The Powers of the Earth (Aristillus Book 1) Read online

  He forced himself to turn to Allyson, even though he couldn't stand the idea of her looking at him right now -

  - and saw that she was looking at him and smiling.

  Chapter 78

  2064: Kaspar Osvaldo's home, Aristillus, Lunar Nearside

  Dewitt took another bite of his spicy fish taco and washed it down with a sip of the beer. The beer - some local brand - was good, but Marianela's tacos were better. He let out an 'mmm' of appreciation and Marianela smiled at him from across the table.

  Kaspar continued his story "...the work was good. It was supposed to be an office job, but J-12 series had problems with the arc-blowout nitrogen injectors, so I was out on the road a fair bit dealing with that. This was before the project got shut down, of course."

  Dewitt knew to listen far more than he spoke, but also knew when to prod the conversation forward. The topic - Kaspar's job back on Earth before immigrating two years ago - wasn't the kind of information he'd been told to prioritize, but he knew from the field that nothing was useless. Learn about a man's work, learn about his family, and you learned about his culture, what he values, where his loyalties lay. And that, he knew, was as useful as mapping the lunar tunnels, or finding out the number of men under arms.

  "This was part of the wind-power thing?"

  Kaspar shook his head. "The entire windmill project was stupid. Wind comes and goes and unless you've got backup you end up causing major problems for the grid. So you've got to keep fossil fuel burning plants running the entire time, ready to hot swap in. No, this was part of a good project - the gravel trains."

  "Gravel trains? I haven't heard about that."

  Kaspar chuckled darkly. "No, of course not. It was a good idea, so it got canceled."

  "What was it?"

  "You know that power demand is lower at night than during the day?"

  Dewitt took a sip of beer. "Of course."

  "But power plants have optimal efficiency if they run at maximum output all the time. There's a mismatch. So the idea is that we use surplus power at night to drive really long trains full of gravel up mountains - we had a demo facility in the Rockies - then during the day, we run the trains downhill and use regenerative breaking to put power back into the grid."

  "That works?"

  "Of course it works. It's just potential energy."

  "No, I get that. I mean, can you really store a noticeable amount of energy that way? Enough to make it worth doing?"

  "Are you kidding? Haul a few million kilograms up a couple of kilometers and there's an insane amount of potential energy."

  "So why did it get canceled?"

  Kaspar shrugged. "Rumor was that battery manufacturers donated to a few key campaigns. I don't know if that's true or not, but the year after BuSuR shut down the gravel train project for 'safety reasons,’ the battery manufacturers got a big R&D grant." The memory of it seemed to push Kaspar into a darker mood and he took another long pull from his bottle. "And after that, I ended up working on the merger of the Texas and Eastern Interconnections. Not that that went anywhere."

  Dewitt speared a slice of avocado and ate it. "I remember that - politics, just like the gravel trains, right?"

  Kaspar swallowed a bite of his own taco and shook his head. "Actually, you're wrong there. Separate subgrids actually makes good sense."

  On the far side of the table Kaspar's son Ignacio interrupted. "Dad, can I have desert?"

  "Not yet, mi pequeño. Let's all finish our dinners, first, si?"

  "Aw."

  Dewitt smiled; kids were the same everywhere. He turned back to Kaspar. "Really? I heard it was states-righters who resisted the merger."

  Kaspar let out an exasperated sigh. "No, that's not true. It's simple engineering. Look, you inject power into the grid at one point and it's simple, but if you inject alternating current at multiple points it has to be in phase, because if it's out of phase you've got power plants fighting each other."

  Dewitt nodded; he understood this so far.

  "You can simulate this on a bench with a big copper bus bar, but when you scale up to the size of a continent you get problems."

  "What problems?"

  "Speed of light delays from one generator to another. It's impossible to put multiple generators in absolutely perfect phase, so you have one generator, say in Oregon, somewhat out of sync with another generator in Atlanta. You're turning electricity into heat. Not much, but every bit counts."

  "So, wait. You're mentioning the speed of light, and I don't understand that. Is this that 'relativity' thing?"

  "No, nothing that complicated. Imagine that - " Kaspar cleared the table in front of him, pushing salad bowls, platters, and salt shakers away to the exasperation of his wife and delight of his three kids who started pushing their own plates around.

  Kaspar picked up flatware, stray croutons, and coffee saucers and laid out a model of power stations, power lines, and "packets" of power. The explanation went on for five minutes.

  At the end Dewitt sat back and scratched his head. He actually understood some of the engineering issues involved. And weirder yet, it turned out that Texas having its own electrical grid was actually based on engineering principles. It wasn't just "racism and states rights" like he'd heard on DC Minute.

  Chapter 79

  2064: Morlock Engineering office, Aristillus, Lunar Nearside

  Mike tapped the gavel against the block. "OK, good report." He didn't have to look down at his slate to know what was next. "Last item - militias. I'll go first. First Morlock is fully staffed up and kitted out. I've put one of my construction crew chiefs, Olusegun Mimiko, in charge. He's started training."

  Trang Loc of Red Stripe raised his chin. "And how is training going?" Mike twisted his lips. "Not wonderfully. We've got a lot of people with officer experience, but we need good NCOs and we don't have them." He looked around. "Any other questions? No? Rob?"

  Rob shook his head. "Not a lot to say. 40th is staffing up. About halfway done. Finding it a bit hard to make time for training -"

  Only halfway staffed up? They needed to move quicker than that. "Rob, you've got to -"

  Rob scowled. "I know. I know."

  Mike waited for more, but that was apparently it. He turned to Mark Soldner.

  Mark nodded. "We've had good turnout. The 10th Light Infantry is fully staffed, and we've had enough volunteers that we've decided to go ahead and form the 11th as well. We might even do the 12th, but no promises." Mike raised an eyebrow. After the disappointing report from Rob, this was good news.

  Or was it? If Mark was still jockeying to put some sort of government in place in Aristillus - and he had to assume that he was - the fact that he was staffing up so quickly and efficiently was noteworthy. Was there any chance that Mark would try to establish a government by force? He tapped his stylus on the table. On the one hand Mark didn't seem like the kind of person who'd launch a revolution, or counter-coup, or whatever...but on the other hand, he had trashed Leon's Poker House.

  Mike pursed his lip and scratched a quiet note on his pad to talk to Javier later.

  Mark continued his report. "Training is going well. We've got several veterans in our ranks. We're mostly concentrating on in-tunnel scenarios, but we've done a few surface excursions." Mark turned to Mike. "My colonels have decided against using your Gargoyle rifle - they're going with something smaller."

  Mike's nostrils flared. Even as he felt the annoyance rising he tried to fight it. Mark's choice of rifle was trivial, and he shouldn't feel personally invested, even if it was his design.

  And then, before he realized it, he was saying, "That's a bad decision; we don't know what sort of armor the PKs are going to have -"

  "My colonels were unanimous. Besides, we've already outfitted the troops."

  "Hang on. You've got to -"

  Javier interrupted. "Trang, why don't you tell us about the Red Stripe militia?" Mike bit back the rest of his rant to Mark Soldner. Focus. Focus.

  Trang
gave his status. Finally they reached Darren Hollins of Goldwater. "Darren?"

  "My security team has been doing some drills."

  "Really? I haven't seen any requests for using the range and training facilities -"

  Darren shook his head. "We've been doing our training in our own tunnels. We've got some facilities set up that my people think are more realistic."

  Mike blinked. "Uh - okay." He looked at Javier, who shrugged microscopically. Fine. Let it go. "Darren, I don't have a unit designation for you folks. '70th' is open. '90th' too, if you've got a preference."

  "No offense, Mike, but I don't see a need for a numerical tag."

  What? Darren wouldn't give his Goldwater units a unit number? What was that supposed to accomplish, other than making it harder to coordinate during battle? Still, there was no need to pick fights needlessly. "Uh, OK. Can you tell us how training on the integrated tactics system is going?"

  Darren looked at Mike. "I might not have been a hundred percent clear. My security team is going its own way. They've got their own weapons. They've got their own tactics. We might want to do some interunit training together later, but for now, we're good."

  Mike's eyebrows narrowed. Was this just some personal quirk...or was there a real problem here?

  Mike looked at Javier, who was busy tapping notes on his slate - no guidance there. Mike looked at the ceiling for a moment and then shook his head. "OK, that wraps up the militia report. Anything else before we adjourn?"

  There wasn't.

  The meeting ended and Mike sat alone at the head of the table as everyone stood. Javier glad-handed CEOs and chatted with them as they filtered out.

  Mark was staffing his militias faster than anyone else and Darren was refusing to coordinate with the rest of them.

  He tapped his stylus against the table. Well, shit.

  Chapter 80

  2064: Senator Linda Haig's Office, Tester Senate Building

  Jim Allabend sat across from senator Haig. Linda hadn't spoken in minutes, yet it would never occur to him to say that she was staring off into space; there was an intensity of focus about her that reminded him of a snake ready to strike...or a bearded Russian leaning unblinking over a chess board.

  "We've got none of their communications?" she said suddenly.

  He still didn't know why the senator had chosen him as her confidant, or her sparring partner, or whatever the hell he was supposed to be, but he'd long since decided that if that's what she wanted from him - and if that's what she was going to pay him so well for - he'd do the best job possible. And so he'd been spending almost every waking moment over the last months digging into all sorts of reports, calling contacts, and reading, reading, reading.

  Almost to his own surprise, he had an answer to her question.

  "A bit. As of two months ago the NSA identified several of the end points on Earth, what they call 'the black routers.’ They've got taps and they read everything that comes through, but it's encrypted. That's not normally a problem, but just over the past few weeks we're seeing them moving away from the algorithms we've backdoored. Bottom line: we're reading only maybe a third of their coms to Earth."

  "What about internal traffic in Aristillus?"

  He shook his head. "The NSA guys tell me that it should've been a cakewalk...but it's not. Once they identified the black routers they should have been able to connect through them into the Aristillus networks and - I think the word they used was 'poned' - everything, but -"

  "But what?"

  "Apparently all of the IT infrastructure is 'rooted.’ Or it's supposed to be. But when our guys connect only parts of it respond to our keys. The analysts say that they know that expats have at least two fabs-"

  "Fabs?"

  "Factories where they make computer chips."

  The senator nodded and Jim continued, "So it's possible that they're replacing their IT gear with stuff they've produced locally."

  The senator shook her head in annoyance. "Bottom line, how much of their internal coms do we have?"

  Jim shrugged. "Close enough to nothing that you might as well round it to zero."

  The senator picked up a wood burl pen from her desk, a commemorative artifact of something or other, turned it over, and then looked up at him. "So we don't know if they know about Restivo's team yet?"

  "The NSA has no idea. You've got Hugh there; can you ask him if it's in the Aristillus media?"

  The senator shook her head. "No, it's not. But that doesn't mean that the Boardroom Group hasn't detected Restivo's people."

  "And if they have -"

  "My concern is if they haven't."

  Jim looked down at his hands, then back up. "Before you go any further with this I have to ask -"

  "I've made my decision."

  Jim pursed his lips. She wanted him as an advisor and a confidant for this? He wouldn't be doing his duty if he didn't play devil's advocate. So, no, he wouldn't accept that answer. "Are you sure? The benefits are minimal and - depending on how this plays out - the cost could be really, really high."

  "The benefit isn't minimal. The president and her coalition are riding too high right now. They're not consulting with us on appointments, they're screwing up the budget. They've needed to suffer a humiliation - a very public one - for some time now. An opportunity like this doesn't come that often, and we need to seize it."

  "Even if you're right, the risk -"

  "Yes, there's risk. Politics is a high stakes game, Jim."

  Jim scowled. This wasn't just regular politics - this was an all-in move. And Senator Haig wasn't just playing with her own stack. He was associated with her. If she tried this and it blew up in her face, the risk to him -

  She must have read the concern on his face. "Don't worry, Jim, I'm not an idiot. This is all done through cut-outs. No one is ever going to know that I touched this, and even if it did blow up, you certainly aren't going to be touched by it."

  Jim said nothing. Scandals had a way of growing explosively, and when they did, all sorts of people got thrown under the bus, even if they'd mostly been bystanders.

  Finally he shrugged. The time for misgivings was over. He was the senator's advisor. He'd hitched his wagon to her star long ago, and it had always worked well - really well.

  He sighed, the tension leaving his body. "OK, fine. But if you don't know if the expats already know about Restivo's men, how are you going to-"

  Linda Haig pushed a button on the intercom. "Kerri, did you have any success with that research project?"

  A tinny voice answered. "Yes, ma'am."

  "What connection did you find?"

  "I've got someone in the FEMA Hardened Infrastructure Department."

  Senator Haig wrinkled her forehead. "FEMA?"

  "Yes, ma'am. It actually makes sense, if you -"

  "Never mind - just give me the contact information."

  Linda let go of the button on the intercom, and then, for the first time in the meeting, she smiled at him. "Let's do this."

  Jim took a deep breath. This was risky. Very risky. "I hope to hell you know what you're doing, Linda."

  Chapter 81

  2064: Morlock Engineering office, Aristillus, Lunar Nearside

  Mike stared at the spreadsheet. The numbers were tight. The First Morlock Volunteers were costing more than he'd predicted. He'd finally stopped upgrading the design of the Gargoyle rifle, but there were a dozen other expenses that he hadn't thought of. Medical bills for twisted ankles and sprained shoulders, custom software for the spacesuits, fronting the majority of the money for retrofitting e-p-doors around the colony until the Group voted on levies, the outsourced design and construction of body armor...and to keep Mark's followers at bay, paid details guarding Leon's Poker House and two other facilities.

  Mike tossed the stylus down on the desk, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and groaned theatrically.

  Wam looked up from his own slate.

  Mike looked at him. "Fuck, Wam, I need a br
eak." He checked the clock. "I'm going to grab lunch." Then, to preempt Wam from inviting himself along, he said "Take a break too, if you want. I've got a meeting after lunch, so it'll be a few hours before I'm back." Mike stood and headed for door.

  Normally he'd go to his usual taqueria a few blocks over, but if he went to Borges' he'd get about two bites into his burrito before one of his employees, also out on lunch, approached him, sat down, and started talking about calibrating the tunnel orientation lasers, or had a question about suppliers for light panel brackets, or wanted to complain about a tunnel flooring installation sub contractor.

  Mike reached the curb and swung one leg over his bike. What was that place Darcy had been talking about? He pulled out his phone and tapped at it, searching through the transcripts of their last few calls. Ah! That was it - the new southern Mexican fish place. Mike clicked over to a review site, read a bit and put away the phone. A moment later he had his helmet on and was twisting the throttle even before the chin plates had cinched themselves tight.

  Less than a minute later he merged into a highway that entirely filled the class B tunnel. Mike checked his mirror, veered across two lanes, and heard the billing box beep as he accelerated.

  As he rocketed past the +2.0 E stripe on the tunnel wall he remembered the last time he'd been here, six months ago. Then the stripe had been freshly painted, and the only traffic was haulers carrying laborers and spare parts in one direction and mining tailings in the other.

  So much had changed in six months. Now the side tunnels were no longer sealed off with red modular caps, but were open and had traffic flowing in them, and the paved road continued well past where the construction zone had been.

  At the +3.0 E stripe, his suspension compressed as he rolled over the slight bump of the floor track for the massive emergency pressure door.

  And there was the side tunnel, his turn. Mike shifted to the right lane, braked hard, and leaned the bike over to take a side tunnel exit.

  The nav box beeped in annoyance. Mike looked down - this was an Interstate road and the speed limit was thirty kilometers per hour. He slowed, reluctantly. Interstate was a bunch of pansies, and so were the tunnel owners who contracted with them.