Ben Bova - Moonwar

“My dear Miss Elgin,” Faure had said, with his smarmy smile, “this is a military expedition, not a camping trip.”

“This is news,” Edith had countered, “and the public demands to know what’s going on, first-hand.”

She had been brought to Faure’s presence in the Secretariat building. Not to his office, though. The secretary-general chose to meet her in a small quiet lounge on the building’s top floor. The lounge was plush: thick beige carpeting, comfortable armchairs and curved little sofas. Even the walls were covered with woven tapestries of muted browns and greens. The decor seemed to absorb sound; it was a room that gave no echoes, a room to share whispered secrets.

Edith had chosen to wear a clinging knee-length dress of bright red, accented with gold bracelets and necklace to compliment her sunshine yellow hair. Once it had been truly that happy color; for years now she had helped it along with tint.

Faure had let her wait for almost ten minutes before he showed up, a dapper little man in a precisely-cut suit of elegant dark blue set off perfectly by a necktie of deep maroon.

He took her hand so daintily that Edith thought he was going to kiss it. Instead, Faure led her to one of the plush armchairs and sat in the one facing hers. As she sat down, Edith looked past Faure’s smiling figure to the ceiling-high windows that faced uptown, northward, along the East River. She could see the Fifty-ninth Street bridge and well past it, all the way up to the Triboro and beyond.

“What a sparkling day,” she said.

Faure took it as a personal compliment. “You see how the electric automobile has already improved the air quality,” he said, beaming. It made his tiny eyes almost disappear.

Edith wasn’t willing to let him take all the credit. “I thought the electric cars were mandated by the U.S. government. The Environmental Protection Agency, wasn’t it?”

“Ah yes,” said Faure quickly. “But only after our own efforts had proven successful in reducing the pollution in Tokyo and Mexico City. Now all the major cities are following our lead.” Again the smile that almost swallowed his eyes.

Edith wondered silently, Is he using the editorial ‘we’ or the imperial?

But she smiled back at the secretary-general and said sweetly, “You know that a big chunk of the American public doesn’t agree with what you’re doing to Moonbase.”

Faure’s expression turned hard for a moment, then he shrugged and put on a sad face. “Yes, I know. It is very unfortunate. But one cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs, can one?”

Now he’s saying ‘one’ instead of ‘we’, Edith realized.

“Most of the inhabitants of Moonbase are Americans,” she said.

“They are violating the treaty that Americans themselves drafted. The very treaty that the American delegation originally proposed to the General Assembly and fought so hard to have passed.”

“Still,” Edith said, leaning back in the comfortable armchair and crossing her legs at the ankles, “many Americans sympathize with the people in Moonbase.”

Faure made a what-can-I-do shrug.

“They would feel better about it,” Edith continued, “if an American reporter went with the Peacekeepers and sent back on-the-spot reports.”

The secretary-general began to shake his head.

“The American media would feel much better about it if a reporter were allowed to go along,” Edith added.

“You mean those who control and direct the news media, no?”

“Yes. The top brass.”

Faure sighed heavily. “Frankly, Miss Elgin, the American news media have not always been kind to me.”

Edith kept herself from grinning. In most countries the government could muzzle the media pretty effectively. But the First Amendment was still in force in the US. So far.

“You see,” Faure said, leaning closer to her, placing his hands on the knees of his perfectly-creased trousers, “it is not I who resists your request. The Peacekeepers are military men. And women, of course. They do not want a news reporter to travel with them. They fear it might hamper them—”

“The military never wants reporters around.”

“Quite so. But in this case I can fully understand their hesitation.”

Edith said, “If there’s a news blackout, the media will have nothing to work with except rumors.”

“We will furnish news releases, as a matter of course. Each day a complete summary will be given to the media.”

“But some reporters will wonder how accurate it is. There’s always the tendency to put your own spin on the actual events, isn’t there.”

Wearily, Faure replied, “I suppose so. But you must not impugn the integrity of the Peacekeepers. They have accomplished very difficult assignments in many parts of the globe. Take Brazil, for example—”

“Are you saying,” Edith interrupted, “that it’s up to the Peacekeepers themselves to decide if they take a reporter or not?”

“No, not at all. Merely—”

“Because I thought the Peacekeepers reported to you. I thought you made the final decisions.”

“But I do!”

“Yet in this case you’re going to let them dictate to you, is that it?”

Faure’s moustache quivered slightly. “Not at all! I make the decision and they follow.”

Smiling her prettiest, Edith knew she had him. “In that case, you certainly understand how important it will be to have an unbiased, trusted news reporter on the scene when they land at Moonbase.”

Faure’s face clearly showed that he did not like being mousetrapped. But slowly his expression changed; he smiled again, showing teeth.

“Yes, you are correct,” he said slowly. “The responsibility is mine. All mine. The weight of the major decisions is upon my shoulders alone.”

Edith recognized the crafty look in his eyes.

“This is not an easy decision to make, Miss Elgin,” Faure went on. “Special arrangements require certain… ah, accommodations.”

“What do you mean?” Edith asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

Leaning forward even more and tapping a pudgy finger on her knee, Faure said, “We have much to discuss about this. Perhaps we could have dinner this evening?”

The body tax. Edith controlled her inner anger as she told herself, Even after all these years of women’s rights it still comes down to the damned body tax. He’s got the power and he knows it. If I want him to do me a favor he expects me to do one for him in return. And all he sees is a good-looking blonde.

“Dinner sounds fine,” she said, thinking, It won’t be the first time you’ve opened your legs to get a good assignment. Sometimes you’ve got to give some head to get ahead.

The mercenary stared at the message that was waiting for him on his wall screen.

“The prey runs to the hunter,” he muttered to himself.

Slowly he peeled off his grimy fatigues and wadded them into a ball that he tossed onto his bunk as he headed for the shower stall. His quarters were one of the old rooms in Moonbase. Most people complained that they were small and cramped, but the mercenary found the space just fine for his needs. Two of the walls were smart screens, recently installed. The shower stall was new, too.

Making sure the temperature dial was still set for dead cold, the mercenary stepped into the stall and let the reviving water sluice over his body. The prey runs to the hunter, he thought again. Doug Stavenger wants to see me.

Ever since he had first begun training as a sniper, back during his army days, he had thought of killing as a sort of religious rite. A sacred responsibility. Everybody dies, the only question about it is where and when. And how.