“Looks like we’re rejoining the Unified Authority. Earth is the only planet that never got invaded. The aliens will go there last; hopefully, we can get everyone underwater by then.
“Welcome to the future, Harris; it’s just like the goddamned past.”
I stood there, silent and frustrated.
Warshaw studied my expression, and finally said, “This is a negotiation, not a war council. I can’t bring you in, I just wanted to thank you for what you did on Olympus Kri. You gave us a fighting chance, but it’s over now.”
The words stung because I knew he was right.
“I need to get to Terraneau,” I said.
“You’re going to warn them?” Warshaw asked.
“They’re next,” I said.
“I hear you had a girl on that rock,” Warshaw said. “Hollingsworth says you hooked up with Ava Gardner.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said, already anxious to leave.
“How are you going to get there?” he asked. “I can’t give you the ad-Din if you’re traveling into neutral space. The Unifieds might see that as an act of bad faith.”
He was right, of course. None of the reactivated broadcast stations were programmed to send me out to Terraneau. I would need a self-broadcasting ship. “I’ll find a way,” I said.
Warshaw smiled and shook his head. “You’re on your own with Terraneau. It’s not part of our empire.” Then he signaled for an aide to join our conversation. “McGraw, the general needs a broadcast key.”
The aide was an old man. He gave me a surprised glance, then said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
“A broadcast key?” I asked.
“You’re going to need a key if you’re going to get that shuttle you’re flying to Terraneau,” Warshaw said. He started to leave, then turned back, and added, “You be careful with that key, Harris. I only issue them to fleet commanders …and now to you. God knows you’ve earned it.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. The man was a prick. The man was a bastard. The man was a savior.
Warshaw gave me a weak salute, and said, “Good luck.” With that, I seemed to dematerialize before him. He turned away as if I weren’t there and began speaking with the officers in his entourage.
“General, perhaps we should get going, sir,” the petty officer said. He was an older man, a veteran sailor with white hair to show for decades of service.
I nodded.
We took a lift down into Engineering. From there, we wound our way into the arcane maze of high-tech specialists, where sailors who worked on weapons systems, communications, and life-support systems maintained their offices. The door to Broadcast Engineering stood out; that was the door with armed guards on either side of it. Warshaw’s aide showed the guards his badge, and they let us through.
We entered, and the petty officer went to a computer and filled out the requisition protocol. It took twenty minutes.
Broadcast Engineering looked like a mediaLink repair shop. A workbench littered with parts and tools ran along one of the walls. The lights were so bright they dried my eyes. A half dozen men worked here, all of them sitting on tall stools and gazing through magnifying lenses as they tinkered with circuit boards. Everyone in the room, of course, was a clone.
When McGraw finished typing out the request, he hit the SEND button, then called across the room, “Baxter, I just sent you a high-priority requisition.”
“Got it,” Baxter yelled back.
They were joking around. They were sitting less than thirty feet apart and could have whispered to each other. Once Baxter saw the requisition, however, he became serious. He climbed from his stool and walked over to McGraw. “Why in the world would Warshaw issue a broadcast key to a Marine? Does this guy even have clearance to be up here?”
“All I can say is that Magilla gave me the order,” the petty officer said.
“Shit. You’re kidding.”
The old petty officer shook his head.
I don’t know what I expected a broadcast key to look like, maybe a torpedo or some other projectile that I would fire into the broadcast zone. When the sailor returned, he handed me a palm-sized box no bigger than a candy bar.
“And a book,” McGraw told Baxter.
The sailor sighed and went to fetch the book.
The key was a tiny touch screen, an unimpressive trinket that would fit in your pocket without making a bulge. The book was three inches thick and lined in black leather. The petty officer took the book, handed it to me, and said, “General, sir, you now hold the key to the empire.”
McGraw traded salutes with Baxter, and we left Broadcast Engineering.
As we waited for the lift, I examined the key, and said, “It’s a lot less impressive than I expected.”
McGraw laughed. “It’s a transmitter. Transmits old-fashioned frequency-modulated radio waves. Warshaw set up the hot zones to disassemble anything that enters them, but the zones don’t disassemble signals from the key.”
“And the Unifieds haven’t figured that out?”
“No, sir. I mean, these are FM signals, it’s old, old technology. The Unifieds aren’t watching for ancient technology, it’s like we’re controlling the stations with smoke signals, it’s that old.”
“And the book?” I asked
“It’s an index of established broadcast coordinates. It’s the same book the Mogats used on their self-broadcasting fleet …same codes and everything. We stole the books along with the broadcast equipment off their wrecks.”
Back in the days when the Unified Authority counted the entire galaxy as its territory, the Republic established 180 colonies. The coordinates for the colonized worlds all fit on the inside flap, the rest of the volume held coordinates for scientific research sites, satellites, and rendezvous spots.
Seeing McGraw tap the lift button several times, I asked, “Are you in a hurry?”
He apologized, and said, “I’m nervous about the negotiations, sir. I don’t trust the Unifieds.”
The elevator arrived, and we rode it to the fleet deck. Still carrying the key and book, I followed McGraw into a small side room in which most of Warshaw’s remoras sat watching the negotiations on a large monitor.
I’m not entirely sure such a partnership would be in our best interest. I did not recognize the man who said that, but he spoke in the same imperious tone as Tobias Andropov. The screen showed a nearly empty conference room in which Warshaw sat flanked by three admirals on one side of the table, the man representing the Unified Authority sat with two male secretaries on the other.
“Who is that?” I whispered to McGraw.
“His name’s Martin Traynor. He’s the U.A. minister of expansion; but I get the feeling he thinks he’s God.”
We have more people than you. We have more planets than you do. We have more ships than you do. What do you mean the partnership isn’t in your interest? We control the broadcast network, Warshaw said. I expected to see him flexing the various muscles in his arms as he spoke, but he did not do that in this negotiation. He sat hunched in his chair, looking like a man kept alive by coffee and prayers.
Unless you do something quick, you will be out of planets and civilians in three more months, Traynor said. He looked like the quintessential bureaucrat, perfectly coiffed, manicured, dressed in wool and silk. Satisfied that he had just laid down an unbeatable hand, he leaned back in his chair and smirked.
Warshaw responded by drawing a line in the sand and daring the U.A. minister to cross it. So you’re going to wait for those people to die?
His bluff was called, and the smirk vanished. Traynor said, Obviously, we want to save as many lives as possible. The only reason we’re holding these negotiations is to save lives.
There was a moment of silence, then Warshaw said, I must have misheard you. A moment ago I thought you said you didn’t mind if they all died.