A political movement calling itself “Pragmatist” had emerged, initially among the Terran contingent but finding sympathizers too in certain sectors of the Kronian population. Consolidating behind Valcroix, they were making a case to the Kronian governing administration for a “fairer” Terran voice in the making of policy decisions that would now apply to everybody. Yes, they conceded, it was true that Kronia had been founded specifically for the freedom to pursue its own independent ideals. But circumstances had changed since then, forcing a situation whereby, like it or not, Kronia had become de facto the common heritage of all that was left of human civilization. The Terran-originated portion of that civilization along with its views and its values, they argued, was entitled to representation accordingly. The real issue, of course, was finding an angle that would get a bigger say in the way things were going to be run. In short, as always, where the power would come to lie.
Keene left the pedestrian way via a fire door into a side passage and descended in what had been intended as a freight elevator to emerge at a three-way intersection of corridors with floors of metal mesh and ribbed yellow walls interrupted by doors spaced at intervals. It always put Keene in mind of the lower decks of a cargo ship. With the influx of Terran refugees in addition to the general migration of the population underground, accommodation in Kropotkin was still in short supply. Also, damage repair took precedence over new construction, which didn’t help matters. The unit that Vicki occupied was the same one that she and Robin had been assigned when they first arrived, hastily improvised from storage levels in the lower parts of the complex as a temporary measure until something became available in the regular residential sectors. More recently, Robin had moved into dormitory quarters with fellow students from the Academy, and Vicki, finding the extra space useful, had stayed on. Keene came to a cross-passage bearing the unlikely sign Mimosa. The first door to the right carried the number 2 and a sign reading Delucey, Vicki. Keene waved his card at the scanlock and went in.
Vicki and Cavan were sitting at the bench seat in the living area, talking across the remains of the meal they had finished earlier on a foldaway table hinged down from the wall. Alicia was in the kitchen alcove, loading dishes into the washer. Vicki acknowledged Keene with a wave as he came in. “How’s the weather out?” Cavan quipped, turning his head.
“Hasn’t changed much.”
“Vicki’s been telling me this stuff about Mars coming by periodically and hanging over India. Absolutely astounding, Landen! And do you go along with it too?”
“I’m just the engineer. But Sariena and Charlie seemed to be impressed by it. They’re the experts.”
“Astounding!” Cavan said again, shaking his head. He was in his sixties, with wrinkles beginning to collect in pink skin about a frame that had once been fuller, and thinning silver hair combed conventionally to the side. But his eyes betrayed him, alive and alert, harboring the same penchant for intrigue and mischief that made him an invaluable ally to have on the inside of a political situation for as long as Keene had known him. These days, Cavan spent most of his time circulating among the various departments of the governing administration at Foundation. What he involved himself in there, Keene still wasn’t sure.
Alicia cleared some space on the worktop for Keene to set the bags down and began helping him unload them. Blond, curvaceous, still managing to look stunning in Kronian tunic garb and with her once-long hair cut short, she was little more than half Cavan’s age but everyone thought them ideally matched. Cavan had joined Keene in California with a military unit from Washington during Earth’s final days, bringing Alicia with them too when it became plain that there would probably be no going back. Her background on Earth had been medical. Since coming to Kronia she had been working to help rehabilitate Terrans suffering from traumatic disorders and depression.
“Hello, what’s this?” Alicia held up the bottle of Tennessee Amber. “Claiming the good stuff, I see.”