“And just what do you intend to do with your maple gotten gains?”

  “I’ve already established scholarships for young people from this previously economically depressed region as well as other philanthropies. I’ve also embarked on a program to find sources of material that Glatun or other extraterrestrial groups may enjoy from the wonders of our beautiful planet. Most of those would also come from economically depressed regions. And as for the people who do the extremely hard work of gathering maple sap and distilling it, twenty percent of gross profits are detailed to bonuses. So it’s not like I’m hoarding it like a miser.”

  “And we here at Eyewitness News have learned that you are building space mirrors? Aren’t those used for laser weapons? Are you intending to antagonize our Horvath benefactors?”

  “Not at all, Lisa,” Tyler said, smiling toothily and shaking his head in deprecation. “You completely misunderstand their purpose. Such mirrors have a multiplicity of uses. Take astronomy. By scattering mirrors over a large area it is possible to have a telescope with that same area. Instead of a telescope with a diameter of, say, sixty meters such as Palomar you end up with a telescope of six thousand meter diameter! We can resolve very fine detail with something like that and continue our exploration of the wonders of the universe. They are also useful for orbital smelting. You can use the renewable power of our beautiful Sun to turn dangerous asteroids into useful materials. And, of course, any precious metals that are derived from such smelting are naturally the property of our Horvath protectors. As to their use as a weapon, we don’t have any lasers that can even scratch the Horvath ship, and I defy anyone to suggest that the Horvath are anything other than our good and close friends and protectors.”

  “You seem to have all the answers, Mr. Vernon,” the reporter said.

  “I certainly hope so, Lisa,” Tyler said. “We can all look forward to a bright future. A future in which we just become closer to our Horvath friends. Remember what they say, Lisa. Keep your friends close.”

  * * *

  “Admiral, I have completed my long-term analysis run,” Ldria said at the end of a standard briefing. “And I’m rather glad that Trader Gorku suggested it. I also suggest that similar runs be presented to main system AIs. The data is…disturbing.”

  “How much trouble was it?” the admiral asked.

  “Rather much,” Ldria said. “I had to distribute processor cycles to all the other systems in the system. And it still took me nearly a month. But, as I said, it was worth it.”

  “So, what is the point of intervening in the Terran system?” the admiral asked. “Or is there one?”

  “There is,” Ldria answered. “Assuming that you wish to extend the lifespan of the Glatun Federation as a major interstellar polity for between fifty and seventy years.”

  “That requires explanation,” the admiral said, sitting back. “Clear whatever is on my calendar for the next two cycles. Explain.”

  “All major polities rise and fall, Admiral,” Ldria said. “As the Ormatur were great when the Glatun first encountered them three thousand years ago and are now a minor polity, so will the Glatun eventually become…lesser. Not gone, but less important.”

  “Agreed,” the admiral said. “How long do you give the Federation?”

  “That depends,” Ldria said. “But choices made in the very near future will affect that period greatly. The longest period I can predict is one hundred and thirty turns. The shortest is ten.”

  “Ten?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ldria said softly. “Ten. The likelihood of it being ten is less than three percent. It increases with each turn, with certain turns being paramount. And Terra may hold the key. Intervention by the Glatun in the human system adjusts a major change point in between fifteen and twenty turns. With Glatun intervention, the likelihood of the Federation ceasing to exist in that period drops by twenty-one percent, plus or minus three. And the likelihood without intervention is seventy-three percent.”

  “Why?”

  “War,” Ldria said. “With one of four other major polities. The Rangora are at the top of the list at thirty-seven percent likelihood. Then the Ogut, Barche and Ananancauimor.”

  “If this is known to the central AIs, surely they are preparing for war,” the admiral said.

  “Unfortunately, that is not entirely possible,” Ldria said. “Your species has begun to enter its final decline. Your birthrate has dropped sharply. Less than one half of one percent of your species enters your military. There is a permanently unemployed class that is approaching thirty percent…”

  “I know all that,” the admiral said testily. “But in the face of war…”

  “You really don’t want me to cover it all, Admiral,” Ldria said. “Take your AI’s word for it. You’re facing a war and you’re most likely going to lose.”

  “So intervening with the humans drops the likelihood of such a war?” the admiral asked.

  “No, sir,” the AI replied. “It reduces the likelihood of losing. The war is more or less inevitable. It is possible that one of the central AIs has already predicted this. If so, they are keeping the information very close. But I doubt they have factored in the humans. If they have done a similar process cycle, they are looking at termination of the Glatun Federation by war in fifteen to twenty turns as a better than seventy-percent likelihood. With no way to survive.”

  “The humans are, sorry, primitives,” the admiral said. “I don’t see them being the balance between winning and losing a major interstellar war.”

  “Admiral, you understand the problem of such a wide-ranging analysis,” Ldria said. “There are too many variables to sort out. It is what you Glatun would call a hunch except that it reports the results as variables. There are many, many unknowns. We could, through one of the new gates, encounter a more hostile and dogmatic regime with high advancement at any time. Thus the ten-year result. Or one that would be a better ally than the humans, thus low probability results that indicate long-range survival. My results, however, are solid. I can give you some small data items that may sway your personal analysis.”

  “Very well,” the admiral said. “Go ahead and try to change my mind.”

  “Humans are, at present, primitive,” Ldria admitted. “Well behind the Glatun in technological advancement. But unlike most races, the humans do not slowly evolve technologically. Their history is replete with examples of very fast technological advance mixed with periods of relative stasis. Part of the analysis indicates that they were what is termed ‘cuspal.’ They were on the edge of developing most of the basic technologies for functional space travel except a gate.

  “Further, they are not behind the Glatun at the point that the Glatun encountered the Ormatur. Rather ahead of that point, in fact. Far beyond the relevant first contact point of the Horvath. The Horvath had no mechanical transport systems at the point of contact, no information systems and still use the latter poorly. Humans have rudimentary AIs. They had a nascent space program and a fully developed, albeit primitive, information distribution system. They were closing in on fundamental understanding of gravitics, and energy conversion systems are one step away from that. They had the basic concept of implant technology and only need refinement to adopt it. They are likely to not slide forward slowly but positively leap. With a large population that is at least in parts technologically savvy they have the basis for a major industrial base, space-faring, and not only system defense but powerful ships within as little as twenty years. Given what I believe some of them are contemplating, those ships will be the savior of the Glatun.”

  “If they get the Horvath off their necks,” the admiral said. “And what about the humans as a threat?”

  “That is the flip side to the analysis,” Ldria said. “Humans do not always hold true to allies. A degree of self-interest is in their nature. That is, however, strongly culturally affected. Targeting for rapid advancement the right culture is key. If the Glatun become friends with the right cultures, by the time the cultures forget what they owe the Glatun, the Federation will be in senescence anyway. Handled properly they will be a strong ally in the wars that are coming, the Glatun’s protectors in your old age. Handled improperly? They will join with your enemies to drag you into a dark age from which your species will not recover in ten thousand years.”

  “Which culture?” the admiral asked. “And how, exactly?”

  “The humans have a saying: Comes the moment, comes the man,” Ldria answered, flashing a hologram of Tyler Vernon. “Make this man your friend, Admiral. But in a very particular way…”

  * * *

  “This is Saenc Mori with Hypernet News Network Eight and I’m talking to Terran Tyler Vernon, the maple syrup king! Mr. Tyler, welcome to HNN Eight!”

  “The Ocho!” Tyler replied with a broad but closed-lips smile. “I’m so happy to be speaking with your viewers, Saenc!”

  “And we’re happy to be speaking with you, Mr. Tyler! You don’t seem uncomfortable with dealing with extraterrestrials despite the fact that your world has only recently made first contact.”

  “One of my fondest dreams was to one day speak with wise and wonderful beings from other planets, Saenc,” Tyler said. “The opening of the gate was a great thing for all our people.”

  “But you’re under the tyrannical boot of the Horvath, Mr. Tyler.”

  “Now, now, Saenc. The Horvath are our friends. For the paltry sum of all our precious metals they provide us with protection and the occasional clearing up of our orbital systems.”

  “Protection from what, exactly?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out, Saenc. From the Glatun, presumably, since you and the Horvath are the only species we have encountered. Are you hiding some deep, dark, dastardly secret, Saenc? Come on, you can tell me.”

  “No, of course not, Mr. Tyler,” the reporter said with a sneeze. “You are so funny! So the Horvath are really your friends?”

  “What else am I going to say with a Horvath battle cruiser holding our orbits, Saenc?”

  “Hypernet Network News has learned that the Horvath are now demanding all of Earth’s maple syrup, which they intend to trade with the Glatun. What do you have to say about that, Mr. Tyler?”

  “Maple syrup is interesting stuff,” Tyler said. “It’s not a few mines. Thousands of people over an area of nearly ten thousand square miles, almost entirely rural, have to stumble out into the bitter cold and snow to tap hundreds of thousands of trees and collect the syrup. Then hundreds of maple distilleries have to boil it down since it can’t be moved far before processing. If those people decide it’s a good day to sleep in…it becomes very hard to collect any significant amount of maple sap. I, of course, fully intend to collect every bit of maple syrup possible for our Horvath friends and benefactors. But I can’t do it all by myself, Saenc. We have about two months until we have to start collecting maple syrup. I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens.”

  “We Glatun would hate to have our maple syrup supply cut off,” Saenc said. “That wouldn’t be very fun.”

  “I know, Saenc,” Tyler said. “Nor would having our cities turned to ashes. But I can’t make thousands of people go out in the cold, Saenc. We’ll just have to see what happens.”

  “There has been talk of armed resistance, Mr. Tyler.”

  “Well, what would be the point of that, Saenc?” Tyler said. “All we have is a few deer rifles. We can’t exactly shoot a Horvath battle cruiser down. What I really fear is that our Horvath benefactors will feel so justifiably irritated by the inaction of local sap collectors that they’ll destroy the trees. It would be hard, but a big enough orbital laser will clear out most of the major sap collecting areas. And it takes at least twenty years to grow a decent maple tree. If they do that, you’ll be missing out for a looong time.”

  “And on that note, we’re out of time,” Saenc said. “Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Tyler.”

  “My pleasure, Saenc.”

  “And we’re…clear. Seriously. Off the record. Not for attribution.”

  “Gonna get our maple syrup when they pry it from our cold dead hands. Take that as a ‘notable resident of the area.’”

  “Gotcha. That’ll give it some punch.”

  SIX

  “Well, if it ain’t ole collaborator Tyler himself,” Mr. Haselbauer said.

  “Say that with a smile, partner,” Tyler said. “Can I come in?”

  “If you promise not to take all my maple syrup,” Haselbauer said, opening the door.

  Tyler divested himself of his outer gear in the foyer that was standard for a house of any size in New Hampshire and shook himself as soon as he got into the living room.

  “Da…dang it’s cold out.”

  “You Rebs got thin blood,” Mr. Haselbauer said. “Mabel, I think Mr. Collaborator needs some coffee.”

  “Coming right up,” Mrs. Haselbauer said, bustling in and shaking Tyler’s hand. “Don’t mind him. He’s just riled over Revenuers as usual.”

  “Revenuers coming up from Manchester’s bad enough,” Mr. Haselbauer said, leading the way to the cellar steps. “Up in space is a bit much for my old brain.”

  He led Tyler down into the basement and opened up his gun safe.

  “Got this off a free trader for a jug I had stashed by,” he said, tossing Tyler a rifle. “Works, too. Don’t worry. Isn’t no electronics down here.”

  “Laser?” Tyler asked. It had the sinuous look of Glatun manufacture.

  “Yep,” Mr. Haselbauer said. “Took out a white pine just fine. Made sure it was when the Horvath were in…what’s that term? Retrograde? Somewhat like that. Figure it’s old but it’s what we could get. Actually…got a good few off him. Her. It. Revenuers come up here after our syrup they’re going to get a bit of a surprise. Isn’t going to take out that Horvath ship.”

  “No,” Tyler said, tossing it back. “And it’s not going to save the cities.”

  “Between you and me,” Mr. Haselbauer said. “I would rather keep them standing. Don’t care for Washington and Boston and New York. Don’t mean I want to see them as craters.”

  “No comment,” Tyler said.

  “I sure as hell hope you have a plan, youngster,” Mr. Haselbauer said.

  “I have a plan,” Tyler said. “What I’m hoping is that I don’t have to use it.”

  * * *

  “So, what do we got?” Tyler asked as he walked into what was laughably called “Mission Control.”

  The room was a clutter of wires. Most of the equipment was handmade, and mostly by the group of scientists and lab techs that clustered around the room’s biggest plasma screen.

  “Asteroid 33342 1998 WT,” Dr. Bryan Foster said. The head of the Aten Mining Project, he had degrees in optics, astronomy and geology. He also was available when Tyler went looking for somebody who had a clue what they were doing. His name actually came off of the nearly defunct TradeHard mailing list. He’d once sent Tyler a rather scathing e-mail explaining all the mistakes Tyler was making in orbital mechanics. Shaped something like a hairy Buddha, he was in his fifties and “just getting started.” “AKA Icarus 195 AKA a whole bunch of other names that various astronomers have tried to get to stick. We’re just calling it Icarus even though it’s not.”

  “Nickel iron?” Tyler asked. “And is this the best candidate?”

  “Well…” Bryan said, shrugging. “It’s the best candidate that’s in the right orbit right now. It’s got the bonus that it’s one of those really potential nasties some day. What is called a ‘Potentially Hazardous Asteroid.’ Turning it into a bunch of cars would do the world a favor.”

  “What about…” Tyler searched his brain. This wasn’t the asteroid he thought they were looking for. “What’s the name. Starts with an A…Egyptian god…”

  “That’s most of these,” Dr. Foster said. “You mean Apophis?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler said. “I thought that was the big problem asteroid.”

  “It is,” Dr. Foster said. “Potentially. It’s not going to hit Earth soon, but the way things are going, it’s going to hit sooner or later. And when it does, it’s going to be a major hit. So we’ll have to take it out sooner or later. We thought about Apophis. But when you set this up, we put all the mirrors in Venus orbit. ’Cause you said ‘Put ’em in Venus orbit we’ll figure out what to do with them later.’”

  “Yeah, so?” Tyler said.

  “Apophis is too close to Earth orbit,” Dr. Foster said. “We’ll get around to it. But we threw all this stuff down nearly a quarter AU to the Sun. So for right now, we’re too far away to melt Apophis. Being too far away from Earth orbit is not normally the sort of thing we’re used to having as a problem with space probes. When we got around to thinking about it, we realized we’d kind of screwed up.”

  “My bad,” Tyler said. “Like you said, we’ll kill it sooner or later. So we’re going to melt… What’s it? Icarus? And can we get useable stuff of it?”

  “Yep. Or rather, probably. Just one problem.”

  “Which is?” Tyler asked, sighing. It all seemed so simple when he was thinking about it. Like, for decades.

  “We don’t know what the hell it is,” Dr. Nathan Bell said. The acknowledged asteroid expert was damned near as big as Mr. Haselbauer. He also had a bit of a Southern drawl when he got excited. “Its physical characteristics are just odd. We don’t know quite what it’s composed of.”

  “Well, we will in a minute,” Dr. Foster said. “Just as soon as we put power on target.”

  “We’ll know the external chemical characteristics, yes,” Dr. Bell said. “But the internal? Until we really heat this puppy up we won’t have a clue.”

  “And it’s going to take either a lot of time or a lot more mirrors to do that,” Dr. Foster said. “The good news about Icarus is that it’s only three hundred meters across and rotates about every three point seven hours.”