Quiet Invasion(81)

Also, it was worth a little payback to know that the Lunars were not willing to sit back and wait.

Of course, Ms. Cheney could not be speaking for all the Lunars, any more than he and Mari worked with all the Terran groups. There were knots and bunches of people who called themselves separatists, or procolonials, or planetary-rights representatives scattered all across four worlds, and in the L5 archipelagoes to boot. Some of them held summits together. Some of them actively hated each other. They had all been born out of the Bradbury Rebellion, but their principles divided them more than they united them.

Sometimes Quai wondered why the yewners considered them any kind of threat.

Still, if he gave Ms. Cheney what she was looking for, she might be able to give him an inroad to the Lunar separatists if he needed it later.

“Yes, there’s separatist money in Biotech 24,” he said at last. “No, it would not be a good thing if the yewners knew that.”

Ms. Cheney nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Cheney.” Quai set his drink down on the table and stood. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Not at the moment.” She stood also and held out her hand. “But I may want to talk to you in the future.”

“And I may want to talk to you.” He shook her skeleton-encased hand, barely able to feel the flesh under the plastic cage.

“I look forward to it.”

They said good-bye and Quai walked away to find Mari. It wasn’t hard. She stood out like a scarlet exclamation point in a crowd of men and women in earth tones and gold. She spotted Quai and extricated herself from the group.

“I see you got yourself out.”

“Years of experience.” Quai leaned against the railing and looked down on the stages. A cirque performer was juggling now, a brilliant cascade of green glowing spheres. “Mari, did you know what that was going to be about?”

“Of course,” she answered simply.

Quai cocked an eye toward her. Her face was free of any suspicion or apology. “And you trust her all right?”

Now Mari frowned. “I wouldn’t have sent you in there if I didn’t, Quai; you know that.”

“I do.” Quai rubbed his hands together. “I just…I don’t know.”

Mari touched his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

He looked up at her. Her hand was warm and felt very pleasant where it was. A pretty woman, Mari, a good friend, and a savvy businessperson. They needed more people like her. “You ever wonder if we know what we’re doing? If we’re the right ones for the job?”

She laughed and patted his back. “Constantly. But we’re all there is.”

“I guess.”

“Come on.” She took his arm. “You’re not having fun, and that’ll be no good when I start pressing for account deductions. Let’s go watch the cirque troupe.”

“In a second, Mari.” Quai straightened up and gently extricated his arm from hers. “Can you get me a secure line? I’ve got to send out some mail.”

“Sure. Hang for a minute.” Mari threaded her way expertly through the crowd, heading for the offices in the back.

Quai hung. He watched the performers and the audiences, and the talkers and the drinkers. He wondered how many people here really believed that the colonists deserved better than they were getting and how many of them were just here because Mari knew they had deep pockets and wanted to pretend they were involved in daring underground politics.

How many of them had waived their right to kids in favor of long-life? How many of them wanted to have both the kids and as much immortality as money could buy and had already reserved a slot in some resort on the Moon or Mars where they could retreat once they reached age 120? That was the deal. You got long life, or kids, or you left Mother Earth behind.

And for the hundred-millionth time Quai told himself his activism was not about his father’s decision to take the waiver and leave him.

Mari came back with a minipad. She slotted it into the bar, hit a couple of command keys, and handed him the stylus. “It’s all encrypted under some of my best stuff, so don’t send anything they’ll want to trace. The yewners will think it’s me.”

“Never.” Quai took the stylus and considered the blank screen for a moment.

Finally, he wrote: Old friends operating under alias in targeted area. Working toward mutual goal. With their efforts, we might get there sooner rather than later if we just sit back and let it happen. But maybe keep one eye on the Moon.

He addressed the message to an alias and sent it out. The contact code he sent the scrambled package to was a group box. Buyers and sellers of all kinds went in there to keep up on gossip, to give leads to friends, that kind of thing. All of it was scrupulously legal, of course, or, at least, all of it was so far unaudited.