by P. R. Adams
Finally, he straightened and pulled his seat forward. “How’ve you been, Commander?”
“Busy. I had no idea there were so many media channels and shows.”
“Oh, you still have no idea. Every imaginable niche has to be serviced. Information must be packaged in a very specific way to satisfy the palate.”
“Whatever happened to taking in data and processing it yourself?”
The prime minister chortled. “People have become quite precious, I’m afraid. Data can’t simply be facts. They have to conform to expected realities, otherwise they trigger a feeling of cognitive dissonance.”
Benson sighed. She had never had patience for the coddling of those who couldn’t manage critical thinking. It was another rare intersection between her beliefs and her mother’s. “Well, it’s good to know I satisfied the needs of some of my fellow Republic citizens.”
“I do appreciate it. It can seem distasteful, I’m sure.”
“I talked with Miss Gallo, so I got the message that you’re busy.”
Zenawi frowned. “I see. Well, then let’s get to it.”
Benson’s butt cheeks tightened, her thighs tensed, and her back straightened. Just relax. “I would imagine at some point there’s going to be an inquiry—”
“Oh?” The prime minister steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “And why would we want that?”
“Your intelligence apparatus is a mess. You had how many resignations and retirements in the last month?”
“Every change of power brings about resignations and retirements.”
“And fills morgues and prisons?”
“We call that pruning. The SAID had grown a little too large and influential for its charter. This is a course correction.”
“What about the loss of the Marie Belle and Clarion and the damage done to the Kolkata?”
The old man shrugged. “War is always going to involve tragedies.”
“I thought the Dramoran demand for independence was rooted in all the losses their citizens suffered?”
“Sadly, the Dramoran call for independence is rooted in things that run much deeper than that. They have outsized egos that demand outsized influence over our nation.”
“Then you don’t intend to honor their status as an independent planet?”
“No.” Zenawi sighed. “We’ll offer them unpalatable but fair paths to achieve independence. We’ll also offer any military members the opportunity to change their citizenship status so that there’s no conflict of interest. Many of our other member planets would welcome even a Dramoran. That’s an unfortunate necessity after all the betrayals we suffered during the War of Separation.”
“What about the Navy? There are six ships fielded under Dramoran financing.”
“Their government was compensated years ago. They hold no claim to those ships beyond an imaginary link back to some planetary ‘spirit.’”
Benson wasn’t so sure things were that cut-and-dry, but the prime minister seemed confident in his position. “We can’t lose more ships.”
“No. The Navy has taken a beating.” The quiet confidence was gone from Zenawi. “I had never expected this.”
“The Azoren attack? Really?”
“Why should they have ever felt compelled to such deception?”
“You’ve spent how many years demanding a stronger military to contend with—how did you describe it? The Azoren Menace?”
He unfolded his hands. “Is this attack not vindication?”
“No, Mr. Prime Minister. Not with your record of agitating and causing conflict. This can’t be a surprise.”
“Commander, you make it sound as if this attack were my fault.”
“My mother spent most of her career fighting to draw out the moderate elements of Dramoran. She warned against the dangers of an intelligence community willing to call a meteorite a nuclear weapon. You fought her every step of the way.”
“Fair enough.” Zenawi’s lips ticked up in a wicked smile. “I see more of Sargota in you every time you speak.”
It was a backhanded compliment at best. “Despite her failings, she has positive traits.”
“She does. But this discussion is about you, Commander. The hero of the day. You could make things very noisy and uncomfortable here.”
“Maybe that’s what we need. Maybe people are too comfortable.”
“Do you really think so? Do you think the Republic needs to have every misdeed dragged out into the light? Hearings? Investigations? Trials?”
“Justice matters, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“You’re right. It does. But justice can be messy.”
“Messy as a firefight at the airfield?”
“We’ve purged the worst of the SAID, Commander. Would it really have been better to have that dragged out for months before the public while we attempt to iron out matters with the Azoren?”
Benson wrestled with that for a moment. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. Which leads to my question: What would it take to have you disappear while all of this gets resolved?”
“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“In politics, this is called seeking common ground.”
“It sounds like bribery to me.”
“There are times where the specificity of words matter, and there are times where it’s pedantry to quibble over particulars. Now, what about a position assisting me as a cabinet adviser? Very cushy. Very out of the limelight. You could help me craft the direction of our rebuilding Navy, and you could be around your mother while she recovers. Maybe you could convince her to seek out greener pastures. There’s good money on the speaking circuit for someone like her.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Of course not. What about a long vacation followed by a tour of the planets to whip up support for the military? Maybe you could visit Dramora and find support among the moderates your mother knows. People do love a military hero, especially with the threat of war so close.”
“I thought you were going to work to avoid war.”
“As much as I can, yes. But you know it’s coming. Now that it’s been shown that the DMZ has limited efficacy, the people are clamoring for more localized protection. We already have the Valor construction underway at the Tamos Shipyards, and there are a dozen more ships in the pipeline for the next two years.”
“I’d heard. Very convenient to have the budget amendment pushed through so quickly.”
“You should be happy something good has come from all the death.”
“I’m still mourning those deaths.”
“Understandably. This could help you memorialize those who died, if you’d like. Travel to some of the key strategic places, talk about the sacrifices of the brave, christen a ship here and there—it could be very good for the cause.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have my mother’s gift for speaking.”
“I see. You do have her noble desire to remain free of uncomfortable compromise, though.” He smiled, once again devilish and artful.
“I’m not a politician, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Might you have something in mind, then? Something reasonable?”
“How long before the Valor will be completed?”
He stiffened. “The Valor? You realize that’s a captain’s ship.”
“I do. You have the budget to rebuild the fleet and to grow out the military in general. That means you have a budget to clear up all the delayed promotions. And you had a lot of senior officers pass away and retire.”
The prime minister coughed softly. “I would imagine you could see captain by the time construction completes.”
“Good. And I’ll want to pick my own crew.”
He tensed, then nodded. “And in the interim?”
“I think I’ll be quite busy, Mr. Prime Minister—training, teaching, evaluating. We have a military to rebuild, don’t we?”
“We…do. Then you’re reconsidering my offer of an advisory positio
n on my cabinet?”
“Not officially. I’m thinking something more along the lines of a military title. Commander, Fleet Training. Or Commander, Force Integration.” She got to her feet and extended a hand. “You’re the prime minister—you choose. I’ll let you know when you get it right.”
He stood and after a delay accepted the shake. “You truly are like your mother, Commander.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The prime minister smiled. “I look forward to working with you.”
“I’m sure you do.”
32
Captain oddly felt the same as commander to Benson. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—a more noticeable heft to the insignia, maybe some sort of jolt of energy that drove off the lows of arguing and babysitting. Maybe she’d been thinking the rank would gift her with knowledge and wisdom. Certainly, many of the senior officers she’d met over the years acted as if they were running on divine guidance of some sort or another.
But it was just the same. She had to pull her panties over one leg at a time, same as before.
Which was a bit of a problem, because the pair she’d been planning to put on when Halliwell had come to her cabin were now pinned under his sleeping form, tangled up in the blanket he’d cocooned himself inside.
He’d been so innocent looking, all spit-and-polish, ready to join her in his dress uniform, the soft touch of a woodsy cologne riding his heat.
It had been too much for her, and they’d had time before heading to the bridge…
So off went the lights, then their clothes, and then…
She attempted to tug her panties free one more time, then gave up. There were more in her locker, all the same dark blue that made it so easy to lose them in the dark, all emblazoned with a gold “Captain” on the front and “Mizzenmast Here” on the back, with an arrow pointing down.
That had been Dietrich’s gift, a joke she’d actually come to smile at, even if it had given Halliwell thoughts.
She dressed quietly, steam rising from her soap-scrubbed flesh, listening to his breathing, remembering the way they’d almost struggled with each other while also struggling to keep relatively quiet. There was a surprising passion to him now, a flurry of emotions that he seemed to wrestle with as he came to terms with the years of silence that had contributed to so many deaths.
At least, that’s how he saw it. She felt almost normal when she compared herself to his battle with guilt.
She flipped on a small light and checked herself in the mirror, admiring the cut of the clothing. With the measurements from the machine Stiles had secured access to, there was finally comfort to be had, even in the dress uniform.
Benson texted a delayed message to the sleeping Marine: Please assemble your Marines in the hangar bay in two hours.
Your Marines. It was a step she’d worried Halliwell would balk at, something even greater than accepting another tour.
A commission. Months away for training. Greater risks if their relationship were uncovered.
But he’d signed on.
Same as Dietrich. Same as Grier and Kohn and Parkinson.
Who could pass on a chance to serve aboard the Valor? Who could walk away from the opportunity to prevent war?
Because that was what they were doing.
It was even in the task force charter, an acknowledgement that securing a peace treaty with the Gulmar Union would be enough to turn the Azoren away. How else to better attain peace than to show strength between two former enemies?
But they were enemies over an ideology that didn’t seem so different when compared to Azoren racial purity, Moskav rule through conquest, and the Khanate’s demands of a life in service to some nebulous god that couldn’t be rationally explained.
Still, Benson remembered the broken Gulmar who had attacked the Pandora. Uneducated, desperate, inhuman—they were the product of a system that rewarded only the elite.
What was it Sargota had said? “Allies are a reflection of each other, not a necessary convenience.”
It was easy to play the role of extremist, though. You were never wrong when you defined the universe through your own detailed and restrictive views.
The passageways of the Valor were bright, free of any hint of occupation, even with everyone aboard for a couple weeks now. Every aspect of the ship seemed a polar opposite to the Pandora, from the brightness and spaciousness to the modernized systems and lethality.
When she stepped through the hatch to the bridge to the call of “Captain is on the bridge,” another difference became immediately clear: the crew.
Lieutenants stood at attention at each station, sharply dressed and bright eyed. They were top of their classes or highly decorated or with academic honors—each one stood out from the run of the mill that had been aboard the ships she’d served on. In the years where the parliament had gone at the military with a meat cleaver instead of a scalpel, they had trimmed away many of the ambitious and bright so that only the best assignments drew the elite.
It would be years of rebuilding the Navy, but for now, the Valor was truly one of the best assignments, and she had been able to recruit the crew it deserved.
Benson hurried to the raised command station, replacing Commander Chopra, her XO. “At ease.”
Chopra clasped his hands in front of him. He was a few years younger than Benson, significantly shorter, and bald. He had the makings of an excellent officer—scores, recommendations, and real experience. She was already working with him to shed the weight he’d put on in his previous assignment, where stress and long hours had worn him down. Now he was alert and engaged.
And he was listening to her. Learning. And teaching. His experience aboard a larger ship was a treasure.
“Exiting the DMZ into Gulmar space in fifteen minutes, Captain.” He glanced up at her, smiling. “That’s when the fun begins, I guess.”
“I guess.” If you like diplomatic nonsense.
She tugged her cuffs and exhaled. Finding fault in her assignment was unacceptable, and it wasn’t even sincere. This was the ship she’d asked for, and it was the mission she valued. Nerves were what was bothering her now, wearing down her resolve and enthusiasm.
Was she good enough?
Did she earn the ship and assignment, or had she extorted them from the prime minister?
Did she agree with the plan to seek a peace with the Gulmar in order to present a united front against the Azoren?
Those were the things that kept her up at night, despite being ridiculous.
Of course she was good enough.
No, she hadn’t extorted anything; she’d asked for and received what she’d earned.
And the Gulmar Union presented the best alternative to going to war with the Azoren, which, despite the military buildup going on for the last several months, still seemed a very real possibility.
Chopra paced behind the helm station, checking in with each officer, then returned to Benson’s side, his back to the other bridge crew. He had a way of shifting from foot to foot when he was anxious.
That’s what he was doing.
Benson turned from the status report to cock an eyebrow at him. “Trouble?”
He rose up on his tiptoes, something he did out of habit to compensate for his height. “Did you read the Lighthouse?”
“Not yet. Should I?”
“I would.”
Benson’s heart raced. The Lighthouse was a weekly news summary transmitted to ships away on service. It had never mattered when she was aboard the Pandora, because they’d moved faster than news could keep up. But in the time since departing Tamos, things had been turning uglier and uglier back on Kedraal.
And the ugliness had a very real chance to affect the Valor’s mission.
She closed the status report and pulled up the Lighthouse, flipping through some of the pointless nonsense the media management staff considered valid news. She could run filters later to gather just the raw data summaries and make of those what sh
e would. But the more consequential updates—
There, a headline mentioning Sargota Benson. Now out of her casts and as feisty as ever, she was pushing for an emergency session to call a vote of confidence. According to polls, she was going to win that vote, and the coalition was going to come undone.
Another article hinted at problems for Zenawi, tying him to possible kickbacks from some of the larger defense manufacturing companies.
Yet another article dwelt on unrest within the military as the Navy absorbed outsized allocations for fleet repairs.
And then finally, another article highlighted investigations into some of the SAID agents who had disappeared during the civil unrest. One sharp-eyed journalist had apparently finally made the connection between the Patel family and the Dramoran independence movement, which—despite assurances from the prime minister—was still a problem.
She closed the file with a soft groan.
Chopra made a commiserating noise. “I think he’s done. Your mother’s party won enough seats to reshape the coalition so the moderates can take control again.”
“They won’t reverse course on something like this.”
“I can’t imagine so. We need the Gulmar nearly as bad as they need us. Still…”
“I know. It’s everything else we’ve secured that’s at risk.”
“No offense, but your mother has a real problem with the military.”
“With excesses. Unfortunately, she sees any military action as headed toward excess.”
“It’s a fair point sometimes.”
Chopra had served alongside Gillian Devry and she had recommended him. He shared her low opinion of some of the senior officers that had exacerbated the situation during the attack on the Home Defense Fleet. He had a particular dislike of Okoye because of the man’s quiet service under the incompetent Captain Finkel. Benson had seen the problem herself and recommended Okoye for a non-essential post where he couldn’t do significant harm. But Okoye was now in command of the Iwo Jima—a position that often led to a Senior Chief Staff post—so it seemed like the pipeline of incompetent officers was set to fully recharge. And he’d made it clear to Benson that he wasn’t one for forgiveness.
