John Scalzi - Earth Below, Sky Above

Balla snorted. “Doesn’t seem to be working very well,” she observed.

“Now they understand the physics of it,” Coloma said. “The Perry incident solved that problem. Now they have a wealth and organization problem. They can’t afford to build another beanstalk or a large enough space station, and if any one nation tried, the rest of them would scream their heads off.”

“It’s a mess,” Balla said.

Coloma was about to agree when her PDA sounded. She glanced down at it; the flashing red-and-green banner indicated a confidential, high-priority message for her. Coloma stepped back to read the message. Balla, noting her captain’s actions, focused on other tasks.

Coloma read the message, punched in her personal code to acknowledge receipt of it and then turned to her executive officer. “I need you to clear out the shuttle bay,” she told Balla. “All crew out, no crew back in until I say so.”

Balla raised her eyebrows at this but did not question the order. “The shuttle is scheduled to return in twenty-five minutes,” she said.

“If I’m not done before then, have it hold ten klicks out until I clear it for docking,” Coloma said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Balla said.

“You have the bridge,” Coloma said, and walked out.

Minutes later, Coloma eased herself into the chair in front of the command panel of the shuttle bay’s control room and began the bay’s purge cycle. The air in the bay sucked into compressed storage; the doors of the bay opened silently in the vacuum.

An unmanned cargo drone the size of a small personal vehicle slipped into the bay and settled onto the deck. Coloma closed the doors and repressurized the bay, then walked out of the control room toward the cargo drone.

The drone required identification to unlock. Coloma pressed her right hand against the lock and waited for it to scan her prints and blood vessel configuration. After a few seconds, it unlocked.

The first thing Coloma saw was the package for Lieutenant Harry Wilson, containing a pair of suits and ’bot canisters for his upcoming dive-for which, Coloma noted sourly, he would need her shuttle again. She disapproved of what happened to her shuttles when Wilson was involved.

Coloma pushed the thought, and Wilson’s package, aside. She wasn’t really there for them.

She was there for the other package, nestled alongside Wilson’s. The one with her name on it.

“I’m supposed to be assisting you,” Schmidt said to Wilson.

“You are assisting me,” Wilson said. “By bringing me beer.”

“Which is not going to happen again, by the way,” Schmidt said, handing Wilson the IPA he’d gotten him from the bar. “I’m your assistant, not your beer boy.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said, taking the beer. He looked around the place. “The last time I was here, in this mess area, and I think at this very table, I saw my first alien. It was a Gehaar. It was a big day for me.”

“You’re not likely to see another Gehaar here,” Schmidt said. “They’re charter members of the Conclave.”

“A shame,” Wilson said. “They seemed like nice people. Messy eaters. But nice.” He took a drink from his beer. “This is excellent. You can’t get a good IPA in the Colonial Union. I have no idea why.”

“Shall I fetch you some pretzels, O my master?” Schmidt asked.

“Not with that attitude,” Wilson said. “Tell me what you found out about the state of the summit instead.”

“It’s madness, of course,” Schmidt said. “They barely got through the welcome session before they ended up throwing out the agenda for the entire summit. The fact the Colonial Union is shopping around a lease on this station has disrupted things before they could even begin.”

“Which is exactly what the Colonial Union wants,” Wilson said. “Nobody’s talking anymore about reparations to the Earth for keeping them down for so long.”

“They’re still talking about it, but nobody really cares,” Schmidt said.

“So who are the early contenders?” Wilson asked. He took another sip from his beer.

“The United States, which is not entirely surprising,” Schmidt said. “Although to cover their unilateral tracks, they’re talking about roping in Canada, Japan and Australia for a coalition bid. The Europeans are putting their chips together, and so are China and the Siberian States. India is going it alone at the moment. After that it’s a mess. Ambassador Abumwe has had most of Africa and Southeast Asia at her door, trying to schedule time with her in groups of three or four.”

“So we’ll have four or five days of this, at which point we’ll suggest that the Earth diplomats should go back to their home countries, formalize their proposals and present them at a new round of negotiations,” Wilson said. “They’ll do a first round of eliminations, which will cause a shifting of alliances and proposals, each progressively more advantageous to the Colonial Union, until at the end of it we get most of the planet doing what we want, which is supplying us with soldiers and the occasional colonist.”

“That does seem to be the plan,” Schmidt said.

“Well done, Colonial Union,” Wilson said. “I mean that in a realpolitik way, mind you.”

“I got that,” Schmidt said. “And what about you?”

“Me? I’ve been here,” Wilson said, waving a hand to encompass the bar.

“I thought you were supposed to be meeting with the U.S. military guys,” Schmidt said.

“Already met with them here,” Wilson said. “Except for the one who’ll be skydiving with me. Apparently he was delayed and will meet up with me later.”

“How did it go?” Schmidt said.

“It was a bunch of soldiers drinking and telling war stories,” Wilson said. “Boring, but comfortable and easy to navigate. Then they left, I stayed and now I’m listening to everyone who’s come in here talk about the events of the day.”

“It’s a little loud for that,” Schmidt said.

“Ah, but you don’t have superhuman, genetically-engineered ears, now, do you,” Wilson said. “And a computer in your head that can filter down anything you don’t want to focus on.”

Schmidt smiled. “All right, then,” he said. “What are you hearing right now?”

“Aside from you complaining about having to fetch me beer,” Wilson said, “there’s a Dutch diplomat and a French diplomat behind me wondering whether the Europeans should let the Russians into their bid for the station, or whether the Russians will let bygones be bygones and join up with the Siberian States and China. Also behind me and to the left, an American diplomat has been hitting on an Indonesian diplomat for the last twenty minutes and appears to be entirely clueless that he’s not going to be getting anything from anyone tonight, because he’s a complete twit. And directly across from me, four soldiers from the Union of South African States have been drinking for an hour and wondering for the last ten minutes how to pick a fight with me and make it look like I started it.”

“Wait, what?” Schmidt said.

“It’s true,” Wilson said. “To be fair, I am green. I do stand out in a crowd. Apparently these fellows have heard that Colonial Defense Forces soldiers are supposed to be incredibly bad-ass, but they’re looking at me and they don’t see it. No, sir, they don’t see it at all . So they want to pick a fight with me and see how tough I really am. Purely for the sake of inquiry, I’m sure.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Schmidt asked, looking over at the soldiers Wilson was speaking of.

“I’m going to sit here and drink my beer and keep listening to conversations,” Wilson said. “I’m not worried, Hart.”