topawa. It was a fascinating capital city. It didn’t look or feel like any low-tech city I’d ever seen.

  In the first place, Topawa was clean, bright, and a mixture of old and new.

  There were a lot of people walking. They were a mixture of racial and subracial types—Hindus, turbaned Sikhs, Arabs with and without their traditional kaftans and haiks, Mediterranean types, Negroes, Orientals, and Caucasians. Some women, probably Muslim, were veiled. It was obvious that the people of the United Mitanni Commonwealth were a mixture of nearly every humanoid type on Earth.

  The same hybridization was evident in the architecture of the buildings. Some showed the influence of past European colonizers—the Portuguese, French, Germans, and British, although not in that order and for varying amounts of time dependent upon the spoils of European warfare. Some were built of an interesting intermix of native red sandstone and the abundant steel and glass produced in the UMC. A few looked new with lacy and airy structures made from space-produced composite materials.

  The streets were laid out square with the world as in most western American cities, the work of a surveying crew rather than a herd of cattle. Various vehicles ran in the wide, straight streets—alcars, fotofuellers, and electric trolley cars. The vehicular traffic was disciplined; the Commonwealthers actually did lane driving. I saw no human- or animal-drawn vehicles. There were a few automated traffic signals but most traffic was directed by a human policeman in the middle of the intersection.

  Some of the Commonwealth’s factories were probably highly automated in order to produce competitive goods in the world market. But in other nooks and crannies of the culture, people were used instead of machines. The Commonwealth had a population of about three million, and one of the national problems would be finding work for everyone because of the Commonwealth rule: Everybody works at something because there is a lot of work to be done.

  I’d been told that in the Commonwealth you worked unless you were a tourist, visitor, or guest. The Commonwealthers were known for taking good care of their sick and infirm by family means if possible and by charities otherwise. They’d deliberately eshewed most of the trappings of the welfare states. I began to understand their emphasis on family ties.

  Karederu was situated on the low bluff on the south side of the Topawa River valley in which the city nestled. It didn’t have a wall, but any unwanted visitor would have to get through the thick vegetation around it. Inside, the spread of about a hundred hectares seemed more like the suburban subdivisions of the old American metroplexes.

  There was a brief discussion between Ali and Vaivan spiced with terms in their old Gallo language concerning familial relationships. It was finally settled that Ali would be my host since he was yet unmarried and had a spare room.

  “Seems like a rather large estate,” I said, looking around at the open land with small cottages located so they were private dwellings.

  “Th
at’s the wrong word,” Ali told me. He picked up his bag and began to walk toward the nearest cottage. “Karederu is a concession to the old life style. Each family unit has its own dwelling. We’ll go over to the Center about sunset for dinner.”

  Alichin’s place was a small, self-contained home. He tossed his bag into a room, told me to pick a room for myself and toss my bag there, then switched on the cottage electronics.

  I was suddenly tired, exhausted, fatigued, and somewhat nauseated. “I feel lousy, Ali. Probably my circadian.”

  “I was on the same flight from Denver and Paris, so my circadian rhythm’s in sad shape, too,” Ali admitted. “A short nap with subliminal circadian reprogramming will take care of it.”

  I had the mental discipline to handle the disoriented semi-confusion of circadian asynchronization because of my space experience. But this was different.

  Through the nausea that was beginning to wipe out everything else in my mind, I suddenly knew what was happening.

  “Ali! Turn off your electric power! Grab the main switch! Hurry!”

  He took three steps and fell on his face.

  I stumbled and finally crawled toward an electrical distribution and switching box on the far wall of the kitchen…and got to it just before the nausea overwhelmed me completely.

  With practically my last bit of strength and will, I pulled the main switch.

  The nausea disappeared immediately.

  When I opened the panel, I found what I’d suspected. I pulled the little plastic box out, ripping loose the two wires that connected it to the mains. When I staggered back to the main room, Ali was sitting up and holding his head.

  “You okay?” I wanted to know.

  “Yes. What was it?”

  I held up the little black box. “Somebody planted a Killer ERG here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Earth resonance generator. I don’t know where this one came from. There’re no markings on it. It’s top secret in America. The Aerospace Force uses them to protect sensitive facilities. It modulates the terrestrial magnetic field in the vicinity. I don’t know how since I didn’t have a ‘need to know.’ It can kill in minutes by disrupting neural activity.”Ali held out his hand. “Vaivan’s technicians will want to have a look at it.”