Starhold (30 page)

Carr was knocked to the tessellated floor, and as he tried to stand, Haldryn unleashed a vicious kick, which sent him staggering back into the Governor’s office. A gash opened above Carr’s left eye and blood was starting to obscure part of his vision.

He moved back against the sideboard and leaned there, trying to steel himself. Haldryn swaggered into the office, evidently ready to go for the kill. “You’ve fought well, Carr, and now it’s time for you to die equally as well.” Haldryn walked over to where Naar’s corpse lay. Bending down, he picked up the knife he’d used to kill her. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?”

Carr glanced around to locate something, anything that could be used as a weapon. He caught a glimpse of Sanchez out of the corner of his eye. Two guards were busy holding her down in the chair—she must have caused a ruckus.
Who knows, after I’m gone, maybe she can find a way to kill this bastard.

As Haldryn advanced on Carr, he brandished the knife. Carr prepared to charge one last time. If he hit him hard enough, maybe he could knock the knife out of his hand and grab it himself.

Suddenly, two shots rang out in quick succession. It took everyone a moment to realize what had happened—even the Black Caps were confused for a second. They had been watching their boss and not keeping an eye on the rest of the room. Haldryn’s face twisted into an almost comical expression, as if he were outraged that someone had intruded on his final victory. He started to turn around, but dropped to one knee.

Behind Haldryn, Carr could now see Sheel. He was still slumped on his desk, but his head was upright and his hand held the small pistol that had just put two plasma charges into the back of the fleetmaster. As Haldryn crumpled to the floor dead, Sheel made a sort of deranged cackling sound before slumping on the desktop, equally dead.

“Enough!”

The thin administrator moved to the front of the room. “Balasi, order your men to stand down,” said Goran with a slight tremble in his voice. The high captain hesitated. “Balasi,” Goran pleaded. “You and I have been underlings to people of ambition all of our lives.” He spread his arms to indicate the bodies strewn around the large office. “Look at where it’s gotten them. Join me now to do better, for ourselves and for our people.”

Balasi looked downhearted. “But we can never return to our people.”

“You’re wrong,” countered Goran. “The people of Bakkoa are our people.”

“The Common Children of the Emperor?”

“They’re not common and they’re not children. They’re strong, proud people who have built a fine colony. They are the people of Earth—
they
are our people now. We’re not Rhuzari any longer, we’re Earthers now.”

Balasi looked around the room, his eyes moving from one body to another. “Release her,” he ordered the soldiers restraining Sanchez, who ran over to help Carr. Balasi then turned back to Goran, bringing himself to stand at attention. “What are your orders, my Lord Governor?”

“Before we can win the peace, we have to stop the war,” Goran said. “I hereby promote you to the rank of fleetmaster and appoint you military commander of the Sol system.” Sanchez helped Carr hobble over to where Bakkoa’s new leaders stood.

Goran turned to them. “Carr, I’ll summon Doctor Devi to look after your wounds, but we need to act quickly. If I put the two of you in touch with the Union fleet commander, do you think you could persuade them to agree to a ceasefire?”

“Yes, definitely,” responded Carr, with Sanchez nodding her head in agreement.

“Fleetmaster Balasi, order all of our ships to stand down,” Goran commanded.

“Very well, Lord Governor.”

“Balasi, it’s just Governor now,” said Goran, as he looked around at the bodies on the floor. “No one here is going to be a lord anymore.”

31: Titles

Arisugawa Starport

In orbit above Planet Sarissa

The shuttle carrying Renata Darracott slid into the docking bay at 15:00 hours. Seven days had passed since Victor Polanco’s assassination, and this morning the Directorate had summoned her to a hastily called meeting. The venue was curious: not the Centroplex, not Koenig Manor, not even on Sarissa. Damn inconvenient for someone who was still trying to pull the government, and herself, back together.

Yesterday’s state funeral had been difficult on so many levels. Polanco truly was a “man of the people,” and the outpouring of public sorrow was difficult to watch. Darracott had steeled herself for the inevitable emotions, but her efforts to contain them had failed miserably. A flood of memories washed through her mind as she presided over the ceremonies, most of them good, some of them tender and intimate. Just when she thought she had put her heart in order, she found herself back at square one.

Arisugawa Starport was the principal commercial space facility in orbit above the Sarissan homeworld. Over sixty percent of the people and commerce arriving or departing the planet went through Arisugawa. Her assumption was that the meeting was to be off the books and hence the unusual location.

Once inside the station, she was greeted by an unexpected but welcome face. “First Consul, welcome to Arisugawa,” said the blonde woman in the gray uniform.

“Flood, how nice to see you again,” beamed Darracott. The First Consul shook hands with her fellow Odessan, and as she did, she noticed new rank insignia on Flood’s shoulders.

“Lieutenant Colonel now, eh? Must have done a bang up job at the prison.”

“Not sure I was there long enough to know, ma’am. I guess they felt I was satisfactory since they gave me a new prisoner,” said Flood as they stepped aboard a turbolift.

“A new prisoner?”

“Yes, ma’am—you.”

As the lift ascended, Flood removed her side cap. “I am to be the head of your new security detail, ma’am.”

A couple of thoughts rushed to Darracott’s mind. Mention of a new security detail boded well for her chances with the Directorate. On the other hand, there was a twinge of regret. Katsuro Miyazato, the former chief of Victor Polanco’s security team would be facing a board of inquiry. Exonerated or not, he would surely either be reassigned or forced out of the service because of Victor’s death. Miyazato’s career was just one more casualty of this hideous business.

“You’ve cut your hair,” remarked Darracott as she eyed Flood’s new boy cut.

The colonel blushed. It was difficult for the fair-skinned Odessans to conceal discomfort or embarrassment. “The short cut’s a good look on you, ma’am, and I thought I’d give it a go.”

“It’s a good look for you as well. What’s your first name, Colonel?”

“Ardith, ma’am.”

“I’m curious Ardith, how old are you?”

“Thirty-three, ma’am.”

Darracott was stunned. “You’re just thirty-three years old and you’ve already made Lieutenant Colonel? Nobody makes Colonel at thirty-three.”

“I do, ma’am. Not trying to be boastful ma’am, but I’m good at what I do.” A dark thought crossed Renata’s mind about exactly what this girl might be good at doing in order to climb in rank so quickly, but she decided to give Flood the benefit of the doubt. The same was probably said about an obscure thirty-eight year old woman who was chosen to be Prime Minister last year.

“We’re going to get along just fine, Ardith. One thing though, would you please ease up on the ‘ma’am’ thing?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The turbolift delivered them to a well-guarded corridor, where Colonel Flood escorted her down the hall to a private suite. “Your new security detail, ma’am,” Flood announced as they passed several men and women in the passageway. “They’re a mix of space force and army, hand-picked by Admiral Maxon and General Stavrianos.”

“Civilian clothing?” asked Darracott.

“We’ve been detached from the services and temporarily assigned to OMI. My direct superior is Director Tolbert. I imagine today will be the last day I wear my uniform for a while.”

Just before the door to the suite opened, Flood paused. “Mr. Merritt at Koenig House tells me that you favor a three olive martini, ma’am. Shall I have one sent in?”

“Seems a little early in the day for one of those.”

“The others are indulging, ma’am. I think you may need it,” the colonel said as she opened the door, revealing the eight people who would decide Darracott’s fate.

“I think you may be right,” Darracott whispered back.

The group was scattered informally across the room. It was more like a small cocktail party than a government meeting. Everyone greeted her with pleasant looks as she entered. It seemed to be a good sign, but she had learned that in politics a knife in the back was frequently preceded by a smile.

There were both civilians and military present. Foreign Minister Helen Amesbury, just back from a diplomatic venture to the Threnn Mandate, sat on a divan next to the head of the Treasury, Gilbert Trenner. Near them, Admiral Jon Schooler lounged against the arm of an overstuffed chair. Victor had always joked that with his white beard, Schooler looked like a twenty-sixth century version of the ancient general, Robert E. Lee.

Close to the door stood Nico Stavrianos and Luis Hinojosa, both ‘indulging’ as Flood had put it. “Looks like you two are celebrating,” Darracott said, and then noticed the new stars on the younger man’s uniform. “Goodness, you do have cause for celebration. Congratulations,
General
Hinojosa.”

As the freshly minted major general bowed in acknowledgement, Stavrianos spoke up. “Anyone who can put up with me for as long as Luis has deserves to be promoted.” Everyone who heard the remark broke into laughter as Darracott grasped the significance of Hinojosa’s promotion.
He wouldn’t be in this meeting unless he had also been promoted right up to the Directorate. Stavrianos has parlayed the army’s role in putting down Choi’s coup into another seat at the table. But a mere major general on the Directorate? Of course! He’s being fast-tracked to be Stavrianos’s successor…

The youthful looking Alexander Carson, Assistant Chief of Space Operations, was sitting at the suite’s bar conversing with Trade Minister Eric Boucher. Seeing Admiral Carson reminded her of who was not present—Leonardo Sanchez. It had been four days since the unpleasantness in her office, and she had not spoken to him since. It was odd, Leo not being here, because he had been such a vital part of Victor’s government from the beginning. However, it wasn’t Victor’s government anymore, and Sanchez had made his decision. She wished him the best, but would have felt better if they could have parted on better terms.

The final person in the room, and the one Darracott was making a beeline for, sat in a motorized chair. As she approached Channa Maxon, the woman motioned for Renata to sit next to her.

“Gods, I am so thankful that you weren’t hurt more seriously. How do you feel?” Darracott asked as she leaned over to kiss the admiral on the cheek.

“Physically, much better. Emotionally, I’m just about spent,” Maxon replied. Both women had loved Victor Polanco, albeit in different ways. Maxon had seen him as a mentor and big brother, and his loss was a tragedy for her, but poor Maxon had seen more grief than most during the past week. She had been close to her steward, the slain Master Chief Liz Harren. Her entire security team had also been slaughtered, in addition to a dozen of her crew aboard
Galatea,
who had died in a firefight with the traitors. And of course, there was the brutal assault and betrayal by Brin Choi…

“Sorry I missed the funeral. I’ve been up here recuperating in a low-gravity medical suite for the past four days. They claim it helps the healing process. How are you doing, Rennie?”

“I’m holding up, but it will take time—for both of us.”

After Darracott’s three-olive martini was served, Maxon ordered all of the staff to vacate the room. “Before we begin with the business at hand,” the admiral said to the group, “I just want to thank you all once again for your concern and support during my convalescence.” There were smiles and well wishes from everyone. “Also,” Maxon continued, “considering his impending departure from the service, our good friend Leonardo Sanchez has recused himself from this meeting. Leo has given so much to the Union, and I know that we all wish him the best in his retirement.” Darracott was pleased by the regard shown toward Leo Sanchez. Her fear that he might be leaving on bad terms was apparently unfounded.

“And now to business,” said Maxon, shifting her gaze toward Darracott. “First Consul, understand that the group gathered here speaks for a majority of those who sit on the Directorate. Whatever is decided here today will stand with the Directorate as a whole. In fact, we’ve already made some decisions.”

“Indeed,” responded Darracott.
Not a big stage,
she thought,
but this is still grand political theater.

Maxon continued. “Yes. It has been decided that the title of Prime Minister will be eliminated. We would like you to continue in your role as the government’s chief executive under the title of First Consul. This title will be used to honor Admiral Polanco, as he was the first person to hold the office. The First Consul will be considered the leader of the Union government.”

“Indeed,” Darracott repeated. She had already considered the possibilities, and this had been one of them. Whatever they called the leadership position, the military had a majority of votes on the Directorate, so they would still be running the government. All they needed was an administrator who doubled as a figurehead leader.

Foreign Minister Amesbury shifted in her seat. The heavyset black woman with graying hair took a sip of her coffee and looked up from her cup. “Well, say something dear. A tongue-tied leader won’t do at all.”

“I’m afraid that’s the problem, Minister. It seems to me that all you’re looking for is someone to, as you put it, ‘say something.’ You want someone to make speeches and manage the bureaucrats, which is what I’ve been doing for the past year and a half. You want me to be the face of the government and to carry out the policies made by the Directorate, but a true leader does more than administer policy. A true leader makes policy.”

Darracott gazed around the room. Nobody looked too pissed off—yet.
What the hell,
go for it woman—roll the hard six.
“Let’s face it, ladies and gentlemen: you need me to save the military’s partnership with the economically powerful elements of Union society. The fat cats are jittery after last week’s coup attempt. You need a popular figure to convince the civilian power elite that the military hasn’t completely screwed the pooch. That would be me, and I’m with you, but we have to do this my way.”

“You seem to know a lot about what we need,” said Amesbury in a sharp tone.

“I know more about what you need than you do. For instance, that vibe you’re picking up from the civilian power elite isn’t jitters at all—it’s a school of sharks, and they smell blood in the water.”

“Explain,” said Admiral Schooler, in the way most military people asked questions—by issuing an order.

“There are two groups vying for power in the Sarissan Union: the military elite and the corporate elite—us and them. We need to work with the multi-world corporations, but at the same time, we need to keep in mind that the citizens are our real source of power, not the corporations.

“In the People’s Rebellion, Victor Polanco used force to gain the upper hand and forge a partnership with the megacorps. However, after what happened seven days ago, they’re rethinking that partnership. They believe that right now the military is politically vulnerable, and they’re looking to take advantage of the situation.”

The room wasn’t as taken aback as she thought it might be. Maxon spoke up. “So what do you suggest?”

“A flanking maneuver,” said Darracott. “Give them something they’re not expecting to put them back on their heels.”

“Such as?” asked Carson.

“We bring back an elected leader, but we do it on our terms.” That caused a stir. “I propose an elected civilian leader who bridges the gap between the military and the people. An elected leader who is an advocate for the people and acts in concert with the military to check the power of the corporate elite. A leader that acts on the advice and with the consent of the Directorate. A Directorate, I might add, which will still be dominated by the military.”

There was quiet in the room as everyone let it sink in.

“You know, that could work,” said Maxon. “The Directorate would still make policy, under the leadership of an elected First Consul.”

“I like that,” put in Gil Trenner, turning toward Darracott. “Even though you weren’t elected, in a way you’d be the incumbent. One of the campaign angles could be that you’re already doing a great job as First Consul.”

Jon Schooler was plainly dubious. “But an election could be dangerous.”

“Not really,” countered Maxon. “If we stage a quick election, the opposition won’t have time to organize.” Polanco had clearly shared Darracott’s ideas on an election with his favorite admiral. Perhaps Maxon had anticipated Rennie’s pitch, because she was playing her role beautifully. “We could have an election within eight to ten weeks from now. I think it would work. Who could beat her?”

A moment passed as the group considered Maxon’s question.

“John McDaniel,” said Trade Minister Boucher. “If he came back from exile, he might be able to best her in a free and fair election.”

“He can’t,” Darracott pointed out. “He’s not a citizen. Victor stripped him of his Sarissan citizenship and banished him for life.”

“Does it really need to be a fair election?” pondered Hinojosa aloud. “We could always rig it.”

“No,” said Darracott emphatically. “Any hint of scandal would blow up in our faces. Besides, that’s the beauty of it—we don’t need to fix it.”

Nico Stavrianos moved to the bar to pour himself another glass of wine. “I have to say, First Consul Darracott is extremely popular on each of the Six Worlds.”