Tolliver nodded to his peers. “I turn over this meeting to Admirals Grandover and Poussard. Perhaps they can talk sense into you.”
Despite the pleas of many Chancellors, the Supreme Admiral – who served thirty-eight years in the Guard, stationed above ten different colonies – pivoted and left the room without another word.
Sam hadn’t met him in person before today, but she felt sorry for the man. The wear in his eyes spoke of a soldier who had no more fight and had come to terms with the reality of his people’s future. If his final words meant anything, the tone and direction of this meeting would have to shift. Surely, this must be an impetus for change.
Her hopes faded when the room fell into chaos. Most representatives alternated between denial about what they just witnessed on Brahma and whether Tolliver was a coward or a pragmatist. The remaining admirals separated, taking position at opposite heads of the table.
“If I may,” Admiral Poussard injected, “you are behaving beneath yourselves. We need consensus and focus if we are to move forward with our agenda.”
Poussard’s message, delivered with the cool demeanor of a woman who never needed high volume to command, might have worked. Chancellors closest to her settled down. Grandover suggested they calmly go around the table and offer a response to the events on Brahma. The room almost came to order.
Then the door slid open and a tall woman stood in the threshold. She caught every eye.
Seven foot two, blond curls bundled into high swirls, ex-peacekeeper jawline, golden two-piece bodysuit with jade amulet over the chest. Lips pursed, nose up.
Next to Sam, Lucinda muttered, “Well, of course she did.”
Sam didn’t need to hear the name. She knew. They all did.
Celia Marsche took command of the room, pushing Admiral Poussard aside.
“Sorry, dearest,” she said. “I have something to offer, and you people will listen.”
Sam felt it in her gut. The long knives were about to come out.
21
Pynn compound
M ICHAEL RECOGNIZED THE SIGNS of trauma and grief. He never turned a blind eye to Jamie Sheridan’s descent over the final two years before they crossed the fold together. Now, he sensed a fragile implosion in Brayllen Helmut. The boy was enthusiastic for sure, a nonstop curiosity machine asking bizarre and sometimes impertinent questions. But there were cracks in his voice, moments when he fell into hushed confusion, only to bounce back with the stammering shout of a child waking from a nightmare.
The past few hours were the longest he’d spent with the boy, attaching himself in a way Michael didn’t anticipate. He knew nothing about Brayllen’s history pre-hijack beyond that the Helmuts fled persecution from their own kind. Michael wondered how those tense days must have shattered Brayllen’s sense of who he was and where he belonged. Did he also know, deep down, his parents were likely dead? Did he hope no one would ever say those fateful words?
They spent time crisscrossing the estate after Sam left for the GPM. Michael knew he’d drive himself to heavy drink if he sat alone and worried.
They walked the grounds, sharing stories of their favorite pastimes. Michael spoke of fishing for river trout on first Earth – a concept Brayllen found equal parts repulsive and mesmerizing. Brayllen talked of visiting the top four natural wonders on G’hladi and one day becoming the leader of the first expedition beyond the Collectorate. They plowed through bowls of ice cream (synthetic dairy was tastier than Michael imagined). When the boy asked about Michael’s job, he limited his exploits to commercial uplift pilot. They never talked of Solomons, SkyTower, civil war, or Brother James and his merry band. Brayllen’s sister, Rosalyn, showed no interest, preferring to linger in the observatory with the head gardener.
After three hours, Michael expected to hear from Sam, but his stack remained silent. Conference is going long, he thought. Maybe she’s gonna make a sweet deal for us. He demanded positive vibes.
This did not stop him from sitting down to a good, warm drink.
Brayllen followed him out onto the veranda carrying a deep bowl of rainbow-colored creamery with blueberries on top.
“Know what would go great on this?” Brayllen asked. “Nullata.”
Michael tossed back a deep, soothing swish of jubriska.
“Nullata? What the hell, dude?”
He frowned. “What’s hell?”
“Bad place. Fire. Brimstone. Bunch of hooey. What’s Nullata?”
“It’s this sweet bread made by G’hladans in Sentorrah Province. They make it in little balls not much bigger than these berries. There’s ten different spices, and it goes with everything. Mother started making it for us after we took holiday there.”
He dug into the ice cream and didn’t say another word until he cleaned the bowl. He also paid no mind to Michael, who tapped a pipe and inhaled premium poltash weed. Michael was in mid-puff when the table shook.
Brayllen pounded with both hands. “I told her. I said, ‘Mom, we have to move down there now.’ She didn’t listen. I told her every day.” He growled. “They all thought we were going native anyway. I told her how Ismay Danovan threatened to space me and Rosie. But did she listen? No. She said it would all work out. ‘You’ll see,’ she told me. ‘Even Chancellors come to their senses.’”
He pushed his chair back and fumed. “You know how much warning they gave us to leave Newton? An hour. That’s it. An hour. Rosie and I, we didn’t even know what was happening until we entered the Fulcrum. I shouldn’t be here. We should be on G’hladi. We’d be happy there. You get my speed?”
Michael appreciated the boy picking up his catchphrase, but he stumbled at responding to Brayllen’s sudden rage.
“Chill, dude. I see where you’re coming from. I know all about not having a spit’s worth of warning.”
“Nutsacks, Michael. You know nothing about me. My parents were cudfrucking liars. Me and Rosie had good lives until they started talking down the Guard.”
The boy surprised Michael, leaping over to swipe his pipe. He walked away, pulling hard on the poltash and sprouting a large cloud of smoke.
“Dude? C’mon. Seriously? You ain’t old enough to …”
Brayllen blew smoke out his nostrils. “What? To smoke? I bought my first pipe two years ago. Pretty much everybody on Newton starts around ten. It’s tradition. The poltash fields on G’hladi are the best around. Plus, I’m going to be an adult in three standard months.”
Michael never cottoned to the Collectorate standard of age 14 for adulthood, in part wishing his first Earth held the same expectation while also horrified by the notion of middle-schoolers being granted any meaningful responsibility.
“Fine, dude. You’ve had a tough road. Sure. Go on and puff away. When you’ve settled down and wanna grovel at my feet again and ask stupid questions, I’ll be here.”
Michael grabbed the flask inside his jacket and topped his drink. Brayllen ventured down to the gazebo – Sam’s favorite place for contemplation – and sat. He drew steady puffs.
The momentary burst brought back memories Michael thought long gone, such as the day after Jamie’s parents were murdered. How Jamie lost his marbles and stormed the jail with a baseball bat in hand, planning to kill the suspect under arrest. The sudden, explosive shout fests between Jamie and Ben in the succeeding months. The tears Jamie stifled when he overhead the town gossips and caught the suspicious eyes of his peers in high school.
Now, having the benefit of hindsight, Michael was no longer surprised by his former friend’s choice to savage all in his path.
“You were a goddamn angry fucker, weren’t you?” He whispered. “But you try that excuse on me, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
He finished his second glass. “Cheers, asshole. Hope you’re having a blast out there. It ain’t gonna last much longer.”
As he watched Brayllen, Michael wondered why the boy’s fate seemed to matter more than most. A quarter million other humans grieved for their losses; Michael k
new almost none of them. This boy entered his life a few days ago, almost an adult, soon capable of charting his own path. Michael’s plate was already cracking under the pressure of surviving the Collectorate. Wouldn’t one more addition be too much? Sorry, dude, he imagined saying. The Pynn hotel is closed for business. Catch us on the flipside.
When a sudden distraction broke his musing, Michael tingled. His amp signaled an incoming transmission. Sam? He tapped his amp.
Rikard beamed from the navigation deck of his uplift.
“Hello, friend,” he began with a wink. “How’s your day?”
Not what Michael was expecting. “I dunno. Just sitting around doing jack shit. And you, Rikard?”
“I made a fantastic deal for a new commercial client. He’ll be conducting business in the prefecture, so I figured you might be interested. This deal is too good to pass up.”
Michael’s stomach crashed. Goddamn it. Rikard used their agreed-upon signal for when comm systems were compromised. He held his smile, per the plan.
“Sure, dude. Come right on in. I’ll contact the front gate and have them lower the screen wall. Can’t wait to hear about the deal.”
He raced through the holocube and linked to security. He passed along Rikard’s uplift transponder codes.
He checked his flask. Empty.
Was this another job? Who would they expect him to kill this time? On the same day Sam was fighting for them at the GPM?
Brayllen was making his way back to the veranda when Rikard’s uplift came into view and found a gentle landing over the east lawn, hovering a foot off the surface.
“Here’s your pipe.” Brayllen was solemn. “I’m sorry, Michael. Sometimes, it just comes over me. I can’t stop it. You’re a good friend. I didn’t have many on Newton. Least not at the end.”
“No harm, dude. You’re cool.”
Brayllen pointed to the pilot stepping off the uplift.
“Who’s this?”
“A friend. Brayllen, it’s getting on. Why don’t you go check on Rosalyn? I’ll introduce you to my friend later. Good man?”
They shared a high-five. Brayllen waved to Rikard as he left.
Rikard maintained a steady grin until he took a seat next to Michael and lowered his voice.
“Do me a favor. Before we discuss business, I’d hate to think a rival might steal the contract. Nullify your amp.”
Michael triple-tapped his amp and double-blinked. The steady stir inside his front lobe vanished. He didn’t like where this was headed, and Rikard’s vanquished smile didn’t help.
“Look,” Rikard said. “It’s a precaution until we know more. I can’t be sure they’ve cracked our admins, but there’s a possibility.”
“They who? I thought admin-invasion was a crime.”
“Depends on who’s invading whom. Listen, Michael. We’re in trouble. There was always a risk for blowback, but we thought the gamble was worth it.”
“What blowback? Tell me, Rikard. What’s up?”
“They’re mounting an offensive. The hardliners. We have an informant serving the most powerful Chancellor in Europe. Maybe the whole damn world. They’ve been working on this for months. Laying the groundwork, targeting the enemy. It’s going to happen all at once.”
He feared for Sam. “What? They’re going to take out Chancellors that support us?”
Michael could tell Rikard didn’t want to say it.
“Not the Chancellors. Michael, they’re coming for the support system. Me. You. Every Solomon linked to the movement. They’ve hired assassins and delivered orders. They plan to kill us all.”
Michael closed his eyes. “When?”
“We might not make it to sunrise.”
22
Level 25 conference room
Great Plains Metroplex
C ELIA MARSCHE ATE STEP ADMIRAL Angela Poussard alive. Sam, horrified by the developments, thought Celia made it seem all too easy. When Poussard objected to Celia’s unannounced intrusion to the security conference, the most powerful woman in Europe bared her teeth.
“Another word from you,” Celia said, “and you will slink away from the GPM holding the Grand Admiral’s withering hand.”
“How dare you, Marsche?” Poussard leaned in. “You have no authority over me or the Admiralty.”
“Don’t I?”
Marsche turned her daggers toward the far end of the table, where Rear Admiral Bastian Grandover – heir-apparent to absolute command of the UG – said nothing in Poussard’s defense. His eyes dampened as he took a seat. Murmurs rose among the fifty Presidium representatives. Sam trembled when she realized the importance of the moment: In its thousand-year history, the Guard never took orders from the civilian sector. Collaboration, yes. Advisory roles, yes. But not capitulation. This did not seem possible.
“No one here should be mistaken,” Celia said, scanning the room as if these elite Chancellors were mischievous children. “Grand Admiral Stephan Tolliver is not resigning of his own free will. His incompetence and indecision made our choices clear.”
Representatives rose in protest, their questions and demands overlapping in a blizzard of indignation. What choices? Who are you working with? Is this a coup? You are defying the Foundation Treaty. This is criminal. You do not speak for us.
And on it went.
Sam shared words with Lucinda Blanche, her close ally, but neither could take their eyes off the Empress of the North, as Celia was known in some circles. Celia did not speak during the verbal pushback, as if knowing it would soon die down, the protestors exhausted and confused. But what pierced Sam through the heart were those jagged eyes, swooping in as if belonging to a bird of prey. They seized upon Sam and held a tight grasp.
Celia evoked terror in her opponents and silence from those whom she cowed into submission. She was known worldwide for having never backed down, compromised, or apologized. She carried the mantle of her ancestors on her shoulders and clubbed opposing voices with it every time. Sam knew her only by reputation and came to this conference with the high hopes of meeting Celia on diplomatic grounds. Instead, a shiver raced through her bloodstream when she could not avert Celia’s stare.
“Enough.”
Celia’s demand did not rise above the cacophony, but she didn’t need it to. Silence fell at her end of the table and raced like dominoes until it reached the neutered Rear Admiral Grandover.
“Good,” she told the representatives. “Do you feel better now? Your naivete surprises me. You appear to believe the Guard operates under an inviolate chain of command. Even the Step Admiral.” She pointed to Poussard, who backed away toward a serving table. “Myself, I never rose above Major because I had no reason. Isn’t that right, Bastian?”
Grandover met her eyes with resignation.
“You’ve always had a way, Celia.”
“Yes. And today, my way is to bring an end to childish and futile practices tearing apart our Chancellory. My way is to turn back our collective clock to steer our future. We face an existential threat. Yes. But not from the malformed and savage likes of James Bouchet and his rogues. We will turn them asunder in due course. No, our threat exists closer to home. We have given it a seat at this table. It weaponizes a servant class and furnishes those servants with an inflated sense of worth. It dilutes the genetic grandeur brought on by three thousand years of diligence and commitment to a creed. It threatens Elevation Philosophy and endangers the greatest gift Chancellors ever bestowed upon themselves: Earth.”
“But apparently,” said Lucinda, “it doesn’t impede your talent for bombast and self-absorption.”
Lucinda’s unexpected disruption drew a mix of gasps and chuckles. Sam saw the woman’s cool veneer in her crinkled lips and ability to stare down Celia without blinking.
“Is that your best, Lucinda? I’ll be magnanimous and allow you a pass. After all, I didn’t give you time to consult your speechwriters.”
Lucinda delivered gentle, mock applause. “Everyone should hope to be
insulted by the luminous Celia Marsche at least once.”
The oldest man in the room, Adrian Peacock, banged the table. He sat directly across from Sam. Someone’s great-grandfather, no doubt. His silver brows furrowed as he matched Celia’s stare.
“Celia Marsche,” he said, “I have known you for too many years. You may have more blood on your hands than anyone in this room, but that blood does not give you dominion over us. The days of one-family rule over the Chancellory disappeared during colonial migration. If you wish to take a seat and engage in dialogue, so be it. Otherwise, you are not welcome here.”
Amid applause from a dozen reps, another man stood, toward Admiral Grandover’s end. Sam recognized the face though she never spoke to him; Finnegan Moss had filled her in on the hardliners expected to attend the conference. David Hennison, of the Mufani Presidium based in Southern Asia, chastised those who applauded.
“I for one wish to hear Celia’s message,” Hennison said. “We cannot ignore her reach through the Collectorate, nor her descendancy’s role in shaping our empire. She is also right on another point. Many of you are children to believe we do not directly manipulate the Guard’s chain of command.”
Hennison drew equal applause to Peacock and took his seat to a satisfied grin. He insisted Celia continue.
“Thank you, David. A voice of reason. But, in deference to misguided Lucinda and fragile Andrew, I will take a seat. There. You should feel better. Yes?”
She waited for the whispers to die then focused on Grandover.
“Despise me. Loathe my very name. I will not lose an iota of sleep. And yes, perhaps my entrance was more melodramatic than necessary. However, you need to understand the leverage I possess. When you do, you will end this civil war and put aside these outrageous notions of Solomon equity. Bastion, I leave you to pass along the glorious news.”
The Rear Admiral seemed to be rapidly diminishing in capacity, his sigh an audible distress as he rose.
“After months of deliberation, and in consultation with the combined Presidiums of the Scandinavia Consortium, the Unification Guard is prepared to take an active combat role in resolving the conflict within the Chancellory.”
The Impossible Future: Complete set Page 76
