Chapter Forty-Eight
Carina Arm, on the planet Baha’runa . . .
Five days to the war resolution vote . . .
Across the Ministry of Unity’s Upper House suite, Ulrich Morvan paced in circles around the holo table as he thought out loud about various undecided voters. The big, silver buttons shone on his suit coat’s glossy gray lapel, running from his neck down to its wing tips on both sides of his knees. An ostentatious clothing choice, but a merited one. With his daily docket full of press interviews and meetings with representatives, this may have been the most important day of his career. And of Riahn’s.
Young Aisha, however, sitting beside Riahn’s desk taking copious notes on Morvan’s musings, perhaps had even greater days to look forward to. Riahn certainly hoped so. He hoped their work these last few weeks would prove farsighted and progressive in the grand scheme of history. That, he supposed, would be for others to decide.
Quite an intimidating thought.
Riahn plopped an orange berry in his mouth from a bowl full of variously colored berries on his desk. A seedy, sweet and sour combo exploded between his teeth as he checked the wall screen showing a live feed of the Upper House podium. The low volume didn’t allow him to hear the Reformist spokesman’s speech, but Riahn imagined it contained a lot of opining about the need for greater protection of pilgrims or assurances that the slaughtered Carinians would not be forgotten—something vague about which everyone in Carina heartily agreed.
Tragedy had a way of drawing out the most ambitious politicos for a strong but hazy statement or call for action. That worked out just fine for the “Yes” campaign. Those vague sentiments laid the groundwork for Morvan’s comprehensive argument—namely, that the best of Carina’s bad options was to take control of Earth, once and for all. No Confed. No Defenders of Glory. Only the strong hand of Carinian power to secure peace and justice on the Sacred Planet and in Confed space.
Now, after the Defenders of Glory had so foolishly destroyed their own credibility by butchering innocents, the “Yes” campaign’s narrative had transformed from mere rhetoric to undeniable truth. And it left the “No” campaign in pitifully chaotic shambles.
Riahn looked down and smirked at the scrolling banner on the edge of his smart desk. It read, “Leaders of ‘No’ campaign contradict each other in their responses to massacre in Jerusalem. Office of Jayeson Skance remains silent.” What Riahn wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall of Skance’s office right now.
“Alright, who’s the next meeting this afternoon?” Morvan asked, pausing his pacing and splaying open his coat to rest his hands on his hips.
“Uh . . .” Aisha swiped his finger over his tablet. “Angel Bennis. Unificationist from way out near Keyhole.”
Morvan nodded. “That’s right. What do we know about her?”
“Let’s see . . .” Aisha read for a moment. “Strongly pro-pilgrimage. Lots of conservative Babists on her planet. Pretty prosperous constituency. Their average income per capita is slightly higher than the arm’s as a whole—about six percent higher.”
“Probably won’t have luck bidding for her vote,” Riahn interjected, perusing his berry selection. “Unless you can promise to colonize one of her neighboring systems.” He picked out a few plump red berries and tossed them in his mouth.
Morvan shook his head, staring off at nothing, not breaking concentration. “No, no, she’s an idealist, if I remember correct. She’d be turned off by an offer anyway. We’ll have to approach it from a pilgrimage angle. I believe if we can convince her—” Something caught his eye at the glass door to the hallway.
Riahn turned to find none other than the characteristically bulky form of Elan Falco. The door swooshed open and the stern-faced prime minister strode in, followed by a humorless posse of slick-suited men and women. Among them: Riahn and Morvan’s old friend, Minister Tahn, standing out in his self-righteous white. Riahn thrust back his chair and pushed up to his feet.
“Mister Prime Minister, welcome,” he managed to articulate over his surprise. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
Falco barely seemed to notice Riahn, eyes trained on Morvan.
“Ulrich, do you realize what you’ve done?” Falco demanded.
Morvan shrugged defensively. “I’ve articulated what I believe is best for Carinaand for the Sacred Planet.”
“You triggered a reprisal,” Falco said. “You put tens of thousands of our people in danger. Did you hear what the Defender said about your proposal in the video?”
Morvan recoiled. “Elan . . .of coursethey would object to a proposal to eliminate them. They’reterrorists. And they responded as such. We can’t control their actions.”
“But wecan control ours,” Falco countered. “And dangerous rhetoric about taking control of the entire planet Earth can do nothing but get our pilgrims killed.”
Morvan spread his hands. “But the very reason our pilgrims are getting killed is because we’renot in control of Earth!”
“What’s the alternative, Mister Prime Minister?” Riahn asked. “If we continue to rely on the Confed, we are going to continue having problems.”
“More of the Confed means more Defenders of Glory,” Morvan agreed. “And more Upraads. We already have Sagittarian ships in Confed space. What if they decide to go all the way to Earth? They’d have us by the balls, Elan.”
Falco huffed, seeming flustered by the cogency of the argument. “It wouldn’t come to that. We’d never allow it, and the Sagittarians know it. That’s why they’ve halted at the edge of Confed space.” He didn’t sound terribly convinced of his own words.
“They’re waiting us out,” Morvan stressed. “If this vote fails to pass, they’ll have free reign.”
Minister Tahn crossed his arms and scoffed. “Cut the melodrama, Minister. They invaded to extract a pound of flesh for Upraad. They’ve done that. We expect them to turn around and head home soon.”
“‘We?’” Morvan asked. “Who is ‘we?’ The ‘No’ campaign?”
“High-ranking generals, that’s who,” Tahn spat.
“Paid advisors to the ‘No’ campaign, I’m sure,” Morvan replied.
Tahn threw up his hands and shook his head. The level of petulance between them almost made a grin form on Riahn’s face, but he resisted.
“Listen, Ulrich,” Falco cut in. “I’m fine with you trying to convince representatives of your proposalprivately. But say no more of it in public or to the media. And for heaven’s sake, donothing that the Confed or the Defenders would perceive as aggression. We can’t burn the bridge with the Terran Confederacy. Not yet, anyway. Understood?”
Morvan planted his hands on his hips, pursed his lips tight, and sighed. After a moment of tense silence, he nodded. “Fine. No more in public.”
Falco gave a sharp nod in return. “Good. Pleasant day, gentlemen.”
He turned, and his posse of aides and advisors parted like the Red Sea for his exit, filing out after him with tablets in hand. Minister Tahn cast one last disappointed look into Riahn’s suite before letting the glass door swoosh closed behind him.
Riahn, Morvan, and Aisha remained frozen in the exact standing positions in which the prime minister had left them. Riahn glanced down at the bowl of berries, but he’d lost all appetite. Morvan stayed quiet, jaw taut, hands on hips.
“They stifle us every step of the way,” the Minister of Arms muttered.
Aisha’s youthful voice pierced the silence. “Do you think we can win without Prime Minister Falco’s support?”
Riahn looked up at the young man’s inquisitive eyes, but he had no answer.
“No,” came the decisive answer from Morvan. He finally lifted his eyes. “If we want to win, we need to change Falco’s mind.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
With his private office door shut and the windows looking out into the Ministry of Arms offices darkened, Morvan brought up the secure messaging system on his smart desk. Dozens of thoughts hurtled thr
ough his brain, competing for priority and attention.One thing at a time, he said to himself.
A window appeared on the screen embedded in his desktop, asking for his ID number, a string of random numbers and letters only Morvan knew. He typed it in from memory. The window disappeared and was replaced by a rectangular box displaying the words,Voice Identification Needed for this Function. A spiraling “recording” icon popped up beside it.
“Ulrich Morvan,” he enunciated.
The box went away. One last security command followed it:Fingerprints Needed for this Function. Four circles and one oval, arranged in a semi-circle, materialized on the screen. Morvan pressed the fingers and thumb of his right hand down over them. It took only a few seconds for the smart desk to recognize them and grant Morvan access. Inside his secure messaging system, the screen showed folders for his contacts, message history, and automated updates from various covert operations.
“Record audio message for the Director of Shetland,” he said.
“Recording audio message,” the dispassionate, automated male voice said back.
Morvan drew in a breath through his nostrils, rethinking his plan one last time before vocalizing it.
“Sorensen . . .” He steeled himself. “Have Sierra ready in four days. I don’t care what it takes. Just have her ready.” He hesitated, but stopped himself. He didn’t have the luxury of qualifying the statement. “Send.”
“Sending audio message.”
Morvan waited for the notification that the message had been sent successfully, then tapped the button to log out of the program. A sliding bar appeared at the bottom saying,Are you sure you want to log out? He placed a finger over the slider, but something made him stop.
It seemed terribly precarious to bet everything on Sorensen having Sierra ready on time. Shetland could do things no one else could, but they couldn’t work miracles. The risk of the Sierra plan backfiring was too great to play that card prematurely. Morvan needed something else, a plan B. He pressed the “Cancel” button, and the program’s folders reappeared. He tapped the one labeled “Contacts” and swiped through them. Files flipped forward and out of sight rapidly. Morvan halted on one labeled “Earth Asset.”
The swift and brutal progress of the Defenders had certainly eroded the strength of the “No” campaign, but what more could Morvan ask of Kastor that he hadn’t already? The Sagittarian warrior had helped the Defenders capture more of Jerusalem than anyone thought possible.Faster than anyone thought possible, too. And yet, Morvan realized, the crucial piece of it still lay under Confed control.
He’d already asked Sorensen to do the impossible. He might as well push Kastor to do the same.
“Record audio message for Earth Asset.”
“Recording audio message.”
“Kastor, you’ve done well,” Morvan said. “And don’t think that I’ll forget it. But your task isn’t finished yet. Move on the Old City. I want the Temple Mount under Defender control in . . .” He thought through a time table, considering what would be reasonable but also what was needed. “Three days. Seventy-two hours. Get it done.”
Chapter Fifty
Carina Arm, on the planet Santa Maria . . .
Davin paused from his place on top of theFossa’s hull to look up at the gigantic trees with their interconnected latticework of branches and leaves, some the size of his hand and some half the size of his body. Plump, benign-looking birds sporting ruffled, golden brown feathers squawked noisily down at him. Not threatened, it seemed. Just bored and unwelcoming. Without so much as fluttering their wings, they hopped between branches in the green canopy overhead, which theFossa had parted on its way to its current resting place on the forest floor, in a recession in the earth.
Maybe the fat birds were annoyed that the sky-people had broken some of their branches. That squawking:Kwa! Kwa! Kwa! Kwa!Davin was tempted to throw something at them. He would have, if he didn’t need all this foliage to cover theFossa. Of course, as irritating as they were, he preferred the clamorous birds to the Carinians.
“More coming up!” Kiki shouted from over the edge, somewhere on the ground.
A second later, Davin heard a grunt, and a branch launched up and onto the relatively flat top of the hull. Its dinner plate-sized leaves were exactly what he needed. He’d already laid out a thin pallet of branches, leaves, and roots to mask the dull sheen of metal, but he wanted to be sure theFossa would be invisible to any eyes in the sky.
“Camouflage,” Davin called down to Kiki.
She hurled another branch up before responding.
“What?”
“Old school camouflage,” Davin explained. “Back in the day, before cloaking or light distortion or any of that, this is how soldiers would blend in.”
He stooped, hefted a leafy branch, and scanned for a bare spot to toss it.
“Do you think I’m five years old?” Kiki called back up.
“Huh?”
“I know what camouflage is,” she said, then grunted.
Another branch, bent in the middle where Kiki had evidently tried to break it in half with her foot, came soaring onto the hull. He grabbed it and found a sliver of metal shining through the blanket of foliage. When he’d set the branch down, he straightened, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the base of his palm, and raised his nexband.
“Strange, how’s power-down coming?”
While waiting for a reply, Davin glanced up again at the gaggle of chubby, snub-beaked birds, triggering another chorus of squawks.Kwa! Kwa! Kwa! Kwa! Kwa!
Strange’s voice slipped through the cacophony from the nexband: “Fusion drive and main engine shut down. Still got alotta residual heat. Tryin’ to get her cooled down so we don’t show up on any heat scans. You can add coolant to the list of things we need if we’re ever gonna fly again.”
Davin nodded. “Great.”
He turned and surveyed the expansive, semi-flat top of theFossa, sloping down in some sections as the ship narrowed toward the cockpit. His work the past thirty or so minutes had paid off. If he looked horizontally over the top hull of the ship, it could almost pass as the forest floor.
“Captain!” Kiki hissed from the ground. Then louder: “Captain!”
Davin cracked a smirk as he took high steps across the bed of foliage, perusing his handiwork. “Now I’m ‘captain,’ huh? I could get used to that.”
“Davin!” she exclaimed urgently. “Look!”
Davin paused and lifted his eyes to the thick overgrowth of the forest. Amidst the swaying rattle of the breeze through the flora, he heard another sound. More distinct. Crunching. Tiny glimpses of figures in beige clothing moved through the cover of the bushes. Soon he heard whispers, too soft to comprehend, almost soft enough to blend in with the breeze.
Then, about twenty meters up a gradual embankment, a man emerged into the open. Loose, beige burlap shirt. Brown pants cinched at the waist with hanging strings. A sanded wood cross hanging from his neck. A beard hid half the man’s features, but his narrowed eyes remained visible. Not sinister eyes. Just skittish. Curious. More of them stepped cautiously into the open, whispering to each other. Both men and women wore more or less the same garments, except the women had their shirts tucked in. And their hair clung closely to their scalps in tight braids. Each of them sported their own wooden cross hanging from the neck.
Davin lifted his nexband wrist. “Hey Strange, could you look up the Galactic Registry for Santa Maria and find out what the population is. Any locals?”
“Yeah, hang on,” she replied. “Let’s see here . . . Population twenty-six thousand, according to a census from fifteen years ago. All of them Christian colonists. Why?”
“Because we just met some of ‘em,” Davin replied.
“What?” Strange replied. “Already?”
“Yeah,” Davin said into his nexband. “We’ll see if they’re friendly.” He dropped his wrist and stepped across the foliage to the edge of his ship. “Greetings!” he proclaimed in a loud voice
that carried harshly through the woods. He tapped his chest with his fingertips. “I am Davin from the faraway planet of Agora.” The locals just stared at him, so he kept going. “Do not fear. We have not come to conquer you. We come in peace.”
“What’s wrong with your ship?” asked the bearded man who had been the first to step into the open.
“Oh,” Davin said, surprised. “You speak Universal.”
“Yes, we do,” the bearded man replied nonchalantly, as if speaking to travelers who had taken a wrong turn. “Something wrong with your ship?”
“Uh, yes actually.” Davin scratched the back of his neck, rethinking his approach. A little embarrassed about the whole “take me to your leader” routine. “We were on our way somewhere and—”
He stopped himself and cocked his head to listen. A rumble built up in the distant sky, getting louder, growing into a roar. It sounded like a landing shuttle. The Carinians were coming. Davin glanced down at Kiki, who stood beside a pile of branches and looked back up at him knowingly. They needed to hide.
Davin raised his nexband. “Strange, we got company. Not the local kind.”
He squatted by the edge and dropped down the unexpectedly long distance to the ground, landing hard. He straightened and brushed his hands.
“Who are they?” the bearded man asked, face tilted up to the sky, seeming more spooked now.
“They’re enemies,” Davin said, thinking on his feet. “Nasty, nasty people. They want to kill us.”
The bearded man pulled up his shirt to hook his thumbs in the waistline of his pants and narrowed his eyes at Davin. “What’d you do to them?”
“Nothing,” Davin stressed. He decided to try honesty on for size. “We’re Orionites. We crossed the border to help a friend of ours.” Partial honesty, anyway. “They attacked us. Unprovoked. They’re trying to kill us for crossing the border, but we only did it to save our friend. Can you help us?”
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 23
