by Mel Keegan
They saw Jon Kim at once as he came to meet them with a look of intense gratitude. His jacket hung over a chair behind him, and he was finishing a coffee. “At last, a sane face! These people are freakin’ nuts.”
“They know they have Terran agents loose on the planet somewhere,” Travers amended quietly. “Heads, probably their own, would roll if the new President was assassinated on his way to the Proclamation speech, or during it.”
“And you know how badly they want Harrison’s head on a silver platter,” Marin added.
Kim’s face was grim, gray. “I know. They’ve been sweeping the place constantly, looking for agents or weapons. You’re, uh, armed?”
“Of course.” Marin lifted the left side of his jacket to display the Chiyoda machine pistol. “Relax, Jon. These people might be a little nuts, but they’re taking the job so seriously, a cockroach couldn’t scuttle through this security screen. You’re almost as safe here as on the Wastrel. To take Harrison or President Prendergast, Confederate agents would need to have rigged this venue days ago, before they even knew where the show would take place, and they’d need to have managed it in some way no scan in the book can detect.”
“Prendergast could just as easily have broadcast the Proclamation from Chesterfield House. In fact,” Travers said shrewdly, “it’s a safe bet the rogue agents expected him to, and focused what resources they could scrape together on the mansion. We were shot at on the way in, remember.”
“Like I’ll forget in a hurry.” Kim’s face warmed with an embarrassed blush. “Sorry. You might not believe this, what with the war and all, but that’s the first time in my life I’ve ever actually been shot at. Look at all this – this opulence. It’s fantastic. But dead is just plain dead, even here.”
Behind Kim was a backdrop of rich blue drapes, a sea green carpet, long mahogany tables set up to accommodate a gathering of journalists and an imaging team. Between the windows, opposite the door, was a life sized portrait of a striking red-haired woman in a white ball gown.
“This would be Madeleine Chen,” Travers guessed.
“A freak soprano,” Kim affirmed as he set down the mug and snatched up his jacket. “She had such a vocal range, it’s not even supposed to be physically possible … native to Jagreth, married a colonial governor – an Earther, no less. She actually did a tour on Earth, but audiences and critics wouldn’t accept her. Seems the press tagged her, and her voice, as a mutation, some genetic accident that happened out here due to pure Earth bloodstock being exposed to this mean, nasty colonial swamp we live in. So she came right back to Jagreth.”
“And the husband, the governor?” Travers wondered.
“Came back with her,” Marin told him as ancient memories stirred, “but twenty, thirty years later they divorced and he went home. To Mars, as I recall,” he added as Kim tugged his jacket straight.
A chime rang softly through the salon and Kim looked nervously at his chrono. “That’s the ten minute warning. Follow me.”
The theater must have held two thousand, Marin thought, and almost every seat was full. The circle balcony itself would accommodate at least seven hundred, and of the few empty chairs, most were reserved from the President’s retinue. The stage was massive, far below, with redwood boards, five-meter ruby drapes and glowbots flitting where they were needed. During a performance the stage could rotate on a repulsion cushion – he saw the locking clamps for the platform, artfully concealed as gilt cornucopias – and up above were multiple different gantries which would be configured a specific show.
Tonight the stage held only a rostrum and tiers of fresh flowers, blue and white and yellow. The Daku colors. No seats were set up behind the rostrum, so there would be only one speaker. Security people patrolled the wings and a knot of operatives had gathered at stage right, which gave the most direct access to the stage door. The whole theater was a quiet rush of subdued conversation.
“You ever been inside this place before?” Travers wondered as he took a seat with Kim and six assorted members of the President’s entourage. More blue-suited secret service operatives prowled behind them, half-seen in the shadows.
“Never,” Marin confessed. “I’ve seen it on vids, of course, but …” He chuckled quietly. “I was seventeen when I shipped out, right to Fleet. I didn’t have much interest in anything they’d have been performing here, even if I could’ve afforded the ticket.”
“Which you couldn’t.” Travers shared his amusement. “The money came later ... along with the risk.”
“You got that right.” A rustle, the soft shush of doors, drew Marin’s attention to the side, and back, and he turned toward it. “Here they come.” Along with Kim, he and Travers stood.
So this was Elaine Osman, till lately the wife of Charles Vidal, and the woman Michael Vidal passionately disliked, though she was his mother. She was more than sixty years now old, Marin knew, but the athlete’s body was still svelte, sleek, supple. The Pakrani hair was as platinum blonde as Jazinsky’s, with copper and emerald highlights, and her skin was still like flawless porcelain. She had dressed in black for the occasion, with a lot of gelemerald jewelry, and she looked every inch colonial royalty. The years of being married to Vidal had given her a polish to match the gems. She had forged her reputation on the aeroball court, but she was quite ready to be the First Lady of the Republic of Jagreth. Elaine Osman looked, Marin thought, smug, with a kind of self-righteous conceit stemming from the knowledge she was far more beautiful and more privileged than any other individual in the colony with the possible exception of her husband. And he could imagine the sotto voce harangue they would have heard if Mick Vidal were here.
A step behind her was Harrison Shapiro – bored, Marin observed, tired, perhaps even a little annoyed, though he was too artful a diplomat to ever let any hint of it slip through the polite face he wore like a mask. He was handsome in the dress grays, not as tall as Osman, just a few years younger, and poised with professional elegance.
Behind him came an entourage of secretaries, attendants and at least two bodyguards Marin could identify. Discreetly, Jon Kim joined the aides and Marin waited for some officer to specify where he and Travers were wanted. Before he could ask, Shapiro spoke quietly to one of the personal guards, and gestured toward them. Travers whispered,
“Looks like we’re back on duty.”
“We always are.” Marin gave a subtle nod to the more senior of the bodyguards, and they moved up one level, to the seats directly behind Shapiro and Osman.
“All right, let’s do this properly.” From a pocket Travers produced a small handy and, before he sat, turned a full three-sixty with the unit. “We’re clean.”
“We’d better be,” Marin breathed. “The way Chesterfield Security’s been sweeping the place – if they’ve missed something, it’ll be buried so deep, we’re going to go up in a blast that’ll take half the city.”
Travers snapped the handy closed, thrust it back into his pocket and gave his combug a tap. “Wastrel 101 to Ops.”
“Wastrel Ops.” Richard Vaurien’s voice had never been more welcome. “Chesterfield updated us one minute ago. It’s happening right now. CNS just picked up the broadcast – I’m looking at a stage full of flowers and glowbots.”
“We’re seeing the same thing. We’re at ground zero,” Marin told him. “You’re deep-scanning the system?”
“Constantly. We popped forty drones into a data conduit, back out as far as the asteroids.” Vaurien paused. “Nothing moving, Curtis. All quiet. You’re having second thoughts? You want me to launch Bravo?”
For a moment Marin and Travers shared a look before Travers said, “No reason to. Just keep your ears open, Richard.”
“You mean, take nothing for granted?” Vaurien made almost amused noises. “Two hours ago we recalled Sergei and his boys from Sanmarco. I’ve got the Mako flying a racetrack pattern around the main shipping roads, triple-checking the minefields they seeded while we were at Omaru. Sergei’s not happy. Se
ems he’s nursing a hangover, and apparently we hauled the three of them out of bed … we promised them bonuses. Relax, Neil. You’re covered.”
“Thanks.” Travers mocked himself with a crooked grin. “With any luck we might be out of here in an hour. Leave your comm open.”
“Will do,” Vaurien acknowledged.
As he fell silent the sound system whispered, issued a bass note, and Marin heard the opening strains of the national song, soon to be the anthem of Jagreth. O citadel among the stars, the bastion of the free; / How fair the skies and seas of home, how sweet our liberty. / On this home soil shall ne’er be heard the knell of spoil or death – / The jewel of all the northern stars, our motherland, Jagreth.
The stage lighting dimmed; the house lights went down and the muted noise from the body of the theater dropped away to polite, expectant silence. The tall ruby curtains swished open two measured meters; glowbots pooled gold light on the redwood boards as the familiar figure of Rob Prendergast stepped out.
The last time they had seen him was at Vidal’s memorial on Elstrom StarCity. Marin leaned toward Travers for a better view as the man stepped up between the banks of flowers to the rostrum, and then he glanced down at Elaine Osman. Smug was an understatement. The First Lady was gracious – self-centered, elegant, arrogant, radiant, superficial. She had written herself into history, and she knew it.
Center stage, Rob Prendergast looked up toward the balcony; his silver-shot head lifted in her direction and he gave her a faint smile, a nod, as he rested both hands on the rostrum. The glowbots clustered around, casting an even, pearly glow around him, and the audience held its collective breath. Most people here tonight were senators, counsellors, educators, public representatives, senior officers from Tactical, Fire Control, Medevac. They would have been on a two-hour alert for months now, Marin thought; and they were reveling in the showmanship. The President had walked out onto the stage with one minute to spare before midnight, so the words would be spoken – live, before the cosmos – as midnight struck.
By contrast, the declaration of sovereignty on Velcastra was subdued. It was made via CNS and CityNet, with a modest vid Robert Chandra Liang had recorded in his study at home, just a few hours before. None of which was good enough for Prendergast. He took center stage like a veteran actor, spread his arms wide, and in the rich, round tones of a Jagrethean accent which seemed a little exaggerated tonight he said,
“Ladies and gentleman, it is my honor and my privilege, on behalf of the government and the people of this star system, to proclaim the sovereignty of the Celestial Territory of Jagreth, and to transmit this Proclamation without delay or ambiguity to the Deep Sky, and to the homeworlds of the Terran Confederation. Effective immediately, the former Colony of Jagreth shall be recognized as the Federal Republic of Jagreth, a charter member system of the Nine Worlds Commonwealth of the Deep Sky.”
An ovation erupted. Two thousand people were on their feet, shouting and cheering like the most unruly supporters at an aeroball grand final. “And it’s official,” Travers said under the din. “Break out the champagne.”
The party would be starting within minutes, and even Marin could not resist a feeling of satisfaction. Technically it had all been said as midnight clicked over into the new day, but they might have known Prendergast would hold onto the stage as long as he could. He held up both hands for order, and the speech began. Marin sighed and settled more deeply into the chair to listen.
He spoke well, the speech was quite inspirational, and he had committed enough of it to memory to get through with only a few references to the prompter. Most of it was rhetoric; a lot more was self-aggrandisement, as if Prendergast himself had singlehandedly steered Jagreth to liberty, and this colony was leading the whole Deep Sky into freedom from the ‘overbearing tyranny of a mother world too distant and too preoccupied with wealth and genetic purity to heed the cries for help of daughter worlds which, long-since grown to maturity, are themselves in need of succor.’
“Ouch,” Travers whispered. “That’s…”
“Florid,” Marin agreed. “Verbose. Accurate enough, I suppose.” He frowned as Prendergast went on, speaking next of The Weapon.
What he could disclose here was little; in fact, what Prendergast knew of the Zunshu tech was only the fragment Harrison Shapiro had given him. Clever scriptwriting wove it into a statement about the colony’s security, of people who had ‘no cause for a moment of fear, since Jagreth is defended as completely, as diligently, as Velcastra.’
Eventually even Rob Prendergast ran out of steam. The speech ended with another ovation and as he returned backstage, through scarlet curtains which swished around him, the glowbots scattered themselves for the concert. The curtains reopened on a choir; the anthem was sung again; divas took the stage with a medley of local music, all more or less patriotic. With attention on the performance, Prendergast was able to join his entourage in the balcony without incident.
After forty interminable minutes the company took an intermission. With a gracious smile Shapiro went out to the salon. Prendergast and Osman followed, security personnel surrounding them. Travers and Marin stalked on the fringe of the squad, and Marin was listening to comm from the Wastrel now.
“We must be leaving,” Shapiro said for the third time as champagne was pressed into his hand. “There’s no more I can do here, Mr. President, and I’m sure the festivities will continue for a week.”
“Or until the London battle group drops out,” Travers muttered archly.
Madame Osman made regretful faces. “Oh, General, must you go so soon? There’s so much you could see of this world.”
“Another time, ma’am,” he promised. “It’ll be a great pleasure to return here in a year or two, as a free man visiting a free world for no better reason than a vacation.”
She touched his arm. “See that you do, General.”
“You’ll be our guest,” Prendergast added. “Elaine and I can show you a Jagreth the tourists don’t even know exists.”
“I look forward to it.” Shapiro took one sip of the champagne and passed the flute to a waiter. “For the moment, you’ll have to forgive me. The sovereignty of Jagreth is one of the concerns of the Deep Sky. As you said yourself, Mr. President, you’re well defended, you’ve nothing to fear … and I remain a soldier on assignment.”
Travers leaned closer to Marin and dropped his voice. “Sounds like the official appeal to be rescued.”
“So rescue us,” Jon Kim said grimly.
“Wastrel Ops.” Marin touched his combug. “We’re coming back up. Can you groundscan the area?”
And Mick Vidal himself: “We’re too far out, Curtis, but we’re getting the feed from Chesterfield. Unless they’re a pack of rank amateurs – which they’re not – you’re clear.”
Both Travers and Kim had heard. They materialized at Shapiro’s side and Marin watched as Kim whispered, close to Shapiro’s left ear. Whatever he murmured, Marin never knew, but the general dropped a crisp half bow before Osman and Prendergast and said,
“And now, I really must leave you.” He offered his hand. “Until we meet again, Mr. President … madame.”
Prendergast took his hand formally while Kim signaled the security detail. They formed up smartly, an escort of six blue-suits which swept the way to a private elevator, and an executive space on the roof’s air park. Two Kotaro-Fuente executive aircraft – big, armored, lightly armed – had transported the president’s party; one was returning to Chesterfield House now while the other stood under guard in a ring of floodlighting, beneath a sky that was rapidly lowering, promising rain.
As he slid into the seat behind the pilot Marin dug for the parking chit for the Grassetto, and presented it to the copilot. “That’s your car – the black Rand. We signed it out this afternoon.” He ran up the harness as Shapiro and Kim settled into seats directly behind; Travers was last in, before the side hatch rumbled shut and locked.
Lift engines thundered, but in the cab a
ll he felt was a slight vibration as the plane fell upward into the night sky. Behind Shapiro and Kim, Travers and a Jagreth Secret Service agent talked quietly while the others were silent, listening to the Wastrel. The flight back to the old colonial governor’s residence was a matter of minutes. The mansion stood in a lake of light; the party had spilled out onto the lawns, and the Capricorn was already remote-starting as Etienne took control of it.
A gunship beat up from Chesterfield LZ and hovered over the gardens, low enough to thrash the trees with the downdraft of powerful repulsion, while Shapiro and Kim transferred to the Capricorn. The cabin lights had already dimmed in preparation for launch as Travers slid into the pilot seat. Etienne passed control to him and he skimmed the instruments as harness buckles rasped.
The first rain began to spatter the canopies as the side hatch slammed. At last, Shapiro issued an eloquent groan. “Thank gods we’re out of there. Rob Prendergast could talk the hind-end off a mule.”
“So long as he can hold the system together.” Marin took a cursory glance over the instruments. “Jagretheans do like their rhetoric – and Prendergast’s the kind of gas-bag who puts on a good show. Hatches to flight mode, armed and checked. Any time, Neil.”
The Capricorn lifted with a subtle Arago storm and a muted roar of engines as Shapiro sank back into the same seat he had taken on the flight down. He shrugged out of the dress jacket before running up the harness. “When did I turn into some bloody politician? Thirty-odd years, I was a career officer, an old Hellgate hand.”
“You still are.” Kim buckled down and handed him a water bottle. “It’s the reason the likes of Prendergast get under your skin like glass powder. Trust me, Harry, I know politicians, and you’re not one. Don’t let them turn you into one.”
Shapiro took a long drink. “I’m sorry. I’ve talked myself hoarse. I tried everything I knew to get us out of there without me having to show my face at the theater, but the President wouldn’t hear a word of it. Apparently, archival footage was being recorded. It’s all a matter of posterity. At one point he offered to animate a digitoid of me, to add me to the scene, if I declined to be there in person. Well, I’d rather be in charge of how I smile, and when, and who at, if this footage will be dug out of the archives in a thousand years’ time!”