Part of her wished the glass was not there, and that she could fall back on her formidable martial skills. The weight of the sidearm and ceremonial short sword hanging from her belt gave her some comfort, if little satisfaction at this point. She imagined wading into the delegates, pistol in one hand, sword in the other, eliminating the "loyal opposition" in one bloody stroke. They would try to fight back, of course, but if they bested her, then they deserved to take her place.
But that was not how things were done here among the mongrel freeborn of the Inner Sphere. She could not allow herself to think of them in Clan terms, where disputes were settled by honorable trials and combat. No, here it was all debate, pontification, negotiation, treaties, contracts and lawyers, with the bloodshed planned in secret and carried out with no honor.
She forced herself to strengthen her mask of freeborn civility, an expression hard-won through long practice, and turned back to Vincent. "I find it outrageous. Governor, that you could hold our warriors at fault for this morning's violence. They were deployed in defense of important Vegan assets, and responded with live fire only after being viciously attacked by insurgents."
"Destroying or damaging several million Vega dollars worth of construction equipment and materials in the process."
"To be fair, most of the damage was caused by the truck bomb and by fire directed against ConstructionMechs commandeered by the insurgents."
"I would gladly be fair. Galaxy Commander, but the people I represent won't see it that way at all, and that is what you fail to appreciate. At this point, perception is everything. They see only the fresh damage you've caused to their already war-ravaged city, and that a defenseless civilian vehicle full of Vegan citizens was destroyed by 'Mech fire on a public street well inside the city."
"A vehicle full of insurgent combatants fleeing the scene of an attack."
"So you say. We are conducting our own investigation, independent of your paramilitary police and the Vegan Police Militia, whom most Vegan citizens view as willing collaborators."
"You know as well as I do, Governor—"
"Perception, Galaxy Commander. It is not what I know, it is what the people believe."
"The people will believe the facts."
Vincent laughed derisively. "You don't understand the situation at all. You fight on our streets every day, and yet this war can never be won by force of arms. You must win the hearts of the Vegan people, or military victory is impossible."
Isis scowled. "With all due respect, Governor, your people are ungrateful for the stability the Rasalhague Dominion has provided to Vega. When our forces arrived, all of your senior officials had been killed by a terrorist attack, your capital was in ruins and civil war had left your people under the domination of ruthless warlords. We've given you order, helped you to begin rebuilding, and we stand here at the dawn of a new and better government. Where would you be without us right now?"
"We would be without you, and for most of the people outside this building, and a few within, that's all that really matters. They want you gone. Our problems, terrible though they were, were our problems. We did not ask for your assistance. It was thrust upon us."
"For your own good."
"The slogan of tyrants throughout human history."
"I must have said it a hundred times before, but I will state it again for the record. We come not as invaders or occupiers. Our intent is to help Vega and other key planets in the prefecture to restore stability, order and prosperity. When that job is done, we will leave. That is all we want here."
"Galaxy Commander, do you know what the people of Vega are talking about today, in every neighborhood, refugee camp and marketplace? They are talking about the day. Do you know what this day is?"
"November the twenty-first."
"But it is also a Clan holiday, is it not? A holiday known as 'Invasion Day,' celebrating the day the Clans voted to invade the Inner Sphere in what later became known as the 'Great Refusal.’7"
"That is ancient history. That holiday, where it is still observed at all, is celebrated by Crusader Clans. We are a Warden Clan. Their ways are not our ways."
"So you say. But actions speak louder than words." Vincent smiled slightly. "What of the constant flow of ships that arrive, bringing more Clan oppressors, and leave loaded with shipments of myomer. refined armor alloys, IndustrialMechs and heavy machinery—"
"Those so-called oppressors are specialists sent to aid in rebuilding your cities, factories and mines. As production resumes, a percentage of production is being diverted to the Ghost Bears as in-kind payment for the resources expended on our mission here. Nothing more. We would not insult your people with charity. We're here to restore your dignity, not take it away."
He laughed again. "Galaxy Commander, do you have any idea how that sounds?"
It sounds logical and reasonable. But she said nothing.
"And what of the continued harassment attacks by the Draconis Combine? Are we to be grateful for them as well?"
"Surely you can't blame us for their military aggression: their interest in Vega long predates our arrival in this part of the Inner Sphere."
"Again, it is not what I think. It's entirely possible that they would be attacking us anyway, given that you believe their fear of your forces is all that is holding off a fullblown invasion. But the Vegan people know well that there is old and bad blood between the Ghost Bears and the Draconis Combine. They don't wish to be pawns in your ongoing conflict. The more you make them feel abused and powerless, the more they are susceptible to— other influences."
A high, reedy voice echoed through the chamber. "Will you yield the floor to the Speaker of Labor?"
"Speak of the devil," Isis muttered under her breath, looking out to see the cadaverous figure of Speaker of Labor Chance Elba standing behind his desk. He was a thin man, his skin wrinkled and transparent, his scowling face marked with age spots, his nearly bald head covered by a thin crown of white hair that crossed his shiny skull in wispy ballistic arcs.
Elba raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. I yield the floor for one minute."
He opened with his usual ramble praising the outstanding qualities of the Vegan workers, then moved on to what Isis hoped was his point. "Galaxy Commander, the people of Vega are not taken in by your fairy tales explaining away your criminal occupation of our fair world. It is clear that you desire only our resources, our surviving production capabilities and. of course, the famed skill and industriousness of our glorious, underappreciated and always exploited workers! We know well that is the Clan way. We know how you treat your own labor caste. They're fifth-class citizens, little more than slaves, and you hold even them in higher regard than the most celebrated Vegan worker!"
Isis sighed. As far as she was concerned, Elba was only one step removed from the insurgent terrorists, if that. Most of the known insurgents were members of radical labor-separatist groups with close ties to the Labor Party. Though he made a great show of distancing himself and his party from those groups, Elba was careful never to denounce them, and often obliquely argued their "cause in congress.
Elba continued, "This oppression must—"
"Your minute," she announced, "is up."
"Galaxy Commander, I must protest! This is an outrageous—"
There were mutterings and shouts of derision from the quadrants of the hall reserved for the rival Centralist and Freedom Vega parties. The Planetary Nationalists, more in sympathy with the Labor Party, sat quietly. Reaction in the small section reserved for the ten minority party delegates was mixed.
"Your minute," she repeated firmly, "is up. Please do not force me to ask the nice men in the armor to remove you from the hall."
Elba glared at her, but said nothing. He leaned down, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote one word in large letters, then held it up to her, then so the rest of the hall could read it, and then, most dramatically, for the ever-present cameras. It read, tyranny.
&n
bsp; * * *
Isis descended the stairs below the stage toward what had once been a group of executive office suites, now turned into apartments and private offices for her and other senior Clan officials in the occupation government. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, a tall, blond man in a knee-length blue-and-white coat fell in next to her, ignored by the police escorts that appeared from behind the stairway.
The thin man combed the fingers of his right hand through his hair, matching her pace as she strode down the carpeted corridor. He brandished a computer access pad in front of her with his left. "I have the latest security and logistical reports, if you'd care to see them. Crime statistics: stable, though not declining as we'd hoped. Public outrage over Invasion Day has resulted in rioting in Nasew, Halo and Jalonjin, all controlled without military intervention. There are progress reports on water, sewer projects, food distribution, repairs to the power grid, shipments of construction materials over the pass to Northgate, reopening the westside hospital."
She pushed the pad away. "Only if there's something in there of immediate military importance, which there isn't, Trenton, or you would have passed me a message while I was still on the floor."
"You are correct, Galaxy Commander. I'll take care of it all." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And you know well that I prefer to be called Dr. Tuskegee."
She grimaced. The scientist caste had been handing out "labnames" to their most honored members for quite some time now, but until recently they were never used outside the scientist caste. The warrior caste continued to hold them in open contempt. Now some scientists not only insisted that they be addressed by their lab-names, but also by relevant Inner Sphere titles such as "doctor" and "professor," as well.
"Trenton, you are an arrogant and vain man who does not know his place. Why do I tolerate your eccentricities?"
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, but did not answer.
"Doctor," she finally said, to break the silence. She still could not bring herself to use the hated labname. She would not. Not even for him.
"You tolerate me because I am immensely useful, and I relieve you of countless logistical tasks that otherwise would distract you from the larger task of trying to bring order to this hopeless planet. I tolerate you because, frankly, completing this mission is likely the only way I'll ever get back in a proper research lab again."
"Do your job, Trent—Doctor. Do your job and get out of my hair."
He laughed and peeled off down a side corridor, headed to his small apartment jammed with computers and books.
It was obvious why Trenton was here, and it had nothing to do with his brilliance or his abilities as a scientist, which were celebrated. It was his personal eccentricities, the labname, the title, his prideful use of contractions ("It's more efficient." he had once told her, "and efficiency, it's the Clan way!"), the ridiculous-looking lab coat he always wore to remind everyone that he was a scientist. But he was useful, and Isis Bekker firmly believed in delegating as many secondary tasks as possible to talented people, then taking a hands-off approach to managing those people. Despite his quirks, she trusted the man, and over time, had even come to like him.
Isis dismissed her paramilitary police escorts at the door of her small apartment, a converted office located on the tenth floor of the provisional capital building's tower. It was, as befitted a warrior of the Clans, a spartan place.
A row of metal shelves and repurposed horizontal filing cabinets held her clothing and most of her belongings. A modular kitchenette took up one corner, next to a small dining table with two folding chairs. Two more comfortable chairs, each with a reading lamp, sat near a trio of tri-vid screens, each silently presenting a different news and information network.
On two walls simulated windows, large tri-vid screens connected in real time to cameras outside the building, showed the bloodred of the late afternoon sky. The windows were a luxury left over from the original office, and she could have lived without them. But, as a security precaution, the tower had been built almost completely without windows, and it was nice to at least be able to know at a glance if it were day or night.
Through a door to her right, an adjoining room held a bed, and beyond that, a small bathroom. In the center of the room, several desks were covered with neat piles of papers, publications, and a dozen tablet computers, each dedicated to a different aspect of managing her forces, the government and the planet itself.
She walked past each computer, pausing at each long enough to tap a button that would wake the device, and taking a few moments to study the updated screen before moving to the next.
The MechWarrior whose 'Mech had fallen into the pit had a severely fractured spine and neck injuries, and likely would not return to duty in less than six months. Strikes by plumbers and concrete truck drivers had halted work on the Public Sanitary Market. There was a letter from the adjunct general of the Clan, just off the JumpShip. She tagged that for later attention. The speaker of the Centralists wanted to meet and discuss recapitalization of the major banks. A worker slowdown had cut myomer production at the MyoMaxx plants to fifteen percent below projections. And Field Security Chief Ricco wanted to discuss the Freeminders situation.
She flinched at the last one. Freeminders. As if I do not have enough problems without our own people going rogue. A few taps on the screen set the meeting for early the next morning.
"Freeminders?" Vincent's voice came from right behind her, making her jump. She hadn't heard him enter through the apartment's private side door.
She turned and glared at him. "Your insistence on discretion in our relationship does not mean you have to sneak up on me like an assassin. I could snap your neck by accident one of these days."
He smiled slightly, making a river delta of wrinkles form at the corner of each eye. He was about her age, late forties, which meant that he looked old to her eyes. Clan warriors just weren't supposed to live this long.
But then, Vincent wasn't Clan. But that also meant that she shouldn't be thinking of him, a freeborn, not of the Clans, as an equal. Even if he was a former MechWarrior. How things had changed—
"I didn't sneak. I thought I made a polite amount of noise coming in. Either you were too distracted, or—" The smile faded, and he stopped himself short.
"Or what?"
He frowned and sighed. "Have you had your hearing checked?"
"What?"
"Your hearing. The cockpit of a 'Mech is a loud place. War is loud. Over time, some hearing damage is to be expected."
She blinked in confusion. What was he talking about?
He tilted his head in that way he did, like someone addressing a child. "You just don't get it, do you? I guess it's been a long time since the Clans, despite all your advanced medical technology, have had much experience with geriatrics."
The word was unfamiliar. "Geriatrics?"
"Medical treatment of the symptoms of aging."
She felt her face harden, her brow wrinkle with annoyance. "I am not old!"
He laughed and stepped closer. "Nobody said you were. I was just suggesting that you might consider getting tested for a hearing aid. One of Vega's lesser known, and less strategic, industries. We make some especially small and sensitive ones." He seemed to think of something new. "Or can your Clan medical technicians replace eardrums as well as limbs?"
She just scowled, blanking the screen with the Free-minder reference before he could ask about it again.
"Hearing aids are one of the few things on Vega of which there isn't a shortage. There's a glut, actually, as you fill all the outgoing cargo ships with myomer and IndustrialMechs. Every street vendor and stall at the market has a jar of them for sale cheap."
"I am not old," she repeated.
He sighed. "On Vega, and for that matter, on a lot of worlds, age is considered an accomplishment, something to be respected."
"Not in the Clans."
"I know. You should have had your head blown off by now. It's th
e warrior way."
She should have, but it didn't work out that way. "I cannot be weak."
"You're the strongest woman I've ever met." He swept his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her hard on the lips.
She considered pushing him away, compiling a short mental list of the bones she could break with minimal effort. She wasn't in the mood. But she let him linger, and after a time it wasn't so bad. Finally it was he who drew back.
She found him looking into her eyes. She remembered his speech in the congressional chamber, and felt a little flash of anger. She pulled his arm from around her. "Your speech, was that part of your attempt to hide our relationship?"
He smiled slightly. "You're calling it a relationship now?"
"Answer."
His smile faded. "It was honesty. I said what needed to be said. I gave voice to what the people of this world were saying already. If I hadn't said it. Chance Elba would have said it instead, and in much more hostile and provocative terms. I gave you ample opportunity to state your defense."
"I do not need what you refer to as help. I do not need you to protect me from Elba."
"To be brutally honest, which I gather is a virtue to your people, you do. You saw what happened when you engaged him directly. That business with the 'tyranny' sign, it was a priceless bit of showmanship. Much as I dislike Elba and what he stands for, I've got to give him a sliver of admiration for that one."
"It was childish."
He shook his head. "It was brilliant. Isis, for a Clansman, you're probably the best politician I've ever seen. But even you're in way over your head here, and you need me much more than you know."
He was right, of course. She did need him, a fact that made her brain itch. She was his genetic superior. She could kill him in a dozen ways. Still, he could do things she could not do. She needed him. "You have a very high opinion of yourself." She couldn't help a slight grin. "You could be Clan."
Trial by Chaos Page 3
