Ben Bova - The Silent War

Yet for the first time in years she found herself thinking about Elly. Pancho had always felt safe with Elly tucked around her ankle. The gengineered krait had been her faithful bodyguard. Nobody messed with her once they realized she had a lethally poisonous snake to protect her. No matter that Elly’s venom had been replaced with a strong sedative. Very few people had enough nerve to push things to the point where the snake would strike. Little Elly had been dead for more than ten years now, and Pancho had never worked up the resolve to get another such companion. Blubbery fool, she chided herself. Sentimental over a slithering snake, for cripes sake.

She tugged at the asteroidal sapphire clipped to her left earlobe. Like the rest of her jewelry, Pancho’s earrings held surprises, weapons to defend her, if need be. But damn, she thought, there’s a miniature army down here. I’d never be able to fight my way through all these bozos.

Sitting in the little wheeled chair in her office, just off the master bedroom of her home in Selene, Edith Elgin Stavenger used the three-second lag between Earth and Moon to catch up on the dossier of the woman she spoke with. For more than a week she had been chasing down executives in the news media on Earth, trying to stir their interest and support for her upcoming flight to Ceres.

Edith’s cozy office seemed to be split in two, and the head of the North American News Syndicate appeared to be sitting behind her massive, gleaming cherrywood desk, talking with Edith as if they were actually in the same room—except for that three-second lag. Edith had the woman’s dossier up on the wallscreen to one side of her own petite, curved desk.

“It’s not a story, Edie,” the media executive was saying. “There’s no news interest in it.”

The executive’s name was Hollie Underwood, known in the industry as Holy Underhand or, more often, Queen Hollie. Thanks to rejuvenation therapies, she looked no more than thirty: smooth skin, clear green eyes, perfectly coiffed auburn hair. Edith thought of The Picture of Dorian Gray and wondered how withered and scarred with evil her portrait might be. Her reaction to Edith’s idea was typical of the news media’s attitude.

“There’s no interest in it,” Edith replied smoothly, “because no one’s telling the story to the public.”

Then she waited three seconds, watching Underwood’s three-dimensional image, wondering how much the woman’s ruffled off-white blouse must have cost. Pure silk, she was certain.

“Edie, dear, no one’s telling the story because there’s no story there. Who cares about a gaggle of mercenaries fighting each other all the way out there in the Asteroid Belt?”

Edith held her temper. Very sweetly, she asked, “Does anyone care about the cost of electrical power?”

Underwood’s face went from mild exasperation to puzzled curiosity. At last she asked, “What’s the price of electricity got to do with this?”

Feeling nettled that an executive of Underwood’s level didn’t understand much of anything important, Edith replied patiently, “The greenhouse flooding knocked out more than half of the coastal power plants around the world, didn’t it?”

Without waiting for a reply, she went on, “Most of the loss in generating capacity is being taken up by solar power satellites, right? And where do you think the metals and minerals to build those satellites come from?”

Before Underwood could reply, Edith added, “And the fuels for the fusion generators that the power companies are building come from Jupiter, you know. This war is driving up their prices, too.”

By the time she answered, Underwood was looking thoughtful. “You’re saying that the fighting out in the Asteroid Belt is affecting the price of metals and minerals that those rock rats ship back to Earth. And the price of fusion fuels, as well.”

“And the price of those resources affects the ultimate price you flatlanders pay for electricity, yes.” Edith grimaced inwardly at her use of the derogatory flatlanders, but Underwood seemed to pay it no attention.

“So it costs us a few cents more per kilowatt hour,” she said at last. “That’s still not much of a story, is it.”

Edith sat back in her little desk chair. There’s something going on here, she realized. Something circling around below the surface, like a shark on the hunt.

She studied Underwood’s face for a few silent moments. Then she asked, “How much advertising is Astro Corporation buying from you? Or is it Humphries?”

Once she heard the question Underwood reddened. “What do you mean? What are you implying?”

“The big corporations don’t want you to go public about their war, do they? They’re paying for this cover-up.”

“Cover-up?” Underwood snapped, once she heard Edith’s accusation. “There isn’t any cover-up!”

“Isn’t there?”

Underwood looked furious. “This conversation is over!” Her image winked out, leaving Edith alone in her snug little office.

She nodded to herself and smiled. That hit a nerve, all right. The big boys are paying off the news media to keep the war hushed up. That’s what’s going on.

Then Edith’s smile faded. Knowing the truth would be of little help in getting the story to the public.

How to break through their wall of silence? Edith wished she knew.

Jake Wanamaker actually banged his fist against the wall. He stomped past the row of consoles in the communications center and punched the wall hard enough to dent the thin metal paneling.

“She just waltzed in there all by herself and now you can’t even make contact with her?”

The communications technicians looked scared. Old as he was, Wanamaker was still a formidable figure, especially when he was radiating anger. For several heartbeats no one in the comm center said a word. Console screens blinked and beeped softly, but everyone’s attention was focused on the big admiral.

“Sir, we got good tracking data on her until she got to the Nairobi base.”

“Those minibeacons are supposed to be able to broadcast through solid rock,” Wanamaker snarled. “We hung a half-dozen satellites in polar orbits, didn’t we? Why aren’t they picking up her signal?”

“It must be the solar flare, sir,” said another of the technicians. “It’s screwing up communications.”

Glowering, Wanamaker said, “You people assured me that the frequency the system uses wouldn’t be bothered by a flare.”

The chief comm tech, a cadaverous, sunken-eyed old computer geek, called across the room, “Their base must be shielded. Faraday cage, maybe. Wouldn’t be too tough to do.”

“Great!” Wanamaker snapped. “She’s in a potential enemy’s camp and we can’t even track her movements.”

“If she gets outside again the satellites’ll pick up her signal,” said the chief tech, hopefully.

“If she gets outside again,” Wanamaker muttered.

“Not while the solar storm’s in progress,” said one of the younger techs, wide-eyed with worry. “Radiation level’s too high. It’d be suicide.”

Rumors spread through a tightly knit community such as Selene like ripples widening across a pond. One comm tech complained to a fellow Astro employee about the tongue-lashing Wanamaker gave to everyone in the communications center. The Astro employee mentioned to her husband that Pancho Lane had disappeared down at the Astro base near the south pole. Her husband told his favorite bartender that Pancho Lane had gone missing. “Probably shacked up with some guy, if I know Pancho,” he added, grinning.

At that point the rumor bifurcated. One branch claimed that Pancho had run off with some guy from Nairobi Industries. The other solemnly insisted that she had been kidnapped, probably by Martin Humphries or some of his people.