“I notice you said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’” Vilušínský smiled thinly. “That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you, Adam. Your optimism.”
“I don’t know if we’ll manage to pull everything off the way we want to,” Šiml replied, then snorted harshly. “I don’t know if we’ll manage to pull off half of what we want to! But you know as well as I do that the wheels are going to come off, one way or the other. It amazes me that people who sure as hell aren’t stupid—like Kápička and Sabatino, or even Siminetti—can think they can go on forever without some kind of explosion.”
“Adam, they know OFS and Frontier Fleet are standing behind them. Do you think for one second that someone like Verner would hesitate to break however many eggs it took to prop up his good friends at Frogmore-Wellington or Iwahara?” It was Vilušínský’s turn to shake his head, his expression disgusted. “It wouldn’t be the first time the all-benevolent OFS has been faced with a bunch of ‘terrorist’ neobarbs attacking their own ‘openly elected government’ and threatening the safety of the Solarian citizens whose investments are raising their system’s standard of living to such heights! And”—his voice turned darker—“it wouldn’t be the first time OFS courageously solved the problem by sending in the Solly Marines to kill however many of those ‘terrorists’ it takes, either.”
“I didn’t say the explosion would succeed,” Šiml said grimly. “I said it’s going to happen.”
The two old friends looked at one another in the quiet library, and, after a handful of seconds, Vilušínský nodded. That, he thought, was the real reason Šiml had founded Jiskra in the first place. Adam Šiml was many things, but a natural revolutionary wasn’t one of them. Vilušínský had never doubted his friend’s loathing and hatred for someone like Jan Cabrnoch or Karl-Heinz Sabatino. Nor had he ever doubted Šiml’s passionate desire to restore constitutional government and the rule of law to the Kumang System…or his personal courage and integrity. But what he was naturally was a teacher and a reformer, a humanist who abhorred the very thought of violence. Which, perversely, was what had finally carried him into active resistance. He was determined to impose some sort of control on that inevitable explosion he saw coming. To create a disciplined core that could both guide that explosion to success and restrain its excesses when it attained that success.
To save his homeworld from the blood guilt the demand of so many of its people for vengeance could so easily create.
For a man who’s read so much history, he can be as blind as Sabatino, in his own way, Vilušínský thought now, sadly. Or maybe he isn’t blind. He’s read a hell of a lot more of that history than I have, when it comes down to it. So he’s got to know even better than I do how many revolutions have devoured leaders who were too moderate to suit the mob mentality. Maybe he’s just willing to stand up and be devoured if that’s what it takes to save Chotěboř’s soul from itself. And if he is, what does that say about you, Zdeněk?
He decided not to pursue that thought and gave himself a shake.
“I don’t suppose Sabatino asked you for any receipts on your Sokol expense account, did he?” he asked, and Šiml chuckled.
“Hell no! He’s just absolutely delighted at the proof that he’s in the process of buying me off entirely.”
Vilušínský didn’t chuckle; he laughed out loud, instead.
Šiml was right when he said Karl-Heinz Sabatino was actually a very smart man. But he was a very smart man produced by a particular system and a particular mindset, and like many men—including, quite possibly, Zdeněk Vilušínský, he admitted—he seemed incapable of looking beyond that mindset. He saw the entire universe through the lens of his own experiences, his own expectations. And in his experience, everyone had a price.
Vilušínský had been as surprised as Šiml when the offer of a massive donation from Frogmore-Wellington Astronautics and Iwahara Interstellar landed on Šiml’s desk at Sokol’s central office. Květa Tonová, who was officially Šiml’s secretary and actually his executive officer, had been stunned when she opened the message file and saw the amount Sabatino was offering to throw Sokol’s way. It was the largest single contribution the sports association had received in well over a T-century, and the only string attached had been Sabatino’s insistence on sitting down and personally discussing with Šiml what that money might be used to accomplish.
Šiml had been deeply suspicious, and neither he nor Vilušínský had doubted that the juicy offer contained any number of barbed hooks. In fact, he’d almost turned it down flat, because even though he’d been at a loss to imagine what Sabatino thought Sokol might accomplish for Kumang’s absentee landlords, he hadn’t expected it to be good for Chotěboř. But upon reflection, he’d decided to open the floodgate of cupidity as wide as Sabatino was willing to open it…if not for exactly the reasons the off-worlder might have expected.
As far as Vilušínský was concerned, anything that had happened more than, say, a thousand years ago was of limited interest, but Šiml was fond of truly ancient history, and he’d trotted out a quotation from some long-forgotten pre-diaspora revolutionary: “They will sell us the rope with which we will hang them,” he’d said. If Sabatino wanted to pour money into the organization within which Šiml was building his movement, that was just fine with him.
Yet it had quickly become apparent Sabatino had rather more in mind than simply buying goodwill or inspiring Šiml to publicly endorse his policies or support the Cabrnoch government.
“You do realize Sabatino’s little brainstorm has to be the most disastrous brilliant stratagem since Renato Alcofardo pissed away an entire star system by putting in the wrong puppet regime, don’t you?”
“Only if it turns around and bites him in the ass the way Figuiera bit Alcofardo,” Šiml countered. “And that means I have to be at least as smart as Figuiera was.”
“I don’t know about being as smart as he was, but I expect you’re at least a much nicer person,” Vilušínský said dryly. “I don’t see any pogroms in your future.”
“Assuming I have one of those, no.” Šiml tipped his chair back farther. “Of course, that’s what makes it so interesting, isn’t it?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Erin MacFadzean stood and held out her hand as young Jamie Kirbishly escorted the tallish, very dark-skinned man into the office. Megan MacLean remained seated in the chair beside MacFadzean’s, but her gray eyes were intent as Kirbishly’s left hand made a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. MacLean’s gaze never flickered, although her body language might have relaxed a millimeter or two at the confirmation that their visitor was unarmed. Or, at least, that he wasn’t armed with anything Kirbishly’s sensor wand had been able to identify as a weapon, anyway.
“Mr. Bolívar,” MacFadzean said.
“Ms. MacFadzean,” the newcomer replied, shaking the proffered hand, and looked past her to MacLean. “Representative MacLean,” he added with a respectful nod.
“Not any longer, I’m afraid, Mr. Bolívar,” MacLean said, standing to extend her own hand. “Not for some time, now. I’m afraid I’m just a silver oak grower these days.”
“Of course you are,” Bolívar acknowledged with a slight smile. “That’s what I’m here to talk to you about, after all. Mr. Hauptman was very pleased with Mr. Henry’s initial analysis of the market possibilities here in Loomis. I won’t pretend Mr. Hauptman’s business analysts haven’t identified quite a few other, potentially competing market openings, of course.” He shrugged, his peculiar amber eyes, their irises heavily flecked with silver—evidence of some ancestor’s fashion taste in genetic modification—bright as they met hers. “Personally, I’m very much hoping we find a way to do business in your star system.”
“Well, yes, so am I.” MacLean smiled back at him. “I hope you understand that my own silver oak plantations are still independently owned and managed, though. I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you the sort of cut-rate prices SEIU is currently offering. On the other
hand,” her smile faded, “I will be able to offer you a long-term source, at least on a modest level, for a considerably longer period of time. I’m afraid I’m not a fan of Mr. Zagorski’s harvesting practices. He’s bringing a lot of timber to the market, but if you’re interested in long-term purchases, he’s not exactly doing our future supply any favors, Mr. Bolívar.”
“Please, call me Toussaint,” Bolívar said. “And I understand your point completely.” He shrugged. “Mr. Hauptman’s seen the results of that kind of…shortsightedness often enough. I suspect—in fact, I’m sure, given my instructions—that he’s prepared to pay a reasonable premium to an independent supplier who can continue to meet his needs on a longer-term basis. The market for silver oak in the Star Empire’s still relatively modest—it’s not well-known there yet. He expects it to grow once Manticoran craftsman and artists become more familiar with the wood’s qualities, however, and he doesn’t have any objection at all to keeping the supply limited in order to maintain the sort of price structure we envision. We’ll also be looking at fairly substantial, regular shipments of seafood from Thurso, and the quantities of silver oak he’s contemplating could easily be carried aboard the same freighters.” The Manty smiled again. “Essentially, the profit on the seafood—which is a sustainable bulk commodity—will more than cover the transportation costs on the silver oak.”
“I can see where that shipping model might make sense for him.” MacLean nodded. “On the other hand, I think it would be wise for you, as his representative, to actually examine the plantations we’d be cutting for him. Should I assume you’ve been authorized to inspect them for him, Toussaint?”
Gray eyes held amber ones levelly for a moment, and it was Bolívar’s turn to nod.
“Yes, I have.” His tone seemed to say more than his words, but then he gave another of those warm, charming smiles. “I warn you, though,” he added wryly, “that my expertise where silver oak’s concerned is pretty superficial by Halkirk standards. I’ve boned up on the subject since Mr. Hauptman gave me this assignment, but I’d hardly consider myself any sort of silviculture expert.”
“Fortunately, Ms. MacFadzean has all the expertise you could possibly ask for in that regard,” MacLean told him. “In fact, she’s my chief forester. Given that we’re considering a long-term relationship with Mr. Hauptman’s cartel—almost a partnership arrangement, I suppose—I thought it would make sense to make her available to answer any of your questions. And, of course, to provide a personal tour of the stands.”
“That would be most welcome,” Bolívar said.
* * *
“I think that probably pretty much covers it from the air,” Erin MacFadzean said the better part of two hours later.
She banked the air car slightly, cruising above the tops of the towering silver oaks at an altitude of two hundred meters. From that vantage, they could see for thirty kilometers, and the silver oak canopy stretched away, almost completely unbroken in every direction. At that, however, what they could currently see represented only about twenty percent of the MacLean family’s holdings.
“I’m impressed,” Bolívar replied, shaking his head. “I hadn’t realized Ms. MacLean controlled this large a tract of timberland.”
“Her family was one of the Loomis Expedition’s first-shareholders.” MacFadzean sounded faintly amused. “Nobody realized how lucrative the silver oak market was going to be at that time, and I suspect some of the other first-shareholders thought her ancestors were being foolish to take so much ‘worthless woodland’ here on Halkirk instead of holding out for a concession on Thurso.” She shrugged. “Everyone already knew about the seafood potential from there, but only a handful—including Tammas MacLean—even suspected how much silver oak would be worth.” She looked away from her passenger. “Or how much off-world interest it would spark,” she added in a rather more somber tone.
“No, I can see how that might be.” Bolívar’s answering tone was carefully neutral, and MacFadzean inhaled deeply.
“I wonder if you’d care to walk through one of the stands we’re currently harvesting?” she offered. “It’s likely to be a bit noisy, but it would give you a ‘ground-level’ look at our harvesting techniques.” She showed her teeth briefly. “I think you’ll see why they’re more sustainable than SEIU’s current approach.”
“I think that would be an excellent idea,” Bolívar agreed, and she sent the air car scooting to the east.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them stood watching logging crews carefully take down fifty-five-meter silver oaks. The long, straight trunks were close to five meters in diameter, and the harvesting crews were careful to leave every second mature tree—and every tree less than thirty meters tall—standing.
“Zagorski would take every one of them down,” MacFadzean said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of chainsaws and even old-fashioned axes. That voice was considerably more bitter than it had been. “There’d be nothing but stumps when that bastard was done, and he’d do a half-assed job of replanting.”
“I take it he’s not so very popular.” Unlike MacFadzean, Bolívar sounded almost whimsical, and she glared at him.
“You know damned well he isn’t, or you wouldn’t be talking to us,” she said flatly. “I’m pretty sure there are bugs in most of our air cars, and I know all of our coms are tapped. It’s a bit harder to plant bugs out here in the woods.”
“Not impossible, I’m sure, though,” Bolívar replied.
“Actually, pretty much, yes.” MacFadzean shrugged. “We use a lot of autonomous drones to keep an eye on the state of the trees. Forest fires on Halkirk are a lot bigger economic disasters than they are other places in the galaxy, so not even MacCrimmon or MacQuarie complain too much about that. They’re equipped with active as well as passive sensors, though, and I’m afraid we’re not as well placed to do the kind of intensive maintenance SEIU does on its drones. That means about ten percent of them have…less than optimally efficient sensors which have a tendency to scramble electronics in their vicinity. It can be a real problem for our work crews’ coms, actually.”
“I see.” Bolívar smiled. “Very neat. And for the same reason you use the drones out here you carefully don’t sweep your air cars for bugs?”
“Oh, we sweep them occasionally…just not very well.” MacFadzean bared her teeth. “The Uppies would be even more suspicious if we didn’t, given Megan’s role in the LRP. Besides, sometimes it’s better to let the Uppies hear exactly what you’re saying to each other, including an occasional conversation about how unhappy we are with the present management here in Loomis. The bastards wouldn’t believe anything else we said, but it’s amazing how careful we are to never suggest any extra-legal remedy for the situation.”
“I see.” Bolívar nodded, then looked at her very seriously. “Should I assume you are prepared to consider ‘extra-legal’ remedies?”
“We’re headed that way,” she replied, and shrugged as he raised his eyebrows. “Personally, I think it’s inevitable we’ll wind up doing exactly that. For that matter, Megan thinks the same thing. But she’s been committed to…process-oriented reform, I suppose, for decades.”
“In Loomis?” Bolívar inquired politely, and she snorted.
“She’s an idealist, Mr. Bolívar. That’s what makes people willing to follow her. Personally, I was a lot more skeptical than she was about the possibility of any meaningful sort of reform, but there didn’t seem much else in the way of options. And when she organized the Loomis Reform Party, seven T-years ago, the LPP was actually promising ‘free elections’ under pressure from Zagorski’s predecessor. I never liked the woman much, but she understood us one hell of a lot better than he’s ever tried to. I doubt she ever intended the ‘reforms’ to go any further than window dressing, of course. What she wanted was something to let the locals vent and possibly even believe things would get better as a way to defuse the anger so many of us already felt.” She shrugged again, and this time the shrug wa
s sharp with suppressed violence. “I didn’t really believe any ‘reforms’ were going very far then, and neither did Megan, but it was at least a chance. Until Zagorski came along and took the pressure off. At which point, we lost one of the two parliamentary seats we’d won in the very next election. It was about five months after that that Megan resigned the second one in protest over the way our voters had been intimidated and miscounted.”
Bolívar nodded, and she turned away for a moment. Then she turned back to him.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice a bit less harsh than it had been. “I know you already knew all that or you wouldn’t have been talking to us. The thing is, though, that that’s where Megan came from, and it’s going to take her a little longer than it’s taken me to decide we have to go beyond that. But at least we were able to convince her to begin setting up the Provisional Wing once we saw which way MacCrimmon was going to push MacMinn as soon as Zagorski gave him the nod. I think that’s a pretty clear sign of where she’s likely to end up.”
Bolívar nodded again. He knew exactly when the Loomis Reform Party’s underground, extra-legal branch had been organized, since MacLean’s meeting with MacFadzean, Tammas MacPhee, and Tad Ogilvy was what had attracted Lieutenant Touchette’s attention. MacPhee had held the other LRP seat in the local parliament, and he’d always been rougher around the edges than MacLean, while Tad Ogilvy was a very tough customer who’d organized the LRP in the city of Conerock. Both of them were rather less patient and more inclined toward direct action than Megan MacLean had ever been. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to know who those people were—or even about the meeting.