Galactic Mail: Revolution! (Childers Universe Book 3)

by Richard F. Weyand

  “All right. Good. How much would it hurt you if I borrowed Costa for a day? I have some unfinished business on Doma to attend to.”

  “We'll miss him, but a day won't impact that schedule. We'll queue up anything that needs his touch until he gets back.”

  Dawson, Enfield, and Costa took a shuttle up to the Quicksilver for the trip to Doma. They could have made the trip aboard the GMS Cheetah, the fast courier ship Costa and his wife had been commuting on, but Quicksilver still mounted the second nuclear demolition missile. Dawson didn't know if she'd need it, but the first one had come in handy. Better safe than sorry.

  Sylvain Costa had arranged the meeting with the government of Doma. They had been asking for a meeting since Dawson's kinetic strike on Galactic Mail's Doma headquarters three weeks before.

  After decompressing and showering off the skin protectant required by the acceleration tanks, Dawson dressed in her best business suit. She met with Enfield, Costa, Marine Gunnery Sergeant Gul Murphy, and Bill Rodriguez, Dr. Misra's nuclear demolition specialist, in the captain's ready room.

  “This is the building I want you to target. Aim to take the whole building down. Send George and me both a health check every fifteen minutes. If neither of us answers within five minutes of the check, take the building down. If either one of us answers, you go another fifteen minutes.”

  “Are you sure about that, Ma'am?”

  “Absolutely sure. Can do?”

  “Yes, Ma'am.”

  “Are you sure that's necessary?” Costa asked.

  “Nuking the building? No. Taking preparations to nuke the building? Absolutely. You said they wanted to talk to me about the kinetic strike on our Doma headquarters. They may even want to take me prisoner as a war criminal or some such bullshit. The only reason that strike was necessary was they consorted with Padma Kosar. And they did it for money. I'm after justice.”

  “The angel of death rides again?” Enfield asked.

  “If I have to. This is one bunch I am going to take no grief from whatsoever. Speaking of which, are your men ready to deploy, Gunny?”

  “Full battle rattle and dressed for the party. Yes, Ma'am.”

  The shuttle set down on the shuttle pad on the roof of the five-story wing of the executive office building in downtown Nadezhda. A group of half a dozen men, obviously security types, came out of the doorway that led into the office spaces on the sixth floor beyond. They had a weapons scanner and other accoutrements of the trade.

  They were a bit nonplussed when the shuttle door opened and disgorged a dozen Galactic Mail Marines in powered armor and full combat load-out, including heavy plasma rifle, shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, and spinal mortar. Fully anonymous within their completely blank helmets, they formed a security cordon for the Galactic Mail delegation, edging the Doma security men aside with, “Excuse us. Make way, please,” from their chest mounted speakers.

  Dawson, Enfield, and Costa walked through the cordon and past the Doma security men into the offices on the sixth floor of the building. They passed down the hall to the main conference room and walked in.

  “Ah, we're all here. Good,” Dawson said as the three Galactic Mail attendees walked down the table and took their seats.

  From Galactic Mail files on the government of Doma, Dawson recognized Prime Minister Helen Utkin, Foreign Minister Monica Jin, Finance Minister Dmitri Katsaros, Justice Minister Alexandra Fiala, and Trade Minister Horace Duncan.

  There were no introductions. Utkin dove right in.

  “Marines, Ms. Dawson?” Utkin said.

  “When greeted at the door by your armed goons, Ms. Utkin? I was just returning the favor. Had you met me at the door like a proper host, you wouldn't even have known I had them along,” Dawson said.

  Utkin flushed with anger at Dawson's content and tone, as well as her use of the common form of address rather than the 'Madame Prime Minister' proper etiquette required, but she said nothing.

  Instead, the Justice Minister took the floor.

  “We're here to discuss the flagrant violation of Doma law in the kinetic bombardment of Doma by forces under your command, Ms. Dawson, including the cold-blooded murder of over one hundred thousand Doma citizens. That is a war crime for which you must answer.”

  “Actually, no, I'm not here to talk about any of that shit.”

  “Ms. Dawson! This is a heinous crime you cannot just shrug off.”

  “Sure I can. It's right in the site agreement for Galactic Mail. You might take the time to read it at your leisure, Ms. Fiala, rather than waste all our time proving you have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “The site agreement does not say you can bombard the planet.”

  “The site agreement says Galactic Mail's internal affairs are Galactic Mail's business, and are not subject to review by the Doma government. The locations I hit with two kinetic strikes were both completely within the Galactic Mail site. I did not bombard the planet, as you put it.”

  “You killed a hundred thousand people.”

  “In order to stop Padma Kosar from detonating two ten-megaton thermonuclear warheads, and killing three million people on the Galactic Mail site and millions more here in Nadezhda.”

  “So you claim.”

  “You were provided with the complete conversation between me and Padma Kosar, and recordings of the two warheads being found on the Galactic Mail site, Ms. Fiala. Or do facts hold no sway with an attorney such as yourself?”

  “You will answer for this crime, Ms. Dawson.”

  “Oh, I have answered for it. Just now. Go ahead and read the transcript of your surveillance video later if you need to review. If you have any remaining questions, please, get in touch.

  “Right now I would like to move on to the topic of conversation I am here for, which is the provision to Padma Kosar, by this government, of sixty warships, which were deployed against the planet Kalnai in an interstellar incursion. Such incursions are not permitted by Galactic Mail.”

  Duncan, the Trade Minister, spoke up.

  “If Galactic Mail wishes to purchase warships, or drones, or any other materiel from our industrial sector here on Doma, that is its right. What use its employees make of such materiel once it is delivered is outside of our control.”

  “Ah, Mr. Duncan. How nice of you to speak up. You knew very well the transaction was irregular, and not a normal materiel acquisition.”

  Duncan reddened and answered with real anger.

  “I knew no such thing. The accusation is preposterous. You come in here, with your Marines, and your arrogance and rudeness, and you shrug off the murder of a hundred thousand people. And now, to deflect from your heinous crimes, you accuse us, with no evidence, of being a party to a procurement irregularity? That's, that's – It's ludicrous on its face.”

  “Ah, but there is evidence, Mr. Duncan. The transfer of the orders through your personal company rather than through regular channels, the transfer of funds from a blind account rather than from Galactic Mail accounts payable, and the price itself, which was so far over market as to constitute a substantial bribe for your involvement.”

  Duncan pounded his hand on the table, stood, and flew into a rage.

  “You're insane. No such thing happened. You will not deflect us from making you answer for your crimes, you monster!”

  Duncan reached inside his coat jacket and started to draw a pistol from a shoulder holster. Dawson had dropped her right hand below the table as soon as he stood up. Her 8mm pistol fired twice as soon as it cleared the edge of the table, two shots to the center of mass. Duncan fell heavily backwards, and both he and the chair continued on to the floor.

  Dawson and Enfield, now with his pistol in his hand as well, stood up and turned to the left to cover the entry. It was only a few seconds before security agents burst through the double doors.

  “Halt!” Dawson said.

  The agents, hearing that command voice and seeing the two pistols aimed at them, hesitated.

&n
bsp; “Don't even think about it,” Dawson said.

  Dawson swung her pistol down and to the right, to point directly at Utkin across the table.

  “Order them to stand down, Ms. Utkin.”

  “You wouldn't dare,” Utkin said.

  “I've killed two hundred thousand people so far this month. What makes you special?”

  Utkin looked down the slide of the Vandar, into Dawson's eyes, and saw the steel purpose there, the grim determination to do what had to be done, regardless of the cost. On Odla, Dawson had seen in herself the angel of death. Now, on Doma, Utkin saw it in her, too.

  “Captain, stand down, please. We can handle this.”

  The security men withdrew, closing the double doors behind them.

  “You will never get out of here alive, Ms. Dawson,” Utkin said

  “On the contrary, Ms. Utkin. When we have finished our business here, you will personally walk me out to my shuttle. Or else a dozen Marines with plasma rifles will burn their way in here looking for me. Failing that, I have a ship in orbit. If I don't answer a health check by radio every fifteen minutes, they have orders to nuke this building from orbit.”

  “In the middle of a city?”

  “Oh, they're very small nukes, Ms. Utkin. But they will take down this building and kill everyone in it. I know. Three days ago I nuked a building this size on Odla, less than three hundred yards from where I was standing. I watched it fall. I'm not sure how many people were in it at the time. We never did get a final count.”

  “You're a monster.”

  “Oh, please, Ms. Utkin. After you sold sixty warships to Padma Kosar? After you arranged your little assassination attempt?”

  “What? What are you raving about?”

  “Do you think the implications of Mr. Duncan having a pistol here in the executive office building were lost on me, Ms. Utkin? With your screening procedures, he could only have had that pistol if you personally approved it. Why would you do that, eh? Planning a little extrajudicial proceeding? And don't tell me you were surprised when he staged his little show of outrage and then tried to draw his pistol on me. I'm far better at reading body language than you are at hiding it.

  “As for the sixty warships, do I need to go into details about each of the payments made to you and your political party? How Galactic Mail money funneled to you through a blind account by Padma Kosar was instrumental in your party fighting off a serious challenge in the last parliamentary elections? How those payments were timed to coincide with each of the acquisitions she made from you in building her little private navy?

  “Padma Kosar kept copious records, Ms. Utkin. Even if Ms. Fiala here has no interest in seeing those records, I bet her counterpart in the shadow government would be positively thrilled to see them. Not to mention the press.

  “Oh, and if I don't respond to that radio check from my ship, and they do nuke this building, they will also transmit the complete financial records and statement of audit to the shadow government and the press.

  “No, Ms. Utkin, I'm not a monster. From your personal point of view, I'm much worse than that. I'm an accountant.”

  The fire had gone out of Utkin as Dawson talked, and she seemed to shrink into herself as the implications sank in. The scandal would be horrific, her reputation ruined. The government would fall, and the opposition party would take control, perhaps for decades. Everything she had worked for all her life, in ruins.

  “What would you have me do, Ms. Dawson?” Utkin asked.

  “I think you should retire from government service, Ms. Utkin. For health reasons, I think. You don't look at all well. And your little legal beagle here. And your money man, too. By the way, that was a really nice job shifting all that money around, Dmitri. If we weren't looking for it, we wouldn't have seen it.”

  Katsaros, the Finance Minister, blanched.

  “And the financial records?” Utkin asked.

  “Well, were you three to retire from politics, Ms. Utkin, oh, say in the next two weeks, I don't really think they would hold much interest for anybody. I certainly wouldn't have any interest in publicizing them. I'm sure your party, and the nation, would thank you for your years of service, and wish you well in honored retirement. With their majority, your party would elect a new prime minister from among their number, and that new prime minister would select a new cabinet.

  “Why, were you all to retire, I wouldn't even bring up the Galactic Mail money that somehow found its way into all three of your private accounts. It should be a very comfortable retirement, indeed.”

  “What guarantees do we have?”

  “None. But then again, I am not the one here forsworn, Ms. Utkin.”

  Utkin stared down at her hands on the table for several long minutes. While they were waiting, Dawson and Enfield holstered their pistols. Utkin really had very few options. Finally, Utkin sighed and looked up at Dawson, still standing.

  “Very well. You leave me very little choice, Ms. Dawson.”

  “That was the general idea, Ms. Utkin. Oh, and one more thing. Doma will no longer be the corporate headquarters of Galactic Mail. It will remain a regional headquarters, but this government has proved itself unworthy to host the company.”

  “You can't unilaterally change the site agreement,” said Jin, the Foreign Minister.

  “I am not unilaterally changing anything, Ms. Jin. Ms. Utkin is going to sign an amendment to the agreement, which I have brought along with me.”

  Costa, who had sat silent through the whole meeting, produced from the breast pocket of his jacket two copies of a one-page amendment to the site agreement, removing the requirement that the Galactic Mail location on the planet be the company's corporate headquarters. He handed them to Dawson, who set them in front of Utkin. Utkin saw they were already signed by Dawson. Utkin signed both copies, and slid one copy back across the table to Dawson. Dawson handed it back to Costa, who put it back in his jacket breast pocket.

  “A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Utkin. I am sorry to hear that health issues are forcing your retirement, but a quiet retirement is much less stressful to one's health than the hurly-burly of politics, particularly with a potential scandal in the wings.

  “And now, if you would accompany me to my shuttle, Ms. Utkin. I'm sure I've taken far too much of your valuable time already.”

  The Galactic Mail attendees walked down the table to the doors leading out to the shuttle. Before she opened the doors, Dawson turned to Utkin, standing beside her.

  “Smile and wave, Ms. Utkin. Two hundred thousand Galactic Mail employees died during Padma Kosar's grab for power. You got off easy.”

  Dawson opened the doors, to find the security people nervous as pregnant cats in the hallway between the conference room and the Marines outside. Ever the professional politician, Utkin smiled, and even managed a laugh, as they walked down the corridor and out to the shuttle.

  Dawson, Enfield, and Costa boarded the shuttle, and the Marines withdrew their security cordon and boarded. The shuttle pilot spun up the engines, and they headed for Quicksilver in orbit.

  Dawson turned to Costa.

  “You see? No problem. I told you I could negotiate an amendment to the site agreement,” Dawson said.

  “Remind me never to negotiate with you, Ms. Dawson,” Costa said. “And thank you for these active ear plugs. I certainly didn't expect a shoot-out over the negotiating table. That was the most remarkable thing I have ever witnessed. Still, you let her off the hook.”

  “I must be learning that you can't just kill everybody. Monica Jin was actually squeaky clean, completely uninvolved. The others were collaborators, but they saw it primarily as a way to advance their party interests, which they see as the nation's interests. The truly guilty party, Padma Kosar's right-hand man in the Doma government, was Horace Duncan. Duncan was a greedy pig who was in it purely for his own enrichment. And he did not walk out of the room.”

  When they got back to Kalnai, it was Friday afternoon. For the first
time in a month, Dawson took the weekend off.

  Delayed Mail

  On Monday, Dawson was back in her office on Kalnai and catching up on mail. Scanning down her overflowing in-box, and feeling overwhelmed, her eye caught something and stopped dead in its tracks.

  It was a mail from Jan Childers. The sent date was one hundred and thirty years ago, and contained a large VR file. Dawson opened the VR file, and was once again on the porch of Campbell Hall on Horizon. She looked out at the small town of New Hope, on the broad plains between the forested hills and the river, and her heart ached with longing.

  She turned to her left, and Jan Childers sat there as before, aged and white, with her blanket on her lap and her cup of tea on the table between them. Childers turned toward her, and she was once again transfixed by those eyes.

  “Good morning, Mister or Madame CEO. I am Jan Childers.

  “This mail has been set to be held by the computer systems of Galactic Mail until certain conditions are met. Those conditions have been fulfilled, and that is why you are now finally getting this mail.

  “Those conditions include that the Watchers have successfully asserted control over Galactic Mail and pulled it back from the path to totalitarianism. Those conditions also include that the current CEO is one of the Watchers, installed by the new Board as part of the clean-up process, and that process has concluded. Galactic Mail is now settling back down into the routine of running the day-to-day affairs of the business.

  “May I say first, Congratulations. We are not sure now, as I record this, if the Watchers will be able to successfully assert control over Galactic Mail or not. There are too many variables, too many possible scenarios, too many possible chains of events to be at all sure. We have done everything we could to help you in this effort, the planning, the documentation, access to the computers, to the training. Everything we could to increase your chances of success. But the probabilities people I have had consider the question always come back with fifty-fifty odds, which is a very precise way of saying they simply don't know.