Текст книги "The Human Division"

Автор книги: John Scalzi

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“Ten thousand feet above Kenya,” Wilson said.

“Oh, God,” Lowen said.

“I have you,” Wilson said. “We’re in tandem.”

“How did you manage that?” Lowen asked, calming down.

“It seemed a better idea than you falling alone while unconscious,” Wilson said.

“Point,” Lowen said, after a second.

“I’m about five seconds from deploying the chute,” Wilson said. “Are you ready?”

Lowen tightened up around Wilson. “Let’s never do this again,” she said.

“Promise,” he said. “Here we go.” He deployed ’bots from both of their packs so that both of them were tethered into the chute. There was a sharp jerk, and then the two of them were floating.

“We’re close enough to the ground and going slow enough that you could use your eyes if you wanted,” Wilson said, after a few moments. Lowen nodded. Wilson had her cowl open up.

Lowen looked down and then jerked her head back up, eyes closed. “Okay, that was a spectacularly bad idea,” she said.

“We’ll be down in just a minute,” Wilson promised.

“And this parachute for two won’t mess us up?” Lowen asked.

“No,” Wilson said. “It’s smarter than a real parachute.”

“Don’t say this is not a real parachute, please,” Lowen said.

“It’s smarter than other parachutes,” Wilson corrected. “It’s been compensating for wind and other factors since we opened it up.”

“Great,” Lowen said. “Just tell me when we’re down.”

They were down a minute and a half later, the nanobots dissipating into the wind as their feet touched down. Lowen disengaged from Wilson, grabbed her head, turned to the side and threw up.

“Sorry,” Wilson said.

“It’s not you, I swear,” Lowen said, spitting to clear her mouth. “It’s everything.”

“I understand,” Wilson said. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

He looked up in the sky and watched bits of Earth Station fall like glitter.

X.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Rigney said, to Egan.

“Your continued lack of enthusiasm is noted,” Egan replied. “Not that it does us any good at this point.”

The two of them sat on a bench at Avery Park, a small neighborhood park in an outer borough of Phoenix City, feeding ducks.

“This is nice,” Rigney said, tossing bread to the ducks.

“Yes,” Egan said.

“Peaceful,” Rigney said.

“It is,” Egan said, tossing her own bread at the quacking birds.

“If I had to do this more than once a year, I might stab something,” Rigney said.

“There is that,” Egan said. “But you said you wanted to catch up. I assumed you meant actually catch up, not just talk sports scores. And right now is not the time to be catching up on anything in Phoenix Station itself.”

“I knew that much already,” Rigney said.

“So what do you want to know?” Egan asked.

“I want to know how bad it is,” Rigney said. “From your end, I mean. I know how bad it is on my end.”

“How bad is it on your end?” Egan asked.

“Full-bore panic,” Rigney said. “I could go into details, but you might run screaming. You?”

Egan was quiet for a moment while she tossed more bread at the birds. “Do you remember when you came to my presentation for those midlevel bureaucrats and you heard me tell them that the Colonial Union is thirty years out from total collapse?” she said.

“Yes, I do,” Rigney said.

“Well, we were wrong about that,” Egan said. “It’s closer to twenty.”

“That can’t all be because of what happened at Earth Station,” Rigney said.

“Why couldn’t it?” Egan said. “They think wedid it, Abel. They think we lured several hundred of their best diplomatic and political minds into a shooting gallery and then had a fake group of terrorists blow the place apart. They didn’t shoot to destroy the space station outright. They went after the elevator car and they waited until people went for the escape pods to put holes in the shuttle bays. They went for the Earthlings.”

“They also shot at the Clarkeand its shuttle,” Rigney pointed out.

“The shuttle got away,” Egan pointed out. “As did the single escape pod to make it off Earth Station. As for the Clarke,how hard is it to make the argument that it was a decoy to throw the scent off their trail, especially since everyone but their captain survived? And especially since fourteen of the ships that attacked Earth Station seem to have disappeared back into the same black hole from which they came. Seems a fine conspiracy.”

“That’s a little much,” Rigney said.

“It would be if we were dealing with rational events,” Egan said. “But look at it from the Earth’s point of view. Now they have no serious egress into space, their political castes are decimated and paranoid, and they’re reminded that at this moment, their fate is not their own. The easiest, best scapegoat they have is us. They will never forget this. They will never forgive it. And no matter what evidence comes to light about it, exonerating us,they will simply never believe it.”

“So Earth is off the table,” Rigney said.

“It’s so far off the table the table is underneath the curve of the planet,” Egan said. “We’ve lost the Earth. For real this time. Now the only thing we can hope for is that it stays neutral and unaffiliated. That might mean that seventy years down the road we might have a shot at them again. If they join the Conclave, it’s all over.”

“And what does State think the chances of that are?” Rigney said. “Of them joining the Conclave?”

“At this moment? Better than them coming back to us,” Egan said.

“The consensus at CDF is that the Conclave is behind all of this, you know,” Rigney said. “Everything since Danavar. They have the means to plant spies in the CDF and in the Department of State. They have the resources to pluck our ships out of the sky, turn them back into warships and drop them next to Earth Station. All sixteen of the ships that disappeared showed up there. And there’s something else we haven’t told State yet.”

“What is that?” Egan said.

“The ship Captain Coloma smashed the Clarkeinto. The Erie Morningstar.It had no crew. It was run by a brain in a box.”

“Like the one in the Urse Damay,” Egan said. “Of course, the Conclave maintains the Urse Damaywas taken from them as well. Along with several other ships.”

“Our intelligence hasn’t confirmed those stories,” Rigney said. “They could be running that across the trail to keep us confused.”

“Then there’s the matter of someone out there actively sabotaging our relationship with Earth,” Egan said. “And the fact there’s a growing segment of the colony population who wants to replace the Colonial Union with an entirely new union with the Earth at the center. That certainly seemed to spring up overnight.”

“Another thing the Conclave has resources for,” Rigney pointed out.

“Perhaps,” Egan said. “Or perhaps there’s a third party who is playing us, Earth and the Conclave for fools for purposes we haven’t figured out yet.”

Rigney shook his head. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one,” he said.

“I agree,” Egan said. “Where I disagree is whether making the Conclave the bad guy is the simplest explanation. I think it’s clear that someone wants the Colonial Union dead and destroyed, and Earth is the lever to do that. I also think it’s possible the same someone has been poking at the Conclave, trying to find the lever that destroys them, too. We almost found one, once.”

“I don’t think the CDF is comfortable with that level of shadowy conspiracy, Liz,” Rigney said. “They prefer something they can hit with a stick.”

“Find it first, Abel,” Egan said. “Then you can hit it all you like.”

The two sat there, silent, chucking bread at ducks.

“At least you’ve gotten one thing right,” Egan said.

“What’s that,” Rigney said.

“Your fire team,” Egan said. “Ambassador Abumwe and her people. We keep setting her up with impossible missions and she always gets something out of them. Sometimes not the things we want. But always something.”

“She blew the Bula negotiations,” Rigney said.

“ Weblew the Bula negotiations,” Egan reminded him. “We told her to lie, and she did exactly what we told her to do, and we were caught red-handed when she did it.”

“Fair enough,” Rigney said. “What are you going to do with Abumwe now?”

“You mean, now that she and her team are the only group to survive the Earth Station attack intact, and her captain has become a posthumous hero both for saving her entire diplomatic team and for taking down two of the attacking ships, andthe sole bright spot for the Colonial Union in this whole sorry mess was Lieutenant Wilson saving the daughter of the United States secretary of state by leaping off an exploding space station with her in tow?” Egan said.

“Yes, that,” Rigney said.

“We start with a promotion, I think,” Egan said. “She and her people are no longer the B-team, and we don’t have any more time to waste. Things are never going back to what they were, Abel. We need to build the future as fast as we can. Before it collapses in on us. Abumwe’s going to help get us there. Her and her team. All of them. All of them that are left, anyway.”

*   *   *

Wilson and Lowen stood on the grounds of what remained of the Nairobi beanstalk and Earth Station, waiting for his ride, the shuttle that was slowly coming in for a landing.

“So, what’s it like?” Lowen wanted to know.

“What’s what like?” Wilson asked.

“Leaving Earth a second time,” Lowen said.

“It’s the same in a lot of ways,” Wilson said. “I’m excited to go, to see what’s out there in the universe. But I also know it’s not likely that I’m ever coming back. And once again, I’m leaving behind people I care about.”

Lowen smiled at that and gave Wilson a peck on the cheek. “You don’t have to leave,” she said. “You can always defect.”

“Tempting,” he said. “But as much as I love the Earth, I have to admit something.”

“And what’s that,” Lowen said.

“I’m just not from around here anymore,” Wilson said

The shuttle landed.

“Well,” Lowen said, “if you ever change your mind, you know where we are.”

“I do,” Wilson said. “You know where I am, too. Come up and see me.”

“That’s going to be a little more difficult now, all things considered,” Lowen said.

“I know,” Wilson said. “The offer still stands.”

“One day I’ll take you up on that,” Lowen said.

“Good,” Wilson said. “Life’s always interesting with you around.”

The shuttle door opened. Wilson picked up his bag to go.

“Hey, Harry,” Lowen said.

“Yes?” Wilson said.

“Thanks for saving my life,” she said.

Wilson smiled and waved good-bye.

Hart Schmidt and Ambassador Ode Abumwe were waiting inside.

Wilson smiled and shook the ambassador’s hand warmly. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you again, ma’am,” he said to her.

Abumwe smiled equally warmly. “Likewise, Lieutenant.”

Wilson turned to Schmidt. “As for you,” he said. “Don’t you do that again. That whole almost dying thing.”

“I promise nothing,” Schmidt said.

Wilson hugged his friend, then sat down and buckled in.

“Did you have a good time back on Earth?” Schmidt asked.

“I did,” Wilson said. “Now let’s go home.”

Abumwe nodded to the shuttle pilot. They put the Earth below them and headed into the sky above.

EXTRAS

After the Coup

Author’s Note: “After the Coup” is an original story featuring three of the main characters ofThe Human Division, written for the debut of Tor.com in 2008. The events of the story take place several months before the events ofThe Human Division. Enjoy.

—JS

“How well can you take a punch?” asked Deputy Ambassador Schmidt.

Lieutenant Harry Wilson blinked and set down his drink. “You know, there are a number of places a conversation can go after a question like that,” he said. “None of them end well.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Schmidt said. He drummed the glass of his own drink with his fingers. Harry noted the drumming, which was a favorite nervous tell of Hart Schmidt’s. It made poker games with him fun. “I have a very specific reason to ask you.”

“I would hope so,” Harry said. “Because as conversational icebreakers go, it’s not in the top ten.”

Schmidt looked around the Clarke’s officers lounge. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it,” he said.

Harry glanced around the lounge. It was singularly unappealing; a bunch of magnetized folding chairs and equally magnetized card tables, and a single porthole from which the yellowish green limb of Korba-Aty was glowing, dully. The drinks they were having came from the rack of vending machines built into the wall. The only other person in the lounge was Lieutenant Grant, the Clarke’s quartermaster; she was looking at her PDA and wearing headphones.

“It’s fine, Hart,” Harry said. “Enough with the melodrama. Spit it out already.”

“Fine,” Schmidt said, and then drummed on his drink some more. Harry waited. “Look, this mission isn’t going well,” he finally said.

“Really,” Harry said, dryly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Schmidt said.

“Don’t get defensive, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m not blaming you.”

“I just want to know how you came to that conclusion,” Schmidt said.

“You mean, how did I come to that conclusion despite the fact I’m this mission’s mushroom,” Harry said.

Schmidt frowned. “I don’t know what that means,” he said.

“It means that you keep me in the dark and feed me shit,” Harry said.

“Ah,” Schmidt said. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “This is a Colonial Union diplomatic mission, and I’m Colonial Defense Forces, and you don’t want me seen by the Korba because you don’t want my presence to be interpreted as provocation. So while the rest of you head down to the planet, and get to breathe real air and see actual sunlight, I stay up here in this latrine of a spaceship, training your technicians to use the field generator and catching up on my reading. Which is going well, incidentally. I just finished Anna Karenina.”

“How was it?” Schmidt said.

“Not bad,” Harry said. “The moral is to stay away from trains. The point is, I know whyI’m kept in the dark. Fine. Fair enough. But I’m not stupid, Hart. Even if none of you tell me anything about the mission, I can tell it’s not going well. All of you deputies and assistants come back to the Clarkelooking like you’ve had the crap beat out of you all day long. It’s a subtle hint.” He picked up his drink and slugged some back.

“Hmm. Anyway, yes,” Schmidt said. “The mission isn’t going well. The Korba haven’t been nearly as receptive to our negotiations as we thought they might be. We want to try something new. A new direction. A new diplomatic tack.”

“A new tack that is somehow focused on me getting punched,” Harry said, setting his drink back down.

“Maybe,” Schmidt said.

“Once or repeatedly?” Harry asked.

“I think that would depend on your definition,” Schmidt said.

“Of ‘once’?” Harry asked.

“Of ‘punched,’ actually,” Schmidt said.

“I already have very deep reservations about this plan,” Harry said.

“Well, let me give you some context,” Schmidt said.

“Please do,” Harry said.

Schmidt produced his PDA and began to slide it over to Harry, then stopped midway through the motion. “You know that everything I’m about to tell you is classified.”

“Good lord, Hart,” Harry said. “I’m the only person on the Clarkewho doesn’tknow what’s going on.” Harry reached over and took the PDA. On its screen was the image of a battle cruiser of some sort, floating near a skyscraper. Or more accurately, what was left of a skyscraper; it had been substantially destroyed, likely by the battle cruiser. In the foreground of the picture, small, vaguely-humanoid blotches seemed to be running from the ruined skyscraper. “Nice picture,” Harry said.

“What do you think you’re seeing there?” Schmidt said.

“A strong case for not letting trainees drive a battle cruiser,” Harry said.

“It’s an image taken during the recent Korban coup,” Schmidt said. “There was a disagreement between the head of the military and the Korban civilian leadership. That skyscraper is—well, was—the Korban administrative headquarters.”

“So the civilians lost that particular argument,” Harry said.

“Pretty much,” Schmidt said.

“Where do we come in?” Harry asked, handing back the PDA. “Are we trying to restore the civilian government? Because, to be honest about it, that doesn’t really sound like something the CU would care about.”

“We don’t,” Schmidt said, taking back the PDA. “Before the coup, the Korba were barely on our radar at all. They had a non-expansionist policy. They had their few worlds and they’d stood pat on them for centuries. We had no conflict with them, so we didn’t care about them. After the coup, the Korba are very interested in expanding again.”

“This worries us,” Harry said.

“Not if we can point them toward expanding in the direction of some of our enemies,” Schmidt said. “There are some races in this area who are pushing in on us. If they had to worry about someone else, they’d have fewer resources to hit us with.”

“See, that’s the Colonial Union I know,” Harry said. “Always happy to stick a knife in someone else’s face. But none of this has anything to do with me getting punchedin the face.”

“Actually, it does,” Schmidt said. “We made a tactical error. This mission is a diplomatic one, but the new leaders of Korba are military. They’re curious about our military, and they’re especially curious about our CDF soldiers, whom they’ve never encountered because our races have never fought. We’re civilians; we don’t have any of our military on hand, and very little in terms of military capability to show them. We brought them that field generator you’ve been training our technicians on, but that’s defensive technology. They’re much more interested in our offensive capabilities. And they’re especially interested in seeing our soldiers in action. Negotiations up to this point have been going poorly because we’re not equipped to give them what they want. But then we let it slip that we have a CDF member on the Clarke.”

“ Welet it slip,” Harry said.

“Well, Ilet it slip, actually,” Schmidt said. “Come on, Harry, don’t look at me like that. This mission is failing. Some of us need this mission to succeed. My career’s not exactly on fire, you know. If this mission goes into the crapper, I’m going to get reassigned to an archive basement.”

“I’d be more sympathetic if saving your career didn’t require blunt force trauma for me,” Harry said.

Schmidt nodded, and then ducked his head a little, which Harry took as something akin to an apology. “When we told them about you, they got very excited, and we were asked by the Korbans’ new leader—a direct request from the head of state, Harry—if we would be willing to pit you against one of their soldiers in a contest of skills,” Schmidt said. “It was strongly implied it would make a real difference in the tenor of the negotiations.”

“So of course you said yes,” Harry said.

“Let me remind you of the part where I said the mission is going into the crapper,” Schmidt said.

“There is a small flaw in this plan,” Harry said. “Besides the part where I get the crap kicked out of me, I mean. Hart, I’m CDF, but I’m not a soldier. I’m a technician. I’ve spent the last several years working in the military science division of the Forces. That’s why I’m here, for God’s sake. I’m training your people to use technology we developed. I’m not training them to fight, I’m training them to twirl knobs.”

“You’ve still got the CDF genetic engineering,” Schmidt said, and pointed to Harry’s sitting form. “Your body is still in top physical shape, whether you use it or not. Your reflexes are still fast as ever. You’re still as strong as ever. Look at you, Harry. There’s nothing flabby or squishy about you. You’re in as good a shape as any soldier on the line.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said.

“Doesn’t it?” Schmidt said. “Tell me, Harry. Everyone else on this mission is an unmodified human. Is there any one of us that you couldn’t take in hand-to-hand combat?”

“Well, no. But you’re all soft,” Harry said.

“Thanks for that,” Schmidt said. He took a sip of his drink.

“My point is whether or not I’m engineered for combat, I haven’t been a soldier for a very long time,” Harry said. “Fighting isn’t like riding a bicycle, Hart. You can’t just pick it up without practice. If these guys are so hot to see CDF in action, send a skip drone back to Phoenix and request a squad. They could be here in a couple of days if you make it a priority request.”

“There’s no time, Harry,” Schmidt said. “The Korba want a combat exhibition tonight. Actually,”—Schmidt checked the chronometer on his PDA—“in about four and a half hours.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said.

“They made the request this morning, Harry,” Schmidt said. “It’s not like I’ve been keeping it from you. We told them about you, they made the request and ten minutes later I was being hustled off to the shuttle back to the Clarketo tell you. And here we are.”

“What is this ‘skill contest’ they want me to have?” Harry asked.

“It’s a ritualized combat thing,” Schmidt said. “It’s physical combat, but it’s done as a sport. Like karate or fencing or wrestling. There are three rounds. You get scored on points. There are judges. From what I understand it’s mostly harmless. You’re not going to be in any real danger.”

“Except for being punched,” Harry said.

“You’ll heal,” Schmidt said. “And anyway, you can punch back.”

“I don’t suppose I can pass,” Harry said.

“Sure, you can pass,” Schmidt said. “And then when the mission fails and everyone on the mission is demoted into shit jobs and the Korba ally themselves with our enemies and start looking at human colonies they can pick off, you can bask in the knowledge that at least you came out of this all unbruised.”

Harry sighed and drained his drink. “You oweme, Hart,” he said. “Not the Colonial Union. You.”

“I can live with that,” Schmidt said.

“Fine,” Harry said. “So the plan is to go down there, fight with one of their guys, get beat up a little, and everyone walks away happy.”

“Mostly,” Schmidt said.

“ Mostly,” Harry said.

“I have two requests for you from Ambassador Abumwe,” Schmidt said. “And she said for me to say that by ‘request,’ she means that if you don’t do them both she will find a way to make the rest of your natural existence one of unceasing woe and misery.”

“Really,” Harry said.

“She was very precise about her word use,” Schmidt said.

“Lovely,” Harry said. “What are the requests?”

“The first is that you keep the contest close,” Schmidt said. “We need to show the Korba from the start that the reputation the CDF has is not undeserved.”

“Not knowing what the rules of the contest are, how it’s played or whether I’m even physically capable of keeping up with it, sure, why not, I’ll keep it close,” Harry said. “What’s the other request.”

“That you lose,” Schmidt said.

*   *   *

“The rules are simple,” Schmidt said, translating for the Korban who stood in front of them. Normally Harry would use his BrainPal—the computer in his head—to do a translation, but he didn’t have access to the Clarke’s network to access the language. “There are three rounds: One round with Bongka—those are like quarterstaffs, Harry—one round of hand-to-hand combat, and one round of water combat. There are no set times for any round; they continue until all three judges have selected a victor, or until one of the combatants is knocked unconscious. The chief judge here wants to make sure you understand this.”

“I understand,” said Harry, staring at the Korban, who came up, roughly, to his waist. The Korba were squat, bilaterally symmetrical, apparently muscular, and covered by what appeared to be an infinite amount of overlapping plates and scales. What little information Harry could uncover about the Korban physiology suggested that they were of some sort of amphibious stock, and that they lived some of their lives in water. This would at least explain the “water combat” round. The gathering hall they were in held no obvious water sources, however. Harry wondered if something might not have been lost in translation.

The Korban began speaking again, and as he spoke and breathed, the plates around his neck and chest moved in a motion that was indefinably strange and unsettling; it was almost like they didn’t quite go back in the same place they started off at. Harry found them unintentionally hypnotic.

“Harry,” Schmidt said.

“Yes?” Harry said.

“You’re all right with the nudity?” Schmidt asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Wait. What?”

Schmidt sighed. “Pay attention, Harry,” he said. “The contest is performed in the nude so that it’s purely a test of skill, no tricks. You’re okay with that?”

Harry glanced around the gymnasium-like room they were in, filling up with Korban spectators, human diplomats and Clarkecrew members on shore leave. In the crowd of humans he located Ambassador Abumwe, who gave him a look that reinforced her earlier threat of unending misery. “So everyone gets to see my bits,” Harry said.

“Afraid so,” Schmidt said. “All right, then?”

“Do I have a choice?” Harry asked.

“Not really,” Schmidt said.

“Then I guess I’m all right with it,” Harry said. “See if you can get them to crank up the thermostat.”

“I’ll look into it.” Schmidt said something to the Korban, who replied at length. Harry doubted they were actually speaking about the thermostat. The Korban turned and uttered a surprisingly loud blast, his neck and chest plates spiking out as he did so. Harry was suddenly reminded of a horny toad back on Earth.

From across the room another Korban approached, holding a staff just under two meters in length, with the ends coated in what appeared to be red paint. The Korban presented it to Harry, who took it. “Thanks,” he said. The Korban ran off.

The judge started speaking. “He says that they apologize that they are unable to give you a more attractive Bongka,” Schmidt translated, “but that your height meant they had to craft one for you specially, and they did not have time to hand it over to an artisan. He wants you to know, however, that it is fully functional and you should not be at any disadvantage. He says you may strike your opponent at will with the bongka, and on any part of the body, but only with the tips; using the unmarked part of the bongka to strike your opponent will result in lost points. You can block with the unmarked part, however.”

“Got it,” Harry said. “I can hit anywhere? Aren’t they worried about someone losing an eye?”

Schmidt asked. “He says that if you manage to take an eye, then it counts. Every hit or attack with a tip is fair.” Schmidt was quiet for a moment as the judge spoke at length. “Apparently the Korba can regenerate lost limbs and some organs, eventually. They don’t see losing one as a huge problem.”

“I thought you said there were rules, Hart,” Harry said.

“My mistake,” Schmidt said.

“You and I are going to have a talk after all of this is done,” Harry said.

Schmidt didn’t answer this because the judge had started speaking again. “The judge wants to know if you have a second. If you don’t have one he will be happy to provide you one.”

“Do I have a second?” Harry said.

“I didn’t know you needed one,” Schmidt said.

“Hart, please make an effort to be useful to me,” Harry asked.

“Well, I’m translating,” Schmidt said.

“I only have your word for that,” Harry said. “Tell the judge that you’re my second.”

“What? Harry, I can’t,” Schmidt said. “I’m supposed to be sitting with the Ambassador.”

“And I’m supposed to be in a bunk on the Clarkereading the first part of The Brothers Karamazov,” Harry said. “Clearly this is a disappointing day for both of us. Suck it up, Hart. Tell him.”

Schmidt told him; the judge started speaking at length to Schmidt, chest and neck plates shifting as he did so. Harry glanced back over to the seating area provided the Colonial Union diplomats and Clarkecrew, who shifted in their rows. The stands were half-sized for humans; they sat with their knees bunched into their chests like parents at a preschool open house. They didn’t look in the least bit comfortable.

Good, thought Harry.

The judge stopped speaking, turned toward Harry, and did something with his scales that caused a wave-like ripple to go around his head. Harry shuddered involuntarily; the judge seemed to take that as a response. He left.

“We’re going to start in just a minute,” Schmidt said. “Now might be a good time for you to strip.”

Harry set down his bongka and took off his jacket. “I don’t suppose you’regoing to strip,” he said. “Being my second and all.”

“The judge didn’t say anything about it in the job description,” Schmidt said. He took the jacket from Harry.

“What isyour job description?” Harry asked.

“I’m supposed to research your opponent and give you tips on how to beat him,” Schmidt said.

“What do you know about my opponent?” Harry asked. He was out of his shirt and was slipping off his trousers.

“My guess is that he will be short,” Schmidt said.

“How do I beat him?” Harry said. He slipped off his shoes and let his toes test the spongy flooring.

“You’re not supposed to beat him,” Schmidt said. “You’re supposed to tie and then take a fall.”

Harry grunted and handed Schmidt his pants, socks and shoes. “Am I correct in assuming that there are several species of legume that would do a better job being my second than you, Hart?”

“Sorry, Harry,” Schmidt said. “I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.”

“And my pants,” Harry said.

“I guess that’s true,” Schmidt said. He looked at the nude Harry and counted the number of apparel he was holding. “Where’s your underwear?” he asked.

“Today was laundry day,” Harry said.

“You went commandoto a diplomatic function?” Schmidt asked. The horror in his voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, Hart, I went commando to a diplomatic function,” Harry said, and then motioned to his body. “And now, as you can see, I’m going Spartanso a midget can whack me with a stick.” He bent and picked up his bongka. “Honestly, Hart. Help me out here. Focus a little.”

“All right,” Hart said, and glanced at the pile of clothes he was holding. “Let me just put these somewhere.” He started off toward the human seating area.

As Hart did this, three Korba approached Harry. One was the judge from earlier. Another Korban was carrying his own bongka, proportional to his own height; Harry’s opponent. The third was a step behind Harry’s opponent; Harry guessed it was the other second.