Mark Tiedemann: Mirage

"You know," the other ghost said, "there are elements of this treaty that aren't terrible."

"Which elements do you mean?" The chairman's voice became blunt, almost monotonal in its derision. "The part where Spacer industry is allowed to set up factories on Earth as cooperatives with native companies? Or the reduced tariffs that could cut government revenues in half-which would mean that our government would be forced to make up the shortfall through increased local taxes? Or is it the limited reintroduction of positronics to the open market?"

His tone turned mocking. "Or could it be the sentiment of reconciliation that permeates every clause and paragraph of the draft proposal? How does the preamble go? 'The people of Earth and the people of the settled worlds share a common heritage and should not be separated by ideology or divided over commerce. ' Do you wish to sit down to break bread with our lost children of Aurora and Solaria and reminisce over the branching past? What parts of this treaty 'aren't terrible'? Educate me."

"That's enough," said the left-hand ghost. "Sometimes I wonder if you aren't a fanatic. The fact is we stand to lose a great deal of money if positronic inspections are instituted for interstellar shipping. The black markets have been too lucrative and we're bound to them now, but it's just profit. I don't think we should forget that. We're doing this to protect our margins-period. I don't have any ideological axes to grind. Nobody-not Earth, not Settler, and especially not Spacer-is going to damage my business. That should be enough. This isn't a holy war."

"No?" the chairman asked. "Perhaps not. But you should study history more. You might find yourself agreeing with the fanatics more than you'd expect." He settled back in the chair. "That brings me to another point. The Tiberius incident which precipitated this conference was nothing but sloppy handling on the part of the captain. It should never have escalated to the point of provoking the Auroran ship. Once we get through the upcoming event, I think a restructuring of our smuggling operations is in order. Shipments have been cut to less than half their former size because of this nonsense. A year of this is too much. But I don't want a repeat of that mess."

"Do you think after the conference we'll still be doing any business with Spacers?" the left-hand ghost asked.

"Oh, yes. More. They won't be able to get Terran products through legitimate channels. Not as easily, at any rate. Possibly, depending on how angry their governments are, not at all. The market won't go away and we'll be able to raise prices due to any embargo. Business will continue, make no mistake. I've already made inquiries into alternate routes and methods. I think, once the dust settles, we can look forward to doubling our former revenues."

"We've heard none of this," the left-hand ghost complained.

"Of course not. I'm waiting till afterward, so that if anything goes wrong, you will all have deniability."

"Or anything to take to the authorities?"

The chairman frowned. "Why do you goad me so much?"

The ghost shrugged. The indistinct form made the gesture seem liquid, like the slap of water against a wall.

"It's best," said the ghost, "that we never forget the nature of what we're doing."

"We're putting a stop to a bad idea," the chairman said. "Risks are necessary to do so. Speaking of which, you-" he pointed to the right-hand ghost "-are taking the greatest risk."

"So?"

"Any second thoughts?"

"All the time. But it's necessary."

The chairman nodded. "Then we won't speak again."

"True." The ghost sighed, a papery sound that seemed ancient. "Flesh, not steel?"

"Flesh, not steel," the other two repeated.

"Good-bye."

The ghost faded out, leaving only two.

"Will he go through with it?" the left-hand ghost asked.

"The beauty of this is that once the reception at Union Station begins, he won't have any choice," the chairman replied. "But I think we should make absolutely sure he doesn't suffer a crisis of conscience. Before or after."

"My people will keep a watch on him. As for after…"

"See to it."

"Done." The ghost paused. "You asked why I goad you so much."

"A rhetorical question. I actually enjoy it, in a way."

"Good. But I don't do it for your pleasure, Ky. We've known each other for a long time. I've always found in you the desire to act on passion alone. You never do, but you want to. I worry sometimes that one day you'll ditch your practicality and turn zealot."

The chairman raised an eyebrow. "How do you know I haven't?"

"You pay attention to costs too closely."

The chairman laughed. When he finished, he gazed at the wavering, masked form across from him. "As a matter of fact, I do believe positronic robots represent a real threat, beyond the fiscal. When you study history-"

"I know about the riots."

"We all do-we're endlessly told about them, by commentators and in our dramas. Riots don't frighten me, though."

"You're not worried that a reintroduction of positronic robots would bring them back?"

"No. I'm worried that this time they won't. And then it's allover for us."

The two shimmery figures sat together in silence for a time, the space around them growing thick with contemplation.

"Well," the ghost said at last, "I have details to chase down and kill."

"So do I. I think we're as prepared as we're going to be."

"I agree. Till afterward then?"

"Flesh, not steel?"

The ghost chuckled. "If you insist."

The form faded out, leaving the chairman alone in his generated conference chamber. After a time, he reached in his pocket again and squeezed the square.

"Recording complete?" he asked.

"Recording complete," answered a flat, genderless voice. "Decoding routines in place, descrambler active. Bubble memory established under file 'Zealots, Inc. ' Minutes retrieved, stored, coded to password release."

The chairman felt a wry aversion to that label, but it fit. He did not feel like a zealot, not in the sense of an irrational fanatic single-mindedly devoted to a cause. Rather, he felt supremely rational, a practical man in an impractical universe, presented with an opportunity to make a small adjustment and guarantee the sanity of a small part of history.

A zealot? No. Ambitious, perhaps, and, he admitted, even a little vain.

But it was necessary.

"Very good. End routine."

The room faded away, leaving nothing.

Mia Daventri listened to the stream of com chatter in her left ear and surveyed the crowd gathered at the archway. On an average day, Union Station D. C. was thick with travelers and their entourages of well-wishers and connections. Now it seemed to contain half the residents of the city.

"Wing Three," a voice whispered to her. "Parcel is arriving. Are you established?"

"Copy, One," she said quietly, glancing around. No one looked like anything other than a fascinated spectator. "Gate is open."

"Very good," One replied. It was unusual for the head of Special Service to operate as general dispatcher, but today was an unusual day.

Union Station always impressed Mia. The main gallery seemed to grow out of the earth itself, huge arching ribs reaching up and overhead to support the roof, the columns carved in delicate fractal patterns. The floor shined like polished starglow. The hall lay at the center of a network of tunnels to and from the shuttle port. Archways lined the walls, glowing signs set into the synthetic stone above each directing people to transportation, shops, restaurants, com booths, and the station hotels. Between those columns that did not flank an exit stood statuary, representative pieces from several periods extending back to preindustrial times. Sounds caught in the air, contoured, slightly magnified, and lingered high above. Union Station was a showpiece for D. C., sprawling and elegant and, it seemed, ever incomplete. Mia had seen a view of it from outside. It looked like a giant mushroom cap, a thick set of tunnels linking the landing field to the secrets beneath its penumbra.