Touch the Stars: Diaspora

By Carl Martin

In this second installment of Touch the Stars, Jason Roanhorse continues his fight against the sinister Hamilton Club, but things become far more complicated when a three foot alien, named Vormin Kark, enters the picture bearing gifts for the bad guys.

Roanhorse scientists explore the frontiers of the technology which gave humanity the stars. But their incredible discoveries of super-science are nothing compared to the tricks held by this alien from Helifos.

Vormin Kark may have a tiny body, but his evil is measured in hundreds of light years. After enslaving numerous worlds, he turns his gaze toward Earth and finds the Hamilton Club a willing ally.

Jason Roanhorse finds his son, Gordon, to be a talented leader. Gordon is not just any rich man's son. He develops the skills to solve tough problems on an interstellar scale—skills he will need when finally he confronts Kark in a war that covers this entire region of the Milky Way galaxy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tharsis Highlands
• Release date: Jan 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310422478

Carl Martin

Carl Martin is the fiction pen name of Rod Martin, Jr.Rod Martin, Jr. was born in West Texas, United States. He has been a Hollywood artist, a software engineer with a degree summa cum laude, a writer, web designer and a college professor.Rod Martin's interests have ranged from astronomy to ancient history, physics to geology, and graphics arts to motion pictures.He has studied comparative religion, worked as a lay minister and spiritual counselor, and taught ethics in college.While doing graphic arts in Hollywood, he also studied electronic engineering. In 1983, as Carl Martin, he published his first novel, "Touch the Stars: Emergence," co-authored by John Dalmas (Tor Books, NY).Later, switching careers to computers and information technology, Mr. Martin worked for Control Data, Ceridian Payroll, Bank of America, Global Database Marketing and IPRO Tech. He also created "Stars in the NeighborHood" 3D astronomy space software.He currently resides in the Philippines with his wife, Juvy. He has taught information technology, mathematics and professional ethics at Benedicto College, in Cebu. He continues to teach online and to write books and blogs.

Book preview

Chapter 1

2029: March 24

Gordon Roanhorse found himself hunched over the image processing console, lost in the details coming from the planet below. Heavily forested hills filled the screen, occasionally muted by soft-edged cirrus.

Another world, he thought, and grinned broadly. Another island in the dark of space. And there’s life down there.

Gordon was unaware, though, that he was in the middle of a dream. He had drifted out of the mist of deep sleep into a picture which felt convincingly real. The transition had been seamless, and no thought had looked back to question the current reality. Only those thoughts and feelings which supported that new reality were visible.

Like many dreams, some of its contents were based on items found in the waking world. For one, the image he had of himself matched his real world rank and posting in his father’s company.

Gordon was the only teenager in the exploration division of Roanhorse Aerospace, but neither did age make him self-conscious, nor did his relation to the owner make him feel self-important. He felt lucky to have had the opportunity to be where he was.

He had earned his current position. The thought of his accomplishment made him smile, not out of pride, but out of the varied experiences he had gained in the process. It hadn’t been easy, having labored from the bottom, having learned all the common jobs of space duty. But he’d done good work at each posting, and here he was, photo tech on the Thorfinn Karlsefni.

A tiny flash of white from the middle of the image interrupted his thoughts. Something was down there, and he knew he had to notify the captain right away.

He got up from his station and took several steps toward the door, then realized that his station intercom would be more efficient.

Before he could turn back, though, he felt an uncomfortable pressure around his leg and looked down. A three foot Helifosian stood with its arms wrapped around Gordon’s left leg and looked up at the teenager. A pleasant smile creased its face.

What the bloody hell? Gordon shook his head sharply and looked away, blinking.

He could still feel the pressure of the alien’s hug, and again glanced down. The gleam of golden light in the little guy’s tarsier-like, yellow eyes, seemed real enough. And there were other details which made this intruder all the more real. Like the dark gray, loose-fitting uniform it wore; the numerous pockets; and the belt covered with pouches and an array of electronic buttons.

How did you get on the ship? Gordon asked, muttering the words to himself. He raked his fingers through his thick, black hair several times, then wiped his face vigorously.

The alien blinked lazily, let go Gordon’s leg, and waddled backwards a few steps. Then it pulled a small electronic device from one of its pockets and pressed a button.

Suddenly, Gordon felt the floor fall out from under him, accelerated by the explosive force of compartment air whooshing into the vacuum of space.

Gordon gritted hard to hold his breath. Every part of him wanted to scream away his only air, but his well drilled restraint held it back. Quickly his lungs ached, and he felt dizzy from the weightlessness and from the growing lack of oxygen in his lungs.

God, Gordy, he thought, How in blazes are you getting out of this one?

Suddenly he realized he couldn’t remember the start of the current mission. Details were missing—important details. He tried desperately to remember the take-off from Terra, or even to remember breakfast before his shift had started. Nothing came to him.

His thoughts drifted for a moment, then settled on a new distraction—the slick emptiness of space. As the former urgency melted away, a fascination for the lack of touch took its place. Gordon waved his hand and marveled at the absence of wind. He felt only the internal pressure of inertia from the change of movement. Otherwise there was no resistance—nothing to tickle the hairs on the back of his hand.

Gradually his lungs no longer ached, and any worry about the lack of air diminished, as well. Maybe I don’t need air, he thought, and relaxed a bit. He felt strangely comfortable with the idea—a confidence which seemed ancient, but familiar. There appeared no need to question the logic of it.

Then, his attention turned outward. He looked up and marveled at the steady pinpoints of light and at the rich river of star clouds meandering amongst them. His soul seemed to fill the void between them.

The adjacent, full sized world no longer appeared as down, but simply as a miniaturized globe hovering next to him. Fascination with its details drew him closer.

At first, the oceans appeared as mere puddles of paint. Mountains were smudges on a pallet of earthy pigments.

Closer it came.

The clouds seemed to gain bulk as the distance decreased.

Closer.

Mountains seemed to struggle upward, gaining in ruggedness.

Fields and forests took on a rich texture of variegated, natural colors, no longer blued by atmosphere and distance.

Then an opening in the forest caught his attention. It formed a near-perfect heart-shape. In another instant he was there, standing in the middle of it.

Beside him stood a tall, brown-skinned human, with Polynesian features. The man wore a simple, loose-fitting robe, and his smile was slight, his gaze mild, but penetrating.

Gordon had met many aliens, and somehow this one looked vaguely familiar. Had he forgotten? Did he know this one?

Suddenly, the tall native looked startled at something behind Gordon.

The teenager turned, and saw that the Helifosian had reappeared.

For the second time, the little alien held up its electronic box and pushed a button.

Gordon couldn’t help but glance down at his feet. No, he thought, the ground is still there. If not me, then.... He whirled to confirm his fears.

Something was clearly wrong with the native. His mouth was open and his lips locked in a misshaped circle. His eyes bulged, and his face and arms glistened darkly. Gordon quickly realized that the glistening was blood, all across the native’s body, from every visible pore.

In moments, the native’s robe became stained with it. His body convulsed, then collapsed to the ground. Skin started to split, and the underlying tissue bulged from the fissures.

Gordon could only stare as blood pulsed from the broadening wounds. The sight of it made him sick, but somehow he had to overcome his own reactions. He had to stop this.

Instinctively, Gordon took a deep, calming breath. He turned to jump the little alien, but found the electronic box now pointed at himself—and the Helifosian was pushing the button again.

~~~<>~~~

Gordon riveted upright. He was sweating and his bed sheets were uncomfortably cool and clinging. The only sound was the soft murmur of the air conditioning mixed with subliminal nature sounds—sounds which filled the otherwise stark silence aboard the Cochise during its official night.

He turned on the light, swung his feet out onto the floor and rested a moment.

Gordon felt dizzy. He also felt discomfort—almost in pain. For a few brief moments, he tried to understand it all, but nothing he had experienced had ever come close to this.

He had been in trouble before, numerous times, but had always felt comfortable with the consequences. Whenever he had been wrong, he had always accepted the penalties, and had learned to do better. It had always been so simple. And he had always been lucky no matter how serious the situation.

Somehow this felt differently. He’d never had a nightmare before. Neither had he ever felt such futility. With this dream, innocence and luck had left him for one brief moment.

But Gordon hadn’t been raised to dwell on failure or to wallow in self doubt. Softly he whistled, then laughed. The dream felt important somehow, but contemplation lasted only a few seconds. He promised himself he’d analyze it later.

His stomach growled audibly and he remembered his mother’s strawberry shortcake in the fridge. Shrugging off the nightmare, he put on his slippers and robe, and left his room for the kitchen.

~~~<>~~~

Part 1 Omen

Chapter 2

2029: March 25

IWS Cochise

The interstellar warpship Cochise had originally been intended as a dormitory for asteroid miners, and was one of the earliest warpships. Construction had been well advanced by late August, 2026. By that time the attempts on Jason Roanhorse’s life had become increasingly reckless and destructive, so he’d had the largely completed vessel converted into a faster-than-light mobile executive office and residence complex for himself and his immediate staff. For two-and-a-half years he had lived on the Cochise, mostly in the vicinity of Earth, but not locatable by his enemies from day to day or even minute to minute.

Occasionally, he reappeared briefly at the company’s administrative headquarters at Ayr, Scotland or rarely at one of the other two major Roanhorse Aerospace locations: at the Esperanza suburb of Hermosillo, in Sonora, Mexico, and at Yokote, on the Japanese island of Honshu.

Just now the Cochise lay seven million kilometers from Earth. Jason slid his four-man shuttle smoothly through the hatch into the hanger generally referred to as the garage. When the pressure had equalized and the green light signaled its okay, he got out.

At the garage door, he slid a plastic card into a slot. A quiet tone sounded, followed by an electronic voice: Voice check. Please repeat the following random selection. Jason repeated after each word: thirty-three, marmalade, Saracen, wonderful. The door slid aside. He entered, touched a panel with a hand and it closed again.

Seconds later, down the corridor, he arrived at the Roanhorse apartment and entered.

Fiona! I’m home! His voice filled the modest apartment.

The furniture was Finnish Ultra with lots of pale curving birch wood, and cushions of rough, light-textured fabric. A large, warm-colored landscape dominated an adjacent wall: an oasis in the Scotha Desert, with two of Veopul’s three suns visible. A carpet of neutral color, and one short mirrored wall added to the sense of spaciousness. But the place was still much smaller than the manor house they’d had in Scotland.

I’m in here with Gordon, Fiona called from the kitchen, cleaning up a mess.

Jason crossed the semi-formal dining room and around the bar dividing it from the kitchen. Fiona was crouched behind the counter, wiping up spilled food and water. Her blouse, apron, and legs were splattered with spaghetti sauce.

Howdy, Dad, said Gordon.

Jason smiled at Gordon’s cowboyish greeting.

What happened? he asked.

We lost gravity for a few seconds. Someone probably hit a wrong switch on your docking approach. It might have been funny, except that I was fixing dinner. She made a final wipe, tossed the paper towel into the waste receptacle Gordon held for her, and stood up. Spaghetti and scalding water began to float out of the pot, and the pan with the meatballs and sauce drifted off to one side. Then the gravity came back on.

Got it, Jason acknowledged. Go get cleaned up, sweetheart. I’ll make supper. It’s been years since I’ve had the opportunity to fix a meal. Besides, I have Gordon here to help. So, scoot.

She put her wet hands behind her back and leaned forward, tilting her face toward his. They kissed without embrace, nuzzling gently.

Yes, my darling. And Gordon had something to talk to you about, in any event. I’ll leave the kitchen to you gentlemen.

After his wife left, Jason asked, So, what’s on your mind, Gordon? He opened the refrigerator to plan his culinary moves.

I heard about the project Ice Box disaster today on the telly. What are you going to do about Argentina?

Not much we can do for now, said Jason evenly. Argentina’s military head of state apologized, of course.

And, added Gordon, said he’d punish the squadron commander who took it upon himself to order the attack. But aren’t they going to pay damages?

Hardly, said Jason stiffly, I talked to their minister of state this morning and was told we took our chances building on Argentinean territory.

But, they haven’t enforced a claim in Antarctica in years, and they’re not the only ones to claim that territory.

Jason frowned as he washed a head of lettuce. True, but this is a new government. I’m mad as hell at losing good men down there. We’ve ceased all sales to Argentina, and all warpship traffic has now been diverted.

Och! said Gordon. That ought to hurt their pocket book. Ocean transport is—what—fifty times as expensive?

Gordon started to slice up the head of lettuce his father had handed him. But why are we doing the Ice Box project? It’s got to be expensive—and we just give away the food, don’t we?

H-h-hold on a minute. Jason chuckled. "Expense isn’t an important factor and neither is profit. Insurance is going to handle rebuilding, but even then, the project is not as expensive as it looks. Warp transport of prefabricated forms makes building easy. InterAgro handles getting the food and keeping tabs on distribution needs. But even there InterAgro has it easy, working with government donations and charitable organizations.

"Also farm surplus is pretty cheap. Some governments have arranged for buy-backs during lean years to stabilize food prices.

Fiscally it looks pretty good because of the tax write-off. But the most important benefit is in society at-large. Eliminating starvation will do a lot to stabilize the world scene. I wouldn’t mind eliminating sales of F-137s altogether and concentrating on warpships. The Hamilton Club has all but forced us out of the fighter jet business anyway. Our new business would thrive on a stable social scene.

Gordon raked the chopped lettuce into a large salad bowl. With the Ice Box disaster, I couldn’t help but think of the Centaur Trio.

It made his father pause for a moment, remembering the loss of signal beacons from the three exploration ships launched toward Alpha Centauri just months before the first manned warpship flight. That was nearly four years ago.

"After the Mswaka’s try, continued Gordon, the Athena hasn’t found a trace of them. Even after three and a half years, they’re not even near done searching. Without anything better than a searchlight, radar and a computer to keep track of the volume covered—it could take centuries."

And? asked Jason.

"I was merely wondering if Athena would be of better use helping to explore new star systems."

I’ve wondered that, too, at times,... but remember, NASA and the other parties are paying the lease.

Oh. Gordon shrugged. It’s just that—it seemed we need more ships exploring.

Jason had never known Gordon to be so serious. He regarded his son shrewdly, and said, Exploration ships are expensive to man and operate, but that’s not the main reason for limiting the exploration fleet.

Gordon studied his father’s moves at the kitchen counter more closely. Spaghetti?

And why not? Jason raised an eyebrow and tilted his head back. Your mother started to fix it. Made me hungry for it. We’re not going to let a little zero-g stop us, are we?

No sir. Gordon grinned, then asked, So what’s the main reason?

Too efficient, Jason answered. Our handful of ships are discovering more than can easily be studied and assimilated.

Gordon laughed for several seconds. Popping planets like breakfast snacks.

Jason chuckled. Yes, there are a lot of them out there. But, on the other hand, and possibly even more important, is the reason why those ships are out there to begin with.

And? Gordon mimicked his father’s inquiring glance.

Jason sighed and smiled slightly, then more seriously said, "Behind nearly every major attack we’ve suffered, the Hamilton Club has lurked. Rarely have they attacked directly. Hired assassins. Intimidation and blackmail. Even brainwashing poor Iain Tyler to murder me.

"Ever since the Henningson trial, three years ago, the Hamilton Club has been making progress on the socio-political front, despite the major black eye we gave them.

"There’s only so much we can do against their damaging actions here on Earth. Things like our Ice Box project. But they keep coming up with new ways to instill apathy in the masses.

"We need to get ahead of the Hamilton Club and their buddies. If somehow they succeed on Earth, I want some of humanity to be out of harm’s way. That’s where exploration comes in, and the Edinburgh Accords with their guidelines for choosing settlement worlds. So the other reason for limiting exploration is the need to concentrate on settling the worlds already discovered, and that takes a lot more work per planet than exploration.

Meanwhile, on Earth, we’re pushing power to our friends and helping out the less fortunate, and otherwise trying to defuse hot situations. To give people hope—the kind of hope the Hamilton Club is trying to steal from them.

Both father and son were quiet for a long moment. Jason stirred the spaghetti sauce. Then, after testing the noodles, he decided they were done, took them off the stove and drained them.

Jason looked at his son and again wondered why the change in character. Had something happened on his last mission? Before he could ask, though, Gordon answered the questioning gaze.

Last night, I had a peculiar dream. Gordon told him about it. ... I was wondering if it meant anything.

Like a premonition? Jason asked.

"Yes. And if it did mean something important, what should I do about it? I couldn’t help remembering the feeling you told me you had before the flight where you were shot down.

In my dream, it seemed as though the native was a friend I don’t yet know, and the bloke from Helifos was someone dangerous. But part of it was a bit confusing. Part of it seemed to be about the next mission, and the Helifosian seemed to be—sort of—just there. I suppose, the future in general.

Trust your feelings, son. Even if you misinterpret them a time or two, just remember, you can’t get better at something unless you keep using it and trusting yourself.

Thanks Dad, I’ll remember that.

Gordon was pensively quiet a moment, then said, I think something is going to happen on my next mission, but I’m certain the dream couldn’t have been literal. I’ve never much thought about the future before. I guess I’ve even been a bit reckless at times, but I’ve never been afraid to try something. That dream stopped me for a moment. It was uncomfortable. It made me think, but I don’t want to lose my instinct. I want to be able to act without thinking—er—but of course—without being thoughtless.

So what are you going to do about it? his father asked encouragingly.

Hmmm. I don’t know quite yet, but in the meantime, I will continue to do my duty and to study hard. I’ve almost finished with my computer course. Captain Kawakami says I can learn warp drive physics, next.

Jason whistled playfully. Impressive. What about your other school studies, though?

Captain Kawakami said I could take on other studies if I finished my regular courses ahead of schedule.

So, what year of secondary school have you completed? Jason smiled expectantly.

Sophomore and half a semester of my junior year studies.

Jason put a hand on Gordon’s shoulder and gazed at this son he so admired. "Shi yeh, he said affectionately, I’m proud to be your father. Well done on your rapid progress."

Jason then continued the food preparation. He turned on another burner, poured a little oil in a pan to warm and asked, And why so anxious to study warp drive physics?

Gordon laughed, It showed, did it? He looked thoughtfully at the floor for a moment, then said, Ever since I apprenticed in the engineering department I’ve wondered what it was you discovered which made it so easy to move off into space—almost effortlessly. I rather like the roar of the Helios engines as much as anyone, but the quiet of the warp engines—I’ve just got to know. It’s not quite an itch. More of a tickle, if you know what I mean.

Jason nodded, feigning seriousness.

In any event, I’m certain I will enjoy knowing more about it. On this expedition I will be photo tech in the missions department, but after I finish the warp drive course, I wouldn’t mind working again in engineering.

An’ would’ya noo, lad? Jason tried his best to mimic his son’s Scottish accent. He immediately realized he had overdone it and worked his eyebrows in a moment’s chagrin.

Gordon looked thoughtfully away for a second and nodded. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and said in a quiet, determined voice, Got it solved.

Care to let me in on it?

About keeping my level of instinct. Nothing solid yet, just a certainty that a solution is there,... somewhere. He shrugged and smiled. So I just say, ‘the solution is as good as mine’—’Got it solved!’

And I’m sure you do, Jason told himself. He eyed his son appreciatively. I’m sure you do.

~~~<>~~~

Part 1 Omen

Chapter 3

2029: April 01

Stockholm, Sweden

The parade had started hours late. Now, it was early Sunday evening, but still thousands lined the streets to cheer on the Cultural Heritage Parade.

Little Signe was no longer crying, but rather giggling and waving at the crowds, sometimes to the cadence of the marching band behind the float on which she and her father and sister, Kristina, sat. Then she would notice that she had fallen into the band’s cadence, and would happily wave faster to establish control of her own rhythm.

The parade turned the corner onto the main boulevard. The cold air along the sides of the street filled with the clouded breaths of hundreds.

Occasionally, twelve year old Kristina would look up at her father. He had a kind face, almost handsome. The fact that he lacked hair on top of his head only made him seem wiser to her. She was proud of him for the work he was doing as the new governor general of the Fennoscandian Cultural League. The league was a coalition of businesses, associations and citizen groups—all working to preserve the separate and unique nations of Northern Europe, despite the growing sentiment toward unification.

Their float depicted the potential of the northern countries in its children. Ahead of it were dozens of children dressed in costumes of present and past Scandinavia and Finland. They represented the true theme of the parade—the diversity, yet the unity of tradition and history.

Björn Garderud looked down at his lovely daughters and smiled. Since his wife Katja died nearly a year before, he’d grown even closer to them. As a single parent, he’d taken on more intimate familial responsibilities—from worrying about how warmly they were dressed, to picking the proper nanny and working with her every evening; from helping each girl with their homework, to helping them through all the personal problems children acquire.

Björn’s thoughts flashed for a moment on the anger and frustration earlier in the day when the police wouldn’t let the parade start because of some bureaucratic tie-up. Now, however, the red tape had been handled and the parade was going well before enthusiastic crowds.

A distraction clawed at the periphery of Björn’s attention. Pushing out from a narrow side street, a swarm of club-swinging men wedged into the crowd of spectators. Screams quickly drowned out the music.

The panicked crowd surged into the street and the formation of marching children disappeared in the wave of larger bodies.

Abruptly, the float stopped. Björn Garderud lifted Signe into his arms and said, Kristina, follow me. Quickly. He saw one shop still open near them and headed in that direction.

Before they reached the curb, more attackers poured from several other side streets, bludgeons flailing.

As Björn reached the door to the shop, he heard Signe scream and felt her clutch more tightly. He half turned and was struck in the face. The next blow filled his head with blackness and a moment’s metallic taste. He pitched backward onto the sidewalk lifelessly.

The assailant leaned over and struck once again, but hit little Signe instead of her father. For a moment, the man hesitated, and blinked several times as if clearing his vision.

Suddenly, Kristina grabbed the man’s arm and fiercely gnawed at his hand. He dropped his club and jerked his hand away, then slapped Kristina in the face.

The man pulled back and sucked blood from his hand, then reached down and snatched up his club.

Kristina yelled, Stay away from us, you bastard!

The man lunged at Kristina with his club. She jumped back, startled, but then glared at him with eyes full of hate.

The assailant grunted, turned and ran off to find more victims.

Kristina blinked self-consciously, then breathed deeply. She brushed away a bothersome wetness around her eyes and turned to her sister and father. Both remained silently still, while all around them there was a growing madness of screams and shouts.

She tried the door and found it locked, then noticed several customers cowering inside. Kristina banged on the door. Help us. Please, help us.

Finally, a woman came and opened the door.

Kristina stared into the woman’s face. The girl’s expression pleaded, even demanded.

That’s all right, little one. Johan! Olaf! Get over here.

Kristina could hear police sirens in the distance. She turned and quickly studied the street behind her. Scores of people lay motionless on the cold pavement, many of them children.

She turned back to see three women fussing over the injuries suffered by her father and sister. One man brought several blankets from a back room and proceeded to make the injured pair more comfortable.

As she stepped away from the shop, Kristina closed the door behind her, and moved slowly toward the street.

As abruptly as the nightmare had started, the attackers had disappeared into the dim side streets. Now only moans and sobs filled the evening air.

Kristina Garderud ran toward the nearest child, a little boy about five years old. She kneeled on the cold pavement, then scooped one arm under his legs and the other behind his shoulders. It was a struggle to lift him, but she finally stood and made her way toward the shop where she had left her father and sister.

Quickly, the youngster’s still form weighed heavily on Kristina’s slender frame. She looked down at the boy’s face to see small puffs of breath. Then worry turned back to her own family. Would her father make it? And Signe? What had happened to her younger sister made her momentarily very angry—even a little crazy.

Suddenly she wished her family could be far, far away from this madness. She looked up at the starlit evening sky and quietly made a wish, then turned and entered the shop.

~~~<>~~~

Part 2 Foundation

2029:0404

Málaga, Spain

To Felice Burton Masters the view was unimpressive. It was early evening, and the Mediterranean looked flat and featureless from the top-floor meeting room of the conference center adjacent to La Vega Hotel.

For decades Málaga had been a favorite vacation spot for West Europeans. Since the advent of intercontinental executive warp transports, more international resort areas were including business accommodations. Roanhorse Aerospace hadn’t yet made intercontinental warp transport available to the general public. Only the independently wealthy could afford the five second ride.

The room had been prepared with all the finery expected by top level executives and dignitaries of state. Adjacent was a roof top heliport landing pad. Felice was expecting a special guest.

She turned to her secretary and motioned curtly toward the door. As the girl moved to it, Felice reached beneath the table at her place and turned on the recording system.

The others would be done with their after-supper drinks. And while she would have liked to scan some of her notes again, she could not allow herself the luxury of making them wait, despite her elevation as a Burton. From a woman, they would have regarded it an insult, not to be tolerated. Even her father would have been challenged for it.

Now they strung into the conference room, several of them still batting the tag ends of conversations back and forth. They were nearly a dozen, in late middle age except for one in his thirties. Among them they could have bought governments, and in fact owned several.

They took their seats at the conference table.

Mike Cearly’s ever-present pipe was clenched between his teeth. One of her few command defeats had occurred early, when she’d tried to ban smoking from the conference room. From that she had learned not to bring about confrontations on unimportant matters. Still, she considered that the little Toronto Irishman smoked his vile Ontario shag at least partly to spite her, and refused to be annoyed by it.

To begin with, said Felice, I’d like to have you all meet a new friend of ours.

As if on command, the doorway to the heliport foyer opened. Felice’s secretary stepped in followed by a three foot, hairless alien with bulbous, cat-like eyes, small chin and nose. It’s skin was a milky-gray color.

Most of the members were instantly apprehensive. The others were simply annoyed.

The stranger nodded deeply, a nod which approached a bow.

Who’s our visitor? asked Cearly.

"This, gentlemen, is Vormin Kark of Helifos. For those who don’t remember, Helifos is the world of super-technology in the Zeta-Two Reticulae system, or Melzar, as they call it. Even before Roanhorse exploration teams ventured out that far, the Helifosians anticipated Terran expansion, contacted Terra and asked to be left alone.

"But Mr. Kark, here, is a rare individual for a Helifosian. He’s unscrupulous, resourceful, ambitious—even greedy.

You may also have surmised that Helifos has had warp drive for much longer than we have. Something like fifty or sixty thousand years.

Several members sat a little more erect. Roanhorse Aerospace had held the warp technology as a closely guarded secret right from the beginning. Now here was someone who could give them everything they’d hoped for and probably more.

Sixty thousand, said Reinholdt Landgraf, appreciatively. Landgraf was the director of Das Konsortium der Weltbanken, and had recently become the chairman of Eurocon’s Committee on International Banking. Did he bring the plans vith him?

Wait a minute, said Cearly. If they’ve had interstellar flight for that long, why haven’t they been to Earth before?

Oh, my gracious hosts, but we have, replied Vormin Kark, But broad contact was never desirable. My world considers this area contaminated.

Cearly nodded. Thus the Isolation Treaty, he said then shrugged.

Vormin Kark silently mimicked Cearly’s shrug. Please continue with your meeting. I want to learn more about your operation before I make my offer.

The words made some of the members uneasy, but Felice and Lee Chok Tong silently admired the alien’s poise, though they remained shrewdly wary of their guest.

Next, said Felice, I’d like to compliment Arvid Lindkvist for his excellent progress in Scandinavia. We are close there to establishing our first psycho-social state with a unified Fennoscandian nation.

The angular Swede nodded musingly, then spoke. And I in my turn, would like to compliment three consecutive severe winters in Europe, and two cold wet growing seasons. Also the Russian decision to dump cheap coniferous timber on the world market at prices that my country and the Finns could not begin to match. He smiled slightly. "I can perhaps take some credit for the latter, although one can only be surprised when the Russians, as suspicious as they are, follow an oblique suggestion. But the winters were the product of Mike Cearly’s Operation Thermostat, for which I am, and we are, deeply grateful.

On the other hand, the recent successes with the media and the parliaments, and the weakening of the old Fennoscandian Cultural League with its sentimental ‘separate but unified’ position, those we must modestly confess to having engineered.

Cearly rapped his pipe bowl on a heavy glass ash tray, knocking the dottle from it, making a sound like a miniature gavel. It served to interrupt Lindkvist’s self-stroking monologue.

Like most of the members, Cearly regarded the Swedish prime minister as less than fully qualified for membership. The man was by no means incompetent, but his level of competence was not up to usual membership standards. They’d recruited him because his intentions coincided with theirs and he was in a strategically very opportune position for them. So they put up with his flatulence. They also avoided pricking his thin skin, up to a point, but they did not grant him total immunity from criticism.

Cearly spoke wryly. My sources suggest that you didn’t weaken their popular support so much as you made it covert.

Quite so, added Lee. In cultures with a long tradition of personal independence, it seems that gratuitous brutality like the Stockholm riot could prove detrimental to our efforts.

Lindkvist’s smug expression had turned to petulant resentment at the criticisms, something which Lee did not miss.

I do not argue with your understanding of your own people, the Singaporean went on blandly. Nor do I criticize. I simply make an observation of principle which may be useful in future decisions.

In Sweden and Denmark, said Lindkvist stiffly, and to lesser degrees in Norway and Finland, public apathy is deep enough that our analyses indicated violence as the most useful next step. It may not be necessary to repeat it, but it was appropriate at that time. That such a thing should happen there was a severe trauma to all four nations, a trauma that makes them more susceptible to manipulation. Our surveys show that it was very successful.

Reinholdt Landgraf listened to Lindkvist from behind mild eyes. The Swede, he told himself, not for the first time, does not think. He only recites. Of course the riot vas traumatic, und hass had certain useful effects. But the man does not consider the damaging effects. By that much does Sweden lose its value as an example to the vorld.

Yet pointing out hiss errors does nothing to correct him. Perhaps Herr Lee does not know him that vell yet, but Cearly does. Yet, Cearly is too intolerant of political stupidities. If ve vould use politicians, ve must be villing to live vith their veaknesses.

Often Landgraf served as a mediator in disagreements at these meetings. Now he did again. The Fennoscandian Project progresses vell, he said, regardless of any errors that might or might not haff been made. Und vith the help of Russian cupidity, nicely manipulated, economic deterioration in the northern countries hass much accelerated. This in turn hass increased the pressure for political union there. In Hamburg ve are very close to the Fennoscandian situation, und there iss every indication that Herr Lindkvist vill soon attain a Fennoscandian Federation—quite possibly during the coming calendar year. Hiss psychological conversion of its population should not be long in following.

His eyes went to Felice. But I am less interested in Fennoscandia than the status of our—shall ve say var?—of our var against Jason Roanhorse. That iss your special area. Do you haff anything to tell us beyond the written report you provided last month?

Felice looked at the German, appreciating his talent for bridging a nonproductive confrontation, then stood up to speak. Standing was not usually done, and it got their fullest attention, as she had intended.

"As you know, the destruction of the starship Stella Felicia was a total success. Members of Veopul’s Shema Society were quite happy with the results and vow to continue to aid the segregation of our two worlds. To her alien guest she offered a brief explanation. The Shemas are a group very similar to ours in the Alpha Centauri system. Similar goals. Similar methods.

"Our ‘phantom mandate’ makes it imperative that Roanhorse Aerospace remain uncertain what happens to the ships it loses. Over a year with several ships destroyed have accomplished a number of ends. Space is less popular than it would’ve been. The venture is even more costly to Roanhorse; his insurance has gone out the roof. And, finally, the losses can’t help but deflate morale.

Thus, a capture scenario must be perfect! Dead agents on a failed capture would be proof of attempts and narrow the focus of Roanhorse defense.

Hold on a bloody minute, Cearly interrupted. Capture scenario? Sure we had planned to steal a few ships, but wouldn’t it save us a lot of headache to have our new friend give us the technology.

Felice started to answer, but was interrupted by Vormin Kark, Forgive me, kind sirs. I’m afraid that the technology is as jealously guarded on my world as it is yours.

Several members sat back in their chairs, and frowned or at least looked less interested.

Kark continued, I’m genuinely impressed with the plans Felice has shown me for warpship acquisition. Most ingenious. Excellent. It would be best for you to continue as you have been. You almost have it now.

Felice added, "So, with Helifosian ships, we’d be starting from scratch as well. However, our visitor does have other things to offer. But more on that later.

"So the capture scenario must be carefully thought out. No mistakes can be allowed. Roanhorse, with his expansion into space, is creating too big a hole in our trap. We mustn’t give him any ammunition against us.

"Now, let me digress a moment. We’ve talked before about a three-prong attack toward our goals: undermine interstellar expansion, Terran takeover, and the perfection of mind-control technology.

The last of these, but not the least— Felice glanced at Vormin Kark. Her eyes narrowed slightly, knowingly. —our implanting techniques are far from ideal. Present procedures are crude compared to the ideal; the results are unreliable and the side effects unpredictable and sometimes destructive. But we are hopeful. We may be close to answers to all our questions in this area. We could have a bold new direction for mind control by next general meeting.

What about Operation Ice Pick? asked Lymon Msibi. He had pulled out his pipe and proceeded to fill the bowl. Wasn’t that supposed to be completed about now?

Felice grimaced inwardly at the sight of another pipe being lit.

Yes, I was just getting to that. Actually, it was done a week and a half ago. The Roanhorse project in Antarctica was undermining our starvation leverage, thwarting one of our most important weapons. An explanation for the benefit of our guest, Roanhorse’s Project Ice Box was a food storage depot in a location that is permanently refrigerated. With warp transport and cargo carriers, they could answer any food shortage emergency anywhere in the world and at any time, within minutes!

Her tone had risen slightly. She breathed slow and deep and continued, Operation Ice Pick has destroyed the three existing warehouses as well as the foundations already laid down for the others. The mission was completed by Argentinean jet bombers.

Well done, Felice, Mike Cearly said flatly. He gave his praise without any sense of enthusiasm, but if someone displayed competence, he would occasionally offer congratulations. I don’t think anyone else at this table knows the kind of strings you pulled to get El General hot enough to boil, over the Roanhorse encroachment on his Antarctica claim. Good, solid black PR.

Felice pursed her lips into a half smile and nodded slightly. She couldn’t be certain Mike was really praising or backhandedly bragging about his own surveillance network. Really, did he think he could intimidate her with that?

So, continued Felice, we’ve taken steps to counter Roanhorse and his cronies here on Earth, and to build the momentum on our plans. But Roanhorse in space... She paused for effect.

"Sterblich," muttered Landgraf.

What?

"Herr Roanhorse iss mortal—human—sterblich. True, he iss a formidable opponent, but ve must never forget the fact that he iss mortal. Fred Burton made another mistake about Jason Roanhorse early on. He mistook the Indian’s actions as ruthless pragmatism, und therefore a sign of prime membership material. Closer inspection vould’ve shown Roanhorse’s rapid rise in the business community to be built on hiss decimating only the ruthless pragmatists. He vas ruthless only vith the single-mindedly ruthless—or the clearly incompetent."

Rudy, Cearly interrupted, using a nickname he had picked for the German, What are you getting at? This is old hat.

Landgraf was unruffled. His rare smile was broad and genuine. Yes, Mikey. He offered a nickname for the Canadian; he was feeling uncharacteristically playful. The point iss that Roanhorse hass a veakness. Right where ve think he iss the strongest.

Felice’s eyes went wide. Landgraf was actually stealing her thunder, and doing the dirty work for her. She had expected to pull Lee Chok Tong into the argument, because she had sensed in the Singaporean the boldest and most imaginative mind of the others, but the Asian seemed content to watch the usually silent German move into action. She quietly took her seat.

One of my aides said something, Landgraf continued, "which got me to thinking about America when it vas known as The New Vorld. What vorked und what didn’t. Once there vas knowledge of its existence und the proper incentives, trying to stop people from going vould’ve been impossible.

Roanhorse’s veakness iss hiss sense of cooperation vith constructive, philanthropic und competent industrialists. Demonstrate a high level of competence und compassion, und you’ve bypassed most of hiss clearance barriers.

Colonies? asked Msibi.

Yes, charter colonies, said Landgraf, all legitimate, through Roanhorse Aerospace. I’ve vorked out some figures. I haff to admit, I vas skeptical even as I vorked this over, but it iss better than holding only to a purely adversarial approach.

Cearly, who had restuffed his pipe, held it unlit and for the moment forgotten. His attention was on Landgraf and on his thoughts. We’ll have to be cagey as hell to lease ships from Roanhorse, he said, let alone get the colonization approvals. He’s bound to be damn cautious about who he gives them to. The Irish-Canadian’s hand went to his vest pocket, to find his lighter, but his eyes remained on Landgraf.

Felice recognized the expression on Cearly’s face. He’s buying it! she thought, Cearly’s still the most influential of the club, and he’s buying it! He’s looking at how we can pull it off, not at why we shouldn’t. And, she still couldn’t believe Landgraf was heading up such a creative thrust.

There are possibilities, Landgraf continued, for major profits, but to commit the necessary resources to what might prove an open-ended race vith Roanhorse makes me a little uncomfortable. Still, if ve only attack, the odds seem to be in hiss favor. So I say attack on one hand, und infiltrate on the other. We’ll haff to feel our vay into it, keep reviewing our plan of attack. But then ve could ultimately take over Roanhorse’s expansion in the stars.

Very good, said Lindkvist, We haven’t been able to infiltrate the Roanhorse company directly, but—very nice. It ends up Roanhorse helps us build a web around Earth. Then all we have to do is tighten it.

Profits, said Lee, Hmmm—Space does seem to have an unstoppable attraction. As a cure for terrestrial problems, whether providing resources, increasing trade, bleeding off some of the population pressure, or as a place to send criminals. Using improved implant techniques from Felice could establish our colonies as a slave labor force. Then with the acquisition of warpships, our slaves could also be pirates. The Asian actually grinned with that idea. Let me extend the colony idea. One of those worlds should be a resort—a resort designed with the most exquisite taste and the most varied, expensive, and attractive entertainments. A net to catch the biggest fish—to catch the most powerful people of Earth, including heads of state.

Brilliant! said Felice. "Perfect! And wouldn’t it be marvelous if we caught Roanhorse in it! Father’s idea was that if we could kill Roanhorse, our greatest difficulties would be over. But if we can implant Roanhorse..."

Cearly, scowling, interrupted. Felice, if we haven’t been able to get close enough to kill him, how in hell do you expect to implant the sonovabitch?

She answered sweetly. Who is Jason Roanhorse’s best friend? Outside of his own organization?

Who?

The only person on Earth richer than I am.

Michael Vincent Cearly grew thoughtful. Jack Hanford. How do you propose to use him?

We’ll implant him, when we’ve developed our techniques further. As far as I’ve ever heard, he takes only routine security measures. He certainly doesn’t guard himself like Roanhorse does. He probably doesn’t feel seriously threatened.

It was clear to her that while Cearly found the idea attractive, something about it bothered him. He was probably worried about feasibility.

But there’s no hurry, she said. We certainly won’t do anything until our techniques are satisfactory. Then I’ll leave it to you to get close to him. You’re at least a personal acquaintance.

There were nods all around the table. A quick vote showed the concept had unanimous approval. Felice felt better about this plan than any other she’d ever heard. She was now at least cautiously hopeful of winning against Roanhorse.

The Hamilton Club continued its semiannual general meeting for two more days. During that time, Vormin Kark told them of the sacred trikeleron, a device with great power over the mind. He would trade knowledge of its location for Hamilton Club approval for Kark to establish a small secret base somewhere in the Solar system. Official Helifosian avoidance of the Solar system meant he could carry on his illegal activities far from the prying sensors of his native police.

On the third day, the Hamilton Club meeting broke up into several project conferences, whereupon the Helifosian left.

When the members finally left for home, each with his or her responsibilities defined or redefined, it was with a greater feeling of accomplishment than the Hamilton Club had known for years.

2029:0407

Cochise Executive Offices

Nearly all of Jason Roanhorse’s staff had left for the weekend. Most of the lights were off save those right around his desk. His Apache form leaned darkly over the desk. He planted a block-like fist on the blotter and firmly wrapped the stubby fingers of his other hand around the handset of his phone.

The Cochise hovered some 800 kilometers above Roanhorse Aerospace, Mexico. The call was being patched to the ship via a scrambled maser transmission. It originated at the Chicago headquarters of InterAgro International.

"What kind of problem, Jack?" asked Jason.

Jack Hanford sighed, Nothing I couldn’t handle Monday if I were available, but I’m leaving for Veopul tonight. I’d like my partner to give Union Fidelity a call.

Certainly. First thing Monday. I take it they’re not paying the claim on the Antarctica bombing. What’d they say?

"Excluded under the ‘Act of War’ provision. Pardon my French, but that’s not the only B.S. They had the gall to mail it to me! Just got it, and their damn offices close at three on Friday."

Were we covered for vandalism?

Yep! And no war was declared. It was an isolated event.

Certainly, agreed Jason. Argentina hasn’t been actively serious about claims disputes since the Falkland Islands debacle back in the eighties. I’ve warned their state department that the next Argentinean flyby will be shot down, considered hostile in advance. The new facility already has radar. Plus, we have a warpship watchdog. But back to the insurance. Our argument may not be enough.

How’s that?

If Union Fidelity Insurance has been compromised by the Hamilton group, I may have to get tough. Since it’s your insurance company for coverage on this and other operations of yours, but not mine, I’ll need your power of attorney to change to another insurance carrier. I don’t know if I’ll need it, but with you gone, I need room to bargain.

I see. Jack’s voice sounded heavy. I’d better catch my attorney before he leaves. The papers will be at his office for pick-up Monday morning. And Jason—

No problem, Jack. After all, we are partners. Have a good flight. Good-bye.

As Jason hung up, a flashing light appeared on his phone. He punched the button.

Yes, Maggie?

All the scientists are here, sir.

Send them in. And thanks for staying late. Have a good weekend.

The small group of R&D scientists were from the Ayr, Scotland facility, where most of the research and development took place. Despite the fact that it was past nine, Friday evening, they seemed happy enough as they pulled chairs up close to the old man’s desk.

Good, said Jason as soon as everyone was seated. As usual, our R&D meetings are confidential, in every detail. He paused to get a nod from each of them. It never hurt to reinforce something that important.

Two days ago, I got word we’ve lost another ship. With four last year, that makes five.

Eight, said Rae Fraser, chief of R&D, if you count the Centaur Trio.

Eight, Jason agreed grimly. "That leaves twenty-six passenger liners out of a fleet of over a hundred ships. Now we don’t know if we’re losing ships to alien attack, piracy, unknown physical phenomena, sabotage or hijacking. As with the recent attack on our Antarctic food depot, I’m concerned it may well be our chief adversary, the Hamilton Club, behind the disappearances.

Now, as fool-proof as our warp engine security is, that’s not one hundred percent. If they are hijacking ships, they may eventually break the security barrier. So, one priority is to beef up that barrier. Once done, develop a way to economically retrofit all existing ships.

Rae Fraser pulled out his pipe, filled and lit it. Sounds important enough. I’m just curious why you needed all of us up here at this hour. There was no animosity in his voice.

Jason grinned a broad white grin and nodded. "Sorry to keep you in the dark. It just so happens we’re at war, a more deeply