The Last Theorem

44 INTERNATIONAL DISAGREEMENTS

A day later and quite a distance from Qattara, the Subramanian family was finishing breakfast. Natasha and Robert were already in their swimsuits, just waiting out the statutory, and mother-enforced, period of thirty minutes of delay after a meal before they could head for the beach. Ranjit, a cooling cup of tea in his hand, was frowning at the screen. What it showed was the bustling One Point Five colony as seen from one of the few still-human-controlled satellites, and Ranjit had been frowning at it for some time.

When Myra thought about it at all, she did wonder what her husband found so absorbing on the screen, though her mind was mostly on the morning’s assortment of incoming texts. She held one up for a better look and called to Ranjit. “Harvard wants to know if you’re interested in doing their commencement address again. Oh, and here’s one from Joris. He says they keep getting threatening messages, but if there actually are any satanists planning to really attack Skyhook, they’re not within twenty kilometers of the base. And—Wait! What’s that?”

What stopped Myra right there was a startled “Huh!” from her husband, and when she looked up, she saw why. The aerial view was gone, the satellite had been preempted again by the aliens for their own purposes, and a familiar figure was taking shape on the screen. Behind Myra her daughter snapped, “Oh, hell! It’s me again!”

It was. Or at least it was that indestructible not-Natasha, little curl hanging over her left ear, that had been displayed so frequently since the world had begun to fall apart. Myra sighed. “I do wish you’d had a little more clothes on,” she offered, and was spared her daughter’s withering reply as the figure began to speak.

“I am bringing you a message from the persons identified as the One Point Fives, currently located in what is called the Qattara Depression on the planet you call Earth. The message is as follows:

“‘We are deeply regretting loss of human life in defense against attack. We will pay reparations up to one thousand metric tons of ninety-nine and five nines pure metallic gold, but require ninety days for processing metal from seawater. Please inform that offer is accepted.’ This ends their message.”

The figure disappeared, the shiny structures of the colony popped up, and Ranjit turned around to gaze at his wife and children. He said incredulously, “I guess they’ve really made a sort of stock copy of Tashy they can use to make their announcements.”

Myra was diffidently smiling. “I don’t know, but did you hear what they said? It almost sounds good. If they’re willing to try to make up for what happened, there’s some hope.”

Ranjit nodded thoughtfully. “You know,” he said in wonder, “it’s been so long since there was any good news that I don’t know how to celebrate it. A drink all around?”

“It’s too early,” Natasha said at once. “Anyway, Robert doesn’t drink and neither do I, much. You people do what you want. He and I are going to the beach.”

“And I think I’ll call the office. I wonder what Davoodbhoy thinks about it,” Ranjit said, kissing his wife’s hand.

“Go, then, all of you,” Myra said. She sat silently thoughtful for a moment. Then she sighed, poured herself some fresh tea, and allowed herself to relapse into what was beginning to look like a once-again normal world.

Thoughts of destruction and disaster had not entirely vanished from her mind. They were bearable now, though, no more distracting than the occasional twinge in a molar that reminds you to make an appointment with the dentist—oh, not for next month, necessarily, but maybe the month after. So Myra went back to the morning’s texts. There was one from her niece Ada Labrooy to say hopefully that this “machine-stored” state the alien creatures talked about sounded a lot like something resembling the artificial intelligence she herself had been working on for what seemed like her whole life, and did Natasha have any possible way, any way at all, of asking them for details? A dozen texts from other people, all sharing the delusion that the real Natasha might somehow be able to get a message to the aliens. And, worryingly, a text from the Trincomalee temple, reporting that the old monk, Surash, had come through his most recent surgery well enough but that the long-range outlook was doubtful at best.

Lips pursed in concern, Myra reread the saddening words. Surash himself had called to tell them that he would have to have another procedure, but he had made it sound like the approximate equivalent of a tonsillectomy. This text sounded a good deal more serious. She sighed and turned to the next one—

And scowled. This one was addressed to Ranjit personally. It came from Orion Bledsoe, and what it said was, “This is to remind you of the obligations under the Uniform Military Service Act of 2014 of the American citizen Natasha de Soyza Subramanian. She may report to any U.S. army installation for the purpose of evaluation. This must be done within the next eight days or penalties will be incurred.”

It was too late to catch Natasha to tell her about this new proposal for her life’s career. Ranjit, however, was within shouting range, and when Myra had got him off the phone and handed him the message, he said, “Huh!” And then, to clarify his meaning, “Hell!”

So now the Subramanian family had a new and totally unexpected set of worries. It had never occurred to either Ranjit or Myra that the geographic fact of their daughter’s birth on American soil had ever given America any right to commandeer her services. There was one clear step to be taken, and they took it.

When Ranjit urgently sought help from Gamini Bandara, his old friend put him on hold for a moment, and then, with apologies, for a much longer period.

When he came back, though, he sounded less worried. “Ranjit?” he said. “You’re still there. Good. Well, I’ve spoken to my father and he’s already on the phone with his legal people. He wants you to come down here.” He paused for a moment, and when he went on, he sounded almost embarrassed. “The problem is that slimeball Bledsoe. We need to talk about him, Ranj. Dad’ll send a plane for you. Bring Myra. And Natasha. And, oh, hell, Robert, for that matter. We’ll be waiting.”

The plane that arrived for them that evening wasn’t anywhere nearly as big as the one that had rescued Ranjit from rendition. It had only one stewardess, and she was nowhere near as pretty as the others, but it did have something unexpected, though. It had an old friend, standing in the doorway to welcome them. Myra looked at him twice, and then broke into a smile. “Dr. De Saram, what a nice surprise!”

Nigel De Saram, the man who had once been Ranjit’s lawyer, now President Bandara’s secretary of state, submitted to a hug, and then waved everyone to the seats that surrounded a long table. “We’ll talk on the way,” he said, strapping himself in. While the plane was racing down the takeoff strip, he read the text Myra had brought for him, and by the time they were approaching cruising altitude, he was ready. He turned to Natasha. “I believe what must be done is clear; I accessed all the U.S. law and court decisions that bear on this matter while I was on the way down. The first thing for you to do is renounce American citizenship; the papers should be drawn up by my office by the time we arrive. It would be better if you’d done it years ago, of course,” he added. “My fault for not making sure you did.”

“Then that’s all we have to do to settle this?” Ranjit asked incredulously. If the mightiest power on Earth was trying to put his daughter into its uniform, he was not prepared to take chances.

The old lawyer looked shocked. “Of course not! It just means the whole matter gets fought out in the American courts. But that will take years, and—I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention—there’s a presidential election coming up in America. It looks like the present administration isn’t likely to win. I’m hoping the next one won’t have quite the same policies. Meanwhile, you should stay out of America, please.”

Natasha threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Her father, sounding embarrassed, echoed the thanks and added, “I guess we didn’t need to drag you down here.”

“Ah,” the lawyer said, “that’s another question, isn’t it? President Bandara wants to talk to you about the American ex-marine named Orion Bledsoe.”

That was when Myra came in. “He’s the one who cooked up the idea of drafting Tashy.”

The lawyer shook his head. “It’s unclear whether it was his idea or if it came from higher up. What I do know is that he’s the one who is now in Brussels to talk to people at the World Bank.”

Myra looked more worried. “What about?” she asked.

“He’s giving them their orders from the Americans,” the lawyer said grimly. “They’re preparing a statement to release tomorrow morning and it’s going to say that such an influx of gold can’t be permitted because it would unbalance the world’s financial structure.”

Ranjit frowned, pursing his lips. “It might at that,” he conceded. “That would amount to an overnight injection of—what? Trillions of dollars of new capital. There would be serious repercussions. Not to mention what it would do to the price of gold on the world markets.” Then he shrugged. “I don’t envy you, sir. I don’t see how to deal with that kind of problem.”

But the lawyer was shaking his head. “I think the president would not agree. At least he hopes that you can help—all of you. He’ll be joining you shortly, and he wants to hear all about this Bledsoe person. Then he wants to try to work out some solutions.”

The president of Sri Lanka was not the only world leader to convene a sort of brain trust. All over the planet some of the world’s smartest and best-informed people were wrestling with the same questions. Pax per Fidem had convened gatherings of their own, and their headquarters was working what satellites it could command to collect these best and brightest voices….

And, who knows, they might have succeeded, if the Americans had not had one more monkey wrench to throw into the works. It was an announcement, presented as routine by the administration’s usual spokesperson, but not routine at all in its effect on the situation:

“The president would like it understood,” the spokesperson said, smiling into the camera the girl-next-door smile that had served her through a hundred unpalatable announcements, “that America, too, has a valid claim for reparations due to the unnecessarily severe damage inflicted on its peacekeeping aircraft.”