“Hold on,” Lowen said. “You know John Perry?”
“We left Earth on the same boat,” Wilson said. “We were part of the same group of friends. We called ourselves the Old Farts. There were seven of us then. There’s three of us now. Me, John and Jesse Gonzales.”
“Where is she?” Lowen asked.
“She’s on the colony of Erie,” Wilson said. “She and I were together for a while, but she eventually wanted to leave the CDF and I didn’t. She married a guy on Erie and has twin daughters now. She’s happy.”
“But all the rest are dead,” Lowen said.
“They told us when we joined that three-quarters of us would be dead in ten years,” Wilson said. He was lost in thought for a moment, then looked up at Lowen and smiled. “So strictly on a percentage basis, the Old Farts beat the odds.” He drank.
“I’m sorry to bring up memories,” Lowen said, after a minute.
“We’re talking and drinking, Doctor Lowen,” Wilson said. “Memories will surface just as a matter of course.”
“You can call me Danielle, you know,” Lowen said. “Or Dani. Either is fine. I figure if we’ve drunk this much Scotch together, we should be on a first-name basis.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Wilson said. “Then call me Harry.”
“Hello, Harry.”
“Hello, Dani.”
They clinked their cups together.
“They’re renaming my high school after your friend,” Lowen said. “It was Hickenlooper High. Now it’s going to be Perry High.”
“There is no higher honor to be bestowed,” Wilson said.
“I’m actually kind of annoyed by it,” Lowen said. “I get mail now saying, ‘Greetings, Perry Graduates,’ and I’m all, ‘What? I didn’t go there.’”
“If I know John at all, he’d be mildly embarrassed to have your high school’s name changed out from under you,” Wilson said.
“Well, to be fair, the man did free my entire planet from the Colonial Union’s systematic and centuries-long campaign of repression and social engineering,” Lowen said. “So I guess I shouldn’t begrudge him the high school.”
“Possibly not,” Wilson agreed.
“But that just brings us back around to the original question: What the hell was the Colonial Union thinking?” Lowen asked.
“Do you want a serious answer?” Wilson asked.
“Sure, if it’s not too complicated,” Lowen said. “I’m a little drunk.”
“I’ll use small words,” Wilson promised. “I would be willing to bet that in the beginning the Colonial Union justified it by thinking that they were both protecting the Earth by taking the focus off it and onto the Colonial Union worlds, and then also helping humanity in general by using the Earth to help our colonies grow as quickly as they could with new immigrants and soldiers.”
“So that’s at first,” Lowen said. “What about later?”
“Later? Habit,” Wilson said.
Lowen blinked. “‘Habit’? That’s it? That’s all you got?”
Wilson shrugged. “I didn’t say it was a good answer,” he said. “Just a serious one.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a diplomat,” Lowen said. “Or I would tell you what I really thought of that.”
“I can guess,” Wilson said.
“And what do you think, Harry?” Lowen asked. “Do you think that Earth and the Colonial Union should have an alliance? After everything that’s happened?”
“I’m not sure I’m the best-qualified person out there to answer that,” Wilson said.
“Oh, come on,” Lowen said, and waved at the officers lounge, whose population was still limited to the two of them and the Laphroaig. “It’s just you and me.”
“I think that it’s a scary universe out there,” Wilson said. “With not a lot of humans in it.”
“But what about the Conclave?” Lowen asked. “Four hundred alien races not actively killing each other. Doesn’t that make it a little less scary?”
“For those four hundred races? Sure,” Wilson said. “As long as it lasts. For everyone else? Still scary.”
“You’re cheerful,” Lowen said.
“I prefer ‘realist,’” Wilson said.
* * *
Six drinks, even later:
“Are you green everywhere?” Lowen asked.
“Excuse me?” Wilson said.
“I am asking purely on scientific grounds,” Lowen said.
“Thanks,” Wilson said, dryly. “That makes it so much better.”
“I mean, unless you prefer unscientific reasons for me asking,” Lowen said.
“Why, Dr. Lowen…” Wilson feigned shock. “I am not that kind of boy.”
“Once again, I am skeptical,” Lowen said.
“Tell you what,” Wilson said. “Ask me that question sometime when you haven’t just consumed a substantial portion of a bottle of fine single-malt Scotch whiskey in a single sitting. If you’re moved to do so, you might get a different answer from me.”
“Fine,” Lowen said sourly, and then looked over at Wilson somewhat as an owl would. “You’re not drunk,” she said.
“No,” Wilson said.
“You drank as much as me, and I’m drunk as a skunk,” she said. “Even accounting for body mass, you should be plastered, too.”
“Benefit of the new body,” Wilson said. “A much higher alcohol tolerance. It’s more complicated than that, but it’s late and you’re drunk, so maybe we’ll save it for tomorrow. Speaking of which, it’s time to get you into your crawl space, if you want to be at the negotiations tomorrow without a hangover.” He stood up and offered his hand to Lowen.
She took it, wobbling only slightly. “Whoa,” she said. “Someone did something to the artificial gravity.”
“Yes,” Wilson said. “That’s it exactly. Come on.” He navigated her through the corridors and up the decks to the berths Captain Coloma had assigned to the observers.
“Almost there,” Wilson said to Lowen.
“About time,” Lowen said. “I think you took the scenic route. The scenic route that spins a bit.”
“Maybe I’ll bring you some water,” Wilson said. “And some crackers.”
“This is an excellent idea,” Lowen said, and then jumped a little at the noise of the door of one of the berths flying open and slamming against the bulkhead.
Wilson looked toward the noise and saw Thierry Bourkou, looking frantic. “Is everything all right, Mr. Bourkou?” he asked.
Bourkou turned to Wilson, saw Lowen on his arm and rushed toward them. “Dani, Dani, come quick,” he said. “It’s Cong.”
“What’s Cong?” Lowen asked, less tired and slurred than moments before. Wilson could see the panic on her colleague’s face, and his alarmed tone was pushing the drunkenness down. “What is it?”
“He’s not breathing,” Bourkou said. “He’s blue and he’s not breathing.” He grabbed Lowen’s hand and pulled her down the corridor toward his berth. “He’s not breathing and I think he might be dead.”
* * *
“He was fine when he lay down,” Bourkou said. “He and I have both been feeling tired, so we both took naps at the same time. Then he started snoring, so I turned on the white noise machine. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up I told him I was going to get him some tea and asked him if he wanted any. He didn’t respond, so I went to shake him. That’s when I saw his lips were blue.”
All of the observers were in the Clarke’s medical bay, along with Wilson, Abumwe, Captain Coloma and Doctor Inge Stone, the Clarke’s chief medical officer. Liu was also there, on a stretcher.
“Did he say anything other than that he was tired?” Stone asked Bourkou. “Did he complain about any other pains or ailments?”
Bourkou shook his head. “I’ve known Cong for ten years,” he said. “He’s always been healthy. The worst that’s ever happened to him is that he broke his foot when a motorcycle ran over it while he was crossing a street.”
“Wh
at happened to him?” Franz Meyer asked. After Liu, he was the ranking diplomat among the observers.
“It’s hard to say,” Stone said. “It almost looks like carbon monoxide poisoning, but that doesn’t make sense. Mr. Bourkou here was unaffected, which he wouldn’t have been if it was carbon monoxide, and in any event there is nothing near those berths which generates or outputs that.”
“What about the white noise generator?” Lowen asked. She was alert now, through a combination of caffeine, ibuprofen and nerves. “Is that something that could have done this?”
“Of course not,” Meyer said, almost scornfully. “It has no moving parts other than the speakers. It doesn’t output anything but white noise.”
“What about allergies or sensitivities?” Stone asked.
Meyer shook his head this time. “He was lactose-intolerant, but that wouldn’t have done this. And other than that he was not allergic to anything. It’s as Thierry said. He’s a healthy man. Was a healthy man.”
“Aren’t we overlooking something here?” asked Luiza Carvalho. Everyone looked to her; it was the first time she had spoken since the group gathered in the medical bay.
“Overlooking what?” asked Coloma.
“The possibility this isn’t a natural death,” Carvalho said. “Cong was a healthy man, with no previous health issues.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Carvalho, that’s probably further than we need to go for an explanation,” Stone said. “It’s rather more likely Mr. Liu fell prey to a previously undiagnosed condition. It’s not uncommon, especially for people who have been superficially healthy. Their lack of obvious health issues means they don’t get in to see a doctor as often as others would. That lets not-so-obvious issues sneak up on them.”
“I understand that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one,” Carvalho said. “Of course. But I also know that in my home country of Brazil, assassination by poisoning has made a comeback. Last year a senator from Mato Grosso was killed by arsenic.”
“A political assassination?” Abumwe asked.
“No,” Carvalho admitted. “He was poisoned by his wife for sleeping with one of his legislative aides.”
“To be indelicate, may we assume such a situation is not happening here?” Abumwe asked.
Meyer looked around at his colleagues. “It’s safe to say that none of us were sleeping with Cong,” he said, to Abumwe. “It’s also safe to say that none of us had any professional reason to want him dead, either. With the exception of Thierry, none of us knew him prior to this mission. The mission selection criteria were as much political as anything else. We all represent different political interests at home, so there was no direct competition or professional jealousy.”
“Do all of your factions get along?” Wilson asked.
“For the most part,” Meyer said, and then pointed at Lowen. “Doctor Lowen represents America’s interests here, and the United States, for better or worse, still maintains a somewhat contentious primary position in global politics, especially post-Perry. The other political interests sought to minimize its influence on this mission, which is why Liu Cong was selected to head the mission, over U.S. objections, and why the U.S. representative—apologies here, Dani—is the most junior on the mission. But none of that rose to the level of skullduggery.”
“And I was with Lieutenant Wilson here for several hours, in any event,” Lowen said. This raised eyebrows, both Meyer’s and Abumwe’s. “Cong asked me to get to know our Colonial Union liaison better so we could get a better understanding of the lay of the land. So I did.” She turned to Wilson. “No offense,” she said.
“None taken,” Wilson said, amused.
“So it seems like poisoning or assassination is off the table,” Stone said.
“Unless it was someone on the Colonial Union side,” Carvalho said.
Abumwe, Wilson and Coloma exchanged glances.
This did not go unnoticed. “Okay, what was that?” asked Lowen.
“You mean the sudden, significant glances,” Wilson said, before Abumwe or Coloma could say anything.
“Yes, that would be what I’m talking about,” said Lowen.
“We’ve had some recent incidents of sabotage,” Abumwe said, shooting an irritated glance at Wilson.
“On this ship?” Meyer asked.
“Not originating on this ship, no,” Coloma said. “But affecting the ship.”
“And you think this could be another one of these?” Meyer said.
“I doubt that it is,” Abumwe said.
“But you can’t be one hundred percent sure,” Meyer persisted.
“No, we can’t,” Abumwe said.
“What am I missing here?” Stone asked, to Abumwe and Coloma.
“Later, Inge,” Coloma said. Stone closed her mouth, unhappy.
“I think we may have a potential issue here,” Meyer said.
“What do you suggest we do about it?” Abumwe asked.
“I think we need an autopsy,” Meyer said. “The sooner, the better.”
“Doctor Stone can certainly perform one,” Coloma said. Meyer shook his head; Coloma frowned. “Is that not acceptable?”
“Not by herself,” Meyer said. “With no offense offered to Doctor Stone, this has become a politically sensitive event. If someone from within the Colonial Union has been sabotaging your efforts, then all of the Colonial Union’s apparatus becomes suspect. I have no doubt at all that Doctor Stone will do a fine job with the autopsy. I also have no doubt at all that there are politicians back on Earth who would look at a Colonial Union doctor clearing the Colonial Union of the suspicious death of an Earth diplomat and use it for their own agendas, whatever those agendas might be.”
“There’s a problem, then,” Stone said. “Because all of my staff are Colonial Union, too.”
Meyer looked over to Lowen, who nodded. “I’ll do the autopsy with you,” she said, to Stone.
Stone blinked. “Are you a medical doctor?” she asked.
Lowen nodded. “University of Pennsylvania,” she said. “Specialized in hematology and nephrology. Practiced my specialty for about three months before I joined the State Department as an advisor.”
“Doctor Lowen is eliding the fact that her father is United States Secretary of State Saul Lowen,” Meyer said, smiling. “And that she was more or less dragooned into this role at her father’s behest. Which is to take nothing away from her own talents.”
“Anyway,” Lowen said, slightly embarrassed by Meyer’s commentary. “I have the degree and I have the experience. Between the two of us we can make sure no one complains about the results of the autopsy.”
Stone looked at Coloma, who looked over to Abumwe. Abumwe gave a nod. So did Coloma. “All right,” she said. “When do you want to start?”
“I need some sleep,” Lowen said. “I think we could all use some sleep. We all have a busy day tomorrow.” Stone nodded her assent; the Earth observers excused themselves and headed to their berths.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Coloma asked Wilson after they had gone.
“You mean, about letting them know about the sabotage,” Wilson said. Coloma nodded. “Look. They already caught us in the reaction. They knew something was up. We could have either lied poorly and had them distrust us, or we could tell them the truth and gain a little trust. The leader of their mission has died, and we don’t know why. We can use all the trust we can get.”
“The next time you get the urge to make diplomatic decisions, look to me first,” Abumwe said. “You’ve done it before, so I know you can do it now. This isn’t your mission and it’s not your call to make about what we tell them and what we don’t.”
“Yes, Ambassador,” Wilson said. “I wasn’t intentionally trying to make your job harder.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t give a damn about your intentions,” Abumwe said. “I thought you knew that by now.”
“I do,” Wilson said. “Sorry.”
“You’re dismissed, W
ilson,” Abumwe said. “The grown-ups need to talk in private.” She turned to Coloma and Stone. Wilson took the hint and left.
Lowen was waiting in the corridor for him.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Wilson said.
“I wanted to apologize to you,” Lowen said. “I’m pretty sure what I said in there about spending time with you came out wrong.”
“That part where you said that you were spending time with me on Liu’s orders,” Wilson said.
“Yeah, that,” Lowen said.
“Would it make you feel better to know that my boss told me to spend time with you?” Wilson said.
“Not really,” Lowen said.
“I won’t admit it to you, then,” Wilson said. “At least not until you’ve had time to collect yourself.”
“Thanks,” Lowen said, wryly.
Wilson reached out and touched Lowen’s arm in sympathy. “Okay, seriously,” he said. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” Lowen said. “My boss is dead and he was a really nice man, and tomorrow I have to cut into him to see if someone murdered him. I’m just great.”
“Come on,” Wilson said, and put his arm around her. “I’ll walk you back to your berth.”
“Did your boss tell you to do that?” Lowen asked, jokingly.
“No,” Wilson said, seriously. “This one’s on me.”
* * *
Abumwe’s supreme irritation, first at the disposition of the trade negotiations at the end of the first day, and then at the death of Liu Cong and the possible implication thereof, was evident in the second day of negotiations. Abumwe began by tearing Doodoodo a new one, in as brilliant a show of venomous politeness as Wilson had ever seen in his life. Doodoodo and his fellow negotiators actually began to cringe, in the Burfinor fashion, which Wilson decided was more of a scrotal-like contraction than anything else.
Watching the ambassador do her work, and doing it with something approaching vengeful joy, Wilson realized his long-held wish that Abumwe would actually relax from time to time was clearly in error. This was a person who operated best and most efficiently when she was truly and genuinely pissed off; wishing for her to mellow out was like wishing an alpha predator would switch to grains. It was missing the point.