Fortress of Lies

by J. Steven York

  “Yeah, well, ’cept for that hole in the hull. But I still gots the captain’s prerogative to make fun of foolishness when I see it.

  “Well, I’m gonna go keep an eye on those welders of yours. Clancy out.”

  The display blanked, and Aaron turned to Deena. “You’re giving me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That skeptical, ‘I can’t tell him what I really think because he’s the Duke’ look. I do value your opinions, you know. What is it?”

  “He’s right about how absurdly impractical this furniture will be on a DropShip. Not to mention the carpets, the tapestries, the paintings, the art, the gourmet chef.”

  “Chef Bellwood served on the liner Ian Cameron. He’s an accomplished zero-gravity chef as well.”

  “Which means, I suppose, we’ll be installing a second kitchen for that?”

  “Later. Until then, he can work out of the officers’ mess when we’re not under boost or on a planet.”

  She sighed. “Lord Governor, I enjoy interior decorating as much as anyone, but haven’t you forgotten there’s a war on? That people have died—continue to die—while we’re playing house on a spaceship?”

  “Of course not, Deena. But these things are neither for my comfort nor my vanity. They are for show. Some things are all the more impressive precisely because they are so extravagantly impractical. To build our coalition, we have to win the hearts of the people whose planets we visit, and those of their leaders, as well.

  “This is the symbol of power, of confidence, of victory. They will all be drawn to this, wish to align themselves with it, hope it will rub off on them. This is the pull that will bring our coalition together.

  “And the little show you’ve arranged for Shensi, that’s going to be the push.”

  She frowned and tilted her head. “And this is how you fight a war?”

  What was with Deena today? He didn’t mind her frankness, at least in private, but it was uncharacteristic of her to be so confrontational. “Deena, have you ever wondered what the sword is in the SwordSworn’s seal?”

  “I assume it’s the Sword of Davion.”

  “That’s true enough, but there’s a legend associated with it that far predates House Davion. My grandmother used to tell it to me when I was a child.” He gestured at a love seat across the table from his chair. “Sit, and I’ll share it with you. Ring for a drink if you’d like.”

  She sat on the edge of the seat and crossed her legs, hands cupped over her knee.

  He sat as well, moving the stack of papers to one side. “You see, long ago, perhaps on ancient Terra, there was a dragon that emerged from a crack in the ground. It was born of fire and lava. It breathed fire, its skin was hard as stone, and molten metal ran in its veins.

  “Though many brave and skillful men tried to fight it, they could not get close enough to mortally wound it, and were themselves killed. The dragon rampaged at will, killing the people and burning their homes. It seemed that very soon, men would be no more, and the dragon would have won.

  “But one man had watched the others. He had seen them hesitate before the beast, so that their blades did not bite deep enough to harm him. He knew the only way to slay the dragon was to plunge a sword directly through the soft spot on his chest, deep into his flaming heart.

  “It would be a terrible thing to do, but he knew that unless the dragon was stopped, everyone he knew and loved would die.

  “So he put on his armor, and took up his sword, and went to face the dragon. And though the beast was terrible—the heat of its breath scalded him, and the heat of its skin burned him—he did not hesitate. He leaped upon the creature and plunged his sword, and his whole arm, into the flaming heart of the creature.

  “The pain was terrible. He knew his arm would be lost, if not his life, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the beast expire before he himself fell into unconsciousness.

  “The people came upon their rescuer. His arm was terribly burned. They took him back to the village to care for him. He hovered on the brink of death, until the Lady of the Stars came to him in a vision. She told him he was to be rewarded for his selfless bravery in the cause of the people.

  “He found that he was well and whole again, and even his armor was restored to him, bright and polished. But what, he asked, had happened to his sword?

  “The Lady of the Stars told him that, in the crucible of the dragon’s heart, the arm and the sword melted together and were made one. Forevermore, the sword is in his heart, his blood, and his hand.

  “He is given dominion over the people, to act as their guide and protector, and thus, anything he holds in his hand, be it a pen, a paintbrush, a hammer, or the tiller of a ’Mech, that will be his sword in this great task.

  “And so he became the first Knight, the first Prince, and the first noble. He sired a lineage that lives today, and his blood runs in the veins of all nobles—even mine.” He shrugged. “The Tyrannos Rex is my sword, Deena, as much as any ’Mech or weapon. I wield it for the greater good.

  “That is the lesson of the story.”

  She licked her dry lips. “And is Erik your sword, too?”

  “He is—and the story also shows us that you must not, for fear of losing your sword, fear to commit it.”

  “So if your cause is just, you think he’ll be returned to us?”

  He took a deep breath, and released it slowly. “He is a Sandoval. The blood is his, too. If he does not return to us, Deena, then it will be because he did not deserve to return.”

  8

  Terragate Office Complex, Whitehorse

  Klondike continent, Shensi

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  20 November 3134

  Shensi was a world rich in natural resources: those of material value, such as timber and ore, but also those of the spirit—or so the locals claimed. Erik Sandoval-Groell had to admit it was a beautiful world, relatively unspoiled by the last major war.

  The forests were vast and spectacular, the mountains high and jagged. Much of the northern continent was a frozen tundra—harsh, vast and savage in its beauty. The southern continent was covered with flat plains drained by wide, meandering rivers, its rich black soil dotted with farms that fed the world.

  Though mining and mineral extraction were a large part of the economy, careful application of advanced mining techniques had minimized the impact on the environment. Likewise, the people of Shensi were caretakers of their forests, harvesting selectively, and in a strict rotation that kept their ecologies wild and diverse.

  Like all worlds, it carried some scars from past wars, but it was perhaps as idyllic and unspoiled a world as Erik had ever seen.

  He was enjoying it not a bit.

  The Shensi people prided themselves on “government by consensus.” At first glance, the structure was like dozens of others, a planetary Governor, a military Legate, a Parliament with three houses: Elected, Appointed, and Hereditary. As with many worlds, the Governor and the Legate shared great authority over the rest of the government, and could likely have entered into the coalition without any further approval—if both had wished to.

  But only Governor Rivkin seemed at all interested. Legate Tarr felt the current advance would bypass them, and that—given their historic ties with the Capellans—a nonaggression pact was both possible and the best course of action. On other worlds, this might have resulted in a power struggle between these two dominant figures.

  Not on Shensi.

  Instead, the stalemate caused the issue to be passed down to the Parliament. There it was debated for two days, then voted into yet another deadlock: The Elected House supported it, the Hereditary House opposed it, and the Appointed House stalemated to an undecided result.

  The situation seemed hopeless.

  The Shensi Governor told Erik that he needed a hired agent called a facilitator. The Governor recommended an old family friend, and off Erik went.

  The facilitator’s office was located in a low g
ranite office building just outside the city’s Central Park—an easy walk from any of the houses of Parliament, and a short trolley ride from the Capitol itself. The building was quite old, and was neither run down nor meticulously restored. The wooden banisters on its stairways showed the wear of years of use, and the granite cracked in places that had not been repaired.

  But the dark blue carpets were new, deep, and plush, and the potted plants that seemed to be everywhere—a signature of Shensi buildings, Erik had noticed—were green and well cared for. He found the name, OZARK KINSTON, FACILITATOR, on a directory. To his surprise there were no guards in the lobby. A series of escalators took him to the third floor.

  He found the name repeated in gold-leaf letters on a heavy walnut door. He turned the glass knob and stepped inside. There was no lobby, no receptionist. Just a large desk stacked with paper and periodicals, where a moon-faced man with red hair typed on a computer with machinelike speed. The desk was surrounded by packed bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling—stacked not just with books, but with more papers, magazines, and enough gewgaws, awards, and souvenirs to stock a junk store.

  The man continued typing for several minutes, during which time Erik supposed he must have typed the equivalent of several pages. He then slammed down on a key triumphantly with his right index finger, and looked up at Erik. “Commander Sandoval.” He stood and extended his hand. “I was told by Marjori—the Governor—to expect you. Please have a seat.”

  There were a couple of wooden armchairs in front of the desk, upholstered in a rich fabric printed with burgundy and cream-colored stripes. Though none were visible, the room smelled strongly of cashews and something like spiced gumdrops. Erik was reminded of a candy store, and suspected a hidden cache of snack foods somewhere in the desk’s many drawers.

  The man ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Where shall we begin?”

  “I suppose I should tell you about the coalition.”

  “Oh, I know about your coalition and your proposed agreement. I think most everyone in the capital does. That isn’t your problem.”

  “You’re a facilitator. Is that like a lawyer?”

  “Not at all. Lawyers deal with existing law. Facilitators deal in the creation and modification of law.” He grinned. “Think of us as midwives.”

  “A treaty being just another flavor of law in your mind?”

  Kinston smiled. “Exactly. I’m here to advise you, help you through the process of understanding how we do things.”

  “Do facilitators, like lawyers, have a rule of client confidentiality under planetary law?”

  “Oh, absolutely!”

  “Good, then let’s just make this brief. Who do I have to bribe?”

  Kinston blinked. “What?”

  “Who do I have to bribe to make this happen? I’m authorized to be quite generous, if necessary. There are also other intangibles I can offer. Preferential contracts with the many Sandoval-held companies, for instance.”

  Kinston shook his head sadly. “Commander Sandoval, that is not how we do things here. It’s strictly forbidden for any of our officials to take bribes. There’s a death penalty on the books, and it has been enforced in the last decade.”

  “Death penalty? For the official or the person making the bribe?”

  “Both,” Kinston said dryly. “I wouldn’t advise trying it. You’ll frighten away far more support than you’ll attract, and while getting caught might only get you deported, rather than executed, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “I’ll approach certain members of Parliament with close ties to the Legate. I’ll let them suggest various changes and alternate wordings of the proposal. We’ll rewrite it in those terms, and you can take it back to the Governor and the Legate.”

  “And if the Legate still doesn’t like it, or the Governor doesn’t like the new version?”

  “If there’s a split opinion, then it goes back through the Parliament for another vote.”

  “I can’t just rewrite it and take it back to the Governor and Legate directly?”

  “Again, Commander, that isn’t how things are done. If they then took action on the proposal, it would offend most of the Parliament and cause them no end of political difficulty. If a proposal doesn’t create immediate consensus between them, then it must go through the Parliament.”

  “And if they’re split again?”

  He shrugged. “We repeat the process.

  “That isn’t unusual. A few years ago I worked on the Mogot slurry pipeline proposal, which made the circuit eleven times.”

  “And it passed then?”

  He looked sheepish. “Well, no, it didn’t, which I’m now convinced is a good thing. Stupid idea, that pipeline.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that your system of government is insane?”

  He displayed a pleasantly professional smile. “Your uncle, the Duke, actually.”

  Erik frowned. “You know my uncle?”

  Kinston looked confused. “Why, yes. It was his company that proposed the pipeline. We talked many times before the HPG network failed, and he actually visited once. I assumed that’s why the Governor chose me to send you to.”

  “I imagine it probably was, but I had no idea.”

  “Well, that is surprising.”

  “Then my uncle has intimate knowledge about how your political system works. Or, from our perspective, how it doesn’t.”

  Kinston smiled nervously. “I can’t imagine he’s forgotten it. He bent my ear over it more than once, I can tell you!”

  Erik crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. What had the Duke been thinking? This wasn’t a negotiation, it was political flypaper. The war could be a decade over before he worked his way through this mess.

  Was that the idea? Had Aaron simply sent him here to keep him out of the way? Or had he given Erik what he knew was a particularly difficult assignment as a way of testing him, or as an indication of trust? If he legitimately wanted Erik to succeed, why not at least provide him with some useful intelligence on the situation? Why not send him to Kinston or some other facilitator straight away?

  Either way, Erik found himself determined to succeed. He would show his uncle what stuff he was made of—that he could be resourceful and cunning on his own. “Very well, Kinston, how can we make this happen? Not ten cycles through the process, but this time?”

  “That’s the spirit, Commander! You can’t beat the system. You must join it. That’s what consensus is all about!” He shuffled through papers on his desk, and picked up a computer pad to examine a calendar. He looked back to Erik. “You could just sit back and let me do what you’re hiring me to do, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You need to make your presence known—mingle with the people in power.”

  He flipped the pages of a large schedule book that teetered on a corner of the desk. “There’s a party tonight at Senator Prescott’s estate. All the power players will be there.”

  “Including you?”

  He smiled. “Why, naturally. I’ll introduce you to some of the key people. Some of them you’ve already met, but in such informal surroundings—well, let’s just say it makes a difference.”

  Erik was underwhelmed with the prospect. If he hadn’t been so determined to return with an accord he could rub his uncle’s nose in, he would have refused. He liked to party as much as the next person, but he preferred the raucous celebrations of MechWarriors. Stuffy political gatherings were poison—in the bland and “consensual” environment of Shensi, they sounded even worse.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he lied.

  “Good, then. I assume you have appropriate attire?”

  “I brought my formal uniforms, if that’s what you mean.”

  “A nice civilian suit would be less confrontational.”

  “I’ll wear my uniform.”

  “Very well, then. You may already have received an invitation. It’s hard to imagine that such an
illustrious visitor would have been overlooked.”

  “It’s possible. I’ve gotten a large number of social invitations since my arrival. My assistant has been handling them.”

  “Have them forwarded to me. I’ll let you know which ones are worth attending. As for tonight, I’ll make a call and ensure that you’re on the guest list.

  “There is one other matter: Shall I arrange an escort for you?”

  “Escort?”

  “Yes—a social companion for the evening.” He saw the look on Erik’s face. “Oh, really, Commander! It’s simply a matter of appearances. It’s easier to make a grand entrance with a lovely woman on your arm. I have a list of women with social ambitions—actresses and models, all women of some breeding and sophistication—who would be happy to accompany a young man such as yourself to an event such as this. It would simply be a matter of convenience for both of you.”

  Erik frowned. “It wouldn’t be convenient for me,” he said coldly.

  “Well, then. If you change your mind, I’ll see what I can do on such short notice. In any case, I’ll make sure the invitation includes a guest. Just in case.”

  He left the office feeling dejected and humiliated. It seemed his uncle had sent him on a fool’s errand after all. Despite his determination, his chances of salvaging the situation—at least in time to do any good against House Liao—seemed remote.

  He exited the building to find his hired limousine waiting for him. It was a beautiful day, and the park spread before him—a vista of rolling green lawns, playfully arranged hedges and shimmering ponds.

  He could see the tower of his hotel on the far side.

  He leaned inside the car just long enough to tell the driver he’d be walking back to the hotel. The sun was warm on his face, and the beds of purple and yellow flowers were sweetly fragrant. He took off his uniform jacket, hung it from his index finger, and tossed it over his shoulder.

  The brick-paved street was closed to most vehicular traffic. Only trolleys, buses, and a few cars with special VIP permits were allowed, and therefore he crossed freely in mid-block. A low stone wall surrounded the park; Erik headed for the nearest gate, a few dozen meters to the south.