The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [73]
Mars doesn’t hold any terror for them, she thought. It’s only encouraged a healthy respect for a world that could kill them all in a heartbeat if they were to allow themselves to get careless or cocky.
Could part of that respect have arisen from the recognition that Mars was one of the few places left in the solar system where such an independent people could truly be themselves? She couldn’t help but wonder when the Canyontowners’ notions of personal and political sovereignty would force them to move on yet again in search of another new home, perhaps orbiting a star that no other human had ever approached.
Using the pool table as a platform, Qaletaqu raised his hands to call for silence. It was clear from the generally warm reaction across the room that the planetary representative to the Coalition Council was one of Canyontown’s favorite sons.
“Before we get sidetracked into discussions of potholes and the new pooper-scooper law,” he said once the room had fallen more or less silent, “let me start with the one topic I know is on everybody’s minds—the Romulans.”
He paused to allow good-natured laughter and murmurs of assent to cross the room back and forth in a series of waves before he continued.
“Unless you’ve been stuck at the bottom of a deep hole on Deimos for the past two Sols, you already know that the Vulcans have decided to leave this entire system essentially undefended except for some sort of detection grid that they assure us will give us advance warning when unauthorized warp-driven ships approach. Vulcan’s Coalition delegation gave every assurance that the thing will work as advertised.”
“Ha!” the old man with the manifesto in his lap called out.
“I share your skepticism, Ahota,” Qaletaqu said, taking the interruption completely in stride and prompting Brook’s belated recognition that the crazy old-timer was the tavern/hotel’s owner. “But we really don’t have a lot of choice other than to take the Vulcans’ assurances at face value.”
“The problem with doing that,” Sheriff Kwahu said, turning his chair around backward so he could drape himself over the back as he sat, “is that we’re liable to get considerably less advance warning than Earth does.”
“It’s nobody’s fault that Mars is a few million klicks closer to the system’s edge than Earth is,” Kolichiyaw said with a theatrical shrug. “Hell, I always thought that was a big part of this godforsaken dust-ball’s charm.”
A low chuckle passed through the gathering.
“That’s true enough,” Qaletaqu said, slowly walking along the pool table’s length as though it were a stage. “But we’re still stuck with the fact that we have a lot less leverage over Vulcan than either Earth or the Centauri do. And they couldn’t persuade Vulcan to reconsider its decision, even working together.”
A brown-skinned, deeply wrinkled man with flashing eyes and iron-colored, shoulder-length hair rose from a seat in the back of the room.
“We do have at least one other option,” the older man said. Brooks noticed that every head in the room turned attentively toward him, a courtesy that not even the town sheriff received without displaying his shooting iron.
“And what option is that, Katowa my father?” Qaletaqu said. His tone sounded outwardly respectful, though Brooks sensed that the representative was waging a mighty internal struggle to maintain it.
Katowa.
Brooks recognized the name from her background research. This regal-looking man was Qaletaqu’s father, the ceremonial chief of the Martian Hopi-Pueblo nation, a man who had served for many years as the Martian Colonies’ official representative to the United Earth government, prior to its having become one of the founding members of the Coalition of Planets. According to his official bio, Katowa had restricted his activities