"We, and by that I mean Terra, shall experience technical difficulties in supplying forces until grants for the facilities are made. We use Galactic training systems to train Indowy and humans for work on and in the plants. The Galactics have a multisensory training system that can quickly train personnel in complex skills. We build the facilities, using prefabricated materials, all the way up until the first wave. These facilities produce the weapons, systems, and ships we need to defend Terra. We sell the systems to the Darhel to equip our forces and to acquire planetary defense equipment. We get weapons, the Indowy get work and the Darhel pay for it. Furthermore, since the plants will be in our system and controlled by us we will reap the long-term benefits."
"Why would they do all that?" The commander turned back around and pierced the procurement officer with a stare.
"The question of production forced many pieces of the Galactics' puzzle to the surface. Our staff anthropologist now believes that the `home sector' of the Darhel is the one hundred or two hundred planets inward from Earth. All five of the planets currently being assimilated or about to be attacked are Darhel. The others lost over the last hundred fifty years, the `more than seventy planets' they always complain about, are all Indowy colonies, Galactic sweat shops. With the exception of Diess, they were poor and considered unimportant. Now the Posleen are striking at the core worlds of the Federation. Do not let the Darhel fool us again; they are desperate and will pay anything to stop the Posleen.
"And there is one other thing to consider."
"Yes?"
"With humans that are like these Darhel, there is rarely one layer of deception. It is more often a complex web."
* * *
"Brad, what do you think?" The President had his back turned to his advisor, staring out through the green-tinted armored glass windows of the most famous small room in the world.
"Well, Mr. President, I say we go with most of the Chinese plan, but hit a little lighter on the negotiations." The secretary of state consulted his notes. "They want the Darhel to foot the whole bill for planetary defense and I don't think they'll do it. And even if they do, the negotiations will be really drawn out and meanwhile we're not producing zip. I think we can get salaries upped pretty easily and the facility grants but let's not get greedy. With progressive taxes on Federation-paid troops, the expeditionary force troops and the space facility corporations, we'll be much better set financially anyway."
"Finance is Ralph's call, Brad, yours is international negotiations," snapped the President. He had been getting uncomfortable with some of the decisions the secretary of state had been making lately. "And I would like you to keep in mind that you work for the United States, not the Darhel. It's our country we stand to lose, Brad, our planet, our children."
"Yes Mr. President, but if we negotiate too long we stand to lose it also. Let's start at full funding but settle for the production equipment grants and, maybe, full funding for planetary defense equipment. As it is we're looking at some pretty tough terms on the loans for the equipment. It would help out a lot."
"Fine Brad, but that's the minimum. If they don't take it, no expeditionary forces, no technical support for their fleet. We'll fight in our boxer shorts before we'll fight as slaves."
"Yes, Mr. President."
* * *
"I got him to hold at grants for the production facilities and the expeditionary force equipment." The secretary of state carefully did not watch as the Darhel attempted to eat something very much like a carrot. Bits fell to the table and onto the Darhel's fine robes as the razorlike teeth shredded the vegetable into slivers.
"That is good. Those are judicious expenditures. We will not stint in our payment." The wide cat-pupil eyes dilated in an emotion unreadable by the human as six-fingered hands picked bits of vegetation out of the being's throat crest. "But, full funding for local defense . . . far too generous."
"Don't get stingy," said the secretary, picking at his steak. Something about eating with the Darhel always took his appetite away. "Humans can be stubborn to the point of spite. If you get the image of a Scrooge, nobody will fight for you; at least, nobody who is any good."
"We are aware of this." Again the pupils dilated and the long foxlike ears twitched. The secretary decided he would pay just about anything for a primer on Darhel body language. "It was my contention that the terms were unreasonable from the start but I was overruled. No matter, all will be resolved with time. A favor is owed."
"I trust the payment will be circumspect." The secretary knew that the boss was suspicious of his contacts as it was.
"Assuredly. Your granddaughter is very bright. Perhaps an invitation in about four years to study at an off-planet university?"
"You read my mind." There were some things that money couldn't buy.
* * *
10
Ft. Benning, GA Sol III
2321 December 23rd, 2001 AD
Mike looked up as General Horner entered his tiny office.
The space was barren without any personal items, workstation, or any other objects that indicated it was in use except a combination-locked filing cabinet. The lieutenant had spent so little time in the office in the last few months that he felt it was more of a convenient place to call an office than an actual workspace. Instead of a conventional computer he had his AID, which was capable of any form of input but direct neural and had more processor capacity than the entire Intel Corporation. As for family pictures, every video of the girls from before he had the AID, along with every contact he had had with them since, was in permanent storage, available for retrieval.
And as for an "I-love-me" wall, he did, and he could care less who knew it.
"Yes, sir?" he asked. He could see the general's new senior aide hovering in the background.
The sight that greeted the general might have been comic before the advent of the Galactics, but now it was as commonplace as a mouse. The lieutenant was tapping at the top of an empty desktop, eyes fixed on a spot in midair. The wraparound glasses he was wearing interacted with the AID on his desk to create the illusion of a keyboard and monitor. Horner could not see the items, projected directly onto the lieutenant's retina by a microscopic laser projector in the glasses, but—since he used the same system—he was well aware of the reality.
"Are you finished with the upgrade proposals?" he asked Mike, ignoring the new aide.
Although Mike was officially his junior aide, the general had made it abundantly clear to the newly-assigned lieutenant colonel that Lieutenant O'Neal was his day-to-day alter ego. Once the colonel had his feet on the ground he might be half as helpful as Mike, but in the meantime the colonel could just pass the canapús and stay out of their way.
The way the non-Airborne officer had been shoved down his throat was unpleasant and ominous. It meant that the Ground Forces' personnel department felt it was gaining enough of an upper hand on GalTech to begin dictating personnel policies, even traditionally "personal" ones like the choice of an aide. Once the ACS units were detached to Fleet the problem would subside, but in the meantime it was another political battle and one Horner did not choose to fight at this time. However, since he wrote the evaluation review for the officer in question, the colonel had better be able to swallow the implied insult and pass the damn canapús.