by Daniel Gibbs
But she wouldn't end that way. "I call upon our people to see this as an opportunity," she said. "We have allowed violence to become a part of our political process and paid the price. Now we must commit to supporting one another's democratic rights. Freedom of speech and expression must be restored to everyday life. We must vote with our conscience and allow the same to our neighbors, even if they feel differently. If we reclaim the democratic heritage of our republic, we make a repetition of these horrible events less likely to come."
There was loud applause and streaks of cheering through the crowd as she stepped away. Vitorino returned to the podium and took a few questions from the journalists given seats below him. Through them, he only confirmed that the investigation into the bombing was still ongoing and for the near future, the martial law decree would remain in place. He also indicated the surviving Assembly members and especially Cabinet ministers would be kept in secure and unannounced locations. With the handful of questions answered, he bade farewell and led the ministers off-stage.
As the crowd broke up out in the plaza, Ascaro followed behind al-Amin. They entered one of the secured commercial buildings of the square from which they'd disperse and return to their suites across the city. Vargas was waiting. "Congratulations, Prime Minister," he said jovially, offering his hand. "I believe our people will sleep well tonight."
Vitorino accepted it yet again. "Thank you, Mister President." Vitorino turned to the others while offering a handshake to el-Kabir, now at Vargas' side. "You all did well, and I'm glad to see things are working out so well. I will speak to you tomorrow."
He remained as the others shook hands with Vargas and el-Kabir, only turning away when Ascaro stepped away from Vargas. Ascaro noted el-Kabir's hands come together briefly before he pulled his right hand away again to shake hers.
The moment their palms touched, Ascaro felt something between them, a small object rubbing against her palm. El-Kabir rotated their hands slightly before pulling his away, ensuring she didn't drop whatever it was. He gave her a small nod, one that inclined toward the object, before stepping away.
At that moment, Ascaro felt in over her head. She'd seen enough holomovies in her life to know the idea of a covert exchange of something through a handshake, but she'd never imagined she'd do it. It was all very fantastical to her, completely at odds to her usual experience. She wanted to demand an explanation but knew she could not. The others were still in earshot, as was Vitorino. Clearly, el-Kabir, and possibly his boss, wanted her to have this without Vitorino's knowledge.
Forcing herself to smile politely, she slipped her hand down and slid the unseen object into the small pocket on her dress skirt. Given the feel, it was likely a data chip, the kind one used to back up files physically instead of relying on data clouds and direct storage.
She didn't let herself think about the chip as the Cabinet moved on. Each had a secured vehicle with two decoys to elude attackers, with dark-suited RSS personnel and Gamavilla police all working together to protect the ministers. Ascaro went second, just behind Vitorino, reflecting her status in the government. Vitorino was quite determined to make her his number two. In a more stable government, she suspected she would've already been named Deputy Minister, but the small caretaker Cabinet made such a posting superfluous.
"Subject is en route," Palmeiro said from the front of the car. A decoy vehicle ahead went into motion. Afterward, she glanced back at Ascaro. "Well-put, Madame Minister."
"You can refer to me as Senhora alone, if you wish," Ascaro offered.
"Duty demands otherwise," Palmeiro answered.
At Ascaro's return to the Hotel Duro, she was greeted with a meal. Palmeiro personally scanned it for poisons before leaving her to it, an excellent mutton steak with various sides, cooked with excellence by hotel staff. She started in on it while pulling her digital reader out. She nearly slid the chip in before reconsidering: this was the reader issued to her by the RSS, and it might not be secure. They might be monitoring the activity. If so, they'd know she had the chip, and it was rather obvious el-Kabir wanted to remain covert.
As she ate, Ascaro wondered just what was on the chip. What secret did the President, or at least his aide, want to share with her? How would she access it without giving her possession of it away to the RSS?
The answer came as she finished her meal. Instead of settling in to read government documents, she went into her bedroom. Sitting on her bed, she reached into the nightstand and retrieved her tablet commlink, a light green model manufactured on Lusitania. It had been in her pocket when the bomb went off and suffered a little shock damage, but only on the case. Nevertheless, its transceiver had been removed, cutting it off from the planetary link network as a security precaution.
Ascaro booted the device up. When the machine insisted it couldn't find a network, she triggered it to finish starting anyway. Once active, she slipped the data chip into the appropriate slot. The tablet read the disk and displayed a file directory. There were only a few files, all marked like medical records. Curious, she opened one.
Soon she realized what they were, and it astonished her. El-Kabir had given her Vitorino's medical records. Not just any records, but the records from his post-bombing medical examination. They noted a head wound and some light bleeding, various other bruises, and cuts. All what she'd expect.
It was only toward the end that she realized the significance of this, and it scared the hell out of her. The doctors, noting complaints about pain and damage, examined Vitorino's head—and found no sign of significant brain injury. Not even a slight concussion. Only one small cut.
Vitorino claimed at the President's he'd suffered a severe injury. That he'd just removed his bandages. But there's no sign of this in the file. Why?
The answer came to her, and it horrified her. Without the head injury, Vitorino had virtually no real wounds whatsoever. But the bombings made that impossible. The data all showed the blasts were too near the speaking podium, and he'd held the floor at the time. He should be lucky he survived. But this was more than luck.
Ascaro wanted to be sick. Indeed, she thought her stomach might reject the mutton, return to sender, which would be unfortunate because it was quite good. The ramifications were clear, and they were terrifying.
Vitorino hadn't survived the bombing by fortune. Which meant that, most likely, he'd survived because he knew it was coming. He was part of the bomb plot.
She swallowed to settle the fear building inside of her. She'd wondered if the danger was past. Now she knew it wasn't even close to being over.
17
As the fleet's journey continued, Jules found there was little he could do to contribute on the Shadow Wolf. He contented himself with making himself available to the boarded Trinidad militia as a spiritual advisor. It was a unique experience, given all he knew of their home was that it was considered a stateless pirate station by other governments. While they were undoubtedly rough in some ways, they were clearly not violent thugs as the reputation would suggest. This was not a shock to Jules, since his own convictions were that all souls had the capacity for goodness in them, even if the rest of the personality or the environment of a person suppressed that goodness. God made life in His image, after all, and as far as Jules was concerned, that didn't mean two legs, two arms, and a head—especially not given the alien species that didn't conform to basic humanoid shape. To him, it meant the part that was in God's image was the soul.
He pondered these things while quietly reading his edition of the Bible in the rec room of the ship. The ship's First Mate, Tia, was likewise silently reading, although her book was primarily economics and politics. She'd politely discouraged his offers for spiritual guidance with the kind of look that told Jules she'd be more caustic with someone else. Given what I hear about Hestia, I can see that. The pain her world's state gives her is palpable.
That consideration ended when Jules noticed another figure enter the rec room. Caetano had likewise found little to do, given
that they shared inexperience in manning spacecraft. But where Jules could at least tend to spiritual needs, all she had was herself and her thoughts, and given what he learned about her, those were quite treacherous. He watched with quiet interest as she checked the bookshelves. Finally, she picked up a digital reader and sat down near him, picking an old cloth-surfaced recliner that had seen better days. She started scanning through the available contents of the Shadow Wolf's library computer. Jules turned away and returned to his thoughts.
"I'm sorry, Reverend."
Caetano's words brought his attention back to her. "You're sorry?" he asked.
"For everything that was done to you and your mission by the PdDN. For using you as leverage over Captain Henry."
Jules folded his hands together in his lap. "Your apology's accepted, of course." He watched as she looked away, an uncertain look in her eyes. "Are you a member of a Church?"
She shook her head. "Like many Lusitanians, I was raised Catholic, but it was more cultural tradition than true religious belief."
"Ah," Jules replied. "That's rather common, inside and outside of the Terran Coalition. Whatever our reputation."
"Regardless of what I said in my public persona, I've always believed the reputed devotion of your religious belief came from the necessities of your people being in the war."
Jules nodded, although his expression belied his mixed feelings. He gave voice to them. "I do think the resurgence of devotion is in part from the war. Humanity, Saurian, Tal'mayan, it seems every species in all of Creation cling closest to God when things are tough. Honestly, I think it's a sign of how fickle people can be. We pray to God to help us in dark times, then when they're good, we tend to focus more on ourselves and less on spiritual matters."
"Are times ever good?" Caetano asked pointedly. "History speaks of golden ages in every species, but if you examine those histories, even in the golden ages there were problems. Your own people yearn in their hearts for a return to the way things were after the Saurian Empire yielded, seeing it as a golden age. But the decades before the League came weren't quiet years of prosperity in your Coalition or elsewhere. You had economic recessions, political scandals, worlds talking about withdrawing or controversially seeking membership."
Jules nodded. "That is true. Golden ages are usually judged after the fact, by people who only remember the good." His expression turned contemplative. "You were raised Catholic as a cultural tradition, you say, not for actual devotion. Does that mean you don't believe in God?"
That brought a searching look from Caetano. Her eyes grew distant, the sign of someone starting to examine their own soul. "I'm not sure," she finally admitted.
"So… more agnostic?"
"Perhaps. Or I simply don't know how I would relate to God, if a Supreme Being exists." Caetano shook her head. "I suppose part of it is that I am rightfully worried I'm not worthy of God."
"That's not possible," Jules insisted.
"Isn't it?" Caetano's look turned curious and her eyes focused on him. "With all of the terrible things I've done, you believe I'm worthy of the consideration of the Creator Being? Of the font of all that is good and righteous in existence?"
"Of course," said Jules. "The soul is the part of us that comes from God. God is, essentially, nothing but soul. There's a part of every being who can feel God's presence."
"But that doesn't make them worthy of God."
"You're thinking of this like a matter of criminal justice. Guilt and just punishment. I'm not saying it doesn't matter, but worth with God isn't about that. What matters there isn't what you've done, what you're guilty of, it's that you've come to realize you were wrong, and you genuinely want to repent of it. Jesus died for everyone, and the offer of redemption doesn't exclude any simply from the deeds they've done. Anyone, even someone guilty of the most horrible crime, can repent, and therefore, they're worthy."
Quiet came over the rec room. Jules could see Caetano was considering what he said. And he knew why. "You feel a lot of guilt about what's happened," he continued. "About the choices you’ve made. Your soul carries a heavy burden. But that's what God's for. To lift that burden. All you have to do is ask."
He saw the tears starting to swell in her eyes. "It can't be that simple."
"It is. Well, if you ask me anyway. I don't necessarily see eye to eye with the Catholic Church about the whole penance thing. I mean, doing good deeds to others to make up for the sins you commit is all well and good, don't get me wrong, but in my opinion, it reduces the relationship between God and the individual soul to put a material price tag on sin."
Despite the tears, Caetano smiled slightly. "That's good. I'm not sure I can say enough Hail Marys to ever atone for the people I've hurt, or allowed to be hurt."
Jules chuckled. So did Tia from her seat. They glanced at her while she kept staring at her book. After a few seconds, she placed the plastic bookmark into place and closed the book. Her expression was one of amusement. "Felix says socialist ideology is convoluted. If you ask me, it doesn't hold a candle to Christianity."
"I found the ideology a little thick myself," Jules said. "Although I can understand the frustration with the wealthy who forget their duties to other people."
"Here's where you point out that 'it’s easier for a camel to go through an eye than for a wealthy man to enter Heaven' thing, right?"
"The actual verse is a camel passing through the eye of a needle, but the essence is correct," Jules said pleasantly. "For what it's worth, the behavior of your planet's rulers is un-Christian in my view."
Tia smiled at him. "Thank you for that. I'll take it in the spirit intended, as support for the eventual liberation of my people."
"That seems to be unlikely any time soon," Caetano pointed out softly.
"Possibly." Tia gave her another, sharper smile. "But it'll come one day. You can't keep people under a boot forever."
"Amen," Jules said.
Their third day out from Trinidad Station was halfway through. Kepper stood on the bridge with Felix and Yanik while Henry, Tia, Piper, and Cera manned their stations. He consulted his tablet and grinned. "Ready for the last jump, people?"
Henry nodded and glanced at Piper. She checked her board for several seconds before looking back and nodding. "The fleet reports ready. Commodore Dulaney says they're good to go the moment you send the coordinates."
"Alright, then." Henry hit the intercom key on his chair. "All combat systems ready?"
"Ready as they've ever been," Tia confirmed.
"I'm ready t' give th' League sassenachs a show, Captain," Cera said cheerfully.
"Engineering here," came Pieter's voice over the intercom. "Reactors are green, fusion drive on standby. We're good, Captain."
Al-Lahim spoke next. "Holds here. The militia is ready for boarding, and I’m ready to push the Hunter missiles into space at your command."
"Infirmary here, we are ready," said Oskar.
Miri, Caetano, Vidia, and Jules checked in from the quad turrets.
"That's it, then," Tia said. She drew in a breath, steadying her nerves. "We're ready."
Henry glanced back to Kepper and nodded. Kepper tapped away at the tablet, relaying the tracker coordinates to the Shadow Wolf's navigational computer.
"Coordinates received," Piper said. "Jump calculated."
"Send to the fleet."
It was done with a button press. A moment later, the voice of Commodore Dulaney came over the fleet's comm channel. "All ships, jump coordinates relayed. Commence jump in ten… nine… eight… seven…"
The countdown continued, ratcheting up the tension in the bridge, even as Kepper, Felix, and Yanik departed, bound for the holds. Henry closed his eyes and felt an old, familiar tension. The tension that had always come back in the war, when his ship was about to execute a jump into a combat situation. He'd always felt easier hearing his comrades' exhortation "Godspeed" in those days, the promise of divine aid they'd all believed in with their hearts.
&nbs
p; He didn't feel it anymore. In its place was something that lacked the comfort while it kept the fear in check. The feeling of determination in him to do what he needed to keep his crew safe, in this battle and afterward, by defeating the League.
An old quote came to his mind, something Captain Taylor used to say back in the day. "'Once more unto the breach, dear friends'," he muttered quietly.
Tia gave him a curious look but said nothing.
Dulaney's count hit zero. The space around them was filled with the sight of wormholes opened to what might be the last battle he'd ever fight.
Without any hesitation, he spoke. "Take us in, Cera."
The Shadow Wolf plunged through the multi-colored maw of energy.
18
Quiet filled the command center of Pluto Base when Admiral Hartford arrived with Chantavit Li. The two men walked up the stairs to the slightly-elevated command platform. Captain Jean-Pierre Caillaux saluted to them and received a salute in return from Hartford. With a motion, he prompted the communications officer to open a general narrow-beam channel to the rest of the fleet. "For the last year, we have labored, my dear comrades," Hartford said, his New Anglian accent making his speech clear. "We have labored to end thirty years of war that have cost us the lives of so many dear friends. Thirty years of war with fanatics who allow their superstition and selfishness to blind them to the glory of Society. Now a great plan is in motion that will bring us final victory, and our role in that plan is critical. Go now, fulfill the plan, and know that through your service your place in the history of the Society will never be forgotten."
With his statement finished, Hartford watched the fleet of refitted civilian ships start their burn out to the system's Lawrence limit. His words rang with confidence that inwardly he didn't feel. They were genuine, yes, but he was worried. He'd said nearly the same thing before the assault on New Arabia, after all, at the head of one of the largest invasion fleets the League ever assembled and meant to fall on one of the core worlds of the Coalition while its fleets were scattered by diversionary attacks and maneuvers. It would’ve been a decisive victory.
