“And it’s always a pleasure to see you, child,” he replied—the voice was raspy, but clear and accented with a purring drawl.
Piet Botha repeated the ritual. Tully looked at Tom, shrugged almost invisibly, and followed suit.
I also feel like a damned fool doing this, Tom thought.
Nevertheless, he bowed and kissed the hand of the master of New Virginia with a murmur of baciamo le mani of his own; the fact that everyone else in their party had done the same thing before him made him feel a little less conspicuous.
“Sit, by all means, all of you,” John Rolfe VI said, letting smoke trickle out of his nostrils. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
He seemed to sense Tom’s discomfort as he walked slowly to the spindly curved-legged settee, leaning on his stick, and sat with careful dignity. The upholstery sighed beneath him, but the lined, scored face remained impassive as he pulled a narrow cigarillo from a humidor and lit it.
“Think of it as a salute, Mr. Christiansen,” he said softly. “In any organized society there must be forms, gestures of respect. I am founder and master of this nation. My fellow Virginian Washington followed a similar policy of emphasizing formal etiquette during his presidency, for much the same reason; I’ve often found his solutions useful when an analogous problem came up.”
The green gaze was sardonic as he took in the two Americans’ stifled reaction to the implicit comparison. “By the way, do you know what the Iroquois call my distant cousin? George Washington, that is.”
“Ah… no, sir,” Tom replied.
“It translates roughly as the Burner of Towns, which is a fairly accurate description of what his forces did to them during the War of Independence. ‘The immediate objects are the total devastation and destruction of their settlements, ’ to quote the precise words of his written orders on the subject. Houses burned, food stores stolen or spoiled, civilians driven out into the winter cold without sustenance or shelter, and exile and starvation for the survivors.”
“Ah… I hadn’t known that, sir,” Tom replied. Hmmm. Have to look it up, but I’d bet that’s substantially accurate. Well, live and learn.
“And the Indians here called me—may still, for all I know—Johnny Deathwalker,” Rolfe said. “My own people refer to me as the Founder, or the Old Man—which latter, nowadays, is literally true. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
A smile. “Although that particular hand-kissing ritual was Salvo’s idea. I went along with it… not least because custom and tradition add color and meaning to life; a new country needs to establish traditions not less than it needs guns or plows. Perhaps I’ve been too much enamored of the picturesque; the product of a romantic boyhood, perhaps. Now, to business. Adrienne?”
“Yes, sir,” she said in turn. “I presume you’ve read my report?”
John Rolfe nodded. “I have. I’ve also discussed it with Charles.”
Must mean her father, Tom thought. He hadn’t met the man yet, and wasn’t looking forward to it, particularly. Meeting the father of someone you’d been dating was always a bit fraught, and probably more so here in fifties-never-ended land. Fortunate—or well planned—that he isn’t here right now. That would be awkward.
She poured her grandfather coffee and added cream; he sank back with the cup in one hand and the cigarillo in the other, and went on: “What I’d like to have is a firsthand redaction from all of you. This place is as secure as any in the inhabited parts of the Commonwealth, I assure you.”
Adrienne cleared her throat and started. It was soothing, in a way—doing reports was something that had occupied a good deal of Tom’s adult life, one way and another. Everyone here seemed to know the drilclass="underline" facts and interpretations clearly separated, concise and short as possible. The old man’s questions were sharp and to the point as well. Tom kept his account unemotional when his turn came around; that would be best, considering the rather awkward fact that he’d been on the other side—or an other side—when all this began.
John Rolfe sighed. “It seems definite, then, that there is a conspiracy.” He shook his head. “A pity that Salvo died so young. He would have known better than this…. Ah, well, forgive an old man’s tendency to dwell upon the past. What we must know now is, first, who is involved in this conspiracy, second, what are their goals, and third, what do they hope to accomplish.”
Tom cleared his throat; John Rolfe raised one snowy eyebrow. The younger man went on: “Sir, I don’t think that there’s much doubt as to the aim. The aim is to seize power here, and I’d give any odds that the means is through seizure of the Gate itself. It’s the point failure source…”
“I’m familiar with the term,” the Commonwealth’s ruler said.
“…of your whole setup here.”
Adrienne nodded. “It’s the Collettas, too, sir,” she said. “Almost certainly with the help of the Batyushkovs. And as Operative Botha has made plain, with at least some elements among the affiliates of the Versfelds.”
John Rolfe nodded, blew another plume of smoke and thought in silence for a long moment.
“I should have anticipated this,” he mused at last. “The first generation of Primes were mostly personally loyal to me—even Salvo, in his way. Those who weren’t were mostly too grateful to be here to cause much trouble. That isn’t quite the case with the Batyushkovs, obviously; and many of the second generation of Family heads know me only as the irritating elder statesman who keeps them in a permanent political minority…. I suspect Karl von Traupitz is numbered among those.”
“I don’t think Oom Versfeld would support such madness, sir,” Piet Botha said, with an edge of diffidence to his tone. “But some of our people… well, they dream of a new South Africa, in this world’s South Africa. I can understand it. I do not think it would be a wise thing; nor does Oom Versfeld. But I understand.”
“Which leaves the question of how they plan to take the Gate,” Tom said.
Adrienne nodded. “They’ve obviously done something nasty and clandestine to Nostradamus,” she said. “Still, they can’t really control the system, not overtly. And they couldn’t have subverted anything like enough of the Gate Security Force to take over the gate complex… and how could they hold it against the forces of the Commission and the loyal Families? Not even all the Imperialist faction would all go along with something as raw as a coup d’état.”
“Coup de main,” her grandfather murmured. “If I were organizing such a thing…”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “A sudden blow in overwhelming force to take the Gate.”
“On both sides,” the ruler said. “You’d have to take the FirstSide facility. It’s that—my old shortwave set—which really gives the holder control. Anyone who smashes it smashes the Gate; and the power to destroy a thing, combined with the will to do so, gives you the power to control it absolutely.”
Listening to that voice, and those words, gave Tom a slight cold prickle down the spine. Tully exchanged an imperceptible flicker of eye contact with his partner. Tom could hear the thought: One seriously scary dude.
Adrienne leaned forward. “That’s probably what the contact with the Batyushkovs’ Russian friends on FirstSide was about,” she said. “But there’s also the possibility that they’re planning something… outside the box. The fake nephew who’s actually a physicist.”
John Rolfe chuckled and stroked his jaw. “I knew that keeping Ralph around would be useful someday,” he said with satisfaction. “It’s surprising how often mercy has practical utility. Hmmm… that would be a backup plan, unless I miss my guess—and one quite secret from the Collettas, as well. That’s the problem with organizing a treasonous conspiracy: The other parties aren’t likely to be the most honorable of men either.”