Rath's Trial (The Janus Group Book 4)

by Piers Platt

  “A confession would be nice,” she said.

  Mishel laughed.

  “… failing that,” she continued, “I’d like to offer a deal to your client. I’m assuming you’ll be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea?”

  “Absolutely,” Mishel agreed.

  “Naturally. And once we convict your client, I’ll be arguing for the death penalty,” Toira said. “But I’m willing to consider life without parole, contingent upon a ‘guilty’ plea, giving up the identity of his accomplices, and his cooperation in testifying against those accomplices.”

  “That’s an absurdly lopsided deal, but for argument’s sake, which alleged accomplices are these?” Mishel asked.

  Toira looked over at Rath. “The janitor he hired to install a software worm in Suspensys’ system, the hacker who coded the worm and spearheaded the cyber-attack, and the pilots who flew the getaway spacecraft.”

  Mishel looked at Rath, who shook his head. “No.”

  “I’m also willing to honor the same deal for any other Guild employees who haven’t been apprehended by law enforcement, even if they didn’t have a role in the attacks on Suspensys. The female guildsman known as ‘339,’ for instance. Turn her in and we can negotiate.”

  “No,” Rath repeated. “Absolutely not.”

  Mishel put his hand on Rath’s arm. “Given my client had nothing to do with those attacks, it’s impossible for him to name any of the people you listed.”

  “So be it,” Toira said, sighing. She stood up. “The offer remains on the table, if you change your mind. And you should know that I have no need of a confession: your client already confessed to his former lover, and I’ll be calling her as a witness.”

  11

  “Enjoy your visit to Anchorpoint, and thank you again for stopping in to see me,” Senator Foss said.

  He shook his visitor’s hand a final time, and the man left, the door to Foss’ office sliding closed. The smile disappeared from Foss’ face, and he strode over to his desk, sitting and turning to face the viewscreen.

  “Call Patriarch Rewynn,” he barked.

  The call connected several seconds later, and Foss saw Rewynn sitting in his own office, back on Scapa.

  “What in the name of Simi Quorn happened?” Foss asked.

  Rewynn sighed. “He’s been arrested.”

  “I know that, Thomis! It’s all over the news, for God’s sake. We were hoping to avoid publicity, not generate it.”

  Rewynn frowned. “None of that publicity is directed at the Church. Or you.”

  “Not yet,” Foss pointed out. “But now Contractor 621 knows he has an enemy on Scapa.”

  “621 is on trial for murder. I imagine that’s enough to preoccupy him for the time being.”

  “He should be dead,” Foss complained.

  “There was a police officer dining at the restaurant,” Rewynn explained, with a shrug. “It was unfortunate timing.”

  “Your men tried to kidnap him in front of a few dozen witnesses. I’m not sure we can simply blame unfortunate timing.”

  Aggravated, Rewynn pointed a finger at the screen. “Gaspar, the Church has many faithful adherents, but those who are willing to kill for us are not … of the highest caliber, shall we say. I sent four men to capture one man, and apparently they were not up to the task. But regardless of what happened, Scapa’s legal system moves quickly, as you know. I’m told there is a great deal of evidence against 621, and he’s facing the death sentence. So he’ll likely be dead within a month.”

  “That’s enough time for him to start poking around,” Foss pointed out.

  “From inside prison?” Rewynn asked, raising an eyebrow. “I doubt he’ll get very far.”

  “He has money, and powerful friends,” Foss persisted. “And the trial’s outcome is no foregone conclusion. Inaction on our part could be a grave mistake.” He eyed the old priest. “We need this problem to go away, once and for all.”

  Rewynn sighed. “I would like nothing more than to be able to forget about this.”

  “Are any of the faithful in the prison with him?”

  “Perhaps,” Rewynn agreed. “I can inquire. And if they’re not, then we can have some incarcerated.”

  * * *

  The doors swung open and Foss entered, surveying the room with an appraising eye. The Senate’s private lounge was designed to look like an old law library, with leather-bound tomes lining the shelves, and plush Persian carpets covering parquet wood floors. Foss wondered if the books were real – remnants of a bygone era, imported to add authenticity – or simply fake mockups. He decided the latter was probably true, in keeping with the Senate’s penchant for falsehoods. Then he spotted Senator Tsokel leaning against one of the lounge’s bars, chatting with a bartender. Foss made his way over.

  “Senator,” he said. “How are you this evening?”

  The head of the Intelligence Committee turned in surprise. “Foss? I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Foss told him, smiling.

  “Apparently so,” Tsokel said. “Can I buy you a drink, or is that … frowned on?”

  “The Church prohibits the consumption of alcohol,” Foss agreed.

  “Soft drink? Water?”

  “No, thank you,” Foss demurred.

  “I doubt they have any of your ‘lifewater,’ but we can ask,” Tsokel joked.

  Foss forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Were you looking for me?” Tsokel asked.

  “I was, actually,” Foss admitted. “I was hoping for some advice, from someone who has mentored so many of us more junior senators.”

  “Bah,” Tsokel scoffed. “You’ll do it, too, once you’ve been here long enough. It’s only fair to pay it forward. What’s troubling you?”

  “I’d like to serve the government in a more extensive capacity,” Foss told him. “There’s so much work to be done, to rid our galaxy of corruption. But I only have one vote.”

  Tsokel frowned. “I know of a handful of bills that are being drafted, and other projects in play right now … if you’re looking for opportunities to lend a hand, volunteer your time, I can put the word out.”

  “No, no,” Foss shook his head. “I was hoping you could help me understand the mechanics of nomination to the committees.”

  “Ah,” Tsokel said, his expression souring. “I see. Well the general mechanism is fairly simple, as you probably know. When a member decides he’d like to step down from a committee, he nominates a replacement. On paper, committee heads must approve all nominations, but it’s a rubber stamp – no one’s ever been denied, to my knowledge.”

  “That’s certainly how it has been described to me in the past,” Foss agreed. “But how does one go about securing a nomination? Surely a quid pro quo comes into play …?”

  Tsokel took a sip from his wine glass. “Not as a rule. Generally the member stepping down picks a replacement – usually from his or her own party – based solely on that new senator’s ability to serve in the role.”

  Foss cocked an eyebrow. “Deals are never struck?”

  “Perhaps they are,” Tsokel said, sighing. “I’ve never heard of one, but in this day and age … perhaps.” He studied the other man for a minute, and then shook his head. “Senator, if you’re hoping to wrangle a nomination, the more polarizing aspects of your party will likely prevent you. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. A nomination from another senator would be viewed as tacit approval of the NeoPuritan Church and its activities.”

  “And you think that no one should approve of our beliefs?” Foss asked, raising his voice.

  Tsokel held up a hand. “Listen, I have no wish to criticize your church, Senator. But you must know that its values clash heavily with those of the established political parties. You’re conservative in the extreme, no offense meant.”

  Foss appeared to be ready to debate the point, but then decided against it. “Getting back to the committees – members ar
e sometimes encouraged to step down, no?

  “From time to time, it has happened,” Tsokel allowed.

  “Are you happy with the constitution of the Intelligence Committee?” Foss asked.

  “Quite happy, thank you.”

  Foss changed the subject, abruptly. “That was a close call on your last re-election – a narrow margin of victory. It’s become harder and harder to raise campaign funds these days, no?”

  “It certainly has,” Tsokel agreed, warily.

  “If myself or a member of my party were to be nominated for the Intelligence Committee, would you approve our membership?”

  “I would have to think about it,” Tsokel said, carefully.

  “Because of our politics?” Foss asked.

  “Partially. And your credentials, frankly. The Intel Committee requires discretion and experience. None of the members of your party have much of the latter, as of yet.”

  Foss glanced casually around the room. “If you were to approve a potential nomination, I’m sure you could count on generous church donations for your next campaign, Senator,” Foss observed. “More than enough to ensure an easy victory. Especially if you were to facilitate us gaining that role by encouraging another committee member to step down.”

  Tsokel’s face hardened. “Your offer is noted. But fortunately, I believe my committee will be fully staffed for some time.”

  “As you say,” Foss agreed.

  “Foss!”

  The two senators turned to see Senator Lask approaching them. “C.J.,” Foss said. “How are you?”

  “Foss, what the hell are you bugging old Tsokel about?” Lask asked. “The man just wants to sip his wine and get drunk in peace, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Senator Foss and I were discussing the Intelligence Committee,” Tsokel said.

  Lask snorted into his lowball glass. “Trying to weasel his way onto the team? Over my dead body. Over all of our dead bodies.”

  “That can be arranged,” Foss noted, his face reddening. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  Lask watched him leave. When the doors closed, he dropped his drunken charade. “He was making a play, wasn’t he?” he asked Tsokel.

  The older man nodded. “Mm. Without any pretense of subtlety.”

  Lask shook his head in distaste. “These NeoPuritans are starting to piss me off … their crazy cult wins another two seats in the last election, and now they’re acting like a NeoPuritan majority in the Senate is inevitable.”

  Tsokel finished his wine and set the glass down on the bar. “It’s enough to make you wonder whether we need to be more concerned about our enemies in the Territories … or our enemies here in Anchorpoint.”

  12

  The instructor sighed. “Cadet Apter, care to venture a guess?”

  Squirming in her seat, Dasi decided to stall for time. “Can you repeat the question please, sir?”

  “The question, again, is this: how did humanity put an end to war? That is, open military conflict between established governments.”

  “Democracy?” Dasi hazarded.

  “No.” The instructor shook his head, scowling in disappointment. “The First Colonial War broke out between two stable, democratically-elected governments, did it not? Anyone else?”

  A male cadet in front of Dasi raised his hand. “The establishment of the Senate ended the First Colonial War,” he said.

  “True,” the instructor conceded. “The First Colonial War ended when two fleet commanders, Admiral Elkins and Captain Oppo, agreed to meet at Anchorpoint, and brokered a truce to end the war. Hence the Elkins-Oppo Treaty of …? Anyone?”

  “2135?” the male cadet guessed.

  “2135,” the instructor confirmed. “And their ships are still there today, used as administrative offices by the Senate and other government agencies. Some of you may get posted there, and if you prove yourselves, you may even get selected to be a Senate Guard, the elite of the elite. But back to history: part of that truce was establishing a governing body, to which all inhabited worlds would be able to send a duly-elected representative. Thus, the Federacy and the Senate were born, with the express purpose of preventing future wars, by unifying the disparate planetary governments spread across the galaxy under a single over-arching one. But did it work?”

  No, Dasi thought, but she kept her hand down. I’ve heard this history lesson before – from Senator Lizelle.

  A cadet in the front row shook her head, “No, it didn’t,” she said, “because there were other Colonial Wars.”

  “Right,” the instructor agreed. “And we should have known that such a system would be inadequate. Earth’s pre-colonial history was plagued with similar failures: the League of Nations and the United Nations, most notably. Those organizations failed, and their failures led to so-called ‘world wars’ that were nearly as destructive as our own Colonial Wars. So how did we put a stop to the other Colonial Wars?”

  Someone coughed, but the room stayed quiet.

  “Cadet Apter, care to guess?”

  “The Interstellar Police,” Dasi said.

  “Exactly,” the instructor said. “Or rather, a combination of the Interstellar Police, and the Senate, working in concert. The Senate outlawed armed conflict and abolished standing militaries among its member planets, but without an effective enforcement tool, they could not stop members from disobeying those laws. And so we had the Second Colonial War, which ended with the Treaty of Suvolo. That treaty document established the Interstellar Police, and we were able to standardize and greatly improve law enforcement across the galaxy. And to ensure the police stayed objective and impartial, the Senate decreed that every police officer would serve on a planet other than his or her homeworld.”

  “But there was a Third Colonial War after that,” Dasi pointed out.

  “Yes, there was. So?”

  “So … the Interstellar Police didn’t prevent that war from happening,” she said. “In fact, we caused the war, indirectly. Anders Ricken started the Third Colonial War, and he was a police officer.”

  “A rogue police officer, and a terrorist,” the instructor corrected. “And a black mark that will forever tarnish the record of our distinguished service.”

  “In school, they taught us that Ricken was fighting for a good cause,” another cadet said. “He was standing up for people that couldn’t protect themselves, fighting against governments that took advantage of their people.”

  The instructor winced. “That’s a gross over-simplification,” he told the young man. “You might argue that Ricken’s movement was started with good intentions. He had noble goals, certainly. But he resorted to guerrilla warfare in his pursuit of those goals, and innocent people were killed as a result. He broke the law, and the minute he did that, he betrayed everything we stand for.”

  “So how come we couldn’t prevent the Third Colonial War?” a cadet asked.

  “It takes some time for a massive organization like the Interstellar Police to become effective, Cadet,” the instructor explained. “It’s not surprising there were some growing pains along the way. When Anders Ricken died, the Third Colonial War ended, and we established an Internal Affairs division, in order to police ourselves. And it has served its purpose well – we’ve maintained order within our ranks ever since.”

  The Interstellar Police didn’t end the Third Colonial War, Dasi thought. Anders Ricken was killed by the first guildsman. The Guild was the other element maintaining peace in the galaxy, on behalf of the Senate, whether we admit it or not. And now they’re gone.

  “What about the Fleet Reaction Force?” another cadet asked.

  “Excellent question,” the instructor said, turning to address the cadet. “The FRF played a role in maintaining the peace, too. Mainly in protecting the Federacy from external threats, from the Territories. Soon after the Third Colonial War, the Senate established the FRF, a reserve unit made up of the remainder of its military forces. It’s a force that far out-classed anything the Territories might mu
ster, and gave the government the means to shut down a planet’s war-making capabilities before they had even begun. The FRF was staffed with volunteer reservists, and in those early days, the Senate activated it on several occasions. The Territories quickly learned to keep their military presence limited, or they risked a preemptive attack by the Federacy.”

  A notification appeared on the smartscreen behind the instructor, announcing the end of the training period. He raised his voice to be heard over the noise of cadets standing and collecting their bags. “So that is how humanity ended armed conflict. A governing body to set the laws, and an agency to enforce them. And that agency is the Interstellar Police, which some of you may have the honor of serving in.”

  The cadets filed out of the room, and formed up outside the building. An instructor arrived soon after, and read from the screen of his datascroll.

  “Cadets Apter, Relkins, and Vonuci, fall out to the rear of the formation for remedial physical training. The rest of you report to lunch.”

  Dasi groaned and moved to the rear of the formation, watching as the rest of her platoon marched off toward the chow hall.

  “You failed your PT test yesterday, so you’re with me for PT twice a day now,” the instructor told them. “Drop your bags in place.”

  “What about lunch?” Dasi asked.

  “Your platoon mates will pick up ration bars; you’ll eat during afternoon training. Attention! Right … face!” the instructor called. “Forward … march! Double time … march!”

  He guided them out of the main campus area and into the woods surrounding the Academy. At the rear of the group, Dasi managed to keep pace for the first mile of the run, despite being sore from the morning’s workout. But as they passed deeper into the woods, she developed a cramp in her side. She slowed to a shuffle, holding her hip. The instructor glanced over his shoulder at her and frowned.

  “You two: keep this pace up. Do the full five mile loop. I’ll check your tracker data when we get back in, so don’t even think about cheating on me,” he warned.