Trumbull snorted. “Why not? We’re resurrecting everything else.”
The operations officer spoke: “The Quinctius reports fusion bottles fully recharged, sir.”
Trumbull glared at the surviving Guild ships. “No quarter,” he growled. “Fire.”
IX
The World Confederation’s Chamber of Deputies reminded Robert Ainsley of nothing so much as a circus. He even glanced at the ceiling, expecting to see a trapeze artist swinging through the air.
“Is this way always?” Fludenoc asked quietly. The Gha, towering next to the historian, was staring down from the vantage point of the spectators’ gallery. His bulging eyes were drawn to a knot of Venezuelan delegates shaking their angry fists in the face of a representative from the Great Realm of the Chinese People.
The Chinese delegate was imperturbable. As he could well afford to be, representing the world’s largest single nationality.
Largest by far, thought Ainsley sardonically, even if you limit the count to the actual residents of China.
He watched the bellicose Venezuelans stalk off angrily. Most likely, the historian guessed, they were furious with the Chinese for interfering in what they considered internal Venezuelan affairs. That was the usual bone of contention between most countries and the Great Realm. The Chinese claimed a special relationship—almost semi-sovereignity—with everyone in the world of Chinese descent, official citizenship be damned. Given the global nature of the Han diaspora, that kept the Chinese sticking their thumbs into everybody’s eye.
The Gha repeated his question. Ainsley sighed.
“No, Fludenoc. This is worse than usual. A bit.”
The historian gestured toward the crowded chamber below. “Mind you, the Chamber of Deputies is notorious for being raucous. At the best of times.”
Somehow—he was not quite sure how it had happened—Ainsley had become the unofficial liaison between humanity and the Gha. He suspected that his long and successful work reintegrating the Romans into their human kinfolk had given him, in the eyes of the world at large, the reputation of being a wizard diplomat with weird people from the sky. Which, he thought wryly, was the last thing a man who had spent a lifetime engrossed in the history of classical society had ever expected to become.
On the other hand— Ainsley was not a man given to complaining over his fate. And, fortunately, he did have a good sense of humor. He eyed the huge figure standing next to him. From his weeks of close contact with the Gha, Ainsley was now able to interpret—to some degree, at least—the body language of the stiff giants.
“You are concerned,” he stated.
Fludenoc exhaled sharply, indicating his assent. “I think—thought—had thought”—the Gha struggled for the correct Latin tense—”that you would be more—” His thought drifted off in a vague gesture.
“United?” asked Ainsley, cocking an eyebrow. “Coherent? Rational? Organized?”
Again, the Gha exhaled assent. “Yes. All those.”
Ainsley chuckled. “More Guild-like, in other words.”
The Gha giant swiveled, staring down at the old historian next to him. Suddenly, he barked humor.
Ainsley waved at the madding crowd below. “This is what a real world looks like, Fludenoc. A world which, because of its lucky isolation, was able to grow and mature without the interference of the Guilds and the Federation. It’s messy, I admit. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. Not in a million years.”
He stared down at the chaos. The Venezuelans were now squabbling with representatives from the Caribbean League. The Caribs, quite unlike the Chinese delegate, were far from imperturbable. One of them shook his dreadlocks fiercely. Another blew ganga-smoke into the Venezuelans’ faces. A third luxuriated in the marvelously inventive patois of the islanders, serene in his confidence that the frustrated Venezuelans could neither follow his words nor begin to comprehend the insults couched therein.
“Never fear, Fludenoc hu’tut-Na Nomo’te,” he murmured. “Never fear. This planet is as fresh and alive as a basket full of puppies. Wolf puppies. The Guilds’ll never know what hit ’em.”
He turned away from the rail. “Let’s go get some ice cream. The important business is going to take place later anyway, in the closed session of the Special Joint Committee.”
The Gha followed him readily enough. Eagerly, in fact.
“I want cherry vanilla,” announced Fludenoc.
“You always want cherry vanilla,” grumbled Ainsley.