“However,” Eimi was continuing as three wheeled armored personnel carriers rolled toward them across the ruined lawn, “the Kopassus defections are a minor problem, at most. Our control of all the major cities is secure. The Mass Driver has experienced only a few attacks, all of which were driven off by our Optigene forces operating in conjunction with the exosapient security elements our new partners have loaned us.”
Good God, can she really believe all that tripe? If Elena had been there, she would have torn apart each one of the CoDevCo flunky’s specious claims with a mix of ironic wit and brutal logic. Whereas Opal would probably have just punched Singh in the nose. Both images made him smile.
“At any rate,” Singh finished, “CoDevCo welcomes you to its temporary Jakarta headquarters, Mr. Riordan. And here are our rides to a more comfortable environment.”
The three APCs had finished their approach in a wide arc so that, stopping alongside the group, their rear-loading doors were now easily accessible. One of those doors swung open with an overpressure hiss. Two soldiers in Indonesian duty fatigues hopped out, scanned the area, waved an all-clear into the belly of the vehicle.
The next two people who emerged were the new Indonesian President, Ruap, and R. J. Astor-Smath. Both of whom were smiling unpleasantly.
Astor-Smath extended a hand toward Caine, but at such a great distance that it could only be reached if Riordan walked over to take it. “While not an extraordinary honor, Mr. Riordan, this is an extraordinary treat.”
“Can’t say it’s either, for me,” Caine answered, looking at the extended hand and then looking away.
Ruap’s smiled widened. “This must not be the result you expected when you embarrassed me—us—at the Parthenon Dialogs this past April. I suppose you thought we were done when you sent us away like beggars.” He waved a hand around at the cityscape. “But now, we are in control. At last, this planet will have real justice.”
Caine decided not to mention that he knew enough about Ruap to be quite sure that neither patriotism nor a just redistribution of wealth were his motivations. He had gone to private schools in Switzerland from age ten onward, and rose to his position through the time-honored Indonesian tradition of blatant sinecure for the sons of the wealthy oligarchs who were still the nation’s true rulers. Some, such as the late president, had even been relatively skilled at their jobs. No such accusations of competence had ever been made against Ruap, with one exception: he was rightly said to have a gift for the art of making deals. And he had clearly made one with CoDevCo which not only allowed him to outflank his duly-elected peers in Indonesia, but now put him in a position to dictate terms to the same World Confederation which had spurned his ambitions at the Parthenon Dialogs. Instead of mentioning any of this, Caine simply glanced around at their paramilitary surroundings. “Congratulations on being in control, Mr. Ruap—to the extent that you are.”
“President Ruap,” the squat man corrected, rising to his toes.
Astor-Smath waved aside the growing friction. “Mr. Riordan, no new pebble ever falls into a pond which does not also send out a few ripples. That’s all you’re seeing, here in Jakarta: ripples—and the Indonesian waters are growing calmer by the hour.” He paused, turned to Urzueth. “Speaking of Indonesian waters, Esteemed Urzueth Ragh, have you repeated my concerns regarding the subsurface aspects of Java’s maritime security to First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam?”
Urzueth bobbed. “Yes, Mr. Astor-Smath.”
“And?”
Urzueth Ragh bobbed again. “And it has been taken under advisement.”
Astor-Smath folded his hands and smiled at Urzueth. Caine was fairly sure, from Astor-Smath’s tightly controlled eyes and mouth, that the megacorporate factor would have preferred to eviscerate the Arat Kur on the spot.
Urzueth bobbed his acknowledgment. “Honored Senior Liaison Astor-Smath, I assure you, we have deliberated upon the matter. We consider the submersible technologies possessed by your human adversaries to be quite inferior to ours, and fairly fragile. I agreed to make your case—again—to our leadership, but beyond that, there is nothing I may do, and so, no reason to persist in this topic. Indeed, we must see to the disposition of Ambassador Riordan.”
At the word “Ambassador,” Ruap glanced sharply at Urzueth Ragh, then Astor-Smath, who held up a calming hand. “Certainly. Although the, er, ambassador does not seem pleased to be here.”
Urzueth Ragh cycled through the tail-to-head wobble that was the equivalent of an Arat Kur shrug. “His discomfiture is understandable. He witnessed the arrival of nonhuman military assets.”
Caine raised his chin. “Which we call ‘an invasion.’ Another problem with translation, evidently.”
“Oh no,” Astor-Smath contradicted, his smile widening. “The problem is not in Arat Kur translation, but in your understanding, Mr. Riordan. You are not witnessing an invasion at all.”
Caine raised an eyebrow, glanced meaningfully at a full troop of Hkh’Rkh who stalked past in their predatory stoops, their body armor adding a faint rumbling sound to their progress.
Astor-Smath’s smile became archly patronizing. “Do not confuse guests—security advisors, consultants, and trainers—with invaders, Mr. Riordan. They came down at our invitation, on our ships. And their leaders recognize us as the means whereby Earth may achieve a legitimate and truly representational government. And so, become members of the Accord.”
Ruap pressed forward like a dog straining against his leash. “Perhaps you and Admiral Corcoran should not have been so quick to turn us away from the Parthenon Dialogs, hey? Or been so disrespectful? Things might not have come to this.”
Caine recalled, quite distinctly, that it had been Nolan’s friend Vassily Sukhinin, the Russian proconsul and former admiral, who had truly been disrespectful—contemptuous even—of Ruap and Astor-Smath, prior to the actual Dialogs. But Riordan elected not to point that out. Instead he commented, “I wonder if your own troops are any more convinced by your legal fig leaves and casuistries than I am.”
“What does it matter?” Ruap countered with a grin. “They will remain loyal. As will the whole nation.”
Caine stared at the clones and the Indonesian troops cradling their rifles in assault-carries, the multiple doglegged vehicle checkpoint barricades, the hastily constructed walls hemming in the compound, the outward-facing machine-gun positions, the hubcap-sized tilt-rotor ROVs that buzzed in flocks along the perimeter. “Yes, Mr. Ruap, it certainly looks like you enjoy overwhelming loyalty from your citizens as well as your military.”
Ruap darkened but said nothing. In the far distance, there was a brief tattoo of machine-gun fire. Two of the soldiers turned to glance in the direction from which it had come.
“Besides,” added Astor-Smath, “Mr. Ruap may rely upon our clones, as well. And they have no conflicting loyalties whatsoever. CoDevCo is their mother, father, and extended family, all in one.”
“Of course,” observed Caine, “using them to slaughter unruly crowds leaves them nowhere and no one else to turn to, either. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the image of their shared face hasn’t already become a nationwide symbol for governmental ruthlessness and megacorporate treachery.”
“Still the stirring orator, I see,” smiled Astor-Smath as the gunfire resumed. “Feel free to inspire the lumpen proletariat from within the windowless confines of your cell—I mean, ‘diplomatic apartment.’”
Ruap pushed closer. “Yes, ‘Ambassador,’ we will make sure that you have a great deal of time to think about what is happening here. And how you and Nolan Corcoran caused it.”