Free Conquistador by S. M. Stirling

not.”
    Rolfe gave a charming smile and flicked the case open with an elegant snap of his wrist; not cigarettes, but cigarillos.
    â€œI assure you that our check for your firm’s work will be entirely regular, though, Mr. Sorenson,” he said, offering the case.
    The engineer accepted one with a nod of thanks; they were Punch Claritos , about the best there were, and he’d acquired a taste for them a long time ago in Cuba, working on a project in Oriente province. He didn’t let that distract him as he clipped the end, lit, and blew a cloud of fragrant smoke. The young man’s tone had been perfectly polite . . . but there was an underlying amusement to it, as of a secret joke Rolfe didn’t intend to share.
    â€œSurveying and plans for a reservoir and hydroelectric project in, of all places, the Berkeley hills? Mr. Rolfe, you don’t own that land; most of it is government property and not for sale. Such a project there would make no economic sense whatsoever and would stand no chance of approval by Sacramento . . . which I’m sure you know. Hell, a lot of that area’s already occupied by the San Pablo and Briones reservoirs!”
    â€œI’m fully aware of it,” Rolfe said cheerfully; his smile didn’t reach the cool green eyes. “Consider it . . . a trial run for a very similar project in an area not under the jurisdiction of the U.S., or the state of California.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense either,” the engineer said, baffled. “You must know that plans like that are extremely site-specific.”
    Rolfe’s voice stayed level, but took on an edge of steel. “Then consider it a rich young fool’s whim, sir,” he said. “Consider it anything you wish. The question is, will you do this survey for us, or shall I walk over to one of your competitors?”
    He waved a hand toward the window, and the harsh bustle of California Street below. The engineer ground his teeth. On the one hand . . .
    The money was good—even in boom times, a project so close to home would be low-cost. He could get most of the data he needed out of the library, and most of the rest by taking the ferry and driving about; the ground check would be a matter of a couple of afternoons’ hike for his subordinates. The fee, on the other hand, would be nearly as big as something requiring real work—core drillings and seismic soundings, for instance. It was simply too juicy a peach to pass up, even if it did taste a little off.
    So there is no “on the other hand.” It’s not illegal to run a survey and estimates for an impossible project, and if Rolfe wants to waste his money, that’s his lookout.
    â€œWe’ll take it,” he said aloud.
    Rolfe smiled and drew on his Punch Clarito. “I’m sure you won’t regret it,” he said.

CHAPTER THREE

    Sacramento, California
June 2009
    FirstSide
    Tom Christiansen finished the series and lifted the bar into the rest, sitting up on the bench and picking up his towel. Bad form to do it without someone spotting for him, but he wasn’t pushing it—only two seventy-five on the weights, well below his maximum. He breathed deeply and easily as he wiped down his face and neck and the parts of his torso exposed by the muscle shirt, considering what he’d do next.
    Some laps in the pool, he thought, rolling his neck as he glanced around the mirror-walled expanse of the gym’s weight room. Important to keep the aerobic side up.
    He’d always rather despised people who pumped iron just for cosmetic purposes without building endurance and heart health, and he always made time for a balanced program, including keeping his hand in at unarmed combat. He did it all because he liked having a well-conditioned body, because it had become a habit, because it was useful in his work, a lot of which was outdoors, and because he couldn’t spend enough time canoeing and