The Rampant Storm

by J. Alan Field

  “I suppose not,” conceded Boyer. “But Fleet Admiral Maxon isn’t going to be happy to have you traveling, what with the hostilities and all.”

  “The hostilities? It’s a war, Bennett—a war.”

  His raised his thick gray eyebrows. “Well, many people on the Nets don’t see it that way. The Reformists are being very careful to avoid using the term ‘war.’ They’re calling it an ‘act of aggression,’ and some are even suggesting it might have been justified.”

  “Too bad the Nets allow for such anonymity,” Flood said bitterly. “That kind of sentiment smacks of treason.”

  “The Reformists should read Captain Pettigrew’s report,” snarled the First Consul. “I’m very sure the members of Task Force Nineteen saw it as an act of war. We have over two-hundred fifty dead! Let the Reformists try to explain to their loved ones how justified the attack was.”

  Boyer leaned back in his chair. “I was only pointing out what the opposition is saying. That’s part of my job, you know. I’ve consistently warned you that one of the most dangerous things for a leader is having her advisors always telling her only what she wants to hear. You need to know what’s going on outside the bubble of power.”

  Darracott paused to collect herself. “I know, I know. I’m sorry I snapped at you, Bennett. I suppose I have to have someone to vent my frustrations on, and too many times that person happens to be you.”

  The Chief of Staff smiled and threw back his head with a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s part of my job too. And while we’re on the subject of frustration, before I leave allow me to raise one more subject you don’t want to hear about.”

  “Oh, boy—here it comes,” said Darracott in a playful voice. “I knew we couldn’t get through today’s meeting without THIS coming up. All right, Professor, you have two minutes before I throw you out. I have a meeting with the Spymasters that was supposed to start twenty minutes ago. I’m sure they’re both patiently waiting in the anteroom.”

  “The bankers of Yargo,” began Boyer, “are demanding to have our loans renegotiated.”

  “And they want to rework our loans for how many millions in additional interest?” asked Darracott.

  “A lot. We’ve borrowed over fifty billion dennics from them. Because of what happened at Earth two days ago, the Yargons are understandably nervous about their investment.”

  “They want to take advantage of the situation, to put the squeeze on us,” said Darracott. “Tell you what, Bennett—and I’m totally serious here. You select our toughest negotiator in the Treasury and send them to Yargo. Our emissary is to tell those money-grubbing bastards that a deal is a deal and that we will pay back their money, but not a single dennic more than we’ve already agreed on.”

  Colonel Flood was grinning from ear to ear, and Boyer knew not to argue. “Very well, Excellency,” he said in resignation. As he started to leave the office, Darracott called after him.

  “And, Professor, when you send our emissary off to Yargo, send them there on one of our warships from First Fleet—make it a cruiser. I want our Yargon financial partners to understand the facts of life.”

  Darracott gave Flood a wink and then opened a line to the outer office. “Grace, send in the Spymasters.”

  * * * *

  In her first two years as leader of the Sarissan Union, there had been many successes, but there had also been disappointments. The Yargo bankers weren’t the only ones to whom the government owed money. Expensive government projects had forced the Union into deficit spending, which meant borrowing—from Sarissan banks, from foreign banks, and from other starhold governments.

  Much of the new spending was on the Darracott social agenda. The Union was divided into two groups: the Haves and the Have Nots. Sarissa, Arethusa, and Quijano were thriving planets, but the other three worlds had not enjoyed the same prosperity. Programs to help grow the economies on the poorer planets of Odessa, Rusalka, and Tezrina had cost more than was originally planned, but the First Consul was certain the investments would pay off in the future.

  It also looked like the Six Worlds were going to remain at six for some time. The Union’s colonization program had come to a grinding halt after the disaster at Uritski. The planet was being terraformed by the Sarissans when surface workers started coming down with an illness dubbed “the Uritski Sleep.” Forty-three terraformers died and that world was declared uninhabitable. The public outcry was fierce, but the First Consul was able to deflect most of the rage onto the now bankrupt planetary engineering company, Nuevo Mundi. Still, it was by no means Renata Darracott’s finest hour.

  And now a war was on the horizon. Before his assassination, Victor Polanco had started a massive military spending program, part of what was driving the Union into debt. However, with the Gerrhan attack two days ago, that build-up could turn out to be a blessing. The Commonwealth military was good, but with shield technology and a host of new ships, she was betting the Union armed forces were better. Darracott was hoping her intelligence experts could shed more light on what had happened—and what the near future might hold.

  ‘The Spymasters’ was a nickname coined by the First Consul’s administrative assistant, Grace Ward. The men in question were the leaders of the government’s two main intelligence agencies. Seated before her were Jason Tolbert, director of the Office of Military Intelligence, and Haywood Preiss, superintendent of the State Security Bureau. Colonel Flood had stayed on for this meeting as well.

  Darracott and Tolbert were old friends. He was a known quantity and loyal to a fault. On the other hand, Mr. Preiss was still a puzzle some sixteen months into the job. A fashionable dresser, one of his idiosyncrasies was the habit of always wearing white cotton dress gloves. Despite people’s curiosity, no one ever had the courage to ask him why he always wore the gloves—until Renata Darracott. His answer: “to keep my hands warm.” Personal peculiarities aside, the man was excellent at his job, managing his agency with a seriousness of purpose. One underling suggested that Preiss wore the gloves to hide an iron fist.

  After some general conversation regarding security issues, the talk turned to the Second Battle of Earth. “So there’s no chance that Brin Choi somehow assembled this group of ships independently of the Commonwealth,” asked the First Consul.

  “None,” replied Tolbert. “According to our sources inside Gerrha, the whole thing was orchestrated by the Commonwealth Admiralty with the final go-ahead being given by President Townsend himself.”

  Flood said something about “idiots” under her breath, as Darracott shook her head and ran a hand across her short-cropped platinum hair. “I understand Choi was even granted citizenship,” she said in revulsion. “They couldn’t be rubbing our noses in it much more, could they?”

  “I’m still not sure I understand what they were hoping to accomplish though,” confessed Flood.

  Tolbert nodded. “It’s something Central Command is still parsing through. The general plan seems to have been for Choi’s force to attack the hypergate as a feint, drawing Fleetmaster Rhaab’s forces away from Earth. That would allow the phony freighters to get close enough to land ground troops and capture Bakkoa, along with the EarthFed leadership. Earth ships arrived in time to thwart that part of the plan however, and the Gerrhan freighters translated out of the system.”

  “If they wanted to land troops, to what end?” asked Mr. Preiss. “It seems to me that they could not hope to hold the planet. Of course, I’m not a military man—just a simple policeman.” Being a ‘simple policeman’ was part of Mr. Preiss’s persona, like the fancy clothes and white gloves. Everyone knew he was one of the sharpest intel operators on the planet.

  “I don’t believe they ever intended to occupy the planet, at least not for long,” said Tolbert. “The thinking is that the Gerrhans were essentially going to hold the city of Bakkoa hostage until the Earthers handed over all the military technology they’ve shared with us.”

  “And if Choi’s fleet had destroyed the EarthGate, it would ha
ve been a bonus,” said Darracott. “And now we’re at war.”

  “The Gerrhans aren’t convinced of that,” said the Director. “Interstellar war is difficult and expensive. Part of the Gerrhan thinking is that even if the attack on Earth failed, we won’t have the stomach to do much more than protest and initiate trade sanctions. The Commonwealth leaders are betting there won’t be a war, or at least not a long one.”

  Darracott closed her eyes and took a moment before opening them again. “Well, the day after tomorrow I have a war briefing at Central Command. They’re in the process right now of formulating a grand strategy over there and I have a feeling that Channa Maxon and her staff aren’t going to be as obliging as the Gerrhan leaders would like them to be.”

  It seemed as though the meeting had concluded, but Preiss spoke up at the last minute. “I feel I must bring one further item to your attention, Excellency. Despite all the talk of war, this has a distinctly internal nature to it.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot about this little gem,” said Tolbert, who had obviously been informed about Preiss’s important item. There was a day when the OMI and SSB had been archrivals, but cooperation had replaced competition with Mr. Preiss in charge of the Home Ministry inspectors.

  “Well, what’s one more piece of bad news,” Darracott joked. “What do we have, Mr. Preiss? Arethusan separatists? Someone plotting to destroy the capital with a tidal wave? Mad scientists breeding fifty-foot tall cats?” Flood buried her face in a hand to hide her silent laughter. “After the last couple of days,” continued Darracott, “I think I’m ready for anything, so let’s have it, Superintendent.”

  “Roman Zevkov.”

  Suddenly, Flood wasn’t laughing anymore.

  Roman Zevkov was the richest man in the Union, with a net worth estimated at well over thirty billon dennics. Founder, owner, and CEO of Stellar March, the Union’s largest multiworld conglomerate, he was a power to be reckoned with—even in a starhold that was fundamentally a dictatorship in all but name.

  “What about Zevkov?” Darracott solemnly asked.

  Interlacing his gloved fingers, Mr. Preiss looked pleased that he had her full attention. “For many months now, we—in both the SSB and OMI—have been hearing whispers.”

  Darracott leaned forward, placing her arms on her desk. “Good, that’s what you’re paid to do. And what are people whispering about the Union’s wealthiest citizen, Superintendent?”

  “Recently, many resources in the Stellar March industrial empire seem to have been diverted toward something known as Project Arrow.” Preiss shrugged his shoulders. “Presently, it is unclear just exactly what this endeavor might involve. However, the extreme secrecy surrounding it makes a curious man such as me, well—more curious.”

  “I know some of the corporate elite aren’t happy, but some of them are never happy,” said Darracott. “Like Victor before me, I’ve gone out of my way to be accommodating to most of them—especially Zevkov.”

  “Accommodating may be the way you see it,” said Tolbert, “but it’s been my experience with rich and powerful people that they dislike anything they can’t control. In the old system, before the People’s Rebellion, most politicians were bought and paid for—err, present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” former Union Delegate Darracott said with a bow of her head and a faint smile.

  Colonel Flood was plainly disturbed. “If there’s one man in the starhold that wants to control all that he surveys, it’s Roman Zevkov. Superintendent Preiss, since the First Consul’s well-being is my responsibility, may I have access to your information on this matter.”

  “Of course, Colonel,” smiled Preiss.

  “I’ll send you everything OMI has as well,” added Tolbert. “Some of our off-world operatives have also been hearing rumors regarding something called the Committee of Nine, which is supposedly operating here on Sarissa.”

  “I’ve heard no reference to this, but I’ll ask around,” said Preiss.

  “Could Zevkov be working with the Gerrhans?” asked Flood.

  Preiss and Tolbert glanced at each other, neither wanting to give an opinion. Finally, Darracott took a stab at an answer. “I would say it is certainly possible, though I think it unlikely. What Zevkov does, he does for himself and not for others.”

  The First Consul stood, indicating she had heard enough for one day. “Both of you please keep at this. Roman Zevkov may be a pompous egomaniac, but he’s also a very clever man with almost limitless resources at his disposal. We cannot take him lightly.”

  As the others withdrew from her office, the First Consul welcomed the sound of the door closing behind them. She swiveled her chair around so she could gaze out the window again. The snow had almost stopped now, and the capital was smothered in white. It was a beautiful sight as she closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair and drifted into sleep…

  Almost. She might have fallen asleep for just a little bit—she wasn’t sure. The beeping datatab stirred her. Picking it up, she saw the unsettled face of her assistant.

  “Excellency, I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have an incoming FTL comm. It’s Priority One.”

  “Who is it, Grace?”

  “The Prime Minister of Earth, ma’am. He says it’s urgent.”

  7: Echo

  The next morning, the snow had stopped and the cleanup began in earnest. Travel was still difficult, as Carr and Sanchez discovered on their trek to Esterkeep. The two lived near each other in Boutwell, largest city on Sarissa and about ninety kilometers south of the capital. At one time, there had been talk of Sanchez moving in with him, but when the early heat of their relationship cooled, she eventually took a flat in the Center City section of town instead.

  With the weather mess, the usual fifteen-minute rail trip from Boutwell to the capital took just under an hour. They normally walked from the terminal to OMI headquarters at Yancey House, but today they grabbed a taxi. The heated streets of the capital were clear of snow and ice in contrast to the snow-bound sidewalks. Merchants and workers were only now starting to dig out from the massive storm.

  It had been just three days since returning from Threnn—hardly the ample rest both of them anticipated. Then again, they hadn’t anticipated a war either. News of the brazen Commonwealth attack in Sol was on everyone’s lips. The fact that the Gerrhan forces had been led by Brin Choi infuriated most Sarissans. Choi had been demonized in the media for two years now, and Union citizens were working themselves into a frenzy regarding the whole affair.

  Even with the street snowmelt system clearing the way, traffic was moving slow. Carr watched pedestrians stepping high to trudge through the snow¸ piled up nearly fifty centimeters in some places along the sidewalks. Maybe this new assignment will involve the tropical beaches of planet Galba, thought Carr. It was wishful thinking but a pleasant thought nonetheless.

  Unlike Carr, Sanchez loved the snow. “When we get back to Boutwell, let’s go over to Stallard Park and build a snowman,” she said, gawking out the taxi window with the delight of a child.

  Carr laughed and then did a double take. “Wait, you’re joking, right?”

  She grinned at him, but he still didn’t know if she was serious.

  “You’re the only Quijanan I’ve ever met who actually likes cold weather,” he said. “I worked here one time with this guy from Villanueva. When it got down to around ten Celsius he was freezing.”

  “What a wuss,” she snickered.

  “Well, I know you’re not a wuss. A tropical worlder that likes the cold and snow—I guess that makes you exceptional.”

  Sanchez winked at him. “I thought we had already established that.”

  This briefing had been hastily called, which was a certain sign of a serious situation. As the taxi pulled up to 437 Uhlen Street, Carr thought no matter how cold and snowy it was here and now, in about a month they would probably sell their souls to be back. He loved his work, but too many tough assignments this close toge
ther always ended with trouble. Without time away from the game, you lost your concentration and creativity—you lost your edge. Whatever Director Tolbert had in store for them today, he just knew it was going to be bad.

  Entering Yancey House and going straight to the Director’s second floor office, Carr and Sanchez were greeted by the smiling face of Tolbert’s administrative assistant, Simon James. James always had a smile when Sanchez was around—he was clearly smitten.

  “Ah, Commander Sanchez, how nice to see you,” he beamed. Carr had been working here for a decade, and James had never beamed at him. He still didn’t, as the aide looked over and added a subdued “Major” to the end of his greeting. “The Director won’t be a minute. While I step inside to check on something with him, please help yourselves.”

  James gestured to a sideboard with a carafe of coffee on it. “It’s fresh La Paz, Commander, brewed up especially for you.” There he goes beaming again, thought Carr.

  “And Major Carr,” added the bureaucrat. “If you’ll reach into the cabinet below, you’ll find some spirits. Make yourselves at home—the Director will be right with you.”

  James disappeared into the inner office, leaving Carr and Sanchez somewhat dumbfounded. Carr looked at her and silently mouthed the word “spirits?” as he reached into the cabinet. A smile slid across the face of Sanchez. “He’s warming up to you,” she said.

  “It only took ten years,” griped Carr as he poured himself two fingers of whiskey, neat. “Even got the brand wrong,” he joked, holding up a bottle of Blackshear. Everyone knew Carr was an Old Oakfield man.

  “Stop complaining,” Etta said, fixing herself a coffee. “You guys have never gotten along. This is an olive branch.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s more like a last request.”

  “Oh?” asked Sanchez, looking at the whiskey and then her coffee, then back to Carr. “Uh-oh.”