F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 Read online

  “Hey!” came a shout from the rear of the store. “What’s he doing over there?”

  Junior looked past the Vanek and saw Jeffers standing behind the counter, glaring in his direction.

  Without looking around, the Vanek picked up his slab and walked out the door. Junior watched in stunned silence.

  “What was that all about?” he asked. “I was talking to him!”

  “We don’t allow any Vaneks to eat in here,” Jeffers told him in a more subdued tone.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because we don’t, that’s why!”

  Junior could feel himself getting angry. He put a lid on it but it wasn’t easy. “That’s a damn humiliating thing to do to somebody, you know.”

  “Maybe so. But we still don’t allow any Vaneks to eat in this store.”

  “And just who are the ‘we’ you’re referring to?”

  “Me!” said Jeffers as he came around from behind the counter and approached Junior’s table. He moved with surprising grace for a man of his size. “It’s my place and I’ve got a right to call the shots in my own place!”

  “Nobody’s saying you don’t, only you could show a little respect for his dignity. Just a little.”

  “He’s a half-breed!”

  “Then how about half the respect you ’d accord a Terran? How’s that sound?”

  Jeffers’s eyes narrowed. “Are you one of those meddlers from the capital?”

  “No,” Junior said, dropping his fork into his mashed potatoes and lifting his slab. “I only arrived on the planet a few weeks ago.”

  “Then you’re not even from Jebinose!” Jeffers laughed. “You’re a foreigner!”

  “Aren’t we all,” Junior said over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

  The Vanek was seated on the boardwalk outside the store, calmly finishing his meal. Junior sat down beside him and put his own slab aside. He was choked with what he recognized as self-righteous anger and couldn’t eat. It was a strange sensation, rage. He had never experienced it before. He’d had his angry moments in the past, of course, but he’d never run across anything like this in the three odd decades of his tranquil and relatively sheltered life. This was pure, self-righteous, frustrated rage. And he knew it could be dangerous. He breathed deeply and tried to cool himself back to rationality.

  “Is it always that way?” he asked finally.

  The Vanek nodded. “Yes, but it is his store.”

  “I know it’s his store,” Junior said, “and I certainly appreciate his right to run it as he wishes – more than you know – but what he did to you is wrong.”

  “It is the prevailing attitude.”

  “It’s a humiliating attitude, a total lack of respect for whatever personal dignity you might possess.”

  There was that word again: respect. Heber had said that the local Terrans had none of it for the Vanek. And maybe they had no reason to respect these introspective, timid creatures, but…

  Thought patterns developed after years at IBA whirled, then clicked into place, and Junior suddenly realized that of all the Terrans in Danzer, Bill Jeffers owed the Vanek the most consideration.

  “But we’re going to change that attitude, at least in one mind.”

  The Vanek threw him a questioning glance – the similarity in facial expressions between the two races struck Junior at that moment. Either they had always responded alike or the Vanek had learned to mimic the Terrans. Interesting… but he let the thought go. He had other things on his mind.

  “You’re going to take me to your tribe or camp or whatever it is,” Junior said, “and we’re going to figure out a way to put some pressure on Mr. Jeffers.”

  The pressure of which he was speaking was the economic kind, of course. Economic pressure was a household word as far as the Finch family was concerned.

  The Vanek sighed. “Whatever your plan is, it won’t work. The elders will never agree to do anything that might influence the course of the Great Wheel. They’ll reject whatever you suggest without even hearing you out.”

  “I have a feeling they’ll agree. Besides, I have no intention of asking them to do anything; I’m going to ask them not to do something.”

  The Vanek gave him another puzzled look, then shrugged. “Follow me, then. I’ll take you to the elders. But you have been warned: it’s futile.”

  Junior didn’t think so. He had found something unexpected in the attitude of the young Vanek – whose name, he learned as they walked, was pronounced something like Rmrl. He’d read it in the flick of his gaze, the twist of his mouth, and realized that for all his detached air, for all his outward indifference, this particular Vanek was keenly aware of the discrimination he faced daily in the Terran town. Junior had seen through the carefully woven façade and knew that something could be done, must be done, and that he could do it.

  Jo

  Dark brown skin and eyes against a casual white jump and short white hair: Old Pete was a gaunt study in contrasts, moving with such ease and familiarity through the upper-level corridors of IBA that the receptionist in the hall hesitated to accost him. But when he passed her desk on his way to the inner executive offices, she felt compelled to speak.

  May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes.” He turned toward her and smiled. “Is The Lady in at the moment?”

  She answered his question with another. “Do you have an appointment?” Her desktop was lit with the electronic equivalent of a daybook and an ornate marker was poised to check off his name.

  “No, I’m afraid not. You see–”

  “I’m very sorry.” The finality in her tone was underscored by the abrupt dimming of her desktop. “Miss Finch can see no one without an appointment.” The daybook read-out was her ultimate weapon aid she was skilled at using it to control the flow of traffic in and out of the executive suites.

  The old man rested a gnarled hand on the desktop and leaned toward her. “Listen, dearie,” he said in a low but forceful tone, “you just tell her Old Pete is here. We’ll worry about appointments later.”

  The receptionist hesitated. The name “Old Pete” sounded vaguely familiar. She tapped her marker once, twice, then shrugged and touched a stud on the desktop.

  A feminine voice said, “Yes, Marge,” from out of the air.

  “Someone named Old Pete demands to see you, Miss Finch.”

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Send him in.”

  She rose to show him the way but the old man waved her back to her seat and strode toward an ornate door made of solid Maratek firewood that rippled with shifting waves of color. The name Josephine Finch was carved in the wood at eye level, its color shifts out of sync with the rest of the door.

  Old Pete? thought the woman within. What was he doing at IBA? He was supposed to be in the Kel Sea, out of her sight and out of her mind. She dropped a spool of memos onto the cluttered desk before her. After taking an all-too-rare long weekend, work had accumulated to the point where she’d have to go non-stop for two days to make up for the extra day off. Project reports, financial reports, feasibility studies, new proposals – a half-meter stack had awaited her return. The interstellar business community, at least that portion of it connected with IBA, had apparently waited until she’d left the office three days ago before unloading all its backed-up paperwork.

  At times like this she idly wished she had an accelerated clone to share the work load. But as it stood now with the Clone Laws, she’d go to jail and the clone would be destroyed if anyone ever caught on.

  A clone would be especially nice right now, just to deal with Old Pete. But he was here and there was no avoiding a meeting with him. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but she’d have to do it herself.

  The door opened without a knock and there he stood. He’d changed. His skin was darker and his hair was whiter than she’d ever seen it. Over all, his appearance was more wizened, but the changes went deeper than that
. Jo had always thought of Old Pete as the perfect example of a high-pressure executive – his movements had always been abrupt, rapid, decisive, his speech terse and interruptive. He appeared much more at ease now. There was a new flow to his movements and speech.

  He had changed, but the feelings he engendered in her had not. The old distrust and hostility rekindled within her at the sight of him.

  For a heartbeat or two after coming through the door, the old man stood with his eyes fixed on her, his mouth half open, frozen in the instant before speech. Abruptly, he appeared to reassert control over himself and arranged his features into familiar lines.

  “Hello, Jo,” he said softly, closing the door behind him. “You’re looking well.”

  And she was. A few pounds in the right places had matured her figure since the last time the two of them had faced each other. She was wearing a clingsuit – blue, to match her eyes – and she wore it well; in the past she had been too thin by most outworld standards, but the extra weight on her light frame brought her close to optimum. Her dark hair, its normal sandy color permanently altered years before to a shade closely matching her late grandfather’s, was parted in the middle, curving downward into a gentle frame for her oval face, and then cut off sharply below the ears. Between the straight line of her nose and a softly rounded chin, her lips would have appeared fuller had they not now been compressed by irritation.

  “You’re not looking so bad yourself,” she replied stiffly. “Island life seems to be agreeing with you. How’ve you been?” She really didn’t care.

  “Can’t complain.”

  The amenities went on for a few more minutes with Jo doing her best to be as pleasant as possible. Old Pete’s return irritated her. IBA was running smoothly now, and all because of her. What did he want here anyway? She resented anyone from the old days intruding on IBA. It was her company now – the Finch flair had been restored and IBA was reasserting its claim to pre-eminence in its field.

  Old Pete. Of all the people from the past, he was the last she wished to see at her door. And he must know that. She’d made no secret of it when he was forcefully retired; and even now, years later, she could feel the hostility radiating from her despite her calm and cordial demeanor.

  Old Pete was glancing around the room. A figure standing in a far corner caught his eye and he whirled. “Joe! Good–” Then he realized he was looking at a hologram. “That’s one of the most lifelike holos I’ve ever seen,” he said with obvious relief as he moved around to view it from different angles. “For a moment I actually thought–”

  “The founder’s portrait has to go somewhere,” Jo said.

  “Co-founder, you mean.”

  Jo hesitated, then backed down. He was right and it would serve no purpose to get petty with him.

  “The late co-founder,” she finally replied, then made an attempt to bring the conversation toward the bottom line. “What brings you back?”

  Frowning, he eased himself into a chair across from Jo’s desk and stared at her. “I don’t know how to put this, exactly. In a way, I’m here to ask IBA to help me, the Federation, and IBA.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Sounds kind of convoluted, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds like you’re hedging,” Jo replied without returning the smile.

  Old Pete’s laugh was genuine. “Just like your grandfather! Okay, I am hedging, but only because I’ve got to somehow convey to you a convincing version of a vague concept formed from speculation based on incomplete and/or secondhand information.”

  “What is it, then?” she snapped, then reminded herself to show restraint and have patience. He was, after all, an old man.

  “I’ve uncovered a plot against the Federation charter.”

  Jo let the statement hang in the air, waiting for more. But her visitor out waited her.

  Finally, “What’s that got to do with IBA?” she asked grudgingly.

  “Everything. The charter severely limits the activities of the Federation; it restricts it from meddling in planetary affairs and from interfering in interplanetary trade. For the past couple of centuries it has bound the planets tightly together while managing to stymie the bureaucrats at every turn. But there’s a delicate balance there, easily upset. If the charter should be changed or, worse yet, thrown out somehow, the politicos at Fed Central who are so inclined will have free rein to indulge their whims.”

  Jo shrugged. “So what? That doesn’t affect IBA. We have absolutely no connection with anyone in the Federation. We don’t even have a connection in the Ragna Cooperative. So how can any political machinations be of any consequence to us?”

  “If the charter goes, so does the free market,” he told her.

  A drawn-out, very dubious, “Ohhhh?” was her only reply.

  Old Pete grunted. “Jo, what do you know about the Restructurist movement?”

  “It’s a political group that wants to make some changes in the Federation,” she replied. “DeBloise is their current leader, I believe. Beyond that, I don’t know much about them. Nor do I care much about them or any other political group.”

  “You’d better start learning. To say they want to ‘make some changes in the Federation’ is to put it lightly… turn it inside out is more like it! The Fed was designed to keep the lid on interplanetary affairs: mediate some disputes, promote a little harmony while simultaneously maintaining a low level of constructive discord, and quashing the violent plans of some of the more acquisitive planetary regimes. But that’s not enough for the Restructurists.

  True to their name, they want to restructure the entire organization… turn it into some sort of social and economic equalizer that’ll regulate trade in free space and even get involved in the internal affairs of some of the planets.”

  Jo remained unconcerned. “They’ll never get anywhere. From what I understand, the Fed charter is defensively worded in such a way as to make it impossible for anyone to get around it.”

  “You forget: there’s an emergency clause that allows for a temporary increase in the scope of Federation activity should it or its planets be threatened. Peter LaNague, who designed the charter, disowned it after that clause was attached over his protests.”

  “I’m aware of all that,” Jo said with forced patience. The conversation seemed to have veered off its original course… or had it? In spite of the pile of work spread out before her, she felt compelled to follow Old Pete’s train of thought through to its finish. “And it seems every time I catch a vidcast, there’s a news item about another attempt to invoke the security clause in the Fed charter. And every time it’s voted down. Even if they do succeed in invoking it, so what? It’s only temporary.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Jo. If you look at the history of old Earth, you’ll find that very seldom, if ever, is any increase in governmental power temporary. The emergency clause is probably the key to Restructurist control: once they invoke it they’ll have their foot in the door and the Federation will never be the same again. I don’t want to see that happen, Jo. Your grandfather and I were able to make IBA a going concern because of the Fed’s hands-off policy toward any voluntary transactions. It’s my personal belief that we Terrans have come as far as we have in the last couple of centuries because of that policy. I don’t want to see it changed. I don’t want to see the Federation regress toward empire – it arose from the ashes of another empire – but I see it looming in the future if the Restructurists have their way.”

  “But they won’t,” Jo stated.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Many of those Restructurists may seem like starry-eyed idealists, but a good number are crafty plotters with power as their goal. And Elson deBloise is the worst of the hunch. He’s an ambitious man – a mere planetary delegate ten years ago, he’s now a sector representative – and this plot, whatever it is, centers around him and his circle. I’ve made a connection between deBloise and an as yet unnamed man on Dil. The man is some sort of physicist, probably, and if deBloise thinks he ca
n be of use, then both he and the Federation had better be on guard!”

  Jo was struck by the old man’s vehemence. “Why not go directly to the Federation if you think something dirty is up?”

  “Because I don’t have a shred of tangible evidence. I would look like a nut and deBloise would have plenty of time to cover his tracks. Frankly, I’d rather not even involve the Fed. It’s not set up to deal with deBloise’s type. I’d much prefer to handle everything behind the scenes and avoid any open involvement with the politicos. To do that I need IBA’s contacts.”

  “It’s always been a company policy to stay out of politics,” Jo said after a moment of silence. “It’s one of our by-laws, as a matter of fact.”

  Old Pete’s face creased into a smile. “I know. I wrote it.”

  “Then why the sudden change of heart?”

  “No change of heart, really. I still don’t think business should have any connection with government. It’s dangerous and it’s usually sneaky. When a businessman and a politician get together, certain things are bound to occur.” He ticked the points off on the fingers of his left hand. “The businessman is usually one who’s found that he hasn’t quite got what it takes to make it in the free market, so he will try to persuade the government to use its coercive power to help him gain an advantage over his competitors: a special sanction, an import quota, a right of way, et cetera. The politician will find that if he complies he will grow richer in power and/or material wealth. The colluding business will aim for a monopoly over a particular market while the politician will aim in turn for further extension of political influence into the marketplace by controlling that monopoly. They both wind up winners. The losers: everybody else.

  “So I still say, government should have no influence in the economy and business should have no influence in government. And that’s the way it’s been under the LaNague Charter. You, don’t see any lobbyists at Fed Central because the Federation has denied itself any and all economic power. Nobody’s getting any special favors and I want to keep it that way. And the only way for me to do that is to meet a few politicos head-on.”