***
Bridge Yeager never missed an intelligence briefing. His attention was his most valuable resource. Attending in person told the analysts their work was valued. That was the best reward he had to give them. His attendance also reminded the Navy and Security that they should value the analyses produced.
The hard part was not falling asleep every time a statistic was repeated with slight variations from last week’s briefing. The data was important. But he wanted the results of it all merged into a prediction, not the individual bits.
Fortunately, his personal physician was willing to issue a mild stimulant to get Yeager through these.
This week’s briefer shared a lively bit of news. A Corwynti city was set on fire during a conflict among the natives. Barbarian troops suppressed the conflict. More proof the Fierans were conquerors, not partners.
The rest of the briefing was ruined by more boring statistics.
On the agenda the last item was “New Corwynti Custom.” When that flashed up on the display the briefer’s assurance fell away. He’d rattled off six-digit numbers earlier without consulting his notes. Now he was staring at his tablet to keep from looking at his audience.
When he did look up it wasn’t at the Navy officers or civilian officials. His eyes went straight to Yeager.
“This item is something we’ve held off in briefing. We wanted to confirm the reports before sharing them. We also wanted to ensure this wasn’t a brief fad that would fade away.”
The man was not happy to be talking about this, Yeager concluded.
“It is now a custom, or it could be called a fashion, to conclude social gatherings with a toast. This toast has a specific phrasing.”
He took a deep breath. Gathering his nerve?
“The phrase is, ‘To Hell with Bridge Yeager.’”
The briefer fell silent. The rest of the room was silent too, without the usual background noise of intelligencers and economists having whispered arguments over the interpretation of some number.
Yeager called out, “What’s ‘hell’?”
He normally didn’t ask questions in the briefings, but this seemed a time for an exception.
“Your Excellency, ‘hell’ means they wish you to be tortured by a deity.”
The briefer was breathing easier. Perhaps he’d been worried Yeager would avenge the insult on the messenger? There were governors who did that.
“I see. Thank you, please continue.”
A social network diagram appeared on the screen. “The custom began in the Fieran military. It quickly spread into the civilian cultures of both worlds. The claimed reason for targeting Governor Yeager is his order to destroy Fieran cities. The spread into Corwynti culture seems driven by a mix of general rebelliousness and a desire to curry favor with the invaders. There’s no indication of it being coupled to any action. This concludes this week’s briefing.”
Yeager stood up. He projected his voice to ensure everyone in the room heard him. “Thank you for a splendid briefing. I’m sure everyone’s wondering about my opinion of the last item.”
He smiled, turning side to side so everyone could see it. “The worst thing for a governor is to be a faceless person, passing taxes up to the Monitor and enforcing the Censor’s orders down. Nobody noticing when we’re replaced.”
A dramatic pause. “Now I see a whole world with my name on their lips. That’s better proof I’m doing a good job than anything the Monitor could say in a report on me.”
Yeager met the briefer’s eye. “Thank you for sharing that information. Please keep sharing things like that. And all of you, think of how this hate of me individually can be used against the barbarians and rebels.”
***
Welly looked over the park on the roof of the ardal. There was a good turnout. Hundreds of Clan Goch’s neighbors had come out for the promise of free food and beer. Even the clans least enthusiastic sent one or two members to see what it was about.
More were turning up as word spread that kegs of Stormbird stout were being served. She’d sweet-talked Clan Plassey into donating the beer as a contribution to the campaign. Vychan could deal with how to repay the favor after the election.
When the crowd reached a thousand, about a third of the ardal’s population, Welly gave the signal for the main event.
A backdrop of ribbons in Clan Goch’s colors swung into place behind the sturdy crate acting as a speaker’s platform. A dozen youngsters ushered people to the side to clear an aisle for the news crew to watch. On the outskirts Elders and other older members of the clan urged guests toward the center. The matrons tending the kegs directed those waiting for beer to the platform.
On cue, Vychan burst through the ribbons. He stood on the center of the crate, smiling at the audience. “Good evening, my friends and neighbors! Thank you all for coming.”
He paused for the reflexive “You’re welcomes” and “No bothers.”
“I’m Vychan of Clan Goch. Many of your clans have worked with me on deals I’ve arranged. Many of you fought with me when we raised the militia to throw the Censorate out of the Bundoran.”
A rumble of approval came from the crowd.
“The past two months have seen many changes. There’s another change coming. The Provisional Government is sponsoring an election for mayor of our city.” Vychan paused. “I’ve decided to be a candidate for mayor.”
The crowd sounded more shocked than impressed to Welly’s ear. The Clan Goch members spread through the crowd started clapping. More joined in the applause, not everyone, but enough to sound impressive on the news.
“I won’t keep you away from the beer long. I promise to publish my plans for what I’ll do as mayor. I want to fix the damage to the city and help those who most need it. I look forward to meeting my rival candidates. When you’ve compared me to them, I hope you’ll give your vote to me. Thank you.”
Vychan stepped off the crate to a louder burst of applause.
“That went well,” said Emlyn to Welly.
“So far.” Welly was trying to check on everything happening now. Beer was being served again. Ceri Harri and her news crew were interviewing Vychan. The ushers formed a ring around them to prevent interruptions. All on plan.
Emlyn’s gaze followed hers. “I hope this is worth it. It’s a big chunk of the clan savings.”
“Spending enough to win is a better investment than spending a little and losing,” said Welly.
***
“Hi, Cai. Close the door, please,” said Marcus.
Cai obediently shut it and headed toward the half of the office converted from Ombudsman to Militia duties. He was wearing his militia vest with Flight Leader stripes on the shoulders and the toothy maw of a megashark on the back.
Marcus waved at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Cai turned away from the comfy circle of chairs where they normally talked. As soon as he sat down, he launched into an update on fighter repairs. Many clans saved money by buying their fighter as parts and assembling it themselves. Not all were skilled enough to do it right. Cai was finding the problems and redesigning parts, when practical, to keep them from happening again.
“Good,” said Marcus when the engineer wrapped up. “You’re solving that even faster than I’d hoped.”
Cai beamed.
“There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”
The engineer’s face fell. “It’s the pilot training, isn’t it? They’re being polite to me, but I can tell they don’t think I’m good enough.”
“With practice, the instructors think you could be a competent civilian pilot. But flying a fighter takes more than that.”
“I know. I’d just hoped—well.” He sighed. “I can command just as well from the mechanic seat.”
“That’s the other thing I need to talk to you about.” Marcus cursed himself for being clumsy, but he couldn’t delay this anymore.
“What?”
“I’ve reviewed you
r performance in the command simulations. One instructor described you as analyzing every tactical situation from first principles to create a plan.”
Cai nodded. “Of course. If I just implement an off the shelf formation we could fall into a trap.”
“The instructors found some of your plans inspired. They want to test them in the wargames we’ve scheduled. But in the simulations, by the time you create a plan and brief it to your flight, the enemy has finished their attack.”
The other man’s gaze broke away, traveling over the maps of the Corwynt system and local hyperspace. “I’m not good at war yet. I’m still learning. We all are.”
This was going to hurt. Marcus said it anyway. It was his duty. “Others are learning faster. They’re winning simulated engagements. The instructors are unanimous that you do not have the mental reflexes to command in combat. As Senior Wing Leader, I am endorsing this recommendation.”
Cai’s face went slack with shock. He stared straight at Marcus, saying nothing.
Marcus let the silence continue. This was a hard blow to Cai. He deserved a chance to regain his balance.
As Cai sat there, his face working with conflicting thoughts, Marcus felt better about his decision. If it took the guy this long to respond to a demotion, how fast would he react to an ambush?
Cai broke the silence with, “I created these fighters.”
“Yes, you did,” Marcus agreed.
“The naval militia wouldn’t exist without me.”
“That’s true.”
“Now you want to throw me out?”
Marcus took a pair of two-star epaulettes out of a drawer, placing them on the desk before Cai. “No. I want you to be the chief engineer for the whole militia. It’s a full-time job. You’re run ragged doing that and pilot and command training. I want you to focus on what you’re best at.”
The other man frowned, almost snarled. “I want to fight for my planet. That—is paperwork.”
“It is. It takes a lot of paperwork—maintenance, supply, training—to let men and women fight. It has to be done or the fighters lose their battles.”
“I deserve to be a leader, for all I’ve done.”
Marcus was glad he’d taken time for a mental rehearsal of this meeting. “Yes, you do. That’s why I waited so long to make this decision. I wanted you to have every chance to show you could do the job, if you could.”
He leaned forward. “The crews of your flight deserve a leader who can make combat decisions instantly. I’ve been there. When there’s missiles or bullets flying there’s no time to think. Just to do.
“And that leader deserves to have the full training. Not to be shoved in at the last moment.”
“I want to fight.” That was a last bit of obstinacy.
“You could be the mechanic for Clan Iwan’s fighter, under the command of your cousin Osian. He’s doing well in pilot training.”
“Osian is a piece of shit. He bullied all of us when we were teens. He grew out of it, but he’s still a piece of shit.”
“The aggressiveness needed for a combat officer can be a negative trait in other situations.”
Cai went quiet again. Not as long as the first time, but still long enough that Marcus had to keep himself from talking.
“Drown it.” Cai stuck the staff officer epaulettes into a pocket. “May I keep the flight shark on my vest?”
“I’m fine with it. But you’re going to have a bunch of inspectors and maintainers working for you. You might want something for them all to wear.”
“I’ll think about it. Right now, I should give the news to Osian.”
“Cai?”
The engineer paused halfway to the door and looked back.
“Thank you for doing what we need of you.”
***
Marcus said, “Father Murphy, welcome, come in. I’m sorry, I meant, Vitricius Murphy.”
“Father is fine, thank you. Don’t let them in.” Murphy waved away a pair of priests importuning him.
The priests made as if to follow him in until their eyes met Marcus’ military glare. The door closed without obstruction.
“We made plenty extra,” said Wynny. “We can seat one or two more if you want.”
“Oh, my children, I don’t want. I am thankful beyond words for the escape you’ve given me.”
When the Landrys heard Murphy would be visiting Corwynt, they’d invited him to dinner. That was before the announcement that Murphy was coming not as a simple priest but as the formal leader of all Christians on Fiera.
Marcus introduced Murphy to Niko, then left them playing together as he finished setting the table.
Wynny had dealt with the uncertainty over how many guests they’d have by making iris stew, a thoroughly cooked mix of fish and vegetables, with no flowers, irises or otherwise.
Conversation concentrated on how Corwynt was adapting to its hurricane of change at first. Marcus finally gave into his curiosity. “I was surprised to hear of your election. I didn’t think you had that kind of ambition.”
Murphy grimaced. “I don’t. That’s why they picked me. I’m a placeholder until we appoint a real pope. Since I don’t have a powerbase of my own, none of the . . . aspirants fear my holding the office against them.”
“I thought you were the pope,” said Wynny.
“I’m pope-regent, my dear. Hence the title ‘vitricius,’ stepfather, instead of papa, father.”
“So when will there be a pope?” asked Marcus. He offered Niko a spoonful of mashed veggies. About half of it went down.
“If I get my way, when we return to the Vatican on Earth.”
“That . . . could be a while. We don’t even know how to reach Earth. Our hyperspace charts for it are a thousand years out of date. The shoals there could be nothing like what they were then.”
Wynny shivered. “Is it still going to be there?”
Murphy said, “My hope is that the destruction of Earth was only some fiction the Censor created for intimidation. Failing that, we shall build a new Vatican on the site of the old.”
“Do you really think we can push the Censorate that far back?” asked Marcus. “I’m hoping they’ll settle for leaving us alone here.”
The priest grinned. “The people are ready to overthrow the Censor. They just need the tools and organization. Look at how people turned against them on Corwynt.” He dipped a spoon into his bowl.
Marcus and Wynny shared a look across the table. Neither shared Murphy’s optimism.
Murphy noticed the lack of enthusiasm. “I thought you had lots of people joining your militia?”
“Oh, we do,” said Marcus. “The only shortage is building enough fighters for everyone to fly on. Some clans have been sharing fighters so they can get some experience while they wait for their own to be built.”
“Are they keeping you busy?”
Wynny rolled her eyes at the question.
“You could say that. Total amateurs becoming officers because their clan elders paid their way in. Jockeying for senior posts. Clans refusing to accept someone being booted for incompetence. When we started out there were fun and easy decisions like setting the uniform rules. All of those are delegated now. I only deal with stuff that doesn’t have any good answer.”
Murphy chuckled. “I believe that’s what my post will turn into as we formalize the Church. Has the militia turned into a full time job for you?”
“No, I’m still the Provisional Government’s ombudsman.”
“Better not be running off to another clan,” muttered Wynny.
Marcus continued, “I’ve had to hire some staffers to assist me in handling all the complaints. Locals who understand how the Provisional Government works.”
The priest looked between them. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring Wynny into the office.”
“Oh, I tried. The Concord’s regulations on nepotism are . . . well, there’s no explaining them to a Corwynti.”
“I understand them,” said Wynny. “I
just think your government is being stupid.”
Marcus gave her a grin. “Can’t argue with that. The assistants handle all the cases where we can say yes or the petitioner accepts no for an answer. Now I only get the ones that are messy. And it’s my job to save the Governor from dealing with them so I can’t pass the buck. It’s like having a slimy writhing eel dropped on my desk whenever one of them gives me a case.”
“What do they petition about?”
“Money, in assorted variations. Real estate. Clan law disputes, we try to stay out of those. The religious arguments have settled down, praise be.”
“That brings me to some business I have with you two. What do you think of Father Dafydd?”
“He’s a good man,” said Wynny. “He supported me while I was alone. He kept congregations from fighting over the Harold question.” She’d switched to offering Niko fruit puree, trying to make him eat more neatly in front of their guest.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’m thinking of appointing him the first Corwynti bishop.”
That pleased both Landrys. Marcus had one question. “How do you stand on the Harold question?”
“After much prayerful contemplation, I’ve decided that if they’re going to take a name in vain, better it be that one.”
***
Bridge Yeager frowned at the butler. He wasn’t bearing the next course, which meant an interruption to one of his precious private moments with his wife.
“Your Excellency, Admiral Pinoy has just arrived onworld,” said the butler.
That was worth an interruption. “Send him in at once.”
Yeager turned to his wife. “I’m sorry, my dear.” Dulcinea’s smile forgave him.
Pinoy came in, alive instead of being decapitated for his part in the defeat. Relief filled Yeager’s heart. He didn’t like Pinoy, but the man was competent and a known quantity. He’d been in fear of some politically connected fool being placed in charge of the fleet.
“What’s the news?” Yeager demanded as he clasped Pinoy’s hands in his.
A soft “Ahem” came from beside him. Dulcinea had also left her seat to meet the admiral.
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