Troy Rising 3 - The Hot Gate (7 page)

Invade the Empire and crush them, Piotr thought.

“As long as we are talking, we are not fighting,” Piotr said, stating a tautology of diplomacy. “One simply talks as long as necessary. At some point either their leadership or ours will make a change. In the meantime, we talk. It is what we are paid to do, Harold.”

“We must end this war, Piotr,” Harry said, wringing his hands. “I feel as if Terra is responsible. The Glatun had been at peace with these other races for millennia. We come along and war breaks out. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Terra’s impact on the galactic scene, prior to this war, was the introduction of maple syrup,” Piotr pointed out. “Given that the Glatun did not start the war, it is unlikely that maple syrup is at fault. And the question of fault is a pointless exercise. We are at war. I agree that ending the war is a requirement. However, doing so without good surety of security is unwise.”

“I’ve recommended that we drop the tribute portion,” Harry said. “That’s just wrong. Tribute has never been a good idea. It always leads to another war.”

“Unless the Rangora make an offer outside their current parameters, dropping any part of our positions would be unwise,” Piotr said.

“They are probably saying the same thing,” Harry pointed out.

* * *

“The Junta wants us to break this impasse.”

Ghow Ve’Disuc, Imperial Envoy to the Minor Race of Terrans, had cut his teeth on the decade long Multilateral Talks that led to the Rangora gaining all the border systems along the Glatun frontier. He felt, justifiably, that much of the success the Empire enjoyed in the recent war was the doing of himself and other Rangora diplomats.

The Terrans had been a late addition to the MT and even then only as observers. He had not been impressed with them then and he was not impressed with them now. He was forced to admit, though, that their system defenses were impressive.

“Unless the Terrans offer something outside their current positions, dropping any part of our statement would be unwise,” Thunnuvuu Zho’Ghogabel said. The Under Envoy to the Minor Race of Terrans was careful not to ripple his scales. The very thought of simply giving in to these hairy little mammals was repugnant.

“Go talk to the smaller, dark-haired one,” Ve’Disuc said. “His body posture indicates reluctance according to our analysts. He has problems with the Terran position. See what you can find out. We need something out of this negotiation.”

“What are the parameters?” Zho’Ghogabel asked.

“We’ll drop territorial sovereignty over Terra in exchange for an apology, all the prisoners, all our salvaged ships and the same tribute in reverse,” Ve’Disuc said. “No territorial concessions. We retain the Eridani system. We will open trading but of course only with Rangora companies.”

* * *

“I wonder what Harry’s getting from the Rangora.”

James Horst was the Senior Envoy which meant that during negotiations his job was to sit there with a stern look on his face and otherwise keep his mouth shut. That only changed when a final agreement was reached when he was the one who would formally state the agreement and sign the preliminary documents. Since they were so far away from agreement you couldn’t see it with a very big telescope, he was probably not going to be saying anything at the table.

“I am somewhat more worried what he is accepting,” Piotr said, watching the conversation between the State Department official and the Rangora Under Envoy in a reflection. “Or suggesting.”

“Harry’s a pro,” Horst said. “He’s a weenie but he’s a professional weenie. He’s not going to give anything away and whatever he might suggest would be non-binding.”

“With respect, sir,” Piotr said, “I’ve seen more negotiations go awry over those little side conversations than I care to remember. Someone suggests, outside their sphere of responsibility, something with which their side cannot comply. This is taken by the other side as a bad faith negotiation. Or they throw in the final negotiation position and it is taken as a pre-position. I really don’t care for them.”

“It’s how it works, Piotr,” Horst said. “I wish Harry had talked to me before he talked to them, but we’ll see what comes of it.”

* * *

“I think that if we could get a binding agreement of non-aggression, the rest could be worked out,” Danforth said, giving up craning his head upwards and concentrating on a puff pastry. “All we really want is peace. I know you feel the same way, Thunnuvuu.”

“Peace is the best of all possible conditions,” the Rangora said. “And this incident has really been a colossal waste on both our sides. The lives and treasure being spent is just enormous. So you think those are suitable terms?”

“I think they are a good starting point,” Danforth said. “But of course anything I say is non-binding.”

“Of course,” the Rangora said. “But I will convey this and see if we can adjust some of our positions.”

“The Rangora are an essentially honest and thoughtful species,” Danforth said. “I know that in time we can be friends.”

* * *

“You agreed to what?” Horst was just as professional a diplomat as his Senior Deputy envoy and this complete idiot from the State Department. Which meant that the words came out in an entirely neutral tone instead of the strangled gasp he wanted to use.

“The terms are perfectly suitable,” Danforth said, nibbling on an hors d’ouevre. “With the opening of trade we’ll be able to afford the payments assuming it can be spread out over a long enough time period. And it gives us peace.”

“And it is far beyond our minimum position as dictated by policy makers,” Piotr pointed out. “Given that we’ve spent several billion dollars refurbishing those Rangora craft, we’re not just going to give them back. Furthermore, retention of the Epsilon system is a pre-requisite it was not your authority to change.”

“It is not my authority to change,” Horst said. “Damnit,” he added in the mildest possible tone. “Piotr, go talk to their Under Envoy and point out that Danforth did not have authority to offer anything that he offered and that that is not our position.”

“I will need to have something to offer,” Piotr said.

“We’re asking for the entire Federation,” Horst said. “Give up the systems from the Talks and hint at the tribute. Danforth?”

“Yes, sir?” the Deputy Assistant Under Secretary said.

“If you so much as open your mouth to do more than breathe for the rest of these negotiations, I will personally ensure you never can again by putting you into vacuum without a suit.”

“ARRIVING ASSIGNED PERSONNEL FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE!” the M1C blared. “UNASSIGNED PERSONNEL FOLLOW THE GREEN LINE TO ASSIGNMENT. PERMANENT PARTY FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE! ARRIVING ASSIGNED PERSONNEL FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE..!”

Dana smiled faintly to herself as she followed the yellow line to the assigned personnel office. She’d never heard of any military personnel being sent to one of the Troy class without being assigned. The “unassigned” office only existed to answer questions from the terminally lost.

A few people glanced at her as she marched along hauling her grav case. That was less that she was a good looking blonde than that she was wearing a leopard suit. Most people didn’t in secured areas. But she wasn’t going to fly on someone else’s shuttle, much less a 143rd shuttle, simply in uniform. She knew way too much about the 143rd.

She hadn’t been specifically briefed on why she was being transferred, but she’d picked up the scuttlebutt. In the battles in E Eridani, and in the emergency evacuation just prior to them, it had become apparent that the overall quality of flying, and maintenance, of the 143rd was not entirely up to par. Certainly not up to the standards set by the 142nd, Earth’s first space light boat squadron.

Dana was simply part of a series of transfers, 143rd personnel to the 142nd and vice versa, designed to “spread the wealth.” She was pretty sure it wasn’t going to help. The 143rd were so screwed up she wasn’t sure how they got their birds out of the bays much less survived in space. Transferring a few good people into the unit wasn’t going to make any serious improvements. The phrase “stiffening a bucket of spit with buckshot” came to mind.

She waited in line with the other assigned personnel, her space suit occasionally buzzing as it worked off her body heat, until she got up to the civilian clerk. She commed the pad with her implant and waited.

“PO…Parker…” the clerk said. Male and with a raspy voice, she figured he was one of Apollo’s tech people who had gotten a whiff of death pressure and been temporarily reassigned. He didn’t look as if he normally flew a desk. Nametag said Gribson. “Hmmm…”

“Shouldn’t that be a unit and bay assignment?” Dana asked. “Not ‘hmmm…’?”

“Unit is easy,” the guy said, looking up and grinning. Like her he was blonde and if not cute than not uneasy on the eyes. “You’re assigned to the 143rd. We’re handling billeting for them, though. And the problem is there’s no female billeting.”

“Then get me a room to myself in male billeting,” Dana said. “That’s where I’m normally assigned.”

“You’re from the 142nd,” Gribson said. “Which operates under US rules. 143rd is an Alliance unit. Operates under slightly different regulations and guidelines. One of which is no coed billeting.”

“So where do the other female personnel stay?” Dana asked.

“What female personnel?” Gribson replied.

“I’m it?”

“You’re it. Which is why I’m looking for a billet to stick you in.”

“Preferably one, you know, close to the boats,” Dana said, sarcastically.

“Wasn’t my rule,” Gribson replied. “And that’s what I’m looking for. Not there…”

“Where’s there?” Dana asked.

“Marines.”

“Don’t get me wrong when I say this,” Dana said, frowning. “But I sort of get along with Marines pretty well.”

“Not Pathan Marines,” Gribson said. “As in Afghan and Pakistani tribesmen with some basic knowledge of how to work their spacesuits and great glee at having laser rifles instead of AKs. Oh, and who consider women who don’t wear burkhas to be whores.”

“Ah,” Dana said, nodding. “Yes, I’d prefer somewhere else.” What the hell?

“I’m going to have to stick you in the transient NCO quarters for now,” Gribson said, shrugging. “It’s not convenient to the boats and it’s supposed to be for, well, transients. But somebody else is going to have to figure out where to put your permanent quarters.”

“Joy,” Dana said. “Well, a bunk’s a bunk.”

“They’re actually pretty nice,” Gribson said, uploading the map and keycode. “And we are done. Have an enjoyable time on the Therm. We endeavor to please.”

“As long as you’re a guy,” Dana said, nodding at him. “See ya.”

* * *

Dana had been sent a message to report for in-brief the day after her arrival. With nothing better to do the next morning until the brief at 0900 she headed for the gym.

Thermopylae, like Troy, had more than a dozen “fitness facilities.” Some were designated for specific units, some were designated for general military or general civilian and some were open to everyone.

Figuring that she might as well figure out the layout of “her” gym, she headed for the one designated for the 143rd.

The layout turned out to be Apollo fitness facility, one each. It was set up virtually identical to the one she’d been using for the last four years.

What was a bit different was the users. Women, due to Johannsen’s as much as anything, had become less common in the military. But even in the 142nd there were a few “splits” as Chief Barnett so delicately put it. Five by Dana’s count and she could figure on not usually being the only woman in the gym.

For just a moment, Dana seriously thought about just turning around and heading back to the BNCOQ. The gym looked like work-out time at San Quentin. It was a mass of Hispanic males, most of them as short as she was, and all of them as tattooed if not more so.

“Jeeze, I hope I don’t get shivved in the yard,” she muttered, making her way through the press to an open Nautilus machine.

She set the adjustment higher than it had been and started doing presses.

“Yo, Chaco, check out the whore,” one of the men called across the room. “She is fine, no?”

Dana paused in her repetitions for just a moment in shock. It wasn’t so much that it was a sexual reference, just that it was so clear and blatant. Then she realized it had been in Spanish and her plants had automatically translated. She looked at the speaker and concentrated until his name and rank came up in her vision. Spaceman First Class Jose Reyes.

“You might consider not calling a CM2 a whore, Spaceman,” Dana commed. “Our plants translate everything you say so if you think you were being cute, think again.”

“Who the hell sent that?” the Spaceman First Class said, angrily, setting his weights back in the rack.

“I did,” Dana said, loudly enough to cut across the buzz in the room. “And to repeat, plants translate anything around them, especially if there’s a reference to the individual. So I’d be careful about the sexual remarks.”

“When I want any shit out of you, whore, I’ll tell you,” the SM1 said, waving a hand and smiling broadly. It was in Spanish, again, so he’d clearly not been listening.

“That does it!” Dana said, rolling to her feet and triggering her recording feature. “You had better lock it up, Spaceman. The first thing you said was an actionable offense. Direct disrespect to an NCO is an Article Ninety-One violation.”

“Back off, bitch.” The flash pop was CM2 Pedro Benito so she was at least dealing with the same rank. Benito had a large tattoo that ran up onto his neck of what looked like an angel. “That’s my brother, not somebody for you to screw with.”

“CM, I’m willing to disregard this encounter,” Dana said, taking a deep breath. “But you need to lock down your personnel. One, they need some retraining on plant abilities. Two they need some retraining on basic military respect and courtesy.”

“When I want your opinion, whore, I’ll ask for it,” the CM2 said, waving a hand at her dismissively.