Up Against It - M. J. Locke [20]
A few moments later, Benavidez’s chief of staff, Thomas Harman, ushered her into Benavidez’s office, along with Val Pearce, head of Security, and Emily Takamoro, his chief media strategist. Val was tall, balding, and stout; Emily short and slim, with a pretty face and a streak of white in her dark hair. As the door shuttered closed, she saw that Benavidez was lounging in the conference room webbing. He was big and muscular, with olive skin and dark brown hair and eyes. Usually his affect was cheerful and easy, but not tonight.
Benavidez rubbed his eyes. “Let’s get started. Jane, I’ve asked Val and Emily to join us: Val because of the obvious security implications, and Emily because of the public relations angle.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Have you had a chance to prepare the latest resource report?”
“I have.” She called up her interface and tied them all in. A series of tables and charts unfolded in the space between them.
“Phocaea normally uses fifteen to eighteen thousand tons of mixed methane and water ice per day. I can crank that down to about twelve thousand with strict rationing, and we’ve already taken the necessary measures. We’ve got three hundred nineteen thousand tons. I’ve created a countdown clock.” She transmitted the app. “It’ll load permanently onto all your interfaces as soon as you activate it. It’s set at twenty-six days, four hours, and”—she checked the time—“two minutes. That’s our best current estimate of how much time we have left.”
“Three and a half weeks?” Benavidez said.
“That may change a little, as we improve our inventory numbers. The clock will be automatically updated as new information comes in. Mr. Prime Minister, I’d like to transmit this clock to the rest of your staff as well. It’ll be important to their emergency response efforts.”
Benavidez pondered for a moment. “We’re going to keep the precise time under wraps, for now, and simply tell folks that we have several weeks. I want us to have space to come up with alternatives. Speaking of which…”
Jane nodded, drew a breath. Here it came. “I’ve just learned that Ogilvie & Sons has an off-ledger shipment hitting Jovespace soon.”
The look of relief that washed over Benavidez’s face was so intense that Jane had to suppress a wince. “My God! Why didn’t you tell us this before you started talking about how we only have three weeks to live?”
“Because, sir, with all due respect, this does not save us. Ogilvie & Sons is a grave threat.”
He looked irritated. “Yes, yes; Ogilvie & Sons has connections with the Martian crime syndicate. But what can they do? If they try to impose unrealistic conditions or constraints in the contract for the ice, we simply declare sovereign immunity from their claims. If they make trouble with our shipping contracts later in retaliation, we come up with strategies at that time to protect ourselves. We are not without allies, Upside or Down.”
“They are not just connected with the Martian mob. They are the mob. Philo Ogilvie, chairman of Ogilvie & Sons’ board of directors, paid for a hit on a Downsider judge. He can never set foot on Earth again without facing charges for racketeering, tax fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. He’s confined to a few hundred square kilometers in the Libertarian Free Zone on Mars. His sons are running the company, and they may not have been convicted, but they are as thuggish as he ever was. His elder son, Morris, is reputedly responsible for the Vestan coup, and his younger son, Elwood, by all reports is eager to outdo his brother to vie for mob boss.
“Furthermore, I’ve become convinced the warehouse disaster was no accident. Ogilvie & Sons is responsible for it.”
All four of them stared at her. Benavidez asked, “You have proof?”
“Look at the facts. One: there has never been a gap as long between major ice shipments as the one we are currently facing, in over a hundred years of recordkeeping. Nor as lean an inventory in any of the trans-Jovian clusters or parking zones. How likely is it that this