The Phobos Maneuver by Felix R. Savage Page A

compromising details … but those were buried deep in the ISA’s databank vaults.
    Sometime later, he thought about the war again. He really did not believe it would come to anything. On balance, it was a gift to the boss-man, giving anyone who might have been on the fence about the Salvation project a reason to work faster and harder.
    But other people might fall for the UN’s hype. Some might take Dr. Hasselblatter’s view that this was a watershed moment in the history of human civilization, yadda, yadda.
    Kiyoshi thought of Alicia Petruzzelli. He’d only known her for one day, and most of that time had been taken up getting to know her in the Biblical sense. Forgive me oh Lord, for I am a hopeless fornicator. Though not recently, for want of opportunities.
    She was exactly the type to fall for the hype. The thought gave him a pang of a particularly Japanese sadness. He saw Petruzzelli as a cherry blossom, plucked haphazardly from her branch and carried away by the whim of the wind.
    Oh well. Ain’t no wind that can blow across 400 million klicks of vacuum.

iv.
     
    Petruzzelli walked along a country road in Idaho, towing her suitcase. She walked between plots of varying hues of yellow and brown, and a thousand shades of green. July heat dampened her armpits. Back on Earth for the first time in years, she was hyper-aware of the smells, the dirt under her boots, the weather. The sky was overcast, as it usually was on Earth.
    Since the late 21 st century, fleets of cloud-seeders had plied Earth’s oceans, flinging up water vapor to increase the planet’s albedo. These and other geoengineering gimmicks had stabilized the climate. It was slightly warmer than it had been in the 21 st century, but that turned out to be good for plants. Idaho had once been a desert. Now it was one of the nations in the Breadbowl federation, helping to feed the world with cutting-edge agriculture. Bots labored in the fields, wielding hoe and cultivator attachments on the ends of rugged tentacles.
    She had gotten off the bus in Murtaugh, figuring to save money by walking the rest of the way, but she was hot and tired as hell by the time she reached the Chevy that stood on blocks at the end of her parents’ turn-off. She gave the Chevy’s trunk a friendly slap. It was an antique, protected from the elements by a coat of splart—a sculpture, not a working vehicle. As she trudged up the dirt lane, she heard the lazy whump of the wind turbines in the fields. Trees shaded the lane. The air smelt so rich and earthy she could taste it on her tongue.
    The farm buildings came in view. A young woman backed out of the dairy, her arms full of trays. Turning to shut the door with her hip, she saw Petruzzelli. “Oh! Hey! Sorry, I didn’t hear the van. I’ve got the eggs right here, I’ll just grab the … cheese …” She trailed off as she saw that Petruzzelli was not the person she’d been expecting. She backed up. Petruzzelli knew what she saw: a woman her own age. with skin as pale as paper and hair like a solar flare, wearing a t-shirt that said KILL ALL THE FUGLIES, and red Gecko Docs that were designed for walking on spaceship decks, not dirt roads. It was all too obvious that she’d just come back from outer space this morning.
    The woman dropped the eggs.
    “Don’t call the police,” Petruzzelli said, urgently. “I live here.”
    “No, you don’t. Who are you?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Tempest Petruzzelli.”
    What Petruzzelli had figured. “Gotcha. Then I guess you’re my mom.”
    Tempest’s lips twitched; she was subvocalizing to someone, probably showing them what her retinal implants saw. Then she swooped on Petruzzelli with her arms open. “Alicia!” she exclaimed, hugging her. “It’s so great to finally meet you! Wow! C’mon in!”
    “Sorry about the eggs.”
    “Oh God, yeah, I don’t know what we’re going to do about that.” A collie dog lolloped around the corner of the farmhouse and nosed at the spreading