The light faded. Wind played through the makassar trees. Asach sat on the roof, wolfing down pie and sucking down aromatic draughts of coffee. Watched curiously as a hefty shape made its way down the lane, raised a fist, and pounded on the door below.

It took Asach half an hour to throw essentials into a hand grip, lock up, pass the keys to a neighbor, and hitch a rickshaw into the authorized ITA landing zone in Ujung Pandang. After that, an interminable wait for a pinisi up to the space hub, where Horvath’s Goon was, inexplicably, waiting, accompanied by the Librarian.

The Librarian was understandable. Contrary to know-it-all opinion, librarians actually thought long and deep over, were meticulously trained in, and knew a lot about information archives. That included not just what to stuff into them, but how to establish and maintain integrated resources, data maintenance and recovery, remote access, redundant storage, cataloguing, search and retrieval, unpowered access, and all the other arcana that went along with ensuring that locals got, and kept, and kept up with, what they needed. Or what the Empire thought they needed. Or both.

Horvath’s Goon was another matter. HG, as he had already been mentally christened by Asach, was a graying, impatient, imperious version of Horvath, and like Horvath utterly without any social grace known in any civilized society. Alternately whining and blustering, HG’s express purpose seemed to be—well, Asach was not sure what HG’s purpose might be. Presumably to Represent The Academic Might And Gravitas Of The Empire, for whatever that might count to the failing stock farmers of New Utah. Why that required travel halfway across the galaxy and back, just to escort Asach to a meeting, was even less clear.

Of course, HG had a real name, a title, a doctorate, and a reputation, but Asach didn’t much care. It was the sort of name and title that came with birth; the sort of doctorate that came from privilege (via a grandfather clause at a prestigious university), and the sort of reputation that came from snapping up and claiming as his own the works and limelight of a parade of graduate students and lesser-known scholars who had actually done most of the slog, made most of the insights, and slaved over most of the write-up and lecture prep. HG just showed up to make the pitch and collect the accolades, not to mention the honoraria.

Apparently, for this stint The Goon had claimed “lifelong” experience in the “remote regions” of “the New Caledonia and Purchase systems,” and “intimate acquaintance” with those societies, their religious practices, and the doctrines of the Mormon True Church. In fact, Asach knew, two decades earlier as a graduate student HG had spent a smattering of summer weeks over the course of several years out in the boonies, unsuccessfully prospecting with a rock zapper and chemical test kit. While playing with his chemistry set he’d probably met about a dozen people total, including his paid field crew and the drivers who hauled him out to the middle of nowhere. He did not speak one relevant language aside from Anglic, was appallingly inept at negotiating through interpreters, and wouldn’t recognize a religious zealot if it smacked him over the head with The Book. But, like most suburbanites, he fancied his little camping trips as real adventures, a fiction that he probably actually believed. His audiences certainly did.

In any case, there he sat, and Asach would have to endure him throughout the long slog, via Sparta, to the Commission’s prep meetings on New Scotland, and thence until arrival at Saint George on New Utah. Thankfully, thereafter, true to form, The Goon would reside in the safety of the TCM Security Zone, while Asach flew on to Bonneville, and from there to—to where?

To wherever necessary to answer the Imperial Questions. There were eight. They were The Questions that determined the fates of nations:

1.      Does New Utah possess a planetary government?

2.      If yes, is that government controlled by the True Church theocracy?

3.      Is the True Church on New Utah politically subordinate to the True Church on Maxroy’s Purchase?

4.      Is New Utah disposed to willing accession to the Empire of Man?

5.      If yes, under what terms?

6.      If yes, can sufficiently profitable opportunities be identified to justify the costs of Imperial accession?

7.      If yes, in what accession class?

8.      If no, does New Utah pose immanent, credible threat to the Empire or any of its members?

It was The Goon’s job to answer these from within the cloisters of the TC safe zone on the outskirts of Saint George. It was the Librarian’s job to establish a “knowledge mission” to “rebuild capacity” for “education in the rule of law” at the largely gutted university. And it was Asach’s job to go anywhere and everywhere else, then report back directly, and discretely, to the Commission. But only Asach knew of those latter instructions. They were unknown to The Goon and The Librarian. As far as they were concerned, Asach was “coordinating with locals” to “set up offices” for a trade mission in Bonneville.

Sparta

Of all things, Peet's coffee at JCF Interstellar! A whiff of Makassar in a sea of Anglos. Horvath’s Designated Minion insisted on handling every cent, clearly thought Asach’s quest for fair trade dark roast an eccentric extravagance, yet also insisted on paying for it. Conversely, the extravagance of forced meal consumption was nothing short of amazing. Dinner outbound at the JCF sector hub, dinner on the jumper, then lunch on arrival at Sparta Imperial Spaceport, then dinner on the planetside shuttle (again). Total actual elapsed time between meals: about 3 hours.

Asach could not keep up, and enduring dour glares skipped the SIS lunch in favor of leftovers saved from a boxed breakfast from the inbound shuttle. Clearly, there was a minefield of food control issues there. They hadn’t really had any business on Sparta itself, and no-one felt the need to play tourist, but they had a few hours to kill and decided to freshen up and catch some good sleep under gravity before making the Trans-Coal Sack trek. So, down they went, and checked in for a couple of hours at the SIS Crown and Thistle. It was clean, pleasant, and close to the gates.

HG paid for that, too, then forced Asach to endure a nightcap accompanied by an interminable lecture on Alderson Drive technology. Being amply convinced by decades of experience that they did so, Asach did not really care to hear yet again the details of how tramlines opened between some stars, nor how the drives exploited these to play interstellar hop-scotch, nor the theoretical basis for why onboard systems flailed through multiple checks and restarts on re-entry into normal space. Nor—especially nor—how many times HG had or had not puked his guts out while recovering from jump shock. At a momentary lull during the third recounting of his outbound trip to Makassar, Asach mad brisk apologies, abandoned the unfinished, unwanted drink, and bolted for a shower and bed.

Maxroy’s Purchase.

The trip had already taken forever. Asach detested pretty much everything about space travel. The jumps were excruciating. The boredom transiting between jump points was interminable, but it at least allowed time for writing. Then came the agonizing waits at orbital hubs for planetary shuttles, where the cramped little seats and disorienting floating about in search of the right exit corridors made any more writing impossible. Finally, the even more cramped shuttle descents.

It was Asach’s personal purgatory. Trapped forever in meetings and shuttle diplomacy with HG and The Librarian. To soften up New Utah for the Imperial Pitch, Maxroy’s Purchase was formally ordained with Provisional Authority to supervise a three-month lifting of “Outie” status and the attendant mandatory trade embargo. This made New Utah exempt from all import and export duties—at least on anything that was close to worthless. Anybody willing to run the risk was free to run any cargo they chose. Given the risks and costs, there were, unsurprisingly, few takers.