April 4: A Different Perspective (3 page)

"I heard about the lawsuit some of them filed. I understand their motives," April agreed, "and most of the accusations seem entirely accurate, but I wish they hadn't named President Wiggen on that list of defendants. In talking to the woman she is one of the few USNA politicians who doesn't irrationally hate our guts. I doubt the woman had anything to do with, or was even
aware
of, the oppressive atmosphere at Armstrong."

"I hear what you are saying. Wiggen is one of the few things we have going for us, keeping Home and North America from war again and yet they have a point. If she didn't know about it, she did have a responsibility to know what her government was doing. If her underlings hid things and kept them from her, well, it is her responsibility to keep that from happening, if she is really in charge."

"You may regret setting such a high standard for yourself," April pointed out. "As Queen of the Moon, you have a lot of head-strong, smart subjects there already. Are you really going to be able to keep them from slipping something past you ?" This was the first talk they'd had about Heather's new position.

"I'm not Queen of the Moon," Heather assured her, refusing to be baited. "I am Sovereign of The Center of the Moon, which is a very limited thing and administrator of the Central Lunar Ranches. I advised them against this very suit, but they did not take all my advice. I will not limit my subjects' freedom to file in other jurisdictions, although I agree with you about Wiggen. If you hadn't been a trip wire on your recent trip down to Earth and precipitated the Patriot Party coup attempt before they were ready, I doubt we'd be worrying about Wiggen. She'd have been dead by now."

"My advice," April volunteered,  "is to get everything you can from the Earthies while she is in power. We really don't know what is coming after her. and it wouldn't surprise me if they try again, so you might not have a couple years. If you can get a write-off of the rovers and stuff they took, I'd think about dropping at least some of the terms of the complaint in turn. If you can get real freedom for the folks left behind in Armstrong who didn't escape that's the biggie isn't it?"

"I'd think so. If they all insist on being vindictive it will disappoint me. I'm going to quote you about yielding on some points, if Armstrong reciprocates. You don't seem to realize it but they respect you."

"Do they respect me or Dame Lewis?" April asked darkly.

"Now April, be reasonable," Heather pleaded."If something happens to me I want to give both Jeff and you the authority to have a say in what happens to Central. If it were a corporate structure I'd have named you to the board as officers. If it were a legal partnership I'd have named you as junior partners. It's a sovereignty, so you are named as peers, as are my first subjects and heads of household Dakota and Ted. Do you suddenly have some irrational hatred of monarchies? I seem to remember you heartily recommending involving the King of Tonga to me as a partner in this adventure. Did he mistreat you when you lifted through Tonga that you've changed your mind?"

"It's just a general feeling I've picked up from history lessons and things people say, that monarchies are outdated and tend to end up harsh, despotic. The object of bad jokes about 'Off with their head' and such. I feel uncomfortable being identified with one."

"If you see me being despotic I'm sure you won't be shy to tell me. In fact if you just see me being
stupid
I'd really appreciate your saying so."

"So, we don't have to wear funny clothes or do any rituals in your kingdom?" April asked.

"Absolutely not. It's a responsibility not a privilege. In fact, nobody is obligated to address people by their titles. If somebody addresses you as Dame Lewis it will be because they respect you and want to."

"Or because they want to be sarcastic and know they can get my goat that way."

"In which case it is political expression I dare not stifle," Heather asserted.

"Great," April agreed, grinding her teeth. "How benevolent of you."

"I think April is right about one thing though," Jeff spoke back up. "It's to the good for now that President Wiggen stays in power and whatever small influence we have on Earth we should hope she remains and do anything we can to encourage that. We have no agents in place, so we are sort of at the mercy of people like those two lieutenants you had rescued, whose agenda just happens to agree with ours. and that's kind of scary."

Chapter 4

Otis sat still after they landed, letting all the aggressive people who enjoyed jostling each other recover their things from the overhead and elbow their way to the door. The couple behind him were on their feet before the seat belt sign went out, pushing their young boy between them to squeeze past those recovering their things from the overhead.

When most of the crowd had cleared, he pulled on fresh sheer gloves. The increased spread of disease made them simply prudent, but he resisted wearing a mask or a nosie in public like many people did now. He recovered his one small carry-on and compact computer and made his way to the exit.

When he talked to the studio yesterday, they had insisted they would send a driver to meet him. He'd said they didn't have to bother, but he suspected they might ignore that, as they had repeated that they would be happy to pick him up. He refused to play - How many times must I tell you to mean it? Sure enough, there was a man in a chauffeur's outfit standing well back, holding a card that said - Duggan. He was looking concerned, probably because the plane was almost emptied.

"It's just one G in Dugan chief, but thanks anyway," he said holding the small case out for the flunky to carry.

"Yes sir, but, uh, close enough for government work," he said in the oddest stilted manner.

Otis looked around, wondering why the man stood so far from the exit.

"Dead spot for the cameras here," the fellow said at Otis' inspection, smug at how bright it showed him to be. "Would you follow me please?" he invited, turning away. Otis was hard put to keep the fellow in sight, as he was still stiff from sitting. But why did he care about cameras?

Outside the terminal, instead of meeting a car at the curb like he expected, they walked around the building, to a small lot for employees. The fellow looked back once, to see if Otis was following, but made no effort to let him catch up. Instead of a normal limo, or simply a full sized car, which so many businesses used now trying to look greener, they headed straight for a mildly stretched Jeep Dunestar. The big grey box had a driver behind the wheel already, which surprised Otis. The second man implied they were a security team instead of just a driver. Usually when people were hiring Safety Associates they were getting security for the first time, or expanding on very informal in-house arrangements. Otis wondered if they were replacing these men, or if the company would be asked to absorb them in their organization. He couldn't remember the contract addressing any existing personnel. The man didn't display any hostility, which was quite professional, if he was serving his soon-to-be replacement.

The fellow held the door for him and handed him his case as he entered. The interior was set up with seats front and rear facing each other, with the driver partitioned off. Even with the slight stretch it was cozy, although so wide three could sit without crowding on each bench. He hadn't expected anyone else would be sharing his ride, but there were two men already seated on the rear bench, so he took the front. He settled in and made polite eye contact with his companions. He was prepared to ask if they too had business with the studio, but one glance told him they were very tense and expectantly waiting to speak to him. How odd.

Whatever was going on they weren't just some other businessmen, waiting to share the studio limo. Then the fellow holding the door gave a nod to the older of the two that was an obvious OK, before he went up front with the driver.

Otis suddenly realized with crystal clarity that the misspelled placard and the man's awkward reply, had been sign and counter sign. What were the odds of such a random exchange working? Infinitesimal certainly. His phrase must have been embedded in his statement, certainly the whole thing wasn't a match, but the fellow accepted it, probably even admired it as slickly conversational compared to his stumbling reply.

"Go ahead Henry," the fellow who was dressed a little nicer than the other instructed. He hadn't reached to switch any intercom on, but the Dunestar pulled away smoothly with no delay. His fancy cowboy boots and pearl buttons amused Otis. In other circumstances he'd have asked where the hell he'd left his horse.

"Give us a minute to get away from the terminal," the same fellow advised. "There are cameras that can see through the tinting," he said waving a hand at the dark windows, "and there are laser systems that can read sound off the windows of even a moving vehicle."

Otis nodded agreement, he was aware of such systems, but why would anyone use them on this vehicle and why was there was such need of secrecy? The first thought that had flashed through his mind, was that the studio deal had fallen through for some reason while he was in the air and they had dispatched a couple middle level executives to try to mollify him and make apologies for the wasted trip. But that wouldn't require such secrecy, nor explain the explosive undercurrent of emotion he read in these two's body language.

One thing he'd learned was not to run his mouth when he didn't understand what was going on. He'd wait for them to explain what they were doing and why.

He leaned back in the seat and tried to have much more than a poker face, working at looking bored and managed after thinking about how a yawn would feel, to trigger a real one. That produced a blink that shouted disbelief from the number two man. Whatever had them so uptight, they expected him to share their tension, not yawn.

Whatever was going on, Otis was starting to think it was going to be very, very, bad when he finally did figure it out.

Pretty Boy, as Otis had tagged the leader, waited until they were on the expressway ramp to speak again.

"Damn, you
are
good," he admitted. "I was shown a picture of you. Not that great a pic, you have a reputation of being camera shy, but I have to admit if I was holding the picture in my hand I'd have let you walk right past me at the gate."

"You should see me as a she," Otis adlibbed. "When I do the transgender thing with a blond wig and heels I can glare at everybody,
daring
them to say something and they all look down afraid to make eye contact."

The fellow's laugh seemed genuine, not strained. He shook his head, probably trying to get the image out of his head and addressed his underling. "OK, give Mr. 'Dug-gan' his things," he ordered, giving Dugan a sarcastic double pronunciation. The second fellow, who Otis had already decided he'd designate as Loyal Minion, dug in a case and produced two pistols in clip holsters. One was a .22 with a long old fashioned suppressor and the second was a modern silent 9mm, with the special oversized long cartridges that used a binary powder.

When the bullet was well on its way down the barrel, the cores of the powder grains were uncovered and the chemicals exposed caused an abrupt termination of the propellant burn and a quick drop off in chamber pressure. The stubby can on the barrel end held a silicone rubber bladder and silver wool heat sink which finished off what little of the pressure wave that wasn't suppressed behind the bullet.

"Whichever pleases you," Minion offered.

"You can never have too many guns," Otis informed him and took both, tucking them away comfortably like old friends. That didn't raise any objection from the men. He took the time to make sure each had a round up the snout, even shaking a round of the 9mm by his ear, to make sure it was the proper compressed load that went with the late model gun.

Taking both meant these fellows had one less weapon than whatever they were personally carrying. Handing guns back to them seemed a bad idea. If he got arrested carrying these in California he was dead meat, but at this rate that didn't seem likely to be his biggest worry.

"IWI," Otis said patting where the 9mm had disappeared. "Very nice," he complimented them on the silent Israeli weapon. "A recent serial number too, so it isn't as temperature sensitive as the early models."

"Always glad to meet a connoisseur," Pretty Boy quipped. "Here is your deposit slip and account number for the up-front fee. This is a debit card associated with the account." The red card with a gold cross had a taste pad. Once you pulled the Mylar tab and touched the square it could only be swiped thereafter by the person who was imprinted on it.

"There are no other signatories to the account and I assure you the other half will be deposited within minutes of word you were successful. In the event you are not successful, well, we all assume you won't be concerned about it," he smiled.

Otis didn't say anything, certainly didn't ask, "Successful at what?" He did give the man his standard new recruit stare just to cover up his own inner turmoil. It had the desired effect. No matter how they tried to be nonchalant, it was written on their faces these two were afraid of him. Or who they thought he was anyway.

"Really," the man said visibly regretting the word as soon as he said it. "Not that we expect you to fail or we wouldn't be here. I understand it would be foolish to stiff you."

  Otis looked at the printed teller slip. It was dated two days ago at the Bern Branch of Credit Suisse Bank for twenty million EuroMarks. He tried to think of the exchange rate and couldn't. It was - one hell of a lot of USNA dollars.

"Here is your key card for the Sheraton. Your room is directly across the hall from a room that will be vacant when President Wiggen is making her dedication speech tomorrow morning. It's a clean shot just under two hundred meters to where she will enter at the back of the building. This is a master key card for the entire hotel," he said offering another. "Wiggen's security may scan the building for thermal sources before or during her speech. Everything above the third floor on that side of the Sheraton is supposed to be kept vacant tomorrow."