When he was satisfied that he had the chamber’s full attention, he said, “I move that a Steward of the Empire be chosen. That until such time as a proper monarch is elected by the Great Houses, I move that the Representatives of the Assembly, all of you here today, champions of the citizens who elected you—citizens who desperately need our leadership now—I move that you elect a Steward to safeguard the Empire, and the powers of the monarchy, until a rightful monarch is chosen.”
With that he sat down, not wanting to draw extra attention to himself. He’d planted the seed. He’d put the idea in their minds that a Steward was needed, and he’d flattered them as best he could—without being too obvious—and hoped that would go a long way toward them choosing him for such a position. But he knew that would not be enough. It was the Committee to whom the common representatives would look for direction, particularly Representative Tate.
“Is there a second to the motion?” asked Representative Tate.
Caerwyn knew someone would second it. Most everyone was growing tired of this endless series of elections that continually resulted in no king. And, certainly enough, Lord Doran stood up after a few seconds. “House Doran seconds the motion,” he said.
Representative Tate smacked her gavel. “The motion is therefore called to a vote. It requires a majority vote of the Assembly to pass. Should it succeed, then an election for a Steward of the Empire shall be conducted in our session tomorrow.”
The chamber filled with noise as the various members of the Assembly discussed the motion among themselves. They seemed anxious and Caerwyn tried not to smile as he looked over the room. The motion would pass. There would then be debates in the morning and a vote in the evening. And by this time tomorrow he, Caerwyn Martel, would be declared Steward of the Empire.
There was only one thing that had to be taken care of first…
The vote passed by a healthy margin and the Assembly adjourned. Caerwyn wasted no time traveling to the privacy of his estate and there proceeded to contact his father. He used the most secure means, an encrypted kataspace channel. It had been a long time since he’d spoken with the old man, and even then those occasions had been few and far between since the old man had permanently relocated to his new home on a distant world on the edge of the Empire. But it just so happened that that new home was in Thetican System, where Brinton was without a doubt the richest and most influential person. And Thetican System was the same worthless bunch of rock that Representative Tate hailed from…
After the connection was established, Brinton Martel’s face appeared on the viewer. His hair had gone greyer since last time Caerwyn saw him. His eyes and ears were the same as Zane’s had been, but the roundness of his face and his tendency to put on extra weight were traits he’d passed to Caerwyn.
God, I hope I don’t look so fat as that, he thought as he forced a pretend smile.
“Caerwyn,” said Brinton, looking more suspicious than happy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t a loving son wish to pay his dear father a call without needing a special reason?”
Brinton frowned. “A loving son might. But not you. What do you want this time?”
“You wound me, Father,” said Caerwyn, in a tone he forced to sound amiable. He’d never liked his father much, especially since Brinton had always loved Zane more. Too bad he’s dead…
“Is this about your brother?” asked Brinton. There was a pain in his eyes. “Are you calling to make certain his name is removed from the will and yours written over it?”
That truly did wound Caerwyn to hear. Surely he wasn’t any more selfishly absorbed than Zane had been—Zane had created a cult meant to take over the Imperial government for god’s sake—and whatever selfishness Caerwyn had, it came from his father’s genes and upbringing, and it’d served him well.
“This is not about Zane,” said Caerwyn. “This is about stability for the Empire. This is about safeguarding humanity.”
“Bollocks,” said Brinton. “Save the speechwriting for your pretensions in the Assembly. And tell me what you really want. I have a busy day.”
“Very well, Father, I will,” Caerwyn said, deciding to come right out with it. “Tomorrow the Assembly will elect a Steward to safeguard the Empire until a proper monarch is chosen to replace Hisato Akira.” Caerwyn paused, and looked into his father’s eyes. It was hard to tell over the viewer, but Brinton seemed to be listening patiently.
Caerwyn continued. “Out of all the common representatives of the Assembly, the most influential person by far is Miranda Tate. I…” he paused, thinking the rest spoke for itself.
Brinton’s eyes narrowed. “Say it.”
“You know the rest.”
Brinton added some steel to his voice. “If you’ve come to me for my help in bribing or threatening a ranking member of our sovereign government, the least you can do is say it. Out loud. So you understand exactly what you’re asking of me.”
Caerwyn cleared his throat. “I need you to make certain, within the next twelve hours, that Miranda Tate, from your home system, is sufficiently motivated to put forward my name tomorrow as a candidate for Steward of the Empire.”
Brinton nodded subtly, seeming pleased that he’d made Caerwyn speak the words. Even though, in Caerwyn’s experience, it was usually better to imply things rather than state them, for deniability’s sake.
Caerwyn waited for his father to speak, trying not to feel anxious as the old man examined him with shrewd eyes. No doubt weighing many things in his big fat head.
“All right,” said Brinton Martel gently, to Caerwyn’s immense relief. “But first you must swear something to me.”
“Anything.”
“Swear to me that you had no part in your brother’s death.”
“I swear it,” said Caerwyn. He would have said or sworn anything to get his father to pressure Representative Tate for him, but in this case it just so happened to be true. Caerwyn had indeed played no part in Zane’s murder, and had had no prior knowledge. The fact that he’d buried news of the murder until the moment it was most convenient for him to have it come to light was altogether an entirely separate matter, and not something his father needed to know. The truth was, Caerwyn had not been complicit in Zane’s death, and that was all Brinton needed to hear.
“And swear to me one other thing,” said Brinton, seeming satisfied—or satisfied enough—with Caerwyn’s reply.
“Name it.”
“Swear to me that, as Steward of the Empire, you shall always defend Thetican System.”
“The Thetican System is part of our glorious Empire, of course I shall defend it,” said Caerwyn hastily.
“Swear that you’ll defend it above all others.”
“I swear it.”
***
Virgil Prime sat in the command position on the bridge of the ISS Hyperion. It was a powerful warship, alpha-class, and the flagship of the Sixth Fleet. It was currently in deep space, patrolling the large border that separated the Empire from the DMZ.
The duty of securing that border belonged to the Fifth and Sixth Fleets, but now that most of the Fifth Fleet had been destroyed and its two most powerful ships were not available for deployment—the Andromeda and the Harbinger, which had been recalled by the Assembly to defend Capital World and captured by hostile forces respectively—the task of defending the Imperial Corridor rested almost completely on the shoulders of the Sixth Fleet.
“Status report,” said Virgil Prime, taking care to sound just like his predecessor in every way. A man who now rotted on some prison-world in the Gamma Persei system. Perhaps now he was face-down in some ditch, little more than bones. Who could say what Zane Martel and his co-conspirators had decided to do with the man? Not that it mattered one iota to Virgil Prime. Zane had wrongly believed that by keeping the originals alive somewhere he could use them to control the primes, just as he’d ignorantly believed that the primes he paid good money for did in fact work for him. Foolish human.
“Defense systems report normal,” the defense chief reported.
“Operations normal, all systems within expected parameters,” said the ops chief.
“Flight controls are normal and alteredspace depth is stable at seventy-five percent potential,” reported the chief flight officer.
“Sir, if I may,” said the XO from his seat next to Virgil Prime. “We’re ready for anything the Rotham try to throw at us.” He flashed a crooked smile and his eyes danced off Virgil Prime’s like they were old friends. And indeed, as far as the XO knew—this Commander Darion Junius—they were exactly that. Friends from decades before, veterans of multiple wars, comrades in arms, and colleagues in the mighty Imperial Navy.
“Glad to hear it,” said Virgil Prime.
I have done well, he reflected. If even my predecessor’s closest friends do not suspect that anything is amiss. Virgil Prime had been years in training before he’d been deployed—before the real Virgil Tiberon had been secretly abducted and replaced—and during that time Virgil Prime had been ever the diligent student. Driven by faith. Knowing his duty. And now that mighty effort was bearing fruit. For all intents and purposes, for the past three-hundred and seventy-nine days—ever since he’d replaced his predecessor—he’d literally become Virgil Tiberon. One of eleven Fleet Admirals, Vice-Deputy Chief of the Imperial System Defense Council, and Commander of the Sixth Fleet. One of the most powerful men in the galaxy.
And yet I am just a vessel, Virgil Prime knew. A tool in the hands of one mightier than us all. A meager, tiny, speck. A solitary drop in a vast ocean of scorching, steel-melting rain. Lucky beyond the stars for the chance to play a part, however insignificant, in the redemption of the universe.
“Sir, I have something on my scopes,” reported the operations chief. “Looks like several objects distorted by alteredspace, could be a Rotham fleet.”
Now this is indeed an interesting development, he thought. As of yet, the Alliance still prevented the Rotham from sending warships across the DMZ—though that would soon change—which meant that these ships must be peaceful, or at least appear so. For only peaceful ships were allowed anywhere near Alliance space without risking attack.
But some kind of subterfuge was definitely afoot. Virgil Prime could feel it. Unfortunately it wasn’t possible for him to know exactly what it was, since maintaining regular contact with the Others—those devoted to The Cause—was not practical, and would certainly give him away.
He did know the overall plan, however. And he could make certain his actions contributed to the advancement of The Cause, though he was forced to rely on his instincts more than he would have liked, since he had such limited information. And all of his instincts screamed at him that the arrival of these Rotham ships was no coincidence.
“Sound general quarters and clear for action,” said Virgil Prime in his most commanding tone. Knowing he had to maintain his character and do what was expected of him. “Set an intercept course and order the rest of the battle-group into formation.”
“Aye, sir,” his station chiefs acknowledged and went about to ensure that his orders were executed immediately.
“Ops, keep scanning until you identify those ships,” added Commander Junius.
“Aye, sir.”
“All ships acknowledge,” reported the comms chief.
“Moving to intercept position now,” reported the flight chief. “We will force them out of alteredspace in sixty seconds.”
“Very good,” said Virgil Prime. “Mister Reynolds, hail the incoming ships. Order them to heave-to and identify themselves. Let’s see if we can figure out exactly what’s going on.”
“Hailing them now, sir.”
“Scan complete,” said the ops chief. “Fleet composition: one-hundred and seventy-nine super-freighters, they are flying the colors of the Rotham Republic. Scan reveals no military starships.”
“One-hundred and seventy-nine vessels and we could destroy them without losing a ship,” remarked Commander Junius.
That isn’t the plan, thought Virgil Prime silently, though of course no one here was familiar with The Cause besides him. No one else had even the tiniest glimpse of the Great Design the galaxy was being weaved into.
“The Rotham fleet is dropping out of alteredspace, our ships are setting up containment pattern.”
“All stop,” said Virgil Prime.
“Answering all stop.”
“Sir, the lead ship is responding to our hail,” said the communications chief.
“On speakers,” said Virgil Prime.
The comm clicked on and a Rotham voice could be heard, practically hissing over the bridge speakers. “This is Commissioner Nae Z’ryh of the Ro-Q’nor Trade Coalition and a citizen of the Rotham Republic. I demand to know why you have intercepted our vessels!”
The name was familiar, Virgil Prime realized. As was the voice. It confirmed his suspicion, the Rotham on the other end were indeed playing out their part of the Grand Design, even though most of them did not know it. Which meant this convoy must not be interfered with. Lest wrath from on high be invoked. But it wasn’t as simple as letting them pass, Virgil Prime still needed to maintain his cover. He had to continue playing the role he was in.
“I am Fleet Admiral Virgil Tiberon of the Royal Imperial Navy, and you have entered Imperial space. I am charged with the defense of this region. State your intentions inside Imperial space and prepare to be boarded; refuse and you will be fired upon.”
Commander Junius nodded and gave him an approving look. It was a curious thing that Virgil Prime had observed long ago; humans seemed innately to approve of a firm hand and think less of a gentle one. Almost without respect to the matter at issue. It was a fascinating thing about the species, and perhaps one of many indictments against them and their fast-diminishing right to exist in the universe.
“We are a civilian convoy carrying supplies to the Angola Systems. I am transmitting to your ship a complete inventory of all our cargo. You will see that there is nothing on the Transport Blacklist. We are unarmed and in every way in compliance with Peaceful Traffic Treaty 13-A. And, according to the terms of the treaty, if your soldiers come aboard our vessels, without stated probable cause—one that you can later justify in international arbitration—you will be in violation of the treaty.”
Virgil Prime motioned for the microphone to be shut off on their end, so he and his crew could speak freely without being heard by the Rotham.
“He’s got us there,” said Virgil Prime. “The treaty does state that.”
“A convoy of Rotham ships this large in Imperial space, heading for the Angola Systems…” said Commander Junius skeptically. “Something is definitely wrong.”
“Ops, do you confirm receipt of the convoy’s inventory manifest?”
“Roger,” said the ops chief. “The scan of the stated cargo confirms that none of it is on the banned list.”
“Just because they say that’s what they’re carrying doesn’t mean that is what they’re carrying,” said Commander Junius.
“Ops, scan the ships and compare their relative mass against what the computer predicts their mass should be, if the cargo is what they claim it is,” said Virgil Prime. He knew this was what the real Fleet Admiral Tiberon would do, and what the Rotham should expect him to do. He hoped that, whatever they were really carrying, they’d made the effort to make their apparent mass—determined by gravity and volume—match what they claimed to be carrying, or at least close enough to be convincing.
“Aye sir, scan in progress.”
Assuming the Rotham had been clev
er enough to predict this move, and the scan result came back favorably, then the concerns of the paranoid humans will be assuaged. At least enough to justify letting the Rotham convoy pass unmolested, without me risking my cover.
“Scan complete,” said the ops chief. “It seems to check out. The mismatch between what we measure and what we estimate is less than five percent.”
Virgil Prime nodded. “Very well, inform Nae Z’ryh that his ships may resume course.”
“Belay that order,” said Commander Junius as he shot Virgil Prime an apologetic look. Virgil Prime narrowed his eyes and gave him a stone-cold expression that said this had better be good.
“Sir?” asked the comms chief as he turned around and looked at Virgil Prime for clarification regarding his orders.
“Admiral,” said Commander Junius, in a polite but anxious tone. “We should destroy those ships.”
Virgil Prime felt his heart accelerate but he maintained outward calm. “What did you say, Commander?”
“Sir, with respect, we should fire on those ships. For the security of the Empire.”
Judging from the feeling in the room, Virgil Prime could tell that several of the other humans were of a similar mind. Things were happening inside the Empire, bad things, and none of them seemed convinced that this was business as usual. The king was dead, the various human worlds were declaring in droves for two sides in an imminent civil war, and now a huge convoy of Rotham starships was inside Imperial space. Regardless of how peaceful their intentions seemed, few—if any—believed that the appearance of these Rotham ships was for the good of the Empire. Which meant Virgil Prime had to convince them otherwise, and do so without breaking character.
He cleared his throat then looked Commander Junius in the eyes, making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard by all present, but not so loud as to be mistaken for a dressing down. “Commander, I understand your concern, I share it, but do you hear yourself? If boarding those ships is a violation of the treaty, what do you suppose firing on them is?”
The Phoenix War Page 15