Текст книги "The Human Division"

Автор книги: John Scalzi

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

*   *   *

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 relaxfrom 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.

Wilson’s BrainPal pinged, internally and unseen by the others in the negotiating parties. It was Lowen. Can you talk?the message said.

No, but you can,Wilson sent. You’re coming through my BrainPal. No one else will be bothered.

Hold on, switching to voice,Lowen sent, and then her voice came through. “I think we have a big problem,” she said.

Define “problem,”Wilson sent.

“We’ve finished the autopsy,” Lowen sent. “Physically there was nothing wrong with Cong. Everything looked healthy and as close to perfect as a man his age could be. There are no ruptures or aneurysms, no organ damage or scarring. Nothing. There is no reason he should be dead.”

That indicates foul play to you?Wilson sent.

“Yes,” Lowen said. “And there’s another thing, which is the reason I’m talking to you. I took some of his blood for testing and I’m seeing a lot of anomalies in it. There’s a concentration of foreign particles in it that I haven’t seen before.”

Poison compounds?Wilson asked.

“I don’t think so,” Lowen said.

Have you shown them to Stone?Wilson asked.

“Not yet,” Lowen said. “I thought you actually might be more help for this. Can you receive images?”

Sure,Wilson sent.

“Okay, sending now,” Lowen said. A notice of a received image flashed in Wilson’s peripheral vision; he pulled it up.

It’s blood cells,Wilson sent.

“It’s not just blood cells,” Lowen said.

Wilson paid closer attention and saw specks amid the cells. He zoomed in. The specks gained in size and detail. Wilson frowned and called up a separate image and compared the two.

They look like SmartBlood nanobots,Wilson finally sent.

“That’s what I thought they might be,” Lowen said. “And that’s bad. Because they’re not supposed to be there. Just like Cong isn’t supposed to be dead. If you have someone who isn’t supposed to be dead and no physical reason that he should have died, and you also have a high concentration of foreign material in his blood, it’s not hard deduction that the one has to do with the other.”

So you think a Colonial did this,Wilson sent.

“I have no idea who did this,” Lowen said. “I just know what it looks like.”

Wilson had nothing to say to this.

“I’m going to go tell Stone what I found and then I’ll have to tell Franz,” Lowen said. “I’m sure Stone will tell Coloma and Abumwe. I think we have about an hour before this all gets bad.”

Okay,Wilson sent.

“If you can think of something between now and then that will keep this from going to hell, I wouldn’t mind,” Lowen said.

I’ll see what I can do,Wilson sent.

“Sorry, Harry,” Lowen said, and disconnected.

Wilson sat silently for a moment, watching Abumwe and Doodoodo as the two of them danced their verbal diplomatic dance about what was the correct balance of trade between starships and biomedical scanners. Then he sent a priority message to Abumwe’s PDA.

Take a ten-minute break,it said. Trust me.

Abumwe didn’t acknowledge the priority message for a few minutes; she was too busy hammering on Doodoodo. When the Burfinor representative finally managed to get a word in edgewise, she glanced down at her PDA and then glanced over at Wilson with a nearly unnoticeable expression that no one else would register as, You have got to be fucking kidding me. Wilson acknowledged this with an equally subtle expression that he hoped would read, I am so very not fucking kidding you. Abumwe stared at him for a second longer, then interrupted Doodoodo to ask for a quick recess. Doodoodo, flustered because he thought he was on a roll, agreed. Abumwe motioned to Wilson to join her in the hall.

“You don’t seem to be remembering our discussion from last night,” Abumwe said.

“Lowen found what looks like SmartBlood nanobots in Liu’s blood,” Wilson said, ignoring Abumwe’s statement. “If Stone hasn’t updated you about it yet, you’ll get the message soon. And so will Meyer and the rest of the observers.”

“And?” Abumwe said. “Not that I don’t care, but Liu is dead and these negotiations are not, and you didn’t need to interrupt them to give me an update I would be receiving anyway.”

“I didn’t interrupt you for that,” Wilson said. “I interrupted you because I need you to have them give me that scanner test unit back. Immediately.”

“Why?” Abumwe said.

“Because I think there’s something very fishy about SmartBlood nanobots being found in Liu’s bloodstream, and I want to get a much better look at them,” Wilson said. “The equipment in the medical bay came standard issue with the Clarkewhen it rolled off the line fifty years ago. We need better tools.”

“And you need it now why?” Abumwe said.

“Because when today’s negotiations are done, the shit is going to hit the fan,” Wilson said. “Ambassador, a diplomat from Earth is dead and it looks like the Colonial Union did it. When Meyer and the rest of the observers get back to the Clarke,they’re going to send a drone back to Phoenix Station and to the Earth’s mission there. They’re going to be recalled and we’re going to be obliged to take them back immediately. So you’re going to fail this negotiation, there’s going to be a deeper division between Earth and the Colonial Union and all the blame is going to come back to us. Again.”

“Unless you can figure this out between now and then,” Abumwe said.

“Yes,” Wilson said. “SmartBlood is tech, Ambassador. Tech is what I do. And I already know how to operate these machines because I worked with them while I was evaluating them. But I need one now. And you need to get it for me.”

“You think this will work?” Abumwe asked.

Wilson held his hands out in a maybe?motion. “I know if we don’t try this, then we’re screwed. If this is a shot in the dark, it’s still a shot.”

Abumwe took out her PDA and opened a line to Hillary Drolet, her assistant. “Tell Doodoodo I need to see him in the hall. Now.” She cut the connection and looked back to Wilson. “Anything else you want? As long as I am taking requests.”

“I need to borrow the shuttle to go back to the Clarke,” Wilson said. “I want both Lowen and Stone to watch me so there’s no doubt what I find.”

“Fine,” Abumwe said.

“I’d also like for you to drag on negotiations today as long as you can,” Wilson said.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Abumwe said.

Doodoodo appeared in the hallway, eyestalks waggling apologetically.

“And if at all possible, you might want to get that deal done today,” Wilson said, looking at Doodoodo. “Just in case.”

“Lieutenant Wilson, I am already far ahead of you on this one,” Abumwe said.

*   *   *

“Someone in this room is a killer!” Wilson said.

“Please don’t say that when they actually show up,” Lowen said.

“That’s why I’m saying it now,” Wilson said.

Wilson, Lowen and Stone were in the medical bay, awaiting Abumwe, Meyer, Bourkou and Coloma. Coloma was on her way from the bridge; the others were coming from the shuttle that had just docked.

“They’re on their way,” Lowen said, glancing at her PDA. “Franz tells me they wrapped up the negotiations today, too. Abumwe apparently got an excellent deal for the scanners.”

“Good,” Wilson said, and patted the scanner he had been using. “Maybe that will mean I can keep mine. This thing is sweet.”

Coloma arrived; Abumwe, Meyer and Bourkou followed a minute after.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s get started,” Wilson said. “If you’ll check your PDAs, you’ll see some images I sent to you.” Everyone in the room aside from Wilson, Stone and Lowen reached for their PDAs. “What you’re seeing there is a sample of Liu Cong’s blood. In it you’ll see red and white blood cells, platelets and also something else. That something else looks like SmartBlood nanobots. For those of you from Earth, SmartBlood is the non-organic substance that replaces blood in Colonial Defense Forces soldiers. It has superior oxygen-handling properties and other benefits.”

“How did that get into his blood?” Meyer asked.

“That’s an interesting question,” Wilson said. “Almost as interesting as the other question I have, which is whendid it get into his blood.”

“If this is a Colonial Union product, then it would seem that it would have gotten into his system out here,” Bourkou said.

“I would have thought so, too,” Wilson said. “But then I got a closer look at the nanobots. Go ahead and look at the second image I sent you.”

They turned to look at the second picture, which showed two similar-looking objects, one next to the other.

“The first object is a close-up of what we found in Liu’s blood,” Wilson said. “The second is a close-up of an actual SmartBlood nanobot, which was taken from me, a couple of hours ago.” He held up his thumb to show the pinprick there.

“They look the same to me,” Meyer said.

“Yes, and I suspect they’re supposed to,” Wilson said. “It’s not until you look inside of them, in substantial detail, that you notice particular differences. If all we had was the Clarke’s equipment, we wouldn’t have been able to see the differences. Even with the Colonial Union’s top-of-the-line equipment, it would have taken some time. Fortunately, we have some new toys. So go ahead and flip to the next image.”

Everyone forwarded to the third image.

“I don’t expect any of you to know what you’re looking at here, but those with some technical experience with SmartBlood will note two major differences with the internal structure,” Wilson said. “The first has to do with how the nanobots handle oxygen sequestration. The second has to do with the radio receiver in the ’bot.”

“What do these differences mean?” Abumwe asked.

“With regard to oxygen sequestration, it means the ’bots are able to hold on to substantially more oxygen molecules,” Wilson says. “It doesn’t do anything with them, though. SmartBlood is designed to facilitate oxygen transfer to body tissue. What’s in Liu’s blood, however, doesn’t do that. It just holds on to the oxygen. It goes, grabs the oxygen in the lungs, and doesn’t let go. There’s less oxygen for the actual red blood cells to carry, and less for the body tissues to take in.”

“This stuff suffocated Cong,” Lowen said.

“Right,” Wilson said. “As for the receiver, well, SmartBlood takes direction from its owner’s BrainPal via an encrypted channel and reverts by default to its primary role, which is oxygen transport.” He pointed to Abumwe’s PDA. “This stuff also communicates by encrypted signal. Its default state is off, however. It’s only on the job when it’s receiving a signal. Its signal doesn’t come from a BrainPal, however.”

“Where does it come from?” Meyer asked.

Lowen held up an object. It was Meyer’s white noise generator.

“It can’t be,” Meyer said.

“It canbe,” Wilson said. “And it is, because we checked it. How do you think we can describe what this stuff does? This is why I said the interesting question is whenthis stuff got into Liu’s blood. Because this”—Wilson pointed to the white noise generator, which Lowen now set on the table—“strongly suggests that it happened before you folks left Earth.”

“How did you find it?” Abumwe asked.

“We walked through Liu’s death,” Stone said. “We knew when he died, and we knew that these ’bots needed a transmitter, and Mr. Bourkou said that he had been running the white noise generator to drown out Liu’s snoring.”

“You can’t think I did it,” Bourkou said.

“You set this thing off in the same room,” Wilson said.

“It’s not even mine,” Bourkou said. “Franz let me borrow it. It’s his.”

“That’s true,” Wilson said, turning to Meyer.

Meyer looked shocked. “I didn’t kill Cong! And this doesn’t make logical sense in any event. Cong was supposed to have a berth to himself. This thing wasn’t supposed to have been in the same room.”

“A very good point,” Wilson said. “Which is why I checked the effective transmitting radius of the generator’s ’bot transmitter. It’s about twenty meters. Your berth is right next door, and the berths are narrow enough that Liu’s bunk is well within the radius, even accounting for signal attenuation through the common bulkhead.”

“We’d been traveling for more than a week before we arrived here,” Meyer said. “Before this we had individual staterooms, but we were still close enough for this thing to work. I used it every night. Nothing happened to Cong.”

“Interestingly, there are two transmitters in the white noise generator,” Wilson said. “One of them affects the ’bots. The second affects the first transmitter. It turns it on or off.”

“So it wouldn’t have done anything until you got here,” Lowen said.

“This is crazy,” Meyer said. “I don’t have a remote control for this thing! Go to my berth! Check for yourself!”

Wilson looked over at Captain Coloma. “I’ll have crew go through his berth,” she said.

“Have you dumped trash recently?” Wilson said.

“No,” Coloma said. “We usually don’t dump until we return to Phoenix Station, and when we do, we don’t do it in other people’s systems. That’s rude.”

“Then I would suggest we look through the trash,” Wilson said. “I can give you the transmitting frequency if it helps.” Coloma nodded.

“Why did you do it?” Bourkou asked Meyer.

“I didn’t do it!” Meyer yelled. “You are just as likely to have done it as I am, Thierry. You had the generator in your possession. You’re the one who convinced Cong to give up his berth for me. I didn’t ask him.”

“You complained about claustrophia,” Bourkou said.

“I joked about claustrophobia, you ass,” Meyer said.

“And I wasn’t the one who suggested it to him,” Bourkou said. “It was Luiza. So don’t pin it on me.”

A strange expression crossed Meyer’s face. Wilson caught it. So did Abumwe. “What it is it?” she asked Meyer.

Meyer looked around at the group, as if debating whether to say something, then sighed. “I’ve been sleeping with Luiza Carvalho for the last three months,” he said. “During the selection process for this mission and then since. It’s not a relationship, it’s more taking advantage of a mutual opportunity. I didn’t think it would matter since neither of us was in a position to select the other for the mission.”

“All right,” Abumwe said. “So?”

“So Luiza always complained about me sleeping badly,” Meyer said, and pointed at the white noise generator. “Two weeks ago, after we knew who was on the mission, she bought me that. Said it would help me sleep.”

“Luiza was the one who suggested to Meyer that he let me borrow the generator,” Bourkou said. “To counteract Cong’s snoring.”

“Where is Ms. Carvalho?” Stone asked.

“She said she was going to her berth,” Abumwe said. “Lieutenant Wilson didn’t ask for her to be here, so I didn’t ask her to come.”

“We should probably have someone get her,” Wilson said, but Coloma was already on her PDA, ordering someone to get her.

Coloma’s PDA pinged almost immediately thereafter; it was Neva Balla. Coloma put her executive officer on the speaker so everyone in the room could hear. “We have a problem,” Balla said. “There’s someone in the portside maintenance airlock. It looks like one of the Earth people.”

“Send me the image,” Coloma said. When she got it, she bounced it to the PDAs of everyone else in the room.

It was Luiza Carvalho.

“What is she doing?” Lowen asked.

“Lock out the airlock,” Coloma said.

“It’s too late,” Balla said. “She’s already started the purge cycle.”

“She must have been listening in somehow,” Abumwe said.

“How the hell did she get in there?” Coloma asked, angry.

“The same way she got Meyer and Bourkou to help her kill Liu,” Wilson said.

“But why did she do it?” Meyer said. “Who is she working with? Who is she working for?”

“We’re not going to get an answer to that,” Wilson said.

“Well, we know one thing, at least,” Lowen said.

“What’s that?” Wilson asked.

“Whoever’s been sabotaging you up here, it looks like they’re on the job down there on Earth,” Lowen said.

“Almost got away with it, too,” Wilson said. “If we didn’t have that scanner, it would have looked like the Colonial Union killed him. By the time it was cleared up, it would have been too late to fix it.”

No one said anything to that.

In the video feed, Carvalho looked up to where the camera was, as if looking at the group in the medical bay.

She waved.

The air purged out of the airlock. Carvalho exhaled and kept exhaling long enough to stay conscious until the hull lock opened.

She let herself out.

“Dani,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, Harry,” Lowen said.

“You still have the Laphroaig?” Wilson asked.

“I do,” Lowen said.

“Good,” Wilson said. “Because right now, I think we all need a drink.”

EPISODE TEN

This Must Be the Place

Hart Schmidt took the shuttle from the Clarketo Phoenix Station and an interstation tram to the station’s main commuter bay, and then he caught one of the ferries that arrived at and departed from Phoenix Station every fifteen minutes. The ferry headed down to the Phoenix Station Terminal at the Phoenix City Hub, which aggregated most of the civilian mass transportation for the oldest and most populous city of the oldest and most populous human interstellar colony planet.

Upon exiting the ferry, Hart walked through spaceport terminal C and boarded the interterminal tram for the PCH main terminal. Three minutes later, Hart exited the tram, went from the platform to the immensely long escalator and emerged in the main terminal. It was one of the largest single buildings humans had ever built, a vast domed structure that housed stores, shops, offices, hotels and even apartments for those who worked at the hub, schools for their children, hospitals and even a jail, although Hart had no personal experience with the last two.

Hart smiled as he came out into the main terminal and stepped onto the terminal floor. In his mind, as always, he imagined the mass of humanity bustling through suddenly grabbing the hands of the people next to them and waltzing in unison. He was pretty sure he’d seen a scene like that in a movie once, either here in the main terminal or in a terminal or station much like it. It never happened, of course. It didn’t mean that Hart didn’t keep wishing for it.

His first stop was the PCH Campbell Main Terminal Hotel. Hart checked into a one-step-above-standard-sized room, dropped his bag at the foot of the queen-sized bed and then immediately gloried, after months of sharing his broom-closet-sized “officer quarters” on the Clarkewith another diplomat, in having nearly forty square meters of no one else in his living space.

Hart sighed contentedly and immediately fell into a nap. Three hours later he awoke, took a shower that was indecently hot and indecently long and ordered room service, not neglecting a hot fudge sundae. He tipped the room service delivery person exorbitantly, ate until he felt he would explode, switched the entertainment display to the classic movies channel and watched hundred-year-old stories of early colonial drama and adventure, starring actors long dead, until his eyes snapped shut seemingly of their own accord. He slept dreamlessly, the display on, for close to ten hours.

Late the next morning, Hart checked out of the Campbell, took another interterminal tram to train terminal A and hopped on train 311, with travel to Catahoula, Lafourche, Feliciana and Terrebonne. Schmidt stayed on the train all the way to Terrebonne and then had to run to connect with the Tangipahopa express, which he caught as the doors were closing. At Tangipahopa, he boarded the Iberia local and got off at the third stop, Crowley. A car was waiting for him there. He smiled as he recognized Broussard Kueltzo, the driver.

“Brous!” he said, giving the man a hug. “Happy Harvest.”

“Long time, Hart,” Brous said. “Happy Harvest to you, too.”

“How are you doing?” Hart asked.

“The same as always,” he said. “Working for your dad, hauling his ass from place to place. Keeping up the Kueltzo family tradition of being the power behind the Schmidt family throne.”

“Come on,” Hart said. “We’re not thathelpless.”

“It’s okay for you to think that,” Brous said. “But I have to tell you that one day last month I had to take Mom into the hospital for tests, and your mother was out at one of her organization meetings. Your dad called my mom’s PDA, asking how to work the coffee machine. She’s getting blood drawn and she’s walking him through pressing buttons. Your dad is one of the most powerful people on Phoenix, Hart, but he’d starve in a day if he was left on his own.”

“Fair enough,” Hart said. “How is your mother?” Magda Kueltzo might or might not actually be the power behind the Schmidt throne, but there was no doubt most of the family was deeply fond of her.

“Much better,” Brous said. “In fact, she’s busy working the meal you’re going to be stuffing down your throat in just a few hours, so we better get you to it.” He took Hart’s bag and swung it into the car’s backseat. The two men hopped into the front; Brous punched in the destination and the car drove itself.

“It’s not a very demanding job,” Hart ventured as the car pulled itself away from the station.

“That’s sort of the point,” Brous said. “In my quote unquote spare time, I get to work on the poetry, which incidentally has been doing very well, thanks for asking. That is insofar as poetry does well, which you understand is a highly relative thing and has been for centuries. I am an established poet now, and I make almost nothing for it.”

“Sorry about that,” Hart said.

Brous shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Your dad has been generous in that way of his. You know how he is. Always thumping on about people having to make their own way in the world and the value of an honest day’s labor. He’d rather die than fund a grant. But he gives me a ridiculously easy job and pays me well enough that I can work on my words.”

“He likes being the patron,” Hart said.

“Right,” Brous said. “I won the Nova Acadia Poetry medal last year for my book and he was more proud of it than I was. I let him put the medal in his office.”

“That’s Dad,” Hart said.

Brous nodded. “He did the same thing with Lisa,” he said, mentioning his sister. “Had her scrub toilets at the house for a year, then paid her enough for it to survive grad school in virology. Went to her doctoral ceremony. Insisted on getting a picture. It’s on his desk.”

“That’s great,” Hart said.

“I know you and he have gone a few rounds on things,” Brous ventured.

“He’s still irritated that I went into the Colonial Union diplomatic service rather than into Phoenix politics,” Hart said.

“He’ll get over it eventually,” Brous suggested.

“How long are you going to keep the job?” Hart asked, changing the subject.

“It’s funny you should ask,” Brous said, catching the attempt and rolling with it. “The medal helped me get a teaching position at University of Metairie. It was supposed to start at the beginning of the fall, but I asked for them to set it back a semester so I could help your dad through the election season.”

“How did it go?” Hart said.

“Oh, man,” Brous said. “You haven’t been following it at all?”

“I’ve been in space,” Hart said.

“It was brutal,” Brous said. “Not for your dad, of course. No one even ran against him here. They’re going to have to wheel him out of his office. But the rest of the PHP took a thumping. Lost sixty seats in the regional parliament. Lost ninety-five in the global. The New Greens formed a coalition with the Unionists and put in a new prime minister and heads of department.”

“How did that happen?” Hart asked. “I’ve been away for a while, but not so long that Phoenix should have suddenly gone squishy. I say that as a squishy sort, understand.”

“Understood,” Brous said. “I voted New Green in the regional myself. Don’t tell your dad.”

“Deep dark secret,” Hart promised.

“The PHP got lazy,” Brous said. “They’ve been in power so long, they forgot they could be voted out. Some bad people in key positions, a couple of stupid scandals, and a charismatic head of the New Green party. Add it all up and people took a chance on someone new. It won’t last, I think; the New Greens and the Unionists are already arguing and the PHP will do some housecleaning. But in the meantime your dad is in a foul mood about it. Even more so because he was one of the architects of the global party strategy. The collapse makes him look bad personally, or so he feels.”

“Oh, boy,” Hart said. “This will make it a cheerful Harvest Day.”

“Yeah, he’s been moody,” Brous said. “Your mother has been keeping him in line, but you’re going to have the whole family at home this Harvest, and you know how he gets with the whole clan there. Especially with Brandt rising in the Unionist party.”

“The Schmidt boys,” Hart said. “Brandt the traitor, Hart the underachiever and Wes c well, Wes.”

Brous smiled at that. “Don’t you forget your sister,” he said.

“No one forgets Catherine, Brous,” Hart said. “Catherine the Unforgettable.”

“They’re all already there, you know,” Brous said. “At the house. They all got in last night. All of them, all their spouses and children. I’m not going to lie to you, Hart. One of the reasons I came to get you was so I could have a few minutes of quiet.”

Hart grinned at this.

Presently the Schmidt family compound came into view, all 120 acres of it, with the main house set on a hill, rising above the orchards, fields and lawns. Home.

“I remember when I was six and Mom came to work here,” Brous said. “I remember driving up to this place and thinking there was no way one family could live in that much space.”

“Well, after you arrived, it wasn’t just one family,” Hart said.

“True enough,” Brous said. “I’ll tell you another story you’ll find amusing. When I was in college, I brought my girlfriend to the carriage house and she was amazed we had so much living space there. I was afraid to take her up to the main house after that. I figured she’d stop being impressed with me.”

“Was she?” Hart asked.

“No,” Brous said. “She became unimpressed with me for other reasons entirely.” He switched the car to manual, led it up the rest of the driveway and stopped at the front door. “Here you are, Hart. The entire family is inside, waiting for you.”

“What would it cost for you to drive me back?” Hart joked.

“In a couple of days I’ll do it for free,” Brous said. “Until then, my friend, you’re stuck.”

*   *   *

“Ah, the prodigal spaceman returns,” Brandt Schmidt said. He, like the rest of the Schmidt siblings, lounged on the back patio of the main house, watching the various children and spouses on the front surface of the back lawn. Brandt came up to Hart to give him a hug, followed by Catherine and Wes. Brandt pressed the cocktail he had in his hand into Hart’s. “I haven’t started on this one yet,” he said. “I’ll make another.”

“Where’s Mom and Dad?” Hart asked, sipping the drink. He frowned. It was a gin and tonic, more than a little heavy on the gin.

“Mom’s in with Magda, fussing over dinner,” Brandt said, going over to the patio bar to mix himself another highball. “She’ll be back presently. Dad’s in his office, yelling at some functionary of the Phoenix Home Party. That will take a while.”

“Ah,” Hart said. Best to miss out on that.

“You heard about the latest elections,” Brandt said.

“A bit,” Hart said.

“Then you’ll understand why he’s in a bit of a mood,” Brandt said.

“It doesn’t help that you continue to needle him about it,” Catherine said, to Brandt.

“I’m not needlinghim about it,” Brandt said. “I’m just not letting him get away with revising recent electoral history.”

“That’s pretty much the definition of ‘needling,’” Wes said, laconically, from his lounge, which was close to fully reclined. His eyes were closed, a tumbler of something brown on the patio itself, by his outstretched hand.

“I recognize I’m telling him things he doesn’t want to hear right now,” Brandt said.

“Needling,” Catherine and Wes said, simultaneously. They were twins and could do that from time to time. Hart smiled.

“Fine, I’m needling him,” Brandt said, took a sip of his gin and tonic, frowned and went back to the bar to add a splash more tonic. “But after so many years of listening to him talk about the historical import of each election and the PHP’s role in it, I think it’s perfectly fine to have a bit of turnabout.”

“That’s exactly what this Harvest Day needs,” Catherine said. “Another perfectly good dinner from Magda growing cold because you and Dad are going at it again at the table.”

“Speak for yourself,” Wes said. “They never stopped me from eating.”

“Well, Wes, you’ve always had a special talent for tuning out,” Catherine said. “It puts the rest of us off our appetite.”

“I don’t apologize for being the only one of us who has any interest at all in politics,” Brandt said.

“No one wants you to apologize,” Catherine said. “And you know we all have an interest in politics.”

“I don’t,” Wes said.

“We all have an interest in politics except for Wes,” Catherine amended, “who is just happy to coast on the benefits of the family having a good political name. So, by all means, Brandt, discuss politics all you like with Dad. Just wait until we get to the pie before you start going after each other.”

“Politics and pie,” Wes said. “Mmmmmm.” He started fumbling about for his drink, connected with it and brought it to his lips, eyes still closed.

Brandt turned to Hart. “Help me out here,” he said.

Hart shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind getting through an entire Harvest Day without you and Dad tossing verbal knives at each other,” he said. “I’m not here to talk politics. I’m here to spend time with my family.”