"So. You wanna go?"

"Absolutely. The only thing is . . ."

Crow: "What?"

"I'm afraid that you're setting me up," Sandy said. "Fletcher's told you that I'm entirely unreliable, that I couldn't change a fuckin' tire, and all that. That I smoke too much dope, that I screw my way through the Group . . ."

Crow waved it off: "We know what Fletcher's going to say, and I know what Larry McGovern told me yesterday. Larry said that if I ever needed a backup, and I didn't choose you when I had the chance, I was a fool. I'm not a fool. You couldn't take any dope aboard the ship, for obvious reasons, but-"

"I don't need it," Sandy said. "I'm still worried that you'll just lead me along, and then, at the last minute, after word about the mission has leaked . . . you'll kick me off the mission. Like totally fuck me."

"We considered that," Crow said. "But, given the fact that you rather neatly fit a slot we need, and all your money, and the potential for fucking us back . . . we decided it'd be easier to play it straight."

Sandy grinned at him: "I would have liked to have seen that decision get made. 'Playing it straight'? That's gotta be a first for Santeros."

"We're not that bad," Crow said.

"Of course you are," Sandy said.

Crow asked, "Why'd you drop the HK when you saw who it was? What if I'd come here to take care of our potential publicity problem?"

"You really do that?" Sandy asked.

"I'll ignore that question," Crow said. Then, a half second later, "Wait-I won't ignore it. Of course I don't do that. We don't go around killing innocent people."

Sandy nodded and said, "I keep the gun in case there's still somebody who might try to collect the blood money. When it turned out to be you, I knew that the gun wouldn't help. If you were here to kill me, it was a done deal. Though, when I think some more about it, you wouldn't be here if I was going to be killed. There'd be an unfortunate surfing accident, or a semi-trailer's nav would go crazy and cross the centerline . . ."

"Paranoid fantasy . . . science fiction." Crow took a final pull on his beer, put down the bottle, and asked, "Would you be willing to go back under military discipline?"

"You mean reenlist?"

"You'd be reactivated. You're still technically-very technically-in the reserve."

"Could I be a major?"

"No, but you could be a captain," Crow said.

"Would I have to wear a uniform?"

"Actually, we don't want you to," Crow said. "The only reason we want you under discipline is so that if . . . mmm . . . there were some difficult orders, the consequences would be more severe if you didn't follow them. Orders from the President. Court-martial, instead of a bunch of surf rats on a jury from Venice Beach."

"I could-"

"There's a little more," Crow interrupted. "We'd want you to stay under cover. Keep your current persona. The rich and flaky vid guy whose father probably bought him a job on the ship. In other words, we wouldn't want people to know you're actually Superman, until it's time to leap over the building."

"Let me think about that a second," Sandy said. He thought one second, then brought out his toothy grin. "Okay. I'm in."

"And you'll do what we want." A statement, not a question.

"I'll tell you what, Crow," Sandy said, the smile slipping away. "I'll not only do what you want, I'll do what you need."

Jiang, the ambassador from the People's Republic of China to the United States, grumbled over the morning briefings. Today's minor crisis involved a glitch in mining and trade negotiations, and he'd probably have to smooth a few ruffled feathers. What the hell was rhenium used for, anyway?

Chen poked his head in the door without knocking: "Boss? Hate to interrupt, but I got a call from my little birdie. He says we need to watch the President's speech. More than that: he's sending a messenger with an advance copy. He said you should read it . . . for your own good."

"My own good? Your little birdie is presumptuous," Jiang said. "What else did he say? Is this going to be ugly? Everything seems smooth right now. Haven't heard anything from home . . ."

"That's why I stuck my head in-my contact is very, very close to Santeros. He hinted that we're getting an advance look because they basically like us, and don't want you to look bad, back home. You'll be able to tip them off."

"It's already ten o'clock. The announcement said she's speaking at one o'clock. What good will three hours do us?"

"Better than no hours, if she's about to drop a bomb." Chen looked at his watch. "And it'll be less than three hours-I got the impression that the messenger wasn't on his way, yet. The messenger, by the way, will arrive in a Secret Service car. I suspect his arrival will be very closely calculated to give you just enough time to tip off the minister, but not enough time to shoot down whatever balloon Santeros is planning to float."

Jiang pulled on an ear, thinking, then said, "Tell Chong if he takes more than nine seconds to get from the street to my office, I'll have him hanged in the basement."

"Boss, that would be cruel. You know how serious . . ."

Jiang waved him off. "Okay. Tell him he'll be flogged in the basement."

A Secret Service agent, in the middle car of a three-car caravan, delivered a sealed package to Chong at 11:45. Chong made it to the ambassador's door in 7.5 seconds, handed it off to Chen, who stuck his head in again: "Boss, the package is here."

"They took their time with it," Jiang said, as Chen crossed the long Oriental carpet to his desk.

Chen handed him the package and asked, "Do you want me to . . ." He tipped his head toward the door.

"No. I prefer to have a witness," Jiang said. "Sit down."

He ripped off the top of the envelope, using the dangling ribbon that protruded from one end.

Chen nodded, and sat. He'd been Jiang's right-hand man since Jiang had joined the diplomatic service. Jiang wasn't entirely sure what the slight and shy man had done before joining the corps, but he was well-connected in Beijing and had excellent intuition. Chen seemed to possess certain kinds of information before other people even knew it existed.

Inside the package, Jiang found a thin sheaf of papers, cheap stuff available at any office supply store. There was no identification on the papers, and they'd apparently been produced on a routine office printer.

"This is serious," Jiang said, before he started reading. "The paper . . . we could never prove where it came from . . . who leaked it."

Chen nodded.

Jiang began skimming: Routine opening salutations, announcing a great new American initiative that would foster international cooperation, with our friends and allies the Chinese . . .

Allies?

. . . have decided to accompany them on their Mars mission . . .

"What the hell?" Jiang blurted, frowning at the papers in his hand. He looked up at Chen: "We need to get to the communications shell right now."

"What is it, boss?"

"Santeros is sending a mission to Mars . . . with us."

"What?"

They were both moving, Jiang a half step ahead of Chen. "You're sure about your birdie?"

"As sure as you can get with Americans. They do seem to enjoy treachery for its own sake. On the other hand, I can think of no reason at all that they'd ever set us up, you and I, on something like this. No: it's real."

Jiang stopped: "I wonder if the sly boys have anything on this?" He was talking about the Chinese intelligence unit headquartered in the embassy.

Chen shook his head: "I would have heard . . . one way or another. I do know that they're asking about the speech, but I haven't heard that they've gotten much back."

Jiang said, "Then if these papers are correct"-he shook them at Chen-"not only will we be first in Beijing, we will stick a poker up Yang's ass, will we not?"

Yang was the head of the intelligence unit. Chen showed just a sliver of a smile: "I think, yes, we will. Now that you mention it, I suspect my little birdie knows that, too."

"It's a worthwhile thing, anytime, for all of us," Jiang said.

Jiang read more of the speech as they walked to the elevator that went down to the communications unit, buried deep in the soil of Washington, D.C. Some of it he read aloud to Chen, as the smaller man hurried to keep pace: We all agree that space is the common heritage of humanity, and it is our future and our promise. Any effort to expand the human spirit enhances us all. We also know that space is still a very dangerous place. Anytime we push the frontiers and boundaries outward we are at risk.

Accordingly, after long-term and extensive consultation with members of Congress, the USSA, and other experts in the field, I am making it our highest priority to join China in their venture to send an expedition to Mars. We commend them for the bravery and spirit they've shown in initiating this magnificent undertaking, but our experts have concluded that, despite the Chinese's brilliant planning and engineering, the risks are too great for a single ship, alone. Failure cannot be considered an acceptable option; it would be a loss for us all. So, we will accompany them, in a ship of our own. Two ships, each self-sufficient, accompanying each other on this grand undertaking greatly improve the chances of success.

The Chinese are well along on building their vessel, and we have no desire to delay their mission. Our best people have come up with a plan to meet their timetable. Accordingly, I have ordered the repurposing of U.S. Space Station Three, to convert it for travel to Mars. Its two habitat modules can handle the personnel and life support needs for a long-duration mission, and they will become the core of the new ship. The addition of tanks, engines, and a new command and instrumentation module to turn it into an interplanetary vessel can be accomplished quickly and efficiently.

In recognition of the President who first brought the Americans and Chinese into ongoing cooperation in the modern era, breaking down the barriers that had separated our people for many decades, almost a century ago, we will rename the USSS3 as the Richard M. Nixon.

A century ago, it was only Americans who set foot on the moon. They gave lip service to "for all mankind" but nothing more. We've moved beyond that. We're not out to steal China's glory nor beat them to Mars. We fully intend to give them the honor of placing the first footsteps on Martian soil. They have earned it. Then we can proceed together, as humanity expands into the solar system.

I expect, not too many months from now, to be congratulating our Chinese and American pioneers as they stand side by side under the rust-colored skies of Mars. Godspeed to them all.

Chen shook his head, said, "What is this? What can it be?"

The elevator door opened in the communications unit, where two armed guards were waiting with submachine guns, which they promptly pointed elsewhere.

Jiang paused, and said quietly, "I can tell you what it is. It's bullshit, Chen. The Americans are fucking with us. I don't know why, but I want you to find out."

"They must know that we're sending a colony ship," Chen said. "They're afraid that we're going to use that to lay claim to Mars. They're making sure to let us know that that is not an acceptable outcome, and they're taking steps to prevent it."

Jiang asked, "Are we doing that?"

"Boss, that would be a complete violation of the International Space Treaty that has served both sides very well for the past thirty years. No, we are not doing that. Even if we did, everybody would just laugh us off. It'd be like . . . claiming the moon."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure, boss. There are probably a few idiots in Beijing who've tried to bring it up, but it'd never fly."

"So we let the big brains figure this out," Jiang said. "I'd give a lot of money to see the chairman's face when this pops up on his screen."

"A lot of money," Chen said, "but preferably from a safe distance."

Dr. Rebecca Johansson hurried past her workstation, grabbed her coat, let her implants turn her computer off-do not look at the waiting e-mails. The implants were already talking to the door and clicked the rems app. The radiation monitor flashed green, which meant she wasn't noticeably radioactive this evening, and that was a good thing.

She indicated the "out" app and the door popped open after registering her ID. In the hall she clicked on the elevator app, waited impatiently for the car, said, "Station," when it arrived, and dropped six floors to the Northfield nuke's underground shuttle station.

The ten o'clock train arrived three minutes after she walked onto the platform. She scampered aboard, sank into a seat, and sighed. She was twenty minutes from downtown Minneapolis, not much to see on the way but endless tracts of suburban houses. Way too late for sanity's sake, and Senior Star power engineers didn't get overtime. If only, she thought. With double and triple time on her usual hours, she'd be retired in five years.

But then what? She actually liked the work. Liked the action.

Two minutes out from the Nuke, too tired to read, Becca stared into the window at her own ghostly reflection. A door opened between her car and the second car and a young man moved up and took a seat across from her. A doctor, she thought, a surgeon, heading north to the Cities from the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, where the shuttle tracks ended. He glanced up briefly and she quickly flicked her eyes away, hoping he hadn't seen her seeing him.

People were always trying to chat her up. It wasn't always a half-baked mating ritual. People simply found her approachable: Partly it was that pure Minnesota-Scandinavian look, and a plump, finely featured face with a fresh-scrubbed pale pink complexion. She was, she sometimes thought in despair, "cute," like a doll you won at the state fair. Combine that with being both short and . . . plumpish . . . and the whole ensemble screamed, "I am sweet and I am inoffensive, and I am no threat, and so I don't have to be taken seriously because no one this cute and plump ever is."

Becca did not like being dismissed. She did not like to be thought of as inconsequential. She'd worked too hard to get where she was, through a grueling Ph.D. program at MIT, and now was known as one of the best-trained and cleverest high-density power engineers ever to come down the pike.

The young man was still there, sitting across from her, a pleasant smile fixed on his face, and she thought, Enough! Time for a positive thought or two.

Work was going well. The hours were way too long, but the intellectual challenges were irresistibly seductive. Designing power flows for a reactor core that had one-quarter the volume and ten times the power density of anything previously used in a commercial plant was . . . exciting.

She was doing great and novel work; better still it was conservative work. Power utilities liked conservative thinking. Their job was to reliably deliver electricity twenty-four hours a day, not get Nobel prizes for innovation.

There were no new tricks in her flow designs. The cleverness lay in how well she'd been able to optimize and integrate so many different techniques. Massive-scale heat pipes with fractal fluidic passages to pump the energy from the fissioning fuel into the boiling superheated fluids that drove the generator turbines. Thermomagnetic liquids and magnetic pumps and transformers to siphon the waste heat. Micro-evaporative heat exchangers to dump it into convective radiators and, ultimately, the air.

That was just a fraction of what she'd thrown at the problem. No one technology, not even two or three, could manage so many gigawatts of thermal energy in a confined space. The core would've melted down in minutes. Put them all together, get them all tuned up, and get them all working in concert. It was the difference between an instrumental solo and a full symphony orchestra, engineering-wise.

Her mood was lightening as the train rolled through the old airport site, now a condominium complex, made a quick stop, and then out the other side and on toward the downtown towers where Becca lived.

The doctor-or maybe he was a nurse, or a technician-was still sitting across from her. Glancing at her from time to time.

He would, she thought, wait until they got off the train, then he'd hit on her. But her mood had lightened, and her stop was always busy, so there'd be no threat. She'd be nice to him, she thought, and maybe-he was good-looking, although, come to think of it, his neck was a little thick-hold out some hope. A cup of coffee in the morning? But she had to be to work at six . . .

Maybe she should find just a sliver of life outside work? Time for coffee with a good-looking surgeon?

Twenty minutes and twenty seconds after leaving the Nuke, the train rolled into the Hennepin Avenue station under downtown Minneapolis. Becca got to her feet and headed for the door. The surgeon-yeah, right-shuffled off after her.

On the platform, she half turned, expecting him to be there, with an approach. And he was. He smiled and held up an ID pack. He said, "I'm Robert Klipish with the FBI. We didn't want to startle you or attract attention, but we have some people who need to talk with you."

She felt her mouth hanging open as she winked her implant at the ID. A green light ticked in a corner of her eye: the ID was real. "Some people?"

He gestured across the platform, where two men and a woman were moving toward them, in a V formation, the woman at the point. She was neither chubby nor cute. She was athletic, and the three moved in a way that you might expect a school of sharks to move. As the woman came up, Becca noticed that sometime in the recent past, she'd had her nose broken.

"What did I do?" Becca blurted. She grasped for something, anything.

"You didn't do anything, as far as I know," Klipish said. "I was told to make sure that nothing happened to you, after you left work. I was told that if you got a hangnail, I'd be reassigned to Texas." He twinkled at her.

"Not that," Becca said, putting a hand on his sleeve.

The woman who was coming up said, "Bob, stop twinkling at her." The woman held up her phone and flashed her ID. "Dr. Johansson, my name is Marla Clark. Pleased to meet you. You have a meeting."

"A meeting? Right now?"

"Not exactly right now, but first thing in the morning, in Washington, D.C.," Clark said. "By the way, we assume you'll need a moving company, though you don't really have all that much. We've contacted two that have been approved by Homeland Security."