Ben Bova - Moonwar

“They want to get married right here and now,” Anson said, “but there’s nobody here to perform a legal ceremony.”

Doug leaned back in his chair and stared at the rough rock ceiling for a few moments. “I don’t see why we can’t get a man of the cloth from Earthside to marry them by video.”

“They’re both Catholic,” Anson said.

“How about the Pope?” Edith quipped. “Or at least a cardinal. Make a great news feature.”

Doug grinned at her. “Let’s see what we can do. At least they’ll be married, even if they have to separate for a while.”

Suddenly Anson looked uncomfortable, and Doug realized that her husband was still on Tarawa. They had separated several years earlier; Jinny was at home in Moonbase, her husband had not been. Not at all.

To get off the subject, Doug said, “I wonder just who Faure’s going to send here to check out our nanotech work.”

Anson snorted. “At least one of ’em’ll be Japanese, from Yamagata Industries, I betcha.”

“It’s too bad you missed the cherry blossoms,” Rashid said to Tamara Bonai. “They were magnificent this year.”

The city of Washington was in bloom: Bonai saw the roses and magnolias that flowered brightly on the White House’s lawn as their limousine glided past the heavily guarded gate and out onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

Her five minutes with the President had not gone well. True to her word, Tamara had urged the President to support Moonbase’s bid for independence. True to her expectations, the President had politely but firmly answered that she could not do that as long as Moonbase used nanotechnology.

“But without nanotechnology, Moonbase will have to shut down,” Bonai had said.

The President shrugged it off. “My record is quite clear,” she said. “The potential threat from nanotechnology is so severe that it’s worth the loss of Moonbase to be safe from it.”

For a long moment the two women sat facing each other in plush armchairs set before the Oval Office’s dark and empty fireplace. Bonai wore a sleeveless sheath of pink, with pearls at her throat, ear lobes and wrist. The President was in a navy blue suit with a modest mid-calf skirt and jewelry of silver and turquoise from her native Arizona.

“Are you aware,” Bonai asked slowly,’that the United Nations intends to turn over the operation of Moonbase to Yamagata Industries, once they have taken the base?”

The President glanced at her aide, sitting quietly across the room behind Bonai’s back with a cyberbook-sized computer in the palm of one hand. The young man had a miniaturized microphone clipped to the inside of his shirt collar, so he could subvocalize information to the all-but-invisible receiver in the President’s left ear.

“Yamagata Industries?” she said, stalling for time. They already have a base on the Moon, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said Bonai. “And they intend to take over Moonbase and continue using nanomachines for many purposes—including manufacturing Clipperships.”

“Are you certain?” The President was now glaring at her aide, who had given up all pretense of secrecy and was scrolling madly through his computer files.

“That would give Yamagata—Japan, really—the world leadership in aerospace transportation,” Bonai said.

The aide shook his head and whispered. The President put on a smile and parroted, “I have had no indication from Mr Faure that the U.N. intends to turn Moonbase over to Yamagata.”

“Then may I suggest,” Bonai said, “with all respect, that you ask Mr Faure directly if he plans to do this?”

The President’s brows knit slightly. “May I ask what your interest is in all of this? After all, Moonbase is trying to break away from Kiribati’s ownership, aren’t they?”

“Kiribati supports Moonbase’s independence. It will have no effect on our business relationship with Moonbase. We intend to formally recognize Moonbase’s independence.”

“Is that so?” The President leaned slightly toward Bonai and made a motherly smile. “Let me give you a bit of friendly advice, young lady. Kiribati’s recognition of Moonbase won’t affect the political situation one iota. So don’t stick your neck out; you might regret it later on.”

Bonai smiled back, thinly. “I appreciate your frankness, Madam President. But I do think that America’s recognition of Moonbase’s independence would be in keeping with the finest traditions of your nation.”

The President sighed, her signal to her aide to end the meeting. He immediately got to his feet and walked across the Oval Office to bend over her and say:

“I’m afraid the ambassador from Uganda has been kept waiting for more than three minutes now.”

Bonai took the hint, got to her feet, and left the Oval Office.

Now she leaned back on the limousine’s fine leather seat, resting her head on the backrest as the car inched through the traffic on its way to her hotel.

Rashid was either too polite or too crafty to ask her how the meeting had gone.

“I’ve arranged for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s quite a lovely place, very quiet and private. The food is excellent.”

Bonai said, “That’s fine.” And she realized that Rashid hadn’t expected anything of significance to come out of her five minutes in the Oval Office. His whole attention was focused on their evening together.

Jack Killifer had just enough time to down a premixed martini on the commercial flight between Washington and Boston. He had followed Bonai to Washington and immediately given up any hope of killing her there. Too many guards, too many police, too many people on the streets and in the hotels.

I’m no professional hit man, he grumbled to himself on the brief flight home. Why’d O’Conner pick me for the job?

He knew perfectly well. Killifer had brought Bonai’s intransigence to General O’Conner’s attention. And O’Conner had always been a firm believer in the idea that the man with the problem should be the man to produce the solution.

But murder? Maybe when she’s all alone out on that little island of hers. Or even in the town on Tarawa atoll; the only real security those islanders have is guards for the casino.

As the plane lowered its landing gear and lined up for landing at Boston’s ancient Logan Aerospace Port, Killifer toyed with the idea of calling O’Conner in Atlanta and asking for a professional to do the work. Or even one of the faithful Urban Corps fanatics.

But it’d be a waste of breath, he knew. O’Conner had made it clear: he wanted Killifer to do this job personally. “The fewer people know about this,” the general had said,’the better off we are.”

Yeah, Killifer told himself as the plane’s tires screeched on the runway. And knocking off Bonai’ll give him an absolute grip on me.

Yet he was almost smiling as he got out of his seat and followed the other passengers to the plane’s exit hatch. Okay, he told himself. When Bonai goes back to Tarawa I go back too. I’ll hit her there. Now that I know the layout of the islands, it oughtta be fairly easy.

And he began to lay his plans.

They watched the Clippership settle down gracefully on landing pad one from the snug confines of her quarters.

“Well,” said Nick O’Malley,’there she is.”

Claire Rossi nodded.

“Aren’t you excited?” he asked, forcing a grin.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Claire said, “About the wedding, yes. About leaving, no.”

“Well, you’ve got to go,” Nick said. “It’s for your own good. And the baby’s.”

Claire nodded again. But she said, “It’s not an illness, you know. Pregnancy is just as normal as breathing, really.”