by S. H. Jucha
However, the first candidate to qualify was Emerson. He easily collected the requisite number. Yet, his delight at seeing his name alone on the site’s candidate list was short lived. Within three days, another name appeared, and Emerson had to wonder: Who was Rod Fortis? He researched the name and discovered the man had nothing to recommend him for the commandant’s position.
Rod Fortis was an investor, who had made one too many bad investments. He was in danger of being ousted from his luxury cabin and faced the ignominy of moving inward to a retirement cabin. Then, he’d received a visit from a person who chose to remain anonymous.
“Good morning,” a man said, after Rod opened the door to his cabin. “I think I can help you with your financial difficulties. May we talk?”
Rod hesitated. The stranger disturbed him, but his lack of coin bothered him more. “Come in,” he finally said. After offering the man some water and a seat, he asked, “Who are you?”
“That will be revealed in good time,” the stranger said. “The first question for you is: Are you interested in having a patron, someone who will pay you a great deal of coin to do their bidding?”
“That depends on what they want me to do,” Rod replied. At which point the stranger rose, wished Rod a good morning, and made for the door.
“Wait,” Rod called out. “What’s this about?”
When Rod faced the stranger, who patiently waited for a decision, Rod chose to ignore his principles and opt for a comfortable life.
“Yes, I’m interested,” Rod said. “How much coin are we talking about?”
Dorelyn’s number two in security returned to his seat on the couch and laid out the monthly payments that would be available to Rod.
“And what do I have to do for these funds? And when do the payments start?” Rod inquired.
“You’re going to run for the commandant’s seat,” Nevis replied.
“But I’m not remotely qualified for the position,” Rod objected.
“That doesn’t matter. Your patron will advise you on the large and small issues until you grow into the job,” Nevis replied.
“I don’t think I can generate a thousand signatures,” Rod complained.
Nevis shook his head. “It will be done for you. Your responsibility is to campaign. Talking points will be provided for you.”
“And the coin?” Rod asked.
“We know your assets have dwindled considerably,” Nevis replied, “and we’re prepared to deposit fifty thousand today and ten thousand more each month until the election is held.”
“What if I don’t win?” Rod asked.
“At that point, our association will end,” Nevis replied.
Rod got up from his chair. It was early in the morning, but he poured himself a drink and slugged it down. Many pieces had fallen together, while the stranger and he talked. That they knew of his financial condition and were willing to part with a good amount of coin to buy his participation said the man represented a family head, maybe the council.
When Rod imagined selling off his furnishings, which he loved, to fit in a cabin a fifth the size of his present one, his decision was made. If he was broke, there would be no more visits to the sumptuous cantinas, no more hobnobbing with other investors. Then he imagined himself wearing the commandant’s uniform and the respect he’d receive.
Rod turned around to face the stranger, and said, “Done.”
Nevis smiled. It appeared genuine, but then again, he was practiced at deception. He pulled out his comm unit, and with a few quick taps, he announced, “You’re now fifty thousand in coin richer, Rod Fortis.”
Then Nevis handed Rod a second comm unit. “We’ll be in touch exclusively via this device. You will not have any further conversation with me, and you will never have communication with your patron. All exchanges with us will be through messages. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Rod replied. “And if I win the election, what about the payments?”
“They’ll continue on a monthly basis. The amount will remain ten thousand. However, if certain goals, which are judged to be important, are met, there will be bonuses. Good morning,” Nevis said, and casually exited the cabin.
Rod’s mouth felt dry. He poured himself another drink, but that didn’t seem to help. “What have I done?” he muttered. Then he snatched up his comm unit and checked his primary account. It no longer showed the paltry two thousand in coin. It was a hefty fifty-two thousand, and much of the angst he’d been feeling disappeared. “What you’ve done,” he said, answering his own question, “is chosen to be rich rather than poor.”
Nevis waited until he was in a secure location. Then he made a brief call to his security chief. “It’s done,” was all he said before he ended the connection.
* * * *
It was another meeting, before hours, at the Miner’s Pit. Harbour, Jessie, Liam, Devon, and Aurelia sat around the table sipping on fruit drinks and greens.
“Rod Fortis,” Liam said. “An odd choice.”
“What do you know about him?” Jessie asked.
“A man born to privileged parents. He inherited his wealth, and then he squandered it over time,” Liam summarized.
“Why does this qualify him for the commandant’s position?” Aurelia asked.
“It doesn’t,” Devon replied. “But he generated the requisite number of signatures in a short period of time.”
“The families,” Aurelia concluded.
“Undoubtedly,” Liam said.
“Dorelyn is covering the council’s position,” Jessie surmised. “She’s backing two candidates.”
“Are we sure that she’s supporting Emerson?” Harbour asked.
“If I were her, I would,” Jessie replied.
“So we have two serious competitors and two individuals, who will absorb a few percent of the votes,” Harbour stated. “You still with us, Liam?” she asked.
“I must admit that the one thing that’s convinced me to be a candidate in this election is the slate of competitors,” Liam said. “I can do a better job for topsiders with my eyes closed than any one of these individuals.”
Liam’s audience chuckled at his indignant attitude toward his competition.
“I do have one thing that I wish to discuss,” Liam said to Harbour. “That would be the companions that you’re proposing to escort me.” He tipped his head in Devon and Aurelia’s direction to emphasize his subject.
When Harbour lifted an eyebrow in invitation, Liam said, “I don’t know how effective they might be in protecting me, and I don’t want anyone hurt if they’re called on to do so.”
“Your concerns are noted,” Harbour said, “but I don’t want to waste my time gathering support for a candidate who can’t make it to the election. So, if you’re running and you want our help, then you’ll accept their protection.”
Liam gazed at the faces of his audience.
“He’s unconvinced,” Aurelia said, focusing her attention on Liam.
“Stop that,” Liam said indignantly.
“Get used to it,” Jessie shot back. “Her powers might be the difference between Devon and you surviving an attack or getting killed.”
“Let me remind you about the plumerase attack on Olivia, Pete, and Drigtik,” Harbour said. “If the families were prepared to take that risk to delay the intravertor’s deployment, what would they do to keep control of the station by owning the commandant?”
“I want to add another note to Harbour’s remarks, Liam,” Jessie said. “In general, Pyreans don’t have any concept of what’s entailed in fighting for their lives. Their experience with violence is minimal. During our exploration, Devon and Aurelia encountered a level of desperation in trying to survive that you can’t imagine. If there is an attack, I expect you’ll employ your security training.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Liam interrupted.
“Nothing. That’s entirely appropriate,” Jessie replied. “However, it might not be aggressive enough to save you.” He
swung a finger at Devon and Aurelia, and added, “They’ll provide the appropriate response.”
“I take it that all immediate concerns are satisfied,” Harbour asked, focusing on Liam.
“Let’s do it,” Liam replied, with a resigned sigh.
By the end of the day, Liam’s name appeared on the candidate list. The race for the commandant’s position now numbered five, and it would remain that way until the election. Voting could take place up to five days before the election to allow spacers to register their choices, as far away as the inner belt. However, their votes wouldn’t be revealed until the poll site closed.
* * * *
“What’s the latest?” Dorelyn asked Idrian and Rufus, who sat in her office.
Idrian prefaced his remarks with, “These are the conjectures of my security forces, who are embedded on station, and the reports of my informants. Effectively, we can discount two of the candidates.”
“Who’s backing those two idiots?” Dorelyn asked.
“One is supported by a fringe group of xenophobes. They want nothing to do with aliens,” Rufus replied. “My sources say the other is a hardliner against the domes, but his positions are considered too extreme.”
“Continue,” Dorelyn directed Idrian.
“Sentiments are about even for Strattleford and Fortis,” Idrian said.
When Dorelyn’s eyebrows furrowed, Rufus interjected, “My sources concur.”
“Unfortunately, mine do too,” Dorelyn added. “Odd, isn’t it? The incumbent has this extensive history, and a new candidate with no experience runs even with him.”
“It’s the pressure we applied to Emerson to withhold the funds for the intravertors,” Idrian replied. “My sources report that topsiders, especially stationers, are angry about that.”
“Is there any indication of the division of topsider sentiments for our three front runners?” Dorelyn asked.
“About thirty percent for each of our men, and about forty percent for Finian,” Idrian replied.
“What I don’t understand is why Finian isn’t running away with this?” Rufus asked.
“I’ve had my people digging into him,” Dorelyn commented. “Unfortunately, they’ve not found anything embarrassing, which I find unbelievable. The prevailing attitude of Finian’s nonsupporters is they think he might be Emerson’s man. In their minds, they might be trading like for like, if he was elected.”
“I would have thought Finian’s arrest of Andropov and rescuing the empaths would have counted for more,” Rufus countered.
“Actually, I would have thought so too,” Dorelyn said. She sat quietly considering the reports. “Essentially, we’ve an even race,” she finally said.
“Have you investigated the possibility that Finian could be bought?” Idrian asked.
Dorelyn stared at Idrian and Rufus, deciding whether to share what she knew. It wasn’t that she trusted them. It was whether informing them was in her interest or not. She decided it was.
“Despite the easily obtained information that it’s the investors, captains, and general populace who are behind Finian, it’s Harbour who’s supporting him,” Dorelyn said. She carefully watched her associates to judge their reactions. Rufus showed surprise, but it seemed artificial, and Idrian hadn’t indicated much more than raised eyebrows. Her conclusion was that both of them knew and hadn’t shared, but this wasn’t unexpected.
“Then we can be sure that Finian will never be suborned,” Idrian commented.
Dorelyn nodded, but Rufus frowned. In Rufus’ world, everyone could be bought. It was only a matter of finding their weakness.
“Empath,” Idrian said, tapping his temple.
“Oh, right,” Rufus admitted, peeved that he’d revealed his failure to consider what Harbour’s support meant.
“Do you think Harbour will come out in favor of Finian, at some time?” Idrian asked. “And if she does, will it help or hurt Finian?”
“I think Harbour is asking herself those very questions,” Dorelyn said, smiling at the thought that Harbour was faced with the same difficult decisions that occupied her.
“If Harbour is behind Finian, so is Cinders, and that means Finian has the spacer vote,” Rufus said.
“We never had them,” Dorelyn remarked, “but they’re a small percentage of topsiders. No, our focus isn’t going to be on impugning or suborning Finian. If we try to besmirch him, that will offer Harbour the perfect opportunity to announce her support.”
“If we combine the numbers for Strattleford and Fortis, we’d have sixty percent of the vote,” Idrian proposed.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Dorelyn replied. “What concerns me is whether the stationers see the remaining two men in the same light. My suspicions are that they don’t. If we cut one of our candidates loose, we run the risk of dividing those supporters in unequal proportions between the final two men to our detriment. In that case, we won’t have achieved our goal.”
When the conversation appeared to conclude, Idrian pulled out his comm device. “There is something I think you should see,” he said, setting up his device to play a recording. “This is Tracy Shaver, the explorer who lost her brother. Yesterday, she was in a cantina, and she got angry at one of our paid Emerson supporters. Listen to her response.”
The replay started, and Dorelyn saw a young girl, anger etched across her face, say, “My brother, a spacer and recent recipient of Jatouche medical treatment, died to earn the rewards that we’re receiving. And the commandant, in his wonderful wisdom, is withholding the funds to put those gifts to work. But here you stand, spouting the commandant’s wise governance of our future. I say Strattleford doesn’t serve the people of Pyre, he’s serving himself. In which case, I say we need a different commandant.”
Idrian let the recording continue, and Dorelyn could hear the enthusiastic applause that Tracy’s tirade generated.
“That cantina is frequented by retired spacers and stationers,” Idrian commented.
“Was this recorded by one of our people?” Dorelyn asked.
“I wish it was, but no. It was taken by a bystander, and it’s making the rounds,” Idrian said, closing the comm unit and sitting back.
Dorelyn shook her head and enumerated Tracy’s assets as a spokesperson. “Young girl, attractive, passionate, an explorer, and a dead brother, and she’s making a compelling argument.”
When Dorelyn dismissed her associates, she called for Sika.
“I think our competition might win unless we eliminate their candidate,” Dorelyn said. “What progress have you made in your plans?”
“None,” Sika admitted. She sat on the edge of her seat and delivered her pronouncement in the same tone of voice she’d use to request a glass of water.
Dorelyn prided herself on having mastered control of her anger, which was legendary when she was much younger. Now, she invariably employed subtler means to communicate to her associates that her enmity was brewing. Yet, here sat the one person to whom she hoped she never communicated any kind of emotional frustration — Sika.
Sika had come to Dorelyn’s attention at the time she had inherited control of the family. The girl, only a late teenager, had been caught eliminating one of Dorelyn’s security officers.
“Why did you kill him?” Dorelyn had asked. She was curious as to why the girl would do such a stupid thing. She had to know that she couldn’t get away with the murder.
“He was rude to me, and then he hit me. No one hits me,” Sika said.
“And if I ordered these two men to kill you and dump your body outside the dome?” Dorelyn proposed.
Sika carefully sized up the officers on either side of her. They severely outmassed the slender girl.
“I would kill one and hurt or kill the other before he could take me,” Sika stated quietly.
“How?” Dorelyn demanded, but Sika stared at her, as if she’d never asked the question. Then Dorelyn said, “Show me.”
The teenager, who wasn’t restrained, leapt o
nto the man to her right and bit deeply into his neck, tearing out an artery. She threw herself to the opposite side of the security officer, as he screamed and grabbed at his bleeding throat. As Sika’s feet hit the floor, she pushed the man she’d attacked into his fellow officer. In the mêlée, she pulled the shock stick from the first man’s belt.
The second officer had his hands full fending off his partner to get to the girl. In those split seconds, Sika came for him. She jammed the shock stick under his chin and held it there, burning it into the man’s flesh while she drove him to the floor. During the entire time, Sika’s face hadn’t shown any emotion. When the two officers were down, dead or dying, she spit out the piece of flesh in her mouth onto Dorelyn’s expensive rug. Then she stood there, blood dripping down her chin and the shock stick in her hand.
“Would you like to work for me?” Dorelyn had asked.
“Does it include food and a bed?” Sika asked.
“That and more,” Dorelyn replied.
“Then okay. Can I eat now? I’m hungry,” Sika said.
“Let’s get you cleaned up first,” Dorelyn replied, leading the girl toward her office’s facilities.
That encounter was nearly twenty years ago. Sika’s social skills had developed to a point where she could blend into any environment, even though every gesture was fabricated, and her techniques, which she employed against Dorelyn’s enemies, had become flawless.
“Elaborate,” Dorelyn requested of Sika’s one-word answer.
“Major Liam Finian presents limited exposure,” Sika explained. “He delegates well, which means that the vast majority of his time is spent at security administration or with his family. The opportunity for a catastrophic accident, which would divert suspicion from us, is limited.”
“What is the opportunity to entice him out of his comfort zones?” Dorelyn asked.
