by Chris Hechtl
Admiral Irons grimaced. He nodded.
“Well, Bek has that in spades. It's graft, corruption, all of it. Plus, politics and a patronage system that can be stifling.”
“I know about the mustang thing. I never understood it.”
“It's part of the mindset—the old boys club,” Yorgi explained.
Admiral Irons grimaced. “Okay, that part I know and understand. I dealt with it in the old Federation.”
“Right, well, it's rough.”
“I'm wondering how it is for marines. The tradition is that the officers are all mustangs.”
“Not in Bek,” Admiral Sienkov said slowly.
“Okay, go on.”
“Right, well, as I said crossover. You know about Childress, right?”
“I read the report.”
“Did you notice his name?”
“No …,” Admiral Irons frowned thoughtfully.
“He's the son of Reba Childress, owner of Childress shipyards and industry. They are the number one supplier of ships and material.”
Admiral Irons pursed his lips thoughtfully together. “I'm guessing he's got a cushy job waiting for him. But, he went back into uniform?”
“That he did. Mama Childress won't move on.”
“Oh.”
“She is a B with a capital B of the first order,” Yorgi said. “Cutthroat. Also, conservative and not thrilled with progress or innovation unless her people are behind it and raking in the profits. Contracts are steered to her.”
“Great. Graft, corruption …”
“It's ugly.”
“Lovely,” Admiral Irons sighed.
“They have all the players covered. And when you factor in other things …”
“Wait, the third one is the industrialists I take it. Fourth is?”
“Fourth is the colonists in Bek B. I'll get around to them.”
“Oh.” After a moment, he waved a hand. “Continue then.”
“Right. Some players play for keeps. If you can't be bought, you get shuffled off into oblivion or have an accident,” Yorgi said with quotes around the last word. “ONI is good at that.”
“You are telling me, the Office of Naval Intelligence is an assassination group for industrialists?” Admiral Irons said with his eyebrows raised.
“And a means to watch over your competition. They can be brutal. Civilians and military personnel have routinely disappeared. They terrorize everyone into compliance.”
“Frack,” Admiral Irons growled, sitting back hard.
“What did you expect? ONI has no one outside the republic to focus on. So, they turned inward.”
“Not what was supposed to happen,” Admiral Irons said, scrubbing his face with his hands. “And it's made a mess of things.”
“Right. I'm afraid I won't survive in Bek more than a week, if my ship gets in at all.”
“Gets in …?”
“Accidents are known to happen, Admiral. Omar Childress is quite good at arranging some things. He's pretty blatant right now, I have to admit. Back in his time, he stopped caring about who knew. That's one of the reasons everyone was grateful when he was forced to retire.”
“Retire …?”
“We had an age limit in Bek. Hit it and you were forcibly retired. When you came back that changed.”
“The regen therapies,” Admiral Irons said with a sudden nod of understanding. “Frack!” he snarled.
“Exactly,” Yorgi replied. “He somehow pulled strings and got himself in to use them, then got himself reinstated. As senior officer, he pushed Pashenkov out.”
Admiral Irons scowled blackly. “He can't do that …. That's not how it is supposed to work.”
“As senior officer, he can countermand everything. Seniority and who your friends are is a big thing.”
“Frack,” Admiral Irons said, rubbing his brow as understanding dawned.
“The good news is, getting back into the Federation is a big thing. And you, you are the patron saint of the Republic and the navy there. So, if you can get the orders you want obeyed out and made public, it will stick.”
“Out and public,” Admiral Irons murmured thoughtfully.
“If you don't, Childress will make them disappear. He'll slap a classified label on them, eyes only, or have them 'accidentally' corrupted. He's a master at that sort of thing.”
“Oh, so if I send orders to relieve him, no one will listen?”
“If it is broadcast, someone in ONI or the staff will force him out. Public demand will ratchet up pressure until he leaves one way or another.”
“Lovely.”
“Or it could all blow up in your face.”
“Not a pleasant thought. Okay. I let Horatio know about his promotion a bit ago. I'm going to send him orders and have him go into the star system on Ilmarinen. I was going to have him broadcast the orders to relieve Childress to the Admiralty, but I'll have to rethink that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else?”
“Well, obviously Childress has industrial support. He's got his mother in his corner. The question is why. I thought they'd be all over the new contracts. That they'd have their armies of lobbyist's salivating to do it. Paying for it all is a big question mark.”
“Part of that is supposed to be done with the licensing of Federation tech,” Admiral Irons said. “That's supposed to get the ball rolling until we can get some trade flowing.”
“Agreed. But, you have to remember, Bek is very conservative about tech.”
“I noted that. We talked about nanotech before. I think you mentioned no A.I. either?”
“Yes. That sort of tech was banned. Part of the reasoning was to close the door on something dangerous that could destroy all life in the Republic. The other was to prevent someone from seeing us. Which was why there is no antimatter either.”
“Great.”
“Sorry. I'm thinking, and this is a guess, mind you, that a lot of tech is based on nanotech. I know I was a bit freaked over having it done to me. Now more conservative people in Bek might throw up a lot of roadblocks. Childress obviously is.”
“Oh, so you think he's their front man?”
“I think he used anything he could to get back into power. Now that he's there, he's going to use any tool at his disposal to stay there. By fair means or foul, he's the tyrant and he'll rule.”
“Well, we'll have to educate him about the pecking order then,” Admiral Irons said grimly.
Chapter 3
Horathian homeworld
Emperor Ramichov stood before the House of Lords and performed his annual state of the empire speech with his usual flare, stage presence, and consummate perfectionism. The ceremony was both a means to give the public a situation report and make them feel as if they were contributing, but it was also a means to express his power and check the loyalty of the lords and others who were under his rule.
He finished with his usual trademark closing remarks.
“My family rose to power despite the persecution of my ancestors by aliens and Neos alike. All of our people have labored under their yoke, brought down under the guise of equality. “But, no more!” He thundered. He held up a clenched fist before him. “Today, we take our rightful place in galactic civilization. Today, we are on the upward path to dominance, to hold our own destiny in our hands, to shape it as our ancestors intended!” He held out his hand to the audience. “Join me! Join us as we forge a new future, together!”
The applause and ovation was overpowering, pressing everyone into joining in. Many were well aware that proctors and intelligence officers were watching them like hawks and studying their reactions. The cream of the lords were consummate politicians, able to keep up appearances while other emotions seethed within.
“He says it with such conviction,” the Praetor Admiral Malwin Cartwright, Baron of Dead Drop, murmured in an aside to those around him. “I almost believe it.” His lip movement was covered by a judicious twist of his head and fist to cover a feig
ned cough.
Of course, he still had to worry about the woman he shared his viewing box with; Vice Admiral Sabina Newberry was the minister of intelligence and countess of Garth after all. But, he knew she wasn't keen about how the war had started either. She was getting slammed by the intelligence break that had come with the sudden resurgence of the Federation. That it had happened so close to home left a lot of people wondering if it was time she retired.
So, she needed all the allies she could get at the moment. He knew he could trust her only to a certain degree; she'd willingly and gracefully feed him to the next in line if it was to her advantage. But, it was his navy that had taken it on the ear so often, so misery seemed to love company.
And they made particularly strange bedfellows he thought as his fist dropped.
“That's how it works,” Countess Newberry said. He glanced at her. She merely smiled. “It's psychology 101. You make people feel oppressed, picked on, that they are the victim. Then you point to someone they fear, do not understand, or hate and say they are why you are being held down. They convince the people that they only want what is just, and that these people are in the way. Couple it with herd mentality, the instinct for people to follow so they will fit in, and a few other tricks and you can move anyone to do anything you want.” She turned to show him a privacy screen. His eyebrows went up in surprise. It was a modern device. The air shimmered in front of them with a force field. It wouldn't be very effective for defense but it would distort their voices and hamper anyone trying to read their lips.
“The masses are sheep. This allows us, allows him to control the Empire. And it is allowing him to get away with genocide,” the praetor ventured. Caution was ingrained in him despite her offer of an opening to vent in such a public venue.
“Exactly. You'd be surprised how often it has worked over the centuries.”
“Is any of it true?” he asked her.
She eyed him. He continued to stare back. Finally, she grimaced.
“I'm sure somewhere a Ramichov was oppressed somehow in some way—slighted, over looked, or some such. The resentment festered and was passed down from generation to generation. He's Russian, but he has Celtic genes too.”
“I'm not following the last,” the praetor said, wrinkling his nose.
“Celts are well known for holding a grudge well past an expatriation date. Even a minor slight can be blown out of proportions.”
“So his genes helped to make him the way he is?” the praetor demanded.
“If you mean this …,” she was careful not to say a sociopath and other things out loud even with the privacy screen. “No. I don't believe that genetics are the whole reason he or any of us for that matter turned out the way we did. Part of it is environment, our world, our family. They shape and guide our moral compass. They form our worldview. But, in the end, it comes down to a choice.” She nodded her chin to the emperor. “He made his.”
“And we're along for the ride,” the praetor growled in disgust as he turned back to the venue as the emperor made the rounds with the lords.
:::{)(}:::
“I am heartily glad that is over for another year,” Admiral Theodore Cruise Rico, Duke of Hinata, said as he loosened the collar of his suit and shucked his jacket. As minister of war, he had attended in civilian dress. He wasn't certain if it had been a good move on his part, he was still catching flack, like the navy, for the opening moves of what was turning into a full-on war.
One they weren't winning, which didn't do wonders for him or his family.
“It is tiring. My face is sore from smiling. I don't know how some people do it all the time. And my hand!” Countess Newberry said, shaking her hand. “McLoyd has a grip like a vice!” she complained, making hand-gripping motions to get feeling back into her abused appendage.
“It's a power game; you know that, Sabina,” Theodore replied with a grimace. She was referring to Connor McLoyd, the minister of energy and earl of North Finagle. His was one of the brighter spots in the emperor's report.
“Yes, you men love that sort of thing. I wish you'd keep it between yourselves though,” she replied with a fresh grimace of distaste.
“If you ladies want to play with the big boys, you have to play by our rules,” Theodore replied with a brief smirk.
“Cute,” the countess replied. “Are we still waiting on Malwin?”
“Pretty much. Robert and Ahab are supposed to drop in at any moment too. They probably got hung up in the crowd.”
“Given that Ahab's people have been consistently screwing up even more so than the battle fleet, I'd say he should shoulder half of the blame,” the countess grumbled.
The war minister eyed her thoughtfully and then shrugged such considerations off. “There is enough blame to go around, Sabina, you know that.”
“True,” she admitted reluctantly as the door opened. They turned to the open door as the first of the three flag officers stepped through it.
“What's this? Playing the blame game?” General Robert Levot, Baron of TFP and Praetor of the Army, said as he swept into the room.
“No, there is enough to go around as Theo just pointed out,” the countess replied as she nodded to the praetor. “Good to see you again, Robert,” she said politely.
“Given it's only been what, an hour since our last meeting?” he retorted with a grin. “You missed me that much?”
“Like a hole in my head,” she replied sweetly.
“That can be arranged,” he replied with an answering smile as he took his chair.
She gave him a slightly reproving look. He snorted.
“Now now,” Theo said as he got up and went to the small bar. “Behave children,” he said.
“She started it,” Robert replied. Sabina chuckled.
“She started what?” Vice Admiral Ahab Grant, Consul of the Marquis, asked as he entered the room.
“They are having fun at each other's expense,” Theo answered as he held up the bottle he had just broached. Ahab held up two fingers. Theo nodded and set up a second glass.
“Might as well bring the bottle,” the one-eyed general growled.
“It's not quite that bad. We've already been through this with the report not even two days ago,” Malwin said as he came into the room and closed the door behind him. “Unless a fresh courier came in while we were busy that I don't know about?”
“No, no more news. And yes, I know you are thinking thank the gods,” Sabina replied with a shake of her head as Malwin went and got himself a drink as well.
“Something along those lines is accurate,” Malwin muttered. “Since when are you playing bartender and waiter?” he demanded of their boss.
“I was up,” Theo replied as he set a glass down in front of his own chair, then handed a glass to each of the other three officers. “Besides, we don't need any prying eyes and ears for this, now do we?” he asked.
“Ah,” Malwin replied as he poured himself his own drink. “Point,” he conceded. “So, what do we have?” he asked as he pulled the stopper from the bottle and then checked the vintage before he poured himself a double shot.
“More problems,” Ahab grumbled. He wasn't happy that his command was slowly being turned over to Malwin. It would take years, but the process had already begun. He'd thrown in a few monkey wrenches to slow the process up. Now he wondered if he should have bothered.
After all, his butt was on the roasting pan, just like everyone else's in the room.
“I'm good,” the general rumbled.
“We know. You've got the bright spot, though I bet your people on Nuevo Madrid have their hands full, probably elsewhere too,” Malwin said as he took his seat.
“True,” the general replied. “But according to the last intel report I received, they didn't invade, did they?” he asked, turning to Sabina for confirmation.
“No. We have the reports from Nuevo Madrid. The Federation went in and trashed the ships there, destroyed every kilogram of orbital industry and such, a
nd bombed the planet, but they didn't invade.”
“Right, that's what I thought,” the general replied with a nod. He paused to take a sip of his drink.
“We have received unconfirmed reports of an invasion in Hidoshi's World,” the countess reported. That made the general stop abruptly.
“Oh? First I heard of this,” he rumbled.
“Yes. The intelligence comes from a media report from the enemy, so my people threw a hold up on it. I had a fresh re-evaluation of the reports coming in and lowered the filter threshold to see what was there. I'm glad I did. I'd hate for it to bite me in the ass.”
“It's going to do so anyway. How bad is it?” Ahab asked.
“According to the report a marine platoon landed and took out most of the forces there.”
“That I find hard to believe! I mean Colonel Wizenbek is a damn smart cookie. And he's got Lieutenant Colonel Zin with him to back him up. That bastard is sneaky as all hell. There is no way in hell he'd fall to a single platoon! I mean, come on!” the general snarled, setting his glass down hard.
“Maybe, but they hold the high ground. They are also marines. This is well out-of-date by the way; this invasion supposedly happened over three years ago.”
“And none of our ships have gotten confirmation?” Ahab asked, consulting a map. He frowned. “It's on the doorstep of Pyrax. If they have invaded that planet, they most likely have cut that jump chain completely off and picketed B101a1. That means the forces in Destria are dying on the vine.”
“Frack,” the general muttered, good mood souring totally.
“If they pushed their perimeter out that far, it means the picket in B101a1 isn't that strong. It can't be,” Malwin said.
“Don't get your hopes up. We are talking about the Federation, remember?” Ahab replied.
